Burn My Shadow

by Tyler Knight

  The bedroom door creaks open.

  Flash.

  • • •

  As I’m parking my car, I notice the brakes feel soft and I make a mental note to get them checked. The driver’s side door doesn’t lock, but nobody’s going to steal a rusted-through car with a carburetor. It’s the end of a workday, consisting of two Viagras and, including Eris, five girls on three different sets. The reek of pussy, ass, and sweat clings to me the way cigarette stench lingers on a chain-smoker’s clothes and fingertips. I’d have preferred to shower after last scene with Julio and the MILFs, but dog hairs and set grime infest my clothes. (When was the last time you saw porn stars stop to fold their clothes? Never, we rip them off and toss them on the floor.) It made no sense to clean up only to put them back on again for the drive home. I feel greasy. My pores feel clogged, like I’m suffocating through my skin.

  Home for Amanda and me is a duplex on a hillside cul-de-sac of Melrose Hill. Named one of LA’s ten best neighborhoods, you could live your entire life in the city and never know this tree-lined oasis exists. No traffic. Neighborhood children’s laughter sparkles in the air as they chase after the ice cream truck. The fact that Amanda and I don’t live in the Valley was a conscious decision to compartmentalize my work, and keep it away from our home life.

  When I enter our home I leave the front door open behind me and take a moment to open some windows. A breeze sways the curtains, and light from the setting sun fills the space. Our sofa, dining room table, and bookcase all bask in the golden light.

  My mail is laid out for me in a neat stack on the table. Bills. Checks from different studios. An envelope from my bank. Inside it is a check from a studio and letter stating the check has been returned for insufficient funds. I scroll through contacts in my cell phone.

  “Good afternoon, The Wad Fathers Studios, Charon speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  “This is Tyler Knight. Let me speak with Scowl Pacino, please.”

  “Regarding?”

  “A bounced check.”

  “Please hold.”

  While on hold, I read more of the letter. The bank will charge a returned check fee to my account.

  “Scowl isn’t available, but he said to just go ahead and redeposit the check.”

  “My bank charged me a fee, and I want to be reimbursed.”

  “Go ahead and redeposit it and we’ll mail you another check to cover the charge.”

  “Fine.”

  Amanda calls to me from the bedroom, and I go to her. A parti-colored bowling shirt, wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic, hangs from the bedroom doorknob. Date night. Amanda is buttoning up a matching bowling shirt in front of a mirror. She catches me in its reflection.

  “Te amo.”

  “Te amo.”

  I walk past her and into the master bathroom without stopping to hug or kiss her, and she makes no attempt to embrace me. Shower first; a protocol we never break.

  Amanda enters the bathroom but keeps her distance. “You smell like cat piss.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How was work?”

  “Not going to talk about it.”

  “You never want to talk about it.”

  I kick off my shoes. “Correct.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Why?’ You know why.”

  “How are we supposed to have a normal relationship if you never want to talk about anything?”

  My clothes weigh me down like spilt crude on a baby seal’s white fur. I peel off my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear, and stuff them into the hamper. “We talk about everything, just not my work. You know that, so stop asking me.”

  Amanda glowers at me as I pour a cup of blue mouthwash and gargle. I swish the minty alcohol over my tongue and teeth. It has a pleasant burn inside my cheeks.

  She says, “This is not healthy, Erik.”

  I spit out the mouthwash and foam fizzles in the sink.

  I say, “I don’t want to bring that shit home with me. What we have together is the only normal thing in my life, and I’m not going to poison it.”

  She scoffs and points to my clothes rotting away in the hamper.

  I say, “Can we talk about this after I take a shower, please?”

  “Whatever.”

  I pin the shower knob to “H” and steam thickens the air. I lather up, rinse, and lather up some more. With some pumice scrub, I excavate the muck that has seeped into my pores. Next, I soap up the fingernail brush and scrub the left hand, then the right. Then I work some dandruff shampoo into a lather, scratching it into my scalp with my fingernails. It has a cooling menthol tingle and scent, so I let the foam sit in my hair for a while. I place my hands on the wall, lower my head, take deep breaths as the hot water massages my neck and back.

  Looking down, I see Amanda’s scrunchie on the tub sill. I don’t want to fight with Amanda, and she doesn’t want to fight with me… She just wants to feel involved. Loved.

  Clean clothes, including the bowling shirt, are laid out for me on the bed.

  I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “You hungry? Let’s go eat first.”

  She smiles. “Okay, but it’s got to be drive through. I can’t be seen with you in that shirt, ha-ha.”

  We hug, then kiss. Her lip gloss tastes like green apples.

  As we separate, something about my ear catches her attention. She picks it out. A dog hair.

  • • •

  I’m walking toward the Bon Voyage motel in the Valley. The motel has a reputation as a house of ill repute. Entire apartment buildings along this stretch of the street serve as drug dens. I used to live on this block, and not long ago I nearly died here, too.

  An LAPD cruiser on the other side of the street flashes its lights, cut across four lanes of traffic, and drives up the sidewalk and screeches to a stop in front of me. The doors fling open and two screaming police officers rush out, aiming their guns at my chest.

  It only takes about four pounds of pressure to pull a trigger, firing the gun and sending a bullet into its target. Anyone with firearms training knows that you never place your finger inside the trigger guard unless you intend to shoot. Both cops approach me with their fingers inside their trigger guards, wrapped around their triggers.

  One cop screams, “Get on the ground! Now!”

  The other cop contradicts his partner’s command, “Don’t move!”

  The normal range of my voice is bass. In an attempt to sound less threatening, I raise its octave and make it resonate from my nasal cavity rather than my chest. “Could you make up your minds, please?”

  “Put your hands on your head, turn around, and get down on your knees!”

  I do.

  People walking on the other side of the street look at me and point. Cars slow down to get a better look at me. Drivers crane their necks as they pass by, hoping for the worst outcome so they can tell the anecdote later.

  A cuff bites into my wrist. My arms are twisted behind my back, another cuff snicks into place around my other wrist. Hands push me forward, and without free hands to break my fall, I fall onto my face. A knee digs into my back, pinning me in place like a butterfly specimen mounted on display.

  The cop who cuffed me asks, “You have ID on you?”

  I measure each word. “In my wallet, sir.”

  “Any needles or sharp objects in your pocket?”

  “No.”

  Hands dig into my pocket and free my wallet. The information on my ID is read off into a walkie talkie.

  The cement has scrapped my cheek and it stings. I’m probably bleeding but I don’t dare move. I keep my cheek flush with the sidewalk. After a moment, there’s chatter on the walkie talkie.

  A cop says, “This ain’t him.”

  The other cop says, “You sure?” />
  “Yeah, wrong guy. Cut him loose.”

  The knee in my back lets up, cuffs are removed, and I stand.

  Red and the blue alternating lights from the police cruiser strobe across their faces. Their name tags say Borjas and Madero.

  Borjas reads my More Than Waffles T-shirt and says, “I’ve been meaning to try that place out. Is the food any good?”

  I don’t respond. My hands are at my sides, my posture is slumped. I control my breathing, and remain still.

  Borjas shrugs and returns my IDs.

  Madero says, “Let’s go.”

  They walk back to their squad car with its still flung-open doors.

  The first time the cops drew their guns on me I was fresh off the plane, standing at a bus stop in front of the college I was attending.

  To the LAPD, if you look like me, you’re a criminal, ipso facto. Whenever you’re stopped by the LAPD while walking, it’s:

  1) “Yes, sir. No, sir.”

  2) No direct eye contact.

  3) Hands out of pockets and no sudden movements.

  If you’re stopped while driving, include:

  4) Hands at ten-and-two on the steering wheel.

  5) Look straight ahead.

  6) Do not move.

  You must be accommodating to the police while they reach inside your chest, rip out your humanity and dignity—sometimes at gunpoint—and discard them on the sidewalk, and at the slightest perceived provocation, close the book on your life.

  It’s the twenty-first century, but I don’t feel free… Certainly not free to enjoy many mundane things others take for granted, like an evening stroll without concern of the predators in navy blue enforcing a de facto curfew… Always wondering, Is today the day I don’t make it back home to Amanda? It wears on me day after day, week after week, year after year. Trapped in—and by—my own skin. I want to scream.

  “Hey!” I say, “Are you two going to tell me what that was all about?”

  The words have left my mouth before I realized I’ve shouted at them. I don’t care.

  Madero pauses behind the driver’s side door. There’s the LAPD decal with “to protect and serve” printed in cheerful font on the door.

  Madero says, “Yeah. You almost got shot, homie.”

  He shuts the door. The flashing lights cut off and they speed away.

  Eris answers the door after the first knock. Rashes cover her skin and her clavicles jut through the fabric of her dress. She smiles, revealing yellowed, film-covered teeth. How the fuck could I have missed these details last week? I didn’t miss them. She’s changed.

  She steps aside, allowing me to enter her motel room. Mismatched furniture. Thrift store paintings hang askew on the walls. Threadbare blanket on a mattress. Nicotine-stained curtains, drawn shut. You could cross the room in two paces.

  I say, “Are you okay?”

  She scratches the back of her hand, then picks at a scab. “Not really. I finally got a scene last week, but Reginald—remember the guy who was taking me around to sets?—He has my money and his cell phone is disconnected. I’m so sorry for having to call you, but I’m all by myself here and I can’t pay rent and I don’t know what else to do.” Her eyes lower to the floor.

  Earlier today I did a scene and they paid me in cash. I give the money to her. “This should help for a while.”

  Eris looks up at me, smiles, and hugs me. “Thank you.”

  She falls back onto the mattress, peels her panties off and opens her legs. There are sores around her vagina. “I have an itchy pussy but you can still fuck me. Oh! Don’t worry about the cream, it’s just Vagisil… Do you have a condom?”

  I say, “No, I don’t, I just came here to help you. Besides, I know what it’s like.”

  She picks at a scab on her inner thigh. “Ha-ha, how could you know what an itchy pussy is like?”

  I force myself to look at her eyes, not her crotch. “No, I uh…I’ve been in your situation before.”

  “I was kidding, Tyler.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Eris says, “I can suck your dick if you want.”

  “No, I’m cool.”

  She pulls her panties up and folds her hands in her lap. “Can you just…sit with me for a while?”

  There’s a sad desperation in her eyes. I capitulate and sit on the bed next to her.

  “Okay,” I say. “For a little while.”

  She stares at her hands. I fixate on a cigarette hole burnt into the curtain. Neither of us speaks. Eris places her hand in the space between us, palm up. A clear gesture for me to take her hand in mine. I don’t. She retracts it.

  I look to the door. Amanda and I agreed that I do what I must to keep the bills paid, as long as it’s confined to set. Amanda’s trust in me is absolute. God knows, I haven’t been perfect—just being here is a violation of her trust. A police car passes by the window. Its lights paint the ceiling red and blue as it speeds by. I walk to the door and open it.

  Eris calls after me, “You’re the only person in the Valley who doesn’t try to take advantage of me. You’ve got a kind heart, Tyler. You’re a beautiful snowflake.”

  The door clicks shut behind me, and it’s all I can do to keep from breaking into an all-out run. In the lobby I pause at a trash can, take a condom out of my pocket, and toss it in. At the heart of every snowflake is a grain of dust.

  • • •

  Amanda wakes me with kisses, and we make love. I wait for her to climax, then I roll off of her without climaxing myself. I’ve got a full day and it’s important to save it for the camera.

  We’ve got time before either of us has to be anywhere, so we dress and take a walk together through Griffith Park. Our favorite place is Ferndell Trail, a lush arboretum with bridges that cross a rolling stream. Sunlight cascades through a canopy of giant sequoias. Dragonflies with stained-glass wings flitter in light. We sit on a bench, and listen to water falling over rocks.

  • • •

  Usually my call time is set up so that by time I walk on set we’re ready to roll camera, and I jump right into the scene. I dropped my first Viagra of the day on the drive over.

  When I enter the house I notice the lights aren’t set up, the video equipment is still in their boxes, and plastic bins are scattered across the floor.

  Flea and Trisha Marie, my scene partner, are sitting on some bins. Flea stares at his cell phone. Trisha, still dressed in her street clothes, is smoking a bowl of kush.

  I say, “We running late?”

  Neither of them responds.

  “Hello?”

  Flea looks at me and says, “Daniel’s test came back positive. He has HIV.”

  “What do you mean, positive? I thought he was still shooting Brazil with Alpha Man the Elusive Scoundrels crew…”

  “They came back, and he took his HIV test a few weeks early.”

  “Shit…did he get infected over there?”

  “Nobody’s sure yet, but probably.”

  Trisha pulls out a prescription bottle filled with kush from her jeans pocket and starts repacking her bowl.

  I say, “How’s he taking it?”

  Trisha says, “How the fuck do you think he’s taking it, Tyler?”

  Trisha makes room for me on her bin and I sit next to her.

  I say, “Alpha asked me if I wanted to go on that trip, but Amanda said no way… That could have been me. Anyone else from the Elusive Scoundrels crew infected? Alpha? Mitch Adams or Malik?”

  Flea says, “No, they’re clean.” He shakes his head. “I feel terrible, man. Daniel is such good guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Trish passes the bowl to me. I take a hit and hold the smoke in my lungs. I offer it to Flea, but he waves it off. I take another hit and pass it back to Trisha. Flea goes back to staring at his phone, and
Trish and I pass the bowl back and forth. A wave of euphoria washes over me and there’s a tingling sensation in my teeth.

  Trisha empties her bowl and scrapes the resin with a car key. She says, “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but…”

  “Right,” Flea says, “What do you guys want to do?”

  Trish says, “I’m already here. Let’s fuck.”

  I shrug. Flea stands, opens the plastic he was sitting on, and pulls out the rape kit.

  • • •

  The scene is over and I’m driving on the freeway, talking to Amanda on the cell phone.

  She says, “Is anyone else infected besides Daniel?”

  “Nobody knows, yet.”

  She says, “And people are still shooting?”

  “I guess. My scenes for tomorrow are still on, and I’m still booked solid next week. Nobody canceled.”

  “You’re going to cancel your scenes.”

  I say, “That’s a lot of money, babe.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Don’t be an idiot. You’re not working until everything is figured out. Not until it’s known whom he worked with since he came back from Brazil…this is exactly why I didn’t want you to go on that trip. Those putas over there are nasty, and you can’t tell me they test the same as you do here in the States.”

  “Yeah… I’ll be home soon.”

  “Te amo.”

  “Te amo.”

  • • •

  A few phone calls placed to others in the industry reveal a few details: Magnanimous Adult Industry Medical, the adult industry’s HIV/STD testing center, has released Daniel’s real name to the general public; M.A.I.M. also set up a quarantine list for the people who have worked with Daniel since his return from Brazil. This list is posted on the Internet for all to see; Porn industry message boards are filled with rumors, half-truths, fear mongering, and blame. Everyone from industry members to fans has their opinion, but nobody knows what’s going on.

  I’ve been spending the past few days hanging out at home with Amanda. Right now, she’s out grocery shopping and I’m playing an online game of Counter-Strike.