Tricks

  Lately this happens more

  and more. When sex

  is your job, it gets harder

  and harder to let it be

  about love. “Please, Alex.

  Can’t I at least hold you?”

  She sighs gently, backs up

  against me, into my arms.

  Before long, she trumpets

  Jim Beam–fueled snores.

  Wish I could laugh about

  it. Wish she was really here.

  A Poem by Cody Bennett

  Might as Well Laugh

  Crying is for babies,

  little kids. Old people

  who somehow can’t

  remember

  the way to the toilet,

  so have to rely on

  Depends. Once,

  when

  I just couldn’t hold

  it anymore, I peed

  my pants in the car.

  Life

  totally sucked until Jack

  stopped and Mom got me

  some clean ones. Cory

  made

  major fun of me for days!

  Please, God, when I get

  old, let me have enough

  sense

  to find my way to

  the toilet!

  Cody So Lady Luck

  Ain’t no lady. She’s a total bitch,

  not to mention a tease. I mean

  one minute she smiles, and dice

  roll your way. Then she turns

  right around and hands you snake

  eyes. Three times in a fricking row.

  Lately she hasn’t even half-ass

  grinned at me. Don’t know what

  it is, but I can’t win an effing bet

  to save my neck. Not even a little

  one, and at the moment, I’m not

  so sure I could even manage that.

  The Belmont fucked me good.

  I scraped together the thousand,

  knew in my heart of hearts that

  jerk-off Jet Fuel was gonna take

  the Triple Crown, despite what

  the so-called experts had to say.

  That damn horse laid back just

  a little from the start. I knew

  the jockey was saving something

  for the home stretch. Damn, my

  heart got to thumping in my chest.

  Thought it might give clean out,

  especially when they turned

  into that final straightaway,

  and Jet Fuel found his stride.

  I was jumping up and down.

  Screaming, “Go, you sucka, go!”

  He went. Finish line in sight,

  he took the lead by a nose.

  A neck. Then, from the back

  of the pack, here came Girly

  Girl, a stinking filly, no less.

  I swear, once Jet Fuel took a look

  at her ass, he was done racing.

  Didn’t place. Didn’t show.

  Hauled his butt across the line

  in fourth. Girly Girl, a true long

  shot, paid out forty to one. At

  least the experts weren’t right

  about her, either. But Jet Fuel,

  damn the nag, broke my bank

  account. I should have known

  to bet the filly. Girls always win,

  always get their way. Except

  when their boyfriends are

  freaking penniless losers.

  Saturday Is Ronnie’s Birthday

  I wish I could get her something

  special, or at least take her out

  to dinner somewhere really nice.

  But I’m completely broke. Can’t

  lay my hands on a dime, thanks

  to one too many bad bets. All

  I need is one good wager to make

  things right. But I don’t have seed

  money for even the smallest bet.

  I suppose I could go stand on a street

  corner, panhandle a buck or two.

  The sign could say: DADDY DIED.

  PLEASE HELP ME FEED MY FAMILY.

  So far, we’re still eating. But

  Mom’s bank account is definitely

  dwindling. She’s out right now,

  looking for a job. I should be

  doing that too, instead of combing

  through Jack’s clothing, hunting

  spare bills, or at least change. One

  little bet could make it all right.

  Food. Bills. Insurance. Oh yeah,

  and bud. I’ve pretty much had to go

  cold turkey on that, and a good damn

  buzz would make everything easier.

  I’ve Scrounged

  Four dollars, give or take, when

  Mom comes slamming through

  the garage door. Better exit her closet!

  I tuck the cash into a pocket, head

  toward the kitchen. She’s at the sink,

  faucet running, and over the top

  of the water splash against stainless

  steel, I can hear her crying. I don’t

  want to scare her, so I make a lot

  of noise, stomping across the floor.

  Her shoulders droop, so I know

  she’s heard me. “What’s wrong?”

  She keeps her back toward me,

  keeps on scrubbing her hands.

  Only when I touch her does she

  speak. I don’t know what I was

  thinking. How can someone like

  me find work in Las Vegas?

  The only places that will hire

  a person my age are Wal-Mart

  and McDonald’s, and even then

  I have to compete with young

  people. It’s like once you turn

  fifty, you become disposable.

  I reach around her, turn off

  the faucet. Then I spin her gently

  around to face me. “You are not

  disposable. Don’t ever say that

  again. Cory and I need you more

  than ever… .” Especially Cory,

  who needs an intact parent to turn

  him around before there’s no more

  turning. But I can’t say that. She’s

  got more than enough on her mind.

  What I say, despite Mom’s tears,

  is, “Please try not to worry.”

  Don’t worry? We’re going to lose

  the house! The foreclosure notice

  will arrive any day. We’ll be out on

  the street…. Her body shudders,

  and she slumps into my arms.

  I carry her to the sofa. She’s light

  as weathered bones, and her skin

  looks like old paper. “Mom? Mom!”

  At my voice, she comes out of her trance.

  I’m okay, she mumbles. Jack’s pension

  will come through. We can always

  rent a little place. We’ll be just fine.

  That Phrase Again

  More and more, I’m starting

  to believe we won’t be “just

  fine” after all. But I can’t let

  Mom know I feel that way.

  “Yes, we will. You rest now.”

  She closes her eyes, and I sit

  beside her for a few minutes,

  holding her hand and brushing

  obstinate wisps of hair back off

  her face. Foreclosure. The word

  has been in the news a lot lately,

  especially here in Vegas. But

  I had no idea it would ever

  threaten us directly. Mom sinks

  into troubled sleep. I have to do

  something. But what? A job like

  GameStop won’t pay the mortgage.

  Neither will Wal-Mart. So what?

  Quick cash-shortage fixes

  are plentiful in Vegas. Payday

  loans won’t work, sinc
e I’m

  currently not getting paid.

  Credit card advances are out,

  considering every card in

  the household is currently maxed.

  (Thanks mostly to me.) One solution

  remains. I go into my room, look

  around. Not the computer. Not yet.

  TV? Check. Stereo? Check.

  And in the corner sits one more

  dream I’ll never attain anyway—

  my guitar. I carry TV, tunes, and

  instrument to my car, head toward

  the far end of the strip, where pawnshops

  are plentiful. I choose the one

  that claims, “We Pay Top Dollar.”

  The little puke behind the counter

  is not impressed by my twenty-

  inch flat panel television, nor

  my pricey Bose Wave Music

  System. Fifty bucks for both.

  Neither will he give me much

  for my amazing Martin guitar.

  Forty. But beggars have no

  power to negotiate. The dude

  thinks this stuff is hot, anyway.

  As I’m filling out the paperwork,

  he spies the ten-dollar gold piece

  (a gift from Jack), hanging on

  a gold rope chain (a gift from

  Mom) around my neck. You

  interested in a loan against those?

  He eyes them covetously as

  I run my fingers over the chain.

  Fuck it. They’re just things,

  right? Still, I can picture Jack,

  three Christmases ago, when

  he handed me the little present,

  wrapped in shiny purple foil.

  He was so proud! I haven’t

  taken it off since that day.

  But now I ask, “How much?”

  The pissant wants to see them

  closer, and after a quick inspection

  offers one-fifty. “Two hundred,”

  I counter, not expecting him

  to say okay. But he does. I walk

  out of Superduper Pawn not

  quite three hundred dollars richer.

  It weights my conscience heavily.

  Now the question becomes,

  what do I do with the money?

  It Won’t Cover

  Even a quarter of the mortgage

  payment. It might pay last month’s

  power bill, but that’s about it.

  I can’t forget Ronnie’s birthday.

  Twenty will cover supermarket

  flowers and a card. Wait.

  My insurance is due. Can’t let

  that lapse, or the state of Nevada

  will slap me with a hefty fine.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Three hundred

  bucks is nothing! Maybe I should

  turn around, go back for my stuff.

  It’s evening, thank God, a desert

  breeze lifting to fight the almost

  unbearable summer heat. As I go

  to my car, the streetlights pop on.

  They like to keep the sidewalks lit

  here in Sin City, especially in

  the seamier parts of town, where

  crimes are nightly events. Some

  are serious—robberies, gang

  shootings. Others don’t bother

  me much. Prostitution, for instance.

  A quick glance reveals five or six

  working girls, a transgender and

  a straight-up guy. Okay, maybe

  not so straight. The driver of

  the car that stops to make a deal

  with him is definitely a dude.

  Hey, whatever dings their dongs.

  As for the girls, one is kind of

  cute. She’s young. Doesn’t look

  all used up, like the other ones.

  Actually, the he/she might be

  the prettiest one of all. Funny

  what the right outfit and makeup

  can do for a guy. The next car

  to pull over, looking for tail,

  chooses him/her. Wonder if

  the guy knows for sure what kind

  of tail lurks under those Frederick’s

  of Hollywood panties! Suuurprise!

  Speaking of Frederick’s, maybe

  I’ll forget about the flowers,

  get Ronnie something pretty from

  there. Something I can appreciate

  too. Damn, now look what I’ve done.

  I need Ronnie to ding my dong.

  Frederick Has a Secret Too

  And that is, his lingerie sure ain’t

  cheap. I dropped fifty without

  even trying. Oh well. Ronnie will

  be happy, and so will I. That leaves

  me two forty, minus sales tax on

  a red velvet panty/bra set and the price

  of a power drink. Insurance. Gas,

  at four bucks a gallon. Fuck it! I’m

  broke again. Think, Cody, think.

  Okay. If I fill the tank halfway,

  I’ll probably have twenty left for

  a small bet somewhere. But where?

  Sports haven’t been real good to

  me lately. Casino betting has always

  been better. If I could parlay the twenty

  into fifty, I could play poker at

  Vince’s tomorrow night. I always

  walk away from there with serious

  cash. Well, more often than not.

  Now if I could just figure out a way

  to score, I’d be sitting pretty, or at

  least not quite so ugly. Wonder how

  long the grace period is for my car

  insurance. Better look into that.

  First Things First

  No need to worry about poker

  if I don’t have a stake, and twenty

  won’t cut it. Vince’s games

  have become so popular, he

  made it a fifty-dollar buy-in.

  I pump eight gallons into my tank,

  head on home. I check the mail

  on my way past the box. No

  foreclosure notices, but plenty

  of other bills, including American

  Express and B of A Visa. I’ll worry

  about how to pay those another

  day. Inside, Mom has moved

  into her bedroom. The door

  is closed, and behind it, it’s coma

  quiet. Cory’s door is also closed.

  I poke my head in, but he isn’t

  here. Didn’t think he would be.

  Not sure how he spends his time.

  Pretty sure I don’t want to know.

  Even Mom doesn’t really question

  why he’s out so late every night,

  what time he makes it home.

  What he’s doing when he’s gone.

  I go into my room, turn on

  the ’puter, navigate to one

  of my favorite sites. The account

  is empty. But I happen to have

  one last card from Jack’s wallet.

  It’s his ATM card, which draws

  from Mom’s bank account.

  I’ve hesitated to use it because

  I had no way to replace any cash

  I took out of it. Now, a few bucks

  in my pocket, I’ll make a deposit

  first thing in the morning.

  A hundred should be plenty.

  Ten-dollar blackjack bets are

  pretty safe, and wins can add

  up quickly. Hand number one:

  draw. Nothing lost anyway.

  Hand number two: I bust. Shit!

  But I win the next two hands,

  ka-ching, ka-ching. I knew

  my luck would turn around

  eventually. Ka-ching! So okay,

  maybe a little larger bet. Let’s go

  twenty this time. Dealer holds

  on
sixteen. I’ve got fourteen. All

  I need is seven or less. Come on!

  No! Not nine! Damn, damn, damn.

  It’s okay. The Lady is still with me.

  I can feel her, smiling. Big bet?

  Small bet? Big bet? You bet!

  I lay down thirty. It’s my hand

  and I know it. Deal to me: nineteen.

  I hold. Hold my breath. Just as

  the dealer draws twenty—fuck!—

  the telephone rings. Who the hell

  could it be, this time of night?

  Caller ID

  Informs me it’s the “Las Vegas

  Police Department.” My throat

  goes dry and my heart drops

  into my gut. Cory! Little fucker

  better not be dead. “H-hello?

  Uh, no, this is his brother.

  Hang on. I’ll get my mother.”

  I start to call her, but she

  materializes at my side, almost

  as if she expected this call.

  She takes the phone from my

  hand, listens to Sergeant Givens

  without saying more than a few

  words. When she hangs up,

  she looks at me with watery eyes,

  shakes her head. They arrested

  Cory. He assaulted a woman

  during a robbery attempt.

  A Poem by Eden Streit

  Assaulted

  By a glimpse of light,

  I am reminded

  how precious is

  freedom.

  Swallowed by darkness,

  emptied of tears,

  the song of the desert

  calls

  to me and I know

  to find a way beyond

  these plywood walls,

  I must

  become someone

  I don’t want to know.

  I hope the real me will

  follow.

  And I pray the Lord

  understands my reasons.

  Forgives.

  Eden

  Escape from Tears of Zion

  Does not come easy. Jerome is, in fact,

  maneuverable, and the key to the lock.

  He comes to me late at night, tells me

  to do things I’ve never even imagined.

  Things I should have saved for Andrew.

  The first time will stay with me, a scar

  on my heart. The door opened and though

  I knew what that meant, I couldn’t believe

  that this supposed man of God would draw

  back the sheet, pull up my shift and stand,

  staring. Forgive me, he whispered, and

  he meant that, even as he stripped,

  lowered his ghostly white nakedness over

  me. I swallowed the building scream.

  Opened my legs. Wept as he plunged inside.

  Choked on his Listerine-flavored tongue,

  wielded like a weapon. His kiss was, in fact,