I'll Put It In My Bag, I said. My backpack was limp and empty. There was nothing in it but my house key pinging around inside the cavernous darkness like a little satellite in outer space. Rose handed me the purse. It was sort of shaped like a hot dog and the cigarettes and cash poked out the top like the fixings on a truly bizarre mall food item. The ultimate food court meal. Dirty money and Marlboros in a hot pink plastic bun. I put rose's ratty cigarette pack in my pack's inside zipper pocket, then tucked the roll of bills and the cherry Chapstick in there with it. Rose's items were all nestled together. Her own house key was dangling around her neck on a piece of stringy rope, like a little kid. I threw the telephone and the busted purse inside the pack and zipped the whole thing up.
Let's hitch to the beach, Rose decided. I felt locked into something scary, like the minute after the lap bar comes down across your thighs. How it doesn't ever come down low enough, how you can feel all the wiggle room you've got, how you can imagine that when the coaster does its famous loop you'll just slide right out of the car. And you wave your hands wildly to tell the tweaker dude working the ride that maybe your lap bar isn't down all the way, that it feels a little loose, and he just thinks you're another slavering yahoo with your hands in the air. And he yanks his crank and the car begins to climb.--from Rose of No Man's Land, by Michelle Tea
A lagniappe of cultural kitsch and B-movie claptrap