“What up?” Eddie smiles and his buck teeth gleam. There’s gore smeared on his chin. Eddie is tall and thin with skin darker than Oreo’s. Blurry ink—homemade tattoos—decorate the sides of his shaved head, neck, and hands. Probably covers everything in between, too. Eddie lets anyone practice on him as long as it’s free.
“Looks like we’re having a party Saturday. You should come.”
“Hmm. We don’t go out too much.”
“But it’s my birthday. You got to come. Bring your boyfriend.”
“Oh, Ray-Ray? Yeah. He’s pretty shy, but …” Eddie wipes his nose with his forearm. Blood smears across his cheek.
I nod. Me, too.
If you can get past his stutter, Ray-Ray is totally cool. His delicate hands, big eyes, that long, white-blond hair—he’s like some fragile princess from a far-off time. Eddie is his dragon-slayer prince.
“I don’t really party anymore,” he says, like an apology. “Gave up the crank, all that shit. I’m doing good, too.”
“Way to go. Just come say hi. It’d be nice.”
Eddie takes one last drag off his smoke and flicks the butt to the ground where all the others are. “Break’s over.” He smiles again. Then he goes through the side door, back into the killing machine, and I cross the field toward our place.
Eddie’s probation officer got him the job, and it’s true, he’s been on the straight-and-narrow ever since, working hard, looking after his boy. He told me the saddest thing about working the slaughterhouse was that he had to give up bacon, which he used to love. His mother bitched when he visited the trailer park, “Why didn’t you bring some meat fresh off the conveyor?” Something about watching hundreds of animals get lined up, hosed off, then electrocuted or bashed on the head every day, something about that changes you, I guess. Eddie’s job is to reach up and, in that flickering moment when the pigs are harnessed into submission and hopefully stunned, to gut them, one after the other. I’ve seen him work, and it’s not pretty. His gloved arms go right inside the steaming hot mess of their insides while they are technically still alive. The smell never leaves him, the stench of their blood and their shit as it pours out onto his boots and onto the concrete floor, the screaming and grunting. That killed his love of bacon.
I re-read the fortune from my pocket, the one I found on the path yesterday: happy celebration happy. Then I light a match and set it on fire. I whisper the phrase for luck while it burns in my fingers. I drop the last piece in the grass and watch ’til it’s nothing but ash. There. I walk past mattresses with rusting coils popped out, old fridges, trashed cars with weeds growing up though the busted-out parts in their dented frames. Something scurries past—probably a rat, the way it skitters and bounces. I feel better. Being in nature always clears my head.
Back at the Factory, Cricket draws happily. Oreo blasts her favourite Dirt EP. She and Cricket shout the final chorus: “Object Refuse Reject Abuse!”
In the ensuing silence Digit pouts because his band got nixed from the lineup. “What does Migrant got dat we don’t?” he says.
Cricket says, “First of all, you don’t have a name. You don’t even have a guitar, man. You’re not a band ’til you have something to play and an effing name. Then by all means, call me.” Cricket shrieks and waves his cellphone in the air. “Geraldo texted back—Migrant is totally in!”
Digit grunts. He fiddles with some metal piping he found in the dump.
Oreo says, “DJ Silo’s said yes, too. We’ll alternate spinning. She’s awesome.”
Cricket says, “No club kids. No fucking poseurs, no way. I’m putting that on the flyer—they’ll bring the bougie pigs.”
I say, “Flyer?”
Everyone looks up, startled, like they’ve forgotten me.
“Why do we need a flyer if it’s just a few folks getting together for my birthday? I don’t even have that many friends.”
“Sure you do, Ferret. There’s everyone at the drop-in and the underpass, there’s the Frenchies in Parkdale, and our girl posse.” Oreo is ticking off one finger for each group. She waves four fingers at me.
“Those people don’t even know me. They’re your friends.”
Cricket says, “Girls, can you keep your monogamous relationship issues private?”
I say, “It’s not about our relationship, it’s about how many people do you want in our place? Like, is this party for me or is it for the squat or what?”
“Hit’s for all of us,” says Digit. “But let’s not go crazy.” He picks up a piece of wood that was lying around, and balances it on top of the metal he’s wired together. “Hey, if I sand dis and attach hit like dis, we can use hit for the birtday cake. Look.” The wood rotates smoothly on its new-found perch; it’s a punk-rock, custom-built Lazy Susan.
“Wow,” I say. “Digit, you’re the best.”
“Just what we need. More bougie kitchen crap!” says Cricket. “Well, I’m definitely inviting my new boyfriend. Oh my god, he is so hot. Maybe he’ll bring his courier friends.”
“Your imaginary boyfriend,” says Digit. He rolls his eyes.
“Oh, he exists,” says Cricket. “And he’s going to be existing in my pants on Saturday night, so get über it.”
“Word,” says Oreo. They high five, which is nice, since they’ve been bickering all night.
“Okay,” I say. “Invite whoever you want; it’s for all of us. Let’s not get busted, though.”
Everyone is like, Fuck that, we’re not having no cops here.
An image of the King pops into my head. I feel that sore spot on my shoulder where he bruised me. Oreo and I look at each other. No way do we want to run into that pig again. Suddenly, Oreo laughs, something I haven’t heard in a while. She cues up N.W.A.’s “Fuck tha Police.”
“Spin it, girlfriend!” Cricket leaps off the table. He spanks his own bum as he dances around the room. Oreo joins in, laughing. That’s better.
“Eh. Can we ave hardcore and metal, or is dat too much to ask?” Digit hates dance music. “Otherwise I won’t bodder inviting anyone.” He’s sanding the board now, and it looks pretty good.
“Maybe,” shouts Cricket.
“Maybe not,” shouts Oreo.
I say, “What should I do?”
Oreo pulls me close and sways in time to the music. “You just figure out what you’re gonna wear, Ferret. It’s your party.”
“Hmm. This is what I wear.” I look down: dirty patched combat pants, heavy metal belt, scuffed boots, some ripped stinking shirt over a vintage bra I’ve never washed, a few pounds of leather and metal jewellery. Oreo hugs me tighter.
Cricket shouts, “Some girls wear skirts. They’re hot. You should try it.”
Oreo nods and smiles.
I don’t say anything, but I wonder.
By Saturday night, we are wired. We take turns washing our crusty dishes. When no one is looking, I throw a couple into the dump—they’re just too disgusting. Oreo stacks her second-hand speakers around the room, tapes down the wiring, sets her turntables out, lines up her vinyl underneath. We haul out the generator for this, since we’d probably blow the low power still humming in this building. Oreo tests the system, and it sounds amazing. We have some serious bass happening in the Factory. Digit clamps an old lamp to the table for light. He sets his homemade Lazy Susan on the kitchen table and the big cake on top. Oreo scored it from the health food dumpster. It’s gorgeous vegan, gluten-free fudge, and it smells incredible. Some loser would have paid forty bucks for it, but technically it’s past the expiry date. The top isn’t even crushed. I lick some icing off the box. Mmm. Cricket clears a dance floor. Digit and me put our stuff away in cupboards and staple fabric over the fronts so people won’t go through our shit.
At the last minute, I change into a short skirt from the free bin at the drop-in. I pull fishnets over my bruised legs and put on more makeup than usual. I feel like some drag queen, lurching around in borrowed shoes with a two-inch heel. But there’s something else. I feel—
not exactly pretty, but special. Like something good could happen to me, now that I’m paying attention. Happy celebration happy.
“Hooka, what?” Cricket slaps my behind when I stagger past.
“Seriously, Cricket. Do I look alright?”
“Yep, you clean up pretty good, Ferret,” and that makes me smile.
Oreo’s eyes light up when she sees me. She whistles at my short skirt. There’s that electric thing again, that zap of possibility. “You look good enough to eat.” In these shoes, we’re the same height, eye to eye, boob to boob. I kiss her at this new angle and that calms me. It reminds me of the only things that matter: this place, our friends, and us.
“I still wish we were alone.”
“Oh we will be, don’t you worry.” She kisses me again and trails her fingers down my back. She rubs my neck, my shoulders, even the one that is still sore from the King. She tugs on my skirt and smiles, and I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I tried something new.
Soon people drop by. Kids who used to live here, who did workshops, shows, that sort of thing. There are kids from downtown, from the hardcore scene, and the drop-in. Some bring their dogs, and most of them get along. Geraldo arrives in an old van with his gear, and Digit helps set up the drum kit and plug in the PA and mic. Crust punks pile to the front of the long room as Geraldo tunes his guitar. Then the small girl playing bass fills the Factory with a subterranean rumble. The dreadlocked drummer clicks his sticks together and suddenly the band explodes in a frenzy of sound. Kids drop their bags and push into each another, they writhe and slam, and the more everyone moves, the warmer it gets. The music stops as suddenly as it begins. People whistle and cheer. “This song is for the keeds in my country,” Geraldo says breathlessly into the mic. “It’s called, ‘Food Not Clowns: We Can’t Eat Your Bombs.’” Drumsticks click again, bass and guitar barf an onslaught of high-speed chords into the air, kids sweat and shout and bash into each other in a joyous frenzy. I can hardly breathe until the song’s over two minutes later.
“Migrant kicks ass!” I shout to Oreo. She smiles and squeezes me, shields me from a spazzed-out boy in the make-shift pit. When the set ends a few songs later, kids pour outside to get air, to cool off, and Geraldo starts packing up the cords and pedals while wiping sweat from his face and neck. Oreo helps them clear out their gear—so does Digit, who is apparently not holding a grudge about the whole band thing. In fact, he looks downright friendly, chatting up Geraldo, who apologizes for cutting out early. Migrant has another gig across town tonight and they have to jet. Oreo switches a patchcord and gets a CD playing, and kids gradually drift back inside.
Everyone is excited to be at the Factory for one big bash before summer ends. Oreo turns up the music and people dance. This is fun, I think. Kids tell me happy birthday; they go out of their way to be friendly, and I think, Oreo was right. They do like me!
More people come, people I don’t recognize. They barrel through the back door. They bring fancy beer and expensive booze. Some of them make fun of our place, wrinkle their noses. They pile their purses and bags near the door. It’s hard to get in and out with all their stuff in the way. They scare off the crust punks with their perfume and soap and the smells of their hairspray and who knows what else. Clean, shiny people sit on the couches we pulled from the dump, on our makeshift chairs, and up the ladder rungs that lead to the loft. Rich kids dance in the main room of the Factory. They laugh and gossip and gulp fruity drinks. Girls wear sparkly clothes with large earrings, tight pants, and strappy, bright sandals. Some of them want different music, and they start to bug Oreo, asking for shit we’d never play here—Britney and Fergie and Beyoncé. I see that tic in Oreo’s cheek, which is not good. Oreo plays it cool, though. No fighting; she just tells them to go fuck her mother if they don’t like her tunes.
“Did you hear what she said to me?” A whiny blonde gets pulled by the arm. Her friends glare at Oreo.
A couple punks sneak over to the rich kids’ pile, start sifting through the designer bags. I could say something, but fuck it. It’s not like those clean kids belong here.
“Are they from your university?” I whisper to Cricket. He’s pouring vodka from one of their large bottles.
“Fuck, yeah. Bougie poseurs. I’m making you a birthday drink. It’s on them.”
“But how did they find our place?”
“Probably DJ Silo, that top-forty sellout. She’s in my queer studies class.”
“You think they’re queer?” I can’t believe it. They’re so shiny.
“Oh, honey, they’re not queer; they’re the gay-lesbian enemy—mainstreaming homos. We’re nothing like them, don’t worry.”
“Huh.” I look at all these girls again. Some of them are pretty touchy-feely, kissing and standing close. Some of them are definitely checking Oreo out; they blush and giggle and try to talk to her. My stomach tightens with worry. I grab a beer from the fridge and gulp it. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s fun, but seriously.
“Digit!” I have to yell, and he still can’t hear me over the music and all those voices. I chuck my beer cap and hit him square in the back of the head. He grins when he sees that it’s me.
“Ay, bonne fête, ma fille!” He pushes his way over to me, beside the cake.
“Digit, are these your friends?” I trace the cake edge with my finger and lick the icing.
“Absolument non. Great party, eh?” He swigs some beer. “This is nothing. More than 200 people reply on Facebook.”
I’m speechless.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I attach a map or someting. It’s cool.”
But I wonder. Crickets’ flyers are all over the place. The slaughterhouse is marked with a drawing of a pig, and there’s a giant X for the Factory. It says: Pig House Party, B.Y.O.E. Fuck you, Club Kid Poseurs.
“Salut, toi!” Digit gives devil horns to someone in the crowd.
I take my heels off and climb onto the ledge by the kitchen sink. I wobble. Now I’m taller than everyone, and I can see almost the whole main room. I try to count—in twos, in small groups—but nobody stands still long enough. I get sixty, then almost eighty; that can’t be right. I forgot the upstairs. Maybe seventy. I round up, I round down, I give up. The Factory is full.
“Whatcha doin,’ girl?” Cricket’s obviously had another drink.
“Trying to count. Digit says 200 people replied on Facebook …”
“Digit posted on Facebook? He’s such an ass.” Cricket helps me down and holds my arm while I put the dreaded shoes back on.
“We should eat that cake, honey.”
“Everyone?”
“Uh-uh. Just you and me. Fuck Facebook. Fuck the bourgeoisie!” With that, Cricket stabs the cake’s dark centre with our butcher knife. “I killed the cake,” he shouts, and a few people turn to watch. He keeps stabbing. We laugh and grab handfuls, rich and moist. I smear some on his mouth. Cricket plasters my face.
“Mmmmmph.” I’m chewing and swallowing and savouring this thing like love that fills my mouth. “Wow.”
“Ferret, itsh all over yer fash,” he says, and slobbers up another dollop of frosting.
Digit is suddenly there, mouth open. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites?”
Cricket scoops and smears it on Digit.
Digit grabs the knife from Cricket and accuses him, “English cake killer!”
Cricket shoves another handful into Digit’s open mouth. “Born again! Cake resurrection!”
Digit howls. He doesn’t laugh often, but once he gets going he can’t stop. His face turns red, veins pop on his temples like angry worms. He coughs and snorts and drools. Saliva strands hang from his open, cake-filled mouth. Tears stream from his squinty eyes. He collapses on the table, shaking. It’s contagious. I can’t stop either, not even when Oreo is beside us, not even when she grabs my hair and licks that cake right off and smooshes her clean face into my dirty chocolate mouth. Our best house meeting ever.
The back door opens. A new crowd pushes in thro
ugh the people who are trying to push out. People want to smoke outside or take a piss and can’t find our toilet. Some complain about the no-flushing rule. Tall Eddie comes in, dragging Ray-Ray. I wave. Eddie raises his bottle.
Cricket shakes off his carb coma when he sees the big blond head of the new guy he likes, that bike courier. He pushes through some bum-shaking dancers, dragging me along behind. He smiles and the blond brick wall of a man smiles back. Cricket introduces me; Two Ton tips his cap.
“Ah, your birthday cake,” he says, and wipes a bit of chocolate from my cheek.
We drink to that. Cricket offers pills. I can tell he likes the guy cuz he doesn’t even get mad when Two Ton takes more than one. In fact, Cricket smiles. What an E-tard.
“I hope you don’t mind, Ferret. I invite a little friend to come for your party. Darcy, a skinny red-haired boy.”
I smile. “That’s the kid who moved in. I haven’t seen him all week. I hope he’s okay.” The pill sticks in my throat so I wash it down with beer. Maybe it’s the free booze talking, but right now I decide I don’t mind all these people any more.
Cricket says, “I heard he got picked up by the cops.”
“Really?” Two Ton looks confused. “I see him today. He says he gonna bring his other friend tonight. I forget his name. Cute boy,” he says and winks at me.
“I like cute girls.”
Two Ton shrugs. “Oh well. More of them for me and Creek-it.” And then he cracks that big smile of his, mesmerizing Cricket even more.
Strangers keep coming. I stop counting. There’s probably double the number of people there were earlier. The Factory is overrun. Scuffles break out—someone can’t find their wallet, their cell phone. Some other gadget goes missing, a purse is lost. Accusations are loud, fingers point. Oreo just bumps up the volume. Cricket pours drinks for the victims, for the accused—from other people’s bottles. People shed layers of clothing they don’t need; it’s hard to keep the beers cold. The walls sweat.
Suddenly I feel the swell inside; the tingly numbness spreads, and my skin feels warm. Cricket’s pills are kicking in. Everything is magic now. Little Darcy shows up, beaten and sketched out, nervous as a mouse; I pull him onto the dance floor and twirl.
The Dirt Chronicles Page 10
