The invite said fags and queens only. No natural girls, no excuses. What bullshit. Jules greased back my hair with French coconut pomade and helped me glue on a goatee. She put a little liner under my eyes and took some Polaroids. The pictures seemed to inspire her, she inhaled deeply with her eyes closed, holding the air for at least ten seconds before exhaling grandly. She opened her eyes and cast a disparaging look around the dingy room, as though she’d expected to find herself somewhere else. Her critical gaze ended up in my crotch. I crossed and uncrossed my legs.
“Honey, you’re going to need to pack with something a little bigger if you want to get past the door.”
Just then there was a knock on the door. I got that sinking feeling, as though there were angels watching over me.
“Politie! Toegankelijk Naar de Portier!
“Jules,” I whispered.
Jules rammed her cigarette in her mouth and walked calmly across the room. She summoned up that man strength from way down deep and pulled the immense mahogany bookshelf away from the wall, revealing a gap between the floorboards and the wall.
“Go get the shit.”
I ran to the bedroom and grabbed my duffel bag. I grabbed the three remaining tennis balls stuffed with coke baggies.
“Hello!” I heard the cop call out as he rattled the door handle.
I ran back into the living room and dropped the balls in the hole. They bounced around like crazy down there in the dark before coming to a stop. Jules braced herself to push the shelf back.
“Hold on,” I said.
I took the iced-out TRUE medallion off my neck and let it fall. It winked back up at me from where it landed on the dusty black floor of the boiler room. I grabbed an overstuffed ashtray and dumped it in after it. The butts and ash rained down and snuffed out the sparkle.
“I’m some boy you picked up. Name’s Jamie. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he won’t ask for ID.”
Jules nodded. “Jamie,” she said. She was all business.
“OK. I’m ready,” I said, and helped her push.
myshitdontstink
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