Right Away Monday, page 10
—Ohh I remember. Thought the light fixtures might come smashing onto the floors. Pictures falling off the walls in the hallway.
Donna looks back and forth between us.
—In a state was he?
—State? Yes. But never too far gone, hey Clayton?
—I can hold me own.
—My own. I can hold my own. Go get a dictionary my son.
—I aint your goddamn son.
—No you’re not. Cause it’s no trouble to see who you take after.
Well now that’s a low fuckin blow. I’m hardly awake and this is the shit I’m expected to take? The reek of sugary booze off him enough to turn me stomach. Donna standin there, shakin her head right along with him, like it’s nice to see that someone’s finally puttin Clayton Reid in his place. I picks up me boots and sees there’s still a bit of rat guts dried on the toe. Been too long since I gave ’em a good polish. But I dont even stop long enough in the porch to lace ’em up. I’m out through the door into the dusty dry fall sunshine. Fuck Donna now too. If she wants to stay, and waits around long enough for Claire to get up, then she’s welcome to it. And fuck Val. I knows what he was on about anyhow, just tryin to pick enough of a row with me so’s he could rat me out about Claire. But he underestimates me. Or he overestimates, thinkin he knows how to hit me where I might give a fuck. But I dont. Give a fuck. I really dont.
I’m halfway down Cathedral Street, near that new massage parlour I’m dyin to check out once I gets the money, when Donna rounds the corner and squawks at me to wait up. Yeah, like I’m really clippin along here with the one good foot. But still I stops and lets her catch up. She’s done something with her hair. Coloured it maybe. It seems not so drastically blond. She got them tight white slacks on too and I sees there’s no drawers underneath. She’s lookin pretty healthy to tell the truth. Must be the sunlight. And then I thinks on Claire up waitin in the bedroom. What’s she gonna do when she goes downstairs and meets Val and realizes who he is and where she’s to? Fuck. Maybe she’ll sleep awhile longer and I’ll be back before she’s up. Dont have any set direction now anyhow, just wanted Donna outta the house and she’s such a sucker I knew she’d come chasin after me. Now all I gotta do is make the right kinda uproar till she fucks off out of it. But she’s lookin right wicked and I knows she wants her skin where I havent been around for nearly a week. And it was a few days before that since we had our last romp. Fuck. I’m shockin.
—So, did you get it out of your system Clayton?
That’s her little catchphrase see.
—What?
There’s a bit of bite to the wind and her nipples goes right hard under her sweater.
—Are you coming home Clayton?
—Home? I just came from home.
—Oh yeah…
She smiles outta the one side of her face, shakes her head slow like she’s sayin that I just dont get it, like she’s got a clearer picture, all the answers to my fuckin life. But she’s the one who dont fuckin get it. I dont bend over for nothing or no one. And I’m gone if I gets it in me head. Gone. I’ll find some way to gather up the cash and just hit the highway with what clothes I got on me back. And dont fuckin well look at me like that to tempt me, missus. If that’s what it takes to get clear of you, then yes by the fuck I got no qualms about skippin the fuckin country for a while. I done it before didnt I? Yes I did.
—How’s your foot? Clayton?
I realizes then that I aint puttin any weight atall on it and I’m leaned up against a construction sign for balance. Always reconstructing something around these parts, rippin up roads and sidewalks that were fine the day before. That’s how it works though, they gotta blow their load every year to get a refill for the next.
—Why dont you come down to the apartment and give it a rest? Soak it in the tub for a while. There’s wine.
She’s got her lips right tight that way, like when she’s expecting the worst. I s’pose she’s at the end of ’er rope with me and really it must take a lot of self-control for her not to tell me where to fuckin go. But I s’pose she must realize that I dont mean to be such a prick. I really dont. It’s just that I have an idea of how I wants me life to be and she just dont fit the picture. And it’s not like I’m sayin I’m better than ’er, cause I aint. I knows I’m hardly the bee’s fuckin knees. It’s just that I didnt meet ’er in my world, but more or less she’s goin out of ’er way to dig into my world. So I cant shake the notion that she’s not really bein real, that she’s taggin along like a little spoiled cousin up from Town for the weekend. Nor do I see nothing I likes in her world. A couple of weeks ago she pretty much begged me to go hang out with her brother and his friends (one of ’em bein that knobbly Jeremy the Jaw bastard that I felt like bashin), and so we all hooked up at fuckin Bianca’s and, honest to fuck, I couldnt last ten minutes with all the hockey talk and real-estate news and how much this one fella is bench-pressin these days and which supplement this fella’s takin and watchin ’em choke on them twenty-dollar so-called Cuban cigars when they had no clue whether or not the fuckin things coulda came from Needs on Military Road. My world? I wasnt long dartin across to the Hatchet.
—Full bottle, not even opened…
This is fucked, that she thinks she can just lure me into her pants with a fuckin bottle of cheap wine this early in the day. But me foot is fairly killin me and just thinkin about that little Claire back in me bed in the buff. Fuck.
She got the bath runnin with everything steamin over in the living room. I sucks back a smoke and takes a couple of Tylenol with a drop of wine. White fuckin wine at that. Not exactly what I calls a drink, where it’s right cold from the fridge and you can barely taste the alcohol off it. She conned me, sly fucker that she is. She’s hummin away to herself in the bathroom, in ’er glory cause she knows where I am and she got me where she wants me. I hops back into the kitchen for a refill, and I notices something fucked that I didnt catch on the way in. That supper she called me home to, the other night at the bar when I was playin pool, is still laid out. There’s an upside-down wineglass and a knife and fork all laid out nice with a napkin and shit. And the supper, what I s’pose musta been a pork chop and mashed potatoes and maybe some peas, is there on the plate with an inch thick of white fuzz growin off it. There’s even a slice of apple pie on the side that actually still looks fit to eat. What kinda fuckin power trip is this now I wonder? Sick. S’pose she’s lookin for an apology or some such kinda talk is she? S’pose she wants to know where we fuckin stands and all that? Well she coulda figured that out when I never showed up for supper.
—Clayton, are you getting in? Bring me a glass too.
I grabs another glass and the bottle, tries me best to walk upright to the bathroom. And there she is sunk down in the bubbles with just her face showin and a stick of incense burnin that’s enough to suffocate ya.
I sits on the toilet and gets me boots and pants off and then me shirt. Her starin at me cock like it’s the first one she ever saw. She sits up straight in the tub when I moves to it, but I gives ’er a little nudge with me knee and she moves down the tub closer to the taps. I slips in behind her so’s she tucked in between me legs and I got the bird’s-eye view of her rickety spinal cord. Nice and hot though, the way I likes it. Be nice to have the fuckin thing to meself. That’s twice she conned me now. Sly? Dont be talkin. Still, at least she’s not sayin much. Me head cant handle havin to root around for explanations and comin up with ways to make ’er feel secure and all that heavy shit right now. I’ve been hard at it again for the past while. Nothing I cant control though. But no wonder I can hardly walk cause I’m way too rough with me foot when I got a few in me. It’s throbbin now in the hot bathwater like that’s where me heart is after endin up. It feels swollen, but I knows it’s not. Some fuckin sick of it I am. Went to the doctor with it about two or three years ago and he found nothing wrong with it, said it was healed up just fine. Said the only thing he could think to do would be to break it all over again. I laughed in his face. Fuck that. Nothing worse than a big clunky fuckin cast on your foot to make you look the proper fool, havin to slice the legs out of all your pants and wrap it in a fuckin garbage bag to get a shower. I wasnt long takin a fuckin hacksaw to it down in Randy’s basement. This is what he said to me now, on the way home from the hospital he goes:
—Soon as that cast is off I wants you outta the house. Hear that?
Him sluggin back the port wine in the car, eyes nearly welded shut. And so I does what any normal fucker’d do in that situation, gave it a week or so and then cut it off with a hacksaw, learned how to limp. No fuckin way was I spendin another minute in that house. That’s cause Anne-Marie was movin in, that’s why he said that. Old bag.
Donna leans ahead and lights a candle on the other end of the tub, one of them scented ones too that’re all the rage these days. When she’s not lookin I pinches out the stick of incense. She slides back between me legs and nearly crushes me nuts. I yelps a bit and she says sorry and I starts to go hard. She takes me foot in her hand and starts rubbin it and I lays me head back with a face cloth over me eyes while she presses the small of ’er back off me cock. But she’s tryin to make it seem like she’s not doin it on purpose, like she leans ahead and then shifts to the side as if it’s all part of ’er foot-rubbin technique, but we both knows it’s just cause she wants ’er skin. That’s why she’s not sayin nothing too, cause she’s afraid she’ll get a racket on the go and fuck up her chances of a quick one. That’s me she got good and pinned down now dont she? This heartbroke, theatrical sigh out of ’er then. Oh yeah, here it fuckin comes.
—Clayton, I know you’re just waiting around for someone better to come along…
—Donna…
—No, just listen. I know you’re not really into this as a permanent thing, but cant we just have fun and…and be decent with each other while it lasts? Is that so much to ask?
She’s all choked up now too, barely able to get that last bit out. Fuck. So much for a nice relaxing dip in the tub. I knew it wouldnt fuckin last anyhow cause that’s the first goddamn sign, when they’re all pensive and quiet with ya. You knows right away they got some heavy soul-searchin shit goin on and they wants you in on it. Fuck sakes.
—Lemme out…
—Clayton…
—No come on, it’s killin me foot…
She leans ahead in the bubbles and I steps out onto the cold ceramic floor. She got her head down and lays her hand on the small of me back without lookin at me, like I needs her to steady me or something. I scoops up me jeans and keeps one hand against the wall and hops through to the bedroom.
I flops back on the bed with me gut and thighs beet red from the bath, me heart beatin outta me chest like some battle drum. Donna got the hairdryer goin and hey, maybe she’s still in the tub and might just drop it by accident, put ’er out of ’er obvious misery. Fuck, she shouldnt be so fuckin foolish to put up with me. There’s lotsa fuckers that’d line up to have a go at her.
I looks around the room and I’m disgusted to see so much of my shit lyin around. Shirts and drawers and socks on a shelf in the corner that she musta had to the laundrymat. A few novels and a book of poetry on the end table on my side of the bed. Christ. The poems are from that Robert Dawe fucker who’s always hangin off the bar at the Hatchet, spewin shit with the Guinness stained onto the corners of his mouth. They calls him Toddler. Big long silver ponytail. Hardly string a sentence together and the next thing you know he’s launchin a fuckin book and an album at the same fuckin time. An actor he is too, they says he’s after bein in just about everything that’s come off the Island for the past fifteen years. Cant say I’m familiar with much of his work though. Yeah, they’re all fuckin actors and writers and singers and fuckin dancers. Val with his nine guitars and the movie work besides, and still scroungin for a smoke half the time. What’s the good of that? I’ll show all of ’em wont I? Yes I will. When I’m ready.
I picks up Dawe’s book and looks it over. It’s called Poetry. How fuckin lazy is that? None of the poems have titles either, just whatever the first line is, that’s what he goes and names it. I was so drunk at his launch, I cant see meself buyin it. I musta swiped it off the table in the middle of the madness. Cause it was fuckin cracked alright. Dawe had a full band on the go and he never stopped only to slop Guinness down his chin. Dont know how he managed to keep the crowd hangin around though, with his barefaced fuckin hatred for everybody, spittin and cursin down the mic at people, just cause they were talkin. It’s different when you sees a young band actin all savage and angry with the world and badmouthin the audience, but for a fella in his fifties who can barely carry a note? I dont know. They needs their so-called fuckin stars I s’pose. But there was some wicked women on the go too. This one dandy one, Christ, I came that close to makin an arse outta meself. Finest creature I’ve yet to lay eyes on in this fuckin town. I reckon she mighta worked there too cause she kept goin in behind the bar. I’ve been up to the Ship a few times since but she hasnt been around. She spent half the night out on the dance floor and I spent half the night watchin her dance, her arms raised in the air and her skirt risin up her thighs, skippin and smilin without a worry in the world, her tight tee-shirt soaked with sweat, plastered to her breasts. Then she’d dart into the backroom, Dawe’s fuckin dressing room. My Christ, she’s the One, now that I thinks on it. But I’ll be sober the next time. I shoulda went on into the backroom meself, cause I do whenever Val is playin there, but I couldnt. I was too fucked up. Slammin that fuckin Hard Lemonade shit. That stuff is potent. Next thing I knows the show is over and there she is fallin out through the doors arm in arm with fuckin Dawe. Toddler. Neither of ’em with a leg to stand on. Fuckin old geezer like that with a fine piece of skin like her? Make ya sick.
I stretches out on the bed and slides me hand in under Donna’s pillow. Something under there, a book maybe. I pulls it out and flips it over. A fuckin framed picture of me. Never seen it before, dont know where or when it was took. For fuck sakes. This is gone far enough now. Supper on the table.
I flies up off the bed and pulls me jeans and shirt on and starts tossin all me shit in a pile on the floor, all that folded-up shit, mounds of dirty socks and dirtier drawers from under the bed that she mustnta caught, jackets from the closet, me sleepin bag, books and tapes and that empty notepad she laid out for me, pens and pencils and that fuckin framed picture. Nice shot though. I looks pretty fuckin hard, not to be fucked with. I can see why she’d want it. I hauls on a fresh pair of socks and goes through to the kitchen for a garbage bag, but there’s none where they normally are. I grabs a handful of Dominion grocery bags and back in the room I starts stuffin me shit into ’em. She comes in behind me and laughs first, wantin to know what I’m up to.
—Makin it easier on ya girl.
She standin there with a towel wrapped around her chest. I can just see the shadow of her puss where the towel stops. A bead of moisture trickles down the inside of her reddened thigh. Fuck. She’s lookin around the room all frantic now, realizin I aint fuckin around.
—Are you leaving?
These fuckin bags are that cheap now, the corners of the books digs right through and falls to the floor when I goes to lay it on the bed. Cheap fuckwads with their recycled fuckin plastic. Made with more than 50% recycled plastics. Half made up of rotted garbage is what they means. Sure they gotta use twice as much of ’em to bag your groceries. Fuck the environment if you cant even lug a few books around.
—Clayton?
I aint gettin into it with ’er. No way. If I’m quick enough maybe I can still catch Claire and make an evening of it. Down to the last bag now and there’s no way I’m fittin the rest of me shit in it. No way I’m comin back for it either.
—Clayton why?
Because I’m sick of it. It’s one thing to hang around and get kinky and have a few drinks every now and then, but it’s another thing altogether to be shackin up. Not what I had in mind when I came back to St. John’s, to go gettin all tangled up and tucked away. I’ll get that itch now soon enough and I’ll be hittin the road. I’m actually tryna make it easier on ’er. Truth. I knows she’s all fuckin smitten with me already and when the time comes I’ll only fuckin destroy ’er, to put it mildly. And there’s nothing that makes leavin easier than someone screechin and howlin in your face, beggin you to stay. She’s better off that I fucks off right now rather than a year down the road. Cause it’s inevitable that I will fuck off whenever I gets the notion. She’s tough as nails sure. She’ll drink her way through the first few weeks and I’ll hafta keep a low profile. Then she’ll turn on me and start fuckin around with certain people so’s I’ll get a whiff of it, hopin I’ll come stormin back into ’er life to claim what’s supposedly mine. But when I fails to put up any protest she’ll start hatin herself and realizin how stunned she’s gettin on, drivin her friends batty, no fun atall, goin on and on about me and how great I am while they all calls me down to the fuckin dirt. Bawlin on their shoulders and havin to be carried home every night of the week. All the friends in the world’ll take a few steps back then cause they’ll be sick ta fuckin death of ’er. And then she’ll just hafta bite the bullet and get on with her goddamn life.
—Who is she Clayton?
Fuck sakes. So typical.
—Donna, we’re not a fuckin couple, we’re not goin out. We settled that ages ago. So I just needs to be on me own for a bit. This is too fucked up.
—What is? What’s fucked up? Hot baths and wine?
But like I said, I’m hardly gonna weaken me position here by fuckin explaining meself. I does what I like, that’s the way it is and always was. Just because we works out well in the sack she cant very well expect me to grind against me own nature. No.
I hooks as many bags over me fingers as I can, but there’s still half a dozen on the floor. She goes to pick one up but I sticks out me foot and stops ’er. She stands back against the dresser with her arms crossed and ’er head down and she looks like she’ll either screech or bat me across the face. I hope she fuckin hits me. That’d be fuckin wicked.
