-- Ben Carlin

As they sat around the back table telling the evening's strip-club stories, I tried not to laugh. It was hard, though, because the stories were funny. Eric was holding court as usual. When I got there with Jimmy, they were at the tail end of the opening act -- tales of ordinary strip-club foolishness. These tales, while being fairly mindless and harmless episodes about over-sexed boys who'd had too much to drink. Everyone was waiting for the headliner -- the sordid account of the goings-on in the back room where the "private dances" took place.

Eric was a good-looking fellow, with a wacky sense of humor that most people couldn't get away with. His were the only stories really worth listening to. Even his cohorts agreed and, after a short while, they let Eric finish up the performance. He carried on for at least forty-five minutes, fondly embellishing tales of haggling for favors with well-timed rudeness, self-indulgent sordidness, and glorious debauchery. Regardless of whom he was with in that back room, he was sitting at a table fucking himself. And I couldn't help but laugh.

The bar was closed to the public. Jimmy and I sat at a table in the back with Eric, Ian, Brendan, and Fred, the bartender. Fred had pulled all the gates except for the one in front door. That one was only pulled halfway down.

Brendan had been one of the boys since birth. A neighborhood kid in his early thirties, he married young, had a couple kids, a union job in his father's local, the whole bit. He was easily swayed to the will of others, but not without scruples. He was also my pot dealer. Ian, the same age and from the same neighborhood, was a new kid on the scene. He was a choirboy until he was seventeen. He had been engaged to a woman for over a year and had never seen her breasts. He started playing guitar for the church band when he was ten years old and was, even at that age, clearly talented. In his twenties, he started doing studio work to pay the bills and joined a local band. He played in some of the neighborhood bars, where he met Eric. In a matter of two or three months, he had taken up smoking, drinking, and on this particular evening, he had his first experience with nudity. It was a distorted view of female sexuality, seen through the eyes of a lecherous tour guide. This was his introduction into the world of sin and smut, and he loved every minute of it.

After four pitchers of beer, I had heard enough. "Eric, enough already. I think you've described every breast in the place."

"To exquisite detail, I might add," Fred chimed in.

"Brian," Eric said to me. "Stop being a little bitch. We took Brian to the club one night, and he just sat in the background drinking beer. It was fucking depressing."

"It's not my thing."

"Then why did you come?" Brendan asked, fearlessly defending his leader.

"We were all hanging out. It's what everybody else wanted to do. I'm not gonna be the one to fuck up everybody's plan. But I'm not gonna play along, either."

"You're still a little bitch. Give us a break, we were drinking gin." An old man had once told Eric that if you get drunk on gin, you're liable to end up with your pants down in public. He frequently cited this as an excuse for his behavior.

Eric's rhythm was broken and the mood changed. Everyone shifted around and when Fred stood up, it was obvious that the party was over. We all drained our beers and stood to leave.

"Hey, Brendan. You got anything on you?"

"No, but Ian's giving me a lift home. If you hop in with us, I'll run inside and grab it for you."

"Ian, can you give me a lift home after that?" I asked. I lived much farther away than everyone else.

"Yeah, sure. Anybody else?"

Jimmy grumbled something and stumbled out the door, banging his head on the gate.

"I live three blocks away," was Fred's answer. "I'm not getting in a car with you maniacs. I'll probably end up on Third Avenue." That, I think, is what gave Eric the idea. I put sixteen dollars on the bar; I gave Brendan the remaining fifty for my weekly quarter-ounce. Then we piled into Ian's car. I happened to get the front passenger seat, and it was a damn good thing I did.

We drove a couple blocks down the road, and Eric suddenly started shouting out directions.

"Where the fuck are we going?" I asked. I was very tired.

"We're going to Third Avenue to get our dicks sucked. And you're getting your dick sucked, too."

"Hell no. I'm not gonna get my dick sucked by some fucking crackhead. Ian, just take me home." Ian didn't answer. He was locked in to Eric's navigation -- circling around the side streets and parks frequented by whores. Eric was in the know. The jokes started up again, but this time I didn't laugh. I heard a beer being opened in the back and I knew I wouldn't be home any time soon.

"This is fucking piss-warm," Brendan said, and then proceeded to drain the bottle in two swigs.

We drove around a few times and saw nothing, but just as the mission was being called off, she emerged from a public restroom in the center of a small park.

"There. Drive up to her," Eric commanded. Ian complied.

Eric wasted no time with small talk: "How much for a blowjob?"

"All of you?"

"More or less." Eric gave me a nasty little glance as he spoke.

"Ten dollars a head."

"Get in."

It was a two-door car, so I had to get out to let her in. I was in a state of numb drunken shock, aghast that this was actually happening. Eric chatted with the prostitute as if he'd known her for years. Maybe he has, I thought.

"These are my friends: Ian, Brendan, and Little-Bitch-Brian who isn't getting his dick sucked." I felt my face turn burgundy. I started doing breathing exercises that, in hindsight, probably saved Eric's life.

"What's your name?"

"Angel."

I looked at Ian who was oblivious to the irony. It must have been the gin.

Ian parked the car on a dead-end street that led to the Gowanus Canal. I reached into the back, grabbed a warm beer off the floor and spilled myself out of the car, leaving the door open. I walked to edge of the canal and sat down on a pile of rubbish.

I looked back to the car and saw that she had begun to go to work on Brendan. I thought of the birthday party I attended at Brendan's house two weeks earlier for his five year-old son. I turned my attention back towards the canal. The fence that blocked it from the street was broken and bent so severely that three feet of it was submerged. On the other side of the canal, the only things I could make out through the fog of the morning and the fog of my brain were heaps of garbage. That was when I realized I was sitting on a very similar pile -- I felt that this was where I belonged.

Behind me, I could hear the occasional gurgling sound followed by giggles, but I did not turn around. I opened my beer with a cigarette lighter, but I did not drink. I watched the water, trying to imagine all the things that could possibly be at the bottom. I remembered once, as a youngster, coming down here with one of the older kids to throw a gun in the canal. I wondered about that gun and its history. I wondered about other guns. I wondered about anything I could rather than what was taking place behind me. My misery reached an almost enjoyable level. I saw myself romantically sitting on the bank of some bitter Tom Waits song, bound to garbage through whiskey, ten-dollar whores and the blues. I took a long swig of my beer and turned to have a look.

Eric was now out of the car, standing by an abandoned stoop and the woman was on her knees before him. By then it must have been 6:30 and the industrial neighborhood was coming to life. Trucks passed by slowly and emerged from loading docks, the drivers regarding the couple with nothing more than a casual glace. A woman walked by, deliberately not looking in their direction -- she had no doubt seen it before. She didn't really care. The truck drivers didn't care. Nobody cared. Why the fuck should I care? I puked violently into the Gowanus Canal. The murky, green water wasted no time swallowing my yellow bile. It was gone instantly. The canal certainly didn't care.

I took a sip of beer and spit it on the ground next to me to wash the texture off my teeth, but it remained. I tried to return to my Tom Waits moment (vomit is usually good for that), but it was gone. I was tired, thoroughly disgusted, and I wanted to go home. A few minutes later, Ian walked up to me.

"You all right?" he asked while zipping his pants.

"Couldn't be better." My sarcasm was lost on him.

"We're getting out of here," he said. "None of us could come."

"There's a shocker."

As I pushed myself up with my hands, I planted my palm directly in the beer I had spat out. Mixed with the dirt and grime beneath, it produced a wonderfully vile mixture of slime on my hand. As I followed Ian to his car, I contemplated wiping it on his shirt, but I was too tired to be vindictive, so I wiped it on my own pants instead. Brendan and Eric were already in the back seat with Angel. Eric was still trying to succeed where the others had failed. Every so often, the woman would come up for air and to tell Ian directions to where she wanted to be dropped off -- a building in the Fort Greene projects. Other than that, the ride was mostly silent. After dropping her off, we headed back towards the neighborhood.

"Did you come?" Brendan asked.

"No, let's go back and try again."

"Come on, guys, enough. Ian, please just drive me home."

"Ian, pull over here and drop him off." Eric was determined. "We're going back."

Ian, being the loyal soldier he was, complied. I found myself standing on the corner of Third and Atlantic, drunk, at seven in the morning, with a big nasty stain on my pants, as my so-called friends drove off into the horizon in search of another whore.

To the left, my home lurked some thirty blocks away. To the right, six blocks away, was a car service. I took a right. At the base and asked the dispatcher for a car. He saw the drunken mess that stood before him and told me I had to pay up front. I didn't blame him.

"No problem," I said. But when I reached into my pockets, I realized that I had given the last of my money to Fred and Brendan. I started on my journey home that had grown twelve blocks longer, cursing myself first, and then both of them. I cursed under my breath the whole way home. It would have been slightly bearable if I had a pair of sunglasses. I cursed all the way up the stairs to my apartment, cursed my dog, and cursed my boots as I unlaced them. Surprisingly, it did not take me long to fall asleep.

When I awoke, there was dog shit in the middle of the kitchen floor. This was my fault for not walking him. It did not take me long to remember the events that led to my negligence. As I mopped the floor, I took some comfort in blaming others. I put on a pot of coffee and called Brendan.

"Hello?" answered an almost unrecognizable voice. I recognized the hangover.

"It's Brian. I want my shit."

"You can come over and get it now."

"I think you should make a special delivery."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. That was fucked up last night."

"I don't wanna talk about it. When are you coming?"

"I'll come over now. Be outside in twenty minutes."

I waited outside until he came. When he pulled up, I could see that he had a package in his hand. I walked up to the car; the exchange took place without a word and I went back inside. He called after me, perhaps something vaguely apologetic, but I didn't look back. I went upstairs, smoked a joint and fell asleep.

Later that evening, I was sitting in the bar hoping Eric would show up. I sat there planning to the word what I would say to him. "You introduced me to a crack-whore as 'Little-Bitch-Brian.' Is that nice? Do you feel good about that?" Or, "The next time you try to insult me for not participating in your debauchery, I promise you I will knock your teeth down your throat."

Before too long, Eric walked into the bar, cheerful as usual. I had only seen Brendan for a moment, but I could read the remorse on his face. I wondered if his wife read him as easily. I hadn't seen or spoken to Ian, but I was fairly certain we wouldn't be seeing him for a while. Eric was the same old Eric.

"Hey, it's Little Bitch Brian."

I grabbed Eric by the collar of his shirt and quickly dragged him into the bathroom. I pinned him against the wall. My rage was replaced by repulsion. My face was expressionless.

"Hey, Brian, chill the fuck out. It was all in fun. All we did was have a little fun. Get a blowjob. Come on, man. How long I known you?"

Everything I wanted to say immediately came to mind, but none of it seemed appropriate. There were no words, only pictures. I let go of his shirt, smoothed out the wrinkles that my clenched fist left, and walked out of the bathroom. Eric stayed in there for a few minutes. I'm not sure why.

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