Page 530 - A Little Life: A Novel

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