Exalted, p.7
Exalted, page 7
I open my Instagram DMs. I have just one request. I can read a chart in seventeen minutes. I can make $200 in seventeen minutes. I am going to be fine. Especially now that I have Beau. He doesn’t know who I am, but that’s okay. He will.
The chart is easy because it has a few stelliums, or clusters of planets in the same house or sign. Stelliums make things quicker because I don’t have to write a separate description for each placement. I have a Google Doc where I have descriptions of all the stelliums, so I can just copy and paste. I save every description I’ve written of every placement and aspect, so I copy and paste those as well. I haven’t written all the combinations yet—there are millions of possible permutations—but with each reading, I build my arsenal and make future readings faster. No one has yet called me on the fact that I am constantly plagiarizing myself. And everyone thinks that their reading is so special and unique, even though for each I use the exact same language I’ve used for potentially hundreds of other people.
Then I recall Beau’s stunning, blessed birth chart.
Astrology is a con, but it’s also divine. My Gemini moon is holding both conflicting ideas at once—duality, baby.
“Laptop hours are up,” says the wavy-haired man as I start the last sentence of my chart on the lilith, the dark side, my favorite.
“I just need a minute,” I say, still typing, not looking up. “Sorry,” he says. “Boss is strict about the rules.”
“Are you kidding?” I say. “It’s just one sentence.”
“Not kidding,” he says.
I pick up my laptop and walk outside, sit on a bench in front of the restaurant, and finish the sentence. Luckily, I can still pick up the Wi-Fi out here. I’m obsessive about finishing the tasks I start. It is my Virgo lilith, or, in medical terms, my OCD diagnosis. Either way, I can’t just leave a chart and pick it up later. I have to finish it.
I complete the sentence, tell her she is potentially a sex addict (lilith in Scorpio), remind her of my Venmo, and press send.
And when I look up, Thomas is exiting a black car with a group of girls. He is always surrounded by women.
“They kick you out?” he asks me.
“Do you have weed?” I ask.
Thomas makes me hang around for a bit with his dumb friends before he lets me hit his joint. We sit at a table in the corner, and everyone orders drinks. I loudly announce that I am broke, hoping someone will offer to buy me a soda, but no one does. So I just sip water and tap my foot and pray no one tries to talk to me.
“So, how do you know Thomas?” the girl on my right asks. She is dressed like the girls who work here—black athleisure, tiny gold hoop earrings, copper hair parted severely down the middle.
“We …” I pause, thinking. I was going to tell the truth, but I decide to lie instead to work on my acting skills. I did such an amazing job this morning. I am exercising now, I even noticed some muscle definition on my calves, so I may as well start auditioning again. “We worked together,” I say. “For a cannabis brand.”
“Cool,” the girl says. “What did you do for them?”
“I ran their social.” God this is boring. Socializing is so boring. Maybe I should just become an alcoholic like everyone else. “But I’m out of work right now and was hoping Thomas could spot me some bud.” I pause. “I need it for medical reasons.”
“Glaucoma?” she asks.
“Glaucoma? I’m twenty-nine.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I just always hear that as being the medical reason for pot,” she says. “I don’t smoke it.”
“I can tell,” I say.
“Really? How?”
Like a thousand reasons pop into my head. She speaks too quickly. She clearly lacks originality. She thought a twenty- nine-year-old had glaucoma. But there is the most obvious one. “Because you called it pot.”
“I’m visiting from New York,” she says.
I know for a fact they don’t call weed “pot” in New York, because the Precious Starlets smoke it and call it “weed” like normal people. This girl is just a dumbass. This is exactly why I don’t socialize.
“That sucks you’re out of work,” she says. “I lost my job last year. It’s the worst.”
I wish she would stop speaking to me. I jab Thomas in the rib. I just want my fix. But he is busy yapping with another girl with tiny gold hoop earrings.
“What kind of jobs are you looking for?”
I see an opportunity. “Social media,” I say. “But in the meantime, I’ve been doing chart readings. I’m an astrologer.”
“Wow,” she says. “So LA.” Then she giggles as though she’s made a joke, which she hasn’t. It is such an unimaginative thing to say. Also, it is wrong. LA didn’t invent astrology. And people are into it everywhere. I know they are into it in New York, because the Precious Starlets talk about astrology all the time. Hazel is a Gemini and Camilla is a Leo—an understated Leo, a quiet Leo, the best type of Leo.
“Do you want a reading?” I ask. This girl is nice, a pushover. Probably a Libra. I assume she will feel bad for me and say yes. Libras will do anything to avoid a conflict.
“Sure, why not?” she says, then pauses. “How much do you charge?”
“Two-fifty,” I say. She lives in New York, so she is probably used to things being overpriced.
“Damn,” she says.
“I’m really good,” I say. This isn’t a lie. I’ve been told I changed people’s lives, gave them self-esteem and the insight to take control of their destinies. Mostly when I hear these things, I just feel sad.
“For two-fifty, you better be.”
I force a smile, for business purposes. “Do you know your birth time?” I ask. “I also need the year, place, and date.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I’ll have to double-check the birth time with my mom. I think I was born at three A.M., but I’m not sure. It might have been four.”
“An hour won’t change anything,” I say. This isn’t entirely true, but I want to do the reading now because I want the money. “As long as you know within a three-hour time frame.”
“Great,” she says. “October fourth.”
I smile. I am right—a Libra. Astrology is wrong, but I am always right.
“1996.”
I swallow. I can’t believe Thomas is hanging out with a twenty-three-year-old. Actually I can. He’s desperate, and these zoomers probably stroke his ego because they don’t know any better.
“Ridgewood, New Jersey.”
I stifle a giggle. The Precious Starlets often talk shit about New Jersey suburbs. They say it is very “new money” and tacky there.
“Let’s say three A.M.”
“Cool,” I say. I open my astrology app and type in the info.
“Wait,” she says. “I’m paying you hundreds of dollars to read something off an app?” She uses a polite voice, but this is a bit confrontational for a Libra. Maybe she has a Sagittarius rising.
“I don’t read it off an app,” I say. “I use the app for the planetary calculations, as that’s how we do things in the modern age, and then I will use my brain to interpret the calculations for you.” I pause. “Do you know how to interpret a birth chart?”
This shuts her up.
“Okay,” I say. The information loads and I delight in being correct. Sagittarius rising, like I expected. A bunch more Libra. Nothing too interesting.
I proceed to tell her what it all means. I try to be polite, to gas her up. I don’t tell her about all her planets in fall, which is the opposite of exalted—not good.
“Wow,” she keeps saying. “This is all so scary accurate.”
I get this kind of reaction all the time. Most times, actually. People are just so stupid. Especially this girl, whatever her name is. I guess I’ll find out when I get paid.
When I’m done, I show her my Venmo page.
“You mean business,” she says, then laughs—another nonjoke.
“Gotta pay rent somehow,” I say, then swallow.
Thomas asks me if I’m ready to smoke, and I practically jump out of my seat.
“You hang out with twenty-three-year-old women now?” I ask, inhaling.
“Pardon?” he says in a bad French accent.
I pull out my phone. Thankfully, I have a Venmo payment for $250 from someone named Jessica. God, such a suburban name. Almost worse than Emily.
I wave the phone in his face.
“Why did Jess pay you two hundred and fifty dollars?”
“I read her chart,” I say. “She was born in 1996.”
“Oh,” he says. “I always forget you do that.”
“Lucky you,” I say.
He takes the joint from my hand, and for a second I remember that he had those very fingers inside me less than thirty-six hours ago.
“Hey,” I say. “So I need you to spot me some weed, like to take home. Work is tough right now.”
“Okay,” he says. “I can spare you a few nugs.” He pauses. “But you’d have to come home with me.” Then a terrible wink.
My high hits right then, so I agree.
Back inside, everything is more bearable. I enjoy watching the hot waiters march around, and I don’t even mind that Drake—my least favorite Scorpio—is playing.
When I sit back down, I take a big gulp of water. My mouth is dry as hell.
“Oh my gosh,” Jess says. “Your eyes are so red.”
She is all up in my face, and I lean back and look at my phone, ignoring her. “Must be the pot,” I say without looking up, and she laughs way too hard. One thing I’ve noticed about being an unpleasant bitch most of the time is that people will laugh extremely hard at your jokes because they’re desperate to relieve the tension.
Without thinking, I open Beau’s Instagram page.
“Is that your boyfriend?” Jessica asks.
I can’t afford acting lessons, but lying is free. “Yes,” I say, looking up at her. “Yes, this is my boyfriend.”
She starts to hover over the phone. “He’s really cute,” she says.
“I know,” I say. Then I put the phone back in my bag. I don’t want her getting any ideas. There are no new photos anyway.
“How long have you been dating?” she asks.
“Um,” I say. “Like six months.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s not nothing.”
“Not nothing,” I echo, then turn to Thomas. “Wanna get out of here?”
The girl he is talking to looks at me like I just slapped her in the face.
“Let’s do one more round,” he says.
I roll my eyes, then realize I want a soda. “Can you get me a Sprite?”
He nods and flags down the waiter.
“And fries?” I need to stock up on fat while Thomas is paying. I can go long periods without eating as long as I get enough fat. This is basically keto, right?
“How did you meet your boyfriend?” Jess asks as soon as I turn back around, like a little fly in my ear.
“Church,” I say.
DAWN.
I’m smoking a cigarette out my window, looking out for Karen’s Honda Fit and scanning Instagram. Exalted posted photos of various celebrities, most of whom I do not recognize, with text that says “Dating a Cancer” or “Dating a Taurus” and then various attributes.
I scroll for Leo. I don’t care what it’s like to date the other signs. But I pause on “Dating a Gemini.” That woman Steph scared away from Jay’s Bar—Lily—was a Gemini. Tara was a Gemini too. Leo and Gemini are supposed to be a good match, but it hasn’t worked out so well for me.
I scan the traits. The first is “Chats on chats on chats.” True. On our first date, Tara and I talked at the bar for five hours. We completely lost track of time, and she accidentally missed dinner with her dad. I remember being jealous that Tara’s dad took her out to dinner. But I was happy she skipped it to spend time with me.
The second is “Legitimately curious about you.” That’s also true. Tara always asked me about my day, my interests, my dislikes. No one ever seemed to care that much about what I thought or what I was doing. She gave me the attention I deserved.
The third is “Sex!!!!” Ugh, our sex was good. I can’t even think about it.
The fourth is “Sassy & sarcastic.” Finally, something I don’t miss. Sass is fine, but I don’t get sarcasm, and it was Tara’s first language. I like to mean what I say and say what I mean. Unless I’m lying to get something, but that’s different.
The fifth is “Won’t text you back for 5 hours.” Another thing I don’t miss. Tara was flighty. She would go out with her friends and completely forget about me. I hated that. Good riddance.
Sixth is “Will dump you out of the blue.” Another one that stings. I take a sharp drag of my cigarette and flip to Leo.
There is a photo of Madonna. Only a Leo could pull off the name Madonna.
The first trait is “Laughs on laughs on laughs.” True. I’m fun and I’m funny. And I don’t need to be sarcastic.
The second one is “Killer fashion advice.” Also true. I loved to take Tara shopping. She had a great body, and I would always encourage her to buy the most expensive dresses. She would pay, of course, but I would encourage her to buy things she normally wouldn’t. I picked out matching Juicy Couture tracksuits that we would wear around the house and feel like those Hilton sisters who were popular when my son was in high school.
The third is “Wants you to shine.” True again. She said I made her better.
The fourth is “Seductive as hell.” Exalted is so good at making me feel good about myself. I want to know more about her. I decide she must be a woman. Men aren’t this observant. I wonder again if she is single.
The fifth is “Rage!!!!” I hear Karen’s Honda Fit and crush my cigarette in an empty Red Bull can and start spraying Ralph perfume. I run over to the couch and twirl my toe ring. I try to remain calm. No rage tonight.
I open my phone again and decide to DM Exalted. She probably gets a lot of DMs, but maybe she will open mine. Maybe she will look at my profile and think I am sexy. Maybe we will fall in love. Maybe she will take me to the French Riviera.
EMILY.
We get to Thomas’s at around 8:00 P.M. As soon as we’re inside, he tries to kiss me. I pull away.
“First things first,” I say.
He flicks on a minimalist light tube thing on the floor. Everything in his apartment is stark and contemporary, Swedish looking, a glorified Ikea catalog. It’s bizarre being here, jolted back in time, to when I was younger and the world was slightly brighter, when I was making money and I had color in my face.
Thomas has a fancy record player like a real douchebag. He walks over, and I skip over to stop him in his tracks. At first he seems excited, like I’m making a move.
“I’ll pick,” I say to clarify.
I start flicking through the records, one embarrassingly over-hyped band after the next. Finally, I land on something I can stomach.
“Do you listen to anything other than Radiohead?” he asks when Kid A starts.
I shrug. “I like Counting Crows.” I am kind of kidding but not really. “Hard Candy” always sounds perfect after a bong rip.
“You’re really something, Em.”
“Don’t call me that.” I plop on the stiff minimalist couch. “Everything in Its Right Place” cloaks the apartment in a sinister mood. “Where the weed at?” I ask.
Thomas goes into his bedroom, and I open Instagram. WtfBeau has the little pink-and-orange circle indicating a new story. He doesn’t normally post stories, so this feels exciting. I make sure the sound is off and open it. He’s at the Big Sleep with the man from yesterday at Subtropical. They have their arms around each other and are dancing to Drake, surely an ironic act.
When Thomas comes out of his bedroom, I put the phone facedown on the couch. He walks over to the kitchen and puts a few nugs in a Ziploc bag, and I practically start drooling, like a heroin addict or something. Maybe this is part of my OCD. When he comes back into the living room, I snatch it from his hand and put it in my bag.
“No ‘thank you’?” He sits down way too close to me on the couch. I don’t want our legs touching, so I hop up on the ledge.
“Do you ever go to the Big Sleep?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, “I love that place.” He starts to untie his shoes—hideous burgundy sneakers that resemble overpriced bowling shoes.
“Can we go?” I ask.
Thomas laughs. “You want to go to a club?” he asks. “Where people dance and have fun?”
“I love to dance!” I say. I get up and start shaking violently to Radiohead’s “The National Anthem,” jumping around like a maniac.
Thomas hops up and starts dancing with me, and I want to sit back down but instead practice my acting, pretend to enjoy Thomas’s obsequious company. We dance and laugh and shake our hair.
“See?” I say, out of breath. “I love to have fun.” I put my hands on my head to open up my lungs. “Let’s go to the club.” I am heaving.
He leans over to kiss me, and this time I don’t pull away. I go with it. I am acting. And I am amazing at it. Maybe there will be a director tonight at the Big Sleep who will see me kissing Thomas and know I am just acting because no one as alluring as me would kiss a loser like him, and he or she will cast me in a film and I will become the next Tilda Swinton.
“I thought we were gonna stay in and hang,” he says, and slides his hand onto my waist. The primal part of me likes the feeling. But the thinking part of my brain does not.
“But how fun would it be to go out?” I ask. “I might even drink my one cocktail of the year and give you a blow job later!”
“Let’s go out!” he shouts.
“Let’s!” I say, playing the excited party girl, Thomas’s delighted lover. I skip into the bathroom to examine my appearance. I look a bit slovenly, wearing a black T-shirt for a dress and no makeup. Everyone in LA is fairly haggard, but I’m not twenty- three anymore. I can’t get away with that off-duty cokehead look anymore. I need some makeup. I look in the drawers. Surely some girl left her mascara here.
In the mirror cabinet, I find both mascara and eyeliner and apply them heavily.
