gave him a pair of jeans, shorts, a wool shirt, cotton socks, and an old sweater.
“The pants might be long, but the shirt should fit.”
“Thanks.” Edward dropped the towel and dressed. “I’ll just roll up the cuffs.” He was thin and scarred and white like death. He smiled a skull’s weary grin. “Left your tub a bit dirty.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Duncan saw him eye the spread on the sheet by the couch. “You want to eat?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He sat on the floor and stuffed a cheese wedge in his mouth. He ate for five minutes. When he was done only the salami remained.
“Gives me gas,” he explained.
Duncan said, “Listen, think you could do me a favor?”
“I wondered if you’d get to this. Ok. What do you want me to do?”
Duncan put a canvas on his easel. “Just sit there.”
Edward sat on the couch. “That’s it?”
“Sure.” Duncan began sketching.
“That’s a relief. I thought you wanted me to blow you or something. Don’t look so shocked. I done worse. A man in my situation can’t afford pride. Don’t think I like it, though.”
“I don’t imagine you would.”
Duncan was staggered that there were men desperate enough to pay a foul-smelling bum to fellate them. He did not object to the desire or preference, merely to the hygiene of the service provider, though he was bothered that Edward judged him such a person with such a craving who would desire such a service.
“Hey,” Edward asked, “do you have any more hootch?”
Duncan gave him the other bottle of champagne. Edward drank and sang while Duncan painted. The champagne was soon gone and the singing mumbled. Edward nodded into sleep. Duncan shrouded him with a blanket. He scrubbed dirt from the tub and wiped water off the floor while Edward slept. He took Edward’s old clothes downstairs and tossed them in the dumpster behind the mini-mart. He went inside and bought a beef burrito and warmed it in Assan’s microwave. He wondered as he climbed his stairs what Edward was like at twenty-one, whom he had loved and was that love requited, and if he had ever known anyone like Pris.
When Duncan returned, his studio was empty and his blanket gone. He looked in the bathroom. No Edward. He looked in the closet and kitchen. Still no Edward. He got undressed and spread his sleeping bag across the couch. He took the money from his pocket and counted. Of the sixteen hundred he had received for Roscoe, barely seven hundred remained. He took the shoe box from under the couch and opened it.
Empty.
Duncan picked up the phone and dialed 911. His eyes fell on the Harley. He hung up. He laughed when he looked in the refrigerator. Not satisfied with the money, Edward had also stolen his last beer. Duncan drank a glass of orange juice and finished the burrito. He looked out the window. The Hollywood was dark, the blue neon sign black in the night. He placed a fresh canvas on the easel. He painted a woman in a red dress with yellow hair falling around her shoulders. He painted her leaning on the wall outside the Hollywood, her arms crossed, knee bent and the sole of her boot flat against the dirty red bricks. Her face he painted with ease. Her eyes and her smile were branded deep onto his neurons, disrupting his synapses until all he could think of was her smile. A Harley thundered by outside. Duncan wedged a chair against his door. He laughed when he returned to the easel and saw what he had done.
The Pris in the painting was smiling, her eyes bright and her arms crossed before her. But the middle finger of her exposed hand was once again extended to him in that traditionally contemptuous salute.
Eight
Duncan was sitting in his window reading a People magazine the next day when Pris came out of the Hollywood Bar and Grill. She crossed to her Cadillac which, by design or coincidence or by that random series of events men call fate, was parked below his studio. She wore a red tank top tucked into faded
“The pants might be long, but the shirt should fit.”
“Thanks.” Edward dropped the towel and dressed. “I’ll just roll up the cuffs.” He was thin and scarred and white like death. He smiled a skull’s weary grin. “Left your tub a bit dirty.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Duncan saw him eye the spread on the sheet by the couch. “You want to eat?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He sat on the floor and stuffed a cheese wedge in his mouth. He ate for five minutes. When he was done only the salami remained.
“Gives me gas,” he explained.
Duncan said, “Listen, think you could do me a favor?”
“I wondered if you’d get to this. Ok. What do you want me to do?”
Duncan put a canvas on his easel. “Just sit there.”
Edward sat on the couch. “That’s it?”
“Sure.” Duncan began sketching.
“That’s a relief. I thought you wanted me to blow you or something. Don’t look so shocked. I done worse. A man in my situation can’t afford pride. Don’t think I like it, though.”
“I don’t imagine you would.”
Duncan was staggered that there were men desperate enough to pay a foul-smelling bum to fellate them. He did not object to the desire or preference, merely to the hygiene of the service provider, though he was bothered that Edward judged him such a person with such a craving who would desire such a service.
“Hey,” Edward asked, “do you have any more hootch?”
Duncan gave him the other bottle of champagne. Edward drank and sang while Duncan painted. The champagne was soon gone and the singing mumbled. Edward nodded into sleep. Duncan shrouded him with a blanket. He scrubbed dirt from the tub and wiped water off the floor while Edward slept. He took Edward’s old clothes downstairs and tossed them in the dumpster behind the mini-mart. He went inside and bought a beef burrito and warmed it in Assan’s microwave. He wondered as he climbed his stairs what Edward was like at twenty-one, whom he had loved and was that love requited, and if he had ever known anyone like Pris.
When Duncan returned, his studio was empty and his blanket gone. He looked in the bathroom. No Edward. He looked in the closet and kitchen. Still no Edward. He got undressed and spread his sleeping bag across the couch. He took the money from his pocket and counted. Of the sixteen hundred he had received for Roscoe, barely seven hundred remained. He took the shoe box from under the couch and opened it.
Empty.
Duncan picked up the phone and dialed 911. His eyes fell on the Harley. He hung up. He laughed when he looked in the refrigerator. Not satisfied with the money, Edward had also stolen his last beer. Duncan drank a glass of orange juice and finished the burrito. He looked out the window. The Hollywood was dark, the blue neon sign black in the night. He placed a fresh canvas on the easel. He painted a woman in a red dress with yellow hair falling around her shoulders. He painted her leaning on the wall outside the Hollywood, her arms crossed, knee bent and the sole of her boot flat against the dirty red bricks. Her face he painted with ease. Her eyes and her smile were branded deep onto his neurons, disrupting his synapses until all he could think of was her smile. A Harley thundered by outside. Duncan wedged a chair against his door. He laughed when he returned to the easel and saw what he had done.
The Pris in the painting was smiling, her eyes bright and her arms crossed before her. But the middle finger of her exposed hand was once again extended to him in that traditionally contemptuous salute.
Eight
Duncan was sitting in his window reading a People magazine the next day when Pris came out of the Hollywood Bar and Grill. She crossed to her Cadillac which, by design or coincidence or by that random series of events men call fate, was parked below his studio. She wore a red tank top tucked into faded
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