Right Away Monday, page 8
Lord mercy, what’s h’after gettin into me? Monica sweet’eart h’is that you? It’s me, your mother.
Lookit, round and round ’e goes, retryin h’every possible contact point for a break in the circle of soapy death, like ’e dont h’even trust ’is h’own mind. Does it ’ave a mind? A family somewhere? A family that loves it? That wants it to come home? I can feel the giggles comin on now.
My camera this h’afternoon. I ’ad it in my ’and, put some food in the cat’s dish, and then turned to leave but the camera was gone. I retraced my steps from where the cat was h’eating, on through the main room and back to the porch maybe a dozen times. I lifted the same newspaper and my jean jacket every time I passed it, h’expecting the camera to just magically materialize beneath one or the h’other this time round. H’over and h’over I repeated my steps till I was literally spinning in circles like this little creature ’ere now, trapped in a circle of Palmolive. I wasnt likely h’even gonna use the camera, didnt need it, but more or less needed to reassure m’self that I wasnt gone mental. I finally had to leave the h’apartment without it. The h’afternoon dull and h’overcast. Perfect weather for black and white.
The h’earwig scuttles back to the centre of the circle and stays there, doesnt move. I nudges ’im once more with the pencil and ’e makes a dash towards the h’edge of the circle, stops just as ’e would ’ave collided with the dish liquid, does a quick U-turn and then charges for the h’other end. ’E digs ’ead-first into the Palmolive, little legs scrambling for traction as the thick gel h’envelopes ’is body. ’E drags ’isself ’bout a h’inch before the convulsions h’overtakes ’im and ’e curls ’isself into what must be a purely h’instinctive foetal position. De-feated. I watches ’im twist ’is last, then I snatches a quarter from my tip jar and lays it h’over the poor dyin creature. I presses down on the quarter, slow and firm, with my thumb, the crunch kinda rewarding, like good boot ’eels on broken glass, but not quite loud anough for my satisfaction. Leaves me feelin kinda drained and cheated, kinda h’empty. My ’ead feels suddenly cloudy again, the clatter of the bar floodin my senses tenfold. That dull h’ache in the middle of my back. I takes a dizzy spell from ’oldin my breath.
As I’m washin h’away the squat mess of h’insect and dish liquid I h’almost jumps h’outta my skin at the sound of Mike’s distinct townie brogue shoutin at me above the blare of the music for his usual glass of soda water and lime cordial. I never h’even noticed ’im comin h’in. I scoops some h’ice into a glass. I knows my face is red as a beet. I ’ope ’e wasnt watchin too long. ’E’ll think I’m cracked. Maybe I am. A splash of lime down over the fresh h’ice before topping it with soda, as ’e likes it. I know my smile must look so fake as I ’ands ’im the glass. ’E likes ’is bartenders smilin. ’E moves round the h’edge of the bar and leans h’over my shoulder to speak. I moves my h’ear h’upwards to meet ’is damp, smoky voice.
—Clyde had to cancel his day shift for tomorrow. Can you handle a double-up?
Counting my h’own day shift this Friday that’d make it a five-day week. Not bad. Pick up a gram of blow later tonight, h’if tips is good. H’if not I’ll just ’ave to ’old h’out till the weekend. Mr. Landlord’s been a real nuisance lately. I stands on my tiptoes to shout back h’into Mike’s h’ear.
—Not a problem! I’ll be ’ere.
—What?
—I said I’ll be ’ere!
—Excellent. I like your outfit by the way. You should do good tonight.
Mike snaps a dollar h’onto the bar before swaggering h’off to the pool table. I ’as a glance at the clock on the far wall. ’Leven forty. Jim holds up ’is latest h’empty glass and I starts pourin a double London Dock. There’ll be a livelier crowd later on for sure. And the time goes so fast h’after twelve. Clayton winks at me when ’im and Donna and the rest of that bunch walks through the front door. I cant ’elp smilin at ’im. It’s good to be winked at.
I grab the h’ash bucket from h’under the sink and a stack of clean h’ashtrays from beside the register. The h’ashtrays on the bar isnt exactly overflowing, but it ’elps kill a bit of time.
Bartending, h’all ’bout killin time…
10. Into the Cold Black Nothing—Continued
We meets that Patty missus, the one from the film, gettin out of a cab in front of the Hatchet. She got this flashy gaylord type in tow whose teeth are too fuckin white for my likin. He got granny glasses on with no fuckin lenses. They each got little plastic glasses of red wine and they’re laughin together about something that musta gone on in the cab. But when she turns around and I’m standin right there her face drops and she straightens out her sparkly blouse.
—Hello Clayton.
And then the gaylord lowers his glasses, like he cant fuckin well see me proper through the goddamn frames, and gives me the special once-over.
—Oohhh, Patricia, is this our enforcer? Sexy.
He holds out his hand, limp, like I’m s’pose to kiss it instead of break it, but I dont bother either way.
—So ahhh…when should I expect to get paid for the other night?
—Clayton, you assaulted, you hospitalized one of my employees…
—Well no, not exactly, if someone’d hear my side.
—He had seven stitches above his eye.
—Does no one know what’s down in that fuckin basement I wonder?
Donna pulls up to the curb then and toots the horn and I sees that that tasty young Claire is there in the front seat.
—Well, whatever went on, all I know is that Darren might be pressing charges.
—He came at me from behind! I was securing the premises like you said. And a hundred bucks is what I’m owed.
—Well I already gave it to your uncle.
She pushes past me and in through the front doors of the Hatchet.
—What?
—I gave it to Valentine at the wrap party last night. He said he’d pass it along.
—Are you fuckin mental or something?
She disappears inside and the gaylord gives me arm a little squeeze as he’s passin me.
—We’re all mental in our own little way hey Clayton?
He winks then and gives me arm another pump before he skips inside behind Patricia. I knows fuckin well I wont see a cent of that money off Val. What am I gonna do, just come out and ask him for it? Jesus.
Charges. What fuckin next? The world is gone so fuckin backwards. The way I came up was if someone gave you a smack you either struck him back right there on the spot or you squared off out behind the snack bar on a Friday night. Charges. And sure there I was in the line of duty. And he’s the very one who handed me the bat and the flashlight the night before. What was I s’pose to do with a goddamn baseball bat all night, hunt fuckin rats? And sure what was he expectin, fuckin around and gettin me on the go like that? He got what was comin to him as far as I’m concerned. And he’s lucky it was only the flashlight I used. Seven stitches? Sure that’s fuck-all.
Donna the speed freak with greasy Jane in the back beggin her to slow down. We’re sluggin back piss-warm wine coolers, takes the turn onto the Middle Cove parkin lot doin about eighty clicks. That’d be just fuckin perfect wouldnt it, to die in a car with this lot, caught dead with a wine cooler drove up me hole. We all piles out and down to the beach with that fat smell of seaweed and salt fillin me lungs. The roar from the waves. There’re a few little fires on the other end of the beach with bottles clinkin and the burnt smell of marshmallows on the wind. Donna tries to take me hand but that little Claire, the one with the gear that we snorted off the dash on the way out, I can feel her watchin, so I scoots on up ahead.
After I gets a good fire goin (cause none of these pansies knows nothing about startin one) we all has a toke with some of Claire’s good gear mixed in for flavour. The back of me throat goes right nice and numb so I can just pour the coolers down without hardly swallowin. Donna says she’s cold and tries to snuggle up next to me. I lets her for a second but then it feels too put on, so I starts to strip down.
—What are you doing?
—Goin for a dip, what’s it look like?
—Clayton, it’s pitch black. It’s freezing out.
—Anybody else?
I gives Claire a slick look then cause I’d love to get her in the bare buff and I wouldnt give a fuck, with Donna right here on the beach, I wouldnt give a fuck. Cause I knows where me heart is not alright.
But no one else is gonna bother cause they never heard tell of swimmin in the salt water, unless they were off in Florida on a cozy little family vacation. But I’ve been jumpin off the wharf and fallin outta boats now since I was yay fuckin high and it’s so long since I had a swim I’m just gonna go for it.
I stands at the edge of the water and lets it lap over me toes and yes it’s fuckin well cold enough. Me bag pulls right tight. But I can hardly change me mind now with all them fuckin city dwellers watchin, dyin to see me back down. I stands there for a bit, gapin into that enormous black, the seagulls squelchin overhead. Donna says please be careful Clayton. A wave laps up over me knees and it’s so fuckin freezin it almost guts me, but I just says fuck it and dives straight in before I loses me nerve.
The salty death cold cuts right through to the marrow in me bones. There’s a bit of a headache but it’ll pass. The swell is rockin me back and forth and pullin me farther away from the beach. I flips onto me back to stare up at the never-ending gloom, me feet just barely touchin the smooth rocks underneath. I stays like that, on me back, till I cant feel the bottom no more and the sounds of the fire and the seagulls are duller now with this pull, this massive strength wantin me to just keep driftin out into the cold black nothing to join to the thousands upon thousands of other lost, unsettled souls.
On the upside of a swell I hears Donna’s raspy laugh on the wind and I catches a glimpse of all them people, people I dont know, who dont know me, who’ll never know me, standin around pokin sticks at the fire I just made for ’em. And I knows I could go back to that, swim in to shore and wrap meself in Donna’s blanket from the car, mosey on back to St. John’s and live in that rickety little world I got rigged up. Wait around for the big something to happen, for everything to just fall from the sky and be alright, for that someone who’s out there somewhere who’s gonna make it through with me and point me heart in the right direction, rid me of this coldbloodedness I cant seem to shake no more. I could go back to that.
Or I could drift away and never be heard from again.
Sink into the black till I’m more welcome than I’ve ever been anywhere.
I hears me mother’s laugh in that fine girlish way she had. One more snippet of conversation from the fire, the beach rocks rollin and crashin against the cliff face. There’s gonna be a dirty scar on me hand from the sambuca burn cause it’s turned bright fleshy white in the dark. I have a vague sense of me legs but it’s like they’re melding with the water and the black, black night, and then that emptiness coats me over and that sound again, that nothingness, that hard disappointing sense of silence like dust settling on a playground after all the children just abandoned their rides at once cause where they knew I was comin.
The sand and rocks between me toes and the wind at me chest and I’m walkin upright again. The fire is there and there’s a blanket and me eyes are burnin and swole up I s’pose from the salt water. I’m tryin to settle me breath and I can feel everyone not lookin at me while Donna says right soft, with her hand kneadin the back of me neck:
—Well, there you are. We thought we lost you for a second.
And yes I thinks yes, I s’pose you did, yes…
11. The Arm of God
Mike behind the bar again, huffin and puffin cause Monica never showed up. He slips another beer in me hand before I has a chance to even ask for it. I wonder would I have had another one?
—On the house Clayton.
Yeah fuckin right. First two rules of rock-and-roll. I tips the bottle to me mouth nonetheless and nods me thanks at Mike. The cold froth collides with the fiery acid in me chest and me torso erupts in a spasm of hiccups. A sickly swell of hot bile shoots up the back of me throat and up through me nasal passage. Snot and sin and hangover sludge drips from both me nostrils. I gets this sharp cramp under me ribs and it’s hard to take a big breath for a second. Mike slaps a wad of crusty commercial tissues in front of me even though they were well within me reach. I wipes meself and then stupidly dabs at me watering eyes with the same spot on the tissue. Now there’s a coating of bile in one of me eyes too. One of them days is it? I lets the tears run free down me cheeks. Fuck it. The clock says half past two. Tuesday afternoon? I was plannin on stayin home today, workin out some shit on paper. Makin a list of shit I gotta get done. Maybe work on me play. I havent really written anything down yet, but I got a fair bit of action bumpin around in me head. I sorta scrapped the movie idea. For now. I brought me notebooks down to the kitchen table this morning, but Val was hangin around too and dead quiet and not fit to look at. Pacin around the kitchen with his guitar, grindin his teeth and scratchin at his neck, the clunky echo of his heels like a mallet beatin at the inside of me skull. The steady creak and crank and pop of the old hardwood floors. He never looked at me. I flew into him a couple of nights ago about the whereabouts of me table and we’ve barely grunted at each other since. Prick. So I figured it was either the Hatchet or the damp, squat quarters of me bedroom with a pillow wrapped around me head.
Or Donna’s place.
No contest.
Mike crouchin beneath the sink with a little Maglite clamped in his teeth. I takes the opportunity to give me nose a good blow, clear the rest of the slop out of it. I holds the tissue to me left nostril and plugs the other with me knuckle and blows as hard as I can. What sounds like a woman’s scream mingles with the thunderous crack of me eardrum. Fuckin creepy, my head is sometimes. Mike jumps to his feet from beneath the sink and leans over the bar as far as his big belly will let him, his neck bent towards the front door.
—What in the fuck was that?
The force of his roar and the panicky look in his eyes almost topples me off me barstool. How in the fuck could he hear my eardrum crackin? I’ve been doin that since I was sixteen. I minds of the first time I done it. I’d had this nasty ear infection for near on two weeks. Everything muffled deep inside meself, me own voice seemed so far away and this incessant, relentless ringing that almost drove me insane. I was stoned on weed, this real potent hyper shit that hadda been laced with something, rat poison maybe. Three o’clock in the morning and I was walkin home past the Ferryland graveyard and I thought I heard a child cryin out for help from way down in the back by the cliff. I stopped and listened hard but it was just that fuckin ringing in me ear and then I got thinkin that it was just the shitty weed and then I got thinkin other shit and I started runnin flat out down the long black stretch of highway between the graveyard and the first lights of the Cove. I was nearly sick on the side of the road when I finally stopped. I leaned over and plugged my two nostrils and pushed as hard as I could and when I did I had this fuckin, I dont know, this moment. I felt the pressure liftin in me head and the pop of me eardrums and the ringing slipped away like it’d never been in the first place. Fuckin orgasmic. But then, get this, the very moment me eardrums are crackin I hears the old man’s drunken snarl in me head and he’s belchin at me:
—I mean that stuff sounds like one big suicide note. You needs fuckin help b’y.
Clear as day, that very line echoing around in me head like that. But with my ears cleared up fine and dandy I never made nothing of it cause I was so relieved to have me hearing back. A few days later I’m tearin the house apart lookin for me journal and finally I hafta have a go at old Randy cause there’s no other way it woulda disappeared outta me room. He denies it of course, says he never touched it. Then the big racket gets on the go, only he knows better by the time I’m sixteen not to lay a fuckin hand on me. And finally he comes out with it. He shouts at me:
—I mean that stuff sounds like one big suicide note. You needs fuckin help b’y.
Just like that, the very same line. Like I was already there in my head a few days before. Like it’d already happened in some other time or dimension or whatever, if you believes in that sorta thing. Like my head, in the state it was in with the ear infection and the dodgy weed, had tapped into some other space in time, or had a peek through some window into what was to come. I dont know. Sounds kinda fuckin wacko I s’pose. I nearly crumpled to the floor when he said it though. I shut right up, and so did he, thinkin maybe he’d got the upper hand on me. If he only knew. Me, conscious and aware and alive. All the haze of me childish existence burned away and I was literally and utterly in the world for the first time. This blazin fresh awareness, how the things I said and did had an effect on the people around me, that other people had feelings and thoughts and hearts. I was awake. And then I went around for about two years with me head hung low and self-conscious and depressed and, to be honest, wishin I was dead and thinkin about ways to top meself. How fucked up is that?
