What do you know of being poor? What they show you on television is only half the problem. It was night, that's how we tell what time it is night or day, light or dark. It was also the middle of the winter. I was sixteen and already far too experienced; I had seen more sex, death, and the problems that they caused than all of the rich people in the world put together. I remember that someone had put a record on an old victrola in the next apartment. I can only remember this because later the ferverish beat of the music, which was faintly reminiscent of today's swing music, would cause me to be bruised and beaten.

I was laying naked and cold on a blood stained mattress, the blood spreading out under me like a pair of soiled angel wings. The latest in my line of men that were streaming in and out of my life was preparing himself in the hall. Well not really the hall considering our apartment only had two rooms, a kitchen with an old gas stove in it, and the bed room.

He walked slowly toward the mattress, undressing as he comes closer until he is completely naked except for his socks. I remember thinking what a turnoff that is as it reminds me of Woody Allen and my father. The depression in the mattress was so great when he got on that it caused me to move a little bit to the left which almost made me almost fall off the mattress. I groaned, if there was one thing that I could not stand it was incompetence in bed.

It's funny how sex can take your mind off things, and it's even funnier that when there is music playing in the background you end up synchronizing your own natural rhythms to the beat. Unfortunately, that goddamn record was playing so quickly.

Almost as quickly as it started, it was over. The man quickly rushed around the tiny room gathering his clothes and dressing with record breaking speed. Appearing as an after thought he threw two twenty dollar bills onto the mattress by my feet. Rolling over, I drifted off to sleep.

My sleep was interrupted by my roommate, Blaire, slamming the door.

"Laine?" He shook my shoulder gently.

"Huh?" I tried to reply in a more gentile way but my mouth was too dry and the sleep that clogged my brain was incapacitating.

"How much did you make?" He was tugging off his boots now.

"About forty."

"No tip?" The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. He was now trying to wiggle out of his pants and underwear.

"Cheap bastard." I rolled over again with my back facing him now. "How much did you make?"

"About a hundred." He was now slipping out of his shirt and climbing into bed with me.

"You take the apartment tomorrow, I work the streets. Afterward we can go buy some food finally."

"Mmm." He murmured dreamily slipping his arms around my lithe body.

"Blaire."

"What?"

"I'm cold as hell."

"Me too." He whispered into the back of my head. I was faintly aware that he was humming something by David Bowie.

I drifted off to sleep again.

A fresh layer of snow had fallen that night. It coated everything, making it next to impossible to drive safely. A few hard core kamikaze workers, however, drove to their offices thinking of heat, paying little attention to the world around them.

I struggled out of Blaire's arms carefully trying not to wake him up, a futile effort, I always did. I was just beginning to stand as Blaire woke.

"Mmm, morning." He said dreamily stretching his body, exposing how thin he really was.

"Morning."

"What happened to you?" For the first time he noticed the bruises along the back and inside of my thighs and the ones trailing my waist.

"Our little trick got a little too enthusiastic last night."

"Goddamn it! Why do you let them do that to you?"

"I'm not exactly in a position to complain now am I?"

"But still…" he let his voice trail off.

"I'll be back."

"Where are you going? It's still to early to do much of anything."

"I have to pee, do you mind?"

"Be my guest." He said grinning.

I pulled on some underwear that looked somewhat clean, but judging from the fact that they were on the floor, they mustn't have been all that sanitary. I wrapped myself in an old dingy piece of fabric large enough to cover the rest of my body and trudged down the hall to the bathroom, which everyone in the apartment building shared.

The bathroom was freezing; a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. The light it gave off was illumination enough to see the toilet, for adequate aim, and the old soiled mirror and sink. The shower stall was set farther back in the wall than the sink. Most of the tenants never use it though; we were being asked to conserve water. After releaving myself I walked to the mirror and pulled down the lower eyelid of my right eye. I then spread my legs and peered at the bruises. I turned around and looked at the ones on the back of my thighs, those were by far the worst. I knew that they would be turning a deep purple, soon.

On the way back I passed Ms. Trumbull, the old woman who lived in back of Blaire and me, who was so fond of playing her records at the most inappropriate of times.

"Hi Ms. Trumbull." I said trying to sound as amiable as possible.

"Oh hello Laine." She smiled revealing a set of yellowed teeth. "Are your parents well."

"Umm," I laughed, "You see, I don't live with my parents. I left home quite a while ago. I live with Blaire."

"Oh, no? Who was that man last night? I could have sworn he was old enough to be your father."

"You probably mean Robert," I said pulling a name out of the air, "he's just a friend who, um, looks after us."

"Take care then." She seemed satisfied for now, "If there's ever anything I can do to help…"

"I'll let you know Ms. Trumbull." I said walking past her.

I walked into the apartment shivering.

"That sure must have been one hell of a piss." Blaire said kneeling naked at the foot of the bed.

"I stopped to talk to Ms. Trumbull in the hall."

"When are we going to go for food?" He said changing the subject abruptly.

"When you decide to get dressed." I put my hands on my hips. Blaire moaned and dragged himself off the mattress. I raised my arm and sniffed my armpit. "I need to shower."

"Me too." Blaire said with his back to me.

The water issuing from the shower was hot and it clashed against the winter air. The shower was small enough but when you had two people in there, it was even smaller. When the water conservation notice was issued and Blaire and I had first started showering together I used to amuse myself by counting the ribs sticking out of his back. Blaire had his head down under the stream of water. I picked up a tiny bottle of shampoo.

"Blaire? Can I wash your hair?"

The supermarket was crowded. It was, after all, Wednesday, the official shopping day of the elderly.

"How much do we have to spend?" I asked.

"About a hundred fifty."

"Not another potato and pasta binge." I groaned.

"Well, that's all we can afford." He grabbed my hand and led me to the 'pasta aisle.'

"And such a wide variety too." I said making a face. Blaire backhanded me across the side of the head.

"Do you want to eat?" I ignored him rubbing my head.

In the end we picked out a five pound bag of some generic rice and a few bags of Ramen Noodle Soup. There was a twenty dollar surplus.

"So what are we going to do with the extra money?" Blaire said walking out of the store.

"You're going to get me drunk." I said matter of factly.

"You drink too much."

"You'll do it." I said moving closer so that he could feel my breath on his cheek. "I know you too well to think that you would ever refuse me."

It was true. Two hours later we sat on the mattress with a pan of Uncle Ben's instant rice and two spoons. To my left was the cheapest bottle of Vodka we could find. I drank most of the bottle rather quickly; when I could feel the alcohol start to uncurl itself down my arms and legs, and my head start to spin; I gave the rest of the bottle to Blaire. The last thing I remember is flinging a spoonful of rice at Blaire.

"Laine." There was a hard edge in his voice as he poked me with his big toe. I groaned and swatted at his foot. "Get the hell up, the sun is starting to go down and we need money to pay the rent, it's due at the end of the week."

"How much?" I dragged myself to a sitting position ignoring the fact that tiny flares of pain went off in my head whenever I moved.

"About two thousand."

"Do we have any saved?"

"Yeah, one thousand twenty five."

I managed to get up but I fell down in a few seconds, I giggled and tried to stand up again. Blaire caught me when I fell this time. He dragged me to the bathroom, stripped me, and shoved me into the stream of freezing water. I gasped loudly and started to shiver fiercely. Blaire turned off the water, dried me off, and helped me back into my clothes. This however did nothing to stop my shivering. Blaire wrapped his arms around me and we stood like that for what seemed like forever; I stopped shivering.

The street was dark and piles of dingy, melting snow lay heaped against the curbs. Occasionally a car would roar past me, sending a spray of dirty water in my direction. More than once this spray caught me in the face; I would swear at the car while wiping my face off. The streetlights shone down giving menial light around their bases, flickering slightly as I walked past. People dressed in suits and ties thinned out giving way to people dressed in black, leather, and vinyl. These were the people who would pay.

I thought back to when I first started selling sex to the love starved. I was terrified of the city. I would stick to the suburbs, where it was untouched by people who would rather lie back tripping on acid than get out of bed. This, however, soon proved to be a mistake as there wasn't really a big call for prostitutes of any gender in the suburbs and outskirts. I was quickly living off a dwindling supply of money. Then, I met Blaire. He took me back to his tiny apartment and told me that I could stay if I would split half the cost of living. He was the one who taught me how to survive on the streets.

The few places where I normally solicit are small and somewhat out of the way. The kind of places that don't bother to ask for ID. When I arrived it didn't take long to find someone.

It's amazing how spacious the back of someone's car can be when you stop to think about it. We were parked overlooking the scenic parking lot of some chain store. Looking at the boy that I had attracted I marveled at how young he was. He couldn't have been more than twenty.

"So," his eyes were down cast and he wrung his fingers in and out of one another constantly, "what's your name?"

"You've never done this before have you." I grinned at him. "Most people don't care. Just a little prostitute etiquette. My name is Laine, seeing as you asked."

"How much do you charge?"

"Depends on what you're into."

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty…two hundred. I had made two hundred dollars in a single night, quite a feat for me. The stairs to the apartment were old and squeaked as I walked up them. I heard a faint groan from inside the room. Thinking Blaire was in there with someone I knocked.

"What?" Blaire called out.

"Blaire? Is anyone else there?"

"No…thank god, get in here."

When I saw why Blaire had sounded so frazzled I fell over laughing. He was lying face down on the bed with his hands tied behind his back and a burlap sack tied over his head.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing." I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and started a whole new peal of laughter. "Do you have any intention of untying me?"

"Yeah…sorry." I was trying to bring my laughter under control as I untied him. "What happened?"

"Well, some guy wanted to tie me up and I told him it would cost a little extra. That went over well enough, but he left me tied here and said that the money was on the bed." He strode over to the bed quickly. "Oh my god, it's actually here, I thought he would rip me off." This struck me as incredibly funny for some reason and sent me into another round of laughter. "Anyway, how much did you make?"

"Two hundred."

"Dollars?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah…what else would it have been?"

"I don't know, pennies. That's not like you, what happened?"

"I got a virgin."

"Oh?"

"He thinks we all charge this much."

Blaire clapped his hands together and giggled.

The first thing that I thought of that morning when I woke up was the dream I had. I was standing (or was I sitting…lying maybe?) by myself and an intense pain radiated from my jaw over and over again. It was then that I realized that I was being punched in the face.

"Laine?"

"Hmm?"

"You're shaking. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I was sliding my hands around Blaire's bare back. He turned his head to face me. I leaned in and kissed him quickly. "I need a shower."

The day was pensive and shy, it took so long for it to actually get underway, and then suddenly after noon, it streaked by my window. I was sketching the outline of a little girl.

"Who's working where tonight?" Blaire was standing at the foot of the mattress half naked.

"I don't feel like working tonight."

"You know that we have to, we still need seven hundred seventy - five dollars."

"I don't care. You do it! I just want to stay home tonight!" My patience was wearing thin.

Blaire cupped my face in his hands. "You know, that's the first time that you've yelled at me…ever?" He slapped me hard across the face. "Don't ever do it again. Do you want to tell me what's the matter now?" I glared at him. "Fine." He put his hands on his hips, "I am going out tonight and you are going to come with me."

"I said I didn't want to."

"What could happen if the two of us are there?"

What indeed.

Somehow Blaire managed to get me up and out of the apartment. I was lagging behind him.

"Hurry up."

"I'm coming." Under my breath I added, "You greedy bastard."

"What?"

"Nothing."

The club that we were headed toward we often frequented when working alone. It was ideal because you only had to sit outside or a little down the street. As usual Blaire was the first to get hit on.

The man hitting on Blaire looked to have been at least in his late thirties. The only part of the conversation that I could remember later was the part that related directly to sex.

"How much?" The man's voice sounded as though he had a mouth full of rocks.

"One hundred dollars."

"That's far too much." The man was visibly outraged.

"But, it's for the two of us." Blaire made a gesture in my direction.

"I don't want both…only you."

Blaire turned to me. "Are you going to be okay by yourself for a while?" He turned back to the old man before I could answer. "Do you have a car somewhere near by?" The old man nodded and Blaire turned again to me, "If you have any problems yell for me, I won't be far." With that he left with the man.

I was sitting on the curb by the back of the club, next to the Dumpster, for what seemed like forever. After that the only thing that I remember is being approached by four males, being attacked, and repeatedly screaming Blaire's name.

The first thing that I felt when I woke up was my pounding head, the other thing was the furious burning of the I.V. in my wrist. Blaire was sitting in the corner; his eyes were pink and bloodshot.

"How long have you been sitting there."

"Not long, six, seven hours maybe."

"How long have I been here?"

"A couple of days."

"What happened." I was somewhat hurt that Blaire wasn't there during the time that I was unconscious.

"You were attacked…do you have any idea how much this is going to cost?"

"Is that all you care about!" I was suddenly furious that Blaire would even consider the money a factor.

"No…it's partly my fault. I said that I would be there if you needed me."

"Words are meaningless and forgettable."

"Cute," he grinned, "Tolstoy?"

"No, Depeche Mode. Close though."

"Yeah, everything's by Tolstoy."

I groaned and rolled over on our blood stained mattress. Each time I moved my sides cramped and my brain flashed technicolor sparks of pain. Every breath that I took felt like I was slowly inhaling flames. I rolled over again and screamed at the pain…don't you just love blunt trauma.

"Laine." Blaire waited for me to reply; he continued when he saw that I wasn't going to say anything. "I'm going out for a while. Are you going to be ok?"

"Why didn't you stay with me at the hospital?" I ignored the fact that he ever spoke.

"What?"

"Why didn't you stay with me?"

"I had to make some money."

"Figures." My voice was turning from cold to frigid.

"I had to do it and you know that!" Blaire was shouting now. "On top of the fact that neither of us has a real job, one of us has to keep the income steady."

"Fine, go then."

"Laine…"

"No," I cut him off, "I don't care. Just go." He cast a worried glance in my direction and then left. I fell back asleep.

An insistent pounding on the door was what eventually woke me up.

"What." I tried to sound as rude as possible to discourage whoever it was.

"Laine? It's Ellen. Are you Okay?"

"Come on in Ms. Trumbull." I was wiping a mixture of sleep and tears from my eyes.

"I heard you were home from the hospital." Her dentures were clacking as she spoke and the smell of cat piss cast an unmistakable aura of loneliness about her. She looked around for a second. "Where's Blaire gone to?"

"He had to go out for a little while. He'll be back shortly."

"Oh. I brought you two something…to welcome you back." She motioned toward her bag.

"You didn't have to do that. We're fine…really." She was pulling a neon yellow container out of her purse.

"No, no. It's nothing really. I made some chicken soup and thought that I'd give some to you and Blaire, you know as kind of a get well gesture."

"Thank you." I suppressed a smile at the old cliché of chicken soup; at the same time though, I was grateful for the company. "There are some spoons in the cabinet above the stove." I watched as she waddled over to the cabinet, retrieved the spoons, and waddled back.

"Still warm." She grinned as she peeled off the cover of the bowl. The soup had the consistency of semi-congealed JELLO and the solid contents were mushy on the outside but somewhat firmer toward the center. I smiled at her as I tried to push a mouthful down my throat.

"It's good."

She peered down at me through the glasses perched on her nose; after a long moment, she spoke. "So, tell me…do you know where Blaire is?"

"Well, no."

"When do you expect him back."

"I don't know. He didn't give me a time."

"He just left you here in this condition?"

"Yes." I could feel my anger intensifing.

"Well, that is pretty inconsiderate if you ask me."

"I know, you don't have to tell me." I knew this was true and it was the truth that pissed me off the most.

The next morning I woke myself up shivering. I rolled over and nearly fell off the mattress; Blaire still wasn't back. I heard the door slam shut.

"Blaire?" I called without sitting up.

"Yeah." His voiced was hoarse.

"What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing…I guess I just over did it a little last night."

"Really…and where did you go?"

"Out."

"Out where?" My anger from last night was quickly returning.

"None of you business…you didn't want to come remember."

I was fed up at this point and limped quickly around the apartment gathering clothes and turning back to look at Blaire from the door. "Where are you going?" He asked me.

"Out." I slammed the door.

I spent the week at Ms. Trumbull's apartment. When I finally decided to go back to see Blaire I was clutching a white piece of paper. He was sleeping when I walked in.

"Blaire, wake up."

"Laine…where have you been." For a fleeting moment I thought that I heard relief in his voice.

"Out…I came to get my stuff."

"What?" Now, in his voice, the fear was unmistakable.

I held up the white sheet of paper, "I got a job…a real one." I gathered my few belongings, stopped, and stood in the doorway.

"You can't leave me."

"And why not?" I was being mean and I knew it; I didn't care.

"I love you." It was then, right before I slammed the door to our tiny apartment forever that I truly saw him sitting there cold, naked, and alone on our blood stained mattress.

Return ToThere Are No More Tickets to the Funeral.
My Autobiography