"Holly shit! Good to see you man," I yell. "I've been trying to get a hold of you?"
"Let's step into my office," he says, gesturing towards the men's bathroom.
So we go into the men's room and he chalks up a couple fat lines on the toilet paper dispenser. We don't bother being all that discreet about it because every person that comes into the bathroom knows us. We keep getting interrupted and having to tell the scavengers and vultures to fuck off. Classy. Anyways, after a couple rippity-rips and some white flashing lights behind my eyes, we leave the bathroom and go to the bar.
"So," Snnnn, "what do you need to talk to me about?" Sebastian asks.
"Well," Snnnn, "remember that night in Ottawa?"
"Barely," he laughs.
"Who was that guy you were with?"
"Who, Septum?" Snnnn.
"Yeah."
"Just a client man, a big one."
"For what?"
"That's not important."
"Oh."
"Why?" he asks.
"I don't know, man. The guy was sort of? shady. His house was a fucking crack den, and I woke up the next morning with this cell phone?" I pull the phone out from my pocket and show it to Sebastian. "I keep getting these weird calls on it, like just this gasping sound - it sounds like a little girl. I heard her say 'help me' the other night?"
"You serious?"
"Yeah? man."
"Well," he pauses, takes a sip of his drink, "I would leave Septum out of it."
"Why?"
"I've only known the guy for a year or so, but he's never in the same spot for long. Before Ottawa, he was in Toronto, and I was selling him all kinds of shit - coke, ecstasy, Special K - the guy moves weight Charlie boy - he won't want to be bothered with your shit."
Eventually Sebastian finishes his drink and says good-bye to me, his eyes all glassy and far away. I stand at the bar alone fingering my double rye and coke. I have a sour feeling in my stomach as the bartender yells out last call.
I walk back to nana's condo and it starts raining. I miss Sam. She was probably back in Oakville at her mom's place for the holidays. I couldn't shake her. It was ironic, I guess, because I did everything I could to drive her away when we were together. But when she left it all became too real. I think I was scared, scared that she was the one I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. I thought I was too young, I thought I couldn't handle the responsibility, but what I couldn't handle was watching her leave, and then when I heard that she slept with Sylvester?
That night I can't really sleep because the bed is pretty hard and my nanas house is deathly silent, something I can't stand. I have this sort of listless worm crawling around inside me, wrapping around my spine and sort of shifting and oozing. I need something to distract me from the silence. I am dreading the ride home on Sunday with Meredith. It was always so horridly long and boring. The ride never used to be so bad when I was still with Sam. Back then I had something to look forward too, you know, something that made time not really matter.
Samantha didn't live in Ottawa anymore. She moved to Toronto last year, and I hadn't seen nor talked to her since. I still dreamed about her almost every night though, and it was starting to drive me a bit insane, if you must know, and some nights, when I'm feeling particularly lonely, I picture what she's doing at that moment, in Toronto, and it comforts me in a sick sort of way. That longing, that desire to be beside her again. And when I look at Natasha I don't feel the same.
I get up from the bed and try to kill the worm inside me with some more whiskey, but the R&R makes me start gagging. My mom wakes up and comes downstairs to shake her head at me in doorway of the bathroom. I'm leaning over the toilet on my knees dry heaving into the bowl.
"Another fucking terrific Thanksgiving," she says.
I start laughing as she slams the door.
Chapter 10
I bought Sam an ocean blue ring from one of the gypsies. It wasn't expensive or anything, but she loved it because I bought it for her. That's where I've been living since it all ended, inside her ocean blue ring. Ever since she took me to the park and read the letter she wrote. Both of us cried, and when I walked away into the darkness she tried calling my name, but her sobs choked out the sound. We both needed each other so bad it scared us. And sometimes I can see her, through the ocean, and her eyes are glassy but solid, because when a person decides to severe the chord, it's pretty much impossible to re-attach it...
Chapter 11
Any man who says he doesn't like to eat a girl out is either a liar or a little light in the loafers. Because really is there anything more magnificent? All vibrant and alive in the heat of it all - I'm talking about diving right in.
I think I would love it even with teeth; in fact I know I would.
But that was one thing that always bugged me, when a guy said he didn't like to go down on a chick. You really should work the nipples first though, gets them in the mood much quicker.
I'm driving in Natasha's car (which was actually her parents' car), down by the Salvation Army, crowded with shady looking dudes wearing ripped-up jeans and faded green tattoos on their arms.
There's a part of me that wouldn't mind driving on past Rideau Street, continuing down King Edward, and catching the highway over to Montreal. Maybe I could catch myself some French kisses. But it's only Wednesday and there's papers to be wrote (or written?), ladies to be attended too, wheels to be turned and bridges to be burned. The bundled up wad of cash in the palm of my hand feels all warm and soggy and it sort of makes me feel sick. The hookers are all huddled together behind the Salvation Army. The one is a massively busty and bootyful black chick with tits that sag dangerously low out of her pencil thin blouse. She looks over at the car and I wink at her so she walks over to my window.
"Hey stud, you looking for a good time?"
"Who isn't?"
She giggles and moves to get in, but I gesture for her to stop. She looks at me puzzled.
"How would I get in touch with, um, a lady who, well, who wasn't always a lady?"
"Oh sugar, you're not into that sort of thing, are you?"
"Oh, it's not for me -," I say. "It's really for a school project. A bit of group research? all I need is a number?"
"You kids just keep getting weirder," she says. "Are you sure you're not a cop?"
"No ma'am, just a lonely boy in need of some lovin'."
My phone won't stop ringing and I still have no idea whose calling - although the calls are starting to get even more disturbing (I can distinctly hear someone crying, and sometimes a muffled scream escapes from the other end of the line). The whole situation is starting to give me nightmares.
I'm sitting on my mattress and I stomp out a colony of ants as they march across my hardwood floor, letting my eyes drift over the disgraceful surroundings.
The wind is pouring in through my shattered window, but for some reason I haven't bothered to let my landlord Ron know about it yet. I broke it one night in the summer after a big fight with Natasha. There was a tiny scar on my middle knuckle that looked like half a heart. Dried blood is still streaked across the wall below the window.
There's a big hole in the wall beside my kitchen sink. It's half covered up with a Playboy calendar because I used to have a picture of Sam there but I stabbed it to death with scissors one night while it was still hanging from the wall. The brown girl in the Calendar is smiling at me with perfectly white teeth, and her tits look like cantaloupes. I'm fiddling with the locket I found in the street, flipping it over and over again through my fingers, and I keep wondering who this elderly woman is, and why she looks so concerned. She looks so placidly stern. It actually scared me a little bit, but for some reason I couldn't throw the damn thing away. It felt good spinning in my hands and somehow it soothed me.
Sylvester calls.
"What's up Charlie boy?" he asks.
"You sound sober," I say, somewhat astonished.
"Listen, I'm late? gotta go meet a special lady."
/>
"Oh," I say, "and who is this special lady?"
"I don't even really know man. We met on Plenty of Fish, so, yah know. She's got real nice tits though, I mean, we fucked on the webcam or whatever. I just need to get my dick wet, sometimes nothing else matters, bro."
"Well you have a good night there Sylvester, you sly bastard, have fun with this special lady you met on the internet?"
"Do you want to come with?" he asks. "She might have a friend."
"No I think I'm good Syl, I'm saving myself up for your birthday - your big night. I've got a surprise in the works for you."
"Cool."
"That's at the end of the month, right?"
"Yeah, man."
And then he hangs up, just the classiest piece of shit on the planet. But that filthy prick was going to get what it deserved. Sex meant nothing to him, Sam meant nothing to him.
The inside of my window is splattered with snow and ice, and I see a girl walk by on the sidewalk with black boots that stretch all the way up her calves. She's got great legs and her ass isn't bad either; definitely a good lay - I can tell by the way she walks. Part of me hopes she slips and falls on the wet pavement. Her purse would go flying up into the air, as would those sexy legs, and then it would be Charlie boy to the rescue. Scooping her up in my arms, through the sleet and wind, and maybe she'd be too stunned to even speak, just so utterly and beautifully speechless, but she would let me take her, and I could do all the talking for the both of us - which would probably fill up most of the time.
Later that night I'm downtown at a bar in the market called Minglewoods. It's pretty dead, as usual, but there are a couple of pretty girls on the dance floor in tight skirts, and one of them is wearing black. I like black. Her legs look smooth and tanned in the bouncing lights. And while I'm trying my damndest to give this girl the ol' shifty eye, her fat roommate keeps glaring over at me and giving me nasty looks. I finish my beer and flip the fat girl off. Turning back around to the bar I try and signal for the bartender, but he's chatting up some girl with her tits hanging out, so my chances of getting noticed anytime soon are slim. Everyone I came with is gone now, not sure where, and my throat hurts from the dry heaving I did earlier in the bathroom - fucking Jaggermeister.
Why do I always end up alone?
I'm pretty wasted, to be honest, but mostly I'm just tired. I need a goddamn cigarette. Across the bar I see Deviated Septum sitting with a drink. He is looking around the room with empty eyes and I start making my way over to him. He notices me coming but doesn't make any effort to acknowledge me.
"Hey man," I say, patting him on the back.
He turns around in his seat and says 'hey' to me, but up close he looks pretty whacked out and I can tell he doesn't want much to do with me. His jaw is twitching and there's sweat covering his forehead and face.
"How have you been?" I ask.
"Do you want some coke or something?" he says, turning around in his seat and giving me the once over.
"No man, I'm good."
"Well then, fuck off," he says.
"Listen, I woke up with a phone in my pocket the other weekend, after we were at your house that night or whatever?"
He looks at me blankly.
"Anyways, I've been getting these weird calls on it and, I don't know, the one time I swear I heard a girl say 'help me'?."
"Why the fuck would I know anything about that?" he says. "Why would I want to know anything about that? Who the fuck are you again?"
"I'm Charlie - Sebastian's friend," and I try not to panic as Septum gets up from the stool and stands right up in my face.
"Sebastian's friend, eh?"
"Yeah man, don't you remember?"
I'm holding the phone in my pocket, my grip tightening as Deviated Septum grabs my arm.
"I'm going to the bathroom," he says.
He brushes past me and I watch him disappear through the crowd of drunken university students. I don't see him again for the rest of the night. Eventually, Patrick stumbles back over to me. He says that everyone's leaving. Outside we meet up with Brennan and Gordo. The two of them look pretty out of it, and Gordo has a fairly large stain on the front of his shirt which may or may not be puke - so we leave. On the way home my phone starts ringing again and for some reason I answer it.
'Where are you?' a voice asks, and then the line goes dead.
Sometimes I won't leave when I want too, I stay because I don't want to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. Not because of the tragic loss of company - quite the contrary in fact. They are always just so reprehensible - awkward - like 'oh it was a great night' and 'I can't wait till we do this again' even though most of the time you never do the same thing again with the same people. Sure, you do the same shit you did before, but it never feels the same. You always try. My whole life I've been trying to transform one thing into another, always trying to duplicate a feeling that I had once before, a feeling that died a long time ago. I can hardly remember it anymore, to be honest. When everything was still vibrant and the heels of my shoes would click together and I'd be home. But that's humanity my friends - finding a way to ruin the good, wearing any piece of fortune in our lives down to the rusted, blunt end. And now I guess there is no home - not one that matters anyways. I hate this goddamn apartment. I hate the fact that it's only me in here and at night I can hear my neighbour listening to the goddamn ten o'clock news. And that poor, old bastard is alone too. I saw him out in the hall one night shuffling past, and he looked at my apprehensively like I was going to cuss in front of him or something. He hated me, because he was a war vet and he knew how to behave properly. I wish I had been in the army.
My phone rings and for some reason I think it might be Samantha, but it's Natasha, so I don't pick up. I have a bluish bruise on my forearm from climbing a fence on my way home from the bar last night. The skin looks dry around the edges of the bruise, and I sit here on my bed with my school books sprawled out on the floor beside me, picking at my various wounds and scars, wondering where she is tonight.
I turn on my TV and take faint notice that a spider centipede is currently crawling up my wall (probably trying to get at the brown girl with the cantaloupe tits).
There is a woman on the news crying because her daughter has been missing now for three weeks, her white hair like frayed yarn - and by the way her hands are shaking, her blood-shot eyes and quivering mouth - I can tell she hasn't slept in days. The plastic-looking reporter woman mentions that the young girl, Cindy, was last seen with her favourite toy; a pink teddy bear. The house sits shrouded in the background, beyond all the microphones and plastic people, and it made me sad to look at all the missing shingles and white curtains, because really, it was more of a trap than a home - and somewhere beneath those missing shingles, behind those white curtains, a grown woman is probably rocking back and forth on her bed, wondering why her daughter had to disappear.
I'm sitting at the very back of my class and everything is swirling, the colours bleeding into one another. Because Dennis had shrooms and we ate the nicest caps earlier tonight, the gold ones all warped - the perfect crowns - and I can feel my eyes melting out of my skull. I look down at my notebook and there's just a barrage of pointless scribbles: smiley faces, angry faces, little stick men with their stick-men arms waving in the air, a knife dripping in blood and some naked chick drawn crudely by a maniac. The auditorium is pretty full tonight, and lots of kids have their laptops out. No one is paying attention to the Professor, as usual, and the tetris blocks make my eyes light up. I gap out for about ten minutes watching this kid with a purple GeeGees sports jacket on make it to level 10. Then he dies because the blocks get all blocked up and the teacher has a funny voice and big ears with chalk-tipped fingers. Sitting here in class; learning of knowledge - no-ledge to stand on, blocking up in my tetris mind, blearning with the blocks in the plastic seats with robot arms, mechanical no-ledgers teetering on this edge of nothing; my mind is mangled.
At some point the class ends
and everyone starts getting up. All this movement gives me the twitches so I have to sort of sink into my seat and grind my teeth together, the shrooms making my mouth dry. This goes on for a while until most of the other students are gone. I make my delicate way outside, tip-toeing like some sort of deranged lunatic, and it's a fresh sort of night outside. The cold air hits me smack in the face and the street lights look like glowing orbs of magic.
My bag is pretty heavy and it really is a pain in the ass to have to lug these gigantic books around with me all the time, considering we never read the entire things, usually just half - if that. I mean talk about wasteful fucking practices, no matter what I'm doing here; I can't help but think I'm wasting my time. I reach into my duffle bag and pull out my American Literature Anthology that's over 2000 pages long (which I paid $175 for). I study the book for a moment, watching the letters intertwine and swirl together, before chucking it into some nearby bushes. A squirrel comes flying out of the bush, startling me, and a car almost flattens it as he scampers across the road.
Life would be simple, to be a squirrel - well, not a squished one, but a chipper, fucking elastic, horny-ass mother-fucking squirrel. I've never seen squirrels fucking, but something tells me they go at er' hard.
When I make it to my apartment I hate that I'm here right now, alone, and if there was a party going on somewhere, anywhere, even the slightest hint of noise or activity - but the night sky is grey-black and empty, there's not faces or even stars up there, and the moon looks pretty goddamn lonely too, if you ask me. It takes me a good couple of minutes fumbling with my keys before finally sticking them in the slot. I'm still tripping out pretty bad. When I do finally manage to open the door, my hand blends into the doorknob and it freaks me out for a second so that my mouth hangs open dumbly. I manage to make it inside my building and when my elderly neighbour, who is a war vet, sees me and says hello, I stammer and run past him, slamming my apartment door behind me. Inside my brain there's a million sparks of lightning and they're all striking at exactly the same spot, at the same time, and inside my apartment it's pretty fucking cold and the ants make me shiver as I stomp at them with my heavy feet.