Tera

“This is Sean.”

Tera introduced me to the owner (or renter?) of the house we were visiting in the Balboa Peninsula. Sean looked bloated in his black t-shirt and jeans. He had dyed-black hair, with a peaking bald spot that looked like a flesh yarmulke. Sean claimed to write award-winning rap songs, the reason for such fancy digs. He talked with an Irish brogue. Later, after the seizure, he would find me on the roof of this house, and he’d show me—unsolicited—thirty or so Polaroids, all of different women bending over to prominently display their assholes, each with her face hidden. Sean was 41. He was fucking Tera, who was 19.

“Here.” He handed me a pipe filled with cocaine and weed. I smoked it. I was relieved I didn’t have to snort it, since doing so lately had caused my nose to bleed incessantly. I sat down, and grabbed my cocktail.

“Dude, it was so fucked.” Tera laughed as she spoke, the way a 19-year-old would laugh about a gag sequence from a comedic horror movie she’d recently seen. “So I’m on top of him, right? And then out of nowhere, I guess I started shaking and my eyes roll back and my mouth starts foaming. So Sean pushes me off him, and just pours cold water on my face, and then I come to. Then we just went back at it. Haha.” She was a more traditionally attractive and less fashionable version of me—with her textured red hair, glassy eyes, better nose, and horrid boots. She didn’t have a baseball-sized bruise on her calf like I did, even though she was just as malnourished from a diet of a half-a-bag-of-chips-and-a-soda-water-per-day as I was. I loved her and, being two years older, I functioned as a sort of surrogate matriarch to guide this Tempe-raised naïve little girl through my Orange County scammer life. 

I wasn’t sure if Sean was one of those poseur trust fund babies who come from foreign countries (or worse, the Midwest) and settle in Southern California to try and live out some boring Michael Bay fantasy, or if he was actually an industry guy. Maybe a combination of both. I still thought he looked like a dad who hadn’t paid child support in a long time, and I tried to steer clear of him.

Tera and Sean prattled on. I explored the house, eventually finding my way to the roof where I could be alone with my thoughts. Unfortunately, he still ended up finding me, and presented me the Polaroids as proudly as he would a new watch. I just nodded my head, and hoped he would soon leave. Fortunately, eventually, he did.

We sat on the curb, waiting for Tera’s mom to arrive. Tera looked like a drowned albino raccoon. Her makeup was about three days worn, and she smelled like she’d gotten fucked in about just as long without showering after. Her skin was translucent. She wouldn’t stop crying, and I kept making jokes to try and lighten the mood. 

“Well, maybe Tempe has a clinic with some sexy dude nurses who don’t mind bending the rules a little. You can always come back to the salon when you clean up. Shit, maybe I’ll clean up out here and we can go back together.” I knew I wouldn’t see her again, but a lie seemed more soothing in the moment.

“Haha. That’s why you’re not coming with me. I don’t want you banging all my rehab stable, you fat skank.” This was her way of telling me she loved me, and that she’d miss me.

Her mom’s car pulled up, and I felt an overwhelming rush of nothing envelop me. As she crouched into the back of the sedan, she looked up at me, and in between tears, she laughed.

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucked. And Tempe is going to be so fucking boring. But at least my life isn’t as shit as yours, Katie.” I hugged her goodbye, and laughed, and told her she was right.