Drive

by Diana Wieler

  Manitoba winters are brutal. You can’t let a car sit all day at minus twenty – or thirty – and expect it to start. Most businesses have a rack of electrical outlets for their employees to plug in. My only fear was that the rec center had switched off the breaker because it was spring.

  Daniel watched me unload his guitar and the amps.

  “Are you nuts?! Jens, you don’t busk with an electric.”

  “Then think of it as an open-air concert.”

  He gestured at the musicians along the wall. “I’ll drown them out. They’ll hate me!”

  Chantel was grinning, leaning against the truck. She had on a little black leather jacket, tight and short. I was sure she couldn’t zip it up all the way. “So let them hate you. You’re leaving tomorrow anyway. I think it takes balls.”

  The compliment made him blush, but he took an uncertain step toward her.

  “I thought you and me were going to sing together. We can’t sing electric without a mike.”

  “Later,” I cut in. “Once we have a crowd and they know you’re here. Why don’t you get the acoustic out right now? And grab some tapes, too.”

  As soon as he left, I closed in on Chantel.

  “Listen, thanks. But I need more help. I want him to get up on the hood.”

  She laughed out loud, a single gust of disbelief. “You never quit, do you?”

  I smiled back at her. “If I was ice cream, I’d be Tiger-Tiger.”

  I let Daniel set up and start tuning in front of the truck. To my relief the cords reached and the power was still on. I stacked the guitar cases on top of each other and began building a display of cassettes.

  “Why don’t you put those up here,” Daniel said, touching the hood. “People could see them better.”

  I looked at Chantel.

  “That’s where you’re going to be,” she said.

  “What?!”

  My instincts had been right. My brother was a tough sell. Finally I tugged him aside.

  “Daniel, to get people over here, you’ve got to do something, be different. We don’t have a lot of time. If you think you’re good, you’ve got to be willing to stand up and prove it.”

  “But not on the truck!”

  “Why not?”

  He looked away. “It’s stupid. It’s like…showing off.”

  “Yeah, it is! And if you’re good enough, you’ve got that right.”

  “I’ll be embarrassed.”

  “So wear the hat,” I said. Now he was embarrassed, that I knew what it was for. I hurried on. “And you said you didn’t care what people thought, anyway.”

  “It’s easy for you to talk! You don’t have to get up there.”

  “No, but I will,” I said. “I’ll introduce you.”

  His face was so full of disbelief it was almost a taunt. “You’ll stand up on this truck and say, Here’s Daniel Desroschers and he’s great?”

  The name stuck in my throat like a claw. It would choke me.

  “I’ll shout it,” I promised.

  “And you’ll charge ten bucks a tape?”

  “I…will.”

  He was grinning now. “And every morning you’ll get down on your knees and kiss my –”

  I grabbed for another headlock, a good one this time, but he was half expecting it and put up a decent struggle. Chantel looked over in alarm, thinking it was a fight, until she heard him laugh.

  I did everything I could think of to sell tapes. Heart thumping, I stood on my truck hood in front of him and announced to the nearly full parking lot that they were about to hear the best new guitarist in the province of Manitoba. I leapt to the ground and Daniel burst into “Night Drive,” the instrumental killer he’d opened at the Starling Legion with.

  I was close enough to know he was shaking. The hat hid his face; his head was so low his chin almost touched his chest, as he pretended to watch his fingering. Yet it looked strangely cool, as if he didn’t care.

  The sight and the sound of him – that driving, electric dead run of a song – pulled people in. I could see the question in their faces. Who the hell was this kid on the truck? I was there with the answer, shaking hands and showing the tape.

  “Where do we throw the money?” a woman asked.

  I politely explained my brother was a professional and that he would be glad to autograph a cassette for her, at his next break.

  “How much?” she said, picking one up.

  I took a nervous breath. But I’d promised him. “Nine ninety-five.”

  She seemed to study it for a long time. “Can you change a twenty?”

  I could have kissed her.

  At first Chantel was stationed in the crowd to applaud, get people going. When I realized we didn’t need it, I asked her to take an armful of tapes over to the party trucks.

  “Oh, right! Should I wear bunny ears and a poofy little tail, too?”

  Her hands were on her hips, black denim stretched tight. I swallowed. “You…you’d knock them over in a paper bag.”

  The compliment caught her off guard. “Salesmen!” she said finally, shaking her head, yet I could have sworn she was blushing. She loaded up on tapes, and sold six. I think she was surprised that it worked.

  I’d planned to coach Daniel on what songs to play, except I got busy talking to people and taking money. A pack of twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls cornered me against the side of the truck, peppering me with questions about Daniel. How old was he? Where did he live? Did he have a girlfriend?

  “No,” I said.

  That sold three tapes. Their whole group stood around, giggling and whispering as they waited for the autographs.

  I didn’t have to worry about my brother. He’d learned something in Starling. If the crowd started to thin, he’d pick up on a song everybody knew, drawing over the people just getting out of their cars. It amazed me again. He could play anyone, from Hendrix to Henley, and every song Colin James had ever written or touched.

  At 7:30 he took a break, looking relieved as he slid down onto the ground. He was immediately surrounded by people who wanted their tapes signed. I was worried because I hadn’t warned him about it, yet he slung off the guitar and handed it to me like I was a roadie. I watched the smooth flow of movements – how he deftly unwrapped the plastic, opened the case and signed the paper sleeve with a flourish - and realized he’d practiced this. It reminded me of when I’d got my business cards, standing in front of the mirror, perfecting the smile as I held one out, the slightest tilt of a bow.

  I couldn’t resist. I nudged my way in next to him and leaned toward his ear.

  “You faker. You love this!”

  He glanced at me, straight jaw and brown eyes looking older under the brim of the hat, but still the face I had grown up with.

  “So do you,” he whispered.

  FIFTEEN

  It was midnight before we trudged up the three flights to Chantel’s apartment, exhausted but wired. I was carrying both sleeping bags and two duffles, one with the money.

  “How come I have to carry everything?” I said on the second landing.

  “Because you’re a slavedriver,” Chantel said, shoving me playfully against the wall. “A dictator. You should never be allowed to run your own country.”

  I had worked everybody hard, including myself. After the bonspiel started at eight, the other musicians packed up and left – Andy Larson with a few choice words – but not us. I knew there’d be an intermission, the pavement crowded with smokers, and then the great flood toward the parking lot at the end. In the meantime, I wasn’t going to stand around. I paid my admission and went into the arena with one tape and a handful of guitar picks.

  Wherever people were, I was there, too.

  “This is the best new guitarist in the province,” I’d say, flashing the tape. “And tonight only, this guitar pick is worth two dollars off the price of his debut release.”

  I got some funny looks, but they took the picks.

  When people came out, t
hey were greeted by a new, different show. It was dark now. I’d reparked the truck so it was closer to the front doors, and turned on the headlights. The brilliant white light was behind them but it seemed to beam off their bodies as Daniel and Chantel sang their hearts out, to the crowd and to each other.

  It stopped me. It stopped everybody. I don’t know what happened, what had changed between the apartment and that piece of pavement. But they weren’t those fumbling kids anymore. Black leather and crinkly blond hair faced denim and the acoustic, lips inches apart, biting the words as if they were biting each other.

  I see stars when you give it to me, stars when you kiss me, stars make me come…out at night.

  Under your sky and under your thumb, keep saying I’ll run, then I’m nailed down again by…starlight.

  I got back a lot of guitar picks.

  When Chantel opened the door to her apartment, we seemed to explode, tossing jackets and luggage. But I held on to one.

  “How much did we make?” Daniel said, grabbing for the duffle.

  I held it over my head. “A million bucks.”

  “Jens! We’ve got to see, we’ve got to count it.”

  Actually, I knew. I’d been counting all along, ticking off cassettes in my head. I was flying.

  “It’s me,” Chantel called suddenly from the kitchen. “He doesn’t trust me.”

  She came back, carrying two beers and a pop.

  I unzipped the duffle bag, turned it upside down and shook it. The money fluttered down onto the middle of the floor, 618 dollars in small bills. Chantel squealed and Daniel dropped to his knees, laughing, grabbing it.

  “Holy shit! I’m great!”

  “No, you’re just talented – I’ m great,” I said, tumbling him over with an easy push, my foot on his shoulder.

  Chantel’s tank top had twisted, showing the white line of her bra strap, and the pink, curvy edge of the tattoo. I was sure it was a heart, with wings.

  “And I thought you were just another used car guy,” she said, grinning as she handed me a beer.

  She gave the other one to Daniel. He glanced at me, a little triumphant, but when he was done, he didn’t ask for another.

  He argued that Chantel deserved a cut of the money.

  “I don’t want it. It wasn’t my gig. But when it’s my turn in the studio, boy, you’re going to play your fingers off, for free.”

  I was sure he would have walked through fire and nails, if that’s what she wanted.

  “Hey, I was going to ask. Where’s the Fender?” Chantel said to Daniel.

  “He made me —”

  “Leave it at home, safe,” I finished for him. He shot me a dark look but I hurried on. “What’d you think of the headlight thing? Every time you moved, the light just rippled – fantastic! You know, if you ever release a CD with Night Drive on it, that should be the cover,” I told Daniel excitedly. “You in front of a headlight with the guitar, the grill of the truck behind you…”

  When Chantel went to the bathroom, he turned on me.

  “I can talk now, Jens, by myself.”

  “And maybe you say too much. You don’t tell our shit to a stranger.”

  “She’s not a stranger –”

  “I know what she is!” I caught myself, and my voice dropped again. “Daniel, some things you keep in your family.”

  “Like what?” he demanded.

  “Like…I never sent you a birthday card.”

  “Well, you didn’t.”

  “Okay! But we’re guys. Guys don’t…do cards.” I tried to lighten up. “Am I going to turn on the radio and hear a song about it?”

  He straightened in his chair. “So maybe I can’t bullshit my way through life. Maybe I write about what matters to me. I’m not ashamed of that.”

  “And if I made a tape, I wouldn’t be ashamed to put my real name on it!”

  He glared at me. He opened his mouth to speak, but just then Chantel walked in. “I hate to break up a great party, but I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

  I gathered up the money and stuffed it in the bag, which I put on the end of the couch I’d already staked out. Daniel and I moved the coffee table without a word and he spread his sleeping bag out on the floor. Then I went into the bathroom so they could do the goodnight kiss thing. I didn’t want to see.

  I brushed my teeth, foaming and rinsing and foaming again. I hadn’t meant to do that, pick a fight. I didn’t even know why I was so aggravated. We’d had a great night – it had been fun being a team. And even my stomach had flipped when I poured it out, all those tens and twenties fluttering to the carpet.

  You’re leaving tomorrow, I told myself. It’s back on the road and back to normal.

  The lights were turned low when I came out, and Chantel was gone. Daniel strode past me for his turn in the bathroom. I took off my jeans and left them at the end of the couch; I wasn’t going to get caught without my pants.

  I crawled in and lay there, thinking. It was strange how things had turned around. Daniel was the shy one but he could show his heart to the whole world. I made a career out of talking to strangers but I couldn’t tell my brother anything.

  He came back and turned off the last light. The drapes to the glass balcony door were half open and the moon painted the room in white lights and blue shadows. Daniel shuffled out of his pants and slid into his sleeping bag, but he didn’t put his head on the pillow. He clutched it to him and laid on top, both arms wrapped around it.

  I wanted to tell him I’d meant it, what I told the crowd from the hood of the truck. I thought he was the best guitarist in the province.

  “Daniel?”

  “What?” He was still mad.

  “I’m sorry about the card. I just forgot.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Well, I wasn’t going to get one for you, either. So we’re even.”

  I listened to the hum of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the cat clock. The couch was against the wall that I knew was her bedroom. I could feel every shift, slight vibrations as she moved in bed. On the floor Daniel rolled over, taking the pillow with him, squirming as he tried to get comfortable. We should all have been dead tired.

  I could smell Chantel. It might have been a drift of air from all her perfumes in the bathroom, or a trace she’d left on the couch. Or maybe she’d pressed the scent on Daniel when she’d kissed him.

  I should have taken care of myself in the shower, followed the fantasy all the way – safe, silent, fast. But even the thought made me sting. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I couldn’t help listening to Daniel breathe, wondering if he’d fall asleep before me.

  I must have dozed off. I woke up as he walked past, a glimpse of his bare, sinewy legs like a ghost. The moon wasn’t shining in anymore; the room was all shades of gray. I blinked, waiting to hear him go into the bathroom. Instead there was a shuffling sound, his hand brushing wood. Then the faintest click of the knob as he opened Chantel’s door and went in.

  On the other side of the wall, she giggled.

  My skin was burning. They’d planned this. She’d planned it. Daniel wouldn’t have gone without an invitation. In plain English.

  I felt the tremor as he walked over to the bed, then the low murmur of her voice, no words but I could imagine. I could imagine it all. How it’d look as she threw back the covers to him, the curve from her waist to her round hips, the winged heart over her soft, heavy breasts.

  They were getting louder, forgetting themselves, excited whispers and rushes of sound. They both had smoky voices. I could see the silences in vivid detail, mouths and hands, and all the parts they could touch.

  My brother moaned.

  Oh, God. I couldn’t listen to this. But I couldn’t stop, either. My erection was straining against my shorts, and I could hear my own breath now.

  This is sad, Jens. This is so fucking pathetic.

  I hated that she could do this to me. Even as I took myself out, even as I rode the fantasy of that pink mouth and painted hair, peeled a
way her black, trampy clothes in my mind and made her see stars, on the bed, against the wall, on the floor of the Rosetown Raiders locker room.

  The girl who said I had a peasant’s body was Marie Gagnon. I was in grade eleven and I was aware of every female in my school and on the planet, but there was something about French girls that made me stare. That shiny dark hair and brown eyes, black eyelashes that could brush you off in a flutter.

  Marie Gagnon wore thick eyeliner, black on top, blue underneath. When she wore lipstick it was dark burgundy, red so deep it looked purple, a color that could mark your skin and clothes forever. There was a group of about ten girls who came to all the Raiders games, then hung around after to talk when we came out.

  It was no secret that Marie was waiting for Jeff Styrchak, grade twelve and six feet two, a tight end who could barely remember the plays from one game to the next. Marie was not interested in football.

  “In uniform and on the floor, that’s how I’d like his tight end,” I heard her tell her friends once. They burst into laughter.

  But Jeff had been dating the same girl for three years. He said hi to Marie on the way to his car. So when she hung around she talked to me. Away from her group, I thought she was nice. I’d spend all week thinking of something to say to make her laugh. She had a car and sometimes she’d drive me home. We could steam up the windows pretty good, saying goodnight. I thought she liked me.

  One day in school I overheard her telling her girlfriends she wanted to get into the Raiders locker room, just to see it.

  “In the dark, that’s how you’d like to see it!” somebody hooted.

  “Face it, Marie, Jeff’s not going to give you the tour,” another girl said.

  Marie smiled wickedly. “That’s why you have a second string. You know, alternate players…”

  “Not the Chocolate King!”

  “Yeah, but he’s got a peasant’s body,” she grinned, “and it’s in the right uniform.”

  I stopped liking Marie Gagnon. But I didn’t stop wanting her. After the next home game I found a way to take her back to the locker room once everyone had gone. I was still wearing my jersey over my jeans, a three-pack of Trojan condoms in my back pocket.