Pick Up the Pieces

Chapter 8

Chapter 8Things changed.

In 1997, about six years after the start of the arrangement I had with John, his father died, not unexpected since the man smoked like a chimney in spite of the Surgeon General’s warnings. Shortly afterward, John met someone while teaching a night course in real estate at the same junior college where I’d eventually gotten my degree in computer accounting. He fell in love with the guy, decided to come out of the closet, and they moved in together.

“This will have to be our last time, Sweetcheeks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, John. I’ve enjoyed our times together. Would you like to bring your friend around? I’ll do the two of you. A farewell gift.”

“You’d do that?” He had once confided a threesome was his favorite, most illicit fantasy, although none of the other boys had tempted him enough to want to try it with them. And frankly, I was selfish enough that I didn’t want to share him. “Thank you.” Abruptly, his expression became dejected, and he turned bright red. “I…I can’t. Bradley doesn’t approve of paying for s*x. He doesn’t even know about you. Sweetcheeks, you won’t try to get in touch with me, or…or….”

“Butt into your life?” I squeezed his arm gently. “I won’t. I wish you only the best, John.”

“Thank you. You’ve been so good to me. We had some good times, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.” I didn’t love him, but I liked him a lot. “Hold on to my number, okay? If you ever want me, Wednesday at noon will be yours.”

“But Bradley…”

Bradley sounded like a stuffed shirt. I hoped he appreciated what he was getting. “You can tell him you’re my real estate agent. It’s the truth.”

His face brightened. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that! Could we…uh…have one more time?”

“Sure, John.”

Afterward, he dressed, paid me, hugged me, and walked out of my life.

* * * *

The following year, Tom and Mike decided to start their own stable. I gave them their share of the business, and they moved out to Los Angeles. The Kid went with them. Tangerine had long since decided he liked drugs more than the comfort of our family, such as it was, and last I’d heard, he was hustling on Seventh Avenue in Manhattan.

* * * *

Two months after Congress convened in 2000, Delilah met a man who asked her to move in with him. In spite of his promises that she could leave the business, she was still tricking.

* * * *

By late summer of 2001, our stable thinned out to three—Paul and me, the last of the original boys, and Spike, who Paul had found on the street, another kid whose family had thrown him out like so much trash.

“He followed me home,” Paul murmured as he made the boy a sandwich. Spike looked up quickly, brushed the platinum hair out of his eyes, and tried to look tough.

Paul fed him, made sure he had a bath and washed the mascara and eyeliner from his eyes, and then put him to bed in his room, much the same as he’d done for me all those years ago.

We stood in the doorway, watching as the boy slept.

“Poor kid. Would you believe he bleached his hair because some john told him he looked like Spike on Buffy, and that would make him look more like Spike?”

“Is that why he was sucking in his cheeks all night?” I shook my head. “Were we ever that young?”

“I’m gonna stay in tonight, Sweets. Okay? I…I don’t want to leave him alone.”

“Sure, Paul.” I made sure I had keys and money in my pocket. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Who’re you seeing tonight?” He grinned when I told him. “Lucky dog. I’ve been dying for him to call me.”

“Want to take him?”

He gazed at the boy in his bed, a little smile on his lips. “No. Not this time, Sweets. You’ve got your phone?”

I patted the cell phone clipped to my belt and left to keep my “date.”

* * * *

We didn’t expect that Tuesday in September to be anything remarkable. We would see our usual clients and possibly take on a few new ones—the same as every Tuesday previous to this. The phone began ringing shrilly a little before ten that morning, and I fumbled for the receiver, swearing under my breath at whoever was disturbing my sleep.

I wanted to snap off the caller’s head, but years of being in the business kept me polite. “Hello?”

“Sweets?”

“Charles?” I peered at the clock radio on my night table. The bright white numbers read 9:53. Why was he calling at this time, when he should be in bed, like all sensible rent boys?

“Turn on the television.” He sounded distraught, something the suave rent boy never was.

“What? Why?”

“Never mind, just do it.” But then immediately he said, “Two jets crashed into the World Trade Center earlier—”

Stupidly, all I could think of was the single prop plane that had hit the Empire State Building back in the ‘30s, and I pictured the same thing happening to the Trade Center.

“—and the Pentagon’s been struck also.”

I felt sick. “How bad is it?”

“They’re saying it could be worse than Antietam.”

“What?”

“The Second Battle of Bull Run. The Civil War? Twenty-two thousand casualties.” I was trying to process that number when Charles gasped. “Oh my God, the North tower’s just fallen.”

What did he mean, the tower had fallen? How could that be?

“We have clients who work there. I know you do, too. I thought you should know. I’ve…” His voice cracked, and he gave an unmistakable sob. “I’ve got to go.”

For a second, I sat numbly on the edge of the bed, staring at the receiver in my hand as it hummed, signaling a disconnected call, then hung up, walked into the living room, and turned on the television. I didn’t have to surf the channels—the news was on every one of them.

I woke Paul and Spike, and we spent the rest of the day glued to the television, tears streaming down our cheeks, grieving clients and friends who we’d lost, and those courageous first responders who’d gallantly, selflessly charged into the valley of the shadow of death.

We didn’t work that day at all.