by Joey Comeau
On the ride home, we keep making wide slow turns from one side of the road to the other in the dark. We talk about Halloween, which is soon. I say maybe tomorrow night we should go climbing trees in the neighbourhoods we grew up in, and Clay says maybe we could learn how to fight with our bare hands. Everyone should be able to kill a man with just their thumb. We could be ready for anything. There are whole martial arts devoted to disarming someone, disabling them, and getting away, Clay tells me. He knows just what I want to hear.
My lips are raw and they taste a bit like blood and dirt, and this is nice.
Chapter 2
I try not to look at myself in the mirror. I brush my teeth, spit in the sink, and wipe my face. No need for a mirror. Clay goes in to brush his teeth, and he kisses me on the cheek as we pass. He trails his hand over my stomach. The telephone is ringing and it’s probably my mother. Nobody else calls at this hour.
“Arthur, did you know a witch becomes more powerful when she goes through menopause?” she says.
“Good morning, Mom. I’m just getting ready for work.”
“There are two times in a woman’s life when she has this huge surge of power. Puberty and menopause,” my mother says.
“Is that your mother?” Clay calls from the other room.
“Clay says hi,” I tell her.
“Tell her I say hi,” Clay says. He comes into the kitchen, already wearing his uniform. I don’t put my uniform on until I get to work. I don’t like leaving the house in it, even though nobody will see me.
“She says hi back,” I tell him.
“Tell him I say hi back,” my mother says. “The crows around here have been sitting in the tree outside my bathroom. They’ve been keeping me company. They must have heard that you weren’t going to be coming for Christmas. They must have realized that you’d be leaving your own mother alone for the holidays.”
“We are coming for Christmas,” I tell her.
“One week is not Christmas.”
“Tell her I got to handcuff somebody!” Clay says. He takes the phone from me. “I got to handcuff someone!” he says. “It was my first time. A big drunk guy too. He had a little fold-out nail file that he was waving at the blackjack dealer like a knife. I got to fill out a police report and everything.”
I pour myself a glass of juice and listen to Clay tell my mother the story. I know that my mother sounds just as excited on the other end of the phone. They could talk for hours, if you let them.
I should just tell him, I love you. I should just say it, matter-of-factly. I point at the clock, and Clay holds up his finger. One second.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Okay, I’ll talk to you soon.” He hands me the phone.
“I don’t like these mountains, Arthur.”
“You have a beautiful view, Mom. That’s why you got that apartment in the first place,” I tell her. “I have to go. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she says. “Call me later, I’ll tell you about my new friend. I knew those dance classes were a good idea. Clay was right. It’s about time too. I was starting to forget that they even made cocks that weren’t silicone.”
“I have to go, Mom.”
At work, I change into my uniform and pass Wallace on the stairs up to the floor. I keep my face deadly serious, until we are right beside one another, and then I wink. He stops.
“Arthur, listen,” he says. “I know you’re just joking around, but people might start getting the wrong idea. We used to have a guy here who made jokes like that, and we joked for a while before I found out that he was actually homosexual.” Wallace lowers his voice for this last part.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to give anyone the wrong idea,” I say, and Wallace looks relieved. “I really do like to have sex with men. I thought you did too.” This last part is too much. I know it even as I’m saying it. The expression on his face changes to startled and then angry almost immediately, and before I can backtrack or laugh it off, Wallace has shoved me. It takes me off guard, and I try to grab the railing of the stairs. He’s got a disgusted look on his face and then my head cracks against a step.
Wallace doesn’t say anything as I pull myself up with the railing. He looks horrified now. Especially when I put my hand to my head, and it comes away with blood.
“Oh fuck, are you okay?” Wallace says, but I’m already on my feet and pushing past him to the bathroom. I close the door. Lock it. There’s a bit of blood on my hand, but it’s just a scrape. I don’t know what to do with myself. There’s a garbage can there, and I kick it as hard as I can. The side caves in and then pops right back to its shape. I put my hand to my head again, and there’s nothing. No more blood. I’m fine. What am I supposed to do? Why is there no other door in here? I keep thinking, this is getting out of hand. But it already is out of hand, isn’t it?
When I finally come out of the bathroom, Wallace still looks terrified.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like it was when he said the word homosexual. “I think you’re a good guy, Arthur. You know I didn’t mean to do that, don’t you? I overreacted, that’s all.” I just stand there in the hall, looking at him. Shelly comes out of the break room and walks between us. Wallace smiles at her like nothing’s wrong. “Morning, Shelly,” he says. And when she’s gone, he says, “I love this job. I know you think this company is stupid and shitty, but I’m good at this. I’m thirty-five years old, and this is the first job I’ve had where I wake up in the morning and feel good about what I do. I sell computers, and I’m good at it. They made me manager. I’ve never been a manager before. I love this job.”
I can see that. And I know that he’s just trying to save his ass. He pushed me down the stairs, and now he’s worried that I’ll rat him out, that he’ll lose his job. But he does always seems happy to be here. He’s always cheerful, always smiling, even when he’s dealing with an angry customer. He’s always got a joke. He loves this job, he really does, and I don’t know what to do. I’m sore and angry, but I’m not seriously hurt.
If I report him, he’ll get fired. And I guess that’ll make me feel better, except I know that he’ll start to actually hate gays then. You take away the one thing that makes somebody happy, and you’re the bad guy. It doesn’t matter if he deserves it. Nobody believes they deserve it. I report Wallace, and Wallace has his life ruined by a gay.
And if I don’t report him? Look at how terrified he is. His face is practically white. I’m surprised his teeth aren’t chattering. He’s not a bad guy. I don’t know him very well, but I can’t bring myself to see him as evil, just stupid. He’s stupid and he pushed me down the stairs and threw away his whole career. This office-supply store is his career and he pushed it down the stairs, and my head is sore and I’m angry and he’s put me in this fucking situation where I want to let him off the hook. Where I want to save him from himself.
“I won’t say anything,” I tell him, and he looks so relieved that I half expect him to hug me. “I’m going home for the day though. I have a headache.”
He starts nodding even before I finish my sentence.
“Of course, of course,” he says. “Thanks, Arthur.” He holds his hand out for me to shake, and it takes me off guard. I shake his hand and immediately regret it. “Take the day off,” he says.
Halfway across the parking lot, I realize that I left my regular clothes back in my locker, but there’s no way I’m going back. I don’t even know if I’m angry anymore. I don’t know whether this is my own fault for goading him. I can’t tell what I’m feeling. There are tears on my cheek, and my hands are in fists, and I want to kick in every window along this street. I’m supposed to meet Clay for lunch, then point out Wallace so he can make a pass at him, but instead I get on a bus and I go home.
At home I take off my uniform and I put it in the garbage. I sit down in front of the television in my underwear. The Muppet Show always makes me feel better. It’s hard to hold on to real-world problems when you’re watch
ing something so fantastic.
You can tell a lot about a person based on their favourite Muppet, I think. Clay likes Animal. He likes how wild Animal is. Thrashing at the drums. Chained to the wall, but always pulling against those chains. Always rocking as hard as possible. I think that’s what Clay wants to be, and that’s more interesting than who someone is, sometimes. Nothing can calm Animal’s simple enthusiasm for bashing his drums.
My favourite Muppet is Gonzo. I love how crazy he looks, first of all, especially in the first season of the show. He’s all purple and blue, with that long nose curved downward. I love how completely he devotes himself to his useless, insane performances. He’s like Animal that way. He loves what he does, no matter how completely weird and baffling it is. Plus he looks like he’s made out of garbage and he dates chickens! So. There’s that.
So yeah, Gonzo is my favourite. No contest. Like all the best Muppets, there’s a sadness to him, but he’s not particularly sad himself. He’s plucky! He’s optimistic and enthusiastic. The sadness comes from an underlying sense of longing. Once in a while, that longing comes to the surface.
There’s a scene in a later season where Gonzo is leaving The Muppet Show for a career in Bollywood, and he’s up onstage singing that Frank Sinatra song “My Way.” He breaks down crying at the end, with his back to the audience, and Kermit comes out and asks him what’s wrong. And Gonzo says he’s upset about leaving. So Kermit tells him, “But this is your dream! This is what you always wanted!” and Gonzo says, “I want to go there. I just don’t want to leave here.”
Fuck, that kills me. I want to go there. I just don’t want to leave here. It comes in the middle of the show, out of nowhere. That’s where the sketch ends too. Kermit turns to the audience and says something like, “I guess we’d better leave him alone.” And then on with the variety show. The singing vegetables. The dancing cheese!
By the time Clay gets home, I’m smiling and cooking dinner, singing. I haven’t forgotten about Wallace, or today, but I don’t need to think about them right now either. I feel good about having thrown my uniform in the garbage. I don’t ever have to go back. Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and start looking for a new job. I’ll wake Clay up early; maybe I’ll feel more like having morning sex. It’ll be good. I feel optimistic. I cook dinner for the two of us, and afterward I pull Clay into the shower with me.
I reach down for his cock, and he shoves me up against the wall to kiss me. I didn’t see it coming. He’s done this a thousand times. It’s sexy. I like being pushed around by him. But when he shoves me today, it startles me too much. My shoulders hit the tile wall, and Clay is coming in for a kiss, and my eyes must have gone wild, because he stops and pulls back.
“Are you okay?” he says.
Chapter 3
In the morning, Clay gets dressed and I stay in bed.
“So this is how it’s going to be, huh?” he says. “You’re just going to sit around the house in pyjamas all day? Watching TV and playing that video game? You know, you could dress up like a lady elf in real life if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.” He pulls his pants on.
“Slower,” I say. “You’re dressing too quickly. Give me a show. I’ve been hate-crimed, you know. I need to be cheered up.” He doesn’t smile at the joke.
“You can still change your mind,” Clay says. “I can go in there on my lunch and break his nose.”
“Go to work,” I tell him. The phone’s ringing.
“You going to tell her?” he says.
I pick up the phone and make myself smile. My mother always knows whether I’m smiling or not. She can hear it in my voice, she says.
“Good morning,” I say.
“What’s wrong, Arthur?”
Less than an hour after telling my mother about quitting, my brother Ed is on the phone, promising to get me a job working with him as a patient attendant.
It sounds depressing to sit with sick people all day, but at least it sounds like a real job. It pays a decent wage, and maybe what I’ll do there will matter. Well, maybe not. At least I don’t have to start job hunting. I hate job hunting. It’s like being locked in a concrete room with no doors. The only way out is to bang your head on the wall, chipping away at it until you break through to the other side. When you do get to the other side, it’s another little room with a table, and there’s an interviewer sitting there, and he wants to ask you the stupidest questions you’ve ever heard.
“Now, what would you say is your worst quality?” he asks. This is a trick question. They want to hear some other good quality of yours, all wrapped up as a negative quality that isn’t actually very negative. The interviewer is asking trick questions, and you’re supposed to give trick answers. It’s like being in an old spy movie. You aren’t really supposed to tell them your worst quality.
“I’m a registered sex offender.”
No.
Everyone complains that the only way you can get a job these days is if you know someone. Well, I know my brother Ed. He has a job he likes, and he’s been working there for three years already.
“I’ve already talked to them,” he tells me. He’s called to put in a good word for me, and he insists that it is pretty much a sure thing. My big worry is that it might be too depressing. I get weirded out when a character in a movie has Alzheimer’s or loses their mind somehow. I’m no good at dealing with people in the twilight of life.
But if my younger brother could sit with the infirm and the dying for three years, I figured I could at least last the fall. It’d give me an income while I looked for better work. I’m twenty-eight; I have a university degree. Maybe it’s time I got a real job. I can work at night with Ed, and job hunt during the day.
“Well, I’ll call you when I know the details,” Ed says. “And, Arthur, are you doing okay?”
“Yeah, you?” I say.
“Mom told me about the guy at work. Do you want me to go down there?”
“No, no. I’ve got it,” I tell him. “I can handle it myself.”
“Okay,” Ed says. “You know I love you, right?” And we say goodbye and hang up. But, of course, I’m not handling it at all. I just walked away. Maybe that is handling it. Maybe I should make a joke out of this too. Like the faggot comment. Poor old Wally got so spooked by the homo at work that he pushed him down the stairs! Aww!
But I’m not going to sit around thinking about Wallace all day. Instead, I prove Clay right, and I dress up like a lady elf on the computer. Why not? Elves get a bonus for dexterity, which is the most important stat for a rogue. Obviously. And what does it matter whether I’m a boy or a girl? Dungeons and Dragons doesn’t have an option for “somewhere in the middle.” Anyway, I like to be pretty.
I also like the mechanics of role-playing games. I like the structure of building a character more than I like pretending to be that person. If I put points into my dexterity, that’ll pay off down the road, when my character gets the weapon-finesse feat. She’ll be able to use her dexterity for calculating damage, rather than her strength. I play the beginnings of these games over and over, starting new characters, trying new things. It’s satisfying. I don’t know why exactly.
Then I meet Clay for lunch. He looks as good as ever in his uniform. And he didn’t shave this morning, so he’s got a bit of stubble. Part of me wishes that I were perfect. That I never broke down. That I could handle things on my own. But if I hadn’t broken down in the shower last night, maybe I wouldn’t feel this close to him right now.
We go down to the food court, because he hasn’t got enough time for a real restaurant, and we get pizza. I tell him about the job. Already I’m set to be gainfully employed.
“I don’t know if you’re suited to that particular kind of work,” Clay says. “I was thinking about it, and I can probably get you a job with our security company. Even if it’s just temporary.”
“If Ed can do it, I can do it. Easy,” I tell him, and Clay shakes his head.
“Arthur, I don’t know how to tell
you this, but your brother is kind of a cold-hearted bastard sometimes. I mean, I like him, you know I like him, but he’s an asshole. He has some —” he pauses, trying to think of the right wording “— emotional defences that you don’t.”
“It won’t be a problem,” I say. If it were so bad, would Ed have stayed for three years?
“Sometimes this job is like being in a movie,” Ed tells me later. He’s smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. “You would never believe that this shit happens in real life.” He stirs his coffee and takes another sip. “All they tell you about these patients is that they’re ‘confused.’”
This is how it works. The hospital calls the care company and they say, “We need someone to watch Jeff Grantham from the 18th of June until the 29th. He’s confused.” That’s how they describe everyone — “confused.” The care company is supposed to ask for more details, but they never do. They write down “confused” on the computer, and they hang up.
Then they assign someone to care for that person. For instance, last week they called Ed at nine in the morning and woke him up. “You’re with Jeff Grantham tonight. He’s on the seventh floor of the QEII, room 709.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ed asked.
“He’s confused.”
When Ed arrived at the hospital, Mr. Grantham was sleeping. The blankets were all in place, so my brother sat down and played his video game. After twenty minutes though, the guy woke up with a holler and threw his blankets on the floor. He was wearing a diaper and he was missing a leg.
“What the fuck?” he yelled. “Who the fuck are you?” He scrambled to the edge of the bed and sat there on one knee and one stub, looking down at the floor.
“You’re in the hospital,” my brother explained calmly. “You’re on medication that is making you feel confused. Everything’s fine. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.” He spoke quietly and easily until the patient’s eyes began to droop, and the man finally calmed down and fell back asleep. Ed covered him with the blanket again and sat down to keep playing.
