Tricks. Part 41

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Wind Shuffles autumn feet across November sand, stirring grit like ice chips. Crystal white.

It blows along deserted sidewalks, crusts lonely avenues. Where has she gone? Panicked, I search for her in familiar places.

Restaurants. Theaters.

Alleyways adjacent the heart of the city. I call out her name. It returns, hollow, an echo.

Ginger

Late Night Last Night

Three outcalls, one post-midnight.

It was a good night for tips, so Alex and I celebrated with fine Italian dining and people watching on the strip. I slept in this morning, lay in our bed, still perfumed with our lovemaking. We don't do that so much now. I've missed it. But more and more, Alex flinches when I touch her. Not just me, I think. But anyone. Everyone.

It took twenty minutes of gentle kissing and easy ma.s.sage to arouse her even slightly. And while she had no problem pleasing me, nothing I did could bring her all the way.

s.e.x for Alex is nothing but a job.

It isn't in my power to fix that.

It's strange, really. Strange and sad. When we first got here, it was me who shrank from touch.

Alex taught me the joy of skin against my own skin. She showed me how to feel without fear.

Now she's the one afraid to feel.

I wish that I could change that.

But she's built a fortress around her. A sand castle. It's bound to crumble. And when the sea rushes in, I'm afraid she'll drown.

It's Almost Noon By the time I yank myself out of bed. "Alex?" I call, but my intuition tells me I'm alone.

I check the bathroom, wander into the living room. No Alex.

d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n. She can't be out turning tricks already! What is wrong with her? We don't need the extra money. I don't get it.

I want to find her, drag her off the street or out of whatever car she has gotten into. But Vegas is a big city. Alex could be anywhere. Still, she has a few favorite places. I clean up, get dressed, call a cab, head out the door. d.a.m.n. What's going on across the parking lot? Looks like a garage sale.

Oh. Whitney. An ambulance took her away a few days ago.

Guess the landlord decided she's not coming back and neither is her sleazy pimp boyfriend.

A small knot of people stand around watching the landlord haul her stuff out of the place.

Sounds like the creep is taking offers. I go up to an older lady.

"Everything for sale, huh?"

The woman barely looks at me. Too busy checking out bargains. She shrugs. Guess so.

Poor Whitney. How far did you run this time?

"Why? Did she ... is she ...?"

The lady shrugs again. Don't know. But hey, those junkies are the walking dead, anyway.

Junkies and Wh.o.r.es Whitney and Alex. No life force left behind the lenses.

The walking dead. Spot-on.

My cab arrives. Not a driver I know. Where to? he demands, tapping the steering wheel like he's got somewhere better to be. When I hesitate, he drops the flag. Where you want to go?

I'm not in the mood for snippy cabbies. "Just drive down Las Vegas Avenue. I'll tell you when to turn."

It's my dime. I'll spend it how I want to. I have him cruise in circles, in an area known for its strip clubs and accompanying activities. "Slow down. I might want you to stop." Feels good to be the one giving orders for a change.

I see several working girls. A few guys. One or two in the "not sure"

category. There. That's her.

Right there in the plain light of day, hustling. "Stop here!"

He pulls to the curb, and I hand him two twenties for a thirty-two-dollar fare. He looks at me. Change?

"G.o.dd.a.m.n straight." No tips for smart-a.s.sed cabbies. Off he drives in a huff. Good.

Alex doesn't notice me right away. Too busy working a guy in ugly purple Bermuda shorts.

I tap her shoulder. "What's up, girlfriend? You're not thinking about doing this guy, are you?"

Alex jumps. Ginger! What the h.e.l.l? She looks at Bermuda, who is seriously checking me out.

He licks his lips. Well, h.e.l.lo.

You're not really her "girlfriend,"

are you? Meaning, are you two, like, lezbos? "Actually, I am her girlfriend. Why, you want to watch?" You effing pervert.

I can't believe how p.i.s.sed I am, or how submissive Alex is acting. I expected more of a reaction. Bermuda reacts for both of them. h.e.l.l yeah!

How much to do the two of you?

Don't say anything, Ginger!

Alex warns. Who the h.e.l.l died and made her boss?

If she can hustle guys, so can I. This one won't get off cheap.

"Three hundred for all you can eat."

Right on. Bermuda reaches into his back pocket. But it isn't money he shows. Vegas vice. He flashes a badge. You're under arrest for solicitation. Then, an afterthought.

How old are you, anyway?

A Poem by Cody Bennett Afterthoughts Why can't an afterthought be forethought?

Where does hindsight take you if you're focusing behind you?

What important is gained when the lesson defies recollection?

When Alice stepped through the looking gla.s.s, did she see herself backwards, or did the whole rabbit hole experience simply make her close her eyes?

Cody

Don't Want to Open My Eyes

If I do, it will mean I admit I'm still alive. Right now, I think, I could choose to let go, say a silent good-bye, and join Jack on the Other Side.

Do I want to do that? Don't think so.

But what if it's better? Until I decide, I lie here, churning in an anesthetic sea, inhaling antiseptic air. I'm on my stomach, and want to turn over, but something won't let me. And when whatever painkiller it is they've got me on starts to wear off, my back catches fire. While I wait for more, praying they hurry, a tide of voices rushes in.

Whoosh: ... he should have regained consciousness by now... .

Whoosh: ... suspect was the girl's boyfriend ... haven't found him yet... .

Whoosh: ... know what the boy was doing there or his relations.h.i.+p ...

Whoosh: ... leave me, Cody. Don't you dare make me lose you, too.

Whoosh: ... Colts, fourteen; Chiefs, ten.

Figures. G.o.dd.a.m.n loser Chiefs.

Eventually the Tide Recedes One voice remains. Even if she wasn't talking, a steady, downstream flow, I'd know it was Mom by the hills of her hands. They stroke my face, gentle my hair from my forehead.

Carry me back to when I was little.

I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, Cody boy ... just like when I was little ... but you can work your way out of it ...

just like when ... I don't know if I can help you, but I'll try... .

Work my way out. But it's such a long way out. I don't know if I'm strong enough. Not even with your help, Mama. Easier to just say good-bye. Your hands feel good, though. I love your hands... .

There's a weird noise. A loud hum.

No! Cody! Footsteps. Running. Cody, you come back here right now!

More hands. Motion. I am on my back.

s.h.i.+t! That hurts. Different hands.

Pressure. Something covers my nose.

Air. Sweet. Why is it sweet?

In and out of my lungs. Breathing for me. The hum changes to a steady blip ... blip ... blip ... Hey, just like in the TV shows. Blip ... blip ...

I know what that means. I'm still here.

Mama? Don't cry, Mama. Rub my hair again. I'll stay for a while. Promise.

G.o.dd.a.m.n! My back's on fire again.

But I can't say so. Can't open my eyes.

Can't promise I'll stay. That would be lying. And I'm so, so tired of lies.

Voices. Decisions. Voices. I'm okay for now. One voice I haven't heard.

Ronnie, I understand. Hope you know I'm sorry. You ... are ... are ...

Mama's voice again. His pillow is wet.

Doctor, is he crying? Doesn't that mean ...

Yes, Mama. For now. Don't know how long I'll stay. If I come back, I'll try my best to change. Mostly change.

Feels good when you rub my head, Mama. Blip ... blip ... Odds are good I'll come back to you, Mama... .

A Poem by Eden Streit If I Come Back If I come back to you now, can we be what we were before life's uncertain rhythms tore us so far apart? If I return today, will your arms gather me in, or will I.