23

At Polk Inn there was no such thing as a normal shift. There were times that “normal” included all hell breaking loose. I clocked in one Thursday to learn that Allesandra had been killed in a knife fight, out in the street, and Revo had disappeared. Luca had OD’d, and Heather was in the hospital in labor. Sometimes life and death would cozy up beside each other. This all during the same day I was reprimanded for allowing Armando to get anywhere near scissors. “They could cut themselves on the edges of those water bottles,” my manager said. He was right, but I didn’t feel remorse. I thought it was good for Armando to do something thoughtful, and we shared a love of lilies.

I walked into the kitchen, which is the first thing I do when I need a reset. I stood in the chilly glow of the fridge and considered my options. I swiped a Capri Sun and sucked the wet sugar from the spindly straw. It was eerily quiet under the florescent kitchen lights. Charlie rushed out the front door in a denim miniskirt and spike heels with a little wave. I ordered Domino’s pizza in case some clients showed up for dinner. I heard loud music blaring from upstairs. It was Armando’s room, so I grabbed his meds from the office and knocked on his door.

“Can you turn that down?” He opened his door a couple inches.

“Why? No one’s here.”

“I’m trying to order us pizza.” His eyes were two black holes.

“I’m not hungry.” I handed him his meds. He shook his head then shut the door in my face. I ducked into the RA office and wrote in the binder:

“Armando was asked to turn his music down. Refused his HIV and psych meds.”

Downstairs, I gorged on three pieces of drippy pepperoni pizza and replayed the night with the client I’d decided to meet. I was shocked at how easily I’d crossed the line from dancer to hooker. I grasped for excuses but was disgusted with myself. Had the street economy invaded my skin? Why lunge deeper into sex work while trying to distance myself from it?

I used my red key to open an empty client apartment and locked myself in the bathroom. I stuck my finger down my throat and puked. I wanted to sit in the dark and blast music, rock back and forth in my own emptiness. Rock my emptiness to sleep.

Armando’s music played louder and louder.

“Goddamn it,” I mumbled. I walked down the hall and banged on his door. He didn’t open it.

“Armando!” I kept knocking. Louder.

“I’m coming in, Armando.” I unlocked his door and, noticing my key chain still had some puke on it, wiped it on my jeans. The door was heavy because he’d used a bookshelf to blockade it. I pushed my whole body against it, sliding the bookshelf towards the wall. Armando stood holding a wooden bat in his arms. His head was cut and blood dripped down into his perfectly tweezed black eyebrows. Blood was splattered on his hands and shirt. His eyes were fierce and lacked any of the softness from the day we’d arranged the lilies. His gaze was ecstatic and free, like an angel floating in cool moonlight.

“I’m okay,” he said.

He let the bloody bat drop, and it landed with a thunk. Both of us froze, standing in the dark room with his blood under our feet. White lilies drooped pitifully on a wooden bedside table. My manager had confiscated the water bottle.

“I’m okay,” he said again in a raspy whisper. We glowed in the dark. I backed away, stepped into the hall, and called my manager. Armando’s door slammed shut.

“Call nine-one-one,” my manager said. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want Armando to go anywhere. I wanted to throw a blanket over him and pat him on the head and hand him a sack lunch and a movie pass. Within a few moments that could’ve been thirty seconds or a half-hour, the door buzzed.

Outside, the ghetto blaster guy was still swaying to rap music. Behind him were six men in black helmets and kneepads. I’d never seen them before: the SWAT team. They wrapped Armando up and carried him away on a stretcher. His expression seemed to ask me, Why?