The barman picked our empties up, and Bob said, “Un autre.”
“I think it is better coffee. Or maybe water. Soft drink.”
“C’mon, big guy.”
“Sorry.”
“Piece a shit.”
The barman slapped down his tray. Dregs splashed my shirt. He jabbed a finger at Bob and me.“You want,” he said, “to stay on the train?”
I said, “Fuck did I do?” and gestured at my shirt.
“Out, now. Both of you.”
Heads had turned. Someone laughed.
Bob stood, swaying, and I followed him out. The motion of the train made him stagger that much more. By the washroom, he lurched, and when I tried to steady him, he yanked his arm away.
“Fuck off, kid.”
“Suit yourself.”
He locked the washroom door and began hacking terribly.
I said, “You okay in there?” but he didn’t answer.
Back in my seat, I tongue-dabbed my finger and rubbed at the stains on my forty-dollar shirt. Became increasingly murderous, and rehearsed several fights with the frogfuck barman. A fistful of his ginger hair, slamming his face over and over into the tabletop. After that, I thought up furious letters to the head of VIA Rail. Checked my shoulder now and then, but no sign of Bob. The attractive older woman had struck up a conversation with the big-bellied man. I decided she was a philistine too, and tried to read The Great Tradition, but my weight that year had dropped below a hundred and sixty pounds (I am pushing six foot five), and beer in the early afternoon always conked me out.
~
I woke having dreamt I was late for the train.
A man beside me said, “G’day.”
He was gaunt and badly pockmarked, with a handlebar mustache, and black gaps in his grin. With a total hoser accent, and overdone politeness, he said, “Name’s Joe. Just got on in Parry Sound.” Stuck out his grimy mitt. When we shook, he switched his grip to the macho kind. I wanted to go and wash my hand.
He said, “Where you headin?”
I said, “Calgary.”
He looked at me like fame, and leaned into the aisle, telling nearby passengers, “Man’s goin west.” Shook my hand again, “Honour to fuckin meet you,” then reached inside his denim coat and offered me the bottle, its green neck protruding from a brown paper bag.
I waved it off.
“Primes the pump.”
“Maybe later.”
He sucked the pungent stuff back in eye-popping quantity. The big-bellied man issued a snort, and the Scots conductor came through, calling, “Tickets, please.” Joe hid his bottle and dragged a hand across his mouth.
“Well, look who it is.”
“How she goin, guy?”
“Can’t complain, Joe.”
“Got ’er right here.”
“Have you now?”
“Paid for.” Joe produced a ticket. “Sudbury.”
“I see that.”
“Got myself a squaw.”
“Did you?”
“Beauty.”
“I’m sure she’s a keeper. Behave yourself, now.”
The conductor moved on, and grinning Joe jerked his thumb. “Knows me.”
I said something like “Mm.”
“Don’t put up with no shit, neither.”
“I imagine not.”
Minutes passed. I tried to read, but Joe bobbed his knee, and out came the bottle. “Coast is clear, Cochise.”
“You go ahead.”
“C’mon, get ’er in you. She’s a long fuckin ride.”
I smelled the rim. “What is this?”
“Lemon gin. The good stuff.”
I swallowed a bitter thimbleful.
Joe had another walloping slug, and slid the paper bag down. “Best save some for my honey.”
I said, “Good idea.”
“She can fuckin go.” He nudged me in the ribs. “Ever had the red meat?”
“No.”
“Could set you up with some.”
“I’ll keep it mind, thanks.”
He nudged me again, and I pictured hitting him, but stared out the window, aware of his knee. Daylight was fading. I remember islands, small rocky islands, little Group of Seven things, out in Georgian Bay—at least I thought it was Georgian Bay—I had never been this far by land. Joe introduced himself to surrounding passengers, telling every one of them he had just got on in Parry Sound, asking where they were headed. Nobody replied. “Friendly bunch,” Joe said. Reclined his seat, “Fuck yous, then,” and soon was sawing logs. His mouth sagged crookedly, revealing black-rot stumpy teeth and ulcerating gums. I looked up and down the length of the car, but every seat was taken. His snoring was incredible. It hit every ugly note, hissing sibilants, clicks and smacks, long, whistling fricatives. The bottle of lemon gin was forever leaning, threatening to tip. I righted it. It leaned again. I righted it. It leaned again. On and on like this through distended minutes. I was getting hungry and berated my lack of self-control. Wolfing that bagel. Should have saved half. I had thirty-seven dollars left and forty-odd more hours between here and Calgary. Other passengers had brought their own food. I had brought F.R. Leavis, and when the sandwich cart came through, dropped four eighty-five on a turkey-swiss. The transaction woke Joe. His eyes were twin catastrophes, gunky and bloodshot.
“Got there, Kemo Sabe?”
I just kept chewing. It was cold and stale with too much butter.
Joe discovered his bottle. Had himself a haul. Offered me it.
“No.”
“Maybe I’ll just finish ’er off.”
“You go right ahead.”
“I can go all night on this stuff. Never blow my load.”
He twisted in his seat, and had a long filthy look at the older woman.
“What do you think a that?”
“Think she’s a little rich for you.”
“Throw a solid fuck in her.” His elbow in my ribs. “I would too. In the washroom, eh?”
He cupped his hands around an imaginary ass, and began to thrust. The bottle tipped. I shot up.
He leaned back, wincing at me through his fingers. “Fuck you doin?”
“Shut up.”
I had cocked a fist and stood over him a moment more, hot in the face, racing heart. My trouser leg wet with gin. Then I pounded up the aisle, Joe swearing after me, and locked the washroom door. Someone must have just been in for a monstrous shit. I had to hold my breath. Water puddled and ran on the floor and sloshed in the little sink. I drained it and dampened a paper towel. Dabbed my trouser leg. There was piss on and around the toilet seat. Sodden Kleenex and toilet paper lay on the floor like dead and wounded. The stink was not abating. I didn’t want to go sit down, but couldn’t stay in here, and thought of maybe standing in the vestibule. Which is when I heard the connecting doors, then the conductor and the big-bellied man.
“Guy’s a menace.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
Their voices faded up the aisle. I opened the bathroom door a bit. A shouting match was on.
The train began slowing down. I stayed where I was until it had stopped. Up at the front of the car, Joe wrenched his arm free from the conductor’s grip.
“Fuckin touch me!”
“Joe, take a telling. Out now, or it’s coppers.”
“My fuckin money back!”
“I’ll get you on the next train. Once you’ve calmed down.”
“What about my woman!”
“She’ll have to wait.”
Joe stared daggers at me. “Fuck you lookin at!”
“Sir,” said the conductor, “could you resume your seat, please.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I said.
“Sir. Resume your seat.”
I wat
ched out the window. Joe let himself be led across the narrow platform and into the little station. Soon the conductor was back on board, and seemed to me rather pleased with himself, as though he had just finished an invigorating run. He apologized for the delay and started down the aisle. I readied explanations, but he only winked on his way by and gave the all-clear on his walkie-talkie. The train pulled away, and the empty bottle of lemon gin rolled from beneath the seat in front. I set my foot on top of it. Ontario went on.
~
I slept again, but fitfully, and woke in a sweat, wrenching my left arm away from a phantom grip. Here and there a reading light. Otherwise, the car was dark. I took off my blazer and folded it in half on the empty seat. One across and down, the attractive older woman dozed, her head leaning to the right, then resting on the shoulder of the big-bellied man, who levelled a kingshit look at me. I stretched my arms and neck. On a tall smokestack in the near distance, aircraft warning lights blinked like Christmas. The conductor thumped and swished up the aisle. “Sudbury, ten minutes.” Then the overhead lights blinked on. I thumbed through the mustiness of my F.R. Leavis. Adam Bede, Nostromo, The Portrait of a Lady. I was reading about these books before I had read the books themselves. Often that got me by in school, where you didn’t need to be well read. You just had to sound it.
I shoved The Great Tradition down deep into the seat pocket, and resolved to stop play-acting, in school and the rest of life. Be upfront and honest. It would start in Calgary. I was going to sit my sister down and tell her what had happened. A tube of pimple cream. She would understand. We might even laugh. I had learned my lesson, I had worked with kids, still made the Dean’s List, and was doing all right. I told myself that, may even have said it out loud, “You’re doing all right.” Then I saw the girl, waiting on the platform at Sudbury station, thin, bare arms folded across her chest. She had high heel boots on, and torn fishnet stockings. A black tank top, and cleavage. Danger in those feral eyes. Danger, danger, danger.
~
She got on near the front of the train, but by the time it left Sudbury, had worked her way down. I grabbed The Great Tradition and pretended to read. Arms still held in that pale X, she stopped by the aisle seat and looked at my jacket, then at me. I remember her small knees and the bad, girly perfume.
“Hey.”
I ignored her.
“Hey. Can I sit here?”
She looked maybe grade ten and sounded drunk or stoned or both.
“Please, can I sit here?”
I kept my eyes averted, and reached for my blazer.
“Thanks.”
I turned toward the window and draped the blazer over me, faking easy sleep. An eastbound freight train blasted by only a couple yards away. I watched the passing blur of it, and when it was gone, saw her in the darkened glass, facing me, watching me.
She said, “I’m goin to Dryden.”
I closed my eyes again.
“Gonna see Dave.”
Kept them closed.
“He likes me. He’ll take care a me.”
Long moments passed.
“You’re not really sleepin.”
I opened my eyes and turned to her. “Could you be quiet, please?”
She said, “What’s your name?”
“You want to know my name.”
“Yeah.”
I told her one. “What’s yours?”
She paused and said, “Ruby.”
Her lips were big and glossy. A large oval tear in the fishnet on her thigh. She said, “I’m goin to Dryden.”
“You already told me that.”
“Can you lend me twenty dollars?”
“I don’t have twenty dollars.”
She said, “I ran away.”
“From home?”
“I used a piece a glass,” she said, and then showed me her right forearm. A vicious red runnel ran the inside length of it.
“You have to go to the hospital.”
“Where I ran away from.”
“Why?”
“Get away from Wayne and Wanda.”
“Your mom and dad?”
“Foster parents. They give us drugs. They do. Even the little kids, so they stay asleep.”
“Call the police.”
“Dave said I could live with him. Long as I want.”
Through the connecting doors up front I saw the conductor. He had paused to punch a ticket, but was headed this way.
“Please, mister. Twenty bucks.”
“I can’t.”
“He’ll kick me off this train.”
“He can get you help.”
She leaned close, and whispered, “You can fuck my mouth.”
Usually what I say is I hid out in the washroom, but that isn’t true. I waited for her there. I left the door unlocked, and I pictured it, getting mouthfucked by a kid amidst that stink and squalor. When I heard her footfalls a couple minutes later, I slid the lock across, but it was no big moral thing. I was scared, that’s all. Maybe I mean terrified. Anyway, when I came out, the train had begun to slow down, and the girl had gone. Shamefaced and sweaty, I went back to my seat. Another measly station in another measly town. The car doors opened, admitting nighttime air.
I had my blazer halfway on when I felt the absent weight. Clutched all its pockets. Looked beneath the seat. My face was hot like scalding, and I went numb, rigid. It was like last fall outside Shoppers Drug Mart, when the store detective grabbed my arm. Glee lit up his little rat-face, and a small jewel twinkled in his left ear. He nodded at the pocket of my denim coat and asked what I had in it. I answered him. I told him he had caught me. I even called him sir.
Dogshit Blues
His second call came within a minute of the first. I said hello and waited. From the dregs of himself, he mustered speech.
Son.
Yes.
Your nana.
I know. Dad, you told me. You just called, and told me.
Slow, appalling seconds passed.
Son.
Yes.
Your nana.
Dad . . .
I drew a drape—wet snow—and pressed my headache, hard.
Are you still at the place on Naseby?
He made a sound like yes.
Stay where you are. I’m out the door. Dad, do you hear me?
~
I ran up Division, past the Hoagie House. An emaciated teen shoved her bawling baby in a stroller through the slush. My wrists were cold. I hate that. Puddles ankle deep. Near Regiopolis-Notre Dame, a city bus lumbered by, heaving the horrible weight of itself. I should have flagged it down. Division is bitching long. The harder I ran the longer it got. Intersections multiplied. Division and Kirkpatrick. Division and Elliot. These streets were strange and mocking me. I stopped and walked and went inside a shabby Esso station. The clerk looked warm in her red fleece, eating ketchup chips.
Loonie and four quarters, please.
Her mouth postponed its chewing.
Sorry. Can’t make change.
My hair and most of the rest of me dripped.
I need to get a bus.
Sorry. Not allowed.
I looked at the pepperoni sticks.
How much?
Forty cents.
I fished one out. She brushed crumbs and ketchup dust off her porky fingers.
Know when the next one is? I said.
She said, What.
Bus.
Depends.
On what.
Which bus.
Whichever one goes that way.
I don’t know. Soon.
I took my change.
Thanks.
Forgot your pepperoni, guy.
I went back for it. She pointed past me bug-eyed.
There it is now, she
said.
I ran full tilt and hollered. In the back window, two boys watched. The one in the Boston Bruins toque lit right up and cheered me. I shouted, Tell the driver. Tell the driver, stop! The kid looked up the aisle. Then he looked back at me. A ferrety little grin. As the bus pulled farther away, he took off his glove and made a fist. At its base, he turned an imaginary crank. Slowly, his middle finger stood. I threw the pepperoni stick. End over end like fetch it went. Way wide of the bus. I stopped and bent and breathed, spat. Should have worn runners. These old soaking Docs, the clumsy thick-heeled weight of them. A corn on my fourth toe. Anyway, I kept on. It was one thing I was good at.
~
Watching out for coppers, I stood this side of the 401 and wore a bemused-embarrassed look, as though I had never hitched in my life and only had to do so now out of would-you-believe-it circumstance. Maybe a hundred cars went by. Then a hundred more. The looks you get. The looks you don’t. I recited Wallace Stevens and alternated thumbs. Spattered minutes dragged. Arby’s smelled delicious, Wendy’s, KFC. I craved a stack of greasy meat and began to glare at drivers. A minivan or K-car got the whole of my attention, as though I could brake the vehicle and predispose its driver through Jedi-like mind-tricks. Snow splatted on windshields. My overcoat held a weight of wet. Come on, I said. I’m not a bum. I go to Queen’s, hear me? That’s right, you asshole. Don’t even blink. Have a nice day. How ’bout you? We could chat. I’ll be anyone you like. Will no one fucking stop for me?
Somebody.
You.
Please.
~
Metallica rattled the body and glass of a white Hyundai Pony. One of its headlights shone. The driver had chops and long black hair, a tank top in November. He was wide as one and a half of me, big arms all tattoo. I dropped my thumb and wished him on. Then his blinker flashed, and the clanking heap pulled over, coughing dark exhaust.
Comin or not? I gotta jet.
A Marshall amp and guitar case took up most of the small back seat. I got in the front and gaped at road through a hole in the floor, big as a medium pizza.
He said, Keep your feet up.
Checked his shoulder. Merged.
Far you headed?
The Ambassador of What Page 4
