It's Saturday night and we're on our way home from the casino, me, Patrick and Dennis. The snow is falling hard so we hustle up the walkway towards the entrance of Pat's apartment. The French cabby yells something at us in French, probably something to do with the lack of tip (give us a fucking break, we all just lost money, asshole), and so we flip him the bird and laugh heartily as he drives away cursing.
"What a night," Dennis says. "Feels good hanging out with you two idiots again."
"Feeling is mutual," I say, turning to Pat.
But Pat isn't walking beside me anymore, no. There is a tremendous crashing sound, that crystal like crashing sound which usually follows the breaking of glass.
"Oh my god?" Dennis says.
I say nothing.
Pat has just gone flying through one of the giant windows at the front of his apartment building, lying there in a pile of shattered glass. I can see blood smeared across his face. I move over towards him, reaching down to pull him up out of the mess.
"No," he says. "No, just leave me."
So Dennis and I stand there for a while, and when a car passes by slowly, a man calls out from the window; 'are you guys okay?'
"Doing just fine," I respond, the man in the car looking perplexed. And as he drives off Pat finally begins to lift himself up from the shattered window, the sound of hollow laughter filling his lungs.
"Let us help you," I say, pulling out a giant chunk of glass wedged in the hood of his sweater.
When we get upstairs Pat continues to laugh. He crouches down on the floor of his apartment and laughs, rocking back and forth with his legs crossed. There is blood trickling down the side of his neck from the cut on his ear, but other than that he isn't hurt.
"Pat, are you okay?" I ask.
"Peachy fucking keen," he says, choking on his own laughter. "You know, I haven't talked to my parents in six months? they keep calling, everyday they call me, but I don't really have anything to say to them."
I can only offer him a subtle nod in response.
"It's just, I feel like I'm letting them down, like? well, like I have nothing worth telling them about, you know? I don't really have a clue what I'm doing here, or if any of this even matters. I miss Jan?" and he pauses then, looking up at me with tears welling up in his demented eyes. "I think I fucked everything up."
"Well, have you talked to her - maybe it's not too late. Maybe you can get her back."
"No," he shakes his head. "No, it wouldn't work. It's never the same twice. I don't even think I want her back. I just want that feeling, you know, that feeling when you're in love and nothing else matters?"
I watch Pat, sitting there in the middle of his living room floor, tears streaming down his cheeks, while Dennis sits on the couch, staring intently at the television as he plays Call of Duty on the X-Box, completely oblivious to everything else around him.
"I think I'm gonna go?" I say.
"It's never the same twice," Pat mutters as I open his apartment door. I turn back and think about asking him what he means, but when I see the blood stains on his shirt and the way his face is twisted up into a sort of hysterical smile, I decide it's better to just leave.
Stumbling home through the slush, the streets are empty and quiet because it's 3am in the goddamn morning, and here I am walking home, alone, again. Why was growing up so cruel? Wasn't there a way to hit pause, or even rewind? I keep waiting for my moment of redemption, but somehow I think I might have missed it?
"Charlie?"
I know it's her before I lift my head (I will never forget that voice). She's standing in front of me on the sidewalk, standing here on King Edward Street, her green jacket with the furry trim, her dark brunette hair cascading down the sides of her pale but beautiful face, I give my head a shake and blink several times, just to make sure I'm not imagining things.
"What are you doing here?" I say, barely able to squeeze out the words. She looked just as I remembered; her face perhaps a bit more slender? and those emerald-green eyes. Am I dreaming?
"Just on my way home from work?"
"No, no - I mean what are you doing here, in Ottawa. I thought you were living in Toronto?"
"Well, it's a long story," she sighs, looking at the ground. "I was getting so sick of Toronto, all the noise and people, there was just always so much going on, you know - it's not like Ottawa. Besides, I missed it here. Oh, and I got fired so? yeah, there's that too. I'm back at the University now, taking a couple classes in Communications..."
"So, you're back at the Royal Oak then?" I ask.
"Yes," she sighs, "back at the fucking Oak."
"Where are you living?" I say, still not quite sure if this is real.
"I moved back in with the girls. They're all still here at the University so, it was easy. My room hadn't even been lived in by anyone yet ?"
"Must be fate," I say.
"More like dumb luck."
"It's good to see you, Sam."
"You too, Charlie," she says. "First year feels so long ago now?"
"I know."
"I'm taking a couple more classes now too, trying to get my average up so I can maybe apply for a Masters."
"That sounds dreadful."
"I know."
And she smiles then, looking up at me softly with those green-blue eyes.
"I was going to tell you about it, about me coming back," she starts, looking down at her feet briefly. "But I didn't really know what I would say. I wanted to call you though, after I got fired, I really did?"
"That's okay," I say. "Did you leave behind a boyfriend in Toronto?"
"Nope," she says, shaking her head.
"We should grab lunch tomorrow or something..."
"I'd like that," she smiles.
And when I hug her, and she hugs me back, I feel young and free again. After, I watch her walk off beneath a street lamp, her silhouette slowly fading, and in my chest something melts.
It's Sunday and the morning feels like an infant's vocabulary - unlimited possibilities. The frosted sun shining through my window makes me squint as I pull my mangled torso from the mattress. Why did I feel so exhilarated? And for a horrible instant I start to question whether I actually saw Sam last night, if maybe I wasn't lying here dreaming about it the entire time? but no, I can feel it, feel her eyes and the way she felt in my arms again; it was real.
I stretch and turn on my radio; the forecast for the day is good - calm and sunny with a slight chance of snow. I check the cell phone to see if there's been any missed calls, but there hasn't, which is another good sign. Maybe all of this bullshit was coming to an end; maybe there was still a chance?
The shower pelts down hot on my scathing flesh, and I wash myself quickly. Pulling on some blue jeans, I look around my apartment. It is pretty disgusting - I had to admit; with clothes strewn about on the floor, empty beer bottles filled with cigarette butts, and a half-empty McDonald's bag sitting idly beside my bed, the leftover fries becoming sustenance for my tiny roommates. I'm pretty sure my sweat smells like booze, so I brush my teeth hard and splash some cold water on my face.
I leave my apartment and outside the wind is cold but the sky is bright with energy. It smells like snow. The Byward Market is for the most part whispering and barely alive on a Sunday morning. I think about her smile as I walk past the Beaver Tail stand. I'm early so I decide to go buy some flowers from one of the gypsies; all set up down the one-way streets with their little stands of fruit, veggies and flowers. There was even a Maple Syrup stand where you could buy absolutely anything Maple Syrup related (chocolate, suckers, bread, you name it, we have it with Maple Syrup). Her jet-black hair in my glazed-over mind, sweeping and intense, and her lips, in my mind, were intensely red and puckered. 'I'm waiting for you Charles?'
I'm standing now in front of a gypsies' flower-shop, a bundle of roses clenched between my frantic fingertips,
daydreaming about Sam, and the gypsy lady is staring at me in a disgusted manner, like I'm doing something wrong? oops! I'm about half mast down there - popping a wee tent for the old crab.
"How much, my fair lady?"
She snarls at me while I stuff thirty dollars into her cold hand. I take-off without my change because I'm thoroughly red in the cheeks from my little escapade - must learn to be more careful, you little bastard. The gypsy lady yells something foreign and guttural at me before I make it around the corner. Not since grade-school, sitting there all tucked under my desk, not sure what to do with the damn thing; still not quite sure to be frank.
The streets are more crowded now as I dance my way through the throngs, always through the throngs, endless circles of meaningless faces (if only they knew what an enlightened guy I was). My heart beats and I swallow while the earth spins and the sun swells in my bulging eyes. The snow is slushy and everything is wet, the pavement all black and shining, like my little heart - check downstairs, little feller's calmed himself down, for the moment.
I get to the restaurant before Samantha, which is perfect because I need a couple drinks to smooth over my anxiety. The Highlander is pretty much empty, since it's only 11:30am on a Sunday. The place is dimly lit and warm so I take off my jacket and post up at the bar, my home away from home, feeling quite content. The bartender nods and I order a double rye and coke with one ice-cube in a short glass. He tells me that he likes my style. I watch fleetingly as people filter in through the thick wooden doors of the pub. Every time the front door opens I swing around and picture her walking through the door in a beam of hot white light. The two of us together again, like it used to be.
I get a text from Natasha that says: what are you up to babe? And I find it disturbing how easily I am able to type the words into my phone: at the library right now, will call you later.
After three drinks I'm starting to wonder if she's going to show up, if maybe I did actually dream up this whole little scenario last night in a drunken fog (you are losing your mind, Charlie boy), and my flowers seem to be wilting beside me here at the bar.
"You want another?" the bartender asks.
"Absolutely," I reply.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, startling me so that I twirl around in my seat in tremendous fashion.
"Easy boy."
"Hi," I say. "You look great."
And she did, with her little white toque hanging off her silky dark hair. She laughs and waves her hand at me. She's wearing the blue winter jacket I bought her a couple Christmas's ago. That all seemed so far away now, and for a horrible instant I wonder if we're still the same people.
"Let's go get a table," I say.
We start to head over towards an empty spot, but I turn around because I forgot the flowers sitting on the barstool.
"Oh yeah, I got these for you."
"Charles, you shouldn't have."
"Oh, but I had too."
She gives me a kiss on the cheek and we sit down at a table for two. I ask her how school is going and she says 'shitty'.
"Me too," I say.
She orders a beer and I get another rye. I watch her set the flowers down on the table in front of her, and her eyes hover on them for an extra couple seconds before she looks back up at me.
"So what have you been doing with yourself?" I ask.
She shrugs and smiles in a very perfect way.
"Come on, tell me something - give me a string to play with at least."
"You've got your own string Charles, and from what I know you play with that thing plenty."
"Still a quick one I see."
We both smile.
"I haven't been doing anything really," she says, "I hate that I'm working at a bar again. You know, one of our bar managers just got fired for having sex with too many of the waitresses. It's all just so?"
"Childish?"
"Yup," she sighs. "It's the same old shit - just like you used to always try and tell me."
I grimace and nod.
"Ummm, let's see, what else? my brother's got a new girlfriend, and she's older than me - and I know it shouldn't bug me, but Brett is only in high school and - jesus - if you saw the facebook messages this girl left on his wall, oh my god Charlie, you would hate her too."
"I already do," I nod, somewhat drunkenly now, I must admit.
"What about you?" she asks. "I hear you're running around with that Natasha Winters."
"How do you know her?" I ask, somewhat bewildered, and at the same time thrilled that she has bothered keeping up with my mis-happenings.
"It's Sandy Hill Charlie, everyone knows everyone," she rolls her eyes. "So, do you like her?"
"She's alright," I shrug. "Doesn't approve of some of my antics though, but that's probably a good thing, right?"
"Is it?"
"No."
She giggles.
"You never really approved of them either," I say.
"Come on Charlie, we both know that's not the way it was."
I shrug.
"What way was it then?"
"We were young and in love and stupid," she says.
"Well, can't we go back to that?"
"I don't think so Charlie boy, I just don't think so."
Chapter 12
A woman is a flaccid thing. But if one knows where to insert - the odd funny comment? let's say, or something otherwise, well, one-liners can lead to one-nighters with sometimers. And in my minders I know there's nothing but spinning spiders hanging from twirling strands of silky, silky web - all wrapped up in the majestically empty sky, wavering yet infinite because eight tiny eyes are always blinking at the same time. I am drunk.
The hunter never rests.
I'm sitting at a bar and there's some band playing a pretty shitty rendition of Mr. Jones at the back. The place is getting busier as the night bleeds on, and my head is fogging up with the liquor, not in that good way though - no, it was that sort of fog that came from having your first drink at three in the afternoon - all heavy and damp on this frosted night in Ottawa. Watching all these people moving through each other ambivalently, living vicariously through their iPods, it was enough to make me cringe.
Yesterday a little girl fell through the ice on the river. She was skating with her father and when she fell through he jumped in and pulled her body from the frigid water. But she was too young and too cold, and she died before they made it to the hospital. I know most people in the world won't be affected by this little girl dying, but it still resonates something inside me, because I know how hard it can be to find someone who will love you unconditionally. Someone who wants to share their life with you, not encompass you. And for someone like that to just fall through the ice one day, and you do everything you can to save them, to save yourself, but she dies anyways, it was all just so hopeless. Nothing more than an empty pair of skates coated in black ice.
I finish my double rye and coke, swallowing the last gulp bitterly. I'm at the bar and it's a Thursday night and I can't remember which club I'm at or the last night I haven't gotten drunk. I shake my head so that little stars flash behind my demented eyeballs. The phone vibrates in my pocket and after a moment's dread I check the text message and it says 'sorry I'm already in bed, goodnight Charlie-boy xo'.
I rise from my barstool and make for the exit, wondering if it's too late to convince Natasha to let me inside her, bed, because I really don't want to sleep alone tonight.
"Charlie boy!"
Some guy I hardly recognize approaches me.
"How are you doing these days, Charlie?" he asks.
"Life's a terminal illness," I say.
He looks at me and then laughs awkwardly, ordering us a couple of shooters. They're too sweet and don't have nearly a high enough alcohol percentage to them, but whatever. I can't remember this guy's name.
"How's school?"
"I saw a lady disappear today," I say.
"What?" he shouts over the music.
"I saw a lady d
isappear today. She was standing at the bus stop on Rideau and Nelson, and she had all these shopping bags crowded around her, but when the bus stopped and people started getting on? she was gone, but all her bags were still sitting there on the street. And somehow I know she just vanished into thin air, gone without a trace, and I'm the only one who even noticed."
"Oh," he shrugs, and something in me wants to smash one of these empty beer bottles over his fucking head.
"How's Adam doing?" I ask, finally remembering the meager thread connecting me to this puppet (but still not remembering his name). "I haven't seen him since first year?"
"Oh, you didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
"Adam's dead."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"How'd it happen?" I ask.
"He was jerking off in his closet with a belt around his neck. I guess he must have slipped or something - it was his little sister who found him hanging there?"
"Not a bad way to go."
"I guess not."
We stand there for a minute, neither of us really sure what to say.
"I think I'm heading out man," he says, "you know, I think a couple of us are heading over to Percy Street - there's a house there that, well, what are you up to? Do you want to come too?"
"Why are you going to Percy Street?" I ask. "It's sketchy over there..."
"That's exactly why we're going," he says, winking at me.
He stares at me for a few seconds, expecting me to say something, but I'm too drunk and indifferent to respond, and after the wretched silence hangs above us for a minute or two, he says good-bye and shuffles away from me, another kid through the ice, another pair of frozen skates.
Please Help
I killed Jordan Spade
I'm looking at the locket that I found on the street and I swear the old lady keeps frowning at me. I wonder what her voice sounded like. It was starting to creep me out though, not knowing who or where this random locket came from, because sometimes I swear I catch her looking at me impatiently - like I'm not doing something I should be.
Last night I had a dream about a little girl with fangs, and she was knocking on my window in the middle of the night. I screamed at her to get away, to leave me alone, but she screamed back at me in this really horrid, high-pitched way, running off all pale in the silver moonlight. Then I was sitting in a hospital room naked, disoriented and confused. The walls were blinding white in the fluorescent light and I could feel something on my leg; something pulsing on my thigh. It was a giant cyst and looking at it made me scream. Black sludge started pouring out of my body when I popped it and I fell to the floor yelping. The doctor came in and looked at me, shook his head and ran away. All I could do was try to block up the hole, the black sludge was warm and gooey in my hands - it felt like my soul was leaking out.