Jose

His name is Jose because you say it is. You just tell him, and he's nodding and giving you a big grin. "Si," he says, "oh si, senor," and he trots after you into the orange trees so you can do your business, because who would take little Jose home to their clean house?

How many roses would he have to sell to make what you're giving him? It's roses right now, now that the orange season's over, and with a month to go yet before the first strawberries. It's roses, in the bucket that he leaves by the roadside; and the late-winter air bites at your ass when you're fucking him. The smell under the trees is of moldy oranges; you squash them under your feet afterward, as you walk back to your car.

You know the score, there's nothing in this for little Jose, except the money that you give him before you go. You don't look back, don't watch as he pulls his jeans into place, or look for one last grin. There's Jose's at every offramp, they're along the roadside, and you see them at half the stoplights in town.

So easy, so good, and when you're done, so over. You've never seen the same kid twice, and you've been doing this for how many years now? Maybe someone kills them when you've had them; maybe they go back to Mexico.

Easy little Jose; right now he's selling roses, when they're done there'll be strawberries. You'll fuck him under the orange trees, and they'll smell like wedding blossoms, and he'll still be here -- or his brothers will -- after the oranges ripen and fall, and you're walking across decay again when you go back to your car and leave him.