Did I want a baby? Did I want an abortion?

What does the word mommy even mean? How long would I last? I swam out beyond the breakers and let the ocean hold me. I floated. Maybe I’d be okay.

KOYAANISQATSI BY ANAMYN TUROWSKI 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 66

Back then, I ditched school regularly and walked to the I-10 on-ramp, put my thumb out, got a ride to a Palm Springs motel with a pool, put my towel out, and rubbed myself down with baby oil mixed with iodine. You’d think I’d have taken one look at Mom’s wizened face and realized—not a good idea. 

It would’ve been safer to hitch with a friend, but I didn’t have friends. Most motel managers didn’t notice me but once or twice I was asked to leave. Inevitably I got hit on. Some guy would come over for a conversation. Most of the time I jumped in the pool and did laps till they tired of waiting for me and left. 

Not Ben. I met him at the Holiday Inn on Indian Canyon. He pulled up an aluminum chair and sat across from me, staring intently. I was on a chaise, the vinyl slats dug into my back.

“You’re incredible,” he said. 

He had dark brown eyes and a slim build. Tall. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“Santa Monica.”

“Here, let me help you,” he said. I was pulling at the strings of my bikini top. My skin tingled when his calloused fingers brushed the back of my neck as he tied them. 

“Let me show you the desert,” he said, sitting back down. He smiled crooked teeth.

I felt myself blush. 

“Are you a painter?” I asked. I’d just finished reading Life with Picasso. I’d been looking for something, maybe escape, but I didn’t know how. I wasn’t sophisticated like Gilot, nor particularly artistic. But he was an adult, easily in his 30s. I was 16. 

“I’m a pool cleaner,” he said.