just approaching noon, working
girls in all colors and shapes decorate
the sidewalks. All of them look tired,
and this time of day is the easiest.
Fewer creepers prowl before dark.
Still, as I show some of the ladies
a photo of Alex, ask if they’ve seen
her, a couple of men inquire about
my rates. One actually dares to touch
me. I wheel and push him backward.
“Fuck off. Do I look like a hooker?”
I’m dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved
crew-necked tee, and my face
is scrubbed. Hardly the wardrobe
of a girl working the sidewalks.
Uh, no . . . he sputters, sorry.
I just thought . . . well, looks like
you know these ladies. Happen to
know any younger ones? Sicko.
“You do realize that paying
for sex with an underage girl
is not only illegal, but also feeds
child sex trafficking operations?”
He Looks Confused
Eighteen is okay by me. He thinks
again. Hey, wait. You a cop?
Then he reconsiders one more time
and laughs. No, you’re too young.
“Yeah, and you’re a fucking
pervert. Why don’t you go whack
off and call your fist Sweet Little
Miss, you disgusting piece of crap.”
Too far? Usually I can tell how much
is too much, but this guy seemed
like a mouse until he turned into
a badger. I’ve seen it before, but not
often. He bottles his anger, stuffs
it inside. You can see it in the way
his face blooms red, and his fists
begin a slow clench-unclench.
Now the crazy billows in his eyes.
As he starts walking toward me, people
scatter in a wide circle. No goddamn
whore’s gonna talk to me like that.
This one will. The voice I know so
well falls over my shoulder. It’s two
on one, in case your math isn’t good.
I don’t dare turn away from the guy
to confirm who it is, but I don’t have
to. Alex moves up beside me, locks
my arm, elbow to elbow, plants
her feet. The badger stops, assesses.
“You don’t want to mess with her. I
hear she keeps a razor blade ‘up
there.’ I know she’s got Mace
in easy reach. Better back off.”
It’s pepper spray, actually, and
it’s evil. She points a small canister
at the man, who flees. How’d you
know I had this? she asks, laughing.
“Good guess?” I turn to hug her.
“God, it’s so great to see you.”
I want her to melt, but she freezes.
“How’d you know I was here?”
She pulls out of my arms. Lenny.
I figured you’d return to the scene
of our crime and was on my way
to the club when I noticed trouble.
I smile. “Funny. It’s usually you
attracting trouble. You look good.
You okay? I’m sorry about the baby.”
I am. It was her ticket out of the life.
That Realization Strikes
And suddenly I understand that
this mission will fail. “Gram’s picking
me up tomorrow. You can still change
your mind and come with us. Please?”
She avoids looking into my eyes.
Ginger, listen. There’s nothing for
me in Barstow but painful memories,
and you are among them. We have no
future together, not even as friends.
You deserve love. I can’t give it.
Sex work is the best I can do, and
not only am I good at it, I like it,
at least most of the time. Some of us
are meant to live this way. It’s the world’s
oldest profession for a reason—there’s
a demand. Someone has to supply it.
“It’s not the best you can do, Alex.
You’re brilliant. Please come home
with me. Don’t you get it? You gave
me a reason to live. You saved me.”
Maybe. But you can’t save everyone,
and that includes me. Come on. People
are staring. Let’s find some coffee, then
get you a cab back to House of Hope.
A Poem by Kate Carville
You Can’t Save Everyone
But not every loss is weighted
equally. When it’s someone
you respect, you examine
your own achievements, or
lack
of them. What if it was your
time? What would you leave
behind? Conversely, if you
don’t really care for the one
who’s given an early out,
perspective
argues maybe he deserved
to go. But when it’s a person
you care deeply for,
hovering so close to
death
you can hear the flicker
of the harbinger’s wings,
knowing he’ll leave this earth
weighted with regret and there
is
nothing you can do
to lighten his burden,
it’s hard to accept
that all your attempts
at reconciliation are
meaningless.
Sad that Bud never even
gave poor Seth the chance.
Seth
Drowning
In dreams—some violent, some worse,
because in them, I’m sinking into a slime
of sadness—I come up for air midmorning.
A fist is thumping my face, just above
my left eyebrow, and that eye is swollen
most of the way shut, and now the details
spring from the ether. Shit. Pippa. I have
to go see her. And then, I need a big helping
of Micah. Something beautiful to mitigate
my overdose of hideousness last night.
The world teems with hatred and I think
it gestates in fear of what is different.
But if that’s true, how do you explain
the human fascination with the freakish—
sideshows and circuses and even porn,
to some extent, capitalize on and monetize
it. Is it only when you stumble across
the unusual, free, and obviously happy
(maybe even happier than you) that it’s
threatening? Is the difference chains?
A Long Steamy Shower
Makes my body feel better, but it
can’t do anything for my face,
the left side of which has swollen up
to the approximate size of a grapefruit.
Ugh. Lovely. No way to disguise it,
I go find David, who is poolside on
a lounge chair beside a hard-bodied
young guy, both wearing nothing
but Speedos and a thick sheen of
suntan oil. The implications are crystal
clear, and what can I do? The word
“celebrate” comes to mind. “Morning.”
David lowers his sunglasses. Holy
shit. What the hell happened to you?
I have a story, mostly true, prepared.
“Last night was movie night at the center.
We were most of the way through
The Birdcage when we got a call
from one of the kids that two
guys
were following her, and she was afraid
they were going to rape her. By the time
I got there, they were mid-assault,
and when I tried to stop them . . .”
It’s a good story, and I expect sympathy.
Instead, David attacks. Are you stupid
or what? Who do you think you are,
the cavalry? Why didn’t you just call
911? In fact, why didn’t she? Why
would she expect you to rescue her?
You’re lucky they didn’t kill both of you.
His companion nods agreement,
which is the most he’s moved
since I got here. David reaches over,
settles a hand on the guy’s chest.
This is Marco, by the way. I’d thought
maybe we could enjoy a game of tag
team. We waited up for you, but when
you didn’t come in by midnight, I was
afraid Marco’s magic spell might wear
off. And now . . . I’d try ice if I were you.
Dismissed
And though he didn’t say forever,
it sure seems that way. I should be
scared, or at least, torn. But I feel
infused with hope, even if I’ve no clue
where I’ll be tomorrow. One thing I do
know is I won’t accept playing tag
team anymore, at least not unless I
initiate the game. David, bless him,
has just unshackled me. I watch him,
fingers combing Marco’s chest hair.
Once, that might have turned me on,
made me want to jump in. But now,
it kind of sickens me. “I think icing
my face sounds like a good plan.
And then, if it’s okay with you,
I’d like to visit Pippa in the hospital.”
David’s free hand waves me away.
Go play Good Samaritan. I’ve got
other plans. He leans over to find
his stash, hidden beneath a towel
under his chair. He takes a huge
whiff, offers the small plastic bag
to Marco, ignoring me, which is
totally fine. I’m sick of that shit,
too. Time to make some positive
changes. Resolved, I start toward
the house, then turn back to offer
David two words, well deserved.
“Thank you.” I’m sure he has no
clue why I say them. If he’d bother
to ask, I’d explain: Thank you for
taking me in, for seeing something
in me worthy of rescue. Thank you
for helping me grow closer to being
a man. Thank you for teaching me
that independence is more valuable
than a cocaine-and-caviar lifestyle.
Thank you for allowing me the time
to understand that sex is undervalued
as barter, and that I am worthy of love.
Back inside, I take a few minutes
to absorb the magnificence of the house,
something I’ve taken for granted
for quite a while, and I know David
must have forgotten what attracted
him to this place originally. Sad, and
what a waste—all these gargantuan
rooms boasting lavish furnishings
and art, yet emptied of the emotions
that make those things truly valuable.
Wonder if all palaces feel this way,
if royals throughout time have always
favored hedonism and narcissism
over love, or if there have, in fact,
been epic romances among the chosen
few. I wander from room to room,
my footsteps the only sounds disturbing
silence so thick it seems to breathe.
Yes, I admire this place. But it embodies
loneliness, and could never truly be home.
I Leave David’s
Marginally better off than when I
arrived. I stuff an upscale wardrobe
and four pairs of pricey shoes into
my old duffel, along with a nice
electric razor, a decent supply
of expensive toiletries, and the finest
plaque-removing toothbrush money
can buy. My only real valuables—
my phone and laptop—go into
a leather satchel I bought David for
Christmas. Glad this happened now,
before I got the chance to wrap it.
I’ve got a bank account, and a lot
of cash in my pocket, thanks to last
night’s lucrative play. Better make
a deposit, in fact, and I will on the way
to see Pippa. I call for a cab; no more
limos and drivers in my near future.
Then I text Micah to let him know
I’ll be stopping by this afternoon.
The thought elicits shivers,
anticipation threading my veins.
We have a chance at a normal
relationship now, but I don’t say
so in my message. Don’t dare jinx it.
Scares me enough just to think about
it. I consider writing a goodbye note
to David, but ultimately don’t. What
if I change my mind? Is it already too
late? Endings are daunting, but every
irrevocable bridge burning initiates
a beginning, and a new direction.
I light the figurative fuse, prepare
to torch this chapter of my life, move
forward, build momentum. As I get
into the cab, carrying all my earthly
possessions in two bags, a strange
word pops into my brain, “strange”
as it applies to me, that is: purify.
That’s it. I’ll work on purifying Seth.
After a Quick Stop
To make my bank deposit, the cab drops
me off at University Medical Center.
UMC is the go-to hospital in Vegas for
ER patients who look like they might
be uninsured and/or on Medicaid.
At reception, I ask for Pippa Young.
The silver-haired woman studies
her computer. Pippa? No record
of a Pippa here. Are you sure you have
the right hospital? She peers at me
over the wire rims of her glasses.
“Maybe it’s under Philippa? Or Philip?”
Now she looks annoyed. You don’t know
if it’s Philippa or Philip . . . oh. I see.
She tries again. Oh, yes. Philip. And
what is your name, young man?
She’s awfully nosy, isn’t she? Still,
I’ll be polite. “Seth Parnell.”
Her head bobs up and down. Very well.
Since Philip named you as his liaison,
you may visit him anytime. If I
might just see some identification?
Apparently, Pippa told them I’m
her partner, something they sanction
as a legitimate spokesperson for
a patient. How progressive! I find
her in a regular room, no ICU, despite
a whole lot of damage, mostly repaired
by some talented emergency room
doctors. If I tried not to look horrified,
I’d fail, so I embrace what I see. “Holy
shit, those fucks did a number on you!”
She wheezes through a rib-shrapnel-
punctured lung. You don’t look so hot,
either, big boy. Her tiny smile reveals
a missing front tooth. Except to me.
Thank you. I mean . . . If not for you . . .
Resilience isn
’t always easy. She reaches
deep inside and finds a little. I’m afraid
it might be a while before I can dance.
Oh Man
“Yeah, well, about that. I might have
just cut off ties with my choreographer
friend.” I pull a chair over to the side
of the bed, tell her why I’ve brought
two bags with me. “My mom used to
tell me things happen for a reason.
I’m sorry it had to be something like
this to open my eyes. I’m worth more
than this, Pippa, and so are you, no matter
how bad our families make us feel about
ourselves. Perhaps we’re approaching the true
Age of Enlightenment. Maybe not everywhere,
but in more and more places, including
here. Excluding assholes like the ones last
night, people are starting to understand
that gender is something you’re born with.
We can be who we are, follow our dreams,
succeed on our talents, celebrate falling
in love. But if we buy into the bullshit, believe
our only option is submission, we’re doomed.”
Pippa has listened quietly, sponging
the words, but now she says, I wish
I could believe that, but people are
basically mean. Survival of the fittest
or whatever. Hurting others gives
them a small sense of power, and
that includes verbal abuse. And
men like the ones who did this . . .
She lifts her hand, not quite touching
her pulped face. Want people like you
and me to disappear completely. They
want us on the endangered species list.
“Yeah, but they’ll be extinct someday.
Until then, we can’t cave in to fear.”
The tears, expected, begin to fall.
How do I keep from being afraid?
“You have to stop living in isolation.
Find an accepting community. Jump in.”
She thinks it over. And where is your
community, Seth? Excellent question.
I Chew on It
All the way to Micah’s. Other than
the YouCenter kids, I belong to no real
community. I don’t fraternize with other
escorts, and even if I did, I plan to quit
the business ASAP, because now I’m
free to move in with Micah and living
with someone you love negates having
for-pay sex with others, at least in my mind.
Who knew I had any moral sense left?
What little I have totally disintegrates