Right Away Monday, page 16
Val hands me the pipe and a fuckin pink Bic lighter that somehow doesnt suit the event at all. I found a Zippo down behind the mattress in the apartment, musta been yon hippie Keith owned it. I draws it from out me inside pocket and lays the pink lighter aside. Val barks:
—No, no. Dont use that. The flame’s too heavy. And you’ll spoil the taste.
I picks up the pink Bic, lights it, and holds the flame to the mouth of the pipe.
—Steady now. Steady.
I watches the white flakes liquefy and melt down through the thick grey-white ash. The dry, angry fumes of smoke pounds me chest like someone’s after stuffin a wire brush down me throat. Me windpipe almost seals shut, me lungs ablaze. But I wills meself not to cough in front of Val. I fills me lungs to capacity instead, then closes me eyes and lets me head tumble over the backrest of the chair. The heat floodin through me body, washin away all the sore spots. I feels Val take the pipe from me hand, hears the click of the flint wheel from the lighter. I holds me breath, a tingle in me knees, an itch, a flutter in me nostrils I’m refusin to scratch.
Warm jellied heaven seepin into the marrow of my bones.
The thump, thump thumpin, poundin, hammering roar of me heart.
Fuck, I’ve just done crack.
On me way down Military Road towards Isadora’s I suddenly realizes I’ve gotten her nothing for Christmas. The only person I got anything at all for is Brent. He’s s’pose to show up sometime over the holiday. I stashed two cases of beer in the room he’ll be takin in the apartment. Other than that I havent even bought a fuckin card for anyone. I made sixty bucks in tips today at the bar. That’s unheard-of for a day shift, but I s’pose Christmas Eve could be exceptional. Derelict regulars with nowhere else to go and no one to buy presents for, tippin me extra in order to alleviate their guilt and loneliness. Yeah, quite the festive and desperate day and didnt I exploit it to the max with me brightest of moods and me most dashing and seasonal grin? Fuck.
I’d been meanin to dart across the street to the little Korean store after me shift to pick Iz up a set of salad dishes she pointed out to me a couple of weeks back, but I s’pose maybe I was so nervous and distracted at the prospect of seeing Val again that all else slipped me mind. And now I’m on me way to her house with nothing. Christmas Eve. She’ll never let me hear the end of this one. Over the last two weeks she’s been worse than any youngster you can imagine in her excitement over Christmas and presents and shit, countin down the days and droppin hints about what she’s plannin to get me, tellin me what I wasnt allowed to buy her and askin me advice on what to get for people I dont even know. I mean she’s cute about it all, and it’s kinda rubbin off on me, her enthusiasm, but what do I know about Christmas? All it ever is for me is a socially acceptable excuse to get plastered and stay that way for a week. But I’m gonna take it easy this year. I got a job anyhow. And tomorrow I’m gonna go meet Iz’s mom in St. Philip’s for Christmas dinner. Maybe even go to fuckin mass. And tonight is s’pose to be a quiet night at Iz’s for a movie, some wine, and of course we’re to swap our presents. It’s all just a fuckin test, I knows that. And I’m more than a little ill prepared aint I? No present, an hour late already and fried on crack. I should just say fuck it and hit the town for the night, resurface sometime in the New Year.
I ducks into the Needs shop on the corner of Military and Bannerman instead.
The fuckin fluorescent lights are so bright and gross I’m fuckin near blinded when I walks in through the door. Painful it is, like some bastard is pressin the pads of his thumbs onto the backsides of me eyes. I staggers sideways and reaches out for a shelf of chips to steady meself, but I cant get no contact with nothing solid and I feels me arm slip right through the stack of chips and I knows before I tries that me bad foot wont hold me up. And down I fuckin goes. Me head bounces off the dirty brown slush that’s collected near the front doormat and then I just lays there, right still, with me eyes closed, feelin kinda stupid about the commotion I just caused. I knows everyone’s watchin me. Customers and staff rushes to help me up and I starts in laughin, not really at what state I’m in right now but at the flickering memory of this wild drunken night I spent in Dublin last year, first pub I walked into when I landed, somewhere on the North End, cant remember. Some man, ’bout thirty odd, with a heavy northern accent. He was knocked down by a bouncer after saying something nasty to the barmaid cause where she wouldnt serve him. He was mid-sentence, demanding one final pint when the bouncer grabbed him and started shovin him towards the exit. The northern fella started pushin back, of course, and somewhere in the scuffle he lost his footing and fell beneath the snooker table in the middle of the room. The bouncer barkin at him to get up. The man said he couldnt.
—What de ye mean ye cant move?
—Cant feel the legs man, cant feel the legs.
Every customer in the bar was hoverin around the scene, meself included. The bouncer started to get nervous then, nudged the man’s leg with the toe of his boot. Nothing. He kicked it harder. The man’s leg didnt budge. Someone at the bar said:
—Christ lads, someone better call for the Guards.
The man beneath the snooker table muttered something about a lawyer. I started shakin too, nervous about what I was seein. The bouncer put his two chunky hands on his shaved head and started pacin back and forth around the room sayin:
—Fuck no. C’mon. Fuck no. C’mon…
And then the big belly laugh from under the snooker table and the bouncer cracked, havin learned nothing, grabs the poor maniac by the collar of his coat and drags him out to the exit. The northern fella kept laughin even when he was tossed out onto his back on the piss-stained street.
And that’s kinda like the laugh that’s comin outta me now too, this sorta involuntary aggressive laugh that I knows is just drippin with contempt and maybe embarrassment. This scruffy young pup in a shit-brown Needs jersey and oversized matted Santa hat is tryna lift me up. I screams:
—Ahhhh…fuck man, watch the foot, watch the foot.
He lets go of me then and I slips back into the slush for a second. Little fucker. I grabs hold of the banana stand and pulls meself up. I cant meet his eyes or utter a word of thanks or apology. Not that he deserves either one. I cant say a word cause I dont know, I’m afraid I’ll burst out with what madness and chaos that’s been lurkin in the outskirts of me brain since I sucked back that pipe-load of crack at Val’s. I holds me head up and hobbles into the heart of the store, road slush drippin off the side of me face.
I wonder where that fella might be tonight, the northern fella. Christmas Eve. What might he be up to right this very moment? Assuming he’s alive. Is he alright? Or out there somewhere face down in a pool of his own vomit? Or worse, someone else’s vomit.
I gets thinkin about this as I’m scoutin the aisles for something suitable to get for Izzy for Christmas, how lives and personalities and long-ago happenings just have their way of carrying on in the minds of other people. Memory. Consciousness. I had this friend in high school, his name was John. He drowned. He jumped off the narrow bridge along the main road in Cape Broyle and struck a rock, knocked himself out. I can see him now, clearly, for the first time since he died. Funny that. In a sense he’s not really dead then is he? He’s alive and well in my head right now, no more removed from the world than Isadora or Val or Mike Quinn. No more dead than Petey Thorne or that Clyde Whelan cunt.
Me hand finds its way onto a small box of strangely ahhh…elegant goldfish dishes that seem a little outta place here amongst the Newfoundland scenery pictures and 4x4 racers and holiday cookbooks. There’s four dishes in the box, they look like blown glass and one of them is almost the precise shade of brown as Val’s crack pipe. I’ll take that as a sign. I tucks the box under me arm and sallies on over to the counter. Nobody better not say a fuckin word to me or even look at me sideways either. The dishes costs fifteen-fifty altogether. I gives the clerk a ten and a five and the two shiny quarters Clara gave me back in me other life.
Outside on the steps of the shop I stops for a second and breathes deep the night. The big maples in Bannerman Park, elaborately strung with a mix of blue and red lights. Soft snow just startin to fall and I can hear the tail end of Springsteen’s “Merry Christmas Baby” from a house a few doors up the street. I fills me lungs and leans back against the wall of the shop and tries me best to soak up what wholesomeness there is in the air tonight. Christmas Eve. I always tries to appreciate this night actually, that dense calm in the air you can almost cut with a knife. The night when everyone, everywhere, the world over are entitled to let the reality of their lives slide to the wayside for a few short hours. Makes me feel sharp and grounded and almost lighthearted. I tucks the dishes into me coat and hums me way down Bannerman to Isadora’s doorstep.
Standin at the desk in Iz’s bedroom with me back to her as I’m wrappin her present. She’s skippin and bouncin and dancin around the room behind me. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. I’d eat her right here on the floor right now. She’s drunk, no doubt about that, but for now she’s kinda teetering in that grey zone between girlish silliness and complete annihilation of the senses. But I can kinda tell how she’s fightin to hang on, tryna maintain control, that she’s at odds with herself about something or other. She’s quieter than usual. I’m watchin her in the mirror while she keeps peekin down the hallway towards the main room, out where the tree and all that shit must be. Seems to me like she got someone out there.
She tries on an old leather cowboy hat from her closet. Maybe she’s just excited about opening her present. Maybe she’s tryin not to be pissed off that I’m over an hour late. Maybe she knows I’m outta me own head. Maybe she knows the smell of crack and she’s tryna find some way to confront me on it. Naw. I knows her well enough by now to know that she couldnt possibly hold in any fuckin knowledge or opinion that might give her the upper hand.
—Something wrong Iz?
—What? Oh no. No. Just…
She peeks down the hallway again, then skips back across the room to me. God she’s fuckin dandy. I’d devour her right here and now. Suck all night I would. But I knows better than to try anything till “the mood is right,” till we’re “connected.” Jesus, never so complicated a piece of tail has there been for me. She puts her hand on me jaw and pulls me face to hers so we’re absolutely eye to eye for the first time since I arrived.
—Just that I love you Clayton. And it’s Christmas…
She kisses me then, soft on the lips with no tongue, no force behind it. Tender, like the way you’d kiss a child almost. I still got hard though, almost instantaneous. Dont take much for me where she’s concerned, the smell of her, the sound of her voice sometimes.
When I finishes wrappin her present she hands me a glass of red wine. She takes me by the hand then and leads me through to the front room where guess fuckin who is perched on the arm of the couch, quietly tunin an electric guitar? Robert Dawe. In all his ponytailed splendour. Merry fuckin Christmas. I feels me stomach knot and drop at the same time, like I’m on a swing set or free-fallin on an elevator. A smallish amplifier on the floor at Dawe’s feet. He’s fiddlin with the guitar cord, tryna make the connection with the amp. He dont bother to turn around and say hello or nothing. He’s obviously loaded. Great. I needs to sit down now. How could she fuckin do this? Christmas Eve. Toddler fuckin Dawe. This is some kinda outrage. See what I was sayin about it all bein a big test? I turns around to walk back down the hall but Izzy grabs me by the arm and pulls me in towards the tree. Dawe keeps pluckin away at the guitar. Cant say I’ll last too long without havin a few words with him, let alone sit through a private concert on Christmas fuckin Eve. Even if it means walkin out, leavin her to cry on his shoulder. As if she’d give a fuck.
She’s in her pyjamas by the way, giddy and girlish as she roots under the tree to retrieve my present. I bends down beside her and whispers:
—What the fuck is goin on here?
She looks up, wide eyed and smilin.
—Nothing sweetheart, I’m getting you your present.
She thrusts it into my hands. It’s soft. I tries not to look too disappointed, but I knows fuckin well it’s some tacky piece of clothes like a sweater or something that she thinks might somehow “brighten me up a bit,” enhance me already well-enhanced personality, her attempt to “tone down” me image. How many times have I gotta tell her that I fuckin feels comfortable just the way I am. Worse than that though, despite all that, whatever it is, I’ll still hafta wear it for a while and pretend I likes it. Yeah, she’s been doin this, takin me out to these second-hand places like Value Village and makin me try on the most ridiculous shirts and pants. Tight, flashy seventies shit that gets me thinkin she must take me for a bit of a fruit. But if it’s not black, or at least grey, then I aint puttin it on.
I glances across the room at Dawe and splits the present open the way you’d crack a pencil in half. Isadora standin on her tiptoes, grinnin big from ear to ear. It’s black, whatever it is. I pulls it out and it takes me a minute to figure that it’s actually a heavy fleece blanket. Practical enough. I been lookin for something to put up in the window of me bedroom to block the daylight out. This looks about perfect. Isadora takes it and wraps it around her shoulders like a shawl. She does a little twirl.
—So do you like it?
—Yeah, I do. It’s perfect. You’re not gonna like yours though.
Dawe raises his head in our direction when I says that and I realizes that because neither of us have acknowledged the other yet, that all chance of any feigned Christmas civility has escaped us. Too much time is passed now for it to seem like anything else but weakness to do so. And the first to speak will be the weaker of the two. Well, he’ll not get a word outta me the old fucker. Iz drains another glass of red wine, completely oblivious now to the tension in the room.
—And did you see what Robert got me?
She plucks the electric guitar from Dawe’s hands and I suddenly understands with horror that both it and the amplifier on the floor beside it are brand new. Dawe bought her a brand-new guitar and amp for Christmas. Well fuck me. An image of me bashing Dawe’s head in with the guitar, pluggin the amp in and rammin his bloody head through the mesh speaker. Merry Christmas to all…
Dawe cocks his head at me, triumphant once again. But I’m determined not to give the old bastard the scene he’s lookin for. I’ll make sure that amp never works though. I will make sure of it. Isadora bops around the room with the guitar strapped around her shoulders. I says fuck it and holds me own present out towards her, waits for her to stop and notice it. When she finally sees it she stops her twirl and lets the guitar fall to the floor with a clunk. I has a glance at Dawe. He jumps slightly and then tries to cover up the fact that he’s slightly insulted. Fuck him. Iz does this sorta bunny-hop thing across the floor and snatches the present outta me hand. She rips it open with one vicious pull at the wrapping. Her face lights right up, maybe a little too much, in my estimation. The dishes dont seem to have the same…peculiarity under the dim lights of the tree as they did under the bright fluorescent ones at Needs. They look not at all elegant, but rather dull and cheap, which I reckon they are anyhow. She slides the dishes out and lets the box drop to the floor. I sees I left the price tag on the box and I boots it under the tree.
—Oh Clayton, sweetie, I just love them, they’re beautiful!
She rushes over to show Dawe.
—Look Robert, arent they cute?
Dawe looks the dishes up and down before snorting:
—Fuckin ashtrays.
—No Robert, no. They’re for dip. And salsa.
I’d sorta thought they had something more to do with the bathroom, meself. But outta the box they seems too small to be soap dishes and too shallow to be candle holders. Who gives a fuck, so long as she’s happy and makes a fuss over them in front of Dawe. She rushes back across the room and throws her arms around me and kisses me full on the lips, tongue and all.
—Thank you sweetheart, thank you.
Dawe stands up with his gloves in his hands. He drains the last of his wine and goes:
—Fuck this then.
Iz whips her head around in perfect anticipation of the first sign of trouble.
—What’s wrong Robert? It’s Christmas.
—Fuck Christmas.
Dawe starts movin out the hall towards the front door. I bolts out the hall behind him.
—What the fuck’s your problem old man?
Dawe veers around on his heels and comes straight at me. Iz jumps in between us, but I manages to get enough of a shove at Dawe’s shoulder to throw him off balance and send him staggering backwards amongst the tangle of boots near the doorway. I can feel the power of the crack resurfacing now, feel the madness and the chaos rise up again and I got this sudden overwhelming and rampant hunger for a racket. I’ll fuckin destroy him tonight. Showin up at Izzy’s some nights, loaded drunk, usually when I aint around too, like he’s watchin the house or something. Or maybe she’s been callin him over, who the fuck knows. Writing lame-ass poems for her and reciting them outside on her doorstep like he was goddamn Shakespeare. Always and forever tryna fuckin outman me somehow. I takes a jab at him and just barely grazes the side of his grey head. He wasnt expecting to be punched at though, no. Fuckin townies. Arts fags. He stumbles backwards again and steps on a slipper or something. A horror dances across his face like he’s accidentally stepped on a kitten or like he’s fallin off the edge of a cliff. But he composes himself quick enough and as far as I’m concerned that’s an open admission that his whole twisted and supposedly eccentric persona is just an act he can turn on and off whenever his sense of self-security calls for it. He is so full of shit. I can only hope that, despite Iz’s inability to remember anything past the third glass of wine, she’ll somehow remember this one little detail outta the whole evening and come to see Dawe in the same light as I do. He finally manages to open the door and huffs out into the night. Tears are runnin free down Isadora’s face now.
