Blazed

by Jason Myers

  I’ve seen tapes of her dancing. She was mesmerizing onstage, under those sharp, hot lights. Me, I know nothing about dancing. Nothing about the ballet. It doesn’t interest me. But every time I watched her on those tapes, I was transcended into the story she was telling with her body. Watching her dance was like reading a book. I understood what she was saying and I didn’t want it to end.

  This is why I was so nervous to play her the songs. When I was recording them, I knew she wasn’t paying attention. She was doing drugs and drinking scotch and watching Terrence Malick movies in the living room.

  I’ve heard her scathing opinions about people’s work that isn’t up to her standards. The things she’s said to describe their underachieving, lifeless work, and the cruel, cold delivery and pitch of her words. Hearing something like that from your own mother will wrap your heart in ice and fuck with you for the rest of your life.

  It’s nasty. And I’m her son. And all she wants me to be in life is a successful, beautiful, popular artist. There’s a standard there as high as the heavens, and it would break our relationship if she didn’t like it.

  My mother, she started clapping. She even stood up like people did for her after she performed.

  She loved it. That’s when I asked her for the Pro Tools. She delivered that to me, and I delivered my four-song EP, Peril Alley, as Tiger Stitches, a week later.

  To date, each song has gotten over twenty thousand plays.

  To date, Tiger Stitches is the best fucking name ever.

  After another gulp of wine, I grab my pen and start cribbing the third verse. Maybe three minutes later, it’s done.

  And then I play “Black Vulture” for the first time ever all the way through.

  32.

  I’M WALKING OUT OF THE basement bathroom when I hear a door open upstairs and this girl laughing and high heels thumping against the floor.

  I grab my tinfoil and hit the rest of the pill real quick. Then I look around the room, panicked, then spot a garbage can. I throw away the foil as the heels begin descending the stairs to the basement.

  Wipe the sweat from my face with my hand and wish I was upstairs in my bedroom.

  Then I see Kristen and do not wish that anymore. Not at all.

  The girl is so lovely. So pretty. Just absolutely perfect-looking. I mean, she looks nearly identical to Ivanka Trump. I’m totally serious. It’s sort of bizarre, actually. Kinda creepy in the way that kinda creepy can be super awesome.

  She’s got this really healthy blond hair that’s parted in the middle and hangs down past her shoulders. She’s prolly an inch taller than me. Her body is very lean and her skin is tan. Her lips are thin and her teeth are snow-white and her eyes are bright blue.

  Kristen stops at the bottom of the stairs and grins. “Well, hey there,” she goes, then winks. “Another stripper waiting for me when I get home. My mother is so rad.”

  I don’t get it at first until I realize I’m still shirtless and we’ve never met before.

  I’m embarrassed now and I cover my face with my hand.

  “She’s got the best taste, too,” Kristen continues. “You’re a total babe.”

  Swinging my eyes back on her, I say, “I’m Jaime. Your stepbrother. The kid that got made when Justin donated his sperm.”

  “Ha,” she goes, and starts walking toward me. “You refer to your father as a sperm donor. It’s nice to know there’s someone else in the world who does that too.”

  Kristen stops just a few inches from me. She smells like Chanel, cigarettes, peaches, and booze.

  It ain’t bad.

  “Hi,” she goes.

  “Yo.”

  She sighs, then reaches toward my face with her hand.

  “Whoa.” I duck away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Helping you.”

  “With what?”

  She pulls a black compact from her handbag and flips it open, holding up the small mirror in front of me.

  “Fuck,” I groan.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  “It’s not nothing.”

  “It’s nothing important,” I say, looking around for a towel.

  “I got you.” She pulls out a couple of tissues from her bag and a bottle of water which she opens and pours onto the tissue. “Take it,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  I run the wet tissue all over my face a couple of times to rub off the black from the foil I used to smoke.

  That shit can get everywhere.

  It does get everywhere.

  When I’m done, Kristen grabs the tissues from my hand and says, “Missed a couple spots, Jaime.”

  She leans right into my face and carefully cleans off the rest of the black.

  She winks again. “I like people who still play in the dirt. Never growing up is so much fun.”

  I roll my eyes when she turns around. A large bulge has formed in the crotch of my jeans, and I quickly readjust myself as best I can.

  “Do you often hang around in strange houses without your shirt on and drink very expensive bottles of wine by yourself?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This.” She picks up the bottle I’ve been drinking and turns back to me. “This is a hundred-dollar bottle of pinot noir you’ve been smashing. I’m surprised this wasn’t all over your face too, you messy, messy boy.”

  “Shit,” I say. “I had no idea it was that expensive. It was sitting in a basket. Like a gift basket.”

  “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

  I shrug. “It’s a gift basket.”

  “My mother and your father have very rich friends. Every gift in this house is fucking expensive.”

  “Right.”

  She puts the bottle to her lips and takes a drink. “Tasty,” she goes. “Out of all the wine in this house, you open this one. You’ve got great taste.”

  “It was a lucky pick.”

  “You can’t say that here, dude.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everything you choose while you’re staying here is because you’ve got great taste. It’ll be easier for you that way.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because.” She takes another drink. “People expect that.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about anyone’s expectations. Like, if not living up to expectations is gonna be a thing this week, I’ll have a few things to toss around that’ll trump my lack of experience in the area of red wine.”

  “Great,” she says, and takes another pull.

  I like her a little bit already, which is nice because I wasn’t planning to.

  “Come on,” she goes, waving me over to her. “Come here.” She hands me the bottle of wine and then gently pushes me onto the couch and stands over me with her hands on her hips.

  I take a pull and eye her up and down and up and down.

  She’s wearing these black floral lace stockings and a very large white Tearist T-shirt with the sleeves cut off of it and a V cut down the middle of it. A large silver necklace with a red pendant hangs from her neck. Rings wrap around every finger. And a pair of scuffed-up white heels cover her feet.

  “I was listening to Living 2009-Present, like, two days ago,” I tell her, and take a drink. “They’re so good. I love them.”

  Kristen’s smile, like, doubles as I hand her back the bottle, and she goes, “Yes. You. Just yes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re fucking cool. I see the guitar out and the notebook. You jack a pricey bottle of wine and get drunk in the basement by yourself, then reference Tearist within five minutes of me meeting you. I’m stoked.” She takes a monster drink, then says, “Yasmine Kittles is prolly one of my top five favorite singers and performers easily. I love that bitch.”

  “She’s good.”

  “I drove down to L.A. during spring break and saw them play with Chelsea Wolfe.”

  “Rad,” I say. “Did you use Ivanka Trump’s ID to get i
nto the show?”

  Kristen’s face gets super happy-looking. “You’re a little fucking hustler. A charmer.”

  “Nah.”

  “No,” she says. “You are. You’re a little Justin Miles, just sweetening up the air in every room you walk into.”

  “Screw you,” I rip, pushing myself off the couch. “Just screw you, Kristen.”

  “Hey,” she goes.

  I slide past her and pick up my tank top and notebook off the ground.

  She grabs ahold of my arm. “What the hell was that all about?”

  Ripping my arm free, I go, “You know nothing about me, okay? Nothing. Yet you’ve got the nerve to say I’m like that evil bastard. Fuck you. I’m nothing like that prick. You have no idea who I am. How dare you?”

  “Jaime.”

  “That’s a cunt thing to do to a boy. Backstabbing girls with dirty mouths say shit like that.”

  “Hey!” She grabs my arm again. “Don’t blow up on me.”

  “Piss off.”

  She jams her other hand into my chest. “You don’t get to intrude in my life and treat me this way. Now that’s some real asshole-type shit right there. Just like my father. Only little bitch boys with annoying daddy complexes and filthy souls say shit like you did. Is that what you are, man? A little bitch boy?”

  I pull my arm free. “Stop it,” I say.

  “Answer the fucking question.”

  “I don’t have a filthy soul,” I snap.

  “And I’m not a backstabbing bitch.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “It’s the best.”

  I throw my shirt back on and Kristen starts laughing. The tension crumbles straight off my shoulders now and I start laughing too.

  It’s nice. Laughing with a girl is nice sometimes.

  “Drink,” she goes, pushing the bottle at my face. “Keep drinking, Jaime Miles.”

  I take two big gulps. She finishes the bottle.

  “What now?” I go.

  “Lots of things,” she says.

  She goes over to the fridge and opens it and comes back over with two bottles of Corona.

  “This work for you?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Great.”

  She pops off both bottle caps with a pink lighter and hands me one.

  “Cheers,” she says.

  “Cheers.”

  “To strippers paid for by my mother.”

  “And Ivanka Trump look-alikes.”

  “Word, dude.”

  “Yeah, word.” We clank our bottles together. “Word, forever,” I finish.

  33.

  ME AND KRISTEN, WE’RE ON the back deck a few minutes later. She’s sitting Indian-style with her back against the hot tub, smoking a cigarette, and I’m sitting on a short bench.

  That Naked and Famous song “Young Blood” is playing from her phone.

  “So, like, how are you holding up, man?” she asks. “Your head must be a blur right now.”

  Shrugging, I go, “Sort of. But I don’t think anything can faze me really. I’ve been dealing with crazy my whole life, and this is just another thing.”

  “No way,” she goes. “You found your mother dying.”

  “Blood and vomit don’t scare me. Those were the only two things that were new this time.”

  “Damn,” she says. “I’m so sorry for you. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I don’t get that. How can anyone be happy that I’m here?”

  “You’re my stepbrother, man. We’re family.”

  “No, we’re not, Kristen. My father would have to be family, and he’s not. He never will be. Fuck him. I’ve been alive for fourteen years and this is the first time I’ve seen my father and talked to him. He’s never reached out.”

  “That’s not true, Jaime.”

  “Yes, it is!” I snap. I take a swig of beer and go, “I bet you’re an awesome person, but excuse me when I say, you don’t know shit. That prick ruined my mother. He fucking hit her and stalked her after she left. Since I’ve been able to walk, I’ve been dealing with those demons and fighting those monsters. And him, he’s been living this posh fucking life while me and my mother have been trapped in the world he fucking destroyed. So fuck that. My mother had a bad day, and that’s the only reason I’m here. He’s more excited about Savannah being here than me.”

  Kristen nods and says, “Jaime, he’s more excited about Savannah than anything in his life right now.”

  “Whatever,” I go. “Point is, just cos you say you’re happy I’m here doesn’t mean you really are.”

  “I am,” she goes. “So many times I’ve thought about reaching out to you on Facebook or Twitter.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  She takes a drag. “No . . . I didn’t. But would it have mattered if I had?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Would you have even responded to me if I had?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly.”

  I finish my beer and say, “This is all so fucked.”

  “Let’s unfuck it then.”

  I shrug. “We can’t.”

  Kristen pulls out a cocaine bullet, twists the cap off, and loads a bump.

  Me, I only know what a cocaine bullet is because my mother has one.

  Actually, she has four. And she has these personalized snooters made out of silver too.

  “Love my life,” Kristen says, then drops the blast pony into her nose.

  She holds the bullet out and offers me some.

  “I’m good,” I tell her.

  “Come on,” she goes. “Live a little.”

  “I’ve got Oxys with me. That’s my jam.”

  “Really? How many?”

  “Enough.”

  “Which is?”

  “A lot,” I say. “You want one?”

  “Not right now. But yeah, sometime.”

  I finish my beer and she goes, “I want you to play me the song you were working on.”

  “All right.”

  “And we’ll drink cold beers all night and talk about everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos that’s what you do when you’re on cocaine. You talk about everything and you pretend you know every band and every song in the world and you make certain it’s known that you heard all of it first. It’s a perfect kind of awesome just puking up words like they’ll last.”

  I stand up and stretch my arms.

  “One more thing,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “We really can unfuck whatever we want.”

  I make a face.

  “We’re kids, Jaime. And we can do whatever we want. We will do whatever we want. If we wanna make something happen, we will. As long as we’re passionate, dude. As long as we care. Anything in the world we want to be or do is in our grasp. We just have to care enough and show the fuck up.”

  “You’re so high right now,” I tell her.

  “I’m so fucking right, too.” Then she winks at me as I grab her hands and pull her gently to her feet.

  34.

  “JUST LOOK AT KANYE, FOR instance. He’s a certified motherfucking genius. And all those people hating on him or trying to figure the dude out are doing nothing but feeding the monster they say they despise. They’re the ones making him bigger. It’s all rooted in jealousy, too. The people sitting around judging Kanye, and talking shit, are just jealous of him and can’t stand the fact that he’s smarter than them. Kim Kardashian did it right. She did him right. What a rad life she has cos she said yes to Yeezus. I’m jealous that she gets to push those beautiful chocolate Kanye babies out. The man is brilliant and beautiful. There’s nobody I’d rather fuck on this whole damn planet than him.”

  Kristen snorts the huge line of cocaine lying across the cover of the Babyshambles record Down in Albion.

  I’m sitting on the couch again, drinking a Corona. I pull my phone out. It’s still shut off, so I turn it back on, as Kristen drinks from this bo
ttle of chilled white wine.

  “Tyler gets so fucking jealous when I talk about Kanye,” she says. “So now he hates Kanye’s music, even though he used to love it more than me. Isn’t that crazy? Jealousy made him hate something he used to adore. How insecure is that? It’s kind of psycho, ya know. Like, Tyler’s a total babe. We’ve been together for over two years and I love him and I think he’s really cool, but he’ll never be Kanye. Tyler’s a coke dealer from a wealthy family. He’s got a decent-size dick and can be totally fashionable at times, but I find it really gross and psychotic that he’s so bothered by my admiration of Kanye. It’s bizarre and totally unhealthy. He’s been dealing coke for six years. It’s all he does, Jaime.”

  “But you love him.”

  “I do. Even though he can be a prick. I love that boy so much, dude.”

  She takes a swig. “I love the free blow, too.”

  Kristen falls onto the couch, next to me. She lies on her back and drapes her legs over my lap.

  I can see her crotch. I can see the lace underwear she’s wearing and the soft skin of her inner thighs.

  “What about you, Jaime?”

  “What about me?”

  “Is there some lucky girl who gets to call you her boyfriend back in Joliet?”

  “Nope.” I take a drink.

  “Really?”

  “It’s the truth,” I say.

  “How come?” she asks. “You’re a babe.”

  “I don’t need to have someone in my life who’s just going to make it more complicated. Girls want attention. They don’t want love. They don’t want anything genuine. The girls I know are phonies to their core.”

  “Ouch,” she goes.

  “It’s true. The only girl I know who’s not a fake is my mother. She’s as real as it gets. But she had to play the role of my father, too. And she never backed down from anyone. In sixth grade, football is mandatory at my school. Twice early in the season, she punched out some other kid’s loser dad during practice for making fun of me. I’ve never seen anything like it. My mother defended me, and it was swift, precise, and cold. All the other fathers and their kids were speechless afterward. So were the coaches. My mother reacted like a wild animal that got cornered. It was so fierce, Kristen. My mother’s eyes were black and thirsty. Both those guys got dropped to the grass. Their noses were bleeding. I got kicked off the team and both men filed restraining orders against my mother. When you actually think about that, I mean, it doesn’t get any more real than that.”