Birds stood on the skylight, chirping.
48
Dr. Francis looked at him like she had through the traffic—clear eyes blazing out of such a young face. He shifted in his chair.
“I didn’t really write this week,” he said, lifting up ‘The Book of Sobriety.’ “Wasn’t really sober that much. And you didn’t—”
“Leave her alone,” said Dr. Francis.
“Excuse me?”
“Willy. I’m warning you to leave her alone.”
“Me? You’re warning me? I’m the one who got her away from that bitch….”
The doctor leaned forward. “So you saved her, did you?”
“No, I just think I can help.”
“What, fix her? Don’t you think you have enough cripples in your life, Mason? Enough broken things? Why don’t you try fixing yourself?”
“She’s my friend,” said Mason.
The doctor stood. “Okay,” she said, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Then you have one chance: explain to me why your friends keep dying. Or else you leave her alone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Stop saying that!” said Dr. Francis. “You sound like such a pussy!” She took a breath, then sat back down and took his file in her hand. “By your own summation you have very few close friends. In the six weeks since you arrived here in your underwear, three of them have killed themselves. How do you explain that?”
“I never said any of that!”
“Actually, you did,” said Dr. Francis. “You probably don’t remember, but on your initial intake—when you came here in your underwear—one of the reasons you gave for your distress was this.” She opened the file. “You said a close friend of yours had just committed suicide. It’s right here in your file. Then there was Sissy, or Circe, or whatever you’d like to call her,” she flipped some pages. “And then last week …”
“So people die!” said Mason.
Dr. Francis closed the file. “If you don’t have a better answer, I’m going to have to intervene.”
Mason stood up. “What happened to confidentiality?”
“There is none,” said Dr. Francis. “Not if I think you might harm yourself or someone else.”
Mason was at the door now. “Then we may as well let everyone hear!” he said, throwing it open. He turned back, glaring at Dr. Francis. “But before you go threatening me, you should know Willy told me what you did! So don’t accuse me of endangering people—or trying to save them. Take a look at yourself, Doc!”
Then he strode out into the waiting room. There was only one person there—a man in a hat, who looked slightly surprised. Mason nodded to him and carried on into the hallway where he punched the arrow pointing down.
43. In my dreams I’m often falling.
44. I’d rather build a bridge than write a song.
49
There were times when it was like he was watching himself from outside of his body, or at least his consciousness—when he couldn’t stop doing lines, making bad calls, digging a hole for himself, digging and digging. And the part of him watching didn’t do a thing to stop him. Maybe it used to, long ago, but now all it did was watch. It knew he was too drunk, too high and losing too much. It knew Willy was trying to talk to him, that she felt sick and sad and didn’t want to be here, watching him dig. But even if it wanted to, it just couldn’t stop him.
“I want to go home,” said Willy.
“Then go home,” said Mason.
“Please. You’re not going to win.”
He did a line and he played the next hand. She said something else, but he tuned her out. He could see himself doing it.
“Do you want me to go?” he heard her say.
“I don’t want you to do anything because of me. I can’t take care of you. I can’t fix you. I can’t even help you.”
“I don’t want you to help me. I just want you.”
He watched himself drink a beer, all the way down. Call two hundred dollars. Do another line. “Well, you can’t have me,” he said.
And then she was gone.
And he couldn’t even see himself any more.
Notes on the Novel in Progress
It’s all about point of view.
As long as his POV is engaging, we’ll forgive the character’s flaws.
Bullshit.
So what makes for empathy?
Struggle. Hopes and dreams. The collision of a painful personal past with an overwhelming present. Honesty. Humour.
What’s so funny about peace, love and empathy?
Fuck you.
Possible title:
Fuck You, Too
50
“What are you doing?”
He opened his eyes. He was on the floor near his bed. Chaz was sitting in a chair, looking down at him. Mason groaned.
“Why’d you treat her like that?”
“Willy?”
“Yeah, Willy.”
“It’s complicated.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I can’t take care of her, all right?”
“All right,” said Chaz. “And I can’t take care of you.” He stood up. “That floor you’re lying on costs nine hundred dollars a month.” He stepped over Mason and walked out the door.
Eventually Mason got up. He drank three glasses of water, took a long shower, got dressed again and drank more water. He looked out the window at the MHAD building, then turned on the laptop. He had one email.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: A Matter of Great Importance
I believe that you can help me. Please get back to me as soon as possible.
S. Handyman
Mason didn’t get back to him as soon as possible. He was sick of people who wanted to kill themselves, or thought they did, or just wanted attention, and he didn’t want to think about it any more. His first inclination was to delete the message and to take his ad off that fucking website. But that seemed like a lot of work. So, instead, he made himself some coffee in his new coffee-maker, and sat down on the couch to drink it. Then eventually, despite himself and his hangover, he started to think.
He thought of Warren, Sissy and Soon, of Willy and even Sarah. He felt nauseous, hollow, and his brain was barely working. But he glugged his coffee and kept on thinking—of the things he’d done and the things he’d wanted, and the things he’d wanted to do. He barely felt, but he felt like sobbing. And then, like the stupidest kind of protagonist, he let himself think of redemption.
THE BOOK OF SOBRIETY CONFESSION
Forgive me, doctor, for not being sober. That is my first confession.
The word “inspire” means, literally, “to breathe life into.” I stole that from a person who’s most likely dead now. That is my second.
I have done the opposite of inspire. I’ve stolen breath away.
Fourteen swallows. One horse. A few human beings.
And how did this happen?
I used to be a writer, and I needed inspiration. I searched the world for it, did all sorts of things, both good and bad, but couldn’t always find the natural stuff. I started using the chemical kind, until eventually that’s all I had.
I confess to using unnatural inspiration.
One day a man asked me to write something for him—a love letter. He paid me well, I did my best, and then he killed himself—leaving the letter as a suicide note. The idea confused me, upset me, angered me—and then it inspired me.
I decided to advertise my skills. (I confess to poor judgment.) Like the man in fake love, my next client was a dishevelment of lines, blank spaces, discomfort, sadness—a bit-part in her own story. Huge yet deflated, she wanted me to fill her in, and she was willing to pay. (I confess to being an unexemplary gambler.) And so I did. I tried to breathe life into her—to make her more real—so there’d be something for her to leave behind.
I confess to remorse.
I confess to being a pussy.
The next one had to
trick me, but it wasn’t hard to do. He just told me what I wanted to hear—that it was about art rather than death, the trick of creativity. So I signed on for fraud, and got suicide just the same. This fucking writing is a deadly pursuit.
Is that good enough for you, doctor? Or do you need to know about Willy?
I confess: I like her for dishonourable reasons. I like her breasts and her mouth and her proclivity for drugs. And I’m sure you’re right—I like that she’s broken more than I am, the idea that I could fix her. And maybe I can’t save her, but I wasn’t going to hurt her.
I confess that I miss her—and all the dishonourable things we did together.
I confess that I’m a derelict.
That I spent my best years in narcissistic wandering.
That glory meant more to me than goodness—and maybe still does.
That my hunger controls my heart.
That I am self-indulgent, self-destructive and my own worst narrator.
That I said things I shouldn’t have said, wrote things I shouldn’t have written.
That I let the world get smaller.
And forgot to look out for people.
But I want you to know I plan to do better.
To be what I should have been.
I just hope it’s not too late.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Urgent
To the Poet Jonathan Follow,
There is a matter both urgent and delicate that I need to discuss with you. It pertains to the well-being of your immediate family. I tracked your address down off an Internet site that may not be reliable. I hope this message has found the appropriate reader. I’m sorry if it alarms you. Please contact me as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
Mason D
51
He got off the streetcar at Prince and Mill, counted six doors down from the corner, and there it was: Tony’s Happy Daze Bar and Beer.
You think that’s funny, wait until you see the place.
It didn’t look that funny—at least not from the outside. The windows were blacked out with torn reflecting plastic, peeling at the corners. The word Cunt (or maybe Cant) was scrawled across the bottom of the door, as if some misogynist (or possibly an illiterate philosophy major) had reached out with a spray paint can while passing out on the sidewalk. He opened the door to the smell of fried rice and empty kegs.
At first glance, the inside wasn’t very funny either. The floor was covered with dirty orange carpet and, in some parts, squares of cardboard framed with duct tape. The fluorescence had been mercifully lessened by the demise of several tubes. A pale green glow shone over a pool table in the back and shimmering lights from a large fish tank illuminated the wall. There were a few shoddy tables. Directly in front of the door stood an elaborate mahogany coat rack. I guess that’s sort of funny, thought Mason, stepping awkwardly around it.
A skinny Asian woman was leaning on the bar, facing (yet seeming to ignore) her patrons. They were all men, in various degrees of slump, each separated from the next by a vacant orange stool. One of them had a cane by his side, the one on the end wore a hat.
“It’s hot out there,” said Mason, and glanced around. The man closest to him gave a snort and the barmaid looked over like she doubted it was worth the effort of turning her head. Mason tried a smile and a nod.
“You wanna drink?” she said.
“Please.”
She rolled her eyes. “What drink you wan’?”
“Just a beer,” said Mason. “Make it a Keith’s.”
As she poured the beer, Mason glanced at the men once more and cleared his throat. “It’s friggin’ hot out …”
“You say that before,” said the barmaid, thudding the glass down in front of him. “It stupid.”
The man who’d snorted now growled. “It’s only eighteen degrees.”
“You drug smoker?” the barmaid asked.
Mason tried to laugh like they were all sharing a joke. Then the man with the hat at the end of the bar called out, “What the hell do you expect? It’s Toronto in the summertime.” Mason picked up his beer and walked to the end of the bar.
He sat down. “You know what …?” But the man in the hat interrupted.
“Mary! Can you turn it up? I like this song.” “Sussudio,” by Phil Collins, was playing.
“Nobody like this song!” said Mary, but she turned it up anyway.
“She’s right,” said Mason.
“I guess. But now they can’t hear us.”
“That was the worst secret code ever.”
“Who knew the temperature would drop overnight? And anyway, you got it wrong. It was supposed to be ‘fucking hot out there,’ not ‘frigging.’” He sounded disappointed.
“Why didn’t you just say, ‘I’ll be the one in the floppy grey hat?’”
“I wanted to check you out a bit first.”
“So …”
“So you seem a bit weird.” The man’s voice was forlorn, like that of a stuffed donkey.
“I seem weird! ‘Sussudio’! It’s not even a real name!”
“You may be right.” The man picked up his drink. “I’m Seth Handyman.”
“Mason,” said Mason. They clinked their glasses together. “God I hate this song.”
“You play pool?” Seth asked.
As he racked the balls, Mason studied him. The hat was disconcerting—a classic fedora that had lost its shape. It cast a shadow across his face, making evaluation difficult: longish, greyish hair—almost to his shoulders—sallow skin, grey cheeks, unshaven but not bearded, wet and lippy mouth, lanky arms and long hands that moved quickly around the felt. No real fix on the eyes. In general, mid-forties, a bit overweight, and probably not too bad at pool. Mason decided to let him win a few games. “Want to play for a beer?”
Seth looked up, eyes still shaded by the brim of his hat. “Don’t drink,” he said.
“Oh.”
Seth flipped a quarter.
“Heads,” said Mason.
“Nope,” said Seth. He put the coin back in his pocket then turned to select a cue. “I used to drink.” He rolled out the white ball, then broke. It cracked like a rifle shot, one of each down. “I was good at it, too. These guys here—they drink like Finns.”
“What are fins?”
Seth sank a solid, then sighed. “People who live in Finland.”
“Right.”
“You ever been there? Worst drinkers in the world. They’re pretty awful all round, actually: dour, unattractive, dull as dirt, it’s like their grey matter is actually grey—you know what I mean?” He had a way of talking that was incongruous with how much of it he was doing, like it was a chore he had to finish. Man, thought Mason, this guy is depressed. And yet there was something else going on—as if this depression was a fairly new development, like he’d spent his life in witty repartee, and now, though partially lobotomized, the banter just kept coming.
“They’ll sit there staring at nothing, drinking fast. Get drunk quick, angry for like ten minutes or so, and then they just pass out.” He missed his next shot.
Mason sank a stripe, then another, then flubbed one.
“Anyway, point is: these guys are like Finns.”
“So why do you come here?”
“Be alone.” He took the duck instead of the position shot, then a tricky combo. “Also, it’s kind of a funny place.”
“Like Finland?”
“Ha!” Seth missed a long bank shot and turned to Mason. “Get this: highest literacy rate in the world and the highest suicide rate. That’s Finland.”
And so they’d arrived at the subjects of the day: reading, writing and suicide. Mason put his cue down. His newfound (heroic) purpose made it easier than before. He took a breath and spoke directly: “Okay, Seth, this is how we’ll do it: I’ll tell you what I can offer you, and you tell me how it suits you. Okay?”
For a moment the man seemed taken aback. H
e did, in fact, take a step backwards. Then he leaned on his cue. “All right. If you’ve got something to say …” There was a challenge in his voice.
He doesn’t know you’re here to save him.
And so Mason explained his business, the same as before but with fewer stipulations—no cumbersome speech about last names and not wanting to know. This time the more he knew, the better.
When he’d finished his spiel, Seth looked down at the floor, then up again. “How do you live with yourself?” he said.
It felt like a gut shot. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just kidding, kid,” said Seth, and laughed. “No, really—this is perfect.”
“Oh … okay then.”
“It’s your shot.”
“We keep playing?”
Seth leaned against the table, as if thinking about it. Then, slowly, he tipped back the brim of his hat. His eyes were baby blue flecked with white. He looked at Mason. “I love games,” he said, in that far-off, mirthless voice.
“Sure,” said Mason.
“Especially one on one.” Seth studied him as he spoke. “Pool, tennis, poker, boxing. People say you play games, you play sports, but you don’t play boxing—as if violence and pain can’t also be a game. But that’s bullshit, don’t you think? You know what’s one of my favourite things?”
Mason looked at him. “Brown paper parcels, tied up with string?”
A smile—a creepy one, sure, but the man actually smiled. “Heads-up no-limit poker,” he said, and looked at Mason as if they knew each other. But before he could respond, the moment had passed. “Come on,” said Seth. “Let’s finish the game.”
“A tenner on it?”
Seth laughed. “God, I love gamblers.” He said it the way Willy said she loved drug addicts. “Tell you what …”
“What?”
“Let’s play for the truth instead.”
And so that’s what they did. One question per ball.
They racked again and Mason broke.
One of each down.
“Do you work?” said Mason.
Ghosted Page 16
