Incognito Mode
Please excuse my temporary hiatus. Enjoy these two short stories in the meantime.
Sorry for the lag, I’ve been preparing my application for grad school. I’ve also conducted some interviews the last few weeks that I am trying to finish wrapping up for you all for ‘The Ode to Artistry’. I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, please enjoy these two excerpts from the vault. As always, feel free to reach out and chat with me about what’s going on in your little corner of the world. These days, I’m craving more conversation. Hope everyone is getting by okay.
Suburbia
That boy’s car zooms by unabashedly. He's always in a state of mayhem. Those ostentatious accelerations. Those inconsiderate blares and screeches. It’s so intrusive. Even the parked cars along the perimeter get frightened! They start beeping in a panic. Their alarms go off because they think they’re being broken into! That’s how high in decibel the sound is; it vibrates. Not just the cars, but the houses, too! Mine of which is the sole sufferer being by its lonesome in the cul de sac that he loves to drift in.
I’m telling you, no person in their right mind enjoys all this chaos. Substances are presumed to be involved in the mixture of this act. I hope that we can establish some form of common ground with that assumption at least. That boy is not sober whatsoever and in fact, he could murder someone with how fast he’s going. It’s happened in Bridget Grove before and it’ll happen again if he’s not careful. I’m just being honest.
The poor animals that have to live through all those loud sounds. My baby kitten Finneas is just terrified by the ruckus. He flinches every time, running under the couch, scratching up the carpet.
It’s a miracle I even still have my hearing at this age. Although with all his noise, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to boast! And before you ask, yes, I have brought the issue to the Bridget Grove Community Association, multiple times. The ladies that run those meetings are as useless as a bucket of fried chicken to a vegan.
I’m only sixty-seven but being widowed makes me seem even older than I am, rendering my voice virtually useless. Anything I say is bundled up and thrown in a closet to be forgotten. They all think I’m crazy. Baffling as it may seem, I remember a time when we used to listen to the people who roamed the streets before us. Nowadays, my concerns about the noises have been offered weak expressions and empty words. Perfectly attuned to the modern day performance of customer service where the actual service is a façade— an interpretative dance if you will. Playing hot potato, transferring your grievances around to different departments, hoping to make you dizzy and weary enough to lose your vigor. To hang up the phone and roll over in dismay.
Before I blew out my knee playing ping pong with Francine, I went to the town hall meetings every third Wednesday of the month and I was in the front row, saying my peace.
“We hear you, Correta, we hear you,” is all they'd say.
I’m not one for gossip. I don’t feed into all the commotion in the hive but we all know Ruby gave a few handjobs to get that title. You’d think with a forehead that massive she’d be able to conjure up some damn sense.
“Well, I don’t think you do hear me, because if you did, you’d notice that I’ve submitted over eight incident reports. All pertaining to that damn boy who speeds around my corner ridge of the estate every weekend!”
“We hear you, Coretta, We hear you—“
“Oh, piss off, big head!”
You listen here young lady, if you want something done right, you should find a way to do it for yourself. Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty.
Sin City
“This is like reverse sexism!” Quincy said.
“Okay, reverse sexism isn’t a thing but I’ll admit, this is pretty fucked up,” Selena responded, rolling her eyes.
“I know, I was kidding. It’s just crazy that guys have to pay $200 each and girls get in for free. We came here to have fun with you guys. Now we have to split up,” Quincy said, rubbing his chin, and looking around the room for a sign.
“Why does he think we have money to spend like that?” asked Naiah.
“They heard we’re from LA,” Selena responded.
“From the valley!” Naiah yelped.
“It’s all the same to them,” Selena replied.
“It's fucked up. It’s not even this bad in LA, most they’ll ask for is like a hundred bucks and that’s for like Hyde or Nightingale,” Quincy tried to reason.
“There’s literally 12 girls and 3 guys— Me, Boa, and Mason,” He added.
“I’m aware. The girls are all DMing different promoters to try and get you guys in. We’re not just gonna leave you guys out here,” Selena said.
“Just tell him I’m gay, Selena,” Quincy said calmly.
“We already did,” the 11 other women— in a huddle behind Selena— said in unison.
“Well, tell him that I’m gay!” said Boa.
“Yeah, me too! Tell him I’m gay!” Mason said, grabbing Boa’s face and smushing him with a kiss.
The boys shared a blank stare with one another before hysterically jumping up and down in laughter.
“Dude, why were your lips so wet?” Boa asked in between chuckles.
“Let me go talk to him, again. Don’t worry I got this,” Selena said before disappearing into the crowd of people trying to finagle their way into Zouk Nightclub on a Saturday night.
——-
“Look, I told you. $200 per guy. No exceptions.”
“Are you serious? There are 12 of us and 3 of them. That’s an insane ratio! Nobody in there is bringing this many girls in. All my bitches are bad too, take a look for yourself.”
Selena remained neutral as a veteran in conversation with men like this. Ones who were bullied in middle school and grew up to seek vengeance. Ones who have always craved influence and been denied it, never being hip enough, having been unconventionally attractive and oddly shaped. Ones who’ve scoured for power all through the various pockets of influence that solely exist to attract large and eager audiences.
Men, now in their early thirties, who work by commission to serve as gatekeepers for entrances to prestigious nightclubs that beg the attention of clout vultures. Finally reaching a level of prestige that grants them the privilege and authority to be the eyes who do the looking down. They are the ones to please, to admire, to woo. What they say goes and how they perceive you will make or break your experience.
With glares that weigh as much as stones and mouths that hold immeasurable influence, it’s best to be polite and unproblematic in their presence. Bodyguards have the power of the word, No. “No, you can’t come in,” they say if you happen to share the same strawberry blonde hair as Claire, the girl who broke up with them in the middle of lunch after fourth period in seventh grade.
“Get out of line,” they can say if you laugh too loud and it sounds too similar to Luke’s from Mrs. Turner’s Geometry class. The boy who gave them purple nurples during nutrition and pantsed them during gym class. These men hold onto things for years. They don’t go to therapy; that’s ridiculous to them. On weekends like this, they enjoy the charade of being kissed up to, fondled, and flirted with to make up for all the lost time.
However fraudulent and manufactured it may seem, it gives them warmth and satisfaction to receive the praise that they might not have received as a child— as an outcast. Now they get it for just standing around and scrunching up their face like they need to take a shit. People practically ask them to sign their tits to get into the places that they police.
It was always a treat for Selena when the group would get into skirmishes like these. A bunch of girls, a few guys. The other party not privy to the fact that the group was born and raised in the outskirts of LA. That they’d all been finessing out of habit since before they were allowed to wear training bras, when they were buying McChicken’s with quarters. They were a group without limits. All things went.
“Well, look. We wanted to say something earlier, but it’s Nevada. We didn’t even want to take any chances,” Selena started.
She took a pause, looking around at all the crowded lines getting filled by the second. The group would have to wait hours before they could get inside if this man were to turn them around.
“They’re not just guys, okay? They’re transgender,” Selena said, admittingly.
The bouncer shifted his feet and subtly realigned his shoulders.
“Excuse me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We didn’t want to say anything earlier because it’s kind of personal, but honestly we thought about it as a group and not letting us in based on their genders is basically discrimination,” Selena said, using her finger to put her auburn hair behind her ear, folding her arms shortly after.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Earlier, you and your girlfriends told me they were gay,” the security guard chuckled, scanning the circle of drunkards behind Selena.
“Yeah— I know. Gay sounded better than trans. People hate gay people less than they hate Transgender people. They’re slightly less judgy about two guys fucking than little Johnny saying he wants to wear dresses. We figured you’d be more likely to say yes if we told you they were gay,” Selena reasoned.
The bodyguard looked behind Selena’s shoulders at the group, blew out some air, and looked back at Selena.
“Are you 21?”
“Of course!”
“Can I see your ID?”
“Of course!”
Selena opened the case of her phone and pulled out one of the only two cards inside. Her father’s AMEX and her driver's license. The only items she left her hotel room with. Only a couple of seconds later, after shining a special light on her ID, the bodyguard snickered.
“Hey baby girl, this is Nevada, we don’t do that Cali-woke bullshit. Tell your three confused rainbow friends they gotta pay $200 each or they’re not getting in.”
Selena rolled her eyes and snatched her ID from the man before strutting back to the group.
“Didn’t work. I even told him Quincy, Boa, and Mason were transgender.”
“What?!” Boa yelped in disbelief
“Are you kidding?” Mason asked on the precipice of a laugh attack.
“Yes. He said “Fuck your Cali rainbow shit, this is Nevada”
The group roared with laughter, practically falling on one another, their pregame consumption still in full effect. Quincy trailing behind feverishly swiping on his phone.
While Selena was gone, her friend Bella messaged countless promoters via direct message. Because Bella has more followers than the rest of the group, she received quicker responses from men. A promoter named Rico messaged her back, telling her where we should meet him; that he would sneak the group in through another entrance. They began to walk in a jumbled clutter.
Quincy trailed the group searching through every social media site created in Silicon Valley, to check for any trace of Paul. He wanted to see if Paul was actively online, and God forbid, liking another guy’s photo. He locked his phone as Selena approached him to pull him closer to the group.
“Bella found a promoter. We’re meeting him in five,” She said.
The group had slowly recovered from their laugh attack, sighing in relief, hands caressing shoulders for steadiness.
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?”
“What were you looking at?”
“Nothing”
“Look, you’re in Vegas, don’t worry about fucking Paul, dude. You need to have fun. Don’t let him ruin your night, seriously.”
The thing about being in love for Quincy was that he relinquished control to his partners. He let them alter his settings and gave them ownership over his mood. When they met with Rico, he ushered them through a dark hallway being vibrated by house beats. The night would be difficult for Quincy to enjoy without Tequila.
The music was loud enough to the point where you could feel it filling up your chest with space. The thumps from the speakers were soothing and it helped tone down the anxiety Quincy received from the process of getting into the club. The bass was high and in return, he felt the warmth of the beat.
Quincy thought about Paul. How he would’ve hated this whole experience. Lower frequency sounds are easier on the ear, so Paul believed bass fanatics were just dull listeners of music. That it said a lot about one’s taste, to be mainly attracted to the forefront of a beat. He would say it made them seem, unintelligible. Instead, Paul appreciated Treble, and Quincy said once, “Well by your logic that makes a great deal of sense.”
To which Paul responded, “Yeah, I actually listen to music instead of just listening to music.”
Paul was thoroughly pretentious and condescending in this way. Everyone was stupid if Paul said they were.
“No, Treble is airy and bright, like a dumb blonde. You’re an airhead, dude, it makes complete sense!” Quincy responded that same night.
They didn’t sleep together for four days after that comment. Despite the lack of affection he received those last few nights, Quincy had no regrets. The two decided on a break soon after. Quincy humbly abided by the terms of their break, knowing that a week later he’d be in Vegas for Selena’s birthday, absolutely plastered. Being drunk, not thinking about Paul, just having a blast with Beau, Mason, and the girls.
But what was fun if you weren’t with the person you love? What was exciting about being away from the only person who knows about the birthmark on your penis?
As always, thank you for reading. xx
T