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jarfulloftears · 3 years

Text

just the good parts [2/4]

gif source: @kbhsidegifs

here’s part one of this mini-series.

the following part includes: drug usage & vulgar language. enjoy!

word count: ~ 6k

featured song:

There she was again, and this time she wasn't alone. She was enclosed by a duo that rocked to a tempo that rivaled mine.

The winding lights of the club began shifting the perception of dancers, spotlighting their individual essence piece by piece.

All except for her.

She remained a silhouette, standing right in front of a laser as she twirled freely.

This time without hesitation, I altered what music would explore the tunnels of my ears.

With the synthetic sounds of a string instrument and synchronized claps, I’d just caught a new song as it infected her movements.

These sounds were haunting but I was too entranced by her fluid, self-inflicted caresses to spare disillusion.

The sporadic spurts of a reversed harmony crept through the fast-driving production, but before I could raise a brow of ‘what-the-fuck’-ism, a falsetto voice broke through the hair-raising monotony.

A beat comparable to 80s dance music followed, dictating her suddenly sharp movements.

Her arms became blades as she hit pose after pose in time with the enrapturing claps of the song.

Her friends did the same, grinning and encouraging each other as all three of them leveled lower and lower to the floor of the club.

With hands on their knees, they sung along while winding and rolling their way back up again. In doing so, me and her caught gazes for the second time.

She offered a seductive smirk, swinging her hips as she pivoted to face the club laser.

The bright light didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. Her body continued to roll, a fiery sex appeal oozing from her physique.

Such fire only burned hotter when she glanced over her shoulder with eyes darting right into mine.

“I’m giving you eyes but you misread the signs and I can’t rewind, baby.”

The song filled time by doing every bit of talking that our mingling gazes couldn’t.

She faced me fully, dancing for me as if I was the only audience that mattered. With smoldering daggers for eyes and killer moves, she was an easily identifiable assassin.

I almost didn’t know what to do as I became as much of a focus to her as she was to me.

I chortled, glancing down at my drink with a slight smile. Tadpoles of anxiety were awakening within.

“Don’t blink when I’m watching you…”

I was obligated to fulfill the demands of the music. After taking a sip of the liquor that puddled dormantly in my cup, I raised my sight to her once again.

I kept things cool, finally allowing the song to move me. My head nodded as the singer recounted losing out on the opportunity to pursue another club-goer.

Maybe Disco Lady didn’t want life to imitate art, in this instance.

Her long legs carried her as she started skulking toward me. What was only a silhouette became so much more as she rhythmically prowled across the dancefloor.

Glitter shimmered along her limbs and lines— even in her voluminous hair.

She was a vixen, and this club was hers to seize. This song was hers to perform for years to come. I was hers from this moment forward, and I’d be hers for as long as she’d keep me.

A deep drum pumped on as the synths were dropped from the song.

“I’m heating up. Are you reading my mind?”

She strode past bouncing bodies with green lights embellishing their headphones. It was the reminder I needed— that the two of us weren’t the only ones in the room after all.

She entered my vicinity, placing my chance to drink in as much of her appearance as I could on a silver platter.

Breathtaking.

I could feel myself forgetting to inhale as she walked right past me. She halted at the bar, posting herself up only about a foot away from me.

It took nothing to garner the attention of the bartender, who was probably having a rather peaceful night since they didn’t have to compete with surround sound speakers to communicate.

She made her request & tapped her phone swiftly on a scan pad before a shot glass was set down.

I caught myself just staring at her, my eyes having tacked themselves to her dress while my brain buffered.

I snapped out of it, realizing that I was probably coming off as a creep. I quickly pushed my headphones off of my ears and absorbed the air necessary to work up the nerve to say—

“Hi.”

She didn’t notice me at first— well, she had to have felt my focus lasering through her, but she didn’t know that I’d spoken until I held my hand out for a handshake.

She smiled broadly, unveiling a gap between her two front teeth. She was beaming, the scattered light show of the club hitting her face at the most perfectly-timed instant.

She shook my hand and took this as her shot to finally get me on the dancefloor with her.

With a chuckle, I replaced my headphones and followed her.

My drink found the counter top of the bar while she two-stepped through an array of green-ears.

My hand remained in hers as I walked in tempo with the remnants of the song. Once she found a spot for us to dance, we did just that.

First was the basic two-step, getting a sense of each other’s vibe and comfortability. Nothing too crazy.

As the music pulled us closer, the same show she displayed from across the dancefloor became a 3D experience. While our eye contact remained unshaken, our bodies found a pocket within the groove of a house track.

She batted her eyelashes, a slight smile occasionally tugging at her full lips. I couldn’t stop losing myself in the ebony moons that kept me in her orbit.

The hand that was still linked to hers needed a new home, and she knew exactly where to place it.

Her hand lay on my shoulder while my hand was stapled to her hip. The hole of space between us shrank, the air thinning as I ascended on the high of dance music.

Her perfume was sweet, intoxicating. Her allure was undeniable. She was a lot of fun and had no problem inviting me to taste the electricity that powered the life of the party.

And when the music called for it, all technique was lost. We jumped around and scrapped the intensity of the previous track. We grinned and rocked, our hands joining once again. She spun and laughed as we sang along to familiar anthems.

It was just us two and the driving force of an enchanting beat.

Our solitude was broken by a friend tapping her shoulder. Her body halted as the cushioning of headphones was stretched away from her ear.

It was with brief words and an eager nod that her attention reverted back to me. She motioned me to remove my own method of music listening.

The room was remotely quiet, only the thudding of dance steps and temporary sing-alongs falling upon the ears of anyone who removed the sonic veil that headphones provided.

And it was without that veil that I was gifted with the sultry nature of her voice.

“Do you smoke?” was her question.

“Nah,” I cracked a smile, amused that those were the first words to flee her glossy lips.

“Well, do you want to come with us anyway? We’re going to Stacked Up,” she offered with a coy smile, the most demure action I’d seen her take all night.

I queried. “Who’s us?”

“Oh, me and my friends— the two I was dancing with. There’s two more, but I don’t know where they are,” she briefly stretched her neck in an attempt to see over the crowd of disco attendees.

“What’s Stacked Up?” I asked.

She scoffed with a growing grin. “Only the best breakfast diner in this town!”

Some waffles did sound appetizing right about now.

I did my own scan of the club, in an effort to find my gang. I could only find a few of them peppered throughout the gaggle of green-ears, and among them, neither Zay nor Reyna were spotted.

Damn, where could they have gone?

It was with a shrug that I said, “Sure.”

“Cool. I’m gonna go find my other friends, and I’ll meet you by the door.”

My headphones were exchanged for my jacket. I made a beeline for the exit, even the stagnant air of the not-quite-fall-yet season proving to be cooler than the sauna of active lovers of music.

I leaned against the chilling brick of the building shortly after sliding my jacket on. An exhale escaped me while my hand fished my cellular device from my pocket.

It would soon be 1:00. This was an earlier exit than the ones I’d usually take.

Tonight, I indulged in my fair share of excitement and was set to get a meal in all before the witching hour. This was a win, as far as I was concerned.

The only thing that would seal a night of success would be Reyna on my arm.

I should’ve made a more daring impression on her— pursued her with as much gusto as this nameless ball of flirtatious ardor had done for me.

I almost smiled at the thought. I’d never been approached with such intent before nor had I ever been so enamored with someone without getting into their head first.

Tonight was truly a night of chances, and I hoped the result would be a story worth raving about later.

I sent a text to Zay, relaying the fact that I wouldn’t need a ride home.

I paced the sidewalk a bit, trying not to pay too much attention to the couple who were nearly dry-humping in the parking lot— only about 50 feet away from the club entrance.

They were slanted against the hood of a sports car with hands that roamed over one another like they were as alone as they probably felt. The reality was that they weren’t, and now I had to bear witness to a display of affection that bordered on public indecency.

There was a feminine giggle that echoed under the light towers of the lot.

My pacing continued, this time with a nonverbal game of counting steps. For a while, this proved to be just the remedy to block out the squelching and panting of people that were too horny to get a room— or at least get in the car!

But then, another giggle struck my ears like Cupid himself was using the sound to practice his archery skills.

That sounded mighty familiar.

This would be the second time I risked looking like a creep tonight, but I allowed my curiosity to overpower my self-awareness anyway.

With that, I laid my eyes right on the couple, getting a good look at the woman with the recognizable laugh.

It was Reyna… with what appeared to be the guy she met while we were at the bar.

I was deflated, what little air I was holding at the present moment eloping with the wind.

Well, I guess that solves the mystery of where she disappeared off to.

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief.

Here I stood, wishing I could’ve replayed my night so that I could be the one partaking in an intense makeout session with her. All along, her sights were set before we even got to be alone.

I decided that I was done having a watch party of one while my love interest got groped against a car.

I returned to the club’s interior, making sure I didn’t trail too far from the entrance.

It only took a pinch-full of seconds to notice a quintet of people clustered at the table where headphones were originally acquired.

My dance partner smiled at the sight of me, announcing my presence to her friends with a “there you are!”

“I hope you didn’t have to wait too long. It’s hard pullin’ these folks off the dance floor, once they get going,” she humored while gliding toward me. Her hand hooked into the crease of my arm as she urged me closer to her circle.

“Guys, this is…”

“Dylan,” I finished her sentence, offering a smile to mixed company— two guys and one of the girls she danced away from to pull me into her web of unchoreographed wonder.

“Dylan,” my unofficial date repeated with a cute smile. “He’s coming with us to the Stacks.”

“Oh, another Dylan! Cool. Nice to meet you,” a gumbo of greetings were splashed at me as hands were shaken and daps were… dapped?

I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “Who’s the other Dylan?” I inquired.

“Alright, y’all. We’re all set,” the other half of the duo that was abandoned on the dance floor popped up with a grin before her eyes found me. She didn’t hesitate to extend a hand and introduce herself.

“I’m Jalissa!” she gleefully stated as I accepted her gesture.

“Dylan.”

The group migrated toward the door, and I followed suit. Everyone else introduced themselves with an ease that paralleled summer breezes.

I had yet to receive an answer to my question about the other person who held my name.

We entered the parking lot, finding that Reyna and her lover had finally gotten the memo to instate some privacy. The parking lot was once again a ghost town occupied by man-made machines.

Rod, the one who was swirling car keys around his finger, prefaced his car size with “We’ll probably have to lap up. That’s cool wit’chu, Dylan?”

My response was paired with another, realizing that the woman hanging on my arm was attempting to answer for me. With a furrowed brow displaying my confusion, my understated reaction was enough to garner laughter from the friend group.

“My bad. I should’ve been more specific with which one I was talkin’ to,” Rod chuckled.

My scrunched eyebrows popped apart, shooting up to my hairline as I encroached on an epiphany. “You’re the other Dylan.”

“Yeah,” she snickered just before a loud car chirp snatched my attention.

“Spelled differently, but yeah, she’s the other Dylan,” the girl named Marcy informed just before calling first dibs on the shotgun seat.

“How’s it spelled?” I asked the other Dylan herself as the backseat became filled.

“Go ahead and sit. I’ll lap up,” she insisted rather than answering.

I did as she said, settling in next to Jalissa, who took the middle seat.

My dance partner situated herself over the entire row of occupants, whining that she didn’t want to obstruct Rod’s rearview by sitting dead in the center.

Rod insisted he’d be fine, but passed a reminder that she’d have to duck down, if any cops were camping out in the shadows of the road.

“Lapping up” was actually against the law here. Can you believe that? It fell under a “lack of seatbelt” clause or something.

Within moments, regards for such a law slipped out of the crammed car space, and we were on our way to the syrupy delights of breakfast food.

“Oh!” my partner piped up as if she suddenly remembered something. “My name— it’s spelled D-I-L-A-N.”

“We call her ‘Die-lawn’ because of the way it’s spelled,” the guy that sat at the opposing side of the backseat, named Victor, added.

“Like the Dave Chappelle skit?” I chuckled.

“Hell yeah,” Rod nodded with an amused grin. “ ‘Dy’ for short.”

Merriment filled the car.

At least we’ve got a way to decipher which Dylan someone might be referring to now.

Dilan quickly rerouted the topic. “Anyway, how’d you get your name?”

“I don’t know. I guess it just sounded good enough to get me into a good school,” I shrugged.

“I feel that. How you think I got stuck with this white girl name?” Marcy chimed in with laughter quickly following.

“How’d you get your name?” I asked Dilan.

“It was my uncle’s name, and my dad was dead set on naming his child after him. The ‘i’ was my mom’s idea— she thought it’d make it look more feminine.”

“Whatever that means,” Jalissa scoffed.

“No, for real,” Marcy chuckled.

“Shit, that’s a much better backstory than mine,” I smiled slightly.

“Thanks,” she mirrored my expression, her eyes twinkling under the flying streetlights of nightlife.

“So, Dylan, you go to school here?” Rod asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’s your major?”

“Business.”

There was an almost collective groan.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those pretentious pricks that act like they’re above everybody,” Marcy turned in her seat in an attempt to match my gaze.

I laughed. “We’re not all bad, ya’ know.”

“Thank you! You tell ‘em, man!” Victor nodded.

Dilan guffawed. “Vic, you’re the pretentious prick we’re talking about!”

The car erupted with cackles.

Bantering commenced, playful anecdotes bouncing back and forth before Rod broke through the discourse.

“Yo, Dyl, you mind if we spark up before hittin’ the Stacks? It’ll be a quick stop.”

Shit, I’m already strapped in for whatever ride they’re on. What do I look like saying ‘no’?

“Yeah, man. Do what’chu do,” was my answer.

Within minutes, the vehicle slowed to a stop. Greenery was our scenery, and the chirping of crickets was our soundtrack.

We filed out of the vehicle, and I soon realized that we were at the park. The gang walked full speed ahead toward a gazebo, something a bit more discreet than the big ol’ pavilion that stood across the park.

Dilan and I trailed them rather slowly, not even getting past the hood of the car before we settled down to talk.

“So, you must be pretty straight-edge,” she said with folding arms.

“What makes you say that?”

“Deductive reasoning. You babysat one drink the whole night, and you don’t smoke.”

My bottom lip was poked out while I nodded. She’d impressed me. “You wouldn’t be wrong… but you’re not all the way right either.”

“Oh, really?” she accepted my sentiment as a challenge. “How so?”

“I do my fair share of drinking. I just wanted to avoid a hangover, for the most part, tonight… Besides, I should be watching my kidneys, right?”

“Liver.”

“Right.”

“And what about smoking?”

I shrugged. “I don’t really get the hype.”

“Interesting,” she nodded. “Well, I guess you don’t want to find out what the hype is anytime soon then.”

I watched her open the passenger side door, bewilderment slowly washing over my features as she dug through the glove compartment.

“Rod just lets you go through his stuff?” I scoffed.

“Only when my stuff is in his stuff,” she answered just before standing straight once again and closing the door.

She emerged with two items: a cardboard box that was only big enough to hold a drugstore chapstick and a slim purple colored pen— but not just any simple writing utensil.

“This,” she handed the small box to me, “is Asteroid Delta-Four.”

There was a lone logo on the front— a rocket taking flight— and text upon text on the back, complete with a QR code.

“It’s a cart for my vape pen, and if you scan the QR code, you can read all the facts about it. Isn’t that neat?” she smiled slightly.

Was this her way of convincing me to smoke?

She analyzed my face, her excited smile gradually flattening. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you to do anything. I just thought that… if you were thinking about smoking, you’d at least want to know what’s in it before I pass you my pen.”

“I’ll pass on the rotation… but it is pretty cool they have this,” I softened my rejection by affirming a previous take.

“Right?” she grinned.

We sat on the trunk of the car. I held the tiny box, scanning the peculiar array of pixels with my phone while she attached the cart to her electronic pen and turned it on.

“So… what brought you to the silent disco tonight?” I took pleasure in ending our brief silence.

“I just wanted a change of pace… I’ve been so invested in my classes lately. I just needed a night to let go. You know?”

“Yeah, same,” I replied, watching a webpage replace my camera display.

“What made you come with us instead of staying with your friends?” she volleyed a question back.

I chortled. “They wouldn’t miss me. Besides… I wanted to see what you were all about.”

She laughed. “Mmhmm. Okay,” she didn’t bother being modest as her eyes swept over my appearance.

“Good answer,” she finally took a pull from the device made to facilitate whatever otherworldly delicacy swirled in her cart.

Speaking of which, Asteroid Delta-Four had a peak THC count of 26%.

That didn’t sound so bad.

Not to mention, it passed all the health tests that confirmed that residual pesticides and harmful metals weren’t in the mix.

Well, that’s good to know.

She took a moment to inhale the concoction before allowing it to fly from between her luscious lips. She turned her head away from me to keep the smoke from finding me.

Nature had other plans as the wind shuffled the whiff of the indica-dominant hybrid back toward me.

She had a follow-up question. “But, what do you mean they wouldn’t have missed you? What about that girl that got you dancing the first time?”

The breath of a laugh fell out of me. “What about her?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “She wouldn’t have missed you?”

“Nah, she was busy with some other guy, when we left,” I shook my head.

“Oh…” she responded plainly, her gaze poring over my face for what felt like forever.

Is this how it felt when I was staring at her, at the bar?

“You went to the disco for her, huh?”

I didn’t hesitate to refute the claim, but the sympathetic look in her eyes kept me from deflecting with a joke.

“Yeah,” it was weird admitting it. My sight settled upon the 4-page PDF of cart information again.

“That’s okay… I guess it’s a good thing you came with us then,” she nudged me softly.

I reverted my gaze. With a softly applied smile, she said, “No time to mope when you’ve got us as entertainment.”

I mirrored her expression. “No, for real,” I quoted Marcy, which made her giggle in delight.

“Not you tryna’ sound like us already!”

Such a statement forced me to join her in laughter.

“You fit right in, you know… You should hang with us more often,” she suggested.

“You really mean that or you just sayin’ that because I’m cute?”

She smiled broadly. “Those are not mutually exclusive statements. They can both be true.”

“Yeah, okay,” her smile had proven contagious as I sat there grinning like an idiot.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, suddenly feeling like we were the only two in existence again.

“Yo, can I hit that?” I asked.

Her eyebrows rose as she leaned back far enough to give the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit room to come between us.

“I don’t even know which ‘that’ you’re referring to right now, but the answer is yes,” she nodded before holding out her pen for me to take.

I began cracking up, not even able to indulge in the substance because I was laughing too much.

“I’m for real! We sittin’ here flirtin’. I’m immediately thinkin’ about some other stuff! You gotta be more specific with a question like that!” she joined me as I goofily tittered.

“Yo, you’re a character!” I pointed her out like she was in a line-up while descending from the natural high of comedy.

“So I’ve been told,” she snickered before offering a bit of instruction for her contraption.

“Hold the button while you pull,” was what she said while leaning into my personal space. “Sorry if my lip gloss is on there, by the way.”

I took one hit, questioning if I’d done enough before going in for another pull. After the second, I was finally seeing an adequate amount of smoke escape my mouth. I started to go in for a third but was instantly halted.

“Slow your roll, doppelgänger. This has more concentrated THC than regular blunts,” she extracted the pen from my grasp before turning it off.

“It’s twenty-six percent,” I kissed my teeth.

“That’s a lot, Dylan— too damn much for a first-timer to be hittin’ it three times in a row.”

I thought she was being dramatic, and I guess she could read minds because the next thing she said was—

“I’m not being dramatic. Just give it a few minutes to kick in and see how you feel.”

Fine. She was right. In less than fifteen minutes, I felt like I was blasting off. There was a certain separation happening between my body and my… being?

It was my instinct to grab a hold on something, and that something just so happened to be her hand.

She was as cool as a caribou in a tundra as I fought to make sense of my warped reality. I felt myself floating, yet my body couldn’t have been more grounded.

“This is crazy!” I exclaimed.

“Right?” She was so relaxed, her voice keeping me calm— as calm as I could be while having my first outer-body experience.

I was silent for a moment, probably for longer than it felt, assessing what I felt. It was indescribable— and a little scary— being so high up without ever leaving this planet, but with time, comfortability seeped into my psyche.

“You’re okay, right?” Dilan’s voice broke my focus, and it was then that I realized that I’d been staring at the pavement we were parked on.

“I think so,” I nodded.

“You’re okay,” her assurance supplied me with more comfort. Both of her hands were now cupping mine. “I’m here, and we’re about to go get breakfast, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” I sighed. Somehow that’d slipped my mind.

I continued speaking, feeling very talkative now that my silence had been broken. “This is crazy. I wonder how the disco would’ve felt like this.”

She smiled mischievously. “We should go back… I say we ditch these fools.”

“We already got the getaway car,” I adopted her giggle as my own.

Her laugh matched mine. “You’re so smart!”

“Does, um, Rod have the keys?” I asked.

“Yeah… I know how to hotwire a car though,” she lit up at her own proposal of action.

“How do you know how to do that?”

“Doin’ crazy shit with the wrong crowd,” it was in that moment that I noticed her hooded eyelids.

It might’ve been the result of THC but such a detail only reinstated the same seduction that carried her appeal, in the club.

I nodded in understanding although my mindstate made me easily hypnotizable. Just watching her lips move had me spellbound.

She asked me, “You ever did anything crazy?”

“Yeah… Drag racing.”

“Oooh, like the fast and the furious, huh?” she said the movie title like it was a daytime soap operatic drama.

I chuckled. “The fast and the furious,” I repeated.

She caught why I was laughing within seconds before mixing my quiet storm of joy with her own drizzle of snickers. It was a while before we stopped, crickets ringing off as we just backstroked in each other’s eyes.

“You wanna look at the stars?” she offered.

“I’m already lookin’ at ‘em.”

She blushed at my romanticism before insisting that we go see the real things.

I nodded, having it in my head that she was going to take me to see them herself— she’d hotwire the car and we’d be off into the stratosphere.

I slid off the trunk, planting my feet on solid ground for the first time since I’d taken flight.

I reached for her hand, realizing that I was already holding it as she followed my lead off the trunk.

She instructed me to take the passenger seat of the car while she circled the car to take the wheel.

I settled in, adjusting the chair to give myself more leg room while she pulled back the sun roof cover.

There it all was— the world beyond ours. Stars glimmered above, the occasional blinking of an airplane doing the same. The moon wasn’t full but it still illuminated the sky beautifully.

I hadn’t taken the time to just look at the night sky in what felt like centuries.

I remember as a kid, my dad had a telescope. Nowadays, it’s somewhere in the garage collecting dust, but before then, I’d use it to speculate about planets and dimensions. I wished to be an astronaut, a space cowboy like the show that’d come on Toonami.

“Cowboy Bebop,” Dilan intercepted my train of thought.

My eyes widened. “Yo, are you deadass a mind reader?”

She offered an amused smile. “No, you literally just said all that out loud, doofus.”

“Oh… I didn’t even realize,” I chortled. “Asteroid Delta-Four… more like truth serum.”

She giggled with her hand finding mine again. “Ya’ know… I used to wanna be an astronaut too.”

“It’s such a cool job.”

“I know right! You get to go to space and bounce around without gravity.”

“Hell yeah, and see the world without relying on Google.”

“Or a plane.”

“Isn’t a rocket technically a type of plane?”

“Oh my gosh… I never thought of it like that!” she shrieked.

I chuckled while she called me a genius.

“A space plane,” she shot off an array of names. “A spane.”

We were treading into undeniably silly territory, but I didn’t have the mental capacity to care— not about if we sounded silly or laughed too much or allowed time to drift by us too casually.

As absent as my sobriety was, I never felt more present in a moment than I did now.

The blanket of silence was thrown over us, our laughter ceasing while our eyes reattached themselves to the glittery masterpiece that was the sky.

I was zoned out, so enveloped in the sight above that I didn’t hear the voice of the angel beside me.

“Dylan… Dylan.”

“Huh?”

“I think they’re stuck,” she was trying not to laugh.

My eyes slunk back into their sockets as my head sat itself properly on my shoulders.

She pointed toward the gazebo at which everyone else sat. There was no movement, not even any sounds of conversation echoing like it had when they first invaded the structure.

It was almost unsettling. Imagine if a person stumbled upon a completely silent group of people sitting in the park, at this time of night.

That was a horror movie plot, if I’ve ever heard one.

Dy giggled, explaining how they’d always get like this after a session of burning herb. “That’s why any time we have to do something, we do it before we roll. Because if we smoke first, nothing’s gonna get done.”

“I can imagine,” I chortled.

“I should call them & tell them to come on. Besides, I’m startin’ to get hungry,” she whipped out her phone with the agility of a ninja.

“Oh, yeah. We’re supposed to be hittin’ the Stacks,” I nodded at the reminder.

She snickered. I guess she found the way I said it funny.

With one phone call, the group that was as still as plants slowly uprooted themselves.

Dilan got from behind the wheel while I stood from my own seat. With a slow stretch, I watched as the group sauntered toward the car.

“You always know when to call, Dy. I forgot all about Stacked Up, no cap,” Vic chuckled.

“Shit, I didn’t. I told y’all I was gettin’ hungry, like twenty minutes ago,” Marcy grumbled upon opening the passenger door.

Rod piled on. “Yeah, and I told y’all thirty minutes ago that it was about time for us to get going.”

“Damn, Dyl. Were you making leg room or planning to go to sleep?” Marcy quickly readjusted the passenger seat.

“My bad,” my apology didn’t hide how amused I was by such a question.

“You weren’t even smokin’, Rod. You know we don’t abide by sober rules, when the rotation is going,” Jalissa continued the other conversation being had.

“I have a no smoking and driving policy, thank you very much,” he smugly stated just as Jalissa hopped into the backseat.

Vic cackled. “Nah, you got a drug test comin’ up. That’s what that is.”

I motioned Dilan to get in the car before me this time, so she wouldn’t have to struggle over me to sit in Jalissa’s lap.

“Yo, who on the aux?” Rod switched the topic as everyone settled in.

“I think Dylan should do the honors,” my twin had volunteered me before I’d even gotten in the car.

I laughed, closing the door as I sat down. The car jeered, egging me to connect my phone to the sound system.

There was something about a tradition of first-time car riders playing their music. This “tradition” seemed like a ploy used to see if I was as cool as I seemed.

I was up for the challenge of their imposed expectations, and I bathed in glory as every occupant began singing along to my selection.

The volume was cranked up, the windows were lowered, and we all fell in harmony with the anthem blaring out of the four-door.

That is until a cop car was spotted tucked in the shadows of the road’s shoulder.

“Cop!” Marcy alerted.

Dilan ducked down with that same ninja-like instinct from earlier.

Her fro became a pillow on my lap while Rod slowed his speed to a range that would appease the state regulation for highways.

We passed the cop car with relative ease, but just as we speculated that the coast was clear, a less conspicuous sheriff’s department truck appeared.

“These muhfucka’s out tonight!” Rod cackled, barely audible over the driving force of an unrelenting bass guitar.

Laughter ensued nonetheless and didn’t seem to stop until we were parked outside of the highly-regarded Stacked Up breakfast diner.

We spilled out of the car with excitement, hunger fueling quickly moving feet as we raced into the establishment.

It was a quaint place with glowing, fluorescent lights and the scent of bacon wafting in the air.

There was a jukebox propped all the way toward the back of the restaurant, piquing my curiosity— until my stomach growled.

With quiet chatter and a cornucopia of empty booths, it seemed like we’d made it just before the early morning rush.

Without having to compete with the hands of time nor the opposing hunger of drunkards coming from local clubs, breakfast was served up with efficiency.

And those waffles didn’t stand a chance.

[read part three here]

#spence moore ii #writing #fic writing #makeboyscry #jarfulloftears #JTGP #Spotify

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vaczine · 8 years

Photo

Walt Cessna

You may think you know or understand me from the suggested and often misunderstood visceral & visual tone of my posted work. You MAY, but you will never ever actually come to any sort of conclusion unless you choose and succeed at looking deep into the self polarizing pathos and DIY till I die determination that informs every facet of my creative & hopefully thought provoking artistic, political and personal stance. If your spending an overwhelming period of better utilized time questioning the purpose, passion and correct point of view of those you deem .not on your side and couldn't actually care less about their indifference and non inclusion of your world anyway, it is perhaps time for you to social media disconnect and redirect the inspirational sparks and shared creative synergy that your on-line presence not only inspires, but informs anyone seeking some deeper meaning and lasting purpose regarding the manner and socially awkward mayhem of your experiences and the at times long hesitation of wait and see the final destination of our daily life experiences that we over emphasize through bullet point rifled personally potent postings promoting our self delusional appreciation and understanding of the self stating shared synergy that fuels our current creative desires and the never ending search for a perfect new medium in which to showcase them. Picture frames ans pretty much any type of visual not displaying itself correctly on some sort of screen set at a 3 second shift of images that leaves the pictures haphazardly etched into our conscious. It;s been slightly amusing seeing the often incorrect re-appropriation of my past works that when originally presented labeled me a pornographer of dubious and damaged integrity blithely showing off my ex-hooker, forever a junkie, AIDS relate-able personal drama and self persecution laced presentation of what polite people refer to as my artistic work. Autistic twerk is more like it. It all starts to make sense suddenly and my personally motivated switch of creative mediums comes across casually and gives no hint at others poorly perceived notions of how to maintain, manage and virtually manifest the clearest and most accurate version exactly how, where, when, what & why I am initiating a long awaited and previously posed with move from digital photography to digital film. It's not that photographs or random still images no longer incite inspiration within me, but i have a renewed creative hunger to tell my visually rich, moment caught in time pictorial perceptions of the world as I continue to come upon it in personally nuanced and arresting pictures that often wear their intensity like a much maligned and majorly misconstrued social handicap of frankly preposterous and selfishly painful decrees decrying ,owns own carefully and life long curated correctness. I'm 52 and I've been pretty much taking photographs since I was just dropped out of high school and living part time in the Chelsea Hotel as anti- fashion terrorist and 7th Ave knock off re-designer self publishing the first of 5 indie publication The Key. Al it took was an unsolicited paragraph of self reverential praise to take it from a Xeroxed & hand stapled $1 a copy fast food fashion inspired teen dream novelty to fashion designer approved & super supported legends in their own lifetimes hyper surreal 80s shooting style stars like Norma Kamali & Way bandy introduced Stephen Sprouse to secure is a publishing deal literally on my 18th birthday in what would come to be the best realized and inspired 1984 year of my life. I got to work with the essentially inspired likes of Teri Toye, truly the first notable and visually inescapable Transgender fashion cult level model courtesy of the two other points of a supremely inspired and inspiring collaboration between the three of them as downtown designer, muse & Nico - model, aspired, casually confrontational It girl 80s hybrid that paid due homage to Warjol;s Edie now known as Sprouse & Meisel's fashion franken-weenie of perfect for rthe times sculpted androgyny that wore its scandalous reputation like a badge of maybe it just might be true dis-honor. The late 80s defining Avedon Vogue covers just as world famous make-up artist as his oft times super model before it was deemed hashtag worthy Brooke Sheilds. Way was very approachable, much like most of the pop art world of culturally correct pre-internet celebrities that never had to fear with cell phones and social media to further distract from whatever way out wild and personally soiled to random extinction proclivities of all too often misunderstood or simply ignored, looked on as unnecessary critiques on those who call their arts performing. The 70s / 80s gold plated period of utter pop(t) culture perfection has never been replaced or more relevant. it continues to inform a host of style servers and visual vanguards who set the tone for all we deem fashionable, fierce & transformative. Going back to the good time girl prohibition era flappers and their self professed need / desire to dance their cares away and have the best time of their life till death to the current state of street style inspired rebooted and redefining world of Haute Couture once again inspired and defined by Saint Laurent, Dior and Gucci albeit each famed and style setting house now under radical redefining fashion focus that manages to respectfully pay nu rage homage to the brands history, but seek ways to incorporate the often awkward proportions of urban influenced street style that when seen through the eyes of the Vetements infused mind rewerking the always sublime mod style proportion savvy design mind helming an extremely personal and stylishly over wrought almost radical re-imagining of the deeply respected and ultra icronic experimental & visionary couture house Balenciaga..There were skirts fashion from actual and completely randomly sourced car mats deftly shuffled into a collection that closed with 9 over the top and way over-sized almost to the point of unwearable proportions that instantly achieve Avedon photo moment in fashion history correctness as they unapologetic-ally praise the design notion of ultra future modern vintage retro photograph of culturally current creations that take inspiration from bold silhouettes and a generous, almost overly lavish attention to cut and proportion that in some cases requires the pop kulture class-ism of 60's Irving Penn influenced and perfectly posed presence of the cult model of Funny Fave infamous-ness Dovima to pull off with a level of panache and a heightened sense of strictly amplified drama punctuated by perfectly arched eyebrows framing equally attentive and slightly rich bitch super vixen fierceness that can't be faked unless it;s Evita moment Mario Testino in his 90s Vanity Fair primed for all time Madonna. People who talk shit about the should hsve known better bitch i'm Madonna. Looking at the aggressively fearless proponents of radically almost unwearable proportions executed in a modern assimilation of not always unawkward siljouettes that altrhough not as gar out and frankly unbothered by anything other than it;s own correctness Comme des Garcon, rather a redefined riff on the retro notions of business attire and women wearing versions of men's tailoring, sparked by YSL in his properly Helmut Newton 70s style blip of his Le Smoking tuxedo influenced suits further pushed into androgyny by slicked back short hair cuts that forever set the standard for Bowie pioneered gender bending ensembles that were majorly loathed or deeply loved when first introduced. The insane radical yet pop culturally relevant instantly pop cult classic correctness of Ziggy Stardust seamlessly morphed into YSl man tailored sexually ambiguous models mane even more infamous in their provocative, often sexually charge/d photographs often shot in dark Parisian alleys and dramatically street light lit lending an air of instant style reformation of perfectly potent only werked correctly in the 70;s mix of lady like femininity mixed with an elegantly irreverent masculine tailoring that too easily wrought to mind the gay disco dollies not yet commonly referred to as lesbians, yet unflinchingly setting the style trend that made Helmut Newton dangerously exotic and first introduce the idea of super exclusively expensive made by hand atelier attended Haute Couture that today seems more Ready-to-Couture with it;s street styled leanings and brave style assertions that are elegantly askance. The often classic attention to cut and uber refined measures of stitching that further accented the carefully crafted couture cut that is nothing like your basic, badly cut and boring boxy jacket. The New Look symbolized and introduced Christian Dior's legendary post war arrival that stirred a full on fashion freak out for bucking war time fabric restrictions with liberated and lavish for the times over indulgences of fabric measured by multiple yards and a retro regal stance when wearing the often sharply pinched and flared waist suit jackets that had a multi gored and just above the ankle length skirt that every designer in time since had offered their own version. Print Vogue is a bore, but vogue.com gives you every single look shown during global fashion week and to the point well worded break downs freshly devoid of attitude and detail driven to blogger extremes. This just finished past season was over loaded with a plethora of just the right dose of retro inspired vintage sportswear taken to wryly ironic or deathly drastic extremes. Which is probably why I love it and have actually been inspired to write fashion inspired posts in over a decade. - Walt Cessna

Balenciaga Fall / Winter 2017

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