Malibu Barbie & Karen
by Sean McGahey
Last night I didn’t sleep well.
In my dream I’m naked in a dirty tub, I haven’t got a nose! And I’ve got clowns feet? I read that these recurring dreams warn you of some upcoming sickness. During the night all I had to read was a few old copies of “The Ultimate Guide to the Shades of Purple” & “Carpet Cleaning Through the Ages”. My shrink gave me an alternative safe and natural antidepressant, something for bipolar and depression. Using Lithium in its organic form only is non-addictive and with no side effects. I also take in liquid form something similar to PCP. What I like about it, is it leaves you in a stupor similar to extreme drunkenness.
It’s now noon; Linda has taken the Mercedes. I’m heading out for a coffee and something to eat.
Now picture a coffee shop, the furniture is all mismatched, posters of Hemingway cover the walls, and there are bookshelves in every corner. The floors are wooden, old and bare, each table has a small lamp. They have assorted coffee, the usual pastries, and customers, mostly reading. A large glass storefront offers a view to the street, a few tables on the sidewalk, a nice place to sit and talk. I’m the one sitting in the corner.
Now think about what is really happening to your body at this moment… difficulty breathing, feeling as though you can’t get enough air. You think something terrible is going to happen, repeat to yourself: “I will not fall, faint, die or loose control, I will not fall, faint, die or loose control, I will feel some empathy for such a sad and vacuous step-mother.”
I need more Prozac… sorry… I need a very strong… soothing… tranquilliser… trembling, sweating … shaking …
We used to take part in family life by eating, having conversations and doing things together. Our kitchen was often the hub of the home. The space is done up in bright white minimalist décor with a distinctly Mediterranean feel. All clean line tables, clear glass and striking sleek designer cutlery. It used to be the place to socialise. However, Linda, my step-mother, often materialistic and excessively concerned with my father’s money, talks ceaselessly, reminding me of a squawking chicken. Worst of all she cannot cook to save her life.
When she talks it’s like a ringing and buzzing in my ears. When not on Librium she talks too quickly, when on medication she’ll often mispronounce, mangle her words, sounding flat, disinterested and bored to tears. There are times I find it hard to understand half of what she says.
It is, as far as I can tell, an unavoidable fact of this relationship. The woman is a bitch and tends to be financially dependent on others. One night with a vacant look, she was on the verge of tears, mumbling: “Being a step-parent is the hardest thing I have ever done, and what rewards there are, are small. No one pats me on the head for having given up the pleasures of … nutty, toasty aromas that predominate in French champagne … endive and champagne … white asparagus soup with a parmesan crouton and chive oil or chopped chino farm vegetable salad with balsamic vinaigrette … for … for spaghetti hoops in tomato sauce and hamburgers.”
She used to be seen at Nancy Reagan’s favourite restaurant back when it was The Bistro Garden. Linda looks as though she’s from 1975, the era of Cheryl Tiegs and Malibu Barbie the quintessential California beach girl. As a teenager, Linda bleached her hair and did her best to straighten it with a blow dryer. She also has contact lenses – boring – she bored the hell out of me on the benefits of the cosmetic improvements in the appearance of her severe frown lines. I did notice the temporary eyelid droop…
Linda’s night life trots between champagne, men, fashion and celebrities. She’s too dumb or vain to appreciate the ironies of her own banalities.
Linda worked for a beauty salon. “We offer a wide range of services to help you create a more beautiful you,” was the well-advertised boast. “We shampoo, cut, condition, colour, highlight, bleach and more, for you or your child.”
Apparently she started out as a waxing professional ”available to remove unwanted hair from legs, arms, face and more. Providing the look of a smooth, beautiful complexion. “We want to enhance your inner and outer beauty with dramatic flair.”
Linda wasted my father’s time and money with all the partying and drinking. She also shared an apartment located in one of the prestigious parts of town with an ex male model/prostitute called Franny, who later died of a drugs overdose. She found his body after two days, in the master bedroom, in the private en-suite, in the spa bath.
It was on the radio that I heard: “A woman died from injuries suffered in a two-vehicle crash. Witnesses say thirty-six year old Linda Portman failed to stop at a stop sign as she crossed US 27 West of Arlington. A 1996 Porsche 911 Carrera 4 Cabriolet Convertible tried to evade her, but crashed into the left front quarter panel of Linda’s Mercedes-Benz SL-Class SL500 2dr Convertible (5.0L 8cyl 5A). Linda was taken to County Hospital where she died of her injuries. The other driver, thirty-five year old Chad Towers, was treated for minor injuries at the scene.”
Today I received a letter and a photograph from Karen’s (my ex-girlfriend) parents. When we first met, she was a troubled student with a flair for poetry/animation. She’d taken part in the Student Animation Festival, and been awarded “Student of the Year” for a 12-minute hand-drawn short based on William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. When asked what she thought of college life, she took a drag on her cigarette and watched as returning students streamed in and out of the Cinema. “There are no boys anywhere,” Karen complained. “It’s no good. If I’d known, maybe I wouldn’t have come here.”
I, Sean Portman, promised Karen I’d be one of the greatest moviemakers of our time. In early 1998 I emerged as a nothing. And that’s how I met Karen. She’s one of those Mediterranean-looking girls that seem to be blessed with a particular aura, a confidence that comes with being genuinely beautiful since birth. She’d constantly follow me around taking photographs with some flashy Finepix S250 Zoom Digital Camera.
Karen lived and worked in a three-storey New York-styled trendy apartment. The night we got together she looked sexy, wearing hipster type jeans and a tight black tee-shirt. We went back to her room. I moved on top of her, her hands slipping under my jeans. Good Vibrations played in the background. I knew at that point I was falling for her.
Karen was only twenty years old when she directed her first film, The Base, which premiered at the college film festival. She eventually studied at the Hampshire Film School in Amherst, Massachusetts and while there started directing low-budget art-house videos. After seeing one of her early videos, MTV Europe offered Karen the opportunity to join their snazzy production company in Paris. “I went to sixteen different schools. I had no sense of place, no sense of family, no friends. I felt not seen. Then I wrote a film and people applauded! I finally felt visible, understood …a star! That film, created in Reg. 8mm was in great danger of being lost forever due to deterioration of the original film and her three months in rehab…
Karen was from an extremely rich family. They are sure trying to change the image of the rich and the famous. So what’s the surprise? Karen is or was, of course, the spoilt brat. Also, her mother is having an affair with my Father. Her own Father has almost nothing to do with her, seemingly only around to give her money and forget her birthday and is having an affair with a supermodel who become a pop culture columnist and author of a memoir.
Karen was looking to get married, preferably to someone of a higher social class. She didn’t know an honest day’s work from her elbow. She was a repugnant ditzy little brat who left me to start dating an older smarmy French guy because “They hold hands with their female companions, help them cross the street and even open car doors.”
Karen’s Mother has sent me a photograph of the happy couple. A cheeky Karen wearing what looks like a designer preppy style uniform, the back of which is blowing in the wind revealing her white panties. He’s wearing what looks like a Barrel-cuffed or French button-collar shirt. The French smoke, drink and eat more than anyone in the world, yet they live longer and have fewer problems. How do they do it?
On the back of the photograph was a note. Karen was in production of her latest feature film Eyes of Death, a Kung-Fu epic staring Chez Powers. Eyes of Death should wrap production in early 2003 and was slated for a fall 2003 release. On the June 17, Karen was found dead on the pavement beneath the window of her fourth-floor apartment block. Officials announced the death of Karen as a suicide, telling journalists she had a “persecution complex,” and that her death was due to a combination of excessive prescription drugs and paranoia.
However, Karen was discovered with her Pauric Sweeney tracksuit top pulled over her head and no trace of drugs or alcohol was found in her blood? Her family and friends found it hard to accept a verdict of suicide. Only a few days earlier she had passed a note to a neighbour asking them to tell the police that her fiancée is a professional hit man/drug dealer who had earlier killed a French detective in Marseilles. The end of the letter read: “For God’s sake, I can’t do this again. I’m as good as dead.”
I’ve spent many, many hours here drinking coffee, reading or just watching the world go by, drinking coffee after coffee, carefully observing everyone who is in the cafe and who walks by. Outside in the dark, teams of children play tag. I put on my headphones and start listening to Something Worth Leaving Behind, the one produced by Matt Serletic of Matchbox Twenty. A pack of cigarettes lies nearby, almost empty. I’ll finish the pack off later. I light another cigarette. With a hand clutching at the letter and photo in my pocket, I start again trying to leave the cafe. A heavy sense of loneliness settles on my shoulders – and that feeling of dread sits at the back of my mind.
By Sean McGahey
With loads of help from Neil Marr