Right Away Monday, page 26
That’s another fuckin thing. Know what she said to me a while back? She told me that she dont masturbate. Her exact words I dont masturbate. Not I never masturbate or I dont like to or even I’ve never tried, but I dont. And she was right fuckin flippant about it too, her tone, like she’d been enlightened some time ago and decided that masturbation was not for her but was a sort of low-minded vice better left explored by people like me. People like me. But then she tells me that I should feel free to do it in front of her. Sick or what? And I tried it, like the fool, I did. And if she had to be atall interested in lookin at me hand or me cock while I done it, then I prob’ly wouldnta minded. But no, she wanted to look into me eyes, count the wrinkles in me forehead and have me breathe right on her. She said it was something that should make me feel close to her, but it made me feel more gross than anything else and I couldnt come, couldnt get there, like I was too distracted with what me face might give away or what she might decide I’d exposed of meself in that tight little moment right before I got off. And then it’d all be over, and what then? I can barely look at meself sure when I does it on me own.
I dont masturbate. That’s what she said. How can she expect me to feel comfortable doin something that she’s so opposed to herself? And, I mean, she must’ve done it once or twice, in front of someone. I found meself picturing her doin it for the ones who came before me and it was almost crippling, the feeling in me guts, this nauseating heat in the pit of me stomach. Makes me feel kinda shortchanged, cheated, like she’s only deciding not to offer that side of herself to me. Like I’m flawed or something. Maybe I’m just not hairy enough or not defined enough or maybe I’m thirty years too young. Who the fuck knows? Two parts boy.
Sometimes when we’re doin the dishes or the laundry or something I’ll have a little grab at her, put me hand between her legs and hold it there till she pushes it away. It’s more aggressive than affectionate, I’ll admit, but it’s either that or none atall. I dont mean her no harm. She says I’m just lookin for a reaction out of ’er, but really I’m just tryna be spontaneous. That’s the way sex should fuckin well be, on hot folded sheets in the laundry room. I tries to tell her that we got no spontaneity in our lives. She says there’s no sex because I’m aggressive and angry all the time. I says I’m angry because there’s no sex. And why cant sex be fuckin angry anyhow? Why’s it always gotta be this delicate matter of the heart, this organized event? Why cant sex be fuckin angry? Pisses me off.
She busted into tears then, out in front of Donna’s old place, after I said that about her likely bein plastered by the weekend. She crumbled, put her head down and fell onto me shoulder. I just held her for a while and let her wail away. I thought I seen the curtain in Donna’s bedroom flick aside.
—Come on girl. I didnt mean that, you knows…
—It’s not that, it’s…I’m just so sick to fucking death of this place, this town, my life. I’m sick of p-putting myself out there for people like that.
—Who? What are you talkin about?
—That fucking bitch, producers, the camera, shitty self-obsessive directors who just ooze fucking mediocrity and wouldnt know the real thing if it—
—Isadora, sweetheart, you’re the real thing.
—You think?
—Of course you are. Fuck that crowd. You knows better than to depend on a situation like that. You says it yourself sure, how it’s all just hit and miss.
—Exactly. That’s it. And I dont mean any offence to you but, it’s like, I’ve spent years now spilling my guts out on stages and pulling my hair out waiting to see if some dickhead director thinks I’m fucking good enough and really thinking I was getting somewhere and then right after my audition that bitch comes up and offers you an audition. And you’re not even an actor. It’s too random. It’s like as soon as you stop and take a breath you’re right back on the bottom rung again. Headshots and resumes and reels. It’s all shit. And you’re right too, I probably will be drunk by the weekend…
She fuckin howled. I didnt know what to tell her. She had a point. It’s all shit. But still, I was kinda excited about goin in for an audition, especially after bein invited. Good fuckin money. Iz made six hundred bucks a day on that thing in Halifax.
On the walk home I let her lean on me the whole way. I started spendin the potential money in me head. I could quit the Hatchet, get outta that hellhole apartment. Maybe even get meself a motorcycle and clear right the fuck outta town the proper way. Take a fuckin trip back to Dublin, that’s what I’d do. Live in a hotel right off the Liffy for a couple of weeks and write shit. Take her too.
By the time we got to her door I was keen to start learnin me lines. I was plannin to go back to the apartment but she wanted me to come in.
—I just dont want to be alone right now.
—Alright girl.
We had a hot bath together and I got hard and pressed it into her back to let her know it was there, but she ignored it. We were beet red from the bath. She had the bed all made and the room was right fresh and cool and clean. I started to rub her shoulders and then I slid me hand down between her legs but she just clenched her thighs together and rolled over.
—Cant we be close without that Clayton?
That’s her fuckin thing, right, that she “cant go there” with me if we’re not feeling close or if I’ve been too distant or if we’ve been in a racket. She dont believe in a makeup romp. But I tries to explain to ’er that that’s what fuckin well gets people close, that’s how we gets back to each other when we’re lost—by screwin each other’s brains out.
She was solid asleep within five minutes. I was cracked. Walk ’er home, let her bawl on me shoulder, take a bath, fuckin massage her back and there’s still no goddamn payoff. I went out to the kitchen and made some tea. I picked through the fridge but she had fuck-all fit to eat there, only vegetables and yogurt and fuckin meatless wieners. What the fuck is the good of a meatless wiener? You wouldnt pay me enough to eat one. Fuckin soymilk. Jesus. Veggie this and veggie that. She’s not after eatin so much as a morsel of real meat since she was a teenager. Can you imagine? She’s got a good excuse though. When she was nine or ten she was drivin with her mother over on the west coast somewhere and there was this big load of cars stopped along the highway, watchin a moose grazin on the side of the road, everybody out takin pictures. Then some fuckin bigshot gets out of ’is pickup with his shotgun, walks right up to the moose and shoots it in the fuckin chest. The old moose musta got some fright, took off down over the bank and jumped into the bog, swam a little ways across a gully and tried to pull itself up on the other side. It couldnt get out though, and just lay there diggin its hooves into the peat moss and bawlin, blood stainin the water. And buddy just walks down to it and puts the gun to its head and fires it off, right between the two fuckin eyes. Little Isadora opened her door and threw up her guts on the ground. The law’s changed now though, you gotta be at least a kilometre from the road to fire a shot. I do believe. Iz then started drillin her mother, lookin for some kinda sense as to why the fella shot the moose down like that, and so her mother told her that he was gonna eat it. Iz put two and two together, found out where hamburger comes from and Mary Brown’s snack packs. But her mother wouldnt let her be a vegetarian for a long time, just cause it was too much trouble. And it is too, nothing but fuckin trouble. Isadora asks me to cook up something for supper and I havent got the first clue where to start. Gimme a few potatoes though and some onions and a bit of garlic and some fresh-bottled moose, toss it all on the pan, fuck, some feed. She dont know what she’s missin.
Even the fruit crisper is all fucked up. Neither apple or orange or fuckin banana, just them goddamn mangoes and these little starshaped things that always ends up goin bad, and fuckin massive pink grapefruit that’d almost stop your heart they’re so bitter. I took out one of them mangoes and hacked it open with me pocket knife. I never did figure out how to peel the fuckin things cause you never know where that goddamn pit is gonna be hidin. Izzy’s got this neat little way of doin it, this criss-cross pattern with the blade and then she turns it inside out and there’s all these little chunks ready to be eaten right off the peel. I cant get me head around it. I likes cuttin into ’em though, I likes the way they bursts open, all that bright orange meat inside.
I sits down at the table with the mango and me tea and pulls that bit of script outta me pocket. Two pages. The first page is a contact sheet, tellin me where to go for the audition and what time. The second page is the scene:
(MALE, 25–30, Ambulance Attendant #1.) Scene 86A EXT. Highway Intersection, Night
Nathan is on a gurney. Two ambulance attendants wheel him towards the back of the ambulance. Nathan raises his hand and attempts to speak.
Ambulance Attendant #1—Maybe you shouldnt speak right now.
Nathan’s eyes close as he’s loaded onto the back of the ambulance.
One fuckin line. One fuckin line. Maybe you shouldnt speak. Right now. Maybe, youshouldntspeakrightnow. Shut your fuckin face buddy, I cracks ya one. Maybe you should watch your fuckin mouth there, cunty-balls. I wouldnt try it if I were you buddy, hafta be careful over your last words you know. You cant talk to a fuckin Ambulance Man like that! SHUT YOUR STUPID BATTERED UGLY MANGLED MESS OF A MOUTH.
Maybe you shouldnt speak right now.
Still, I does the line over and over till I got it down. I manages to find a sturdy, professional tone and then tosses a little humanity into the mix. I’m the right age and the right gender. I s’pose I got just as good a shot as the next fella. I hauls on me jacket to go home and Isadora calls out to me from the bedroom.
—That you Clay?
I pokes me head in through the bedroom door.
—Maybe you shouldnt speak right now.
She rolls over and goes back to sleep.
25. The Audition Tip Checklist
Up to the Ship the next morning, couple of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Me audition wasnt till eleven. It wasnt so much that I was nervous, just anxious to pass the time. I was startin to like the Ship in the mornings, not as dark and closed in as the Hatchet, there’s more floor space and tables and you can have eggs and bacon and toast and there’s not as many hardcore drinkers. So I’m less inclined to let meself get carried away. I called Iz from the pay phone and had a little chat. She wasnt too pleased with me for leavin her on her own the night before, but she let it go cause she was after gettin a call-back from that casting director first thing in the morning. Delighted with herself, her hopes sky-high all over again. She told me not to tell no one. She said she’d meant to give me this thing called The Audition Tip Checklist that highlighted all the dos and donts. I had to laugh at that though. I mean, it was only the one fuckin line.
—Call me as soon as you finish your audition. Okay?
—Okay.
—Or better yet, why dont you just come over?
—I could do that, yeah.
—Well, I’ll be waiting.
Bit of a crowd outside the entrance to the LSPU Hall. Everybody got scripts. Philip Lahey and that Clyde Whelan cunt are here, they got scripts. They nods at me. I gets a smoke off this blond missus named Charlene who’s been hangin around the Hatchet again lately. She talks through her nose. I hear she’s balls-deep into the crack and even started hookin. Social Services took her little girl or something. She’s here to audition too. Keith storms outta the Hall and bangs the heavy steel door behind him. Thought he’d skipped town again, but maybe not. Or maybe he’s already gone and back again? He crumples up his script and fires it on the ground, sorta shoulders me outta the way when he goes past. I lets it go, but I makes up me mind to call him on it some night in the not-so-distant future.
A crisp band poster tacked to the balcony. The Cold Shoulder, ONE NIGHT ONLY!! The Green Room on George Street. A blurry picture of the band. It turns me stomach and I wants to rip it down but I figure that’d look too petty, even though no one could know my connection with them. I dont mean to, but I makes a mental note of the date.
I finishes me smoke and goes inside cause I cant concentrate with everybody yakkin. There’s another crowd inside. One fella got a full fuckin ambulance outfit on and I curses meself cause I got this dandy old RNC shirt down in me closet that I coulda worn, if I’da thought on it. Some fellas must be about forty odd years old and I has glance at one of their scripts and it’s the same role I’m supposed to get. Dont make no sense. Then there’s one young fella who looks to be about fourteen. Not too many women around. Trish is here, Isadora’s girlfriend. She smiles at me. Havent laid eyes on her since that night I ahhh…that night I done the acid with Brent. Trish. Yeah. Her and Iz went to school together and what roles one dont get the other always seems to. I reckon there’s a bit of a rivalry there. Some fuckin rivalry though if Isadora finds out about…Ahh fuck sure, you gotta be allowed to mess shit up a bit when you’re first startin off with someone. What good would it do at this point to lay all that on Iz? We’re gone way beyond that stage now.
First time I met Trish was this night when I was workin at the Hatchet and Isadora was workin up at the Ship. Busy night for me, but slow for Iz. Brent was playin pool at the Hatchet, half in the bag. He was just after movin into the apartment that week and so no one even knew who he was. The phone rings and it’s Iz and she’s bawlin. Some fella up at the Ship named John Hibbs was givin her shit. He’s some kinda theatre director who gives acting classes too, so he thinks his shit dont stink. He was there with Trish and there was no one else in the bar. I didnt know him, only that he was a snide and loud-mouthed blowhard a couple of times at the Hatchet and he owed Mike Quinn a huge bar tab. I spied him a couple of times too, hangin around the edges of the Table of Death at the Ship. Anyhow, he was after sayin everything to Izzy, called her a little bitch and a fuckin cocktease, just cause she wouldnt let him have happy hour prices. He banged his fist on the bar and screamed at her that he’d been comin to the Ship for twenty-five years and that he’d seen dozens and dozens of little princesses just like her behind that very bar and that he was after spendin enough money in there over the years that he was entitled to happy hour prices. She wouldnt give in to ’im though, God love ’er. But she was some upset that she hadda take that kinda shit when all she wanted to be doin was actin and paintin. I was fuckin vicious. I asked her what she wanted me to do but she wouldnt let me go up. I couldnt anyhow, cause the Hatchet was hoppin and if I left me post Mike woulda had me head. So I called Brent over from the pool table and described that scrawny fuckin Hibbs prick to him and told him what was after goin on at the Ship with Isadora. Brent’d only met Iz a few days before. He’d wandered into the Ship and she was there loaded and they got talkin and he asked her if she knew me, and of course she did. She figured out who he was then, where I was after tellin ’er about him movin in with me, and she turned on him and tossed her full beer in his face, accused him of bein up at the Ship spyin on her for me. Brent didnt give a fuck, hardly the first beer he’s after havin slopped in his face. She came down to the apartment a couple of hours later and went into his bedroom and jumped on him and forced him to accept her apology. What’s she like atall? And I reckon he did forgive her too cause he wasnt long marchin up to the Ship when I told him what was goin on with that Hibbs cocksucker. Or maybe he was just bored, I dont know.
I got three versions of the story later that night, from Isadora and Trish and Brent, but basically they were all the same, just that everybody had their own details to offer up.
Brent met John Hibbs and Trish when they were on their way outta the Ship. He gave Hibbs a shove.
—Are you John Hibbs?
Hibbs was flustered, to say the least. None of them old downtown theatre arts fuckers ever gets called on anything. They thinks they’re above it all. But they’re not.
—Y-yes, of course. And who might you be?
—You stole my fuckin b’yfriend!
Brent grabbed Hibbs by the jacket and pushed him up against the door.
—I-I’m sorry, I have no idea—
—Dont lie to me, fucker. You stole my fuckin b’yfriend!
Hibbs got all embarrassed then, with Trish standin there. He was prob’ly hopin to take her home and fuck ’er, as is the way with amateur acting teachers. He tried to shove past, but Brent slammed him against the wall again. Isadora poked her head out through the door when she heard the racket, but she had the good sense not to say Brent’s name out loud. She didnt wanna be associated with what was goin on I s’pose. Slick enough aint she?
—But, but I’m not even gay.
—No b’y. Look at yourself sure.
—Who’s your boyfriend?
—You fuckin well knows who he is, you fucked him! And look here…
Brent bashed the bottom of his beer bottle off the wall of the building and held the jagged end up to John Hibbs’s face.
—…if you ever come near him again, and I means ever, I’ll cut your fuckin cock off. How’s that sound?
—Please, I—
—Shut your fuckin face!
Brent smashed the rest of the bottle at Hibbs’s feet and took off up over the steps towards Duckworth. I thought that was pretty smooth, takin off in the other direction like that. Hibbs and Trish went back inside and Isadora said later that he was so shook up he couldnt even talk. He called a cab while Iz locked up the bar and then he had the two of the girls wait on the street with him till the cab showed up.
Brent came back to the Hatchet, all outta breath and laughin his head off. Ten minutes later Isadora and Trish walked in. Trish got pretty freaked out when she saw Brent, so we had to explain the whole thing to her. She was good buddies with Hibbs and didnt find it near as funny as the rest of us. But in the end she warmed up. I mean, Hibbs only got what was comin to him, tormenting my fuckin missus like that. He’s lucky it wasnt me wavin a broken bottle in his face.
