Page 220 - Flaunt 171 - Summer of Our Discontent - St-John

I pipe in, “Yeah. I heard you have six million followers. What’s that like?”
“I don’t know,” Zoo says, “It’s like people want to know what I’m doing for some reason. Or they find me funny. I’ll do a short film where I dress up as a cop and instead of pulling a gun out I’ll pull out a dildo and I’ll get a million views.”
“A dildo?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Zoo says, “Or a banana.”
“Interesting,” I say.
Actually, honestly, I am interested in the state of the world. A
budding disaster. Zoo is living in what can only be characterized as an upscale crack den and he has six million people curious about what he injects into the Social Media ether.
“I gotta do it every day,” Zoo says, “I wake up in the morning. I jerk off in bed before lifting my head. Wipe the slime on the sheets. Smoke a joint right after. And I think about what I’m go- ing to post for the day. By the way, do you guys want some weed? I have Alien OG or Sour patch Squids. Yay? Nay?”
Zoo picks up a crumpled white bag off the coffee table and tosses it over into my friend’s lap. My friend pulls out a handful of joints and a see-through bag of glistening candies.
“Be careful with those Squids,” Zoo warns, “They’ll send you to Mars. Isn’t that funny? The Alien OG doesn’t really send you to Mars, but the Squids do!”
“Yeah,” my friend says, “That’s funny,” and he pulls out the bag of Squids, “I don’t smoke...or eat edibles, though.”
“Oh. Yeah. I remember that. You never used to smoke in high school,” Zoo says to him.
“How did you get the name Zoo?” I ask him, grabbing the bag of Squids from my friend, tossing two of them in my mouth, unsure of what the milligram content is per edible, almost imme- diately regretting it.
“My Mom.”
“What?” I say, chewing the sour.
“My Mom always called me ‘her little monkey’ so I decided I
would make my handle @zoomonkey95, ya know? It felt cute.” “Interesting,” I say again.
“You wrote a book?” Zoo asks me.
“ Yeah.”
“What’s it about?”
“Sex.”
“Really?” Zoo leans in.
“Sure. Sex and technology.”
“What do you mean ‘technology’?” Zoo leans back.
“It’s about how technology is turning us into zombies. It’s
about how technology, particularly social media is turning us into a-sexual sacks of anti-intellectual shit.”
“Oh...” Zoo says, looking at me like I am legitimately insane, his eyes open, looking frightened. A bead of cold black sweat drops off his hairline.
“I mean, I’m careful about not being too pessimistic. I don’t want it all to be bad,” I assure him, “Like you. You make money. You make a living off of social media, so it seems to be working for some people.”
“Yeah,” my friend says to Zoo, “You seem great,” he adds, the comment ringing falsely. The three of us pause and look around the room, a hell hole of degradation.
“Yeah...I’m great,” Zoo smiles, no teeth, sweat running off his palms.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask Zoo.
“Sure,” and he stands up and walks over to the makeshift desk with the computer. He’s flinging papers up and down, toss- ing bags of half-eaten KFC to the side, “I know there’s a writing utensil somewhere in here!”
I look over at my friend, nudge him on the knee, “Who the fuck is this guy?” I whisper.
“What?” my friend whispers back.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s got six million followers,” my friend answers quietly
through gritted teeth, his eyes big like a bunny rabbit, somehow thinking the six million followers made up for the fact that it feels like at any moment a giant human eating rat could crawl out from under the carpet.
“Here you go!” Zoo says, coming back over, holding out a cheap blue BIC.
“Do you want me to write ‘Zoo’ or ‘Josh’ in here?”
“I hate the name ‘Josh’. It’s vile. I only go by Zoo now.”
I proceed to sign the frontispiece of the book: To Zoo, With
Love.
I hand it over to him.
He studies the book, “It’s called ‘How to Kill A White Man’?”
Zoo asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what’s happening. The canned-goods gen- eration of white men is falling apart. It’s a collection of stories. Romance. Anxiety about the future. Different meditations on life. Breaking free.”
“It’s hard to describe,” my friend says, helping me out.
“I’m writing a book, too,” Zoo says, “It’s about being a social media star.”
“Really?” I ask, ultimately relieved at the subject change, not wholly interested in talking about my book.
“Yeah. My journey.”
“What was your journey?” I ask Zoo.
“I didn’t grow up like everyone else because of it, ya know? I
didn’t get to go to college. I guess I could have. But I was already making money. And now I want to be an actor. Like a serious actor. Like I met Tarantino the other day. I told him I had six million followers. I told him I was training to become a real actor. Shake- speare. Death of A Salesman. I told him I was doing these animal exercises to channel different emotions. Like pretending to be a shark. He didn’t say anything. Well, he actually said, ‘That’s cool, kid,’ and patted me on the back.”
“Did you show him the dildo video?” my friend questions, loosening up, laughing a bit, most likely at the realization that I don’t care whether or not Zoo does anything for me in ex- change for the book. It has also became abundantly clear that Zoo isn’t going to be posting the book on his Instagram.
“I didn’t show him the dildo video. Should I have?” Zoo asks my friend, genuinely curious, face jutting forward.
“It seems very Tarantino. A cop with a big pink dildo for a gun,” I add in.
“How’d you know it was pink?”
“10 inches long?”
“How do you know that, man?!”
“I’m guessing,” I say, smiling.
“Wow. That’s exactly what it was,” Zoo says to us, shocked,
“Pink and 10 inches long.”
I start to feel my face get hot. I grab the white bag of weed
products and pull out the wrapper for the Squids. I look for potency levels. Can’t find it. Only see a bunch of red exclamation points and triangular warning labels.
My face starts falling down to my feet. I look at the front door. I feel itchy. I feel like someone is going to bust in on us.
Is Zoo actually an Instagram star? Why aren’t I an Instagram star? Is this the life of Instagram stars? Am I in an Instagram star commune, right now? In this apartment complex in the war-zone of Van Nuys. Gun shots and black tops and mariachi music? Nu- trition made up of fast food chicken genocide?
“Do you guys want to get some fresh air?” Zoo says, standing
up.
I can’t speak. I nod my head. My lips feel like hot dogs. Zoo throws my book down on his coffee table. He is NEV-
ER going to read that book, I assure you. I don’t actually know if Zoo can read. Maybe he can only read in 120-word captions. Fuck it. Rip out the pages and use them as rolling papers. Smoke my literati away.
All of us stand now. Walk a few paces over. The fresh air is on Zoo’s balcony. I step behind Zoo and my friend, dodge deflated dodge balls and broken tennis rackets that pepper the carpet. The room is the architectural representation of a psychotic mind and spirit.
I walk as if I am in water. Honey water. My body an afflatus of uncertainty. Thick. Where is God? Am I God? Is Instagram and its denizens God?
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