“I love how it’s a black lady calling Latinos Mexicans,” Clarity says.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s like me calling her a Nigerian ‘cause her parents are from Africa. You’d think a black woman would understand that. And you’d think—and don’t take offense to this, but you would think— that a woman would be a little more sensitive to exclusion issues than..a man.”
“Your last statement does contain some complex implications but I’m choosing not to be offended.”
Clarity busts out laughing.
“You even sound like a computer!” she says. “Seriously. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not at present. Why?”
“ ‘Cause usually people don’t like to be told what the implications of their statements are.”
“Jesus, Clarity! Why don’t you try making less insinuatory statements! Then I won’t be analyzing the fuck out of them. Can we just make it to lunch without acting like a motherfucking cat and a motherfucking dog, get Purity—hopefully as Wonder Woman—and get fucking out of here before some tatted-up teenage Latino shoots us in the eye?”
“I have tattoos,” Clarity says. “Do you think that makes me more likely to shoot you?”
“I have tattoos, too, ok? Can we just go to the fucking rollercoaster?”
We stomped to the Apocalypse, side by side, saying nothing.
Not a word.
Not. A. Fucking. Word.
I don’t have to talk to this bitch. I just have to hang out with her. I’m doing Purity a favor because Ashley is her friend. That doesn’t mean I have to suck Clarity’s fucking dick. Fucking upscale bitch. People from Arizona always think they’re superior to people from California, like we’re living here because we have to, not out of choice. I’ve lived in Arizona; I love Arizona. But California has a lot to offer, too. Especially LA. And, look—believe me—I have a love/hate relationship with LA. LA is a hard place to live. But it’s a great place to live, too, and I wish someone like Clarity would’t act all desert flower on me—not everyone in LA is a loser drug addict pissing away their potential. I am, but not everyone is. There are some nice people in LA—well-rounded people, people with dreams and skills—I’d put the number right around one in one-thousand, but there are nice people in LA.
Clarity and I arrive at the gates to the Apocalypse. There’s maybe 12 people in line. We both stop at the beginning of the line snake. I look at her like: go ahead, bitch, you’re still the girl and I’m still the guy and she looks at me like you go first, you’re the rollercoaster junkie. I’m only here as a compromise to keep you happy. Finally that stuck-up bitch goes into the snake. I follow, and we snake our way around the line with no one right in front of us, only looking at each other when we get to a crook in the snake and we’re side by side for a second and we look at each other like two people who have broken up but they still have to go to this wedding together—like they had their dress and their tux on already, then they broke up, then they still had to go to their friends’ wedding. As we snaked around, I thought of us sitting in different cars just to prove that we didn’t have to get along with each other, and I hoped I was in the car in front of her so I didn’t have to look at the back of her stupid head.
When we get up there, Clarity goes into the line for the front car, the extra-long line which in this case means there are like six people waiting for the front car instead of zero or one or two people waiting in the stalls for every other car.
“Clarity. It’s for the front car.”
“I know.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like the front car.”
“I don’t.”
“Well why are you in the line for the front car then?”
“There’s more than one person in this dog and pony show,” she says.
And that’s all she says.
And I don’t dare to ask her any more.
I take my place in line behind her, and some kids in front of us are talking about sticking a hot dog into a vagina—guys and girls—and they’re talking about microwaving it or freezing it first and which would give the best effect. The girls are blushing and the guys are simulating with their hands shoving a hot dog up a vagina and fucking the vagina with the hot dog.
I mean this is the sort of thing you run into in America.