by Havok, Davey
“This must be it. This is where those surfers used to hang out.” Zach illuminates the ratty sleeping bag stuffed in a corner. “They must have slept in here.”
I’m amazed. Even if it weren’t totally disgusting, I’d never sleep in this room. It’s too creepy.
“What’s their deal again?” Smelling stale weed, I wonder about the type of people who would purposefully crash anywhere that neither provides running water nor room service.
“I guess some of them lived here years ago but they’re all on the coast now.” Zach stomps a can. “Dustin met them surfing. When he told them that he goes to Valley View, they told them about this place. I think he wants to touch the one named Star. She’s the one with the house. She’s, like, a woman. They’re all in their twenties…”
I can relate. I lost my virginity to an older woman. When I was twelve, Lizzy, my twenty-year-old babysitter moved from Essex to attend NYU and prove to me that boys aren’t always stronger than girls. In our wrestling match she pinned me down, kissed me, unbuttoned her blouse, and did it to me on my parent’s Eames corner couch to the sounds of the Smiths. It was a beautifully surreal experience that has forever changed me. Since that night, I’ve only listened to UK bands.
“Fabulous,” I say, challenging Zach with a beam of light. “But are there supposed to be bigger rooms somewhere? I don’t think these empty cupboards are sufficient for our party needs my friend.”
“I know. I just wanted to find their old room.” His hair turns blue in my Mini-Mag’s light as he squints, remembering why it is we’ve been tempting ghosts, risking life, limb, arrest and outfits. “It’s downstairs. Follow me.”
Illuminating our steps, we descend through the aged parlor and down to the basement. Zach steps out of the deep stairwell. He grasps the ornate Deco handles of the doubles doors in front of us. They gasp as they part, and our blue Mags shine into a vast empty space. To the right, at the far end of the expansive floor, a semicircle of six shallow gilded steps gradually climb to meet a stage framed with heavy crimson velvet curtains. In a world before Top Chef this must have been some sort of high-class supper club. We cross the ballroom, past the tiers where servers once doted on fancy diners, slightly bouncing from the creaking coils beneath the giving boards.
Onstage, I shine my flashlight toward the treacherous catwalks. My lighter’s bright chirp sings to me from the rafters. Click, click. Click, click. A dangling sandbag begins to descend. A pulley squeaks. I watch the curtains unfold. They meet, sway, and then part. And I turn to run upstage, into the open arms of the beautiful white wall. It’s huge. I glide my palm across its cool, smooth, bare surface. I caress it. Then clap the invasive dust from my hands. Aside from needing a cleaning, this is perfect. This is all perfect.
“Zach!” Speed-pacing downstage, I point back at the wonderful canvas, as he releases his tattered rope. “This is it! We could totally do The Premiere’s down here. We could use that wall for the screen.”
I have my brother to thank for this idea. Before Joey ran away to join Cirque, he flew to LA. Down there, he worked for a party promoter. Before meeting him, I’d never known that throwing parties could be a profession. When I’d visit, Joey would take me to all sorts of fabulous events. One was a party at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, wherein hundreds of highly fashionable, very attractive kids come and lay blankets on the grass to watch films with the dead stars. There I saw The Hunger projected onto a glowing mausoleum while surrounded by hot girls who looked like hairdressers, well-dressed guys who looked like hairdressers, and Jayne Mansfield resting but a few feet behind me. Though everyone was smoking and had bottles of red wine, I forgave these horrid imperfections in light of the greater good time. One girl, who drank straight from a mini bottle of champagne, had a white kitten with her. She let me hold Mochi through the Peter Murphy scene. I don’t remember the girl’s name, but I still miss them both.
“Mike.” Zach, pacing up through the unsettled dust, shines his blue light against the wall. “The kid was right. This place will totally rule. It’s fucking dark down here, but I suppose that’s ideal. … I’ll run some lights. We’ll need a generator. You can get the old midnight-movie projector right?”
“I can get it.” I pet our wall screen.
“We’re doing this! Seriously.” He palms a dirty Mento into his mouth. “Let’s go back to my place and discuss over some San P.”
“Fabulous!” Dusting my hands on his jacket, dizzied by the prospect of finally taking my first step toward party salvation, I say, “Dibs on Dustin’s shower.”
Chapter 5
I can’t sleep. I’ve been trying for hours. Typically, only school forces me out of bed before the rest of the world has had lunch. Today, I whimper and slide out of Dustin’s slippery purple sheets as the sun starts to rise. The kid is still on the coast and Zach’s fast asleep in his own room. He can pass out with a full mind, but whenever I have a moment of genius that needs realization it likes to lie within me until I convince it to put out. And since I’ve yet to fully seduce our blushing party scheme, I’m already dressed, mobile, and risking a tan at this godly hour. My outfit needs an iron, my shades need some Windex, and I need tea.
With Primal Scream guiding me on my iPod, I shuffle the few blinding blocks from the Prozens’ to our one and only coffee-nerd cafe, Higher Grounds. Its witty play-on-words name depresses me. Tripping up a small flight of concrete steps, I catch myself on the iron fence that wraps around the patio and then float through the glass door. Two of the four walls of this place are ceiling to floor windows. The checkered tiles glare at me as I cross them. When I raise my squint, I’m sure that I’ve drifted into another town. I gasp in mocha air.
Standing over me, a platinum blonde green-eyed it-girl is glowing in the blinding sunbeams and asking to take my order. She’s wearing a remixed Strangeways tee. She looks like she escaped from a Paper magazine editorial. Glancing up, I wonder if she’s wearing heels before realizing that I’m crumpled up on the high counter. I’d like to blame lack of sleep for crippling me at this inopportune moment, but I know why I’ve collapsed. It pains me to look at her. She has the face of a star.
“You okay?” she asks, bemused. Pressed to my cheek, the cold black granite awakens my tongue.
“Tea. Please!” Weakly raising a ten-dollar bill, I moan, “Just. Need some Sencha. …” Sparing her a bow, I stand and muster the shiniest pre-noon grin that I can. “And a vegan scone.”
“Bags or a loose leaf?”
I try to just say “loose,” but instead blurt out, “Who are you?”
Suddenly discovering a girl like this working at one of our few not-so-hot spots is a huge threat to the overwhelming banality of small-town ennui.
Seemingly pleased, smiling a half-smile, she hands me my change and very plainly asks, “Who are you, Michael?”
I run my hand through my morning mop, trying to recover from her unexpected recognition. I can feel my hair growing. It tingles.
“I haven’t decided…”
Looking past me, dismissing me, she asks, “Can I help you ma’am?”
Dodging the silver-haired woodsy woman behind me, I casually rake my fingers over the juice cooler, swipe some ice, and retreat to the girls’ room. As scalding water rushes from the faucet, I pocket my aviators and dab my eyes with a melting cube. New Girl is wearing a Smiths shirt. I smooth my tie in the steam. I think I saw side-boob. I slip my tie back under my collar, fix my hair, and smile.
“Michael. Organic green!”
I check my teeth then dash down the hall. Slowing my rush, I stroll to the bar.
“How do you know my name?”
“I saw you leaving auditions last month. And ever since I moved here Sarah and The Twins have been telling me how much I’d love you.”
This is the girl I’ve been hearing about, Becca. She’s the one Rick cast opposite me in the fall musical. Finally matching her cool, I ask, “So, do you love me?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She hands me a hot bowl-sized black porcelain mug, turns to the La Marzocco, and begins dolloping foam.
“How was last night?” I ask, waiting for my pastry. I’m hoping that her phone number will be written on its bag. I bet her penmanship is superb. “You went to SF with Sarah and them right?”
“Nah, we just got dinner.” She shrugs. “I was going to go but she wasn’t sure when she was coming back. I figured that if I stayed out too late I’d end up laid out across the counter this morning.” Lifting up on her toes she announces, “Cappuccino, extra foam for Celeste!” Then pulls some money from the till and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“We’re out of scones. Sorry.”
Sitting on toasty black vinyl, with my back absorbing the glare of the window-wall, I text with Hector. He’s agreed to let us borrow his generator. I’m telling him to drop it at Zach’s as Sarah’s voice bursts over the Adele single.
“Hayyyyy beautiful!”
Looking up from my iPhone, I’m about to respond when Becca comes out from behind the counter. The hot brunette smooches the beautiful blonde as if they were two longtime friends meeting at their favorite café on Rue Saint-Honore. They hug, giggle about something, then the vixen in the Smiths shirt skips back to re-make Celleste’s unacceptable drink—there’s too much foam. Tiking her way between tables, Sarah sits down at the chair across from me, crosses her great legs, and smiles.
“Hey sexy, what’s shakin’?” Her shades match her pink and black-lace Betsey pumps. Her sleeveless black dress looks like it’s been slept in. She hasn’t been home yet.
“How was the party?” I ask.
“Amazing!” Squeezing my thigh, she begins naming people that I don’t know. “Zoe was there, she’s so nice, and her friend Kevin totally wants to paint me. And The Cobra Snake came up and got a picture of me and Donovan…”
As she recounts her electro evening, I wonder how she can still look this hot. She’s last night’s shining casualty. She’s a perfect mess.
Silently envying her talent, I sip my tea. She gushes, “His set was SO amazing!”
“Whose?”
“Donny’s!” Sarah takes my mug and continues to ramble on about the “amazing party” hosted by her “amazing” DJ friend.
Standing in the corner of the elevated DJ booth, with a vague sense of loss and hope, I watch Leo Di fade down the treble, lean across the turntables, and tongue-kiss Sarah. The red disco lights pulse. As he backs away to the boards, she grabs his McQueen tie, and pulls him in for more. When the handsome celebrity feels her up, Sarah asks…
“Hey, what are you doing here anyway?” She sips my tea. “Why are you up so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I look up from her cleavage, into deeply tinted lenses. And having not forgotten her promise, add, “I’m surprised that you’re back already, I mean, I guess I didn’t get your text—”
A treat clinks down in front of me.
Pointing at the desert plate, I ask Becca, “Is this for me?”
“Well yeah. For both of you.” She glances across my booth.
Sarah has begun tapping on her phone.
Smiling, Becca turns back to me. “You just looked so disappointed when I told you we were out of those scones… ”
“Thanks!” I tear off a large corner of the banana bread. “I usually try to eat vegan but—”
“Well, you’re in luck. There’s nothing in there. I promise. I made it myself.” Confidently, she stands. “I brought some to see if the owner wants to carry them.”
Chewing a moist chunk, I am dazzled by the stunning cruelty-free baker. I’m glad Sarah’s not paying attention. I doubt she’d care. But I wouldn’t want her to cut me off. We’ve only done it six times. Swallowing, I gush, “You made this? It’s delish. So you’re vegan?”
“Yeah. You too?”
“I aspire. … It’s so hard to find nice shoes … though treats are my main weakness. I get really treaty. … But if someone were baking me stuff like this all the time it would be way easier to maintain my compassionate diet,” I proclaim. “…I’ve never met a vegan girl who’s not a hippie!” Becca clearly isn’t the type to smoke weed, take shrooms, eschew waxing, or avoid a three-step shampooing—her jeans fit and I recognize the designer.
Clacking her phone onto the shiny black table, Sarah objects. “What about me?”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’m vegan.” She snatches the remaining half of the tasty slice. “Except for fish.”
As I suppress my sudden suicidal urges, Becca offers, “You want some to take home Sarah? I’ve got more in the back.”
“Oh, no thanks, Babe.” She plates the remaining speck. “Calories. But could I get a white mocha?”
“Soy?”
I remove my face from my hand to see if the gracious vegan is sharing my pain. She is unfazed. So poised. So runway.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Covering her mouth Sarah swallows. “Or whatever.”
As Becca walks away, I watch the Cheap Mondays skull smile above her perky butt. A flicked crumb hits my shirt. “Hey!”
I check for stains as Sarah asks, “You’re working tonight, right Mike?”
“Oh. Yeah. I am.” I had forgotten until now. “I’m gonna be washed up.” “Well you should probably take a nap.” Her sex-hummed stage voice
turns the head of the businessman paying at the register. “Cuz I’m going to come visit. And I don’t want you tired.”
Chapter 6
Tired.
I couldn’t nap. Lying atop my comforter, I was thinking about the party; obsessing over lighting, furnishing, outfits, and my need to open with the perfect film.
If we do this right, The Premieres could be huge. They could change everything. I could be bigger than the party kid from Australia. I could be signing a contract with MTV before I get my mid-term report card.
Now the clicking of the 10:15 projection sounds like a lullaby.
In the flickering shadows of Booth Six, bolted to the concrete in front of the window, there’s an old pair of ragged red theatre chairs. Tonight, they feel like a California King mattress stuffed with purring kittens.
Sunken into crushed foam and broken springs, I slowly blink at the packed theatre below. I yawn. Breathing in the faint smell of popcorn, I sleep—lulled by the tsk tsk tsk of the spinning reels—until the foreign sound of rapidly approaching heels interrupts the projector’s cadence.
Tik,tik,tik. Tik,tik,tik.
Sarah stalks across the harsh grey floor. She descends. She straddles me. My chair and I squeak as her black cotton skirt slides up to reveal hot pink Hello Kitty panties. I’m delighted. Grazed by the eerie projection light, she traps my legs together with her knees and I desperately fumble to unbutton her sleek short-sleeve schoolgirl top. Her long untamable hair is tangling the way, but luckily my humming brunette is in no mood for delicacy. Undoing her blouse, she sends a loose button flying. It clatters in the corner as she tosses the top, slips off her pink diamond-grid bra, and forces my face into her warm boobs. I suckle, suffocating on flesh and the scent of cotton candy. The tang of perfume tingles my lips. I’m at peace. Moz, I’m ready. You may take me now.
“Michael, there is a light that never goes out.” I walk into the spotlight.
Grabbing a handful of my perfectly styled hair, pulling me from my deserved fate, Sarah thrusts my head back. I suck in the air as she slides her wet mouth up my throat, pressing down hard enough to choke me. Her spit leaves a cooling trail down my neck. Sealing my lips with her own, she steals my breath. Her tongue feeds me a sweet wad of chewed up gum. It’s watermelon.
I can’t wait to tell Zach.
I turn, spit out the Bubblicious, stand, and push my gracious guest against the window. The thick glass thuds. Sarah grins, and I attack the pounding pulse above the pink acrylic beads at her collarbone. Digging her fingers into my ribs, she groans. Our audience laughs and I spin her to face them.
The theatre gives
Sarah’s full frontal a standing ovation. I grant them a regal wave.
The projector tsk tsk tsks.
Firmly, I wrap my right arm around her boobs and, sucking her jaw line, slowly press my free fingers down the front of her panties—one centimeter, one inch, two—then Sarah breaks my hold. Dropping to her knees, she tears down my jeans and consumes my Producer. It’s fabulous, except that she’s no longer obscuring my view. I glance up from her topless skillful licking to the blockbuster comedy. A naked, ebullient trans-sexual is the last image I see before my eyes squeeze shut with joy. As I overfill her mouth, another burst of laughter rises from the house. I can’t blame them. This part is pretty funny.
Swallowing, Sarah wipes her mouth on the hem of my shirt then stands. She watches me, as I check it for stains. It’s moist, but unharmed.
Stepping out of my Ksubis, I slip off my tee, fold my clothes, and then hoist her onto the stainless steel build-up table. Braving the chill of it, she wraps her legs around my waist. A stack of trailers crashes to the floor. Their metallic ringing lingers as we do it, the patent leather of Sarah’s pumps chafing the back of my thighs. Expertly, I bring her to the peak of ecstasy, at least twice (I’m pretty sure), before reaching my own second monumental climax. I explode a shockingly tiny amount of joy onto her thighs and then crumple onto the cold floor. I land atop the abused blouse. Sarah pulls it out from under me. After wiping herself down, she balls it up and tosses it toward the trash. It lands in a clump below the ribbon of tape snaking from the steel bin.
Resting my head on my arms, I watch her dress. She pulls her panties over her hips. Her ass is cinematic. She pulls up her skirt. Toned calves. She must do Zumba.
