Dark Blue

“Something bad’s about to happen.” sings JFK.

“What? Karrie dies?” asks Lacey.

“She might have died. The same day I did. For all you know.” he responds.

“If my father was born in 1894 I hope she didn’t suffer too much. Poor dear.”

“If she did it was over in a matter of minutes. And I think if she does exist she feels more bad for you.”

They sit on a bench for the public bus system in Minneapolis near a major mall in Edina.

In the snow.

In November.

Today. …Sort of.

“Was it like drowning?” asks Lacey.

“I doubt it was quite that. But I have to think it would be scary.” He smiles kindly, serenely. Shrugs.

Silence.

“I’m freezing!”

“This isn’t that bad!” teases Lacey, but with concern.

He smiles as she insists he wear a down puffer and wool hat.

He smiles.

Lacey sighs, relieved.

“What if she really does feel worse for you?” asks an actress.

“Because my life has been so…painful?” asks Lacey.

“At least you had your kids. And you’re determined to live to raise them.” says Jack, eating peanuts.

“Where did you get those peanuts?”

“From your father’s bar.”

“He owned night clubs.”

“The lady working there gave them to me.”

“Jack.” Lacey looks concerned.

“I’m fine. I was just curious. Nothing happened.” he reassures her.

She sighs. Relieved. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“What was it like working retail?” asks Jack. “Seriously. Lacey, tell me the truth.”

“I loved it. I can make myself act like an extrovert when I want to.” She thinks. “But it was exhausting too. I literally got sick from exhaustion.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“Why?” He winces.

“I had an undiagnosed thyroid disorder. But I also…was so sad.”

“And you couldn’t push yourself everyday to act happy anymore?”

“No. I acted my whole life. But I was losing my touch, so to speak. I’ve since gotten it back.”

He smiles.

“Yeah, I can’t do that.”

He fakes a smile.

“I know.” he says.

“I can fake happiness very convincingly though.”

“I know.” He looks off.

“Anyway, I cracked.”

“And did what?!”

“I walked away from work. And sat at this bus stop. In January.”

He stares at her.

“I sat here in the snow. And just decided to wing it.” says Lacey.

He nods. “But you have money.”

“I know.”

“But that was part of your overall strategy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t know you would leave that way. Did they? And wasn’t it because you were late?”

“Late to work. Yes. And I didn’t want to be late again to work and feel humiliated.”

He cries.

“I kept asking for help and everyone acted like-everyone acted like-everyone just waited for me to magically get better or die.” Lacey admits.

“They checked for a thyroid problem!” he says sarcastically.

“They did. But it wasn’t clear that there was a problem.”

“But you just couldn’t stop sleeping.”

“I wanted to die. But I didn’t want to die.”

“I didn’t want to die.”

“That’s good that you didn’t want to die.”

“But you had customers to live for!” he teases her.

She laughs.

“Why were you working retail?! Huh?!” asks a perfume hater accusatorially. “I know you were are are secretly poor, ugly and stupid.” She sighs. “I just have to figure out a way to prove it!”

“It’s a long story.” Lacey responds, rolling her eyes.

An actress laughs.

“Do you think she’s making up the oil? Or the other other prestigious things? Or her attitude?” asks the actress.

“Yes!” says the hater.

“They contort my face when it’s standing right in front if them.” says Lacey.

“I can see the psychological tricks people might play about someone’s appearance or intelligence or goodness. But what about the oil?” asks the actress of the loudest perfume hater.

“It’s oil. Like. It’s just oil.” says the loudest perfume hater.

“Everyone has oil?” asks Lacey.

“Poor people get oil on their land. I’ve seen it in the movies.” she says. “It’s always the poor people.”

“And then it ruins their water?” asks another reader.

A black man laughs.

“Did her family’s water supply get ruined?” asks a man.

“Hey! Everyone dies!” says a dead queen walking by in the snow. She likes the weather.

“I don’t know about her family’s water supply. Maybe? Didn’t some of them die!?” the loudest perfume hater asks.

“Yes. But not from the water. Or drugs. Or anything quite like that.” says Lacey.

“Well…maybe we can wait and see if they get ugly and poor in public again soon?” she asks.

“Because you’re counting on it?” asks a reader.

“Yes! I pray in Jesus’ name for my ascendancy into greatness in public constantly and for her downfall.” She grins. “I can hardly wait for people to see how hot and great I am the way I see myself.”

“So all that real history and oil and politics and…real stuff is…dull?” asks the reader.

“It’s Jack shit compared to me. Have you seen me?! I’m the hottest piece of ass since Aphrodite.” she says, high as kite on opiates. She shakes her tits and ass for Instagram.

“Yeah, she be gross! But she puts out on screen. And as a closeted bisexual I secretly applaud her.” says a female perfume hater.

“Yeah! Isn’t that why you followed me too?” the loudest perfume hater asks Lacey confused. She thinks.

“No.” says Lacey as she tries to figure out how to explain.

“Then why did you follow me?!”

“Do you want to know the truth?” asks Lacey.

“Sure.”

“It was about the numbers. I took a lot of time getting followers.” She thinks. “I never bought any followers and still haven’t.”

“But you didn’t follow everyone.”

“True. But that’s because they didn’t seem like a real account.” She thinks. “Or they were overtly and/or obviously evil.”

“So we were all just numbers?”

“Yes. Until I got to know you better.”

“Who didn’t you follow?”

“People who annoyed me or people who were a fake account.”

She laughs.

“So she didn’t annoy you?”

“No more than anyone else at first.”

“Boy you are elite!” says the loudest hater sarcastically.

“How’s that?” asks Lacey.

“You’re acting pretentiously elite!” she barks.

“How so?” asks Lacey.

“Because you’re acting.” she says.

“That doesn’t mean that she’s acting in that way.” says a reader.

“Oh come on! It always means that.” says the loudest hater.

“Means what?” asks a hater.

“That the person is poor.” says the loudest hater.

“So you think people only act in public differently than reality for reasons of hidden poverty and nothing else?” asks a hater of the loudest hater.

“Yeah!” says another loud but not loudest hater.

“There’s no other reason to pretend?” asks a movie director.

“Not nowadays.” she responds.

“You don’t think someone could be that sad?” asks a perfume hater.

The loudest hater laughs. “Nobody gets that sad. If they did I would have experienced it already.”

“What do you do when you get mildly sad?” asks Lem.

“I get high like an elite.“ says the loudest hater.

“That’s why they loved you. You make them feel normal and shrewd.” says a woman to the loudest perfume hater.

“And your mother and the US government bail you out?” asks Harold Loeb.

“Yes!”

“Do you get sad the way an elite gets sad?” he asks her. “For the truly same reasons they get sad?”

“Yeah, I mean…I’m not like elite, but. I’m kinda like them psychologically speaking. Far more than that stupid farm girl Lacey.“ she says. “I’ve been waiting to get discovered my whole life.”

“To get discovered?!” asks Tommy Banks. “By whom?”

“Some Hollywood executive who sees how hot I am.” she says with cavalier ennui.

Lacey feels uncomfortable.

“See! She’s a lesbian!” says a bourgeois Muslim in the perfume community of Lacey. “Why else would she be uncomfortable?!” They scoff.

“Was it the Jews or the Irish lace that controlled Hollywood?” asks a conspiracy theorist.

“My name is Lacey.” says Lacey with a wink.

“But your father wanted it spelt without the e.” says Elliott.

“I like the e. It’s more traditional.” says Lacey. “It’s also hilarious.” she says.

“What is you think we do when we discover you?” asks Louis of the loudest hater.

“You check me out.” she says coyly.

“And what would happen when we check you out?” asks Lem.

“You’d want to fuck me because of my big boobs.” she says coyly. L

He smiles. “But I was pretending to be gay.”

“I’d have to come at you.” she winks.

“How tall are you?” he asks.

“I’m 5 feet 8 inches.” she says.

“Of cock?”

“No. I have…tits.” she says.

“Then I could punch you out. I’m six feet tall and you’re a woman. Although if you had men helping you and you were the US President I could be overpowered.” he says.

“I’m so much smarter than this! I’m so much smarter.” she says.

“There are either angels or demons protecting you. Or both.” says Lacey. “But I’m not sure you’re even this smart.”

“What do you mean?” she asks Lacey.

“You could easily be dead but something is protecting you.” Lacey says.

“I’d never fuck you.“ says Lem.

“That was intended for Lacey. Right? She’s the one with tiny tits. And only gay Elliott Roosevelt called them tits. Right?” asks a hateful Illuminati member.

“No. That was intended for the large woman with huge breasts.” says Lem.

“Oh come on! I’m elite now!” says a bourgeois hater. “My tastes are the new elite standard!”

“Sweetheart, we don’t understand how evolution works.” says a Liberal.

“Yes. Twilight of the Bourgeois Experts. Not Twilight of the Elite.” corrects Lacey.

“Meritocracy remains. It’s the middle-class that’s dying, sadly.” says Jack.

“No! It’s meritocracy!” protests a bourgeois man.

“But you mean real experts?” the hater asks.

“Yes. Real, bourgeois experts.” says Lacey.

“The brilliant among the upper-middle-class?” asks a perfume hater. “The best and the brightest?”

“Maybe they were all boiled in a pot intended for rabbits in the 1970’s and 80’s and 90’s?” wonders Lacey.

“That’s not your sense of humor. That’s my badass sense of humor.” accuses the loudest hater. “You so often impersonate us when you want to sound cool.” she claims. “You always did. We only impersonated you to use you. Because we’re elite snobs and you’re street trash. And we’ll kill you and all the elite to prove it.” the loudest hater says.

“Did the Illuminati cast you as the true voice of the future?” asks a male Christian of the loudest hater.

“Yes.” says Lacey. “Should they exist the new money loves her.“

A conservative laughs. But then feels stupid.

“There is no Illuminati and you’re crazy!” he says to Lacey.

“No. She’s not. Sorry.” says a real psychologist. And a psychiatrist professionally concurs.

“Your dad is going to leave you millions.” says Lacey’s cousin. “I’m not angry. I am crazy though. Your father’s family by birth or otherwise is brilliant but…”. He shrugs. He smiles. “You know what I mean by crazy.” he clarifies. “What are you going to do with your money?” he asks seriously.

Lacey looks concerned.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You should have been raised by Thelma!” he says, in irritation.

“If my father is Tom, then yes. But I wouldn’t have my kids.”

He nods in understanding. “Well, hopefully it will all be sorted out in Heaven.”

“What will you do with your inheritance?” asks Lacey.

“I’ve planned it.” he says.

“I suppose we’ll have to communicate through lawyers about the whole thing eventually.” she says. “Not hostilely but due to issues of oil.”

“That’s what my wife thinks. She says oil is going out.” he says. “What do you think?”

“Stop!!!” yells a ghost.

Lacey looks at him.

“Why?” asks Lacey’s cousin’s wife.

The older man looks sad. “I can’t say.” he smiles.

“Oh! Sorry!” says her cousin’s wife.

“See, you still irritate me.” Lacey says to the loudest hater.

“I don’t get it. I don’t get why.” she says exasperated.

“Why? We love her!” says a perfume hater.

“Yeah! She’s sweet if a bit lurid on occasion.” says a woman who pretends desperately to be old-money. An act that fools most people. “You’re the ugly-white-trash-bitch-prostitute!” She thinks. “You’re the lying, backward, Hyacinth Bucket, stupid whore

“Yeah! Don’t she remind you of Hyacinth?!” says a bourgeois black hater. “Her mother was some ugly waitress on a plane. In the 80’s? Please I’ve seen the shit face white trash who in their delusions thought they were models. They were ugly wannabes.”

“We planted those articles.” says an actress in the Illuminati. “Or we used some narcissistic woman’s fairytale based on her peers and not herself.”

“You planted those articles?!” asks a Christian man.

“Yes. She’s a thorn in our side.” says the actress.

“Why?” asks a psychologist, laughing.

“She’s a Christian. She’s nothing like the Illuminati was led to believe she’d be. And she accidentally found us.” she says.

“Through prostitution?” asks a hater prompted by demons controlled by the Illuminati. The Illuminati hater finds it funny. It never gets old to him.

“But I’ve never been a prostitute.” Lacey says to everyone.”

“It’s a libelous accusation in her case. And if you’re using their technology to do it don’t you worry about your life?” asks a bourgeois hater of the Illuminati hater.

“No! They love me.” he says.

“Satan loves you?!” asks the Christian hater.

“Does Satan love you?” Lacey asks the loudest perfume hater. “Is Satan everyone’s sky daddy these days?” She thinks. “Are y’all shaking your asses hoping he’ll stick you?” she asks. “Shake you up for eternity from the inside out?”

“In Hell?” asks her cousin.

“Oh! Please! These cool cats all know Hell is just a big right or Fourth of July…celebration.” she says sarcastically. “Only you darlin’!” Lacey sings.

“Alright. You’re one of those stupid Christians who believes in Hell.” says a bourgeois hater dismissively. “There is no Hell! I can prove it using our current understanding of everything. We know so much now.” he says.

“Just ask Jesus to forgive you and be your Lord and savior.” says Lacey. “Often.”

“Nah! Religion is an opiate!” says a bourgeois businessman.

“You’re not supposed to preach! That’s my job. You’re a witch!” says a Christian hater.

“Except she’s not a witch. Not really.” says an Illuminati member.

Another Illuminati member laughs.

“Are women not as irresistible as we make them out to be nowadays?” wonders a lesbian. “Like they’re hot. But they’re not hotter than men.”

“Possibly.” says Lacey.

“And children aren’t.” she says.

“Correct!” says Lacey.

“So you’re not a witch?” asks the Christian hater.

“What if we aren’t. But the Illuminati, should it exist, is.” says Lacey’s cousin. “Maybe not all of them but in general.”

“But it’s-Then I’m Illuminati too.” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I’m talking to them through this blog.” He looks at her cousin in his spirit. “How are you guys Illuminati?”

“Because the oil and all that is imaginary?” asks Lacey. “But your fans are real?”

“Yes.” he says.

“That’s not reality. Really. It’s not. But I don’t trust you for a reason. Be careful. And if you actually believe in God then pray. We all need prayer.” says Lacey.

“Hey! Did you ever think you might just hate the British and Lacey felt too British?” asks Jack. Jack Kennedy.

“So you don’t want to fuck me you just want to make love?!” asks the loudest perfume hater of Lem.

“God did love the British too. He still does.” says Lacey.

“Do we hate them because they won? And that’s most of it nowadays?” asks a black man.

“I worry it is.” says Lacey.

“They are…beautiful.” says Jack.

“You see it too?” asks an Englishman.

“Yes.” he admits mournfully.

“No. I don’t want you. In any way.” Lem says to the loudest hater.

“I don’t look like Jack?!” she says.

“You don’t look like the female version of me.” he says.

“But she’s tall! And she has your chin line!” says Lacey. “And you have long eye-lashes.”

“You know that’s not how it works.” says a Nazi Eugenicist to Lacey. “You’re being sarcastic.”

“True. But they insist.” she says.

“Who?” he asks.

“It seems to be the bourgeois.” She thinks. “Or the narcissists.”

“The pedophilic fools killing koalas?” he asks.

“No! They’re not! They’re the new elite!” she says sarcastically. “The hot shit sisters. The rat pack. The bozos of bitchville.” she says. “The shake your ass cool-kids.”

He laughs. “Is that what they call themselves?”

“Seems to be.”

He sighs. Nods. Cries, a little. “The actual Rat Pack doesn’t take that personally.”

“What a stupid name!” she says.

“It is.” he agrees.

“You’re deeply secure in your gender?” asks a Boomer.

“I’m very secure.”

“So you’re insecure?”

“No. I’m very secure.”

“But no one says it that way.”

“What way?”

“You use words like deeply and wildly all the time. That’s trashy and bourgeois. Or childlike. You’re gross and weird!” a perfume hater freaks out. “And your words belong to my interpretation because I’m better than you. And you’re nothing. And that’s what a better man says! A professor! I watched and understood the assignment!”

“I don’t use wildly in that way.” she says.

“Yes you do?”

“No. Nor deeply.”

“Yes! You do!”

“No. I don’t.“

“Never mind.” says a witch who believes her.

“Are you a witch?” asks Michael. He winks at her.

“No. Most definitely…she is not a witch.” says Lem.

“She’s in need of love.” says Michael losing control of himself.

“No! There’s nothing like Purgatory! And Michael didn’t start giving Lacey bedroom words to use in ways he found arousing and hilarious.” says a professor.

“Why? Why you want to sleep sexually with a beautiful woman with no big boobs?” asks a supposedly straight man.

“That’s not what I like.” says Michael.

“Because you were bisexual?” asks a bisexual woman.

“No. Because that’s what I like on a women.” he says. “And I actually wasn’t all that bisexual. Somewhat. But not all that much. I was more into women, actually.”

“I preferred smaller breasts too.” says Harold.

“So did I!” says Louis.

“So did I!” says Scott.

“I did too, actually.” says Lem.

“Were you all gay?!” asks the bisexual woman.

“No, I bet they were lazy or ignorant.” says a bourgeois, straight identifying man.

“Wait!! Do actual men who really like women like big boobs?” asks the bisexual woman.

“Are you wondering if women like them instead of men?” Lacey says.

“No. I just can’t believe men find small breasted women attractive.”

“I do.” says Louis.

“No! You were straight! You like big boobs!” says a Hollywood casting guru often hired for major period films. “I’ve seen who men like you fuck!”

“How old are you?” Louis asks.

“56!” he says indignantly like he’s talking to a child.

“How old were you in 1995?”

“Almost 30.”

“So you were working in the industry?” Louis asks.

“Not quite yet. But almost.”

Silence. The guru realizes he’s making a fool of himself.

“You really liked smaller boobs?!” he asks Louis.

“Yes. That’s more common among some straight men than you think.”

“Like a child?” asks the Hollywood guru.

“No!” says Louis. “Quite the opposite.”

“Why do you all insist on such nonsense all the bloody time?” says Lacey.

“Guys, I have a feeling it’s just personal preference among consenting adults.” says the loudest perfume hater.

“I want to know why men find her attractive. Because I’m bisexual and I don’t find her attractive.” says a woman.

“But maybe other people do.” says the loudest perfume hater.

“Why?!” asks the bisexual woman.

“Because not everyone has your tastes.” says the loudest perfume hater.

“I like what’s good.”

“So do I!” The loudest perfume hater thinks. “Do you like Chanel No. 5?”

“Yes! It’s okay. It’s not great.”

“What about the smell of lavender?”

“Meh.”

“Violets?”

“Violets are sad and sexy.”

“What about coconuts.”

“Mm. I don’t like food smells.”

“Why?”

“They’re just-They aren’t attractive. It’s like ick.”

The loudest perfume hater thinks.

“Lacey, what fragrances do you find attractive?” asks Louis.

“Something harsh. Like the smell of lemons.” she says.

“What about Chanel No. 22?” asks Lem.

“It’s a nice thought. But personally I’d just tolerate it.” she says.

“What about food smells?!” asks the loudest perfume hater.

“I’d tolerate them.”

“But lemon is food!”

“Oh! Zing! You got me!” says Lacey. “I didn’t necessarily categorize it that way.” She thinks. “It is food. You’re right. But that’s not how I meant it. Sorry. That was unclear. I meant lemon like herbal lemon. Like in a Penhaligon’s or Floris cologne. Emphasis on harsh and bracing not lemon.”

“I can’t be your friend.“ she says to Lacey seriously.