Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  Lynch has ended the pop terrorism. Over the silent film, Deadmau5 pounds as Stella and I play beneath the throws. An XX song begins. I come up from the fur to pocket square my brow and investigate. Aside from the music and the occasional squeak, everything has gone quiet. Craning my bed-head into the projection of a gun, I replace my fallen shades.

  On the upstage right candy couch, Lynch has his hand between the thighs of his bottled brunette. Her acid-washed jeans are around her ankles, her AC is unzipped from her DC, and his mouth is clamped to a totally bare boob. Across from them, on their own love seat, Cruz and Volta are lazily kissing. Next to me, MK is drunkenly tracing Leo’s geometric chest tattoo with her tongue and, on his side, he’s pressed against Ash, who is passed out on Star, who to my delight is tenderly making out with Alvin. Stella and I are so good at what we do that we’ve inspired others to achieve.

  Straddling my groundbreaking leading lady, I admire the surrounding activities as she rises, pushes away my unbuttoned shirt, and sucks my bare ribs.

  “This Flash Premiere was a great idea, Babe.” I further loosen my tie and nod to the surrounding savagery. “Check out the activities! Everyone’s going for it.” Ignoring me, she slides her hand down the front of my jeans and licks my neck. “We’re totally doing this again tomorrow.”

  To get a better view, I ease Stella’s head further down. Alone on a downstage couch, reclining amidst scattered Red Vines and corn kernels, Holly is a vision on green plastic. In snacky disarray, she looks serene. Her eyes are heavy but aware. They match the couch. I wonder if her expression would be the same if she were beneath me, instead of Stella. With such stimulating debauchery surrounding her, I at first think it odd that Holly is so captivated by the silent version of True Romance. But she’s not. She isn’t watching the movie at all. She’s watching my performance, enjoying it as if I had already achieved my fated fame and come to grace this small-town party with my celebrity. I’d better make this look good.

  With the confidence of DiCaprio, I pull Stella up and plunge my tongue into her open mouth. Like fresh escapees from a Christian cult, we go at each other and DJ Prius’s protégé turns her sex hum up high enough to overload the PA system. I can feel it. I can hear it humming over Pulp as she flips me over, slides down my chest, unbuttons my Ksubis, springs my imprisoned Producer, and harbors him in her mouth. I look back to Holly. She’s still staring. Sucking in my cheeks, I put on my pout and as Stella hums beneath the red veil, Holly and I watch each other until we reach the chorus: Jarvis Cocker begins to sing about hardcore, my whole body surrenders its joy, and my eyes flutter shut behind my Ford’s to the roaring sound of golden buzzing.

  I awake alone. The prayer candles are still burning. A few have fallen over. It was totally irresponsible of Lynch to leave them lit; they could have caught the curtains afire. But I’m glad that there’s some light in the ballroom. I stand up from the blankets. My playlist has ended. The projector is off. And our giant screen has reverted back to an ominous bare wall. I’m surrounded by an eerie silence framed in the faint glow of Heaven’s perimeter. I don’t really like being here alone. I don’t really like it at all. It’s like being in an empty church. I check my phone. It’s just past 4:00 am. I have a new text: “Hey sexy,” Stella writes, “Donovan and Soufflé came into town. Holly and I went to meet them at Taco Bell. :)”

  All of this upsets my stomach. The sprint upstairs doesn’t help.

  Chapter 29

  “No fucking way. … No way. … Fuck that!” Alvin, pissed off about something, is whipping a large bowl of chicken embryos when I shuffle into the sunny kitchen. Earlier, I crept through the dark into his room and found him in bed with Star. So I slept on Lynch’s floor between Leo and scattered bottles of Kombucha. I’m glad I now have a stash of clean clothes here. The brothers are in their boxers. I’m dressed.

  “I can’t believe that you left me there.” I put on my shades and head straight for their Sub Zero. ”Do you know how creepy it was? What if God showed up? What if I’d gotten possessed by Jesus? Then what?” I grab the first San Pellegrino from a deep row of green mini bottles.

  “You were all sandwiched between Holly and Stella!” Lynch, sitting, dangling his legs from the concrete island in the center of their kitchen, tosses me a lime. “I figured you wouldn’t wanna be disturbed.”

  Holly slept next to me in Heaven. I can’t believe I didn’t notice. Stella must have put tranquilizers in her OJ. I must work on my tolerance.

  “Oh, yeah, good call. Thanks.”

  “If you want something totally un-fucking-believable, try this one.” Pouring his disgusting yellow goo into a frying pan, Al nods to his brother. “Tell’m fucker!” The eggs sizzle. They smell like poor Freddy bunny did when we found him, full of teeth marks, rotting in Frank’s garden. Moz rest his furry soul.

  “What’s the deal?” I set my lime on a chopping board.

  Alvin throws me a knife. I dodge it. It clatters onto the granite tiles. He laughs and answers for his brother.

  “Dude. Mia won’t put it in her mouth!”

  “OJ strike?” I gasp. “That’s pure evil.” Safely, I slide clean cutlery from a wooden rack and slice. “Mia must store her evil in her ass.”

  Lime juice squirts on my chest. It barely misses my white v-neck.

  “Yeah, man.” Lynch shakes his head. “It totally sucks. It’s weird. She’ll do everything but that. I don’t get it. I took her to YoGoGo like three times … told her ‘get all the mochi that you want.’ … I figured Pulp Fiction would help but—”

  “That is total fucking bullshit.” Alvin slices and slides fresh Cherie Cherie brown bread into a toaster oven before pouring himself a wine glass of Kombucha. “One host gets blown and the other just gets his fingers wet.” He pushes his glass toward Lynch and grabs his wrist. “Clean’m off in here, it could use a twist of Mia—”

  “You guys, did you not see what happened last night?” I back step away from the struggle as Al tries to baptize his brother in putrid mushroom potion.

  “Other than you filling in for every fucking DJ in San Francisco?” Alvin laughs. “Nuh uh.”

  Rancid hippie tea is splashing all over the kitchen.

  “Check this out” I pop my lime wedge into my bottle then set it on the far side of the island where I’m now safe from the spray. “The whole time that Stella was down there, Holly was watching me … and I think she was going for it with a vibrator!”

  I smack my hands down on the concrete, thrilled with my own conclusion.

  “Fuck off!” Alvin freezes. I’ve turned the frantic brothers to sticky statues.

  “Yeah, swear to Moz. She keeps one in her pocket with her at all times.” I take a pull from my bottle. “It’s gold. … I think it’s designer.”

  “I heard it!” Lynch jumps to the ground and Al, releasing his brother, hops up to surf the island in celebration.

  “Yeahhhhh!” Shredding a flaming tube of elements, he almost kicks over his eggs.

  “I knew that I heard buzzing!” Joyously, Lynch points at me. “I was getting a JO and just figured that the speakers were being weird!”

  “Listen. We’ve gotta have another party tonight.” Trying to quiet the raucous brothers, I save Al’s toast from burning. “We’re clearly on to something. I mean, Al even hooked up with Star! And she’s, like, twenty-two.” Alvin stops hanging ten to give me his full attention, and I go on. “We can show Weird Science or Donnie Darko. … We’ll show fucking Twilight. Who cares? We can go straighten up —”

  “Fuck, man. We can’t.” Lynch apologetically admits. “We’re going to Leo’s. I promised Violet I’d come.”

  Dropping my hot toast on a seemingly never before used dinner plate, I give him a look that asks why I should care about a promise to a girl with terrible navel tattoos.

  “She gives great OJ.”

  I turn to Al, hoping he’ll tell me that his brother isn’t truly about to forsake me for young coastal flesh.

  “A
n OJ’s an OJ dude.” Still standing on the counter, he dumps a bowl of shredded orange cheese into and around his pan. It melts everywhere. That smells better. “And Violet wants to bang.”

  “Okay. Yeah. That’s cool.” I crunch into my dry breakfast. I understand. I can’t begrudge my friend Oral Joy from pre-teen Cameron Diaz.

  “You should come!” Lynch hands me a tub of freshly ground almond butter. “There’s always chicks there!”

  “I wish. I’ve gotta work.” I stir the oil into the separated nuts.

  “Fuck. Well, we’ll have the party when we get back! It will be a killer last day of summer!“

  “For fucking real!” Alvin stops shoveling mounds of yellow and orange goo into his mouth, reaches into a brown paper bag, and throws a pastry at me.

  “Definitely! It’ll be fabulous—blockbuster summer’s end.” I catch the berry scone. Then dust the crumbs from my shirt. “Hey, where the fuck did you guys get all this food? Did you finally get adopted or something?”

  “No fucker,” Alvin smiles proudly. “My girlfriend bought it for us.”

  Chapter 30

  The Palace is ready for Sunday. The sun is down and I’m rolling uphill, sitting on a furry lime-green couch in a neon disco. Leo says the crunchy beats are Magnetic Man. Band FAIL! laughs at Lonely Island clips. Lynch shows me the Andy Samberg “Talks With Animals” sketch. I have an epiphany. Star paints my pinky nail purple. And they drop me off.

  “You should go with them sometime, Mike. Getcha outdoors, in the ocean, put some salt in your lungs!” At our front door, waving to the passengers of the pink Sprinter, Frank fantasizes, “I bet they have some good smoke.”

  Warning him of the dangers of both marijuana and father-feeding sharks, I grab eight pieces of take-out Maki-Zushi from the kitchen and shut myself in my room.

  At my Mac, with a belly full of imitation crab and my sinuses weeping from wasabi, I photoshop another masterpiece. Using the illustrated Boogie Nights movie poster as a template, I painstakingly alter the central image of Mark Wahlberg, substituting my face for his. This process ends up being so exhausting that when I attempt to put Lynch’s face over Burt Reynolds’s I have to give up after three tedious minutes. It’s fine. The invitation already looks great. Below the heading, in a flourish of subtext, I add: ‘Score and Lynch Present the 70s Sex and San P. Premiere Party! Appropriate attire is heavily encouraged.’ I show it to Eddie. She blinks with approval. I send it out to the Greats.

  The alarm is awful but I’m glad that I didn’t unconsciously shut it off. I don’t want to be late to work again. When it assures me that it is 3:00 pm, I unplug my phone and check my messages. Stella wrote me at 4:32 am: “Boogie Nights is close, but you should show the real thing Babe! Jennnnnnnna! Sashaaaaa! It would be a lot of fun! ;) ” In the attached picture, entitled ‘Sweet Dreams!’ Stella is pointing her phone at the baroque mirror on her pink vanity. She’s topless, tugging her periwinkle lace Brazilian boy-shorts down over her left hip. A long string of oversized pink and white pearls drapes over her boobs and past her bellybutton barbell. I sigh. I shake my head. I forward the shot to Lynch. Then call him.

  “Hey man, you still have that DVD, right?” Opening my computer, I pull the photo into Photoshop.

  “Boogie Nights? Yeah, I’ll bring it on Sunday.”

  “Fabulous.” I darken the background of the shot. Much better. “Stella’s bugging me to show a porno. Crazy, right?” Saving my changes, I trash the original then drag the edited pic into my Wish List folder. I suppose I should start a Greatest Hits folder soon.

  “I think it could be killer. We should go for it.”

  “My dear partner, don’t you think that’s a little vulgar?” I open Photo Booth and slide on my Fords. “Think of our guests!” Thinking of Holly, I suck my cheeks, attempt to flex my pecs, and then click the camera. Boop, boop. … Stunning!

  “C’mon man.” He pleads. “Mia says it would really turn her on. It could finally get me some OJ from her. Violet’s cool but she doesn’t even grab it. It’s like ‘look daddy, no hands.’ Seriously, you’ve seen Mia’s lips. Help me out Mike.”

  “I do appreciate your needs but I can’t be held responsible for having to correct Mia’s sadistic behavior disorder.” I Tumblr my topless pic then walk into the bathroom. “The girl clearly has a problem. She needs professional counseling.” I pull my black Tweezermans from their storage tube. They need sharpening. “Boogie Nights will be perfect. Think of what the girls will wear.” I hear his phone vibrate. “That’s probably from me. Check it.” I pluck.

  “Yeeeeah pearrrrrrls.” Lynch admires Stella’s photo then notices the flaw. “Woah dude! Yellow jeans AND pigtails!” Bringing the phone back to his face he asks, “The shirtless dude on the bed reading the US—that’s that Friscy DJ right? Donavon?”

  “Yeah, that’s DJ Prius himself.” Winning yet another battle against a uni-brow. I press play on my iPod. “He’s a Dill. But he’s got nice teeth.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve told me. He’s in Stella’s latest video. Have you seen it? You should see it. It’s interesting.”

  Her video blog—I watched it once, freshman year. It made me so tired that I vowed to never look at it again. But it’s got a ton of followers now. And Lynch is recommending it.

  “Send me the direct link. If I go through the whole thing I might fall back asleep and I can’t be late for work again.”

  Chapter 31

  I’m five minutes early. I take off my aviators. Wiping them down with my bandanna, I stroll into the lobby. Philip, who hasn’t bothered to deep condition his hair since the nineties, has the gall to tell me that I look like I need rest.

  “I think you look good Mike.” In his tight purple Frankmusik shirt, Shane comes to my defense. “Have you been working out?” Standing at the door, he’s tapping a round tin of lip salve.

  “What?” I await a comment about straw hair or neck biting.

  “I like that shirt.” He tugs and flattens my collar. “It reminds me of Johnny Marr.”

  My shirt is H&M. But Shane couldn’t possibly know who designed it.

  “Oh, thanks.” Cautiously, I look down at my white polka dots and inform him, “It’s actually Paul Smith. It’s from the upcoming fall line.”

  In the girls’ room, I dab freezing water on my non-designer bags, hide them behind my shades, and then lug them up to Booth Six. Pacing, I google Johnny Marr. .33 seconds later I’m mortified. Marr is not a high fashion label; he is not a designer. He was the guitarist of the Smiths. It’s fine. My shirt is more Moz than it is Marr. Shane doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I slump against the window and click the link that Lynch sent, hoping that Stella’s video will help me forget my Britpop faux pas. It helps a lot—and is indeed quite interesting.

  The 1 minute 29 second long electro-underwear-dance-extravaganza takes place in The Pink Room. Under a strobe light, Prius and Soufflé prance around in panties while Stella, looking filthy-fabulous in a teal bra and golden silk boxers, stripper dances between them. The cross-dressing DJs follow her into bed and begin poke-tickling her. Giggling, she demands, “Throw it to me beautiful!” Still filming, the camera flies through the air. Stella catches it. The lens turns back on the stunning camera girl. Standing against a bubblegum pink wall in hot pink leopard print tights, a white burn out tee, and teal lace bra, Holly tilts her head and pouts her lips. The frame freezes.

  “Hey Mike, it’s me.” Before my fragile mind and raging libido can even begin to process this piece of recent history, Holly peeks her head into the booth. “Cool if I come in?”

  “Miss Hollywood, you are welcome anytime.”

  I nervously pocket my phone like I’d just been caught watching something that’s not meant for universal viewing. She sits in the ratty chairs. I join her.

  “I like your shirt.” She tugs on my sleeve. “It’s very Marr.”

  “You think so too?” I tug at my cuffs, and channeling Prius give her a dashing smile. “Hey, you w
ant some San P.? It’s bottled in Terme.”

  She takes a long swig. I watch her welcoming lips through the translucent green glass. I want to bring up The Premiere—our moment—but I just can’t.

  “Great party the other night huh?” She wipes her mouth and hands back my drink.

  “Oh,” I stammer. “Yeah … it was … a lot of fun.

  The bottle clinks as I set it next to my Jansport.

  “Yeah.” She lightly laughs. “I had a lot of fun.” Her smile seems quizzical.

  I have no answers. She’s giving me nothing. On paper I know that I’m getting all green lights, but in here it’s all flickering shadows.

  Hoping it will conjure my recently deceased confidence, I imagine Stella, topless, smiling in front of me in an unzipped hoodie with a shark pin on it. My witchcraft fails.

  “So, I heard you and Stella went for Mexican food? I woke up alone and confused. … It was quite awful…”

  “Yeah, those DJ guys bought us burritos. They’re cool.” She flips up her hood and rests her head on my shoulder. “They know, like, everyone. Sarah and Jamie went to SF with them today to meet with some guy who loves Sarah’s blog. He’s thinking about putting her in a new reality show.”

  “Whoa. What’s the premise?” I crawl my fingers toward hers.

  “She doesn’t know.” Holly reaches into her pocket and pulls out a Red Vine. My hand awkwardly falls to the armrest. “The call was for ‘fierce, fearless, and fucked-up females between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.’”

  “Oh. Well, three out of four ain’t bad. She’s been trying to get me to show a porno this weekend. Crazy right?”