STELLAFLY
Written in 1993 by Ithaka, aka Darin Pappas
published as a short story in: SHORTCUT MAGAZINE (japan 1993)
LAVA MAGAZINE (usa 1994), REACTOR MAGAZINE (Portugal 1996)
And appeared as a spoken word song form as the title track of the álbum, STELLAFY (nortesul-EMI Records 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 catalougues.
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 shiek.
And even with her income
was always borrowing from me for food and rent.
One of her biggest expenses was táxi 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 táxis.
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 advice.
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.
You see, I was her only friend in LA
and the phone was one 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, Califórnia
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 her long anticipated first jump
had been postoned.
It was that she’d already told everyone in Toronto
that she’d be jumping TODAY
And no doubt they’d be calling 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.
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.
When 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 bonés
.....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.
