Eyes Like Winona

As I got outside, I could feel a few drops of rain landing on my head and shoulders. I lifted my head up to the heavens and felt the rain fall. It slowly wet my face, obscuring the tears that had fallen.

---

The rain wasn't torrential, but nonetheless, soon I was soaked through. I had tied up the dinners in a plastic bag that had been floating in the gutter, so they were safe. I kicked an empty needle into the gutter. This city was filthy. It was an eyesore. On the way back from school, Celia said that she often saw discarded condoms and broken crack-pipes. I wish that we lived somewhere else, that we could afford to live anywhere else.

This was the worst part of the walk. Trash cans were piled up in the alleys, the gutter was choked with cigarette butts and refuse. When it wasn't raining, groups of young men with drug-reddened eyes wandered up and down, shouting in loud frightening voices and calling out jeers to anyone that passed. On one street, the gangs didn't walk, but on that street, skinny women in tiny shorts and high heels and big dangling earrings strutted. Cars pulled up in a steady stream to the curb, with women coming in and out of them. Other men came on foot, and went down a thin metal staircase into the basement of a blearily-lit strip bar.

On most days, I took a long circuitous route to avoid the gangs and the hookers. But today, I just didn't have the energy to care. The rain gave me strength in anonymity. I passed a few groups of young men. None of them called out 'faggot' or 'motherfucker' like they usually did. The first time someone had called me 'faggot' I had panicked, but they called every man 'faggot', just like they called every woman 'bitch'.

The hookers were diminished because of the rain, but still there. Three of them huddled under an awning, smoking and talking. I looked at them out of the corner of my eye, wondering. A few of them were really young. Did any of them have families they were trying to support? Were any of them trying to put themselves through college, or just trying to scrounge the money for baby formula? A few of them were older. Were they just trying to feed their kids?

Or were they all just strung-out junkies wasting their lives?

I still had the address of the street corner where the rent boys were. I wondered if they were like these hookers. Did they dress up in scanty clothes and strut? Were they trying to support themselves?

The idea wouldn't get out of my mind. It wouldn't leave. I tried to tell myself how much it would hurt, how dangerous it was. But that train of thought kept getting distracted when I thought about Toby, who still had three weeks until he could come and help us. I thought about Calvin, who had been savaged by a pit bull. I thought about Ben, who's student loans were already looming into a terrifying amount. About Mom's hospital bills; she was dead, but we still had thousands left to pay. What about rent? Utilities, school lunch fees, doctor's check ups? My head ached.

I realized that I had gotten to my apartment building while agonizing. I stepped in and shook my head to get rid of the water in my hair. I took the steps one flight at a time, panting with exhaustion by the eighth floor.

Rosa was in the apartment. She smiled at me when I came in, her eyes sad. I could smell her, a mixture of garlic and flowery perfume and flour and smoke and the breath mints she crushed between her teeth to hide the smell of the cigarettes she smoked. I still remembered that smell from when she had babysat me as a child. She came in close and hugged me.

"Hola Neil." She murmured. "I put Lisse to her crib, and Celia is in her room, doing homework I believe. They've eaten, bathed, and brushed their teeth.

I could have married her. "Thanks Rosa." I murmured. I ran to the big bedroom and dug around in the sock drawer, which held our petty cash. There were two twenties and a handful of crumpled ones inside a wooden cigar box that had belonged to my father. I smelled the wood, smelling the faint but distinct cigar-smell that had always been part of his smell. He had died in a car accident when I was four, but I still remembered that smell in his shirt when he bounced me on his lap.

I took the two twenties. "Do you have ten dollars?" I asked. She nodded, and I paid her for the week. She was a lifesaver.

I went to Celia's room, and she did have a textbook open on her lap, but she was fast asleep. I turned off the light, and tucked her in, taking off her sneakers. They were too tight, she really needed new ones.

I checked on Lisse, sound asleep in her crib, her little hand in her mouth. I tucked a blanket over her, with the rain it might get colder.

I could hear the door. Rosa had already left. I went to the door and Ben was there, rubbing his temples. He saw me and smiled halfheartedly. "You're soaking wet Neil. C'mere."

I walked to him obediently and he took a hand towel from the kitchen, and he scrubbed my head dry. I closed my eyes, it felt good. I had something I wanted to say. Something I needed to say, but it was stuck in my throat.

If I said this, there would be no turning back.

I opened my mouth. "Mr. Browning offered me a bonus. He said he'd give me thirty bucks if I came later in the evening and helped him unload the supply truck."

Ben whistled. "That would be nice right now. Do you want a ride?"

I felt myself panicking, but I spoke calmly, taking the towel from him and continuing to dry my hair so he couldn't see my face. "Nah, you got to study. I'll take the umbrella this time, and it will be fine."

He dropped the subject. In the pit of my stomach I felt excited and sick and scared.

---

I had lived in the city my entire life, but I had never been on this street. Not within memory.

It was under the highway, and there was little traffic. It was between a massive parking complex and a row of buildings with no windows. Crammed at the corner of the street, was a narrow apartment building with corroding bricks the color of yellowish mud. The windows were narrow and peeling and forbidding, most of them dark. The entrance was lit by a pool of harsh orange light from the street light. And lounging on the stairs to the building, protected from the rain by the awning, were two young men.

I didn't know what to do. I stood at the corner across from them, watching the cars go by, and the traffic lights changing from yellow to red to green again. My hand was numb and cold on the umbrella handle. A little voice in the back of my head told me that it wasn't too late, I could still back out.

But what would I tell Ben if I didn't come back with thirty dollars?

What would they all think if they knew what I was doing?

What if child support took away my younger brother and sisters because we couldn't support them?

I checked my watch, an old steel timex that had belonged to my father. Toby had given it to me when he went to jail for murdering my stepfather. It was a few minutes after nine.

When I looked up, my heart jackknifed painfully in my chest when I saw one of the young men walking across the street straight for me. The feeling was halfway between panic and relief that I wouldn't have to approach them.

He was tall and slim. He was wearing a light coat to shed the rain, and under it he had a muscle shirt that hung on his thin frame. He had angled features, a strong jaw and a way of walking that made his boyish hips swing. He had makeup on, I noticed, dark eyeliner.

He pursed his lips slightly as he got closer. "Hey kid, why've you been creeping out in the corner? You're starting to make us nervous." His voice was soft and serious and leading. He knew I was here for a reason. He was looking me up and down in a way that made me flushed and uncomfortable. I was used to Browning, he was old and unassuming and harmless. I wasn't used to interacting with someone young or attractive.

I pushed all of those feelings aside. I needed to do this. If I couldn't support my family even after working my ass off, this was the only way I could see to do it. "I want to work." I said, trying to look him in the eye. He was about five or six inches taller. I lost a little of my nerve. "If... If I can."

Over at the streetlight, I saw two men come out of the building. One was young and slim, the other was old and stout and huddled in sunglasses and a long coat and a hat to try and hide his identity.

"You know what we do, right?" He asked softly. "You ever done this before?" I opened my mouth, but I couldn't say anything. I just nodded. I felt my eyes stinging, and my stomach twisted with dismay. The last thing I needed was to start crying. I ducked my head and pretended to scratch my nose, scrubbing my eyes quick with my hand.

When I looked up at him, he was still serious, but there was a sympathetic light in his eyes. "Hey, my name is Drake. I gotta call someone quick. There's this little coffee place a block away. We can go there, get something to drink, and talk about this. Okay?"

I nodded, feeling my throat tighten up. I felt a little queasy. He stepped out of earshot to make the call, and while he spoke, I saw someone park down the street and walk up to the corner. It was an anxious-looking middle-aged man with a balding head and thick bifocals. He went inside with a tall latino boy. The other boy was lanky and red-haired and freckly, looking over at us curiously.

I jumped as a truck pulled up to my corner. The window rolled down and the man in the window leaned out. He was a big guy, beefy in a muscular way. Like someone who had worked hard for most of his life but was now starting to soften. He had a full trimmed beard.

"Hey Dean," He called, looking between me and him. "Who's the new guy? When did he get here? Hop in sweetheart."

I froze and my stomach sloshed nervously. "I'm... I'm not..."

Drake hung up on his cell phone and loped to the window, his narrow ass moving from side to side. I tore my eyes away and adjusted my umbrella.

"Hey, I'm sorry but we're both off the clock right now. Kirk is free."

He frowned, and I could feel his eyes on me. It made my skin crawl. "Kirk is a fuckin slob. I'll be back when you're working Dean."

Drake (Dean?) nodded and leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry man, I'll be working in an hour or so."

The man in the truck nodded and drove off.

"Hey, I'm sorry about that. Most of them are a lot more polite. Follow me."

I walked behind him, watching his thin shoulders hunch inside the jacket to shed the rain. I jogged a few steps and held the umbrella over us both. He grinned and thanked me, and my chest felt strange, hollow. I looked down at my feet before I could get any more confused.

---

It really was a very small cafe. The cafe was brightly lit. It had six booths and a few seats at the counter. The display case had a lonely-looking slice of meringue pie in it, and when we got in, the girl behind the counter was starting to wipe things down. She frowned at us, but she didn't say anything when Drake bought two coffees.

I mixed sugar and creamer into mine. Drake just sipped it black. We sat on opposite sides of a formica-topped table. The seats of the booth were salmon-colored faux leather. I played with a rip in the seat, fidgeting helped.

He leaned forward. His hair was dark and wet, plastered to his forehead in limp spikes. I could smell wet clothes and body spray and rain and hair gel and a low exciting smell that wavered in and out. I could barely get that smell, but it was a musky sweaty smell. I realized with a jolt that this guy had probably already had sex, maybe even more then once. His eyes were large and dark and kind.

"I'm not going to ask why you're here." He said softly. "Everyone has their own reasons. You can tell me if you want, but it isn't a requirement. But you're here because you need money."

I nodded.

"You said you had done this before?"

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice calm. "I work at a convenience store, and I would give him... I would give him a blowjob every day. He took money off of our tab."

"That's a start. What's your name?"

"Why did that guy call you Dean?"

He started, and then laughed. "Shit, I didn't notice. It's good to make a fake name to use with clients. You don't want these guys to know anything real about you. My fake name is Dean, my real name is Drake.

"My name is Ryan." I lied. I didn't want any of them to know who I was for real.

I sipped my coffee. It was good and bitter despite the sugar I had dumped into it. It warmed my hands.

"Is there any other way?"

I stared at him. I hadn't expected this. I didn't know what I had expected, but not this. "Wh... What do you mean?"

He looked down at his coffee, and swirled it around. "It seems pathetic, but we get guys who come down to the corner looking for a fast way to make money. They plan on sleeping with one or two guys and then leaving. Ferdinand doesn't stand for that. If you're going to stay with us, you need to make some kind of commitment.

"Even worse, we get guys who see this as a game. Kirk, that redhead? He does this for fun. His parents aren't rich, but they aren't poor. He likes the sex and the money and drugs. Ferdinand allows it because the guy know's what he's doing, but it's wrong. He came here because he wanted money, but he didn't want to work a legitimate job for it. Trust me Ryan. You say that you need money, but if there is any way, any way at all that you can make it without getting on your knees..."

The tears were coming. I couldn't stop them. I had to talk slowly, and haltingly. My voice was distorted from trying to keep my voice level. I hated crying. But I couldn't stop. These tears were insidious, trying to ruin my words and make me look weak.

"I'm working two jobs. My parents are dead. I have five siblings. One is two. Two are in grade school, one is unemployed and going to college and the other is in jail."

There it was. It was out. He was looking at me, momentarily wordless.

I grabbed a napkin out of the shiny chrome dispenser and wiped my eyes, clenching my teeth and trying to just stop. I hated how the tears kept sneaking up. I couldn't tell if they were from fear or shame or just plain despair.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure." He whispered.

We were quiet for a moment. I sipped my coffee, now getting lukewarm, until I knew for sure that my voice wouldn't break. It gave me a chance to collect my thoughts, and gather my resolve.

"Who is Ferdinand?" I asked. I felt cold. There was no heating in the cafe, and despite the protection of my umbrella, my jeans were still damp from the walk home. I had changed my shirt, but my skin still felt faintly damp everywhere. My skin felt like clay, cold and smooth and bloodless. I wished that I had worn a jacket.

"Ferdinand takes care of us." Drake said quietly. "He parks nearby, and he knows each of the customers personally. He makes sure that we get paid, and that we aren't treated like shit. He pays for monthly tests and condoms. He even gives us weed sometimes. Prime stuff. He doesn't deal in the hard stuff, but weed really helps. He takes fifty percent."

He was a pimp. "I... I thought that you guys just..." I couldn't say anything. He finished the sentence.

"Worked alone? Going solo is the most dangerous fucking thing that you can do." For the first time, Drake sounded agitated. I looked into his eyes and I was paralyzed and fascinated. They were dark, I had seen that, but now I was pretty sure that his eyes were black. I had never seen eyes that dark, not even my Stepfather's eyes had been that dark.

"Listen to me Ryan." It was very faint, but I could hear the emphasis on my fake name. He knew it wasn't real. For some reason, that made me feel better. "I worked solo for about a year before I moved here. I wasn't safe. I had a hard time finding customers, and when I did, they tried to dodge paying me, or they only paid a few bucks. I was always in danger of propositioning a cop, or someone who would beat the shit out of me.

He took a deep breath. "If you're going to do this, work with us. There are one or two other outfits, but none of them are as classy as Ferdinand. He takes care of us. He's going to take half of your money, but you're going to be safe and clean. Do you understand? Do you know how important that is?"

I felt breathless. As if someone had punched me in the gut with a soft padded fist.

He looked into my eyes, searching. Then he stood up and unzipped his jacket. He pulled up the hem of his muscle shirt all the way to the armpit. My mouth went dry at his pale taut skin. His abdomen was long and ridged and painfully thin. He had a thin line of dark hair starting at his navel and disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. His navel was an outie, a little bud of skin. But he was drawing attention higher. Right under the small dark disk of his nipple. There was a curving scar, pale pink against his white skin.

"A skinhead did that with a knife. He wanted to cut my nipples off. He was ranting about how all homosexuals were going to burn in hell, and he was just helping me along. He was going a mile a minute, like an auctioneer, telling me how he was going to cut my nipples and then my balls and then my throat." His voice was bitter and hard. The girl behind the counter was staring at us.

"I'm going to have to ask you two to leave!" She said in a shaky voice.

Drake put his shirt down and zipped up his jacket. "I'm sorry." He said in a humble voice. "We'll be leaving."

I got up and followed him, feeling lightheaded. Maybe I would just float away.

---

The rain had picked up. It was pounding down on my umbrella. He was four inches taller then me, so he was holding it, and fortunately it was one of the wide umbrellas, so I was still avoiding most of the downpour.

"I talked to Ferdinand on the phone." Drake said quietly. "And he wanted me to tell you that this is like any other job. If you start it, you have to come to work like any normal employee. And if you want to quit, you can, but you have to do it in advance. He knows how hard it is for some people. So you're going to get one job. One client. He wont take his cut, but just for this job. I'll be with you, make sure the client treats you right. Okay?"

My legs felt cold and rubbery. I couldn't feel my feet, just the dull impact as they hit the wet sidewalk. My stomach was a sloshing mess, but at the same time, I felt relieved. I could back out if I needed to. I had a chance to back out. It felt good. But there was still something I was worried about.

"Drake?"

"Yeah?"

"I've never... I'm scared." Why couldn't I speak right? I felt my cheeks burning.

I jumped when he put his free hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to do that. Don't worry. Kirk didn't take it up the ass for months. It's just a difference of pay."

We were talking about details, technicalities. It calmed me down a little. "How much do things cost?" I asked.

"There are guys that will want to blow you. These are actually some of the hardest. It depends on if you even get aroused by this stuff, and how you feel, and how many customers you've had. It costs fifty bucks. When you're the one giving the blowjob, it's only forty. A handjob is twenty.

"A fuck is a hundred and fifty. They have to pay more if they accidentally hurt you. If they want foreplay, it's another twenty bucks. Call it a discount, if you're getting it in bulk."

A shocked giggle escaped me. He glanced my way. "Hey, I'm sorry about the restaurant. But I mean it. Never work alone. The deal you have with your boss, that's different, but if you work alone, it's really dangerous.

"Now, at least once a night there is a guy who has some kind of kink. You don't have to deal with these guys if you don't want to. It's your discretion, and Ferdinand deals with how much extra they pay."