Stellafly by Ithaka
She landed like a fly.
She left like a fly.
The apartment across the hall had been vacant for six
months,
then suddenly without warning became occupied.
She was from the east of Canada,
absolutely beautiful, brains too.
And I told myself at first sight, she's trouble.
And she was,
more than I could possibly imagine.
A real fireball-motormouth type,
but I really liked that at first,
(I like talkative people).
The third night she was there
we walked down to the New Beverly Cinema,
(which was actually an old revival house)
for a showing of Street Car Named Desire.
And from then on we began calling each other,
Stella and Stanley.
Whenever I'd come back from a job or something
I'd yell up to her window,
SSTTELLLLLLAAAAA !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But more frequently than not,
It'd be her that was coming home from job and yelling
SSSSSTTTTTAAAANNNNNLLLLEEEEYYYY !!!!!!
She was working her little round ass off,
making about ten grand a week
as a human prop for fashion catalougues.
Didn't even have a bank account when she first moved
in.
What do you do with the money?, I asked her
Well I bought some CDs yesterday
and I got some clothes and.... I got this bag....
The girl spent money like an Arab.
And even with her income
was always borrowing from me for food and rent.
One of her biggest expenses was t�xi fares.
She didn't own a car.
Refused to take the bus.
And back in those days LA didn't have a subway.
Up to five-hundred dollars a day for t�xis.
To and from jobs.
To and from stores.
To and from the movies.
To and from the beach.
THE BEACH ?!
Who the fuck takes a cab from Hollywood to the beach?
RENT A CAR !!! I told her.
But she didn't have a license.
She eventually took all of my advice.
Opened a bank account.
Stopped buying so many CDs
Started buying used clothes.
And bought two cars
(still didn't have a license),
a big Ford Bronco which she almost never drove
and an old convertible Mustang.
SSSTTTTAAANNLLEEYYY !!!!!!!
She'd yell as she drove down the alley.
SSSSSTTTAAAAAANNNLLLEEYYYY !!!!!!!!!
She'd yell as she pulled into the driveway.
Then we'd make healthy, disgusting-tasting things to
eat,
drink cheap wine and talk almost all night
on my big blue bed.
But always in the middle of some deep conversation
she spring to her feet and say sisterly,
Goodnight Stan.
Goodnight Stella, I'd say.
Out my door she went
and into her own across the hall
where she would start making phone calls.
Sometimes I'd hear her talk on the phone
for two or three hours back home to Canada;
to her gingerbread family,
to her old friends...and to her old boyfriend.
You see, I was her only friend in LA
and the phone was one form of communication
she could not live without out
(her phone bill was easily four times more than her
rent).
But I loved this little girl.
Miss-nineteen-year-old-motor-mouth-know-it-all.
She loved me too,
but was afraid to admit it
for the simple reason I didn't look good on paper.
No regular job.
Skin too dark.
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