THE balmy, sunny days of June that the inhabitants fondly believed represented summer in the city gradually gave way to the far less pleasant reality of the season. By the end of July, the dog days had begun in earnest, and the city stewed in unrelenting heat and humidity that continued day and night without relief. The only difference that marked the night from the day was the absence of the hazy sun shining through the smog covering the city. At night the moon's feeble glow couldn't even penetrate that.
It was just getting dark when Mike left the drop-in centre. He'd had a shower and his hair clung still damp to his head. He'd combed it back behind his ears, hoping it would dry that way. He hadn't been able to get it any drier with the towel. His hair hung almost to his shoulders, but at least it was long enough that it didn't fall onto his face that much. It was Saturday night and it was time to make some money.
He was wearing an undershirt and his jacket hung from one finger over his shoulder. He had been mad when he couldn't find another t-shirt in the clothing exchange to put on after his shower. The old one was dirty and smelled; he'd had it on for four days. The undershirt hugged his torso and showed his broad chest and flat stomach to good effect, or so the whistles he had gotten from some of the other kids at the centre told him. One of the girls had said he looked good. He had felt like a total fag, but he knew he was hot.
Even though it was Saturday and just around the right time, he was sure that there wouldn't be much action with the ladies on Yonge because of the heat. They'd all be at home with their air conditioners watching TV, not out with their girlfriends for dinner or dancing. He decided to give it a try anyway, and turned north at the corner. He felt a trickle of sweat run down the middle of his back along his spine.
"What a fucking place," he thought. "Three months ago, I was freezing my ass off and now it's like being in a friggin' oven. Why can't it ever be just right?"
Mike stopped after a couple of blocks and leaned against a hydrant. A few doors to his left was a strip club. He'd never been in it, but it looked really classy from the outside. The pictures of the dancers were pretty hot too. He heard they turned tricks, but they never had to walk the streets to find a date like the girls he knew. Off to his right was a new bar. It had only been open a few weeks, but he didn't remember what had been there before. The whole front of the building had been renovated, all plate glass from floor to ceiling, even the door. The glass was smoky, almost brown, and beyond a few chairs and a table in the window, all you could see of the inside from the street were shining points of brightness floating in the air where fancy lights hung down from the ceiling. Whenever the door opened, Mike heard snatches of "Call Me," which was very cool, or "Cars," or some other popular song playing very loudly. He knew that if he had a car, he'd just drive and drive and you wouldn't see his ass for dust. He'd go and he'd never stop. He wouldn't be running away; he was just bored with life there in the city.
He slowly looked back and forth between the doors of the strip club and the bar. He was waiting for someone to come out. It didn't matter if it was a man or a woman, as long as they were alone. If it was a chick, he'd try his luck. If it was a guy, he might get some change or a cigarette. You never knew, though. Sometimes those guys might be worth a try; you had to check them out anyway. One of the problems with weekends was that most of the time when you saw a chick, she was with someone. There wasn't even any point in trying when they were with a guy, and nine times out of ten, if they were with their friends, it was just as bad.
He flipped his jacket off his shoulder and fished for his cigarettes and lighter. After lighting one, he put them back and tied the arms of the jacket around his waist. He was getting tired of holding it. He ran his fingers back through his hair. It was a little bit drier, but it was still warm and damp, only now it wasn't just the water from the shower. He was sweating enough just standing there that his hair would't dry for another couple of hours unless he got in somewhere with air conditioning. He continued to wait and watch.
He took a last drag on his cigarette and flipped it into the gutter behind him. He looked down and brushed some ash from his undershirt. Even the undershirt was damp and clung to his skin. He tried an experiment and flexed his abs. Nothing. He ran his hand over his stomach to smooth the material against his skin and tried again. He smiled when he saw the hint of muscle through the fabric.
A heavy-set middle aged man stepped out of the strip club and stopped to light a cigarette. He looked around like he was trying to figure out what to do next. He'd probably just had a lap dance but that didn't mean he was ready to go home and do his weekly duty with his wife yet. The man turned down the street toward Mike. Mike pulled out another cigarette in preparation. He only had two more. He needed to turn a trick fast.
"'Scuse me. Got a light?" The man didn't say anything, but he stopped in front of Mike.
Mike got to his feet and felt the undershirt tug against his skin as he straightened up. The man pulled out a lighter. It was a real one, the kind you had to fill with lighter fluid.
"Hot tonight, eh?" Mike tried, but the man dropped the lighter back into his pocket and walked on.
A half-dozen teenagers walked by, laughing and talking loudly. He looked at the girls chattering back and forth and smiling at each other and the boys with them. Some of them were carrying bags from the record place a few blocks down the street. He stared at one of the girls. She noticed him but looked away after an instant. He kept staring at her with a hard smile on his face, daring the boy whose arm she took to do something about it. The group passed him by and took no further notice of him. Mike looked back toward the bar.
The door to the bar opened three times in five minutes. The first time, a man and a woman came out. The next two times, it was groups of three or four young women. They were all happy and a little drunk, and probably heading off to a club. It was so dead. Mike stood up and walked along to the corner. He waited through a couple of green lights before he crossed. He didn't have to hurry. While he was standing there he reached for a cigarette, but pulled his hand back from his pocket when he remembered he only had two left. On the third green he crossed the street and turned back south.
He walked slowly down the street a couple of blocks. He crossed at the next lights and kept walking. When he came to a small side street, he turned into the relative darkness after the neon glare of Yonge Street. There were a lot of boys there already, all in waiting on the track. He didn't care though. He'd get his turn. He walked along the wall of the building to his right until he found some space. He leaned up against the bricks. They were warm, almost hot, on his bare shoulders. There was a guy ten feet to either side of him. They were waiting too. Mike reached down and unzipped his jeans about an inch and pulled a bit of his undershirt out through his fly.
He wanted a cigarette. After about five cars and no luck, he finally lit one. There was only one more left. It was still hot even though the sun had been down for a while. Every time he moved his arms he could feel the sweat run down his sides. Even his sweat was hot.
He had to be patient, but it was a different kind of patient when you were on the track. There, you just stood and waited. When you were working the street, you had to wait for the next customer, sure, but you were always looking. On the track, at least, they came looking for you. All you had to do was wait.
There wasn't a lot of walk-in business on the street; in fact, there was barely any. There you waited for the cars to cruise by nice and slow with their windows down. As they inched by, you bent down to try and make eye contact. If they stopped, you went over and got in. Every time a car turned onto the narrow street, Mike waited his turn to bend down and peer into the car window, wondering if it would stop for him. As other boys drove off or drifted away to look for something better and new ones showed up, he gradually moved further down the street.
He'd heard arguments among some of the other guys at the centre. Some said the far end was the best patch. No one was going to drive round the block to try again, so the further along you were, the more chance you had to score. Other ones said it was best closest to Yonge street where it was lightest. If you were half-way decent, the johns knew what they were getting and you got lucky. Mike looked at the whole thing practically; he knew that if a guy was buying sex, he was more likely to want a good look at what was on sale before buying, but Mike had always had a bit better luck at the far end of the street. He wasn't going to fight anyone for space if it was already crowded down there, though.
He was eventually far enough down the street that he could no longer hear the cars turning in. He kept watching for the glow of headlights out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't be bothered looking up until the cars were in front of him. Another car crept along the street. One by one, the boys to his left bobbed down to look inside. Mike peered into the car when it passed him. On Mike's right, two or three more boys waited their turn. The car stopped a few feet past Mike before the next boy in line got to try his luck.
Mike walked slowly across the sidewalk and leaned on the edge of the open window. He gave a very small smile. The driver looked him over from the shadows inside.
"What have you got?" came the driver's voice out of the darkness. Mike couldn't even see the man's mouth moving just three feet away.
"Give you a hand-job for ten. Suck it for twenty."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah."
"Get in."
Mike got in. He didn't do up the seatbelt. It wasn't like he was going anywhere when he went for a ride, just somewhere-after a couple of minutes, you'd pull into parking lot, an empty side street, or maybe even a lane. Once the parking brake went on, he'd be out of the car in ten minutes with money in his pocket.
He knew it was dangerous getting into a stranger's car, but not as dangerous as going back to someone's apartment. Sometimes one of the other guys got hurt, but Mike knew he could take care of himself now. That was one reason he'd started giving drivers just two choices. He wasn't getting into the backseat and he wasn't dropping his pants.
Mike knew he'd been really lucky, except that one time a couple of years ago. The guy tried to force him and he fought back. He didn't know what he ended up doing; all he remembered was struggling in the dark till one punch connected, the guy howled, and Mike pushed the door open. He ran three blocks before stopping to throw up, he had been so scared. The front of his t-shirt was covered in blood. His lucky shot must have broken the guy's nose.
Mike went for a few more rides in the next couple of hours. He never went far, so he didn't waste any time getting back to work. After his first trip, he stopped off at a corner store to buy cigarettes and some gum.
A few hours later Mike was six blocks away. It was past 11:30; he'd seen the time on a clock in the window of a store he passed after he decided to move on from the track. He'd waited at least half an hour and two cigarettes for his last ride. The cars trolling along the dark street had become less and less frequent. After his last trick, he thought it was a good time to start looking for people heading home alone after striking out at the bars in the Village. He had most of a pack of cigarettes, some gum and almost $40 in his pocket. He might still make another forty bucks that night and he was feeling lucky.
He picked out his spot carefully. It was between the top of the Village and the nearest subway station, but far enough from both that it was not very busy with pedestrians. He wasn't looking for people just out for a walk. He sat down on a concrete garden wall and turned to face the Village. He was only interested in people who had given up after a couple of hours and a few drinks and were heading home. He thought of them as the losers and himself as their last chance. They were getting a bargain, and he wasn't ashamed of it. For what it cost to buy some stranger a couple of drinks, they could still score, even if they hadn't had any luck in the bars.
It was still hot despite the hour, but not as bad as it had been earlier in the evening. Even though it was more bearable, Mike pulled his undershirt over his head and tucked it into the waist at the back of his jeans. He retied his jacket around his hips and waited. The sultry air was was only slightly more comfortable on his bare chest and back, but it was still better than the damp undershirt had been. At any rate, his primary motivation was to advertise. He knew he was in good shape.
He looked down at his this bare forearms as he held them out and slowly twisted them, watching the muscles move under the skin. He wanted to get a tattoo. There were some very cool ones, but the ones he liked were out of his price range. What he really wanted was a biker tattoo or a chick on a Harley. Not too big, just big enough for one of his forearms or up near his shoulder.
A lot of the guys he knew had home-made tatts. Most of them were usually pretty lame, but a couple of the boys had some handsome ones. They were all pretty simple: names, a dagger, a cross or a scroll, something like that. There was one guy he saw at the centre a lot. He had a great one of a knife stuck through a scroll at the top of his left forearm. Maybe he's ask him about it the next time he saw him. If he'd done it himself, maybe he'd do one for Mike for a few bucks. It wouldn't hurt to ask. If he got a scroll like that though, he wanted something written on it, but he had no idea what he wanted it to say.
Mike lit another cigarette and kept waiting. He tried to make eye-contact with every guy who passed by heading for the subway. It was slow but steady, and people were getting tired, especially the older guys. Right across the street from him was a lane that ran several blocks to the south. At the other end of the lane, across the street, there was a bathhouse. If he scored big-time fast, he'd be able to make forty bucks or more and have a shower. He had showered only four hours before, but he hadn't stopped sweating since.
"Mike!"
Mike turned his head. One of his friends was walking toward him. She sat down on the wall beside him and bummed a smoke.
"Hi. Taking a break?"
"Fuck yeah. I've been walking for three hours now."
"No dates?"
"Just one. But only behind the hotel. Probably some jerk staying there. How about you?"
"Just hanging."
"Right. No dirty old men want to diddle Mikey tonight?"
"Fuck off."
She laughed. She knew Mike hustled. Mike knew she knew. But guys didn't talk about it. The girls did, but they only ever bragged or complained about how good or bad business was. The only time a guy might say anything, it was to another guy, and that was usually just to ask for tips or to warn him to stay away from a creep in a red car or something like that.
Mike didn't really know how it was with girls, but he did know they all tried to have their own beat, and chased any other hooker off their turf. It wasn't like that with the guys. There might be twenty of them strung out along Breadalbane, but when it was slow, they'd talk and smoke and joke around. The girl dropped her cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it out with the toe of her sandal, then took her time reapplying her lipstick before she stood up.
"See you later, Mike."
"Later."
Mike looked back along the street to the Village. Potential dates fell into three groups. There were the young guys, mostly not much older than Mike. They couldn't score because they were too fat or ugly or just too shy. They'd always meet his eyes when he looked at them, but he knew none of them would ever pick him up. Some tried, but when they found out it would cost them, they backed off. They just didn't have the money, no matter how much they wanted him.
Then there were the ones who were a little older. These were the guys who were just starting to deal with the fact that they couldn't score as much in the bars anymore. They wanted it, but they still weren't going to pay for it. In their own minds, and in Mike's, that would make them losers twice over. Mike could sometimes score with one if he played his cards right. It was almost like with chicks. Feed them a story. He hadn't eaten, he needed money for a place to stay, anything, and he might make five or ten bucks off them. Even if he gave them service, and that wasn't often, it was still charity in their eyes; they weren't paying for the sex.
The last group was the one Mike wanted to see tonight. They were old enough that they were starting to strike out in the bars too, but had the money and were willing to spend it. These were the guys who'd invite you back to their place or take you to a bathhouse. They were usually forty bucks, easy, sometimes more.
Mike watched a man approach from far down the block. He was big like a football player and solid. As he got closer, Mike saw that the man was wearing a black biker tee and boots with his jeans. A real tough guy. Mike smiled at that. He knew all about these guys, but he couldn't take them seriously. They were just fags, but they liked to show how macho they were. Mike didn't think any guy, even if he was a real biker, was macho when he was on his knees in an alley. Mike noticed a mean tattoo on the man's arm. He thought that it was very cool and wished he could see it better.
Mike never took his eyes off the man the whole time. He was staring, but the man wouldn't even meet his gaze, and didn't glance in his direction once. Mike was a little pissed off. He'd already marked this guy as a trick in his mind, so the man had better start acting like one. Then, just a few steps away from Mike, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and lit a cigarette. He looked up and held the open pack out to Mike. Mike took a cigarette and smiled. This guy was a joker.
"How's the action been?"
"Not bad," Mike said, adding "you asshole" under his breath. He was a real smart guy, but Mike knew that he'd already as good as scored. He didn't have to work up to it and he didn't have to sell the idea. He just had to sell himself. The man knew what he wanted, and Mike would give it to him. All that was left to do was arrange the details and name the price.
Mike looked the man up and down and sized him up. He didn't look like your typical loser. He wasn't bad looking, and even if he didn't look like a body builder, he wasn't fat either. He knew from the girls that there were 'regulars.' Those were men who didn't want to fool around in bars or have a girlfriend or wife for whatever reason, but who still wanted to get laid on a regular basis. Some of them were younger, some were older. All they seemed to have in common was that they knew they wanted sex, didn't want to play games, and were willing to pay. He wondered if there were gay guys like that. He knew that some of them were into pretty freaky shit. Maybe some of them got off on hustlers.
The man hadn't moved on, but he still hadn't said another word. Mike was surprised to find out he was starting to get nervous. He didn't want to let this guy get away. If he could swing this, he'd double the money in his pocket, get a shower, and maybe even get something to eat at an all-night restaurant after it was over. He didn't consider for a moment that the trick would invite him back to his place. That didn't seem to fit in with any kind of tough guy scene.
The big man stepped closer and looked down on Mike. He was moving in for more privacy in their conversation, and Mike understood that, but he didn't like how close the man was. Mike was forced to look up, and with that, the man seemed to fill his whole field of vision. It would have been a lot easier if the guy had just sat down beside him to talk
"You queer, kid?"
"No."
"Why are you selling your ass then?"
Mike gave him a crooked smile and narrowed his eyes.
"That's not what I'm selling."
The man smiled back down at him. Mike saw the skin around his eyes crinkle. The guy really seemed to think it was funny.
"Yeah, that's what all the straight boys say. You still haven't answered my question, kid."
Mike looked up at him. He didn't mind playing games, but this guy talked too much.
"I need the money."
"Do you have a girlfriend, straight boy?"
"Yeah."
Mike was starting to think it was getting stupid.
"When was the last time you fucked her?"
Mike was ready to stand up and walk away. This wasn't worth the trouble.
"Thursday. We partied. Then we got it on," he answered sarcastically.
The man smiled again. Mike began to think that this was going to turn into some kind of kinky shit and he didn't want any part of it. He started to stand up, but the man put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. Mike looked up angrily and balled his fists even as he shrugged the hand away.
"Relax, kid. We aren't finished yet."
Mike was no longer even trying to smile, and he was not interested in this guy anymore, but before he could speak, the man went on.
"How much?"
Mike looked away and rolled his eyes. When he turned back toward the older man, he said without hesitation, "Sixty bucks."
"You must be pretty good for sixty bucks. What do I get for my money?"
Mike was tempted to be smart and try to embarrass the guy into leaving by being as crude as possible, but the man hadn't batted an eye at the price. Mike told him what the money would get him in general terms.
"You got a place?" was the man's only response.
Mike cocked his head and said no, but that there was a place nearby where they could go. He stood up and pointed down the lane-way across the street.
"It's down there a couple of blocks."
The big man looked around over his shoulder.
"That's just what I had in mind."
The man started to turn to cross the street, but Mike didn't move. When the man looked back, Mike rubbed his thumb against the side of his forefinger. The man frowned and came back. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bunch of bills and put three twenties into Mike's hand.
"Move your ass."
Mike followed him across the road and into the dark alley.
Mike untied his jacket and pulled it on but left his undershirt hanging down the back of his pants. It wasn't cool in the lane, but it didn't feel as hot as it still did on the street. As they went deeper down the alley, Mike could smell the unseen bags of garbage piled behind restaurants. He wanted to get back onto the street again. The man was a few steps ahead of him. Mike decided that this was going to be it for the night. After it was over, he was going to head back to the centre for a cup of coffee and to see who came in. He might get a tip on a party. With almost a hundred bucks in his pocket, he could even make his own party.
About half-way through the lane to the next cross-street, the man in front of him slowed down and came to a stop just past a dumpster. Mike was annoyed.
"What's the matter? The bathhouse is still two blocks that way," Mike said, jerking his chin to show the direction ahead.
"I'm not paying for some little room in a bathhouse. This is good enough. I'm not going to take all night. Get over here."
Mike scowled. If the guy wanted to do it there, he didn't care. He was getting fed up, and even the money in his pocket didn't help. He just wanted to get it over with as fast as he could. The guy was a freak. Mike could have a shower at the drop-in centre after. He'd be there in another half an hour. That's all that mattered right now. He walked toward where the man was standing, passed him, turned around to face him and waited.
The man stepped toward Mike. He reached out to put his hand flat on his chest and pushed him slowly into the shadows behind the dumpster until Mike felt the brick wall against his back. The man kept moving closer until Mike was pinned there by his body. He slid his hands under Mike's jacket and ran them over his sides, belly and chest. Mike didn't need to do anything yet and just waited.
The man leaned into Mike's chest and buried his face against the side of his neck. Mike could feel the man's hot breath on his skin. He still didn't need to do anything. He waited. The man pulled one hand out from under Mike's jacket and almost stroked his hair, but a second later, his fingers closed and he jerked Mike's head back as his other hand reached down and grabbed Mike's crotch through his jeans. Mike's whole body tensed as he gasped in pain and tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
"Not so fucking hard!"
The man didn't answer. He twisted his fingers tighter into Mike's hair and forced his head around. He pushed his mouth up against Mike's.
"Fuck! I hate that," Mike thought. He clenched his teeth and tried to twist his head away, but the man's fingers in his hair tightened again and stopped him from moving more than a fraction of an inch. He felt the man's tongue on his lips and cheek. Suddenly the man released his grip and Mike relaxed.
The man gave a low laugh. "I guess you weren't lying. You must be straight. I guess you really are a stud after all."
"I told you I was. Now do you want to do this or what?"
The man stepped back from Mike smiling and unbuckled his belt. He reached up and caressed Mike's cheek with his fingers. He ran them down his throat and slowly continued back until he reached the nape of his neck. Suddenly, he grabbed the collar of Mike's jacket and jerked him off balance, forcing him down onto his knees.
"This asshole doesn't know what he wants," Mike thought as he got on with it. "Why is he so rough? Is that his thing? I should have asked for a hundred for this kind of crap." He got to work as the man directed.
"I wouldn't mind so much if the bastard at least got a fucking room at the bathhouse," Mike went on in his head, his body working without his conscious direction. "But if this is all he wants, why'd he pay sixty bucks?"
The man was enjoying himself, but Mike was not. It was too rough, and the fingers of both the man's hands were now tangled in his hair. The man was controlling Mike's every move, using him. Mike was having trouble catching his breath, and he gagged a couple of times, but he knew it was almost over. The guy was almost there. The spit started to run out of his mouth and down his chin. He was going to throw up if it wasn't over soon. Just as suddenly, without warning, the man grabbed the shoulder of Mike's jacket and pulled him to his feet.
"Turn around, stud," the man ordered.
Mike didn't move. He just stared back at the man in the dark.
"I told you I don't do that shit."
The man's face darkened and he grabbed the front of Mike's jacket with both hands. He slammed the boy hard against the wall. He reached down and started fumbling with Mike's belt. Mike had been taken by surprise, but he had not been hurt. He started to fight back. He was smart, but not smart enough to know that he should have tried to get away.
He was no match for the bigger man. This wasn't playing out some scene anymore. Maybe this is what the man was really paying for, the chance to beat on some punk. Mike tried to make enough room to throw a punch. When Mike's struggles started to make the man mad, he closed his hand around the boy's throat and squeezed.
"Fuck. He's too strong," Mike thought in rising panic. He still struggled, but the man forced him back against the wall and lifted. It was almost as if he were trying to straight-arm a 140 pound dead weight up the wall.
The man was grinning now, and loosened his grip on Mike's throat. Mike reached up and tried to pull the hand away. The man didn't resist, but the hand didn't move.
The big man's grin darkened into anger once more, and he tightened his fingers again.
"You fucking little faggot," he whispered, "You make me sick."
Still holding Mike by the throat, he pulled him forward slowly, almost gently, until their faces were less than a foot apart. Then his arm shot out straight and smashed Mike's head into the bricks. He let go. Mike slowly slid down the wall onto the ground, just like in the movies. He wanted to get up and run more than anything in his whole life. He would have crawled away if he were able, but he couldn't move.
Later, Mike opened his eyes. He didn't move his head. He was lying on his back on the ground. He didn't hear anyone near him. The john must have gone. Mike was happy. Happiness was relative, and he was happy. He tried to figure out what had happened. He remembered the guy banging his head against the wall and letting him fall to the ground when he let go of him, but there was more after that.
He'd worked Mike over. Mike remembered being backhanded across the face as he lay on the ground and tasting blood after the vicious blow. That was when he stopped caring. He'd been on the edge when he'd hit the ground, but the blow across his jaw just made him stop feeling anything. He remembered more blows, punches, and even a kick. He dimly remembered noticing the guy wasn't on top of him anymore. He was just standing there. That's when he'd kicked him. He didn't remember feeling the kick, though. He thought it was to his left side. He'd have to check. Later he'd look and see if there was a bruise.
Maybe that's when the guy left. Maybe he thought he had killed Mike, but Mike began to recall that there had been more after that. The man had felt him up. No, that wasn't it. He'd patted him down, just like the cops did. Mike had never been arrested, but he'd seen it happen. Maybe the guy was a cop. No. Cops didn't give you sixty bucks for a blow job in a lane-way. Mike closed his eyes again and went to sleep for a little while.
When he woke up, he still didn't move. He looked up at the sky. The sheet of overcast above the city was an iridescent yellow-grey reflecting the lights of the city below. It looked very soft. It hung there above him, a smooth oblong mattress framed by the black walls of the lane-way on either side. He knew that clouds weren't really soft. They weren't like cotton balls. They were just mist. He'd learned that somewhere. They still looked very soft. He thought that maybe he should be angry now, but he wasn't. He knew he'd be angry later. First, he wanted to sit up.
He pushed himself off the ground until he was supported on his arms stretched out behind him. There was something sharp under one hand. It hurt. He pushed himself further up. His head fell forward even as his back straightened. He heard two streetcars pass somewhere behind him. He knew there were two. The drivers rang their bells when they passed each other. After the streetcars were gone, the sound of the cars and trucks seemed so much quieter. A motorcycle went by, roaring away into the distance. He was finished for tonight. No more tricks. He needed to sleep. His head hurt. He didn't want to party. He remembered he had wanted to, but now he didn't. He'd better get to Joe's. He hoped Joe was home.
Mike started to make preparations to get to his feet. His side hurt as he stood up. He'd have to have a look at it later. His lips felt funny, almost as if they didn't fit him anymore. He reached up and touched his lower lip very gingerly. It stung where his finger probed. It was grossly swollen. He tasted blood. He moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth and found something small and hard. He spat it out. As he closed his mouth, his tongue came in contact with the broken stump of a tooth near the front of his mouth. It was pointed and very sharp.
"Fuck," he thought.
He reached up and patted his jacket, trying to find his cigarettes. He pulled the pack out of his pocket. It was crushed almost flat, but it was still half full. He found his lighter and lit one. He stuffed the lighter into the half-empty box and put it back into his jacket. He thought he should be scared or something. He wasn't. He'd feel it later. Right now, he was going to finish his cigarette and just stare vacantly at the ground in front of him for a while. It was hard to take a drag with his swollen lips. The paper of the cigarette stuck to the blood drying where the lower one was split open. When he finished his cigarette, he'd go to Joe's. Joe would let him crash.
"He'll let me sleep there tonight. Unless the fuck-hole is still out partying," he thought to himself.
He started to come around more. He realised that he knew what had happened to him now without even trying to remember it. Some big asshole had beat the shit out him. He wondered why he didn't care yet. Shouldn't he be mad now?
Mike started to walk. Nothing new hurt. When he lifted his eyes ahead toward the street, something looked funny. He reached up and found that his left eye was swollen almost shut. Why hadn't he noticed that already? That was why he couldn't see properly. He started to walk toward the street ahead. He'd be at Joe's in ten minutes. The fucker had better be there, he thought.
Just before he stepped out of the lane, he reached for his cigarettes again. He pulled one out of the crushed pack and stuck it in his mouth. He slipped the box back into his jacket pocket and felt around for his lighter. He knew he had had it a few minutes ago. His hands moved reflexively down to his jeans. The pockets were turned out. He jammed his hands down to push them back inside. Both pockets were empty.
"Fucking bastard!" he said out loud. "He took my money."
Why did he have to do that? He didn't need it. Mike did. Mike had earned it. Now Mike felt the anger he hadn't been able to feel earlier.
Ten minutes later, Mike was leaning against Joe's door. He banged on it with the palm of his hand. He heard someone move inside. He knocked. The door opened. Joe looked tired. He'd been partying. Joe looked back at Mike and opened the door wider. Mike walked past him without a word and fell down on the narrow futon in the corner. He moved over against the wall. His nose was inches away from the plaster. He kicked his shoes off.
Joe came over and got back into bed. He slipped under the blankets and tried to cover himself, but Mike's weight on top of the comforter made it impossible. Mike shifted a bit to let the other boy pull it up. He didn't want to talk right now. Joe better not say a word to him. Joe turned out the light.
"Don't say a fucking word to me. Don't touch me. I swear, I'll fucking belt you if you come near me," Mike thought as he fell asleep.