But he won’t have Donna calling his mother a bitch via Amanda’s umbilical cord. That’s over the line.
He never really meant to fire that houseplant at her. It was just handy to him, practically in his hand already. Then Donna was off making out like Calv was a brute and calling him a baywop. Donna gets right mean.
She’s on a mission to prove to all of Newfoundland that Calv is a cultureless shit cause he grew up wrong side of the overpass.
And he supposes she’s right about a fair hand of it. He would have bought the same furniture as Roger. What do he know about buying furniture? Looks good enough. But it’s not good enough for Donna. You got to get that Amish furniture made of wood and everything. Some of it don’t even have nails or screws or nothing. And Calv don’t know how them men in their wagons is after getting he’s sofa put together but by the Jesus, it’s the best couch he ever had. Loves it. When he wakes up from a good couch nap and smells salt meat cooking, Calv thinks life is all right.
Truth is Calv been after Donna since that time he seen her at the Breezeway.
She was supposed to be getting her teaching certificate or degree or whatever they calls it. She was with some other feller then, too. Always with someone, Donna was. But that was never no concern to Calv, he was watching that window close on. And he was ready to haul himself through the moment it come clear. Or near clear, which was how it happened in the end. There was some overlap. What odds though, he’s not prepared to let her go, not for nothing. Supposing he got to go to Africa for work. That’s what she says to him some days, that she don’t care if he got to go to Africa or the Middle East somewheres. Calv is scared shitless of them hot places. He got fair skin. There’s bombs everywhere. And they throws acid at little girls over there. Real acid. Not like the kind you takes in a tent at Salmon Festival for a laugh.
But Calv would sooner get he’s dick blown off than tell Donna she can’t go yoga in Jamaica.
Can’t lose Donna.
So he don’t know how he’s going to manage here today. Roger says they needs to talk about the thing that happened. Some fellers is having a hard time over it. Roger thinks him and Calv got to reassure them before they does something stupid like tell someone who wouldn’t there and who wouldn’t understand. Like a woman. Roger allows Calv only got to look to he’s own sister for proof of women overreacting.
Roger says vile stuff about Amanda easy enough now that she’s got a man.
But Calv knows Roger would change he’s tune something fierce if Amanda suddenly decided he wouldn’t the scum of the earth. But that’ll never happen. Everyone ever lived handy to Trinity Bay knows she hates he’s guts. Though it would do no one any good to remind the poor fucker that the reason he can’t stand Calv’s sister is cause she won’t have him.
Instead, Calv just entertains Roger’s reams of vicious bullshit.
He got little better to do now that they’re all laid off.
Everything’s after going to the dogs. Again. People abandoning campers, giving up their bikes, sleeping in their trucks. There was a man on the news can’t afford to get his youngster’s braces off. Roger’s convinced everything will get sorted now the Americans got a better president.
Go on, b’y, Roger says, don’t be so foolish. Guns’ll fix that. Guns’ll fix anything.
And Roger is steady looping the two streets that they considers downtown. There’s a whole neighbourhood of colourful houses above it where Amanda lives but that’s nothing to them cause they never goes there.
When Roger says downtown he means beer and food and music and women.
Roger’s swearing now cause he can’t find a parking spot cleared out enough to haul into so he’s half poisoned. He hates parallel parking. Too embarrassing. Roger would sooner loop the same two or three blocks for better part of an hour than attempt to squeeze himself in somewhere. Sometimes Calv insists that Roger just let him park the damn machine. They both knows Roger can’t park with all this snow around but Calv don’t mention it.
Roger will just get pissy. Pissier.
* * *
John can tell Ben hates working here now.
He can hear the bartender grumbling curse words as he preps his station. And it is true, Ben doesn’t belong here. There are lots of other restaurants that would be better suited to his demeanour John thinks as he watches Ben slice the citrus.
Damian bumps Ben’s arm as he carelessly reaches for a lemon, nearly causing the bartender to take a row of knuckles off as he slides his knife hand down. This would be no small injury given that the bending of his fingers is fairly integral to Ben making and shaking cocktails. He can’t very well be doing so with gauze-wrapped hands. It would put the customers off their food and drink, which would put Ben off his food and drink.
John grins at the shiver of spite he sees run through Ben.
Maybe Ben will hit Damian. A fight would take some heat off of John today. And then he would have sure footing for firing Damian. He wouldn’t fire Ben though. No, better to have him indebted.
But Ben’s not the kind of man who fist fights. He was raised better than that.
And Ben knows his sustenance is held inside the tightly cinched leather clutches of the ladies eyeballing him. He needs his pretty face and all his fingers to gain entry past the clasp. The brightly coloured purse holders want no indication of Ben’s anger or vulnerability. This would break the fourth wall they’ve got built up. Ruin the whole performance and threaten Ben’s chances at paying his rent on time. Ben just scowls at Damian, sighs, and he says nothing.
He’s too well-adjusted for a punch-up.
John is both impressed and a little disappointed. He could really use some entertainment. But Ben is right of course. There is no point. John has walked past Damian already only to haul in the heavy scent underneath his clean staff shirt. A clean that smells of Iris. Because Iris washes the staff shirts just in case of such occasions.
Lucky for Damian the linen closet has not borne the brunt of her melancholy.
There is absolutely no way Damian is not still drunk. He is basically rancid. Everything he has on should be burnt. Damian, who is a lost cause on any day, has outdone himself in the category of self-destruct this morning.
Today is a personal worst for the lot of them.
Though Damian may pull ahead of the pack, which is a genuine accomplishment given the commitment to annihilation they seem to share. Not even share, relish. They are mid-relishing their capacity to implode.
Damian is making merry in his own self-detonation. Even John can see that.
Ben has confided to John and Iris over drinks that he has never witnessed anything like Damian. Said he had lived in other places, more violent places with challenging demographics. Belfast. Atlanta. Winnipeg. Hung around locales engaged in active race wars where there were drive-by shootings and football beatings. Places that were brim full to bursting with people totally fucked up and abused. But not like Damian. His savagery was self-inflicted and sinister. Growing up in central Newfoundland had not prepared Ben for this particular breed of Gander Bay gay.
John had felt a smack of pride.
Iris remarked that her people were murderous.
But don’t worry, you’re a handsome white guy. You got a job and all your hair. Your dick is basically dipped in gold.
Around the bay, she said as she took a drag off John’s cigarette, we are more keen on the murder-suicide.
Ben did not laugh at her joke because Ben was not sure it was one.
Iris had said he was handsome though so that was something.
This
lineal instinct to implode was as concerning to Ben as it was clear to anyone looking around the dining room most evenings. Some mornings. This afternoon is particularly ominous. They’re all wearing their worst masks. It is a hideous display.
Damian’s eyes are saucers of self-loathing and shit.
He has the look of a person who has not been eating food recently. Ben hands him an OJ and ginger ale and everyone watches it disperse through his body like African rivers flooding the great plains after the seasonal drought. John can see the vitamins and minerals moving like emergency service providers dispatched at an accident scene. Ben is shaking his head in disapproval as he shines champagne flutes. Iris rolls her eyes as she grabs a stack of menus. Damian is not winning any popularity contests today. But he has not lost yet, either. There’s a lot of today left to lose.
And even more of tonight.
Ben wants Iris to move to Montreal with him. John knows this because Iris told him because Iris tells him everything. She does so out of some devotion to honesty but also because she wants him to be jealous. Not for the sake of envy. But for the sake of progress. Iris wants to shake something loose. She doesn’t seem to care what comes free as long as a shift occurs.
Besides, John can tease any secret out of her. He knows the right way to pull at her panties until they come off. And then she’s all free-flowing info even though she feels guilty confessing Ben’s failed attempts. Ben has only ever been nice to her.
John found this the most fun of all. He delighted in the news and suggested they all sit together at the staff party. Him, Iris, Ben and George. He said he wanted to rub her thigh under the table and talk about their holiday plans. He thought he would ask Ben what he wanted for Christmas and then squealed at the notion of it being Iris’s pussy.
When Iris became angry at the joke, John declared he could not live without her and so she settled.
John has enjoyed playing with the bartender. He amuses himself toying with Ben’s infatuation. Encouraged him to talk about Iris. In great detail. And Ben had done so willingly because he didn’t know yet not to trust John. Besides, he wanted desperately to say her name to someone who knew her. It was like conjuring her. Or getting her out of his system so he could sleep. He had thought John was doing him a favour. He had felt like a plague going on and on about this woman he barely knew and had thanked John profusely for his patience and understanding.
I totally understand, John had said.
Ben did not know then that he totally understood.
Ben had thought he was referencing some past love. A crush from before he met his wife. College. High school even. It never fucking occurred to Ben that they were reminiscing about the same woman in real time. He had thought they were friends. He would brag about how lucky he was to have such an amazing boss because his boss was amazing. This guy, not that much older than him, who didn’t feel the need to patronize his staff or bully them. In the service industry, this was an anomaly.
Ben had considered The Hazel home. He had felt he fit in with these weirdos: the roguish head chef, the intriguing hostess. He had even said this to his mom.
John had sat there across from Ben and listened intently as he explained how he felt when Iris walked into a room in a pencil skirt. Or when the cold left red circles on her cheeks. John had sat mesmerized as Ben drunkenly recalled how she applied lip balm, or folded napkins on her lap. John had exchanged stories about a mystery woman who had also snagged him up.
They had done shots over their shared misery.
Sometimes John had raced off so Ben had locked up after them. He did not know John was racing off to screw Iris after hearing on end how strongly Ben felt about her calves.
John thinks it is delicious knowing something others do not know, baiting them, tripping them up in their own words, in order to feel better than, to feel whole. John rubs his hands together over it like an old-time villain in a black-and-white film. It was half the fun. The other half being the knowledge that he is fucking a woman other men want to fuck.
This makes John giddy as shit.
It is clear Ben still cares about Iris. Even if he is mortified over it. He was disappointed that she had pretended to be single. Allowed him to flirt with her. Dismissed pass after pass.
Not dating, she said. Undateable.
She should have told him there was someone else but it’s not her fault he got hurt.
John can sense Ben’s embarrassment every time he speaks to him. Most days he looks like a man who wants to bury his head in the snow. Each time John touches Iris, Ben instantly relives the humiliation. John can see it rise to Ben’s face so quick he thinks surely the poor fucker’s nose will release under the pressure. He imagines blood squirting from Ben’s eye sockets, dribbling from his ears. His grave marker would read Died of Embarrassment.
They would probably ask John to speak at the funeral.
Ben made a damn fool of himself and they both know it. But John will make it up to him.
John will give Ben what he wants. John will give him Iris.
Iris doesn’t know this yet but she will go. Ben harbours residual romantic feelings for her against his own will, and while Ben has long since realized that you cannot make women have feelings that they don’t have, you can still be there for them when they need you. And Iris is going to need someone when John finally finishes with her. It has gotten too tangly anyway. He’s stressed right the fuck out over it. Someone is gonna get hurt.
Sometimes John looks around the restaurant and wonders who is in the most trouble.
He hedges bets in his mind. His wagers are constantly shifting depending on the nature of the day. Most often he thinks Damian because, Jesus, that guy is a wreck.
Another day, it’s homicide. Iris blowing out the corners of their triangle.
Or George after having found out what she was paying for.
It would probably be George. It should be. She should shoot him in the cock.
No wonder half of women everywhere are screaming their heads off about being poorly treated. Some of them really, truly were. But also, John finds it hard to idle stand by and not defend himself in large groups of female chatter. It’s not like he fucked himself. It’s not like he raped her.
Maybe John will let Ben take Iris home tonight.
She won’t want to go home alone. Ben will drunkenly kiss her. And that would be that. They would date for a bit. Move away. Then John could start over.
He would know what to expect from day to day even if his expectations involved some of his employees functioning at low levels. Like Damian looks like death warmed over out there. John wonders if this is a trial Damian is putting himself on for being a homosexual.
Poor sad fucker, John thinks. And now his mom’s in jail. No wonder he’s a state. John peeps out into the dining room again. He wonders if he can grab another smoke before the next order is up. Ben is wiping the bar down with wood cleaner, the pine smell cloaking Damian’s rancid skin scent. John knows Ben will do this constantly. Everyone assists in the cover-up. Also, the ladies love it when he wipes down the bar.
Ben’s the hot bartender. Maybe that is why he stays.
Ben shakes a plastic tub in John’s direction and he eyes it, nodding. They are low on celery salt and Tabasco, which is unacceptable given the number of Caesars that will be ordered. Big George will be here any minute asking after things they don’t have. Big George is the loudest silent partner in town.
John smokes his ninth cigarette of the day and promises himself he will quit after he finishes the pack.
Because he doesn’t have cancer
, yet. George doesn’t know about Iris. His life is not over. It will go on. Starting tomorrow, he will be a better man. He will take such excellent care of himself. He will treat his body like a temple. The temple of John: bow down to his strength of character upon a moral reawakening. Fuck smokes. Mary Brown’s won’t see another fucking dollar from him. No more reality television. He will floss, eat salad, read. He will be ripped like no one’s business. Like never before. He will be so good. They will love it. And his mind inadvertently leaps to scores of women, all the women, prostrate in front of him in prayer pose ready to worship his newly cleansed temple, and he has to shake it out fast-like before his plot thickens. Something is always thickening in John. Jesus Christ, not women. Just one woman.
Just one woman at a time, fuck.
George. He will dedicate his life to making her happy. Everything from now on will be an act of sacrifice to make this up to her. She never has to know what he has done, she will just be made happy by him every day until he dies. He will enslave himself to her contentment.
He will give up Iris because George is too good for him anyway. He never did deserve her, would not have gotten her if things had been different. She would not have even seen him, so lowly. Piss poor. It was nothing but luck that turned her head.
Luck. A divorce. And a lot of champagne.
And he knew it the very first night he pulled the lace off her trim ass, that this was his chance to be with a woman better than he was ever meant to have. He was so fortunate for George’s unfortunate events. He would not fuck it up. That’s what he had thought the whole while he ran his tongue over her smooth parts.
Don’t fuck it up, John, don’t fuck it up. Make her come.
And so he did. And he kept on doing. John never thought he would even get close to a woman like that. Lots of women threw themselves at him. Sent him drunk messages. Pretended to be interested in cooking. He did not want for choice.
Small Game Hunting at the Local Coward Gun Club Page 12
