Lately this happens more
and more. When sex
is your job, it gets harder
and harder to let it be
about love. “Please, Alex.
Can’t I at least hold you?”
She sighs gently, backs up
against me, into my arms.
Before long, she trumpets
Jim Beam–fueled snores.
Wish I could laugh about
it. Wish she was really here.
A Poem by Cody Bennett
Might as Well Laugh
Crying is for babies,
little kids. Old people
who somehow can’t
remember
the way to the toilet,
so have to rely on
Depends. Once,
when
I just couldn’t hold
it anymore, I peed
my pants in the car.
Life
totally sucked until Jack
stopped and Mom got me
some clean ones. Cory
made
major fun of me for days!
Please, God, when I get
old, let me have enough
sense
to find my way to
the toilet!
Cody So Lady Luck
Ain’t no lady. She’s a total bitch,
not to mention a tease. I mean
one minute she smiles, and dice
roll your way. Then she turns
right around and hands you snake
eyes. Three times in a fricking row.
Lately she hasn’t even half-ass
grinned at me. Don’t know what
it is, but I can’t win an effing bet
to save my neck. Not even a little
one, and at the moment, I’m not
so sure I could even manage that.
The Belmont fucked me good.
I scraped together the thousand,
knew in my heart of hearts that
jerk-off Jet Fuel was gonna take
the Triple Crown, despite what
the so-called experts had to say.
That damn horse laid back just
a little from the start. I knew
the jockey was saving something
for the home stretch. Damn, my
heart got to thumping in my chest.
Thought it might give clean out,
especially when they turned
into that final straightaway,
and Jet Fuel found his stride.
I was jumping up and down.
Screaming, “Go, you sucka, go!”
He went. Finish line in sight,
he took the lead by a nose.
A neck. Then, from the back
of the pack, here came Girly
Girl, a stinking filly, no less.
I swear, once Jet Fuel took a look
at her ass, he was done racing.
Didn’t place. Didn’t show.
Hauled his butt across the line
in fourth. Girly Girl, a true long
shot, paid out forty to one. At
least the experts weren’t right
about her, either. But Jet Fuel,
damn the nag, broke my bank
account. I should have known
to bet the filly. Girls always win,
always get their way. Except
when their boyfriends are
freaking penniless losers.
Saturday Is Ronnie’s Birthday
I wish I could get her something
special, or at least take her out
to dinner somewhere really nice.
But I’m completely broke. Can’t
lay my hands on a dime, thanks
to one too many bad bets. All
I need is one good wager to make
things right. But I don’t have seed
money for even the smallest bet.
I suppose I could go stand on a street
corner, panhandle a buck or two.
The sign could say: DADDY DIED.
PLEASE HELP ME FEED MY FAMILY.
So far, we’re still eating. But
Mom’s bank account is definitely
dwindling. She’s out right now,
looking for a job. I should be
doing that too, instead of combing
through Jack’s clothing, hunting
spare bills, or at least change. One
little bet could make it all right.
Food. Bills. Insurance. Oh yeah,
and bud. I’ve pretty much had to go
cold turkey on that, and a good damn
buzz would make everything easier.
I’ve Scrounged
Four dollars, give or take, when
Mom comes slamming through
the garage door. Better exit her closet!
I tuck the cash into a pocket, head
toward the kitchen. She’s at the sink,
faucet running, and over the top
of the water splash against stainless
steel, I can hear her crying. I don’t
want to scare her, so I make a lot
of noise, stomping across the floor.
Her shoulders droop, so I know
she’s heard me. “What’s wrong?”
She keeps her back toward me,
keeps on scrubbing her hands.
Only when I touch her does she
speak. I don’t know what I was
thinking. How can someone like
me find work in Las Vegas?
The only places that will hire
a person my age are Wal-Mart
and McDonald’s, and even then
I have to compete with young
people. It’s like once you turn
fifty, you become disposable.
I reach around her, turn off
the faucet. Then I spin her gently
around to face me. “You are not
disposable. Don’t ever say that
again. Cory and I need you more
than ever… .” Especially Cory,
who needs an intact parent to turn
him around before there’s no more
turning. But I can’t say that. She’s
got more than enough on her mind.
What I say, despite Mom’s tears,
is, “Please try not to worry.”
Don’t worry? We’re going to lose
the house! The foreclosure notice
will arrive any day. We’ll be out on
the street…. Her body shudders,
and she slumps into my arms.
I carry her to the sofa. She’s light
as weathered bones, and her skin
looks like old paper. “Mom? Mom!”
At my voice, she comes out of her trance.
I’m okay, she mumbles. Jack’s pension
will come through. We can always
rent a little place. We’ll be just fine.
That Phrase Again
More and more, I’m starting
to believe we won’t be “just
fine” after all. But I can’t let
Mom know I feel that way.
“Yes, we will. You rest now.”
She closes her eyes, and I sit
beside her for a few minutes,
holding her hand and brushing
obstinate wisps of hair back off
her face. Foreclosure. The word
has been in the news a lot lately,
especially here in Vegas. But
I had no idea it would ever
threaten us directly. Mom sinks
into troubled sleep. I have to do
something. But what? A job like
GameStop won’t pay the mortgage.
Neither will Wal-Mart. So what?
Quick cash-shortage fixes
are plentiful in Vegas. Payday
loans won’t work, sinc
e I’m
currently not getting paid.
Credit card advances are out,
considering every card in
the household is currently maxed.
(Thanks mostly to me.) One solution
remains. I go into my room, look
around. Not the computer. Not yet.
TV? Check. Stereo? Check.
And in the corner sits one more
dream I’ll never attain anyway—
my guitar. I carry TV, tunes, and
instrument to my car, head toward
the far end of the strip, where pawnshops
are plentiful. I choose the one
that claims, “We Pay Top Dollar.”
The little puke behind the counter
is not impressed by my twenty-
inch flat panel television, nor
my pricey Bose Wave Music
System. Fifty bucks for both.
Neither will he give me much
for my amazing Martin guitar.
Forty. But beggars have no
power to negotiate. The dude
thinks this stuff is hot, anyway.
As I’m filling out the paperwork,
he spies the ten-dollar gold piece
(a gift from Jack), hanging on
a gold rope chain (a gift from
Mom) around my neck. You
interested in a loan against those?
He eyes them covetously as
I run my fingers over the chain.
Fuck it. They’re just things,
right? Still, I can picture Jack,
three Christmases ago, when
he handed me the little present,
wrapped in shiny purple foil.
He was so proud! I haven’t
taken it off since that day.
But now I ask, “How much?”
The pissant wants to see them
closer, and after a quick inspection
offers one-fifty. “Two hundred,”
I counter, not expecting him
to say okay. But he does. I walk
out of Superduper Pawn not
quite three hundred dollars richer.
It weights my conscience heavily.
Now the question becomes,
what do I do with the money?
It Won’t Cover
Even a quarter of the mortgage
payment. It might pay last month’s
power bill, but that’s about it.
I can’t forget Ronnie’s birthday.
Twenty will cover supermarket
flowers and a card. Wait.
My insurance is due. Can’t let
that lapse, or the state of Nevada
will slap me with a hefty fine.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Three hundred
bucks is nothing! Maybe I should
turn around, go back for my stuff.
It’s evening, thank God, a desert
breeze lifting to fight the almost
unbearable summer heat. As I go
to my car, the streetlights pop on.
They like to keep the sidewalks lit
here in Sin City, especially in
the seamier parts of town, where
crimes are nightly events. Some
are serious—robberies, gang
shootings. Others don’t bother
me much. Prostitution, for instance.
A quick glance reveals five or six
working girls, a transgender and
a straight-up guy. Okay, maybe
not so straight. The driver of
the car that stops to make a deal
with him is definitely a dude.
Hey, whatever dings their dongs.
As for the girls, one is kind of
cute. She’s young. Doesn’t look
all used up, like the other ones.
Actually, the he/she might be
the prettiest one of all. Funny
what the right outfit and makeup
can do for a guy. The next car
to pull over, looking for tail,
chooses him/her. Wonder if
the guy knows for sure what kind
of tail lurks under those Frederick’s
of Hollywood panties! Suuurprise!
Speaking of Frederick’s, maybe
I’ll forget about the flowers,
get Ronnie something pretty from
there. Something I can appreciate
too. Damn, now look what I’ve done.
I need Ronnie to ding my dong.
Frederick Has a Secret Too
And that is, his lingerie sure ain’t
cheap. I dropped fifty without
even trying. Oh well. Ronnie will
be happy, and so will I. That leaves
me two forty, minus sales tax on
a red velvet panty/bra set and the price
of a power drink. Insurance. Gas,
at four bucks a gallon. Fuck it! I’m
broke again. Think, Cody, think.
Okay. If I fill the tank halfway,
I’ll probably have twenty left for
a small bet somewhere. But where?
Sports haven’t been real good to
me lately. Casino betting has always
been better. If I could parlay the twenty
into fifty, I could play poker at
Vince’s tomorrow night. I always
walk away from there with serious
cash. Well, more often than not.
Now if I could just figure out a way
to score, I’d be sitting pretty, or at
least not quite so ugly. Wonder how
long the grace period is for my car
insurance. Better look into that.
First Things First
No need to worry about poker
if I don’t have a stake, and twenty
won’t cut it. Vince’s games
have become so popular, he
made it a fifty-dollar buy-in.
I pump eight gallons into my tank,
head on home. I check the mail
on my way past the box. No
foreclosure notices, but plenty
of other bills, including American
Express and B of A Visa. I’ll worry
about how to pay those another
day. Inside, Mom has moved
into her bedroom. The door
quiet. Cory’s door is also closed.
I poke my head in, but he isn’t
here. Didn’t think he would be.
Not sure how he spends his time.
Pretty sure I don’t want to know.
Even Mom doesn’t really question
why he’s out so late every night,
what time he makes it home.
What he’s doing when he’s gone.
I go into my room, turn on
the ’puter, navigate to one
of my favorite sites. The account
is empty. But I happen to have
one last card from Jack’s wallet.
It’s his ATM card, which draws
from Mom’s bank account.
I’ve hesitated to use it because
I had no way to replace any cash
I took out of it. Now, a few bucks
in my pocket, I’ll make a deposit
first thing in the morning.
A hundred should be plenty.
Ten-dollar blackjack bets are
pretty safe, and wins can add
up quickly. Hand number one:
draw. Nothing lost anyway.
Hand number two: I bust. Shit!
But I win the next two hands,
ka-ching, ka-ching. I knew
my luck would turn around
eventually. Ka-ching! So okay,
maybe a little larger bet. Let’s go
twenty this time. Dealer holds
on
sixteen. I’ve got fourteen. All
I need is seven or less. Come on!
No! Not nine! Damn, damn, damn.
It’s okay. The Lady is still with me.
I can feel her, smiling. Big bet?
Small bet? Big bet? You bet!
I lay down thirty. It’s my hand
and I know it. Deal to me: nineteen.
I hold. Hold my breath. Just as
the dealer draws twenty—fuck!—
the telephone rings. Who the hell
could it be, this time of night?
Caller ID
Informs me it’s the “Las Vegas
Police Department.” My throat
goes dry and my heart drops
into my gut. Cory! Little fucker
better not be dead. “H-hello?
Uh, no, this is his brother.
Hang on. I’ll get my mother.”
I start to call her, but she
materializes at my side, almost
as if she expected this call.
She takes the phone from my
hand, listens to Sergeant Givens
without saying more than a few
words. When she hangs up,
she looks at me with watery eyes,
shakes her head. They arrested
Cory. He assaulted a woman
during a robbery attempt.
A Poem by Eden Streit
Assaulted
By a glimpse of light,
I am reminded
how precious is
freedom.
Swallowed by darkness,
emptied of tears,
the song of the desert
calls
to me and I know
to find a way beyond
these plywood walls,
I must
become someone
I don’t want to know.
I hope the real me will
follow.
And I pray the Lord
understands my reasons.
Forgives.
Eden
Escape from Tears of Zion
Does not come easy. Jerome is, in fact,
maneuverable, and the key to the lock.
He comes to me late at night, tells me
to do things I’ve never even imagined.
Things I should have saved for Andrew.
The first time will stay with me, a scar
on my heart. The door opened and though
I knew what that meant, I couldn’t believe
that this supposed man of God would draw
back the sheet, pull up my shift and stand,
staring. Forgive me, he whispered, and
he meant that, even as he stripped,
lowered his ghostly white nakedness over
me. I swallowed the building scream.
Opened my legs. Wept as he plunged inside.
Choked on his Listerine-flavored tongue,
wielded like a weapon. His kiss was, in fact,