Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  “You okay?” Jake asks.

  I take a steadying sip of my bourbon. “Yeah,” I say. My head feels pleasantly fuzzy for a moment. “Just thinking about you lying about vomiting into a woman’s breasts.” I start to giggle. “It’s just funny you wouldn’t give yourself a better edit.” I stab a piece of lettuce. “Especially, you know, given that it was a lie.”

  “You know not everyone is pathologically obsessed with what irrelevant people think of them,” he says.

  I start chewing my lettuce. “Yes, they are.”

  On the way out of the restaurant, I spot a cool teenager and start to stare, hoping I can maybe secondhand inhale some of her youthful je ne sais quoi. She’s wearing all black with checkered Vans and has dirty-blonde hair. Soon, she’s staring back at me, which makes me embarrassed. She probably thinks I’m some kind of creep. She starts to approach on a skateboard that I didn’t see before.

  “Vagablondeeee,” she says. She stops her skateboard and pops it up into her arm.

  Jake raises his eyebrows at her, and I stand frozen.

  “‘Dearly Queerly’ is my shit!” she says.

  I force an uncomfortable smile and feel a desperate need to escape. I look around me and get that feeling I get on the freeway, like the world is too vast and I am too small and the weight of space will crush me.

  “And that FADER article!” she says, apparently oblivious to my discomfort. “You’re what’s up!”

  I feel a weight on my head, my shoulders, all around me. Jake puts his arm around me, which makes me jump.

  “Thanks for your support,” Jake says to the teen, then escorts me to the car like he’s my bodyguard or something. As we walk, I notice a few other cool teens with their phones out, maybe taking photos, maybe filming. I cover my face with my hand and feel myself leave my body. I’ve been practicing for this moment my entire life, but it doesn’t feel as cool as I thought it was. Actually I feel like I’m dying.

  That evening I’m staring at the palm frond while Ennui makes hacking noises when Nina calls. I answer it.

  “Hi,” I say with a cool monotone. “That’s my impression of you.”

  “I’m sorry about the article,” she says.

  “Didn’t read it,” I say.

  “Are you seri—”

  Another call is coming in, from Yumiko. Saved by the bell.

  “I’ll call you back,” I say, then switch calls. “Yo, b.”

  “Hi, lovey,” she says. She’s speaking in the Cockney accent, which I haven’t heard her use in a while. “I’m freaking out a bit. Having a proper breakdown, if you will.”

  “SAME!”

  “You fucking with me?” she asks. “You’re always so chillllll.”

  “Are you kidding?” I ask. “Did you not see me on the fire escape, boo?”

  She laughs. “Yeah,” she says, her accent fading. Her voice softens, and I remember the side of her from the morning I slept over. The girl with the T-shirt and the steaming coffee mug and the burn marks. I still wonder what happened to her arm. I imagine it’s a good story. “But you seem so natural onstage.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “I typically feel like I’m dying.”

  “God,” she says. “Same.”

  “I didn’t realize fear was an emotion you experienced,” I say. “You are, like… “ I pet Ennui, searching for the words. “…missing an amygdala.” Ennui makes a sound like she might vomit and I feel no particular way about it.

  “Yeah,” she says. “As a performance artist… “ She pauses. “I take my art very seriously. Falling off a fire escape, I’d just die or become disfigured. Tragic, maybe, but not as tragic as fucking up my art.”

  My stomach churns as I imagine bones cracking on the pavement.

  “I’m not that precious about my art,” I say.

  “Bullshit.”

  When she hangs up, I collapse onto the bed and my self-hate spirals out of control. Not only am I a sad thirtysomething chasing untenable delusions, but I’m so fixated on my internal drama that I alienate everyone who tries to get close to me. Besides, what do I have to be so fucking depressed about? I’m thin and well educated. People seem to like me and want to have sex with me. My parents are rich enough that I don’t really ever have to worry about being homeless. I should volunteer, think about someone else for once, rather than wallowing in an endless vortex of self-loathing. Or maybe I could get a lobotomy, like a light one. Like where I’m still smart but I have a totally different personality.

  I take half a Klonopin, turn off the light, and type “Wyatt Walcott hair” into the search engine on Pinterest, then begin to scroll until my brain shuts the fuck up.

  My body is nearly shaking when I awake. As I reach for my phone I spot a bit of cat vomit on the edge of my bed and feel like I might throw up myself. It’s only 10:30 A.M. I don’t have to be at the venue until 6:00 P.M. The expanse of time scares me. What will I do to fill it? How will I stay sober enough to perform? I remember a time I saw Das Racist in 2012 and they were chugging vodka onstage and couldn’t form a coherent bar. I finagled my way backstage after the show, which was easy because I was the hottest girl, maybe the only girl, in the audience (their music is very boy). This was during the straightest period of my life, when I used to throw myself at any boy with a cute sweater who fancied himself clever. That night, I latched on to Heems, the chubby one in the group. Not long after I sat on his lap, he started smoking heroin and my square law school friend got scared and we had to leave. Later he told me I dodged a “fat bullet.” But the point is they were signed to Sony, and they were very fucked up, much more than I ever have been or ever will be.

  U up? I text Yumiko.

  Spiraling, she types back, and I’m relieved.

  I begin typing same and then I decide to call her. “I want to start naming your characters,” I say, then put the call on speaker. I get up to grab a cloth and wet it under the faucet, for the cat vomit.

  “Characters?”

  “Yeah.” I go to the bed and start wiping off the vomit. I focus on the fact that I’m opening for my heroes tonight and try to, like, be happy or whatever. It doesn’t work. I still have no idea whether Shiny AF is even good or whether everyone is just laughing at us.

  “They aren’t characters,” she says. “They’re me.”

  I realize I’ve made a real friend out of Yumiko, then I wonder whether we slept together. I typically can’t get close to people until I sleep with them, which Barbara Lumpkin called a “problem.” But she was a bitch. I wonder whether anyone in the downtown office saw my FADER spread. I wonder what Nina wrote. My brain is going really quick.

  “What are we going to do before the show?” I ask.

  “Kill ourselves?”

  I laugh. “That’s Jessica,” I say. “Your character.”

  “Actually,” she says, “it’s my impression of you.”

  I stick my tongue out, momentarily forgetting she can’t see me.

  “Also,” she says, “Jessica is the worst name on the planet.”

  Ennui slinks in.

  “Okay, Rachel,” I say.

  “Bitch!”

  I laugh, and then there is a brief moment of silence. I pet Ennui and notice her coat is silky smooth. I pet the crispy hair on my head and feel envious.

  “What are you doing right now?” she asks in a manic sorority-girl voice.

  “Petting my cat and my own head,” I say. Ennui slinks away on the word “cat” as though she is punishing me for acknowledging her.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’m going to pick you up in twenty.”

  “Okay,” I say. Spontaneity is not typically my thing, but at this moment I’m desperate for anything to occupy my time.

  “Wear something you can move in,” she says.

  “We aren’t scaling anything tall, are we?” I ask when I get into Yumiko’s car, a boxy black Lincoln filled with fast-food-related trash and a strong scent of marijuana. “Because I’d prefer to avoid an anxiety atta
ck on the day of the show.” I clutch my fanny pack, which contains my Altoid tin filled with four amphetamines and four benzos, depending on what I feel I need. I recall how this Altoid tin once contained actual Altoids. Now it’s just a tin of drugs I use to remain upright.

  “I’m going to take care of you,” she says, then squeezes my knee, pounds the gas. KDAY is playing Ashanti and the sun is bright and hot. I feel like we’re in a music video from the early aughts—appropriate for show day.

  “I didn’t know you had a car,” I say.

  “It’s my man’s,” she says. The fact that she has a “man” makes me feel relieved. Maybe she’s fully “heterosexual,” which I wasn’t aware people were anymore, especially not people as cool as Yumiko. Maybe she’s acting straight to be ironic, or maybe it’s her performance art. As warm air pours in through the open windows, my imagination soothes my addled brain. I watch passing palms and imagine Yumiko’s man as a hot guy with tattoos, black hair, a charming smile.

  “So, wanna know what we’re doing?” Yumiko asks as she turns onto San Fernando Road, the street by the dried-up river, Frogtown. Being close to the rehearsal space makes me anxious, as does Yumiko’s offer to explain actual future events. I want to forever remain in timeless dreamland.

  “Of course,” I lie.

  “So we’re going to my Afro-Caribbean dance class,” she says. “My girl Crystal teaches it and you’re going to love it. It will loosen you up for the show, and you might even get some ideas for moves—not that you need them.”

  This is the fastest and most animated I’ve ever heard Yu-miko speak, and I wonder if she’s on uppers. Then I realize this is the first time I’ve seen her without a blunt in her mouth. Maybe she’s just sober.

  “Then,” she says, whipping around the curved road, “we’re going to eat a burger.” The way she drives reminds me of the way she descended the fire escape: reckless and unfazed. It doesn’t help that this car is bulky as hell and emitting weird sounds. “Because I need you well fed up there.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” I lie. I really don’t like burgers. My mouth is too small for them.

  “Veggie burger then!” She swings into a parking lot, then into a space. “Then we’ll get ready.”

  The car is now stopped. Yumiko points to the back seat. I look back and see open duffel bags overflowing with sequined jackets and neon wigs and scuffed tubes of mascara. I feel silly that I didn’t think about this. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to wear onstage at some point, but then I forgot. I pull out my phone and text Jax.

  Any ideas about my look tonight?

  By the time I hit send, Yumiko is already walking toward the studio with a kind of swaggy strut. I put my phone back in my fanny pack and laugh at myself walking into an Afro-Caribbean dance class with a fanny pack and neon-blonde hair.

  “Vaga?” asks a girl with white braids as soon as I enter the studio. It’s run-down with exposed brick. Dramatic lighting cuts in from various mysterious holes. Very Save the Last Dance.

  “Hi,” I say to the girl. The two other women in the room seem to be looking at me.

  “Yumi has told me a lot about you,” she says. “I’m Crystal.” She’s wearing a sequined bodysuit that reminds me of the jacket Yumiko showed me the other day on her flip phone.

  “Ah,” I say. I should have realized it was her. “Likewise.”

  Crystal begins with a popping dancehall track that instantly pulls me in. I’d forgotten how fun it is to dance in front of mirrors. Halfway into the track, I accidentally burst out laughing, in a normal and hopefully not rude way, at the fact that I’m taking an Afro-Caribbean dance class in a gentrified neighborhood of East Los Angeles taught by a white woman for white women— a bunch of Rachel Dolezals shaking our nonexistent asses. Afterward, I become sad, feeling guilty about my obvious role in gentrification and my voyeurism into cultures I know nothing about, but which seem “exciting” in the abstract, in comparison to my mundane and sheltered existence. I refocus on the dance moves to quiet my brain.

  Dance class goes by quickly. Crystal has great energy and rhythm, and many times I find myself jumping into the air with her and moving my body in an uninhibited manner. A few times Yumiko hip-bumps me midmove, and each time I imagine her saying “my man” and feel, simultaneously, comforted and jealous. The two other women dance with very nervous and understated movements. We teach women to shrink themselves, I think, then I quickly refocus on my body. At the end of class, the two other white women scamper out of the room without my noticing. Either that or they never existed.

  “Are you ready for tonight?” Crystal asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “I’m excited,” she says. This girl seems nice.

  Yumiko pulls my arm. “Time to get this delicate flower fed,” she says.

  “Kill it tonight,” Crystal says, and I wonder if it’s time to dose.

  Outside, I pull out my phone to avoid looking at the sun. The time hits me in the face: 2:30 P.M. That means I don’t get to the venue for another three and a half hours, meaning I don’t go on for another five hours. As my stomach begins to sink, I check my text from Jax.

  LOL Vaga you always look amazing!!! Just do you <3

  As cars zoom by in front of me, I try to come up with a response. My iPhone feels hot in my palm.

  I’m bad at my makeup, I type back. Yumiko honks. I put my phone back in my purse and skip over to her car, propelled back into the timeless dream space.

  Yumiko takes me to a gastropub on Los Feliz Boulevard. I’ve been here once before with Jake Perez. It’s dark and feels like a cave… womblike. We sit in the corner and order big draft beers and burgers—mine, vegetarian. I decide to obey Yumiko’s command to eat. I’m normally pretty regimented about my caloric intake, but today I decide I could use some lining in my stomach. I even eat the fries, which are thick and greasy, and slather them in ketchup.

  When I’m full, I pull out my phone. There’s a text from Jax. Pilar can do your makeup!

  Perfect, I write back. I wonder what I’m going to wear. I check the time. It’s not even three P.M. Three hours until I get to the venue. I’m scared to go home, where I have abundant access to pills and alcohol and cigarettes and weed, and where I’ll likely lose all self-control, then show up to the venue in a catatonic state. Ugh, time, you frustrating bitch.

  “Do you wanna get ready at your place?” I ask Yumiko. I think if there is anything I need. I could shower at her house. She has great T-shirts and boots. I’m not particularly attached to anything I own. I have my pills. I clutch my fanny pack.

  “I’m low on cash so I Airbnb’d it,” she says. “I’ve been sleeping at my man’s.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s fine.” I do some math in my head. We could probably stay here another hour or so, have another beer. We could get back to my house at around 4:00, 4:30. Shower. Get ready. Leave for the venue at 5:45 P.M. It doesn’t take either of us very long to get dressed.

  Yumiko slaps my arm. “Calm down!”

  “I’m trying,” I say. Then I go to the bathroom and break one of my Adderall pills in half and crunch the five milligrams between my molars. I rinse my mouth out with water from the bathroom sink and flush the toilet for good measure. Bathroom infidelities.

  Returning to the table, I feel the amphetamine jolt. I’m chatting as soon as I sit down. My mouth is on autopilot and my crazy thoughts are easily finding their way out of my head. “I’m thinking long black T-shirt, I have one I can wear as a dress. Black thigh-high socks. Black Timberlands. Maybe a thin silver or gold chain… “ I’m not even looking at Yumiko as I speak. She may as well not be there. Soon I’m not even listening to myself, and then my phone rings.

  It’s Nina. “Hi,” I say.

  “You never called me back,” she says. I could not be more over her in this moment.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Something came up.”

  Yumiko takes an aggressive bite of burger, then makes a funny face. I laugh.

&
nbsp; “Do you even want me to come tonight?” she asks.

  “I really don’t care,” I say. I put a fry into my mouth and speak while chewing. “I’m eating lunch, is there anything you need from me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like for an article or something,” I say. I know I’m being a brat. Ellie floats into my brain. I can’t believe I’m about to open for Dead Stars and we aren’t even speaking.

  “No?” she says in a way that annoys me. I hang up.

  “Nina?” Yumiko asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing,” I say, then put another fry into my mouth.

  At home, I try my best to focus on discrete tasks. I don’t want to ingest more than 10 milligrams of Adderall before I go onstage. But I also want to feel up—like a star, with charisma. I took 5 milligrams at the bar. I decide to take the other 5 milligrams before I leave the house. Maybe I’ll take 2.5—a quarter—right before I go onstage. I’ll bring my fanny pack in case I have an emergency. I shouldn’t take uppers and downers at the same time, but it’s nice knowing the benzos are there in case I need them.

  Yumiko takes the first shower. While the water falls, I sip a beer very slowly and lay out various T-shirt options on the bed. I blast the EP and rap along as practice. I try to move while I’m doing it. I dim the lights in my room and sway in front of the mirror and thank god for blessing me with alienating mannerisms that translate as alluring and vulnerable onstage.

  Soon the bathroom door flies open and steam fills my bedroom. Ennui meows in protest. Yumiko struts out buck naked, then starts twerking to the song. Her breasts flap wildly and her butt pops with precision. I address my discomfort by turning up my dance energy. I still feel the euphoria of the five milligrams, and with the second half I’ll be in a good state by the time I get to the venue. I check the clock: 4:45 P.M. One hour.

  In the shower, I wash every corner of my body, twice, then shave every hair on my body. I deep condition my hair. I sit down in the middle of the shower and take deep, steamy breaths. For several minutes, I stand aimlessly under the stream of hot water, which burns in a good way. I coat my whole body in coconut oil. When I exit the shower, I hit my vape pen. The vapor combines with the steam from the shower and I remember when we used to fill Jake Perez’s old BMW with blunt smoke on the way to the movies in college.