Page 530 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 530

his life be dictated to him by others, following one man after the next, the
                way he had been taught to do. And of all the ways in which he changed
                himself as an adult, it would be this, this idea that he could create at least

                some part of his own future, that would be the most difficult lesson to learn,
                as well as the most rewarding.
                   Once there had been a man who had smelled so terribly and had been so
                sweatily large that he had almost changed his mind, but although the sex
                had been horrific, the man had been gentle with him afterward, had bought
                him a sandwich and a soda and had asked him real questions about himself
                and had listened carefully to his made-up answers. He had stayed with the

                man  for  two  nights,  and  as  he  drove,  the  man  had  listened  to  bluegrass
                music and had sung along: he had had a lovely voice, low and clear, and he
                had taught him the words, and he had found himself singing along with this
                man, the road smooth beneath them. “God, you have a nice voice, Joey,”
                the man had said, and he had—how weak he was, how pathetic!—allowed
                himself to be warmed by this comment, had gobbled up this affection as a

                rat would a piece of molding bread. On the second day, the man had asked
                him if he wanted to stay with him; they were in Ohio, and unfortunately he
                wasn’t going any farther east, he was headed south now, but if he wanted to
                stay with him, he would be delighted, he would make sure he was taken
                care of. He had declined the man’s offer, and the man had nodded, as if he
                had expected he would, and given him a fold of money and kissed him, the
                first of them who had. “Good luck to you, Joey,” he said, and later, after the

                man had left, he had counted the money and realized it was more than he
                thought, it was more than he’d made in his previous ten days altogether.
                Later, when the next man was brutish, when he was violent and rough, he
                had wished he had gone with the other man: suddenly, Boston seemed less
                important  than  tenderness,  than  someone  who  would  protect  him  and  be
                good  to  him.  He  lamented  his  poor  choices,  how  he  seemed  unable  to

                appreciate the people who were actually decent to him: he thought again of
                Brother Luke, how Luke had never hit him or yelled at him; how he had
                never called him names.
                   Somewhere he had gotten sick, but he didn’t know if it was from his time
                on the road or from the home. He made the men use condoms, but a few of
                them  had  said  they  would  and  then  hadn’t,  and  he  had  struggled  and
                shouted  but  there  had  been  nothing  he  could  do.  He  knew,  from  past

                experience, that he would need a doctor. He stank; he was in so much pain
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