Blackout Odyssey

by Victoria Feistner

  “Come on, don’t be like that, we’re having a party,” he cajoled with a leer, trying to get a hand on my ass, but before I could knee him in the ‘nads (I think we can all agree here that I’ve had A Day and no longer had any patience to spare on strangers trying to grab me) one of his friends pulled him away, alarmed but trying to laugh it off like ‘oh, that’s just our creepy friend, ha ha, what a card’. Yeah, ha ha ha, fuckface.

  Ugh.

  I was so tired. I came here to use the bathroom. But I was getting to the point where I was fed up enough to just pee in an alley or behind a bush if I had to. I didn’t care anymore. I was half-tempted to pee in front of Creeper just to make a point.

  One of Creeper’s friends tried to invite me to join them—like I would, after that!—but he was mercifully interrupted by someone shouldering past him bearing a guitar. No, wait. Was that a banjo?

  It was a banjo. Who plays banjos? Besides cowboys? They didn’t look like cowboys, they looked like skinny art students. They were setting up in a corner of the patio while other patrons looked on, as confused as I was.

  “Oh, thank god you’re here, Tyler,” the waitress remarked, arms full. “I called you like two hours ago!”

  Phone? My ears pricked up.

  “We had to walk, I told you that already, Sandra.” Tyler, the first banjoist, tuned his instrument with the serious expression of a put-upon artiste. Then he was joined by another banjo player. And another. What was this, a convention? I’d gone my entire life without seeing a banjo player before and now there were three of them. Three years into the 21st century and art students play banjos now.

  Focus, Mallory. There’s a phone on the premises.

  I let Sandra pass me and fell into step behind her. She was only half-paying attention, so I grabbed a tower of plates and some glasses—take that, summer working at the Keg, you came in useful after all for more than beer money—and followed her to the kitchen door. She watched me put the plates down in the stacks with the confused face of a dog who doesn’t understand where the ball went that you just threw. Like the world had broken.

  “You looked like you could use the help,” I said, over the din. Behind her, someone was grilling, flames leaping, bright against the dark.

  “Thanks,” she said, but her face didn’t change. Still confused, she went back out and I followed, clearing debris while Tyler and Two More Banjos began twanging merrily away, causing drunken conversations to lurch into wide-eyed silence. If I, tired but sober, was this bewildered by the sudden performance, the drunkards—who were, after all, drinking without eating in many cases—were stupefied.

  But they weren’t bad, judging by the standards of a student amateur band. I certainly sat through worse in my undergrad days. The song they played sounded oddly familiar but I assumed it was some sort of cowboy tune and didn’t pay it much mind while I gathered up more dishes.

  “I told you, hon, I can’t let you use the bathroom,” Sandra said. She’d figured out why I was helping her as I dumped glasses into the sink. “It’s, like, terrifying.” She gestured at an unlit hallway that stank of old grease and culminated in a staircase straight out of nightmares. “Even Lucas doesn’t want to go down there and he’s, like, 6 feet of nothing scares Lucas.”

  I blinked. “It’s not that.” It was, but who was I to go where Lucases fear to tread? “I was just wondering if I could use your phone to call home? It’s not long distance. My boyfriend’s probably worried sick.” For a half-second I had a flash of what I would do if Camila answered the phone, but she wouldn’t do that. I mean, Dylan wouldn’t do that to me. I shook my head. “Just for five minutes. I promise to be quick and help you some more, too.”

  “Aww, hon.” Sandra couldn’t have been more than 22, but her gravelly voice sounded like my grandmother’s next-door neighbour. She wore another doggy expression, the one where they tilt their head and put a paw on your knee because they know that you’ve had a day with no treats too. She wiped her hands on her apron and rubbed her eyes. “Fuck, I could use a cigarette.”

  “No smoking!” barked someone from the back of the kitchen, possibly Lucas.

  “I know, I know.” Sandra sighed and shifted a glance outside.

  “I will be super quick,” I repeated.

  “The phone’s dead, hon,” she said with a sigh, gesturing to the wall behind me where a portable phone sat at the cash table. “Battery gave out an hour ago.”

  Fuck. Well, I tried.

  We both stood in the door, watching the banjo-jamming art students, and something about the song tugged at my memories like a too-excited child. Someone staggered to their feet, clapping, one of the creepy guy’s friends. He was humming along very loudly, and I suddenly recognized the song(s). “Is that… are they playing a medley of Mariah Carey songs?” I scratched at my nose. “On a set of three banjos?”

  “We live in mysterious times,” Sandra agreed, wearily. “But at least no one’s currently bugging me about warm beer or to see a menu they can’t read in the dark.”

  I regarded Sandra with new admiration. “You’re getting time and a half for this, right?”

  “No,” she admitted. She gave me a sly smile. “But the machine’s down and I’m having to write all the totals out, on, like, paper. Who knows what sort of mistakes I’ll make?” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tilted them towards me, but I demurred. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” But she pulled one out and lit it anyway. She blew out the smoke with heart- and lung-felt sighs. Shouting erupted from the kitchen and she rolled her eyes at me. “What’s he going to do anyway? Call the health and safety guys?”

  I grinned. “Anyone working tonight deserves at least time-and-a-half, I think.”

  “Me too.”

  We gave each other a nod of agreement, and she disappeared into the kitchen to trade shouts with someone, possibly six-foot-scared-of-nothing-Lucas, and I drifted out onto the patio.

  Drunk Creeper’s Pal had migrated next to the trio of art students, taken his t-shirt off—because it was business time, apparently—and twirled it around his head while launching into a very spirited rendition, perfectly timed, of “Fantasy Boyfriend”.

  The rest of the patio stopped, open-mouthed; Drunk Creeper’s Pal had pipes. And a phonographic memory for Mariah Carey lyrics. The three art students shifted from confusion to joy and really shredded… on… the banjos.

  Maybe you think that people cannot shred on banjos to Mariah Carey songs.

  You would be wrong. And I have seen it.

  Someone reached out to touch my wrist and I jumped. The woman startled too, hands up in surrender. We both reflexively said “sorry!” at the same time, and then relaxed, chuckling. “They’re not bad,” she said, with a head tilt towards the impromptu performance. “It’s like Mariah Carey karaoke—”

  “MARIAH CAREYOKE,” we both finished, laughing. She cheersed me with a beer as the band swung into the next song, which I don’t know the name of but I can hum. Drunk Creeper’s Pal—now the official Mariah Careyokist—was already starting to lose his voice on the higher notes, but none of his enthusiasm.

  “Lee’s Palace,” the girl said, starting to clap. Everyone was starting to clap.

  “What?”

  She gave me an awkward smile. “You might want to try Lee’s Palace.”

  I still didn’t understand. “For what?”

  A friend on at the table was listening in and nodded enthusiastically, adding: “It’s open, running, like, open-air acoustic concerts or something? I forget what they called it, but they were standing outside trying to drum up business or whatever.”

  It took me a moment to grasp what they were trying to tell me. Both looked scarcely older than the kids in the car from earlier in the afternoon. “You think… I can use their bathroom?”

  They nodded again with the vigour of the helpful/tipsy. “I know the waitress said to try Bathurst station but that’s closed down. Locked. They just gave up. Buses are running out of gas. Shuttle
buses, I mean. Or I guess, like, all of them.”

  “Really?”

  More nods.

  “I’m kinda enjoying this,” one of the girls said, her gesture encompassing half the Annex. “I mean, not the warm beer part, but like, just hanging out and listening to live music and not having to work on my thesis because it’s on my computer.”

  “Oh my god, I didn’t even think of that,” her friend exclaimed. “I was just slacking but that’s totally a better excuse.”

  “Totally is,” I agreed, as the Mariah Careyoke superstar broke off the song to be sick into the potted shrubs, causing Banjo Player #2 to recoil and fall off their stool. “Which way is Lee’s Palace again?”

  13.

  Clash of the Rock Bands

  I agreed with the slacking student: the break from the ordinary was fun, or at least it would have been if I’d been in a place to enjoy it—say, at home, with Dylan. But the breakdown of infrastructure was less fun when I had no way of getting home and/or a need to pee. I very much hoped I wouldn’t have to ruin anyone’s shrubbery.

  While all the candles and people in windows and live music on open patios was very charming and bohemian, the others were a disheartening sight. The trudgers. The people who had obviously been at this a while and still had miles to go. Many of them were in business casual, their make-up running from sweat, their button-up shirts stained. They took me in as I did them; we were kin. But they had resigned themselves to trudging whereas I remained ever hopeful of an opportunity.

  But then—the thought wearily settling over my shoulders like a throw blanket made of stone—if I’d just walked straight from Kennedy I’d probably be getting out to Islington by now.

  Buried in my own thoughts as I was, I might have walked right past the multicoloured graffiti’d exterior of the club known as Lee’s Palace except for the crowd out front, spilling onto Bloor. The few eastbound cars still on the street diverted into the westbound lane to get around as more and more people gathered.

  I hung back to get a lay of the land, then skirted the edge of the crowd towards the door. A couple of guitarists were setting up stools, and someone else fixed up a drum kit; the drunk girls had been right, there was an acoustic concert going on. Which, again, in any other circumstance would have been really cool to be a part of.

  But I just wanted a toilet.

  Sliding up to the door, I asked the bouncer if I could use the washroom.

  “Cover’s $10.”

  Blinking, I stared up at the wall of denim and tattooed muscle, almost as garishly festooned as the walls of the club. “Cover?”

  “That’s what I said, lady.”

  The way he called me lady reminded me of Squints and his meaty grip, and I bristled. “Why is there cover if the band is setting up outside, huh?”

  Wall o’ Meat regarded me impassively. “Because people like you keep wanting to go inside.”

  “I just need to pee. There’s nowhere else open.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “It will be your problem,” I informed him.

  He raised an eyebrow. I either had to back down ASAP or bluff my best. “If you don’t let me in, I will pee. Here. Right here.”

  Another raised eyebrow.

  I gritted my teeth. He didn’t move. “I just need to pee!”

  “Then pay the $10.”

  Something inside me threatened to snap (and I don’t mean my bladder). “Fine! You’re going to be the one cleaning the mess up!”

  “No I won’t.”

  Someone accidentally elbowed me, and I got pushed out of the way. Not hard, and not maliciously, but enough to break the confrontation with Brick o’ Beef. Scowling, I stalked away, temporarily defeated. Psyching myself up to pee behind a dumpster if needs must. I’d already drunk out of a garden hose; it was just a slippery slope.

  Turning down the alley, I was surprised to find that the streetlight was on. “Power’s back!” I threw out my hands in joy, but as I looked around, I noted that none of the other streetlights or windows were lighting up. Peering in confusion, I realized that the full moon had risen behind the still-broken streetlight.

  Glowing like anything, the moon made me both a little surprised and a little saddened over my joy at a lightbulb returning to life. But it was nice to see ol’ Luna, and she certainly was bright. Astonishingly so. Strange how it took the whole city going dark for me to notice.

  I spotted a row of dumpsters; if there was decent space between any two then that would give some privacy and also I presumed anyone unfortunate enough to be around dumpsters would be used to encountering this sort of thing. Wouldn’t they? I didn’t want to think about it.

  The two furthest dumpsters were the right distance apart but as I walked towards them I heard voices and a door swinging open, and out of instinct I ducked behind a stack of old boxes. Two employees stepped out into the night air, bitching about having to work during the blackout.

  I considered asking one of them about their bathroom but as both were bulked-up walls of meat like the bouncer, I suspected that they’d be equally resistant. Especially if I was skulking around in the garbage.

  One of them held the door open, since it was one of those self-locking doors, while the other lit their cigarette, the flare from the match startling in its intensity. “Light one for me, will ya?” He gave the door a shake to indicate his less-than-free hands.

  “Don’t be such a dope,” the other replied. While his colleague stared in pained confusion, the smarter of the pair jammed a scrap piece of wood under the door. “See? Now we can get back in. Come on, I want to see the Maytags playing.”

  “But—”

  “Suit yourself, man.”

  Making sure they were gone, I peered out, deliberated, and then shot to the door. Would you rather pee in a sketchy club toilet or between a pair of smelly restaurant garbage receptacles? Yeah, I thought so.

  The hallway led to the kitchen, which was empty, and lit with nothing but moonlight from outside; creepy, but deserted. Hearing voices at the other end of the hall, I decided that should it come to it, I would play dumb and pretend to be with one of the bands. I mean, I was dressed in a dark suit and heels. I could be someone’s… agent? Sure. Let’s go with that.

  I crept along the hall. Bathrooms should be close to the kitchen. Plumbing and all that. Checking each door, I discovered two storage closets before—yes—a tiny, grimy bathroom.

  Bliss.

  Washing my hands in the dark, I felt around on the wall for a hand-dryer or paper towels but the roller was empty, so I ran my hands over my jacket. I was sweaty enough that my wet hands probably made my jacket cleaner.

  Opening the door, I checked the hallway. Clear so far but—shit. The two-legged bricks were back.

  “I need to use the bathroom first, okay?” one of them said, the voice lurching closer towards me. I couldn’t get out the way I came, so I pressed on, turning the corner, hoping to find a place to wait until the coast was clear to sneak back out.

  Instead, the voices kept a steady pace behind me, driving me further on. Each door I tried was locked until the last. Swinging it open, I found myself at the stage. More voices up ahead. The hallway was dark, the backstage area was darker—no windows—but a red glow up ahead—one of those emergency signs that runs on batteries. Yes! An exit. If I could just get to it—

  I bumped into someone.

  “Hey, watch it.”

  With sinking horror I realized that I wasn’t alone in the dark corridor. “Sorry!” I said brightly. “I couldn’t see you.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “Wait, is that you, Rachel?”

  “Nooo, I’m Mallory,” I corrected quickly, trying to use the painfully small amount of light from the distant emergency exit sign to figure out how to get past an unknown number of people. “But I can tell Rachel you’re looking for her?”

  “Hey, wait,” someone said to one of the others, in a quieter voice. “Wasn’t Mallory the name of the ma
nager for the Maytags?”

  Have you ever had that experience where you know someone’s looking at you and the hairs on your neck and arms all stand up at once? I swallowed. “That’s right, that’s me,” I said, brightly. Who the fuck were the Maytags? Probably the band outside. “I just came back in to—”

  “Yeah, we don’t care, okay, lady?” Someone sounded irritated. “We just found out that you and your stupid fucking band were double-booked with us and now they’re not going to let us play, right? And we came from really far for this gig and there’s no fucking power.”

  Assorted grumblings agreed with the speaker.

  “Sorry?” I said, with a rising intonation, trying to slide along the wall. “There must have been some sort of mistake. I had no idea you were booked as well.” The grumblings didn’t subside and I figured, why not go for it. “Who are you guys?”

  “We’re called Straight Messina,” someone announced proudly. “We’re the first metal-ska-funk band in the GTA. Maybe, like, ever.”

  “Wow,” I said, with the most enthusiasm I’ve ever tried to muster. It was then that the door opened in the distance and a large, bulky shape entered. Shit. The first bouncer. He’d definitely recognize me if he heard me and he could palm my head like a basketball. “Where are you fellas from?”

  “We’re not all guys, okay?”

  “Very sorry about that. Can’t see a thing.” I squeezed between two of them. Worse yet, the two smokers from the back door had come around the corner. Now there were three sides of meat to avoid. How many bouncers did one club need, anyway? Conversationally, but lowering my voice, I asked: “Where did you say were coming in from again?”

  “Brampton,” someone replied, sulkily.

  “That’s pretty far,” I agreed. “Excuse me, sorry.”

  “Where are you trying to get to, lady?”

  Obviously I couldn’t answer the truth: ‘trying to put you between me and those bouncers who can palm my head like a basketball’ so I went with: “Trying to get out of your way, of course. So you can continue setting up.”

  There were scufflings and weird rattlings as they turned to follow my voice.