I raced in the front door, my mother hollering after me to take something in first. I went up to the maid’s room and I called Scarlet. Like I thought I was going to have a fit if her line was busy or she was out. But she was there.
“I’m back,” I said.
“When are you coming over?”
“When should I?”
“Tonight,” she said. “And hurry. I’ve got something to show you.
That was all I needed. I blasted back down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and went out to the car. “Nice try,” Harper said.
“Boys,” Mother said in her warning voice. Travelling made her a little jumpy. She just wanted to get in the house, have a noggin and put up her feet.
I loved being back in town. I loved the way my room smelled, that moment when you first open the door and go in. I got a whole lot of stuff out of my drawer, a kilt pin from an old girlfriend, a love letter from Daphne Gunn on blue tissue paper(actually she never looked like a potato till she dropped me), a Searchers 45, a broken transistor radio, and laid it all out on the bed. But I got used to it pretty quickly and stuffed it back in my drawer without looking at half of it.
That night I went over to see Scarlet. It was one of those great nights in the city where you feel like something is calling you outside. I mean you can just about hear these voices, “Come out, come out.” I headed up Forest Hill Road. I didn’t get a half a block before I broke into a trot. I don’t think I’d ever been so happy before, all this stuff to look forward to, Scarlet, being back in the city, the way the air smelt, all the lights flickering in the windows, the cars going by. It was like more than my body could keep inside. I was talking out loud to myself, trying to explain to my imaginary audience just how amazing it was, like it wasn’t enough to just think it, I had to actually say it, find the exact right words. I cut down through a little park where I used to go tobogganing with Kenny Withers, and then turned left on Chaplin Crescent. You could smell the rose bushes. That’s some kind of flower. Like a drug or something. One sniff makes you feel like you’re not living up to scratch, you should be having a better time. But this one night down on Chaplin Crescent, for once I wasn’t waiting for my life to start. For once I had a life as good as the one you imagine when you smell roses.
I figured it must be her father who came to the door. He was a tall, gangly guy with a moustache, wearing a pair of white cream slacks and an expensive shirt. But here’s the weirdness. His hair was brushed down over his forehead in a Beatle haircut. Very strange on a guy like that. I tried not to look at it. I mean apart from the hair he was a pretty classy-looking guy, sort of like Errol Flynn.
“And who might you be?” he asked.
“Simon,” I said. “Simon Albright. I’m a friend of Scarlet’s.”
“Ah yes, Scarlet,” he said, crossing his arms like he was trying to remember the last time he saw her. I had the distinct impression he was fucking around with me.
“And what time were you going to see your friend Scarlet?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“What time is it now?”
“Nine o’clock?”
“It is quarter past nine. Have you no timepiece?”
He waited for a second and then burst out laughing.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “I’m just playing the fool.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Duke,” I said.
In the living room was a plump woman in a red dress and a bald guy I’d seen before somewhere.
“I’m Barry,” the mophead said. “ And this is my wife Sherry. And I’m sure you know Elwy.”
That’s where I’d seen him. The bald guy had some TV show where they showed old black and white films and interviewed people nobody gave a shit about any more. You know, like a cameraman on some 1940s movie. For some reason I pretended not to recognize him. Just so he wouldn’t think I was a groupie. But he seemed like a pleasant enough guy, old Elwy, beaming away at me. Some people just like new faces and I guess he was one of them.
“Sit down. Please. Emily will be right out,” the woman said in a British accent.
Emily?
For a second I thought I was in the fucking twilight zone. You know, guy goes to wrong house and picks up wrong girlfriend and nobody notices.
“Emily,” she called. “Emily.”
I heard Scarlet’s voice coming from the bathroom.
“Christ! What!”
“Your friend’s here.”
“Well tell him to wait.” Then the door shut again.
“Well-spoken girl,” I said, and looked around the room for smiles. Nothing.
“So where do you stand on all of this, Simon?” Barry said. He was leaning forward in his chair with a big green goblet in his hands, one of those glasses you use in a castle or something and I suddenly realized he was pissed.
“All of what?” I asked.
“On this business of breaking the law.”
“I don’t think he has the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Elwy, who gave me a wink. I think everybody was too pissed for him and he wanted me to know it.
“I mean where do you stand on this business of breaking the law?” Barry went on, as if I’d tried to ignore him the first time. “Some people say everybody breaks it. Other people believe it’s a sacred trust. I say the law’s the law and you bloody well should obey it. What about you?”
“Depends on the law,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like, I don’t feel it’s my inalienable right to go around dropping blasting caps in people’s mouths while they sleep.”
He frowned.
“It’s a joke, Barry,” the woman said.
“But you think it’s all right to break some laws,” he said. “Do I understand you correctly?”
“Yes. For sure.”
“Like what?”
“Well, let me see. When do I think it’s all right to break the law? When I jaywalk, for instance. When there’s nobody coming, I don’t lose a single night’s sleep after I jaywalk.”
“So you think you have the right to decide which laws are worthy of respect.”
“Well…”
“Don’t you think that’s rather pompous? Just imagine if everyone went around doing that. Making up the law as they go. Then where’d we be?”
“But I’m not everyone,” I said.
“Meaning that you’re smarter than anyone else. What grade are you in?”
“Grade Twelve.”
“And you think having a Grade Twelve education entitles you to break the law? That’s a bloody irresponsible attitude, I’d think.”
“But Barry,” his wife said, “you break the law all the time. You speed on the highway. That’s breaking the law.”
“Well that’s how I feel and I’m bloody well not going to apologize for it. Right, Simon? Simon understands.” And then he kind of pushed himself back into his chair as if we were begging him to say more, but no, no, that was enough, thank you very much. I had that slight fluttering in my chest and my hands were sweating like they do when I feel like I’m under attack. Somehow you always come out of those conversations feeling in the wrong.
“What movie are you going to tonight?” Elwy asked me.
“Mondo Dante,” I said.
“Oh dear,” he said and gave me another wink.
“That’s one of our films, isn’t it?” the woman added.
“I’m afraid so,” Elwy answered and sort of winced, like somebody was about to smack him with a newspaper. I looked over at Barry. He was sitting peering down into his glass.
Scarlet came into the living room, wearing dark eye makeup. Sometimes girls look so pretty they’re sort of scary. I could smell the vanilla across the room.
“Oh, there you are,” said her father.
“We should be going,” Scarlet said. She was wearing black shorts and a white T-shirt.
“Tell me this, Simon,” Barry said. “I suppose you think
we should legalize prostitution. That’d be just fine with you, wouldn’t it?”
“Daddy!”
“Well, wouldn’t it?”
“I honestly don’t know, Mr Duke. I’ve never thought about it.”
“That’s not the only thing you haven’t given much thought to. Do you honestly think Grade Ten will prepare you for this life?”
“Well Mr Duke, I wasn’t planning to …”
“Rubbish! Come off it, mate. Grow up! Get out there and bang on some doors.”
“Which doors?” I asked.
“Just bring her back intact, that’s all I say,” he roared.
“Barry!” his wife said.
Elwy winced again.
“Where are you going, by the way?” Barry said.
“They’re going to a film, dear.”
“Which film?”
By now I was moving very quickly toward the door.
“Mondo Dante,” I said.
“That’s ours, isn’t it?” Barry said.
“Jesus,” I whispered.
But he jumped into action. He went over to the coffee table and snatched up the phone, his hair still hanging over his forehead like a fucking moat boy.
“Hello?” he said, “this is Barry Duke at Universal Pictures. I need a couple of passes for tonight’s show.”
He grinned, and raised his finger quickly in the air to silence me. Then the smile fell off his face.
“Duke,” he said. “Barry Duke.”
“Oh-oh, somebody’s going to get in heck,” Scarlet said, sitting on the arm of a chair.
“Duke,” he repeated slowly, getting pissed off. “D-U-K-E.”
By which time I was about ready to leap out of the window. He put his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Clueless,” he said. “I’ve told them a hundred times. Hire nationals!”
“She’s probably new,” Sherry whispered. “At least she speaks some English.”
“Done!” Barry said, slamming down the phone.
“Well done, dear.”
“Somebody was almost out of a job,” Scarlet said.
“Really, Mr Duke, I didn’t mean to pick a fight here. That was just a joke about the blasting caps.”
“So I keep hearing. But it’s no joking matter, if you ask me. Given the way things are going.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Barry, what things?” his wife said.
“Just read the newspaper. You’ll see.”
We opened the door and I was stepping out when he hollered, “Don’t hate me. I’m testing your mettle, that’s all. Be grateful it’s coming from a friend. Bloody idiots! Don’t stand up for anything any more.”
Out in the corridor, the door shut, Scarlet said, “He’s going to have a terrible hangover in the morning.”
“I should hope so,” I said. “My goodness.”
“Don’t take it personally. He just likes to argue. He thinks it makes people think.”
“About what?”
“I don’t think he liked that remark about the blasting caps. I heard from the bathroom. I think he thought you were making fun of him.”
“I was.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. It’s very hurtful to have someone your age make fun of you. Particularly in front of everybody.”
She walked on to the elevator.
“Did you think I was rude?” I asked.
She took a breath as if she was losing interest in the subject.
“No, just a bit superior. But that can really set somebody off. You thought I was making it up didn’t you?” she said.
“What?”
“That he was a big shot.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”
“He can get tickets to anything.”
“I’ll bet. Who’s Emily, by the way?” I said.
“Oh, that’s just a pet name. Only my family calls me that. Everybody else knows me as Scarlet.”
“What name’s on your birth certificate?”
“I don’t know. Emily probably. What’s it matter? I like Scarlet better. Come on,” she said. “This is getting off on the wrong foot.”
So we went down in the elevator. But I was rattled. I mean when people don’t like me, I usually figure it’s my fault, I’ve done something to provoke it. Been too mouthy or something.
And I’m usually right. Anyway, it’s stupid but I sort of wanted to go back to Scarlet’s place, go in, be funny, say something really clever, get everybody to like me, including her father, and then split. That way I could enjoy the evening.
But it was too late, we had to go to the fucking movie.
We went to the Imperial down near Dundas Street. It was this grand old place with red plush seats and a high domed ceiling. There were tickets waiting for us at the window. A woman with a white cone hairdo gave them to us. She seemed kind of neutral to me, but Scarlet didn’t see it that way.
“See what I mean?” she whispered, “she doesn’t want any more trouble.”
We sat beside the aisle. The lights went down. Scarlet threw her legs over the seat in front, and rested her hands in her crotch.
Sometime during the movie, I felt her staring at me and for a second I had a feeling she was trying to figure out if I was good-looking or not. I don’t love the way I look from the side. I don’t have very memorable features and I have a soft chin, I know that, it’s a nice face more than a handsome one, so I don’t like people staring at me for long. Finally she went back to looking at the movie but she didn’t say anything, which was unnerving. I mean you’d think if she was thinking something good it would have just burbled out on its own. It worried me. Thinking bad things about the person you’re with is just the worst kind of loneliness.
“What did you want to show me?” I whispered.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said, not even bothering looking over.
After the movie was finished, we came out onto the street.
“Well, that was a complete and absolute gross-out,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Like it left me feeling I was covered in cobwebs.”
“I liked it.”
“You did not. You couldn’t. Nobody could.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“All those midgets and perverts and creepoids. God, where did they find those critters?”
“You’re so judgmental. They’re just people, Simon.”
“Not from my neighbourhood, they’re not. God, it’s enough to make you believe in compulsory euthanasia.”
“What’s that?”
“Mercy killing.”
She took one of those deep breaths you take when you’re trying not to let somebody bug you. “I liked the theme song, too.”
“Yeah, that was all right. What was it called?”
“How should I know?”
“So what do you want to do now?”
“Beats me. I’m sort of pooped actually.”
“You want to go home?”
“Might as well. Nothing going on down here.”
“Why would your father be interested in a movie like that?” I asked after a minute.
“Because it makes money, Simon. Duh.”
By the time we got to the intersection, I’d had enough. So I just said it. “Scarlet, do you not like me any more. Is that it?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said.
“Well I’m not. I have the feeling you’ve been looking at me all night like I’m something a pigeon left on your parents’ balcony.”
She broke out laughing.
“Jesus, Simon.” She walked on a bit and then stopped.
“God, it’s the strangest thing. It just broke right through everything,” she said.
“What did?”
“Oh God, that must mean I like you again. Don’t hate me for this, all right? Don’t. But I was really looking forward to seeing you. Like too much, you know? And then when I saw you in the living room, it was sort of a disappointment. I imagined that you looked different or
something. And I thought, Oh God, I don’t like him any more. And then you said that stupid pigeon thing, and it was so you, and I thought, Oh God, I do like him after all. It was like we just connected, the second you said that.”
“So you do like me?”
“I just told you. Yes.”
“For awhile, I have to tell you, I sort of figured things were kaputskyville.”
“Well, now you know. Now we both do.”
“So what did you want to show me?” I said.
“Never mind. It’s stupid now.”
“No, tell me.”
“My tan,” she said. “Don’t you think I’m brown?”
After that it was easy, and sort of unimaginable how all the weirdness had happened. It was Scarlet again, instead of this super-cold bitch who was thinking the very worst, very truest things about me.
We walked up Yonge Street, all lit up and bustling on Saturday night, and turned west along Bloor toward the Village. It was jammed, busloads of tourists driving through; tough guys on motorcycles, skinny girls with their hair parted down the middle. Some of them smelt like incense, you could smell it when they walked past you. A go-go girl danced high in the second floor window of the Mynah Bird. We stuck our noses into a basement club across the street; there were four guys playing inthe band, pretty cool-looking, with their long straight hair cut like the Kinks and those Edwardian jackets.
“It’s your life,” they sang, “And you can do what you want”
The drummer doing a slow roll around his drums, ending up on the floor tom and giving the high hat a whack with his stick. Then they all came in:
It’s your life
And you can do what you want
But please don’t keep me waiting.
Please don’t keep me waiting …
Very cool. An unimaginably cool life. Just the sound of the cymbals hissing and the electric guitars booming out onto the street made me ill with excitement and envy. The drummer was a kid my age and I got that weird, anxious feeling again, like I was never going to have a life as exciting as that. That I’d already missed the boat.
We came back out on the street. Some asshole tried to sell me some poetry. I’d seen this dickweed in action before. Eric the Poet. Bucktoothed, glasses with fishbowl lenses, he was about the ugliest son of a bitch you ever laid eyes on. But people liked him, they thought he was the real article, you know, a real live bohemian selling his wares in the street. Sometimes they’d invite him to sit at their table in an outdoor café and after a minute or two he’d be wailing away at them, telling them what bourgeois, brainless assholes they were and they’d sit there like children, sucking it in, thinking they were having a real experience. Unbelievable. I mean that fucking place, Yorkville, it was a great big fat fucking fraud. You could just feel it.
Lost Between Houses Page 10
