Right Away Monday, page 5
6. Hands, Held
How they all come flocking to me. Young Monica, on the run from B——. Daddy’s girl. Clayton, so headstrong and pigheaded that he cant even recognize when someone’s holding his hand, pulling him along and trying to set him straight.
He’s a Reid isnt he?
There’s a reason I never had children of my own. Where was I when I was his age? Well clear of this town, holed up on Spadina with that busted Epiphone, borrowing everything from picks to drummers, waiting. Least I knew where I was headed, knew that I’d die trying. And where’s he? Scrounging, raiding my CD collection for the price of a few beer. Cant see as far as next week. Randy made a fine mess of that one, didnt he.
Had his own burdens to contend with.
Burdens? Goddamn heavy-equipment operator. The machine does all the work.
Rachel.
Rachel. Yeah. But he made his own choices. Like I made mine. And what have I to show now? Randy shacked up with the finest piece of gear on the Shore, then drank her outta the house.
Nobody’s fault Val. Accident. Happens every day.
Still.
Still, what about Massie, no real difference.
She’s alive.
Well then let her live. Just sign the dotted line.
Signed away enough already. Years, gutting myself for the right line, a lifetime scraping my soul.
Watch it now, the theatrics…
And for what? So some snot-nosed young pup with a pretty smile and flashy pants so tight he looks like he’s sporting a muss, some little queer catering to the tourist industry, making a mockery of everything Newfoundland never was, can come along and shove his pointless, self-absorbed mediocrity down our throats? Shove it up your hole young man. Muddying up the radio. Cant sing, cant play, but so long as the camera likes you…
Alright Val, alright. Is that really your competition?
Fuck no.
This pipe, here in your hand. That’s your only competition.
My only comrade these days.
No.
No. I’ll get right on that. Just get myself through this fucking movie now.
And then what?
Cut another record, blow ’em all outta the water, all them muss-boys. Get that song. Tour through the winter, get in the clear.
And Clayton?
Cut him loose. He’ll have to go it alone. The only way to get there.
Massie?
Young Monica, for now. Daddy’s girl.
Val?
Massie, yes. For fuck sakes.
7. Top-notch Security
Ten to eight and rainin a little harder now. A fancy white van with tinted windows pulls up outside Val’s and when I jumps in the driver just nods at me with his fruity sunglasses way down low on the bridge of his nose. I says hi and he barely grunts at me, like I’m scum, but I dont give a fuck cause I’m focused and set to go and he’s just a fuckin driver anyhow. I knows the way this film shit works.
The wind picks up and the rain busts outta the sky. The van’s wipers are doin all they can do as we takes a right on King’s Bridge Road towards Quidi Vidi Lake. I minds now, in me half-sleep this afternoon, hearin the CBC weather and something about Hurricane Susan slaughtering the Cape Breton crowd. I s’pose this is the tail end of it.
In Pleasantville, not too far from me old stompin grounds (the detox centre where I spent many a cheery evening learnin about how fuckin weak us humans are), we pulls up outside this shabby, bland old building. There’s a faded sign in front hangin from its hinges. I cant make it out cause of the rain. I makes a dash for the front door. Someone opens it from inside to meet me. He says his name is Darren, that all I gotta do is hang out for the night and make sure no one fucks around with the building, inside or out. I tries to get some specifics out of him, like what I should expect, but he seems kinda wiped out and eager to get goin. He asks me if I’m Valentine’s nephew and when I nods he says that there’s a bucket and mop in the kitchen area in case I gets the urge to wash up. Clever fuckwad. Nosy fuckin town. He hands me a long and heavy black Maglite, like what the cops uses for bustin faces. I feels like bustin Darren’s face with it. He goes all serious and businesslike then, when he realizes I aint to be fucked around with, tells me to just make regular checks around the outside of the building and that there’ll be crew in around seven in the morning, nothing to it. He shows me a phone in case I needs to make a call, points to a fuckin baseball bat leant against the wall and tells me good luck. And then he’s gone, with the door closin in me face and the rain beatin off it and the wind rattlin the battered aluminum siding outside.
I turns around to have a look at me station for the night, and fucked if I dont catch sight of a dirty big hairy rat scootin down the hallway with a piece of bread in its mouth. Long night ahead I s’pose.
Midnight now, or thereabouts. I cant stand lookin down the corridor at the clock. I’ve been pacin the main area where I’m stationed for a good half hour now. Something, and I’m hopin it was a furnace, made a brief roar a while back and the lights dimmed and blinked and a couple never came back on. I havent been able to sit down for any length of time since. Been sizin the place up. Listening. It’s kinda like a high school. I mean, I knows there’s people rents the place out, like bands, and there’s the movie set here somewhere. But still, I cant quite figure what the fuckin place used to be, only that it reminds me of sneakin around in my old high school in the night time. There’s this echo comes with every little move and it’s like you can feel that there’s s’pose to be people around. It’s fuckin spooky.
All night long, as soon as I tries to settle into me writin, there’s this scuffle and thump down the hall. I knows it’s not the storm cause it’s definitely from inside. There’s no way in fuck I’m goin down there. I points me light down the hall but that’s too fucked-up lookin. Something’s not right with this place. I knows it. I can feel it. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just leftover anxiety, maybe it’s all in me head. I turns on all the lights in the main room where I’m stationed. I needs to piss bad but I dont know where the toilets are.
Fuck sakes, this is ridiculous. I’m a grown fuckin man. There’s a smaller corridor to me left. A handwritten sign that says QUIET, REHEARSAL IN PROGRESS. A light down at the end of the corridor. I keeps me eye on the light and pushes the door open. I keeps the bat held out in front of me and the flashlight beamin straight ahead. I walks down to another set of doors and it’s like there’s someone watchin me from behind but when I turns around there’s nothing. Maybe a scurry, the pinkish flash of a tail. I just catches hold of me bladder in time. I shines the flashlight into the darkest corner and catches a set of beady little green eyes. I turns me back on it then, valiant solider that I am.
At the end of the corridor I finds a sink with bottles of water and cereal bars and dried fuckin apricot shit next to it. No toilets in sight. I gotta fuckin go bad. I lays me cock over the edge of the sink. When I pisses, it’s bright neon yellow from where I had a couple of vitamins at Val’s earlier. It all runs outta the drainpipe onto the floor but I says fuck it, cause I cant stop. I’ll look for a mop later on, succumb to Darren’s witty prophecy. Prick.
I opens the door to where the movie set is and ho-ly fuck it’s like walkin into some mansion on Circular Road. So warm, and there’s deep red carpet and thick wooden polished chairs and one of them couches from the thirties and portrait paintings on the makeshift walls and a monstrous grandfather clock that goes off for a second when I smacks it. And then I sees there’s a bunch of cigarettes in a silver case and an old-style lighter on a table near the couch. I lies down and lights a smoke, but it’s one of them fuckin herbal ones. Story of my life. I thinks back on that night with Donna, when I got all the free smokes outta the machine at the Duke. Seems like ages now, and how in the fuck did she manage to drag me in like that? That’s it though, when you’re deliberately avoiding the hook, that’s when they’re at their keenest to reel you in, when the bait is at its most enticing, poppers and shit like that. I’ll hafta finish off with her now, get on with it all before I knocks ’er up or something. She’s just not the One.
Nice smell off these smokes, but all they does is make me crave a real one. I pockets the lighter. Keepsake.
Cant hear the storm so much in here. There’s a buzzin from the lights and it’s warm. Right on. Must be near on two o’clock now. I s’pose that only leaves me with five or six hours before me shift is done. A hundred bucks a night? Fuck. Nothing to it.
Quiet and quick as I can, I creeps back to the main room to get me notebook. There’s a light flickering and I stands there at the other end lookin at me desk and lookin at me notebook and me lunch. I cant move. All I can do is stare. The light goes out altogether and leaves a black hole over where I was sittin all night and I’m some glad I wasnt sittin there when it happened cause I woulda shit. The storm seems to be tapering off a bit. I makes a run for the desk and scoops up me lunch and the notebook and then tries not to run back to the set but me heart is beatin like mad and the panic takes over and I starts singin, as loud as I can, some old Black Sabbath tune I havent heard in years and cant remember the name of.
Left me fuckin smokes back out on the desk. Looks like I’m on the herbals for a while.
There’s a plug-in heater near the back of the set. I drags it over to the couch and sets it up at me feet. I pulls a scratchy blanket over meself and tries to have a go at me movie idea but I cant get nowhere with it cause I’m too distracted with what Val might think of it, like he’s standin over me shoulder almost. I can just see him shakin his head and laughin at anything I have to say on paper.
All hands came to our house one year when me great-grandmother died and Val came up in me bedroom to roll a joint away from his brothers, who’re cops, and Randy, who was tryin out the sobriety thing for a while. I showed Val a few poems and lyrics I was writin at the time, but I could tell when he was lookin at the page that he wasnt really readin the words, but more or less just findin it funny that I was actually writin. Later on I heard him downstairs sayin to ’em all that it’s amazing how Clayton is startin to “scribble down teen-angst songs” already. Then the old man asks him what he’s talkin about and Val says Jesus Randy b’y, dont you even know what your own youngster is up to? And everything went right quiet then downstairs, cause none of ’em knows how to talk about anything real or how to confront one another. True though, what Val said to the old man. I moved like a ghost through that house for years after Mom died, especially when he had that fuckin Anne-Marie around. Only time Randy ever opened his mouth to me was to bawl me out about something or when he was cockeyed and wanted a real racket. He never had a clue or couldnt give a shit what I was up to, who I was with or where I went. Maybe it wasnt always like that though, maybe it just went that way when Mom checked out. He just hit the booze. I mean, I seen him drunk and stuff before then, like Christmas and shit, Mom givin out to him about it, where all his uncles died drunk or their livers shrunk up or whatever. But he just let go altogether after her accident.
Yes by Christ I reckon the storm is after passin over alright. With the heater on bust and glowin angry orange at me feet I tucks meself under the blanket and closes me eyes. Easy money. The big break I been waitin on. Lay low for the next couple of weeks, get up outta the downtown, off the beer again. Hit the road then, before the weather gets too cold. I tries to take this kinda comfort in me newfound financial security, but every time I starts to drift off it’s like the couch starts shakin and I comes to with the dirtiest black dreams still crisp in me mind. I listens then, and looks around. Could be me heartbeat, where I’m dreamin so heavy and shit. Or maybe just the wind at the building outside. But that’s not likely. No, but I cant let me mind get carried away, cause I havent slept proper in days. I never sleeps when me head gets in a bad way, and me head was unravelling steady this past while. I wants to be sleepin all the time mind you, but usually I just lies in bed starin at the walls and thinkin bad shit and I cant talk to people and I’m always hungry but the thought of food drains the life right outta me. So if I can gather up another hour’s sleep here on the set, I’ll be alright for a while, get back on track. Val says I needs to see a doctor or someone to talk to, but I done all that when I was a youngster. It was all bullshit. No one really gives a fuck, they wants to get you in and out as quick as they can with a prescription in your hands and off to La-La Land. No thanks. Makes a fuckin zombie outta me and then when I drinks I ends up bawlin in a corner with the party goin mad all around me. So I just waits it out these days and tries to stay clear of people as best I can.
I’m just driftin off again when I hears the worst sound I’ve ever heard in me life. The same thing as earlier, only it dont let up this time, and it’s a whole lot louder. A grindin chorus of maybe two dozen burnt-out incinerators roarin to life for the first time in twenty years. It’s comin from the basement. I think. Cant tell. I sits up straight and pounds me two feet onto the floor as loud as I can. I howls at the door facin the main room where me desk is. The noise stops. I listens. I glances at the high window. It’s turnin daylight, but it dont do nothing for the room. The old grandfather clock in the corner says quarter to seven but I dont know if it’s the right time where it’s only a prop. I sits there tryin to hear. Cause maybe I never heard nothing atall. Wait. Crackle from the heater. Heartbeat. Foot. Cant get up. Wait and listen. Listen.
After a while, when I dont hear nothing else, I gets up and shuffles towards the door, the Maglite tucked into the waist of me pants. Me foot is asleep. Every wary step I takes is just a hint of the pain that’s comin. But it’s me own fault cause I’m s’pose to sleep with it up. I goes out to the main room. The glow of the morning is there but it makes the place even creepier where there’s no windows. The place is dead. But I can feel something. Not rats. I scoops up the flashlight then and lights up a smoke at the desk. Deep, deep draws, not lookin at nothing and tryin to look casual. Me novel is there. I flips through it but it’s so long since I read it last I knows I’d only hafta start right from the top. I cant read much when me head gets bad either and that’s the worst cause I loves a good book. But when me head is bad it’s like I gotta read the sentences over and over and sometimes whole pages that dont make no sense or wont sink in atall. So I waits it out like I said and…
Ho-ly shit.
The fuckin elevator. On the way up. Meaning that it musta been on the way down the first time I heard it. Someone in the building. The groan and strain of the old pulley system is suddenly deafening, all-consuming. But even though I’m freaked, and there’s a little dribble of piss after leakin out in me drawers, it’s like I’m bein pulled towards the sound, like it’s reelin me in. I’m draggin me bad foot behind where I’m goin so fast and I’m reachin for another smoke but I knows I should be headin back towards the front doors so I can have a proper standoff with whoever or whatever it is that’s gonna come through them elevator doors. But I cant stop. I looks through the glass doors, down that murky corridor. Sure enough, the light above the old elevator is on. I can feel the floor vibrating under me feet. Further on down the corridor I can see two rats runnin for their useless lives, one with an orange peel clamped in its jaws. I s’pose it must feel like a goddamn earthquake to them matted little fuckers.
The sound stops. A bell rings. The light above the elevator goes out. I’m standin just outside the doors to the hallway, looking in on it. The elevator door slides open. From this angle I cant see into it. I got the fuckin big flashlight though, and I’ll use it by Christ, in ways it’s not meant to be used. Cause I’m fuckin Security now aint I? Yes by fuck, I’m gettin paid a hundred bucks for this and I’m gonna earn me fuckin wages and who gives a fuck if I lives or dies cause we’re all goin sometime. There’s pandemics and tidal waves and fire and brimstone blazin a trail towards all of us, it’s just a matter of time and nothing’s gonna fuckin happen here now and I aint no fuckin gimp it’s just a bit of pain and I can still kick with it for fuck sakes cause I come through real shit to get to this point didnt I?
I clears me throat as loud and casual as I can, but with the echo down the corridor it comes out soundin like some beast chokin on a human shin bone.
I waits and listens, tries to quiet me heart. Nothing. No one comes out. But the door stays open and I can feel the damp cold on the tip of me cock where I leaked a bit. Them rats are gone, only friends I had, only witnesses to the pending doom that’s mine and mine alone. I stands and stares at the door for what must be a good five minutes, tryna control me breathin and tryna take a step backwards, away from the situation, but me hand is locked tight on the bar of the door and I can feel me arm flex and I certainly dont want to open the goddamn door but I am anyway, with me shitty foot draggin behind.
I’m quiet as I can and the rats are gone and it’s not like I can hear breathing from inside the elevator, just a little drip. I takes a hard breath and lunges in front of the door with the flashlight, ready to swing. But there’s no one there.
Just a tiny little…ahhh…wheelchair.
Hardly big enough for a youngster, rusty and with the cushions from the seat all tore open. Drip drip drip. There’s a steady pool of brown water collecting near the left wheel. And there’s no one there. Like it came up on its own.
I says fuck it and springs into the mouth of the elevator, grippin the flashlight halfway up the shaft for the uppercut position. Breathe. I peeks into the corners like some cheesy prime-time copper. No one there. I kicks the footrest on the little wheelchair and a shower of rust and dust rains to the floor. A squawk catches in me throat when one of them fuckin rats runs out from underneath the wheelchair. I takes a quick jab at it with the flashlight and misses. It makes the foolish mistake of not goin for the open door, but retreats into the far corner of the elevator. I pulls back and spears the little sleaze with the butt-end of the flashlight, pinning it into the corner. It hisses and screams at me with the greedy disease in its eyes and I’m so fuckin sick of this night that I’m only in the back of me mind aware that the elevator door is slidin closed behind me while I’m squattin that little sleaze into the corner with the heel of me fresh-polished boot. He claws at me laces but that’s not no use to him and I keeps the pressure on till I hears a little pop and his guts squirts out through his hole. Sick little fuckers they are. Fuckin useless, no place in the natural order of things. They’re just festering little pockets of death and shit. One more twitch of the tail then, and I spits a glob of snot onto it. I turns and pushes the button to open the door. Nothing happens. I pushes it again and holds it in a bit longer. Nothing happens. This whole place is fucked. I tries to keep meself together as best I can, but I bites the inside of me lip too hard and I can feel that damp patch in me drawers and there’s black, black violence when I closes me eyes and I cant catch me breath cause I shouldnta come in here and who really gives a fuck if old Clayton Reid lives or dies anyhow? I screams at the door to open:
