Pop Kids (28 page)

Exasperated, my brother apologizes for his rude friend’s behavior and I ask for a favor. I want to borrow one of his old outfits for the next party.

“Wait,” He asks. “
Which
suit? For what?”

Excitedly, I relate all the miracles I’ve worked thus far in my career as host and when I’ve caught him up to tomorrow night’s Flash Premiere, Joey is perfectly impressed. Praising my efforts, he tells me exactly where to look for his clothes then with older-brotherly love, imparts, “Hey Mike, you should really bring by some condoms to this thing of yours.”

“C’mon man.” Laughing, I scoff. “What, is it the nineties?”

“Just do it for me. And you still gotta tell me what you want for your birthday. You name it. The tables have been as hot as your fabulous basement ballroom, baby brother.”

“Okay, thanks Joey.” When the door opens and someone steps into the booth, I’m startled. I take my brother off speaker. “I’ll email you a list. Break a leg tonight.”

“Thanks Mike. Kiss kiss. Love love.”

“Kiss kiss. Love love.”

I set down the phone and stare back at my company. A few seconds of silent, mutually questioning, proximate eye contact pass.

“Was that Joey? I miss him.” Shane is bopping, wearing the yellow and black stripy Paul Smith sweater. Again. He’s had it on since last Friday. “Tell him I say hi.”

“Will do. What’s going on man?”

“Score…” Looking like he’s about to take flight, he whispers, “I know all about the party. Can I please come this time? I won’t even fuck. I just want to watch.”

Gripping the edges of the build-up table, to prevent myself from falling to the cold grey floor in a swoon, I pray for Moz’s strength. “Who told you?”

“Jamie… a while ago.” He meekly admits. “I never actually asked Hector anything. I made that up cuz I didn’t want you to get pissed at her. I really want to come, Mike. Just to watch. Can I come?”

“Why did she tell you all of this Shane?” I don’t get it. I could see Mia maybe telling some guys at a club in San Francisco, or perhaps some of the freshmen that constantly follow her around school.

“Don’t worry Buddy.” He shakes his sandy blonde head. ”We tell each other things that we’d never tell anybody else…” Abruptly, he inhales. A concerned look cuts through the shadows cast by his eighties James Bond bone structure as he holds his breath. “Shit no one else can ever know, and will never know … so, I swear, the secret is safe. Can I come? I just want to watch.”

Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.

Unnerved, I stare at his hopeful, bristly smile. The oddity of he and Mia being secret besties is somewhat upsetting, but I still trust him.
It’s fine.
I know Shane.
Kind of.
He’s saved me on numerous occasions. And apparently he knows my brother.
Everything’s fine
.

“Okay man.” I hop off the table and grab one of the destroyed
Taxi Driver
reels. “It would actually be cool if you kept an eye on everything for me. There’s this French Texan that I’ve never been totally sure about, and there’s gonna be a few more new people coming on Saturday, so maybe you could kinda act like security.”

Shane hugs me. Loving the idea of playing bouncer, he reassures me that he won’t say a word, thanks me profusely, and leaves me splicing off bad ends. But before he goes back to slinging sodas, he pauses at the door.

“Hey Score, … do I get a Screename?”

“Um … sure.” I search for a new roll of tape. “What do you want it to be?”

“You give it to me.”

The names of several different cinema badasses run through my mind before I realize that the best one is right in front of me.

“How about Bickle?”

“
Taxi Driver
?! Kickass!” Bouncing down the stairs he yells, “You’d better do some push-ups before Saturday buddy! No one wants to fuck a
scorecrow
!”

When the door shuts, it blocks the sound of his exit. But I know that he’s still giggling.

Chapter 42

Friday night is unusual. As it begins, I graciously accept flowers and arrange them in empty bottles about the stage. While elevating the décor, the assorted bouquets only partially mask the chemical scent in the air; however, the fragrance of Barbara Johnson’s candles slowly turns everything rosy. When Stella lights the last scented soy pillar, the smell of vinegar and bleach is barely noticeable. It’s lovely.

Inhaling, I smile and thank her as she hands me a Hello Kitty punch bowl. I set it next to the vitamins on the mini-fridge and begin filling it with bootie from my Planned Parenthood brown bag.

“Condoms?” Stella laughs. “What, is it the nineties?”

“Condoms and lube.” I pour the rainbow assortment into the hollowed-out cat’s head. “Joey insisted that I provide some.”

“Oh, really? I thought we weren’t supposed to
provide
anyone with information about the party.”

“My brother?” Aghast, I wave a ribbed Trojan. “You’re bringing kids who I’ve only seen online and you’re worried about Joey?”

“C’mon Babe, I’m just playing.” She blows then implodes a bubble before tapping my cheek with an old-timey pink and white straw. “I’m gonna go warm up.”

Standing at the soundboard, skipping my formal speech, I alert my guests to the optional prophylactics, and begin to stiltedly start and stop
‘Fourth Blood.’
I’m trying to get the sound of automatic weapons to fire through the PA but Lynch left without showing me how to work it. Instead of John Rambo, we’re hearing Kylie Minogue. And the distracting sounds of snorting.

Mia, Stella, and Prius have formed a powder triangle over the PlayStation. They giggle. I struggle to interpret the directions that just buzzed into my phone and Volta accuses me of summer blockbuster sabotage.

“I’m really trying!” Cuing up Slayer to appease The Boys, I continue losing my battle with electronics until a hot young secretary enlists herself in the war.

Taking my phone, Holly reads Lynch’s notes aloud while I plug, unplug, and push useless buttons. Then, just as Cruz lets me off the hook—“It’s okay
Miguelito
. Don’t worry about it. I’m just gonna be sucking cock anyway”—Mia unfolds. Jerking up, she jumps back from the console, and starts screaming.

Oh fuck! Oh my fucking god!

From her center stage candy couch, MK begins to repeat, “
Ew ew, ew…
”

And I mute the music.

Blood is pouring out of Mia’s nose, gushing all over her face. Her scene has just gone from coke party to Carrie. It’s dripping from her chin, through her fingers, and onto her long white belted-off tee shirt.
That’s a lot of blood.

Stella and Prius flee from their friend as if she were a geyser at Hep C National Park.

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god!”

The hysterical girl is a horror show, and I’m completely unhappy about the whole thing. As host, I feel that I must deal with this unfortunate situation.

“
Shh, shh
Mia. Its fine, everything’s fine.” Backing against the curtains, I soothe the screeching blood fountain from a safe distance. ”You’re going to be fine.”

It seems like she can’t hear me. And the way that she’s squealing, “Fuck! I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding! Oh my god I’m gonna fucking die!” is making me question my own calming claims. I’m not entirely sure that she won’t die.

“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” I softly mother.

“Fuck, Fuck, Oh my god!” Ignoring my compassion, Mia runs offstage then reappears with a filthy chemical-tainted rag pressed to her face. “Sarah take me home! Take me home!” She scream-sobs, “You’ve gotta take me home!”

“Um…” Pressed to the wall screen, her BFF hides behind the DJ. “I walked here.”

Donny plugs his ears.

“I have the jeep! Oh my god, I can’t drive!” Mia does a bloody jog. “I’m gonna fucking die! I can’t drive!”

Holly hands me back my iPhone and walks upstage to put her arm around the shrieking Filmgreat’s bloody waist.

I gasp. I can’t believe she’s touching her.

“Just breathe, Jamie. You’re gonna be okay, it’s just a nosebleed. You probably just nicked yourself with the straw. I’ll take you to get cleaned up and then I’ll take you home.” The sober vegan comforts her as she walks the mess past me. “You’re gonna be fine, just calm down, take deep breaths…”

Their exit sounds like crushed kittens.

“Thanks, Holly!” While shouting through the swaying curtains, I compose a text asking her, “
Please burn her shirt
! It’s too much of a conversation piece.

“Mia, it’s fine!” I holler and hit send.

Amidst a heavy silence, we remaining Greats look back and forth at each other.

Prius taps an American Spirit soft pack.

“Well that was a drag.”

“Yeah. What the fuck was that Donny? Is she overdosing? Was that shit bad or something? Was it heroine? Is she gonna die?”

“Nah.” He lights up and takes a drag. “It happens my brother.”

“Huh. What a drag.”

On purple plastic, dressed in designer forest camo and gazing at the movie, MK rattles Roxy from her purse. She dry-swallows. And the silence returns. It presses upon us like a forty-eight hour Sunday until Stella saves the evening.

“Yeah. That was a drag. Okay…” Stepping into Heaven, she pulls off her lemon yellow shirt, throws it at me, and asks, “ Who wants to fuck me?”

What a relief.

After catching the pink heart dotted souvenir and admiring her especially large boobs, I quickly scroll through my iPod. While I’m replacing Slayer with Stella’s favorite Flo Rida song, Cruz walks over to inform me that he and Volta are leaving.

“I dunno,
Miguelito
.” He runs his comb through his slick hair. “The blood just grossed us out. We’re not in the mood.”

Like MK, The Boys are both wearing war paint.

“The Blood? C’mon guys, I’m finally playing your movie.” I motion to the silent massacre on the wall. “…
Rambo
.”

“I know
Guapo
. Thank you. I’m not mad at you anymore.” Cruz kisses my cheek. “We’re just gonna go park in the vineyards and watch videos on my laptop. We’ll see you tomorrow night, though. F’real.”

Left behind the PA, with my Producer giving a Standing O, I admire Stella. On her back, she’s moaning in Heaven. I’m considering going in alone to try to negotiate some OJ for myself—before Donny pulls his pigtails out from between her splayed legs. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his De La Barracuda jacket, takes a drag from the smoldering cigarette hoisted in his left hand, and flashes me his GO SMiLE.

I’m going to need back up
.

I steal a breath mint from Sponge Bob, check my compact, then creep over to court the camouflaged wallflower.

Alone on purple plastic, watching the Oral Joy, the sedated twin ignores me as I ease myself next to her.

“Hey MK. I’m really sorry that Leo’s not here.”

Without expression or words she turns to face me. So I go on.

“I can’t believe that none of those guys came, can you? Jerks.”

Nothing. No response. She’s simply attacking my Premiere confidence with a heavy, glassy-eyed stare. Yet I press forward.

“But I’m really glad that you’re here…”

Wondering if I’ve offended her by unwittingly sitting down on Roxy’s lap, I’m almost ready to give up and join the American Spirit as it enters Stella. I shove my hand in my pocket.

“So…”
Click, click
, “Ash went to hang out with Star?”

A semester goes by before her expression slightly shifts and through a faint, almost imperceptible, understanding smile, she finally says,

“You can fuck me if you want, just not in my cunt.”

I’d thought that the ‘
C
word’ was a sin, but I do not question her expression of faith. I dart to the kitty, sift through the condoms, grab as much lube as I can carry, and return to MK with my pockets bulging. Taking my lady’s hand, I guide her holiness to the mattresses. With my teeth, I tear open a little red plastic pillow. Flavored goo spurts out. I taste strawberry. I see lime. The green couch where Holly should be playing is empty. I miss her, but as I commit several uncontestable crimes below Stallone and next to Stella, in Heaven, I’m elevated.

This is fabulous. MK is asking me to do things I’ve never even done to wild-reality-girl. I slide my slippery Producer out of her divine loophole and deep into sin.

”Owe, owe, owe … mm … ugh…” Sounding almost pained, the grease-painted, half conscious twin shutters. “Jesus fucking Christ Leo.”

And I flow with the scene.
It’s fine.
I’m having a good time. MK’s having a good time. Prius and Stella are having a good time. Everyone’s having a good time. Mia’s probably not dead.
And it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Chapter 43

I’d forgotten this tracksuit was powder-pink. I remembered it being black. Having spent most of the day sleeping, cleaning, and showering off last night’s blood and sodomy, I hesitantly pull two pastel pieces of polyester from a box in my brother’s closet and put them on. My suit has proven to be a real pain to get off. I need something that better facilitates quick undressing. I turn in front of the mirror. I’d always thought Joey’s Y3 jogger was really cool.
This might be a bit too informal for a host to wear to such a grand affair.
I stare at myself—inspecting and adjusting—then realize exactly what I need. Adding a skinny black tie to my shallow white v-neck and polishing my teeth up to the reflective shine of my Fords gives the outfit a whole new look. I’ve got a new-wave, soccer-hooligan, rock-n’-roll-runner-type thing happening here.
I can totally pull it off.