by Havok, Davey
“You look tired Mike. What’s with the dark circles, man?”
“Hey, better than red eyes, right Phil?” I slide on my aviators and swim further toward the stairs. My commentary on the hallucinogenic affinities of my coworkers is utterly lost.
“You should really get some rest man.”
“I plan on it Phil. I plan on it.”
Neglecting my semi-regular push-up regimen to preserve myself, I set up reels, drink San P., and slowly blink through the 5:20 pm and 7:50 pm showing. As the previews for the 10:30 pm screening start to roll, someone comes into Booth Six.
Becca’s at the door.
My sleepy breathing hitches between the clicking frames. Though she’s wearing the same outfit she wore when she last visited, to my amazement, it works. She’s simultaneously overcoming fashion redundancy and achieving that “trying to be casual” beauty without even trying. I’ve seen Kate Moss do it, but it’s not a feat that should be attempted by your average girl.
“Hey Mike.” Her rich voice soothes. I bet that she sings contralto. “You busy?” She eases toward me through the shadows, like a girl from another world—like a Southern Californian.
“No, not at all.” Standing, tossing my Jansport to the floor, I offer her the seat next to mine. “What’s going on?” My shades rattle on the concrete. I wince and leave them.
“After our music talk I made you this.” Sitting, she pulls a CD from the pocket of her hoodie and hands me the burnt disc.
I didn’t think that girls ever made mix CDs for guys. I didn’t think it was allowed, but there’s nothing like breaking tradition, and I’m happy to be the guy to inspire change.
“What’s on here?” I hold up what I’m hoping is my signed and stamped invitation to intercourse.
“I wrote down the tracks for you.” Taking the translucent black sleeve, she slips out and unfolds a black piece of paper. “Here. There’s no metal on it. I hope you like it.”
Her silver writing is like calligraphy. I’ve never heard of some of this stuff, but all of my favorite bands are on here.
“I’m sure I will love it.” Clearly enunciating each word of the song title as if answering a jeopardy question, I promise, “Even if there’s no Reign in Blood on here.” I punctuate the effort with an open mouthed, aren’t-you-proud-of-me smile.
Laughing, she shakes her head, “No, no Slayer.” And settles deeper into the chair. Covering her mouth, Becca coos out a yawn. “Ooh, I’m so sleepy.” She shutters like a cat awakened from a nap. “I was up all night.”
“Oh, really?” I fold up the intuitive track list and slip the disc into my backpack with my scattered aviators. “Wild date or something?” Say no. Say no. Say—.
“Oh no, nothing like that.” Thank you. Overwriting the sexual DJ scene, into which I had already begun inserting her, she relieves me. “I spent the night at The Twins’.”
“Oh, and you couldn’t sleep because you were creeped out by all the crucified Nazarenes hanging on every inch of bare wall space?”
“God, I totally know what you mean. Their parents are twisted.” She slips off her Vans. “Some of the stuff that they’ve gotten Drew and Michelle to believe is pretty crazy.”
“Yeah, well, I know that The Twins call themselves Christians but they really just say that so their folks don’t freak out. They’re pretty level headed when it comes down to it. … I mean, when they’re not with Roxy—”
The Todds own Todd Pharmacy, and their daughters have a pet name for their favorite pilfered pill—Roxy. They can’t go to church without her.
“I was talking about their thing with sex.” An actor on the screen below screams. Becca sits up to glance down at the audience before turning back to me with a crooked smile. “Did you know that they think vaginal sex is a sin?”
“Like, only vaginal sex?” Intrigued, I lower my voice and lean in. “So, anything else is just another day at church?”
“You got it.” Raising her sculpted brows, widening her glowing greens, she moves her face closer to mine. “Extra crazy, right?”
“Wow. Yeah.” Reflexively, stupidly, I shy away to dig into my pocket. “Well, at least they haven’t taken themselves completely out of the game.”
“Good point. And they’re certainly not totally repressed.” She absently flips over her waffle soles with her bare toes. “We spent all night talking about vibrators. They know, like, everything about them but don’t have any. They just research them online. Weird, right?” She smiles.
“Yeah. Weird.” I let go of my Zippo. The simple broach of this topic shows my Producer to be, for Becca, at the very least, a consideration. Yet for some reason I still need to gather an inappropriate amount of courage to ask, “Do you?”
“Do I what?” She pulls her knees to the seat.
“Have any vibrators?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Lifting her shark-pin-punctured sweatshirt, she digs into her tight pockets.
She must have misheard me. Perhaps she thinks that I asked, “Do you? Have any gum?”
She holds up a tiny golden vibe. “It’s just a little guy. But it’s got kick.” She twists it to life. “See?” She passes me the buzzing bullet. “Touch it to the tip of your nose. That’s how you test its power. Don’t worry. It’s clean.”
Appreciating her concern for my skin care, I introduce the vibe to my nose. Soothingly I buzz, looking past the magical implement of our metaphysical connection, deep into the infinity of Becca’s virtuous, sparkling eyes as she explains how this particular device can be charged at any computer. Bursting with new knowledge of the universe, and myself, I hand back the vibrator. And sneeze.
“So…” Very pleasantly, calmly, dying to know, I ask, “You carry that around with you all the time?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs and pockets it. “It’s good to have around. … How long has the movie been running?”
I jump out of my seat, ready to flee to the lobby.
“It just started. Do you wanna watch it? Do you want me to get some popcorn? Or some red vines—”
“No thanks, Mike.” Curling in her legs, she pulls up her billowy hood and nests into the velvet. She looks like a little girl ready for a nap.
“You sure? I have a stash of fruit pops. They’re all natural.”
“You’re sweet. I’m fine.” She pats the empty tattered seat. “Come here.”
Taking a breath, I sit down. I shift toward her. Becca rests her head on my shoulder. It’s like we’ve been meeting here every night since we were twelve. I put my arm around her. Sinking further into me, she nuzzles her face into my neck. We both exhale, and I smell cucumber clouds. My heartbeat booms, and the projector chides, tsk, tsk, tsk. Its judgment becoming distant, ghostly, as slowly, with ease, my dream girl and I turn into each other and give in to sleep.
Chapter 24
The sun is down, the valley sky is a mess of stars, and the bank lot is abuzz. The second Premiere is upon us. I haven’t heard from Stella since our unfulfilling, three-way phone conversation, but this insignificant fact matters little to me as Lynch and I stare lasciviously at Becca and Mia. Sitting on the WAMU steps, the two Filmgreats dressed as Uma’s character from Pulp Fiction are both stunning in black stretch pants, white dress shirts, and black bob wigs. Lynch’s Mia has her shirt unbuttoned to give her showstoppers some midnight air while my OC snuggle buddy’s nose trickles a subtle distinguished stream of fake blood.
“Fucking ‘ell,” Lynch sighs, popping a Mento. “Oy’d like to see that double feetchah.” He offers me the roll.
“I can’t say that I’d get bored.” Supporting his bad innuendo, I accept two pink candies. “But I couldn’t promise to last through the whole thing.”
Noticing our stares, the girls stand and approach our post near the street corner across from the hotel.
“Fook. Y’really both just slept?” Lynch lightly shakes his head referring to my G-rated slumber party with Becca. “That’s shite. Mike. That’s shite.” His British accent is awfu
l.
“Yeah, but it was cool. It could have been worse. She wasn’t annoying or anything.” I chew and spit a mint into the dead bush behind us. “What’s shite is that. …” I point to the freshly inflicted and festering bejeweled wound in his face. The surfer who owns the beach house did it to him. “How could you let her mutilate you like that?”
“I thought you’d like it,” he laughs. “It’s a real diamond.”
“Oh, that’s pretty cool.”
The girls arrive. Mia wraps herself around Lynch and I, fully in my element, greet our newest guest as the rest of The Greats gravitate toward their hosts.
“Becca, you look fantastic.” She hugs me for four-and-a-half sensational seconds. “That wig really brings out your eyes.” They’re fascinating. They’ve shifted from green to an icy lupine blue.
“You look great too, Mike. Are you Vince Vega?”
Tonight, for Pulp Fiction, all my guests have dressed the part. Cruz has come as Bruce Willis’s Butch, wearing a ball-gag around his neck and fake blood on his white tee shirt. Volta is Samuel L. Jackson’s Jules. He found a perm wig and perm chops, and lost his Mexican accent. It’s unnerving. The Twins are both covered in fake piercings. They look shockingly natural sitting on the curb next to us, eating berry ice cream, dressed as Rosanna Arquette’s drugged out Jody. However, Lynch has performed tonight’s most notable transformation. Having finally ditched the Dead Boys jacket to represent Ringo, the diner thief, he stands next to me sporting a Luau shirt, impressing Mia with his cultured cockney diction. He’s lying about where he’s been the past few days as I confirm, “Yep, Vincent Vega!” I adjust my tie, and Becca begins to lightly bat it. ”So, I guess it looks like you and I have the leads tonight. Apropos wouldn’t you say?” With the confidence of the man of the evening, I make a bold reach toward her mouth. “I like the blood. It’s a nice touch.” My skin tingles as she allows me to wipe a straying drop from her upper lip. I wonder if she’s got her toy in her pants.
“I thought you would.” Her slight, innocent smile is stained red.
Frantically, I search for a place to wipe off my fingers.
“Hey, wait. You’re supposed to be Vince Vega?” Lynch butts in, sounding like the crocodile hunter. “Isn’t that just the same suit you wore last week?”
“Oi, where’d you get that thing in your face?” Putting my arm around him, I massage my bloody fingers into a palm tree sprouting from his shoulder. ”You can’t get that done around here, right?”
“He did it himself! Isn’t that amazing?” Impressed, Mia squeezes my arm then turns back to my pierced partner. “I totally want you to do me next.”
Lynch victoriously smirks and a hot pink Sprinter pulls into the lot. Thumping, it stops a few yards in front of our congregation. When the back double doors fly open to reveal the spacious, black-lit, dub-stepping, lime-shag interior, Alvin bonelesses out from under a compact spinning disco ball. I’d expected him to show up as the drug dealer from Pulp Fiction, so I’m a bit surprised to see him clack down dressed in drag. Skating over, he takes pictures of the other two Mias and then smacks me on the back. It stings. I hiss.
“That salt air has done you some good, Al.” I point at his chest. “Nice tits.”
“Thanks baby” he coos. “You wanna touch’m?” I grope for a silicone cutlet. The tease jumps back. “That ain’t free!” Laughing, he skates away. “I’ll let you fuck me when you’re famous.”
Impressive in silver flats, Alvin nose manuals the entire parking lot as the scruffy driver of the mobile pink party flip-flops over to our planter. Offering a tattooed hand—the one that isn’t occupied with the case of censored Lagunitas—he tells me that he’s Leo and his sister’s name is Star. With drab army surplus shorts, the shaggy chocolaty-haired surfer is wearing a fully unbuttoned black dress shirt that reveals his bare torso. Shockingly, his solid, dark geometric tattoos don’t detract from his Abercrombie abs. I find his whole ‘beach Adonis’ thing overwhelming.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you both.” I shake Leo’s hand before turning my attention to his sister. Her white laced spaghetti-strapped napkin-sized blouse showcases the metal rings in her perky boobs. The waist of her sky blue chords rides far below the opal dangling from her navel. Though she has a thick septum ring and cherry bomb red dreads, I think she looks like Catherine Zeta Jones. I offer her a handshake. Star embraces me.
“So nice to meet you too, Honey.” She presses her soft cheek to mine and I inhale cinnamon. “I’ve been telling Dustin forever that he’s gotta bring you over to our little bungalow.”
According to Lynch, their place is nothing less than a seaside mansion. Apparently their dad made a killing on Kombucha.
“I’d love to, Star, thank you. I’ve seen some clips of your pool parties—”
“Star, watch this, Hey Star… ” Clacking tricks on the pavement, Alvin is yelling, and I’m becoming increasingly concerned about our scene’s potential to attract attention. Sitting on the couch in the Sprinter with The Twins, Cruz and Volta are applauding, encouraging the skater.
“Yeah, you should come man!” Leo insists, “You can stay as long as you want.” Discreetly, I ask Lynch to contain his brother as the surfer goes on. “We’ve got a killer au pair and a couple’a … you seem a little stressed out dude.”
Mid wall ride, Al gives Lynch the finger while reviewing his own prowess.
“Ooooh … he’s so handsome and dangerous.”
“Oh, not really.” Nervously I glance to the day glow pink beacon in the parking lot. Ash is playing Xbox while MK holds both of their cones. “I was just wondering if you could maybe park your van somewhere else. I just don’t want to draw too much attention. Our party is very exclusive.”
Nodding, Leo sets his bottles on the asphalt, pulls a swirly glass pipe from his shorts, lights up, and sucks in.
”We wouldn’t want any uninvited guests to show up … and arrest us…” I gesticulate wildly at the smoke, at the beer, at the heavens. “Right?”
“Ohhhhhh, man. No,” With a relaxed exhale, shaking his main, he offers me the bowl. “You’ve got nothin’ to worry about. We used to go in there alllllllll the time. We’d park out here…” He motions to the lot with the dreamy look of someone about to recount a timeless tale of heroic valor. “Once, our friend Riviera freaked out on some bad acid that we took in the hotel. He ran out here screaming and smashed up my ‘59 Abarth with a pair of stilts. …” I look around to see if anyone else is catching this. Lynch has joined the gaming in the Sprinter. I’m alone with Leo and his sister as he solemnly confides, “The stilts were hand carved by an indigenous shaman. It was all fucked up.”
“Yeah. Sounds fucked up.” With my eyes tearing up, I wave away the filthy smoke. “So, did the cops come?”
“No, pretty.” Star lays her hand on my chest, assuaging me with her tender touch, her observant descriptive, and her blue eyes. They glow like Becca’s. But this girl’s wearing contacts. “Relax. In all the years that we crashed here the cops didn’t show up once. No one is watching us.” I believe you ocean goddess. She reaches into her satchel, pulls out a pair of gold-framed aviators, and pushes them over my eyes. “There.” She approves, smiling like an artist putting a final touch to a masterpiece. “They look great on you, Honey. … Thank you for having us.” She kisses my cheek.
I prance over to the van and bend over a mirrored cocktail table. “Star, these are fabulous!” They’re Tom Fords. High fashion—high BRITISH fashion!
“Dude, you already have a pair just like those.”
Ignoring Alvin’s outrageous claim, I dash back to the generous, natty surf seraph, “Are you sure you don’t want them?”
“Nah, Hon.” Lightly, she musses her Raggedy Ann hair and smiles. “They make me look too much like a cop. … And they look better on you.”
Chapter 25
Through the crack in the curtain I can see The Path of Prayers flickering as I stand in my speech position. The Boys have filled the
ir arms with pillows and blankets and are arranging a red nest in their purple love seat next to the soundboard. Lynch is at the controls. He’s awaiting my cue. Downstage center, Mia is on a purple candy couch, drinking a Lagunita, awaiting him. The Twins and the surfers are lying in Heaven.
“Mike, this is great!” Becca, standing at the edge of the glowing corral, pulls on my tie. “The Christmas lights remind me of what my dad and I did to my bedroom back home.” Raising her arms like a diver, she falls backward.
As she flops into the soft red sea of throws, Alvin yells, “Incoming!”
“NO!” I quip, but it’s too late. He flips, his wig flies off, and the two mop-like mounds land, with a bounce, right next to her. Becca doesn’t flinch. I’m about to scold the extreme drag queen for jeopardizing the wellbeing of our new, fragile, stunningly gorgeous guest, but Star beats me to it.
“Honey, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Leaving her brother with The Twins, she offers Alvin her hand. “Come sit with me.”
In an act of obedience never before exhibited by our untamed friend, Al allows himself to be led to a couch. She sits. He drapes himself across her lap. She pets his long hair. Lynch and I exchange confounded looks then, shrugging, my co-host twirls his finger in the air. “Let’s go!”
At my mark, I smooth my suit. I straighten my tie. With my black bandana-pocket square, I vigorously wipe my breath from my new shades then put them back on.
“Welcome Filmgreats and new friends—”
“Ooooh! Filmgreats, I like that Culito! It’s hot!” I nod to the unsettling vaudevillian with the bloody boyfriend.
