I looked down at Leeroy, his torso tucked under the steering wheel and legs stretched across the front seats. I knew then that it wasn’t my place to stay in the car anymore—I don’t know how I knew, but I did. Maybe it was the thought of my mortality that pulled me away, or maybe I didn’t know anything other than abandonment, one of the earliest lessons my dad had left me with.
Childhood memories of my times with Leeroy filled me as the sun crested up over the mountains and called for me to let go of our friendship. I’d earned the sunlight, it was mine, and mine alone. I crept out of the car and shut the door gently, careful to not wake him.
As I rounded the corner of the parking lot onto the street, I looked back at the car and saw Leeroy’s head appear, turn side to side, then disappear back down. Perhaps he thought I’d gone to the washroom. I said goodbye in my heart and wished him well and then made my way to the Trans-Canada Highway for the long hitchhike back home to Ontario.
ROU GAROUS
I hitchhiked home in early spring.
The mountains, then prairies, swollen lakes, the thickness of forests—all was uneventful.
But on the Trans-Canada Highway, somewhere east of the prairies
I was picked up by some farm boys around my age.
They said I looked rough and wanted to feed me, to give me a place to rest
So in their car I went.
We drove some distance off the main route
Down some obscure dirt road, far out of the way to an abandoned building.
I smelled smoke when I got out; a loon called in the distance.
The driver was kind and asked me to carve my name on a tree.
There were other names carved in too.
“Other hitchhikers,” they said. “Others running, trying to get home.”
As my blade cut into the trunk, I felt a fist slam into the back of my head.
Stars upon stars; I didn’t see it coming.
The one boy tackled me and tried to bring me to the ground.
But my thick skull and strong spirit, they held me up.
I staggered and stumbled, arms outstretched, trying to regain my senses.
I ran disoriented into the forest toward where I hoped the highway was.
Warm blood poured out of my head.
It wasn’t a fist they’d hit me with, I figured. It must’ve been a rock or hammer.
They stalked close behind me through the brush; I ran with all my might.
My chest burning and legs barely under me,
Weakened by months of no food.
I almost gave in.
But my relatives, the trees, saw my trouble.
“Hide within us, nephew,” they rustled. “Our leaves will darken their way.”
Their branches bent and covered my passage; they arched over to
save me.
Deeper into the poplars, cedars, and oaks I fled,
A good three miles.
My attackers’ footsteps fell silent, their voices trailed off.
In time, I chanced upon good old Highway One.
It felt safe,
Like some mighty river of asphalt that had the current to carry me home.
I stood there all night with my thumb out, begging to be picked up.
I waved my arms at each passing vehicle but no one stopped.
Or even slowed down.
NEVER THE SAME
“THAT GIRL DANCING NEAR THE base bin is fine,” Rex said as he tilted his rum and Coke toward the stage of the nightclub.
I barely had my legs under me, still reeling from the long hitchhike to Toronto and malnutrition. When I got back home, friends commented that I looked like I was dying of starvation. Some were afraid to talk to me. Perhaps they just didn’t want to think about how far my addictions had taken me, or that they were headed there, too.
“She fine,” I agreed. But my eyes were more interested in Rex’s drink than the girl, its ice glistened with each strobe of the lights. House music shook the empty glasses splayed out over the bar, left there by a bartender who, I knew, was too busy doing rails of coke to properly serve customers. Rex had a hell of a time getting his first drink, yelling four or five times before he finally got her attention. My stomach growled, a mixture of hunger and cravings. The memory of the taste of whiskey welled up, reminding me that I had no money and no business being in a club.
“I love this song,” Rex said, pumping his hand in the air. The DJ had mixed in the latest track from Chicago—the mecca of house music—and Rex, in his excitement, spilled some of his drink on the man in front of us. Neither noticed. I watched and waited for the ecstasy pill I’d just taken to kick in. I lived for that Chicago sound, an amalgam of gritty four-and-four house beats, old-school funk, and gospel lyrics. No one did it better. No one.
“I’m waiting for my E to kick in,” I hollered over to Rex, trying to be heard over top of the throbbing baseline. “Can you buy me a drink?” The beat finally dropped and the crowd went wild, asses gyrating everywhere. “Can you spot me for a drink?” I yelled one more time. Rex didn’t hear and continued to thrust his drink in the air, watering the crowd in front of him. I tried again. “Bro!” I yelled and grabbed his arm. “I’m fucking dying over here—I need a drink.”
Rex turned to me and said, “You should have said something sooner,” his jaw chattering, his pupils wide open. His E had taken effect.
Lucky bastard, I thought. I wondered why I wasn’t feeling anything.
“Hey!” he screamed over to the barkeep. “Gimme two rum and Cokes.” She heard him right away and fired two tumblers down the bar. Rex dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and she snatched it up without offering change. He handed me my drink.
“Cheers,” he said, and we clinked our glasses together and looked out over the crowd of gorgeous women. I again noticed the woman near the base bin—she was beautiful. My belly warmed as the rum settled under my ribs, sending a rush of ecstasy up my spine. A swell of spectacular pins and needles broke over the top of my scalp. My eyelids fluttered, and I braced myself against the bar, waiting for the impeding tsunami of rapture. My knees buckled.
“There he goes,” Rex said. His eyes looked like a shark’s eyes right before the kill—completely black. I tried to smile back at him but my jaw took on a life of its own, chattering up and down. It was good E—the best kind—the kind that slams into your gut and impregnates you with a cloud of migrating monarchs, fluttering your intestines into a writhing swarm of uncontrollable pleasure.
We’d scored our E earlier from our dealer, a trustworthy guy named Island. He sold primarily to the underground gay clubs on Church Street that always had the best drugs and newest music. My friends had found that out early on, that’s how we met Island, and that’s how we got high as fuck on $40 Es. Most other dealers sold Es at $10 or $20, but they weren’t really methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA), just a mix of cheap crystal meth, caffeine, and maybe a little heroin for euphoric effect. But Island took care of us proper.
“These Es are killer,” Rex said. He placed his empty glass on the bar, then rifled through his pockets. I thought he was going to give me another pill, but he pulled out a wad of bills, leafed off $40, and handed it to me. “I know you’re broke. I’m just glad you’re here, safe. Not hitchhiking across the continent, starving and shit.”
I took the money, at a loss for words. I could barely make out Rex’s face, the visual vibration was so jarring. “I love you, dude,” I said, the words gurgled up out of my throat in a moment of euphoria. I heard them, but hadn’t wanted to say them. Sweat poured down my face, dripped off my chin.
“I know that, guy,” Rex said as he wiped my face. “We’re brothers. One love.”
He dapped my hand as the throb of the house music picked up.
We did love each other. It was a camaraderie, a closeness, a fellowship. A connection with the universe that’s hard to explain but that happens with E—almost like you turn into Jesus, Ghandi, and Mother Teresa all rolled
into one, not a problem in the world, caring for all things at once, a connection you never forget and always yearn for after you’ve sobered up, and when you mix it with sex, it was even more powerful.
“Listen,” Rex said as he grabbed my hand and pulled me back from total ecstasy. “Someone’s paged and I gotta go over to Spadina. Meet me there at four a.m.” He slapped my cheek to get my attention. I retrained my sights on his face, but had trouble focusing. He was melting, blurring, fading into another dimension. A wall of colours filled my vision: a kaleidoscope of disco-ball refractions. He was somewhere in there.
“Yeah. Got it. Buzz. See you there.” I held on to the bar for dear life. His shape was coming in clearer, but still wasn’t quite there yet.
“I ordered another drink for you,” Rex said before leaving. “It should be along shortly.” He winked at the bartender, and she fired another rum and Coke down the bar. It landed in front of me, leaving tracers in its wake. I needed toothpicks to prop my eyes open, and my stomach flipped as the liquid splashed and swirled down.
Was there something different about these E pills, or was it the drink I’d left unattended in my stupor? It was hard to tell. My feet were two hot-air balloons floating high above the Paris fairgrounds, simultaneously lighter than air and heavier than the compressed core of a star for twenty minutes after Rex left. Finding purchase on the ground was nearly impossible. Flashes of black blinded me as I stumbled forward onto the dance floor. I pleaded for help. The other partiers just backed away and shot me expressions of disgust. I stumbled and fell, dropping my drink, the tumbler shattering. My mind was confused, groggy, dark. I thought maybe if I found some coke or speed I might be able to perk up, shake off whatever was happening. I thought I saw Island near the stage and so made my way toward it. I staggered, zigzagging, as far as the base bin where the beautiful girl was dancing, then collapsed.
When I awoke I was on the other side of the club near the washrooms, some forty feet away. The floor was still packed, the music was louder, people were dancing faster, and the bar was closed but decorated with drunk girls giving strip shows, and everyone was way more fucked up. I was still disoriented.
As I pushed myself up the wall off the floor, I noticed that my belt was undone, and my pants were open and hanging off my waist. My underwear was gone. I knew I’d been wearing underwear when I got to the club.
There was a deep pain in my intestines, radiating from my rectum, down across my testicles and penis. I panicked and hobbled over into the washroom and one of the stalls. I wadded up a pad of toilet paper and wiped it across my anus. A dark stain of fresh blood appeared on it. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I ran my fingers over my bum and discovered that I had what appeared to be hemorrhoids. I tried pushing them in but they hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced—I touched them gently again. I’d never had hemorrhoids before, or whatever these were. I tried to understand what had happened, who was around me before I fell unconscious, why I woke up near the washroom, or why what appeared to be my intestines were hanging out of my bum.
I can’t remember how I got home, or even where I actually went—there was nothing but a dense black fog in my memory. I saw nothing but darkness, confusion.
A deep feeling of shame shrouded my soul.
A GUST OF MOLECULES
THE PHONE RINGING PIERCED THE night calm. I rolled off the couch and went into the kitchen to pick it up.
It was Uncle Ralph. “Jesse. Go get Ronald.” The urgency in his voice was unnerving.
I ran to Uncle Ron’s room, Solomon, my uncle’s Rhodesian ridgeback, trotting behind me to investigate the commotion. “Ralph’s on the phone,” I said as I pushed on Uncle Ron’s foot. “Wake up.”
He shifted and squinted at the alarm clock—3:40 a.m.—then shot out of bed and into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” he barked into the receiver. He cleared the sleep from his eyes and waved me away. “Everything okay?”
I moved into the sunroom to eavesdrop but could only hear the static of Ralph’s voice and Uncle Ron’s “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” I stared out the window at the treetops bending in the nighttime wind and hoped the call wasn’t about Grandpa or Grandma.
Uncle Ron said, “I’ll be right there,” and then hung up and bolted out to the car without a word. I watched the car’s tail lights disappear into the darkness. I placed a chair next to the window. My adrenaline would keep me awake. Solomon sat by my side.
Uncle Ron had been living in Port Hope with his daughter, who was just sixteen, since she started getting into trouble in Toronto. He figured she’d stay out of trouble out in the country. I thought it was a smart move on his part.
I’d been with them for five months. Uncle Ron got word that I was sleeping at the airport and couch surfing with friends, slipping further into addiction.
The assault at the club left me struggling, grabbing nothing but sand. One never thinks it will happen to them until it does. You are never the same and it’s always there.
I had managed to sober up while I’d been in Port Hope with Uncle Ron, somehow, but I was still smoking weed trying to sort through everything that had happened. Uncle Ron represented safety to me, even though I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what had happened.
At 7:30 a.m. the next day, Uncle Ron pulled back into the driveway. I was still staring out the window, after downing pot after pot of coffee and smoking cigarette after cigarette. My teeth buzzed like I’d eaten a hive of bees. Uncle Ron slumped over the steering wheel. The car was still running but the car stereo was off—and he always drove with ’70s rock blaring.
He finally got out of the car and made his way to the house. I heard the grind of gravel with each step. I poured a cup of coffee and left it on the table. The floorboards creaked as he found his way upstairs and sat down. It appeared he’d been crying, which was odd to me, since he was so powerful, so full of male bravado—I didn’t know he could cry.
I was afraid to ask what had happened and went back into the sunroom to my chair by the window. A stand of trees caught my eye, the tops of the birch branches dancing in the wind, the sun tangled up in their rusty leaves. The clink of Uncle Ron’s spoon against the sides of his mug sounded out like a chorus of sledgehammers striking railway ties. He cleared his throat and asked me to join him.
“I don’t know how to say it,” he said, not looking at me, another oddity. I pulled up a chair to the table, as silent as I could be.
“Grandma got a call last night,” he began. “From 22 Division in Etobicoke. The police picked up a homeless man last night—he said his name was Ron Thistle—but that’s me. The homeless guy knew everything about me—my birthdate, what hospital I was born in, my arrest record, everything about Grandma and Grandpa, my siblings’ names and birthdates.” Uncle Ron pulled a joint from his pack of smokes and lit it, careful not to singe his hair. He took a moment before he spoke.
“Grandma told them I was out here in Port Hope.”
He released a cloud of smoke into the air, then broke into a fit of coughing and handed the spliff my way. We had that between us—weed as a balm to dull the sharp edges of the world, weed as a crutch against addiction. I took a huge draw and held it in, my attention focused on him.
“Mom knew it was Sonny, your dad,” he said. “Mother’s intuition.”
I passed the joint back and waited for him to finish.
“Only Sonny knows all my stuff,” he said. His eyes were a little redder now. It was hard to tell if it was the weed.
I watched a tendril of white smoke twist from the head of the blunt. It reminded me of when Uncle Ron took me out on his collections back when I was a kid. I pictured us in his red convertible singing and bopping our heads as he smoked weed—I didn’t know then that that was what he was smoking. An image of my dad begging out on Yonge Street came to me. His hands and mind slowed by winter lethargy, his clothes loose and hanging off his wasted body. I thought of Vancouver, of Leeroy’s car, of the Fraser River, of sleepi
ng with nowhere to go.
Uncle Ron rolled the end of the joint in the bottom of the glass ashtray, knocking off the excess ash, and handed it back me. It sat idle in my index and middle fingers, digits yellowed from constant use.
“Mom phoned Ralph because he’s a cop,” Uncle Ron said. “She wanted him to identify the man at 22, but he couldn’t leave work, so he called me.”
I flicked the joint and watched the ember glow red. I kept looking down, afraid of what Uncle Ron would say next.
He reached over and grabbed my free hand. “They let the guy go before I could get there.” His voice wavered.
I could feel my hand going numb.
“The officer said it was because of shift change—they clear the drunks out of the bullpen at five a.m. before the day officers come in. I got there at 5:15. Fifteen minutes too late. I’m so sorry, Jesse.”
I tried to follow Uncle Ron’s words, but it was as if his lips were moving in slow motion. Dad was gone. He didn’t care enough to stay. He didn’t want to come back home.
Nothing mattered. It was as if an atomic blast followed. The stand of trees was sucked forward, then blown back with such force they were obliterated. The citizens of Port Hope were vaporized into carbon imprints on the broken cityscape. An old man walking with his cane, a mother holding her baby, a little girl playing in the park—all were transformed into shadows of daily life atomically scorched onto the concrete of sidewalks and roadways, and I was now one of those shadow people. I gazed down at my hand and saw nothing but Uncle Ron grasping a carbon handprint fused onto the table’s surface.
It’s pointless, I thought, my destruction is complete.
The next week I left Port Hope and began drifting again.
From the Ashes Page 14
