Can't Buy Me Love

by Chris Kenry

  11

  SOCIAL SERVICES

  As soon as I walked into the west office of the Denver Department of Social Services, I realized I’d made a mistake. In my zealousness I had forgotten that I was still wearing the suit I’d chosen for my job interview that morning and was by far the best-dressed destitute person in the building. I was even better dressed than the man working behind the counter, who eyed me skeptically as he handed me a number and the application to fill out, and told me to wait until I was called. And wait I did. For nearly three hours. The application itself was fairly simple, asking for information about job status, married or single, children or no, if I’d been fired or had quit my last job, my income status, any disabilities, how much rent I paid, and the total of all bills (which in my case was extremely high). It didn’t take me long to fill it out, but by the time I finished they were only up to number seventeen, and I was number forty-three. There were no magazines to read, no TV to watch, just a mess of kids running around, and the prevailing smell of urine. I went back out to my car and drove to a Denny’s, where I got lunch and read the entire newspaper before driving back. When I returned, almost two hours later, they were up to number forty, so I sat down and waited as patiently as I could.

  Finally forty-three was called and I was ushered by a small Hispanic woman, with half glasses on a chain around her neck, into a small, windowless office with a picture of a cat hanging by its front paws onto the limb of a tree over the words, Hang in there, Friday’s comin.’

  She sat on one side of the desk and I on the other as she looked over my paperwork and asked a few questions.

  “You got fired from your last job two weeks ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “An’ then before that you got fired from another job?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you do for money since then?”

  “Well, nothing, really. I’ve had some help from friends and, well, that’s all, really.”

  “How much you got in your bank account?”

  “Two dollars and ninety-seven cents.”

  “That’s the only account?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wife. No chil’ren?”

  “No.”

  She scrutinized my form in silence a moment and then set it on the desk and turned it around so that I could read it.

  “What’s this you have here on line thirteen, stocks and bonds?” she asked, pointing to the form, eyeing me warily over her glasses.

  “That’s something my father gives us every year on our birthdays. It’s stock in his company,” I said innocently, but sensed trouble.

  “And how much is that worth?” she asked.

  “I really have no idea.” I shrugged.

  “Guess,” she said somewhat impatiently.

  “Maybe a thousand dollars, maybe two.”

  She let out a disgusted hiss, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and leaned back in her chair.

  “Sir, I don’t know why you’re here but we’re very busy. Public assistance is meant for people who need help, people who have hit the bottom and don’t have anything. I don’t think that’s you,” she said, gesturing toward my suit. “You can still sell this . . . stock; you can still get by till you find a job.”

  I smiled, realizing it was pointless to explain about the impossibility of selling the stocks without infuriating my father, who insisted they were never meant to be sold but were to be kept as a nest egg. I was free to spend the quarterly dividend checks, but these were for small amounts—not even enough to cover a month’s rent—so I usually used them to buy a nice pair of shoes. Nor could I explain about the dark cloud of credit card debt I had looming overhead, and the car insurance and the phone bill. I had hit bottom, but it was evidently a false bottom, under which there were deeper and darker spaces.

  I smiled uneasily.

  “I’m sorry to take up your time,” I said, and got up and left.

  Now, one would think that after a humiliation like that I’d have given up on the welfare idea and gone home. Well, I did go home, but it was only to shed my suit and change into a pair of ragged jeans, a sweatshirt (which I turned inside out to conceal the Tommy Hilfiger logo) a pair of ancient high-top sneakers, and a sweaty ball cap. I may have bombed out getting welfare, but I was determined to succeed at the food stamp office.

  Before I left, I surveyed myself in the cracked mirror on the back of the bathroom door, hoping I looked dejected and down on my luck, like something out of the Great Depression. I didn’t really look poor but I looked poorer than I had before. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” I muttered. “Work the system. Jack the bum. Act the part.”

  I drove to the address I’d been given over the phone, a nondescript single-story office building, and went in and got similar forms from a frizzy-haired woman in a headset who didn’t look at me skeptically as she gave them to me. In fact she didn’t look at me at all, but merely handed up the paperwork and pointed to the machine that dispensed the paper numbers. I took one and went and sat down in a group of fold-up chairs arranged in chaotic rows.

  The first thing I noticed was that there were, ironically, a lot of fat people waiting to get food stamps. I suppose I noticed this because it was so contrary to my preconceived idea of them as Dickensian characters, with large, sunken eyes and tattered clothing. For the most part these were large people whose fat stretched the seams of their polyester outfits. I realized that staying thin was now a distinction of the upper, moneyed classes. Too much Hamburger Helper and too many loaves of Wonder bread had made these bodies what they were.

  Here too was the melting pot I’d heard so much about in elementary school history classes. Every possible ethnic group and nationality seemed to be represented, and English was heard only rarely. Even the signs on the walls were translated into Spanish and Chinese and Arabic. Like a bad day at the U.N., I thought as I took my seat with the other “delegates.”

  The food stamp paperwork was almost equivalent to the welfare paperwork: same status questions, same questions about bills, same questions about bank accounts, and same questions about stocks and assets, which I left blank this time. I was lying, yes, but I didn’t care.

  Use it, then lose it, but never abuse it, did come repeatedly to my mind, but I dismissed it as nothing more than an annoying song stuck in my head.

  Screw her! I thought. I’m sure I’m not the first one to abuse the system. A fact that was confirmed by a conversation I heard behind me between a man and a woman.

  “They tried to Jew me the last time,” he said, “by givin’ me less stamps because of my unemployment checks, but I marched right in there and told that bitch she’d better not cut me down or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Yeah, I hear that!” the woman replied. “I slipped up once and told ’em about some money I was making under the table and they tried to nail me on it. ‘Fuck, no!’ I said. ‘You can’t prove it!’ And they couldn’t. You can’t let ’em step on you.”

  “That’s for fuckin’ sure!”

  I finished the paperwork and took it back up to the blond woman at the desk, who set up an appointment for me at eight A.M. the next morning and gave me a sheet telling me all the things to bring with me: a picture ID, Social Security card, all my bills for one month (I wasn’t sure I could carry them all), a rent receipt, and a letter from my last employer stating that I had indeed been fired.

  I returned the next morning, took a number, and waited. Shortly the number was called, along with eleven others, and we all herded into a back room. A woman then came around and collected all of our bills and receipts in order to make copies of them. Again we waited. Then, one by one, we were called into a cubicle by the caseworker.

  Again I eavesdropped on the conversation behind me between a young man and an older Vietnamese woman.

  “I gotta get these stamps today,” he said. “I been livin’ in my van for a couple months now, but it’s winter and I’d like to find a place. The cops always
harass me ’cause I ain’t livin’ nowhere and I got thrown in jail once ’cause I got caught smoking pot at a rest stop. What I’d like to do is drive on down to Mexico. I heard the winters are nice, and maybe I could find me a wife.”

  His tale was punctuated by the shocked oohs and ahhs of the Vietnamese woman.

  “I don’t know how you can live like that,” she said.

  “It used to be even harder,” he said. “I used to have my two dogs living in the van too, and then one of ’em went and had pups. Seven pups! And all of us just livin’ in the van. It was nice havin’ ’em there ’cause they’d nuzzle up to you at night and they were awful cute. Awful fuckin’ messy, too! So I had to get rid of ’em.”

  How he did this was not something he related.

  “I’m on disability too, on account ’a I got my leg cut off by a chain saw.”

  At which point his number was mercifully called, and he hobbled off into the cubicle.

  What the hell am I doing here? I thought. What am I trying to prove? This has got to be one of the most asinine things I’ve ever done.

  I was just about to get up and leave, forget the whole thing, when my number was called. I hesitated a moment, but then rose and walked into the cubicle. I was met by a cheerful, chubby woman who was surveying my paperwork.

  “Wow!” she said, an amazed expression on her round face, “you’ve sure got some bills.”

  I shrugged my shoulders sheepishly.

  She punched some numbers into the computer and said, “Well, Jack, it looks like you qualify for seventy-four dollars in stamps, which you can pick up this afternoon.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not meeting her gaze and getting up to leave.

  “Wait a sec,” she said, grabbing my sleeve. “You need to report to Job Search tomorrow at nine A.M.; let me give you the address.” She continued talking while she wrote. “They’ll oversee your job search, help you make a resume, stuff like that.”

  Great, I thought. Let’s hope they’re magicians.

  “They can even help you start your own business if you’re interested in that,” she said.

  “That sounds interesting,” I said, wishing she’d hurry with the address.

  “Really?” She stopped writing and looked up. “I mean, if you’re really interested it’s a great program.”

  “I don’t see how I’d have time to start a business if I’m out looking for a job,” I said.

  “That’s the beauty of it,” she said. “If you participate in the microbusiness classes, you don’t have to report to Job Search.”

  I thought about it for about a nanosecond.

  “Sign me up!”

  12

  TURNING TIDE

  When I returned to Andre’s later that evening, I had several new messages. The first was from Burl saying we were on for dinner. Good, I thought to myself, and calculated that the evening would net me at least a hundred dollars, maybe two hundred dollars if I actually stayed the night. That would cover the minimum payment on the Discover bill and would, if I got two hundred dollars, also enable me to toss something over the fence to American Express.

  Next there was another message from my sister imploring me to call our mother, as she was now very upset at not hearing from me. I knew I should have called earlier, but something, maybe a kind of shame that my situation had not improved any in two months, prevented me. I would have liked to have called and left a message, but the phones in our house were so technologically advanced—what with caller ID and call forwarding and last-call return, and the fact that there were just so damned many of them—that it was nearly impossible for me to call and just leave a message. So I called my sister’s apartment instead and asked her to tell them that I was fine but just really busy. Carey would hate that vague answer, and I knew that would tip her off more than anything that I was not fine, that all was not well, but so be it. I had to admit, I was beginning to see some of the wisdom in Sister Melanie’s tough love/separation policy. If I had seen my parents then it would have done none of us any good—they’d have worried and I’d have felt embarrassed. Yes, it was better that we not see each other for a while.

  The next message was high-pitched and whiny, like an out-of-tune violin being played by a less than talented third grader.

  “Jack, Frank Glory here. Received your note this morning. Thank you. I mentioned you in passing to Andre; I’m glad he told you. Why don’t we have dinner some night this week, and maybe go listen to the piano and have some drinks. Give me a call.”

  I had to think about that one for a minute. My decision to send the note had been so impulsive that I didn’t really know what to do now that he’d actually responded. I’d been counting on Andre to coach me through it, maybe even go with me, but he would not be back for almost a week and I didn’t see any reason to wait that long, especially since Frank was now awaiting a response. I dialed his number and was thankful when I got the answering machine. I left a message saying I’d pick him up the following night at seven. If that wasn’t okay, he should give me a call at Andre’s. If it was okay, he need not respond.

  I hung up the phone and went to the window again. Outside it was dark and the streets were crowded with rush-hour traffic. Over at the station the trains were still coming and going. I looked down at my watch. Five-thirty. So much had happened since this morning, my head was spinning and my thoughts were not clear.

  Thank God! I thought. My father doesn’t know what I’ve done today.

  The date with Burl was predictably long, but I drank less than usual, which made the evening—and the following morning—much easier to manage. We had a great dinner and talked and laughed, and I wasn’t offended when he flirted with our busboy, or when he wanted to go to a strip bar after dinner. In fact I actually had fun because I felt like all the pressure was off and I was just out with a friend. Granted, if I’d been out with Andre I would not have gone home and slept with him, but with Burl that’s just what I did.

  The sex itself, when Burl was sober enough to go through with it, was actually rather flattering. He took great pleasure in undressing me slowly and then watching me jack off. Usually we’d start out in the living room on the couch. He’d sit down and I’d straddle him, and slowly he’d undo the buttons of my shirt, or, if I was wearing a T-shirt, he’d run his hands under it, gently squeezing my pecs and my shoulders. It was great because, as anyone who lifts weights as much as I do knows, it’s wonderful to be worshiped. To have someone run their hands over your body and really appreciate all the work you’ve put into it. Oh, I’m sure there are some people out there who’ll say that they lift purely for themselves, for their physical well-being, but if that was the case then we’d all stick to cardiovascular workouts, and the weight gain-supplement industry would not do millions of dollars in business each year.

  Once Burl had my shirt off, I’d get up and just stand in front of him. Again, more buttons or zippers would be undone, and slowly he’d lower my pants and move his hands languidly along my calves, up my thighs, and up under the fabric of my underwear, gently squeezing my ass, moaning appreciatively. He’d lean forward and push his face into my crotch, inhaling deeply and feeling my hardness, all the while stroking my ass with his fingers. Then, slowly, he’d pull down my underwear and release my cock. He’d stare at it for a few moments before eagerly taking it in his mouth.

  The dialogue that goes along with this is almost inevitable, and usually comes in urgent whispers.

  Him: God, you have a great body. Damn!

  Me, flexing: You like that? Yeah, your hands feel great.

  Him, undoing my zipper: Mmmmmm.

  Me: Yeahhh, I’m so fucking horny.

  Him: Oh, yeah!

  The actual sucking usually lasted less than three minutes, and then he’d suggest we go into the bedroom. I’d step out of my pants, pull off my socks, and walk ahead of him, thus enabling him to admire my ass. In the bedroom I’d lie on my back on the bed and run my hands over my chest and cock while he undres
sed and watched me. Once undressed, he’d jump onto the bed like a Labrador puppy and we’d roll around and kiss for a while, during which he might suck my cock again or lick my ass. Eventually he’d get up, kneel at the foot of the bed, and watch me jack off. Some theatrics were involved in this and I, of course, did more than I would have if I were say, jacking off in the shower before going to work in the morning (if I’d had a job to go to, that is). I’d moan and caress my chest, run my fingers over my asshole, my eyes closed all the while in apparent ecstasy. I’ve heard some guys say they have to think of something else or someone else, or have some pornographic image in their head, but usually the whole idea of someone getting so excited over me, in turn, makes me excited.

  Like the Bard says, drinking “... provokes the desire but it takes away the performance,” and because Burl drank so much, he almost never came, and rarely even got hard, so his pleasure was secondary to mine. So after about five or ten minutes I would say, in a voice hoarse with lust, “Dude, I can’t wait much longer. I’m gonna hafta come.”

  To which he’d respond, “Yeah, fuck, yeah, I wanna see you shoot! Shoot it, baby, come on!” And I would. Then, ironically, he would be the one to fall down on the bed, exhausted. Usually he fell asleep almost immediately. Then I would get up, towel off or take a shower, and then either crawl back into bed next to him or quietly dress and leave. Regardless of whether I stayed or went, the second I got back from the bathroom I’d go straight for Burl’s pants on the floor and take the amount of cash I deemed my services to be worth from his wallet—if he had not already placed it in my pocket. On the night I’ve just described, the first where I’d had sex with Burl and had no delusions of its going anywhere romantically, I decided not to stay the night. It had been a tiring day and I could easily have gone to sleep, but we were on a different footing: he was the client and I was the service provider, and I wanted to show him, and myself, that this was the case. So instead of two hundreds, I took just one, a hundred and a ten to be exact, because I knew I needed to get gas, and placed the bills in my wallet next to my newly acquired, brightly colored food stamps. As I walked out to the car my mind was empty but there was a spring in my step.