Pop Kids (5 page)

“How was the party?” I ask.

“Amazing!” Squeezing my thigh, she begins naming people that I don’t know. “Zoe was there, she’s so nice, and her friend Kevin totally wants to paint me. And The Cobra Snake came up and got a picture of me and Donovan…”

As she recounts her electro evening, I wonder how she can still look this hot. She’s last night’s shining casualty. She’s a perfect mess.

Silently envying her talent, I sip my tea. She gushes, “His set was SO amazing!”

“Whose?”

“Donny’s!” Sarah takes my mug and continues to ramble on about the “amazing party” hosted by her “amazing” DJ friend.

Standing in the corner of the elevated DJ booth, with a vague sense of loss and hope, I watch Leo Di fade down the treble, lean across the turntables, and tongue-kiss Sarah. The red disco lights pulse. As he backs away to the boards, she grabs his McQueen tie, and pulls him in for more. When the handsome celebrity feels her up, Sarah asks…

“Hey, what are you doing here anyway?” She sips my tea. “Why are you up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I look up from her cleavage, into deeply tinted lenses. And having not forgotten her promise, add, “I’m surprised that you’re back already, I mean, I guess I didn’t get your text—”

A treat clinks down in front of me.

Pointing at the desert plate, I ask Becca, “Is this for me?”

“Well yeah. For both of you.” She glances across my booth.

Sarah has begun tapping on her phone.

Smiling, Becca turns back to me. “You just looked so disappointed when I told you we were out of those scones… ”

“Thanks!” I tear off a large corner of the banana bread. “I usually try to eat vegan but—”

“Well, you’re in luck. There’s nothing in there. I promise. I made it myself.” Confidently, she stands. “I brought some to see if the owner wants to carry them.”

Chewing a moist chunk, I am dazzled by the stunning cruelty-free baker. I’m glad Sarah’s not paying attention. I doubt she’d care. But I wouldn’t want her to cut me off. We’ve only done it six times. Swallowing, I gush, “You made this? It’s delish. So you’re vegan?”

“Yeah. You too?”

“I aspire. … It’s so hard to find nice shoes … though treats are my main weakness. I get really treaty. … But if someone were baking me stuff like this all the time it would be way easier to maintain my compassionate diet,” I proclaim. “…I’ve never met a vegan girl who’s not a hippie!” Becca clearly isn’t the type to smoke weed, take shrooms, eschew waxing, or avoid a three-step shampooing—her jeans fit
and
I recognize the designer.

Clacking her phone onto the shiny black table, Sarah objects. “What about me?”

“What about you?” I ask.

“I’m vegan.” She snatches the remaining half of the tasty slice. “Except for fish.”

As I suppress my sudden suicidal urges, Becca offers, “You want some to take home Sarah? I’ve got more in the back.”

“Oh, no thanks, Babe.” She plates the remaining speck. “Calories. But could I get a white mocha?”

“Soy?”

I remove my face from my hand to see if the gracious vegan is sharing my pain. She is unfazed. So poised. So runway.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Covering her mouth Sarah swallows. “Or whatever.”

As Becca walks away, I watch the Cheap Mondays skull smile above her perky butt. A flicked crumb hits my shirt. “Hey!”

I check for stains as Sarah asks, “You’re working tonight, right Mike?”

“Oh. Yeah. I am.” I had forgotten until now. “I’m gonna be washed up.” “Well you should probably take a nap.” Her sex-hummed stage voice

turns the head of the businessman paying at the register. “Cuz I’m going to come visit. And I don’t want you tired.”

Chapter 6

Tired.

I couldn’t nap. Lying atop my comforter, I was thinking about the party; obsessing over lighting, furnishing, outfits, and my need to open with the perfect film.

If we do this right, The Premieres could be huge. They could change everything. I could be bigger than the party kid from Australia. I could be signing a contract with MTV before I get my mid-term report card.

Now the clicking of the 10:15 projection sounds like a lullaby.

In the flickering shadows of Booth Six, bolted to the concrete in front of the window, there’s an old pair of ragged red theatre chairs. Tonight, they feel like a California King mattress stuffed with purring kittens.

Sunken into crushed foam and broken springs, I slowly blink at the packed theatre below. I yawn. Breathing in the faint smell of popcorn, I sleep—lulled by the
tsk tsk tsk
of the spinning reels—until the foreign sound of rapidly approaching heels interrupts the projector’s cadence.

Tik,tik,tik.
Tik,tik,tik.

Sarah stalks across the harsh grey floor. She descends. She straddles me. My chair and I squeak as her black cotton skirt slides up to reveal hot pink Hello Kitty panties. I’m delighted. Grazed by the eerie projection light, she traps my legs together with her knees and I desperately fumble to unbutton her sleek short-sleeve schoolgirl top. Her long untamable hair is tangling the way, but luckily my humming brunette is in no mood for delicacy. Undoing her blouse, she sends a loose button flying. It clatters in the corner as she tosses the top, slips off her pink diamond-grid bra, and forces my face into her warm boobs. I suckle, suffocating on flesh and the scent of cotton candy. The tang of perfume tingles my lips. I’m at peace.
Moz, I’m ready. You may take me now.

“Michael, there is a light that never goes out.” I walk into the spotlight.

Grabbing a handful of my perfectly styled hair, pulling me from my deserved fate, Sarah thrusts my head back. I suck in the air as she slides her wet mouth up my throat, pressing down hard enough to choke me. Her spit leaves a cooling trail down my neck. Sealing my lips with her own, she steals my breath
.
Her tongue feeds me a sweet wad of chewed up gum. It’s watermelon.

I can’t wait to tell Zach
.

I turn, spit out the Bubblicious, stand, and push my gracious guest against the window. The thick glass thuds. Sarah grins, and I attack the pounding pulse above the pink acrylic beads at her collarbone. Digging her fingers into my ribs, she groans. Our audience laughs and I spin her to face them.

The theatre gives Sarah’s full frontal a standing ovation. I grant them a regal wave.

The projector
tsk tsk tsks
.

Firmly, I wrap my right arm around her boobs and, sucking her jaw line, slowly press my free fingers down the front of her panties—one centimeter, one inch, two—then Sarah breaks my hold. Dropping to her knees, she tears down my jeans and consumes my Producer. It’s fabulous, except that she’s no longer obscuring my view. I glance up from her topless skillful licking to the blockbuster comedy. A naked, ebullient trans-sexual is the last image I see before my eyes squeeze shut with joy. As I overfill her mouth, another burst of laughter rises from the house. I can’t blame them. This part is pretty funny.

Swallowing, Sarah wipes her mouth on the hem of my shirt then stands. She watches me, as I check it for stains. It’s moist, but unharmed.

Stepping out of my Ksubis, I slip off my tee, fold my clothes, and then hoist her onto the stainless steel build-up table. Braving the chill of it, she wraps her legs around my waist. A stack of trailers crashes to the floor. Their metallic ringing lingers as we do it, the patent leather of Sarah’s pumps chafing the back of my thighs. Expertly, I bring her to the peak of ecstasy, at least twice (I’m pretty sure), before reaching my own second monumental climax. I explode a shockingly tiny amount of joy onto her thighs and then crumple onto the cold floor. I land atop the abused blouse. Sarah pulls it out from under me. After wiping herself down, she balls it up and tosses it toward the trash. It lands in a clump below the ribbon of tape snaking from the steel bin.

Resting my head on my arms, I watch her dress. She pulls her panties over her hips.
Her ass is cinematic
. She pulls up her skirt. Toned calves.
She must do Zumba.

Tsk,tsk,tsk.

Tik, tik, tik. Tik, tik, tik.

Sarah heels over to the scattered reels and frees my brother’s vintage Unknown Pleasures shirt from the pile. She puts it on. I’m horrified. Sliding her wavy hair out the back of its perfectly relaxed neck, she struts to the door. She turns, smiles, blows me a kiss, and then
tiks
down to the lobby.

She didn’t say a word the whole time.

Nor did I.

With her having so generously given me wonderful OJ before letting me do it to her on a freezing metal table for ten minutes without hesitancy, I feel that it would have been rude to complain about the tee. I may like her even more than I thought.

After locating and discarding the carelessly spat gum, I stack the reels, break down the film, then run downstairs. The moviegoers have all gone. The door to my manager’s office is locked and the one remaining Concession Creep is smoking out front beneath the Marquee. He’s locking up tonight. This is good.
Sequoia wouldn’t notice if I walked out of here with the safe.
I shove my hand in my pocket. Clicking, I quickly pace over amoebic coke stains on the matted red carpet and back up to Booth Six.
I won’t get caught.
I pull the forgotten projector out from under the cabinet. I stash it in my old Jansport.
No one will ever notice.
The Panasonic hasn’t been touched since the owner cancelled midnight movies. Stealthily, I sneak down the stairs, out through the back door, and into the empty lot. I desperately hope that no one sees me. I’m going to look ridiculous skating home in just jeans and a backpack.

It’s fine. Click, click.
I’ll get the shirt back. And the night is still warm.
Click, click.

Everything’s fine.

Chapter 7

Sleeping soundly with the projector stuffed into my old Sponge Bob sleeping bag, safely hidden in the back corner of my closet, I wake up with a sharp pain in my chest. Eddie kneads down toward my stomach. She purrs. Her rough wet tongue licks my face, and despite the forgivable clawing, I feel fantastic.

Flopping my arm across my red Prima sheets, I grab my phone. 2:12 pm. I unplug the charger, say good morning to the poster of Moz that’s tacked to my ceiling, and dial.

Sarah doesn’t answer.

I shuffle to the kitchen to grab a San P. from the fridge. A fresh, locally baked low-fat cranberry scone from Cherie Cherie is waiting for me in the breadbox. I glance over the Daily Chronicle. Another church burned down. The Future Farmers of America is holding a livestock competition for ‘largest poultry.’ City folk are spending millions to buy land for vineyards. Our county is now the number seven marijuana-producing county in CA.

Typical.

I flip to the entertainment section: wine tasting, acoustic night at the wine bar, and the same movies that have been playing at work all summer—most of which are 3-D kid flicks. An Aveda day spa will finally be opening, but not before I’m long gone. If anything exciting is ever going to happen in this town before then, I’m going to have to be the one that makes it happen.

I text Sarah
“Meet for Mochas?”
then walk to the bathroom to begin my morning ritual.

With “Deep Hit of Morning Sun” playing on repeat through my iPod dock, I brush my teeth, shower, shampoo, blow dry, dress, and style. An hour later I look absolutely fabulous. On my way out the front door, with my backpack slung over my shoulder, I check my texts. Sarah hasn’t written back.

It’s fine
.

To my relief, Zach’s air conditioner is finally fixed. His floor fans now serve as racks for wrinkled inside-out rock shirts. Hiding from the last rays of sunset, we lay stretched out on his unmade bed, propped against posters, each tapping away on laptops. We peruse porn, study celebrity sites, and search for new music while shopping.

I type in ‘Joy Division’ on last FM. When I first swiped their shirt from my brother’s drawer I didn’t know that it was a band shirt. It didn’t matter. The design was fabulous. When Joey told me that Joy Division also made fabulous music, I downloaded a few songs. They were great. It was no surprise; my brother has always had impeccable taste. And the band
was
British.

I drop ten faux fur Chinchilla throws into my basket and a song called “Blue Monday” comes on. I like it. I add forty CK almost-down pillows to my order and a song by some band called Depeche Mode comes on. I like that too. I search for inflatable mattresses to the euphonious sounds of The Smiths and check my texts. Zach snaps shut his Mac.

“Jamie told me that she thinks Becca’s into you.”

“Really?” I look up from my mochas message. “She said that?”

He walks over to the mound of clothes at the base of Hector’s Honda Generator, pulls his duct tape wallet from a pair of shredded jeans, and tosses it to me. His floor looks like the place where denim goes to die.