Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  “Of course I am,” I say.

  “Then why did you lie to your friends the other night?”

  A man bikes slowly beside us making kissing noises and Yumiko spits at him. “Crazy cunt!” he shouts as he bikes off.

  I recall telling the Kingdom that we met at summer camp. “Oh,” I say. “I just didn’t want things to get complicated. These are all fairly new friends. I don’t know them that well, and I can’t say I entirely trust them all.”

  Yumiko is looking at me and nodding.

  “I think—” I look at the moon, a shimmering crescent, for strength. “It might be perceived as unethical, us hanging out like this. But I don’t have any doubt that I can give you the best representation possible while also hanging out occasionally and collaborating on this track.” I want Yumiko to know that this is a sole collaboration. She is not part of this band. At least not until after her case is complete, which could be a year given how slow California moves.

  Yumiko blows some smoke toward the street. “I get it,” she says. “Completely.”

  “I knew you were cool,” I say. But I’m lying. I couldn’t possibly know this. I still don’t.

  “I got your back, Miss Lawyer Bitty,” she says. Then she does a sealing of the lips motion. “Your esquire status is safe with me.”

  “Oh, they know I’m a lawyer,” I say. I’m actually not sure they do. But they could. “They just don’t know I’m yours. For the reasons stated before.” I hate myself when I start talking like this. But there is still that part of me—that very small, but not insignificant, part—that feels powerful.

  “Roger,” she says.

  I put out my cigarette on the street and we head back toward Jax’s building. “How did you get the name Yumiko, by the way?” I ask. “You said on the phone that you studied abroad in Tokyo?”

  “I did, but that’s not really how I got the name.” Yumiko licks her gold tooth, which flickers under the streetlight. “I was living in East London at the time.”

  I nod. So this is where the accent comes from.

  “I was getting into the business and needed an alias.” She transitions into the accent. “This wanker thought I looked like this anime character he was into, I don’t even know.” She ashes her blunt on a lamppost and puts the remaining portion behind her ear.

  “What business?” I ask.

  She just laughs, then dives back into Jax’s building.

  The next morning I wake up on edge. I grab my phone and refresh Pitchfork. Then Complex. Then Billboard. All the places Nina has regular bylines. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  I have an errand today, thank god. I need to get out of the house. The court sent me the wrong file and I have to send it back. It’s huge. Normally I’d find this type of task to be a huge pain, but today I’m grateful for it.

  I put on my best celebrity-goes-outside outfit—black leggings, oversized black cashmere sweater, Doc Martens, huge sunglasses—and lug the file into the car. I again think about hiring an assistant.

  The post office has a huge line, which fills me with a soft rage. Securing a spot, I reach into my purse for my phone and realize I left it in the car. A few more people enter and I don’t want to lose my spot. I guess I’ll have to just occupy my mind for the next ten minutes or so.

  I look at the woman in front of me and imagine what her life is like. This is a game I’ve played since I was little. I got yelled at for staring a lot as a kid. Sometimes I forget people can see me.

  This woman is about my age, plus or minus a few years. Twenty-eight to thirty-two, I’d say. She’s at the post office at ten A.M. on a Thursday in athleisure, so she’s likely a freelancer. Everyone in my neighborhood is a freelancer, it seems. Editors, screenwriters, journalists. The attention paid to her daytime eyeliner leads me to believe she has a visual profession. Freelance graphic designer. She seems sweet, sensitive. A likely Pisces. Just when I’m trying to figure out her romantic life, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  I look up, and it’s Beau. What fresh hell is this? His face looks ashy and greenish under the post office fluorescents. I suddenly feel claustrophobic, like the gray concrete walls are closing in on me. Why am I wearing cashmere? Sweat breaks out on my upper lip and I worry Beau will read into it, think I’m nervous around him because I have feelings or something.

  “Hi,” I say, forcing my voice to be as casual and uninterested as possible. Normally I’d clutch my phone, fake a phone call. Goddamn it. What is wrong with me? Trapped in a scalding-hot post office, wearing cashmere, no phone.

  He says nothing in response, just stands there looking pale, tugging at the bottom of his dirty T-shirt. I have no idea what Beau does with his days, where he’s from, or even how old he is. I think of him as cocaine in human form—fun for, like, three seconds but mostly very dark. And way too cheap for my taste.

  Finally the line moves and I shift my focus to lugging the box. Beau just watches me slide it along the floor, more sweat developing on my face. I wouldn’t want him to help me, but I’m mad he isn’t offering.

  “Looks heavy,” he says, then laughs, as if he’s being funny instead of being a royal dick. He seems to be waiting for an explanation regarding the box, which I decide to withhold.

  I say nothing and keep pushing.

  “You coming to New Year’s?” Beau asks finally.

  I wish he would go away. I obviously haven’t thought for one second about New Year’s Eve. I don’t care about holidays. Even celebrating my birthday feels gauche.

  I shrug to convey my indifference, but Beau’s just staring at the ceiling. I wonder what he’s on and whether he’s about to mail more of it in violation of federal law.

  Finally he brings his gaze back to mine, his eyes glassy and red. “Well,” he says, “I’ll let you get to your line.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I really mean it.

  I had plans to finish a big chunk of Yumiko’s brief in the afternoon, but instead I just refresh various web pages in between sips of black coffee. Pitchfork. Complex. Billboard. @WYATTLOOK. Ixland Prinxexxa. Repeat. By noon, my nude photos have 5,023 notes.

  In the early afternoon, Jax texts me about the New Year’s Eve party I suppose Beau was referring to. It’s at the Kingdom. New Year’s is tomorrow. God, every day in LA is a thing. I feel like since I moved here it’s been one big event. A screening. A secret show. A weekend bender in Palm Springs. A birthday. A Coachella party. A Fourth of July party. A Halloween party. A PR girl’s half-birthday. A friendsgiving. Palm Springs again. A holiday party. Oh, and then there was that time Jake Perez married himself…

  I need a break. But also I can’t imagine not going. I would go on Instagram and feel left out. I’d get high and try to come up with a movie to watch and never decide on one because each one would have an issue. Not pretty enough. Too long. Too historical. Too earnest. Too masculine. Ugly cast. Too realistic. Seen it too many times.

  I want to watch a movie that doesn’t exist.

  I march into my closet and try to choose which black dress to wear.

  When I enter the Kingdom, I recognize everyone, which means the party hasn’t really started. Pilar is dancing seductively with her glass of whiskey. Nina rolls a joint at the table. Jax is tinkering with his speaker system. The scene comforts me.

  “Prueeee,” they all say when they see me, and I get a warm feeling, like I finally belong.

  “You look hot!” Pilar comes over and air-kisses me. I know I look the same as always. Black shift dress. Black boots. Messy white hair and black eyeliner. But white powder lines the edges of Pilar’s left nostril and I know what’s up.

  Beau eyes me up and down in apparent concurrence. “Such a shame you like pussy.”

  I want to tell him that I like dick too sometimes, but I don’t.

  Nina turns around and slaps him and I feel protected. Then she turns and just raises her eyebrows at me in a way I think she considers a greeting.

  Arms wrap around my waist, and for a second I’m para
noid. But as soon as I hear “Vaga” in my ear I relax. It’s Jax. And I’m happy to see him. “Happy New Year, my star.”

  I sit down besides Nina and she places a blue pill in my palm. I told myself I wasn’t going to do uppers tonight, but now that I’m here that rule no longer makes sense. My private rule system is rapidly shifting and every second I’m a different person. I swallow the pill dry, then go to the kitchen to grab a beer.

  As I exit the fridge, Beau is just standing there in the doorway, smoking his cigarette at me. He’s wearing a thin white T-shirt and dirty Levi’s and work boots. His hair looks slightly less greasy than normal and I assume he must have showered.

  I crack open my beer and take a sip. “Are you Ixland Prinx-exxa?” I ask, pronouncing it “Island Princessa.” It’s a strange moniker for a white man in California, which is not an island as far as I know, but Beau is nothing if not strange.

  He half smiles, appearing amused. “Who the fuck you calling princess?” he asks.

  I’m embarrassed and worry he thinks I’m flirting with him. “Never mind,” I say, then go back into the main room to dance with Jax. I really don’t want to know.

  It’s not long before the party is properly popping. I’m sitting between Beau and Pilar on a couch. Beau is angry because Pilar allegedly cockblocked him the previous night. I laugh out loud when he tells me this and he responds with, “You wouldn’t understand, lesbo.” Again, objection: Relevance? I say nothing.

  I consider questioning Beau again about the photos, but I don’t. Instead I think about how it’s been reblogged tons more times. I wonder if it matters; is Tumblr even still a thing? Jake Perez likes it, which means it’s probably not.

  “Prue?” The vocal fry floats from above, attached to a body I vaguely recognize. Flowy silk top, shiny brown hair, symmetrical face. I immediately think: public relations.

  “Hiii, girl!” I say, a little too excitedly because of the approximate thirty milligrams of Adderall and two small bumps of cocaine in my system. I can’t remember her name, but it doesn’t matter. This is why “hi, girl” exists.

  She leans over to give me a bony hug, which is extra awkward considering I refuse to get up. I notice Beau eye her up and down and become repulsed by his bad taste.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you since that iconic night at the Mirror Box,” she says. “Dead Stars are so, so fun.”

  God, Chantal. No, that wasn’t it. Celeste.

  “Yeah, they’re the shit,” I say. Beau nudges me with a bony elbow and I ignore it.

  “God, I miss your girl so much,” she says. For a second I think she’s still talking about Wyatt, but then I realize she’s talking about Ellie. I should really call her.

  “Same,” I say. Beau nudges me again, this time harder.

  “Ow!” I shout theatrically, then jump away. “You’re going to bruise me, you invalid!”

  Celeste giggles, then readjusts her hair in a self-conscious manner.

  “Introduce me to your friend,” Beau says.

  “This is Beau,” I say to Celeste. I get up and coo a “nice to see you” in her ear, then make my way to the dance floor. Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” comes on and I strut over to Jax dancing in the middle of a small crowd. For a second it feels weird to be turning up to a song about pain and heartbreak, but then I remember all the great songs are tragic.

  Jax pulls me close to him and I feel special, dancing to the beat of Lauryn’s anguish. The disco ball showers me in tiny blue squares of light. A body swings in through the window, like a monkey. It’s Yumiko.

  “Now that,” I whisper in Jax’s ear, “is an entrance.”

  He eyes the window and laughs. “God, I would have given anything to go to that camp with you all.”

  Yumiko heads straight from the window—where I suppose she was smoking on the fire escape, but who knows—into the crowd. She’s wearing a parka that resembles the trash bag Missy Elliott wore in the “Supa Dupa Fly” video.

  As if timed by the universe, just as Yumiko reaches Jax and me, Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” comes on. We dance in a circle, our bodies rolling in sync. People gather around us and I feel high for a second and then that rush of adrenaline hits, which invariably renders me stiff and self-conscious, like the wind is being knocked out of me.

  A new pair of arms wraps around my waist. It’s not Jax, because he’s in front of me. I pray it’s not Beau.

  “Hi, freak,” I hear in my ear. Oh god. Nina. I guess I should keep up the flirt. I’ve yet to see a review.

  “Hi, freckle face,” I say. I turn toward her and start grinding my body up on hers. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans. Light wash. Levi’s, probably. A black silk crop top, buttoned to her neck. A thin gold chain that sparkles blue. The crowd starts getting rowdy. Bottles of champagne pop around us.

  Ten… nine… eight… seven…

  I look at Nina and she bites her lip.

  …six… five… four… three…

  Jax pours champagne into my mouth.

  …two… one…

  Nina’s face blurs slightly. Obscured freckles. Blue feathers fly in from above. Pilar’s arms around us, then Yumiko pops up from under her. The four of us put our arms around one another. Jax pours champagne into all of our mouths. Nina spits hers into my face. Then I pour a tiny bit of beer on her head.

  And then she kisses me.

  EIGHT

  I wake up drenched in sweat. I had this freaky dream I get when partying sometimes, where the night just continues but takes on a surreal quality. One minute I’ll be chatting with someone and the next we’ll both float up to the ceiling. In this particular dream, Beau was photographing me. And then I turned into a unicorn.

  I’m in Jax’s bedroom. The bass shakes softly in the other room. There is an arm around my waist. I look down and notice it’s freckled. Nina. I wriggle out of her grasp. She whines and grips harder and I continue to wriggle. Once I’m free she rolls over and sighs. On the other side of her is Yumiko, who is still wearing her puffy jacket. It is a little cold in here. The windows are open and the sky over K-town sparkles periwinkle.

  I slide into my boots and go into the main room. In the morning light, everything looks less magical. Once shiny and decadent, the tin ceiling looks rusty and cracked. The floor is covered in boot prints. Dust balls gather in the corners. The space is cavernous and depressing, like a dirt hole.

  Beau, Jax, and Pilar are sitting in a circle on the floor around a glass tray peppered with white residue. Pilar leans on Jax, and she’s crying. I feel bad for barging in on this emotional outpouring. I tend to leave before the drugs take the party here, to crying while discussing past trauma as the sun rises. Oh god, is Radiohead playing? No, it’s Mazzy Star. “In the Kingdom.” I smile a little.

  “Hi, Vaga,” Jax says in a sad voice.

  “Hi,” I say. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just going to slip out.”

  “No, no,” says Jax. He gestures for me to come over. He’s wearing a tribal-patterned mesh robe and stacks of crystal necklaces he wasn’t wearing earlier. He looks like some sort of urban shaman. Beau lies down with his head on Jax’s lap and gives me a look that makes me queasy. Pilar sits up and wipes the mascara from under her eyes.

  “I should go,” I say.

  Yumiko walks in with a lit blunt in her mouth. “Happy New Year, bitches,” she says when she takes it out.

  “Yassss, bish,” says Jax, turning his gaze to her.

  I take this opportunity to slip out. When I’m on the street, a text floats in from Nina.

  I had a nice time with you, Freak.

  And then I see a blonde girl vomit on the street.

  That afternoon, I’m lying in bed blasting Grimes, drinking a Diet Coke, and looking at @WYATTLOOK when I receive a text from Jax. It’s a link.

  My browser opens to Pitchfork and my heartrate quickens. I put down the Diet Coke.

  “Best New Music: Shiny AF’s ‘Dearly Queerly,’” by Nina Nazari. Fuck.

 
For the sake of full disclosure, I was there the night Shiny AF formed. The phrase was uttered by an after-hours partier when Jax Jameson and Prue Van Teesen locked eyes and laughed; they knew this was their project. Jax and Prue met only about a month ago at an exclusive Dead Stars show at the cult strip club Mirror Box. Their chemistry appeared immediate. They draw from the same references. ‘90s R&B. Goth electro-scuzz. The industrial minimalism of Yeezus. An appreciation for camp that would be easy to dismiss as satire or parody, but there is too much affection for their subjects— cheap fame, tragic glamour, frivolity, escapism. There is also an element of cultural vulturism that is impossible to ignore. Prue has, in Jax’s own words, “the coloring of a Nazi.” Yet she feels comfortable expressing herself in hip-hop, an art form born from systematic oppression. (Blurring matters, she is also a state-appointed criminal defense attorney for the indigent.) But unlike some of her white counterparts, Prue—who raps as Vagablonde—does not affect an urban New York accent or detail a life on the streets she couldn’t possibly understand. Rather, she catalogs her own bourgeois experience in her authentic (albeit autotuned) voice—monotone and vocal fried, with the occasional dip into vocal registers that resemble a seductive alien. In “Dearly Queerly,” Prue tackles queer erasure with a tongue-in-cheek swagger. Jax adds sparkly synths, low bass shudders, and crashing percussion. Pilar Vera coos the song’s title in the hook, her voice chopped up and processed past humankind. The chorus is pierced by the primal screams of hype woman Yumiko Houndstooth (neither Asian nor British), pixelated outbursts that symbolize a postapocalyptic urgency. In the end, “Dearly Queerly” sounds like the future, and it’s time we catch the fuck up.

  I compose a text to Nina on iMessage. So you think I’m seductive?

  Typing bubbles appear immediately. This bitch has no chill. You’re welcome, freak. I smile and then I worry if she actually thinks the song is good or if she was just doing me a favor.