An End To War: Finale

One evening Juan came in, his face ashen as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, ushering him to an empty table.

“Not really.” He replied.

Juan checked the time, frustration evident in his furrowed brow.

“Do you mind if we go straight to the back? My next pickup is in an hour, and I don’t want to rush.”

“Of course. Let’s do it.”

We took a booth and he sank into the couch, staring off away from me. I knew that night wouldn’t meander between talk and sensual touch. I sensed from the moment I touched his body that he had come for comfort.

“What’s going on?” I asked, as I settled on his lap.

“I gave a ride to a man. I’ve known him for a while, good guy, works in defense contracting. He was celebrating the ribbon cutting on a new facility in El Segundo, and meanwhile I’m watching Afghanistan fall on the news. I think I told you, but I served there for years. All that sacrifice, lives lost, for nothing.” Juan said, clamping his eyes shut. “I don’t talk about it much, because of the PTSD. I didn’t want my family to have to deal with me like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather be distracted?” I asked.

I was a child when the war began, but even then I knew it was bullshit that had nothing to do with liberating anyone. I knew we had invaded for oil, a strategic stronghold in the Middle East, and because the USA felt entitled to do what it wanted regardless of how it affected other countries. I wanted to be sympathetic, but my biases colored what I was hearing. Still, I could see the pain on Juan’s face and in the way his voice cracked as he spoke. It was real to him in a way that it was not for me. He had been there, and he lived with the effects of what he saw. Are foot soldiers as much victims of war as the civilians stuck living in the middle of war zones?

“Me and my brothers, we were trying to liberate them, so that the women and girls could be free to go to school and work. And now, none of it matters. None of the lives sacrificed, none of the pain. So many people are going to die, and the US doesn’t care.”

I rubbed his chest as I listened.

“Do you still talk to your brothers?” I asked.

“I am now. I didn’t for a while, because I didn’t want to talk about what we witnessed. I wanted to move on, and they understood and respected my wishes, but they reached back out to me because--” His voice broke as he shut his eyes, willing away the tears. “One of my brothers took his own life today.”

I hugged him tightly. Upbeat pop played in the background, and yet the room felt silent. Juan sniffled quietly into my neck.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered into his ear.

“I just wish I’d been there. I wish I could have talked to him. Because I’ve been there. I tried to take my own life three times, but for some reason I survived. I know how it feels.”

I pulled back, concerned. It’s not the first time I’ve heard someone confess a suicide attempt in a lap dance room. It’s not an easy thing to talk about. I’ve personally kept close tabs on friends and family as they teetered on the edge, looking for a reason to live.

I’m not a crisis counselor. At all. I’ve never been very good at talking people down from the ledge. Cruelty isn’t doled out to people who “deserve” it. Hard work doesn’t always pay off. There isn’t always something to look forward to for many people. There is no “just world” where living morally pays off and the Bezoses out there “get what’s coming to them” in the end. Life is capricious, and I don’t believe that there is meaning aside from what we make of it. Simultaneously, I feel optimistic for those same reasons. Since life has no meaning, I can live my life by my own rules and value what I do by the rubric I create. I don’t need to work endlessly for meaningless success. I live my days as I want because I only have this one life and I reckon I might as well enjoy it. But many people don’t find assurance in my *chaotic world* philosophy.

“I wouldn’t now,” Juan said, reading my face, “but there was a time where I didn’t want to be alive. Now, I believe I’m meant to be alive for some reason. Honestly, you give me a lot of reasons to live. You turned on a light in me that I’d let go out. I’ll always be indebted to you for that.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” I said, pursing my lips.

“I know. I mean it in a good way.” Juan said.

It’s not my job to be on suicide patrol, in fact it seems very far from what my job technically is. But those lines blur sometimes, just like the rules of a thirty-minute booth. The time is yours to do what you will. It is your moment to bask in the erotic; talk about life and meaning; or cry because you can.

“Are you and your brothers talking to get through this together?” I asked.

“We are. I talked to them for a while in between drives today.”

“That’s good.”

“I just should have been there for him. I know if I’d been there I could have convinced him not to do it--“

Juan held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain a sense of control. I waited, witnessing.

“I’m just so sad he had to go through it alone.” Juan said.

He shook as he spoke. I pulled him back into my arms and pressed my cheek against his, letting his tears drip into my hair.

“You can’t blame yourself for not being there. It’s not your fault, and it’s not healthy to blame yourself. You took space for your mental health, and that’s completely valid.”

Juan said nothing, but relaxed against me.

“You can’t save everyone, and it isn’t healthy to punish yourself when you fall short. You weren’t there because you couldn’t be there. You needed to take care of yourself. This is hard, but it’s not your fault.”

I knew Juan didn’t agree. I knew he would ruminate, playing back all the chances he’d passed up to be there for his friend, but I also wanted to introduce less judgmental language into his internal monologue.

“Are you able to take a break?” I asked.

“This is my break.” Juan said ruefully.

“You need more of a break than this, considering.”

“Don’t worry, I’m great at compartmentalizing.” Juan said, letting out a big exhale as he forced a dead-eyed smile. “I have to pick up that defense contractor right after this.”

“Will you be okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. And he’s a good guy. I told him about you and he’s interested in learning more about the projects you’re working on.”

“That’s nice, but you should take a break. This is a lot.”

Juan looked away. I could see him cooking up excuses as to why he would be fine, wanting to assure me. I was sure my face mirrored his. The stoic sadness on his face flipped into concern on mine.

“Don’t worry. I’m okay, I promise. I don’t want to affect your shift tonight. I’m sorry for being so negative.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I said.

I didn’t know if I was actually fine or if I needed a bit of time to shake off our conversation. Regardless, neither of us intended to admit the toll our conversation had taken on us.

“You sure?” Juan asked.

The floater knocked on our door.

“Selena! Time’s up!”

“Gotcha!” I yelled back.

I went to open the door a crack, to let them know I’d heard. I was still dressed in my lingerie. Normally I need a few minutes to put everything back on, but this time I just stood off to the side while Juan collected his things.

“Text me if you need to talk or whatever.” I said, watching him.

“I’ll text you next time I can see you.” He said.

I appreciated how dutifully he stuck to the boundaries of our relationship. He never tried to take my time without paying me. He knew the rules and obliged.

“You can text me other times too,” I said, knowing I was loosening my own rule, “I know this moment is going to be rough. Feel free to reach out, and I’ll respond when I can.”

“I don’t want to take your time for free.”

“It’s okay, I know you’ll take care of me in the end.”

I hugged him one last time, and he left.