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
Tricks Page 28
