drinking much. All it does
is make me stupid and sick.
It doesn’t make me forget.
In fact, sometimes, the drunker
I get, the more I remember.
I remember the kids, how
annoying and entertaining
they could be. Do they miss me?
Have they even asked, Where
is Ginger? Why did she go?
I remember Barstow, the armpit
town where I first made a friend,
first got decent grades. Ms. Felton
even told me once, You’re an
excellent writer. You should
think about it as a career.
Writer? Me? And what am
I doing instead? I remember
Sandy, a ball in the street,
and Mary Ann’s face, scrunched
with pain. I’m sorry. I should
have …. Only the blame belonged
to me. Which always brings
me back to my very favorite
memories, all centered around
Gram, deceptively petite, while
so driven. Tireless. Completely
devoted to a pack of kids she owed
absolutely zero devotion. All
because of her giant capacity
to love. Does she hate me
now for taking the easy way out?
Would she ask me to come home
if she could? Did she mean it when
she said, You know where I live.
No matter what, I want you to
remember this is always your home.
Tempting as It Might Be
To get back on the bus, see
if she would welcome me,
uglier memories intrude on
that sweet little daydream.
Since the revelation about
Iris sicking her snarling dogs
on me, other faces—other
mutts—materialize when
I least want to recognize them,
often just as I sink into an
alcohol-fueled stupor, praying
it will let me sleep, dreamless.
I was so young the first time,
I didn’t know what it meant,
only that nothing had ever hurt
so bad. Walt tore me up and I bled
and bled and when I screamed,
nobody came. And he laughed.
That’s it, little baby. Scream
for your daddy. Only he wasn’t
my daddy at all. My daddy was
a brave soldier, fighting far away.
Iris told me so. I still believed
the stuff she told me then. When
I told her about the man, not
my daddy, she said, He was
only making you into a real girl.
I didn’t understand. But I made
myself believe her. I was a real
girl now. But what was I before?
Walt Was the First
There were others. Nameless.
Faceless. I figured out how to
close off my brain when they did
it to me, to withdraw into a dark
little room inside my head, where
I couldn’t see them. Couldn’t smell
their sweat, their stagnant breath.
Couldn’t taste the tobacco coating
their tongues, or the beer tainting
the spit they left in my mouth.
Couldn’t feel what was down
between my legs. But now they
revisit me. Is it because of what
I’m doing? Because of these
nameless, faceless men watching
me? Even without them touching
me, I feel dirty about what I do.
Alex does even filthier things
but says it all washes off with soap.
I don’t believe that. I think it all
leaves stains. Indelible stains.
I Wait for Her Now
Wondering where she is, what
she has done today, if she’ll come
home. Lydia called. We’ve got
a bachelor party at ten. It’s nine
fifteen already, and no sign of
Alex. I tried her cell. Went straight
to voice mail. The battery must be
gone. If she doesn’t show, I’ll have
to go alone. Won’t be the first time,
and she knows how scared I am
to work by myself. I still love her,
but I feel her slipping away, bit
by bit, every day. Finally the door
opens. She’s a total mess—makeup
smeared, hair like a rat’s nest, clothes
dirty and torn. I rush to her side,
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I try to hug her, but she shoves me
away. Don’t touch me. Tears spill
from her eyes, tracking mascara
down her cheeks. She sinks down
on the sofa, puts her face into
her hands. Bastard screwed me,
then robbed me. Took everything.
Again I try to hold her. This time
she doesn’t pull away, but she is
like sandstone. Hard on the surface,
crumbling beneath. “It’s okay.
We’ll be okay.” Then, an after-
thought, “How much did he get?”
Her head sags against my chest,
wetting my shirt with tears, snot.
Not sure. Four or five hundred.
Anger flares suddenly, but not
because of the money. Because
of what we’ve become. “We’ve got
a goddamn bachelor party,
clear across town. We’ll barely
make it if we leave right now.”
She looks up at me with ringtail
eyes. I can’t …. please. I’m gonna
be sick. She runs to the bathroom.
I follow, put an ear to the door,
hear the definite sound of puke
splash. “Okay,” I call. “I’ll take
this one by myself. But when I get
back, we have to talk.” For once,
I’m not afraid to do the gig alone.
The whole cab ride over, I think
about what it is I want to say.
I arrive at a few minutes after ten.
The guys are young, not much
older than me. Good. They won’t
ask for many extras. I handle
the business end, promise a lap
dance to the groom, who looks
excited and scared at the same time.
And for the entire hour I’m taking
off my clothes, shimmying and
writhing and faking “sexy,” my mind
is on one thing. I don’t know
how, where, or even with whom.
Just know I have to get out of here.
A Poem by Cody Bennett
Don’t Know
Who I am anymore.
I was sure once, not long
ago. Knew where I came
from, and where I was
going
to. Now I don’t have
a clue who puts on
my shoes in the morning,
nor what direction he’s
going
when he closes the door
behind him. He looks a lot
like me. But his flame has
been extinguished, buried
too far
beneath his soil to find
air enough to smolder.
It is no more than a vague
memory, all oxygen
gone.
Cody
How Do I Find Myself Here?
Not even a year since everything
started a snowball roll toward hell.
It’s a place I’m starting to k
now well,
a place I deserve. I mean, I couldn’t
stop Cory from fucking up. He was
set on it. And Jack wasn’t my fault.
I didn’t make him get cancer, did my
best for him when he did. Hear that,
Jack? I wanted to help you! Couldn’t.
I’m not God. What happened is between
him and you. Can’t you do anything
up there to help me out down here?
Okay, maybe I’m not worthy
of your intervention. Maybe you’re
just plain grossed out. Pissed off.
But if you help me, you’ll help
Mom, too. She can’t make it on
her own. Damn it, you promised!
And dude, if I can’t worm my way
out of this crazy place, I’ll have to
consider that medicine chest, still full
of pain meds and sleeping pills. Mom
would only miss me so long. The rest
of the world wouldn’t miss me at all.
That Includes Ronnie
Oh, she claims she misses me now.
I only see her at school, and I’m not
there a whole hell of a lot. I should
be, of course. Just started junior year.
If I really want college, really want
more, I need to focus not only on
attendance, but on getting good
grades. Impossible. Too much
going on. Too much going down.
Hard enough, just surviving.
Trying not to think about Cory.
Not to think about Lydia, etc.
I get to class late, or not at all.
Can’t find interest in any of my
classes. English? I talk good enough.
Math? Let me give you a point
spread. History? Want to hear
mine? Chemistry? Girls or men?
And Ronnie? She pleads for attention.
Can’t you please come over, spend
a little time with me? C’mon, Cody.
I miss you so much. Remember ….
Then she’ll try to convince me,
bringing up one of those special
(God, yes, they were special)
times we spent in bed. Oh, I do
miss holding her close. The satin
of her hair. The luscious full curves
of her body. But sex means something
different now. I can’t tell her that.
So I lie. Tell her I have to work. (For
a temp service, so she can’t track
me down any certain place.) Tell
her I have to drive Mom somewhere.
(Usually to visit Cory.) Tell her
I’m just too freaking tired. (No lie.)
Sooner or later, she’ll get sick
of the excuses and find another
guy. I only hope it’s someone
who deserves the perfect girl.
Not an addict. Not a boy whore.
Not a fucking loser like me.
The Only Thing
I’ve won at lately is a few games
of chance. A hand or ten of poker.
And the Chiefs have been on a roll.
I’ve tried to keep the bets reasonable,
but the problem with winning is,
once you’ve got a bigger bankroll,
you want to make bigger bets. Got
a whopper riding this week. Enough
to let me skip a couple of “dates,”
if my luck holds. I have been smart
enough to pay my car insurance
for six months, help Mom with
the power and phone. She thinks
I’m working at a temp service too.
Since they place you in jobs
temporarily, according to different
businesses’ need, it provides
the perfect excuse for sometimes
having money, sometimes not.
For being away from home odd
hours. And, since those jobs tend
to be manual labor, Mom doesn’t ask
why I so often plunge straight into
the shower after coming through the door.
On a Positive Note
I’ve managed to make small credit
card payments. Not enough to pay
down the principal, but enough
to cover the interest, anyway. Only
one problem. As had to happen,
I couldn’t keep intercepting the bills.
Mom called me into the kitchen. Cody,
what are all these charges to Int-Gam,
Inc.? She stood there, hands on hips,
waiting for my confession. How
could I tell her “Int-Gam, Inc.”
was Internet Gaming Incorporated,
and that I had been using the cards
for months, losing money hand over
fist? “I’m not sure, Mom,” I lied,
looking her straight in the eye.
“But just so you know, I found
those credit cards in Cory’s things.”
I can’t believe what a liar I’ve become,
and lying about Cory was a way low
blow. But she bought it. Why not?
Her youngest son is a criminal.
Not much of a stretch to think
that he might also be a thief.
Credit Cards
No longer being an option, sports bets
will have to be laid down through
local bookies. Vince knows one or
two. And there’s always poker.
Hey, I’ve got a stake—a few hun
saved up. Anyway, I’ve got spending
cash, thanks to Lydia. Mostly it’s
from men. Thank God, I haven’t had
too many experiences similar to the one
with crew-cut Dan. I can’t seem to excise
that night completely from my head.
I’ve questioned a lot of things about
myself before. The gambling. Booze.
Drugs. Lying. But, despite sleeping
with men for money, I’ve never
questioned my sexuality. That’s
the core of any man, any person.
How can I be unsure of that, especially
considering the pain and humiliation?
Maybe Lydia was right, and we all
swing both ways to some degree. It’s
all according to necessity, she said.
Does that mean if every woman
disappeared, I’d actively crave men?
Not Craving Any
Of the guys at Vince’s tonight.
I glance from face to face, chest
to chest. Nope. Not a single twitch.
Maybe there’s hope for me after all.
Now if Lady Luck will just decide
to climb into my lap, hang out.
Hey, says Vince. Anyone bring
smoke? He looks straight at me,
not expecting me to say yes. It’s
been weeks since I had enough
cash to score. My connection had
almost given up on me too.
I surprised him, and I surprise
Vince now. “Actually, yeah, I do.”
I hand over a couple of big blunts,
light another, pass it on. Only way
to convince Vince to introduce me
to his bookie friends is with generosity.
Meanwhile, it’s poker. The key
to winning this game is properly
assessing the competition. I know
most of the guys at the table—Vince,
best player here, a regular bluff master,
not afraid to lay down a major bet.
Justin is an elementary school janitor.
Can’t afford to bet big. Never ups the ante.
Sitting down is Shaun, UNR fresh
man,
innocent-looking, but knows how to bet.
Finally, there’s Misty’s boyfriend,
Chris. He’s a total jerk, and wasted.
A fair bit of coke has been passed
around, but I’m guessing he’s been
smoking ice. Maybe even crashing,
despite the cola. His mood is mean.
Fucking deal already, would
you? Haven’t got all night.
Vince stares him down, trying
to decide, no doubt, if he’s going
to have to deal with Chris some
way other than nicely. He starts
with nice. Take it easy, man.
Where you have to be, anyway?
Chris grabs the cards, now in
a pile in front of him. He sorts
them one way, then another, shoots
eyeball arrows around the table as if
we’re all just waiting to give our
hands away. Got a date with Misty.
Fact Is
I’ve got a date with Misty. Well,
not with her, exactly. We both have
a date with some sexually confused
out-of-towner. Three-ways aren’t
quite so bad. Misty isn’t the brightest
girl. But she’s got a killer bod to focus
on. It’s okay to be turned on by that.
The evening’s little snort party will
help me out too. In fact, we might
even have fun. But, far as I know,
Chris isn’t coming along. “You sure
you’re hooking up with Misty tonight?”
The table falls silent. Not even
a minimal buzz as Chris gives me
an odd look. That’s what I said.
Why? You know something
I don’t? He throws three cards
on the table. Waits for more.
And also for my answer. “Uh.
It’s just I thought she had to work
tonight. You know. For Lydia.”
I draw two cards. Dig way down
for composure. Lady Luck is definitely
rock ’n’ rolling with me. Full house.
Chris doesn’t respond. For some
reason, that bothers me a lot. I look
over at him and he’s staring at me,
head tipped as if listening to some-
thing no one else can hear. Little
voices in his head? Schizo, too?
It’s all lost on Vince, who draws
last. One card …. C’mon, Lady,
don’t trade partners now! His face
gives nothing away. But when
he bets, we all gulp in breaths.
He tosses some chips. A hundred.
Justin folds. Shaun considers quite
a while, finally calls. Chris swears
softly, breaks out in a sweat, trying