"You can't stand what Charlie boy?" she says, smiling in that way she used too.
I take a look around at the snow falling on the wet pavement, melting on contact.
"I'm just sick of all the bullshit," I say, "all the bullshit that's going on up there constantly - I mean, isn't stuff supposed to start changing now? Aren't we supposed to be like, more mature, or something?"
"Baby," she says, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me in close, "there's still plenty of time for all of that. It's fun up there! I know you're not having a great night tonight?"
"Fucking Brian?"
"Shhh," she says, kissing me softly on the lips.
"I can't believe he didn't show up."
She nods and looks at me sadly.
"I mean, I haven't seen the guy in almost 2 years -"
"He doesn't deserve you babe," she says.
"Do we have to go out tonight?"
"You don't want to go to the bar with everyone?"
I shrug, look down into her eyes.
"Well, what do you want to do?"
"You," I say.
"Charlie!" she laughs, giving me a smack in the chest, "we don't have to go to the bar if you don't want too."
I grab her suddenly and kiss her hard on the lips.
We'd only been going out for a couple months at this point, pretty much since Frosh Week, but we spent every day together, and every night. We both liked sleeping beside each other.
Or maybe it was that we both hated sleeping alone.
On our way back upstairs to my room we pass a really drunk girl in the staircase and she is sobbing to herself, trying to be silent but failing. Samantha asks her what's wrong, and the girl can only blurt out one word: fucked.
Chapter 16
"How did you convince that rotten bastard to lend you the convertible?" Sylvester asks, astonished. His eyes are all red and glazed over and his breath stinks because the bastard is utterly hung-over on a Thursday afternoon.
"Oh Paul's a prince once you get to know him," I laugh. "He's really quite agreeable, given the right circumstances."
"Whatever."
"Yes, whatever indeed."
"Where the fuck are we going anyways?" he says, looking away like he has something infinitely better to be doing.
"I told you, first we are going to the Casino, and then we are going to buy some cheap beer over in Hull with our winnings."
I'm starting to study the streets because we're getting close to the Salvation Army. Last night I dreamt about Sam and when I woke up I reached over for her and found Natasha beside me instead. She didn't have a clue what was going on, which did make me feel a touch guilty, I'll admit (although if she paid more attention to anyone other than herself, she might notice these things).
I spot a girl with big tits in a short skirt with a couple piercings and a tattoo on her arm - but she is far too haggard. The day is bleeding into night and everything is sort of grey-bluish right now. Shadows run long over the pavement, grey giants being pulled forward by the chains of another day.
"So, are you coming out next weekend for my birthday, you little prick?" Sylvester asks.
He ruffles my hair like I'm his bastard son or something, and it pisses me off quite a bit, but I manage to laugh and say 'oh i'll be there sir' and he says 'right on' and I say 'yea'. Then I see a hooker who fits the profile. Her skirt is hiked up almost to her hips and she's got a pair of rocking tits. Her face isn't all that great, but I know Sylvester doesn't give a fuck about that.
"See that girl there -" I point, "best lay I've ever had."
"Her?" and the filthy bastard leans half-way out of the car to get a better look.
"She can do things with her tongue that I didn't think were physically possible. I mean, I've never been one to associate myself with rim-jobs but - she changed my whole perspective on things man."
Both of us are just staring at this broad now and she winks and smiles at us as we drive by. God did I feel sorry for her. I wonder if her daddy was nice to her, or if her mommy was around while she was shooting H and smoking crack with her beauty friends. But all of that was so played out now; it was hard to even feel sorry for anyone anymore.
"You're serious eh? She does have a great looking rack, nice legs - what about her lips?"
"Oh, they're definitely used, maybe a bit like opera curtains, but she lets you take the back door," I say.
"Perfect."
"Yes, and she's going to be all yours in a couple of nights."
"You serious?" he says, turning solemnly to me.
"Absolutely Syl, it's your fucking birthday bro, you really deserve it. Just make sure you stay with me on the big night."
"You bet your ass I will," he says.
Inside I feel a bit like sewage is seeping through me, but I swallow the bitterness and the rage because a slow and meticulous attack is always most devastating.
I have class tonight and in this feeble hour I feel pretty goddamn rotten because earlier today I had a conversation with Sam and it didn't really go at all as I had planned. She wants to see me again too, but not in the same way. My head is swirling with sour liquor so I puff back a smoke and pick up the Citizen on my way to the Arts building. While the teacher drones on about the evils of democracy and capitalism, I read about Iran and women being shot in the streets, children being massacred in Syria, and the hockey scores from last night. I curse because none of the players in my pool got any points and a couple people look over at me and I smile back at them smuggishly. There's a small square in the local section of the paper that catches my eye:
Students and others are asked to beware of a grey Impala reportedly driving through downtown Ottawa at night. The car has been seen in the market and student housing areas over the past few weeks. The man allegedly poses as a cab-driver, and will attempt to pick up pedestrians after the bars are out in the Byward Market. A 19 year old girl was given a ride through hell last Saturday night when she was abducted from the market by the phantom cab. Luckily, she was able to escape through the window of the vehicle by the SouthKeys mall. Another 21 year old girl was sexually abused near the Hurdman bus stop two weeks ago. The man is described as balding and in his mid 30s or early 40s. There have been five reported cases of abduction so far, although police are unsure as to the number of unreported incidents. One victim reportedly gashed the man's face when she escaped. People are asked to make sure any cab they enter is properly marked, and any car acting suspiciously should be reported immediately. There is speculation that some of the recent missing children reports could be linked with the phantom cab.
The class ends and everyone files out but I can't move yet because everything feels numb. The prof walks past me and she looks at me like maybe she should know who I am, but none of that matters now.
It is shithead's birthday and we're out at the Royal Oak sitting at a long table with all the boys. I've managed to squeeze up right beside Sylvester and I've been force feeding the slob shots of tequila and broken-down golf-carts all night. It's amazing the amount of booze a buffoon can consume without flinching or burping. Eventually, I start tossing hits of Ecstasy into his shot glass, and it's not like I'm drugging the guy or anything, because he's already eaten three on his own accord. I'm on them too and the room is dangling dangerously low or maybe I'm just holding my breath. I take a shot and watch Sylvester devour another whiskey shooter with a little pill dissolving in the brown liquid. The pill makes him gulp funny but by now he's too shitfaced to notice much. A waitress stops and starts talking with him so I pound back another shot myself and shake my head. Dennis and Patrick are talking about some girl they tag-teamed the other night, and when someone asks them if they wore condoms they both look at the guy weird and say 'fuck no, man' and then laugh.
I keep looking around the crowded restaurant for Sam. She started working at the Oak near the end, and I didn't like it. But sitting here with everyone, having drinks and talking loudly, it was almost enough to convince me tha
t things weren't so bad - that maybe things could go back to the way they were?
A band is playing at the front of the bar and they're pretty good, the music all Celtic and obtrusive, drowning out Sylvester's fucking nuisance and constant jabbering. This morning I woke up at 6:30am and couldn't get back to sleep because it felt like someone was watching me. The little red light on my phone never stops blinking.
Dennis and Pat's eyes are bulging right now, their pupils like black marbles, while Gordo looks about ready to pass out in his chair. This guy sitting beside me with a Mohawk, who I've never met before, is telling me all about his band.
"We really rock man - it's going to blow-up, for real?"
"Hmm," I nod, taking a long drink from my beer. The kid is wearing all black and if I'm not mistaken he's got a little black eye-liner on too. He worked at Pier 21 with Sylvester, and he had tattoos covering his arms and neck. I hate him.
"We do like a trip-rock grunge-techno style, it's really unique, man. Do you like Marilyn Manson?"
"Huh, sure."
"Well it's a little like that - but not really, like I said - we are really unique."
"Yea, I can tell."
"So like, what are you into?"
"What am I into?"
"Yea - you know, like, what's up with you?"
"I have no fucking clue," I say, "but I do have to take a piss."
The guy looks at me funny as I get up and head towards the back of the restaurant. The bartender says Hi and one of the waitresses nods as I move past. Samantha used to try and bring me in here all the time. She always wanted me to meet everyone, and she would introduce me with this big smile on her face. She didn't have too, but she did - she wanted too, and everyone she ever introduced me too got to shake my dead hand. I didn't trust a single fucking one of them. She did though. She liked working in a pub. I guess that was one thing I could never let go, because I knew what these places were like. But still - I was hoping she might be here tonight.
My stream is a bit propelled above the urinal because the Ecstasy is really starting to kick in now. I laugh and wipe some of the sweat from my forehead. I can feel my eyes bulging. It is fucking hot in here, goddamnit. My head feels all fuzzy and warm and good.
When I get back from the bathroom Mr. Trip-rock Grunge-techno asks me if I like Lady Gaga, and when I just stare at him and grind my teeth in a menacing way, he stops talking to me. Dennis buys everyone a round of shots, the tequila goes down rough but the lemon stops me from puking, barely - I'm trying to remain calm. Sylvester keeps turning drunkenly over to me and asking when we are going to the opera. I tell him soon.
"Charlie, let me tell you something man," Sylvester says, slurring his words. "There's this place, this shitty little place on Percy Street, right by the Greyhound station. And you can go there, at night, and, well? it's like a whorehouse."
"Yeah, so?" I say. "So what Sylvester? Since when is fucking whores anything new for you?"
"Well, like I was saying, these aren't the usual type of hookers, they're? younger."
"How young?" I ask.
"I don't fucking know man, it's not like I ask to see I.D. But they let you do pretty much anything to them, no restrictions or anything like that?"
"Who let's them do anything? The girls?"
"Not exactly?" he says, staring at me with wide eyes.
"What are you trying to say right now, Syl?"
"We should go together sometime, that's all. They have a couple big dogs that you can usually hear barking, and there's this girl in a room at the back, and she's in there naked. It was good man, real good. They let you video tape it if you want, and you can fuck her anywhere."
"Don't you think that's like, weird, man?"
"Why? What's the difference? I've fucked hookers with you before Charlie boy?"
"Yeah, but?"
"It's a service, that's all - I have money, they offer me a service, and there's nothing more to it than that."
I throw another pill of Ecstasy into his beer while he ogles some passing waitress. 'We're heading over to Percy?' Why did that house keep coming up? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I see a grey car pulling away from the curb.
But the boys are really getting into it now, standing on their chairs and singing along with the band:
'Oh, I wish I was in Sherbrook now,
Goddamn them all!
I was told we cruise the seas for American gold,
We fire no guns! Shed no tears!
I'm a broken man on a Halifax Pier,
The last of the Barrett's Privateers.'
and even I have to admit I'm having a jolly fucking good time. Some of the waitresses come over and start singing with us, and my hand sort of slips onto one of their thighs and she doesn't mind until I get a little greedy. Patrick is puking on the floor underneath the table and Gordo has managed to tip over a full pitcher of beer. So naturally, we all get thrown out. Sylvester quite literally by the cuff of his collar is shoved out the back steps because the goof can hardly walk right now. I watch him stumble down the few steps and hit the ground with a solid thud. I laugh at the bastard and help scoop him up.
"Where are we going now?" he asks, completely clueless as to what is happening around him, his jaw twitching.
"You're coming with me birthday boy," I say. "I've got a little surprise for you."
"What's the surprise?" he says, slurring the words together so it comes out something like was-de-serpise.
"Oh you're going to like it big man," I say, handing him another pill. "Remember that blonde chick I showed you the other day, the one with the rack and the tongue-"
He nods his head, pops the pill and says "So, like, I'm gonna fuck her."
"Yeah man."
"Cool."
I move behind Sylvester as he stumbles down the streets with pupils the size of fucking quarters. He's sort of mumbling to himself which makes me laugh but there are lots of police cars driving around tonight, and this drooling oaf is attracting way too much attention. Pat and Den yell after us, but I wave them away with my free hand. I hurry our pace, pushing on Sylvester's drenched back with the palm of my hand. I can see the hotel sign in the sky all shining against the placid black. Our shadows move silhouetted against the cold pavement, just a couple of black smudges moving silently through the still night air. I've given Sylvester 6 hits of ecstasy now. The cries of drunken girls mixed in with all the sirens and staggered movement makes my head spin. I lose Syl momentarily as he prowls around some young looking girls standing outside of a club. They look at him funny because there is sweat just dripping off his face right now and his jaw is twitching. He keeps trying to ask one of the girls for a smoke, but his words aren't coming out right. I grab Sylvester by the arm and drag him away before he gets arrested.
"It's my birthday," he says.
"No shit."
"I'm 24."
"Yeah."
"Does that mean I can't sleep with 16 year old girls anymore?"
And by the way he looks at me with wide eyes and a narrowed forehead, I can tell he's genuinely concerned. I pat him on the back and say 'I'm pretty sure the legal age is 15 these days anyways' and he says 'nice'.
God I was an awful prick.
We get into the hotel somehow without getting arrested. I shove him past the receptionist because I've already got the keys to room 66 in my pocket. She gapes at us as we move past. There's no way she could possibly understand how fucked up we are. In the elevator Sylvester starts to puke on himself and he sort of has a seizure I guess because he falls down and his eyes roll up into the back of his head. I smack him a couple of times in the face and drag him into the room. The bastard is really heavy and I end up knocking his head hard against the edge of the elevator door. Luckily, the hallway is deserted.
The room is utterly plain, a couple of dead looking flowers painted on the sheets that are tucked in tight under the mattress. Sylvester is in the bathroom staring at his own face in the mirror, and beads of sweat are d
ripping off the tip of his nose, splashing flat against the porcelain sink. He reaches out towards his reflection, and then stops with his hand caught in mid-air. He looks horrified at what he sees.
"Here, drink this you fucking slob," I say, shoving a bottle of beer into his hand.
And the idiot chugs down the beer like water. He collapses on the bed and his eyes are really bugging me out right now because I've never seen anyone's pupils so big and black. I bust out a rail of coke to calm myself down. He asks for one too so I pull out the bag of Extra Strength Tylenol that I busted up earlier tonight. I chalk him up a line and the douche bag snorts it back like a champ.
"How was that?" I ask.
"Fucking golden," he says, all coughing and choking.
"Good," I say.
Sylvester stumbles around the room for a bit, making strange noises with his throat, and eventually he lies down on his back just staring at the ceiling because he's probably dangerously close to overdosing. I step out onto the balcony and the cold air hits me deep in the lungs, stinging my charred nostrils. I pull out my cell phone and dial the number for Vicky.
No answer.
I call again.
No answer.
I call again.
"Hello?" she answers, all out of breath and annoyed.
"I'm ready for you over here?" I start.
"I'm with a client?"
"I paid you in advance, or did you forget that part Vicky?"
"Listen man?"
"No, you listen man," I pause, take a deep breath, " - don't try pulling this shit on me tonight - this is very important, you got that? This has to happen, okay? So don't you dare try fucking me around?" Exhale. "Courtyard Marriott, room 66, and if you make it here before that thing inverts itself or whatever, I'll pay you double."