Right Away Monday, page 7
But them VLTs? Fuck, fellas must see the little cherries and bells in their sleep when they closes their eyes. Oh yeah, I’m after hearin tell of fellas actually dreamin on hittin the jackpot and then wakin up all fucked up and broke and wantin to die. And some even do toss themselves into the harbour or slit their wrists every once in a while. Fuck that shit.
I says hello to Mike when I passes but he dont even look at me. I can see the reflection of them lemons and sevens in his eyes. On me way up to the bar I says fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck cause I dont got no money where Donna’s been buyin all night. So it’s either go home right now or start up a new tab at the Hatchet. But I dont know how I’ll pay it off where I’m pretty much fucked for cash these days. I’m owed a hundred bucks still, for my fuckin aquatherapy session. Cant bring meself to phone ’em up though. I heard a rumour that they’re none too pleased with me. Fuck ’em. Val’s got a gig at the Ship Thursday night and wants me to lug some gear around, but I s’pose I’m after outgrowin that shit. Could sell off a few of his CDs though, he’d never miss ’em. Fuck.
Back at the Hatchet and Monica gives me a beer. Fuck she’s dandy in them jeans, red stretchy ones that fits right up her hole. Nice tight lacy bra. Dandy she is, but if she’s fuckin around with yon hippie Keith upstairs, and the great Valentine Reid, fuck knows what kinda diseases she got.
Donna over sitting in the corner with her back to me. Talkin to that Clyde Whelan cunt. He looks over at me but he dont let her know that I’m there, cause he’s dyin to fuck her now isnt he? That nice little one from earlier is there and greasy Jane and that Philip cocksucker too. I goes over and pulls up a chair next to Donna. Clyde gets up as soon as I sits down. The table goes right quiet, so I knows they were talkin about me. But I couldnt give a fuck cause I’m only passin through, I’m only hangin out around town for a while and these pricks are not goin nowhere no time soon I can tell ya that. Philip with his thick blue earrings and twirlin his straw like he owns the place. It’s not too hard to claw yer way to the top of this old town I wouldnt say, ’specially if this crowd is the competition. But I aint stoppin there either. These mopes are content when Petey Thorne dedicates a song to ’em on some odd Saturday night. Makes ’em feel right special. Tucked into their daddy’s pockets and suckin back the light, light extra-light smooth baby-blue smokes. Fuckin crowd.
Donna looks at me then. She got all that crappy makeup washed off, just regular red lipstick on now. Her eyes are a bit swole up so I s’pose she was bawlin. Fuck sakes. People got no sense of humour no more. But townies never did I s’pose. You gotta explain the livin shit out of a joke before they finally gets it in their heads and by that time it’s not even funny no more and everyone is left lookin at their feet. But I mean it was fuckin priceless, me stormin out like that. Right outta the movies. No harm done. And like I said she had no goddamn business wavin the birthday flag cause if I wants special attention I can fuckin well find it on me own cant I? Yes I can.
Donna turns to me then and it’s like she hates me, or wants me to think she does anyhow. I can feel the rest of ’em there wantin her to say what she musta rehearsed in me absence. That Clyde Whelan cunt clutchin his beer over at the bar, watchin our table outta the corner of his eye. Donna lookin at me, just lookin, her lips drawn so tight they’re white at the edges.
Come on girl, say what you’re gonna say, heave it outta ya.
She gawks at me for a long while and I got me jaw set and me two hands gripped under the rim of the table. Cause I’ll flip the cocksucker over if she wants a scene. Not that I really gives a fuck what she got to say to me, just that they’ll all be wantin a reaction and I’ll give ’em all one they aint fuckin well expectin.
—Clayton…ahhh…we’re all goin out to Middle Cove for a fire…if you’d like to come along.
She sips at her drink then and peeks over the top of it towards Philip, but he wont look at her. She shrugs and smiles as if to say she tried her best and that greasy Jane’s head drops like there’s no hope left in the world atall. Dont go outta your ways to make me feel welcome here people. It’s only me fuckin birthday. Fuck ’em. I slides me hand far up Donna’s thigh.
—Who else is comin? What about your friend, that little one was here earlier?
—Who? Claire?
Philip lookin at her then and shakin his head with this fake baffled little snarky grin like This is all just too much.
—What’s your fuckin problem?
That makes him jump then cause they aint used to bein talked to like that out here in the big city, tucked away in their cul-de-sacs with the fresh-cut lawns and sprinklers and slidin glass doors and all the fond family vacation pictures gatherin dust in the spare fuckin bedroom.
—Excuse me?
—I said what is your fuck-ing prob-lem?
Donna gives me a little tap then and laughs loud in that jagged whiskey way she got.
—Dont mind him Philip. He’s only joking.
She gives me hair a little toss and I catches her hand and lays it down flat on the table without lookin at her. I’m blazin a hole in the centre of Philip’s thick townie skull. Donna says:
—Dont be so saucy Clayton.
Oh and I can get saucy alright. I’ll show him fuckin saucy to go flutterin his way through the world with his potpourri shit and his swanky salted margaritas. I slams me fist on the table and rattles their fancy drinks and they all jumps.
—So are we goin then or what b’ys? Middle Cove is it? Philip peelin the label off Jane’s beer bottle like it’s all he got in the world left to hold on to.
—Cheer up Philip fer fuck sakes. I’m only fuckin around.
—I know. I know, I just…
—What’s that?
—I just…
—Just?
—I…
—Yeah, yeah. Come on then if we’re goin. You fit to drive Donna?
And that’s as close as they’ll get to a fuckin apology off me.
9. Killing Time
I gotta stand on my tiptoes and squint through the smoke to read the clock h’on the far wall. Eleven thirty. My spine is like murder, this dull h’ache that’s been pulsin and burnin since seven or so. I been squeezin my shoulder blades together, that ’elps h’ease it a bit, but then my tits near pops h’outta my shirt. Why I bothers dressin up for this crowd I do not know. Push-up bras makes me self-conscious any’ow. Felt so bloated and gross ’fore I left the apartment though, I was just lookin to take the h’emphasis off my belly. No matter what I tries I just cant shake the belly, flabby jellied h’ugliness. But then with this bra on I just might as well ’ave “come-hungry fuck slut” stamped across my fore’ead, h’if youse are goin by the looks I’m gettin from these leeches all night. Cant show a bit of cleavage without it bein a h’open summons for slobbers and drools ’cross the bar. Creepy sometimes, this place, some nights. Never know where h’anyone’s from some nights. And then ’aving to lock up on your h’own.
Back at the goddamn ’Atchet. Full circle. Four more hours till closin time.
Must be near on six months now since I quit this place. I only ’alf
’members tellin Mike to go find ’isself a replacement. Loaded in the daytime I was, like one o’clock in the day. I was a mess them days, couldnt keep h’anything down, nothing solid any’ow. Faintin spells in the mornings. But I was lookin good. Shed a good fifteen pounds that month. That day I quit though, I minds m’self spewin on to Mike ’bout university and trudgin h’off to take pictures in Europe. Mike just nodding along, not givin no sign whether he cared or not that I was quittin, just nodding and grinning to ’isself like he musta known I’d be comin back. And so I did. Spent the ’ole summer stoned and wandering around downtown, blew what money I’d put away. And then the h’unemployment crowd gouged me for no good reason. Five or six weeks be’ind on the rent. Mike’s rent. Back at the ’Atchet. Full circle.
Coulda went servin tables, but I’d rather be h’able to scream at drunken late-night lowlifes than ’ave to bite my tongue and take shit from so-called ’igh society. Tips is better in the bars any’ow. People gets drunk and foolish and stupid with their money. ’Specially h’if youse shows anough cleavage. And when I’m in good form, when I’m feelin good and got all my h’exercise in and I ’avent been bingin in the nights when I’m drinkin, when I’m not feelin like the slob I am and maybe I takes a little something for h’energy, to keep me perky and sharp and ’opefully smilin, that’s when the tips start pourin in. And the tips is right ’ere too, and all mine. No splittin it up with the kitchen staff and the h’other waitresses and then waitin two weeks for some pimply manager to divvy it out. Tips ’ere is h’all mine and none of h’anyone’s business.
This place though, mercy. I’ve worked lotsa bars over the years, managed to vanish though, when the scene got too ’ard on the ’ead, too familiar maybe, too dangerous sometimes, too pricey, people tryna get too close. But there’s something different about the ’Atchet. It ’as this way of suckin youse back in and in no time at all you’ve done h’away with the h’outside world again, your h’entire social life revolving around your connection with the place. H’all your friends is h’either staff or regulars and there’s not h’often a difference between the two. Gets sometimes ’ard to tell which one you is y’ h’own self. This place though, mercy, like it seeps into your pores and suffocates you from the h’inside h’out. Sometimes. The smell ’ere, depravity and desperation. But it’s nice to get h’in h’outta the cold I s’pose. One big downtrodden family ’ere, this twisted collection of discards, h’outcasts and fuck-ups from all across the province. Wrenched from the bays and coves and shores like scattered h’iron filings to the big city magnet, desperate for a way h’in, for a h’easy place to rest their jaded ’eads and ’earts. H’all on the run from something or someone, some darkness, some pain too ’ard to face alone in the clear light of day. And no one h’asks the wrong questions, that’s the main thing. Cant say I dont really belong ’ere then. Christ, h’almost good to be back. Not for much longer though, not this time. Maybe h’even tonight. Maybe.
Good place for pictures all the same, the ’Atchet. Camera picks up things in ’ere that none of us can see. Mike says ’e dont like me doin that though, takin pictures of people drinkin. He says it’s a “h’invasion of privacy.” Which it is, but it’s not like I dont h’ask people’s permission, not my fault h’if they’s too drunk to remember givin it to me. Or maybe it is, sometimes, my fault.
Youse cant believe the phone call I got this h’afternoon. My mother. Wantin me to go back to B——. Dad’s sick she says. Youse gotta come home. Just like that, just ’spects me to up and trod on ’ome h’after nine years just cause that h’old bastard is sick? I says to ’er: Sure I knows that Mom, ’e was h’always fucken sick. And she goes right quiet then, just ’er breathin there. Then she goes Monica my ducky, we thought you’d ’ave that stuff h’over and done with now. Still see, still she dont want it to be the truth. Of course she dont, cause what would that make ’er? A fat, greasy fucken ’oremaster like ’im. Imagine me h’off ’ome just so’s ’e can ’ave one last gawk at me afore ’e croaks. Imagine me losin me mind goin down h’over that ’ighway, dredgin h’up all that shit h’after nine fucken years. Sure I’d h’only quicken ’im once I finally showed h’up. I’d h’only just barge h’into wherever he’s laid up and choke the shit h’out of ’im. Dad’s sick. Yes.
Nine years. I lost twenty-five pounds before the court date. Some scandal. Young Monica, h’attention-seekin little ’ore, shit-disturber. The ’ailstorm of gossip and rumour. And me comin h’out on the losin h’end of course, dependin on ’ow youse look at it. But at least I left with my ’ead ’eld ’igh, my dignity h’intact, mostly. Gone h’off to the big city to show ’em all. H’only to wash up at the h’Awl and ’Atchet. Sweet mercy. Then, just when youse think you’ve come through clean, shed away the bullshit, that you’ve h’outran that h’other life, the phone rings. Dad’s sick. Come ’ome. Wrecks my fucken ’ead.
Look at that twitchy Jim McNaughton over in the corner, ’asnt taken ’is eyes h’off me once tonight. He must like ’em ’efty. No ’arm to ’im though, our Jim. I can ’andle an ’ole lot worse than ’im. ’E tips ’is glass to show me it’s h’empty and like a robot I ’eads straight for the taps to get ’im another. Time ’e switched h’over to the London Dock now, I wonder should I make that decision for ’im? Naw. Lord mercy though, dont tell me that this is what I’ve been put on this planet to become: a bartender killin time on two sides of the bar…
Well I can walk away tonight, this very second, h’if I wants to. H’if I ’ave to.
Oh, here comes Limp-along Reid through the front door, back h’again, just couldnt stay clear. H’if I was Donna I’d ’ave the face smacked h’offa that. H’if I thought ’e wouldnt fall apart. Yeah, for h’all ’is bullshit and tough talk Clayton’s a bit lost h’underneath it all. And I’m a good one to talk now isnt I?
I twists h’open a beer for ’im and scribbles it down as spillage, cause I knows ’e got no money. I lets ’im ’ave a good gawk down me top while I swipes at the bar in front of him. Miss Donna dont like that do she? I can feel ’er h’eyes from cross the room. I lifts up the phone to go h’under it with the cloth and something, some little critter, scuttles h’over the rim of the bar just h’outta reach. I couldnt get a good look at it. This place is h’infested, in more ways than one. When Clayton ’as ’is fill of beer and boobs he sidles over to the other side of the room to join Donna. Yes Clayton, I knows the story. You’re just screwin ’er. She’s definitely, h’absolutely not your girlfriend. I ’as to laugh at that feller. Relentless. I ’avent the ’eart to tell him about the table Val gave me. I’m not partin with that h’any time soon. Fuck, cant believe I screwed his uncle Val. And then to go h’all but pourin my heart out in the h’aftermath. Christ, I told ’im h’everything. Details about B——, about court and my father, details Keith ’asnt h’even managed to drag h’outta me. Keith’d be cracked h’if ’e found out about Val. I should fucken well say it to ’im shouldnt I. Yes. Cant trust ’im any’ow, far as youse can throw ’im. Little imp. Still, cant ’elp feelin a bit guilty. What’s it been with me and Keith? Two years h’on and h’off, maybe. And still no sense of nothing steady h’out of ’im, lestwise ’e wants something. And of course ’e showed up at the bar earlier, lookin for some slack, lookin to “take things h’easy” for a while. I never let h’on that I gave much of a shit. But I knows fucken well ’e’s back on the phone with that Natasha slut up in ’Alifax and that he’s burnin to skip town h’again. Thinkin she’ll ’ave ’im back. Slut.
Mercy me, time for a shot now. Tequila. And I dont give a shit ’oo’s watchin me.
Clayton makes a big roar from over in the corner. ’E’s off ’is ’ead. No need for a smart young feller like that to be wiling away ’is nights in the bars. I’ve read some of ’is songs and stuff. They’s pretty good too, might h’even rival ’is famous h’uncle someday, h’if ’e keeps doin it. Seems like some while ago now that I ’ad ’im at the General’s. Mercy, I’m gettin around isnt I? Or it’d look that way h’if h’anyone was lookin. But I’m not like that, no. I never was either. I was drunk and driftin around town and Keith was on the missing list and…I dont know, there was just something ’bout Clayton that night. This charm, he was so saucy and cocksure of himself. And so vulnerable too, like he was daring me to reject ’im just to show me that ’e could take it. Or maybe it was his limp I took pity on. Jesus, ’e musta tolt me ten different versions of how he got that limp. But ’e’s ’andsome too, not too ’ard on the h’eyes that feller. I mind I was right taken in with ’is accent too, but ’e turned h’out not to be h’Irish the next morning, ’e was just h’over there for a while. The sex got a bit rough at the ’otel. I ’ad little bruises around my nipples. Not violent or nothing forced, I’da cut the nuts h’off ’im sure, just Clayton like a savage, fried on pills and wantin me to snort h’outta some little brown bottle. I wasnt really there for the sex and I know I kinda just let ’im ’ave ’is way. I just wasnt wantin to be alone that night. And sometimes it’s just h’easier with a stranger. But youse know what, when I thinks on what fucken h’action I’ve seen lately, what with Keith tryna get ’isself centred, and Valentine’s boozy go at gettin it up, I s’pose a few little bruises wouldnt go h’astray right about now.
Merciful mother, this place is filthy. H’everything is sticky with grime. I runs the ’ot water and lifts up the cruddy old dishrag near the h’edge of the sink. When I’m rinsing the h’ash and booze h’outta the cloth I catches sight of one of them disgusting little h’insects, what’s they called, they’s like little scorpions with the ’ard shells and spitey pincers on their back h’end. European h’earwigs? Is that what they is? Some h’other name too, something more poetic I think. Vile, depraved little fuckers. I turns h’off the tap and stares at it through the rising steam. It’d been scurrying back and forth, confused, rushing around, but stops dead away when the shadow of my ’and passes h’over it. Feelers probing at the toxic countertop for the first sign of trouble. Like it can sense my repulsion. Sweet mercy, it’s lookin right h’at me. Is it? It raises the menacing pincers on its tail as a warning. My skin breaks out, h’inflamed with goosebumps. Creepy little bastard.
I think I ’eard somewheres that people with real ’ouses ’ave started sprayin their foundations with a mix of soap and water, that it works to keep these little cretins h’away. The soap clogs their pores or something. I’ll get this gross little fuck ’ere now wont I. Yes. As I moves my ’and towards the dish liquid the little devil turns its body in time with me. Like the little swine can ’ear me too. I pulls the cap h’on the Palmolive, quiet h’as I can, never takin my h’eyes off the h’insect. In one quick movement I tips the bottle and draws a thick circle, about ten centimetres in diameter, around where the creature sits. ’E doesnt move, or h’even recognize the fact that ’e’s been trapped. Stays just like ’e was, antennas scrutinizing the h’air, pincers raised and ready to plunge. I grabs a wooden pencil from the jar near the phone and gently nudges the beast with what’s left of the h’eraser. ’E dont move. I nudges h’again, this time at the vermin’s midsection, and ’e makes a few bold, lighting-fast h’attempts to latch ’is ’ooks into the pencil’s rubber. Then, deciding maybe that a strong defence is better with a h’unknown h’enemy, ’e bolts towards the shadows beneath the sink’s ledge. ’E dont get far of course, but h’instinctively changes direction the moment ’e meets the dish liquid. Not stupid h’either, these things. My ’eart is pounding suddenly and I dont know why. The blare of the drunken bar, Petey’s scratchy voice, just a low static in the background. I leans in for a closer look h’as the fucken fiend tries h’over and h’over to find a h’opening in the circle of dish liquid, searchin frantic for a h’escape that will not come. Only one way out youse little piece of shit. Mercy now, listen to me, what h’am I doin? I could just crush it and be done with it. I dont h’even feel guilty. Dad’s sick. Come ’ome. Die, youse little fucker.
