Chapter Two: The Road to Rock Bottom

Juarez by night was different from any place Jack Twist had ever been. It wasn't so much the sights and sounds as the smell. The air was redolent with aromas exotic to his nose and heightened the sense that he walked in some waking dream. He didn't want to be here and yet he did, his need overwhelming his fears and his guilt, sending him across the square toward the mouth of the alley where relief could be had for a handful of pesos. Calle de los Chicos, the street of boys, a place Jack had heard hints about, and now here he was, hollow with weeping, a dull excitement south of his belt buckle, sour spit on the back of his tongue, moving like a man wading through quicksand, his goal receding as he approached, changing his mind with each step. He didn't think he'd ever felt lower in his life.

"Senor?"

Jack looked up at the sound of the soft voice. A big man in a shirt too small for him pushed away from the wall and looking inquiringly at Jack. Jack's gaze traveled from the Mexican's cracked boots, moving quickly past the bulging crotch, over the flat belly and broad chest, the sinewy muscles of the bare arms, and knew this was what he wanted. He didn't kid himself anymore that it was just something he and Ennis did together. Jack liked making love to women well enough, but no woman raised these feelings in him. No, what he wanted was a man: someone with hard flat muscles, callused hands and stubbled cheeks, as strong as he was, smelling of horse, Old Spice and tobacco. He wanted Ennis. But he couldn't have Ennis, so he'd take what he could get. Jack met the other man's eyes and recognized the sadness in the Mexican's dark gaze. He nodded and followed the hustler into the dark.

"In here, senor."

Knowing no better, Jack preceded the prostitute into the room. If the man that had picked him up was a different type of person, Jack could have been hit in the head and robbed blind. Instead, he walked into a tiny adobe-walled chamber and looked around with flat curiosity. The only furniture was a bed, the only decoration a crucifix hung on a nail. Jack turned as his host came in and pulled the brightly colored blanket off the mattress.

"Scratchy," he said and Jack nodded like he'd just introduced himself.

"I'm Jack."

"As you wish, senor. I am Steve."

Jack cocked his head. "Steve?"

"Is something wrong?"

"No, I just expected you to be named Paco, or Manuel, or somethin' like that."

"My mother named me Esteban," the handsome man said. "I prefer Steve when I'm working."

"Ya speak real good English, Steve. Better'n mine, I reckon."

Steve resisted the urge to smile. Don't make friends with the gringos. They're customers and nothing more. All you are to them is a warm, wet hole, or a big cock that they can treat like something they've bought and paid for. Don't be personal; mind your business. These were the words Esteban Alvaro lived by these days. Once he had assuaged his male pride with the excuse that he couldn't find any other work and the gringo maricons would pay well just to suck him off. Now he knew that he liked sex with other men, but there was no reason for anyone else to know. He didn't hang out with the other "boys" when he wasn't working. He didn't spend all his money on clothes, liquor or marijuana. He did his job and saved toward the day he could leave here for good. But it would be easier to maintain his professional distance if this blanco wasn't so charming. "I learned English in school," he said. "I studied hard because I wanted to speak English very well."

"Good job," Jack said sincerely. "Look here; I ain't never… This is my first time with a… I ain't never been to…"

"Mexico?" Steve guessed. "Don't worry, senor. I have done this many times. First, can I see your money? Bueno. That's enough. Now tell me, senor, what do you like? Do you like to suck, or be sucked, or both? Do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you, or both? Or would you like some combination? Just tell me and we will begin."

"I ain't sure I can say," Jack grinned nervously. "This ain't my first time with a man, but I been with the same one since Sixty-seven and before him, nuthin' but one night stands on the rodeo circuit."

"You still have not told me what you want, senor. I cannot stay off the street for too long. I have a living to make."

"Sorry. This ain't easy for me. I want a git on that bed with ya and make some noise, but it just don't feel right."

Steve smiled a slow, lazy smile that his other customers liked as he moved closer to Jack. Holding Jack's eyes with his, he put his hand on Jack's crotch. Jack flinched, and then Steve squeezed gently, rubbing him through the denim and it felt so good to be touched that he shut his eyes and let the hustler fondle him to hardness. With his eyes closed, it was easier to pretend that the tall Mexican was someone else.

"Do you kiss?" Steve asked

Jack shook his head, unwilling to make that final betrayal. This one thing he would keep for Ennis alone, even if he never kissed him again. When Steve unbuttoned his shirt and caressed his nipples, it was Ennis's hands, Ennis's lips, Ennis's breath warm on his skin, and the illusion continued until Steve took Jack's arousal in his mouth. The hustler knew too many tricks and Jack was reminded of where he was and what he was doing. "Stop," he gasped. "I want ya to fuck me. From behind."

"That will be my pleasure, senor," Steve said, as he shed his pants. "I am ready."

"Sure as shit are," Jack said, frankly staring at the other man's crotch. Steve's uncut cock wasn't huge and it didn't throb, it was just a hard column of flesh with a cloudy pearl of pre-cum forming at the tip, but the sight of it made Jack ache with the need to feel it inside him, filling him, stretching him, as he simultaneously surrendered to the penetration and surrounded the invader with a velvet vise, capable of dealing out pleasure or withholding it.

"What do you want?" Steve asked softly as he picked up a bottle of oil from beside the bed.

Jack took a deep breath. "I don't want nuthin' lovey-dovey. Just get on and ride me."

Steve had more than one big shot gringo customer that wanted to be dominated by a low rent hustler, but this Jack didn't seem like one of them. He was more like a man trying to forget something, and Steve did his best to distract Jack by giving him what he asked for. Several frantic, sweaty minutes later, Jack came with Ennis's name on his lips. And as long as Steve stayed behind him, and didn't speak much, Jack was able weave a fantasy that was satisfying enough to bring him back on a more or less regular basis. But on this first night, he yanked his jeans up as soon as Steve pulled out, and left without looking at the other man. It wasn't until he got back in his truck that the first cramp hit.

Fifteen minutes later, still shaky, with the bitter taste of bile on the back of his tongue, Jack Twist drove away from his infidelity and realized that nothing had really changed. He hadn't rid himself of his craving for Ennis; it was still as strong as ever and he knew for sure that he would never be free of it.

:: : :: : :: : :: : ::

Ennis slammed the receiver down in the cradle with a curse. Fuckin' Alma! He had changed his schedule, wangled an extra day off, filled the truck up with gas, tucked the rodeo tickets into the breast pocket of his jacket and was halfway to the door when the God damned phone rang. Ennis hated the phone, wouldn't have one if Alma didn't insist that she needed to be able to get in touch with him. All she cared about these days was the child support check. It didn't matter to her if a blizzard kept him from working a few days and he came up short. Alma wanted her money. And she was finding more and more ways to keep the girls from him now that she was married to Monroe and pregnant by him. Like today. Calling at the last minute with some story about a bug going around at school. She knew he'd never stand up to her as long as she had that picture.

Turning away from the phone, Ennis kicked the small refrigerator and the door popped open. He snagged a can of cheap beer and downed half in one long swallow, his anger settling back to a simmer. He hoped Alma Junior and Jenny weren't sick. Ennis knew he wasn't much of a daddy, but he cared about what happened to them. He felt awful bad when he couldn't make his child support payments, but that was ranch work: feast or famine, and lately there'd been a lot of famine. Sometimes he thought his life had been blighted from the start. Other times, he blamed Jack Twist. Ennis opened another beer as the long, lean memory of Jack swaggered into his thoughts. It was Jack that introduced him to sex and showed him how could a body could feel, so good it was like flying. Jack had ruined him, made it impossible for him to enjoy a woman. What chance of success did his marriage have when he was always comparing Alma to Jack? Why hadn't he seen that before eight years went by and he was so lost in this thing that he didn't how far from normal he'd strayed? What if some hunter had seen him and Jack and decided to rid the world of a couple a perverts? Lately, Ennis had felt eyes on him when he was in the grocery store, or at the filling station; everywhere he went, it seemed that people were watching him, waiting for him to slip, to give just one sign that he was different, and they'd be on him like wild dogs. And the crazy thing was that he knew it was crazy, but he couldn't stop having the thoughts anyway.

"Jack fuckin' Twist," Ennis growled, throwing the half-empty can at the wall of the line cabin. "Ya got me good."

Ennis finished the six-pack and got in his truck to buy more. Bypassing the convenience store at the four way stop, he went on in to town to the package store next to the bar. Since it was happy hour, he went in and had a couple of drafts along with a couple of shots just to kill some time. He ran out smokes during the third round and got change from the bartender for the vending machine. Putting in the coins, he leaned on the machine as pulled handle out. He waited for the thump and slide of the pack hitting the tray, but nothing happened. He pulled the handle harder. And harder yet. Cursing a blue streak, he kicked the cigarette machine, and went on kicking it until the bartender hollered at him to stop.

"Fuck you!" Ennis yelled back, and resumed battering the vending machine.

The owner heard the racket and came out of his office. Seeing a drunken down at the heels cowpoke vandalizing leased property, he signaled to the man behind the bar to join him. The bartender jumped over the counter, as the owner approached Ennis. "Hey mister! You wanna cut that out or we're gonna break your head."

Ennis didn't hesitate, but spun around and waded into the man with both fists. The owner staggered back from the unexpected fury of the assault and the bartender jumped out of the way, picking up a bar stool. Ennis reeled as the bartender brought the stool down on his shoulder, but he came right back. The owner rejoined the fight, jumping onto Ennis's back and taking him to the floor. Ennis bucked, throwing an elbow that bloodied the bartender's nose. With a roar of pain, the man rose and kicked Ennis in the ribs. The owner held onto the cowboy, pummeling him as the bartender got in a few more kicks. When Ennis stopped moving, they dragged him outside and dumped him at the curb. Anesthetized by the alcohol he'd consumed, Ennis crawled to his truck and hauled himself up into the driver's seat. He didn't remember the drive home.

"Daddy?"

Ennis opened his eyes a crack and a splinter of light sent a bolt of white-hot agony through his skull. He tried to swallow, but his tongue felt three times its normal size and there was a taste on the back of it that made him gag. Brushing at him face, he dislodged flakes of what felt like dried oatmeal, and he opened his eyes all the way.

"Daddy? You here?" The sound of Junior's voice was like a chain saw going through aluminum siding. "Daddy?"

Ennis swung his legs over the side of the bed and the floor tilted alarmingly before it settled down. His vision was clearer, and he didn't think he was going to heave, but this was his worst hangover ever. He looked down and realized he hadn't undressed before passing out and that the dried stuff on his chin and shirt was old vomit. "Stay out there, Junior, ya hear. I'm just gonna clean up some."

"Okay, Daddy. Ya sound funny."

"I'm a little sick, darlin', that's all."

"Reckon that's why ya wasn't at work."

Ennis was about to answer when he caught sight of himself in the small bathroom mirror. He looked like something out of a horror movie. His eyes were black and swollen, his nose was broken and his lips split. When he lifted his shirt, the assortment of bruises explained the tearing pain each time he took a breath. He'd sure enough tangled with a wildcat. That wasn't so unusual when he got to drinking, but this was the first time he couldn't remember a single detail of the fight. Come to think of it, he didn't know what day this was and reckoned he was pretty close to rock bottom. "Junior? Whut're ya doin' here?"

"I was mad at Mama for not lettin' us come to see ya, and I called. Got worried when ya didn't answer and I got a ride over to see how ya was all right."

"You supposed t' be in school?"

"It won't hurt me to miss one Monday."

Ennis spit in the sink and rinsed the blood down the drain. Monday? He'd been laying here since Friday night, by his count. Pulling a new undershirt from an open pack of three, he managed to get into it. By the look on Junior's face when he came into the kitchen, Ennis knew the fresh shirt hadn't done anything for his appearance.

"Jesus Christ, Daddy!" Junior said as she jumped up from her chair. "You look like you been hit by a train."

"I'm all right," Ennis said, putting on a pot of coffee.

"No you ain't. Were you in a wreck?"

"Sort a," Ennis mumbled. "I wrecked myself." Junior didn't answer and when he turned from fetching down the sugar, he saw that she was weeping. She didn't make a sound, but big tears welled up in eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Ennis's chest felt crushed and for a moment he thought he might be having a heart attack. "I'm all right," he repeated.

"Daddy, I ain't a kid no more. I'm thirteen. Ya cain't fool me like ya used to."

"Fool ya 'bout what?"

"Ya drink too much. Ya know ya do."

"I drink as much as I want to," Ennis said, setting two mugs on the counter.

"Well, it's too much. Look at ya. Were ya drinkin' when ya got beat up?"

"That ain't none a your business, Junior. I'm a grown man and I'll drink when I please, long as I got the price of a round in my pocket."

"So you can do whatever ya want, that right?"

"That's about the size of it," Ennis said as the coffee maker wheezed behind him.

Junior wiped the wetness from her face with a paper towel. "And it don't matter if what ya do hurts ever'body that loves ya."

Ennis got up, as though the coffee maker required immediate attention. It was easier to talk with his back to her. "I never set out t' hurt you girls or your mother."

"Hurt us?" Junior said. "Even when ya lived with us, ya barely knew we were there."

Ennis heard her footsteps, quick and light on the linoleum, and the banging of the screen door. He poured his coffee and took a sip of the bitter brew, watching out the small, smeary window as Junior marched down the dirt road, long skinny legs like some kind of big bird. She had come here because she cared what happened to him. She had made herself vulnerable and been rejected by him once again. I'm losing her, he thought, and the thought was so clear and sudden that it galvanized him. Setting down his cup, he walked barefoot to his truck and got in. After a few moments searching, he found the keys under the seat and started the engine. Junior pretended she didn't see him for a about a hundred yards, but she finally got in.

"Ya really do look like hell," she said, as Ennis put the truck in gear.

"I spent a little time there," he said. "I'm gonna drive ya home now, and ya can tell me anythin' ya want to."

Read chapter 3 of 60 of I'll Be Seeing You by Bailey