giving her the finger.
7
Club Rat
D eep in the warehouse district, Pen found a parking place under the loading bay of a nut wholesaler. They hurried along in the unlit street, careful not to get their heels caught in the spaces between the paving blocks that dated from the turn of the century. The road stank of garbage from the produce market on San Pedro. They went in an unmarked door. At the tiny cash booth, a hatchet-faced ticket man eyed them foxily—Josie, heavy eyed with exhaustion in her yellow coat, Pen black lipped and assertive in her purple vinyl and handmade Iggy fan shirt. He wanted to see their IDs, then insisted on the ten bucks cover. Pen pushed in beside Josie, cigarette poised between patent-leather lips. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m with
Puke.
Pen Valadez, I’m on the list, fuckhead.” She smoked her Camel Straight like a con, half hiding it in her hand. She blew smoke in his face.
Ticketman looked down the list. “Have your friend give us a kiss and we’ll let you both in free.”
“Fuck yourself, dickhead.” Pen burned a hole in the Formica with her cigarette.
But Josie leaned in and kissed him. She was a girl with a dead boyfriend, what good were her kisses now? He was welcome to them, poisoned as they were.
He stamped their hands with the face of a boy who’d just eaten the head off an Easter bunny, let them pass through the black curtain, into the dark and the noise of Club Rat. It was just the end of the Weak Nellies set. Fire-limit punkers flung themselves around in the mosh pit—more and more skinheads, they were taking over the scene, even for an art band like Lola Lola. Somebody already had a bloody nose. The old floor groaned beneath the weight of the crowd. Little else had changed. She hadn’t been here since she broke up with Nick Nitro. His band, the Nitrogenics, played the Rat. She looked around, praying that at least that encounter would be spared her.
The black-painted woodwork and tinsel still yearned for arson, and tiny, sweating waitresses in corsets and heels pushed their way through the mass, trays held high over their tall sculptured hair. The drag bartender glanced at Josie’s ID and flicked it back across the battered bar. No scorn like the scorn of an aging queen for a pretty girl with a crap fake DL. Pen bought them tequilas and beer backs, began edging a place for them at the bar, first resting her drink, then an elbow, finally leaning in, turning sideways for Josie. Josie knocked back her tequila and set the glass on the bar, touched her lips to the back of her hand.
It was good to be here tonight. Nothing reminded her of Michael. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like the Rat.
Not even dead,
she thought, drinking her beer. He’d hated crowds, never liked punk. He couldn’t handle the nakedness of the rage—his own was so well camouflaged, so sophisticated and finely tuned, he could never see the similarity between himself and Donnie Draino screaming into a mike.
She shrugged off her coat in the bathhouse humidity. Her slight shoulders gleamed under a thin tank top, she looked both glamorous and implausible in a child’s pleated skirt worn over torn tights and a pair of red rubber cowboy boots. At the edges of her visual field, she could see the shapes of male faces turning toward her. Even now, when she was transparent as wet paper. She was so tired of herself. She felt irritated, restless, wolfish somehow. She remembered the first time she came here, how impressed she’d been, thinking how cool it all was, when it was just sweaty and crowded and deafening. She ordered another tequila.
“Make it two,” Pen said.
They held up their shots and grimly touched glasses. Pen’s heavily rimmed eyes regarded her briefly, then knew enough to look away. Pen Valadez, the very first person she’d met in LA. Josie had just come down with Luanne to see some guy her sister had met at the stock-car races, when she decided she wasn’t going back to
7
Club Rat
D eep in the warehouse district, Pen found a parking place under the loading bay of a nut wholesaler. They hurried along in the unlit street, careful not to get their heels caught in the spaces between the paving blocks that dated from the turn of the century. The road stank of garbage from the produce market on San Pedro. They went in an unmarked door. At the tiny cash booth, a hatchet-faced ticket man eyed them foxily—Josie, heavy eyed with exhaustion in her yellow coat, Pen black lipped and assertive in her purple vinyl and handmade Iggy fan shirt. He wanted to see their IDs, then insisted on the ten bucks cover. Pen pushed in beside Josie, cigarette poised between patent-leather lips. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m with
Puke.
Pen Valadez, I’m on the list, fuckhead.” She smoked her Camel Straight like a con, half hiding it in her hand. She blew smoke in his face.
Ticketman looked down the list. “Have your friend give us a kiss and we’ll let you both in free.”
“Fuck yourself, dickhead.” Pen burned a hole in the Formica with her cigarette.
But Josie leaned in and kissed him. She was a girl with a dead boyfriend, what good were her kisses now? He was welcome to them, poisoned as they were.
He stamped their hands with the face of a boy who’d just eaten the head off an Easter bunny, let them pass through the black curtain, into the dark and the noise of Club Rat. It was just the end of the Weak Nellies set. Fire-limit punkers flung themselves around in the mosh pit—more and more skinheads, they were taking over the scene, even for an art band like Lola Lola. Somebody already had a bloody nose. The old floor groaned beneath the weight of the crowd. Little else had changed. She hadn’t been here since she broke up with Nick Nitro. His band, the Nitrogenics, played the Rat. She looked around, praying that at least that encounter would be spared her.
The black-painted woodwork and tinsel still yearned for arson, and tiny, sweating waitresses in corsets and heels pushed their way through the mass, trays held high over their tall sculptured hair. The drag bartender glanced at Josie’s ID and flicked it back across the battered bar. No scorn like the scorn of an aging queen for a pretty girl with a crap fake DL. Pen bought them tequilas and beer backs, began edging a place for them at the bar, first resting her drink, then an elbow, finally leaning in, turning sideways for Josie. Josie knocked back her tequila and set the glass on the bar, touched her lips to the back of her hand.
It was good to be here tonight. Nothing reminded her of Michael. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like the Rat.
Not even dead,
she thought, drinking her beer. He’d hated crowds, never liked punk. He couldn’t handle the nakedness of the rage—his own was so well camouflaged, so sophisticated and finely tuned, he could never see the similarity between himself and Donnie Draino screaming into a mike.
She shrugged off her coat in the bathhouse humidity. Her slight shoulders gleamed under a thin tank top, she looked both glamorous and implausible in a child’s pleated skirt worn over torn tights and a pair of red rubber cowboy boots. At the edges of her visual field, she could see the shapes of male faces turning toward her. Even now, when she was transparent as wet paper. She was so tired of herself. She felt irritated, restless, wolfish somehow. She remembered the first time she came here, how impressed she’d been, thinking how cool it all was, when it was just sweaty and crowded and deafening. She ordered another tequila.
“Make it two,” Pen said.
They held up their shots and grimly touched glasses. Pen’s heavily rimmed eyes regarded her briefly, then knew enough to look away. Pen Valadez, the very first person she’d met in LA. Josie had just come down with Luanne to see some guy her sister had met at the stock-car races, when she decided she wasn’t going back to
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