Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  Ellie looks sexy staring at her phone at a tiny table in the corner. She’s wearing a tattered red Bulls T-shirt and her normal large black-framed glasses. The food at Nora’s is just okay; we go for the ambience: wood paneling, leather booths, soft red glow. Burgundy light bounces off Ellie’s dirty-blonde curls. I don’t really care about food—my favorite food is cereal—but lighting is everything. I feel worlds away from the harsh fluorescents of the pharmacy.

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “I hope I’m not being too forward”—I put my forearm on the edge of the booth behind her—”but I noticed you from across the room.” This is a game we play sometimes.

  “Oh, not at all,” she says, batting her lashes. “I must confess I noticed you too. I was hoping you would say something.” She bites the edge of her lip. “Have a seat?”

  “Are you sure I wouldn’t be imposing?” I ask. We both turn our voices into something soft and breathy. This restaurant is especially conducive to roleplay. It reminds me of the first date in Carol, which Ellie and I watched on our first date. (Screening Carol is my only foreplay.) Cate Blanchett in her fur and Hermès head scarf, smoking a cigarette in her oyster-colored convertible, white gloves on, intimidating the shit out of Rooney Mara. Is there anything hotter?

  “Of course not,” she says.

  The waiter arrives with a sauvignon blanc for Ellie, a Stone IPA for moi.

  “Perfect timing,” I say, morphing back into my normal self, or a version of it. I have many selves, everyone does.

  Ellie flashes a warm smile. “How are you?”

  “Jax and I are going to work together, I think.” I feel a little weird and shaky. This happens when I’ve been holed up working all day and am then expected to act like a normal person. Every day, basically. But Ellie puts me at ease.

  The waiter comes and I order a Caesar salad and Ellie orders the roasted chicken.

  “I’m so happy,” Ellie says. “I can’t wait to hear what you geniuses come up with.” She sips her wine. “How is the brief?”

  “My draft isn’t due for another week,” I say. I feel a swell of anxiety. But I always get my work done on time, I remind myself. Besides, my upcoming meeting with Jax should take precedent. I don’t have much time before my career simply must take off. “When inspiration hits, I need to obey.”

  Ellie smiles. “Amen.”

  When our food comes, Ellie’s gaze seems to catch something behind me and her body stiffens.

  “You okay?” I ask as a I stab a crouton, which crumbles into a bunch of tiny pieces on my plate.

  She nods, without looking at me, then smiles weakly at whoever she’s looking at.

  Several figures march by our table: an androgynous person in all black, arm wrapped around the waist of a curvy blonde; the hostess in front of them. The androgynous person, who I can now tell is a butch lesbian, has severe features and looks mean. She quickly turns toward our table and nods her head up and to the side at Ellie. The diagonal head nod is a vile gesture and lesbians are always doing it. As she passes, I glare at her back. Her shoulder blades jut from her black T-shirt in a way that makes her look sickly. She and her lover are seated behind a large ficus, meaning they’re removed from my view—thank god.

  “Who’s that?” I whisper to Ellie once they’re a safe distance away.

  She just shakes her head. I understand and zip it.

  Ellie then starts speaking rapidly about one of her needy clients, pulling apart her chicken with her fingers as she vents. I typically zone out when Ellie rants about work, but now I’m particularly removed. My gaze remains casually focused on the ficus, trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious butch, who I’m convinced is an ex. Ellie doesn’t talk much about her exes, because she’s a kind person, but I remember once when we were drunk after a show, early in our relationship, she told me that she’s historically dated masculine women. Or men. This offended me at first, then frightened me. Masculine is the last thing I am or want to be. She must have noticed the panic on my face—she’s very intuitive—and told me not to worry. Ellie found me very sexy, she assured me, and feminine. A first for her! I liked the idea that I somehow transcended her typical taste.

  As I stab a piece of lettuce, another memory from that night appears. Ellie leaning in close to my ear, whiskey on her breath.

  “I have a bit of a savior complex,” she’d said.

  In the morning I’m pouring my coffee when this Dead Stars song comes on and something just comes over me. It’s like I’m possessed. My hands lift to the ceiling. My body starts curling like a wave. The cats start circling around me, tails in the air. The beat drops and my ass drops to the floor. My eye hits the clock on the TV. It’s 9:30 A.M.

  Fuck, I have a call. I run to my phone. I’ve missed it. I hate when work tries to call me. I’m not a phone person. I never know when it’s my turn to talk. There’s nothing that can be accomplished on a phone call and not on an email. I call back and it goes to voice mail. Thank god. I email him—David (one-third of lawyers are named David)—and say I’m sorry I missed his call and ask him what he wanted to talk about. He responds with one sentence about formatting. The California Rules of Court recently changed regarding margins. Formerly 1.5 inches, now 1.25. Why this news would require a phone call is beyond me.

  Afterwards I go to pick up my prescription and try my best to avoid those terrible mirrors. I would love to curate my life so that I never have to go inside a Walgreens again. I wonder if Wyatt Walcott has ever been inside a Walgreens. I need an assistant. I think about hiring an unpaid intern from USC law school. “Scintillating opportunity to practice criminal law with quirky solo practitioner,” my Craigslist ad would read. I consider this almost every day, but I never get around to doing it. The fact is no one can do my work as efficiently as I do it myself.

  I check my email while I wait in line. A new message from the LA County Juvenile Hall records clerk, who writes in purple Comic Sans. Coupled with the fluorescent lights, the email is visual assault. The content doesn’t help. Apparently, I filed the wrong brief in my last case. The courts use an online filing system, which is good for me because it minimizes physical labor and human contact. The bad side is I’m spacy. Tabitha is telling me I have to petition the court to allow me to resubmit the brief. I filed it over a month ago, weeks before the deadline. But this Tabitha bitch is just now telling me I did it wrong. As I tap my sneaker on the floor and watch the pharmacists move very slowly, I wonder whether the California government staffs Walgreens.

  I reorganize my day in my head, figuring out how I’ll make time to write this application to refile the correct brief. Do I have to tell my supervisor?

  “Van Teesen,” says the pharmacist lady in a suicidal-sounding voice. These people are so depressing. I hope Walgreens gives them good mental health options. “Do you have any questions about your medication?” she asks.

  “Are you kidding?” I ask. “I’ve been on this shi—err, medication for ten years. Shouldn’t you know that? Don’t you, like, have that in your system?” I realize my tone is aggressive, but I don’t care.

  “It’s a question I’m required to ask,” the pharmacist says flatly.

  “What if I had cancer?” I say a little too loud. I hear someone groan behind me.

  “I’m sorry,” the pharmacist says.

  “I don’t have cancer,” I say. “At least not to my knowledge. But I hope with people who have serious health conditions, you are more diligent with your records. I hope you don’t make them wait and jump through draconian bureaucratic hoops to get the medicine they need to stay alive.” I’m remembering that time it took me a month to get my Celexa refill because of various issues out of my control: insurance delay, medicine out of stock, needs doctor approval… press repeat.

  “We take the health of our customers very seriously here at Walgreens.”

  “Whatever,” I say, like a teenager. As I slide my card into the machine, I realize a major part of being a woman is yelling at corporate customer
service reps when you really want to yell at your father.

  As soon as the card machine reads APPROVED, I jet. “No receipt, thanks!” I call over my shoulder.

  That afternoon I’m formatting the dumb petition when Jax texts me asking if I want to record. I try not to say yes too quickly. It’s almost four P.M. now, so I decide to work on Yumiko’s brief until five P.M., a reasonable quitting time. I expect to lose. I always expect to lose. This is the only option when your clients are poor people accused of crimes. As an appellate lawyer, I get them after a judge or jury has found them guilty, when the chances of winning are microscopic. I guess I like a challenge. Or maybe I just like that the stakes are low.

  I type hastily, filling the page with as many words as time will allow. I don’t concern myself with grammar or sentence structure, instead relaxing into the mind-numbing act of typing. In between sentences, I refresh Twitter. Occasionally I peep @WYATTLOOK and become inspired by the lines her body makes in space.

  When the clock hits five, I hit my vape pen—Maui Wowie, my new favorite strain (high euphoria, low panic)—and spend roughly thirty minutes shopping my own closet. I blast Tinashe’s Aquarius and pull crumpled T-shirts and dresses out from corners. I try to sing but invariably become disappointed with my voice.

  I used to want to be a singer. Mariah Carey, Aaliyah, Amy Winehouse, that type of thing. The problem is I can’t sing anymore. I was decent when I was younger, then I started getting panic attacks onstage. It took SSRIs for me to get back onstage, at which point my voice was gone.

  I decide to wear all black.

  Jax lives in Koreatown, which is about fifteen minutes from me by Lyft, which I take instead of driving when there is any type of illegal substance inside me. I’m a party girl in control.

  On the ride, I shift restlessly in my seat and stare out the window. Neon lights blur and fade. I just hope I can be “on” tonight. I wrote some raps on Maui that I was into at the time, but marijuana can cloud judgment just as easily as it sharpens it.

  The Lyft pulls up to a tall white art deco building. Skinny palm trees almost reach the top floor and sway slightly in the wind. I press the buzzer and the gate screams at me. Flicking open the door, I take the elevator to Jax’s apartment on the twelfth floor and stand nervously outside. I secretly hope he isn’t there and I can just go home and watch YouTube videos on my laptop. As the door begins to open, thoughts race through my Maui-addled brain: I hope I can impress him, I hope he records with booze.

  “Vagaaaaaaa,” Jax says when he opens the door. His apartment glows blue just like mine, which makes me feel safe. Blue is the most relaxing color. According to feng shui, blue environments can slow down your heart rate and lower your blood pressure.

  I smile. Love to be greeted by my rap name.

  Jax is wearing a long tan T-shirt over tan joggers, leopard-print socks, Adidas slide sandals. His nearly black hair is braided in cornrows that look professional. He’s reaching out to hug me, not my favorite activity. But the hug isn’t so bad. I feel comfortable somehow, and I lean into the long embrace. Jax turns me into a different person—someone affectionate and extroverted, a video girl, the star I’ve always wanted to be.

  Jax leads me down a neon lit hallway with tin ceilings that sparkle blue. I consider pulling out my iPhone and snapping pictures with this new Korean photo-editing app I bought, but that would be tacky. As we near the end of the hallway, I notice Jax’s blue light is darker than mine, more cobalt than turquoise. Jaxy Blue, I think, then smile at my shoes.

  The main room is expansive: tall ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the tips of trees and other art deco buildings with windows lit in various colors. I briefly wonder how Jax affords this place. His appearance and general demeanor do not suggest a day job. Maybe he bartends, but I can’t imagine him waiting on people.

  The room is littered with more humans than I’d like, but I’m not surprised. Hip-hop musicians tend to crew up. I’m more of a lone wolf. But I can tolerate humans when necessary. Anything to get my voice out there.

  I pull back my shoulders and try to get into social mode. “First off, PBR?” Jax asks, and relief washes over me. I try not to say yes too quickly.

  While he darts into the kitchen, I scan the room. A woman with wide green eyes lounges on a navy-blue chaise longue. She’s smoking a skinny blue cigarette, apparently unconcerned with the ash it’s sprinkling on the concrete floor. A woman with the perfect smattering of nose freckles rolls a joint on the center table, which is entirely made of glass. The sky outside the windows looks reddish orange, just like it does in my apartment. Kelela’s Take Me Apart bumps on the speakers.

  Jax returns with two PBRs under both arms.

  “My apartment does the same thing,” I say, then feel embarrassed that he won’t understand me. I’m constantly forgetting to provide context. The same way kids think they’re invisible when they cover their eyes, I assume everyone is inside my brain. Maybe that’s why I hate everyone.

  “The red afterglow?” Jax hands me an ice-cold PBR tallboy.

  I nod, smiling, thinking Jax gets it. I take a sip of the beer and the bubbles soothe my tongue.

  “I’m so excited to introduce you to my Kingdom,” he says. I stare at him blankly for a second, then figure out what he’s saying. Jax, the king; his friends, his Kingdom. I admire his assumption of power and sense Leo in his chart. Scorpio rising and Leo sun? I hope I don’t have any issues with Jax; I’m not great at submitting to authority. And Leos really want nothing more than submission.

  “This is my queen, Pilar,” he says. He points to the woman on the couch with the blue cigarettes. She doesn’t say hi but instead simply blinks, then exhales toward the cracked-open window. A cool breeze hits me. Unsure of what else to do, I blink back at her.

  “She has the voice of a goddess angel and Tinashe is about to wish she never met her.”

  My nerves from earlier quickly transform into excitement. In the corner of the room, I make out faint outlines of computer monitors and mics and wires behind translucent shoji panes. I don’t know too much about the technical stuff, but the setup appears legitimate.

  “I think it’s good that your names are alliterative,” says the girl on the couch, still meticulously rolling the joint. “Prue and

  Pilar.”

  “Exactly,” says Jax. “And this is my other queen, Nina.” The woman looks up from her joint and her freckles sparkle under the ceiling lights. She has perfect curls like Ellie’s, but black instead of blonde. I’ve always thought curly hair was a sign of genius. “She’s the best music writer there is right now.” He pulls a Marlboro Red from his pocket and lights it. “Eat your heart out, Chuck Klosterman.” Jax coughs, then unleashes a hearty laugh. “Is he even a music writer? I don’t even know. I was just trying to hype you up.”

  “He’s written about music,” Nina says with a soft voice, then begins licking the joint to seal it closed.

  “We got a Colombian, an Iraqi, and a Mexican,” Jax says, now pointing at himself.

  “I thought Jameson was Irish,” Nina says. For some reason this turns me on.

  “Scottish, actually,” he says. “But my mom’s from Albuquerque.”

  Everyone looks confused, but no one says anything.

  “Anyways,” he says, “we need a WASP.”

  “Do we?” Nina asks. And I’m turned on again.

  “Yes,” says Jax. “Everyone hates white people right now, and Prue, aka Vagablonde, has the coloring of a Nazi.” I frown. “It’s ironic and perfect for the Kingdom.”

  That’s not ironic, I think but don’t say. Irony is when a situation is the opposite of what you’d expect, and given that white women are everywhere, the fact that Jax met and befriended one of us in the wild is not remotely unexpected. The majority of my peers use “ironic” frequently and incorrectly. Then I think about it more. Maybe it is ironic. Because one would expect Jax to have better taste than to cling to someone as genetically passé as moi.
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  “Beau is a WASP,” says Pilar. I wonder who Beau is.

  “Yeah,” says Jax. “But he’s not the talent.”

  I try to suppress a smile.

  We don’t ever record that night, which doesn’t concern me. Rap is about creating a vibe. And a vibe, we create.

  Albums we listen to: M.I.A.’s Arular, Beyoncé’s B’Day (for the turnup), and FKA Twigs’s LP1 (for the turndown).

  Things I learn: Jax produces music for Grand Theft Auto, which is how he affords this apartment, and I was right, he’s a Leo. Nina’s first love was German electronic music, and her second was her college English professor, a woman (turned on again). Pilar gets chatty once she starts doing cocaine, but it seems like she mainly hums to herself. Everyone has had their Saturn’s Return, thank motherfucking god.

  Crushes I develop: one.

  I firmly believe that regular flirtation is crucial to maintaining a healthy relationship, an idea I haven’t explicitly discussed with Ellie, but one I’m fairly confident she understands. Nina curls up to me almost immediately. She speaks softly, sometimes whispering in my ear. During “Two Weeks” she squeezes my hand, then releases, leaving a bright blue Adderall pill in my palm. I don’t do amphetamines often, but all my best friends from college are gay party boys, so I’m offered them all the time. Let it be known: I don’t do drugs; I’m offered them.

  I leave as the sky outside the windows turns a hazy blue: 4:30 A.M.

  “I should dip,” I say as Jax does a line off Kanye’s Calabasas zine.

  Pilar blinks at me again. Nina plants a damp kiss on my cheek and I feel myself blush.

  On Monday I receive the court’s ruling in a case I apparently worked on. I don’t recall the case when I see the name: People v. Williams. It’s not exactly a memorable name, but I never think about my cases unless I’m working on them.

  I don’t read the opinion, just flip to the back for the final order: reversed and remanded. I won, but I feel nothing. I throw away the paper and go online to file my final claim through the court payment system. When a case is over, I get paid, whether I win or lose.