Right Away Monday, page 21
—You’re a Reid you are, yes you are. Val is your father isnt he, yes he is.
—No he’s not Clara. He’s not me fuckin father.
—Oh he’s a wonderful man isnt he yes. Would you like a cigarette?
She holds out a fresh pack of du Maurier and I takes one. She lumbers on up the street then, hummin some old church hymn I vaguely recognizes from me school days. Poor woman. Funny though, cause if some fella with a shitload of money and places to go and people to meet saw me slumped here on the guardrail bleedin and shivering he’d likely just cross over to the other side and motor on, pretend like he didnt see me. Cause he prob’ly wouldnt be able to see me anyhow. Someone like Clara though, who lives right down in it, maybe she sees things different. Maybe she sees us all.
I dips me hand into the snow again and up it comes, clean and cold. I stays doin that, not really able to do much else, till I hears someone callin from somewhere behind me:
—Clayton? Is that you?
A heat, a warm presence settles on the guardrail beside me. I breathes a thick female scent of hair and smoky perfume. I wont look at her. I dips me hand again and when I brings it up a voice says:
—Ho-ly. You didnt kill her did you?
I turns to meet the voice, kinda shocked to see that the woman beside me is not Isadora. It’s Trish.
—Naw. I just struck the door.
—You alright? Let me see it?
I offers her me busted hand for an inspection.
—It’s nothing girl, just me knuckles.
—I heard what happened up there. I wouldnt worry though, the whole bar is wasted. She’s a mess. She’ll drink her way outta that role tonight.
—Yeah, or fuck her way into it…
—Clayton. C’mon now. She’s just drunk. And that guy is a total dick. He wouldnt even look at me.
Trish smiles and breathes close on me neck.
—Besides, you know what they say. If you’re looking for drama, go get yourself an actress.
—Yeah.
We’re quiet then for a while. Trish holds me busted hand between her own and breathes the heat from her lungs onto it. The bleeding’s stopped, and I’m kinda disappointed cause I was hoping maybe to lose too much blood and pass out in a snowbank and die. Trish says:
—So what have you got planned for the rest of the night?
—I dont know girl, go home and go to bed I s’pose…
She glances over her shoulder towards the steps to the Ship, then turns back and lays her head on me shoulder. She looks up at me, from that angle, with those dark brown eyes, and for a second it’s almost like she’s really seein me, and likin what she sees. She hooks her arm around mine.
—Want some company?
I turns towards the sound of Isadora’s laugh gushin outta the Ship. A crowd surrounding her, dancin her up the steps towards Duckworth Street. They’re all singin “Dirty Old Town,” even her.
I looks back at Trish.
—Company? Yes. Yes I fuckin do.
21. More Shards
I walk to the far corner of the Hatchet. The smell of urine wafting up from my pants. Never notice in this place though. There’s Mike Quinn with a good grip on some silly punk’s jacket collar. Mike’s leant over the table, chin to chin with the poor guy, talking slow through his teeth and half smiling in that psychotic way he got. I feel bad for the scrawny little guy, where Mike is holding him so awkwardly, with the whole bar conveniently not looking at them. It’s embarrassing and sad and I’d trade places with the little imp in a flash. Everybody goes on about how vicious Mike Quinn is, but I figure his nuts are just as soft as mine. I feel my humanity rising up as I pass behind Mike. I fake an awkward tumble onto the table. I let on I’m loaded, grip the end of the table and try to bring it down to the floor with me. The ashtray empties onto my head. Mike lets go of the scrawny guy and grabs me under the arm instead. With one arm he stands me on my feet again. The scrawny shit stands up and moves on through the crowd. Mike sees that it’s me and starts to laugh:
—Christ Brent my son, you’re worse than the other fella.
Then he starts to lead me backwards, towards the door, and I realize it’s going to backfire on me, that he thinks I’m too loaded and wants me gone for the night. I yank my arm away from him and spin around in the direction I came from.
—Who the fuck did that?
I screams it across the bar with as much fierceness as I can muster up. Everyone freezes. Drinks and beer on the way to people’s mouths. They suddenly dont know whether to spit or swallow. If the music had stopped at that moment it would’ve been perfect. All eyes on me.
—Who tripped me?
I zero in on the closest body to me at the bar. Big fella. Soft. Spend enough time in this place and it dont matter how hard you were on the way in. Not me though. I’m just visiting. I step towards him, a cold, sober step. Mike steps back to let me have the floor. Clayton says Mike loves a good racket. A cigarette butt falls from my hair. The big clunker at the bar looks away. I dont know what to do from here, but I gotta follow through now.
—You!
He turns his beady eyes my way.
—Yeah you. Big lummox. You trip me?
He stares blankly at me and shakes his head, his meaty jowls jiggling in time to the spazzy John Cougar song that just came on. A glow around his head that catches the smoke from his cigarette. I can feel the burn in my back. The scar where I was stabbed in Edmonton. The hot, sour breath on the back of my neck before the blade slid in. The pinch. The wet. The blurry outline of the weak little junkie weasel running away under the streetlights and ducking into the park. I would have killed him. It. I would have killed it. That night. Far, far from home. Collapsed in a pool of blood on a sidewalk in the flattest, deadest city on the planet. That woman with the stroller who crossed the street to avoid me. Then the hospital, the cops with their questions about my criminal record. And then home. East. Halifax with that French girl. Corner Brook with that Corner Brook girl. Trans-Canada to Witless Bay Line. Having to listen to my father all the way up the Shore.
—Back home again are ya b’y? No money, no job. Hope you’re not looking to me and your mudder to go supportin ya all winter.
Home. Same old stained mattress. The posters on the wall. On the road to Town the very next morning. Drunk. All the way to this very moment, being a complete arsehole in a bar on Water Street. When all I really want is to play the goddamn guitar, sing a few songs, get my head back together. I never signed up for this, this death-by-association shit. I just wanted a place to lay low. Three or four years ago and I would have gladly destroyed Brutus Bentley with Clayton. I would have taken the whole bar down, and it would have felt fun and natural and justified. But that’s not where I am anymore. Not who I am. But that’s who he was expecting me to be. There’s a whole other world out there with enough shitheads and thieves and boozers and druggies and two-faced con artists and slippery little cretins to stab you in the back. I dont need to be one of them. I can be something else.
My throat is hard and my eyes are wet. I dont know if I’ll explode.
Mike Quinn lays his paw on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. I’m fully stoned now, I guess. The whole bar looking at me. I force a laugh and it seems like it blows new life and time into the room. Like everybody gets a second go at the night thanks to me. The chatter starts up again and Mike leads me to the bar. He raises his hand at Clyde Whelan and points at my head. Clyde goes over to the taps with a pint glass. I start digging in my pocket for the money, but the big meathead who didnt even trip me shouts across the bar that he’ll get it. I nod my appreciation at him.
And that’s all you have to do to get a free beer around these parts.
I keep to myself for the most part, for a while, and tries not to look mean and dirty. I even catch myself smiling. Soon enough Clayton’s old flame comes over to me. Dana, Deena, something slutty…Donna. Right. She’s a sad-looking case. Her eyes are sunk right in, the skin on her cheeks somehow sagging and pulled tight at the same time. Clay says she’s pretty heavy into the coke nowadays. He says she was always skinny as a rake but now she’s really gone away to nothing. He says she was so bony by the time they broke up that it literally used to hurt to fuck her. I think about this when she’s right there in front of me, and I busts out laughing in her face. I knows she’s only gonna pump me for info on Clayton. But I might end up pumpin her yet. This night. This night. If she plays her cards right. If he dont hurry up from wherever he’s gone to. Jesus. Listen to me. The arsehole I can be. Spending too much time going nowhere, hanging around with that angry fucker.
Me and Donna get a table in the corner nearest the door. I like to be able to watch the street through the blinds, just in case. She buys me a beer special and I tell her a pack of lies about Clayton. Harmless ones though, more to suit my own chances of getting into her pants. If I have to. Dont know if I can do that to Clayton though. I mean I know he wants nothing to do with her, but still. I make Donna coax it all out of me anyway, so she thinks I’m really torn between my interest in her and my loyalty to Clayton. It’s sick, but she adores him still. And the more she reminisces about him and praises him up, the more I’m drawn to her, somehow. I hear myself telling her how jealous and possessive he still is about her, how he cant stand to see her talking with other fellas, how he still talks about her all the time and just seems generally confused with his feelings for Isadora. She sucks it all up and starts pouring her heart out about how messed up she used to be, how she had ovarian cancer when she was twenty, so she can never have children, how she’s never mentioned it in years. After a while I realize I’m not really listening to a word. I cant. That’s the acid. I can pick up on her tone though and so I know when to nod and say yes and go on girl and dont be so foolish girl, you have a gorgeous figure and reassuring stuff like that that women like to hear. I slip in the odd compliment about her hair and ask her about her perfume and her job. Subtle though, I am. No way am I gonna set her up to turn me down. She wants to know then how come I dont have an accent like Clayton when we’re both from the same part of the Shore. I tells her Clayton’s accent is just a put-on. Truth is though, it was just that much easier, on the mainland, when I sounded like everybody else.
It’s coming on two o’clock now and Clayton still hasnt shown his face. Shag him. The acid is back now and I could screw a hole through my chair. My pants are after drying up but my foot is still sloshing around in my boot. Seems like a week ago I was dancing with Brutus Bentley. I go into the bathroom for a leak. I’m hard as a rock and end up spraying it all over the wall behind the toilet. Hard as a rock. Right then and there I make up my mind to go get her and bring her upstairs. I’m after putting up with enough now, this night. Trying to make sure Clayton keeps his head in order and then he walks out on me.
She’s there at the table with her compact open and dabbing some lipstick on when I get back. She snaps it shut and looks up at me and smiles. I take my jacket off the back of the chair and haul it on. She takes the bait.
—You’re not leaving already?
—Yeah. I’m just going to go on to bed. Feeling a bit down.
God, how sleazy.
—Down? Why? I’m having a great time.
—Yeah, but, I dont know…
—What?
—Nothing girl.
—No say it, come on.
—Well, it’s just that, well Clayton’s my buddy and, I dont know, I feel shitty sitting here with you all night. He’d have a fit.
She reaches for her coat.
—Brent, you’re crazy. We’re only talking, having a few drinks.
She stands up and swings her coat on over her arm. I get a whiff of her deodorant. One final hook now, one of Clay’s recommended lines:
—Well it’s just that, well, my intentions are not quite as pure as you might think they are.
Bang.
Out through the doors, up the alley, up the steps and into my bed. She’s got me in her mouth before I even got the bedroom door closed behind me.
Bang, bang, bang.
No sign of Clayton, the gimp. Ditching me on the acid.
She’s fucking me just to get to him, I know that much.
But he fucked me.
So fuck him.
I trot out to the main room for a smoke. I see her coat where she dropped it. I pick it up and search it, an old habit I’m trying to snuff out. In the inside pocket I find a little wrap of tinfoil. I give it a squeeze to see how much is there. Feels like a good-sized gram or so. But I know there’s no such thing as a good-sized gram of coke. I know this. That’s why I’m here, to wash out my system. Hard for me to be firm and upright about it now though, with the acid ripping through my head like this. I make sure the wrap isnt leaking and then throw it down in the corner behind the table. For later. Her coat is in midair, en route to the couch, when she walks out of the bedroom. She got a blanket wrapped around her, but I’m just standing there, letting it all hang out. Clayton always got the heat on blast. No choice, really, with the top door the way it is.
I sit on the couch and she sits nice and close. I let her snuggle in for a bit, nice warm, sex-sweaty woman in my arms. I’m not one of those guys that turn all icy as soon as the deed is done. There’s not much to it, really; just smile and be calm and gentle. A chance to prove you’re not a lowlife. I dont get it, how fellas can put on any face under the sun when they’re on the hunt for a bit, but once they has their way they cant muster up the good nature to even fake a decent thank you.
—Are you alright about this Brent?
I dont answer. I could pull the Clayton card now I suppose, how I feel so shitty after nailing my buddy’s woman. But I dont. Feel shitty. I start workin the night through in my head while she rubs the back of my neck. Nice. That’s the spot. She takes the cigarette out of my hand and tucks it in the corner of her own mouth. Saucy. But my head starts to turn, the floor wavering like that, and I’m all of a sudden filled with a burning urge to get out of this place, on my own. Go back out on the beer while the night is still young. I can drink in peace now, without the distraction of having to look for sex. Just drink and let the acid take over until it wears off. Drink my face off until I’m staggering and falling on the floor and vomiting and numb. That’s what I want. For tonight. Spend all next week sober. The whole week. See if I cant get Clayton off the beer too. Clean up this hovel, restring my guitar, do some busking, drop by the job centre, finish the mural on the wall, call my mother for her birthday. I’ll crack up that credit card too, before I’m arrested. First thing Monday morning, that’s what I’ll do. Hang on to it for now though, for tonight.
—What’s wrong Brent?
—Nothing.
—Something.
—I dont know.
—Well, I have just the thing.
She reaches across the couch for her coat and brings it back to her lap. She digs through her pockets while I watch.
—Close your eyes now.
I squint really tight without closing my eyes. Panic dances across her face. She checks and rechecks her pockets, turns them all inside out. A string of blond hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead. She must be over thirty. I forget how old Clayton said she was. A loud bass beat from downstairs. The Clash. “The Magnificent Seven.” Brutus Bentley, revisiting his downfall, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Donna jumps up and the blanket falls to the floor. She’s all edges and spine.
It hurt to fuck her.
—It’s gone, it’s…it’s fucking gone.
—What’s gone?
I’m about to go fetch it, let her know I’m messing around, but then:
—I had coke. Three grams. It’s not mine.
Three grams? Holy fuck. Three grams humming in my skull, my throat almost numb already. Go find Clayton and dig into three grams of coke? That’s what this night needs alright. I gotta get her gone.
—Check your pants girl.
She darts into the bedroom and comes out with all her stuff. She searches her jeans and then pulls them on to double-check. Her face is red. I light a smoke. She snaps her bra on. I’m scum. She pulls the cushions off the couch and digs her hands through the layers of ash and crumbs and butts and cheesies and pubic hair and crusty jerk-stains that’ve collected down there since probably before what’s-his-face, Keith had the place. I’d fit right in down there. She finds a piece of foil around the same size as the one she’s missing and for a second her eyes light up with hope. But it’s just that shit from inside a cigarette package. She crumples it and hurls it viciously at the wall. I am subhuman. My heart pounding. She hauls her sweater on inside out and backwards, the flashy white tag scraping the flesh beneath her chin. I almost point it out, but the quicker she’s gone from here, the better.
—Did you use any tonight Dana?
—It’s Donna, asshole. What do you think?
—Jesus girl, I’m only trying to help. Where to?
She looks at me then, hard, like she knows.
—Where to what?
—Where did you use it girl?
—In the ladies’ room.
Like there’s a ladies’ room at the Awl and Hatchet.
—Well girl, I’d get down there and have a look if I was you. She slips her boots on and puts her arms into her coat, checks the pockets again. She’s lost to me now. It’s a shitty, empty, broken moment. She’s in hell. I could be the hero now, jump up and laugh and let her know it was all a joke, reach down behind the table and Voila, calm down girl, I was having you on, c’mon lets do a few lines and go back to bed, see how our lives turn out. But that’s just it, if she hadnt told me there was three grams there I probably would have let her off the hook. But I know there’s no way I’m doing one or two piddly lines with her and then sittin back while she slips out the door with the rest of it. If I does one line I’m doing it all.
She has a hard time doing up her coat. Her hands are shaking. I’m sleaze. But I want her gone. My eye keeps going back to a Bic pen over on the table. I know the refill is loose in it. That’s my straw, waiting. Fuck Clayton now too. She stands above me and I catch her lookin at my cock. For a moment she lets herself out of her new horror.
