I’ve spent a little too much time at Glitta Mansion. In the time that I’ve lived in Olympia I’ve noticed that all interesting places of living have names. Houses become proper nouns here and all are as unique as our social security numbers. They live and die in indeterminate dynasties and are remembered only by the individual experience of those locations. I guess we are above addresses now because here the houses are code-named. If you don’t know, then I guess you don’t deserve to know. Glitta Mansion is part of an apartment style duplex, much like the one I am living in now. It is a short walk from where I am flanked as I type by a furry paranthesis of kittens. It’s complicated perhaps, the place and the situation, to explain. Glitta Mansion can be a very special place. Up until recently, it was my after work bar, my friends place, yeah whatever – my stomping ground.
How to begin to explain the world of Glitta Mansion? While metaphorically in a way I don’t understand it is a mansion, Glitta is really a small apartment. There is a basic core group of friends who frequent there all the time. Hardly anyone knocks. Usually, at least part of the trio will be sitting in what would maybe be called the living room, and will cheer your name as you walk around the wall partition into view. They are happy to see people. They like people. They have their own celebrities. Local individuals are secretly glorified, given special names, and referenced in regular conversation as if it’s a usual practice to refer to random people as gods . Chosen people with one syllable names are usually chanted upon reference in a generic melody. If my name was Blake and they hardly knew me but thought I was interesting they would occasionally chant, “Blake-Blake-Blake A-Blake Blake Blake Blake Blake” in moments of boredom Then they would probably text me something abstract but vaguely sexual if you were really using your imagination.
There is no real furniture here. The girls sleep on mattresses on the floors. In the main room is a futon which normally functions as a lounging pad, ashtray, coffee table or a nocturnal cuddle-puddle/fuck-spot. The walls are covered with random smatterings of trash, artwork, and whatever else a pushpin can be shoved through. There is a large poster of a trio of dolphins acting happy. I think this might help to wake up to. There is a reason to live- think of the dolphins. They smarter than you, look cool, and are slippery.
I started coming over here after work or randomly in the morning because I knew that there was a fair chance that there would be someone awake or that I’d be able to wake up who would drink with me. I bring a backpack over and spread the love of vice. The floor is dirty but it helps one not feel as bad about flicking ash around liberally. The eyes of the walls of Glitta Mansion do not judge the depraved actions of those inside of its dark sanctuary. I’ve grown frustrated and bored with my life lately and checking out to Glitta Mansion is now a daily activity. I’ve noticed and tried to ignore that the beer and cigarettes that I ingest here are averaging a tab of about $20 dollars a day. On top of that I am not getting anything done. However, I am getting fucked up methodically which successfully postpones reality. The eyes of the Good Lord can’t see in here, and even if they could, wouldn’t be able to penetrate the haze of smoke.
Nicole sleeps in a sectioned off area of the living room. Although her walls are really just draped sheets of fabric she’s crafted a comfortable little nest that provides some retreat when things just get too crazy. Since she recently dropped out of college, she has just been kicking around most of the time, eating whatever pills she can come across, and baby-sitting occasionally. She will usually drink a beer with me regardless of the time of day. Nicole is an aspiring cougar. She is only 21 years old, but considers a higher point value in the sexual conquering of a younger man than one near her age. When my lover’s 15 year old brother was visiting, he was a doomed target. She has had years to hone her talents. When Nicole gets in her game and has acquired a target or series of targets, she’ll often corner them and barrage them with unrelenting attention until it is too late for the victim to escape and she can drag them off to her cave. She’ll often just start referring to their face as her boyfriend as if they’ve been dating for months and in this situational confusion is able to spin her sticky web around their ankles and capture them.
Occasionally the would-be victims will be too energetic, wily, or talkative to capture and Nicole will administer, through the smiling, transparent guise of peer pressure, an assortment of drugs to alter the hapless targets behavior to one she desires. If he’s talking too much, she’ll have him snort some Xanax and pound a beer. If he’s moving around too much maybe a dash of Oxycontin up the snout and a persuasive back rub will cave in his attempted walls of futile resistance. These men do not realize they are getting played and are mere point values and mental trophies. “I think I date-raped Joe G last night,” she tells me nonchalantly as she lights her cigarette, “but I am not totally sure.” I think nothing except about cracking my first beer and sliding down to the floor and don’t even wonder if I should have given her a high-five.
I knew Jane from working on the Custodial Crew over summer at Evergreen. We buddied up and conquered some pretty horrible dorm rooms together and eventually became friends. We’ve become real good friends since she moved into the complex despite our generational gap of pop culture. I had Transformers, she had Pokemon, but we still get along. We both share a passion for a good laugh and she gets along with my cats. They seem to like her although she’ll occasionally launch one through the air and exclaim, “Flying Cat!” for no apparent reason. The other night we got drunk with Nicole and played a variation of a game called “Stage-Coach”. Stage-Coach is a impromptu story telling game where you take turns keeping a story alive without faltering too badly. In this situation, we started with the premise of the story of a boy falling into an alligator fighting pit. Jane played the role of News Anchor Tits Magee, I played various supporting characters, and Nicole had mixed opiates with alcohol and gone a little too far past clarity of though, but provided incredible comic relief. She was pretty embarrassed when it was played back for her.
Alicia is or acts like the queen of Glitta Mansion. She makes demands. If she wants you to be here, she will let you know promptly and with conviction. Alicia conquers women and tires of them quickly. In reference to fucking a girl whose name she couldn’t remember in a dirty bathroom of a party the night before, she added the young lady’s name to her phone as “Ashley Fuck-Fuck.” The girl’s name was Stephanie. It doesn’t really matter to Alicia though, she gets what she wants and discards it. I admire her boldness, her confidence, and her warrior spirit but I wouldn’t want to live her life by any means. Both Alicia and Nicole have a penchant for Street Slammers. High gravity forty ouncers mixed what malt-liquor energy drinks. When they drink them they look like magic potions. This is partially because of the bright colors of the energy drink and partially because of the glitter they put in it to make it sparkle. These drinks ensure a night of debauchery. The other afternoon I inquired of Alicia how her prior evening had unfolded and she responded, “Well, I started fucking this dude on Jane’s bed, because there were people hanging out in my room, but Jane kicked us out so I kicked everyone out of my room and we banged.” Hmm, I thought she was gay. “Was it any good?” I ask her. She shrugs and snuffs out her cigarette in an empty beer can and says, “I guess it was whatever. I got bored after a while so I scratched his back up pretty bad and punched him in the face a couple of times.”
The mental imagery of this situation is enough to cause paralyzing laughter to seize my body. I, in fact, know which “dude” she was going after the night before and imagined the surprise on his kind boyish face when an unexpected flurry of fists beat him into a man. But then I was sobered by the thought that this poor kid might think that this is normal and break out this maneuver on a sweet gentle girl in the future, potentially ruining a shot at true love because of one twisted bitch drunk on Street Slammer getting bored. When Alicia smiles, her eyes light up with mischief and when she is angry they glow a soulless black. I’ve never seen it but I can only imagine that when she engages in sexual activities that her eyes turn an opaque crimson and emit smoke. I feel bad for that guy.
(The bold writing should be linked to audio, but isn't yet)
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