Tricks (32 page)

531

"N-no thanks. I'm o-o-k-kay."

So okay I can't even say okay.

For some messed-up reason,

I start to hiccup. "Ju--"
Hick.

*

"Just think--"
Hick.
"Thinking about my b--"
Hick.
"Buh-birthday."

Hick. Hick. Hick.
Somehow

I manage to focus my eyes.

*

The guy isn't pretty, but his expression is kind enough. Maybe

even concerned.
Are you sure

you're okay? You been drinking?

*

Can you get this screwed up from alcohol? Looney Tunes laughter--

hick-hick
--spits from my mouth.

"Sorry. No, don't drink much."

*

Now I can see the wolf in his eyes.

No surprise. Even nice enough guys

go on the prowl.
Okay. What

do
you do that's fun, then?

532

I Swear Until This Moment

I never even noticed his hand

creeping up my leg, ever closer to my semi-exposed crotch.

Eyes can be deceptive when

*

they talk. I crack up again.

This time, at least, the hiccups

seem to have disappeared. But

I'm starting to ache for a rig.

*

Bryn's words settle through the fog.
Leave something to the imagination.
I give the guy a quick feel before pushing

*

his hand away. "Oh, I for sure

know how to have fun." Game on.

Wait. Bryn again.
Ask if he works

vice. You
a cop or what?"

*

He grins.
Or what. I'm not even from around here.
He stands, pulls

me to my feet, steadies my wobble.

Live close? I'll walk you home.

533

It Isn't Far

Just eight blocks. The guy chitchats the whole time. Something about Omaha. Cornhuskers? He

played for them? Bets on them?

*

Oh yeah. Sportsbook. Won five

big ones. (How big? Hundreds?

Bigger?) I can't concentrate on what he's saying. All I can think

*

about is a syringe full of magic.

How fast can I do this guy?

We swing into the parking lot, cut across to Building Two.

*

Key. I need the key. It's in my

purse somewhere. Too much crap in here. Like, why do I carry it, anyway? Just to irritate myself?

*

We reach the apartment and I hear

Bryn again.
Look around before you open the door.
I do. A car is parking a few spaces down.

*

And going up the stairs of the other

building is that girl I see sometimes, mostly in the laundry room. Copacetic.

Cool word. Where did it come from?

534

I unlock the door, start to turn the knob, when more words fall into my brain.

Business before pleasure.
I turn.

The guy is so close, we're almost

*

attached. I give him a little shove

backward. "Before we go in, we

should talk about what you want and how much that will cost you."

*

Cost? You want me to pay for it?

He pushes me inside.
I don't pay for sex. Even if I did, I wouldn't

pay for you, you junkie bitch.

*

He is all predator now, and on me.

Scream! But his hand is already over my mouth. I shake my head, look into his eyes. This wolf has mayhem

*

on his mind. He takes me down.

So okay. Give it to him. I go limp.

No!
he screams.
Fight, you goddamn

whore! Fight, or I'll kill you.

*

No fight left in me. Fuck me. Kill

me. Don't care. He wants both.

His penis stabs me, his hands lock around my throat. Air. No air. Black...

535

Air!

My lungs grab it suddenly. I float up into gray light, roll onto my side, vomit. Only nothing comes out.

Noise. Someone's screaming.

*

Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch. I'm calling the cops

right now, so you'd better run.

Come back, I'll kick your ass.

*

My throat throbs. The wolf! I sit up.

Too fast. My head is a merry-go-round.

Down. The carpet stinks. Saved.

I'm saved. Bryn! He does loves me.

*

Watches over me. "Bryn? Where are you?" Footsteps across the stinky

carpet. Not Bryn's. Too soft.

Someone leans over me. The girl

*

from the laundry room.
Just lie still.

I think you'll be okay. He's hurting, though. I hit him with a book.

Good thing you read big ones.

*

She smiles. Sad. She's sad.
Should

I call the cops? Didn't think so.

I'll stay with you for a while if you

want. I'm Ginger, by the way.

536

A Poem by Ginger Cordell
I'll Stay

Right or wrong,

I'll stay until you tell me I have to leave.

Until you can look into my eyes, swear

you no longer love

me.

It would be a bitter

cup of broken-promise

tea, but

I'll

swallow it if you say

I must. If I go, sad

sweet dreams will

follow

me, weighting my days, strangling my nights.

Sad, sweet dreams of you.

537

Ginger Sadness

Encircles me, a black halo.

It's this city, this dried-up

desert well, sucking hope

*

like sand. People come here, hoping. Hoping to get rich.

Hoping to get laid, Not many

*

go home richer than when

they arrived. Easier to get

laid, as long as they have

*

a few bucks in their pockets.

Then there are the people who move here with big

*

dreams. They dream of stand-up

comedy, of playing rock and roll. They dream of dancing lead

*

in some steamy casino show.

If they're talented and lucky, they might end up in a chorus

*

line or drumming with a bar

band. But lots of them wind up just like me, selling pieces

538

of themselves. Pieces they can

never have back. There's this

girl who works for Lydia.

*

Her name is Misty.
I
won't do

this forever,
she swears.

Just until I get my degree. Then

*

the world is my apple pie...

Okay, metaphor isn't her best

thing. And neither is school.

*

If she gets her degree, it will

be because she slept with the right teacher. Or three.

*

Every time I run into Misty, a little more of her is gone.

I can see it in her eyes.

*

When you sell your body, you

also sell what's inside. Piece by piece, you sell your soul.

539

Now Here's This Girl

Who almost lost everything.

She let her guard down. Plain and simple. If I hadn't been

*

doing my usual nosy thing, checking out the neighbors, she'd probably be lying here

*

waiting for her pimp to call the coroner. Yes, I know who her pimp is. He's the only guy

*

who comes around almost

every day. Collecting money and delivering sustenance--

*

food, trinkets, and substances.

Heroin. I was right about that.

I watch her now, plunging

*

a syringe full of hot amber

liquid. Her head rolls sideways and she fixes me with

*

sleepy golden eyes.
Want

some? I don't have a whole

lot, but I kind of owe you one.

540

"No thanks. Not my thing."

Her body visibly relaxes as relief pumps through her veins.

*

Suddenly she clutches her stomach, runs into the bathroom.

"You all right?" I yell at the door.

*

She exits seconds later, pale but smiling. A very bad smell of voided body waste trails her.

*

Doesn't embarrass her at all.

Sometimes the Lady makes

you sick. But it's good sick.

*

There's room on the couch, and a vacant chair, but she sits on the floor, as if afraid of falling.

*

Now she rocks herself. Forward.

Back. Forward. Back.
Thank you

for... wait. How did you know?

*

"I dunno. Guess he just looked like bad news. Then he started

yelling crazy shit. I usually

541

mind my own business...."

Yeah, right. "But my 'little

voice' was screaming. Good

*

thing you never shut your door.

Even better, he was too busy

trying to choke you to notice."

*

Her hands rise protectively toward her neck.
I
thought

I was on my way to hell for

*

sure.
She strokes the raised

scarlet finger marks gently.

Hurts like a mother. Is it ugly?

*

I have to say, "Pretty ugly.

You might have to take a few

days off. Most guys won't want..."

*

Too familiar. Then again,

I just watched her shoot up.

I repeat, "Take a few days off."

542

I Expect Surprise

That I know how she makes her money. Or anger at me, because I've been such a snoop,

*

or at herself, because she's

made it so obvious. I get neither.

Nothing but silent acceptance.

*

Is it the heroin? Or is it just

her? Probably both. I want to ask where she came from. What

*

kind of parents she has, if she has any at all. How she hooked up with her so-called boyfriend.

*

That's, no doubt, what he calls

himself. Want to ask, though

I know the answer, if he's the one

*

who started her on the junk.

Her head sways forward as the drug carries her toward

*

Dreamville. She'll be totally out of it soon. I'll ask something

easy. "What's your name?"

543

At the sound of my voice, her head jerks up.
Oh. It's you.

You tell me your name first.

*

Wow. She's pretty out of it already. "I told you before.

It's Ginger, remember?"

*

She giggles like a little kid.

A stoned little kid.
Oh, yeah.

Hey, Ginger. I'm Whitney.

*

Somewhere in her sudden

animation, I catch a glimpse of Whitney, the way I imagine

*

she used to be before... him.

She nods again and I hurry,

"Are you still in love with him?"

*

Yo-yoing in and out of now, she is coherent enough to know who I mean.
Bryn is everything.

544

It's the Last Thing She Says

Before dropping all the way into whatever dark narcotic

place the junk pushes her toward.

*

I swear I'll never venture there.

Lately I don't even feel like drinking much. All it does

*

is make me stupid and sick.

It doesn't make me forget.

In fact, sometimes, the drunker

*

I get, the more I remember.

I remember the kids, how

annoying and entertaining

*

they could be. Do they miss me?

Have they even asked,
Where is Ginger? Why did she go?

*

I remember Barstow, the armpit

town where I first made a friend, first got decent grades. Ms. Felton

*

even told me once,
You're an
excellent writer. You should

think about it as a career.

545

Writer? Me? And what am

I doing instead? I remember

Sandy, a ball in the street,

*

and Mary Ann's face, scrunched with pain. I'm
sorry. I should

have...
Only the blame belonged

*

to me. Which always brings

me back to my very favorite

memories, all centered around

*

Gram, deceptively petite, while so driven. Tireless. Completely

devoted to a pack of kids she owed

*

absolutely zero devotion. All because of her giant capacity to love. Does she hate me

*

now for taking the easy way out?

Would she ask me to come home

if she could? Did she mean it when

*

she said,
You know where I live.

No matter what, I want you to remember this is always your home.

546

Tempting as It Might Be

To get back on the bus, see

if she would welcome me, uglier memories intrude on

*

that sweet little daydream.

Since the revelation about

Iris sicking her snarling dogs

*

on me, other faces--other

mutts--materialize when

I least want to recognize them,

*

often just as I sink into an alcohol-fueled stupor, praying it will let me sleep, dreamless.