The Dirt Chronicles

by Kristyn Dunnion

  Shit. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. It was now or never.

  The idea was simple. Create a diversion, stuff him in the trunk, get the hell out of there. The tricky part was the distraction. None of the workers would risk helping. Geraldo had fretted about how it would all come to pass. “Details, details,” I’d said, and changed the subject, thinking I could wing it. Be truly in the moment. In fact, I was starting to panic, not seeing Geraldo in the crowd of men, not knowing if he’d noticed my car sitting about thirty feet behind the bus. I bit my knuckle worrying. I turned off the engine.

  Then a taxi van pulled up behind the bus and in front of me. Crying, shouting family members with oversized luggage spilled out. There was a colossal intergenerational argument; a dog yapped from underneath a large woman’s arm. A second cab arrived with the rest of their group. It was a travelling carnival of chaos—weeping in-laws, couples struggling with all their crap, several nose-picking, stumbling children.

  God help them all.

  I turned the engine back on and slowly inched up beside the taxis, blocking them in. I parked, got out, and nonchalantly opened the huge trunk. I scanned the line of workers. I whistled to myself. Suddenly, there he was. Geraldo slipped past the other men, weaving amongst the hysterical family members. Geraldo chucked his bag into the huge open trunk. He almost didn’t notice the guitar case and amp in there.

  “It’s yours,” I said, and blushed uncontrollably.

  “No way!” His eyes sparkled. His smile brightened the early morning haze. “Thanks, man.”

  He hugged me hard to his chest. His hot breath singed my neck, my left ear. Wherever his body touched mine—hands on my back, torso against my own, thighs burning against my jeans—those parts melted away, hot and strange. I’d never own them in the same way again.

  Then he was curled inside the trunk, an arm around the case, one thumb up, still smiling. I whistled some more, slammed down the lid. I slid behind the wheel. I turned the engine over, changed gear, and chugged away, past the arguing, weeping family, past the school bus and driver, past the line of men who now stared at me openly, in shock. In disgust. One pointed an accusing finger. I can feel it to this day.

  I turned the radio up so Geraldo could hear it, too. Pink Floyd was ending, thankfully, and Judas Priest was singing “Breaking the Law.” I nosed the Coupe back onto the highway and we headed south, into the deep belly of sin city, down to Torannah. If ever there was a place for a Mexican runaway who dreamed of starting a punk band, I guessed this’d be it. He had an address, a phone number, one name in a city of five million. Most important, he had a backup if he needed it. As I had already told him, the second room in my bungalow was totally clear now. It was his for the taking. He could do what he wanted, and me, too.

  Two Ton: An Opera in Three Acts

  Act One: Soft Rock

  Him: flying down Yonge Street, ripping past lanes of stalled traffic, weaving between all those cars. Him: zigzagging the wrong way through intersections, his delivery satchel strapped around his barrel chest, a two-way radio squawking at his shoulder. I noticed that particular bike courier in the downtown core more than all the others. It was his bright blond hair that got my attention, and the bigness of him. He was a gladiator, an urban warrior and, most notably, I never saw him without a wide, gleaming smile.

  We couldn’t have been less alike. I was his shadow: thin, dark-haired, introverted. I hated drawing attention to myself and was afraid of trying new things. I followed rules, not even jaywalking with the rushing hordes each morning. Not even when he and the other couriers blocked the honking cars with their insolent dawdling, completely immobilizing the street with their bike tricks and general disregard for traffic bylaws.

  I worked in the tallest, blackest tower, forty-seven floors up. I scratched out a meagre salary in an office of overworked accountants. This was thanks to the charity of one of my father’s former schoolmates who gave me the job. I was the whipping boy of two aging receptionists, Gladys and Helen. Each morning Gladys turned on the adult contemporary radio station while Helen made my To Do list. I filed and fetched, took messages, made the tea, all while Phil Collins bleated mercilessly in the background. “I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord.” I did everything Gladys and Helen did not want to do, but never exactly the way they preferred. I was of no real significance, except perhaps as an object of their daily contempt. They often smiled while sounding sharp, which confused me. They were like two birds of prey—one taller and beakier, the other shorter and more feathered. Both perched at the edge of their seats expectantly, knitted sweaters ruffled around their bony shoulders. They exhibited a maternal shrewdness that frightened me, and I often hid in the hall closet when I heard them calling my name.

  With Gladys and Helen, my gender imposed a certain further expectation, a specific skill set. When things got jammed, when things ran out, they called on me. I could usually refill paper and ink without total mishap, but what to do when the machines went on the fritz? Let me be very clear. I was not, am not, a man of handy abilities. I can’t hammer or saw or drill to save my life. It was luck, surely, or a wave of total synchronicity that somehow coincided with me placing my bewildered hands on one noncompliant machine and its subsequently choking itself back to life.

  Gladys and Helen clapped. They looked at me in a new light, like I wasn’t completely useless after all. Satisfied that I had a knack for fixing things, they continued to call on me whenever the equipment failed. That spark of curious surprise returned whenever I performed the ritual and it resulted in some unlikely degree of success. Each time I wondered—had I some paranormal ability like the comic book characters I’d worshipped as a child? Wariness and skepticism crept into those silly ideas, those blossoms of hope, and killed them. Surely I was an imposter. It would only be a matter of time before the ugly truth was exposed.

  Gradually, I spent more time in the copier room, the sectioned-off pen with the machines, the electronic animals that seemed to thrive under my quiet murmurings and casual pats. I hid in the mysterious folds of this new persona, however false it may have been. I was Mister Fix-It to the old birds. Machine Man, I silently corrected. I daydreamed a spandex suit for myself, a cape, a more muscular body, and perfect vision. From my new post behind the copy room door, I could see out to reception as all sorts of well-dressed peons minced past. They rarely noticed me, but I started to recognize everyone who came and went.

  Gladys and Helen were forever gossiping about the other staff when they weren’t clucking over the sales pull-out in the daily paper. Randolph had gout, likely due to his drinking. Penny cheated on her husband and was seeing a dapper accountant down the hall. The new manager had a gambling problem, and Sylvia next door was bulimic; they’d heard her ritually cleansing after a carrot cake had gone missing from the lunch room. Gladys and Helen were equally relentless in documenting their own mundane affairs: I heard all about their bone spurs, their parking tickets, their irritated bowels. All this with Celine Dion screeching on the radio—honestly, it was too much to bear.

  Surely this was some social science experiment. It had to be! I had less in common with other people than I’d ever imagined. Hall & Oates sang “Private Eyes.” I despised everyone, I realized, the two receptionists most ardently. I fantasized about their sudden injury: elevator accidents, lunch-room poisonings, a tainted water cooler. I was living inside my own detached brain almost exclusively.

  Perhaps they noticed. When either Gladys or Helen had to enter the copier room alone to send or collect faxes, each would give nervous sidelong glances at me and leave as quickly as possible. More than once I’d heard them talking. “There’s something wrong with that boy,” Helen said. “He’s not all there,” Gladys agreed, and I snorted with delight. Then Helen said, “Can you imagine his poor girlfriend?” and Gladys clucked her tongue savagely. “What we women have to put up with.” That froze me, and I thought of Linda.

  Linda was a friendly girl from my co
llege chemistry class who’d Facebooked me out of the blue, almost a year after graduation. She had asked me to the movies week after week without incident. Then about a month ago, she had insisted I come to her place for a drink. She’d left me in the living room, presumably to get our beers, and returned from the kitchen fully naked. Certain that my mediocrity and inexperience would prevail, I nevertheless tried to oblige her, however she instructed. The sex was not all I’d hoped it would be. No doubt Linda was even more disappointed. In the ensuing weeks, more half-hearted attempts brought similar results. At times I climaxed almost immediately, more out of stress and surprise than pleasure. Other times I could not find release no matter what ingenious tricks Cosmo suggested she attempt. It was not the love affair of the century, of this I was certain. Somehow I hadn’t expected sex to be so mechanical and awkward. But I continued to try my best, so to hear the old biddies taking Linda’s part without knowing us at all, well, that pushed a limit.

  It was in my new station, the copier room, that I caught regular glimpses of the blond courier as he breezed in and out. Two Ton was his name. “How are my girls?” he’d ask in his faint Eastern European accent. My enthralled supervisors cackled. When the sounds of Air Supply filled the office, he sang loudly to “Every voman in the vorld!” The old broads would bat their lashes and cross their ankles. He left pink cheeks and giddy smiles in his wake. Gladys and Helen would inevitably spend the next forty-five minutes recalling his jokes, his various attributes, his astounding physique. For once I yearned to hear them as they listed his superior qualities. I hummed along with Lionel Richie. Two Ton was so refreshing compared to the other people in my office. He was so much of what I longed to be, so much that I never could be. I began making excuses to follow him.

  The first time it was quite by accident. I had taken a late lunch break and, on my way back up the tower, I alone shared an elevator with him. The small space closed in around us. His scent filled it; the heat from his body charged the air. I felt faint from all the pheromones, the testosterone flooding from him. I couldn’t think of anything to say. He, for once, was silent. I felt him looking at me, and I could hardly breathe. An instrumental version of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” was piped into the airless chamber. The elevator chimed as we sped upward. When the doors opened on my floor, I had to hide in the men’s room for several minutes just to compose myself.

  From then on, whenever Gladys or Helen had errands, I would gallantly offer my assistance. I’d even go so far as to pay for their diet colas or low-fat cappuccinos, just so I might catch a glimpse of him elsewhere in the building, striding past tinted doors, spreading his charm along with the padded envelopes, packages, and waybills he delivered. Sometimes he took unmarked staircases and narrow corridors for short cuts. He made long-distance calls on unattended phone lines. He drank free espressos, ate food from catered lunch trays when no one else was looking. Some days he took smoke breaks in hidden garden squares with incredible statues or in elite balconies decorated by gorgeous planters bursting with colour. Two Ton worked the building like it was a hive and he the one autonomous bee who evaded the unrewarding menial chores that the rest of us drones were genetically predisposed to accept.

  One summer afternoon I followed him into an unmarked room. It was a swanky CEO’s private washroom and classical music was playing. The room had beautifully tiled floors, large clean mirrors, granite counters. There were cloth towels and fragrant soaps. To the left was an area that included a shower and sauna. I walked quickly into the first available stall and sat on a designer toilet seat. I could hear him urinating in the stall next to me. Even Two Ton’s piss had a heady, masculine aroma to it, and it disabled me in some strange way. He didn’t flush, I noted with delight. I took it as an act of defiance; it was synonymous with spraying a hydrant in this elite world of powerful men. I listened as he washed his hands carefully, whistling along with the sonata, and didn’t dare open my door until the main door had clicked shut behind him.

  I gasped. Two Ton was still standing inside the men’s room, blocking the exit. His eyes followed me as I limped toward the nearest sink. I kept my head down while the water ran hot over my soapy hands. Violins sawed away, building to a frenzy; minor chords crashed loudly.

  “Vat is this?” he said.

  I made eye contact with him using the mirror. “W-what is what?”

  He stepped towards me. “This.” He nodded toward the speakers. “The music. If you know vat the name is.” He twirled his bike-lock key on a string around and around his large index finger.

  “Uh, sure.” I was transfixed by the little silver thing.

  He smiled. “So you gonna tell me?”

  “Oh. Debussy. Claude Debussy.”

  “Huh. I think I hear it in a movie or something.”

  “Probably.” My hands were red from the scalding water.

  “Like, scary movie, maybe. Sound like something bad might happen. You know?”

  I swallowed. The steam from the taps was starting to obliterate my reflection in the mirror.

  “Be careful. You gonna burn yourself,” he said.

  It was as if he broke the spell with those words. I pulled my hands away—they were throbbing. I couldn’t turn off the tap.

  Two Ton was beside me then. I felt the fabric of his shirt against my bare forearm. He turned off the faucet and rested one big hand on my shoulder. He squeezed my flesh and patted it lightly. “Debussy. Thanks.”

  Then he was gone for real. The door swung shut. I stood fumbling with the second sink, trying to turn on the cold tap to soak my injured fingers.

  After that, I began thinking about Two Ton even more. At the end of each day, I crawled out of the tall, black beast of an office tower and showed my paleness to the fading sun, among hundreds of other beetles, pouring from the nest. I looked for him in the streets as I trudged along in second-hand dress shoes that pinched my toes, spectacles sliding down the bridge of my nose. From streetcar windows I’d scan for a glimpse of his big, blond head. Sometimes I’d spot him in a tight knot of smaller couriers, laughing and smoking a joint right on the marbled front steps of some upscale hotel. I found myself retelling his jokes, relating anecdotes about him to Linda during our increasingly pained silences. She thought he was my friend and wanted to invite him for dinner. I said he was married and needed to be home with his wife. I stopped saying his name out loud, but even Linda had become fascinated with him. Why this bothered me, I wasn’t sure. I only became certain that I did not want to share him anymore, that I did not want her taking him away from me, from my imaginary companionship. She was like all the other women he encountered—easily smitten. Her face lit up when she asked about him, so much that I lied again, saying he had switched companies and no longer came to my building.

  Then I began to dream about him. He figured even more prominently in that nether world of image and nuance. He rescued me from drowning, he taught me how to snare forest animals, he reset my broken bones in an alpine climbing disaster, and carried me to safety. Once, his bike refused to work and only I could telepathically correct the problem. He beamed graciously and was forever indebted to me. Sometimes I awoke feverish, nausea and guilt souring my mouth.

  In our office, all the ladies were dressing more provocatively, even Gladys and Helen. They wore higher heels and more lipstick, did strange things to their hair and faces. Whitney Houston sang “You Give Good Love” as they cantered through the office. Then they gathered mid-morning, expectantly. When Two Ton arrived, lightly glistening with sweat, carrying a stack of mail, each one tried to steal more of his attentions. They baked loaves for him, offered coffee, water, juice. He flirted with them equally, leaving each one even more hopeful for his next visit.

  Men liked him, too, I noticed, albeit grudgingly. You couldn’t not like him; he was so capable and athletic. He had an easy way about him that made other guys, suits or not, want to measure up. One morning I actually overheard our Big Boss, who rarely even made appearances in this dep
artment, exchange pleasantries, shake hands, and chat him up about a possible career change, perhaps an interview in sales where his networking could really pay off. I held my breath. Two Ton turned down the offer so gently that neither the boss nor I realized it until a moment after he was gone. I exhaled.

  At lunch I couldn’t eat my sandwich. Karen Carpenter crooned “Rainy days and Mondays get me down.” I felt a sharp pain lodge in my throat. When I opened my mouth, a sob broke from it. Something was dreadfully wrong.

  Act Two: White Noise

  “We never go anywhere.” Linda pouted just a bit.

  I couldn’t argue. It was true. So, in an attempt to seem normal, I agreed to go camping with her during the long weekend in July. I hadn’t used a sleeping bag since I was ten. I hadn’t started a fire since I burned my diary in junior high. I hated insects and was desperately afraid of drowning. I knew this was a bad idea. Linda did, too, deep down. We both suspected she really wanted to break up with me. It was a doomed journey, but she’d already rented a car. At the last minute, no doubt terrified at the prospect of spending all that time alone in the woods with me, she’d invited a couple of girlfriends along.

  Karen and Brittany were vacuous and had an irritating habit of singing out loud with the radio commercials. “You deserve a break today!” “Why buy a mattress anywhere else?” One would finish the other’s sentences, an eerie echo of their mediocre mind-meld. Linda was more at home with their inane banter than she had been with me in all our dating history. Who is this strange woman? I thought, as she drove and tossed her ponytail over the headrest so that the Siamese twins, joined at the IQ, could play with her bleached-out hair. She laughed as I’d never heard before. She burped loudly, competitively, and sang along with Kylie Minogue to the radio edit version of “Red-blooded Woman.”