Lilly

“You like sushi?  I get it from the market on Folsom.  After five they sell everything half price—“

“Fuck you!”  I push the plastic container so hard it flips over onto the floor.

He just smiles.  A big, shit-eating grin.  Did I really sleep with this guy?  I don’t remember.  I DON’T REMEMBER!

Shouldn’t that count for something?

“It’s okay you’re clumsy.  Probably hung-over too, huh?” he says as he picks my California roll of the floor with long, hairless fingers.  Dainty fingernails.  Like a piano player. 

Did we talk at the bar at Chex Louis about how I played piano from the time I was seven?  Is that how we hooked up?

I DON’T REMEMBER!

“Please, can I just go?  Please?” I say.

He doesn’t answer, just picks at the wasabi that’s stuck in the carpet. 

“You seem like a really nice guy.  How about I take your number and we get together sometime.  Go dancing.  Whatever you want.”

He nudges the sushi toward me on the overturned crate that’s acting as my dinner table.  I keep looking at the door, and he notices.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, not in a mean way, just in a matter-of-fact tone that is way scarier. 

It’s even scarier when he takes one of the pieces of California roll and stuffs it in my mouth.

“Stop talking now,” he says, as he takes my flannel shirt off the bed and uses it to sop up the soy sauce I spilled on the rug.

Lilly

OGW NOTE:  OGW WILL NOT BE POSTING NEXT WEEK.  OGW WILL BE POSTING EVERY TWO WEEKS FOR THE SUMMER (JULY-SEPT.)

Lilly:  New Outsider Girl, Lilly, is a teen on her own in San Francisco in the 1990’s.  No home, no job, no life, but surviving thanks to the kindness – or not – of strangers.

Lilly:  San Francisco.  My clubbing years.  My no-real-home years.  Job:  Dancing three nights a week for $75 and free drinks; Troc, Urban Decay, DNA Lounge.  Covers my meth, my E, my weed, my brunch at “R” Bar of bloody mary with shrimp, pickled string beans and celery.  Breakfast of Champions.

I feel like I’m stuck in a permanent weekend.

Sleep wherever I end up.  Today I’m sprawled on a Mexican blanket on someone’s floor.  Can’t remember who.  Is it a she?  A he?  Unusual for me to be on the floor, especially if it’s a he, but often if it’s a she as well.

Mouth dry, lips cracked.  Back aches.  Spine.  Heard when you do Ecstasy your spinal fluid dries up, but I don’t believe it.

Memory:  Dancing afterhours at Chez Luis, basement private club.  E kicking in.  Talking to some girl, name Star.  Talking, talking, talking, yelling over house music spun by DJ Troy, my sometime fuck buddy.  This is not his floor.  Star said, “Where’d you get that New York accent?”  I’m like, “New York.”  She:  “It’s cool.”

Memory:  Huddled against heating unit, naked, crying, pink dildo, trying to jerk off, trying trying trying, can’t.  Curse the tequila at Bar None.  Someone cradles me, picks me up.

Oh that’s how I ended up here.

Push up to sitting.  Naked, great.  Just great.  I frantically scan the room for my duffel, and it’s there on the floor and I grab it, pull it toward me.  Thank God.  Clothes and half a doobie. 

Oh yeah, much better.  Dude or dudette must’ve gone to work?  For coffee?  Bathroom?  No way to know, but don’t care much.  Time for me to exit, stage right.

Locked.  Fucking locked in!  Pound, kick at the door, start screaming in a cracked, desperate voice.  Where am I? 

HELP ME!

No one hears.  No one comes.  Palms hurt from banging on the door.  Sink to the floor, clutch the Mexican blanket like Linus does his security blanket.