Whores for Gloria

11. Phyllis and Luna

Have you ever looked at an old street-whore's hand? Dirty worn creases deep as cuts, fingertips callused and peeling, thumb blackish-grey, but the whole hand so pale under the dirt, and so lean and tired like the wrist up which march buttons of sores. . That hand has worked hard at giving love to strangers, or giving what strangers call love, or what strangers want instead of love — no, it is love because work is love no matter what or how.

Phyllis's hands looked like that.

Phyllis went home to Luna where they lay together with eyes glowing so lovingly because Luna had become a habit like the fire hydrant in front of the Nitecap that a million dogs had peed on, like the bus stop pole that Dinah had leaned against so long that she had worn away a palm-sized place in the yellow paint. Then Phyllis injected the smack very slowly into her vein, holding her breath to better appreciate the goodness and blessedness of it like Virgin Mary candy full of sunlight and ocean fruit, and she was happy until it wore off at which point she picked a fight with inoffensive Luna and then sat on the bed staring down at the night of parked cars and heavy barred gates of hotel lobbies and barred storefronts like jails and sidewalks empty where there was no business, corners packed with black men selling drugs, corners occupied by blondes wearily waggling ass, and Phyllis said they might as well just lay me in the earth! Of course there isn't even any dirt in this place, except on people's hands. Maybe they could bury me in shit. Plenty of that around here, at least.

Oh, stop your whining said Luna, who was still sulking.

You suppose there's anything after death? said Phyllis.

How the hell should I know? Why don't you just quit it. Whatever it is that you need to keep you going, figure it out and get it. It ain't me, girl, and it sure ain't your fix.

It's death, laughed Phyllis.

Oh, dry up, yawned Luna. Here, have a beer. Who were you with this afternoon?

That nigger bitch and a pervert that wanted his dick sucked. Later on he made us tell him shit. You know. Whatever it takes.

Luna went to the window. — You know that girl Nicole? she said. Well, she got stabbed.

Dead?

You hard of hearing or you just got cunts for ears?

Good riddance, said Phyllis after a while. She had AIDS anyway. I hate people with AIDS.