Status: i suck at updating i'm sorry
27
THREE
I’ve never gone on a date before. I’m clueless enough as to what structured romantic proceedings entail in the first place, nevermind what kind of fucked up activities a girl like Candy could get me into.
I’m getting ahead of myself; at that point, I didn’t even know her name yet.
My reflection stands in the floor length mirror, all fancied up and looking entirely dopey. Something told me I was reading too much into this. At what point in one’s life did the term “dating” equate to literally going on dates with someone and not officially calling them your significant other like you used to in middle school and high school? I never understood the concept. Maybe it’s an instinct you somehow automatically adopt once you enter adulthood, like a right of passage. I can legally drink and I still don’t fully understand what it means to be an adult. But then, I always was a late bloomer.
Truthfully, I don’t think anyone really knows what they’re doing at any given point in time. Maybe this is just me, but the more I invest myself in something, the more I think back to its origins and question why I’m doing anything in the first place. What’s the point of this? What/who does this effect? Why is it important enough for me to waste my precious time on?
I can’t believe I’m contemplating this existential shit when I should be focusing on how fucking doofy I look. Why am I all dressed up anyway? There’s no way a girl like her would take me to anything swankier than a Sizzler, that is, if she plans on following through with her so-called appointment. I don’t know why I’m even taking her comment to heart when it was clear she was not in her right mind this afternoon. It must’ve just been the cocaine asking me out.
A low whistle sounds from beside me, emitting from the bathrobe-clad man I was raised by past the age of six. This only makes me feel even more like an idiot, standing lamely in garb appropriate for an upscale dinner party. This girl was definitely not the dinner party type.
“Look at you, Fancy Pants,” Chuckie teases before taking a sloppy gulp of milk straight from the carton. I make a mental note not to drink from it later. “You got a hot date or are you just attending the Oscars?”
I roll my eyes at him, quickly regretting my choice to don this ensemble in the first place. She isn’t coming. There’s no way she’s coming. I didn’t even tell her where I live, for Christ’s sake.
“Is it a boy or a girl this time?” He asks, and before I can answer, he cranes his neck to peer out the window where a pair of bright headlights slide up to the curb. I glance at the clock. Eight PM sharp. This is unreal. We both peer suspiciously through the glass, though for different reasons; he’s probably attempting to check her out while I’m in disbelief, staring with wide eyes and trying to make sure it’s actually her and not an axe murderer. (What’s the difference, really?)
Sure enough, there she is, the crazy girl from the supermarket, now appearing slightly less deranged as she inspects her painted candy apple lips in the rearview mirror. She looks right at us both and smirks, waving smugly as if she somehow knew we’d be watching her from in between the blinds. This girl knows everything, I swear.
“Well, damn,” Chuckie raises his eyebrows, “Look at her. I never knew you had it in you.” He inspects my forehead closely then, probably taking note of the giant black and blue welt that the can of beans left when they collided with my skull that afternoon. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
It’s a long fucking story, I want to tell him.
He shrugs and pats me on the back, emphatically waving back at the mystery crack girl. I should just have him go out with her, after all, drugged out chicks are his type. She’s most likely twenty years his junior, but hey, even better. I’m sure she would much prefer his lazy home attire to my overdressed ensemble. I want to quickly change into something that makes me appear less like an award show attendee and more like the poor shmuck that fainted in the canned goods aisle earlier today. I mean, that was who she asked out in the first place—if this even was a date. God, fuck it, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
“Go make me proud!” Chuckie pushes me out the door, “You better give me the juicy deets when you get back!” He lowers his voice and grins, “Whether that be tonight or tomorrow morning, nah’m sayin’?”
I would’ve blushed furiously if my anxiety hadn’t started to rise in fear of what this night is actually going to bring. I want to ask for a weapon of some sort just in case she does drive me out to the godforsaken desert and torture me. I wouldn’t put it past her.
Chuckie’s back inside before I can voice any protests, however, and I gulp as I stand there, frozen and staring nervously at the strange woman in the old Caddy in front of me. Behind the front door, I can hear Chuckie yell, “Didn’t buy beans again? Now what the hell am I supposed to eat for dinner?” I take that as my cue to leave.
When I finally, hesitantly open the passenger door and climb in, she pops a stick of gum into her mouth and chews on it like a cow as she scoffs, “Took you long enough.” She eyes me up and down, snorting, “You look like a fucking dweeb.”
I knew I should’ve changed.
It smells like cough syrup and cigarettes. I want to ask her what she’s doing and where she’s going and how the hell she knows where I live in the first place and why she acts as if this is a common occurrence, for us to be meeting on the shiny floor of the supermarket and going on a date several hours later. But I don’t. I sit there and swallow my apprehension and stare straight ahead as we get onto 118 East.
She blows a bubble as big as her head and I absentmindedly wonder how it doesn’t obstruct her vision. She’s probably an expert at simultaneously driving and bubble-blowing. It pops as a Janis Joplin song comes on the radio.
She snaps her gum and turns to me. “You look like someone I know.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s been thirty minutes and we’re still not off the highway. At this point I’m legitimately afraid that my theory from before is going to actually happen; we are headed in the direction of the Sierra Nevada. Nobody will be able to hear my screams for miles.
“I’m Candy, by the way,” she tells me, “And yes, that’s my real name.”
It’s not her real name.
She keeps glancing at me, or my arm, or my crotch, I can’t tell, I just keep feeling her side glance me every five seconds and again, I wonder how she’s staying focused on the road all while doing this and blowing bubbles with her gum at the same time. Maybe I’ve truly underestimated her.
“So how long have you been shooting up?” She asks casually as if we’re talking about the weather. Pretty blustery out there, high of seventy-five, sunny with clouds moving in later tonight—
So it is my arm she’s been eyeing. I take comfort in the fact that it’s not my crotch, though the feeling doesn’t last long as I stare in horror at the obvious heroin track marks I’ve failed to cover up in all the distress over my outfit. My first thought is, oh, fucking hell, she’s a narc.
I’m about to tell her I haven’t touched that shit in months, even if that may be a lie, but fuck, man, I can’t go to jail, even if I have nothing to live for. It’s only a seldom occurrence when it’s available to me, I mean, it’s not like I actively go out and try to buy myself an addiction.
My mother would not be proud.
She doesn’t care much about my answer (or lack thereof), thankfully, and I wonder if she always makes small talk like this. I wonder why I’m even sitting in the car with her on our way to who the hell knows where. It’s been an hour and we’ve just gotten off the exit for Devil’s Canyon. The feeling that I’m going to die tonight is growing ever stronger, that is, until we finally reach our destination.
“27 Mokee Lane,” she announces with a snap of her bubblegum.
As I squint out into the darkness at an old, decaying building on the edge of an empty field, at least a mile away from civilization, I realize that this is definitely not a date. Oh, God, I’m going to die. I’m going to die before I get married and have kids who grow up too fast and tell me they hate me before they steal all my money and liquor and I question where I went wrong in raising them. I’m going to fucking die.
She can see that I’m scared, and you know what she does? She laughs. She laughs her raspy hyena laugh, almost choking on her gum, and I’m having flashbacks to earlier this afternoon, remembering her wild-haired shadow hovering over my half-conscious body. I should’ve brought a gun or a bat or at least a fucking kitchen knife. Hello, 911? Yeah, I’m pretty goddamn sure I’m about to be murdered in what appears to be an abandoned firehouse. Yes, I’ll hold.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” she grins something that can only be described as bloodthirsty. I nearly piss myself as she grabs my hand and drags me out of the car. I’m not exactly sure why I don’t fight her grasp or object in any way. Maybe I want to die like this. Maybe I want to be stabbed to death just to get my picture in the paper.
We’re all fucked up just a little bit.
It’s only when the rusty metal doors screech upwards and reveal the interior of the building that I heave a sigh of relief, only at the sight of other people inhabiting the area. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see a gathering of living beings in my entire life. I want to kiss the floor. I have a chance to live—at least I think I do.
I quickly do a headcount, a compulsive action I’ve always had since I was a young child. Twenty-six. There are twenty-six people here including Candy, excluding me. I make twenty-seven.
My relief is short-lived as I examine my surroundings. There are no lights, just multitudes of candles littering the place, and I can’t help but think this must be a fire hazard of some sort, which is particularly ironic considering this is definitely the previous location of a fire squad. There’s a long pole in the middle of the floor extending into the ceiling. Everything looks half-deteriorated. This place must be condemned, but these twenty-six people don’t seem to care. They’re silent as they notice my figure in front of the garage doors now closing again. The fear comes flooding back as I spot a shrine of some sort behind all of them. Jim Morrison’s stoic face is staring back at me as if to say, “Leave. Now. And don’t ever come back.” I don’t know what’s going on, but already, I know there’s no getting out of it.
Candy’s slow footsteps are the only sounds permeating the stale, silent air around us. There might as well be a spotlight on me because apparently to all these ghostly faces, I’m the star of the hour.
Another person is taking deliberate steps toward me now. He has long almond-colored hair, and I don’t mean long for a guy. I mean it goes way past his shoulders and I’m almost jealous of it. He has nicer hair than I do, not to mention his jawline looks like it’s been sculpted by the Greek gods themselves. He’s fucking beautiful and I swear I’ve seen his eyes somewhere before. You don’t easily forget a rare shade of dark jade like that. Most of all, I get an eerie feeling when I look at him, like I know him.
“Sky,” Candy proclaims, stepping toward this man who seems to be leading…whatever this is going on, “Welcome our newest member.”
This Sky comes closer to me with an expression I can’t fully read. It’s a knowing look, almost, and I can't help but feel like we both share some kind of secret. His eyes reflect the orange glow of the candlelight and the corners of his mouth turn up in a relieved smile. He has that look on his face like he’s gazing at the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. It can’t possibly be me, but it is, and at that moment, I realize just exactly who he is, and I wonder if he knows who I am, too.
Finally, I speak up, unrestrained as my voice rings clear through the room:
“Have we met before?”
I’m getting ahead of myself; at that point, I didn’t even know her name yet.
My reflection stands in the floor length mirror, all fancied up and looking entirely dopey. Something told me I was reading too much into this. At what point in one’s life did the term “dating” equate to literally going on dates with someone and not officially calling them your significant other like you used to in middle school and high school? I never understood the concept. Maybe it’s an instinct you somehow automatically adopt once you enter adulthood, like a right of passage. I can legally drink and I still don’t fully understand what it means to be an adult. But then, I always was a late bloomer.
Truthfully, I don’t think anyone really knows what they’re doing at any given point in time. Maybe this is just me, but the more I invest myself in something, the more I think back to its origins and question why I’m doing anything in the first place. What’s the point of this? What/who does this effect? Why is it important enough for me to waste my precious time on?
I can’t believe I’m contemplating this existential shit when I should be focusing on how fucking doofy I look. Why am I all dressed up anyway? There’s no way a girl like her would take me to anything swankier than a Sizzler, that is, if she plans on following through with her so-called appointment. I don’t know why I’m even taking her comment to heart when it was clear she was not in her right mind this afternoon. It must’ve just been the cocaine asking me out.
A low whistle sounds from beside me, emitting from the bathrobe-clad man I was raised by past the age of six. This only makes me feel even more like an idiot, standing lamely in garb appropriate for an upscale dinner party. This girl was definitely not the dinner party type.
“Look at you, Fancy Pants,” Chuckie teases before taking a sloppy gulp of milk straight from the carton. I make a mental note not to drink from it later. “You got a hot date or are you just attending the Oscars?”
I roll my eyes at him, quickly regretting my choice to don this ensemble in the first place. She isn’t coming. There’s no way she’s coming. I didn’t even tell her where I live, for Christ’s sake.
“Is it a boy or a girl this time?” He asks, and before I can answer, he cranes his neck to peer out the window where a pair of bright headlights slide up to the curb. I glance at the clock. Eight PM sharp. This is unreal. We both peer suspiciously through the glass, though for different reasons; he’s probably attempting to check her out while I’m in disbelief, staring with wide eyes and trying to make sure it’s actually her and not an axe murderer. (What’s the difference, really?)
Sure enough, there she is, the crazy girl from the supermarket, now appearing slightly less deranged as she inspects her painted candy apple lips in the rearview mirror. She looks right at us both and smirks, waving smugly as if she somehow knew we’d be watching her from in between the blinds. This girl knows everything, I swear.
“Well, damn,” Chuckie raises his eyebrows, “Look at her. I never knew you had it in you.” He inspects my forehead closely then, probably taking note of the giant black and blue welt that the can of beans left when they collided with my skull that afternoon. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
It’s a long fucking story, I want to tell him.
He shrugs and pats me on the back, emphatically waving back at the mystery crack girl. I should just have him go out with her, after all, drugged out chicks are his type. She’s most likely twenty years his junior, but hey, even better. I’m sure she would much prefer his lazy home attire to my overdressed ensemble. I want to quickly change into something that makes me appear less like an award show attendee and more like the poor shmuck that fainted in the canned goods aisle earlier today. I mean, that was who she asked out in the first place—if this even was a date. God, fuck it, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
“Go make me proud!” Chuckie pushes me out the door, “You better give me the juicy deets when you get back!” He lowers his voice and grins, “Whether that be tonight or tomorrow morning, nah’m sayin’?”
I would’ve blushed furiously if my anxiety hadn’t started to rise in fear of what this night is actually going to bring. I want to ask for a weapon of some sort just in case she does drive me out to the godforsaken desert and torture me. I wouldn’t put it past her.
Chuckie’s back inside before I can voice any protests, however, and I gulp as I stand there, frozen and staring nervously at the strange woman in the old Caddy in front of me. Behind the front door, I can hear Chuckie yell, “Didn’t buy beans again? Now what the hell am I supposed to eat for dinner?” I take that as my cue to leave.
When I finally, hesitantly open the passenger door and climb in, she pops a stick of gum into her mouth and chews on it like a cow as she scoffs, “Took you long enough.” She eyes me up and down, snorting, “You look like a fucking dweeb.”
I knew I should’ve changed.
It smells like cough syrup and cigarettes. I want to ask her what she’s doing and where she’s going and how the hell she knows where I live in the first place and why she acts as if this is a common occurrence, for us to be meeting on the shiny floor of the supermarket and going on a date several hours later. But I don’t. I sit there and swallow my apprehension and stare straight ahead as we get onto 118 East.
She blows a bubble as big as her head and I absentmindedly wonder how it doesn’t obstruct her vision. She’s probably an expert at simultaneously driving and bubble-blowing. It pops as a Janis Joplin song comes on the radio.
She snaps her gum and turns to me. “You look like someone I know.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s been thirty minutes and we’re still not off the highway. At this point I’m legitimately afraid that my theory from before is going to actually happen; we are headed in the direction of the Sierra Nevada. Nobody will be able to hear my screams for miles.
“I’m Candy, by the way,” she tells me, “And yes, that’s my real name.”
It’s not her real name.
She keeps glancing at me, or my arm, or my crotch, I can’t tell, I just keep feeling her side glance me every five seconds and again, I wonder how she’s staying focused on the road all while doing this and blowing bubbles with her gum at the same time. Maybe I’ve truly underestimated her.
“So how long have you been shooting up?” She asks casually as if we’re talking about the weather. Pretty blustery out there, high of seventy-five, sunny with clouds moving in later tonight—
So it is my arm she’s been eyeing. I take comfort in the fact that it’s not my crotch, though the feeling doesn’t last long as I stare in horror at the obvious heroin track marks I’ve failed to cover up in all the distress over my outfit. My first thought is, oh, fucking hell, she’s a narc.
I’m about to tell her I haven’t touched that shit in months, even if that may be a lie, but fuck, man, I can’t go to jail, even if I have nothing to live for. It’s only a seldom occurrence when it’s available to me, I mean, it’s not like I actively go out and try to buy myself an addiction.
My mother would not be proud.
She doesn’t care much about my answer (or lack thereof), thankfully, and I wonder if she always makes small talk like this. I wonder why I’m even sitting in the car with her on our way to who the hell knows where. It’s been an hour and we’ve just gotten off the exit for Devil’s Canyon. The feeling that I’m going to die tonight is growing ever stronger, that is, until we finally reach our destination.
“27 Mokee Lane,” she announces with a snap of her bubblegum.
As I squint out into the darkness at an old, decaying building on the edge of an empty field, at least a mile away from civilization, I realize that this is definitely not a date. Oh, God, I’m going to die. I’m going to die before I get married and have kids who grow up too fast and tell me they hate me before they steal all my money and liquor and I question where I went wrong in raising them. I’m going to fucking die.
She can see that I’m scared, and you know what she does? She laughs. She laughs her raspy hyena laugh, almost choking on her gum, and I’m having flashbacks to earlier this afternoon, remembering her wild-haired shadow hovering over my half-conscious body. I should’ve brought a gun or a bat or at least a fucking kitchen knife. Hello, 911? Yeah, I’m pretty goddamn sure I’m about to be murdered in what appears to be an abandoned firehouse. Yes, I’ll hold.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” she grins something that can only be described as bloodthirsty. I nearly piss myself as she grabs my hand and drags me out of the car. I’m not exactly sure why I don’t fight her grasp or object in any way. Maybe I want to die like this. Maybe I want to be stabbed to death just to get my picture in the paper.
We’re all fucked up just a little bit.
It’s only when the rusty metal doors screech upwards and reveal the interior of the building that I heave a sigh of relief, only at the sight of other people inhabiting the area. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see a gathering of living beings in my entire life. I want to kiss the floor. I have a chance to live—at least I think I do.
I quickly do a headcount, a compulsive action I’ve always had since I was a young child. Twenty-six. There are twenty-six people here including Candy, excluding me. I make twenty-seven.
My relief is short-lived as I examine my surroundings. There are no lights, just multitudes of candles littering the place, and I can’t help but think this must be a fire hazard of some sort, which is particularly ironic considering this is definitely the previous location of a fire squad. There’s a long pole in the middle of the floor extending into the ceiling. Everything looks half-deteriorated. This place must be condemned, but these twenty-six people don’t seem to care. They’re silent as they notice my figure in front of the garage doors now closing again. The fear comes flooding back as I spot a shrine of some sort behind all of them. Jim Morrison’s stoic face is staring back at me as if to say, “Leave. Now. And don’t ever come back.” I don’t know what’s going on, but already, I know there’s no getting out of it.
Candy’s slow footsteps are the only sounds permeating the stale, silent air around us. There might as well be a spotlight on me because apparently to all these ghostly faces, I’m the star of the hour.
Another person is taking deliberate steps toward me now. He has long almond-colored hair, and I don’t mean long for a guy. I mean it goes way past his shoulders and I’m almost jealous of it. He has nicer hair than I do, not to mention his jawline looks like it’s been sculpted by the Greek gods themselves. He’s fucking beautiful and I swear I’ve seen his eyes somewhere before. You don’t easily forget a rare shade of dark jade like that. Most of all, I get an eerie feeling when I look at him, like I know him.
“Sky,” Candy proclaims, stepping toward this man who seems to be leading…whatever this is going on, “Welcome our newest member.”
This Sky comes closer to me with an expression I can’t fully read. It’s a knowing look, almost, and I can't help but feel like we both share some kind of secret. His eyes reflect the orange glow of the candlelight and the corners of his mouth turn up in a relieved smile. He has that look on his face like he’s gazing at the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. It can’t possibly be me, but it is, and at that moment, I realize just exactly who he is, and I wonder if he knows who I am, too.
Finally, I speak up, unrestrained as my voice rings clear through the room:
“Have we met before?”
