Traffick Read online

  before our tumble from

  enlightenment, if such a thing

  ever belonged to me. Can

  I

  excise her from my heart

  as easily as she deserted me?

  If I opened my arms, begged

  her to return, would she come

  back, or would she turn and

  run?

  Ginger

  How Can I Leave

  Here without her—Alex, my sweet

  Alex. At least, she was sweet until

  Las Vegas claimed her, made her

  its bitch. This city is a pimp, selling

  fantasies. For a time, Alex and I

  were a fantasy duet, working for

  Have Ur Cake Escort Service,

  despite being a couple of years

  underage. “Eighteen” isn’t necessary

  to participate in a business that

  props up the underbelly of Vegas.

  It was not what I had in mind when

  I ran away, but then again, I had no

  plan, and sometimes it comes down

  to survival. We survived, stripping

  for pay in hotel rooms, mostly

  working bachelor parties, two for

  the price of one. I insisted on that,

  refused to do more than take off

  my clothes and dance. But Alex

  couldn’t care less about spreading

  her legs and accepting foreign objects,

  as long as the dudes were willing

  to pay the going rate. Then she got

  greedy, started working the streets

  so she wouldn’t have to kick back

  Lydia’s commission. I found her out

  there, soliciting some guy wearing

  ugly purple Bermuda shorts. That

  pissed me off, but in hindsight,

  looking for revenge by offering to let

  him buy all he could eat, double-decker,

  wasn’t the smartest move. Turned

  out, he was a cop on a trash run, prowling

  for teen hookers. Vegas has issued

  stern orders: get ’em off the sidewalks,

  bust their pimps and even their johns.

  Detective Bermuda Shorts was only

  doing his job. Tell me who’s sending

  you out, the court will go easy on you.

  Alex and I didn’t roll on Lydia

  or Have Ur Cake. Luckily, Judge

  Kerry was sympathetic anyway,

  an honest-to-goodness do-gooder.

  Nevada considers trafficking

  children a serious offense.

  This is not a victimless crime,

  and you, young lady, are a victim.

  Nothing He Said

  Made sense. How can a willing

  participant be a victim? No one

  tied us up at the end of the day

  (although a few of our customers

  offered). And we weren’t trafficked,

  as far as I knew then. No one kidnapped

  us and smuggled us to the foreign

  country of Las Vegas. Now, thanks

  to my recent interaction with law

  enforcement, the courts, and social

  workers, I understand that three

  things define trafficking: coercing

  someone to turn tricks, transporting

  them for that purpose, or in any

  way threatening or encouraging

  an underage person to sell their body.

  Oh, and how good ol’ Iris collected

  money for allowing men to force

  themselves on me? Uh, yeah. That,

  too. Then, there’s Have Ur Cake.

  Since Alex and I haven’t reached

  the age of eighteen—that magic

  birthday that supposedly makes

  you an adult—Lydia was definitely

  guilty of pandering minors for sex.

  She arranged our “dates,” and

  collected a hefty fee for her trouble,

  so technically she was our pimp,

  though we asked for the work.

  She never had to twist our arms.

  But she totally knew how old

  we were, and that we’d run away

  with a minimal bankroll. Plus,

  she did, in fact, put us in her debt

  by letting us stay with her when

  we first arrived in Vegas. When I

  appeared before Judge Kerry, though,

  I didn’t understand all that. “I don’t see

  myself as a victim, Your Honor. I was just

  trying to make enough money to survive.”

  He looked at me with such sadness

  in his eyes. I understand survival,

  but this is not a good way to earn

  money if you truly want to survive.

  I Guess I Was Lucky

  I don’t really know

  what all Alex faced

  when she did outcalls

  solo. She refused to talk

  to me about it. I only

  did a few gigs alone,

  and I never exactly felt

  threatened. Together,

  there were a few times

  when I thought a client

  might hurt us, and one guy

  forced Alex to jerk him off.

  More than once, we got

  stiffed for payment, and

  then we owed Lydia

  anyway. She never really

  bullied us. Convinced

  is more accurate. She had

  a way of doing that, although

  she never could talk me into

  stuffing condoms into my bag

  and earning a hell of a lot more

  money. I’m a dancer. A stripper.

  But I’ll never be a whore.

  Now My Stripping Days

  Are over, at least that’s what Judge

  Kerry said. After my advocate

  determined Gram does want me

  back in Barstow, they sent me

  to stay in a group home until

  Gram can arrange to come pick

  me up. The law says I can only

  be released to a “custodial adult.”

  Hey, at least I have one of those,

  unlike Alex, who ended up in

  a different group home—one that

  accepts pregnant teens. Pregnant.

  If she got that way, it means

  she wasn’t using protection, and

  God forbid she picked up anything

  else besides sperm. The father?

  Some anonymous trick, and who

  knows what color the baby will

  be, or what defects it might inherit

  from its paternal side? So sad.

  Then again, everything about Alex

  makes me sad—her childhood;

  the things she’s allowed herself to do;

  the fact I might never see her again.

  Our Goodbye Was Bittersweet

  Bitter, because it was goodbye.

  Sweet, because it meant she was

  safely off the streets. I spent many

  hours pacing our apartment,

  pining for closeness and a return

  to sweet adventures in bed,

  wondering when she’d come home.

  If she’d come home. She always

  did eventually, but every time

  another little piece of the Alex

  I loved was missing. Tricking chews

  you up from the inside out.

  We had a few minutes together

  while waiting to see the judge.

  “Gram says she welcomes me

  back, believe it or not.”

  I believe it. The one thing about

  you I’ve always been jealous of is

  how much your grandma loves you.

  No one’s ever loved me like that.

  “What about me
? I still love you,

  Alex, don’t want to live without

  you. Please come with me. I’m

  sure Gram will let you live—”

  No. Are you kidding me?

  She’s got six kids to take care

  of, plus your mom. You expect

  her to add me and a baby?

  “We can work out something.

  Get jobs, our own place. I can

  still help Gram with the kids,

  and . . .” It sounded ridiculous.

  Aw, Gin. I want you to go back

  to school, get your diploma,

  head off to college. You can

  legit make it in the real world,

  and do it all on your own. You

  don’t need me holding you back.

  She reached out, put one hand

  on my cheek. I directed it to my lips,

  kissed each finger. “I don’t know

  what I’ll do without you, and I’m

  scared for you and the baby.”

  Her hand fell away, never there.

  Don’t worry about us. We’ll be

  just fine. Besides . . . She forced

  her voice cold. I’ve been thinking

  and I’ve decided I prefer men after all.

  She Divorced Me

  And though her remark was meant

  to slice into me, sever the tie between

  our hearts, I understand why she said

  it so matter-of-factly. I don’t believe

  it, and the hurt she attempted hit

  its mark square. I still have my cell,

  and I’ve texted her dozens of times

  in the two months I’ve been here

  at House of Hope, where I’ll stay

  until Gram can get the guardianship

  paperwork in order, take a day off,

  plus find babysitting for the kids

  and Iris, who is too sick to care for

  herself, let alone her offspring.

  Wonder if she’ll let us call her “Mom”

  now that men won’t be coming around

  and aging is the least of her worries.

  She spent her youth on a slow death,

  creeping closer for years, though

  she was clueless until recently, when

  a flu bug wouldn’t go away. Tests revealed

  advanced HIV-inspired lymphoma.

  With her immune system compromised,

  there will be no cure for her cancer.

  House of Hope

  Is a corny name, and I’m not sure

  how much hope is actually here.

  It’s nice enough, and the food is good,

  and the staff pretends like they care.

  There are other sex workers here,

  some younger than me, who happens

  to be something of an anomaly because

  my skin is white. The population is

  largely divided by race, at least as far

  as room assignments go. Hispanics and

  black girls don’t get along very well.

  Their ’hoods are separate, and they stay

  that way beyond those boundaries.

  My roommate, Miranda, is Latina,

  and pretty, though her plump face

  makes her look younger than she is.

  She says she’ll be fourteen in two

  weeks. She’s thirteen, going on thirty.

  Miranda was suspicious of me at

  first, but after I told her my own

  sob story, she decided to open up.

  Right now, we’re sitting on the lawn,

  enjoying the mellow November sunshine.

  After the god-awful heat of the past

  few months, this feels like heaven.

  The tale of horror Miranda’s sharing

  right now, however, is totally hellish,

  and I have no doubt it’s true.

  My brother Ricardo runs dope

  for Los Sureños. He uses also,

  and too much on credit. He owed

  Papacito a lot of money.

  “Papacito,” I interrupt. “That means

  Daddy, yeah?” Lots of pimps insist

  their stables refer to them as Daddy,

  as if a father would sell them the same

  way. Truth is, I guess, some fathers

  do. Sí, she answers. I don’t know any

  other name, only he makes all the girls

  call him Papacito. One day after school,

  I’m talking with friends and a big car

  pulls up. Ricardo is inside with Papacito.

  He tells me to get in. I say goodbye

  to mis amigas, and we drive out of

  my ’hood, away from El Monte. I’ve never

  been so far from home. When we stop,

  I don’t know where, Ricardo gets out.

  “Do what he says and you’ll be safe.”

  He closed the door, and I never see

  my brother again, and not Mamá,

  either. Papacito, he drive me all

  the way to Las Vegas before we stop.

  When we get here, he drives down

  the strip. I never saw nothing like this

  before. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he asks.

  “I know all the best places to show you.”

  He takes me to a house. It’s nice

  on the outside. Nice on the inside.

  Except, what happens there is not

  so nice. There are other girls, too.

  This one, Belinda, she said she’d be

  mi mamá now, she’ll take good care

  of me—buy me pretty clothes, teach me

  makeup. Make me even prettier.

  I say, “Mi mamá está en El Monte.”

  Papacito grab my arm and squeeze

  real hard. “Your mamá, she doesn’t

  want you no more, so Ricardo give

  you to me.” I thought about that.

  Mamá and I had a fight because

  I told her about her man, how

  he came into my room when

  she wasn’t home. How he touched

  me. She said I was a liar. A puta.

  But I didn’t lie. . . . Her eyes water,

  and it’s the first time since I’ve been

  here that I’ve seen real emotion in

  the girl. “I believe you. It happened

  to me, too.” I don’t add the part about

  my own mother pimping me out.

  Miranda nods. It happens to many

  of us. Men are coyotes. I was eleven

  the first time. Twelve when Ricardo

  traded me for his debt. I found that

  out later. But that day, I believed

  it was Mamá’s punishment. “But when

  can I go home?” I asked. Papacito

  tell me never, I’m his now. “Do exactly

  as I say,” he said, “and Belinda, too,

  or I will hurt you so bad you’ll wish

  you were dead. But if you are a very

  good girl, I will be your boyfriend.

  ¿Quieres un novio, no? Someone

  who’ll love you forever?” Every girl

  wants a boyfriend, and I had no place

  to go. The other girls seemed happy, so . . .

  It isn’t a unique story, but it is hers.

  I think of my sister, Mary Ann, who’s

  about the same age, and pray it will

  never happen to her. “Weren’t you scared?”

  She nods. But not so scared then

  as later that night, when Papacito

  come to my bedroom. “Such a pretty

  little girl,” he said. “Now I will make

  you my woman.” I knew what he meant

  and tried to say no. He slapped my face

  so hard I thought my head would snap off!

  Then he grabbed my neck and squeezed.

  I couldn’t breathe. I beg
ged him to stop

  but he choked me until I almost blacked

  out. I wore the marks from his fingers

  for many days. I had no fight left then,

  and he threw me on the bed, made me

  his wife for real. When he finished,

  he sent five friends to break me in

  better. After that, what did it matter?

  What came next, she says, is he pimped

  her online or sent her out to work

  truck stops, demanding a minimum

  $800 per night. He kept every penny.

  He Used Her

  For almost two years, until a national

  trafficking sting operation took

  Papacito down good. Pandering

  children under fourteen carries a life

  sentence, if they can convict him,

  which means they want Miranda

  to testify against him, something

  she’s more than a little nervous about.

  Men like that have a very long reach,

  and his ties to Los Sureños make him

  dangerous, even in prison. Miranda’s

  advocate has convinced her to do it, but

  what will happen after that is anyone’s

  guess. Her mother’s boyfriend says

  she can’t go back to El Monte. So, yeah,

  I really am lucky. The court has freed

  me, forgiven me, allowed me to go home.

  Gram says her house will always be

  my home, and she wants me there, safe

  and sound. I guess, despite everything,

  I’m mostly sound. But I wasn’t safe

  before, and I’m not sure there is such

  a thing. All I know is, I’m happy to leave

  Vegas. This city annihilates souls.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  My Soul

  Has taken a vacation,

  hitched a ride

  somewhere cool and clean.

  Maybe the mountains.

  I

  haven’t seen it in months.

  Perhaps it’s deserted

  me permanently.

  I should feel bad, but I

  can’t

  muster sympathy

  for the boy-become-man

  who is me. Man. Gay

  man. Kept man. You’ll

  find

  the ultimate meaning

  of that term

  in the eyes of every boy

  forced by circumstance to

  sacrifice

  the truth of himself.

  I keep digging

  for truth

  but can’t seem to find it

  in me.

  Seth

  I Swore

  I’d never get used to living like this,

  at the beck and call, and under almost