Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  After cruising to the bottom of my street, I pop up my deck and start tromping uphill. This is my favorite time to walk home, not simply because sundown minimizes the tanning threat, but because the cats are out. I most enjoy running into Iman—a beautiful green-eyed Burmese who lives with our downhill neighbors. Her owners call her “Blackie,” but this bland moniker embarrasses her, so I’ve renamed her. When she weaves around her wooden mailbox post I stop to say hello then, snapping twigs beneath my feet, finish my off-road climb.

  From the bottom of our driveway, I can see Gina through the dusk’s reflection of our empty street, stirring her pot of marinara. Her spacious kitchen is one of the “many benefits” of having moved out of Brooklyn, though this vast Californian cooking arena does nothing to assuage my feelings of displacement. I was only thirteen, yet well accustomed to the many perks of city living, when Uncle Cosmo offered my dad the opportunity to help run one of his boutique wineries.

  Frank was always talking about how fun it would be to farm, to suffer “dirty nails and sunburn instead of pigeons and paper cuts,” and how nice it would be “to get the kids out of the city.” Gina, too, frequently voiced other such unimaginable rural-sympathizing fantasies. So when the offer came for farm livin’, we packed away all modern comforts and over came the Massis. The move was complete culture shock for my brother and me.

  Throughout the entire first month of living here Joey would inexplicably burst into tears, sometimes cryptically uttering nonsense like “1 Oak,” “avenue,” “IF,” “butter,” and, “Barneys” in between sobs. Eventually, the fits did stop. And not long after, he ended his misery entirely. I miss him terribly, but I’ve managed to cope. I’ve got a few great friends, one desktop, two laptops, and a high-speed wireless connection that helps me get through.

  When I walk into our house the smell of Gina’s cooking hits me and I thank Moz for giving me a mother who cooks so well in a town deprived of delivery.

  “Mmmmm Mm!” I reflexively hum, inhaling oregano on my way from my bedroom to the shower. Leaving her simmering pot, Gina follows me.

  “Are you staying for dinner tonight?” she asks, standing outside of the bathroom.

  Folding my damp shirt, I twist on the hot water and call through the closed door. “You didn’t put the meatballs in the sauce did you Mom?”

  “I did that once Michael! Once! You’ve only been a vegetarian for a month. It’s not gonna kill you to be in the same room with a meatball.”

  I’ve actually been vegetarian for a year. Practically. And in a sausage and peppers family like the Massis, I cannot be too careful. Being Italian involves facing many monstrous traditions—from carnivorous holiday meals to the even bloodier Sunday morning mass.

  I was raised Catholic. My parents were raised Catholic. However, years of education and a coup within our old Catholic church encouraged my folks to stray from the path of the religiously insane. Back when I was a tempting young lad forced into altar servitude, the mother superior of our parish discovered that Father O’Holland was touching little boys during his time off from embezzling thousands of dollars. When the mother superior brought this to the attention of the bishop, he told her that he’d take care of the offender. This he did by allowing the molester-priest to carry on with his private boy-love party in return for giving the bishop all of the stolen donations and occasional Oral Joy. In the end, this meant that I didn’t have to go to church anymore. If there is a god, he clearly sucks. Yet for some reason, I still have to say grace.

  Like a prayer, Gina recites some archaic First Testament wisdom regarding the animals’ servile place on earth. I explain that were I to consume even meat juices I’d surely throw up.

  “Oh, and could you not put the parm in the sauce tonight?” I step into the inch of searing water rippling at the bottom of the tub. “I’m trying to eat vegan.”

  “Just this morning you were asking me where you could order cannoli online!”

  “I’m getting in the shower now.”

  “We’re Italian.” Walking away, she shouts, “We eat cheese!”

  Squirting a large shimmery orange glob of soap onto my black loofah, I start soaping away the smell of sex. To my dismay, I’m only able to swap the cotton candy scented memories of Sarah with the fresh fragrance of creamsicle body wash for mere minutes before Gina pokes her head through door. A dagger of cold air cuts through the plastic curtain.

  “Dinner is almost ready. You’ve been in there for almost an hour!”

  “I’ll be out in ten!”

  “I found your lighter in your jeans while I was doing the wash again,” she scolds, “I don’t see why you carry that thing around all the time!”

  Fearing that she might smell Sarah going down the drain, I promise, for the million and one-th time, “I don’t smoke Mom.”

  “You’d better not.”

  “I abhor it.”

  “Are you staying out again tonight?”

  “Yeah,” I say, happy to be off the tired topic. “XBOX party.”

  “Once school starts, less video games. I’m sure Zach’s parents are plenty happy living with their own two sons. They don’t need you moving in.” Shutting the door, she finally allows me to deep condition in peace.

  In my room, with ‘Portishead’ typed into Last FM, I’m buttoning up a crisp, black Top Man dress shirt. Eddie, my Havana Brown, jumps atop my desk to inspect the moth that’s flown in from Frank’s herb garden. Drawn to my Tube Top floor lamp, it softly thuds against my window. Eddie’s fascinated with moths. I like them too. I have a few.

  “Hey girl, how’s this look? Should I go more casual?”

  Zach’s face startles Eddie, as it buzzes my phone to life. I grab it from the charger.

  “Dude. Where are you?” he asks.

  I read the name of the song on the radio. Eddie returns to batting the glass.

  “I’m home.” I begin pacing to my brothers room. “I’m gonna eat then come down.”

  “Awesome! Bring leftovers,” he demands. “How were the activities?”

  “Fabulous, but we’ll discuss later.” I lower my voice, inhaling Gina’s sauce as the lights of the Audi Q7 sweep the front hallway. “Mom’s got spaghetti on the table.”

  The front door clicks. There are footsteps. Frank greets my cat. “Hey, Chocolate Chip!”

  “I’ve gotta go man, Dad’s home and insulting Eddie, I’ll see you soon.”

  Hanging up, I swipe a Massive Attack CD from Joey’s collection, toss it into my room, and arrive at the table just as I’m called for the third time.

  “Hey, Dad.” Nervously, I ting my butter knife against my empty glass. I’m slightly paranoid that my folks might sense my glowing post-coital state, though I’ve become quite good at allowing them to see only what I want them to. Trying to mask my feelings, I sit with Frank, feeling that my overwhelming despair must be obvious.

  “Hey Mike.” He tips his business hat. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Just starving.” Ting. Ting ting.

  Gina fills a serving dish with pounds of pasta. Ting ting. Frank can tell that I’m squirming. He knows what’s consuming me. It’s madness.

  Knowingly, he smiles. “Is there something wrong Mike?”

  I can take it no longer.

  “Dad…” I point with my utensil. “You know that it’s not only rude to eat at the table with a hat on, but that it’s even ruder to embarrass your entire family by wearing that hat under any circumstances.”

  Gina places the beautiful steaming bowl next to the basket of warm bread and sits down at the table.

  Frank, having gotten the confession that he wanted, jovially offers me his straw hat. “Well Mike, someone’s gotta wear the crown. It’s either you or me son.”

  Politely declining the kingdom, I bat the woven atrocity away from my freshly styled hair. Returning the ugly accessory to its unnatural position, he takes my hand, then Gina’s, and we all bow our heads to thank Moz for our food.

  Chapt
er 3

  By the time I’ve reached the flats and begun weaving between the yellow dashes that divide Vine Street, it’s just past ten o’clock. The tiny bit of town traffic has dwindled to nothing. With leftovers slung over my back in last year’s pink brown and cream plaid Jansport, I skate unseen, cutting in and out of the white halos cast by the streetlights. My board starts to rumble when half a block ahead I see a white light. It’s floating above the sidewalk. Alone, waiting for me in front of the empty WAMU building, sitting on the chipped curb, Zach is texting. His home-bleached hair can’t decide which direction to dive. It’s like a depressed sea anemone.

  “Hey man, can you order some conditioner on the Amex? I’m running out and I think it would do us both some good.” Rolling up to the curb, I drop my bag and extract the soggy chewed up fruit pop stick from his teeth. I toss the wood into the nearby trashcan. A ping resounds in the emptiness.

  “Dude. You’ve got to be kidding me.” Dejected, he looks up from Words With Friends. “A tie?”

  “What?” I ask, before realizing he’s probably just worried for the safety of my outfit.

  I can’t blame him. The possibility of getting it dirty during our exploration crossed my mind, but when I decided to look sharp I resolved to be extremely careful.

  “Oh. Never mind.” Chuckling with a strange look of realization, he points. “I thought you might be freaking over fucking up your clothes in there, but I recognize that now.”

  “You recognize McQueen?” I’m shocked that my friend is versed in high British design. He always makes fun of me for dedicating an hour a night to Perez’s fashion blog. I loosen my knot.

  “What? I’m talking about that tie. It’s part of the costume from that play you were in right? Is that skull painted on with Wite-Out?”

  Standing over him, I smooth my silky accessory. It is Wite-Out, but it’s not a costume. “Crimes of the Heart,” I remind him. “How good was I in that?”

  My portrayal of Barnette Lloyd got a great review in the Valley View High newspaper. The writer said my southern accent was “completely believable”—an accolade that will pale compared to the press I’m going to get after I star in this year’s musical. Sitting down on the curb, picturing what I’ll wear in the photo shoot for the school paper’s local celebrity piece, I unzip my backpack and pull out the leftovers.

  “I still think that you’re a little over dressed man.” Like a wild ravenous herbivore starved for tomato sauce, Zach snatches the warm Ziploc bag from my hands.

  I recognize we’re not spending a night out dancing at an SF art Gallery with the girls but The Palace was once a nice hotel. Handing him a plastic fork, I explain, “My attire is donned out of respect to its history.” Then with an only slightly exaggerated tinge of offense, I tighten my half-Windsor. “And this was Joey’s tie.”

  Zach gives a carb-muffled apology and, in a spatter of marinara, indiscernibly compliments my beloved older brother—who has left me here to brave this town alone. It’s fine. He’s in a better place now. Joseph fled Valley View with a 5.0 GPA, although he was a well-rounded individual as dedicated to his training as he was to school. If he wasn’t on a crying jag, studying, online shopping, social networking, or teaching me the ways of the civilized world, he was training. He was my inspiration, my mentor, and my closest friend until, just before his graduation, he left me. He left us all … and ran away to join the circus.

  Swallowing, Zach grins and asks, “When do we get to go visit him again?”

  Last summer we spent a whole week in Vegas with Joey.

  “Welcome to the Jungle” is playing as we take the elevator down from our comped suite to stand on the perimeter of the gaming tables where we meet our driver. He shows us to our Escalade. We drink chilled Pellegrino, while explaining that we don’t go to College, as he drives us far off the glowing Strip.

  When we pull behind the club, Guy is waiting to sneak us through the back door. He tells us he could get in a lot of trouble for letting in two sixteen-year-olds, but he loves Joey.

  Everyone does.

  Sitting in the VIP with our hearts pounding up against interchanging pairs of perfectly wrapped cinnamon-scented silicone bags Zach and I learn truths: most of these girls aren’t strippers at all; they’re hairdressers. And watching your friend disappear under two naked beauticians can be profoundly spiritual.

  “I’m sure the hairdressers miss us. Maybe we should go back again next summer … right after graduation. Before Hollywood is constantly demanding my presence.”

  “Man, that would be awesome. I so can’t wait to get out of here.”

  Neither can I. We have just over two weeks of summer left and though I’m dreading it, knowing that it will be the beginning of my last days in this town makes me look forward to getting senior year started and over with. I will be applying for escape by way of colleges in LA, OC, Santa Barbara, and maybe San Francisco. I’m not that interested in Northern California schools. Cities up here don’t offer as many possibilities for a glamorous lifestyle but in the end, it doesn’t matter where I am, as long as I’m somewhere else and doing something fabulous.

  “One more year man,” I declare, eyeing the soon-to-be sauce stains on Zach’s olive coat. “Then we’re gone.”

  Chapter 4

  The Palace was abandoned in the forties and has been awaiting our inhabitance ever since. Tonight, the towering hotel of both former and future excellence is playing coy. Walking toward it, I can see that it’s not going let us penetrate its internal wonders without some coercion. I ask Zach how he plans on getting us through the thick layers of protective planks bolted across the front door.

  “Don’t worry man. We’re not going in that way.”

  He leads us around the side of the building. Across from “Crystal Eyes”—the marginalized incense and tarot reading room—we march to the sidewalk alongside the looming hotel. Inspecting the seemingly impervious structure, I start to fear Zach’s plan of entry. There are no windows. No doors. Just ivy covered walls. Clicking my Zippo, I look up toward the second story at the dark outline of a fire escape that looks to be about 10,000 feet above us and begin to question my decision to stay in town. Click, click. In a situation like this, the simple cold feel and sharp sound of my lighter can comfort me. Click, click. There doesn’t necessarily need to be more—a smoking hot girl with an unlit cigarette, a need for a flame. Not always. Click, click.

  “Check it out.” Brushing away dead leaves, Zach reveals a monument hidden in an alcove on the ground.

  I read the engraved inscription in awe. “To the ladies of the night that plied their trade upon this site?”

  “Yeah. When the hotel opened, this was the spot where all the hookers would hang. I guess they’d turn tricks in the hotel.”

  “Wow, I already love this place.”

  A monster truck cop car wrapped in Walmart logos rumbles by on the distant cross street, spewing exhaust into the night.

  Though slightly apprehensive, I’m committed to getting into The Palace. I was starting to have misgivings about the breaking and entering, the possibility of ghosts, spiders, and rats, and the risk of ruining my shirt. But this little concrete tribute makes me feel like we’re about to enter a sacred place, like we’re being watched over by hooker angels. I look back up toward the shadowy vines reaching off the walls and clinging to the skeletal ironworks.

  “You don’t think I’m going up there do you? I mean, maybe you’ve confused me with my brother? I’m not that circusy … maybe if you go up first—”

  “Mike,” Zach insists in a voice inappropriately loud for illegal moments such as these, “…Settle.”

  Grabbing two waxy handfuls of foliage, he pulls toward us. An old plank of plywood separates us from the wall to create a gaping ivy-laced mouth. The secret entry to our glorious future moans. A gush of air chills my face. It smells like a trunk filled with vintage Smiths tees. I look into the void. I’m totally impressed.

  “I can’t believe you d
idn’t say abracadabra before you did that.”

  Dropping the crushed leaves, Zach reaches into his jacket and hands me a Mini-Mag. I hand it back. He shows me how to turn it on then re-opens the dirty green mouth.

  Like a snazzy uncertain suicide on a ledge, I inch my way into the new shadows.

  “You’re gonna have to hold it a little wider man. I don’t want to get leaf stains.”

  We’re in. The mouth door womps shut behind us. It’s dark—and it’s creepy. I breathe in the cool, antique air. I can taste the ghosts. Creating our own silent rave, Zach and I dance our frantic lights across the walls to inspect the room and make sure that no specters have materialized to welcome us. I see none. The lounge in which the valley’s finest travelers once relaxed, read, and retained the service of prostitutes is now empty. There are no socialites. No solicitors. No ghosts. Just barren hardwood floors and cracked plaster walls adjoining in a low archway that leads to the rest of rooms on the ground floor. Just wiring from a chandelier, long ago removed, spidering out of a hole in the ceiling. Just dust. Just us.

  “This is totally killer!” Zach shines his light in my face.

  “Yeah, and totally creepy.” I double check for poltergeists. “I hope it’s not haunted.”

  Zach grins and bolts. As I chase after him, the likely prescient Dead Boys logo that’s scrawled in Sharpie across the back of his jacket does nothing to comfort me.

  “Nooooo,” I cry. “No running! It’s too dark! These stairs don’t have any railings, man!”

  With Zach cackling like The Blair Witch and my heart beating in my head, I’m certain that we’re going to die. He disappears over the last stair then somewhere down the musty hallway his footfalls abruptly halt. When I catch up to him, we stand together, panting in the door-less, chipped frame. I unbutton my stifling top button.

  The glow of the streetlights assists our Mini-Mags in their illumination of Room 217—four walls, a bathroom, and a walk-in closet. Its ubiquitous peeling floral wallpaper is covered with battle cries, band logos, and bad art. In hot pink, ‘Comfortably Numb!’ has been sprayed large enough to unify two walls with its proclamation of detachment. The barren wooden floor is littered with beer bottles, lighters, empty Doritos bags, Zig-Zag boxes, and Coke cans cum-ash-trays. Although it’s empty, it’s claustrophobic. And it smells like a head shop.