by Debra Busman
“Sure,” she said, keeping her voice low and easy. “What’s up?”
C.N. took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Jackie’s got a top-dollar job for me. You remember that kid she hooked me up with last month, the flaming wide receiver for the Cowboys? Well, looks like he’s got himself in some tabloid trouble and needs some serious beefing up on his heterosexual credentials.”
So, what’s the problem? Taylor wondered. Lately, C.N. had been taking less of the traditional escort service jobs and more work providing public cover for Jackie’s gay clientele, mostly movie stars and athletes. All this suited Taylor fine, because it meant that C.N. could make just as much money without having to fuck anyone. Even with all the showers and the fancy vanilla-almond soap, the smell of johns never quite washed off on the nights she had to trick.
Taylor looked up at C.N. “Yeah,” she said. “I remember him.” She took a sip of espresso, making sure her hands stayed steady. The coffee burned her lips and tongue, but she didn’t flinch. “So, you got another date?”
“Yeah, well, it’s going to be more than a date,” C.N. said. “Baby, it looks like I’m going to have to go to Dallas for a while.”
Taylor felt the espresso jacking up her stomach. This isn’t going to end good, she thought. I just fuckin’ know it. She wished she were somewhere else, anywhere, maybe catching the freight out of Santa Barbara, riding an open boxcar up the coast, or maybe just sitting down at Venice Beach, watching the waves at dusk with J. Edgar at her side. A sharp split of grief ran through her chest with the memory that J. Edgar was gone, shot dead by the pigs. She fought back the images of cops swarming the junkyard, Jimmy cuffed and bloody in the back of a squad car, Jackson boarding the Greyhound bus.
“Dallas, huh? That’s cool,” she said, blowing on the coffee. “If you want, I can look after your place.”
C.N. looked away. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, that’s the problem. I’m probably not going to be able to keep the apartment, honey. They want me there for the whole season. Full throttle ‘het cred.’ Hot new live-in girlfriend. Serious romance. Blowing kisses from the stands. Photo ops at the clubs, bathing suit shots by the pool. Spring wedding rumors. His agent is springing for the whole nine yards.” She reached over and put her hand on Taylor’s leg. “The money’s good, but I’m not sure I can afford to hang onto this place.”
Taylor really needed to pee and felt like she was going to be sick. She wished she at least had her shirt on for this conversation, if not her boots and jeans. She needed to get air, clear her head, but she was unable to move. “So, when are you going?” she asked, trying to buy some time.
“Not for another few weeks,” C.N. said. “So we’ve got time to figure things out. I’m going over to Jackie’s this morning to meet with the agent and work out the final details, so we’ll know more after that. Shantelle says you could stay with her for a while, and Eddie says she always has a room if you ever want to pick up more work.”
Fuck, thought Taylor. So everyone already knows about this except me? She said nothing.
C.N. reached over and took a sip of Taylor’s coffee. She laughed. “And, hey, Jackie says she’s got a great idea. She says we should wrap you and strap you, clean you up, trim your hair, and send you out on the LPGA tour to date some of those closeted women golfers. She says those girls are already getting quite the reputation and she thinks you’d make a really cute boy date for the younger ones.”
Taylor felt the room beginning to close in on her. She forced a laugh. “Yeah, right,” she said. “In your fucking fantasy.” She pulled back the covers and willed herself to stand. “I gotta pee.”
She made her way to the bathroom, closed the door behind her, and sat down on the toilet, head in her hands. It felt good to relax, to just let go, even for a moment. She wished she never had to leave this room, never had to get up again and go back out and deal.
Taylor made herself stand back up. She slowly washed her hands, brushed her teeth, and then splashed cold water over her face. She looked around, wishing she had left some clothes in the bathroom, finding only her boxers. She knew the rest would be lying where she left them, folded on top of her bag, sitting at the foot of the bed. C.N. had cleared out a drawer and part of the closet for her, but Taylor’s few belongings never had made it out of her battered old duffle bag.
She put on the boxers and walked back out into the room. C.N. came over to her, taking the girl in her arms. “Hey, baby,” she said. “Listen, I’m sorry if it feels like I’m just springing this on you, but please don’t worry, okay. We’ll figure it out. We’ve got a month until I need to go, and then you can stay with Shantelle for a while and, who knows, maybe once I get settled in I can hook you up a job out there. Jackie says this guy’s renegotiated Nike contract just bought him a huge new estate with an Olympic-sized pool, stables for his horses, three garages for his cars, guest quarters bigger than my apartment. You know a guy like that is going to need some help running that place.” She brushed Taylor’s hair back and kissed her on the neck. “What do you think, baby? Sound like something you might want?”
Something I might want, Taylor repeated to herself. Yeah, having you leave me is just what I fuckin’ want.
“Sure, baby,” Taylor said. “Sounds real good.” She pulled away from C.N. and walked over to grab a shirt and pull on her Levi’s.
“Okay, honey,” C.N. said. “Listen, I’ve got to run meet Jackie. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours and then we can talk more.” She walked over to kiss Taylor goodbye. “Don’t worry, baby,” she said, stroking her cheek. “We’ll figure it all out.”
Taylor waited to hear the door shut and the lock click, and then lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Something I might want, she thought. Something I might want. What kind of fucking joke is that? She thought about Trina’s words of warning: “Don’t ever lay your burden down, girl. Trust me. It’s easier that way. Once you lay it down, it just gets heavier and heavier, till one day you find it’s just too damn heavy to pick back up. Better to just never set it down in the first place. Better to just keep going, one step at a time.”
Taylor sighed, stood back up, and began to make the bed, fluffing up the down pillows, shaking out the comforter, smoothing down the six-hundred-thread sheets, folding them back over the blanket and tucking them tight, just how C.N. liked. Damn, I’m gonna miss this bed, she thought. She stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound down on her body, the double massage showerheads turned on full blast. C.N.’s question continued to work at her. What do I want? she asked herself, feeling like the words were in some language she couldn’t comprehend, or like it was a trick question on some test she’d been too loaded to study for. I want to be back in bed and have this day start all over again. I want to be lying there holding you in my arms and your head is on my shoulder and it’s a Sunday and don’t neither of us have to go anywhere, and none of this is happening, or is ever gonna happen. She let the water pound down on the back of her neck and shoulders, adjusting the temperature when the hot began to run warm, trying to catch a few extra minutes before it all ran cold. Yeah, fool, she laughed at herself. You are fucking dreaming.
Drying off, Taylor looked at the array of C.N.’s makeup, lotions, and creams sitting on the counter—night creams, face creams, exfoliants, body oils, facial cleanser, makeup remover, body-firming lotion, moisturizing pore-refining facemasks. How does she even keep track of all this shit? Taylor wondered. She reached for the bottle of Egyptian musk. Taking her time, she rubbed the lotion slowly into her arms, face, belly, chest, and legs, wondering if she was making a mistake carrying her lover’s scent away with her.
Taylor dressed, pulled on her boots, and took one more walk through the apartment. In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator, considered pocketing a couple of apples or maybe some cheese, but instead just shut the door, taking nothing. She turned toward the den where C.N. kept her library, but stopped, stoo
d in the doorway, leaning back against the jam, eyes closed. She pictured the dark mahogany bookcases, always freshly dusted and oiled, lined floor to ceiling with all the incredible books she’d dared allow herself to desire. She thought about the hours she spent standing in that room, inhaling the scent of books and oiled wood, the cases taller and wider than she could stretch her arms. She thought about the nights she spent curled up reading in C.N.’s bed, waiting for her to come home, surrounded by armloads of books she’d carefully chosen from the shelves, feeling wealthy beyond imagination. Fuck it, she thought, turning away. How can you carry out a whole fucking library? How would I even know which ones to steal?
Avoiding the den, Taylor walked back into the bathroom and opened the sink cabinet where C.N. kept her stash. Crouching down, she smiled at the sight of the empty bottle of Lysol toilet bowl cleaner. Taylor knew there was easily a thousand dollars hidden inside, probably more. She remembered the time C.N. first showed it to her, grinning, saying she guaranteed no man who ever broke into her apartment was going to think of looking there. “Safer than a goddamn bank, I’ll tell you that,” C.N. had laughed.
Taylor shut the cabinet, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door, stopping to leave her key on the table. She wondered if she should leave a note, but what would she say? “Have fun in Dallas. Catch you later.” Or, “Hey, baby. I figured out what I want out of life. I want my own goddamn bed.” Or, “I’m sorry if I’m being an asshole. You’ve been real good to me. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” Or maybe just, “I’m outta here. And don’t worry, I didn’t touch your fucking Lysol.”
In the end, she just left the key and walked out. As she hefted the duffle bag onto her shoulder and headed for the stairs, she thought, Trina’s full of shit. This don’t weigh so much. In fact, it’s light as a motherfuckin’ feather.
PART FOUR
Surfacing
birthing
who brought whom into this world? true, it’s from my flesh they gather sustenance. true, it’s from my hand they find their place in time. the birthing so easy it delights. souls so sweet that even as they cry and rage their bodies swell with hope and lead me to what i have not dared to ask of life. for i, too, am being born. released by babes and ancients from this middle ground to which i’ve clung with such tenacity. afraid to take my place within this very moment. afraid at times to even risk a breath. yet these stories take my hand as children who lead with faith and joy. i step into these vastly precise moments of mattering, where focus is fine and vision is grand. where time unclenches its whitened fist, unfolding into this soft-palmed moment where the chest expands and the earth sighs back. life inhaled deeply, mixing cellular, and exhaled as stories on a page. giving life to those who next take air. no need to spank the newborn into breath. these moments where the birthing is easy, and both writer and characters emerge.
The Shepherd and the Saint
“What the fuck do you need my name for? This has nothing to do with cops or drugs. I just got bit by a goddamn dog, okay?”
I’m pissed. My leg is killing me, I’m comin’ on way too hard due to the Quaaludes I took ’cause I knew they weren’t gonna give me any pain medicine at this joke of a place they call the free clinic, and now I’m getting carded. I look over at Neill. “Fuck it, let’s go.”
“Annie Oakley. Sir. That’s her name.”
Neill is the only person I know who can get away with saying the word sir like he means respect instead of like it’s something he’s trying to spit up. Which can be a useful thing around cops and I guess in certain medical situations. He knows I won’t give my name to anybody in a uniform, even if it’s just a sweet-faced clinic doctor, so he tells ’em what my friends have been calling me ever since I started working on the horse ranch. I’ve been getting a lot of shit about liking ropes and spurs and wanting something bigger and faster between my legs than what we find on the streets but that’s okay. Anyway, the name Mahatma hasn’t been fitting too good lately since it’s getting harder and harder for me to keep on the nonviolent side of things. But right now I can’t hardly walk, ride, or fight since I got my leg tore up so it’s a good thing Neill is with me ’cause the clinic’s the only place that will treat a minor without telling the cops and I gotta get it taken care of before I lose this job that keeps me from sleeping on the streets.
“Annie Oakley, huh?” The doctor laughs and writes something on his clipboard, which is a good sign. “I think we ought to call you Florence Nightingale. This is quite a bandage you’ve got here.” I try and look down at my leg, but I’m not focusing too good so I close my eyes and imagine what the toilet paper wrapped up in my boss’s undershirt I stole out of the laundry this morning, tied together with baling string, must look like to this guy who does this shit for a living, and then I have to smile, too.
“She got bit by a St. Bernard a couple weeks ago up at Lake Arrowhead.” I listen to Neill tell the story which may be true that I made up about what happened to my leg. “She got lost and went up to the wrong cabin looking for her friends and somehow got caught in the middle when the dog tried to attack the neighbor’s German Shepherd that was with her. No, she hasn’t seen a doctor yet. Yeah, it’s definitely infected.”
Neill’s voice sounds distant and hollow and I can’t hardly hear the doctor, but I’m glad they’re talking ‘cause I don’t think I can. I want to just close my eyes and sing praise for Quaaludes and self-medication ‘cause now I’m feeling no pain. I think I was probably a jerk for going off on the doctor just for asking me my name but it’s ’cause I felt stupid for being so fucked up the night I got bit that I don’t even know what happened to my own damn leg. But pretty soon I stop even worrying about that. Fuck it. Let ’em ask the damn dog what happened.
As soon as my teeth sank in I knew something was wrong. The flesh gave way too easily, the blood tasted strange, and the cry was high and foreign. I had somehow bit into the buttery thigh of a human instead of the thick throat of the German Shepherd who dared approach my door with such sloppy courage, having just come from dancing at the side of this strange girl, escorting her out of the woods. Now I want to kill him rather than simply teach him a lesson, so enraged I am that this young shepherd ducked right as the human stepped amazingly left to block my attack. But I am choking on my grief and on the blood of this girl and know that I must tend to her now and kill or teach him later. She enters the house and I see that she is much more than lost and has no idea how bad she’s hurt. My human is useless. “Far out,” he says, and leads her to the couch. “Here’s a towel. Want to get high?” I lap up her blood for what seems like hours and then I see that she is about to pass out. She thinks it is from the opium but I know her life is leaking out her leg and I must stop that from happening. I lay my head in her lap, pressing my shoulder up hard against the tears in her flesh that I have caused in my outrage, plugging up the holes so that the rest of the blood stays inside her body. She passes out and I press and grieve for these hurt and wandering beings placed somehow in my care without fur or faith of their own.
“Fuck, man. This dog’s hurt. His whole fucking side is covered with blood.”
I don’t know where I am or what the hell is going on. I know I’ve been tripping and I’m definitely gonna buy up all the windowpane Bobby has ’cause this shit is bad. I come out of this fucking awesome trip, right, and there’s this huge St. Bernard pushed up against me with his head in my lap telling me he’s sorry and talking to me like he’s God or some shit. His head is so beautiful and feels great in my hands, the weight of it resting sweet and heavy into my sex and belly. His breath is going all through my body and I feel like this incredible love coming from him and think, what the fuck, maybe he is God (who I don’t believe in except that god is dog spelled backward, right?) and then I laugh ’cause I know I’m still stoned and I smell the opium and see these hippie boys all around me that I don’t know but they sort of look like the guys I came up here with except none of ’em are Bobby and then my hand to
uches something thick and sticky and I see the saint’s coat is all covered in blood and I try to tell these assholes that their dog is hurt but I don’t know if my words come out right so I try and stand up but I am matted into his blood and something tears through my leg and I’m gone again.
“No, man. I told you, I don’t know how the fuck I got home. Maybe those guys got scared or smart or something and figured out where I lived. Maybe Bobby found me and dropped me off. Fucking punk. I just wish I could’ve made the buy before he freaked and split. That was good acid.”
My leg hurts and I don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I feel sorry for Neill because he feels like shit for passing out when the doctor dug out my wounds and besides, he definitely hangs on the sweet side of friendship with me. He’s the kinda guy that can still cry after the pigs tear through a demonstration, leaving their spit and hate on our faces while our guts and blood coat the pavement, and who won’t freak out when my anger comes out in screams instead of cries. You know, the kinda guy who you can just hold on to and rock with when it’s all over and if you want to fuck and he can’t get it up you can just say forget about your dick, man, just make love to me like a woman. And he will.
It’s been ten days since that St. Bernard almost took my leg off and then apologized for it. I got back to the ranch just in time to start my five a.m. shift but I don’t think the dog spit, horseshit, twelve ton of hay and fourteen-hour days did my leg much good ’cause it’s all different colors now and swelled up like something the turkey vultures circle round. I can’t drive for shit since just putting in the clutch makes me want to scream. So we go to the clinic and then Neill decides he wants to be some sort of fucking gentleman or something ’cause when the doctor tells me I might want to grab hold of something, Neill gives me his hand. When the guy starts digging into the wound I take it as long as I can and then leave to check out the ceiling. It’s a trick I learned as a kid but I guess I forget to let go of Neill’s hand when I go ’cause now I’m looking down at the scene and I see the doctor scrape more out and then Neill falls to the floor and I still got hold of his hand and my eyes are closed tight. I come back down into my body, open my eyes, look over at Neill and then the doctor who says, “I think you might have busted that poor fool’s hand. I’ll take care of it after I finish with you.”