Big Words, Recycled Phrases, and the Bittersweet Taste of Other Boys on Your Lips

I sat in Starbucks waiting for one of my usual clients. I glanced up at the clock on the wall and sighed, glancing out the window. A few minutes later I heard the bell on the door ding and rushed footsteps, glancing up to see a familiar face. The man’s tie was tight around his neck, and he tugged on it until it loosened a bit. He nodded at me, and I got up, exiting the Starbucks with him by my side.

No, I don’t just wait on street corners for old men to come and give me a fifty. I’m classier than that. I use the internet. No, it’s not safe. Yes, I have been set up before, and the police have shown up. I’ve spent a night in jail. It’s all part of the job. I don’t sleep with men over 30 or younger than 18, and I have a strict pay before rule. I have a full scholarship at the local art school. Sure, it’s a lot tougher to get a job with an art degree, rather than a business degree, but I have other ways to make money. I’d rather be happy with what I’m doing and just have to do a little dirty work on the side.

We silently got in his car and he drove down to the familiar spot. He was one of the few guys who had the decency to pay for a hotel room. Even if it was one of those motels where tenants mysteriously went missing or were found hanging from the showerhead. Oh, and the ones that people take prostitutes to so their wives won’t find out. We did the usual routine in silence. We got out room, entered silently, and he slid off his wedding band, putting it in the drawer of the rickety nightstand next to the bed.

I glanced at it with no emotion. This is strictly business.

---

I don’t do what I do for sex. I don’t do what I do for drugs. I don’t do what I do for attention. I don’t do what I do for sympathy. I don’t do what I do for adventure.

My name is Parker Cane, and I do what I do, because I have to. No, I cannot just get a job. I can’t keep up a steady enough schedule. Would I live like this if I only had to take care of myself? No way. I wouldn’t mind wasting away to nothing, if I only had to look after myself. It’s for my brother, Zach.

Mom told me one thing before she left us, ‘Don’t let anything happen to Zachary, no matter what’. I’m not going to let her down.

---

I got home and set the groceries on the counter, “Zach?” I called.

“What?” He snapped, head popping out from the bedroom.

“I’m gonna make dinner, spaghetti okay?”

“Fine, I’m going over to Brendon’s house.”

“Will you eat this left over?” I sighed, setting the can of spaghetti sauce down on the counter.

He shrugged.

“Alright, well if you get home tomorrow and I’m not here, leftover’s are in the fridge, alright?”

He gave me a look that clearly said, ‘Why are you still talking to me?’, before he turned and headed back to the other room, pulling his shoes on.

“See ya!” I called as he exited, ignoring my goodbye. I sighed and glanced around.

Zach and I don’t get along much. He’s been ashamed of me ever since I didn’t have time to change before picking him up from school back when he was in eighth grade. He tries to stay over at friend’s houses as much as possible. He’d rather be anywhere than our two room one bath apartment out in the less than not safe area of town.

The last thing I want to do is sit in this boring apartment and stare at the walls. I cooked dinner and ate silently, before pulling on my long winter jacket and grabbing my over sized messenger bag. I exited the apartment, sliding the key under the doormat. There’s nothing to steal in there anyway.

I began a the long walk down to my favorite place. I entered and slid off my jacket, silently taking a seat on one of the old couches lined up against the wall, pulling my feet up next to me and grabbing my sketch pad out of my bag as I adjusted to the music.

This place never really opened or closed. It didn’t have a list of hours and no one really knew who owned it, there are rumors that whoever wants to just comes, sets up and plays their music. What I liked most about it was that it wasn’t a bunch of teenage boys bringing their wanna be rock bands up on stage and playing obnoxiously loud and, not to mention, bad music. It’s mostly a quiet, calm environment. Sometimes they have poetry readings, other nights it’s a little country girl who’s good enough to be the next LeAnn Rimes. I like the surprise of whatever’s next. I like not knowing.

---

I’d been sitting on the couch, doodling whatever popped into my head. I’d been working on a sketch and paused glancing at it, and erasing a spot where my pencil had just barely slipped and made a wrong mark. If I hadn’t paused to switch pencils, I probably wouldn’t have noticed a guy falling onto the opposite side of the couch, huffing and squirming until he got comfortable. He sighed again a few minutes later. Not a content sigh, more of an annoyed or upset sigh.

“What’s up?” I asked the guy, glancing up at him briefly, before going back to what I was drawing. He paused, and I glanced up at him again, watching me curiously. I continued drawing, waiting for him to answer.

“My brother doesn’t like me to be alone.” He sighed, leaning back.

“Aren’t you a bit old to be listening to what your brother tells you?” I responded, furrowing my eyebrows as I worked on shading in a spot on the girl’s shirt where a wrinkle was causing a shadow.

“It’s weird. He’s younger than me, but for some reason he’s always taken care of me. I mean, I guess it goes both ways, we kind of hold eachother together.” He sighed again.

I shrugged, “Dysfunctional family?” I mumbled.

“Eh, not so much,” He muttered, “Our parents are supportive and our Grandma is even more so, but we’ve always been close. We just understand eachother.”

“Well that’s good.” I said, still not looking up from what I was working on, “It’s good to be close to your family, especially your siblings.”

“Yeah,” He shrugged, “And I know he wants what’s best for me, but I think what’s bugging me most is that I know that I can’t trust myself alone.”

“Wait, you lost me.” I told him, pausing to lift my head and glance at him, “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing anymore.”

“Oh,” He muttered, “When I turned twenty one I started drinking. It got kind of addicting. Then I fell into some other stuff,” He paused, “I’m clean now. Mikey’s making sure he keeps me that way, and I guess that’s just the way it’s always been. I’ve always been a little out of my head so Mikey makes sure I’m alright.”

“Mikey’s your brother?” I asked, pausing to glancing up at him again, this time just out of the corner of my eyes.

“Yeah,” He nodded, “Hey, you’re really pretty, y’know?” He offered. I glanced up at him with a blank face, before looking back down and continuing sketching, digging the charcoal in a little harder as I outlined the sharp edge of the buildings.

“Sorry, I’m off duty. I hope you didn’t just waste that conversation-”

“What?” The guy squinted.

I glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I didn’t mean anything by that.” He shook his head, “I just, nevermind.”

“Sorry.” I laughed, “Maybe some other time.”

“Wait, now I’m confused.” He sighed. I glanced over at him and laid my sketchpad flat on my lap, putting the pencil back down in the pencil pouch.

“That’s okay, so am I.” I mumbled.

I reached into my pencil pouch, grabbing my blender and trying to shade it enough so you could tell where the streetlight was hitting and where the darkness fell. I moved over to the woman, trying to get her face to look just right.

“That’s good.” The guy said, and I turned to see him leaning over a bit.

“Thanks.” I sighed, glancing down to the picture picture. It didn’t have much detail, it was mostly silhouettes and shadows. It was sketched so it looked as though you were looking down through and alley, to the street that connects to it. A man on a dirty street with his hand stretched out towards a passing woman. The woman pausing mid step, eyes lingering a bit, too long. The street was empty except for them. The streetlights casting glows down onto the pavement.

“-on?” I caught the end of the guy’s sentence.

“Sorry, what?” I asked, glancing up at him.

“What are they doing? Does the man know her? What’s going on?”

I raised an eyebrow, “What do you think is going on.”

“Well, it’s a bit hard to tell, because they’re just shadows. They don’t have facial features, but I think,” He paused, “Maybe the guy did something stupid and they just got done arguing, or, wait, he could be holding something out to her in his hand, right there. Maybe she dropped her wallet, or he’s giving her his number. Oh, wait, no,” He shook his head, “The girl is moving on. She just got the leading role in a play on Broadway. She’s moving on,” He repeated, “To bigger and better things. The man is holding his arm out, pleading for her to stay. He loves her, but see there,” He pointed to her legs, “She’s walking away. She feels like her future is the best choice and she shouldn’t wait around, wasting her time with a summer love. She knows deep down that the love they share is real, and rare, but she doesn’t want to believe it, so she’s walking away.” He trailed off, staring at the sketch for a few more moments.

“You know,” I started, “You can tell a lot about a person by how they interpret art. It’s kind of like ink blots. You see what you want to see.” I paused, “You see what you know.”

“I know.” He smiled, “I’m in art school.”

I laughed a little.

“But what about you, what do you see?” He asked.

“I see a pretty girl. Though her outward appearance seems composed and put together, inside she’s a mess.” I muttered, “A guy offers her money for sex, she’s a courtesan, a harlot.” I paused, “She lingers a little too long and decides she needs the money.”

“You know,” the guy started in the same soft tone I’d been talking in, “You can tell a lot about a person by how they interpret art.”

“I know,” I copied him, “I’m in art school.”

“Wait,” He squinted, “Are you just saying that, or are you really?”

“No, I really go.” I shrugged.

“Oh, cool, me too.” He nodded. I copied him, growing silent. These are the parts of conversations I hate. The familiarity. Getting to know someone. I prefer talking to strangers, not friends.

“Well, it’s been fun,” I started, closing my sketchpad and slipping it into my messenger bag along with my pencil pouch, “I have to head home now, though.”

“Oh,” He muttered, standing as well, “Nice talking to you.” He offered.

“You, too.” I nodded, sliding my coat onto my shoulders and turning to leave.

“Wait,” He called, “I never got a name.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I shrugged, “Names don’t signify who we are.” I gave a small smile, and left, walking slowly down the road and turning into my apartment. The key was still under the doormat untouched, and I unlocked the door, heading inside and putting my stuff down on the counter.