claws into my thigh with alarm. “Ouch!” I cry, quite loudly, and everyone turns in my direction. I sink a little lower into the booth. Psychotic Car Thief and Mad Pussycat Apprehended at the Owl Club. “It was my boyfriend’s,” I whisper. “I just borrowed it, but he doesn’t know.”
“Aha. And where’s your boyfriend now?”
“Ex-boyfriend. Sorry. I can’t seem to get that right. He’s in New York, having sex with a teenager.”
“Charming.” He leans back, looks at the ceiling, and I can tell he’s wondering what he’s gotten himself into.
“You don’t think it’ll start a fire, do you? I mean, of course it was on fire—the explosion and all—but do you think it’ll catch?” What an idiot. Why can’t I speak?
One of the old guys at the bar laughs violently at something, and this time Medea makes a break for the door. I scramble after her, but Clay’s quicker by half; he scoops her up into his arms and has her purring in his lap before I’ve even managed to lay a hand on her. Jonathan never did get along with Medea. He claimed he was allergic, that she gave him a headache and an itchy tongue, but I always suspected it was more of a jealous grudge than a physical reaction.
Now that I’m standing, I feel a warmth spreading into my underwear again, and I realize that in my haste to get a little vodka down my throat I completely forgot about changing my tampon. I excuse myself to the ladies’ room, which turns out to be a disgustingly neglected converted broom closet. There’s a sink stained brown with rust, the floor is covered with miscellaneous paper products, and the single-stall door has been delightfully decorated with a vast array of rants, insults and warnings, the most prominent of which reads, Die Puta Bitches.
I study myself for a moment in the small, cracked mirror. My hair, even on a good day, is immune to threats with a comb. Each curl finds its way into its own contorted expression of chaos; trying to interfere leads only to excessive frizz. Today the curls have twisted to ambitious dimensions, resulting in a Medusa-on-crack look. I’m wearing this little orange sundress—the most comfortable thing I own for long drives (now, I remind myself, the only thing I own). It’s not exactly the height of chic, especially since it’s all wrinkled, the armpits are wet and the bodice is smeared here and there with the sooty remains of Jonathan’s bus. I think of Mr. Indecently Attractive out there, nursing his beer and petting my cat; perhaps it’s just as well that I’m so horrifically unpresentable today—there’s less chance of me wandering into something I really shouldn’t.
Tampon, Claudia. Focus. Oh, but goddammit, my stash of OB is now being cremated on the shoulder of Highway 17. There is a machine, thank God, but I haven’t got any change. I could go back out there and get the bartender to give me quarters. But then Clay will see me and it’ll be obvious or at the very least odd (think about it, Claudia—wouldn’t incinerating a stolen vehicle qualify as plenty odd already?). I know the chances that I’ll create a favorable impression at this point are slim (not to mention unnecessary. Remember? On the rebound, delirious with heat, on the rag, homeless, with all possessions currently blowing amid Tuesday traffic in form of ash. Do not, I repeat, do not indulge in a messy entanglement with Gorgeous Motorcycle Boy). But still, I don’t want to make things worse with one more faux pas.
There’s a gentle sniffling coming from inside the bathroom stall. I freeze. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t alone in here. A quick check under the door reveals a pair of pink flip-flops. A couple seconds pass, and then the toilet flushes and out comes Beach Barbie.
She’s wearing a tiny tank over a bikini top and miniature turquoise shorts, cut high enough to reveal her mile-long legs. Her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is pink from too much blowing, but neither this nor the seedy setting is enough to detract from her overwhelming California glow.
I try not to gawk as she squeezes past me to the sink, washes her hands and then her face, pats both dry with a paper towel.
“Hi,” I say.
She looks at me in the mirror and smiles, revealing the expected set of gleaming white teeth, then she bursts into sobs.
“Oh, no,” I say. “What is it?”
“I—” She can barely get the words out. “I hate—”
“Yes? You hate…?”
“Guys,” she finally spits out.
By now, there’s snot dripping from one of her pretty little nostrils, so I duck into the stall she just left and get her a wad of toilet paper. “There you go,” I say, patting her shoulder gently. “It’s all going to be okay.”
She blows her nose loudly several times, then composes herself quite rapidly, considering the extremity of the breakdown. “Oh, my God,” she says, checking her reflection for mascara damage. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. If you have a quarter or a tampon, I’m never telling anyone. Deal?”
She’s got a pink beach bag slung over her shoulder, and now she paws through it, pulling out a half-eaten Snickers bar, a bottle of aspirin, three lipsticks and a cell phone before finally producing the coveted Tampax. She hands it to me. Its paper wrapper is smooth and delicate from so much toting around.
“Oh, God, thank you,” I sigh. “You’re an angel of mercy.”
She hiccups daintily and smoothes her already perfect hair with one hand. “Our little secret, right?”
“Lips are sealed,” I say, disappearing into the stall.
When I emerge, my tragic little Beach Barbie is gone. As is usually the case, the blood damage was much less extensive than I’d feared—hardly more than a spot—so I’m feeling refreshed and eager to return to my drink. Clay is still stroking Medea. He appears to be engrossed in a conversation with her, as well. Her puffiness has completely disappeared and she is stretched out happily in his lap, soaking up the affection. She’s always had excellent taste.
“…terrible motorcycle ride,” he’s telling her, as I sit down. “But you’re okay. Bet you always land on your feet.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He looks up. “For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know…calming her down. Bringing us here. Saving us from a fiery death.”
“I hardly saved you.” He wraps a hand around his beer and rotates it slowly before taking a swig. “You two don’t look like the kind of girls who need saving.”
“Anyway,” I say, eager to change the subject, “what’s your story? What do you do?”
“For a living?”
“Okay, sure. What do you do for a living?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got a record store.”
“Here in town?” I ask.
He nods.
“That’s cool. So you’re into music. You play anything?”
“Not really. I DJ on the side, but it’s slow going. The gigs I make money at are mostly weddings, which generally suck.”
“Oh, man,”
