Right Away Monday, page 28
There were faces from the Shore, girls from high school I couldnt remember the names of but pretended I did, and smiled like I was happy to see ’em. I noticed too that me accent came out a bit stronger when one of ’em mentioned she’d heard I was away in Ireland. I cant help that sometimes. Someone else asked if I was in university, one of those what-are-you-at-with-your-life kinda questions, and I reckon I went on a bit too much about my screenplay then. Cause I’m just so fulla shit.
Paid the cover charge then, and tried not to resent it too much. I was determined to have an open mind and to try and look as supportive as possible. The bar was blocked. I tried not to resent that either. Me boots polished to a shine, the red and green lights from the stage reflecting off me toes. Made me too self-conscious and I scuffed ’em beneath the footrest of the bar. I tried to think good things about the Shore, but all the old feelings came bubblin to the surface. How close I came back then to just tossin meself over the cliff.
I had to yawn then, had this crushing urge to lie down across the plush leather benches that lined the walls of the dance floor. But I couldnt do that, only make me look petty and resentful. Me lips started to pulsate and I hadda take deep breaths while I ordered me beer. I couldnt bring meself to order a pint. People would only think I was braggin about bein in Ireland. Yeah, that’s the Shore for ya, circling vultures, waitin to rip you apart at the first sign of weakness. I minds I was lookin around the bar, hopin to fuck I’d see some familiar face from me present life, Jane and Philip maybe, or even that Clyde Whelan cunt.
I had a minor spat with Stevie Hayden then, an old face from high school. He useta be the big star fuckin hockey player. I always hated him. Afraid of him too I was, if only cause he ran in packs of jocks all the time. He was too slick to ever wander down my road on his own. All the women he wanted. Parents had money, so he was always with the wicked new sneakers, his own car. On his way to the NHL of course. Or at least he was, back then. But I’m delighted to see he’s gone soggy, picked up a big old gut and an extra couple of chins since high school. Everything comes out in the wash, as ole Randy always said.
Stevie comes up to me, all buddy-buddy and says:
—Well look of himself. How’s she cuttin there Reid. Long time no see.
And before I can answer he starts on about the oilrigs and his Ford F250 and the strippers him and his circle-jerk rec-hockey buddies just left behind at the Cotton Club. He pulls a Polaroid from his back pocket and sticks it up in me face. The picture is of him with his flabby head stuck between the silicone-packed tits of some tanned and muscular late-twenties blonde. The very type he always expected to end up with. I knows he’s looking for the appropriately manly reaction outta me too. I goes:
—Can I keep this?
—For what?
—I needs something to wack off over.
He snatches the Polaroid away and slips it back in his pocket. I cant help but throw me head back and roar laughin when he says that the woman in the picture is after inviting him to come and collect her after her shift is up.
—What’s so funny about that Reid?
—The fact that, if it’s true, that you believe she’s serious. And if it’s not true, that you’d make it up to impress me, thinkin that I’d give a fuck.
—Same old fuckin asshole Reid.
—Go fuck yourself ya fuckin brain-dead, sexist fuckin homo.
And then a bouncer was standin between us askin what the matter was. Stevie noddin, not takin his eyes off me as his freckled dog-faced girlfriend pulled him into the crowd.
—Watch yourself Reid, your time is comin.
And at that moment, not because I’m afraid of Stevie Hayden, but because of the acid, I gets this sudden wave of terror and nausea and paranoia. Lookin around the rest of the bar I realizes this is likely the worst possible place in the world for me to be right now. I tries to make a cut for the door but there’s some sort of scuffle with a couple of bouncers and some young one from Renews I cant quite place. I holds back for a bit. Then the band starts. The ceiling sinks a little lower. Me barstool is too short and I feels like a child against the bar cause I cant rest me arms over it properly. Someone shouts me name and I feels a finger poke me rib cage but I wont respond, wont even turn me head. There’s a girl over there I went out with years ago. She caught me at a party in Cape Broyle, in the laundry room with her first cousin. I runs me hand through me hair and it feels really, really greasy. Me scalp is so itchy and me eyes feels tight at the corners and puffy and likely sunken black with shadow. I havent shaved in two weeks now. Isadora made some comment about this man with a beard we saw in a bookstore. I cant exactly remember what she said, but I stopped shaving that very day. Me face feels dirty and sweaty.
The band is loud as fuck. Too loud. Perfect. I wants to turn around and watch ’em but I dont wanna make eye contact with anyone in the crowd. I gotta get meself outta here, but I cant move. Enemies, old grudges, rumours and lies, ignorance. They’re just waitin, watchin. Vultures. I catches me reflection in the smoked mirror behind the bar and realizes I must be just radiating weakness and vulnerability. I’m just fuckin askin for it. Fuck this. Before I went to Dublin I read this statistic about how the most dangerous time to walk the streets of any major city was Sunday morning. The streets are deserted, the pubs and shops are not opened, and the only ones roamin the streets are the ones with nowhere else to go. Strung out, hungover and more often than not, after a weekend spent flyin and sinkin and drownin in their particular drug of choice, left with nothing to show and fuck-all left to lose. Predators then, lashin out at anyone showin the slightest sign of weakness, bullyin for cigarettes and money and blood. And me, I lands in Dublin on a Saturday night and didnt I find meself wandering down O’Connell Street first thing Sunday morning with a fuckin disposable camera, me eyes to the rooftops, searchin for the famous bullet holes. Next thing I knows I’m struck hard on the shoulder and knocked to the ground. I looks up to see this scruffy fella with scabs and sores sprinkled from his neck to his scalp. The cuff of his green army jacket was burnt and his hand was wrapped in a filthy old red bandana. He crouched over me and raised his arm like he was gonna backhand me.
—Fook ya loogin ad?
I broke eye contact, got to me feet and started walkin back the other way. He kept pushin me shoulder from behind and I kept stumblin forward with the force. But I wouldnt say nothing to him, or turn around, or fall down. I’d heard the stories of needles as the weapon of choice. I quickened me pace as best I could without breakin into a run. A good old Irish copper then, fuckin Garda Síochána, rounded the corner of the GPO and when I finally turned around the scabby fella was vanished. But I learned me lesson didnt I? Walk the streets like you’re fuckin born there. Take on the look of the place, let ’em all know that you’re just as fuckin cracked and ready to rumble as they wants you to think they are.
I tears me eyes away from the reflection in the bar mirror, spins around on me barstool to face the crowd. I clenches me jaw and cracks me knuckles and flexes me arms hard, to get the blood flowin. I takes out another hit of acid and swallows it down. Two brothers from Fermeuse, fuckin ugly square-faced freckled pricks. I’ll fight the two of ’em the one time if they so much as glances over.
I orders a pint then, and relaxes a bit and listens to the band. My old band. Cant make out the lyrics. They got a new singer of course, but his voice is too high-pitched. They’re heavier too, sorta bordering a death-metal sound that I dont care much atall for. I watches Corey, me old friend, on guitar. There’s fuck-all reality to whoever he’s tryna be up there. But then, Corey was always more consumed with the idea of bein in a band, come to think of it. The music is secondary to the image of it all. Anyhow, Corey’s more into the folk music than metal, he wouldnt be caught dead in a pair of cowboy boots or leather fuckin pants in the real world. But he’s not a real songwriter anyhow, so he’d never have a go at a song that you could actually make out the lyrics to. He’d rather hide behind a wall of sound. It’s all so transparent I cant help but feel relieved. I wanders over to the booth where they got their CD on sale. There’s a display copy open and I removes the insert to have a look at the credits and the acknowledgments. Me own name is nowhere in sight, of course. But what the fuck do I care? I digs into me pockets for the price of the CD, and I’m just about to hand me money over to the girl at the booth when me ears tunes into the song bein played on stage. By my old band. That riff. That’s mine. I drops the CD and whips around to face the stage. I catches Corey’s eye but he dont acknowledge that he even recognizes me. The heat rushes to me upper chest and me face. I marches across the open dance floor to the stage. Stevie Hayden tries to get up in me face but I shoves him so hard he topples over a barstool and falls to the floor with his beer slopped all down his neck and the front of his jacket. This counterfeit singer they got, this faggot, he’s got his eyes closed and so doesnt see me approach. I’m only barely aware of a cold hand on me shoulder as I grabs the mic stand and screams into the mic for the whole bar to hear:
—This song is fuckin stolen! Do you hear me? Fuckin imposters.
The music stops and I feels the distinct, muted thump of a fist against me cheekbone, just below me eye. Me ears ringin from the blow, but as I’m fallin backwards I manages to sling the mic stand as hard as I can at the face of Corey’s precious Marshall amp. There’s the screech of feedback and groans from the crowd and then me jacket is rippin at the seams as I’m dragged by the shoulders across the beer-soaked floor through the crowd.
Me stomach heaves as I’m tossed onto the front steps of the Green Room. I holds me hand over me mouth to keep from spewin. We can have a good life. Retch. Spew. Hot beer squirts through me fingers and splashes back onto me chin and cheeks and dribbles down me neck inside me shirt. Someone pushes me from behind. Another wet, slimy heave. The sickening smell of another drunken downtown night: hot-dog grease and sauerkraut, sickly expensive student cologne, pizza, latex, car exhaust, gutter sludge. From the open window on the top floor of the Green Room I hears Corey’s voice through the mic:
—Clayton Reid everybody, hometown boy! Give a big hand, c’mon, big hand.
I managed to stagger and crawl as far as the courthouse steps before the cops finally picked me up. I was kickin and screamin while they held me down to cuff me. I could see the Hatchet from where they picked me up and I kept pleadin with ’em:
—Just let me go home. I lives right fuckin there man…
And both cops laughin at me:
—I wouldnt doubt that for a second pal.
And because we were already on the steps of the lockup they didnt even need to put me in the back of the car. I lashed out with me elbow and caught one of ’em in the chest, next thing me eye is swollen shut and I’m screamin for Isadora, howlin for me phone call, shivering on the concrete floor, kickin the old drunk in the corner of the cell, warnin him not to get any strange ideas during the night. The cell door opens and I’m grabbed from behind, me arm twisted behind me back to the breaking point. I settles down then. They takes the laces from me boots so’s I cant use ’em to hang meself or choke me roommate. I’m shoutin, me voice cracked and dry:
—It’s my fuckin song! My song…
And then me mother, standin in the doorway with her keys jangling and there’s the screech of tires and Randy with his face in his hands and a bottle of rum cradled between his knees and Anne-Marie rubbin his shoulders and all that chocolate and pity and dollar bills like the whole town came to pay me for a job well done. My pudgy little hands reachin out to take the money, not knowing what it’s for.
And the cell door slidin open.
—Reid. Up. You’re free to go.
Free? Me? Free to do what? Go where? Isadora?
I staggers down the long hallway towards the front desk where an outstretched hand dangles an oversized Ziploc bag with me laces and necklace and me silver Claddagh ring. There’s a couple of twenties too and me heart lifts a bit cause I knows exactly what I’m gonna do with them now dont I? Yes.
I hafta sorta slide along the wall for support and the guard at the desk whistles when he sees me. A voice from deep inside the room behind the desk says:
—Look out lads, look out. Here comes our famous singer. Here’s our rock star.
—Is he anything to what’s his face, Valentine Reid?
—Dont know, ask him.
The guard looks at me for verification. I slowly shakes me head.
Church bells boomin out across the empty streets. A greasy brown paper bag dances down the sidewalk and lands on me boot. There’s a Cold Shoulder poster on every goddamn pole and I has a brief laugh at one that has the word fags scrawled across it in thick black marker. Then I remembers writin it there meself a few nights ago and it dont seem so funny no more.
I stops at the pay phone outside Erin’s Pub and dials Isadora. I holds the quarter in the slot and waits for her to pick up.
—Hello?
Her voice is choked and heavy, her sinuses plugged, like she’s been up all night cryin.
—Hello? Clayton is that you? Please…
The digital clock on the phone reads 7:17. I pulls the twenties from me pocket and looks ’em over. Me stomach rumbles, but breakfast is the furthest thing from me mind.
—Hello? Clayton?
Only one place open at this hour.
—Answer me!
I lays the phone back down on the cradle and turns west towards Fagan’s Pub.
27. Big and Ugly Enough
Me forehead went numb a few miles back, but I can still feel the drops peltin off it like BB shots, like the wars we had in the woods around the cliffs back home on the Shore. This is real fuckin rain, from the heavens, if you believes in shit like that, if you believes that the apocalypse, when it comes, is gonna be a personal event. Rain like you’ve never seen it. The kinda rain that swamped beneath me mother’s pickup that day, liftin her off the road and into the arms of that quick death. Rain like the way Randy stared at me across the supper table in the years to come. Rain like the fat boozy tears that streamed down his face in the mornings after he’d lost a job or a car or left another piece of his soul in some bottle somewhere. Rain like the way she never even said goodbye.
It bombards me like hail, raw, vicious pinpricks on me neck and eyelids and wrists. The sting of the raindrops like a handful of beach sand whipped into me face. Me pants are plastered to me legs, so tight I can hardly walk, the threading around me crotch is diggin into me nuts, a steady stream runnin down the back of me pants, fillin me boots like Brent the time he pissed hisself that night at the Closet. Fuck me, if I could have that night back right now. The night I slept with Trish. The first night. I wouldnt do that this time around. If I had me time back, I wouldnt. Isadora drunk and saucy at the Ship, sittin on that Crane fucker’s knee. Bouncin like that, like she’d never with me. Impenetrable, no way to hurt her without actually smackin her one. I shoulda seen it all comin right then and there. I did. I saw all this comin. Me, fried outta me skull. And Trish, Trish on the guardrail beside me, skin tight with liquor on her breath. She never looked better. The best way to hurt Isadora, best way to get at her, I thought: heave into ’er best friend. Keep it to meself till the time comes to use it against ’er. And didnt that fuckin well blow up in me face?
It’s so fuckin black out here on the Trans-Canada. So many miles from nowhere. There’s not even the hint of a light in any direction. I could be anywhere. I dont know how many hours have passed, cant think how far I’ve come since I left Isadora’s little squat in Port Rexton. It was a three-hour drive out from Town. Me grandfather once told me he useta fuckin walk to Town from the Shore. That’s a little more than an hour’s drive. Walkin, took him three days to get there, three days back. Him and his horse. Assuming the horse mighta slowed him down a bit, I’d say it’ll take me…eight days to get back to the apartment, back to me bed. But I could very well be headed in the wrong direction now. Or maybe there is no wrong direction from here.
I might be dead before this night is over.
Wouldnt that be a fuckin laugh.
I tried to scream a few miles ago, threw me head back and went to let wail. But I nearly drowned, me mouth full up as soon as I opened it, drops splattering up me nose and down me throat and chokin me. It’s all I can do to just keep me head down and feel for the side of the road with me gimp fuckin leg.
Too many big trucks on the go now and I gotta get way in off the road when they passes cause, sure, they wont even stop for a moose, they’ll just barrel on through a big old bull and pick the legs and grizzle outta the rack at the next gas station. Fine way to get meself back to Town, all mangled into some trucker’s moose rack.
Thought I saw an overpass up ahead a while ago and I tried to run for a bit. Shelter. But when I got to where I thought it was, it just wasnt there. Some hole in the fabric of the world. And I woulda gladly disappeared into it. How could she ever live with herself after that, knowing that she turned me away at her door and then I just vanished into thin air? There’d be the odd report from fucked-up, drug-addled truckers about a dark figure that mighta been a rock or a big dog or a moose. Or an apparition. I’d like that.
I’d been playin it all straight. I knows the fuckin rules, the only ones that’ll get you through—dont call, no matter how much it’s killin you, no matter if you’re curled into the foetal position holdin a shard of mirrored glass to your own throat. Dont fuckin call. Dont talk to her friends. Just dont. And if by chance you bumps into one of ’em, put on your brightest smile and say how you’ve never felt better, say how much lighter you feels now, now that it’s all said and done. How you never loved her in the first place. And always, always look your best, dress your best and smell good and hide your eyes whenever you can. Do your crumbling behind closed doors. It’s only heartache. It’s only pain. It cant fuckin kill you and you’ll be stronger in the morning for havin looked it in the eye.
