Chapter Text
It's ten PM, forty degrees, and Eduardo's been standing on the street corner for hours when a car— a Mercedes— finally pulls over to the curb.
The passenger side window rolls down, and Eduardo approaches, leans on the door. "Show me your dick," he says to the driver.
The guy complies, so he's not a cop, just an unattractive middle-aged man looking for someone to fuck.
Eduardo nods wearily, and the guy zips his pants back up. "How much?" he asks.
"A hundred dollars for an hour," Eduardo tells him, deciding to aim high based on the expensive car. "And you have to use a condom," he adds, though guys like this never actually do.
"You think your skinny ass is worth a hundred bucks?" the guy scoffs. "I'll give you sixty."
Eduardo wants to stand his ground, to maintain some sense of dignity and say no. But sixty dollars will pay for a whole night's stay at his usual motel, and something to eat too.
And Eduardo is cold and hungry and tired. So fucking tired, Jesus Christ.
So he says okay, and he gets into the car.
***
The guy drives to an empty parking lot, where he fucks Eduardo doggy-style in the backseat of the Mercedes.
It's rough and unpleasant and the only lube involved is saliva, but Eduardo's had worse. And the guy doesn't use a condom, but Eduardo hadn't expected him to.
Eventually it's over, and Eduardo is left standing in the parking lot, three twenties clutched in his hand.
He watches the Mercedes drive away.
Then he sets off for the White Hen Inn.
***
The White Hen Inn is a shithole: the kind of motel with broken syringes by the entrance, bullet-proof glass in the lobby, and stained sheets on the beds.
Rooms are $50 a night, or $20 for two hours. The manager is an older guy named something-or-other Narendra, and when Eduardo arrives, he's sitting behind the glass at the front desk.
Affixed to the glass is a sign that Eduardo's never seen before— a piece of paper printed with the words:
NO CASH
NO DRUGS
NO PROSTITUTION
Eduardo stares at it for a while, disquieted. Then he glances up at the manager, who's giving him a sympathetic look, and asks: "What does it mean by, uh, 'no cash'?"
The manager sighs. "Means what it sounds like," he says. "New policy. Just went into effect today."
"Why?"
"Police are breathing down my neck," says the manager with a grimace, "threatening to get me shut down unless I take steps to combat so-called illegal activities on the premises." He holds up his arms in a kind of helpless shrug. "No more cash payments, no more hourly rates, no more check-ins after midnight."
"But—" Eduardo doesn't know what to say. "Please?" he lands on at last. "Please, I'll— listen, what if I pay you sixty instead of fifty; I have the money right here—"
"I can't," the manager tells him. "They'll be going over my records. I can't risk it." And then, maybe in response to the look on Eduardo's face, "This motel is my livelihood," he says, sounding apologetic.
And Eduardo decides there's no point in continuing to argue. "Of course, I— I understand," he says quietly. "It's fine. I'll be fine." He's not sure why he says that. Maybe the same reason why he says sorry to clients when they can't get hard, or thanks them just for paying what he's asked for. Some misplaced desire to make others happy, to establish harmony, to keep the peace.
The manager nods. "I'll see you around, then," he offers, though they both must know that Eduardo won't be back.
"Yeah," says Eduardo.
And with that, he opens the door of the lobby, and steps out into the dark.
***
For a while he just stands there on the sidewalk, gripping the straps of the backpack which contains all his worldly possessions, breathing in the frigid night air.
Then he starts to walk.
His head hurts. His legs hurt. His ass hurts.
He keeps walking.
He crosses Longfellow Bridge out of Boston, over into Cambridge. He passes businesses and restaurants and residential areas. He wonders where he's going.
And then, after he's been walking for maybe two hours, he sees it— a neon sign in the distance that reads:
PHOENIX MOTOR LODGE
Eduardo picks up his pace a bit, heading in that direction, and it isn't long before he reaches the motel. A sign on the door to the lobby reads:
$58 per night!
Discount hourly rates!
Inquire within!
Eduardo pulls open the door and steps inside, where there's a junky table and a couple chairs, a vending machine, and a reception desk behind glass. At the desk sits a young guy with curly brown hair, swiveling around in his chair. He looks up when Eduardo enters.
"Hi," says Eduardo. It's warm inside. He inhales deeply.
The guy just watches him, frowning a little.
"Uh. Do you take cash?" Eduardo asks.
The guy nods. Thank fuck.
"And it's $58 per night?"
Another nod.
Eduardo steps closer, so he's able to read that the guy's name-tag says Mark. He slides his sixty dollars and his fake Florida ID card under the glass via a little metal tray.
The guy— Mark— counts the money first, then purses his lips ever-so-slightly as he examines Eduardo's ID. And Jesus, he has nice lips: pink and full and delicately curved, like—
"This isn't a good fake, you know."
Eduardo is startled from his contemplation of Mark's lips. "What?" he asks.
"This drivers license," says Mark. "It's not a good fake."
Fuck. Fuck. "It's not fake," Eduardo says, probably too quickly.
"Yes it is," states Mark. "See the word 'EXPIRES'? The bottom right leg of the 'R' goes all the way down. On real ones it's cut off."
He passes the ID back to Eduardo and Eduardo picks it up, stares down at the picture of his own face next to the name LUIS SILVA. He glances at the word "EXPIRES," at the slanted little leg of the "R." You get what you pay for, he supposes glumly, resigning himself to the prospect of sleeping outside tonight. He pockets the card with a sigh.
"Anyway, Luis," says Mark. "I just thought you should know that it's a low-quality fake. I don't personally give a shit if you want to check in under a pseudonym." He presses a few buttons on the computer.
Eduardo frowns. "You… don't?"
"Why would I?" Mark asks. He closes the cash register and slides two dollar bills under the glass. "Here's your change. And your room key," he adds, sliding over a key card too. "You're in room 34. Checkout's at noon."
Eduardo takes the card and the cash and tucks them into his pocket beside his fake ID. "Thanks," he says quietly.
Mark just shrugs.
Eduardo spares Mark's lips one more glance, then heads over to the vending machine by the door, where he buys a bag of pretzels for $1.85.
"Hey," says Mark, as Eduardo is about to leave the lobby.
Eduardo turns around.
"There are cameras outside," Mark tells him. "The owner watches back the tape sometimes. Too much traffic in and out of your room will get you put on the Do Not Rent list. And sometimes he calls the police, if he's in a bad mood."
Eduardo blushes. Because, I know you're a whore, is what Mark is really saying. Be careful about bringing your clients back here.
It makes him feel dirty, to know Mark can tell what he is just by looking. "I'm not— I'm not working tonight," he mutters, glancing up from the scuffed linoleum floor. "I just need somewhere to sleep. But thank you."
Mark nods.
Eduardo hesitates, and then: "My name's Eduardo," he says. "Not Luis."
Mark nods again. "I'm Mark."
They stare at each other for a moment. Mark's eyes are blue, his expression searching. Finally Eduardo drops his gaze, pulls the sleeves of his jacket down over his hands, and pushes open the door.
But he glances back before he leaves, meets Mark's eye one more time.
Mark smiles at him.
And maybe Eduardo smiles back.