She fucken lay back and spread her legs! What was I supposed to do?
She was terrified Johnny!
The big racket then, me and her. Tryna get me to say that . . . tryna make me own up to . . . you know. And maybe I did! Maybe that’s what it fucken was. Maybe . . . but the way you file that shit away, in your head. How we got this tendency to reframe things, I guess, as the head doctors and counsellors loves to say. Maybe I did. Maybe in truth I’m no better than . . . This is madness, tellin on meself like some fucken fool. The way Mikey went. That fire. So-called commendation. Stevie Puddester. This is burnt. I dont know. I mean, she lay there and offered it to me. Not like I stalked her and forced myself on her. Maybe . . . maybe some part of me knew the difference. I dont know. It’s grey and muddy, in me head, what I was thinkin. Cause you take what you can get wherever you can get it, when youre that age. You dont weigh it out, think about it. Right? I mean, am I to be held accountable for the rest of my days for a deed done when I was fucken twelve years old? Sweet Christ Johnny. What’s it all about? And what good does it do to let it play out in your head anymore Johnny? Where’s it get you? In the same boat. Father and son . . . Spend all this time likening yourself to the man, son of Stevie the Scar, then you sees him for what he is and finds out youre fucken nothing alike. Nothing. And then you go dragging this shit up and your conclusion in the end is that youre the very same. No difference. He who hates me hates my father also . . . The apple and the tree bit. Lizzy O’Neill. But it’s not the same thing. Fuck off. Even if it is. But it’s not. There’s a difference. I just dont know what that is. Or maybe I do. But my fucken skull hurts man, it does. And they’re closing in. They’re closing in. Head full of this jelly sludge they pumped into me cause I’m all beat to shit by a gang of teenage girls. Busted flat with all the weed gone. What’s left of Madonna is about two ounces in the bottom of Gavin’s ragged-ass poncho. No turning back, no hanging about, nothing to do but get west, and whatever’s waiting for me on the back end of that, so be it. But if I’m expected to buckle over and start pleading guilty to everything, crumbling in bits and falling apart and moaning over what a cunt I was when I was a youngster. Last year, last month, last night. Christ . . . and tryna make up for it all, like penance or some such shit. Well, if I’m expected to bitch out now . . . it’s not gonna happen. You know what? If I hadnt been casing the place the two of them woulda burnt in their fucken beds. Just let me catch a breath for fuck sakes. Maybe it is my fault Mikey is dead. Alright? Fuck. Maybe it is. But it’s not like I pulled the goddamn trigger. I mighta . . . I mean I mighta been . . . But what did I know about voices and shit going on inside someone’s head? Sure I was a fucken youngster too. Bad enough tryna sort out what was real and what wasnt in me own snarled-up head. And more to the point, what in the name of all hell can I do about it now? What? So maybe Lizzy O’Neill was afraid of me, maybe she was. But it’s like Madonna said, what do a fucken twelve-year-old boy know other than what his nuts tells him to do? What do any of us ever know? That we used to be children and now we’re not. That what we are now is just a collection of our blunders and our missteps, a mashed and battered accumulation of all our wrongs. Sick as our secrets. And now we mainly gotta lean into the years and hope too much of it dont splatter back in our fucken faces.
Nurse comes in. She’s humming a little tune. Broad, well-earned shoulders on her. She could pick Johnny up right about now and snap him in half. But a friendliness there, maybe warmth, even. She hums and smiles as she leans across me bed to check the drip bag. Smell of citrus off her that almost makes me mouth water. When she catches my eye and sees I’m awake she says pretty much that:
Youre awake! Okay! I’ll let the doctor know.
Piercing, middle-of-nowhere accent that slashes into me head like a splitting knife, but pleasant enough all the same. Warmth. Lemons. Johnny’s vision blurs momentarily. He wants to reach out. She places her hand on the back of Johnny’s neck and gently pulls him forward while she adjusts his pillow. Goosebumps. A fiery shiver ripping down my spine.
Some people want to talk to you!
Johnny tries to protest, tries to speak, but has to sit there dumbly waitin for his body to do what his brain is tellin it to do. A low, gravelly grunt tumbles out of his throat as she turns on her heels and heads out into the hallway. A new bounce to her step, on a mission, knows exactly where she’s going. No good, no good. People wanting to talk to Johnny Keough is not ever a good thing.
I wont get into the pain of it all. I cant. The heave outta the bed with the ribs the way they are. And landing on the foot, forgetting about the busted toes and almost keelin over into the garbage can. Having to stand there on one foot to wait for the room to stop spinning, me neck soaked with drool where it’s after building up in my mouth on account of it not being too pleasant to swallow. I yanks the IV needle outta me hand like the way you sees fellas do it in the movies, like it’s this big rebellious or symbolic act or something. But it’s not. It’s slips right out and I dont even feel it. Whatever they were filling me with, morphine drip, I dont know. But it was something good cause I knows as bad as it is I should be hurtin more than I am. I unhooks the clear plastic bag of liquid dope and makes a knot in the end of the tube and stuffs the bag into one of the nice deep pockets in the side of the pants. Right away I pricks me leg with the needle. Tryna haul them stiff army pants up over the hips with the fingernails gone off my hand. It’s all I can do not to flop back into the bed and die. But after enough crashing around and falling into stuff, I manages to piece me outfit together. Some people want to talk to you. Knows what that bloody well means, hey Johnny? I stuffs the socks in me pockets and then drapes the one-piece over my shoulder. Force the boots on without passing out. Some fucker behind the curtain in the bed next to me clearing his throat real loud and then finally shushing me, right aggressive and pissy like. Next thing he’ll be buzzing for the nurse. I’m picking up the pace a bit as me head clears and my balance comes back. But with that there’s even more pain and like I said I dont want to get into it. Cause it’s fucken boring aint it? Being in pain like this. Fucken mob of teenage girls? I’m careful not to spill any more ashes out of the poncho as I’m pulling it over me head. Blood caked into everything, but at least the poncho is patterned with different hippie colours. Stink of muddy piss off everything from where I was stuck down behind them propane tanks. Fucken hell. You dont wanna think about it Johnny. What the fuck can you do about it now anyhow?
Once I’m all geared up I peeks out through the curtain to see if I can see down the hall a ways, but it’s pretty dark. Fuck it. Stay here and answer a bunch of questions and let em figure out who you are and where youre from, or chance it that you get away out of it. Better off skippering your own ship, like the fella says. I kinda hops towards the door to the ward, makes a sharp turn down the corridor in the opposite direction from the nurses’ station. That nice nursey-nurse who was just in the room, she’s on the phone, nodding and scouring the details on the clipboard in her hand. I dont look back, limping, hobbled and lame. Let’s hope I dont have to make a run for it. I comes to the elevator and pushes the button for down and as I steps back away from it there’s about eight or ten student types, nursing students or whatever, boys and girls, all in their early twenties, comes around the corner and stands there waiting. They were all giggling and joshing about until they stumbled upon me, then everything goes dead quiet. I looks down at this one girl’s shoes and her whole body does this kinda wave, the kinda way you see it on the TV when the scene changes and moves on to, like say, a character having a flashback or whatever, or drifting off into a dream, all wavy and screwy. Like that. One fella cant keep his eyes off me, he’s whispering to this other fella, whispering right close and concealed and discreet, gawkin at me the whole while, but as soon as I tries to make eye contact they each looks away. Typical. If I was in a stupider mood I’d have a go at the works of em right there in the corridor. But I wants out. And I dont wanna give any of em anyth
ing extra to remember me by, anything out of the ordinary, other than the way I looks, I mean.
Twenty years later the elevator light comes on, there’s a little ding and we all piles into the box. Tight fucken squeeze for that crowd, but there’s lots of room around me cause it’s them that have themselves all squat together into the far corner. I spose there’s a smell off me, yeah, and a look, and a vibe, I guess. Cant see why either one of em would wanna cuddle up to me. Still, they’re studying to be nurses or doctors or something, think they’d be a little more at ease, think they’d even have a bit of compassion or something. Says the fucken sociopath. Fuck off.
I’m the last to shuffle out of the elevator cause they all bailed like scalded cats in a fit of giggles and snorts, couldnt get clear of me fast enough. But I’m close behind, moving as fast as my shattered frame will let me, cause I needs the cover. The old instincts are still sharp as fuck even if the rest of me is a disaster. I barely sets foot into the hospital lobby and it’s like you can smell em, the fuzz, lawdogs, you can bloody well smell the fuckers. Sure enough, two plainclothes coppers waiting at the doors of the opposite elevator, gawkin up at the indicator lights with their brows all scrunched and impatient. The light dings and then the door slides open and they’re muttering how it’s about time and they’re steppin into the box just as I’m passing by, trailing along behind the pack of interns. The fuzz aint noticed me and I knows I’m in the clear but I cant help turning back for a glance, cause I can be fucken stunned like that. I turns to see the elevator doors sliding closed and one of the coppers who’s flipping through a little notebook, he’s standin dead centre in the box and looks up and out and our eyes meet for that last split second and I knows he’s pegged me. Maybe not that he’s pegged me as the man of the hour, but I knows he sees what I am, the guy on the other end of the spectrum, the bad guy. He spots me for the jailbird I am, or used to be, for the criminal I used to be. You never quite shake that look, never quite leave it behind, like those boys, the fuzz, they can never quite cover up what they are either. All that student crowd made such a hasty dash towards the cafeteria, so I’m alone in the lobby, staring into this cop’s eyes as the elevator door closes. His bottom lip gawps like he’s about to say something and he reaches towards the display of buttons and then the door jams closed. I dont take off or nothing, cause I cant and I knows there’s not a prayer in hell of making a quick getaway now anyhow, say if the door pops back open and yon Tango comes a-charging out at me. Where’m I going to? They’d burn me to the ground for not putting up enough of a chase. Play it cool Johnny, milk your grievances, work the limp. I turns and slaps the wheelchair button on the wall near the exit, stepping back while the door swings out into the bitter night. I’m waiting for the shout from behind, the ding from the elevator, the scuffle of feet coming across the tiles behind me, but . . . nothing. I’m out the doors then. Figure I got ten, maybe twelve minutes before they sorts out that I’ve left the ward and that they just passed me in the lobby, all this business.
The hospital parking lot is choc-a-blocked with cars and rigs. I shambles off the curb and into the road towards the lot, sweat dripping from me chin, trying hard not to grunt or moan or breathe too deep, fighting off the urge to stop and hurl. I dont know where I’m headed or how to get where I’m going or even where the fuck I am in the world. I seem to remember a conversation about someone being transferred to Regina, something about Saskatoon. I dont know, one of them towns then. I knows I’m the sight alright, left for dead, staggerin across to the parking lot havin to stop and catch my breath and steady me head cause I’m starting to see double again. I tucks meself on the other side of a black minivan, out of sight of the main entrance. Dodge Caravan, late nineties model. Fucken right. The gears in the old noggin, spinnin like mad. But I cant, I cant. All bad enough. How else to get out of here? How else to get on with it? Something catches my eye then, on the pavement near the rear tire. You wouldnt bloody well believe it. A Popsicle stick. It’s excruciating, the stoop to pick it up, but I manages. It’s a fresh and sturdy stick, one half stained orange. My favourite. Orange Popsicle. Madonna’s was always the red, cherry. And man, you shoulda seen Madonna sucking on a red cherry Popsicle. Drive a man to the brink. Popsicle stick in hand, I peers in through the passenger-side window of the Caravan. Coffee cups and gadget chargers and take-away wrappers. A glance towards the hospital doors. Then a nod towards the skyline, for a sign or something foolish like that, but all is black up there. My good eye darting around the parking lot for a rock or a piece of concrete or something to take out the side window. Nothing. Checkin the pockets for a coin and I pricks me finger on the needle from the dope bag. Right where the nail is tore off. I dont even bother to feel it. Rootin deep down in the other side pocket of the pants and I fingers a hard damp wad of something that sets off a little light in me head. It’s well stuffed down there, folded into a tight square. I works it out and finds it to be three twenties. Dont remember stashing em there. Musta forgot em. Things are lookin up for Johnny, our hero, aint they? Things are lookin up. Popsicle stick, sixty bucks, possible getaway vehicle. Still, neither scrap of metal on me, no coin to do what more immediately needs to be done. Cant believe I’m out here on the road gettin shitfaced and shithauled and I’ve nothing on me that can even break a window, no weapon or nothing. Since when did I even walk to the fucken shop without a weapon? Think you can lift that garbage can at the edge of the lot, heft it through the window? Maybe. Nothing subtle about it though.
I takes a step in the direction of the garbage can and then I stops, turns to the van, reaching out for the door handle. I gives a gentle tug and feels the pop and grind of the side door gliding open.
Fucken hell, hey Johnny.
Armed with the orange-stained Popsicle stick, I climbs aboard.
Grand theft auto, nothing new about that, like I mentioned. Shoplifting, a while back. Old behaviour Johnny! Youre slipping back into old behaviour! Yeah. Slinging dope around in Northern Ontario, leaving the scene of an accident back there somewhere, swiping that young feller’s driver’s licence and threatening him, then passing meself off as him to the OPP. Pounding the shit out of Stevie Puddester, who’s in a wheelchair and a federal inmate. That’s Johnny, gone all straight and narrow, settled right the fuck down. Should see me when there’s no warrants outstanding.
Grand Forks, BC. That’s where I’ve landed this fine morn. Hardly a kick left in the old Dodge Caravan. Hardly a kick left in Johnny neither. Still, I got about twenty-four hours out of her. Gassed up only twice, and neither time did I pay. What can you do? Pull into a busy truck stop and wait your turn, gas up, then make like youre parking alongside the station, like youre on your way in to pay. Make sure your licence plate is muddied up, obscured. Not that it’d be traced back to me, but you dont want the plates coming up as stolen on top of all that. More reason to hunt for ya. So you park alongside the station, make like youre counting your money or something, then drive on out of the lot again, slow and steady, back in the opposite direction from where you were headed to. Drive back on up the road and find a spot to turn around and then carry on along your journey. Twice, both times I done it, I met cruisers coming towards me with the sirens blaring and the lights a-flashing. Coincidence? We’ll never know. Our John-John was doing the speed limit, takin his time, maybe stoppin off once in a while for a milkshake at a drive-through. Milkshake is about all I can handle these days. Aint no chewing going on in our John-John’s immediate future, that’s for sure. Bad enough, the effort of sucking it up through a straw. Thank Christ me teeth are bashed out cause all I gotta do is move my top lip outta the way and poke the straw in the gap where the teeth used to be. Life is good. But Jesus Christ, passed a restaurant somewhere on the Alberta-BC border advertising a steak and eggs special for $5.99. I nearly bawled. I almost did. But the old mouth and jaw is too fucked, and that’s me right about now, gotta live with it dont I?
Grand Forks. Pulled into the parking lot of a big-ass grocery store
I cant pronounce the name of, like some Indian word. Hadda make me way in to the pharmacy to see if I couldnt find some sorta wrapping for the fingers and maybe some disinfectant cause the index finger and the one next to it are starting to turn yellow and there’s this goopy stuff leaking out from under where the nails are snapped off. I knows that cant be good. The pain is changed too, my whole hand is a constant burning throb now and it’s spreading up into the wrist and the shoulder keeps numbing out.
Been kinda blacking out too, I guess. It’s like an hour passes on the highway, trees and mountains and trucks and flat suffering fuck eternity, and I’ll suddenly snap to, snap out of it, or into it, back into the moment. And God knows where I’ve been, in my head, what I’ve been thinkin about—stuff that went on years ago, stuff that never happened atall, shit that might happen. Like I’ve been sleep-driving, but I’m hardly asleep. Me head wandering off and I’m either freezing cold with the heater on blast or with me arm hanging out the window tryna cool off. Sweat pouring off me one minute, then the next I’m shivering so bad youd swear I was taking a fucken seizure.
Limping up and down the aisles of the pharmacy and I can feel all eyes on me, wondering who the fuck I am and where I’m from and what the fuck happened to me. So it’s kinda difficult to pocket what I needs. Down to about twenty-five bucks now. Cigarettes and milkshakes, couple of cups of sweet tea. How much gas I got left, that’s a mystery too cause the gauge dont work, always sorta hovering above empty. The battery light flashes off and on and the check engine light is blinking and spluttering. Big squeals out of the brakes and the power steering pump grinding and moaning, stiff as a diddler in a kiddie pool. Who knows but the rig is fucked. Get what you pay for I spose. Still and all, she handles decent on the highway and she got me the fuck outta that hospital parking lot. I’d say someone’s out there in whatever arse-fuck prairie town that was and they’re likely fucken delighted with me for robbing it anyhow. I never bothered to check for registration or names or nothing in the glove locker. Maybe someday I’ll sit down and write a letter to the owner, anonymously, tellin all about the grand adventure I had with their van.
We'll All Be Burnt in Our Beds Some Night Page 23
