Enter the Fairy
Feya doesn’t hear the curses of her landlord over the mind-numbing volume of the music. With her studio headphones pressed to one ear, she mixes up transitions to new songs, fully engrossed in the sick beats. The screams of over a dozen people pound through the apartment, distorting the air.
To her left is a torn-out wall feeding into another part of the building she doesn’t own. Inside, large speakers sit against the walls, and the bass has the crowd in a hypnotic trance of debauchery. Low-riding jeans, mesh tops exposing gaps of visible bras, and frosted tips are the norm, along with baby tees, baggy jerseys, and the occasional JNCOs—though they are losing popularity post-Y2K.
Feya pays no mind to the countless young people grinding on each other. Sweat rolls down the faces of the men and women, making the scene even more erotic at first glance—almost straight out of an early 2000s music video. People frequently enter the apartment to make song requests, and she takes them in stride.
She wears a tight black crop top that exposes a strip of pale skin at her midriff, the fabric hugging her five-foot-six frame. Over it, a worn leather jacket hangs open, creased and scuffed in places and covered in punk band patches. Matching leather pants cling to her legs, chains dangling from the belt loops and clinking whenever she shifts her weight. Her countless ear piercings catch the club lights peeking through the torn-out brick wall in quick flashes, like neon sparklers in the dark apartment.
She has her DJ equipment and a laptop set up on the island in her small kitchen. Though she knows many DJs frown on not having the pure sound of vinyl, her obsession with Napster helped make up for her lack of budget for new CDs and records. She also has her iPod attached with twenty gigabytes of her top playlists to mix into her equipment, along with her CDJ-800 to use her MP3-burned CD quick-mixes for events like this that need more club music beyond her normal tastes.
She is so engrossed in her mixing that she completely fails to notice Ms. Brooks, her fifty-something landlord, push her way into the apartment. The older woman’s face flushes a deep “Karen” crimson, her gaudy jewelry jingling as anger creeps up her neck and ignites fire into her cheeks. She stares unblinking at Feya, looking as if she is fighting off a stroke and an urge to strangle her.
Ms. Brooks immediately looks for the connection to the speakers via the XLR cables running into the other building. Before Feya can react, the old woman finds the ends of the red and black cables and pulls hard.
A deafening feedback squeal immediately triggers, causing everyone to stop all at once. Feya drops to her knees, covering her ears as she goes pale from the auditory attack.
Everyone turns and looks at the old woman holding the cables in her hand, first with a look of shock, then anger.
“You old hag! What the hell are you doing?!” a man in baggy pants with a muscle shirt yells out, as his grinding partner also chips in with choice words. Soon, several more people call out to her to plug in the cables.
“Shut the hell up!” the tomato-tinted woman yells, her rage reaching its peak. “If you bastards don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police!”
Everyone becomes quiet as her threat echoes through both buildings. Soon, people leave, complaining and tossing their drinks onto the floor in annoyance. Feya glares at Ms. Brooks as she watches her money source for the night leaving. Tips are her method of payment, not true pay from the man who converted six apartments into an off-the-grid club. He paid to tear down the brick wall to make easy access, and she provides the sick beats for tips. She is only one hour into the night and has made twenty bucks.
Not nearly enough to pay the past-due rent. This crone is definitely here for something besides a geriatric noise complaint. Feya glares at the older woman as she approaches the DJ “booth.”
“That was the rent, you old bag. I would have had it paid in full if you hadn’t—”
Her landlord interrupts her. “There is a hole in the wall! Rent!? We’re well beyond the goddamn rent, you little bitch—”
Feya, on instinct, slaps her furious landlady with about eighty percent strength, knocking the old woman to her knees. Feya wants to pretend she is sorry, but her glare says everything her heart is feeding to her in real-time. Her brain opts to sit this one out.
“YOU HAVE UNTIL THE END OF THE WEEK TO GET THE FUCK OUT!” the landlady screams, a mix of rage and fear. She rubs her red cheek as she scrambles out of the apartment.
“Damn, bro. That sucks.”
Feya looks up to see a random man standing next to her booth. He is holding a beer and dressed head-to-toe in stoner gear, from a faded Nirvana tee to unwashed jeans with enough holes to make you wonder why he bothered wearing anything.
She stares at him wearily, then points to the open hole in the wall. The man shrugs and makes his way out of her apartment. As she watches him go, she finally notices the red light blinking on her answering machine sitting atop a stack of old telephone books.
“Voice message? Who do I even talk to anymore?” She looks perplexed as she walks toward the table and holds the not-so-small relic from another time. With a quick press, a beep sounds out, followed by the date and time of the message, which was an hour ago—right during her very premeditated party entertainment.
“Hey! This is Jack Meinhoff with Brad Cage Productions. Someone brought up your name when asking about DJs for an event Brad is having at 36th and Foggle Dr. We saved you a spot, so please come in by seven pm. Can’t wait to work with you!”
BEEEEEEEP —
Feya looks awe-struck. Is this a dream? Is this finally the break she needs to get her name out there? After losing her shot at music production school, she has been doing non-stop DJ gigs and working crappy part-time jobs. She is tired and feeling more beaten down each day, but now she feels a second wind coming into her shit-show of a life!
“HELL YES!!” She jumps up and down, punching in all directions. She feels an emotion she hasn’t felt in such a very long time… Hope.
