Chapter Text
D.C in summertime is murder, a humid hell full of rooftop money and men riding on coat tails, but Hollywood didn't work out and a gal’s gotta eat. A gal's gotta snatch some scraps of friendly feeling from the whirlwind. There ain't none of that to be found in Los Angeles. No, there the scrap to be snatched is you. Snatched, slobbered over, chewed up, and tossed away. In no time at all you’re broken. Broken for life. Hobbled.
Creepin back to the capital under cover of dark is not exactly the homecoming I'd planned. I’d planned no homecoming. I ain't no queen. Dropped out of school anyway. The District is not my fave place in the world, so LA being on the other side of the map was the second best thing you could say to recommend it. The weather’s better too. Dry heat is endurable, and I’ve never liked rain. Douchebaggery is expressed different in the two cities, but the level of it is about the same. LA is where nobodies sell everything they got to be somebody, and DC is where born and bred somebodies look down on those funny little plastic gladiators. I'm very much a nobody.
My plane touches down with a jolt that almost shoots me through the paper thin roof. Twitchy. Stressed. Boiling hot even under the air con. The decision to come back home was spur of the moment. Landlady wanted to hike the rent on my cardboard box. A producer I hate touching wanted to do a private audition. The guy I was seeing was seen with someone else. Luckily, Cousin Lacey is laid back and always keen to have somebody to talk at.
“Hey, baby, need help with that?” a middle aged businessman with sweat stains under the arms of his blue suit, reaches for my luggage before I can. I'm not exactly model tall, one reason why I didn't make it in the movie industry. Or so I tell myself. I actually think it's cause I'm a carrot top. They only want slutty blondes or sultry brunettes. Weirdo gingers are hard to handle. Maybe hard to shoot, who knows.
“Thanks, honey.” No use not bein sweet to a fella when bein sweet makes fellas easier to handle. Also keeps the insults low. The man, wedding ring and all, gives me a slimy grin. Guy can't be that successful if he's flying cattle class, but some things never change.
“How old are you, darlin?”
“About to turn twenty.”
His eyes light up. Yup. Can't even drink and I'm already LA flotsam ripe for the beachcombers.
Usually that's the end of the interaction, but this guy follows me along the boarding bridge, shouldering his way past sleepy travellers, wanting to lug my wheely bag for me. Wanting to buy me a coffee and a late night dinner slash early morning breakfast….Fine, it's crazy to say no to free nosh (stole that word from a Brit), especially in expensive-as-hell DC. Just that though. Messin with married men makes me sick. I hate it to happen to me. Not that I've been married. No way. A gal always needs an out, and a ring is just a very small kind of cuff.
“So what are you doing in DC, sweetheart?” he asks, while egg yolk splashes onto his rumpled tie. “You don't look like a native.”
What does a DC native look like? Mosquito bitten? Self satisfied but plain? Harried? Catching my reflection in his Rolex says that whatever I am, I ain't plain. Got them big liquid doe eyes outlined in kohl. False innocence swimming in their green depths. Bad men can't get enough of that crap. They like a virgin with experience.
“I'm thinkin of becoming the president.”
Like he's suffered a massive heart attack, the man reels back from the scratched formica table, clutching his chest with his free hand. But he's laughing, laughing wildly, deeply, the best laugh he's had in years, his belly shaking the cheap furniture. That is one thing I can do - affect men - in all kinds of ways. Too bad it's not a superpower I can direct. Not like an intercontinental missile. It's more of a grenade. Results may vary…and sometimes I cook the explosive too long.
It's a while before he gets himself under control, and when he does he slams his fist on the table a couple times, making our Styrofoam cups jump. “Girl, you're going to go far, but maybe not in the direction of the White House. Still, there are other big houses round here. Give me your number.”
Turns out he's a senator.
🥃🍻
So, that's my welcome home. Breakfast with a senator at an overpriced cafe chain, the burnt smell of airport coffee making me feel grungier than normal. Givin my number away like a fool. I know what he's going to do with that. What they all do. You get an invite to a ‘cosy’ party, just you and a couple hundred other tasty walking kebabs made of juicy young female flesh. Yeah yeah, not tonight though, even the movers and shakers have gotta sleep sometime. Coke can only do so much.
Lacey is waiting for me where loved ones wait, holding a sign that says ‘Mia’ like I might've forgotten what she looked like when we practically grew up together. I guess everyone knows that anything can happen in LA. Forgetting relatives is pretty common there, it's true. It's sweet of her to make the effort.
She looks like how I feel. Lank, oily, colourless hair. Torn tights supposed to be used for yoga. Infected eyebrow piercing. Cute little top saying ‘the Future is Female’. Part of the reason she looks bad is standing right next to her. Tall guy with an inked up body hollowed by meth. He's our age but looks much older. Her latest baby daddy. Sam. Can't forget his name cause it peppers every text like buckshot. Can't tell her she deserves better.
“Mia! Girrrrl!”
“Lacey, honey.” my voice is all smoke, the fire just visible through the billowing grey. Producers loved it, but smoke does not make a star.
We hug, Sam looking on for a moment, before his wide eyes fixate on a small child toddling past, his jaw clenched tight so the muscles pop. His gangly hands stay deep in the pockets of his canvas raincoat, two quirks for the price of one.
“You have to tell me all about LA! Hollywood! I can't believe it!”
I've already told her about it…not all about it I guess. Some things are too nasty. Gotta wait till those embers cool off and you can handle them without bein burnt.
“Yeah, yeah, hon. We got all the time in the world to chat.” I projectile vomit cliches these days. That's how it is in Tinseltown, bunch of fake people playing a very deadly game in one huge, hot and dusty prison. Miranda rights. Don't say anything that can be used against you.
Sam breaks his silence, eyeballs jerking instead of rolling smoothly. He looks over my head, black irises shaking. He has not acknowledged my presence. Careful, Mia. Be very, very careful. A guy lookin at you is less dangerous than a guy purposely not lookin at you. “Come on, Lace. Quit yapping.” his voice sounds like a gravel glacier. I didn't like him second hand, and I don't like him now.
🥃🍻
Lacey's apartment (yeah, Lacey's) in Shaw, is like Lacey. I don't know why I expected different. Can't bitch either, cause I grew up like this, and she's letting me stay for free. Her pad is a place to lay your head in-between your busy schedule of bar hopping, getting money from vaguely defined ‘work’, and running from debt collecting phone calls. There ain't nothing on the walls except mold, but there sure as shit is a lot on the floor. Kids toys, wrappers, crumbs, Styrofoam, spare batteries, torn cardboard, glass, sticky clumps of weed, ash. It looks like a disaster and it smells like the inside of a bellybutton.
Sam storms down the short hall, into another room, without bothering to close the door. The unmistakable sound of liquid hitting porcelain follows.
I have to say hello to a couple of Lacey's (I think one is Sam's) kids before I'm left alone to try and make sense of the sofa.