The Secrets Men Keep

by Mark Sampson

  Our group congregated around two small tables to the left of the stage, behind a pillar, and there were soon complaints about the lack of space and view. But of course! This is what happened when you paid no heed to rules, to routines. The club was so full that the Korean staff had given up trying to serve tables; people would have to go up to the bar themselves. So we pooled our money and nominated Mr. Mallet to fetch a bottle of Southern Comfort and some red wine. Meanwhile, chain-smoking Rupert was shoehorning Kenny into another current affairs debate, and Kenny remained in contradictory form. “Look, Rupert, what I’m saying is the Palestinians already have their own state: it’s called Jordan . . .” The Torontonian Couple stayed above it all, wondering aloud when the music would start. Plump Erica had zeroed in on a lean, handsome black man at the next table, wooing him with flirtatious flips of her blonde hair.

  But then. The band’s brown bodies climbed onto the stage, each dressed in an expensive pinstriped suit. When the men took up their shiny instruments, the room quieted instantly. There were no introductions. Just the slow, steady pulse of a bass guitar, obscured by silver smoke mushrooming through the air. Then the avuncular rise of the trumpet. The piano’s chime. The snare drum’s rattle. They coalesced and filled each other’s gaps. I looked around at my coworkers. They were captivated—that is to say, finally, mercifully silent. The tempo increased. The music grew fuller. Erica appeared lost in its narratives. The Torontonian Couple glazed their faces with appreciation. Mr. Mallet couldn’t think of one inappropriate thing to say. I looked over at Kenny just as he was leaning in to the Saskafarian’s great womb of dreadlocks to whisper at length into his ear. What was he offering? An olive branch in deference to the music?

  No. Rupert’s face scrunched up in grave offence. “Ah, mon!” he yelled, shattering the moment, “but they are Palestinians! You are a fucking racist!”

  ~

  The night sank downward, despite my attempts to keep it afloat. I took quiet note when plump Erica, in the middle of the second set, rose with discretion to leave with the handsome black man, an arm knitted enticingly into his. During the long break between sets two and three, the MPs arrived, painted helmets gleaming, to comb the bar for any GI at risk of violating curfew. It was then that Kenny nearly bailed, but I conjured a nostalgic image of Halifax to keep him in his seat. Soon the third set began, fiery, more frenetic than the others, the band sweating and cutting off songs at their apex to tumble into scat singing. I devoured the groove, bobbing up and down, snapping my fingers. But this energy was some kind of ghost that only I could see. The Torontonian Couple was now prattling on, oblivious to each shrewd nuance. Mr. Mallet had wandered into Kenny and Rupert’s latest argument and was getting loudly outgunned for his effort. They were all bored! What had started as a cool novelty had turned tedious. This was jazz for them: newfangled toy broken just hours out of the box.

  The set ended, lights went up, and the audience flapped wings at the band. The Torontonian Couple stood and stretched as if interrupted from a nap. “We’re calling it a night,” they said without guile or apology, and then were gone. Our remaining four remained for a while longer, watching the jazz club alter back into a regular pub. With no effort, Kenny polished off the last of the Southern Comfort. “Well boys, should we move along?”

  “Why move? We’re perfectly comfortable here. Look, I think I see a booth opening up . . .”

  “Nah. Let’s get out of here.” Kenny had that look: the sex addict grown weary of self-denial for the sake of appearances. He was ready to get his real night started.

  We poured down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Kenny was leading us to a particular destination. I could tell he was carrying a great urgency, stemming from the breakup with his Korean sweetie. It was an ache that could be soothed only with a visit to Itaewon’s most hallowed of discos, that den of unrepentant orgy—the Limelight. Nicknamed the Slimelight. Guys like Kenny made out quite well there.

  “So who’s with me?” he asked when we reached the club’s gateway, its neon patterns pulsing in brainless repetition. He pointed at me. “How bout you, Professor Highbrow?”

  “I am not going into Slimelight,” I shuttered.

  Kenny moved his outstretched finger to Rupert, to Mr. Mallet.

  “Yeah, sure, I’m in,” Mr. Mallet said.

  “Sorry, mon, but I cannot handle Slimelight.”

  Kenny was not offended by our abandoning him. He shrugged affably. “Alrighty boys, have a great night. We’ll see you Monday.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Kenny, hang on a second—”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to say thanks. For coming out tonight. You know, I take in the jazz every few weeks, and you’re more than welcome to join me again. If you want.”

  “Thanks, Al. Appreciate it. It was really awesome. Nice change of pace, for sure.” He pronounced the last two words as we do in Halifax: fer shore.

  Then I watched Kenny and Mr. Mallet hustle up to the door, pay the cover charge, and then duck inside to the thumping dance party within.

  ~

  So there I was, wandering Itaewon at midnight with a halitosic chain-smoking Saskafarian who had begun (mis)quoting Bob Marley—Jeez Rupert, what took you so long?—while ranting about the importance of social anarchy in the 21ST century. This did not, of course, preclude a visit to 7–Eleven to buy Korean beers, which we drank outside on the curb until we could think of something else to do. Rupert got an idea as he lit a fresh cigarette. “Why don’t we check out that new pub?” he said. “What’s it called? The Rocky . . . the Rocky something . . .” I swayed in drunkenness. “What, the Rocky Mountain Tavern?”

  We finished our beers and staggered onward, down the main strip, looking for this recently launched but elusive novelty bar. Like All That Jazz and the area’s other less-scandalous establishments, it was difficult to find among the collage of neon and billboards. Finally we located it, its plywood sign giving it away: that is, not the stenciled name on it, but rather the indelible symbol above—red bars and foliage. A Canadian flag, big enough to make your heart blister.

  We weren’t even all the way up the wooden stairs before the pub’s music clobbered us over the head. Out of the sound system, Burton Cummings was screaming at a certain type of woman to ‘Stay away from me-eee!’ Just as Rupert and I topped the stairs and stepped into the noisy pub, a young man saying good-bye to his crew was departing for the night, and, not watching out, crashed right into me.

  “Oh Jeez, excuse me there, eh.”

  “No, excuse me.”

  “Didn’t even see ya. You all right?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about that.”

  “Hey, it was my fault. I should’ve watched where I was going.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Have a great night, man.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  The pub was packed—so many people smoking, drinking, laughing and engaging in conversation that filled the air like humidity. I took stock of the kitsch as Rupert and I squeezed up to the bar: tacked on the pub walls were hockey sticks and hockey jerseys; on the big-screen TV in the corner, pre-recorded curling. And what I found most fascinating of all: on the wooden lip above the bar, ten distinct licence plates lined up in geographic order. I let my eyes settle for a moment on the one second from the right, with pale-blue sails, and a smile curled my lip.

  With import-priced Molsons in hand, we made our way into the crowd. This gathering reminded me of so many house parties back in Halifax: the endless flow of beer, the boisterous but cordial exchanges. Yes, there was sexual tension in the air, what with so many boys flirting with so many girls, but it seemed classier here, less sleazy, like the heady anticipation before two people make love in a snow bank. I found myself shedding my introversion as I joined a conversational orbit, introducing myself and the Saskafarian. What a delicious surprise to disc
over that not everyone here shared our nationality. There were Australians, Brits, Kiwis, and one hilarious Irishman. Often it was said that those teaching English in Korea did so because they were running away from something in the West. Well, perhaps those who came to the Rocky Mountain Tavern were running away from something in Itaewon—something large and bullying and vulgar. What a relief, I thought, to be above all that. Each turn of phrase here startled me. Every discursive tract was uncommonly interesting. When I laughed, I laughed without sarcasm. I had no reason to suppress cruel comments, because I had none.

  Then a bizarre thing: I looked through the crowd and saw a young man, brown-skinned and with thick caterpillar eyebrows, sitting by himself on a tall stool in one of the corners. He was dressed sharply in silk shirt and khakis, his palms resting on his thighs. He seemed detached from the pub’s friendly commotion, but not unhappily so. I watched him for a while, and when nobody approached the guy, I took it upon myself and floated over with beer in hand. After a brief, stunted exchange, I learned that he was a Turk employed as an IT specialist in Japan who had come to Korea the day before on a visa run. He was leaving tomorrow to make it back to Osaka for work on Monday. I was knocked askew by curiosity: of all the pubs to wander into on your only Saturday night in Seoul, why this one?

  “I saw flag above door,” he answered. “I assumed friendly people inside.”

  “You really must come and join our circle.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. My English is, how you say, not great.”

  “We don’t care. Hell, we teach ABCs to Korean children all day. We’re used to broken English. Please, come.”

  “No. No. I mean, I better not. I sit by myself. Really. I don’t mind.” Such cold piety to his tone. Such certainty about his not belonging.

  I respectfully relented. I lacked the sobriety, the energy to push him. I staggered back to Rupert’s side. There I stood, listening and contributing and drinking, all night long, waiting for the violent flash of daybreak to push through the windows, to wash away the neon’s glare.

  IN THE MIDDLE

  Vince said the guy was from Prince Edward Island, and I asked: Where the fuck is that? I mean, I know literally where PEI is—I ain’t stupid; I went to school—but what I meant was nobody who was anybody comes from Prince Edward Island. I said to Vince, What, does he run a big potato cartel down there or something? And Vince, who never smiles, showed me the littlest bit of lip curl, just a hint of one of his canines, and said, Would you just go meet with the guy? And I said fine, but I ain’t going to Prince fucking Edward fucking Island.

  Truth is, Vince would have done this job himself only he had a side project going on, backing another porno film that summer and wanting to make sure it was done right—i.e., cheaply. Vince is old school when it comes to porn: he got his start back when VHS was still purging the old guard, and knows he needs to make his scratch before RedTube destroys the whole business. His rule is: It’s my money; I get to be in it. The thing they were filming that summer was called Merry Jismas! and his scene involved him unloading onto the faces of a couple blondes wearing nothing but Santa hats. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve seen his work. You’d think Vince would have no business in a porno, on account of him being ugly as fuck. He’s got one of those hairstyles that looks like a toupee even though it isn’t, and a big grey beer gut. But hell, if I had a dick like that I’d show it off too.

  Usually when Vince gives me a job to do, I go and do it, no questions asked. Putting up barriers is a sure-fire way to have a short career in this business. I’m extremely loyal to Vince. He gave me the chance to move home to Toronto for good, where I know everybody and feel like I belong. I plan to die in this city, most likely in a violent manner, and I’ve made my peace with that. Vince still makes me travel for work on occasion, but I’m real hesitant about it—especially after that time he flew me all the way to Kuala Kangsar to do the ex-wife of one of his clients. Mind you, I should have never accepted a blowjob from that 12–year-old Tamil girl before the jig was up, and I was lucky to get out of that place alive. Afterward, I vowed I wouldn’t travel to other cities unless I already had a network of friendlies there. If shit goes down, you need someone who can put you up, stitch you up, fix you up, whatever. That’s why I was so leery about Charlottetown. I didn’t know anybody in Charlottetown. I didn’t know anybody who knew anybody in Charlottetown. I didn’t know anybody who had even heard of anybody who knew anybody in Charlottetown. Vince said: I don’t give a fuck. You’re doing the job. Go figure it out.

  So I called the guy. Said if he was up for a road trip I’d be happy to meet him in the middle. Quebec City falls almost exactly between Toronto and Charlottetown—nine hours of driving for him, nine for me—and I thought it would be quaint to go up in the car. The guy agreed to my idea, surprisingly. “Sure b’y,” he said. “I’m happy t’meet cha anywhere. Me gettin off the oylin is a yooge treat.” I thought: Is this guy for real? There must be something Vince isn’t telling me. But we worked out a plan. Picked a day, picked a time in the early evening to meet, picked a restaurant to do it in, got Google Maps to figure it all out. By the time we hung up, I found myself excited at the thought of the trip, what music I’d bring in the car with me, and where I’d stop for lunch.

  I got no issue with Quebec. Lots of friendlies there. I lived in Montreal for five years, working for a guy who ran scratch through a professional wrestling league he set up. My job was to do the books and keep the wrestlers in line, and I was good at it. I made sure those boys knew they were nothing but a bunch of roided-up pussies and if they weren’t careful I’d show them what it was like to be in a real fight. I got to travel the province a lot, made tons of connections, and picked up quite a bit of French. But the business model was a real red flag. The fuzz eventually figured out that our measly gate receipts could in no way explain the scratch we were putting through them, and I ended up doing three years in Kingston.

  ~

  Ah Kingston. Was there any doubt I’d stop there for lunch? It’s got a Denny’s right off the highway there, and I’d been thinking about it from the moment I set up this plan. You can drive all over Toronto and not find a Denny’s, and to my mind that’s fucking criminal. When you walk in and the hostess hands you that big laminated menu, you are fucking set.

  I pulled up and parked, went in and got put in a booth right away. The place was near empty—just a few elderies with their crosswords and potato pancakes, and a moosey mom who showed more interest in her phone than in keeping her brats under control. The waitress came and I ordered the Grand Slam, on account of me missing breakfast. Let me tell you about this waitress. She was fucking sharp, man. And I don’t just mean bringing the coffee pot whenever I needed it or getting my order right. She had this way of speaking to me, this articulation and brightness you don’t always see in wait staff. I often come upon people like that in my line of work—it could be a server, a VIA Rail attendant, or even one of the other toughs who does shit for Vince. I meet them and think: You don’t belong here; you’re too good for where you are. It was all in the way they carried themselves. Well, that was this waitress. She had an air about her that said she was super bright and could do a whole bunch of shit with her life, if she wanted. That she’d been to school, like I’d been to school. It also helped that she was cuter than fuck—her stabbing blue eyes and black hair tucked up behind her little ears. Oh, and that tush. Holy smokes.

  She had a nametag on—it said Natalie—and I took it as an invitation to chat her up. It didn’t take much probing for her to reveal that this was her last shift at the Denny’s. She was moving in another week back to Halifax, where she had a proper wait job waiting for her, at a pub where the tips would be decent and she’d make an actual living. She even got herself a little duplex there, and was real proud of that. I said Good for you, girl, and she threw me a smile that made my nuts ache. We shared something then, I’m sure of it. A little spark. A little fr
isson between us. She asked what my story was, and I recited something vague about heading up to Quebec on business. She said, “That’s too bad.” And I said, “Why?” And she lowered her eyes and smiled a little. And I smiled back. When the cheque came I tipped her well and wrote a little note on the merchant copy: Good luck with your move, Natalie. Maybe I’ll see you around.

  Back on the road, I found myself thinking about her, concocting a whole narrative for Natalie in my brainmeats, the way I sometimes do when I encounter interesting people. It’s a little erotic, you know, to flesh a girl out like that in your mind. I tried to imagine what education she had. Probably one of those arts degrees that’s relatively useless—like she was super sharp but in all the wrong ways to really get ahead in this world. I imagined her roped up with some asshole who didn’t treat her right, and that was a big part of her fleeing home to Halifax. Yeah, she probably wasn’t dealt a bad hand in life, but not a good one either, just somewhere in the middle, and she was playing it the best she could. Like a lot of us. I mulled that over all the way to the Quebec border. But then I had to start getting myself into the right headspace.

  ~

  The thing about this job was we weren’t sure that the guy was actually the guy. Vince said: Go and meet him, and if he passes you pass him, but if he fails you fucking fail him. I understood. What I knew was that this guy, regardless if he was the guy, was intimately involved in the whole Odessa-to-Moncton deal that was such a cock-up last year. Vince didn’t have direct oversight on the deal, which is probably why it was a cock-up; and it wasn’t clear whether this guy was just a guy looking for more work from us, or whether this guy was the guy behind the cock-up and thought he could get away with it. Vince told me exactly what to say to him, and what to listen for when I did. It would be a kind of shibboleth, he said. ‘Shibboleth’ was a word Vince had been using a lot over the last few years. He picked it up from an episode of The West Wing, which was his favourite TV show. I told him: I already knew what shibboleth means.