Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Who wants to buy some fucken dope??? Holy sweet fuck. I’m like that fella in that movie, that one about all the junkies over in Ireland or Scotland someplace and the lads gets their hands on this big bag of heroin and goes off and sells it, makes a fortune. Then this one lad robs the works of the money right out from under the rest of their noses and takes off. That’s me right there, motoring off into the future with a big bag of dope. More I thinks on it I cant fucken believe how lucky I am. First off, walking away from that moose business with hardly a scratch except a bit of glass in me hand, and then next off, I got a bag of dope must weigh about seven or eight pounds! I could go set up shop somewhere couldnt I? Or unload it all the one time. I mean, youd easily get ten grand for it. I’d let it go all the once for about six, maybe even five. Just to turn it into cash. And I’ll know to. Not gonna see Johnny out tryna peddle it off to different fuckers, tryna convince fellers to buy fucken quarter bags. I’m offloading the whole works the one time. Cause I’ll know, I’ll know me moment. I’ll know a buyer the moment I lays eyes on him. Fucken right.
Next run was alright. It was a run, you know. Point A to point B, big fucken deal. Quiet older fella with bloated, beet-red ears so hairy youd swear a sparrow might take nest in there. From away out on the west coast somewhere, this old fella, living in Prescott now, Johnny remembers cause of it being the same as the street downtown, back home. The old-timer, he’s quiet for the first while, then he starts on about drugs and being the man, all that stuff, how he useta be the real go-to fella back in the day, how there never was a party started but he was right in the middle of it, dealing dope, all the women on the go, everybody knowing his name, everybody wanting him to party all the time. Then suddenly he says he turned around one day and realized he never had a friend in the world, and that’s when Johnny lost interest cause he knew right where it was bloody well going, how buddy then had this revelation that he had a friend all along, And he can be your friend too, he can be your friend, do you know who I’m talking about stranger?
Ah fuck off will ya.
Excuse me?
Yeah, no offence or nothing but I heard it all before, all that stuff about Jesus and gettin saved and everything. I’m in no fucken mood for it.
Half felt like flashing the bag of dope at him.
But a nice quiet, civil ride again. Johnny glancing across only once to see a couple of maggots squirming outta the old fella’s blood-red pulsing ear, plopping down onto the shoulder strap on his coat, twitching and flipping around. What have any of us got for brains anyhow?
Johnny hopping out nice and cheery on the 401 down from Prescott. Some arse-fuck town in Ontario. Away to Christ from underneath all that French shit at least, all them woods, couldnt even read a bloody road sign. And now hoofing it again. Long time since anyone even slowed down and threatened to stop. But not taking it personal, that’s the trick. Nothing personal. Bunch of fuckers racing along towards your lobster pot lives without thought or heed to who might be out there needing a bit of a boost. Suck me hole. Johnny flips off the last line of cars and kicks at the dirt and roars something even he dont understand. And when he turns around again he hears a rig pulling in onto the shoulder, the crunch of rubber on gravel, then sees the long white ominous snout of a police cruiser rolling up alongside of him. Jesus Christ there’s no end to it. Halfways across the country and they’re still lurking about. Johnny does a quick scan but it’s a good haul to the woods and even then he’d have to cross over the divided highway and up over this bright-orange fencing and there’s no tellin how long the woods are gonna last cause there’s the sense of a slope beyond the treeline and maybe a town down there. No guarantee he’d get away. And you knows what it looks like when you runs Johnny. So, staying put. But no fucken way is Johnny sitting in the back of that cruiser. Not this day. Only the one cop, sure. Maybe Johnny might be in the fucken driver’s seat when all this is said and done, whatever it turns out to be. Go big or stay home, hey Johnny?
Miserly drone of the power window on the passenger side and Johnny dutifully bending down to give the cop a good look at this lanky and ramshackle poncho-sporting burnout who’s after doing God knows what to fuck knows who to get to where he is right now. Black duffle bag full of weed slung over Johnny’s left shoulder. To the death Johnny. To the fucken death. An almost human expression flickers across the cop’s lacklustre mug when he gets a good look at the mangled sun-blasted mess gawping in through the window of the cruiser.
What in hell’s name happened to your face son?
And Johnny unloads the whole story, how a couple of French punks picked him up hitchhiking and pulled off somewhere and roughed him up and tried to roll him but how Johnny fought them off good and proper and then got lost in the backwoods and ended up spending the night. Ants and sunburn, the cold and the wet, horrible, officer, just horrible. Johnny even senses that telltale swelling in the back of his throat, the brimming moisture in his eyelids. Lawdog shaking his head, shaking his head. When Johnny finishes his story the cop sighs and stares out across the highway at the moaning traffic, one arm draped across the steering wheel. Shaking his head, staring.
Yeah those Frogs son, take and take and take. Never satisfied. Cut your throat for a glass of wine. I should know, since I married one.
Well, I wouldnt ahhh . . . I dont . . .
Lucky they never tried to fuck your ass too. Still, puts me in an awkward position if they got away with your wallet and such. I get a call about some vagabond on the highway making his way into town and I let him pass on through without checking his background and next it turns out he’s a wanted killer. Travelling rapist. Sex fiend. That wouldnt be too pleasant, in my opinion.
So . . .
So unless you got yourself some proper identification I’m going to have to ask you to come for a ride.
Johnny fingering the corner edge of Gavin’s ID card in his front pants pocket. Moment of truth now Johnny. Make or break the rest of your days. Warrant out there, big bag of dope slung over the shoulder.
Well I got . . . I got my licence on me here somewhere . . .
That would be what we call proper identification son.
Perverse reflection of Johnny’s scorched and seared features in the window, his spirits rising half a notch to note that the teardrops are at least muted somewhat beneath the recent carnage. Tryna steady his hand as he slips the greasy licence through the cruiser’s passenger window. Lawdog plucks it from the outstretched hand and scans it beneath a fuzzy blue light attached to the underbelly of the dash. Johnny waits. There comes a long shrill beep. Lawdog fingering a keyboard, scrolling through a small touch-screen set-up. All very high-tech, hey Johnny. Gone are the days, gone are the days. Lawdog drumming his digits across the steering wheel, watchin the road, the bone-grey skyline beyond. Johnny flexing his stiff cold calves, thumping his busted heels, waiting, waiting to find out if maybe this Gavin fucker is the wandering rapist type, or some wanted dope-slinger, and which the better scenario then, to own up to being Johnny Keough or to go down as some fucken grubby Bluenoser? Waiting for the cop to compare the picture on the card to Johnny’s vile rumour of a face. The screen flashing pale orange. Gone are the days. Lawdog leaning across the front seat with the card pinched nimbly between his knuckles.
Youre a long way from home Mr Gallant. What’s your intended destination?
Wha . . . ?
Where are you headed?
West coast . . . Vancouver.
Vancouver. My, my. You got a few miles ahead yet. What takes you out that way?
Johnny tugging the urn from the depths of his knotty poncho then, holding it up for the cop to see.
Ashes . . . my ahhh . . . gonna scatter em on a beach over there.
Uhmmm . . . well . . . you get in off the road as soon as you can, okay? I’ll be back this way in an hour and I dont want to see you out here. Okay? And watch out for those bloody Frenchies.
And with that Johnny’s left trembling and cho
king in a dead dry cloud of grit and dust, shackled to his treacherous shadow, staring down at the photo of the bright-eyed and hopeful hippie mama’s boy tucked into the corner of the impounded licence. Save for the poncho and the snarled shade of the hair, no resemblance, no likeness whatsoever.
11
Steady stream of cars and trucks and empty minivans rippin on past. Burning on down the line, paying no heed atall. Not a sweet fuck do any of em give about young John-John, our hero. And why should they? And where in Christ’s name are they all off to anyhow, when you thinks about it, hey Johnny? Racing off to pick up piss-arsed youngsters they didnt hardly want in the first place. Accidents, like the rest of us. Waiting for em to grow up and get out so’s they can get on with their lives. Scrounging for change in their sparkling ashtrays to make the price of a coffee that tastes like it was strained out of a dog’s arsehole. Must be nice. Lining up for that then too. Talkin slop, nonsense, on their five hundred dollar phones. Maybe. I dont know. Meeting people they dont even wanna see. Going off to jobs they dont even want or dont like. Is that what it’s like? Taking shit from fuckers who’re good for nothing only giving shit? Every last one of em wishin they could keep on driving off into some other life. Maybe. Home to watch the hockey game. Supper table. Bagging up leaves. Hosing down the driveway! Ripping their eyebrows out over their youngsters’ homework. Going down on the same old cock, heaving it aboard the same old pussy. Constantly in the hole. Going on and on about that thing they always wanted to do and knowing in their guts they’re never gonna get around to it. Terrified of making a wrong move. In-laws and daughter’s shady boyfriends. Icy morning walking some prick of a dog that couldnt give a fuck about you unless you got a hambone in your pocket. The frantic stench of monotony. Holy Mary Mother of Fuck. Is that what it’s like? Is that the alternative? Well slam that pedal down missus. Run it right out over a cliff somewhere.
Lay your head down in the oven and breathe deep.
Wrap a cord around your neck and tie it off and kneel and lean.
Put a bullet in your brain old man.
Bite down on that barrel and squeeze that trigger like Mi . . .
Go on, take the whole bottle, girl.
I wouldnt blame you girl.
I dont.
Wait for the cottonballs to kick in and toss some old-school Valium in on top.
Fuck court, fuck those greasy lawyers, fuck Johnny Keough.
Big glass of brandy to wash it all down.
Go on in and lie down now.
Turn on your favourite song, count the years between the heartbeats.
Give over to that staggering dark.
Goddamn it, Madonna.
Shit man, ugly metallic taste in the back of me throat. No smokes. Half tempted to pick up an old butt from the roadside there about half an hour back. No fucken mistake. I mean, I likes me smokes but I aint no slave and I aint no scumbag neither. Mind you now, there was a time. Like that time up around Mayor Avenue when I was in the rooming house for a few weeks, crashing with a bunch of students and tryna scam a student loan. Busted flat and trying not to be ripping shit off all the time, tryna do it different for a while. To think I coulda done anything else but what way I went. Anyhow, yeah, the night I busted the passenger-side window out of a little Jetta. Passing by and gasping for a smoke and there’s the ashtray all lit up under the streetlight, overflowing with butts, most of em snipes, like half-cigarettes. Out goes the fucken window of the car anyhow. Johnny racing up the road with some big wheezing beer-bellied monster shouting after him, almost keeling over with a heart attack after running ten fucken feet. Johnny whooping it up to have a bit of tobacco on the go. Home to his little room with the filters and the roller and dont even notice till he lights up the first one that all the butts are bloody menthol. Cameo. Christ almighty. Bashing out a fella’s car window for dirty old dried-out menthol tobacco. Fuck that. Two nights later Johnny and some punk from out Grand Falls way ripping off a bar up on Ropewalk Lane. Lotsa smokes that night by Christ. Premiums too.
Musta been twenty fucken miles crossing that causeway into Kingston. Dipped in under the overpass and dropped the trousers yet again. Boots are shot altogether. Cannons and sailboats. Buncha arseholes standin around some glass shack with Styrofoam cups, all stopped gawking at Johnny when he passes. Johnny foolish enough to shout out and ask how to get to the Pen, Kingston Pen, and some smart fucker shouting back how there’s dozens of ways to end up at the Pen. The big roars out of his buddies then. Ontario Street. That’s creative. Fucken K-Rock Centre! Swanky brick houses. Edge of town. Gulls overhead, floating and gliding and circling like vultures, the way they do sometimes. You wonder about that, about what they’re up to. Gulls. They gets the whiff of something and waits up there in the air to see if some goodies are gonna materialize outta the stink. Circling over some rich bastard’s garbage, waiting for the pit bull to fuck off to sleep out of it. Gulls, fucken rats in the sky, no character. Seen one in by the old dump one time making off with a shitty old Pamper. Crows now, them are the smart fuckers. What’s-his-face, down by the slipway, Wally B, lived by hisself in a gutted-out school bus up on blocks. People used to call him the Jap, I think cause he had jaundice when he was younger. Dirty old fucker, shitting in bread bags, pissing in bottles. Me and Mikey’d get in the bus sometimes and flick stuff around and rob his empties, when we were young fellers. Wally off on a jag somewhere down the Shore. Fucken stink of the place, the whole last ten feet of the bus blocked with garbage and blankets and damp old cardboard boxes stuffed with pictures and postcards and engine parts and busted capelin nets and frayed-up lengths of ropes and little metal mechanical bits and fucken everything under the sun, all junk. Me and Mikey in there that one time and found one of them inflatable sheep with the little slit in the hole. All covered in duct tape from where Wally was after busting it up so often. Inflatable sheep! Dirty fucker. Stacks of weird girly mags in some foreign Nazi kinda language with pictures of women shitting in fella’s mouths. Fucken burnt, man. Lookin at that stuff and we only eight or nine years old. Mikey wide-eyed and quiet, not knowing quite what to think, face flushed red. And that pellet gun. That was a find. Taking turns shooting bottles under the Gut Bridge until I staggered under a gust of wind and lost the gun over the side of the wharf. Mikey fished it up with a rod the next evening but it was useless. Fuck man, it was always Johnny and Mikey, Mikey and Johnny, them days. Taking turns with each other’s shadows. And then, I dont know . . . he got . . . I mean . . . you just hit this age . . . and suddenly Johnny Keough was bad news and poor young Mikey was having to take pills and everything was all hushed and weird and fucken fragile.
Anyhow, old Wally, for all his filth, he was good with the animals. Youd hear tell that he had a tame fox this one summer, eating out of his hand, or a weasel that useta come in and pick around and sit across the table from Wally when he was having his supper, waiting for a few scraps. And sure a weasel, them things’ll rip your fucken throat out. But one summer Wally had this crow that he got in a nest when it was still small enough. They says he was watchin the nest and knew when to take the chick. Raised it up, taught it to catch stuff out of the air, like he’d toss up a bit of sausage or something and the crow’d pick it off. Never another rat down around the bus for that whole year neither. Even taught the thing to laugh and say hello, or hi, or something. And it’d steal anything it could fit in its beak, didnt matter if it was shiny or flashy, like you hear, just anything it could carry. One of Wally’s drinkin buddies one time, the crow swoops in and swipes a lit cigarette right out of his mouth, brings it up across the marsh and drops it in the dry grass and the upper meadow goes right up in flames. Took about twenty bodies to put the blaze out. And there’s the crow perched up on top of a telephone pole the whole time, watchin everybody fighting the fire. Squawk. Laugh. Hold a fucken grudge too, them crows. Feller from Ferryland one time, who ran a little fish truck, he was down by the plant and kinda casually tossed a rock up over the roof of the plant and struc
k Wally’s crow. And every time thereafter when the little fish truck showed up outside the plant, there comes Wally’s crow shitting all over the windshield, dive-bombing at buddy. Smart fuckers. They never forgets a face. Wally even useta tell how he woke up one morning with the crow on his chest squelchin and squawkin at this ungodly pitch. Wally shoos it away and the crow perches on the sill of the open window and squelches some more, starts circling the bus then, swooping down and rapping on the glass, gone fucken mad altogether. Wally looks around for a fire but there’s nothing. Finally he goes out and follows the crow to see what the fuck is going on, follows it right down to the breakwater where the crow is circling over something in the water. Wally sees a dog then, old waterdog, splashing around a bit, his snout barely up over the surface, not able to move, gettin tired. Crow swoopin around and screamin. Wally sees what’s up and wades out up to his neck towards the dog, and here’s the dog’s leg all snarled up in a bit of rope. And the tide rising. Wally works the dog’s leg free of the rope and the dog with barely enough strength left to swim ashore. Crow saved the dog’s life! If you can believe what you hears. Whatever came of that crow I dont know. Heard tell that a cat got him, cornered him in back of the bus. Someone else said he took off with this massive flock of crows that passed up along the Shore one year. Thousands of em, crows, big black cloud coming over the hills like something out of the Bible. One year that happened, this colossal migration, and never after. Wherever the fuck they were all off to.
We'll All Be Burnt in Our Beds Some Night Page 18
