The Adventures of Scarelt & Margot

The Adventures of Scarlet and Margot
I. Neither
Sure, they had purpose.
Scarlet pulled up her nylon dress, grabbed Margot’s arm and, together, they swanked up to the metal-based door. They didn’t have to wait and they certainly didn’t have to pay. The scoffed up elitists, known as “the Blacks,” stood patiently behind them in a jumbled line, each (gender aside) with black choppy hair; clearly grasping individuality.
Scarlet and Margot sauntered past the five dollar entrance fee, and entered the M Bar, a velveted room muddled with hipsters in their mid-twenties. Lit chandeliers hung overhead, allowing just enough light to seep through each separate crystal. In the right corner of the room, there was a slick granite bar decorated with liquor adornments and directly across, there were luxurious burgundy booths that were always soft to the touch. The Blacks within, cornered the bartender; lit cigarettes in hand. One by one, unsure pallor faces began to transform into pseudo celebrities of hauteur, as they guzzled the malted liquid down. This renovation allowed them to maximize their status by staring down measly novices, but they never dared to cross paths with Scarlet and Margot; no one ever attempted to impede them.
Scarlet had vibrant platinum hair that swept past her shoulders and a racey complexion that could match any lighting. Her emerald eyes were often darkened and freckles faintly surfaced her nose. She was usually seen in fancy dresses and knee-high boots, and the addition of bracelets which horded her wrists. She was eighteen; eighteen and in high school, but only Monday through Thursday.
Margot was her accomplice. Cherry red hair framed her round face and her blue eyes seemed to pop through her eyelashes. She carried herself naturally, in such a way, that her clothes were often baggy and she wore her makeup sparingly. Her anemic body stood out from everyone’s; her skin appeared to be immaculate porcelain.
Together, the two could ignite nervousness, the kind of nervousness that induced perspiration. Past the blurs of moist people, they grabbed hands and lifted themselves onto the center stage. The electroclash boomed out of the speakers as pairs of eyes multiplied around them. They weren’t invited to the stage, it was just their place. They were two irregular jewels that fit together amongst the grit.














II. Scarlet
We valet the car and walk up to the line. Everyone is staring. I don’t know why I am wearing a dress. A timid dress amidst fierce ripped jeans; you can tell a lot about a person by what they wear. And me, I look like a six year old, a six year old with too much make up on. Or maybe the makeup among my dress will add a couple of years to my appearance. Perhaps?
Fuck, I don’t know. I look like an idiot. Scarlet says that we are mysterious and it’s this that I can never believe.
They are all waiting outside, all of the Blacks. I hate the way they stare at me. I never did anything to them, I’m nice, I’m shy. I really hate this dress.
Guy, the bouncer, yells, “Ladies!”
We know that this means get out of the line and up to the front, but we don’t know why. We make our way up to the front, past the evil Blacks and their furtive vulgarities. He pats us both on the head and we smile and pass the drunkards at the bar.
I see that scruffily handsome guy, the one that works at the record store, the one that mistakenly eyes me, so I smile.
“Scarlet!” he shouts.
Me?
He grabs my hand and inches closer as I begin to lose myself in my own words. And, I don’t know why we opt for the M Bar, again. Film Production, he asks, and like all the other times, I proceed to nod in a reassuringly charming way. Yes, I go to USC or it might be NYU. I’m in my first year as a film major or I might be in my last. High school? High school was ages ago.
I don’t know why I come here.
The twenty-five year olds end up wanting to get married and the kids back at home, back at my high school, can’t hold a conversation.
I am a conversationalist, I can’t help but lie.
























III. Margot
Scarlet drives my car because hers is out of gas and I can’t distinguish the gas pedal from the break. We pull up and the car doors are opened by the men in red vests, so we proceed to the party.
Passing the stragglers in line, we are welcomed inside, and the men might as well be drooling, but I don’t care. I find two or three girls and Scarlet trails off with that city record clerk. I don’t care for men, well, not like Scarlet does. I swear she has dated ever guy in the book.
There was James, the most desolate boy to ever grasp a jack Daniel's. Undeniably unsure of himself, she constantly picked up his shattered pieces, drenched in humiliation herself. She loved him because he made her feel beautiful. Infidelity, on his part, thrashed all hope.
Then there was Alex, the most unmotivated boy to ever pick up a pencil. He lacked reassurance & offered nothing but passion, which made her certainly confused. She loved him because he wrote her poetry & songs & offered the greatest sort of pleasure imaginable. Sloppy seconds, on her part, blackened their “glowing future.”
Oh, and there was Marc, the wittiest boy to ever say, “I love you.” He relied on drugs, preferably heroin, while she had never touched any sort of substance. His humor was dry & his tone was always serious. She loved him because he was genuine, which is sheer irony in itself. Substance addiction, obviously, on his part, killed them.
Yeah, so the list goes on.
And, Me?
Well, I am a sort of swinger, living the high-life, as they call it. I’m not promiscuous or anything, I just like to let go, yknow, take advantage of these youthful years.
Besides, everyone seems to be so fixated on my rocky breakup with Jack, which was months ago. A year and a couple of months in conjunction with distance can really tear two people apart. It’s his fault, anyway, he is the one that moved to Santa Barbara. We were perfectly fine together, here, in Los Angeles. But, that is over and Jack has hit rock bottom, he tells me. So, the end of that was the beginning of this make-out liberation.
I proceed to grab two girls and kiss them on the dance floor.
















IV. Neither
It was one o’ clock AM when the M Bar had been filled to capacity. The supple walls suctioned the Blacks in, allowing no air to pass between their pallor bodies. While in the center, Margot gracefully kissed two unidentifiable girls, and Chris, the broad-shouldered record clerk, held tightly onto Scarlet’s hips.
Margot could spark attention like a bolt of lightning. Her affection stood as a form of eccentricity; something everyone desired. Her eyes lit up when she found someone new to entertain. Yet, she only seemed to pick the shy, uneasy wallflowers that frequently went unnoticed; this was her way of enriching their lives, a community service, if you will.
Meanwhile, Scarlet was busy luring Chris in with the mysterious black around her eyes. Swaying seamlessly to the music and still, in deep conversation, Scarlet was a multi-tasker. With the touch of a male’s hand approaching her waist, her eyes and lips were triggered to do something majestic, codemonstrating the depths of her introspection.










IV. Scarlet
Chris‘ hand is on my hip.
You know what that means?
I’m not talking fast enough.
You see, when a man puts their hand on a girl’s hip, it means that they feel comfortable. Perhaps, comfortable enough to lean in. And, me, well I don’t kiss men anymore because my lips don’t know how to do that anymore. I have programmed them to lie and you can’t kiss someone when you lie. Kissing someone is like telling them a secret, and in turn, being honest. And, I’ve learned that when the man inches closer, you just talk fast enough so that they get intimidated, failing to find a moment. But, talking fast can come off as somewhat obnoxious. So, I just drop the situation altogether.
I excuse myself to the bathroom.
I can’t find Margot anywhere. I search the dance floor, I scan the tables, I check outside, and resort to my supposed destination. I hate the bathroom, here. All the girls use the pink porcelain walls as their ashtrays because they aren’t wearing enough clothes to go outside.
“Margot?“ I inquire.
“Scarlet!” she replies.
She opens a bathroom stall, that seems to have canned twelve little girls as sardines. They are all grasping for air, water bottle containing some sort of hard liquor in one hand and lit cigarette in other.
“We’re having such a good time, me and the girls, where have you been? This is Martine, Mackenzie, Ashley, Sam, Larissa, no no, not like Clarissa explains it all. Let’s see here....” Margot shouts inebriated.
“Okay, okay, nice to meet all of you. Margot, let’s go dance?”
She looks up at me like a six year old, grabs my arm, and we begin to make our way back to the dance floor. The people seem to be entirely disgusted tonight, because I swear, in that second that we stepped onto the wood pannels, everyone retreated to the walls with the rest of the Blacks. Here it was, me and Margot, stark on the dance floor.
“The stage, Scarlet, they want us to dance!” Margot bellows.
Before I can reject, a bouncer seems to appear before us, and hoists us up onto the stage. The music is pounding, and I can feel it, I mean really feel it.
I look out at the faces before of us and realize that: I’m bold and angry and new and tortured and tremendous and happy and I notice when someone has changed their hair part. I fumble and trip and wonder if I will ever express the greatness within me or if I will remain forever paralyzed by the jumbled madness inside my head.
I’ve wept on every birthday I’ve ever had because life is huge and fleeting and I hate certain people and certain shoes and I feel that life is terribly unfair and sometimes beautiful and wonderful and extraordinary, but also numbing and horrifying and impossible. I hate myself a lot of the time. The rest of the time I like myself and I adore my life in this city and in this world we live in; this huge, wondrous, bewildering, brilliant, horrible world. It doesn’t matter if I am eighteen, twenty, or twenty-two. And, it doesn’t matter which school I’m attending. Because my name is Scarlet and I am me.

V. Margot
Scarlet saves me from the nicotine in that crummy bathroom and we leave the girls and go to our niche, the stage. We love the stage and it loves us. I drank too much tonight, too much whisky for me and my frail little body. We’re dancing, right, and all the little people are looking up at us, admiring us. This is what we were meant to be. Sheer beautifiers. I guess I don’t really know what that means, but it is what we are. I can’t feel my body, I mean, I really can’t. I drank too much, way too much. Where’s Scarlet?
“Scarlet? Scarlet, where are you?”
Then, she appears just like that.
“I’m here, let’s get down from here, let’s go sit down,” she says.
But, I don’t want to get down, we’re not supposed to get down, can’t she see?
“No, we need to keep dancing.”
She takes my hand and leads me to the ground floor.
“Sorry, Scarlet, no can do,” I hold the speaker pole firmly.
She pulls with more force.
I jerk the pole harder.
The speaker collapses into the crowd.
Nobody is hurt, it’s okay.
Embarrassed, Scarlet flees the stage and Mikey, the gay guy who digs my hair, jumps onto the stage and takes me in his arms. We are really grooving, really picking up the pace and Mikey counts each step, “One, and two, and three, and four.” I’m all fuzzy and he takes the flame, the candle, and pushes it towards my chest.
“Work with it, Girl!” he shouts.
He drips the burning wax onto my chest and the crowd goes wild. I peer down at the burn, and it is all fiery and hot and red, like a cherry, like my hair. I can’t feel it, though. I mean, I really can’t feel it.
























VI. Scarlet
Margot broke the speaker. Of course, she did. I don’t know where I’m going or why I left her. I just have to get out of this room, it’s too much for me. I shouldn’t have worn this dress, I can’t even move in it.
“Hey, there you are.”
It’s Chris.
“Hey,” I reply nonchalantly.
“I saw you up there, on stage. What was that loud crash?”
“Margot pushed the speaker, she’s lost all inhibition by now.”
The words keep coming and I begin to operate these lips in that seemingly genuine way that I do. Sure, I’ll go with you outside. Yes, I’d like a cigarette. But, I don’t smoke? Yes, I do. I smoke. I’ll smoke. Margot? Oh she’ll be fine, she’s wild but, she’s responsible. Responsible?
We push past the people, past the parking lot of occupied spaces. He parked on the street, so we don’t have to wait for the Valet. We find his old Jetta and he comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I nod, get in, and wait those awkward ten seconds of my thoughts quarreling with one another, until he gets in.







VII. Neither
Scarlet and Margot escaped their previous inquisitions, and rightfully rendezvoused with one another. A spotlight encircled them on that bare stage, and they looked at one another, and knew what they had to do.
Perform.
Scarlet’s dress fit like a glove, and her hips tempted the crowd. The white in her eyes gleamed off of the spotlight as she stayed with the beat, holding Margot’s ribs. Margot’s blood was diffused with alcohol, but it didn’t show. Her hair bounced in slow motion, each vibrant strand pirouetting to each decibel. They put on a production for the crowd, the bystanders, the Blacks.
Suddenly, Margot charismatically pushed the speaker down and it really excited the room. The air was somehow released from the spaces in between the people, and the people began to exert exuberance. The walls began to bounce in and out, pumping up the intensity of the room temperature.
Scarlet vanished.
A flamboyant male accompanied Margot on stage, holding a glassed flame. He began to pour smoldering wax down her chest and Margot interpreted it as another opportunity to please the crowd. She didn’t show any sign of fear or pain, she kept moving steadily.
Somehow or someway, the DJ ended the electronic beats and decided that there should be a sluggish song. Margot, aghast by this choice, exited the stage, and squeezed outside the emergency exit back door.
The alarm sounded so she escaped down two flights of stairs to the parking lot. Margot shook the valet man violently, so he kissed her forehead and handed her the keys. The cold air beat against her chafed chest, and it began to rupture with blood. She clicked the unlock button profusely and jolted into her car. Iron began to diffuse the stale air as she inserted the key into the ignition and maneuver the vehicle onto the main street.
The scene folded along Highland, driving to a centrifugal cloverleaf onto the freeway heading North as she accelerated to perilous speeds.