Vagablonde Read online

  VAGABLONDE

  A NOVEL

  ANNA DORAN

  AN UNNAMED PRESS BOOK

  Copyright © 2020 Anna Dorn

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to [email protected]. Published in North America by the Unnamed Press.

  www.unnamedpress.com

  Unnamed Press, and the colophon, are registered trademarks of Unnamed Media LLC.

  ISBN: 978-1951213008

  eISBN: 978-1951213015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019956583

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Designed and Typeset by Jaya Nicely

  Manufactured in the United States of America by Versa Press, Inc.

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  First Edition

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  They see me as… You know, you don’t see me as I see myself.

  —Little Edie Beale

  I always misspell genius SMH! The irony!

  —Kanye West

  VAGABLONDE

  ONE

  I’m still clinging to the memory of those twinks on Sunset telling me I was beautiful as I stare at my reflection in the mirrors above the pharmacy section of Walgreens. Turning so my ass faces the mirror, I fixate on the bulging line of fat that curls out around my underwear. I’m wearing those Kappa track pants that were popular when I was a kid—you know, the design with the naked bodies back-to-back. But they aren’t flattering, and I don’t play soccer anymore. I’m a thirty-year-old attorney. Wearing track pants at 3:00 P.M. on a Tuesday.

  Two nights ago I was smoking a cigarette outside a neighborhood dive bar. There was a Dodgers game, so traffic was flowing. Two pretty boys in matching Mariah Carey tank tops approached begging for cigs, and I offered up two Parliaments. As one was lighting up, the other called me beautiful. The memory comforts me, although I know I shouldn’t attach too much weight to it. I bend the truth constantly when I want something. I once told a cheesy lesbian in a fedora that I adored her Pink Floyd T-shirt—a bold and reckless lie, but at least I got the Marlboro.

  The Walgreens fluorescents burn my eyes. I cover my face as though I’m being hounded by paparazzi, a game I like to play when I’m alone, which is most of the time. The line is long as hell. Pharmacists are the slowest people on earth. I pull my phone out of my purse. A text from Ellie, my perfect girlfriend. I’m a Virgo, so I don’t take perfection lightly.

  Guess who just announced a secret show tomorrow night, my love?

  My heart does a little flutter. Not much excites me these days, but a charismatic woman onstage still does it for me. Ellie does PR for musicians, so she’s constantly getting us into shows no one else knows about.

  I tap my foot on the linoleum, scratch my head, contort my expression into something cartoonish, pretending I’m in a sitcom. Another game I like to play when I’m alone.

  The typing bubbles appear. She’s not going to wait for me to guess. That’s okay. I’m coming up blank.

  Dead Stars.

  I gasp. I guess audibly, because the woman in front of me turns around and shoots me a look. I raise my eyebrows at her with an expression that says, Nothing to see here, honey. Once she turns back around, I return to my private excitement, try not to make another noise that draws attention.

  Dead Stars is my absolute favorite band of the past year, but I’ve yet to see them live. It’s the project of Wyatt Walcott. She was on this reality TV show about her family, What’s Up with the Walcotts, which I pretended to watch ironically but really I cried during at least four episodes. After it ended, Wyatt left Calabasas for Echo Park—my neighborhood—and started a synth-pop band with her friend Agnes, this MIT dropout and total babe. I pray I run into them, like, every day.

  My phone lights up with another text from Ellie, snatching me from my hyperlooped thoughts.

  At Mirror Box!!

  Mirror Box is a strip club, one of those LA establishments (rumor has it Tarantino wrote Pulp Fiction there). The only time Ellie and I got into a fight was when I was too tired to see her favorite dancer (Cinnamon? Saffron?). I haven’t been able to break it to Ellie, but I don’t care for strip clubs. I go for her, but honestly, I hate drinking in a place where everyone’s gaze is directed at something other than moi. Also, feminism, whatever. But I’ll go for Wyatt.

  I look up from my phone and my gaze meets the mirrors again. Jesus, isn’t there anywhere else to look? If I was that type of person, I’d write a letter to Walgreens explaining that if they want to sell things to discerning Virgos such as myself, they must make a better effort to make the lighting conditions more flattering.

  I’m here to pick up my Celexa. I’ve been thinking of going off my SSRIs lately, but this lighting is making me feel crazy as hell, like I couldn’t fathom facing the harsh world without chemical assistance. I watch the pharmacist, who is slightly too pretty to be a pharmacist, move as though she is walking through jelly. The line hasn’t budged. Fuck it. My pills don’t run out for a few days anyway. I just like to be prepared.

  I ditch the line and slide my B-complex vitamins and May-belline Great Lash mascara into my purse while avoiding eye contact with the too-pretty pharmacist. My energy lightens as I leave the pharmacy area, and I smile at the security guard on my way out, unconcerned about the two “stolen” items in my purse. There are lots of things I’m guilty about, but stealing roughly fifteen dollars’ worth of necessary products from an objectively evil corporation is not one of them. It’s more political activism than anything.

  In the parking lot, I think I’ll finally ask Dr. Kim about getting off my SSRIs.

  Why? Because I’m thriving.

  I hop in my Saab and rev the ignition, then pull onto Sunset, heading toward Dr. Kim’s office on the West Side. The sun is blazing that frightening Los Angeles yellow, the type that makes palm fronds resemble shiny strips of plastic about to burst into flames. As I drive, I listen to a guided meditation from my Insight Timer app and wonder whether Dr. Kim has ever been to Echo Park. He probably thinks it’s still gang territory.

  My mind wanders when I meditate. I attended meditation class once after it was recommended to me by a number of medical professionals. I told my teacher that I sometimes love my mind’s crazy thoughts, and she told me I was inviting delusions. I never went back after that. I don’t need a teacher to meditate. Sit there, breathe. It’s not rocket science.

  I’ve been thinking about psychotropic medication a lot lately. I’ve had a ten-year reliance on SSRIs—first Lexapro, now Celexa. A lot of people say, “If you were a diabetic, you wouldn’t hesitate to take your insulin,” but I don’t care for this metaphor. Doctors seem to understand diabetes much better than they understand the human brain. I worry the pills are doing nothing at best, poisoning me at worst. What if I have some amazing personality or hidden creative genius that’s being suppressed? And then there’s the fact that the stuff is relatively new, meaning they don’t know much about long-term effects. I’m not trying to g
row an extra limb anytime soon.

  I refocus my attention on the audio: Visualize your energy shining brightly like the sun.

  I roll my eyes and shut off the meditation. This one sucks. I have zero tolerance for cheese. I just need someone with a soft, monotone voice to say, over and over again, Everything is just perfect.

  Tupac blasts from KDAY, glaring in its contrast: All eyez on me.

  Per usual, Dr. Kim greets me with a handshake. He’s very formal— stoic, bordering on robotic. I love this about him.

  “Hello, Prudence,” he says, and I jump a little. No one calls me Prudence, not even my parents. It’s Prue, unless it’s an official document. My name is hilarious because I’m kind of a slut, at least historically.

  Dr. Kim takes me into his office and I sit across from him on a stiff gray couch. I briefly take in the view of tall palm trees reflected in shiny windows. I feel grateful I left the East Coast. Whoever says they value brick buildings can go jump off one in my opinion.

  “How is it going?” he asks.

  “Good,” I say. “Great, actually.” I gather my freshly dyed platinum-blond hair into a bun on top of my head. It feels straw-like, but that’s to be expected after a new dye job. “My caseload is picking up, which means more money.”

  For work, I write court-appointed criminal appeals for the State of California from the comfort of my bedroom. I don’t make much, but it’s enough until my inheritance.

  “I’ve been writing a lot,” I say.

  “Great,” says Dr. Kim. “Short stories or what?”

  “Oh god, no.” I giggle. “I was born in the eighties. I write raps.”

  Dr. Kim cocks his head to the ceiling. I don’t blame him for being confused, but really rap and the law aren’t as different as you’d think. They’re both adversarial, rooted in social unrest. I’m right, you’re wrong, here’s why. (The law uses more roman numerals.) I wasn’t the only rapper in law school, but I was definitely the best. There was this corny bitch who wore hoop earrings that said MEAGHAN in the center and rapped in a Queens accent despite being from Connecticut. When Sotomayor came to speak to our class, Meaghan cornered her with her awkward bars, necessitating Secret Service intervention. We’re on different levels. I was written up on Stereogum once.

  “I don’t expect much time to pass before I start popping—” I pause, realizing I’m talking to a fifty-something-year-old man and not one of my friends. “—err, before my music career takes off.” Ellie got me in the studio to feature on her friend Micah’s upcoming album. He’s about to blow up, and I only imagine I will with him.

  “That sounds great,” he says. “And your love life?”

  I stifle a giggle. Dr. Kim always asks me about my love life and it always makes me want to laugh.

  “My relationship is great,” I say.

  “That’s wonderful,” says Dr. Kim. He straightens his tie.

  “I know,” I say. I let my hair out of the bun and it falls onto my shoulders, dancing in waves illuminated by light from the windows. I imagine I look sexy as hell and wonder whether Dr. Kim ever thinks about fucking me. I can’t exactly pinpoint his sexuality, but sexuality isn’t real anyway.

  “I like the new ‘do, by the way,” he says.

  Again, I stifle a laugh, then give my head a little shake. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s for the music.” My rap name has always been Vagablonde, but Ellie recently sat me down and broke the news to me that I’m really a dirty blonde. If I want to keep the name, she told me, I should have the hair to back it up.

  “It’s very… striking,” Dr. Kim says. Definite homo. “How are things with your therapist…” He pauses, looks down at the legal pad on his lap. “Ms…. Lumpkin?”

  “Oh, I hardly go to her anymore,” I say.

  Dr. Kim just handles my meds. Barbara Lumpkin (she has the personality to match the name) is seven dollars a session on my insurance, and I go to her for cognitive behavioral therapy on an as-needed basis. We don’t really “connect”—I get the strong sense that she hates me, which in turn makes me think, Who can blame her? and I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure that’s not how your therapist should make you feel. But seven dollars a session! And besides, I’m thriving. “But she’s fine.” I don’t want to alarm Dr. Kim.

  He nods, looks up from his legal pad. “Is everything good medication-wise?”

  “Well, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” I pause, looking down at my dusty Converse sneakers. Then I look up, right in Dr. Kim’s eyes. “I’m thinking of going off my Celexa.”

  “Oh?” His face is calm. He probably doesn’t give a fuck whether I’m on my medication. It’s just work to him. It’s like when someone asks me for legal advice. My reaction is always: Cool, tell me less. Also, people are always trying to talk to me about a contract, and frankly, I’ve never read one.

  “Why’s that?” Dr. Kim asks.

  “Because I’m doing great!” Then I take a breath to steady myself. I probably shouldn’t appear manic while asking my doctor to go off my meds. “I’ve been on SSRIs since college,” I say with my steady lawyer voice. “I’m thirty now, so that’s about ten years. It scares me, the idea of being on it for life. Now seems like a good time as any to try living without it.”

  Dr. Kim says nothing, then looks down at the legal pad again. “So you’re on forty milligrams now?”

  I nod.

  “Why don’t we first try going down a bit—say, twenty milligrams—and see how that makes you feel?”

  For a second, I’m defeated. I wanted to be off—to have the confidence that I can handle the world without potent and mostly unstudied chemicals. Almost all my friends are on SSRIs, so I’m not exactly ashamed, but I would feel a lot better if I was off them. I’d feel powerful and tough and superior, three of my favorite feelings. But going cold turkey might be extreme. Dr. Kim is highly credentialed and very rational. I decide to trust him. “That sounds reasonable,” I finally say. Then I think about the pharmacy section of Walgreens and feel ill.

  “Great,” he says, “I’ll write it out now.” He begins scribbling in his lap. “Alternatively, you can just break your current dosage in half.”

  I nod, excited by the potential theatrics of this situation. “Let’s follow up in a few weeks to see if you notice any changes.”

  Dr. Kim hands me the script and I hand him a check and I’m out of there. He’s very efficient, and that’s why I pay him the big bucks.

  The next morning I go on a hike with Jake Perez, my best friend from UC Berkeley (where I went for college and law school, which makes me something they call a “Double Bear”). He picks me up in his vintage black BMW, which is by far the sexiest thing about Jake Perez. He inherited it when his dad passed away in college. This was a few weeks after we became friends. I was drawn to how callous Jake was about the whole thing. He referred to his dead dad as a “charmless bigot,” but he felt blessed to inherit his sexy car and enough money to start his own business. I’m not entirely sure what Jake does. Something to do with computers. The nice thing is that we both can make our own schedules, and he gets me out of my apartment during the day.

  Soon we’re ascending the dusty trails of Griffith Park, talking about SSRIs while weaving around packs of tourists.

  “I think it’s a terrible idea,” he says when I tell him my news about weaning off.

  “My psychiatrist, a medical doctor”—I pause for dramatic effect—”disagrees.” Our friendship mostly revolves around theatrical pauses.

  “Please,” says Jake Perez. “Never trust a psychiatrist. You know the whole field was invented by a cokehead.”

  “Well, if not Freud, then who should I trust?” I ask.

  “Me!” he yells. A hawk swoops overhead.

  “But I’m thriving,” I say.

  “Are you?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I have a great girlfriend. My career is about to pop off.”

  “Defending criminals?” Jake asks as we turn the c
orner. He has difficulty grasping my job, that I’m a selfless crusader against injustice. Jake isn’t one for nuance.

  “My music career.” I frown.

  “Oh,” says Jake. “You’re still rapping?” He also has trouble comprehending my compulsion to create. He’s left-brained. “Yes, bitch,” I say.

  “Typical Leo rising,” Jake says. Our tendency to want to make sense of a random world by trying to put people into neat astrological boxes is among our primary bonds. We’re also obsessed with sociopaths and pretty movies where nothing happens. “Our generation is plagued by prolonged adolescence.” He pauses. “That’s not a value judgment. Just a fact.”

  Jake loves to qualify obvious value judgments as not value judgments. I know what he’s getting at, that you’re supposed to have your “rapper phase” at seventeen.

  “Speaking of prolonged adolescence,” I say, brushing off his barely couched denunciation, “wanna come to a show tonight?”

  “What show?” Jake asks. “Hey, can you slow down?”

  I look back and he’s hunched over, leaning on his knees, heaving. Jake has trouble keeping up with me, on the trails and in most other ways. I start tapping my foot on the dust as I wait for him to catch up. “Dead Stars,” I say.

  “Never heard of them,” Jake says in between heavy breaths, and now it’s my turn to heave.

  “It’s Wyatt Walcott!” I practically shout.

  “Who?” he says. And now I know he’s just trying to piss me off, which Jake Perez is very good at doing. In fact, I’d say he’s an expert at it. Maybe that’s why we’re friends. He makes me feel something. Even if it’s mostly rage, it’s better than the drudgery of daily existence.

  I slap him on the arm and he yelps. I like that Jake is so much bigger than me (most people are) that it’s fine if I hit him. When life gives you a frail frame, weaponize it. That’s what I always say.

  “Oh,” he says. “That reality TV girl. That teenager you worship.”

  “She isn’t a teenager,” I say. “She’s twenty-four. And Dead Stars is her newish band. You’d like it.”