Right Away Monday, page 12
Then I turns to leave.
—Where are you going?
—For a walk. I’m feelin sick. That pill…
—Arent we going home together?
—Donna, I said I’d come out for a few drinks. We’re not together, we’re just hangin out, remember? I might come back, but if I dont then that’s all there is to it.
—But, the pill, I thought we’d…
I turns and hops across the street, right out into the traffic. A cop car screeches to a stop and blows the horn at me. I glares at the young pup in the driver’s seat and, very slowly, winds up the middle finger for him. He stares back. He’s dyin to shoot someone. I walks on. I dont give two fucks. Donna shouts across the street:
—I’m sorry about the dinner Clayton!
No response from Mr. Reid. Scoot down the alleyway behind the Zone. There’s a bunch of drama queens huddled in a corner with a big fat joint and, when I floats past, one of ’em whistles. At me. He’s done up like that Ron Jeremy fella from the skin flicks, big moustache and afro, stuffed gut and bell-bottoms. I stops and glares at him, dirty like, with me one eyebrow scrunched down over me eye. He tries to keep his good mood intact, but I can tell he’s gettin right self-conscious the harder I stares. I’ve busted his bubble. He cant remember the punchline. The circle goes quiet, none of ’em wants to have a go at me. There’s two Draculas, one Madonna, from around her “Like a Prayer” phase, one Grim Reaper and one who may or may not be Joey Smallwood. There’s a clown. I feels like sluggin him out, stompin his face into the concrete till he’s nothing more than a sludgy mess of brains and bone fragment and lipstick. Me head goes reelin back, back to that day, the day before the accident. We’d all gone to the circus in Renews. Elephants and horses and that sad, angry tiger and the sword swallower. And clowns, lotsa bouncy, jittery, annoying clowns. Popcorn. My mother laughin, Randy sober, not yet a real drinker, and holdin each of our hands. Two of them singin along to Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” in the pickup on the way back up the Shore. Me half asleep across her lap. Her hand strokin me hair. Fuckin clowns.
Ron Jeremy holds out the joint. I plucks it from his hand without takin me eyes off his. I dont smile, but I nods, good-natured like, and walks away with the joint. None of ’em have the balls to protest. That’s always the way too. If you wants something, take it. He who hesitates is fucked.
Fuck, I’m lovin this pill, this Halloween mystery treat.
Down past the Crossroads and there’s a chaotic lineup outside. All hands freezin their holes off to get a glimpse at some band that fucked up and failed ten years ago but thinks they’re still in their prime. You can tell by the crowd, the big nostalgia trip. Please make me young again. We were the In Crowd. We were the scene. Singer’s gone fat and balding, hasnt done fuck-all since the band fell apart. Everybody treats him like he’s still actually got something worth payin to see, when in fact in the back of their mushy heads they all knows he’s now just a front man for their own failed and miserable lives. And they’re bitter, and the bitterness comes through, no matter how much age-defying makeup they cakes on to try and hide it. I knows that scene. I been fucked outta the Crossroads more often than I can remember. Well, to be truthful, I dont remember much of any of it.
As I’m pushin through the crowd to get down to Water Street, there’s a vaguely identifiable Gene Simmons on his way outta the club. He’s got a can in his hand and he takes a slug. A bouncer grabs the can and tries to pull it away from him. Mean Gene holds on to the beer.
—Hey? What the fuck man?
—Bring beer into my club?
The bouncer gives the can a twist and yanks it outta Gene’s hand. Warm beer squirts across my face, in my eyes. I’m blinded. Someone slams into me from behind, the Elephant Man. I tries to catch me balance with me bad foot but it wont offer no support. I goes down. Gene Simmons tumbles on top of me. Someone bends down and snatches the joint outta me mouth. Ron Jeremy. He laughs. It’s all numb. I’m jelly. Gene jumps up again and makes a run at the bouncer. Bad move. He’ll be dragged out behind and pounded by three or four of ’em and it’ll never, ever go anywhere in court. Halloween night. Drunk and up against a pack of sober bouncers who’re so tight they prob’ly had a circle jerk in the backroom together before the bar opened. Good luck Gene.
I tries to roll further down the steps to get clear of the crowd and keep from gettin trampled, but someone’s standin on the sleeve of me jacket. I pulls and hears the threads let go a bit. I looks up. Dracula, one of ’em. A big one. He’s lookin down at me, cold and bloodthirsty. Joey Smallwood and the Clown hovering beyond his shoulder. I’m down. I’m fucked. They’ll kick ten shades of shit outta me before I can make it to me feet. I pulls again and this time the sleeve rips free and I rolls down the slop-stained concrete steps, crackin me head hard on the sidewalk at the bottom. Dracula jumps the steps and I can see him in the air, his huge black cape filling the night behind him. He’s aiming for my throat. I rolls backwards and flips over onto me feet. He lands where I was lying. He starts for me and stops. He’s lookin at me hand. He backs away. I looks at me hand. Me brand-spankin-new knife is in it, gleamin beneath the streetlight. Dracula turns and scoots back up over the steps.
I slips the knife back into the case, brushes off me pants and coat, then heads up Water Street, lighter than I’ve felt in years. Crazy Clara is sittin outside the Rose. She makes to stand up when she sees me. I offers her me hand and she pulls herself to her feet. Big gummy smile, her teeth ground down to the nerves. She sorta rocks back and forth on her heels, pulls away and tilts way back like she’s fillin her lungs for what she got to say:
—Hello there Mr. Reid. Would you like a cigarette?
Poor old girl. I takes the cigarette she offers and flips her a loo-nie, the only one I’ve got. She misses it and it rolls under the table. I shuffles on up the street while she scrambles for it. God love ’er, someone said she useta be a teacher or a nurse or some such thing. Now she just wanders the streets.
Val is playin at the Ship. I can just hear him when I’m passin by the Hatchet.
I can still taste the gutter in the back of my throat
And some days it hurts me to swallow.
I saw him earlier at home, tryin on an old Elvis suit in the mirror, swingin his hips and pointin, curlin his lip. He does an Elvis set every year at Halloween, although I’ve never seen it. Must be finished with it by now though, gone over to his own tunes.
Some days I’m so full I might bust at the seams
Some days are so empty and hollow.
Fuck man, I minds the first time I got ahold of one of his albums when I was in high school. I was right into the Skid Row and Metallica and that sorta stuff back then and granted Val’s music wasnt as heavy, but, I dont know. It was wicked. To think that here’s my old man’s brother, my uncle, pumpin out these crunchy tunes and actually makin a name for hisself. It made shit seem a bit more doable for me back then, in that boring little dead-end harbour. I needed to get outta there some bad, by fuck.
There’s a sun up, a sun down, a great chance to skip town
I cant lead the way, you wont follow
There’s a blast and a handshake, a backstab for an old face
Who might drop by sometime tomorrow.
Some of his stuff is a bit vague, like he’s after just slappin the lyrics in without givin it much thought. But like with any music that you likes, you can always find ways to personalize Val’s stuff. He’s up on bust tonight, the door handle of the Ship vibrating in me hand. I checks me pocket and finds a ten-dollar bill. That’s enough for a few beer. I got Donna’s smokes here too, made sure of that before I left the Darkroom. Cover charge at the Ship, but not for me. Val said he’d leave me name on the door. The entrance is blocked with all sorts of ghouls and cowboys. Strawberry Shortcake, a dead zombie bride and one fella dressed like a toilet. I dont fuckin get it. He had to’ve put some fuckin hours’ work into that, and in the end what’s he sayin exactly? Shit here. Shit on me. I hope he wins something for it though, all the same. I slides past the crowd and gives a quick nod to the little chicky-chick on the door. I hafta get right up in her face and shout over the blare of the music.
—Clayton Reid! Val said he’d write me in!
To say get up off of that cold hard floor
And put it all back to the way it was before…
Loves that chorus I do. The whole bar is singing along. Chicky-chick does a little scan of her book. I sees that Monica is first on the list, but when I passed the Hatchet just now I seen her dartin up the alley towards Keith’s, her face painted bone white. Make up your fuckin mind missus. Her and Val are wearing pretty thin now anyhow, not that they seemed all that thick in the first place. Thick enough for him to give away me table though, cunty-balled old whoremaster. I heard him talkin on the phone to Massie the other night, Aunt Massie. He was screamin first, about some phone bill she’s got, but after a while he went right quiet and he might even have been chokin up a bit. That’s fucked, that whole situation. Me with Monica when she was with Keith and now she’s with Val, me uncle, while she’s still with Keith. And Val on the phone every other day with Massie, half the time gettin back together and half the time settin out to kill her. I s’pose I should go to Corner Brook and fuck Massie meself, just to balance it all out. I needs a good road trip.
The young one on the door is wearin that fuckin dandy hippie oil, what’s it called? Petunia? Patchouli? I gets right off on that. I could love her, if she always smelled like that. I hovers around her neck while she flips the page on her clipboard. She shakes her head and chews her lip and flips open the cashbox.
—Sorry, he said no one gets in who’s not on the list. It’s six dollars.
And I’m about to say, he’s me uncle, I lives with him, but I dont go in for that name-droppin shit, like I said. I feels the ten-dollar bill in me pants pocket, crispy and new, right outta some bank. S’pose I shoulda come in through the back door, like I normally would. Some Hugh Hefner type is next in line. He’s got two wicked young ones in bunny ears hangin off each arm. He holds out a twenty and when Miss Petunia takes the bill I backs into the sweaty, manic crowd towards the bar. She sees what I’m up to but she doesnt make a move towards me.
Leave it alone, you’ll only make it sore…
It’s not worth her while to come after me cause everybody’d just walk in then. The crowd swallows me up while I pushes and elbows me way to the bar. I’m dyin with the thirst.
And there’s not much left if you’d like a little more.
Val’s on his own tonight. He makes more money that way, where he aint gotta pay no other musicians. But still, you hafta hear him with a full band, drums and bass and another guitar. Piano sometimes. That’s his sound. That’s what his songs call for. But he always goes it alone towards the end of the month, when the rent is due. You’d think by now he’d own his own house somewhere, with all the money he’s after generating over the years. But no. Rent and sublet and fuckin squat, that’s his way. Dribs and drabs, feast and famine, that’s how he lives. I mean, he was on his way for a while, but he fucked it up. I cant say for sure how, just I knows something went down at some awards show one year and some stupid reporter got the story wrong on purpose. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Val dont talk about it.
By the time I gets a good spot at the bar his set is ending. He says good night and thanks for comin out. Someone shouts:
—“Gun Shy!” “Gun Shy!”
One of his earlier songs. His old record label is s’pose to be releasing a greatest-hits album sometime next month. About time too. I tries to catch his eye before he slips into the backroom. He sees me but he dont nod or smile or make any motion towards me atall. Fucker. He’s like that when he’s out in public. Home too. Everybody starts bangin their glasses and ashtrays and cheerin and shoutin for an encore but I can tell by the way Val’s luggin himself to the backroom that he’s all-in for the night. He never does an encore no more.
I reaches the bar then, and I can feel me life shiftin, changin, me whole approach turnin inside out and upside down. For good. Or bad. I dont give a fuck. I wants what I sees more than anything I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. And this is not some passing infatuation sorta wow-I’d-love-to-fuck-her kinda situation. This is the real fuckin thing. There she is again. The one who was with Robert Dawe that night, at his release party. The One. Behind the bar, working. Fuckin drop dead gorgeous. Just like I remembered her. Full lips and messy black hair, about my height, maybe a little shorter. Maybe my age, maybe a little older. She fuckin floats. High leather boots and skin-tight black pants that only comes down a little past her knees. She pulls a pint and shakes her head at some arsehole when he lays his hand on hers. She’s above the whole racket. She pouts and bounces to the cash register.
She’s mine.
I wants her.
She’s the One.
14. Encore
Young Clayton hey? Some gall he have. Wants to be on the guest list? Fuck. Cause I really gives a shit if he gets in to see me play or not. Two-faced little snot. Thinks this town got no ears, no eyes…
Remember that night in Winnipeg? What was that place called?
Fifteen years ago that was. Couldnt beat the women away. Massie, gorgeous. Crowd like that wouldnt stand for this either. They’d drag me back out to the mic.
Listen to ’em out there…
This lot? They dont want no encore. Just a courtesy now isnt it.
Well then return the courtesy.
That Isabelle, or fuckin Isadore, there behind the bar, she’ll slap on some CD and it’ll be like I was never here tonight at all.
Good show tonight Val. Good sound.
Yeah, get the sound guy to do an encore then. I’m just filler, some kinda freak show, relic…
Shut it. Listen to ’em out there. You were on fire out there. Packed the place, made the rent. Give ’em one more. “Gun Shy.” Give—
Give, yeah. What for? I made the rent, two solid hours. That’s it. The night is done and they all know it. Broke a string anyhow.
They’re not going to keep it up all night Reid. You know all this, so easy.
Different with no band though. Different with this getup on. Just a buffoon, some kinda clown old enough to be their—
Fizzling out. You’re losing them. Make your move.
See how I feel after this now. Get the blood pumping again.
C’mon Reid, you dont need—
Slay ’em all then, big head full of Walter’s gear, stay on for another hour…
I think we lost ’em Val…
Maybe we did. May-be.
15. Still the One
I stands starin at her until she sees me. She smiles from ear to ear like she was expecting me all along. In one movement she lunges from the cooler to the edge of the bar where I’m standin. She lays her two hands flat on the bar as if to say, anything you want, it’s yours. Her breasts.
Some precious dyke in a long black coat standin next to me shouts:
—Hey? I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes!
But my new flame doesnt even look her way. She keeps starin at me. She’s lookin at me. And for the first time in a long time I dont know who or what I am. Because she’s all there is and I knows I’d give over to her in a flash. I’d let her break me and reshape me any way she sees fit. I would. She keeps starin, her bright grey eyes.
I’m fuckin well in love.
—What’ll it be?
—Ah…
And I catches meself then, tryna figure what’s the best thing to order to give her a good impression. But that’s not me. I just wants to be meself.
—Pint. Guinness. Please.
—Water?
—No, Guinness.
—Last call for alcohol! Last call!
She shouts this across the bar and people groan and you can see ’em flatten their drinks so’s they might get another one in before the night is up.
Every move she makes causes me an awful distress. The pulsing flex of her calf when she reaches for a glass on the top shelf. Her shirt rises over the waistline of her pants, the flash of her belly with the fading hint of a late-summer tan. She whirls around on her heels and bats the tap down playfully with the palm of her hand. She fills the glass halfway and looks over at me, not smilin, her cheek restin on her shoulder and her hips keepin time to the stereo. Paul Simon. This song burned into me head for the rest of time. She resets the tap when the pint is three-quarters full, to let it settle. And she turns away then, while it’s settling, the head slowly swellin and the underbelly blackening, as it does. But she’s turned away, plucked a twenty from an outstretched hand, leanin in, ear first, to better decipher the drunken patter from yet another slippery, gap-toothed mouth that wants, wants, wants. Always. And who doesnt? I cant stand it. I hates her. I just wants her here, serving me. Now. Look at me. Ask me. Tell me. Me. Everything. Anything. She delivers a drink and divvies out the change. Her small hands. On me.
I feels a dull pull in me foot and when I looks down at it the floor is further away than it should be. My legs are longer. And then I remembers the pill. Fuck. No. No. It’s more than that. I’m open to it. I’m open to the possibility of disappearing. With her. In her. Living. With her. Fixin breakfast and runnin the bath. She sees me there then, remembers me pint and pulls the last quarter from the keg. When the glass is full she brings the head up to touch the mouth of the tap and makes a quick little movement. She carries it over to me, not smilin, just looking, with gleaming grey eyes. Right. At. Me.
—You sure you can handle this? You’re looking kind of pale. I can get you a water?
I dont have any idea how to respond to that, seems like months now that everybody’s been linin up to pour it down me throat whether I wanted it or not. Donna, how she has more fun when I drinks with her. Val with his lines and hot whiskey.
