"Stop it," she says. "You're waking everyone up."
"I missed you, baby," I say.
"Stop it, stop?"
"And I don't care who hears it," I say, even louder now, "I love this little lady right here!"
"You have to go," she says, but she doesn't mean it. I can tell because her pelvis moves tight against me as I pull her closer.
"I'm sorry about earlier tonight," I tell her.
She nods and kisses me while I whisper romantic nonsense in her ear. She tells me I can stay, but only if we are quiet, because the other girls are sleeping. And like an infant crawling through the womb, I ascend the stairs behind her, my feet clunk-clunk-clunking, pushing forward head first towards her bedroom.
My cell phone dances against my perverted thigh as I move down Natasha's front steps. The winking sun greats me from behind a wall of clouds, and snatching my phone out from my gaping pocket I see that it's Sylvester, the horny bastard, probably calling to yammer on about the latest skank he's walloped with his monster (self-proclaimed). I'd known the guy for 4 years now, ever since freshman year. He was still the exact same kid I met then. He had a penchant for steroids, ecstasy, and prostitutes. He also enjoyed multiple online dating sites, and wasn't afraid to eat the lunch buffet at BareFax. I clench my fist and toss the buzzing little rectangle into the sewer, which makes it the third phone I've been through in the past year (I never cared much for cell phones, ruined the art of conversation, if you ask me). Not in the mood for Sylvester and his meddlesome prick right now, not after Natasha kicked me out of bed and told me to go get a job. It was too beautiful a day to worry about cell phones and jobs.
The streets are speckled with stuttered movement, relatively calm, blue, because it's Sunday. My head is making clicking sounds, a burned out battery, short-circuited wire. The morning air is crisp and bright and makes my eyes burn. My hangover is strong, but not strong enough to deter breakfast. I get a seat in Father's & Son's, a small pub-type bar that was just down the road from Natasha's. The place is always busy on Sunday mornings because it's close to campus and has cheap breakfasts. There's a lot of younger looking kids sitting together, being loud and obnoxious and talking about how awesome last night was.
I order a cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a pitcher of water to start. The waitress gives me a look and wanders off like I just asked her if she shaves.
There's a family of three sitting by the window, the gentle morning glow falling softly on their faces. The daughter is no more than 10 years old and she's got curly, blondish locks hung up at the back of her head in a ponytail. Her grim looking father flips through today's newspaper, staring intently at the pages. He's got that middle-aged man goatee speckled with grey hairs, and I can tell that he is writhing on the inside over all the hard-pricked little bastards who will soon be perusing his lovely daughter. I can tell because he keeps looking around the restaurant, studying various groups of students and frowning. I can also see that the little girl's mother has been blessed with a slender waist, curving hips and a beautiful, bouncing chest. A real treasure; with full pink lips that open and close, open and close. Glistening wet in the yellow-white light. And I wave my fingers at the little girl in the pink dress with blonde curly hair, and she giggles and waves back at me, while her poor, goddamned father looks on helplessly.
Later that day, on my way to class, my mind wanders down familiar roads. I can see so many like me. But nowhere close. Not really. Anyways, I guess we all want the same thing; love, happiness, confidence? whatever? I'm not really sure anymore, to be honest. My buzz is wearing off though. October was always a long month; it was a month for waiting, for getting used to the cold again. It never used to get this cold in South Port because of Lake Huron. My hometown in Southwestern Ontario wasn't anything like Ottawa. There weren't any stripclubs, or prostitutes, or sky scrapers, or parliament buildings; to best honest, there wasn't really anything open in South Port past 9p.m. It was a very quaint little place to live, except for all the drinking and drugs. My dad was from South Port, and everyone knew me has his son, which was probably why Paul never liked it there all too much.
I make my way into a corner store for some cigarettes. I grab a newspaper too and when I ask the clerk how his day is going, he just stares at me blankly with an outstretched hand.
On my way to class, after inhaling a cigarette in about three puffs, I flip through the paper as I walk. It's the same old shit, the usual articles about what the black president's dog is named, another murder downtown, spring elections coming up, and of course, all the latest celebrity bullshit. I find an empty seat near the back of class and sit with the newspaper spread out across my knee. I think this is my political science course on violence, although I'm not sure and don't really care. I watch the other students filter down through the aisles, setting up their laptops as soon as they sit down and going straight to Facebook, or Twitter, or whatever the fuck, anything to take their minds off the fact that they were in class.
I find an article in the Ottawa & Area section of the newspaper with a headline that reads 'Night Watcher Strikes, Again.'
Police are reporting that a man, somewhere between the ages of 18 and 25, has been breaking into homes at night and watching girls sleep. The police suspect he watches the houses, since all five incidents have taken place at homes where only girls live. Four out of the five attacks have taken place in Sandy Hill, the student housing are located just east of the University of Ottawa. The police are warning to be cautious of any suspicious vehicles or persons in the Sandy Hill area?
I fold the paper up and set it down on the desk in front of me as the professor starts to talk up at the front. I sit there trying to pay attention, but I can't help but think of the grey car parked outside of Natasha's place last night.
After class I'm walking aimlessly through campus because I don't want to go home yet. Every car that drives by makes me jump and I think people are looking at me funny. I wish I had my cell phone, because then at least I could call someone, talk to them, and hear their voice (goddamn my impulsive self!). Natasha wasn't going to be happy that I'd lost another phone. I need a drink.
By the time I get down to the market I'm covered in a light sweat, flesh chilled and tingling. A couple homeless people ask me for change, but I can't possibly help all of them, so I shrug and shake my head repeatedly. I am feeling desperately lonely, the sky empty and starless, and Natasha has to work tonight at the Children's Hospital. I liked that she worked at a Children's Hospital, it was better than working at an old folk's home. There was never any hope left at those places. But it often meant that she had to work long nights, leaving her cranky and lacking in sexual adventurousness.
"Charlie Mahon!" a familiar voice calls out from behind me.
I stop in front of the big LCBO on Rideau Street, and turn around to see Sebastian Drillers walking towards me. I haven't seen Sebastian since high school, and I barely recognized him with all the piercings in his face and tattoos covering his neck.
"Am I seeing shit?"
He laughs and pulls me in for a hug. I can feel how skinny he is through the baggy clothes. There is a bald man standing beside Sebastian, and he stares at us with mild disinterest.
"What are you doing in Ottawa?" I ask, still stunned.
"Well, I'm up here on business, naturally," he says, winking. "This is Victor, but you can call him Deviated Septum.''
Victor, or Deviate Septum, just stares and nods at me.
"So," Sebastian says, "Septum and I were just about to roll through the strip club."
"Well boys, what are we waiting for?" I say.
The dingy club we stumble through is deserted and, for the most part, we are left to our own devices; pitchers of Canadian and Keith's, shots of whiskey and tequila, nachos with cheese piled high, and half-hearted girls dancing to shitty music above us. Some of the girls can tell we are on coke and they make crude comments as we take separate trips to the bathroom. They say cocaine turn
s strippers into prostitutes, but I never liked having sex on coke anyways, it seemed to take all the romance out of it - besides, cocaine was for conversation. Eventually, I puke a little bit under my seat and Sebastian laughs his fucking ass off at me. He was a couple years older than I was, and I could remember when he was in high school how he would show up to class with black eyes and blood on his shirt. His dad went to jail for drug trafficking - they found 150 plants on the back of his property when we were in high school. I remembered his dad from playing hockey with Sebastian when we were young. He used to drive a loud pick-up truck and always had death metal pumping from the speakers. I guess most of the weed I smoked in high school probably came from him - which was sort of weird to think about now. I guess his dad was probably high a lot of those times he drove us to hockey practice too. Sebastian was starting to look more like his old man, especially with the full arm-sleeve tattoo of a dragon breathing fire.
My nose starts to bleed and a mean looking bouncer tells us to leave.
Later.
I can taste the vomit and blood in the back of my throat, but oddly enough my entire face is numb.
Deviated Septum's voice is hardly heard between me and Sebastian's incessant babbling. The conversation takes drastic turns as we move through the darkened streets, pointlessly rambling on about how life used to be so good, about how coke used to be so good, booze, women, money? and the three of us, Sebastian, myself, and Deviated Septum, come to the conclusion that things will probably never be as good as they used to be, unless of course we can find some more blow. And although I'm not sure how, we end up back at Deviated Septum's house on Percy Street. The floors are covered with empty Ziploc bags and half-empty beer bottles. I can hear other people moving around in the back of the house. A kid no older than 18 comes into the living room and whispers something in Septum's ear. Septum glares at the kid and tells him to go away. He pulls out the pound of blow and I can't help but feel excited, ecstatic, thrilled and exhilarated.
The last thing I remember is Sebastian showing me his gun. It was black and heavier than I thought it would be. Septum's eyes started rolling into the back of his head and he was making weird noises, so I left.
I wake up the next morning on the floor of my apartment with all my clothes on and I can't remember how I got there. My apartment is cluttered with empty liquor bottles and dirty clothes. I find a cell phone in my pocket that isn't mine, and the red light at the top of it keeps blinking at me. Someone calls later that day from a private number and when I answer they hang up. I find a tiny bag of blow in my pocket from last night and do the rest off an old Offspring CD case. Sitting here alone in my shithole apartment, wondering what happened to the days when I could be happy just by being with someone, when I used to be able to sleep without whiskey and still believed in unconditional love.
CHAPTER 3
The house my mother lives in with Paul is pristine. They've lived here for 3 years, but it still smelt new to me. Tucked away on the edge of the Ottawa River, the hard-wood floors polished all slick and shining, glistening in the leathery morning light. Paul owned his own Real Estate Company, and I'm sure he kept his little gem tucked away from himself. I walk in past the maid who's bent over scrubbing a stain on the floor. She's wearing her placid blue apron and she seems startled by me. I smile at her and wink - which makes her shuffle off down the hall, absently dabbing at tables and picture frames as she passes them. She was probably high, the old gal, I caught her puffin' one round back last year. I asked her for a hit and she dropped the goddamn thing and ran off, poor old gal. Who has a fucking servant these days, anyways? But I guess she did do good work, even though it was probably pretty easy work without me here. I guess I never really was here. Even for that first year when I had the room upstairs to the left with my Dr. Gonzo poster up on the wall. It was Paul's office now, and I suppose the Gonzo poster went in the trash. It seemed like I'd seen less and less of my mom ever since we moved to Ottawa with Paul. Paul Flannigan - Mr and Mrs. Paul Flannigan. There hardly was a Meredith anymore. And when Samantha dumped me and I asked if I could move back in, Paul said he would rather rent me a bachelor apartment.
He showed me his tax return one year when we still lived in South Port. All those zeros lined up nice in a row like that can be intoxicating - it's true. But somehow his smug little grin made the whole thing revolting to me. And now I live alone in my shithole apartment (that Paul pays for), while what's left of my family stays trapped in this beautiful house on the river.
"Charles, take your shoes off when you come in here."
Slipping them off at the front door, spinning back around to see my mother standing in the hallway; her hair up in a bun, frowning. She's wearing her expensive designer jeans, dark blue, and a cashmere blouse. She also happens to be wearing a pair of red slip-on shoes. She notices me staring at her feet and waves her hand.
"These are my inside shoes Charles, don't look at me like that."
"Where's ol' Paul at?" I ask.
"He's at the golf course with some business associates."
"Ah, associates indeed."
She scoffs at me and turns back to the kitchen.
I make myself at home, slipping my shoes back on and moving methodically over to the new stereo system. The light filters through the windows in sheet-sized slivers. I hit play and Neil Young starts singing at a low volume. Nodding my head, I sing along with the tune: Old man take a look at my life I'm a lot like you, I need someone to love me the whole way through. I start rifling through the CD case on top of the speakers. Here we go; the Hip. My air guitar is dead on, needs more volume:
He said bring on a brand new renaissance - 'cause I think I'm ready! My arm's been shaking all night long, but my hand is steady.
Bouncing around the room now, rocking my head and throwing my arms in the air like a deranged lunatic, stringing that air guitar to a tee. I grab the remote control and use it as my mic; "Little girls come on remembrance day, placing flowers on his grave?" And just when I'm really getting into it, a black smudge in the corner of my eye.
Paul is standing inside the front door with his golf clubs hanging from his shoulder. I see his mouth move but no words come out. I keep dancing as I watch him storm over to the speakers, throwing his golf bag down on the floor, and suddenly my music is drowned out by his incisive, meddling voice.
"? what in the hell is going on in here, Charles? If my new speakers are blown, and why do you have your goddamn shoes on?"
"Mom has her shoes on too," I say.
"Those are her inside shoes."
"Ha!"
"You treat this place exactly like our last one?"
"Yea, but we left that place, didn't we Paul?"
He sighs and frowns at me. He's wearing a pair of Oakley sunglasses that look a bit too big for his round face, and his black hair is slicked back so that it covers up the bald spot in the middle of his head. He's got a polo golf shirt on and a pair of beige dress pants, and overall, he looks like the typical 50 year old douche bag.
"And what is it Charles," he stops briefly, hiking up his belt, "that you need?"
"What? A son can't stop by his own mother's house? I am here merely for the company. Jolly good company in this house Paul, you know that."
"Yes, well, most of the time anyways?"
"I was just stopping by to talk about work actually."
"Oh yeah," Paul says, raising his eyebrows. "Did you finally find a job?"
"Well, no - not yet, not until you take me on as an agent. I have a real problem with getting up any time before ten though, especially on Fridays - because Thursday is the new Friday, as I'm sure you know. And I hope the air conditioning has good circulation in my office. Also, is my lunch an hour or only forty-five minutes?"
"Why don't you try graduating first, Charles? Then we can start talking about getting you a job?"
"?and once I graduate will you put me up in a nicer apartment?"
"Just be happy with what you have now,
" he says.
"It's sort of hard with ants crawling around all over the place?"
"Most kids have to live with their parents if they go to school in the same city."
"But I'm not most kids, Paul. Besides, you like it better without me here anyways."
He nods his head and grins.
"Paul, is that you?" My mother calls from somewhere else in the house. Her voice sounds strained, further away than it should be, like she was standing at the end of a long road.
"Yes dear, one minute," he says, turning back to me briefly.
The bastard shakes his head at me, and I grin a lavish grin as he moves towards my mother's voice. After he disappears down the hallway I run across the living room to where he set down his wallet. I scoop it up and pull out a $100 bill, one of many. Then I move delicately back over towards the granite bar, beside Paul's precious speakers, and I pick out the best bottle I can find, Crown Royal Reserve, a very fine drink indeed. I take a quick swig and run back over to the stereo where I crank the volume up and press play. I can hear Paul yelling as I run laughing from the house.
Outside the air is cold and my palms are sweating. Bring on a brand new renaissance. I can feel the crown bulging under my shirt and it makes me grin like a fool as I walk briskly down the sidewalk. Fucking Paul. Yes, welcome to my family, do you and my mother do it doggystlye? Or is that, like, not in your generation? Ah missionary's the most efficient son, you'll learn that one day - when your back's gone to shit and your cock spends most of the time winking at the floor. And sometimes I swear I catch him looking at me like he wishes I was dead, like I was an inconvenience to his sick little world. 'Did you ever have kids, Paul?' I asked him once. 'No' he said. And there didn't seem like much else to say. I don't even know if she loves him really. She thinks she does, maybe. But I know she knows what's really going on. I hope she does.