My Baby the Star

Last night I dreamed I was breast-feeding Rerun from What's Happening. He wore a cloth diaper and his signature rainbow suspenders and red cap, but was otherwise naked. As he clamped his mouth to my nipple, I felt a rush of liquid leave my teat. He guzzled greedily, my milk spilling from the sides of his mouth and trailing down his chin. I pulled him closer, cradling him in my arms and positioned him in my lap to minimize his effortful suckling. When he was through feeding, I pulled him from my nipple and burped him over my shoulder. I saw that his teeth had cut my areola and a trail of blood trickled down to my stomach and settled in my belly button. I burped him, rubbed his back and rocked him to bed.

While I'm Still Warm

I had risen at 6 that morning and went for a swim, enjoying the serenity of the cool water and its soothing effect on my back. Marjorie was still in bed; she hated getting out of bed before 8. She always watched the 7 o'clock news and afterwards would rise and put on a pot of coffee. While I was completing my 60th lap, I heard her scream. Within minutes she came running out barefoot of the house, frantic and still in her nightgown.

"Whitey, she's dead," my wife screamed, "Marilyn is dead!"

"No way, no damn way. I talked to her the day before yesterday and she was fine. What do you mean?"

"It was on the television, Whitey. They found her this morning, and oh God." She stopped at the edge of the pool and dropped to her knees, her words cut off by heaving sobs.

It was like she was speaking another language. I stood up in the pool and looked at my wife. "What did they say Margie? What happened?"

"She...she.."

"Damn it Margie, please. What did he say?" I spoke quickly, words rushing out of my mouth. My voice rose up at the end, squeaking like a goddamn teenager. I jumped out of the pool and ran over to her and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Margie, what did they say? What happened to her?"

"Only that Eunice found her this morning. Dr. Greenson had gone over last night and they couldn't wake her and they saw there was a pill bottle on the floor..." With these words my wife buried her head into my dripping chest and sobbed, her wails ringing in my ears.

We stood there for a few minutes, her crying and me staring at her back and shoulders.

"I think we should go inside dear. I think I ought to lie down."

Marjorie lifted her head and caught her breath. "Of course. I should go in and start making some calls. Poor Marilyn. Poor Eunice, the dear. Oh, it's all just so awful."

I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my hand tightly gripping the wrought iron railing. I went to the nightstand beside our bed and took out the gold Tiffany money clip that Marilyn had sent me a few weeks after we finished filming the Hawks' picture. It wasn't unusual for her to give me a gift after filming, but this was one was special. Dixie Lee, Bing Crosby's wife, had passed from cancer towards the end of the shoot. Dixie died on a Saturday but couldn't be interred until her family had arrived in Los Angeles from Tennessee. By the time they arrived on Monday morning, she had spent more than 30 hours in the morgue freezer. The idea terrified Marilyn, that Dixie laid untouched for so long. She said that it wasn't bad enough that Dixie died, but to "have lain there in the cold, alone" was an unbearable thought. At that moment she turned to me, and asked if I would do her makeup when she passed. I assured her that it would be a very long time and I would likely be dead before her. But she was serious and grabbed my hands and said "If something happens to me, promise you'll do my makeup so I look my best." It was a morbid thought, so I laughed it off saying, and said "Sure. Bring the body back while it's warm and I'll do it." When the money clip was delivered, there was no note, just the clip in the robin egg blue box. The engraving read "Whitey dear While I'm still warm Marilyn".

Henry

“Marjorie, would you bring in my messages, please? I’ll also take my coffee now, thank you.”

Another day. Fifteen years to bring this company from the spare bedroom of our first apartment to the top floor of a Manhattan highrise. Fifteen years of deals, mergers and acquisitions to make this one of the most profitable companies our shareholders have in their portfolios. Damn, I’m tired. The days are no longer exciting; I haven’t woken up excited about going to the office in many years. By now, it’s just an excuse to get out of the house and away from Madeline and her incessant chatter. Twenty-five years of marriage and she still hasn’t run out of things to say. “Henry, are we going to the de Kampfs’ for dinner? Henry, the Wallermans are expecting us to sit at their table for the Whitney benefit, what should I tell them? Henry, did you call our son? You know it’s his birthday today, don’t you Henry? Henry, did you know that?” For the record, yes Madeline. I called him from the office, told him that if he values his sanity, to never get married. As for the rest, they’re your friends and you’ll answer yes anyway. Why go through the rigmarole of checking with me? If it were really my decision, not that I’m deluding myself that this is the case, but I’d say that de Kampf is an ass, Wallerman cheats at golf and I’d prefer not to spend my time with such people. I’d rather be home, reading.

“Thank you Marjorie. Please hold my calls; I’ll be out for most of the afternoon.”

If Madeline calls, she’ll think I’m at the club. This is partly true. It is a club, of sorts. I had to join, pay membership dues. Who wants sit around with a bunch of cranky old men when you can receive a lovely massage from a girl who doesn’t speak? Hell, it’s worth spending the four hundred dollars just for her silence.

Nate

Nate walked into his father’s room to pick out a tie. His suit was pressed, teeth brushed and hair combed. This was the final thing he needed to do. He opened the closet and saw the ties hanging from their place on the automated tie rack his father had on top of the dresser. The machine was unnecessary; his father only had three ties. One black, one blue and a red and green reindeer patterned tie that he wore every Christmas Eve. Nate took out the black and blue ties and approached the mirror. The black tie was strictly for funerals and holiday office parties, when Nate’s dad wanted to present the most professional version of himself as possible. Nate had given his dad the blue tie for his birthday a few years ago, right after he got his after school job pumping gas.

Holding the blue one to his neck he could see his father the last time he had worn this tie. It was his cousin Sarah’s wedding and his dad took full advantage of the open bar. Halfway through the reception, they had to leave because his father started yelling obscenities at the groom’s mother. When she had suggested the he might switch to coffee, that he might not want to get so drunk before they served the main course, he loudly called her a controlling cunt. Then, turning to address all the guests, announced that Sarah’s new husband Jack should count his blessings to finally be free of such a woman. With this, he grabbed Nate’s mother’s wrist and headed for the door. Nate got up from his salad and followed them out to the parking lot. His mother recovered the keys to drive them home. The tie was also worn the night of Nate’s tenth grade parent/teacher night, when his dad went to meet Ms. Keller, his math teacher, who was new to the school and eager to make a good impression. This eagerness didn’t extend to dad’s grabbing her ass when he went up to introduce himself. Nate wasn’t sure what transpired that night; just that by the next day, the car was towed home and he was transferred to Mr. O’Leary’s class.

His mother walked in behind him as he was looking in the mirror. “C’mon honey, we gotta get going or we’ll be late”, she said mournfully. Catching his eyes, she said “You know, I always liked him better in the black.”

“Yeah, mom. Me too.” said Nate as he looped the tie around his neck and walked down the stairs to the car.

Late

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck…I can't believe that I'm late again. Mr. Pirelli told me yesterday that if I was late one more time, he'd fire me. I don't see the problem; all I do is stock shelves in his drug store, clean up a little when things were quiet. What's the big deal if I'm a few minutes late? It's not like I work the register and holding up customers by being late. But with Pirelli it doesn't matter, punctuality is everything.

"Eddie," he said the other day, "I can't have you coming in late all the time. We've talked about this before. You need to be here at 9am when we open the store or else you're no good to me."

Maybe I can still make it on time, maybe the train will be in the station when I get down there, maybe he'll be on the can when I get there and won't notice. Oh good, it's there, stay open, stay open…

"Could you hold the doors? Thanks."

OK, now I've got ten minutes to get there, but the train takes fifteen. Plus another five minutes to get to work, so that's ten minutes late. Ten minutes isn't so bad. Who notices ten minutes? Just wait for the train to get downtown then haul ass to work, it'll be fine. Just read your paper and take a deep breath. Ahhhhhh. Better. Now let's see how fucked up the world is today.

Opening the paper, I hear the screech of the rear subway door slam shut and a shuffling of feet. Looking up, I see an unshaven black man, probably in his thirties, a bright red sweatshirt over a plaid shirt, both hanging off of his small frame, paint-splattered blue jeans and untied work boots. He pushes his way through half of the crowded car as he begins to speak.

"Ladies & gentlemen, I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Douglas and I am currently living on the street. My apartment building burned down last May and I have not been able to get on my feet since then. If you have any spare change or extra food to help me out today, I'd really appreciate it. Thank you for your time and consideration."

God, these guys are too much. Everybody always wants something for nothing, don't they? Isn't there a shelter or somewhere to help these guys? Why do they make us feel like we're responsible for helping them? If I don't meet his eyes, then it's like he's not there. Just concentrate on the paper and ignore him. Here's my stop, finally! Now if I can get ahead of this Spanish woman with the cart and run up the stairs, I can be there in four minutes. That's only eight minutes late. Maybe Mr. Pirelli won't notice.

He noticed. "Eddie, we need to talk."

"Morning, Mr. Pirelli. I'm sorry I'm late; there was some problem with the train. I'll be on time from now on, I promise."

"Eddie, you promised the same thing Monday, Tuesday, last week, and last month. I'm tired of hearing it. I'm sorry, but I can't keep you on."

"Mr. Pirelli, please. Just give me one more shot. I'll be here on time, please."

"Eddie, I can't, I got a business to run here. I think you forget that sometimes. You have a few days pay coming to you. I'll put the check in the mail on Friday. Take care of yourself. I think you should go."

Damn, I needed that job. It wasn't until I stepped outside that I realized just how much. I've got nothing. One dollar and forty-eight cents in my checking account. A Metrocard with ten dollars left on it. Rent is due on Thursday and there's no way, even with the check I was getting from Pirelli, that I'd have enough to cover what I owed my landlord. I still owed him half of last month's rent. Plus, there were the phone and utility bills that hadn't gotten paid in over a month. I needed a job, and quick. I picked up a copy of the Voice on my way back to the train. As I passed the park a block before the station, I changed my mind about returning home and sat down on one of the benches. Hell, maybe I'd see something about an opening in the neighborhood and head over there. You know, really jump on the opportunity.

I had forgotten how intimidating the help wanted section of the paper can be. There were an infinite number of jobs that I'd never qualify for, ads for jobs in sales or real estate where you needed a resume and tie and shiny shoes. There were postings for phone jobs, but I'm no good on the phone. I'm more of a people person. Any jobs where there was an extended interview process probably wouldn't pay me in time for me to pay my rent. Here's an ad for a delivery person, but I don't have a bike, or the money to even buy a used bike. None of the ads are looking for stock help. Here's one for handing out fliers, I could definitely hand out fliers. I'd smile at people passing me by and they'd want to take one out my hands, to see what my smile was all about. I called the number from the ad, but all I got was a recording for me to leave my name and number. I used my most professional voice and left my name, number and the best time to call. With no other prospects, I figured that was enough for today. I deserve at least one day to regroup, think about what to do with myself. Hell, I only got fired a half hour ago. I'll head home, take a nap and start the search for real tomorrow.

As I entered the apartment, I flipped the switch to turn the lights on, but nothing happened. Damn, I wasn't that late! How could they turn off the lights? I'd only gotten two letters from ConEd with the red stripe on them, the ones that let the whole world know that I was late with paying. I thought that they'd give me more time to pay, I wasn't that far behind. I took a beer from the fridge, if I wasn't working, I might as well start drinking. I had just about a full case of MGD left in the fridge from the weekend, and there was no time like the present to get drunk.

Happy Birthday

She had six minutes before we sat down for cake, and even though she called earlier in the week to confirm the time, there was a chance that she wouldn’t show up. If Janet came at all, then she’d definitely be late. Last Thanksgiving we held dinner for two hours, waiting to see if she'd show. She did eventually, slurring apologies at the door and quickly taking her place at the table next to my mother. There were no arguments that night; we sat silently around the table eating dry turkey and crusty stuffing until Janet stood up, said she had an early work day and quickly left before dessert. My parents announced, after she kissed them each on the cheek and walked out the door, that she'd no longer be allowed in the house when she was drunk.

“I will not let that girl ruin another family dinner”, my mother said as she cleared the table, “I just can’t do it, she’s killing me.”

My father, in return, said “She thinks she’s such a big shot that she can come and go as she pleases? And come into my house smelling like some bum on the street? Well, no more!”

“She’s got problems, my Janet, but I just can’t sit here and let her ruin my life.”

“If she thinks that this is how she can act around this family, then she’s got another think coming.”

They volleyed Janet’s problems between them, a unified testament to her faults. I wondered why they couldn’t say all of this while she was here; she was the person who should have to listen to this, not me. But this wasn’t for Janet; she had already heard and long tuned out their threats. This was the vestiges of the arguments that she used to have with them, a one-sided phone call.

When I was five, she was in her mid-teens and spent a lot of her time out of the apartment and away from the family. The memories I have of her are vague; they’re mostly of her fighting with my parents and them threatening to kick her out again. At seventeen; a week after she graduated from high school, she left the apartment and didn't come home for six months. She returned for Christmas, a small gift for each of my parents and me, but no reasonable explanation of where she'd been or why she hadn't called. The years that followed, she came to the house for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and would call on everyone's birthdays, but this was the first time she had shown up on a non-holiday in years.

I heard the buzzer a few moments later, and ran to the intercom to let her in.

"Hi, come on up."

"Hi honey, can't wait to see you."

I turned from the door to face my parents staring back at me. My father sat in his tan corduroy barcalounger, turned to look from me to my mother, who stood in the entranceway to the kitchen with a dishrag in her hands. There was a synchronized sigh and rolling of the eyes between them, a gesture that seemed rehearsed. For a second I pictured them, practicing together in their bedroom to get it just right, the coordination of their reactions, but dismissed the idea and figured that this was just their automatic response to their only daughter. That this could be just another of Janet's breakable promises; she might decide halfway up to turn around and leave.

I opened the door to my sister throwing her arms around me. The smell of beer on her breath was slight, feint at best. Her auburn hair smelled like smoke, and the sleeve of her denim jacket was torn at the shoulder. Her red leather purse swung and rocked me as held me.

"Oh Jackie, it's so good to see you. Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks Jan, it's good to see you, too."

"Hi, Ma. Hi, Daddy." She said as she walked over to them. I saw my mother's nose crinkle as Janet's arms encircled her. Janet walked over to my father's recliner and kissed the top of his head from behind.

"How are you, Janet? You look good. How's work?" My mother asked.

"Work is good, Ma, no complaints."

"Good. Well, have a seat. I was just gonna put the coffee on."

"Here Jackie, I got something for you," Janet said as she rifled through her purse, "I wasn't sure what to get you, I mean, what do you get for an 18 year-old kid? So I got you what I wanted when I was 18."

My parents, again in unison, winced at the possibilities.

She pulled out a birthday card. Awesome, I thought, I could use the money and just hoped she hadn't written me a check, which would probably bounce. But the card looked bulkier than it would have if it contained money and felt weightier still when she pushed it into my hands. I opened the envelope and pulled the card out. Before I could flip the card open, a pair of gold keys on a silver key ring fell from it and dropped to my feet. Without reading the inside, I bent down to pick the keys up, and looked up confusingly, first to Janet, then my parents.

"They're keys to my place!" she said with a big smile on her face. "Now you can visit anytime! You could even stay with me for a while if you wanted. I was sorta hoping that you'd want to come live with me, now that you're an adult, about to graduate from high school. You could get a job, come and go as you please. It'd be fun, right?"

I didn't know what to say. Even if I had the words to express my confusion, they would've been drowned out by my parents' yelling.

"Are you out of your mind? Why would Jack want to live with you?" said my mother frantically.

“But Ma, it’s not…I didn’t…” Janet stammered.

"You can barely take care of yourself, you think you can take care of a kid?" my father shouted.

"Why would you do this? Who gives a gift like this?"

"There's no way Jack is coming to live with you and that's final."

But it wasn't final; they went back and forth between them while Janet and I stood quietly, alternately looking at each other and the floor. Janet's smile disappeared from her face and her cheeks turned bright red. She had been shamed by what she considered thoughtful.

"I'm sorry, Ma. Daddy, I just thought it'd be nice for him to have a place to go, if he wanted or needed to."

"Jack is happy here. He's a good boy. He doesn't give us agita." said my father accusingly.

"Jack is going to college after he graduates, isn't that right, Jackie?" said my mother, "Haven't we been looking at you going to some of the local schools in the fall?"

I stood there silently. I didn't want to live with Janet, but it would be nice to have an alternative place to go, when my folks got to be too much of a handful. To accept the gift would confuse and anger them, but to refuse it would hurt Janet.

"Janet, thank you for the gift. I'm gonna stay here with Mom and Dad, but I do think it'd be nice to stay over some night, see you more often. Plus, if you ever go away, I could use the keys to get your mail, feed your cat, whatever."

Janet's smile returned. "I'd like that Jackie, I really would." She turned to our parents, "I don't know what I was thinking. I'm not gonna stay for cake, Ma, I gotta get up early for work. Come here and give me a kiss Jackie, before I go."

I kissed my sister's cheek as I walked her to the door. My parents had retreated to the kitchen, where we could hear them talking quietly to themselves.

"I'll call you, Janet. We'll set something up."

"We'll do that, Jackie. Happy Birthday."

Trio

89 dollars for a skirt? The Fashion Hut must be off of its rocker. The design is lovely; I’ll give them that, but the fabric is sub-par at best. They’ve used a rayon/silk blend when they could’ve used straight silk and it only would’ve been a few dollars more. Charging this much for this skirt is obscene. Still, it’s in my size, and it would go perfect with that maroon blouse I got last week from Dress Palace. I wonder if I should just come back in a few weeks; it’ll probably be on sale by then. On the other hand, they might be out of my size if I wait that long. I can’t spend 90 dollars on a skirt, Henry would kill me. Although I am meeting his mother tonight, and if this isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is. The cashier isn’t even paying attention, maybe I’ll just slip it in my purse and no one would even notice.

Lookit that girl stickin’ that skirt into her bag. Doesn’t she see that I’m standing ten feet away from her? I know it looks like I’m examining this lousy manicure Miss Rhonda gave me but I see what’s goin’ on in every corner of this store. Well go on then, honey, because today is my last day at The Fashion Hut and I don’t give a fuck. I put a dress in the back for myself when Loretta went to lunch. I say if she didn’t want me to steal, she shouldn’t have left me alone. She don’t even know it’s my last day, but what does she expect when she cuts my hours like that knowing I have a daughter at home? I guess she’ll find out tomorrow when I don’t show up to open the store. Besides, Dress Palace pays a dollar more an hour and you get a discount and not some fake ass 10 percent off either, like here. Billy the manager over there said I could start on Monday. Billy’s kinda cute now that I think about it. It’ll certainly be better than lookin’ at Loretta’s hagfish face every day.

Oh my God, is that woman stealing? I can’t see anything past that display, why do they have to put them in the middle of the aisle where you can’t walk? God, I don’t know why I shop here, Dress Palace has a much cleaner setup.. Look at that, she put that skirt right in her bag. If the cashier would stop paying attention to her nails, maybe she’s notice that a crime is going on right in front of her. I wonder if I should say something. I mean, I should say something, but what do you say in these types of situations? Stop thief? Henry would know what to do; he always knows what to do in these types of situations. But I can’t call him at the office now; he’s always so busy and rushes me off the phone. I’ll just wait until I see him tonight to meet his new girlfriend. His first serious girlfriend at 35, I just thank God he’s not a fagelah.

Fat Camp

"But why are you making me go there Mom, why?” Abigail sobbed as she sunk to the living room carpet.

"You have to go, sweetheart, I care too much about you to not let you go." Her mother replied from the other end of the phone, "After what happened to your father, I couldn't stand the thought of what would happen to you otherwise." Jeanette Richter paused. Losing Abby to stroke or heart failure, or how she had lost Marty eight years ago, in a diabetic coma, would be torture.

"But why can't you stop them? Tell them that they can't do this, please!"

"Abby honey, please, just go with them now and you'll be back soon. Before you know it. A few weeks, a month maybe and you'll be good as new."

"But I'm ok right now! And you know they never keep anyone for just a few weeks, Mother."

"Honey, I never said you weren't ok, you just need some help. I think you're beautiful but this new program, it's better for your health. In the long run, maybe you'll be happier, healthier at least."

Abby got up on her knees, slowly rose to her feet and put down the phone down on the heavy lead glass coffee table that sat in the middle of the room. She pulled off her blouse to inspect herself in the mirror that hung over the couch. She stood there in her jeans and bra, her ample stark white flesh rolling over the sides of the denim, her hand tracing over the lines and folds of her skin. She picked the phone back up and placed it between her shoulder and ear, but had tuned her mother out.

The program her mother was referring to was a new service provided in her town of Lawnfield, NY. It had begun two summers ago when the town council passed a law that equated childhood obesity with child abuse. Basically, if your kid was fat you were a bad parent so the town had to step in to take care of your child. Forget about genetic reasons for being overweight or how completely inappropriate it was to take children from their parents or any other reasons that might have gotten the town to stay out of the personal lives of it's residents. As far as officials were concerned, if the parents were beating their kids, they could take the kids away and what they were doing now, by feeding them fatty, processed sugar-laden food and letting them sit on their couches, glued to their TVs, couches and video games was far worse than any corporal punishment. So any overweight kids in town were sent to mandatory fat camp for a month or six months or a year or however long it took for them to get down to their ideal weight as prescribed by the doctors at the camp.

It was a cross between boot camp and boarding school and the town paid for the whole thing, which was in turn subsidized for by the President's Challenge Awards Program. Lawnfield drew national attention for their unorthodox approach to dealing with the nation's growing obesity problem, and garnered further attention still when the program worked, with unforeseen levels of success. Kids who were previously spent their days molded to their couches were now all-state in soccer, lacrosse and cross-country. Lawnfield High School had participated in the state championships in tennis, basketball and swimming, and took home the trophy in football. Lawnfield was the model for burgeoning "fit camps" as they were called, which were popping up like wildfire across the United States. But being the first and so far most successful hadn't missed the attention of various college recruiters. Lawnfield High graduates, who used to anticipate spending the four years after high school attending one of the many mid-level public colleges scattered across New York State were now being offered scholarships, (full rides!) to the nation's top private universities.

Darrell Winslow, the center for the high school's football team, had been offered a scholarship to Harvard. Darrell had always been a smart kid, with a specific interest in science and math, but he never had an aptitude for athletics, choosing physics over the physical. At the end of 9th grade, he weighed approximately 350 pounds and stood at 6 feet 3 inches. When the law was passed that July, he was once of the first wave of children sent to the camp and when he returned home for his junior year 8 months later and 150 pounds lighter, he tried out for the high school football team and made the varsity team. Darrell was the reason, many said, that the team made it to the championships, let alone won. He had been interviewed on the Today Show and David Letterman. There was an article written up about him in Newsday where he praised the fit camp he attended and said how it changed his life and how it made him a better overall person.

But Lawnfield had run out of kids, the population of people who were under the age of 18 were remarkably fit, and attendance at the town's skate parks, soccer fields and basketball courts was higher than ever. Now that the health of the town's children wasn't a concern, attention started to be paid to the adult residents in the town. The biggest problem initially laid in the fact that the town couldn't demand that the adults to attend camp. At first the officials thought that the parents of the children would mimic the behavior of their healthy children, but the adults were content to drive their children to and from practice and sit in the bleachers cheering on their winning teams. The town then tried using a mass marketing campaign to guilt its' citizens into compliance which only succeeded with about a quarter of the town's population in visiting the camp, with far fewer staying and only a small number of people completing the program and reaping the benefits experienced by the children.

There had been a rumor that attendance at the Lawnfield Health and Wellness Camp had been so low that the city council had considered closing the center and selling the land to private housing developers who would divvy up the acres and build a new neighborhood of McMansions. Alicia Curtis, Councilwoman since 1983, voiced her opinion that if the remaining overweight adults wanted to destroy their health and ruin their lives, then the town had done more than had been expected and should now be able to benefit financially off of the land so that the money could be used towards other, needier programs.

Lawnfield Health's (as was the town shorthand) turning point came when Hector Kohlman's parent's had him committed to their program under a mental health law that had been on the town charter since the 1800's, but hadn't been enforced in over a century. The law stated that any person who was willfully doing harm to themselves was automatically insane and could be committed against their will. Hector, who was 28 at this point, weighed in at 340 pounds and was five feet six inches. Hector was fat, yes, but he was happy. Perhaps if we were living in another era or a different culture, no one would have cared that Hector was as fat as he was, but in fitness crazy Lawnfield, it was like living next to a well-known cannibal and no one saying anything.

The matter for discussion was never whether of not 18 was the legal age for adulthood, it's at which age do you stop being a child? What age do you stop being a parent to your children Mr. and Mrs. Kohlman? This child needs help! The guilt had jumped from the billboards to the front lawn and Mr. and Mrs. Kohlman, perhaps if they were stronger people, made from better meddle than they were, perhaps they wouldn't have caved to the public perception of their son, taken it on as their own. They argued and pleaded with Hector to go the camp for weeks, but he remained steadfast. He liked himself. When they threatened to have him committed, he stopped talking to them, so they hired a lawyer (for his own good! they insisted) and took him to court.

Hector could not afford a lawyer, for while he worked and had his own apartment, there was not extra money for frivolous lawsuits brought on by his parents. His parents brought the case before Judge Jonathan Martin, himself a supporter of the Lawnfield Health and Wellness program for children. He saw the merit of the Kohlman's case and agreed that Hector was putting himself at undue risk and that this was a matter of protecting Hector from himself. After that, the floodgates opened, and men and women in their 20s and 30s were being sent by their middle-aged and elderly parents to fit camp. Lawnfield was able to stay open to live off the fat of the land for just a little bit longer.

Jeanette drew her lips close to the phone to blow her daughter a kiss when she heard the loud banging from the other end of her receiver.

"Abby, I gave them my set of your keys. Honey, I'm sorry."

Abby sat back down on the square oriental rug trying to figure out what her mother had just said when her front door swung open. Standing in the doorway were four men, veritable clones of each other. All of them were over six feet tall, had trim builds and dark hair. Only one stood out, he sported a closely-cropped beard. Out the corner of his mouth he held a hollowed out tube, a pea shooter. Abby looked at the prop confusingly until she ran her hand up to the side of her neck and felt the arrow sticking out. It had seemed too obvious that he would be the one in charge, his beard a badge of superiority above his men, but he made the first move to grab her. They said nothing and moved with precision. Each of them must have been assigned a quadrant beforehand, or maybe they always had they same part.

"Did you really have to fucking drug me?" she slurred at the officers, "I was already lying down. I was on the phone with my mother."

Abby was brought down the steps of her apartment building, a crowd of her neighbors had gathered near the truck that was waiting for her and the men at the curb.

"Well, it's the best thing for her," said Mrs. Spencer to Miss Whittier "can't do her any more harm than she's doing to herself already."

"Fuck you Mrs. Spencer, you dirty cunt! How can you just stand there?” Abby snarled as she was pushed into the back of the truck and driven away.

Night Shift

Luke’s shoulders remained stiff as he tripped over the curb in front of the Wellesley Hotel. He regained his posture in time to smile towards, but not directly at, the doorman in the grey wool coat as the door was held open. Striding past the front desk, he got to the gilded elevator just as the doors opened, revealing an empty car. He stepped in and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor, the penthouse. As the elevator rose, he cupped his hand to check the quality of his breath and fixed his collar in the reflection of the doors. By the time the elevator stopped, he deemed both satisfactory.

His client’s name was John. Luke wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be ironic or humorous. For him they were all named John anyway, except during the actual act, when they were babe or honey or whore or you dirty fucking slut. Most men usually came right out and told him what they preferred to be called while he was on top of them. For those that didn’t specify, Luke didn’t address them at all. He figured they preferred the sex to be impersonal. The anonymity was a bonus for Luke. His only concern was doing whatever it took to get them closer to opening their wallets and saying goodbye.

John was a lawyer or a doctor or a judge. Something he was awfully proud of, as he waxed wistfully about his days in school for about 20 minutes while Luke drank the champagne John had set out for him. After John finished his monologue, he asked Luke about himself. This was Luke’s cue to mention school and how he did this to pay for his education. In this version of himself, Luke had about a year and half left of classes and when he was done, really wanted to work with kids. This Luke loved children, had dreams of being a teacher. In truth, Luke hated kids. But no one wanted to hear that he had sex with strangers for cash because it was easier than getting an office job, where you have to dress like a monkey and kiss some moron’s ass all in the name of health insurance. Luke almost never got sick, and besides, no office manager was going to tell him that he was the best assistant they’d ever had and thank him profusely for one hour’s work.

John was an easy client, thirty minutes of passionless foreplay and mechanical sex after their conversation. He said he was impressed with Luke’s academic ambition and slipped him an extra hundred dollars for books. Within an hour of arriving, Luke was showered, out the door and heading towards the subway to drop off his receipts at the escort agency downtown.

As he rode the train, he read ads soliciting students for local colleges. They all offered promises of a better life through education. Luke thought it was all such bullshit. Why couldn’t they come right out and say that even if he did fork over the tuition, there was no promise of a better life? Like a course in paralegal studies meant a stellar future. How did these schools expect him to live while he was taking these classes anyway? He should put up his own ad. “Lay back and have fun while making more money than your neighbors. Negotiable hours and no experience needed.”

Before he moved to the city, he figured that he would wait tables or answer phones or something, whatever came up. He was confident that he could do pretty much anything. But after three weeks of looking for a job, he was still unemployed. He was told by potential employers that if he wanted to work in the city, he needed city experience. It was only on a night when he decided that drinking was more important than dinner, that he’d spend his daily ration of 10 dollars on a beer special at the local bar that he had met Andrew. Andrew, who offered to pay for Luke’s drinks with crisp twenty-dollar bills and laughed when Luke said that he’d get him back another time. Andrew was handsome in a movie star way, confident and sensual in his early thirties. It was he who introduced Luke to Peter, the man that was in charge of hiring new guys for the agency. After a few questions about Luke’s sexual inclinations, Peter took some photos of Luke naked, then sent him on his first call, to a regular who lived downtown. The guy ended up being friendly and seemed interested Luke’s recent relocation to the city. They had sex for only 20 minutes, and Luke left with an extra three-hundred dollars as a tip. From that day forward, Luke lost interest in seeking traditional employment.

The escort agency was located in midtown, a few blocks away from the tourist district. It was a one-bedroom apartment in an unassuming building. The bedroom usually housed one of the guys that was in from out of town, a man that the agency could rely on to be on call for an appointment at any hour. Luke stayed there himself for a while, after he ran out of friends' couches to crash on. It had a comfortable bed and the guys working the phones respected his privacy when the door was shut. The agency prohibited clients coming to the office, so it was more of a sanctuary from sex than a continuation of what he did while he was working.

After Luke handed in the credit card receipt from his call, he spent a few minutes chatting with the guy who was working the phones. His name was Paul, he was in his late twenties, had a good body, smooth caramel skin and a gravelly voice that could’ve sold sex even if he were reading the classifieds. In short, he was perfect for what management was looking for. Even if the clients never saw you, you had to be fuckable to work there.

Paul was stoned. He had a joint burning in the ashtray as he took a call, and said that selling the possibility of sex to clients was easier if he was already horny from the weed. It was still early, so Luke told Paul that he would stay on call until around 2am, but he would call when he went to sleep for the night, just to be sure. Luke was barely to the end of the street when Paul paged him. Figuring it’d be easier to get the details in person, he turned around and went back to the apartment. Luke got the location for the next call, an apartment in the lower-sixties on the east side, right near McAllister University. The client said that he would pay for a cab; he wanted someone right away.

Luke arrived at the client’s house within 20 minutes, and found himself on the doorstep of a brown stucco townhouse. He looked at his watch, estimated the amount of time it would take before he’d be home, and pressed the bell for the garden apartment. The door was opened by a tall handsome man in what Luke guessed was his late thirties, who introduced himself as Thomas. He had bright blue eyes hidden behind oval glasses and stubble that showed that he hadn’t shaved for a few days. After Luke called the agency to let them know he had arrived, Thomas led him directly into the bedroom. Evidently, he was in no mood for the small talk and pleasantries that had marked Luke’s other appointments.

There was a porn movie playing on the television, the haunches of the man on top filled the screen, his ass taking center stage. Thomas lay down on the bed, facing the screen and pushed Luke to his knees. As Luke took Thomas in his mouth, he heard moans from the TV behind him, not the normal grunts that he associated with gay adult films, but a higher pitched shriek. Was Thomas into straight porn? Luke didn’t want to turn around and see some girl on her knees, fake plastic tits cemented in place while some ugly middle-aged guy was ramming her from behind. The second shriek registered more clearly, it wasn’t a woman. Luke took his mouth off Thomas’s dick and looked at the screen. The kid, Luke guessed him to be around 6 years old, was crying on the screen as the older man laid him down to fuck him from the side. The boy's chestnut hair was trimmed into a bowlcut, and shook in rhythm to the man's thrusts. His fingers were gently laced over the boy’s mouth, slightly muffling the cries. Luke’s mouth dropped open as Thomas’s hand cupped the back of his head, pushing it back to work. Luke tried to pretend that there was nothing going on behind him, that it was just another fuck film, but the boy's screams grew louder and louder, competing with Luke's slurping noises for dominance. He'd have to finish Thomas off, he needed the money. But tomorrow he'd put his monkey suit back on and start looking for something better tomorrow, maybe something with health insurance.

Lonely Sons

Paul awoke to the sound of a beer can hitting his door. He swung his
arm over his head to shut off the impending alarm, rendering it
useless thanks to his father's early morning binges. Breakfast
alcoholics are more reliable than the clock he had bought for a dollar
at Mrs. Cafferty's garage sale anyway. Paul was used to waking up to
this way, his father's drinking had grown progressively worse since
his mother's death six years ago. For years it had been just the
three of them, Paul, his older brother Ricky and their father. But
Ricky had recently graduated from high school and spent most of his
days either at the beach with his friends or working down at the gas
station, where he spent most of his time smoking pot in the bathroom
the was off limits to customers. So it was mostly Paul and the old
man, competing for space in the cramped 3-room apartment that they
rented over Maria's Pizza. After his mom had died, Dad had sold the
house, claiming that men needed less space. Within a month, Paul had
lost his mother and his room. He missed the smell of both.


The old man hadn't worked in over three years, thanks to a condition
known as "his goddamn back" and his habit of showing up on the job
completely tanked. When Paul was younger, he regarded his father as a
mystery.