“911. What’s your emergency?”
“I uh..I’m failing at life?”
Ugh. It stank. It stank so bad. Even after midnight. At 5am in the morning, when the traffic died out. It stank in June. It stank after rainstorms in December. 101 Hollywood Fwy stank like cancer. And no Elon fleet could ever possibly alleviate the crazy shitty smell of car exhaust. It came from everywhere. Example: Amazon Prime trucks crawling up North like flies on a sticky paper — making their sad pointless journey past the huge mountain of shit into San Fernando Valley en route to San Francisco. It came from shabby vans that failed smog check, got resuscitated, got their papers faked at some seedy third cousin auto shop. They now carried simple working LA folk home from their jobs in DTLA. Driven by the individuals with dirty peeled hands and wind damaged facial skin. Their eyes were deep like Mariana Trench. In them you could find among many things the constant need to survive and escape danger, to feed their many children, to cuddle up to their matriarchy wives in the family bed and to pray to Jesus on Sundays to please let them live their small lives in peace. The real people of LA, not the ones you’d see on “Selling Sunset”.
“Are you in an immediate danger?”
“Yes.”
She jerked forward a little too soon attempting to roll up the windows — but it was too late. She felt toxic fumes seeping inside her body like harmful enemy troops — stinky Nazi troops — through the cracks in her skin, her nostrils, the slits of her mouth corners, the watery corners of her eyes. It slipped in like sand particles and there was nothing that could have been done to decontaminate the fragile temple of her body from 101 smog.
She was not wrong. Entire Los Angeles stank like a crazy butthole. fact. Under constant strain of smog that dried up morning dew before a little girl had a chance to smell the roses on her way to school. It was a complete vapid shithole, and she felt like she could not spend another microsecond in here breathing in among other things — the shallow, the vapid and the ego.
Stopped at an intersection, she got waved down by four guys in a rental. Trap blasting from their tic tac-sized Nissan, cheerful clean shaven smug faces looked at her calculatingly. She knew she looked hot. They couldn’t possibly have guessed how much older she was.
— Where are you drifting to?
She shook her head, unwilling to talk. Their brain was still developing comparing to the layers of life experience she has already acquired. She had no interest.
— You know any clubs open? We got jib.
The driver’s buddy lifted up the plastic baggie, demonstrating the goods. All happy and cheerful, like a new born puppy.
The light turned green. She remembered a hole in the wall just a few blocks away. Parties were hosted by the infamous Boulet brothers once. It was a delightful mix of S&M, Hollyweird and underground scene and folks that did not fit in in the best sense of the word. From the recent news the joint has completely turned over and was now a typical Hollywood hip hop place with Kim Kardashian-esque mamasitas running gamut and everyone sort of looking identical in the club’s cheesy Instagram account — a Kylie Jenner face-filler army taking over.
— Dragonfly on Santa Monica
— Wanna come with us?
— I can’t. I’m meeting somebody.
Her old buddy used to live around the corner. That was 10 years ago, but she didn’t bat an eye lying to these 4 youngins.
— Lies
— Ok, yes, she agreed, Sure, and followed the trail of weed fumes behind the silver Nissan to Dragonfly.
The bartender slid five shots across the counter. She bottomed up hers and looked around. There was another reason she picked this place. And her reason had a very handsome male face to it. That one Halloween when he put a whole jar of red paint on his face — aka Devil costume — and she ended up having her entire lower half of her face covered in solid red smudges in every photo of her that night — from making up in the patio away from everyone. It was their spot for years. That being said, she looked over the shoulder, and immediately saw him. Some things never change. He sat head down in the ring of disco light at the far corner of the bar, bleached hair and dark roots, staring at something in his lap. Lonely. Older. Sad. Or not. She felt the warmth pouring over her, like always.
— Hello
She perched on a stool next to him.
— Whisky sour? The bartender placed a cool glass of poison and ice on the counter in front of her and disappeared.
— How did you know? She laughed, double heart-warmed. She was wrong.
— Hey!
A brunette appeared by his side. She was athletic, tan, and probably fucked. Her face — older, but her body was ripped. She was a fantastic choice for his taste. She grabbed the drink. “Jenny”, she introduced herself. “I’m heading to the potty,” said Jenny. She started walking away sort of half looking back. Her dress was so short it was damn near showing her glutes.
She noted his crazy fixated stare and dilated pupils.
— I’m bringing her home — He sensed her question before she even had a chance to open her mouth.
Snorting lines of coke off Ms. Muscular Tits tits in a dirty Dragonfly’s bathroom. The line of boozy chatty people outside knocking on the bathroom door. Fast forward to an awkward threesome in the marital bed. Chocolate chip pancakes in the morning supervised by two women in the kitchen, and this dick trying to undo his hangover coma with more coke. Conflicting emotions of inclusion and anguish all day. All of this she knew in great detail except ever since she walked away she started to quickly forget. But now she remembered why they can never be together even though she was still insanely attracted to his charisma. He was a weird mix of insane manliness and delicate almost feminine vulnerability. They were the same in so many ways, but unfortunately, they both ‘ve been fucked in other ways that made them completely and forever incompatible (he was ‘fucked’ more).
— Look, I don’t need your judgement. I’m happy. She’s happy. Everyone’s happy.
— Crazy fuck. She said, biting her lip so hard tears burst from her eyes.
— Nah, you are the crazy one. He half-turned away, pretend shuddering. — Harmful 5g waves. Magnetic fields. Cancer…You drove me nuts before you drove yourself nuts. Freeway exhaust causes lymphoma. Jet fuel falls on your head. Cell tower radiation seeps into the groundwater. You can’t go the beach because the water is laced with DIT. You can’t sleep at night because the house is too close to the major road. Too close to the freeway. Too close to the airport. You sleep in a face mask because of cancerogenic fumes. You scrub your fucking hands for 10 minutes in the bathroom till the skin starts bubbling up.
“Then why are the houses cheaper near the freeway?” She screamed
“Cause people die earlier there!”
‘Hey,’ her new acquaintances hollered, but she was already well on her way out.
Her Zebra print key. Their broken door knob. Silence. Darkness. At only 1am their entire place was asleep already. Her housemates were so spiritual and healthy, she wanted to vomit all over their Persian carpet. She took a hot shower and changed into her pajamas, then washed her hands really well under the warm stream of water. And once again — just to be sure. Having cleaned herself up, she slipped under the covers in between Shaun and Corey. These douches just came back from the Burn. There was sand everywhere. She hated it. It was so hot in Silver Lake, but the comforter would’ve always been winter heavyweight per Andrea’s demand. Corey made an unhappy noise.
—You poking me with your granny PJ’s.
— It’s organic washed cotton, like you guys requested.
Andrea scoffed:
— Look, if you are not ready to do the whole naked thing and be a part of a community and share our community bed with me, Corey and everyone else, quote unquote “love, live, share” you probably should not be a part of a sex colony.
— I never said that.
Goddamn, what an annoying, whiny, woke bitch you are!
She thought.
Maybe I just don’t wanna be lonely? Want a very not cool old-fashioned human connection? A very boring middle-aged partner to cook ramen noodle from Asian foods aisle with? A very mundane, whiny kid with this boring dude, maybe? A non-woke, non-progressive ordinary lifestyle? Dang you, LA dating scene! Dang you, sex colony, and food colony that kept messing up their online orders all week now, and anything with a “colony” in it, too!
Andrea let out a loud snore and rolled over.
Fine, she thought. I’ll just keep on driving…
