"On the road where?"
"I've been driving a big rig. Down to the states and across Canada, just got back from out west - great dope out west?"
"Have you been back to South Port at all?" I ask.
"Nah," he says. "Not much reason for me to go back there now."
This sort of goes on for a while, him telling me where he's been, and I guess I am interested in some of it. But inside my head, these burnt out switches are trying to spark again. And it sort of hurts a bit, inside my head, but eventually we start talking about hockey and I tell him that the Bruins suck and he tells me that maybe I should pick a team before I start talking shit about his.
"Well that's my generation daddy boy, we're the generation of indecision, you raised us - may I remind you."
"I knew school would be bad for you."
We both laugh.
"How's your little apartment holding up?"
"Well," I say, "I've got ants, and they've just recently figured out how to scale the wall and get up onto the counter, so you know - and my window is still broken, so it's getting kind of cold in there."
My dad grimaces.
"Yeah, but it's not all bad. There are also these centipede spider things, real big fucking alien looking things, and apparently they hunt down other insects, so I'm hoping the situation will just sort of take care of itself."
"Spoken like a true scholar."
Eventually our food comes and by then I'm pretty drunk and stoned so the fish and chips melts in my mouth. I mix the coleslaw and the tartar sauce in with the fries and my dad doesn't really eat much of his burger because he gets bad heart burn these days. After it's all over, Brian hands me a crumpled up cheque from his pocket, and even though I want to tell him 'no thank you sir, I am good,' another part of me wants to take the cheque because, I mean - I don't think you'd understand but either way it's another couple nights of drinking and some food and maybe even a couple dances from some exceptionally talented ladies over at Pig Al's.
"Well that was good, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," I say.
"I'll see you soon, okay son?"
"Okay."
"I love you."
"Yeah, I love you too."
And?
Natasha wants to go out tonight but the thought of dealing with her friend Tiffany is nauseating at best. She was from Toronto, like Natasha, and Tiffany had an annoying tendency to complain about how nothing was quite as good here in Ottawa as it was in Toronto. She has this boyfriend named Freddy who is completely useless. When Freddy gets drunk he gets loud and he hangs off Tiffany. He wears dress shirts tucked into his black dress pants, and the drunker he gets the faster she gets ready to snap, and usually I somehow find my way into the path of her shrapnel. It's beyond me to explain to her that Freddy is an insecure, bumbling idiot. A guy who's potential in life went away with the Video Cassette. But I guess they did deserve each other, those two beautiful bastards.
"Come on Charles, we never go out anymore."
"We went out last night," I tell her.
"That was two nights ago Charles, and we went to your friends' house, remember? And I didn't really want to go, but I did anyways - for you."
"Well that's why you're my princess, baby."
"Are we going or not?"
"Yes, we are going, absolutely."
So while the princess gets ready I lay there on her bed with a half-hard cock. The evening light peaks in through the window, giving the whole room this sort of blue tinge; because it snowed today for the first time and it's cold. But lying here watching Natasha straightening her blond hair is nice, and she's got a black skirt on that comes up to her belly with a black bra on, holding up her tits so that they look firm enough to hang from.
Suddenly I need to fuck her.
"Stop Charles."
"Come on baby,"
"I have to get ready."
"You are ready - you've looked ready for hours now!"
She giggles and pushes me away. Girls never believed you when you told them they looked ready. That was one thing they never believed.
"I always say you look better without any make-up on anyways." I tell her (another one they never believed).
She keeps doing her hair so I hop off the bed and head downstairs to the fridge. I find a cold beer tucked behind some lettuce and open it with a satisfying crack. Natasha's cat is on top of the fridge and when he paws down at me I nearly drop my beer in a startled mess. I give the cat a menacing look and I'm pretty sure he returns my malice, glaring back at me with his yellow eyes. The two of us stand locked in place, my hand slowly rising to bring the beer to my lips, but never once breaking eye contact with this feline - have to show the little prick whose boss. Meow. Gulp.
"Charles?"
Spinning around in tremendous fashion, I scoop Natasha up by the waist and twirl her in the middle of the kitchen. She is now wearing a lime green dress with gold earrings and beige coloured lip-stick and when I go to plant a big fat kiss on those very kissable lips she dodges me and says 'don't mess up my make-up'.
"Shall we?" I gesture with my empty beer towards the door. And after Natasha runs back upstairs once more to change her earrings, we finally make it out the door. The Ottawa wind is sharp and cold as the frost prepares to settle in, and my loins are deprived and angry. I guess now would be a good time to let you go because let me assure you, these next couple of hours are going to be pure, undisputable shit.
Tumultuously
Tumbling
Down
The
Infinite
Drain.
Chapter 8
Walking down to the market past the gypsies on the sidewalks, shrouded in their little hanging canvasses, I always enjoyed walking past them. Samantha's dark hair looks darker today in the shadow of the buildings and the cool wind lifts my spirit as her skirt billows. I buy her a cup of strawberries and she kisses me. 'you're a lucky lad' an old man said to me down there in the market - and I said 'i know sir, i know it'. But I didn't know shit. He wasn't talking about the same thing I was, he saw what we really had - that intangible web that hung between us. And what the hell am I supposed to do when every song, every scent, every notion - clouding up behind my sinister eyes, behind my fabricated life - but always in the background; her voice, her laugh, her smell, it was always with me. A prisoner of my own devices, or of hers, I'm not quite sure whose fault it is - the easy answer would be my parents, society, the terrorists! That longing, that emptiness, all hollow and whispering in the gentle glow of my fabricated life. But it wasn't their fault either. It used to scare me when I would hear my mom and dad argue with each other. I would go outside or go to my room and shut the door, and I never understood why they couldn't just love each other. I do now. I can see it all so clearly now. It wasn't their fault that they fell out of love. It was me who ruined their lives. I'm the reason my mom and dad started to hate each other. And any sort of sympathy or condolences that I receive from them should be greeted with open arms and sincere gratification from me, because really, I am a dead-weight. With Samantha it was the same. I guess we used each other, because that's all love really is - an addiction; two people using each other up like a drug. Injecting, snorting and smoking you up until there's nothing left. The way I wanted to call her every day, or how I would lie beside her at night rubbing her back and then she would rub mine and nothing else seemed to matter except the soft brush of those fingers - that was love. We were two lost kids, we were best fucking friends. These memories, like kids lined up along the shore all in a row, and I'm walking along behind them, dunking their heads under the water one at a time as I pass...
Chapter 9
Turkey weekend. Time to head back to the roots, back to South Port, where the grass grows green and the rivers run brown: whiskey, of course. I haven't been home in over a year. But it's still the same. That feeling of nostalgia and youth, when responsibilities were something talked about in class and drinking was still something done in our p
arents' basements, or out in the bushes. When I still believed in love and innocence and the idea that our parents, our teachers, well they all knew what was best for us and sincerely wanted to help us.
I grew up here, shit like that never leaves.
Meredith is driving because Paul is busy with work this weekend and couldn't come. He didn't want to come back to South Port anyways. Paul didn't understand the small town mentality that made me binge drink and chat with cab drivers. He was from Ottawa originally, and it was obvious that he wanted to be there, even for those four years when we lived in South Port.
I can remember sitting on our front porch late into the summer nights, back when I was still just a high school dreamer. You could actually see the stars at night in South Port, and that was something I'd forgotten about over the past couple of years. Paul was still someone new in our lives then, when the stars came out, and I thought I loved him. Everything seemed so different back then, so simple. Dad was gone but Paul was here now, so in my mind it was good. I used to think Paul was good for my mom. He seemed to care for her, he had money - he was able to provide us with everything we needed; I was such a fool.
When I got into the University of Ottawa (which was the only university that accepted me), Paul and Meredith sold their house in South Port and bought the new place on the Ottawa River. Paul never liked it in South Port to begin with. The decision to pack up and leave was made even easier by the booming real estate market in our Nation's Capital, what with all the condos being built downtown and all. There were only so many houses to sell in South Port, and only so many clients.
When Paul decided he wanted to move his business back to Ottawa, there was no questioning it. He said that I was a nuisance, and staying in South Port would only make me worse. He wanted to take South Port out of the equation. Mom acted like she didn't want to go, but I could tell that was all it was; an act. She was ready to leave South Port too, and I can't say that I blamed her. A town like this, it can make you feel as if there's nowhere else to go.
Nana is drunk on the front porch when we pull into the driveway of her condominium. Her teeth are stained red from the wine and she squints down at us as we pull our bags out from the trunk. Her condo is thin with three stories, two of which she never uses.
"Happy Thanksgiving, mom," mom says.
"You're late-"
"Yes, I know, Donna?"
"I told you to call me if you were going to be late."
"I know, mom?"
"And now I've got this empty bottle of red wine sitting here beside me, and I look like that native fellow who always bikes by drunk. See that, Charles? See what your mother is doing to your poor grandmother."
"I missed you nana," I say, bounding up the steps and planting a big fat one on her stained lips.
She smiles, and in her eyes I can see the anger die, like a flame, just sort of flickering out, and my poor, lovely, blessed nana. She really was happy to have us here, no matter what she might say. My Grandpa passed away about ten years ago. He used to take me golfing, even after the cancer devoured his leg and they had to amputate it. He was one helluva man. I tried to be like him whenever I could - but it was hard, to be that noble and hard working - expecting nothing in return. They didn't make men like my Grandpa anymore. Hell, they didn't make men like any of our grandfather's anymore. We are a generation of weak-hearted, self-entitled bitches.
"Help me with the luggage Charles."
Never a rest for the wicked.
Inside the house smells the same. Like nana. And there's some food on the stove; a couple of whitish looking pork-chops in a frying pan, and some mashed potatoes in a brown bowl. I watch my nana maneuver her way over to the microwave where a steaming batch of green peas is waiting to be unfurled. We eat at the round kitchen table and the food tastes like nana, if you know what I mean; that sort of ambivalence to the texture of the peas. I drink a glass of white wine but it's homemade and not very good, little chunks floating around like tiny islands. The two ladies drone on for a bit until the inevitable question comes directed my way, and I say 'oh it's good, real good - learning lots, making lots of friends and meeting nice people', and I keep talking until the two of them seem satisfied, then I'm swiftly out the door and on my way to Duhaime's for the kegger.
I take a cab to the party and think about my Grandpa as I sip from the mickey of gin that I took from Nana's liquor cabinet (just like old times). I remember going to visit him in the hospital when he was on his death bed. The nurse tried to put in his IV, but his veins were so faded from the cancer, it took her four tries until she finally hit the vein. He didn't complain though, he didn't even flinch. The nurse apologized and Grandpa waved his hand, and when she asked if he wanted a priest to come into the room, he looked over at us, me, my mom, my nana and my sister, and he said 'nah, who wants them around anyways.' I'll always remember him for that, because all of us laughed, and he smiled, and in his mind he wasn't sick at all.
There are lots of cars parked outside of Duhaime's place and inside it's packed with old friends from my high school. Ryan Morris is here, and when we see each other I give the guy a hug and pat him on the back.
He grimaces, nods and says; "Good to see you man. Jesus it's been over a year now hasn't it?"
"Yeah about that, it's been a while for sure."
"Some of us didn't think you were ever coming back Charlie boy, we thought you were gone for good."
"You know I can't stay away forever," I laugh.
"Well, like I said - it's fucking good to see you man."
"So, how's life with you?" I ask.
"Life's a terminal illness."
We both laugh.
I ask him if he's seen Sebastian around and he shakes his head no.
"He's pretty fucked up these days man," he says. "No one knows what he's getting into now."
"What do you mean?"
"He went to jail last summer, and I guess he met some guys in there from Toronto, because ever since he's been running drugs, guns, and even women back and forth between here and the city."
"Bull shit," I say.
"Nah, it's no joke - people have seen him roll into town with a limo full of girls - and these aren't the kind of gals you'd be introducing to mama - if you know what I mean."
Ryan says goodbye and goes outside for a smoke. Everyone here has known each other for years, and spirits are high. The beer is U-brew, a homemade beer that tastes flat and is barely cold enough to drink. I do a couple keg stands and manage to get drunk quickly. Mike Havloore shows up and we give each other a sloppy hug. He looks pretty skinny these days, but he's just as loud and he has just as much coke on him as usual.
So things keep arockin'.
It does help the drunken eye see a littler straighter, just a wee line. Okay, maybe two. Then it's off to the bar. And we are walking down the same streets we've been walking down our entire lives. I guess I feel a bit like a kid again, which is sad and good at the same time. We start singing "wonderwall" as we march down the middle of the street. I haven't been home in a long time.
'Cause maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me, and after ALLLLLLLLL, you're my wonder waAAALLLLLL'
My heart racing and cold sweat piercing my forehead, I'm drunk. It felt good to be home, I had to admit. Everything seems frosted through my slanted eyes as we move towards the bar, passing by another group of high school students, flipping them the bird and chirping 'fuckin kids these days.'
There's a line outside Club Q, the only bar in town, which is fucking ridiculous because I've never had to wait in line at this bar before in my entire life - but new people own it now, and I guess some things do change around here. So the pack of us make noise and chirp the bouncers within reason until eventually they figure it'll just be easier to let us all in. It doesn't really matter who anyone is, because on a night like tonight, back home, it was all warm embraces and well wishes. It was something like a high school reunion.
The girls are here, lots of them. S
ome of them hate me - well, most of them do - but there was still a chance. Linda comes over and I insist on buying her a drink, double vodka and cran, and we talk for a bit. She asks me what I've been doing way up there in Ottawa and I say, "Oh you know, sweeping the floor at the House of Commons, playing croquet with Stephen on Sundays, after church, naturally - oh, and I'm a pilot now."
"I thought you were in communications," she says.
"Stepping stone," I tell her.
"Well, we haven't seen in you in so long - we were starting to think you wouldn't be back."
"I'll always be back, baby," I say - ordering another round of tequila shots.
We hit the dance floor for a bit and I twirl her around a couple times. She grinds her nice full ass up on me until she sees some other girl that she used to be friends with, so the two of them go make that whole scene while I step outside for a smoke. Mike's out puffing on a smoke too, and even though I was never that close with the kid - I mean, he was a little intense back in high school - he seemed to be looking for friends, so I go over and start talking to him.
"Things are changing around here man," he tells me.
"Yeah, I've noticed."
"Things are fucked."
"Haven't they always been?"
He shrugs, takes a drag.
"Nothing seems the same anymore - it's like, I dunno?"
"Like we're not kids anymore?" I say.
He shrugs again, takes another drag.
When I go back inside the air is stale and it sort of makes me choke a bit, but then again it could be all the cigarettes. The music is loud and it's pretty dark so that all I can see is a mass of moving arms and mouths. Someone smacks me on the back and I turn around to see Sebastian Drillers grinning at me, his lips twisting up the sides of his face in a fiendish grin.