Right Away Monday, page 19
The entrance is down in the alley. A flight of stairs up to the bar. Dark red place. Eyes in the corners. I’ve never been able to penetrate the place, but could only ever hang at the corner of the bar, keep as close to the exit as possible.
A nasty and messy murder in the Closet years ago. Mike Quinn told us about it, the day I announced my intentions to move upstairs with Clayton, back in January. The manager was found one morning behind the bar with a broken rum bottle stuck in his throat, floating in his own blood. The case is still unsolved, but Mike says everyone pretty much knows who done it. One of those guys that no one’s gonna stand up to. Some skeet.
Another time the cops were called in and found the bar empty, except for one young fella who was strapped to the pool table with a broken mop handle shoved up his rear end. And here I am now, living right above the place. No wonder I’m having the nightmares lately.
Me and Clayton made a grand and loud entrance. I had a bit of cash on me, from busking, but I decided to give the old credit card a try. It’s maxed out beyond repair, but I was pretty sure they had a manual machine. Clayton filled me in on the manual machines, how they got some sort of insurance policy on the go. You can charge up to seventy-four dollars at a time, and even if the card is maxed, so long as it’s not expired, then the bar is covered. And once you get up around seventy-four bucks, you can just start a new bill. When Clayton’s working downstairs I’ll write him thirty- and forty-dollar tips and he splits it with me. I dont know, it’s a scam. I know it’s all going to blow up in my face one day. They shouldnt have been so stunned to give me one.
I yanked the card out of my pocket and slapped it on the bar. The greasy bartender barely looked at it, but he seemed happy enough to see me and Clayton. Half a dozen old queens slumped around the bar. You could feel the shift in the atmosphere when we made clear our intentions to hang around.
—Take Visa?
The bartender nodded. His eyes dropped to my crotch. I nudged Clayton and he grabbed me by the chin and planted a sloppy one on my lips. I tried to pull away but he held tight to the back of my head. This is how he gets his kicks. He was so fried he probably didnt know but I was Isadora. I managed to pull away when I felt his tongue flicking off my front teeth. He slammed his hand down on top of my rogue Visa and shouted across the bar:
—Drinks for the house!
Bastard. The bartender flew into action, afraid we’d change our minds before he broke even for the night. They were all drinking beer, all the old queens. That’s all any of them ever drinks, as far as I can see. And they wonders why they cant get laid. I ordered two pints of Guinness, Clayton’s choice poison. Anything Irish, even his accent. He’s been slamming me about mine, how it’s gone so flat and grand from my time out west. I dont bother to call him on his though.
Clayton was nearly asleep at the bar by the time the pints got to us. I slid the glass into his hand. He looked at it, lifted it to his mouth and drained it. That’s not fit, how he does that. Cant have a sociable drink with that fella. No. Every time has to be the last time. As hard as you can go. I flattened mine too, just so we could keep the night balanced. I ordered two more. I never had so much as a taste of the stuff before I started knocking around with Clayton again. It’s good. Heavy. Clayton says it’s nowhere near what you gets in Ireland though. But neither are the cigarettes or the music or the women or the draws. Sometimes I feels like choking him.
When the greasy bartender turned to the taps I got a glimpse at the sign taped to the mirror behind where he was standing:
Exotic Dancer
Brutus Bentley
Appearing Tonight!
Must have been the commotion we were hearing from upstairs earlier. I looked around the bar, but none of them old queens were exotic dancers. Clayton bravely wandered into the darkness of the room and slumped down at a table with his pint. I asked the bartender:
—Where’s this exotic dancer to?
—On break. He’ll be back—
But before he could finish, Brutus Bentley himself was standing right there beside me. Mid-thirties, buzzed head, all pumped up with barbed wire tattooed on both biceps and reeking of baby oil. Skin-tight tee-shirt with the words Not Gay as in “Happy” but Queer as in “Blow Me” emblazoned across the front. He leant over my shoulder and I got the impression he was smelling me.
—And just who, might I ask, is re-ques-ting me?
Flat, mid-Canada accent. Husky voice. No lisp.
I dug around for a good name but all I came up with was:
—Brent.
—Brent? My, my. How…ex-o-tic. And what brings Brrrent to a place like this?
I knows what brings him to a place like this. Yes. He’s a washed-up callboy. Answered an ad in some tabloid on the mainland and decided a change was just as good as an arrest. Exotic dancer. We’ll see. He licks his tongue into the corner of his mouth. I leans in and breathes my thick, smoky Guinness breath in his face.
—I’m just looking for a bit of fun.
He gets a kick out of that and I can tell he’s relieved too. He must be pretty sick of being ogled by these old geezers all night. I cant believe this, I came back home to get clear of the scuzz, find a sane woman. This is all Clayton’s doing, how no one our age ever sets foot in this place, even though that’s what the old queens are out looking for. Here’s his analysis:
—They’re all just sad fuckin closet cases with child seats in the backs of their cars and the wife thinkin they’re off to an AA meeting, while they’re really out suckin each other’s cocks on their knees in the pissy bathroom stalls. Best place for a free drink when you’re strapped for cash.
Brutus Bentley looks me up and down and flashes his healthy, well-kept, disgracefully white teeth.
—Well then, you’ve cer-tain-ly come to the right place for fun havent you? Be-cause fun is my spec-i-al-i-ty.
I can feel a rage just below the surface, swelling up around the corners of my mouth, an itch in my gums. It’s a battle to push it down deeper. That’s not me. It’s the acid. I flattens my pint and glances over at Clayton. He’s smoking a cigarette and staring at the floor. Brutus takes note.
—Is that your boy-friend?
—Maybe. If he plays his cards right.
—Oh my. Such con-fi-dence.
—So are you gonna fucking dance or what?
He feigns shock, but I can tell he’s lapping it all up. He looks at the greasy bartender.
—The lan-gu-age. Young pups these days. We’re go-ing to have to cut him off Ger-ard. Or per-haps he’s al-rea-dy cut? What say you Brrrrrent?
Whatever the hell that means. I’m struggling to hang on to my good nature here. I order another pint. Brutus clears his throat in an exaggerated way. I nod at greasy Gerard and he mixes up some ornamental cocktail for Brutus. Brutus raises his glass.
—To Brrrrent. And fun.
He sips his drink and places it gently on the bar. I glances back at Clayton, his head in his hands, staring at the floor like he’ll burst into tears any second. That’s no good, not for acid. I’ll only end up ditching him to save my own trip. Cant do that. I looks back to Buff Brutus.
—What about that dance then?
He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives my back a little rub.
—Well it’s kind of lone-ly out there on the dance floor. Per-haps you might like to join me?
All the old queens are listening in on the conversation. I can feel their anticipation, their need. They knows I’m not gay. They must. But they’re hoping against hope they’re gonna see some action. Brutus stirs his fancy cocktail. I throws another glance at Clayton. Have to liven him up. Bit of fun.
—Alright, let’s do it.
I whips off my jacket and marches in behind the bar. Greasy Gerard doesnt know how to react, so he slinks back to the far end of the bar, giving me full swing of the place. I flip through the CDs until I finds the perfect song. The Clash, “The Magnificent Seven.” Not my favourite of theirs, mind. If they hadnt recorded London Calling I wouldnt even have given them a second spin. But “The Magnificent Seven” is most definitely the song for this moment in time, with Brutus Bentley on the dance floor at the Closet. I slip the disc in the player and crank it. The beat kicks in and I strut out to the dance floor. Brutus follows but I stop him. I have to shout in his ear:
—Lose the shirt!
—What?
—Lose the fuckin shirt!
He does. He flings it back over his head and it lands on Clayton’s lap. Clayton looks up from the floor, sees me out on the dance floor with some fella with no shirt on. He roars laughing but I cant hear him over the music. I look at Brutus to lead, but he just stands there, tapping his foot and snapping his fingers and shaking his hips a bit. To hell with that though, I’m here to dance, push this dark and angry acid in a whole new direction. I catch the beat.
Now, I was never one for dancing. Never. School dances, I was one of the ones standing back in the shadows of the gym waiting for a slow song to come on. I could do a slow song, but with the fast ones I could never let myself go, never had the rhythm, always felt too self-conscious and generally stumbled around waiting for the song to be over. But something came over me, out there in the middle of the floor at the Closet with Brutus Bentley. Pretending to be gay. Maybe that was it. Bent Brent. It was like wearing a mask. It wasnt about cheering Clayton up. I got lost. I trapped the bass in my core, held it there, let it gush through my veins, swivelled my hips and pumped my crotch and lifted off the floor accordingly. I got lost. Brutus hooked his arm around my waist and leaned back with his leg fixed in between mine. He kept giving Clayton these aggressive, competitive glances. Clayton roared all the harder. I rocked my shoulders and clapped my hands and the bar clapped along with me. Look out! Here comes the vacuum…and there goes the poor old budgie. Love that song. Had a great laugh to tell the truth, even took my own shirt off.
And then the song was over and that girlie “Rock the Casbah” song came on. Someone should have shot Joe Strummer before he had the chance to record that one. I picked up my shirt and walked back to the bar, left Brutus in mid-thrust on the dance floor. Clayton was up now and waiting at the bar with a fresh pint for me. Brutus looked suddenly feeble and awkward out there on his own. I felt kind of bad. Clayton went in behind the bar and shut off the song.
Greasy Gerard stood back and let him have the place. Gerard looked at me like I was a god. Clayton flipped through the CDs and slapped on Guns N’ Roses, Appetite for Destruction. One of the best rock-and-roll bands that ever walked the face of the planet, hands down. Welcome to the goddamn jungle. That opening riff is a masterpiece, makes you want to eat glass. That put Clayton right back on track, although I’d like to think my little dance routine had something to do with his transformation too. Brutus slithered in between us. He opened his mouth to talk and Clayton pretended to cough, spraying beer in Brutus’s face. I didnt really agree with that. Brutus stood there with stout running onto his chest, looking back and forth between the two of us. He knew right there that he’d lost the game.
Axl Rose guiding us through all the broken moments, all the scraps and slivers of gloom just lurking in the backs of our heads. Nothing like a good dose of GN’Rto wake up the old devils. Brutus wiped himself off with his shirt and took on this wounded beast-of-the-field stance, as if he’d never been so insulted in his life. But I could tell that he’d let us go a lot further than that, that he was good and used to taking all manners of abuse from lowlier shitheads than us. I didnt have the heart to crucify him though. Clayton dug his finger in Brutus’s chest, hard.
—Do yourself a favour Brute, and go back to where you came from, before this night gets out of hand.
Brutus turns to me, his eyes dripping with desperation.
—What’s wrong? I thought…
—Dont mind us Brutus. We’re just arseholes.
—What do you want me…
Clayton piped up then:
—Look buddy, we’ve seen your dance and now we’re finished. So excuse us, please, we’re tryna have a goddamn conversation here.
Clay finished his pint and ordered another. Brutus watching him and it looked like he was gonna sideswipe him. But there was nothing and no one taking Clayton off guard. He’s always watching. And if he’s not, well I am. Brutus looked back at me, all misery-eyed and pouting, silently pleading with me to alter my behaviour. Clayton laughed in his face and snapped his fingers and pointed towards the backroom.
—Go.
I felt bad for him. He sulked back behind the bar and tried to mix a drink. Greasy Gerard took the glass from him and poured the drink himself. Before he handed it to Brutus he looked to me to see if I was paying for it. I wanted to buy it for him, but I knew Clayton would never let me live it down. Gerard handed Brutus the drink and then wrote it down in a little notebook near the register. Brutus disappeared into the backroom with his fruity drink and freshly broken spirit.
Clayton ordered two more pints and two shots of whiskey. He’d drink all night on my Visa if I didnt put a stop to it. One of the old geezers nearest us, plaid shirt and Donovan’s Industrial cap, gave Clayton a quick, harmless wink. Clayton slammed his cigarette into the ashtray and sparks went flying in the air.—You fuckin wink at me?
The old plaid queen gripped both hands to his beer and sank deeper into his seat. Christ, he was only saying hello.
Gerard laid the drinks in front of us.
—Guys, please. No one comes here for trouble.
Me and Clayton looked at him, then at each other. Clayton laughed so hard that a chunk of brown phlegm dislodged itself from the back of his throat and landed on the bar in front of us. I couldnt catch my breath or keep my balance. That shrill, maniac, faraway laughter that generally occurs mid-trip, at the peak. But I knew we were nowhere near peaking yet. The Closet was only our first stop. Gerard shuffled back to his place behind the bar and tried not to look at us. We drank.
I needed to piss. Clayton was off, to the point where I couldnt tell if he was crying or not, so I couldnt leave him at the bar on his own. I measured the distance between the bar and the bathroom, how many steps it would take. I clenched my gut and drew my balls into it, tried to reduce the pressure from my bladder. I could feel the head of my cock suddenly wet and cold. It got to the point where I couldnt move. This is how your bladder works on acid after half a dozen pints of stout. Cold sweat on my forehead. It came to the point where I couldnt talk, for fear of breaking my concentration. Couldnt even breathe. Clayton lit a smoke, held the package out to me. I reached for a smoke, and I let go in my pants. Warm piss filled my right boot, puddled onto the floor around me. It felt kind of pleasant.
We stayed on drinking for another while. Brutus resurfaced only once to get a refill, like a dog that’s after crapping on the carpet and now’s trying to nose back into the room to see if it’s been forgiven. Clayton snapped his fingers and pointed to the backroom.
—Go!
He went. “Paradise City.” Take me down. Time to move on to the next hellhole.
Booze does nothing but fuel acid. We. Are. Enhanced. Yes Clayton, Shane MacGowan is a god. We. Have. Become. I let go in my pants again. It hardly made a difference the second time around. Clayton looked down and saw the puddle, my fine blue cords stained black and shimmering wet beneath the red lights of the bar. We. Have. Become. Two shots down the hatch. Whiskey, hot in my throat. Clayton opened his hand and dropped his empty pint glass on the floor, never so much as batted an eye to acknowledge it. Gerard rushed out with a broom, nudged past me and slipped in my piss. I tried to catch him before he fell. Legs in the air, his rear end hit the floor with a muted thud I could feel right through my bones. Clayton swiped the credit card from the bar and slipped it in my back pocket. He nodded at me.
I wanna go. I wanna know.
Oh wont you fuckin please take me home.
Bye Axl. Seeya Slash.
Down the stairs and out to the street. I’ve taken my pint with me. I take a sip as we’re walking onto Water Street. It’s suddenly warm and bitter slop. Irish bog water. I sprays some in Clay’s face and smashes the half-full glass off the door of the Closet. I’m watching myself do that sort of thing. We round the corner and dip into the Hatchet. I breathe in the stagnant, poisonous air of the bar. My lungs can take more and more with every breath. Clayton lights a smoke and hands it to me. We’re both standing in the doorway, looking over the bar like desperadoes from an old western. It’s funny. I cant decide if I’m gonna shoot the place up or sidle up next to some whore. Shit. That’s harsh. Acid.
Jim McNaughton, right on cue, tips his hat and nods at us before his eyes and heart plummet back into his drink. Neil Young on the box. “Heart of Gold.” Clayton’s old romp is there, clinging to the bar trying to light a match that just wont give up the flame. No way is she coming back to our shack this night. That’s what Clayton is like though. She wiggles her fingers across the bar at us. Clayton shakes his head at her and turns to me.
—I’ll be back.
—Fuck you, where you going?
—Find Isadora.
I know there’s no arguing with him on that. One-track mind he got.
—Coming back?
—I wont be an hour. Just wants to see who she’s with. We’ll hook up and hit the Zone for a laugh.
—Fuck you. Dont go telling that to no one.
He’s gone then and I has a pang of panic about the whole Brutus Bentley thing. I know bloody well Clay’ll tell Isadora right off the bat. Delighted to have something retarded to share with her, anything to bring her back over to his side of the table for the night. He’s mental if you ask me. Going on about how he wants to marry her, when they’ve yet to plug even a full week together. They’ve fought each other every step of the way so far as I can see. Nice to have somebody though, I guess.
