Another couple weeks after that night, his mom turned up. She had been looking for him all over LA and finally found him on Santa Monica. We were both strung out, that night taking its toll on me and Clive came along for the ride. I hadn’t worked much since that night, we hardly had had anything to eat. We were not in good places. So when his mom promised to try to make it work between them, Clive and I both knew he had to give it a try if he wanted to live. We promised each other that night that we would get out of that business, start trying to put together some sort of life. Of course, it was a lot easier for him to say that with his mom standing there offering help. A quick goodbye, and Clive was gone. I was once again alone. But this time, the walls had become armour, and nothing and no one was getting through anytime soon. I survived that night, I could survive anything. I was lucky. Nothing really happened, Clive had stepped in before anything could happen, but I still sorted it in my head that I could face it all on my own.

* * * * *

The next six or seven months of my life revolved around survival. I turned tricks only when I had to. I had a few more run-ins with the police, usually for loitering or something petty like that. I’d always disappear before social services got there. I got tougher, that’s for damn sure. More drugs, harder drugs. A few more occasions of getting jumped and beaten for random reasons. I spent a lot of time at my little coffee shop. I started servicing a dozen or so of the same johns, I knew I could trust them to not try to fuck me, and they knew I knew what they liked. Who would have thought one of them would have been my saviour down the road a bit.