Dignity - a novel - 12. Chapter 12: Drifting

Chapter 12: Drifting

I'm in some sort of forest. All is quiet. The trees are remarkably alike; they're the same width, the same kind, and all have dark bark. My eyes follow them up. The leaf canopy is far above me and just barely moves in the wind. Blue sky is open beyond, but so far away, it makes me sad.

Looking back down, the trees have changed into bark-less posts. They are dark from exposure and glisten in a slimy sort of sheen.

I look up again, and the canopy and sky are replaced by the underside of a wooden pier.

Sand is at my feet, and the wooden posts seem to step nearer.

I look more closely at them. The wet gloss of their surfaces is moving – crawling really – as thousands of dark bugs like cockroaches are infesting them. It almost looks like they are burrowing into each other rather than the wood.

I sigh. Perhaps I should be grossed out, but I honestly don’t think I feel anything.

A shadowy figure moves between the posts.

"Who's there?" I call out.

The figure moves out into the open. He's wearing a yellow and black football uniform and carrying his helmet. He is sweaty from the top of his head down, and I can hardly believe my eyes.

"Kevin Foxwood?" I ask.

"Sean," he lifts his hand to me. "We're late for practice. Come on now, you know I have practice at four, but I need you by my side, baby."

"…Kevin…"

My feet tingle, I glance at them again.

Rats run around in a sort of race chasing each other's tails. They try to bite one another, and look to me with open mouths. They are toothless, and their gums are gray and ooze a colorless pus.

I would try kicking them away, but why bother? There are too many – in fact – the whole beach is full of them.

I seem to remember I was just going to say something to Kevin, so I look up to find him. But, he's gone. There is no one around.

And now the pier supports are more indistinct. They turn into shadows, which blend the uprights of their bodies with the angled shade they cast in the sand and each other.

"…Kevin…"

I reach out to touch one of these shadows, and the ground falls from under me.

My stomach retches as I reach out to grab onto anything I can.

My hand latches onto a piece of wood, and my knees and legs hit a sandy surface.

I'm holding onto a tall white windowsill, on the outside of a building. I glance over my shoulder and back.

The roof tiles that my shoes slip on are gray, and sweep down far away like the pitch of a tent roof. I can't see what’s over the side of the edge far below.

I begin to slip.

I slide and fall along the curving arc of this wooden and tiled tent roof. As I slide, I manage to turn around so that I can use my feet and butt to try and slow my inevitable fall.

The edge is coming near.

I scramble harder with my feet, and can smell the white rubber of my Converse sneakers burning as they try to grip onto the gravelly roof tiles.

I slow down so can see over the edge.

Far below, craggy rocks point up to get me.

I rotate so I can try and use my hands as I slip over the edge. There is a gutter on the building, and I grab on.

Down below, the rocks are sharp and heartless.

I don’t want to fall, but suddenly, I feel it is all so sad. It will end one way or another, so, why bother?

I think I should let go. But then, my neck pains me, and pains me bad.

It is like a pressure great enough to snap my head from my body. A splitting pain like my mind and soul do not belong together anymore is going through my neck.

I reach up to soothe that ache, because it is immediate, and in the process, I let myself fall.

˚˚˚˚˚

l sit up in bed.

Dusky light ripples through the closed curtain as the fabric moves very slowly in a wave.

'Shit, what a crazy dream,' I think to myself.

I rub my eyes and reach for my phone: 7:15 PM. It's time to get up and get ready for my day.

My t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, so I whip it off and toss it into a corner.

LOL – my 'practical' room here at the Antolini Motor Lodge of West Hollywood, California, consists of one queen-size bed, two nightstands with table lamps, and a built-in desk with a mirror bolted tight to the wall above it.

My joints ache, as usual. I get up and stretch: I reach to the right and bend forward, then the same to the left. I lean back and use my hands to press on my kidneys. Pop. Ah, that feels better.

I catch my image in the mirror. I come in close and pick at my bangs. I remind myself that I better pick up some fresh blue-green hair color today. It's time for a touch-up. I let my hand drop so I can see my face better. I guess it's me, and I guess that four months of doing what I've been doing hasn't taken too much of a toll in the way I grin, but, maybe I see myself smile less and less these days.

As I move my arm, I see it. I raise it up and look at the swelling in my armpit. It is red and looks more tender than it is. I poke at it; there's no change in it from yesterday, which I guess is good, so to speak. I lift my other arm and check that one out too. Same, so – ok, here are 'the symptoms' Dr. Kimball said would show up.

My arms down again, I think how strange my dream was. Why would I dream of being under the Santa Monica pier? I haven’t been back there in months, I guess, three months more or less. The scene out there is dead, so I stick to WeHo, as the locals call West Hollywood. Anyway, I shrug to myself in the mirror, what did that dream mean? "And Kevin Foxwood..?" I say out loud. "Who knows why we dream the shit we do."

I've got to get ready for the day, so I piss, and get in the shower. As the room fills up with steam, and my body is soaked from hair down to toenails, it seems that the sexy and unobtainable football star from my old school is a stand-in for something. It’s as if in the dream he was reaching out to me to take me somewhere, but why would he, of all people on Earth, reach out to me? No, he's a stand-in for something, or someone, but who?

I towel off and get dressed. Now that October has hit Southern California, I have to layer up. So, I put on a jersey and throw on two t-shirts on top of that. I tuck them all into the waistband of my fancy jeans – with zippers and rivets and pockets all over them – and buckle up my belt. This belt is a selling point. It is wide, white, and has a double line of metal grommets all the way around. Sometimes I have caught my reflection in the mirror-like sheen of a slowly passing car, so I know this belt makes me stand out.

I open a bag of Doritos and sit down. I want to eat something first, cuz I always brush my teeth as my last 'getting ready' step. Don’t want the guys to see me with yellow corn-chip teeth, LMFAO!

I grab my phone and sit on the bed with my chips. Dawn sent me a new text:

Hang in there, kid. Im holding down things here, cuz, I luv yu

Aw, she's sweet. I hope there's not anything she's holding back. There's a second one from her too.

How yu feeling?

I type out:

Tired & drifting. Gotta work now. TYL, Luv 2U

I hit 'send,' and get up to go brush my teeth.

Before I leave the room, I slip on my Universal Studios jacket. I found out quick that 'people' don’t wear that kind of thing around here, but when I'm working, it serves well, cuz it makes me seem like a tourist on the down and outs. And the 'gentlemen' are drawn to that kind of fantasy like flies to shit, LOL.

˚˚˚˚˚

I've been out here for about an hour now. No luck, then again, it's still early. The Boulevard is pretty quiet tonight. I lean with my finger riding the inside edge of my jean's pocket, one foot kicked up behind me, and my upper back against a wall. It's all about the angle of view, you know – not mine, but what can be seen of me from the street. My face, my torso, yes, but more importantly, my thighs, waist with its pure-white belt, and last but not least, my 'goodies' are angled for maximum appeal to any slowly passing driver.

I don’t know any of the boys out here tonight. Most of them are fidgety, and appear to me like that they are craving their next fix. I know only a few boys working Santa Monica Boulevard by sight, none by name, and we mostly stay out of each other's way.

A black sports car slowly rolls down the driving lane on my side of the street. A well-groomed man, who is maybe in his mid thirties, leans across the passenger seat. He's inclining my way to get a good look at me; our eye-contact is made, and he seems to blink a second.

He grips the wheel hard, glances back to the road for a moment or two, and then pulls up to the curb about 20 feet ahead of me.

I inhale a good deep breath, kick myself to an upright position, and mosey on over.

Keeping my hands in my pants pockets, I bend with my legs together and look in the car.

This guy is put together well. Even through his leather bomber jacket, I can tell he's beefed up, possibly from lots of time at the gym.

"Hey," I say, forcing my voice to go as low as I can.

I see him moisten his lips, and lean full over on his side towards me. He pulls, and the passenger door opens for me. He says simply, "You got some time?"

"Yep," I say, and get in.

He smiles for a lingering second, then puts the car in gear and pulls away.

After we've been rolling for a few minutes, I take a good look at this guy. He has dark hair; it's hard to say beneath the streetlights, but I'd say it's almost black, like that of an Italian-American who comes from Sicilian stock. This hair is longer on the top and nearly shaved above his ears and temples – the style a lot of kids my age are wearing right now.

His face is like a statue's – how do they say it? – chiseled, and it seems pale and un-wrinkled by the sun. That creaminess sets off a pair of deeply mischievous eyes the color of an April sky.

I inhale again. "You law enforcement?"

He half turns from the road, and completely surprises me.

"Good lad," he says.

"What?"

"You're cautious. That's a good sign."

I laugh: "You can't avoid the question with compliments. Are you a cop?"

"No, kid. I have no affiliations with the police, or the court system."

I feel like asking 'Then, who are you,' but I simply turn the urge to grill him into a smile, and say, "So, what are you in the mood for tonight?"

I can barely hear him murmur: "You'll find out."

As casually as I can, I glance over my shoulder to make sure my door is unlocked, in case I have to take a rolling dive. You never know.

He turns into an alleyway, and slows. He pulls the car to the side of a warehouse, and positions it so the car's passenger door is tight against the wall. Now I couldn't open it if I wanted to.

I tell the guy straight up, "I'm not into wild, if that's…"

"Nope."

"Then what?"

"A c-note for your time."

"My time for what?"

His eyes scan me up and down, then settle calm and quietly on mine. His mouth rises up in a friendly-looking grin.

"To hear me out. What's your name?"

"Sean."

His grin unzips all across his face into a big ole smile.

"Sean," he repeats. "That's good, kid. It suits you."

"Um, I'd like to get paid, if you don’t mind."

He digs in his jean pocket, and I hear him mumble again, "Good lad."

He pulls up a fat bend of cash with a giant blue rubber band like the kind around broccoli at the store. He makes sure I see it, and see that every one of those bills is a hundred. He peels off the topmost layer, and hands me a Benjamin. I pocket it quickly, and then sorta lose my cool on him. "So, what's up? What do you want from me?"

"You work alone, don't you?"

"I do." Oops. Fuk. I slipped. I should've said someone is expecting me back later.

The guy knew I worked alone anyway, I suppose that's why I'm here. He says all cool as a cucumber, "It's a drag to do it all on your own, isn't it? No steady income; some dates are unpleasant; there are demands that you do stuff you're not into – PNP, and such."

"Ok, dude. Who are you?"

"I'm a guy who can offer you the chance of a lifetime; a position in my escort service."

"You're a – " I pause, thinking I better not say 'pimp,' but then he extends his hand.

His smile is back in full force, and his baby-blues are close enough to melt butter. "If you come join us, then you can call me Daddy."

"Um…" I shake his hand and think seriously about digging his c-note back out. Then I'd climb over him to get out of the car.

He continues, "Just hear me out, that's all. I've got about half-a-dozen boys who work for me. The boys live in a nice house I own over on Rangely Avenue – right here in WeHo – and it's close to the strip, but still quiet and removed."

I extract my hand from his.

"Don’t get me wrong," he continues, still smiling. "If you're with me, you won't be working the Boulevard anymore. But back to the house, as I say, it's nice there. I stock all the food and drink out of my own pocket, and the boys – and you, if you join – are safe there. I keep it strictly drug-free, and if any boy is found holding or using, he is asked to step out. You don’t have a habit, do you, Sean?"

"Nope."

"And why is that? I mean, I ask, because the pressures on the street to use are incredible."

I swallow hard. "The truth is, I was forced to take a lot of drugs when I was a kid, and now I don’t like how they cloud my mind."

He looks suspicious, but says, "Right. I can usually tell a kid who feels that way."

I laugh: "And how can you be so sure I'm not on crystal?"

"The eyes. Did you, Sean, ever really stare deep into the eyes of an ice-head?"

"Um…"

"It's like looking into the depths of their soul, only the place where their spirit used to live is a void. You ever hear of a book called The Well of Loneliness?"

"No."

"Well, that's what it's like. Look into the eyes of a serious tweaker, and peer deep as fuck into their own personal well of loneliness. Anyway, that's how I can tell you're not user, because your eyes still reflect a soul."

My mind drifts to the brass tacks of his proposal. "How much of your boys' cut do you get, Daddy?"

"The house gets 30% – but, you don’t have to worry about getting dates, and our gentlemen pay generously."

"How generously?"

"On average, $600 an hour."

"Wo."

Then I think of something.

"What?" he asks. "You can pose any question you like."

"Well, will I have to change my hair color?"

"What's your natural shade?"

"Just regular brown."

"It's up to you. You look appealing as you are – youthful and such – and our roster of gentlemen will be interested in meeting your 'type.' If you do join up, I will take you for haircut, and maybe, a more-professional coloring."

I chuckle quietly to myself. Dawn would be pissed off to hear that her dye job was less than professional-grade.

"Your dudes really pay that well?"

"Yes they do, and they know we cater to the non party-n-play crowd, so if you get there and drugs are in the scene, I ask you to get paid, call me, and come home. I have arrangements for that situation."

"Man," I can't help but admire. "You are one together Daddy."

"I try," he says. "Ours is a high-class escort service. You'd be joining 'The Elite!'" He laughs. "No," he says when I start to laugh too. "That's the name of the company, The Elite Escort Service of West Hollywood!"

I can feel my view narrowing. This handsome older man is charming and convincing, but I guess I have one more lingering doubt.

I ask him straight up, "Why me?"

The professional smile that he's been wearing so long and so well, slips a little. "Call it instincts. You got the looks, you've got the 'type' I need to round out my roster of boys, but there's more too. You have a centeredness that stands out. It almost shines from you. You're exactly the type of boy I need in my house."

I have one final test of his character. I lean over towards him and set my palm flat on his upper thigh.

In as seductive a voice as I can, I say, "And you don’t require your boys to interview for the position?"

He gently picks up my hand, and for a second time, really surprises me.

"No." He kisses my open palm and then guides my hand back to my lap, where he leaves it. "You offer services to our clients, not to me."

'Oh fuk,' I think. 'How can I say no now?' What I do say is: "Kool. I'm in. Can we swing by my motel? I'll collect my bag and settle up."

His grin is radiant. "Welcome on board, kid."

˚˚˚˚˚

"Come on, we'll be late!" Daddy chides a pair of 'his' boys.

"We're ready," one of them says.

"Well, everybody, this is Sean. He's joined up. Now, let's go you two. We can't keep your party waiting." Daddy's hand goes to the clean-shaven scruffs of the young men and jostles them in the direction of the front door.

The three leave, and I awkwardly re-shoulder my duffel bag. "Hey," I say.

The place has the feel – and what I imagine is the smell, LOL – of a frat house. There is a messy living room with sofas and a TV, then an open area with a dining room and kitchen combo – all of it mostly white.

The boys pretty much ignore my greeting. We stand in the kitchen, and three big guys – built like jocks – drink from oversized plastic cups with the names of Vegas casinos printed on them.

One of the guys, with dark hair that is cut close to his head, sneers at me over the top of his cup rim. "Nice hair," he chuckles, and darts his eyes to his cronies.

I'm about to say 'you like it,' when this same smart-ass guy empties a muffled screech into his cup: "Freak!"

The three jocks laugh at me. They all lean asses against the counter and fold arms against me. I want to leave; maybe this was a mistake.

But then, a fourth jock comes into the room. The others light up, and so do I. This new guy is about three or four inches taller than me, older at maybe 18 to 20, but he is as polished and confident as a much older guy would be – you know, as man who is 25 or so, LOL.

He's wearing a blue and white Dodgers' jersey over a long dark blue sweatshirt. As he comes in, he lifts his chin to his friends and pushes up his sleeves to around his elbows. Then they fist-bump, and do that lame straight-guy hug with two arms blocking both bodies, and hips as far back as possible.

"Wass up?" the snide guy with the short hair asks him.

"Damien, you know – same ole shit. Who's this?" The new guy turns a look on me. It is cold and guarded.

Damien says like he hates me, "Some new one Daddy picked up to test out."

"Sean," I say, but only to the new comer. I lift my hand to him. He takes it only briefly; really only barely touches it, but it's enough for me to see his eyes are a sensual color that I don’t have a word for – half-way tween lapis and jade, is that like Liz Taylor's eyes, IDK – his hair is pretty long, and the sleek color of aspen leaves in fall.

He looks at me, and I don’t know, something is there; that coldness seems locked in place for a reason, like protection, and yet, it falters for a millisecond.

He does not offer his name, and in fact, turns his back on me. He reaches for the open bottle of pop on the counter and pours himself a drink. They then continue to chat like I do not exist.

Damien asks the un-named one, "When do you head out?"

"I've got a date in Brentwood at ten-thirty."

"Can you drop me off at Wilshire and Shelby by ten?"

"Yeah, I guess so…'

I leave the kitchen and go to the living room. Now what? I don’t belong here. I see the front door, so what am I waiting for?

Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder.

I turn into the direct path of the beaming smile of an Asian boy. He looks to be a couple years older than me, and maybe an inch or two shorter.

"Love the hair!" he says, and uses his free hand to inspect. "I'm Dau. Do you know where you're gonna be sleeping?"

"Nope."

"Then come with me."

Dau leaves his hand in the hair and gracefully turns his torso around it with a pivot and a flourish. He walks to a door right off the living room, and goes in.

I follow. Again, the space is white, but in here it's neat and clean. There is a twin-size bed pushed in one corner under the window, and a freshly-made mattress the same size sitting on the floor. The white sheets on it look really inviting.

"What was the name?"

"Sean Holmes."

Dau plops on his bed. He kicks out his hands behind him, and crosses his heel over his ankle.

"Well, welcome Sean! Let's share a room. You don’t look like the farting type." He suddenly leaps to his feet and runs over to his open door. He braces his hands on the doorframe, mostly bending at the elbows, and shouts towards the kitchen, "Not, like those stinking jock-heads!"

I see that from his bed he has a clear sightline on the guys standing around in there.

"Oh, that's funny." I drop my bag in a corner.

Dau sits Indian-style, and pats the bedspread next to him.

As I walk towards him, I see he has a TV and a game console.

"Do you play Titanfall?" I ask with almost too much anticipation.

"Yeah. You?"

"Oh, hell yeah!"

"Wanna play now?"

"Shit yes!" But, I reconsider and dial my crude enthusiasm back a little bit. I strike a fake-ass smile for him. "I mean, yes please."

As he springs up and gets the handsets, I kick off my shoes and sit with folded legs on the edge of his bed. He hands me a remote, and plops on the mattress.

We play, and chat about when the new version is coming out, what other games he has and likes, and all that fun bullshit. Dau is cool. He's slender and his hair is spiked up with mousse or gel. He's wearing a tank top that shows off his smooth arms and shoulders, and on his left arm he has a colorful tattoo of a phoenix rising through flames.

"You been hoing long?" he asks me, but keeps his attention locked on the screen.

I click busily on the game buttons. "Sort of; four months."

"Well, you'll like it here at the Elite. Daddy is a decent guy."

"Ok, good to know, that takes some pressure off my mind. So, who are the jock-heads?"

Dau laughs. "Damien is their little ringleader, and he likes to call him and his posse the 'premium boyz' – they think they are Daddy's faves. They've been here the longest, bring in the most, cuz they have the best-established clientele. But, hey – steer clear of Damien. He's got a closet PNP problem, and can get violent when he's coming down off of ice."

"Phew! – " I stammer, and then try to sound all smooth and casual. "What about that, other guy?"

"Who?"

"The guy in the baseball shirt."

Dau cranes his neck to see, then looks back at me with a big ole smile. "Oh, him. Well, you're in luck; he's pretty cool. Name's Lincoln Oliver, or Linc, for short. So…" he starts laughing. "You like the strong, silent type, huh?"

I have to think about it for a sec. Funny, but I never thought I did, so I say, "Maybe."

Dau laughs like that was about the funniest thing he's heard in a week.

I can't wait to tell Dawn about this 'Lincoln Oliver' person, even though he wouldn't give me the time of day.

As he wins the game – because I am totally distracted out the door – he adds, "Well, he is cute."

'I'll say!' I silently think to myself.