“Well, I haven’t.” Pat draped his arm over my shoulder and grinned. “But there’s a first time for everything.”
Sindija cha-chaed over to where we were standing. Smiling at both of us, without missing a beat, she reached into Pat’s pants pocket and extracted the bag with the remaining three caps. She blew us a kiss and danced away. Dumbly, Pat and I stared after her, and then at each other.
“Latvians.”
“Whoa.”
That night, Yuko, Carolina and Sindija took turns giving us head on our living room couch. I’d never had sex in front of my brother Pat before. I’d never had sex in front of anyone before. I’d never had sex with a girl before. As it turned out, the girls had also acquired a quantity of coke, so while two of them were on their knees in front of us, the third one would be tap-tap-tapping with a credit card and assembling lines on the Ricky Martin CD case. As their heads bobbed up and down to “She Bangs” on the stereo, Charlie’s Angels played on the TV in the background. At one point, Pat and I happened to glance over at each other at the same time. Our arms were splayed across the back of the couch, and I wondered if I looked as dishevelled and sweaty and crazyeyed as he did. I’m sure I did. Our hands touched and we locked fingers. When I finally came, the girls cheered. But whether because he was too drunk or too high or a combination of both, Pat couldn’t come. In the end, he did a line off my shoulder, pulled on his underwear, jumped up and simply danced with the girls until dawn.
“You woke up with what in your face?”
“Pat’s underwear. Pat and Carolina had sex in the shower later. And Pat finally got off.”
“And these girls,” McNeil-Tsao asked, “you’re planning to see them again?”
“Pat definitely is. I’m not so sure. They know I’m gay. They still want to hook up again. The next morning they all kept saying: ‘The Chad was great.’ They want to meet Liam, but that’s not going to happen. They all go back home at the end of the summer.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“What?”
“Sex with these girls.”
“It was, I don’t know. It was weird. I don’t want to lead them on, you know? One part of me thinks Pat orchestrated this whole night from the beginning. But that’s not true. It really was just a random hook-up.”
“Purchasing illicit street drugs isn’t random, Garneau.”
“I know.”
McNeil-Tsao and I were taking a break, sitting against the wall of our squash court. He was beating me four games to two. He’d stopped giving me any advantages months ago. There was absolutely no way I was going to tell Karen about what had happened, but I had to tell someone.
“Your brother,” McNeil-Tsao said, “Pat. You say he does this all the time?”
“Pat’s been a Casanova ever since I can remember. In middle school, he’d spy on the girl’s change room and jerk off in the broom closet. He started a garage band in grade ten just so he could attract groupies. He gets around.”
“So really, all things relative, this was nothing out of the ordinary for him.”
“All things relative, I guess you could say that. Although he keeps insisting he’s never done party drugs before, besides pot and acid.”
“Acid?”
“There was this bush party back in our senior year. You ever heard of a bush party?”
“I’m from North Bay. I know what a bush party is.”
“Okay, well all three of us, my two brothers and I, decided we’d drop acid. It was towards the end of our final year in school.”
“And?”
“It didn’t do much for me. It wasn’t even that psychedelic. It was some cheap-ass batch some local kid cooked up in his bathtub. But practically the whole graduating class dropped that night. Someone made a speech. It was a memorable moment. There was also a lot of rum and whiskey going around. Out there in the forest under the stars, we felt like pirate kings and queens. We all bonded over it.” I balanced the squash ball on my racquet. “The point is, I don’t do drugs. I haven’t done drugs since. I can’t believe I let some strangers blow me in front of my brother.”
“Maybe the point is the bonding. And everything else is just a means to an end.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, every human being is wired to connect. We all crave intimacy in one form or another.”
I closed my eyes and thought of Grandpa taking a hacksaw to my old pair of skates for Halloween. I thought of Liam’s excitement at showing me a moose skull he’d found. I thought of the time Karen and I shared pizza together in the shower. I remembered clasping Pat’s sweaty hand in my own as I climaxed from a blow job by Carolina Sanchez. “In one form or another.”
“You ready for another game?”
“You ready to finally get your ass kicked?”
“Don’t make me bury you, Garneau.” McNeil-Tsao drew himself to his feet and then helped me up. “Because I will bury you.”
“You just try, old man.” I spun my racquet, and tossed him the ball. “You just try.”
That summer, living with Pat never got as crazy again as it had that first weekend, but it was memorable. We got into the habit of shooting pool at Sneaky Dee’s and checking out live music at Rancho Relaxo and The Free Times Café. Pat made friends as easily as someone else might take out library books. At the Christie Pits drum circle, he met a bunch of musicians, and by midsummer was spending most of his time hanging out with them on the Toronto Islands.
Around this time, at the group home, I started working shifts with a new staff member named Parker Kapoor. Although we were both gay and about the same age, there was never any weirdness or tension between us. Instead, we hit it off almost instantly. Parker Kapoor thought my encounter with the Three Amigas was the funniest story he’d ever heard in his life. Parker laughed at pretty much everything I said, even when I wasn’t trying to be funny. Somebody else might have thought he was permanently stoned, but he was Hindu and didn’t even drink or smoke. He was the youngest of five siblings, and had come out to his parents (both doctors) when he was twelve. Ever since, they’d been enthusiastically on the lookout for a nice Canadian boy to match him with.
One Saturday we were sitting on a Church Street patio when his eyes grew big and he said: “Don’t look around don’t look around don’t look around.”
Of course, when someone says something like that, a person looks around. Although the patio was full, I didn’t see anything unusual. It was a pleasant evening in June, and the Village community was out in numbers, like Serengeti fauna at the watering hole. The tables were crowded with pitchers of beer and sangria, frosted martini glasses and baskets of pita and calamari. Parker, who was wearing Birkenstocks, low-rise jeans and a loosefitting tee, leaned forward, pretending to sip on his virgin mojito, and mumbled something without moving his lips.
“What?” I asked.
He mumbled again, his large eyes swivelling in his head like semaphore.
“Parker, I can’t understand a single word you’re saying.”
Then Parker picked up his over-sized aviator sunglasses and placed them on me, turned in his chair, crossing his legs, and studied the high tree canopies intently. “Now look,” he instructed. “But don’t look like you’re looking.”
I pretended to reach for my wallet in my back pocket and glanced over my shoulder again. This time, I spotted a distinguished-looking gentleman three tables away in the company of a woman in an eggshell dress. I didn’t place him at first, since he was dressed casually in a polo shirt, but I recognized his face from the media. He was a well-known politician based in Ottawa who had come out publicly some years ago.
I asked Parker if that was who I thought it was. He indicated frantically with one finger that I should return his glasses. I did so, and he immediately put them on and moved his chair to better conceal himself.
I’d become accustomed to Parker’s dramatics, and waited patiently for him to compose himself. To his credit, it was an aspect of his personality
he kept in check at work. Parker was a boy who had played with Barbies when he was young, and was the hugest Bollywood fan I knew.
“Daniel,” he said, “I have had sex with him.” He enunciated each syllable like he was speaking to Bill, our group home client who was partially deaf.
“Really? When did this happen?”
“Six years ago. He picked me up at Goodhandy’s.” Although he didn’t drink alcohol, Parker Kapoor was the quintessential barfly. Early on in the summer, Parker had taken me to a burlesque show fundraiser at Goodhandy’s benefitting a friend’s sex reassignment surgery. Goodhandy’s was billed as a pansexual playground, notorious for its live porn-tapings and rent boys with questionable hygiene.
“What on earth were you doing at Goodhandy’s?”
“I was going through my neo-Depeche Mode phase back then,” Parker explained. “And I was wearing eight thousand dollars worth of braces. It was not a pretty time in my life.”
“Okay.” I thought of when I was seventeen, high on acid at drunken bush parties, secretly jacking off to a cum-stained photograph of my assistant hockey coach, my hair cut in a style frighteningly reminiscent of a mullet. I certainly wasn’t one to judge anyone.
“He offered to buy me a drink. I had no idea who he was. Older guys hit on me all the time.”
“They do?”
“Look at me, Daniel. I’m jailbait. I look like I’m twelve years old.”
Parker was regularly prone to exaggeration. He looked at least sixteen. “So what happened?”
“What happened? What’s more to say? We went to one of the back rooms upstairs. I never saw him again.”
“So what did you do?”
“You mean what sexual perversions did this older man get up to with that seventeen-year-old brown boy? Not much. To tell the truth, it was a little boring. He made me show him my ID, can you believe it? Although I will tell you,” Parker whispered, “his penis goes like this.” He manoeuvred his fingers into a painful-looking position.
“Parker, do your parents know their son is having sex with high-ranking Canadian politicians?”
“It happened once, Daniel. Once. This girl has class. Mind you, if that man over there and I publicly professed our undying love for one other, I think my parents would be thrilled. We already have doctors, two lawyers, a physics professor and a microbiologist in my family. No politicians though. Although, by the way, he was only a midranking official back then. You do realize his ministry funds our employer?”
“I never thought of that.”
Parker peered around me and over the rim of his glasses. “I should hit him up for a raise.”
“Didn’t he marry his accountant last year? It was all in the news. I hear they’re planning to adopt.”
“They are. A little brown baby.”
“Really?”
“From Florida. That’s probably his adoption agent he’s talking to right now.”
“How do you know these things?”
Parker tapped the side of his large and perfectly straight nose. Holding his straw with his pinkie extended, he sat back and slurped down the slushy remains of his virgin mojito.
I found out later that Parker had skipped two grades in elementary school and was a freshman at university at the age of fifteen. It was Parker’s idea to take me shopping one Sunday afternoon. We met in a part of town called Yorkville, a high-end district of art galleries, boutiques, chic cafés and fashionable eateries. We strolled from store to store, admiring the architecture, the elaborate window displays and various passers-by. I felt conspicuously underdressed, but Parker reminded me that the neighbourhood had been the epicentre of the Canadian hippie movement back in the 1960s.
Parker had an opinion on almost every brand name. I eventually bought a T-shirt off a 50% sales rack. It was by far the single most expensive shirt I’d ever owned in my life. I usually wore a size large or extra-large, but Parker insisted I get the medium. He had the staff snip the tags, and I wore it out of the store sipping on a Dixie cup of complimentary espresso. Then Parker bought himself a pair of skinny jeans and a pair of Ray-Bans and gave me his old sunglasses, since they framed my bone structure so much better than his. After that, he took me to the MAC store. He seemed to be on intimate terms with the staff and I stood by self-consciously as he underwent a makeover.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Parker said, waving in my direction, “although my parents would be absolutely thrilled if he was. He’s going to be a doctor.”
One of the girls asked if this was true and I told them I was considering applying to med school. Her smile was whiter than Wite-Out. None of the MAC staff appeared to have pores. When they were done with Parker, neither did he. Apart from that, he actually didn’t look that much different, which made me wonder if he wore make-up more often and I just never noticed. Then the staff insisted it was my turn; I adamantly refused, but eventually let them test swatches of foundation on my wrist. That opened a floodgate. One thing led to another and, under Parker’s incessant cajoling, I caved and found myself perched up on the high stool.
I’d been at the MAC counter ten minutes when I heard someone call out my name. Melissa poked her head in the store. “Oh my god! It is Daniel. Michael, look, it’s Daniel.” Mike peered around Melissa and gave me a cheerful thumbs-up sign. Apparently, they’d been shopping at the babyGap around the corner. As my MAC girl massaged a hypoallergenic moisturizing foundation into my forehead, Melissa and Mike introduced themselves to Parker who offered a civil, if somewhat chilly, response. Melissa gingerly settled herself on a stool next to mine. She looked like she was ready to deliver yesterday.
“One more month, can you believe it?” she huffed. “Someone should build strollers for expectant mothers to ride in. My back is killing me, I feel absolutely bloated and disgusting. Look at me, I am a cow. I am a whorish, crippled cow. But Michael here has been simply wonderful, haven’t you been, Michael? He’s been patient, compassionate and attentive in every way a woman might possibly want or need.” She silently mouthed for my benefit, “Cock ring,” and squeezed my knee.
The MAC girl leaned on my shoulder, brow knit in concentration, her breasts pressed firmly into the side of my arm, and applied some kind of lip gloss with a brush. I mumbled something unintelligible and gave Melissa a thumbs-up sign.
After that day, I politely declined Parker Kapoor’s eager invitations to go shopping again. A few weeks later, Pat did the laundry and shrank my Yorkville T-shirt so that it barely covered my ribcage. When I took it to work and offered it to Parker, it fit him perfectly. I liked the sunglasses he’d given me though, and wore them for the rest of the summer, at least until Pat sat on them one day. When I went to buy a similar pair, I discovered they cost a whole lot more than my Yorkville T-shirt had. Then I figured I’d spend the money instead on a baby gift for Melissa and Mike. In the end, she’d given birth to a beautiful healthy boy whom they’d named Benjamin. In all their Facebook postings from the maternity ward, both parents appeared exhausted but ecstatic. Melissa looked luminous. The kid was tiny, pink-faced and more than cute. He seemed to be sticking out his hand in what strangely resembled an affirmative thumbs-up sign. Welcome to the world, little guy.
That fall, Karen’s biological father died. He’d been in a federal prison in Kingston for fourteen years. The last time they saw him, Karen and her little sister Anne were seven and four. It was Karen who arranged for the body to be transported back to M’Chigeeng on Manitoulin. She took a bus home to oversee the paperwork. She insisted it was merely a formality and that I should stay in Toronto and hold the fort. School had started already, but she’d gotten an accommodation for a leave of absence. Karen reminded me she had the Miltons and her extended family for support. She also had Liam. Later, I heard Anne had refused to attend the funeral. On the day Karen was to finally return to Toronto, I vacuumed and tidied, set flowers in a vase, and prepared her favourite foods: grilled cheese-and-steak sandwiches and tomato soup. When Karen stepped through the fro
nt door, she gave me a hug, shuffled into the kitchen and lifted the lid to the pot simmering on the stove. Then she opened the door to the oven where I was keeping a stack of sandwiches warm on a foil tray. I offered her a glass of red wine which she cradled mutely in both hands.
“Karen,” I finally said. “You okay?”
She nodded and set the glass down. She looked past me. Liam was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t seen him since I’d visited Sudbury during Toronto’s Pride Weekend in June. He was unshaven and heavier than I remembered. His hair had grown out, framing his dark features.
“Liam,” I exclaimed.
Liam set his backpack down on the doorstep. “Hey.”
“Holy cow.” During my two years in Toronto, he’d never visited once. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced at Karen and then back at me. “Karen and me, we thought I’d come visit, a week maybe. Sorry we didn’t ask you sooner. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Sure, of course. As long as you want.”
“Jackson’s in the Jeep.”
“Jackson?” For a second, I couldn’t figure out who Jackson was. “Jackson, right. Okay, of course. Bring him in. Don’t keep him out there.” While Liam went to fetch Jackson, I grabbed his pack which was surprisingly light and compact. It smelled faintly of burnt sweetgrass and cedar. “Karen, you guys hungry?”
They were ravenous. Apparently, they’d driven from Sudbury through Parry Sound to Toronto non-stop. Liam fed Jackson before doing anything else. While we ate, Jackson settled himself on the couch, licking his chops, and curled his bushy tail up beneath his chin. His eyebrows individually rose and fell as he watched each one of us in turn. “How was he on the drive down?” I asked.
“Jackson? Great,” Liam said. “He loves the Jeep. He’s been riding with me all summer.”
“So how are things on Manitoulin?”
“Great. Karen’s whole family is great.” Liam glanced again at Karen.
“This is really good soup, Daniel,” Karen said.
“Thanks.”
When Liam was in the washroom, I asked: “Look, is everything okay between us, you and me?”
A Boy at the Edge of the World Page 8
