Red Flag District, MA

      I am standing in front of the movie theater smoking a cigarette before my shift begins. The rogue's gallery of Somerville, Massachusetts is deeper than Batman's. Once I saw a man in his 50's hobble by. He stopped, seemed as though he was about to clear his throat, but instead hacked up at least one of his lungs. He spit a bright yellow loogie into the middle of the street, looked down at it, then looked me directly in the eye and said "Faggot!"
     "I once thought living was a science," a co-worker observed when I told him the story. "So I'm amazed when some people perfect it as an art."
      There are life artists as well as artistes who pass by. Once a couple walked by that was just too cool for school. "Why don't you ever take me to the movies?" said the girl to the boy.
"I can't stand contemporary American cinema."
 I bet they have Halloween on Christmas.
     That's a typical day in the neigborhood. If it's not crazy folks, homeless folks, and crazy homeless folks it's hippies and hipsters of all races and genders. So today when a thin woman wearing a white t-shirt and torn blue jeans approaches me, it's something special. I'm looking at my reflection in her aviators when she asks if she can give me a dollar for a cigarette.
"I can just bum you one," she is cute.
"Really? I'll give you a dollar.'
"Nah, take it," I pull a marlboro lite out of my pack and put it in her hand.
"Do you have a lighter?"
"That's five bucks." She laughs at my joke. I tell her my name is Matthew. Her name is "Vivian." I decide early on that I am going to try to leave this conversation with a phone number. We make small-talk. She asks if I work at the theater, I tell her yes. She asks how I like it, I tell her I like it a lot. I ask her where she is from.
"I was born in France."
"You don't have an accent."
"I was just born there, I've lived her since I was two."
"So you can't be president and you don't even get a cool accent as compensation? You got ripped off, lady. Do you work around here?"
"Not really," she says. "I'm a model. Or trying to get into modeling, anyway."
     She looks like a model, only perhaps not as tall as you read about. Although she's short she is slender. Her height is in her legs which curve generously at her hips. "Have you done anything I would know?"
"Probably not, I'm just getting into it," she looks away from me, down at the brick sidewalk. Her neck is long   and lithe. She flips her hair. I know what that means.
"Do you live around here now?"
"I live more near Central Square."
"Oh cool, that's a fun neighborhood," I lie. Central Square is a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Pimps and homeless guys, pimps dressed like homeless guys and homeless guys dressed like pimps.
"Yeah, I love it. I'm around Davis Square a lot, though. I'm meeting a friend for lunch at the burger place."
"They have great food," I say stupidly. We continue talking, about the area, about the weather, about cheeseburgers.
Are you going to ask for her number or bullshit about cheeseburgers?
"Well, y'know," I manage, "It was good talking to you, but I have to go to work. If you want you should give me your number and we can hang out some time."
"I'd love that," she responds immediately. "I'm actually really attracted to you."
Sex!
     I am taken aback by her response, only because "I'm really attracted to you" is one of my creepy lines. But I do not intend to squander the goodwill. I tell her that I get out of work at 8:00 and ask her if she would like to get a drink at the Middle East since they have (free) live music. We agree to meet there at 9:00. I am all that is man.
     I walk into work like a commander returning in triumph. "I GOT 'ER NUMBAH! HOW D'YOU LIKE DEM APPLES!?" I proclaim to no one in particular. I am the Good Will Hunting of the Somerville Theatre. Instead of writing proofs for advanced metrics I do Bane impressions, instead of eating hot dogs with Minnie Driver I generally harass my coworkers, and instead of getting hammered with Ben Affleck I talk to the projectionist about how although he has seen thousands of movies hundreds of times the only films he has anything good to say about are Pan's Labyrinth, Darkman, and Speed.
"I told you girls I was irresistible." I announce to the concession stand workers.
"Oh, that's nice, Milliken. Picking girls up on the street," says one of the little sisters. They hate it when I inform them how jealous they are. The male employees are, at least, satisfactorily impressed. It's not easy to get a girl's number or ask a girl out, but you can only do it if you make it look easy. "The last girl you dated was a whore," adds the other concession stand girl, for good measure. Her vitriol pleases me. The salmon hates that the bear can fish.

    I leave work at 8:00 and take the red line to Central Square. It's only three stops but you never know with the T. I was once on a train that killed a guy. Dude took a lawn chair, put it on the tracks, and got crushed by 30 tons of steel going 65 mph. First of all, there's got to be better ways to kill yourself. Second of all, they held my train for almost an hour. Ruined my day. Suicide is a selfish act.
    The train succeeds in not murdering anyone and I am early for my date. I stand outside of the Middle East, smoking. Central and Harvard Square are as dissimilar as brothers can be. Harvard has been the intellectual capitol of the union for centuries. It's why locals attach the moniker "People's Republic" to the city of Cambridge. The people's vanguard is notably absent in Central Square. There are a lot of places in the metropolitan area where you get as much human traffic, but not so many trafficked humans. The congestion of congested people is staggering when you allow yourself to forget how desensitized you are. A toothless old woman with two big gulp cups full of change and dirty napkins is the welcoming party. Her face is haggard. The drugs took her youth, and the elements her middle age. Where Harvard is an ivory tower, Central is a pit.
     Vivian texts me telling me she is going to be about 15 minutes late. I'm cool.
     A grungy man approaches me. Torn bomber jacket, torn blue jeans, looks more like a punk than a bum. He wants a dollar for a cheeseburger. I tell him I have no money, but offer him a cigarette instead. He accepts. He asks me what I'm doing and I tell him I'm meeting a girl but she's late. "Fuckin' women, man," he empathizes. "Can you believe this? My girlfriend, I dated her fifteen years. I lose my job, she kicks me right out of the house. She can't treat me like that. I'm a man!"
"That's crazy, man." I think I have a kind face. Babies stare at me, animals are responsive to me, girls think I'll buy them a drink, and crazy dudes always want to talk to me. I'm familiar with this guy's story before he tells it. There's a lost job, a cruel woman, a move, and certainly a drug.
"You ever do coke, man?"
There it is.
"Uh..."
"Bullshit! I grew up in Saugus. Booze and coke! When I was in high school that's all we did. Booze and coke!"
"Cool, man."
"It was great," he explodes. "You know you can't get real tony anymore?"
"Why's that?"
"Because George Bush. Because George Fucking Bush! They used to refine cocaine with ether. Ether comes from the United States. So the United States would export ether to Colombia legally and they would send back cocaine on the black market. Me and my buddy would drive from Saugus to Revere to get it, go back to his house and be blowing lines till 6 in the morning all paranoid and shit and all 'who's there? WHO'S THERE!?' Gotta do a bump with that ether, dude."
"Sounds fun."
"It was fun!" he insists. "It was fun!"
"So we don't send ether to Colombia anymore?"
"Nah nah nah. Now it's gasoline. From Mexico. That's why I moved to Key West and started shooting up. You know you can't share needles, but did you know you can't re-use your own either?"
"I'll remember that."

   Vivian shows up half an hour late and intoxicated.
Red Flag, not a deal-breaker.
    She is very apologetic and greets me with a huge hug. I smell her perfume.
Sex!
"It's no big deal. What happened anyway?"
"Oh, just my friend had an emergency. I had to meet her at the bar down the street. She was in a bad place. I'm glad to be here."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm glad you came out, too. Do you want to go in?"
"Definitely."
     We go inside. I ask Vivian if she's hungry or if she just wants to drink.
"I just want to drink." She says. We grab two stools downstairs at the bar. I ask her what her poison is. "Vodka. Up. From the well is fine."
Red Flag, not a deal-breaker.
     Her hair is doing that thing again. That thing that I know what it means. Her hand is on my thigh.
Sex! 
      I'm talking but her hand is in my hair, making it clear that she is not interested in talking anymore. I try to play through it, but she's licking her lips. There is no more subtlety in this pursuit.
"Do you just want to get a six pack and go back to your place?" I propose.
"We can't go to my place. I live in State Housing."
Red Flag, not a deal-breaker.
"Well, we could go to my place in -- "
"Why don't we go to my friend's place?"
"Is your friend a guy or a girl?" Dean Martin starts singing in my head.
How lucky can one guy be?
"It's a guy."
Shit is getting weird.
"Well, I don't --"
"I have lots of friends," she interjects.
"Me too."
"My friends and I, we do favors for each other," she explains.
"Yeah, me too."
"I do favors for them, y'know, and they help me out."
"Yeah, that's how friendship works," I agree.
"No. I mean I do favors for them and they help me out financially."
Oh.
"Oh."
"So we can go to my friends house, and you can give him $30 dollars, and we can do whatever you want."
"I don't. I mean, I never --" I must look exasperated because she interrupts.
"Don't judge me."
"I wouldn't. But if a guy is giving you drugs and making you sell yourself, he's not your friend," says Robert DeNiro to Jodie Foster.
"I choose. I chose you. Don't you want to fuck me?"
"Sure, I have to go to the bathroom."
     I'm deliberating in the men's room, looking at my reflection. Is this the face of a man who pays for sex? Not to mention that her situation doesn't make her sound like a free agent. She's probably not drunk, she's probably strung out. My mind races until I get to
I wonder what her father is like.
     I exit the men's room and find Vivian sitting at the bar. I take my phone out of my pocket and tell her I have to take the call I am not actually getting. I walk out of the bar and sprint down the street into the night.