Madison Whatley
New York Minute with Donnie Darko
Donnie Darko goes to school with me.
He asked me what I know about time travel
and I told him I could show him
how a New York Minute can last all day
when you’re trying to catch a show,
but we’re not seeing Simple Plan
or Where’s Fluffy because real emo kids know
the Yellowcard show is where it’s at.
First, we stop by the tattoo parlor
to get dolled up and gouged.
Donnie gets my name on his neck.
I get my hips pierced with my shorts
rolled under my g string
and Donnie rolls us a J
but then my piercer gets handsy
and Donnie is such a gentleman
that he lights the joint for me first
before he burns the whole place down.
I’m trying to explain to Donnie Darko
that Ocean Avenue isn’t about a girl
when he pulls me into an old theater
to make out. I like Donnie
because he barely knows me
and he doesn’t really need to
and we both like rabbits
and he looks good in a white shirt
and he will die soon.
My love, like Manic Panic,
has an expiration date.
Inside the Club
When you worked for Playboy, you never really felt anything was gonna go wrong,
and you just took it for granted that you’re protected.
- A 1970s Playboy Bunny for A&E’s Secrets of Playboy, Episode 3.
Custies ask to take pictures of me all the time.
I always say no, but I know they sneak videos of my ass.
I was working on Tuesday. When a woman
fell from the bar. Blood trickled down her knee.
Every person on the patio turned to watch the spectacle.
Our security gave her a water bottle: Drink it slow,
take small sips. Her shaking hand dropped the bottle.
Our security scooped her up and carried her
to a park across the street. Off the property,
the club isn’t liable. A small guy followed her outside
and tried to lift her up. He wasn’t strong enough
to carry the dead weight of her slumped body.
She couldn’t move. The guy rubbed her leg
while I watched. An off-duty cop, who the club
hired for extra security, talked with them
upon my request. Her friends had left,
and she didn’t have her phone, wallet, or ID.
She didn’t know the man who was stroking her.
The cop told us, I think somebody put something in her drink,
and then he asked our security what he should
get for dinner. I watched her, grateful
that the small guy couldn’t move her. Still, I felt guilty
when I had to turn my attention back to work.
After the cop returned from eating his sliders,
the woman was gone. We couldn’t know if she was safe.
As I stared into the park, another custy asked for my number.
He didn’t leave when I refused. Our security grabbed him
and said, She already told you she doesn’t give out her number,
so get the fuck out before I smack the shit out of you.
I looked across the street again and wondered,
Who is protecting me out there?
Donnie Darko goes to school with me.
He asked me what I know about time travel
and I told him I could show him
how a New York Minute can last all day
when you’re trying to catch a show,
but we’re not seeing Simple Plan
or Where’s Fluffy because real emo kids know
the Yellowcard show is where it’s at.
First, we stop by the tattoo parlor
to get dolled up and gouged.
Donnie gets my name on his neck.
I get my hips pierced with my shorts
rolled under my g string
and Donnie rolls us a J
but then my piercer gets handsy
and Donnie is such a gentleman
that he lights the joint for me first
before he burns the whole place down.
I’m trying to explain to Donnie Darko
that Ocean Avenue isn’t about a girl
when he pulls me into an old theater
to make out. I like Donnie
because he barely knows me
and he doesn’t really need to
and we both like rabbits
and he looks good in a white shirt
and he will die soon.
My love, like Manic Panic,
has an expiration date.
Inside the Club
When you worked for Playboy, you never really felt anything was gonna go wrong,
and you just took it for granted that you’re protected.
- A 1970s Playboy Bunny for A&E’s Secrets of Playboy, Episode 3.
Custies ask to take pictures of me all the time.
I always say no, but I know they sneak videos of my ass.
I was working on Tuesday. When a woman
fell from the bar. Blood trickled down her knee.
Every person on the patio turned to watch the spectacle.
Our security gave her a water bottle: Drink it slow,
take small sips. Her shaking hand dropped the bottle.
Our security scooped her up and carried her
to a park across the street. Off the property,
the club isn’t liable. A small guy followed her outside
and tried to lift her up. He wasn’t strong enough
to carry the dead weight of her slumped body.
She couldn’t move. The guy rubbed her leg
while I watched. An off-duty cop, who the club
hired for extra security, talked with them
upon my request. Her friends had left,
and she didn’t have her phone, wallet, or ID.
She didn’t know the man who was stroking her.
The cop told us, I think somebody put something in her drink,
and then he asked our security what he should
get for dinner. I watched her, grateful
that the small guy couldn’t move her. Still, I felt guilty
when I had to turn my attention back to work.
After the cop returned from eating his sliders,
the woman was gone. We couldn’t know if she was safe.
As I stared into the park, another custy asked for my number.
He didn’t leave when I refused. Our security grabbed him
and said, She already told you she doesn’t give out her number,
so get the fuck out before I smack the shit out of you.
I looked across the street again and wondered,
Who is protecting me out there?
Madison Whatley is a South Florida poet, an MFA candidate at Florida International University, the Managing Editor at Gulf Stream Magazine, and a Program Assistant for Miami Book Fair. Her work has appeared in 30N, Furrow, and Variant Literature. She is on Instagram @hawttymadison.