by Havok, Davey
“My British co-host and I are thrilled that you could all join us for the very second Premiere party of all time!”
“Oi!” Lynch, pumps his fist amidst our applause. “Cheers! Oi!”
“Tonight…” I shake off the chill of his accent. “We will be showing the Tarantino Classic Pulp Fiction.”
“Woooh!” Mia, now at the soundboard, wraps her arms around Lynch. “My man knows what I like!”
“Immediately following the film, the after party will begin, and shall feature a wonderfully danceable playlist, meticulously hand-picked by yours truly. I assure you, there will be no interruptions this time—”
“Wooooo, partyyyy!” Raising her bottle, Mia begins freaking my partner.
Awkwardly, yet eagerly, he returns the standing dry hump.
“Aw, c’mon you guys,” I beg. “I’m almost done.”
Ignoring me, Mia continues grinding to the eternal spring break in her head.
“But before I do finish… ” I tug my cuffs, attempting to recompose myself. “I’d like to introduce our new guests, Becca and-”
“Culito!” I sigh and check my phone for texts from Stella as Volta motions to the Surfers. “We met them in the parking lot.” Playfully, he throws popcorn at Becca. “And we all know Ms. Doll-faced Hollywood!” He sounds like Samuel L.
“I’m from Newport!” Retaliating with hurled Red Vines from Heaven, she rises up to her knees and waves her large box of treats. “I’ve got licorice if anyone wants some.”
“Oh, whatever!” Catching a whip, Volta passes it to Cruz then claps for her to throw him another. “It’s all Hollywood to me.”
“Yeah Newport, Oldport…” Cruz swishes his Red Vine. “Hollywood, Holly Wouldn’t. Either way, any day, I would if I could. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Becca confirms, “I most certainly would.”
Her audience, Holly’s audience, cheers.
“Well, Welcome Miss Wood. “ Recalling my years of Improv training, I clap my hands together with a satisfied smile. “It seems that you already have many friends here, that is … unless they all just want your candy.”
All the cats call.
“Don’t be jealous Mike. You can have some of my candy too.”
She throws me a whip. It thwaps against my chest. Terribly attracted to the Filmgreat who has just further entered the esteem of our exclusive group, I clumsily catch the candy and put in my shirt pocket.
“I brought goodies to share too!” Star stops petting her baby pap and raises an old-timey glass pill bottle filled with Flintstones. “If anyone hasn’t taken their vitamin x tonight, I’ve brought enough for the whole class.” She rattles it. “It goes great with Red Vines.”
Her hair matches the faux fur throws that are draped over Al. Throwing them off, he springs up to take photos while Cruz, Volta, Mia, and The Twins line up to offer their tongues to a pastel dinosaur. With Leo, Becca stays in Heaven. Wrapped around a pile of pillows, she watches me.
“Well! Now that everyone is assured good health for the evening…” They all settle back into their seats. “And if you are ready Mr. Lynch?” My feral-haired partner sends two thumbs soaring upward. “We are pleased to bring you! …” I point to Holly. “The private screening of…” I spread my arms wide, palms out. “…Pulp Fiction!”
Cuddled up in Heaven, having survived two popcorn fights, a wandering wrestling match between Leo and MK, and Volta’s colorful rendition of Ezekiel 25:17, Holly is still nestled on top of me when we first hear the strange squeaks.
“What is that?” Without moving, my steadfast chest guest softly inquires, “Do you hear that noise?”
“Yeah, It’s probably just mice.” I hope it’s not mice.
“Oh, mice are cute.”
I think of Stella then Leo barks out another laugh, maintaining, yet again, that ‘beer is not gross.”
To our right, MK is cozied up to the shaggy surfer. The two have been debating this issue all night. After bark five, I finally join in on behalf of the flirtatious beer basher.
“Yeah Leo.” I bean him with an unclaimed pillow. “Beer sucks.”
Beyond the sea lion’s betrayed expression, Ash sits on the stage, propped between Star’s legs. On a purple candy chair, with her loving lap-dog-in-drag splayed across her chords, the surfer is braiding the sedate twin’s hair. All three of them are staring at the wall screen. It’s a strangely serene sight. Admiring the affectionate activities, I’m considering what permanent wardrobe modifications I’d have to make were I to grow out my hair when in falsetto unison everyone begins signing, “WAS THE SON OF A PREACHER MAN!” Holly and I join. She has a great voice. She’s a contralto. I can tell.
As the giant Mia in the movie rails up some giant coke, I lightly drag my nails up and down Holly’s inner arm.
“Thanks for inviting me Mike.” Without rising from our cuddle lock, without looking at me, she tugs on the tip of my tie. “This is fun.”
“Thanks Holly.” This is the first time she’s directly complimented me since way back in the parking lot. “I’m glad that you’re enjoying yourself. “ She loves my party. She must love my party’s host! I gently run my fingers through her wig. “You know… you can call me Score … and we can make out if you want.”
Though my co-star clearly didn’t hear either of my offers, after our song has ended and MK has pounded two Lagunitas and Alvin has received his second braid and Tarantino has brought us all to Jack Rabbit Slim’s, I’m excited.
“Hey why don’t you two show us how you twist!” I yell back toward Lynch’s make-out couch.
Without relieving his relentless fingers from their job down the front of Mia’s stretch-pants, my partner briefly unlocks lips. “I’m busy mate. Cheers.” His accent is gone. And he’s several scenes ahead of the rest of us.
With her black wig lying on the stage like a mound of unidentifiable road kill, Mia’s blonde hair falls in pieces as her twisted hairpins scatter around the wooden floor. She lets out a series of sonorous squeaks as Lynch buries his face in cleavage and digs for joy with his right hand. The Palace is a good place—things happen here.
“Zach, shut your woman up!” Cruz takes off his ball gag, hurls it toward the shrill sounds, and then points to the girl on my chest. “Hollywood should dance.” He flicks his wrist toward Mia’s gaping blouse. “We’ve seen what she’s got. We wanna see what you got girl! Get up there!”
“Come on.” She jumps off me and, as if we’ve been practicing for this all week, offers me her hand. “Let’s do it.”
Ed Sullivan introduces us. I guess I’m in. We take off our shoes and as we rise into the flashing projection our audience cheers. Taunted by the impropriety of having paired them with a suit, I stare down at my orange monkey socks then look back up into Holly’s ICEE blue eyes. Embarrassed, I smile. The sultry vegan swivels. I can taste my moths. They’re thudding against the back of my teeth, desperately trying to escape to the projector to ruin everything. I swallow. I twist. They flutter back up with the fear of armpit sweat. I’m about to feign a sprained ankle. She grabs my hand. My skin leaps to life. Our eyes lock and without words she tells me that it’s fine. Everything’s fine. She’s a natural.
“Ohhhh hellls YEESSS! You two go!” Cruz whistles to the rafters.
Star, Alvin, and Ash applaud. Mia squeaks. Holly gently smiles. I take her hand and a deep bow. Heaven is empty.
“You are hot, hot, HOT girl,” Volta raves. “Where’d you learn to shake it like that? They got strip clubs in Newport? You even gave them some stiff competition.”
One by one, he throws kernels toward the wings—where Cruz was pointing. Offstage right, in the shadows of Surfers’ Paradise, Leo is making out with MK. Pressed to the wall she’s digging her fingers into his ribs. The tattooed surfer’s shirt is off and his back is covered in a black, bold-lined tribal lion.
Cruz grabs his man’s throwing hand, shoves it into his crotch and like a bad blockbuster comedy insists, “The competition i
sn’t the only thing that’s stiff in here!”Pulled into Heaven by his nail-gun, he crawls on top of Volta and The Boys begin going for it. Hard. I’m concerned. Perez said that Orange County was a big ‘yes on 8’ supporter. I hope I don’t have to ask them to cool it. I turn to Holly to gauge her reaction.
“That’s so hot.” Standing in the projection, she’s smiling, staring down at the ravenous seventeen-year-old construction workers as they swap spit, fake-blood, and spray-on tan. “That’s just so hot.”
Chapter 26
Purring, Eddie pushes her nose into my ear and I awake to the warm sound. I feel fabulous. Last night, Holly danced with me from “Let’s Dance” all the way through “How Soon is Now?” She took my hands, looked at me with her dazzling blue eyes, and said, “This is the perfect ending.” I came home, showered, watched a porn clip of a girl who used go to our high school, and then slept like a cat on homework.
I reach for my nightstand and pick up my phone. There are no texts from Holly. Or Stella. I check the time. Fuck. I kiss my cat. She cringes. I’m going to be late for work.
With hopes of keeping my flawless record, I rush to make myself marginally presentable, abbreviating my morning ritual to only forty minutes. “Deep Hit of Morning Sun” plays sixteen times. I put on my jeans, Chucks, and an off-white oversized sweater, appropriate for today’s refreshingly moderate weather. I grab my board and carefully bomb down the hill, stopping only briefly at my neighbor’s driveway to pet Iman.
Seven and a half minutes late, I power-walk through the theatre doors, directly into my manager. With my nose just inches away from the prematurely white ponytail draping over his shoulder, I pick a black cat hair from my top and apologize. I’ve never been late before, so Philip is rightfully forgiving but throws in “don’t let it happen again, man” as I dart upstairs. Luckily for all of us here at the 8-plex, our manager is very relaxed. He trusts me to lock up, lets us wear whatever we want, and doesn’t bug us about our phones. I like him. Nevertheless, I still feel bad for being late. It’s not my style.
Motivated by a touch of guilt, I quickly set the comedy rolling, build up reels, then settle into my seat to forgive myself with a grapefruit fruit pop from my private stash. Shortly before the 7:35 pm screening ends, Lynch calls asking if I want to meet to review last night’s triumphs over some Americanos.
“I’m at work.” He knows that I hate coffee. I chew on my soggy wooden stick.
“What the fuck? It’s Labor Day.”
“Movies, man. The stars never rest.” I toss my soggy pacifier toward the green bin. It hits the wall and lands on the floor. I sigh and get up.
“Dude, you need to quit. School starts in eight days. We’ve gotta have at least sixteen more Premieres.”
“Seriously.” I pick up the splintered victim of my oral fixation. “Holly almost made out with me three times last night.”
“Wow. … Well I guess we should have seventeen more then. Maybe you’ll almost touch her tits.” He giggles. “Nice twist by the way. Did you watch Al’s video? I forwarded it to you. It’s pretty funny.”
“What? Of me and Holly?” Frantically, I pace the room, clicking my lighter in double time with the projector. “We can’t have footage of what goes on down there! What if someone sees it? What if The Twin’s psychotic parents see it? What if the cops see it? It’s funny?”
“Dude—”
“I’ll call you right back.” I hang up. I search for the clip—the evidence. I find it. I watch it, fearing for the worst, and then call back. “I think we look great. You think we look funny?”
“God. … No. She looks better … but you both look good.” I can hear Ash and Star talking about hangovers in the background. I think that they’re all in his room. “It’s still funny though. What happened after you two left?”
I pocket my Zippo and curl back into the viewing chairs.
“I walked her to her car. That was it.” I twist open a cold San P. It hisses.
“You just need to go for it harder.” I hear Ash say ‘Kombucha’ before Lynch points out the obvious. “She’s no Stella.”
“Yeah, Holly wouldn’t flake on me for some Friscy DJ’s stupid pigtail party at a filthy dive bar in The Mission.” I toss the cap. It pings into the blue bin full of green bottles.
“Damn. Little jealous?”
“Yeah.” He knows me too well. “I suppose I am. Famous people always show up at Steve Aoki’s parties. Y’know?”
“Totally. I bet it was killer.”
In the lobby, I grab a large popcorn and a box of Red Vines from the Concession Creeps. I normally wouldn’t touch the corn but another fruit pop isn’t going to make up for my missed breakfast. The corn is for sustenance. And the Red Vines are for Holly, in case she makes another surprise visit. Turning from Karrie Creep’s dilated grin, with my partially-hydrogenated-oil-enriched meal, I catch Shane hugging the big-butted blonde quarter of an intriguing foursome. At the front door, in his fitted floral Oh Land tee, he is tearing tickets for Mia, Stella, DJ Prius, and some guy I’ve never seen before. The stranger is wearing mouse grey MC Hammer pants, white splatter-painted TOMS slip-ons, a white oversized tank top, and a black beret over chin-length sandy blonde hair.
“Mike!” Stella squeals in perfect synch with Donny as they rush toward me. Her hair is in pigtails. She smooches my lips. I drop my candy. “I was hoping you’d be here sexy!” Hugging me, she mashes her boobs to my chest for 2.5 seconds. I outstretch my spilling popcorn tub.
“It’s so good to see you my brother.” Donovan hands me my fumbled treats, “You look great.”
Yeah, I look great except for the black cat hair that’s all over my white sweater.
“Thanks Donny,” I utter. Setting down my corn, I debate whether or not I should risk drawing attention to the fur by attempting brush it off.
I fold my arms across my chest and Prius expands his radiant GO SMiLE.
“You missed a great party.” Brazenly flaunting Stella’s defection, he lovingly embraces me, pressing my treats and arms to my chest for six seconds. “You should have come.”
I don’t recall having been invited, nor do I really want to hear about it.
“Yeah, Mike, It was so amazing!” Stella titters, as I take comfort in noticing a few of Iman’s hairs that have escaped from my shoulder to Prius’s silver headband. “Aoki, Donny, and Soufflé spun till 3:00 am then we all went to this casting guy’s suite at the W. Steve and his sister Devon are SO nice! She’s a model and says that her agency would love me!”
“The casting agent loved me!” Mia glances up from her phone. “He’s a hottie.”
“I’m sorry…” Not really wanting to address the hottie agent or the party, or wanting to acknowledge Stella’s certain future with Ford, or to further engage DJ Prius and his fabulous smile, I turn to him. “Who DJ’d with you?”
“Oh, sorry Mike.” He sweeps his hand. “Meet my partner, DJ Soufflé.”
It would seem that the guy with the beret is French and named after a fucking pastry. I’ve got to get out of here.
Keeping his hands shoved deep into his Hammer pants, while brandishing a blonde evil magician style mustache, Prius’s partner gives me a cool chin nod. “Cå va?” His accent is bizarre.
“Hey.”
In utter disbelief, I turn to Stella. She winks then kisses at me. For a few awful seconds the smooch hangs in the buttery lobby air.
Soufflé stares at me. And I stare at his hat.
“So…” I breakdown. “DJ Soufflé, huh?”
“Oui” he says, with emotionally trying austerity and, again, sounding very strange.
“I see.” I further my attempt to disassemble the Eiffel Tower. “So you’re French?”
“Naw kid.” He huffs with an exasperated southern drawl. “I’m from Texas. Moved to SF about two years ago to team up with Donavan.”
“Oh. Okay. But … if you’re from Texas,” I innocently ask, “…why DJ Soufflé? Why not, like, DJ Oil Money? Or Cash Cow
? Cash Cow could use the Chanel Cs for a logo if you still wanted to be French. … But wait, why France again?”
“I spin French electro, kid.” Playing with his facial hair, he scoffs as if I had just asked Johnny Depp what he does for a living. “It’s my forte.” He pronounces this last word like he just now managed to count past thirty-nine.
“Oh, right. Fabulous.” Okay, I’ve really got to get the fuck out of here. ”Well it’s very nice to meet you … man.” I lie to the buckaroo then turn to Stella and smile. “Welcome back.” I snatch my tub from the counter and begin retreating down the red-carpeted hall. ”I gotta get to work guys. Enjoy the film!”
Leaving a trail of kernels behind me, I climb into flickering solitude.
Alone. In my fraying seat, recovering from having made the acquaintance of a pretentious pastry, chasing another mournful mouthful of corn with San P., I’m wondering if Devon Aoki’s agency hires male models, when the dissenter struts into my booth.
“You ran away so fast, I didn’t really get a chance to say ‘hi’ Babe.” As if she’s done no wrong, Stella clicks across the floor and straddles me. Swallowing, I offer her the tub. She pops a single kernel, sets my late lunch on the ground, and then props her hands over my shoulders and onto the backrest. “So…” Her long candy scented pigtails and fantastic boobs gravitate toward my face. “I hear that I missed a pretty amazing Premiere.”
“Yeah it was great. Way better than the first, actually.” Gently swinging, her hair tickles my jaw. I bat it away. “You know that we showed Pulp Fiction? Someone asked me to show it but I can’t remember who…”
“Oh, don’t be mad. You didn’t even miss me.” Deliberately stretching her arms above her head, she forces her breasts forward to threaten the permanence of any such accused apathy. “And you had Becca there to keep you on your toes … or … what is it now? Hollywood? I told you that she’s adorable.” Stella adjusts a stray lock of hair on my forehead and hums, “I totally would. Wouldn’t you?”
She’s staring at me the same way Eddie used to stare at Joey’s poor bunny rabbit. Moz rest his furry soul.