by Anna Dorn
After what seems like twenty minutes, I reach Yumiko again.
“Yes, Vaga,” she says. “Halfway.”
“I want to die,” I say matter-of-factly. I sit down cross-legged on the platform, which seems to shake. I peer into the apartment beside us, which is even darker and bougier. There is an empty growler of kombucha on the table and a baby stroller on the floor. This couple would call the cops on us, surely. I’m trapped.
“This is not the Vaga I know,” Yumiko says, sitting beside me. She pulls a half-smoked blunt from her pocket and lights it. Only Yumiko would smoke a blunt while descending a twelve-story fire escape. After a hefty inhale, she passes the blunt to me. “The Vaga I know is a bad bitch.”
I wave the blunt away, then say, “You don’t know me.”
Yumiko looks hurt, then annoyed. “Fine,” she says.
She begins flying down the ladder, blunt in her mouth. The whole platform shakes. I fantasize about lying down and being lulled asleep by the steady trembling of Yumiko’s descent. In the morning, the bougie couple will find me, and I’ll explain that I was roofied at a strange party on the twelfth floor and only made it this far before I lost consciousness.
Just as I begin to lie down, my coat vibrates and I pull out my phone. There is a text from Nina and I feel a weird mix of anger and excitement. I open it.
It’s beau, u got any addys? We running low on uppers.
I shut the phone off and stand up.
“Attagirl!” Yumiko shouts from below. I don’t look down, but she sounds pretty distant. I grab the ladder and try to channel my fearless friend. I imagine her floating down the ladder without apparent effort, huffing cannabis with abandon. I start moving, quicker than before. Yumiko is shouting “go Vaga” and “almost there” intermittently in a way that keeps me motivated. Soon, I’ve reached her level and she wraps me in her parka and I feel both safe and accomplished.
“Look down,” she says.
I look back at her with hesitance.
“Trust me,” she says.
I emerge from the parka cave and slowly look down, and there is just one more ladder below us. We’re almost there. I feel an immense wave of relief, like when an airplane is about to land. I’m overcome with a strange urge to kiss Yumiko, who at this moment looks particularly beautiful, a streetlamp illuminating her big blue eyes. Just as my gaze settles, she jerks away and swings back on the ladder. I follow. Soon we’re on solid ground and I’m elated.
“You wanna know something?” Yumiko says.
I shrug.
“I don’t really care that much about my appeal,” she says. “Like I said, I already served my time, I already have a record. A clean slate isn’t necessarily my brand.” She giggles and so do I, but I’m also annoyed for doing all that work in vain. Yumiko looks up toward the streetlight and her long lashes light up. “I just thought you were cool and wanted an excuse to connect.”
I smile and I really feel happy, like the high of completing this terrifying descent is combining with a feeling of genuine interpersonal connection—a rare experience for me—and it’s, like, better than Adderall. Less chemically.
“That is so nice,” I say. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” she says.
So I don’t, and the silence of the empty street takes over the moment. A cat screams in the distance and I think about Missy.
SEVENTEEN
The next morning, Yumiko’s wearing a T-shirt, which looks strange. I’ve never seen her without a parka. Her right arm is covered in scars; her left, a tattoo sleeve.
She sits beside me on the bed and hands me a steaming mug. “Morning, sunshine,” she says. I’m in her bed, which is just a mattress on the floor with a puffy black duvet.
This is a new side of Yumiko, kind and domestic. It’s bright in her apartment and oddly clean. Across from the bed is a mirror closet that takes up the entire wall. I watch us in the reflection and we look like a bad mumblecore film, all tired-eyed and unsure in the harsh sun of the morning. What happened last night?
“What time is it?” I ask. As I sit up, the heaviness descends. I feel like I need an IV drip, more amphetamines, or both. Instead, I sip the coffee. It’s good, like she grinded fancy beans and used a Chemex or something.
“Threeish,” she says. Sounds about right from the light, bright as can be. “Man, that party was lit.” She laughs.
“Yeah,” I say. “I had no idea the listening party would draw that many people.”
“No,” she says. “I mean the other one. After the fire escape.” I have no memory of a party after that. I wonder if Yumiko and I did anything last night. The memory of the fire escape intensifies my dread.
“Jesus, I can’t believe we scaled that fire escape!” I say.
Yumiko laughs. “I’ve done it a billion times,” she says. “But I was proud of you,” she adds, then touches my forearm in a way that makes me feel a bit paranoid. I’m already on shaky ethical ground with Yumiko, but if I slept with her? Case closed. I consider writing a song called “Waking Up in Strange Beds.” Or “Parties I Don’t Remember.” Or “Did We Sleep Together?” The next album will basically write itself.
“I should probably go,” I say. “My supervisor might have gotten back to me with edits on your brief.”
She pushes some hair out of her face and I try not to stare at the burn scars on her arm.
“I know you don’t care about the appeal,” I continue, “but it’s my job.” I feel corny and awkward, a mumblecore side character. Not even the lead, not even close to the lead.
“Well, I won’t stop you,” Yumiko says.
“Thanks for saving me last night,” I say.
“Vaga!” Yumiko says, jumping up, reoccupying the Yumiko I know and am familiar with. “You know I have your back, boo!”
“I know,” I say, and then I leave.
When I get home, I take half a Klonopin and eat a bowl of cereal and fall asleep with Ennui on my rib cage while it’s still light outside. I don’t wake up until nine A.M. the next morning.
My supervisor’s email is longer than I’d like, so long I want to bang my head against my desk. She says I need to “reorganize” my arguments. She also says that certain things weren’t “adequately briefed” in my opening brief, but I can “correct them now.” She doesn’t seem to realize that she read, edited, and approved my opening brief. Everything in this job seems so random. I felt really good about this brief. I was feeling myself when I wrote it. I was in the zone. Other times I’ll write a brief and feel totally detached and uninterested and just be waiting to get it done, then I hand it in and my supervisor is like, “You are a true legal talent and will one day be briefing before the Supreme Court.” As if I’d want that.
I take an Adderall and start typing. I take the dissociative route, just getting through my supervisor’s comments with as little effort or passion as possible. It doesn’t seem to matter. In between sentences, I refresh Twitter and watch my followers increase.
At around two P.M., the Kingdom thread lights up with a text from Jax
Wicked Ice loves the EP.
A text from Nina floats in and I feel a sliver of excitement, then realize it’s just to the group.
Rad. When’s the rollout?
I assume she’s asking because she wants to know when she can file her story, when she can cash in on our brilliance.
Jax replies, They said they only have a few minor edits, they want it out in the next week.
Pilar chimes in, Yeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Then Yumiko: BrRRRT BrRRRT.
I shut iMessage and continue working on my brief, feeling absolutely nothing.
That night in bed, I begin to spiral. I’m listening to my “Sad Girlz” playlist, which is mostly Lana Del Rey, and alternating between staring at the palm fronds above my bed and scrolling aimlessly through Instagram when the intrusive thoughts start. It begins with Ennui pawing her way into my room. I thought I’d closed t
he door, but I guess not. She looks so thin and sad and lonely, and I think about how they say pets mirror their owners. I recall Beau telling me I look pale. I recall how I sabotaged my perfect relationship by hooking up with this poly loser with no respect for me. I know I’m not always a ray of sunshine toward Nina, but at least I have the decency to avoid hooking up with someone she hates in front of her.
I got off SSRIs in part because I was worried about my physical health. Now I’m taking Adderall, a stimulant with a chemical compound almost identical to crystal meth, in an uncontrolled manner. I’m suffering obvious delusions of grandeur with my fewer than four thousand Twitter followers. People online are saying that Shiny AF is “aural assault.” And when the EP inevitably bombs, I will have nothing. I will go back to writing briefs that have zero impact on anyone’s life alone in my apartment and making no money and embarrassing everyone who knows me. But I might not even have that option, because I might have slept with my client. And the scariest part is I’m not even sure. Did We Sleep Together? A Memoir.
Ennui meows bloody murder. I throw my phone on my pillow and follow her to the kitchen. She’s starving and keeps running into my legs and I accidentally kick her. I look in the cabinet and realize I’m out of cat food. My body is too heavy to go to the store. Leaving my bedroom is hard enough. I search my cabinets for something a cat might like. I nearly shout when I find a dusty can of tuna in the very back. I can’t remember ever buying canned tuna, but I don’t question it. I open it and put it in the bowl, ignoring its strange color and odor, and think, What if I really am famous?
Fame feels equally depressing to being delusional. Ellen DeGeneres is famous, and she’s corny as hell. People love that Nazi-esque Victoria’s Secret model Karlie Kloss, a woman so blah I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup. Corrupt real estate mogul turned reality TV star Donald Trump beat out career politician Hillary Clinton for the presidency. People think Oprah should run next, just because she exploits people for their traumas and gives them cars on live television. Women with low IQs protest gender inequality by buying T-shirts with glittery slogans, ignorant to the irony that social equality is untenable under capitalism. Reese Witherspoon wore black on the red carpet as a political statement and everyone was like, Omg, genius! And whenever an actual genius happens to become famous, like Kanye, he is instantly demonized because we’re terrified to confront our own darkness. God, everyone is so horny for mediocrity, it sickens me. I wish I could just disappear.
Once Ennui starts eating, I drag myself back to bed, where I sleep for twelve hours.
I wake up with a lot of texts. The FADER article is up. I don’t click the link because I don’t want to read it, nor do I want to look at the pictures. I ignore all my texts except the ones from Jake.
Prudence. You are a hot mess.
Emphasis on the HOT.
I roll my eyes. I don’t want to see or talk to anyone, especially Jake Perez. But I know I need to get out of this funk. I look at my calendar and realize the show is in three days. I go into my bathroom and open my gold bag and count my Adderall. I have two left. Panic hits. It’s only been ten days, I can’t possibly ask Dr. Kim for a refill. Or maybe I could? Didn’t he say something along the lines of “we’ll start with thirty pills and see how it goes?” I could email him and say, “I need more,” make up something about how I’ve realized ADD is my main issue and I need to be prescribed at least sixty milligrams a day, but I prefer to take it in ten-milligram doses. I go to my laptop and write that email, then realize how long it takes Dr. Kim to get back. I consider Yelping “lenient psychiatrist,” and then I remember that trust-fund crackhead I bought Vyvanse from. I must have his number. I grab my phone and start frantically searching. Just as I find it, a text from Nina comes in.
Hi.
Classic. I ignore it and text the crackhead. Hi, I need more V. ASAP. I sound insane but I don’t care. I’m opening for Dead Stars in three days. The thought alone makes my heart race. I become dizzy and sit down on my bed. Ennui comes over, apparently sensing my distress, and rubs up against my rib cage.
Then she throws up on my lap.
EIGHTEEN
Dr. Kim gets back to me the next morning, but he tells me that California law requires a handwritten prescription, which I must retrieve from his office. Alternatively, he could mail it. I opt for that option, mostly to avoid a panic attack on the drive. Trust-fund crackhead has only three Vyvanse, and I buy him out. I open the pills and pour the beads in a tiny Ziploc bag, then wet my finger and put some tiny salmon-colored beads on my tongue. Ennui becomes entranced by the process. I almost zone out and let her lick some beads off my finger. But I quickly remove my finger before her tongue gets to it, proving to myself that I’m not an animal abuser. Then I go to rehearsal.
Onstage, I feel stiff and awkward, despite Jax’s constant assurances that I’m “slaying.” I don’t trust him. At one point, I snap at Beau for “laughing at me,” but he tells me he was laughing at a text from Nina, which obviously infuriates me more. I remember this cultural phenomenon I read about in Indonesia, where a minor social insult launches people into a long period of brooding followed by murderous rage. During a smoke break, a woman driving by yells, “Shiny AF!” out of her car. Jax goes, “Eyyyyy,” and Yumiko goes, “Brrrat brraat,” and I feel an intense tightening in my neck.
During the second smoke break, I text Nina. Can you not text our lighting guy while I’m trying to rehearse? I sound like an insane diva, just like I probably sounded in her article, which I still haven’t read.
Jax comes out and tells me he has “news.” I’m annoyed. I can’t handle any new information. I feel nostalgic for my old life, when I’d just write briefs in my room and go out to dinner with Ellie and do uppers once a month like a normal fucking person. Before one of my cats went missing and the other one began starving to death. I make a mental note to buy cat food.
“Wyatt texted me this morning,” says Jax, “about the Teragram show.” He drags, looking pleased with himself. “She said she’s hyped we’re opening.”
I force a weak smile and say, “Cool.”
“You’re always so blasé,” says Pilar. I want to respond, it’s the pharmaceuticals, but instead I say nothing.
“Pinch me!” Jax screams.
I pinch him, harder than I mean. He laughs, but it looks like he’s in pain. Then Nina texts back. It just says, lol.
The day before the show I’m out of Vyvanse, but luckily the prescription from Dr. Kim arrives in the mail. I basically run to Walgreens, the place I most hate in the world, with an enthusiasm like I’m on a pilgrimage to Mecca. I don’t even care when the line is long, when the pharmacist says she’s required “by law” to give a consultation. I’m just smiling and laughing periodically to myself, not caring when the pharmacist looks at me concerned.
Afterward, I get lunch with Jake Perez. “Holy shit” is the first thing he says when he sees me. He reaches for my arm and puts his fingers around it and I slap it away.
“Don’t body-shame me,” I say. I know his point is that I look unhealthy, but I can’t help but feel flattered. It’s not about vanity— well, of course it is—but it’s more than that. My mom’s mantra was always “humans need much less food than they think they do.” Withholding food provides a strange illusion of power. I told the nutritionist I was forced to go to that I was simply a victim of late capitalism, and she said I was a “tough case.” When asked point-blank I’ll say I’ve been “diagnosed with eating disorders” (how many times is not important), but I’ll never say I’ve “suffered from eating disorders” the way girls in those lame confessional essays in Cosmo do. The DMV? That’s suffering. Eating disorder? That’s privilege.
“Are you ready?” he asks after the waiter takes our orders. We’re at Canter’s. I’d demanded we sit in the bar section, where it’s dimmer and hipper, where there’s a full bar, where hot people go at night.
“Don’t ask dumb questions,” I say.
“Y
ou’re very aggressive today,” he says.
I shrug, then eye the room. It’s hard for me to be in a room without my eyes flitting around, especially today, especially now. But luckily, there isn’t much to look at in here.
When the waitress comes with our drinks, I practically snatch mine from her hand. I sip. Then I look at Jake.
“I’m terrified.”
“You’re confusing, Prue,” he says, and I agree. “You are unconcerned about the fact that there are nude photos of you, that you cannot account for, flourishing on the internet,” he continues, and I suppress a smile. “Yet getting to open for your two favorite musicians at your favorite venue, something you seem to have wanted since I’ve known you, throws you into despair.”
“You’re so fixated on my nudies.” I wink and stir my drink. “Are you considering getting back into the puss?”
Jake makes a face like he’s about to vomit. “I was never into ‘the puss,’” he says. “And what the hell with that vile, fuccboi, antifeminist phrasing? Very uncouth.”
I respond by motorboating the air. Freshman year, Jake Perez told everyone he motorboated a cheerleader at a frat party and then vomited in her cleavage. Senior year, he admitted he made it up.
“Don’t be disgusting,” he says. “Speaking of, did you do something to your hair?”
“Excuse me?” I instinctively reach for my ends.
The waitress puts a tray covered with various plates in front of Jake. I don’t really recognize anything on there, except for pickles. I take one without asking.
“It just looks a bit”—he digs his fork into a brown hunk of mystery meat—”dry?”
A lump forms in my throat. My hair is my whole brand. I remember reading an interview with Wyatt’s sister, Stella, where she said she was taking a bunch of Adderall so she could exercise more and her hair started falling out. God, that can’t be happening to me. Skeletal is chill, but I need my hair to look healthy.