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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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?”
Friday, October 23, 2009
Over The World
Over The World – French Kicks (listen in new tab)
It has been fours days since Jenny collapsed. The rumours at the library cut all ways. K has no idea what the truth is. That question appears to be running roughshod across his life. At least this evening he was driving to pick up an answer, finally.
Claire and K are in his Cavalier, bundled against the crisp early evening. In an act of futile optimism no one uses the phrase unseasonably cold, though it’s what everyone in the city is thinking. They are making good time. The traffic out to the airport alternates between easy and infuriating. It is hardly insurmountable. Halloween is tomorrow. They drive past decorated homes and stores, sometimes mocking their quality or applauding homespun ingenuity when they find it.
There are long pauses. It’s nervousness. Neither knows what to expect. Claire is more confused than he is. K is holding a lot close to his chest. Shannon has kept her out, too. Maybe more.
Claire, for the hundredth time: “I’m happy she’s gonna be here. I really missed her, but, you know, why now?”
K, for the hundredth time: “She was just too homesick.” It’s a lame excuse. He knows it was more than that. But, he does not know in the sense that he was told. He wasn’t. He tries to lays that aside by turning up the stereo. “I like this one.”
Claire: “It’s good.” She says it absently. K wonders where her mind is, what she knew.
K didn’t call Maura back when she called the day after Jenny collapsed. He didn’t when she called yesterday. He sat and watched his cell ring. Shannon was coming back. He wanted to focus on that and put the other thing behind him. He wants to help her and be there for her. Shannon sounded so desperate on the phone. Those calls had shoveled doubt like dirt on his memory of her, like dousing a fire. He despises himself for the lameness of the metaphor, and doesn’t tell anyone about it. He fronts buoyancy instead. It’s a hedge against his wish that the feeling was imperceptible. It is inscrutably large.
K: “Well, I don’t know. If this is what she needs, then I think we’ll round out ok.” Can something ring sincere and hollow at the same time?
Claire watches him. K feels how hard she is trying to read his mind. He knows how well she can do it. Under that pressure he tries to change the subject in advance. “I think G.T. has a date tonight.”
Claire: “Wow, where’d he find the money to pay for one.”
A car accident makes them late. When they arrive, she’s waiting at the baggage carousel, her head turning slightly back and forth, as she watches the suitcases past. It’s a succession of silent no’s. Shannon is wearing a new coat, one not quite warm enough for the weather. But, it’s flattering. K’s relieved, remembering that he’d recognize her wearing anything. They’d been together for four years. She was a map he knew all the inches of.
He shouts her name and runs up to her. She turns to him, standing hazily in jet-lagged disarray. Her eyes grow huge when she sees who was calling her among all the people waiting for their baggage.
And then they kiss. Their mouths collapse into each other's. She is warm, soft and moist. It is a kiss with familiar pressure and yet heavy with urgency. Their mouths open. She reaches in with an unfamiliar flick of her tongue. For a moment K’s mind is on fire. And the memory of a thousand long kisses pushes in. They envelope each other, squeezing their bodies back into the folds of their lives. He wants to be naked with her. He imagines his doubts falling away in layers, shed like translucent skins that pile at his feet.
Claire watches them. Her arms crossed. She doesn’t want to disturb them, but her mouth is about to run over. Shannon’s eyes seem too red. She hugs too firmly. She shouldn’t be here. It seems to her that it’s an alternate Shannon, from an alternate universe where every molecule is a nanometer farther apart. It’s as if she needs to be pushed back into shape, just a little. Or else, she is expanding slowly.
They ride back in silence, listening to one of K’s mix CDs. K puts his hand on Shannon’s thigh while she watches the city pass. They’d ridden in the car like that for a hundred drives. Claire sits in the back. Her eye is a sieve for detail. She is genuinely happy Shannon is back and starts to get used to the idea.
K and Shannon leave Claire outside the house she has lived in for years. She watches them drive away, in and out of the nighttime city’s light. There aren’t a lot of dark places, but still enough where the light doesn’t reach all the way. Walking up the steps of her porch, she smiles because the jack-o-lantern she carved survived another day. She holds the door for her cat. Sbeckett, fat and grey, enters lazily.
She imagines Shannon at K’s apartment, which was once the pair’s apartment, and is again. Shannon pulls him into bed. He falls on her and they sink deeply into one anther. In her mind, she always wants people to be happy. She also knows, her heart had been broken once or twice, that time always tells.
It has been fours days since Jenny collapsed. The rumours at the library cut all ways. K has no idea what the truth is. That question appears to be running roughshod across his life. At least this evening he was driving to pick up an answer, finally.
Claire and K are in his Cavalier, bundled against the crisp early evening. In an act of futile optimism no one uses the phrase unseasonably cold, though it’s what everyone in the city is thinking. They are making good time. The traffic out to the airport alternates between easy and infuriating. It is hardly insurmountable. Halloween is tomorrow. They drive past decorated homes and stores, sometimes mocking their quality or applauding homespun ingenuity when they find it.
There are long pauses. It’s nervousness. Neither knows what to expect. Claire is more confused than he is. K is holding a lot close to his chest. Shannon has kept her out, too. Maybe more.
Claire, for the hundredth time: “I’m happy she’s gonna be here. I really missed her, but, you know, why now?”
K, for the hundredth time: “She was just too homesick.” It’s a lame excuse. He knows it was more than that. But, he does not know in the sense that he was told. He wasn’t. He tries to lays that aside by turning up the stereo. “I like this one.”
Claire: “It’s good.” She says it absently. K wonders where her mind is, what she knew.
K didn’t call Maura back when she called the day after Jenny collapsed. He didn’t when she called yesterday. He sat and watched his cell ring. Shannon was coming back. He wanted to focus on that and put the other thing behind him. He wants to help her and be there for her. Shannon sounded so desperate on the phone. Those calls had shoveled doubt like dirt on his memory of her, like dousing a fire. He despises himself for the lameness of the metaphor, and doesn’t tell anyone about it. He fronts buoyancy instead. It’s a hedge against his wish that the feeling was imperceptible. It is inscrutably large.
K: “Well, I don’t know. If this is what she needs, then I think we’ll round out ok.” Can something ring sincere and hollow at the same time?
Claire watches him. K feels how hard she is trying to read his mind. He knows how well she can do it. Under that pressure he tries to change the subject in advance. “I think G.T. has a date tonight.”
Claire: “Wow, where’d he find the money to pay for one.”
A car accident makes them late. When they arrive, she’s waiting at the baggage carousel, her head turning slightly back and forth, as she watches the suitcases past. It’s a succession of silent no’s. Shannon is wearing a new coat, one not quite warm enough for the weather. But, it’s flattering. K’s relieved, remembering that he’d recognize her wearing anything. They’d been together for four years. She was a map he knew all the inches of.
He shouts her name and runs up to her. She turns to him, standing hazily in jet-lagged disarray. Her eyes grow huge when she sees who was calling her among all the people waiting for their baggage.
And then they kiss. Their mouths collapse into each other's. She is warm, soft and moist. It is a kiss with familiar pressure and yet heavy with urgency. Their mouths open. She reaches in with an unfamiliar flick of her tongue. For a moment K’s mind is on fire. And the memory of a thousand long kisses pushes in. They envelope each other, squeezing their bodies back into the folds of their lives. He wants to be naked with her. He imagines his doubts falling away in layers, shed like translucent skins that pile at his feet.
Claire watches them. Her arms crossed. She doesn’t want to disturb them, but her mouth is about to run over. Shannon’s eyes seem too red. She hugs too firmly. She shouldn’t be here. It seems to her that it’s an alternate Shannon, from an alternate universe where every molecule is a nanometer farther apart. It’s as if she needs to be pushed back into shape, just a little. Or else, she is expanding slowly.
They ride back in silence, listening to one of K’s mix CDs. K puts his hand on Shannon’s thigh while she watches the city pass. They’d ridden in the car like that for a hundred drives. Claire sits in the back. Her eye is a sieve for detail. She is genuinely happy Shannon is back and starts to get used to the idea.
K and Shannon leave Claire outside the house she has lived in for years. She watches them drive away, in and out of the nighttime city’s light. There aren’t a lot of dark places, but still enough where the light doesn’t reach all the way. Walking up the steps of her porch, she smiles because the jack-o-lantern she carved survived another day. She holds the door for her cat. Sbeckett, fat and grey, enters lazily.
She imagines Shannon at K’s apartment, which was once the pair’s apartment, and is again. Shannon pulls him into bed. He falls on her and they sink deeply into one anther. In her mind, she always wants people to be happy. She also knows, her heart had been broken once or twice, that time always tells.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
One Red Thread
One Red Thread – Blind Pilot (listen in new tab)
The snow turned to rain overnight. K didn’t sleep. Since Shannon called he’d been wreckage in white water. His mind a torrent he couldn’t calm. By morning he was placid and numb with fatigue.
He was late for work at the library. He forgot Jenny’s coffee. He didn’t have time to get one himself. She looked like she could have used it; she didn’t say anything, bless her soul. But, she did remind him bluntly that today was his six month performance review.
K leans on the wall outside Candice’s closed office door, waiting for his turn. He fidgets with the sleeve of his threadbare brown corduroy sports coat. He has had it forever and loves it, but wishes he’d worn something a little more professional.
Candice opens the door. She has a look for when she’s trying to be professionally cordial. It doesn’t work. K smiles, trying to look nonchalant. Her performance reviews were known for their venom and the lack of follow through. He knows what’s coming. He’d heard it all under her breath before. But, it was a lean year. Cut backs were on the wind. The union was close to a strike vote. It was not a good time to be marked by management.
Half an hour later, Candice shows him out of her office. It followed the pattern in the management manuals exactly. She started with vague, vacuous praise of what he does well. Then the endless and spurious critique. She finished, landing a weak bit of praise about his work with reference questions. K hardly listens. Candice’s words flow around him in eddies. He thinks about calling Maura again. That thought breaks-up against the list of reasons he compiled for why Shannon was coming back. All of them are there, except for the one he really wants. Where is it?
She closes her door behind him. He hears her chair creak and roll back behind her desk. She probably is relieved it is over, too.
He stands there a moment. A patron asks about some book. It’s an old man in a grey herring bone jacket and a faded wool cap. He rocks patiently on a cane waiting for K to reply.
K barely recognizes the question. “Uh, yeah. Let’s take a look on the shelf.”
They pass the reference desk. Jenny gives him a smile. “You survived, eh? You look like you could use a drink.” Despite the cheer, she looks pale. Her eyes maybe are glassy. But, K doesn’t notice. His whole world is pale this morning.
The old man eyes Jenny. “Who’s the dame?” He smiles are her. She doesn’t smile back.
K has gathered himself, pulling from his pocket his customer service self. “I don’t think she’s interested.”
Man: “Give’er time. You kids have no patience.”
K: “Likely. Anyway, it’ll be in the D’s. Fiction’s organized alphabetically by author, you know.”
The man taps K on the shin with his cane. “Boy, I know that. I just couldn’t find it.”
K: “Ok. Ok.”
They walk down between the shelves. K scans them. He doesn’t see it either.
The old man points with his cane to one of the catalog kiosks standing in the centre of the library. “That computer contraption. It said it was here.”
K: “Well, let’s take a look.”
They emerge from the row of shelves. K sees Jenny talking to a young mother holding a baby. K can tell from her exaggerated cheer that Jenny’s rolling her eyes in her head at the woman as she explains one thing or another. She is leaning a little on her desk. It’s not something she often does. But, K doesn’t notice.
At the stained brown, pressboard computer kiosk, K and the old man search the catalog. From there he can hear Jenny’s conversation. The mother wants a book that doesn’t exist, or only exists in her mind.
K points at the computer screen. “See here, sir? It’s in, but it’s in transit.”
Old Man: “Oh. What does that mean?”
K: “It means–”
In the back of his head, he hears the conversation at the reference desk stop.
K looks. Jenny is standing, gripping the counter.
And then she’s gone.
The mother squawks in alarm and startles her baby to crying.
The snow turned to rain overnight. K didn’t sleep. Since Shannon called he’d been wreckage in white water. His mind a torrent he couldn’t calm. By morning he was placid and numb with fatigue.
He was late for work at the library. He forgot Jenny’s coffee. He didn’t have time to get one himself. She looked like she could have used it; she didn’t say anything, bless her soul. But, she did remind him bluntly that today was his six month performance review.
K leans on the wall outside Candice’s closed office door, waiting for his turn. He fidgets with the sleeve of his threadbare brown corduroy sports coat. He has had it forever and loves it, but wishes he’d worn something a little more professional.
Candice opens the door. She has a look for when she’s trying to be professionally cordial. It doesn’t work. K smiles, trying to look nonchalant. Her performance reviews were known for their venom and the lack of follow through. He knows what’s coming. He’d heard it all under her breath before. But, it was a lean year. Cut backs were on the wind. The union was close to a strike vote. It was not a good time to be marked by management.
Half an hour later, Candice shows him out of her office. It followed the pattern in the management manuals exactly. She started with vague, vacuous praise of what he does well. Then the endless and spurious critique. She finished, landing a weak bit of praise about his work with reference questions. K hardly listens. Candice’s words flow around him in eddies. He thinks about calling Maura again. That thought breaks-up against the list of reasons he compiled for why Shannon was coming back. All of them are there, except for the one he really wants. Where is it?
She closes her door behind him. He hears her chair creak and roll back behind her desk. She probably is relieved it is over, too.
He stands there a moment. A patron asks about some book. It’s an old man in a grey herring bone jacket and a faded wool cap. He rocks patiently on a cane waiting for K to reply.
K barely recognizes the question. “Uh, yeah. Let’s take a look on the shelf.”
They pass the reference desk. Jenny gives him a smile. “You survived, eh? You look like you could use a drink.” Despite the cheer, she looks pale. Her eyes maybe are glassy. But, K doesn’t notice. His whole world is pale this morning.
The old man eyes Jenny. “Who’s the dame?” He smiles are her. She doesn’t smile back.
K has gathered himself, pulling from his pocket his customer service self. “I don’t think she’s interested.”
Man: “Give’er time. You kids have no patience.”
K: “Likely. Anyway, it’ll be in the D’s. Fiction’s organized alphabetically by author, you know.”
The man taps K on the shin with his cane. “Boy, I know that. I just couldn’t find it.”
K: “Ok. Ok.”
They walk down between the shelves. K scans them. He doesn’t see it either.
The old man points with his cane to one of the catalog kiosks standing in the centre of the library. “That computer contraption. It said it was here.”
K: “Well, let’s take a look.”
They emerge from the row of shelves. K sees Jenny talking to a young mother holding a baby. K can tell from her exaggerated cheer that Jenny’s rolling her eyes in her head at the woman as she explains one thing or another. She is leaning a little on her desk. It’s not something she often does. But, K doesn’t notice.
At the stained brown, pressboard computer kiosk, K and the old man search the catalog. From there he can hear Jenny’s conversation. The mother wants a book that doesn’t exist, or only exists in her mind.
K points at the computer screen. “See here, sir? It’s in, but it’s in transit.”
Old Man: “Oh. What does that mean?”
K: “It means–”
In the back of his head, he hears the conversation at the reference desk stop.
K looks. Jenny is standing, gripping the counter.
And then she’s gone.
The mother squawks in alarm and startles her baby to crying.
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