"Hello, Sir Charles here."
"---"
"Hello?"
I can hear someone breathing faintly.
"Hello? I can't hear you?"
Nothing but whispered gasps.
I hang up after about thirty more seconds of this.
When I'm almost at campus I see this poster stapled to a telephone pole, and there's a picture of this sad looking kid in black and white (and if you ask me, if you're going to print them in black and white, you might as well declare them dead already). The boy's head hangs down in the picture and it says:
Jordan Spade
MISSING
Those horrendously bold words made everything so definite.
Underneath the poster someone has carved crudely into the wood:
'I killed Jordan Spade'
And later, after class, I'm sitting on the bus with my head leaned up against the window. It's dark out now, and inside myself I feel utterly calm. The bus is warm and quiet. The gentle hum of the engine seems to sooth my wretched soul. I take a quick slug of my flask, and the burning settles down inside my belly. Everything starts to get far away, and it disturbs me how comfortable I feel right now, just sitting here half-drunk with no one on an empty bus. An Asian girl gets on at the next stop. I smile at her as she walks by and for a second I think she's going to sit down beside me, but the bus lurches forward, and she sort of stumbles past towards the back.
Chapter 6
I pass by a used condom on the sidewalk, and seeing it lying there all soggy and forgotten always makes me wonder where the little guy came from. Most likely it was just some horny little peckers fucking around - not actually fucking, but there's always that chance of the promiscuous; that some lucky lady had her socks blown off right here on the sidewalk. People don't really notice much these days anyways, and if there's a warmth to the sidewalk, even just a shallow gust, well sometimes I stop, sort of stoop down a bit - just to see if I can feel that warmth, that evidence of filthy, filthy passion, of lust and everything good. Carpe Diem! Pluck and pluck along the sidewalks! Walking alone through the restless night; people drinking on their porches and balconies, playing beer-pong on crooked kitchen tables. We were all soaking up the last of that autumn air, that refreshing sort of chill that makes the beer taste better and can fix an aching lung. My blood rises and that tingle settles in for the night to come. I take a quick sip from the flask and quicken my pace. I left Natasha's later than I meant too, because while she was talking I was lying there with my head buried in the pillow playing with her tits, and she kept trying to whack my hand away but I always managed to creep it back onto her soft nipples, and I would rub them and try and make them hard because her tits looked really damn good when they were hard, if you must know. And I guess it felt pretty good lying there beside her, even though her voice was sort of clogging up the whole placid atmosphere I had managed to conjure up amidst the after sex sadness that always made me say horrendously stupid things like 'i love you' or 'what's your favourite colour?' She couldn't come to the party tonight because she had to work a night-shift at the Children's Hospital. The night-shifts were always the worst, she said, because a lot of the kids have nightmares.
But walking here now, down the street past my fellow students, all the glory of student housing, I feel a bit like Diogenes, perhaps a little flustered, and suddenly I feel that temptation to pluck a chicken, to whip it out and pound on it in front of all these people down here in Shady Hill, and they called Diogenes a cynic!
I left my phone buried somewhere in my apartment. The goddamn thing won't stop ringing, and every time I pick it up there's just that same gasping sound on the other end. They never say anything - like an injured animal whimpering, or something half-dead, I was starting to get pretty freaked out by the whole situation. It was a problem not worth dealing with tonight, but not having a phone was also a pretty big problem; because I'm not exactly sure where I am right now, or where I'm supposed to go. I'm supposed to be meeting Patrick and Dennis for the kegger, but somehow Laurier has turned into Charlotte Street, and I'm supposed to be on Daly Street. I reach for my flask but the damned thing is empty and now I'm really in trouble, stomping down the sidewalk like a maniac, cursing Ottawa for all her one way streets and clustered subdivisions. I pass by the Russian Embassy and yell out 'Ovechkin Sucks!'
I keep moving and eventually I start yelling out, 'hello!' to everyone drinking on their porches. All I get in return are a couple of blank stares before someone shouts at me to shut the fuck up.
No YOU shut the fuck up!
But wait?
Eureka!
Daly Street, my friends. I recognize where I am now, that drunken fog lifting in that pure moment of inebriated glee when everything clicks inside your head and you know again what your purpose is. And bouncing up the steps I nearly tackle Dennis on his way out for a smoke.
"Charlie boy!"
The two of us share a smoke and he tells me there are plenty of tight looking broads in there who are just begging to be laid down tonight. I met Dennis in first year, just like Sylvester, we were all on the same floor in. He was a smaller dude, quiet in big groups - but he could hold his booze like a true country boy. He was from Barrie, which meant he was accustomed to fighting and rap music.
"It's been a while, man."
"I know," I nod.
"Got any girlies in mind for tonight, Charlie boy?"
"Ah, sadly I've retired my cock Den, it's a shame I know, but I've thought about it a long time now, and it's best to quit while I'm ahead. While the shaft is still clean and the balls are wart free."
"Don't worry about that sort of stuff," he says. "What with the medical advances these days, and besides, white guys don't get those sorts of things?"
"Well said sir."
"Cheers to women and their magnificent cunts - without which they would surely be extinct!"
Inside the place is hot and alive. I pass some drunk looking girls who are leaning up against the wall beside a pile of shoes. They all have too much make-up on and dresses that show the top half of their tits and bottom half of their assets. I wink at the one but she just stares at me drunkenly, unable to comprehend. She has no idea what she's doing here. Brennan is in the kitchen standing beside the sink. His hair is gelled up and he's wearing his goddamn leather jacket that make his shoulders puff out, so I go over and cuff him on the back. He laughs and offers me a drink, which is what I intended. I watch him pour the rye into a glass and when he tries to stop a quarter of the way, I tip the bottle so that the brown liquid goes plunging into my cup, deeper and deeper, and when he reaches for the Pepsi I knock his hand away and snatch up a chunk of ice.
"Cheers," I gesture, moving my way through the house. Brennan was a city boy, the whole way through, and even though we were friends, I couldn't seem to see past the hair gel, cologne and popped collars. He was still a decent guy though.
The whiskey is warm and so it makes me cringe a little bit when I sip it. Patrick is standing in the corner of the living room, talking to some bombshell brunette with long legs and a tight black dress. I cannot help myself.
"Patrick, you handsome bastard, how are you?"
"Was a lot better about ten seconds ago," he says smiling, shaking my outstretched hand. He's got a baseball cap on forward and rocking a plaid shirt; true style in my opinion.
"And who is this?" I ask.
"This would be Candy."
"Candy?"
"Yes, Candy."
I look at her and she's smiling at me and I say, "Well that is a lovely name, Candy, mine is Charles, Sir Charles the first, in fact."
"Oh yes, Charles is a fine piece of royalty," Patrick says.
She smiles and shakes my hand and she smells like something I want to fuck.
Patrick ducks out of the room and gestures for me to follow. He leads me into his bedroom and shuts the door quickly behind us. There's a CD case sitting on his dresser with a bunch of coke chalked up on it. Pat starts carvin
g the blow into lines, while I pull out the $100 bill I took from Paul.
And a blast of white hot light - Snnnnn, behind the eyes, Ahhhhh - always fixed you good. The whiskey is cooler now and my taste buds are effectively numbed.
"How is school going for you?" he asks.
"School?" I say, "I mean there's this place I go with big rooms and a bunch of kids on their laptops typing away on fuckbook, or playing Tetris. Tetris is big these days. But have I been learning anything? Do the teachers even know what they're fucking doing? I have this one Political Science class, and the goddamn teacher can't speak English! I'm not kidding. I mean, it's great that the guy is black, or African American - shouldn't it be African Canadian? Anyways, it's great that he's from the Congo and all, diversity blah blah blah, but he is so lost when it comes to teaching. And no one has any clue what is going on in the class, but for some reason I'm getting an A-?"
"I'm thinking about dropping out," Pat says, leaning forward and snorting another line.
"Not a terrible idea," I quip, leaning forward with the rolled up hundred-dollar bill and ahhhhhhh
my mind rushing away, tumbling down the tumultuous cliff; turning into Swiss-cheese. There's a hole in my brain and it's driving me insane while the sniff sniff turns to a cliff and my lips quiver in vain.
"I bet you would learn more working than at school."
"Jan got pregnant," he says.
I stare at him and scratch at my numb lip.
"It's all gone now."
I nod.
"Seems sort of like a waste? or something."
"Yeah, I guess it does."
"We broke up because of it."
I nod.
"Do you think I'd be a good father?" he asks, looking at me solemnly.
"Absolutely," I say. "Teach those little bastards a thing or two about respect. Teach them how to drink, to read, to love, to hate - Lolita, Caddy, Stella - all the good ones. And I can be the uncle - you bet your fucking ass I'm the uncle. And Uncle Charlie can come over with Candy, and we'll just fill little Patty up with Candy all night long?"
And the two of us howl with laughter as the room spins, colours blurring, leaving lines through my vision of sight, my sight, vision, lines and lines and colours and abortions. Old man take a look at my life - sha la la la, tiny little foetus and a big old nostril. My weightless arms quiver in the half lit room and tiny little stars are dancing in the ceiling, on the roof, in my soul. I try and catch my breath and it sounds like a raspy carburetor in my chest. I notice a blue clock sitting on Pat's dresser, the little red numbers say 11:23, and for some reason this gives me a sense of urgency and desperation for which I can hardly bare.
"I am in desperate need of a beverage," I tell Pat, my whiskey drink now empty.
"I'm on it," he says, and swiftly the two of us swoop out of the room, back into the maze of lost souls. And it's hard not to think about the look in Pat's eyes. Or the way his face looks older in the bright light, or the patches of white hair poking out at the back of his hat. Snnnnn - drip - drip - drip. And I'm good. Rolling through the house, slapping hands and giving people the thumbs up for no particular reason at all, only because I'm fucked and they're fucked and outside the earth is moving; the sky is parting and the heavens are about to come crashing down upon us, but somehow I doubt we'll notice. Patty pours me another stiff drink and my taste buds are for the most part annihilated so the vodka rushes down my throat with ease. The kitchen is crowded with scattered bodies and my body sways gently with the masses. My bottom lip is completely numb.
"I hear this stuff cleans the soul," I say, lifting my glass of vodka towards Pat, "cheers to a good soul cleansing, long overdue if you ask me."
"You got that right," he says, giving me a clink, "we never see you around these days, Charlie boy."
"Quite busy I'm afraid."
"Bullshit. Busy blowing all of your step-daddy's money on booze and smokes and porn?"
"Hey," I interrupt, "every man deserves an extensive porn collection, it's a necessity - we bore very easily Patrick, you know this."
We cheers again.
"God, it's hard being a 23 year old man in this modern age we live in."
Candy walks back into the room and Pat winks at me and turns off, moving his way stealthily back into the living room. I smile at Candy and I know she's going to stop and talk to me; please don't ask me what I'm taking, please don't ask me what I'm taking?.
"Are we having fun tonight?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, looking around casually. "I don't know many people here though."
"Ah, but that is always the best sort of party to be at," I say.
"Why?"
"Well, because you can be anyone you want."
She sort of laughs but I can tell that she doesn't really get it. Pretty girls like her would never want to be anyone else anyways.
"So what are you taking in school?" she asks.
Damn!
"Well actually, I'm done school now my dear, pilot school that is, at Algonquin, and I just have one more in-flight session before they give me my license."
"Really?" she says, incredulous.
"And the hat, they'll give me my pilot hat - that's the biggest part of all," I add, taking another drink.
"The hat?"
"Oh yes, the hat my dear, the hat, the hat."
"You don't look like a pilot though," she says.
"It's my ears," I reply, "they're too small."
And she nods as if what I said makes perfect sense to her.
"You don't have a drink in your hand miss Candy," I point out.
"Oh I know, I'm not really feeling?"
"Nonsense," I say, taking her by the hand and leading her through the living room. And I know exactly what I'm doing right now, because Candy doesn't need another drink. She doesn't even know what she needs. But I know. And when I pull her into Pat's room she lets herself be pulled, and when I close the door she looks at me and I look at her and when we first kiss she stops and says 'i have a boyfriend,' and I say 'i'm a pilot, i'll be flying off tomorrow,' then her legs are spread up on Pat's desk and my pants are hanging down around my ankles and she's soft, so soft and nice and deep breaths, in and out, in and out - inhale - exhale - my spirit souring in the air like Whitman's Song. And she's my little trapper girl, and I've got my gun pointed right at her. Whishing away through the soft blackness, everything warm and soft and supple, pure and ignoble at the same time - so purely ignoble my loins may burst. And after it's all over, in the dull glow, she looks just as beautiful as she did before, and when she asks me if I'll fly her to Rome I say yes my dear, absolutely, yes, yes, and yes again. And I find a half-bottle of Jack tucked behind Pat's speakers. I take swigs from the bottle as the two of us share a cigarette, the amber burns bright and orange at the end of the stalk, and passion burns bright and gold in my ruptured heart; for these few minutes left.
Later that night, back in my apartment, with Candy, because she was going to go home, but in the back seat of the cab, with my charmed tongue and the very stealthy maneuvering of my rapid-happy fingers, I was able to convince Miss Candy to spend the night in my apartment. And while I have her all naked and spread out on my mattress, the goddamn phone starts ringing. I try ignoring it but the fucking thing won't stop. I leave her panting on my bed while I throw some shit around my room looking for it. I finally find the phone in one of my shoes.
"Hello?" I say. "Hello, who's there?"
Candy is looking at my strangely now as I keep saying 'hello' into the phone, practically screaming. I hear some rustling around from the other end of the line, movement, and then a tiny voice says
'help me.'
Then the line goes dead. I look at the phone puzzled and toss it across the room. I can still see the red light blinking at me, taunting me in this wretched quiet. Candy asks me who it was and I say 'i dunno,' then we go to sleep.
Chapter 7
Off to meet the father today. Good ol' daddy boy, or Brian as I sometim
es refer to him. It's a blue-grey sort of day. The clouds are stretched out and white in the sky, and the cool wind shifts into my face as I walk down Rideau Street. I meet Brian downtown at the Rideau Centre and he looks about the same as usual, his hair a touch whiter. We walk over some dead leafs on our way to the canal; the orange all stomped out of them.
My dad does look older in the damp air, since the last time we'd seen each other anyways. His glasses look thicker and he walks with a bit of a limp now, which was new to me. He pulls out a joint and the two of us go for a slow walk along the canal, passing the j back and forth between us. Lots of rollerbladers give us dirty looks as they skate by. We laugh at their little outfits and my dad seems happy which is good, I guess.
"How is school going?" he asks.
"Do you care?"
"Not really."
"You never wanted me to go to school."
"Do you like it?"
"I suppose," I say.
"You suppose?"
"Yes, I suppose. I suppose there are plenty of good-looking ladies walking around and most of the teachers don't really care if we show up for class or not, so I mean, it's a pretty sweet gig."
"Tell me about it," and he inhales hard on the j.
"I mean it's all just one big money grab."
"What isn't?"
The sun ducks behind a couple white clouds while my feet bounce gingerly along the paved sidewalk beside the canal. There's a couple kids sitting up near the bushes and they're puffing a jay too. They all stare gapingly at me and Brian as we make our way by.
"How's life on the golf course?" I ask.
"Shot a 74 the other day."
"Good score."
"I know. Do you want any more of this?"
"No I'm good."
He tosses the roach in the canal and the water looks especially murky at this time of year because they drain it. You could see all the garbage and a layer of filth that hid beneath the water during the summer. It's starting to smell like winter. Brian is walking ahead a bit, and his eyes are pretty red and glazed over from the j. He tells me about how the weed these days is different, stronger, filled with all sorts of chemicals and shit, and I say 'yeah, so is everything,' and he nods. Eventually we get to a pub and inside it's warm and I guess it sort of makes me feel at home. The bartender nods at us as we pull out stools at the bar. My dad orders two double rye and cokes and a beer. I ask him what he's been doing with himself these past few months and he tells me he's been on the road.