The Maladjusted

by Derek Hayes

  Mr. Katz, the senior gym teacher, stuck his face through the crowd. At this point I was kicking Lanny in the ribs. “Lanny had it coming,” Mr. Katz said. “Under similar circumstances Lanny wouldn’t have given Jimmy any mercy.” The other kids were laughing and celebrating because Lanny was due for a licking — many of ‘em wished that they were kicking the snot out of Lanny and not me. I was a ferocious fighter for my age. Patricia and the other boys cheered as if I were a hero.

  “If you think you’ve got me beat,” Jim said, “you’ve clearly got another think coming. Take a look at this.” He held the yellow dog-eared document in front of him. “I’ve got 3.2 per cent from Loblaws. Loblaws supports the underdog. The president is in my corner.”

  My body shuddered again, as if a ghost had left it and I was again just an innocent, harmless twelve-year-old.

  Patricia thought that I was handsome. She saw that I wasn’t going to be scarred and that Lanny, who’d started the whole thing, was going to have a hideous scar. He was going to be disfigured for life. Patricia saw my potential. She saw the man that I’d become. She knew that I’d one day graduate from Seneca College and that I’d own my own roofing business and that I’d get married and have two little guys and my own house as well.

  “You just lost my business. Go ahead and keep the piece of paper, boss. I’ve got more copies at home and another copy stashed away in a safe, private location.” Jim’s scar was itchy, so he scratched it. On the way out he yelled, “Go to Loblaws for your money. This place is a rip off!”

  Everyone turned to watch him storm across the floor to the double doors leading to the street. He was in a hurry. He wanted to try the Royal Bank on Logan Street before it closed at five o’clock.

  SHALLOWNESS

  To: Rebecca (rebeccabrown88@gmail.com)

  From: Jean

  Cc:

  Re: your replacement

  I haven’t had the best week. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get fired because of the girl who replaced you. This new girl is something else.

  She applies layers of rouge, coats her eyebrows and lashes with Maybelline and somehow perks up her breasts and buttocks. She wears garish earrings. The only accessory I have is a headband, and I strap this on only when I want to dress up. I think you’re the only other woman that could wear blue jeans to work and not give a rat’s ass.

  There’s a fog of perfume that hovers over her desk. She hung a fuzzy pink Hello Kitty doll on the wall of your old cubicle. I told her this was sacrilegious to your memory and not really appropriate for an office. She whined that it gave her luck. She flaunts the fact that she’s a size two. She laughed when I told her that her waist was the same size as my thigh.

  She doesn’t have an original thought in her head. She’s giddy about Will and Grace. She idolizes Ally McBeal. I was discussing the latest Alberto Salazar film a few days back. I looked over and I saw her puzzled look of incomprehension. In fact, she’s probably unacquainted with all foreign films. (Who do I have to talk to around here now that you’ve left?)

  She idly stands around other people’s desks at lunch. She reeks of phoniness. She reads Steve his horoscope every day — like he gives a flying f . . . A client was waiting for her at her cubicle and she raised her finger and continued to gab on the phone. So I said to the client, “Samantha’s just sorting out her plans for Friday night. Maybe I can help you?” I tell you, if I don’t get fired, and if this is how she conducts business I’m going to have a busy year.

  She showed up at the pub two days ago and hugged everyone. Such phony affection. In the middle of the evening she started to dance seductively in the aisle of the pub. Know what I did? I stood up and jiggled next to her. People laughed.

  Miss Samantha had no idea what I was up to. After the song she spouted platitudes about how funny she thought we were together. I’d drunk about five beers and was tired of her affected camaraderie. “We’re not friends,” I said, “so why act as if we are? Why spend valuable time getting to know each other when we don’t really care?” Then I gave her the goods. “Look,” I said. “I pride myself in being an honest person, so I might as well give you a head’s up. I was making fun of you back there when I was dancing with you.”

  Her reply? She said, “What end does it serve you to ridicule me. Up until now I’ve seen you as a moody but funny person. I’ve liked listening to your stories and I’ve appreciated your sense of humour. Now I’m always going to be careful around you.” She gave me this Prince Myshkin look — a guileless stare that was empty of irony.

  I took a long swig of my beer and said, “Listen, Samantha. You’re obviously so shallow that you don’t get it. I’m my own person and if people don’t like me so be it. I’m not going to change. Why should I suffer fools?” And I cackled, but she had it coming, don’t you think?

  The poor little thing choked back a few tears and left the bar.

  She obviously was going to tell all our colleagues, so I beat her to the punch. I approached each and every person that night and told my side of the story. I asked Steve to meet me outside. I told him he’s got to get rid of her — either that or I might not come back to work. He said he’d look into it. I’ll bet you any money she’s complained to him about me and is scheming to get me fired.

  If only you were here. You’d take my side. Sometimes I think we’re the only truly genuine people on this planet. How’s your new job? I’d love to hear from you. I haven’t heard from you since you left?!?

  xoxox

  Jean

  INERTIA

  I LIE IN BED FOR AN HOUR listening to 102.1, “The Edge.” Eventually, I get up and open the kitchen window. I take a bowl from the cupboard and fill it with corn flakes. There’s no milk so I eat the cereal with my fingers, then lie on the sofa and turn on the television. I flick for a while and then stop at a middle-aged woman doing yoga. She’s a little thick in the hips, but with leotards she’s got the legs of a twenty-year old. I light up, and take a drag from a joint. I watch the woman and stroke myself, but give it up after my prick goes limp.

  A George Brown College pamphlet is open on the coffee table beside me. A few of the business courses on the page are highlighted in yellow, though not by me. My dad brought it over the other day and told me that I should take a look, which was strange because we haven’t spoken much the last two years. I thought he’d given up hope when I was eighteen and moved in with Rudy. It’s easy living here. Rudy’s the superintendent. It’s his father’s building. I guess I should be paying a little rent, but Rudy hasn’t mentioned that I’m here to his father, so I haven’t paid a cent. Instead I supply Rudy with weed. Lots of it. I buy it with the money I earn from working at a gas station in the west end of Toronto. Whenever he smokes up, I smoke up as well. I don’t want to be rude, right? We’ve been smoking up every other day for six years straight. It was good for the first five years, but lately I’ve been wondering if there isn’t more to life.

  There’s a thud on the other side of the wall.

  I step over a bag full of Kentucky Fried Chicken bones and open the door to the third-floor hallway. A teenaged boy is sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall, long black bangs hanging in front of his face so I can’t see his eyes. Why doesn’t he comb that mess? Equally repulsive is the fuzz on his upper lip. I’d like to hold him down and shave it off. He holds an Apple magazine inches from his eyes. His limbs are skinny, like a doll’s. “This one’s got a camera connector,” he says.

  “Hey little man,” I say. “What’s your name?”

  “Joseph. What’s yours?”

  “Ben. Where you from?”

  “The Philippines.”

  “Why don’t you be on your way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go on and be with your own. With your mom and dad.

  Rudy and I don’t like visitors too much.”

  “Rudy? I met Rudy,” the kid says. “He’s gonna help me earn a bit of cash.”

  “He is?” I’m aware of
how surprised I sound.

  A week later, while I’m watching Judge Judy, I hear people talking just outside the door. I put on some shorts and open it. Joseph is scrubbing the scuffed hallway floor. Rudy’s looming over him. The girls at our high school used to love his long hair. They wouldn’t find him so attractive anymore. He’s pot-bellied, with a perpetual leering expression on his face, and now his hair is greasy. “Put some weight into that, Joseph,” he says.

  “I’m not sure the black marks will come off,” Joseph says.

  “Sure they will.” Rudy winks at me. “Every mark has to come off. You told me you wanted some work and then you complain when I give it to you.”

  Joseph’s head bobs up and down in concentration. Drops of his sweat trickle to the floor. “I’m not complaining.” He squats on his heels, swinging like a metronome from side to side, chipping away at gum and unidentifiable grunge with a scraper. His wiry arms stretch to get at bits in the corner. He reaches into a bucket for a sponge that drips black water down his arm. He coats the floor with water from his sponge, mops up the loosened scraps, and then flips the muddy, stringy muck into a plastic bag.

  When Rudy goes into our apartment, Joseph cranes his neck, making eye contact with me, and says, “He just wants me to do a professional job. He might give me more work at the other buildings on our block.” He smiles shyly.

  “The other buildings are even harder to clean,” I say. “You and your parents should have moved somewhere else.” I can tell I’ve hurt his feelings. He doesn’t look up when I say, “See ya.”

  I’m awake. My brain’s a little sluggish, but I can see that my dad’s in the room. I feel his smallness. He has a slight build, a thin, quivering moustache, and sad, blue eyes. A glass of water’s in his hand. Oh fuck. There’s a smouldering roach on the table. Can he smell it? “Hey, Dad,” I say. “How’d you get in here?”

  “Rudy, let me in,” he says.

  I sit up. Rudy’s in the wicker chair in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette. At least it’s not dope. “Is Ben late for his 8:30 appointment on Bay Street, Mr. Wilson?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, Rudy,” my dad says.

  “What tie are you going to wear for that meeting, Ben?”

  “Shut up, Rudy,” I say. “How long have you been here, Dad?”

  “I just got here,” he says. His voice sounds depressed. He’s not even acting like everything’s okay. “I came by to see if you’ve filled in the registration form for George Brown. The last day to register is in two weeks.”

  “Ben and I are thinking about selling our shares. Is it a good time to sell now, Mr. Wilson?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, Rudy,” my dad says.

  “Stop it, Rudy,” I say. “I’ll fill it out soon, Dad. Just give me some time.”

  “All right,” he says. He hands me the glass of water. “You can stay at home for free when you’re at George Brown.”

  I don’t know what to say. Before I can thank him, Rudy says, “Will any of those business courses Ben’s taking help him understand the elasticity of the weed market, Mr. Wilson?”

  When he leaves I curl up as small as I can on the sofa. It’s not what he’s said. It was nice of him to offer to let me stay at his place. It’s not even what Rudy’s said. I feel shitty because of what my dad hasn’t said. No complaint about the weed, whatsoever. Is this a new normal?

  Three days have gone by since my father’s visit. I get off the elevator with milk, bread and rolling papers from the 7-Eleven. Joseph is talking to Rudy by the stairwell. “It took me about five hours to clean all six floors,” he says. “If you give me ten dollars, it means I worked for two dollars an hour.” He reminds me of the boy in the Charles Dickens story who says, “Please sir, can I have some more?”

  “You can complain, but I’m only giving you ten bucks,” Rudy says. “I don’t know how people do business in the Philippines. You should’ve asked how much I’d give you before you started. It’s too late now.”

  Joseph reluctantly takes the bill from Rudy’s hand.

  “The first floor is scuffed by the main entrance,” Rudy says. “It looks horrible.”

  “That’s because people walked on it while it was still wet.”

  “That isn’t my problem. The agreement was that you’d do a good job. You said that, didn’t you?”

  “I’ll get my sponge and fix it.”

  “You do that.” Rudy gets in the elevator and it descends.

  Joseph smiles at me with forced cheerfulness.

  “Why are you taking his shit?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why not pour some dirty water on his floor. Piss in his mailbox.”

  “Why? I thought you guys were friends?”

  “Go and finish the fucking job, Joseph.” I’m shaking, so I go into the apartment and lie down on the sofa. That I’m full of so much hate doesn’t make sense. My dad’s never spoken badly about anyone, not black guys or Chinese guys. He always got mad as hell when Rudy told a gay or racist joke. As for me, I’m not overly fond of brown or Chinese dudes, but Rudy’s worse — he’s a racist asshole. When he tells a joke I always laugh, but lately I’ve felt like he’s wandered too far toward the Hate. I want to at least keep an open mind about things.

  Someone’s knocking at the door.

  “Can you get that?” Rudy yells from the washroom, where he’s taking a bath.

  I pinch out the roach I’m smoking, examine my grey sweatpants and T-shirt for anything gross, and then open the door. Joseph’s staring at me with a smile on his face. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. “I’m collecting beer bottles. If you want I can go to the beer store and return them for you. We can share the refund.”

  “Looking to make a buck, are you?”

  Joseph’s smile widens. “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Just hold on a second. There’s twelve bottles in the kitchen.”

  When I return, Rudy, in his bathrobe, is in the doorway bumping his belly against Joseph’s duffel bag. He’s dropping jars of congealed mayonnaise and Cheese Whiz in with the beer bottles.

  “I can’t get any money for these,” Joseph says. “I just want beer bottles.”

  “What?” Rudy says. “You’ll take my beer bottles and not my other glass containers? What kind of service are you providing? All you have to do is put them in the blue box out front.”

  Joseph’s smile disappears but he’s going to do what Rudy wants. He pulls the duffel bag, so full of bottles that it can’t be zipped up, onto his shoulder. Tepid beer spills from a bottle onto the boy’s shirt. A dill pickle jar rolls to the side of the bag, totters and then, in what seems like slow motion, drops to the floor and shatters.

  Joseph says, “Shit,” then lowers the duffel bag and says to Rudy, “I’ll clean that up after I get back.”

  “Do it before you go,” Rudy says. “The glass might cut someone.”

  In spite of the smile, it’s easy to see that Joseph’s pissed off.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Rudy says. “You smashed the jar.” And then, more quietly, “Impudent little fuck.”

  Joseph gets a broom from his apartment and sweeps up the glass. He removes some of the bottles and puts them in a plastic bag. He lugs the duffel bag in his arms down the stairs and comes back for the remaining bottles. I stand at the window, eating stale pretzels, watching Joseph on Queen Street. Every ten metres or so he puts down one bag, and goes back for the other.

  When he reappears on the street with his empty duffel, I hustle down to meet him in the lobby. “You didn’t need to take his recyclables. He shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

  “He isn’t all bad,” Joseph says. “He let me go door-to-door and ask everyone for bottles. He didn’t have to let me do that. Thanks for giving me your bottles, mister. Here’s your half.” He drops sixty cents into my hand, smiling. “See you later.”

  I wasn’t always so useless. My dad’s a high school geography teacher.
He helped me with my homework. I got nothing but As and Bs in grades nine and ten. I never skipped a class. I was nice to him back then, especially after Mom died.

  In grade eleven, I started smoking dope with the same guys I’d hung out with since grade two. The girls liked us because we were doing well in school, and because we were cool and fun to be around and because we smoked dope and listened to Rush. By grade twelve we weren’t doing as well in school. We were having a lot of fun but we were always high. Even in class. A couple of the young birds still hung with us but they got tired of the life pretty quickly. A lot of them went to university. Not me. Not Rudy. We smoked up, and watched TV. Inertia’s a fucked up thing. Especially when it involves fucked up habits. My dad called me last night and offered me something that’s going to be hard to refuse. I just might get there. George Brown, that is.

  But Rudy’s always bothering me to get dope. And the registration form doesn’t fill itself out.

  I’m sweeping up decayed food particles from around the sofa on a Tuesday morning. When I open the door to dump the filth on the tile floor in the hallway, Joseph’s sitting in his spot, cradling an Apple iPod. “Hi Ben,” he says. He strokes the dials. He delicately stuffs the plastic wrapping into the open box. He sniffs the headphones, and I can’t be sure but it looks like he’s kissing the iPod itself. “My dad helped me buy it. He gave me half the money for it. I was hoping to get the iPod Hi-Fi, but this is almost as good.”

  “Really. Your dad sounds like a nice guy.”

  “He is.”

  “Can I tell you something, Joseph?”

  “What’s that?”

  “My dad has paid for my tuition at George Brown College. I just have to fill out the registration.”