The Boy's Town Sequence, by Brian Carr
“No one did anything. Those ladies have diseases.”
Fiction by Brian Carr
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Boy’s Town #1
His suit looked toy-store made, and his eyes seemed sugar loaded. He stood on the street corner and called to us singingly. “Five dollar pussy wagon,” he said, each word wrapped in petals of music, “ fucky-fucky. Sucky-suck. I’ll take you to another place where money counts as luck. You don’t have to be pretty for your soul to house a shame. Come along. Come along. Get inside.” We’d been looking for him, but he still came as a shock to us. His posture was regal—three or four of his teeth capped with gold. There dangled a chain from his neck. He stood beside a flat-maroon Lincoln. He flung open the rear-passenger door. It sang like a rusty spring. We nodded and lowered ourselves against the sun-smoothed interior. We expected the car to smell like cigarette ash or food heavy with onions. Instead, it had a flavor not unlike cinnamon gum.
Boy’s Town #2
No one did anything. Those ladies have diseases. We sat drinking in the dingy room. If you were there in the daytime you’d most likely convulse. Christ, those are vampire conditions. Music from untuned guitars. We drank Coronitas. Bottled seven ounce beers. We wanted to see if we could fit an empty inside a hooker. We had five dollars. She rolled her eyes like we’d annoyed her. She put a leg on the table and raised her skirt to her belly. “What are you waiting for?” she asked. A small crowd gathered around us. We weren’t the only ones curious. I can’t explain all I witnessed. There were sounds but no words for them. Whatever I saw was sort of erased from my eyes. Anyhow, I’d rather not dwell on the details. The best I can say is: it’s snug, but it goes.
Boy’s Town #3
That earlier bit may have been lie. Someone needed money. We paid in part and fled. Hookers screaming in that way only hookers can. Pockets were emptied, but cab fare’d been squandered. We hitched a ride with a weekend fag who spoke bad English. “Come over to see the ladies?” we asked. “No,” said the driver. “I am very, very gay.” On the bridge over, putrid. Back then you could cross in clumps. The agent eyed us. “Bringing anything in?” he asked. I rubbed my hands. I thought a moment. My friends all laughed when I confessed that only a test could tell for certain.
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BRIAN ALLEN CARR lives in Texas. His second collection, Vampire Conditions, is coming soon from Holler Presents. His debut, Short Bus, is currently available from Texas Review Press.
He has a novella forthcoming from Small Doggies Press.
More information and links about Brian Allen Carr can be found here.