(December 9th, 2003, 11:37 am)
Dylan sat at a small table sipping an eight dollar domestic, surrounded by his colleagues’ grinning faces lit by cheap neon and blurred by a synthetic fog that didn’t smell quite right. Joe was sitting up at the stage looking back at them with a mischievous smile and waving a Franklin, waiting for the next girl. Celebrations. Big client landed earlier that day, and here Dylan was again, amongst men who knew only one way to celebrate.
At least it was a new club, he thought. He was getting sick of seeing the same girls at the one by the airport. He glanced over at the bank of televisions over the bar, the Raiders had just scored again, and that meant a call from his brother, bragging. There was something about the place that told him to get up and walk out, call a cab, go home. But it was that sort of anti-social behavior that had set him up on the chopping block at his last company when they decided to “restructure” the employee pool. When no one will miss you, you’re the first one to go. Got to be a team player. Got to be a people person. Whatever the hell that was. He heard a cry of desperation from the bar and looked up again in time to see the replay. Kickoff return-runner had fumbled. Raiders’ ball again, on the thirty, in Chargers’ territory. Great.
Sam leaned over and clamped his hand down on Dylan’s shoulder and slurred something in his ear. He didn’t hear a word of it, the bad lyrics and heavy beats of some Hip Hop star took auditory precedence over Sam. The music faded and the in-house DJ spoke up while he mixed the end of the Hip Hop with the beginnings of a Guns N Roses song. “Okay gentleman, get those bills out and get ready for Tiffany.” November Rain. “Plenty of room left up at the stage, so come on and fill those seats, Tiffany won’t disappoint.” No, Don’t Cry.
Joe looked back at the party again, this time with the Franklin in his mouth and a raised eyebrow. Dylan cracked a fake smile at him. Tiffany came out from behind the curtain and onto the stage, accompanied by another volley of bad fog and the DJ raising the volume as Axl started to wail. She was all legs, incased in shiny leather chaps and propped up on five inch heels. Her stomach was taut and glorified by a silver ring through the belly-button. Her obviously fake breasts were barely contained by a leather bikini top She turned around and bent over, giving all the men a generous view of her ass, which was covered by the tiniest black thong, and let her blonde hair mop the mirrored floor. She cracked a smile through her legs at nobody in particular, until she caught sight of Joe and his pal Benjamin. Tiffany stood up straight and walked over to where Joe sat, waving her hips widely and tossing her hair with her hands. She crouched down and spread her legs for Joe as she deftly untied the leather top and let her breasts hang free.
A black tribal butterfly covered her left areola, and Dylan nearly spilt his eight dollar beer. Tiffany leaned forward and smothered Joe with her breasts. When she sat up again the Franklin was in her cleavage, and a big smile was upon her face. She pulled her thick hair back from her face and leaned in to give a Joe a quick kiss on the cheek after slipping the bill into the strap of her thong. Joe looked back at the party with a smirk and another raised eyebrow. Tiffany followed his gaze and Dylan watched as her smile faded in recognition of him. She made no effort to move. Dylan calmly set his beer down on the table and stood up. He gave her a blank look. No shock, no disgust, no contempt. He looked at her long, taking in every aspect of her expression and station. Then he turned and walked out of the club.
The air was warm, and fresh. Dylan dug in his pockets for his Camels, lit one up, and slowly walked across the parking lot towards the boulevard. He had come to LA in search of his dreams, professional and personal alike. More so, he mused then, personal. On some level, he had to admit that he followed her here. Harmony, or “Tiffany”, had come west eight years before him to sing in a band and they had lost touch. Obviously her music career didn’t work out. But to see her on that stage, as a synthetically enhanced woman, was a shock to his system. In his head she was still that punk-rock girl with pink hair who rode a beach cruiser to high school, and shared his adolescent bed. She was, even after all that time, the girl who would look at him and smile for no reason other than to make him smile. She was the girl who cried when she got that tattoo on her eighteenth birthday, and he was the boy who held her hand during the process. She was the girl who got on a bus bound for LA with nothing more than a guitar, backpack full of clothes, and the phone number of a friend’s older sister who had a studio apartment three blocks from Sunset. She was the girl who left him standing there at the bus station with his hands in his pockets looking defeated.
But that was all in his head, that Harmony, his lady H, no longer existed. Now she was just another girl begging for money with her tits. Just erase another dream from the chalkboard of Dylan’s mind. Three years he had been in this town, and she was just another thing it had shit on.
God, he thought, I have to get the fuck out of here.
(December 10th, 2003, 8:14 pm)
is a damn fine story
Superbly paced, and beautifully told.
(December 27th, 2003, 11:49 pm)
Very nice, in fact. I'd like to find out more about Dylan and his sucky life. :)
Couple spelling errors like: "...men who new only one way..." "New" should be "Knew".
(February 16th, 2004, 2:28 pm)
(February 17th, 2004, 11:15 pm)
and btw, it's been edited a little.
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