Communication is key.
People say that kind of thing all the time, right? Like “look both ways before crossing the street”. Or “don't run with scissors”. But in reality, your peripherals are usually good enough to figure out whether or not a car is hurdling toward you without actually having to turn your head and examine oncoming traffic, and as long as you're not running through an obstacle course or something, scissors really aren't as dangerous as the old adage makes them out to be. But communication? That's the kind of thing you don't trust to peripheral vision or a lack of an obstacle course. All that psychologist bullshit about how communication is the most important thing? You'd better believe it, because it's when you don't that you end up getting into something stupid, like an accidental felony.
Communication is key.
Trust me, I know.
---
The fundamental problem with leather car seats is that when the glaring Southern California sun beats down through the windshield (as it is so prone to do), your sweating thighs will inevitably stick to the upholstery. It was this discomfort that preoccupied me as Hannah's dilapidated tan Volvo, which was conveniently lacking a functioning air conditioner, made the slow crawl down the I-605 South to Newport Beach. The air hung thick with the heat of summer and I had to continuously remind myself that I'd appreciate it as soon as I was out of the car. After all, what's the point of going to the beach if you aren't prepared to scorch your skin and watch it peel and fall from your body for the next few weeks?
So I'm getting in a fight with the manual roll-down passenger seat windows and, as most Andrea versus Inanimate Object fights usually go, losing when Hannah changes the subject from how our ecstasy dealing friend Paul was clearly too stupid to walk free if he didn't have the presence of mind to ask for a lawyer at the time of his arrest to something along the lines of, “Hey, what exit am I supposed to be looking for?”
Because I am extremely preoccupied with relieving my thighs of their sticky leather misery, my only response marries frustration and confusion in a single, entirely unintelligible grunt. And because Hannah has been one of my closest friends for about a year now and is well aware that any sort of attention span is not exactly one of my finer features, unless she prefaces the topic with some act of violence, she whacks me in the arm and repeats her question.
“Bitch,” I interject sorely, my hand flying to the offended area and rubbing the spot she'd hit even though I'd barely sustained more than a glancing blow. We spent a silent moment exchanging glares that would've made others shrink in terror, both of which slowly eased into identical familiar smirks.
Hannah and I have that kind of relationship; the ones no book ever writes about, no movie ever showcases, no one ever really acknowledges because it's too abrasive and raw and authentic to be true. She'd be the first person to inform me I look like “utter shit and a half” after a sleepless night and seemingly endless last minute paper writing, and I have no qualms with kicking her in the stomach for it and actually causing bodily harm as a result. But when she tells me that she'll sue my future husband for every dime that he's worth when we get our “inevitable divorce, what with your taste in guys” and then destroy his life from the inside out with legal technicalities and red tape...well, I know she cares. And I'd slander like it was my job if Hannah wanted to destroy the credibility of some future opposing lawyer, no questions asked.
I mean, no one ever said we were ethical friends.
Anyway.
So I'm fishing for my cell phone to find the text message with the freeway directions to and address of our destination in it, my hand grabbing at familiar assorted objects in my purse, when I realize that I'd better call Weston. The plan is to meet friends at a beach house. Friends of mine, specifically. Hannah's never met Weston and Bailey, but the seductive nature of the word beach in the midsummer heat was simply too overwhelming for her to refuse. Seeing as how it's Weston's family's vacation property we're taking full advantage of, dropping a line to remind him that we were on our way seemed like a good idea. If memory served the proper freeway exit was close, but I didn't trust myself to know the way after the off ramp, even though this was my second trip to the beach house in two weeks. Calling ahead was looking like a better idea every second.
Success! My fingers close around the abused phone, hidden in its tiny corner at the bottom of my purse, as though it was cowering from my destructive touch under the beach towel I'd stuffed on top of all my other crap.
Hannah is ready to gut me when I finally relay the exit street to her at the last minute – she nearly crashes us into a nearby truck in a last minute attempt to make the ramp – and a hair away from murder when I remind her that the old Volvo is so broken down that another accident probably wouldn't make much of a difference, aesthetically or otherwise, at the end of the day. I avoid her laser beam glare by hastily searching out Weston's phone number and punching the call button with my thumb.
One ring. Two rings. Five rings. Eight rings.
“Hey, you've reached Weston Grimes. Leave a message...”
My nose scrunches in annoyance. I told him the night before that we'd be in the area at around 12:30 in the afternoon. I try again, gesturing for Hannah to turn right at the first stop light after the exit ramp.
“Hey, you've reached Weston Grimes. Leave a message...”
I flip the phone shut as sharply as one can without breaking it in half.
“He's not picking up,” I announce; I can see that Hannah's resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Hard. Which is kind of a big deal for her.
“Fantastic.”
Not to be beaten by something as stupid as Weston probably not even paying attention to his phone because he's too busy being a smartass with Bailey to complete strangers, a more common occurrence than I'd personally care to admit, I silently decide that I'm going to try to guide Hannah to the beach house by memory. After all, I'm not stupid. My math skills leave something to be desired, but my memory isn't completely atrocious. Usually.
I can get us there.
I say this both in my head and out loud for maximum effect. And for once in her life, Hannah doesn't argue. She just shrugs and continues down the street, which I'm pretty sure is what we're supposed to be doing. For a few wordless moments, Girl Talk provides a schizophrenic white noise to my near desperate memory.
“If we end up in a rape zone,” Hannah says suddenly, “then I'm leaving you as a sacrifice and getting the fuck out.”
So much for not arguing.
But soon we come upon a fork in the road, and to the right there's a sign that reads:
WELCOME TO BALBOA ISLAND
In a fit of elated maturity immaturity upon recognizing that we were in the right area, I stick my tongue out at Hannah and tell her to take the right hand street, which is actually a bridge. Balboa Island is a tiny land mass that is crowded to maximum capacity with beach houses for rent and a “charming and picturesque little town” right at the entrance, according to the brochure. If by “charming and picturesque” they mean “unkempt and overpriced”, that is.
“This place is a tourist whoreland,” Hannah commented with a note of disgust, her eyebrows raising at a store selling “Balboa Island Rugs!”, and I couldn't agree more. Maneuvering the Volvo station wagon around the milling and seemingly indifferent vacationers on streets that were about as wide as a strand of linguine sent my already frustrated best friend onto a whole new plane of ready to choke a bitch on the road rage scale, but a few aggressive twists and turns later and we were pulling up to the house that I remembered bumming around the week before.
Who needed Weston and his stupid directions anyway?
I pulled my phone out again, this time dialing Bailey's number. He was always the more responsible of the two, after all, and the one more likely to notice that his phone was ringing and not just doing that whole vibration thing for giggles.
Still no answer. Maybe I've been hanging out with Hannah too much, but at this point I'm ready to chuck the phone out the window. I mean, I specifically said that we'd be there at a certain time, and Weston told me to call him when we got off the freeway so he could give me directions instead of having to text them, and you'd think that–
“Why bother waiting for them to pick up?” Hannah suddenly asks, interrupting my internal rambling. “We could just go knock on the door.”
Oh. Right.
I make a mental note to point out Hannah's inability to parallel park with any sort of efficiency at the next opportunity as I get out of the car and collect my things.
The beach house is cheesy – blue and two stories and lined with a white picket fence complete with a sign reading “Our Beach Home” hanging right out front. I almost choked on my own spit the first time I read that. Judging by the gagging noises I hear behind me, Hannah's experiencing a similar reaction. I can't wait until she sees the life sized pirate in the living room.
As I'm making my way up the creaky porch steps, I turn to scan the street for any sign of Bailey's unmistakable deep purple tank of a car. Hannah breezes past me toward the door and I turn to follow her, but I can't help but feel like something's not quite right. Before I can pursue this line of thought, I'm rapping my knuckles against the wooden door and, after a moment, I peer into the window panes. A giant black dog bounds forward at my knock, and what was once a little doubt is now an increasingly heavy weight on my shoulders.
“Is that Weston's dog?” Hannah asks hesitantly, noting the surprise on my face.
“I don't...think so.”
“Are you sure this is the right house?” Her condescending tone confirms that I'll be making two parallel parking jabs before the day is done.
“Yes, I'm sure.” I know it is. The stupid sign's on the gate and everything. I can see the arm of the life size pirate jutting out from the living room. This is the right house. But Weston has a Welsh Corgi and a Golden Retriever, and this dog on the other side of the door is neither Mojo nor Buster. “Maybe Weston's brother brought a friend, and the friend brought his dog.” It's a weak suggestion at best, but his brother's friend was with us a week ago. So it's a possibility.
Sort of.
“You're sure.” It's a question, but Hannah phrases like a sentence.
“Oh, shut up,” I grumble, waving her over to the side of the house and gesturing to a narrow walkway lined with weeds of all kinds. “C'mon, there's a back door over here that Weston never locked last time. We can just let ourselves in. They're probably just at lunch or something.”
Sure enough, the back door's practically begging for intruders, and we find ourselves in a kitchen that's all too familiar to me. There's no way I got this wrong. This is definitely the house I was in before, caramel popcorn on the counter and all. I take some as I move to the living room, and Hannah stays close behind. The black dog we saw earlier comes loping up to us, wagging his tail excitedly and licking at our knees and toes. Hannah immediately drops to the floor and lavishes attention upon the unfamiliar dog, and I can feel the corners of my mouth tugging upward into a small smile. Seeing my best friend lose her edge to a cute animal of some sort (a cat is ideal) is one of my favorite sights, one that I won't blackmail her with later. I leave her in the room and move to the foyer, where a pair of woman's sunglasses sits beside a set of keys.
The uneasy weight returns like a boulder to the spine.
Weston's mom's sunglasses, I tell myself. But as I draw near, the writing on a heart shaped key chain sharpens and focuses, and I can clearly make out MSHS 2007.
MSHS.
MS High School. 2007.
I'm pretty sure Weston's mom did not graduate or attend high school any time near 2007.
I can feel an icy sensation crawling down my spine, infecting my veins. I turn around and see Hannah examining the dog's collar with furrowed brows.
“Hey Andrea, would Weston's brother's friend live in the 213 area code?” I can already hear the beginnings of panic in her voice.
“No,” I reply, both fearing and knowing the answer to my next question all at once. “Why?”
“Because that's the area code of the number on Murphy's tag in case he gets lost.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the silence deafening and the tension palpable.
“Fuck!”
We bolted out the back door in a flurry of beach towels, sunglasses, and sheer adrenaline. By the time we made it back to the car, Hannah and I were completely winded.
“You realize...we just committed...a felony...right?” Hannah asks me in between sharp, heavy wheezing.
“Yeah...pretty much,” I say as casually as I can, even though I'm equally out of breath.
We spend a few seconds just trying to get our lungs working properly again. But when our eyes meet from across the hood of her stupid old Volvo, I can't help but choke out a small laugh. She responds in kind with a sort of strangled giggle of her own. And suddenly we've descended into hysterics, laughing uncontrollably and reveling in the absurdity of what we've just done.
My cell phone buzzes angrily in my pocket; I have a new text message.
“Where are you guys? 201 Agate St.”
I pause my reading and shoot a nervous glance at the street sign closest to us.
Opal Ave.
“You know it's a different house than last time, right?”
Wordlessly, I toss Hannah the cell phone and watch as she quickly scans the text.
“...I'm going to cut your face,” she says with a simple shrug, like it's a fact rather than a threat.
“Maybe you should work on your parking first.” I hitch a thumb toward the crooked car and crack a grin.
Hannah shakes head and smiles back.
---
So open your mouths and your ears, because communication matters. Don't listen to the naysayers that wave off the idea with a roll of their eyes and a flick of their wrist. Relaying thoughts and instructions and feelings and goals is more vital than most can even imagine until the channels are cut and you're left all alone, or even with an equally ignorant friend, wandering around someone else's beach house, petting someone else's black Labrador retriever. Utilize the most fundamental human ability, take full advantage. Give and receive.
And while you're at it, pick up your goddamn phone when it rings.
© aestheticanomaly
Why is it, exactly, that somehow
We let sexism slide in stanza form?
As though the fact that everything rhymes
Makes it all better; excuses it, even.
Sir Mix A Lot’s anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon. It looks so much more offensive in paragraph form, doesn’t it? Even worse in quotes: “I’m gonna find me a woman and skeet,” Ludacris declares in his song Blueberry Yum Yum. How uncouth, I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself. How obscene. Reading such text is so very unbecoming in this modern age of political correctness and strong feminist values. Your eyes wince at the sight.
But put it in verse and suddenly
We don’t mind so much
That Lil John and the East Side Boyz
Think this bitch is fine
(Ho, don’t disrespect it)
Because a little part of us
Is inclined to agree, just because
They said it was so.
Maybe some of it
Has to do with the fact
That we just kind of like
The way the music sounds.
But I personally think
It’s all about the form.
It’s all about the stanzas.
You can say anything in stanzas.
And I’d be lying if I told you
I didn’t have every one of these
Fantastically sexist songs
On my iPod right this very second
With higher play counts
Than I’d personally like to admit.
But if stanzas make everything
All fine and dandy and whatnot
Can I say that the Jews had it coming
Y’know, during the Holocaust,
And get away with it because
It’s all song and dance?
Sure, anti-Semitism is shitty when
You read it out of a history book
But get some guys to sing about it?
Or rap about it? You’re golden.
Gas Attack will be the new thing
All the kids dance to at Prom.
© aestheticanomaly
So we’re sitting there, right?
We as in you and me.
Not an us, but a you and me;
Something we agreed on a while ago.
But like I said, we’re sitting there,
Staring at the sky and talking,
Mostly about the meaning of life
Or something.
Your eyes never leave the clouds
Gathering together, warning us,
I mean, you and me,
That a storm is coming.
We’re silent for a few moments
Before you tilt your head to the side
And say something about how
Life is like an incredibly intense rainstorm.
I don’t really get what you mean,
And I don’t particularly like rain
Unless it’s very, very light,
So the metaphor is lost on me.
But I shrug it off;
Keep staring at the clouds.
Because I like that about us.
Pardon, you and me.
Not everything makes sense.
And not everything has to.
© aestheticanomaly
“Hey, Seth?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you regret it?”
“Yeah.”
---
Waves crashing on the sun-heated sand. The beach. Midsummer. Salty air, just the way she remembers it, the way she’s craved it.
Pacific Coast Highway. Searching out pennies for mediocre food. The slow crawl home in a little red Toyota.
Four friends.
Really, just friends.
---
“You look uncomfortable.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, really. I’m totally and completely fine.”
“Your best friend and my best friend are making out in public two feet from us. You’re nowhere near fine.”
“It’s just…weird, okay?”
“Block it out.”
“Kind of hard.”
“I can do it.”
“You’re not facing them.”
“So look at the wall instead.”
“The wall is boring, Ivy.”
“Then look at me.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, you’re not. Eye contact, Seth. Block them out. Listen to my voice.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“…Okay.”
---
Three perfect weeks of midsummer bliss. She can still taste the sweetness of oblivion, feel the warm wind in her hair from that night.
It was exactly what she wanted, two years too late.
Upon reflection (and isn’t that what this is all about), she probably should’ve seen it coming.
---
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course. Have I ever been one to say no to inquiry?”
“This one’s a little different, Ivy.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Do you want to maybe go out sometime? Like, a movie or something?”
---
Two months of silence.
Understandable, maybe. But she doesn’t want to understand.
Two months of hesitation.
Reasonable, maybe. But she’s never been reasonable.
Two months of doubt.
Unsettling, maybe. But she’s good at it.
---
"Hey, we haven’t talked in a while.”
“Yeah, I know. Been busy.”
“Well get un-busy, Seth. Life is boring without your conversation.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“You should.”
“Okay.”
“…Okay.”
---
They dance around the subject, bury it in casualties. She’s never been good at hiding things, but she’s learning quickly. He’s a good teacher, even though he probably doesn’t realize it.
She doesn’t like the pauses when they talk. She doesn’t like how he always looks ready to bolt when she’s around.
She doesn’t like any of this.
And life goes on.
---
“You’re oversimplifying.”
“And you’re being emo.”
“I’m not being emo, it’s just the truth.”
“Seth.”
“What.”
“Seth.”
“What. I’m just saying what’s on my mind. You should do the same.”
“Fine. I regret it.”
“You regret what?”
“Turning you down, okay? I regret turning you down. Are you happy now that I’ve effectually invalidated your argument?”
“…Maybe we should talk about this.”
---
And for a moment, it works. Fall turns to winter, and everything just works.
They’re not exactly normal, but neither was how they got there.
We’ll figure it out. It’s like their motto. And when they smile at each other, when they talk, for the first time in a long time it’s real.
Everything works.
For a moment.
---
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, I’m only dying.”
“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence here.”
“I’ll be fine, Ivy.”
“Can you make it home?”
“It’s just a headache, nothing major. I can still drive. I’m just sorry I was such a buzzkill tonight.”
“It’s fine, don’t worry. Just…be safe.”
“Sleep well, Ivy.”
---
A typical Saturday night. A typical movie.
She can see the weariness in his eyes as he smiles. As he speaks.
He keeps his distance. She complies, smiling back when it feels as though she should. They’re playing roles. No emotion. She knows this, even if it's never spoken. There are just some things she can feel.
No contact. Even when she reaches for his hand. Even when they kiss goodnight.
No contact.
Not really.
She knows this.
And it’s killing her.
---
“Hey Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you regret it?”
“Not at all.”
---
Insert lamenting love song here.
Something by Paramore would probably be appropriate.
One of those emo bands.
---
“Busy?”
“Yeah, a little. What’s up?”
“Can you talk?”
“Sure. A break might be nice.”
“It might take a while.”
“I don’t mind, Ivy. Go for it.”
“…Was I too late?”
---
An unusually warm winter week. Sprawling grass, a park she loves.
They struggle through three days. Three days of fumbled attempts to figure things out using all the right words. Three days of the same phrases with different synonyms. Three days of madness and uncertainty.
At least, that’s what she tells herself.
Maybe one day she’ll acknowledge that the end result was certain from the start.
---
“Look, try to understand-”
“You don’t need to explain this to me, Seth.”
“I just don’t want you to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
---
She hates him, she realizes as she drinks deeply from her third sympathy Starbucks of the day.
At least a little bit.
What feels like the thousandth person approaches and inquires after her well being, and for a second she almost considers being honest. But there’s no time for emotion, no place for it right now. There’s no room for a mess, there’s too much to do. She can’t spend trivial hours doing trivial things.
Things like feeling.
She’s getting good at this whole suppression thing.
It’s like a recital at this point. A practiced performance.
She’s fine.
Really, just fine.
---
“You don’t need to avoid me, y’know.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Right, that’s why you subjected yourself to an entire lunch period watching Vince and Anna grope each other.”
“They’re my friends.”
“Vince is your friend. Vince and Anna freak you out.”
“We’re just…in different circles.”
“Except not at all.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Whatever, Seth.”
---
Black lights, loud music.
People everywhere. People she knows, people she doesn’t.
People she’s a little too familiar with for her comfort at the moment.
She observes with a bitter smile, curled up on someone who might just care about her.
Another sip, another sigh.
The night goes on.
---
“Are you going?”
“Yeah, should be fun.”
---
New Year’s Eve.
Chaos. Beautiful, utter chaos.
Dancing. Rhythm. Heat. Too much, but never quite enough.
He puts a hand on her shoulder and she turns to look at him, her eyebrow raised in question.
Searching.
The music drowns out reason, and she lets it overcome her.
---
“Hey Seth?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.”
© aestheticanomaly
Y’know how there are times when words just come to you?
And they flow right onto your Word document effortlessly?
Or at least,
You don't have to drag them out of your fingertips by their feet
As they claw desperately at your wrists begging you not to leave?
That’s USUALLY how I am, dammit.
But tonight,
They’re doing that draggy, screamy, crawly thing.
“You’re very poetic in times of desperation.”
© aestheticanomaly
“I always have this like,
idealized image of you in my head
when you say you’re going to write.”
“It’s really not so glamorous.
I essentially crawl into bed,
a crappy notebook in my lap
and a pen in my hand,
and I fall asleep having written nothing,
with my pen staining the sheets
because it’s open.”
“That sounds like a poem.”
© aestheticanomaly
Oh my dear Tony Stark
I dream of you in the dark
(But not in a creepy way).
You’re the hottest man I know who’s not gay
And you’re looking rather masculine today.
You’re witty and wry
And that’s attractive in a guy
Stop saving those children from Gulmira
And with me, start the dawn of a new era
If you come with me, I’ll always be true
Pepper Potts, I’m coming for you.
© aestheticanomaly/Hannah Luke
The more I think about it, the more disgusted I get.
I decide to take a walk along the strip in hopes clearing my head a bit after all the crazy that’s been going on, and I realized something kind of important: Las Vegas is a revolting place.
Everything’s just so fake. And I mean, I realize that’s a given. It’s Vegas for God’s sake. But just because it admits to its fakeness doesn’t make it any less fake. I think this really only hit me for the first time today, and suddenly I can’t stop thinking about it.
I’m sitting in front of the Bellagio, watching tourist walk by. It’s only five in the afternoon, and already most of them are drunk and stumbling about, clutching gigantic Eifel Tower-shaped containers to their chests like soldiers going into battle with their beloved rifles. I cringe openly as I witness a guy run up to a random girl and slap her ass.
I’m pretty sure they don’t know each other, judging by her infuriated reaction.
Angry men and women are sporadically placed up and down the strip, slapping and flicking their XXX GIRLS and ALL NUDE cards at passing tourists, only smiling in the cruelest way possible when a husband reaches for one of their handouts behind his wife's unsuspecting back.
Revolting.
It seems almost terrifyingly ironic that for a place so fake, people come here to be the most primal. The most honest with their behaviors and predilections.
The most real.
I want to vomit again.
I drive by Circus Circus on my way back home to change for the reception, and I’m struck with another one of those shivers crawling up my spine. Amber’s words from maybe a month ago echo in my head as my eyes fall on the dancing lights and shining chrome walls that decorate the devastatingly flashy entrance.
That was like, the first place they introduced family packages. It’s a little twisted, don’t you think? Family packages for Sin City.
A little twisted? Try sick and warped.
I didn’t give it much thought then. Now it’s all I can do to keep from obsessing.
I have a postcard of Las Vegas in my glove box that Kelsey gave me as a joke the last time she visited. My hand seems to move of its own volition, taking it out to examine as I crawl along the strip. The picture on the card actually almost resembles a beautiful scene. I hold it up to the windshield and laugh softly to myself. Not a single postcard in Vegas will show the construction, and everyone knows that The Strip is perpetually under construction.
For a place so steeped in sin, the developers sure spend a lot of time rebuilding it to look more respectable and polishing everything until it gleams.
It’s like a drinking game. Every time you see something nauseating in Vegas, take a shot. It works great here, too, because you can walk around with a shot glass and a bottle of vodka and just kind of go crazy up and down the strip. Drunkenness for the enlightened.
Or pretentious pricks.
Take your pick.
© aestheticanomaly