Last night, Loo visited me like an angel, righteous or fallen, I’m not quite sure. I have a blind date with a guy named Victor, who likes morbid things and paints gay men in leather. Do I want him to be good-looking or would that make me too nervous? (I don’t know yet that I’ve already seen him at Loo’s show.) I’ve been telling myself that relationships are only something for other people, but today I actually want to get up. Is it so crazy to think I have the right to be happy too? Loo is my friend. She has been my friend this the whole time, and I’ve been too stupid to notice. I felt completely alone, obsessing over BP and Hunter and the catalog, dreaming about having a real life, and Loo has been waiting for me to wake up. However my date goes (let’s face it, it will probably be a disaster), I still have Loo. I have a friend. I repeat this over and over in my head. I have a friend, and I want a friend, and I don’t want to be alone anymore. And I’m not.
I’m not alone.
Dressed for work, I open my apartment door and notice a PACKAGE on the cat-hair-covered carpet. Loo had it under her arm yesterday, a white garment box. I didn’t give her a chance to give it to me.
Inside the box is a BP shirt. I unfold the shirt, and a slip of paper falls out.
The PAPER reads: “call Victor.” It then lists his number with an added “you ass” at the end.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Last Outpost Café
8.1
Without Loo, I open Mermaid Coffee Co., even though she’s scheduled to open with me. At top speed I stock the display case, turn on the machines, refill the bean grinders, set out the chairs, and everything else, all the while watching the door. She’s late. Then she’s more than late. I’m getting a taste of my own medicine; I didn’t show for work yesterday, but at least I called in.
JuanCarlos, scheduled an hour after Loo, arrives late by five minutes. Before I say anything, he says, “If you’re gonna fire me, just do it. Otherwise, get off my back.”
I shrug. “At least you showed.”
In the back room, I talk on the phone. “Okay Loo, since I'm getting your voice mail, I assume you're on your way or dead.”
I should’ve buzzed her in. She was in the rain without a coat for God knows how long. Tens of thousands of people die in the US from the flu each year. If we’re in the middle of a pandemic, it could be in the hundreds of thousands or more. She already knew about my obsession with BP. She’s seen my endless BP bags. Seeing my plastered walls would’ve just been one more thing she would’ve politely ignored.
I slammed the door in her face. But that’s the least of it. Since I’ve known her, I haven’t exactly been the nicest guy. I made her work extra hours when she requested time off, told her that her art was pointless, and got the assistant manager job when it should’ve been hers. When I’m not giving her one-word answers, I’m snarky or unintentionally spiteful. What does she see in me?
TIME-LAPSE OF A DAY: The place bustles with customers. Washcloths wipe down tables. Steam froths milk. Coffee beans shift down the funnel and grind. The flow of customers dies down and picks back up. Nothing awful transpires in the time-lapse; it’s just me working at Mermaid Coffee Co. The trash gets pulled. The sun sets. I worry and obsess. A few stragglers are left behind, then it’s just my closing team and me, and then they leave me to my anxiety. I’m alone again.
Some horrible accident befell Loo. I’m always waiting for the next tragedy. Maybe she quit her day job to focus on her art. People quite all the time without notice. I’ll never see her again. Art comes first, after all. Maybe the shirt was her goodbye gift. Would I be willing someday to leave everything behind for my art? With a digital video camera, I could make a short about Loo and upload it to YouTube. Filming her with night vision as she defaces another billboard would be cool. Maybe she’s the next Banksy. Maybe she got arrested for vandalism.
In the back room, I call her on my cell phone. “Okay, Loo. If this is payback for last night, you can call me back now. … I'll tell you why I didn't let you in. … It's stupid. You're gonna laugh. Call me.” I hang up.
I pull out the slip of paper with Victor's number on it, my chest already tight with anxiety. He might know why she isn’t answering her phone. She better be okay. Wait a minute. That was her plan all along. She didn’t show because she knows I’d have to call Victor to find out what happened to her.
Sending a text to a stranger is kind of weird, and so I dial his number.
He answers, “Victor.”
I stumble through a greeting and ask about Loo.
He hasn’t heard from her but agrees to meet me at a café near my apartment. If this is what Loo wants from me, then this is what I have to do. I’m going on a blind date, tomorrow morning. Calm down.
8.2
That night, whenever I drift off, the darkness looms under me like a tar pit and startles me awake. With the catalog’s help, I fantasize and masturbate, and hold off as long as I can, come hard, and then try to sleep again. No dice. I work out, take a long hot shower until I’m dizzy, and try to sleep again. The moments keep passing. Every position is only comfortable for a few minutes. Exhausted. Wide awake. Exhausted again. Hour by hour I get closer to my date. It’s going to be a disaster. I need sleep. I’m so tired. And then I need to get up and get ready. Some eye drops mute the red.
8.3
At the OUTPOST CAFÉ, I arrive early and take a double shot of espresso. I close my burning eyes, just for a moment.
“Eric?”
I snap awake. Victor, from Loo’s art exhibit, stands before me. Loo was hanging off him and whispering in his ear, and I thought they were a couple, but they were just friends apparently. CAITLIN, Victor's fresh-faced younger sister, stands next to him.
“Victor?”
“Eric, this is my little sister, Caitlin. Cait, Eric.”
She shakes my hand. She’s dressed solely in Brief Pose clothing: a girl after my own heart. Why did he bring his sister along? This isn’t a date; that’s why.
“He's cute,” she says. “I'll be right over there if you need me.” She goes over to a table across the cafe. She opens a TPB of Promethea by Alan Moore. I have wanted to read that comic for ages; it’s in a moving box back at my apartment, still packed. I could be back there right now, hidden away, reading a comic.
“Have you heard from Loo?” I say.
“Nothing yet. I’m sure she’s fine. Do you want to share a dessert? German Chocolate okay?” He goes up to the counter and orders from a TRIBAL GIRL. What does it take for a white girl to get dreads anyway?
I drum my fingers on the table. My insomnia coupled with the caffeine has made me anything but relaxed. Loo said she told Victor all about me, but what does she know about me to tell? That I’m a jerk. That I’m obsessed with Brief Pose. That human interaction scares me to death.
He comes back to the table with a piece of cake and two forks.
I'm standing, ready to bolt.
Unfazed, Victor sits down and eats a bite of cake.
I glance around, not ready to sit back down. His sister is still reading her comic. Steam rises from the espresso machine. It makes me feel like I should be at work, where I’m comfortable and safe.
Victor looks at me expectantly. He’s definitely good-looking, with full lips and dark stubble, and a gaze that seems a bit dangerous. The fact he doesn’t say anything about me standing here like a fool makes me feel better, at least enough to sit.
“It's nothing. I'm fine. Did I mention friends suck?”
“Why do you say that?” He leans forward, as if genuinely interested in what I have to say.
“Friends sucking? Because when you need them the most, they let you down.”
“Okay, heavy.” He takes another bite of cake.
“Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.” He’s playing it cool, and I’m already freaking out and fucking up. “How did you meet Loo?”
“We share a studio space. She arranged to have my work shown at The Wharf without telling me, the nosey bitch.”
He laughs, probably to show he’s joking.
“No joke,” I say.
He puts down his fork so he can use both hands to gesture. “I get to the studio, and I’m looking around, and a ton of my work is missing. I panic. Years of work gone. I dreamed of this perfect coming out, you know, make a real splash in the art world. Loo tells me to come to The Wharf, that she has this surprise. Can you believe it? She set the whole thing up. I was pissed. I threatened to have her kicked out of the studio. But I sold my first painting, and then like half the show sold out, so… I couldn’t stay mad at her. How about you? How did you meet Loo?”
“Work.”
Victor takes a big bite, not at all concerned with sharing the cake equally. I smile despite myself. He’s enjoying himself way too much.
With his mouth full, he says, “She cares about you.”
“Loo? She thinks of me as her pet project. I'm her gerbil. I'll die, and she'll move on to puppies, trust me.”
“Harsh.”
“Well, what can you do?”
“You do know she was like in love with you until she realized you were gay.”
“That's crap.”
“It's not crap. You gave her the cold shoulder. It made her more interested. For a while, you were all she could talk about. You know how it works. But she got the hint, eventually.” He laughs. “You were this mysterious, brooding loner. Chicks dig that shit. Guys too.”
Despite me acting like an asshole, she always tried to be my friend, but did she really have feelings for me? “But I’m a mess.”
“When has that ever stopped anyone?” He changes the subject, sensing that I’m uncomfortable. “So I hear you like film.”
“I don’t even own a TV,” I snap back, probably because I’m sleep deprived. I start again. “Sometimes I rent things on my phone, but mostly I just watch YouTube videos.”
“YouTube is an indie utopia if you know where to look. I’m more of a horror buff.”
“Like Nosferatu and Dario Argento or more modern stuff?”
“There are some modern French horror movies that I love.”
“I’ve seen a few good ones. Them, Inside, Martyrs.”
“Yes! All those are so good!”
“Canada also has some good modern horror films. The Descent, obviously.”
“I love that movie!”
“Have you seen The Children? The way it’s edited is interesting. It’s very suggestive without really showing the gore.”
“I’ll have to check it out. Loo said you were interested in making some films of your own.”
“That was a long time ago. I don’t have access to the equipment anymore.”
“I just saw Tangerine. The whole thing was shot on an iPhone.” He holds up his phone. “Some of my friends were trying to think of something to shoot. You should join the team.”
“Pulling off good performances is the tricky part. You’re not gonna get something believable your first time out of the gate. You should start with non-fiction. It doesn’t require actors, you’ll get some experience, and you’d be able to submit it to some film festivals.”
“It sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“I’ve been playing around with some ideas.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Loo might be an interesting subject for a short. I mean, you already know her, and a profile of an up-and-coming artist should be straightforward enough for a first project. I think I can get you permission to film in our coffee shop. Some enigmatic close-ups of some of Loo’s finds with the opening credits. It could be cool.”
“It sounds cool.”
“You know how the city cleaned up the subway system? It used to be a haven for graffiti artists. When they forced all that to the surface, graffiti sort of went mainstream. There’s still this outlaw graffiti culture, but that’s merged with fine art and became this separate sort of hybrid.”
“Like Banksy. Like Exit Through the Gift Shop.”
“Sort of. Banksy and his doc or “faux doc” or whatever is more about fame and art-world hype and vacuous trends and all that shit. Loo and her art are more about recapturing authenticity and rejecting irony. A sort of post-hipster movement. She typifies this idea that creating commercial, populist art doesn’t contradict fighting capitalism. We just need to capture that idealism in our film. I think it could be really moving. Her newest fight is against Brief Pose. Documenting that might give us some needed drama, so it doesn’t end up feeling like some PBS bullshit.”
“You like her.” A smug smile spreads across his face. “Ask her out already. See where it goes.”
“What?”
“She's usually so perceptive.”
“You wanted a film project; I gave you a pitch. That’s all.”
“Listen, if the sex doesn’t work out, she’ll understand. Trust me, she has no problem fooling around with confused gay guys.” He smiles bashfully, embarrassed. I realize he’s referring to himself. “If it doesn’t work out, you can go back to being friends. No harm, no foul.”
“I’m not confused. Not about sex anyway. Besides, I’d rather focus on making the film. If you’re interested.”
“I’m interested, but you can do both. It wouldn’t be the first time art and pleasure got mixed up. Loo is into you.”
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
He laughs. “Loo’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. We fooled around, and we still share a studio space. We’ve never been better friends. I know it can get messy, but if the two of you dating helps you work through your shit… I think it would be good for both of you.”
“I guess.”
“So, are you asking her out or not?” His cell phone rings and he reaches for it. “Only a momentary reprieve. I'll want an answer.” He steps away from the table.
The thought of dating Loo freaks me out. Is it because I have feelings for her, or because she might reciprocate those feelings? I don’t know what to do with myself and take a bite of cake. It's disgusting. Foster Mom and Foster Dad knew about my hate for cake, and so for my birthday, they stabbed a candle into my favorite ice cream and sang me “Happy Birthday.” I have always hated cake. It probably has to do with some past trauma or something. Or maybe I just don’t like cake. Does there have to be a root cause for everything?
I glance at the exit. I don’t have to keep talking with Victor. I don’t even know him. Filming something with his friends is just talk. It’s not going to pan out. And my relationship with Loo is none of his goddamn business. I don't care if they’re best friends.
Victor comes back. “She's dead. Loo's… That was Loo's mother.”
My abdomen contracts, pushing out air. I almost laugh.
Victor sits as if not able to stand. “Loo was hit by a car yesterday. She died this morning at St. Johns.”
Both of us are stunned; we don't say anything for a moment. I’m stunned because I expected this. It’s like deja vu.
“She must have been hit right after she left my apartment,” I say. “One more added to the six thousand. I guess we could make a documentary.”
“Six thousand?”
“Six thousand pedestrians got hit by cars last year.”
“Stop.”
“And died, I mean.”
His eyes tear up, and he starts crying.
Caitlin looks up from her comic. She needs to come over here and comfort her brother. I don’t know how to do this. I’m a stranger.
I tentatively put a hand on Victor's shoulder. “You'll be fine. I didn't even cry. I mean, when my foster parents—”
“Don't touch me!”
I pull away.
The other patrons look at us. We’ve made a scene. Caitlin rushes over.
“Sorry,” I say to Victor, “I didn't mean—”
“Leave me alone!”
I just meant that I’ve been through this before. Death can be overwhelming. I understand what he’s going through. But he doesn’t want an explanation; h
e doesn’t want anything to do with me.
“What did you do?” Caitlin says. She thinks I’ve hurt him. She’s right.
I don’t know how to help anyone. I stand, and her venomous stare hurts. There’s nothing to say to make things better.
I leave. Everyone watches me go.
CHAPTER NINE
Fun and Games Part Two
9.1
I go through motions at Mermaid Coffee Co., the simple exchange at the cash register, the steps of making the common drinks and the few uncommon. I'm dazed, not even sure how long I've been working. I met Victor in the morning. It’s not morning anymore. I’m scheduled from three to close. For all these customers, nothing has changed because they didn’t know Loo.
“Excuse me.”
A customer is trying to get my attention.
“Excuse me!”
I ignore them. I go into the back. Whoever I’m working with should be able to handle the front by themselves. I haven’t told them yet that Loo is dead.
I call her phone. While it rings, I take a BP catalog from the desk draw and flip through the pages. There’s no death in the BP catalog. People don’t even age.
Loo greets me. It’s always strange to hear the voice of a dead person. Foster Mom and Dad’s phone worked for about a month at the house. Their message wasn’t anything special, just leave your name and number and we’ll call you back. Loo’s message is more idiosyncratic: “You have reached the Yellow Queen of Carcosa. Please leave your sacrifice to the cult of Hastur after the beep.”
“Hi, Loo. You know how I'm a bit obsessed with Brief Pose. Well, I put some pages from their catalog on my wall. Actually, a lot of pages. I didn't want you to see how pathetic I am. That's why I didn't let you in. And that's why you're dead. So, now you know.”
9.2
Sunshine tries to get under my eyelids. I toss and turn. Can’t I just sleep forever? I don’t want the day to begin again. I want time to stop. Why won’t it stop?
I sit up against the wall at the head of my bed. Last night I covered the rest of the empty wall space with catalog pages to protect me from the world outside. It seemed logical at the time. I barely remember doing it.
From the box beside my bed, I grab a BP catalog, one that hasn’t had all its pages torn out (how many catalogs do I have at this point?), and I go through it as if looking for answers. As always, beautiful people play in beautiful locations, without a care in the world.
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