Tricks (25 page)

little than too much. "Thank you, Father."

418

Brother Stephen

Walks me back to my room. A girl, a bit younger than me, rakes gravel

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outside the chapel door. She looks up as we pass and I smile at her, which only

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makes her drop her eyes to the ground

again. But not before I see the fear

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floating in them. Is she new here, then?

Or has she been here longer? Long enough,

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perhaps, to know which is the greater

punishment--isolation or supervised

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communion. The short exchange leaves

me uneasy. I wish I could talk to her.

But that won't happen. Stephen herds

me forward.
Hurry up, would you?

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"Why? Somewhere you have to be?"

A hard shove lets me know in no uncertain

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terms that my sarcasm is not appreciated.

Except by what little is left of Eden.

419

Thank the Good Lord

The piece that remains is the one that can

find a streak of humor, however dark,

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in almost anything. Otherwise, I would

have gone completely crackers by now.

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Otherwise,
they
would have already won.

I'm not conceding yet, and I never will,

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unless Andrew is out of my life forever. Why

did I think that? He's looking for me.

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(Unless my parents had him locked up.)

Waiting for me. (Unless he believes

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our separation was for the best.) Loving

me. (Unless he finds out what I've done.)

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A wave of depression sweeps over me, washes me into an icy black sea. I'm treading

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water, poorly, when the door opens.

Why are you lying there in the dark?

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It's Jerome. The smell of chicken broth

tells me he's brought my dinner.

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He flips on the light, and I jump up to greet

him, kiss him on the cheek. "I'm so happy

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to see you. Where have you been?

I thought for sure you were mad at me."

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He sets down the tray.
Now, why would

you think a thing like that? I had a couple

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of days off is all.
He reaches out, strokes

my hair.
So pretty. When we go, I'll buy

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you shampoo that smells like roses.

You like the scent of roses, don't you?

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When we go? Chills charge through me.

"Of course, Jerome. Roses are my favorite."

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Good. I thought so. I have to go now, but I'll be back later. We'll talk then.

421

When He Returns

He outlines his plan.
We'll leave

tomorrow night, when everyone's asleep.

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By the time somebody misses you, we'll be halfway to Salt Lake City.

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Salt Lake City? Well, we can't go

back to Boise. Still, "Why go there?"

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He shrugs.
My brother lives there.

I can work for him under the table

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until you turn eighteen. After that, we're free to go wherever we want.

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He has really thought this through.

So, "Why can't we leave tonight?"

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No hurry is there? I'm too tired
to drive very far tonight. Besides...

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He lifts my arms, pulls my shift up over my head.
I'm in need of your

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special brand of lovin'. Help me

out?
He nudges me toward the bed.

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As He Pokes

And pinches, I concentrate on ways to
not
reach Salt Lake City. Afterward,

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he takes me in his arms, like in some awful

romantic movie. Only in the movies,

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the couple would really be in love, though

they might not know it yet. Despite everything

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before, and what Jerome has hinted will come

soon, I have to fight not to resist him.

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It's a losing battle. My body tenses.

He can't help but notice.
What's wrong?

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I drop my voice to a whisper. "Nothing.

It's just... I'm excited. And scared."

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Don't be scared. Everything will work

out fine. I promise.
He kisses me

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and I draw from the deepest well of dark

deception to kiss him back like I mean it.

423

When the Door Closes

Behind him, I clean myself, as I do every

time he leaves, with soap and cold water

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from the wash basin. The air in the room is thick with heat and the smell of sweaty

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sex, a smell I never knew existed until just a few weeks ago. At first it made

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me gag, but it has become something

I simply accept, because I have no other

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choice. When all choice is taken from you, life becomes a game of survival.

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I lay the towel on the bed, lie on top of it, so I don't have to touch the sheet.

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Will I carry that habit with me if and when

I leave this place? Will Jerome really take

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me out of here? What then? I have no

answers, but I do know I can't end up

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in Salt Lake City. Wherever I go--Los

Angeles, maybe, or Reno or Las Vegas--

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my only goal is to reconnect with Andrew.

And pray this nightmare ends with a red sunrise.

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A Poem by Seth Parnell
Vegas

This city is a neon-scaled

hydra, bellying across hot

Mojave

sand. Cobra

heads, venomous, in disguise pretend

beauty, lure you with hypnotic

eyes, copper

promises, and the bare

skin of gods intent on mortal souls. Walk

cautiously, beware the brazen

slither of concrete beneath your feet.

Do not listen to the arid

hiss of progress.

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Seth Before We Came

To Las Vegas, I had an inkling

that Carl had money.

But I had no idea exactly

how much until he invited

me to relocate here with him.

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Truth is, I didn't really

expect him to agree to bring me along. In fact,

I wasn't totally convinced

that I wanted to come.

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The night my dad kicked

me out, I was in turmoil.

Where to go? What to do

next? I had no clue. Carl was my only solid ground,

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and when he said he was moving, the earth quaked.

The blood rushed away from my face. Carl reached for me, as a father would.

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Someone's Gay father

I propped myself against him. "I don't know what to do. I can't go home. Have

no home. No money. No job.

Sorry. Not your problem."

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He thought silently for what

seemed a long while. Finally, he led me to the sofa, sat

next to me.
I've never told

you about Simon,
he said.

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He lived with me until a few

weeks before you and I met.

He was what some call

"kept." And I kept him.

It was a mutually beneficial

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relationship. He enjoyed

my hospitality I enjoyed
his company, and he looked

good on my arm, at least
until he grew bored with it.

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A trophy--that's what the guy

I first saw with Carl at

Fringe was. Carl let the idea

filter through my confusion.

I wasn't looking for another.

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But if you would consider it,

I'd think about taking you

along.
He kissed me, led

me to bed.
Come on. Show

me how much you want to go.

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He asked me to do dark, obscene things. Things

I'd never done before.

And he wanted me to do

them without protection.

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Feels better this way.

And it's okay. I'm safe.

I promise. You have to trust me.
He was right.

I had no one else to trust.

428

A Few Days Later

I climbed on board a jet for the very first time. Sat in first class, where drinks are served before the plane's

wheels ever leave the tarmac.

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Less than four hours later, we touched down sixteen

hundred miles to the west, and a billion light-years from everything I've ever

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known. We disembarked the silver bird in Sin City, where trophy boyfriends are almost as common as trophy wives. Carl likes me

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on his arm. I'm not sure

how I feel about being someone's prize, but it's

better than being homeless, that much I know. Neither

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am I exactly sure how I feel about the world--at least

my newest little corner of it--

knowing I'm gay. I don't feel

judged. But I do feel exposed.

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Culture Shock

Barely describes what

it's like, coming from the wild land of Indiana to the wild life of Las Vegas.

This city defines insanity.

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Not that I've traveled much, or at all really, but I can't

imagine many other places so built on extravagance.

Or so reliant on human greed.

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Casinos line the glitzy strip, masquerading as Venetian

canals, Egyptian pyramids,

Manhattan skyscrapers.

Their exteriors boast fountains,

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pirate ships, giant lions with gaping mouth doorways, roller coasters. And almost

everywhere you look--

billboards and signboards,

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on taxicab roofs and giant-screen TVs on outdoor

walls and indoor ceilings--

you simply cannot escape the sight of near-naked bodies.

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Skin, Skin

Everywhere skin. Instead of Sin City, they should

call this place Skin City.

Female skin. Male skin.

Something-in-between skin.

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They (meaning Skin City

marketing geniuses)

aren't choosy about gender, as long as the skin is flawless.

Bronze. Young. Beautiful.

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I'm not griping. I like skin as much as the next guy.

Maybe the real problem is, except for the first few days

here with Carl, I've pretty much

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been left all alone to set up our luxury condominium in an upscale fringe suburb of the city. There's a lake

out here, and two golf courses.

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All seem totally out of place in this hot-as-snot stretch of desert sand. One hundred

twelve degrees in the shade?

Who says there isn't a hell?

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If Vegas Is Hell

The devil himself probably

lives here at Lake Las Vegas.

He'd only settle for the best, right? Everything here is that, from the boutique shopping

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to the pristine marina, to manicured waterfront

greens. It's beautiful, if hot.

Perfect, with one small

blemish: Here, I'm not Seth.

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I'm Seth, who's Carl's.

Maybe that's not so bad.

I don't know what to think

anymore. Lots of people

would envy my life with Carl.

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I eat well. Drink well. Dress

well. And don't have to work for any of that, unless you

count the sex. All I have to do is keep the place picked up

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(a housekeeper handles the real

dirty stuff), keep myself fit

(the workout facilities are excellent), and look pretty.

Hey, man. I'm a movie star!

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One Big Problem

Is boredom. Back home

I was never bored. Too

much work to do. And

when I was done, I could

go into town, hang out

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with friends, play pool or dance or spread gossip.

But here, I have no car, wouldn't know where to drive it if I did. I can only

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work out so much. Lying by the pool is a sure

path to skin cancer. TV is a brain-sucking machine.

I need someone to talk to

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when Carl is busy playing

Mr. Real Estate Developer.

So I've started spending too

much time online, making

virtual friends. Fantasy

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connections are better than no outside contact at all. I even found a chat

room called Men Kept by Men. My kind of room.

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Sure, There Are Posers

Guys who only wish

they were kept. And

guys who wish someone

would want to be kept by them. Fishermen.

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Then there are the guys who pretend they want to know all about you, and about five minutes into the conversation,

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they ask if you'll talk dirty to them, preferably on the phone. Masturbators.