I Am Less Than a Ghost
I am a corpse, sleepwalking the streets of Las Vegas. Sometimes I think I should just head on out into the desert, lay down on a soft mattress of sand, close my eyes against the diamond sun and circling black wings. And wait.
It might be preferable to this cement bed behind a 7-Eleven Dumpster.
There are lots of us living on the street.
They say Vegas is easier than Reno. Warmer.
There are shelters, I"ve been told, where you can eat free. Shower sometimes. Sleep.
But I"m afraid of the questions. Too many questions. So when my stomach offers up its acid, when I can"t stand the hollowness for another second, I sell one more slice of my soul. One slice, twenty dollars. I"ve been here three weeks. Not much left of my soul.
As for My Body It"s battered, sc.r.a.ped, bruised. The Tears of Zion shift looks about a hundred years old.
I did spend a few bucks at the Salvation Army.
Bought a used skirt, two tank tops. Underwear.
I hate to think who used them, or why they gave them away. But they only cost a dime apiece.
I stink, too. I"ve managed four or five showers, when the man of the hour wanted to spring for a motel room. More often, it"s the seat of his car.
Quick and easy, five minutes or less. No emotion.
No pain. And the weirdest thing is, I"m not the least bit embarra.s.sed about doing it anymore.
That"s the worst part. That, and when my brain insists on remembering Andrew. Thinking about how he held me, rained his love down all around me, brings devouring pain.
So I"ll think instead about the coming night, where I might peddle the remaining tatters of my soul.
Rush Hour The freeways are b.u.mper to b.u.mper, so surface streets jam with commuters.
A few of the pushier girls go straight up to them at traffic lights, knock on their windows. How about a date?
Most of the guys shake their heads.
Some of them look close to panic. Afraid they might catch something through the gla.s.s?
But every now and again, one of them opens the pa.s.senger door and the girl slips inside. The car takes off, and minutes later, comes back around, business done.
I watch a girl get out of an older Cadillac.
At least they had plenty of leg room.
She steps to the curb, stares me down with steel eyes. What are you looking at?
For some crazy reason, I shatter.
"N-nothing. I m-m-mean I d-don"t know."
Her gaze softens. New to the biz, huh?
Well, sweetheart, this is a real bad place for tears. Those guys are freaking sharks.
If they smell blood, they"ll chew you up.
"I know. I"m sorry. It"s just that you"re the first person who"s even talked to me since I got here. I mean except to tell me to suck harder, or ...."
She cracks up, and so do I. Yeah, well, I know exactly what you mean. Uh, don"t get me wrong, okay? Her nose scrunches up. But you could really use soap and water.
"That bad, huh?" My face actually heats.
Doing disgusting things with gross men doesn"t embarra.s.s me, but her observation, no doubt deserved, does? "I"m on the street."
She reaches into a pocket on her skirt, pulls out a thin fold of bills. Here"s fifty dollars. Get a room and some food.
And listen, from the looks of you, this isn"t the right business. Get smart. Call home. You don"t belong on the street.
I shake my head. "You worked for that, and I know what you had to do for it."
Everything about her hardens. I told you to get smart. Take the money.
I don"t know what you ran from, but living like this can"t be better.
Funny, but my girlfriend, Ginger, keeps telling me the same thing. I never wanted to listen before. Maybe now I"d better.
Her nose wrinkles again. Call home.
But shower first. She turns abruptly.
Later, she snorts over her shoulder.
Good Samaritan The words pop into my head. That is the second time someone I didn"t know and will likely never see again handed me money they couldn"t afford to give away. I don"t understand. Why me? Other words surface from a place of deep indoctrination: Whatever they do for the least of my children, they do for me.... I wander along the overbaked cement, sucked into a cerebral vortex.
When it finally spits me out again, I am on the sidewalk in front of a church. Guardian Angel Cathedral. Catholic. I am struck by the beauty of the angular architecture, and by the amazing artwork above my head- Jesus, hands extended in welcome, to one and all.
I"ve never once walked beyond the doors of a Catholic church. But I am drawn inside this one. I enter, a stranger to the faith.
To the G.o.d of this faith and every other.
Friday evening, no worshippers, I find cool solace inside. I slide into a seat at the rear, fold my hands. Close my eyes. Do I remember how to pray? "G.o.d, you know I have done terrible things. I don"t want to do them anymore, and ask for your forgiveness. I am so sorry...."
My voice catches in my throat. Was I speaking out loud? Just a little more. "Thank you for good Samaritans. And please, G.o.d, please, if it"s your will, show me the way out."
A sense of peace blankets me, and a gentle voice whispers, How can I help you?
G.o.d? No. There is shallow breathing, too.
I open my eyes. A priest sits beside me.
He reminds me of Andrew-handsome, and fresh, with compa.s.sion in his eyes.
"I don"t know how, Father, but I do need help."
Need his help, and G.o.d"s help, to be saved.
A Poem by Seth Parnell No Way to Be Saved No way to hit reverse, turn around, go back home.
No chance at forgiveness.
The shale cliffs of redemption have crumbled, surrendered to the sea.
How do you look for miracles when you deny belief? How can someone formed of bone and sin trust his weight to wings?
How does a man like me find innocence again?
Seth
I Don"t Remember Innocence
Not, I guess, that I need to.
Nothing innocent about how I live now. Nothing naive about being a toy.
That"s what I am now. A toy.
But, hey, what are my options?
I thought about trying to go home. Once I even swallowed every ounce of pride, put in a phone call to Dad.
His raspy voice lifted memories, good and not so.
h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Who the h.e.l.l is this? Then he thought a sec. Seth? Is that you, boy?
Don"t know if it was the "boy,"
or just remembering his words the night he sent me away, but I couldn"t say a d.a.m.n thing. I slammed down the receiver, retreated into a murky cave of depression.
It"s a place I"ve visited more and more lately.
The only thing that seems to yank me away from there is working out. Sweating poisons of body and soul.
Having Jared around to help me sweat isn"t so bad either.
In the few weeks since he started helping me, I can see a vast improvement.
He agrees. Much better form.
Both your lifting, and your body.
He is really close, and the smell of his sweat beneath his leathery fragrances reminds me of a tack room. For some reason, it is desperately turning me on.
Despite my ballooning attraction, I have yet to overtly put any sort of moves on Jared.
He might be taken. And I am under ongoing ownership.
But no way can I lie back on this weight bench without that traitorous part of my body totally giving me away.
I inhale like I can"t find air.
You okay? he asks. His own breath falls hot on my neck, and the stable smell becomes almost overpowering. Tack.
Sweat. I remember something.
I was little. Playing at Grandma Laura"s. Hiding in the tack room.
Hiding with my cousin, Clay.
He touched me. There. And it felt good. So good. So ...."Oh."
I turn to Jared. What the h.e.l.l?
"I"m okay. Except ..." G.o.d!
"I totally want you." There.
Said it. He can laugh at me now.
But he doesn"t. He kisses me.
We Are Alone In here. The workout room is always deserted midday.
Still, I might hesitate, but Jared is in total control.