Lilac Mines Read Free Page B

secret, uber-cliché More Creative Thing.
    â€œYou should, you’ll love it,” Crane says excitedly. They believe that New York is better than Silver Lake. They believe that there’s truth in brick and verticality. New York says, This is where it’s at, and they nod, awed. Collectively, Felix and Crane have spent six and a half days there.
    The club’s roving blue spotlight hits a posse of newcomers. “Is that what I think it is?” Crane leans in like she’s whispering, but she’s yelling over the music.
    â€œA mullet,” Felix confirms. “A real, live mullet.” The woman is on the older end of the Sourpuss spectrum, in mailbox-blue jeans and a tucked-in T-shirt.
    â€œDo you think it’s retro?” Crane asks. Felix can see her brain trying to accommodate this oddity, the way if you saw an alien walking down the street, you might rationalize: costume party, film shoot.
    Felix shakes her head, “Not with that outfit. It’s gotta be the real thing.”
    â€œI hope she doesn’t ask the DJ to play ’Achy-Breaky Heart,’ ” Crane giggles.
    â€œIt’s 12:30!” Robbie exclaims. His roommates turn to look at him. He’s squinting at his watch.
    â€œAre you going to turn into a pumpkin?” Felix asks.
    â€œAre you trying to distract us from our cattiness?” Crane laughs.
    â€œNo, we have to feed the meter,” says Robbie, annoyed. “It expires in, like, two minutes.”
    â€œIt is so oppressive that West Hollywood has 24-hour meters,” grumbles Crane.
    The cattiness and the vodka are making Felix a little queasy. “I’ll go,” she volunteers. “I could use some air.”
    She passes Billy Ray on the way out the back door. Felix brushes against her, the softness of the woman’s upper arm touching her own arm.
    Crane’s yellow Volvo is parked on one of the side streets between Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset, in the borderland between boystown and fratboystown. Felix hikes up the hill. The night air, chilled as a beer glass, bites at her cheeks.
    Eva is here too, lurking behind manicured bushes outside Spanish-style cottages. Handing money to a homeless guy. Punching her code into the security gate outside an apartment building. Two old men pass Felix, speaking Russian, which makes her think of Europe, which makes her think of Eva.
    She tries to step back and assess the situation rationally. Is she in one of those movies where two people are destined to be together but are kept apart for years as a result of wacky plot twists and tragic human flaws? Or is she in one of those movies where the girl is dumped by Mr. Wrong early on—winning the audience’s sympathy—only to free her up to find Mr. Right? If there were more gay movies out there, maybe she would know.
    Here comes Eva again, trailing behind a broad-chested Sunset guy at the end of the block. When they get closer, Felix sees that this Eva is in fact a young man with blond surfer hair. Eva would appreciate the genderfuck, Felix thinks.
    â€œHey,” says the more masculine of the two. He has centimeter-long brown hair and a tan that promises to turn cancerous by middle age. They probably thought she was checking them out.
    â€œHey,” she says with a lips-no-teeth smile.
    â€œHey, are there any good clubs around here?” They’re closer now, and they smell like college. Pabst Blue Ribbon. He flashes white teeth, and Felix pictures a toothpaste-commercial “ping!” accompanied by an animated sparkle emanating from his grin.
    The only straight clubs Felix likes are in Silver Lake. These two would hate places like Good Luck Bar and Gabbah and Zombie Lounge. But maybe it’s her mission to expand their horizons.
    â€œIf you keep going down Sunset—like, way past Dublin’s—past where the neighborhood starts to seem kind of shady, there’s this great little bar called First