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Close Contact<br />
Preston Peet<br />
“Need a ride?”<br />
The first time I’d heard this from a passing car, I’d been mortified,<br />
letting the driver know in no uncertain terms that no, I<br />
did not want a ride and to get the hell away from me. As soon<br />
as the driver had pulled away, though, I regretted my quick<br />
response. Having smoked the last of my cash buying crack<br />
cocaine, I couldn’t believe I’d just turned down what promised<br />
to be very easy money. At that point I’d not ever sold<br />
my body for cash to buy drugs, but from that moment on, I<br />
was on the lookout with the idea bouncing around in my head<br />
until I finally landed on Palm Avenue, downtown Sarasota,<br />
Florida’s cruise strip, landing a ride in short order.<br />
From that night forward I’ve hustled in every city I’ve lived in,<br />
both for drugs and simply for cash when on the streets trying<br />
to figure out where I was going next. I tried in Tampa but never<br />
had any luck, and Orlando was only slightly better. Atlanta,<br />
while not as dry as some places, was the only place I’ve ever<br />
been arrested on the prowl for a ride, garnering myself a misdemeanor<br />
civil disobedience charge for not leaving the area<br />
fast enough after some undercover cops told me to.<br />
By the time I hit Amsterdam, I was busking for my cash,<br />
but in the midst of such a cold, brutal winter, it was hard,<br />
hampering my ability to make cash standing, playing guitar<br />
on the streets, what with all that ice and snow everywhere.<br />
Therefore, I did occasionally take the offer of a warm bed,<br />
companionship, and some easy cash. In London I’d stayed<br />
away from the hustling angle, managing to do pretty well just<br />
playing guitar and singing, but now in NYC and completely<br />
strung out, without a guitar, it was inevitable that I’d take the<br />
offers when they’d sometimes come.<br />
“I know how to make some money,” Sean leers at me as we<br />
sit in Tompkins Square Park by the kids’ pool, regarding our<br />
now empty cookers and rigs.<br />
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” I need my drugs and am willing to<br />
try almost any scam to obtain more.<br />
“I know a guy who lives up on 14 th Street, who’ll pay to give<br />
you a blowjob and pay me for bringing you over there.”<br />
At first I hesitate, not having turned a trick for over a year, but<br />
completely without drugs, it doesn’t take me long to agree<br />
to it.<br />
After stopping at a payphone to make sure Jonathan is in and<br />
open to a visit, we walk to the West Side, meeting up with<br />
him outside a deli at the corner of 5 th Avenue and 14 th Street.<br />
Exchanging pleasantries, Sean introduces us, then Jonathan<br />
withdraws money from the ATM inside the deli. Sean takes a<br />
couple of proffered bills and leaves. Jonathan leads me in and<br />
up the elevator to his swanky sixteenth-floor apartment.<br />
At this point I really only want to get this over with, whatever<br />
it entails. I want my cash so I can hit the road. I’m jonesing<br />
pretty hard for more cocaine and will need more heroin soon,<br />
as well, not having had more than a bag all night. But Jonathan<br />
is in no hurry. Unlocking his door, he holds it open, waving<br />
me into the air-conditioned interior. As hot and humid as<br />
the spring air is outside, I don’t pay much attention, still thinking<br />
mainly of the next shot to come.<br />
“What would you like to drink?” Jonathan walks to the bar<br />
set up by the windows, through which there’s an incredible<br />
view of downtown Manhattan, the World Trade Center towering<br />
over it all.<br />
“How ’bout a whisky?” I’m beginning to suspect this might<br />
CLOSE CONTACT 217