Run Charlie Run
By
John Wiber
Copyright ? 2012 by John Wiber
Chapter 1
I'm sitting on a bus and there's a mother and her son Eskimo kissing beside me, their faces meshing together at the tip, noses sliding softly and warmness. Cars glide by through the tinted windows, faceless machines moving through each other, on their way to nowhere in particular. My knees jerking, eager to be off this wretched bus as the black frosted pavement glints bright against the burning sun. But this little boy with brown skin is smiling, and his eyes are half-closed because the world only stops for him. His mother is smiling too, and the boy's feet don't touch the ground, hanging limply as they sway all pale and young. There's an elderly black woman with squinty eyes sitting beside me. She's wearing a large gold necklace and her mouth doesn't look like it remembers how to smile. I watch the child and his mother rubbing noses together gently, the mother's arms embracing the young boy, and I look back over at the black woman who turns and squints back at me. And it makes me wonder when's the last time she'd been Eskimo kissed.
When was the last time I'd been Eskimo kissed?
The bus lurches to a stop on Laurier and people flood out quickly, bouncing off of each other and out into the street. Everything seems so urgent in the city, something I was still getting used to. I'm supposed to be on Sparks St. by 5 for a lovely dinner with my lovely lady, but I see the mother and her son are getting off now, and something inside my gut makes me get up and follow them. I push past a cluster of people and accidentally step on someone's shoe as I hop down onto the sidewalk.
Moving through the throngs of bodies, I chase after the young boy and his lovely mother, swerving and jutting and weaving; always through the throngs. And on a day like today it's easy to see why Icarus got burned. My inhibitions are so high I just may do nothing at all! And as the rooftops leer down upon me, I watch the mother and son move swiftly through the crowds of people and across the street, parting the seas like Moses. The little boy's hand reaches up towards his mother and she takes his tiny fingers, squeezing them between her withered palms. The market is crowded and I'm surrounded by slow moving stragglers. Staggering, I try and keep up, but the faces and bodies are swarming, and I lose them at a red light.
Typical. My heart sinks briefly in my chest, and it doesn't help that someone has scrawled "please help" into the sidewalk with black ash, the letters glaring up at me from beneath my feet. A cool wind lifts my shirt part way up at the back and makes me shiver. I never knew life had undone so many?
A shadowed doorway half-hidden by a torn banner leads me into a deserted pub called The Thorn Castle. Ottawa was a city of constant motion, what with all the business suits and government officials - there was plenty of impropriety to take part in, and plenty of pubs tucked away in the shadows. And yes, I know I probably shouldn't be in here right now my friends, but the bar-counter stretches forth across the room like a pointed index finger, beckoning and indifferent, making me feel right at home. The room is loosely spread about with chairs and tables, dimly lit and musty. Scattered in no distinct pattern, no point, no relevance - and the long shadows bleed into one another across the battered wooden floor. I take faint notice that the clock hanging behind the bar says 4:45. I pull out one of the barstools and my cool shadow sticks to the floor like glue. The bartender notices me and comes over to take my order.
"How are we this evening, son?" he asks.
"Couldn't be better," I say.
"We don't get many college kids in here."
"I'm a European diplomat?"
"Yeah," he says, "and I'm the prince of Saudi Arabia."
I wink a twisted grin and turn to my left where a hunched over man is leaning up against the bar with his elbows. I watch him sigh into his palm and look away. We are pretty much the only two people in The Thorn Castle.
"So, what can I do ye' for?" the barkeep asks.
"I'll have a pint of Canadian, good sir."
I watch him move eloquently over to the tap with my glass, titling it at just the right angle, and the golden liquid pours steadily, a perfect head of foam resting on the top.
"Is there anywhere else you'd rather be?" I say to the man beside me.
"I could think of a few places," the barkeep says. Although the hunched-over man gives no indication that he heard me; his crooked spine slumping - folding in on himself with his little grey hat. He gives me a quick glance, and then looks back down at the bar, studying his wrinkled fingers that are viciously clutching his half-empty beer glass.
My pint, cold and frothing, is placed upon a coaster in front of me. I watch the beads of moisture drip down the chilled mug, coming to an abrupt halt upon the wooden surface of the bar.
"Cheers to shadows and dust," I say, tilting my head back all the way and drinking until my mug is empty.
I order another beer as the freezing rush settles in my stomach.
"So, my friend," I say, wiping my mouth and clapping a hand on the back of my shrouded companion, "what's the good word?"
The man shrugs his shoulders and my hand falls from his back, now hanging limply by my side, dangling and alone. He stays crouched over his beer and in this hollow light it barely looks like he's breathing at all.
"What's the matter buddy?" I say. "Come on, give me a chance here. My friends tell me I'm a riot?"
The man stirs slowly. Swinging his neck towards me like it was some major inconvenience to him, the poor bastard.
"I don't have much use for friends," he tells me, "a kid like you wouldn`t really understand."
I signal to the bartender with my hand for another cold one. He coughs and pours another. I have an economics exam tomorrow that I haven't studied for yet.
"So, what? you've never had any friends?" I ask.
"Sure I've had friends," he says, "they talk and I talk, and at first everything is just fine. It`s a circle you see - or at least you think it is. But the truth is, it's hardly ever a circle at all, not even close. Everything is straightforward, straight as a fucking razor. And when all the cushioning is torn away, when that youthful ignorance is gone, there's nothing left but cold, solid rock."
My mouth hangs dumbly so I fill it, and after wiping my lips with the palm of my hand, I bend over and push my nose to his. I see his eyes widen in horror as he yelps, and I'm grinning like a bastard until?SMASH?falling - floor - wetness and ringing?calm. My head hurts. Broken shards of glass sprinkled all around me like tiny diamonds glistening at the bottom of the blackest and deepest cave. Sounds of scuffling and anger What'd yah do that fer yah animal? A sharp pulse of bright pain flashes behind my eyes as I try to lift myself from the floor. Feet stomping and stumbling, then silence.
Hoisted up from under the arms, my head flares bright again. Steadying myself against the bar I hear someone yell for an ambulance. Flashing lights in my fabricated mind.
"Now, now," I holler, "no need for that my good fellows. I figure a strong shot of whiskey is just what the doctor would prescribe," blinding pain, hot and bright, "better make that a double!" and in my mind the bar is crowded with people, and they're all cheering.
Soothing and burning down my throat, settling in the pit of my twisted stomach. And the liquor nestles up against my pelvis, the loneliest part of our anatomy indeed, because for some reason things can get rigidly cold down there, quite uncomfortable at times.
"What was that all about?"
I shrug and ask the bartender for another beer. He hands me a cloth to wipe the blood from my forehead.
"It looks like he cut you there, just above your eye."
"Nothing that won't heal."
"What was that all about, anyways?"
"I don't know," I reply. "I guess he was just having a bad day."
<
br /> "And you're what? okay with that?" he says, astonished.
"Well, it's not his fault."
"How is it not his fault?"
"Apparently he just hasn't been Eskimo kissed for a long time," I say.
"Huh?"
I can tell this bastard doesn't get it. And neither does the mean looking bouncer who is still lurking around behind me, watching and listening. Leaning over the counter and pressing nose to nose, cheers! Beers to beers and friendship, loyalty and love?
"You little shit!"
Hands' gripping tightly and rough around my shoulders - and suddenly the air is horizontal and the ground is gone? and then it comes back again with a slamming thud. My head rings as I pull my worn body up from the pavement and stumble down the darkening street towards the market. Passing by people, most of them mere shadows, men and women in business outfits walking briskly and bustling through, washing over each other like waves in the ocean.
After a couple more staggering blocks filled with bright lights, and loud, obtrusive noises, I arrive at my destination and enter the restaurant only twenty minutes behind schedule. The people sitting at the flawlessly set tables with white cloths and crystal stemmed glasses look reproachfully towards me, and my hand is streaked with blood when I pull it away from my face.
I am a nuisance.
"You're late."
"Quite sorry my dear," I say to Natasha, her blond hair sparkling in the light, "you know how the buses are in Ottawa?" and leaning over from behind her chair I press my nose to hers and move swiftly back and forth a couple times before she pushes me away with a disgusted look on her face.
"What in the hell is wrong with you, Charles?"
"That's Charlie to you."
She sighs as I make my way around the table and set myself down delicately in the lightly cushioned chair.
"What happened to your face?"
"Oh, this? I cut myself shaving?"
"Well clean it up for Christ's sake," she says, throwing her napkin at me from across the table. She could be such a peach sometimes. The restaurant is brightly lit, reflecting off her pale face, her high cheeks and tiny lips curving slightly down, and I wonder if she shaved for me tonight.
The waiter approaches.
"Good evening sir. May I take your drink order?"
"Certainly Jeeves," I say, smiling. "I'll have a double rye and coke? and why not bring a bottle of your finest wine for my lady friend here."
"Right away sir," he nods, scuttling away. And I can't help but notice his uncanny resemblance to a penguin.
"You are unbelievable," Natasha says from across the table, crossing her arms tight and staring daggers at me. "Don't you think your father??"
"Step-father."
"Yes whatever," she continues. "Don't you think he would disapprove of you spending your money like this? On booze and fancy dinners and lord knows what else?"
"Oh, Paul's a prince. He won't mind. Besides, this sort of thing, as he knows, is a necessity to a prosperous education."
"You are impossible," she sighs. "The way you spend money? I doubt you'll be able to pay for your next semester, and it will be just like last year. What will you do then, huh? How will you buy groceries? What about after school? Have you thought about what you're going to do this summer? The girls won't let you come live with me again, not after last year's disaster?
"In my defence, it was mostly the raccoon's fault, I mean, he was the one doing most of the damage?"
"Yes, but who brought the raccoon into the house, Charles? Who started feeding it whiskey??"
"Umm, wait-wait, I know this one?"
"You need to get your act together, start spending your money more responsibly. You don't even have a proper bed right now, let alone a proper place for us to live. That apartment of yours is a disaster - it really needs to go. I mean we are supposed to be starting our careers by now, Charles - we're already behind! It's never too late to save you know?"
"Yes my love, saving is certainly a must?" I say. "But how can I save what I don't have? How am I supposed to get any enjoyment out of life??"
"Please, please just shut-up."
I grin at her and try to rub her thigh with my foot.
"Stop that," she says. "I don't understand why you have to live in that apartment by yourself. It just doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense," I tell her. "Paul doesn't want me around his house, no, that's just for him and my mom. Just like his goddamn two-seated convertible, there's no room for me in there either, it's the way he wants it."
The ass of a waiter returns to take our food orders. I refrain from calling him garcon and ordering another double rye and coke because Natasha is poisoning me with her eyes from across the table. We order our food, or should I say Natasha orders our food, and my empty drink sits dauntingly beside my empty hand. Natasha takes a large gulp of wine and settles back in her chair. I watch her eyes drift over the room, and I suspect that she is comparing us to the other couples in the restaurant.
I met Natasha at a party last year. She was showing off her biceps (she did have quite the pipes for a skinny girl), and I very suavely jumped on her back and proceeded to do the Gangnum Style dance while she held me up. You see, back then - when we first met and all, she wasn't as picky or proper. That air of pretentiousness just wasn't there, and when she didn't expect anything from me, well, that was when I wanted to give her my all. When she started to transform, after all those months of unconditional company and carefree sex, well, it slowly decayed under the force of her expectations; what she expected me to become.
"So, have you spoken with Paul lately about your future with? will you cut that out Charles, have you spoken with your father??"
"Step-father," I mutter.
"Feet to yourself mister, and you really should talk to Paul. You would be stupid not too, especially if he can get you a good job right after graduation."
The waiter saunters over with our food and I can't thank him enough for providing this interruption. I order another drink and Natasha frowns at me. The air is stale and the stiffs sitting around us are like mannequins in a store-front, completely superficial and fake; plastic bodies and hollow heads. I can't help but imagine my life in Paul's place, sitting in a restaurant like this with designer clothes on, talking about my work and my golf score; it was enough to make me puke.
I take a large gulp from my new drink and scarf some food into my mouth, hardly knowing what it is or caring. Only that its meat and I'm drunk and my chewing seems to effectively drown out Natasha's incessant babbling.
Time blurs against the background and I find myself sitting in front of an empty plate watching Natasha pick and prod at hers. There is an air of perfection around her that cannot be disturbed, despite my best efforts. She acted the way a real lady was supposed to act. When she finally finishes eating I'm pretty much asleep at the table, leaning over my plate with my chin in my palm. I feel a stab in my shin from her pointed high-heeled shoe.
"Keep your feet to yourself, miss."
"You can be such an ass sometimes."
The waiter approaches for his final stand.
"Are we all finished here for the night?" he asks, leaning slightly forward.
"Yes Jeeves, I believe we are. You have been such a treat tonight, I was wondering if we could have you for dessert?"
"Very funny sir," he replies dryly, and I feel another stab in my shin.
"What is wrong with you?" she snarls.
The waiter nods awkwardly and goes to get our bill. Natasha crosses her arms and looks away from me. There's nothing I can do to calm her down. She drinks the rest of the wine and gets up to go to the bathroom without saying anything. Part of me wants to reach out to her and tell her I'm sorry for behaving like this, that I'm sorry for being late, for being reckless, for everything - but somehow I don't think that will be enough.
CHAPTER 2
Later.
My breath is heavy and toxic from the drink; eyelids warm
and drooping, feet staggering under my weightless legs - floating. Grey-black shadows of hulking buildings leer down upon me, broken by the yellow-white street lights. All shining and sparkling in my diamond eyes, Ol' Charlie boy to the rescue, don't mind the blood ladies and gentleman, I am merely a spectacle; better yet an illusion. Oh! Well hello there, what brings such beautiful creatures out at this time? Certainly there must be a reason you're out here, all dressed up in your tight skirts and high heels, looking for something? No? A rose for you my love, please, you beautiful and ample ladies, supine and stark naked beneath my diamond eyes. But the tramps saunter off all huddled and bulging like wet blankets, looking like fat rosy pies in the crimson night, but still, I would have had a slice, more than a slice.
Arriving now, teetering and blasted outside my darlings' house. Here for a quick romp and then beautiful, elegant slumber. And in the morning she'll make me breakfast, heaping piles of crisp bacon, toast and golden eggs. And yes, I wouldn't mind if you drizzled some of that syrup on my bacon, too kind, too kind my love.
'You do this every time!'
I notice a grey car sitting snug against the curb, parked right out front of Natasha's house. I can see the end of a lit cigarette burning inside the vehicle on the driver's side, and I watch the orange amber move in my direction, pointing right at me, and then back towards the windshield again. I slow my pace and walk by the car, trying to catch a glimpse of whose inside. In the back of my mind a little voice tells me its some guy here for Natasha, and I can't help but think, 'good for her, the old gal, finally getting a bit on the side for herself.' The car starts up and drives away when I reach the passenger side window, and I watch the cigarette butt dance across the pavement after being flicked from inside, the red amber staring back at me with disinterest.
I lunge up Natasha's front steps in a lustful dash, throbbing and bursting, my skin seething. Pounding on the door with my cement fist, I hope that her roommates aren't home. Thump, thump, thump. Looking like some sort of deranged stalker, the drunkenness and blackness cloaking me.
I can hear her footsteps coming, and when she opens the door I reach out for her waist but she smacks me over the head. I laugh and push past her. That scent, her scent, it always crept through me when I was alone. I reach out and pull her close, her tight little ass taut against my seething finger tips.