Stellafly

15 Aug Stellafly

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Stellafly was written in 1993 by Ithaka, and published as a short-story in:  Shortcut mag [ Japan _ 1993 ]; Lava mag [ USA _ 1994 ]; and Reactor magazine [ Portugal _ 1996 ]. The short story also appeared as the title track and song of Ithaka’s 2nd hip hop album, [ Portugal _ 1997 ].

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She landed like a fly.

She left like a fly.

The apartment across the hall

had been vacant for six months,

then suddenly without

warning became occupied.

She was from the east of Canada,

absolutely beautiful, brains too.

And I told myself at

first sight, she’s trouble.

And she was,

more than I could

possibly imagine.

A real fireball-motormouth type,

but I really liked that at first,

(I like talkative people).

The third night she was there

we walked down to

the New Beverly Cinema,

(which was actually

an old revival house)

for a showing of

Street Car Named Desire.

And from then on-

we began calling each other,

Stella and Stanley.

Whenever I’d come back

from a job or something

I’d yell up to her window,

SSTTELLLLLLAAAAA !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But more frequently than not,

It’d be her that was coming

home from job and yelling

SSSSSTTTTTAAAANNNNNLLLLEEEEYYYY !!!!!!

She was working her little round ass off,

making about ten grand a week

as a human prop for

fashion catalogue

Didn’t even have a bank account

when she first moved in.

What do you do with the money?,

I asked her.

Well I bought some CDs yesterday

and I got some clothes and….

I got this bag….

The girl spent money

like an oil sheik.

And even with her income

was always borrowing from me

for food and rent.

One of her biggest expenses

was taxi fares.

She didn’t own a car.

Refused to take the bus.

And back in those days LA

didn’t have a subway.

Up to five-hundred dollars

a day for taxis.

To and from jobs.

To and from stores.

To and from the movies.

To and from the beach.

THE BEACH ?!

Who the fuck takes a cab

from Hollywood to the beach?

RENT A CAR !!! I told her.

But she didn’t have a license.

She eventually took

all of my advices.

Opened a bank account.

Stopped buying so many CDs

Started buying used clothes.

And bought two cars

(still didn’t have a license),

a big Ford Bronco which

she almost never drove

and an old convertible Mustang.

SSSTTTTAAANNLLEEYYY !!!!!!!

She’d yell as she drove down the alley.

SSSSSTTTAAAAAANNNLLLEEYYYY !!!!!!!!!

She’d yell as she pulled into the driveway.

Then we’d make healthy,

disgusting-tasting things to eat,

drink cheap wine and talk almost all night

on my big blue bed.

But always in the middle

of some deep conversation

she spring to her feet

and say sisterly,

Goodnight Stan.

Goodnight Stella, I’d say.

Out my door she went

and into her own across the hall

where she would start

making phone calls.

Sometimes I’d hear

her talk on the phone

for two or three hours

back home to Canada;

to her gingerbread family,

to her old friends…

and to her old boyfriend.

I was her only friend in LA

and the phone was THE

form of communication

she could not live without out,

(her phone bill was easily

four times more than her rent).

But I loved this little girl.

Miss-nineteen-year-old-

motor-mouth-know-it-all.

She loved me too,

but was afraid to admit it

for the simple reason I

didn’t look good on paper.

No regular job.

Skin too dark.

Used too many fuck-words.

Unsuccessful as a photographer.

Unsuccessful as an artist.

Whatever would her gingerbread

family back home think?

And her friends?

And her old boyfriend?

Afterall, this whole

charade of a life she lived

was strictly for them,

just for effect.

Many weeks in advance,

we’d planned to go

skydiving together,

but on the day we had reserved

at the skydiving school

we got up at four-thirty a.m.

and drove all the way

out to Paris, California

just to discover the

wind was too strong

for any planes to go up.

She was absolutely heartbroken,

didn’t say a word the whole drive back.

What’s wrong, Stella ?

I dunno.

The problem wasn’t

that her long

anticipated first jump

had been postponed.

It was that she’d already

told everyone in Toronto

that she’d be jumping TODAY

And no doubt they’d be calling

later that night for a documentary.

What’ll I tell them? she said.

That you’re dead, I said.

THAT’S NOT FUNNY STAN !!

One night not long after,

we’d gone to a big

Hollywood Christmas party

and gotten completely wasted

on mixed tropical drinks.

We took a cab home.

Then talked for a while on my bed.

She put her arms around me,

stabbed her tongue into my mouth

and climbed up on top of me.

She pulled out my dick

through the zipper,

slipped it under her mini-skirt,

around her panties

into her unbelievably

hot and tight wetness.

She rode it.

Once up.

Once down

The must have remembered

her loving family,

friends and old boyfriend

back home in Toronto.

I can’t do this,

She said rolling off of me

standing up and pulling

down her skirt simultaneously.

I CAN’T DO THIS !!!!

She stormed out of my

door and into her own

across the hall.

She called somebody in Canada

and began telling them

how exciting the party had been.

Eddie Murphy was there,

I overheard her say.

He wasn’t, but there was

a black guy tending bar,

(maybe they all looked the same to her).

The best and worst fuck of my life.

The Best ,

because I loved that

little bitch and had waited

five months for The Dip.

The Worst,

because of its four-second duration

and transformation

of a girl who talked,

laughed and ate with me…

and cared about me.

into one who only said,

Hi Stan.

Bye Stan.

The next weekend I went

up to Ventura County

to go surfing.

And hen I got home Sunday

night, she was gone.

No note. Nothing.

Her apartment was unlocked.

Vacant. No furniture. Nothing.

Everything was gone except for the cars

which she’d left across the street

in the Post Office parking lot.

The Bronco was stolen the third night.

The Mustang was towed by the city

about a week after that.

In like a fly.

Out like a fly.

She’d mixed up my head.

She’d driven a fork right

through my fucking heart.

She’d nibbled and chewed

all of the self-confidence

from my bones

…..and still …

still had the nerve to call

four months later

from Paris…France.

It’s spring here, she said

on my answering machine.

The sun is shining.

The flowers have blossomed.

…I miss you Stan.