Tricks (24 page)

*

I reach for her, but she turns over, away from me.
Not now. I'm tired.

*

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.

392

A Poem by Cody Bennett
Might as Well Laugh

Dying 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!

393

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,

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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.

395

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.

396

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.

397

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.

398

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, since I'm

currently not getting paid.

Credit card advances are out, considering every card in

399

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

400

(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?

401

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

402

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
.

403

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.

404

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.

405

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

406

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?

407

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.

408

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.

409

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, harder to accept. Sex is sex. A kiss means love.

410

After he left, I cried and cried, called into the night, "Andrew, where are you?"

*

No answer came then. Or yet. The next

morning Jerome brought a hot biscuit,

*

with butter and honey. Nothing ever, ever, has tasted so good. He came back

*

that night. Afterward, I cried and cried, screamed into the night, "Andrew, save

*

me." But he didn't. Hasn't yet. The next

morning Jerome brought a perfect peach.

*

And so it has gone. I have my shampoo, unscented so Father won't notice,

*

but at least my hair feels clean. Really

clean. I even got my Cherry Garcia.

*

Another small plus: Jerome always uses a condom. That little detail has saved

*

more than a badly timed pregnancy.

It has probably saved my sanity.

*

Almost worse than the thought of having his baby is the nightmare idea of his "leftovers."

411

After a Few Weeks

The straight sex has become routine.

Something I can shut myself off from.

*

But now Jerome wants other things.

Let me watch you touch yourself.

*

Creepy things.
Did you know guys like to use vibrators too? Like this.

*

Downright disgusting things.
Your

period? I like the taste of blood.

*

How I wish I could say no. But even

if I thought he'd leave me alone,

*

saying yes is how I have convinced

him to make Father believe I am fit

*

for small freedoms. Like working in the yard, pulling weeds and picking

*

vegetables. Out here, beyond the confines of my room, I understand there is no way

*

to leave the place on foot. I can see

forever across the playa, and the road

*

is a straight, stretched wound. I can tell

cars are coming long before they arrive,

412

by dust mushrooms sprouting into the hot

blue Nevada sky. Hot? Working outside,

*

even midmorning, sweat pools in my armpits and beads my skin, attracting bugs and dirt.

*

But anything is better than slow suffocation in the tomb of my room. I observe people

*

come and go. Memorize schedules. Learn

where cars are parked, some left unlocked.

*

Ironically, Jerome is one of the worst about leaving his keys under the floor mat.

*

I file that fact away. Plan A has gone awry.

Maybe it will come in handy with Plan B.

413

Plan A

Was to do whatever it took to get Jerome to call Andrew, tell him where to find me.

*

But a major flaw in that strategy surfaced.

Oh, I have played on Jerome's sympathy.

*

Talked about home. Church. Papa. Told him

Mama is crazy, something he understands.

*

Jerome inherited his own "not rightness" from the XX chromosome side of his family.

*

My mother used to lock my brother and me in the closet,
he told me.
Then she'd sit

*

outside the door and listen. If she heard

us praying to Jesus, she'd let us out.

*

Even Mama isn't that bad. But our conversation

did reveal some mutual rocky ground. And keeping

*

him talking meant less time for other stuff.

Then yesterday I asked if he'd ever fallen in love.

*

He blushed but said nothing for several seconds.

Finally he confessed,
With you.

414

Talk About Knocking

The squall out of my sails. In love with me?

Looks like loneliness works both ways

*

here at Tears of Zion. Jerome will not help

me reconnect with Andrew. Neither will he

*

leave my door unlocked so I can slip away into the desert night (Plan B). Unless...

*

What would he do if I asked him to run

away with me? Does he
really
believe

*

he loves me? Would he desert Tears of Zion and Father? Is this a job or true devotion?

*

Could I convince him? Could I make him

believe I'm in love with him, too? Could I

*

live with myself afterward? Could I ever

be forgiven for such painful deception?

*

As I sit here, alone, questioning, phrases

tumble into my head:
You'll be here

*

for the foreseeable future.... Make
the best of it... Guys like vibrators too.

*

Plan C begins to formulate. Yes, it's wrong.

But not as wrong as everything else.

415

Plan C

Means courting Jerome's affection, pretending to enjoy his deviant sex.

*

Tonight that means letting him call me

"Mommy" as he sits on my lap and "nurses."

*

I stroke his hair as a mother would, dig deep inside for the words, "Mommy loves you, Jerome."

*

That excites him, as I guessed it would.

I love you, too, Mommy. See how much?

*

Oh, Andrew. Even if you do find me, how

can you ever love me again after this?

*

I hold stubbornly to the dream that he will, as Jerome turns his belly to "Mommy's."

*

Love or no, Jerome wants to punish Mommy.

The sex is rough, but it doesn't hurt nearly

*

as bad as the pretense. And it's even faster than usual. When he finishes, I lay my head

*

on his knobby chest. "Too bad you have to go.

It would be nice to sleep together all night."

*

Jerome's chin lifts and falls against my hair.

Uh-huh. That surely would be nice.

416

I roll on top of him, look up into his eyes.

"What if we..." Soft kiss. "Never mind."

*

He shivers. Is much too easy. I feel

almost evil when he whispers,
What?

*

I sit up, slide the naked place between my legs over his skin. "We could leave. Together."

*

He shakes his head. His body stiffens.

No. I couldn't do that. It would be wrong.

*

"No more wrong than this." I lean forward, cup my breasts, rub them over his face.

*

Confusion seeps into his eyes, and like it or not, his muscles relax. All but one.

*

I rock back gently, invite him inside. "I'd be

all yours and take such good care of you."

*

The second time takes longer, but when

he's finally done, he says,
I'll
think about it.

*

After he leaves, I lie in an aura of hope.

Say a little prayer to Mary Magdalene.

417

Hope Begins to Fade

After two days. I haven't seen Jerome

even once. Did I scare him away?

*

I'm pretty sure he didn't say anything to Father, who doesn't act strangely

*

at all during our regular sessions.

In fact, today he is almost friendly.

*

Brother Jerome tells me you've worked

hard in the garden,
he says.
Is that right?

*

What kind of game is this? Better play

along, whatever the rules. "Yes, Father."

*

Good. Hard work deserves a reward.

Starting Sunday, you may attend

*

the regular worship service, If that

goes well, we can talk about school.

*

Worship? School? No more isolation?

Is this some kind of a trick? Did Jerome

*

confess everything to Father after all?

I have no idea what to believe anymore.

*

One thing I know. It's wiser to say too