Sad Sorry After Party
by
Paige Johnson
“Scummy but they have money.” That’s how my date, Olive Eyes, explains the party we’re going to, who he’s going to sell cocaine and benzos to.
Scummy but they have money. Well, I’m one of those things who would like to have the other, so maybe my date is as good an investment as my friend says. Olive Eyes’ ambition and ability to rub elbows with any crowd is already appealing. But maybe my friend is just trying to buck me out of our situationship, keep more sugar money to herself. Then again, she didn’t rise from sex slaving through Philly’s Little Italy to draining D.C.’s lusty elite off bad advice. So, I’m optimistic to take this guy outta the friendzone and into something more meaningful—or monetary.
Olive Eyes and I walk past the part of town with many fenced-off construction sites that never seem to make any progress. He stares up at the asbestos-brown apartment block, saying, “Guess it’s a trap tower—not a trap house. Just stay close. These guys are decent enough but they’re…”
“Throwing a rager at 4PM on a Tuesday?”
He shrugs, eyes sliding from his slacks to his hard shoes, never not looking ready to pick up a pharmacy shift. “Well, I mean we’re also here, so…”
“You’re on the clock,’ I say, making sure he sees my smile. Instagram skinfluencer is the most glamorous job I’ve had since blowing johns behind a bank, so I won’t snub my nose at someone lifting pills to sell to the fun-pressed. “I just hope they’re not grabby or gun-totey.”
“I wouldn’t let you come if—”
“Chill. I practically invited myself. Promise I can hang.” I throw up a peace sign and pre-game a blackberry White Claw.
***
The 14th-story door opens to a sausage fest. They stroll blunt-burnt carpet, slinging back Bacardi bombs and clamato bullshit. Some dudes cheer, shooting clear red dice in the corner. Others nod offbeat to the drill rap that cuts out every other verse.
The pile of glickers on a side table makes me stiffen. But then I see a teenie fluffbutt of a dog darting between saggy pants, merrily yipping and munching croquetas from snapback-clad chillers. Before I can pet the wagging weenie, Olive Eyes presses his palm against my back as the offhand frat scans me. Well, they scan my club dress. I shrug. It’s conservative in color if not coverage. I follow Olive Eyes into the kitchen, where a racially ambiguously burnout with a tagged hat and pencil beard awaits.
“Puma,” he introduces himself with thoughtfully pouted lips as he inspects the array Olive Eyes lays out for him. “Like the cat but not the shoe.” His slim Nikes confirm this.
“Cool. I’m Cherry. Like the fruit but not the soda ’cause my mom says cherry cola only comes up in gay songs like ‘Lola’ or that Savage Garden jawn.”
Olive Eyes shoots me a look, but Puma laughs, numbing his gums with powder from a tiny envelope.
“When Olive Eyes said he was bringing a girl, I expected a stuffy bookworm. Glad we got a real one instead.” Puma elbows him and offers me a bump from the tip of his butterfly knife.
“Yerp, no books or worms on me,” I promise, tossing back my hair as I lean forward. “Though one time I did drink the tequila worm from a bottle of mezcal. But you don’t think those are real bugs, do you?”
“It’s the larva of a moth, actually,” Olive Eyes murmurs.
“I don’t feel much better about that then…” I sniff and straighten up. “Woo, this beats sketchy coke from Broward, right?”
Puma nods, forking over fat bills rolled into an orange prescription bottle.
Olive Eyes sifts through them Terminator-fast, nods, and produces a few more baggies of notched rectangles. “You’re cleaning me out of Bromazolam, so—”
“Don’t hit you up ’til the fourth. Got it. Why don’t you and your chica go mix with the crew, make deals until next time?” Like a trophy, Puma holds up some loot to his amigos before they start cracking and stashing them in their pockets.
Back in the smokey living room, some skinny Cubans start sorting out thicc lines of Colombian fire. Playing cards crown around a red solo of dark liquor on an adjacent table. The group offers to teach us the game King’s Cup. The only objective seems to be to drink and clink, and I’m a champion of that.
For real. By the time all cards are drawn, I got boys gagging by my feet while others shuffle in from the kitchen, offering me extra Caribbean punches.
On the sly, Olive Eyes won’t let me accept any unseen pours, but slides over cups of seltzer. I guess there’s no real winner, but we’re not losers. Guys keep coming up to pat Olive Eyes on the shoulder, ask him how to potentiate highs, can he drop off acid in Kendall sometime, if grad school is going okay or can he write their sisters’ bio 101 reports for cash.
As he answers them all, I crouch to pet the ebony pupperino jumping on my knees. “A weinerdoodle!” I cheer, booping his twitching li’l sniffer.
A goof crowded around the foosball table pauses his bet in Spanglish to inform me, “That’s Gus—o Gustavo. I got him from un dumpster behind Flanigan’s. He’s un doxiepoo. Like un dachshund and un poodle put together.” He wipes smudge from his glasses, looking like someone Olive Eyes goes to school with but maybe got kicked outta the dorms.
“Oh, really? Never hearda one. How cute.”
His eyes linger on my hourglass. “Do I know tu from somewhere? Don’t tu rave en Wynwood? Dance at Club Madonna?”
He seems so preemie with an unfilled beard and pan con chicharrón pudge, it’s funny to imagine him making it rain at a strip club. “Probably just your dreams,” I laugh off with a wink, then occupy my mouth with an awkward sip.
A gringa in orange drawstring pants appears from behind him with narrowed, bushy brows. “What’d you ask her, Javi? You seen her before?”
“Eh, no, no, nada. I just—”
Her voice revs up. “If you think you seen her before, she’ll be all you’re seeing besides my ass walking out t—”
“We’ve all gone to the same school. Relax,” Olive Eyes cuts in, turning from Puma.
“Or at least dropped out from there,” I add for credibility.
The girl’s still as pink as the punch her man handed me earlier. “Then why’d you bring up a strip shack, Javi? I told you to stay away from those clubs. Don’t need you bringing home anything from those skank-ass p—”
“I’m sure he was just joking,” Olive Eyes mediates, maneuvering us out of the ring of fire. “Cherry’s with me and would never—”
“Cherry!” the girl shouts. “What kind of name is that?” She pushes Javi, causing the dog to bark. “I bet she is one of those stripper girls you see!”
Puma cuts in between the couple, pupils planetary, nose as raw as the lobster in ceviche. “Mirar, mirar. You can’t be disrespecting the ladies here. Either of you. What’s going on?” He waves Olive Eyes and me away.
Scrappy li’l Gus takes our place, leaning defensive against the girl. Yap! Yap! Yap!
As we make it halfway across the room, a guy with shades and a fresh fade grips Olive Eyes’ elbow. “Don’t leave yet, man. Still have questions ’bout the next drop-off.”
A smaller guy with a sagging backpack peeps, “Yeah, and I wanna find out if the Somas I bought off the pier are real.”
From a room away, another chimes in, “Yo, lemme cop a K-pin off you, schoolboy!”
“Smoke break,” Olive Eyes excuses, pointing upstairs as gustoy Gus nips at the grumpy gringa’s sweatpants.
Walking back into the cocina, the last guy groans to his buddy, “Aw, they’re letting the guapa one leave. Su perra blanca siempre está causando problemas...”
***
“Must feel lighter now, huh?” I laugh, tugging on Olive Eyes’ pockets before twirling into the rooftop patio. The sunset colors the chalky rock floor and lonely web chairs in marmalade and sapphire shades.
Olive Eyes shrugs. “Nice to sell inventory, but I don’t feel great about what just happened. I should’ve defended you better.”
I roll my eyes, walk backwards to the ledge. “What, I’m gonna be offended by strangers thinking I work the pole? I am a stripper. Just a virtual one.”
He blushes like he might’ve any of the hundred times he’s logged onto my cam shows. During any of our dozen midnight conversations as he studies pharmacology outside our motel’s café deck.
“The only reason I don’t wanna talk about it with them is ’cause I don’t wanna shade your spotlight.”
He smirks, links his hands behind his back. “Yet your ability to steal a spotlight is why I like you.” The smile disintegrates until he’s frowning at the floor. “This is a lousy first date. I’ve waited all this time to officially ask you out somewhere and it’s to a lowbrow high-rise in—”
“Oh, hon bun, if anybody can stretch the idea of what a ‘date’ is, it’s me.” I wink, pulling out a chair to fall into. “You know what I do. So, I wanted to see what you do. Now we’re even.”
“Even,” he repeats, pulling the other chair close to me. “You know, we make a pretty odd pair for being even. I hope next time you’ll join me somewhere nicer.” He tugs at his dress shirt sleeves. “Somewhere less humid.” He stares down into the miles of abandoned construction pits like they’re mouths on Mars, make him a li’l motion sick. “With a better view.”
“Well, we can have that here.” My voice dips seductive as I trace the wrist seam. “You got some molly left, don’t you?”
The smirk returns. “Always. But I didn’t think you’d—”
“Didn’t think the love drug belongs on a first date? Pretty backward of you.” I giggle and tickle his palm until it drops a tablet in mine.
***
Maybe we’re imagining it or maybe we really didn’t notice until the sky went from gunshot-black to florescent, but behind the roof access room is a trampoline. A circle as big and bouncy as our pupils on ecstasy.
It’s hard to tell if the jaw-clamping is from the roll or all our kissing. We sprawl on the elastic mat, nipping each other’s ears, lips, fingers. Even the beats from downstairs’ pussy-ass Drake tracks slap. I can feel the pulsations beneath my back, behind my eyes, bound in my cells. The energy is so electric that every time Olive Eyes leaves to grab drinks or bum a cigarette, I have to spring it out with backflips.
Uninebriated, I might not have the confidence to land those, but stratospheric, I’m a showoff in new ways. Yet I still keep the classics, hypnotizing him on return with my jumps, my bobbing breasts and a risky hemline.
“Hey, try this,” he says, offering a menthol and an arm for me to steady out on.
“Whoa, it tastes like candy but tingly.” I puff again and an invigorating breeze shoots down my throat like a Peppermint Patty. The feeling fans out to the rest of my body, cooling me down as kinetic energy seems to pirouette from my fingertips to his wrist.
The last hour’s been more than just “I feel that” stoner-talk trauma-bonding; I feel phantom veins connecting us, intertwining our circuitry. I plop down to stare into his sage eyes, pet the tawny cowlick coming out of his side-part.
“If you like that, try this.” He pulls a little jar of lip balm out of his pocket, war-streaks the top of my cheekbones with white jelly. Leans down to gently blow upwards.
It’s like my eyes are kissed with sparkles of sex, deliciously slick as they bump side-to-side and roll back into my skull with the serotonin kick.
Olive Eyes laughs. “Now you’re both types of e-girl.”
“Again! Again!” I cheer, already crouching up to make my own airwaves. Igniting what smells like a eucalyptus fire, I jump, lashes fluttering, happy tears puddling. With my moon pupils hiding behind my head, the jump is as exhilarating as schoolyard swinging. I’m edging by the ledge of this 14-story, could lasso up stars like Wonder Woman or swoop down the streets for—
The roof hatch opens with a rusty squeak. In my streamy neon vision, everybody is a fuzzy smear. One bursts through the door, complaints impossibly loud but blended into one word.
Unibrow bitch, I think and giggle myself silly, unattached to any actual hate. I see Olive Eyes flinch, shrink to the side. He extends a hand, cupping like down, get down.
But I’m so fucking high, I wanna shout it from this dingy-dank rooftop. Spring to the rings of Saturn and parachute into the call of the void. Want to wade in the smoggy stardust down there an—
“Her!” The downstairs drama queen charges toward me in an orange blur, her boyfriend lagging behind with supercharged tracers.
Me! I think, enraptured by waves of forgiveness and childish enthusiasm. I even make room for her on the trampoline. Could hug her, I’ve got so much energy to give. Love. Compliments. “You! Come jump with me! Your Naruto sweats look so cute.” I wave my arms and so does she.
But close to her chest. Wielding something. I squint. Never cease the jump even as Olive Eyes paws at my leg.
The boys yell back and forth, try to redirect the girl as glitter and anguish pour down her cheeks. They react so shoulder-stoppy, plead-eyed, it must be…a vase? A bottle? A gun!
I jolt, stiffen midair. Bite down my breath. By the time my feet flatten, I realize my nerves misunderstood. That black blur’s not a gun—it’s Gus!
Wiggling in her grasp like a curly worm. I laugh out my relief, fall to my knees, too light-headed to make kissy noises.
Grr, BARK! A fake-out chomp against her arm.
“Give him back, Vivi! Go back downstairs,” her boyfriend demands, hoarse like they’ve been debating for hours. Olive Eyes nods, posture pushed-down and consoling.
“No, Javi, you wanna act like a dog with other bitches, you don’t deserve one!” Chica jukes around Olive Eyes. “You don’t appreciate anything you have.” She stares bitterly at the ledge, out to the miles of metal could-bes but won’t, until her eyes burn up again, dripping like magma. “So, watch it leave!”
The screech that comes off the poor little pooch is so hauntingly echoing, record-scratch scathing, I don’t think a psychedelic could magnify it. Override its sobering effect. Make me forget the floppy ears flapping in the wind, the stumpy legs flailing down stories of and to charred concrete. Big, black button eyes gleaming like glass. As breakable.
Bio:
Paige Johnson is EIC of Outcast Press, which specializes in transgressive fiction. She is the author of Percocet Summer: Poetry for Distancing Dates & Doses, with its sequel Citrus Springs shortly on the way. She has also had stories in many anthologies including Urban Pigs’ HUNGER, Cowboy Jamboree’s MOTEL, Anxiety Press’ Mirrors Reflecting Shadows, as well as Outcast’s Slut Vomit, Diner Noir, and In Filth It Shall Be Found.
Punk Noir Press 
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