Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  Dr. Kim shakes his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s a turn of phrase.”

  “Turn of phrase”? I wonder whether Dr. Kim is a quack. I guess no one knows what the fuck they’re talking about when it comes to the human brain.

  “My patients are always coming back furious, saying, ‘You called me bipolar,’ or something along those lines.” He laughs, and I just stare at him. “See, there are various degrees of bipolar. There is bipolar one, which is the type of crazy person you see screaming on the street.”

  I nod, thinking this is mildly insensitive. I can tell Dr. Kim is going into lecture mode. It comforts me, makes me feel like I’m back at school, where everything was easy and I was a star.

  “Then there is bipolar two, and a lot of successful people have this diagnosis. It’s associated with high intelligence and creativity.”

  I perk up a bit.

  “It’s also associated with inflated self-esteem.” He pauses and looks toward me, narrowly missing eye contact in a way that makes me think he’s an avatar again. “I’m not going to say that everyone who tries to be an actor is bipolar two, but it’s common out here. Like, you’re from Middle America and you’re good-looking and you decide to come out to LA to make it as an actress. Well, there are a lot of good-looking people out here. To live in Ohio and move out here thinking you’re going to be the next Jennifer Lawrence, I don’t know, it involves a degree of, well—never mind, I’m getting off track.”

  My entire body feels hot and tingly. I examine the freckles on my arms and start to wonder whether they belong to me.

  “Then there is bipolar three, which is not really a diagnosis, more an idea. It’s a useful framework for explaining moods.” He runs his fingers through his hair in a way that makes me certain he’s a homosexual. “Anyway, what was the Adderall dosage you were prescribed in law school?”

  “Ten milligrams,” I say, thrilled to have a concrete question to focus on instead of my finicky breath. I spent the morning googling and reading about various dosages. The ones Nina gave me were tens, and those seem perfect for me. A person can be prescribed up to sixty milligrams a day, so popping a few a night shouldn’t cause any issues. In fact, it’s reasonable and moderate.

  “Okay,” says Dr. Kim. “I can start out with prescribing thirty?”

  My heart starts racing just thinking about it. Thirty pills! That should last me a while.

  Dr. Kim starts writing out the prescription, and in the silence I can hear my shallow breath and I remember that I’m about to get back on the highway. I should just ask him if he has any benzo samples. I’m sure he does and that would solve my problem. Just take a benzo and cruise home.

  But I can’t bring myself to ask him, and soon he’s shaking my hand goodbye.

  I feel okay until I merge onto the highway again, and then my palms start sweating like crazy. I’m in the middle lane, trapped. I force air into my stomach, but a phantom metal cage is blocking it. I wipe my sweaty hand on the wheel and reach for my phone. Before I know it, I’m making a call.

  “Hi,” Ellie answers on the second ring. Her voice sounds raw and soft and immediately puts me at ease. I eye the clock and do the math: 4:30 P.M. here, so 7:30 P.M. in New York. I wonder what she was doing. Maybe on her way to dinner. It’s January, so it’s probably freezing and her nose is probably red.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “Why are you calling me, Prue?” Her voice is harsher now. A car honks at me and I remember why I called.

  “I’m kind of freaking out,” I say. I feel dizzy and I want to just stop the car and close my eyes. “I’m having a rather serious panic attack.” I don’t know why I’m saying it like this, as if I’m at tea with my grandmother. I hate how in the media when someone has an anxiety attack they’re always crying and hysterical. I sound like I’m delivering an oral argument before a judge.

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know I sound normal but I’m really freaking out.” Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t normally tell people these things, but Ellie always makes me feel safe. I told her once when I was experiencing panic early in our relationship, actually before we even defined it. That was when I knew she was special. Ellie just looked at me with her warm green eyes and put her hand on my knee and listened to me talk until I calmed down. We became girlfriends a few days later.

  “I don’t mean are you serious about the panic attack, Prue,” she says. “I mean are you serious that you’re calling me? You cheated on me and showed zero signs of remorse. I haven’t heard from you once. And now you call me to fucking calm you down? Isn’t there a pill you can take for that?”

  She’s right. About everything. I shouldn’t be calling her. I should have asked Dr. Kim for the benzos I need for my anxiety disorder instead of the stimulants I take recreationally. I’m really twisted. I probably should go back on the Celexa too, or maybe just be locked up in a psych ward. A car honks and I jump and roll forward but say nothing.

  “Jesus, Prue. You know, I defended you when my friends called you a delusional narcissist.” She sounds as though she’s swallowing back a tear, which puts a knife in my heart. But at least I know I’m breathing and I’m feeling normal emotions. “But I was the delusional one. I cannot believe I thought there was something worthwhile behind that insane exterior.”

  The traffic loosens and I speed up. I still can’t think of anything to say. I want Ellie to keep talking and luckily she does. I don’t care that she’s yelling. I just like hearing her voice.

  “I haven’t heard from you in almost a month, and this is when you call me. The audacity.”

  My fear of the freeway feels years away. It’s just a freeway. Cars can pretty much drive themselves these days, anyway. I feel in control and crack open my window slightly. Cool wind rushes at my cheek. Ellie isn’t speaking so I figure it’s my turn to talk.

  “I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me,” I say softly. My voice is raw like Ellie’s when she answered the phone. I wait a few seconds and she says nothing.

  Then I realize she’s hung up.

  FOURTEEN

  The following afternoon I’m walking in circles around Echo Park Lake when the Kingdom text thread lights up.

  Beau texts first. A booking agent hit me up.

  I’m not sure what this means.

  He wants to meet Shiny AF at CAA tomorrow at 2pm. Century City. I’ll pick you up.

  Everyone texts back ok.

  When people stop texting, I start to spiral. What will I wear? And will I be able to remain composed? I’ll wear that tiny fanny pack Jake Perez gave me and put a Klonopin in the pocket. I didn’t like this gift when I received it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  The next day when Beau texts to say he’s outside, I’m pacing around the apartment with Ennui in my arms. I’m wearing all black, so it doesn’t matter that she’s shedding all over me. I got black cats for a reason. I take a nibble of the Klonopin in my hand, then run outside.

  Beau’s black G-Wagen is vibrating on my street.

  Inside, SZA’s “Doves in the Wind” is playing. Think I caught a vibe, she sings, and I feel okay about this meeting. Jax puts his arm around me. The seat is comfortable. Pilar turns around and squeezes my knee.

  “Vaga,” Jax whispers in my ear. “I think the EP is done.”

  “Shut up,” I say in a kind of sorority-girl voice I do sometimes when I’m uncomfortable.

  “I will not!” he almost yells, and I wonder if he’s on cocaine. Maybe I should be on uppers for this meeting. I feel tired and uncharismatic. But at least I look good. I’m wearing a vintage black DVF shift dress, black Doc Martens, a black velvet scrunchie, and my grandmother’s gold chain from the ‘60s. Looking great and feeling terrible.

  “Vaga, that last song was fire,” he says. “‘Poly Folly.’”

  I smile. I hardly remember recording it.

  “I’m thinking we’ll s
tart with ‘Dearly Queerly,’ for our fans”—Jax laughs—”then close with ‘Poly Folly,’ for symmetry.” He cracks his window and lights a Marlboro. “I’m thinking ‘FOBI,’ then ‘Genius’ in the middle because it’s our second single, I think. Wind down a bit on ‘B12.’ Then—boom—’Poly Folly.’”

  “Love,” I say in the sorority-girl voice again. But I’m not actually that excited. I’m never experiencing the right emotion at the right time. I should probably go to a hospital. Maybe if I got better Ellie would take me back.

  “Here goes nothing,” Jax says as we roll up to a shiny building that freaks me out in the same way as Dr. Kim’s office, sterile and soulless. “We can tour on these songs.”

  He throws his cigarette out the window, and I clutch my fanny pack and feel the outline of the two Klonopin pills I put in there earlier.

  I catch my reflection in the massive windows in the CAA lobby and I feel good about how I look, like even my mom would be proud. She wouldn’t admit it. She’d raise her eyebrows and tell me I looked like an alien. But I’d know in her head she’d be thinking of a very chic alien.

  An aggressively large orchid blocks my face, which I don’t mind, because my face is my least favorite part of my appearance. But I wonder who decided to put this here and why.

  A man in a suit comes up to us and says, “Shiny AF,” in a robotic voice.

  I jump a little bit and Pilar gives me that look she always gives me in these meetings. Well, just this one and the other one.

  “Where’s Yumiko?” I whisper in Jax’s ear as we’re escorted to the elevator.

  “Beau thought she should hang back for this one,” he whispers back. “Given what went down at Wicked Ice.”

  I frown. I thought we all agreed Yumiko was iconic at the Wicked Ice meeting. Why are we listening to Beau? What does he know about anything?

  In the elevator, we watch the yellow light climb numbers, curious about when it will stop. Finally, 13. Some people think this number is lucky, and I’m not one of them.

  We’re led into a sprawling glass conference room that overlooks the city and some mountains. I’m not sure which part of the city or which mountains, but the view looks expensive. And I love glass.

  Pilar struts into the room in a way that impresses me. This room is her stage, and I want to be more like her. I try it. I swing my hips, but I catch my reflection and realize I look spastic. I just try to focus on sitting in a chair, which I finally manage. Beads of sweat start to form on my upper lip.

  Two white men in street wear sit at the other end of the large conference table. They look identical to the men at Wicked Ice. The older I get, the less I’m able to tell men apart. Especially the ones in the record industry. I need an app for this shit. Shazam, but for people named Daniel and its varietals.

  “Shiny AF,” one of them says in an affected Brooklyn accent. Pilar gives me that look again, and I wonder if my face did something inappropriate or if she’s just disgusted by the sweat above my lip.

  “Yup,” says Jax. He’s confident too. Why can’t I be like them? This should be my stage too. But I’m thinking about an earthquake and all the glass.

  The man starts talking and I’m mostly focused on my sweaty lip. I try to quiet my mind, think about my mindfulness app. It’s normal to feel stressed in this situation—with two indistinguishable men who clearly do not get it in between me and my dreams.

  Then I look at the mountains and feel my stomach sink. The scenery looks surreal, fake, a computer simulation, and I wonder who is holding the controllers.

  I keep trying to zone into the conversation, but mostly just pick up a lot of “totallys” and “for sures” and “on the same pages.” I hear each of the Daniels say, “We gotta strike the iron while it’s hot,” and each time I try very hard not to laugh. This is the type of thing Jake Perez says when he thinks he’s about to get his dick sucked.

  Soon, everyone is shaking hands. I wipe my palm on my dress and try my best to make eye contact with the silly men I can’t distinguish. And quickly I escape from the glass cage.

  In the parking lot, Jax starts doing a little dance. “We’re opening for Dead Stars,” he sings to the beat of his rolling hips, “at the motherfucking Teragram.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, then leans close to my ear and begins whispering: “What if we get on @WYATTLOOK?”

  I was so blacked out from anxiety, I didn’t even realize what was being negotiated. I’m annoyed at myself, momentarily, and then excitement takes over.

  We have rehearsal the next day at eleven A.M. This is extremely early in Shiny AF hours. But we all get up and show up, because we’re about to open for motherfucking Dead Stars. As I skip to my Lyft, I thank the lord that Jax Jameson found me and made my dreams come true.

  As I arrive at the rehearsal space—a nondescript warehouse beside several other nondescript warehouses—Ellie pops into my head. I recall that terrible phone call where she confirmed all my worst fears about myself.

  Also, I haven’t heard from Nina in a while, and I can’t tell if I actually care or if my insatiable hunger for romantic validation makes me think I care. Either way, I’m annoyed. Is she over me now that the review is out? Did she meet someone else? Someone hotter, younger, more interesting… blonder?

  The warehouse door swings open. It’s Jax, wearing an oversized bedazzled Tupac T-shirt as a dress.

  “Vagaaaa,” he says.

  Yumiko arrives shortly after. “Teragram, bitches!” she shouts through a cloud of smoke, apparently not annoyed that she was excluded from the meeting, which relieves me. Pilar arrives next, looking very serious and ready for business.

  Rehearsal goes better than I expected. Once I’m onstage, I’m fine. But there’s no audience. Luckily, Beau shows up shortly after we begin with a cooler of various adult beverages. I scowl at him and then take a PBR. I decide I’ll bring beer onstage. Musicians do this all the time.

  On our first break, Jax tells me the EP is almost done. I want to trust him, but he’s said the EP was “almost done” several times. This frustrates me. When I say I’m going to finish something at a certain time, I mean it. I imagine my money running out, having to move back to DC. My hometown is similar to LA in that they’re both obsessed with power and status, but DC is entirely devoid of glamour. Aesthetically, the mid-Atlantic is pure tragedy.

  “Lots of sleepless nights,” Jax says. He does a little sniffing gesture with his nose, and I force a laugh but my stomach sinks.

  On our second break, Nina shows up with a cigarette case filled with pre-rolled joints. Everyone lights one except me, because I worry it will interfere with my performance. But I drink more, and everyone else does, and our second break turns into a sort of party. We blast Aquarius as loud as possible. When the title song comes on, Nina takes my hand to dance.

  “My Aquarius moon,” she whispers into my ear, and I can’t help but smile. I guess I’ve missed her, or maybe I’ve just missed being flirted with. She’s wearing a color today, red. And I feel like an unimaginative man for thinking she looks insanely sexy.

  By the time I get back onstage, I’m lit as hell. But not as lit as Yumiko, who keeps screaming and jumping in front of Pilar and me whenever we have a verse. Pilar seems annoyed, but she says nothing. Only the occasional glare, to which Yumiko seems impervious. Personally, I like that she’s taking the attention off. I’m not in the mood to be looked at.

  Afterward, Beau and Nina tell us we were “on fire.” We all continue to party, and by the time we slide open the warehouse doors, I’m disoriented. The sky is a light blue, and for a second I think it’s the late afternoon, but it’s morning.

  Jax, Pilar, Yumiko, and I link arms inside the dark and smoky warehouse and strut into the bright Los Angeles morning. Shiny AF.

  FIFTEEN

  I wake up around three P.M. with a few texts. Ennui paws my face and I push her away. She feels lighter than normal. She screeches bloody murder and I try to remember the last time I fed her. I can’t re
call.

  Glancing at my text notifications, I’m shocked. Two texts from Ellie. There’s also one from Nina. And Jax and Jake. I frantically swipe and open Ellie’s.

  I’m sorry for being rude to you on the phone the other day. I’m still very hurt and angry, but I don’t really think you’re a sociopathic narcissist. I hope you’re feeling less panicked.

  The next text says, I still think we should take some space.

  I’m filled with an overwhelming need to hear her voice. It’s around six P.M. in New York, so she’s probably had a wine. The anti-Nina, sweet and light and chatty. I linger over her contact for a few moments, then return to my other texts. But Ellie doesn’t leave my mind. She wants to take “some space,” which suggests that at a certain point the space will collapse and we’ll be back together. The thought fills me with warmth but also frightens me. I don’t know what I want. My stomach sinks. I’m coming down from the Adderall, from the being onstage, from validation, from Nina taking me in her arms and calling me her “Aquarius moon.” I respond to Ellie, Fair, because what else is there to say?

  I open the texts from Jax.

  You slayed yesterday, Vaga… we got this!

  I haven’t slept yet lol.

  The EP is coming together… I’ll def have it done by the 1.

  I look at the calendar on my phone. It’s January 22. I walk over to my computer and google “Dead Stars LA Teragram Ballroom.” It’s on February 1. Openers “not yet listed.” I hope this is for real.

  There is another text from Jax.

  Next rehearsal on Sunday … same place, same time.

  I look at my calendar again. Today is Saturday, so that’s tomorrow. My body feels like lead. I’ll sleep until tomorrow.

  Since I’m at my computer, I refresh Twitter. I’m approaching four thousand followers. The cat screeches again. “Hold on,” I bark at her.

  I refresh Gmail. There’s an email from the California Court of Appeal filing system, which alarms me. The subject line reads: “REMINDER: REPLY BRIEF DUE SHORTLY.”