Three Years with the Rat

by Jay Hosking

  “Oh god,” I said. “You’re going to do the tree falling in the woods.”

  She scowled, stood, and scuttled to the bar. Her skirt was long and made of a heavy fabric and it swished like a curtain. A minute later she returned with two more pints of beer, though I wasn’t nearly finished my first.

  “Yes, you asshole,” she said after she’d sat down again, “I’m going to do the tree falling in the woods. Let’s say somebody is present, though. The tree falls and causes ripples in air pressure, which in turn are transduced into an electrical signal by specialized cells in your ear. In the end, we hear a sound. What our lab is interested in is the qualitative and quantitative difference between the objective air pressure and the subjective, perceived sounds.”

  I tried to envision what she was saying but kept getting stuck on something.

  “It’s just,” I said. “Shouldn’t that be easy? I mean, in a way they’re the same. The form is different, air pressure and brain signals, but shouldn’t they be…I don’t know, parallel? Like a bigger air pressure change would have a larger electrical signal. Or something.”

  “In a way, that’s true. But there are important differences. For example, Weber’s Law: we hear logarithmically rather than linearly.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked. I finished my first beer except for a ring of froth and pushed the glass to the side.

  Grace said, “Jesus, it always surprises me how little you know.”

  I sat back in my chair and smiled. “Hey, come now. You should know exactly how little I know by this point. Anyway, your problem doesn’t seem so hard. It still sounds like an equation, something that’s already figured out.”

  Her second glass was somehow empty already. She reached across the table, took mine, and drank deeply.

  “Well,” she said, “you’re right. Somewhat. From air pressure to perception of sound is a relatively trivial problem, although it’s hardly ‘figured out.’ But here’s the thing.”

  Grace leaned forward and her hair swooped down the sides of her face. The light of the candle cast her eyes yellow-white and made the shadows on her face all upside-down. “We’re not interested in how objective things influence subjective experience. We’re interested in subjectivity on its own. And we’re starting with subjective time.”

  Her last word reminded me. I looked at my phone and said, “Shit. We have to go.”

  She got visibly excited. “See? That’s exactly what we study.”

  I stood and put on my jacket. She picked up the empty pint glasses to stack.

  “Like any other dimension,” she said, “objective time can be quantized, quantified. But when you look at subjective time, it seems to speed up and slow down relative to…”

  She trailed off. I zipped up my tattered jacket and looked to her. She still held the pint glasses, but her hands were shaking too much to slip the one glass into the other. She had focused all her concentration on the task.

  “Hey,” I said gently, coming around to her side of the table to take the glasses.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “Just give me a second.”

  Finally she slotted one glass into the other, though the rattle was loud enough to catch the bartender’s attention.

  “Easy there on the goods,” he shouted over in a friendly voice. He pretended to baby the pint glass he was drying with a grey towel.

  She made a straight line to the bar and dropped the two glasses on the counter. She said something low and deep that I couldn’t hear, but the bartender’s face soured and Grace made for the exit without looking back at me.

  I quickly stacked the remaining two glasses on our table and brought them to the bartender.

  “Like I don’t have enough bullshit to deal with,” he said.

  “Watch it,” I snapped. It came out of me like a reflex. Over my first month in the city, the bartender and I had enjoyed a few good conversations, and so we were both surprised by my reaction. Quieter, I said, “Look. Go easy on her.”

  I put a few more dollars on the bar and walked away.

  The bartender shouted, “Why should she get special treatment?”

  I turned, ready to defend Grace, but he was looking at me kindly, without any intention of a fight. Because she’s my sister, I thought. Because she’s always been this way. Because I don’t know.

  I didn’t say anything. I walked away.

  —

  We struck east toward Nicole’s apartment. It was dark and dry and not cold. Grace smoked the end of a joint. Headlights blinded us and lit the pavement as we walked.

  “So, should I start calling you Shaky or Grumpy?” I asked.

  Grace dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Well, you know what I mean. What the hell was that?”

  “Are you planning on getting an apartment any time soon?” Grace’s dismissal of my question was obvious. She aimed the words at my feet. “You’ve been squatting for a month.”

  She was asking me to back off the conversation, and like a good brother, I did.

  “Not quite a month,” I told her. “But Nicole has said I’m fine to stay until I find a good place.”

  Grace snorted. “And how is our princess?”

  “Christ, what’s with you? You’re the one who introduced us.”

  “I didn’t think she’d start fucking my brother,” Grace said.

  I stopped walking. Grace continued for a few steps. When I didn’t follow she stopped and turned to me. “What?”

  “Grace,” I said. “Are you all right? What’s with all this bullshit?”

  Her head was shaking back and forth unhappily, no, no, no. The streetlamps blackened out her eyes whenever cars weren’t passing us.

  “Can we just keep walking?” she said.

  I started moving again, all the while keeping my eyes on her. We fell into step and she turned to me, aped my concerned stare and turned her palms upward, what. Then she checked her behaviour, face a little ashamed, and looked at the sidewalk again. We were rounding the corner to Nicole’s apartment.

  “I was just thinking,” she said.

  “You were thinking.”

  “Maybe you and I could find a place together,” she said.

  I stopped in my tracks again.

  “Jesus, walk!” she said. “You’re the one who’s in a rush.”

  “And what about John?” I asked, catching up to her. “You two just moved in together.”

  “ ‘What about John?’ You’re supposed to be on my team. I don’t love that you two are becoming such fast friends.”

  We brought our voices down as we passed the persimmon tree and neared the basement apartment door. The bulb above the door washed out the colour on the siding of the house.

  “I’m on your team,” I said. “I thought things were fine between you and John.”

  “It’s just—I need space. I need to work.”

  I unlocked the door with my key. Nicole and I didn’t call it the spare key anymore.

  “He’s at home,” Grace said. “He’s at the lab. Everywhere I go, there he is. I’m being consumed by his attention.”

  “Hello?” I shouted into the apartment. The lights were on but the living room was vacant. I turned back to Grace. “So you’re annoyed that he’s being what? Clingy?”

  “In here,” came Nicole’s voice. The bedroom.

  “I just need my space to work,” Grace said quietly. “I’m getting close.”

  “Come here for a sec,” Nicole shouted.

  “I’ll be right back, Shaky,” I said to Grace. I raised my hands as if to put them on her shoulders and all their layers, but Grace frowned at me and took a small step back. I laughed. “Grumpy.”

  I walked into the bedroom.

  Nicole was looking into the mirror above the dresser, the reflection of her eyes on me at the doorway. From her slender ankles upward she was one smooth line, an S. The back zip of her dress was still half-open and the line of her black bra
cut across the exposed skin of her back. She was long legs and hips contrapposto and bare arms raised with her hands to her head. She pinned her orange hair up with her face turned and mouth just a little open. I watched it all and she watched me. The make-up was dark around her eyes. Her lips were red.

  The amusement was too much for her and she smiled, closed her eyes. “Well. Hello.”

  I walked up behind her.

  “You look good.” I spoke into the nape of her neck and its downy hair brushed against my lips. There was the smell of fresh fruit.

  She turned to me. We scuffled a little, our faces and bellies pressed together. I tugged her back zip down. Her kiss turned into a laugh and she smacked my hands away. She tugged the zipper up again and turned around so I could finish its ascent.

  “Flatter me more,” she said. My hands were on her shoulders, her arms.

  “You smell like oranges,” I said.

  “Too factual.”

  “You are impossibly attractive.”

  “Mmm. Boy whimsy, but still too factual.”

  She leaned forward to pick up jewellery from the dresser. I tugged at the belt around the waist of her dress and kept our hips close together. She raised her arms again and fastened pearls around her neck.

  “Christ,” I said, “I want to bed you right now.”

  “Then do it,” Nicole said.

  “Can’t. My sister’s in the other room.”

  “Tell her to go. We’ll meet her there. She’s an adult.” She tugged at my belt.

  I stepped back. “No. Let’s go.”

  “Oh.” Nicole looked startled for a moment, but then composed herself. “All right. Leave it to the princess to spoil the party.”

  Princess. From surprise I laughed, one sharp sound.

  Nicole turned to face me, questioningly. Her posture was perfect.

  I coughed. “It’s a good expression. Never mind. We should get moving.”

  She stood still for a moment, a flicker of doubt playing across her face. Then she walked over to the closet. She chose a thin cardigan, hung it over her shoulder, and glanced at me coyly as she left the bedroom.

  —

  Over the last month I’d passed the Fortress a few times on the way to Grace’s apartment, but this was the first time I’d paid it any attention. Its outside was grime and graffiti, the adjacent sidewalk covered in cigarettes and old flattened gum, but it managed to exude an excitement, the hum of potential through its reverberating walls and its chirping line-up. Lee, Steve, and Brian were in the middle of that line when we arrived, all of whom I’d seen multiple times since we’d met in August. I stood between cosmopolitan Nicole and bohemian Grace, less fashionable than either of them.

  “Lookit this young ’un,” Brian said, pointing at me.

  “Quite the harem,” Lee said, which was doubly funny to all because one of the women was my sister. “And he can’t even grow hair on his face yet.”

  “Not true,” I told her. “I just believe in this thing called shaving. I know these other guys haven’t heard of it, but it’s pretty great.”

  The women started their greetings. The men swayed together like trees.

  “Where’s John?” I asked.

  “Aw, he’s sweet,” Brian cooed. “True bros.”

  Steve joined in. “Dude love.”

  “I can see up your nose,” I told Steve, then looked to Brian. “And you. You’re just a dick.”

  Brian laughed. “Sweet and sensitive little fucker. You’re fitting in just fine, so far.”

  “John knows somebody at the door,” Steve said.

  Beside the entrance to the Fortress was a set of stairs, painted black and filthy with use, and a line of people shuffling. John was there, talking to the bouncer, who smiled, nodded, clamped his considerable hand on John’s shoulder and waved us up into Ramp Art, the Fortress’s dance club.

  On our way in, John greeted us all warmly, and then gave Grace a squeeze. She was wide-eyed, as usual, but her face was otherwise unreadable in response to the affection.

  It was a fifties and sixties pop music night. Nicole, the only one of our gang dressed nearly appropriately, disappeared into the crowd of revival fashion. The rest of us were too contemporary to blend.

  We drank. We cheered. We shouted over the music and twisted to the simple rhythms. We drank more. I watched Nicole dance, joined her, couldn’t stand the proximity without pawing at her, couldn’t be so close to her damp skin in the darkness, and went back for more drinks.

  John and Grace stood facing the bar, he leaning in to whisper to her. I came up on John’s side and ordered another beer. John and Grace were drinking from small, wide glasses. I got their attention, clowned with my eyes as if to say, What’s that?

  John pushed his glass to me. I took a mouthful, swallowed, hacked, forced my jaw open. It felt as if I’d poured acid down my throat. I pushed the glass back to him.

  Grace shook her head, looked away. She was amused but embarrassed for me.

  “Not so much, next time,” John shouted.

  “ ‘Next time’?” I laughed. “Eugh. What is it?”

  “Scotch.” He took a sip.

  “Tastes like fire. I’ve got the mouth sweats.”

  We stood together and listened to the thrum of music. I scanned for Nicole but could see only Steve and Lee dancing. It looked like an adult dancing with a child.

  “Any idea if you’re going to keep staying at Nicole’s place?” John asked.

  I searched his face for subtext, more meaning, but found only his usual warmth.

  I said, “Honestly? I’d like that.”

  “Things are good, then?”

  “Things are great.” I drank from my new beer and then said what I was thinking. “Trouble loves Danger.”

  He nodded once and clinked my bottle with his glass.

  Lee came over to me, pulling Steve in tow.

  “Haven’t forgotten, have you?” she asked.

  I turned my head, squinted at her.

  “Thursday.”

  “Oh,” I shouted. “Yeah, the job interview. When is Thursday?”

  Steve and Lee laughed hard. John had been distracted by a girl talking to him on the side opposite to Grace.

  Lee said, “You’re telling me you don’t know what day of the week it is today.”

  I shrugged. Steve and Lee laughed again.

  “Wednesday,” Lee said.

  I could still feel the scotch roiling my guts. “Ah, O.K. Well, I won’t miss it. Thanks again for arranging it.”

  There was some commotion near me, near John and Grace, but I was trying to focus on Lee to show appreciation.

  “Happy to help!” she shouted. “Grace said you needed a job, you seem bright, and I’m on my way out of there anyway. The husband’s a bit of a pushover but the wife is a great boss. And anyway, it’s easy work. You spend most of your day begging the government for money, essentially.”

  I felt someone bump into my back, and when I turned I found John and Grace standing in a triangle with a girl I’d never met. The girl had backed into me, away from Grace.

  “Come on,” she said. “Relax.”

  “ ‘Relax’?” Grace repeated.

  “I asked him where he was from,” the girl said. “Like, originally. That’s all. Relax.”

  “ ‘Where he was from’? Like where he got his slanty eyes and yellow skin?”

  “Grace,” John said.

  “No,” Grace shot back at him, and then to the girl again. “You. Piss off. Find somebody else to take advantage of you.”

  The girl took a breath as if she wanted to say more, but then just looked at John pityingly and walked away.

  “All right,” John said to Grace. “We’re done. I’m taking you home.”

  “John,” I said. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

  There was a flicker across my sister’s face, that familiar expression of pain, and she made straight for the door. John was about to follow her but I put up my h
and.

  “I’ve got it,” I said.

  “Everything’s fine,” John said. “She’s just working too hard, bringing the stress home with her. A little aggression is healthy, logical.”

  “Tell Nicole I’ll be back.”

  —

  I was annoyed, partly because of the way things had gotten out of hand, and partly because it wasn’t surprising for things with Grace to get out of hand. Then I reached the street and saw her standing on her own, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a splash of vomit off the curb and the Fortress line-up all giving her a wide berth. She looked in both directions and no one would look back at her. She was a bundle of clothes too heavy for the weather and abandoned near the road.

  I put my hand on her elbow and walked her toward the apartment. “Tell me about time.”

  “Fucking John,” she said, knuckling her damp eyes. “He’s supposed to be on my team.”

  “O.K.,” I said. “Look. Tell me about subjective time.”

  We left the club behind but not the crowd. Bloor Street was bustling right up to the door between the two sushi restaurants, what was quickly becoming in my mind a regular Wednesday in Toronto. Grace stayed quiet all the way, just little wisps of words when she exhaled. She unlocked the door and we took the stairs up to her apartment. I went to the kitchen, made her some instant coffee, and when I got back to the living room she was spread across the couch and under a heavy blanket. She looked very drunk.

  I helped her sit up and handed her a cup that wasn’t too full. She used both hands to hold it.

  “I never understood how you could drink this shit any time of day,” I said. “Or at all, really.”

  “Space and time are the same thing,” she replied.

  I nodded, not wanting to argue.

  She noticed. “No, fuck. They are. That’s why it’s referred to as the fourth dimension.”

  I couldn’t avoid it. “But it isn’t the same, Grace.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, in space we’re…free. We can go anywhere, right? But time only moves forward.”

  She smiled, proud. Her eyelids sagged with fatigue. “See, you and I are related, after all.”

  She handed me her mug. She held out her finger horizontally and pointed at its knuckle with a finger from her other hand.