by Havok, Davey
Rounding the corner to Reisling, I avoid a sprinkler cascade, and a silver Prius slowly whirs by. It’s blasting something that sounds like a video game. And the driver seems lost. Curiously, I tail the eco-friendly ride until it crawls to a stop directly in front of Stella’s house. I can’t believe she already has another guy over. I pound my push-foot to the pavement. Only hours ago I was feeling her up on that porch. I pop up my board. If I’d known that I was to be replaced so promptly, I would’ve just asked Katy Perry to join us last night.
It’s fine.
I march up the sidewalk. The disco dies and the door of the import opens. What steps out is horrifying. He’s at least six feet tall, wearing white jeans that are way too tight, a florescent yellow scoop-necked tank top that is way too baggy, about six necklaces that are way too long, puffy silver high-tops that are way too silver and, to perfectly complete his look, the man has put his hair in pigtails—the cheerleader kind, not the braided Willie Nelson kind. Pigtails, I swear to Moz. When he takes off his aviators to address my gaping mouth, I can tell that he’s at least twenty-one. Oh, and shockingly good looking too.
“Hello hello!” With a ravishing smile, he slings a neon canvas bag over his shoulder. “You here to see Sarah too? “ He’s too poorly dressed to be this good looking.
“Who?” Flawlessly, I feign surprise as I notice the residency to my right. “Oh, Sarah Johnson. Oh no, no. I was just on my way home and stopped to check out your ride. I love the Prius man. They’re so green.”
The pigtailed one grins. A screen door creaks. And the sound of pattering Havaianas adds to my discomfort.
“Donnnnnnnny!” Running down the walkway, Stella throws her arms around him.
Donny. The DJ. Of course.
Barbara’s daughter is wearing tiny yellow velour shorts, a white wife beater, a black bra, and yellow flip-flops. Her toenails are freshly painted pink. A small strip of her belly is showing and her shorts have the word ‘pink’ swooping across her captivating ass, in pink. Thinking invisible thoughts, standing here all young, unannounced, and car-less, right next to Big D, I hope, for the first time ever, that she doesn’t notice me.
“Mike! What are you doing here?” she asks. “Did you guys meet? Donny’s gonna teach me how to spin! Kickass right?”
The DJ wraps himself around her from behind. And smiles at me.
“Oh, yeah, that’s cool. ” Eyeing her, hoping to catch a look of concern, a sense of awkwardness, a tinge of guilt, I reach for my lighter. “I thought that most DJs did pool parties during the day, but that’s cool that you’ve got so much free time Donny.”
“It’s Donovan, my brother.”
“Oh, I though it was Donny. She calls you Donny. Can’t I?”
“And who are you again?” Smiling benevolently, he releases her from his toned arms and extends his hand. “I still don’t think that we’ve officially met.”
He’s too amiable. He must be stoned. I bet you’re stoned Donny. Fucking stoner. Giving me a raised eyebrow, Stella introduces us.
“Donovan, this is my friend Mike.” I shake hands as her friend Mike internally cringes at his belittling title. I would have expected ‘my super-lover,’ ‘my reason-to-wax.’ “He threw that amazing party that I was telling you about.”
My grip freezes. I turn to her, aghast. I can’t believe she told this random (albeit very good looking) guy about The Premieres. My stomach moths flutter at the breach of secrecy.
“Oh! You’re Score Massi!” Donny grins, and I drop his hand. It’s one thing for someone from our town to have heard preceding tale of me, but this guy doesn’t even live here. He lives in the city. Where there’s real life. He pats my shoulder. “The girls speak quite highly of you, my brother.”
“That makes sense.” Not really.
Popping his trunk with his keys, Donny walks back to the car. “I’m gonna load in some stuff okay Sarah Baby.”
“Sure Babe.” Looking into my aviators, she offers, “You know, you can call me Stella Baby if you want.”
I share a smile with my sister Filmgreat.
“No worries.” Burdened with metallic duffle bags, shiny backpacks, laptops, and little speakers, Donny lugs the gear in the house.
Stella and I are alone. I clack down my board, step onto it, and push once.
“So you wanna be a DJ now? I thought you wanted to be an actress … or a model—”
“Yeah, why not? It will be fun.” She catches me as I roll into her. “And anyway, DJ, actress, model … it doesn’t matter how you get there. It just matters that you get there. Right?” Still holding onto my waist, she smiles.
I glance at something that fell from the Prius before addressing my true concern. “That guy’s not gonna tell anyone about the parties right?” Stepping off, I kick my board to her front lawn. “We can’t have all of San Francisco showing up—”
“Mike…” She pulls me back into her hum. “You really think people are going to come here from SF for, like, anything?”
“Donny doesn’t seem to mind traveling to be entertained.”
Intertwined on the sidewalk, smirking, sharing breaths, we squint at each other until Stella breaks the stalemate. Slipping her arms up the back of my shirt and her tongue into my mouth, she wins the battle of will. Her sex buzz rattles the windows of the hybrid. Her neighbors hissing sprinklers skip. And I taste artificial watermelon. As my drop-neck tee bunches and her cool belly presses to mine, I slide my hand beneath the in in ‘pink’ to discover that Stella is panty-free. Delighted, ignoring the creak of the screen door, I continue to search her shorts while Donovan tromps by. When Stella eventually shuts down the show, she stares me down.
“Don’t worry so much Mike. No one is going to ruin your party. And, anyway, no matter what happens, I know that you can handle it.” Removing her arms from my waist, she adjusts my hair. “You’ve got what it takes, sexy.”
“Yeah, Mike!” DJ Prius slams his trunk. With pigtails bouncing he plods toward us and takes Stella’s hand. “No worries, my brother.” He walks her into the house.
She doesn’t wave, she doesn’t say goodbye, and she doesn’t look back.
Standing on the curb, I stare at the screen door. “I Kissed a Girl” comes bouncing out. I grab my board from the thirsty grass and squat to inspect the gutter by the passenger door of the Prius. I can’t believe what I find: ‘Murder King.’ How disappointing. Donny’s carnivorous conscious isn’t as sparkling as his smile. Leaving a small breakfast-croissant-wrapper-fire behind me, I push toward the hills, humming something about cherry ChapStick.
Chapter 16
To further secure his place below me on the evolutionary scale, Frank has decided to grill tonight. And though he has prepared one of his exquisite vegan patties for me, it’s hard to stomach when I’m sitting at table surrounded by flesh eaters.
“You’re a murderer,” I accuse my father. “I’m afraid to even sit here with you … and to sleep at night. How do I know I’m not next on the Massi-man-grill?”
“Tell you what Mike…” Tearing mint leaves into his Ice Tea, he bargains. “I’ll stop eating steak when you stop killing spiders.”
Absurdity: comparing cows to spiders. Arachnids are pure evil. They’re like a cigarette manufacturer or a terrorist. They’re organized religion on eight legs.
“I hate spiders.”
“And I hate cows.” The ice in his glass clinks as he sips.
“It’s not the same, Dad. You know it’s not the same.”
I spread fresh sun-dried tomato pesto onto my Cherie Cherie rosemary focaccia bun and bite into my homemade Shiraz marinated burger. Like a mime that’s found his voice, Frank begins dramatizing his argument with gestures.
“I don’t see how it isn’t! Spiders have eyes! Eight of them! They’re not plants! And that wood spider you killed the other night probably has children at home that are still waiting for their father to bring home the flies.” Covering his mouth, he turns to Gina and gasps at the horrible t
hought. Gina shakes her head and forks a tomato from her salad.
“Okay Dad, it was self-defense. That spider was the size of your steak.” I point at the massacre pooling on his plate.
“Well that raises another good point!” Conducting his speech with a bottle of A-1. Frank insists, “At least I eat what I kill! You don’t even eat the spiders!” He snatches one of my baked thick-cut fries and bites it in two. “I think you should start eating spiders, Mike.”
“You two are ridiculous,” Gina intervenes. Confiscating his bottle, she tightens the cap, sets it on the far end of the table, and points at me. “You. Leave your father alone. You had sushi last week and eat calamari every Vigilia. Marrone…” She settles back in, and sips her Cabernet. “So, rehearsals should be starting soon. “
“They don’t start until school’s back in. Remember? I told you. Mr. Nalon is having the set built in Hess.”
“Oh, I don’t remember you telling me that.”
Gina likes to forget when I tell her things that she doesn’t want to hear, and insists that rehearsals keep me “busy and out of trouble.”
“Yeah, I told you.” I scoop up dripped pesto with my last fry. “You just said ‘oh, okay’.”
“Oh, okay.” She offers me a bowl of greens. “Did Barbara Johnson’s daughter get the lead again this year?”
“Actually, Sarah didn’t even audition. I asked her why and she said ‘high school musicals are so high school.’ She wants to spend more time making videos for her blog.”
I steal Frank’s last fry. He motions to stab me with his steak knife.
“I did meet the female lead though. She just moved here. She seems pretty cool.”
At this small, accidental, complimentary description of Becca, Gina Massi’s face lights up like a church dipped in Sterno. I rarely mention girls at home and make it a point never to do so in a positive light. Though she regularly cautions me, “If you ever get some young girl pregnant, I’ll put my head in the oven,” she loves babies and wants grandchildren. But because both my parents are convinced that my brother is gay, Gina is counting on me to procreate. She is, thus, conflicted and whenever I mention a girl other than Stella, this conflict results in her matronly excitement.
“Really? What’s her name? What is she like? Is she Italian?”
“Her name’s Becca.” Standing, I clear my place. “She’s very blonde, and I think that her last name is Rose, so don’t start making any wedding invitations.”
Frank chuckles at my preemptive defense.
“Maybe it’s short for Rosetti, Mike. Ya never know!”
Laughing, I pull his homemade sorbetto from the freezer. My fingertips stick to the frozen cardboard.
“Oh, that is NOT what I meant Michael. I was just thinking that it would be fun to have another family in town to share recipes with.” After insisting that I don’t eat straight out of the carton, she huffs, “It would be nice to have grandchildren someday, you know. But if you’re not giving me any, I guess I’ll just die never knowing what it’s like. That could be any day now too … I’m no spring chicken.”
She’s forty.
“Mom, Joey is not gay. And could you please not hurl me into seventeen-year-old paternity?” I rinse our ice cream scoop and dig into the pint. “I’ve told you, I’m never getting married or having kids. The whole concept of marriage is obsolete … and this world has yet to prove itself deserving of my progeny.”
“That reminds me!” In that mother-sing-song voice she says, “Someone has a birthday coming up! Eighteen!” Then points her spoon at me. “Should I still invite Pinky this year? Or is the concept of a birthday cake obsolete?”
Every year, Gina makes a red velvet cake shaped and decorated to look like a cat’s face. Every year it comes out pink instead of red. Its name is Pinky. Frank likes to think of it as a mystical, Clausian feline that brings me my gifts through the cat door on the Eve of October 10. I like to think this as well.
“Of course, not.” Kissing her cheek, I serve her a purple scoop in a frescoed arancio dish. “I’ll always love Pinky.”
Squishing my earbuds into my head, I clean the entire kitchen to the sound of my latest ‘dishwashing playlist’ before putting my own body through a similar rigorous ritual. In the shower with my new olive fruit oil Kiehl’s conditioner stimulating my follicles and mind, I begin contemplating the first ‘Premiere playlist.’ The other night at The Palace, after a Marina and the Diamonds song ended, my iPod shuffled to some interview with two British guys. It killed the dance floor. I can’t let that happen again. Especially if Becca is there.
I still want to invite her.
Thinking of her side-boob, I lather vigorously. I don’t find shower masturbation sensually ideal, but it’s the least messy place to spread my joy.
Bitter product drips down my face. I rinse my mouth, rub my eyes, and find myself high above downtown LA, stretched out in a cabana, atop a steaming, sudsy, spot-lit rooftop pool. Becca and Stella are naked and besides my McQueen skull tie, I am wearing nothing but their two scented bodies. World famous DJ Steve Aoki spins “Ghosts ‘n’ Stuff” by London’s own Deadmau5, and Leo DiCaprio peeks his head in through the white, skull-printed, chiffon curtains to compliment my performance. Great work Score. When he says my name, I spread glittering joy everywhere. Sparkling, it floats into the sky, filling it with stars.
I turn off the faucet. Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around my waist and quickly pad to my room. Inspired and moist, I sit down at my Mac. I name a playlist ‘Premiere Party Sunday, August 31.’ I download and drag in “Ghosts ‘n’ Stuff,” then research the artist. Deadmau5 isn’t from England. He’s from Canada. Wikipedia says so. It’s fine. His beats sound British. I’m leaving the track in.
Chapter 17
I awake at 3:14 in the afternoon. I check my phone. Nothing from Stella. With a few hours to spare before work, I get up, grab a scone from the bakery bag that Gina wrote my name on, brew some Sencha, then take them both back to bed. Contemplating which movie to show next, I open my Mac and begin surfing celebrity sites. Overall, I find these online tabloids loathsome but I feel that I must study them. Daily. They’re educational. They’re helping me prepare for the day I’m a primary focus of Perez. Plus, they give me something to talk about with Stella. Forwarding her a new candid of Kate Moss, I type, “Breeding might not be totally unacceptable if every mother could keep this figure. I still totally would.” I hit send then click through pics of a Nicki Minaj nip-slip.
As I make my way down the porn hole, Lynch messages me with a link to a video. In the short, Alvin, wearing nothing but a yellow bikini top, back flips off of a coastal deck railing, through the night, and into a pool. A stew of tattooed guys and girls receive him, cheering from the packed adjoining hot tub. The ocean is their backdrop. They’re all topless. I wonder if they’re all bottomless. I watch the video three times before leaving my kudos amidst a string of comments.
As his behind the scenes laughter foretold, Lynch is with his brother. In his message, he’s attached a picture of himself standing in the hot tub with a topless girl posing on his shoulders. His stringy hair is plastered to his head. He’s giving two thumbs up, grinning like a water-loving cat that swallowed the canary. The canary looks like an extremely young Cameron Diaz. Below the shot he’s typed, ‘I miss you.’ Trying to suppress my feelings of being left out, I lament the terrible looking wreath of black flowers tattooed around the girl’s navel, then type ‘Something About Mary’ into PornoTube’s search engine.
After spending two minutes in web heaven with a homemade video featuring a buxom college girl named Mary, I shower off the joy, put together an outfit—black Ksubis, black short sleeve button up, black skinny tie and black Chucks—and take the long way to work. I wheelie through Fountain Square, wave at Gina through the window of Cherie Cherie, turn up Reisling, and see DJ Prius’s Prius. It hasn’t moved since yesterday. I can’t believe he spent the night. I dial Stella. I hear “I’m a free bitch, baby.
” I bang on her front door. Donny answers. I am horrified. He’s wearing Joey’s shirt.
“Hey my brother! Glad you came back!” His snow-white smile gleams as his stupid, luxurious, unleashed hair crawls beautifully over my brother’s vintage tee.
“Donny! Still here, huh?” I peer over his shoulder. The Pink Door is shut. “Stella must be a virtual Guetta by now with all this DJ training. Over twenty-four hours? Wow. You two gonna hit Ibiza soon? I see you’ve let your hair down.”
Propping his arm above me on the door’s frame, he tosses his mane. My shirt rides high on him. From it, an inch of a happy trail crawls under the low riding waistband of his distressed grey jeans. He’s no longer wearing those awful necklaces.
“Yep, still here!” He looks better today, leaning in the setting sunlight, all rock n’ roll. Still awful, but better. “We didn’t actually work too much last night.”
“Oh no, why’s that?”
Prius squints.
“Too much sex.” Putting on his aviators, he produces a cigarette from some nether region in his hair. He lights it, takes a drag, and then squeezes my shoulder. “But it’s never too much with Stella, right?” Exhaling, he grins. “She’s a good girl.”
“That she is … “
As he stands in my clothes, having a smoke after a full night of banging the girl whom I’ve spent years trying to establish a sexual relationship with, I try to keep my cool. But I just can’t avoid the issue any longer.
“Hey, man.” I point to his chest. “Great shirt. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh yeah. Weird. Weird.” Shaking his head, looking down, he addresses the garment. “Actually, Jamie from The Kills left it at my place. It’s his. Weird, right?”
I just saw a picture of that guy on WWTDD. He dates Kate Moss. If Donny’s not lying, she may have touched that shirt. I want to smell it. He’s gotta be lying.
“Yeah. Weird,” I wave away the smoke.