Sometimes Dirk dove offstage into the crowd. Weetzie spat on any skinhead who was too rough, but she always got away with it by batting her eyelashes and blowing a bubble with her gum. They held on like waltzers and plunged in slamming around the pit below the stage. Then they went into the clubs dressed to kill in sunglasses and leather, jewels and skeletons, rosaries and fur and silver. They drank beers or bright-colored canned Club drinks in Jerry and told each other how cool they were. Weetzie and Dirk went to shows at the Starwood, the Whiskey, the Vex, and Cathay de Grande. This really is the most slinkster-cool car I have ever seen! she said. Weetzie and Dirk saw The Girl Can’t Help It, and Weetzie practiced walking like Jayne Mansfield and making siren noises all the way to the car. Oh, I love that movie! Weetzie said in her scratchiest voice. "You want to go to a movie tonight? There’s a Jayne Mansfield film festival. They were here first and we treated them like shit. I made it, she said, snapping her strawberry bubble gum. Weetzie was wearing her feathered headdress and her moccasins and a pink fringed mini dress. Sometimes she wore Levi’s with white-suede fringe sewn down the legs and a feathered Indian headdress, sometimes old fifties’ taffeta dresses covered with poetry written in glitter, or dresses made of kids’ sheets printed with pink piglets or Disney characters. Under the pink Harlequin sunglasses, strawberry lipstick, earrings dangling charms, and sugar-frosted eye shadow she was really almost beautiful. She was a skinny girl with a bleach-blonde flat-top. But on the first day of the semester, Dirk saw Weetzie in his art class. All the girls were infatuated with Dirk he wouldn’t pay any attention to them. He wore his hair in a shoe-polish-black Mohawk and he drove a red ’55 Pontiac. Until Dirk.ĭirk was the best-looking guy at school.
They didn’t care that Marilyn’s prints were practically in their backyard at Graumann’s that you could buy tomahawks and plastic palm tree wallets at Farmer’s Market, and the wildest, cheapest cheese and bean and hot dog and pastrami burritos at Oki Dogs that the waitresses wore skates at the Jetson-style Tiny Naylor’s that there was a fountain that turned tropical soda-pop colors, and a canyon where Jim Morrison and Houdini used to live, and all-night potato knishes at Canter’s, and not too far away was Venice, with columns, and canals, even, like the real Venice but maybe cooler because of the surfers. They didn’t even realize where they were living. The reason Weetzie Bat hated high school was because no one understood.
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