Pandora Syndrome Chapter 2

~My 21st Birthday~

 

R.I.P. Pandora Grey Blackheart 1961-1982?

So it was Los Angeles where I went to “die.”

It was August 13, 1982 when I was “born to darkness” as the vamp wannabes like to call it. My twenty-first birthday would be the last time I saw day without a reasonable amount of strife. Sadly funny that I should “die” on the day I was born. I chuckle in remembrance every time I pass a Forever 21. Honestly, I should have known something would go down when my birthday fell on Friday the 13th.

I always thought it was kind of fitting that L.A. was called the city of lost angels. If you lived there for more than a year, you’d see day in and day out big fish from little pond Wisconsin come out to strike it rich as an actor/writer/producer/whatever. Lost angels indeed; lost angels working as background on movies or catering jobs trying to pay the exorbitant rent on a cramped no-bedroom apartment. All in hopes of being “discovered” and rising to super stardom where they, too, can have the Playboy trophy wife and a mansion in Beverly Hills. Or, like me, they just didn’t know what else to do with their young lives and decided that getting paid minimum wage to sit around in a nun costume was better than flipping burgers.

Since I was new to the Los Angeles area, I hadn’t had time to make any friends with which to party. All I had was my brother Jack and Rosetta, who was darling enough to drive up from San Diego for my twenty-first celebration. She didn’t like that I had moved away, but she hadn’t tried to stop me either. I think she could see that I needed to get away, at least for a while. Then again, you don’t have to be a mind reader for that. Anyone that heard about my stapling a fellow employee knew I wasn’t right in the head.

So, like the lame little sister that I was, my brother had to take my friend and I club-hopping.

Jack hadn’t mentioned the funeral since I moved in. I tried to broach the subject once and he went silent on me. Guess it was just one of those things we wouldn’t talk about. Like the time I found my favorite Barbie in his room tied nude to a coat hanger surrounded by a bunch of GI Joes.

Anyway, Jack invited a couple of his friends along to make my party less sad. So, that night I made the responsible adult decision to get trashed.

Rosetta helped me dress up. She had always been more fashionable than I was, so she put together my birthday getup. Since it was the 80’s, I probably don’t have to say just how awful I looked. I’ll always remember that horrible outfit— sparkly silver tights under a black miniskirt and a tight purple shirt that hung off the shoulder, revealing a bright red bra. Honestly, between the teased hair, fuchsia makeup, and purple-heeled boots, I couldn’t decide if I’d be mistaken for Madonna or Boy George.

Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t have looked more like vampire bait if I had tried.

We hadn’t even made it out of the house before I had the first of my three sheets to the wind. Rosetta had brought up a bottle from her grandfather’s tequila collection and the thing was half gone by the time we got the party on the road.

This was before DUI enforcements were a real threat, so we didn’t think twice about taking the car down to the Sunset Strip.

Once we made it to the clubs, I felt less awkward about how I was dressed. After all, we were partying in L.A., in the summer of 1982. It looked like a George Michael video and I was far from the most flamboyantly dressed.

The first club we visited could have been taken straight out of the movie Valley Girl. In San Diego, you didn’t see many guys wearing makeup. When you went out on the Sunset Strip, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one. I was stunned. At that moment I decided not to dance with any guy wearing more makeup than I was. Then again, maybe I was too picky.

I had a list. You know; that list of things a guy must have in order to keep your attention. My list started with the following:

1) Must not be wearing Makeup: I know it’s pretty shallow for number one, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of kissing a guy wearing lipstick.

2) Must have strong features: I was never a fan of the baby face. Adorable though they may be. I didn’t want to be resisting the urge to pinch their cheeks all night.

3) Good conversational skills: This should be number one, but it takes time to conversationally feel someone out. The other two rules are superficial and can be told right off the bat. This was an important one. Too many times a guy matched One and Two, then after the initial flirtations were over, I found myself so bored I wanted to gnaw my arm off to get away.

There are lots of rules; many, many more in fact that varied from person to person and consisted of the usual. You know, good breath, well-groomed, good kisser. I prefer light eyes to brown eyes, etc. Any number of these could be a deal breaker depending on the person and level of inebriation.

Rosetta called me a snob. She thought all the pretty boys looked cute. I’m sorry; I wanted my men to look like men and not watered-down drag queens. Of course, having said that, I seemed to have cursed myself. The only guys that approached me looked better in eyeliner than I did.

After about a half hour of sitting at the bar fending off she-males, my brother came to rescue me.

“Having a good time?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” I sighed, not wanting to be a drag—Ha.

“Well I’m not,” he laughed. “Let’s go. There are about ten bars down this strip and it wouldn’t be a pub crawl if we didn’t at least try to hit them all.”

I smiled. Clearly he could see I wasn’t having the best time.

My brother and I had always been close; not that we didn’t have our arguments, but for the most part we were happy siblings. Though I was spectacularly jealous of him; I got our no-good father’s dark hair and eyes, whereas Jack got our mother’s baby blues and sandy blond hair. I don’t think I ever had a friend that didn’t have some kind of crush on him. Even Rosetta liked him, though she pretended not to. He got more than his fair share of mindless bimbos, but I had yet to see him with a serious girlfriend.

So with that, we began our whirlwind pub tour. We hit the Cat Club, The Rainbow Room, The Roxy, and a few others I couldn’t remember, since the more bars we hit the less I recalled. Yes, we were on a pub crawl of epic proportions.

Unfortunately none of us knew just how epic it would turn out to be.

 

The last club we hit I remembered reasonably well; the infamous Viper Room, hot spot of the drunk and famous. Then it was called The Central, but I’m just going to keep calling it the Viper since I didn’t remember much of that night anyway.

I had the vain hope that I might see some celebs, but honestly, with the amount of alcohol in my system, David Hasslehoff could have been standing next to me and I wouldn’t have noticed.

When I arrived I was disappointed. Famous bands played there, it was a Hollywood monument, but all I saw was a simple black exterior that wrapped around a corner liquor store with a poor white marquee to advertise it.

“This is it?” I slurred.

My brother laughed, knowing how drunk I was, but to this day I still have the same opinion. It’s a small club. The stage was tiny. I couldn’t figure how all the great bands, especially hair bands, could fit on the stage let alone head-bang. Everyone would be packed like sardines if there were more than fifty people. God forbid anyone get overly enthusiastic and start a mosh-pit. People would be trampled to death.

The Viper Room was popular, though. When I walked in, it was packed. I scanned the small venue, located the bar, and made my way through the crowd. The bar top was lit with red neon and had a padded ledge, which I happily leaned on despite its stickiness. Impatiently, I waited for the bartender so I could order a drink I didn’t need.

I waved, trying to get his attention. However, try as I might, he ignored me.

I looked around for Jack, but he was chatting up some sleazy blonde in the corner. I guess bad taste in partners runs in the family. I searched for Rosetta, but she was nowhere to be found. She hadn’t been feeling well, so I decided she was probably in the bathroom. I would have to go check on her– right after I got my drink. Some friend I was, but I couldn’t help it. I was drunk and determined, a disastrous combination.

I glanced back at the bar, still no bartender in range. So I waited, hoping that my drunkenness might give me courage to flirt with or, God forbid, make out with some hot guy before the night’s end. I was never good at hitting on guys, or dealing with guys that hit on me for that matter. My former boyfriend had only become so after I tried a certain herbal cigarette for the first time. That hadn’t turned out too well, but this was my first time getting royally drunk, so maybe I would get lucky.

Considering the atmosphere, and that I was trying to order my fifth Long Island Iced Tea, I was willing to throw my list to the wind. I was ready to dance, ready to play some tonsil hockey; ready to crawl on the bar top and flash the bartender for a drink.

“May I be of some assistance?” A man’s cool voice suddenly breezed by my ear.

A shiver ran down my spine and I nearly fell over. It sounded as though his lips were to my ear, but when I turned, he was merely lounging against the bar next to me. I blinked a couple times, trying to catch up.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” he smiled.

His voice was startling and cut through the noise of the bar with little effort. I was shocked that he had slid up to me without my realizing. The guy was no slouch in the height department. I looked up into his stormy blue eyes and blushed. He was startlingly handsome and, at first glance, hit every bullet on my list. Maybe I was just drunk. Maybe he could sense my desperation. At that point I didn’t care.

He was perfect.

“You didn’t scare me,” I replied stubbornly.

I tried to look cool, but I was too wobbly to pull that off. Perhaps the drinks were finally starting to catch up. For the last few clubs I had been feeling like Wonder Woman. My ridiculously high-heeled boots weren’t hurting me. When I tripped, bashing my knee on the sidewalk, I got right up and continued on my merry way. As the throbbing started in my knee, I realized that tomorrow would be a hard day.

I had no idea how hard.

“Are you alright?” he asked, glancing at my favored knee.

“Yeah, just tripped earlier,” I replied. “No big deal. I’m more annoyed with the bartenders. It’s my birthday and all I want is a drink.”

“Happy birthday,” he smiled.

Oh, he was polite, too; bonus. I thanked him and explained how the bartenders had banished me to a realm of drinkless misery.

I took this opportunity to study him. If I had written to Santa wishing for a man, I could only hope my present would turn out half as well. He stood six feet. His hair was short and black as coal. The contours of his face were wonderful featuring a strong square jaw, high cheekbones, and a nose that made arrowheads jealous. No teased hair, no makeup, no unfortunate moles. He was older than me, but couldn’t be much past twenty-seven, which was perfect. I’d always liked guys a little older than myself.

I silently thanked Rosetta for making me up for the evening, even if I did feel funny about the contrast in our clothing. The man obviously had more taste than I could ever hope to have. He wore an expensive-looking high collar medium length gray jacket, which was double breasted like a patrol coat. I couldn’t help imagining what was underneath it, but quickly stopped myself. After all, I didn’t want to get my hopes up; I just met this guy.

He smirked down at me and I blushed all over again.

“Allow me,” the man offered with a sly smile and turned to the bar.

He snapped his fingers and within seconds one of the lady bartenders was there.

“What can I getcha?” she asked in a chipper tone.

I stared in amazement. The guy must be a regular. I’d never seen such quick service.

“The lady would like a Long Island.”

Good guess, since I hadn’t told him what I wanted. If this man went up any higher in my esteem I would have to get a ladder to reach him.

The bartender eyed me skeptically. I could tell she thought this guy was way too good for me. “And for yourself?” she asked him with a flirtatious smile.

I had the urge to reach across the bar and slap her, but I thought that might make me look bad.

“Remy Martin, on the rocks,” he smiled and she slithered away to make the drinks.

Seconds later she placed the drinks in front of us, winked at him, and took off on her broom.

Bitch.

I smiled, trying to give my new crush my best flirtatious eye. Since I had never used that look before, I hoped it would work.

“Thanks for the help. How much do I owe you?”

He smiled at me and laughed. I quickly realized that was the wrong thing to ask. Let’s just say I wasn’t used to having guys buy me drinks. Well, guys that weren’t related to me anyway.

I tried to think of something intelligent to say, but I was the mental equivalent of the Mojave Desert. Then suddenly I remembered Rosetta. I hadn’t seen her in a while. I needed to make sure she was okay.

Apparently I had pretty bad ADD, but this was before it was a diagnosable condition. Back then, it was simply called “airheaded”.

“Care to join me at my table?” he asked with an easy smile.

“I- should check on my friend first.” Why did I say that?!

Everything in me was screaming to go with this guy. However, some small part was afraid to. I always got nervous when things went too well, like I was waiting for something to go wrong.

“If you insist,” he replied, disappointed, and directed my attention to a table in the back of the bar. “I will be there when you are ready.”

I felt like such a hick listening to him talk. He pronounced everything so clearly, whereas I, even when not slurring drunkenly, had the diction of a truck driver.

“That would be great! I’ll be right back, I promise,” I excused myself.

As I turned, a cool hand took mine. I flushed and looked back at him.

“Before you go, may I have the pleasure of your name?”

“You may,” I replied, hoping to sound classy, yet playful. “It’s Adora.”

“Adora,” he repeated thoughtfully. “What a unique name. Is it short for something?”

I never liked giving my real name, but what could I say? He was gorgeous.

“Pandora,” I replied.

“Pandora? As in the box?”

“Yes,” I groaned, having heard it a hundred times. Somehow, when he said it, I didn’t want to grind his head into the ground. “All of the world’s misery right here in one cute little package. Care to take a peek?” Oh dear God in Heaven and all the Saints, why did I just say that? Now I sounded slutty. That’s it! I decided then and there I would never get drunk again.

Funny enough, I was able to keep that vow.

Luckily, he smiled at my brazenness and moved closer. I hadn’t even seen him take a step. I could feel the blood pumping in my veins in excitement.

“I might take you up on that,” he replied smoothly.

I felt as though I would melt. “May I have your name?” I asked, trying not to lose all ability to form sentences.

“I am Romulus,” he replied and lifted my hand to his lips, kissing it softly. “It is a pleasure.”

I envied my hand as I bit my lip, trying to contain my easily prompted lust. With a name like that, I could only guess he was European, though I didn’t detect an accent. For a moment, I wondered why a guy like this would be talking to someone like me, but quickly banished the thought. It was my birthday and so far he was the highlight of my night. Why ruin it with logic?

“I’ll be back- got to go- find my friend,” I stammered and backed toward the lady’s room.

I wanted to forget about my friend and jump into his arms, then and there. What was wrong with me? I never acted like this. The guy was having a weird effect on me. Just then, I noticed that a third of my Long Island had disappeared. When had that happened?

I looked over my shoulder to sneak a glance at the handsome man, but he was nowhere to be found. I prayed he would be at the corner table like he promised. I had every intention of going back to see him.

As I headed toward the ladies room my mind was polluted with thoughts of Rom- Rome…what was his name again? Geez, why was I so bad remembering names? Roma