a long-limbed colt
teenage fashion queen
posing like a statue
for seventeen magazine.
dreaming of princes,
and,
white picket fences
of silken wedding scenes
and love
forever.
then,
weary mother
coldly clasped by madness
licking in love
dirty-faced children
tending the fire,
downing martinis,
to keep the love, love,
kiss him goodbye,
pack him his lunch,
to keep the lover
death
at bay.
then sweep the floor
and wash the dishes
relock the door,
and turn the switches,
to keep the ghost of her
(Sylvia)
away.
the kind-faced priest
with a phd in lunacy
swallowed your bitter secrets
buried your fears
fed you forgiveness
stuffed inside pills
you took the repentance
and threw it up
onto the page
in scrolls of anger
sunbursts of rage
palimpsests scrawled with shrills.
you were my savious
my tainted saint
when the hungry cramps
tore through my womb
in the public library
seated next to the hobo
and the retiree
i read disgusted and appalled
and yes, enthralled
the journals of
a scorned eve
burdened with
the surname
of the priest.
but it was the sex in the sexton
that tripped me up
the little catholic nun
in me pursed her lips
and felt the spasms in my
womb
reach back
to my spine
it was an old song,
what you sang,
of witches and hags
of angels and beauties,
so frightfully long
so shrill, so true, and so
wrong, wrong, wrong
sad, sad
because
like sylvia
like drunken dotty
like sweet
ophelia
you thought
of me
rats live on
you whispered
religious murmurous
palindrome
rats live on
you sang
a wicked murderous
half-dead
song
no more pain
and auld lang syne
there's no way
just read the signs
rats live on.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
go to the end
Bliss
A sunny Southern California beach isn't exactly where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous talent agent vampire, who will soon transform you from despairing human into anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull-shit.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from the upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV. "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..." Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she’d laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow had fallen on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. He looked about thirty five and very sure of himself. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. But it wasn’t really his choice any way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart thumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliott Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, of my friends, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, and I try to weigh myself down so I won’t float away like a helium balloon and go insane.
I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I pause, "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I sigh. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age-worn face looks serious, until she forces a quick smile. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it…Aeski Heming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting.
And Heming, the movie-star handsome agent, I got a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms.
I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch on the last day of school, seeking out the scant shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her long black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk-chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “Now this is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Just look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s. So mine’s not only ethnic—it’s historical”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head. Besides, mine’s an homage to all the jazz dudes, so take your history and shove it up--”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!”
Dolores flips her straight black hair over her thin shoulders and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the heavily graffitied picnic bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this macrobiotic health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you go to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You’ve got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye, everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off in a huff, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh, I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’s outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*******************************************************************************************
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…Hemming. You know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***********************************************************************************
Mercy and I are driving to LA to go to Heming’s party and she keeps switching the radio station to these god awful alternative rock stations.
“Mers, can we please listen my ipod now? This is driving me crazy.”
“Shhhh!” she says, as a Coldplay song comes on. “This is how I feel about you, monkey.” And she stars singing along, about how my bones are yellow and the stars are yellow and how she loves my yellow skin and bones.
“If this is a ploy to get me to like Coldplay it’s going to fail, miserably,” I look over at her and smile.
“Oh, come on! It’s catchy! Admit it!” And as she sings along, in her wobbly voice, I have to admit that yes, it is catchy.
“Just because I love your skin and bones too, Mercy, I’m gonna let you play with the radio.”
She’s quiet as the song fades to an end.
“Aren’t you excited? Or are you nervous?”
“I wish…I guess both. I think if I knew how it was going to turn out I’d feel better.” I sigh. “I guess I have low expectations. That everyone there will be foul and vapid. Artificial and superficial. Pretty people bent on skimming on the surface, never delving below appearances. Never driving out of their gated communities. Never wondering how the other half lives. Or giving a fuck, for that matter.”
Mercy grunts and doesn’t answer for a minute, but then I see her looking at me and when she does speak she sounds disappointed. “You’re not even giving them a chance. You’re just ready to hate them—to hate it. You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You’re going to Stanford.”
“Noooh, I’m not. It’s just…” I sigh in exasperation, “If I do sign on with Heming I’m not going to delude myself about the fact that I’ll be doing a stupid job, basically getting paid to do nothing.”
“Ugh. You’re the stupid one, not the job!” she sounds mad. “Don’t you see? Music can be an art, right? Well, so can acting! Look at Orson Welles! You can jump from acting to writing and producing. Or look at James Dean, he approached it like an art form, and he could draw, like you. And play music, like you.”
I forgot that Mercy loves classic movies, old black and white flicks from the 1920s through the19 50s. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that playing the bongo drums isn’t really ‘playing music.’
“Oh, Mers, I’m sorry. You’re right. And just so you know, I’m considering it. Signing on, I mean. Then you’d have time to apply to a cinematography program like you wanted.”
Mercy squeals and kisses me over the stick shift.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The house is beautiful and its beauty scares us. Mercy and I feel like prey as we get out of the car and look, in awe, at the sycamore trees entwining their branches in the twilight clouds.
“Wow” is all Mercy says.
White Christmas lights are strung on the porch and already there are people laughing, drinking, talking, dancing. Incredibly, they’re playing Bowie when we get out of the car, and the music wafts down from the balcony.
“You ready?” Mercy asks, wrapping her arm around my back.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and we make our way up the steps to Heming’s mansion.
The song swings to “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads and even though it’s playing too loudly and a couple of hipsters turn to look at us suspiciously as we walk in I squeeze Mercy’s hand and say, “At least they like good music.”
Mers looks a bit shaken, but she forces a smile and whispers, “If you like this kinda crap. I wish they’d play some Lady Gaga.
Then we see Aeski. He’s sipping champagne from a tall flute and talking to an equally stunning black model with charcoal-hued skin clad in a tight red dress. I see Mercy’s eyes slant into focus and then she whispers, “There he is. Should we go talk to him?”
“Sure,” I say, but instead he notices us as we are heading towards him and excuses himself from the model girl.
“Janna,” Aeski says, “excuse me” and walks toward us with the grace of a slinky cat.
“You came!” he exclaims, and a genuine smile spreads on his beautiful cat lips. “I didn’t think you’d come!” his hand reaches out and his cold fingers brush against my skin, sending electric shivers up my spine.
“Um, yes. Is that ok?”
“Yes! Of course it’s ok!” he laughs mirthfully,” I wanted you to come, and he pats me on the back. “You too, Mercy. Welcome. Now, I know you are…18? 21? Are you of age? We have tons of drinks, so help yourself and do enjoy yourselves, ok? My home is your home.”
“Thanks,” Mercy gushes, as I steer her toward the snack and drinks table. “He’s so nice.”
The ebony-skinned model smiles devilishly, and I think for a minute she may be making eye contact with me, but then Aeski smiles and, placing a soft hand on my shoulder, excuses himself to return to his sexy companion.
“Wow…Mercy whispers. I feel tiny.”
I nuzzle the top of her head and whisper, “Why tiny, baby?” into her conch-shell shaped ears.
She laughs, “Everyone here is wearing Gucci and I’m in Forever 21, for one!”
“Yes, but dahhhling,” I point out, in an affected, fey voice, “no one here is as lovely as you.”
“Do you mean it?”
And as I look into her eyes I swear to God I do. I really do.
“I could lose myself in your eyes, Mers. I’m the luckiest man here.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ch 3: The Change
I don’t remember the next part very well, but this is what I think happened;
We got to the party and I was so afraid of being amongst older, richer people, about maybe leaving Mercy, about definitely leaving home, about being around glamorous actors who smoke and drink and do drugs and fuck for parts and for money and power, that I forgot about my being crazy, which is good.
Because forgetting is what makes it bearable. Forgetting is what keeps the surface from breaking, forgetting is what keeps me tied to the world everyone else lives in, the world of the banal, the world of the normal and the pure, the world of people like Mercy and Turner, and, I thought, of Aeski and his beautiful companion.
People are spilling out of the lavish white house, sitting on the stoop, holding bottles of beer or flutes of bubbly champagne in their hands and smoking and talking and laughing. Everyone is dressed like they don’t care; they would look like hoboes, except I know from reading Mercy’s trashy tabloid magazines in the restroom that this is a very, very expensive brand of casual cool.
I don’t know how old they are because everyone looks young, young and ageless in their tattered striped sweaters from the eighties and nineties and maybe even from before; everyone looks young and disaffected and dangerous in their weather-beaten camouflage and black leather. Everyone looks cool and cold, clad in their studied indifference.
But because they’re older than me, stylish, cool and collected, I suddenly feel like Mercy does, like I’m taking up too much space with my awkward skinny body.
A skinny girl with long black and green dreadlocks, who is wearing a tattered sweatshirt over tight black jeans points at us. "Who are the babies?" she exclaims. “My God, you are so beautiful!!! Both of you.”
I don’t know what to say. Mercy looks equally dumb-founded. But the girl just wraps her arm around our shoulders and plants a beery kiss on my cheek. "Do you know Aeski?”
“A little,” I nod.
“My God, he’s so beautiful. He is so amazing! Isn’t he, Iris?” she asks another girl, who has curly pink hair that wisps about her head like a cotton candy halo.
Iris shrugs non-committally.
“By the way,” the first girl says, whipping her long black and green dreads over her shoulder, “My name is Shiva”.
Then she looks at me and grins, "Hey, how old are you guys?"
She smiles at Iris, who is sullenly nibbling on a cracker, but then she looks back at us and conspiratorially whispers, “Age ain’t nothing but a number, you know what I mean?”
Mercy says, “Yeah, like that song,” and I have no idea what that means so I just nod.
“Good. Yeah, like that song!” Shiva grins, and, glancing at the beer bottle in my hand, asks, "You drink? You do anything else?!"
Mercy looks at her suspiciously and sternly says, “No! Nothing else.”
But I just shrug and say, “I’ll try anything…once.”
Mercy gives me an angry look and stomps towards the far end of the snack table.
Shiva pulls out a small glass pipe that looks like the shell of a snail and offers me a puff. I inhale deeply, coughing slightly before handing it back. "Thank you," I say raspily.
She laughs and laughs and laughs and I wonder if I did something utterly stupid and if she’s laughing at me, but then she says, "You are cute. You sure you don’t want any, honey?”
But Mers just shakes her head and continues to glare at me.
We go inside; Shiva’s arms around my shoulders inhibit my already awkward relationship to space so we clumsily step-stagger over the stoop and into the minimalist living room, where the beautiful people sit on the refined antique lounges and pore over coffee-table books of black and white nudes. Aeski and his ebony counterpart are sitting in a corner, whispering intently and nodding, and when Shiva leaves to go to the restroom and I stand there, feeling stupid and exposed, wondering where Mercy is, but no one even notices me.
A cholo-guy named Freddy gangsta-walks up to me and warns me to stay away from crazy Shiva, and I indulge him and wonder what he’s doing at this party, wonder if he’s their drug dealer before he returns to the chipped wooden coffee table that he was sitting at, lifts up a flute of champagne and as he lifts it to his lips it catches a glimmer of light and looks just like translucent ember.
Shiva returns and offers me a piece of paper that looks like a miniature postage-stamp, "This is a tab," she whispers, “And it will change your life.”
I laugh uneasily wondering if what Freddy said was true but then it strikes me as really funny that I am afraid of a tiny piece of paper and I begin giggling inanely.
“What do I do?” I ask, holding the tiny cube of paper on my sweaty index finger.
“What Alice did in Wonderland. Eat it to become small, drink it to become large. But you don’t really eat it, you just put it on your tongue. See?”
“Like sacrament?”
“Suuuure.”
So I do. I lick it, like sacrament, and slowly, over time, begin to dissipate, begin to disappear.
"You are such a cool boy," Shiva slurs.
"You have a lovely smile," I tell her haltingly, but then her smile vacillates and stretches over her skull.
Shiva bursts into raucous laughter and runs out of the room.
With Shiva and her Cheshire cat grin gone the room feels much too cramped and I am suddenly all too aware of how huge it is, of how the walls are yellowed with shadowy water spots and trails of electric vines, of how the huge flat screen on the wall is showing gay pornography as the garish Christmas lights flicker obscenely, lighting up everyone’s faces only to cast them into shadow the next second.
"Um, I have to go...to the restroom." I whisper, but nobody hears me, so I stand up and walk slowly, clumsily, through the hallway. In the restroom a red bulb is throwing the coarse fibers of the towels into sharp relief, making them dance and sway--each individual fiber endowed with a unique presence, each fabric finger waving like a sea anemone.
I pee and slowly flush the toilet, and it takes decades for the water to swirl into the bone-smooth porcelain bowl.
I walk out of the wash room like I am swimming through molasses. I open a hardwood door and find a darkened room. The air is cool and there’s a bird of paradise in the corner. I sit down next to it and breathe in its paradisiacal fragrance, telling myself to be cool, to relax, as iridescent streams of color begin coursing up the walls.
That’s when Aeski walks in. He creeps in like a cat, silent and still, and for a second his eyes flash yellow and his irises narrow, like a snake’s, and I feel scared, but then they turn light blue again, and his irises are black wells of ink and I feel comforted as his voice rings out through the cool dark room.
“Are you ok, Jamie?”
I nod uncertainly.
“Do you want me to keep you company?”
I nod. His eyes are kind. His lips are lush. He sits on a Louix XIV style chair and tilts his chin, “Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t know if I can…talk,” I croak, my heavy head sinking into my chest.
He laughs quietly and points out, “You just did, Jamie. You’re O.K.”
“I’m O.K.”, I whisper, staring at the orange fire flickering on the bird of paradise stem.
My heart is beating hard and fast and I try to stand up, to ward off the dissolution, but I am pushed down by a soft weight. I start panting, anxious to get out, to see some light, when I feel warmth emanating from a long white arm and smiling blue eyes.
"Who are you?" the creature inquires.
"I’m...hiding," I whisper.
The plump pink lips curl into a sly grin, "Well, Hiding, I’m pleased to meet you. But what I meant was…what are you? Are you the One?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. But I know who who he is. It’s Aeski. But he’s also more, I know…so much more.
He looks divine as his marble skin absorbs and reflects white moonlight, even though the blinds are drawn. He extends a long graceful hand and I gingerly reach out to touch it. Aeski leans in. He smells like musk, like liquor and, strangely, like cinnamon as he says,
"Don’t be scared."
"I...I won’t be, anymore," I say.
"Just keep your eyes closed," he says, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. "Just keep your big brown eyes closed."
Shiva’s right. Aeski is beautiful, I think, and I sigh....sigh high hi hi hi hi hi hi, feeling the breeze created by my every breath reverberate around me.
"Okay," I murmur, cradling on his lap, like a child or a cat. I can feel his heart purring in his cool, broad chest as he runs his fingers through my hair and caresses my cheek, my chin, my neck. I feel small and helpless, while thoughts of depravation and disease and predators and scared rabbits course through my synapses at 1,130 miles a millisecond.
“I’m not like them,” I confess.
“I know,” he whispers huskily. “Neither am I.”
“But…I’m not good. There’s something wrong with me.”
His fingers linger over my eye lids, “No, you beautiful boy. There’s not a thing wrong with you. You’re perfect as you are…but if you want I could help. If you want you could become like me. ”
Suddenly, I can hear the music emanating from the living room. I can see it too; it is weaving its way, snake-like, and embroidering itself through the smoky darkness and making patterns that are rhythmic, like keyboards, and a deep male voice pierces the melody and intones; "There’s a place in the sun, for anyone.....Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire, and let me kiss you, ohhhhhhh. Let me kiss you, ohhhhhhhh."
"It’s Morrissey," I whisper fervently. "Is it Morrissey? Or the Smiths? Aeski, you have good taste in music.”
"I’ve zig-zagged, all over America and I cannot find a safety haven. Say, will you let me lie on your shoulder? I hear you’ll try anything...twice."
I feel a hand caress my head and I become a cat. I arch my neck to feel his cool touch on my head. I could become like him, I think. I could kiss him. I could eat him. I could become him. I want him. Suddenly I feel the blood surging to my aching loins and I want him.
"You’re such a beautiful boy," his voice says.
"Is this Morrissey?" I ask urgently, trying to hold on to myself.
"So lovely," the voice murmurs.
"Is it the Smiths?"
"No," Aeski says. "It’s Morrisey."
"Oh."
I open my eyes and want to kiss him in through my optic nerves, want to suck in his cool, pale beauty and keep this secret memory of our closeness for the rest of my life, hidden away in the dark crevices of my brain. He is running his index finger over my lips and his baby blue eyes are like kaleidoscopes or like the tinted glass windows at church. I gape at them in awe. He comes closer and the swirling blue-green flowers shift shape and tremble, glowing yellow as his irises widen into black, black ink wells.
He presses his mouth against mine and it’s warm and wet and succulent. As warm and delicious and sumptuous as Mercy’s kiss. He leans back and takes a haggard breath.
His canine teeth are dripping, sharp as daggers, and I feel fear, instinctive and primal, course through me, startling its way through the drugs.
“See?” he says, “I’m not like them at all.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Fuck me! What the fuck?" I stagger to my feet and lean as close to the wall as possible, as the iridescent waves continue to ebb and to flow off Aeski’s pale skin.
“I think I could help you,” he says quietly. “I know that you suffer. And I think I could help.”
“Help?” I croak, “by killing me?” Fear is asphyxiating me and I am having trouble breathing.
The beautiful monster walks towards me, composed and calm.
“No. Life will do that,” he stops and gestures towards the expensive looking clock hanging on the wall. “Life is doing that right now, as we speak. What I’m offering is something else. What I’m offering is life eternal, purpose, power. Immortality.”
It’s gotta be the drugs, I think, and Aeski smiles as if he can hear my thoughts and shakes his head. “It’s unfortunate that you succumbed to Sharon’s invitation, but no, it’s not the drugs.”
“Sharon?”
“Oh,” he laughs, “That’s right. She goes by Shiva now.”
I swallow and croak out, “Is she…a…um, an Immortal too?”
“No, no. Shiva’s just a silly human.” He shrugs. “But she’s fun.”
I realize he’s not going to kill me and begin to calm down. “What are you?”
“I’m an ancient one. A vampire.”
“Are you dead?”
“No more than you. But, I will die, someday. But not for a long, long time,” he shrugs, “I’m almost two-thousand years old. We have been known to live to three, four thousand years.”
He sits back down and motions for me to join him, but I shake my head and ask, in my head, as a way to test him, whether he drinks blood.
“Yes, but I also drink energy. Spirit. Psychic life-force. It is the combination of blood and energy that maintains my kind. That allows us to zero in on good victims, and, more rarely, on good candidates for transformation.”
I sigh and sit down. My head is still messed up, I think. How long, how long, how long until I come down? This must be part of it, but even if it’s not, how long?
I look at Aeski, expectantly.
“You should come down in 12 hours if all she gave you is acid,” he shrugs. “Can I tell you my offer?”
Offer? Sure. I think defiantly. Offer away.
He rolls his eyes, “You’re taking it better than I did, when I was Changed. I was a warrior, a Viking, and I was seeking my fortune when I was captured by the Romans. I was enslaved. That’s where I met her.”
His eyes are big and calming and I slide down the wall and sit awkwardly on the carpet.
“Who was she?” I ask aloud, wondering if Aeski is crazy.
He smiles and shakes his head,
“No. Neither are you. She was an Oracle. Sybil. I slept with her, and at first I thought I was to be her sex slave, but that was not to be. Turns out she had known I would be on that ship, on that day, on that coast, and had put out a call that I should be captured and brought to her. She was old then, although she was reported to be ageless she was already aging fast. See…when we get to the millennium of our death we know, and time as well as our powers start sharpening, strengthening. She knew her time of death was coming. She was old when I met her, an old crone. Haggard but powerful, and beautiful because powerful. She told me and I was full of disbelief too.”
His face is unlined and full of wonder, as it must have been two thousand years ago if what he says is true.
“She had begun aging suddenly over a hundred years but had, she told me, been young and lovely only fifty years ago. She had begun having stronger visions and had asked the gods what she was to do. She turned me. Like I will turn you,” he looked at me as he said it, and I swallowed. “She took my blood and gave me hers. It was lovely. It was like death, like sex, like drugs. It was…holy. Like only death will be.”
“Why’d… you let her?”
“Because I trusted her. And because I loved her. And because I was a slave. But mainly, because I wanted her to…just like I think you will. After she explained it, and told me why it is necessary for us to exist, I was willing. I was more than willing. It was what I’d always wanted. I just hadn’t known it.”
“But…aren’t you monsters? Aren’t you parasites? Aren’t you the dead that live off the living?”
“No. She taught me that the first of our kind were the original chosen children of creation. We were pure light, before the Fall, or Change into mortality. After the fall, after the corruption of spirit into flesh, some of us came here to inhabit these flesh bodies, to be the guardians. Because these original vampires were still purer than humans we live longer, so long as we feed on your impure blood and energy, on your death impuse, if you will. Our purpose is to maintain a balance, between life and death, between darkness and light, until it’s time for the return of the light beings.”
“But where…but…that doesn’t make any sense.”
He shrugs and comes closer to me and I feel warm waves of light emanating from him, soothing my skin.
“That’s not the drugs,” he purrs. “That’s the light in me.”
“But…” I gasp, overwhelmed by his heat.
“She told me that 100 years short of my two millennium birthday I would meet a dark man, a young man, and that he would be my purpose.” He smiles wryly. “And I have done a lot in my years…but I believe, young Jaime, that you are that young man she described to me long ago.”
Why me? I think. I’m just me, I’m nothing, nobody… I’m flawed.
Aeski squats down and I see the muscles in his thighs bulge and feel his power coursing over me. “You’re the one,” he whispers, running his hand along my arm, sending electric shivers up my spine, “trust me, boy…you’re the one.”
A sunny Southern California beach isn't exactly where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous talent agent vampire, who will soon transform you from despairing human into anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull-shit.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from the upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV. "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..." Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she’d laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow had fallen on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. He looked about thirty five and very sure of himself. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. But it wasn’t really his choice any way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart thumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliott Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, of my friends, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, and I try to weigh myself down so I won’t float away like a helium balloon and go insane.
I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I pause, "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I sigh. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age-worn face looks serious, until she forces a quick smile. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it…Aeski Heming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting.
And Heming, the movie-star handsome agent, I got a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms.
I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch on the last day of school, seeking out the scant shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her long black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk-chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “Now this is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Just look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s. So mine’s not only ethnic—it’s historical”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head. Besides, mine’s an homage to all the jazz dudes, so take your history and shove it up--”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!”
Dolores flips her straight black hair over her thin shoulders and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the heavily graffitied picnic bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this macrobiotic health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you go to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You’ve got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye, everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off in a huff, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh, I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’s outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*******************************************************************************************
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…Hemming. You know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***********************************************************************************
Mercy and I are driving to LA to go to Heming’s party and she keeps switching the radio station to these god awful alternative rock stations.
“Mers, can we please listen my ipod now? This is driving me crazy.”
“Shhhh!” she says, as a Coldplay song comes on. “This is how I feel about you, monkey.” And she stars singing along, about how my bones are yellow and the stars are yellow and how she loves my yellow skin and bones.
“If this is a ploy to get me to like Coldplay it’s going to fail, miserably,” I look over at her and smile.
“Oh, come on! It’s catchy! Admit it!” And as she sings along, in her wobbly voice, I have to admit that yes, it is catchy.
“Just because I love your skin and bones too, Mercy, I’m gonna let you play with the radio.”
She’s quiet as the song fades to an end.
“Aren’t you excited? Or are you nervous?”
“I wish…I guess both. I think if I knew how it was going to turn out I’d feel better.” I sigh. “I guess I have low expectations. That everyone there will be foul and vapid. Artificial and superficial. Pretty people bent on skimming on the surface, never delving below appearances. Never driving out of their gated communities. Never wondering how the other half lives. Or giving a fuck, for that matter.”
Mercy grunts and doesn’t answer for a minute, but then I see her looking at me and when she does speak she sounds disappointed. “You’re not even giving them a chance. You’re just ready to hate them—to hate it. You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You’re going to Stanford.”
“Noooh, I’m not. It’s just…” I sigh in exasperation, “If I do sign on with Heming I’m not going to delude myself about the fact that I’ll be doing a stupid job, basically getting paid to do nothing.”
“Ugh. You’re the stupid one, not the job!” she sounds mad. “Don’t you see? Music can be an art, right? Well, so can acting! Look at Orson Welles! You can jump from acting to writing and producing. Or look at James Dean, he approached it like an art form, and he could draw, like you. And play music, like you.”
I forgot that Mercy loves classic movies, old black and white flicks from the 1920s through the19 50s. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that playing the bongo drums isn’t really ‘playing music.’
“Oh, Mers, I’m sorry. You’re right. And just so you know, I’m considering it. Signing on, I mean. Then you’d have time to apply to a cinematography program like you wanted.”
Mercy squeals and kisses me over the stick shift.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The house is beautiful and its beauty scares us. Mercy and I feel like prey as we get out of the car and look, in awe, at the sycamore trees entwining their branches in the twilight clouds.
“Wow” is all Mercy says.
White Christmas lights are strung on the porch and already there are people laughing, drinking, talking, dancing. Incredibly, they’re playing Bowie when we get out of the car, and the music wafts down from the balcony.
“You ready?” Mercy asks, wrapping her arm around my back.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and we make our way up the steps to Heming’s mansion.
The song swings to “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads and even though it’s playing too loudly and a couple of hipsters turn to look at us suspiciously as we walk in I squeeze Mercy’s hand and say, “At least they like good music.”
Mers looks a bit shaken, but she forces a smile and whispers, “If you like this kinda crap. I wish they’d play some Lady Gaga.
Then we see Aeski. He’s sipping champagne from a tall flute and talking to an equally stunning black model with charcoal-hued skin clad in a tight red dress. I see Mercy’s eyes slant into focus and then she whispers, “There he is. Should we go talk to him?”
“Sure,” I say, but instead he notices us as we are heading towards him and excuses himself from the model girl.
“Janna,” Aeski says, “excuse me” and walks toward us with the grace of a slinky cat.
“You came!” he exclaims, and a genuine smile spreads on his beautiful cat lips. “I didn’t think you’d come!” his hand reaches out and his cold fingers brush against my skin, sending electric shivers up my spine.
“Um, yes. Is that ok?”
“Yes! Of course it’s ok!” he laughs mirthfully,” I wanted you to come, and he pats me on the back. “You too, Mercy. Welcome. Now, I know you are…18? 21? Are you of age? We have tons of drinks, so help yourself and do enjoy yourselves, ok? My home is your home.”
“Thanks,” Mercy gushes, as I steer her toward the snack and drinks table. “He’s so nice.”
The ebony-skinned model smiles devilishly, and I think for a minute she may be making eye contact with me, but then Aeski smiles and, placing a soft hand on my shoulder, excuses himself to return to his sexy companion.
“Wow…Mercy whispers. I feel tiny.”
I nuzzle the top of her head and whisper, “Why tiny, baby?” into her conch-shell shaped ears.
She laughs, “Everyone here is wearing Gucci and I’m in Forever 21, for one!”
“Yes, but dahhhling,” I point out, in an affected, fey voice, “no one here is as lovely as you.”
“Do you mean it?”
And as I look into her eyes I swear to God I do. I really do.
“I could lose myself in your eyes, Mers. I’m the luckiest man here.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ch 3: The Change
I don’t remember the next part very well, but this is what I think happened;
We got to the party and I was so afraid of being amongst older, richer people, about maybe leaving Mercy, about definitely leaving home, about being around glamorous actors who smoke and drink and do drugs and fuck for parts and for money and power, that I forgot about my being crazy, which is good.
Because forgetting is what makes it bearable. Forgetting is what keeps the surface from breaking, forgetting is what keeps me tied to the world everyone else lives in, the world of the banal, the world of the normal and the pure, the world of people like Mercy and Turner, and, I thought, of Aeski and his beautiful companion.
People are spilling out of the lavish white house, sitting on the stoop, holding bottles of beer or flutes of bubbly champagne in their hands and smoking and talking and laughing. Everyone is dressed like they don’t care; they would look like hoboes, except I know from reading Mercy’s trashy tabloid magazines in the restroom that this is a very, very expensive brand of casual cool.
I don’t know how old they are because everyone looks young, young and ageless in their tattered striped sweaters from the eighties and nineties and maybe even from before; everyone looks young and disaffected and dangerous in their weather-beaten camouflage and black leather. Everyone looks cool and cold, clad in their studied indifference.
But because they’re older than me, stylish, cool and collected, I suddenly feel like Mercy does, like I’m taking up too much space with my awkward skinny body.
A skinny girl with long black and green dreadlocks, who is wearing a tattered sweatshirt over tight black jeans points at us. "Who are the babies?" she exclaims. “My God, you are so beautiful!!! Both of you.”
I don’t know what to say. Mercy looks equally dumb-founded. But the girl just wraps her arm around our shoulders and plants a beery kiss on my cheek. "Do you know Aeski?”
“A little,” I nod.
“My God, he’s so beautiful. He is so amazing! Isn’t he, Iris?” she asks another girl, who has curly pink hair that wisps about her head like a cotton candy halo.
Iris shrugs non-committally.
“By the way,” the first girl says, whipping her long black and green dreads over her shoulder, “My name is Shiva”.
Then she looks at me and grins, "Hey, how old are you guys?"
She smiles at Iris, who is sullenly nibbling on a cracker, but then she looks back at us and conspiratorially whispers, “Age ain’t nothing but a number, you know what I mean?”
Mercy says, “Yeah, like that song,” and I have no idea what that means so I just nod.
“Good. Yeah, like that song!” Shiva grins, and, glancing at the beer bottle in my hand, asks, "You drink? You do anything else?!"
Mercy looks at her suspiciously and sternly says, “No! Nothing else.”
But I just shrug and say, “I’ll try anything…once.”
Mercy gives me an angry look and stomps towards the far end of the snack table.
Shiva pulls out a small glass pipe that looks like the shell of a snail and offers me a puff. I inhale deeply, coughing slightly before handing it back. "Thank you," I say raspily.
She laughs and laughs and laughs and I wonder if I did something utterly stupid and if she’s laughing at me, but then she says, "You are cute. You sure you don’t want any, honey?”
But Mers just shakes her head and continues to glare at me.
We go inside; Shiva’s arms around my shoulders inhibit my already awkward relationship to space so we clumsily step-stagger over the stoop and into the minimalist living room, where the beautiful people sit on the refined antique lounges and pore over coffee-table books of black and white nudes. Aeski and his ebony counterpart are sitting in a corner, whispering intently and nodding, and when Shiva leaves to go to the restroom and I stand there, feeling stupid and exposed, wondering where Mercy is, but no one even notices me.
A cholo-guy named Freddy gangsta-walks up to me and warns me to stay away from crazy Shiva, and I indulge him and wonder what he’s doing at this party, wonder if he’s their drug dealer before he returns to the chipped wooden coffee table that he was sitting at, lifts up a flute of champagne and as he lifts it to his lips it catches a glimmer of light and looks just like translucent ember.
Shiva returns and offers me a piece of paper that looks like a miniature postage-stamp, "This is a tab," she whispers, “And it will change your life.”
I laugh uneasily wondering if what Freddy said was true but then it strikes me as really funny that I am afraid of a tiny piece of paper and I begin giggling inanely.
“What do I do?” I ask, holding the tiny cube of paper on my sweaty index finger.
“What Alice did in Wonderland. Eat it to become small, drink it to become large. But you don’t really eat it, you just put it on your tongue. See?”
“Like sacrament?”
“Suuuure.”
So I do. I lick it, like sacrament, and slowly, over time, begin to dissipate, begin to disappear.
"You are such a cool boy," Shiva slurs.
"You have a lovely smile," I tell her haltingly, but then her smile vacillates and stretches over her skull.
Shiva bursts into raucous laughter and runs out of the room.
With Shiva and her Cheshire cat grin gone the room feels much too cramped and I am suddenly all too aware of how huge it is, of how the walls are yellowed with shadowy water spots and trails of electric vines, of how the huge flat screen on the wall is showing gay pornography as the garish Christmas lights flicker obscenely, lighting up everyone’s faces only to cast them into shadow the next second.
"Um, I have to go...to the restroom." I whisper, but nobody hears me, so I stand up and walk slowly, clumsily, through the hallway. In the restroom a red bulb is throwing the coarse fibers of the towels into sharp relief, making them dance and sway--each individual fiber endowed with a unique presence, each fabric finger waving like a sea anemone.
I pee and slowly flush the toilet, and it takes decades for the water to swirl into the bone-smooth porcelain bowl.
I walk out of the wash room like I am swimming through molasses. I open a hardwood door and find a darkened room. The air is cool and there’s a bird of paradise in the corner. I sit down next to it and breathe in its paradisiacal fragrance, telling myself to be cool, to relax, as iridescent streams of color begin coursing up the walls.
That’s when Aeski walks in. He creeps in like a cat, silent and still, and for a second his eyes flash yellow and his irises narrow, like a snake’s, and I feel scared, but then they turn light blue again, and his irises are black wells of ink and I feel comforted as his voice rings out through the cool dark room.
“Are you ok, Jamie?”
I nod uncertainly.
“Do you want me to keep you company?”
I nod. His eyes are kind. His lips are lush. He sits on a Louix XIV style chair and tilts his chin, “Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t know if I can…talk,” I croak, my heavy head sinking into my chest.
He laughs quietly and points out, “You just did, Jamie. You’re O.K.”
“I’m O.K.”, I whisper, staring at the orange fire flickering on the bird of paradise stem.
My heart is beating hard and fast and I try to stand up, to ward off the dissolution, but I am pushed down by a soft weight. I start panting, anxious to get out, to see some light, when I feel warmth emanating from a long white arm and smiling blue eyes.
"Who are you?" the creature inquires.
"I’m...hiding," I whisper.
The plump pink lips curl into a sly grin, "Well, Hiding, I’m pleased to meet you. But what I meant was…what are you? Are you the One?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. But I know who who he is. It’s Aeski. But he’s also more, I know…so much more.
He looks divine as his marble skin absorbs and reflects white moonlight, even though the blinds are drawn. He extends a long graceful hand and I gingerly reach out to touch it. Aeski leans in. He smells like musk, like liquor and, strangely, like cinnamon as he says,
"Don’t be scared."
"I...I won’t be, anymore," I say.
"Just keep your eyes closed," he says, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. "Just keep your big brown eyes closed."
Shiva’s right. Aeski is beautiful, I think, and I sigh....sigh high hi hi hi hi hi hi, feeling the breeze created by my every breath reverberate around me.
"Okay," I murmur, cradling on his lap, like a child or a cat. I can feel his heart purring in his cool, broad chest as he runs his fingers through my hair and caresses my cheek, my chin, my neck. I feel small and helpless, while thoughts of depravation and disease and predators and scared rabbits course through my synapses at 1,130 miles a millisecond.
“I’m not like them,” I confess.
“I know,” he whispers huskily. “Neither am I.”
“But…I’m not good. There’s something wrong with me.”
His fingers linger over my eye lids, “No, you beautiful boy. There’s not a thing wrong with you. You’re perfect as you are…but if you want I could help. If you want you could become like me. ”
Suddenly, I can hear the music emanating from the living room. I can see it too; it is weaving its way, snake-like, and embroidering itself through the smoky darkness and making patterns that are rhythmic, like keyboards, and a deep male voice pierces the melody and intones; "There’s a place in the sun, for anyone.....Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire, and let me kiss you, ohhhhhhh. Let me kiss you, ohhhhhhhh."
"It’s Morrissey," I whisper fervently. "Is it Morrissey? Or the Smiths? Aeski, you have good taste in music.”
"I’ve zig-zagged, all over America and I cannot find a safety haven. Say, will you let me lie on your shoulder? I hear you’ll try anything...twice."
I feel a hand caress my head and I become a cat. I arch my neck to feel his cool touch on my head. I could become like him, I think. I could kiss him. I could eat him. I could become him. I want him. Suddenly I feel the blood surging to my aching loins and I want him.
"You’re such a beautiful boy," his voice says.
"Is this Morrissey?" I ask urgently, trying to hold on to myself.
"So lovely," the voice murmurs.
"Is it the Smiths?"
"No," Aeski says. "It’s Morrisey."
"Oh."
I open my eyes and want to kiss him in through my optic nerves, want to suck in his cool, pale beauty and keep this secret memory of our closeness for the rest of my life, hidden away in the dark crevices of my brain. He is running his index finger over my lips and his baby blue eyes are like kaleidoscopes or like the tinted glass windows at church. I gape at them in awe. He comes closer and the swirling blue-green flowers shift shape and tremble, glowing yellow as his irises widen into black, black ink wells.
He presses his mouth against mine and it’s warm and wet and succulent. As warm and delicious and sumptuous as Mercy’s kiss. He leans back and takes a haggard breath.
His canine teeth are dripping, sharp as daggers, and I feel fear, instinctive and primal, course through me, startling its way through the drugs.
“See?” he says, “I’m not like them at all.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Fuck me! What the fuck?" I stagger to my feet and lean as close to the wall as possible, as the iridescent waves continue to ebb and to flow off Aeski’s pale skin.
“I think I could help you,” he says quietly. “I know that you suffer. And I think I could help.”
“Help?” I croak, “by killing me?” Fear is asphyxiating me and I am having trouble breathing.
The beautiful monster walks towards me, composed and calm.
“No. Life will do that,” he stops and gestures towards the expensive looking clock hanging on the wall. “Life is doing that right now, as we speak. What I’m offering is something else. What I’m offering is life eternal, purpose, power. Immortality.”
It’s gotta be the drugs, I think, and Aeski smiles as if he can hear my thoughts and shakes his head. “It’s unfortunate that you succumbed to Sharon’s invitation, but no, it’s not the drugs.”
“Sharon?”
“Oh,” he laughs, “That’s right. She goes by Shiva now.”
I swallow and croak out, “Is she…a…um, an Immortal too?”
“No, no. Shiva’s just a silly human.” He shrugs. “But she’s fun.”
I realize he’s not going to kill me and begin to calm down. “What are you?”
“I’m an ancient one. A vampire.”
“Are you dead?”
“No more than you. But, I will die, someday. But not for a long, long time,” he shrugs, “I’m almost two-thousand years old. We have been known to live to three, four thousand years.”
He sits back down and motions for me to join him, but I shake my head and ask, in my head, as a way to test him, whether he drinks blood.
“Yes, but I also drink energy. Spirit. Psychic life-force. It is the combination of blood and energy that maintains my kind. That allows us to zero in on good victims, and, more rarely, on good candidates for transformation.”
I sigh and sit down. My head is still messed up, I think. How long, how long, how long until I come down? This must be part of it, but even if it’s not, how long?
I look at Aeski, expectantly.
“You should come down in 12 hours if all she gave you is acid,” he shrugs. “Can I tell you my offer?”
Offer? Sure. I think defiantly. Offer away.
He rolls his eyes, “You’re taking it better than I did, when I was Changed. I was a warrior, a Viking, and I was seeking my fortune when I was captured by the Romans. I was enslaved. That’s where I met her.”
His eyes are big and calming and I slide down the wall and sit awkwardly on the carpet.
“Who was she?” I ask aloud, wondering if Aeski is crazy.
He smiles and shakes his head,
“No. Neither are you. She was an Oracle. Sybil. I slept with her, and at first I thought I was to be her sex slave, but that was not to be. Turns out she had known I would be on that ship, on that day, on that coast, and had put out a call that I should be captured and brought to her. She was old then, although she was reported to be ageless she was already aging fast. See…when we get to the millennium of our death we know, and time as well as our powers start sharpening, strengthening. She knew her time of death was coming. She was old when I met her, an old crone. Haggard but powerful, and beautiful because powerful. She told me and I was full of disbelief too.”
His face is unlined and full of wonder, as it must have been two thousand years ago if what he says is true.
“She had begun aging suddenly over a hundred years but had, she told me, been young and lovely only fifty years ago. She had begun having stronger visions and had asked the gods what she was to do. She turned me. Like I will turn you,” he looked at me as he said it, and I swallowed. “She took my blood and gave me hers. It was lovely. It was like death, like sex, like drugs. It was…holy. Like only death will be.”
“Why’d… you let her?”
“Because I trusted her. And because I loved her. And because I was a slave. But mainly, because I wanted her to…just like I think you will. After she explained it, and told me why it is necessary for us to exist, I was willing. I was more than willing. It was what I’d always wanted. I just hadn’t known it.”
“But…aren’t you monsters? Aren’t you parasites? Aren’t you the dead that live off the living?”
“No. She taught me that the first of our kind were the original chosen children of creation. We were pure light, before the Fall, or Change into mortality. After the fall, after the corruption of spirit into flesh, some of us came here to inhabit these flesh bodies, to be the guardians. Because these original vampires were still purer than humans we live longer, so long as we feed on your impure blood and energy, on your death impuse, if you will. Our purpose is to maintain a balance, between life and death, between darkness and light, until it’s time for the return of the light beings.”
“But where…but…that doesn’t make any sense.”
He shrugs and comes closer to me and I feel warm waves of light emanating from him, soothing my skin.
“That’s not the drugs,” he purrs. “That’s the light in me.”
“But…” I gasp, overwhelmed by his heat.
“She told me that 100 years short of my two millennium birthday I would meet a dark man, a young man, and that he would be my purpose.” He smiles wryly. “And I have done a lot in my years…but I believe, young Jaime, that you are that young man she described to me long ago.”
Why me? I think. I’m just me, I’m nothing, nobody… I’m flawed.
Aeski squats down and I see the muscles in his thighs bulge and feel his power coursing over me. “You’re the one,” he whispers, running his hand along my arm, sending electric shivers up my spine, “trust me, boy…you’re the one.”
Friday, July 9, 2010
bloodis
Bliss
A sunny Southern California beach isn't exactly where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous talent agent vampire, who will soon transform you from despairing human into anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull-shit.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from the upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV. "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..." Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she’d laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow had fallen on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. He looked about thirty five and very sure of himself. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. But it wasn’t really his choice any way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart thumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliott Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, of my friends, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, and I try to weigh myself down so I won’t float away like a helium balloon and go insane.
I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I pause, "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I sigh. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age-worn face looks serious, until she forces a quick smile. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it…Aeski Heming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting.
And Heming, the movie-star handsome agent, I got a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms.
I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch on the last day of school, seeking out the scant shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her long black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk-chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “Now this is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Just look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s. So mine’s not only ethnic—it’s historical”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head. Besides, mine’s an homage to all the jazz dudes, so take your history and shove it up--”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!”
Dolores flips her straight black hair over her thin shoulders and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the heavily graffitied picnic bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this macrobiotic health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you go to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You’ve got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye, everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off in a huff, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh, I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’s outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*******************************************************************************************
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…Hemming. You know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***********************************************************************************
Mercy and I are driving to LA to go to Heming’s party and she keeps switching the radio station to these god awful alternative rock stations.
“Mers, can we please listen my ipod now? This is driving me crazy.”
“Shhhh!” she says, as a Coldplay song comes on. “This is how I feel about you, monkey.” And she stars singing along, about how my bones are yellow and the stars are yellow and how she loves my yellow skin and bones.
“If this is a ploy to get me to like Coldplay it’s going to fail, miserably,” I look over at her and smile.
“Oh, come on! It’s catchy! Admit it!” And as she sings along, in her wobbly voice, I have to admit that yes, it is catchy.
“Just because I love your skin and bones too, Mercy, I’m gonna let you play with the radio.”
She’s quiet as the song fades to an end.
“Aren’t you excited? Or are you nervous?”
“I wish…I guess both. I think if I knew how it was going to turn out I’d feel better.” I sigh. “I guess I have low expectations. That everyone there will be foul and vapid. Artificial and superficial. Pretty people bent on skimming on the surface, never delving below appearances. Never driving out of their gated communities. Never wondering how the other half lives. Or giving a fuck, for that matter.”
Mercy grunts and doesn’t answer for a minute, but then I see her looking at me and when she does speak she sounds disappointed. “You’re not even giving them a chance. You’re just ready to hate them—to hate it. You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You’re going to Stanford.”
“Noooh, I’m not. It’s just…” I sigh in exasperation, “If I do sign on with Heming I’m not going to delude myself about the fact that I’ll be doing a stupid job, basically getting paid to do nothing.”
“Ugh. You’re the stupid one, not the job!” she sounds mad. “Don’t you see? Music can be an art, right? Well, so can acting! Look at Orson Welles! You can jump from acting to writing and producing. Or look at James Dean, he approached it like an art form, and he could draw, like you. And play music, like you.”
I forgot that Mercy loves classic movies, old black and white flicks from the 1920s through the19 50s. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that playing the bongo drums isn’t really ‘playing music.’
“Oh, Mers, I’m sorry. You’re right. And just so you know, I’m considering it. Signing on, I mean. Then you’d have time to apply to a cinematography program like you wanted.”
Mercy squeals and kisses me over the stick shift.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The house is beautiful and its beauty scares us. Mercy and I feel like prey as we get out of the car and look, in awe, at the sycamore trees entwining their branches in the twilight clouds.
“Wow” is all Mercy says.
White Christmas lights are strung on the porch and already there are people laughing, drinking, talking, dancing. Incredibly, they’re playing Bowie when we get out of the car, and the music wafts down from the balcony.
“You ready?” Mercy asks, wrapping her arm around my back.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and we make our way up the steps to Heming’s mansion.
The song swings to “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads and even though it’s playing too loudly and a couple of hipsters turn to look at us suspiciously as we walk in I squeeze Mercy’s hand and say, “At least they like good music.”
Mers looks a bit shaken, but she forces a smile and whispers, “If you like this kinda crap. I wish they’d play some Lady Gaga.
Then we see Aeski. He’s sipping champagne from a tall flute and talking to an equally stunning black model with charcoal-hued skin clad in a tight red dress. I see Mercy’s eyes slant into focus and then she whispers, “There he is. Should we go talk to him?”
“Sure,” I say, but instead he notices us as we are heading towards him and excuses himself from the model girl.
“Janna,” Aeski says, “excuse me” and walks toward us with the grace of a slinky cat.
“You came!” he exclaims, and a genuine smile spreads on his beautiful cat lips. “I didn’t think you’d come!” his hand reaches out and his cold fingers brush against my skin, sending electric shivers up my spine.
“Um, yes. Is that ok?”
“Yes! Of course it’s ok!” he laughs mirthfully,” I wanted you to come, and he pats me on the back. “You too, Mercy. Welcome. Now, I know you are…18? 21? Are you of age? We have tons of drinks, so help yourself and do enjoy yourselves, ok? My home is your home.”
“Thanks,” Mercy gushes, as I steer her toward the snack and drinks table. “He’s so nice.”
The ebony-skinned model smiles devilishly, and I think for a minute she may be making eye contact with me, but then Aeski smiles and, placing a soft hand on my shoulder, excuses himself to return to his sexy companion.
“Wow…Mercy whispers. I feel tiny.”
I nuzzle the top of her head and whisper, “Why tiny, baby?” into her conch-shell shaped ears.
She laughs, “Everyone here is wearing Gucci and I’m in Forever 21, for one!”
“Yes, but dahhhling,” I point out, in an affected, fey voice, “no one here is as lovely as you.”
“Do you mean it?”
And as I look into her eyes I swear to God I do. I really do.
“I could lose myself in your eyes, Mers. I’m the luckiest man here.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ch 3: The Change
I don’t remember the next part very well, but this is what I think happened;
We got to the party and I was so afraid of being amongst older, richer people, about maybe leaving Mercy, about definitely leaving home, about being around glamorous actors who smoke and drink and do drugs and have sex, that I forgot about my being crazy, which is good.
Because forgetting is what makes it bearable. Forgetting is what keeps the surface from breaking, what keeps me tied to the world everyone else lives in, the world of the banal, the world of the normal and the pure, the world of people like Mercy and Turner, and Aeski and his beautiful companion.
People are spilling out of the lavish white house, sitting on the stoop, holding bottles of beer or flutes of bubbly champagne in their hands and smoking and talking and laughing. Everyone is dressed like they don’t care; they would look like hoboes, except I know from reading Mercy’s trashy tabloid magazines in the restroom that this is a very, very expensive brand of casual cool.
I don’t know how old they are because everyone looks young, young and ageless in their tattered striped sweaters from the eighties and nineties and maybe even from before; everyone looks young and disaffected and dangerous in their weather-beaten camouflage and black leather. Everyone looks cool and cold, clad in their studied indifference.
But because they’re older than me, stylish, cool and collected, I suddenly feel like Mercy does, like I’m taking up too much space with my awkward skinny body.
A skinny girl with long black and green dreadlocks, who is wearing a tattered sweatshirt over tight black jeans points at us. "Who are the babies?" she exclaims. “My God, you are so beautiful!!! Both of you.”
I don’t know what to say. Mercy looks equally dumb-founded. But the girl just wraps her arm around our shoulders and plants a beery kiss on my cheek. "Do you know Aeski?”
“A little,” I nod.
“My God, he’s so beautiful. He is so amazing! Isn’t he, Iris?” she asks another girl, who has curly pink hair that wisps about her head like a cotton candy halo.
Iris shrugs non-committally.
“By the way,” the first girl says, whipping her long black and green dreads over her shoulder, “My name is Shiva”.
Then she looks at me and grins, "Hey, how old are you guys?"
She smiles at Iris, who is sullenly nibbling on a cracker, but then she looks back at us and conspiratorially whispers, “Age ain’t nothing but a number, you know what I mean?”
Mercy says, “Yeah, like that song,” and I have no idea what that means so I just nod,
“Good. Yeah, like that song,” Shiva grins, and, glancing at the beer bottle in my hand, asks, "You drink? You do anything else?!"
Mercy looks at her suspiciously and sternly says, “No! Nothing else.”
But I just shrug and say, “I’ll try anything…once.”
Mercy gives me an angry look and walks towards the far end of the snack table.
Shiva pulls out a small glass pipe that looks like the shell of a snail and offers me a puff. I inhale deeply, coughing slightly before handing it back. "Thank you," I say raspily.
She laughs and laughs and laughs and I wonder if I did something utterly stupid and if she’s laughing at me, but then she says, "You are the most adorable little thing. You sure you don’t want any, honey?”
But Mers just shakes her head and continues to glare at me.
We go inside; Shiva’s arms around my shoulders inhibit my already awkward relationship to space so we clumsily step-stagger over the stoop and into the minimalist living room, where the beautiful people sit on the refined antique lounges and pore over coffee-table books of black and white nudes. Aeski and his ebony counterpart are sitting in a corner, whispering intently and nodding, and when Shiva leaves to go to the restroom and I stand there, feeling stupid and exposed, wondering where Mercy is, but no one even notices me.
A cholo-guy named Freddy gangsta-walks up to me and warns me to stay away from crazy Shiva, and I indulge him and wonder what he’s doing at this party before he returns to the chipped wooden coffee table that he was sitting at, lifts up a flute of champagne and as he lifts it to his lips it catches a glimmer of light and looks just like translucent ember.
Shiva returns and offers me a piece of paper that looks like a miniature postage-stamp, "This is a tab," she whispers, “And it will change your life.”
I laugh uneasily wondering if what Freddy said was true but then it strikes me as really funny that I am afraid of a tiny piece of paper and I begin giggling inanely.
“What do I do?” I ask, holding the tiny cube of paper on my sweaty index finger.
“What Alice did in Wonderland. Eat it to become small, drink it to become large. But you don’t really eat it, you just put it on your tongue. See?”
“Like sacrament?”
“Suuuure.”
So I do. I lick it, like sacrament, and slowly, over time, begin to dissipate, begin to disappear.
"You are such a cool boy," Shiva slurs.
"You have a lovely smile," I tell her haltingly, but then her smile vacillates and stretches over her skull.
Shiva bursts into raucous laughter and runs out of the room.
With Shiva and her Cheshire cat grin gone the room feels too cramped and I am suddenly all too aware of how huge it is, of how the walls are yellowed with shadow water spots and trails of electric vines, of how the huge flat screen on the wall is showing gay pornography as the garish Christmas lights flicker obscenely, lighting up everyone’s faces only to cast them into shadow the next second.
"Um, I have to go...to the restroom." I whisper, but nobody hears me, so I stand up and walk slowly, clumsily, through the hallway. In the restroom a red bulb is throwing the coarse fibers of the towels into sharp relief, making them dance and sway--each individual fiber endowed with a unique presence, each fabric finger waving like a sea anemone.
I pee and slowly flush the toilet, and it takes decades for the water to swirl into the bone-smooth porcelain bowl.
I walk out of the wash room like I am swimming through molasses. I open a hardwood door and find a darkened room. The air is cool and there’s a bird of paradise in the corner. I sit down next to it and breathe in its paradisiacal fragrance, telling myself to be cool, to relax, as iridescent streams of color begin coursing up the walls.
That’s when Aeski walks in. He creeps in like a cat, silent and still, and for a second his eyes flash yellow and his irises narrow, like a snake’s, and I feel scared, but then they turn light blue again, and his irises are black wells of ink and I feel comforted as his voice rings out through the cool dark room.
“Are you ok, Jamie?”
I nod uncertainly.
“Do you want me to keep you company?”
I nod. His eyes are kind. His lips are lush. He sits on a Louix XIV style chair and tilts his chin, “Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t know if I can…talk,” I croak, my heavy head sinking into my chest.
He laughs quietly and points out, “You just did, Jamie. You’re O.K.”
“I’m O.K.”, I whisper, staring at the orange fire flickering on the bird of paradise stem.
My heart is beating hard and fast and I try to stand up, to ward off the dissolution, but I am pushed down by a soft weight. I start panting, anxious to get out, to see some light, when I feel warmth emanating from a long white arm and smiling blue eyes.
"Who are you?" the creature inquires.
"I’m...hiding," I whisper.
The plump pink lips curl into a sly grin, "Well, Hiding, I’m pleased to meet you. But what I meant was…what are you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
I know who he is. It’s Aeski. But he’s also more, so much more. He looks divine as his marble skin absorbs and reflects white moonlight. He extends a long graceful hand and I gingerly reach out to touch it. Aeski leans in. He smells like musk, like liquor and, strangely, like cinnamon as he says, "Don’t be scared."
"I...I won’t be, anymore," I say.
"Just keep your eyes closed," he says, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. "Just keep your big brown eyes closed."
Shiva’s right. Aeski is beautiful, I think, and I sigh....sigh high hi hi hi hi hi hi, feeling the breeze created by my every breath reverberate around me.
"Okay," I say, cradling on his lap, like a child or a cat. I can feel his heart purring in his cool, broad chest as he runs his fingers through my hair and caresses my cheek, my chin, my neck. I feel small and helpless, while thoughts of depravation and disease and predators and scared rabbits course through my synapses at 1,130 miles a millisecond.
“I’m not like them,” I confess.
“I know,” he whispers huskily. “Neither am I.”
“But…I’m not good. There’s something wrong with me.”
His fingers linger over my eye lids, “No, you beautiful boy. There’s not a thing wrong with you. You’re perfect as you are…but if you want I could help. If you want you could become like me. ”
Suddenly, I can hear the music emanating from the living room. I can see it too; it is weaving its way, snake-like, and embroidering itself through the smoky darkness and making patterns that are rhythmic, like keyboards, and a deep male voice pierces the melody and intones; "There’s a place in the sun, for anyone.....Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire, and let me kiss you, ohhhhhhh. Let me kiss you, ohhhhhhhh."
"It’s Morrissey," I whisper fervently. "Is it Morrissey? Or the Smiths? Aeski, you have good taste in music.”
"I’ve zig-zagged, all over America and I cannot find a safety haven. Say, will you let me lie on your shoulder? I hear you’ll try anything...twice."
I feel a hand caress my head and I become a cat. I arch my neck to feel his cool touch on my head.
"You’re such a beautiful boy," the voice says.
"Is this Morrissey?" I ask urgently.
"So lovely," the voice murmurs.
"Is it the Smiths?"
"No," Aeski says. "It’s Morrisey."
"Oh."
I open my eyes and want to kiss him in through my optic nerves, want to suck in his cool, pale beauty and keep this secret memory of our closeness for the rest of my life, hidden away in the dark crevices of my brain. He is running his index finger over my lips and his baby blue eyes are like kaleidoscopes or like the tinted glass windows at church. I gape at them in awe. He comes closer and the swirling blue-green flowers shift shape and tremble, glowing yellow as his irises widen into black, black ink wells.
He presses his mouth against mine and it’s warm and wet and succulent. As warm and delicious and sumptuous as Mercy’s kiss. He leans back and takes a haggard breath. His canine teeth are dripping, sharp as daggers, and I feel fear, instinctive and primal, course through me, startling its way through the drugs.
“See?” he says, “I’m not like them at all.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Fuck me! What the fuck?" I stagger to my feet and lean as close to the wall as possible, as the iridescent waves continue to ebb and to flow off Aeski’s skin.
“I think I could help you,” he says quietly. “I know that you suffer. And I think I could help.”
“Help?” I croak, “by killing me?” Fear is asphyxiating me and I am having trouble breathing.
The monster walks towards me, composed and calm.
“No. Life will do that,” he stops and gestures towards the expensive looking clock hanging on the wall. “Life is doing that right now, as we speak. What I’m offering is something else. What I’m offering is life eternal, purpose, power. Immortality.”
It’s gotta be the drugs, I think, and Aeski smiles as if he can hear my thoughts and shakes his head. “It’s unfortunate that you succumbed to Sharon’s invitation, but no, it’s not the drugs.”
“Sharon?”
“Oh,” he laughs, “That’s right. She goes by Shiva now.”
I swallow and croak out, “Is she…a…um, an Immortal too?”
“No, no. Shiva’s just a silly human.” He shrugs. “But she’s fun.”
I realize he’s not going to kill me and begin to calm down. “What are you?”
“I’m an ancient one. A vampire.”
“Are you dead?”
“No more than you. And no, I will die, someday. But not for a long, long time.”
He sits back down and motions for me to join him, but I shake my head and ask, in my head, as a way to test him, whether he drinks blood.
“Yes, but I also drink energy. Spirit. Psychic life-force. It is the combination of blood and energy that maintains my kind. That allows us to zero in on good victims, and, more rarely, on good candidates for transformation.”
A sunny Southern California beach isn't exactly where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous talent agent vampire, who will soon transform you from despairing human into anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull-shit.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from the upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV. "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..." Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she’d laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow had fallen on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. He looked about thirty five and very sure of himself. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. But it wasn’t really his choice any way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart thumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliott Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, of my friends, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, and I try to weigh myself down so I won’t float away like a helium balloon and go insane.
I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I pause, "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I sigh. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age-worn face looks serious, until she forces a quick smile. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it…Aeski Heming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting.
And Heming, the movie-star handsome agent, I got a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms.
I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch on the last day of school, seeking out the scant shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her long black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk-chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “Now this is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Just look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s. So mine’s not only ethnic—it’s historical”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head. Besides, mine’s an homage to all the jazz dudes, so take your history and shove it up--”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!”
Dolores flips her straight black hair over her thin shoulders and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the heavily graffitied picnic bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this macrobiotic health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you go to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You’ve got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye, everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off in a huff, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh, I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’s outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*******************************************************************************************
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…Hemming. You know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***********************************************************************************
Mercy and I are driving to LA to go to Heming’s party and she keeps switching the radio station to these god awful alternative rock stations.
“Mers, can we please listen my ipod now? This is driving me crazy.”
“Shhhh!” she says, as a Coldplay song comes on. “This is how I feel about you, monkey.” And she stars singing along, about how my bones are yellow and the stars are yellow and how she loves my yellow skin and bones.
“If this is a ploy to get me to like Coldplay it’s going to fail, miserably,” I look over at her and smile.
“Oh, come on! It’s catchy! Admit it!” And as she sings along, in her wobbly voice, I have to admit that yes, it is catchy.
“Just because I love your skin and bones too, Mercy, I’m gonna let you play with the radio.”
She’s quiet as the song fades to an end.
“Aren’t you excited? Or are you nervous?”
“I wish…I guess both. I think if I knew how it was going to turn out I’d feel better.” I sigh. “I guess I have low expectations. That everyone there will be foul and vapid. Artificial and superficial. Pretty people bent on skimming on the surface, never delving below appearances. Never driving out of their gated communities. Never wondering how the other half lives. Or giving a fuck, for that matter.”
Mercy grunts and doesn’t answer for a minute, but then I see her looking at me and when she does speak she sounds disappointed. “You’re not even giving them a chance. You’re just ready to hate them—to hate it. You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You’re going to Stanford.”
“Noooh, I’m not. It’s just…” I sigh in exasperation, “If I do sign on with Heming I’m not going to delude myself about the fact that I’ll be doing a stupid job, basically getting paid to do nothing.”
“Ugh. You’re the stupid one, not the job!” she sounds mad. “Don’t you see? Music can be an art, right? Well, so can acting! Look at Orson Welles! You can jump from acting to writing and producing. Or look at James Dean, he approached it like an art form, and he could draw, like you. And play music, like you.”
I forgot that Mercy loves classic movies, old black and white flicks from the 1920s through the19 50s. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that playing the bongo drums isn’t really ‘playing music.’
“Oh, Mers, I’m sorry. You’re right. And just so you know, I’m considering it. Signing on, I mean. Then you’d have time to apply to a cinematography program like you wanted.”
Mercy squeals and kisses me over the stick shift.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The house is beautiful and its beauty scares us. Mercy and I feel like prey as we get out of the car and look, in awe, at the sycamore trees entwining their branches in the twilight clouds.
“Wow” is all Mercy says.
White Christmas lights are strung on the porch and already there are people laughing, drinking, talking, dancing. Incredibly, they’re playing Bowie when we get out of the car, and the music wafts down from the balcony.
“You ready?” Mercy asks, wrapping her arm around my back.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and we make our way up the steps to Heming’s mansion.
The song swings to “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads and even though it’s playing too loudly and a couple of hipsters turn to look at us suspiciously as we walk in I squeeze Mercy’s hand and say, “At least they like good music.”
Mers looks a bit shaken, but she forces a smile and whispers, “If you like this kinda crap. I wish they’d play some Lady Gaga.
Then we see Aeski. He’s sipping champagne from a tall flute and talking to an equally stunning black model with charcoal-hued skin clad in a tight red dress. I see Mercy’s eyes slant into focus and then she whispers, “There he is. Should we go talk to him?”
“Sure,” I say, but instead he notices us as we are heading towards him and excuses himself from the model girl.
“Janna,” Aeski says, “excuse me” and walks toward us with the grace of a slinky cat.
“You came!” he exclaims, and a genuine smile spreads on his beautiful cat lips. “I didn’t think you’d come!” his hand reaches out and his cold fingers brush against my skin, sending electric shivers up my spine.
“Um, yes. Is that ok?”
“Yes! Of course it’s ok!” he laughs mirthfully,” I wanted you to come, and he pats me on the back. “You too, Mercy. Welcome. Now, I know you are…18? 21? Are you of age? We have tons of drinks, so help yourself and do enjoy yourselves, ok? My home is your home.”
“Thanks,” Mercy gushes, as I steer her toward the snack and drinks table. “He’s so nice.”
The ebony-skinned model smiles devilishly, and I think for a minute she may be making eye contact with me, but then Aeski smiles and, placing a soft hand on my shoulder, excuses himself to return to his sexy companion.
“Wow…Mercy whispers. I feel tiny.”
I nuzzle the top of her head and whisper, “Why tiny, baby?” into her conch-shell shaped ears.
She laughs, “Everyone here is wearing Gucci and I’m in Forever 21, for one!”
“Yes, but dahhhling,” I point out, in an affected, fey voice, “no one here is as lovely as you.”
“Do you mean it?”
And as I look into her eyes I swear to God I do. I really do.
“I could lose myself in your eyes, Mers. I’m the luckiest man here.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ch 3: The Change
I don’t remember the next part very well, but this is what I think happened;
We got to the party and I was so afraid of being amongst older, richer people, about maybe leaving Mercy, about definitely leaving home, about being around glamorous actors who smoke and drink and do drugs and have sex, that I forgot about my being crazy, which is good.
Because forgetting is what makes it bearable. Forgetting is what keeps the surface from breaking, what keeps me tied to the world everyone else lives in, the world of the banal, the world of the normal and the pure, the world of people like Mercy and Turner, and Aeski and his beautiful companion.
People are spilling out of the lavish white house, sitting on the stoop, holding bottles of beer or flutes of bubbly champagne in their hands and smoking and talking and laughing. Everyone is dressed like they don’t care; they would look like hoboes, except I know from reading Mercy’s trashy tabloid magazines in the restroom that this is a very, very expensive brand of casual cool.
I don’t know how old they are because everyone looks young, young and ageless in their tattered striped sweaters from the eighties and nineties and maybe even from before; everyone looks young and disaffected and dangerous in their weather-beaten camouflage and black leather. Everyone looks cool and cold, clad in their studied indifference.
But because they’re older than me, stylish, cool and collected, I suddenly feel like Mercy does, like I’m taking up too much space with my awkward skinny body.
A skinny girl with long black and green dreadlocks, who is wearing a tattered sweatshirt over tight black jeans points at us. "Who are the babies?" she exclaims. “My God, you are so beautiful!!! Both of you.”
I don’t know what to say. Mercy looks equally dumb-founded. But the girl just wraps her arm around our shoulders and plants a beery kiss on my cheek. "Do you know Aeski?”
“A little,” I nod.
“My God, he’s so beautiful. He is so amazing! Isn’t he, Iris?” she asks another girl, who has curly pink hair that wisps about her head like a cotton candy halo.
Iris shrugs non-committally.
“By the way,” the first girl says, whipping her long black and green dreads over her shoulder, “My name is Shiva”.
Then she looks at me and grins, "Hey, how old are you guys?"
She smiles at Iris, who is sullenly nibbling on a cracker, but then she looks back at us and conspiratorially whispers, “Age ain’t nothing but a number, you know what I mean?”
Mercy says, “Yeah, like that song,” and I have no idea what that means so I just nod,
“Good. Yeah, like that song,” Shiva grins, and, glancing at the beer bottle in my hand, asks, "You drink? You do anything else?!"
Mercy looks at her suspiciously and sternly says, “No! Nothing else.”
But I just shrug and say, “I’ll try anything…once.”
Mercy gives me an angry look and walks towards the far end of the snack table.
Shiva pulls out a small glass pipe that looks like the shell of a snail and offers me a puff. I inhale deeply, coughing slightly before handing it back. "Thank you," I say raspily.
She laughs and laughs and laughs and I wonder if I did something utterly stupid and if she’s laughing at me, but then she says, "You are the most adorable little thing. You sure you don’t want any, honey?”
But Mers just shakes her head and continues to glare at me.
We go inside; Shiva’s arms around my shoulders inhibit my already awkward relationship to space so we clumsily step-stagger over the stoop and into the minimalist living room, where the beautiful people sit on the refined antique lounges and pore over coffee-table books of black and white nudes. Aeski and his ebony counterpart are sitting in a corner, whispering intently and nodding, and when Shiva leaves to go to the restroom and I stand there, feeling stupid and exposed, wondering where Mercy is, but no one even notices me.
A cholo-guy named Freddy gangsta-walks up to me and warns me to stay away from crazy Shiva, and I indulge him and wonder what he’s doing at this party before he returns to the chipped wooden coffee table that he was sitting at, lifts up a flute of champagne and as he lifts it to his lips it catches a glimmer of light and looks just like translucent ember.
Shiva returns and offers me a piece of paper that looks like a miniature postage-stamp, "This is a tab," she whispers, “And it will change your life.”
I laugh uneasily wondering if what Freddy said was true but then it strikes me as really funny that I am afraid of a tiny piece of paper and I begin giggling inanely.
“What do I do?” I ask, holding the tiny cube of paper on my sweaty index finger.
“What Alice did in Wonderland. Eat it to become small, drink it to become large. But you don’t really eat it, you just put it on your tongue. See?”
“Like sacrament?”
“Suuuure.”
So I do. I lick it, like sacrament, and slowly, over time, begin to dissipate, begin to disappear.
"You are such a cool boy," Shiva slurs.
"You have a lovely smile," I tell her haltingly, but then her smile vacillates and stretches over her skull.
Shiva bursts into raucous laughter and runs out of the room.
With Shiva and her Cheshire cat grin gone the room feels too cramped and I am suddenly all too aware of how huge it is, of how the walls are yellowed with shadow water spots and trails of electric vines, of how the huge flat screen on the wall is showing gay pornography as the garish Christmas lights flicker obscenely, lighting up everyone’s faces only to cast them into shadow the next second.
"Um, I have to go...to the restroom." I whisper, but nobody hears me, so I stand up and walk slowly, clumsily, through the hallway. In the restroom a red bulb is throwing the coarse fibers of the towels into sharp relief, making them dance and sway--each individual fiber endowed with a unique presence, each fabric finger waving like a sea anemone.
I pee and slowly flush the toilet, and it takes decades for the water to swirl into the bone-smooth porcelain bowl.
I walk out of the wash room like I am swimming through molasses. I open a hardwood door and find a darkened room. The air is cool and there’s a bird of paradise in the corner. I sit down next to it and breathe in its paradisiacal fragrance, telling myself to be cool, to relax, as iridescent streams of color begin coursing up the walls.
That’s when Aeski walks in. He creeps in like a cat, silent and still, and for a second his eyes flash yellow and his irises narrow, like a snake’s, and I feel scared, but then they turn light blue again, and his irises are black wells of ink and I feel comforted as his voice rings out through the cool dark room.
“Are you ok, Jamie?”
I nod uncertainly.
“Do you want me to keep you company?”
I nod. His eyes are kind. His lips are lush. He sits on a Louix XIV style chair and tilts his chin, “Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t know if I can…talk,” I croak, my heavy head sinking into my chest.
He laughs quietly and points out, “You just did, Jamie. You’re O.K.”
“I’m O.K.”, I whisper, staring at the orange fire flickering on the bird of paradise stem.
My heart is beating hard and fast and I try to stand up, to ward off the dissolution, but I am pushed down by a soft weight. I start panting, anxious to get out, to see some light, when I feel warmth emanating from a long white arm and smiling blue eyes.
"Who are you?" the creature inquires.
"I’m...hiding," I whisper.
The plump pink lips curl into a sly grin, "Well, Hiding, I’m pleased to meet you. But what I meant was…what are you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
I know who he is. It’s Aeski. But he’s also more, so much more. He looks divine as his marble skin absorbs and reflects white moonlight. He extends a long graceful hand and I gingerly reach out to touch it. Aeski leans in. He smells like musk, like liquor and, strangely, like cinnamon as he says, "Don’t be scared."
"I...I won’t be, anymore," I say.
"Just keep your eyes closed," he says, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. "Just keep your big brown eyes closed."
Shiva’s right. Aeski is beautiful, I think, and I sigh....sigh high hi hi hi hi hi hi, feeling the breeze created by my every breath reverberate around me.
"Okay," I say, cradling on his lap, like a child or a cat. I can feel his heart purring in his cool, broad chest as he runs his fingers through my hair and caresses my cheek, my chin, my neck. I feel small and helpless, while thoughts of depravation and disease and predators and scared rabbits course through my synapses at 1,130 miles a millisecond.
“I’m not like them,” I confess.
“I know,” he whispers huskily. “Neither am I.”
“But…I’m not good. There’s something wrong with me.”
His fingers linger over my eye lids, “No, you beautiful boy. There’s not a thing wrong with you. You’re perfect as you are…but if you want I could help. If you want you could become like me. ”
Suddenly, I can hear the music emanating from the living room. I can see it too; it is weaving its way, snake-like, and embroidering itself through the smoky darkness and making patterns that are rhythmic, like keyboards, and a deep male voice pierces the melody and intones; "There’s a place in the sun, for anyone.....Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire, and let me kiss you, ohhhhhhh. Let me kiss you, ohhhhhhhh."
"It’s Morrissey," I whisper fervently. "Is it Morrissey? Or the Smiths? Aeski, you have good taste in music.”
"I’ve zig-zagged, all over America and I cannot find a safety haven. Say, will you let me lie on your shoulder? I hear you’ll try anything...twice."
I feel a hand caress my head and I become a cat. I arch my neck to feel his cool touch on my head.
"You’re such a beautiful boy," the voice says.
"Is this Morrissey?" I ask urgently.
"So lovely," the voice murmurs.
"Is it the Smiths?"
"No," Aeski says. "It’s Morrisey."
"Oh."
I open my eyes and want to kiss him in through my optic nerves, want to suck in his cool, pale beauty and keep this secret memory of our closeness for the rest of my life, hidden away in the dark crevices of my brain. He is running his index finger over my lips and his baby blue eyes are like kaleidoscopes or like the tinted glass windows at church. I gape at them in awe. He comes closer and the swirling blue-green flowers shift shape and tremble, glowing yellow as his irises widen into black, black ink wells.
He presses his mouth against mine and it’s warm and wet and succulent. As warm and delicious and sumptuous as Mercy’s kiss. He leans back and takes a haggard breath. His canine teeth are dripping, sharp as daggers, and I feel fear, instinctive and primal, course through me, startling its way through the drugs.
“See?” he says, “I’m not like them at all.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Fuck me! What the fuck?" I stagger to my feet and lean as close to the wall as possible, as the iridescent waves continue to ebb and to flow off Aeski’s skin.
“I think I could help you,” he says quietly. “I know that you suffer. And I think I could help.”
“Help?” I croak, “by killing me?” Fear is asphyxiating me and I am having trouble breathing.
The monster walks towards me, composed and calm.
“No. Life will do that,” he stops and gestures towards the expensive looking clock hanging on the wall. “Life is doing that right now, as we speak. What I’m offering is something else. What I’m offering is life eternal, purpose, power. Immortality.”
It’s gotta be the drugs, I think, and Aeski smiles as if he can hear my thoughts and shakes his head. “It’s unfortunate that you succumbed to Sharon’s invitation, but no, it’s not the drugs.”
“Sharon?”
“Oh,” he laughs, “That’s right. She goes by Shiva now.”
I swallow and croak out, “Is she…a…um, an Immortal too?”
“No, no. Shiva’s just a silly human.” He shrugs. “But she’s fun.”
I realize he’s not going to kill me and begin to calm down. “What are you?”
“I’m an ancient one. A vampire.”
“Are you dead?”
“No more than you. And no, I will die, someday. But not for a long, long time.”
He sits back down and motions for me to join him, but I shake my head and ask, in my head, as a way to test him, whether he drinks blood.
“Yes, but I also drink energy. Spirit. Psychic life-force. It is the combination of blood and energy that maintains my kind. That allows us to zero in on good victims, and, more rarely, on good candidates for transformation.”
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
New Bliss
Bliss
A sunny Southern California beach isn't where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous, movie-star handsome, movie agent vampire, who will transform you shortly into an anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from my upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV." "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..."Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow fell on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall, blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. It wasn’t really his choice either way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart pumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliot Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, try to weigh myself down so I don’t float away like a balloon and go insane. I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I paused "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I'd sighed. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age worn face looks serious, until a quick forced a smile flashes on it. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it.. Aeski Haming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting. And Haming, the movie-star handsome agent, I get a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms. I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch, seeking out the shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “This is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s.”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head.”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!” Dolores flips her straight brown hair over her thin shoulder and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the lunch bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you got to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh,” I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’d outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*****
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…you know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***
A sunny Southern California beach isn't where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous, movie-star handsome, movie agent vampire, who will transform you shortly into an anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from my upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV." "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..."Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow fell on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall, blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. It wasn’t really his choice either way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart pumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliot Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, try to weigh myself down so I don’t float away like a balloon and go insane. I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I paused "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I'd sighed. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age worn face looks serious, until a quick forced a smile flashes on it. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it.. Aeski Haming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting. And Haming, the movie-star handsome agent, I get a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms. I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch, seeking out the shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “This is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s.”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head.”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!” Dolores flips her straight brown hair over her thin shoulder and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the lunch bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you got to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh,” I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’d outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*****
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…you know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
still Ch 2
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…you know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Are you thinking of going to UCLA instead? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, dabble in acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent, he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are going to pursue acting, you think? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…you know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Are you thinking of going to UCLA instead? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, dabble in acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent, he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are going to pursue acting, you think? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Ch 2
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch, seeking out the shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the lunch bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this health kick for the last month, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you got to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim?”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh,” I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice.”
“Nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’d outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
She smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
We’re eating lunch, seeking out the shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the lunch bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this health kick for the last month, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you got to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim?”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh,” I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice.”
“Nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’d outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
She smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
Friday, June 4, 2010
Ch 1
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
She came into the room and gave me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…a Stanford!”
I squirmed out of her embrace, “I got accepted," I paused "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkled up in contempt. “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I'd sighed. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
She’d furrowed her brow, then quickly forced a smile. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going or I’m gonna be late,”
I took the agent's business card out and looked at it.. Aeski Haming, Talent Agent. Talent. I had no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and we could rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
