by Sansa Rayne
Steph sets down her glass and takes a deep breath. “I believe in your work, Sibel. I’ve always supported you…”
“Yes, you have.”
“…But when you ask me to stay on the sidelines, it hurts. You tell me Pierce is going to be involved. Is there a reason why it has to be him, and not me?”
“Yeah, a few,” I snap. “The main one being, I’m not letting you get in trouble because of me.”
Steph darkens, and her voice gets very low. “So you’re the only one who gets to take a stand and make a statement? Is that how it works?”
“You’re going to be a lawyer, Steph! This shit could torpedo your career before it even begins! I’ve tried to keep you insulated from my work so you can be successful in ways I… in ways I can’t.”
Whatever resentment had been bubbling inside Steph dissolves just as quick. She gets up and sits down next to me, draping an arm around my shoulder. “I get what you’re saying, Sibel, but it’s bullshit. You’re succeeding like crazy right now. People are listening to what you have to say. Isn’t that what you want?”
I sigh, nodding. “It is, and I’m really happy about it. But it’s… ephemeral. It could go away so easily. This next performance is probably going to cost me a lot of work. And maybe someday I’ll go too far, and ruin my name for good. What will I do then?”
I’ve already gone as low as it’s possible to go, and I’m not going back. I’ve made peace with doing what I did because I was confused and depressed — but to sell myself purely for money… I can’t even fathom the idea now, not after what I’ve accomplished.
“Steph, there are times where I wish I didn’t go to art school — that I’d gone to a regular college and studied marketing or foreign languages — something secure. Every time I see my parents and we have the Art Discussion, I wonder how much easier life might be if I had a human resources job back in Scranton.”
“Easier, maybe. But fucking boring,” Steph argues, giving me a squeeze. “You wouldn’t want that.”
“But if I didn’t know any better, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe things would be good with my parents, and I’d have more than one friend.”
“Gee, thanks a whole lot!”
I grin. “You know I love you, Steph. But I’ve never had the gaggle of gal pals like you see on TV, and I feel left out. Disconnected.”
“I get it,” Steph says. “Over the years, you’ve let people drift away. All your childhood friends, and from high school… I’m the only person you’ve tried to keep in your life, and that makes me feel special — even if it’s not always easy to be your friend.”
I laugh, feeling soft, warm relief thumping in my heart.
“So what can I do?”
“You’re a nice, interesting person, Sibel. You can make more friends. That’ll be easy. Making things right with your parents will be harder, so maybe that’s where you should start.”
She rubs my shoulder, then gets up, taking our dirty dishes with her.
“Thanks,” I say, getting up to help her load the dishwasher.
She’s right — I need to figure out how to make peace with my parents. The question is, how?
Preparation for a video shoot largely falls to me: I make sure the camera batteries are charged, I correspond with the performers, I obtain supplies: Food and drink, condoms and lube, robes, blankets, lotions, First Aid — anything we might need. If it’s a night shoot, like tonight, I load the extra lighting equipment, jackets and a space heater.
Chase, on the other hand, just has to be awake, clean, ready — and present.
After Sibel leaves to see Steph, I go to pick Chase up at our apartment, but he’s not there. I find his room empty, and in the common area are a dozen empty beer cans stacked on the coffee table. I try his cell phone, and after a second I hear it ringing from somewhere in his bedroom.
Goddamnit.
At least there’s not a lot of other places for him to be. I text tonight’s performer that the shoot is delayed, and probably canceled, then hop in the truck.
Despite it being a weekend, it’s not very late at night, so there’s parking within a couple blocks of The Gulag. A sparse crowd drinks quietly, and Olga’s got little to do but watch subtitled sitcom reruns on the TV above the bar. Her hair looks tossed, like she’s been running around a lot, despite how empty the place is.
“He’s in back,” she says when she sees me. “Get him the fuck out of here,” she adds with a glare so menacing, her long, thick eyebrows nearly touch.
“Thanks,” I say, giving her a nod. I turn and head for Chase, who’s polishing off a pint of something dark when I sit down across from him. With a cigarette burning between his fingers, and a collection of empty shot glasses in front of him, he looks like he’s been drinking black coffee instead of liquor: stewing in place, he broadcasts a foreboding intensity. He smells of cheap cologne, vodka and tobacco, much like he usually did back in Atlantic City.
“Chase, you know we have a shoot tonight?”
He grunts, throwing back another shot. “Cancel it.”
“What?” I ask, trying to ignore the queasiness growing in my stomach.
“Got sick of waiting,” Chase says, a smirk breaking through his grimace. “Fucked Olga in the bathroom. So, no shooting tonight.”
Fucking Christ.
“She didn’t seem happy, Chase. What did you do?”
He snickers, turning toward the bar and giving Olga a wink. “Tried to tip her. I thought I was being nice, but fuck me, right?”
“That’s because she’s-”
“Not a whore, yeah yeah,” Chase says. Getting up, his knee bounces the table, knocking over a few of his empty shot glasses, which roll around. “She sure fucked like one.”
Should I make it clear how worried I am, or is that only going to make things worse? With Chase, it’s hard to say. He hasn’t been quite himself since the night he walked in on me and Sibel — I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t so, but he’s never missed a shoot until now.
And fucking Olga — that’s completely new. He’s known her for years, and I actually thought he kinda liked her, but he’s never made a move.
Rather than heading out the front, and likely getting an earful from her, he makes his way to the emergency fire exit, tripping the alarm as he steps out into the night.
Mouthing an apology to Olga, I follow him, working my phone to text tonight’s performer, Chase is sick. Reschedule, okay?
When I finish, I jog until I catch up to Chase. “What’s the matter, man? You were supposed to work with Alicia tonight. Nineteen, perfect little ass. What’s the deal?” I say, unable to maintain a facade of fury. “I’m not leaving you alone until you tell me.”
He takes a lingering drag from his drink, then looks at me. “You remember the day I got out of prison?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I came back into the world… it was more than I coulda believed. That you did that. For me.”
“It was nothing, considering what you did for me.”
Chase shakes his head. “No, I told you. What happened with my… father… that was all on me. No reason for you… to go to jail… too.”
I sigh, never really liking to hear this from him. What if I had stopped him, and worked out a deal with Nick? Maybe neither of us had to go to jail that night. What if we could have implicated Nick for what he did to our girl, Tina, and left it at that? Maybe we all would have been a lot better off. But, I doubt Chase would agree — and he doesn’t regret what happened. “Yeah, okay,” I say. “So, where you going with this?”
His face sinks, like an Alzheimer’s patient escaping the fog only to recall the death of their spouse. “You remember… the other night?”
I know the one he’s talking about.
“Yeah.”
Chase blinks a few times, as if he might actually shed a tear. “Maybe… I should have gone back to prison.”
The unease in my gut ruptures and a wire short circuits in my head.
After everything I’ve done for you, Chase…
“You protected me. I protected you. It worked out.”
He sighs, turning to look back at The Gulag. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Traded one prison for another.”
I clasp my hands together behind my back to keep myself from throwing a punch.
“Are you fucking kidding me? When we met, you were a pimp barely surviving. Now you don’t have to worry about getting arrested or shot, you make plenty of money, you fuck all the time. I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with that.”
“Yeah you do,” he says. “It’s the old me. He hasn’t gone away.” After one last look at the bar, he gets moving again; despite all the shots he drank, he walks steadily, without any wobble or stutter in his step.
“Chase, where are you going? My truck’s back at the bar.” He doesn’t say anything, he just keeps going, so I follow. “Everything I’ve done for the last fifteen years has been to help you,” I say, not angrily — just stating the fact. “We’ll keep the old you at bay. We’ll do what it takes, no matter what.”
“Not this time,” he replies. “It’s a line… you won’t cross it.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“No.” Chase sets his hands on my shoulders and looks at me with the expression of a man on his deathbed. “There’s nothing you can do, Justin. It’s in me. It doesn’t go away. You tried your best.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong, but he’d know better. As bitter as it is, I believe him.
“You’ve tried to help me, and I… I’ve tried to let you. Went along with everything for years, but it’s not fucking working anymore. The only thing that will work, is for me to get what I want.”
“If this is about Sibel,” I cut in, desperate now.
“Damn fucking right it’s Sibel,” he snarls. “I agreed to leave you two alone, but it doesn’t change what I feel. And I just have to live with that.”
“No, we’re gonna find an answer,” I argue, my chest thumping like something’s trying to escape. “We’re going to make this work.”
Chase shakes his head wearily. “For how long?”
“Forever!” I scream, loud enough to wake the block. “As long as it takes!”
“It’s! Not! Working!” he shouts back. “I’m going to lose it, Pierce! I know it.”
“No, you’re not.” I grab him by the collar and swing him back toward The Gulag. “You’re down on yourself, so you got drunk and fucked the only woman who doesn’t think you’re a complete douchebag. You’re talking out your ass. Tomorrow you’ll sober up and get back to normal.”
“I wish.”
“You will.”
Chase starts walking back toward the bar and my truck, though I assume it’s because he’s giving up, more than he’s believing me.
“And if I don’t?” he says at last. “Then what?”
Our footsteps echo loudly off the sidewalk as a breeze kicks up the smell of cigarettes and car exhaust. Blue and red lights scroll across the buildings as a police car sails by, its sirens muted.
“Then… maybe we think about having you see someone. A professional.” It’s not a suggestion I want to make, but I’m running out of ideas.
“They’ll lock me up, Pierce,” he mutters. “They’ll have to. You know.”
“You won’t have to tell them everything,” I argue. “You don’t have to tell them about that night. It’s in the past, it’s not going to be a problem.”
“It won’t matter,” Chase counters, his voice remarkably calm. Resigned, even. “If I tell them why I’m there, that’s the end of it. They’ll recognize me for what I am, and keep me in a fucking box for the rest of my life.”
I don’t have a good answer for that. Sibel’s friend Steph could probably confirm if Chase is right, but odds are he is. If the authorities think he’s a threat to the public…
And what will they say about me?
All these years, I’ve known about Chase’s issues. I’ve covered them up, kept him free. A good lawyer would contend that I also prevented Chase from acting out, or from causing anyone any serious harm. But I’m not trained to do such a thing, am I? Everything I’ve done has been made up as I went along, and just because it’s worked so far, it doesn’t mean what I did was right.
What if Chase could have gotten the help he needs years ago, and I’ve stunted his progress by keeping him in limbo? What if I’ve cost him his chance at leading a normal life?
My actions probably weren’t perfect, but there was no right answer. My options sucked, so I picked the less shitty one for Chase. I should feel satisfied that I gave him the best life he could hope to enjoy, but that doesn’t bring me much comfort.
“Chase… I think we have to keep trying,” I say as we reach my truck and get in. “Are you willing to do that?”
He laughs, a bitter belch of morbid amusement. “Try what? You know as much as me what I need, and why I can’t have it.”
I pull out into the street and merge into traffic. “You don’t know that for sure.”
Chase sighs. “Whatever.”
“Just promise me you’ll hold on for now. You’ve lasted this long, you can go a little longer. Give me time to work something out, okay?”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll do my best.”
—
I drop Chase off at our apartment, but I don’t stay. I help him stagger inside and set him down on the couch. In seconds, he passes out, snoring heavily. Leaving him there makes me feel like shit; I’m going to go get exactly what I need, while he can’t. It’s not fair, and I know it.
Sibel is surprised when I ring her buzzer. The shoot was supposed to take several more hours, and we both figured we’d see each other tomorrow.
The effects of the night must be on my face, because when Sibel opens up to let me in, her face flips from eager confusion to shocked concern.
She pulls me into an embrace and holds me tight. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go inside,” I whisper.
When the door’s shut behind us, I make sure to swing the deadbolt.
I tell her about the state in which I found Chase, and having to cancel the shoot. “I’m really worried about him,” I confess. “He’s had issues with… controlling his impulses.”
“You should get him to AA or something,” she mutters, not knowing enough of the truth to understand. Alcohol isn’t Chase’s issue — as far as coping mechanisms go, it’s not a bad one.
“I’m going to work on getting him what he needs. It won’t be easy, though. What happened between him and us… he’s still hurting,” I explain. “Maybe in time, things will go back to normal.”
Yeah, sure.
Sibel nods, and a bolt of guilt jabs through my chest. I should tell her the rest, but I don’t want her to worry. I’m here; I can keep her safe. That’s all that matters right now.
What a day.
I should be the one unconscious on my couch, not Pierce.
After I get home from Steph’s, I expect to collapse into a deep, happy sleep. Making up with her brings such a boost to my spirit, I feel ready to tackle the issue of my parents — but it can wait for the following morning.
I’m on the couch starting to doze off when Pierce arrives. We talk for more than an hour, then lie in bed and keep talking. He tells me he’s staying with me tonight.
Just in case.
So I shut my eyes, happy to let him stroke my hair and kiss my cheek until I’m out. Instead, I hear his breathing get heavier, and when I open my eyes, he’s got his face buried in the pillow. It’s hard to blame him — he’s had a taxing night.
I get up and make for the bathroom. The light stings my eyes at first; when they adjust, my reflection looks so ragged, I can’t help laughing. Half my modeling contracts would get torn up if they saw me like this.
The feeling dissipates quickly. Jobs should be the last issue o
n my mind. Pierce tells me he’ll keep me safe, but how can he? And if Chase is really such a threat, why not just call the police? This isn’t right. How can it be?
It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s going to be okay.
I’m freaking out a little, but why not? A strange, possibly dangerous man has an obsession that he may not be able to control.
You’ve dealt with creeps before. You can handle yourself.
At the same time, I’m a week away from my next performance, one that will almost certainly bring me under fire. My tenuous relationship with the law will be bent to the point that only a miracle will keep it from breaking.
Whatever happens, it will be worth it. This is what you’re here to do. This is your purpose!
Lastly, I need to apologize to my parents, somehow telling them truthfully that I’m doing fine, and that they don’t need to worry about me. I have no fucking clue how to do this; they probably should be worried. I am.
They love you. They’ll understand. You just need to have the courage to talk to them!
Yeah, easier said than done.
You’re in control of this, Sibel, I try to reason. Things are better with Steph. You could back out of the performance, you could leave Pierce and move back home with your parents. All of it is within your control.
But would that really protect me? What if leaving Pierce sends a message to Chase that I’m back on the market, and that I’m his if he comes to claim me?
I’m not even going to consider that, though, because I don’t believe I can leave Pierce. He’s brought problems into my life, but he’s worth it. He’s the light in my darkness, the peace in my storm. He knows what it’s like to live in a world that reminds you, You don’t belong. I haven’t told him about the nadir of my life, the time I spent on the streets… but he’d understand, and he wouldn’t judge.
Likewise, I can’t cancel the exhibition we’ve planned. It’s a statement I have to make, and it’s about cowardice — for me to wimp out would mean doing exactly what I’m lashing out against. What kind of message would that send to the world? No. The show goes on. Even if I don’t get a minute of sleep until then — I’m doing it.
