Right Away Monday, page 15
Dusty black curtain in the front window of Fagan’s. I cant see in. There’s music though. AM radio. I walks up the steps and pounds on the bulky steel door. An old woman’s face appears behind the little curtain. She looks me up and down. I’d meant to hide the blanket but with the cold and the headache I completely forgot, so you can imagine what she sees. She shakes her head and lets the curtain fall back in place. I gets outta the blanket and drapes it over me arm and straightens out me coat. That’s the best thing about suit-coats like this, you can manage to look ragged and rough and respectable all at the same time. I pulls the wad of crumpled bills outta me pocket and bangs on the door again. The old woman comes back. I holds up the money. She looks up and down the street again, then back at me. Finally she pulls the latch and the door creaks open.
—No bullshit now.
—No miss.
That’s what comes to mind, to call her miss, because she reminds me of a teacher I had in primary school who crucified me for bein left-handed. Red, sweaty, heavy face and distant blue eyes, shirt tucked into her skirt so’s her tits dont fall out.
The heat hits me and I feels sick, my body threatening convulsions, my skin tinglin all over. I puts me hand against the wall to steady meself while me blood warms up. If I falls down now I’ll never get a drink. A bare bulb burnin in the centre of the room and it takes a few seconds for me eyes to adjust to the dark. A group of five old men sittin around a woodstove in the corner. Dented and stained aluminum pot on the stove and one of ’em stands above it with a blackened ladle and gives the contents a stir. Smells like cabbage, salt beef too. Me stomach rumbles. I stands as close to the stove as I can get without upsetting their little circle. One old fella with a thick pink scar runnin the length of his face, from his forehead to his chin, glances up and gives me a ghoulish grin and a nod that says either Welcome to Heaven or Welcome to Hell, I cant decide. It is a bit of an inferno in here. They’re all clutchin mugs of some sort, chipped teacups and full-sized cups with broken handles and logos like HitsFM and Kit Kat and Venture Car Rentals. When was the last time one of ’em rented a car I wonder? Ever in their lives? When was the last time I had a Kit Kat? A simple thing like that.
They all seems to be drinkin the same thing, a thick bloodish drink that smells suspiciously like port, only all the cups are steaming hot. One of ’em starts to nod off a bit and the fella closest to him reaches out to steady his drink for him. I flexes me hands over the stove to try and get a bit of feeling back in ’em. The wood crackin and poppin deep within the hungry heat of the stove. The radio says it’s Sunday morning, welcome back to Jigs and Reels. Sunday fuckin morning. Figure it all out again tomorrow. Let meself fall today. I was so close, right ready to pack it all in when I met Isadora. Well on me way too. And how I had it figured that she’d keep me afloat, that she’d finally be the one to keep me head above water for good. And now she’s drove me to this, this place, with her flippancy, her shape-shiftin and her fucked-up double standards.
I feels me eyelids gettin heavy and I’m assailed by a deep, almost painful yawn that pops me eardrums and sets me back on me heels a bit. The old fella stirrin the pot takes a coughing fit and sprays a bit of phlegm onto the stovetop. It sizzles, a little ball of it dancing back and forth on the damper. In me haze I makes a mental note not to have any Jiggs’ dinner today.
—Are you buyin something today or are you just gonna soak up my heat?
This is the old missus who let me in. She’s scrubbin at the bar with a wire brush. I looks around at the circle of rummies and sees how they’re nursin their drinks like it’s their last.
—I’ll have what they’re havin. A round for the house!
The circle perks right up when I says that and one of ’em tips his frayed old salt-n-pepper cap at me. I notices underneath his rough canvas coat that he’s wearing a faded green necktie and what once was likely a decent white dress shirt. His Sunday best.
—Eleven dollars please.
This is the old one again, as she nudges her way through our little circle to get to the stove. She lays a mid-sized cast-iron pot next to the dinner pot, takes the stopper off a dark glass bottle with no label and tips a couple of ounces of murky liquid into the pot. Smells like, I dont know, cough syrup or something. The colour of the bottle, like poppers. When was the last time I had a good romp on the poppers? I tried to get Iz on ’em one night and she flew right off the head, said if I couldnt be “intimate” without the use of drugs then there was something wrong with me, with the whole situation. Fuck though, just a bit of extra fun. I just wanted to see what she’d be like with her guard down.
The old one goes back to the bar and returns to us with a full bottle of Kelly’s port. Kelly’s. My heart. Beats. Kelly’s. She twists the cap off and pours the whole bottle into the pot on top of the mystery medicine. I hands her a ten and a five, tells her to keep the change. None of the lads knows what to make of the tip. They nods and mutters and pulls their chairs a little closer to mine. The old missus hands me a small yellow mug with CN written on it. It’s hefty and thick, well insulated, a slight stain in the bottom but not chipped anywhere. A good mug. All the men eyes it greedily. I was told in Dublin that to give someone a chipped mug was an insult, that you were wishin them ill fortune. The old one must wish me well.
A song comes on the radio then, an old Newfoundland song I vaguely recognizes from years ago. The old fella in his Sunday best starts tappin his feet and tries to sing along in a raspy, nasal voice:
Ye lads and lassies of Newfoundland come listen to my tale,
While I relate the hardships of attending St. John’s jail…
He takes a deep breath and throws his head back for the next line and the rest of the circle starts tappin along, but before the next line comes the old bag behind the bar switches the radio off.
—Now boys, you know I cant abide singing at this hour.
And that’s that. All heads drop back to the sticky floor and what spark had come to the eyes of the man in his Sunday best winks out obediently.
A thick, sweet steam risin from the pot of port on the stove. I nods towards it.
—That ready yet?
They all drains what’s left in their mugs as the one with the scar runnin down his face fishes a thick leather glove from the wood box. He grabs hold of the pot handle and fills up each cup according to whose is closest. I’m well out of ’is reach and I’ll be fucked if I dont get a full cup out of it so I stands and holds me mug out. He skips right over it and goes on to his buddy’s cup. I feels a rage bubble up in me, but I s’pose they got their system. Finally he pours what’s left into mine, a thick sludge at the bottom of the pot that sorta slides into me cup with a muted plop. I takes out me knife and gives the drink a stir before tastin it. Hot. So sweet that a pain shoots back through me teeth like I was chewin on something metal, like a fork. It has a sort of numbing effect, leaves a thick coating from the roof of me mouth to the back of me throat, not bad like cocaine. I can feel the heat of it sinkin down to me stomach, settling there and altering the very chemical makeup of whatever’s left over in me gut since last night. Me head starts to swoon a little and a dull, hazy film settles over me eyes, makin the room seem a little darker and warmer than it already is. I can feel it creepin through the muscles in me legs, a hot lava oozin its way into the weak spot in me foot, warmin it, soothin the cold throb that’s not let up in years and years. My heart beats Kelly’s. Me insides are aglow with a strange new peace. I glances across at the old fella in his Sunday best and he suddenly seems like an old friend, a comrade from another life, from a warmer, simpler time. He smiles and winks at me.
—That’s the best drop you got, young feller. The gold.
They saved the bottom for me.
I dont know how much times passes while we’re sippin at our drinks. No one speaks. The old one turns the radio back on and I feels like singin too. But it takes all that’s in me to ask for a cigarette from the man with the scar runnin from his forehead to his chin. I realizes then how huge a leap it was for the man in his Sunday best to have lifted his head up to sing when he did. It musta taken every last ounce of energy and I dont blame him in the least for retreating from the song so easily when he was told to stop.
I’m dimly aware of a thump at the door. It feels more like someone else’s heart beatin. A murmuring, hushed voice behind me. “Let Me Fish Off Cape St. Mary’s” lulling our mute circle further into a dreamlike state of tenderness and tranquility. A hand on me shoulder.
—Fuck, Clayton. Is that you?
I nods me head without turnin to inspect the owner of the voice.
Yes, it’s me. I think.
I’m bein scooped, hoisted outta me little nest. Me chair falls to the floor with a distant clatter. A furrowed and gnarly set of fingers reaches out to pluck me empty mug away. I clings tight to me grandfather’s blanket. Some devil is dragging me away from the perfect heat of the woodstove, spinnin me around towards the front door. The hand on me back, gently guiding me down the steps to Water Street. It’s cold out here. I needs to get back to where I was, to the peace and warmth of…I cant quite remember where it was that I’ve been taken from. The passenger-side door of a shiny black pickup is opened before me. I’m nudged inside. The heater is on, full blast. I’ve been in worse states than this. Of course I have. I’m Clayton. Clayton Reid. I am.
I comes awake when my head clunks off the passenger side window outside a Tim Hortons drive-through. Mike Quinn hands me a coffee. Black, steamin hot. The first sip brings me head right back around, almost. A box of doughnuts on the seat between us. Mike stuffin his face. I picks out a chocolate one and devours it in one go. Neither one of us speaks, just sits there in the parking lot and eats the dozen assorted doughnuts till we’re almost too sick to talk. Mike takes a swallow of his coffee and lets out a huge belch.
—What ahhh…brought you to Fagan’s this morning Mike?
—Just about to ask you the same thing. I was collecting the rent. I ahhh…owns the building.
—Figured.
—Fuck are you at drinking that codeine, that’ll kill ya.
—Is that what that was?
—Where you staying these days Clayton?
—N-nowhere now.
—Keith moved out. Gone off to Halifax again. His apartment is free.
—Dont got no money.
—His shift is open too. If you’d like to try your hand at bartending. Might as well, you’re spending all your time there as it is.
I manages to say When do I start? Then I’m hangin out the door, heavin a putrid mixture of coffee and chunky, sugary doughnut grease and codeine and Kelly’s wine and last night’s cokey red wine onto the pavement. The Sunday morning cars snakin their way up to the window of the drive-through, tryin not to notice what it is I’m up to. Go fuck yourselves. Mike snorts and says Not for a few days yet.
He hands me a set of keys outside the door of Keith’s ex-apartment. I climbs the wobbly iron steps. There’s a condom hangin from the rail. I brushes it aside with the sleeve of me coat. Mike is telling me something about the rent comin straight outta me pay. Six bucks an hour, keep all me own tips. No drinkin behind the bar. I nods as I’m workin the door open. I have a faint appreciation for the fact that Mike Quinn has saved me from…something. I turns to say thanks as I’m steppin in through the front door of the apartment, but he’s already gone.
I locks the door behind me and follows the stairs up to the main floor. Near the top step, right before I makes it to the landing, me foot goes right through the floorboard, me leg vanishes to the knee and a nail or sliver of wood gouges into me shin. I can barely feel it.
Keith’s got most of the walls covered with hideous murals of demons and slain angels and I believe what must be a crude rendering of Iron Maiden’s Eddy, eatin a naked woman who looks like she’s rather enjoying it. Not a bad job really. A bit dark, but liveable.
I looks around for me table, searches the two bedrooms and even the bathroom. I looks out on the back roof, but it’s nowhere to be seen. In its place is a rusty and shaky old pale green chrome one. Val’s history lesson. Fuck him now.
The lights are workin fine. I forgot to ask Mike about that, if it’s all inclusive. There’s this wicked painting just left flat on the floor of the kitchen. I leans it against the wall and has a good look at it. This big hand clutchin a live crow. It’s kinda loud, but it’s nice and dark too. I like it. It says something to me.
I turns the heat on bust and drags me grandfather’s blanket into one of the bedrooms. The first room is practically empty, but the other one, the bigger one, has a huge queen-size mattress in the corner. I strips the sheets off and fires ’em into the corner. Like fuck I’m sleepin in a year’s worth of Keith’s piss and sweat and jerk. An ancient portable heater propped up in the corner. I plugs it into the wall and it crackles to life. I wraps meself good and snug in me grandfather’s blanket and flops down on the mattress. Clock radio flashin on the floor beside the bed. I clicks it on and tunes in Jigs and Reels. I dont bother to set the time. I wouldnt know where to start.
Bartending hey? Me own bed. Me own fuckin bed.
Now Isadora.
Now.
17. And to All a Good Night
Christmas Eve. Val is demonstrating how to turn a perfectly appealing line of blow into a jagged assortment of malicious-lookin flakes of crack. Fuckin waste, if you asks me. He holds a candle beneath a soot-black spoon that contains some sinful mixture of baking soda and coke and tap water. Cigarette burnin away in the ashtray and Val’s already after warnin me not to touch it, not to disturb it, to just let it burn. No mention of the last time we were together, no apology for smackin me in the chops in front of Isadora. No mention of Monica neither.
I worked the day shift at the Hatchet and Val called down around three to invite me up for an evening drink. And even though every fuckin pore on me body wanted to scream Go fuck yourself you cunty-balled old bastard, I said Yes straight away and then cursed meself for havin come across so eager for his company. But the truth is that I was almost fuckin elated to hear from him. I am. Christmas Eve. Family. I even thought about callin up the Shore and wishin old Randy a good one too. Fuck that though.
Prescott Street was wicked icy on the way up to Val’s. The sidewalk was worse. The wind was bitter, enough to rip the skin off your face. Hail peltin off me cheeks. I spotted Crazy Clara across the street tryna make her own way up the hill. She had half a dozen grocery bags from the Korean shop on Water Street. She wasnt makin very good time, feelin out every step like she expected it to be her last, the bags bumpin clumsy off her knees. Her hat blew off and when she spun around to see where it went, a couple of cans burst out through the bottom of one of her bags and started rollin back down the hill. She moaned into the wind. I darted across the street then and after a little scuffle with the ice and the wind and me bad foot, I had the cans and her hat scooped up, and a knot tied in the bottom of the busted bag. She didnt know what to make of me. Like she’d never seen me before in her life, even though most of the time she calls me by name. She had a look in ’er eyes I’d never seen her with before, like an old dog that’s come to expect a kick before a kind word. I had a hard time talkin ’er into takin me arm, lettin me help ’er up the hill. I made me voice as soft, as calm as I could, like the way I would when I was young and tryna trick a dog into comin near enough so’s I could give it a good boot. When I was young. When I was that. Finally she let herself lean on me, old Clara. We edged our way up the greasy sidewalk and I told her me name maybe a dozen times. She kept muttering about her landlord, about what a lovely man he is, how he fixes everything when it’s broke and never charges her a cent in rent. Poor old girl, I asked her if she got any family and she said No, not now I dont. Not no more. Every now and then she’d lose her footing and grip me arm so tight I thought we were both goin down. When we finally made it to her doorstep she started diggin through her change purse for something to offer me. I told her to put her money away and not be so foolish. She wouldnt hear tell of it though and finally I let her press two shiny quarters into me palm.
—There you go, my love. There.
I made sure she got her door opened alright, wished her a good Christmas and then turned back down the hill towards Val’s.
Val, more steady than I’ve seen him in a long long time, removes the burnin cigarette from the ashtray and taps more than an inch of what he calls “virgin ash” into a brownish glass pipe he’d selected from his collection in the bottom kitchen drawer. He asks me for a knife and I’m delighted to whip out my silver Bristol pocket knife. It’s fuckin razor sharp and I’m kinda hopin he’ll ask me about it. Sounds foolish and maybe a little juvenile I s’pose, but any way into a conversation with Val where he’s not the ultimate authority, I’ll take it. But no. He’s so intent on scrapin the flakes from the spoon onto the ash in the pipe that he barely notices. I says a quick and quiet prayer that he nicks himself on the blade.
