
Why Gino Barelli Matters in 'American Horror Story'
The bus ride from the West Campus to the downtown station usually took about ten minutes, give or take, depending upon how many times they had to stop to pick up passengers. The route traveled through a section of town called Barrio Hollywood, known for its tiny, low-income homes, its massive trailer parks, and its thriving population of street addicts. I barely noticed. I was young, zealous, and naive--immersing myself in what would eventually become a failed college career. I would take a seat in front, pull my history book out of my oversized shoulder bag, and immerse myself in stories about the Indus River Valley and Mesopotamia, ignoring everyone that passed by. I was determined to memorize every tiny thing in that giant tome, every invention, and every name and date. I was going to prove myself, and make sure that everyone knew I was the best. But not that afternoon.I noticed the man when he got on--his bright blue eyes, the kind you'd never want to make contact with. He was hairless except for a fuzzy patch of baby hair, and his skin was leathery--tanned like he'd been in the oven too long. He was covered in white splotches, almost like vitiligo or chemical burns. He got on the bus, sauntered up, smelling like rolled cigarettes and cheap weed, and slapped the book out of my hand. 'The fuck dude?' he shouted. 'You call my girl a d*ke?' He reached forward, grabbed me by the collar, and slammed me in the face--hard enough that one of the passengers in the back gasped. There was a lurch when the driver slammed on the brakes and yelled, 'Get the hell off!' He turned in the driver's direction, let me go, and started to walk out. 'Man, fuck this shit. I ever see you again, so help me.'



















