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Out of the Storm
A Novella
M. Saverio Clemente
Out of the Storm
A Novella
Copyright © 2016 M. Saverio Clemente. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-0244-3
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-0246-7
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-0245-0
Manufactured in the U.S.A. February 14, 2017
For Tracy
Then out of the storm the Lord spoke . . .
Job 38:1
Acknowledgements
I recently had the good fortune of stumbling upon a piece of writing I completed in middle school. I was no more than eleven or twelve when I wrote it and my boyishness showed. But when reading through for the first time in nearly two decades, I was struck by one insight that my younger-self had to offer. On the very first page, inscribed in bold, black ink, was the following: “I dedicate this book to all my family and friends who have made my life worth writing about. Thank you to everyone.”
Whether or not the life and musings of my grammar-school-self were actually “worth writing about” is tenuous. But the further point—the fact that my writing was and is deeply indebted to every person who has been written into the story of my life—is beyond dispute. I would not be the writer that I am without the people who have made me the man that I am. And so it is only right to acknowledge that this work—like all I write and all I do—has been born out of my relationships with the countless people who, through interactions big and small, have shaped me, made me, brought me to myself.
Thank you to everyone.
Chapter 1
“There will be no choking, no spanking, no hair pulling, no fingers in my ass, no anything in my ass. That’s not a turn on. It’s awkward. I don’t like it. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Good. One final thing—I don’t do kissing.”
He looked at her intently.
“Do you understand?”
“But . . .” he started. “How are we supposed to . . .”
“They pay me to fuck,” she interrupted. “They don’t pay me to kiss. They pay me to pretend. They don’t pay me to enjoy. I don’t enjoy. And I don’t particularly like you. Even if I did like you, still I wouldn’t kiss you. We won’t be kissing. Now tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” he said.
This wasn’t the first time she’d given such a lecture. It wasn’t the fiftieth. Before working with someone new, she always made sure to go over her list of do’s and don’ts. It was a relatively standard procedure in the business. The women set the boundaries. The men stayed inbounds. And if they didn’t, they risked ending up with a severely bruised ego. Or worse. Sometimes the new guys pushed the limits. She blamed it on inexperience. They still believed they knew how to satisfy a woman. They still wanted to prove that they were able lovers. Each seemed convinced that she wanted him as much as he wanted to please her. Each was willing to do whatever it took to satisfy her. And if that meant ignoring the previously agreed upon boundaries, so be it. They were too young to realize—it was a job.
The old guys harbored no such illusions. When they broke the rules, it was not out of youthful zeal. It was intentional. It was out of spite. Not everyone who does it on screen becomes rich and famous. Most struggle to get by. But of the money to be made, more goes to the girls. They are, after all, the reason for the business. They’re in higher demand. And the guys hate them for it. The ones who don’t hate them don’t respect them. Either way, no one seems to follow the rules.
She’d been doing it on screen for a little over a year. Before that, she did similar things on stage at the Restless Hearts Gentlemen’s Club. She lied on her application and began working shortly after her sixteenth birthday. She needed the money. Her boss didn’t ask questions. It worked out to everyone’s benefit. But once she was told she could make more money doing it on screen, she decided the time had come to do it on screen. After about six months, she contemplated leaving the business entirely. She told her coworkers that she had had enough and got a part-time job waitressing at a local diner. But before she knew it, she was out of money and her landlord was threatening to evict. Her hiatus was over. She went back to doing it on screen. And even though it had only been a little over a year, she already understood the ins and outs of the business. She was, as one director put it, “a natural.”
“Wanna fuck with some of the locals again tonight?” asked Mary. She was a thin girl of twenty with dark, hazel eyes, coffee brown skin, and a gentle smile. She was born in Egypt but her family had migrated to America when she was four in hopes of finding a better life. Her father died shortly thereafter and her mother was forced to raise her and her five siblings on what little money he had put away. She too did it on screen.
“Could be fun,” Kitty replied. “I have to shoot a scene with that brute over there in half an hour. Then I’m done for the day.”
“Good luck with him,” Mary smiled. “I’ve heard he’s a bit grabby.”
“Just young,” Kitty replied. “Don’t worry—I’ll break him of the habit.”
“He’s kind of cute,” said Mary. “In an ugly sort of way.”
“We’re all ugly,” Kitty replied. “Some of us just hide it better than others.”
“You do a good job hiding it,” said Mary. “I’d give anything to look like you.”
“No,” said Kitty. “Not like me.”
“Yes,” Mary protested. “If I could look like anyone I’d look just like you.”
“Not like me,” said Kitty.
For a moment both were silent.
“He is a brute,” Kitty started again. She looked over at the hulking twenty-something who stood at the far side of the room with his hands in his pockets and a dumb look on his face. “But that’s ok. I only do it for the money.”
“Oh, does he have a lot?” asked Mary.
The two laughed.
“Maybe we can do dinner and drinks—like last weekend,” said Kitty.
“Only this time, I get the cute one and you get stuck with his friend,” said Mary.
“We’ll see where the night takes us,” said Kitty.
“It’s a date!” Mary giggled and she kissed Kitty’s porcelain white cheek.
“A date,” Kitty replied, wiping the ruby lipstick from her face.
Chapter 2
Thomas had his doubts. Still, he knew there was something there. Something more. So every Saturday afternoon he drove over to Our Lady of Sorrows and smoked a box of Camel unfiltereds in the parking-lot. It was a small, wooden church two towns over. Unlike his home parish of St. Anthony’s—a daunting Cathedral of stone and stained glass—this quaint chapel was no larger