A cigarette lit backward.., p.1
A Cigarette Lit Backwards, page 1
This edition first published in hardcover in 2022 by
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Copyright © 2022 Tea Hacic-Vlahovic
“First Time” by the Boys, copyright © 1977
Honest John Plain/the Boys. All rights reserved.
Cover © 2022 Abrams
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2022933605
ISBN: 978-1-4197-6289-5
eISBN: 978-1-64700-733-1
ABRAMS The Art of Books
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For Stefano
In loving memory of
Giancarlo DiTrapano
&
Joshua Parsons
Hello world, I’m your wild girl
—The Runaways
DEXTER’S LAB
Everyone knows Iggy Pop and the Stooges lived in the Fun House, right? Even Nico stayed there, cooked badly, and gave Iggy an STD. The place was legendary, and our scene had the same thing. Dexter’s Lab was our Fun House. A spot between Carrboro Elementary and the train tracks. Fridays after school I’d take the bus downtown and walk twenty minutes to get there. I wasn’t allowed at Dexter’s on school nights.
“’Sup, Kat?” Dexter loomed in the doorway.
“’Sup, Dexter.” I squeezed past him, holding my breath.
Dexter stalked me down the hall and his stink followed. In spite of his stench, he was lethally hot. Or because of it. I only held my breath to spare myself from his powers. Dexter’s BO was a fatally poisonous aroma. His sweat a seductive secretion that caught girls like bugs in a Venus flytrap. Deadly Dexter. His grin was feral and snaggle-toothed and mauled everyone he saw. A smile from Dexter was a punch in the gut with brass knuckles. His exquisitely greasy hair could oil a thousand cast-iron skillets. I barely resisted grabbing it as I gazed up at him. He towered over me, at six feet. His body was frail and his complexion ghostly. He wore the same outfit each day. Like a cartoon character, he had a uniform.
Crusty blue jeans with tapered calves and tears in the knees. Ratty British-flag sweater held together with safety pins. Silver pyramid belt and steel-toe combat boots. To top it off, a work of art: his classic black leather biker jacket was painted, patched, studded, and spiked to perfection. It held so many trinkets I couldn’t count them if I tried. They were meticulously placed and so beautifully arranged, I was astounded he did it himself. But I wouldn’t dare question it. In our scene, boys embellished their own threads. DIY fashion was honorable. Sewing was masculine. Chances were Dexter didn’t change his underwear, either.
Only Ashley saw Dexter’s underwear. She was his girlfriend and I hated her for that. She was the prettiest punk in our scene and probably the whole country. She could have been on America’s Next Top Model. I told her that once and she said reality TV is for sellouts. Ashley was nearly as tall as Dexter. Her limbs were long and lean, and she flailed them around when she talked. And she talked all the time. Ashley always had something cool, funny, or loud to say. Everyone listened. Ashley took up space and demanded attention. We were all stuck on her. Ashley’s hair was fire-red and spiked. She had two things most teens didn’t: body ink and face metal. The cherry on her shoulder was an homage to Cherie Currie. A silver ring squeezed her bottom lip, accenting its plumpness. There was something obscene about it, like her mouth was a glazed Krispy Kreme donut pumped full of strawberry jam. Her face was a southern gothic masterpiece, with swamp-green eyes and sky-high cheekbones. All her outfits were sick. Nylon pants, fur coats, sequin tops, latex boots, heart-shaped glasses . . . nobody knew where she shopped. She didn’t like me but she didn’t fight me. She barely acknowledged me, actually. She knew I didn’t steal people’s boyfriends.
I stomped over smashed beer cans, slimy pizza boxes, and crumpled cigarette packs on the way to the fridge door. How’d he do it? Nature’s meth: teenage rage. Dexter replaced a regular door with a refrigerator door. So there was a refrigerator door in the middle of the hallway. When you opened it up you didn’t see the inside of a fridge.
You’d see the Party Room. The fridge was smaller than a regular door, so you had to duck to go inside. The door was elevated, so you had to jump into the room. Alice in Wonderland meets Trainspotting. Because of this ducking and jumping, not even the coolest person could make a smooth entrance into the Party Room. Some tried but it was impossible. I liked this because I was the least cool person in our group. The fridge gave everyone a bad shot. I followed Dexter inside, trying not to stare at his butt crack, which always peeked out of his pants. It winked at me and I blushed.
“Guys, Kat.” Dexter introduced me to grown-ups sprinkled around the Party Room. “Kat, guys.” You can be a grown-up without being an adult. Being an adult means you have an adult life. These were just kids who “grew up” physically but were still like us inside. I nodded at the trailer park dealers and they nodded back. When everyone was done nodding I found a relatively clean spot on the carpet to sit down on. I crossed my legs and pulled my coat over my outfit. I hated my clothes.
I shopped at the PTA thrift store. Used tennis skirts, worn men’s jeans, and yellowed wifebeaters made up my wardrobe. Plus precious shirts I copped at concerts. I had a Casualties shirt, an Anti-Flag shirt, a Bouncing Souls shirt, and a Blink-182 shirt I couldn’t wear anymore because when I did my friends called me a “poseur.” (When that happened, I had to wear my shirt inside out.) My favorite jeans were too big for me so I closed them with a safety pin. One day the pants were on my floor and the safety pin was left opened and I was reaching over my bed to turn over my Specials record and I tripped and stepped straight onto the needle. It went through my foot and I had to get a tetanus shot.
Dexter’s Lab was always full. Kids came from Chapel Hill High (old public school), East Chapel Hill High (new public school), Carolina Friends (private school for hippies and reluctant children of hippies), and Village Charter (sketchy strip-mall institution for pregnant teens and fuckups). A couple of kids were dropouts, like Dexter. He was eighteen when I met him but by then he’d already lived alone. There were rumors, of course. Like, he emancipated himself from his abusive parents and hustled for a living.
Or, he was orphaned and tossed between foster homes until he ran away and squatted in an abandoned building (which became his Lab). The most believable theory was that his grandma raised him and Dexter inherited her place when she died. The worst rumor (told by the worst people) was that he killed his parents to turn their home into a party palace. “Their bodies are still hidden somewhere.” I couldn’t believe anyone would joke about that. Dexter was sweet. And I knew a hint others didn’t.
Months ago I’d gone into Dexter’s bedroom to leave my coat on his bed, but the bed was full of other people’s coats, and I was worried something would happen to my coat, since it was my dad’s. So I thought I’d hang it in Dexter’s closet. In his closet I saw a uniform, similar to what Dad wore to work. It was hanging there, in his size, with his smell. So he must work at a garage. He fixed cars or bikes . . . otherwise he was a plumber or handyman, all those uniforms look alike. Anyway, I figured when all of us went to school or wherever, Dexter went to work. He didn’t talk about it, because I guess he didn’t want to spoil our fun. Nobody likes crushing a rumor.
Sometimes a little kid from Culbreth Middle School hung out. He was a miniature Rude Boy. We called him Little Tim. He was only twelve but freakishly tough. Nobody messed with him. The boys would say, “He’s a baby, I’ll smack him when he’s in high school.” The truth was even the rowdiest guys were afraid of him. He was like that Chucky doll. Tiny and terrifying. Sometimes deadbeat grown-ups dropped in to sell weed or booze. They’d usually only hang out long enough to make out with some punk girl. They didn’t try with me. I guess I looked younger than sixteen. I wasn’t allowed to dye my hair or get piercings. My boobs weren’t in yet. My haircut was the same home-cut bob I’d had as a kid. The color? Forgettable. My scalp didn’t have the balls to produce a strong saturation.
“Is there beer?” I asked Dexter.
“PBR.” He pointed to the kitchen.
“Get me one!” barked Little Tim.
I crawled to the fridge door and hopped into the hallway. Then I headed to the real refrigerator. Aside from booze the fridge offered a jar of pickles, a few bottles of hot sauce, and an oily bag of biscuits from Sunrise Biscuit Kitchen. That was Dexter’s favorite food. He revealed this to me once, during a rare moment alone with him. I was honored to learn a secret about him, or even a widely known fact, so long as he told me privately. That night, he held a biscuit out toward me.
“I get extra for mooches.”
“No, thanks.”
“You anorex
“I prefer grilled cheese. It’s my favorite.”
“David Lynch’s favorite sandwich is the grilled cheese.” He unwrapped the foil to reveal a cold biscuit, moist with condensation.
“How do you know?”
“He said so.” He ripped into it.
“On MTV?”
“In a magazine.” He talked with his mouth full.
“You read magazines?”
“Yeah, when I wipe my ass with them.” He laughed and spit a crumb on my lip. I didn’t move it. That crumb could live on me forever if it pleased.
“Hah. Good one.”
“Anyway, if your favorite sandwich is grilled cheese that means you’re classic, like Lynch.” Dexter presented this information to me as a fact. Then he scarfed the rest of his biscuit and washed it down with sweet tea. It didn’t seem very cool to be considered “classic.” I didn’t want him to think that of me.
I clarified, “That’s not my favorite sandwich, that’s my favorite food.”
“What’s the difference?” Dexter burped.
“If that were my favorite sandwich it would imply I have other favorite kinds of foods, that I eat an ambitious selection of food. But grilled cheese is my favorite food, period. It’s all I wanna eat.” The conversation ended there, as it did whenever I talked too much. He shrugged, turned, and zipped into the Party Room, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I shuddered at the memory. Most of my memories had that effect. Especially those in which I’m talking to a guy.
But this was a new night, a new opportunity to not suck. I grabbed two beers and darted back into the Party Room. Real smooth, I tossed Little Tim his beer. It fell on the floor and rolled to his feet.
“Nice one, Kat. Now it’s gonna explode.”
I sighed, walked over to Tim, bent down, picked up the beer I threw, and gave him the other one. As I did so, my whole body burned with shame. Everyone’s watching you. Everyone hates you. I rushed back to the safety of my spot and tapped the dropped can.
Nice one, Kat.
“Are y’all going to the Trippy Dope show?” I squeaked.
Trippy Dope was equal parts rock star and wild animal. Raw force. He was always half-naked. Onstage he rolled around on broken glass and bled everywhere. Trippy Dope was the genius of our generation. Our generation’s Bowie. Our Mozart. I’d never forget when I first saw him. I was watching TRL on MTV, well, half watching it, talking on the phone with my friend Lucy. We always watched TRL on the phone together after school. We’d make fun of whatever *NSYNC or Eminem were doing while crushing on Carson Daly. It was fun, kid stuff. Then Trippy changed the game.
Trippy Dope’s debut music video for “Too Bad Too Good” premiered in 2001.
Lucy and I stopped talking, we were rendered speechless. It was a simple video, no special effects or backup dancers. None of that teenybopper crap or faux pop-punk. He sang his track while walking down a dark highway, barefoot and topless. Headlights illuminated his features. Each passing car revealed a different, harrowing, striking face. He was pure, he was true, he was the real deal. The way he moved his body shook something in me. In my underpants, sure, but also spiritually. His voice cracked my skull open and curb-stomped my heart.
By the end of the video, I was desperately in love (and had hung up on Lucy). By that night on Dexter’s floor, I had both his albums and every magazine he graced. I fantasized about him daily. I dreamed of meeting him somewhere, not at his shows, not as a fan. That he’d see me sitting at a bus stop and notice me. He’d catch something special about me. This is crazy, I don’t know you, but, will you be my muse? That daydream was dangerous to indulge in. Snapping out of it broke my heart. Trippy Dope was my God.
“He’s gay,” Dexter coughed through smoke.
“He’s a pussy,” Little Tim shouted.
“I wanna fuck him,” Ashley growled. Dexter threw her a dirty look and she stuck her tongue out at him. He pretended to punch her in the head.
“If there’s nothing else to do,” a dealer grunted.
“Let’s all go together?” Nobody heard me or maybe they did but didn’t answer me so I pretended I didn’t say anything. I looked around as if I was really interested in and focused on something across the room.
The Party Room was deformed, like part of it shrank and part of it swelled up in some freak accident. The colors were moldy-green and barfy-brown and dried blood–red. It reeked terribly, like something was rotting. I longed to spend more time there but I was too busy maintaining my lifestyle and responsibilities. My parents only let me hang out (on weekends) if I got good grades. I was prepping to audition at a music academy in Winston-Salem. I had community service, since I got caught buying Adderall at school. On top of all that, I had to nurture my crushes and trick them into thinking I was cool.
ELMO’S DINER
Elmo’s had the best grilled cheese sandwiches. The bread was buttery and crisp around the edges but soft in the middle. The crusts were firm but flaky and slightly burned. The cheese was rich and melty but held itself together just long enough to make a stretchy scene when you tore the bread apart. Every sandwich was presliced in half, on a diagonal. It came with a juicy pickle and a cup of coleslaw. I dipped each bite into slippery ketchup. Heinz only. My parents forced me to eat other stuff sometimes but I preferred not to.
When you move to Winston-Salem you’ll be famous at every diner. “Here comes Kat, the best piano player in town . . . she’s awesome . . . we’re so lucky she moved here.” You’ll float down the street, surrounded by friends . . . you won’t miss Chapel Hill. You’ll visit sometimes, only to see shows. By then you’ll be so cool you’ll go through pains to hide your boredom of what once thrilled you. “There goes Kat . . . if only we’d appreciated her when we had her.” Frat boys kicked me out of my daydream by bumping into my table and spilling coffee all over my lap.
“Sorry kid, I didn’t see you.”
“I didn’t see you either,” I sneered, cleaning the mess.
I paid my bill and walked to the bookstore. It was Saturday, community service day. Before finding Independent Books, I had all kinds of service jobs. I worked at an animal shelter, a nursing home, highway cleanup, juvie jury duty, focus groups, catering . . . I was thirteen when I got in trouble so this felt like a life sentence.
My luck was I got caught the first time I tried doing anything harder than weed. The bitch Spanish teacher watched me copping the pills in the cafeteria. She didn’t stop me in the act, she let me go through with it and then pulled me into the office. So she could incriminate me. Cold. They called the cops and everything. They wanted me to write a report and narc all my friends out. I refused and broke down crying. Not being a snitch is harder than it looks.
The principal put the pills in a ziplock bag and gave them to the cops. They were like, it’s probably ecstasy, we’ve got to test it. Even though I told them a million times they were just hyper meds. I was kind of relieved they took them out of my hands. I had an excuse not to try any drugs for another semester.
“Please don’t call my mom please. Call my dad,” I begged the principal. I thought Dad would care less. I thought he wouldn’t understand because he didn’t speak great English. He did understand, and the way he looked at me was haunting. If he was mad, he hid it from me. Mom did, too. They weren’t mean because they were worried. And probably in denial. During my Teen Court trial they told the judge what a “good kid” I was. The judge was like, “I didn’t ask for a statement.” They bought me new piano books for the two weeks I was suspended from school. It was like a holiday. When I came back to class everyone treated me really special. But that only lasted a few days, until a popular girl shot herself in the head in the bathroom.
Independent Books was my favorite gig. The store was my playground. My coworkers were dust and mice. I just sat around reading magazines. I didn’t touch the books because they were all hippie propaganda. I hadn’t figured out how to work the register because while my boss taught me I wasn’t paying attention because he made me nervous because he was cute. So I pretended to know and now I’d never know. Sometimes I asked the customers for help. Once I gave a book away for free because they were so frustrated with me. Luckily we only got like one customer per day. Nobody read radical stuff around there. Nobody who could pay for it, at least. I didn’t worry about being fired because you can’t fire someone who works for free.
