But when I swung the linen closet open, it was just Helen sitting on a stool, puffy-eyed and holding a bottle of vodka she’d clearly swiped from Jon-Jon’s famous Bloody Mary bar.
“What are you doing?”
“Luc broke up with me.” She sniffled.
“What? Just now? Why?”
“He was rambling something in half French, half En-glish, so I didn’t catch it all. Something about a ship running its course, and overripe peaches. He was smiling the whole time, that bastard.” She took a swig and hiccupped.
“How do you know he was breaking up with you?”
“Because he said, ‘Huh-leen, it was a beautiful think, you and me, but eet is over.’ ”
She unintentionally made Luc’s accent sound Mexican, and it made me laugh. “I’m sorry, but honestly, you’re better off. I mean, those bright-pink tennis shoes and that permanent five-o’clock shadow . . . come on. I bet he wears Speedos.”
“He does!” She burst into tears.
I bent and hugged her around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, babe; there will be other, less stinky fish in the sea.”
She straightened up. “He smells, doesn’t he?”
“Like body odor mixed with pie dough. It’s offensive.”
“I need a rebound.” Her eyes shot open and she raised her index finger to the closet ceiling. “That’s it, we’re going out tonight.”
I shook my head. “I’m too tired, and you shouldn’t be going out tonight, either. It won’t make you feel any better. The first night of a breakup should be about Chinese food, ice cream, and bad TV.”
“I’ll let you dye my hair tomorrow,” she offered.
“Wait. Really?”
Helen nodded like an excited puppy.
“Ugh. Deal.” I had been contemplating going to cosmetology school, but I didn’t have enough people to practice on. Helen changed her hair color after every breakup—it was currently a pale shade of purple—but she’d never let me near her hair before.
“I’m thinking chartreuse,” she said, rising from her stool.
“Chartreuse will look great on you!” I gave her a bone-crushing hug of gratitude. “We’ll get some Manic Panic tomorrow. So, where do you want to go tonight?”
“Ladies!” Jon-Jon barked. “Out of the closet. Do I have to remind you that this is a place of business?”
We peeked our heads around the door. “We weren’t doing anything, Jon-Jon. We just wanted a break in peace,” I said.
“Well, take your break outside. You two are getting phased for the night.” He made a circular motion with his hand in front of his face, which was the symbol for, Wrap up your tables because you’re going home.
“Thank you, Jesus!” Helen shouted. Once the rush was over, every waiter wanted to get phased. You didn’t really make any money after the dinner rush, and the waiters who had to stay late ended up doing boring side work, like filling up saltshakers and ketchup bottles. It sucked.
“Did we decide where we’re going tonight?” I asked Helen while we wiped down our empty tables.
“How about Villains?”
I gave her a wide grin. “Perfect.”
2. Muse
Villains was an unpretentious tavern with live music about five blocks from our apartment in the Arts District of Downtown LA, where Helen and I had been living together for the last eight years. I’d heard of other people’s friendships imploding after they became roommates with their BFFs, but Helen and I were always joined at the hip. We’d known each other since we were little kids growing up in the same suburban cul-de-sac, and we’d been together through twelve years of grade school and four years of college at UCLA. If we had any problem, it was that we were maybe too comfortable with the idea of becoming spinsters together.
Helen loved Villains because, deep down, I was pretty sure her Plan B was to become some rock god’s muse. Whenever we’d go to a concert, she’d stand in front of the crowd near the stage and sway back and forth in an attempt to get the attention of the lead singer. It wasn’t subtle. I’d usually sit at the bar and watch the spectacle from afar.
When it came to dating, I always waited to be approached. I’d had boyfriends, but nothing had lasted longer than a year. I had a way of turning every date into a yearlong relationship instead of getting out early, when I knew it wouldn’t last. I just couldn’t get into the one-night-stand scene. But Helen had no rules about anything. I envied her for that.
After our shift ended, we went back to our apartment and peeled off a layer of tortilla soup, got ready, then headed to Villains around ten. I was wearing my party uniform—black blouse and jeans—and Helen was in a red, high-waisted, A-line skirt and sleeveless white blouse with platform heels. She always looked way hipper than me.
Once inside the bar, she shouted, “Damn it!” I followed her gaze to the stage where an all-girl band was setting up.
“Bummer,” I said.
“Let’s leave, Charlie. This is lame.”
“No, I like it here. It’s so close to our apartment. Don’t make me go back out there.”
The lead singer approached the mic and tapped on it. “Check, check.” When she tore off a crazy guitar riff, Helen’s face lit up. “Okay, fine. We can stay for a while, but we’re getting shots!”
Remember how I said Helen had no rules? She liked attention, and it didn’t matter who it came from. We sat at the bar and took shot after shot, forgetting all about tortilla soup, Luc, and the messiness of our lives. An hour into the set, Helen left me to approach the stage. She stood near the front and tried desperately to get the lead singer’s attention, but the woman wasn’t having it. Maybe she was straight? After more shots and watching Helen’s pathetic attempts to catch the singer’s eye, I found myself sitting in a booth, comforting a rejected—and very drunk—Helen.
“Why doesn’t anyone want me?” she slurred. “Not even that gay chick with the guitar.”
“Well, no one hit on me either.”
“No one ever hits on you, Charlie! You’re standoffish!”
“What? No I’m not,” I whined.
“Your eyes scream, ‘Stay away, I hate one-night stands.’ ”
“Everyone hates one-night stands. They’re awkward as hell.”
“You’re just a prude.”
“Ugh. Let’s go home, I’m over tonight, and I don’t want you throwing up in this bar.” Between Helen, my brother, my mom, and Helen’s mom, I got enough crap about the state of my love life.
“No, I wanna dance.” Helen slid out of the booth and fell directly on her ass with a thump. I pulled her up by the armpits, wrapped my arm around her waist, and started dragging her toward the door. We were making a scene, but Helen was finally getting her wish: the lead singer was staring at her, along with everyone else in the bar.
“I got it, I got it,” she said.
“I don’t think so, babe. You can’t even walk.” I propped open the door to the bar with my foot and led her out onto the street.
“I think I got roofied,” she slurred as her head lolled against my shoulder.
“I think it’s the ten shots you took, not to mention the vodka from earlier.”
We turned a corner and I looked up just in time to see a guy standing directly in front of us with his head down, staring at something written on his palm. “ ’Scuse us,” I muttered, trying to navigate around him, but he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, holding a bag full of what looked like Chinese takeout.
“Yum, is that Chinese food?” Helen asked.
The guy looked up at her strangely and then looked down at the bag in his hand. He was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a black hoodie, which shadowed his eyes. Not the most fashion-conscious outfit. “Oh this? Yeah, it is. Are you hungry?”
I started pulling Helen forward. “Come on,” I whispered. “You can’t eat some random guy’s Chinese food on the street.”
She stumbled but caught herself before falling over.