A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  In the bathroom, some kid’s bent over the sink as if he’s going to puke. I see that half-Asian chick Jonathan’s trying to make into his next Amy standing in the line for the two stalls. I’m about to tell her, “You know, he’s queer,” or “He’s got a habit,” but I think she’d talk and rumors would start. We’re not queer. Not some rock’n’roll cliché.

  Deciding it’s better to not start rumors, I step around the line and don’t see Lynda anywhere.

  The door to the first stall opens, spewing two men, both wiping their noses, getting rid of the VCR—visible coke residue.

  I watch the other stall’s door, and some boy with platinum-blond hair opens it.

  “Fucking kick-ass place, man,” he says. The muscles over his jaw grind as his eyes twitch. “Let’s dance,” he shouts to everyone in the bathroom. He raises his arms over his head and twirls them as he walks out whooping.

  Scott, what’re you doing in here? It reeks of piss, beer, and puke, and now some guy’s puking on the floor next to you. Everyone else is in the loft, drinking and dancing.

  When I turn to leave, a hand presses on my chest.

  “There you are,” Lynda says. “You’re a difficult man to find.”

  “Difficult?”

  “See, now it’s late,” she says. “And I have to work early tomorrow.”

  “And now …?”

  “You have to call me,” she says, pushing the bangs from my forehead.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Her head moves toward me, and I feel her lips press mine.

  “Don’t forget,” she says as she steps through the door.

  Stupefied, I watch the door close.

  What’s going on tonight?

  Chapter 18

  Like Laverne and Shirley

  —Jennifer—

  This party sucks. No surprise.

  The loft’s big and full of people, but there are only two stalls in the bathroom for everyone, including boys, and now I’m stuck in line and really need to pee. Worse, it sinks like hell and I’ve lost Charlene, Wendy, and Chris—the only people here I can stand hanging with. I hate this part of my job: coming to these punk-ass parties for friends of Tanya. Such bullshit.

  “Whatever,” I say to myself, digging a cigarette out of my pack.

  Of course, the jerkoff in front of me, who’s been trying to see through my clothes since I stepped in line, shoves a lighter at my cigarette. I let him light it to avoid getting called a cold bitch and give him a thank-you nod.

  “Todd,” he says, leaning closer, as if I owed him more for lighting a cigarette.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, turning my shoulder to him. Now my view is some guy crouching over a sink, hair sticking to his sweaty face. He starts to puke, loses his grip on the sink, and falls to the floor; a thin strand of beer-colored ooze hangs from the corner of his mouth and drizzles across his T-shirt, matting it to his chest. I close my eyes. Why am I even here?

  That’s easy: ’cause I have to be. Now I can’t find the people I came with. I’m surrounded by tools and morons. And I really, really need to pee.

  The kid on the floor is retching air.

  I plug my ears. It’s as if I’m trapped in some after-school special. “See kids, this is what happens if you go to parties for pretentious bands in big lofts without an escape plan.”

  It hurts to hold it; I start shifting back and forth from one leg to the other, and I’m getting more pissed off every second. I never get to see Charlene any more, and here I am, standing in this goddamned line, which is hardly moving.

  I toss the butt to the floor and crush its shreds in the grimy liquid that has pooled there.

  I hate this stupid place.

  One of the stalls opens up, and the cigarette-lighter-idiot-boy goes in, so finally I’m next.

  After I pee, I’m getting gone. Anywhere but home. Sucks I’m the only one who still lives at home with the Ps. I’m nineteen already. With a real job. Living with the parents pisses me off. And yeah, Charlene, I’m talking to you—leaving me at home.

  We’d planned to move in together last October. Two best friends. Living in the city like Laverne and Shirley. We used to talk about how we’d decorate the place; we’d find spreads in magazines we’d make it look like. But she met Richard that summer, and she moved in with him instead.

  I know. You love him. Your career is taking off. I’m happy for that. But I’m stuck at home. I never even get to see you anymore. It’s like you died.

  A stall door opens, and I run in and barely get my pants down in time.

  Finally.

  After I leave the stall, I find the puking boy has passed out, his face in a puddle of vomit, spilled beer, and cigarette butts.

  “Oh, that’s it,” I say. “I’m done. Gone.”

  The music gets louder again as the bathroom door opens.

  “Jennifer!” Wendy shouts over the music.

  I step around the line and over the body of the passed-out boy. “I’ve got to get out of here.” I slide past her.

  In the loft, the music throbs in my body, and it’s dark, crowded, and smoky.

  “You don’t want to leave, do you?” she asks.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” I say. “I need to get some fresh air. Where’s Charlene?”

  “Having fun. Like you should be. Mingling,” she says. “Go talk to the singer, Jonathan.”

  “Why? He’s just another one of Tanya’s idiot friends.”

  “Chris tells me he wants you, specifically, to come with her to rehearsals,” Wendy says.

  “Oh, that’s worse. And I have a boyfriend.”

  “So what,” she says. “You’re not married.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t. Because he doesn’t. Because …” I curl my lip. “No. I can’t. Not like you.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” Wendy asks, her eyes stern.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m just fucking with you.” Wendy hugs me. “Learn. There’s nothing like having options. Novelty. Keeps things exciting.”

  “I’m going to visit Martin tomorrow,” I say.

  “Martin? All the hell way up in Michigan?”

  “I need to get away.”

  “When did you decide this?”

  “Right now. I’ll drive up today. Later this afternoon. Be back tomorrow. Sunday. Late. Don’t worry.”

  “Girl,” Wendy says, “I’m not your mom here, okay. But small towns. They aren’t Mayberry. Welcome wagons, Aunt Bee, Opie, and Barney. He might not—”

  “He keeps saying he wants to see me more.”

  “So see him more. With advance notice. Plans.”

  “You don’t know him,” I say. “Not like I do.”

  “Look, do what makes you happy. But”—Wendy bites her lip—“what if he’s out of town? Or having some party with those clods he hangs out with? You want to show up for that?”

  “So I’ll turn around and come back. Nice, long drive. I’ll be getting away from Chicago.”

  Then Wendy gets this strange look on her face like the one my mom gets when she thinks I’m up to something. “You’re not going to stay there, are you? As in forgetting to ever come back—accidentally living with him?”

  “No,” I say defensively.

  “I know things didn’t work out with Charlene. But he lives in a town with the population of the building I live in.”

  “So?”

  “You’re a city girl, Jennifer. Small towns are like living with a nosy extended family. Everyone will be all up in your business. You won’t be able to fart without the whole town knowing. Plus you’re marked. Modeling agency plus city girl equals wild thing—freak. The women won’t talk to you, thinking you’ll steal their husbands or seduce their sons.
And the men? They think Penthouse Forum is real and you’re like some wild fantasy come to life: parties, wild sex, coke, one-night-stands. And they’ll think you’ve got some wild, freaky friends that you’ll hook them up with for a three-way.”

  “Martin’s not like that,” I say.

  “Okay. You’re right. I don’t know him. So I can’t say. Sorry. Remember: I’m not telling you what to do here. I’m only asking you to think before you make any big decisions. There are a couple girls looking for roommates in our office.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head emphatically. “No chance. Terri’s a bitch. Katie’s a complete moron. I’m surprised she can figure out how to breathe.”

  Wendy laughs. “Not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “I’m only going to visit. One night.”

  Chris swaggers up to us, her hands wrapped around her belt, thumbs up. “They want to see my work.”

  “Congrats,” Wendy says.

  “I have to swing by the next rehearsal and show them my portfolio. And we’re all invited.” Chris looks directly at me. “Jonathan. He wanted me to make sure you, in particular, get invited.”

  “So I heard,” I say.

  “He is sexy, girl,” she says.

  “Take him. All yours,” I say. “Where’s Charlene?”

  “Had to take off. Richard’s leaving on a trip—needed something,” Chris says. “I don’t know.”

  I fade into the background until we leave, keeping quiet on the drive to Wendy’s place, thinking about Michigan, wondering whether or not I am planning on forgetting to come back, like in a summer romance movie. I eventually come to the conclusion that I’m not sure.

  Chapter 19

  Too Thin to Feel

  —Jennifer—

  I should’ve listened to Wendy.

  Instead I took off as soon as I woke up. No call—too early, I told myself. Surprising him sounded like more fun anyway.

  Looking back, I can’t believe I missed it. It’s so obvious: Nearly everyone living in Shelbyville works a few minutes away in Holland or Saugatuck, taking stories back with them. Holland is pretty but uptight and boring—it’s where all the Chicago yacht owners sail for a weekend getaway; the stories from there are of being looked down at, insulted, and sneered at. Saugatuck, though, is the gay getaway—Provincetown for Chicago—and Martin and his friends love telling stories about what they’ve seen there when catering to the hotels and parties; the more outrageous the tale, the better: the trannies asking, “Have you ever sucked a woman’s cock?”; glimpses of an orgy in the flickering light of a bonfire burning out of sight from the road in the woods; old men and pretty boys petting in the tall grass; naked men wrestling in the mud after a rain; all the used condoms in the motel rooms they cleaned; and boat trips full of men kissing—and blowing kisses at them.

  Whenever Martin’s friends would sit around his apartment, drinking beers, swapping these stories, I would have to ignore them, because I knew they’d end up talking about how they wanted to go down and “beat the fuck out of a couple of faggots.”

  So obvious.

  Once in Shelbyville, I turn down Maple Street, two blocks from his parents’ house. Seeing his black Camaro in the driveway, I know he is home, so I park my car down the street and sneak along the sidewalk, past the main house, and then up the driveway to his apartment. Coming up to the door, I stop and peek through the window and see Martin reaching for a box of cereal. He is naked, his hair is matted into odd clumps, and his bed is a mess.

  “A breakfast surprise,” I whisper. Carefully, I try the door. It’s unlocked, the way it always is in a movie. I pull it open.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” I say.

  He jerks around and stares at me, confused for a moment.

  “What?” he asks. “What are you doing here?” He looks scared.

  “Nice to see you too,” I say.

  A blond man steps out of the bathroom, naked and flushed. “What’s the matter, baby?” he asks, reaching out to stroke Martin’s hair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Then the blond sees me and looks at Martin and then back at me.

  “Oh god,” the blond says to me. “Such bad timing. I’m so sorry.”

  I cease thinking.

  Then I start contracting, my body thinning to a line. I am too thin to see, too thin to hear, too thin to feel.

  Like in a horror movie, the next thing I remember is waking up on Wendy’s couch, but she refuses to let me wallow. Nope, we’re going out so I don’t have time to think about what happened. A lot of her job is managing the million personal disasters that happen to the models, clients, and photographers on every casting and shoot over every breakup, cheating lover caught, or day rate leaked. I’ve seen it work so many times, so I let her handle mine, and tonight that means Smart Bar.

  She turns on Savage by Eurythmics to set the mood, and we clink rum sours together. “To us.”

  “Where the hell is Charlene?” I ask. “She’s always out with us on nights like this.”

  “Left her a message.” She gives a quick shrug, as if it’s nothing to think about, and then grabs a bottle from her nightstand. Before I realize what she’s doing, she’s already sprayed me with one, two, three quick mists of perfume. So tonight I’ll smell like someone else. Later I’ll wash it off and be back to being plain old Jennifer—me.

  She drives us to Smart Bar and snags great parking on Racine, behind Metro. Turning the corner from the alley between the Gingerman and Cabaret Metro, I see Smart Bar’s simple black sign of two women in white outline. Underneath it we enter a long black tunnel. In the shuddering fluorescent light, bright graffiti murals of dancers shimmy at us as we walk toward the cover window. A heavy rhythm pounds from below. The woman behind the arched ticket window waves us past the line of people paying the cover charge. Wendy pecks the bouncer guarding the stairs on the cheek, and he lifts the rope. We’ve never shown our IDs or paid a cover charge here. All we ever have to do is smile and say hi, and the ropes go up as if we are in some commercial for couture jeans; as the brand’s logo floats across the screen, the voice-over announces that “for girls like these, the ropes always rise.”

  As we walk down the staircase enclosed with a chain-link fence, the rhythm from a dark soundtrack throbs through me; this is a place where vampire-white skin is the norm and suntans are shunned. With each step, the pulsing in my chest and legs grows stronger. At the bottom of the stair, darkness spills out before us and the Sisters of Mercy’s “Temple of Love” welcomes me back to where everyone knows life is short and love is always over in the morning. Here everything is understandable, normal, and predictable.

  First we say hello to the bartenders and what regulars are there as we go from the side bar to the main, where we find a good seat along the curve by the women’s restroom.

  Sitting down, I light a cigarette and watch the smoke twist up one of the tight columns of light that shoot down from the ceiling in a long row down the whole length of the bar, splashing off the black lacquer, casting an eerie, glowing light.

  Not long after getting our drinks, Wendy nudges me on the shoulder.

  “Look out,” Wendy says, flicking her head toward a tall blond boy with tightly styled hair, pressed jeans, and a polo shirt. “Suburbanite invader looking for a wild time in the big city. In under five minutes, they’ll be here, trying to score.”

  While the blond boy looks back at her from the far end of the bar, a man in a Cubs jacket hands him a full beer. The blond nudges the other man’s arm and nods at us. The boys start walking over.

  Oh, here we go.

  “Let’s at least get a drink for having to put up with them.” She finishes her drink as the blond and his friend come up to us. She shakes the cubes around her empty glass before setting it on the bar.

  “So can I get you a refill?” the blond asks.

/>   “Jack and Coke.”

  “Strong.”

  “I like strong,” she says.

  I see the blond raising his eyebrows to his friend.

  This isn’t Porky’s, dipshits.

  I finish my beer and let them buy me another. This really isn’t worth a free beer, but they won’t leave without calling us stuck-up bitches or frigid.

  “Mike,” the blond says, pointing to himself. “And Adam.”

  “Justine,” Wendy says. “And Melissa.”

  Whenever Wendy’s dealing with uninvited guys trying to pick us up—every time we go out—she always gives these names. If someone gets the reference to The Alexandria Quartet, or the Marquis de Sade, that means he might actually be worth talking to. No one ever has.

  So we nod coldly at whatever they say, sending out not-interested signals hard and fast.

  Still, Adam offers to buy another round.

  Then Jonathan appears from behind the two boys.

  I catch my breath.

  “Hey, Jennifer. How’d you like the party?” Jonathan asks, pulling his hair from his face. He’s sweaty, as if he’s been dancing.

  “Justine and I,” Wendy says, “were talking about that earlier.”

  “Justine?” He looks lost for a moment. “I’m terrible with names. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, standing up.

  “Sure,” Jonathan says. “Maybe I’ll see you later. Make sure you come by rehearsal next Tuesday. Your friend Chris knows about it.”

  I walk into the salon of the bathroom. Staring into a mirror, I pull out my lipstick and start tracing my lips. That’s one person I didn’t want to see. I purse my lips at myself and then blot them. He’ll be waiting out there. With Wendy. He’s exactly the type.

  “Why do I have to deal with these people?” I ask my mirror-self. “Moron.” That comes out louder than I expected.

  The women at the other three mirrors glance at me, one still holding her sponge applicator over a cheek.

  Even more bullshit I don’t need to deal with. First a queer ex-boyfriend, and now a musician stalker. I’m going to tell him, right now, that I don’t give a rat’s ass about him, his band, or his loft. I’m not going to come to his rehearsal Tuesday—or ever.