Going Down Swinging Part 3

Charlie chucked the bag on the dresser. "You! You should be charged with neglect, that's what-G.o.dd.a.m.n house is a pigsty, place smells like cat p.i.s.s, there's no food in the fridge-not even milk. What the f.u.c.k is she living on?-wieners and chocolate bars? Do you give a s.h.i.t about anything in this world but men and booze!"

Mum struggled her head off the pillows. "Look who's talking! Grace is fine, no thanks to you. Coming and going whenever you d.a.m.n well please-why don't you just stay the h.e.l.l away so she doesn't end up crying for a month because you f.u.c.ked off again. She's healthy and fine now and I don't need you barging in here trying to run the show. Person can't even be sick in their own home. n.o.body asked you to come here, so why don't you just get the h.e.l.l out of my house."

"Christ you're a b.i.t.c.h-kid's seven years old and she's looking after herself while you-"

"Get out! I want you out of my house before I d.a.m.n well kill you. I swear to Jesus, I'll kill you!"

Charlie's face went white. "Grace! Grace, go get the knives."

I was in the doorway between them and the kitchen. "What? What do you mean?"

"Grace, do what I say." Charlie looked crazy-scared.

Mum hollered over her, telling her not to order me around and to get out of the house before she had to get carried out. Charlie screamed louder, "I hate your guts-you should be locked up! Grace! get the knives, get all the knives and scissors out of the drawers and hide them in the backyard."

I didn't move. Charlie backed away from the bed. I couldn't believe either of them. I mostly couldn't believe anyone believed Mum's killer threats. She could hardly make it to the bathroom, never mind stab someone. I tried to explain. "But Charlie-"

Mum dragged her back up off the bed, her chest crumpled forward on her thighs, until she got up the strength to dump her feet over onto the floor. Charlie screeched, "Grace, get the knives!" and she chased me back to the kitchen. Mum's voice came after us. "Get out of my house. I mean it and if you touch one hair on that kid, I'll kill you."

My sister yanked open the silverware drawer and started pulling dirty knives out of the sink, shaking and stuttering, "Where's the scissors?" I shrugged. "Well, where's a dishtowel?"

I grabbed one off the counter and she wrapped all the sharp stuff she could find in it, handed them over and said, "Here! Go. Take them out back and bury them."

I took them from her, trying to move faster so she wouldn't get mad.

Bury them? I walked out into the long gra.s.s in our backyard; the cherry tree took up most of it. I could hear their screams going over each other in the house and I dropped the stuff in the gra.s.s and sat down. There was a b.u.t.ter knife, a couple paring ones, ones with edges for cutting meat and the scissors-the scissors that were too dull to get through the cardboard in the back of Mum's pantyhose packages. I wondered if Mum even got off the bed yet. I pushed myself up and kicked through the gra.s.s to the back door.

The place was quiet. Shadow was hiding behind the kitchen door and Mum was sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands and her back shaking from crying inside. I could see the open front door from where I was, so I creeped back out and around the side of the house.

Charlie was out front, sitting on the broken old fence that separated our place from the sidewalk. Streetcars rattled past us. She jumped when I touched her arm, and her face was red and clenched up. "Can you please go back in the house and get my leather jacket and my bag." I nodded and walked up the porch steps.

Mum's feet were still at the side of her bed; she said my sisters name before looking in the front room at me. Then asked me if Charlie left. I said yeah, that I was just getting her stuff. So she croaked, "Yeah, well you tell her-Nothing, don't tell her anything. And don't you go anywhere with her either!"

"I'm not. Leave me alone."

"Hey ... watch yourself."

I went back out the front door to Charlie, handed her her stuff and sat down on the fence. I didn't know what to do, so I held her hand and squeezed it to keep from crying. "I'm sorry about not changing the cat-p.i.s.sy litter box. Do you have to go back to Vancouver?"

She made a weird smile and pressed her fingers against her eyes and held that way a few seconds. I looked at her lipstick. It was practically the same as Mum's. Or maybe she was just tall like Mum so stuff only seemed like Mum. Really they didn't even look the same-Mum didn't have big deer-eyes or hair like a horse mane. Maybe it was just that they said my name the same way, it melted out of their mouths like warm chocolate-not like my dad or other people who ever lived with us. And we were holding each other right now and I could crawl inside Charlie the way I could Mum. Charlie wasn't drunk or sick and she wasn't crying, like normal. She was something else. I looked at her jeans tucked into her big black boots that my dad got her when we were still all together. She looked like she could kick the c.r.a.p out of someone with those boots. Like she could bleed and smile.

She said, "Yeah soon, I guess. I have a couple friends I know here that I'm going to visit. ... We could still go to the zoo or something."

"I'm not allowed."

She shook her head and laughed sort of clunky. "Oh yeah. Perfect. What the h.e.l.l. Wh-OK, well I guess I better go. I'm sorry, baby. I'm really ... sorry. That you're still here in this."

"It's OK, you know, she's just in a bad mood and she has the flu and plus Daddy moved us down here and she really hates it so she's not feeling good. And plus, me not changing the litter box and everything. You just caught us at a bad time."

Charlie laughed again and folded her leather coat over her arm to go. I felt bad for her, having to carry a coat in that heat.

HOFFMAN, Anne Eilleen 7.7.73 (L. Barrington) Received letter from CPA Vancouver regarding Eilleen Hoffman and the welfare of daughter Grace, born 11.24.65. The letter was sent by Lilly Darling, case worker of Mrs. Hoffman's older daughter, Charlotte (in care since 1970), who has had a roller coaster relationship with her mother over the last several years. After a recent trip to visit her family, Charlotte returned deeply concerned over the well-being of her younger sister.

7.9.73 (L. Barrington) After several failed attempts to contact Eilleen Hoffman by phone, I went to the residence for a home visit. There was no answer at the door and a neighbour from the other side of the property (dwelling is a side-by-side duplex) came out. I informed her of my purpose there. Neighbour is Arlene Kensit, 1418 Gerrard St. E. Her daughter apparently plays with Grace Hoffman. Mrs. Kensit informed me that she wx was not surprised, that it was "only a matter of time before the Child Protection got involved." She told me that Mrs. Hoffman wasn't much for looking after Grace, that the child is often unkempt-looking, face dirty, uncombed hair, T-shirt on backwards. She told me that various men come and go from Mrs. Hoffman's home at all hours of the night and confirmed that Mrs. Hoffman is an alcoholic and often bedridden by her frequent "benders." She recalled a day when Mr. Hoffman, who owns the property, came by to pick up Grace. Mrs. Hoffman had company, two men with whom she was drinking on the porch. Mr. Hoffman tried to come up the stairs and Mrs. Hoffman slurred out that her rights as a tenant stated that the landlord would have to give her 24 hours notice before appearing on the property. Mr. Hoffman said he wanted his child. Mrs. Hoffman told him that Grace wasn't home and as he tried to climb the stairs, one of Mrs. Hoffman's companions pushed him back down. Mr. Hoffman left saying he'd be back.

Incidents such as these can only be damaging to a child. Apparently, Grace was not there to witness this as she was playing out back with the Kensits' daughter, Pearl. But Mrs. Kensit says she has already seen evidence that Grace is becoming "messed up." She told me of seeing Grace tie her cat to a skipping rope and swing him round and round out back. This went on for a considerable length of time until Mrs. Kensit went to knock on Mrs. Hoffman's door. There was no answer and Mrs. Kensit again expressed concern over the lack of supervision with Grace. Mrs. Kensit also mentioned an incident where Grace pushed another child down on the sidewalk. At this point in the interview, the Kensits' daughter Pearl came outside and interjected that Grace was retaliating over a name the other child had called her. Nevertheless, I feel these incidents speak of maladjusted aggressive behaviour, common in children of severe alcoholics and/or children in violent family situations. Will attempt another home visit tomorrow.

7.10.93 (L. Barrington) Knocked at Hoffman's door at 9 a.m. to no avail. Returned at 11 a.m., knocked louder, calling Mrs. Hoffman's name. This time, daughter, Grace, answered the door in her pyjamas. She seemed to be very protective of her situation and closed the door to get permission to allow me in. Mrs. Hoffman was in a nightgown still and asked me to wait outside until she was dressed. I had the distinct impression that this is some sort of game Mrs. Hoffman plays with those she perceives as authority figures.

When finally allowed into the home, I was shocked to see the disarray -the kitchen mess, the floor filthy, a litter box that must not have been changed in weeks. The bathroom seemed to be a part of the kitchen although curtained off -can't imagine that this is legal with respect to health regulations. Living-room floor covered in crumbs am and dirt. Mrs. Hoffman obviously is in no shape to care for a child in her state. She seemed to be hungover, the previous night's makeup still half on, breath sour.

The child was very reluctant to leave her mother in order that Mrs. Hoffman and I might talk alone. Both mother and child seem very anxious and protective of each other. I spoke at length with Mrs. Hoffman about the complaint received by CPA and her current situation. The idea of putting Grace into care while she received help seemed to be disastrous to her. She sounded somewhat dependent on Grace, who found several excuses to come back in and eavesdrop in the half-hour I was there.

Mrs. Hoffman has been in and out of AA and claims recent illness to have kept her from meetings lately. She agreed to begin attendance right away if we found her transport. I insisted on the importance of removing Grace from this situation until we could get the house back into shape and her mother into some sort of detox program. We settled on the idea of my contacting Mr. Hoffman regarding Grace's care and Mrs. Hoffman seemed to have no problem with his involvement whatsoever.

7.11.73 (L. Barrington) Met with Daniel Hoffman today, Grace's father. He was tidy and well-dressed, his manner quite congenial and aple apologetic regarding his wife's condition. He said he would have her in a detox program immediately but that he would not be able to keep Grace in his apartment as it is too small and he will be away on business as of this Sunday. He has suggested Gloria Carnegie of 337 Greenwood Ave., who is his first wife, and apparently a good friend of Mrs. Hoffman's as well. Gloria Carnegie is single with one son and is quite fond of Grace. Mr. Hoffman will be making arrangements as soon as possible to have Grace stay there. Spoke with Eilleen Hoffman. She is comfortable with this arrangement.

7.12.73 (L. Barrington) Spoke with Mr. Hoffman again today. Grace is now staying with Gloria Carnegie and Mr. Hoffman has contacted a treatment facility where Eilleen Hoffman can be admitted this week. a.s.suming the situation improves before summer's end, Grace's schooling shouldn't be an issue.

7.14.73 (L. Barrington) Made arrangements yesterday with the chairman of the Gerrard East Group, an AA group that meets every Tuesday and Thursday night. A member will be picking up Eilleen Hoffman tonight to take her to the meeting. Spoke with Mr. Hoffman today. Grace is well and happy at his former wife's home. There are apparently many children her age in the area. Will contact Gloria Carnegie tomorrow to check situation.

7.17.73 (L. Barrington) Met with Miss Carnegie today. House was very clean and bright on a nice tree-lined street with many children about. Miss Carnegie herself was very clean and bright though a bit hard-edged and with a distinct cynicism regarding Daniel Hoffman's involvement in Grace's care and well-being. She told me that Mr. Hoffman dropped Grace off the other day without so much as a word about when he'd be returning or even staying a while to make sure she was okay. He brought next to nothing in terms of clothing: one extra outfit in a paper bag and a teddy bear. Miss Carnegie went shopping for Grace the following day and called Mr. Hoffman after the fact to ask for reimburs.e.m.e.nt. He apparently showed up the next day with cash for her, and, as she put it, "He barely said a word to Grace, didn't sit down with her, didn't so much as take her for an ice cream." She added that this incident has caused her to lose all respect for Mr. Hoffman. What Mrs. Hoffman lacks in cleanliness, she said, "she makes up for in love of that kid." Miss Carnegie is, indeed, quite fond of Grace.

Eilleen Three.

JULY/AUGUST 1973.

NODDING AND NODDING to yourself, pacing around the house, thinking and making s.h.a.ggy zigs and zags, trying it out in negative then positive, blueprints and tooth-crushing nothing-Here's the thing-the thing is, is, they're going to keep your kid if you don't do something. That's all there is to it. They've got her, but at least they've got her where you want her, where you can find her, just can't go near her that's all. Gloria's got Grace. Say that a few times to calm your guts. Gloria's got Grace. Sounds almost pretty almost.

Had to be Charlie, Charlie called them-who else would've? -mean-hearted b.i.t.c.h. f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k. Charlie came, Charlie saw, Charlie phoned. Phoned the f.u.c.king Child Protection. How could she, how could anyone do that to you? Why didn't she just go rip the belly out of the sky and let it all drain white. Doesn't have to now, she's done it to you-you are the symbolic sacrifice to all her demons. They showed up at your door-Well, one did, just one of them came to the house. Wretched old bat showed up first thing; eleven Monday morning. And you and Grace were still asleep. That really got her. She came bustling in, that barn-door a.r.s.e of hers bursting at the seams, said she was Mrs. Barrington from Child Protection, that she just wanted to have a look around, which she did and immediately set about risking and fuming, saying things like dreadful and hmm and This isn't good, Mrs. Hoffman, this is just no good.

Confusing, the whole thing, being woken up by a nightmare like her. Kept trying to slide excuses in there, jam every babbling orifice she had with excuses, but she was a flood not a trickle. She looked at Grace, shook her head. Miserable cow-n.o.body shakes their head at your kid. She told Grace maybe she might like to go outside and play for a while while she, Mrs. Barrington, had a talk with Mummy. Go outside and play? What was Grace supposed to do, just go out and play with things at random? Stand out in the parking lot and turn in circles till she pa.s.sed out? Grace looked bewildered/relieved/territorial-hard to single out just one face on her. You told her it was OK.

The second you were alone, Mrs. Barrington slapped down your file. Morning was still flapping around your brain, it was hard to think clearly. Why are you here, did someone call you?

She said there'd been reports but that was confidential. She opened the folder. You should know, though, that as part of my investigation I have reviewed the file of your daughter currently in care and I have spoken with your neighbours. These broads always think they're with the CIA or something. Apparently she interviewed them to see if they'd noticed any odd behavioural tendencies in Grace. Ah geez, here we go. Evidence from the parents of Pearl - Not long after you moved into this sty, Grace started up a friendship with Pearl, the little girl next door. She spent a lot of time there. In fact you thought she must have been hard up for friends seeing the two of them out there in Pearl's backyard singing Pearls favourite, Country Road Take Me Home. When you know for a fact your kid hates that song. Or, Grace told you, they played Rifleman. G.o.d knows what that entailed; now and then you'd hear Pearl call Grace Pa.-And now Barrington has enlisted Pearl's wingnut parents, who drink at least as much as you ever did, as informants-And you know, it didn't take a wink for them to tell me yes that your child has displayed questionable behaviour. For instance, one afternoon they saw her tie her cat around the middle with a skipping rope and proceed to swing the poor animal round and round in circles. Mrs. Hoffman, your little girl stood there half an hour or more just swinging and swinging until they thought surely the cat would throw up or die.

Barrington calculates your face, decides you are not duly shocked. I can a.s.sure you, Mrs. Hoffman, cruelty to family pets is long past the first sign that all is not well.

Piffle! What-does she think your kid was the first person to swing a cat? Where the h.e.l.l does she think the expression came from? Children are curious and wicked, is that not common knowledge? Should've seen her at three-wait'll she turns thirteen.

Your new social worker went on to say that they, the Child Protection, were fully aware of your alcoholism and she inquired as to when you'd discontinued treatment. AA, that is. Not long ago, you told her. You were going-just that you'd been sick lately, hadn't been up to it, and then with Grace home for the summer, you wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

Fish-eyes descended on you. Deadpan. I see and then We can easily arrange someone through the AA Program to pick you up a few times a week and take you. Surely, Mrs. Hoffman, you're aware that things cannot go on like this, you need help and Grace needs a structured supportive environment.

Grace would have to be taken into care until you and the house straightened up.

Shaking; could feel your bones chattering in the skin.

Then she asked about The Father. Is the father present? And it was the one time you thought better of publicly running him into the ground. You nodded, stuttered, Yes, I mean, we're separated, but you can call him at work if you like. And you thought, Yeah, call him. If there's one thing Danny knows how to do, it's weasel people like you. She cleared her throat and jotted some more, asking if it were possible for Grace to stay with him? Yes, yes, you told her, that would probably be fine-no idea where he was living these days. And you started rummaging for a phone number. If it wasn't possible, she said, Grace could be put in temporary care. Foster f.u.c.king care. No. Uh uh. That much you said, not your kid, She has family. You said again how you'd just been ill, sick, the flu. She took a last glance and scribbled, said she could arrange a cleaning woman to come and give you a hand, then riddled thumb against fingertips, flicked crumbs off the arm of the couch. Looked as if she were flicking fleas.

You called him fast, frantic, soon as you got Barrington out the door, and the next thing you knew, Danny had sweet-talked them, shown up at some office in one of his lovely and respectable suits and cast a lovely and respectable light on the whole mess. He explained your problem-poor him, saddled with such a beast as the mother of his child-said he would set you up at a treatment facility, said his place was actually too small to accommodate Grace but his first wife, Gloria, with whom he'd remained close and who had actually become a good friend of the family, would be more than happy to care for Grace. She has a teenage son of her own in quite a nice house in a good residential area where there'd be kids Grace's own age. Of course he wouldn't've said it just that way, it would have been wrapped in his bashful doddering cadence, grammatical errors endearing in light of everything else.

And so that's that. Gloria's got Grace, under the advis.e.m.e.nt of Mrs. Barrington. For three days now, she's had her. And you're supposed to be in treatment, not wandering back and forth from the front room to the kitchen, pondering what to do next. The next move is getting out of this G.o.dforsaken town, before they take her and don't give her back. This is temporary-Danny arranged it, this is definitely temporary. Just got to get your a.s.s moving, get some cash together and am-scray.

Seemed like the last time Danny left, you weren't so totally alone, his friends still came by once in a while to drink and shoot the breeze. But that was Vancouver. They were all you had, his friends from The Life; the card players and dealers, loan sharks, hustlers, and their girlfriends. There was even a hooker whose company you didn't mind. Deirdra. She told stories that kept you amused for hours. Like the one about her m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t john, his wrists roped to a doork.n.o.b. No matter how much I beg, don't stop. It made you laugh when she mocked square women: Well at least I don't give it away. There was a group of them who hung around together, swapped stories and tied one on. You went to a birthday party for one, Penny or something-no, Patsy, her real name was Penny but she changed it to Patsy because she didn't want to sound cheap. That was a night all right. Got laughing so much you couldn't breathe. Turned out n.o.body remembered to pick up a cake for the birthday girl. And everyone was broke. The punchline came when the skinny blonde with all the b.o.o.bs and hair (think her name was Molly) volunteered to turn a trick for cake money. She came back an hour later with a box full of angel food and all the girls gave ovations, stood up and hooted and cheered. Molly gave a floppy blonde bow.

Grace and Charlie didn't know who they were, didn't understand what they were talking about. You were only just beginning to understand their lingo yourself, that ee-iz language, mixed with bits of pig latin-they concealed so much in front of their own kids (and squares) it'd become second nature to them: That f(ee-iz)uckin' astard-bay wanted an ee-fray bl(ee-iz)ow j(ee-iz)ob. Used to make you cringe-hated that expression. Then again Deirdra never claimed to be Sandra Dee and more than once she came to your rescue with a bottle of wine when you were so sick you couldn't see straight.

And then when things got bad and you were broke and welfare wasn't going to feed your kids, you thought, At least I don't give it away.

You had. You'd given too much away. You'd f.u.c.ked men whose names you couldn't remember without so much as a phone number to show for it. What possible difference would it have made if you turned it into a more pleasurable experience? It just so happened your immediate pleasure was money. You needed the cash equivalent of a night on the town, that's all. It wasn't so bad. What was the difference? It's your life and if you wanted to screw somebody and make a few bucks for your time and effort, who's to tell you you were wrong? Attractive, intelligent, you knew a few tricks -you should've been showered with cash and prizes long before.

So you called her, called Deirdra and invited her over for a drink. Couldn't do it alone. There was a right way to do this.

Deirdra brought wine and her expertise, along with her mouth. The first time you'd met, you thought you'd never heard such a foul mouth on a woman. She opened her purse when she sat and took out three Seconal. Thought you might need them.

That's why. Now you remember. That's what made Deirdra special. She gave a d.a.m.n. And perhaps for the sake of comparison; you were afraid of who you'd become. But next to Deirdra, you were still clean, still an innocent, your confessions were commonplace.

Grace was outside playing. The house was quiet and your embarra.s.sment echoed through the halls. Deirdra took it in stride. She was neither insulted nor enjoying your fall. Sympathetic but still matter-of-fact, she a.s.suaged your fear. She knew some men, nice square johns she could fix you up with.

You told her how afraid you were, that you were glad she brought the pills, they'd help. You planned to get so drunk you'd be able to screw anyone. She cut you off, tough yet maternal. For Chrissake don't get drunk. Stay smart. Keep the upper hand. She took a swig of wine. Her Southern accent used to come out when she drank. Hard to tell if it was an affectation or real, but it gave the impression she could hogtie any sumb.i.t.c.h who came her way without hardly breakin' a sweat. An' get the money up front fer Chrissake or you'll end up where you started; screwed 'n broke. I'll sendya some decent eggs but watch what yer doin', don't make a mark outa-yer-self. You squarejohn broads are so f(ee-iz)uckin' naive sometimes, I'm tempted t' take advantage myself. An when you got yer money-here, look here, put it in yer purse and go to the bathroom. See this-she pulled up her skirt to show you the inside hem, her voice lowered in antic.i.p.ation of a trade secret about to be released-take out a couple st.i.tches and stick it right in there. No sumb.i.t.c.h's gonna find it there. She smiled. You smiled. You started to feel brave.

You did it before, you can do it again.

You are standing on Jarvis in go-go boots-Yeah, go-go man, let's go. Almost funny standing here up to your eyeb.a.l.l.s in wh.o.r.es when you are one. Jesus, the colours, lotsa hot pink and jumpsuits. Gotta get yourself one of them, it'd be a perfect uniform, a jump-me-suit and go-go boats-boots, kee-he-he-Quit your giggling, no one wants a giggling wh.o.r.e, specially one who snorts. Wh.o.r.e shmore, wh.o.r.es galore. G.o.d, it's spinning, your head is teetering shoulder-high, and dripping sky-Hey, you're a poet and you didn't know it; your feet show it, they're Longfellows.

Good Lord, it's wet out, summer-thick wet air, splattered all over the d.a.m.n road, d.a.m.n rain. How long have you been standing here?-hours and hours and what's it, twenty to ten o'clock and you got here at when, ten o'clock? no, ten to nine-thirty. What's that, an hour and ...? No. Ten minutes? Jesus. Is it your Imagination or are the fattest, s.l.u.ttiest-looking girls getting the most action? Frankly, that's insulting. Fool that I am, la-la-la la-l?-la, can never remember the words to that thing. A hand taps your shoulder, pulls back. You turn and find a nervous guy in officey-looking clothes, not that old, maybe thirty-some-quit singing, you're singing out loud, you're going to scare him.

Uh hi, wh-uh, are you working? He's nervous as h.e.l.l. Looks like a number guy, a whatchacallit, a count-it guy.

Sure as shootin! (Sure as shootin'? Where did that come from? Sure a.s.s, shoot in, sure. Shoot!) And he says he has a car, so off you go to his shiny big auto, wonder if that's his name, Otto; he's got gla.s.sers, looks like an otter, or um-what?-and he opens the car door. You sit and wait for him to come around his side. (Smells mouldy in here.) Seems like he hustled you in here more to get you out of sight than out of chivalry-careful now, don't be seen in the open with prost.i.tutes. Praw-sti-toot: cruddy word. Christ, it was his idea, he's the one who wants you; what are you, a leper? Nope, you're a leopard. Bet he'd wet himself if you growled right now.

He puts the car in drive. His gla.s.ses are lit up with store windows and street lights. He says, So uh, actually, my apartment is not far from here, uh, so we could just go there and uh oh! how much are you, uh, that is to say, if I were to get a, for you to mm blow-me-a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, how much would that be?

How much? Money. s.h.i.t. For cryin' out loud, you're disorganized-I need thirty bucks for my mortgage.

He stops at a red light and nods and nods like one of those floaty-headed dogs on rear-dashboards. Floaty-headed dog. That's him. Otto the Floaty-headed Dog.

Oop he's right, his place is nearby, he says this is it, you're right in front of his building. We's here! Where's here, gotta pay attention, get yourself in trouble if you don't start paying attention. OK, everybody out. Door-where's the handle? And you fumble yourself stupid until he leans across and pulls the handle. Good job you didn't take another Seconal. This just takes the edge off; another one and you'd've been too out of it.

You get to the front door, he shuffles you inside, walks you through the lobby, down the hall, stuffs you in the door.

Not bad, sort of a cute little pad for such a square guy. What do you do?

I'm a pharmacist.

Really! Some of my best friends are pharmacists. Huh. Where do you work, which drugstore?

Downtown.

Oh. So how do- Would you like a drink?

Sure, whatever you got, wine, beer ... so ... Don't suppose you've got anything in the house that you could part with-I have a bit of a nerve problem. Haven't had time to get to my family doctor this week.

Nerve problem?

Yes, I'm really nervy. Got anything to help me relax so I can sleep better?

You mean barbiturates?

Well yeah, I guess if you want to get down to bra.s.s tacks! haha.

He looks disgruntled, or was that disdainful-something gave him the face he's got on. He offers you a seat on the couch, hands you a gla.s.s of wine, sits down beside you, gla.s.s of something on-the-rocks in his bony mitt. Is he ignoring you? you have a regitimal leguest, legitimate- So how long have you been doing this? he wants to know.

Why?-is he only looking at experienced streetwalkers? You look at your watch. Not long. I mean I've done it a couple times when I ran into fina-um (pwahh, lip's got my tongue) uh, just money problems you know, and I have a little girl so I had to make sure she was fed properly. And it's that way now too, I need it for her. It's tough these days.

He nods and jinks the cubes against the side of his gla.s.s, pats his other hand against his thigh. That's too bad. How old are you if you don't mind me asking?

How old would you guess?-oh never mind, that's a dumb game. Thirty-two.

Oh. Really. You're a year younger than me. I thought you were, huh, well thirty-two's a good age. And he sets his drink down, puts his hand in your hair, pulls your face over, starts to kiss. Hard, like he-christ, he's kissing like wood, lips like nose, all cartilage, stiff and bony, and then his teeth knocking-Watch the caps, buddy! What's he yanking? something out of his belly-his belt. His other hand grabs for yours, but it's full of winegla.s.s so he plucks it, clumsy, splashes on your leg, bangs it down on the coffee table, and then back to your hand. He pulls by your wrist, sticks your fingers to his fly. Well re-f.u.c.king-lax, buddy, lemme get the b.u.t.ton undone first. It's as if his parents'll be home later. Like he's seventeen, everything stiff and jerking, fastens your hand on his d.i.c.k, faster faster, do it, now. He jams his hand between your thighs, fixes on your crotch and rubs like he's trying to get a stain out.

Cross your legs, get him the h.e.l.l out of there.

Then he starts doing that thing, that school guy thing, pushing you down by the back of your head, steering you by the hair, thank christ you don't have a ponytail. Just do it-the sooner, the calmer.

Now you're down staring it in the eye. Ain't much; least you won't choke on it. And he's clean at least, looks the type that showers twice a day. You're so dry, muster some spit before you try and slide him back toward your throat. Lips tucked around your teeth so you don't bite him. You'd give anything to touch your tongue to the roof of your mouth right now.

And suck- What must this look like, no lips, no teeth, like someone's gummy old grandma getting them off. Sucking and running him in and out-... Fool that I am, la-la-la-la-la-s.h.i.t were you humming or did you just think it. Hmm hmm hmm hmm, almost monotonous enough to be therapeutic; think of it like the housework you never did; like vacuuming, trying to suck up those last bits of lint that just won't come. Except this rug moans and chirps. Come on, y' skinny b.u.g.g.e.r.

His thighs tense, start to shake, vibrate from the hips, and he thrusts and shoves your head down hard. You gag-good job he's not built or he would've shoved it through the back of your head ... aach, that taste, like bleach.

You sit back up. Ah the joy of tangible results. Should've been a bricklayer or something. He lets his head loll back for nine maybe ten seconds, then zips up and sits up, adjusts the collar of his shirt, and backs off a hair, just a bit, just so you know you're done. So uh, should I call you a cab or are you just going to walk-oh here-and he goes into his pocket for his wallet. Starts moseying through tens.

Oh. Well, I thought you'd be taking me back. I'm not really sure where I am.

You're right near where I picked you up, you're not even six blocks, you're just east. I-I can't, I have some work I have to catch up on and, I'm, expecting-here, here, take thirty-five and I'll call you a cab. Thanks. Thanks a lot for a- For what, a job well done? Pathetic little grunt-soon as they get what they want, they want it to go away.

So you say, OK, thanks, that's fine. So, well, before I go, uh, have you got anything in the house you might want to let me have-just a couple tranquilizers?

Actually, if you wouldn't mind, maybe you could just flag a cab outside, I'd really prefer you did that.