Traffick (10 page)

Even without actually witnessing

him use, it's not much of a stretch

to conclude famed choreographer

David Burroughs has a tidy drug habit

himself. Ah, show business, especially

Sin City show biz! Sexy girls. Sexy boys.

And enough stimulation to keep both

going all hours of the day and night.

From falling into the same trap,

I have to stay busy, and not just with

Have Ur Cake entertainment. I need

something wholesome in my life, so

I'm volunteering at a center serving

LGBTQ youth. At eighteen, I'm old

enough to work here, but young enough

so queer teens will feel comfortable

hanging out with me. I can't officially

counsel them, but I can share my own

experiences and try to help them become

more at ease about living in their unique

gay skins. For kids sleeping on the street,

there are showers and food, as well as

an Internet café and ways to have

fun, including movies and games.

Not all YouCenter clients are homeless.

Many have parents, the majority of whom

have no clue how to talk to their kids

about what it means to be gay.

Some of our teens haven't yet confessed

their sexuality to anyone beyond

these walls. They come, looking for

answers, but more often, they come

in search of communion with people

like themselves. People like me, and

most of the staff. The great thing for

me is, I'm actually building friendships

with gay people who aren't bartering

their bodies to survive. I almost feel . . .

Dare I think it, let alone say it out loud?

It's only when I'm here, not at David's,

not while sitting in a bar, waiting for

a “date.” Only here. Normal. There.

Thought it out loud. The last time I felt

anything close to this was so long ago

I didn't know enough to consider myself

different. Once I did, however, it became

pretty much all I could think about.

I'm different. I'm weird. I'm damned.

About volunteering at the YouCenter

is it doesn't bother David at all, so not

only can I come here at will, I can also

use it as an excuse when Lydia calls.

Today, however, I'm really at the center,

and currently playing a game of pool

with Charlie, aka Charlene, who is not

only one pretty cute lesbian, she's also

kicking my butt. “Hey, man. Who taught

you to shoot pool? I think I need a lesson.”

Bam! She sinks another one.
My dad.

Back when we still used to talk.
And . . .

Ka-blam! In goes the eight ball. Game

over. She looks up, smiling.
Had enough?

“Hell, no. Rack 'em up, woman.

But I get to go first this time.”

Sure. Like it will do any good.
She dances

around the table, collecting balls from

the pockets. “I don't talk to my dad, either,”

I tell her, drawing a bead on my break.

You don't talk to him, or he won't talk

to you?
She watches me spectacularly

miss the shot.
Don't choke up on the cue

so much. You shoot like a girl, by the way.

That makes me laugh. “I want to shoot

just like you do, and you're a girl.”

Some people would argue with that

observation. And don't change the subject.

“Fine. My dad kicked me out last year,

two months before I graduated, in fact.

So instead of finishing high school,

I ran off to Las Vegas with my partner

at the time. . . .” No need to confess

the lurid particulars. “Now, Dad refuses

to talk to me. I've tried calling several

times. He asks if I've decided I'm straight,

and when I can't tell him yes, he suggests

a heart-to-heart with God, and hangs up.”

I'm sorry. My parents, at least, will let

me stay until graduation. We don't converse

much, but we quit talking before I came

out. You're not from Vegas, then?

I shake my head. “Indiana born and

raised right there on the farm . . .”

The last word lifts a cloud of nostalgia.

Were the crops good this year? I tilled

the fields right before I left. Did Dad

get the harvest in by himself okay?

I have to stop thinking about home.

“But is
anyone
actually
from
Vegas?”

Charlie raises her hand.
Yup. Believe

it or not, one or two of us came into this

world right here in Sin City. It's funny,

because everyone assumes anyone living

here must be liberal and morally bankrupt.

Well, they haven't met my dad, who's about

the most conservative asshole who ever

lived. Not one hundred percent sure

about his morals, but I think he's got

at least a few left intact. How about you?

“How about me, what?

Do you mean, am I liberal?

Or morally bankrupt?”

Her answer is a massive shrug.

Okay, then. I have to think

about how to respond. Let's see.

Gay? Makes me a liberal,

at least in Indiana, where

leaning left is not exactly

celebrated. Gun rights? Used to

go hunting with my dad, and

target shooting with a black

powder rifle kind of turns me

on. Probably conservative.

Enjoys a good buzz?

Could go either way.

“Politically, I suppose I'm

a white line kind of guy. . . .”

Oops. Freudian slip. “Uh,

meaning middle of the road.

Call me an Independent, I guess,

not that I'm registered to vote.”

She bristles.
You
are
eighteen,

yes? Because, left, right or

“middle of the road,” you have

a voice, and damn it, we need

more queer voices shouting

that we won't be ignored, and while

we might be underrepresented,

we're no less consequential

than all those straight, white

evangelical voters who somehow

believe they matter more than

anyone who doesn't look or think

or dissect biblical scriptures

exactly the way they do. Get it?

“Jeez, Charlie, catch your breath

before you turn blue. I know

you're right. I just haven't gotten

around to it, but I promise I will.”

That word describes Charlene

Tate, and it's only one reason

I like her so much. Maybe

the biggest one is because

she likes me, and has zero

ulterior motive for palling

around with me. It's been a long

time since I've had a friend, and

now I second-guess myself. “Hey,

Charlie. We're friends, aren't we?”

She glances up from the table,

confused.
Well, sure. Why?

You're not going to ask if you

can borrow money, are you?

“Do you have any?” God,

she's funny. “Just kidding.

No, I was just thinking how

nice it is to make a new friend.

Then it struck me that you

might not feel the same way.”

If she actually knew everything

about me. Which brings us back

to moral bankruptcy. Who am I

really? Indiana Seth, or the Seth

I've forced myself to become?

I realize suddenly that Charlie

is standing there, waiting, hands

on her hips, as if I missed something

important. “I'm sorry. Lost in

my thoughts. What did you say?”

I said friends are hard to come by,

so I'm happy we met, as long as you

realize I'm pretty much always broke.

So . . . what were you thinking about?

I retreat again into half-truths.

“Unlikely friendships. Chance

meetings. Getting my butt whupped

at pool by a girl. And home.” That

is the complete truth, and I know

I've got to try harder to reach Dad.

My wallet is comfortably fat,

so I invite her to get a bite with

me, which turns out to be a good

thing because by the time I get home

the Friday night festivities have already

kicked into gear. This time, the party

is relatively small—mostly the cast

of David's new show, I'm guessing,

plus significant others and hangers-on.

Immediately, I climb out of my “regular

gay kid” disguise, move into the role

of party boy. As usual, David holds court

poolside. I grab a drink from the bar,

head over to say hello, working hard

to look like I absolutely belong here

after questioning that idea for the past

several hours. David's entourage

consists of dancers—men and women,

and all stunning. Handpicked as much

for beauty as for the talent they must

possess to have made it this far

in such a cutthroat market.

The show's producer is also here,

so David is distracted, entertaining

his moneyman, and that's all good

by me. I let him know I'm home,

withdraw to a quiet Adirondack chair,

away from the revelry, where I can

better meditate with my bourbon.

I'm looking up at the auburn night

sky, wondering where the hell the stars

are hiding, when a husky voice behind

me inquires,
Want some company,

or would you rather be alone?

He materializes from the shadows,

and I think he must be a Greek god,

with copper skin and topaz eyes

and soft waves of burnt-sienna hair.

“Please.” I gesture toward the adjacent

chair. “Make yourself comfortable.

I'm Seth.” I offer my hand, and

when he accepts it, we both smile

at the exchange of energy.
Great

to meet you, Seth. I'm Micah. You

sure I'm not interrupting communion

with the universe or something?

“Nothing as lofty as that, and I'm

happy to have someone to talk to

besides God, who I'm pretty sure

disowned me a while ago, anyway.”

Oh, I doubt that. God tends to favor

the most beautiful of his creations.

I've never before experienced

instant mutual attraction, but I'm

pretty sure that's what this is, unless . . .

I don't want to sound paranoid.

How do I ask? “So, how do you

know David? Are you in his show?”

I am. I'm a principal.
There's pride

in his voice.
What about you?

Until the party breaks up—hours.

Micah's twenty, and from California,

where it's mostly okay to be gay.

He's confident. Strong. Straight-up

gorgeous, and for whatever reason,

he's impressed by me, despite

the fact I have no real direction.

You're only eighteen. You don't have

to know where you're headed yet.

Maybe I can help you find your passion.

Little doubt about that, at least

if we get the chance, and I'm certain

we will. The chemistry between us

is palpable. I'll have to be careful

that it escapes David's notice. I wait

for him to go inside before inviting

Micah back into the shadows.

I haven't kissed a boy, lips on lips,

since Loren. But I'm kissing one

now, and it's soaked with promise.

That's where Whitney

needs to fade,

like the vampire she is.

People might think

it cruel that I can find

no

sympathy for the sister

who was once my playmate,

if never quite my friend.

But, while I do

hope

she can claw her way

out of the pit she jumped

into, eyes wide open,

I see little need

for

offering my hand,

only to have it bitten

again and again and again.

Whitney's

a hungry bloodsucker,

willing to drain this family

dry in her misdirected search

for love, and any expectation of

redemption

dissolves like a rainbow

in burgeoning sun

when I look into her eyes.

You're pretty much guaranteed

to meet new dope connections,

in case that happens to interest

you, considering why you're here.

The funny thing is, if you want

illicit substances, you don't have