“But I have to pack everything,” I told him. “I’ll go back, settle up the bill, and come back by cab. It’s no problem.”
I needed to do this alone; I wanted to be able to take my time. I appreciated his kindness, but I didn’t want to think about him downstairs, waiting for me while I gathered my things. I needed a moment to myself. The world was spinning too quickly.
“No worries,” he said. “I’ll be here when you get back.” He took our mugs to the sink and washed them. When he turned back, he said, “Take your time. Like I said, I’ll be here.” He smiled and it was disconcerting—his black eyes, his dark mouth, all that white hair, and his vast pale skin.
“Thank you, Tim.” I was grateful.
I slipped out in the hubbub of Kings Cross and walked back to the hotel. I checked my phone repeatedly, but there was nothing. Rage bubbled up inside me again like corrosive lava and I choked it down. The coffee I’d had rose in my throat and I threw it up into a flowerpot. I was worried that someone would take me to task for this, but no one noticed or cared.
I was invisible to the world. I wiped my mouth and stood up tall. And I thought about how much I hated Lyndon for what he had done.
10. LYNDON
“IT’S BETTER IF YOU DON’T SPEAK,” Jason said to me in the car. We were on our way to Vinnie’s, the St. Vincent de Paul Society to get me some new clothes. Jason had washed and dried my clothes, but he said my energy field needed addressing. Besides, I needed more than one outfit.
The previous night, Jason had inflated an air mattress and given me a stack of clean bed linen, a leopard-print fleece blanket, and a pillow. The guest room had been empty when he pulled the air mattress out of the cupboard, and apart from navy-blue curtains, the room was without décor. The floors were pale varnished wood and the walls were white. The washroom was similarly utilitarian, with thick, fluffy beach-sized towels. I had noticed that while Jason had few possessions, the ones he did have, were fine quality.
We were on our way back to Melbourne in a metallic-blue, twenty-year-old Chevy Cavalier that Jason had borrowed from a friend. The windows were cranked.
“Your accent is a dead giveaway,” Jason continued. “If you do speak, tell people you’re from America. They won’t know the difference.”
I nodded, my lips clamped shut.
Jason grinned. “I didn’t mean don’t speak to me, you tosser,”
I pulled down the mirror on the passenger visor. “When did I turn into Santa?” I grumbled. To my horror, when I took the shower, my mirrored reflection’s three-day growth was white. This was a development I was unprepared for. “I am so old,” I said, miserably. “I look about eighty, never mind sixty.”
“We’ll designer you up when we get back to the shop,” Jason said. “You do look like an old hobo, but we’ll make you into the Tom Ford of granddads.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, slumped into gloom. “It’s the end of the world as we know it.”
“And I feel finnnneeee!” Jason sang loudly, finishing off the song and smiling.
Once we got to Vinnie’s, I started sifting listlessly through the plaid shirts and tan trousers. Jason arrived with his arms full. “Come on,” he said. “Try these on.”
I followed him to the changing room, still depressed about my freshly-minted Father Christmas face. I took the stack of clothes from Jason and started trying things on without thinking about what I was doing. I pulled on a pair of black jeans, a black linen shirt with silver decals on the lapels, and a black leather waistcoat. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had never worn black. The fellow staring back at me looked as disconcerted as I felt and neither of us moved. “What the heck,” I told the old guy in the glass. “Maybe it is time to ditch the plaid and tan.” Next thing I knew, my shoulders straightened up and I saw a semblance of the man I used to be.
I left the change room and Jason was waiting. He gave a wolf whistle and stupidly, I blushed, losing whatever semblance of cool I had gained in the previous moments.
“Now you need some boots,” he said. “And my friend, we are going to buy you some good boots. A man needs a pair of good boots that will be his mates for life. This whole walking in other people’s shoes is for the birds.”
We paid for my clothes and I folded my old trousers and jacket and put them neatly into a bag, and Jason told me I should throw away.
“Look. There’s a rubbish bin, right there,” he pointed.
“But they’re Tilley’s,” I objected. “They were expensive.”
“They were that,” Jason agreed. “They nearly cost you your life. They depressed you that much. Throw them out and give them the finger while you’re at it.”
I couldn’t do it. I gave them to Vinnie’s instead. A memory of Margaux shopping to buy those clothes flashed through my mind. She’d been so excited. And now, here I was, giving them away. But at least I hadn’t thrown them in the garbage.
Jason took me to a store where the boots were so expensive I wanted to throw up and leave. Five hundred dollars for a pair of boots!
“You’ve got the dosh, sunshine,” Jason said. “There are times for budgeting in life and there are times for appropriate spending. This is the latter. Now, let’s find your solemates, or footmates, whichever.” He grinned, deep dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Gotta luv a pun,” he joked.
It took hours. I was quickly exhausted. Jason made me walk up and down relentlessly. He watched me from the front and back, and asked me a hundred questions about how the boots fit.
“Dear God,” I said querulously, “is it always this much work to buy a pair of boots?”
The assistant nodded. “It’s worth it,” he said. “You only have to do it once.”
“Ah, he’s not that old,” Jason protested. “He may have another pair left in him yet.” He winked at me, and I tried on a new set, and it was like all the pieces slid into place and locked neatly.
“These ones,” I said dreamily, strolling around the store. “These are the ones.”
The boots felt like butter or marshmallow, soft and kind, but when I looked down, there was nothing kind about the way they looked. They were tough and mean and kick-ass and I loved them.
We paid for them and headed out of town but not before I convinced Jason to let me get a latte from Starbucks. I offered to get him one too, but he looked like I was trying to poison him. I let that go and ordered my venti, no foam, no fat latte, along with a slice of lemon loaf cake. And for a moment, it was as if I had stepped out of my office and the world was exactly the way it should be, the way it used to be, when I was a person I understood and my place in life was guaranteed.
“Come on, princess,” Jason said, shattering the glass illusion of my back-in-time moment and I immediately felt depressed. Until I looked at my boots.
Back at the barber shop, Jason sat me down and lathered me up. “I’m going to set you on a path here,” he said. “I’ll show you how to trim it daily and keep it nice and tidy.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” I replied, sounding whiny.
“All art is work,” Jason said, and he started shaping my facial hair.
He was done half an hour later, and I was utterly relaxed from the feeling of his sure hands working so carefully on my face. I was sleepy and peaceful when he whisked the plastic cape off of me and told me to look in the mirror. I stared at my reflection. Geometric stripes intersected my chin, and a designer goatee looked flattering on my face. There wasn’t as much white as I had thought. I looked incredibly stylish.
“Wow,” I said. “Okay, I can live with this.”
“Put your glasses on,” Jason said. “You need to wear them all the time. You are a wanted felon, after all.”
He had made me buy a pair of squarish black glasses with clear lenses, and I must admit, they made me look good. I looked like Robert Downey, Jr., if you added ten years, ten po
unds, and minus the hair. Jason had shaved my scalp clean, so the clown ring of hair was gone. I looked sharp and mean and I loved it. My expression improved too; gone was the saggy, woe-is-me, my ass-got-fired, hangdog look.
“Thank you, Jason,” I said awkwardly. “I wouldn’t recognize me, in a good way.”
“No problemo, sunshine. A friend in need and all that. And now, I’ve to go and attend to an appointment. Keep yourself out of mischief. Hang around the shop and see if the boys need any help.”
He vanished, and I was filled with anxiety. Was that an instruction? If so, what was I supposed to do? What could I possibly do to help? The barber chairs were full, the tattoo chairs were full, the place was buzzing. I had no idea what I could do to help.
“You can sweep up,” one of the young barbers called out to me, having heard what Jason said.
“I’m Sean by the way,” he said, and shook my hand. Sean was super-cool, with a handsome narrow face and a trendy ginger mullet. Who knew that was even possible, a trendy mullet? He was outfitted in skinny grey jeans, a tailored white shirt, and a narrow maroon tie. He was wearing winklepicker boots no less and a Rolex watch. He must be an awfully good barber, I thought, to have a watch like that.
He gestured at the hair-covered floor. The old me would have told this young ’un where to get off, but the new me was so grateful to have a task that I immediately grabbed the broom and attended to the mess. I spent the remainder of the afternoon sweeping, collecting towels, and tidying up. Sean showed me how to work the cash register, answer the phone, and make appointments, and the rest of the afternoon passed in a remarkably pleasant manner. I had a brief thought about Margaux and Helen and Adam, and I knew I should be doing something about them, letting them know I was okay, but I couldn’t do more with that thought than let it drift away.
“You want to see how a tattoo is done, up close?” Sean asked. Apparently, he was the foremost tattoo artist, after Jason.
I nodded eagerly. I followed him and watched him prepare his equipment.
He explained the difference between coil and rotary machines, and he told me that you call it a “tattoo machine” not a “gun.” “And we are called tattooists, or tattoo artists, not artists. We always wear gloves. We have different kinds of needles for lines and for shading. Generally, we use five needles on the line needles; seven on the shading. They all penetrate the dermis with ink. A word to the wise: do not tattoo yourself.”
I watched him clean and prep a guy’s skin, apply a stencil, and get to work. The machine sounded like a drill, and it was a bit off-putting, but soon, I didn’t even realize it was there.
Sean told me get in really close, and I asked the guy being tattooed if he minded.
“Nah man. Help yourself to the view,” he replied.
“Does it hurt?” I asked him, and he nodded. “A good kind of hurt,” he said, his eyes screwed tight. “But I’m addicted. Once you start, you can’t stop.”
I was fascinated, and by the time Jason returned, I had found my new calling in life.
I followed him upstairs and tried to find the words to tell him about my epiphany.
“I want to become a tattoo artist,” I announced, watching him carefully for his reaction. We were in the kitchen and he was putting groceries away.
“Excellent career choice,” he remarked. He left the room and came back with a pile of books. “Here’s some light reading for you while I make supper.”
He handed me the stack—all books about tattooing. I called Queenie to come with me, and I sat on the sofa, book in hand and cat on my lap. For a moment, I marvelled at the place I was at, and how my life had so astoundingly and quickly evolved, but then I was equally flooded with paralyzing guilt at all the damage I had caused. So I turned my attention to the book and to Queenie’s sweet chirps as I rubbed her head.
11. MARGAUX
MY ROOM AT THE HOSTEL was a far cry from the upscale, luxurious hotel I had left. My new view was a large red-and-blue neon dildo that waved back and forth. The room was tiny, but at least I had my own washroom with a toilet and a shower.
Tim kindly stored Lyndon’s suitcase in the basement so it didn’t take up room, but more importantly, I didn’t have to look at it. Lyndon had hardly unpacked, so at least I hadn’t had to handle his things. I might have been tempted to rip them to shreds. I threw his expensive electric toothbrush into the trash, a small act of childish petulance that somehow made me feel better for a moment.
My hostel bed was a small double, not the bountiful king-size I was used to. The mattress was overly soft, and I could feel the dents where other bodies had lain before me. I rolled into the corpse-sized impressions and tried to fall asleep.
But I was wide awake.
I hooked up to Skype and updated Helen and Adam as to my whereabouts and neither of them was too happy about it. We had a long online argument in which they insisted I stay in a better part of town, but I told them I was already ensconced at the hostel and that I liked the owner. I sensed he’d look out for me and that I was as safe there as as I would be anywhere.
“He’s an ex-policeman from Saint John, New Brunswick,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “How can you not trust a man from Saint John? The people are nice there. Think about David Adams Richards.”
“First, he is an author, which isn’t the same as a normal person, and second, he is from Fredericton,” Adam said.
“No, he’s not. He’s from the Miramichi, but he lives in Toronto now,” Helen said.
“Kids, I don’t care about David Adams Richards. I don’t even know why I brought him up. We’re getting off topic here. I’m fine, okay? Just fine.”
“You haven’t heard from Dad?” Helen asked me.
“Not in the five minutes that passed since you last asked me, no. Oh honey, I don’t mean to sound snappy. This whole thing is so weird.”
“I wish one of us could come out there and be with you,” Adam said, and I rushed to tell him in no uncertain terms to please not think that way.
“What would be the point? Both us waiting? I may have to give up and come home after a while. I don’t know when. We’ll just have to see what happens.”
“But what about the rest of your trip?” Adam asked.
“It wouldn’t be the same without your father,” I said.
“You’re right” Adam agreed. “But it might even be better.”
I sighed. “No dear, it wouldn’t. I do love your father although I’m very angry with him right now.”
“They didn’t find the Jeep or the cat?”
“They did not. Not a trace. He has vanished into thin air. And he hasn’t used his bank cards. I have no idea how he’s managing. But how are both of you?” I asked. “This affects you too.”
“Well, less us than you,” Helen said. “I know Dad will be fine. I don’t think it’s fair what he’s done, but I also don’t think he could help it.”
“Why do you always stick up for him?” Adam asked. “He really hurt Rick’s feelings. Dad is always only about himself.”
“And you are only about yourself,” Helen retorted. “Listen to you. Mom’s stuck on the other side of the world with this huge problem and all you can think about is Dad not meeting your boyfriend.”
“That’s not fair. I was just using it as an example of his selfishness. He’s the most selfish man in the world.”
“Not the most,” I interjected. “But I’m not happy with him either, at the moment. Helen, I understand what you are saying, but he could find a way to get in touch. This really is a bit much. I have to agree with Adam. But anyway, there’s nothing we can do, so let’s not argue among ourselves and make it even worse. I’m going to let you two go. I’ll email you if anything comes up, of course.”
We said our goodbyes and I tried to sleep, but I was too restless.
I spent half of the first night tossing
and turning and then gave up. I got up and got dressed. I went outside and walked around. Kings Cross at night was a far different cry to Kings Cross by day. I shrank into the shadows when I realized I was intruding on some drug deal or other clandestine activity between three young people who fell silent and glared at me as I backed away. I looked around. I didn’t understand this world.
I saw a sign for a bar—Dames—and I remembered Tim telling me he hung out there. Tim was a drag queen, and he’d said he made a mean old hag, so I decided to check the place out.
I climbed the narrow stairs that led to the club’s entrance, gripping the railing. The narrow stairwell was dark, and it was hard to see. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to turn back but I kept going. When I reached the top of the stairs, I found an empty bar apart from the bartender who was studying his phone.
“Show starts in fifteen minutes,” he said looking at me with an expression that told me he was as surprised to see me as I was to be there.
“Do I have to pay?”
He looked confused. “No. For what?”
“The show,” I said, and he shook his head.
“They pass around a hat at the end.” He looked at me. “They might get you up there too.”
I shuddered. “No. That’s not going to happen. Is there a washroom I can use?”
He pointed down a hall. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, lost.
And then I got even more lost, looking for the washroom. I passed a large empty room with a single sofa. An enormous flat-screen TV on the wall showed a porn flick from the seventies—all soft focus and flickering lights. A man with a large handlebar moustache was going down on a blonde woman while she raked long red nails through his thinning hair. There was no sound, but her mouth was rounded into an O, and her head was thrown back. The room was black; the linoleum floor was in need of a clean. There was a man on the sofa, jacking off, his eyes closed. His jacket, shirt, and tie were in place, but his trousers were down around his ankles as if he was sitting on the toilet.
The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution Page 7
