On the streets of Portland, OR, 1947.

He was legally a fugitive from the orphanage, and in that sense "wanted." He did not feel "wanted" -- he felt very unwanted. He had desires, and nobody was going to drop out of the sky to satisfy them. He tried to milk a little self-pity out of this thought, but it did not work: he had to recognize that he preferred his singularity, his freedom. All right. He knew what he wanted. He wanted some money. He wanted a piece of ass. He wanted a big dinner, with all the trimmings. He wanted a bottle of whiskey. He wanted a car, in which he could drive a hundred miles an hour (he had only recently learned how to drive, and he loved the feelings of speed and control, the sharpness of the danger). He wanted some new clothes and thirty-dollar shoes. He wanted a .45 automatic. He wanted a record player in the big hotel room he wanted, so he could lie in bed with the whiskey and the piece of ass and listen to "How High the Moon" and "Artistry Jumps." That was what he wanted. So it was up to him to get these things. Already he felt better, just making a list of his desires. . . .
He was in a really good humor when he got to the poolhall . . . .

from Hard Rain Falling, by Don Carpenter