The Doorman

by William Schrader

  "Would free entry and a Jumbo Tub help?"

  "What am I, eighteen? I can't eat that crap. I've got a polyp the size of a pumpkin."

  This was totally untrue. Martin had the digestion of a goat and the tastes that go with it but wasn't above playing the health card, especially if it got him things for his garage sale.

  "What would you like?"

  "You got any posters?"

  "I'll see what I can do."

  Louise returned moments later.

  "What did she want? Did she ask about me?"

  "No," Oscar answered. "Something about a customer."

  "Not another one," she replied. "I'm so sick of them. Can't they just go away?"

  Just then a man approached the Candy Bar, his unwashed body filling Louise's nostrils with a biker bouquet of sweat, smoke and beer. His T-shirt, old, faded and stretched at the center, defiantly declared: Eat Shit.

  "Hey pretty lady," he said, resting his gut on the counter. "Gimme a Jumbo Tub."

  Louise grabbed the scoop and thrust it into the popcorn box; swept up by the metal tool, Rupee flew through the air and into the cardboard container. "Here you go."

  "Thanks. Hey, there's a party tonight. Wanna come?"

  "No thanks."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. I'm not really the party type."

  Barry smirked.

  "That's not what Dale said," he replied, and walked away.

  *

  "Fuck you," Pete spat. "You and your fucking career. You think just because you're the manager you can fire me?"

  "Well yes," Camila replied, somewhat surprised. "Of course."

  "People like you," he said, jabbing his finger at her, "don't understand anything."

  "I understand stealing."

  "What do you call five bucks for a Jumbo Tub?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. It's just popcorn."

  "So?"

  "I gotta smell that all day?"

  "Your shift is only three hours."

  "Exactly! A Tub and a drink and I'm working for free. Even slaves get fed better than that. Plus which they put chemicals in. To make it addictive. And you call me a thief?"

  "Just get your things and go."

  "You of all people."

  "What do you mean?"

  "A visible minority. Doing the dirty work of The Man."

  "Ziniplex is an equal opportunity employer. All you have to do is work hard and obey the rules. It's not my fault you couldn't do that."

  "I opened up to you. I even showed you my Bob Marley roach clip."

  "Like that would impress me."

  "Aha! So you admit it."

  "Admit what?"

  "That you're firing me because I hit on you."

  "No, I'm firing you because you're a thief."

  "That's just an excuse. Truth is, you don't like me."

  "That has nothing to do with it."

  "Admit it," Pete demanded. "You don't like me."

  "No one likes you Pete. You're an asshole."

  "Well," he said. "I've got all I need."

  "For what?"

  "My sexual harassment suit. I'm going to file a grievance with the Labour Board."

  "But I didn't do anything."

  "Exactly!" he replied, and strode triumphantly out the door.

  *

  "What the fuck is this?" Barry asked, slamming his Jumbo Tub onto the counter.

  "Popcorn," Louise answered, "with Golden Topping."

  "The fuck it is."

  Barry plunged a tattooed hand into the greasy corn, searched around a bit and then pulled it out again; dangling from his smoke-stained fingers was Rupee, his body hanging in the air like a furry piñata.

  "Look."

  "Ouu," Louise squealed. "Gross."

  Barry took a step back, spun Rupee around and hurled him onto the floor.

  "No!" Oscar screamed and rushed forward.

  Rupee twitched horribly, his little legs scuttling towards death.

  Barry rested the heel of his big black boot on Rupee's head and stepped heavily, crushing his skull like a cracker and pressing his brains into the carpet.

  Moments later he was hit hard from the side and crashed into the popcorn box. A plastic panel broke free, releasing an avalanche of popcorn which poured out over them. Blinded by the salty treat, Barry stabbed fists at his unseen assailant. Oscar punched him hard several times in the face until, largely by luck, he hit him square on the nose, crushing its cartilage with a noisy squelch. Barry made a strange sound and his muscles slackened. Filled with rage, Oscar hit him again and again. A stream of blood flowed from Barry's face into the surrounding popcorn, turning it rosy red.

  "Oscar!" Camila cried. "Are you insane?"

  *

  "Drink up," Dale ordered. "Nursing drinks is for wimps."

  Oscar stared at his glass.

  "Come on," Pete said. "Cheer up."

  Oscar's eyes filled with tears.

  "Jesus fucking Christ," Dale said. "Not again. So you beat a guy senseless and got fired. So what? Shit happens."

  Indeed it did. Dale had a history of being fired from jobs, which he usually celebrated by getting wasted. The loss of a salary was a small price to pay for never having to see such assholes again and usually said so on his way out. Often, security was required to effect his removal and on one particularly memorable occasion, the police as well. Swept up by the excitement of the fight - next to sex and alcohol, there was nothing Dale enjoyed more than being on the periphery of violence - he had walked out with them. Now, however, he was beginning to regret that impulsive act of solidarity: besides seriously diminishing whatever grievance he eventually chose to file against the Palace, it meant that he would never get to fuck Camila. Despite her disdain for him, he had believed, right up to the end, that he had a chance. The LSD incident had been close. She had certainly been disoriented but, instead of responding to his advances, had gotten lost in the peculiar patterns of the wallpaper. Just goes to show, he thought. Drugs are overrated. Alcohol is the real panty remover.

  Not only that: far from going on a glorious bender to celebrate their freedom, he was sitting in a bar with a pair of candy-asses, one of whom didn't even drink. Just sat there in his chair whimpering like a little bitch about the Palace and his pet mouse and what would Barkie say - whoever the fuck that was. As for Pete, he looked like he was going to crap himself, he was so scared. He had been all up for a beer, until he heard they were going to the Commodore. Suddenly he was full of excuses, had to go home and study or whatnot, but Dale refused to take no for an answer and was even a bit offended by his reluctance to spend the rest of the day in a dank and dirty dive. Too good to get drunk with a bunch of lowlifes? Or was it the violence. Dale knew the sort: wimpy college kids who act tough but piss themselves at the first sight of real violence. Shoulda stayed at work, he realized, and done my drinking there.

  "At least we went out in a blaze of glory."

  Pete was in the washroom smoking dope - one last act of defiance against The Man - when he heard the noise and came out just in time to see Oscar break Barry's nose. Pumped up by the fight, he had words with a teenager whose drink had been spilled in the scuffle. Sneers were exchanged and even a bit of light pushing but neither of them intended to take it any further and they both knew it. For a brief bit he was able to fancy himself a tough guy but that evaporated the moment Dale mentioned the Commodore. Despite having worked in the neighbourhood for years, neither he nor Oscar had been there. Why would they? Oscar was a non-drinker and Pete preferred the sort of place where a black leather jacket and a nihilist philosophy were all you needed to be considered dangerous.

  This, however, was the real thing. A large silver metal detector, the principal purpose of which was to deter people from bringing in knives, gave several less than reassuring beeps but the bartender, an ex-hockey goon who kept a stick behind the bar and showed every sign of being willing to use it, ignored them. Happy Hour was a euphemism
for daytime drinking since very few of the people there had jobs or anything to be happy about. Most, in fact, were quite miserable and several lived in the hotel which housed it. There was also a strong native element, which made Pete nervous. Much as he sympathized with the victims of racism, he preferred not to associate with them since they tended to be bitter about having their lands stolen and culture destroyed and sometimes took it out on those few foolish enough to enter their remaining sanctuaries - one of which was the washroom of the Commodore where, according to rumour, a certain reverse discrimination applied and a light skin colour sufficed to get you stabbed. As such, he had been sipping his drink extremely slowly to forestall the necessity of urination.

  Dale, on the other hand, was a regular who frequently cut loose with beer, scratch 'n wins and women whose company can be purchased. That stabbings were now only an occasional occurrence was a point of pride with him and he had trouble understanding why people, women in particular, didn't want to go there. He was especially enthused about their most recent promotion, Breakfast Shots, which, he believed, almost made getting out of bed worthwhile. Pretty sweet, eh? he had said upon arrival. Too bad it isn't Wednesday. Pickled eggs are half price and the broken ones are free. But, sadly, neither of them saw the appeal of the place: Pete was too worried about his safety while Oscar, overwhelmed by grief, was insensible to the charms of cheap beer.

  "Poor Rupee."

  "Have a drink," Pete advised. "It'll make you feel better."

  Oscar grabbed his glass, guzzled its contents and slammed it back down onto the table.

  "Fuck yeah," Dale said, refilling his glass. "Now it's a party."

  *

  Halfway down the street Dale spotted a house besieged by bikes. The door was wide open allowing the relentless beat of heavy metal music to come pulsating out into the yard. Several bearded bikers stood on the lawn drinking beer and smoking dope. One of them suddenly turned and vomited onto a flower bed.

  "Here we are," Dale said, and swerved up onto the sidewalk to park. They got out and started walking towards the house. The drapes next door opened and an old woman peered out at them, silently studying their features and mentally turning them into mugshots.

  Oscar waved at her, his face fixed in a drunken grin.

  The woman disappeared behind her drapes.

  Inside a couple dozen people, many in leather, stood around smoking, drinking and talking, their dirty boots steadily staining the carpet. A pair of men stood in front of a giant speaker and bobbed their hairy heads to its angry music. Another sat passed out in a chair with a lit cigarette between his fingers; shaken awake by his girlfriend, he dropped it into his lap. Beside him, as though riding in a sidecar, a man with a moustache sat on a case of beer and hatched empties with his ass.

  A muscular man in a leather jacket suddenly stumbled towards them.

  "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, smouldering with menace. On the back of his jacket was a crest that read The Vikings.

  "It's me, Dale."

  "Dale?" Willard asked, blinking slowly.

  "You know, Craig's friend."

  "Oh yeah, Dale. The little fuck from the peep show."

  "Yeah. I let you in for free, remember?"

  "Yeah, I remember. Okay, you can stay. But what about these fucks?" he asked, stabbing a finger at Oscar and Pete.

  "It's okay," Dale assured him. "They're with me."

  Willard eyed them warily. "They don't look okay. They look like a pair of fags."

  As host, Willard considered it his duty to make sure all his guests measured up. So much so he had just kicked a guy out for not being drunk enough. I got no choice, he said. You're bringing everyone down. Only then did he notice Oscar's injuries.

  "What happened to you? Fight?"

  "Got that right," Dale answered. "He beat the shit out of Barry."

  "No fuckin' way."

  "Saw it myself. Broke his nose and everything."

  "Fuckin' A. Hate that prick."

  Willard hated a lot of people but Barry was near the top of the list: besides being a biker wannabe who enjoyed the glamour of associating with unwashed outlaws but was unwilling to commit to a life of full time drunkenness, he had eaten the worm at the bottom of Willard's tequila bottle and, when confronted with the fact, swore he thought it was snot. Willard wasn't perfect. He knew that. Many times, in fact, he had done things others had taken exception to, beaten a guy for nothing or fucked a brother's bitch but to eat a man's worm and then lie about it... you couldn't get much lower than that.

  "You're alright man," he said, and handed Oscar a beer.

  *

  The moment Pete saw the bikes he knew he had made a mistake. However much he considered himself a danger to society, deep down he knew he was a skinny, unthreatening intellectual wimp. The last thing he wanted was to walk into that house and get beaten up but, enfeebled by fear, couldn't think of an excuse that would allow him to leave without looking like a coward. Now, wandering about in search of a place to hide, he exaggerated his drunkenness, partly to better fit in and partly so he could later pretend to pass out.

  Nearby, on a torn and dirty sofa, sat Nick, Dale's boss from the peep show. Sensing Pete's discomfort, he nudged the woman next to him who, heavily made up in a short skirt and fishnet stockings, blinked slowly.

  "Hey Merilee."

  "Yeah?" she asked, her eyes drowsy with drugs.

  "See that guy there?"

  "Which one?"

  "In the artsy T-shirt."

  "Yeah."

  "Play along, willya? I'm gonna fuck with him."

  "Okay."

  "Hey you."

  At first Pete ignored him, hoping he wanted someone else.

  "Hey, shithead. I'm talking to you."

  Pete reluctantly turned. "Yeah?"

  "Congratulations."

  "On what?"

  "Winning the door prize."

  "What door prize?"

  "Her," Nick answered.

  Pete looked at Merilee, whose stupefaction betrayed no sense of surprise.

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No, man. It's a bachelor party. Everyone chips in and the winner gets laid."

  Pete froze, unable to speak. Inflamed by the heat of his embarrassment, his gut released a large gas bubble which, although inaudible, spread steadily outwards.

  "Come on," Nick said. "What are you waiting for? Fuck her."

  Pete looked at Merilee.

  "It's okay," she said. "Whatever you want."

  "What's the matter?" Nick asked. "Don't you want to?"

  The smell of his accident abruptly announced itself. Nick and Merilee looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  *

  Ignored again, Stacy left the kitchen for the living room. A large woman in jeans and a jean jacket, she tried to please men by being like them but was rarely successful.

  "Hey bud," she said, addressing Oscar. "What happened to you?"

  "Fight," he answered.

  "Really? Why?"

  "Guy killed my pet."

  "Gee, that's terrible. I had a pet once, a cat named Snookers. It was a great cat. Till it got run over. What'd you have?"

  "Mouse."

  "That's nice. What's his name?"

  "Rupee."

  "Rupee. I like that. Classy. Foreign even. Like French maybe."

  "Thanks."

  "Mouse, eh?"

  "Yeah."

  "Don't know many guys with a mouse. Rat, yeah. Snake, sure. But mouse... that shows a sensitive side. You married?"

  "No."

  "Girlfriend?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Oscar blushed. "Don't know. Career first, I guess."

  "Yeah, lot of guys like that. But it's never too late you know."

  A moment of silence settled between them.

  "So," she continued, "what do you do?"

  "I'm a doorman. At the Palace."

  "Doorman, eh? You get tips?"

  "No
but I get to watch movies for free. At least I did."

  Oscar's smile dissolved into sadness.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I got fired."

  "What a shitty day! First some asshole kills your pet and then you get fired. Plus which you're all beat up. Does it hurt?"

  Oscar thought about it. Below the soft blanket of alcohol was a prickly cactus of damaged neurons.

  "Yeah."

  "Come with me," she said. "I'll make you feel better."

  *

  Oscar found himself sitting on a bed in a dark room. Beside him sat Stacy who, putting her fingers on his face, lightly touched his bruises.

  "Does this hurt?"

  "A bit."

  Her fingers travelled down his chin and chest to his crotch.

  "How about here?"

  "No problem," Oscar answered, feeling nervous.

  "Lemme check," she replied, and unzipped his fly.

  "No, no," Oscar insisted. "I'm fine. Really, I am."

  "Better safe than sorry," she said, and pulled out his penis.

  Oscar was shocked. Someone other than him was touching his unmentionable! And they weren't even in the bathroom! Pastor Wilcox had left no doubt. Use two fingers, he had instructed. And look away if you can. Ever obedient, Oscar had done his best, which sometimes made for a messy floor.

  "Please don't," he pleaded. "I'm a Christian."

  "That's okay," Stacy assured him. "Jesus won't mind."

  A few flicks of her finger and his penis started to rise. Oscar was appalled. Of all the times for the little rascal to act up! It had happened before, in the strangest of times and places, but he had always been able to force it down by reciting Bible verses. Oscar closed his eyes. The Lord is my shepherd... But it was no good. It just kept getting bigger. And far from being disgusted, Stacy was encouraging it, wrapping her hand around it and making a strange pumping motion that felt surprisingly good. The only thing that saved him were the bangles on her wrist, which made a loud jangling noise. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...

  And so they battled. The harder Stacy tried to get him off, the deeper Oscar retreated into his Christmas fantasy. Baby Jesus in the manger. The three wise men. Turkey and dressing. Cards and carols. Lights and It's A Wonderful Life. Santa with a big bag of presents and Pastor Wilcox leading the congregation in prayer. Silent night, holy night...

  Eventually, too tired to continue, Stacy gave up.

  "Don't worry about it," she said. "You're just drunk."

  Oscar sighed. Christmas was never going to be the same.