Down to the Dirt

by Joel Thomas Hynes

  Please God, don’t let me die in a car with Francey-fuckin’-O’Dea. Don’t tell me this is what you had in mind for me all along. I don’t want to be tied to this motherfucker for the rest of eternity. I didn’t even have my thumb out, for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry. But please God, get me home safe and sound just this one more time.

  —What’s the matter, Keith b’y? Scared? I thought you were the real speed freak?

  Francey reaches behind himself and hauls his seatbelt on. The car swerves over into the left-hand lane. He grins and whoops and pulls it back to the right side of the road. I’ve got my body squashed as far back into the seat as I can get it, my feet pushin’ hard against the floor beneath the dash. Both my hands are gripped tight to the edges of my seat, knuckles bone white. But even in the midst of all this panic, I can’t bring myself to ask Francey to slow down. I’d never hear the end of it. The car picks up more speed and I jams my eyes closed, fully expectin’ to lift right off the ground any second at all.

  Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.

  Thy kingdom fuckin’ come thy will be fuckin’ done

  On earth as it is in Heaven…

  Francey roars at me over the noise of the car.

  —Now then. Satisfied?

  He nods towards the dash to show me that he’s after buryin’ the needle. I s’pose he’s hopin’ I’ll spread it around town, make a hero out of him. I lets go of the seat and slips my knife out of my pocket. I flicks it open and, quick as a wink, slashes right through Francey’s seatbelt. When he feels the pressure of the strap lettin’ go, he reaches down to check the buckle, only to find it still in place. He releases it and snaps it in place again. His hand finds the end of the seatbelt. It’s a clean cut. One thing I’m good at is sharpening knives. He looks across at me. I holds the knife up to his face. He can’t believe his eyes. Neither can I. Things are gettin’ out of hand here.

  —Let me out of this fuckin’ thing, Francey O’Dea, or I’ll gouge your goddamn eyes out.

  He hits the brake. My free arm automatically reaches out for the dash in front of me and an image of my father flickers through my head. Back before the seatbelt law came to Newfoundland my father used to drive an old grey Ford Custom. Whenever I was in the truck with him I’d get to stand up in the front seat. If he had reason to touch the brake he’d straighten his arm out in front of me to keep me from flyin’ through the windshield or fallin’ into the dash. I’d latch onto his arm with both hands ’til he’d pull it away. A seatbelt’s never made me feel that safe.

  Francey manages to bring the little shitbox to a stop. The engine stalls. He makes no attempt to start it up again. He don’t speak or even look in my direction. Sweat trickles down his forehead.

  From out of nowhere the sickening wail of a cop car fills the air. The old blue and red lights in the rearview. That’s all I fuckin’ needs. Francey peels a strip of hash off his steering wheel. A gram or so. I hadn’t noticed it ’til now. He pops it into his mouth and squats it in place under his bottom lip, checks the look of it in the rearview.

  I closes up my knife, slips it into my pocket and jumps out of the car. The cop car grinds to a halt inches from Francey’s back bumper. Two cops jump out and the one on the passenger side runs straight at me. It’s Stanford. That angry fucker. He hates me too. He’s movin’ with such speed and savage intent that I takes an instinctive step away from him, loses my footing, and slides down into the ditch. He’s upon me before I even hits the ground. He pulls me to my feet and pushes me over to the hood of the Chevette.

  —Spread your legs, Kavanagh, hands out in front.

  —Get your fuckin’…

  He grabs me by the back of the neck and pushes me facedown onto the car. He shoves his knee up between my thighs, forcin’ my legs open. My arms are stretched across the hot bonnet. He’s riflin’ through my pockets. Fuck.

  —You’re not allowed to do this! You needs reasonable doubt or reasonable cause or something!

  —Probable cause, Kavanagh. Probable cause. That’s exactly what I got. Been drinking this evening?

  —Fuck you.

  —Why did you try to run away just now? Trying to get rid of something? Oh my, what have we here?

  He’s flicks open my pocketknife with a sarcastic whistle of admiration.

  —Nice knife, Kavanagh. Who owns it? Look here, Officer Bowden.

  Bowden is searchin’ the backseat of Francey’s car. He must be new. I’ve never seen him before. He nods towards us.

  —Will we call this a concealed weapon?

  Bowden eyes the knife, doesn’t even look at me.

  —I don’t know. We’ll have to take it back to the station for measurements.

  Cocksuckers. It’s a tiny little gator blade. They knows it’s under six inches. But they’re gonna take it anyhow. Nothing I can do. Stanford keeps rootin’ around and then pulls the cheque out of my ass pocket. He holds it up to the sky and reads it.

  —Government of Newfoundland and Labrador. I didn’t know you worked for the government, Kavanagh. Why didn’t you say something? Oh, wait now. Oh. Department of Social Services. Oh, I see. It’s a handout. Not a very big one though. Jesus, Kavanagh, you think they’d throw a few more bucks your way, fine upstanding citizen that you are. Unless you’re on a day rate with them?

  Embarrassed and pissed off as I am, I decides not to say one more word. That gets ’em every time. That’s the best way to deal with the cops. Just shut the fuck up. You’re better off. Plus it drives ’em off the head. They can’t stand it. Believe me, there’s nothing they loves more than playin’ head games and puttin’ words in your mouth and lettin’ you dig yourself into a hole. It’s the RCMP for fuck sakes. They got nothing better to do.

  Once Stanford realizes I’m not gonna speak no more he lets up on me and hands me back the cheque. The other cop gives Francey a speeding ticket and another ticket for not havin’ functional seatbelts in the car. Ha! Francey’s shittin’ himself, givin’ me the evil eye. Wouldn’t know but it’s my goddamn fault. I can see the outline of the hash under his bottom lip and I fuckin’ well feels like pointin’ it out to the cops. But I’m not that bad.

  They won’t let Francey drive the car the rest of the way to the Cove so he gets in the back of their car. They offers me a ride but I refuses. Time enough for the backseat of a cop car. Francey gives me the middle finger and makes the cutthroat sign as they drives away. When they’re well out of sight I launches a hefty chunk of pavement at Francey’s front windshield. Right on the driver’s side. I stands and watches the spiderweb spreadin’ across the windshield. When I’m satisfied with the damage I turns towards the Cove.

  It’s only a half-hour walk to the Cove. I decides to hoof it. It commences to rain. It pours out of the heavens. By the time I makes it to the Cove I’m drenched to the bone. The first house I comes to is the Careens’ place. I was never allowed near the Careens’ place when I was young. Course that’s where I spent most of my time. When I was growin’ up, the Careens’ place was forever teemin’ with hooligans from all over the Shore, carousin’ and scrappin’ day and night. But, aside from the two youngest brothers, the place is pretty much empty these days. The whole clan scattered when the plant shut down. The parents drowned in a canoe in Slaughter’s Pond a couple of years back. All the two b’ys does these days is drink and sell and smoke dope. They’re a bit older than me, but I gets along with ’em pretty good. I started buyin’ dope from the youngest brother, Gerald, when I was around fourteen. He’s twenty-six and easily the hardest of the two. He’s got a reputation from Bay Bulls to Trepassey for bein’ the fastest, toughest son-of-a-whore on the go. He don’t look like much. He’s only skin and bones really. But I’m after seein’ Gerald Careen take down fellas twice his size with one smack. One night we were sittin’ around playin’ cards when a car pulled up outside and blew the horn. Some big lummox jumped out, belchin’ at the top of his lungs for Gerald to come out and fi
ght. Gerald had a few beer and a few draws in, so he didn’t give a fuck. He stood up from the table, whipped off his tee-shirt, marched straight to the car and beat the livin’ snot out of the stunned fucker. I watched the whole thing. Gerald punchin’ the poor bastard to the ground, then pullin’ him to his feet so’s he could punch him down again. The car was full of hockey-heads but none of ’em dared open the door to help their buddy. Finally, Gerald gave it up. He spat a big dirty snot onto the windshield, said he’d kill the whole crowd of ’em if that’s what they came for, if not, go to fuck home out of it. Someone got out and Gerald went towards him but the fella was only tryin’ to get his shit-hauled friend back into the car. Gerald gave him a hand. When he came into the house again he sat back down to the card game and started bawlin’ me out for supposedly riggin’ the deck while he was gone. Like nothing happened. Blood drippin’ from his knuckles. I asked him who it was he’d just pounded the daylights out of. He said he never laid eyes on any of ’em in his life.

  There’s no one home at the house when I walks in. I goes out around back and yells for Gerald, but there’s no answer. The stove is blazin’ and there’s a forty of Russian Prince on the kitchen table, so he can’t have gone far. I puts some ice in a glass and fills it to the top with vodka. I drinks it down and then fills it up again. I drinks it down again. That warms me up a bit. I takes off my jacket and shirt and hangs ’em on the clothesline behind the stove. Pours myself another drink. By the time Gerald walks in I’m feelin’ a good buzz. He joins me for a drink and then puts the bottle away ’cause it belongs to his older brother Harry. ’Cause when Harry wants a fuckin’ drink there better be one waitin’ for him. I’m in no mood to stop drinkin’ though. Neither is Gerald. He’s got no money so I offers to go over the road for some beer.

  —Fuck did you get the bucks to?

  —Dole.

  —Right fuckin’ on. Milk ’em for whatever they’re worth, Keith b’y.

  The cheque is a bit soggy but I don’t have no trouble cashin’ it since it’s a government issue and all. I buys a couple of packs of smokes, a dozen and a half beer and a big bag of chips. But rather than go straight back to Gerald’s I takes a walk up the track above the store where I devours the chips and flattens five beer. It’s comin’ on dark and I feels a few drops of rain so I sets off down through the woods again. I’m so drunk that I spends most of my time on my back or face down in the bushes. The world in front of my face seems to freeze as I moves through it. Then the picture breaks off and floats away before I can focus on the next frame. I struggles to keep myself walkin’, not wantin’ to pass out in the woods in the rain and maybe die. I runs faster but that only causes me to tumble around more and to hit the ground harder when I do. At some point I stops to vomit. I’ve put nothing in my stomach all day but the chips and the beer and that’s all that comes out. And vodka. I keeps bumblin’ my way through the trees and the rain. After a while the woods fritter away and I tumbles onto someone’s back lawn. I’m delighted to find that, throughout the whole ordeal, I managed to keep the dozen beer intact. But the box is soaked through and it’s not gonna hold much longer. I staggers across the lawn towards the back porch of what I think is Harold Reddigan’s house. Can’t say for sure. I mindlessly pounds on the door but no one answers. It’s not locked. I walks into the porch and flicks on the light.

  —An…body ’ome?

  I pokes around until I comes across an old duffle bag full of someone’s laundry. I empties it onto the floor and puts the case of beer down into it. I considers leavin’ a note or something, but it’s likely to be too much hassle. I locks the door behind me and makes my way down the driveway to the main road.

  Gerald’s got his head down on the table, the vodka bottle empty in front of him. I causes a big racket tryin’ to sit myself down and he jumps right out of his chair, fists clenched and ready to go.

  —Where the fuck are you goin’, Benny? What time is it?

  —Gerald, it’s only me. Who’s Benny?

  He picks up the bottle, sees it’s empty and then hurls it at the cupboards. I pulls the beer out of the bag and hands him one. I twists one open myself but I gags on the first mouthful. Gerald takes a chunk of hash out of his top pocket and cuts off a few blasts. Looks like the kind Francey had, soft and oily. I turns on the propane burner on the stove and lays the knives over the flame. No matter how fucked I am, I can always straighten up enough to cook a draw. Once the blades are red hot Gerald drops a blast onto one of ’em. I lets it smolder for a second before pancaking the other blade on top of it. Gerald don’t bother with a funnel. Thick white smoke blasts up into his face. He brings his lips closer and closer to the red blades as the draw burns out. Smoke curls up around his head and drifts to the ceiling. He fills his lungs and then chokes his guts up. Then I does one. Big mistake. The room spins round and round. I tries to make it back to my chair but some cunt’s after fuckin’ with the floor. It’s gone rubbery and keeps slantin’ away like the house is fallin’ over the cliff. Gravity pulls me across the room towards the far wall. I tries to pull myself back to my feet, but I don’t have the strength. Gerald cheers me on. The ceiling pulsates. It’s gonna collapse. I slumps down in the far corner and vomits onto a pile of shoes and sneakers. Gerald bolts towards me. In a flash he got me on my feet, holdin’ me up by the collar of my jacket.

  —You dirty little fucker. I should make you lick that shit up.

  —Go fuck yourself.

  Don’t know what I was thinkin’ to go and say something like that to Gerald Careen on a drinkin’ night. He draws back his arm and lets me have it square into the face. He hits me so hard that I bounces off the wall behind me and lands right back in the standin’ position, facin’ him once more. Then I says it again.

  —Go fuck yourself.

  He draws his arm back again, but don’t follow through with it. My knees gives out and I hits the floor. I can already feel my eye swellin’ up. The taste of blood in the back of my throat. My nose is bleedin’ and I starts bawlin’. Fuck. Tears and blood and drool and snots runnin’ down my face as I drags myself on my hands and knees into the bathroom. I wraps myself around the toilet bowl and vomits some more. Not in the toilet though, onto the floor around it.

  I lies there for a while, tryin’ to stop from sobbin’ out loud. It’s not the pain. I can hardly feel a thing really. Just, I don’t know, sometimes I bawls for no real reason these days.

  My thoughts are driftin’ and I’m almost passed out when I hears someone poundin’ on the front door. My first instinct tells me it’s the cops. I tries to push myself up with my hand, but it slips in the vomit and I cracks my face off the toilet bowl. Now my lip is bleedin’ too. I strains to hear Gerald’s muffled voice in conversation with whoever’s at the door. I hears my name. My full name. I forces myself to my feet and steadies my body against the shower. I locks the bathroom door and then opens the window that leads to the back yard. It’s a tight squeeze, but I manages to get out just in time. As I hits the ground on back of the house I hears Gerald knockin’ on the bathroom door.

  —Keith, you alright? There’s someone here lookin’ for you. Keith?

  Then I’m gone.

  I’m out of there.

  There’s a path that runs from the back of Gerald’s place right over to the North Side of the Cove. I lets my legs do the walkin’. My nose and lip are stopped bleedin’ but my eye is pretty much swollen shut. I’m soon stumbling down the back steps to Natasha’s house. All I wants to do is lie down with her and go to sleep. She was expecting me a lot earlier but I’m sure she’ll be understanding when she sees the state I’m in. I tries to be as quiet as possible. Last thing I wants to do is get her old man on the go. No such luck though. Someone’s after stackin’ a bunch of beer bottles behind the basement door and they all comes crashin’ down when I opens it. The house snarls to life. Heavy footsteps from the upstairs hallway, stompin’ across the kitchen floor. The basement door squeaks open.

  —Natasha, is that
you?

  It’s the old man. I turns back up the basement steps. My wet boot lands on a loose bottle and I topples out onto the concrete walkway. Then he’s in the doorway, towering over me, silently surveying the mess of broken bottles on the basement floor.

  —H…hey, Mr. Healy.

  —Don’t Mr. Fuckin’ Healy me, Kavanagh. What the fuck happened to your face? Where’s Natasha to?

  —I’m sorry, I don’t…I’m a bit—

  —You’re loaded fuckin’ drunk. Where’s Natasha?

  —She’s…I don’t—

  —What were you told about showin’ up here drunk? And what were you told about usin’ the basement door? I’m not havin’ it. The cops were here lookin’ for you. If you got Natasha tangled up with the goddamned cops I’ll crack your fuckin’ skull.

  —I’m not dringin’—

  —No wonder she’s after gettin’ so goddamn hard to talk to, the likes of this goin’ on all hours. You listen to me, you little rogue—

  —I’m not dringin’—

  —Lie to me face now, will you?

  For the size of the man he’s pretty fuckin’ fast. He pulls me to my feet and slams me up against the wall. Some set of arms on him. He shakes me around like a rag-doll. This is it. He’s snapped and he’s finally gonna pound me. He’s been lookin’ for an excuse for a good while now anyhow. Then Natasha’s mother appears in the hallway. Thanks be to Christ.

  —Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph! Keith, look at your face. Stan, let him in for the love of God, b’y.

  That’s his name, Stan. But she’s the only one ever calls him that. Everybody else in the Cove calls him Beef. Me and Natasha calls him the old man, not to his face though. He lets go of me and stomps back up over the stairs. He barks down: