Lilac Mines

by Cheryl Klein

  The first stop is Sourpuss. There’s no sign exactly, just a neon lemon over the entrance, so they suspect it’s a good club. Better than that sweaty, shirtless boy club (what was it called?) that occupied the same space until a few months ago. Sourpuss is a girl club so Felix, Crane, and honorary lesbian Robbie feel duty-bound to check it out. Otherwise they’d be in Silver Lake, where no one even bothers with distinctions like gay and straight. Silver Lake is gritty and funky and underground whereas shiny WeHo nearly pulses with its ache to be mainstream. So they also feel duty-bound to make a few comments to reassure themselves that while they are in West Hollywood, they are also beyond it.

  “Robbie, please tell me you did not just check that guy out. He was such a FOB,” Crane hisses when Robbie’s eyes linger on a pale-haired man wearing an Old Navy T-shirt tucked into tight, light jeans.

  Robbie shrugs. He is the gentle offspring of the forested Oregon college at which he spent his pre-transfer years. “He had a nice body.” Robbie’s weakness, hardly original. “What does that even mean, FOB?”

  “Fresh off the boat.” Crane’s Japanese. She has positionality, a term seemingly coined by one of their activist professors; at least, Felix hasn’t heard anyone else use it in the three years she’s been out of college.

  “I know, but how does that apply to him?” Robbie wants to know.

  “Fine. Fresh off the bus. From, like, Iowa.” Crane smiles. “He’s so in love with WeHo, you can tell.”

  Sourpuss is sort of… sour. Brushed aluminum surfaces, aloof bartenders. Too new to have settled on a look, it’s a crazy quilt of lesbians and near-lesbians. Slim glittered bellbottoms, swingy flowered skirts, work pants, cargo pants, and giant raver jeans all cradle animated asses. Hopeful swinger couples work the margins of the dance floor, and gay boyfriends grind like the place is theirs. It’s times like this that Felix loves West Hollywood. It’s just cheesy enough that she doesn’t feel self-conscious. She’s wearing one of her dykiest outfits: black Dickies, black wifebeater with red silk-screened lips that hover between her boobs, steel-toed boots, and a choker that looks like a handful of ball bearings strung together. Her short brown hair is gelled into chunky spikes. For the sake of juxtaposition, she carries a purse adorned with a white poodle appliqué. The ensemble makes her feel angry-happy.

  The three friends shimmy into a platonic triangle. Near the bar, Felix spots Eva putting the moves on some neo-butch dyke, a woman with cutoff sleeves and sinewy biceps who probably loves knitting and getting fucked with a strap-on. One of Eva’s many types. A few minutes later, Felix catches Eva whispering to the DJ, a pixie-faced girl with a German accent who keeps welcoming the crowd to “Sow-ah-puss.” The real Eva could be doing almost exactly this thousands of miles away. She could be hunting for the side-whatevers to her relationship with Kate—or worse, what if Kate is so fabulous that Eva doesn’t need anyone else? Felix calculates the time difference and realizes that Eva is most likely sleeping. Her arms thrown over her head, as if she’s dreaming of roller coasters. Kate trying to spoon her un-spoonable body. In Berlin or Prague, it’s already tomorrow. Eva is living in the future, and she’s not calling Felix to tell her what it’s like.

  Felix wishes she had backpacked through Europe after graduation instead of working at an internship that became a tedious editorial assistant position. Then she would know what early summer weather was like there, how it would touch Eva’s skin. Is the light buttery or sharp? Are the toilets the same? Is it true there are no homeless people? Who will Eva give her change to?

  “I am hoping everyone is having a good dance,” the DJ purrs over a techno pop song.

  “She’s cute,” says Crane.

  “You have a girlfriend, lady,” Felix reminds her. Sandy and Crane are very monogamous, but Sandy hates to dance.

  “I mean for you. You’re free, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Felix doesn’t know how people meet in clubs. She doesn’t know how to make the transition from looking hot and dancing well to actually hooking up the names and numbers and body parts. She keeps moving, her fists punching at the ceiling. For now it’s enough to be in a new place.

  Crane buys her a ginger ale/vanilla Stoli, Felix’s drink since she decided she needed A Drink. It was the perfect beverage—pale and unadorned enough to make her think of detective fiction, but still wet with sugar. Crane sways as she hands it to Felix, sloshing her own apple martini as she balances on her cast.

  Robbie drinks beer, preferably micro-brew, but he’s not a snob about it. “Hey, lushy,” Robbie yells to Crane over the music. “When do you get that thing off?”

  “Couple more weeks still. My brother told me that I probably broke it because I broke it before, in gymnastics when I was little. Something about how once you kill the nerves in a certain part of your body, they don’t regenerate. Like, I can’t feel the ground quite right with that foot, even though the bone is strong. Everyone thinks it’s the bone that’s the problem, but really it’s the nerve.”

  Felix feels faraway from the conversation. She sees Eva enter the club, wearing big Elton John glasses and trailing two hip-hop chicks. She decides to try out an idea, the way you can try out things in a bar. “Hey, you guys, what would you think if I ran away?”

  “Not to Europe!” Crane says. “I forbid it. I don’t want to hear any more about her tonight.”

  “It’s okay to miss her,” says Robbie. “Crane, have a little sympathy. I remember when Andrew and I broke up—”

  “I’m not talking about Eva,” Felix insists, although she wants to let the name linger in her mouth. The small, neat bite of it, like tapas. “I just sort of want to go somewhere. I want to do something more interesting, more creative or whatever.” Even through her drink’s shimmer, she can feel the cliché of her statement. Everyone she knows is thinking about quitting. To Do Something More Creative or To Give Back A Little. But unlike Felix, they’re too busy being successful. Felix hates being a cliché, longs for a world not divided between mimics and reactionaries. Where would that be, she asks herself, the womb?

  “Maybe I’ll do a little traveling. On this continent, don’t worry. To, like, New York,” Felix says, thinking, Sure, I could just break into fashion design. Her secret, uber-cliché More Creative Thing.

  “You should, you’ll love it,” Crane says excitedly. They believe that New York is better than Silver Lake. They believe that there’s truth in brick and verticality. New York says, This is where it’s at, and they nod, awed. Collectively, Felix and Crane have spent six and a half days there.

  The club’s roving blue spotlight hits a posse of newcomers. “Is that what I think it is?” Crane leans in like she’s whispering, but she’s yelling over the music.

  “A mullet,” Felix confirms. “A real, live mullet.” The woman is on the older end of the Sourpuss spectrum, in mailbox-blue jeans and a tucked-in T-shirt.

  “Do you think it’s retro?” Crane asks. Felix can see her brain trying to accommodate this oddity, the way if you saw an alien walking down the street, you might rationalize: costume party, film shoot.

  Felix shakes her head, “Not with that outfit. It’s gotta be the real thing.”

  “I hope she doesn’t ask the DJ to play ’Achy-Breaky Heart,’ ” Crane giggles.

  “It’s 12:30!” Robbie exclaims. His roommates turn to look at him. He’s squinting at his watch.

  “Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?” Felix asks.

  “Are you trying to distract us from our cattiness?” Crane laughs.

  “No, we have to feed the meter,” says Robbie, annoyed. “It expires in, like, two minutes.”

  “It is so oppressive that West Hollywood has 24-hour meters,” grumbles Crane.

  The cattiness and the vodka are making Felix a little queasy. “I’ll go,” she volunteers. “I could use some air.”

  She passes Billy Ray on the way out the back door. Felix brushes against her, the softness of the woman’s upper arm touching her o
wn arm.

  Crane’s yellow Volvo is parked on one of the side streets between Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset, in the borderland between boystown and fratboystown. Felix hikes up the hill. The night air, chilled as a beer glass, bites at her cheeks.

  Eva is here too, lurking behind manicured bushes outside Spanish-style cottages. Handing money to a homeless guy. Punching her code into the security gate outside an apartment building. Two old men pass Felix, speaking Russian, which makes her think of Europe, which makes her think of Eva.

  She tries to step back and assess the situation rationally. Is she in one of those movies where two people are destined to be together but are kept apart for years as a result of wacky plot twists and tragic human flaws? Or is she in one of those movies where the girl is dumped by Mr. Wrong early on—winning the audience’s sympathy—only to free her up to find Mr. Right? If there were more gay movies out there, maybe she would know.

  Here comes Eva again, trailing behind a broad-chested Sunset guy at the end of the block. When they get closer, Felix sees that this Eva is in fact a young man with blond surfer hair. Eva would appreciate the genderfuck, Felix thinks.

  “Hey,” says the more masculine of the two. He has centimeter-long brown hair and a tan that promises to turn cancerous by middle age. They probably thought she was checking them out.

  “Hey,” she says with a lips-no-teeth smile.

  “Hey, are there any good clubs around here?” They’re closer now, and they smell like college. Pabst Blue Ribbon. He flashes white teeth, and Felix pictures a toothpaste-commercial “ping!” accompanied by an animated sparkle emanating from his grin.

  The only straight clubs Felix likes are in Silver Lake. These two would hate places like Good Luck Bar and Gabbah and Zombie Lounge. But maybe it’s her mission to expand their horizons.

  “If you keep going down Sunset—like, way past Dublin’s—past where the neighborhood starts to seem kind of shady, there’s this great little bar called First Base. It used to be a cop bar, back in the day, but now it’s pretty cool. I guess because it used to be a cop bar, right? They have this one DJ—”

  “You wanna come with us?” says the Guy Guy.

  “Dude, we’re not gonna drive,” whines the Eva Guy. “How about somewhere around here?”

  “All the straight bars around here suck,” Felix says. She’s feeling done with these two. She digs in her pocket for quarters. “Sorry, but you’re on your own.”

  The Guy Guy takes a step closer. He is nearly a foot taller than her. She can see the stubble on his chin. Everything about him reminds her of meat. Felix is suddenly aware of her surroundings. They’re on a dark skinny street, midway between Sunset and Santa Monica. An alley stretches off to her left. Crane’s car gleams half a block away. The Eva outside the apartment building has long since turned in for the night. Felix clutches her purse and tries to keep looking bored.

  “Dude, just look at her shoes. Those are dyke shoes,” points out the Eva Guy. As if Felix is not there. Normally, she might wonder what kind of closet case analyzes women’s fashions in this manner—but right now her heart is whirring too loudly in her ears.

  “My buddy here really needs to get laid,” says the Guy Guy. “How ’bout you do him a favor, just this once?”

  “Shut up,” laughs the Eva Guy. But he touches the strap of her tank top. The gesture is almost tender, like he plans to stick up for her. His fingers are thick and fumbling. He is nothing like Eva. Nothing, Felix thinks.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says. “My friends are waiting.” She tries to step past them, but the Guy Guy is a mountain. The Eva Guy is a mountain lion, skittish and aggressive at the same time.

  The Eva Guy grabs her wrist. Her bones are impossibly small beneath his grip.

  “What the fuck!” Her voice is small. She doesn’t know how to be intimidating, only ironic. She tries to twist free, but the Eva Guy’s grip tightens. His friend steps in and pushes her against the cinderblock wall behind her.

  “Who do you think you are?” the Guy Guy hisses, his breath potent and hot in her ear. She has no idea. Her back scrapes against the wall, her bare shoulders pinned. Her clothes are no help. They can’t stand up to strong hands and cement. Her poodle purse slides to the ground with a clatter of lipstick and change.

  She kicks. The steel toes of her boots hit shins, but her feet feel so heavy. She can’t find the guys’ groins, even as their square hips press against her pants.

  A hand or a knee slams into her ribs. Her body is wracked with surprise. It wasn’t made to bend this way, to take this.

  She opens her mouth, and suddenly there’s a tongue there. It’s not hers.

  “Dykes like tongue, right?” chuckles whichever guy is not choking her with his tongue.

  Her own tongue crouches in the back of her throat. Hidden and useless. She should bite down, she half-thinks, but she’s too shocked. All of this is so surprising. No, you don’t understand, I’m not—she thinks. She’s not what? Pabst Blue Ribbon mingles with ginger ale in her mouth. Then blood.

  Teeth are biting her bottom lip. Her head knocks against the wall with a hollow thump. They are saying something, but they are saying it to Felix’s clothes. She is elsewhere, floating, searching for the circus or for New York, her eyes landing on the street sign on the corner. It says Cynthia Street. She focuses on the font, the sound, white letters on blue background. Cynthia. If she can keep saying it, she will be okay.

  The word creeps up from her stomach. Past the screaming pain in her ribcage, past the storm of alcohol in her throat. “Cynthia!” The scream bursts into the world.

  “You are Cynthia? You are Cynthia?” repeats one of the Russian men she saw earlier. They are here, somehow, and Felix is back, sort of. She sits on the sidewalk, slumped against the brick wall. She pats her body to make sure it is here with her. The neck of her tank top is stretched and torn. The top button of her pants is undone, but the zipper remains zipped.

  “I’m Felix,” she whispers hoarsely. Is this even true?

  The man’s friend is further down the street. “You boys shoo!” he yells, as if they were cartoon birds eyeing a pie on a windowsill. Felix watches them flee. The Guy Guy has an uneven, duck-footed gait.

  “They are bad boys,” mutters the man closer to her. “You should not be out alone, a young good girl. My friend, he call doctor.”

  Felix nods. The man has wide flat cheeks and ice-blue eyes. He extends a hand to help her up. She takes it, and immediately recoils. His fingers are as rough as the Eva Guy’s. She struggles to stand on her own.

  When she hears the sirens as they get closer and closer, it seems like a coincidence that two bad things are happening on Cynthia Street tonight. Then she realizes the sirens are for her. When a police car appears at the top of the block, the Russian man says hurriedly, “I go now.”

  “Wait, you have to tell them—” Felix protests.

  “My friend and me, we have no papers, you understand?”

  “Papers?”

  “Polizia, they send us back, you understand?” he says quickly, moving away from her.

  Slowly, Felix does. She has no strength to fight him. To fight anyone. He follows his friend down the alley, two more broad male backs in retreat.

  Sitting in an emergency room bed, Felix listens as Dr. Julia Muto lists her injuries: cracked rib, lacerated tongue, strained neck, non-concussive bump on her head, slightly abraded skin on her shoulders and arms.

  “That’s all?” Felix says. It feels like more.

  “We should be glad that’s all,” says Dr. Muto brightly. She has a swingy black ponytail, and entirely too much bedside manner.

  “Are you sure she wasn’t raped?” Crane demands. A nurse called Crane’s cell phone, then Felix’s parents, who are now on their way up from Hermosa Beach. “That’s how hate crimes work, you know. Assholes like those goddamn cracker fratboy homophobes always have to fuck someone. She might have blacked out. She might have already repressed her memori
es.” Crane is a firecracker of rage and color in the sterile room.

  “I should have gone with you to the meter,” Robbie laments. He touches her forearm so lightly she can barely feel it.

  “Nah,” Felix says over her fat lip. It’s all she can muster.

  There are too many people in the room. Crane, Robbie, Dr. Muto, a nurse, and two West Hollywood sheriff’s deputies. All looking at her, still in her torn clothes, lipstick smeared around her face. Messy and broken.

  The deputies had plenty of time to quiz her in the Cedars-Sinai waiting room, as heart attacks and strokes and a seizing baby cut in front of her. One of the cops is so tall and blond that it’s hard to believe he’s the real thing, not a stripper ready to handcuff a bachelorette. The other is a compact Latino man with a hooked nose. He speaks slowly and earnestly, as if he is choosing each word from a textbook. They take turns making her tell the story, again and again, as they scrawl words in skinny notebooks. Clubs. Parking meter. Tank top. Of all the stories in Felix’s head, this is the last one she wants to tell. Can’t she talk about her road trip to San Francisco last summer? Her idea for a music magazine column called The Jaded Raver?

  Deputy Salvatierra turns to his partner. “You’d better call Windus.” To Felix he says, “We have a special Hate Crimes unit. But I’ll level with you. If we’re going to pursue this as a hate crime, there needs to be some suggestion that the individuals assaulted you because you are gay. And it doesn’t help that the two witnesses also fled, although we’ll try to track them down. Now,” he looks at his notes, “we already determined that your wallet was missing from your purse shortly after the individuals fled the scene.”

  Felix has no recollection of either guy reaching into her purse, but when the officers suggested she inspect its contents in the waiting room, her wallet was indeed gone.

  “Is there a chance that this could have been a robbery?” Deputy Salvatierra asks.

  “I don’t know,” Felix says, “I don’t know.” She can’t get enough air in her lungs. She doesn’t know if that’s a result of her cracked ribcage or the bandage that corsets it.