by Babe Walker
“You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” I asked politely.
“Ah, you are American? I loooove America.” Her accent was thick as shit, so I laughed.
“So, you’re not gonna kill me?”
“Whatever you want, darling,” she purred.
“Cute. I’m Babe, I’m from LA. You know what LA is?”
“Yes, I know what LA is. You think I’m fucking moron?” she said coyly, leaning up against the pinkish wall, arching her back. Her body was actually kind of amazing. And she had gorgeous caramel skin.
“You’re, like, way prettier than you need to be, right? Do you get that a lot?” I remarked.
“You are very pretty too, LA girl. Nice hair.”
“Oh, no, my name’s Babe. You can call me that. People in rehab used to call me ‘LA Girl,’ among other names.” I continued to take long drags from my European Marlboro Light. I was totally getting into the weird scene and the buzz from the cigarette was sobering me up a bit, which in turn caused me to start realizing that Femke was a hooker and not a friend-for-rent, or whatever I thought she was.
“Nice to meet you, Babe.” With that, she slipped the cigarette from my hand and took a few drags herself. She took off her bra and tossed it onto the bed. Great tits.
“Love that name, Femke. Very model-y.”
“Dank je.”
“Que?”
“It means ‘thanks.’ ”
“Oh, right.”
“I used to want to be model. I follow all of the big ones. Christy, Kate, Karolina, Laetitia. I read all the big magazine.”
“You like fashion?” I was actually shocked.
“I love fashion. You think I want to do this job forever?”
“I don’t know, I’ve always thought being a hooker must be kind of terrifying. But then there are days when I think it’s the chicest job there is.”
“Chic?” she asked, handing me back my smoke.
“Chic,” I repeated.
“What is this?”
“What is what?”
“Chic.”
“What?”
“What is this, ‘chic’? I see all of time in magazine. We don’t have this word in Dutch.”
“Oh . . . wow,” I said. I was dumbfounded. I don’t think I’d ever had to define the word chic before. Not in my entire life. Chic was just chic. I had no clue how to define it using only the mere English lexicon. How could a word so important, such a pillar of my being, be so hard to define?
I put my cigarette out in a little heart-shaped ashtray near the bed, found a hair thing in the bottom of my bag, and proceeded to tie Femke’s blond weave up into a tight yet messy bun. Then I took the navy cashmere Miu Miu cardigan that I had been using as a scarf and gave it to her to pull over her bare chest.
“Fits perfect, I knew it would,” I said.
Then I slipped out of my black crocodile Tom Ford pumps and kicked them to Femke’s feet. She slid into the shoes, hunched a bit, and cocked her head to the left like a model (she knew her shit), and was magically a new girl. Tight bun, tight cardigan, black panties and pumps. It was kind of major, actually, and I was very impressed with my styling. I pulled out my phone to snap a photo.
“Look sad,” I directed. She gave me a brilliant scowl.
Handing her the phone to look at the photo, I happily proclaimed, “That is chic.”
Femke and I spent the next two hours talking—talking about bodies, talking about sex, and smoking Dutch cigarettes. I told her about rehab, my book, Robert, Cal, my stalker, and Leo. She told me about the different types of penises she’s seen, and the time someone accidentally shat on her. We laughed a lot. There was a certain freedom in knowing nothing about each other. The newness of our bond was something I hadn’t felt with someone in a while. My life had been so inundated with issues from my past, but Femke represented my future. She was my Pretty Woman, my Julia. I asked her to move to LA to be my assistant/bff, but she said she couldn’t move because she had five kids to take care of. I totally understood. Kids first.
I settled up with Femke and decided I wasn’t ready for my night to end. So I went to the Van Gogh museum, but being that it was 4 a.m., the doors were bolted. So I lay down on an open lawn near the museum and Google image searched “Van Gogh paintings” while smoking more cigarettes for about three hours until the sun rose. It was fucking major.
Turns out Van Gogh was, like, deeply troubled. He had every disease that anyone has ever had, and also sold only one painting before he died in 1890. He was completely unknown while he was alive. I think my life will be like that: underappreciated until I’m long gone.
I eventually found my way back to the hotel and took another long soak in the tub. I mean, Femke was cute and everything, but her little room was fucking disgusting, and I wasn’t trying to catch another VD from a Dutch whore. Just kidding, I’ve never had a VD. Just kidding.
twelve
STRONGER THAN YESTERDAY.
So I ended up staying in Amsterdam for a little longer than two days. I was into this city. I even adopted its sense of style. Yes, I was royally fucked out of my head for most of my stay, which is why I firmly (albeit momentarily) believed that the Dutch had the best fashion sense in the world. Gone was my urge to present as a carefully disheveled ambassador of color. All I cared about was black. Outside of a particularly dark phase I went through during my freshman year of college, I had never fully realized the potential of dressing in all black. I could be a vision of drapeyness in Rick Owens, or structural meets slouchy in a combination of Céline and Ann Demeulemeester. The world was my dark oyster. I even went so far as to dye my hair obsidian, pierce my nipples, and experiment with different dramatic eyeliner shapes.
I started doing special facial exercises to ensure my cheekbones would be sharp as knives. I wanted to look impenetrable, dangerous. My inclination toward all things colorless probably had to do with where I was emotionally, combined with all the hallucinogens I was taking. When you’ve made a full-time job of doing drugs, drawing, and not really speaking to anyone, the last thing you want is to look in the mirror and have your sartorial choices ricochet your fragile mind into the throes of utter insanity. No. You must become your own beacon of stability. Therefore: blackness is key.
I took a vow of silence from my family and friends in LA and decided to communicate with them only through the power of imagery, meaning I group texted everyone I knew one portrait of myself per day. Conveying my daily state of being through photography instead of words was a fun challenge. Who needs words, anyway? Sentences are overrated. I was also doing a lot of sketching in parks around the city, and could feel my soul expanding. I was actually—dare I say it?—calm. I’d evaded whomever had been stalking me (thank God); I hadn’t received a death threat the entire time I’d been in Amsterdam. I could drink coffee for hours, walk around the city, sketch, lie in grassy knolls, text photos to loved ones and ex-boyfriends, shop, text more photos, take a pill, put on eyeliner, go clubbing at night with Femke, and stare into space for hours. I was engaged in a truly fulfilling lifestyle. Much like the Britney Spears song, I was stronger than yesterday.
One morning, as I returned to my hotel from a wild night at this leather-daddy dance party called Filth Master, I noticed a sort of chic girl standing at the front desk having a quiet and controlled meltdown. She was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana crop top and miniskirt, which was kind of loud for 7 a.m., but caught my eye due to all the mushrooms I was on, so I sat down on a suitcase that I thought was a chair and watched her lose her shit. I live for confrontation when I’m tripping.
“You do not seem to understand that I have a standing annual reservation,” she stated to the meek hotel attendant with a handlebar mustache standing behind the desk. “Please check the computer system again. The name is Thalia Alexandrov.”
“Ma’am, we have nothing reserved under the surname Alexandrov.”
Sighing, she reached into her Kelly and pulled out a wad of cash, placing it lightly
on the counter. “There must be other suites available. This is the only place in the city that knows Magnus’s walking and feeding schedules.”
She was referring to the massive white Pyrenees mountain dog sleeping next to her on the floor.
“Unfortunately, Miss Alexandrov, we are full. May I recommend Hotel de l’Europe . . . ?”
“That will not do,” she muttered darkly, putting the cash back in her purse.
“I offer my sincerest apologies for this misunderstanding,” said the mustache man.
“What is your name?”
“Sergio, Miss Alexandrov.”
“I once had a boyfriend named Sergio. He was very athletic, loved to ski.”
“That’s nice, Miss Alexandrov.”
“Unfortunately he also loved to fuck whores.”
“Oh.”
“Shortly after I discovered Sergio’s habits, he suffered a terrible skiing accident and broke both his legs and a rib, and his beautiful face was forever mangled. It was quite the tragedy. But very karmic, if you ask me. Now”—she reached back into her purse and pulled out another wad of cash—“how about that room?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Alexandrov, but as I said before, the entire hotel is booked.”
Thalia kept telling Sergio about all the horrible things that had befallen those who had wronged her and kept asking Sergio for a room, and Sergio kept saying that the hotel was full. I was kind of zoned out until I locked eyes with Magnus. “Help us, Babe. Help us,” he seemed to say. I love huge dogs. So much chicer than tiny dogs. Magnus’s aura reminded me of my dearly deceased rehab dog, Soda Water, so I got up and walked over to Thalia, who was in the middle of describing to Sergio how a waiter had once served her a dairy-based soup and his balls had mysteriously been cut off the next day. I crouched down next to Magnus.
“It’s okay now,” I whispered with a reassuring smile. “Babe’s here.”
“Namaste, my queen,” said Magnus with his eyes.
I rose to my feet.
“Sergio, please move the contents of my luggage room to the storage safe downstairs, and place Magnus’s belongings and his owner in there for however long they wish to stay.” I looked back down at Magnus. “I just can’t have you shedding on any of my chunky knits.”
“Certainly, Miss Walker,” said Sergio with a smile.
“Thanks, Serg.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Thalia, giving me a stiff hug. “I’m Thalia.”
“I know. You’ve been screaming your name for the past twenty minutes. Anyway, I’m going up to my room.”
“Is that dress Alaïa?”
“What does it look like?” I responded without turning back around.
And with that, I went up to my room and passed out.
I woke up to the doorbell ringing. It was about three o’clock the following afternoon. I pulled off my eye mask and stumbled over to see who was harassing me.
“What is it?” I muttered, opening the door.
“I am so sorry. I did not mean to wake you.” It was Thalia and Magnus. “We will come back later.”
“No, it’s okay. Come in.”
“I just wanted to bring you some champagne and marijuana to say thank you for letting us stay in your luggage room.”
“Oh, no problem. You’re welcome.”
“Would you care to get high with me?”
“Um . . . sure, why not?”
We sat down on one of the sofas and Thalia lit the joint, taking a long drag.
“Fuck this fucking place,” she said, exhaling. “I cannot believe they lost my reservation.” She passed the joint to me.
“Yeah, that totally sucks.” I took a hit. Notes of strawberry, mellow aftertaste.
“I usually stay in this suite.”
“Oh. Sorry?”
“It’s fine. I am over it.”
“I was originally going to be here for a couple days, but I extended my trip and paid extra to rent it out for the rest of the month, so that’s probably why your reservation got all fucked up.”
“Ha, yes, probably. Well, whatever. This trip has been doomed from the start. I was supposed to meet a lover of mine here, but his flight got canceled and he’s not coming anymore.”
“Oh. Your boyfriend?”
“No. My boyfriend’s back in Spain, attending a charity event. This man is an artist I see sometimes. We make love, and he paints me.”
“Cute.”
“What are you doing in Amsterdam?”
“Oh you know . . . just chilling out, drawing, doing a bunch of drugs, not eating, hiding out from a stalker. The usual.”
“A stalker?”
“Yeah, like someone who is obsessed with me and follows me around leaving notes—”
“I am familiar with the term ‘stalker.’ ”
“Okay. You seemed confused.”
“No. Do you know who your stalker is?”
“No.”
“Well, that is quite the accomplishment,” she said, smiling.
“Are you kidding? It’s terrifying.”
“Nooooooo, no no no. It is chic.”
“How is someone trying to murder me chic?”
“Because it means that there is someone out there who wants you, who cannot stop thinking about you,” Thalia said, opening the bottle of champagne and walking over to the bar to grab a couple of flutes. “For all you know, this ‘stalker’ you speak of could be your soul mate who just doesn’t know any other way of communicating his or her feelings.” She carefully poured two glasses and held hers up. “Za vas,” she said, nodding to me. We clinked. I took a sip.
“I highly doubt my stalker is a hot guy who’s dying to meet me,” I said.
“You never know,” she said. She finished off her drink and poured herself another glass. “My father is, like, this kind of important person in Russia, so I had a stalker when I was seventeen. His name was Yosef, and he’d write me notes every day and wait for me outside of my school. One night my bodyguard caught Yosef in my room, watching me sleep, and he went to prison. But I’d seen a picture of Yosef in the papers, and he was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old man. Not so scary. I wrote him letters for a couple of years while he was incarcerated. Then we were lovers for three months when he got out. Best sex of my life.”
“Why did you guys break up?”
“I got bored and slept with another man and Yosef tried to kill us both. He’s back in prison now. Probably forever.”
“You’re insane,” I said.
“I know.” She giggled.
We both started laughing hysterically. It was really nice meeting someone who was crazier and slightly less pretty than me.
“I have a wonderful idea,” declared Thalia. “Let’s fly to my dad’s chalet in Gstaad. The ski season just started and all my friends will be there. We need to get out of this awful hotel.”
“I don’t know. I really can’t deal with flying commercial right now.”
“You are in luck. I have my pilot’s license and my plane is sitting in a hangar at AMS.”
“You flew yourself here?”
“Some girls are into horses. I am into planes.”
“Chic.”
“Yes, I know. Will you join me?”
“Don’t you want to get back to your boyfriend in Spain?”
“Absolutely not. Everyone thinks princes are the most glamorous boyfriends, but they smell and they’re all racist.”
“Right?! I’ve been saying that for years.”
“Except for Prince Harry. He has a magnificent penis.”
“Tell me about it. I’d fuck him.”
“As would I. So what is your decision, Babe Walker? Stay here and hide out from this stalker person, or come away with me to Gstaad?”
Gstaad it was.
The flight to Switzerland was only mildly frightening (six-seat private planes are glorified death traps, in my opinion) and we made it to Gstaad in one piece. Thalia’s dad’s chalet was kind of everything. A quai
nt ten-bedroom, thirteen-bathroom A-frame home, with a beautiful pine exterior and intricately carved white wood balconies outside every room. What I loved about it most is that it was super rustic on the inside, with plush couches and sheepskin rugs and tons of pillows, but it also had some of the most modern amenities I’d ever experienced. I’m talking electronic toilets with facial recognition, an espresso machine built into the wall, and a water spigot near the sink that spouted ice-cold Pellegrino. Obsessed. I had my own suite (of course), but I mostly stayed in Thalia’s room because we’d stay up all night talking and laughing.
Thalia was incredibly cool. I liked her because she was like me, but Russian. This meant that she drank vodka like it was water, and was always impeccably dressed. I’m kind of nymph-y and can pull off the whole chicly disheveled LA thing when I want to, but Thalia would never deign to step out in public without perfectly blown out hair, heels, and a dress. She never wore pants. It was kind of major. We also had the exact same sense of humor and could practically finish each other’s sentences. I’d always been an only child, but I like to think that Thalia and I were like long-lost astral sisters. I also liked her friends, which is rare for me. She ran with a very international crowd who seemed to have nothing to do but travel and party. I don’t know what they did for work, but then again, I didn’t know what I did for work either, so it was all good.
One night when we were out I met a French guy named Guillaume. He was maybe 5 feet 11, kind of skinny, and had a big nose (sexy big, not gross big) and shaggy blond hair. He kept saying he wanted to marry me and I kept saying no. It was the best. I was about to head back to his hotel with him for a midnight romp when an extremely drunk Thalia stormed up to us, freaking out because she thought I’d left without her. She was yelling at me, which I thought was hilarious, but then her antics devolved into whimper-crying and it became clear that I’d have to abandon Guillaume and take her home. It was annoying. I mean, who hasn’t been wasted off their face at a nightclub in the Swiss Alps? Why was it my problem? Call your driver. I was clearly busy with Guillaume.