Barter

Need is not quite belief.
- Anne Sexton


The boy came in out of the rain, with familiar eyes.


It was a day in which I did not expect any takers, despite the throngs, as rain erases all avarice save for comfort: food and shelter. I had both things, but neither for sale.

I saw feet first, in combat boots wetly shining, upon my tarp. Then a hand moving the overhang out of his way as he ducked under. He was only a tall mass at first glance, his hair hanging in his eyes and its’ sodden mass obscuring the pleasing face, though the effect was ultimately spoiled by the strong jaw. Still, much nicer than most of the crusty custies I was used to dealing with in this guise.

What better place to blend in than among unwashed freaks who never look too closely at someone equally grubby and secretive...it’s like joining a carnival, except there are no obvious games of chance.

“Do you mind?” he asked me, and I looked up, and up. A voice which was almost sub-aural, low and hoarse.

“Only if you don’t buy something,” I replied.

A smile as he flipped the hair out of his face. Beautiful, full mouth. The purring rumble of his inflection loud over the sound of the rain and the crowd beyond. Distant music of a hundred bootlegs, sputtering engines and frying food, barkers, gawkers, and security. Three ecosystems vying for the same resources, hoping to absorb the others rather than be absorbed. He squatted down, of equal length in leg and torso, proportioned as a poem of a tree. Slightly gnarled, long-fingered, broad hands examine my knotwork.

“Pretty tchotchkes, do they sell?”

“Girls love to have things around their necks.”

“The yoke of vanity.”

I look into green eyes which are the color of a forest in decline, edging into decay.

“You look a little young to be so cynical.”

“I’m well-read.”

Well-hung, well-read, well-sung, well. . .bed.

There’s a group of fair maidens in the caravan who’ve taken their turns with the bass player, he likes to walk around the lot and be “real.” He confessed to me one night after sharing some hash that he feels guilty about being famous. He spent his childhood in the basement creating a comic book about the end of the world and casting himself as the sole survivor who survived solely because he was in the basement and now he would finally be avenged. When he looked in the mirror all he saw was the ten-year-old misfit.

I have a memory of being nineteen, and I have the sense I am in that same moment now. As if everything around me has moved on, but my perspective remains inviolate.

“This, what is this one?”

He held up a black cord – knotted and beaded - with a polished stone pendant. The stone is naturally-occurring amethyst, as flat a piece as I could find. Between the knots are metallic beads painted indigo. Each knot is my best guess at the endless knot which weaves tightly and tangles fully.

“It’s the endless loop of intuition.”

“That’s an interesting notion,” he remarked, then handed me a fifty-dollar bill.

“I don’t have enough change,” I said, feeling ridiculous. I’ve never seen a custy with that much money that wasn’t already earmarked for party favors.

“The rest is for shelter.”


The other vagabonds don’t care for me, I tend to say odd things. I tend to be odd, when I’m not paying attention to holding the façade in place, like this tarp, over me. They don’t refer to me as “sister,” they don’t offer to share, or give discounts on their wares. But I’ve learned to eschew attachments, as one must when in hiding. Hiding in plain sight. And that’s the trick: to remain plain, bland enough to seem effortless and therefore invisible. Be nondescript and you’ll always be a blur, a blip, on the greater radar of consciousness.

Am I sharply suspicious that he seeks my company? Or do I hope it’s “real?”

I do not recall the conclusion I reached in the moments before I nodded my head and offered him some tea.


He said nothing for a while, studying the necklace, running his thumb over the stone. Putting it aside it looks to have gone dim, a trick of shadows. There is an electric lantern giving off wan light in the corner by my thermos, but otherwise I relied on the murk outside. I could see striding legs: jeans, some colorful attire. Mud, beginning to form from the dirt of the lot. I have officially wearied of mud.

He smells like wet clothes and iron.

“Who are you, custy?” I asked, holding out a paper cup. He accepted it, and sniffed.

“Mint tea. Is this the official drink of the lot?”

“Coffee takes more effort, and I don’t share it.”

“But I’ve paid.”

“Paid enough to get all the tea you want.”

A frown, through the hair beginning to dry. I began to notice how much space he takes up, his feet extended toward my display, dirty boots almost touching the midnight blue velvet.

“Can you put your feet elsewhere, please?”

This warranted a beauty of a smirk, for reasons not entirely apparent.


Nineteen. Nineteen and fireflies circling in a hot night.


“I have nothing to trade, sadly.”

(Oh I’d disagree, sweet boy.)

“Nothing?”

“Can’t imagine you’d want to see the show in this weather.”

“Don’t want to see it in any weather.”

“Then why –“

Remember to dissemble. “Just burned out. So many shows already.”

“Right.”

A girl, shivering in wet crinkle cotton, kneeled before the adorned velvet and I sat forward, patient but not pushy. She pulled out a handful of dirty bills and selected a bracelet. Ten minutes later a couple stopped to look and he purchased some special regard for her with one of my larger pieces, a round green tourmaline hanging from knotted and copper-studded black cord. I made more money in two hours than I’ve made all month.


Nineteen. Nineteen and fireflies circling in a hot night.
Nineteen and slightly buzzed on blackberry wine, sticky smudges on dirty skin, moving toward the shimmering lake. Up, look up to the moon, cold beacon in thick black darkness.


“You never answered my question.”

“My name. . .” he paused, as if he can’t remember the necessary information. “My name is Jeremiah.”

“It’s getting late. You’d better get along.”

“I can wait.”

“Are you hungry?”

Sidelong glance, a purse of those generous lips. “Mmm hmm.”

I’d cook - I can cook - but I took the cash and walked down the row. I just left him there with my trinkets, of which only two remained, because it seemed appropriate. I made it over to where Beeno was preparing the meal du jour and bought a couple bowls. Some kind of stew from the crock pot, with texturized soy protein and lots of potatoes. He threw in a couple cookies when I put a five in his “gas money” tip jar. Ducking under my own tarp the velvet backdrop is empty save a pile of bills.

“Did you give yourself a cut?”

“I will,” he said, taking one of the bowls. “Is anyone selling beer in this shithole?”

“All the way at the end of the row. Strictly on the downlow, but if you say something like, ‘Excuse me brother, I’m thirsty,’ then they won’t figure you for a narc. Not that you look like one, of course.”

“Don’t drink my tea,” he chided, and unfolded himself. I stuck my head out to view his true height and he towered above most of the lemmings, easy stride, unmindful of the rain. I counted the money and set aside a twenty, put it under his bowl of stew.


Nineteen. Nineteen and fireflies circling in a hot night.
Nineteen and slightly buzzed on blackberry wine, sticky smudges on dirty skin, moving toward the shimmering lake. Up, look up to the moon, cold beacon in thick black darkness.
Nineteen, moving through the murk guided only by a hand on the back of my neck, and a throaty whisper.
“Where are we going? To your room? And your virgin bed?”
Nineteen and laughing at the presumption.


He returned with two bottles, but I shook my head.

“You never liked –“ he said, then stopped. I stopped, spoon in midair, and he was chewing, slow and deliberate.

“What?”

“You never liked beer, I bet.”

(An echo, there’s an echo in here.)

“Uh, no.”

“Everything’s organic? Even the dope?”

I shrugged, a chortle forced from my throat. “I’d kill for a corndog.”

He laughed, drank his beer.

The light went out of the day by increments. When there is at last a muted fiery glow I murmured last chance and he shook his head, long uneven hair finally fluttering. It’s that shade which reminds one of comfort and warmth. Fur, and chocolate. His eyes, appearing to possess an unholy luminescence.

Or is that unearthly glow fueled by something?

And his rasp, tired and rough, aural sandpaper mixed with smoke and molasses. Throaty and thick, more grate than purr but the same near-whisper of menace. It turns casual conversation away from the safe avenues of inquiry and into the back alleys of subtext and innuendo.


“Where are we going? To your room? And your virgin bed?”
Nineteen and laughing at the presumption.
“Not the first!” Dismissive coquette.
“No, this will be the first time, I promise. Everything that came before is only a distant dream now.”
Nineteen and giggling, nervous at the high-flown turn of phrase.


I wondered if he was coming to the next town.

At the end of the night, sometimes the morning after, the strays lined up looking for a ride. I usually ended up with other females, though occasionally the males would try their charms. I thought of one particular episode, a snotty college boy practically demanding transportation even as he eyed my station wagon with contempt.

“Gas, grass or ass. . .nobody rides for free,” I told him.

Narrowed eyes flicked from my car to me. “You actually expect someone to fuck you? For a ride?”

I sucker-punched the bastard right in the nose, hard enough to drop him to the pavement. A crowd had gathered, some looked bemused, others skittish.

“. . .and nobody fucks with me.”

Then I spat on him, cradling my bruised hand.


I usually rode alone.


The music started, loud enough that I could discern the exact song. It’s clear by now that the show was not his ultimate aim, no surprise in that. For some people, the lot is the true attraction.

“Are you looking for a ride?” I asked.

I had cleared everything away, and taking advantage of the space, he sprawled relaxed and long-limbed.

“I’m looking,” he replied, but did not quantify.

He doesn’t look at me, so I studied him while sipping tea, limbs folded into a neat bundle. He is a curious mix of masculine build and delicate features. I haven’t spoken to anyone so attractive in such a long time.


“I’ve come to rescue you. I know what he’s done to you.”
I freeze inside my shadowy room. He sits on the window sill, his face is ghostly in the light of the moon.
“What – what do you mean?”
“Did you not plead for assistance? When he took you to the ruins?”
A graveyard, long-abandoned to time, considered haunted. Guaranteed solitude for malicious activities.
Nineteen, and shamed.


“Why this?” he asked. I’d decided it wasn’t too early to be numb, chewing on a goo ball. The peanut butter does a good job of hiding that sour green taste.

“Why not? A lot of people live by their wits.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I don’t belong anywhere.”

I looked around at my blue shelter, rippling in the gust which had come with the rain. The evening was now headlights shining on the mud, damp chill. The rain itself is not heavy, merely steady. I almost wished I were somewhere quiet, just the sound of the water. I almost wished we were alone, rather than located in the near-exhibitionism of lot life.


The last time, with a beautiful boy, it cost me. He looked at his bruises and made vague threats, so I gave him money and he skulked away. I have a reputation, but they have pity.


“Yes you do.”


Turning my back, only to feel the weight once again, hand on my face, my arms pinned.
What kind of plea brings this kind of deliverance?
“Come with me now, and I will make it all right again.”
I swoon, I cannot breathe, but I am more curious than fearful.
“But this, you will have to leave it all behind. Is any of it worth holding onto?”
Nineteen, and resigned.
“Don’t scream, not yet.”
He removes his hand, which smells of woodsmoke and salt, and I gasp. But I am held fast and ponder the question.


Those eyes, they flashed again in a way seemingly impossible. But my mind was taffy, the minutes stretching across the space, the rain echoing tinny, all of it turned up too loud and I am removed further than all shunning could make me.

“Your eyes are green because you covet,” I said.

“It’s not coveting when I see what is mine.”


Nineteen and striking a bargain.
He pulled the pain out of me like a thorn, but replaced it with ice.
He walks my mind, wears my skin, shows me the deeds of eons. But I can’t feel any of it, I can only recoil in some distant vista of sanity.
But his face, his beautiful face, I cannot look away.


My movements were languid to the observer; scrambling to stand I was in danger of falling and he caught me, though I swear he hadn’t moved.

“You tricked me,” I whispered.

“I seduced you. But I answered your plea. How many can say their prayers have been answered?”

His touch brings dark oblivion. But when I opened my eyes again, it was still night, and the sounds were louder. The show was over, rain or shine, and the lot was full of blissed-out fans.

Watching, a girl passed by, not more than fifteen. She was that formative combination of lithe planes and lush growth; her hair a Botticelli mass of honeyed waves, nearly-gangly arms and legs, an ass like a ripe peach. I could sense the delicate aroma of her aura, golden and sugary. How sweet, how very sweet, to break someone caught between naiveté and curious longing.

(Oh I want that one, yes, that one.)

And he stepped out of my mind and back into himself, the air was heavy with his transit. I was heartsick with loathing and titillation, because I wanted to fuck that child, in that moment, so very much. My mouth was arid and my head an aching strobe.

“It’s not you,” I finally said, voice creaking like a rusted door.

“It is. I knew you’d find this one pleasing: he’s tall and strong and pretty. That’s what you like, the pretty ones, to reenact your suffering. Only this time you’re the sinner. But some of them, they’re not so pretty when you’ve finished with them, are they?”


Waiting, till the dawn makes the mountains flush and glow like pieces of rose quartz. Running, hitching, bartering for distance and for anonymity. Bartering for time, and for peace. Though I should have known I’d already made one deal too many.
Nineteen, on the hottest night, salted with sweat, I bartered: my life for his.


It was the same as it had been, bent at the waist, wincing at sudden claws and sulfurous breath. They can only penetrate as their master deems, the perversion of the wand meeting the chalice, the quest fulfilled. Acidic fire, like being split with a red-hot poker which is twisted. . .all the better to fillet you.

And yet: something in me missed this. It was better than being brutalized by someone who had promised not to cause pain.

“You will regret denying the need. The need is greater than your virtue.”

Thrusts spaced between the words. Clawing between the breaths. His hands
(not his, whomever this is, unsuspecting piece of meat)
are huge and they cover my hands, pull my hair, fasten themselves around my neck. His cock
(not his)
is unyielding muscle carving a path of blood and shit right through the center of me. His body
(not his not his not his not his)
arching with every thrust, smooth hips against my violated ass.

“Missed you,” he whispered, and it was mocking affection. Parody of feeling.

I wait for the fire to consume me, as it had before. Tomorrow I would remember nothing except the first night.


Nineteen and running for my life.


Twenty-five and hiding in plain sight. Longing to be found, for the chase to begin anew.

“You will never get away, but you never learn that lesson, do you?”

I look in the mirror. I’m talking to myself, for he is a void, and has ever been so. A void sprung from the void of all voids. Then he opens his mouth and there is only the spitting of spite, the babbling of bile, the honey of hate.

“Mine,” he says.


Demons lie, demons lie, everybody knows that demons lie.