Читать книгу Eight Inches - Sean Wolfe Fay - Страница 14

The next two weeks flew by for Carlos. He and Ricky had become very close friends, and Carlos had become a bona fide hustler, already commanding more money per trick than any of the others, and getting double the number of requests. He wasn’t real sure how he felt about that, exactly, but he was making his own decisions about life, and at least that felt good.

Every evening after his parents went to bed he would kiss Rosie on the forehead and crawl out his bedroom window. He spent every night in front of the pizza store on Geary Street with Ricky. Ricky would spend hours trying to teach Carlos the fine art of hustling, and Carlos would listen politely. But he really only took to heart less than half of what his friend said. They were two very different people and they drew different clientele. Ricky went for $25 and would settle for $15 if he was low enough; Carlos went for no less than $50 for a simple blowjob and as high as $300, depending on how kinky the job was. Ricky was lucky to get one or two tricks per night, and Carlos always stopped after four gigs, but he could easily have doubled that number.

Even though Carlos rejected most of his hustling advice, he valued Ricky’s friendship more than anything. He was fascinated with the stories Ricky told and with his sense of humor in what seemed like a humorless life. Carlos tried to get Ricky to talk about his family, but Ricky’s favorite put off was, “Honey, we’re no Brady Bunch, that’s for sure.” Carlos told Ricky all about his family, except for the part about Richard Norman, and when his life story began to depress him, Ricky would always put an arm around him and whisper, “It’s all right, child. You’ll beat it. You’ve got what it takes.” Then he’d offer to treat Carlos to doughnuts and hot chocolate. Carlos always paid, of course, but he didn’t mind. He loved being around Ricky.

Carlos saved most of his money, but he did like to buy new clothes every now and then. He would show up with a new sweater or a new pair of shoes and Ricky would praise them all night. Carlos tried to get Ricky to save some of his money, too, but to no avail. Ricky spent all his money on drugs and Seagram’s Seven. His mom would find the money and spend it anyway, he said, so why bother?

One night Carlos bought Ricky a new sweater from Saks Fifth Avenue. A john had taken him to New York for the whole weekend, and Carlos had insisted on shopping at the original Saks. He knew Ricky would love the sweater the moment he saw it. It was 100 percent lamb’s wool, and cost him $150 on sale. When he gave it to Ricky that night, Ricky cried as he put it on, and that made Carlos very nervous. He’d never seen Ricky cry, no matter how bad things got.

Ricky got high that night, and drunk, too. He passed out on the street and Carlos couldn’t wake him up. One of the other queens came swishing over and bent down over Ricky. Carlos’ defenses went up immediately, and he was ready to fight. The queens on Geary were very territorial and vicious, and most of them didn’t like the others. Ricky had one or two friends out there, but most of the queens teased him and were mean. Carlos was shocked when this queen, whom he’d never seen even speak to Ricky, picked up Ricky’s hand and patted it tenderly.

“She looks pretty bad this time. Can you stay here with her for a minute?”

“Of course,” Carlos answered, still in shock.

Ten minutes later the queen returned with a friend who had a car.

“I know where she lives, but I can’t stay with her all night,” the queen said. “If we drop you off at her place, can you stay with her? She’s gonna need someone there to hold her when she wakes up.”

Carlos said he certainly would stay with Ricky, and drove the few miles to his house with the queen and his friend. He was surprised to discover that Ricky lived outside of San Franicsco, in the suburb of Pacifica.

“His mom will be crashed out already, but the front door is always unlocked. His room is second on the left, next to the bathroom. Take good care of him, okay, kid? He really needs someone to love him.”

Carlos noticed the way the queen switched to the masculine form when speaking about Ricky toward the end of the conversation. Underneath all the bullshit about being “girlfriends,” they were really two guys who were both hurting and who looked out for one another.

The queen and his friend drove off, leaving Carlos standing in a strange neighborhood at three o’clock in the morning, trying to carry his drunk friend into a strange house. Still unconscious, Ricky was much heavier than he seemed when he was awake.

Carlos propped him up against the porch and opened the front door. Almost immediately he was knocked over by the overpowering smell of dog shit. He held his breath and pulled Ricky into the front room. As he closed the door a small Pomeranian ran up to him and began barking viciously and biting at his pant legs. They didn’t tell me about the damn dog, Carlos cursed, and hurried to get Ricky into his room. On the way there he stepped in some of the dog shit and tripped over three beer cans.

He finally got Ricky into his room and onto his bed. Fido bit his ankles as he was dropping Ricky onto the bed, and Carlos kicked the dog all the way out into the hallway. The dog yelped and ran back into the front room. Carlos wondered how Ricky’s mom could sleep through all the noise as he slammed the bedroom door shut. Damn dog probably has rabies, he thought, feeling the pain in his ankle.

Carlos turned on the bedroom light and got Ricky undressed and into bed. When Ricky was covered and Carlos could do no more for him, he sat down on the old lounge chair across from the bed and looked around him. There were dirty clothes thrown everywhere: underwear hanging from the top of the closet door, dirty socks on the old stereo and all over the floor, jeans discarded wherever Ricky had happened to step out of them, and filthy t-shirts peeking out from under the bed. There was a half-eaten bologna and cheese sandwich and a spilled can of beer on the desk next to the CD player. Several cockroaches were doing their best to finish off the sandwich, another lay drowned in a puddle of the spilled beer that had long ago dried up.

Carlos closed his eyes and fought off the tears he felt for his friend. The people who had dropped him off hadn’t mentioned Ricky’s father, and since Ricky never mentioned him either, Carlos assumed there was no father. His mother was obviously a drunk who didn’t care about herself or her son. Carlos suddenly felt guilty about ever feeling sorry for himself. His mother loved him and Rosie very much, and did everything she could to make life better for them. She kept an immaculately clean house, always had a good dinner ready for them, and was always there when he needed her. His own room was spotless and he always had clean, warm clothes, not just old jeans and t-shirts.

Carlos had fallen into a light doze thinking about his home, and was jolted awake when Ricky began screaming hysterically. Carlos ran over to the bed and tried to lay Ricky back down. The screams were very loud and Ricky began to struggle against him. He was sure that Ricky’s mom would come running in any minute now, and he’d have to explain who he was and why he was here at three in the morning fighting with her son while he was screaming. But she never came in and Carlos was left to tend to Ricky alone.

“Ricky, wake up. It’s me, Carlos.”

“Don’t do that!” Ricky was yelling over and over.

Carlos slapped Ricky hard across the face three or four times, until he finally woke Ricky up. Ricky opened his eyes slowly and stopped screaming.

“God, what’s happening to me?” he asked when he could finally speak. Then he broke down and began to cry.

“Hey, it’s okay, Ricky. I’m here,” Carlos said, trying to get Ricky to focus on him. Instead, he leaned over the side of the bed and threw up all over the floor.

“There’s some hamburger in the fridge,” Ricky said as he stopped vomiting. “Go get it.”

“What?” Carlos though Ricky perhaps was delirious.

“Hamburger.”

“Ricky, I don’t know how to cook.”

“Not cooked. Raw. It’ll make me throw up some more. Gotta get this shit out of my stomach.”

Carlos ran into the kitchen and grabbed the hamburger. Halfway back to the bedroom he ran back to the kitchen to get a big pot. On his way back to Ricky’s room he was attacked again by Fido the Terrible. Carlos simply hit him over the head with the heavy pot, and walked back to the bedroom, leaving the dog dazed in the front room.

Ricky ate the raw meat and, true to his word, he nearly half filled the large pot. Then he cried and Carlos held him in his arms.

“Don’t cry, Ricky. It’ll be okay.”

“How’d we get here?”

“One of your friends brought us here.”

“Oh. Look, Carlos, thanks a lot. I’m okay now. You can go.”

“Not a chance. You need me Ricky, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“God, Carlos, I’m so fucked up.”

“It’s okay, child”—Carlos tried to make Ricky laugh by imitating him—” you’ll beat it. You’ve got what it takes. Remember, that’s what you always tell me.”

“No, Carlos, I don’t have what it takes. Look around you, sweetheart. What do you see?”

“A very dirty room, so what. Mine’s messy, too,” Carlos lied.

“I see a hell with no exit sign, Carlos, and I can’t take it anymore. I want out, baby, I just want out.” He sniffled.

Carlos cradled his friend and rocked his head gently. He wanted to cry, too, but he couldn’t. He had to be strong for Ricky. But he felt so inadequate. He wasn’t a psychologist, or even an advice columnist. He was a young boy, with problems of his own. But they didn’t seem important anymore. He had to help Ricky. Psychologist or not, he recognized the telltale signs of someone ready to give up, and he was seeing them now in his best friend.

“Ricky, you can get out, babe, you can. Start by having more respect for yourself, man. You’re a great guy, you deserve some respect. Then save some of your money and just leave. The only way out of someplace you don’t wanna be is to never look back. Look only forward, Ricky. No looking back.”

Ricky had stopped crying by now, but Carlos kept rocking him anyway, cradling his head against his shoulder.

“It’ll be worth it, Ricky, I swear it will. You just need to know that someone loves you, and I’m telling you here and now that I love you. What do you say, Ricky?”

A soft snore was his answer, and Carlos was glad that Ricky was asleep. He was exhausted himself and desperately needed to rest. He leaned back against the wall and fell asleep with Ricky’s head still against his shoulder.

Carlos woke up about four hours later with a throbbing pain in the back of his neck. He had slept in an upright position with his head against the wall. His arms were still wrapped around Ricky, who was still asleep. He had no idea what time it was; the drapes were drawn and it was dark in the room. He looked around for an alarm clock and couldn’t find one. He thought, sadly, that Ricky had nothing of importance for which he would need an alarm clock to wake up.

Carlos felt a heavy pressure in his bladder and knew if he didn’t make it to the bathroom quick he would piss his pants and all over Ricky’s bed. He tried to move Ricky without waking him, but Ricky was a light sleeper.

“Don’t go, Carlos,” he said sleepily. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Just gotta take a whiz,” Carlos said as he maneuvered from underneath his friend. “Go back to sleep.”

Carlos walked into the bathroom and stepped into a bowl of water that was set next to the toilet. It was obviously for the furball, and he thought seriously about filling the bowl with piss, courtesy of Carlos Cortez. He decided against it at the last minute, and pointed the stream into the toilet bowl instead. He flushed the toilet, which sounded similar to a derailing freight train, and went back into Ricky’s bedroom.

Ricky was sitting up in bed, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette.

“Gross,” Carlos said with a nasty face, “how can you smoke so early in the morning?”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find a clock. But the sun is shining through the bathroom window. It must be somewhere around eight or nine.”

“Is my mom up?”

“I don’t know. The TV is on in the front room, but I didn’t see anyone.”

“She’s up, then. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to Mom. I’m sure she’ll want to cook for you. Humor her, okay?”

“That’s not necessary, Ricky, really. I should be going home. My mom will be worried silly.”

“Please, Carlos. Just stay for breakfast.”

“All right,” Carlos said.

Ricky got up and began changing his clothes. He stripped and walked around the room naked, looking through the mass of clothes strewn around the room. Carlos couldn’t help but notice Ricky’s body. He was even skinnier than Carlos had thought, and his skin was snowwhite all over. His dick was very small and he had shaven the hair from around it completely. His ass was flat and flabby, and he already showed signs of stretch marks around the hips. Carlos could hardly believe he was looking at the body of a sixteen-year-old boy.

Ricky caught Carlos looking at his body, and Carlos turned his head quickly.

“I haven’t always looked this marvelous,” Ricky joked. “You should’ve seen me before I started taking the steroids.”

They both laughed, and Ricky finally found some satisfactorily clean clothes and put them on. He put on a fresh coat of makeup and asked Carlos how he looked.

“Fine, but doesn’t your mother care that you go around like that?”

“Like what?”

“With makeup on your face.”

“Heavens, no, child. She even borrows from me when she’s out,” Ricky said. The old Ricky was back and he draped his arm over Carlos’ shoulder and walked with him into the front room.

Their nostrils were instantly assaulted by the smell of marijuana. The first thing Carlos saw when he entered the front room was Fido. He was lying at the foot of the couch, his head between his paws, and he looked a little cross-eyed. He was either suffering from a headache from the bang on the head last night or stoned from the smoke that filled the room.

The second thing Carlos saw was the mammoth of a woman who could very easily have been mistaken for Mount St. Helens. She was wearing a very old bathrobe that had several stains on it that Carlos was certain were older than him. Her hair was in rollers and she wore no makeup. In one hand she held a yellow, generic brand beer can and in the other she held a joint. Her eyes were glued to the TV set. A traveling evangelist was warning his early morning audience of the coming doom.

“Good morning, Mom,” Ricky said. His arm was still around Carlos’ shoulder and Carlos’ heart rate sped up when Ricky didn’t make a move to remove it before his mother saw.

“Hi, son,” the volcano said. “Who’s your new boyfriend?”

Carlos tried to swallow, but a giant lump in his throat prevented him from doing so.

“His name is Carlos.”

Carlos looked at Ricky in horror.

“He’s much cuter than your last boyfriend,” she said appreciatively.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Carlos said, still trying to swallow.

“And polite, too. You hungry, Carlos?”

“Yes, he is,” Ricky answered for him, afraid Carlos would chicken out.

Mount. St. Helens tried to erupt herself from the couch, but was not very successful. Ricky had to go over and anchor his feet against the couch and pull with significant effort to help her stand.

“You boys sit down and have a beer. Breakfast will be ready in about half an hour.”

The two friends sat down on the couch and Ricky reached for a beer. Carlos slapped his hand.

“Are you crazy? You’re still sick. You can’t drink beer before breakfast.”

“Why not?” Ricky asked.

“Because it’ll kill you. Ever hear of orange juice?”

“Sure. Mom drinks it with breakfast.”

“See. It’s good for you.”

“She says it gives the vodka a little flavor.”

“Well, try it straight this once, okay? For me?”

“Oh, all right.”

“Ricky, why did you tell your mom I was your boyfriend?”

“I didn’t. She told me.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

“Because she doesn’t understand. She thinks I fuck around with every guy I know. And until you came around, she was right. So I just let it slide.”

“Oh, stop exaggerating.”

“I’m not. Most guys don’t want anything to do with me. Those that do only want one thing. Kinda funny that the one guy I really would like to get involved with just wants to be my friend, huh?”

“What’s wrong with being just friends?”

“Nothing,” Ricky said. He didn’t like arguing with Carlos because he never won. Carlos was too smart and too logical. “Let’s watch Preacher Joe.”