growing pains

I awoke from a dull pain in my backside, and could see nothing. It was almost as if I hadn’t opened my eyes. I felt around me in the dark, my hands making contact with some thin quilts and fluffy pillows. I rubbed my legs and felt the familiar denim; I had indeed slept in my clothes. I couldn’t find Sonia in the darkness, and suddenly my stomach filled with a foggy, familiar dread.

I didn’t remember much about the evening. I won a little money playing blackjack; we were doing shots of Jack. Billy was wearing sunglasses even though it had been night.

Other than that, my mind was pretty much blank, which didn’t happen often. I thought hard, deciding if I was the one that passed out, imagining Sonia and Billy carrying on in the living room, smoking bowl after bowl, listening to records she would pretend to be impressed with; Patti Smith and Frank Zappa. Perhaps he had become attracted to her strangeness the same way I had, maybe he kissed her, and then they had ended up in his room. My throat barely contained the capacity to groan.

The room smelled odd. It reminded me of being a child at my grandmother’s house, the room I was forced to sleep in bringing this same kind of strange, intense darkness due to the heavy drapes. When the lights were on, it was worse however. There were two uncomfortable couches that turned into cot-like beds, covered in ugly orange striping that scraped at bare legs when not careful. In between the two couches, in the corner, there was a large end table which may have been lovely on its own, but its contents, about twelve urns with small framed photos of dogs, mostly Great Danes, in front of each, was enough to make the entire room much less than charming.

I was convinced that the ghosts of the dogs only inhabited that room and would surely devour me in my sleep. Somehow, I always survived. But the musky smell, probably from the heavy drapes or the ancient couches, I blamed on the ashes. I remembered crying to my mother that I didn’t want to sleep in the dead dog room. But there had been no other place for me.

I felt trapped in this room, like I had felt trapped in the dead dog room, and I finally found the strength to sit up and eventually stand, arms outstretched, trying to find a light switch or a door or anything that would explain anything about my whereabouts.

Not four steps later, my knee made loud (and painful) contact with the hollow metal of a futon frame, and Sonia apparently awoke. “What the fuck!?”

I burst into laughter and collapsed onto the futon, right on top of her legs. “Jesus!”

The sound of her voice made me exponentially happier, and the laughter became mutual and continued. “You crazy bitch,” she said, moving over, allowing me to join her.

I realized I still may have been drunk at that point.

The door swung open, releasing a formidable light that filled the room, blinding us. “What the hell are you girls doing?”

We laughed again. “I couldn’t see?” I offered.

“What the hell time is it, anyway?”

Sonia glanced at her watch. “8:16.”

He rubbed his head. “That’s unearthly.” We nodded in agreement. “Alright,” he continued, “come on girls.”

We looked at each other, confused, but we abandoned the futon and followed him into his room. It was much bigger than I had expected, a bit on the messy side but cool nonetheless. A desk with a bong and sheet music, a mural covering the entire far wall of what seemed to be some kind of face, the two coinciding windows conveniently placed as eyes. My eyes grazed over a decent-sized bookcase that my mind was very interested in, but my eyes were too fuzzy too make book titles out. A queen-sized bed with a massive forest green comforter lay against the other wall, a 27-inch television sitting very matter-of-factly at the end of it. He wiped his eyes, grabbed a disc off of a shelf of the bookcase and crouched down at the front of the TV.

“What’s up?” I queried. He turned around and motioned for us to lie down. Sonia turned to me, eyes filled with incredulousness first, intimidation second.

He chuckled. “Oh god, come on, we’re all adults here. Jolie, you can be in the middle.” He waved his hand.

Sonia went first, lying against the wall, the covers up to her neck. I followed. Billy turned the light off, joined us and the movie soon started. Army of Darkness. There was a warm feeling fighting my hangover, which was flushing through my body, starting from my stomach, out to my fingers and toes.

I don’t think we got through twenty minutes of it. And although unconventional, it was certainly a more pleasant sleeping arrangement.

We woke up almost forgetting what had happened. Sonia awoke, seemingly very surprised to be in Billy’s bed rather than the futon she had originated in. Billy finally sat up, scratched his head, looked over at us and smiled in a vile way. “Good morning, ladies.”

I whacked him in the arm. “Oh so you don’t remember being the gentleman do you?”

He chuckled. “Gentleman?” He looked around the room. “Where?”

I didn’t feel like myself again until I was in the shower. The pale green bathroom was calming and surprising; a little cluttered but nowhere near as messy as I had anticipated for a bachelor in Vegas. It made me wonder if there was a lady that stayed over often, who wiped the mirror and cleaned the sink. I imagined small pale hands scooping the litter into a plastic bag, cooing at the kitten that was present somewhere in the house, but had still eluded us.

As the hot water penetrated my skin, I thought of the woman who might prove worthy of Billy. I imagined a slender woman with fiery auburn hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Minimal makeup, but bright, adventurous nail polish, like silver or blue. Maybe she would be a singer in some nightclub downtown, or on the strip somewhere.

My stomach was growling. I needed a cup of strong coffee and something fattening to keep my hangover busy. Soon enough, I was dressed and ready, my hair wet on the back of my neck, sitting on the couch, making eyes with Billy and his phantom kitten, at last.

“Jolie, this is Syphilis.” The cat was tiny, white fuzz emanating all over the place, round blue eyes blinking.

“Syphilis?” I couldn’t even bring myself to laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He nodded, not surprised at all by my reaction, but looking a little disappointed. “It’s a pretty name.”

I was at a loss for words. The cat looked up from the floor and meowed at me. I pet her, and she began purring violently. She seemed sweet, and I found myself feeling bad for questioning her name at all. I remembered when Man Ray was just a kitten, how small he felt in my hands, and I lifted her up into my lap, where she seemed content.

I looked at Billy. He was picking dirt out from under his fingernails. Finally, his eyes met mine again. “You ready for some breakfast?”

“Amen, brother.”

Sonia took her sweet time getting ready, and I felt my stomach shapeshifting within me, bellowing at me. The weak coffee Billy had offered had merely stifled my nerves, and then I became this wired, desperate mess, petting the cat, staring off into space while the records played, and they all sounded the same, starving, starving, starving.

By the time we reached the Peppermill, it was 1 pm. I ordered more coffee and ice water. It was better than Billy’s coffee, hot and familiar, fulfilling my soul in a way that made me remember James and his beautiful black bean soup that had rescued me, once, long time ago. I wondered if this was growing, if I had started to learn how to rescue myself.

The biscuits and gravy were overflowing my plate and the taste overwhelmed me with milky, rich goodness. And although I was at a table with one nearly perfect stranger and a close friend from days gone by, I still felt like I was at my family’s table.

It had been a long time since I sat there. My father never sat at the table, always preferring the soft indented cushions of the couch to enjoy his meals, far from the rest of us and any bother of conversation. And my mother, she never seemed to really sit down either; her hands were always too busy, refilling my milk glass, flipping the pancakes, checking the eggs, serving my father. I was always alone at such a large table, so as time went by, more things began to be placed there, because only one or two people would sit there at any given time. I remembered candles, fruit baskets, birthday presents, mail, eventually even a computer sat where my father would be sitting if he were to participate in a family meal.

Then my mind traveled over to the present; my father, hunched over, sickly, alone in a dingy apartment, watching old westerns, not knowing, not even forgetting, just never knowing, just quite how to use the phone or the DVD player. The walker that rested against the door. How he used to be able to lift me on his shoulders, even just a few years ago. A laugh that came from someplace unworldly, a blazing cacophony; irreverent and infectious, and no longer in existence. I didn’t remember the last time I heard him genuinely laugh.

I discreetly caught the eye of our waitress. “Need something honey?”

I swallowed quickly, wiped my eye and nodded. “I’ll take a Mimosa. Please.”

Funny what champagne and orange juice can multiply into. I barely remembered seeing the lights of the strip in the background, hearing the tinkling of the ice, or feeling the warmth in my chest. I don’t even remember what I was drinking. What I do remember was watching the mascara and eyeliner bleed down the sides of my face in a bright bathroom mirror of some dark bar, the young women in expensive, revealing dresses checking their overdone makeup and staring, staring, staring, with their big empty eyes, not yet knowing what pain felt like, only knowing the feel of their long island iced teas and black lace underwear. After that, the only thing I remember is that on that epic walk coming back to Billy’s, he was holding my hand. Maybe it was just to keep me from falling over, maybe it was because he was feeling sorry for me. Maybe it was because he knew my plight, because he was stuck somewhere, just as I was, in between nothing and nothing else, stuck on the drink, stuck on himself.

Before I knew it, it was there, like a mythical beast one only reads about. The pink serpent was loose and I was its prey. Given our circumstances, I was almost amazed to find that he had anything there at all. I imagined the smooth skin of Ken doll plastic, the childhood intentions I had been familiar with. The sight of it was quick; he spit on his hand, tweaked away and worked it in, and it hurt like a holy drill. And I knew he wasn’t picturing me hanging ornaments, watching Alf on syndicated cable, having an overbite I didn’t know what to do with. I wasn’t young and innocent, like how we started. I wondered if he remembered my middle name or my birthday. I wondered if I would regret this decision as soon as it all was over. It was becoming more normal for me.

But it was in and out, and vigorously so, like in the movies. It was over soon enough and I laid there, naked, my lips cracked over in thirst and in desperation. I didn’t know if I should slither off to the next room, join the drunken comatose Sonia who I had already abandoned in spirit, or close my eyes and drift off. In silence, I waited for words I hoped I would not hear.

But instead, he rolled me over on my side, his slim pale wrist closing around my waist. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

I cried then, too. But I was sort of smiling.

gee thanks

The dream was long and weighty. He was there with something one could call courage although I didn’t consider it so. He was wearing sunglasses on top of his nerd-style glasses, and together, they looked like some gnarly, Dame Edna old lady style of eyeglasses. He was calling me baby, but that wasn’t particularly peculiar. But yes, oh Jesus yes, he was singing Spinal Tap. “Tonight I’m Gonna Rock You Tonight.”

It wasn’t sexy. But it was silly. It was something he might have actually done in real life, although I was never around if and when it happened.

But it made me think of him. And, feeling rather detached from Drew and the others, the thoughts were sweet and satisfying. There I was all over again, on my back in heady green grasses, his kisses intoxicating me. He certainly didn’t feel a state away.

I woke up, alone, with a hangover from hash and Mickeys malt liquor. I noticed my smart wardrobe; an oversized Rolling Stones t-shirt and grandma panties. I only had myself to blame. “What the hell am I doing?”

I said it again and again.

I was right about Sonia. Only a couple of weeks later and there she was again, sitting at the bar, in the midst of a typical Friday night rush, half past ten or so. I spotted her tattered jeans right away, paid special attention to the bulge of flesh that spilled from a particular hole on her lower thigh.

“Goldschlager?” I asked, grinning, setting a shot glass in front of her.

“Not today,” she said, laughing. “I’m ready to try something new.”

“Alright, some experimentation! Well, you want a shot or a cocktail?”

“Don’t matter. I just don’t want a pussy drink.”

I thought about that for a minute. Although many could very well argue that Goldschlager, a cinnamon-flavored liqueur could be categorized as a pussy drink, she did have a few shots that night, so I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Yes ma’am.” I wanted to give her simple, but strong and tasty, but that was subjective. I didn’t think she would go for bourbon. I didn’t want to underestimate her either. So I made her a Long Island iced tea. She watched me, wide-eyed, as I carefully poured all the different alcohols into the tall glass.

“You trying to kill me or what?”

I laughed. “Maybe.”

She gave me a stern look, something I hadn’t expected. “Right on,” she said, and gulped it down fervently.

I focused on her; let my eyes take in all of Sonia and all of her disproportionate characteristics. She seemed almost foreign, some flavor of ignorant or another. Perhaps she was young, but her eyes didn’t tell me that. She was ugly in an interesting, almost musical way. It was not normal for women.

It was only then that I wondered if she contained any depth, if this perverse love/hate relationship I had going in my own apocalyptic brain had any merit to it at all. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Avoiding people.” She was looking me in the eye, and in all her vulgarity, I could have kissed her.

Instantly my mind ricocheted back to last year, how I could hardly stand the thought of being around the elders with their pregnant words and their overwhelming expectations, my brain heady with the idea of consequences for not continuing my education, finding a more proper venue for my “talents” as they would say.

I envisioned my mother, sounding Jewish although she was not; “Why don’t you just become a teacher already? You have so much patience.”

Patience wasn’t something I learned in college, it was something that spilled over me, over most, through disappointment throughout my formidable years. It was the hair in my hairbrush. Nothing more.

And it was true that I longed for someone, another lonely soul to inhabit my universe, someone that wasn’t worldly, someone that didn’t have it all figured out, not a Vincent type that pretended he was lost when he really wasn’t.

Dirty clothes and speeches couldn’t conceal those kinds of things. You could see it in their eyes, like politicians. That’s why it was all so much easier back then, less of a clean fight but more of a victory.

I nodded, the grin growing hot across my face, obtuse in design only. “Sonia, darling… how do you feel about Vegas?”

She had never been.

Sonia seemed to warm up to me rather quickly over her string of Long Islands, and came home with me that night after my shift. She had a thing for Stanley Kubrick and didn’t own a television, so we had a bit of a marathon starting with A Clockwork Orange.

I fell asleep with a bottle of dark rum in between my thighs and woke to the sun shining through the miniblinds and her, wide-eyed, fixated on Sue Lyon’s form behind fuzzy glass.

“Did you not sleep?” I asked, rubbing my head. There was one Bud Light bottle on her side of the table.

“I don’t really sleep much.” It had only now just dawned on me that she could be high on other things, which could explain her newfound interest in alcohol. But I’ve never been one to sugarcoat.

“Are you a tweaker, Sonia?”

She covered her mouth and laughed and laughed. It made me feel younger. I laughed too.

And I didn’t know her mother nor did she know the car I drove, but I was adamant about our trip together. Neither of us wanted to be around for the holiday and that was going to be an easy sell with the boss, since we were slower than usual and he was looking to cut hours anywhere he could.

Half of me thought it was going to be a fight to do this, with my family and hers, but by my mother’s reaction, it was obvious I was just the black sheep now, the one that was expected to bolt at any chance of a holiday gathering. And as much as I didn’t appreciate having a reputation, I was relieved that the start of my journey wasn’t going to be a difficult task.

Sonia had also informed me that her parents had just recently bought her a new car for her birthday and that she would rather make the trip in her car, another nice surprise. My car was okay and all, but all the way to Vegas and back would definitely do some damage.

Soon enough, the day was upon us. We got on the road while the sky was still purple.

If I had known I was going to be going to be having to put up with about 8 hours of weed clouds and pop-punk, I might have just decided to take my car after all. It was relentless. Her Ipod Nano hung awkwardly alongside my face as it was plugged into an fm transmitter at a station we could only get successfully that high in the air. And whereas I do enjoy listening to music while I drive, I generally enjoy conversation also. And this trip was very little of that.

I couldn’t believe how much pot this girl had on her. It looked like she had brought an ounce when she opened the glove compartment and smiled. “Road trip!”

I wondered if I had made the right decision about all this, if my spontaneous attitude was ill-fitted for this debacle. She had really seemed like someone I could possibly connect to, but I was honestly struggling. And it was true, I often struggled with people, trying to squeeze some kind of commentary in between their long-winded, pretentious speeches about their little jobs or big dreams. Though most people I didn’t give the opportunity to disappoint me. I had to wade through the oceans of women in big boots and men in sandals in jeans, Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews Band concertgoers, the beginning of a new age and the agonizing end of another.

I almost felt like this was worse than that.

The high pitched voices, the heavy, dry drums, the 3 same power chords. They were defying the emo kids, although they might have been worse than that, too.

About halfway through, when we stopped at McDonalds (gag!) I had to say something. My head was throbbing, and my mind was completely blank. I could honestly say it was impossible to think while the noise continued. “Can we take a break on the music for a bit?”

She was shoveling fries into her mouth. “Oh yeah,” she laughed. “Sorry about that. I was just in the moment, you know.”

Apparently, it had been a very long moment.

She went on. “It’s just, those bands, they’re amazing, they’re so inspiring. They make me feel like I can just do anything.”

I nodded, looked around, sipped on my Coke. “Oh yeah.” I could tell she wanted me to say something about the music, some sort of gratitude for the opening of my mind. Well she was out of her fucking mind. I just hoped that the remaining four hours wouldn’t drive me to suicide.

I slept. She started to nudge me when we were getting close. “What’s the exit?” It took me a minute to compose myself and read the Mapquest directions.

He didn’t live in a very nice neighborhood. It was kind of a glorified ghetto, actually, but I was sure the rent was cheap, and Billy wasn’t picky. He was probably one of the only people I knew that could live on the streets. He probably wouldn’t even mind living in his car, a big, boaty ’65 Cadillac.

We stepped out of the car into the wicked heat and stretched our legs.

It’s interesting what you don’t remember about a person until you are reminded, in the flesh. Upon sight, I said his name with a breath like cotton candy, the threads dancing on my tongue, melting, lingering. “Billy.”

He had these dull, gray eyes that looked sort of painted on, like a cheap porcelain doll whose makers did not splurge on glass orbs for the likeness. I would call them uninteresting if I could try to convince myself I was uninterested.

Physically, he hadn’t changed much. He was slender, of average height, but with a deliberate slouch that made him look shorter than he was. He walked slowly and carefully, as if he was wearing shoelaces that were untied. I remember bringing him out once, in high school, my bright eyed and bushy tailed friends much too young and closed minded for his taste, deeming him ‘permastoned.’ Perhaps he was. I don’t remember minding much.

That had been one of the best summers of my life, that sweet sixteenth. Driving around in that old Cadillac with the top down, drinking shitty beer and bum wine, chasing the stars. It felt like I was gone for weeks at a time.

He would sneak me into the Cardiff Lounge, back when it was not ridden with colored lights and DJs, when it opened at 6am and if you went in there at noon you’d know everyone. There were old men that held their scotch and old ladies that couldn’t handle their wine. And sometimes there was music, when people didn’t converse amongst themselves. It was there that I discovered the deliciousness of Guinness and black and tans. We would drink and drink and never eat, malnourishing ourselves to deliriousness.

We would nap and cuddle in his waterbed until the sun disappeared and I had to return home to my otherwise boring teenage existence. My mother would smell beer and cigarettes on me and scream and cry, then go through my things, looking for condoms and drugs. She would apologize when the report card came.

And everything was grand until they weren’t, the age difference mattering more by passing of time, as it always seems to. He was 21, five years my senior, and I wasn’t ready for all the things a mature relationship entailed. I worshipped many parts of him, just not the way he desired and probably was accustomed to.

But it was true; I was terrified of the cock. The thing had always looked unearthly, a pink serpent with utmost purpose. It bolted in and out of my hands and mouth too quickly, too violently. I was worried about my tender flesh being broken. I didn’t know how appealing that could be.

“Tough love, kid,” he had said, giving me a quick kiss goodbye on the forehead (a bit of a cliché move but it was remembered). He got into his car and slammed the door and I turned around so I wouldn’t have to watch him drive away. I was dramatic then, insult added to injury, weeping for weeks. I was sure that I would never love anyone again like I loved Billy.

And sure, I had seen him now and again since then; a crowded New Year’s Eve party, one of his band’s shows at my coffee shop, a doozy of a double blind date, and my graduation. But for the most part, he had disappeared.

He seemed only mildly surprised upon our arrival, though I hadn’t mentioned we were coming. He was clad in a worn white t-shirt and dark jeans. I noted that he was barefoot, which I found odd. I heard Coltrane playing faintly, coming from deep within the apartment. The overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke was imminent and I braced myself.

“I know you live alone now,” was the comment I made after he opened the screen door. It didn’t seem particularly impressive, which wasn’t quite normal for me. I was used to the fantastic approaches I’d specialized in. And for Billy, a dramatic number seemed at the very least, called for.

“You look well,” he said, motioning us in, casting a doubtful eye over the relic I had brought with me on my journey.

“Billy, Sonia. Sonia, Billy.” There were no hands that shook or touched, barely glances thrown. I was wondering if Sonia was quietly agonizing over the size of her legs, the birthmarks that dotted her neckline like a Dalmatian, the curious color she had speckled her eyes with that morning.

All I could do was hope that he was then, as amazing as he had ever been, and not in all those ways women deem slobbish, undeserving men. I had always put him on a pedestal and was worried that my romanticism went back further than I thought it did.

He wasn’t Drew, with a few cool quips and recycled dirty jokes. And he wasn’t Johnny or Rabbit, fickle and weak, both emasculated and turned on by dumb, domineering females.

It was Billy; Ween and Ginsberg and David Lynch. He was everything anyone of my or any proper mindset could and eventually would fall for, if only to say it was a dream, a horrible, splendid dream. He was some kind of game show, a twisted, torturous game show where all you would leave with was your pride.

I remembered watching Blue Velvet, crying when Dennis Hopper was screaming and hitting Isabella Rossalini. “No, no,” he had said, batting away at my tissue, “this isn’t the sad part.”

He was the kind of person you wished would kill you, when you were all tired of the charade, just for the story to be told.

I watched her thighs move like two hefty loaves of bread across his living room and make a thick, warm noise upon the meeting of them to the leather couch that had made its presence in the very middle of the room. Where there would normally be a television, a turntable stood, with various speakers littered around it of different sizes, shapes, and qualities. It looked like he had robbed a store.

I gave him a wet, noisy kiss on his cheek. “Happy fucking Thanksgiving, Billy. What the hell do you have to drink?”

“Oh hell, Jo. Tell me how you really feel.” It was one of his many jokes, the popular response to everything, using it where it would never fit.

The “Jo” struck me though, like an arrow in the chest, like when my mother said it. I wanted to tell him he never called me Jo, because he didn’t. Maybe my guest made him feel like he could construe alternate realities, because she was part of one herself.

“I feel like a drink!” I laughed, and he followed after. I hoped this wouldn’t be harder than I already anticipated that it would be.

He set a six pack of Stella Artois on the table. For me, it was tasty, but disappointing. Maybe he hadn’t remembered the voracity with which I consumed alcohol or with which alcohol consumed me.

But it was all his fault and I was there to remind him.

“Have you gone soft in your old age?” I said, nastily, spiting him.

The thing about Billy was that there was no fire inside. And I would often push the envelope to see if I could ever instill any. But it appeared that he was, at the very least, flame-resistant.

“No, not really, but I don’t spend a lot of time drinking at home by myself.” His stance wasn’t unreasonable. There was no last call in Las Vegas. And booze was cheap, like everything else.

“Well then, should we hit the streets?” His smile was answer enough. He threw on a black and white western-style shirt and shoes.

As we walked, Sonia’s breathing became labored.

“So, uh, how are we going to handle the sleeping arrangements?” Sonia was the one to ask, which was odd. I didn’t really care if we were going to have to sleep on the floor or in the yard, or in his car. We were going to be so wasted at the end of the night we would be lucky to have a place to lie down.

Billy stopped for a moment and scratched his head. “Well, I’ve got the studio… there’s a futon in there.” But his gaze lingered on me and I wondered if I was going to be sleeping in there as well.

“Oh,” she responded quickly, satisfied.

Suddenly, my mind shot back to 2000, sideways in the back of the Cadillac, my breasts pulsing against a red racerback tank. We were nursing 40s of MGD, and his hands were cold against my flesh. “Wanna cuddle?”

Soon enough his tongue was in my mouth and my nipples were screaming.

I broke away from my memories and stumbled into the bright lights of the strip. He spoke again. “Alright, since you ladies have never been here, I’ll go along with you for awhile here. But I don’t want to be here all night.’

It was his way. I didn’t mind. I was happy to be away from home, away from the stigma of family and people I intentionally avoided all year long.

Sonia looked at me and smiled. I was thankful.

one more cup of coffee ‘fore i go

Halloween came and went, as if often does, inconsequential and uninspiring. I put on a cheap blue wig and went to a show that was formidable in its unentertaining chaos, affording me only the inspiration to drink until I stumbled out into a parking lot I hadn’t parked in, bumming cigarettes to keep me from picking an odd scab I had on my bottom lip that kept returning.

My mind flowed around the taste of the blood that settled there, that wept and seeped onto my tongue, graced my top lip and contrasted the pale white of the cigarette upon its touch like a smear of lipstick. Had I taken a clumsy bite of my burrito at Iguana’s? Had I bitten it while engrossed in some melody?

I didn’t have the answer, but the music excuse didn’t seem all that likely. There is much music out and about here, but not much that catches my interest these days, and certainly none that evening. I have recently been going to more shows, attempting to find a separate reason to be in the company of barflies, something to make me feel and think and want to get back to playing myself. To weakly attempt to network.

I was lying on a car, an older model of a Mercedes Benz, laughing at my luck, singing the Janis Joplin song. ‘Oh Lord, won’tcha buy me a Mercedes Benz…’ It was then that my luck changed, at the sight of Johnny and the pink girl again, dressed in unsurprising costumes… John McCain and Sarah Palin. Her hair had gotten longer, but her cheeks were still that rosy, hectic color. Girl Scout cookies flooded my brain. Thin Mints.

They sounded good just then. I thought they would make an interesting flavor combination with the blood I still tasted.

“Are you okay?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

“Don’t I look okay?”

He didn’t laugh. The pink girl kind of chuckled into her palm. I couldn’t see her teeth.

“Is this yours?” He gestured toward the car I had gotten friendly with.

I burst into laughter. “Do you think I could afford it?”

He said nothing but helped me off of the car. I could tell my wig was becoming crooked, and I lifted my hands to remedy the problem, but by the look of Pinky, it must have only gotten worse.

“I’m sure you remember Alexis.” He motioned to her, but he was mistaken. We had never met. I had only seen her in the bar and this particular moment, and now there was finally a name to the pudgy face.

I said her name out loud, to the night, my arms flailing. It wasn’t interesting, as I knew it wouldn’t be. I didn’t introduce myself, but I was sure she had known who I was.

Suddenly, I was in the back of Johnny’s Bronco, being jostled up and down over speedbumps, with ‘Dead Man’s Party’ blasting, Alexis’ voice trying to be small. “What are we going to do with her?”

“We’re going to take her home like a decent person would.”

“But we have PLANS! Can’t we just leave her in the car?”

He scoffed. “We can come back.”

Lying on those familiar beige seats, feeling the folds of her white peacoat beneath me, I smiled. I remembered rescuing Vincent on a night very much like this one all those years ago, but I had forgotten the feeling of being rescued myself. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t have called me a cab; it wasn’t like I couldn’t have done it myself. But I didn’t even have to. It wasn’t even up for debate. And I didn’t have Drew’s feeble sensibilities or Rabbit’s awkward opposition to confrontation to compromise with—it was just blood, booze, Johnny and me. Alexis was there too, but only by circumstance.

I was in bed before 12. I thanked Johnny and wished him the best of luck for the rest of the evening. By then, I’m sure, she was stomping out by the car, picking blue hairs from her jacket. I could only imagine the color of her face then.

I woke up alone and hungover, a myriad of missed telephone calls. Halloween often seemed like a pseudo New Year’s Eve, the night where the exes call, regardless of having dates for costume parties; they want to know where you are, what you’re doing, if you’re single. Halloween was a night for people like me, and I had missed it. I had cradled it in my arms last year and dropped it carelessly this one.

I kicked myself for not becoming more of a wedge between Johnny and Alexis, forcing my way through their evening, becoming part of their plans and ruining them simultaneously. I wondered in what way Alexis was beautiful to Johnny, if her pale freckly body with neon pink lips and nipples was erotic under a blacklight, if the hair on her cunt frosted the area like the thorns on Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

My thoughts traveled to a silk green dress that had, with the aid of an acoustic guitar, inched up Meredith Edgar’s thigh a week previously. I had never seen the woman before that night but she had enchanted me with her haunting voice and comfort in her own skin. She had been all alone on that stage, room dark save for the light that shone on her; and yet, she wasn’t fidgeting or seemingly nervous. But she didn’t have that jaded quality, that ‘been doing this for years’ kind of arrogance or ambivalence. She was charming without any sign of effort, and that was probably one of the hardest things to do as a musician, as a woman, as a human being.

Alexis did not carry this quality and neither did I. I have been called beautiful before and sure I will be again, but there has always been an awkward, uncomfortable presence; a bitten nail here, an ill-advised comment there. Sharp tongue, short nails. I didn’t care what most people thought, but for those I did, I cared exquisitely so. It didn’t seem that way with the singer.

Distortion must always be considered, however. My good friend Dixon had been working the bar that evening, slipping me secret elixirs now and then. I hadn’t seen him much since the City days, where we would drink absinthe and stumble through the streets. I wasn’t even of drinking age then, but he would bring me around, taking me to his local haunts, swearing I had lost my license.

I wished he could have been sitting with me. The place seemed lonely, and every man that came up to me oozed of the smell of beer and desperation. There were lots of fedora-styled hats and shiny shirts. I noticed a couple of women in business-fetish attire, flaunting short, mannish hairstyles and smart plaids, dancing together, dancing with other women that seemed to think their image was something to be admired.

The drinks helped neutralize my disappointment with humanity. I felt desperately alive in that bar, regardless of the clientele. I didn’t know if I wanted to work with her or kiss her, but I watched the woman for the rest of the evening, on and off stage. I never said one word to her.

But I had finally been inspired.

There are no poets anymore; that’s what everyone says. Everyone is a cynic and everyone is an asshole. I say that’s bullshit. I say that’s blasphemy. Everything comes back around, even the vilest things, like disco, like potpourri, like folk music.

And I love folk music. The vile things are what we need to implement the new generation of poetry. Assassinate the disbelievers. Disassemble the appropriation. I wanted to sleep with everyone, absorb their knowledge. I wanted to sleep with myself and regain my humility.

I felt like a crook, a shambles, a fraud in my own skin. This pale body longed to belong, if that makes any sense. I wanted to feel important, I wanted to make things right. I wanted to walk alongside our newfound President, but not sing his praises. People were only people; it should be our thoughts alone that make us different.

I found a lizard in my apartment the other night. Man Ray did not kill it, only played with it, stirred it into frenzy. And now, the damned thing sort of shows up everywhere; this morning I found it wrapped around my coffeemaker, taunting me, daring me to finish it off. I decided to name it, because I do not have the urge to kill it nor the desire to cast it out of my small apartment. I called it Mary, because beautiful things are often called that, with or without Biblical connotation.

I do my best to accept chaos. I can only hope it accepts me.

(Yes that is a Bob Dylan reference.)