Down to the Dirt

by Joel Thomas Hynes

  I got up, to his relief, as well as his blatant disappointment, and moved towards the back of the bus where I planked myself down next to a fine young female specimen of the shy and innocent persuasion. She smelled so fresh. I wanted so bad to be a decent fella, make a good impression. Even if it meant sittin’ there in silence for the whole trip. I could only give it a half-assed shot though, no chance of playin’ my cards right. I really wasn’t playin’ with a full deck anyhow.

  She struck me as one of the good girls, probably on a weekend getaway where she could be free and cut loose and all that shit without havin’ to answer to anyone any-which-way associated with her “real life.” Because nobody understands the real me. I have dreams. I have desires. Christ. I almost got up. But then I just said shag it. Shag it.

  —Wanna drink? Whiskey, says I. Mix? Don’t be so foolish, girl. The mix is what kills you. I wouldn’t drink it no other way. Sacrilege. Go on, look. No harm in it.

  My speech was all slurred and the more I tried to straighten it out the worse it got.

  She looked and smelled absolutely delicious and that sickened me ’cause I knew I was dirty lookin’. I hadn’t showered and I likely stank of the booze. On top of that, she probably thought she was too good for me. Well, she couldn’t hold a goddamn candle to Natasha.

  Her name was Melissa. She held out her hand. I informed her, my name bein’ Jacob, that I would refer to her as Mary-Anne, if only because I went out with a girl named Melissa one time and the most profound realization she ever had was that her black lipstick made her teeth look really white. That worked. She cracked a bit of a smile, told me a little about herself. She obviously didn’t want me to lump her in the same category with this other Melissa, whom I must admit I’d concocted there on the spot.

  Seems Miss Mary-Anne’d just been to St. John’s to visit her boyfriend who’s studyin’ bio-crucial-fuckin’-snortistry, or some such shit at the university.

  —He’s just the sweetest guy.

  Well, my God. Eat your heart out, Jacob b’y. Bor-ing. They’re all the same, keepin’ an eye out for the Big Bad Wolf.

  —Me? I’m on my way into town to meet my half-brother Keith. He’s one of them fellas, you know, bit of a genius, walkin’ the fine line. Yup. Gonna spend the weekend on a big fuckin’ tear. God help us all…Me? I’m a writer. Workin’ on a book of prose poetry. Gonna call it Contradictions and Confessions in the Ninth Person. Fancy that, Miss Mary-Anne…What’s it about? It’s fuckin’ poetry, it’s not about anything. What kinda foolish question is that? Wouldn’t know but you’re gonna rush out and buy it or something. Here, have another swig of this.

  She took a little sip and scrunched up her face like a South Side girl. I leaned in closer to let her know that I’d taken her into my confidence and that her fancy boyfriend in St. John’s meant fuck all to me.

  —Actually, I just ripped off this flask. I did. Back at the liquor store in the airport…I just waltzed on in and took it…I don’t give two fucks who saw me.

  She gave me a look then, dismissed me as a nutcase. I was losin’ her.

  —No, girl, that’s not true…I had this in the fridge this past two months now. I hardly ever drinks. Only when travelling, that’s my rule. Sure what else is there to do on a plane? Read? I don’t read. Sure I was sittin’ next to this retarded deafmute fella. He wasn’t up for much conversation. Ha!

  And that’s where I lost her.

  —Oh, excuse me, “hearing impaired.” Christ, touchy aren’t we? Touchy. Fuckin’ sensitive.

  She brazenly informed me that her little brother is hearing impaired, that she’d prefer to be left alone, that I talked too much. Well, fuck me, then. Not like I had a gun to her head tellin’ her to shut the fuck up and let me do all the talkin’. Christ, if I’d known I was such an asshole I wouldn’t have let her share the seat with me. I would’ve told her to get up. Imagine the excruciating ordeal of listening to the likes of me for a whole twenty minutes.

  —Nice to meet you, MELISSA…

  I wobbled and belched my way down to the back of the bus, hopin’ to find a seat to myself. All eyes were turned towards the highway or the floor or some magazine, deliberately avoiding contact with mine. Some people even pretended to be sleepin’. I walked up and down the aisles but couldn’t find a single seat. Finally, up front again, I planked myself back down in Fellatio Central. You can’t fuckin’ win. Try to be nice and all you gets in return is ignorance. I spent the rest of the ten-year shuttle ride eatin’ the mangled mush that used to be the flakes of ham sandwiches I packed back in St. John’s.

  A gloomy silence settled over the bus, and I s’pose it was all my fault. I looked down towards Miss Mary-Anne. Some hefty jock prick was after takin’ my place, only he was likely gonna take her out somewhere tonight. He glared up at me, this look of false disgust on his face. Like I should count myself lucky that there were women and children around. Bring it on, cock-rocker, said I to me. A little scene wouldn’t have gone astray. A scattered one never hurts, I suppose. But no such luck.

  I washed down the sandwiches with what was left of the flask. King Fellatio starin’ out the window at the passin’ night.

  I soon found myself smack-dab in the middle of Halifax with my bag slung over my shoulder. It contained nothing but an old mouth organ that I never bothered to learn to play, my copy of The Favorite Game, which I am actually plannin’ to read, my notebook, a packet of cat food, a little sack of coffee, and seven little bottles of white rum. These are the items I wants the powers-that-be to sum up my existence with when I finally packs it all in. Other than that I had the clothes on my back, a few smokes.

  Halifax City, where I knew not a soul, save for a girl I thought I knew. But that was all gonna change. This whole fuckin’ town might know my name one of these dark and dreary days. Lots of time left yet.

  See, it’s the common cliché that life is short. But that’s the easy way out. It’s just a last resort for them kinds of jerks who refuses to face what’s goin’ on around ’em. You’ve heard it said:

  —Life is short, b’y. That’s my philosophy anyhow. Might as well have a good time while we’re still around.

  Bullshit. Nothing only jerk talk. That’s not a fuckin’ philosophy, that’s a boring old cliché. Oh, and clichés exist because they’re true? More bullshit. Clichés exist because…because people are too terrified to have a good hard look at their lives. Afraid they’ll see something they won’t like and won’t know how to handle. Clichés exist because so many assholes needs a shortcut through this mortifying process known as thinkin’. Sure if they were so goddamn smart, wouldn’t they make up their own clichés?

  Look, the fact of the matter is that life is long. Life is a long, drawn-out and disgusting ordeal. If it was so short, I wouldn’t drink. I’d want to have a good grip. I’d want to remember things. Life is long. Just think back through the years, all the days and hours lived to this point. One summer. Last Christmas. Lives touched or tortured. All them blurry faces and names. People out there in the world that you’ll never set eyes on again. All them mad nights with their wayward banters about nothing and everything. All those redefining moments. Countless lost thoughts, ideas, plans and notions slippin’ into and out of our minds while we’re washin’ dishes, takin’ showers or just havin’ a good wank. Lost. Gone. Life is long.

  Alright, I’d never set foot outside of Newfoundland before. But I figured the world couldn’t be that big if I was smokin’ the very cigarettes I’d rolled in St. John’s only hours before. I was not afraid. Sure I nearly made it to Toronto a few years back. Went to go chasin’ after Shannon Kelly. She was dandy. I packed up all my tapes and books, rolled a big load of smokes, swiped fifty bucks from my mother’s purse, and had Andy drop me off on the Trans-Canada. Fuck it all. It only took me about six hours thumbin’ to make it down to the Argentia ferry. But when I got there the ferry was gone. I could still see the foamy trail of it in the harbour. S’pose I shoulda called ahead. Some old geezer
with a potato lodged in his throat told me there wouldn’t be another ferry for three more days. I mean, I woulda spent the night if there’d been another ferry the next morning. But three days? Fuck that. I had no choice but to go on home out of it. I was some pissed off. But I got tangled up with Natasha that very night in to the Devil’s Kitchen. She tried to give me a handjob underwater with her fuckin’ b’yfriend standin’ right there on the wharf. That’s fuckin’ fate for you.

  I took a good look around and decided I wasn’t so far outside my element as I’d expected to be. It’s all the same old shit. City life. Nothing to be afraid of. Besides, I had a pretty good defence against the boomin’ metropolis of Halifax, and that was the common knowledge that they got no culture. Oh yeah, they got their little lobster fishery and they plays the bagpipes, but they got no real culture. Sure the Scottish robbed the bagpipes from the Irish anyhow. Everyone knows that. Meanin’ that Nova Scotia is in possession of goods indirectly stolen from the better part of Newfoundland. That’s the Southern Shore. The Irish fuckin’ Loop in case you’re wonderin’.

  I searched my pockets for Natasha’s address. Agricola Street. Then I thought maybe I should phone first. I had to straighten up. This was exciting and I didn’t want to fuck it up. Last thing I wanted was to finally meet up with Natasha, after so long, and for her to think I’d just gotten loaded and jumped on a plane like a savage. I needed a phone. Or a club, better yet. Seemed like ages since I had a beer.

  Despite my dwindling cash flow, I flagged down a green cab.

  The cabby wore dark prescription sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, which I hated ’cause I could feel him sizin’ me up in the rearview. Who in their right mind wears sunglasses drivin’ in the nighttime? His front teeth were missin’ and the rest of ’em might as well’ve been for how black and rotted they were. He had a long hooked nose and seemed to talk through it when he spoke. Told me his name was Gerard. I told him nothing, only to take me to the closest bar.

  Now, I don’t mind a fella makin’ a little extra money for himself, but if it’s at my fuckin’ expense, I tends to take it personal. We were up to about ten bucks on the meter when I noticed the same drugstore I saw when I got in, only this time on the left. He was takin’ me around in circles. I figured there must be hundreds of pubs and clubs in Halifax and not one five minutes away from another. Sure that’s all they does is drink, everyone knows that. I commanded Gerard to stop the cab outside a place called the Lion’s Den, just like in that Wilburys’ song. I gave him a five-dollar bill, insisted that he keep the change. He threatened to call the cops. I told him to go right ahead, that I’d be in there havin’ a beer, that I’d sooner sleep in a jail cell than on the street anyhow.

  Christ. People can be so mean-spirited. Here I was, some young fella who didn’t know his way around, lookin’ for a place to go have a beer and the first thing that runs through this cabby’s head was to rip me off. Then again, how could he have known that he was pickin’ up Newfoundland’s Acting Ambassador to Nova Scotia and that I would gladly and ruthlessly document such ill treatment. Conniving prick.

  The Lion’s Den turned out to be one of those dives that might be a gay bar, from one angle, for an hour or so, then maybe a student bar from another angle. Sailors, lawyers, hookers, classic rock to classical to contemporary to country. Dark and smoky. Sporadic outbursts of violence, domestic feuds gone public, regulars demanding special treatment ’cause they knows the owner and they got a tab, angry bartenders spittin’ in the drinks, just passin’ through on their way to the big time. A wholesome little drinkin’ hole. My kinda place. Of course these were only split-second observations ’cause they wouldn’t serve me for some reason or other. I knocked over a chair on my way out. Fuck the Lion’s Den. Assholes and alcoholics. Bunch of savages.

  Gerard was still there when I got back to the parking lot, sittin’ in his cab, yakkin’ into his cell-phone. He nodded in my direction and started up his car when he saw me. I s’pose he was the goddamn reason the Lion’s Den wouldn’t serve me. He must’ve phoned ’em. And he probably had the cops on the way.

  I dashed up this rickety wooden wheelchair ramp that was attached to the building next to the club. There was about a ten-foot drop over the rail at the end of the ramp. I glanced back at Gerard. Another green cab pulled up next to his. Fuck. I took a breath, tossed my bag over the side and then tossed myself over. I landed in someone’s back yard and started runnin’. As I was passin’ up the narrow driveway alongside the house, I caught a glimpse, through the basement window, of some young couple doin’ the business on an old couch. I stopped to have a gander. Buddy was on top and he was givin’ it to ’er. He looked like a real eighties metal-head, his big hair flyin’ all over the place. He still had his sneaker-boots and jeans on, so I s’pose they were havin’ a fast one. Missus was just lyin’ there, not makin’ much of a fuss about it. Then I started to feel like a pervert, so I got up to go. Just as I took a few steps down the driveway, a green cab passed up the road. Couldn’t tell if it was Gerard or not, but it was a bit too coincidental for my likin’.

  Less than half an hour in Halifax and I’d already become a wanted man. Jesus.

  I hunkered down next to the house ’til I couldn’t hear the car’s engine no more. To pass a bit more time I went back for another look through the basement window. But, as fast as that, the curtains were closed. I heard the side door squeak open. I figured it was Metal-Head, so I took off back through his yard and jumped the fence into the next yard. Five or six more times, up and over fences, straight over lawn chairs and picnic tables, kids’ swing sets. Hooked my boot in a lawnmower and flattened on the concrete walkway. Gave my knee a good bang, but never even got the chance to stop and feel the pain ’cause a dog was barkin’ savage and lights were comin’ on in the yards behind me. I just kept runnin’, no clue where I was goin’, just goin’.

  I calmed down and caught my breath when I figured it was safe. Started walkin’, always keepin’ an eye out for cops and cabs. One thing I learned from a pretty early age was how to spot a cop car by the headlights. And if you weren’t sure, then you’d just assume it was a cop and hit the ditch anyhow.

  I was on a mad rampage. Reelin’ in and out the alleys, across people’s lawns. Up North Street and right on Gottagen or Gattigan or whatever the fuck it’s called. Young Street, everyone’s got a fuckin’ Young Street. Charles Street, West Street, back on North again, left on Robie and up Quinpool Road. Fuck. Creative bunch, whoever named the roads. Still, for all that shaggin’ around, Agricola Street was nowhere to be found.

  I realized right then and there how full of shit I really was, thinkin’ I’d find Natasha’s place through sheer force of will. In a strange city with fuck all money. No place to sleep and I doubt that I was welcome anywhere considering the state of me. A fine sight indeed.

  Natasha wouldn’t turn me away though. No. She likely already knew I was in town, or at least on my way. Andy probably had her warned. He’s like that. Still, for all I knew, Agricola coulda been out in the goddamn boondocks. ’Tash coulda been in some stud’s bed with her wrists tied to his bedposts. Havin’ a fine time for herself. Of course this possibility enraged me and I started in screamin’, no longer givin’ a shit about cops or cabs, or anyone for that matter.

  —Natasha! Natasha! Naataashaa! Listen up, Halifax. Ye’re all abunch a thievin’, horse-fuckin’ Scottish rejects! Go on and have at yourselves!

  Another few minutes of ravin’ and wandering before I found myself slumped on a bench in some dodgy park.

  Halifax City on a Friday night.

  Loaded drunk.

  Down to my last match.

  I downed a little bottle of rum and got this…this overwhelmingly tragic and hopeless feeling as I watched the bottle fall from my hand to the battered old asphalt at my feet. A fine sight, there beneath the dusty old orange streetlight with my bag and my bad attitude. I stretched out across the bench and closed my eyes for a second.

 
Was it so much to ask for a little honesty? That’s all I wanted. She coulda given it to me over the phone. There was no need for all this. I coulda been home in bed or downtown drinkin’, playin’ pool at the Hatchet. Friday night in St. John’s, home-turf and all that.

  I started thinkin’.

  I made a few plans.

  When I gets through with all this nonsense, I’ll be makin’ a few changes. I’ll find me a place where people’ll feel like wipin’ their boots when they drops by, rather than leavin’ ’em on for safety’s sake. I’ll get me a straightlaced, uncomplicated, almost fulfilling sex life by pickin’ out the right movies and changin’ the sheets on a regular basis. I’m gettin’ a new toothbrush, maybe one of them fancy electric ones.

  —That wet towel don’t belong on the bedroom floor!

  —Isn’t it my turn to do the dishes?

  I’ll be walkin’ a four-legged dog and curlin’ up to the Wednesday night sitcom marathon. I’ll be all the time quittin’ smokin’. And if you happens to open my fridge, you’ll find light mayonnaise, whole grain bread, some kinda smoked fuckin’ cheese, and some of that French fizzy water in the green bottle. Sure you’ll have to compliment the curtains that match the carpet that go so well with the little place mats.

  I’ll be soberin’ myself up too.

  —Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Sorry, all I got is decaf.

  Listen here, I’ll take my chances with the devil I don’t know. Can’t be much worse than the one that I knows.