Traffick (2 page)

to meet you, Cody. We've got work to do.

PT. Also not good. I shake his hand

anyway, wait to hear the information

I need, but am absolutely sure I don't

want to know. Dr. Harrison delivers

it.
I must be perfectly honest with you.

Your life has been irreparably altered.

Great bedside manner, Doc. I swallow

hard. “What do you mean? I'm not

going to get better or what?”

You will improve some as your body

heals, and we're not even sure

what the ultimate prognosis is.

We'll need to do some tests, now that

you're conscious. What I can tell you

is the most improvement you'll see

will be within the first six months.

That said, there are lots of promising

new treatments for spinal cord injury.

And SCI researchers are very close

to tremendous breakthroughs, for

quadriplegics as well as para—

“Are you saying I'm paralyzed?”

No, goddamn it! It's just the drugs.

I can move, and I'll prove it. I try

as hard as I can, but no amount of

concentration makes my legs so much

as twitch. “No. You must be wrong.”

Finally, she looks directly into my eyes.

We can't tiptoe around the truth here,

Cody. Your spinal cord has been severed.

It's incomplete, so some function may

return. As I said, we'll have to run

more tests. But first, let me explain.

I know a lot more. Hell, I'm

a walking, talking SCI textbook.

Let's see. The spinal cord is a soft

bundle of nerves, traveling from

the base of the neck to the lower

back through the spinal canal—

a tunnel in a person's backbone.

Electrical signals ping from

the brain down that pathway,

reminding body parts how

to move, or telling them to feel

pain or pleasure or whatever.

But sever the cord, or even nick

it, the communication stops

beneath the site of the injury.

Now let's get technical. She sure

as hell did. The spine has thirty-three

vertebrae, divided into regions:

cervical (neck); thoracic (upper and

middle back); lumbar (lower back);

sacrum (pelvis); and coccyx (tailbone).

There are twelve thoracic vertebrae.

The bullet struck my lower spine,

sending bone chips on an upward

trajectory. One or more dinged

my spinal cord between T(horacic)11

and T12, but didn't cut through it

completely. Still, it silenced the flow

of energy between my brain and

the body parts beneath my middle back.

Oh, but wait. This is where it really

gets good. Not only are my legs

confused, but so are my bladder

and bowel. Far fucking out. I'll be

able to piss and shit with the aid

of “specialized equipment.”

Meaning, (one) stick a tube in the end

of my penis several times a day.

And, (two) . . . well, that is just too

disgusting to think about right now.

So, yeah, once I get out of this hole,

where they've got waaaaay underpaid

orderlies to drain my dick and

massage my anus, it's giant Pampers

for me until I learn how to make

myself take a dump. Make. Myself.

Crap. I know I'm guilty of awful sins.

But do I really deserve this kind of hell?

The good doctor talks, the more

I just want to fold up and die.

But since that won't happen

right away, there's something

she hasn't told me. I need to know.

“Will I ever walk again?”

It's really too early to say. You might

be able to, aided by leg braces,

though you won't be running marathons.

It depends on how much feeling,

if any, returns. Meanwhile, your

wheelchair will be your best friend.

Wheelchair. The word slams

into my gut like a brick. I will be

confined to a wheelchair, at the mercy

of a caregiver? Someone to tell me

where to go, when to go, if I can go?

“What about driving? Can I do that?”

Absolutely, with a specially equipped

vehicle.
She smiles.
That's usually

the question I get
after
“What about sex?”

Holy shit.

Away from here, this dirty

city, where people come

in search of Lady Luck,

certain she'll guide them to

the fortune she owes them,

or

to shed their skins, reveal

the extraordinary creatures

beneath, aliens they struggle

to conceal from spouses,

ministers, their local PTA.

Will

I walk away from her?

My best friend turned lover

before our tumble from

enlightenment, if such a thing

ever belonged to me. Can

I

excise her from my heart

as easily as she deserted me?

If I opened my arms, begged

her to return, would she come

back, or would she turn and

run?

Here without her—Alex, my sweet

Alex. At least, she was sweet until

Las Vegas claimed her, made her

its bitch. This city is a pimp, selling

fantasies. For a time, Alex and I

were a fantasy duet, working for

Have Ur Cake Escort Service,

despite being a couple of years

underage. “Eighteen” isn't necessary

to participate in a business that

props up the underbelly of Vegas.

It was not what I had in mind when

I ran away, but then again, I had no

plan, and sometimes it comes down

to survival. We survived, stripping

for pay in hotel rooms, mostly

working bachelor parties, two for

the price of one. I insisted on that,

refused to do more than take off

my clothes and dance. But Alex

couldn't care less about spreading

her legs and accepting foreign objects,

as long as the dudes were willing

to pay the going rate. Then she got

greedy, started working the streets

so she wouldn't have to kick back

Lydia's commission. I found her out

there, soliciting some guy wearing

ugly purple Bermuda shorts. That

pissed me off, but in hindsight,

looking for revenge by offering to let

him buy all he could eat, double-decker,

wasn't the smartest move. Turned

out, he was a cop on a trash run, prowling

for teen hookers. Vegas has issued

stern orders: get 'em off the sidewalks,

bust their pimps and even their johns.

Detective Bermuda Shorts was only

doing his job.
Tell me who's sending

you out, the court will go easy on you.

Alex and I didn't roll on Lydia

or Have Ur Cake. Luckily, Judge

Kerry was sympathetic anyway,

an honest-to-goodness do-gooder.

Nevada considers trafficking

children a serious offense.

This is not a victimless crime,

and you, young lady, are a victim.

Made sense. How can a willing

participant be a victim? No one

tied us up at the end of the day

(although a few of our customers

offered). And we weren't trafficked,

as far as I knew then. No one kidnapped

us and smuggled us to the foreign

country of Las Vegas. Now, thanks

to my recent interaction with law

enforcement, the courts, and social

workers, I understand that three

things define trafficking: coercing

someone to turn tricks, transporting

them for that purpose, or in any

way threatening or encouraging

an underage person to sell their body.

Oh, and how good ol' Iris collected

money for allowing men to force

themselves on me? Uh, yeah. That,

too. Then, there's Have Ur Cake.

Since Alex and I haven't reached

the age of eighteen—that magic

birthday that supposedly makes

you an adult—Lydia was definitely

guilty of pandering minors for sex.

She arranged our “dates,” and

collected a hefty fee for her trouble,

so technically she was our pimp,

though we asked for the work.

She never had to twist our arms.

But she totally knew how old

we were, and that we'd run away

with a minimal bankroll. Plus,

she did, in fact, put us in her debt

by letting us stay with her when

we first arrived in Vegas. When I

appeared before Judge Kerry, though,

I didn't understand all that. “I don't see

myself as a victim, Your Honor. I was just

trying to make enough money to survive.”

He looked at me with such sadness

in his eyes.
I understand survival,

but this is not a good way to earn

money if you truly want to survive.

I don't really know

what all Alex faced

when she did outcalls

solo. She refused to talk

to me about it. I only

did a few gigs alone,

and I never exactly felt

threatened. Together,

there were a few times

when I thought a client

might hurt us, and one guy

forced Alex to jerk him off.

More than once, we got

stiffed for payment, and

then we owed Lydia

anyway. She never really

bullied us. Convinced

is more accurate. She had

a way of doing that, although

she never could talk me into

stuffing condoms into my bag

and earning a hell of a lot more

money. I'm a dancer. A stripper.

But I'll never be a whore.

Are over, at least that's what Judge

Kerry said. After my advocate

determined Gram does want me

back in Barstow, they sent me

to stay in a group home until

Gram can arrange to come pick

me up. The law says I can only

be released to a “custodial adult.”

Hey, at least I have one of those,

unlike Alex, who ended up in

a different group home—one that

accepts pregnant teens. Pregnant.

If she got that way, it means

she wasn't using protection, and

God forbid she picked up anything

else besides sperm. The father?

Some anonymous trick, and who

knows what color the baby will

be, or what defects it might inherit

from its paternal side? So sad.

Then again, everything about Alex

makes me sad—her childhood;

the things she's allowed herself to do;

the fact I might never see her again.

Bitter, because it
was
goodbye.

Sweet, because it meant she was

safely off the streets. I spent many

hours pacing our apartment,

pining for closeness and a return

to sweet adventures in bed,

wondering when she'd come home.

If she'd come home. She always

did eventually, but every time

another little piece of the Alex

I loved was missing. Tricking chews

you up from the inside out.

We had a few minutes together

while waiting to see the judge.

“Gram says she welcomes me

back, believe it or not.”

I believe it. The one thing about

you I've always been jealous of is

how much your grandma loves you.

No one's ever loved me like that.

“What about me? I still love you,

Alex, don't want to live without

you. Please come with me. I'm

sure Gram will let you live—”

No. Are you kidding me?

She's got six kids to take care

of, plus your mom. You expect

her to add me and a baby?

“We can work out something.

Get jobs, our own place. I can

still help Gram with the kids,

and . . .” It sounded ridiculous.

Aw, Gin. I want you to go back

to school, get your diploma,

head off to college. You can

legit make it in the real world,

and do it all on your own. You

don't need me holding you back.

She reached out, put one hand

on my cheek. I directed it to my lips,

kissed each finger. “I don't know

what I'll do without you, and I'm

scared for you and the baby.”

Her hand fell away, never there.

Don't worry about us. We'll be

just fine. Besides . . .
She forced

her voice cold.
I've been thinking