Tricks (34 page)

And the room goes silent, except for strained breathing, right above me. And then I hear... sobbing.

*

You fucking whore.
It is Chris's voice.

You promised... no more... you

said... and you...
he means me.

His boot takes out two ribs. Oh

my God. Is he going to kill me?

Jack! Didn't mean it. Don't want...

*

Snap!
Lightning? White-hot. Electric.

Shattering. My back. Pieces. Bone.

Dark. Darker. Cut through the black, blinding light. What? Buzzing. What?

Suck air. Where? Can't... No, please.

Ronnie? Sorry. So sorry. Ron...

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Light Floats

Just beyond my eyelids. I want to open them, see the light, but the darkness is comforting. Not

much here. Beyond the nothing

(nothing? Nothing. Nothing Man?), something. A hum. A whisper.

*

Wake up. Can you wake up for me?

Motion. All around me, movement.

Pressure. Wrapping me. Pressure.

Air. Saccharine air, pumping into my lungs, through... plastic.

Plastic? My eyelids stutter. Light!

*

Sunlight. I am outside. Can't move.

Tied? Strapped. Strapped to a gurney.

Parking lot. Red and blue lights.

Oh my God. I remember. I roll my head, see another gurney. "Misty?" A cloth

covers her face. "No." It is a whisper.

*

Best I can do. A second gurney

carries another still figure. Nothing

Man. Gone. Both of them gone.

But I am still here. "Thank you, Jack."

A paramedic asks what I said. "Phone,"

I tell him. "Call Mom. And Ronnie."

568

A Poem by Eden Streit
Still Here

At least I think so, what's left of who

I used to be a shadow on the sidewalk

I look up, try to find a rainbow, but the only

thing there is a lone cloud, stretching thin and thinner, clear to almost not

there, across an upside-down sea.

I lower my gaze into a puddle, close my

eyes at what I see.

Don't want to believe

that ghost is me.

569

Eden I Am Less Than a Ghost

I am a corpse, sleepwalking the streets of Las Vegas. Sometimes I think

*

I should just head on out into the desert, lay down on a soft mattress of sand,

*

close my eyes against the diamond sun and circling black wings. And wait.

*

It might be preferable to this cement bed behind a 7-Eleven Dumpster.

*

There are lots of us living on the street.

They say Vegas is easier than Reno.
Warmer.

*

There are shelters,
I've been told,
where

you can eat free. Shower sometimes. Sleep.

*

But I'm afraid of the questions. Too many

questions. So when my stomach offers up

*

its acid, when I can't stand the hollowness for another second, I sell one more slice

*

of my soul. One slice, twenty dollars. I've been here three weeks. Not much left of my soul.

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As for My Body

It's battered, scraped, bruised. The Tears of Zion shift looks about a hundred years old.

*

I did spend a few bucks at the Salvation Army.

Bought a used skirt, two tank tops. Underwear.

*

I hate to think who used them, or why they gave

them away. But they only cost a dime apiece.

*

I stink, too. I've managed four or five showers, when the man of the hour wanted to spring for

*

a motel room. More often, it's the seat of his car.

Quick and easy, five minutes or less. No emotion.

*

No pain. And the weirdest thing is, I'm not the least bit embarrassed about doing it anymore.

*

That's the worst part. That, and when my brain

insists on remembering Andrew. Thinking

*

about how he held me, rained his love down all around me, brings devouring pain.

*

So I'll think instead about the coming night, where

I might peddle the remaining tatters of my soul.

571

Rush Hour

The freeways are bumper to bumper, so surface streets jam with commuters.

*

A few of the pushier girls go straight up to them at traffic lights, knock on

*

their windows.
How about a date?

Most of the guys shake their heads.

*

Some of them look close to panic. Afraid

they might catch something through the glass?

*

But every now and again, one of them

opens the passenger door and the girl slips

*

inside. The car takes off, and minutes

later, comes back around, business done.

*

I watch a girl get out of an older Cadillac.

At least they had plenty of leg room.

*

She steps to the curb, stares me down with steel eyes.
What are you looking at?

*

For some crazy reason, I shatter.

"N-nothing. I m-m-mean I d-don't know."

*

Her gaze softens.
New to the biz, huh?

Well, sweetheart, this is a real bad place

572

for tears. Those guys are freaking sharks.

If they smell blood, they'll chew you up.

*

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just that you're the first person who's even talked to me

*

since I got here. I mean except to tell

me to suck harder, or..."

*

She cracks up, and so do I.
Yeah, well,

I know exactly what you mean. Uh, don't

*

get me wrong, okay? Her
nose scrunches

up.
But you could really use soap and water.

*

"That bad, huh?" My face actually heats.

Doing disgusting things with gross men

*

doesn't embarrass me, but her observation, no doubt deserved, does? "I'm on the street."

*

She reaches into a pocket on her skirt, pulls out a thin fold of bills.
Here's fifty

*

dollars. Get a room and some food.

And listen, from the looks of you, this

573

isn't the right business. Get smart. Call

home. You don't belong on the street.

*

I shake my head. "You worked for that, and I know what you had to do for it."

*

Everything about her hardens.
I
told

you to get smart. Take the money.

*

I don't know what you ran from, but living like this can't be better.

*

Funny, but my girlfriend, Ginger, keeps

telling me the same thing. I never wanted

*

to listen before. Maybe now I'd better.

Her nose wrinkles again.
Call home.

*

But shower first.
She turns abruptly.

Later
she snorts over her shoulder.

574

Good Samaritan

The words pop into my head. That is the second time someone I didn't

*

know and will likely never see again

handed me money they couldn't afford

*

to give away. I don't understand. Why

me? Other words surface from a place

*

of deep indoctrination:
Whatever they

do for the least of my children, they do

*

for me....
I wander along the overbaked

cement, sucked into a cerebral vortex.

*

When it finally spits me out again, I am on the sidewalk in front of a church. Guardian

*

Angel Cathedral. Catholic. I am struck by the beauty of the angular architecture,

*

and by the amazing artwork above my head--

Jesus, hands extended in welcome, to one and all.

*

I've never once walked beyond the doors of a Catholic church. But I am drawn inside

*

this one. I enter, a stranger to the faith.

To the God of this faith and every other.

575

Friday evening, no worshippers, I find cool

solace inside. I slide into a seat at the rear,

*

fold my hands. Close my eyes. Do I remember

how to pray? "God, you know I have done

*

terrible things. I don't want to do them anymore, and ask for your forgiveness. I am so sorry...."

*

My voice catches in my throat. Was I speaking

out loud? Just a little more. "Thank you

*

for good Samaritans. And please, God, please, if it's your will, show me the way out."

*

A sense of peace blankets me, and a gentle

voice whispers,
How can I help you?

*

God? No. There is shallow breathing, too.

I open my eyes. A priest sits beside me.

*

He reminds me of Andrew--handsome, and fresh, with compassion in his eyes.

*

"I don't know how, Father, but I do need help."

Need his help, and God's help, to be saved.

576

A Poem by Seth Parnell
No Way to Be Saved

No way to hit reverse, turn around, go back home.

No

chance at forgiveness.

The shale cliffs of redemption

have crumbled, surrendered to the sea.

How do you look

for

miracles when you

deny belief? How can

someone

formed of bone and sin

trust his weight to wings?

How does a man like me

find innocence again?

577

Seth I Don't Remember Innocence

Not, I guess, that I need to.

Nothing innocent about how I live now. Nothing

naive about being a toy.

That's what I am now. A toy.

*

But, hey, what are my options?

I thought about trying to go

home. Once I even swallowed

every ounce of pride, put in a phone call to Dad.

*

His raspy voice lifted

memories, good and not so.

Hello? Hello? Who the hell is this?
Then he thought a sec.
Seth? Is that you, boy?

*

Don't know if it was the "boy," or just remembering his words the night he sent me away, but I couldn't say a damn

thing. I slammed down

578

the receiver, retreated into a murky cave of depression.

It's a place I've visited

more and more lately.

The only thing that seems

*

to yank me away from there is working out. Sweating

poisons of body and soul.

Having Jared around to help

me sweat isn't so bad either.

*

In the few weeks since he started helping me, I can

see a vast improvement.

He agrees.
Much better form.

Both your lifting, and your body.

*

He is really close, and the smell of his sweat beneath his leathery

fragrances reminds me of a tack

room. For some reason, it is desperately turning me on.

*

Despite my ballooning

attraction, I have yet to overtly

put any sort of moves on Jared.

He might be taken. And I am under ongoing ownership.

579

But no way can I lie back on this weight bench without that traitorous part of my body

totally giving me away.

I inhale like I can't find air.

*

You okay?
he asks. His own

breath falls hot on my neck, and the stable smell becomes

almost overpowering. Tack.

Sweat. I remember something.

*

I was little. Playing at Grandma

Laura's. Hiding in the tack room.

Hiding with my cousin, Clay.

He touched me. There. And it felt good. So good. So... "Oh."

*

I turn to Jared. What the hell?

"I'm okay. Except..." God!

"I totally want you." There.

Said it. He can laugh at me now.

But he doesn't. He kisses me.

580

We Are Alone

In here. The workout room is always deserted midday.

Still, I might hesitate, but

Jared is in total control.

Come on.
He leads me into

*

the sauna, but doesn't turn it on. Now our sweat scents

mingle and the combination is heady. There is no need for words as our bodies link.

*

He is strong. The first strong

man I've ever been with, and this time I don't give. It is new.

Frightening. Exhilarating.

But somehow I trust it to be

*

all right. And it is more than that. A piece of my puzzle

falls into place, a piece I didn't

know was missing. Fifteen

minutes to Seth, reinvented.

581

I'm Still Trying

To sort it all out in my head

when Carl gets home. Early for once, and with no company.

"Oh. Didn't expect you so soon.

I'll start dinner right now."

*

Don't bother.
He goes into the living room, pours himself a drink. Does not pour one for me.
So tell me. What

did you do today?
The look on

*

his face explains way too much.