It would be her little secret.
Featherbrains
the pigeon stood there, eyes closed, praying that the cars would not run him over, appealing to the bird gods to spare him the terrible fate of ending his days beneath the wheels of an automobile. He hugged his wings to his plump breast, shaking like a maple leaf with a Canadian winter around the corner. One question ran through his mind: how the hell did I end up here?
He had set out to cross D’Iberville while the light was still green for the traffic along Rachel. He’d casually walked onto the hot asphalt, stopping here and there to peck at discarded French fries and grains of sand that oddly resembled discarded French fries. Without warning, the light changed colour. Commuters heading east to west on two and four wheels froze, except for one idiot who was in such a hurry that he ran the red light with no regard for the lives he was putting in danger. For a brief moment, cars in both directions came to a standstill. Nothing moved. Not even the scraps of paper and plastic the wind had playfully sent drifting up from the recycling bins of environmentally-conscious citizens. It was deadly silent, like a scene out of a spaghetti western, right before the duel between a foolhardy cowboy and a bloodthirsty Indian.
It was at this exact moment the pigeon realized he was done for.
When he got to the yellow line, he realized he would not have time to reach the opposite shore of asphalt before traffic started up again. So he opted for what he believed to be the most sensible solution: to freeze, hold his breath, and think happy thoughts. He focused all of his pigeon attention on imaginary crumbs of bread—dry, crunchy bits strewn awkwardly about by some depressed old biddy.
Astride her bicycle, Emmanuelle looked on with concern. The poor pigeon! What the hell was it doing in the middle of the road? Why didn’t it fly away? The cars swerved slightly, trying to avoid it without slowing down. No one dared honk, for fear of scaring the bird and making the situation worse.
In an I’m-an-adult-but-not-quite-now moment, Emmanuelle prayed that the creature wouldn’t be steamrolled by one of those damned SUVs—nothing more pointless, she thought, than those supposed utility vehicles.
From the opposite side of the bicycle path, a good- looking blond guy was also watching the pigeon anxiously. He, too, was hoping it would escape the mess unscathed. Just then, a sports car with tinted windows passed within a hair’s breadth of flattening the bird. Emmanuelle clutched her handlebars so tightly that her knuckles turned white and the blond looked away, not wanting to witness the carnage. By a stroke of luck, the bird was unharmed. The man raised his gaze to meet Emmanuelle’s, and the two exchanged a knowing glance. She wrinkled her nose as if to say, “If this pigeon ends up toast in front of us, I think I’m going to puke up my shish-taouk.” He answered with an awkward wink.
Unfortunately, no amount of wishful thinking could save the pigeon from a gruesome end: a minivan accelerated as the light turned yellow and ran right over it in a burst of wanton speed. The bird’s guts spilled onto the ground. Pieces of its brain lay a few centimetres from the blond man’s bicycle, as its owner looked on with disgust. A drop of purple blood had landed on his $9.99 summer plaid, bought on sale at Simons. Emmanuelle gaped at him, stunned, then turned to the grisly corpse; her eyes swung back to the boy, then once again to the butchered remains of the featherbrained bird. Overcome with emotion, she froze.
When she didn’t move fast enough for the serious athletes behind her, the enraged cyclists began to overtake her, shouting insults as they passed. Insensitive jerks. They gave no thought to the pigeon, or what remained of it. They rolled over its splattered entrails without wondering whether it had suffered or gone quickly enough to avoid a painful death.
The blond crossed D’Iberville and stopped near Emmanuelle The Traumatized.
“Gross, right?” he said, trying for empathy.
“Seriously,” she answered.
“The most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Well, that and Saw 4.”
“You’ve got blood on your shirt.”
“I know, it sucks. I just bought it.”
Both stopped, as if realizing the conversation was already too long for people who didn’t know each other. Emmanuelle thought of her mother, who liked to remind her daughter never to talk to strangers—especially while she was travelling outside of Canada. Nicole thought her xenophobic joke was funny. Her daughter knew she was only half joking and that her mother had a hard time with anything beyond her own reality. She silently told her mother off and continued the conversation.
“I know a trick for getting stains out.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“Do you have any baking soda at home?”
“I’m not big on baking, so no.”
“I’ve got some. I’m on Dézéry, not too far from here. If you have time to stop by, I could fix you up.”
“OK, but… aren’t you on your way somewhere?”
“Yeah, of course, but… it couldn’t have been that important since I can’t remember where exactly.”
“Hah, you’re funny!”
“Oh, right. I was going to grab a bottle of wine from the SAQ.”
“The one on Rachel?”
“Yup.”
“Well you passed it.”
“You’re right.”
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just a little out of it. From the pigeon.”
“But the pigeon got hit after you’d already passed the SAQ…”
“Right. Whatever. Are you coming over?”
“OK. We’ll stop and get your wine on the way.”
“Rosé. I only drink rosé.”
“Rosé it is, then!”
Emmanuelle turned her bicycle around and started to head east. The blond pedalled behind her, checking out her ass. It had to be the adrenaline rush from the accident he’d just witnessed; his libido was through the roof.
Aromatic Bichon
“what’s your name, by the way?”
“Manue. You?”
“David Thibault. But you can call me Dave.”
Her full name was Emmanuelle, but for Dave she would just stay Manue. Less strings attached. Usually, she hated people who tried to seem cool by using an English-sounding version of their name. She’d make an exception for the blond with the turquoise eyes. He was cute and they’d been through a lot together after all. Plus, she hadn’t gotten laid in a long time.
“Can I pour you a glass of Bichon Louvet?”
“Go for it!”
In the end, they’d had to stop at Loblaws and get supermarket wine since they’d arrived two minutes too late in front of the SAQ in the Angus shopping complex. The name “Bichon Louvet” had made them laugh, so they’d grabbed the bottle without considering whether its contents were more “fruity and laid-back” or “aromatic and seductive.”
“Shit, I’m out of clean glasses.”
“No worries, we’ll drink from the bottle.”
Manue couldn’t find the corkscrew, so she improvised using a hammer, nail, and rubber glove. The pieces of cork floating in the wine looked like little lifeboats carrying the shipwrecked to shore.
“You’ve got a nice place.”
“It’s a disaster.”
“No, it’s like barrack style.”
“You mean Baroque?”
“Yeah, Baroque. Like the opera.”
“You like opera?”
“Hell no. But my uncle sings in a choir.”
“Ah.”
“He’s gay.”
“Well then.”
Dave was obviously running out of things to say. Manue could have just cleaned his shirt like she’d promised and sent him back where he’d come from, but she didn’t want to seem impolite or prude. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept with a guy who’d gotten on her nerves.
> She didn’t see this ending any other way: they’d fuck, exchange numbers because that was what you did, and never hear from each other again. This had become Emmanuelle’s modus operandi, and though she hated her name because it made people think of sex, she tried her best to live up to its image of 1970s slut.
After downing half the aromatic Bichon in under twenty minutes, Manue was beginning to feel that she was losing some of her faculties. Not that she always had perfect control of herself—she could be a bit of a loose cannon even at the best of times—but alcohol amplified her tendency to blurt out what she should have kept to herself.
“My boobs are really small,” she interjected, cutting off a dull conversation about the possibility of humankind living on Mars one day.
“That’s OK. I like small boobs.”
“Can we just stop pretending that we don’t want to get in each other’s pants?”
“Uh… OK.”
“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the movies later, so we don’t have much time.”
“You definitely cut right to the chase, don’t you?”
“You’ve got me.”
“Uh…”
“Take your pants off.”
Manue had already started undressing. She flung her polka-dotted blouse to the ground amid a pile of books, the leftovers from the night before, and a jumble of clean clothes waiting to be folded. Dave, caught off guard by the brash nature of his conquest, tried awkwardly to unbutton his jeans while keeping his eyes glued to Manue’s breasts. They weren’t all that small, he thought, considering himself an authority on the subject.
Dave was taking his time; he still hadn’t taken off his shirt and Manue was standing there naked. Exasperated, she walked over to give him a hand. In one deft movement she dropped his pants and underwear to the floor and brought her mouth to his penis. He smelled like someone who’d been cycling all day. Manue could have suggested he shower first, but feared it would slow down the process even more. Instead, she blew him holding her breath, stopping to come up for air every twenty seconds. Dave moaned as he swayed back and forth, his left hand in her hair, pushing her gently to go faster. She felt him swell in her mouth, his balls hardening in her palm. He clenched his ass, tightened his abs, and bucked even faster. If he kept on like this, the hookup would be over sooner than anticipated. As she pulled her lips away and met his eyes, inviting him to relax and prolong the pleasure, the inevitable happened: he ejaculated a limp, bitter spray onto her not-so-small breasts.
“I’m so sorry. I really couldn’t hold it back.”
“I guess that’s a compliment. Thank you. I think you should get your things and leave.”
“But you didn’t clean my shirt!”
“Are you serious?”
“But that’s why I came over, right?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so macho in my life.”
“And we aren’t going to finish the wine?”
“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”
“Can I at least use the bathroom before I go?”
“Hurry up.”
Manue was used to one-night stands and love stories that ended before ever really beginning, but her non-relationship with “premature” Dave was probably the most pathetic of them all. She should have known that sleeping with a guy she’d met on a bike path after they’d both watched a pigeon getting trampled to pieces wasn’t the best idea.
The upside to the aborted shag was that she wouldn’t be late for the 9 o’clock showing.
Romanian Flop
manue liked to say her life would make a good movie, with the disasters just furthering the plot. At least being Hollywood-worthy meant that she was unique and interesting. The truth was she was fed up with casual flings, dead-end relationships, tense mother/daughter clashes, and ludicrous misadventures.
Her reputation preceded her: her life as a continuous string of unlikely events and impossible stories. She was the perfect punch to help spice up an evening; stories of her missed opportunities and unfortunate dates could entertain crowds for hours. But what served as a fascinating diversion to others was quickly becoming tedious to the protagonist. Manue dreamed of a boring life with a suburban routine. Just to know what it felt like to be someone ordinary and predictable.
“This movie’s boring,” Manue whispered to Serena.
“Stop complaining. It’s awesome.”
“You know Polish flicks subtitled in Catalan aren’t really my thing.”
“It’s Romanian, not Polish. Give it a chance, will you? It’ll be good for you to watch something other than Hollywood blockbusters.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying, but I think I tried too hard and now I have to pee. I’ll wait for you by the bathrooms.”
“Fine, whatever. But don’t expect me to tell you how it ends.”
“I already know how it ends. The girl bleeds to death. These stupid indie films never end well. That’s why they win lots of awards and why I avoid watching them. I’ve got enough shitty things going on in my life. I don’t need to watch depressing movies.”
“So dramatic. Go pee, and let me watch my movie in peace.”
Manue got up and walked over to the exit. She left Serena alone in the theatre with the only other audience member brave enough to sit through the psychological thriller co-produced by Romania, Bulgaria, and Serbia: a man in his forties wearing pants that rode up past his ankles, a beige scarf, and a matching beret. A sex offender or serial killer, no doubt. Manue hoped that he wouldn’t hurt her friend, though Serena would probably relish the idea of ending up like one of her favourite heroines.
Serena’s thing for obscure art house films often surprised people, given her plastic look and penchant for swearing. To each his contradictions. Manue couldn’t tell whether her friend’s astonishing love of film was sincere or whether it was just another way of showing off—something she could brag about when attempting to seduce intellectuals or bring up around people who hadn’t seen the latest Haneke or Bergman masterpiece. But she didn’t know the latter had died in 2007, which said a lot about the exact nature of her passion.
The women’s bathroom was being cleaned by the ticket agent who doubled as the janitor, a tall man with dark hair in his early thirties with a nice ass and starry eyes.
“Excuse me, ma’am. It’ll just be a minute,” he apologized in an accent with hints of dried tomatoes and olive oil.
“Take your time,” answered Manue. “I don’t really have to go. The movie was boring.”
“What did you come see?”
“I can’t remember the title. That Romanian flop…”
“I haven’t seen it. But I’m glad I haven’t wasted my money, then.”
“Totally. Unless you have $11.75 to pour down the drain.”
“Thanks for looking out for my wallet.”
“No problem.”
“Have a nice evening, ma’am.”
“Ma’am.” She didn’t hear that too often. And a conversation with a Mediterranean dreamboat that ended with a heartfelt ‘have a nice evening’ rather than an invitation to get it on in the men’s washrooms—now that really did make a change for Manue. Perhaps it was a sign she was getting older. She was growing up and becoming a responsible adult, one who wasn’t just interested in flirting with anything with a brain between its legs. Someone who thought about paying her bills on time, returning movies to the video store, and going grocery shopping more than once a month.
“Excuse me,” Manue approached the ticket agent/janitor/popcorn popper.
“Yes?”
“I… Here’s my number. I mean… My business card. If you ever need a poster or to retouch a photo or anything… I mean, not to retouch just anything, but, if you need anything… Anything related to graphic design, of course… I’m a graphic designer. At any rate, feel free to call me
if you need some help.” She was having a hard time stringing two words together without stuttering.
“OK, great. I don’t think I’ll need any retouching soon, but if I change my mind I’ll call you.”
He’d met Manue’s bumbling advances with a warm smile in his voice and honey in his eyes. Her bungled attempt seemed to have attracted him, rather than put him off, which didn’t stop Manue from feeling stupid and incompetent. What was she thinking, coming on to this guy? Hadn’t she just applauded herself for not falling back into her old habits? She couldn’t hit on the guy mopping the ladies’ toilets.
Unlike in the movies where characters always manage to conquer their demons and grow into better people with bright futures, people never truly change in real life. They go on diets, sign up for pilates, hire life coaches, psychologists, occupational therapists, and all kinds of professionals who swear that, after a session or two, everything will be better. The truth is they always stay the same: a little overweight, sedentary, stubborn, self-centred, and fixated on their unhappy childhood.
On that depressing note, Manue headed home. She didn’t think it was worth waiting for the movie to end to find Serena. They’d invariably go back to her place and Manue would be forced to listen to Serena sing the praises of the Bulgarian director who offered “such a refreshing picture of Woman (with a capital W) and her daily struggles.” Manue with a capital M just felt like sleeping.
The Flight of the Goldfish
back home, Manue flipped on the lights in every room and turned up the TV so she wouldn’t feel so alone. Normally, she was overjoyed to live on her own, free from her mother, her compulsive liar of an ex-boyfriend, and her cleaning-freak roommates. But tonight she longed to be greeted with a sincere, “Hi, sweetie. Did you have a good night?” Someone other than Gabrielle’s ghost or Hector, her goldfish. Though she was grateful for his company; he kept her from feeling completely crazy if she talked out loud in her living room when nobody was around.
As she sat down on the toilet to relieve a bladder full of Coca-Cola, she cried out in fright. Not only had she been caught off guard by the cold, wet ceramic she’d sat directly onto—“premature” Dave hadn’t bothered to lower the seat after taking care of his post-fellatio needs—but as she looked into the fishbowl sitting proudly on the bathtub ledge, she made a horrible discovery: Hector was gone.
Behind the eyes we meet Page 2
