Chapter One: Fail Hard to Regain
/\/\/\
Sometimes, I swear I can fly.
No seriously. The bass will rattle my skull and the high will hit me long and hard. My eyes roll back and I fall. I ask myself the newly-personal mantra,
"Where did I go wrong?"
Some time in my childhood, when I was almost killed, I decided dying would be a great option.
But I mean, I've been in more near-death instances than I'd like to recall. Thanks to my best friends, I always managed to pull out of them in the nick of time.
But, Stan seems happy. My jealousy doesn't allow me to be the friend he deserves and be just happy to watch him grow and move on.
Red warmth trickles out of my nose as I dab it, glancing around the vanity littered with duct tape and tampon applicators. Porsche's cigarette tail wisps out of the ashtray to my right, while Ferrari jabbers emphatically at Cadillac.
A personification of regret stares back at me through the streaked looking glass. The cloudy muted green of my eyes rests in bruised hollows of eyeliner and fake lashes.
It might be stupid but that teapot changed my life. I was coming home from school, it being colder that day than usual, my breathing melting the snow on my cheeks. That etched white thing did not leave its spot on the entry cabinet for sixteen going on seventeen years.
My whole life, it hadn't been used. Touched, even. It sat there, the very spirit of the white China seeming to drain from it in pessimistic oozing. So I threw it. Liberated it, if you will.
The satisfaction of the explosion proved short lived. Soon, all dishes were crashing. Wall shelves leaving kisses of nails, the hall painting being made into two halves of a table setting. The next thing I remember is Ike screaming six inches from my face, my hands pinned behind my back pinned to the floor. Broken ceramic made abstract snowflakes fall through the hallway and kitchen. My forearms and neck covered in red blood blossoms.
"Look dude, sometimes people just snap."
Stan and I met over a cinnamon bun at the South Park mall. He stabbed a frosty piece with his plastic fork and put it on his tongue, wrapping his lips around it. I heard the licking and smacking and crushing of the disgusting thing in his mouth.
The echoes of his digestion ring in my head as I fight the urge to run. To keep running, and never turn around, never look back, leaving him to his school and sleep and girlfriend.
My parents want me close, I'm the older brother, the brains to my brother Ike's brawn and popularity and looks. I could be the next Steve Jobs if I wanted, or so I thought.
I needed to escape. The walls began to close as my throat tightened, my brain working fast to come up with solutions to my own personal hell.
If I don't leave this quiet mountain town I swear I will die here. So there's dying, or there's leaving.
My escape is simple:
1) Do well in school for scholarship to prestigious Ivy League on the East Coast. Away.
2) Make money to afford rent and fund future endeavors. For the away.
School was easy, I could bury myself in equations and ancient European conquests until I forgot my name. Easier than facing myself transforming into something unrecognizable.
And so in the wee hours of the nigh, the job hunt began.
No one was really hiring. I couldn't let my family find out about my job because they wanted me focusing on school and SAT prep, so I couldn't have asked them for help. Asking peers at school seemed out of the question considering I had basically been acting like a corpse for the last two years, and I doubted any of them really wanted to help me out.
It seemed I had found the answer to my financial woes the next week, on a Craigslist ad.
Entertain high class guests in upscale club, hours vary, private contractors only.
It was a regular deux ex machina as far as I was concerned, so I jotted down the address and headed straight there after school the next day.
/
The air hung heavy with sewage and pollution, populated with gnats and stubborn jetsam tumbling from the highway. The clouds hang low in the grey sky, gifting the sweltering summer day with a brief reprieve from the sun. I kneaded the rubber of my bike handles, trying to pry my sticky callouses from the gear shifts.
What was once a strip mall stood on unkempt cement, flagged by rows of dirt-speckled vehicles. A Chinese restaurant was just opening for lunch hour, the red neon scribbles buzzing on as a mysterious hand flipped the hanging sign from a friendly "Welcome! We're Open!"
I shifted my weight on the seat of the bike and tucked a loose sweaty curl behind my ear. I could practically hear Mom telling me, yet again, how special and beautiful I was but how the hair could give the wrong impression. We wanted to appear open and friendly and, normal, and the neighbor's boys looked nothing like me. Ike, though, was perfection in his lanky overgrown Canadian build. Mom and Dad were lovely to adopt, but when your little brother looms over you in every sense on a daily basis, you become nothing but a shadow. A ginger shadow, with less fucks given than a cheap whore.
The building of my piqued interest stood with silent judgment, short yet imposing, as being this far from the capital, the buildings shrunk and the highways grew, and vegetation clumped together in pine forests sprouting through the thick snow.
The stink of fries being dumped into the garbage wafted from the Wendy's on the other side of the lot, causing the nausea to hit me in yet another wave. The empty leather wallet pressed against my lack-of-ass, in my ripped jeans. I take another long look at the club, sigh, and decide to lock my bike up.
Angels was one of the two strips clubs within a ten mile radius that was considered "upscale," if you could ever call a strip mall strip club that. It used to be a Raisins, but was shut down years ago for failing multiple health inspections (don't ask about the tots). A new owner redesigned the place and hired most of the girls again, ditching food in favor of topless girls. The low lighting and loud music initially threw me as I entered the establishment the first time.
Mistaken as a patron, a bouncy blonde quickly gestured me over to a table toward the back. She brought me a water once I stated I was there for an interview. While I waited, I watched the green bills rain down on the gyrating ass of a raven-haired girl with small tits.
The owner was named Mr Yamamoto, a Japanese business man, his ventures being various investments in dating apps, clothing lines, and strip clubs. The dancers can walk out with four hundred to a few thousand a night, I learned. A fortune compared to a measly twelve I earned as a waitress working the same hours.
I know I was lucky to find a place that paid under the table, therefore not requiring an ID from me. But I was greedy, the money tempted me. Dollar signs danced between me and my dream of leaving South Park, Colorado, forever.
Yamamoto san did not see the harm in hiring a teenage boy to food run and refill drinks necessarily, but when I asked if he needed dancers he was shocked.
I found the money from waiting on drunk idiots not worth the long hours and embarrassment at even being there.
Originally the topless dancers bothered me in concept more than physicality. They eventually became as interesting as the peeling glitter wallpaper or the streaks on the mirror while windexing them in the dark. I never saw the girls as sexual, I found the whole ordeal repulsive. A relationship based on an obvious exchange of power like that feels wrong.
I'm still not used to the pole. Yamamoto said I could start working as a dancer after I auditioned, so I would stay after my shift was over and the tables cleared. The bartender, a blonde alternative woman in her early twenties named Volks, would be breaking down the bar while I attempted to spin. Grace wasn't even an option at that point, I just wanted to not fall off.
Porsche, the raven-haired girl I saw before my interview, took notice at my attempts.
"You're starting on the wrong leg," she advised. From there I slowly began to master different spins as my arms and legs became more spotted with purplish green bruises. My lack of girl parts gave me more strength in my arms and less finesse. I am not sexy. I do not understand how to be sexy other than lipstick and no clothes.
My life transformed again, this time without the help of a pathetic melt down in my parents' entryway. I sleep two hours a night if I'm lucky, my lack of breakfast unnoticed as I dart to school an hour early, to cram for the literature essay test. once out of school, I attend the obligatory dinner with the family, pushing the kosher stuffs and excusing myself early. I'm focused. I sneak out by climbing the roof and dropping to the backyard, trying not to slip on the ice. Sometimes I say I'm staying at Stan's or Kenny's. Mom doesn't ask because she's trying a hands off parenting approach as suggested by her therapist, and dad just trusts implicitly.
My whole present life became about my future life.
My friends, at the very least, noticed the change rumbling in me. The late hours, the bags under my eyes. The daily questions at the lunch table and walks to school made me anxious so I began to avoid it, preferring to run to school to burn extra calories and eat 53 gram serving of a red apple at 72 calories, plus a medium black coffee I bought from the teachers lounge (class pet has its perks). The guys would ask me to go play football a few times or go to an arcade, or even to some parties, but I always turned them down.
I couldn't tell my best friends for life I was planning on leaving our home, and them. Little did they know I was already halfway gone, my thoughts anywhere but there.
Lunch at South Park high entailed the five of us claiming the best spots: the roof or the unused locker room in the east building. Because it was getting torn down in a year, no one bothered to look in the old gym spaces once they moved to the renovated shiny new one. Sometimes token or Craig would join us, other times Wendy would sit with Stan and quietly study, preferring to ace her studies than practice her social skills with the likes of Cartman and Kenny.
This particular day it was only the core five. I basked in the rare sunny warmth breaking the overcast last 4 days. I chewed on my ( 52 gram) Apple and checked my step count on my phone (7652). I removed my hair from the rubber band and combed my fingers through the bright red tangle, my grey ushanka tucked neatly into my green backpack for later.
I could feel the heat of his eyes boring through me, as they had the last two weeks we'd been in the same room. Initially I thought I was crazy. Then I knew I was but discovered Cartman's hazel golds glowing at me from three persons away.
"You look like shit, Kahl."
"Thanks lardass."
"No problem faggot."
Our minimal exchange left me regretting the cheap shot. He'd gotten bigger in muscle, the fat melting away in his gym days with Butters. Easily six feet and thickly built, he would punch me in the stomach with his large hands sometimes when he felt like being a particularly large ass hole, reminding me through the pain he could kick the shit out of me now.
While I ignored the staring, Stan seemed content in his relationship with Wendy. They both wore purity rings Wendy had purchased during the summer before freshman year. Both silver with little hands holding a heart, on their left hands, a promise to remain pure and true to each other. Despite this, he was holding out hope for a birthday handjob or something else deemed culturally "acceptable." He said she would always stop before unhooking her bra and keeping his hands above her breasts and below her knees. Stan was miserable yet determined.
Outside of exploring his girlfriend, interning at his dad's job kept him busy outside of schoolwork. His best subject was literature, his poetry began to garner the attention of his teachers. Some was sent out to competitions. This made him take himself a bit more seriously.
Kenny spent his free time perusing the local strip clubs, doing who knows what with God knows who. He finally stopped covering his face with a hood and upgraded to shaggy hair and a bandana around his neck in middle school. He insisted the combination of E and blow kept him warm, but the side effect of women combing his hair seemed to be the truth. He would joke he had this epiphany between the seventeenth time he burned to death and before he accidentally ingested rat poison. The epiphany being pure hedonism was the only way to live.
Butters took to wrestling in 5th grade, followed by self-defense classes and weight lifting. He bragged about bench pressing 250 recently, and I could only nod in mild understanding of the significance. Outside of his humble speech, he was Barely recognizable as the same stuttering mess of a blonde kid. He'd sit with us sometimes, mostly talking to Cartman while scarfing down 2 Peanut butter banana jelly sandwiches. Sometimes it would leave traces on his face and he'd lick it off while discussing his latest trend of pushing his physical limits.
"Ya see I was thinking if I incorporated lunges between the warm up run and dead lifts, I could increase my endurance. What do you think Cartman?"
"Butters, just shoot yourself up with some used steroid needles for all I care." Cartman replied, still watching me. Butters deflated slightly and glanced toward me, studying my face as well. "What happened?" I realize the fat-ass is addressing me. "You get dumped by your right hand? Hahaha, classic. Get it because you've never had a lay and your face says virgin, I just owned you."
I shifted uncomfortably as Kenny chuckled and flipped the next page of the 2005 playboy. He paused and rotated the zine until the centerfold dropped open and a smile broke across his face. "Eric you talk so much about Kyle's dick I wonder where your dick itches to be?"
"Shut up," I retort, tightening the rubber band around my mess of hair and letting go. My auburn ponytail splashes between my shoulder blades and I take a sip of water from my thermas.
Stan interjected, "This is stupid. So what if we haven't had sex yet? You can quit ragging on us Cartman, it's not like yours was even consensual, it doesn't count."
Cartman frowned, his short choppy dark brown hair falling into his forehead. "It counted when you wanted to hear the details after summer break,"
"Yeah how many times ago?" Stan zips his black large messenger bag closed and clutches a crumpled a used brown bag in his left hand.
The air grew colder as the sun tucked behind the thick grey of overcast. I close my eyes.
"So what? You don't talk anymore?
Cartman turned his attention to me again as Butters scooted toward Kenny, curiously peaking over his shoulder at the buxom brunette. His jeans made a scratching noise against the dirty plaster of a roof.
"That looks like Lexus!" He said, shocked.
The shaggy blonde smirked and moved his face closer to the publication, "Yeah it's probably her. I saw her at Temptation a while ago, the other girls say she travels to LA And Miami for photo shoots."
Cartman once drunkenly ragged on Butters for a supposed tattoo of Lexus' portrait on his chest, something the rest of our friend group did not want to know if it truly existed. Kenny either forgot or found it funny to poke Butters in his childhood dream of a relationship.
"So Kahllll..." He drew out my name with his annoying coy tone, "You don't need to try to hard to be a colossal pussy."
"Leave me alone Cartman."
"See you're Jewish, even without the ponytail and tortured genius look you're trying to wear, you were born weaker, so you can relax."
His anti semetism as amusing as ever, I turned sharply and looked him square in the Face. Somewhere between the lack of sleep and plutos symposium-filled morning, I found in myself stupidity disguised as bravery. "I might look like a pussy, but at least I have a future outside of jail and burning crosses."
White hot pain snapped me under my jaw as my head arched backward and I lost balance. I hit the plaster floor fast and the endless grey of the sky danced before me. Stan screamed something and ran at Cartman, while Kenny and butters voiced protest, but it sounded far away.
Sometimes, I really hate myself.
That was the last conversation with Cartman, about a week ago. Stan and I split off for lunch in his Dad's old pick up every day since, and the girls at the club showed me how to blend the swollen purple into my jawline.
And so today, I stretch and inhale deeply, to make sure I'm calm before I get called onstage for the first time.
Black vinyl booty shorts and a royal purple snap off, courtesy of the girls taking pity on the quiet faggot. The girls did my makeup. It's hard to tell if I am a girl or boy, between the dramatic black eyeliner and smoky eyes, and the black button down. Porsche and Mercedes insisted I leave my hair down.
Despite their obvious enthusiasm at their Frankenstein monster, The mirror betrays them. Despite the pure androgyny of the red headed person, the eyes look as desperate and scared as I felt. It's leave or rot. I'm going to fly away one day, and this is necessary or I will regret it.
"Now on stage its... Starr! Give it up for Starr, she's new so let's give her a big round of applause. No shyness allowed in Angels."
Of course even the dj didn't know I wasn't female. It doesn't bother me, more money. I recalled images of singles raining on the girls before me and took a step onto the stage.
My eyes adjusted to the dark club and I could make out three silhouettes of customers. I attempted confidence as the music began. A german harsh voice accompanied a steady drum until the guitar began to shred, and I spun. The feeling of flying took over as I quickly moved from the ground to the pole, my muscles burning and my hair flipping into my face.
The music ended before I knew it. I just did what I'd been doing the last few months, zoning out everything around me.
My head swam in the dizziness from a combination of lack of food, a liquid courage glass of Merlot, and the abrupt stop to my spinning. A silhouette-customer moved to the seat in front of the stage and left three singles at my feet during the set. He held a five in his hand, so I walked toward him to retrieve my winnings.
"Thank you," I began, smiling sheepishly. I guess I did okay."
"No, thank you Kahl."
Why.
A wide smile is spread across Cartman's face as he eyes me like I am a plump mouse- and he is the cat, his hazel eyes glowing with amusement.
i felt my future crashing all around as i gingerly removed the five from his grip. I atrempt a smile but end up with a deranged twitchy face.
"Give it up for Starr! Nice work girl," the dj says in tbe same bored tone. "Next up is Cadillac."
I walk off the stage as if I have a metal pole for a spine. My shirt lightly blows, the front opened exposing my bare chest. I count be a flat girl, or a fucking retarded boy walking to his demise at the hands of a sadist.
Porsche is making landing pilot hand signals at me as I pick put my shameful eight dollars into the plainest black clutch I could use. She is mouthing,
"Sit with him" at me. It's customary to sit and thank those who tip you, and it seems he's the only one who enjoyed the culmination of my fuck ups.
He returned to a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. As I walk up as confidently as I can wearing barely anything, I notice he's wearing a black plaid shirt with red details and a dark wash of jeans, his red jacket replaced by light brown leAther jacket. I notice a knife hanging on his belt, and vaguely wonder if he brings that to school too and I'm just oblivious. His hair a short choppy mess, he didn't look up as I pulled the chair across from him out and sat.
He pretended to be interested in Cadillac doing floor work. I frown and begin to snap my shirt closed, bottom to top. We remain like that, me silently snapping and him sitting like a smug predator, until I find the only words I can think to ask.
"What... do you want?" I mumble at him, my words dripping with contempt. The familiar urge of sprinting away slowly swells over my body, my chest tightening and my hands shaking. One of my red curls unceremoniously falls in my face.
The brown haired sixteen year old fixes his eyes on me, his smile widening as he leans across the table. The lights move above us, switching between blues and pinks.
His eyes laugh as he states simply, "two glasses of champagne. After all it looks like Christmas came early. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you Jew?