Dead Girls Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Introduction: Girls, Girls, Girls

  Part 1: The Dead Girl Show Toward a Theory of a Dead Girl Show

  Black Hole

  The Husband Did It

  The Daughter as Detective

  Part 2: Lost in Los Angeles There There

  Los Angeles Diary

  Lonely Heart

  The Place Makes Everyone a Gambler

  The Dream

  Part 3: Weird Sisters A Teen Witch’s Guide to Staying Alive

  And So It Is

  My Hypochondria

  Just Us Girls

  Part 4: A Sentimental Education Accomplices

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Phenomenal Praise for Dead Girls

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction: Girls, Girls, Girls

  1.

  This is a book about books. To try that again, it is a book about my fatal flaw: that I insist on learning everything from books. I find myself wanting to apologize for my book’s title, which, in addition to embarrassingly taking part in a ubiquitous publishing trend by including the word girls, seems to evince a lurid and cutesy complicity in the very brutality it critiques. If I can say one lame thing in my defense, it is that I wanted to call this book Dead Girls from the moment I realized I was writing it, in the spring of 2014. I wrote an essay on the finale of the first season of True Detective, trying to parse a category of TV I identified as the Dead Girl Show, with Twin Peaks as this genre’s first and still most notable example. People seemed to like that essay, so I understood that Dead Girls were something I could hitch my wagon to.

  I’d moved to Los Angeles the previous summer, and I had been writing essays about that experience, too, because it was the only interesting thing I had ever done. All of the Los Angeles essays in the second section of this book were written in my first year there, as I was still learning about the city and my place in it. A lot of what I was trying to reconcile in writing about Los Angeles was my incredibly unglamorous life there and the airbrushed city as immortalized in movies, books, and reality TV shows. When I decided to move to California, I read Raymond Chandler and Joan Didion, believing completely in their vision of Los Angeles as a sprawling, neon-lit frontier town, populated by New West prospectors trying to strike it rich in the entertainment industry, haunted daily by the threat of various natural disasters.

  My first night in the city, I stayed in a cheap motel off Hollywood Boulevard that I later realized I had read about in a book: the Hollywood Downtowner, prominently featured in Karolina Waclawiak’s novel How to Get into the Twin Palms. The overlap between my reading and my life in Los Angeles stopped there. I lived in Koreatown, whose culture Chandler and Didion do not account for at all. I rode the bus, worked in food service, and had no money or friends. When I look back on this period, the vision of L.A. I bought into so unquestioningly was incredibly white and male, regardless of the fact that it was advanced by Joan Didion. It is a point of view that flattens a city of diverse neighborhoods and enclaves to a hectic series of real estate developments conceived of and controlled by a few powerful men.

  Believing what I read more than my own eyes was only part of my problem, since I also did not read the right things. Take, for instance, this passage I quoted from Didion’s essay “Pacific Distances,” which describes the seductive sameness of L.A. neighborhoods: “In Culver City as in Echo Park as in East Los Angeles, there are the same pastel bungalows. There are the same leggy poinsettia and the same trees of pink and yellow hibiscus.” This is wrong literally and in what it implies figuratively: I saw how the crowded apartment houses of Koreatown cede abruptly to the 1920s mansions of Larchmont Village and Hancock Park. I had done the disorienting drive down Washington where the poverty of West Adams drops off at the border of Culver City. I understand where Didion was coming from: most places in L.A. are ruled by the same middle-class tract-house sensibility. As James Baldwin wrote about South Central Los Angeles in No Name in the Street, “Watts looks, at first, like a fine place to raise a child.” But he does not lose sight of the fact that “the drive from Beverly Hills to Watts and back again is a long and loaded drive.” Barbara Grizzuti Harrison, in her 1980 Didion takedown “Joan Didion: Only Disconnect,” takes issue with a similar sentiment expressed in Didion’s novel The Book of Common Prayer, where the narrator claims that poverty in the fictional Central American country of Boca Grande is “indistinguishable from comfort. We all live in cinderblock houses.” “The eye that sees no difference between the cinderblock houses of the poor and the cinderblock houses of the rich is a cold, voracious one,” Grizzuti Harrison writes, “it is, furthermore, astigmatic.”

  This voraciousness is encouraged when you are regarding the bungalows of Echo Park and East L.A. only from the windows of your car. I did not seek out work that described life in neighborhoods that weren’t Hollywood or Beverly Hills, and I should have, like Paul Beatty’s 1996 novel The White Boy Shuffle, a hilarious and damning fantasia of black life in West L.A., as feverish as The Day of the Locust, but with the Rodney King riots instead of zombie-fied Okies. It is a fabulist romp, like when its hero, Gunnar Kaufman, is beaten up by a teenage street gang while “playing Thoreau in the Montgomery Ward department store over in the La Cienega Mall, turning its desolate sporting goods department into a makeshift Walden”—until it isn’t. Later in the same chapter, Gunnar pictures “Rodney King staggering in the Foothill Freeway’s breakdown lane like a black Frankenstein, two Taser wires running 50,000 volts of electric democracy through his body.”

  I am especially moved by another literary account of early nineties L.A., Khadijah Queen’s lyric memoir I’m So Fine. Queen describes it as “a list of famous men & what I had on,” and it is a series of vignettes about encounters with celebrities that evolves into a meditation on womanhood and desire. When Queen writes about meeting the actor Marcus Chong as a teenager on the 105 bus, riding home from her job at Fatburger and still wearing her “ugly food service shoes,” I relate deep in my heart. Most of the pieces revolve around L.A. landmarks like the Beverly Center and Universal Studios, but it feels like an artifact of Los Angeles especially because banal stories about seeing celebrities are a mainstay of L.A. discourse: for instance, the time I waited on Michael Keaton and he asked me to take away his bread.

  In these stories that spin like a conversation, Queen finds a way of telling you everything you need to know. The celebrities she is excited to encounter—Cuba Gooding Jr., DeVante Swing from Jodeci, LL Cool J—tell you what a black teenager in the early nineties was watching and listening to. The amazing outfits she describes—“my white Guess T-shirt with the gold letters tucked into high-waisted ankle-zipped acid washed jeans”—tell you what, if she was as cool as Queen, that teenager would be wearing.

  But Queen also tells you much more than that. She writes despairingly at the end of one story, “why couldn’t all this only be about name-dropping & brand names & puddintang.” Despite the sensual delights she’s describing, we notice the famous men beginning to take liberties from Queen’s earliest experience with them. On the first page, Marcus Chong asks her to go to his house for dinner when she is eighteen, then gets angry when she says no. There are stories of comedians staring at her ass at the grocery store and rappers calling her a stuck-up bitch. She quotes Donald Trump on the privileges of celebrity, but makes a correction: “when you’re a star they let you do it & actually when you’re a man in general.” That’s why it’s particularly painful when she writes about meeting Chris Tucker while working in retail: “the way he was looking at me like I was a plate of chicken & got too close & asked if I had a boyfriend which I did actually that boyfrie
nd would rape me later that week.”

  As the stories in the book pile up, it becomes about the fundamental exhaustion of constantly negotiating male feelings. At the same time, Queen describes her contradictory desire for attention, especially from men who are considered important. The meditations on fashion in I’m So Fine express confusion about why women continue to play the game, working so hard to make ourselves acceptable to men. Despite all evidence that it’s a rigged system, we believe the promises that our efforts may lead to love, fulfilled desire, and self-actualization, which I fear may explain why I would call my book, of all things, Dead Girls.

  2.

  In the winter of 2015, I was in San Bernardino, California, for a doctor’s appointment when, four miles down the same street, a married couple massacred fourteen people at a holiday party for the San Bernardino County Department of Public Health. I found myself, not for the first time, compulsively refreshing a newspaper’s story on the shooting, not knowing what information I was looking for. I guess I was trying to divine something about proximity, tragedy, and how random these random shootings really were, since they seemed to happen incredibly regularly in the twenty-first-century United States.

  Earlier that year, my former classmate at Moscow High School in Moscow, Idaho, went on a rampage where he shot his mother, his landlord, and the manager at an Arby’s before leading the police on a twenty-two-mile chase. I sought out everything I could find on the shooting, reading terse, repetitive articles from local newspapers and TV news affiliates. Especially because my classmate had changed his first and last names to John Lee, I was desperate to figure out if he was the gunman or not, hoping illogically that it was somehow another member of his family. When I saw his mug shot, I knew, but I didn’t stop poring over the local news to find out what happened, looking for answers that, when they came, were predictable and sad. Reading about the case did not protect me, and it didn’t instruct me either.

  Moscow is a town of 25,000 people, but it experienced two mass shootings in ten years. In May 2007, Jason Hamilton murdered his wife, Crystal, and then, taking up a sniper position in the bell tower of the Presbyterian church, fired 125 bullets at the county courthouse, killing a police officer and two bystanders before committing suicide. There are details in common in the two Moscow shootings, but they’re details that are common to many mass shootings. For instance, both men had stored up arsenals of weapons. When Lee was finally caught by police, he had five guns with him. A year before the shooting, Hamilton was convicted of domestic battery for strangling his girlfriend, and the court ordered him to turn in his many guns and to have a psychological examination, but he did neither. In a two-part series on the shooting, Boise Weekly reported that Judge John Stegner (who presided over Lee’s case, too, and who is, coincidentally, the father of another of my high school classmates) “orders people to relinquish their guns nearly every day,” but these orders are not regularly enforced.

  The other familiar story these two cases share is the lack of needed mental health intervention. Lee most likely suffers from paranoid schizophrenia, and he said at his sentencing, “I had amassed some guns because I felt like people were watching me, and I thought maybe my parents were trying to poison me.” A police officer who was a friend of Lee’s family had taken him to the hospital less than a year before his rampage because he was hearing voices, but the physician chose not to refer him for long-term psychiatric care. Hamilton had been on and off antipsychotic drugs and was committed to a mental hospital a few months before his shooting when he told a doctor “that if he were going to kill himself, he would take a bunch of people with him.” (Coincidentally, this took place at the hospital where I was born, and the doctor was the doctor who delivered me.) An anonymous friend of Hamilton’s wrote on an Internet message board that the real issue in the case was that Hamilton did not get the mental help he needed, saying that Crystal Hamilton “would be furious that the focus is on domestic violence and not the failings of the psych community.” This ignores the fact that Hamilton’s mental illness and his many domestic-violence convictions may have gone hand in hand.

  There is a cliché in true crime TV that “the husband did it,” and viewers yawn their way through episodes where men murder their wives for insurance money and then call 911, sobbing. It turns out the husband did it in cases of mass murder, too: according to a statistic cited in The New York Times, in 56 percent of mass shootings from 2009 to 2015, a spouse, former spouse, or other family member were among the victims. Domestic violence is one of the strongest indicators of future mass violence, and their dynamics of control are so similar that some experts call it “intimate terrorism.” Our refusal to address warning signs that are so common they have become cliché means that we are not failing to prevent violence but choosing not to. Hamilton’s case seems like a baffling collective refusal to see what he was capable of. Three months before the shooting, he told the doctor that he planned to use a bomb or shoot people. Six days before, he told his tattoo artist that he was going to shoot people out of the bell tower, but the tattoo artist said, “I thought nothing of it because he jokes about crazy-ass shit.” Judge Stegner said that he “seemed like the all-American young man,” and even though they set up a mental health court in the county after the shooting, he worried that Hamilton would not have been diverted to it. At some point, we choose to believe our idea of “the all-American young man” over flags as red as blood.

  One commonality of domestic abusers and mass killers is a sense of grievance, “a belief that someone, somewhere, had wronged them in a way that merited a violent response,” as Amanda Taub wrote in The New York Times after the Pulse nightclub shooting. Violent men’s grievances are born out of a conviction of their personal righteousness and innocence: they are never the instigators; they are only righting what has been done to them. This shit-eating innocence is crucial to the fantasy of American masculinity, a bizarre collection of expectations and tropes “so paralytically infantile,” as James Baldwin writes in “Freaks and the American Ideal of Manhood,” “that it is virtually forbidden—as an unpatriotic act—that the American boy evolve into the complexity of manhood.”

  American boys have trampled most of our popular stories. In his 1949 essay “A Question of Innocence,” Baldwin writes a scathing assessment of the noir, where the woman “is the incarnation of sexual evil” but “the man, . . . for all his tommy-guns and rhetoric, is the innocent, inexplicably, compulsively and perpetually betrayed.” The truest love of any noir protagonist is of course never the femme fatale, for “the boy cannot know a woman since he has never become a man.” American boys in their grievance and longing invented their dream girl, the Dead Girl. My interest in the boy heroes of Twin Peaks and Raymond Chandler spawned the first essays for this book, which began as an exploration of the noir mysteries of the American West and ended up as something more like a survival guide, as the violence I studied hit ever closer to me. Like other writers before me, I have tried to make something about women from stories that were always and only about men.

  Part 1

  The Dead Girl Show

  Toward a Theory of a Dead Girl Show

  Twin Peaks, David Lynch’s early nineties noir fantasy about small-town Washington, provides thirty of the oddest and most influential hours in the history of television. I watched them all in my little apartment in Missoula, Montana, with stolen Internet, twenty years late. I was prepared for it to be a relentlessly quirky murder mystery, with its sweet and idiosyncratic hero, FBI agent Dale Cooper; the bizarre Twin Peaks townies, like the woman who carries around a psychically gifted log; the story’s flirtation with the supernatural, including visions, demons, and aliens; and the town’s supremely seductive teenage girls, whose saddle shoes and sweater sets say, “Welcome to Twin Peaks. Please set your clocks back forty years.”

  I wasn’t prepared for how, in its stubborn weirdness, it tells a story at least as old as America. As Greil Marcus outlines in his essay “Picturing Americ
a,” Twin Peaks is manifest from the film noir tradition, a genre that is obsessed with setting. The mid-century detective stories of Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald are less about the criminal mind than systemic corruption: cities that are growing too fast, both booming from the war and reeling from its losses. “It was the pretentious, provincial city . . . ,” Marcus says of the “Film Noir City,” “where the most respectable citizen is always the most criminal, a town big enough to get murders written up as suicides and small enough that no one outside the place cares what happens there.”

  Lynch’s innovation to the form was to add something more psychologically elemental. Twin Peaks’s plot is sparked by the murdered body of seventeen-year-old Laura Palmer, washed up on the bank of a river. Palmer’s corpse is Twin Peaks’s truly memorable image: river-wet hair slicked around her perfect porcelain face, blue with death but still tranquil, lovely. One question, “Who killed Laura Palmer?,” spawned a genre—Veronica Mars, The Killing, Pretty Little Liars, Top of the Lake, True Detective, How to Get Away with Murder, and The Night Of are notable descendants of Twin Peaks. All Dead Girl Shows begin with the discovery of the murdered body of a young woman. The lead characters of the series are attempting to solve the (often impossibly complicated) mystery of who killed her. As such, the Dead Girl is not a “character” in the show, but rather, the memory of her is.

  The first season of True Detective follows two Louisiana detectives, Rust Cohle and Marty Hart, as they attempt to solve a series of bizarre murders. The show opens in 1995, with Hart and Cohle inspecting a prostitute’s corpse that has been posed and bound to a tree in a clearing in the Louisiana wilderness, a crown of deer antlers affixed to her head. The season proceeds along two parallel tracks, as Hart and Cohle search for the murderer in 1995, and as they recall the events of their 1995 investigation seventeen years later, in 2012. True Detective generated the kind of cult hysteria that only a Dead Girl can. On the night of the season finale, fans crashed HBO’s Internet streaming service with their “overwhelming popular demand” for the series. I watched it in my bedroom in Los Angeles, attempting to have something to talk about with my coworkers. Instead I ended up making sarcastic notes about the show on my phone, simultaneously annoyed and inspired by the almost sublime heavy-handedness of its entire mission.