(Disclaimer: I don't own LoD, song lyrics, etc., I have just written the story for your enjoyment.)
A/N: I don't know the regulations regarding minors for body modification in California, and certainly not in the 1970's; therefore, I can't be sure anything stated is true in the following chapter.
"I know, it's done, for me,
If you steal my sunshine.
Not something hard to see,
If you steal my sunshine.
Keeping dumb and built to beat,
If you steal my sunshine."
- Steal My Sunshine, Len
Chapter 3: A Walk on the Wild Side
The bells on the door jingled as Bret pushed it open, and Jezebel followed him to the back of the shop, not at all leery about the condition of the store. It presented impeccably, completely spotless inside and smelling heavily of cleaning products and sterilization. Two or three clients sat in medical-style chairs, artists' needles whirring away at some design or another in two of the seats. A girl with red hair and a young guy in a green shirt were getting tattoos, and an older man already practically covered head-to-toe in them sat in another of the chairs, getting his septum pierced. Black Sabbath could be heard playing faintly in the background.
"Jezebel, this is Marco, a good friend of mine. Marco, this's Jezebel, she was thinking of gettin' some stuff done. A tattoo, and maybe some piercings I think?" Bret glanced at her questioningly.
"Nice to meet you, Marco." Jezebel put out her hand and gave his outstretched one a good, firm shake, "I want a tattoo on my wrist, my lip pierced on the left side, and a couple cartilage piercings."
"How old're you, Miss J? We'll need a signature if you're under eighteen," Marco answered with a knowing grin. Jezebel hoped to slyly avoid this question, but it was obviously impossible.
"Damnit... I'll get it..." Jezebel muttered under her breath, once again thinking how easy it would be to get Skip to sign the forms. He probably won't even care, she mused decidedly.
"How about I schedule you tomorrow, and I'll send you home with some consent forms. If your guardian says no, call me and we'll cancel. While you're here, though, any idea what kinda design you might be thinking about? Oh, I'll get you some body mod info, by the way." At this point, Marco was beginning to sound a bit like a used car salesman.
"I was thinking a Japanese kanji for 'peace'. Something small." f Marco sounded like a used car salesman, then apparently, Jezebel was an interested car-buyer.
"Okay, I'll take care of you myself when you come back for your appointment. See you tomorrow at noon, that's the only time I can schedule you this week. That is, if you get the go-ahead."
He reappeared from another room into which he'd disappeared to locate consent forms, an information packet, and his appointment book. He handed over a business card. "Also, here's my business card. Tell your friends."
Jezebel nodded at Marco, then led Bret out of the shop. "Wanna come to Zephyr with me? I need to pick some stuff up, get these signed, and talk to someone. Looks like you could use some new wheels, too. Then maybe we can do something fun?" She asked, forms clutched in-hand.
"How far is it? Bus comes back at 3:30 - last time it comes through today, so..." Bret seemed uncertain, though she sensed it stemmed from something deeper than just not wanting to miss a bus. He glanced down at the old, clay wheels on his board, agreeing.
"We're having a party tonight and I was wondering if you wanna come... you can crash at the house, and I'm sure one of the guys can drive you home when you're ready to head that way," Jezebel enthusiastically suggested.
"Sure, that'd work I guess. Haven't got anything to do tomorrow, so I'll go." Both tucked their skateboards under an arm, and he fell into step with her.
As soon as they arrived at Zephyr, Tony immediately trailed over, circling Bret like some sort of deranged, puffed-up bird-creature in a horror story. There was already a small, growing group of kids at the storefront as usual, watching each other attempt increasingly dumb feats of bravery.
Bret gave Tony the scariest glare Jezebel had ever seen out of anyone (and Tony had a reputation for some primal-looking stares, himself), and to her surprise Tony slunk away without even a single sarcastic remark, looking very much like a cat who got caught swiping through the fishbowl. She shook her head, looking between the two of them as they acted like territorial animals.
"SKIPPER! SIGN THESE FOR ME!" She shouted loudly through the entire shop. Immediately, she heard a number of items crash to the floor, but thought nothing of it; until she realized it was poor Nathan tripping over buckets and knocking over boards in the stockroom in surprise. Sure enough, she found him sprawled out across the threshold to the locker room where the competition teams stored their stuff. Skip exited through said door, gingerly stepping over him, not offering to help. Jezebel scowled at her father as he crossed, then offered a hand to her friend. She shoved the consent forms off on Skip.
"What're theeese, Jez?" Skip took the forms from her hands without removing his sunglasses, probably hiding some wickedly-bloodshot eyes.
"They're for two piercings and a tattoo. You don't mind, right?" She asked innocently, trying out her puppy-dog eyes with hands clasped in front of her, pretending to be sweet and innocent.
"'Li'l Bit, I don't care if ya put ink in yer skin or holes in yer body, but if yer thinkin' of pulling any stupid stunts or harassin' the cops again, think twice. I don't need more trouble after last time..." Skip trailed as he walked toward the front counter to grab a pen. Nathan swept the hall, whistling as he made his way toward the shopfront. Jezebel could hear a record playing, coming from Jeff's office beyond him; probably coming up with some fancy new surfboard design.
Jezebel bounced up and down a bit, clapping her hands and wrapping her arms excitedly around Bret. He awkwardly patted her back, a crooked smile on his face as he gauged reactions on the few people in the room. No one looked especially happy he was there; he was glad he wasn't wearing his hair in its usual foot-tall Mohawk, as it seemed that might set him even further apart. He felt like an alien in his leather jacket, with makeup around his eyes. She let go and followed Skip to the counter.
"I won't do anything you wouldn't," she answered with a grin, a teasing tone in her voice.
"Yah, well, that's what I'm afraid of there, Bit…" Skip mumbled nearly inaudibly.
"So... we havin' a party tonight, or what?" Jezebel asked, watching him deeply concentrate on crookedly signing the consent forms. She sighed as he ignored her, completely absorbed in the task at-hand.
He unceremoniously shoved the signed papers at her, his squiggly signature gracing the appropriate line at a completely wrong angle.
"Uhm, yah, 'bout that... go get us some beer. We ain't got any, but if ya get some, we can have a party to remember... or forget." Skip hadn't been purchasing alcohol himself for a while, content to drink through the stash they already had on-hand or rely on others to provide it to him. Jezebel guessed it had something to do with his reputation for getting a teensy-weensy bit too drunk, just a bit too often, and doing things he regretted.
"I'm not even fifteen for another month... where the hell you expect me to get beer?" She shot back.
"Take Jayboy with you, he can get beer outta the store down the street, can'tcha Jayboy? Or your friend here, he certainly looks old enough to buy beer... y'ar, aren't ya?" Skip glanced at Bret hopefully.
"No, sir," Bret started, a slight, patchy red blush crossing his freckled features. "I'm just tall…"
"SIR?" Skip nearly broke into a series of loud guffaws, doubling over. He righted himself and clapped Bret on the shoulder. "Ah, that's rich. Ya dunno how long it's been since someone's called me 'sir'. 'Skip' should do fine, you don't hafta act like a goodie-goodie for us. We got Stacy fer that... fuck, even my own daughter calls me 'Skip'. She hasn't called me dad in, like, her entire life. Now get outta here the lot of ya."
Skip grabbed the back of Jayboy's shirt-collar and stopped him from retreating into the back room to avoid his newly-assigned chore, which he had been slipping past Skip to do, nearly pushing him into Jezebel.
Whilst the threes' company exited the storefront and walked down the sidewalk, she tossed quick introductions between the boys accompanying her. "Bret, that's Jay – my best friend since we were practically toddlers. Jay, that's Bret, I met him at the Pistols concert with Peggy last month."
Jezebel whispered to Jay as they stepped out of Bret's earshot, "Jay, I don't want to sound like Skip or anything, but can you get us some vodka? Oooh, mescaline would be good, too... last week, man... I hate Tony's stupid cousins. Pleeease?"
She was amazed as her best friend actually walked alongside her without his usual antics, and on foot no less. Bret trailed nonchalantly a few paces behind them, hands crammed awkwardly into his pockets.
"C'mon Jez, y'know I don't do that hard shit anymore 'n neither should you... but I'll see what I can do. For you only, though. Ya know I don't like you doing that," Jay folded to her request as Jezebel hung off his arm, employing her best puppy-dog pleading face.
"Ah thanks, a thousand times – thank you, Jay. It's just... I dunno," she practically cheered, hugging Jay around the middle and dropping off the last part of her sentence. "Piggyback ride?"
"What are you, ten?" Jay jested, pausing to anticipate his friend's motives as Jezebel stepped away from him a bit; she sprung onto his back a second later.
"No, six. Where we goin' anyway, Jayboy?" She asked pointlessly; there was only one place around here that essentially allowed Jay to get away with anything he wanted, as the owner was closely connected to one of his mother's friends.
"Shit, Skip didn't gimme any money…" Jezebel remembered abruptly.
Jay said what she was thinking: "Um, probably on purpose?"
They stopped in front of a small party store, and Jay dropped her onto her feet. "I better go in alone, Jack'll let me buy whatever if I'm alone... and if he's in a good mood. Sorry dude, I don't think he'd give me anything free with you hangin' around. Seein' how yer not 'local'."
He left her and Bret standing outside; they leaned against the bricks and Jezebel watched Jay work his magic through the glass. She turned around and looked at Bret, muttering, "gotta love hometown loyalty..."
"So... what's really up with you and Jay? You seem... close." His eyes held an inquisitive, but not prying, look.
"We're just friends, he's practically my brother. JB's too busy chasing six chicks at once to have an honest-to-God girlfriend. Like I said, we've known each other since we were kids... Skip left me at his mom's place a lot when we were younger. His mom is basically my mom, too."
"That's cool. So, what'd you ask him?" Bret was starting to get a little nervous.
So she and Jay weren't together, and he hadn't seen her with anyone or heard anything about an existing relationship, which made him hopeful. He was nearly two years older than her, but the difference didn't seem that large to him.
Jezebel adjusted her ripped shirt, pulling it down after it had ridden up during her piggy-back. As before, there were a million holes in it, appearing to have been run through a clothes washer a bit too roughly a few too-many times. She was very skinny, Bret decided; she was looking the other direction at Jay, who was now strolling easily out of the store with a giant paper bag perched precariously in his arms. Bret admired the way the setting sun seemed to glitter through Jezebel's hair. She tucked a beautiful, wild blonde lock behind her ear at that moment. He noticed it was the same color and texture as her father's, thick and frizzy and big, with random curls throughout that reminded him of tiny springs. He noticed an old scar underneath her ear; another fresher-looking one on her jaw from the concert; her single-sided ear piercing; the birthmark on her neck. He noticed many things about her. But the thing he continually returned to was her thinness. She was almost painfully thin, and he wagered if you looked hard enough you could see her bones pushing through her skin.
The slightly-buzzed girl wandered over to the tall guy who stood almost awkwardly in the corner of Zephyr, a red plastic cup clutched in his hand. He was nowhere near buzzed; he wasn't really a drinker. Contrarily, when the girl beside him drank, she drank to forget. She drank to forget the alcoholism that ran in her family. To forget the drug-addict mother who never bothered to be in her life in any capacity. To forget how thin she was, and how she longed to have normal eating habits for once. He'd seen her midsection and knew she had a pronounced ribcage. Jezebel's ice-cold fingers trailed up and down Bret's arm, making the little hairs stand on-end. She moved away to lean against the wall next to him, mimicking his stance; one leg resting against the wall, the arm holding her cup crossed atop her opposite arm, outstretched toward the ground.
"Hey Bret, how's it?" Her eyes sparkled.
Across the room, a gangly strawberry-blonde with relatively long, straight hair watched Jezebel as she approached the boy with the Mohawk, ghosting her fingers over his arm. He watched as Bret shivered and said something to her, how she moved to the side to copy his position. He glared across the room and Jezebel was completely oblivious to the attention trained in their direction. The boy glimpsed at her fingernails, stubby and painted black, as they scraped slowly along the other guy's arm again.
"Not bad, I guess. Who's that red-haired guy there? He's been staring at us pretty intently for a while," Bret asked, guiding her gaze across the room with an ever-so-slight tilt of his chin. Jezebel immediately spotted Bret's concern. There was Red Dog, scowling in their direction, who quickly pretended to be distracted and focused his stare elsewhere.
"Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true;
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.
Lots of people talk, and few of them know -
Soul of a woman was created below, yeah…"
How appropriate. A song about how women were evil had just begun. Damn Led Zeppelin, and damn Skip's choice in music. Jezebel visibly cringed before turning her attention back to Bret. "Oh don't worry, that's just Red Dog; I've known him forever. He's probably brooding about something, that guy's always brooding about something," Jezebel answered, turning back to her companion. "His name's really Jim."
In her head, Jezebel shuffled through every reason she could possibly muster as to why Red Dog seemed to be glaring at Bret; her mind didn't land on a single reason why. Hopefully it was some sort of 'locals only' mentality, or even better, maybe he was just constipated.
"It's really not a problem, don't worry about it. I have no idea why he's got a stick up his ass. Let's just have some fun, I don't know when I'm gonna see you again. Dance with me?" She asked, plopping her red plastic cup on the table next to them and hitching up her baggy jeans, struggling to be held up by a thick, white belt on the tightest setting.
They were admittedly an old pair of Jay's pants she'd changed into because of the cooling night air, and they were pretty much disintegrating, as they'd probably belonged to him more than three years ago.
"You'll probably be seeing a lot more of me now. I'm moving to the apartments near Pacific Ocean – decided a coupla days ago, I sign the lease next week. I didn't want to tell you I really just came down today to see you again." He knew this would make her happy, and let her tug him into the center of the room which served as a makeshift dance floor.
She danced very close to him that night, Red Dog giving up the glowering act sometime throughout, and she gave no more thought to the subject. She wasn't going to let him spoil the fun just because he had some sort of stupid grudge against non-Dogtowners.
"Dudes – smoke break outside, yo!" Someone from the skate team yelled, shooting through the shop and out the back door at light-speed on a pair of blindingly-white roller-skates with red stripes down the heels.
"You wanna go out?" She asked, and Bret agreed. She took his hand and led the way, ignoring Red Dog as they passed, and luckily he didn't follow them.
In the alley, next to a giant stone tiki head, two growing circles formed, passing around two small pipes of weed in opposite directions. Jezebel leaned against a low brick wall with her knees curled up into her chest and sipped her vodka-laced Coca-Cola contentedly as she was passed a pipe. Bret took it next and took his own long drag, then passed it along to the next person, and so on and so forth.
"So, how d'you rate this party on a sliding scale – one being an absolute dud, and ten being the best rager you've ever attended?" She asked him curiously, genuinely wondering how it might compare to other soirees he'd experienced in his travels with various bands across the continental US.
"It's definitely not hateful, though I have to admit I've seen quite a few go downhill faster than you can say 'six sick skunks and one silver-tongued serpent sipping sealing wax'," Bret replied cryptically, and Jezebel's half-baked brain tried to process exactly what he was saying with a nervous chuckle.
"You… what?" Was all she could muster before she devolved into an uncharacteristic fit of giggles, trying to clear the fuzzy cobwebs from her brain.
"Let's just go with a solid eight out of ten," he finally responded, trying his best not to insult her father's place of business whilst also trying to not make a big deal about feeling like he stuck out like a sore thumb.
Jez tossed him a definitive nod, affirming that he'd made the right choice in the current company.
"C'mon, let me introduce you to some more of these cool cats around here so's you can feel a little more in-the-loop," she told him, standing to brush the pebbles and dirt of the alley off her butt and plucking his sleeve in indication that he should follow her.
The next morning, Jezebel woke safely in her own room. She could hear Bret snoring softly on the living room sofa through her open door, which had a dark wooden bead door hanger across it. Punk band posters lined the walls; a canopy bed with black dressings rested against one wall, directly opposite a moderately-sized window which was low to the ground. A tall chest of drawers stood at the foot of the bed next to the door, and a small, mis-matched redwood bedside table with one drawer and one shelf stood on the remaining side of the bed. The room was small and cluttered with various items, some balanced precariously on top of others. Piles of clothes she could neither identify as clean nor dirty littered the corner near the window, shoved up against the one of the sliding, mirrored closet doors that wasn't pushed open. In short, her room was messy – just the way she liked it. Everything had its place, which meant it was all over the place but in an organized way – at least, to her brain, it was. Her memory rushed back, and she could safely conclude she had stumbled home of her own accord, dressed herself in an oversized t-shirt of Skip's and terry cloth shorts, and climbed into bed.
She crossed the hall to the little bathroom, where she surveyed herself in the mirror. They'd arrived home around 4 AM, and Jezebel had been able to do little else besides change and fall into bed, made apparent by her messy, ratted hair and partially rubbed-off eye makeup. She swiped under her eyes with a wash rag, cleaning up the smudged makeup a little, ignoring her messy hair and heading to the kitchen where she began cooking thick, syrupy bacon and luscious cinnamon rolls.
Breakfast of champions, she thought.
Soon, the aromas of her two favorite breakfast foods drifted through the house. Her eating habits were odd – some weeks, she ate nothing; others, she ate so much she feared she'd gain twenty pounds at once and explode in a violent fury. Today was going to be one of those binge days, she could tell. Luckily, she was good at hiding this vicious cycle from those around her. This habit stood out in stark contrast to most of her childhood experiences; she'd had lots of practice going hungry, back when Skip indulged more than he did now, (if that was possible) spending his extra cash on booze and cigarettes and other similar accouterments. She'd learned in those times to tighten her belt and move on, and maybe find some choice drugs to take her mind off the hunger. Then, Skip would go cold-turkey for a stint, and they'd be back to full-fridge and pantry meals before he devolved into his old ways once again. After a time, this evolved into a vicious cycle of habits, a repetitive chain of over-eating, then not eating and turning to drugs to keep her brain occupied, then back again. Unbeknownst to her, it was beginning to wreak havoc on her adolescent body.
She stuck her head back out the kitchen doorway and, neglecting the fact Bret had been peacefully asleep in the next room, bellowed down the hall: "Breakfast, wake up old man!"