by Anna Dorn
“It’s fire, Vaga,” he says again. I inhale. “I haven’t felt this way about something I’ve worked on in… I can’t even remember. I mean it’s obviously not finished, but I’m freaking the fuck out.”
I exhale into a tree and instantly feel bad about it. My existence is terrible for the environment. One of the cats jumps into the tree and I remember why I like these things. They’re beautiful wild animals. The other cat follows and they look like panthers in the jungle.
Jax is still talking but I’ve zoned out. It hits me that this big-time producer of video game music thinks I’m hot shit and I have amphetamines in my system and I begin to feel good. “When can I hear it?” I ask.
“I just emailed it to you,” he says. “Vaga, I need you to stop whatever you’re doing and listen to this immediately. Call me back once you do.”
One of the cats charges at a squirrel. I put out my cigarette on the edge of the flowerpot. “Okay,” I say.
In my bedroom, I connect my speakers to my computer and refresh my email. I lock the cats out because I can’t have them bothering me right now. This is an important moment. I have two new emails: one from Jax, one from Dr. Kim. For some reason, I open Dr. Kim’s first.
Hello Prudence,
I’m writing to check in about how the 20mg dosage is working for you. Have you noticed any shifts in your mood? Regardless, I’d like to see you in the next few weeks to check in.
Best,
Dr. Kim
I close the email and decide to answer it later. I open Jax’s email and start to download the file. It says it’s going to take five minutes. That’s a long time to wait. I go into my kitchen and get a beer, crack it open, take a long and grateful sip. I return to my bedroom. Four minutes left in the download. This is torture. I open Instagram and look to see if Wyatt Walcott has posted anything new. Nothing.
After refreshing various websites for a few minutes, a woozy sound emerges from my speakers. The track is open in iTunes and it’s playing. It’s called “Dearly Queerly.” To be honest, I have no memory of recording this.
The bass drops and ASMR hits. That stands for autonomous sensory meridian response, which is when you get a tingling sensation in your neck when you hear certain sounds. When I was younger, I called it “eargasm,” and I thought it was something only I experienced. But then I was talking to one of Ellie’s clients and she told me it’s a real scientific thing. I love to find out what I think are personality quirks are attributable to science. No one is unique.
My voice comes in and I hardly recognize myself. My flow is awkward, landing on the offbeats in just the right way. Jax auto-tuned the shit out of my voice, which I appreciate. I have no desire to sound authentic. I aspire to be a robot. And Jax made me sound like a sexy one. I can’t believe I recorded this in a blackout. And it wasn’t prewritten, which means I either wrote it on the spot or freestyled. My bars here aren’t as clever or as tight as they normally are, but it’s working. I’m letting go.
My mind starts to drift into fantasy. My idiot meditation teacher would disapprove, but it feels amazing. I imagine myself onstage, draped in fur. Not a blue one, like Pilar typically wears, but something more Olsen. My hair is long and white and wild. Under the coat I wear a T-shirt as a dress. Black boots.
When the song is over, I call Jax and try my best to sound excited, which I am, but enthusiasm is difficult for me to convey, even when it’s genuine. Ellie screams when I play it for her, then she compares me to Uffie, a Parisian rapper I once idolized. I recall shimmying around my bedroom shouting her lyrics.
After hanging up with Ellie, I lie on my bed and listen to Lana Del Rey while making a Pinterest board called “stage wear” until my eyes start to feel raw and then I fall asleep.
The next morning I write a reply brief, feeling worlds away from the previous day. The weird lunch with my parents, popping an amphetamine and listening to myself rap.
The reply brief is for my sexual assault case. My friends think it’s problematic that I defend sexual offenders, but I have zero moral qualms. My client, who is seventeen, is just the victim of a society that convinced him from a young age that women are property to which he’s entitled. Besides, I’m not arguing that he was innocent, just that he should have gotten sex offender treatment and probation instead of being incarcerated. This is the better option for society, trust.
I refresh my email and see one from my supervisor about my first draft in Yumiko’s case. Adrenaline rushes through me. This always happens when I’m about to get feedback. The way I felt getting tests back in high school is how I would imagine a normal teen would feel walking into Six Flags. I open the email and I’m frightened by its length. I always kind of expect my supervisors to be like, This is the worst piece of trash I’ve ever read. You clearly don’t deserve to be a lawyer and I’m having you disbarred immediately. Imposter syndrome, whatever. I begin to skim and feel relief. Nothing new or surprising here. My legal feedback is always along the lines of “formally sloppy; rhetorically impressive.”
I decide to address the feedback later, once I finish up the annoying formalities on my rape brief. I guess I shouldn’t call it that, a rape brief.
I get back to the table of authorities and one of the cats screams and I again fantasize about an assistant. I want a twink. A beautiful boy I can objectify.
FOUR
On Ellie’s last night, we go to Nora’s. We’ve already gotten into three small arguments and we haven’t even ordered yet. It’s tense because of her impending departure, that’s obvious. But she’s still annoying the shit out of me. The sound of her voice hurts my head and her energy puts me on edge. Why must she talk so loudly and emphatically? Can’t she just, like, chill?
“Do you know what you all would like to drink?” the waitress asks.
“Stone IPA,” I say, then look at Ellie.
“Ummm,” Ellie says.
Ugh. She always takes forever to order. I find it rude to the waitress and disrespectful of her time. If you don’t know what you want, just say you need a second.
“Do you have, like…” There is tension in her voice, I think because she knows I’m annoyed, “…a good dry rosé?” Just as the waitress begins to answer, Ellie cuts her off. “Or like, do you have a cucumber-based gin drink?” The menu is in front of you, bitch! The waitress again begins to respond and Ellie again cuts her off. “You know what, I’ll just have a glass of the Cab.”
The waitress says, “Great,” and as she’s walking away, Ellie’s phone alarm goes off—RAAGHH-RAAGGH-RAAGGH-RAAGGH. The nightmarish sound echoes and heads turn. I want to pick up the phone and throw it against the wall. But instead, I take a deep breath and open Instagram on my phone. I scroll with a ninja-like focus. The alarm stops, but I don’t look up from my phone. I try to render my facial expression as neutral as possible.
“Anything good on the ‘Gram?” Ellie asks, trying to get my attention.
I shrug. I hate that she calls it “the ‘Gram” like some kind of third-tier influencer. “Wyatt did a middle part,” I say in a monotone voice.
“Rad,” says Ellie. I also hate when she says “rad.” Does she own a skateboard?
“Very rad,” I say without looking up, tone clear that I’m mocking her.
“Why are you being such a bitch?” she asks.
“I didn’t do nothing!” I say in a jokey voice without looking up from my phone. I know I’m being impossible. I comfort myself by remembering that I’m just a bunch of molecules doing their own thing, utterly out of my control.
“You’re acting like my presence disgusts you,” she says.
“Well, right now,” I say, “it does.”
Later that night in Ellie’s apartment we have amazing makeup sex. We use this chic French vibrator Ellie brought home from a work trip in Paris. We orgasm at the same time and it’s beautiful and disgusting.
In the morning we kiss in the yellow light and then I drive her to LAX. My car is in the shop so I use hers—a Hond
a Fit that is almost as cute as she is. We blast Kanye’s College Dropout and rap all the words as we zoom past billboards advertising bad action movies. When I drop her at the terminal it’s all hurried and unemotional. Cars zoom past and we kiss quickly, and then I have to drive off because someone is honking at me and I’m afraid they’re going to get violent. LAX terrifies me.
On the way home I play Syd’s Fin, and when “Body” comes on and I have that feeling again where I want to cry but instead I just swallow a lot.
Luckily that night Jax invites me to Pilar’s show. I’m really excited to hear her sing. I’ve become a low-key superfan over the past week. Ellie was right, the EP on her SoundCloud is very good.
I spend most of the day editing my brief and refreshing Twitter. Since most of my edits are citation-based, they are very tedious. But today I don’t mind. It’s nice to have something mindless to do while I listen to music and stare at the @WYATTLOOK Instagram. She keeps wearing Louis Vuitton fanny packs, and I never thought I’d say this but now I want a fanny pack. But Louis Vuitton, obviously.
When my eyes start to hurt I put on my headphones and run around Echo Park Lake. Sadness hits me in the gut when I run past Ellie’s. I remember a time early in our relationship when I got awful cramps running and I was worried I couldn’t make it home without collapsing. I normally hate nothing more than to rely on other people, particularly when I’m in pain, but I was right outside of her house and delirious. I buzzed her apartment and her voice instantly soothed me, like painkillers had been injected into my veins. I explained my situation, and instead of buzzing me up, she came downstairs with two Motrin and a glass of cold water. After I swallowed the pills, she invited me up and we lay in bed watching Friends until I felt better. That was the only time I’ve watched Friends as an adult, but I remember laughing. I like Phoebe.
When I get tired of running I start walking and texting. Something about walking in circles while staring only at my phone is incredibly soothing. On this walk I text Ellie, Jax, and Jake Perez. Ellie tells me she’s arrived in New York and it’s freezing and she misses me and LA with all her heart. Jax and I just rap lyrics to each other; we’ve decided to communicate over text exclusively in rhymes today. Jake Perez tells me he’s worried about me and I tell him to fuck off.
When I finally look up the sky has turned a royal blue and the buildings downtown are starting to sparkle. It’s only 4:45 P.M. An image of fire flashes in front of me, then I blink and it goes away.
I’m standing in my bathroom belting Mariah Carey through a cloud of marijuana smoke and steam from the shower and wishing my voice sounded better. It’s around 6:00 P.M. and I’m meeting Jax and his crew at the venue at 9:00. I’m not really sure what to do until then. Sadly, it doesn’t take me three hours to get ready (just swipe on some eyeliner and throw on a black dress).
When I polish off my IPA, I pace around my apartment with indecision and the cats follow. I think about time and how it rules me. My life is scheduled, rigid, broken up into discrete, compartmentalized sections. Brief and coffee time. Walking in circles time. Time to feed the cats, time to shower, time to orgasm—because I read it’s healthy. Time to drink beer, smoke marijuana, eat carbs. Time to sleep. I’m always jealous of those people who “lose track of time.” I’m time’s bitch.
By the time I get to the venue I’m pretty buzzed. I order two PBRs in the front room (I figure someone else will want one, and if not, I can easily drink two) and then make my way to the back room where there is a small stage. Per usual, Jax is standing in the center of the room, at the spot where your gaze naturally hits when relaxing your eyes.
I approach the group self-consciously. Pilar is standing on Jax’s left, Beau on his right.
“Hi,” I say.
Jax’s eyes get big and he spreads out his arms, embraces me. I can’t ever remember anyone being this excited to see me.
“Hey, girl,” says Pilar. She slaps my ass and I jump a little, then everyone laughs. I recall Pilar telling me she loves how on edge I am, and shame washes over me, briefly, until I turn my attention to Pilar’s outfit. She’s wearing a long ice-blue coat, a light pink slip dress underneath. She looks like candy.
I offer up my extra PBR and Beau snatches it. Soon Pilar disappears, and next thing I know the lights are dim and everyone is getting quiet.
Pilar seems to float toward the saturated blue lights. Her coat creates a dramatic silhouette; her face is shrouded in darkness. Her edges sparkle. She holds an almost empty martini in one hand, the mic in the other. Behind her is a tatted pale man, her DJ, who I assume handles the technical. The harsh lighting on him seems unfair in comparison to Pilar’s. She looks like an angel; him, a clingy former lover. I understand wanting to create that type of power imbalance onstage.
Jax puts his arm around me and we start to sway. Our bodies create complementary lines in space, like the beat was written for our bodies. Pilar’s lips approach the mic and I brace myself to be jealous. And I am. She sounds exactly as she looks: charming and elusive. It’s like Lana Del Rey meets Thai spa music. Jax and I put our arms over our heads and spin our hands in wavy circles. Beau clinks his PBR against mine.
Pilar’s voice hypnotizes me and I enter a trance, and it seems like everyone is under it.
An arm sweeps around my waist. It’s Nina. Her hair is wild and her freckles are lit. She’s wearing a black silk blouse and a pencil skirt and white Doc Martens. I move my hips toward hers and whisper, “Hey, girl,” in her ear.
“Hey, freak,” she says, which makes me feel bad about myself. Then: “You okay?” which makes me feel worse. My nightmare is someone asking me if I’m okay. All of my energy goes into appearing okay.
“Of course,” I say, and my voice snags, defensive. “I took one of the Adderalls you gave me,” I add.
She raises her eyebrows, then wraps her arm tighter around my torso. “Okay,” she says into my ear.
The next morning I’m nursing my hangover with some @WYAT-TLOOK in bed when I notice my split ends are a bit crispy. I’ve had bad experiences with trendy Hollywood salons—they get too “creative”—so I decide to go to this cheap walk-in place called Rudy’s on Sunset. I tell the receptionist I need a trim and within minutes a smiley gay appears.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, beaming like a lunatic.
“Just a trim,” I say. “I like all my hair the same length. No layers, no angles.”
He looks at me with an inscrutable expression in the mirror and says, “Okay!”
While he cuts, we talk about books and his recent decision to get a foster child with his husband, which has all sorts of weird requirements, like that he get a landline for tracking purposes and have screens on his windows so the kid doesn’t escape. Regarding books, he tells me he “didn’t read for twenty years.”
He keeps spritzing this tea tree oil and peppermint formula into my hair as he snips, and I fall into a sort of meditative trance. Also I’m still a little drunk. Soon, he’s done, and I thank him and tell him to “keep reading,” then feel embarrassed for being patronizing and classist. Then I pay and leave.
Once I’m in the car I take a few selfies and realize something horrible. He gave me layers. Horrible layers. Choppy, artsy, mental patient layers. There is a terrible layer of hair that is three to four inches from the bottom that just sort of sits like a shelf.
It is my nightmare haircut.
I can’t believe he did this to me now, right before I’m about to be famous. My hair is my entire brand. Does the universe hate me? Mercury must be in retrograde.
I begin to spiral, hard and fast. I drive home in a rage, tears streaming down my face. I think about options. I could cut it all to the shortest layer, but having long hair is the only thing that makes me feel good. Also, how am I supposed to ever trust anyone again? Could I have been any clearer? No angles, no layers. And he did the exact opposite. This man, all men, the patriarchy!
While I’m stopped at a light outside Sunset Juncti
on, my cell lights up with a call. Without thinking, I answer.
“Vaggaaaa,” Jax coos. “I’ll be at your house in twenty.”
Fuck. After the show last night we went to some warehouse party downtown, then back to the Kingdom. I took an Adderall from Nina’s palm, maybe a bump or two. Before I left at around sunrise, Jax invited me to Palm Springs and I said of course because I always say yes when I’m fucked up. But at this moment, bawling on Sunset, the idea could not be less appealing. But it’s too late to say no.
“Sounds good,” I say with difficulty.
FIVE
I’m just exiting the shower when Jax calls me to say he’s outside.
Be right there, I text back, then run into the kitchen and pour some bourbon into a glass with ice. I’m still kind of drunk from last night and a general emotional wreck over my hair, and I figure I’ll start feeling good again soon if I start drinking again. I’ll be fine, I tell myself. I just have to keep a steady buzz.
Going through my thongs, I try to remember how long Jax said we’re going. I think he just said a night, maybe two. I grab four thongs just in case. Two black T-shirts, one white. Black jean shorts. A black T-shirt dress. A black one-piece bathing suit. Two pairs of Birkenstocks and one pair of Nike sneakers, in case I decide to exercise, which I won’t.
I put out some extra food for the cats and chug the remainder of my bourbon and run outside. As my sandals flap against the pavement, I remind myself that my caseload is chill right now and it’s good to be spontaneous and experience life. Also, it will be good to get my mind off the nightmare on my noggin.
A black G-Wagen shakes on Echo Park Avenue. Nicki Minaj’s flow is loud enough that some bougie pedestrians with designer dog breeds stare. Jax’s cigarette dangles out the passenger-side window.