Right Away Monday, page 34
When Mike came knockin the other day, I stood at the top of the stairs wrapped up in me grandfather’s old army blanket, shivering. I watched Mike’s shadow peekin through the crease in the slab of plywood that covers where the window useta be. Brent put that up, first time I laid eyes on him in a week. He came in to collect something out of ’is room and then banged that bit of board up over the window. He left then, with his bag, never even asked how the window thing happened. Never even said goodbye. He got himself tucked away now with some young one from up Kenmount Road, after slackin right off the booze too. Fucker.
I went cracked the morning I found the window broke out. I went down to the Closet and fuckin crucified a few old geezer queers. I got pretty good interrogation skills too, especially when I does me Irish thing. I asked if they’d seen anyone suspicious, if there was anyone lookin for me, any strange noises. I let it all out, all the fuckin turmoil and shit that I’d pent up since she fucked off, I fired all that across the bar at them poor old miserable girlie-men. I let ’em all know I’d fuckin kneecap someone if I found out they were lyin. Of course no one ever sees anything on the east end of Water Street. No. Unless they’re paid to. Smashin glass, screamin in the middle of the night, a gunshot, a car bomb, a fuckin nuclear disaster wouldnt scarcely rouse the curiosity of them sad, paranoid and self-obsessed loner types you’ll find clung late night to the bar at the Closet.
I moved me investigation downstairs to the Hatchet.
Petey Thorne was there. I flew into him. He’d crossed me mind as soon as I saw the broken window. His face popped into mine like some gloating, bloated, sneering imp, laughin down at me from the front steps of my apartment while I hove up in the alley. I was dead fuckin sure he was at least there when the window got smashed. And didnt he run his fuckin mouth off good and loud during the Million Dollar Pedal Bike Fiasco?
He was leanin over the pool table, this tight white tee-shirt that seemed to add about thirty pounds to his swollen belly. He was preppin the cue ball for the final shot at the eight. He was playin himself by the looks of it. Straight shot in the corner pocket, easy does it. He didnt know I came up behind him. Just as he had the shot lined up I fuckin nailed the butt of his stick, drove the cue ball straight into the wall near the toilets. A few heads turned. Petey turned around all shocked, then went so far as to fuckin smile when he saw it was me. And I goes:
—What the fuck do you got to smile about ya chunky fuckin imposter?
—Imposter, what’s that supposed to mean?
—You, up there every night with that crap guitar manglin every decent song Neil Young ever wrote. Go get some fuckin lessons b’y.
That’s what you gotta do see, if you wants to get ’em on the go: attack where the ego is most fragile. All Petey got is that open-mic gig. Only thing that keeps ’im goin I’d say, all the pats on the back from this endless stream of drunken slobbering barflies who’re not really even complimenting him but rather his selection of no-fail crowd-pleasin drinkin anthems. And plus I’m after hearin ’im go on a bit much about that fuckin guitar too, how his father gave it to him and it makes him feel closer to him when he plays it. That stupid kinda stage talk that he thinks offers some substance to his show, when in fact if he didnt open his fuckin mouth at all he’d be ten times more interesting up there.
He looked at me then, when I said that, and I knew he just wanted to bash my head in with that pool stick. He was dyin to.
—Get outta my face Clayton. You’re drunk…
—Or what? You’ll use that stick on me? Come on then look, give it your best crack.
I tilted meself towards the floor and scooped me hair forward, exposing the back of me neck to Petey. That’s gotta be one of the most detrimental spots to take a crack with the heavy end of a pool stick. That spongy spot where your skull stops and your neck begins. C’mon and fuckin do it, fuckin kill me you big bastard.
I braced meself, for show, knowin full well he wouldnt do it. And of course he didnt. See what I’m sayin? If they thinks you’re afraid of it they’ll take full advantage, but it confuses ’em when you asks for it. I stood up straight again.
—You bashed in me fuckin window didnt ya.
He laughed.
—You’re cracked Reid. I was there. You smashed it yourself. What do you think happened to your forehead?
And I touched me head then, this lump of swollen jelly. I glanced in the far mirror. Pale blue with little scratches around it. I hadnt thought much of it when I got up that morning, cause where I usually has a go bangin me head off something when I’m on the beer these days anyhow, the floor or the pavement or some greasy bathroom stall.
Petey went back to his pool game then, and I saw that he rearranged the cue ball a little closer to the eight than it was before I fucked up his shot. Everybody in the bar tryin not to look at me. I shambled on back to the front door, me foot suddenly ablaze and throbbin worse than it had in weeks. I went home and slept for almost twenty-four hours.
So Jim is dead hey? Brent, the death messenger, harbinger of sorrow. I mean, I should feel sorrow or something. At least I knows I’m s’posed to. Cant move. I’m like some stiff meself here. This grimy mattress. I looks at me cigarettes and lighter on the busted old chair next to me head. I’d fuckin kill for one of them right about now. Imagine takin one outta the package, settin it in me mouth and lightin it. Imagine the energy that takes. Maybe if I hollers out to Brent he’ll come and light it for me. How will I say it? The sound of my voice, bouncin around the big empty room. Imagine talkin. A whole different kinda energy. I manages to slip a hand down between me legs and give the head of me lad a little squeeze. It’s colder than the rest of me, take a lot of fuckin work to get the blood runnin to it. I could cry I s’pose. If I tried hard enough.
Not a fuckin cent to me name, last I checked.
This is fuckin hopeless.
Brent out there in the main room crunchin through the glass, kickin shit out of’is way. He’s quieter than usual. Maybe it’s to do with Jim? Or maybe it’s the state of the apartment. I can safely say it’s at its worst. But what the fuck is it to him? He barely fuckin lives here no more.
Someone’s callin me name and there’s a pinch, an angry screamin itch on me hand and the smell of burnt hair. I wants to reach out with the other hand and scratch the itch. I’m thinkin about it. Thinkin.
—Clayton? Clayton. You’re gonna burn the place to the ground.
I forces me eyes open. Brent. He’s got two cigarettes lit. He bends over towards me and pulls a burnt-out butt from between me fingers. It’s kinda stuck there and he’s gotta give it a little twist to free it. He puts one of the full cigarettes in its place. I cant imagine smokin it. Cant imagine movin, talkin, breathin. And there’s some folks out there on their way to dinner, or breakfast maybe. Church. Payin bills at the bank. Readin newspapers. Rentin movies. Eatin toast. Flyin somewhere. Runnin somewhere. Tyin ties and huntin for lint brushes. Brushin teeth and shavin and pickin kids up at daycare. Gift wrappin some sorta fuckin…gift. Throwin a party with plates and glasses and big bowls of dip and crackers and punch. Tryna light the stove. Feedin the cat. Washin dishes. Fixin a radio. Settin up a tent. Fuck, imagine the energy all that must take up. Other lives, whole, or at least movin forward.
Brent starin out me bedroom window onto Water Street. I wonder if he sees the same dead-end street I do when I looks down there. Some people sees different shit differently, I know. He stays there like that and dont say a word, just lookin down. Fine with me too cause I knows I cant squeeze a sentence out. Anyhow, if I gets talkin I’ll get thinkin, and fuck that.
He clears his throat. Here it comes now, some tirade about the state of the place, something he heard I said or done some night in some bar, something about her or something some Ship leech said about me. Cops lookin for me, Mike Quinn lookin for me, the fuckin mob, the IRA. Maybe I robbed someone or murdered someone or shit in someone’s living room? Out with it, c’mon. Gimme the worst of it now.
—Speak Brent, for fuck sakes.
—What? Oh. Just thinkin maybe we could go out for a drink…
And with that, I’m up, me two feet on the floor and pullin me laces tight and I splashes a bit of water on me face in the kitchen and hauls an old face cloth across me teeth to get the scum from off me gums. Cause there’s no way in hell I’m goin in that bathroom and brushin, with fuckin toothpaste, lookin at meself in what’s left of that mirror. Brent says:
—If you want to get a shower I’ll wait.
Like we can just wash it all away like that, hey? Scrub it clean. Fuckin shower? You could slap a fuckin brand-new suit on me today and cut me hair and shave me and flush out me liver and bleach me teeth and shoot me eyes fulla Visine and gimme a dab of some kinda pricey cologne and I knows I’d still feel like a proper scumbag, sleeveen, cunty-balled fuckwad. And besides, imagine what might pop into me head in there, in the shower, while I’m scrubbin two weeks’ worth of grime and bar sludge off meself? What if me conscience kicked in full force? What if her face flashed in front of me? What if I got hard or something, thinkin about her in there? I might lose me fuckin mind. No thanks, I’ll pass on that shower business.
The Hatchet looks to be fuckin packed. Petey Thorne playin some Dylan tune, the one about Billy the Kid. I always liked that tune, and to be honest, Petey’s not doin such a bad job. The bar looks to be full up of all the old faces that were around last winter, during my heyday as Bartender in Chief. Jim’s heaviest drinkin days, come to think of it. A sombre reunion. Not two steps in through the door and Mike Quinn is standin in front of us. Rent. Just wont go away will it. I racks me brain to tap into me old stockpile of landlord/tenant excuses but I draws a blank. Mike steps towards me, I takes a step back. I starts to open me mouth and Mike holds his hand up before I can speak. He dont wanna hear a goddamn word outta my mouth. He takes another half step at me and I’ve nowhere else to go, me back right to the porch wall as it is. Maybe this is it then, maybe this is the end I had comin all along. C’mon then you big bastard slumlord fuck…
Brent’s suddenly holdin a wad of twenties out and wavin ’em under Mike’s nose. I reckon it’s more of a shock to me than it is to Mike even.
—Oh, here’s the rent by the way Mike. Sorry, it’s late again.
Mike snatches the money outta Brent’s hand and stuffs it in his pocket without even countin it. He’s still lookin at me:
—And what about your half?
Brent, to the rescue again:
—His half is there too.
Mike digs his hand back into his pocket and gives the money a little squeeze, like he can tell by the density of the wad how much is there, if it’s off by even a bill. He wont count it in front of us. But if it turns up short he’ll fuckin well come lookin wont he, and who are we to argue then? And if it’s over? What then? He’ll take it off next month will he? I fuckin doubt it.
Mike turns and takes a step back into the bar. It’s kinda like he’s disappointed that he got the rent outta us, like he was dyin for a good dust-up and now he’s been deprived. Fucker. But at least it’s a fuckin load off my mind for another while. We starts to push into the bar behind him and then he whips around again:
—What happened to the fucking front window up there?
And at that moment Petey Thorne breaks into “Wild Horses” and I’m brought right back to the night of me birthday last fall when Donna tried to get me out dancin. I nods towards him:
—Petey busted it out with a bottle the other night. Says he’s not gonna pay for it either.
Mike turns, all nonchalant, in Petey’s direction.
—Did he now? We’ll fuckin see about that then, wont we boys?
I laughs louder than I wanted to. Brent looks down at the floor. Mike stands there, stone faced, flickin the wheel of a Bic lighter on and off inside the pocket of his coat. I already knows what’s comin:
—You’re gonna have to clear out by the end of the month. Consider this your official notice.
And I’m almost relieved to hear it. At least…at least something’s gonna shift, change. Who knows, maybe I’ll move right onto the street. Or maybe they’ll be scrapin me off it soon enough anyhow. Who knows. Maybe I’ll just hit the Trans-Canada and fuckin vanish. Wash up in some small hickish town in Northern Ontario. Fuck it.
Brent just stands there noddin like the news got nothing at all to do with him.
Mike turns and walks into the bar without another word.
Brent walks back onto the street.
He’s almost up to the courthouse steps before I catches up to him.
Me foot is like murder.
—Hold up Brent. Thought we were havin a drink?
Brent turns and looks at me like I’m some kinda apparition from his distant past, someone he hasnt laid eyes on in years and woulda been content to have gone the rest of his life without ever bumpin into again. He looks me up and down.
—Clayton, I think that’s the exact rigout you were wearing back in January when I first moved in.
I looks down at meself and it’s true. The cuffs of me jacket are tattered and stringy, the shoulders are busted at the seams. Stains on me shirt, this assorted mix of Guinness and blood and ash and sweat and grease. S’pose I havent shaved in a while now, two months maybe. But me boots, you cant knock the boots. I can see meself in ’em for fuck sakes. Clears me head out, polishing ’em like that.
—Where to?
—Naw Clay, I think I’ll pass on that drink.
—What are we gonna do for a spot? End of the month is what? Two weeks?
—I was planning on talking to you about…
—What? About what?
I kinda got a vague idea what he’s gonna say. I takes a steps closer to him.
—What the fuck are ya sayin Brent?
He lays a hand flat on me chest and pushes me back a bit.
—Fuck man, you really need a shower.
—Plannin on talkin to me about what?
—I got the job.
—What job?
—Same one you had last year. The Dublin program.
Now, I dont know what it feels like when the inside of your head fuckin collapses, but I’d say this is pretty close.
—Well Clay you knew I applied…
—Yes but I didnt think…
—Didnt think I’d actually get it?
—No…well…
I’m tryna be big here, I am. Tryin. I knows it’s a great and fuckin fantastic move for Brent, my old friend Brent, to make at this point in his life. Best bone anyone in Brent’s situation can expect to be tossed. Just remembering me own life, right before I got that same job. Year and a half ago now. Done me interview from the pay phone in the old detox centre. The fuckin high of comin back to St. John’s after bein away so long. Brand-new man, fulla stories, everybody wantin to get next to me. The future laid out right there in front of me. And I wants all that same thing for Brent, I do. I wanna be happy for him, celebrate it with him, or at least help him feel good about it. And I knows, I fuckin knows he’s even got the good grace right now not to appear too excited about it in front of me. I’m tryna be big here, I am:
—Well, what about our fuckin band then?
I fuckin hates the sound of me own voice, the fuckin desolation.
—C’mon Clay. Look at yourself.
—What? Sure you cant be leavin for another couple of months? Where are we gonna stay till you goes?
—And you’re welcome by the way for the rent…
—I was gonna say th—
—I’m thinking I’ll stay with ahhh…Sarah for a while, clear my head out before I leave.
Sarah? Must be the new little fuck toy he’s latched onto uptown. Slick bastard. He digs into his pocket and comes out with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. He holds it out to me.
—You want that? I’ve been saving. Busking in by the mall. No competition in there.
A fuckin mobile phone starts beepin from somewhere inside his coat. Well sweet adorable fuck. What next? Brent’s face flushes while he digs it out. He looks into the bright blue screen of the phone and then shuts the power off.
—Sarah’s…she’s ahhh…wanted to be able to get in touch with me. I cant stand the goddamn thing.
I looks at the twenty. He’s still holdin it out to me like that. I dont know. Is it all just one big long sloppy string of betrayals and payoffs?
I takes the twenty.
Brent just nods and sorta half smiles, awkward like, then turns and walks on up Water Street. I knows I aint meant to follow. I shouts after him:
—Congratulations.
But it comes out wrong, sarcastic like, and self-pitying. Which I’m not, never. Brent dont bother to turn around or respond. And who the fuck could blame ’im?
I heads back towards the Hatchet, the crumpled twenty tight in me fist. I stops outside the door of the bar, lights a smoke and glances up at the eaves of the building. Long fuckin drop there, from the roof to the ground. Right down onto the concrete.
I kicks me heel hard against the sidewalk.
I feels a little lighter now, I dont know, maybe even hopeful.
32. Swan Song
What took you so long you buncha dogan-faced bastards, that’s what I’m wondering. Fella needs to be near onto his deathbed before they recognize…
Easy now Val. It’s not in your hands just yet. Cameras too, careful where you put your fingers. Remember the Junos.
I’ll show em all the finger if this night goes on much longer. These chairs…not much breathing space is there…
Hey. Here it comes. This is it. Put on the grace face. Grateful. Gracious.
—Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to present our final award this evening. The ACIA presents the Lifetime Achievement Award to those individuals or organizations who have made…
