Intermission

by Ashley Pullo

  I reluctantly take the shot and it burns like a bad case of strep throat. Andrew shakes his head in amusement then pours another. I can’t. But I do. Shit!

  “What’s your name?” Andrew pours me another and I wave it off. He places it to the side and pours one more.

  “Chloe, and I don’t want anymore.” I feel my insides burning and the beginning stage of some sort of hairball forming in my throat.

  “They’re for me. I’ll need to catch up.” His eyes are so sincere and honest but his voice screams rebellion.

  Natalie approaches me from behind and twirls my ponytail. She leans over me and grabs one of the shot glasses, winking at Andrew. Natalie throws back the shot with the most annoying regurgitating noise and yells, “Fuck me! What is that?” She slams the glass down and fans herself.

  Andrew picks up the bottle and shrugs. “It’s just Stoli.”

  Piper and CeCi join us but I’m distracted by Andrew constantly watching the clock. Ten-forty-five.

  “Can we go already? All these guys are old,” CeCi whines.

  “Yeah Nat, what’s the plan?” I ask, aware that Andrew is showering me with his devilish smile.

  “I hate to be a bitch, Chloe, but I need to get back to your house. Jeremy paged me with a *911 and I really, really like him.” Piper pouts and shows us the display on her hot pink beeper.

  “I can go with you, Pipes, I have lessons at six in the morning!” Besides being extremely likable, CeCi is also a semi-pro tennis player.

  Natalie’s face lights up with what is sure to be one of her crazy ideas. “Chloe and I have something we need to do! Can you girls get a cab?”

  “Ugh, fine,” Piper sighs.

  Andrew pours two more glasses then returns the bottle to a shelf. I watch him converse with the bartender and both men stare intently, obviously discussing how to handle us. The bartender picks up the phone and dials while Andrew walks back over to us.

  “So my buddy Pearce is calling a cab. It’s his uncle, so it’s cool.” Andrew writes a number on a napkin and hands it to CeCi. “Here’s my number. Call me when you get back safely.” Piper takes the napkin and puts it her bra. She can be so tacky sometimes but I’m sure it’s more about her wanting Jeremy to find it.

  CeCi hugs me. “Happy birthday, Chloe! I’ll call you tomorrow.” She leans in to whisper in my ear. “Be careful.”

  Piper takes CeCi’s arm and they head out the exit to wait for Pearce’s uncle. We’ve all taken cabs dozens of times and I only live ten minutes away, they should be fine. I turn my attention back to Andrew, wondering if he will write his number on a napkin for me. He smiles at me and that goddamn chipped tooth sends me into a sexual frenzy.

  “So Andrew, Chloe and I want to get tattoos,” Natalie runs her hand over his forearm and laughs, “do you know a place?”

  He looks at the clock. Ten-fifty-five. Andrew slides me a glass, hands one to Natalie, and takes one for himself. We raise our glasses, drawing the attention from several nearby suits.

  “To Chloe,” says Andrew.

  “To Chloe. This girl is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” Natalie smiles playfully.

  We tap our glasses and look to each other to make the first move. I do it. It sizzles all the way down, cartoon-steam bursting from my ears, but I did it first. We slam our glasses down in unison and Natalie gags and coughs. Andrew laughs and I try to laugh, but it comes out as a retched burp. No more. Please God, no more shots.

  “Let’s go. We’ll walk from here.”

  11:15 p.m.

  The Okey Bloke Ink Parlour is . . . well, at least it’s clean. Andrew introduces us to his friend Shit Monger (which I assume is short for Samuel.) He’s a typical tattoo artist, a circus freak with gorgeous blue eyes and the ability to scare the fuck out of anyone in his path. Shitty has those round earrings that look like bullet holes, and from what I can see, a full body of tattoos. And I might be drunk, but one of his neck tattoos is totally staring at me, the eyes following me like Mona Lisa . . . back and forth, up and down.

  Natalie and Andrew make themselves comfortable on a little sofa, rolling a joint and flirting loudly, while I peruse the photo wall. Most of the pictures freak me out, but some are so bizarre they amuse me. Like the one of the Super Mario with his head between Princess Peach’s legs, classic nerd.

  “Who’s first?” Shit Monger squeezes his large, tattooed hands inside latex gloves and sits on a stool next to a reclining chair.

  Natalie jumps up from the sofa and brings me the joint. I take a drag and we share a moment of cousin telepathy. I smile brightly and she frowns, our decision made. She grabs the marijuana and inhales slowly, taking her time to relax. Natalie places the joint in an ashtray resembling a bowl of intestines and turns to face Shitty.

  “Me, I guess.” Natalie throws up her hands and walks toward the chair. She pauses, removes her pants and tosses them in my direction. “Shit Monger, let’s do this.”

  “You didn’t have to remove your clothes! What’ll it be – butterfly, cross, fairy?”

  “No, I want my home. Right here, on my hip.” Natalie places her palm on the spot where she wants her mark.

  “Like a house?”

  “Yeah, you fucker, I want a two-story colonial with a picket fence! I want the leaf, dumbass.” Natalie plops down on the chair and exhales deeply. She’s not nervous, she’s sad. I walk over to her and take her hand in mine. My best friend, the funniest person I know and my biggest fan will be leaving me next week. This night is more than just a birthday, Hootie and the Blowfish are breaking up . . . I hate when bands breakup.

  Shit Monger takes a pen and outlines the shape of a maple leaf about the size of a quarter. Natalie nods in approval and closes her eyes. Luckily the ink is red, because tiny droplets of blood are surfacing on the skin and Natalie would freak! Who am I kidding? That shit is sick to watch! I release her hand and join Andrew on the sofa. My head is spinning and I’m doing everything in my power to keep the blueberries and clams inside my stomach and not on the floor.

  “Hey darlin’,” he says, as he pulls me on his lap. His legs are muscular and hard against mine and I shift myself in order to feel his cock. Andrew places his hand on my back and trails slowly to my hip, forcing me closer to him. I kiss him. I can’t help it, lips are my weakness.

  I hear Natalie moaning in pain, or maybe pleasure, who knows, but I ignore everything around me and enjoy my little moment. Andrew moves his mouth to my neck, scraping my flesh with his chipped tooth and breathing heavily in my ears. His hand wanders along the zipper of my dress, pulling it down with one dramatic tug. Warm fingers crawl between the fabric of the dress and my bare skin, making me whimper in pleasure. My heart beats faster as Andrew lowers the dress from my arms, taking his time to enjoy every touch. His eyes are heavy and dark – he’s either stoned or really good at the bedroom eyes.

  Andrew pulls me closer so his tongue can skim the outline of my bra. I grab onto his brown hair and bury his face in my tits. His head moves rapidly, searching for something to bite in order to relieve his animalistic frustration. Andrew clamps my nipple between his teeth and I squeal in pain. My eyes water uncontrollably, but he merely smirks at my discomfort.

  I push myself off of him and stand, confused by my emotions and contemplating a casual escape. I’m scared of this guy and yet, I want more of him. Sex with him would be dirty and exciting but he obviously likes to leave marks on bodies and I don’t want one. I look back at Natalie as Shit Monger bandages her little tattoo. Her eyes are closed and she has no idea what’s going on. I don’t even know what’s going on.

  Andrew stands to address me and slaps my cheek back in his direction. “That’s right, you’re a little slut that wants it against the wall. Slow. And. Comfortable.” He grabs my neck and guides me toward a brick wall. His other hand presses against my hips, pinning me tightly underneath him. I’m so torn . . . I like it and hate it. I want him inside me and I want to knee him in the balls. I want to suck on his Elvis lip and I want to
punch him so hard his chipped tooth falls out. I want to have sex in an ink shop but I don’t want hepatitis. “How about it Callie, slow and comfortable or fast and painful?” Okay, not confused anymore.

  “No!” My hands are free so I push his chest as hard as I can but he squeezes my neck in anger. “Stop it.” My plea comes out silent and I’m really scared. But beneath my teary eyes, I can see a large figure coming toward us.

  Andrew is ripped off of me by Shit Monger. I grab my neck and Shitty’s goblin neck tattoo winks at me. Natalie runs to my side, zipping my dress and holding me in her arms.

  “Andy, the girl said no. The last thing I need is her rich daddy causin’ shit. Now apologize and get the fuck out of here!” Shit Monger shoves Andrew against the same wall and the contempt in their eyes has a violent history that far precedes tonight. They lock eyes and puff their chests and they’re like two shoves away from a cage fight, so Natalie and I grab our bags and run out the door.

  11:55 p.m.

  We walk out into the cool summer night overwhelmed and exhausted. Natalie links her arm in mine as we stroll the two blocks back to the bar. I know she feels responsible for inviting him, but I thought it’s what I wanted as well. I’ve always had the ability to trust my emotions, but they can bring disappointment when not controlled carefully. It’s difficult being on the cusp of so many new and exciting things and not knowing how to differentiate between impulse and intention.

  “Chloe, what’d ya say we stop by Timmy HoHo’s for some sugar therapy?” Natalie smiles and bumps her hip against mine.

  “Deal. Go to the one by JuJu’s Records,” I say.

  “Ugh. Fine, but only because it’s your birthday!”

  After we pay the valet and relax in the comfort of Nat’s Honda, she puts in a Hootie and the Blowfish CD and lights a cigarette. Natalie only smokes when she’s stressed and I have to let her know I don’t blame her.

  “Nat, it’s not your fault, really. He’s not a rapist, I’m just, I’m just – I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “You’re fantastic and you deserve better.”

  “I guess, but I’m scared that I will never find someone that doesn’t piss me off or annoy me. The truth is, I wanted to have sex with Andrew until he called me Callie. God, they should just keep their mouths shut.”

  “Oh shit, that’s funny.” Natalie flicks her cigarette out the window and digs in her bag for gum.

  “No, it’s actually kind of fucked up. I don’t want a one-nighter or a boyfriend – I want a lover!”

  “Have you been reading Aunt E’s dirty books again? That shit never happens.”

  We pull into the brightly lit shopping center and race each other to the door. We both love Timmy’s donuts and it’s a little known fact that they give you free samples if you pretend to be unfamiliar with their goodies. The problem is, only one of us gets to be unfamiliar. Natalie slows down her pace and lets me get to the counter first. I order a dozen TimBits and two coffees and try my free sample of red velvet crumple.

  Nat picks a booth in the corner and after we quietly swallow two donuts each, we start the conversation we’ve been avoiding for over six months.

  “I don’t want to move.” Natalie shoves a bite of glazed dough in her mouth and sighs.

  “I know. It blows more than Darlene Thomas on a Friday night!” We both laugh, Darlene is such a slut. “I keep telling myself that it’s college, right? We’re just going to college and we’ll still see each other as much as we can.” I pour cream in my coffee until it gets that perfect caramel color and attempt a reassuring smile.

  “But fucking Connecticut? Trust me Chloe, it’s boring.”

  “Yes, but think about how close you’ll be to Manhattan!” I say.

  “Oh my god. Chloe, we have to move there! Remember when we had that brilliant idea to live in New York and become famous? We can still do it, ya know.” She looks happier than I’ve seen her in a while, so I go along with her romantic vision.

  “Deal. After college, we will live in a fancy apartment building and I can play shows at Carnegie Hall. You can star on Days of Our Lives and then we can spend the weekends partying with all my rock star friends and your actor friends . . . one of us, you probably, should date a sexy chef that gets us into all the popular restaurants. I love it! Truly Nat, let’s make it happen.”

  “Awesome! Should we spit on it or something?” Nat asks, licking her palm.

  “Drink your coffee, ya weirdo. I’ve got a better idea!”

  We finish our late-night snacks and clean up the orange Formica table. I lead Natalie next door to JuJu’s Records to comb the aisles for a piece of music history. Something that not only represents the present, but also incites the future. Ever since I was thirteen, I’ve been buying random albums that mean something, a story that goes along with acquiring the record. Sometimes I buy albums based on my mood and other times are completely impulsive . . . like my Weird Al Yankovic Even Worse album with the cracked record and lipstick stain – no point to that one! My record collection is like my own private scrapbook, and I want a story to remember this night with my favorite person.

  “Ugh, Chloe. Records?”

  “Yes!” I squeal. “You pick. The first one that catches your attention and makes you happy, because this is a fantastic night that needs to be branded,” I suggest.

  “Really? That’s such an honor. Okay, lemme see . . . we’re rock, we’re young with attitude, we’re New Yorkers, or at least want to be, crude and raw, yet playful . . . c’mon follow me!”

  Natalie looks around the store then hurries down an aisle. We pause around the Hip Hop section which is weird because the only rap we’ve ever listened to is Salt-n-Pepa. Natalie beams with excitement as her fingers flick the top opening of the 80s masterpiece. We’ve listened to the cassette a thousand times since the 6th grade and it’s a symbol of our youth. I squeeze her tightly as she pulls out a worn copy of the Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill. This album is the quintessential teenage anthem of revolt, but now it’s also our sacred ballad.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “Oh god, Chloe! Do you remember when we had that huge fight over Ad-rock? I mean, I would still totally screw him, but c’mon! Our fights were pretty lame.” Natalie hugs me back and if it weren’t for the three geeks hovering across the aisle, I could stay in this moment all night.

  12:55 a.m.

  The summer sky is intensely dark and mysterious and I can’t see a single star. I don’t have a clue what time it is, but I’m sure our parents are beginning to miss us. Natalie and I reach the car but she stops suddenly and jumps up and down. I can’t tell if she’s excited or needs to pee—

  “Chloe! Look!” Natalie points across the street toward a rundown shopping center. I try to see what she’s looking at and the only thing I can spot open is a little shack in the parking lot with Christmas lights and a neon hand. There’s a marquee that states, Now Accepting Most Major Credit Cards, but I can’t imagine why she would be so excited about that.

  “What exactly am I looking at, Nat?” I ask.

  “It’s a psychic! Let’s go!” Natalie quickly gets in the car and I follow. I guess having my future revealed could be cool . . . or not. Like, what if she reads my palm and my lifeline reveals an early death, or worse, twelve children! Oh, and I’m totally freaked by those creepy tarot cards with evil queens and sun gods determining my fate. Shit, I even overanalyze fortune cookies, and I spent a week sleeping on my parents’ floor after the Ouiji board mishap of 1990! I’m not sure I can handle the real thing.

  Natalie parks the car and reaches over to shake my leg, “This is going to be fun! Maybe Grandma Jean or Kurt Cobain will show up during a séance!”

  We walk to the little door of the purple building and search for the buzzer, but wouldn’t she know we’re here? I pick up a large crystal from the window ledge but drop it to the ground when the door slowly creaks open. Fear governs the reflexes.

  “Come in girls. I’m Madame Clarice, m
istress of magic and temptress of the spirit world.” I bet she sells Amway, too.

  Natalie and I cautiously take a step inside the dark room and hold hands. The place is exactly what I’ve seen on television, but it smells more like a bakery than witch’s lair. An entire wall houses spice racks and glass bottles and one of those bowls they have at Casa Mexico that serves guacamole. The room is darkened by layers of velvet and tacky silk scarves, but I can also see the faint light of David Letterman on a small television in the corner.

  Madame Clarice leads us to a small round table with, no joke, a crystal ball. We move slowly, taking baby steps toward the center of the room. Madame Clarice may be the mistress of magic, but she looks like the seductress of sweatpants, and I’m really hoping this isn’t some sort of scam that will be aired on Jenny Jones. Her long hair is plaited into a braid with a shiny feather, but everything else about her is quite unremarkable and sweet.

  “Have a seat, girls. I take all major credit cards and cash. No refunds if you don’t like the outcome and I can’t promise that I will gather enough energy to give a detailed reading. In that case, I will take 50% off and give you a coupon for another visit.”

  “What kind of reading?” Nat interrupts.

  “We can start by holding hands. I mostly rely on my psychic energy to fulfill requests about the future. If you want medicinal help or a tarot reading, well, that’s entirely different. But you,” she points to me, “You live in the present – why are you here?” Holy shit, she can see right through me.

  “Oh, well, it’s my birthday and I uh – I want to know what to expect. I want a purpose.” I speak honestly, but not entirely truthful.

  “Ah. I see. You want to make sure your actions don’t affect your outcome?” Madame Clarice raises a questioning eyebrow while securing a scarf around her head. I sit down across from her while Natalie rummages through a table of trinkets. “Please don’t touch, dear.”