Lana Del Vape

Jack Antonoff, keep scrolling...

Last month, we celebrated the New York release of Anna Dorn’s latest novel American Spirits. It was a fabulous evening and we extend our most sincere condolences to those who couldn’t attend. Due to popular demand, we’re sharing one of the pieces from the reading: Layla’s fanfiction about the other woman of the hour beside Anna, Lana Del Rey.

The matcha-flavored Flume vape loved the way it felt at the bottom of Lana Del Rey’s purse. Its matte frame was a prized art object next to its neighbor, a loose Mentos sphere with a cracked shell. Lana never rummaged around whispering “Where the FUCK is it?” about the crumpled TJ Maxx receipt. The McDonald’s soft serve cone crumbs from last month would never see the light of day again. But that wasn’t the vape’s fate. It was surgically attached to Lana’s lips, the first thing she pawed for when she woke up each morning. Something sacred and worthy of protection.

The purse slid off the passenger’s seat onto a graveyard of empty sugar-free Red Bull cans. She was probably driving with her knees again, the vape mused. A few swerves, tire screeches, and prolonged honks later, the vape felt itself ascend out of the purse into the blinding Los Angeles sun. “Oh, my Goddd, shut the fuck up…” said Lana taking a long drag. The vape crackled as they sped past The Beverly Center, the mall morphing into a creamy, vanilla blur. Her exhale shrouded the truck in an earthy smoke. She left a glossy mauve lipstick smudge on the mouthpiece and the vape wished it could absorb it and become one with her.

Lana screeched into a parking spot and let her head hang out the window. She took a drag and blew the smoke upward, watching it billow toward the blooming jacarandas lining the sidewalk. She tucked the vape inside the waistband of her jeans and jumped out onto the scorched concrete.

“Oh, Jaaaack…” she menaced, as she barged through the studio doors. The vape knew what this meant: They were going to be holed up for hours working on the new record. It was its chance to shine, to act as her plastic appendage. It would be a steadfast partner, a cherished reprieve. The vape almost crackled out of sheer excitement. Lana slammed her body against Jack Antonoff in a dominating hug. The vape felt itself brush up against the back of his greasy neck. While Lana smelled soft, like night-blooming jasmine and Los Angeles at dusk, Jack had the faint aroma of Thai takeout left open on the counter overnight.

He started speaking before she even put down her purse. “What we want,” he began, “is for the listener to want what they’re supposed to want.” He pushed his thick, circular black frames up the bridge of his nose. It was the universal gesture of Um, well, actually. Annoying people like him cherished it deeply.

Lana scrolled through TikTok on full volume and held the vape between her teeth. “Totally,” she said. She didn’t look up. She was uniquely skilled at tuning him out until completely necessary. Soon, he was hunched over the piano while she sang about an ex-boyfriend so spindly that he surprised doctors with the severity of his early on-set osteoporosis. It was magical.

Hours passed and Lana cracked her third sugar-free Red Bull. She flitted the vape through her fingers, the closest she’d get to a sleight of hand trick. The vape imagined the two of them performing for an audience of transfixed methheads at a gas station. She blew a cloud of smoke straight into Jack’s face.

“You’ve got to try this, it tastes just like the real thing,” she said once his coughing subsided. “It’s like having a matcha latte without drinking, like, a huge, nasty glass of green milk.” Jack responded that he loved milk with his meals, before citing a study about how sugar-free Red Bull thickened the blood to levels comparable to a cardiac patient. Lana snickered. “It’s sticky blood, Jack. Stop being such a fucking loser.”

The vape felt invincible. The crackles and exhales would be woven into the song, and that song was going to change the world. She placed the vape on the couch, where it sat propped up against the cushions like a well-behaved infant. This was love.

The vape suddenly felt itself get sucked between the cushions. Jack had jumped on the couch, where he now lay supine. It heard him release a long, controlled fart. Gross. Lana would put an end to this soon enough.

“Jack responded that he loved milk with his meals, before citing a study about how sugar-free Red Bull thickened the blood to levels comparable to a cardiac patient.”

But to the vape’s surprise, it heard her crush up her sugar-free Red Bull can and say goodbye. A disorienting wave of panic washed over it. She couldn’t go more than 10 minutes without taking a puff. She had to come back. There was no way she wouldn’t come back. Time suspended and warped. The vape’s vision of a life lived together dissolved into a blank nothingness.

Jack halted the vape’s ruminations as he walked to the center of the studio and dropped to his knees with a thud. He grazed the floor with his hands, pressing down on a panel that lifted to reveal a secret compartment. The vape watched as Jack pulled out a dusty book and flipped to an earmarked page. He poured tinctures into an ornate black bowl decorated with strange glyphs. And finally, he unrolled a photo of Lana. His murmuring was in an unknown tongue, starting as whispers before expanding into bellows. Jack gesticulated wildly and beads of sweat populated his brow. His skin turned waxy and red, his eyes black. The lights flickered and a low hum filled the room. It’s so over, thought the vape.

A bright light then flooded the room. “Are you fucking serious?” Lana stood in the doorway. “This is so annoying, Jack.”

He froze, but she walked straight past him and sat at his computer. Click, click, click, tap, tap, tap. The printer awoke from its slumber and slurped a sheet of paper. Lana grabbed it, and in one swift motion crumpled her photo and handed Jack the new document. A photo of Taylor Swift.

“Like, I’m seriously not doing this shit with you again, okay?” she said. “Anyway, I left my vape somewhere here.” She fished for it in the cushions and her hand softened when she felt its ergonomic body. “Kill that bitch for all I care,” she said, nodding to the now drenched photo of Taylor in his hands. “See you tomorrow.”

She left without a trace of urgency, taking one long, satisfied drag, the smoke expanding her lungs. Outside, they were enveloped in the scent of night-blooming Jasmine, like Los Angeles at dusk, like Lana Del Rey.