Underwater Heartbeat - Saturday Looks Good to Me(listen in new tab)
You could pass it on the street if you weren’t looking for it.
The neon sign above V. I. Lenin’s hasn’t been lit since the late 90’s, when the tubes’ noble gasses gave up their spirits, flickered and darkened. These days the silhouette of the bar’s namesake, traced abstractly in dead glass, keeps a dim vigil over the regulars and intrepid new comers.
Few except the bar’s owners, two failed band mates who took up the cause when the first owner disappeared, remember when opening the faded and scuffed, peeling red metal doors meant passing under the sign’s stern glow.
Tonight the doors swing open. A cluster of girls come out for a smoke. The door drags shut behind them, dampening the sounds brazen enough to escape into the night. The loose corners of hanging gig posters flutter in the spring night’s lazy wind.
Two 30-something men, bearing the clothes and meager wages of their self-absorbed, unending liberal education arrive. One pulls open the door, while the other makes quick eye contact with a skinny blonde as she casually lights her cigarette. He follows his friend inside. The blonde watches them enter as she gently waves her match in the wind to extinguish it.
Inside the music is cranked up and loudly echoes down the short hallway that leads from the door. The walls there are lined with gig posters of various currency and importance.
The two men walk past the folded-up table where cover is usually collected and passed the dormant empty coat check. They pass a few people who came into the hall so they can hear their cell phones, straining ears against the noise.
As the two enter into the main part of V.I.’s, they crane their necks looking for friends, their faces etched in a vain look of confident frequency. They are regulars - capital R regulars. With practiced ambivalent looks, they peer through the crowd milling back and forth from the bar to tables or the slowly filling dance floor. They mark paths through the complex valleys of necks and shoulders.
One looks with disdain at his watch. It’s still relatively early, only 10:00pm. Friday night is still getting into its swing. The other waves to someone off at the tables where a large group sits crammed in on the raised floor along the far left wall. He taps his buddy on the shoulder and heads in that direction. The other follows, and in his inattentiveness, shoulder-checks K.
K, pint in each hand, does his best to dodge, executing a 180 degree turn to avoid spilling. It ends up being more of a 140. He stops short of colliding with a heavy set man in a varsity football jacket.
G.T. leans against the rail that hems in the dance floor, watching K’s evasive maneuvers. He laughs to himself as K mouths a silent curse when the football player turns to tell him to “watch it”.
G.T. finishes his current glass. The slightly warm beer catches in his throat, causing him to cough into his fist. He places the empty glass on the wooden ledge behind him without looking.
A cluster of women walk by back from having a smoke no doubt. They’re maybe 23. G.T. eyes them discretely, but but not so covertly as to prevent himself from making eye contact with one of them when she looks back.
He’s not on the market. But, he loves that moment, the brief second when you meet eyes and your mind ripples. That second of tangible mystery. He lets it pass unchased and chastened.
He loves this bar. He met K here during an undergraduate pub-crawl way back when, and they latched onto it as favourite watering hole. G.T. does not view himself as one who is in the habit of living in the past. But he enjoys his history in place.
He likes the gentle wash of his past indiscretions. When he’s here, he gets to wade into them. Like tropical waters, safe and warm near the shore, but they drop off quickly - more often than he’d care to admit. And then you’re out to sea…
G.T. is also not in the habit of reliving his mistakes.
K finally navigates his way over. He hands off one pint to G.T.: “You’re up next.” It has been almost eight years that they’ve known each other, and K insists still on reminding G.T. whose turn it is.
G.T. taps K’s glass with his. The fragile clink is lost in the bar, washed over and under by a sudden burst of “Wooos!” from the dance floor.
K: “You hear from the girls?”
G.T.: “No. You?”
K doesn’t feel his phone vibrate in the pocket of his windbreaker. A few moments later, G.T. PDA, tucked into the pocket of his jeans start to ring. He barely hears the little jingle, but somehow senses. He pulls it out, looks at the display, his face lit blue-grey in the LCD glow. He takes on an unintended pallor. He smiles, shows K the display. “Hey, it’s Claire.”
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Military Madness (Nathan Graham)
Military Madness (Nathan Graham) – Woods(listen in new tab)
9:30, that Friday.
Brae closes her apartment door, locks it and drops her key into a green leather clutch. She’s ready to go out, dressed in tight dark jeans and a strategically fitted t-shirt.
The music in the hallway is muffled by the building’s yellowed wallpapered walls. Brae thinks to herself that those kids down the hall always play the worst music way too loud. She’s happy that the old building, thinned with age, still lets only a little through.
That no-fi or whatever is just not her cup of tea. Not enough sex; no groove.
Unperturbed, she bounces through the hall and bounds down the stairs, carried on the syrupy wings of a few well made rum and cokes.
Maura and she live in the same building. Brae on the third floor, back corner. Maura on the second floor in a small apartment stuck in the middle of two older couples. It’s probably the cheapest building in the city. It doesn’t hurt that Brae’s dad owns the place.
Brae passes a familiar stain on the stairwell wainscoting as she jumps the last few steps to the second floor landing. A light brown splotch, on the irregularly faded fake wood, washed out by decades of sun from the stairwell’s southern exposure.
It makes her think about when Maura moved in five years ago.
It was snowing; one of those early March days that threaten to paralyze the city with snow. Brae was coming back from some cloying grad seminar run by a vainglorious Proust scholar. She had felt battered by his appraisal of a recent paper; she was ready to sink into a meditative beer.
When she saw the white rental van parked out front, she ignored it. There was almost always someone moving in or out. Brae was used to it.
Brae literally crashed into Maura (on her way back down). Brae habitually blindly, tore up the three flights of stairs, and having gained some momentum collided with Maura. The two of them spun off each other, came to rest in orbit.
Maura was bronzed back then. Her skin had that legitimate brown that came only from long exposure. Her dark hair, longer than she ever keeps it now, was pulled back in a loose pony tail.
She wore track pants and a hoodie, slightly unzipped from the heat of running up and down the stairs. But she wasn’t sweating. She was fit, a creature of solid endurance encased in parsimonious skin.
Brae apologised for not looking. Maura smiled kindly, introduced herself as new to the place. Brae realized, hearing a lilt of fatigue, that she was moving in by herself. So, she offered to help.
As they ran up and down the stairs, they raced a blizzard that made each load increasingly treacherous. But, there wasn’t that much to move in: a sparse collection of boxes and some furniture with the tags still on them from thrift stores where she bought them.
When they were done, Brae brought down some wine and Maura produced some plastic glasses, cutting open a box with a jackknife. She wielded it readily, slicing the tape with judicious skill.
To Brae, Maura seemed a person of aplomb force. She exuded a tension, a practiced rigour that took years to dissipate, as over the years her skin whitened and her body softened. She relaxed into the city, letting herself expand as she grew used to its ambivalent comfort.
As they drank, the chill in the apartment lifted. Maura warmed by the wine, took off her sweater. She only wore a faded green tank top. She had no tan lines, except one. Brae never asked about the thin pale band on her left hand.
Over the next weeks as Maura settled in, Brae would visit. The apartment gradually became a home. But, some things were missing. There were no photos, no pictures of Maura and her ex, no family barbecues, no awkward photos of some summer vacation during high school.
Maura never talked about where she came from and why she moved to Toronto, though she mentioned she was from there originally. Brae enjoyed the mystery, happy to have something in her life that defied penetration and analysis, enjoyed the thickness of her life that her grad school friends didn’t offer. Maura, probably, liked the peace of Brae’s disinterest with her withdrawn past.
That tacit, palpable naturalness formed the foundation of their friendship. One night a year later, the two of them were falling down drunk, outside a night club. Maura leaned on the wall of a bus shelter, her body lit, a pallor in the white light of the perfume ad. She said quietly that she’d almost been married once.
Brae replied that she had guessed. And, Maura told her a story. It was something that seemed so constrained and edited that it hardly seemed accurate. But, it felt true. Brae was satisfied with that and never pressed for more. It was a breach in Maura that never really opened again. Until K. Since last winter, she seemed more in the world then ever.
Now, she raps her familiar three taps on her friend’s door. “Honey, it’s me! Let’s go out! K and G.T. are at V.I.’s and waiting for us!”
Maura takes her time coming to the door. Brae knocks again. The door opens quickly. Brae steps back. Maura’s eyes are red, ringed in dark sleepless holes. Her body hangs loosely on her shoulders. The sweet, stained smell of whiskey on her breath.
When Maura tries to say hello, she almost falls out of the door. Brae puts her hands on Maura shoulders to steady her.
Brae: “Whoa. Having a… are you ok?”
Maura, leans against the door frame. She fishes into her pocket, pulls out the ring. “Edmund. He…”
9:30, that Friday.
Brae closes her apartment door, locks it and drops her key into a green leather clutch. She’s ready to go out, dressed in tight dark jeans and a strategically fitted t-shirt.
The music in the hallway is muffled by the building’s yellowed wallpapered walls. Brae thinks to herself that those kids down the hall always play the worst music way too loud. She’s happy that the old building, thinned with age, still lets only a little through.
That no-fi or whatever is just not her cup of tea. Not enough sex; no groove.
Unperturbed, she bounces through the hall and bounds down the stairs, carried on the syrupy wings of a few well made rum and cokes.
Maura and she live in the same building. Brae on the third floor, back corner. Maura on the second floor in a small apartment stuck in the middle of two older couples. It’s probably the cheapest building in the city. It doesn’t hurt that Brae’s dad owns the place.
Brae passes a familiar stain on the stairwell wainscoting as she jumps the last few steps to the second floor landing. A light brown splotch, on the irregularly faded fake wood, washed out by decades of sun from the stairwell’s southern exposure.
It makes her think about when Maura moved in five years ago.
It was snowing; one of those early March days that threaten to paralyze the city with snow. Brae was coming back from some cloying grad seminar run by a vainglorious Proust scholar. She had felt battered by his appraisal of a recent paper; she was ready to sink into a meditative beer.
When she saw the white rental van parked out front, she ignored it. There was almost always someone moving in or out. Brae was used to it.
Brae literally crashed into Maura (on her way back down). Brae habitually blindly, tore up the three flights of stairs, and having gained some momentum collided with Maura. The two of them spun off each other, came to rest in orbit.
Maura was bronzed back then. Her skin had that legitimate brown that came only from long exposure. Her dark hair, longer than she ever keeps it now, was pulled back in a loose pony tail.
She wore track pants and a hoodie, slightly unzipped from the heat of running up and down the stairs. But she wasn’t sweating. She was fit, a creature of solid endurance encased in parsimonious skin.
Brae apologised for not looking. Maura smiled kindly, introduced herself as new to the place. Brae realized, hearing a lilt of fatigue, that she was moving in by herself. So, she offered to help.
As they ran up and down the stairs, they raced a blizzard that made each load increasingly treacherous. But, there wasn’t that much to move in: a sparse collection of boxes and some furniture with the tags still on them from thrift stores where she bought them.
When they were done, Brae brought down some wine and Maura produced some plastic glasses, cutting open a box with a jackknife. She wielded it readily, slicing the tape with judicious skill.
To Brae, Maura seemed a person of aplomb force. She exuded a tension, a practiced rigour that took years to dissipate, as over the years her skin whitened and her body softened. She relaxed into the city, letting herself expand as she grew used to its ambivalent comfort.
As they drank, the chill in the apartment lifted. Maura warmed by the wine, took off her sweater. She only wore a faded green tank top. She had no tan lines, except one. Brae never asked about the thin pale band on her left hand.
Over the next weeks as Maura settled in, Brae would visit. The apartment gradually became a home. But, some things were missing. There were no photos, no pictures of Maura and her ex, no family barbecues, no awkward photos of some summer vacation during high school.
Maura never talked about where she came from and why she moved to Toronto, though she mentioned she was from there originally. Brae enjoyed the mystery, happy to have something in her life that defied penetration and analysis, enjoyed the thickness of her life that her grad school friends didn’t offer. Maura, probably, liked the peace of Brae’s disinterest with her withdrawn past.
That tacit, palpable naturalness formed the foundation of their friendship. One night a year later, the two of them were falling down drunk, outside a night club. Maura leaned on the wall of a bus shelter, her body lit, a pallor in the white light of the perfume ad. She said quietly that she’d almost been married once.
Brae replied that she had guessed. And, Maura told her a story. It was something that seemed so constrained and edited that it hardly seemed accurate. But, it felt true. Brae was satisfied with that and never pressed for more. It was a breach in Maura that never really opened again. Until K. Since last winter, she seemed more in the world then ever.
Now, she raps her familiar three taps on her friend’s door. “Honey, it’s me! Let’s go out! K and G.T. are at V.I.’s and waiting for us!”
Maura takes her time coming to the door. Brae knocks again. The door opens quickly. Brae steps back. Maura’s eyes are red, ringed in dark sleepless holes. Her body hangs loosely on her shoulders. The sweet, stained smell of whiskey on her breath.
When Maura tries to say hello, she almost falls out of the door. Brae puts her hands on Maura shoulders to steady her.
Brae: “Whoa. Having a… are you ok?”
Maura, leans against the door frame. She fishes into her pocket, pulls out the ring. “Edmund. He…”
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Get to Leave
Get to Leave - Howe Gelb(listen in new tab)
The rain started slow; now it drives against Ulysses’s windowpane, strumming the glass in low notes along with the music playing inside.
Danielle sits on the counter, near the sink. Hera leans with her back against the espresso bar. They’re watching the rivulets of rain water fracture and refract the streetscape.
The next day, Thursday night, 7:00 pm, and the café’s been empty for a while.
Hera: “Danielle. I don’t know if you should sit on the counter like that. I mean…”
Danielle gives her a look. She lifts a hand; from it a set of brass keys on a worn shoelace, shaking them for effect. It’s been a frequent display lately. “Claire gave me these. So I’m in charge. I declare that I may sit here with this commanding view.”
Hera shrugs. “Whatever.” She eyes the place. It’s clean. She checks from habit the pastry case. Its white lights frosts the few cookies and cakes that remain in fresh stasis. The bakery run hasn’t happened yet. A day, no two days late. “I hate when there’s nothing to do.”
Danielle’s turn to shrug. “You could clean the washrooms.” She pushes herself off the counter with a flourish. “I guess this counter, too.”
Hera rolls her eyes. “Claire only gave you the key because she’s out trying to get some action from that rich guy. And, K couldn’t come in today.”
Danielle grabs a wide cream-white ceramic cup from a shelf. She casually rotates it in her hands, watching the coffee slosh against its curved walls as she fills the cup from a brushed steel carafe. “I am a woman who, despite her failings, has always made the most of the opportunities that present themselves.” She sips the black coffee with caliphatic pomp.
Hera: “Is that on your underwear?”
Danielle spits, spurting in a amber mist from her lips. “Jesus. Totally.”
The bell rings. The two girls look to see who it is. The noise of the rain is chaotic, but hushes the rain as the door closes behind Maura. The little bell shepherds back out the torrent damp taps.
Danielle, wiping her mouth with a piece of paper towel: “You got soaked right through, dear.”
Maura comes across the room. Soaked shoes tile leave dark stains that slowly dry and shrink. Her dark hair is matted, sticks in clumps to her forehead and her glasses. She pushes them out of the way, shaking her wet hands dry. Her nylon jacket, dark, damp and heavy, clings to her torso.
Maura: “Yeah. I guess I got caught.”
Hera: “You want a tea or something? To warm you up?”
Maura looks at her. Her glasses have fogged a little. Her face is etched with worry, or consternation, a look exaggerated by streaked mascara.
Maura: “No. Umm. No thanks. I’m just kind of blowing through. Is K here?”
Danielle: “No. He called me last night, late, asked me to switch Saturday’s close with this one. How could I say no?”
Maura: “Oh right.” Her voice is clumsy, caught off guard. As the fog on her glasses dissipates; Hera sees her eyes - red and tired, they are lost somewhere between confused, crestfallen, and relieved. A triangulation of discomfiture.
Hera: “He didn’t tell you?”
Maura, lies: “No. I must have forgot.” She proffers a weak smile. “I ran here in the rain, too. God.” A weak offering. “I should have called first.”
Hera: “You sure you don’t want anything?”
Maura backs away: “No. Really. I should go.” She turns and is out the door.
The rain rattles in, and is shooed out again. Hera leans out over the counter and watches Maura move out of sight, her body compressed into as little space as possible against the rain and whatever else.
Hera: “What was that about?”
Danielle: “Communication error. Also, way to push too hard. That could have been a sale.”
Hera scratches her shoulder. “Whatever. I mean, I hope she ok.”
Danielle: “She’s a big girl.” She sighs deeply. “It’s so dead here.” She flails her arm at the door. “It’s so dead, that counts as drama.”
Hera: “Yeah. I wish Claire would reconsider my idea.”
Danielle: “That competition, the café contest?”
Hera, hands in the air in frustration: “The Café Olympics. Arg! You should take it seriously. So should Claire. It did wonders for Johnny Bean Good across town.”
Danille: “That’s a terrible name.”
Hera: “It is a terrible name, but they’re busy as heck now. And there’s a prize for the barista or whatever who wins the most events.”
Danielle slaps Hera on the shoulder: “Prize? Now you’re talking.”
Hera: “Good luck, there. You know what espresso is, right?”
Danielle pushes her playfully. “Easy now, showboat.”
The rain started slow; now it drives against Ulysses’s windowpane, strumming the glass in low notes along with the music playing inside.
Danielle sits on the counter, near the sink. Hera leans with her back against the espresso bar. They’re watching the rivulets of rain water fracture and refract the streetscape.
The next day, Thursday night, 7:00 pm, and the café’s been empty for a while.
Hera: “Danielle. I don’t know if you should sit on the counter like that. I mean…”
Danielle gives her a look. She lifts a hand; from it a set of brass keys on a worn shoelace, shaking them for effect. It’s been a frequent display lately. “Claire gave me these. So I’m in charge. I declare that I may sit here with this commanding view.”
Hera shrugs. “Whatever.” She eyes the place. It’s clean. She checks from habit the pastry case. Its white lights frosts the few cookies and cakes that remain in fresh stasis. The bakery run hasn’t happened yet. A day, no two days late. “I hate when there’s nothing to do.”
Danielle’s turn to shrug. “You could clean the washrooms.” She pushes herself off the counter with a flourish. “I guess this counter, too.”
Hera rolls her eyes. “Claire only gave you the key because she’s out trying to get some action from that rich guy. And, K couldn’t come in today.”
Danielle grabs a wide cream-white ceramic cup from a shelf. She casually rotates it in her hands, watching the coffee slosh against its curved walls as she fills the cup from a brushed steel carafe. “I am a woman who, despite her failings, has always made the most of the opportunities that present themselves.” She sips the black coffee with caliphatic pomp.
Hera: “Is that on your underwear?”
Danielle spits, spurting in a amber mist from her lips. “Jesus. Totally.”
The bell rings. The two girls look to see who it is. The noise of the rain is chaotic, but hushes the rain as the door closes behind Maura. The little bell shepherds back out the torrent damp taps.
Danielle, wiping her mouth with a piece of paper towel: “You got soaked right through, dear.”
Maura comes across the room. Soaked shoes tile leave dark stains that slowly dry and shrink. Her dark hair is matted, sticks in clumps to her forehead and her glasses. She pushes them out of the way, shaking her wet hands dry. Her nylon jacket, dark, damp and heavy, clings to her torso.
Maura: “Yeah. I guess I got caught.”
Hera: “You want a tea or something? To warm you up?”
Maura looks at her. Her glasses have fogged a little. Her face is etched with worry, or consternation, a look exaggerated by streaked mascara.
Maura: “No. Umm. No thanks. I’m just kind of blowing through. Is K here?”
Danielle: “No. He called me last night, late, asked me to switch Saturday’s close with this one. How could I say no?”
Maura: “Oh right.” Her voice is clumsy, caught off guard. As the fog on her glasses dissipates; Hera sees her eyes - red and tired, they are lost somewhere between confused, crestfallen, and relieved. A triangulation of discomfiture.
Hera: “He didn’t tell you?”
Maura, lies: “No. I must have forgot.” She proffers a weak smile. “I ran here in the rain, too. God.” A weak offering. “I should have called first.”
Hera: “You sure you don’t want anything?”
Maura backs away: “No. Really. I should go.” She turns and is out the door.
The rain rattles in, and is shooed out again. Hera leans out over the counter and watches Maura move out of sight, her body compressed into as little space as possible against the rain and whatever else.
Hera: “What was that about?”
Danielle: “Communication error. Also, way to push too hard. That could have been a sale.”
Hera scratches her shoulder. “Whatever. I mean, I hope she ok.”
Danielle: “She’s a big girl.” She sighs deeply. “It’s so dead here.” She flails her arm at the door. “It’s so dead, that counts as drama.”
Hera: “Yeah. I wish Claire would reconsider my idea.”
Danielle: “That competition, the café contest?”
Hera, hands in the air in frustration: “The Café Olympics. Arg! You should take it seriously. So should Claire. It did wonders for Johnny Bean Good across town.”
Danille: “That’s a terrible name.”
Hera: “It is a terrible name, but they’re busy as heck now. And there’s a prize for the barista or whatever who wins the most events.”
Danielle slaps Hera on the shoulder: “Prize? Now you’re talking.”
Hera: “Good luck, there. You know what espresso is, right?”
Danielle pushes her playfully. “Easy now, showboat.”
Thursday, November 26, 2009
When the Water Gets Cold and Freezes on the Lake/ Your Protector
When the Water Gets Cold and Freezes on the Lake – Herman Düne(listen in new tab)
K steps out of the library. It’s 8:30pm. The sun hides low behind the buildings and shoots orange and strange smog-purples into the sky. In the northwest, a front of low grey clouds gathers to smother Wednesday’s sunset.
He stretches absently, reaching his arms straight up. A little pop in his shoulder. He’s not tired, but he’s relieved. Janine, Candice’s replacement, has been shaking the place down, trying to sweep out the door the legacy of Candice’s slow breakdown. New rules and new measures. Janine has planted herself like a surveyor’s glass. Only she knows the extent of the new geography. Everyone calls it “spring cleaning.” But, they all miss Candice, at least a little.
The security guard emerges, locking the door behind him in his regular way.
K wonders idly what he’s going to do tonight. No shift at Ulysses’ and Maura is working at the House of Peers. His mind mulls over yesterday’s exchange with Edmund. One more time through. Maura had withdrawn after, became evasive. K was left with questions. He pulls out his cell phone, starts to enter G.T.’s number. Maybe a beer and some new input will help.
He doesn’t place the call. K is stopped by something so oddly familiar, but so unexpected that he barely recognizes it when it happens. He doesn’t remember even seeing her sitting there. And when Shannon stands up from the bench near the library entrance and says sheepishly, maybe embarrassed at having rehearsed it, “I thought you got off earlier,” he is startled and drops his phone.
K, stoops, his satchel falls awkwardly in front of him as he picks up his cell. Slapping back the worn canvas bag in annoyance, “Um. Janine had me stay late.” He examines the phone quickly to insure there’s no critical damage.
And then her. She looks the same; maybe better. Maybe good. Everything about her appears to have found a middle ground, somewhere between the day before they met, and the day after he last saw her, but little from in-between. Reassembled by unscreened time into a composite of unknowns and their bitterer shared past.
K: “You were waiting for me?”
Shannon looks him in the eyes. K cannot remember the last time she did that. He doesn’t fully recognize what they’re telling him. “Yes. Claire said you were working here tonight. I was going to go in, but well… you know.”
K: “Yeah. Though, I hope we’re done with scenes.”
She laughs, smiles. “Exactly. Truthfully, I was scared. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
K pockets his phone. “I wasn’t going to go out of my way, if that’s what you mean.” His voice is dry, but not ungracious. He could never be fully vindictive with her. He wanted to at first, but he left that somewhere outside the clinic or maybe outside her parents’ when he dropped her off in January.
Shannon, her voice a weak bravery: “Can I walk with you?”
K: “Sure. I’m just going home.”
They walk together. Bodies remember things longer, more deeply than our brains want them to, and they walk closer to each other than they realize or expect.
* * *
Your Protector – Fleet Foxes (listen in new tab)
Maura stands behind the bar at the House of Peers. The clock ticks past 8:30. She sighs, her mind is mired. Uncle Titus asked her to come in. Reluctantly, she accepted the distraction. It hasn’t distracted her much.
The bar is empty except for three old men sitting on stools, elbows on the bar. Each of them casually guard a pint of beer. They’re watching baseball. The teams look the same soft grey on the small, fuzzy black and white screen. Old ears strain against the TV’s low volume.
The ballgame competes with the low music from the radio. It’s a song they don’t know. But, the old men allow it. They watched Maura grow up and know that in some moods you should not cross her. So, they let her rock and roll slide tonight.
Old Man #1: “I spent all day out there. Man, I’m aching.” A cane hangs beside him. It balances precariously on the edge of the bar, resting as if it had worn a divot into the wood over the years.
Old Man #2: “Quiet… Commercial. Where? At that damned clinic? It’s not your turn.”
Old Man #3: “Things shook up when Carl went to that stupid home.”
Old Man #1: “I volunteered.”
Old Man #2: “Isn’t that how you got that hole in your leg.” They all laugh.
Old Man #1: “If I hadn’t you two wouldn’t be here now.”
Old Man #3 laughs loudly, slaps the bar. “I doubt that. I pulled you out of more holes than I can count in Holland.”
The door opens. The old hinges grind and let out a low long note. Maura and the three old men look to see who would possibly come in. Maura recognizes his shape, even before she sees his face. She admonishes herself for not forgetting it as thoroughly as she thought she had.
Edmund: “Well Maura, I figured I’d find you here. You look good back there.” She remembers how his voice had always been pacifying. It had always been his most treacherous quality.
But, Maura is immune now. She crosses her arms. Her eyes are acidic “What do you want? If Uncle Titus sees you here, he’ll probably shoot you.”
Edmund, smiles wryly that loaded, impregnable smile. “I have something for you. You left it at my place way back when.”
The old men turn their heads from Maura to Edmund, following the exchange in synchronous dashes from face to face. Now they watch as Edmund reaches into his pocket.
Edmund pulls out his hand, his index finger and thumb holding out a ring. The diamond on it, lights white in the dim glow of the room. “Anyways, I gave you this. It’s yours.” He places it nonchalantly on the bar and walks out.
The door closes behind him. Maura picks up the ring. Eyeing it closely, she remembers the day he first held it out to her. The beach, the sun, the long slow breaths of sea. Blue and topaz in every direction. He had gotten down on one knee. He looked good in a bathing suit.
Now she turns the ring in her hand. When she had thrown it at him, a year later, after all the shit, she had hoped it would kill him. That the diamond would cut a hole through him. She left without finding out. Left everything and came back to Toronto.
The old man settle in again. Maura slides the ring into her pocket. “Whiskey anyone?”
Old Man #1 taps the bar with his cane. “I’m never one to let a woman drink alone.”
Maura drops down two shot glasses on to the polished wood. “That’s the spirit.”
K steps out of the library. It’s 8:30pm. The sun hides low behind the buildings and shoots orange and strange smog-purples into the sky. In the northwest, a front of low grey clouds gathers to smother Wednesday’s sunset.
He stretches absently, reaching his arms straight up. A little pop in his shoulder. He’s not tired, but he’s relieved. Janine, Candice’s replacement, has been shaking the place down, trying to sweep out the door the legacy of Candice’s slow breakdown. New rules and new measures. Janine has planted herself like a surveyor’s glass. Only she knows the extent of the new geography. Everyone calls it “spring cleaning.” But, they all miss Candice, at least a little.
The security guard emerges, locking the door behind him in his regular way.
K wonders idly what he’s going to do tonight. No shift at Ulysses’ and Maura is working at the House of Peers. His mind mulls over yesterday’s exchange with Edmund. One more time through. Maura had withdrawn after, became evasive. K was left with questions. He pulls out his cell phone, starts to enter G.T.’s number. Maybe a beer and some new input will help.
He doesn’t place the call. K is stopped by something so oddly familiar, but so unexpected that he barely recognizes it when it happens. He doesn’t remember even seeing her sitting there. And when Shannon stands up from the bench near the library entrance and says sheepishly, maybe embarrassed at having rehearsed it, “I thought you got off earlier,” he is startled and drops his phone.
K, stoops, his satchel falls awkwardly in front of him as he picks up his cell. Slapping back the worn canvas bag in annoyance, “Um. Janine had me stay late.” He examines the phone quickly to insure there’s no critical damage.
And then her. She looks the same; maybe better. Maybe good. Everything about her appears to have found a middle ground, somewhere between the day before they met, and the day after he last saw her, but little from in-between. Reassembled by unscreened time into a composite of unknowns and their bitterer shared past.
K: “You were waiting for me?”
Shannon looks him in the eyes. K cannot remember the last time she did that. He doesn’t fully recognize what they’re telling him. “Yes. Claire said you were working here tonight. I was going to go in, but well… you know.”
K: “Yeah. Though, I hope we’re done with scenes.”
She laughs, smiles. “Exactly. Truthfully, I was scared. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
K pockets his phone. “I wasn’t going to go out of my way, if that’s what you mean.” His voice is dry, but not ungracious. He could never be fully vindictive with her. He wanted to at first, but he left that somewhere outside the clinic or maybe outside her parents’ when he dropped her off in January.
Shannon, her voice a weak bravery: “Can I walk with you?”
K: “Sure. I’m just going home.”
They walk together. Bodies remember things longer, more deeply than our brains want them to, and they walk closer to each other than they realize or expect.
* * *
Your Protector – Fleet Foxes (listen in new tab)
Maura stands behind the bar at the House of Peers. The clock ticks past 8:30. She sighs, her mind is mired. Uncle Titus asked her to come in. Reluctantly, she accepted the distraction. It hasn’t distracted her much.
The bar is empty except for three old men sitting on stools, elbows on the bar. Each of them casually guard a pint of beer. They’re watching baseball. The teams look the same soft grey on the small, fuzzy black and white screen. Old ears strain against the TV’s low volume.
The ballgame competes with the low music from the radio. It’s a song they don’t know. But, the old men allow it. They watched Maura grow up and know that in some moods you should not cross her. So, they let her rock and roll slide tonight.
Old Man #1: “I spent all day out there. Man, I’m aching.” A cane hangs beside him. It balances precariously on the edge of the bar, resting as if it had worn a divot into the wood over the years.
Old Man #2: “Quiet… Commercial. Where? At that damned clinic? It’s not your turn.”
Old Man #3: “Things shook up when Carl went to that stupid home.”
Old Man #1: “I volunteered.”
Old Man #2: “Isn’t that how you got that hole in your leg.” They all laugh.
Old Man #1: “If I hadn’t you two wouldn’t be here now.”
Old Man #3 laughs loudly, slaps the bar. “I doubt that. I pulled you out of more holes than I can count in Holland.”
The door opens. The old hinges grind and let out a low long note. Maura and the three old men look to see who would possibly come in. Maura recognizes his shape, even before she sees his face. She admonishes herself for not forgetting it as thoroughly as she thought she had.
Edmund: “Well Maura, I figured I’d find you here. You look good back there.” She remembers how his voice had always been pacifying. It had always been his most treacherous quality.
But, Maura is immune now. She crosses her arms. Her eyes are acidic “What do you want? If Uncle Titus sees you here, he’ll probably shoot you.”
Edmund, smiles wryly that loaded, impregnable smile. “I have something for you. You left it at my place way back when.”
The old men turn their heads from Maura to Edmund, following the exchange in synchronous dashes from face to face. Now they watch as Edmund reaches into his pocket.
Edmund pulls out his hand, his index finger and thumb holding out a ring. The diamond on it, lights white in the dim glow of the room. “Anyways, I gave you this. It’s yours.” He places it nonchalantly on the bar and walks out.
The door closes behind him. Maura picks up the ring. Eyeing it closely, she remembers the day he first held it out to her. The beach, the sun, the long slow breaths of sea. Blue and topaz in every direction. He had gotten down on one knee. He looked good in a bathing suit.
Now she turns the ring in her hand. When she had thrown it at him, a year later, after all the shit, she had hoped it would kill him. That the diamond would cut a hole through him. She left without finding out. Left everything and came back to Toronto.
The old man settle in again. Maura slides the ring into her pocket. “Whiskey anyone?”
Old Man #1 taps the bar with his cane. “I’m never one to let a woman drink alone.”
Maura drops down two shot glasses on to the polished wood. “That’s the spirit.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Something's Changed
Something's Changed - Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings(listen in new tab)
K almost always opens the door for Maura. Though they’ve been together a few months now, he still puts his hand on the small of her back, as if giving her a little push, nudging her past. It’s Monday evening. K does this small familiar act as he and Maura enter Café Ulysses.
The café is full, but at the moment no one is ordering. Almost everyone is dressed in expensive looking running gear. K knows that Claire’s worry about the place has been palpable, but for 7:00 PM this isn’t bad.
Hera waves hello as she washes cups. Claire doesn’t notice them. She’s leaning far over the counter talking to a customer. A man in a dark pin-striped suit. It looks expensive and fitted, but he has one of those builds that would be described as handsome no matter what he wore. The cut of the suit seems superfluous.
Claire’s eyes lash like lassos as she laughs at something he says. She’s flirting hard.
K heads to the counter to order. His hand is clasp in Maura’s and he feels a sharp tug on his arm. He turns.
Maura: “Do you know that guy?”
K: “No. Never seen his back before.” He thinks he’s making a joke, that it’ll loosen her sudden inertia.
Maura: “Well. I mean. Oh nevermind.” There is a note, a distant ring in her voice. Not quite concern, but a tolling memory that until now had been shiftless and still.
K: “Do you know him?”
Maura: “Maybe. I dunno. Probably not. What’ll you have? It’s my treat.” She lets go of his hand and heads with brisk strides to the counter. “Hey, Claire. It looks busy in here.”
Claire looks at Maura then looks back at the man in the suit. She holds up one finger of one hand. To him:“One sec. Ok?” Her eyes wide and lit, her lips, and the lilt in her voice are earthy and suggestive. A half-second ticks, and at the tock she’s ready for other people. “Hey Maura. Where’s K? Oh, there he is! How’s our star today?”
At this, the man in the suit turns to see who arrived. His face is chiselled and clean, broad jawed. He has softened eyes that seem unsuited or unused to softness.
K: “Well, you know how we do. Candice’s replacement has been driving everyone crazy. A good crazy, though.”
K can’t see Maura’s face, but the intensity of recognition on the suit’s face, the way he says “Maura?”, the way Maura’s hand sought out K’s without her looking. It has him intrigued.
Maura, her voice cold: “Edmund.” The air in the room becomes elastic, stretched, and taut.
Claire, oblivious or unconcerned, slaps the counter, and repeats his name to herself in an aside.
K feels the air charge. At the same time, all the runners stand-up. Chairs scrape, cup rattle, spoons scrape. The café fills with a clamorous heap of laters, next times, who’s-running-back-with-mes, almost incoherent over the shuffle of expensive light-weight shoes.
K, Maura, Claire, and Edmund watch the troop of neon, reflective nylon leave, and disperse on the sidewalk by the window. The little bell on the door rings as it closes behind the last one. The café is empty.
K breaks the pause with a quiet “Huh” and then looking at Maura: “Oh, so you do know him.” He reaches out his free hand. “I’m K.”
Edmund takes K’s hand, shakes it with a practiced grip. It’s feels like an essay on handshakes. Firm, confident, laced with difference and promise. “Edmund Gloucester”
At the same time Maura squeezes K’s other hand. It’s feels like they were competing.
Then release.
Hera appears, practically bounces over and places a to-go cup down. Her face beams with pride. “Hey mister, you’re latte is ready. I put a little face in the foam.”
Claire looks down at it. K does too. It looks exactly like the wine glass/face optical illusion gag, marked in brown smudged, wispy lines on the white foam. Both of them are piqued by her unexpected grandstanding.
K: “Hey, that’s good. How did you do that?”
Edmund and Maura have locked gazes. His eyes stiffen, become sharp. Maura’s too. K has not seen her make that look before.
Edmund grabs the cup, barely looks. “Hey, umm, thanks.” His voice is glib, casual, shaking off whatever Maura has invoked. “Nice see you again Maury, and to meet you, K.”
Looking at Claire he smiles. It’s a smile crafted, squared for such moments. It’s cavalier and unaffected. He holds up the paper cup. “And, I guess next time I need one of these, I know where to go. Claire, right?”
He leaves. The door jingles open. And then closes. Claire melts. Maura watches him go. Her face still unfamiliar and stern. K rubs the back of his head, considers the exchange.
Hera puts her hands on her hips. “Did he tip?”
K almost always opens the door for Maura. Though they’ve been together a few months now, he still puts his hand on the small of her back, as if giving her a little push, nudging her past. It’s Monday evening. K does this small familiar act as he and Maura enter Café Ulysses.
The café is full, but at the moment no one is ordering. Almost everyone is dressed in expensive looking running gear. K knows that Claire’s worry about the place has been palpable, but for 7:00 PM this isn’t bad.
Hera waves hello as she washes cups. Claire doesn’t notice them. She’s leaning far over the counter talking to a customer. A man in a dark pin-striped suit. It looks expensive and fitted, but he has one of those builds that would be described as handsome no matter what he wore. The cut of the suit seems superfluous.
Claire’s eyes lash like lassos as she laughs at something he says. She’s flirting hard.
K heads to the counter to order. His hand is clasp in Maura’s and he feels a sharp tug on his arm. He turns.
Maura: “Do you know that guy?”
K: “No. Never seen his back before.” He thinks he’s making a joke, that it’ll loosen her sudden inertia.
Maura: “Well. I mean. Oh nevermind.” There is a note, a distant ring in her voice. Not quite concern, but a tolling memory that until now had been shiftless and still.
K: “Do you know him?”
Maura: “Maybe. I dunno. Probably not. What’ll you have? It’s my treat.” She lets go of his hand and heads with brisk strides to the counter. “Hey, Claire. It looks busy in here.”
Claire looks at Maura then looks back at the man in the suit. She holds up one finger of one hand. To him:“One sec. Ok?” Her eyes wide and lit, her lips, and the lilt in her voice are earthy and suggestive. A half-second ticks, and at the tock she’s ready for other people. “Hey Maura. Where’s K? Oh, there he is! How’s our star today?”
At this, the man in the suit turns to see who arrived. His face is chiselled and clean, broad jawed. He has softened eyes that seem unsuited or unused to softness.
K: “Well, you know how we do. Candice’s replacement has been driving everyone crazy. A good crazy, though.”
K can’t see Maura’s face, but the intensity of recognition on the suit’s face, the way he says “Maura?”, the way Maura’s hand sought out K’s without her looking. It has him intrigued.
Maura, her voice cold: “Edmund.” The air in the room becomes elastic, stretched, and taut.
Claire, oblivious or unconcerned, slaps the counter, and repeats his name to herself in an aside.
K feels the air charge. At the same time, all the runners stand-up. Chairs scrape, cup rattle, spoons scrape. The café fills with a clamorous heap of laters, next times, who’s-running-back-with-mes, almost incoherent over the shuffle of expensive light-weight shoes.
K, Maura, Claire, and Edmund watch the troop of neon, reflective nylon leave, and disperse on the sidewalk by the window. The little bell on the door rings as it closes behind the last one. The café is empty.
K breaks the pause with a quiet “Huh” and then looking at Maura: “Oh, so you do know him.” He reaches out his free hand. “I’m K.”
Edmund takes K’s hand, shakes it with a practiced grip. It’s feels like an essay on handshakes. Firm, confident, laced with difference and promise. “Edmund Gloucester”
At the same time Maura squeezes K’s other hand. It’s feels like they were competing.
Then release.
Hera appears, practically bounces over and places a to-go cup down. Her face beams with pride. “Hey mister, you’re latte is ready. I put a little face in the foam.”
Claire looks down at it. K does too. It looks exactly like the wine glass/face optical illusion gag, marked in brown smudged, wispy lines on the white foam. Both of them are piqued by her unexpected grandstanding.
K: “Hey, that’s good. How did you do that?”
Edmund and Maura have locked gazes. His eyes stiffen, become sharp. Maura’s too. K has not seen her make that look before.
Edmund grabs the cup, barely looks. “Hey, umm, thanks.” His voice is glib, casual, shaking off whatever Maura has invoked. “Nice see you again Maury, and to meet you, K.”
Looking at Claire he smiles. It’s a smile crafted, squared for such moments. It’s cavalier and unaffected. He holds up the paper cup. “And, I guess next time I need one of these, I know where to go. Claire, right?”
He leaves. The door jingles open. And then closes. Claire melts. Maura watches him go. Her face still unfamiliar and stern. K rubs the back of his head, considers the exchange.
Hera puts her hands on her hips. “Did he tip?”
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Lay Down in the Tall Grass
Lay Down in the Tall Grass - Timber Timbre(listen in new tab)
Saturday morning, at 6:00 AM, the city has barely taken its first deep breath before it yawns away.
Claire, bleary eyed, puts the key in the front door of Café Ulysses. Locks the door behind her. The room is dark, clean from the night before. She hangs her coat on one of the hooks in the back. She drops a CD in to the stereo. A slender finger presses the worn play button.
Early mornings are rote, a pattern that has etched itself into her muscles and the cells of her brain. She puts on the first carafes of coffee. Wanders to the fridge, brings out the cream. She takes the carton with her as she heads to the back exit, pushing the heavy door open.
A small cracked ceramic Mickey Mouse dish sits on the littered ground in the back alley. She hears excited mewing as she pours and disappears back inside.
Then she opens the heavy blinds of the large front windows. April spring’s sun rushes in.
It’s the fifth or sixth Saturday in a row. Since she took over the café, she’s seen more of this place than anywhere. Claire doesn’t miss the late nights at V.I. Lenin’s or the breakfasts at Cymbeline’s or the sweaty thump of the 5 Oh. No. This morning, the city has eyes tight with sleep. It’s still adrift, but she is already at the helm. Once there, she never takes her hands off the wheel.
Danielle will be here in half an hour. No need to unlock the door. She’s in no hurry to share the isolation. The quiet gives her space. She sets about righting the chairs, opening the safe, getting the cashier tray ready.
She lets her mind climb across the lattice work of columns and numbers that are the café’s ledgers. The books are often on her mind. She’s memorized them. They are Ulysses’ cold, nagging synecdoche.
She worries. Much is black, too much is red. Frustrating infections that Esther had let fester. Things have gotten better. Claire has cleared some debts with suppliers. Brought in some new customers. Even allowed the creep of seasonal decorations to further its encroachment. But, better isn’t good enough. Not if the doors are to stay open.
Later when Danielle arrives, Claire is surprised by the knock on the door’s glass pane.
Opening the door Claire smiles, happy now to have company: “Good morning, dear.”
Danielle rubs her eyes, her dark skinned hands balled up just a little. “How can you be like this, this early?”
Claire: “Go out last night?”
Danielle gives a dry, impeached smile: “Haven’t been home yet.” She ties on an apron, and leans on the counter.
Claire sighs, turns the door sign to “Open.” They share a coffee, and then they wait.
The morning passes. A slow slide show of indolent customers , in a chopped succession: appearing, staying, going, ordering. Another day too far from steady.
Danielle does her job with an acquired poise. She’s funny half the time and regularly explodes with a characteristic deep, honest laugh. She is the queen of the ironic “Boss” and “Ma’am.” She’s ok, but Claire misses working with K. He’s been working almost full-time at the library and so he has worked less and less at Ulysses. Danielle is here almost all the time now
There have been other new faces. Jason came and quit soon after. There was a showdown of some sort. Claire won. Hera replaced him. She works majestically, but not enough hours. Claire makes a note to push her to come in more. And there is the very new hire, Zoe. She has promise. There are a few others, who’d been around forever, but who are slowly leaving, in grief over Esther absence or just moving on.
It’s not a bad roster, but one or two more solid hires would mean she could sleep in one or two weekend mornings a month.
Mid morning: G.T. and Brae come through for coffee on their way to do some shopping. Claire has barely seen G.T. since February. They’ve both been busy. Brae’s eyes are warm, but like a morning’s red sun. G.T. said she knows nothing, but sometimes those big brown eyes look like they know everything. There is small talk.
G.T.: “What’s new? Huh?”
Claire: “Not much. I pretty much live here, now. How’re things with you?”
G.T.: “Good. They got me on the road a lot at work. I went to Hong Kong last week. Before you say anything, it sucked. Spent the whole time in the hotel. Jetlag. Meetings. Sleep. Taxi. Plane. That’s it.”
Claire: “Sounds like my life, these days. Except no hotels, planes, taxis , meetings, or exotic locales.”
Brae comes back from the washroom. “Hey Claire. What’s up?”
Claire: “I was just saying –”
Brae: “G.T. was saying that we should double date sometime to catch up.” G.T. sips his coffee. He looks indicted. “You can bring that doctor fellow. He was cute.”
Claire: “That guy? Our schedules just didn’t match. I guess it didn’t work out. That was weeks ago.”
Brae: “Well, we’ll figure something out. Later.” And out they go.
Eventually, Zoe replaces Danielle. Hera comes mid afternoon. Then K at 5:00 to help Hera close.
It’s 6:00pm by the time Claire leaves. At 6:53 she stumbles on the stairs to her front door. Sbeckett is there. His eyes are cold. She decides the old cat has figured out about the ones she feeds in the alleys.
She looks down at him as he waits for her to open the door. “Is it that I give them cream and not you, or is it that I do it at all?” Sbeckett ignores her and darts in.
Claire falls asleep on the couch, after eating leftover pasta. The TV’s light paints her face with fluid blue light and shadows. A thin smile curls the corners of her mouth. Her roommate wakes her up around 11:00. Claire drags herself to bed and lies there. Sbeckett jumps up onto he duvet, slumps down beside her. She rubs his neck. He purrs.
She thinks endlessly about Ulysses. Her eyes slacken and close. The black-red mess is slowly smudged into a map with points charted. It’s a clear path. All she needs now is the wind.
Saturday morning, at 6:00 AM, the city has barely taken its first deep breath before it yawns away.
Claire, bleary eyed, puts the key in the front door of Café Ulysses. Locks the door behind her. The room is dark, clean from the night before. She hangs her coat on one of the hooks in the back. She drops a CD in to the stereo. A slender finger presses the worn play button.
Early mornings are rote, a pattern that has etched itself into her muscles and the cells of her brain. She puts on the first carafes of coffee. Wanders to the fridge, brings out the cream. She takes the carton with her as she heads to the back exit, pushing the heavy door open.
A small cracked ceramic Mickey Mouse dish sits on the littered ground in the back alley. She hears excited mewing as she pours and disappears back inside.
Then she opens the heavy blinds of the large front windows. April spring’s sun rushes in.
It’s the fifth or sixth Saturday in a row. Since she took over the café, she’s seen more of this place than anywhere. Claire doesn’t miss the late nights at V.I. Lenin’s or the breakfasts at Cymbeline’s or the sweaty thump of the 5 Oh. No. This morning, the city has eyes tight with sleep. It’s still adrift, but she is already at the helm. Once there, she never takes her hands off the wheel.
Danielle will be here in half an hour. No need to unlock the door. She’s in no hurry to share the isolation. The quiet gives her space. She sets about righting the chairs, opening the safe, getting the cashier tray ready.
She lets her mind climb across the lattice work of columns and numbers that are the café’s ledgers. The books are often on her mind. She’s memorized them. They are Ulysses’ cold, nagging synecdoche.
She worries. Much is black, too much is red. Frustrating infections that Esther had let fester. Things have gotten better. Claire has cleared some debts with suppliers. Brought in some new customers. Even allowed the creep of seasonal decorations to further its encroachment. But, better isn’t good enough. Not if the doors are to stay open.
Later when Danielle arrives, Claire is surprised by the knock on the door’s glass pane.
Opening the door Claire smiles, happy now to have company: “Good morning, dear.”
Danielle rubs her eyes, her dark skinned hands balled up just a little. “How can you be like this, this early?”
Claire: “Go out last night?”
Danielle gives a dry, impeached smile: “Haven’t been home yet.” She ties on an apron, and leans on the counter.
Claire sighs, turns the door sign to “Open.” They share a coffee, and then they wait.
The morning passes. A slow slide show of indolent customers , in a chopped succession: appearing, staying, going, ordering. Another day too far from steady.
Danielle does her job with an acquired poise. She’s funny half the time and regularly explodes with a characteristic deep, honest laugh. She is the queen of the ironic “Boss” and “Ma’am.” She’s ok, but Claire misses working with K. He’s been working almost full-time at the library and so he has worked less and less at Ulysses. Danielle is here almost all the time now
There have been other new faces. Jason came and quit soon after. There was a showdown of some sort. Claire won. Hera replaced him. She works majestically, but not enough hours. Claire makes a note to push her to come in more. And there is the very new hire, Zoe. She has promise. There are a few others, who’d been around forever, but who are slowly leaving, in grief over Esther absence or just moving on.
It’s not a bad roster, but one or two more solid hires would mean she could sleep in one or two weekend mornings a month.
Mid morning: G.T. and Brae come through for coffee on their way to do some shopping. Claire has barely seen G.T. since February. They’ve both been busy. Brae’s eyes are warm, but like a morning’s red sun. G.T. said she knows nothing, but sometimes those big brown eyes look like they know everything. There is small talk.
G.T.: “What’s new? Huh?”
Claire: “Not much. I pretty much live here, now. How’re things with you?”
G.T.: “Good. They got me on the road a lot at work. I went to Hong Kong last week. Before you say anything, it sucked. Spent the whole time in the hotel. Jetlag. Meetings. Sleep. Taxi. Plane. That’s it.”
Claire: “Sounds like my life, these days. Except no hotels, planes, taxis , meetings, or exotic locales.”
Brae comes back from the washroom. “Hey Claire. What’s up?”
Claire: “I was just saying –”
Brae: “G.T. was saying that we should double date sometime to catch up.” G.T. sips his coffee. He looks indicted. “You can bring that doctor fellow. He was cute.”
Claire: “That guy? Our schedules just didn’t match. I guess it didn’t work out. That was weeks ago.”
Brae: “Well, we’ll figure something out. Later.” And out they go.
Eventually, Zoe replaces Danielle. Hera comes mid afternoon. Then K at 5:00 to help Hera close.
It’s 6:00pm by the time Claire leaves. At 6:53 she stumbles on the stairs to her front door. Sbeckett is there. His eyes are cold. She decides the old cat has figured out about the ones she feeds in the alleys.
She looks down at him as he waits for her to open the door. “Is it that I give them cream and not you, or is it that I do it at all?” Sbeckett ignores her and darts in.
Claire falls asleep on the couch, after eating leftover pasta. The TV’s light paints her face with fluid blue light and shadows. A thin smile curls the corners of her mouth. Her roommate wakes her up around 11:00. Claire drags herself to bed and lies there. Sbeckett jumps up onto he duvet, slumps down beside her. She rubs his neck. He purrs.
She thinks endlessly about Ulysses. Her eyes slacken and close. The black-red mess is slowly smudged into a map with points charted. It’s a clear path. All she needs now is the wind.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Secret Song: Nothing Will Never be the Same Again
Nothing Will Never be the Same Again – JJ(listen in new tab)
She is awake before her eyes open. The inside black becomes a sharp white. The morning sun beats in through the window, unabated by her eyelids. Claire struggles to keep her eyes shut. Curses herself for not closing the blinds before bed.
Sbeckett purrs lowly on her chest. He tries to make himself heavy and warm so that Claire won’t get up. He always knows when she’s about to wake up and tries the same lame game.
Her head pounds. Too much celebrating. Her night blurred, is not quite a blacked out. More like someone took their thumb and smudged her memory into incomprehension, so that the edges are unknown. She imagines shot three was the one.
She lets out a low groan and sits up. Sbeckett lands in her lap, stretches resentfully. Claire realizes that she’s naked and holds the blanket against her chest.
Claire: “Oh whatever Sbeckett.” The cat jumps off the bed, making soft taps as he heads about his morning business. She rubs her eyes trying to unblurr them.
“What? What time is it?” She slaps her hand in the direction of the voice. Feels a face, then a body under the sheets.
G.T. grabs her hand, props himself up on one elbow. “Stop that. Oh man. My head hurts. Are you gonna make waffles?”
Holding the blankets close to her chest, she looks at him and slaps her forehead. “Jesus, not again.”
She is awake before her eyes open. The inside black becomes a sharp white. The morning sun beats in through the window, unabated by her eyelids. Claire struggles to keep her eyes shut. Curses herself for not closing the blinds before bed.
Sbeckett purrs lowly on her chest. He tries to make himself heavy and warm so that Claire won’t get up. He always knows when she’s about to wake up and tries the same lame game.
Her head pounds. Too much celebrating. Her night blurred, is not quite a blacked out. More like someone took their thumb and smudged her memory into incomprehension, so that the edges are unknown. She imagines shot three was the one.
She lets out a low groan and sits up. Sbeckett lands in her lap, stretches resentfully. Claire realizes that she’s naked and holds the blanket against her chest.
Claire: “Oh whatever Sbeckett.” The cat jumps off the bed, making soft taps as he heads about his morning business. She rubs her eyes trying to unblurr them.
“What? What time is it?” She slaps her hand in the direction of the voice. Feels a face, then a body under the sheets.
G.T. grabs her hand, props himself up on one elbow. “Stop that. Oh man. My head hurts. Are you gonna make waffles?”
Holding the blankets close to her chest, she looks at him and slaps her forehead. “Jesus, not again.”
Atlantic City
Atlantic City – Bruce Springsteen (listen in new tab)
It’s 8:00am. Early on a February Friday. Week two of the strike.
K walks up to the picket of cold, tired strikers outside the main entrance of his library. This morning it’s a young woman a little older than him, whom he doesn’t recognize, and an old man from cataloging. Dan or Ken. K’s trying to learn their names, since every day someone has stopped him, handed him a flyer and a stern look. It’s not always someone from his branch.
A few times a week K brings the morning picket coffee. It is his way of saying he wishes he could be out there. He hates crossing the line. Today he holds in his hand two cups, wisps of steam escapes in slow curls from the white plastic lids into the crisp air.
K: “It’s dark roast.”
They mumble thanks. The woman hands K a flyer. He flips it in hand before giving it back. “It’s the same as yesterday. Stay warm guys.”
Later, Candice stops K on her way to lunch. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are dark and soft. Management and the contract workers have been working long hours to keep the library system barely running. She’s been practically living here.
Candice: “I know it may be too soon. But we’ll be looking to fill the hole Jenny left in the roster. You know after all this hoopla is sorted out. You should keep that in mind.” She’s trying to be friendly. She feels alone in this place.
K looks at the floor, says nothing.
Since Jenny died, the library breathes differently. K feels now how much she imbued into the dusty shelves and stained carpet, the shell of the building. And now it echoes as it inhales and exhales him everyday. The building contracts and loosens around her absence, and he comes back for the extra hours.
Leaning at the circulation desk, he looks out at the two strikers stepping back and forth, slapping themselves with crossed arms to stay warm.
At Ulysses’s, Claire sits at a table talking about money with Esther and William Latch, long time proprietors. Esther, her head a frizzy mat of tied back silver hair, sits quietly. William coughs harshly into a paisley kerchief. Claire gestures sedately, but her eyes are kinetic. She writes down a number. Esther nods. Her eyes grieve though the money is good. William coughs again as he stands up. Claire beams and shakes Esther’s hand, then stands to shake William’s.
His voice is gravel: “That’ll make a difference in Cairo, eh, Esther dear?” He puts his hand on her shoulder with practiced care.
Esther is a thousand weeks ago. She thinks about turning the key in the lock for the first time and tearing old newspaper off the windows, letting the sun in. The dust danced in the rays. She remembers righting tables as she imagined what fresh paint would be like. Feels in her hand the first few quarters her mother gave her for the first cup on opening day. This space was nothing once. Now it is a last deep breath.
She looks up at Claire. “I’m glad it’s you.” Both their chests feel like they could burst.
William coughs roughly, his face covered.
Maura closes her books, writes the few short notes for Monday, and watches the last few students walk out of the classroom. She stands, packing what she needs into her purse, then walks out. The weeks with these kids have been passing quickly. She always thinks that on Fridays. Every other day in the week, she feels the days drag into space. But, it’s the weekend and K’s got tomorrow off. For the first time in a week and half he won’t have to work. She breathes out slowly and reminds herself that through the doors she isn’t a teacher.
G.T. stands on a dais in a large conference room. He shakes the hand of Val Percy, founder, with thin fervour. His peers clap cordially in the tiered audience. She hands him a brass plaque. He is a veneer of professional charm, but inside he thinks about what to do with the cheap wood and metal award.
G.T.: “Thank you very much Mrs. Percy. I really try to set an example for my coworkers.”
Val: “Well, your sales record speaks for itself.”
G.T. catches her eye. She’d rather be anywhere else on Friday, too.
Later that night at V.I. Lenin’s. The bar is crowded. Miracle of miracle, G.T. got them a table. Claire slouches in her chair, already a glowing mess. K sits next to Maura. Their knees pressed together make knots under the table.
G.T. appears and lines shots up along the table. Stubby glasses of amber, amidst the pints of beer. “Now, let’s get this started. Courtesy of the top seller in the region.”
Claire: “Hey, where’s Brae?”
G.T.: “She's at a conference in Kingston. Presenting something on bio-diversity voodoo. Drink up!”
The four of them pound back the shot. Slam the glasses down.
Claire gags, coughs: “Whiskey, G.T.? Jesus.”
Maura lets out a quiet cough, as the alcohol heats her throat and stomach.
K washes his down with a chaser of beer. “G.T., how do you get a sales award anyways?”
G.T. drinks from his pint glass deeply. “I show up and go to the washroom a lot. Also, look at me.”
Claire: “Ugh. When are you leaving that place?”
G.T. holds up the plaque. “I dunno. Who wants to watch me throw this under a subway later?”
Claire holds up a hand loosely. K makes his excuses. Maura laughs.
A while later, K and Maura get up to leave. Claire slaps the table demanding they stay. K makes their apologies. G.T. raises a glass casually to their leaving and gives K a knowing wink.
In the night, the clouds have made a rift. The few stars Toronto allows, only the brightest, make their billion year dash through the furrow. The planet inhales their light. Amidst that, K walks with Maura curled under his arm. The street is busy with Friday night traffic.
K: “Winter’s been long enough.”
Maura: “Yeah. It’s cold.” She tries to burrow closer into him.
K: “Where do you want to go?”
Maura: “It doesn’t matter. Some place warm, ok?”
K: “Sounds good. Some place warm, it is.”
End Volume 1: Run to the Lights of the City.
It’s 8:00am. Early on a February Friday. Week two of the strike.
K walks up to the picket of cold, tired strikers outside the main entrance of his library. This morning it’s a young woman a little older than him, whom he doesn’t recognize, and an old man from cataloging. Dan or Ken. K’s trying to learn their names, since every day someone has stopped him, handed him a flyer and a stern look. It’s not always someone from his branch.
A few times a week K brings the morning picket coffee. It is his way of saying he wishes he could be out there. He hates crossing the line. Today he holds in his hand two cups, wisps of steam escapes in slow curls from the white plastic lids into the crisp air.
K: “It’s dark roast.”
They mumble thanks. The woman hands K a flyer. He flips it in hand before giving it back. “It’s the same as yesterday. Stay warm guys.”
Later, Candice stops K on her way to lunch. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are dark and soft. Management and the contract workers have been working long hours to keep the library system barely running. She’s been practically living here.
Candice: “I know it may be too soon. But we’ll be looking to fill the hole Jenny left in the roster. You know after all this hoopla is sorted out. You should keep that in mind.” She’s trying to be friendly. She feels alone in this place.
K looks at the floor, says nothing.
Since Jenny died, the library breathes differently. K feels now how much she imbued into the dusty shelves and stained carpet, the shell of the building. And now it echoes as it inhales and exhales him everyday. The building contracts and loosens around her absence, and he comes back for the extra hours.
Leaning at the circulation desk, he looks out at the two strikers stepping back and forth, slapping themselves with crossed arms to stay warm.
At Ulysses’s, Claire sits at a table talking about money with Esther and William Latch, long time proprietors. Esther, her head a frizzy mat of tied back silver hair, sits quietly. William coughs harshly into a paisley kerchief. Claire gestures sedately, but her eyes are kinetic. She writes down a number. Esther nods. Her eyes grieve though the money is good. William coughs again as he stands up. Claire beams and shakes Esther’s hand, then stands to shake William’s.
His voice is gravel: “That’ll make a difference in Cairo, eh, Esther dear?” He puts his hand on her shoulder with practiced care.
Esther is a thousand weeks ago. She thinks about turning the key in the lock for the first time and tearing old newspaper off the windows, letting the sun in. The dust danced in the rays. She remembers righting tables as she imagined what fresh paint would be like. Feels in her hand the first few quarters her mother gave her for the first cup on opening day. This space was nothing once. Now it is a last deep breath.
She looks up at Claire. “I’m glad it’s you.” Both their chests feel like they could burst.
William coughs roughly, his face covered.
Maura closes her books, writes the few short notes for Monday, and watches the last few students walk out of the classroom. She stands, packing what she needs into her purse, then walks out. The weeks with these kids have been passing quickly. She always thinks that on Fridays. Every other day in the week, she feels the days drag into space. But, it’s the weekend and K’s got tomorrow off. For the first time in a week and half he won’t have to work. She breathes out slowly and reminds herself that through the doors she isn’t a teacher.
G.T. stands on a dais in a large conference room. He shakes the hand of Val Percy, founder, with thin fervour. His peers clap cordially in the tiered audience. She hands him a brass plaque. He is a veneer of professional charm, but inside he thinks about what to do with the cheap wood and metal award.
G.T.: “Thank you very much Mrs. Percy. I really try to set an example for my coworkers.”
Val: “Well, your sales record speaks for itself.”
G.T. catches her eye. She’d rather be anywhere else on Friday, too.
Later that night at V.I. Lenin’s. The bar is crowded. Miracle of miracle, G.T. got them a table. Claire slouches in her chair, already a glowing mess. K sits next to Maura. Their knees pressed together make knots under the table.
G.T. appears and lines shots up along the table. Stubby glasses of amber, amidst the pints of beer. “Now, let’s get this started. Courtesy of the top seller in the region.”
Claire: “Hey, where’s Brae?”
G.T.: “She's at a conference in Kingston. Presenting something on bio-diversity voodoo. Drink up!”
The four of them pound back the shot. Slam the glasses down.
Claire gags, coughs: “Whiskey, G.T.? Jesus.”
Maura lets out a quiet cough, as the alcohol heats her throat and stomach.
K washes his down with a chaser of beer. “G.T., how do you get a sales award anyways?”
G.T. drinks from his pint glass deeply. “I show up and go to the washroom a lot. Also, look at me.”
Claire: “Ugh. When are you leaving that place?”
G.T. holds up the plaque. “I dunno. Who wants to watch me throw this under a subway later?”
Claire holds up a hand loosely. K makes his excuses. Maura laughs.
A while later, K and Maura get up to leave. Claire slaps the table demanding they stay. K makes their apologies. G.T. raises a glass casually to their leaving and gives K a knowing wink.
In the night, the clouds have made a rift. The few stars Toronto allows, only the brightest, make their billion year dash through the furrow. The planet inhales their light. Amidst that, K walks with Maura curled under his arm. The street is busy with Friday night traffic.
K: “Winter’s been long enough.”
Maura: “Yeah. It’s cold.” She tries to burrow closer into him.
K: “Where do you want to go?”
Maura: “It doesn’t matter. Some place warm, ok?”
K: “Sounds good. Some place warm, it is.”
End Volume 1: Run to the Lights of the City.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Strangers in the Wind
Strangers in the Wind - Cut Copy (listen in new tab)
In the half empty church parking lot, K scrapes the windshield of his car. A thin layer of dusty particulate ice had crawled across the glass during the service and his stay at the reception.
The car rumbles and clatters under the layer of snow on the hood. The exhaust hangs low in grey white clouds by the muffler.
Since Jenny died, it had snapped cold, turned to blizzards, and this is the first clear day. The sky is a crystal blue glacial lake spilt across it. The old woman would be interred in the spring. The graveyard is frozen.
K stops, ponders up at the spires of St. Jerome’s Cathedral. The gargoyles, high up, look out sternly, obscured for a moment by the thin fog of his breath. The rose window is a Byzantine eye of tenebrous glass. He thinks: people will never build them like this again.
Maura comes out to him. She’s bundled into a dark grey wool parka. It hugs her curves. “You’re leaving?”
K: “Yeah. Well, I don’t want to impose on your family or anything.”
She casually knocks some snow off the roof; it falls in light streams, sliding down to the wipers. She watches it fall. “You’re not imposing.” Her face is ashen against the black scarf knotted around her neck. Her eyes look at him from far inside her. White breath escapes her mouth, her lips red in the cold.
K: “Well. I mean I don’t know my footing at these kinds of things.”
Maura shrugs off his words: “I don’t think anyone does. Half the people in there acted like I didn’t exist until three days ago. So awkward. Like all the time”
K opens the drivers side door, throws the scraper in. A little music escapes. He shrugs and smiles consolations. “Families are weird. You look exhausted.”
Maura: “I am.” She looks back at the Cathedral. It reaches up. Her feet feel fastened to the snow, locked in ice. She thinks for a moment. She wants to move. “Can you take me home?”
K: “Now?”
Maura: “Now.”
K: “No problem.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaches across and unlocks the other door. Maura yanks, breaking the weak ice that had sealed it.
A little later, K is pulling his car on to the 401. Jenny’s cathedral is in a neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The expressway is the fastest way back home. The Cavalier resents having to speed up, and rattles in protest.
Maura had been quiet for a while. “I don’t think your car likes that.”
K: “It’ll be fine.” He pets the faded and stained dashboard lovingly. “You’re a satisfying machine, and you know it.”
She smiles, lets out a little laugh. It floats on the currents of warm air that push out from the vents. It twists and falls and rises into his ears. Settling there it rings loud in his head.
Maura: “I’m surprised there weren’t more people from the library.”
K: “There were some there. Jenny was well known. I mean, she had been there about as long as anyone. She had a real impact on the place. But, I think a lot of them are on the picket line today.”
Maura: “Right. How is that thing going?”
K changes lanes, moving out of the way of a speeding SUV. “The strike? Hah. No one in the city cares. The branches are all open and us contract workers get to cross the picket lines. Listen menopausal women can be scary. And, when they’re fighting for their pensions. Oh man. Jenny would have loved it. She was such a– Oh. Hey. I’m sorry.”
Maura is crying. Tears fall in rivulets from the corner of her eyes. She rubs her nose with her sleeve. “No. Sorry. I just. Well, you know?”
K is silent for a moment. “Yeah. Jenny was special. Hands down. A real dame.”
Maura sniffles a Yes. She puts her hand on his thigh. He puts his atop hers. The car jerks suddenly, skidding on some black ice, forcing him to grab the wheel tightly with both hands.
K: “Hah. Always turn into the skid, right?”
Her hand is still there when he pulls into the plowed clearing in front of Maura’s building. The entrance has the same yellow-white sheen it had months ago.
Maura: “Do you want to come up?”
The car rumbles as it idles. She squeezes his leg. “I’ll make tea. You can park down there.”
K: “Ok.”
She will put the faded white electric kettle on. And while he looks at her bookshelf, she’ll touch his back lightly, not with her full hand. It will make him turn around. And their eyes will meet and push into each other’s head with unrestrained, abandoned force.
The world spins on their axis as his hand finds the side of her face and her arms reach around his neck. The planet crashes to a halt, throwing them together, so that when they kiss it feels like the inertia of their isolate world is on them.
And as they kiss: the kettle rumbles and whistles, and they ignore the click.
In the half empty church parking lot, K scrapes the windshield of his car. A thin layer of dusty particulate ice had crawled across the glass during the service and his stay at the reception.
The car rumbles and clatters under the layer of snow on the hood. The exhaust hangs low in grey white clouds by the muffler.
Since Jenny died, it had snapped cold, turned to blizzards, and this is the first clear day. The sky is a crystal blue glacial lake spilt across it. The old woman would be interred in the spring. The graveyard is frozen.
K stops, ponders up at the spires of St. Jerome’s Cathedral. The gargoyles, high up, look out sternly, obscured for a moment by the thin fog of his breath. The rose window is a Byzantine eye of tenebrous glass. He thinks: people will never build them like this again.
Maura comes out to him. She’s bundled into a dark grey wool parka. It hugs her curves. “You’re leaving?”
K: “Yeah. Well, I don’t want to impose on your family or anything.”
She casually knocks some snow off the roof; it falls in light streams, sliding down to the wipers. She watches it fall. “You’re not imposing.” Her face is ashen against the black scarf knotted around her neck. Her eyes look at him from far inside her. White breath escapes her mouth, her lips red in the cold.
K: “Well. I mean I don’t know my footing at these kinds of things.”
Maura shrugs off his words: “I don’t think anyone does. Half the people in there acted like I didn’t exist until three days ago. So awkward. Like all the time”
K opens the drivers side door, throws the scraper in. A little music escapes. He shrugs and smiles consolations. “Families are weird. You look exhausted.”
Maura: “I am.” She looks back at the Cathedral. It reaches up. Her feet feel fastened to the snow, locked in ice. She thinks for a moment. She wants to move. “Can you take me home?”
K: “Now?”
Maura: “Now.”
K: “No problem.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaches across and unlocks the other door. Maura yanks, breaking the weak ice that had sealed it.
A little later, K is pulling his car on to the 401. Jenny’s cathedral is in a neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The expressway is the fastest way back home. The Cavalier resents having to speed up, and rattles in protest.
Maura had been quiet for a while. “I don’t think your car likes that.”
K: “It’ll be fine.” He pets the faded and stained dashboard lovingly. “You’re a satisfying machine, and you know it.”
She smiles, lets out a little laugh. It floats on the currents of warm air that push out from the vents. It twists and falls and rises into his ears. Settling there it rings loud in his head.
Maura: “I’m surprised there weren’t more people from the library.”
K: “There were some there. Jenny was well known. I mean, she had been there about as long as anyone. She had a real impact on the place. But, I think a lot of them are on the picket line today.”
Maura: “Right. How is that thing going?”
K changes lanes, moving out of the way of a speeding SUV. “The strike? Hah. No one in the city cares. The branches are all open and us contract workers get to cross the picket lines. Listen menopausal women can be scary. And, when they’re fighting for their pensions. Oh man. Jenny would have loved it. She was such a– Oh. Hey. I’m sorry.”
Maura is crying. Tears fall in rivulets from the corner of her eyes. She rubs her nose with her sleeve. “No. Sorry. I just. Well, you know?”
K is silent for a moment. “Yeah. Jenny was special. Hands down. A real dame.”
Maura sniffles a Yes. She puts her hand on his thigh. He puts his atop hers. The car jerks suddenly, skidding on some black ice, forcing him to grab the wheel tightly with both hands.
K: “Hah. Always turn into the skid, right?”
Her hand is still there when he pulls into the plowed clearing in front of Maura’s building. The entrance has the same yellow-white sheen it had months ago.
Maura: “Do you want to come up?”
The car rumbles as it idles. She squeezes his leg. “I’ll make tea. You can park down there.”
K: “Ok.”
She will put the faded white electric kettle on. And while he looks at her bookshelf, she’ll touch his back lightly, not with her full hand. It will make him turn around. And their eyes will meet and push into each other’s head with unrestrained, abandoned force.
The world spins on their axis as his hand finds the side of her face and her arms reach around his neck. The planet crashes to a halt, throwing them together, so that when they kiss it feels like the inertia of their isolate world is on them.
And as they kiss: the kettle rumbles and whistles, and they ignore the click.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
When I Lose My Eyes (Part 2)
When I Lose My Eyes – Saturday Looks Good to Me (Part 2) (listen in new tab)
[editor's note: works best if you start mid way through the track, at approximately 3min20sec]
Maura’s head is cupped in her hands, held up by her arms, propped up on elbows, supported by a scratched and worn desk. Her eyelids are heavy as she casually eyes her classroom. She’s taught at this ESL school for years and could do it in her sleep.
Her afternoon students are all teenagers, all Koreans. She surveys the fifteen dark-haired heads crammed into books. It’s quiet reading. Not a good use of their time, but it passes hers. She’s tired right now, but that doesn’t bother her.
Everything drifts to black for a moment. She catches herself as her arms buckle, and her head starts to freefall. She looks around the room. No one saw that.
Sitting tall in her chair, she breathes deeply. It’s 1:00. The clocks tick, incessant and teasing. Her mind is a transcript of the late night calls. She wants to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
She can’t deny she’s excited. But, he's has only been trouble so far. Trouble seems to find her. She tries to fold those doubts into the smallest possible square. They bloom out again, creased and familiar.
On the other hand… she runs out of hands.
She casually pulls her phone out of her purse. It vibrates quietly in her palm when she turns it on. She stares at the little screen for a moment, stands. Her chair scratches loudly along the cheap linoleum. All fifteen heads look up.
“I have to…umm… go to the washroom. Innsook, can you lead the class in conversation.”
Innsook looks like she just woke up. “Yes, Miss. About?”
Maura: “I don’t know. Talk about what you’re doing tonight.” She exits the class, palming her phone so no one sees her leave with it. Dials as she walks down the empty hall.
At the library. K leans forward on the circulation desk. He thinks for a moment about bolting over it, making a run for the door.
The library has been busy today. A lot of people, worried about the strike, are trying to get all the books they can. K dutifully reminds them that the library will still be open limited hours if the strike happens. Non-union contract workers like him are going nowhere. But, he leaves out that last part.
It’s a little after one and there is a lull. A phone rings. He grabs at his pant pocket where his cell is. He sighs. It’s the desk phone. Picking up the receiver, he prepares his standard pre-strike message for its hundredth performance.
K: “Hello, Toronto Public Library. Neighbourhood Branch.”
G.T.: “K? Sweet, and on the first try. What’s up?”
K: “Not much. It’s busy here.”
G.T. leans back in his chair. He’s surrounded by his cubicle. Beyond the semi-permanent walls, stretched out in tedium, lies the ringing and mumbling sales department of Percy, Bors, and Galahad Marketing Inc.
G.T. keeps the fuzzy grey walls barren, except for a few family photos and two rock concert posters; their corners are tattered from the staples that once held them to telephone poles.
G.T.: “Man its slow here. I’m at quota for the month. Gonna ride that wave for the week. Did you talk to Claire? I haven’t been to Caxton’s in forever. They have the best salmon whatever it is. Do you know what she’s celebrating?”
As G.T. talks, K sees Candice leave her office. He knows that she’s coming to talk to him. Her mouth is a line; her eyes cut a swath across his face.
K pretends to look something up on the computer. “Sir, let me check to make sure we have it in. There is a lot of demand for that book.”
G.T.: “What? Is Candice there? Tell her we should get together. Tell her that I want to have her hard, man.”
K’s mouth tightens. His throat chokes down the laugh. His eyes bulge a little.
Candice: “K? Do you have a moment?”
With his free hand, he points to the receiver he holds against his ear. “Yeah, we have it in.”
Candice crosses her arms. Her eyes flare. K reconsiders.
K: “One moment please, sir.” He holds the receiver against his chest. “Yeah?”
Candice: “Can you come and see me around three? We need to have a short talk.”
K: “Yeah, sure. Three. Sorry about that, sir. What is your card number? I can put it on hold for you.” Candice goes back to her office.
G.T.: “What was that about?”
K: “Candice is gunning for me.”
The afternoon picks up, becomes an ellipsis. K recites the strike hours notice, over and over. One woman argues with him over borrowing limits.
Three o’clock comes quickly. K pulls up a chair. Candice's hands are folded neatly on her desk. Studying her face, he can see how the stress is weathering her. There are new lines.
K is prepared for her speech about professionalism. About how she needs him with the strike coming. About how library work is about more than showing up. About how the strike will be an opportunity to show that commitment. About how he needs to show more commitment to the library if he wants his contract renewed.
It drones into senselessness. Her mouth bristles with anxiety, trenchant with the languid fear she brings to middle management.
As she talks, K’s cell vibrates. Ignoring her, K slides the phone out of his pocket, casually looks at it. It’s a text from Maura.
Candice: “K? Mr. Dean? Are you listening? This is not the time to be checking your phone. This is exactly what–”
K looks up. His face had been firm, cavalier and defiant. Now it is slackened. The change stays her. “K?”
K: “Jenny died.”
[editor's note: works best if you start mid way through the track, at approximately 3min20sec]
Maura’s head is cupped in her hands, held up by her arms, propped up on elbows, supported by a scratched and worn desk. Her eyelids are heavy as she casually eyes her classroom. She’s taught at this ESL school for years and could do it in her sleep.
Her afternoon students are all teenagers, all Koreans. She surveys the fifteen dark-haired heads crammed into books. It’s quiet reading. Not a good use of their time, but it passes hers. She’s tired right now, but that doesn’t bother her.
Everything drifts to black for a moment. She catches herself as her arms buckle, and her head starts to freefall. She looks around the room. No one saw that.
Sitting tall in her chair, she breathes deeply. It’s 1:00. The clocks tick, incessant and teasing. Her mind is a transcript of the late night calls. She wants to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
She can’t deny she’s excited. But, he's has only been trouble so far. Trouble seems to find her. She tries to fold those doubts into the smallest possible square. They bloom out again, creased and familiar.
On the other hand… she runs out of hands.
She casually pulls her phone out of her purse. It vibrates quietly in her palm when she turns it on. She stares at the little screen for a moment, stands. Her chair scratches loudly along the cheap linoleum. All fifteen heads look up.
“I have to…umm… go to the washroom. Innsook, can you lead the class in conversation.”
Innsook looks like she just woke up. “Yes, Miss. About?”
Maura: “I don’t know. Talk about what you’re doing tonight.” She exits the class, palming her phone so no one sees her leave with it. Dials as she walks down the empty hall.
At the library. K leans forward on the circulation desk. He thinks for a moment about bolting over it, making a run for the door.
The library has been busy today. A lot of people, worried about the strike, are trying to get all the books they can. K dutifully reminds them that the library will still be open limited hours if the strike happens. Non-union contract workers like him are going nowhere. But, he leaves out that last part.
It’s a little after one and there is a lull. A phone rings. He grabs at his pant pocket where his cell is. He sighs. It’s the desk phone. Picking up the receiver, he prepares his standard pre-strike message for its hundredth performance.
K: “Hello, Toronto Public Library. Neighbourhood Branch.”
G.T.: “K? Sweet, and on the first try. What’s up?”
K: “Not much. It’s busy here.”
G.T. leans back in his chair. He’s surrounded by his cubicle. Beyond the semi-permanent walls, stretched out in tedium, lies the ringing and mumbling sales department of Percy, Bors, and Galahad Marketing Inc.
G.T. keeps the fuzzy grey walls barren, except for a few family photos and two rock concert posters; their corners are tattered from the staples that once held them to telephone poles.
G.T.: “Man its slow here. I’m at quota for the month. Gonna ride that wave for the week. Did you talk to Claire? I haven’t been to Caxton’s in forever. They have the best salmon whatever it is. Do you know what she’s celebrating?”
As G.T. talks, K sees Candice leave her office. He knows that she’s coming to talk to him. Her mouth is a line; her eyes cut a swath across his face.
K pretends to look something up on the computer. “Sir, let me check to make sure we have it in. There is a lot of demand for that book.”
G.T.: “What? Is Candice there? Tell her we should get together. Tell her that I want to have her hard, man.”
K’s mouth tightens. His throat chokes down the laugh. His eyes bulge a little.
Candice: “K? Do you have a moment?”
With his free hand, he points to the receiver he holds against his ear. “Yeah, we have it in.”
Candice crosses her arms. Her eyes flare. K reconsiders.
K: “One moment please, sir.” He holds the receiver against his chest. “Yeah?”
Candice: “Can you come and see me around three? We need to have a short talk.”
K: “Yeah, sure. Three. Sorry about that, sir. What is your card number? I can put it on hold for you.” Candice goes back to her office.
G.T.: “What was that about?”
K: “Candice is gunning for me.”
The afternoon picks up, becomes an ellipsis. K recites the strike hours notice, over and over. One woman argues with him over borrowing limits.
Three o’clock comes quickly. K pulls up a chair. Candice's hands are folded neatly on her desk. Studying her face, he can see how the stress is weathering her. There are new lines.
K is prepared for her speech about professionalism. About how she needs him with the strike coming. About how library work is about more than showing up. About how the strike will be an opportunity to show that commitment. About how he needs to show more commitment to the library if he wants his contract renewed.
It drones into senselessness. Her mouth bristles with anxiety, trenchant with the languid fear she brings to middle management.
As she talks, K’s cell vibrates. Ignoring her, K slides the phone out of his pocket, casually looks at it. It’s a text from Maura.
Candice: “K? Mr. Dean? Are you listening? This is not the time to be checking your phone. This is exactly what–”
K looks up. His face had been firm, cavalier and defiant. Now it is slackened. The change stays her. “K?”
K: “Jenny died.”
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
When I Lose My Eyes (Part 1)
When I Lose My Eyes – Saturday Looks Good to Me (Part 1) (listen in new tab)
K’s alarm clock goes off. The noise wedges itself into his dream. An osprey in a fine Edwardian suit yells at him, trying to tell him about what he’s forgot to do, that he’s out of time. They stand on top of a sea of pine trees. The suited bird hands him a spear carved from what looks like whale bones, says that it’s imperative to remember to–
He wrenches up sharply. K’s right arm flails down at the offending sound. The fuzz in his eyes shifts to focus, as he looks at the green LED lights. They’re suddenly numbers. 7:02 becomes 7:03, and K realizes he’s going to be late for work.
“Dammit.” And he’s off. Shower. Breakfast. No wait, vitamins, then breakfast. He pulls on his pants while loading his toaster. He drinks a cup of cold day old coffee, switching the mug in his hands as he puts on a collared shirt. After a dash around his apartment, he pulls on his parka and is out the door. And then back inside. “Keys.”
K runs down the street as fast as the January thaw will let him. It’s not quite a full run; he stomps through the slush, slipping a little every few steps. His breathing starts to get heavy.
In his pocket he feels his phone vibrate. He pulls it out. It’s Claire.
K: “Hey, Claire. You’re up early.”
Claire: “I opened this morning. Are you dying?”
K stops, bends over to catch his breath. “No, I’m just out of shape. I woke up late. What’s up?” He starts again, moving at a more conservative, fast walk.
Claire holds the wireless phone between her shoulder and her ear as she works the espresso bar. Her arms flow with practiced precision. She has put Danielle, the new hire, on cash. She isn’t ready for the morning rush, not on cash - especially not on bar.
Claire looks over at, smiles at Danielle's exasperation. She drags her eye down the lengthening line of groggy customers and thinks: Oh, rookies.
Claire, to K: “Danielle’s dying this morning. [to Danielle] Listen, sweetheart you’re doing fine. What was the last one? Ok… K, I should go. I wanted to remind you that you’re meeting me for dinner. The lawyers are calling me today. We’re gonna celebrate for reals tonight. Woo! What was that?... Whole latte? Got it. K, I gotta go. 7:00 at Caxton’s. You know, the fancy place? Ok, later. Have a good run.”
She hangs up, placing the handset above her, atop the hissing machine, next to the paper cups.
Danielle: “Claire, what do we do with these coupons?” Her voice wavers.
Claire, tapping spent grounds forcefully into bin beside her: “Tell him we don’t have coupons, and then say ‘next’ loudly.”
Danielle: “What?”
Claire shakes her head. Danielle cannot receive jokes at this time: “Ok. One sec.”
Back on the street, K passes quickly by Ulysses’s. He looks in, sees the new girl throwing her hands up in capitulation to the line-up. Claire is soothing her, taking orders, still somehow making drinks. He sees her face for only a moment. This morning she’s the queen of the place.
And around the corner. He dodges into the street to avoid a delivery man’s loaded dolly. The move gains K moments, but soaks his left foot.
His head is still a little foggy. Maura has taken to calling him late at night, talking herself to sleep. A transcript would be pointless. It doesn’t matter what they talk about, just that last night when looked at the clock once it said 10:23 and then when he looked again it said 12:45.
They both had to get up early. She doesn’t care. He doesn’t either. Except right now, things feel a little pressing.
He smiles as he jumps head long, making a skillful leap across a lake of slush. As he lands, he thinks excitedly about later. He and Maura set tonight for their first real date. Dinner at some Sushi place she wants to try. Kasigi Yabu. 7:30. A late dinner.
He stops. Wait. Dammit.
He pulls out his phone as he starts his run again. He dials, hoping he can get her before she starts class. He gets her voicemail, slows down to talk: “Hey. [Heavy breath] I’m gonna sound like a stalker. [Heavy breath] Ok. Give me a call. It’s K. [Heavy breath]”
As he hangs up, he checks the time before he shoves his phone back into his pocket. He hits his stride again as rounds the last corner. He knows he’s late, but he may be able to beat Candice to work. He runs a tally in his head. He doesn’t have many last chances left to be late.
That thought shatters as he comes up to the door. His hopes fall in rose glass pebbles to the floor of his skull, Candice is there talking to the new morning librarian. They both look over at the door when K opens it. He walks in, his pants soaked almost to the top of his shins. He’s red faced and out of breath.
Candice’s face is a grimace, a glimmer of malice. K feels his recalcitrance. She goes to her office without a word. This day is going to be a battle.
As K settles in behind the circulation desk, the new morning librarian sips her herbal tea tersely. She’s in the union. Midnight, Thursday is the strike deadline. She says, coolly: “Two days, K. Candice is going to explode.”
K shrugs: “Yeah. I wish we could find the pin to put back in her.”
New Morning Librarian: “What? What do you mean?”
K: “Nevermind.”
The morning regulars start to filter in through the door, leaving wet footprints on the institutional blue-green carpets.
K checks his phone covertly. No messages. He knows she’s in class, and won’t call him back until after she leaves the school at 3:00. But, he will check it a hundred times that day, anyways.
K’s alarm clock goes off. The noise wedges itself into his dream. An osprey in a fine Edwardian suit yells at him, trying to tell him about what he’s forgot to do, that he’s out of time. They stand on top of a sea of pine trees. The suited bird hands him a spear carved from what looks like whale bones, says that it’s imperative to remember to–
He wrenches up sharply. K’s right arm flails down at the offending sound. The fuzz in his eyes shifts to focus, as he looks at the green LED lights. They’re suddenly numbers. 7:02 becomes 7:03, and K realizes he’s going to be late for work.
“Dammit.” And he’s off. Shower. Breakfast. No wait, vitamins, then breakfast. He pulls on his pants while loading his toaster. He drinks a cup of cold day old coffee, switching the mug in his hands as he puts on a collared shirt. After a dash around his apartment, he pulls on his parka and is out the door. And then back inside. “Keys.”
K runs down the street as fast as the January thaw will let him. It’s not quite a full run; he stomps through the slush, slipping a little every few steps. His breathing starts to get heavy.
In his pocket he feels his phone vibrate. He pulls it out. It’s Claire.
K: “Hey, Claire. You’re up early.”
Claire: “I opened this morning. Are you dying?”
K stops, bends over to catch his breath. “No, I’m just out of shape. I woke up late. What’s up?” He starts again, moving at a more conservative, fast walk.
Claire holds the wireless phone between her shoulder and her ear as she works the espresso bar. Her arms flow with practiced precision. She has put Danielle, the new hire, on cash. She isn’t ready for the morning rush, not on cash - especially not on bar.
Claire looks over at, smiles at Danielle's exasperation. She drags her eye down the lengthening line of groggy customers and thinks: Oh, rookies.
Claire, to K: “Danielle’s dying this morning. [to Danielle] Listen, sweetheart you’re doing fine. What was the last one? Ok… K, I should go. I wanted to remind you that you’re meeting me for dinner. The lawyers are calling me today. We’re gonna celebrate for reals tonight. Woo! What was that?... Whole latte? Got it. K, I gotta go. 7:00 at Caxton’s. You know, the fancy place? Ok, later. Have a good run.”
She hangs up, placing the handset above her, atop the hissing machine, next to the paper cups.
Danielle: “Claire, what do we do with these coupons?” Her voice wavers.
Claire, tapping spent grounds forcefully into bin beside her: “Tell him we don’t have coupons, and then say ‘next’ loudly.”
Danielle: “What?”
Claire shakes her head. Danielle cannot receive jokes at this time: “Ok. One sec.”
Back on the street, K passes quickly by Ulysses’s. He looks in, sees the new girl throwing her hands up in capitulation to the line-up. Claire is soothing her, taking orders, still somehow making drinks. He sees her face for only a moment. This morning she’s the queen of the place.
And around the corner. He dodges into the street to avoid a delivery man’s loaded dolly. The move gains K moments, but soaks his left foot.
His head is still a little foggy. Maura has taken to calling him late at night, talking herself to sleep. A transcript would be pointless. It doesn’t matter what they talk about, just that last night when looked at the clock once it said 10:23 and then when he looked again it said 12:45.
They both had to get up early. She doesn’t care. He doesn’t either. Except right now, things feel a little pressing.
He smiles as he jumps head long, making a skillful leap across a lake of slush. As he lands, he thinks excitedly about later. He and Maura set tonight for their first real date. Dinner at some Sushi place she wants to try. Kasigi Yabu. 7:30. A late dinner.
He stops. Wait. Dammit.
He pulls out his phone as he starts his run again. He dials, hoping he can get her before she starts class. He gets her voicemail, slows down to talk: “Hey. [Heavy breath] I’m gonna sound like a stalker. [Heavy breath] Ok. Give me a call. It’s K. [Heavy breath]”
As he hangs up, he checks the time before he shoves his phone back into his pocket. He hits his stride again as rounds the last corner. He knows he’s late, but he may be able to beat Candice to work. He runs a tally in his head. He doesn’t have many last chances left to be late.
That thought shatters as he comes up to the door. His hopes fall in rose glass pebbles to the floor of his skull, Candice is there talking to the new morning librarian. They both look over at the door when K opens it. He walks in, his pants soaked almost to the top of his shins. He’s red faced and out of breath.
Candice’s face is a grimace, a glimmer of malice. K feels his recalcitrance. She goes to her office without a word. This day is going to be a battle.
As K settles in behind the circulation desk, the new morning librarian sips her herbal tea tersely. She’s in the union. Midnight, Thursday is the strike deadline. She says, coolly: “Two days, K. Candice is going to explode.”
K shrugs: “Yeah. I wish we could find the pin to put back in her.”
New Morning Librarian: “What? What do you mean?”
K: “Nevermind.”
The morning regulars start to filter in through the door, leaving wet footprints on the institutional blue-green carpets.
K checks his phone covertly. No messages. He knows she’s in class, and won’t call him back until after she leaves the school at 3:00. But, he will check it a hundred times that day, anyways.
Monday, November 2, 2009
I'm Loving The Street
I'm Loving The Street – Bonnie Prince Billy(listen in new tab)
It is bright outside. The sun pushes through the window panes, bouncing off the walls, the chrome, the monitors of this and that machine. The room is a glare of yellow white; everything is the colour of wedding dresses in fading pictures.
K walks in slowly. His eyes adjust. He carries a pot of African violets cupped in both hands. They're unwrapped in the cheap pot they came in at the grocery store. The nurse told him this was Jenny’s room, but he’s still unsure. He knows he should have come to see her months ago and feels that he has only selfish excuses. He asks awkwardly: “Jenny?”
The familiar lilt, slightly dampened, answers from behind one of the drawn curtains. It ends in a cough: “K? Is that you?”
He draws back the white cloth. She lies on the bed, tilted up with her torso at an incline. Jenny looks drained, as if the tubes in her arm were taking a share more than they were giving. Her eyes are sunken, but still are bright with their customary mischief.
K: “Yeah, Jenny it’s me. I didn’t bring you a coffee. I wasn’t sure if they’d let you have any.”
Jenny: “Sweetheart, they won’t let me have anything. It’s a tragedy. But I must say, some of these young doctors could lay their healing hands upon me a mite more often.” She laughs, her chest heaving into a deep rattling cough.
K still holds the potted flowers, bearing it carefully so he doesn’t spill the soil: “You want me to fudge your chart a little so they do? What do you want to have?”
Jenny laughs, coughs again and waves at him to come closer. “Oh leave it be. I see you brought me flowers.”
K puts the pot on the bed stand next to get well cards and a few vases of lilies. The brown plastic pot looks squat and nervous, a little pathetic next to the tall elegant bouquets. K suddenly feels a little embarrassed for them. “Yeah, of course. Cut flowers are so, I don’t know, pessimistic. I guess, I thought you’d like these.”
Jenny: “I think they’re resplendent.”
K: “Plus, I’m sure you could find a handsome orderly to keep them watered.”
Jenny winks at him: “Heavens! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I’m so glad you came. Tell me what’s happening in your life.”
K pulls an austerely padded chair closer to the bed and sits down. He puts a hand carefully on her shoulder. “So you heard about Shannon, I guess.”
Jenny: “From a few people. I’m so sorry for you dear.”
K: “Uh huh? Right. So, I’m going to tell you a story and you can tell me how much of it’s true.”
Jenny reaches up, slowly puts her hand on his. It’s thin now, her skin taught over her bones. “Honey, I’m not going anywhere.”
K: “Ok, so I met this girl at the Ulysses’s, right? ...”
It is bright outside. The sun pushes through the window panes, bouncing off the walls, the chrome, the monitors of this and that machine. The room is a glare of yellow white; everything is the colour of wedding dresses in fading pictures.
K walks in slowly. His eyes adjust. He carries a pot of African violets cupped in both hands. They're unwrapped in the cheap pot they came in at the grocery store. The nurse told him this was Jenny’s room, but he’s still unsure. He knows he should have come to see her months ago and feels that he has only selfish excuses. He asks awkwardly: “Jenny?”
The familiar lilt, slightly dampened, answers from behind one of the drawn curtains. It ends in a cough: “K? Is that you?”
He draws back the white cloth. She lies on the bed, tilted up with her torso at an incline. Jenny looks drained, as if the tubes in her arm were taking a share more than they were giving. Her eyes are sunken, but still are bright with their customary mischief.
K: “Yeah, Jenny it’s me. I didn’t bring you a coffee. I wasn’t sure if they’d let you have any.”
Jenny: “Sweetheart, they won’t let me have anything. It’s a tragedy. But I must say, some of these young doctors could lay their healing hands upon me a mite more often.” She laughs, her chest heaving into a deep rattling cough.
K still holds the potted flowers, bearing it carefully so he doesn’t spill the soil: “You want me to fudge your chart a little so they do? What do you want to have?”
Jenny laughs, coughs again and waves at him to come closer. “Oh leave it be. I see you brought me flowers.”
K puts the pot on the bed stand next to get well cards and a few vases of lilies. The brown plastic pot looks squat and nervous, a little pathetic next to the tall elegant bouquets. K suddenly feels a little embarrassed for them. “Yeah, of course. Cut flowers are so, I don’t know, pessimistic. I guess, I thought you’d like these.”
Jenny: “I think they’re resplendent.”
K: “Plus, I’m sure you could find a handsome orderly to keep them watered.”
Jenny winks at him: “Heavens! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I’m so glad you came. Tell me what’s happening in your life.”
K pulls an austerely padded chair closer to the bed and sits down. He puts a hand carefully on her shoulder. “So you heard about Shannon, I guess.”
Jenny: “From a few people. I’m so sorry for you dear.”
K: “Uh huh? Right. So, I’m going to tell you a story and you can tell me how much of it’s true.”
Jenny reaches up, slowly puts her hand on his. It’s thin now, her skin taught over her bones. “Honey, I’m not going anywhere.”
K: “Ok, so I met this girl at the Ulysses’s, right? ...”
Nice Fox
Nice Fox – The Rosebuds(listen in new tab)
K comes in from the cold, into the only decent bar on the way home. It was once called the Fisher King. These days it’s called the House of Peers. It is one of those bars that must have held a hundred names since they built it. Nothing changes in it. The air is always a nebulous brume from a century of life. Though now it is almost always empty.
Earlier K watched January’s Wednesday sun set through the windows of the library. He stood outside at around 8:30 as the security guard lock the door behind them. It was then that K realized his hazy, diligent routine, his torpor, had evaporated.
Before him for the first time in a long time was a night without object. Getting a pint seemed to him the best plan.
The old bartender follows a movie lazily. It’s a black and white Spencer Tracey movie set in post-war Berlin. He serves K without taking his eyes off the old TV set.
On the screen, two old men sit in a glossy Mercedes as the ruins of the Reich pass by. The sound is too low to really hear what they’re saying. The crumbled city is fuzzy and washed-out as it moves past, sharing only a casual, disassociation with the actors and the car. K fishes out the term for the effect. Rear Projection.
K, to no one in particular: “Maybe that’s what Berlin felt like.”
The bartender grunts a low acknowledgement. The sound of it dissipates like ripples in water. K takes a slow drink. The bar sinks back into silence, both of them absorbed in the film.
After a while, K asks the bartender to turn up the TV. “Can’t. It’s busted.” K squints and can see now that the knob for the volume is missing.
The swinging doors to the kitchen creak open on old resistant hinges. K looks from the TV. Maura comes in, untying a stained white apron, sweeps the empty bar dramatically with her arm. “Besides, if it were any louder, it’d disturb all the other the customers.” The bartender grunts at the familiar irony.
K’s stomach leaps and falls. Seeing her pulls something up and out through his chest. She walks over to sit on the stool beside him. Gives K a coy, knowing smile. He tries to avoid eye contact, but she catches him.
K is stymied. He wants to escape, or fall through floor, or be sucked through the ruddy pressed tin ceiling. He looks at her through the mirror behind the bar, fidgets nervously with his glass. “You work here?”
Maura: “Teaching doesn’t pay for all my habits, you know.” She taps K’s empty pint glass smartly. “He’ll have another, Titus.”
K: “Uh. Yeah. One for her, too.”
Maura laughs: “Such the gentleman. I hear your life is a real shit storm. Brae told me what happened.”
K goddamns G.T. in his head, and then thanks him. “Well. Yeah. I am a real idiot.” He holds his apology out with his hands “I’m really sorry for everything. I mean, man, it all was a real mess. Some of which was my fault. Most of which not yours, by the way.”
Maura: “Hah. You’re something. I’d suggest we start over, but frankly I don’t think you’re smart enough to remember what you did right.”
K: “Likely. You want to start with what’s new, then?”
Titus comes with their beers. “Keep it down. I can’t hear.”
Maura: “Oh Titus. Can you even hear anymore?” and to K: “What’s new, huh?”
K fishes for a topic. “Well, um, like: how’s your grandmother?”
Maura leans forward, takes a drink. “She had a stroke at work. She was home from the hospital, but now she’s back in again. Everyone thinks she’s pretty screwed, but I’m holding out hope, you know?”
K: “I never asked her name. I think we got distracted last time we had a chance to talk.”
Maura motions dismissively, playfully at K with her glass. “Titus! This guy’s a real piece of work. Distracted!” K can tell she is more than a little hurt, despite her efforts to hide it.
Titus: “Christ, Maury. Keep it down.”
Maura: “He’s my great uncle, or something, Grandma Jenny’s brother. He let’s me help out around here when I need extra money. Unkie Titus is the bestest. Cheers.” She clinks K’s glass, drinks from hers, and puts down the class on a faded coaster.
K turns to her: “Jenny? This may seem like a weird question, but I work with a woman named Jenny who-”
Maura grabs him by his shoulders. Holds him in place. “This, this is exactly why I have so little hope for you. You can’t put two and two together. Lord, you don’t think Jenny told me all about you? Do you have any idea how much she loves coffee?”
K rubs the back of his head. “Well, um… heh.” He plots back in his mind the extent of Jenny’s conspiracy.
Maura: “She has high praise for you, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still pretty pissed at you.” Her eyes are bright and shine into his. Her hands are warm on his shoulders.
K looks at the floor, then at her holding him in the mirror. She has him fixed, and he feels himself unfasten. “That’s fair. I’m very ok with that.”
Maura lets go of his shoulders. “That’s the spirit. Now, drink up.” She taps his glass with hers.
K comes in from the cold, into the only decent bar on the way home. It was once called the Fisher King. These days it’s called the House of Peers. It is one of those bars that must have held a hundred names since they built it. Nothing changes in it. The air is always a nebulous brume from a century of life. Though now it is almost always empty.
Earlier K watched January’s Wednesday sun set through the windows of the library. He stood outside at around 8:30 as the security guard lock the door behind them. It was then that K realized his hazy, diligent routine, his torpor, had evaporated.
Before him for the first time in a long time was a night without object. Getting a pint seemed to him the best plan.
The old bartender follows a movie lazily. It’s a black and white Spencer Tracey movie set in post-war Berlin. He serves K without taking his eyes off the old TV set.
On the screen, two old men sit in a glossy Mercedes as the ruins of the Reich pass by. The sound is too low to really hear what they’re saying. The crumbled city is fuzzy and washed-out as it moves past, sharing only a casual, disassociation with the actors and the car. K fishes out the term for the effect. Rear Projection.
K, to no one in particular: “Maybe that’s what Berlin felt like.”
The bartender grunts a low acknowledgement. The sound of it dissipates like ripples in water. K takes a slow drink. The bar sinks back into silence, both of them absorbed in the film.
After a while, K asks the bartender to turn up the TV. “Can’t. It’s busted.” K squints and can see now that the knob for the volume is missing.
The swinging doors to the kitchen creak open on old resistant hinges. K looks from the TV. Maura comes in, untying a stained white apron, sweeps the empty bar dramatically with her arm. “Besides, if it were any louder, it’d disturb all the other the customers.” The bartender grunts at the familiar irony.
K’s stomach leaps and falls. Seeing her pulls something up and out through his chest. She walks over to sit on the stool beside him. Gives K a coy, knowing smile. He tries to avoid eye contact, but she catches him.
K is stymied. He wants to escape, or fall through floor, or be sucked through the ruddy pressed tin ceiling. He looks at her through the mirror behind the bar, fidgets nervously with his glass. “You work here?”
Maura: “Teaching doesn’t pay for all my habits, you know.” She taps K’s empty pint glass smartly. “He’ll have another, Titus.”
K: “Uh. Yeah. One for her, too.”
Maura laughs: “Such the gentleman. I hear your life is a real shit storm. Brae told me what happened.”
K goddamns G.T. in his head, and then thanks him. “Well. Yeah. I am a real idiot.” He holds his apology out with his hands “I’m really sorry for everything. I mean, man, it all was a real mess. Some of which was my fault. Most of which not yours, by the way.”
Maura: “Hah. You’re something. I’d suggest we start over, but frankly I don’t think you’re smart enough to remember what you did right.”
K: “Likely. You want to start with what’s new, then?”
Titus comes with their beers. “Keep it down. I can’t hear.”
Maura: “Oh Titus. Can you even hear anymore?” and to K: “What’s new, huh?”
K fishes for a topic. “Well, um, like: how’s your grandmother?”
Maura leans forward, takes a drink. “She had a stroke at work. She was home from the hospital, but now she’s back in again. Everyone thinks she’s pretty screwed, but I’m holding out hope, you know?”
K: “I never asked her name. I think we got distracted last time we had a chance to talk.”
Maura motions dismissively, playfully at K with her glass. “Titus! This guy’s a real piece of work. Distracted!” K can tell she is more than a little hurt, despite her efforts to hide it.
Titus: “Christ, Maury. Keep it down.”
Maura: “He’s my great uncle, or something, Grandma Jenny’s brother. He let’s me help out around here when I need extra money. Unkie Titus is the bestest. Cheers.” She clinks K’s glass, drinks from hers, and puts down the class on a faded coaster.
K turns to her: “Jenny? This may seem like a weird question, but I work with a woman named Jenny who-”
Maura grabs him by his shoulders. Holds him in place. “This, this is exactly why I have so little hope for you. You can’t put two and two together. Lord, you don’t think Jenny told me all about you? Do you have any idea how much she loves coffee?”
K rubs the back of his head. “Well, um… heh.” He plots back in his mind the extent of Jenny’s conspiracy.
Maura: “She has high praise for you, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still pretty pissed at you.” Her eyes are bright and shine into his. Her hands are warm on his shoulders.
K looks at the floor, then at her holding him in the mirror. She has him fixed, and he feels himself unfasten. “That’s fair. I’m very ok with that.”
Maura lets go of his shoulders. “That’s the spirit. Now, drink up.” She taps his glass with hers.
For Real
For Real – Okkervil River (listen in new tab)
Sunday brunch at Cymbeline’s. The restaurant is packed. Claire sits alone in a booth by the window. People watch her from outside, jealous of the good seat she lucked into and holds alone.
Her head throbs slowly. She went out with some old girlfriends from school last night. The term to be applied to their night is ‘epic’. She’s surprised she could drag herself out of bed. She rubs her temples, resting her elbows on the syrup-sticky menu. Her head feels loose on her shoulders.
The clink and clamour of the customers mixes with the occasional yell from the kitchen. Somewhere under the din, music plays. It’s scrubbed by the bustle, so that only the loudest parts can be heard. The noise rattles in her brain. But, it doesn’t bother her. Friday she got immense news. Last night she was celebrating.
K arrives, weaving between overfull tables and past waitresses working with accustomed, cavalier grace. He looks rested. She can see some of his colour’s come back. Him and Shannon splitting up, it really gutted him. She had watched him walking through the city’s winter canyons hanging onto his entrails. But he is still here. Still an object in space.
But, Shannon. Clair has known her since high school. One night a few weeks ago, she had called Claire. It was late, her voice sounded like she was imploding, contracting to a single point in the centre of her stomach. Where she was now empty. The call had been a strained normal and ended abruptly. Maybe a battery died. And then that was it.
It made her sad. But, Claire doesn’t want to think about that.
K slides onto the bench opposite her. The vinyl squeaks a little as he settles in. “Breakfast was a great idea, Claire.”
Claire: “Totally. You hear from G.T.?”
K: “Yeah, he’s coming soon, I think. He’s got to pick up Brae or drop her off. I’m not sure. He wasn’t very clear.”
Claire: “Well, whatever.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. He knows she hopes Brae doesn’t come. It’s a malicious thought, her mouth bares a slight curl. “Thanks for taking my shift. I really wanted to go out last night. I had the get-ups-and-gos.”
K’s eyes light a little, like he figured out the riddle in her barely suppressed smile. “What’s the secret?”
She’s got a few, but Claire’s excited about only one of them: “You can’t tell anyone, like really, but my inheritance, you know, Grandpa Titus’s. It’s close to coming through. I mean it’s been like two years of legal BS. But, now it’s close.”
K: “Really, that’s amazing. Do you mind if I ask how much?”
Claire: “I’m not sure yet. It’s not going to be millions or nothing, but a fair bunch. I don’t really want to jinx it, you know? But it’s gonna be not nothing.” She holds her arm out as if measuring the fish she was about catch.
K: “Yeah. Well that’ll be quite the party.”
Claire: “Totally. Just totally.” She stops. A wheel turns in her head; it’s been turning for days. “You know Esther’s thinking about retiring, maybe selling the café.”
K: “Yeah, well she’s been running Ulysses for years, maybe decades. Last night she came in, was talking non-stop about villas and Egypt. Plus, her husband’s never really liked Toronto. I didn’t know she was thinking about selling, though.”
Claire smiles up at the waitress when she arrives. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee.”
K: “Smart”
The woman works with cool ambivalence. It’s the confidence of a brunch veteran. She unloads a pair of cups from one arm and pours out coffee. She throws down some creams and leaves.
Claire: “Huh. I guess we’re not ready to order.”
K shrugs. “Well, no. I always have the French toast anyways.”
Claire scans the people waiting outside. She sees G.T. trying to get in. Brae clutches onto his arm, trying to smile their way past the squad of frat guys at the head of the line.
Claire tries to get used to Brae, but something about her irks her. She’s dirt in the nails, as Grandpa Titus used to say. Not quite a problem, but irritating beyond ignoring. “Ugh. G.T.’s here, and he’s brought Miss Sunshine. I can’t stand her. She’s so damn perky. I mean god, she can’t be like that all the time.”
K: “You know, people might describe you as perky.”
Claire sends him a cutting glance: “Shut-up.”
K: “Just saying.”
Somehow, G.T. and Brae eventually make their way in and to the table. G.T. slides into the booth beside K. Brae lands cheerfully beside Claire. The women exchange acuminous hellos.
Brae: “Claire, you look good. I like your hair.”
Claire, her voice is piqued and poorly concealed: “What? I just woke up.”
Brae: “Well. It’s cute.” Her face is a smile with large doe eyes. What does G.T. even see there? It’s been months now. Usually he’s botched it by now.
Claire wants to say something, but stops her tongue, half-annoyed at herself for maybe liking the compliment. “Well, thanks.”
Things settle. They order. G.T. and K are talking about work. Brae wants to talk about the bars. She participates, but distractedly. Mid-meal, the table is filled with their dishes. The waitress comes to top-up their coffees. And then, the idea that had uncurled in her head explodes from the bottom of Claire’s brain, pushing a wave of force out to her face, erupting as an adumbrate smile.
Claire slams both palms down on the table. The cups jump. The pouring coffee misses it mark and flows hot onto Brae’s jeans, causing her jump up to get out of the way, bumping the table, spilling more.
Brae: “Hey! Jesus Claire.”
Claire ignores her.
Brae now in the aisle wipes at her legs frantically. G.T. and K stare at Claire.
“K! I just had the best idea!” She slams the table again.
The waitress stands with her arms crossed. Her foot taps. She does not have time for this. Her voice is irascible and heavy: “Is the idea to stop doing that?... Ugh. I’ll get a cloth.”
Sunday brunch at Cymbeline’s. The restaurant is packed. Claire sits alone in a booth by the window. People watch her from outside, jealous of the good seat she lucked into and holds alone.
Her head throbs slowly. She went out with some old girlfriends from school last night. The term to be applied to their night is ‘epic’. She’s surprised she could drag herself out of bed. She rubs her temples, resting her elbows on the syrup-sticky menu. Her head feels loose on her shoulders.
The clink and clamour of the customers mixes with the occasional yell from the kitchen. Somewhere under the din, music plays. It’s scrubbed by the bustle, so that only the loudest parts can be heard. The noise rattles in her brain. But, it doesn’t bother her. Friday she got immense news. Last night she was celebrating.
K arrives, weaving between overfull tables and past waitresses working with accustomed, cavalier grace. He looks rested. She can see some of his colour’s come back. Him and Shannon splitting up, it really gutted him. She had watched him walking through the city’s winter canyons hanging onto his entrails. But he is still here. Still an object in space.
But, Shannon. Clair has known her since high school. One night a few weeks ago, she had called Claire. It was late, her voice sounded like she was imploding, contracting to a single point in the centre of her stomach. Where she was now empty. The call had been a strained normal and ended abruptly. Maybe a battery died. And then that was it.
It made her sad. But, Claire doesn’t want to think about that.
K slides onto the bench opposite her. The vinyl squeaks a little as he settles in. “Breakfast was a great idea, Claire.”
Claire: “Totally. You hear from G.T.?”
K: “Yeah, he’s coming soon, I think. He’s got to pick up Brae or drop her off. I’m not sure. He wasn’t very clear.”
Claire: “Well, whatever.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. He knows she hopes Brae doesn’t come. It’s a malicious thought, her mouth bares a slight curl. “Thanks for taking my shift. I really wanted to go out last night. I had the get-ups-and-gos.”
K’s eyes light a little, like he figured out the riddle in her barely suppressed smile. “What’s the secret?”
She’s got a few, but Claire’s excited about only one of them: “You can’t tell anyone, like really, but my inheritance, you know, Grandpa Titus’s. It’s close to coming through. I mean it’s been like two years of legal BS. But, now it’s close.”
K: “Really, that’s amazing. Do you mind if I ask how much?”
Claire: “I’m not sure yet. It’s not going to be millions or nothing, but a fair bunch. I don’t really want to jinx it, you know? But it’s gonna be not nothing.” She holds her arm out as if measuring the fish she was about catch.
K: “Yeah. Well that’ll be quite the party.”
Claire: “Totally. Just totally.” She stops. A wheel turns in her head; it’s been turning for days. “You know Esther’s thinking about retiring, maybe selling the café.”
K: “Yeah, well she’s been running Ulysses for years, maybe decades. Last night she came in, was talking non-stop about villas and Egypt. Plus, her husband’s never really liked Toronto. I didn’t know she was thinking about selling, though.”
Claire smiles up at the waitress when she arrives. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee.”
K: “Smart”
The woman works with cool ambivalence. It’s the confidence of a brunch veteran. She unloads a pair of cups from one arm and pours out coffee. She throws down some creams and leaves.
Claire: “Huh. I guess we’re not ready to order.”
K shrugs. “Well, no. I always have the French toast anyways.”
Claire scans the people waiting outside. She sees G.T. trying to get in. Brae clutches onto his arm, trying to smile their way past the squad of frat guys at the head of the line.
Claire tries to get used to Brae, but something about her irks her. She’s dirt in the nails, as Grandpa Titus used to say. Not quite a problem, but irritating beyond ignoring. “Ugh. G.T.’s here, and he’s brought Miss Sunshine. I can’t stand her. She’s so damn perky. I mean god, she can’t be like that all the time.”
K: “You know, people might describe you as perky.”
Claire sends him a cutting glance: “Shut-up.”
K: “Just saying.”
Somehow, G.T. and Brae eventually make their way in and to the table. G.T. slides into the booth beside K. Brae lands cheerfully beside Claire. The women exchange acuminous hellos.
Brae: “Claire, you look good. I like your hair.”
Claire, her voice is piqued and poorly concealed: “What? I just woke up.”
Brae: “Well. It’s cute.” Her face is a smile with large doe eyes. What does G.T. even see there? It’s been months now. Usually he’s botched it by now.
Claire wants to say something, but stops her tongue, half-annoyed at herself for maybe liking the compliment. “Well, thanks.”
Things settle. They order. G.T. and K are talking about work. Brae wants to talk about the bars. She participates, but distractedly. Mid-meal, the table is filled with their dishes. The waitress comes to top-up their coffees. And then, the idea that had uncurled in her head explodes from the bottom of Claire’s brain, pushing a wave of force out to her face, erupting as an adumbrate smile.
Claire slams both palms down on the table. The cups jump. The pouring coffee misses it mark and flows hot onto Brae’s jeans, causing her jump up to get out of the way, bumping the table, spilling more.
Brae: “Hey! Jesus Claire.”
Claire ignores her.
Brae now in the aisle wipes at her legs frantically. G.T. and K stare at Claire.
“K! I just had the best idea!” She slams the table again.
The waitress stands with her arms crossed. Her foot taps. She does not have time for this. Her voice is irascible and heavy: “Is the idea to stop doing that?... Ugh. I’ll get a cloth.”
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route) [or Cherbourg]
Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route)[or Cherbourg] – Beirut (listen in new tab)
K felt like his life was a choppily spliced together strip of film. It moved past him, an abridged freefall of pictures. He could see where the frames were haphazardly overlaid. The flicker and vanish of the scenes removed.
Shannon went to her parents’. She came back once, but only to move out.
K drove her to the clinic for all her appointments. He was angry at her. Hurt. Confused. But, he didn’t mind driving her. Finally, they could be in the same place and know each other. It made him want to fall into himself that it was only now that it was like this. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.
The last time, he didn’t go in with her. He didn’t want to wait inside the clinic. Being watched by the nurses seemed too brutally exposing. He decided to wait in the car. They said it would take an hour or so. It was bitterly cold and blindingly sunny.
Despite the cold, two old men in worn old coats and fur caps carried pickets. K recognized one from the library. Shannon, hooded and resolute, had run past them. Their breath was thick and white as it escaped their mouths. They held their signs and sipped coffee from the travel cups in their free hands.
Eventually, the cold drove K into a Tim Horton’s across the street. He let his coffee cool, and then left it there when he saw her come out. He doesn’t remember her expression. Her face was scrubbed clean though it was rosy and pale from the cold.
He dropped her off. As she opened the door, she put her hand on the inside of his elbow. “Thank you. Sorry.” She walked slowly down the shoveled path. K knew she was crying.
Her parents and she came eventually to move her things out of the apartment. He was never sure what she told her parents, but they weren’t idiots. It was agreed to come while he was at work, but they were still there when he got home. Shannon sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the floor. Occasionally she offered her mom some instruction about what to pack.
Her dad tried to be cordial, asked weakly about K’s parents. “They’re fine.” “Good. Good.”
K watched the whole process blankly from a corner of the living room. Shannon sat still and her parents moved steadily, like sped up weather, eroding away the surface of the apartment. When they were done the rooms felt gaping. He saw that they’d left Shannon’s table. Her mother, never K’s fan, had put in the middle of the tabletop a young spider plant. It sat in a makeshift pot made of an old cup. K left it there. Something needed to be allowed to grow.
November and December are the busiest months of the year for Café Ulysses. It was for some reason that no one understood. There were no holiday decorations, except for the creepy Santa that Claire brought every year. He stared down at K from the top of the espresso machine.
There was lots of work, and between the café and the library he would slump onto his couch exhausted almost every night. He was happy to be able to feel tired, to know that the distance between then and tomorrow would be quickly closed.
Some days, G.T. tried to include K in life. Dragged him V.I.’s or the 5-Oh. K would get drunk, watch sullenly. The throb and press of people celebrating the holidays was a blank map. He scoured it. He thought a thousand times he saw Maura. But he didn’t. He stayed until close when he could. She never came to the café, either. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw her again.
Christmas at his parents was a debacle. His dad spoke clumsily around Shannon’s absence.
New Year’s Eve was predictable and gin soaked. Not necessarily unfun.
Days pass. He waters his plant. The routines sustain him.
K felt like his life was a choppily spliced together strip of film. It moved past him, an abridged freefall of pictures. He could see where the frames were haphazardly overlaid. The flicker and vanish of the scenes removed.
Shannon went to her parents’. She came back once, but only to move out.
K drove her to the clinic for all her appointments. He was angry at her. Hurt. Confused. But, he didn’t mind driving her. Finally, they could be in the same place and know each other. It made him want to fall into himself that it was only now that it was like this. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.
The last time, he didn’t go in with her. He didn’t want to wait inside the clinic. Being watched by the nurses seemed too brutally exposing. He decided to wait in the car. They said it would take an hour or so. It was bitterly cold and blindingly sunny.
Despite the cold, two old men in worn old coats and fur caps carried pickets. K recognized one from the library. Shannon, hooded and resolute, had run past them. Their breath was thick and white as it escaped their mouths. They held their signs and sipped coffee from the travel cups in their free hands.
Eventually, the cold drove K into a Tim Horton’s across the street. He let his coffee cool, and then left it there when he saw her come out. He doesn’t remember her expression. Her face was scrubbed clean though it was rosy and pale from the cold.
He dropped her off. As she opened the door, she put her hand on the inside of his elbow. “Thank you. Sorry.” She walked slowly down the shoveled path. K knew she was crying.
Her parents and she came eventually to move her things out of the apartment. He was never sure what she told her parents, but they weren’t idiots. It was agreed to come while he was at work, but they were still there when he got home. Shannon sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the floor. Occasionally she offered her mom some instruction about what to pack.
Her dad tried to be cordial, asked weakly about K’s parents. “They’re fine.” “Good. Good.”
K watched the whole process blankly from a corner of the living room. Shannon sat still and her parents moved steadily, like sped up weather, eroding away the surface of the apartment. When they were done the rooms felt gaping. He saw that they’d left Shannon’s table. Her mother, never K’s fan, had put in the middle of the tabletop a young spider plant. It sat in a makeshift pot made of an old cup. K left it there. Something needed to be allowed to grow.
November and December are the busiest months of the year for Café Ulysses. It was for some reason that no one understood. There were no holiday decorations, except for the creepy Santa that Claire brought every year. He stared down at K from the top of the espresso machine.
There was lots of work, and between the café and the library he would slump onto his couch exhausted almost every night. He was happy to be able to feel tired, to know that the distance between then and tomorrow would be quickly closed.
Some days, G.T. tried to include K in life. Dragged him V.I.’s or the 5-Oh. K would get drunk, watch sullenly. The throb and press of people celebrating the holidays was a blank map. He scoured it. He thought a thousand times he saw Maura. But he didn’t. He stayed until close when he could. She never came to the café, either. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw her again.
Christmas at his parents was a debacle. His dad spoke clumsily around Shannon’s absence.
New Year’s Eve was predictable and gin soaked. Not necessarily unfun.
Days pass. He waters his plant. The routines sustain him.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Bear
Bear – The Antlers (listen in new tab)
K walked into a record store. He needed to get out of the snow. He’d left his apartment suddenly. Stood up, slipped on his coat and boats. Grabbed his toque and his mitts, and out the door. It is now probably 9:30. The store was empty except for the two staff by the cash. They eyed him as he passed. He had his hood up. He didn’t want anyone to see his face.
The song playing over the speakers is apt. Folds too neatly into his life. It had become popular, somewhat. K wants to scream at it. Order it to silence. Shove the sound back into the speakers.
Half an hour ago. Maybe an hour. He had been sitting at the laminated wooden table Shannon had bought when she moved in with him. Hands folded, arms out in front of him.
Two days ago, he’d laid on the bed, listening to Shannon cry. That was the morning after the party. He had woken up on the floor of G.T.’s bathroom. He didn’t know how he got there. Stumbled home. Shannon didn’t speak to him. She cried, and when she stopped crying, she vomited. She was always sick now. K had decided he knew why, was mad at himself for not figuring it out right away.
That night, he slept on the couch. The next day. Silence grew in the rooms. It was solid. It pushed furniture aside, knocked cups off of the coffee table, made it harder to move around it without touching each other. They didn’t touch, not once since she pushed K at the party. So, K stayed as still as possible.
And then, the next night after, half an hour ago. Or an hour. K sat across from her. They never sat at that table together, not since they moved in, not once. It was something else she had brought that filled the space that he could have done without.
He watched her talk to him. Her lips formed the words carefully, like she’d practiced it for months in the mirror. Slowly enunciating each word, the syllables were sharp and clean. Wet from incubation. In the air, they floated limply on the currents of air.
She told him a story. About Paris. About one night. About too much wine. About how she’d been lonely before she left. About how Paris was a warm kiss, and kind words, and wine. And about a man. A man who talked to her the way K had, once. About one night, and a moment of confusion. She didn’t know if she didn’t want it to happen. But once he was done, she’d lain there. She wasn’t remorseful, not about that.
K listened. Trying to keep track of the words as they floated in the space in front of her mouth. It was hard. there was too much. He remembers his hands folded neatly in front of him and how he didn’t want to let go of them because he wanted so desperately to push her words back into her mouth, down her throat and into her stomach where they’d been safe.
K flipped through the used CDs. Looking for something. Anything. But his mind was still outside in the snow. Snow falls off his hood and shoulders, making snow piles on the CD jewel cases. K tries to wipe them away. But his hand leaves cold streaks and droplets. It couldn’t be done.
The second story Shannon told him wasn’t over. It was still growing in her. She figured out a month or so later that she was pregnant, and in a foreign country. And alone. She had come home because she was scared, lost with a life in her. And she knew she couldn’t get an abortion in France. Had no idea how to.
When she was done, she seemed reduced. She didn’t cry. Her face was obscured. From behind the flurry of all she said, it looked like it was collapsing.
K didn’t move. He shook. All of him was a deep tremor. A useless, sanctimonious part of him wanted to say he’d help her raise the baby. But, he knew as her words piled on the table, that they wouldn’t wipe away. That she’d already decided.
He had stood up. “I. I. Ok. I’m going to go.” He remembers her face.
“Mister. We’re gonna close. Man, it’s a mess outside.”
If the voice came from anywhere outside his head, K doesn’t hear it. He props himself up on the CD display. His back heaving. Tears fall out of his hood, mixing with the streaks of melted snow. And, he lets it out. He collapses onto the floor. His hood falls back when he lands. The clerk, a young woman, steps back.
“Sir?”
“I. I. Ok.” He tries to stop sobbing. Pulls himself up. Wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Sorry.”
“Sir?”
Back out into the blizzard.
K walked into a record store. He needed to get out of the snow. He’d left his apartment suddenly. Stood up, slipped on his coat and boats. Grabbed his toque and his mitts, and out the door. It is now probably 9:30. The store was empty except for the two staff by the cash. They eyed him as he passed. He had his hood up. He didn’t want anyone to see his face.
The song playing over the speakers is apt. Folds too neatly into his life. It had become popular, somewhat. K wants to scream at it. Order it to silence. Shove the sound back into the speakers.
Half an hour ago. Maybe an hour. He had been sitting at the laminated wooden table Shannon had bought when she moved in with him. Hands folded, arms out in front of him.
Two days ago, he’d laid on the bed, listening to Shannon cry. That was the morning after the party. He had woken up on the floor of G.T.’s bathroom. He didn’t know how he got there. Stumbled home. Shannon didn’t speak to him. She cried, and when she stopped crying, she vomited. She was always sick now. K had decided he knew why, was mad at himself for not figuring it out right away.
That night, he slept on the couch. The next day. Silence grew in the rooms. It was solid. It pushed furniture aside, knocked cups off of the coffee table, made it harder to move around it without touching each other. They didn’t touch, not once since she pushed K at the party. So, K stayed as still as possible.
And then, the next night after, half an hour ago. Or an hour. K sat across from her. They never sat at that table together, not since they moved in, not once. It was something else she had brought that filled the space that he could have done without.
He watched her talk to him. Her lips formed the words carefully, like she’d practiced it for months in the mirror. Slowly enunciating each word, the syllables were sharp and clean. Wet from incubation. In the air, they floated limply on the currents of air.
She told him a story. About Paris. About one night. About too much wine. About how she’d been lonely before she left. About how Paris was a warm kiss, and kind words, and wine. And about a man. A man who talked to her the way K had, once. About one night, and a moment of confusion. She didn’t know if she didn’t want it to happen. But once he was done, she’d lain there. She wasn’t remorseful, not about that.
K listened. Trying to keep track of the words as they floated in the space in front of her mouth. It was hard. there was too much. He remembers his hands folded neatly in front of him and how he didn’t want to let go of them because he wanted so desperately to push her words back into her mouth, down her throat and into her stomach where they’d been safe.
K flipped through the used CDs. Looking for something. Anything. But his mind was still outside in the snow. Snow falls off his hood and shoulders, making snow piles on the CD jewel cases. K tries to wipe them away. But his hand leaves cold streaks and droplets. It couldn’t be done.
The second story Shannon told him wasn’t over. It was still growing in her. She figured out a month or so later that she was pregnant, and in a foreign country. And alone. She had come home because she was scared, lost with a life in her. And she knew she couldn’t get an abortion in France. Had no idea how to.
When she was done, she seemed reduced. She didn’t cry. Her face was obscured. From behind the flurry of all she said, it looked like it was collapsing.
K didn’t move. He shook. All of him was a deep tremor. A useless, sanctimonious part of him wanted to say he’d help her raise the baby. But, he knew as her words piled on the table, that they wouldn’t wipe away. That she’d already decided.
He had stood up. “I. I. Ok. I’m going to go.” He remembers her face.
“Mister. We’re gonna close. Man, it’s a mess outside.”
If the voice came from anywhere outside his head, K doesn’t hear it. He props himself up on the CD display. His back heaving. Tears fall out of his hood, mixing with the streaks of melted snow. And, he lets it out. He collapses onto the floor. His hood falls back when he lands. The clerk, a young woman, steps back.
“Sir?”
“I. I. Ok.” He tries to stop sobbing. Pulls himself up. Wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Sorry.”
“Sir?”
Back out into the blizzard.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Where's Da G's
Where's Da G's (Ft. Bun B, Pimp C) – Dizzee Rascal (listen in new tab)
For a moment she is back in Paris. Her mind wanders down the streets. Fresh, clean, unmarred by what came next. And then she crashes through the cobbles stones. She’s back in Toronto, remember
Shannon thought coming home would help, that she could wrap herself up in the warm familiarity of what K and she had had. But lies thrive through mitosis, accumulate, and expand. She feels them in her stomach now, slowly growing so that one day they would push out through her skin.
The music drones. It punches her in chest, but she doesn’t hear it. She watches K. He’s staying close to Claire. She’s known him for years. She knows he knows that she’s hurting, and lost, and coming apart. He has been bending over backwards to help, trying to mend the distance she brought home with her.
K comes over. His breath smells like whiskey. He’s drunk. “You want to go?” He wants to leave so that he can put to bed one more episode and lie awake hoping he can think of something better tomorrow. His eyes plead with her.
She is tired. The party is thick around them. More people come and it closes in. She feels like she takes up more and more space. She likes to think they could all push hard enough to crush her. Forget about her.
Shannon: “No, I’m fine.”
K: “Want anything?”
Shannon: “No.”
K: “Listen. I’m sorry.” She barely hears him. It doesn’t matter. She’s jealous that he can say it and angry that he says it too much; that he says it for the both of them to the point where the words are pallid.
Claire comes. “Shannon, c’mon. I’m sure it was nothing. You know how K can be when he drinks. Guys are shameless. You see that girl that’s been all over G.T.”
Claire’s drunk, too. Shannon wants to be drunk like that. Drunker. It’s one more thing she lacks the courage to do. “I don’t care about that.”
Claire: “You’re too hard on him.”
Shannon won’t look at her, just the floor. “I know.” Her stomach churns. She’s been sick so much lately. “I need to go outside.”
They’re out on the back porch. She exhales the warm humid air of the party. The cold air shocks her lungs as she inhales. It settles her stomach.
A thin layer of snow covers the yard. The music, muffled by the walls, rattles through the windows. Laughing. Yelling. A thick chatter. All the noises fall numb in the cold November night air. What must have been a doghouse rests grey and fallen.
Inside, the party goes on. It’s 2:00 AM and it continues to gather steam. They watch the kitchen through the sliding door. They’re silent for a long time, leaning on the railing. Shannon would be silent forever, if she could.
People come out to smoke and go back in.
Shannon: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Claire: “I know.”
Shannon looks at her feet, makes piles of snow with the toes of her shoes, revealing the stained wood.
Claire: “I don’t know what it is. I think I know, but, you have to talk to him. He knows you’re lying. You owe him more than this.” She says it slowly. No rush, no crisis, no fear at all in her voice. Thank god for Claire.
Shannon wants to cry, to bury herself into Claire’s chest, to feel the warm, whiskey breath on the back of her neck. But she doesn’t. It won’t come out of her that way. It feels too big for her mouth.
G.T. and K appear in the kitchen. They check the rows of liquor bottles, looking for something to make a drink. They don’t see the two outside watching them.
A short blonde woman runs up to G.T., practically knocking him over. He catches himself. They kiss full on the mouth. K looks uncomfortable. Claire lets out a sound of disgust.
Shannon: “That her?”
Claire: “He could do better.”
Shannon: “I dunno. I mean, it’s G.T.”
Claire: “Ugh. She’s all over him.”
Another woman comes into. Shannon stands up straight.
Maura hugs K., leaning up on the tip of her toes to speak into his ear. She lowers herself down, but stays close. He’d shoved his hands into his pocket at first, and now one came out around her waist. Goddamn his awe-shucks charm.
Claire: “Shannon. Wait.”
Shannon is through the door before K sees her. His face melts in panic. Maura turns, her face painted with confusion. G.T. pulls Brae out of the way. Claire following on Shannon’s heels, gives him a dirty look.
Shannon pushes Maura off of K. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Maura, drunk and threatened, moves to retaliate. K stops her.
K: “Shannon. Listen.”
Shannon: “No. No!”
Maura struggling against K’s arm: “I don’t know who you think you are, you crazy–”
Claire, now holding Shannon back: “Whao.”
Shannon: “You shut up. You stay away from my fucking boyfriend.”
Maura stops struggling: “K?”
Brae: “What the fuck, Gregory?”
K stands in shock. He lets Shannon’s rage wash over him, he always does. It’s too much for her. Escaping Claire’s grip, Shannon shoves K hard into the counter. He almost falls over and grabs onto an onlooker to steady himself.
Shannon: “Why are you such a fucking idiot?” It is not a question for him, but she wants to push it through his chest.
Everyone in the kitchen is silent. Then K asks the only question left between them. The noise of it is deafening when it comes. It wants to shatter the light bulbs, to rain sparks and sharp shards of frosted glass into their eyes.
“Why are you even here?”
For a moment she is back in Paris. Her mind wanders down the streets. Fresh, clean, unmarred by what came next. And then she crashes through the cobbles stones. She’s back in Toronto, remember
Shannon thought coming home would help, that she could wrap herself up in the warm familiarity of what K and she had had. But lies thrive through mitosis, accumulate, and expand. She feels them in her stomach now, slowly growing so that one day they would push out through her skin.
The music drones. It punches her in chest, but she doesn’t hear it. She watches K. He’s staying close to Claire. She’s known him for years. She knows he knows that she’s hurting, and lost, and coming apart. He has been bending over backwards to help, trying to mend the distance she brought home with her.
K comes over. His breath smells like whiskey. He’s drunk. “You want to go?” He wants to leave so that he can put to bed one more episode and lie awake hoping he can think of something better tomorrow. His eyes plead with her.
She is tired. The party is thick around them. More people come and it closes in. She feels like she takes up more and more space. She likes to think they could all push hard enough to crush her. Forget about her.
Shannon: “No, I’m fine.”
K: “Want anything?”
Shannon: “No.”
K: “Listen. I’m sorry.” She barely hears him. It doesn’t matter. She’s jealous that he can say it and angry that he says it too much; that he says it for the both of them to the point where the words are pallid.
Claire comes. “Shannon, c’mon. I’m sure it was nothing. You know how K can be when he drinks. Guys are shameless. You see that girl that’s been all over G.T.”
Claire’s drunk, too. Shannon wants to be drunk like that. Drunker. It’s one more thing she lacks the courage to do. “I don’t care about that.”
Claire: “You’re too hard on him.”
Shannon won’t look at her, just the floor. “I know.” Her stomach churns. She’s been sick so much lately. “I need to go outside.”
They’re out on the back porch. She exhales the warm humid air of the party. The cold air shocks her lungs as she inhales. It settles her stomach.
A thin layer of snow covers the yard. The music, muffled by the walls, rattles through the windows. Laughing. Yelling. A thick chatter. All the noises fall numb in the cold November night air. What must have been a doghouse rests grey and fallen.
Inside, the party goes on. It’s 2:00 AM and it continues to gather steam. They watch the kitchen through the sliding door. They’re silent for a long time, leaning on the railing. Shannon would be silent forever, if she could.
People come out to smoke and go back in.
Shannon: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Claire: “I know.”
Shannon looks at her feet, makes piles of snow with the toes of her shoes, revealing the stained wood.
Claire: “I don’t know what it is. I think I know, but, you have to talk to him. He knows you’re lying. You owe him more than this.” She says it slowly. No rush, no crisis, no fear at all in her voice. Thank god for Claire.
Shannon wants to cry, to bury herself into Claire’s chest, to feel the warm, whiskey breath on the back of her neck. But she doesn’t. It won’t come out of her that way. It feels too big for her mouth.
G.T. and K appear in the kitchen. They check the rows of liquor bottles, looking for something to make a drink. They don’t see the two outside watching them.
A short blonde woman runs up to G.T., practically knocking him over. He catches himself. They kiss full on the mouth. K looks uncomfortable. Claire lets out a sound of disgust.
Shannon: “That her?”
Claire: “He could do better.”
Shannon: “I dunno. I mean, it’s G.T.”
Claire: “Ugh. She’s all over him.”
Another woman comes into. Shannon stands up straight.
Maura hugs K., leaning up on the tip of her toes to speak into his ear. She lowers herself down, but stays close. He’d shoved his hands into his pocket at first, and now one came out around her waist. Goddamn his awe-shucks charm.
Claire: “Shannon. Wait.”
Shannon is through the door before K sees her. His face melts in panic. Maura turns, her face painted with confusion. G.T. pulls Brae out of the way. Claire following on Shannon’s heels, gives him a dirty look.
Shannon pushes Maura off of K. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Maura, drunk and threatened, moves to retaliate. K stops her.
K: “Shannon. Listen.”
Shannon: “No. No!”
Maura struggling against K’s arm: “I don’t know who you think you are, you crazy–”
Claire, now holding Shannon back: “Whao.”
Shannon: “You shut up. You stay away from my fucking boyfriend.”
Maura stops struggling: “K?”
Brae: “What the fuck, Gregory?”
K stands in shock. He lets Shannon’s rage wash over him, he always does. It’s too much for her. Escaping Claire’s grip, Shannon shoves K hard into the counter. He almost falls over and grabs onto an onlooker to steady himself.
Shannon: “Why are you such a fucking idiot?” It is not a question for him, but she wants to push it through his chest.
Everyone in the kitchen is silent. Then K asks the only question left between them. The noise of it is deafening when it comes. It wants to shatter the light bulbs, to rain sparks and sharp shards of frosted glass into their eyes.
“Why are you even here?”
Party & Bullshit
Party & Bullshit (Biggie Smalls) – RATATAT (listen in new tab)
When G.T. announced that Brae had invited him to what might be “the best party ever”, K shuddered. He knew G.T. would be able to convince Claire and she somehow convinced Shannon.
Now he’s standing in a packed living room, or what could have been one if there were furniture. It is still early, and the hardwood floor already reverberates under the weight of people and the hip-hop’s bass boom.
His back is to the wall. He watches Shannon. She knows a lot of people here and has taken this occasion to talk to everyone, explaining over and over again why she’s back. A story that lacks detail, the footnotes blacked out and shoved to the bottom of the page where no one looks. It’s a lie repeated enough. She holds a bottle of coke loosely by her hip. Claire stands with her.
Nervousness has been keeping K company. He doesn’t notice how fast he’s drinking and doesn’t have much to say. Not his crowd. He feels alienated, more so as he gets drunker. Mostly, he just keeps an eye out. If Brae’s here, Maury’s going to be here.
He didn’t have the courage at the 5-Oh to tell her about Shannon. Instead, he pretended contrition, to have been wrongly distracted by work. That night he stayed too long; he touched her hips as he leaned his face next to hers to talk over the music. Their hands had become a knot. He watched her mouth form every word.
And then he left quickly on a poorly made excuse. She watched him go, hands on her hips. Those hips. Shannon was asleep in bed when he got home. His apartment felt empty. Dysphoria had settled on the place like dust no one cleaned.
G.T. appears from the press of people with two shots. He hands one off to K. “Good to see Shannon out and social.”
K: “Yeah. Brae here?” The question was kitty-corner to what he wanted to know.
G.T.: “Nah. Not yet. Man, this place is going to be busting at the seams soon. Cheers.”
K: “Cheers.” They down the shots. K coughs, caught off-guard by the whiskey. His stomach feels warm. It moves out from his centre, cascading up to his brain. His head gets heavy and starts to diffuse. “I need water.”
The kitchen is crowded, too. He runs the water cold before sliding a cheap plastic cup under the faucet. One hand on the edge of the counter, he drinks half the glass. Refilling the cup, he sees Brae out of the corner of his eye. His heart jumps. He tries to clear his head, but it’s buffeted with excitement and unfeasible schemes.
A soft hand on his back. He knows it’s Maury before he turns around.
Maury: “You gonna run off this time?” She’s drunk. She puts her hand on his chest as if to hold him in place.
K: “Probably. It’s a city of crime, and I’m the only one protecting it.”
Maury: “Would I have to kill someone to get you to stay?”
K sees Shannon walk past the kitchen door. He knows she saw him. K takes Maura’s hand off his chest. It is a fast, demonstrative action. “Probably.” Still holding her hand. “I need to go to the washroom. You’ll be around?”
Maury smiles at him. She steps forward a little, pushing him into the counter. Her eyes are focused and playful. “I don’t know. I should probably get to my secret lair and plot some sort of nefarious heist.”
K slides out from in front of her. “If that helps. I’ll find you later.”
He’s out of the kitchen quickly. He finds Shannon and Claire upstairs. He comes up behind them, putting his hand on the small of Shannon’s back. “Hey. What’s up, girls? I guess you know a lot of people here.”
Shannon looks back over her shoulder as she moves away. “So do you. Who were you talking to in the kitchen?”
K feels the back of his head with his palm. “Her? She comes to the café sometimes.”
Now facing him Shannon: “She’s cute.” Her eyes are electric, searching.
K: “Didn’t notice. She’s drunk though.”
Shannon: “Yeah, right.”
K: “Really.”
Claire moves her head back and forth between them. Their words buzz along the high tension wires between them.
Shannon: “Whatever. Drop it.”
K: “Shannon, really.” She says nothing. Shannon’s face is a well. His words echo down her.
There is a long pause. The air weighs on the three of them. Claire fumbles for a way out from under it: “Have you seen G.T.? Who’s that girl?”
K: “Oh, that’s Brae. I guess they’ve been dating.”
Claire, with a little malice: “I don’t like her. Did you see what she’s wearing?”
K looks at the floor. It’s still early.
When G.T. announced that Brae had invited him to what might be “the best party ever”, K shuddered. He knew G.T. would be able to convince Claire and she somehow convinced Shannon.
Now he’s standing in a packed living room, or what could have been one if there were furniture. It is still early, and the hardwood floor already reverberates under the weight of people and the hip-hop’s bass boom.
His back is to the wall. He watches Shannon. She knows a lot of people here and has taken this occasion to talk to everyone, explaining over and over again why she’s back. A story that lacks detail, the footnotes blacked out and shoved to the bottom of the page where no one looks. It’s a lie repeated enough. She holds a bottle of coke loosely by her hip. Claire stands with her.
Nervousness has been keeping K company. He doesn’t notice how fast he’s drinking and doesn’t have much to say. Not his crowd. He feels alienated, more so as he gets drunker. Mostly, he just keeps an eye out. If Brae’s here, Maury’s going to be here.
He didn’t have the courage at the 5-Oh to tell her about Shannon. Instead, he pretended contrition, to have been wrongly distracted by work. That night he stayed too long; he touched her hips as he leaned his face next to hers to talk over the music. Their hands had become a knot. He watched her mouth form every word.
And then he left quickly on a poorly made excuse. She watched him go, hands on her hips. Those hips. Shannon was asleep in bed when he got home. His apartment felt empty. Dysphoria had settled on the place like dust no one cleaned.
G.T. appears from the press of people with two shots. He hands one off to K. “Good to see Shannon out and social.”
K: “Yeah. Brae here?” The question was kitty-corner to what he wanted to know.
G.T.: “Nah. Not yet. Man, this place is going to be busting at the seams soon. Cheers.”
K: “Cheers.” They down the shots. K coughs, caught off-guard by the whiskey. His stomach feels warm. It moves out from his centre, cascading up to his brain. His head gets heavy and starts to diffuse. “I need water.”
The kitchen is crowded, too. He runs the water cold before sliding a cheap plastic cup under the faucet. One hand on the edge of the counter, he drinks half the glass. Refilling the cup, he sees Brae out of the corner of his eye. His heart jumps. He tries to clear his head, but it’s buffeted with excitement and unfeasible schemes.
A soft hand on his back. He knows it’s Maury before he turns around.
Maury: “You gonna run off this time?” She’s drunk. She puts her hand on his chest as if to hold him in place.
K: “Probably. It’s a city of crime, and I’m the only one protecting it.”
Maury: “Would I have to kill someone to get you to stay?”
K sees Shannon walk past the kitchen door. He knows she saw him. K takes Maura’s hand off his chest. It is a fast, demonstrative action. “Probably.” Still holding her hand. “I need to go to the washroom. You’ll be around?”
Maury smiles at him. She steps forward a little, pushing him into the counter. Her eyes are focused and playful. “I don’t know. I should probably get to my secret lair and plot some sort of nefarious heist.”
K slides out from in front of her. “If that helps. I’ll find you later.”
He’s out of the kitchen quickly. He finds Shannon and Claire upstairs. He comes up behind them, putting his hand on the small of Shannon’s back. “Hey. What’s up, girls? I guess you know a lot of people here.”
Shannon looks back over her shoulder as she moves away. “So do you. Who were you talking to in the kitchen?”
K feels the back of his head with his palm. “Her? She comes to the café sometimes.”
Now facing him Shannon: “She’s cute.” Her eyes are electric, searching.
K: “Didn’t notice. She’s drunk though.”
Shannon: “Yeah, right.”
K: “Really.”
Claire moves her head back and forth between them. Their words buzz along the high tension wires between them.
Shannon: “Whatever. Drop it.”
K: “Shannon, really.” She says nothing. Shannon’s face is a well. His words echo down her.
There is a long pause. The air weighs on the three of them. Claire fumbles for a way out from under it: “Have you seen G.T.? Who’s that girl?”
K: “Oh, that’s Brae. I guess they’ve been dating.”
Claire, with a little malice: “I don’t like her. Did you see what she’s wearing?”
K looks at the floor. It’s still early.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Saturdays
Saturdays – Cut Copy(listen in new tab)
Gregory Tours knows when K needs to get out and let off steam. He can see around his corners, over his horizons, or however you put it. K won’t ask for it, but G.T. always knows when to bring up this kind of night. Whatever he feels about Shannon being back, he knows whose side he’s on. He has never been against them as a couple. He has just always been for K as a person. And sometimes, he needs to be G.T.’s wingman and get a little (a lot) drunk somewhere.
G.T. takes K to an old favourite. Called, utterly pretentiously, OOOOO, everyone just calls it the 5-0. It’s a dark whole in the ground, a green and red-lit basement. But, it has three things going for it: a good DJ, cheap (decent?) drinks, girls. When it gets busy, it gets hot, the air thick with sweat, spilt beer, and later the spoilt smell of vomit. An atmosphere of tepid indiscretion. The music is loud. The beat buries itself in their chests.
G.T.’s not decked out, not showing effort, but he would describe himself as “having it going on.” K’s wearing his library clothes, which pass for nerd chic in this place. Cords and short sleeve collared shirts are fine. He’s not here to pick up anyways. No. His head bobbing slightly to the music, K has chosen tonight to bitch. It’s what he needs.
G. T. listens as best he can through the music. He’s looking over K’s shoulder, keeping his eye out. Normally he’d be hunting for a prospect, but tonight he’s waiting for someone specific. He casually checks the time on his cell phone.
G.T.: “Listen. Listen.” His tongue is loosening from the rums and cokes. It’s been two weeks since Shannon came back. From what he’s been able to gather from K and Claire, there were a few good days. “K. If she’s that unhappy she should talk to someone. Like someone who can really help her… Whoa.”
K looks to see. “Yeah. Well. Yeah. I’d say 7 at best. But look at the hair. It’ll drag her down to a 6 or a 5 by morning. All hair-do, man.”
G.T. “You wouldn’t need her by the morning.”
K: “You wouldn’t need her after 30 second, but you’d still have to pay to have the front of her dress cleaned, quick draw.” His speech is getting lazy, too. His vowels start to sound the same. His consonants round out. He looks like he’s on a good mixture; its starting to pulls him up.
G.T. smiles. He holds his drink to his face and then looks at K’s. “I think we’re due for another.”
The bar has a chain link fence around it. The bar staff hand drinks trough large holes cut in the woven metal wire, giving it the appearance of some of a distopic bank wicket. It’s crowded. They squeeze in to get the bartenders attention.
G.T.: “I can’t believe Shannon stopped drinking. She could really pack ‘em away.” He holds up his empty glass, rocking it back in forth.
K: “She said it was to save money. Anyways, she’s been sick all week, so I don’t think she’d come out anyways. Claire said she’d come later. After she closes.”
G.T., dismissively: “Whatever.” He checks his cell phone again. Should be around now. He waves a twenty at the sweaty man behind the fence. “Two rum and cokes, my good man.” He watches K. He knows from experience when he’s trying to look like he’s not looking. Tonight, it’s more than just checking out women as. From the way his head jerks at the movement, he’s either looking for someone or to avoid someone, maybe both.
It not long after they wade away from the bar, that G. T. finds who he’s looking for.
K doesn’t realize and continues his diatribe. : “G.T., I knows she’s been back only a short time, but I just have no idea how to handle this. She demands space, and then yells at me for ignoring her. And she sick, like most of the time. And she’s too embarrassed to be back to go out. Hey. Hey! Where are you going?”
G.T. looks back. “Be cool. Remember how it goes; help, don’t hinder.”
He walks up to a short curvy blonde. Her hair is cropped short in the back, long bangs frame her face. She hugs him excitedly. But she’s drunk and pushes him off balance. K puts out a hand to steady him. Her drunkenness manifests as unbridled, adorable excitement. “Gregs! 5-0! Wooo!”
K: “Gregs?”
G.T. “Shut up. K, this is Brae.”
Brae: “Hey. He’s cute. I bet my friend would like him. She’s at the bar.” She stumbles a little, falling into G.T. She wraps her arm around his waist to steady herself.
G.T. winks as K. “Yeah. No doubt.”
K: “Well. I don’t know.”
Brae: “No, she’s cool. Seriously. There she is. Hey! Maury! Over here!” She’s waving frantically.
K: “Oh Jesus.” He looks like he wants to sink into the floor. Maura is standing there with two beer bottles in one hand, and two shots in the other. She smoothly, miraculously dodges the elbows and flailing arms that strike from all sides. She looks good, casual, put together. She makes K feel all the frayed edges in his life.
Maury: “Hey Brae. This the guy you were waiting for?” She looks K over as she hands Brae her share of the drinks. Does the shot. K doesn’t look her in the eye. “Wassa matter K, don’t own a phone anymore?”
K looks up finally. He’s a little drunk, so maybe he looks at her breasts longer then he normally would. “Well.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, unable to keep his eyes from stumbling into hers.
G.T.: “Hey, you know each other? Don’t you go to Ulysses’s sometimes?”
K and Maury reply together, their eyes knotted. “Yeah.”
And then just Maury, her words bite facetiously and scathe: “But he’s a jerk that can’t use a phone.”
G.T.: “What?”
Gregory Tours knows when K needs to get out and let off steam. He can see around his corners, over his horizons, or however you put it. K won’t ask for it, but G.T. always knows when to bring up this kind of night. Whatever he feels about Shannon being back, he knows whose side he’s on. He has never been against them as a couple. He has just always been for K as a person. And sometimes, he needs to be G.T.’s wingman and get a little (a lot) drunk somewhere.
G.T. takes K to an old favourite. Called, utterly pretentiously, OOOOO, everyone just calls it the 5-0. It’s a dark whole in the ground, a green and red-lit basement. But, it has three things going for it: a good DJ, cheap (decent?) drinks, girls. When it gets busy, it gets hot, the air thick with sweat, spilt beer, and later the spoilt smell of vomit. An atmosphere of tepid indiscretion. The music is loud. The beat buries itself in their chests.
G.T.’s not decked out, not showing effort, but he would describe himself as “having it going on.” K’s wearing his library clothes, which pass for nerd chic in this place. Cords and short sleeve collared shirts are fine. He’s not here to pick up anyways. No. His head bobbing slightly to the music, K has chosen tonight to bitch. It’s what he needs.
G. T. listens as best he can through the music. He’s looking over K’s shoulder, keeping his eye out. Normally he’d be hunting for a prospect, but tonight he’s waiting for someone specific. He casually checks the time on his cell phone.
G.T.: “Listen. Listen.” His tongue is loosening from the rums and cokes. It’s been two weeks since Shannon came back. From what he’s been able to gather from K and Claire, there were a few good days. “K. If she’s that unhappy she should talk to someone. Like someone who can really help her… Whoa.”
K looks to see. “Yeah. Well. Yeah. I’d say 7 at best. But look at the hair. It’ll drag her down to a 6 or a 5 by morning. All hair-do, man.”
G.T. “You wouldn’t need her by the morning.”
K: “You wouldn’t need her after 30 second, but you’d still have to pay to have the front of her dress cleaned, quick draw.” His speech is getting lazy, too. His vowels start to sound the same. His consonants round out. He looks like he’s on a good mixture; its starting to pulls him up.
G.T. smiles. He holds his drink to his face and then looks at K’s. “I think we’re due for another.”
The bar has a chain link fence around it. The bar staff hand drinks trough large holes cut in the woven metal wire, giving it the appearance of some of a distopic bank wicket. It’s crowded. They squeeze in to get the bartenders attention.
G.T.: “I can’t believe Shannon stopped drinking. She could really pack ‘em away.” He holds up his empty glass, rocking it back in forth.
K: “She said it was to save money. Anyways, she’s been sick all week, so I don’t think she’d come out anyways. Claire said she’d come later. After she closes.”
G.T., dismissively: “Whatever.” He checks his cell phone again. Should be around now. He waves a twenty at the sweaty man behind the fence. “Two rum and cokes, my good man.” He watches K. He knows from experience when he’s trying to look like he’s not looking. Tonight, it’s more than just checking out women as. From the way his head jerks at the movement, he’s either looking for someone or to avoid someone, maybe both.
It not long after they wade away from the bar, that G. T. finds who he’s looking for.
K doesn’t realize and continues his diatribe. : “G.T., I knows she’s been back only a short time, but I just have no idea how to handle this. She demands space, and then yells at me for ignoring her. And she sick, like most of the time. And she’s too embarrassed to be back to go out. Hey. Hey! Where are you going?”
G.T. looks back. “Be cool. Remember how it goes; help, don’t hinder.”
He walks up to a short curvy blonde. Her hair is cropped short in the back, long bangs frame her face. She hugs him excitedly. But she’s drunk and pushes him off balance. K puts out a hand to steady him. Her drunkenness manifests as unbridled, adorable excitement. “Gregs! 5-0! Wooo!”
K: “Gregs?”
G.T. “Shut up. K, this is Brae.”
Brae: “Hey. He’s cute. I bet my friend would like him. She’s at the bar.” She stumbles a little, falling into G.T. She wraps her arm around his waist to steady herself.
G.T. winks as K. “Yeah. No doubt.”
K: “Well. I don’t know.”
Brae: “No, she’s cool. Seriously. There she is. Hey! Maury! Over here!” She’s waving frantically.
K: “Oh Jesus.” He looks like he wants to sink into the floor. Maura is standing there with two beer bottles in one hand, and two shots in the other. She smoothly, miraculously dodges the elbows and flailing arms that strike from all sides. She looks good, casual, put together. She makes K feel all the frayed edges in his life.
Maury: “Hey Brae. This the guy you were waiting for?” She looks K over as she hands Brae her share of the drinks. Does the shot. K doesn’t look her in the eye. “Wassa matter K, don’t own a phone anymore?”
K looks up finally. He’s a little drunk, so maybe he looks at her breasts longer then he normally would. “Well.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, unable to keep his eyes from stumbling into hers.
G.T.: “Hey, you know each other? Don’t you go to Ulysses’s sometimes?”
K and Maury reply together, their eyes knotted. “Yeah.”
And then just Maury, her words bite facetiously and scathe: “But he’s a jerk that can’t use a phone.”
G.T.: “What?”
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