Something about her. And it isn't her dyed red-orange hair, or her striking russet colored fuckme eyes. I dreamt of her the night I drove her home. In the visions I had, she wasn't crazy, but jaded, and pretty down to Earth despite it. I… kinda love her.
I know. It was only a dream. Never have I felt more motivated to help someone in my many, many years of abusing junk, ice, coke, benzos, and whatever else I got my hands on. Fuck, this is the first time I've ever honestly cared for someone who isn't myself.
She's not crazy. She might be bipolar and sees things. She might not be. I've heard of the junkies in Philadelphia dying on the streets and their bodies never being found. Hearsay from a prostitute on crack who came to Queens from there, just two weeks ago, confirmed what she saw made Amy not the only person.
(Yes, I ordered a hooker after I dropped her off.)
This isn't a movie. She has been kicked out of Palace, which is a stupid band name anyways, shunned by her friends, and is living in her brother's mansion. A loner who wants to party with strangers, after losing her mind to a zombie sighting, trying to forget it all happened. Don't even question if I'm going to stop pursuing her.
As I walk away from the property, I hear crying from behind the door. I leave her alone because she needs time to heal from her broken heart that came with losing her friends over this. I'll ask her out on a date to my favorite jazz club in a few days from now. No drugs for the night.
When I get home, Jane is on the couch rolling a joint. She looks miserable, as usual.
"Softie," I tease.
She shrugs. "Sometimes a woman needs to relax with some green." Her indicative monotone objectively cuts through the air. "How is Amy holding up?"
"She seemed better today." I say. "But she wanted nothing to do with me. Not right now. I can tell what she's going through."
"We've all been there." Jane responds. "When the world turns its back. Fuck 'em… I hope she gets better."
"I think she's right though."
Her tired hazel eyes avert to meet mine. She looks concerned.
"Why?" she asks before adding, "If this is about your endless need to be with crazy girls, go for it. Don't be going crazy yourself."
"She's not crazy."
"Whatever you say, hun."
Nothing eventful other than scoring some Peruvian cocaine at work happens over the next few days. I think of her a lot, obviously, and miss her vibrant personality.
She isn't like the others. I work at a record store every weekend when I'm not driving dump trucks for various sites from Monday to Friday. The kind of people you meet in the store range from flat-out bimbos to prolific musicians. The type of women I've met in night clubs are no dissimilar than the broads that come by during the day, mispronouncing famous acts, chatting about their personal life struggles that week, and subsequently asking for a recommendation of an album to comfort their sorrow. The only difference was, the clubbers just want to get high and fuck.
I don't believe love as something one will see more than once in their life. If they're lucky it might even be real love. The world has become a narcissistic cesspool of ego-centric moralists. It isn't the same place I knew as a kid, where demisexuality existed, couples stayed married, and mental illnesses were kept to oneself.
I park my car outside on the street instead of her brother's gigantic driveway. I take a deep breath, despite not being anxious, before opening my door and getting out.
The walkway feels longer than it looks. It is probably the most luxurious driveway I've walked on. The stone is grey and smoothened, a kind of detail you notice when you've got too much on your mind. The air smells clean, like the rain that passed earlier. Must be the huge amount of trees that might as well be a forest surrounding the front yard, blocking the view of the front stone patio.
I ring the doorbell. What sounds like a grandfather clock alarms the home owner, who appears at the door with a bored expression.
"Amy home?"
Her brother sighs.
"She went to that club with the indoor pool… what did she call it, Palooza?" He tells me. "There's some event going on there, a karaoke night."
I freeze. He goes on about her tendencies to party when in a crisis, but his voice is drowned out by my thoughts and visuals.
I know Carl. Well enough to know his stupid club with the pool has been responsible for many dates gone wrong. He laughed in conversation as he explained his plan to me, years ago, which included catering to his incel clients' wants, and that would include putting rohypnol in their dates' drinks. And I know Amy is looking for a home in someone right now, deep down.
I thank him and I leave without another word. He looks like a man who doesn't need acute stress.
I weave through traffic. I'm going fifteen over. People yell and wave their hands as I cut them off, be it on the road or by not allowing them to make a safe cross at the walk. I ignore them, because I have no time to reconcile with strangers for nearly taking them out on my way to make sure Amy isn't on her way to being passed out in some thug's hotel room, choking on her vomit.
I arrive at the venue with my heart falling out of my chest. I look to see if there are flashing blue and red lights in the distance, because it wouldn't surprise me if someone reported me for alleged drunk driving. Nothing.
I step out of the car and jog to the back exit, pick the lock, and fling the door open. I use the hallway that leads to the dance floor, skipping past having to go through the entrance, or walk by the bar where his witch employees call out asking in seductive voices, 'what will it be tonight'?
Carl would prefer no sobriety under his roof of mischief.
I see her, dancing alone. She wears black eye makeup, but not enough to make her appear like a sex worker. Her halter top is covered in light baby blue sequins, complimented by her short black skirt, combat boots and knee high matching black socks. Her hair has been teased and volumized, unlike last time, when she had it down and flat ironed.
She doesn't notice me walking to her and continues to appear to be on her own as I look around the room. I notice many are watching her dance. None come forward.
"Amy," I call out, shouting over the blaring music.
She looks in a different direction, searching with her eyes. I wave my hand to get her attention.
"Oh." She says. "How's it going?"
"Look, you need to get out of here."
"Excuse me?" her response comes out in an aggravated snap. "Who do you think you are telling me–"
"I don't have time to explain. We need to go. I'll find you another club, I promise."
"Your pity is not something I yearn for, Josh." Her passive aggressive tone forces me to roll my eyes.
To my worst luck, I meet eyes with Carl across the room.
"Josh," he hollers, coming over. "My man."
Ah, fuck.
We do our stupid handshake we made up in fifth grade as Amy watches us with a satisfied look on her face. Is she actually a nepotist?
"You know the club owner, yet you hate the idea of me being here. That answers everything." She sneers. "Why don't you just stay away from people you're embarrassed of?"
Holy fuck. Does she have a condition that makes her misinterpret EVERYTHING?
She walks away before I can say anything, towards the female lavatory. Great. I can't just pass her a note through one of the stalls that reads, YOU ARE SAFER ONCE YOU LEAVE THIS RAPE DEN.
As I'm about to shout her name, calling her back to me, Carl's heavy hand grabs my shoulder.
"Aye, don't worry. There will be others." He says. "I had to close the front doors over how many fresh European models wanted to get naked upstairs in the jacu–"
I shove him off me, pushing him a little too hard out of pure frustration. He almost falls on the filthy checkered dance floor, spilling his lean on his white collared shirt.
"Fuck off, man." I warn. In the corner of my eye, I see Amy emerge from the bathroom across the room.
"You wanna go, Joshy? I never fuckin' liked you anyways." He shoves me back, and spits on my shoe. His gum lands on the floor beside my foot. "C'mon, pussy."
Next thing I know, we are scrapping on the dance floor like fucking morons. The bouncers are called in, pulling us away from one another. While Carl yells threats at me, which include "icing my mother", and "making sure my girl friend won't get home safe". I make eye contact with Amy. I quickly avert my eyes to the bar and shake my head. I hear words directly in my ear speaking, but I can only catch the end.
"Man's been on coke all night, he ain't pressin' charges. But he wants you to leave." The bouncer tells me as he lowers me to the ground.
"I need to tell my girlfriend something before I go." I plead. The bouncer nods.
I approach Amy, who is now chatting with what looks like a goth. Or a pissed off nun.
"Amy," I say.
I heard her assure the gothic woman she will be back in a moment. She then turns to me and says rather loudly, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"This place isn't safe." I cut to the chase. "I care about you. In some way I can't explain."
"No shit." Her voice softens. "Your face is bloody."
"I just fought the owner," I say, somehow, able to laugh at this insipidity.
"I heard what he said." She looks down solemnly, yet maintaining her poker face. "And I saw the whole thing." Her eyes look devoid of pleasure.
"Are you okay?" I ask, tempted to hold her hand and bring her in close. Only that I don't. Her eyes aren't teary but I can feel her deep emotional state from just looking at her. She wants to cry somewhere quiet, having never experienced true inner peace, and died inside thriving in chaos.
"Let's go."
I spend hours holding her under the summer night sky, one that is lit by the stars. She sleeps as I chainsmoke cigarettes and have the occasional joint in between. For once, I can't ruin a good moment with hard drug use. Even if she'll probably wake up like every playgirl does.
Emotionally unavailable.
Drained.
Bored.
Ready for a rough fuck.
Breakfast.
Out the door, only to be seen again in weeks, maybe even months, from now.
She's not crazy.
She has my heart regardless.