"Charles, honestly, what is wrong with you?"
"I'm a child from a broken home mother - I'm fucked up - it's like my privilege or something, isn't it?"
"Honey, why are we paying for his school if he can't take it seriously? He doesn't take a goddamn thing seriously." Paul says.
"I do take some things pretty seriously Paul, like that car you gave me - now that was a serious situation?"
Paul just stares.
"Please Charles; show a little gratitude for Christ's sake," Meredith interjects. "I mean Paul gave you his car! He is trying, aren't you sweetie? (the two of them smile sickeningly at one another while my eyes nearly start to bleed) He's really trying to make this work, and for some reason you just can't accept?"
I burst out laughing and shake my head. I look across the table towards Paul and stick my tongue out at him like a child, because I can and it's funny to me. The dinner drags on for an excruciatingly long time while I finish a bottle of white wine and Meredith talks about how her one friend just got pregnant again. It turns out the father is this young Puerto Rican gardener or something and he wants her to get an abortion. Which is probably a good idea considering her husband is a hunting fanatic with about five different high-powered rifles in the basement. At this point I'm dangerously close to taking one of the glistening forks sitting idly on my half-eaten plate and just plunging my meticulous eye into the jagged little ends. Paul talks about his business for a while and I can tell my mom isn't really listening to him while she glares across the table at me because I'm making faces and chugging down wine like it's fucking water.
"Alright Charles," she says. "That's quite enough."
"Well," I say, standing up, "it's been a pleasure, ladies and gentlemen -"
"Where are you going now?"
"I'm off to save the world mother; believe it or not there are people out there depending on me this wonderful Christmas night."
"Like who?"
"Adios Amigos," and I'm gone.
Chapter 14
Natasha calls me and despite my pleading and trying to explain to her that I'm on the verge of losing my mind and going on a killing rampage, I still have to take a shower and get ready to go out. My bathroom sink has blue globs of toothpaste caked all over it, and while the water pelts down on me all hot and scalding, I can't stop thinking about how disinterested I am with everything. Waves of apathy and a cold body floating in the mirror; nothing really makes sense because even if I do get a good job and work real hard, it will probably be doing something that I have to convince myself I'm happy doing, and somehow I'll always know that I'm just a complete fucking fraud. I guess sometimes I feel like there isn't really a point anymore - because life isn't some ongoing thing, or some entrance way into eternal bliss, but it's just there and you're here and everywhere is nowhere. You can't remember anything before you were born and I doubt you can remember shit when you're rotting in the ground or ashes in an urn on some poor fuck's mantel. That was always sort of a weird custom in my opinion, I mean, are we going to strap nana to the kitchen table when she dies and eat dinner with her every night? We can all sit around nana and every once in a while someone will touch her gently on the shoulder and say 'ah gee I miss her'. But eventually that person will forget about missing nana, or they'll die too, and then nana would just be sitting there with a fucking empty plate and no one to talk too.
Natasha comes into my apartment without knocking and catches me whacking off to a lesbian video on youjizz. She scowls at me, clearly disgusted, and when I ask her if she wants to help finish me off she tells me to fuck myself.
"Very poetic," I say.
She practically dresses me and before I can argue or come up with an excuse, I'm being dragged through the doors of Pub 101, a student bar with cheap beer. There's a table of about 5 people I don't really know, and they all gesture towards Natasha. It's that limbo between Christmas and New Years, so the bar isn't very busy.
"Who are they?" I ask.
"These are my friends from class Charles," Natasha says. "This is Jacob, Roberto, and, um?."
"Fox,"
"Fox?"
"Yea."
"Right, and this is Fox - they all work here at the Heart and Crown."
"Oh, yeah? right." I say.
Two of the guys are bartenders and the one girl is a waitress. Fox is from the kitchen and he is a lot drunker than the rest of them. He's got a greasy red beard and he's wearing a black shirt that says Got Milk? on the front of it. He keeps saying 'fuck this' and 'fuck that' because he is a miserable bastard who works in the kitchen. The two bartenders have gelled up hair and both of their heads are constantly swiveling around trying to see if anyone is noticing them. They keep checking their cell phones every 30 seconds, just in case they are missing out on something more important.
"There's no decent tail out tonight," the blond haired bartender says, Jacob, I think.
"It's all the same anyways."
"You got that right brother!" Fox chirps in.
The two bar-boys laugh but you can tell they don't really like the kitchen kid.
"So anyways, like I was saying; there's a brand new thing called planking, I think it started over in Europe, anyways, it is the coolest thing ever. You go around and just lay face-down on stuff, like outside parliament, or off your balcony, I want to plank on the American Embassy?"
"That would be so cool," bartender #2 says.
"Really cool," bartender #1 says.
I look over at Natasha and she's not really paying attention to the rest of us because her friend seems to be crying about something, and Natasha is patting her on the back and saying 'it's okay sweetie, he wasn't worth it - you are better than that' and I'm not so sure she's right.
"Charles," she says suddenly. "Tell that story."
"What story?" I say, my head swaying back and forth to the bouncing music.
"The one about the cabby and how he chased us down the street?"
"Oh right," I start, "well this incorrigible bastard had the audacity to tell my baby here that he couldn't give us a ride because he?"
"I hate cabbys." Natasha interjects, "I mean when they're just sitting there on the side of the fucking street - I don't understand why it's so hard for them to give you a ride - that is there job, isn't it?"
"So anyways, my princess here spits on the windshield and the Paki comes tumbling out of the cab screaming nonsense at us, so Natasha decides to spit on his car again, then the guy calls her a 'bitch' so she spits right on him! It was really quite funny until the cabby came running at us with a crow-bar?"
"And the maniac was running right at us, wasn't he Charles? He was going to hit us!"
"Yea, so anyways, the two of us ran off down the street - it was raining too if I remember correctly, and so we ducked inside the school library to dry off, and I think, we may, just may have knocked boots on the top floor?"
"We did not! He's joking, really, Charles. Tell them you're joking."
I start laughing but no one else does, so I finish my drink and head to the bar for another. Maybe one of those bartenders will try planking off the edge of the CN Tower, the fucking morons.
Eventually, we go out to a club together called Suite 34. The place is hot and pulsing, and all the flashing lights make my skull throb. There are too many dudes with popped collars in here. Throngs of mean looking dudes, guys with tight shirts who drink shooters and smoke Belmont's; they'd all love to stick it in my girl, I'm sure, which is fine with me because I'd gladly stick it to any of their girls, the filthy bastards. We're all just a bunch of bastards, I've come to realize. And no matter what any of us say - we would stick it in any other guy's broad if we were given the inkling of a scent, the slightest chance for coitus - oh how sweet it is.
At some point Natasha tells me that she wants to go upstairs to the bigger dance floor. I look at the huge line and say 'no fucking way' but she seems to know the bouncer or something so she bounds over to him and after she stands there smiling at
him with her goddamn tits hanging out he lets her up. I go to follow but the bouncer shakes his head no and I say 'I'm with her' and he says 'back of the line.'
"Come on man," I say.
"Sorry dude."
"You just let my fucking girlfriend up there!"
"Yeah, she's a girl."
I flip the guy the bird and leave the fucking bar. Outside it is bitterly cold. The streets are speckled with girls in heels and short skirts with red legs - nothing tougher than a Canadian club rat. Anyways, I wave down a grey cab that's missing the little light on the roof. The guy waves at me to get in, so I jump in.
"How the hell are yah tonight?" I say, splashing myself down into the backseat. My head is buzzing and light. I lean against the smooth surface of the window and sigh, letting the anger slowly drain.
"Where are you going?" the cabby asks, his voice all worn and raspy.
"Ah, Chapel Street I guess."
The cabby doesn't say anything, but I can see that he's looking at me in the review mirror. His eyes are crooked and I guess it sort of starts to creep me out after a while because the car isn't moving yet and he's still just staring at me. Eventually the traffic starts forward again and the cabby's eyes shift back to the road.
"Where on Chapel?"
"353."
"Hmmm," he nods.
"Busy tonight big guy?" I ask, but the cabby doesn't hear me.
"I said were you busy tonight, sir?"
He still doesn't answer me, but I watch him look into the mirror again - watching me like an animal stuck behind a cage.
I sit there trying to fight off the head-spins, feeling my heart rate pick-up as the smell of stale cigarettes and aftershave waft back towards me. I watch the cabby make a wrong turn on Rideau Street, and my adrenaline starts pumping when I see him signaling to exit for the 417.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
Nothing.
"Hey!" I shout, pounding my fists on the back of his seat. "Let me out of this fucking car!"
Suddenly, the phone starts ringing and I answer it sort of frantically, which makes the guy turn around in his seat. We're stuck behind a line of cars at a red light. All I hear on the other end is that same gasping sound - and I scream into the phone 'Stop calling me!' then I hang up. The cabby is looking at me in this real weird way, like the bastard knows exactly who I'm talking too.
"Where'd you get that phone?" he asks.
"What the fuck are you talking about man?"
"Give it to me," he says, reaching towards me with his demented hand.
The goddamn phone starts ringing again. I try rolling down my window so I can chuck the fucking thing away, but the window won't open.
"Let me out of this car," I say again.
He turns around in his seat, glaring at me with dead eyes. He's got a gash carved down the side of his face, as if someone tried clawing at him with their nails. He grins at me and tilts his dirty green hat down over his fat forehead. We are creeping forward slowly, and to the left is the exit for Highway 417.
"Let me out."
"No."
I start pounding my fists on the window of the cab, screaming at the top of my lungs as the phone in my pocket starts to ring again.
"Stop that," he says calmly.
"Let me out of here you fucking bastard!"
"Give me the phone."
His breath stinks, mixing with the sour odour of his aftershave, and he's smiling. I keep screaming and pounding on the window until people outside the cab start to notice. I see a man pointing at the car, and suddenly I hear that familiar click of the doors being unlocked. I fling my door open and jump from the grey Impala just as it starts to drive away. I watch the blank-grey car drive on, merging with the rest of the traffic and disappearing into the night.
Samantha calls me in tears, and through the sobs I hear her say, 'I need to see you.' Natasha is lying beside me on her bed in my Sens jersey looking at Perez Hilton's blog on her computer (it always pissed me off when she spent time reading that celebrity bullshit). It's a Sunday night and we both have class in the morning. I look over at her digital clock beside the bed and see that it's 9:47.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"To see an old friend," I say, pulling on my pants quickly as I scan the room for my discarded t-shirt.
"You don't have any old friends," she says.
"Sure I do. It's an old friend from South Port. He's just stopping in Ottawa for the night, and it would be extremely rude of me not to join him for a quick beverage. I won't be gone long though, I promise."
"Bring me back some chocolate." She croons, yawning in that very adorable way that she does, and right then I almost jump back into bed with her - momentarily forgetting that she is not Sam. I give her a quick kiss and then leave.
The snow drifts down softly from above, melting instantly against the windshield. My heart races as I remind myself not to drive 100km in a 50km zone. All of these old colours in my mind are blending together, and for a second I feel nauseous, coughing violently as I struggle to keep the wheel straight. It feels as if my heart has been ruptured, torn from its arteries in a swift and urgent motion. It's amazing what the past can do to us.
When I get to Sam's place I can see her silhouette in the 2nd story window of her room. Her shadow disappears and I watch the light go off, filling me with the best sort of dread I have ever felt. A few minutes later she is bounding down the steps, gaping at the red convertible.
She hops in the passenger side and kisses me on the cheek.
"How in the hell did you convince Paul to lend you his convertible?" she asks.
"It was easy, my dear," I say. "You just have to know how to talk with Paul. He's all business that boy, strictly business."
"Well I still can't believe it," she smiles, "you look good driving this car, Charlie."
"And you look good sitting beside me," I say, reaching over and touching her inner thigh (and when she doesn't move my hand I let it linger).
"Are you okay?" I ask. "You sounded pretty upset on the phone?"
"I feel better now," she says, placing her hand on mine.
There is a small parking lot behind the Supreme Court where we used to go in first year. Not many people know about it because of its location (the Supreme Court of Canada is on Parliament Hill, right across the road from the Justice Building). Most people think it's a restricted area but it's actually public property, overlooking the Ottawa River between a gap in the tree line, it really is a magnificent view. There is only one other car here tonight, empty and black so I know it must be someone working. We have the place to ourselves.
"Isn't it beautiful," Sam say, our hands gently clasped together on the armrest. "Ottawa really is a beautiful place, when you get a chance to just sit and look at it, you know?"
"Yes," I say, looking out past the river towards Gatineau, the hulking Ministry Buildings with thousands of windows like eyes staring back.
Samantha starts to say something, but I can't hear her because my head is buzzing and my lips quiver. Leaning over across the armrest, I bring my lips to hers and feel an explosion of white hot desire. Those lips, that scent, filling me up, overflowing into a sea of expectation. Two years since I tasted these lips, two years since I felt her soft cheek against my coarse and seething flesh. I know I don't deserve her, which makes me all the more ravenous. 'Charlie, we shouldn't,' she gasps, while simultaneously pulling her shirt up over her head. We grope and kiss each other hard, bending over awkwardly in the car, and I can feel her hands stealthily undoing the button and zipper of my pants. I work away at hers and soon we are both naked together, her hands tenderly clasping my cock, rubbing it as I moan and bite her neck. 'Fuck me, Charlie.' Pulling her on top of me, I lay the seat back as far as it will go as she positions herself above me, sliding into the warmth, melting, soft and slow, faster now - her hair a barrage in front of my
face, panting and squeezing, I can feel her fingernails digging into my chest, 'bite me,' I say, 'bite me, hard.' And she does, sucking at my chest until I feel the blood vessels pop. I reach around her waist and grip her taut ass, pumping it quickly as I continue to thrust. She calls my name and I start to cry, thrusting inside her still - the tears mere lubricant, adding to the heat, the sweat and desire - my emotions boiling, rising up to the tip - nothing else matters except this moment, this recapturing of my humanity, this freedom, this past blending with present, and suddenly they overflow, washing away in a wave of complete and utter dependency, her hair a mess, tits gleaming with the sweat and satisfaction; 'I haven't cum like that in a long time,' she says. And after it's all over, while we sit there naked sharing a cigarette, in that simple and tragic after-sex glow, we kiss again, holding it for a long time, pushing the back of her head against my face until I can barely breathe, because I'm too scared to pull away.
Chapter 15
We are all drinking in the common room of Thompson Residence. Its first year and everything is still new. Earlier this week a kid jumped out of the 13th story window and died. There are pictures and candles all lined up against the wall outside of the building. It was weird looking at the pictures of his dead smiling face. Sylvester is playing Beer Pong against Patrick and Dennis, while Gordo and Brennan keep arguing over what music to play. Pat and Den are both from Barrie and have been friends since grade school, while the rest of us are still just getting acquainted.
We all lived on the same floor, and security knew most of us on a first name basis. Everyone seemed to like me because I could drink a lot and didn't have to go to Hull to get into the bars. There weren't many 19 year olds in first year anymore. Everyone seemed so fucking young.
Samantha is sitting with a group of girls that I used to know. She keeps catching me looking at her. I give her a wink and she makes a funny growling face at me. All I want is to be alone with her.
Sylvester sinks the ball in Pat and Den's last cup so the two of them start chugging while Sylvester hollers and prances around the room with his arms raised up over his head. Gordo and Brennan are wrestling over in the corner and the two of them fall into the Beer Pong table so there's a big crash as empty plastic cups and half filled beers go splashing everywhere. The girls all make high-pitched squeaking noises and Samantha comes up to me and asks for a smoke. We go out for one together and standing there in the entrance to the building, shielding ourselves from the wind and cold, I tell her that I can't stand this anymore.