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Ballad for Out West
by Emerson Rhodes

I bought my first

pushup bra when I was 13, exchanged it for lace later; I didn’t want to seem immature. Three Thursdays after I turned 18 I went to a strip club. This was a gift to myself, a mark or a milestone. I used my birthday money to buy a fake ID and singles and loose cigarettes from a woman in the parking lot outside of a cheap sushi place that kept getting shut down for health code violations. The strip club was called Bliss; I had heard about it from my friend's brother. I had no idea if he had ever been but he liked to talk about boobs and whores so I assumed he was a reliable source. Bliss is a brick building wearing neon. Its sign was a banner with one corner falling off. I went in when there was still light, and halfheartedly threw crumpled dollar bills at women who all looked a little bit the same. I sat next to a man who shook my hand and asked if I was a dancer. His fingers were fat and wet, and he didn’t have any nailbeds. I shook my head no and crumpled more dollar bills in my hand. 

His name is Godot.

He comes here a lot. He hasn’t seen me here before. Not a lot of new people come by. If I have questions, I should ask him. He gives me his phone number on the back of a ripped single—he’s basically like the manager around here. 


I hate Godot. 

I request a private room to get away. I want one in the back next to the bathrooms. It’s not intentional, at least I think so. I want somewhere to retreat to. It’s subliminal. I catch a cold sweat in the velvet. I hear the noise and the lights. This is worse. 

My name is Candy she tells me while tucking the bills into her waistband. Your real name? I want to know your name I tell her. I repeat this in threes. It’s ‘cause I’m sweet she says and she winks at me before licking her lips. Now, what can I do for you today?


Kissing her didn’t even feel real and I hated that she didn’t love me. I left in a hurry for no particular reason. 



The sky looks like it does when you describe it to a child. Black with a big moon. The air feels thick like palm oil and the lampposts smear their sketchy blue light up into the sky. I walk along the sidewalk and make eye contact with Godot who is crying in his car. The windows are up and his mouth is covered, but he is definitely crying. All I could think about was how much I didn’t like his body and how glad I am 
that it’s not me. It’s better this way: Judgment, Distance, Miserable Indifference.

I walk along the highway back home. I use the small parts of pavement that California likes to pretend is a bike lane. The cars always shift one lane over to assuage any possibility of hitting me. I do not have a license. I did not want it enough. I get stopped halfway back to Rolling Hills. 

Godot.

Do I need a ride? Maybe 

I should say no. But why don’t I believe that they’re trying to help? Don’t I believe in good people? People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis. You can’t trust anyone these days. I remember my aunt telling me that if someone has a gun, you should always do what they say and give them what they want. I don’t know if he has a gun, but I don’t know if I want to find out. Besides, my hand is on the door already, and my aunt also told me that it’s rude to say no just because I’m unfamiliar. The seats are leather and the bad kind. It smells like air freshener, but air freshener over something else: body odor, vomit, more body odor. 

I count trees in the dark, measuring them through lamp posts. The trees keep lining up in rows, too neatly: in nines, to the nines, nine at a time. Lumber Farms Have Gotten Too Good These Days. The trees are probably too tightly packed. It’s bad for the environment. Imagine a match breaking and fire is as easy as that. Bad things come in threes, so maybe it would be better if three matches broke—let it burn its way through Silverlake. 

These would be good omens.
 

You could probably see straight through to the end of the world. I say this part aloud.

You could see to the dome

The mosque? The synagogue? The church? 

There are too many domes out here. 

Too many things that look like observatories 

Too many things that look like boobs 

Too many things that remind us of the State 

Too bad it’s not Islam 

I talk to them like either of us could commit to it 

No one is doing domes like Islam 



My tongue catches on the edge of the alliteration



I start watching the trees again as they thin out past the highway. This is the developer trick, so you can start house hunting and think about settling down or setting up shop or both. The houses here are bad ones. Their centers curve away from the cars, turning the centers concave. Here centers are soft, and people let the cars roll over them like waves five miles west. It’s mostly marketing. Trees hide the settlement. We Are Here!! Isn’t that a fine thing? 

The car stops at a park I kind of recognize. It’s closer to my house than it was before. I thank him for the favor, and I look up to realize that I can barely see the stars. This means we live too close to the city. The air is warm, and to be in the night and warm in a single shirt reminds me that nothing is permanent. We used to have snowstorms back east. This is what you call cold? The West is the land of the Sun. The West is the land of Fire.

I’ve decided that this is the place I will die. I walk around the edge of the park. Mark its edges with steps, memorize the curve, let the swoon of the pond catch me by surprise. I pick the bench that will one day have a plaque in my name—in loving memory. I take a bench for myself. I lie on it knowing that my time is limited. They won’t let you lie down because the park isn’t for sleeping. I see a face in my reflection, where I watch the blue lights run into the water. A small bond. My body is a bad Dali, falling off itself. Feeling time drip, tumbling its way down my back, let it wrap itself around my fingers, aching: It’s all action. 


Going for the throat, as a far-flung idea.
 


Irresponsibility. I turn over the consideration like the leaves in August, which have started looking like leaves in November. The trees hang low, and the sky turns orange. The light filters through the cracks. It’s a permanent 7pm. Nothing changes out here. It’s always warm. They mimic the coast with smaller bodies. Ponds and streams. I am caught by a light. I am asked to leave. The park is closed, and the benches aren’t for sleeping. 

I return to Bliss 3 days later. I ask Godot for a ride. I await Godot at the intersection of where Alphabet City turns to soup. Numbers become letters because they’ve run out of numbers. Strange! I assume I was written by a robot prostitute. There’s something preprogrammed about my eyes—I think—something subservient behind obvious disdain. Spit, swallow the flattening of the tongue onto the Pelvic floor—odd mechanical rope. When I was little, I never thought pleasure would be this important. I’ve learned to chew with my mouth closed and to wrap my lips around my teeth. The vibeocracy whispers to me in my sleep with the face of a girl and the tongue of a boy: beautiful and unrestrained. Its touch is tentative, wanton (maybe).