The Ticket.

"I'll get you out of here."

The call it la vida. The downscale ones have the girls standing in the doorway, on the sidewalk even. The better ones leave the door slightly ajar. The girls sit on a sofa just visible to passers-by.

Here comes the parade.

One gloats he's somebody important. One confesses he thinks she's "special." One assures her he's gentle while holding her wrist too tight. One thinks he's interesting as he tells the same joke three times. One says "I'll get you out of here..." and leaves a tip that buys tacos at the corner. One can't look her in the eye. One asks if she's OK.

The cop. The bus driver. The reporter. The priest. The delivery-boy. The worker from Agua y Drenaje. The homeless man. (He was actually humble and sweet.)

They pay to be something they're not. The girls walk out with cash. The rooms will be there tomorrow to welcome a new parade. The deal will be too. The girls sell access. The men buy a ticket that expires in minutes. Extras. Cost extra.

Where the only things real are the stains on the sheets and the bills folded up at the bottom of a purse, pulling the trigger isn't a last resort. It's the first thing you do.

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.