An hour passes and still no sign of Iago. A part of me feels that I would be but another one of the names he crosses off of his list – another statistic for him. He does have the tendency to do that. In many ways we are so much alike.
I look around and see no sign of Iago. I am thinking now, maybe he forgot. Or maybe it was a dream. Maybe I was dreaming that he texted me. I checked my cellphone to read his supposed message and I find out that it's still there. Then I wasn't dreaming. He forgot. I should head back home. What am I doing here? I'm thirty years old for crying out loud. I chuck my phone back in my left pocket and started walking to the direction where the jeep dropped me off a few hours ago. I am somewhat disappointed. No, I am disappointed. I felt cheated. God damn you Iago, I hope you're not bleeding in some alley. Or is he? I worry.
I walk on a straight line. My whole body is on alert because I am in the not so nice part of town. I could get mugged in some alley here or get beaten up or get knifed so I need to look tough, to look seasoned. One false move then I am done for. The cops on patrol wouldn't care less, because I am just one less problem off their long list of problems. I walk on a straight line with a tepid cigarette between my lips. I walk with an unyielding gait as if nobody, not even the cops, could touch me. I am confident about this. This facade has always proven to be effective in a place like this. Like a black street cat I walk on a straight line. Touch me if you can.
…
I feel somebody is following me... or watching me from behind. My senses have never betrayed me. I stopped at a lamp post and lit my tepid cigarette. I casually turned around and true enough, there was a person standing, five meters away from me, trying very hard to look nondescript and casual by looking at his watch. He steals a glance at my direction. He sort of gives me a nondescript nod and fumbles at his pockets. He is not bad looking, he is not good looking either. Plain would be the best word to describe the John. He is probably in his late thirties and most probably married. His shirt and khakis look expensive and his watch looks plain yet sturdy. I also see a wedding ring. The John before me is a married man. Why couldn't he have left the wedding ring in his home? Could it be that his wife might find out? Or perhaps he couldn't remove it even if he wanted to? Unlike the previous one, he doesn't have the Hannibal Lectern look. He sort of reminds me of Bambi.
I sort of nod in his general direction while I blow out a smoke. He hesitates. He does not know if he should come near me or away from me. He slowly tries to come near me and I could see that he is shaking. I could see him sweating as he tries to come near me and when he was near enough he asks me the age old question...
“How much?”
I was a little surprised that he has a deep baritone voice. Perhaps he was faking it, but I doubt it. He probably sings in a choir {he does have that church look in him}.
He thinks I am rent boy. It is kind of flattering and if I were younger I would've said yes. I smiled at him – a genuine smile – and told him that I was waiting for somebody. He apologizes and walks towards Avenida. I could feel the relief in him. He probably didn't even want the whole thing to begin with. I probably have saved him from the guilt.
I decided to stick for a while. Maybe Iago will come in another hour. Or maybe he was tweaking somewhere. I worry about the kid. I say it a lot because I do. I just hope he was tweaking in a safer place, like in his room or in some church or something. Stay for a bit, I tell myself. Iago might need me to bring him home or something.
I kill time by standing behind a wall and by watching everything transpire before me. I feel a little warm and fuzzy inside. Probably the cigarettes. This place, as filthy as it is, was home to me once. I am not ashamed of it. Somehow, I feel that she is proud of me. Her once prodigal son, gone pious, is again prodigal for one night. The wall on my back feels warm. She embraces me.
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