Starve the Vulture

by Jason Carney

  On a folding chair, her back to the monitor, legs apart, and black dress hiked up to her thighs sits Barbra Streisand. She is smearing something across her chin with her glove. Her elegance has turned primal.

  “Next,” she says.

  She stares at me. Her smile beckons as the next man enters. A look of complete satisfaction on her face, she disappears behind the guy’s jeans as the door closes.

  I smile, think, Celebrate you, girl.

  The man that just finished passes me with a strut. “That was my second go-round,” he says. “That little fag, he does it good.”

  “Really?” I reply, as he pauses to look at me. “Tell your wife hello.”

  His eyes grow large, then he quickly looks down in shame.

  “Thank you, come again,” I say, walking back to the control booth.

  10:23 P.M.—04:57

  THE PANHANDLER GUY RETURNS from the bathroom, twitching. The lines on his face breathe, free of the past week’s grime. His clothes tell another story. I hand him a clean T-shirt. The light of his eyes is almost sane; the blue pupils match the threads of the cotton. He stands at the bed, loads a fresh hit, and makes a spectacle of rejuvenation.

  “You should take a shower. It will make you feel better,” he tells her.

  She stands up, enters the bathroom, looking at me before closing the door.

  “You’re safe here, I promise,” he says. Then he sits on the bed, studies the porn movie, and questions me with his eyebrows. I can tell that he wonders about my kindness. Things are never free in his world. He leans back against the headboard, forming a sentence in the inhale of a hit.

  “You sure don’t mind sharing,” he says. “You rich?”

  “No, just dumb. Wasting a dead woman’s insurance.” I explain the situation with my mother’s unexpected death. Falling apart is the only thing I know how to do. I tell him about poetry, my mom’s struggles, and blown cash. He rolls his eyes at me in disgust and he offers a sinister cackle. As if he finally realizes my flaws. To him, I have everything: a room, clean clothes, money, and crack.

  “Mine died when I was thirteen. She had cancer. I felt hollow since,” he says, eyes frozen on the end of a flame. “Nobody really cared after that.”

  “I wasn’t ready for her death,” I mumble. “I should’ve been there.” The tears start to flow out of my eyes like the money I’ve been wasting.

  “You’re mad. Your mom dies alone, her life cut short. How do you think she feels?” he jabs back.

  “This is the longest I have hung out with anyone in weeks,” I say, looking to change the subject. “I just feel like company.”

  “I bet she does too.” He exhales, I inhale; the room fills with our disease. He turns his attention back to the porn on the tube. I stare off into space, stuffing my emotions. The panhandler turns up the volume. A girl’s voice demands something large inside of her. I look at the screen and laugh.

  The first thing I see is Ron Jeremy’s fat body, the hairs on his chest matted with sweat. A young woman in her early twenties is on all fours before him.

  “He’s got to be in his sixties,” I say. “Been making porn movies since the ’70s.”

  “How you think that girl feels fucking his old ass? Oh, it’s so big and you’re so hairy and old.”

  He starts both of us laughing at the grossness that is Ron Jeremy.

  “I saw him suck himself off in a movie from the ’70s,” I reply between giggles.

  I do not say that I rewound the scene fifteen times that night. My fourteen-year-old self looking in the mirror as I stretched my torso over my leg propped on the toilet, trying to figure out how I could do this. Whacking my face against the bathroom counter when my mom called, I gave myself a bloody nose.

  Our laughter dies rather quickly, the staleness of the porn a background noise to our next hit. As I exhale with a fresh rush, I ask him what I have been wondering all along.

  “Do you let her trick as part of your hustle?”

  “No,” he harshly replies.

  His sickness has its limits.

  His love for her—twisted and wrecked. I can understand begging your way through your addiction. I have less than he thinks. Everything I truly have is on the other side of town, living their lives without me.

  “That is the only thing I will not allow her to do,” he adds. “She hustles for money at the gas stations, steals from the Walmart. Nothing bad.”

  He has the same twist of mind my father has. Prey becomes predator. I study his body language, thankful that I never shared this sickness with my wife. “Good. That’s the right answer,” I say. “She ought to go home.”

  “Well, thanks for the advice,” he cracks a new smile. “She doesn’t have a home. Neither of us does.”

  We load another bowl, inhaling what dreams we have left.

  WE LEARN TOGETHER

  1975

  “TELL THE STORY, ANN,” MAMAW SAYS.

  “Let me get settled,” my aunt replies.

  Ann takes her place at the table, the women and youngest gather around. Stories always come with dessert at our family gatherings. Thanksgiving means dessert is either pecan or pumpkin pie. Craig and I sample both. The smell of fresh coffee brews in my great-grandparents’ humble home, thick and earthy—a perfect undercurrent to the smiles and laughter of us all being together. My extended family is large: Ernest and Bill have four children, ten grandchildren, and nineteen great-grandchildren. When we all get together, the house overflows with gregarious laughter. I often catch Papaw eyeing the crowd with pleasure; the richness in his heart something money cannot buy. Money is something they do not have, do not need. Stories are the currency of our family; most everyone fills the coffers during our family gatherings. Papaw sits at the card table with the rest of the men, within earshot of the conversation.

  “A year ago July, Craig and I came to a stop at a traffic light,” Ann begins. “He was only five then, still young enough to know when you speak and when you don’t.”

  The room instantly falls to a hush. Storytellers receive the utmost respect in our family. All eyes settle on Ann, waiting to hear this tale that most everyone already knows. At five years old, I do not. Most of the family yarns and anecdotes are history lessons. I am eager to learn.

  “Lord it was hot.” She fans herself, adding a theatrical element to her tale. “Hot enough to fry an egg in the dark.” Everyone giggles.

  I love how Annie tells stories. Bright and vibrant, like her blue eyes. Annie is my second mom. I love her accordingly.

  “It was late at night, by the way, nine or ten.”

  “That’s what makes it scary,” my cousin Viv says, moving her hand across my shoulders. “Got to learn to lock your doors in this town.”

  Viv, one of the grandchildren, is seventeen years old. Craig and I fawn over her and her sister Kate as if they are beauty queens. We steal as many kisses on the cheeks and hugs as they can muster during our holiday traditions, our faces a collage of pink and red lips by the start of the fourth quarter.

  “So we’re at this light, just dropped Jill off at Dana’s house for the evening, and this car pulls up beside us.” Ann pauses for a quick bite and large gulp of coffee.

  “A convertible,” Craig adds.

  “That’s right, honey, the car was a blue convertible,” Ann says. “A really nice one, Daddy would’ve loved it.”

  Papaw, born a sharecropper in Arkansas, is now a mechanic in Dallas. He has an uncanny ability to fix things. One of his many manpowers, as I call them, is that his eyes can see right through things immediately, detecting the problem. He loves working on cars.

  “So I am admiring the scenery, sweating wildly.”

  “You mean fixing your face in the rearview,” Uncle Arley interrupts with a wink, grabbing a small sliver of pecan from the pie tin.

  “Arley, hush up and go back to the card table.” Mamaw slaps him lightly on the backside, more irritated that her son’s blocking her view and using his hands than the i
nterruption.

  “Craig’s in the backseat, staring with curiosity out the window,” Ann continues. “All the windows are down of course, too hot not to be. Real quiet out that night, not very many cars, but the red light was taking forever.” She eats a bite of pie; points her fork as she chews and speaks. “I was lost in the delay, the humidity, and the song running through my head. I just love Neil Diamond.”

  “Oh, I know. He’s really talented,” my mom says.

  “We should go see him next time he comes through town, Deb,” Annie digresses.

  “Get back to the story.” Mamaw does not care for Neil Diamond. “Everyone knows church hymns are better than that rock-and-roll hubbub.”

  “Mamaw, Neil Diamond isn’t rock-and-roll,” Viv corrects her.

  “Child, better listen to your mamaw or go get you a switch,” Mamaw snaps with a smile. “Now get on with the story, think you’re telling about Moses with all the time you’re taking.”

  A chuckle falls over the room. Mamaw’s threats are often funny, but never to be taken lightly.

  “So I’m off singing in my own little world, when all of the sudden Craig yells out at the top of his lungs,” Ann pauses for effect, “Hey, Mom, look at that car, it’s a bunch of niggers!”

  “There were a bunch of niggers,” Craig affirms.

  “Stunned, I look over at the car idling next to us,” Ann’s voice grows higher with excitement. “Sure enough, staring right back at me was a car full of niggers. Sure enough, everybody heard Craig.”

  Cousins and uncles and sisters and mothers laugh and gasp in shock. The energy of the room swells, anticipating the comical outcome to the situation.

  “I about peed my pants right there. I was so damn scared they were going to get out of their car and get me. So while we are all staring at each other, I floor it.”

  “Oh Lord,” my grandmother Freeda says.

  “Our tires were peeling out,” Craig interjects. “It was so cool!”

  I think this is so cool too.

  “Without even looking, I barrel through the intersection,” Ann says. “Wouldn’t you know it, but at that moment the only other car on the road is crossing my path.”

  Viv is laughing so hard with my Aunt Barbra that they both start to snort and cough.

  “Lord was looking out for us, we shot right at that car and missed T-boning it by barely an inch. The driver’s face all lit up with fear. I bet he peed himself too.”

  The room is laughing so loud, I swear that the ghosts of our dead ancestors bellow behind us. The levity being the fact she almost hit another white person because she was so terrified that the black people were going to get her. I am too young to understand that part. I am the only one pretending to laugh. I smile, staring around the room for a connection that I can understand.

  “Those niggers put a fear in me,” Ann says with a smile. “Craig almost got us killed.”

  Viv leans in to me, places her hand upon my knee. Her soft eyes focus on mine as if she is going to tell me the most important secret. “Jason, niggers are black people,” she explains.

  I just stare at her blankly. I know that already.

  THERE ARE ONE HUNDRED PUNCH LINES TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION

  Boyhood jokes made us laugh

  to tears. In the park, young prophets

  of our parents hate. After the jokes, we pretended to be

  pro athlete black, taught

  the difference between boy and men. Tony Dorsett

  was the one that I liked.

  How many dead ni__er babies nailed to a tree?

  SHOW TUNES AND HATE CRIMES

  1997

  “HELP ME!” JASON EDWARDS SCREAMS. “Help me!”

  He explodes into the house, blood running down the side of his cheek, a red welt on the side of his forehead. One strap of his overalls is torn and undone, the buckle at the end twirls around his body. Jason E. runs in place, looking for safety. His feet covered in soot and water, carrying one Birkenstock sandal in his right hand. He is exhausted and near collapsing.

  “Help me! Help me!” he cries hysterically.

  I am at a loss. I look at the clock, about an hour until midnight.

  I have to leave for work in thirty minutes.

  I stand puzzled, wearing a white button-down shirt, a pair of jeans, and a red necktie that I am in the middle of tying. My mind tries to process where the hell he just came from. Earlier in the day, when Thom went to work, Jason and Michael Loris went drinking down the street. The plan was to take a taxi back to the house. As I am learning quickly, Jason and Michael didn’t follow the plan.

  Jason and his boyfriend Thom, along with Lisa and I, have been living together about a month. Lisa and I have been dating for two. She is on an overnighter, which is common for flight attendants. When the four of us are together, we party every evening. Michael is often involved; this house is always full of craziness, just not this kind. A few seconds pass before I can figure out what to say.

  “What’s going on?”

  “They attacked me. I ran, help me!” he screams.

  “Who attacked you, where?”

  “A gang . . . down . . . at the corner,” he struggles to say as he catches his breath.

  “Where’s Michael?”

  Michael Loris is a small man. He can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, barely five six. Flamboyant to say the least: he wears a full-length baby-skunk fur coat, smokes from a long black cigarette holder, and carries a large purse that looks like Chewbacca’s ass hair. He is an actor by trade. His personality is larger than life, often presenting a Jekyll-and-Hyde switch. Sober, Michael is charming. Loris the drunk, however, is anything but congenial. One night he busted into our bedroom while Lisa and I were having sex. He yelled, “Slap her pussy! Slap her pussy!” When I am fucked up he amuses the shit out of me. Not everyone is going to be so patient with him.

  “We got drunk,” Jason E. explains, his breath slowing. “Decided to walk home, down Maple.”

  We live on Kings. This side street connects to Cedar Springs and Maple. These two main avenues are very different. Cedar Springs is the gay mecca of Dallas. Gay-owned businesses and bars line the street; side streets in both directions are gay-owned houses and apartment complexes. There is a party atmosphere to this neighborhood most nights; even with the Jesus freaks who hand out Homosexuality Is a Sin pamphlets to everyone passing by. One night, I heard a gay man refuse a pamphlet. “No thanks, I am going to be sucking dick in heaven.” I love living here.

  The gay and lesbian community of Dallas embraces itself when others do not. Even with all the protection that comes from identity and numbers within this neighborhood, the Oaklawn area of Dallas is not always safe. For every Homosexuality Is a Sin pamphlet there is a flyer informing the residents of recent violent attacks in the community. People have to be alert here, especially in the dark.

  “We were skipping and singing show tunes . . .” he continues.

  Maple Avenue is not the place for The Sound of Music. The barrio rages down the pavement. Cracked sidewalks allow weeds to grow through as a habitat for the vagrants who panhandle for change to cop some dope or beer. The roadway is potholed so deep that rainwater never dries out in the sun. Signs in English and Spanish hang in the windows of the stores. Gang graffiti litters the walls of the empty lots and closed-down shops. Some of the first-generation Americans struggle to adapt to the idea that these streets are the dreams white America is offering, not a safe haven for gay boys.

  “. . . then they attacked us.” He is starting to get hysterical again. “They had sticks and golf clubs.”

  “Where’s Michael?” I ask with more urgency. “Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry, I left him! I just ran,” he cries. “There were so many! He’s at the store on the corner—I ran home.”

  Without thinking, I fly out the door, my red tie flopping with my strides. I fumble with my Corolla keys, jabbing at the door with the handle of my key chain. Finally getting
it right, the worst scenarios run through my imagination. Gay men in this country have been stabbed, shot, hung on fences, beaten to death, and set on fire, killed with fervor for just being the person our Heavenly Father created. I have been guilty of hurting these men. This is the first time I am truly confronted with the terror my past actions caused other human beings. I picture Michael stabbed or shot, balled up on the side of the road.

  Just don’t let him be dead.

  “You got to go help him!” Jason E. yells from the patio, just outside the back door.

  I turn the ignition, throw the subcompact into gear, pull back out of the parking space. Before the vehicle stops rolling in reverse, I throw it into drive. The Corolla jolts.

  I can do this. Come on, go, car.

  I do not have any preconceived notions of kicking ass and taking names. I am not going to the convenience store to win or look cool. I just want to get Michael and survive. My family taught me that friends help their friends, especially when they are in danger. The little engine revs as the car climbs to the exit, sounding like a swarm of cicadas hidden in a tree. I have never participated in an act of atonement, or done something for the right reason when the act may cause me harm. The car zips toward the store. I feel like I am free-falling on a bicycle as I plunge toward the unknown.

  Hang on, Michael. God, please protect us.

  I am so fucking terrified.

  12:11 A.M.—02:59

  THE BATHROOM DOOR OPENS; steam fills the silence between the panhandler guy and me. I smell the hideous nature of what has been washed down the drain. She exits. Her hair wrapped up in a towel, she looks ten pounds lighter. The comfort starts to return.