Lethal Attraction

Here we are, Jamia and I, sharing a cigarette on the rooftop of the bar, staring out at the setting sun and saying nothing.

It’s not the part of autumn where everything’s all brisk and gloriously somber in anticipation of winter, but rather the very beginning, where you’re not entirely sure summer has even passed. You find yourself constantly wiping at the bead of sweat on your brow, and back East around this time each year, the trees are always still stubbornly green in a desperate attempt at clinging to summer’s fervor.

“This place is cursed,” Jamia says, breaking the silence. “I can feel it.”

She draws a long, lingering drag, the cigarette’s ember glowing briefly in the twilight. Her gaze drifts over the stretch of the city, an expression I can’t decipher written all over her unblinking eyes.

In the faint breeze, a few dark strands of hair slip from her ponytail, fluttering and twisting around her head. Each time an ember breaks free from the cigarette we share, my mind conjures this vivid image: it latches onto a solitary strand, racing upwards in a fiery trail. I picture it reaching the top of her head. I picture a glorious fire.

Then I come to my senses and blink the image away.

The problem with me is that sometimes, I want bad things to happen. Not out of hate or spite, but for reasons I’ve never come to understand. There’s a closed-off portion of my brain that has some sort of affinity for disaster, living in constant anticipation of the next car crash, the next wildfire, the next bank robbery. And as much as I’d like to condemn the feeling, to write it off as something I play no part in and am entirely detached from, there is no escaping the fact that every ounce of it is me.

There is no man behind the curtain, sitting behind my eyes and pulling the strings and blindsiding my head with terrible thoughts. Everything that lives inside me is mine. Each and every thought I have operates off a concoction of everything I have ever seen, read, or heard.

As I take a slow, contemplative drag, my eyes linger on Jamia’s face for a moment.

”Yes,” I tell her through an exhale of smoke. “You’re probably the last of us to figure that out.”

Despite me saying this, part of me resonates with her sentiment. There’s a perpetual shroud of dread and gloom hanging over Los Angeles, but today, it feels heavier, more foreboding. It’s as if I’m attuned to an impending, unspoken loss that has yet to appear on the horizon.

Jamia shrugs, reclaiming the cigarette. “Regardless, one day, we’ll miss this, I think.”

“I doubt it,” I respond without missing a beat. My gaze drifts down to the sidewalks below, to all the clusters of people. I wonder whether the strange sensation in the air has touched only us, or if it’s reached them too. “We have our whole lives to make memories we’ll miss. This is just a small blip in the grand scheme of us being young and stupid.”

Jamia takes a drag, then shakes her head. ”The little blips are the most important,” she argues. “I think people look back when they’re old and realize they had a lot less time to be young and stupid than they thought.”

There’s no way of conveying to her that in my life, the little blips have tended to be the things I’d like to forget the most, and so I don’t, and instead say nothing.

“Hey, I—”

“Jesus Christ!” Jamia hisses in response to the voice from behind us, causing our almost-finished cigarette to slip from her fingers and off the ledge.

I watch it flutter in the breeze for a brief moment, almost like it’s flying, before taking an unceremonious plummet and disappearing somewhere along the sidewalk below.

Then I roll my eyes.

The apprehensive man we turn to find standing in the rooftop entryway, wearing a camo-print jacket and buzzed blond hair, is young, and looks awful sheepish now. His gaze darts to the ground and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I was just… I was just looking for the guy who…”

He has a hard time saying it aloud. I watch his cheeks bloom a vivid scarlet, his fluster evident in every fidget and shuffle. I don’t think he anticipated having to explain himself.

I nod and start toward him. “Yeah! I—”

There’s a hard pinch on my arm as Jamia pulls me backward. Her nails are long, and dig into my flesh like claws.

“The guy who what?” she quizzes him, still gripping me.

She’s different from me in the way that she worries that everyone is a cop, while I would be entirely willing to spend the night in a cell if it meant earning a quick buck. In fact, I have.

His complexion nearly matches the shade of a tomato now. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and produces some wadded bills, holding them out to me. “I.. I just want five minutes.”

Jamia’s talon grip is stronger than ever. “I’m sure you do, officer.”

I glance back at her in disbelief.

“He’s clearly not a cop,” I say, talking about the kid like he’s not even here. “Look at him.”

Jamia hesitates, then begrudgingly removes her hand. I rub the indentations left by her nails, trying to ignore the sting that runs up my arm.

“Prove it,” she says plainly.

It’s a second of confusion, a second of hesitation, and then you can practically see a lightbulb appear above his blond head.

“Ah,” he says, patting his pockets. “Um.” He finally reaches into one and produces a clear baggie filled with what is unmistakably weed.

“See?” I tell her defiantly.

She sighs and offers a small, tight-lipped smile. “Just looking out for you, kid. I gotta get back to my shift anyway. See you down there?”

I nod, and with that, she strides off, leaving him and I alone.

—

“I’m not into men,” I tell Jamia later at the bar counter as she wipes out a beer mug with a cloth. Ever since we developed our little alliance, where she seeks out clients for me, I’ve made this very clear. And it’s true.

The matter of the fact is, this is the easiest way of making rent without a college degree. But my lack of boobs and a vagina leaves me with quite a disadvantage. There are simply not many women driving around the streets of Los Angeles, perusing each street corner for some sketchy man to invite in her car. It’s the type of thing that only men do.

She shrugs, not looking up from the glass. “I’m not thinking that. I told you, I never am. Why else would you need three shots of tequila every time afterward?”

I glance down at the three shots in front of me.

“Okay,” I say. “Just making it clear.”

“You always do,” she says in a flat tone, placing the mug up on a shelf with a small clink. “Very much so.”

My eyes drift upward, to the television set hanging overhead.

A lot of people come to the Lucky Clam to watch television as well as drink. And I get it, the place is nice and homely—Christmas lights hang along the deteriorating brick walls, half of the colorful bulbs burned out. They’re always up, even during this time of year when it’s nowhere near December, and this is comforting somehow. It makes you feel like beautiful fluorescent colors aren’t reserved only for holidays. A song that must be at least ten years old always blares through the low-quality speakers, including now. They aren’t too loud, but loud enough that the bass occasionally causes empty glasses along the bar to rattle.

It isn’t much, but I suppose it beats their bare, unfurnished living rooms that maybe even have no TV at all. And this isn’t a generalization—you don’t come here if you’re happy with your life, to socialize with other bubbly shining young people, or to chance a celebrity sighting. You come here because the latter group of people go everywhere else, and don’t take too kindly to those unfitting of their criteria.

Right now, some soap opera flashes on the screen, and I can hardly sit through a second without rolling my eyes. No one at the counter wants this. They want the game, or even the nightly news. Bored, wealthy people are the target demographic for ninety percent of soap operas, and you will find none of those in Lucky Clam.

“Turn this shit off,” I deadpan, curling my fingers around my last full shot glass. Then I pick it up and take it, letting the burning feeling blossom in my throat. “Genuinely, I’d prefer anything else.” I motion to the older men sitting on the other side of the counter, enveloped in their own conversation. “I’m sure they’d say the same.”

She laughs and pulls the TV remote from her black faded apron.

“I will, but I think you’re on your own about soap operas here, Jersey boy. In Cali, there’s this saying that everyone can flick on the TV, flip through every channel, and find at least one individual they know personally.”

I cringe at the mention of where I came from. “Don’t call me that. I left for a reason.”

And a good one at that. I don’t want to talk about it.

“Don’t be ashamed of your roots,” Jamia hums in a soft, sing-songy voice as she glances up at the TV and flips through various channels.

At a giant red headline that reads Breaking News, she raises an eyebrow. Her finger presses on the remote again, and all at once the reporter’s voice fills the bar.

“Residents of Los Angeles, it is recommended that you stay indoors. In incidents where this isn’t possible, you are strongly encouraged not to go alone.”

This causes the men on the other side to turn. They too look up at the television.

“There has been a string of gruesome murders in the city. What we are about to show onscreen is very graphic and disturbing, so please have any children or unsuitable audience leave the room,” the female reporter continues.

She pauses for a second, then the bloodiest bedroom crime scene I’ve had the displeasure of viewing pops up on the screen. Everyone in the bar has an audible and physical reaction, some even shielding their eyes.

“Ugh!” Jamia groans. “Why would they put that on TV?”

But one older man with a thin gray beard has his eyes glued to the screen. “God,” he murmurs. “what the hell happened to the neck?”

I’ve already averted my eyes, but I know he’s talking about the way the flesh around the victim’s neck looks like it was run through a paper shredder. I shudder.

The reporter appears onscreen again.

“We apologize if this was particularly disturbing to you. We would just like to emphasize the importance of being cautious during this time. The killer has been dubbed The Vampire by some, due to the method with which—”

Jamia switches off the TV, making the screen go black. We all sit in silence for a moment.

“I don’t even want to go outside,” someone says. “Jesus Christ.”

A moment of alone time with my thoughts is enough to make me acknowledge the absence of the usual anticipation within me, and the satisfaction that has taken its place.

Sometimes, I want bad things to happen. A big disaster. I don’t know why. Maybe because I am so worn down by daily life, anything that warrants the smallest break from it is appealing to me. I don’t know. Sometimes I want bad things to happen.

I hope this didn’t happen because I wanted it. I didn’t, really.

This is probably the most exciting and horrifying thing to happen to me in the three years I’ve lived in L.A. And that’s saying something—I’ve fucked undercover cops with beer guts and no sense of personal hygiene, and politicians who’d press the cold barrel of a firearm to my temple and tell me he’d better not see his name pop up in any tabloid.

Suddenly, a thought so unwelcome creeps into my head, I find it hard to accept as my own. What would Gerard think of this?

Even his first name makes me genuinely nauseous.

His first name is all that’s worth knowing about him, if even. And quite frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass what that backstabbing motherfucker would think, wherever he is.

But he’d probably love it. He’s always loved gore and horror and all garbage of that nature. The bastard.

You can’t picture Gerard without also picturing all the dog-eared issues of Fangoria he’d have laying around.

Some mornings, I’d find him at my locker with lit-up eyes and the newest edition tucked under his arm, and from there all I could wonder was which horror film’s full-page black and white ad caught his eye this time.

A few of them really spooked me, the movies he’d drag me to the cinema for.

Granted, I had always been drawn to a fair amount of gruesome, nightmare-fuel media myself. As a testament to this, my bedroom walls were ever-adorned with posters of cult horror classics. Most school nights, you’d find me under the covers, Dad’s old camping flashlight in hand as I dove into spine-chilling tales spun by the likes of Clive Barker and Stephen King.

Our shared fixation with the macabre was partly what made us such good friends from the beginning. But like in many other aspects of our shared youth, Gerard towered above me by at least twelve notches—a seemingly untouchable figure of awe. Beyond just watching and reading horror, I liked to think he also lived and breathed it. The slight disparity between our depths of obsession didn’t tend to be readily apparent, but occasions of the contrary usually began in a dimly-lit cinema hall.

Like I said, the movies he took us to really spooked me sometimes, and usually the trailer or magazine ad was enough for me to get a sense of whether I’d be walking out of the theater later with trembling legs and a throat bitter with bile. Even in such cases, I’d have been dead before I backed out on Gerard like some pussy.

When this happened, I’d battle a familiar knot of apprehension building inside my stomach the whole way there. Usually I’d win, temporarily plucked from reality by the lull of Gerard’s rattled-off facts about the director and his filmography or awards or whatever else. It would return soon enough, worsened upon entering a packed theater, its air thick with murmured anticipation and the scent of buttered popcorn. You’d find my hands either gripping the armrest or clutched anxiously in my lap long before the last preview faded out and the house lights dimmed.

Meanwhile, as the opening credits faded in, you’d look over to find Gerard staring up ahead with a reverent gaze, instantly regarding the screen with a somewhat studious absorption that appeared to be void of any horror or fear—only rich with fascination. Under the flickering light of the projector, with each new scream or twist, he admirably maintained a still, calm demeanor.

Sometimes, he would steal glances at me for a brief second, perhaps seeking a reaction on my face that reflected his own. In cases where I harbored too much fear to leave any room for enjoyment, I had developed this amazing talent of feigning whatever emotion he was hoping I would have. This, however, did not prevent the few occasions where my expression or the depth of the nail marks on my seat would betray me regardless.

It could have been my inclination to read much too far into things, but I could have sworn when this happened, he’d hastily glance away, like he regretted intruding on something private. A few moments later, just when the thought had slipped me by, he would turn to me again.

“This kind of blows,” he’d whisper, although I could have sworn he had been utterly fixated, his eyes unblinkingly glued to the screen the entire time. “Wanna bounce?”

To me, it was all very clear, exactly what he was doing.

Lying, for either my sake or perhaps to test how much of a pussy I was. Either way, the two or three times this happened, I always took this as my cue to shake my head.

“Nah,” I’d quietly say back, fidgeting with my popcorn bucket. “I… I want to see what happens, don’t you?”

He would shrug, fighting off a smirk that suggested he was more pleased with my response than he’d care to admit, then turn back to the screen and look up with a degree of appreciation I probably couldn’t fathom.

Shit like that—understandings that never had to be spoken—led me to assume our friendship operated on a rock-solid foundation. Now, imagine the blow, upon realizing he left. The fucking bastard—I probably won’t mention him again.

When I blink back out of my thoughts, half the patrons of the bar are gone, and the room has grown much quieter.

I usually view the bar’s late, hushed hours as a rare source of intimacy and comfort—I seldom find either in L.A.—but tonight, something about it sends a shiver down my spine.

Jamia is wiping out the remainder of the glasses with the same rag, her eyes wide with perpetual shock. The TV above her head is still pitch black.

“Heading out, Frank?” Jamia asks when she looks up to find me holding my coat, a slight shake in her voice. I nod, and she frowns. “Home, I hope?”

“Yeah. Might stop on Sunset first, find a senator so I can pay cable this month.”

Her frown deepens, but I find the concern unnecessary. It doesn’t take long to reel in clients like these, nor is it hard. It’s a simple matter of inconspicuously lingering in the shadows of a vacant alley until you spot a slowly moving black SUV with tinted windows. The only threat, really, is the disgustingly wealthy man inside with a loaded firearm he’s prepared to point at either you or himself in the case that his name pops up between any unsavory headlines. Unless The Vampire’s rolling around in a black Cadillac, I think I’ll survive the night.

Jamia knows better than to protest in cases like these, simply because it is futile, and so she just groans.

“Okay, well,” she mutters, plucking another glass from the sink. “I’d better see you around tomorrow, or I’m reporting you missing.”

“Right,” I tell her, debating whether to add that I’m more concerned for her, given she’ll be in here all on her own the moment I walk out the door. Ultimately I refrain, figuring that’s already on her mind and I needn’t fuel her fear. “See you tomorrow, then.”

I’m usually the very last to leave, because to be plain and honest, it’s ideal for me to spend as much time away from my crappy, rundown apartment as possible. It’s in the type of area where hearing gunshots is a normal occurrence, and cockroaches don’t feel the need to scatter at the flash of a lightbulb. It’s a real dump, is what I’m saying.

I only ended up there at all because I was so damned desperate to leave home and go as far away as I could manage, to forget the bastard that tainted every last square inch of the place.