went ignored, and Lana was usually discussed by the adults (while she was present) in the third person. Lana would rearrange the food on her plate in pecks and scrapes with her silverware, makeup-blackened eyes full of murder, responding to anything asked of her as if the question were absurd. Sometimes in the course of the conversation Fred would open his mouth and attempt to contribute in some way, and when he finished talking, everybody else just sort of stared at him for a moment, and then, after a few ticks, somebody changed the subject, and people started talking again. Lana warmed to Fred.
Fred told Lana about painting backdrops in Hollywood, about his stint as a playwright in New York, about the punk scene in the East Village, about how he’d tended bar at CBGB for a while, about how he once went to live on a commune in New Mexico in the seventies but they kicked him out after three days because his stupid dog was chasing all the fucking sheep.
Lana told Fred her parents were pricks. Fred had to agree. After everybody had gone home, Lana and Fred exchanged a couple of letters, and Fred sent her some mix tapes—stuff like Television, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, (early) Sonic Youth, the Replacements, Gang of Four, Orange Juice, Josef K, The Teardrop Explodes. Meanwhile, Lana grew her hair back, washed out the dye, and quit mutilating herself with safety pins, although (as far as her mother was concerned) she still dressed like a hooker, and now that Fred was sending her the mix tapes she was listening to nastier music than ever. She was sixteen. She was still “in a difficult phase”—or maybe she was in another one.
Lana’s family lived in some godawful cardboard-cutout suburb in Southern California. She saved up for a plane ticket, and now, two years after Fred’s mother’s funeral, Lana and Fred were sitting in Fred’s kitchen together, smoking pot and talking about photography and listening to Lead Belly.
Lana gave Fred the joint, scooted back her stool, and crossed the room. Fred watched her walk: Her jeans were rolled up to her calves and her feet were bare, a flaking spot of red nail polish on each toenail. The bone-yellow linoleum of the kitchen floor made sticky noises under her feet and the rotten floorboards yowled as she walked. She yanked open the refrigerator, an old mint-green Frigidaire that looked like a sci-fi robot. The refrigerator hum kicked on and beer bottles jingled in the side door.
“Want another beer?”
“Fuck it, hon,” Fred said, wheezed, emitting a burst of smoke with each word. “Uno mas cerveza, señorita. Pero uno, solamente uno.”
“Your Spanish sucks, Fred.” Lana gripped the necks of the beers with three fingers. “Are you a lightweight?”
“I’m driving, hon. They’ll be more beer when we get back. You’d better keep a rein on yourself there. I don’t want you getting all sloppy drunk on me here, man, I mean, this isn’t operating like, heavy machinery here, but it does require a little, uh, cognizance.”
“I don’t think that’s the right word. Cognizance means like, knowledge. Competence?”
They’d been talking about photography. Lana said she used to want to be a poet, but now she wanted to be a photographer. They were going to shoot photographs. Fred was going to take the photos; Lana was going to model.
She set the beers on Fred’s table, took the joint from him, took the smoke deep into her lungs, let it churn there a moment, exhaled from her nostrils. Lana wedged open one of the beers with a plastic lighter, handed it to Fred, and did the same with hers. She swigged the beer, squinting. She had a tendency to squint. In the last year and a half she’d grown into her body more. Her shirt hung limp on her thin shoulders, no bra, the shadows of her nipples showing through the fabric.
They flipped through the photography books, pausing for a long time on each glossy page to soak up the image, talking about the photographs. They talked
Fred told Lana about painting backdrops in Hollywood, about his stint as a playwright in New York, about the punk scene in the East Village, about how he’d tended bar at CBGB for a while, about how he once went to live on a commune in New Mexico in the seventies but they kicked him out after three days because his stupid dog was chasing all the fucking sheep.
Lana told Fred her parents were pricks. Fred had to agree. After everybody had gone home, Lana and Fred exchanged a couple of letters, and Fred sent her some mix tapes—stuff like Television, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, (early) Sonic Youth, the Replacements, Gang of Four, Orange Juice, Josef K, The Teardrop Explodes. Meanwhile, Lana grew her hair back, washed out the dye, and quit mutilating herself with safety pins, although (as far as her mother was concerned) she still dressed like a hooker, and now that Fred was sending her the mix tapes she was listening to nastier music than ever. She was sixteen. She was still “in a difficult phase”—or maybe she was in another one.
Lana’s family lived in some godawful cardboard-cutout suburb in Southern California. She saved up for a plane ticket, and now, two years after Fred’s mother’s funeral, Lana and Fred were sitting in Fred’s kitchen together, smoking pot and talking about photography and listening to Lead Belly.
Lana gave Fred the joint, scooted back her stool, and crossed the room. Fred watched her walk: Her jeans were rolled up to her calves and her feet were bare, a flaking spot of red nail polish on each toenail. The bone-yellow linoleum of the kitchen floor made sticky noises under her feet and the rotten floorboards yowled as she walked. She yanked open the refrigerator, an old mint-green Frigidaire that looked like a sci-fi robot. The refrigerator hum kicked on and beer bottles jingled in the side door.
“Want another beer?”
“Fuck it, hon,” Fred said, wheezed, emitting a burst of smoke with each word. “Uno mas cerveza, señorita. Pero uno, solamente uno.”
“Your Spanish sucks, Fred.” Lana gripped the necks of the beers with three fingers. “Are you a lightweight?”
“I’m driving, hon. They’ll be more beer when we get back. You’d better keep a rein on yourself there. I don’t want you getting all sloppy drunk on me here, man, I mean, this isn’t operating like, heavy machinery here, but it does require a little, uh, cognizance.”
“I don’t think that’s the right word. Cognizance means like, knowledge. Competence?”
They’d been talking about photography. Lana said she used to want to be a poet, but now she wanted to be a photographer. They were going to shoot photographs. Fred was going to take the photos; Lana was going to model.
She set the beers on Fred’s table, took the joint from him, took the smoke deep into her lungs, let it churn there a moment, exhaled from her nostrils. Lana wedged open one of the beers with a plastic lighter, handed it to Fred, and did the same with hers. She swigged the beer, squinting. She had a tendency to squint. In the last year and a half she’d grown into her body more. Her shirt hung limp on her thin shoulders, no bra, the shadows of her nipples showing through the fabric.
They flipped through the photography books, pausing for a long time on each glossy page to soak up the image, talking about the photographs. They talked
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