Right Away Monday, page 6
—Open! Open you useless, cunnyhoppin, cockfuckin little whore!
Nothing happens. I hauls back with the Maglite and slams that ugly, clunky prehistoric button. The plastic casing around the button shatters and the lens to the flashlight ricochets off the wall and hits me square in the forehead. I slams the button again and screams at the door till there’s a jolt under me feet and the grind of the mechanics and I says to meself thank fuck, cause I aint lettin meself believe that I’m goin down, down into whatever is on the ground floor of this hellhole. The loudest elevator in the history of the world. There’s always suicide Mr. Reid. Always.
When we reaches the bottom, and by we I means me and the wheelchair and that dead little slut in the corner who’re me only friends in the world right now, I’m lookin straight ahead at the door, but there’s another one that opens behind me. I whips around and it kinda grudgingly rocks open and then stays open. There’s a corridor. Everything dead quiet, except for maybe I hears footsteps for a second. And maybe some sorta whisper. But I aint sure cause this is all too fucked up. I cant trust me mind all that much these days anyhow, like I said. There’s the drone and dull glow of a fluorescent light and there’s a ripe smell of old and rank musty garbage like the bottom crisper in Val’s fridge the other night that wouldnt go away no matter how much I scrubbed with the Javex.
I tries the button to go back up, but the door stays open. I turns a left into the corridor and I’m too riled up to stop and praise meself for not limpin for the first time in over two years. That kinda pain is no good to me now anyhow. I takes a left towards the only light that’s workin. The floor, I cant tell if it’s concrete or wood or tiling or what. I cant tell. It’s all mush, squishy, slippery and rank, like trampsin on the flesh of dead animals. I shines the light on it but cant pick out what it is, some invisible texture.
There’s a steady drip as I nears the blue glow of the light and the corridor stops when a room opens up in front of me. I flicks the Maglite around but it dont seem to have much guts left with the lens gone. But I reckons the room is pretty big cause of the way the sound of me footfall changes and the echo of the drip gets louder and you can just tell that shit cant you? The static blue light is flickering a bit and there’s freaky shadows and the smell of mould is stronger here now. There’s rats down here too of course but I’ll kill every fuckin one I lays eyes on. And I still walks on, even though me mind is screamin at me to turn back. But there must be a stairs around somewhere to take me back up where the daylight is, where me notebook and me smokes and the phone and me novel is. The phone. I never thought on the phone when I first heard the racket. How fuckin stunned am I atall not to have called someone? Cause I aint no fuckin security guard…
Me foot bumps against something on the floor. I aims the light at it and it’s like, it’s…it’s a fuckin plastic doll’s arm. Except it’d belong to a bigger doll than I’ve ever seen. And it dont look like it’s made for play. It’s got no fingers, but more or less a plastic scoop for a hand. But it’s certainly an arm cause I can tell by the elbow. I steps forward then and makes a little splash. I’m in some kinda pool, a drained out swimmin pool, cause the way the tiles on the floor are…And ho-ly sweet fuck. I shines the flashlight around the pool and there looks to be the same kinds of arms and tiny legs and little wheelchairs and small wooden chairs like fuckin electric chairs with coarse brown leather straps on the arms for like holdin children in place or some shit and I’m feelin behind meself while I’m backin away cause I’m too fuckin shitbaked to turn me head. When I aims the flashlight up in the corner there’s a sign with some kinda toxic fungus and slime growin on it with the word AQUATHERAPY. Beyond that there’s more arms and legs hangin from hooks on the walls. I’m slowly edgin me way back to the elevator without takin me eyes off the sign or the busted wheelchairs or the fuckin little abandoned limbs. I’m reachin out in the dark behind me, feelin me way, cause I knows if I turns around I’ll just start runnin blind into the corridor and then I’d be fucked altogether. There’s footsteps comin behind me and the rustle of nylon and someone, something, someone is laughin and me knuckle scrapes off what feels like a zipper and then two hands are squeezin me shoulders and someone goes:
—BLAAAAHRRRR!
And I got the heavy steel police-issue Maglite up and I’m screamin something fierce and now the piss is runnin free down me left leg cause that’s the way me cock hangs and I can feel the thud of the flashlight on a skull and someone goes down and I trains the light and there’s blood on someone’s face and I boots someone in the nuts good and hard with me fresh-polished boots and someone says:
—Clayton, Clayton I’m only…
But I’m off, tearin savage down the corridor. All me fine plans fadin fast, all swallowed up in the shock and terror of that prick Darren’s moans. So much for me big break, cause there’s no price on the planet could lure me back here tomorrow night.
Me foot is fine. No pain now. But there will be. I’ll hafta hunt down some tranquilizers later on. And there’s the stairs, there’s the fuckin stairs.
I knew I shoulda turned right in the first place.
8. Into the Cold Black Nothing
Down at the Hatchet for me birthday and Donna’s all dressed in black with black lipstick in that goth way that she’s just too fuckin old for and dont really suit her blond hair atall. I slips over to the bar to collect me head. Same old faces, a few new ones. Some fat bastard with a goatee and one of them French director kinda hats on. He’s drawin something on a sheet of paper for this ditzy young teenybopper type. I hates them fuckin hats. What’s-his-face, that Lawlor fella, he’s been slinkin back and forth all night between here and the old queer bar upstairs. I hear he’s lookin to buy the place, even asked Mike Quinn if he was interested in sellin the Hatchet. Fuck, that’d be some load of shit, fuckin old queen like that runnin the Hatchet. Another fella on the other end of the bar, I knows his face. Some bigshot actor fucker, some VIP, home from Canada, sulkin into his drink cause there’s no lineup for autographs and no one’s offerin to suck his cock. That Clyde Whelan cunt is always goin on about how “close” they are. But where’s our Clyde to tonight? That Charlene missus, she’s after goin downhill since last I saw her too. Her eyes all sunk in and drug-black. She waves across the bar at me and kinda pumps her eyebrows a bit. Fuck, I knows you’d hafta be some hard up for it. I wouldnt fuck her with Petey Thorne’s cock.
Me old buddy Brent is s’pose to be hittin town someday soon, on his way back from some jaunt out west. I hope he shows soon. Watch now, when the two of us gets on the go. Drink this town dry.
Monica behind the bar. Tell me I wouldnt bury me face in that again, by Christ. I tells her it’s me birthday and she slips me a flaming sambuca. When I brings it to me lips I slops a bit on the back of me hand and grinds me teeth while the thin blue flame eats at me skin. Monica just goes right on talkin, like nothing outta the h’ordinary is takin place. She wants to know about Val, or more accurately she wants to know about Massie. Right through the pain, me teeth clenched in a death grip, I tells her Val is a cunt, that I came home the other night and me table was gone. My mother’s table. I put the place up. Val just sat there all innocent, said the house was gettin a bit crowded. Said how the leg was busted anyhow, and what do you do with a horse when it breaks a leg? So what could I do? Walk out? And go live where? Donna’s? What a prick. Monica goes right red for a second, like maybe I hurt her pride or something and so I tells her no, that Val’s not such a bastard, just that we’ve had a bit too much of each other these days. I’ll be fucked if I fills ’er in on Massie though. She’ve no idea what she’s in for.
Me hand curls up tight with the pain, but I wont even flinch. Donna jumps in between us then and blows on me hand but it wont go out so she dumps her fuckin White Russian on it, the crazy fucker. She turns on Monica then.
—What’s the matter with you?
—What?
Cause the music is so loud with that fat fuckin Petey Thorne mangling yet another CCR tune.
—What the hell is wrong with you?
—’Ow do you mean?
—Well you saw what he was doing…
And this pisses me off altogether cause she’s goin around these days like she fuckin owns me or got this obligation to look out for me. Like I’m five years old or fuckin retarded and dont know no better. Like I aint allowed to top meself any old time I wants to without her fuckin say so. Look at her. Face powdered white. If the man upstairs was gonna send me a guardian angel I doubt very much she’d look like that.
Keith walks into the bar then and Monica drops me like a bag of smouldering shit to serve him. She’s suddenly all girlish and flighty. Something goin on there, for sure. Maybe Val’s finally met his match. The whole scene throws me into a rage. I leans over and plucks the smoke outta Donna’s hand.
—How old are ya Donna?
—What’s that sweetie?
—I said how fuckin old are ya, and dont be callin me sweetie.
—You know how old I am Clayton.
—Yeah. So whataya goin around with that shit globbed on yer face like a fuckin youngster for then? What?
Fuckin mean, that’s me when I’m feelin cornered. Donna slinks off, tryna look all wounded, but it dont last long cause I watches that Clyde Whelan cunt, who works the bar sometimes and smells like cat’s piss, scoopin her into his arms for a slow dance to the tail end of the song. The damp under his arms is enough to gag you from over here. Clyde apparently useta be a bit of a hotshot in the local theatre scene. All hands were expecting him to hit the big time. This is like ten years ago. He even had a part in some TV sitcom shot here in St. John’s for a couple of years. Some shit about this family who owned a fleet of school buses. I never did see it but I heard it was alright. But then the network pulled the plug and Clyde’s head was a bit too swollen to go back to the stage so he just hung about in the bars and waited for the phone to ring, waited for his call-up to the big league. Ten years and fifty pounds of pure gut later and he’s downtown with a fuckin bar growin out of ’is chest. Sad I s’pose, if I could bring meself to give a fuck.
Petey Thorne breaks into some faggy old Elvis tune then and Clyde tries to keep Donna on the floor but I s’pose she’s ready to heave. Some tidy bit of gear grabs her by the hand and dangles a little baggie under her nose. Donna’s face lights up and they’re off to the toilets for a session I s’pose. Poor redundant Clyde slumps back down in his stool. And yes I reckon it’s safe to say it is his stool where he’s after groovin the shape of his own arse into it.
Be nice to get that young one on the go with Donna some night, whoever the fuck she is. Wouldnt take too much coaxin for Donna either, I dont say. She’s up for just about anything. Sure, we took a run up to that kink shop on Torbay Road the other day and Donna was like a youngster pickin shit up and gigglin and lookin over her shoulder at the missus behind the counter. Sickening.
—See anything you like Clayton?
So I says to meself yes by the fuck, if she’s gonna go for it, and I picks the biggest monstrosity in the whole shop, this colossal rubber shlong called Black Beauty. She laughed when I picked it out, not thinkin I was serious, but I said Fuck that, you asked girl and this is the one I wants. I s’pose it was just something bad in me that wanted to put her in her place right? Where she’s all the time tellin me to give it to her deeper and harder and that she wants it all when I’m fuckin well balls-deep with the sweat drippin off me chin and it’s almost like she’s mockin me. So I wanted to put her in her place. She bought the Black Beauty and a freaky video I picked out with she-males and midgets with cocks bigger than horses and we headed for her place.
I got her down on the bed and I’m ploughin away, but we both knows what’s on the other’s mind cause it’s all just prep work for the Black Beauty right? She slaps on the video then and I fast-forwards till there’s a bit of action on the go, this little guy with a Hitler moustache got some he-whore impaled on his massive dick and I turns the sound way up and rolls Donna over on her belly the way we likes it, greases up the new toy and…fucked if she dont take the whole goddamn thing. Now, I’ll be straight up to say that maybe I wouldnt mind havin a bit more length on the go, but I dont normally give a fuck about how big me own cock is and sure I’ll whip it out anywhere atall. But when I seen Donna there takin the full length of that Black Beauty from behind like that and not so much as a whimper or a flinch out of ’er, fuck, I dont know, it was a bit disheartening. So I pulled it out after a few plunges and she looked back at me, wantin to know what was wrong, what’s wrong what’s wrong what’s wrong? She wanted me to keep goin with it but I just didnt wanna use it no more and so we watched the rest of the video and did poppers but I couldnt really get back into it, didnt bother tryna finish meself off even.
But I got rid of it, the Black Beauty, that night down on the waterfront, I slung it into the harbour. Just too much competition for my likin.
Donna comes back over to me at the bar. She’s swallowin hard and pullin on her nose so I knows she got a bit of blow on the go in the bathroom. She’s all smiles again now and I feels that mean streak settlin over me cause this is where I fuckin drinks and I could be gettin all kinds of skin if not for her hangin off me and givin the evil eye to any young one who so much as asks me for a light. She hands me a wad of damp paper towel then, says it’s for me hand where it’s burnt, but I bats it onto the floor cause fuck that shit. I’m right ready to lace into ’er again then, but before I gets the chance that fuckin Petey Thorne’s gotta get everyone’s attention to announce a special birthday greeting from Donna to Clayton. Liftin dyin bleedin fuckin Jesus. He breaks into “Wild Horses” and everyone claps and cheers and all eyes are on us, expectin me to get out on the dance floor with her like I’m some kinda faggot. They’re bangin their glasses and bottles and ashtrays and I feels this grin stretch across me face cause I fuckin well told her not to dare mention me birthday to no one and she gotta go do something like this, the coked-up headcase that she is. She backs out onto the floor with her hand outstretched and the big stoned mushy smile on her face. I walks towards her and I’m smilin back and the place is cheerin like we’re newlyweds and Petey Thorne says:
—Oh. Here he comes folks, here he comes.
And I’m hobblin towards her and smilin and she’s standin there in the middle of the floor with her arms open and her head cocked like that.
And I walks straight out the fuckin door onto the street.
The hoots and cheers from inside are cut short straight away. Fuck that.
I told her not to mention nothing to no one.
I darts across the street as quick as I can with me foot like it is and ducks into the Hayloft. Once I’m inside I glances out the window. There’s Donna with her drink in hand, lookin up and down the street, tryna figure which way I went. Fuck that. After a bit she abandons her search and goes back inside, like I aint even worth the fuckin bother on me birthday or something. There’s loyalty for ya.
I passes up to the bar and there’s Mike Quinn pumpin his world into them foolish video lotto machines. I never could wrap me head around that shit and I’m delighted to say I’ve never so much as plugged a penny into one of ’em. Shovin your money into a big black hole. Mike fuckin loves ’em though. He had a few of ’em into the Hatchet when he first got it on the go but he got rid of ’em all one night in a fit. He said he useta feel too guilty all the time watchin fellas blow the phone-bill and the grocery money and some people’d be bawlin at the end of the night, lookin to open a tab. Cant say I understands his double standard, where he’s face-n-eyes into ’em hisself, but I knows I cant stand the sight of ’em and I dont even like drinkin in bars that got ’em. Too many fuckin zombies around. Most antisocial inventions in the history of the planet. Not to say I never placed me share of bets. Back in Dublin I’d grab the Sun first thing in the morning and pick me horses for the day. But at least with the horses you can take shit into account like the jockey and the trainer and the history of the horse and the conditions of the track. You can actually make an informed decision. It’s not just blind button pushin. And the fuckin rush. Jesus, there’s nothing like it. With your horse goin neck to neck and the pints in the air with all hands screamin and roarin come on! Come on! Come on! Fuck. Win or lose who gives a fuck? And I had meself under control too, for the most part. I’d walk into the bookies and decide how much I was gonna spend, and if I lost that much then I’d give it up for the day. But if I won, which was a fair bit, then I’d just pocket what I first paid in and bet me winnings for the rest of it. Simple as old fuck. One day I walked outta Paddy Power’s with nothing less than eleven hundred pounds in me arse pocket. After payin in twenty. And dont think I never got a good drunk on that weekend by fuck.
