Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,74

citadel of dirty gray steel in the hot sun like the last bastion of civilization in a world baked lifeless after decades of catastrophic global warming.

My god, Los Angeles was an ugly city.

But my god, Los Angeles was still cool as hell.

We approached slowly, like a scout ship being pulled into a galactic destroyer by tractor beam.

“Take the next exit for Vermont Avenue,” said Milo’s mom’s minivan.

We did. Jamal and I pressed against the window to behold the city’s wonders: a raven-haired model aglide on a single-wheel scooter; a naked man bathing himself with a brand-new Super Soaker; a United States Post Office Lamborghini; five soaring palm trees, painted tip to root with pure white. Murals swirled by on every wall. We rolled down the windows and smelled everything we could, like dogs do, and detected pupusas and longanzina and anise and curry.

“Take the next left onto Sunset Boulevard,” said the van.

The cynic would say Sunset was like any other street in this godforsaken post-apocalyptic wonderland. But it wasn’t. It was a twenty-some-odd-mile-long serpent behemoth whose head had no idea what its tail was doing.

At one end was a cozy neighborhood art park, then a gleaming hospital complex, then a storied media studio district, then the world headquarters for a global cult. The grimy ironic hipsters came next, then the street artists with their dyed fingertips, then the string of guitar shops populated by off-duty rockers in black afternoon denim.

After that came the Sunset Strip known all over the world. Music club after music club, where stars rose and fell and, yes, literally died at its curbs. The Strip was where the Sunset Boulevard of the mind ended. In reality, Sunset continued on all the way to the sea, passing through fiercely manicured, fiercely white Beverly Hills and Bel Air—those intensely boring, parasitic enclaves solely obsessed with sucking as much wealth out of surrounding Los Angeles as possible. No one cared about that part of Sunset.

Who would, when Miss Mayhem was right there in front of you?

“Long live rock and roll,” said the minivan.

I stared at Los Angeles baking below me. Everyone liked to call Angelenos fake, because they would do and say anything to make their dreams of stardom come true. According to the internet, Andy Warhol once said, “I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re beautiful. Everybody’s plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.”

Andy Warhol, embracing the fake. A pop artist through and through.

As for the rest of us, didn’t we all fake it? Just a little bit, every day, at school, at work?

Wasn’t it more unreasonable to expect someone to be perfectly honest and unwavering and unaccommodating every waking moment of their lives?

Was I asking myself all this stuff just to try to make myself feel better?

“Let’s load out,” I cried, and leapt into the heat.

I squinted up at the marquee.

RANCHO RUBY SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL PRESENTS THE 8TH ANNUAL TALENT SHOW EXTRAVAGANZA AND GALA FUNDRAISER

I carried equipment up the stairs—curséd stairs, just perfect—which led to a “greenroom” backstage scarred with the autographs of thousands of rockers throughout time, all circling an ornate framed silver print of the eponymous Miss Mayhem herself.

I had to look. It took me a few minutes of careful searching.

But then I found it, written small in Gray’s hand:

THE MORTALS 2017

“May we play the hell out of the talent show tonight,” I prayed to Miss Mayhem.

“Sure, whatever,” said Miss Mayhem. “Your school prepaid all their tickets.”

I stuck my tongue out at the portrait.

Jamal and Milo brought the last of the stuff up. Other kids followed. Soon the greenroom became crowded.

“All right, listen up,” said a familiar voice, and Mr. Tweed emerged from behind a curtain. “First we’re gonna set up our stage props and equipment, with the least complicated acts in the front—Juggalo Acrobats, that’s you—and the most complicated in the back. That’s you, Immortals.”

I looked at Jamal and Milo. Things were getting really real really fast.

“Then it’s time for sound checks, ’kay?” said Mr. Tweed. “Once we get your levels set, remain onstage and let Gunner tape and mark your mic with your name.”

Gunner appeared. He wore an Immortals tee shirt. The sight of it made my brain momentarily brown out.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“Ditching school—and football practice!” said Gunner with glee. “My dad’s gonna be so mad!”

“After your sound check is done,” said Mr. Tweed, “you’re free to get lunch or hunt for celebrities or whatever. It’s back in the greenroom by three, makeup