Pumpkin Teeth Stories

Suitcase Sam


Everyone called him Dio. He wasn't one to tell tales, though every old hustler has tales to tell. Not that anyone listens to the stories to begin with. That’s the first thing you learn in a Times Square hustler bar, of which there are a diminishing few: everyone's talking, no one listens. The thing with Dio, he was different. He wasn't there to eke out a trick or scam drinks—he knew he was too old for that, he had too much dignity. Nor was he there to pay for it, either; the young Hispanic boys at the other end of the bar didn't interest him in the least. No, he was like me; he was here simply to drink, or pretend to drink while getting discreetly loaded in the bathroom.

Dio and I sized each other up early on and got along well. We were about the same age and of the same disposition, except I wasn't like Dio: I was buying, not selling, so the pseudo-macho boys at the other end of the bar were an occasional interest. But not so much. Like Dio, I liked to get loaded, though I was brazen enough that if I wanted to fuck one of them, we could do it in the bathroom; I didn’t need to pay extra for a hotel room.

Dio would have still been cute if he hadn't turned so many tricks, or so studiously flirted with heroin. He looked used up. His features were good, but his skin was drawn in some places while slightly loose in others. He looked like cheap hotel furniture, worn but ready, durable. I guess we knew we could tell each other anything because we had done some bumps of smack in the bathroom stalls a few times. Anyone who snorts heroin instead of shooting thinks they're so fucking clever, beating the needle and all, like you can't get hooked: the kind of lie that makes for a natural friendship
So one night while we were particularly loaded, after many conversations, I confessed to Dio that I had once been married.
Nonplussed, he asked me the question. "Have you ever seen a Suitcase Sam?"

I didn't understand the question, was barely listening, in fact (we'd done some heavy bumps in the bathroom; everything glowed with that special, crinkly kind of yellow that shines through black and white movies as they age).

"No." I said. His forehead was shiny, with yellow spots. I thought I could detect the hidden grid of a car headlight.

He smiled and relaxed into his drink. A game of chess was on and he was in the lead. "That guy over there. He's a collector, that's what you call a guy who owns a Suitcase Sam. Most only own one. One's enough. But some guys, they've got to have everything."

I nodded, not knowing what he was talking about, but agreeing with the sentiment. I looked over at the guy. Typical of the older men who frequented an establishment such as this: perpetually on edge, probably married, a wedding ring heavy below the silt of change and lint in their pants pocket. Nurse one drink, score with the right hustler then off to a hotel that charges by the hour. "Funny thing about trade like that," Dio once told me, "all they want to do is suck cock. All this trade here, they're pussy bottoms, man." Except this guy who, ridiculously, wore sunglasses. He wasn't paying attention to the young men though, but conversed casually with the bartender. Otherwise he looked normal, a sad salesman, wide suitcase by his side a faded, pocked-plaid.

Dio said "Don't stare." So I looked away.

"So what's a Suitcase Sam?"

Dio took a long pull from his drink, dropped the tumbler so ice crashed against the glass, lit a cigarette and waited. I nodded to the bartender to fill his glass. As I had indicated earlier, he wasn't prone to histrionics or drama, so I figured this was worth my patience and money.

It was horrible, what he said.

We were so stoned, I guess it loosened more than his tongue, it cracked the safe where anyone would store such things that no one should know, and if you were privy to something of such a nature, would naturally lock away. Some things were never meant to be shared.
And no one shares their Suitcase Sam.

First Dio asked me if I'd ever heard of the slave auctions in the Meatpacking district. One night we had both laughingly confessed to having perused some the more tawdry bars in that locale. S&M shit. Though I had never been to such an auction I knew of them. It was no big deal–after all they advertise in the Village Voice. "Well, that's kindergarten. This is kindergarten, compared to a Suitcase Sam."
He measured me with a look that was disquieting, to say the least. And then the urge grew, just above my stomach. It always feels like that, when I’m ready for another bump, like someone opened a window inside me and the breeze blowing through might clean me out. I got up and went to the bathroom. Dio dutifully followed; as usual I was holding and he was not. Another bump. Then one for him, one for me. I collapsed lightly against the stall wall and slipped toward the floor, the porcelain bowl yawned slightly, the shreds of toilet paper floating within coalesced into a white, scarred tongue. I thought I could live there, right there on the dirty floor. Why do human beings need more space than this? This was perfect.

"So these Sams," he slurs. "They want this. They want to be owned."
He paused so I searched for something to say. I could hear an old man in the stall next to ours sucking a hustler's cock; I thought of animals gathering at a salt lick during the night near a cave: carnivore rubbing shoulders with deer. A spring bubbling nearby. "Like a slave," I said.

Dio shook his head 'no' for the longest time. I thought of how animal eyes captured in photographs taken at night have an added veneer; a blue florescent glow that erases the living pupil, creating saucers of cool pity.

"No no no," he said. "They want to be owned but they need, they need...the element of escape to be removed. A pet doesn't even know its property, it's so fully owned. ” His eyes narrowed and focused at something over my shoulder, proud of his summation, as if it had only just occurred to him after years of searching. I looked at him, waiting for him to say more. I was comfortable leaning against the stall wall. Everything he had said was absorbed by the smack.