“John, no, I…”
“Shut up and go look!”
Startled, I jump… then walk over to the bag, afraid he will throw a punch in my direction, and rummage blindly around. I can hear more tapping on the base pipe, the chink of the lighter, and a sucking noise of the bubbles rolling through the burned-out stem.
“Come here,” he chokes, still holding in the hit.
I walk over and robotically kneel on the floor next to him. He blows a faint, plastic-tasting mouthful of air hard into my lungs, and I hold it till I get dizzy again from lack of oxygen. I pretend to feel more of a high than is really there and slump down, stalling for time.
But John is not fooled. “Go wash your face and come here.” He indicates the spot next to him on the bed.
Again, I do as I’m told and, with my face damp from the metallic-smelling water, I lie next to him on the bed and tentatively reach over to hold him. John puts the pipe away and scoots down close to me, wrapping me tightly in his arms. Softly he begins to caress my back and legs, buries his face into my neck, till my body guardedly relaxes. He makes love to me, more gentle and loving than he has in a long time. He lifts my arms, my legs, scanning every inch of them, snapping a mental picture like an Instamatic camera. His kisses sweep over me from the base of my belly, up between my tiny breasts, into my neck. I melt into them, still scared yet desperately wanting the kindness, the sense of compassion, to be real… enough to erase the degrading moments earlier.
It’s over quickly, and John is back digging in the bottom of his briefcase for a few dirty pieces of freebase that might be floating loose in the corners with the lint and sand.
With his lovemaking having stopped as coldly as it began, I lie under the sheets and stare at the ceiling, my mind trying to fall asleep. The noise coming from John’s direction, every bang and crash, sends a jolt of fear through my body. I don’t like how urgently he’s searching for crumbs, and the familiar tension churns loudly in my stomach.
“It’s getting dark. Get cleaned up and put your clothes back on,” he says, his back turned toward me. “You’re going out!”
“No, John… Why? I can’t go…”
He snaps back and lunges at me. Taking me by the throat, he growls, “You thought it was good enough for me when I had to sleep with those bitches. Now it’s your turn.”
“John, I, I, I can’t. I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. Really. I only want to be with you. I swear!” Tears come gushing out as I tell him the one thread of truth I have left in me, and I beg him not to do this. “No, John, please. No. I don’t want it. Please. Please!” I don’t know what to do. I plead to calm his unfounded fear that I am secretly lusting after others. I am convinced he’s just jealous and if he’ll believe I only love him, this torturous mistrust will end. “John, please!” My tears stream down onto his hand as I try to kiss his arm and loosen his grip on my neck. “Please. I don’t want anyone else. No strangers, no threesomes. Only you, John, please. Only you!”
The hatred clears from his eyes for a moment, and his gaze connects with my pleas. I think I recognize a flash on a memory of our love. Then I see rage again.
“Do you know what it takes to keep a roof over our heads and dope in the pipe? Besides, we owe him. Eddie Nash had to bail me out of jail! That did not make him happy. Now we owe him big-time!” John’s nostrils flare again, stretching his lip in a sneer as he glares accusingly at me.
“Then quit the dope, John. Please. This is all because of the dope. I hate it. I hate it. Stop it! Please!”
John lets go and takes a few long strides to the window, standing at the corner behind the curtains and looking out at the street. Again, I pray and say nothing more, hoping that if I stay quiet he will have a change of heart. It has gotten dark. He stands for a long time, naked, leaning against a side wall, peering out of the drapes—and finally, without saying a word, he picks up his clothes and gets dressed.
Rummaging in the pockets of his pants, he pulls out some condoms and flings them on the table. “Twenty bucks for a blow job and forty for all the way.” His face is expressionless. “And I’ll be in the bathroom watching. So don’t let the motherfucker go to the bathroom.”
I cringe at his words and go numb. I want to die. I want to die. That language slices through me like a razor-sharp Japanese suicide sword. I feel like nothing; less than trash. He hasn’t changed his mind at all, and my pleas go unheeded. I am exhausted and know that no matter how much I beg him, it won’t work. “What do I do, John? I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” He comes out from the curtains, yanks me up off the bed. “You walk up and down the street till someone stops. Let him talk first, then ask him if he’s a cop. He has to tell you. Tell him to meet you here. Don’t go with any of them.” His voice is deliberate, every syllable sharp as broken glass. His fingernails dig deep into my shoulders, tearing quarter moon cuts in my skin. “Now get dressed!” he orders, releasing me hard and throwing my chosen clothes at me on the bed. He raises his hand, sending me a look that says he’s had it. “Go!”
I cringe and cower. “Don’t, John. Please.” My skin stings with a rush of adrenaline. I’m scared that if I say anything else he’ll attack me. Slowly, zombielike, I put on my clothes. In the bathroom I stall for time, letting the water wash the tears and dirt from my face. I can’t breathe; my blocked sinuses press against my cheeks. My eyes are red and swollen from crying, with dark sunken bruises underneath, and my tangled hair is hard to comb through. Time is heavy, standing still; I’m in a bubble of space. I travel through it in slow motion as if I’m walking through a thick layer of slime. I have no sense of the shell that is now my body. All understanding of who I am is leaving me; I am completely unfeeling, detached from my movements, a fractured casing of who I once was. I dress carefully in the clothes John picked out, smoothing down my flowery shirt over my jeans again and again. Robotically, I walk past John, who takes a hard look at me and again peeps through the curtains, sucking at the barren pipe.
“Don’t get into anyone’s car!” he shouts without looking back.
I walk to the door, place my hand on the knob, and quietly turn. The knob sticks a little, and for an instant I believe I won’t have to go any farther.
“Go!”
My hand jumps; the door clicks open. I step silently into the humid air and the buzzing sound of heavy traffic, and become another street child of the Los Angeles night.
Knock, knock, knock. The tapping at the door is furious. I jump up to look out the window. John isn’t supposed to be back from Eddie’s yet, and I get nervous that someone might have followed me from the street. It is the black girl, Frosty, from the long-term bungalow at the other end of the motel. It has been a few weeks since John and I first checked in, and John has talked to her several times as we’ve come in or gone out. She waves at me every time she sees me leave the room to take my turn on the filthy streets. She knows John watches for me.
The evening’s street activity comes alive on its own, I find out. It is like the twilight zone, or a channel on television with programs I’ve never seen before. The actors and actresses all know their lines. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything different, just walking down the street, but I’m approached almost immediately. The one blessing, I think, is that it is over quickly. Paralyzing fear and horrific internal pain are over quickly, if I can set my mind on checking out for those moments. Then I can block it out… and then I can look at myself in the mirror.