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    Tricks

    Page 28
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      Want him to take me higher. Want sex

      as it was meant to be, as only Bryn can

      ever give it to me. “Make love to me.”

      He pushes me to the floor. My head

      spins, dizzy with anticipation. My brain

      screams, kiss me! Kiss all those special

      places, just like you used to. I know

      he will, but … But what? Why

      is he stopping? He reaches into

      a back pocket. What is that?

      A rubber? No. We don’t need that.

      I’m on the pill. It was one of the first

      things we did when we got to Vegas.

      “N-no.” Is there mud in my mouth?

      I can barely cough out, “Why?”

      He stops fiddling with the wrapper,

      but doesn’t answer right away. Finally

      he says, Never know what kind of gift

      one of your customers might have left.

      What? My face flushes, hot from

      the skag, hotter still with an overdose

      of anger. Always, with no exceptions,

      “My customers use condoms.”

      I Try to Push Him Away

      But even if I were perfectly

      straight, my stick-figure body

      would be no match for his toned

      physique. And I’m not straight.

      My vision is blurred, like looking

      through a fishbowl, and my muscles

      feel like steel cables—much too heavy

      to drag around. And the weirdest

      thing about all that is how great

      it feels. I’ll nod soon, and that’s when

      the pain vanishes. So hell, he can screw

      me, if that’s all it means to him.

      He boosts himself up over me.

      Tries to look down into my eyes.

      But I stare at the wall. Will myself

      to go limp. Familiar one-act play.

      That’s it, he soothes. No need

      to waste a perfectly good boner.

      In. Out. In. Out. I close my eyes.

      Float. Pretend I’m with a john.

      When I Surface

      From my lake of dreams, Bryn

      is gone. He left a note: Stashed

      the bag and fixings in the usual

      place. Same price. Tomorrow.

      How have I fallen so low? I knew

      about junk, even told Bryn no way.

      Then I let him talk me into it. Love

      is more than blind. It’s brain-dead.

      My brain screeches, Fix! Fix!

      Quick, before I make you heave.

      Quick, before I give you the runs.

      Quick, before I start remembering.

      Remembering I once had another

      life. Hated it then. Might still hate

      it now. But more than I hate this?

      Hate what I’ve become? No matter.

      This is all I’ve got. I cook up a spoon.

      Oh yes. That’s good. So good.

      Clock. Where are you, clock?

      There you are. Evening already?

      The boys are out, scamming

      for play. Shower. Hurry. Night’s

      tick-tocking away. And I’ve got

      bills. Same price. Tomorrow.

      Skin Tight Men’s Club

      Is hopping tonight. Boys go in.

      Stay a while, watching pole dancers

      and cocktail waitresses, shaking

      their boobs for tips. Boys come out,

      horny as hell. Some go home

      to beat off or bug their wives.

      Some look for girls like me,

      loitering in the shadows where,

      hopefully, cops cruising beats

      won’t notice them. Bryn taught

      me the ropes. Act interested,

      but don’t push. The girls who

      get busted are in-your-face.

      Dress sexy, but leave some up

      to the imagination. Sexy schoolgirl

      That’s the look you want.

      Ask what they want up front,

      and collect before you take

      ’em home. Wouldn’t want to

      do all that work for nothing,

      and believe me, plenty of guys

      got nothing, especially if they

      overspent inside. And if some

      dude seems hinky, say no.

      I’ve said no a couple of times.

      It wasn’t because they were fat

      or bald, but because of what I saw

      in their eyes. More accurately,

      what I didn’t see in their eyes:

      life. Sharks, that’s what they were.

      Dead cold scary. No way was I

      chancing a swim with them.

      Most johns are more mackerel

      than great white. Cold slimy bait

      fish, quick to jump into the net,

      especially when what they’re

      jumping in after still looks fresh.


      Don’t know how long that can

      last. Hooking uses you up fast.

      Figure in hyping, I’ll look thirty

      before I turn seventeen. I turn

      sixteen day after tomorrow,

      not that one single person in

      the world gives half a damn.

      Why Did I Have to Go

      And think about that? Damn!

      If I were still in Santa Cruz, I’d be

      planning my Sweet Sixteen party.

      Daddy would insist. We’d have it

      at the club, and we’d have a band,

      and Paige would be there and maybe

      even Kyra.… Oh my God. What

      have I done? Daddy must think. …

      What? I’m dead? Mom hopes I am.

      But not. … Daddy. I’m sorry. Shit!

      I sit down hard. Sidewalk cement bites

      into my butt, which is naked beneath

      a short denim skirt. My head tilts

      against my knees, and my eyes trickle

      tears. Heavy. My head is so heavy.

      The H wants to take me away

      and I want to go. Away. Far. Where

      nothing hurts. Nothing … Eyes on

      me. Are there eyes? Don’t look. Have to.

      To know … Who? Can’t lift my head.

      Roll it sideways. Are you all right?

      The eyes are talking. No. Not eyes.

      Lips. Stupid. Eyes can’t talk.

      Do you want me to call 911?

      “N-no thanks. I’m o-o-k-kay.”

      So okay I can’t even say okay.

      For some messed-up reason,

      I start to hiccup. “Ju—” Hick.

      “Just think—” Hick. “Thinking

      about my b—” Hick. “Buh-birthday.”

      Hick. Hick. Hick. Somehow

      I manage to focus my eyes.

      The guy isn’t pretty, but his

      expression is kind enough. Maybe

      even concerned. Are you sure

      you’re okay? You been drinking?

      Can you get this screwed up

      from alcohol? Looney Tunes laughter—

      hick-hick— spits from my mouth.

      “Sorry. No, don’t drink much.”

      Now I can see the wolf in his eyes.

      No surprise. Even nice enough

      guys go on the prowl. Okay. What

      do you do that’s fun, then?

      I Swear Until This Moment

      I never even noticed his hand

      creeping up my leg, ever closer

      to my semi-exposed crotch.

      Eyes can be deceptive when

      they talk. I crack up again.

      This time, at least, the hiccups

      seem to have disappeared. But

      I’m starting to ache for a rig.

      Bryn’s words settle through

      the fog. Leave something to

      the imagination. I give the guy

      a quick feel before pushing

    &n
    bsp; his hand away. “Oh, I for sure

      know how to have fun.” Game on.

      Wait. Bryn again. Ask if he works

      vice. “You a cop or what?”

      He grins. Or what. I’m not even

      from around here. He stands, pulls

      me to my feet, steadies my wobble.

      Live close? I’ll walk you home.

      It Isn’t Far

      Just eight blocks. The guy chit-

      chats the whole time. Something

      about Omaha. Cornhuskers? He

      played for them? Bets on them?

      Oh yeah. Sportsbook. Won five

      big ones. (How big? Hundreds?

      Bigger?) I can’t concentrate on

      what he’s saying. All I can think

      about is a syringe full of magic.

      How fast can I do this guy?

      We swing into the parking lot,

      cut across to Building Two.

      Key. I need the key. It’s in my

      purse somewhere. Too much crap

      in here. Like, why do I carry it,

      anyway? Just to irritate myself?

      We reach the apartment and I hear

      Bryn again. Look around before

      you open the door. I do. A car

      is parking a few spaces down.

      And going up the stairs of the other

      building is that girl I see sometimes,

      mostly in the laundry room. Copacetic.

      Cool word. Where did it come from?

      I unlock the door, start to turn the knob,

      when more words fall into my brain.

      Business before pleasure. I turn.

      The guy is so close, we’re almost

      attached. I give him a little shove

      backward. “Before we go in, we

      should talk about what you want

      and how much that will cost you.”

      Cost? You want me to pay for it?

      He pushes me inside. I don’t pay

      for sex. Even if I did, I wouldn’t

      pay for you, you junkie bitch.

      He is all predator now, and on me.

      Scream! But his hand is already over

      my mouth. I shake my head, look

      into his eyes. This wolf has mayhem

      on his mind. He takes me down.

      So okay. Give it to him. I go limp.

      No! he screams. Fight, you goddamn

      whore! Fight, or I’ll kill you.

      No fight left in me. Fuck me. Kill

      me. Don’t care. He wants both.

      His penis stabs me, his hands lock

      around my throat. Air. No air. Black …

      Air!

      My lungs grab it suddenly. I float

      up into gray light, roll onto my side,

      vomit. Only nothing comes out.

      Noise. Someone’s screaming.

      Get the fuck out of here, you son

      of a bitch. I’m calling the cops

      right now, so you’d better run.

      Come back, I’ll kick your ass.

      My throat throbs. The wolf! I sit up.

      Too fast. My head is a merry-go-round.

      Down. The carpet stinks. Saved.

      I’m saved. Bryn! He does loves me.

      Watches over me. “Bryn? Where

      are you?” Footsteps across the stinky

      carpet. Not Bryn’s. Too soft.

      Someone leans over me. The girl

      from the laundry room. Just lie still.

      I think you’ll be okay. He’s hurting,

      though. I hit him with a book.

      Good thing you read big ones.

      She smiles. Sad. She’s sad. Should

      I call the cops? Didn’t think so.

      I’ll stay with you for a while if you

      want. I’m Ginger, by the way.

      A Poem by Ginger Cordell

      I’ll Stay

      Right or wrong,

      I’ll stay until

      you tell me I have to

      leave.

      Until you can look

      into my eyes, swear

      you no longer love

      me.

      It would be a bitter

      cup of broken-

      promise tea, but

      I’ll

      swallow it if you say

      I must. If I go, sad

      sweet dreams will

      follow

      me, weighting my days,

      strangling my nights.

      Sad, sweet dreams of

      you.

      Ginger

      Sadness

      Encircles me, a black halo.

      It’s this city, this dried-up

      desert well, sucking hope

      like sand. People come here,

      hoping. Hoping to get rich.

      Hoping to get laid. Not many

      go home richer than when

      they arrived. Easier to get

      laid, as long as they have

      a few bucks in their pockets.

      Then there are the people

      who move here with big

      dreams. They dream of stand-up

      comedy, of playing rock and

      roll. They dream of dancing lead

      in some steamy casino show.

      If they’re talented and lucky,

      they might end up in a chorus

      line or drumming with a bar

      band. But lots of them wind

      up just like me, selling pieces

      of themselves. Pieces they can

      never have back. There’s this

      girl who works for Lydia.

      Her name is Misty. I won’t do

      this forever, she swears. Just

      until I get my degree. Then

      the world is my apple pie.…

      Okay, metaphor isn’t her best

      thing. And neither is school.

      If she gets her degree, it will

      be because she slept with

      the right teacher. Or three.

      Every time I run into Misty,

      a little more of her is gone.

      I can see it in her eyes.

      When you sell your body, you

      also sell what’s inside. Piece

      by piece, you sell your soul.

      Now Here’s This Girl

      Who almost lost everything.

      She let her guard down. Plain

      and simple. If I hadn’t been

      doing my usual nosy thing,

      checking out the neighbors,

      she’d probably be lying here

      waiting for her pimp to call

      the coroner. Yes, I know who

      her pimp is. He’s the only guy

      who comes around almost

      every day. Collecting money

      and delivering sustenance—

      food, trinkets, and substances.

      Heroin. I was right about that.

      I watch her now, plunging

      a syringe full of hot amber

      liquid. Her head rolls side-

      ways and she fixes me with

      sleepy golden eyes. Want

      some? I don’t have a whole

      lot, but I kind of owe you one.

      “No thanks. Not my thing.”

      Her body visibly relaxes as

      relief pumps through her veins.

      Suddenly she clutches her

      stomach, runs into the bathroom.

      “You all right?” I yell at the door.

      She exits seconds later, pale

      but smiling. A very bad smell

      of voided body waste trails her.

      Doesn’t embarrass her at all.

      Sometimes the Lady makes

      you sick. But it’s good sick.

      There’s room on the couch,

      and a vacant chair, but she sits

      on the floor, as if afraid of falling.

      Now she rocks herself. Forward.

      Back. Forward. Back. Thank you

      for …. wait. How did you know?

      “I dunno
    . Guess he just looked

      like bad news. Then he started

      yelling crazy shit. I usually

      mind my own business….”

      Yeah, right. “But my ‘little

      voice’ was screaming. Good

      thing you never shut your door.

      Even better, he was too busy

      trying to choke you to notice.”

      Her hands rise protectively

      toward her neck. I thought

      I was on my way to hell for

      sure. She strokes the raised

      scarlet finger marks gently.

      Hurts like a mother. Is it ugly?

      I have to say, “Pretty ugly.

      You might have to take a few

      days off. Most guys won’t want ….”

      Too familiar. Then again,

      I just watched her shoot up.

      I repeat, “Take a few days off.”

      I Expect Surprise

      That I know how she makes

      her money. Or anger at me,

      because I’ve been such a snoop,

      or at herself, because she’s

      made it so obvious. I get neither.

      Nothing but silent acceptance.

      Is it the heroin? Or is it just

      her? Probably both. I want to

      ask where she came from. What

      kind of parents she has, if she

      has any at all. How she hooked

      up with her so-called boyfriend.

      That’s, no doubt, what he calls

      himself. Want to ask, though

      I know the answer, if he’s the one

      who started her on the junk.

      Her head sways forward

      as the drug carries her toward

      Dreamville. She’ll be totally out

      of it soon. I’ll ask something

      easy. “What’s your name?”

      At the sound of my voice,

      her head jerks up. Oh. It’s you.

      You tell me your name first.

      Wow. She’s pretty out of it

      already. “I told you before.

      It’s Ginger, remember?”

      She giggles like a little kid.

      A stoned little kid. Oh, yeah.

      Hey, Ginger. I’m Whitney.

      Somewhere in her sudden

      animation, I catch a glimpse

      of Whitney, the way I imagine

      she used to be before …. him.

      She nods again and I hurry,

      “Are you still in love with him?”

      Yo-yoing in and out of now,

      she is coherent enough to know

      who I mean. Bryn is everything.

      It’s the Last Thing She Says

      Before dropping all the way

      into whatever dark narcotic

      place the junk pushes her toward.

      I swear I’ll never venture there.

      Lately I don’t even feel like

     


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