Right Away Monday, page 30
My room ’as a bed and a closet, a h’ugly white dresser. The bed was h’already ’ere, but the sheets is brand new. The blankets I got second ’and at St. Michael’s Salvage on Bond Street. The h’only thing in the room I ’ave h’any fondness for is the table I got h’off Val this past fall. Jesus, Clayton ranted h’on ’bout that table for weeks. I could never bring m’self to give it back though.
There’s a deadbolt h’on my door that I’m glad’s there, but I dont know, sorta makes me feel like a target when I locks it. If that makes h’any sense. Some nights I leaves the door wide h’open and listens to the girls gigglin and cursin and squealin downstairs. I finds it comforting some’ow. My bathroom I shares with a ahhh…”voluptuous” I guess, youse wouldnt call ’er fat, older woman named Debra. She’s the manager h’of the parlour and seems to believe ’ole’eartedly that h’all her girls h’adores her. She h’asked me twice now if I’m h’in’erested in “punching a few shifts.” H’of course I’ve declined. Bartending was anough of a dead-h’end road for me. Next thing sure I’d be sellin m’self, and not even givin a fuck. And then word’d get back to B——some’ow. Perfect. Feed right h’into their ’ands.
My mother called h’again shortly before I quit the bar. Said she was comin h’into Town, said she missed me, wanted to know ’ow she could make things h’up to me. Says Dad’s h’on ’is last leg now, not likely to make it to the h’end of the summer, that ’e’s been h’askin for me still. I ’ung up on her. I thought if I spoke I’d lose it right there at the bar. I said it back then, nine years h’ago, n I still means it now: I’m never goin back, lestwise it’s in a pine fucken box.
There’s a girl works downstairs named Candy. She’s ’bout nineteen. She saw me with the camera one day and whispered to me ’ow she’d like to be a model. She got the most piercing, ’ypnotic blue h’eyes. I said I’d take a few shots of ’er near the window in the ’allway, h’even though she’ll never be a model with them ’ips. Besides that though, I was disappointed with the finished pictures. Just boring. Cause if youse can h’already see it with y’ h’own h’eyes then it’s just a waste of film to take the picture.
Candy loved the shots though, h’offered to pay me for ’em but I just gave ’em to ’er. Cause really, what good is they to me? She never stops bitchin ’bout ’ow cheap Debra is, or braggin ’bout ’er thirty-year-old boyfriend ’oo works on the h’oilrigs and dont mind for a second what she does for a living. She says this h’every time I sees ’er. And h’every time I ’aves to force m’self not to grab ’er by ’er pudgy cheeks and h’ask ’er do she really and truly think she’s livin, do she really believe she’s h’alive. Once, I swear, she ’ad a big shot of jizz h’on ’er shoulder and I didnt ’ave the ’eart to tell ’er it was there. Any’ow, I wonder if I’m h’even alive m’self sometimes. Most days I sleeps in till three in the h’afternoon. I should say fuck it and just go to work downstairs with the girls, we’s h’all on the same clock h’anyways.
I’m just waitin now. Nothing new about that ’ey?
Waitin to be either welcomed or denied. I’ve h’applied to three schools for the fall: Corner Brook, Stephenville and ’Alifax. And I dont give a fuck which one takes me, so long’s they takes me the fuck h’outta this town for a while. And I think I got a good chance with h’all three schools.
My portfolio was made h’up of three black-and-whites. There’s one with Clayton sleepin h’at the table h’in the Ship with his girlfriend. She’s fucked h’off again I ’ear. In the picture they’s h’each passed h’out with their ’eads leanin ’gainst h’each h’other. There’s a picture h’of Mike Quinn countin h’out money be’ind the bar at the ’Atchet, and the h’other one’s Jim McNaughton standin in the street h’outside the Rose and Thistle with an ’alf pint of Guinness in one ’and and ’is car keys in the h’other. I called all three shots There’s Always Suicide, one of Clayton’s favourite “toasts” h’after ’e got a few drinks in. Whereas most people raises their glasses to good ’ealth or to h’absent friends, I’ve watched Clayton dozens of times raise ’is glass and shout ’cross the bar:
—Well, we can always kill ourselves. There’s always suicide.
An’ of course none of my “subjects” h’even knew their picture was bein taken, or’ve h’ever seen the developed shot. Maybe I’ll send ’em in the mail once I gets in school.
I wont bartend, h’ever again. My final shift at the ’Atchet was packed tight with the screamin little queens that Silas Lawlor ’ad gathered h’up for ’is grand re-h’opening. Rumours goin round any’ow that ’e was plannin to fire all Mike’s staff soon’s ’e took h’over, so there was no way some chubby little pedophile fag was goin firing me. ’E’d come in be’ind the bar too, playin the bigshot and fucken up my h’orders, givin out free drinks on my watch. So I broke the golden rule for the first time h’ever and got plastered be’ind the bar. Fuck that old fruit. I slopped milk and stout and ginger h’ale down be’ind the register and h’all h’over the h’inside of the counter, knowin full well I wasnt comin back, makin sure Silas ’ad a fine mess to clean h’up in the morning. See ’ow ’e likes ’is new business when ’e’s scrubbin piss h’off the men’s wall in the bathroom. Although ’e prolly would like that, or ’e’d ’ave one of his new little nancy-boys do it for ’im.
Clayton and Brent came in and I fed ’em free doubles and triples h’all night. Clayton smashin ’is h’empty glasses on the floor and spittin booze cross the bar and then bawlin ’is h’eyes out and then catchin ’isself bawlin and laughin ’bout it till ’e bawled h’again. What a fucken mess ’e’s gotten h’into h’over that woman. Brent with ’is ’ead down, drained and surly and wantin to be somewhere h’else, prolly ’fraid to leave Clayton h’on ’is h’own, for fear ’e’d make h’off with ’isself. That’s h’all Clayton talks ’bout anymore, ways to die, ways to h’end it h’all. Nobody pays ’im h’any mind though. I slipped ’em a full bottle of Jack Daniel’s when they were leavin. Then I let Sissy Maher and Clyde snort lines right h’off the bar in front of Silas. ’E screamed h’at us to take it h’elsewhere but we h’all laughed in ’is face. I guess I was turnin ’is grand re-h’opening into my h’own farewell party. The pool balls were robbed from the table and a wall mirror shattered to the floor in the women’s toilets. Silas started to panic, ’is “new” bar slowly gettin destroyed h’all round ’im. I was good and drunk by then, I didnt give a sweet shit. Mercy. Someone threw a beer bottle and it smashed h’on the wall h’above Silas’s ’ead and I just turned the music h’up louder. AC/DC. “Back in Black.” Mike stuck ’is ’ead in through the doors h’at one point, grinned h’at the chaos and left again. Silas screamed h’over the blare of the music for me to do something. I shrugged and laughed and slammed back another shot of tequila. Fuck right h’off youse stout little queer. ’E tolt me to get h’out from be’ind the bar then:
—Go, get. You’re fired.
I laughed, mercy I laughed. Joined the party on the h’other side of the bar. I watched Silas try and take my place. Some chance. The party swelled and raged. ’E turned h’off the music and the place went h’up. The h’actual bar shook and seemed to shift a little. The terror on Silas’s face, h’almost felt bad for ’im, I did. H’almost. Them little queens were long gone by then, the ’Atchet full h’up with Mike Quinn’s faithful regulars ’oo h’obviously resented Silas’s presence and would never, h’ever, show ’im the respect they showed Mike. And then there were them faces what were so long barred, mosta the time h’unjustly, h’on one of Mike’s whims, that returned to the bar with a vengeance h’after ’earing of Mike’s departure, determined to take h’out on the bar what they’d been too ’fraid to take out on Mike. Silas knew ’e didnt ’ave the power to turn none of they away. I started bangin my palm flat h’on the bar and led the chant for music, the Stones, Tom Petty, Guns N’ Roses, Neil Young, Blue Rodeo! Mercy, ’ow bad was I. Silas near tears. ’E tried to get the stereo workin again but didnt know which button to push. The gall of ’im then, ’e looked to me to ’elp ’im. I just winked. ’E pressed the tuner button and white noise blasted h’out the speakers at fucken h’ear-splittin volume. Some woman screamed and ran from the bar clutchin the collar of ’er blouse, like she got ’erself molested. Some big bruiser I’d never seen before bit the top of ’is beer bottle and blood spilled h’onto the bar. Sissy Maher shouted for a screwdriver and Silas ’ad no idea ’ow to make one, the stupid lout. ’E didnt know where the juice was kept or h’even ’ow to ring a drink in. A cigarette butt h’exploded h’off ’is fore’ead and the ’ole bar laughed. Mercy. A chair ’it the far wall then and knocked a painting to the floor. I was workin the bar the night that painting landed on Silas’s truck. It was New Year’s, the night ’e signed the contracts with Mike. Silas, the fucken tool, took the battered painting to a frame shop on Long’s Hill to ’ave it restored, this gross picture of a big ’uman ’and crushin a live crow. I ’eard ’im goin on ’bout it a while back, ’ow it was some symbol of ’is “coming reign” at the ’Atchet. Fucken h’arse’ole. Then h’on ’is first night as manager, there’s ’is precious painting shattered down in the corner. I’d say h’at that point ’e felt more like the crow than the ’and what was crushin it.
A fight broke h’out then, h’in the corner. I didnt recognize h’either of the guys goin at it. Silas threatened to call the cops and h’as ’e was reachin for the phone ’e finally noticed that the cash register was wide h’open. ’E lifted h’up the drawer to see h’if there was some kinda trick to it. I watched ’im rootin round for the money what shoulda been there. ’E’d left a thousand-dollar float at six o’clock. But the register was h’empty now, save for a few nickels and dimes. ’E ’adnt bothered to check it afore ’e “fired” me. And too much time’d passed h’in the chaos to be h’able to definitely say it was me what took it. And this was past twelve, so ’e could ’ave no h’idea ’ow much was supposed to be there. I felt the wad under my left boob and ’oped there was h’at least twenty-five ’undred. I slipped into the crowd then, watchin h’as ’e h’opened cupboards and lifted papers and grabbed ’is ’ead in panic.
I went h’upstairs and laced right h’into that Jack Daniel’s with Clayton and Brent.
Jim McNaughton shuffles to the front door h’of the parlour on the street below. I aims my camera and snaps a shot h’of ’im with ’is ’and on the door ’andle, ’is h’eyes focused h’on the street towards the h’oncomin traffic. I dont know for the life h’of me why I did that. I should feel ’orrible, but I dont. Jim’s been spendin near on two h’ours a week with the girls downstairs. The wife is h’after leavin ’im for good, so Charlene tolt me a couple of weeks back. Charlene’s been workin a few shifts at the Piccadilly cross the street and I runs h’into ’er h’every now and then at Kane’s shop h’on the corner. She tolt me the cops were at the ’Atchet and the Ship h’askin for me. She wanted to know h’if I’d ripped h’off Silas Lawlor. I laughed so ’ard the tears rolled down my face. Charlene’s pretty much the h’only contact I’ve ’ad with h’anyone from the ’Atchet in weeks. I saw Clayton h’outside Fred’s Records one morning and walked right past ’im, never h’even spoke. ’E was fucken h’out of it, ’oldin h’onto a mailbox like ’is life depended h’on it, and I could smell the sweat h’off ’im when I passed by. Saw Keith too, once or twice. H’even though I’ve been pretty lonesome the past few weeks, I couldnt bring m’self to let ’im know where I was stayin. Cant let h’anyone know. Besides, Keith stank a bit too.
I locks the deadbolt h’on my door, pulls the table h’away from the wall so’s I can h’open the drawer. I takes out the film bottles and h’envelopes of pictures and h’all the small, no-good knick-knacks and lays ’em h’on the table top. I reaches my ’and way back h’into the drawer and flicks the switch that releases the false bottom. I slides h’out the thin slice of h’oak and lays that on the table too. I loves this drawer, it makes the table. I pulls h’out my h’envelope and removes two twenties from the stack h’of bills h’inside. Then I puts h’everything back in place, pushes the table back h’into the wall to hide h’even the presence of the drawer. You’d really ’ave to know what youse’re lookin for to rip me h’off.
In my ’ead I does a quick figure of ’ow much should be left. Nineteen ’undred and sixty? From what started h’out bein twenty-four h’eighty. There’s no way h’anyone can prove it. No way. I can talk to the cops right now with the wad of it dangling h’out my pocket. Nothing no one can do. Lestwise Silas wants to set a few of ’is little teenie-boys h’after me to rough me h’up a bit. But sure, I’d only welcome that. Silas Lawlor. I’m supposed to feel bad ’bout rippin that h’off? Not likely. This is my way h’out. And if ’e’s got h’any real business sense, or h’any balls, ’e wont h’even feel this by the h’end of the month, ’e’ll be alright. H’if not sure Mike’ll just take the bar back. I mean, Silas must ’ave money to be h’able to take h’over the bar in the first place. I’m not gonna lose no sleep h’over it, tell youse that much for nothing.
The plan’s to ’ave h’at least, h’at least fifteen ’undred left come September, just anough to get me h’outta town and set m’self h’up h’in Corner Brook or Stephenville or ’Alifax, I dont care. Picture that, me in my new spot, some nerdy boyfriend, maybe h’even a dog. Clean break from the h’eyes glarin, waitin, the whispers h’echoing be’ind my back:
—She’s that one from B——. She charged ’er father that time. She’s fucked up.
Yeah, too much coke again, I knows. Too many pills showin h’up in the tip jar by the time Silas took h’over any’ow. I was months ready to leave that scene. My mother callin the bar for fuck sakes. And youse know what, I’ve been clean h’ever since, except for the h’odd toke with Candy h’on the stairway. But no coke, no h’effys, no laxatives h’even, come to think on it. Fuck, I needed h’outta there so bad. And now looka me, walkin round Quidi Vidi Lake in the h’evenings, chattin with the rowers, tossin bread to the ducks. I wrote a bunch of letters to Mom and took ’em all down to the mouth of the river and tore ’em h’up and watched ’em get sucked down h’under the bridge h’on the way to the Gut. I’m clean, skinnier than I’ve h’ever been.
But tonight, I dont know, feels like cuttin loose a bit. Maybe I’ll ’ave a drink, blow a few dollars, celebrate. Cooped h’up ’ere long ’nough, ’avent I? Yes. I ’eard tell mosta the h’old regulars from the ’Atchet is ’angin h’out at the Georgetown Pub these days. Afore I h’even fully decides to go h’out I realizes I’ve got my makeup ’alf done. Christ, I ’avent worn lipstick in a month. I does my h’eyes and then dabs a bit of foundation h’over the little scar on my chin that I got when some little guy in B——tossed a rock at me shortly afore I left:
—My dad says youse’re a slut!
Fully dark h’out by the time I’m h’on my way h’up Duckworth to Kane’s. I ’avent been smoking h’over the past few weeks h’either, but I knows soon’s I takes a drink I’ll be bummin h’all night, so might as well buy a pack now and save m’self the bother.
Jim McNaughton comes h’into the shop be’ind me.
—J-Jesus Monica! Llll-look at yourself! H-how are ya?
—Oh good Jim, pretty good. What about y’self?
His face drops, like some ’uge, h’evil beast just settled on ’is shoulders. Christ, why did I h’even bother h’askin?
—Well girl, you know now, I wont be back with the City the fall…
—Oh really? That’s too bad.
—Yeah, the wife is g-gone too, you knew that though I s’pose?
—Nope. I ’ad no clue Jim.
—Yeah well, that’s how it goes. The young ones though, my girls, they wont even…
I h’asks Mrs. Kane be’ind the counter for a pack of Player’s Light. Jim bulls past me with a h’outstretched twenty in ’is ’and, h’almost knocks me back h’into the chip rack. ’E h’orders ’is h’own brand too.
—I-I’ll take care of that M-M-Monica.
What’s it Clayton h’always says? Never turn down a free dinner? What’s the rest?
—No Jim, that’s fine. I can—
—No now, n-no. My treat.
I pluck the smokes h’out of’is ’and, then leaves the shop and h’of course ’e’s right be’ind me. I gives ’im a little wave of my fingers and starts to walk up Wood Street.
—Where’re ya off to girl?
I dont want to be rude, dont want to ’ave to tell ’im to fuck h’off, ’e’ll likely collapse.
—Nowhere, just, you know, h’out for a walk. Tryna do some thinkin.
’E reaches into the breast pocket of ’is flannel shirt and pulls h’out a fat joint. ’E looks h’up and down the street to make sure ’e’s bein discreet anough.
—Wanna come for a draw?
There’s a deep brown h’oil stain runnin down the side of the joint. Looks like good gear. A slight breeze pushes the smell h’under my nose and I h’almost salivates. Think ’e’d just give me the fucken draw and leave me alone with it.
Jim h’unlocks the passenger door to ’is Jeep and lets it fall h’open. ’E seems relaxed and calm as ’e makes ’is way round to the driver’s side. Fresh h’outta the massage parlour too, come to think on it. Prolly well spent. The h’engine roars to life and ’e gives the ’orn a little toot. It’s h’only Jim for fuck sakes, from the bar. Go and get stoned and then ’it the Georgetown for a few white Russians and a game of pool.
It’s shockin really, ’ow clean his Jeep is on the inside. Mercy.
Jim takes the Jeep h’up Signal Hill Road. I guess we’s headed for the castle. There’ll be cars h’up there, parked, people h’up to the same thing, lookin for anough privacy to get comfortably h’outta their ’eads. Jim ’asnt h’uttered a word since we left. There’s no radio, just a big ’ole in the dash where the radio should be, coloured wires stickin out. I’s about to mention that to ’im when ’e suddenly ’angs an ’ard right down the gravel road to Dead Man’s Pond. I reaches for the door handle. Jim looks cross h’at me and speaks for the first time:
