by Scott Carter
“No, thank you.”
“Really? You’re looking at me like this is work, but it’s a rush of its own. I’ll start us off.”
He rolls up his sleeves and reveals veiny arms with road maps of moles. Assuming an old-school boxing stance with his fists facing up, he slugs the bag’s centre with an uppercut.
“You can feel the stress leaving your body. And I mean feel it.” Burns strikes the bag again. “Are you ready to have a go?” He points at Richard, who shakes his head one more time. “You will be. How about you?” He gestures to Carol, who nods and steps in front of the bag like she’s not sure what to do. “You don’t have to make a fist, just slap it, chop it, whatever works for....”
Carol’s war cry cuts him off as she charges the bag with a scream, knocks it to the floor, and pounces on it with her legs straddled. Hammer fists and forearms hit the bag repeatedly until her spent arms dangle by her side.
The doctor claps slowly. “Now that is getting the angries out.” He pivots to Richard. “You’re up.”
Richard lifts his journal to eye level and tears off the happy face cover. He looks at his mother, now on her knees with a flush face, and back at the doctor as he rips the happy face to pieces. Watching the paper fall to the floor is gratifying until he notices that instead of being upset, Dr. Burns looks pleased.
Sixteen
Barrett tries to calm himself with routine. He sits in the same spot he does every day in the leather chair adjacent to the fireplace in an independent coffee shop with amazing organic butter tarts. He tries to distract himself with the newspaper, but articles about a dominatrix fighting for her charter rights, a tourist held hostage in Mexico, and a politician accused of too much travel can’t compete with his personal stress. In fact, he hasn’t felt this paranoid since he took three hits of acid at a ski chalet in Whistler a few years ago when he spent the evening in a staring contest with a snowman.
He finishes his coffee and is walking toward the bathroom when he notices a man in his thirties behind him. The man is well dressed, overweight, and focused on his iPhone.
Barrett looks back at the man suspiciously and continues into the bathroom as the man raises his iPhone to eye level. Barrett is sure he hears a click and spins around so fast, he tumbles.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m about to go to the bathroom.”
“Did you take a picture of me?”
“Why would I want a picture of you?”
Barrett reaches for the iPhone, and the man pulls away.
“I’m texting my wife.”
“Show me.”
Barrett reaches again but the man pulls away too fast. The man holds the phone out to display a text on the screen and Barrett takes a step back.
“Sorry.”
“You might want to remember your medication the next time you’re out in public.”
Barrett exits the washroom and is heading back to where he was sitting when he sees an attractive young woman in his seat. Her chocolate brown hair hangs below her shoulders and large eyes make it difficult to look at anything else. She wears a Runaways T-shirt and is highlighting a textbook when she notices him looking at her.
“I’m sorry, were you sitting here? I didn’t know if the paper meant it was reserved or if someone left it.”
“I was ...” Barrett gestures to the textbook. “But you look like you need it more than me.”
“Third-year philosophy.” She taps the book with her highlighter. “I haven’t read a word in a month.”
“Why read about it when you can live it?”
“I like that. I’m Pam.”
She holds out her hand, and Barrett is amazed at how soft her skin feels.
“Barrett.” He appraises the T-shirt. “The Runaways, huh?”
She throws up devil horns. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”
Barrett leans into her so only she can hear him. “Not me, I’m abstaining from the big D right now.”
“Yeah?”
“I need my wits about me.”
“A moment of clarity?”
“More like forced retirement.”
Now she leans into him, and her lips are so close to his ear that he can feel the vibration of her words. “Me too.”
“Really?”
She holds up two fingers. “Two months and counting. I’ve got to go to work. My car’s outside. Do you want a ride anywhere?”
These are rhythms Barrett is used to, so as she gets up and leads him by the hand to the car, it feels as natural as breathing. The car smells like perfume and cigarettes.
He moves a crumpled fast-food wrapper to the back and sits in the passenger seat. Pam kisses him before he can say anything, slides onto his lap and tugs at his belt. These are the moments in Barrett’s life that when he reflects on, he wonders if he is a character in someone else’s fantasy.
Twenty minutes later he’s sitting down to enjoy a victory coffee when his phone buzzes.
He looks to see a text from Don, the publisher: Can you make time to talk?
Anxiety takes over immediately and while the rest of the room slows to a blur, the text’s font seems the size of a billboard. Of course he types. What’s up?
This is a conversation that needs face time.
This is not a text he wants to see from a man whose wife he is having sex with. This is not a text he wants to see from the man who publishes the books that make him millions.
Okay.
Can you do Aideen’s?
Aideen’s. Don can afford to eat at any restaurant in the city, but when he wants to talk about anything serious, he chooses Aideen’s. Around the corner from his office, the place hasn’t had a renovation since it opened in the sixties. Black-and-white photos of pin-up girls from long ago hang on the walls and graffiti fills the worn wooden tables. This is where Don takes him to vent. Their shared love of drink led to periodical bonding sessions during nights of excess, and whenever something really riles the man up, he invites Barrett to Aideen’s.
His previous tirades against ebooks, unauthorized biographies, poetry sales, and the last-minute fallout of potential acquisitions make Barrett feel like Aideen’s is the natural spot to be strangled for sleeping with the man’s wife.
Barrett takes a breath, reminds himself that the key to lying is composure, and types, Sure. When are you thinking?
I’m already here.
He types, On my way, and tries to stay calm, but he can’t help but scan his memory for any time Don mentioned owning a gun.
He arrives at Aideen’s to see that Don’s face is uncharacteristically heavy. “Thanks for coming,” he says as Barrett slides into the booth. “This isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.”
Barrett feels his throat constrict.
“You would agree that we know each other better than most people who do business together, yeah?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, we’ve smoked joints together.”
“Many times.”
“And we’ve been embarrassingly drunk together.”
“More than once.” The tension is too much so he speeds up the inevitable. “What needed face time so urgently?”
Don looks off and taps the table. “I know you’ve been with a lot of women in your time.”
Suddenly Barrett’s sip of water feels like he’s swallowing an orange.
“I trust you,” Don continues. “I respect your opinion and you have enough experience in this area that you’re the right guy to consult.”
Both Don’s weakening tone and choice of words relax Barrett.
“Consult about what?” he says, seizing control of the conversation.
“I’m worried about my marriage.”
“Why?” Barrett plays along. “Layla’s great.”
“Of course she is. She’s amazing, but I’m not worried about her, I’m worried about me.”
“How so?”
“We haven’t had sex in two months.”
B
arrett thinks of the first night he had sex with Layla. Don left a movie premier afterparty early, and while drinking many tequila shots, they went from sharing complaints about how gossip magazines are destroying journalism to rolling around a hotel penthouse bedroom. He does a rough calculation of the number of days since that night, and bingo.
“That happens sometimes to people who have been married for a long time, doesn’t it?”
“Not two months.”
“Are you trying?”
“She’s not interested. And I think it’s because of the last time we had sex.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t exactly a champion.”
“Were you drinking?”
“Probably.”
“Don’t worry about it. A little flaccidity happens to all of us sometimes when booze is involved.”
“It’s more than a little, and now it’s a mental thing. I love this woman to death, Barrett. I can’t have her getting bored.”
“She’s crazy about you.”
Don now talks out of the side of his mouth in an effort to be discreet. “I haven’t had a good stiffy in months.”
Barrett smiles. He can feel his heart beat slow down. “Have you taken Cialis?”
“No.”
“I’ll send you over a bottle.”
“You use those pills?”
“Of course.”
“Not me. Never will either.”
“Do you want your problem to go away?”
“Those pills are like the chiropractor. Once you go, you’re a customer for life.”
“Do you want to run your abstinent streak to three months?”
“Do they really work?”
“It’ll be the best night of her life.” Other than with me, he thinks. “But be warned, you’ll be stuck with an erection for the rest of the night.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. You could pry open windows with the thing.”
Don laughs and Barrett enjoys the relief of not being caught cheating with his boss’s wife.
Seventeen
After writing out I WILL NOT DISRESPECT MY TEACHER a hundred times, Richard’s hand feels like it belongs to a centenarian, but he’ll never let Phelps know.
“A little old-school medicine is good for the soul,” Phelps says. “It will help you remember if you feel the urge again to stray from the pack.”
Richard steps outside the school and takes a number of deep breaths to get rid of the smell of Phelps’ trench mouth. The air is cool but the sky is sunny so he heads for a bench on the other side of the playground and removes his coverless journal. He is compelled to write — but not the journals Dr. Burns wants. What he wants to do is tell a story like Russell Niles does, and that story is the day he found Wendell getting bullied by Terrence and Derrick at school. His pen touches the paper, and suddenly the eight-and-a-half by eleven surface feels the size of a football field. He wonders how he’ll ever write a sentence, let alone fill the page. But then he remembers the look in the Wendell’s eyes, like a snapshot where he can see every detail, and the words come to him. He’s written a half page without taking his pen from the paper when an older voice stops his momentum.
“I know you,” the voice says.
Richard looks up to see a kid from the junior high connected to his grade school. He’s seen the kid on the sidewalk smoking many times before and a few times in front of the neighbourhood variety store, but kids from the junior high tend not to talk to kids in the other building, unless they are related or neighbours. The kid is lean, with a crooked nose that looks like it’s been broken and a mop of blonde hair.
“You’re the kid that beat the shit out of Terrence, right?”
The kid makes Richard nervous, so he goes with the flow and nods.
“Must be a tough little fucker to do that to him, as small as you are.” He lights a cigarette, and Richard can’t help but be amazed that he’s brazen enough to do so with a teacher monitoring the playground only a fence and twenty yards away.
“I’m Jerry,” he says, extending a fist.
Richard touches his knuckles and notices the chunky gold ring on his pinky.
“You like that, huh?” Jerry says.
“I do.”
“Do you want to smoke a joint?”
“A what?”
“A joint. To get high. Have you ever smoked one?”
Richard shakes his head.
“Then you have to. It’s the least I can do for someone that knocked out that little shit-talker. Follow me.”
And while Richard’s instincts tell him not to, follow is exactly what he does. He has no intention of smoking the joint, but he wants to be around Jerry a little longer.
Between the parking lot at the school’s rear and the benches at the front, there is a twenty-foot walkway that people rarely use. Lined with trees at the top and a hill sloping to the walkway, it’s the perfect spot for mischief.
Jerry sits on the grass with his feet on a wooden retaining wall littered with bad graffiti. He lights a thin joint and sucks his cheeks inward.
“You look really freaked out.” He exhales on the ember so it glows. “You don’t really have to smoke this. I just wanted the company.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Good,” he says, pausing unusually long on the oo.
“Like how?”
“Like you don’t have any stress or anxiety. Like principal fucking Haskins could come out here right now and be like, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ and I’d just smile and be like, ‘Getting high’.” This time he drags out the iiiii.
Richard runs his tongue over the dry, peeling skin on the inside of his cheeks and considers why he’s on medication. If the joint takes away his anxiety then he can stop taking the medication without his mom or Dr. Burns knowing, and he’d rather smile like Jerry is than live a lifetime with a mouth so dry it feels like he’ll choke on water.
“Can I have some?” he asks.
“You sure?”
Richard nods and accepts Jerry’s passing of the joint. In his hand, it’s smaller than he expects. He raises it to his lips and does his best impersonation of Jerry.
“Easy,” Jerry says. “You don’t have to land on the moon your first time.”
Richard expects to cough, but the smoke fills his lungs and absorbs into his body in what feels like one smooth motion. He takes another drag then Jerry pulls the joint from his fingers. “All right. That’s enough for a first go. You heading home after this?”
“Yep,” Richard says. The sound of his voice makes him smile.
“Then you’ll need this to mask the smell.” Jerry raises a bottle of cologne and sprays him three times. “Turn around.” Richard obeys and he sprays him twice more. “All right, pie eye. You did good, now get out of here.”
Richard starts off down the path with small steps when Jerry’s voice stops him.
“Hey.”
Richard turns around and fails to contain a smile that he knows makes him look stupid.
“Don’t forget this.” Jerry tosses Richard the journal.
Richard drops it clumsily. “Thanks.”
He picks it up, and although it only takes ten minutes to get home, it feels like an hour.
He can feel his conscience constricting to a pin-prick before expanding again and the process repeats itself with the rhythm of a beating heart when suddenly he thinks of the term “being a vegetable” and for a moment he fears that he will literally become a radish or a carrot before a woman walking by with a triple chin makes him wonder what she looks like inside all that flesh, and he begins an incessant giggle that paces him back to his apartment.
When he steps into the apartment, he is surprised to see his mother home from work already. He wants to ask if everything is okay but his face feels funny and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, so he stays quiet.
Carol scrapes diced strawberries from a cutting board into a bowl of fruit salad and sets down the knif
e. “There he is. Do I ever need a hug.” She steps toward him with open arms and suddenly his heavy eyes feel the size of softballs.
“Why are you home?” he asks in an effort to keep his distance.
“We had a series of workshops on some new software off-site, so I got off early. It’s good to see you. I’ve had the worst headache all day, and all I wanted to do is come home and give you a hug.”
Richard looks at his mother and says what he’s thinking without editing. “Can we go to another therapist? Dr. Burns is weird.”
“He’s not weird, he’s innovative. And that’s why I chose him. I went to a traditional therapist for a few weeks when I was a teenager, and I didn’t like that style. I don’t want you to have someone preaching at you, I want you to learn some techniques of your own, experience something that you can use for the rest of your life.”
The answer is far too serious for Richard to process in this state. He’s bending down and struggling to take off his shoes when she steps toward him.
“Now give me that hug.”
She pulls his head into her stomach and buries her face in his hair, then the smell of cheap cologne forces her to clear her throat.
“Where did you get the cologne?”
“It’s a friend’s.”
She smiles. “You know, the trick with cologne is to be subtle. You want people to want to be near you to smell more, not to step away because it’s so strong.”
“Okay,” he says. Robots show more emotion, but he’s doing everything possible to contain a smile that is sure to get him in trouble.
“It smells familiar, actually. Give me another whiff and I’ll place it.”
Instinct tells him to pull away, but in doing so, he exposes his front and as she leans into his chest, along with the rank smell of cheap cologne, she gets a hit of Terry’s space weed. For a moment, her eyes narrow with confusion until another sniff confirms the source.
“You smell like marijuana. Did you smoke a joint?”
“No,” he mutters.
“I’m going to give you another chance to be honest with me. Because I can smell it. Did you smoke a joint?”
