The beach at night. So close. Ocean waves lightly crash in the darkness. 1950s and 60s Art Deco. Diagonals. Carports. Turquoise, salmon, white, and cream. Stucco. Clown head on a ballerina body. Dancing at the top of a drug store. Five o’clock shadow but her legs poised for grace. Venice Beach, CA.
I come to the party with my writing notebook. My naiveté is so full, I might as well be going to kindergarten with a My Little Pony book bag. I have the idea a bunch of us will talk shop and write around a beach bonfire. He’s been my supervisor for the past six months. He’s my mentor. He’s my friend.
Enter.
Musty apartment. An Efficiency they call it here in LA. The hot plate and toilet might as well be in your lap. Couch bed. Bad plaid? Cramped. Bong. Where’s the party? Where’s the writers? The friends? The music? The beach bonfire? The laughter?
But there is no party. I’m it. I’m the party.
Oh.
He stumbles over words about, “Oh yeah, the others left already. Yeah.”
First, I feel sorry for him. Well, his girlfriend recently broke up with him, poor guy. Then he lights up the bong, asks me if I want a hit. I haven’t smoked weed since freshman year of high school. I’m down about my health. I’m down about my ex, Jeff, pushing me away.
What the hell, why not?
We’re just friends unwinding from a long week.
I take a hit and lie back on the couch.
How I allow a recent break up to take hold of me, to allow my vulnerability to a friend who just lost his girlfriend too. How he creeps his arm around but I say, “No, no, nononooo.” Slurred. How far down the rabbit hole I fall to say yes to smoking up, yes to a drink, and how he changes, how he says, “I think you need another,” when I say, Nononooo. He’s a stranger as I realize I can barely move.
It hits me—I know—I just know—so I make the decision I’d rather have a bad memory than a violent and traumatic one. I stop saying no, slurring my words. I touch where I’m supposed to touch. I rub what I’m supposed to rub.
I grab his thumb like a phallus. So stoned. “No, no, honey. It’s down there.” Puts me where he wants me. Hand. Job. Blow. Job. Just to escape full on rape. Hold me down rape. I tell myself I’m in control. I tell myself I can enjoy it too.
To think I got lost on the way to that apartment only to be even more lost once I got there.
Afterward, he snores, and I sit naked on the floor, feverish, then cold, then feverish. The Venice Beach air blows in the wintery cold through the open window. For two minutes at a time I watch the TV news reporters until their faces blur into monsters and they speak in other tongues. Then I switch to my notebook and read my own writing until the words on the page spin into demon speak. Words switch lines. Words dance. Words change into lines about how the devil will kill me. Then I revert to the TV again. I do this for two or three hours while he sleeps. My heart beats so hard I think I might die. I think about calling 911 but I don’t know where I am anymore. And I don’t want us to get into trouble.
I bargain with God, the saints, and my dead relatives. “If you get me out of this alive, I promise I’ll never be this stupid again. I’ll never do drugs again. Please.”
When the sun comes up, he shoots out of bed, buck naked, looks confused for a moment that I’m lying on the floor—goes to jump over me—I think to myself, Don’t look, but I do—I look up as he jumps over me. Jiggling balls abound. Back sack. Regret sweeps over me, immediately.
He slams the door to the bathroom.
His loud peeing seems endless and I now have to pee. When he steps out, I notice the shower head almost over the toilet. I realize the fridge is practically in the bathroom. He leaves the seat up. There is no saving grace.
Well, he has Cheerios. Maybe he chows down, maybe offers, maybe I ask for some? I’ve been wanting to leave for hours. I need to get the fuck out of here. I get my clothes on, and leave.
Down the steps, I go. Cold air and bright sunlight is a relief. My car, I think, is near the ballerina clown.
And there it is—my chariot out of hell—my maroon Honda Civic.
Behind the wheel, I still feel high. But I have to get the fuck home. I sit in my car contemplating whether I should drive. I pray so hard. I pray to God, the saints, and my dead relatives to get me home in one piece, to keep me from having an accident. I need sleep so badly.
I drive.
The highway and traffic seem endless. It’s at least an hour home, to West Hollywood.
I find a parking space, finally. Scamper down the sidewalk, huddled in the cold. I rattle the keys, trying to find the lock, let myself in the front door, let myself in the apartment door too.
I plop into bed. Pull up the covers tight. Let out a long sigh. “Thank you,” I say to the Heavens,“for not letting me die. It was a bad mistake I just won’t ever make again.”
And now, years later, I wonder, if I had gotten there on time, if I hadn’t gotten lost, would there have been more boys when I arrived? Was I lucky?
