Tricks (30 page)

Starving, actually. I kiss him on

*

the cheek. "You're the absolute best!"

He drives away and I go inside.

*

The smell of greasy food almost

overwhelms me. It's been so long!

*

"Double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake," I tell the waitress,

*

feeling a lot like Pavlov's slobbering

dog. After I eat, I have to get out of here.

*

Jerome must be looking for me, and even a half-wit could guess I came this way.

*

Vegas. Why not? All I need is a ride.

And there are plenty of truckers to ask.

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It Takes Three Tries

The first says he's not going to Vegas.

The second one just says,
Fuck off.

*

The third, a beefy guy with bad teeth, looks me up and down.
You running away?

*

I had an hour at lunch to figure out a good story. I use it now. "Not exactly."

*

He flashes his rotten smile.
Not exactly?

What, exactly, does that mean?

*

"See, my parents split up, and my mom

moved me to Elko so she could live

*

with her boyfriend. I hate that bastard. He...

he... you know." I look down, acting

*

all embarrassed. "Anyway, I just want to go home to my dad's. He lives in Vegas."

*

Old story, kid. But what the hell?

I'm going that way Hop in the cab.

*

We climb into opposite sides of the semi.

The trucker swallows some sort of pill,

*

starts the engine, and as he turns onto the highway, I say a little prayer of thanks

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for my rescue. But we don't get all that far before rescue becomes something else.

*

Don't suppose you have any money?

asks rotten mouth. Considering

*

I'm wearing nothing but a light blue, pocket-free shift, and carrying not

*

a thing, the answer should be obvious.

Diesel's getting awfully expensive.

"Sorry. No. Stupid me, I forgot

my backpack. Wish I could help."

*

Well, there are other ways a girl

can help out a guy You know?

*

Mr. So-not-nice trucker issues an ultimatum:

Oral sex or a very long walk to Vegas.

*

Stupid me. But it's not really anything new.

At least I don't have to kiss him.

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He Drops Me Off

At a diesel stop on the outskirts of the city.

I don't say thank you. I paid my way.

*

It's dirty here and surrounded by desert.

Not pretty pinion-studded playa like up north,

*

or back in Boise. But plain yellowed sand

defiled by houses. Lots and lots of houses.

*

From here, I can see giant casinos, all different

shapes and sizes. Motels. Chapels. Strip malls.

*

Traffic clogs a maze of streets and freeways.

Honking. Puffing exhaust. Military jets scream

*

across the cloudless sky, and commercial

aircraft come and go in regular procession.

*

It's all ugly. Stinking. A sinkhole of unrealized

dreams, forfeited faith. A girl could get lost here.

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A Poem by Seth Parnell
Dreams Forfeited

Diffused by distance, him a thousand miles

away. Still you feel his pain.

It's as if you can tune into him with a psychic

antenna, catch some unique

sonar that carries his cries across great distances.

It stops you cold in your plodding tracks and you

wonder where he is.

Could he be just

outside? You put your

ear to the door and listen, crazy with want, knowing the front

step is vacant.

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Seth Any Farm Boy

Half worth his beans and butter would tell you weight

lifting and cardio training are all about ego. A hard day's

work on the back forty gives

*

you both, and a crop to boot.

But Carl insists I stay in shape. Guess chubby guys

stand on the low rung of the trophy boyfriend ladder.

*

Truth be told, he was pissy about how he put it to me.

You know what happens to
muscle when you quit working

it, right? I'm not into fat boys.

*

It would be in your best

interest to invest a little

time at the gym.
It was not a suggestion. It was an ultimatum. One major thing

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I've learned about Carl is, business or pleasure, it's his way or no way at all. While I can respect

that on a certain level, when

*

it's in my face, it's not easy to take. He is one hundred

percent about control. Not

sure why I didn't see it sooner. Not looking, I guess.

*

The strange thing is, I'm not the least bit flabby, let alone

fat. So why? Preventative

maintenance? Whatever. I have

nothing better to do, anyway.

507

So Here I Am, Midmorning

Jogging six miles per on a treadmill. Going nowhere and doing way too much

thinking about what I've

allowed myself to become--

*

powerless. Even at home, the only time my dad

dismissed me completely, no argument allowed, was: the night he kicked me out.

*

Remembering him, revisiting the farm, stirs up a cloud of homesickness. Loneliness.

I am alone in this place, despite nightly company.

*

I don't belong here. I know

that. But I don't belong

anywhere else, either.

And that is at the heart of the black depression

*

pressing down on me, flattening me. I have

no place. No home. Sex, but no real affection. I am kept, but not cherished.

508

I Am Swimming in Sweat

When an amazing-looking

guy decides to share the gym.

The way he assesses me

leaves little doubt that he's

not into girls. Maybe working

*

out isn't such a bad idea after all. He offers a ten-thousand-dollar

smile, then sets his gym

bag down on a chair. I can't

help but stare when he strips

*

off his shirt, revealing buffed

pecs and a six-pack I'd kill

for. The guy is a high-priced

Thoroughbred. And I'm

definitely not talking mares.

*

He goes straight to weights, choosing some machine

I have no clue how to use.

When he looks my way,

I'm still staring like an idiot.

*

He grins.
What? Did I flash

you or something? Hope
it wasn't offensive. Most guys

seem to like it well enough.

He pauses. Gives me time

509

to formulate some inane answer.

I slow the tread to cooldown

speed, try to quit huffing.

"I... uh... sorry... didn't

mean t-to stare..." Huff, huff.

*

"I just started"--huff, huff--

"working out and"--huff--

"I know this is dumb, but"--

huff--"I don't know how to use all the machines." Heart rate

*

slowing, I catch my breath and finish, huffless, "I thought

I'd watch you and learn how to do it. Uh, use the machine,

I mean." Okay,
that
was inane.

*

He finds it amusing.
Oh, I see.

Well, I use the machines all the time. Happy to give you

some pointers, if you want.

The name's Jared, by the way.

*

"Seth." I stop the motorized

roadway. "I'd appreciate

anything you can give me...

I mean tips...." Shit!

I'm sabotaging myself!

510

Hang On

Just why did I think that?

Sabotaging what, exactly?

I'm not shopping for companionship. Am I?

"Tell me to shut up, okay?"

*

Jared laughs.
Shut up,

Seth.
He gestures for me to come over to the machines.

So what are you most

interested in working?

*

Now we both laugh at the unintended (?) double

entendre. "Well... other than that, I want one of those."

I point to his amazing stomach.

*

Don't blame you. Okay,
you can use the ab crunch and the assisted pull-up. But, so you know, diet is huge too.

This is all about protein, my man.

*

"No problem. I can handle

meat...." (!!) Once again,

I give his body an approving

assessment. And just so
you

know, I'm not afraid of hard work."

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He nods.
Most farm boys

aren't.
At my perplexed

look, he adds,
It's your accent.

Very Midwest, with a touch of the South. Kentucky? Missouri?

*

Oh man. It shows? "Indiana,"

I admit. "I never realized

we had accents, though, especially not with 'a touch of the South.' Really weird.

*

Not sure why it works

that way but it does.

Nothing to worry about, though. I find it kind of
appealing. Come here.

*

I'm a kid again, called to the front of the classroom, not knowing what for.

Will he--shiver--touch me?

But no, all he does is show me

*

how to properly use the ab

crunch machine. Still, he stays close, and the entire time

I'm burning gut flab, a word

floats in my head--beginning.

512

All Worked Out

Tired, sore, I start toward the townhouse to shower.

As I leave, I venture, casually as I can, "Hope to see you around again soon."

*

Jared is toweling off his own sweat polish, and I'm struck again by the beauty of his body.

Hot tub tonight at nine?

*

I hesitate. I never go out

when Carl's home. Still, he wouldn't object, would he? Long as I omit the Jared part. "I'll sure try."

*

He gives me a wry grin.

Could he know why

I live here?
If I don't see

you tonight, I'll run into you here, I'm sure. Later.

*

I follow him out the door, watch his sure gait along the walkway, tugged, steel toward magnet. It's odd, really. Usually I'm attracted

513

to softer men, with the major

exception of Leon Winkler.

And wouldn't his football

jock butt shudder to know

exactly
how
I looked at it?

*

Don't know why I'm

thinking about any of this

now anyway. I'm pretty

much committed to Carl, who should be home soon,

*

expecting me showered and shaved, all smooth and scented with Armani

Black Code, his favorite

fragrance. Expensive taste,

*

not a bad thing. He'll also

want dinner started. High-end

meat or seafood. Steamed

vegetables. Fresh bread.

Never the same meal twice

*

in any given month. Good

thing Dad taught me how to cook. Hmm. Wonder

how Carl would feel about venison sausage and gravy.

514

Venison Is Not Easy to Find

In Vegas, so I'm working on seafood Newberg (recipe

care of one of Carl's large

collection of cookbooks)

when he finally arrives.

*

He is not alone. Neither is he sober as he trips through the door, laughing, accompanied by a friend.

Acquaintance? I have no

*

idea. This is the first time

he's ever brought anyone

home. The guy is maybe

forty-five, and everything about him, from the square

*

cut of his bangs to the way he wears his extreme

jewelry, screams "queen."

When he squeaks,
Hello there,
he leaves zero doubt about it.

*

Carl comes over and gives

me an ostentatious gin-flavored

kiss.
Something

smells good, and I'm not

talking about in the kitchen.

515

He kisses me again, which is weird. For all the sex

we've shared, a kiss from

Carl is relatively rare.

I almost don't know how

*

to respond. Finally he draws

back.
Oh, how rude of me.

Come say hello to my friend,

Brett. Brett, meet Seth,
my uh... paramour.

*

Carl takes my hand, leads

me to the sofa, where

Brett has made himself

extremely comfortable.

Pretty boy,
Brett says.
Very.

*

My nerves lift on sharpened

edge, like when you go

hunting and suddenly feel

hunted. I force my voice low.

"Good to meet you, Brett."

*

Now, now. Let's not be
so formal.
He laughs, and it isn't a pleasant laugh.