by Jason Carney
“Well,” he pauses, “don’t even know today is your dad’s birthday. What kind of son are you?”
That word makes me cringe. Dad. I long for him, defend him against my mother and the rest of my family, overlook the years of silence. The years that he wants to see me, birthday and Christmas packages arrive. Since my mom remarried, silence has been our primary bond. No different from the rest of my life. I know he loves me, I see our distance as my mom’s fault. She has always been difficult.
“Happy birthday, I am so sorry, Dad,” I cry. “I should have remembered, I am so unhappy here, I miss you.”
“Makes me feel like shit to know my own kid doesn’t even know it’s my birthday. I expect more from you, boy.”
“I would never let them adopt me. I don’t want Steve’s last name. I like being Jason Carney. I am your son. I love you, Dad.”
As I listened to them speaking after the phone rang, my mom told my father that Steve plans adopt me. They plan to change my last name. He would have no connection to me at all.
Fourteen, closer to a man than a boy, I stormed down the stairs, yelling that Roy is my father, blubbering like a wounded preschooler. I love him, they can never take that away. They gave me the phone and let me find out for myself. I should have stayed upstairs.
“Well, a good son calls his father, especially on his birthday. Not even a card. Your sister got me a card. A nice sweater too.”
My half-sister is seven or eight; my stepmother bought those things. I hate his new family. Hate the fact that they have taken my place. Even when I am there with him, our time together is always my little half-sister, my father, and me. She gets him every day of every year. I get him two weeks every two years; even then, I do not truly get time with him. He never listens when I try to tell him what his absence means in my life.
“You didn’t even call.” His resentment builds.
I apologize repeatedly. Hysterical, I do not want to betray him; cannot forgive myself for not being a more loyal son. I crave his love and have chased his approval my whole life. I have seen the black eyes of my mother and stepmother. My heart knows he would never hurt me like that. My mind knows the damage is already done. I am still his little boy.
THIRD TIME IS THE CHARM
1987
MY DOWNFALL BEGINS in the first week of my senior year of high school back in Texas. By Thursday afternoon, I am a typical drug-addicted, disconnected teenager. Around nine that evening, my grandmother calls to tell me my mother is in the hospital again and that she and Steve are getting divorced. Neither piece of information surprises me. They fought three of the five years of their marriage. For the third time, my mother swallowed a bottle of pills, and that gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I wanted.
She gave no warning, which allows me a special visit tonight, since she was admitted straight from the emergency room. I pack a suitcase for her. In the main lobby my grandmother and I meet a doctor I have never seen. He escorts us down hallways and out into a courtyard, then over to her unit.
When we walk into her room she does not look into my eyes. Her breath is heavy, she is vacant. Barely able to sit up, her mascara covers her face and pillow. I smell the traces of vomit wiped on her sleeve. The doctor, not her normal shrink, tells us about multiple personality disorder and the erratic lives of those who succumb to this form of mental anguish. My mom fixates on the blanket wrinkled on her bed. I fixate on two facts as my mom gives me her credit cards and car keys, saying she will be home in a few months.
She is truly nuts. This doctor is the dumbest motherfucker in the world.
BAIT
1987
THE RAIN SLIDES DOWN MY CHEEKS and coats the parking lot a glossy shade of midnight, echoing the sky. The sheen of asphalt muddles the reflection of the neon signs. The edges of a gas puddle on the ground resemble a soft, muted watercolor. The sounds of early morning sweep down the highway. Large trucks crawl through the night like a rumbling mist. The parking lot smells crisp from engines cooling down as the rain evaporates off heated hoods. My breath escapes in small clouds, visible for a second before dissipating into the November night. I am nervous. I have never done this before. Tonight, I have to put in the work. Tonight, I am the bait.
“Remember, don’t look anyone in the eye,” Blue Eyes says. “Head straight to the back hallway, and walk slowly like you been here before. They won’t say shit to you.”
The goal is to get a man to drive away with me. They will follow in my car. When he stops, we will rob and beat the cocksucker. If I cannot get a man outside, I aim to go into a booth and overtake one there.
“It’s dark as fuck inside. Don’t get lost.”
“I need a bump,” I say. “Give me a bump.”
“After, after,” Blue Eyes replies. I’ve already had too many.
He punches me in the shoulder. He knows my stomach is up in my throat. Blue Eyes says, “Jason, they’re going to love your cute little face. You’re going to be real popular.”
“You know I don’t like it when the plan changes,” I respond.
The plan, as we’ve done several times, was to go to the park and cruise for a man to pick up and rob. We call this game “Rolling Fags” while the police call it robbery and assault. It’s very popular among boys from my side of Dallas. At least high school boys like us. The game is simple and requires only the slightest imagination and a little bait. The bait is the sucker who has to approach the men, the one who does all the talking and most of the fighting. I am normally the driver.
Our usual park being empty, we head to the porn store. With a movie gallery and coin-op booths in the back, men gather in the dark there, looking for a chance encounter. They enter the small booths with strangers to exchange sex. Older men, who relish the opportunity to teach a young man of my age the ins and outs of masculinity, saturate the darkness like a plague. Tonight I am the cure.
“Damn, they’re crowded tonight, easy pickings.” Blue Eyes looks over the parking lot, which is surprisingly full considering the weather. “Look at the watch before you choose. That’s a good indicator of who has money.”
We stand at the front of my car, the entrance twenty feet away. The coarse fibers of my sweatshirt stretch out like cottony hairs on the lips of a Venus flytrap. The light rain balls on the fabric; my sweatshirt is a flower covered in morning dew, awake and waiting for flies. I stand motionless, facing my terrible fear of dick-sucking faggots.
“If you get one in a booth, lock the door behind you. Wait for them to make the first move.” He laughs. “Then spring the trap.”
“Cool.”
“Don’t get on your knees,” Blue Eyes smiles, “most importantly, don’t suck a dick.”
Mayor McCheese, Grimace, and the Hamburglar sit in the backseat. They take turns doing key bumps from a bag of speed. The windows start fogging. They stammer at the top of their lungs as if singing in round:
“Bring him outside.”
“Get a fat one.”
“Don’t fuck up.”
They cheer impatiently. Their yells muffled by the windshield, I barely understand them. My legs bounce. Adrenaline flows through me: nervous, cold, and unsure.
I hope I don’t fuck this up.
“If nobody’s in the rooms, pick one out of the hall. They won’t be able to take their eyes off of you.” Blue Eyes laughs again.
As he speaks, a cold and furious sensation climbs my spine. In the back of mind, I sense them touching me and my muscles clench. It feels dirty. Frozen breaths tingle at the base of my neck. I think I smell piss. I assume it is the parking lot.
“Dude, that is gross, I don’t want them touching me,” I flicker with anger, too scared to let it come forward.
“Tell them to take you somewhere quieter. We’ll watch the door and follow in the car. Just be calm.”
What if I don’t remember any of this shit?
Blue Eyes is experienced. He is older, nineteen. He looks twenty-seven, a dropout with no idea what a j
ob is or how to obtain one. He never has money but always has a plan. I do not know how I let them talk me into being the bait tonight.
“It’s a rite of passage, a ritual of belonging,” he says. “It’s your turn, motherfucker! You better kick ass.”
Doing this balances the fact they are crashing at my house, eating my food, and spending my money. The act makes me worthy to hang out with them. I do not care about these things; I just don’t want to be alone.
My senior year of high school is a daily train wreck, in slow motion. The downward spiral of the past few months has been surreal. I catch myself in awe, wondering how the fuck you make it stop. I have no fucking clue. My stepfather left, my mom tried to swallow a bottle of pills for the third time, and she’s in the loony bin again. I live by myself. I rarely wake up and go to school. My father does not want me and when I think of him wanting me a feeling of sickness overtakes me. My house, the community center for all juvenile delinquent behavior happening in Mesquite, Texas, is where people come to do drugs, buy drugs, have sex, and crash. I am my own supervision. The reason I have so many fair-weather friends is that I am not very good at policing myself.
“Be quick about it; don’t run when you leave. Stay calm. Don’t forget the wallet.” The speed took hold of Blue Eyes hours ago and he will not shut up. “Unless you’re being chased.”
“Hell yeah, I got this,” I say. “They won’t see it coming.”
I have no idea what to expect.
CARNIVORES
1987
THE MOMENT I OPEN THE DOOR, perversity flows over me. The crisp humidity of outside falls away to the sticky current of electricity pulsing from the lights overhead. A film of water covers my body. I pause, look around the store, and take out a square.
Nothing says old enough to be in a porn store like smoking a cigarette.
My wet fingers fumble with the lighter. It takes the fourth strike of the wheel for the flame to erupt. I inhale deeply. The store is library quiet.
To my left is the counter. There is a man with brown hair wearing a green shirt. He studies me for a moment from behind the glaze of his glasses. He stands on the customers’ side.
The way he looks at me, he is probably a cop or a security guard. He bends over and whispers something in the clerk’s ear. Great, they are going to kick me out.
The clerk, a midtwenties slob, looks as if he has not taken a bath in days. He sits on a stool behind the counter reading a magazine. After a moment, the clerk looks up at me, smiles. His long curly black hair sticks out from under a greasy red and white ball cap that reads, Motherfucker. He then says something to the man and they both laugh. The guy in green slaps him on the shoulder and disappears behind a black curtain. I am sure they are going to kick me out.
An oscillating fan vibrates on the plate-glass counter; as it crosses his path, I smell a combination of boiled egg and hand lotion. A T-shirt two sizes too small does not cover the belly lying slack over his lap. The clerk hunches across the counter, rests an elbow on top of the display case. I expect him to ask for my identification. He does not, he returns to his magazine.
Looking down, he simply states, “No smoking.” He points to the wall to my right and turns the page.
To my right is a large neon-green poster board. Handwritten on the sign, in thick black marker, are the words, NO SMOKING. A solid black arrow points down to an ashtray. Compliant, I bend over and jab my full smoke squarely into the ashtray. The chrome lid, not secured very well to the top, falls onto the floor. A crash reverberates throughout the store.
Motherfucker.
All eyes are on me. The clerk seems irritated.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
The clerk rolls his eyes, and laughs as if to say, Stupid kid. I pick up the butts, place them in the bottom of the base, and secure the lid tightly. I then blow the fallen ash, spreading it across the floor. The clerk resumes his reading. I wipe my hands on my jeans, the store returns to quiet.
I fucked up. I was not supposed to be noticed.
Unsure of what to do, returning to the car a failure not an option.
My mind races at a meth-heightened pace. All my senses work overtime, my thoughts getting stifled under the beat of the light. The force of the current is so strong I swear I see the bulbs surge dark then bright. The whirls of the fan are a menacing cackle behind its sweet touch. Thin bursts of air invigorate my wet arms. My hair stands on end. Every sensation is euphoric.
To the right hangs a neon sign indicating an arcade. Time to play some games.
Music and groans waft out from behind the black curtain.
Between the curtain and where I stand, there are many aisles of pornographic movies. Each aisle houses hundreds, with hundreds more movies lining the walls on hanging racks.
I can do this.
At first, I do not register a pattern to the arrangements on the shelves. Then my eyes catch the box covers of naked chicks in various poses and sexual situations. That is all I need to know. I am more than curious to look at a few, and what seems to be a bright idea pops into my head.
Take a couple of minutes, look at the boxes, calm down, and work your way to the curtain slowly.
I begin to stroll through the aisles, without being too obvious.
I have to hurry. Just go to the curtain. Pick one of these guys. Oh, that chick is being wrecked. Look at that big-dick midget.
My thoughts move quickly and I forget why I am here. To the point of addiction, I have a penchant for porn. I have a favorite porn-star crush, Christy Canyon. She is tall and busty, one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Sophisticated and elegant, she never seems trashy or whorish in her movies, even when she takes two at a time. I look around for a box with her picture.
For a brief moment, the man in green sticks his head out of the curtain and makes eye contact with the clerk. The clerk motions to him with his hand, shaking his head. The only reason I notice is that they both stare at me briefly.
What is going on back there?
There are maybe six men browsing the aisles. I do not think they are suitable for my needs. Besides, none of them makes eye contact.
They must not be fags, I think. Where the hell is everyone? I know the answer already. If I wait a few minutes, I bet the security guy comes back up front. I continue browsing. He is probably waiting for me to come back there.
Excitement overtakes me as I find Christy Canyon on the cover of a bright red box. A movie I have never heard of before. She is just as I remember. A tall and naturally busty brown-haired woman with curvy hips and full lips. The look on her face exudes sex. She holds a giant stuffed animal between her legs. She straddles it like she killed the beast and it’s a stuffed souvenir. She looks hot.
I would love to fuck those big tits. Stick my tongue down her throat and fuck the shit out of her. I turn the box over to see the hard-core snapshots displayed on the back.
“Oh shit!” I yell. “Goddamn! She’s got a dick!” I throw the box on the floor.
That was definitely not Christy Canyon. Christy does not have a big hard dick.
Everyone in the store stares at me. The clerk stands up, stretches, and pulls his cap back to the rear of his head. He waits to see what I am going to do.
“Sorry about that,” I say, and try to laugh it off.
I pick up the movie and return it to the shelf.
I am totally fucking this up.
I pick the movie up off the shelf again and study the weirdness of it all. I am perplexed, not believing that the girl pounding the dude on the back is the same soft woman on the front. I flip the box front to back, front to back, suspended in disbelief.
How in the hell is this possible? It is so fucking gross.
The eerie sensation from the parking lot returns.
I stand building disgust in my gut as I stare at the box. Control beams from her eyes as she peers into the camera. Her hands grasp his ass, giving him his reward. My mouth salivates with a warm liquid pool, th
e type that forms right before you vomit. My back hurts, the muscles surrounding my kidneys clench. There are mixed emotions stuck in the back of my throat.
I feel like I am going to hurl.
I imagine being the man with her hands on my ass. The emotion from deep within my body careens over and scares me. I feel a hidden bit of myself craving this punishment. I recognize part of myself in the picture. The Golden Ox Café and breakfast with my dad pops into my mind. I do not understand this random association. I flash to him sitting on the bed, tossing cards into a hat. Sporadic and specific, his actions are methodical and slow. My mind spins and I’m filled with anger.
Dude, you are freaking out.
Something is not right. I cannot stop my leg from twitching. My own thoughts disgust me. Disoriented, I hiss at the box and place it back on the shelf. I stare off into space frozen, fearful.
After a moment, the clerk resumes his reading, and the browsers browse. Now I am too frightened to make a charge for the curtain.
I am going to beat an ass-fucker tonight. Stop being a pussy. I can do this.
Since the clerk already knows I am in the building, I decide I will look at the contents above the counter, and then slide into the darkness. As I approach, I notice a selection of blow-up dolls, restraints, dildos, and fake vaginas shelved behind the clerk. The longer I am here the more fucked up this place becomes.
The imitation pussies look disgusting.
Made of molded plastics that resemble a round ass in the air, you mount the contraption from behind. Coarse fibers stick out the underside, beneath the enlarged hooded clitoris. The doll is designed after a real woman’s body. You can have either the ass or the gash. Neither looks real. I cannot believe men actually pay for this thing, then take it home and fuck it.
