Ten

Anthony Scarsdale zipped up his fly. Gave the long-legged hooker on the bed a well-earned tip. Grabbed his coat, left the motel room. He felt good. Drained from top to bottom. What a mouth she had, he thought as he walked down the street to the bus stop. He ignored the requests for change from the homeless and offers of crack from the dealers. Decided to stand at the bus stop and not sit when he noticed someone had vomited right in front of it. Went as far as he could upwind from the large splash of pale liquid and what looked like a half-eaten hotdog. Some fuckheads are really fucking disgusting, he thought with a shake of his head.

He didn’t realize that he was being followed. Up the street half a block sat a small two-door hatchback the color of old memories. The bus finally came, and he got on. Flashed the driver his mother’s handicapped pass he’d taken out of her purse earlier in the day while she napped. Went and sat all the way at the back, still thinking about the hooker. Grinned as he remembered how her eyes got so damn big when he pulled off his pants. She was really impressed with his dick. She loved every last thing they did together. He liked trying to make it nice for them, what with them having to fuck all damn day with a bunch of guys who were probably total fucking losers. Him, he just didn’t want the attachment of a full, or even part-time, relationship. This way was easier. Less complicated.

After the forty-five-minute bus ride, he got off at his stop. Went the three blocks to his mother’s house. It was nice being home, but part of him wanted out. That of course meant getting a job, and no one was hiring. Well, not hiring him, at least. Not with his history. At least mom had set up the garage room nice for him.

His mother’s house was a faded pink row job deep in the Outer Sunset. Out far enough where the salt air rusted everything that had any metal in it. Scarsdale let himself in the door next to the garage. Went past his mother’s old brown Buick. Frowned as he passed the rust bucket. She needed a new car. But of course she’d never put out the dough for one. She never put out money for anything nice or fun. The idea of finding her bank book and just going out and buying her a new ride had crossed his mind, but he didn’t want her to explode and kick him out. He needed this roof over his head. And the allowance she gave him. Just enough for drinking on weekends and a hooker every ten days or so. Life could be worse. Heck, it had been worse. More simple, sure, but a hell of a lot worse.

He had no idea that the hatchback had followed him all the way home and was now parked at the end of the block. It would be there for another hour before the driver realized Scarsdale would not be going out again, and so drove away.