Tales from the Bottom of My Sole

by David Kingston Yeh

  “Ooh that feels good,” Pat said.

  “What?”

  “I’m pissing right now. It feels really good.”

  A silky warmth brushed my side. When I glanced at Liam’s gleaming head bobbing a metre away, his smile flashed in the dark. Then all three of us took a moment in silence to pee together.

  Bubbles broke the surface next to Pat.

  “Oops,” he said. “Must be the chili.”

  That’s when I had my vision.

  Back on the shore, in the shadows of the tall pines, stood two figures. Others might regularly see visions of their dead loved ones, but this was new to me. Just beyond the banked campfire, I could see Mom and Dad holding hands, watching us.

  Speechless, I pointed, but Pat and Liam each seemed to be lost in his own world. I left them and swam toward the shore. When I clambered out of the water, what I thought was Mom and Dad turned out to be our packs hanging against the tree trunks. I stood dripping wet and shivering a little bit, the pine needles soft and brittle beneath my feet. I focused on my breath until my heart was no longer a jackrabbit in my chest. Then I stoked the embers and added fresh wood. By the time Liam and Pat returned, I’d gotten the fire blazing.

  We dried ourselves off and put on our shorts. After that, we roasted fat Amish sausages from Manitoulin on sticks Liam sharpened. Pat and I shared a mickey, while he and Liam shared a joint.

  “Dude,” Pat said. “What is that?”

  “This?” Liam weighted his knife on the palm of his hand. “This is a Norwegian Helle Temagami, triple-laminated ten-centimetre blade with a Masurian birch handle.”

  “Whoa. Can I see it?” Pat asked.

  “No,” Liam said. He sheathed the knife.

  “Why not?” Pat asked.

  “Because,” Liam said. He set another piece of firewood onto the embers. “Oh, here.” Almost as an afterthought, he rummaged in his cargos. “These are for the both of you.” He took out two small packages tied with twine and handed one to each of us.

  He watched as we unwrapped our gifts.

  “No ways,” Pat said.

  “It’s a Recon 1 Spear Point,” Liam said. “5.3 ounces with a 3.5-millimetre Japanese stainless-steel folding blade. Super-light, sharp and tough. Just right for EDC duty.”

  “EDC?” I asked.

  “Every day carry.”

  “Oh, okay. EDC. For sure.” EDC for a lot of gay guys was a lubricated condom in their wallet, and casual sex was a matter of course. It was never so easy for me. Now I had my own personal killing instrument. Yippee ki-yay.

  “Liam, thanks,” I said. “This is really amazing.”

  Liam turned his roasting stick propped over the fire. “Your names are on them.”

  When we looked more closely, we saw our individual initials engraved on the hilts.

  “This is so totally wicked,” Pat said. “I lost my last knife in the desert.” He jumped up and gave Liam a hug. “I absolutely love it. Thanks, bro.”

  “Happy birthday, guys,” Liam said.

  “I guess now’s as good a time as any,” Pat said.

  “For what?”

  “I also have something to share. I’m really excited. I’m a little nervous about this. I hope you like it.”

  “What is it?”

  “I wrote,” Pat said, “a song.” He picked up his ukulele. “About us.” He strummed a chord and adjusted a couple tuning pegs. “You ready?” We nodded. He cleared his throat, turned his ball cap backwards, and told us the name of the song.

  Five minutes later, he sat back down. The fire quietly crackled. “Pat.” I picked at a twig in my hands. “Sing it again.”

  Obligingly, he sang his song again. Just beyond the circle of firelight, as before, I saw Mom and Dad. This time, I remained as still and as quiet as I could so as not to frighten them away. After Pat was done, he turned his ball cap back around, and set his ukulele aside. I tossed my twig into the fire. “You rhymed,” I said, “‘tree house’ with ‘Brussels sprouts.’”

  “Yah, I suppose I did.”

  “That’s Karen and Anne in the second verse.”

  Pat nodded.

  My brow furrowed. “The ‘monkey on the tracks.’ Are you talking about the time we rescued Anne’s stuffed animal?”

  “Yep.”

  “That was when,” Liam said, “the three of us almost got hit by that train.”

  “You almost broke your arm.”

  “We never did tell Grandpa the truth.”

  “We were what, twelve?”

  “Eleven-and-a-half,” I said. It’d been a stuffed giraffe, but I didn’t say anything. That detail wasn’t so important.

  “I know it was a giraffe,” Pat said. “But ‘monkey’ works better.”

  Liam sighed and clasped his big, callused hands. “Mom and Dad always called us their little monkeys.”

  “I know,” Pat said.

  Firelight played across the faces of my two brothers. In them I saw my own. Boys now inside the bodies of men. It was true, we had grown up wild. But we always had each other. Liam bowed his head. The long, low wail of a loon echoed across the lake.

  “Pat?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your song. I love it. Thank you.”

  Liam nodded.

  “It’s our song,” Pat said.

  Late June. Nadia and I sat on the patio of the Rectory Café on the Toronto Islands. It was a blustery afternoon, whitecaps speckling the expanse of Lake Ontario, but a luminous canopy of young and old trees sheltered us. Today my companion was draped in a sheer, floral dress that bared her shoulders and back. A translucent disc of agate rested beneath her throat. I wore a faded Rush concert T-shirt that had once belonged to my dad.

  “I heard,” Nadia said, “Marcus’s show swept the Dora Awards.”

  I nodded, stirring my tea the way Charles taught me (the way the Duchess of Grey had taught him: back and forth from twelve o’clock to six o’clock). “Face won for Outstanding Production and New Play, and Outstanding Male Performance. He’s going on tour with it this fall.”

  The waitress returned with our orders: Apple Peach Crumb with salted caramel sauce, and Citrus Raspberry Cake. Our silverware flashed in the shifting sunlight.

  “Where is he going?”

  “He’s opening in Vancouver, then he’s got a show in Seattle. He’s throwing a launch party next month.”

  “He’s certainly making a name for himself.”

  “David and I are supposed to be having dinner with him next week.”

  “Oh?” Nadia glanced up at me.

  “He’s been asking to get together for a long time.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Normal ex-boyfriends are supposed to fade into the past. Marcus just has to stay relevant.”

  “You’d prefer not to have him in your life.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you feel he’s intruding.”

  “I didn’t say that either.” I studied a beetle crawling in the moss between the flagstones at our feet. “I broke up with him, I’m the one who’s moved in with a new boyfriend. I should be the confident one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I just feel nervous when he’s around, you know? I feel so threatened anytime anyone even mentions his name. What’s that about?”

  “I think you know the answer.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Nadia, just say what’s on your mind.”

  “You’re still in love with him. Or at least a part of you is. You’re not threatened by Marcus. You’re threatened by your feelings for him. You believe it puts your relationship in danger. I don’t doubt you and David love each other very much. But we’re more complicated than that. We can love many people at the same time. Until we understand that, we’ll always endure guilt and shame. Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. was your first great romance. Nothing in our lives will ever compare to that. He’ll always be with yo
u. He’ll always be a part of you.”

  I might have argued with her, or at least pretended to be shocked at her words. Except I’d confessed long ago to Karen I still wanted to sleep with Marcus. A flock of birds circled and settled in the swaying tree tops. “Did you know,” I finally said, “he still sends me birthday cards? Most people just post, ‘Hey, happy birthday!’ on Facebook. Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate, mailing hand-written birthday cards to your ex? I don’t even get birthday cards from my brothers.”

  “No.” Nadia sipped from her water glass. “I don’t think that’s inappropriate at all.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “Your brothers prepared gifts.”

  “When we went camping? Oh, sure, this time around. But most birthdays we just call each other up.”

  “Pat surprised you.”

  “He did. Pat’s a goofball. But his music, it’s ... I dunno. Sometimes I’ll hear one of his songs and, well, it’s absolutely amazing.”

  “Pat’s very talented. He puts his heart into his song-writing.”

  “I never thought he’d get this far. I have to admit, he’s really good at what he does.”

  “He was quite a good lover.”

  I blushed, startled. I’d half-forgotten Nadia and Pat had hooked up briefly years ago. “Really?”

  Nadia savoured the raspberry sauce drizzled over her plate. “He was,” she said, “attentive. He took his time. That’s more than I can say about most of the men I’ve known.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was very attracted to Pat.”

  “Until you found out he was also sleeping with your best friend.”

  “That changed things.”

  “Whatever happened to loving many people at the same time?”

  “Loving is not the same, Daniel, as making love.” Nadia met my eye. “Or fucking around on someone.” I blushed again. “Do you know why he and Blonde Dawn broke up?”

  “No. Pat just said they were taking some time apart. He insists they’re still friends.”

  “I see.”

  “They’re still living together, just in separate rooms now. She’s also not in the band anymore. They’ve already gotten a new drummer.”

  “Is she still managing the band?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” I observed the waiter clearing a nearby table, a handsome, burly fellow with a shaved head. I imagined the size and weight of his dick in my hand. “The truth is,” I said, “I think things started going downhill for them ever since Burning Man.”

  “And Liam, how is he doing?”

  “Liam? Great. He’s been dating this police constable in Sudbury. Her name’s Joan. They’ve gone fishing and turkey hunting. He’s been teaching her how to use a crossbow. They had dinner with Grandpa the other night.”

  “How did that go?”

  “I assume it went well.” The waiter departed back inside the restaurant. “I mean, Grandpa and Betty aren’t the classiest people in the world. But they’re super easygoing, and they both love to have a good time.”

  “They’re good people.”

  “They are.”

  “May I see this knife Liam gave you?”

  I took out my pocketknife and handed it across the table. “Joan introduced him to an instructor at Laurentian University,” I said. “Liam will be helping teach a course this fall.”

  “A course?”

  “Wilderness survival.”

  Nadia opened the blade. “Impressive.”

  “It comes in handy.”

  “Does it?”

  “Good for slicing cake.”

  “Apparently.” Nadia cut both her cake and mine in halves and exchanged pieces.

  “Look, Nadia,” I said. “I’m not still in love with Marcus. I can see why you’d say that, but I’m not. It’s true, I still think a lot about when we were together, about the way he made me feel, or at least the way I used to feel when I was with him. But that’s not the same thing. Being with Marcus, it was like riding a roller coaster, or stepping into a casino for the first time. You know what I mean? And sure, I’d love to have sex with him again. But I’m not in love with him.”

  “I have a confession to make.”

  “Okay.”

  Nadia set Liam’s gleaming knife next to the sugar and cream. “I saw you and your boyfriend David at The Cameron House.”

  “You were there, at Pat’s last show? Why didn’t you say hi?”

  “I was incognito.”

  A gust of wind bent the treetops, sending pale leaves cascading across the patio. I picked up my fork, then set it down again. “Really?”

  “My best friend and I,” said Nadia, “we agreed we’d both stop seeing Pat, to save our friendship. Boys in rock bands are dangerous. They’re also usually clichés. But there was always something different about your brother.”

  “You make it sound like you’ve known a lot of boys in rock bands.”

  “Maybe I have.” Nadia pursed her lips. “Maybe this girl’s not all just about dusty books and dead poets.”

  “Does Pat know?”

  Nadia shook her head.

  “Are you seeing anyone now?”

  “I am.”

  “And? Tell me more.”

  “He’s someone from school, in my department. He taught me how to use a fountain pen. He’s someone who admires the same authors I do, who understands why just the smell of old books sometimes makes me cry. Someone who actually knows how to properly use a semi-colon.”

  I observed the corner of her mouth turn up in a half-smile. “It’s not the same,” I said, “is it?”

  “No,” Nadia said. “It’s not the same.”

  “Pat’s a poet.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “What about your best friend?”

  “Sam? She moved away this spring, to study abroad. It may be some years before she returns.”

  “Ah. Okay, I get it.”

  “I’d like to ask your permission.”

  “You mean, you want to see my brother Pat again.”

  “I do.”

  “Nadia, you don’t need my permission.”

  “I feel I do.”

  “Well, look, of course you can see Pat again. I mean, that wouldn’t change anything, not between us. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind. But be careful. Boys in rock bands can be dangerous.”

  Nadia searched my face, before leaning across the table to kiss me on the forehead.

  “What was that for?”

  “Just for being you.” She reached out and held my hand in both her own. She stroked my fingers and the skin of my wrist. “This man David’s mother just married, how long did you say they waited?”

  “Fifty years.”

  “What were their names again?”

  “Isabella de Luca and Nicoli Badalamenti.”

  “Do you think Isabella and Nicoli were destined to be together?”

  “Destined? What do you mean by that?”

  “Do you believe their coming back together was part of a natural order?”

  “A natural order?” I sat back in my chair. I imagined the flow of the Great Lakes into the Saint Lawrence River out into the North Atlantic Ocean. Where did it all start but with that single tiny stream in the forest, a drop of dew on a mossy bank. “I’d like to think so.”

  “Komorebi,” Nadia murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the Japanese word for ‘sunlight-that-filters-through the-leaves-of-trees.’”

  “Gumusservi,” I said.

  Nadia’s eyes crinkled. “Come again?”

  “That’s Turkish,” I said, “for ‘moonlight-on-water.’”

  “Now where on God’s green earth, Daniel Garneau, did you learn a word like that?”

  “From Pat.”

  “Ah.” Nadia clasped my hand. “Of course, you did.”

  I was only twenty when I went on my first date with Marcus, when I filled my lungs with air, eyes wide open, stretched out my a
rms, and stepped off the edge of a cliff. Late that night, we ended up at his friend Julia’s party in a dim, ramshackle, third-floor apartment over a Queen West fabric store. A purple couch and a frayed loveseat crowded the tiny living room. A standing chandelier illuminated a colourful Georgia O’Keeffe print. Patchouli burned in an incense holder on a glass coffee table strewn with rolling papers, shot glasses, and Red Bull cans. The fire escape was the de facto smoking area.

  We’d left Lee’s Palace before last call to celebrate Reggie’s twenty-fifth birthday. I learned Reginald was the oldest of the gang, grad students who’d argue over Marshall McLuhan and Douglas Coupland while hot knifing in the kitchen. It was 3 a.m. when Reginald suggested everyone drop E. Earlier that summer I’d tried Molly for the first time at a gay bar on College Street. It didn’t matter that I was a lot younger than everyone else. I was with Marcus.

  Marcus’s childhood best friend Marwa was roommates with Julia, except Marwa was away in Burlington visiting her cousin in the hospital. (I wouldn’t meet Marwa until months later at Marcus’s New Year’s Eve party). The dimpled blonde in the Tigger onesie was Claire, and the tall redhead was a black girl named Madison. I learned Mitz and Reginald had gone to the Etobicoke School of the Arts, and that Reginald and Julia used to be an item. Both Reginald and Mitz had lost their shirts by this time. Mitz’s pale torso was covered in random tattoos, from Looney Tunes characters to Celtic crosses. For years, apparently, Mitz had secretly been in love with Reginald. “That bromance,” Marcus said, glancing over at the two arm-wrestling in the kitchen, “is a ticking time bomb.”

  At some point, Claire knelt in front of me and slipped into my mouth her very last Jolly Rancher because she knew how much I liked them. Then Reginald insisted on putting on Moby’s newest album which Julia had gotten him for his birthday. Just as the E was kicking in, Madison folded herself into the couch, offered me a sip of her ginger beer, and asked about my family. Then I had to explain how I was one of three triplet boys and that when we were ten our parents died in a car crash, after which we were raised by our grandpa.

  “And how,” Madison asked, “do you feel about that?”

  She had enormous rings on her hands, tiger-eye and black onyx bound in silver. I pulled both my knees up beneath my chin. In my entire life no one had ever asked me this question before. I felt like a sinkhole was crumbling open in the middle of my chest. “I feel,” I finally said, “grateful.”