by Saskia Vogel
Hold still, she said, hold still. Breathe through it. Begin again. I held still. I focused on my breath. I listened to the words and I repeated them until I knew them by heart. I said them through pain, I said them with pain, I said them in pain. I let the pain remake me. The words became a chant. A chant became sound, sound rode the edge of silence and dropped into the waves. A blue drum, swirling silver bodies in the ocean, among which I was one, circling the light. And in this light I saw my father. In the light, we spoke.
When I came to, my skin stung with tears, my mouth was salty and the air was thick with smoke. My body wet and hot but cooling. I felt raw and slack, and an extraordinary sense of calm, like the days I’d wake up with a hangover that didn’t hurt but reminded me to be soft with myself, the giddiness of being new to the world. Orly covered me with a thin robe, stroked my back until I remembered my feet and she helped me find them. Piggy had drawn me a bath and brought me something to drink. I sank into the tub and lay in the luxury of their care. Loss, I thought, did not have to be a void of grief and pain, it could also be an encounter: there I would find him, reaching through the deep, rising on the altar of the tides. I thought about how a tide has no beginning or end, it is a single wave pinwheeling around the ocean, at its centre a point of stillness, a place of no tide. I laid my hands where hers had been. This wasn’t pain I had endured, it was pain to which I listened. As I dried myself off, I saw in the mirror livid marks were rising to the surface, rising to fade.
THE SEATS IN PIGGY’S CAR were itchy. I couldn’t seem to find a comfortable spot. I tugged at my skirt, which wasn’t particularly short but rode halfway up my thighs when I sat down. My legs were bare, and the upholstery prickled. Every time I moved, my bottom ached. This discomfort I enjoyed. I liked feeling her with me, and I was looking forward to tonight. I was also looking forward to seeing my car again. I missed my wheels, but I didn’t really miss my apartment. Maybe it was time to give it up.
Piggy took his eyes off the road, looked at me squirming and laughed. ‘It’s the best part,’ he said. ‘Healing. It reminds me that my body works and everything is as it should be. I’d get myself some arnica and Epsom salt. To have handy.’
‘I don’t want to heal any faster,’ I said.
‘I know.’
‘What about you?’
‘It’s not about me.’
I felt a rush through my thighs. Possibility, but also sadness. I didn’t want my satisfaction to be at his expense.
Bach came on the radio.
He said: ‘I’ve always wanted to hear this piece live.’
‘I have,’ I said. ‘In Munich. The conductor took a lot of liberties, and my mom was not into it at all. She stood up right there in the concert hall, said pfui so everyone, even the orchestra, could hear, and then she left. My dad said it was part of her Alpine temperament. My dad and I, we followed her. We didn’t know what else to do.’
‘She didn’t get what she came for. You know how that can go.’ He gave me a sideways look, and I laughed not because it was funny but in recognition of how quickly people can turn, and how I had to get better at reading the signs. ‘I thought we were going to a party,’ I said.
‘You’re right. Should we keep talking about music? Is that what you talk about when you go out?’
‘I have no idea what I talk about. Not music. People find other things interesting about me. So I stopped trying.’
When he pulled up at my apartment building, I almost didn’t recognize it. He parked behind my car. The jacaranda in front of the building was no longer in bloom, but my car was covered in its sap.
‘Don’t dilly dally,’ Piggy said. ‘I gotta have someone to commiserate with over the music.’
‘What do they play?’ I said.
‘Classic rock. Even with all the beautiful women there, it makes it so hard to get in the mood.’
I brushed dried flowers off my car, but some of the petals stuck. I’d have to stop by the gas station and give the windows a scrub. I’d wash it when I got back home. I ran my hand along the line of the trunk and the doors. The car chirped when I unlocked it. I like to think it was happy to see me. As I fiddled with the windshield wipers and spray, trying to clear a window so I could have a little visibility, I got a text. I was hoping it was Orly. She was meeting us there. She and one of her regulars were going out for dinner before the doors opened. He’d paid a premium. In the run-up to a foot party, she was in high demand. She’d been receiving text messages all week. ‘Some heat we’re having today,’ a message from one of the men who’d scheduled a session during the party had read. ‘I’m thinking about your sweaty feet squishing in those sneakers.’
‘Foot guys are adorable,’ Orly had said. ‘You’ll have fun. If you get into it, you can make way more than rent money in one night.’ She made it sound easy – like what we were already doing, and I loved being with her. Maybe we could have our own cottage industry down the by the sea. A self-sufficient bubble, complete in and of itself, where everyone was happy. I could help shoot and edit her videos. I could find other ways to be useful and to generate new streams of income. Orly and me, and sometimes Piggy.
But it wasn’t Orly sending me messages. It was Van.
‘Hey,’ it read. ‘You around?’
I counted to ten before I responded. The gall, I thought. But something in me felt entitled. I wanted to see what he had to offer.
VAN SAID HE HAD TAKEN over a rooftop at a hotel to send off his star before he headed out on a global press tour. He’d said he was sorry about our date and wanted to make it up to me, plus he’d introduce me to some people who were good to know. Backlit palms and bamboo cast stark shadows. Guests crowded around a swimming pool, its light turning their skin blue. Everything had a soft pulse to it, the music, the headlights sliding down the boulevard, a hazy twinkle in the hills. Waiters with wide smiles balanced trays of drinks and canapés. People weren’t really touching the food.
A magician I knew was dazzling two women in tight dresses with a trick that left them each with an X on their palm. I watched him perform the trick a second time, the one girl keeping a close eye on his every move, delighted when her friend opened her clenched fist and a new X had appeared in black marker. I wondered if he’d seen Van.
‘Van?’ The magician said he didn’t know him. A friend had texted him about the party, and he’d walked up after his act at the Magic Castle. ‘Didn’t even have to move my car,’ he said. He touched my waist, glanced at the shoes I’d borrowed from Orly, and bit his lip.
She’d said shoes tell you how they want to be used, and I liked that this pair was speaking to the magician. Watching him respond to them felt like being let in on a secret. I wondered if the women he was performing for noticed. But I hadn’t worn these shoes for him or this party. I didn’t want to make Piggy wait too long.
It was crowded, and I wandered around looking in corners and cabanas. I didn’t see anyone I knew and no one I asked knew Van. There was something about the way one of the men was telling a story to a group gathered around a fire pit, how he commanded their attention, that made me think these might be Van’s people.
They were laughing at a man with a bushy but tidy beard doing a Cockney accent. Every once in a while he fidgeted with his trucker hat and I caught a glimpse of his shiny bald head. His T-shirt said ‘degeneration REGENERATION’ and his arms were sculpted, an odd contrast to his soft gut. I perched on the arm of a rattan sofa to take the weight off my feet. The shoes were wearing me out.
‘And I haven’t even got to the good part yet. Lola and Chase, they’re supposed to be having that moment…’ He winked at me. It was a sweet move. I decided to stay. I didn’t even feel jealous hearing the name ‘Lola.’ ‘So they’re walking through the desert, all strapped into their gear. It’s a million degrees. They’ve been shooting for hours. Everyone wants to go home. We’d already lost the morning to a dust storm. And suddenly Chase goes to Lola: Don’t move a muscle. And those two with their chem
istry – I mean look at his fucking baby blues, who wouldn’t do whatever he says – ’
He gestured into the group. I scanned the benches, the people leaning against the railing. There was Chase, set against a backdrop of shimmering night.
‘… Lola freezes. Good girl, right?’ he said, nodding, encouraging us all to agree. ‘She’s mid-step. Her heel is down but the toe of her boot is hovering above the ground…’ He demonstrated. ‘Chase goes: When I say ‘now’ take one big slow step backward. He’s pulling his machete out.’ The bearded man crouched low and mimed pulling out a machete. The fire cast strange shadows on his face. The crowd was in his thrall.
‘And with the tip of his knife…’ He showed us all how big the knife was. ‘…he flings a friggin’ baby rattlesnake out of her path. She’d been standing on its tail. Do you understand: Its. Tail. And saves her life. I’m watching the director, waiting for him to cut – I’m Chase’s assistant, but he’s also my buddy, and I’m freaking out here – but he keeps the camera rolling, and I don’t know where to look. At Lola and Chase, or at the monitor, because those two: cinema gold. You’re gonna shit when you see it.’ He paused to wink at his friend and then turned back to the crowd. The woman standing next to Chase put her hand on his chest, stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. He smiled.
‘And this guy is so humble. Ever since we were kids. When I say: Buddy! You saved her life! He goes: I grew up in San Diego, man. We got snakes.’
The bearded man raised his glass, ‘I’m so proud of you. Here’s to my best friend.’
Those who had glasses raised them expectantly. But where Chase had been was now just railing. Something shifted in the group. The pause was a beat too long. Chase’s childhood friend didn’t know how to save himself from the silence. The people at edge of the group walked away, and then a handful of us were left sitting on the sofas. Only then did I see that painted on the side of a tall building was Chase Cardoso’s face one hundred and fifty feet tall. Fuckin’ Van, I thought. The guy knew how to work it without making it look like work at all. Across from it on the building’s twin was Lola. Chase was handsome like you’d expect him to be, but nothing special, except that he was next to a woman like Lola. Everything about her was otherworldly. I’d never seen her image so large. I struggled to see our likeness. Of course, she was blond now and that can make all the difference. Maybe it was the scale.
Chase’s childhood friend tried to save himself by directing his toast at the painted movie ad, raised his bottle of beer in the air, and said, ‘To Chase,’ but he’d lost it. I thought of the Seven Sisters again. Orion had seen them frolicking on earth and was captivated by their beauty, these companions of Artemis, and their beauty drove him mad. He had to possess it. After years of being chased and begging for Zeus to help them, Zeus turned the Sisters into stars. But this didn’t save them from the hunter. He set Orion in the sky, too, where he would forever be in hot pursuit. Even Artemis, who crosses the sky in her chariot and gets in Orion’s way at regular intervals, cannot end their mad dash. What a cruel thing to turn the Sisters into stars, I thought. Reversing their humanity. However far they had come, they were but stardust again, back at square one. I left.
A TEXT CAME IN from Van: ‘Did I miss you?’
And later: ‘Must have missed you.’
Then nothing.
I TOOK OFF MY SHOES in the elevator and walked through the hotel lobby and waited for the valet to fetch my car. It was well past eleven. Piggy said he was getting there for ten. I assumed Orly and her client would be finished with dinner and already inside. The drive wasn’t far, but the traffic was heavier than I excepted, and I seemed to hit every red light. I drove deep into the city, past the produce market, past the homeless camps. I thought I recognized party spaces where I had seen fire-spinners and art shows, places I’d spent the tail end of endless nights with too much of everything and too little sleep, but it was still unfamiliar territory. Not a light was on in the warehouses, their windows pocked, the pavement outside buckled. The night was sweet and sharp with fermented fruit and urine. A security guard was watching the alley where Orly said I should park.
I walked up a shaky metal staircase and knocked on the door. Peering through a heavy curtain was a man with a greasy ducktail, scowling as he looked me up and down. He nodded and let me in, locking the door behind me. On his folding table was a newspaper, a cash box, a binder, and a half-eaten granola bar.
He found my name on the guest list: ‘Orly always brings in the prettiest ones. You’re not as.’ He gestured around his face. ‘Done up. It’s nice to see a natural beauty.’ Pointing his pen at me, he said, ‘Don’t you tell anyone I said so.’
He led me down a long hallway lined with doors. It was oddly silent. I couldn’t tell where the party was.
‘No nudity. No genital touching. No hand jobs, no blow jobs. Nada. Got it? No cum. Don’t take less than twenty bucks every ten minutes, otherwise the other ladies’ll get mad.’ He rapped on one of the doors, and, while opening it, said, ‘Just keeping you honest’ to a couple in a bare black-lit chamber. The man was unusually still, the woman looked up. The word ‘trance’ came to mind, and I remembered my point of stillness.
‘Gotta keep the doors open,’ he told me.
‘OK.’
He repeated himself, articulating each word. ‘The doors gotta stay open.’
I nodded, but he just looked at me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. ‘You’ve made yourself crystal clear,’ I assured him.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘All I’m doing is keeping everything on the level. It’s a good party. They’re an easy hire.’
He showed me where the lockers were, and I put away my bag and freshened up. I hadn’t been in a locker room like that since high school. Metal and concrete. Communal showers. I worried that the entranced couple and I were among the first to arrive. I hoped the room the party was in wouldn’t be as cold.
The double doors at the end of the corridor opened on to a vast warehouse. It wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t full. Classic rock was blaring from the speakers, like Piggy had said, and something about the space – the folding tables, fairy lights, and smoke machine – reminded me of prom. A potluck buffet was spread across a set of white plastic tables. There was potato salad and casserole. On a table off to the side were bags of cotton balls and bottles of witch hazel. A woman in a blue latex dress was spinning around the pole on the stage. Men gazed up at her. Sofa groups were scattered around the room, arranged so you couldn’t see what was going on, only whether or not they were occupied.
Women in club wear, business suits, shift dresses, little black dresses, burlesque dancers’ outfits were perched on stools along the bar. Thigh-high boots. Peep toes. Toe cleavage. In a club chair near the bar, a woman in a pink peignoir and shoes that could not bear any weight was being waited on by three men. One rubbed her shoulders, the other was sliding the stiletto heel into his mouth. He gagged. The third held a tray with her drink and looked straight ahead.
I asked the woman next to me if she knew Piggy and she responded, ‘Which one?’
I ordered a double shot of vodka and drank it in one go. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might have to be in the mood to do this work. I’d never had to get in the mood with Orly. I couldn’t see her or Piggy, and no one seemed to want to talk. When I tried to strike up a conversation with the other women, I could feel them looking over my shoulder. I had finally gotten some traction with a woman, who was telling me about her problems with cheap lingerie. I wouldn’t say she was friendly. She was factual, like a stranger at a gas station telling you where you took a wrong turn. And without excusing herself, she walked straight up to a man behind me, and they disappeared into one of the dark rooms.
The vodka had settled me a bit, made me think ‘not being in the mood’ was nerves and maybe the music.
I caught a man in a tan leisure suit looking at my shoes, and smiled because I seemed to have startled him. Taking my cue from the other women, I approac
hed him. Not too fast. I wanted him to get a good look. The veins across the top of my feet were thick with the strain of wearing high heels. It had been a mistake to take them off. My feet felt swollen when I’d put them back on. He seemed as nervous as I was.
I said hello.
‘What made you come over?’ he asked. Wringing his hands, he didn’t seem to know where to look: my feet, my face, the room.
‘I thought we might have something in common.’
‘Is this your first time, too?’
‘It is,’ I said.
‘Oh good. I’m not sure what to do. There are so many beautiful ladies. And you’re all here. I didn’t know what to expect.’
‘Do you want to figure it out together?’
We found an unoccupied sofa group. Purple velvet with a gold trim far away from the banquet tables and the bar.
‘Sumptuous,’ he said. I agreed, to be polite.
‘Let’s start with ten minutes and see how it goes,’ I said, taking a seat on the sofa. Using the information the doorman had given me made me feel a little more in control. The man immediately kneeled on the floor, hovered his face over my shoes.
‘Nice shoes. Expensive. Did you buy these yourself?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘A girl can treat herself, can’t she?’
He looked up at me: ‘Woman. A woman can treat herself.’
I said nothing, and tried to look pleased. Neither word felt like it applied to me.
‘They’re nice shoes. Really nice. If you were mine, I’d buy you these shoes in every colour.’
