Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  I thanked her for her mother’s warmth and compassion, and then returned to my cell. It was no skin off my nose. I washed my hands of the two of them…and that, as they say, is that.

  ***

  As for the trial itself…what do you want to know? It was a feeding feast for the vultures and yours truly was the main and only course.

  They came at me from all directions. All evidence I just relayed to you they hashed over and over again, till I, whose future hung in the balance, drifted off and paid little attention to the proceedings. It was a dreadful bore!

  Only saving grace to the entire proceedings was the triumphant procession and testimony of the widow herself. Justine entered the courtroom like Atlas carrying the full weight of the world on his shoulders. She was dressed in black and impeccably tasteful. Her eyes were always downcast in sorrow.

  She told her story of woe, softly and with great remorse.

  Twice the prosecutor needed to ask her to speak up, her voice always trailing off into sad lamentation.

  There was shame and remorse in her tone of voice, as she related regret she felt for ever starting a relationship with me. She told of how her years of being fateful to Jack, a cold man to put it mildly, had taking its toll. She spoke of how I, a smooth talker to say the least, swayed her from her wedding vows.

  But, somehow, in her confusion, she remembered what was truly good in this world, and she called off the affair between the two of us.

  There were tears in her eyes, when she concluded. I felt a strong urge to stand and applaud such a fine performance. I almost believed her myself!

  Sad to say, while she was tearing me to shreds before the court with her lies, if given the chance to make love to her, I would have. I would have ravished her on the spot in front of all who were watching. Men are such fools.

  Justine was in such distress after her testimony; she needed to be guided gently from the courtroom. When she was gone, I turned to see the jury staring at me; the looks on their faces told the story…I was guilty, for sure.

  ***

  It didn’t take the jury long to decide. The sentence was read aloud for all to hear. I stood with Sadberry at my side. There were no surprises; I was guilty; but guilty of what?

  After hearing all the evidence, it was never proven I actually killed anyone.

  Oh, my involvement was clearly obvious; but when it came to the murders, all blame came down on Chi; I was just a collaborator, his accomplice.

  They dropped all the original charges against me and brought forth new and lesser ones; all of which I was found guilty of.

  Perhaps, Detective Freeman had been true to his word or Sadberry worked some judicial magic I was unaware of. But the judge handed down a reduced sentence of seven years with the possibility of sooner release based on good behavior.

  Now many of you, my dear friends, may be thinking, “Why did I not speak up against Justine?”

  Indeed, why not? The answer is simple. What good would it have done?

  It would be my word against hers; and my word was next to useless.

  She played her hand; and I was outclassed!

  Besides, it was clear the jury harbored a hatred for me. I was the cruel gigolo who preyed upon an unsuspecting lonely woman.

  And here is the clincher! I said not a word against her because I still love her.

  Though she betrayed me like no other, my love for her will always be hopelessly unyielding.

  I don't know, maybe this is where the suffering and sacrifice we spoke about earlier comes in? Maybe, now our love will be worthy of a sonnet? Perchance, I will be canonized…Saint Alex…the Patron Saint of Lost Loves!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “…a bad taste in my heart.”

  It’s three in the morning; I can’t sleep. I am writing this on the last day of my seven year prison sentence.

  When the sun rises they will release me. Conditions of my incarceration allowed for a shorter term as a reward for good behavior. I tried to behave…I really did. But there are so many facets of prison life that make it nearly impossible; you can’t imagine.

  There are so many unwritten rules and laws in prison. No one ever tells you what these are; you have to find them out, for yourself, by breaking them; but by then it’s too late; you’ve already committed the offense.

  If your mental image of prison life is in black and white as if in some old movie. With inmates dressed in starched grey uniforms, working in the metal shop, and causing riots in the dining hall. If you have visions of James Cagney laughing, while he guns down the dirty coppers, or Burt Lancaster releasing white doves from his cell window, I’m afraid you are far behind the times. Prison is a little slice of hell without the flames.

  It’s not so much the walls, bars, and guards, though they are nothing to scoff at; it is the misery the prison population imposes on themselves and one another.

  Prison is noisy…unendurably and persistently noisy! It’s filthy…exceedingly filthy! And dignity and privacy come in short supply.

  It’s extremely difficult to make true friends; yet, without trying you will surely make enemies…many enemies.

  You have to watch your back day and night, which can become, in time, agonizingly exhausting. Without eyes behind your head, you can only be aware of only so much for only so long. In prison, if someone wants to get you, they will; it’s only a matter of time, and everyone in prison has time.

  When your enemies attack you…it’s calculated. They focus on your personality, your strong points, your likes and dislikes, whatever makes you unique. For instance, if you play piano, they’ll smash your fingers. If you spend most of your free time in the yard lifting weights, they’ll break your arm. If you find enjoyment in playing sports, they’ll crush your kneecaps…and, so on.

  For me, the focus of their vengeance was always clear. I had the reputation as a pretty boy. Their main target was always my face.

  In prison, time is both your friend and your foe. As it passes, it brings you closer to your release; but as it passes you lose a little more of yourself…it’s a no-win and a sure-loss situation.

  I find it sad to say that in the seven years in this hellhole, I have only had one visitor…an interesting story to be sure.

  It was in the fifth year of my sentence. They called me to the visitation room. I walked in to see a small Asian woman seated at the guest table waiting for me. I turned to the guard, “There’s got to be some mistake, I don’t know this woman.”

  He looked at the guest sheet, “Alex Defy, right? No…there’s no mistake…she’s here to see you.”

  I looked again at this ancient oriental woman, without a clue “I don’t know this woman! What’s her name?” I asked the guard.

  He looked at the guest list once more, “She’s a...Jackson…Mrs. Jackson.”

  I knew by her name…it was Chi’s mother.

  I walked over and sat down across the table from her. She looked like a porcelain China doll seated in front of me.

  “Mrs. Jackson…how can I help you?”

  She looked at me as if she were looking into the face of Chi, her son, himself. She burst into tears that rolled down those round firm cheeks.

  It took a long time before she was able to speak, and when she did, she spoke about intimate things, the way all mothers speak of their children. She spoke about how Chi had always been a good boy, how the abuse of his father made him a rebel and eventually, in despair, run away from home. How she tried frantically to find him, to contact him, but to no avail. Then, she burst again into uncontrollable weeping.

  I did my best to console her. I lied…I lied a lot. I wanted her to think her son was pure and good, and any wrongdoing he may have done was due to the misfortune of his stormy life…and you know I wasn’t far from the truth.

  Then it dawned on me, a revelation like no other, like the light of a thousand suns shining down on me.

  “Newspapers had it all wrong,” I declared aloud, “Chi was no monster.” />
  She looked up at me, the tears stopped.

  “They said the women we spent time with were victims…the women themselves may think of themselves as victims…but, they’re wrong…they’re all wrong! I know now what it’s like to live a life in a prison…and a loveless life is a life in prison. I know what it’s like to live each day around hundreds…no, thousand of people…and still be alone. A life without sex…without conversation…laughter…argument…interaction…without human contact… it’s no life at all…it’s just existing! That’s the prison these women were in until they met with us.

  “We didn’t victimize them; we freed them, we restored them, we breathed life back into them. If not for us, they would have withered and died. I know this now, all too well.

  “But where is the Chi…the Alex…who will bring a glimmer of light into my imprisonment? If only those women realized what was offered, how lucky they really were, they would not consider themselves victims at all, but blessed.”

  It was a lofty speech, I realized that, but I meant it with every fiber of my being.

  Mrs. Jackson stopped crying, her back stiffened, and she smiled.

  “You were his best friend. I have so much sorrow, but I am pleased to know he had such a precious friend in you, Alex.”

  She rose from her chair, content, and walked off. I sat there wondering how much of what I said was hype and how much of it I believed.

  I never heard from the China Doll Mrs. Jackson, again.

  I suppose, you are wondering what I plan to do after my release. Well, I’ve learned so much these last few years in prison. Just know, I’ll make an appalling large amount of money…I’ll make it quickly and with little effort…and it will unquestionably be something illegal.

  Sad to say, I could never return to my past profession, since I am not the man I once was. My nose has been broken so many times it wheezes when I breathe. There are scars on my face, my jaw has been broken three times…no longer a pretty sight. I’ve lost a good amount of my hair and teeth. I walk with a slight limp, and, understandably, I’m not as young as I used to be…surely not ideal gigolo material.

  As it is, I’ve already told you how this will all end. I see myself sitting somewhere in a public place. Some poor woman whose life I have ruined or whose heart I unknowingly broke will stand before me with tears in her eyes and a gun in her hand. Without mercy…she will kill me for all my transgressions. And the saddest thing of all...as I bleed to death…I’ll look on her face and not be able to recognize her or remember her name. There have been too many.

  A few years ago, I heard a rumor that Justine remarried…Andrew Vandenberg, the artist, of all people. I always thought Andrew was nobody’s type. It seems I was wrong.

  I also heard her daughter passed away one morning when the nurses weren’t paying close attention…how strange.

  I know now it’s too late for regrets, but if I had to pick just one, it would be Justine. Oh…but not in the way you are thinking. I only regret I will never see or be with her, again.

  Go ahead…laugh at me, if you like…I give you permission…I don’t blame you. But…I still…miss her…still…I want her…I am still…hers! Even after all that has come to pass…I am… forever…condemned to love her.

  THE END