Vagablonde

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Vagablonde Page 16

by Anna Dorn


  Another idiot I went to high school with commented #FOMO on the photo. God, there is nothing I hate more than that hashtag. It’s so tragic. Like, way to advertise your desperation. Who on earth wants to be included in anything, let alone a trip to Italy? They’re in their thirties and it’s 2017. They could at least be in Asia. But then I imagine these bitches making racist faces in front of a temple and feel ill.

  “We’re here,” the driver says with an annoyed expression, like it’s the second or third time he’s said it.

  “Thanks,” I say, and hop out.

  I open the app and give him two stars. Bad attitude.

  I’m shocked when Nina greets me at the Kingdom. Quickly it morphs into irritation. She leans in to kiss me on the mouth and I turn my head so that she lands on my cheek. As if I’d let her touch my mouth after it’s been on slimy Beau. Before I can clock her reaction, I spot Pilar in the hallway and float over to her.

  “My angel,” Pilar says. “Jax mastered our latest track. It sounds… delish.”

  “Oh?” I say. I’m surprised. As I enter the main room, a camera starts clicking and I instinctively cover my face.

  “I’m not the paparazzi,” Beau says.

  I want to punch him in the face. I feel a weird mixture of tired and edgy and I know my chemical composition is off.

  “She’s practicing,” I hear Pilar say, and I go into the kitchen. To my shock, there is no PBR in the fridge. I want to scream. I frantically start looking around for something else. Anything to take the edge off. I feel like a crazed alcoholic from one of those black-and-white movies from the ‘40s Jake Perez is always making me watch, getting the shakes and all that. I spot a bottle of scotch, almost empty, on the counter. I add an ice cube into a plastic Lakers cup and empty the scotch into it. The sound of the crackling ice drowns out my rattling thoughts. I fill the rest of the cup with water, then gulp.

  The click of the camera shocks me, and I jump a little.

  “You okay, Vaga?” Beau asks, slinking in the doorframe. He looks greasier than usual, like he ate cheese fries and then wiped his face, then put his hands through his hair. I’m suddenly nauseated.

  “Only Jax calls me Vaga,” I say. This isn’t entirely true. Pilar and Yumiko call me Vaga as well, so does Ellie. Or Ellie did sometimes. Sadness hits. I wish I were back in my bed, her warm body wrapped around me. She always felt so warm and smelled so good.

  Jax calls out to me from behind the panes. I take a big steadying gulp and walk over. I’m a bit calmer, but my body still feels heavy.

  The sight of Jax shocks me a bit. There are empty beer cans everywhere, vestiges of white lines on magazines. His hair points out in various directions. He looks at me with eyeballs that seem to shake. “Vagaaaa,” he says, then lets out a hacking cough that frightens me. He fumbles for a cigarette, which I’m pretty sure is the last thing he should be doing right now.

  “Tupac made 7 Day Theory in seven days,” he says to me. His hand shakes as he smokes the cigarette. There are black circles under his eyes. It’s clear he hasn’t slept in days. He lets out some hacking coughs again.

  “I didn’t know that,” I say.

  “We should do the same,” he says. “For our fans.”

  I try to remember how many days it’s been since we’ve been recording this EP. I honestly have no idea. It’s been a blur. I feel like it’s been more than seven, but who knows.

  “Good idea,” I say. I’m nervous. Is this what I look like? I take another sip of my “cocktail,” and it makes me nauseated. I need something else.

  “I have to play you our newest track,” he says.

  “Wait,” I say. Jax is making me too nervous right now. “Can I record something real quick? I gotta get it off my chest.”

  Jax lights up. “Of course,” he says. “When inspiration calls.”

  I head toward the mattress cave, my safe space.

  “Beau, babyboi,” Jax calls from behind the panes. “Can you get us more PBR?”

  I decide to rap on the first beat Jax gives me. I’m not sure it’s out of genuine interest or desperation. Either way, the rhymes start flowing out of me. I’m not even looking at my phone. I’m freestyling. About being a genius.

  “Holy fuck, Vaga,” Beau says when I exit the booth. He snaps a photo. This time, I’m feeling myself, so I’m okay with the fact that he’s taking my picture, which I told him not to do, and calling me Vaga, which I told him not to call me.

  “Gen-ius!” Jax shouts. “Gen-ius!”

  The way he says it makes me think he knows it’s a Vicki Cristina reference, and I’m less afraid of him. My mood has shifted. The bricks have been lifted.

  “Vaga,” Jax says, handing me a PBR. I snatch it with excitement. The perspiring icy can on my skin only intensifies my high. I crack it open and get ASMR. “You’re the blonde María Elena.”

  I grin widely. I feel how I did when I first entered the Kingdom. Jax gets it. But more important, he gets me.

  I make eye contact with Nina, who is eyeing me with an indiscernible expression. I quickly look away and see Yumiko’s parka flying at me. She plants a big wet kiss on my cheek.

  “Gen-ius!” she shouts, in a way that makes me think she doesn’t get the reference, but that’s okay.

  Jax plays us the song he’d previously mastered. He’s looking more alive, more healthy, which always seems to happen after midnight. I’m not sure if it’s him or just my perception of him. The song is called “B12” and I’m shocked by my sexy robot flow. I sound good as hell.

  Pilar puts her arm around me and I whisper in her ear, “Do you have Adderall?” I’m feeling great and I don’t want the feeling to go away.

  She makes a sad face. “We’re all out,” she says.

  I panic and gulp my beer. I think of those losers I saw on my Instagram in Italy. The FOMO hashtag.

  “Can I get back in the booth?” I ask when “B12” is done.

  Jax’s eyes widen. “We got the blonde Tupac up in here.”

  I go back into my mattress cave and rap a song called “FOBI.”

  Fear Of Being Included.

  Later in the night, Pilar is recording her vocals while I sit on the couch alone, staring out the window and thinking about Adderall. My post-recording high has faded, and I need to get my next fix. Beau got more cocaine, but he said their guy is out of pharmaceuticals. I thought he could get any drug. I thought that was the whole point of him. I find myself becoming angry and sip some beer to steady myself.

  Nina left. I still feel angry at her, but that anger was good for my art. At least I think it was. I have no idea whether Shiny AF is good or whether we’re just charming or hot or whether everyone is just fucked up out of their minds.

  A text from Nina floats in. Wanna come over?

  I text back, I’m recording.

  “Do you have any Adderall?” I whisper in Beau’s ear.

  “You keep saying that,” he says.

  I’m blacked out. I should probably go home.

  “For the billionth time,” Beau says, “our guy is out.”

  Click. Beau’s camera is in my face. I slap it away.

  “The fuck,” he says. “This is a 5D, bitch.”

  I shrug, then laugh. Yumiko laughs along with me, although she couldn’t possibly know what I’m laughing at. Her laugh is guttural and unhinged. I think she’s mirroring Jax a bit.

  “Don’t you have a psychiatrist?” Beau whispers in my ear.

  I stiffen. “Why?” I ask. My eyes dart around the room. Do I come off as crazy?

  “Um,” he says. He runs his fingers through his thick brown hair, and for some reason I’m jealous of his fingers. “I don’t know. I feel like every girl like you has a shrink.”

  I relax. It’s just a class thing. He doesn’t think I’m crazy. “I do,” I say. “But he’s pretty smart.” I think about Dr. Kim. He hasn’t tried harder than two emails to figure out why I stopped seeing him or whether I’m even alive. He doesn’t give a fuck about m
e. I wonder if he’s pilled out himself. I think I saw a tweet earlier when I was checking my followers about how all shrinks are heavily medicated. I mean, I would be too. What type of person chooses to be a psychiatrist? A pill-head who’s good at science.

  “So?” Beau asks.

  Do you have any more Adderall? I find myself asking Nina.

  No, she types back. I’m not a drug dispenser.

  I swallow my shame with my last sip of beer and then get up to leave. Yumiko’s parka slides into my vision. She gets up in my face and frightens me. Then a smile loosens her look. Her big blue eyes are watery and dazed.

  “Do you have Adderall?” I whisper into her ear.

  “Daddio?” she yells back at me. “Dadddiooooo.” She starts rolling her body and repeating “daddio” to the beat of a trap song I don’t specifically recognize but that sounds like every other trap song. “That should be our next song!”

  It annoys me how she says “our.”

  “I have to go,” I say, and then I leave.

  The next day, I’m sitting at my desk crafting and deleting sentences in an email to Dr. Kim. At the moment, it’s blank. My body still feels dead but also wired. I have a weird mix of fatigue and anxiety. Actually, I’m pretty sure this is close to my natural state, but a heightened version.

  I refresh Twitter. I have almost two thousand followers.

  My phone lights up with a text from Jax.

  Vagaaaaaaaa.

  Hiiiiiii, I write back.

  Come over today at 3.

  My gut tightens.

  We have 4 songs we can work with—dearly queerly, FOBI, B12, genius—we need 1 mo I think.

  I gulp my water. Ennui paws my leg.

  Yeeeee, I type back.

  You got this, Vaga?

  The question mark makes me nervous.

  Of course!!!! I write back.

  Yassssss.

  I put the phone down and open my email again.

  Hi Dr. Kim,

  I’m writing because I feel I need to renew my Adderall prescription to treat my ADD. I was diagnosed and prescribed in law school, and now that my workload has increased substantially, I think it would be helpful to resume. My dose in school was 10mg, as needed. We can discuss at our next appointment if you prefer.

  Thanks,

  Prue

  I click send, then put on my Nikes. I attempt a run, but my body isn’t having it. I start walking, but that feels difficult too. Eventually I sit down on the curb and start to pull up my email. A crack-head-looking man tries to talk to me. His muscles are inked up. He’s an inch away from a barista, but too twitchy.

  “Hi, blondie,” he says.

  I want to ignore him, but I like the nickname. “Hi,” I say, and flash a coy smile.

  He smiles back. His lips are chapped and I think I spot a speckle of blood. “You Brazilian?” he asks.

  Wow. This is a first. I’m like the most generically WASPy person ever. But Brazilians are notoriously hot, right? I mean, isn’t Brazilian just slang for hot?

  “Maybe,” I say. I’m flattered but over it and go back to staring at my phone.

  I refresh my email. Nothing from Dr. Kim. So irritating. I mean, what if I was having a medical emergency? He’s a doctor. He should be more available.

  I scan my body (something I learned in meditation class) and wonder if it’s an emergency for me. My body always feels off, but right now it’s intense. I need to be medicated. Get your shit together, Dr. Kim.

  “You want a sandwich?” the crackhead asks.

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Eat a sandwich, bitch,” he says. He starts manically laughing. He must have a trust fund. Too sociopathic to be a legitimate crackhead. “Brazilian skeleton,” he adds. He starts making weird noises.

  “Do you have any stimulants?” I ask.

  His face becomes serious, and at this point I’m positive he has a trust fund. He narrows his eyes back at me. The twitching subsides. He means business.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Nina gives me a ride to Jax’s. I skip to her car. The trust-fund crack-head gave me Vyvanse, which is like fancier Adderall. I drank a few light beers while I got dressed and did my makeup. I listened to Mariah Carey and thought of those quotes from ‘90s Cosmopolitan magazines about how your confidence is directly related to your physical appearance.

  I don’t even say hi before I light a cigarette.

  “Can you not smoke in here?” Nina says. She’s is such a downer. I miss Ellie, who let me do whatever I wanted and never made out with gross, greasy losers. I pull out my phone and almost text her, then decide against it.

  I toss my cigarette onto the lawn beside the curb, then hop in her car.

  She just raises her eyebrows at me and I imagine her and Jake Perez becoming friends and ganging up on me constantly. Dark electronic music plays on the speakers. Pretentious, like it was made in Berlin by a man who studied engineering.

  “Can we change it to something more upbeat?” I ask.

  She raises her brows again. They’re unkempt in a way that kind of turns me on. “Are you really asking me to turn off Kraftwerk?”

  I stare at her blankly, pretending I don’t know who Kraftwerk is. I’m pretty much a music encyclopedia. I’ve been memorizing genres and key artists since I was a kid. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize it immediately; must be a deep cut. I’m not a huge fan of Krautrock, but I get that it’s important. I could easily monologue on this subject and impress Nina, but I get off on feigning ignorance. It’s a blonde thing. And besides, I’m mad at her.

  “Give me your phone,” I say.

  I reach for it and she pulls it away.

  “You’re so annoying,” I say.

  She smiles and licks her top lip. She’s flirting!

  “Oh, so you’re into me again?” I ask.

  She turns left with one hand, very sexy. “I wasn’t aware I was over you,” she says.

  I stare out the window with forced apathy and think about how to play this. I could mention Beau, but instead I choose silence. This is impressive discipline, particularly considering that I’m on Vyvanse, and stimulants make me chatty as hell. I reach for her phone again. This time she doesn’t object. I put on Migos’s “Narcos,” the song I think is most aesthetically and sonically opposed to Kraftwerk.

  She seems okay with my choice and we sit in silence as she merges onto the 110. I wonder for a second whether Nina and I are too similar, whether we’re just mirrors of each other. Strategic bitches. Everything is a power move. We keep mad layers between ourselves and the world. But I’m more fun. And I’m not trying to be strategic. I just come off that way.

  I turn up the bass, then bob my blonde hair and stare at myself in the side view mirror as the car vibrates.

  “Are you mad I made out with Beau?” Nina asks when she exits the freeway.

  “Is that why you did it?” I ask.

  We’re approaching Jax’s block and I’m happy for that. Soon I’ll be back behind the cushions spitting brilliance while people give me validation. And on Vyvanse! It’ll be magic. We just have one more song to make before we become famous.

  “I did it because I wanted to,” she says.

  I light a cigarette, then remember she’s a square, then continue to smoke anyway.

  “Are you punishing me?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m smoking because I want to.”

  THIRTEEN

  At the Kingdom I drink a few Bud Lights while sitting on Beau’s lap and intermittently staring at Nina. She seems unconcerned and that concerns me.

  “When is the FADER story coming out?” Jax asks Nina while she rolls a joint. I get a pang of nostalgia for the first night when I visited the Kingdom, when I was innocent and precious. Before I had been corrupted by Nina and her stupid games.

  Nina shrugs. “Probably around the time your EP debuts,” she says. “It’s really up to my editor, but that’s what I’ll propose.”

  “Makes
sense,” says Jax. He seems more grounded today, like he’s slept. Or maybe my powers of perception are just compromised. The point is I need to be brilliant today. And I’m pretty sure I can do it, but I still don’t have that spark. It’s okay. It’s still light out. It’ll be hours until we get behind the panes, until I cozy up in the cushions. I just need to keep drinking, keep talking, keep smoking. I need to open my body like a vessel. An artist is nothing more than a vessel. It’s like being a medium. You just have to open your mind to the possibility, and—boom—ghosts are everywhere.

  Soon I’m smoking a cigarette on the fire escape while Yumiko lights some candles on the portion she’s turned into a makeshift altar. I look out at the slightly fading sky and announce, “I’m an artist.”

  I don’t think she hears me, which is good because I surely sound obnoxious. But I also mean it. As I drag my cigarette and stare at the moon, I wonder how different my life would have been if my parents had encouraged me in the arts, if I hadn’t gone to law school. I mean, it obviously wasn’t their job to mold me or not mold me in a certain direction. My parents aren’t perfect, but I’d never dare blame them for anything, particularly considering how cushy my life has been. But it’s interesting to think about. DC is not a creative place. Law and politics were the only option, I felt. My mom was an artist before I was born, allegedly. She never talks about it. I only know from my grandmother. She once had a show at the Gagosian. When I tried to ask her about it, she said something along the lines of “Dreams are a very dangerous thing.”

  I hear the click of a camera. Beau is shooting me from inside. I didn’t even realize he was here. Because I’m feeling myself, I curve my body and toss my hair, giving him a real pose. He seems to like it because he starts clicking like crazy.

  Yumiko stands up behind me and flares her parka, which I’m sure creates an amazing silhouette. I’m not even mad at her for stealing my moment, because she isn’t really. She’s fading properly in the background, allowing me to shine. We both begin to hang off the scaffolding in various poses, hamming it up. I catch Nina’s glare from inside, a slight eye roll. She begins writing something in her Moleskine and I look away. Then I start strutting inside. I swing into the room like Yumiko normally does, and she follows me.

 

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