by Havok, Davey
“Oh, okay. Yeah. She’s awesome.” Taking a picture of her, of us, Dustin dissolves the upsetting conversation, as he frantically begins a report of his recent surfing sessions.
“You guys have gotta come out to the coast with me. Seriously. It’s so killer. Last night after hot tubbing Star gave me the most intense fucking massage. She says I have great tone. And check out what Leo gave me.” He slides a new Flip cam from his Levis and starts filming Becca. “And they said that Band FAIL! can play on their deck!” Zach and Alvin have a band. It’s called Band FAIL! There are only two members, they rarely rehearse and only have half a song written. But the clip has 1.2 million views on YouTube.
“Kickass!” Zach high fives his brother.
“Keep an eye on those hippies,” I warn, “They might spike your Pellegrino.”
Texting, Drew gives my solid advice a phhh and, direct to camera, Becca further cautions.
“Careful of those sharks out there too,” before her phone begins buzzing.
Turning, playing with her hair, she paces away from the ramp. “Hey! Are you back? … We’re at Zach’s. … Yeah, he is…”
I admire her side-boob and the skull detail sewn into the denim above her very round butt as she wanders toward the garage to inspect the imprisoned Caddy. Leaving her bra-less, I envision matching lavender panties with matching lavender toenails. Zach asks his brother if he’s going to do it with the healing-handed surfer.
“Fucking, I don’t know man.” Tossing his hair, taking off his shades, Dustin reveals his hopeful hazel eyes. “That’d be rad but, dudes, she’s like a woman. It’d be fucking wild right?”
When Becca returns to the ramp, Dustin recommences filming. She seems totally comfortable on camera. I bet she reads wonderfully on screen.
“Hey, Sarah’s back. They’re almost there. You guys ready to go?”
I check my phone. Sarah’s here. She’s calling Becca and she hasn’t texted me.
As The Twins walk down the driveway, the vegan lingers. Dustin grabs the skate from his brother’s hand, points to his chest, and reminds her ‘Dustin,’ before demanding, “Watch this baby!” Punishing the ramp, defying gravity, he vocally approves of his own tricks, mid-air. “Sick! Whatttt? No Way! He’s so handsome—”
“Are you gonna come with us Mike?” Becca asks.
I don’t want her to leave. But I can’t follow her. Sarah is waiting for her. And I can’t just show up to The Grounds uninvited after she’s ignored my last fourteen texts. I’d seem desperate.
“Oh, I would but I’ve gotta work soon.” Tomorrow is relatively soon.
“You work at the theatre right?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s pretty cool. I’d love to check out the projection room some night.” She innocently insinuates, “I’ve always wanted to see one,” which completely rattles me.
I have no idea whether or not she knows—whether she’s asking to see the projection room or to see the projection room. I wonder if The Twins told Becca of my proclivity for sex on the job. Praying to Moz that she’s asking to see the projection room I suppress the agitation caused by my inability to read her.
“I’d be more than happy to show you.” A black moth flutters past her white hair. “Come by anytime. Just ask for me.”
“Okay.” Sweetly agreeing with a half smile, she pinches the throttle of the motorcycle screened across my tee. “Nice shirt by the way.”
Stunned by her praise of Love and Rockets, wondering if the multilayered woman of mystery was, perhaps, born in England, I watch her catch up with The Twins, and then I quickly scurry back up the ramp. I hop over to the roof of the garage. Texting, the three blondes march down the white driveway, step onto the black asphalt of the Prozens’ fancy neighborhood, and head toward The Grounds. No one but Zach notices me waving.
Chapter 9
“Tell me, Miguelito!”
As I try to convince him to help us transport our supplies, Hector is demanding that I reveal the sensitive details of our illegal party. I don’t want it to end before it begins due to a security breech. This, however, poses a problem since we need his El Camino to get all the stuff over to The Palace.
“Could you just please come and get us?” I ask.
David’s distant voice echoes, “Tell us Culito!”
I hear gunshots over the phone.
“Please? C’mon Hector. Pretty please with corpse paint on top.”
Zach is going to the coast with Dustin tomorrow night and with school poised to open fire on our freedom, we absolutely must set up before he leaves.
“You really need us to come right now, Guapo? Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. Now. Please?”
Without bothering to remove the phone from his face, Hector begins a frantic Spanish dialogue. It sounds heated. He and David are speaking so rapidly that all I can make out is the word ‘father’ over the sound of automatic weapons.
“Okay. I’m gonna come get you guys, but it’s gotta be fast, okay? My parents are on the way back from visiting my uncle and we’re supposed to be having alone time. I’m not leaving my man on Rambo night. We’ll squish. And if you need to, David says you can sit your tiny little culo on his lap, which is fine with me as long as you give me road head.”
I love The Boys. They’re always a joy to be around, and I have deep respect for their unflagging upbeat demeanors. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must take for two semi-out-of-the-closet Mexican kids to stay as positive as they do. Nor can I imagine spending a day in their steel-toes. Since they were in junior high, Hector and David have worked construction with their fathers. Construction. There’s no way that I’d ever be able to survive the sun and sweat involved in such physical labor, even if I were able to take part in their invigorating lunch breaks. As they are very willing to prove, The Boys have learned how to perfect every man-task from building sturdy foundations to giving secret on-site fellatio while their thick-skinned fathers are out fetching their grandmothers’ tamales. They are both very talented. They even give lessons.
“Fabulous, we’ll be quick,” I promise. “You two won’t be without Sly for long.”
Once the bed of his purple, rainbow-flecked seventies muscle car is over-stacked with Bloomingdale boxes and Band FAIL!’s old PA, Hector squeals out of the Prozens’ driveway. Zach is hanging out of the passenger window, using the wind to further un-style his hair. I’m sitting my Ksubis on the creased chinos of the buzz-cut boy with the perfectly manicured side-burns. Snatching the iPod from his strong hands, I quickly find some Moz to replace the abysmal voice that’s blasting through the stereo. The Boys love black metal. I find the music terribly unpleasant. Hector runs the stop sign at the end of the Prozens’ fancy neighborhood. I reach over, lay on the horn, switch the Immortal to Viva Hate, and then direct him to the psychic shack on the forgotten side of town.
“Here? Crystal Eyes?” He pulls up to the curb in front of the empty store. Jumping out, Zach and David quickly begin unloading.
“Yep, this is it.” I explain, wandering toward the dark alley in search of the grey Manx I saw scamper away as we parked. “Promise not tell, but the old owner of this place said that if I delivered all this stuff by midnight she’d make us all personalized anointed hemp necklaces. With our power stones woven into them.” I turn back and smile. “Surprise!”
“Dios mio Michael, I hate you.” Setting a box of inflatable couches on the sidewalk, Hector overplays his exasperation. “That’s fine, don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know. I don’t even want to come to your stupid movie party.” He smirks, and David laughs.
“You’d better be having a Russell Crowe marathon!”
They must have put the pieces of the puzzle together back at Zach’s, when I directed them to load the projector.
“You guys can’t tell anyone!” I insist. Even in the dim streetlights, their car sparkles like a glitter-dipped grape lollipop. “I really want it to be a surprise, plus it’s not totally legal, or totally
ready and—”
“Oh settle down, Guapo, I’m not gonna tell anyone. I swear.” Dropping an Amazon box atop Zach’s mini-fridge, Hector runs a comb through his tight, slick hair. ”We’d just better get some good seats. … You projecting this shit in the alley or something?”
“You know I’d offer nothing less than VIP treatment to you two.” Pitching in with the unloading, I take the last pillow from David’s hand then relieve them of their duties. “Thanks you guys, you’re the best. We’ll take it from here.”
Standing in the middle of the street, I hug the extra-large pillow, breathing in sour smoke of the El Camino’s burnt rubber as The Boys speed back to their alone time.
“Okay.” Underground, sitting on a milk crate, amidst boxes, pumps, pillows, chords and cables, huffing from having gone up and down the stairs far too many times, I shine my Mini-Mag over our wonderfully cluttered stage. “I think that’s it.”
Zach plugs a woven white length of wire into a power strip.
“What about that?” His blue light illuminates the heavy, drab duffle bag that I left on the ballroom floor. “What’s in there anyway? It sounded like you stuffed a hundred bottles of San P. in that thing. You did notice that we had ten cases already, right?” He lights the boxes stacked around the fridge.
“Don’t you worry about my bag of tricks my friend.” Walking down the steps, I grab my clinking sack of treasure. “I’ll handle the entryway while you’re setting up. Oh, and close the curtain. The reveal will be more striking that way.”
Zach laughs, “Okay, cool.” and powers up the generator.
With a gentle whir, the first rays of Xmas lights crawl across the floor. We both smile in the glow. Zach gives himself two thumbs up.
In the center of the dark dance floor, I unpack the prayer candles. Songs about pinheads, jet boys, jet girls, getting it on, and banging gongs boom behind the curtain, while I meticulously arrange a path from the upstairs lounge to the edge of the stage. After many ups and down, with a trail of flames behind me, I kneel and light the final white pillar before standing to admire the shadow cast across the crimson velvet. I fix its hair then turn to bask in The Path of Prayers—the glowing shelter deepens the darkness, quavering at the edge of its reach. The music shuffles. I can’t wait for my guests to see this. They’ll love it. It’s heavenly. A rocker wails about a love removal machine and I shine a Mini-Mag into a sinister-looking corner of the grand ballroom, just to make sure that hell hasn’t crept up into our plans. I’ve yet to see proof of God but I’ve seen enough movies to know a potential portal to an evil dimension when I see one. It’s fine. There’s nothing.
Slipping through the curtain’s part, I’m about to reveal my flickering installation when I’m halted. Onstage, Zach, inflating purple plastic in all his tall messy-haired skinniness, is being dwarfed by the giant, godlike image of Ewan McGregor. Velvet Goldmine is not choppily playing on his laptop nor flickering through a noisy midnight showing in the 8-plex, but regally radiating from the wall screen of our private theatre. He did it.
Sensing my awe, my partner stands from his couch-pump to smile in the eerie glow. He looks sci-fi. The projection covers him in cool electrifying light as Morrissey sings of international playboys. And I feel like I’m in a movie.
“Pretty good right?”
I high-step over to pin his arms to his side. Lion-hugging him I pronounce, “This is it. We’re in the movies man! We’re taking Hollywood next!”
“Okay Martin Scorsese, yeah.” Laughing, he says, “But if you wanna hear the movie you’re gonna have to let me go.”
“All right Mr. Lynch.” I flatter back, freeing him and smoothing my found Depeche Mode tee. “I did appreciate my entry music but, yes, please, do show me whatcha got.”
Wet from the birth of our new names and trembling with excitement, I’m further amazed as Moz silences to give voice to actors playing seventies rockers.
“See. …” Lynch attempts to teach me soundboard physics, flicking back and forth between the film and the iPod connection. “We can play music too.”
The dialogue of the eye-lined men in the glitter film blares through the PA and I reach through the livening air. Grabbing Zach’s face, I smooch his rocket science mouth. Scowling like Eddie, he wipes off my affection with the back of his hand.
“C’mon, man. Settle.” He laughs. “Go upstairs and make sure you can’t hear any of this from outside so I don’t have to hear you freaking about getting caught. Then we’ll finish making this place killer.”
When I reach the lounge, the bass from below is barely audible. Pushing through the leafy mouth of the hotel, I step outside to make sure that we’ll remain unfound. Silence comforts me. I rush back down to the basement to see Zach tacking down the final string of lights.
A few feet downstage from the wall screen, my partner has wrapped a rectangular halo around our clandestine cathouse. In its center, we shove together the king sized self-inflating mattresses, cover them with faux fur pillows and throws, then encircle the beds with our translucent inflatable couches—their purple and greens providing a needed modern flair to the classic vibe of the hotel.
Everything looks perfect. Leaning against the giant wall screen covered in projection, Zach and I inspect our theatre, delighting in our décor. This is fabulous.
“I think we did it,” I cautiously announce and turn to my partner. Through the decades of floating dust, I mirror his giddy expression, feeling like I’m about to take the lead in a great performance.
“Fuck yeah we did!” he confirms. We both begin running like recess.
Taking our first synchronized dive into Heaven, we land with a soft thud and, enfolded in the luxury of faux chinchilla, surrounded by Xmas decorations and big candy, Lynch and I begin to fantasize.
“Once we get this going…” Looking up at the third run of the glammy DVD, I insist, “You and I will by laying here, cuddled up with Sarah and Jaime … and Becca—”
“And Drew, Michelle … Fuck! And some Sweater Girls…”
“Yes! Watching the finest films … in between activities.” The shadow of two raised thumbs obscure the pick-ups of an electric guitar. “We’ll be heroes Mr. Lynch.”
“Mr. Scorsese, It’s gonna fuckin’ rule.”
Chapter 10
While Zach’s partying on the coast, I’m at my desk. Refreshed from an afternoon shower, smelling like an ice cream parlor, I’m working diligently on my first invitation. I type ‘Simple Minds’ into Last FM then google image The Breakfast Club.” We’ve all seen the Hugh’s classic a million times, but it never grows old. My guests will love it and, thus, love their host. It will perfectly open The Premieres. Skipping past all songs lacking an immediately discernable English accent, I photoshop with precision. I extract the cluttered quote from the top of the original movie poster, changing ‘they only met once, but it changed their lives forever’ to ‘SCORE AND LYNCH PROUDLY PRESENT: THE PREMIERE PARTY.’ I paint the super-text a screaming red then, below the movie’s title where Hughes and A&M once had their credit, I type the details:
This Sunday, Aug 8, you are invited to an exclusive and clandestine screening of the Breakfast Club, presented by Michael Scorsese and Zach Lynch. Snacks will be provided, but feel free to bring your own treats. All attending must meet exactly 2 hours after sundown in the old WAMU parking lot. If you are driving, we politely ask that you park at least two blocks away. Please be advised that this is a private screening. Do not share this invite with anyone. RSVP to me. Please trash this after you have received it.
I send the invite to my partner for his approval. Instantaneously, my phone rings. As I pick up, I notice that I have an unread text from Sarah. Finally.
“What? Were you looking at porn?” I ask. “That was quick.”
Eddie hops onto my desk, stretches, and steps toward the keyboard.
“Yeah. Everyone’s out getting fish tacos. I’m waiting for this chick who’s heavily into Band FAIL!, particularly the singer.�
� Zach’s the singer. “I found this nasty shit that I’ve never seen before—”
“What is it? Sounding?” I pull my purring Havana down to my lap.
“Ugh, no. So, it’s this whatever-normal-porn, right? Some buffo is fucking this tattooed chick with giant jammers, doggie style, then all of a sudden she turns around and he starts kissing her!”
“On the mouth?”
“Yep. Totally ruined my boner.”
“That’s disgusting.” I can hear the twisted porno playing on his iPad.
“Totally. But, man, Mike. That flyer is killer. Good call on Breakfast Club. Who are we inviting?”
“Sarah, Jaimie, Hector, David, The Twins … Dustin obviously—.”
“What about Becca? She clearly wants to eat your skinny jeans.”
“My dear partner, are you implying that I might be the type of gentleman to court two women at the same time?” I google ‘Becca Rose.’ “Sarah just text me before you called, probably professing her undying love.” I find a black and white photo of the blonde standing in long black tee shirt on a dark Venice beach. She’s sleeveless, braless, bottomless, and expressionless. I drag it next to the other pictures of girls, celebrities, and suits in my Wish List folder. “I can’t just invite some mysterious, smitten, internet model to a private event that will be attended by my paramour.” I pull a pic of Becca posing on a Vespa. She is so hot. I totally want to invite her.
“Sarah won’t care. She’d probably be stoked if Becca came. They’re all BFF now.”
“We barely know her Zach. Our party isn’t exactly legal you know? What if her dad’s a cop?”
“Invite her. You said she wanted to see the projection room.”
Staring at a shot of her topless, laying boob-down on black sheets that match her smeared smoky eyes, I sigh. “I’ll invite her when we know each other better, after she’s experienced the mind-blowing wonders of Booth Six.”
