by Havok, Davey
Tsk,tsk,tsk.
Tik, tik, tik. Tik, tik, tik.
Sarah heels over to the scattered reels and frees my brother’s vintage Unknown Pleasures shirt from the pile. She puts it on. I’m horrified. Sliding her wavy hair out the back of its perfectly relaxed neck, she struts to the door. She turns, smiles, blows me a kiss, and then tiks down to the lobby.
She didn’t say a word the whole time.
Nor did I.
With her having so generously given me wonderful OJ before letting me do it to her on a freezing metal table for ten minutes without hesitancy, I feel that it would have been rude to complain about the tee. I may like her even more than I thought.
After locating and discarding the carelessly spat gum, I stack the reels, break down the film, then run downstairs. The moviegoers have all gone. The door to my manager’s office is locked and the one remaining Concession Creep is smoking out front beneath the Marquee. He’s locking up tonight. This is good. Sequoia wouldn’t notice if I walked out of here with the safe. I shove my hand in my pocket. Clicking, I quickly pace over amoebic coke stains on the matted red carpet and back up to Booth Six. I won’t get caught. I pull the forgotten projector out from under the cabinet. I stash it in my old Jansport. No one will ever notice. The Panasonic hasn’t been touched since the owner cancelled midnight movies. Stealthily, I sneak down the stairs, out through the back door, and into the empty lot. I desperately hope that no one sees me. I’m going to look ridiculous skating home in just jeans and a backpack.
It’s fine. Click, click. I’ll get the shirt back. And the night is still warm. Click, click.
Everything’s fine.
Chapter 7
Sleeping soundly with the projector stuffed into my old Sponge Bob sleeping bag, safely hidden in the back corner of my closet, I wake up with a sharp pain in my chest. Eddie kneads down toward my stomach. She purrs. Her rough wet tongue licks my face, and despite the forgivable clawing, I feel fantastic.
Flopping my arm across my red Prima sheets, I grab my phone. 2:12 pm. I unplug the charger, say good morning to the poster of Moz that’s tacked to my ceiling, and dial.
Sarah doesn’t answer.
I shuffle to the kitchen to grab a San P. from the fridge. A fresh, locally baked low-fat cranberry scone from Cherie Cherie is waiting for me in the breadbox. I glance over the Daily Chronicle. Another church burned down. The Future Farmers of America is holding a livestock competition for ‘largest poultry.’ City folk are spending millions to buy land for vineyards. Our county is now the number seven marijuana-producing county in CA.
Typical.
I flip to the entertainment section: wine tasting, acoustic night at the wine bar, and the same movies that have been playing at work all summer—most of which are 3-D kid flicks. An Aveda day spa will finally be opening, but not before I’m long gone. If anything exciting is ever going to happen in this town before then, I’m going to have to be the one that makes it happen.
I text Sarah “Meet for Mochas?” then walk to the bathroom to begin my morning ritual.
With “Deep Hit of Morning Sun” playing on repeat through my iPod dock, I brush my teeth, shower, shampoo, blow dry, dress, and style. An hour later I look absolutely fabulous. On my way out the front door, with my backpack slung over my shoulder, I check my texts. Sarah hasn’t written back.
It’s fine.
To my relief, Zach’s air conditioner is finally fixed. His floor fans now serve as racks for wrinkled inside-out rock shirts. Hiding from the last rays of sunset, we lay stretched out on his unmade bed, propped against posters, each tapping away on laptops. We peruse porn, study celebrity sites, and search for new music while shopping.
I type in ‘Joy Division’ on last FM. When I first swiped their shirt from my brother’s drawer I didn’t know that it was a band shirt. It didn’t matter. The design was fabulous. When Joey told me that Joy Division also made fabulous music, I downloaded a few songs. They were great. It was no surprise; my brother has always had impeccable taste. And the band was British.
I drop ten faux fur Chinchilla throws into my basket and a song called “Blue Monday” comes on. I like it. I add forty CK almost-down pillows to my order and a song by some band called Depeche Mode comes on. I like that too. I search for inflatable mattresses to the euphonious sounds of The Smiths and check my texts. Zach snaps shut his Mac.
“Jamie told me that she thinks Becca’s into you.”
“Really?” I look up from my mochas message. “She said that?”
He walks over to the mound of clothes at the base of Hector’s Honda Generator, pulls his duct tape wallet from a pair of shredded jeans, and tosses it to me. His floor looks like the place where denim goes to die.
“Yeah. She came over with Sarah. Sarah asked me what we did last night. She said that you looked like you hadn’t slept when she ran into you at The Grounds. I guess that didn’t bum her out too much though! Booth fucking Six!” With a nodding grin, he gives me two thumbs up.
I thud my head back against The Gun Club. “I can’t believe I went out looking like that. I just figured I wouldn’t see anyone there that early!”
I need to start leaving extra outfits here. I’m sure Zach has a bunch of empty drawers. He’s obviously not using them.
“Dude, last night you did it with Sarah in front of a sold-out theatre and I just told you that Becca’s into you.” He sits down on his virtually unused Marshall. The guitar cab has ‘FAIL!’ spray-painted in white stencil across the screen. It’s just his band’s logo, but I feel like the amp is speaking to me. I’m irresponsible. I should have at least given more thought to my hair when I was in the girls’ room.
“I knew it. I knew I was a mess. I knew they could tell. Becca kept looking at me! I almost told them that I’d been up all night planning a party. But it’s not like we can just start talking about it! It’s far from legal. You didn’t tell Sarah did you? What did Becca say? That I looked like a homeless vampire?”
I should have told her about the party. I should have told them both. They’d have been beyond impressed.
Becca said, “I’m totally fucking hot and I was way into Mike before I realized that he needs to settle.” He grins, pops a Mento from the nubby roll that he found with his wallet, and proudly chews. Zach may not understand the importance of looking good, but he does understand the importance of good lookin’ out. My dear friend with the loud hair speaks with the calm voice of reason. He grounds me. He is the rock to my roll.
“Okay, yeah. You’re right, man. I should see if she’s on Is Anyone Up?!” I type Becca into the site’s search engine. A topless, tattooed brunette from Buffalo comes up. Her boobs are fake, nothing like Becca’s. “No luck.” I type ‘wwtdd.com’ into the browser. “Did you know she’s vegan?”
“Did you know that I’m going out with Jamie tonight? I said that the four of us should do something. Sarah said that she had shit to do, but Jamie and I are gonna go get YoGoGo!”
“That’s fine, I have to get to work anyway.” I check my phone again.
“Hey.” Standing over me, he throws a candy at my chest. “I am going out with JAMIE!”
The pink mint bonks off my sternum. It falls onto my keyboard and switches my open window.
“Oh, right man. That’s fabulous! Get her back here and put on “Girl You’ll Be a Woman Soon.” I heard her tell Sarah, “OMG it so makes me want to fuck.” You know, it’s her Pulp Fiction Uma obsession thing.”
“No way. Download it. Now.” He insists, then notices the details of my Bloomingdales cart. “Dude, get rid of the sunglasses.”
Zach is totally generous with all of his friends, and even more so with his best friend Michael Massi. Unfortunately, Willy Prozen starts to notice if his AMEX bill goes over a few thousand bucks.
“C’mon man they’re so sweet and only five hun—“
“I just ordered you that million dollar Keihl’s shit. If Dad cuts me off, we’re fucked for The Premieres. Here, these are s
weeter.” He assaults me with the remaining mints.
“Owe, Owe. Okay, Okay.” Miraculously, I catch one pink projectile and absently drop it into my pocket before getting rid of this season’s aviators. “I deleted the shades.”
Scoffing at my heartbreak, Zach picks a candy off a pillow and thuds back down on the edge of his firm mattress. Chewing, smacking his mouth, he reopens his computer and we both get back to business. Once we’ve managed to pull ourselves away from Titty City and finished shopping, I return his credit card, wish him luck with Jamie, and leave through his private backdoor.
From the top of his two shallow steps, I can see the chrome of his wrongly imprisoned Cadillac shining through the spotless garage windows. I go to it. With my hands in my jacket pockets, I peer through the glass. If only you were free, I wouldn’t have to skate to work. I wouldn’t even have to be here at all. Turning back toward the driveway I sigh then rediscover my Mento. I inspect it for lint, blow on it, and pop it into my mouth. I chew three times. It’s deelish. I spit it into the dense green hedge that surrounds the Prozens’ house. Occasionally I crave over-processed high-caloric treats, but can’t stomach the artificial color and flavoring. Refined sugar turns straight into fat. In the end I prefer healthier treating.
I pause to watch a thick string of saliva oozing after the candy wad, trailing off a slimed leaf. It’s unnaturally pink. It reminds of Sarah. Smacking, I swallow the last bits of sweet saliva left in my mouth. I sigh. I wish I had another one. Ignoring the irrational impulse to salvage the dirty candy, I clack down my board and push off toward the 8-plex, clicking my lighter most of the way.
At work, before I set up the reels I call Sarah. I dial her again at the end of the night in the empty lot behind the theatre. After the first ring, I hear the same message that’s been mocking me all day—I’m a free bitch, baby.
This is too much. I want to smash my phone against the trashcan on the edge of the sidewalk.
I have to clean.
Chapter 8
As the days creep through the summer heat, the dream of the first Premiere consumes my every thought, while a phone full of unreturned messages competes for my attention.
Yesterday I didn’t text Sarah at all. I imagined seeing Becca at the last showing of the blockbuster rom-com at work. When I came home I found a similar looking blonde on PornoTube. I was hoping to run into the gorgeous vegan at her morning shift today but it’s already mid-afternoon. Becca has surely left The Grounds. And I have no texts.
The sun shines through our towering windows while I sit with Gina. She reviews humdrum headlines of the local paper: medical marijuana campaigns, bike to work day, another church has burned down.
“It’s too bad that the drug dealers weren’t in the fire,” I lament, chewing. Without looking up Gina shakes her head.
“It is a terrible shame isn’t it? That little church was so nice.”
I ask if we have any lime.
After finishing my Pellegrino with a twist, rinsing my glass, and cleaning my old Sponge Bob plate, I shower to the sound of “Deep Hit of Morning Sun.” I brush my teeth for two Sonicare cycles, pull up my jeans, and then pad shirtless to Joey’s room to pick out a piece from his overflowing dresser of treasure. I unfold and refold the words ‘FRANKIE SAYS RELAX.’ I slip on a black tee that says ‘Love and Rockets.’ I turn in the mirror. I google the name on my phone. I miss my Unknown Pleasures shirt. I’m not sure that losing the vintage piece to post coital casualties was really worth the rewards. I can’t find a replacement on eBay and haven’t seen the hot thief who stole mine since she left me on the floor of Booth Six. I think I may have been used for my wardrobe. But it’s hard to say.
“Oh, no. Not yet,” I admit, squirting sunscreen into my palms. “I think her phone is off. She always forgets to charge it or pay the bill. She’s always losing it too. Or breaking it. But it’s fine, once the party—”
“That totally sucks,” Zach shakes his head. “Sarah’s so hot man. It would be a major bum-out if you didn’t get to do it to her again.”
As he blunt stalls on the far coping, I remain seated on my lawn chair beneath the umbrella on the garage side of the deck.
“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” I yell over the clacking of wood and metal on PVC. “Speaking of activities, you never told me how it went with Jamie.”
Zach purposefully aborts his air and lands planted in front of me, holding his board.
“Mike that stupid song totally worked. I totally did it with her.”
“Fabulous! I told you it was a good idea!” There’s conflict in my friend’s blue eyes. “What? …” Rubbing white lotion into my cheeks, I ask, “What’s wrong? Did you set a speed record? Did it suck?”
The iPod dock shuffles back to the 1960s.
“No, no I was a hero. And it was killer.” Zach stutters, looking beyond the roof of his house. Beneath the voices of the Beach Boys we can hear the sound of designer footsteps coming up the driveway. “Her ass is like another planet.”
He’s not telling me something. I don’t like it. On the day of Zach’s date, I read a tweet from Hector—something about drinking with Jamie while working on her dad’s gazebo. I figured the Coronas would only help Zach’s cause.
“What? …” I pry. “Was she drunk? She didn’t throw up did she? I don’t think I’d even accept OJ after that—” I prefer the term ‘Oral Joy’ to ‘blow job.’ It makes more sense.
The Twins stride onto the flat bottom of the ramp. Becca is with them. Even in jeans and a torn, sleeveless, grey Shattered Faith tee shirt, the beach beauty looks like she’s on her way to Parisian fashion week. Without removing their shades, the blonde trinity looks up toward our perch. Michelle speaks first.
“Hey guys, we’re walking to get iced coffees. You wanna come?”
I carefully climb down the ladder to offer the girls some San P.
“I would but I’m waiting for Dustin. …” Zach says. “Jamie said she might stop over too.”
“She tells us that you’re quite the dancer.” Michelle almost smiles.
“What? …” I ask. “You danced? Like in Pulp Fiction?” Singing ‘Zach, you’ll be a woman soon’ I gleefully take the opportunity to do a slow motion twist. My rubber soles slide atop the baking plywood.
“I hate you guys.” Blushing, Zach sighs and turns up “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.”
He really has nothing to be ashamed of. If the new girl in the purple pants were offering activities as a reward, I’d do a single man re-enactment of “All the Single Ladies” and post it.
“Oh come on,” Michelle consoles him. “We heard you were a GREAT dancer. That’s nothing to be embarrassed of.” Zach grins at the implication. “Sarah says the same about you too Mike.”
Seemingly, Sarah has been talking to everyone but me.
“Does she?” I ask, and then take a long sip off my chilled, vocal-relaxing Pellegrino. “Well the girl knows good moves when she sees them. I’d be happy teach you ladies a few of them if you’re up for it.” I rest my eyes on Becca’s cheap aviators. Hoping to have inspired a raised eyebrow or a blush. All I see is a distorted reflection of myself.
“Thanks Mike.” Drew sounds less appreciative than she should. “I’m sure we’d all love to take you up on that, but our pretend boyfriends are about to meet us at The Grounds. They’re from San Francisco. Jesse—”
“Jason,” Michelle corrects her sister. “Yours is Jason. And I thought they lived with those kids in Santa Rosa.”
She tugs on the delicate golden crucifix around her neck.
“Whatever,” Drew says, “My hot boy has a great aunt or something that lives over on Corvina. They’re gonna stay there tonight. They’re in a psych surf-rock band that’s about to get signed. They have, like, ten million hits on YouTube.”
Tramping down the transition of the ramp, Zach stops inches away from The Twins.
“Jesse and his great aunt are in a surf band?” He smirks.
I turn to the q
uiet platinum blonde. “So, is your pretend boyfriend coming too Becca?
“Nah, I don’t pretend, How ‘bout you?”
“What?”
Climbing out from a second story window of their house, Zach’s little brother takes a picture of us, yells “hey chicks” then jumps down about twelve feet into a large hedge.
“My pretend boyfriend just got here.”
Speeding over, Dustin’s long, straight, light brown locks flow around his navy blue headband.
“Isn’t that right Dustin dear?” Lovingly putting my arm around his shoulders, I pull a leaf from his hair.
“Huh?” He looks to his big brother.
“You’re Mike’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, I know!” Immediately playing along, and posturing like a fifteen-year-old queen from Venice Beach circa 1977, the kid stakes claim on me. “Back the fuck off my man, bitches!” he demands, challenging Becca before abruptly dropping the act and introducing himself. “Hey, I’m Dustin.” He smiles and nods toward me. “You can borrow him, I don’t mind. You just can’t keep him. And you have to let me take pictures when you guys fuck.” Then, producing a pair of mirrored aviators from the pocket of his plaid short sleeve, he puts them on, grins, and says, “Nice shades.”
I hate his hair but love his attitude. Dustin is always on fast-forward, turned up to ten, amped like a four-year-old who’s been given the key to the candy store. People think he’s coked out, but I know that he’s actually just really stoked.
“I don’t think I can borrow him, but thank you Dustin.” Charmed, Becca shockingly declines his generous offer before turning to me. “Isn’t Sarah your girlfriend?”
“Oh. No, we’re friends but she doesn’t really…” Secretly clicking my lighter, I stammer. “We don’t … I don’t have a girlfriend. She’s not my girlfriend. But she’s fabulous.”
With a fleeting low giggle, Becca releases a full smile that kills me even more than my momentary, uncharacteristic lack of eloquence.
