From the Ashes

by Jesse Thistle

  SUBURBAN WASTELANDS

  MOST OF MY FRIENDS HAD moved on. Brian had gone to university, Leeroy was still out west, Derick was with a new crew, some had moved downtown for jobs. Others just didn’t want me around when I got back from Port Hope. I showed up pleading for help and they literally shut the door in my face.

  I tripped around for a few months, staying in bus shelters, sleeping in the mall during the day, and staying nights at the top of apartment building staircases. Many times, like a beat-up piece of old driftwood, I washed up on the doorstep of Olive, a church lady who believed in the word of Jesus Christ. Olive was the mother of a friend from high school. She wasn’t like the usual hypocrites in church, though, she actually lived it in her daily life. She’d take in youths and make them feel loved, feeding and clothing them, giving them shelter when needed, and she let me in, then tried whittling me into something that resembled a human being. I hated listening to her preach, but she did make the Bible something I could understand.

  I couldn’t stay at Olive’s all the time, though. I discovered that Brampton had emergency shelters. I tried a men’s shelter first. It was a converted old fire hall, a rough place that reeked of old feet and broken dreams. The intake worker told me I was too young to stay there. “The women’s shelter is safer for you,” he said. “Here are a few bus tickets. I’ll call so they know you’re coming.”

  When I got to the Sally Ann, I got my own room—small, private, with a bed, dresser, bathroom, and full access to a kitchen—and a fresh change of clothes. I lay on the bed, listening to the creak of the plastic protecting the mattress sounding sweeter than an angel’s voice, and thought, I’m in heaven. But things didn’t stay heavenly for long.

  “Who is that man making himself a Pop-Tart in the toaster? I don’t feel safe with him here!” one lady complained to the frontline staff.

  “He’s been kicked out of his home,” he said. But she kept on. It was clear I was unwanted, so I left.

  I begged for money at a strip mall and made my way downtown. I paid the ten- or fifteen-dollar admissions at after-hours raves, clubs, or booze cans, doing drugs and dancing, and ended up sleeping in a corner for a few hours every couple days. New drugs—crystal meth and ketamine—were around, and I started to do and sell both in small batches, gathering enough money to buy food and admission to the next club. They were cheaper than cocaine. I tried to stay away from ketamine, though, because of its sedative effects—the dreaded “K-hole” that left you defenceless and comatose but awake somehow.

  The assault was always in the back of my mind.

  There was an underground club or rave every day of the week in Toronto, always a place to go to next. There was a whole community of young castaways like me. I liked being around them—they didn’t give a shit that I was half Indian, had darker skin, and didn’t have a clue who I was or where I was going—and all of us slowly became hooked on meth. I developed sores all over, my nostrils became red and inflamed, and my waistline shrank and shrank. I spent hours picking away at what I believed were bugs burrowing under my skin. It would escalate the longer I was awake—sometimes up to 124 hours at a time. I’d see worms wriggle on my feet, on my forearms, or near my crotch, and I’d scratch at them until my nails ripped the skin open and pulled out my veins. Then I’d repick those scabs, convinced the bugs were still there. My stomach was digesting my intestines. My breath smelled like rotten blood and juicy trash boiled in acid, and it hurt to swallow.

  The state of things terrified me, and I took off back to Brampton. I stayed with a buddy for a month, but he had the same problems I had, so I moved on and knocked on Jerry’s door. He had an apartment of his own he rented with one of his friends.

  “I don’t even recognize you,” he said when he answered. “What happened?”

  “I just can’t stop,” I said.

  I recall him grabbing me and barricading me in his room. I shivered and sweated and thought I was going crazy as the drugs left my system. Every time I tried to leave, he tackled and restrained me and stuck me back in the room and re-bolted the door. Sometimes the door would crack open and a sub sandwich would fly into the middle of the room and land by my feet. I’d eat it and then pass out and have the worst nightmares—zombies eating themselves, the farm boys smashing my skull in, Clive’s head exploding in his blue house, Yorkie running backward up the wall like he was possessed by demons.

  As I emerged from my chemical haze, there were days when I sat with my ear glued to the wall while Jerry battled with his friends in the living room, negotiating a spot for me to stay on the couch after I sobered up. No one was keen on letting me live there.

  When I could, I collected my things in a garbage bag and left.

  FAMILY WEDDING

  “KEEP SIX,” I WHISPERED TO my little brother, Daniel, who stood near the mirror in the Value Village Clothing store in Vancouver. I ducked down and pivoted, blocking the line of sight to the cashier. I grabbed a sports blazer, a pair of black slacks, a white button-up shirt, a belt, a pair of dress shoes, and a skinny black tie and stuffed them in my plastic grocery bag.

  “She’s coming, she’s coming,” Daniel said, a note of panic in his voice. I glanced in the mirror and saw a lady in a red employee’s smock. She’d been pricing men’s shoes two aisles over. I threw the bag under the rack and stood up to greet her. She yanked the bag out, opened it, and threatened to call the police. Daniel and I backpedalled, and then ran out the front door and down the street.

  She’d fallen for the ruse. I’d gone in behind Daniel and changed into a suit, tie, and shoes before anyone noticed, then told Daniel to keep an eye out. He had amateur written all over his face. He gawked around like he was doing something wrong, pacing back and forth, while I stuffed the decoy bag full of things—which caught the attention of the store employee who focused on the bag instead of the suit I was wearing. It was an old trick I’d learned.

  “How’d you learn to steal like that?” Daniel asked.

  “That was nothing.” To me, it was just another day at the office. I picked a butt off the ground and lit it. The truth was I didn’t know, it just came naturally, kind of like breathing.

  It was the first time I’d seen my little brother since he and Mom had disappeared with George years before. When Josh phoned Jerry and invited me to his September wedding, he said we’d put aside our differences and be cordial on his big day, and that he’d pay for my flight out west if I could just get it together long enough to look human. He said it’d be the first time all us brothers would be together again—that it was important I be there.

  I jumped at the chance to see my baby brother, and to witness Josh and his fiancée, Margaret, get married. I was lucky to have caught the call—I circled back to Jerry’s just to check in or crash periodically—but I was glad I did. I wouldn’t have missed the wedding for the world. The suit I’d just nicked was too tight. I bent over and polished my shoes with some spit. They, too, weren’t my size. But it would all have to do.

  Daniel picked a ball of lint off my blazer and brushed my shoulder. He had features so much like mine, but he was better and healthier looking.

  We’d met up earlier that day at the church and got along right away. Mom was there, too, and we’d kissed and all that good stuff, like reunited long-lost mother and son, which is what we were, then I’d pulled Daniel aside.

  “Dude, I can’t go dressed like this.” I pointed at my clothes. They weren’t that bad, street garb, just not dressy enough for my brother’s wedding. I informed him that I needed a wingman.

  Daniel said he’d help right away. I think he wanted to hang out with me. My reputation preceded me, I guessed.

  “What happened to you?” I asked him as we headed back to the chapel, fearful that the ass crack in my pants might split wide open. “You and Mom just kind of fell off the map.”

  “We had to run away.”

  I could hear the tension in his voice as we crossed the street and picked up the pace.

&n
bsp; “There’d be spit flying everywhere,” Daniel said about George’s fits of rage. “One day, Mom had enough. She pulled me from school and we went to Saskatoon. We left so fast, Mom only had one shoe and I didn’t have a coat. I’m sorry we didn’t call.”

  “It’s okay, Daniel. I’ve been messed up. I wouldn’t have had much to say.”

  I sat outside the reception hall for a lot of the night, smoking. The place was crowded with out-of-uniform RCMP officers, Josh’s colleagues, and their presence made me jumpy. Grandpa was there, too, and he gave me cut eye so bad I’m sure he was casting a malevolent spell on me. When I tried to speak to him during the photo shoot, he walked away. Jerry told me I was only attending because Josh had gone to bat for me.

  I bumped into Grandma on the way to the washroom, though, and she said, “You look good,” pinching my cheeks, and slipping a $100 bill in my pocket. “Now smarten up!” It was the only contact we had.

  Mom’s family was there, as well, my aunts and about seven cousins my age from Saskatchewan. They sat in a section off to the side by themselves but were super friendly, mingling, laughing, drinking, and carrying on—they were the best dancers in the joint—but I didn’t really interact with them. Jerry stuck by my side, going inside to dance when a song he liked came on, and we shared bottle after bottle until the world spun around us.

  Mom came out to join us about halfway through the festivities.

  “Look at you,” she said to me, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of red wine in the other. She swayed a little and sat between me and Jerry. Jerry pulled back.

  “I hear you’re a little troublemaker.” She smiled. She was half in the bag, but still very much alert. I wondered if it was her way of mustering up the courage to talk to us. “That’s okay,” she said. “I still love you no matter what.” She hugged me close and the awkwardness fled. It’d been years since we embraced.

  “Here,” my aunt Cecile said, “a whore’s breakfast.” She thrust an empty plate with two aspirins on it at me, and then handed me an open beer. I swallowed the pills and took a few chugs to wash them down. I handed back the empty bottle, and she winked and clicked her teeth. A few minutes later the pounding in my head stopped. My hangover was gone.

  The smell of eggs and bacon was strong in the kitchen. We’d spent the night after the wedding at my auntie’s place. She shuffled around the stove with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth as my other relatives squirmed about, still trying to sleep out on the dining room floor. Their names escaped me, but they all looked familiar. One guy looked like Josh but was slimmer. I recognized my aunt Yvonne, who sat on the couch reading a magazine.

  “Chi garçon, mon bébé,” she said to me, and then a bunch of stuff that sounded French but not quite.

  “He doesn’t have a clue, Pedour,” Aunt Cecile said. “He’s been gone for vingt ans.”

  “Mon dieu!” Aunt Yvonne bellowed. “You can’t speak Michif anymore?”

  Michif, I thought. What’s that?

  Aunt Cecile said something as my mom came out of the bedroom. She had a big smile on her face, like she’d already consumed Aunt Cecile’s special breakfast. She said something back, and my aunties started laughing.

  “I spoke Michif?” I asked.

  “God, yes.” Mom chuckled. “You didn’t say a word until you were three, but then we couldn’t shut you up!”

  Aunt Cecile howled in the kitchen and my mom started to laugh so hard I thought she might pee herself.

  One of my cousins sat up and said, “Yeah, and you covered everything in shit when you got upset. Dirty little bugger.” Her accent was thicker than Aunt Yvonne’s. “Li Shicock. Gross!”

  Again, the room busted up.

  “Never mind them,” Mom said. “You were a clean boy. My boy.”

  “We’re just playing,” Aunt Yvonne brayed. “It’s so good to see you.” She got up and squeezed me, and her arms were like powerful bear arms. I hugged back but she was way stronger than me.

  Aunt Cecile put a plate of eggs on the counter. “This is mine. All you chyins have to fend for yourselves.” She laughed and started eating. “But there’s tea made.” She motioned to the kitchen table, where a teapot squatted on a lace doily.

  I sat down and poured myself a cup, and Mom pulled up the chair next to me. It was hard to make eye contact without alcohol coursing through my veins. She was a complete stranger. Her sisters were hovering around like bees pollinating flowers.

  “I know you’ve been all over,” she said. She twiddled her thumbs and drew in a deep breath.

  There was a jar of jam beside the teapot—“Saskatoons,” it read. I focused on that. I thought of Kokum Nancy and her Coke-bottle glasses and her walking stick.

  “How would you like to come home with me?”

  Aunt Yvonne moved behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders.

  “Mom, it’s been years . . .” I could hear the tick of the clock and Aunt Cecile’s breathing—she sounded like she was having a heart attack.

  “It wouldn’t have to be forever, Jesse,” Aunt Yvonne jumped in. “Just try it out. Saskatoon is a wonderful little city.”

  “Um . . . I don’t think so. I live in Toronto—all my friends are there. Jerry, too.”

  Aunt Cecile swung open the back door, and I heard something smash.

  “There’s work and lots of Métis girls for a handsome young man like yourself,” Aunt Yvonne said, this time in my ear.

  “But my home is Toronto.” I felt like I had to defend my point. “I’m sorry.” It was like they’d been waiting for me to wake up just to ask me this question. Did Josh and Jerry set this up to get rid of me? I started getting angry. I was certain my brothers were behind this.

  Mom stood up, called Daniel, grabbed her keys, and marched downstairs. She and Daniel loaded up her car. Daniel asked me to reconsider, and I could tell he was trying to defuse the tension; she was hurt.

  I think she really expected me to accept.

  CRACK

  FOUR OF US WERE HUDDLED around the coffee table in my buddy’s Brampton apartment. We poked holes in our pop cans, near the base, the thumbtacks moaning as they bit through the aluminum. The resulting circle of about twenty holes was around the size of a dime. I had mine done in seconds.

  “The ash goes on there.” My buddy flicked his cigarette so ash covered the holes and flattened the burnt carbon with his thumb, and then waited for us to do the same. Then he pulled a little white rock from his sock and took the plastic wrap off it.

  “I’ve got a chicken here—seven grams.” He held up the walnut-sized piece of drywall-looking drug. “Costs a lot, but I’m serving you all free. Just remember to come to me afterward. Enjoy, boys.” He broke the piece in quarters and handed one to each of us. “Just watch what I do.” He snapped a little fragment off his quarter and placed it on his can, in the centre of the ashes. His fingers shook a little like he was holding a precious jewel. We followed his lead.

  I put a particularly large piece on my can.

  Ready.

  He flicked his lighter and held the open flame over his crack toke and it melted into the ash. It sizzled a bit, like a tiny skillet cooking bacon. He put his mouth to the opening of his pop can and sucked in, gently pulling the flame down. The wet spot where the melted rock was sizzled louder, then collapsed in upon itself. He held in the smoke for a minute and then exhaled. It smelled like burnt cotton candy mixed with fried plastic—sweet but chemical. His chin started wagging and a line of drool rolled over his lip onto the carpet. He tried to speak but a moan came out. The rest of us lit up.

  When I released my lungful of crack like a dragon blasting a plume of fire on some medieval castle, the most intense feeling vibrated my brain. I could hear the loudest ringing I’ve ever heard, like a locomotive train rushing by an inch from my ear. I placed my can down and the void within was filled to overflowing. I felt like a god, superhuman. Like a hundred thousand roman candles were going off in my soul. When that initial high dissipated,
I did it again, and again, and again until my little quarter section was gone.

  Then I got down on all fours to search the carpet for any remnants that might have fallen.

  My buddies did the same.

  We kept searching.

  I was hooked.

  CANADIAN STREETS GREASY WITH INDIGENOUS FAT

  The secret history tells us

  Once, a blue wolf arose from the soil.

  He took as his mate a fallow deer.

  There, at the head of the sea

  A son was born.

  Descendants of that son

  Travelled light upon the grasslands

  Using speed and surprise.

  They learned to own nothing, to adapt to all conditions

  And burning dry dung for warmth.

  From out of the eastern sunrise, these homeless nomads rode.

  On horseback they came,

  Setting everything ablaze.

  They littered the stolen streets with their bodies

  And left them greasy with their own fat.

  CAUGHT UP

  IT WAS THE TURN OF the millennium, but the day after Y2K was odd—no crash, no power outages, no blood or violence in the streets, no Armageddon. The only thing that seemed out of place was the red University of Nevada, Las Vegas (UNLV) basketball jersey I was wearing. It was new, with the university team’s fighting southern rebel mascot in the middle.

  I didn’t have much these days. I was with Uncle Ron drinking beer at his apartment—he’d moved back in with Jerry after his daughter had graduated high school and had moved back to the city herself. I’d begged him and Jerry for a place to stay after most of my stuff had been stolen from a local shelter, and was lucky they’d agreed. Ron and I were watching The Saint, starring Val Kilmer. Random farts from Solomon perfumed the stale air, reminding me that I shouldn’t have fed him wet food.

  I’d spent the previous night, New Year’s Eve, at a friend’s party. We drank ourselves into oblivion, singing and wearing those stupid Y2K glasses. As the clock edged close to midnight we congregated in the hot tub and blazed a series of fat joints, then waited for the subsequent hellfire to rip apart our lives. The girl next to me pulled down her bikini top and showed me her breasts—their fleshy presence complemented the celebratory cheers and horns that resounded throughout the house. I grabbed her and gave her a sloppy kiss to welcome in the new millennium. I think she appreciated the distraction because her tongue darted around in my mouth. There was no magic between us—we were just two young people trying to forget about the impending calamity, the emotionless kiss just an available tool of diversion.