Leave the World Behind
Nikki opens the apartment door and the air breathes out like a furnace from hell. She steps inside and drops everything on the floor — purse, brief cases, clothes. Her skin is hot and sticky. She steps into the shower, turns it to cool and stands for long minutes trying to quiet her mind. Quiet her mind. Quiet her mind. Her mind spirals down the drain.
She stands dripping wet in the studio apartment. The air conditioner sputters to a halt. The temperature ticks up. No fucking way she’s staying home. She dresses sexy — a filmy blouse, short swingy skirt, stilettos to showcase her dancer’s legs. She climbs into the car. She knows where she’s going.
A classic Mercedes convertible is parked in front of Fellini’s Bar in WeHo. She walks into the bar. Dark. Loud music, techno with a hard beat. Dark shadows standing by the bar. A low roar of voices, punctuated with shrill laughter. She saunters past the long row of drinkers sitting at the bar. A few turn their heads as she passes.
There is a couple in the corner. The mirrors behind the man and woman reflect and refract dizzying views of them laughing, talking. Nikki stops for a moment. The man is good looking, a dimple in his chin. But shadows shift and fall across the planes of his face, changing who he is. Like a pendulum, one moment she thinks it’s him. The shadows shift. It’s not. The woman next to him is beautiful. Elegant. The man turns and looks directly at Nikki and freezes. The woman looks at him, confused. She follows his eyes and locks in on Nikki
Nikki turns abruptly and finds an empty spot at the bar, next to a guy in shirt sleeves, loosened tie, doodling on a napkin — monkeys, palm trees, girls in hula skirts — high school shit. Nikki searches for her face in the mirror behind the bar, for her image refracted through the bottles of alcohol — the rums, the vodkas, the whiskeys, the bourbons, like jewels they are. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires and gold — reflecting and echoing the mirrored back walls. But she cannot find her face. She panics. She’s disappeared again.
Nikki strikes up a conversation with the doodling guy. “Got a light?” He does. Her heart is pounding. She’s feeling manic. Trying to be witty. Like she’s having a good time flirting — in case, he’s watching. He’s not. But he might. It might not even be him. The doodling guy buys her a drink. She glances in the mirror at him with the elegant woman. He touches her face. She leans in. They kiss. Nikki feels a bolt of pain.
She starts to drink. The doodling guy buys her another drink. She glances back. The booth is empty. Then the doodling guy buys her another drink. And then another and another. The next thing she knows she’s in doodling guy’s car, a Charger, and he’s unzipping his pants and pushing her head down. She’s resisting and he gets pissed. Rage flames through her. She slugs him in the balls. Hard. You fucking bitch! She jumps out and half-stumbles, half-runs to her Toyota. The doodling guy follows her in his car, honking and shouting at her. She gets into her car. He’s pulled up beside her, laying on the horn, screaming, boxing her in. She’s trembling so hard she can’t get the key in the ignition, so hard her foot is jiggling on the clutch. But after several stabs the key slides in and she takes off, scraping his car with her bumper.
The doodling guy follows her, tailgating her, bumping her car. She glances in the rearview mirror. Imagining his face distorted with rage. His mouth, big and loose, vomiting up vicious words, things he wants to do to her. A patrol car drives past. She waves desperately at the cops inside, she honks at them. She screams Help me!
They keep driving. She’s invisible.
There’s a break in the traffic. She changes lanes, pulling in behind the cop car. Doodling man pulls up along side her. Honking his horn, still screaming. Dude can carry a fucking grudge. Passing headlights illuminate his face. HIs mouth a wet ugly gash. His lane slows down. Hers speeds up. She looks in the rearview mirror. Asshole’s pissed. He’s pounding the steering wheel, trying to cut into her lane. The cop car turns. She follows them.
Adrenaline clears her head. Shit! My blood alcohol! Pulled over for a DUI or killed by Doodling Guy? She doesn’t see him anymore, but asshole could pop up any where. After a few blocks she loses the cops.
She drives away from the bright lights and crowded main drags — Melrose, La Cienega — and starts turning down side streets — Harper and Norton — constantly checking the rearview. That car that’s coming up behind me — is it him? Turning down smaller side streets — Waring, Willoughby — turning off her lights, coasting into an alley, stopping behind a dumpster. Her breathing shallow. She looks in the rear view mirror, watching for the doodling man. The motor ticking. The second hand ticking. Her heart hammering. Ten minutes pass.
She cautiously starts the car without the lights, drives down the alley and turns in the opposite direction from where she came. She keeps driving, driving, driving. Turning down more side streets, down more alleys. Away, away, from the direction he was going. Too afraid to go home. But no place left to go but home.
Nikki squeezes into a parking space on a narrow West Hollywood street close to her apartment. It’s dark, quiet. Traffic sounds filter up from Santa Monica Blvd. a block away. She sits for a long time in her car, shaking, numb. Finally, gathering her strength around her, she slides out of the car and running low to the ground like a feral cat, races to her front door. Ducking down so no stray headlight might strafe her, she jams her key into the lock, pushes the door open and crawls inside, shutting the world behind her.