Picture, a weetzie bat fanfic

Picture

By Laura Schiller

Based on: the Weetzie Bat series

Song lyrics performed by Sheryl Crow (italics) and Kid Rock (bold)

Livin' my life in a slow hell;
different girl every night at the hotel.
I ain't seen the sunshine in
three damn days.
Been fuelin' up on cocaine and whisky;
wish I had a good girl to miss me.
Lord, I wonder if I'll ever change my ways.

My Secret Agent Lover Man woke up to a thundering hangover in a room he'd never seen and white checked blankets, rickety wooden furniture, a smell of dust and mothballs and a greenish-yellow wallpaper peeling off the walls. Some sort of motel, he guessed.

His last memories of the night before were of storming out of the house, sick to his stomach with rage and jealousy and fear, and driving right to the nearest depanneur for a bottle of something harsh and sweet and strong. Something to block out the image of Weetzie, his L.A. fairy lover, in the arms of their friends Dirk and Duck. He didn't care what her motive was. It was betrayal of the most heart-wrenching sort, and he was never coming back – let her plead, let her cry, he was never coming back.

I put your picture away,
sat down and cried today.
I can't look at you while I'm lyin'
next to her.

About nine months had passed. He'd rented himself a small apartment and was living off the proceeds of his latest film, which had been more successful than he'd hoped. He found the days blurring together in a dreary, black-and-white way; his apartment was grey as the inside of a newspaper, and his old addiction – putting up clippings of disasters – had him in its grip once again.

One night he lost control. He found a pink mansion full of sparkling, gorgeously dressed, dead-eyed Jayne Mansfield lookalikes and stayed the night. Their leader had long black hair that absorbed the light like velvet and eyes as purple as jacaranda blossoms. She beckoned him upstairs with a long white hand and he followed, bedazzled, drawn by the darkness in those eyes that was like a reflection of his own pain.

For just a moment, the image of a smiling face behind pink sunglasses and a hint of gardenia perfume floated across his mind. But he shook his head and followed the woman upstairs.

I called you last night in the hotel.
Everyone knows, but they won't tell
and their half-hearted smiles tell me somethin'
just ain't right.
I been waitin' on you for a long time,
fuelin' up on heartaches and cheap wine –
I ain't heard from you in
three damn nights!

Weetzie stared down into her glass of wine, remarking ironically that this had better not become a habit – or else she might turn into her alcoholic mother. She rather wished there were someone she could hate for this – Weetzie, who was never made for hating. Instead, she worried. Was her lover smoking again? Was he eating something green and something orange every day? Had he found another woman, one who was clever and fascinating and talked to him about war and politics and film techniques? Was he missing her as well and too proud, in his stubborn lone-wolf way, to admit it?

"Hey!" Dirk protested, snatching the glass away. "What did I tell you about pregnant women and alcohol?" She winced at the memory of the baby she was poisoning and got herself a chamomile tea instead.

I put your picture away;
I wonder where you've been.
I can't look at you while I'm lyin'
next to him.

The baby. Besides her friends, it was all she had left. She wanted a child so badly, to love and to care for; it had been the one bone of contention between her and the pessimistic My Secret Agent Lover Man, whose conscience could not endure the thought of bringing a child into this dangerous world. So she had gone ahead and conceived a baby with her best friends instead, two gay men devoted to each other, with whom she had absolutely no idea of falling in love. There was no reason for her lover to be jealous. It made no sense. Everybody and nobody was to blame, and everyone was suffering.

Once the baby was born, if he or she looked anything like My Secret Agent Lover Man, would he perhaps forgive her? But how would she tell him if she couldn't find him?

I saw ya yesterday with an old friend.
It was the same ol' same "How have you been?"
Since you've been gone, my world's been
dark and grey.
You reminded me of brighter days.
I hoped you were comin' home to stay.
I was headed to church…
I was off to drink you away!

My Secret Agent Lover Man felt dirty; stamped and stained with the touch of a stranger where only Weetzie's hands had ever been. Was this how she had felt after her escapade with Dirk and Duck? But no – they were friends, at least. And they had done it to have a baby, not out of some twisted motive of – revenge? punishment? lust? – whatever it was.

Looking down at Vixanne's face on the pillow, lips curled into a smirk even in sleep, he suddenly jerked the blankets off him and began collecting his clothes from the floor. He had to get out of here. The air was thick with incense, candy and guilt; he needed the fresh air of the rustling lemon trees around Weetzie's cottage to blow the fog from his mind.

I thought about you for a long time.
Just can't seem to get you off my mind.
I can't understand why we're living
life this way.

He needed Weetzie – her daily ritual of matching her clothes and accessories just so, her nasturtium salads and sushi, her gardenia scent, her soothing hands massaging his back, her kisses like magical worlds on their own. How could he resent her for doing what he had done himself? And how in the world could he get her to forgive him?

I found your picture today.
I swear I'll change my ways.
I just called to say: I want you
to come back home.

I found your picture today.
I swear I'll change my ways.
I just called to say: I need you
to come back home.

I just called to say: I love you –
come back home!