Читать книгу Eight Inches - Sean Wolfe Fay - Страница 10

Carlos was running for his life. It wasn’t the first time, not even the first time that week. When he was a full block away and felt it was safe, he stopped and bent over at the waist, taking deep breaths, and looked back at his house. The old Victorian was squeezed between two cookie-cutter low-income apartment buildings, which offered Carlos a clear view of the house without making himself equally visible, especially in the dark of night. The front door flew open and his father stumbled into the front yard, looking frantically to both sides. Carlos took a another deep breath, and turned and continued running.

It was Friday night, almost eleven o’clock, and it was very cold. His breath rose before him in a cloud of fine mist as he ran, and his side hurt immensely. He ran about half a mile before he stopped and wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to warm himself. There hadn’t been time to grab his coat before climbing out his bedroom window and fleeing, and now he was feeling the shock of the biting wind.

Carlos had been in the front room watching TV with his younger sister when his parents came home. He heard the squealing tires turn the corner half a block away, and thirty seconds later, the slamming car doors. His parents were fighting in the front yard. His father was drunk, his mother pleading with her husband to listen to reason. The neighbors yelled at his parents to pipe it down, and his father screamed back at them even louder to shut the fuck up and mind their own business.

Carlos and little Rosie looked at each other, a familiar frown dominating their faces. Carlos walked calmly across the room and turned off the TV. He picked Rosie up and hugged her close to his chest as he carried her to their shared room. Pulling the blankets back with one hand as he balanced his baby sister in his other arm, he tucked the young girl into bed and kissed her forehead.

“Good night, princess.”

“Why does it always happen like this, Carlos?” Rosie asked sweetly as she looked up innocently into his eyes.

“I don’t know, Gorda.”

“Is he going to hit you again?”

“No, honey,” Carlos said, still feeling the pain from the last fight his parents had had. “Not tonight. Now go to sleep.”

“Are you leaving again?”

“I don’t know, sissy, I don’t know.”

“Can I have another kiss, Poncho?”

Carlos knew she was trying to keep him with her as long as possible. “Of course you can, Cisco,” he answered, fighting back a tear.

He bent down and kissed his sister on the cheek. The front door was suddenly kicked open, and Carlos jumped.

“Where are you, you little bastard,” came his father’s drunken voice from the living room. His mother was still pleading with him not to hurt the boy; he was only a child, for God’s sake. A loud slapping sound and the thud of his mother falling to the floor got Carlos up and moving.

He ran to the bedroom window and raised it. Halfway out, he turned to his younger sister to blow her a kiss, and saw she was crying. He started to go over and wipe the tear away, but just then the bedroom door was kicked violently open, and Carlos jumped out the window.

Several minutes later he was standing outside a corner liquor store. Looking into the window, he saw in his reflection that his nose and ears were a shade somewhere between pink and red, and his fingers were beginning to turn blue. The old man behind the counter was alone, and he looked very warm. He was eating a pepperoni and double onion pizza recently delivered by Supremo’s Pizza, according to the box on the counter, and drinking a Coke. On the shelf behind him, next to the Smirnoff vodka, a small motorized fan blew cool air onto him. He was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt stained with dark perspiration that covered two-thirds of the sides of the dirty shirt.

Carlos contemplated only a moment before opening the door and walking inside. The old man looked up, frowned, and swallowed the large bite of pizza in his mouth before speaking.

“You can’t come in here, kid,” he growled. “I know you’re not eighteen, so don’t even bother pulling out a fake ID.”

“I don’t want to buy anything,” Carlos said, “I just wanted to warm up a little.”

“Tough shit. I’m not the goddamned Salvation Army here. Now get lost.”

“Please. Just for a minute. It’s freezing out there.”

“I’m calling the cops now,” the old man growled again, even as he took another large bite of the pizza, and picked up the phone.

“Never mind, I’m gone,” Carlos said, and walked back into the cold, windy night.

He walked a few blocks north and turned onto Geary Street. The Tenderloin district was well known as the dirtiest, most dangerous, and highest crime-ridden area of San Francisco. Strung-out drug addicts and prostitutes of both sexes lined either side of the large boulevard. The city had long ago given up on “cleaning up” the underbelly of the most romantic city in the country, and the Tenderloin itself seemed to relish its reputation. Every once in a while a squad car would drive by, but the residents of the boulevard knew all the officers by first name, and more often than not the driver had himself indulged in the merchandise on a semi-regular basis, so the hustlers were not terribly worried about being arrested.

Carlos could sometimes be considered a little naïve, but he was not totally ignorant of the goings-on of Geary Street. He didn’t know much in detail, but he knew the people who walked along the street at night were not selling Girl Scout cookies. The people there made him a little nervous, with their pierced bodies, dark makeup, and spiked mohawks. But the street was well lit and most of the kids did not look too cold, and that kept Carlos walking.

In the course of two short blocks Carlos was approached twice to see if he was interested in buying a “dime bag.” A few of the more effeminate male hustlers along the street gave him dirty looks. He overheard whispered conversations with the accusatory phrase “fresh meat,” and somehow Carlos knew they were talking about him. Just as he was passing in front of the Supremo’s Pizza store he was suddenly pulled into the entryway. He was startled, and doubled his fists, prepared to defend himself against an ugly, bearded troll, or even a monster.

“Don’t hit me, please.” It was a young boy, about Carlos’ own age. He was wearing tight blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a single, long, dangling silver earring in his right ear. His eyes were grossly outlined with eyeliner.

“What do you want?” Carlos asked cautiously.

“Well, you look cold and lonely. And there’s a cop following you, so I thought I’d pull you in here before he pulled you into his car.”

Carlos looked behind him, and noticed the cop car cruising slowly behind him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. My name’s Ricky. What’s yours?”

“Carlos.”

“Would you like a drink, Carlos?”

“Sure.”

He accepted a Coke can from the skinny kid and took a large drink. He swallowed and coughed violently before spitting a mouthful of the liquid to the ground.

Ricky’s eyes grew wide in disbelief.

“What the heck is this?” Carlos coughed out.

“Seagram’s Seven.” Ricky laughed. “It keeps you warm on a cold night.”

“Oh,” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s so funny?”

“Heck is. I haven’t used that word since I was three years old. Out here it’s called hell and damn and shit, not heck and darn and shoot.”

“Oh.” Carlos looked around to make sure no one else had heard his childish vocabulary.

“How old are you, Carlos?”

“Eighteen,” he lied without hesitating even a second.

Ricky smiled. “Honey, I’m not a cop, so you don’t have to lie to me. I’m only sixteen, myself.”

“I’m eighteen,” Carlos said defiantly as he stared at the street.

“Mmm-hmm. First time on the street?”

“Oh, no. My mom goes to see a doctor a couple of blocks up few times a year. Sometimes I go with her.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve got a lot to learn out here. I meant is this your first time hustling.”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’? We’re both guys.”

Ricky looked truly shocked, and raised one eyebrow cautiously as he stared at the newcomer. Because Carlos was walking up Geary Street at midnight, Ricky had assumed he was gay and a hustler. Now he wasn’t so sure of either, and thought about the consequences of carrying on and assuming too much. Though Carlos was not built overly big, Ricky was sure he could cause considerable damage to his own scrawny body if provoked.

“Just a term we use. Listen, Carlos, what are you doing out here? You’re obviously not a hustler.”

Carlos’ eyes fell back to the ground and he shifted his feet nervously. He didn’t like to talk about his problems with anyone, and especially not strangers. But it was cold outside, and Ricky seemed nice enough. What the heck, he thought, then corrected himself: What the hell?

“Could I have another drink of that?” Carlos asked, and nodded toward the Coke can.

Ricky passed the whiskey to Carlos and waited for him to begin his story. He had nothing better to do, and since it was still early, he doubted he would be picked up for a while yet, if at all. Lately, it seemed all the johns were looking for the masculine type—young and innocent, but masculine. Ricky looked at his new friend and thought how well he would do out there on the street if he really wanted to. He was definitely young, and his jet-black hair, bright blue eyes, and light brown skin gave him an unparalleled beauty. His little peach fuzz of a mustache blessed him with that look of masculine innocence.

Ricky sighed, partly in admiration but mostly in self-pity. He was almost the exact opposite of Carlos. He was three or four inches taller than Carlos, but weighed about the same, possibly even less. Too skinny. He was very pale-skinned, with dirty blond hair and even dirtier brown eyes that rarely, if ever, allowed expression. No mustache, heaven forbid. He wore makeup and girls’ jeans, size 1, to enhance his ass, which was much too flat. No sign of masculinity here, Ricky thought, and sighed again.

“I don’t know where to start,” Carlos said, pulling Ricky out of his trance.

“How about starting by giving me a drink of that and telling me why you’re out here,” Ricky said as he lit a cigarette.

Carlos stared at Ricky with fascination.

“What are you staring at?” Ricky asked, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the air.

“Your parents let you smoke?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said, laughing, “sort of. You never smoked before?”

“No,” Carlos answered softly.

“Wanna try?”

“Sure.”

Carlos took the cigarette from Ricky and held it for a moment, trying to build the courage to bring it to his lips. Finally he closed his eyes and put the unfiltered tip to his mouth. He drew a small amount of smoke into his mouth and left it there for only a couple of seconds before blowing it out quickly.

“Doesn’t do anything for me,” Carlos said with a look of distaste.

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t unless you inhale it.” Ricky laughed.

“What do you mean?”

“Do it again, only this time swallow the smoke.”

“Swallow it?” Carlos sounded horrified.

“Sure. Like this,” Ricky said, and demonstrated the barbaric act of inhaling smoke into his lungs. He blew the smoke out in rings.

“Wow!”

“Here, now you try it.”

Carlos was excited and nervous at the same time, so when he drew in the smoke he pulled in too much, and when he swallowed it, he swallowed too fast. Instead of blowing the smoke out in rings, he bellowed out a cough of smoke and spittle. It sprayed all over Ricky, and his new friend broke into a laugh. Carlos saw absolutely nothing funny in the fact that his lungs were on fire and he was choking to death. When he finally stopped coughing, his eyes were filled with tears. His lungs still burned as he leaned against the wall to breathe in some fresh air.

“Well, what do you think?” Ricky asked, still trying to stop laughing.

“It tried to kill me!”

This brought on another outburst of laughter from Ricky, and he passed the Coke can to Carlos. “Here, maybe this will help.”

Carlos took the can and finished off what was left of the whiskey. His throat felt raw from the smoke, and the alcohol burned as it went down. But it was somehow soothing, and he was getting used to it by now.

Ricky had noticed a silver Honda circling the block a few times while he was showing Carlos the fine art of inhaling. It now pulled up to the curb and the passenger window was rolled down.

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” Ricky told Carlos. “Stick around for a while. When I get back I’ll bring a fresh bottle of Seagram’s and some food.”

Carlos watched, fascinated, as Ricky swished over to the car and leaned into the passenger window. He could see the driver gesturing toward him as he talked with Ricky for a few seconds before Ricky turned around and walked back to him.

“He wants you.” Ricky sulked.

“For what?” Carlos asked nervously.

Ricky smiled. “He wants to have sex with you, child.”

“Sex?” Carlos whispered. He was astonished. “I’ve never had sex with a guy before.”

“Ever have sex with a girl?”

“Well,” Carlos hesitated, “…no.”

“Then there’s no problem, is there? You won’t know the difference.”

Carlos didn’t quite get the reasoning behind that, but the Seagram’s had worked its magic on him, and he agreed with Ricky.

“Good. Just lay there and let him suck you off. You don’t do anything to him. And whatever you do, don’t let him turn you onto your stomach.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s my position. Besides, you wouldn’t like what happens next if you do.” Ricky noticed the guy in the car was getting nervous, so he shook his head yes and continued his lesson to Carlos.

“The going rate is thirty dollars, but you can easily get forty. Hold out for that much. Play it straight; that should be no problem for you. Then make sure he brings you back here when you’re through,” Ricky said as he nudged Carlos forward.

Carlos’ head spun with everything Ricky had told him, and he barely realized what he was doing as he closed the door to the Honda.