A Weeping Paladin

A Glimpse of the Lesser

Adam

"Day in, day out." That is how my life has been ever since I can remember. I was never given a break, or allowed some peace of mind; to be expected anyways. For somebody like me, the scrubs of bread left on the tables I wait is a waste.

"Hurry up! I don't got all day !!" yelled Tom, the manager of this shitty dinner. He has to hurry to catch one of those corner workers and maybe one will take him up on his offer. I mean, even for a prostitute, money is not enough to take on a smelly, creepy, and foul customer like him. Still, he is in a better place than I am.

Finishing the mopping, I rush to the staff room to change and grab my back bag. I check the time and it's almost 11:40 pm. I think I have enough time to eat before my shift at the club. There is no difference if it is a dinner or a strip club. You get in, serve customers, keep a low profile, and get the hell out hoping you didn't catch anyone's eye. Lucky me, I rarely do. I am too ...everything for their liking: too dark, too manly, too faggy, too dull, too dumb, too many toos –I am very sure that's not a word- Be it, it is nothing I have not heard before enough to get used to. It is what it is. I have to survive. I have to find a way out and if this way out means to be treated like dirt and called garbage, then so be it. It is nothing new to me. For all I know, I was born from trash, into trash but I will be damned if I die trash.

Looking at the time again, "shit!" I just wasted 10 minutes thinking about nonsense. My shift starts at midnight and the club is just around the corner. I shuffle through my bag for the half-eaten sandwich I kept from lunch. I can manage with that and I do manage. Two minutes early. "' Evening Carl, how you doing?" I greet the bouncer on my way to the backdoor. "You're barely on time again, brat. Dan is all pissy again, hurry your ass up" he replies in a dry tone as usual. Good old Carl. For a man as scary as him and an ex-con on top, he sure is nice for not punching me for talking to him. He even gives me heads up every now and then. It is the little thing that matters to me.

I find my way to the changing room and quickly put on my uniform for the night. Uniform seems like a generous word for the little fabric it labels: a pair of boy shorts and a bow tie. That's it. Sometimes being starved half of the time comes in handy because I don't have to work out to be fit for the "uniform". Funny I know. I crack myself at times. Well, enough of that, it is time for work.

I get to the bar through loads of men and women lusting after the dancers on stage in nothing but thongs at most. The stuffy, humid air that carries all kinds of smells can make you gag. It is just a matter of getting used to. I do the usual: get the orders, serve the customers, tidy the rooms in the back to be ready, inform the manager of the customers requesting special dances, and most importantly, survive the night without being fired, beaten, or raped. Nothing new.

"Adam, darling, get room 6 ready for me" giggled Sugar while wiggling her ass on the lap of a huge fellow with tattoos running down his arms. She is one of the private rooms' girls and I think she is good at what she does cause she never run out of customers.

"Right away" I reply and head to inform the manager and then get the room ready. By "Ready" I mean good temp, clean and no stains, or used condoms scattered around.

"Hey Dan, Sugar asked for room 6, ya?" I asked an irritated looking man. "Get on with it then twink!" he answered gruffly. Not a second wasted. I proceed to the room and lucky it has not been used yet so no need to hold my breath for this one. I got back to the main hall and signal Sugar and then carried on waiting tables for the rest of the night.

Once the clock stroke 6 am, I sigh with relief because I pulled through another night safe and in one piece. After changing, I step out and shiver at the cold wind blowing right before the first rays of day shine. Nothing unusual again. This is my life and I am used to it. I have to be. With that comes the mantra I repeat to myself every day and every night. I secure my bag and wrap my arms around my torso and start heading home.

Home is such a misplaced word for the room I rent in that rundown neighborhood. But still, it is a hundred times better than where I came from... I just can't be found or I am dead. You see, my mom was a "Madame". One that is not above anything: if you are paying for it, she will provide you with it; and she did...multiple times. She prostituted me from the age of ten too many times that I lost count. I remember her saying, "I brought you to life and I decide what to do." I believed that all my childhood and teens. I was convinced that I was nothing but a hole to be showcased and used by twisted perverts for a couple of bills. Born from trash into trash and will die trash. There was nothing I was not made to do, shoved to partake in a gruesome world, and pushed to the lowest lows. I do not think I would have seen another day if I had not run away. My sole driving force were the words of an old Asian looking homeless man I came across one morning after running one of the Madame's special errands. I was limping through the narrow ally and I stopped for a second to catch my breath. He was going through the dumpster but then he looked up at me, scrutinizing me and pausing at my busted lip and bruised face. I was terrified of the void look he gave me but then he spoke in the quietest voice I have ever heard till then, "There is luck in the last helping, remember that child". For a moment there I was numb to every pain, deaf to every noise, and unfeeling to every emotion. I simply stood there in a trance. I had no clue what those words meant then nor how I got to the train station. When I snapped out of it, I found myself holding a ticket to the city twenty hours away. I had nothing on me but the clothes on my back and the money I was supposed to take back to the Madame. The words kept echoing in my head over and over and over again. I was barely seventeen with no education past fifth grade, no skills, and no idea where to go or what to do. However, one thing was absolute and I was convinced of in my very core: there was no going back. I may have been born from trash, into trash, but I will be damned if I were to die trash. From there on, my name became Adam the person who found luck in the leftover.