A deep and booming voice said, “And here he is, girls… the greatest dancer the world has ever known, nineteen-year-old Michael Rivers of RiverGroup, looking very handsome in a sexy and scorching black suit!”
It’s not black, I thought to myself. It’s charcoal.
A waiter, in a military-cut navy jacket, pulled back my chair. Once I sat, he scooted me toward the carved, bituminous coal table. A moment later, a woman in a three-piece, coffee-colored bikini, took a bottle of Frix’s Krill Kola Thirst Crusher from a golden tray and placed it before me with efficient moves. When I picked it up, a blast of music played and the girl did a dance and sang, “The renewable kola, with the outlaw taste! She smiled a toothy grin, and then dashed off.
Then I sat there before fifty channel cameras, holding the bottle and feeling like a performing seal in a circus. For a second, I considered throwing it down and leaving. The problem was, Father would probably take me back to the Loop and toss me over, and I could see the body of the dead bellybutton prostitute and the black flies that had crawled over her.
So, careful not to obscure the smiling monkey logo with an ill-placed thumb, I took a tiny sip. The stuff was salty and fishy, but not too terrible that I couldn’t eke out a simulacrum of pleasure.
“He likes it,” said the house voice. “Who wouldn’t, with the taste and power of krill? And now, look who’s joining him! It’s the sexy and scintillating Elle Kez, of Ribo-Kool, granddaughter of that powerhouse of a capitalist, Konrad Kez!” After a fun-filled and faked laugh, the voice added, “Don’t they look blistering?”
I saw her shoes first. They were furry pink pumps with tiny silky flowers around the sole. Her white socks had smiling pink cat faces. Her skirt was a ruffled and partly shredded carnation and plum polka-dot thing that looked like it might have belonged to a run-over flamenco dancer.
So far, it was basic Petunia Tune stuff, but when I looked up, I was taken aback. First of all, while her tailored grey jacket was clearly a nod to Pure H, the silhouette, material, and notions were all wrong. It looked more like concrete than a warm or lush fabric, and it was so pinched in the middle, I doubted she could breathe. Stranger yet, around her wasp waist, on a metal belt, ran a flock of tiny motorized hens that chased a red rooster. They orbited her every ten seconds, and while I guessed this was some reference to my fame, and maybe her and others’ pursuit of me, I had no idea why it was there.
Beneath the jacket, she didn’t wear a blouse. Instead, her chest was covered with pink fur that matched her pumps. On her neck the fur gradually disappeared, and from there up, she had been made-up like a cat, complete with a triangular black nose, white whiskers, and a few freckle-spots. Orange eye shadow over-emphasized her blue eyes.
On top of her head sat a massive, curly, golden wig with the texture of sea foam, three feet high and five across, shaped like an enormous bloated banana. Coming from the top were two three-foot-tall, pink rabbit ears. Between the ears were three small dioramas. One was the black, Pantheon-shaped PartyHaus. Another was a curve of Loop road with what was probably supposed to be my blue and orange car. Beside that were two naked dolls locked in an oral-genital embrace.
Once she saw that I had taken her in, she turned around, and from somewhere in the folds of the back of her skirt hung a wide, quilted beaver tail, the size of a swollen tennis racket. When she had spun all the way around, she began to sing to me in an off-key falsetto. “My heart is a daffodil! Oh, daffodil affection… daffodil affliction. She then laughed and asked, “You know that? It’s so petunia. Don’t you think? It’s by The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys. I just love them. You like my tail?”
“Your tail…” I repeated, unable to conjure anything positive. “Um… well… it’s… um
“My heart is a daffodil!” she sang again louder and farther from key, as if she didn’t know what else to do.
“Hi!” I said, standing, hoping to make her stop singing. “Hello! Yes, I saw your tail!” I made myself smile. “Please, sit down.”
“Okay!” she said, relieved. “I know I sang that already!” She her teeth as if she felt bad. “Sorry! I guess I’m a little nervous.”
From the left shoulder a teeny puff of green smoke caught my eye. Could it be her clothes had caught fire? I was saved! Our date would have to be cancelled! I was about to mention it, but then, a smoky red dot came from her other shoulder. Then more rose into the air. Her jacket was making smoky polka dots! After all the other atrocities of her costume, I don’t know why that one—which actually struck me as half-clever—discouraged me most of all.
Two assistants of hers, with the same makeup, dressed in tight and shocking-pink jumpsuits, ran in, plucked the miniature hens and cock from her belt, supported her wig and ears as she eased herself into her chair. A hulky man in blue short-shorts placed a can of Frix’s Cinnamon Monkey Thirst Bomb beside her elbow. Elle didn’t notice.
“You probably thought I was just a Petunia Tune girl, but really, I’m so much more. I’m into Ball Description, and I’m really into CuteKill and a bunch of other of magazines.” She struck a pose, with one hand on her wig and another highlighting her cat face. “So I wanted to show everyone how mature I am. And I know Pure H, too!”
“Yes,” I said. “I see. So, it’s… um… good to meet you.”
“Thank you!” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I don’t have to tell you, but you’re every girl’s dream. I mean, everyone I know wants to keep you in her petunia dungeon!” As she laughed, she leaned forward, but then craned her neck backward to keep her wig and ears from tipping. “Listen,” she whispered, “if this thing get out of the way.”
As I gazed up at the mountain of hair, I pictured it tipping over and flattening me like something from a cartoon.
“Awe!” she cooed. “Your smile is so cute!” After a squeaky giggle, she said, “Let me tell you all about myself because I am so fascinating. Okay first, I had my big coming-out party yesterday. It was the biggest and bestest party ever. I had so many cute bands; I could have died. I even had The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys!” A second later she frowned. “You listen to them, don’t you?”
“Pig Squeak Believer Boys,” I confirmed. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with them.”
“No!” she laughed, as if I had made a joke, “The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys! They’re those adorable guys who dress like beavers, and… you know… have their little buns hanging out.” She giggled in falsetto. “They’re so hot and precious! I can’t wait for them to sing tonight. They’re music is ever. They played at my party and it was ever. You had to see it on the channels!”
“I must have missed it.”
“Well,” she pouted, “I’m into whatever you’re into.” She leaned forward an inch, so that her jacket revealed more of her furry cleavage. “You like hair?”
Glancing down at my hands, I felt like I was the one exposed, and it reminded me of the feeling I had when I woke from my heart attack and found myself before thousands of fans screaming to know if I had a catheter, bed sores, or brain damage.