Misery loves company—but I preferred solitude. My roommate Pat was off on another adventure—this time to Prince Edward Island for a cycling trip. I had the apartment to myself again and spent much of the time on my futon thinking about everything, often about nothing. I was too restless to read or watch television. I tried smoking pot but it made me paranoid. I was fucked. Though I fought the urge, I called Melissa. She never picked up. I left a few ludicrous messages, insulting her, accusing her of dishonesty, infidelity and so on, hoping to provoke a return call, even if to tell me to cease and desist, but she didn’t call back. I rode my bicycle down to her house one night. The lights were on. I tried to get a glimpse inside through the curtained front window but I could see nothing. I heard music, however, and laughter, and I had half a mind to pound on the door and make a scene. I had been good for them in the past. But it was too late for scenes. I mounted my bicycle and rode home.
My deepest apologies, Antonio said in perfect Toronto English, bowing his head a little and taking my hands in his. You of all people, he said, you who never presumed, never judged, and yet I’ve seen you suffering and you’ve never spared a smile or a good word. I beg your forgiveness. I’ve offended you and . . . He went on at some length. I told him to forget about it. I wasn’t going to hold a grudge. We all have our reasons for hiding behind masks. Don’t sweat it, I told him, all’s forgiven. Today is a new day. He happily ordered two grappas from Giuseppe. Pour one for yourself as well, Antonio said. We clinked glasses and drank. It burned nicely going down, the aftertaste pinching my tongue. Several young women entered the bar in a swirl of perfume, hair, and sunlight. No reason to despair, I thought. There was a lot of summer left, and I intended to make the best of it. Just one more thing, I said to Antonio, still batting his eyes with regret and solicitation. Shall we continue speaking in Italian?
Ham and Eggs
Two men were beating another man senseless in front of a darkened tavern. It was late, well past closing time. I watched in silence as the two kicked the other into unconsciousness. His body and head shook from the blows; his assailants didn’t look like they intended to stop. Under the gloomy street lamps their eyes flashed and their leering faces shone. Except for them, and the unconscious man, the street was deserted. They hadn’t noticed me yet. I stood there calmly watching as they continued to kick away, grunting with effort. Takes some work to kick a man to death. A gun or a knife would have been quicker but surely not as satisfying, and not as earned. Finally, I stepped forward.
“Hey,” I said.
My presence startled them.
“Who the fuck are you?” said one, taller and uglier than the other, who was short and ugly.
“Don’t you think he’s had enough?”
“What business is it of yours, motherfucker?” barked the short one.
“It’s not any of my business. I’m sure he deserved the beating, but unless this is a contract thing—I mean, what are we, animals here?”
The two looked at each other. The short one kicked the limp body one more time and then approached me with his partner on his heels.
The little man opened his yap as if to bark out something else, but before he could I kicked him squarely in the chest and dropped him cold. The tall one, surprised by the suddenness of the action, backed off, turned around, and started running with a flat-footed gait.
Didn’t take long to catch up to him. I tripped him and stomped his face until it was unrecognizable. Then I dislocated both of his shoulders.
Went back to the other short one. He hadn’t gotten up, but he was conscious, though his breathing faltered.
“Fuck . . . fucking . . . bastard . . .”
Sat on his chest and with my thumbs, pressed his eyes until blood began to spurt. He couldn’t scream; most likely the kick had cracked his sternum, a horrible thing to suffer, but I’m sure he wanted to scream, I’m sure in his way he was screaming. I slapped him a few times, more for myself than anything. The slaps were the least of his worries, the slaps. I had an idea. I dragged him to the side of the road. Straightened his legs, positioned his feet on the edge of the curb. Then I jumped on his knees.
The dude beaten up by the pair stood there.
“You . . .” His mouth gurgled blood.
“What is it?” I said.
He staggered toward me, clawing at the air with his bloody hands. He was all broken, his intentions unclear. I stepped up to him and cracked him one across the chin. He went down in a heap.
My hands ached as I walked home. What was wrong with people? I hated all of them, all of them. They made me hate myself. They made me hate myself and that was unforgivable. But I didn’t know myself back then. Things had gotten savage. I had to survive. The only thing I had left was self-preservation.
The cockroaches rustled when I switched on the bedroom light. Most of them scattered under the litter, but the bolder ones knew I posed no threat. They never touched me and I respected them for that, small hardy bastards. I saw genius in their form. What else would you call it?
And just as I saw genius in all things, in all the myriad forms and constructs, all the movements and machinations, I saw how even my existence had genius guiding it, the genius of all things. But I needed to sleep. I needed to shut my eyes and clear my mind, for there was chatter filling it up. I touched myself. But no, I couldn’t under the circumstance.
Unable to sleep, I got up and dressed. It was almost dawn. I stepped out. A fine drizzle fell, disturbing my eyes.
A large black dog came trotting toward me but he stopped abruptly and veered across the street. He knew better. Walking, walking. Pum, pum. And then it was morning. I found myself sitting on a bench near the harbourfront. Gulls, ugly gulls, filled the low grey sky. The lake looked like iron. My knuckles throbbed. I shook out my hands. A man on an orange bicycle pulled up.
“Yo,” he said.
“What?”
“Whatta ya mean, what?”
The small pale globe of his face bobbed as he sized me up. His eyes looked like ink spots.
“What the fuck do you want?” I asked.
“Easy, big guy. I’m just seeing if you wanna buy some primo herb, see. I’m the man around here. If you want, I got, ’cause I am the man. Word.”
“Get the fuck out of my face.”
“Are you a cop?”
I stood up and pushed the bicycle over with him straddled on it.
“You fucker!” he cried. “You shitty fucker!”
Kicked him hard in the stomach and this brought quiet for a time. I pulled the bicycle away from his twisted legs. It was surprisingly light. I hoisted it over my shoulder and walked down to the concrete lake barrier. I heaved the bicycle into the water. It sank without a ripple.
The guy stood up now and ran toward me spitting and cursing, his arms akimbo. What did he expect to do? What did any of them expect to do? I flipped the dude and he went head over heels into the lake and sank like his fucking bicycle.
I walked away from the lake and found a decrepit diner up on Parliament full of losers and drunkards. I wasn’t hungry at all but thought I should eat something. I was feeling light-headed and perhaps even vulnerable. Little black asterisks floated before my eyes. They weren’t unpleasant, distinguished by lovely movements and patterns. But they interfered with everything.
I ordered ham and eggs from the wall-eyed, grimacing waiter. He asked if I wanted a beer.
“For breakfast?”
“It’s normal around here. No offence. How ’bout a hot cup of joe?”
“Okay.”
Okay it was. The waiter walked with an ugly limp, his hand sprawling behind his hip, his shoulders jerking. Other patrons sat around sucking on their beers and smoking foul cigarettes, lost in their thoughts. The waiter returned with a plate of glistening ham and eggs. He refilled my coffee cup.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. You’re not from around here.”
“No. So what?”
The waiter sm
iled with yellow cement teeth.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Truth is, no one’s from around here. Everyone’s from somewhere else. I’m from Wisconsin. Can you believe that?”
“Wisconsin?”
“Yup, that’s right. Enjoy the grub.”
He loped away. The food tasted bland, forgettable. I expected no better. I ate quickly, paid, and left.
The asterisks had all but dissipated, except for a stray or two which held on fluidly at the edges of my field of vision, and I accepted them for they garnished my reality, and I can’t say enough about that kind of thing.
Where then? Nowhere, of course. I didn’t want to go home but I had nowhere else to go. That didn’t stop me, it never had. Step one, step two, step three, and so on. Well-fueled, I could go for hours.
I headed out to the west end. I knew no one out there. Everyone walked in twos or threes. Was it Sunday? I wasn’t sure. I heard bells ringing. But they rang on Saturday also. In twos and threes, well dressed. I could not distinguish a single face among them, though I felt them studying me with aplomb.
I came to a green park. Some children played by the swings. A few adults stood aside, chatting, or taking in the cool damp air. The children wore crayon colours, slightly smudged. The adults looked like grey silhouettes, sombre, too serious for their own good. I glanced at my legs. Grey. I was one of the adults. But I was alone, childless, an intruder.
Quite possibly I was a threat. Imagine that, me a threat to children. They didn’t know me. But they must have known I had a mother too once, that I was a child once. That indeed, I understood.
They didn’t know I sought only justice. No, that’s not it. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’ve never known what I’m doing.
I’d be astonished quite frankly to find someone out there who really knows what they’re doing. Those stepping forward claiming knowledge would be liars for the most part, bald-faced liars. Who can say with absolute certainty that they know what they’re doing? I stood up straight, tilted my chin and thinned my eyes. Two women with pointed faces approached me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said one.
“Yeah,” said the other, standing a yard or so behind.
“Is it a crime to take in some air?” I asked.
They looked at each other.
Was the truth too much for them? Or not enough? Didn’t matter. They didn’t bite.
“Leave.”
“Leave or we’ll call the cops.”
“We know what you’re up to.”
“That’s right. So leave.”
I clapped my hands to my pounding temples and shut my eyes, hoping the ladies would just vanish. But when I opened my eyes they still stood there in all their righteousness, for they were righteous if nothing else, and had I been in their shoes, I would have been too.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But I have nowhere to go.”
“Not here.”
“No, not here.”
I reached over and hugged the closer woman, taking her by surprise. Her friend yelped, mistaking my intentions, which I can assure you were pure and good. I hugged her warmly, but perhaps I did not know my own strength, perhaps I did, but I did not know how it applied to human beings. I felt her ribs crack beneath my arms. But surely she was too fragile. Surely I could not be faulted for her fragility. She passed out at my feet. Her friend shouted abominations and the children screamed as the other adults herded them together. Sirens wailed in the distance.
So I ambled away, with no bitterness, though confused, perhaps, by what had gone on, confused and perhaps a little sad.
I kept walking until my feet were sore. I had to sit down. I also needed a refreshing beverage.
A small café near an abandoned warehouse appeared. A rough place populated by grizzled bohemians and a sullen group with tattooed arms and metal things sticking out of their heads. I felt nothing. I ordered an iced tea from the bald barkeep. He had a nose-ring and a rod jutting out of an ear. His flat grey eyes studied me as he popped open a tin of iced tea and poured it into a glass.
“What?” I said.
“Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No, man. I’m sure I know you.”
“I think you’re mistaken. I think I would remember a mug like yours.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m thirsty, dude. Give me my iced tea.”
He flipped the empty tin in the trash and slid the glass over but continued staring at me even while I drank it down. I finished and rested the glass on the counter. He continued.
“Quit fucking staring,” I said.
“You’re a ballsy fuck, aren’t you?”
“Hey, pal, what did I do to deserve this?”
“It’s just your face. I don’t like it.”
“Just my face?”
“Yah, your fucking face. I hate it.”
“Is that it? Is that how simple it is?”
He said nothing.
Why was I engaging? It could only lead to bad, it could only lead to harm. And what was he doing? Was he conscious at all? Did he have any idea at all? I paid him and even left a tip.
“I don’t need your chump change!” he screamed, flinging the coins at me.
What then? What does one do then? I grabbed one of the wooden chairs and whipped it at the barkeep. Slow to react, he caught the brunt of the impact with his face. Then I picked up a table and threw it at him. The bohemians scattered. The tattooed people watched expressionless, impressed. I climbed over the counter and pushed the table off the bartender. Then I grabbed him by the jaw and lifted him to his feet. I head-butted him in the nose and he crumpled up, shooting blood.
I climbed on top of the counter and jumped down on him. I repeated this three times. Each time he grew softer. The tattooed people continued watching with blank expressions. What more did they want? What did any of them want? Then I walked home. I needed to sleep. I needed nothing more than to shut my eyes and sleep for one long blissful stretch, and maybe even dream a little. Dream about my childhood and my mother who loved me. Dream about the happy life that perhaps lay before me, glittering, full of flowers and music.
But I would not sleep that night nor dream of my sunny childhood, nor of my loving mother, nor of my merry future.
Denied even this. Denied.
I had to go back to the beginning, that was my sentence after all. To be caught forever in the loop. For where does one go when all is said and done? Where does someone like me go, except to where he started?
And at some point in my return, I revisited the dingy diner with the limping wall-eyed waiter.
“You again?” he said.
“Looks like it.”
“Ham and eggs, right?”
“You’re good.”
“I know.”
“And a beer, sir.”
“Right on.”
He lurched away. And I wondered how long he’d been doing this stinking job in this hole. There had to be something better out there, but what did I know? What did I know? I who kept moving around without purpose, yet purposeful, no? My hands ached.
At the tavern two men were beating a third, really pulping him. They grunted with effort. It made no sense for me to interrupt. They were doing something important. It wasn’t my place to upset the natural balance of things, to impose myself gratuitously onto the polished act. It took practice to get those chops, and cunning to maintain the conceit. I was best off as a silent observer, taking mental notes, passing no judgement on the participants. They were like athletes, after all. As for the guy getting the beating, everyone gets a beating in the end.
Maid of the Mist
A group of deaf children came to the wicket with a tall man in a red blazer. A warm June day, not a cloud marred the sky, but thunderstorms had been forecast. Irene McBride counted out seven tickets for the children and a ticket for their escort. Had he presented a voucher from a tour company or a legitimate
social agency, she would have given him a complimentary ticket, but the man paid in cash and didn’t smile. He looked about forty, dark-haired, square-jawed, on the gaunt side. He reminded Irene of Jacob Tate, a man who had worked for her father back on the farm. Jacob was tall, had the same way about him and a similar face.
The man took the tickets from her. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. The gold pinky ring on his right hand featured a red stone, maybe a ruby. Men who wore pinky rings tended to be vain. The children signed furiously to each other and made guttural sounds as they waited for the boat. The man could not have looked less interested in boarding the Maid of the Mist, in viewing the Falls up close. Irene couldn’t see a nametag or tour guide identifier on his jacket. The fine red cloth reminded her of an equestrian’s coat, though its wearer looked too tall to be comfortable on horses.
As a child, Irene had ridden horses at the family farm on Garner Road. That was before the Falls became a mini-Vegas. They sold the farm when Daddy died, like others around them had sold, the land parceled off and turned into housing surveys or golf courses that stretched all the way to Thorold. What with the wineries and casinos, and the Falls still drawing fourteen million people a year, the Peninsula was booming. New attractions like the Great Wolf Lodge kept the tourists in town for longer stays than ever. None of that mattered to Irene; she preferred Niagara Falls when it was a hick town and most of her family was alive.
The man in the red blazer led the deaf children to the gates. He surprised Irene when he stopped to light a cigarette. The children paid no notice and smoking wasn’t prohibited in the outdoor areas, but the way he held the cigarette to his lips and drew on it with his eyes half-closed and his head tipped back troubled Irene. Jacob used to smoke like that. Before he skipped town he robbed her father of some cash—she never found out how much, but her father cursed him until his dying day. What became of Jacob Tate was anyone’s guess. Irene suspected that wasn’t even his real name. In retrospect it sounded made up. The man in the red blazer could not have been Jacob. The resemblance was superficial, she concluded; Jacob would have been almost fifty now, if not older.
Black Rabbit and Other Stories Page 13
