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.
Monday, November 2, 2009
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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