Pop Kids (8 page)

Sensing my awe, my partner stands from his couch-pump to smile in the eerie glow. He looks sci-fi. The projection covers him in cool electrifying light as Morrissey sings of international playboys. And I feel like I’m in a movie.

“Pretty good right?”

I high-step over to pin his arms to his side. Lion-hugging him I pronounce, “This is it. We’re in the movies man! We’re taking Hollywood next!”

“Okay Martin Scorsese, yeah.” Laughing, he says, “But if you wanna hear the movie you’re gonna have to let me go.”

“All right Mr. Lynch.” I flatter back, freeing him and smoothing my found Depeche Mode tee. “I did appreciate my entry music but, yes, please, do show me whatcha got.”

Wet from the birth of our new names and trembling with excitement, I’m further amazed as Moz silences to give voice to actors playing seventies rockers.

“See. …” Lynch attempts to teach me soundboard physics, flicking back and forth between the film and the iPod connection. “We can play music too.”

The dialogue of the eye-lined men in the glitter film blares through the PA and I reach through the livening air. Grabbing Zach’s face, I smooch his rocket science mouth. Scowling like Eddie, he wipes off my affection with the back of his hand.

“C’mon, man. Settle.” He laughs. “Go upstairs and make sure you can’t hear any of this from outside so I don’t have to hear you freaking about getting caught. Then we’ll finish making this place killer.”

When I reach the lounge, the bass from below is barely audible. Pushing through the leafy mouth of the hotel, I step outside to make sure that we’ll remain unfound. Silence comforts me. I rush back down to the basement to see Zach tacking down the final string of lights.

A few feet downstage from the wall screen, my partner has wrapped a rectangular halo around our clandestine cathouse. In its center, we shove together the king sized self-inflating mattresses, cover them with faux fur pillows and throws, then encircle the beds with our translucent inflatable couches—their purple and greens providing a needed modern flair to the classic vibe of the hotel.

Everything looks perfect. Leaning against the giant wall screen covered in projection, Zach and I inspect our theatre, delighting in our décor.
This is fabulous.

“I think we did it,” I cautiously announce and turn to my partner. Through the decades of floating dust, I mirror his giddy expression, feeling like I’m about to take the lead in a great performance.

“Fuck yeah we did!” he confirms. We both begin running like recess.

Taking our first synchronized dive into Heaven, we land with a soft thud and, enfolded in the luxury of faux chinchilla, surrounded by Xmas decorations and big candy, Lynch and I begin to fantasize.

“Once we get this going…” Looking up at the third run of the glammy DVD, I insist, “You and I will by laying here, cuddled up with Sarah and Jaime … and Becca—”

“And Drew, Michelle … Fuck! And some Sweater Girls…”

“Yes! Watching the finest films … in between activities.” The shadow of two raised thumbs obscure the pick-ups of an electric guitar. “We’ll be heroes Mr. Lynch.”

“Mr. Scorsese, It’s gonna fuckin’ rule.”

Chapter 10

While Zach’s partying on the coast, I’m at my desk. Refreshed from an afternoon shower, smelling like an ice cream parlor, I’m working diligently on my first invitation. I type ‘Simple Minds’ into Last FM then google image
The Breakfast Club.”
We’ve all seen the Hugh’s classic a million times, but it never grows old. My guests will love it and, thus, love their host. It will perfectly open The Premieres. Skipping past all songs lacking an immediately discernable English accent, I photoshop with precision. I extract the cluttered quote from the top of the original movie poster, changing ‘they only met once, but it changed their lives forever’ to ‘SCORE AND LYNCH PROUDLY PRESENT: THE PREMIERE PARTY.’ I paint the super-text a screaming red then, below the movie’s title where Hughes and A&M once had their credit, I type the details:

This Sunday, Aug 8, you are invited to an exclusive and clandestine screening of the Breakfast Club, presented by Michael Scorsese and Zach Lynch. Snacks will be provided, but feel free to bring your own treats. All attending must meet exactly 2 hours after sundown in the old WAMU parking lot. If you are driving, we politely ask that you park at least two blocks away. Please be advised that this is a private screening. Do not share this invite with anyone. RSVP to me. Please trash this after you have received it
.

I send the invite to my partner for his approval. Instantaneously, my phone rings. As I pick up, I notice that I have an unread text from Sarah
. Finally
.

“What? Were you looking at porn?” I ask. “That was quick.”

Eddie hops onto my desk, stretches, and steps toward the keyboard.

“Yeah. Everyone’s out getting fish tacos. I’m waiting for this chick who’s heavily into Band FAIL!, particularly the singer.” Zach’s the singer. “I found this nasty shit that I’ve never seen before—”

“What is it? Sounding?” I pull my purring Havana down to my lap.

“Ugh, no. So, it’s this whatever-normal-porn, right? Some buffo is fucking this tattooed chick with giant jammers, doggie style, then all of a sudden she turns around and he starts kissing her!”

“On the mouth?”

“Yep. Totally ruined my boner.”

“That’s disgusting.” I can hear the twisted porno playing on his iPad.

“Totally. But, man, Mike. That flyer is killer. Good call on
Breakfast Club
. Who are we inviting?”

“
Sarah, Jaimie, Hector, David, The Twins … Dustin obviously—
.”

“What about Becca? She clearly wants to eat your skinny jeans.”

“My dear partner, are you implying that I might be the type of gentleman to court two women at the same time?” I google ‘Becca Rose.’ “Sarah just text me before you called, probably professing her undying love.” I find a black and white photo of the blonde standing in long black tee shirt on a dark Venice beach. She’s sleeveless, braless, bottomless, and expressionless. I drag it next to the other pictures of girls, celebrities, and suits in my Wish List folder. “I can’t just invite some mysterious, smitten, internet model to a private event that will be attended by my paramour.” I pull a pic of Becca posing on a Vespa. She is so hot.
I totally want to invite her.

“Sarah won’t care. She’d probably be stoked if Becca came. They’re all BFF now.”

“We barely know her Zach. Our party isn’t exactly legal you know? What if her dad’s a cop?”

“Invite her. You said she wanted to see the projection room.”

Staring at a shot of her topless, laying boob-down on black sheets that match her smeared smoky eyes, I sigh. “I’ll invite her when we know each other better,
after
she’s experienced the mind-blowing wonders of Booth Six.”

“Okay…” he laughs, “hopefully you’ll be less rattled by her once you’ve banged her on the build-up tables. Speaking of … I’ve gotta find something to bring my boner back before this chick gets here. … Oh wait, what’s with meeting in the parking lot two hours after sundown?”

“I figure it’s better that we’re not lurking right in front of the hotel.”

“Yeah, but why two hours after sundown? Why not something a little more vague?”

“Mystique, my friend. Mystique.”

“Of course. Okay, well I’ll be back Sunday morning. I’ll meet you in the lot an hour and thirty two minutes after sundown, just so I’m not late.”

“Fabulous. See ya then Lynch.”

“See ya then Score.”

Chapter 11

“This cow’s not getting any deader!!”

Frank is calling me to dinner. Anxiously, I check my message from Sarah. It says,

“
Hi
:)”.

That’s it. It’s but two letters away from exclusively inspiring emoticon nausea and yet I’m still tempted to respond. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to “hi” plus a stupid smiley face.

Throwing the offending phone against my silk-screened pillowcase, I ignore the text, return to my laptop, and send out the invitations. I wish I could invite Becca. She’s not the type of girl who’d use an emoticon in her first rudely delayed post-coital text. She had a Smiths shirt on. People who wear Smiths shirts don’t use emoticons. She would have hand written me amorous poetry exalting my potency. Or even called. I pick up my phone. As I’m dialing Sarah, Frank yells, “GET OFF THE COMPUTER AND GET IN HERE!”

I let it ring once, hang up, then join him and Gina at the table.

Focusing on my plate, ignoring Frank’s hat and his monstrous display of devouring bocci-sized murder-balls, I consume about eight square inches of Gina’s beautiful eggplant parm before putting on my iPod. Quickly, I do the dishes then rush back to my Mac. As I had hoped, the responses to the invite are already in. And everyone is excited. The thread begins with Jamie:

“
OMG! I LOVE the 80s!!! I’m so there! I can’t wait!
”

David adds: “
Mr. Scorsese and Mr. Lynch, thank you for the invitation. My man and I would love to attend
. —
John Travolta
.”

Hector follows his BF’s lead: “
Yes!
We’ll be there arm and arm. He’s keeping his burns but I finally shaved that beard from Dawson’s Creek! —Tom Cruise
.”

And, with the continued good spirited mockery of their hosts’ Screenames, so comes confirmations from the Olson twins, Tony Alva, and a retracted acceptance from Jamie. Mia Morris will be taking her place on the red carpet come opening night. I don’t think Jamie accepts that there’s a difference between Uma Thurman, the actress, and her character in
Pulp Fiction
. I once tried to explain the relation of Miley Sirus and Hannah Montana to her but she just wasn’t having it.

Slightly distressed that Sarah has yet to respond, I point out to Dustin that though he thinks he’s Tony Alva he is in actuality Alvin of chipmunk fame. Amidst the following LOLs Volta requests that Alvin sing “Christmas Time Is Here” before the film.

Finally, thirty-six minutes later, at the bottom of a long string of replies, Sarah’s response appears. Calling herself Stella she writes: “
Amazing! There is no place I’d rather be. Don’t you forget about me! Check your text Mr. Score!
”

With intent to immediately respond to her ‘:)’ message, considering sending back a ‘;)’ I frantically retrieve my phone from the bed. Since sending her first soul revealing passage, the poet has written again: “
Mom’s away and she left the vegan treats unguarded.
”

I open the text. A self-shot pic of Stella wearing pink panties, lightly touching a fruit pop to her half-parted lips, pops up on my screen. She’s topless. Her panties match the pop. Below the picture she’s written, “
Come over! xxooxxoo
”.

I power-shower. I power-dress. I power-fix my hair then smile in my brother’s mirror before powering my board out from under Eddie.

“Sorry girl. … Bye Dad, bye Mom,” I yell toward the elder Massis’ room, “I’m going into town for dessert. I’ll be back later.”

From the flats, I call her.

“Hello, is this Stella?” I ask, skating past the 7-eleven, already enamored with our new name game.

“Maybe … is this A-lister hot ass party promoter Scorsese?”

“You know it.” I can hear her sex hum through the phone.

“Well, I’m not sure if I’m the girl that you’re looking for but why don’t you come to 452 Reisling and see. The door’s unlocked. I’ll be in my room reading scripts.”

“I’ll see you in four minutes.”

Pushing onward through the warm dusk I speed toward some of the finest earthly delights my seventeenth year on this planet has yet to offer.