by Rhys Everly
The good thing with Mario’s, besides being able to eat free without begging to make enough for a slice, was that they could actually sit inside, get warm, enjoy a slice or two, and have some coffee to warm them up before venturing back into the wilderness of NYC.
Marissa was there when he entered the place. She was hard to miss. A naturally big girl with straight, jet black hair caught back in a ponytail, and black clothes —as per usual, a goth at the best of times. Her eyes were always smudged with some eyeliner she had managed to pocket from a beauty store. Her skin was much darker than Rafe’s and her face was spotty, as with most teenagers.
She was a lesbian, and her parents had abused her since she’d come out to them at age sixteen. She ran away a year later after they’d beaten her senseless, calling her all sorts of names. She still had a scar under her left eye that was staying there for good. Rafe couldn’t help but feel affection for the young girl and see her as his little sister, so he saw their daily meetings as a ritual. As a family gathering.
“Hey, chica, whassup?” he took a seat across her. She was holding a cup of tea, the steam rising up well above both of them.
“Hey,” she said in an unusually miserable tone. That worried Rafe. She was always vocal and sassy, just like he liked her. She would always greet him with “Hey, guuurl!” and then high-five him. That didn’t happen either.
“What’s wrong, chica?” he asked her.
She breathed in and exhaled, changing the direction of the steam with her breath. “I bumped into my mother today,” she huffed.
“What? How? Where?” He jumped in surprise, just as Mario’s wife placed his hot cocoa on his side of the table.
“Union Square. She was out shopping with her girlfriends,” she replied.
He cursed. It was one thing bumping across your godforsaken relatives in your neighborhood, but stumbling upon them in Manhattan was like finding the needle in the haystack. “What happened?”
“She took a good look at me, called me a slut, and cold-shouldered me. Even her girlfriends, the women I grew up around, wouldn’t acknowledge me. God, I hate her so much, Rafe,” she said and punched the top of the table, spilling a little of her tea and Rafe’s cocoa.
He reached across the table and gave her his hand. “Fuck her, chica. She’s no mother. Just fuck her and the lame excuse of a dad you have,” he offered her. She took it with appreciation, bringing a slight smile on her face.
“So… what are we having today?” he continued, leaving the miseries of reality to the back of their minds and enjoying a good meal before returning to it.
“I’m having a Hawaiian,” Marissa said. Rafe angled his head in surprise.
“Excellent choice, señorita. A Hawaiian for my chica and a pepperoni for me, please, Sonia,” he called to Mario’s wife, who was counting money at the register.
“One or two?” she asked without raising her eyes from the bills.
Rafe looked to Marissa who showed him two fingers, as usual. “Two, por favor,” he told Sonia.
“Right away, chico,” Sonia responded, closing the register and getting to work.
Marissa sipped her tea and set it back down, changing the subject. “What did you do today?”
“Joder! I went to get the Medicaid form. If I had all the things they ask for,” he said through his teeth, “I wouldn’t be applying for it, that’s all I’m going to say, chica.”
Marissa grimaced. “It’s going to be okay, Rafe. We’ll find a way.”
He shook his head. “How? I make, what? Fifty dollars a night, maybe? I’ve been saving for two months and I still can’t afford the damn medicine. I’m getting worse, you know. I don’t feel the energy I used to have. Even some of my clients have noticed. You know, the couple regulars that I fuck every week,” he said.
“Well… how much have you got so far?” she asked. Sonia placed two slices in front of each of them.
“Fifteen hundred. I’m nearly there, but I keep thinking I’m gonna die before I get to the nineteen hundred that I need,” he replied and started munching on his meal.
“That’s eight more fucks or something, right? Can’t you pick up anyone during the day?”
The stare Rafe gave her answered the question.
“I’m just asking. How the hell am I supposed to know how it works?”
“Trust me, chica, sometimes even I don’t know how it works,” he said, then resumed his eating.
When they both finished and enjoyed a second cup of hot drinks, they parted their ways, and Marissa went to the shelter she had been accepted in for the week.
Rafe had tried them all, was sick of them. They’d kick him out on the third night without notice or ask him to pay for a shower or a clean towel or simply claim they were full and send him off.
Rafe decided to test Marissa’s suggestion and made his way to his pickup spot early, on the off-chance that guys might drive by, trying to pick someone up. As he suspected, as long as the sun was out, no traffic of his sort was available. And even deeper into the evening, nothing was moving. Around eight other boys began to assemble. There were about ten of them spread across the street in groups of two or three, all chatting, waiting for business to pick up.
Rafe was not friendly with any of them. He found other rentboys and their stories boring as fuck, and he’d be damned before he let himself be subjected to another stupid confession of what brought them to the specific profession. And even if their stories weren’t all bullshit, he just couldn’t stand them. All he wanted was to be picked up and make money, and that’s what he’d do tonight again.
By nine, a couple were picked up by some early birds, but there was a stillness again until ten, when more cars started driving by. There were a few sixty-year-olds, one younger guy, and one car with two young guys, who looked like college students looking to have some fun if the guys they picked were any indication.
One by one—or in that instance, two by two—the street started to clear out, leaving Rafe dry. None of his regulars were here tonight. He would normally stay until two a.m., if he wasn't picked up straight away, which he normally did. But he’d been there since six and was starting to feel cold, despite the relatively friendly temperature that evening.
“Fuck it,” he spat, resolving to spend his money on a hostel. He simply wouldn’t have it today. He was very tight with his money, but today had been particularly disappointing. He’d been afraid to visit Social Services for weeks to pick up a Medicaid form, but when he was on his way there, he had dreamed it would be easy.
Well, that dream was crushed, and he was gonna treat himself to a bed without a male companion beside him.
He walked uptown where he knew a cheap hostel, one that almost always had spare beds available last minute. He got the key in no time after he paid for the night and got the elevator to the second floor. He found the number easily.
When he entered the room, he jumped; a man was lying on the lower bunk, wearing only a pair of faded blue boxers, otherwise uncovered.
He was quite the sight, specifically his crotch, bulky and surrounded by smooth white skin. The v-shape that led to the guy’s dick was so lickable, he momentarily fantasized doing just that.
“Oh, fuck you,” the guy exclaimed, waking Rafe from his daze.
The guy came into view from under the bed as he stood up and put something in a brown leather suitcase. That suitcase was familiar.
It was it. It was him. The guy from yesterday. The gilipollas that had beaten him up.
“What are you doing here? Having an encore of last night’s stupidity?” the guy said, holding the suitcase.
“No. Do you always hold the suitcase like it’s an extension of your arm?” Rafe replied with a tiny bit of bile.
The guy gave him the finger and tucked his suitcase under the bed. “Don’t even get into any ideas tonight,” he told Rafe.
Rafe grimaced. Pierce was right. Rafe had tried to steal his suitcase and Pierce was justified for acting the way he had las
t night and the way he was talking to him now.
“I won’t. Um… ” He wanted to apologize but couldn’t find the guts to. He paused. He swallowed his pride, like his mamá had taught him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” he said dropping his head to his chest.
“Greed?” the guy suggested.
Rafe eyed him and shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
The guy rolled back onto the bottom bunk and stretched out his body. The sight was once again irresistible to Rafe, but he restrained himself as he made his way to the bed and threw his backpack on the top bunk.
“Do you always lie around in hostels in your underwear?” he asked him, unable to hold himself back any longer.
“My clothes are in the washing machine. I’m waiting for the cycle to finish,” Pierce said, less aggressive now.
Rafe backed up to look at the guy clearer. “Wait! You went around the corridors like that? You must be very confident in your skin.” Not that he had any reason not to be.
“I must be very homeless,” he grunted.
Rafe laughed. He nodded in acknowledgement. “How did it happen for you?”
The guy picked up a book and turned his back to Rafe, murmuring, “It’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough,” he replied. This guy was a fucking rock. No emotions, no feelings, just pure aggression. “I’m Rafe, by the way,” he offered, hoping to break the ice.
The guy glowered at Rafe and put the book down. “Pierce,” he growled.
Finally, Rafe was able to put a name on that chunk of man-candy that had given him a good beating. Pierce. Well, with such stunning eyes, it fit.
“Nice to meet you, Pierce. Great to put a name on my bruises,” he said.
Pierce arched his head to glare at Rafe and, without missing a beat, said, “You went looking for it, dude. You were the asshole that stole my suitcase—or tried to, anyway”.
Rafe held his hands up, accepting defeat at Pierce’s words. “You could, however, have just given me a light push and taken your bag. You didn’t have to punch, kick, and spit on me.”
“Hey,” he turned again. “I did not spit on you. I spat next to you. It didn’t even get you,” he snapped.
“It could have, though,” Rafe responded.
“I’m pretty good with my aim.” He attempted to go back to his book, but Rafe wasn’t gonna let him. He was enjoying their conversation. He enjoyed seeing Pierce’s temper swelling up with his chest, trying to defend himself.
“What happened to you, anyway? Why were you naked in the middle of Central Park, washing a pullover?”
Pierce told him, once more, that it was none of his business.
“Okay, so I’ll just assume you’re a nudist,” Rafe said, climbing up to his bed.
“Am not,” he heard him reply with a muffled sound, a mattress separating them now.
Rafe laughed at the reply. “Your current… ” He let the pause stir up the air before continuing, “attire is not helping your case. So allow me to assume you’re a nudist. Or an exhibitionist. Or a nude exhibitionist.”
He smirked when he heard Pierce take a deep breath and reply very quietly and dryly, “Fuck you.”
“I would, but you’re not my type,” Rafe replied. Pierce exhaled.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type either,” Pierce commented.
Rafe wished that reply gave a clear clue as to whether Pierce was gay or not, but he would have to drown in the mystery for now.
Rafe opened his mouth to retort about being Pierce’s type, but Pierce interrupted him before any sounds left his mouth.
“I wanna sleep, dude. Shut up!”
He felt the bed moving and heard the book slam shut.
“I thought you were waiting for your clothes to dry, nudist,” Rafe said, covering himself with the blanket.
Pierce cursed, got up, put his shoes on, and headed for the door. He stopped, turned back, and pulled his suitcase from under the bed, taking it with him and slamming the door as he left.
“Qué bruto!” Rafe whispered and closed his eyes, his tiredness giving in to the soft cushion and taking him to dreamworld.
Five
Pierce
When Pierce woke up, Rafe was still fast asleep. He hadn’t talked to him since the previous night, when Rafe had reminded him to go get his clothes.
Pierce was still a little embarrassed that he'd accidentally slammed the door on his way out. Rafe was a funny guy, albeit being a thief, but he was in no mood to have a repeat of the conversation they’d had the previous night.
He collected all his items, as few as they were, and tiptoed out of the room. He visited the kitchen to help himself to some breakfast, not that much was provided. Just the bare essentials: cereals and milk, pancake mix, coffee and tea, bread. More than enough for him.
He had a heap of cereal to start with while enjoying an instant coffee, then chucked a couple slices of bread into his suitcase before venturing into the city.
Coming out of the hostel, he headed toward the clothing store that he’d seen the night before. They had a few racks of coats on display outside. But Pierce was determined not to steal. He had the money.
He entered the store, and a young salesman approached him, inquiring about his needs. Pierce asked to be shown winter coats and their prices. The guy led him to the back of the facility where a wide selection of coats were laid out. He started pointing at each of them, quoting their best features and their price.
“This one has a fur lining so it’s really warm,” he said, showing him the brown inside of a black parka.
“Do you have anything not made of dead animals?” Pierce asked, disgusted at the idea of putting a carcass on his body, for the sake of getting warm, when he had other options. The only animal skin he allowed anywhere near him was his grandad’s suitcase, and only because it was the only thing of his he owned.
The guy nodded and moved him a few feet to the left to show him more jackets. “This one has detachable sleeves, so it can be turned into a spring vest later on. Very functional. It’s seventy-five dollars,” he said holding up a black parka and then pointed at another. “This one is a bit lighter but warm nonetheless, and it’s sixty dollars,” the guy said.
Pierce was looking at his options and was starting to doubt his decision to enter the store. “Do you have anything on the cheaper side?”
“What’s your budget?” the man asked, putting his hands together in front of his chest.
Pierce winced, calculating. “About twenty bucks, I guess,” he said.
The salesman grimaced. “I’m sorry, for that price I only have scarves and pashminas,” he told him, putting his hands to his waist, clearly done doing business with Pierce. Pierce got the message.
“Thanks,” he said exiting the store.
He walked to the other corner of the block and entered the donut store. A couple of women greeted him. He approached the counter, refraining from looking at the goods they were selling. If he did, he’d buy a few, unable to resist his already growling stomach.
“Hi, I was wondering if you had any jobs,” he asked.
One of the women, probably the manager, left the counter and came to his side, eyeing him up and down. Her eyes settled on his worn sneakers and the faded jeans. She squinted. “You have a resumé?”
Pierce shook his head.
“Yeah, thought so. Well, print one out and bring it to me and if we have any openings I’ll give you a call,” she replied.
A call? A call? Why didn’t he think of that? How was he supposed to receive phone calls when he didn’t have a cell phone? What number would he put in his resumé, and how would he be contacted? He needed a phone. And a number.
Fuck my life.
He had already spent all his money on that hostel. He now wished he hadn’t after all.
He thanked the lady opposite him and left the donut place, finding himself back on the streets. He began thinking of his options while trying to locate a
n internet café to write his resumé. How could he make himself reachable to employers?
He found a place nearby and sat down to use a computer for an hour. He’d never created a resumé before, so that was his first action. He Googled it and followed the instructions step by step.
Name: Pierce Callahan.
Birthdate: 02/15/1995.
E-mail address:
That was it. He had, completely by chance, found the way. He’d just give his e-mail. He hadn’t used it in a while, so it would need a good clean-up to leave space for new and important e-mails, but he had one, and it was free, and accessing it was only a buck at the local internet café away.
He wrote down the internet café address as his own, then filled out the rest of the document with his details, education, and experience, which had been minimal. But every little bit helped. When he was done, he gave it a once over and printed a few copies. Then, he accessed his e-mail.
2,405 unread e-mails. Mostly junk. He deleted every single message, including the ones from the past, before he’d been kicked to the curb. Clean slate. That was what he needed.
He paid for his services and exited the café, reinvigorated with excitement, waving his resumés in his hand as he walked down the street. He would head downtown. It was where it was busiest in Manhattan and where there were surely more vacancies.
He saw a job ad taped on the window pane of a bar and he decided to pay it a visit.
“How can I help?” The bartender asked with a wide smile.
He paused a second before replying. “I was just wondering if you have any jobs,” he told her.
She nodded and went to get her manager to talk to him. Could it be that easy? Really? On his second try? He was trying not to overthink things and get way ahead of himself; he didn’t like getting disappointed.
A woman, older than the barmaid who had greeted him, came out of a door behind the bar and approached Pierce with all the confidence a manager could hold in the world. The closer she came, though, the more her face changed, until eventually she stopped, the girl behind her bumping onto her. She looked at Pierce up and down, and without missing a beat she turned her head to the right, talking to her employee.
