Burning Up

In the afternoons José plays back messages on a grey answering machine, appointments to confirm with Johns by telephone. He likes to think he can tell apart a pervert from a psychopath from such brief exchanges. “It’s the friendly ones you need to worry about,” he says, “the ones with time on their hands and too much hate in their lives.” The boss doesn’t allow turning down clients on suspicion alone, but sometimes you have to for your own safety. Last week he slammed shut and locked the door between him and a drunk with a hard and vacant stare. 

“You can lock the door behind them after they’ve paid you,” the boss had said to him after he explained why he was short from the appointment. “The guy was a creep. He was a drunk, he wouldn’t have paid even if he strangled me,” José had shouted. 

“I pay for the room and I pay for the phone. You get the fee for each appointment and then you do what you want but you make sure you get the money or else you’re on the street, you hear me!”

José passes other men on the sidewalk: black, Jewish, Hispanic. He’s careful not to bump into them. Eyes follow him from shop fronts; a group of school boys stand around laughing at each other, become quiet when he passes then settle their eyes on his leather clad back as he crosses the street and turns the corner. He wonders what it will be tonight: another fat married slob eating fried chicken in the parking lot or a wired limp degenerate expecting to be blown all night like a balloon with a hole in it. Not much better than getting fucked till it feels like your insides gonna fall out. Or is it? Maybe the gang could put a hole in the boss’s head? José believes he could be an asset. 

“Never rip off your boss,” the tallest one in the gang warns. “You’ll be first in line for questioning and besides, you want to keep your face, don’t you? You’re always going to lose working for a man like that. He’s never worked the streets himself. If you hustle for us we’ll always have your back.”

José is nodding, nodding as he burns up dope off tinfoil and chases the smoke. It makes the living room smell like something’s been electrocuted.

When he stirs, he becomes aware of the silence in the room. He strains to hear if there is any movement in the kitchen down the hall. His curiosity cannot rouse him from the foreign couch. He turns his back to the living room. He ignores the phone when it rings then hears a rasping voice coming from the machine. 

“They said I could find you here. I’m coming over.”

When he hears the voice at the door, José rises as if possessed. He rubs at his eyes, tears them open, checks in the mirror to see if they are there. He runs his hands through his dark hair, flings himself around and opens the door for a plumb man with balding red hair.  José’s clothes are being tucked at urgently then peeled off till only his feet remain uncovered in grey socks. The dumbstruck middle aged man drops to José’s feet looking up at his taught tan body.  José squeals with laughter as the gang emerges from the shadow of the hallway. The imbecile of a man is thrusting his face into José crotch like an overzealous lap dog giddy from its owner. The other three dark skinned men loom behind him. José closes his eyes to the whimpering stranger.