Tell Him You're Married

TELL HIM yOU'RE MARRIED

other books by the author

fiction bafflegab The Long Drive Home Restless What Passes for Love poetry Geometry of the Odd The Imaginary Museum Lines of Embarkation Penumbras Personations Sweet Betsy from Pike

TiGl YOU'RE MARRIED

SHORT STORIES BY STAN ROGAL

INSOMNIAC PRESS

Copyright © 2002 by Stan Rogal All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), i Yonge St., Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E iE5. Edited and designed by Richard Almonte Copy edited by Adrienne Weiss Sketchbook drawings and cover art by Jacquie Jacobs Author photo by Sid Tabak "Friends" was first published in Backwater Review, "Hard Line" in The New Quarterly; and "Tell Him You're Married" in Front & Centre. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Rogal, Stan, Tell him you're married / Stan Rogal. ISBN 1-894663-27-6 I. Title. PS858j.O39iT4 2002 PR9I99-3.R548T4 2002

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C20O2 903815-4

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council and Department of Canadian Heritage through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program. Printed and bound in Canada Insomniac Press, 192 Spadina Avenue, Suite 403, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, MjT 2C2 www.insomniacpress.com

This book is for my family as well as old pals, lovers and further ghosts who provided the inspiration for many of these stories. Salut!

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FRIENDS 13

TdtPFii ©OT 25 §&»« i« 37 fci.tai 51

THE COUPLE DOWNSTAIRS 65 MAN OVERBOARD 75

TitLL InlDll Y©i%i MtalitD) 91 &S7 103 FAMILY PORTRAIT, SEPIA TONES 115

[FaMir 129 TTlKli i«M^ii ilTOi 1.41 WHY DID YOU TELL HER THAT? 157

MASSAGE 169

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Obscure, unfeeling and unloving powers determine men's fate. The system of rewards and punishments which religion ascribes to the government of the universe seems not to exist. —Sigmund Freud Because I am not like them, I am evil. —W.C. Williams Some people have forgotten how to want. —Donald Barthelme

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Morality is the blind spot of the brain — Arthur Rimbaud IT WAS AFTER work. I was in the bar having a beer with a few of the regulars. It's a funny thing, when you think about it, how a number of people—formerly strangers with little, if any, common background—can somehow meet in a place like a bar and over a relatively short period of time become a close-knit circle: sharing drinks, telling stories, setting up a football pool, passing around pictures of their kids, gathering at one another's homes for parties or BBQs, having the odd fling amongst themselves or with one of the partners. Become regulars. Become friends, almost. Almost, because you know that when, for whatever reason, a seat becomes vacant (job transfer, layoff, fight, romance, bankruptcy or boredom), there will always be someone else to fill the spot; to maintain the group. As if nothing had really changed; as if no one had really left. The group was a mixed bag: Tom sold furniture, Brian was in the printing business, Mike stacked groceries at Safeway, Carol was in real estate, Beth handled catering and special functions here at the hotel. I was working part-time at the front desk, trying to pay my way through university. On the side I did a bit of acting. Nothing big. Alternative stuff put up in galleries and warehouse spaces. All of this placed me slightly on the outside of the group. For them, unless you were making it on TV or in the movies or playing one of the megamusicals, acting wasn't a job, it was a hobby Because of this, I kept my conversation centred around the hotel business or sports or

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what went on in the bar. Safe topics. Not that there was any pressure to keep up my end, these guys were all talkers. I could sit back, shut up, enjoy my beer and watch the events unfold around me. Tonight's subject was Brad. Brad also worked for the hotel. He was the front desk manager. Previous to this he had been in the sales department, making cold calls to potential customers. It seemed to me that the best salespeople came in two varieties: either loud and abrasive or else slick and oily Along with this, they had to love selling. Tom (furniture) was of the second type while Brad didn't fit well into either category I suspect he had ambitions toward loud and abrasive but too often slipped into slick and oily, leaving him floundering somewhere in the nether zone. He got by, but was only too happy to transfer to management. Brad's biggest failing was that he believed himself to be a good salesman, even a great one, and carried with him the worst traits of the profession, a sort of I can beat you at your own game attitude. Not that he wasn't likeable. He would go out of his way to do anything for you. His saving grace, so to speak. Generally though, among the group, it was agreed that periodically he had to be put in his place—-for his own good, as Tom would say "Do you think he'll go for it?" asked Carol. "'Course he will," answered Brian. "Just get a few beers in him first." Everyone laughed. I thought that the idea was slightly cruel and underhanded, but I also knew that Brad had set himself up, just as he was always setting himself up. Not that he deserved to be taken advantage of because of this, it was simply his way and people knew it. Still, when you set yourself up as often as Brad did, there's bound to be someone sooner or later who throws their hands in the air and says: All right! It's come to this and no getting around it. Besides, I always had the sneaking suspicion that Brad's attitude was a rather perverse way of gaining attention and recognition among his peers. Regarded in this light, he was more than a willing victim. Rob walked over and joined us. "It's all set," he said. Rob was the general manager of the hotel as well as another regular at the table. He was in on the plan, adding an appropriate level of authority to the proceedings. "Like taking candy from a baby" Tom lit a Cigarillo.

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"Make sure he has a few beers first," said Rob. "Under control. I'm going to savour this."

It was Tom's scheme and it had been brewing in his head for weeks, ever since Brad claimed he could drink anyone under the table when it came to Tequila shooters. Tequila, he said, was his drink. Tom argued that he was prepared to accept the challenge, but at a later date, claiming that he had to be in the right headspace for Tequila. He said he also needed to make sure that he had a slow morning-after at work in order to get over the effects, admitting he'd be pressed to his limit against someone like Brad. No problem, Brad shot back. Anytime you say. I can drink Tequila until the cows come home and wake up fit as a fiddle the next day. Brad had this annoying habit of using hackneyed phrases and cliches when he was into his cups. The fact of the matter is that Tom originally postponed the contest in order to give Brad time to forget the discussion, then catch him offguard with no way out but to go ahead with it. Which is how the deal went down before Brad arrived at the table. Now he was almost through his second beer and Tom, behaving less sober than he actually was, announced that he was in the mood and prepared to whip Brad's ass. Brad was quizzical at first, but the gang was quick to jog his memory. "Sorry Can't tonight," he said. "I promised Susan I'd be home for dinner." "What are you talking about," piped Brian. "It's not even six yet. "You don't eat till eight or so, right? You've got plenty of time." "Sure!" Carol jumped in. 'Anyways, Tom's a beer man, you know that. He can't handle the hard stuff. A couple of shots and he won't be able to remember his name, never mind stand." She gave Brad's elbow a nudge. "%ah, I know, but...I kind of promised Susan I'd be home early And not half-gassed. You know what I'm saying?" Brad shrugged. "I just came in for a couple to unwind." "I'm disappointed Brad. I put twenty bucks on you, isn't that right?" Rob nodded to the rest of us and we nodded back. "If you

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refuse, it's the same as losing, isn't that right Beth?" 'Absolutely. You gave Tom the choice. You said, anytime. If you refuse, Rob loses twenty bucks, I lose twenty bucks..." "You bet on me too?" Brad grinned at Beth. "We all bet on you, pal." It was Mike this time. "Tom's been bragging all week how he's gonna take you down a notch. We're tired of listening to him. You gotta show him." "Mike's right—are you a man or a mouse?" Carol bent her body into Brad's arm. She'd had a few rye and waters and was feeling no pain. She arched her eyebrows. "Hmm?" The waiter dropped another round. Brad tapped the table with his fingers, gripped the cold mug in his hand and twisted his lips. Everyone knew that he was considering the proposition. He didn't answer and Rob didn't give him a chance to. 'Atta boy," cried Rob. He called to the waiter. "Bring a half-dozen Tequilas, Gerry We got ourselves a little contest going down." He motioned to Brad with his fingers. "Don't worry about this. I've got the booze covered. And we'll make sure you're out of here in plenty of time for dinner, yeah?" He included the others. "No problem," agreed Carol. "Tom won't last half an hour. He'll be under the table, guaranteed. You relax." The shooters arrived and Gerry placed three in front of each man. The contestants hoisted the first glass, toasted, and tossed them back. Tom made a face and smacked his lips. "Whoa!" he said. "It's been a long time." They raised a second glass. "Remember," said Brad, taking control by deciding on the rules, "the first one who can't get out of his chair, or falls down, or throws up, loses." Tom nodded. The men tossed back the second and third shots. Carol made a circle in the air with her finger and six more shooters arrived. The contest was now seriously underway and the men settled in to pacing themselves with beer chasers. It wasn't enough to simply knock a bottle straight back, the idea was to allow the Tequila to work itself into the system and pinpoint exactly how many glasses it took to reduce one man to the level of a soggy dish rag. Furthermore, at intervals over the next two hours, the men were required to stand up and circle the table unassisted. If

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a player went to the toilet, he was escorted by one of us. We had to make sure neither man had an intimate conversation with the big, white porcelain telephone. All of this occurred, naturally, amid much fanfare and table talk. Everyone was getting pleasantly plastered. At 8:15 there was a phone call. Gerry came over and spoke in Brad's ear. "It's your wife. Are you here?" Everyone roared and shook their heads. Carol slapped Brad's back with her palms. "Uh-oh, uh-oh..." she giggled. Rob winked at Mike, Brian pointed a finger across to Beth who waggled a finger in return. In a fraction of a second an entire story went around the table without anyone having said a word. "Shit," mumbled Brad. He tried to focus on his watch. "Um...tell her there's a problem with a guest. An emergen...emergency." He had difficulty speaking. He took a deep breath and rolled his tongue inside his mouth. "Tell her...be home soon." Tom reached over and clinked Brad's glass with his own. "Down the hatch, old buddy" They drank. Next, it was time for another walk around the table. Tom rose and gave his head a shake; he staggered slightly. He was playing it to the hilt. Surprisingly, Brad made it to his feet as well. Which was another thing about Brad, and you had to respect it—he was the tenacious sort. Once he had his teeth into something, you practically had to bash his head in to make him let go. He met Tom halfway. "I'm gonna whup yer ass, boy!" He faked a southern sheriff accent, but badly "Gonna drink you under the table." He stumbled, caught himself and joked. "Uh-huh," he grinned stupidly and made it back to his chair. There was great applause and more shooters ordered. Susan called at eight thirty and again at eight forty-five. At nine, Brad raised his glass and watched as it slipped between his fingers and spilled across the cloth. Most of us have been there at one point or another—one too many to drink and the world suddenly shifts. The group took a collective breath and stared at Brad. Everyone was silent. Brad squinted at Tom and smiled. It was a smile of defeat and we all knew it. "You win," he muttered. His hand crumpled, closely followed by

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his head, his shoulders and his chest; slowly, painlessly. He laughed a low, guttural laugh. He, hadn't passed out, he'd merely crossed over to another dimension of time and space. He appeared to be happy though, and at peace. As I was the only one without a car and lived reasonably close to his place, I was elected to drive him and his car home.

"What happened to him?" "He got into a bit of an argument with a bottle of Tequila. The Tequila won." Brad had wanted to walk into the house under his own power, which would have suited me fine, especially since I wasn't too eager to speak with Susan. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to stand, never mind walk, so I slung him over my shoulder and lugged him in. "Hi, honey" He tried to lift his head to offer Susan a kiss, but it refused to move more than a few inches. "Shorry," he slurred, and chuckled to himself as his head dropped. I actually envied him at this moment, off in another world, cheerful and happy; oblivious to the situation around him. I wouldn't envy him later, of course, facing the music with Susan, his head pounding, his stomach pitching. Now though, he was a contented drunk. We carried him to the bedroom and rolled him onto the mattress. "Why was he drinking Tequila?" she asked. I admired her for showing such considerable restraint. We moved to the kitchen. "You want dinner? I cooked it. Someone might as well enjoy it." I figured, what the hell? I hadn't eaten all night. Susan was right—someone might as well enjoy it. The table was laid out with flowers, candles and cloth napkins. There was a roast in the oven with all the trimmings. I'd been to their wedding. I tried to remember what the date had been. It escaped me at that moment. "~ibu want a drink? Rum and Coke?" She poured me a stiff one. I was hoping that she wouldn't ask me again: what happened and why? Dinner was on the table, there was a bottle of wine opened and I had a rum and Coke in my hand. I was hoping she'd just leave it; work it out with Brad later. She didn't. "Why, for chrissakes, was he drinking Tequila? He can't drink Tequila."

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I thought: I could lie. I could come up with some story and try and cover for him. Then I thought, no. When Brad sobers up he's sure to spill his guts and try to get forgiven. Better to tell her. Better to tell her and have her mad at me now for giving her the truth rather than mad at me later for being a liar. "He was in a contest." "A contest?" She filled two wine glasses. It was Beaujolais. This dinner was obviously meant to celebrate something. "What kind of contest?" "A drinking contest," I stalled. "With who?" "Tom." "Tom? Why is it always Tom when something like this happens? Goddamn Tom. I might've known." "^eah." I tried to recall previous times involving Tom getting Brad into trouble. I couldn't. More likely, Tom had been used as a convenient excuse. Possibly my name as well, though as a rule, you stick to one name to keep things consistent. I tried to shift the responsibility, at least some of it, back to Brad. "Well, Brad challenged Tom a few weeks ago to a Tequila drinking contest. He challenged the whole gang, actually, but it was Tom who took him up on it. You know, first man down loses." I spooned more gravy onto the potatoes. I thought again about the wedding date. It must've been in the summer. People get married in the summer, divorced in the winter. This was September. "I never heard anything about this." "I don't suppose he'd tell you." I spoke the words lightly, hoping she'd see the humour. "I don't suppose he even remembered making the challenge." She didn't crack a smile. I tried to get through dinner quickly, but without seeming too much in a rush. I poured us more wine. Susan was going through hers at a pretty good clip. 'Anyway, Tom couldn't do it at the time, but he was ready tonight. Brad had said, anytime." I kept chewing and washed everything down between the rum and the Beaujolais. It was a decent bottle. Very tasty The entire meal was very tasty Brad had picked the wrong evening to try and boost his ego. "Is Tom in as bad a shape as Brad?" Her voice lowered. "I hope he is."

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"The thing is...Tom had been setting this up ahead of time." Susan tilted her chin. "What do you mean?" "Well, Brad had been bragging how he could drink anyone under the table—Tequila shooters—right? And Tom figured he'd teach him a lesson." "So?" Susan drained her glass and poured another. "So, he set it up with Rob and the gang and Gerry behind the bar to serve him water and Brad Tequila." Susan froze, allowing the full meaning of the words to sink in. It didn't take long. "And you didn't try to stop it?" I flashed a look at her that was meant to convey something like: Hey! Jbu know what the gang's like and you know what Brad's like. I guess she understood, because she let the subject drop and went back to her wine. "It was nice of you to drive him home." She got up and placed lids on the pots. "That's OK." I grabbed my jacket. "I'll give you a Eft." "Don't worry about it. I can walk. Or bus." "No. I don't mind. It's only fair. Brad's out like a light. It's just a few minutes by car."

We stopped in front of my apartment building. I glanced over at Susan. She was staring straight ahead, her fingers clamped to the steering wheel. Something was going on in her head and I wondered what it was. Susan wasn't unattractive. Slim, brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six or seven. Average, by all counts. I was familiar with stories from Brad—mostly when he'd been drinking, which is natural, I guess— about Susan in the early days of them dating. Apparently she used to like to have sex in public places: cars, under a blanket at the beach, pressed against a wall in a dark alley or doorway, leaned over a balcony, smiling at passersby It was scary sometimes, said Brad, but fun. This changed after they married. The story was not unusual. She never did anything for me, personally, on a physical level. Nice enough, but no spark. Tonight was a bit different. I had always

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been somehow strangely attracted to women in distress, or, for whatever reason, women who were experiencing some kind of strong emotion: anger, sadness, joy, hate, it didn't matter. It was as if the feeling flowed out of them and into me. I found it exciting. I thought about movies where the wife has a fight with her husband, runs off, gets drunk somewhere and bumps into the husband's best friend and he gives her a shoulder to cry on and they end up in bed and it's nice and pleasant and later, things resolve themselves and everyone goes back to the way they were, no one hurt and no one's nose out of joint. I also thought about Brian's wife, Sheila, and the time she was fed up (once again) with his inattention to her and his working too much and spending too much time in the bar and et cetera, and we started necking in their backyard while the party went on inside. I had her blouse untucked and a hand over one breast and the other hand ready to pop her bra when she started talking about the kids and the house and security and the fact that she was a married woman and I was Brian's friend and so we shouldn't go any further, and so on. And I started saying that she and I were also friends and didn't that mean anything and shouldn't it make our actions actually correct? I told her that I didn't know any married couples who were friends anymore. They'd all become partners. I pronounced the word with obvious distaste. My own marriage had ended two years earlier with my wife leaving me for someone I had considered a friend. What did it all matter in the end? Maybe it was for the best. "For a single hour's pleasure," quoted Sheila, "a lifetime of regret.." Where did she dig that up from, I wondered? It struck me that this was the difference between life and the movies. She tucked in her blouse and headed inside the house. To be with the others, she said. I kept my eyes on Susan. I considered what I'd do if she suddenly fell into my arms and kissed me; if she asked me to invite her up to my apartment? I tried to imagine what she'd be like in bed right now, charged as she was with such strong emotions. Something was running through her head. I waited and, finally, she turned to me. A tear formed in the corner of each eye. "I thought you were supposed to be his friends," she choked.

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There it was again—the difference between life and the movies. Call it obligation, call it duty, call it guilt, call it fear, call it habit, call it love—whatever—this is the difference. After the lying and the disregard and the spoiled plans and the ruined evening and him rolling in late because of an idiotic drinking contest and staggering through the door drunk as a skunk and her leaving him passed out and senseless on the bed and likely to face more of the same behaviour in the future, here she is, thinking about Brad. Her husband. "Yeah, well..." I got out of the car, closed the door three-quarters of the way and stuck my nose in the crack. "Thanks for the lift." I gave the door a shove and Susan drove away I tipped my head up toward the sky Except where it was shot with stars, the entire expanse maintained its typical shade of midnight blue. There was a partial moon and not a cloud in sight to disturb the stillness. In the grand scheme of things, nothing had changed. Nothing would have changed. For an hour's pleasure, I thought. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would be just another day

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I WAS INVITED to a dinner party at Greg's. There were to be three couples and myself. I didn't mind being the odd man out, since we were all friends. Besides, after almost a year of being divorced and with no prospects in the offing, I was getting used to it. The dinner was to be one of those potluck dos where Greg provided the main course and everyone else brought side dishes. Since all of us had experienced other such evenings where dinner consisted of a ham and six desserts, nothing was left to chance. A list had been prepared and I was elected to contribute bread and a pasta salad. No one was to bring wine as Greg worked for a local winery and promised a veritable rack of fine vintages alongside the usual plonk, should the need arise. Greg was also fond of adding a creative component to his dinner parties. On previous occasions, in order to be fed, guests were required to write a poem and read it aloud, or to construct an object out of found materials along some theme or other, such as: 2001: A Space Odyssey or The Martian Chronicles or Star Trek—Greg was an avid Sci-fi fan. There would be prizes awarded and Greg would be the judge. For whatever reason, I was considered the artist among the group. I suppose it stemmed from the fact that I actually tried my hand at various things on a more or less regular basis, knocking off a cartoon or a flyer or acting in a play or writing a poem or story; even managing to publish a piece or two in small magazines. Because of this, it was naturally assumed that I would win the main prize so why should anyone else bother. As it happens, I was constantly bested by my apparently non-creative pals.

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The task this time was to invent a completely imaginary product then come up with a commercial that included a jingle. People could perform individually or as a couple. I came up with an ad for a fortune-telling anus. The jingle was very sort of punk and went something like: Not the same old shit, it's got a razor wit. /Just wipe it twice, you'llget some sage advice. / When you're searchin'for an answer,forget about thepastor. /And when you're into wishin', don't ask apolitician. /They'll take your money and your sister, then they'll fuck you up the keester. /So just look into your anus, it could really make you famous...an.d so on.

Everyone arrived around the appointed hour and was greeted by Greg and his new girlfriend, Barb. This was a common occurrence, to find Greg introducing a new partner. Relationships for him seemed to last four to eight months, tops. This new one was apparently into its third month so we all figured we'd better take a good look while we had the chance. Greg's taste in women ran in one direction: short, blonde, blueeyed and attractive. In fact, his taste was so defined that one was hard pressed to distinguish one girlfriend from another. It was downright eerie. Not simply the specific taste, but the idea that there were so many of the same design to choose from. Where did he find these women? So, again with the introductions and me catching myself staring in some kind of bemused fashion wondering whether or not I'd have the opportunity of meeting Barb again or whether I'd be shaking hands next month with yet another short, blonde, blue-eyed attractive woman, only named Karen or Susan or Bev or, becoming more and more likely, Barb II, III, IV Maybe he cloned them in his basement from cells of a fingernail that he'd scraped off a coffee shop floor after the original woman packed away her clippers and disappeared into the street. 'Ah yes," says Barb, and smiles that familiar smile. "You're the writer. Greg has told me about you." It's nice being called the writer, I think, even though I'm not yet entirely comfortable with the fit. I return her smile and shrug. "There's vino in the kitchen. Help yourself" Greg plays the affable host, loosening everyone up before show time. "Need to get a

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few drinks into people." He winks at Barb and gives her a cuddle. Brad's here with his wife, Susan. He wants to talk hotel business with Rob and Rob tells him no shop talk, he's off work now and anything Brad wants to say can wait until morning. Brad pulls a face and sulks over to his drink. Rob is here with his then-wife Linda. He has his arm around her waist and leans in to kiss her cheek. Funny how things can suddenly change. Though not so suddenly perhaps, when you consider a few million years of history shoving us forward at breakneck speed toward some fatal precipice, and us having no idea and little or no control, and so a couple who are in love or making love one day are destined soon to live apart, each spending lonely hours cutting the other's face from the family photos. Brian and Sheila round out the company They're another story altogether; meant for another time. For now, everyone sits down to dinner and the glasses are replenished regularly There is the distinct feeling that people are trying to keep the table conversation going so that there'll be no time for the commercials. No such luck as Greg soon stands and gathers everyone into the living room. From a bag, he produces promotional materials such as sweatshirts, T-shirts, beer mugs and baseball caps. "These are the prizes," he announces. "Who wants to go first?" Everyone laughs uncomfortably. No one appears brave enough to step forward. I'm still studying Barb and thinking: this can't be a different woman, and is Greg simply pulling our leg and is Barb (or Bev or Susan or whoever) part of the joke? I pour more wine and Rob and Linda volunteer to kick things off. They're terrific. In fact, everyone is terrific. There's a commercial for a waterless shower and another for a hairspray that not only dyes your hair but, with the flick of a switch, sets the length and style instantly and Barb does a blues number about a mechanical bird that sings requests—anything from Abba to Zappa, but in bird languages. It intrigues me how creative folks can be when provided with a specific task. Meanwhile, the performers themselves return to their seats, embarrassed and apologetic. For what? Are they truly unable to stand back and regard themselves and their accomplishments objectively? Or is it the fear of failing; the fear of appearing foolish in front of others? Or is it something deeper—the notion that so-

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called artistic endeavours are reserved for children and geniuses and are something to be dropped by adults in return for a regular paycheque and the amenities that go along: house, cars, vacations, a TV and VCR in every room? I recall a quote from Picasso: "I spent my entire life learning to paint like a child." Was that merely bullshit— good copy for the media and something for the intelligentsia to savour and discuss in articles and at cocktail parties— or did he actually mean it? No matter. For my part, I laugh, applaud and congratulate, though to no avail. Even with the presentation of prizes, the players are uncomfortable about accepting. Or are they secretly pleased with themselves? I mean, as much as everyone claims to dread Greg's parties, no one ever refuses to attend or participate. Sp, maybe it's all a front, making them even more pleased when they consistently beat me out of the best prizes. This time I accept another consolation prize, a baseball cap; me, who hates baseball caps. And maybe that's part of the mix too, the quick arithmetic that goes on in people's heads that says: that person is the real artist, what chance do I have? And then they win and it strikes me as some sort of weird, reverse poetic justice: that the hangdog attitude reaps the rewards. Meanwhile, Linda bends into my ear and whispers. "I liked your commercial. Maybe a bit too rude, a bit too political, but I thought it was funny" Yeah, maybe.

The evening wraps with more wine and liqueurs and we are all feeling pleasantly pie-eyed and folks pack up their belongings, ease into the cool, Indian summer night, wobble slightly toward cars, the women driving as some kind of skewed psychology in case of cops, and it's so long and thanks and see ya and let's do this again sometime soon and everyone taking a last, quick squinty-eyed gander at Barb and saying nice meeting you and maybe again in the future, though not really believing it, just shaking their heads and grinning, asif... I have a bus coming in half an hour so I hang around for another glass of wine, yakking with Greg and Barb and before long Greg says, hey, I've got some elephant grass, ya want some? And Barb's

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into it and I'm not sure 'cause the stuff never did much for me before, but I figure, what the hell, and Greg swears it'll knock us on our ass. Like we have far to go. Greg lights up this enormous joint and we pass it around a couple of times. I'm beginning to feel a combination of mellow and giddy in short order, Greg and I doing inane shit like pointing fingers at each other and finding it the most hilarious thing in the world, then doing the same to Barb and noticing that she's not amused. In fact, she appears downright scared. "Don't do that," she says, like she's on a slow boil. Naturally, we keep doing it 'cause we're not thinking too straight and she begins to get really steamed. "Stop it, I said," her voice not loud, but clear and to the point. "There's something wrong." "What do you mean?" asks Greg. "What's wrong?" "The dope. It's been laced." Greg and I look at each other and can't help laughing. "What do you mean, it's been laced?" Barb's eyes slowly scan the room. "Can't you see? The walls are moving back and forth. Like they're liquid." Greg and I laugh again and shake our heads. "No. I told you. It's just the grass. It's strong. It'll knock you on your ass." "I'm there, baby" I laugh. "I'm there. I'm on my ass." Greg opens his mouth to say something else, probably something clever, but Barb cuts him short, her voice dry and brittle as a straw sandwich. "It's happened to me before. A few years ago. A guy gave me a joint to smoke at a party Everything turned liquid. The grass was laced with LSD. I didn't find out until later. In the hospital." In the hospital, I think. How ominous sounding, in the hospital. I gaze at Barb and try to imagine her a few years ago, at a party then in a hospital. I can merely imagine her now, here, tonight, as though she's just appeared on the planet in Greg's house. As if he simply emptied a package, added water and stirred, and here she is, fully developed: short, blonde, blue-eyed and attractive with no past, no nothing. A perfect replica of previous girlfriends or spitting image of the perfect woman in Greg's eyes. Now she's attempting to relate a past? I can't make sense.

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"What do you mean, you were in a hospital?" I ask. "What kind of hospital? Did you hurt yourself?" "A mental hospital. The grass made me kind of crazy. They found me walking the streets three days later. I was wearing another woman's clothes. I had on one blue shoe and one red shoe. I was clutching a large key in my left hand. It didn't fit any lock that belonged to me. I still have that key In my right hand was my American Express Card. That was how they identified me." 'Don't go anywhere without it,' I think, amazed. "It took me a long time to get over that experience. I still don't know what happened to me during those three days." I have heard that people can have LSD flashbacks years after they've quit the habit, but I assumed that these were mainly heavy users. I tell her maybe this is what she is experiencing, since Greg and I are feeling fine—simply the normal sensations: giddy, slightly goofy and getting the munchies. "Maybe I'll get some chips," volunteers Greg. "No!" Barb sounds frantic. "We can't eat. There's something about eating. It sends the drug through your system too fast. It can kill you. We can't eat." I'm no expert, but I seem to recall that food actually soaks up the drug. Or is that strictly the case for booze? Greg doesn't budge. "Well," he speaks at last. "What are we supposed to do?" "Phone the hospital," says Barb. "The poison centre." "What? And tell them we're doing drugs? I don't think that's such a good plan," I offer. The funny thing is, I really couldn't say why it wasn't a good plan. I mean, what if we were at risk of going out of our minds or of dying? Greg must pick up my confusion or maybe it's the look on my face when I say it because he starts laughing, then I follow and we can't stop and Barb has a fit. "Shut up! Shut up you fucking bastards, it's not funny I'm telling you—the walls are moving. Look at them. Look!" Greg somehow manages a serious face and attempts to reassure her. "OK. We're sorry Calm down, OK?" He places a hand on her shoulder and she shudders. He motions to me. "We're going to go out on the porch and talk about what to do. You sit here and try to calm down, OK? OK?" He doesn't need to tell her, since she seems to have become a part of her chair. Barb nods and Greg and I get up

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and head to the porch. Outside, we look at each other and fall into another laughing fit. We can't help ourselves. It's something we have to get out of our systems or else risk exploding. "What are we gonna do?" I grin. Greg grins back at me. "I don't know. What can we do? She's serious." I'm feeling totally giddy and I want to ask if maybe something's gone wrong with her circuitry—visions of berserk robots and downed computers and Stepford Wives fill my head—but I don't think Greg will understand what I'm talking about. "We have to do something." There are laugh tears in Greg's eyes. "Yeah," I can't look him in the face. I stare down at the floor and rub my forehead in an effort to come up with a clear thought. "How 'bout...how 'bout we phone the hospital and say we have this friend who called and he's having a problem. No names, no addresses, that sort of thing." We break out, realizing this is the most cliched plan in the book and who in their right mind would believe it? "Yeah!" Greg nods his head repeatedly like he hasn't a clue, and, what are the options, really? "Yeah, I guess. I mean, sure, why not? Maybe that's the best way" Greg considers for a second then raises his hands in the air, presses the palms toward and away from each other and makes a sound in his mouth like the theme from The Twilight Zone. "The walls are moving, the walls are moving, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo..." We lose it and Greg has to shake me to bring me back. "OK, OK, OK... Serious now. We gotta go in. See how Barb's doing." We compose ourselves, put on our best sober, serious faces. Barb hasn't moved from her chair; appears afraid to move any part of her body except her eyes. "We've decided to call the hospital," says Greg. "Tell them that a friend called and is strung out and having this problem and what do we do, OK?" 'Til call." Barb is halfway to the phone. "I think I should do the talking." Greg beats her to the receiver. "You're in no condition." "I'm fine. Besides, I'm the one who's been through it. I know the symptoms."

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Greg nods. "OK. If you think you're up to it." Barb takes the receiver and Greg dials. "Hello," says Barb, and proceeds to detail the circumstances as we discussed. Greg leans close to hear the results. Barb says thank you and hangs up. No one speaks. "Well?" I ask, finally. "What's the verdict?" "The nurse says that it's possible there was contraband material in the marijuana. Maybe LSD, maybe cocaine, maybe laxative, maybe rat poison, maybe anything." Barb is very controlled in her manner and I'm back to thinking fouled circuitry—why not? "Rat poison?" I mouth, more to Greg than to Barb, and we almost crack. "Yeah," grins Greg. 'Apparently." "Uh-huh. So...?" "We can't go to sleep," volunteers Barb. "The only thing to do is wait it out. But don't sleep. If we sleep, we could die." I don't say anything. I just stare. "That's what the woman said. I heard her," says Greg. "Don't sleep. Stay up until morning. If "our friend" is still experiencing hallucinations, he should get into emergency." I shake my head OK, not knowing what else to say or do. Barb reaches out and grabs my hand. "You have to stay here tonight. With us. We have to keep ourselves awake until morning. It's the only way" They take my silence to indicate agreement. Greg puts on coffee and we sit for the next hour, not having anything to say, what with Barb having retreated into herself. After several coffees I make a suggestion. "Look. I'm wide awake. We don't all have to be sitting here like a bunch of zombies. Why don't the two of you go off to the bedroom and do what you need to do to stay awake: talk, tell stories, play Scrabble. I'll be fine on my own." By this time Barb is curled up in Greg's arms, half asleep and only too willing to be led. The two get up and drag themselves out of the room. Barb takes one final glance from the corner of her eye. "Remember, don't sleep," she slurs. "You sleep, you die." I nod my head. When they disappear, I flip through Greg's music

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collection for a few minutes, but I'm genuinely beat. If sleep's gonna kill me, or'if there's a pod outside with my name on it, I figure they can have me.

In my dream, I'm running. There are people after me. They carry guns and wear uniforms with insignia on the sleeves. They resemble monsters a la Boris Karloff in Frankenstein: large, square shoulders, block heads, oversized boots. I'm trying to escape, but no matter how fast I run, they catch up to me by merely walking. I manage to kill a few of them before I run out of bullets. They remain unfazed by my actions. They don't harm me, simply bring me back to my cell and leave me there, as if I was being punished for being naughty I wonder who they are and why I am being held captive. I can't help thinking that I've done something terribly wrong, and yet I can't for the life of me remember what it could be. I want to ask, but I'm afraid. I sit on the chair they provide for me. They leave. No one says a word.

I wake to the smell of fresh coffee brewing and eggs frying. Barb is in the kitchen standing at the stove. She wears a bathrobe and apron. I can hear the shower running and assume it contains a very live Greg. "How you feeling?" I ask. "Terrific. You?" "Terrific." I'm staring at Barb's back and neck. I'm looking for something, but I'm not sure what. "No problems then?" "No. Should there be?" She spins and I notice that she looks absolutely radiant, as if she has slept the sleep of the innocents. "I was just wondering, considering what you were going through last night." "Last night?" She stops as if trying to remember. "Oh, that. I was being silly. I'm sorry if I frightened you." She turns and scrapes scrambled eggs onto plates. I'm still studying her neck for a scar or a metal pin or...something. Greg enters with a big shit-eating grin on his face. Has every-

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thing been forgotten? Did they simply wake up, refreshed, have great sex and it's over? "Turn around," I say to Greg. "What?" "Turn around." He obeys and it is as I suspected—nothing. I wonder if I should run a hand over the back of my own neck, but I figure, no, I don't feel any different. Tired, yes. Hung over, yes. Slightly off-centre, yes, but otherwise the same. We sit down to breakfast. I can't eat, my stomach's turning from the previous night's excesses: the booze, the grass, the coffee, Barb's paranoia. I sip on a glass of water and watch as the two of them shovel eggs into their happy mouths. If not aliens from outer space, I ponder, or a laboratory turning out replicas, then a conspiracy, a plot. But, to what purpose? Then I think, maybe I dreamed the whole thing? Or worse, maybe I'm sitting in a cell somewhere and I'm dreaming now. Maybe I'll never wake up again and which world is worse? I raise my hand to my face and tug at my beard. I rub my throat then inch my fingers around to the back. 'No,' I think. 'The whole idea is too ridiculous. It's simply my imagination running wild.' I notice Barb has stopped her fork halfway to her lips. She smiles weakly at the corners of her mouth and slowly licks her lips. I drop my hand to the table in front of me. "Eat up," says Barb. "While it's hot." Greg watches me. I recall again the quote from Picasso and consider a lifetime spent attempting to regain certain aspects of childhood. Drawing outside the lines. Painting marvellous green skies. Believing frightening monsters lurked in closets and beneath beds. I stare at Greg and Barb who are busily chatting away to each other with sly looks and giggles. I stare at the eggs and think about the huge jailers I can never escape; think about my tiny cell and single chair set within a crack of light and wonder, what the hell? I raise my coffee mug and propose a toast. "To Picasso," I say The two of them give me a quizzical look, but hoist their mugs just the same. 'And to good friends." We clink mugs and drink. They lay into their eggs with a renewed vitality and I follow suit. We smile as we chew, nodding heads, pursing lips and lifting eyebrows. No one says a word. There's no need.

SKINNER BOX

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If there's one thing I can't stand about Hegel, it's his dog — St. Thomas Aquinas IT'S SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I've been earning a few extra bucks helping Tom deliver some bulky pieces of furniture. We spoke on the phone earlier (you know how it goes): "Regular guy called in sick, more likely hungover." Tom likes to embellish when discussing his employees. "Luis, The Latino Palomino, we call him," he says, which distinguishes Luis, I guess, from The Polack Polecat or The Italian Stallion or any number of other minority stud stereotypes that seem to be working for Tom. "Too much party; too much poontang; the ladies gonna be the death of him fer sure, the wife don't kill him first; hard help being good to find, haha, and et cetera. Meanwhile, customer in a panic and isn't-that-always-the-wayyou-gotta-hold-their-hand-pat-their-bum-wipe-their-nose-blow'em-and-they're-still-not-satisfied, they have to get the merchandise tout de suite if not sooner so someone's gotta haul ass and I'm the

guy-"

This is Tom now, Tom getting a hard-on about doing some real manual labour. "You know Manual Labour," says Tom. "The Mexican war hero, haha..." Sweat of the brow, bent back, dirty hands—that sort of thing—plus the opportunity, I gather, to escape the wife for a few hours afterward. Why is it, I wonder, that all these so-called happily married guys need to find ways to be free any chance they get? Was I like that when I was married? Or am I no longer married because I did just what I wanted and never considered possible ramifications? Tough to figure, after the fact.

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Anyhow, the move was a snap and no traffic to speak of, which I'm sure was Tom's plan all along, and now we're sitting in the Ambassador, a pub featuring exotic entertainment of the female persuasion, with Tom springing for a couple of dirty burgers and a pitcher of green beer. The way he figures, Diana can't bitch so long as it's me who's giving him a hand. I mean, he couldn't simply pay me and leave it at that, right? This is Tom talking here. It was more a favour and we were friends, after all, so part of it was the comradery, which meant sharing a drink or two at the end and shooting the breeze. She didn't need to know we were catching the strippers, Tom winks. Or tell her it was the only place around and we didn't know—how could we know? We couldn't. Or it was my idea or, or, or...and so, what else could he do? Actually, I don't know if I'd consider Tom a "friend." He's more an acquaintance; someone I see and talk to on occasion in the hotel lounge and otherwise nothing much in common. What I do know is that he likes nothing better than to sit back, light up a Cigarillo and hold court before a captive audience. In this particular case, me. "So the two of them are humming and hawing and I don't know if it's the system or the price or what, y'know? I mean, I've shown them every fucking stereo in the place and I'm wondering if they're maybe pulling my chain, and yet, I sense they seem genuinely interested so I say: Is there anything in particular that's concerning you and they say, no, they like the model, but... and any time a customer says, 'but', like that, you know it's the..." and Tom rubs his fingers together. "They wanna know if the price is fixed or can it come down." He taps his Cigarillo in the ashtray with a practiced motion. "Hmm?" His eyebrows rise in a manner meant to get me involved; to feel part of the action. "Naturally, they've chosen the advertised special and the price is bottom line to the bare fucking bone. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a great unit for a great price. I've got one myself, in the basement. In so many words or less, I tell them that, to which they reply: 'What about ten percent?'" Tom rolls his head and makes a pained face. "I say: To take ten percent off would be like stealing the food from my children's mouths. It would be like throwing my mother's heart medicine down the toilet and allowing her to die." He laughs.

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"No, I don't say that, even though I'd like to; even if I had kids or a sick mother, right? Too corny. Too lame. Anyway, I say: Look. I'd like to help you folks 'cause I can see you want this unit and I'd like you to have it. And, to be perfectly honest, I haven't made a single sale all day and I'd like to change that situation before the doors close at six." He pauses and takes a sip from his glass. I can tell this is my cue to jump in, and I don't disappoint him. "So?" I say, not really giving a rat's ass, but trying to humour Tom. "So, I tell them I'll go talk to the manager and see what I can do." I'm a little confused at this and naively say, "I thought you were the manager." Tom shrugs, as if to say there you go. I can see this conversation is heading nowhere fast, but I press on, "Well then, what...?" "What do you think?" Tom interrupts. "I went into the office, poured myself a cup of coffee and jerked off for five minutes or so while the two of them cooled their heels outside, rubbing their hands together and congratulating themselves on their bargaining skills. When I came back out, they were looking pretty smug, I can tell you, and I sort of lowered my voice—very apologetic, very hangdog like, right?—and I say: Listen, the manager is a pretty tough nut to crack and it's almost impossible to squeeze five cents out of him. I don't know what his problem is, £wL.and I use the same "but" thing on them, right? I mean, two can play the game and I'm the fucking master." On stage to the music, a woman removes her bra. "Nice set," remarks Tom, shifting gears for an instant; sitting back in his chair to enjoy the diversion, then just as easily picking up the thread of his story 'Anyway, I can see their faces drop a mile and, let me tell you, it was one of those beautifully perfect, hilarious moments. Like a scene out of a movie. I mean, I'm having trouble keeping a straight face at this point." Tom's across from me grinning this great shit-eating grin while I have absolutely no problem keeping a straight face. 'What a prick,' I think, even taking into consideration the couple's trying to put him on the spot. 'Is this how you get your rocks off? I mean, what's

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so funny?' Though maybe it's simply a different sense of humour or the awful fact that most of us have to generate little diversions to get us through our boring day's work or our boring lives. 'Course, I'm also sort of curious for what comes next. I mean, where does the story go? Easy payment plan, no interest, no down payment? What? "But," Tom continues. "But...And I see the two of them, their ears perk right up at the "but." While he says he can't give you a discount on the unit, I did manage to get him to throw in a couple of extras: heavy duty connector cables, which will greatly enhance the sound quality, plus, your choice of either a top of the line tape head cleaner or CD cleaner." Tom is getting into it and mimes the products for me. "I'm waving the stuff in front of them, see? 'Cause this is all part of the magic. It's like I've got them hypnotized, so I move in for the kill. I say: Now, the cable is a thirty dollar value and the cleaner is worth twenty dollars. That's a fifty dollar bonus if you decide to buy the unit today It's the best I could do, and I want to tell you, it's a heck of a deal. %u're not going to do any better, anywhere, guaranteed." He gives me another long, knowing glance. 'And this is the real beauty part. The woman—the girlfriend, the wife, whatever, asks if they can have both, the tape head cleaner and the CD cleaner, and I say—again, straight-faced, apologetic, hangdog—I mean, I even throw in this deep sigh." And he sighs. "No, I'm afraid. The manager told me, in no uncertain terms, it's one or the other, not both; and that he's not making any money on the sale as it is." Tom allows himself a good laugh. "One or the other, not both. Can you believe it? What a riot. And so fucking serious." He gives with the sigh again and this time holds a hand over his heart. I'm not laughing. I'm smiling, though more as a reaction I think, 'cause I really don't get it. "The thing is, the manufacturers give us this shit all the time. I could fucking cable their entire goddamn house and it'd cost me dick. Hmm? Beauty or what?" "Oh, yeah." I laugh for no good reason, except maybe to attempt some sort of alliance. Then I ask, "So, what happened? Did they buy it?"

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"'Course they bought it. How could they not buy it?" It's obvious from Tom's reaction that I missed the point. He drops the subject, motions the waitress and orders another pitcher. "What do you think of this place, eh? I mean, it's like being in a fucking morgue. These girls are up their flashing their pussies and the guys sit here like it's a McDonald's Drive-Thru." "It's the afternoon. I expect it gets livelier later." "Yeah, yeah. Whoa—get a load of the bush on that one! How'd you like to bury your face in that muff?" There are women around the room in various stages of undress and Tom proceeds to go through a litany of euphemisms describing the female sexual organ: gash, slit, slot, hair pie, hole, honeypot, hot box, he even says "beaver" at one point, a word I haven't heard in ages. I remember an ex-lover once who referred to it as her "box," another term I hadn't heard in ages. Anyway, I'm drinking my beer, taking in the view, listening with one ear to Tom, who seems to be on another riff and happy in his own world: / could never understand the appeal of a shaved quim. It's unnatural. I like to see hair on my snatch and so on, when I suddenly realize that I can't recall ever actually hearing him talk in this way before. The profanity and the colourful language are odd. He's normally the picture of gentlemanly conduct. I wonder: is it because he's out with a guy and there are no wives or women friends around? Is it because I work in maintenance at the hotel, and he assumes this to be the normal form of discourse? Is it because the language ties in with his notion of hard work—sweaty brow, bent back, dirty hands, dirty mouth? Is he a closet redneck? Is he a closet fag—the small hands, the trimmed moustache, the short-cropped, tightcurled, slicked-back blonde hair, the natty clothes, the flashy rings and necklace, the Cigarillos? Or is he simply walking the walk, talking the talk? I don't know. What's it matter anyway? He's buying, he's enjoying himself, and now that the beer's hit, I've given over and am enjoying myself as well. I'm even finding Tom and his rant vaguely amusing as his focus shifts to another area of the female anatomy "Hooters, melons, knockers, pillows, torpedoes..." I remember a few years back I used to frequent a local strip joint near where I worked. Things have changed. Then, the girls would sit

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at your table for the price of a drink and, over time, you'd get to know them and their stories: single mothers or working through college or dance school or extroverts or exhibitionists or needing money to handle a habit—a million different and interesting reasons. One woman had been working in a cardboard box factory She was very beautiful with reddish hair, almond eyes and a gorgeous body; half Cree and half Caucasian descent. She'd won a wet T-shirt contest at a bar and the manager suggested she become a stripper. He said he liked the way she "moved." Yeah, I bet. She told me she could make more money with her clothes off then with her clothes on, so, what the hell? She said it also gave her the opportunity to be rid of her deadbeat husband. The rumour I heard was that he'd been pretty pissed at her when he found out she'd been sleeping with another woman. I guess she figured this would drive the last spike home. And I guess it did. She called herself Sasha. I dated her once. She was living in a nice downtown high-rise apartment. She buzzed me up and when I arrived at her door, I could hear her screaming at someone inside. Turned out to be her mother. She sews my outfits, Sasha informed me. Says she doesn't approve of my line of work or my lifestyle. Meanwhile, she gives my old man the boot and comes to live with me. I pay all the bills while she sits on her fat ass bitching all day Fuck her. She said this loud enough for her mother to hear. We went for brunch, then a walk through the park. What did we talk about? The regular stuff: lives, dreams, weather... I remember we held hands and laughed a lot. She had to be at a gig early afternoon. I dropped her off with a kiss on the cheek. Poof! That was the end of it. Now, the girls don't talk to you unless there's some understanding that at some point, you're going to pay for a private dance. It's a business. Or, more of a business. Tom is still talking. "I gotta whiz," I say, and get up. "Okey-dokey" Tom raises his glass. "Here's to the wound that never heals, the more you rub it, the better it feels! Gentlemen, the Queen!" He drinks. "Yon shake it more than once, you're playing with yourself." He gives me a wink and wipes his moustache with his

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fingers. I shape my hands into pistols and click my tongue. "Gotcha." I'm a firm believer in the fact that you don't buy beer, you rent it. It's also been my experience that once you go the first time, you gotta go every ten minutes after that. I figure I held out as long as was humanly possible. I set up beside another guy who's leaning into the urinal, his forehead smack against the tiles. He's big, maybe sixtwo, two-hundred-odd pounds, unshaven, wearing a ball cap and soiled coveralls. I stare straight ahead waiting for the waterworks to start. When they do, I see the guy in the periphery turn his head and stare at me out of one eye. "So," he speaks. "Do you believe in free will?" He doesn't so much say the words as breathe them. I'm thinking, why does this always happen to me? Why do perfect strangers continue to stop me and ask the time, ask directions, ask for money? Why do they feel compelled to tell me their problems or life stories? On the street, on the bus, in the laundry, in the goddamn loo. What is it? Do I come across as so approachable? As such a soft touch; such an easy mark? "Pardon?" I say, stalling; trying to imagine where this might lead. "Free will. Do you believe in it?" "Free will? Is this, like, a rhetorical question, or what?" What is meant to humour him, fails, and he mimics me. "Is this, like, a rhetorical question or what?' He bobs once at the knees, tucks in and zips up. "What are you, a smart ass? Just answer the fucking question." He presses his palm and forearm into the wall, his face bent close to mine. Shit, I think. Wrong guy to try and be funny with. Now where to go? "I don't know. I guess so. More or less." "You've never thought about it?" "Sure. It's just..." "Then you must have an opinion, yes or no." "Look..." The guy closes in and I can smell the beer and nicotine on his breath. "Yes or no." "OK. Yeah. Yes." He drums the tiles with his fingernails, not exactly threatening,

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but with purpose. "No, asshole. The answer is no. You only think you've got free will 'cause that's what you've been led to believe." "C'mon, I just came to take a leak." "You see—precisely my point. You say you came to take a leak. I say, the leak took you. You say you have free will, yet you can't even choose to ignore your own bladder. What is real freedom? There are laws against most freedoms. You can't choose to cross a street outside of the white lines without the threat of being slapped with a ticket for jaywalking. You can't choose to crank your radio up after eleven o'clock without some asshole calling the cops for disturbing the peace. Voltaire said: "I can't help wanting what I really do want." Juvenal said that the power to want is a matter of "interior liberty"— the freedom of the inner man!—which falls outside the "gambit of freedom." St. Augustine said: "Since the fall of Adam, free will exists only in name." "Our politicians tell us we're free because we're rich. Bullshit! The gap grows bigger everyday between the haves and the have nots while more and more starve and go homeless. Others work as slaves for slave wages and call themselves free. Some say that abortion allows women free will? I say this will never be true until these same women are offered the time and money to keep their children if they so desire. "Of course, there are those who prefer not to be free; who prefer to be ordered around —which is far and away the majority. They give up free will in exchange for security. Here's a question: why do politicians allow so much pornography on the Net and otherwise? Why? Because it serves a debased and bankrupt system. One tames a people as one tames lions, by masturbation." I'm getting near the end. Another minute and I'll be able to hitch my pants and get back to my table. "Like being in a Skinner Box. You read Skinner? B.F. Skinner?" "Yeah," I say, as affirmative as possible. "I took a course. Part of a course. Psych 101." "Psych 101? Well, you're a regular Rhodes Scholar then, aren't you? Fucking perfect. So you know the drill—as long as you're inside and warm and fed and there's a clean roll of toilet paper to carry away the crap and someone to wipe your ass and jerk you off once in

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awhile, you're happy happy, happy, right?" "Whatever." "Whatever. You don't know shit from shinola, do you friend? You think you've got free will and you can't even move away from the pisser. You can't even say what you want to say 'cause you're scared of what might happen if you do. What's free about that? If I was to do this..." The guy gives me a sharp poke in the shoulder with a knuckle. "You get ticked off, right? You can't help yourself. Skinner says that if two organisms—let's say you and me—that have been coexisting peacefully receive painful shocks, they immediately exhibit characteristic patterns of aggression toward each other. An organism which has received a painful shock will also, if possible, act to gain access to another organism toward which it can act aggressively The boss kicks you, you kick the wife, the wife kicks the kid, the kid kicks the cat, and so on down the line. Where's your free will there? Your body is your Skinner Box, see? And outside of your body are further boxes. Boxes and boxes within boxes. "You know what happens when a man dies suddenly or violently? He gets an erection and ejaculates. Why? Because even in death the body wants to spread its seed; wants to somehow try to live. For what? To die again and again, forever. Pointless. We live our lives surrounded by other people, but we all die alone. Think about that." The man looks down and sees the stream of urine dwindling. He smiles, pushes away from the wall, goes to the sink, begins to wash his hands as I raise my zipper, buckle up and head for the door. "You'd like to think something bad has happened to me recently; something simple, right?" He talks to my reflection in the mirror. "Loss of job, loss of girlfriend, wife caught screwing around. In fact, nothing has happened. I'm simply in a fine mood today A fine mood and feeling especially.." He grins. "Ex-temp-or-aneousV He laughs. "Extemporaneous. It's a good word. Look it up." I let the door swing behind me. Fuck you! I think. Fuck you! Look it up yourself cocksucker. Extemporaneous: done or made with little or no preparation; composed or uttered on the spur of the moment; unpremeditated. Fuck you and your stinking vomit of rehashed, outdated psychological bullshit. I return to another full pitcher on the table.

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"What happened?" asks Tom. "I was afraid you'd fallen in and drowned. I was about to send the cavalry." "Nothing. Just some guy." "Uh-huh?" Tom checks me out like he's expecting more. "A drunk. It was nothing. Forget it." "Fine. I ordered us another pitcher, as you can probably see. I also gave Diana a call. Told her you were going through a rough patch and needed someone to talk to. You know, girlfriend, finances, whatever." "Sure." "Good. So, I'm off the hook for another hour or so." I nod, pour myself a beer and top up Tom's glass. He starts in about something. I don't know what. I'm not listening. I don't care. Another woman enters the stage. The Deejay says, "How about a big round of applause for..." I almost expect him to say Sasha, but he doesn't. He says Tara Lynn. He says Mandy. He says Tia Maria. "We all applaud.

By the time I get home, I'm pretty wasted. I manage to get the key in the lock, then I use the wall to steady myself and guide me into the bedroom. My shirt reeks of smoke and I hang it over a chair. I slip out of the rest of my clothes and drop them in a pile on the floor. Naked, I stagger in the bathroom and step into the tub. I'm still thinking about the guy who cornered me in the toilet. Who the fuck...? I think. That's as far as it goes; as far as my mind gets me. I think about the box that is my apartment. And within this box, the box that is my living room, the box that is my kitchen, the box that is my bedroom, the box that is my bathroom. I think of my bathtub as a box. I think of myself having a shower and slipping in the tub, banging my head against the ceramic tiles; against the porcelain toilet; against the metal faucet; against the plastic tub. I think of myself lying naked in the bottom of the tub, blood flowing down the side of my face, my penis erect. How would I land? What would I look like? In what sort of natural or unnatural position would my body end up? I slide slowly, carefully, down the wall; collapse in the bottom of the tub. I contort

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my body into various shapes, some awkward, some not so. Eventually, I settle on one that seems most likely I'm on my back, my head lolled forward, my legs bowed, my knees flopped apart; open and vulnerable. My cock lies uselessly to one side. I grab it and stroke it. A song pops into my head—Janis Joplin singing "Me and Bobby Magee"—typical, stereotypical, cliched, mundane, maudlin, obvious, but, what can you expect? I didn't request it, it just appeared; out of the blue. Janis singing, Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose...and so on and so forth. I'm thinking: this is it. I'm thinking: this is how they'll find me. I'm thinking: this is how who will find me? I'm thinking: we live our entire lives surrounded by other people but we all die alone. I'm thinking: I am alone. I'm thinking: where will my semen land? I'm thinking: it will wash down the drain and disappear into the ocean. I'm thinking: perhaps I will wash down the drain and disappear into the ocean as well. I'm thinking: I'm not that lucky I'm thinking: I will lie here until someone discovers the stink. I'm thinking: this will be someone's final image of me. I'm thinking: most probably the landlady I'm thinking: in which direction will my erect cock point? I continue to stroke it; move it left, right, forward, back—like a joy stick, though not quite hard. I'm thinking: Sasha, stripping to "Bobby Magee." I'm thinking: gash, slit, slot, muff, pussy, cunt. I'm thinking: I'm not thinking. I'm just...I'm just...

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HARD LINE

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THE TELEPHONE RINGING and me somewhere deep in REM-mode, dreaming, I expect, visions hazy and languorous following an evening of dinner, wine and sexual gymnastics, the object of my affections still radiating warm and raw on the other side of the bed, though, she now, as well, being shaken from her own interior halfworld into what we commonly refer to as "harsh reality" "What time is it?" The words issue from a faraway place and have less to do with establishing the precise hour than with situating herself: where is she? has she slept in? is she late for class? did somebody die? "Almost two." I can imagine her saying, Then somebody better have died, as she rolls back on her side. The phone is fastened to the hallway wall and is into its fifth or sixth ring before I reach it. "Hello," I say, automatically Then again, "Hello. Hello?" No one answers, but no one hangs up either. "Hello?" I replace the receiver and wait. I stand on the hardwood floor, two in the morning, shoulder to the wall, half asleep, naked, and I wait. I'm hoping it's a wrong number. Maybe they'll try again, maybe they won't. I'll give it a minute or two, to be sure. A reflex has my hand adjusting my genitalia, peeling the sleep-sweated scrotum from my thigh, stroking my cock, raising my fingers to my nose, sniffing, wondering at the fact of (even after having showered) a lingering aroma of rubber (burning rubber, I crack) and how long would it take for the condom itself, wrapped in a tissue and tossed into the

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garbage, to eventually disappear? Or stories of flushed down a toilet and swallowed by a fish, or filled with heroin and bursting inside someone's guts, or with water as a joke and, what is funnier? None of these thoughts making perfect sense, simply following one on the heels of another, the mind still too tired, too sluggish to actually settle on a subject and remain for any strict length of time. I push away from the wall and am halfway back to bed when the phone sounds again. I return and answer with the same result as before—silence on the other end; not a sound, not a breath. Karen has crawled out of the sheets and slouches in the door frame. Attractive, I think, appraising her. Beautiful. And sexy; very sexy. All of this, and more, in a particular and unglamorous sort of way Not the stuff of fashion mags or mags for men. Simply a way about her, as now: her slouch, her pout, the absent manner in which she fingers her pubic hair. I flash a dumb smile and shrug. Karen is tall for a Chinese woman, with broad hips and ample breasts. Largish, she likes to say about herself. Tallish. Bronzish. As if a refusal to be pegged or categorized. Further demanding from everyone, self included: Don't call me Chinese. I'm not Chinese, I'm Canadian. OK, I'd give, and whatever that meant to her. Recalling now, as well, that first occasion we went to bed and her circling her arms around my lank frame, commenting: There's almost nothing to you , me born with a constitution that allows for the consumption of masses of the worst kinds of fattening foods without gaining an ounce. A jealousy thing, maybe. Although, in hindsight, she must've found enough to grab onto that made her want to stick around. "Is it Aw?" "Her" refers to a married woman I'd been seeingjOre-Karen. We had met during a summer weekend slo-pitch tournament, one of those friendly company things that is supposed to serve as social function and morale booster, subsequently leading to happier employees and increased productivity Such was the long-term theory anyway, whereas the short-term normally entailed a big booze-up culminating in petty differences being blown out of proportion and so-and-so saying such-and-such to whoever, and so on and so forth. Bickering, fights, breakups, egg-on-face, all to be washed over or plain forgotten by the time everyone returned to work on the Monday.

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Having quit the rat race in order to try my luck at university, I was invited to play for my brother's team. The woman, Gail, was the wife of some company exec who was frequently out of town on business. They had plenty of money, a nice house in the suburbs, a condo in Hawaii (used when he could fit holidays in, which meant rarely if at all), two cars, a couple of kids— everything you see in the movies or hear in the songs—Ain't it funny how your new life didn't change things, you're still the same old girl you used to be. In other words, a marriage defined by cliche and so doomed to mediocrity She was about my age, early thirties; attractive, fun, funny; a peroxide blonde with a bobbed nose and a boob job (go figure). She told me early on that she was no stranger to affairs and, in fact, had recently slept with an up and coming (pardon the pun) young star from the Toronto Blue Jays, introduced (naturally) by her husband who maintained some middling personal and business connections with the team big shots. Anyway, we hit it off, went for drinks a time or two, had lunch a time or two and ended in bed one late night with her husband off in Calgary and a nanny watching the kids. The arrangement only lasted a few weeks, sliding when I vacated the burbs for a downtown apartment, our relationship reduced to her calling me occasionally in the wee hours of the morning after she'd consumed several screwdrivers; the kids tucked away and the husband wherever. We became chatting buddies. One such night, a call came from Gail and Karen was with me. I'd told her about Gail; felt it was safer and more comfortable for all concerned. Karen began accosting me sexually while I attempted to make small talk into the receiver. She seemed to find it funny Gail would ask: what's going on? is it a bad time? should I hang up? are you tired? classes getting you down? Me answering, no, everything's fine, getting off on the sheer kinkiness of the situation: the sound of Gail's voice, slightly drunk in my ear; Karen on her knees in front of me, rubbing my butt, giving me head. It was the last time that Gail called, and who could blame her? "No," I say, squeezing the receiver to my chest. "I told you, that's over." I put the instrument back to my ear, supposing that the per-

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son on the other end is still there. Not a peep, so I hang up. "Probably my dad." 'Ah," Karen rocks her head and a mass of thick, black hair falls across her face. She rakes it away with her fingers and yawns. She is familiar with the story, though without having ever experienced it first-hand. The phone blares. "Don't answer it." "He'll let it ring." "Leave it off the hook." It's one of those old-fashioned numbers with a dial and no way to unplug short of ripping it from its casing. I shrug, like: It's my dad, what can I do? Karen disappears from the doorway as I parrot into the line, "Hello? Hello? Dad?" There is a sharp click. Karen emerges from the dark, still doing up buttons, her bag slung over her shoulder. "I better go home. Sorry I gotta get some sleep before class." I nod and she kisses me on the mouth. "See ya." "Yeah. Later. Psych." We're both doing first year courses toward B.A.s; me in English and her in Education with a couple of our courses overlapping. I'm almost ten years older than Karen, entering academia as a mature student after a failed marriage and disillusionment with my job as a salesman with a snack company—potato chips and such. Dad, on the flip side, is a whole other story My folks split almost two years ago and he went downhill fast, hitting the bottle harder and bouncing from job to job even quicker than before. Manual labour stuff: factories, mills, furniture movers, taxi companies. He resented my mother for giving him the boot and resented the kids for what he described as "taking her side" and not helping to get them back together. But the marriage had been over for years and for reasons everyone understood except him. Now, he's taken to phoning us—the kids—in the wee hours, one after the other, either refusing to say a word or bitching/screaming at us from a drunken stupor or else threatening to kill himself, then hanging up, leaving us no way to reach him. I shuffle into the kitchen and prepare a cup of instant. Might as well get comfortable. He could go on like this for a couple of hours, stopping only when he's had enough or until he passes out, whichever comes first. Another ring.

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"Hello?" I answer like I'm not expecting to hear anyone. It's my sister. Have I been getting calls? Has anyone spoken? She's contacted the siblings and it's the same routine, so "dad" all right. She's unplugging the phone, she says, the others too—having kids and all, working early, the drive—and can I deal with this? Yes, yes and yes. I'm the oldest, which seems to carry with it some tacit understanding of responsibility Though given the fact that I basically bailed from the system—friends, job, family—whereas my brothers and sisters were still happily set up within, I wondered at the trust. Or, maybe it was simply her way of informing me that I couldn't get off the hook so easily We say goodnight and she tells me good luck. I pour boiling water over the coffee crystals, add milk. I think: it's times like this that I wish I smoked. Not so much for the actual smoking as for the activity; the romance—Bogart, Bacall, Dietrich and such. I picture people in bars, on street corners, in cafes, alone, smoking, as if the action is a perfect substitute for company or conversation. The world be damned, they are smoking and quite content to do nothing else. Then again, my dad smokes and he is miles from any sort of contentment. I sip my coffee. I consider: what happens? what goes wrong? do situations change so much or do people gradually come to the realization that things were never right to begin with; that it was all circumstance and innocence and hormones? Not everyone, of course. There are some who seem to manage to remain happy and loving: til death do us part. The minority though. From articles, studies and certainly my own experience, the majority falter and ultimately fail. I recall past events, the so-called good times. Family outings, dinners, camping trips, Christmases, ball games, the whole Norman Rockwell package. Then the steady decline. Remembering how often dad would arrive home saying he'd quit his job; told them to shove it up their ass and he didn't need them and who were they, anyhow? He was free, white and twenty-one. This same line right up until he turned forty and no one would hire him anymore. Too old, they'd say That was the kicker, I think; the thing that crushed him. After that, downhill. I get up to answer the phone. "Yeah?" And it's him, and he speaks. Only not so much speaks as goes on a tirade that is both repetitive and predictable. —What's the matter with my kids, they don't help me?

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—We do, I say We try: —You don't try. You don't do anything. You take your mother's side. —There's nothing we can do. —Bullshit! —What can we do? —Talk to her. If you talk to her, she'll take me back. —It's beyond that. You, me, everyone, we've had this discussion. You have to get your life together. —I get my life together and your mother'll take me back? —I didn't say that. (Dad has a way of twisting everything to his liking and using this to play people one off another.) —What are you saying? —I'm saying we want to help you... —Bullshit! Fuck all of you. You're not my kids. You take your mother's side. —Listen... —Fuck you all! The phone slams in my ear. I return to my coffee, deliberating the possibility that it could be a long night and I'm tired and I've got an early class and this is an exercise in futility. For no particular reason—perhaps a faint sex smell on my fingers staggering the coffee aroma, perhaps what appears to be a long, black hair grazing the hardwood—whatever—my mind bends to an image of Karen. It's early in our relationship (early as it can be, given that it's only been three months) and she arrives at the door wearing an ankle-length coat. She says hi and I say hi and other polite niceties and she asks me to take her coat and I oblige and discover her naked underneath, having removed all but her shoes in the hallway and stuffed them into her bag. Me pleasantly surprised, saying: 'My, but you've got a nice... sense of the theatrical' and she replying short, sweet and to the point: 'You gonna drag me off to bed or what?' And there it is, a few seconds burned into the brain. As if whole lifetimes are merely compositions of more or less sensational moments that serve to situate a particular time and place while the rest—the lesser moments—slip by unnoticed, waiting for the next

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major event or trauma: your first pet, your first stitches, your first kiss, your first car, then sex, marriage, divorce, the death of a friend or family member and so on; everyone being on their own as to what constitutes a thing worth saving. Though maybe no choice, really, and it's the events themselves that maintain hold over us, returning whether we want them to or not. Meanwhile, the things we might want to remember on our own or feel we should remember—especially the smaller things, the string that connects the beads; the glue that binds—can only be dragged up ragged and fuzzy, if at all. Like, in the twenty, thirty, forty or even eighty years you've been on the planet, you can only recall a few minutes of almost worthless film and what does it matter in the end, anyway? The phone and a general duplication of the earlier conversation with the same result. Well, fuck you too! What am I supposed to do? What can I do? You dug yourself a hole and crawled in. How can anyone change that?

I finish my coffee and pull a beer out of the fridge. I climb onto the sink counter and drink. What the hell? Little brother and little sister have pulled the plug. They've got families, jobs, obligations and what can you expect? They're up to here with dad and the whole mess. They've tried, I've tried, we've all tried and now it's down to this: waiting on the outside for events to unfold and whatever happens, happens.

With only one line available to him, the space between calls shortens and dad moves to his trump card. —I'm going to kill myself. —Don't say that. —Why? You don't care. No one cares. —-You're not going to kill yourself. —You don't think so? —Why would you want to kill yourself? —You don't care. None of you care. You'd rather see me dead. —That's not true. We love you. We just...

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—Bullshit. I'm going to kill myself tonight. —You've said that before. —Is that a fact? —Look, where are you? Why don't I come over? —%u don't know where I am and I'm not telling you. I'm going to kill myself tonight and it'll be your fault. —Be reasonable. How are you going to kill yourself? —IVe got a gun. —Where did you get a gun? —You'd like to know. Click.

I'm into my second beer and third such call. I think: I can't take this. This is bullshit. The phone rings. I jump and snatch the receiver. —I'm not calling again. Next you hear about me will be in the papers. —Dad, look—we love you and want to help you... —Then talk to your mother. —It won't help. —you see that? My fucking kids. You'd rather see me dead. —5bu're going to kill yourself? —Fucking right! —Fine, kill yourself. —Yeah? —%ah. I'm tired of your bullshit. —You'll be sorry It'll be on your head. Remember that. There is a sharp click, then a buzz on the other end. I drop the receiver in its cradle. Fuck, I say.

I think about last Christmas, when we managed to get dad over for a family dinner. We thought it might help improve relations. Instead, he was a total asshole. He was drunk when I picked him up. Arriving at my sister's he proceeded to piss everyone off, bitching and complaining about everything, from how he believed we treated him badly down to the decorations and the food.

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Finally, I said: Would you rather not be here with us, 'cause I can drive you home if you'd rather spend Christmas by yourself ? He said, fine, maybe thinking I was bluffing. But, I'd had it. Everyone had. I said fine and packed him into the car. He looked a bit surprised but refused to change his behaviour or his decision. I felt like shit, but then, he was making everyone else feel like shit. I returned alone and the rest of us did our best to recover and enjoy what was left of the evening. I feel like shit now. I realize there are times when you have to take a hard line. You have to let a person know they can't manipulate you with threats; you have to attempt to make the other person accept some responsibility for their own actions. Of course, theory is one thing and practice is another and I feel like shit.

I crack another beer and wait for the next call. I wait and I wait. I finish the beer. Maybe he's given up for the night; maybe he's passed out. I go to bed. I curl under the covers and close my eyes. The phone rings. "Hello." I expect my father's voice. Instead, I hear a stranger. The voice says something about my name and the police and an accident. I'm groggy from the proceedings of the evening and the few beers. I rub my forehead and ask, what was that again? An accident? What kind of accident? "Sorry to wake you. This is the police calling." The police? I ponder the notion. Flashing through my head, newspaper headlines tell of gunshots heard and bodies discovered and I seem to recollect some story from my dad years ago about a Luger he'd taken from a German soldier during the war. Had he kept it? Was the image of a pistol wrapped in black velvet and stored in a chest in the basement a part of my family legacy or was this a piece of general information lifted from someplace else altogether—a book, the television, the newspapers? Impossible to tell. "Your car has been involved in an accident," the voice repeats. "My car?" I'm still trying to puzzle it out. "How can that be? I've been in all night."

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"Someone ran into the back of your car. Probably a drunk driver. Can you come down and identify your vehicle?" I throw on some clothes and drag myself down to the street. It's my car all right, the rear end totalled. The officer has me sign a paper and thanks me for my time. He says tough luck, adding that the car's a heap and the insurance company will likely want to write it off rather than pay to repair it, the bastards, and I say yeah, yeah. I head upstairs and put on another coffee. I stand beside the telephone and grind my knuckles into the plaster wall. "Goddamn," I hiss, my mind locating itself instantly in this strange space that associates my father with the accident. I consider the likelihood that he is in some way responsible; that he somehow managed, by sheer willpower and dogged determination, to have my car demolished; to have a cop call so that I'd immediately freak out and think: he's actually gone and done himself in; that he has also made it so I'm standing here now feeling guilty as hell, waiting for word from him while he sleeps the sleep of the innocents and will undoubtedly remember none of this later while I will feel even guiltier for blaming him when I know that the whole idea is impossible. Yet, what is possible or impossible and who decides? I think about Gail and her inflated breasts; me lying with her on a cushion on the floor, the two of us having been too eager to wait until we reached the bed, asking her if she'd like a screwdriver and her replying, why, am I coming undone? And the two of us laughing. And yet, wasn't she? Coming undone? And aren't we all in some part coming undone and in constant need of adjustment and repair? Or Karen standing in the hall, naked except for shoes and a smile, or further surprising me in the car, that first time, leaning on the horn, screaming out the window: Learn to drive you fucking Chinaman! Then laughing. And me not knowing how to respond, just as the driver of the other car could only look back and stare widemouthed and silent. And somewhere in the thick of it, attempting to figure my dad and me together, sharing a joke as well, but where? And when? Wondering how it's possible, or even if it is possible, for a person to reconstruct that they were once a part of something larger: a line-

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age, a family, a life. And what it is to be a son with no string to tie, no chain to link, no glue to adhere; with nothing but bits and bites of cheap plastic film flapping in the brain. Look! I'm at a school desk. I'm on a horse. I'm in a car driving through the mountains. I'm eating a foot-long hot dog at the exhibition. I'm throwing a baseball. I'm cutting my finger with a knife. I'm laughing. I'm watching TV I'm running through the woods. I'm having sex on the beach. I'm crying into a woman's hair. I'm leaning against a wall with my hand on the receiver of a telephone waiting for it to ring, thinking: this was me; this is me; trying to make sense or make it make sense and, where, within the limited frame of this entire fractured picture, does my father fit and how long can this thin line hold before it snaps and there is nothing?

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THE COUPLE DOWNSTAIRS

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CLOCK TlCK-TKK-ttck one a.m., awake, middle of summer heat wave, hot, bloody humid, window open, fan blowing, covers off, naked, Karen breathing soft, naked as well, ass-end up beside me, light dew on bronze flesh, me speculating how does she do it? sleep? must be thirtyfive degrees. Then it commences: the couple downstairs, voices raised and a barrage of profanities (mostly of the sexual, four-letter word variety, though not strictly confined to these favoured expletives) insinuates the silence. "Whass tha? Whass goin' on?" Only partially roused from her slumber, Karen's breath is short, her eyes are at half-mast and, at this point, her tongue and mouth are out of sync with her brain, so she slurs. "Neighbours." "Neighbours?" "Uh-huh." "Dreaming," she moans. "Dreamed I was submerged, only head above water, in cool mountain stream, music of it filling my ears. Clouds tearing madly across sky above me. Very filmic; very Japanese. Kurosawa and his goddamn ragged-sheet clouds. Flock of birds soaring, swooping, all the while expand and contract, changing shape, like a lung. How do they appear so reckless and never crash into each other; never get in each other's way?" She licks the stickiness from her lips. "So, that's how you do it." "Do what?" "Sleep."

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"What?" Her forehead scrinches into a question mark. She hesitates. Mind and body are still not quite aligned. "It's OK. Go back to sleep." "Oh yeah, sure." We remain motionless for a minute or two, listen, attempt to pick up the thread of a story In the main, pretty basic: he's a lying, pussy-chasing, fucking bastard asshole and she's a jealous, tightassed, vicious fucking bitch. Both deny the charges; keep to the offensive. Pleasant. The sound of something hitting a wall. A dull thump. Perhaps a shoe, or a book, though I somehow doubt a book within easy reach unless a cheap potboiler or phone book and, sure, maybe, yes, stereotyping, but given the limited vocabulary of the persons in question, what other choice, really? The thump is followed by quick footfalls across the floor and a further, heavier thump. Likely a body shoved against a wall; likely a woman's body "You wanna hit me motherfucker? Go ahead. Hit me!" And he does—whack! A muffled scream and: "Fucker!" she spits, returning the blow twofold—whack! whack! "He's going to kill her," says Karen. "I think they're pretty evenly matched, actually" I can tell it's "lock and load" with the mind/body thing now, and Karen heading toward a purpose. "How can you say that? He's a man." "So?" "So?" "So, she could be twice his size and ten times his strength for all we know." 'And that makes it all right for him to hit her?" "They're hitting each other." "Oh, so that makes it all right." Karen preached tolerance, but also assumed a strict moral code that she felt was obvious and should be obvious to anyone, especially in the male/female department. Men don't hit women under any circumstances, women who put up with abusive men, or worse, women who put up with asshole men simply because they're so-called "geniuses" (she lists famous exam-

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pies) are dishrags. While I might suggest that the two stances were often at odds with each other, she generally stuck to her guns come hell or high water. It made for frequent interesting (though futile) discussions and more an opportunity to clarify and argue our own, rather than alter the other person's, perspective. "It's their lives; it's their relationship. If she needs help, she can call." "It'll be too little too late if he sticks a butcher knife through her heart." "Or she skewers him with a pair of scissors." "Why do you insist on taking his side?" "I'm not taking anyone's side. I'm saying that this is how some couples communicate." Karen snaps away with an audible sigh. "Look, I've been through this routine with them before. It happens every few weeks or so. He seems to be gone a lot, whether truck driver or sales or in and out of jail, I don't know." "Jail?" "I don't know. These are possibilities. At any rate, when he's around, everything's fine for a while then him bam boom, they get drunk, they scream at each other, they fight and next thing you know, he disappears again. Like clockwork." "So that makes it OK?" "I didn't say that." "Then what are you saying?" "I'm saying that while it's not the kind of relationship I'd want, I can't tell other folks how to behave or live their lives." "Oh, so you're saying she enjoys being in an abusive relationship?" "No. I don't know. Maybe. I mean, you know what they say: there's a fine line between pleasure and pain." Karen directs a look at me somewhere along the lines of: I don't think so. Or: You're unbelievable. Or: You're full of shit. Whatever. Meanwhile, the two of them still going at it strong: Fuck you! No, fuck you! No, fuck you sonofabitch motherfucker pussy-chasing tight-assed cunt, and so on and so forth. "So, are you going to do something or no?" I stare at the ceiling, thinking: Yeah, this is the purpose to which she was heading all right.

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"What do you expect me to do?" "Go down and get them to stop. Reason with them. If not for the woman's sake, for the sake of everyone else in the building who're trying to sleep." 'Reason with them?' I run the possible outcomes through my mind: The guy answers, he's a six foot six, two hundred fifty pound, bearded, tattooed, motorcycle-driving, mean, bad-breathed motherfucker who doesn't break a sweat as he beats the shit out of me. The guy answers, five foot six, chubby, pop bottle glasses. Before he has a chance to react, I sock him once in the beak and he crumbles at my feet. The gal answers, rushes to my arms: save me! The guy (big, biker guy again) attacks with a roundhouse, I block his punch with a forearm, give him a karate chop to the throat, a forward snap kick to the berries, a side kick to the solar plexus, a turning side kick to the jaw, he buckles and drops, the gal plants a big wet one on me: my hero! "If you're too afraid, I'll go myself." "It's OK. I'll go." I jump up, slip into a pair of sweats, sneakers, T-shirt, stride to the door and into the hall. I stop. Point is, I am afraid. Not that I've ever backed down from a fight (whether due to false masculine inbred trait or embarrassed to lose face or sheer stupidity or...) only that I do my level best to try and avoid such occurrences if I can help it. Recall years ago driving with a carload that included my younger brother and we get cut off by some jerk taking a corner too wide. "We both pull over. Words are exchanged. I recognize the driver—a loud-mouthed runt who decides he wants to scrap and I tell him to go piss up a rope. I wouldn't waste my time, the old adage "I jump over guys like you to get to the real men" dancing comical in my brain. 'Course, a second fella exits the car and says, how 'bout me? Am I big enough? I say: I've got no quarrel with you, and he gives me a rap on the mouth and says: How 'bout now? He steps back, I swing open the door, peel off my jacket. My brother whispers: That's soand-so, tough as stink and one of the school bullies. Great, I go, and the two of us begin sparring in the middle of the road. Fortunately, we only get a couple of licks in and no one hurt when we're separated by a passing truck driver. Given time, I've no doubt I'd've got my clock cleaned. Funny though, how you gain respect from your peers

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by doing something idiotic, the guys saying way to go and good job and slapping my shoulders. Were they nuts? My knees were still knocking. OK, anyway, the guy whips a semi-automatic handgun from behind his belt buckle and drills me into Swiss cheese. Like Fearless Fosdick I can't contain a glass of water. Unlike Fearless Fosdick, I hit the mat like a bag of yesterday's garbage. "Fearless Fosdick?" Now there's a blast from the far distant past. Suddenly recall a story by Ray Bradbury to do with the notion that more violent crimes are committed when the temperature reaches a certain critical level—say: thirty-five degrees centigrade— and the fury of a neighbourhood swells even as the heat rises with all hell eventually breaking loose. Or does the wave subside at the penultimate moment, thus averting the impending catastrophe, the population eased until the next flash mercurial? Not sure, it was so long ago, but a similar Spike Lee film as well, I remember, except with the riot played out in toto. The gal framed in the doorway totally backlit. She appears as a cut-out figure, a shadow; featureless and unrecognizable. In her grip she sports a semi-automatic handgun. She raises her arm, takes aim: thirty-four, thirty-four point five, thirty-four point eight, thirty-four point nine... The two of them greet me. They are naked, covered with coarse hair, fanged with long fingernails, blank-eyed. They grab me, drag me inside, have their way with me. They are dolled-up in tight black leather, their faces rouged and lipsticked, their nails painted, the woman cracks a whip, the man fondles a plastic dildo. They grab me, drag me inside and have their way with me. They are dressed similar to Ozzie and Harriet. When they smile, their perfect teeth glisten. She wears an apron, he smokes a pipe, they each pack bibles. They grab me, drag me inside, have their way with me. I reach the apartment and knock.

Karen is tucked in bed, a sheet covering her, when I return. I kick shoes, sweats and T-shirt into a corner, plunk myself beside her, fold my hands behind my neck. I don't speak a word. ""Vou're going to make me ask?" she says.

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I pull a face and shrug. "OK. What happened?" "I knock. I hear footsteps advance toward me, then stop. Through the door, the woman says: Who is it? what do you want? I call: Are you all right? anything wrong? Woman says: Fuck off and mind your own fucking business. I say: Some of us are trying to sleep. Woman says: I don't give a fuck! Fuck off before I call the fucking cops!" "The woman said that?" I nod. "I can't believe that." "Yeah, well..." "Maybe he forced her to say that. Maybe he had a gun to her head; a knife to her throat. Maybe..." "Karen..." I glance at her like: different strokes for different folks and why notjust accept it? Even knowing she can't; even knowing this circumstance will burn both her brain and her ass as something incomprehensible and in need of repair, if not reparation. "You can't fix people if they don't want to be fixed; if they don't even know that something is broken." "Maybe I should go down there." "Be my guest." Karen rolls onto her back, continues to clutch the sheet to her chest. There is quiet in the apartment below. It continues in this vein for several minutes. Then we pick up low, muted, sliding, thumping sounds. "What now?" "Near as I can guess—and it's merely a guess—when they're done fighting, they still seem to have a lot of pent up energy, so they use it to rearrange the furniture." "You're not serious?" "Near as I can guess. I don't know what else it can be." We listen. There is the sound of something being dragged across the floorboards then set down with a gentle thump. "Isn't that a sofa with felt cushions glued to the leg bottoms to prevent scratching?" Karen purses her lips, considering. "I mean, I've witnessed this on several occasions previous and near as I can guess—and for whatever rea-

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son—they're rearranging the furniture." Karen grins, shakes her head, gives with a mock scream, aaaahhhh! "If it wasn't all so sad, it'd be funny," she says. 'And if it wasn't all so funny, it'd be sad." I reply "You're crazy" she says, tosses off the sheet, presses her breasts into my ribs, kisses me. "You know what they say." I circle her in my arms. "What?" "You shouldn't go to bed with anyone crazier than yourself." "They say that?" "Yeah." "Well, "they" say a lot of things. Besides, you're such a fraud. Guess I'll just have to close my eyes and take my chances."

Next evening we're walking down the stairs and we hear voices in the stairwell. "Why do you have to be so jealous, Fran-O?" "It's my nature, Joe-O." The woman pronounces the word nasally, like: na-chur, and I wonder, Toronto accent or what? "I can't help it. I guess I'm just a silly jealous bitch and no getting away from it." "I mean," the man goes on, playful, "look what you did to me." "Look what you did to me." The two laugh. I do a quick turn to Karen and I can tell we're both thinking: Is this the couple? This is the couple. We converge on the landing. They appear normal enough (whatever that means), mid-thirties, Joe five foot eight or nine, straw-like hair, weathered features, slim, wiry build; Fran five foot four or five, short-cropped red hair, pale skin, broad shoulders, plumpish. They wear swimsuits, flip-flops and carry towels. Fran inspects the stitches above Joe's eye with her fingertips. There are bruises on her upper arm. Joe catches sight of us and says: You're the one who gets all the mail, right? He's referring to my return mail—rejections mostly—poems, stories and et cetera, dropped in a community pile on the floor through the slot at the foot of the stairs quite unceremoniously. I nod: ^eah, guilty, I reckon.

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Joe makes with the hairy eyeball, inspecting me; inspecting Karen. He says: .They've got "adults only" swimming at the pit Fridays between six and nine. Anyone under seventeen gets the boot. You should try it out. Especially in this heat. Cools you off. I'm wondering if he knows it was me knocking last night. I'm wondering how does he know I'm the guy with the mail? I'm wondering what does this mean to him, if anything? I'm wondering, what are you guys doing in the wee hours, moving furniture or what? "Thanks," says Karen. "Maybe we will." Fran and Joe flop-flop down the hall. "I'm telling you Fran-O, one of these days you're going to fucking kill me, then where will you be?" "I told you Joe-O, it's my na-chur. I can't help my na-chur. I was born that way Blame my parents. Besides, if you were nicer to me, I wouldn't lose my temper so much. You know it's only 'cause I love you." I squeeze Karen's hand. We lean into the corridor and watch the parr enter the apartment directly below mine. I think: the happy couple and what could be more endearing? Outside, there isn!t even a hint of a breeze. "I can't believe it," says Karen. I smile and say, "Thirty-four point five, thirty-four point six..." "What's that supposed to mean?" she says. "Nothing," I say "Just a story." "Uh-huh," she says, and I recognize the tone of that "uh-huh." "I'll tell you over dinner." She smiles at this and puts a little bounce in her step. I try to place myself inside her head: picture cool mountain stream, body submerged, burble of running water filling my ears, Kurosawa clouds, tilting birds. OK, except, I can't seem to manage the scene for long before discovering that, not only am I unable to keep my head above water, I am rapidly sinking. Worse, I'm intrigued by the idea. Whoosh! I kiss Karen softly on the cheek and she rubs against my arm. Thirty-four point seven, thirty-four point eight, thirty-four point nine...

MAN OVERBOARD

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The play's the thing... — William Shakespeare "WAITING IN THE wings," so to speak. Finally; word from the powers that be: the grant's been approved and I'm hired to direct a play. OK, it's summer stock at an Arts Centre in the heart of suburbia (though green, woodsy, quietly composed of flowers, wildlife, small lake in background, goose shit on lawn) with real theatre, real stage, real equipment, real rehearsal space and cash to pay actors, crew, promo, set, props et al. In short, a far cry from performing in cramped galleries and office spaces on a shoestring budget (or no budget), which has been the norm since leaving university. Not a ton of cash, natch, but such is the nature of the beast and not to be sniffed at. The best part? A chance to do a production of my choice, plus give me a few weeks break from hotel maintenance. I've already decided on Was He Anyone? by N.F. Simpson, an absurdist play about a man overboard, stranded in the middle of international waters and his wife's efforts to cut through the bureaucratic red tape in order to rescue him. In the meantime, a cruise ship full of odd characters circles and comments on the proceedings as the man dog- paddles and staples are cargoed in to make him as comfortable as possible during his plight: food, water, books, magazines, a grand piano... You get the picture. A young woman named Teri showed up for the auditions. Catherine, the assistant director, was with me and we introduced ourselves.

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"Do you have a piece prepared?" Teri gazed at us kind of quizzical. "To be honest, I'm not sure what it is I'm applying for. The employment office sent me." "We're auditioning actors for a play," said Catherine. "Oh." 'Are you an actor?" "Not really" "Uh-huh." "But I just got into town and I need a job. Maybe I could give it a shot? I mean, how hard can it be?" Catherine and I locked eyes and shrugged. "Why not?" I said. "As long as you're here." I handed her a script, pointed out a character name and asked her to take a moment to review the lines while I filled her in on the bare bones of the scene. "Ready?" She nodded. "Catherine will read the other part." When the audition was over, we thanked Teri and she left. "What did you think?" "Fucking awful. Painfully, fucking awful." "Yeah. I liked her, though. Confident, brash, fearless." "Not to mention attractive and nice tits," laughed Catherine. "Not to mention. Maybe we can use her on the crew. I bet she'd be great at twisting arms for donations, yTcnow? Furniture, costumes, props and whatnot." "Yeah. Also..." Catherine scanned the application. "She's a female of Irish/Ojibwa descent." Ah, I thought, which explains the almond-shaped eyes and flood of copper-coloured hair and freckles. "Helps with the demographic requirements for the project." "I hate that bureaucratic bullshit. What happens if no qualified minorities apply?" In fact, the office maintained a bank of such talented folk for its own purposes and so far we had contracted a male accountant in a wheelchair plus an Asian female poster designer slash promotions slash publicist person. I was expected to balance male/female and employ visible minorities in crew and cast where possible. We'd already hired one terrific black actor, David. "Yeah, it's a royal pain in the ass," agreed Catherine. "Though I

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figure it might've helped me get on. Lots of people take me for a dyke." She flashed a smile. "Shit, we hired that one guy 'cause he had a car." "He'd also taken a tech theatre course." "Whoop-de-doo! He could pull out bastard yellow from a box of gels," she laughed. "If it was numbered properly, haha." Catherine was built stocky, solid, with spiky, brown hair wrapped in a bandana, numerous piercings to ears and nose and no makeup. She was gap-toothed, which gave her an impish look. In the main, she wore jeans, sneakers and men's plaid shirts. Her manner was brusque and straightforward, though softened by a quick sense of humour. To tell the truth, I didn't know if she was joking about being a dyke or not. It was all the same to me. What mattered: could we work together? Period. The good news? We had only met a week earlier and seemed to hit it off right away "That's very funny OK, so, apart from the demographics, what do you think?" "I think...we keep her in mind. And if no hotshot teckie with real experience—and a cloven hoof—comes along..." She raised her eyebrows and bobbed her head. "Shall I bring in the next victim?" "Only if they have two heads and a harelip."

Time passes quickly when you're having fun, right? Between rehearsals, business meetings and keeping up with the technical side of things, the first three weeks were a blur. On top of this, the project manager, Malcolm, a real sad-sack case and obvious fish out of water (middle-aged white male—go figure—with a bent toward numbers not people, a distaste for live theatre and early life aspirations for a nice government job behind a desk and, why me, lord?) was on my back for not fulfilling the requirements, vis a vis, "visible minorities." It wasn't just me, of course. Previous years were the same and, speaking with other directors, the attitude was: Fuck the system. "You hire the people you believe are best for the job. I tried to comfort him, announcing that one cast member had some Spanish blood in her (via transfusion, haha) and one had an uncle from Ujungpandang while I myself was of rich,

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Romanian/German descent and who the hell Canadian isn't, in some way, a visible minority? He wasn't impressed, merely sighed, shook his head and sagged back to his office. Similarly, Anita, of poster design slash promotion slash publicity, nailing my head to the wall (in that nice way she had, with a smile) arranging interviews with Joe Blow from no-name local rag or radio during rehearsal times and I should be grateful that anyone wants to talk to me at all and can I come up with something short and catchy for further press releases and names of people who know people who are connected, fer chrissakes, not the normal riff-raff and what ideas do I have to get bums in seats and do I realize (or don't I?) that this is her career path and she doesn't want it fucked up from the gun with a flop, thankyouverymuch. I thought I was hired to direct, I told her. No, she said, her words sharp, pointed and direct. You are the Captain of the ship, and as the ship goes, so go your passengers and crew. If you follow your charted course, if the gods smile upon you, if you reach your destination safely and without mishap, you are met with cheers and rewards. If, however, you sail into uncharted waters, if you piss off the gods, you sink the ship and everyone else along with it. So, Captain of the good ship Was He Anyone? with responsibility for the lives and career paths of twenty-some-odd fellows resting squarely on my shoulders. Cheers and rewards? Shit, I just wanted to have some fun, get away from unplugging toilets for a spell and put on a decent show. Seems like never an end to plugged toilets and never over till the paperwork is done. "I've set up a three o'clock," announced Anita. "Interview & photo-op. Capiche?" "Capiche," I saluted, spun on my heels and headed for the workshop. Teri was stretched out on the grass catching some rays, her head and shoulders pressed against the side of the building. Most of her face was covered by a huge pair of plastic fantastic sunglasses. "Funky shades," I said. "How's it going? Keepin' busy?" At my voice she raised the glasses and squinted up. "Nothin" much to do." "How's the furniture list shaking down?" "Done." "Done?"

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"Yeah," she nodded. "I called some guy at a used furniture store and he said come on in, take what you need. I went and..." She blew through her lips. 'M of it? The entire list?" "Mm. They're going to deliver it next week. That's when you need it, right?" "You got them to deliver it? For free? 'Cause the budget..." "Guy said it was no problem. They had the truck." 'And that was it? No bullshit, no runaround, no song and dance, no million forms to sign, no special insurance, no pound of flesh..." Teri twisted her mouth, no. "Great. That's great. Good job." I stood there staring at her. Some women have terrific mouths which are a joy to behold. I felt that Teri had one of those mouths: wide, full lips that pursed somewhat whenever she paused, straddled along a set of perfect, white-picket-fence teeth. I also noticed how her breasts calmly rose and fell as she breathed and how her roomy hips tapered toward a pair of tiny, sneakered feet. "I guess I'd better get back." The words were out of my mouth, but I didn't move. "Is it OK if I sit in? I'm kind of bored and I'd like to see what happens on the other side." "Uh, sure. Though, you may not find it that much...less...boring," I fumbled. Teri replaced the glasses over her eyes and stood up. "Catherine's standing in for one of the actors today. You can help with line readings." We headed to the rehearsal space. "If that's OK?" She didn't answer, just tagged along. We were past the theatre games and improv stage of rehearsals and into that awkward period, where the actors want to have things nailed down whereas I, as director, was still wanting to question, rework, redo and re-solve, which put a strain on proceedings. "We have almost two weeks remaining," I told them. 'And we still have to move into the theatre and work with the real set and props. I want to keep things loose. Don't worry. Everything's looking great. You guys are doing a great job. Just trust the process." Easy for you to say, bastard. I could hear the wheels turning. It's not your ass that's going to be on the line when an audience arrives; when the reviewers enter with their sharp pencils and sharper knives.

True. And false.

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We worked for an hour on a particular scene, the actors experimenting physically with the space, with the furniture, with the props. Part of the exercise was to enhance the visual effect, but part was to prevent the "talking head" syndrome, which was an all too easy trap to fall into. It's not so much that the actors need to move on every line, only that I wanted the words to be informed by something "in the body." We took a break and I pitched myself on a corner of the floor next to Teri. "I would've thought you'd be further along." She spoke the words flatly, as if a simple observation on her part. "Yeah, well, in fact, we are. The actors are only too aware of this and they're anxious to press on, but..." "They seem pretty calm." "'Seem' is the operative word. They're a great group and doing an admirable job of acting calm. Inside though, they are sore afeard. Which is why I have to come across as extremely confident and in charge. "A man with a plan," and god forbid I should arrive one day with my head in the blender." "Yeah. I figured that. Ifou're very different here. In this space." "How so?" "Oh, I mean, like when you talk to me. Everything on the surface. Pleasant, a bit flirtatious, though nothing too-too... Only, sometimes, like outside there, I think you're going to say something...you know, maybe...deeper, but you don't. You back out." "Yeah?" "You see? Like now. You won't talk. You won't say what's on your mind." She pressed the shades into her chin. "You like me, yes? You're attracted to me?" "Uh, yes." "So, why is it you're so take-charge and dynamic with the cast, yet so shy with me?" "Oh, that's easy With the cast, everyone has a job to do and each person knows what that job is. The lines are nicely delineated. Outside of this...um, construct, there are too many twists and turns; too many false leads and dead ends; too many possible dire repercussions." "You don't really believe that." "I do."

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"Is this just with me, or...?" "With women in general. On a casual level, I'm fine, but to become more intimate... to take the next step...I don't know what to do. I'm like the guy in the play. I'm lost at sea. I flounder; I thrash about; I sink. Honestly, I don't know what's expected. I mean, I find you attractive and you know that. I guess it's obvious to you, but, for me..." I tossed up my hands. "I mean, how am I supposed to know if you feel the same way toward me?" "Easy You ask." "No. Too risky. Makes it sound too much ego on my part. I think, why would someone as gorgeous as you be interested in me? And there's the "age" thing." "You're silly. And ageist." "Maybe. Also, I don't think it's a good idea to get involved with people I'm working with on a play. Too many complications, too much stress during the process. Furtive glances, strong words taken badly, harsh direction misinterpreted and all that." "But I'm not one of your actors and the show's almost up." "So, what are you saying? That you'd like to go out?" "What would you like?" "OK. How 'bout dinner Friday?" "OK." "OK." "See—wasn't that easy?" "No." She pulled a face, got up and slapped the script into my chest. "You're impossible." I thought, impossible, no; improbable, most likely, and already concerned about the date and what to talk about and what to do and how to behave? Good grief Charlie Brown, and had I always been this inept and how had I managed to get married those several years ago? Oh yeah: she asked me.

Dinner went without a hitch. We finished and strolled hand in hand to the car. I drove a beater. Basic shit-box, battered, battleship grey Buick with worn tires and in need of a valve job that my brother picked up from a friend for a few hundred bucks. The gas tank had

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fallen out due to body rust and we managed to jerry-rig it with aluminum strapping and sheet metal screws. Otherwise, it ran, which was the key, plus big, comfortable, bench seats and a ragtop, which was fun. I leaned in on Teri and stroked her cheek. ""ibu've got a gorgeous mouth. And gorgeous eyes." "Really?" "Mm." "No one's ever said that to me before." "What do they say?" "Nothing." Callow youth, I thought, and imagined I was probably the same at a similar age, worried that to speak meant to acknowledge the act, hence threaten to burst the fragile bubble and end the moment. No, better to proceed by groping paws and lips, in terrified silence. We necked for about twenty heavy minutes, then I asked: Do you wanna go for a drink or over to my place or...? She let out a breathy laugh. "%u're not so shy once you get started, are you?" I guess not. We went to her apartment. She tossed a blanket on the floor and we got undressed. "I like having sex like this; on the floor. Beds are so...straight." Whatever. I was admiring her breasts, which proved to be even more incredible than I'd imagined. Released from their elastic and cotton sling, they relaxed slightly, but otherwise remained full, rounded and in place, the pink nipples pointing to the stars. I proceeded to explore her body with my hands, mouth and tongue. She responded most appropriately, until... "I should tell you..." she whispered, and I gazed up from between her thighs. "I'm not on anything. When I moved here, I'd just split from my boyfriend. I figured I'd give up men for awhile." I cocked my head, uh-huh. "I guess I didn't last too long. I'll go back on the pill, but...in the meantime...did you bring anything?" "I hadn't thought...but, it's OK. We can do everything else, /know?" I moved up her belly, licked a nipple then kissed her mouth. I still had a finger on her clitoris and was rubbing gently She gripped me closer.

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"I love a guy's cock inside me. When I first started having sex, sometimes I'd get so crazy, I'd dig my nails into my boyfriend's ass." She dragged her fingers along my backside, claws retracted. "When he went home, he had to sleep on his stomach. Next day, he'd still be bleeding some. He'd make pained faces across from me in class and I couldn't keep from laughing. I thought that's how you showed passion." "You're over that?" She grinned. "Usually," then moaned, her nails dancing across my flesh.

We got together again the next evening. Teri bought a couple of steaks to fry "I get the pan real hot, sear both sides and cook for about two minutes. That's the way I like it—blue rare. How 'bout you?" "Medium rare, thanks." I cracked a bottle of red and placed a box of condoms in the medicine cabinet. After dinner, we watched some TV, ending up naked on a blanket on the floor, as the song goes. It was nice.

The fact of my being a do/en years older than Teri never came up in so many words, but raised its ugly head around particular subjects, such as aesthetics or politics. As with the play, she said she didn't find absurdist comedy either particularly funny or politically relevant. I replied that maybe it was an acquired taste. She pointed out that it was too unbelievable that the guy wasn't rescued right away and: What's with the bit about sending him a grand piano when he's dog-paddling in the middle of the ocean? She wasn't soothed by me saying that the playwright was attempting to satirize the system or asking hadn't she ever felt powerless or trapped when confronted by a sour-faced petit-bourgeois government asshole clerk insisting on proper procedure by penalty of death or castration and so on? She merely twisted her lips, like, whatever...and. asked why do I insist on always exaggerating my point? Movies, as well, fell into this category, me preferring substance,

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her preferring spectacle. I want to be entertained, she'd say She liked movies about horses, or that contained Keanu Reeves. Or, better yet, a horse movie with Keanu Reeves in it. I'd say: The guy can't act. She'd say: You don't think anyone under forty can act. She maybe had a point. I'd say: The differences between us might simply be a matter of age and experience. She'd counter with: Bullshit! and: Don't treat me like a kid. It was funny, then, to recollect an incident some several years prior, me enveloped in the drunken embrace (and me drunken too) of an older married woman; me searching for an entrance into her outfit (The zipper's up here, honey, on my shoulder, she finally informing me and, what the hell, how was I supposed to know? How was anyone supposed to know? A catsuit?) and her intoning through the booze: I feel like I'm robbing'the cradle. You're still a baby, ohmygod. And so on, me fumbling for the nipple, her plunked on top of a desk, her legs wrapped around my waist. The whole thing —Teri and this earlier woman, the roles reversed—way too Woody AUen-wA seeming, and yet... Anyhow, one night Teri and I are making it on the floor and I can tell she's not quite into it. 'Anything wrong?" I asked. "Nothing." "You don't seem to be into it tonight." "No?" "No." "I guess I'm just tired." "Uh-huh. Well, that's cool. If you're tired, you're tired." I got up to pee. When I returned, she was cozied up to a pillow, her back to me. "Can I ask you something?" She twisted her neck and puckered her lips. 'Are you seeing someone else?" "Seeing someone?" "Yeah." "What do you mean? Like, going out with someone?" I could see where this cat and mouse was leading. "No. More specifically, are you fucking someone else?" She raised herself on an elbow; clutched the pillow to her breasts. "Can you pass my robe?"

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"Why?" I hooked it with two fingers and held it out to her. "Feeling naked?" "You're pretty observant." I scratched my beard. "You gonna tell me who?" "I don't have to," she said, cinching the robe. "It's not like..." ""You're right. "You don't have to, but...hey, I'm not upset. "You're young, you're your own person, you're free, you can do what you want, OK? I accept that. But I may have to make a decision and it's going to make a difference whether you're picking up guys in a bar or it's someone you know from out of town or someone you're working with, understand?" She sighed. "It's Simon. It just sort of happened. We went out to a club last night. Dancing. He walked me home, and..." Simon was one of the crew, background Spanish/FrenchCanadian with a quarter part Cree somewhere along the line (which we discovered after he was hired). "Uh-huh. OK. Well, I guess I'd better take off." I couldn't get too upset. Teri and I weren't going anywhere long-term. Besides, Simon was a sweet guy and her own age. It made sense.

The play closed with small audiences and mixed reviews, but a good feeling overall from those involved and no one driven to slash their wrists. At least, so far as I knew. In fact, most were gearing up for future projects, so, through it all, just more of the same old, same old. We had the wrap party at one of the actor's places. I sat on a sofa chair with a glass of wine in my hand, getting pleasantly pissed, watching the proceedings. On the arm beside me, Catherine sat drinking a beer. Across the room, through a smoky haze, it appeared that Sandi and David were playing kissy-face. "What's with those two?" Sandi was a good ten years older than David and I knew that she was living with someone. 'Mfair." 'Mfair? Not just tonight, then?" "Pretty early on, actually" "Discreet." "Oh, not really I think if you hadn't been so busy with the bull-

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shit end of things, you'd've picked up on it soon enough." "Mm." Lori and Philip bounced arm in arm out of the kitchen, beaming like a pair of Cheshire cats. "And them?" "Engaged. I think they're going to announce it tonight." 'Anything else I should know?" "I think Jocelyn and Rick have a bit of a thing going." "Jocelyn's married, right? And Rick has a girlfriend?" 'A bit of a thing." I let out a low whistle. "Poor Monica must feel left out. If I had known, I could've maybe directed a different play to bring in another man." "Monica's gay" "Monica's gay?" "You gonna say she doesn't look gay?" "I'm not gonna say anything. I feel totally out of my depth here." Ten sauntered over and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Hi." "Hi." "How ya doin? Havin' fun?" "Sure. Good to relax, kick back with a glass of vino." "Mm." She gave me a squeeze, a quick kiss on the cheek and headed to the patio. Simon spied at us through the glass doors. Jeezus! Relax.

Catherine wrapped her fingers around the back of my neck. "Disappointed?" 'About the play?" 'About Teri. It's obvious you like her. Too bad you never got the chance." I took a breath. "Uh, yeah, well..." "To be honest, I think she'd've been better off going out with you." "Maybe. Simon's more her age." "That's the point." "Mm." "You're OK though, right? Not too sad? Not heartbroken?" "I guess I'll live." "Good." She bent down and planted a big kiss on my lips, then disappeared into the kitchen.

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"Thanks," I said softly, and wondered: was that simply a kiss? did it mean something more? was I missing something here? and how to cut through to the heart? Just ask? I don't think so. I recalled Teri commenting on my powers of observation and I had to chuckle. The on-board romances I witnessed over the rehearsal period I had taken as belonging to the world of the play. Meanwhile, everyone was walking around, one hand plainly in sight, the other fiddling about in someone else's pants. Shit, the only real reason I twigged to Teri's indiscretion was not so much her behaviour that evening, but the fact of discovering two used condoms resting at the bottom of the trash bucket in the bathroom. Not exactly a Sherlock Holmes moment; more a blow to the head with a two-byfour. Someone zipped by and topped up my wine. It was Rick, who'd played the ship's steward. How haplessly we fall into our roles, and where does the one end and the other begin? I sat in the sofa chair, drinking, feeling somehow cut off and set adrift from the general action; a lone observer, lost amid a surround of flotsam and jetsam that madly bobbed about, bumping and grinding its way within an uncertain present, toward a less certain future. I mean, at some point the cruise ends, the ship returns home and it's All ashore that's going ashore, the passengers dumped unceremoniously onto dry ground and, what happens next? No grand piano prepared to drop from the sky in order to elevate the scene from one of cheap sentiment to pathos, fer sure, simply the cold, hard pill of yet another approaching morning filled with another unending regimen of broken beds and plugged toilets. Absurd? Absolutely. Funny? Depends. Catherine was unaware that anything had happened between me and Teri. Had any thing happened? What proof was there? I sipped my wine, shut my eyes and leaned back in the chair. It was all I could do.

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TELL HIM YOU'RE MARRIED /

*-i

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h, -C M

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ANOTHER SHIFT DONE and drinks in the lounge with the usual suspects who continue to drift in, prepared, as always, to relate their versions of the day's proceedings. A kind of ritualistic cleansing, desiring simply to be unburdened, able to relax and commune over a pint or a highball or a glass of wine. Slightly more upbeat tonight. Friday, I suppose, and happy for the weekend. Into the evening, some are joined by their "better halves" and tables are pulled together and more chairs are gathered and more drinks are ordered and more cigarettes are lit and Brad tells another bad joke that has everyone groaning and stories are rehashed or embellished—the dinner Tom and Diana had at so and so's and some guy so drunk that... or the latest flick everyone's seeing or the ball game and what about them Jays, eh? and what's on the slate tonight once they've chilled over a couple of shots and someone mentions breakup or affair and everyone else drops their conversations and all ears turn in this single direction, each offering their own opinion or account and agreeing it's toughest on the kids and Mike closing with, "yeah, life's a shit sandwich and everyday you gotta take another bite" and we all nod and laugh. Or not, depending, some things striking home harder than others and much going on behind closed doors—sanctum sanctorum and all that. At any rate, the booze working its way into the system, loosening tongues, easing inhibitions and no one ever knowing when the mood might swing from good-natured fun and teasing to all-out abuse and mud slinging. The latter being the rarer bird, admittedly, though occurring often enough to keep you on your toes. The way it is with a loosely knit group of friends and acquaintances.

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Whether by choice or by decree, everyone sports a uniform of sorts. Shirt and tie, blouse and skirt, jeans and baseball cap or slightly more obvious and official tunic. Outside this space, these clothes serve to categorize a person and promote a kind of pecking order. Here, everyone is on equal footing and Mike, who stacks groceries for Loblaws, is just as likely to tell Tom, who owns his own furniture factory, to "shove it," as vice versa. Or Beth, who handles catering at the hotel and who has referred to the general manager all day long as Mr. Phillips, now calls him Rob. The difference? They are offduty They are at ease. Rob and I provide a separate case altogether. The two of us have been friends for close to fifteen years. When the bottom fell out of my marriage and I decided to drop the middle-class life to go to university, he offered me a part-time job on the front desk. When I graduated and didn't know what to do with my B.A., he said he had a full-time opening in maintenance. His only request was that I take it seriously and give it at least a year. He was almost apologetic, but we both reckoned a job's a job when the rent needs paying. To show my good intent, I went out straight away and bought a pair of green work pants and matching flannel shirt (my own particular uniform) and have been hard at it for a year and a half. Perhaps I'm more responsible than people give me credit for. Perhaps I simply lack ambition. Whatever, in the few times I might meet up with him during the day, we go by first names. We understand that it would be too embarrassing for both of us to have it any other way and I appreciate this about him. Naturally, there are other, more personal reasons for taking me on which are not quite so altruistic. We don't speak of them; they are understood. It has always given Rob a thrill to be in the power position. He realized that his staff would question his hiring me, being best friends and all, but, in his own mind, this merely cemented his decision. As the boss, he could do as he pleased. If others worried about favouritism, that was their problem. As well, Rob is jealous of the fact that I chucked my old life so completely in order to pursue my ambitions as a writer-slash-actor. I'm not bragging, simply stating a truth that we are both aware of and have even touched upon over one too many drinks, only to be

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ignored or forgotten the next morning. Rob would also like to be an artist of some kind, though he is unwilling to give up the comforts of his material existence. As compensation, he takes satisfaction in being my friend, my benefactor and my boss. It ensures my dependence on him. Then there's me as an excuse for generally goofing off; someone he can drag into the underground parking lot and crack open a beer from a cooler in the trunk of his car at ten in the morning 'cause he's suffering a hangover or wants someone to shoot the shit with or bounce things off of; personal things; things not to be repeated. As when he was screwing one of his desk staff and telling me that it was love...but what could he do, they were both already married and if he left Linda she'd kill herself and me saying that he was being a bit egotistical, kidding that he wasn't that much of a catch, and that suicide was a pretty drastic measure and unlikely, except in the movies, and him replying that I didn't know her, I didn't know what she was capable of, and me answering that's true, to a point ('cause I did know her, though only in the sense where you think you know someone then possibly later discovering you didn't know them at all —the shit hitting the fan and so on ), and yet, how many people actually "off" themselves because of divorce and him having read of one in the newspaper that day (it figures) and the memory of'other such headlines ('cause that's all he has time to read), alongside kids and partners found butchered in pools of blood and me going, yeah, but statistically, and so on, until we'd finished a couple of beers and it was time for a quick gargle from a giant, economy-sized bottle of Listerine—also in the trunk—and return to work. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, conversations continue to separate and collide in a most unnatural yet natural manner bouncing from business to politics to the football pool to kids without missing a beat. Shelley takes over our group and drops a fresh round of drinks. "Hey Shelley," I go. "Howya doin?" "OK," she says, and makes a face. "You sure?" "Yeah." She hangs over my shoulder and shrugs. "There's just some guy." "Uh-huh," I go, figuring it can't be anything new to her. Shelley

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isn't beautiful in the fashion magazine sense, but she comes with her own brand of attractiveness: friendly, somewhat sassy, with shortcropped brown hair, brown eyes, early twenties soft skin, lips that could suck chrome from a fender, a chipped front tooth, amplesized breasts and a derriere with room to roam. I didn't know her other than this. In the main, we did the usual meaningless chit-chat around the hotel then went our separate ways. "What about him?" "He's been coming in the past few nights around eight or nine. You know how it goes." I shake my head, no, I don't know how it goes. Shelley sighs, maybe a bit embarrassed. "First it's 'what's your name', then it's 'you're very beautiful' then it's 'I guess a guy like me doesn't have a chance'—like he's looking for a compliment—then it's 'how 'bout we go out on the town sometime and maybe see what we have in common?'" She says this like it's nothing; like it happens everyday Maybe it does to her. I find it kind of intriguing, myself: the rudiments of courting, the mechanics. "So, what's the problem?" "The problem is, number one, I'm not interested, number two, he's probably already married, and number three, if he is already married, then I'm really not interested." "So tell him you're not interested." I try to be funny but she's not having any of it. "I told him." I'm impressed. Very up-front woman, I think. To the point. "But he's usually had a few drinks before he gets here and it's like water off a duck. I might as well be talking to myself. I even told him we're not allowed to date guests." "Ah, he's a guest." "Worse, he's with the telephone company" We both nod. Ma Bell is a big client of the hotel. Employees come in from around the province several times a year to take courses. The hotel even bought a shuttle bus to drive them to and from the training centre. The workers know this and a few are not afraid to play on it to try for a little extra service. Often, it worked, resulting in staff being unsure as to where to draw the line. "Well," I go. "Good luck." "Yeah," she says. "Thanks."

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It's drawing near eight-thirty and we're down to a few stalwarts: me, Beth (who's keeping an eye on a dinner party upstairs) and Pete, my immediate boss. I notice four guys walk in and sit in Shelley's section. It's obvious that they're telephone workers, even without the giveaway company jackets and caps two of them wear. Shelley drops a few coasters. One of the men takes her arm, tugs her toward him gentle-like and says something in her ear. It's that not-so-innocent action people do in bars or crowded spaces when they want to get close to someone without seeming obvious—they blame the noise. Except tonight, the lounge is quiet and the noise factor is next to nil. I judge that this is our man. He's about my age, early thirties, and (agreeing with Shelley) most likely married with a couple of kids, a dog, a cat, two cars and a house somewhere in Sudbury, Thunder Bay or the Sault. This was the norm with these guys and why should he be any different? Shelley shoots me a look as she goes to the bar and I motion her over. I perform the same action as the other man, drawing her close and whispering in her ear. I figure it's OK for me, I've got a good reason. "Why not tell him you're married," I go. "If he asks why no ring, tell him lots of waitresses don't wear them 'cause the tips are better." "I don't know," she says. "I'm not very good at lying." "Listen, he's staring at us now. Why not make friendly with me for awhile. If he asks, tell him I'm your husband. I'll give him the evil eye whenever he tries anything. He'll have to believe it, OK?" I give her hand a noticeable squeeze and blow a kiss in her direction. She grins, bobs her chin and saunters back to the bar. I figure it's a good opportunity to hone my acting skills. A bit of guerrilla theatre. Pete has a great time watching the show and I'm actually enjoying the attention. With the bosses gone, even Shelley begins to relax and starts to get into it with earnest, going so far as to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. Finally, I see her and the guy exchange a few choice words. "This is it Pete," I go. "He's looking this way" Pete sits sidewise to the other table and takes a quick peek over his shoulder. Shelley flashes me a smile and a wave and I smile and wave back. The guy takes her hand, very officious-like, and gives it a

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shake. He says something to her. I can't make out what, but I assume it entails an apology of sorts, as he has the look of a child that's been caught with his hand down his pants. I have to admit, I feel pretty satisfied with myself. The four men pack it in. The night's still young, elevenish, and they probably want to head to greener pastures. First, though, the guy in question approaches me. He stands at the table for a second, staring. He squints his eyes, sniffs and blows through his lips. I get the distinct impression that he's pretty hammered and I'm unsure as to what's on his mind. I don't think he's sure himself. He's bigger than I thought and he sways slightly. I figure he doesn't have to take a swing, if that's what he's thinking. All he has to do is fall on me and I'm a dead man. He slowly unfurls a hand toward me and I take it in my own. "You're married to Shelley?" "Yeah," I lie, without a pause. "It'll be a year next month. I met her in this very place." "Uh-huh, well," he goes. "I just want to congratulate you and say, you're a lucky man." "Thanks," I go. "I know it." "A. very lucky man." He slurs his words and now I know, fer sure, he's hammered. Things are progressing from the sublime to the ridiculous and I hope he doesn't break down and cry or some such thing. "No hard feelings? I didn't know." I shake my head. "No. How could you? It's natural. Shelley's an attractive woman." "Hmm." He curls his lip and snorts in a sort of bovine way, as if I had just made the understatement of the century He stares me up and down, and fixes on my hand. "You're not wearing a ring." "No. We both work here and we're trying to keep it kind of a secret. Staff aren't supposed to fraternize. Pen in company ink, and all that. You know what management's like." 'Assholes." I nod agreement, then play my ace, more for Pete's benefit than anything else. I figure, what the hell, what can the guy do except pick up the table and bust it over our heads, haha. "I see you don't wear a ring either?" I'm considering his wife, his kids, his three bed-

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room house in backwater Ontario. Perhaps he has in his mind the same picture. He grunts and I'm not sure if there's more coming or not. There isn't. He laughs, releases my hand, gives me a wink and clicks his tongue. He turns toward Shelley at the bar, shapes his hand into a gun and mock fires. His buddies walk over, slap him on the back and they stagger outside. 'Assholes," I whisper. When they disappear, Pete shapes his hand into a gun and points at me. "Pow!" he goes, and we laugh. "I don't fuckin' believe it...that crack about the ring? He coulda killed us both, ya fucking lunatic." "Yeah, well," I go. "He could've, but he didn't." "Fucking lunatic." Pete laughs and pulls at his hair. "Whew!" he goes. Shelley drops a couple of pints, on the house. We raise a toast. Beth returns from upstairs. "Did I miss anything?" Pete and I are grinning like a couple of idiots and she sees that the four guys are gone. She orders a last drink. "For the ditch!" she says, and smiles. "Now, give."

Shelley knocks off at midnight. Beth is gone and Shelley joins Pete and I for a drink. The two of them light up smokes and, with Shelley sitting close to me, we revisit the night's events, make goo-goo eyes, nuzzle, shape our hands into guns—POW!—and laugh hysterically. Between the excitement and the fearful flow of adrenaline, Shelley gets tipsy in no time. On occasion, she grabs my arm, draws me near and whispers something the guy had shared with her during the week, some of it not too polite, some of it downright dirty and not so funny at the time, I bet, but gut wrenching now and we are killing ourselves laughing. Even Pete, who can't hear squat—Shelley's so close to my ear—laughs uncontrollably In the meantime and coincidentally, I am assuming that Shelley is the type of gal who is comfortable with the fact of having large breasts, as she appears to have no qualms about pressing them against me. I, on the other hand, am a stranger to her breasts and I'm quite enjoying the novel sensation, to the point of promoting more such contact, which she also doesn't seem to mind, or maybe notice. I don't know which and I don't really care.

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After more beers, Shelley slips off to the loo. Pete nudges me. "You're going to get laid tonight, you bastard." "Whaddya mean?" I go. To be honest, the thought of getting laid has not occurred to me. I am simply enjoying the evening. Enjoying the drinks and the flirtation. I'm not sure I even want to bed Shelley. I'm not sure I'm even capable at this moment. The thought never crossed my mind. Never, that is, until Pete mentioned it. This is my big problem, according to friends. I make it a habit to chat up women, get them hot and bothered and interested, only to have them go off alone or with someone else because I failed to decide on one or the other and close the deal. If my friends are right, then the various hints or clues, the "vibes," must go totally over my head 'cause I never seem to notice. I tell them: For me, I'm just talking. My friends say: If you were a woman, you'd be called a cocktease. This is some serious stuff, and I had to think. "When Shelley returns, Pete's gone. It's last call and she buys another round. "Where's Pete?" she asks. "Gone home to the wife." I tip my glass to her. "To the sanctity of marriage," I say "Huh," she goes. "I'm never getting married." I can tell she means it.

Her truck is parked below and I walk her down. It's a battered green Dodge with a canopy "What do you want with a pickup truck?" I ask. "It's wheels," she shrugs. "Gets me where I want to go." "Uh-huh." We stop at the driver's side. "Well...?" Shelley takes a long drag from her cigarette. Whether out of courtesy for me or not, she blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. "Thanks again," she says. "That was fun." The thought strikes me that we're underground, surrounded by concrete walls and pillars and standing beneath a bright fluorescent light with a protective metal screen covering it. Combined with too much booze, the rank smell of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and kitchen grease, the rusting shell of truck at Shelley's back, it makes

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for a somewhat bizarre setting for a first kiss. Then again, maybe it's perfect. I touch her lips softly with mine and it is at this instant that I realize this is my fear—that probably, more than likely, I really have misread the signs and the woman is now going to slap me. Or worse, rise to her full majesty and say: What do you think you're doing little man, and what gives you the right? Instead, Shelley doesn't resist, so I go again and she kisses back. What the hell, I think, and it's full steam ahead, with me moving from lips to neck to breasts in quick succession, managing somehow to fumble open buttons and unsnap snaps and, next thing I know, my mouth is wrapped around a nipple, I'm diddling her and, while not exactly reacting like a woman overcome with passion, she's gently moaning and grinding to the urging of my finger. I'm erect, somewhat, banged up against her leg and she's backed against the truck and I'm wondering if she wants to or not and how best to handle the situation or if I even need to handle it, the entire procedure seeming to have a life of its own and no trying to reason with it. No wanting to reason with it either. Still, do I take her here on the spot or in the truck or the truck bed or offer to bring her to my place or her place and what about a condom or...or what? In the meantime, while I'm busily focusing my attention on her nipples and her vagina, I notice that she casually takes another drag on her cigarette, tilts her head toward the ceiling and slowly exhales. It's very graceful, almost romantic in afilm-noirish sort of way, yet, I think, maybe I am exceedingly off base here and I want to ask: Are you into this or not? Well, my erection, which was already struggling to maintain itself through the initial flurry of questions, here vacates the premises completely. It abandons the sinking ship and there's nothing to be done about it. I figure the best thing to do is put it in her ballpark. "So, you wanna come back to my place, or what?" Perhaps not the most delicate phrasing, but at least it's out there, in the open and up for discussion. She drops her smoke and crushes it. "I don't think I'd better," she goes. "I gotta be back for the morning shift. I'm serving in the dining room. Besides, I gotta drive to Scarborough." "^eah. OK," I go. She does herself up like it's no big deal and

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hops in the truck. "You want a lift?" "I'm in the other direction. But it's OK, I've got my bike. The air'11 do me good." "OK. Seeya." "Yeah. See ya." She pulls away and I think about her words and how serious she sounded when she spoke them: "I'm never getting married." What's that all about, I wonder? I get on my bike and zip up my jacket. It's early September, still mild and the air feels refreshing whooshing around me. Like tonight's events, entire landscapes slip past as I pedal. The curtain has fallen and I know I'm right in saying that when I see Shelley on Monday she will feel the same way: divorced and indifferent. It will be back to hi, how are you? Great. And you? Terrific. Good. Good. And so on. As if nothing happened. And maybe nothing did. And in this too, I know I am also right.

CRAZY

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THE RUCKUS SITUATES down the hall, or up the hall, depending on your perspective. In either case, particular insistent pounding on door and profanities fired at same gather no response. I flip my gaze from the ceiling to the bedside clock and note: one-thirty in the pitiful a.m. Shit, I mumble, and yeah, the bars closed and Mike returned home to the nest. Not uncommon, except, why no key tonight? The thought no sooner flashes, when, a break in the proceedings and me going, thank Christ, only to have it start up again with added gusto, flat palm alternating with burst of knuckles rattling the solid wood, plus a few well-chosen kicks and the obligatory: "Rita! Rita! Bitch! Fucking goddamn bitch open the goddamn fucking door" and et cetera. Me lying here also going: Jeah, open the goddamn fucking door, though realizing no use complaining. Complain to who? Or to whom, me never being able to figure the difference. This is the apartment manager who's locked behind the door, after all, and Mike is her...what? Husband, partner, paramour or some such, and how long can she hold out or endure this onslaught? I climb into a set of sweats, shuffle into the hall and lean my forehead against the door frame. I wonder, should I take a boo? Maybe holler: Mike, you crazy old bastard, people are trying to sleep and what are you thinking? Again, no use, 'cause everyone is aware that Mike is a crazy old bastard, pushing anywhere from fifty-five to seventy (who can tell?), yet still built like a tightly wound spool of binding wire, all knife edges and lacerations, and doesn't give a rat's ass about anyone or anything but Mike. Check and mate, it appears, though feeling I should have some recourse, whether as a tenant or as a man. Instead, merely standing here, about as useless as a bull's

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hind tit (as my mother was fond of saying, me never quite understanding exactly what was meant by it, but getting the gist, I think), wishing the entire affair would end quietly on its own. Twisting my neck, I catch a view of Rob, fast asleep on the living room fold-out, sawing logs loud enough to qualify for lumberjack status. Yeah, I go, this is where he landed after the split. Tit for tat, I have to admit, and can't blame the guy I mean, I landed with him and Linda for a few weeks after my breakup. 'Course, he's been here going on six months—not that I begrudge him, we're best pals and have been for years, plus, he helps cover the rent and keeps the place supplied with more (and better) food and booze than I can generally afford. It's just that, there's such a thing as spending too much time together or getting to know each other too well and I wonder how any woman could've put up with a guy who snores the way he does. I'm not talking years now, but months, weeks or days, even, enough to drive you nuts, or at least give you pause for thought as to sharing the same bed over a lifetime. Not that this was the reason or the only reason for the split, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't. Go figure, when a woman arrives at a man's place of business and dumps a box of photos of the two of them and, lo and behold, his head has been neatly razored from each one, you know there was more going on. A helluva lot more. Still, even divided by a bathroom and a kitchen, and my bedroom door closed, I've had occasion to approach him and give him a sharp poke in the ribs. What? he'd wake; what is it? Nothing, I'd say. "Vbu were dreaming. Roll over and go back to sleep. And he would. Just like that. Amazing. But, that was the trick, y'see? Get him on his side. No, the trick was to keep him on his side and that was easier said than done, let me tell you, his back geared to answer the Earth's pull and no brace of pillows to prevent it. To top it off, the snoring was made worse by drinking. And these days, Rob was always drinking. How bad is his snoring, really? OK. Last spring, right before he moves in, I'm talking to him about maybe going camping and he tells me he's never been camping in his life, so, we decide to take off for a weekend; we set a date, just the two of us. I've got all the gear, only he wants to get his own tent. I say mine's built for five, meaning it

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holds two comfortably but he insists, so I go, fine. We drive to this lake in the interior—private campground, toilets, showers, the whole bit (I don't want things too rustic for his first time)—and request two sites side by side. The guy at the desk asks: Two sites? For just the two of you? And raises his eyebrows. Rob says yeah and the guy shrugs, like, OK. We pay for one night, thinking, just in case, who knows: weather, bugs, bears, bats, boredom, vampires, axe murderers...? It's early summer by now, the ground damp from previous days' showers, threat of more rain to come and, what else, but Rob's big thing about the whole trip is a campfire and so we string a tarp over the fire pit and buy enough wood and kindling to last most folks a week. We haul out stove, BBQ, lamp, pots, dishes, one cooler for food and another for beer, wine, mix and ice, deck of cards, cribbage board, tinned and packaged goods, tablecloth, folding chairs, cutlery, corkscrew, matches and so on. I strike a fire and Rob drops a couple of sirloins on the grill just as the sun begins to set and the rain begins to fall. Not a fine mist mind you, but a real goddamn soaker, looking for all the world to pelt on through the night. Nothing to be done but pour ourselves another rum and Coke and cosy up to the fire. The smoke, meanwhile, peaks at the tarp then cascades around us. "So, this is it," coughs Rob. "Camping." "This is it," I cough, and we clink glasses.

Next morning, we drag our sorry carcasses to the campground office and the guy greets us with a big smile. "I was making my usual rounds last night." "Yeah?" we nod, still fuzzy from the previous evening's libations; yet to perform the habitual shit, shower and shave necessary to begin the day "Now I see why you brought two tents." He's grinning ear-to-ear now and we're waiting for the other shoe to drop. We don't have to wait long. "One thing about it, so long as you're here, the snoring'll keep the bears away, haha." "Yeah, haha." We don't give a flying fuck. All we're thinking is coffee and aspirins and we mosey along.

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At any rate, a knock at the door and Rob bolting upright in the fold-out. How does he hear a quick da-da-da when he's been oblivious to the racket so far? One of life's little mysteries, I suspect, and a waste of time to ponder. No sooner do I crack the door than Mike cuts will-o'-the-wisp inside. "Evening boys. Just need to use your phone. Rita's passed out even further than usual, it seems." He allows no time to respond and there's really no need, he's already at the phone dialling. I stare at him, figure this is the classic case of a twenty-five-year-old mind trapped inside a sixty-year-old body and nobody or nothing the wiser so carries on as if... "You boys got a cold beer for a thirsty man? I'm parched after all that yellin'." I bet, I think, and go to the fridge. I relay a glance to Rob that says: This is your fault, bastard. Rob is the type who invites apartment managers in for a beer, right off, in order to get on their good side. You know, set up a relationship should things go wrong in the future, whereas I'm the type that once I'm in and the door's locked I never care to see them again, unless for some kind of emergency, like an invasion by a hostile nation, or aliens, maybe. Yon get the drift—I like my privacy Rob brushed my concerns aside with a wave of his wine glass. How bad could they be? he laughed. Maybe this bad, I consider. Maybe worse. Do we have a cold beer in the fridge? Is the Pope Catholic? Does a chicken have teeth? As if he didn't know These thoughts and others being fired, me to him, across the room and missed by a country mile. "Whaddya say, Mr. Hospitality—you want a beer too?" "Might as well," Rob yawns. I twist three caps. "I'll be goddamned," and the receiver slams. Mike slides in with a smile, grabs a beer and tips it in the air. "Here's to the wound that never heals," he toasts. "The more you rub it, the better it feels. Gentlemen, the Queen." He takes a long pull from the bottle, drags a chair into the living room and straddles it. I sit in the opposite corner, forming a triangle between the three of us. "So, Mike," I say "Forget your key?" "Silly bitch put on the deadbolt. Don't think she did it on pur-

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pose. Prob'ly drunk out of her tree. She knows I'd be coming back. I always come back." I'm not sure I want to pursue the subject. I didn't even know he was gone. I remember I hadn't seen him for a few days, but that can be explained by any number of reasons, and who gives a shit anyway? I mean, how long's he talking here? "You and Rita have a fight?" asks Rob, like it's no big deal, just asks it. "No, nothing like that. Sometimes I got to get away, that's all. I got itchy feet. You know how it is, the more they hang on, the more you need to get yourself free." Rob and I didn't know. Both of us got turfed by our respective mates and no discussion. Well, whatever, I'm busy picking up on the pronoun "they." Mike is not what you'd call an attractive man, physically or personally, though I grant that he has a certain quality; an energy. He's about six feet tall, one hundred fifty pounds, sharp features, an Adam's apple that bobs erratically when he speaks (a sort of Ichabod Crane type, though opposite in manner); a lean, mean fighting machine, as they say; a nasty piece of work, though not without charm, I suppose, if you enjoy the type, and, who am I to sit here and judge, anyway, either him or his women? "Yeah," replies Rob. "Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em." Mike doesn't crack a smile. "You got that right. Best thing to do is get the hell out for a time. Make 'em suffer a bit so they know what's what. Otherwise, you might shoot 'em. Hell, you'd have to. No other choice." He fixes straight on Rob, then laughs. "Uh-huh. Right. So, where'd'ya go? Where you been?" "Buffalo, mainly Got me a little girlfriend in Tonawanda." He says "Tonawanda" like he enjoys the way it sounds; like it's really Tonawanda rather than the girlfriend that's the draw. He goes on talking about the situation, about how he drives down a couple of times a year or more, depending; about how she's on disability for a bum leg from an accident at work in a furniture factory and how she lives in a house paid for by a small family inheritance and insurance from a husband who kicked from a heart attack aged fifty-two, poor bugger, and how it's such a a great set-up and a sweet deal; the

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irony of the whys and wherefores somehow lost on him, meaning, her comforts coming at a price, but, so what? Mike more tickled by the fact that she waits, on pins and needles, for him to return, the fridge full of beer, minute-steaks, pork chops and beef roasts; the cupboard stocked with salted cashews and bottles of Jim Beam; next telling us how he gives her a good toss or two for a time before she gets on his nerves, 'cause soon it's: "Stay with me, I'll take care of you, I love you" (which Mike says in a mock-whiny voice) and the long face and the clutching arms and the goddamn cats ('cause he hates pets of any kind, saying he'd rather see them dead than tied up or locked inside) and even the minute steaks and the bourbon are beginning to wear thin and it's sayonara, see ya, and he's outta there with only time to take advantage of the cheap American hooch and giving us the long and short of how best to get the stuff across the border, surrounding the engine and packing the wheel wells to the brim. "You smuggle booze across the border?" This is Rob who has a respect for the law that borders on fear. Mike shrugs in a way that suggests strictly normal behaviour and a common occurrence. "You ever get caught?" "Sure, what do you think? You gotta get caught once in a while. Nothin' a hundred percent." "Right," I say. "What about you and Rita anyway? Are you married, or what?" "Married? Shit, no. Do you see a ball and chain around my ankle? I picked Rita up in a bar, same way as the one in Tonawanda. It's been pretty much like that with all of them, for that matter. You know, they're lonely, they want some company—same old same old. Anyway, she had a good thing at a different apartment building, nicer place than this shit hole—no offence, none taken—free room and a few bucks a month to watch the place. Mainly, sit around on her ass and collect the rent. Course, the odd time something actually needed fixing and that's where I came in helpful—small jobs like electric, plumbing, carpentry, moving shit...right? Why call someone and pay through the nose? It made sense for me to move in. Course, she got fired from that place. The booze. One of those times I was "missing in action." Took me awhile to track her down when I got

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back, but I tracked her all right. Found her living here." "The electric and stuff, is that what you did when you were working? On your own, I mean." Rob backtracks, in case. "When you weren't with Rita, were you an electrician, or something?" I glance at Mike to catch his reaction; whether ignore the question or take Rob by the throat and threaten; "What do you mean by that?" Or...? Instead, he simply shakes his head. "Naw, just shit I picked up here and there to get me by when I need it. Better when I don't need it, that's for sure. Like in Tonawanda, I don't raise a finger." He waggles the empty bottle at me and I go to the fridge. "Don't forget to get one for yourselves. I hate to drink alone. I will, but I hate to, haha." It's obvious that Mike is quite content holding court in my apartment. "So, you boys tell me something. What are you doing holed up inside when there's a world full of women out there waiting to get picked up? Why, when I was your age I was out chasing tail seven nights a week. Eight, if I could manage it." "Well, you probably have a stronger constitution," Rob offers. "I wouldn't doubt it. I wouldn't doubt it one bit. But, I'm serious. You guys oughta get smart. Why do you want to kill yourselves working nine to five when there's women out there dyin' to take care of a man; any man?" Mike nods his head and twists his mouth like he's Brando in Apocalypse Now, imparting the holy goods to Martin Sheen, and, like young Marty, we don't say a word; we don't know what to say "Hey, I'm gonna give Rita another call." Mike shoots down the corridor. Or, up the corridor. Rob tosses his hands in the air toward me and I smack a palm against my forehead, for no apparent reason, except as empty gesture. On the floor against the wall, lying between me and the chair that held Mike, rests a large pillow; a Christmas gift given to me one year by my brother. It's looking a little worse for wear these days, yet I haven't had the heart to toss it. Sentimental value, I guess, and some funny memories. Yep, I go and think about the stories it could tell, like, Rob and another buddy (also married at the time) needing a place to bring girlfriends that was suitable, discreet and cheap.

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Like in that other movie, The Apartment, and I was the Jack Lemmon character, except that I wasn't being bullied by bosses for the key, these were pals and I was only too happy to help out. I figured they were both old enough to understand the consequences of their actions and make their own decisions, which of course caused problems between me and the wives later since they were friends as well and why the hell didn't I tell them and how could I be a part of this? Well, if not me then someone else, or somewhere else, and the real problems residing between the various couples, first place and last. Not that this sort of logic worked, it didn't, leaving me to share the blame and the fallout. Sad, in a way, but life seems to go on despite it all and, in the end, nothing much changes. On a more pleasant note, in exchange for a few hours of pleasure, gifts of wine or rum were left behind and a dinner paid for on occasion. In one particular instance, I recall, a woman Rob was seeing began writing short notes to let me know how much she appreciated my cooperation, her being married as well and the awkwardness of the situation and so on. The notes were soon accompanied by small gifts: food, booze, something for the kitchen and the like, which was unnecessary, but nice, nonetheless, and I began leaving her a short note of thanks in return. It was all very up and up and it pleased Rob that she and I got along so well, if only through the written word. At some point, however, her notes became increasingly more personal, filling me in on details of their lovemakmg, especially on the pillow, leading her to question: can I smell her perfume, her woman's scent on the fabric? Do I search out stains? Hairs? Do I get turned on? Does she turn me on? Am I turned on reading this? Am I touching myself? Do I do anything nasty thinking about her? Finally, inevitably, do I have thoughts of fucking her? Fucking her? OK. At the beginning I found it rather cute and amusing and went along. By the time things started to heat up, though, I didn't know what to do. Do I tell Rob? Show him the letters? Is she simply being a tease and should I forget it, since nothing was going to happen anyway? After all, there was nothing between us beyond the letters. I hadn't even met the woman. Then wondering, what if Rob is in on it too and it's all a joke? Or not a joke, but a test? What is the right thing to do? Not the right thing to do morally or ethically, as I find the terms rather repugnant; at best,

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subjective, at worst, meaningless, but, right as in...what? My own best interests? On the other end of the stick, of course, was the fact that her letters were turning me on and no escaping it. So, if he doesn't know, tell him, even though he says to me he loves her, meaning that this will most likely shatter him and destroy their relationship (yet, save me and what's the point of the two of them together if she's hustling his best friend behind his back?), or, not tell him only to find that he does know and he is a part of it? Of course, in this latter case, I could always say he was being an asshole for teasing me, or testing me, though this wouldn't really clear me in his eyes,1 having failed to come forward. Then, of course, the fact that the letters, again, were turning me on and, by implication, she was turning me on and what sort of Freudian mindfuck did that entail and what was to be done about it? Bottom line? She ended up moving out of the city with her husband and kids and not another word was mentioned. So, I guess Rob didn't know what was going on, and, was I a sap for not pursuing the bait? Or was it meant to be strictly an affair by letter? And did she actually write those things in the first place or was this merely my fantasy at work, the evidence long since destroyed? "Rita? You're up. Good. Yeah, it's me, course it's me, who'd ya think? You bolted the door. That's right. You must've been drunk and passed out. No, you weren't asleep, you were passed out. You know I can't abide women who can't handle their drink. Don't tell me that. Don't. It doesn't matter. I don't give a shit. I just don't want it happening when I'm around, capiche? Good. Now, open the goddamn door. Ifeah, I'm here for chrissakes. I'm down the hall. Be a good girl and open the fucking door. That's right." Mike returns, leans his bony frame in the doorway. "Done like dinner. I'm outta here. Thanks for the hospitality boys." He drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle on the floor. "Listen, I was wonderin' if you have a few extra beers kicking around. Rita's most likely cleaned up everything in the place." I open the fridge and hand him six cans still attached by their plastic collar. We say goodnight and he struts out. I take a peek and there's Rita stretched halfway into the hall looking for all the world like a dog's breakfast. Perfect couple, I think and feel my mouth twist. I turn and see

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Rob, already under the covers, the snore beginning to resonate from deep down and working its way up. I look at the almost full beer in my hand and realize that Mike likely has a crate load packed in his car as well as a case of stronger brew. Am I missing something, I wonder? I mean, here's Rob and I, reasonably young, educated, responsible, working, sensitive (OK, not totally, but in comparison) and we're stuck together in a shitty one-bedroom apartment with wives who have dumped us and no real prospects, whereas Mike... What's wrong with this picture, besides the obvious? I walk over to Rob and give him a shake. "What," he jumps. "What is it?" "What do you think?" I ask. 'About what?" 'About what just happened?" "What? What just happened?" "Mike." "Mike? Mike's crazy" "That's it?" Rob just looks at me, like, what else? And maybe he's right, though I'm not sure "crazy" sums it up. At least, not completely Or satisfactorily And if Mike's crazy, where does that put Rita, and the woman with the burn leg in Tonawanda, and Rob's ex who decapitated his photos, or my wife who had to go out and find herself (whatever that means) only to hook up with her lawyer/boss and a house in the burbs (so not having had to search too deep or too far in the end) or Rob who can simply let things pass, or me who can't? OK. Too late and time to hit the hay, only, my stomach rumbles and I'm unsure whether it's the beer or the events of the evening or what. Stimulated, anyhow. I head to the can, drop my drawers and sit. I think, at least in this, I can take some peace, as it's not up to me. A perfectly natural, physical action that either happens or doesn't and nothing required except wait; allow nature to take its course. Such is the theory In practice, however, I'm struck by sudden outof-the-blue idea: "shit as metaphor" raising its ugly head. Once again, my brain reels with the impact; once again I'm lost. Pointless, I know, yet, nothing to be done, nothing to do. Crazy

FAMILY PORTRAIT,

SEPIA TONES

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My spirit expands and presumably is killing my body — Soren Kierkegaard BAD NEWS ALWAYS arrives late night or early morning and the darkest hour isjust before dawn, right? Wrong. The Mamas and The Papas' sad sweet refrain aside, it's mid-afternoon on a bright spring Saturday flowers a'bloom and birds a'twitter. I've wrapped a half-shift at the hotel and I'm set to bike home, kick back with a few cold ones, play some tunes, roast a chicken, maybe catch a video, depending. Inside the apartment Rob stands hunched over the hall phone. Hey, I say. He kind of nods. Home from the wars, I laugh. He passes me the receiver, retreats to the kitchen. It's for you, he says, face bent down and away. Hello? The voice on the other end is my brother. He goes on as if continuing the same conversation he was having with Rob: very intense, very monotone, which is unlike him, normally bouncy full of energy. I'm trying to make heads or tails. Something about our brother and remember that accident out of town a few years back, being airlifted to emergency, loss of toes, skin grafts, stitches? Me mumbling yeah, yeah, sure and, well, there's been another accident, motorcycle, police chase, crash, and remember how he made it last time, rigged up in hospital bed, very bravado declaring they could cut his foot off at the knee for all he cared he was getting out and on with his life? Me going yeah, I remember, and...? And... He didn't make it this time. His voice breaks. I can hear the waterworks flooding spilling through the words. Didn't make it? What do you mean, didn't make it?

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He didn't make it, the words guttering. Look, I can't talk anymore, we're over at mom's. The voice clicks silent. I don't move a muscle; am unable. Rob takes the receiver, drops it in its cradle, hands me a large scotch straight up. I'm sorry, he says. Drink this down. I do and he pours me another from the waiting bottle. Don't worry, he says, the adrenaline's pumped. "You can drink and drink and not get drunk. I swallow. I don't even feel the burn. I feel nothing. "You going to your mom's? He doesn't wait for an answer. Take my car. I don't need it over the weekend. Here's some money He peels three twenties from his cash clip. You won't believe me now, but at some point, everyone will be starving. You'll be starving. Happened to me when my grandmother died. No one thinks about food. No one's capable. Order in. You OK? I finish off the scotch. Yeah. I guess. I don't know. He didn't make it, is that what I heard? He didn't make it? You won't know. You're not supposed to know. It doesn't matter. %u'll be on automatic pilot. Trust me. He twists the glass from my grip. If you need anything, call. You won't, 'cause everything will happen "in spite of," or "because of," but if you do... I don't know what else to say There's nothing I can say. Yeah, I go. I know Thanks. He ushers me to the door and into the hallway. I don't seem to be in a hurry Maybe I am. I can't tell. I'm moving forward, fer sure. It's something. Just tell everyone... Yeah, I nod. I will.

The lobby at my mom's place. I don't feel like walking so I use the elevator to the third floor. My two brothers and two sisters are a limp mess sprawled quiet across the living room furniture. There are no partners, no kids. Whether by plan, decree or intuition I can't begin to figure. Somehow though, the realization that time is needed for the immediate family on their own. Mom is the single animated. She hugs me, tells me she's left a message for my father; further informs me someone has to go identify the body and, being the eldest, will I accompany her? I'd rather not; rather not accept any responsibilities; rather not face the fact; rather collapse, crawl into a hole, disappear, but, yes, I say, of course, let's go. Mom talks all the way. I don't know about what. I assume she's

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trying to calm me, prepare me, reassure me. I'm listening but I'm not hearing (is that the way it goes or opposite?) A word or phrase here or there, that's it. I'm in my own world, or, more precisely, I'm in no world. Mainly I'm out of it. I'm proceeding stimulus/response, one translucent bead to the next along a string winding...where? My primary concerns? A brother is dead and my mother's apparent composure given the circumstances: in charge and in control; a rock. When we reach the vault and the sheet is removed, I learn the truth. Omygod, omygod, she wails. It's him. I kept thinking, kept hoping, maybe it's a mistake; maybe someone else; maybe... She clutches at the body; bursts into tears. I hold her. Touch him, she says. You must touch him, it's the only way you can truly let him go, otherwise his image will haunt you. I think, his image will haunt me, regardless, but I do touch him and he's cold. I think: cold as death, not fully aware, not realizing that it's the refrigeration unit and not death that's made him so frigid. So this is what it is. So this is how it ends. Not with a bang, but cold, still and blue—a whimper. DOA tagged to a convenient digit.

Dad's here when we return. He ignores me, strides immediately to mom. Jesus Christ, he says. Jesus goddamn Christ I wish it was me instead. I wish it was me. She allows him to get close, though not too close, drawing away when he attempts to embrace her; shuffling to the middle of the room, leaving him with his arms crooked in midair. I can picture the wheels turning inside her head and can hardly blame her, after everything: Don't you dare try to use this to your advantage, or some such particular, 'cause she didn't place any trust on his motives or actions, the two of them split for several years and her in no mood for any bullshit, if that's what was occurring. Some of the kids are missing, everyone seeming to need a walk now and then, spoking out and retracing to the centre which is mom's. I go for a walk myself. No good reason except to walk. How much time passes in this fashion? I don't know. Not long, I guess, and eventually the entire brood reappears in the living room, the certainty of the thing settled and what's to be done, finally? Appointment with the funeral director and: Not to worry, every-

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thing taken care of, best to be with loved ones, arrangements will be settled at this end, body transferred, minister engaged and was the deceased of any formal religious background? No? So someone relatively neutral and easy on the "God" references, more aligned with universal spirit or some such non-specific, yes, we understand, many of this persuasion nowadays and no reason for concern, flowers ordered, type of coffin and burial plot to be decided upon later, in person, cremation or no? Meanwhile brother's girlfriend ringing from out of town, frantic insistent, she's on her way, don't let embalming occur until after she's seen him; doesn't want her last view to be of puffy painted doll in mock suit and tie ('cause wasn't he always in T-shirt and jeans?) her being a nurse and knowing the procedure— the difference—the rest of us oblivious to such details, thinking, yeah, right, I guess, never thought of that. Back at my mom's the stories begin to emerge and it hits me that I wasn't particularly close to my brother. Not too surprising given I'm eight years his senior and was married and moved out of the house by age twenty-one. Whereas he and my youngest brother were definitely closer, and why not? Growing up together with a sister born between, who flew the coop early, a child of her own to fend for and tend to. Then later, morn and dad split. Not a bad kid, my brother, simply reckless, it appears, plus a nose for trouble, even when he wasn't looking for it. Such as one night in a bar playing the white knight, a woman being hit on by some guy, her saying she's not interested, him persistent, action progressing from verbal to physical, grabbing her arm, my brother stepping in (the guy twice his size) the guy laughing, swiping my brother aside with a forearm, my brother back at him, the guy knocking him to the ground this time, and a third time getting in his face dropped with a sharp blow to the cheek, the guy saying you get up I'll knock you down again, my brother brushing himself off replying you can keep knocking me down, I'll keep getting back up, coming at the brute and boff, flat on his ass, the guy waving a fist, are you fucking crazy? My brother going yeah, I guess, and drags himself to his feet, the guy snorting don't bother, you gotta be fucking crazy, the guy pushing along, my brother returning to his beer, the woman murmuring uncomfortable thank you, rubbing arm,

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rejoining conversation with girlfriends and men are such assholes and so on and so forth, let's blow this pop stand. Such as boating one summer and the motor slips its moorings, sinks sploosh into the lake, my brother over the side without a thought, the others calling shouting this is a bottomless lake fer chrissakes, you'll never find it, give it up. Him breaking surface, sucking air, diving deep again saying: no way I'm losing the bastard, it's a rental, I can't afford to pay for it. This attempt successful, emerging clutching the rudder, dragging the sucker to the side of the boat, everyone awed and amazed, reeling him in. The youngest offering a possible explanation with regard to the devil-may-care attitude, recalling years ago, at a public swimming pool, our self-same brother had plummeted to the bottom, actually drowned, and was resuscitated by a lifeguard, snatched from the jaws of death with visions of white light and old man in flowing white beard releasing him, waving him back, the point being he'd decided himself early on that life was tenuous and fragile and there was either a bullet with your name on it or there wasn't and nothing to be done except live life to the full. Right on, I suppose, and wasn't it Hobbes, as well who said that the life of man was nasty, brutish and short, so...? And then there was that previous accident involving him and a pal hopping a train car to the interior only to somehow manage to have his foot sliced by a slow rolling metal wheel as he was disembarking. What the hell, how that happen, huh? My mother leaps up at this and retrieves (from somewhere within close proximity—but where?—mothers blessed or cursed with some kind of strange ephemera-filled filing system, soup to nuts) a copy of the piece I wrote commemorating the occasion and proceeds to pass it around the group, reading: Her warning was clear, "His foot hangs, exposed, like peeled sausage above the bed." How do I enter his room? Like a doctor perhaps, stiffly, professionally Brush past with an appearance of objective curiosity; grunt, survey, grunt again. Or should I laugh and make a joke? Act as though nothing has happened? No. Impossible. Something has happened.

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Something has happened and, nearing the door, I'm still weighing possible alternatives, still rehearsing possible reactions. The description has been incredibly correct. The foot is hanging. Metal pins, one through the knee and one through the foot, providing support to what resembles a skinned carcass in a butcher's shop window. There is a porcelain glaze as blood and fluids coat the foot. This glaze seeps down to the heel, accumulates and spills over into a metal pan below. I can't turn away A sight which, a few minutes ago, I thought would sadden or sicken me, now fascinates me. Circling the bed, my eyes trace the outline of the foot, note the exposed veins and flesh, the weave and roll of muscle, the abrupt coarseness where chunks were ripped away Toes stand rigid as stones: one, two, three, four—the small toe has been surgically re-moved, leaving a clean, round hole, like a light socket with the bulb unscrewed. Moving closer, my eye studies the hole, parades around the rim, peeks down inside, searches for a hint of blue electric, a pulsating blue power escaping from the open circuit. I want to watch it dance across the bone. I want to touch it with my finger, force my tongue past the blood, crawl deep inside the joint and rock, rock—be lulled to sleep by a sonorous blue hum; charged, electric and alive. Now this present incident, occurring after drinks with friends, leaving bar, mounted on borrowed motorcycle, suspended license, few short miles from home (which is, they say, the case for most accidents, otherwise it is the bathtub) gets pursued by the boys in blue and, rounding turn at who-knows-what speed, smashes bike into bridge's concrete embankment. We relax somewhat, enjoy a few laughs, unwind. It's good. Better. It helps to talk about him, share stories and experiences; helps bring us in touch with each other. Following this, most return to families, partners, lives. At least, temporarily Dad places a hand on mom's arm. He's behaved himself so far, but she's hesitant. You never know He simply repeats: I wish it was me, and leaves, as if recognizing it's best not to wear out his welcome.

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Mom and I drift to the funeral home. Papers are signed, a date is set for the proceedings—-Wednesday—enough time to inform friends and relatives, invite them to the service and the gathering after. We inspect the various coffin choices; note the range of design and price. Mom initially figures, hey, it's going to be burned in the end, might as well keep it plain and simple, your brother never being one to stand on ceremony. Naturally, when it comes to the final decision, she goes for a more costly model remarking that it's not really for him anyway, right, but for those who attend. I nod. We make our goodbyes, thank the director who continues his litany of consolations and condolences: terribly sorry, your loss, so young... Near the door, mom jangles one of the gold-coloured metal handles on display. I'm sure these are removed before the coffin goes into the fire, she says. Then reused. Like the words of the director. One funeral to the next. One family to the next. Over and over. She shrugs. Ah well... All the same in the end anyway My youngest brother lives with my mom. He says he wants to get out, be with friends, maybe home late, maybe sleep over somewhere. I offer to spend the night, crash on the couch. Be careful, she says to him. We order in Chinese food. I pour a stiff rum and Coke. Then another. Rob was right, I don't feel a thing. Sure, life around me appears hazy, out of joint; I'm still not feeling connected; I'm still wondering if this is all a bad dream that I'm going to wake from. Not due to the booze, but the situation. Due to the turn of events, and, who'd've imagined? Who'd want to? Mom's doing the talking, which is fine by me, except she's taken to repeating herself or telling me stuff I've heard a million times before. Friends, family and so forth. I let her go on, understand this is likely more a coping mechanism than actual desire to engage in conversation. This is filling the void, the air, and whether I respond or not is beside the point. Personally, I don't care to talk too much at the best of times, whereas the rest of the clan, even my dad, are natural born conversers. What happened to me? Always the quiet one, always off to the side or leaned against a wall or tucked into a corner, watching. I jiggle the ice in my glass, rise from the chair for a refill and, seemingly out-of-the-blue I ask, what made you and dad decide to get

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married? I mean, I was familiar with scattered pieces of past events. The two of them having grown up in the same prairie town, her running off east to Montreal at a young age wanting to escape the farm and farmers, both of them enlisting, dad a soldier, mom in the navy as part of an entertainment troop, dad marrying overseas, the union sparking a child, the wife refusing to come to Canada after the war so left behind with her parents and it's back to the farm for dad. But I didn't have the complete picture. What happened next? Well, she sips her tea, he was after me and after me and I'd go out with him, though not seriously, and wanted nothing to do with him in the long run, figuring him for just another dirt farmer and I wasn't about to spend the rest of my life stuck in the middle of nowhere. So what do you think? One night I'm in bed sleeping and the ghost of your dad's father pays me a visit. You're kidding, I say, though familiar with my mom's having claimed ghosts previously, such as her dad sudden materializing to bid adieu the day he died. I was standing in the dining room, vacuuming, and there he was. She motions with a finger. As well, seeking out fortune tellers on occasion, so not too, too surprised. I'm not kidding, she says. He came to my room, begged me to marry your father. He said if I didn't he'd become just like his brothers: throw away his life and likely drink himself to death. What could I do? I couldn't fight the living and the dead both. Course, your father was still married and the only way he could get a divorce back then was to prove adultery, so I told my sister we were going to spend the night together and we'd be calling on her to testify. She was totally disgusted, as was your grandmother, the pair of them pretty staunch Catholics. Anyway, we did that, got the divorce, bought a large assortment of alcohol, hopped a cab, sped down to Montana, got hitched by a JP using the cab driver as witness, the three of us drunk as skunks. Later, picked up our army pay, packed our bags, hit the road, eventually landed in Toronto where we hung out at the beaches and partied through the summer. By the beginning of September we were flat broke. I said OK, that's it, fun's over, time to find work. It was job after job from then on and baby after baby Not bad at the beginning, but then dad never able to settle down, never able to

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discover a spot where he was comfortable or satisfied. And so other women, too much booze, building disagreements, arguments—the typical vicious circle. Me saying I noticed a big difference when dad turned forty and suddenly no one would hire him. Too old, they said. Mom going, yeah and her believing he'd have been perfectly happy if he could've simply put a stone wall around the house, kept the world at bay, been alone with his family and garden. %u know, she adds, I don't think your father ever had a friend. Acquaintances, drinking buddies, but no real friend. Me agreeing, yeah, maybe, the system harder on some than others and none too forgiving of those who don't toe the line; don't buy into the lie of straight, strict career path and hot pursuit of the almighty buck. And what is all this about "traditional family values" and who decides in the first place? 'Cause through all the shit there were lots of good times and most of us emerged out the other end more or less intact. Uh-huh, she goes, then her voice softens and she confides. I never mentioned this to you, I never mentioned this to anyone, I couldn't, I was too afraid. I had my palm read once years ago, and was told I'd lose a child at a young age. I kept my fingers crossed after that; hoped and prayed the woman was wrong and was so happy when your younger brother turned nineteen. I felt that the crisis was over. And then this... So you see? It's never over and a mother can never relax. She wipes her eyes with a Kleenex.

Monday morning. I'm at the university for a theatre history class, in attendance more as a diversion to keep myself occupied than for anything truly constructive. I bump into my ex-wife who's also taking courses, again toward some obscure end. Hi, she says. Hi, I say and she twigs right off there's a problem and she asks. I can't answer; manage to mumble something (the only thing)—dead—and I cry and she embraces me and says: your father? She's acquainted with the downhill story: at least one minor stroke and blood circulation problems due to a war wound, machine-gunned in the leg, doctors warning threat of gangrene and little or no chance, wanting to amputate, him saying no fucking way I'd rather die than live as a cripple and him somehow pulling through unscathed though catching up to him.

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No, I tell her, my brother. Which one she asks? The story chokes out bit by bit, her guiding me toward a bench, easing me down, calming me, the two of us eventually heading to our respective classes and me considering am I going to be like this whenever I meet someone and should I actually be here? should I be home? should I be with my mom? Omygod, omygod. Drinking a beer in the pub a woman approaches—Leah. Tells me she heard from someone who heard from someone else, my loss, and how am I doing, am I all right, do I need anything? We'd met in an acting class and worked in a play together. Flirting over rehearsals and at the cast party led quite naturally to kissing, necking, then back to her place. As we stood in the entrance she informed me she wasn't altogether sure who she was attracted to more, me or the character I had portrayed on stage, a rough and tumble soldier who, during one scene, threatened to toss her into the river. She said every time I picked her up and leaned her over the railing, she felt a thrill go through her body. Yeah? I said, lifted her up and forced her against the wall. She shut her eyes and moaned. Turned out she enjoyed roughhousing; enjoyed being threatened and slapped around. Not hurt, but the threat had to seem real; appear possible. Then she'd turn on the vicious bitch persona, claw at me, attack my cock until I got it hard again for her to use. It was different and exciting, I had to admit. She had a gorgeous body: full breasts, tight ass, soft skin, but her most memorable feature was her vulva. She had very little hair and her genitalia unfolded like a cliche straight out of a cheap porn magazine. It realty did look like aflower. I stroked its petals and it blossomed. We'd seen each other a couple of times since and it was always the same routine. If you need me, she says, come over. Anytime. I'll do anything you want. Anything. I show up at her place around ten-thirty I don't know what else to do. She says, I didn't expect to see you so soon. I don't say anything. She steps aside, I walk in, she closes the door. She's wearing pyjamas. I put my hands on her collar, rip off the buttons, smack her against the wall. Hit me, she says. Don't be afraid. Let it out. I want you to. I slap her; throw her to the floor. We go at it like a pair of deranged grizzlies, tooth and claw, in the hall, the bathroom, the living room, finally exhausted on the bed.

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I love you, she says, but don't worry, it's not that kind of love. I say I'm not worried, I'm not afraid of love per se. There's love and there's love. I know that. I stroke her neck with my fingertips. I ripped your top, I say She says it can be mended. She pulls out the 7 Ching, tells me to ask a question, she'll reveal the answer. I drop the coins and she records. After the necessary number of throws and some calculations she says, Fire. That's a good sign. It means movement from one plain to a higher plain. What was your question? I asked if my brother was happy Her reaction is one of disappointment. She obviously hoped the question would have to do with us; our relationship; where we're going. You almost broke my jaw, she says, and grins. The grin is half-hearted; a cover. I kiss her with the knowledge this will be the last night we spend together; with the knowledge that the love she talked about (no matter what kind) is one-way and will remain so; with the knowledge that the novelty of violent sex is just that—a novelty—and it makes me slightly uncomfortable and slightly afraid and slightly sad and it isn't for me. I gotta go, I say And I do.

Mom calls. She wants me to handle the eulogy. The minister doesn't know my brother and she wants something personal to go along with the regular mumbo-jumbo. I say OK, not sure where to begin but happy to be engaged in a concrete task. At the service, we're placed in an antechamber apart from the others. The service is piped in and we look out through a one-way window We don't understand the reasoning for this separation. The funeral director tells us that anything might happen in the way of emotional responses and it's really best to be separate so as to allow complete freedom. We're pretty sombre to begin, but as the minister goes on and on about God and about our brother's relationship with God and with the world, we start to laugh. It's ludicrous hearing this man speak, aware that any name could be plugged into his sermon. He certainly isn't talking about our brother or the life we were familiar with. I have to compose myself as I'm called upon to perform the eulogy. I read off a scrap of paper, attempting to speak slowly and succinctly, taking in the entire room. I'm not sure whether I succeed or

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not until I return to the chamber and everyone congratulates me. It seems odd to be treated this way, at this time, considering the circumstances, but I figure it goes back to what my mom said: funerals are for the living, not the dead. We convene at one of my sister's houses for food and drinks. The stereo plays. It's good to be with people, to chat with my brother's friends—some of whom I don't know, others whom I haven't seen in years. My sister gathers us together, and says: We can't allow ourselves to drift apart. We have to love each other, no matter what, 'cause you never know... We all nod agreement, including my dad, and I wonder if it's possible that some good will come of this. Through the moves and the job changes and the divorces and now the death of a brother, can some semblance of a family be reconstructed? Is it even desirable, everyone seeming to need to carve their own road, their own way out of the wilderness? Didn't my parents find it better, easier to escape? Or did they? My brother wants to take a family portrait. You too, we say, and pass the camera to a guest. We press into a tight group. As we stand here, the image of fire pops into my head. I imagine the casket burning. I imagine the idea of movement to a higher plain. I imagine the gold-coloured casket handles hunkered in the cooling ash. I imagine Leah, her blossoming vulva and: You almost broke my jaw. I imagine a phrase from poet John Berryman: 'All the black same, I dance my blue, head off." We all smile. Then it hits—the flash. And whatever that means. And whatever anything means.

IFILJW

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Similia similibus curantur: Like are cured by like. I'M READING RAYMOND Carver. A story begins: "My marriage had just fallen apart. I couldn't find a job. I had another girl but she wasn't in town. So I was at a bar having a glass of beer, and two women were sitting a few stools down, and one of them began to talk to me." I slip in a marker and rest the book on the table. 'That's me in a nutshell,' I go. That's my life. Not so much the specific details, but the feel. Kind of at odds and adrift. Not sad enough for depression, not profound enough for existential angst, not romantic enough for melancholia. In short, things could be worse. What's that phrase? At sixes and sevens? What does that mean? Where does it come from; its derivation? Why "a. few stools down:" and not three, or four? Why not "up" instead of "down"? I drum the cover with my fingers. The feel, Anyhow, my marriage had fallen apart, though not "just." I have a job (along with trying to complete a university degree), though it's your basic, low paying and part-time. I had another girl, though we recently split for the umpteenth time (she being a high achiever— unlike myself—the relationship invariably implodes around the middle of each semester when her entire focus goes into scoring those As. Making things worse, when my best friend's wife gave him the boot a few months back, he moved in with me. He and my girlfriend never got along well to begin with—bottom line, personality clash— plus, she claims he's a bad influence on me, especially in terms of the

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booze, which is exactly, what my pal's wife used to say, only the reverse, me on him, later upset and quizzing me on his alley cat ways and "I must've known, why didn't I tell her?" and me replying that she knew what she was getting into and I told her from the get-go not to marry him; everyone did. Fallen on deaf ears and now, the pain, anger and resentment). Meanwhile, I'm not having a beer, I'm at a donut shop drinking a coffee, and there are no two women sitting either a few stools down or up from me. As I say, not so much the specific details, but, again, the feel. "Hey there." A woman's voice drags me from my ruminations. "Remember me?" I lift my eyes. "Jessica?" "Yeah." She sounds pleasantly surprised. "I didn't think you'd recognize me." "How long's it been?" "Well, I guess I was probably fifteen, and I'm twenty-five now, so..." She fakes counting with her fingers on one hand. "But, you recognized me. Even remembered my name. That's pretty good. I expect I've changed a lot." "You recognized me. I expect I've changed a lot too." "You mean the beard? I like it. Looks good on you." The beard? I think: 'That's not what I meant. I meant the big picture.' Change on the personal level. But she's right in this. It's not what's going to be noticeable at a glance. Instead, the beard, which I've worn so long I've forgotten. As with Jessica. She's transformed into a woman. Physically, this much is obvious (taller, no sign of baby fat, breasts), but, how much more? I met her through softball. My sister recruited me to coach her team. It was a gas. I was still pretty much a kid myself, to a degree, and I remember—besides the simple fun of the game—that hormones were raging on both sides, leading to a fair amount of flirtation, though nothing further, seven years difference being a considerable deterrent at that age, providing a strong, sure line dividing adult from child. Certainly, there were always a few girls on every team who developed early, and one or two of these were never shy about using their bodies to gain attention. While it was easy to enjoy

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as eye candy, I was aware that these girls didn't have much perception of their breasts other than as curious ornaments. Teasing wasn't meant to lead to anything more intimate, serious or dangerous. Their minds and bodies were still out of sync. At least, this is what I imagined, never having put one of the girls to the test. Besides, it was the girls with strong personalities who grabbed my attention. Jessica was of this ilk: slim, cute, freckled. She was a character, a clown, a chatterbox. What might be labelled an extrovert. The polar opposite of myself and likely the reason we played off each other, teasing and joking. "So, what's up? What's new? What are you up to?" I ask. She raises her eyebrows and pulls a chair up beside me. "How much time you got and where do you want me to begin?" Some things refuse to change. Still a talker, she fills me in on everything: holidays with parents to Florida and how she "burned so red they couldn't tell me from the lobster dinner" and driving lessons where she almost killed "a habit of nuns" (here, laughs at her own clever twist of phrase) and her experience "nailing her head against the wall" singing for a rock band and graduation night getting "pissed as a parrot" waking next morning on the floor, in the kitchen, in the dog's bed, her dress covered with spaniel hair and vomit and this explaining her current deathly aversion to Tequila, "To-kill-ya," she says and training as a dental assistant and landing a job in a medical building and lucking out to find a vacant, affordable apartment within walking distance of work and the coincidence or synchronicity ('cause she believes in this, to a point, anyway) and so on and so forth down to the blouse she has on and where, why and how she bought it—"it kept calling out to me and, finally, it went on sale, exactly the day my new VISA card arrived in the mail." Her hands and body never rest, but instead act to enhance her stories, animating every word, every inflection. She's grown quite attractive and ladylike: brown hair with bangs cut straight across the forehead, intense brown eyes. Nose is sprightly, still retaining a few childhood freckles; thin, wide lips; dressed smartly casual with the new white blouse, coral-coloured nylon jacket and faded, form-fitting jeans. I take a quick peek at her ring finger, wondering: husband? kids? boyfriend? Nothing showing and she mentions nothing

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in her conversation. I catch myself here: is this idle curiosity or am I suddenly on the hunt? On the one hand, almost perfect strangers. On the other, a somewhat shared past, a former flirtation, seven years age difference meaning a helluva lot less now than it did ten years ago. "What about you?" she asks, taking a breath and dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "What are you doing?" "Me? Well, lemme see..." I finish my coffee. I recall times when the question was so much easier to answer; when I could simply say I was a such and such and everyone understood. Now, it all seems a muddle. Do I say I'm a writer, even though I have no books to show for it? Do I say I'm going to university, even though it's only a course here and there to finish a rather suspect BA? Do I say I'm working as a maintenance man at a hotel (which is by far the most understandable response, to most folks, at any rate)? I decide to give Jessica the benefit of the doubt and list them all. Let her pick up whatever thread interests her. In fact, she inquires about each on its own merits and even connects the book I'm reading with my literary pursuits. The woman becomes more appealing by the moment. I fill her in about my divorce, hoping she might offer a word about her own involvement or lack thereof, but no hint is forthcoming. Continuing along this same line, I say, "Remember Rob?" Rob helped coach the team my final year. "He's split with his wife and moved in with me for a spell." "Rob? Oh, yeah. I do. We had so much fun back then. Say hi to him for me." "You can say hi yourself, he's at the apartment. We could mosey on over. I mean, if you don't have other plans?" She doesn't hesitate, merely grabs her gear and stands. "Sure. Why not? Did you drive?" I shake my head. She fumbles a set of keys from her purse and rattles them. "Let's go!"

"Honey, I'm home!" I've been filling Jessica in about Rob being the manager of the hotel where I work, as well as intimating the trials and tribulations

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of sharing living accomodations with a friend. Select scenes from The Odd Couple and whatever. We enter with a case of the giggles. "I've brought a friend." We bounce into the living room where Rob's stretched out in his sweats, watching the tube. "Hey, hey!" he says, without turning. Rather than go through the usual rigamarole and possible embarrassment of guess who, I say, "Remember Jessica, from the girls' softball team we coached about a million years ago?" The mention of a female name never fails to capture Rob's attention, and he raises himself out of the couch. He holds a glass of white wine in one hand and extends the other. ""You're kidding me? Jessica?" He takes in the total picture. "You've grown. Me too." He pats his belly and laughs. "Welcome to our humble abode." "I told her we'd buy her a glass of wine. Red or white, Jessica?" "White, please." I unscrew the house white and crack a bottle of red. Glasses are filled and it's chin-chin as we recount to Rob the story of our meeting and the content of our earlier conversation. Rob acts the perfect host, turning off the TV, offering a chair, replenishing drinks, remarking on what a beautiful woman Jessica has become. Also, jokes and jibes about how higher education has turned me into a bohemian and a degenerate—pointing out suggestive poems and collages which I have created and scattered about the room— while occasionally giving me the wink, what goes on here? Jessica appearing to take it all in stride and with good humour, the wine possibly having some effect, her definitely warm, responsive, relaxed, full of easy laughter; the three of us chatting as if the nearest, dearest of friends. "What's on the agenda for you tonight?" "Dinner with Jennifer, then we're spending the night at the Plaza." He shoots a look at Jessica. "One of the advantages of being in the business." "Speaking of degenerate..." I grip Jessica's elbow and whisper, "Not only is Rob boffing a married woman, but she works for him." She waggles a finger in Rob's direction. I go, "Where's her husband?" 'Away for the weekend." He mimics me, taking Jessica's free

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elbow and also whispering. "The difference is, Jessica, Jennifer and I are in love." He shoots me a look. "In love. That's the difference." "Uh-huh," I say. 'Anyway, I've got to get dressed." Rob tops his glass, grabs his clothes and marches to the bathroom. I hear the door close and the shower kick in. "Rob figures she's about to pull the plug." "On her husband?" "No. On him. He also figures she's been messing around with a couple of other guys. Her tennis instructor, for one. I told him, hey, you don't know that for certain. Besides, she's only twenty-one. She got married young and now maybe she wants to experiment." I don't tell Jessica that Jennifer was no virgin when she got married, her being one of those "early developed" girls previously-mentioned, with large ta-tas that attract boys like bees to honey and Jennifer was only too ready and willing to cross the line and frequently. This is not hush-hush, top secret information. Rob is fully aware. Still, no need to broadcast it to the world, so I don't. "It's tough to take, I tell him, but, whatcha gonna do? People have to make their own choices." "That's too bad." Jessica sips her wine. "Usually, it's the guy" "Takes two," I say, not wanting to get further into it. "What about you? What are you doing for dinner?" She shrugs. "Wanna go to the Spaghetti Factory? Get a bowl of cheap pasta and another glass of vino?" "Sure." We hammer the bathroom door. Rob calls out, "Have fun! Don't wait up for me." I squeeze Jessica's shoulder and direct her up the hall.

We're parked in front of my apartment. It's moving on midnight, the sun long since vanished. Being midsummer, though, the temperature's still mild. Between the moon, the stars and the street lamps, a steady glow infiltrates the surrounding scenery. "That was great. Great afternoon, great night." "Yeah." We'd been playing handsies and footsies in the restaurant. By the

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time we left, my arm was around her waist and she was snuggling in close. I figure, at least a goodnight kiss. I twist my shoulders toward her, and, like clockwork, she reaches out for me. We meet halfway and her lips part. We keep this up for a good ten or fifteen minutes, exploring each other's mouths and tongues, my hand playing her hip, ribs, back, shoulder and cheek, a tug on her hair. We break every so often, stare at each other, and with no words coming, return to more serious necking. I flirt with the notion of touching her breasts and while she certainly has no qualms about heaving them into my chest, I hold back, unsure; unsure as to whether...still not...I don't know. Maybe wanting to enjoy this part for all its worth; maybe wondering if this is where it ends. Finally (I can't speak for her, but my pants are stretched to the breaking point), I say, "Do you want to come upstairs?" She averts her eyes and I think: 'That's it. I've crossed a boundary; I've overstepped the mark or something. She's about to draw the line in the sand.' But she turns back, drills her eyes into mine, and I realize, No, it's something else; something less direct; something deeper. "I have to tell you something." I hate those words. Never in my life have those words brought anything but bad news. It's like hearing "We have to talk" or, "I hope you'll understand." When my wife left me, she began with those exact same words: "I have to tell you something." I brace myself. "Yeah?" "I have a boyfriend. That is, I had a boyfriend. We broke up. A couple of weeks ago. He said maybe we should see other people." "Was he seeing other "people"? "He told me he wasn't, but I think he was seeing someone." "Believe it. When someone hits you with that, nine times out of time, or ten times out of ten, they're seeing someone. Using 'We should see other people' is just a way of trying to soften the blow." "I figured. Anyway, when I met you today, and we had so much fun together, I remembered having a teenage crush on you. I thought maybe I could do it. I thought maybe I could sleep with you." "How long have you been with this guy?"

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"Since I was nineteen." "You been with anyone else?" "You mean had sex with?" I nod. "There were two other guys in high school, but it was really nothing. And no one since my boyfriend." "Uh-huh." "Like I say, it was really nice, but I know that if I was to go to bed with you, then go home and find out he's called, I'd hate myself. I couldn't stand the guilt, 'cause I really, really love him." "Yeah." I say I'm thinking (and all of this hits me in a flash), I can try to seduce her in no uncertain terms. I mean, lay it on thick, and she'd likely give in, but, I don't love her and it would be cruel and it would end nasty and then we'd both feel guilty and hate ourselves in the morning. Or, I could try to reason with her and perhaps win her over that way; get her to smell the coffee (or the rat, in this instance)? Though personal experience has taught me that you can't coach someone or tell them what to do when it comes to love, they have to thrash it out on their own. The never-ending, never-changing cycle of getting together and breaking apart, the high-highs and low-lows, the blurring of fact and fiction, the confusion, followed by the repeat of the same mistakes over and over and over until... until...who knows? Maybe we never learn. Maybe we never get it right. Maybe we can't. Anyway I'm thinking, being with Jessica like this today is like being sixteen again (my sixteen) and it's nice: getting revved up, the juices flowing, some terrific physical contact, then stopping before anyone gets too carried away or too involved and no one hurt in the end. "Maybe another time," she goes. "If I get my head straight. 'Cause it's not that...I mean, I don't want you to think that I was just flirting, just teasing you..." "Hey, I don't think that. You don't need to make apologies or excuses. And nothing wrong with flirting. Flirting's a good thing. Don't worry You're in love. I'm OK with that." 'Are you sure?" She says this in a way that reminds me of a whole other similar

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occasion, when a woman decided to stop at the crucial moment, saying she couldn't go through with it. Later sounding very serious, inquiring if it was true that men go crazy if something wasn't done with their erections. I asked where she heard this and she said she wasn't sure; that it was just her understanding. I figured it must have been some guy who told her. Or was it actually in the air, some freaky male myth? She offered to jerk me off and it struck me that this was the difference: so long as there wasn't intercourse; so long as the woman wasn't penetrated by the man, then everything was OK. It wasn't really sex, and so it followed there was no need to feel ashamed or guilty. Which has me considering Jessica's two other sexual experiences that were "really nothing" and, what does that mean? Or even with her boyfriend, the act of sex become a Gordion Knot each person defines and unravels in their own way. I touch Jessica's cheek with the back of my hand. The last thing I want are those words to spill from her mouth: "I'll jerk you off." I don't expect to hear them, and yet... "I'm OK. I had a great time. You were spectacular. Really. I wish you all the best, whatever happens." I ease myself out of the seat. She sits in the car, motionless. I enter my building, wave once, and walk up the stairs. Out of sight, I shake my head, sigh, smile. Inside the apartment, Rob is half asleep on the sofa bed, an empty wine bottle beside him. "What happened?" I ask. "No show. There was a message. Couldn't make it." He slurs slightly "You wanna talk?" "Nope. Wanna sleep." "You sure?" "Sure." "OK." I grab a beer from the fridge and wander to my room. I turn on the radio. Chet Baker sings, "I Fall In Love Too Easily" Coincidence? Synchronicity? Why the hell not this song? Or some such other? It's a standard. They're all standards. It fits and it doesn't. Again, not so much the details, but the feel.

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I plunk myself into a chair, put my feet on the desk, open Carver. The story ends: "The women weren't there when I left, and they wouldn't be there when I got back." Just as Jessica isn't there and won't be back, either. Just as the boyfriend. Just as Jennifer. Just as...I pop the beer and drink. Just as...

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THIS is THE second time today she's called maintenance and Pete goes: "Why does she always ask for you?" And I go: '"Cause you're the boss, which leaves me all the shit jobs." And he goes: "Uh-huh," and gives me the raised eyebrows. Nothing fazes Pete. He's been at the hotel forever, even though he's a young guy, and will likely retire here. Job, wife, kid, three bedroom house with a backyard—fix him up with a beer and a cigarette and he's a happy man. On the flip side, he's not beyond living vicariously when the situation arises. Given the fact that Mina is reasonably new on the job, cute, and that her calls have grown more frequent (from maybe once a week to every other day to every day to...), well, it can appear, if not suspicious, at least provocative. Though there's always been a solid reason: broken lamp, busted bed, dripping faucet...whatever. "See what she wants, then they need you in laundry to help fold sheets." I form my hand into a gun and click my tongue. "Like I said..."

Mina's in one of the kitchenettes. I use the pass key and close the door behind me. It's mid-August and a scorcher of a day Typically, the TV flickers and the air conditioner hums. "What's up?" I go. She hunches inside the fridge, wiping down the trays. Hearing my voice, she nods toward the bathroom. The toilet paper holder lies useless on the tile floor. Screws, with their plastic blue anchors still attached, flop forlorn in their holes, flakes of

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plaster clinging here and there, as if having been ripped asunder (though most often worked free over time, until, one good tug an.d...ka-bang!) As I tell Pete, never without a solid reason. The only question: did she pull it out herself? Improbable, and likely getting ahead of myself with some kind of false flattery We've begun to shoot the breeze lately. Not in any great detail; not even what you'd classify a conversation, really The sort of chitchat that goes on between co-workers, like: 'Hey! What's up? How ya doin'? How's it goin'? Nice weather or lousy weather', depending. Meaningless chatter. Nothing too earth-shattering or involved. My own fault. I normally prefer to keep to myself; do my job and that's it. It takes me a while to open up to people, to relax around them. Worse with women. Meaning that aside from outward appearances—that she's personable, that she's attractive, that she's picked up after work each afternoon by a minivan containing a guy and a few kids, I know very little about her. Maybe she senses my shyness and allows for it; maybe she's the same way; maybe it doesn't matter 'cause nothing's going on beyond fix this or fix that anyhow. At any rate, the visits are stretching out somewhat—as much as this is possible, given she runs on a tighter schedule than me, having to do x amount of rooms in x amount of time—and whether I'm feeling more relaxed or more curious or I'm in the mood or who knows, I shuffle on over and hop onto the sink counter. "How's it going?" "Oh, you know..." She blows through her lips. "Some people though... See?" A white towel with a purplish stain unfurls in front of me. 'They use this for the red wine spill then throw it into a corner, wet. Why? They wouldn't do this at home." "Yeah," I nod. I couldn't care less about the towel. I figure it's part and parcel. I tell her, "If everyone was neat and tidy, we'd be out of a job." I couldn't care less about the job either, except that it pays the bills. I don't know Mina's position on this. "That's not the point," she goes. "There are limits." "Uh-huh." I can only imagine some of the sights she's confronted, entering rooms casually and unsuspecting: couples naked in the act, smashed TVs, walls bashed in, remains of a food fight, vomit in the air conditioner, some guy waiting for her in particular, his erect

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member posed threateningly in his hand. A maid once told me of a room spattered with blood, a pool of it thick and damp on the bed, and not a body to be found, wounded or otherwise. I was waiting to hear "REDRUM" written across the mirrors in gore, or at least a few strewn pages of "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," Nicholson peeking maniacally behind the door. But no. Personally, I have yet to experience anything of this nature and, while it might make for good copy, they don't pay me enough. "Have you always been working as a maid?" 'Always is a long time." "How long then?" "Not too." "Longer than here?" "What do you mean, "here"? "What do you mean, what do I mean?" "I mean, "here" in this hotel, or "here" in this city, or "here" on this Earth...?" I don't know if my questions are actually sufficiently vague or obtuse, or if this is her way of flirting to get me interested. If the latter, it's working. "I know how long you've been working here, at this hotel, as a maid." "You do? How long?" She has me, and she knows it. "Generally, I know. Sometime in...July" "Sometime in June," she grins. "Had to be late June." "Perhaps." Suddenly sounding a trifle bored, she drops the soiled towel into a laundry bag and gathers the rest of her equipment, replacing rags and cleaners in a tray. 'Anyway, not always. Another hotel before this. They wanted me to work shifts. I told them I couldn't. They insisted. I quit. I came here. Poof!" "Uh huh. And before that?" "Oh, before that, before that..." She waves a rag, pulls a face and shrugs. "Ifou're very cryptic." "What's cryptic?"

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"You talk around a subject. Or you answer a question with a question. Or you answer: something, dot, dot, dot!' "Yes?" This observation pleases her. "I like that. Dot, dot, dot. It's good." "Where are you from? Originally? Born?" I'm catching on, but I don't know if it matters. She's quick. She doesn't have much of an accent and I'm wondering, second-generation-Canadian or somewhere more exotic like the Philippines, Taiwan, China? "Vietnam." She grabs her gear and loads up her cart. "I need to clean the next room." "Yeah, I should get cracking. I'll take care of this." I place the roll of toilet paper on top of the tank and carry the holder with me back to the workshop. I figure, throw some fibre tape over the holes, apply a coat of Polyfilla, let dry, sand, Polyfilla, let dry, sand, paint, drill new holes, plug in a couple of anchors, re-screw the holder — him, bam, boom. Done over a day and a half Switching gears to consider Mina. Personable, for sure. Attractive, definitely Switching gears again, reminded of another woman calling me to task on this word, "attractive." What does that mean? she'd asked. What do you mean by it? "Attractive?" What kind of word is that to use for someone? A perfectly good word, I replied. With a perfectly reasonable definition. What's wrong with it? I said. What's wrong with it is everything, she said. It's non-specific; it's general; it's a coward's word. Reasonable? Ha! I'll say. It's a word one uses when one doesn't wish to offend; when one wants to continue blah blah blah. It's Mu-zak. It's automatic pilot. It's a bone one pitches. You're overreacting, I told her. She shot back, "Overreacting?" I don't think so. It's like after we make love and you say: That was nice. "Nice?" What the hell is that—nice? I would think—I would hope—given your response, your reaction, your physical demeanor, your grunts and groans while we were in the throes that it would be goddamn more than nice. I joked, Sometimes I say "very" nice. She was not amused. Bullshitter, bullshitter, bullshitter, she raved. So, what do you want me to say? I asked. No, she said, you're not getting off that easy; what do you want to say? I don't know, I said. Do you want me to say "beautiful," "alluring," "enchanting?" Do you want me to say "fantastic," "incred-

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ible?" That would be an improvement, she huffed. I told you, I braced myself, I can only say those words if I love someone. And you're saying you don't love me, she faltered. I shook my head. And you're saying you can't love me; that you'll never love me? I shook my head again. Why do you say that? she asked. I'm trying to be honest, I said. But, how do you know? How can you be sure? Other people do, you know...fall in love over time. It's not always boom on the head, bells and fucking whistles. Maybe, I said, but that's the way it is with me; that's what I'm looking for. And what if that never happens again? I mean, how can you know unless you're willing to give it a chance? she asked. You won't give it a chance. I shrugged, not knowing how to answer. So, why are you hanging around with me? What do you see in our relationship, if that's what you can even call it; why bother? Because, I answered. Because? she repeated. Because we get along pretty well and we usually have a good time; it's fun being with you. At the word "fun" she squinted, her body visibly sagged and a sound issued from her lips that was not polite. I felt that I'd just initiated a bloodletting, though I was unsure as to whose. We didn't last long after that. Even at the tune, I realized this had nothing to do with words, per se, and everything to do with longing or need or expectations, which obviously weren't being fulfilled. I remember flipping open the dictionary and reading: Nice: i) Characterized by discrimination and judgment; acute; discerning. 2) Refined and pure in tastes or habits. 3) Requiring careful consideration, discrimination or treatment; delicate; subtle. 4) Exactly filled or adjusted; accurate. 5) Delicately constructed; hence, easily disarranged or injured; fragile; tender. 6) Agreeable or pleasant in any way; a wide use.

Nice, upon inspection, though no accounting for personal preference. My ex-wife, I recall, hated being called "cute." Cute, for her, meant bowlegged. And who's to argue?

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It's stifling in the laundry area. For some reason no one thought of air conditioning and everyone's making do with a half-dozen large fans. In spite of this (or perhaps because), the atmosphere is light and shop talk gradually moves from the innocent to the profane. Who knows if it isn't always like this or whether the presence of young summer help—or a man in their midst—causes the regular women to push the edge for a reaction. Topics drift from the everyday of work to general aches and pains to female problems to birth control to sexual aids. Personal relations among the group cover the gamut from virgin, to having a boyfriend or husband or lover, to being divorced or widowed, to undisclosed or questionable, to every combination in between. The dirt flies and the laundry is hung (so to speak) for all to witness: If my husband ever did that to me, I'd have him out the door so fast... And some other woman'dhave him in her bed so fast, bar bar... I only wish my husband would've looked at another woman. At least then I'd've known he was still alive down there, ho ho... He won't wear a condom. Says they're too small for someone his size, hee hee... They all say that honey, ha ha... Jeah, mine told me he was interested in some new stuff. I said grow an extra two inches and Til give you all the new stuff you can handle, haw haw... When my husband's mad at me, first thing he does is hide my vibrator. I could kill him... I wouldkillhim honey, ho ho... Did you hear about Marge? Went in for the operation, now her baby bag's a playpen, heh heh... Who needs any of that? So long as I have my vibrator, no muss, no fuss... Jeah, worst two weeks of my life were when mine quit on me. I was almost desperate enough to have sex with my husband, haw haw... If you could get him away from the tube, ho ho... Why bother?Just straddle him in the armchair. So long as you don't spill his beer, bar bar... Or bispotato chips, ha ha... Too bad men aren't as reliable as vibrators... Or as uncomplicated... Even if we knew where to put the batteries... Oh, I know where I'd put them, hee hee hee... and so on, with the odd shot directed at one of the younger girls or myself who "Don't know yet, but in time..." I nod and laugh. Mostly talking through their hats, I suspect. Making fun. And yet, likely some element of truth. What goes on beneath the surface; behind closed doors, and all that. The last sheet folded, I say 'So long' and climb back to daylight. The larger portion of the women past fifty, I judge, and nice to hear that sex still figures in the equation, no matter what the configuration.

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Over the week I manage to extract a few more pieces of the puzzle that is Mina. Her family smuggled its way out of Vietnam and into France when she was a kid. They spent a few years in Paris where she went to school long enough to learn the language, then used connections to immigrate to Vancouver. She split from her parents' house right after high school, citing differences of opinion. While working various part-time jobs she went to a technical school and obtained a business degree, then settled into sales with a small advertising firm. She later quit that for some reason and moved to Toronto. She's been here two years and turns out she lives near me. The maid job was supposed to be a fill-in until she found employment better suited to her skills, but... This info assembled with a rash of interruptions, diversions and, of course, dot dot dot. Meanwhile, I've begun tracking her down rather than waiting for a distress call. "So, the guy who picks you up every day, is he your husband?" "Not really." I almost ask if he's a relative, but even from a distance, he appears more East Indian than Vietnamese. "Not really? You live together?" "Yes." "And the three kids?" "Two are his. The other child, the youngest, is mine." ""You were married, then. At one time." 'Mter a fashion." "Uh-huh. Does the father have anything to do with you or your son now?" "Why should he?" "No reason. I was just asking. Was it a bad split?" "With my husband?" "Yeah." "Not bad. It was necessary" "What do you mean?" "It was only a marriage of convenience. Or inconvenience, if you prefer." "Oh. So, I guess that means you were pregnant before you got married?"

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"No." "No?" "I was never pregnant." "But, you have a son...?" "I have a son, but I was never pregnant." "Then, it was the father's son...?" "It was the father's son, of course." "Well...?" "I don't know the father. I never met the father." "I thought you said you married—out of convenience?" "I married out of convenience, but not the father." She scrunches her face and shakes her head. "It's all so complicated, yet so simple." She checks her watch. "I have to hurry The man I live with, he'll be here soon to get me." She packs her cart with me in tow. "Listen, I'd like to talk with you some more. Maybe we can get together for a drink sometime. Or a coffee." "That's impossible." "Why? We practically live in the same neighbourhood." "The man I live with, he's very possessive." "He won't let you go out for a cup of coffee with someone?" "Not with a man." "Tell him you're going for a walk." "He doesn't allow me." "What does he do, lock you to the stove?" "I stay in or we all go out." "That's crazy" "No. That's just the way things are." She gives the cart a shove and leaves me standing, more than a little puzzled, scratching my beard. When he pulls up at three o'clock, I'm perched on the balcony, watching.

In the morning I ask for Mina's section. The maid gives with the half-smile that says: I know what you're after, naughty boy I wonder what's being dished around housekeeping and what, if anything, is Mina's involvement?

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"She's in back. Third floor." "Thanks." "Hey;" the maid shouts. "The girls are having a get-together after work tonight at the Copper Kettle. Mina'll be there. You could raid the party." "I'll think about it." I saunter into the room. Mina is smoothing the bed cover. She speaks without looking up. "I thought you might find me." "Uh-huh. I'm still confused about yesterday's discussion. You know—"complicated but simple?" "Yes." "Maybe you could enlighten me. Without the dot dot dot." "You're funny." "I amuse you. That's good." "OK. So, where are you lost?" She continues to work while I pretend to busy myself straightening a picture frame. "Somewhere between the immaculate conception and the ball and chain." "It's not difficult. A girlfriend of mine was in trouble. She got pregnant by some guy she'd met at a party. He split and she was not the type to have an abortion, so she gave birth to the baby. Of course, she was not the type to be a mother either, nor could she afford to keep it. On top of this, she was...unstable. You know, going a bit crazy in the head; drinking and taking pills for all sorts of things. She told me she didn't know what to do. She couldn't stand it. She said she either had to find a home for the baby or else drown it. Or else drown herself. Or else drown them both. It didn't seem to matter to her one way or the other, which." "Was she serious?" "She was desperate." Mina sprays detergent on a cloth and wipes down the shower stall. 'Anyway, I agreed to take the baby" "Just like that?" "What else could I do, the poor thing?" 'Aren't there laws in cases like this?" "Laws? Pff. She got pregnant with no help from the laws. She delivered the baby with no help from the laws. I helped her. In her

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own apartment. No one else knew. Laws? Anyway, I felt that the boy should have a father's name, so I paid a man to marry me. He was the brother of another woman I knew He needed the money to escape town. He was a gambler. I thought, perfect. The deal was to marry, spend the night in a hotel in separate beds, then live apart and eventually divorce." She sighs. "But, things never work as planned. On the wedding night, he raped me." She turns on the tap and rinses the tub. Her words issue easily and without emotion, as if describing the weather. "He disappeared the next day. I forgot about him and the divorce. What does it matter? Good riddance, I say." She snaps off her rubber gloves. "Things were fine for a few years, but I thought it wasn't right that there was no man around for the boy. Or brothers or sisters." "You didn't meet anyone?" "Oh, I met many who wanted me for their own reasons, but no one with the desire to take on the responsibility of a single mother. Especially one with no family ties and no money. Then, I was told of the man I'm living with now His wife had died. He had two children of his own and was looking for someone to share his house with. It began as a simple financial and family arrangement. Of course, soon he felt that it made more sense to behave as if married and I agreed. It was only natural, living under the same roof; sharing the same bed. He would like to make it final, but I'm still legally married. Still, I call him husband and he calls me wife. It's good enough. He's not a bad man. He treats me well and he's good with the children, though he has his strict ways." I'm not sure how to respond. In the space of about five minutes, Mina has described a history which fills most popular novels: sex, rape, bastard son, unlawful acts, nervous breakdown, suicidal ideation, broken promises, loveless relationships. Is she actually as cold and thick-skinned about events as she appears? "How are you through all this?" "Oh, I'm not so bad. I have to look at what's best for my son." My pager sounds and I call the desk. "I gotta run. Are you part of this shindig tonight? At the Copper Kettle?" "Yes."

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"You're allowed?" "If it's women. The man I live with, he will drive me and some others, then pick us up later." "You keep referring to him as "the man I live with." Why not use his name?" "Because." She stares straight into my eyes. "It's too personal. I find it better this way."

I'm repairing a broken bed, at the same time trying to reconcile the two facets of this woman. On the one hand, she leaves her folks, goes to school, gets a job, takes over the upbringing of a kid that isn't hers, arranges a marriage, all before the age of twenty-five. On the other hand, she gets involved in relationships that include rape, shackles and who knows what other kinds of physical or psychological abuse? I drop my tools and go to the window. Gazing out, I see Mina standing in the stairwell, chatting with some of the other maids. They're all dolled-up for the dinner. Mina wears an oriental-looking dress: form fit to accent her trim figure; red, with blue and yellow stitching, gold braid, purple sequins and small black buttons done up to her chin. Her ebony hair is wrapped in a bun and held with a red comb and ivory chopsticks. I expect to see her feet shod in sandals. Instead, she sports black high heels. There is a slit up one side of her dress to just below the hip. "Figures," I go, and the minivan drives up. As the doors swing open and the women grip their sweaters and purses, I think: 'She'll look up now; see me framed in the window; staring at her.' She doesn't, naturally. The women pile in and are chauffeured off.

You don't have to live like this, I tell her. You're young, you're intelligent, you're personable, you're attractive. You speak three languages, for chrissakes? "Why cut yourself off from the world? Sure, you have your son's welfare to worry about and you want what's best for him, but what about what's best for you? There are any number of guys out there who'd love to be with a woman like you.

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leak, yeah, yeah...

I go on like this for a few days and notice the armour slowly begin to drop as she confesses that she's not totally happy; that she does often feel she's letting life slip away; that she does wish she could do things, go places, meet people; that she does fret about growing old and regretting. But always with the tag line: "What do I do? How can I change?" And me repeating, "You've got to decide for yourself what you want, then do it. No one can do it for you." She says, "Easy for you to say, you're a man; you're not married; you don't have children." She's right about that, I know. Still... Yeah, yeah, yeah...

Coffee with Pete and he wants an update. "Nothing," I tell him. "Nothing?" "Too much past baggage, too many spiders." I make spider motions around my head with my fingers. Pete chuckles. "I'd be getting in way too deep. I'd be over my head." "I figured you just wanted to fuck her." "That'd be nice, but, with her, it has to be all or nada." "You're sure?" "Pretty sure. Anyway, sure enough not to want to go there." "Hmm. Too bad." Pete went for another cuppa. "They don't like her much in housekeeping." "No?" "Uh-uh. Say she's too opinionated. Snooty-nosed, high horse, all that. Tries to make changes." "Yeah, well, that's what they get when they hire someone with brains and a personality. If they just wanted a maid, they should've hired one." "Maybe. She's also been chewing management's ass. No air conditioning in the laundry, no proper lunchroom, not enough staff She's threatening to call in a union." 'And?" "The boss thought you might talk to her. Since you're on friend-

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ly terms. Calm her down." 'Friendly?' I think. 'Does everyone have this image in their heads: Mina and me, in the guest rooms, non-stop, screwing our brains out?' "Calm her down?" I say. "I might be the one who's stirred her up." "Whatever. Rob asked me to ask you. Before they find some reason to let her go." "Right." I finish my coffee.

Her back is to me. The vacuum rumbles and the nozzle scrapes noisily against a wall. She doesn't know I'm behind her until she flips the switch and spins around. We're standing near each other. She smiles, raises herself on her tiptoes, wraps her hands around my neck, kisses my mouth, slides her lips down my throat, presses her palms into my chest. It's the first time we've kissed. "I'm leaving him," she says. "I want to be with you." I don't know what to say I hold her against me. I squeeze her shoulders. She raises her chin and we lock onto each other's eyes. "I saw you, you know?" she whispers. "The afternoon of the dinner. Staring at me from the window. Watching me. It made me shiver." I don't know what to say and I don't know what to say and I don't know what to say... It's like I'm suddenly sinking in mud. I open my mouth. The words spill out, automatically "Listen, Mina, I like you. I do. I find you very attractive, and it's fun being with you; talking with you, it's just..." At these words, her head lifts from my chest. "You "like" me? You find me "attractive" and "fun." Is that what you said?" She releases me, takes a step back, rubs the corner of my mouth with a finger. "You have lipstick here," she says. 'And on your neck. You should wipe it off before you leave. So no one sees it." "Mina, I..." This is all I have to say; all I can say It's all she needs to hear.

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IF ANYTHING HAD been going on earlier, if there were signs, honestly I say I was totally unaware. Maybe it was on her mind from the start, maybe it just grew, I don't know Whatever the case, with two weeks remaining in the class, she must've figured it was now or never and so she came to me about the possibility of the two of us getting together for dinner sometime. As the saying goes: you could have knocked me over with a feather. I didn't know what to do. The woman was not unattractive. At the same time, there was no interest on my part. None. Never had been. Don't ask why, I couldn't answer. There just wasn't. As far as I was concerned, she was simply another student of mine taking a twelve-week, evening adult education course in creative writing alongside a handful of others. I told her that I make it a rule not to date my students. It was a weak excuse, I know, but I truthfully wasn't interested. Besides, I figured I had enough problems in my life at the moment, and, for whatever reason (call it a feeling), this woman struck me as a potential problem. Or, if not the woman, the situation. I wasn't mentally prepared; I wasn't in the right "space." Maybe it's because I'm jaded by the types of people who sign up for night school courses. I mean, it's been my experience that most are never really there to learn or experience anything. In the case of creative writing or acting, it often means that pottery or Thai cooking or self-assertion classes were full. Either that, or they've already taken the other thirty or so courses offered and creative writing and acting are last on the list. Or else it's a social event, a way to meet new and interesting people. Or they are bored and need to get out of the house, away from the family for a night, away from a situation

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or an environment in which they are not comfortable. Yet, in these classes all they do is meet other people who are similarly bored or rucked up. I wonder at people who have the time for such pursuits. What are they expecting? I ask them this in the first week and the response is inevitably the same: they don't know. They smile, shrug and fidget in their chairs, as if embarrassed. As I said, I don't get it. Anyway, to get back to the woman. She said, I'm not really a student though, am I? Not in the strictest sense. I mean, you don't grade me or anything. There's no fear that I'm out to get an A. Besides, we're both adults. Still, I said, there's a certain professionalism that has to be adhered to, yes? She stared at me like I was crazy or something. To be fair, I was flattered. It was nice being approached by a woman. I told her so. Not in so many words. More or less. At least, I seem to recall saying something, though I can't remember exactly the precise words. I just wasn't interested. I wasn't ready to invest the time or the effort, even if it was merely dinner—as if it could ever be "merely dinner," the whole idea of breaking the ice and having to discover similar interests and making conversation and having to decide whether to see each other again or not and should we go to bed if the possibility somehow arose. No, it was all too much. She shrugged and said OK, she understood—sort of—but what about when the course was over? I said, maybe. Let's talk about it then. I figured with her track record she'd likely pack it in before the final week anyway My other thought was, the reason she'd even taken an interest in me at this point was that she'd broken up with her boyfriend. Disappointed in him or bored or caught him screwing around, and she's looking to reestablish herself as an attractive and desirable female back in the dating scene. Meanwhile, tomorrow (or tonight, even), he'll have called and apologized and he'll drag his sad ass back into her bed, leaving me high and dry No thank you.

She failed to turn up the following week and I thought: that's that! I licked my finger and stroked an imaginary chalk mark in the air— one for the Gipper. The next week she showed up somewhere past

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the halfway point and simply sat in a corner and took in the proceedings. Which wasn't much, considering there were only three people left and only one had prepared anything new. Was it me? Was it something I was or wasn't doing? Was there anything I could do to entice people to stay? According to the office staff, it wasn't me. It was a condition that plagued adult night school courses. Not computer courses, naturally, which provided practical, hands-on learning that could be used to increase income. Naturally, I said. Whereas stories and novels just write themselves. So, OK, my gripes about the nature of education in this country aside, the woman sauntered over with the cat-that-ate-the-canary look on her face. Well, she said. The course is finito. Now you have no excuse not to see me. She was right. Except for the fact that she didn't do anything for me. But what was I thinking? It was only dinner, after all, not a lifelong commitment. Yet, what did I know about her? She could be a serial killer for all I knew, with a basement full of night school teachers rotting in her basement. Face it, I knew nothing about her. Absolute dick. No, that's not true. I knew her name. Her first name: Tova. Good God, I thought. What could we begin to talk about, even for a couple of hours? Then I thought, wait a freaking minute. You're supposed to be an artist, right? At least, attempting to be. Where's your sense of adventure? Where's your sense of exploring the unknown? Where's your courage? On the plus side, she came across as one of those types who had no difficulty keeping a conversation going. Maybe I'd only be required to sit back, listen and fill in the blanks. Nod politely at the correct moments. The problem, as ever, being: what are these correct moments and who decides? Then further thoughts: what restaurant? How expensive? Will I be expected to foot the bill even though she asked me out? Can I afford to go out at all what with working part-time and rent and university bills? And what is she after in the final analysis, anyhow? So, what do you say? she asked. Dinner on the weekend? Yeah, I said, sure. Sounds good. Uh, where did you have in mind? How 'bout my place? she offered. Saturday? I haven't entertained in ages. OK, I responded automatically She could've said anything. The Four Seasons. The Top of the Senator. Anything. I was in with both

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feet and no turning back. We picked a time. She wrote her address and phone number on a sheet of paper, handed it to me and headed out the door. See ya, she waved. I smiled gamely and waved back. "What had I got myself in for? Was I expected to come over and lay her or was my imagination already into overdrive? Entertaining the other end of the spectrum, however, she seemed to want more than just a quiet chat. Fuck, I thought. I am not good at this. Making small talk with complete strangers, sussing out situations, judging actions. Especially with women, who forever baffle with the upper hand, the memory of an earlier time suddenly flashing to mind, me directing a play and one of the crew commenting on how dynamic and confident I behave in front of the actors yet how awkward and tongue-tied I am when trying to ask her for a date. Me answering that, as a director, I know what I'm doing, whereas in my role as suitor I am as the proverbial babe-in-the-woods: lost, fearful and vulnerable as hell. This fact notwithstanding, we eventually go out and end up in bed that same night. You're not so timid once you get started, she cracks, my tongue between her legs.

Tova's house was difficult to get to by public transit. I called my buddy Rob to ask if I could borrow his car for the evening. He had moved out of my apartment and into his own place. He drove a company car. A big, white Buick that sat home a lot at nights now that he was was not only lately divorced but recently broken up with his girlfriend. A fellow university student (female) had seen me pull up in the car one time and remarked that it looked like the kind of vehicle a pimp might own. I wondered whether her experience with pimp cars went any further than television or movies. I wondered if the fact of me driving it in anyway coloured her opinion of me as a person; as a man. Unlikely, I thought, and yet one never knows these days. I stood there considering the car. Sure, Rob said. Help yourself. One of us might as well go out and get laid. So long as I stopped in later to fill him in on the details. The divorce was over a year ago and the girlfriend was a month back, so

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he spent most nights sitting in his apartment, watching videos and guzzling wine. Though it ought to be mentioned that the videos and wine could not be entirely blamed on the splits. He'd acquired these habits honestly over the years, but now, he practised them alone. I told him I didn't expect there to be any details. At least, none of any consequence. A little dinner, a little conversation. Sure, sure, he said. Just stop in. Don't worry about the time. I'll be up. And if I'm not up, wake me. The evening in question, I arrived at Rob's, we had a couple of quick shots for courage and I packed myself and a bottle of wine into the car and drove off.

Pimpmobile or not, I liked driving the Buick. It was spacious, smooth, luxurious and I wondered at the thinking that said a student or an artist had to fit a particular image. Poor and starving, housed in a one room cold-water flat above a greasy diner. Big news flash: no one likes to suffer. Then again, maybe I was a slave to my middle-class upbringing. Maybe I was entirely too soft or too spoiled to actually cut it on the fringe. What the hell. It was June, the nights were getting longer, the sky was clear and I was cruising. Better not to think about it too much and just enjoy I swung to a stop in front of Tova's house, checked the address against a sheet of paper on the seat beside me, parked and got out. I took a deep breath and thought, this is a big mistake.

Hi, she greeted me at the door. You made it. Yeah, I said. She led me inside. Good. No trouble finding the place? No, I told her. It was easy Piece of cake. I handed over the bottle of wine and she took it into the kitchen, telling me to drop my coat anywhere. Red, I heard from the distance. I thought you'd be a red drinker. I hung my jacket on a hook behind the door. It was a nice place. Not grand, but roomy enough and comfortable-looking, with hardwood floors, pastel walls and a picture window that obviously provided a view of the water. Tasteful. Nice place, I ventured, as Tova re-entered. It does in a pinch, she said.

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We both did the obligatory once-over of the room: black dining table and chairs, Chinese fans spread on the walls, an ornamental paper and bamboo room divider, a mahogany cabinet stained burgundy, jade figurines of Buddha and old fishermen. Definitely Oriental and a dead end as far as conversation went. I simply nodded until I could rest my eyes on something I felt I could comment on. You have a fireplace, I said, sounding pretty much like an idiot, stating the obvious, then attempting to recover. When I was married, my wife and I had a fireplace. It was fun. In the winter. "You want a fire, she beamed. I can light one, except I'm out of logs. I can get a few though. There's a store on the corner, not two minutes away No, it's OK, I said. I mean, it's practically summer... She was insistent. It's no bother. "You haven't had the pleasure of a fireplace for awhile. And I mean, it's here, right? I'll run up the street. No, really..! tried to stop her but it was impossible. She had her mind set. It's all right, I'm only too happy "You look around. There's wine open on the table. Pour us a drink. I'll be right back. She ran out the door and I did my best to get comfortable, all things considered.

Tova went all-out for dinner. The table was set with cloth placemats, napkins wrapped in bamboo rings, an assortment of plates, silverware and drinking glasses, a centrepiece of fresh-cut flowers replaced by carved pewter candlesticks with real beeswax candles which she lit once we sat. I half-expected Chinese, but there was a shrimp and avocado appetizer, salad, a main course of baked sea bass with a buttery lemon sauce alongside wild rice, vegetables and parsley garnish followed by to-die-for chocolate cake and ice cream. I didn't ask if there was anything you didn't eat, she said. No problem there, I answered. I eat pretty much anything put in front of me and this is fantastic. Our talk so far had centred pretty much on the food and the surroundings, which was fine by me. The time was passing nicely We were well into our second bottle of wine when I noticed she began staring at me more and more. A sort of wide-eyed, mooning kind of stare. What might be described as bedroom eyes. Or maybe it was just the wine, the candlelight. She

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poured the remaining wine into our glasses. Why don't we make our way to the fireplace, she said. I've got a bottle of brandy as well. I'll bring it over. The fire was nice and gave an added glow to the liquor. Tova curled up close to me, filling me in on some of the highlights of her life. She liked to talk, that was obvious. I didn't mind. In fact, I preferred when women did the talking. I enjoyed hearing their stories as mine never seemed worth repeating. Very much Grade-B movie material, rife with redundancy and cliche. Maybe that's why I got into acting and writing in the first place: to escape my own life by vicariously living the lives of others. Anyway, Tova's voice was showing the effects of the booze. It made her tongue thick, causing some of her words to slur. That was nice too. It made everything warm, soft and round, as if each syllable that floated from her mouth was a tiny pillow stuffed with brandy. She told me she was a primary school teacher and had been for about ten years, which is how she was able to travel so much, the summer breaks and everything. However, she was getting bored with the whole thing. Not the kids, she loved the kids. But the monotony, the politics. She and a girlfriend had been talking about starting up a catering company. It made sense. They both loved to cook and entertain and they had connections. Connections with money. Besides, being Jewish, what else was there but catering? She laughed at this. In fact, she was getting quite giggly Everything seemed humorous to her. She almost got married once, to a guy she'd been seeing since she was seventeen. She was twenty-eight at the time and everyone (including her) figured it was about time. Two days before the big day she suddenly panicked, wondering whether or not she was making the right decision. That night she went out and got laid by a guy she knew was attracted to her. She really laughed at this. He was only the second guy she had ever been to bed with, the first being her fiancee. The next day she called off the wedding. I didn't ask the specific reason, whether it was the sex or what. I didn't have a chance as the story kept unfolding. Her family forgave her, even the groom understood and forgave her. Moreover, her parents provided her with the cash to put a hefty

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down payment on this house. Spoiled rotten, she chirped, real Jewish Princess, alternating sips of wine with sips of brandy Then more about travel, specifically her love of Hong Kong and eventually taking a breath, turning her head toward me, her moon eyes now heavylidded but sparkling in the firelight. She smacked her lips and sighed. You know, I find you very attractive, she said. I mean it. I think you're probably the most attractive man I've ever met. While this wasn't the first time a woman had said this to me, it also wasn't something that occurred on a regular basis, so the words still struck me as somehow unbelievable and slightly embarrassing. I remembered another time, a woman saying these words, or similar words, then telling me this was part of my charm and attraction— that I wasn't aware. It lent an innocence. Thanks, I replied uncomfortably, attempting to cover with a joke: But are you sure it's not just the brandy? Mmm, she purred. I'm sure. "You're very handsome. Her mouth leaned toward me as an invitation. What could I do? I slipped an arm around her and we kissed. It was a funny thing, kissing her, because I wasn't into it. I was doing it, it wasn't unpleasant. There was no spark. I wasn't attracted to her on a physical level, yet something inside shifted into gear— automatic pilot, maybe. One thing followed another, teeth and tongues getting involved and my hand naturally unbuttoning her blouse and lifting her bra and caressing her breasts (which were not terribly interesting or exciting, being small and spongy with nipples like wrinkled erasers) but continuing nonetheless come hell or high water. I had an erection, so who knows what goes on? Who knows what we're unaware of that just happens, without our having to think about it. All I know is, while I felt uncomfortable about continuing, I knew I'd feel even more uncomfortable if I stopped. And what about her? There were her feelings to consider too, after all. She tipped back her head. Uh...I need to breathe, she said. "You're a terrific kisser. I knew you would be. Her tongue rolled in her mouth and dragged across her lips. I guess I'm a bit drunk. She popped her lips, leaned into me and we went at it some more. Her hand meandered to my crotch and she fumbled with the belt, unbut-

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toned the jeans, lowered my fly and removed my cock from my underwear, to give the poor thing some room, she laughed. YJU know what I'd like? Her head lolled on her neck like one of those toy animals you see in car windows. I told her I didn't know, though I was guessing. She said she was going away later in the month. A weekend in the country There'd be a bunch of people. Friends and relatives. She wanted me to come with her. So I can show you off, she said, and what did I think? Well, I stalled, and my mind flushed with the thought of this relationship stretching from a one-shot deal to something beyond. I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Why not? Her fingers moved gently up and down. I think it's a terrific idea. Yeah, it's just... I've got this girlfriend... Her fingers stopped. Oh? she said. Uh-huh. She's out of town at the moment. Doing a play. She's an actor. She'll be back soon. Oh. Tova blinked her eyes hard, as if taking in the new information and processing it. There was nothing more forthcoming from her, so I proceeded. When I agreed to come over tonight, I thought, you know, a little dinner, a little conversation...! waited. She was still processing. I guessed it was taking longer than normal, the booze and all. She twisted her mouth into some kind of shit-eating grin, then spoke. I suppose she'd be pretty surprised, wouldn't she, to see us together, me with my hand on your pecker? Pecker? The word caught me off guard. It struck me as odd coming from her: a woman, a primary school teacher, a Jewish Princess. Again, I assumed the booze, but where would she have picked up the term in the first place? Had she ever used it before? It appeared to roll easily off her tongue. I suppose, I answered. I mean, she probably wouldn't be too impressed, Tova pushed the point. No, probably not. She let out a dirty laugh, dropped her head into my lap and began sucking me. After two or three strokes she pushed away and wiped her eyes and forehead with the back of a hand. I don't feel so well, she said, and got up and staggered to the bathroom. I tucked myself back into my pants and zipped up. I could hear her knees hit the floor, then the sound of dinner spilling into the toilet. I poured more brandy, waiting for the noises to subside. When the toilet flushed I walked in to see how she was doing.

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You OK? I asked. Fine, she lied, her cheek rubbing the porcelain bowl. I'm not used to drinking so much. I guess I overdid it. Yeah. Can I do anything? No. She spun and barked up more air. Just the dry heaves now, I think. But I'll stay here, to be sure. I nodded. Listen, I should probably go now. I've got to be up early for work. Thanks for the dinner. And...everything. She gave a small wave with her fingers. I turned to leave. Hey! she managed, and I twisted my head. Maybe one day you'll write a story about me, eh? The Jewish Princess. Her eyes shut and she pressed her temple against the cool, white bowl. Yeah, I said. Maybe. Thanks again.

I parked the car in the underground and went upstairs. Rob sat in front of the TV He looked comfortable, dressed in grey shorts and a sweatshirt, a glass of wine in his hand. There was some kind of action movie on. Pour yourself a drink and sit down, he called. I cracked a beer, pulled up a chair and we both stared at the screen. Ya get lucky? Rob was totally bottom line when it came to the question of sex. There was no preamble, no story, you either got laid or you didn't. No, I said. Huh. Rob had the ice bucket next to him and he poured another glass of white wine. I told her I had a girlfriend out of town. Rob never turned his head away from the TV. Arnold Schwarzenegger was in the throes of kicking serious alien butt. You told her' that? asked Rob. Yeah, I said, and took a pull on my beer. There was another long silence. Some guy on the screen was melting into a pool of metal, then refashioning himself into a man. Why did you tell her that? The phrase came without force, issued more as a statement than a question. I shrugged. Whether Rob caught my action or not, I don't know Maybe he sensed it. We both focused our attention forward. There was a muscle-babe armed with some kind of motherfucker machine gun and enough ammo and grenades to wipe out a small army. The scene shifted to a home in the suburbs. Rob cranked his head toward me and I looked back at him. We didn't say anything. We just sat there like that, silent, staring at each other.

MASSAGE

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OUT OF SEASON and colder than a witch's tit in winter. Doesn't bother Rob though, he's in the mood for BBQ. Jan says, "You're not going to say that tonight, are you?" "Pardon?" I'm caught with a glass midway to my lips, gazing at Rob in shorts, sneakers and sweatshirt, standing outside the sliding doors. Near as I recall, I was only thinking the phrase, not actually saying it. Is Jan reading my mind again, or what? Sometimes it's scary; it's like being married to the woman, which I'm not. "You're not." "You mean, 'colder than a witch's tit in winter'?" I'm sure the words never travelled from my mind to my mouth until now. Fd've known, wouldn't I? "You're not." "But..." I start, and she gives me her patented, no-nonsense, knitting of the eyebrows glare. "OK, I'm not." "Good." Jan turns her attention to Rob; calls to him as he blows into his hands. "You're nuts. You know that." Rob slides the door wider and shrugs. "It's under cover. Besides, it's me that'll be out here." Rob has a corner apartment on the first floor, with a patio and some semblance of a yard. Overhead is a balcony that serves as a roof. He lifts the lid of the BBQ. It's Saturday afternoon. I'm helping with the preparations, which means cracking beers and uncorking wine bottles for the most part, along with a bit of vegetable chopping. Jan's friend Sarah will join us later. "She's broken up with Howard."

i/o

Stan Rogal

'Again," calls Rob, and points to me with the scraper. "I think it's for good this time." Jan also directs her comments to me, so I'm pig-in-the-middle, my head turning one way then the other. "It's always for good with her, isn't it? Then she locks herself up in her room for a week, gets crazy lonely and calls him to get back together." "She's not quite as bad as that." "That's what you told me." "That's not exactly what I said." "What did you say then?" "Doesn't matter. You never listen anyway. You hear what you want to hear." "We all hear what we want to hear." Jan groans and pulls a face, like: forget it, what's the point? I've never met Sarah. I've seen a head-shot and she appears pretty enough. Other than that, I know she's twenty-seven-years-old, been going with Howard on and off for twelve of those twenty-seven years and never been with another man so far as anyone knows. Jan says "been with" as in the Biblical sense. I wonder if Sarah's ever "been with" Howard, in the Biblical sense. I don't ask. It'd only mean another furrow of the eyebrows. When Jan's in euphemism mode, it's like a warning to the rest: tread softly. She feels it's a "step in the right direction" even getting Sarah out and she doesn't want to blow it. I almost smile at "blow it"—I can't help it, it's the way my mind works. She catches me and raises a finger. 'Course, she's smiling too and we both know that the game is for Sarah's benefit and, what the hell, it'll be fun whatever happens. Jan lets me know up front this isn't like a date or a set-up or a matchmaking thing, which is fine by me. It's dinner, she insists. That's it. However, she would like to see Sarah "expand her horizons," as she puts it, so how am I to take it, the air sexed with innuendo and implication? It's not that she doesn't like Howard, she continues, just that the whole break-up-get-back-together-again routine has become a bore for everyone. The main thing is that Rob and I be on our best behaviour. "She's very polite and quite naive," says Jan. "The type who reads and follows the advice of Miss Manners." Rob and I nod in the affir-

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mative, not quite sure what this means or what we're agreeing to. I mean, what can possibly be going through her head? "You know," she says. Or do I just imagine that she says this? The phone rings and it's my brother tracking me down about this, that and the other thing. In other words, nothing in particular. "Invite him for dinner." Rob eavesdrops from the patio. "There's plenty." I ask what he's up to and he says nothing til later and what's on the menu? Pork chops, I say He asks: anything else? A fair question. He's dropped in on Rob before at mealtime. He tells everyone the same story: Rob invites him to stay for lunch— he's cooked a chicken—my brother sits down to the table thinking, great! That was it, says my brother. No salad, no rice, no vegetables— not even a boiled potato. He just slaps this chicken down and says dig in. We laugh every time he tells it. This wasn't unusual for Rob. Other days he'd cook himself up a roast. Nothing else. He'd carve it, sit in front of the TV and polish it off along with a bottle of wine and a few beers. If questioned about his eating habits he'd just look at you, like: What? I tell my brother not to worry, tonight we're covering all the basic food groups. OK, he says. I'll be there.

Sarah arrives with a not half-bad bottle of dry Italian white. Her first words through the door are: "I can't stay long, I probably shouldn't have come in the first place, I'm not fit company" 'Encouraging,' I think, and Rob gives with the old I told you so expression on his face. 'Afraid you'll miss Howard's phone call?" pipes Jan. She reckons it's been almost a week. "I told you, this time we're through. For keeps. Besides, he never calls me, you know that. I'm the one who ends up calling. I'm always the one who ends up calling. Like a fool." "Drink?" Rob offers, wanting to steer the conversation in a different direction.

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"What do you have?" Sarah glances at our hands. Jan's into white wine and Rob and I are working on rum and Cokes. "Sarah's a scotch drinker." Jan had mentioned this to Rob earlier in the day and there was a bottle of Johnny Walker Black sitting on the counter. "Oh, I probably shouldn't." "Relax. It's the weekend," says Jan. Rob breaks the seal and pours. "Water?" "Just ice, thank you." Jan gives me that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile. I assume it means something, getting Sarah into the scotch. I only wonder if there's anything to expect. Out of the ordinary, I mean. Does Sarah get drunk and tell fart jokes or wear a lampshade on her head or dance the Watusi naked? Doubtful. I give her the once-over: short, nice figure, a few extra pounds on the hips and butt, hair cropped neat, pretty face, makeup done just so, clothes pressed and matched with care and attention to detail. There may be something askew lurking beneath this polished exterior, yet I figure this is one book you can definitely judge by its cover. At this moment, my brother blows in from the patio. He grins ear-to-ear and announces himself by stomping his cowboy boots on the concrete pad, shaking off some of the garden dirt he's picked up crawling through the hedge. He tosses his motorcycle helmet onto a chair and throws open his arms. "Hey! It's colder than a witch's tit in winter out there. How ya doin? I brought the Captain." He unzips his leather jacket and swings a bottle of Captain Morgan rum into view. Except for Sarah, the rest of us say hey and hi and how are ya and come on in. She stands slightly amazed, perhaps somewhat stunned, her eyes fixed and her jaw dropped. "You gonna say something?" asks my brother, leaning in on her. "Or just stand there with your mouth open catching flies?" "Oh," she composes herself. "Good evening," she says, and knocks back her scotch. 'Crazy,' I think, trying to pick up Jan's reaction. 'Let the games begin.'

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Conversation slips inevitably into times past, mostly centred around booze-ups and other forms of vice, corruption and inappropriateness. This from me, Rob and my brother, the women's stories tending more along the sedate line, what with Jan trying not to completely alienate Sarah ('cause Jan did have stories tucked away) and Sarah content to suck back the scotch and fill in the blanks, as Jan allows, so we get: knowing each other since grade two, volunteering as Candy Stripers, going on a camping holiday, et cetera. Interesting in its own way, though lacking the theatrics of my brother who could weave a fascinating tale from the most banal plot line. Or maybe it's because he's my brother and I know the cast of characters and if it isn't dating or marriage or screwing around, then it's work or baseball or golf and Rob points to me and says: "Remember when you, me and Terry used to golf together?" "Yeah. And the Captain makes four." "The Captain?" Sarah says it like there should be some connection; like she's heard the phrase somewhere before, but it eludes her. We all jump in with bits and pieces: —Terry was married to Wendy at the time and one day we go golfing and he gets home for dinner totally blottoed. He tells her, yeah, we'd gone out for a few beers after the round. —He didn't want to let on that he'd been drinking on the course. —On the other hand, he's three sheets to the wind, as I said, and feeling no pain and in a funny mood... —Terry laughs a lot when he's pissed. —...so when she asks him who played, he names the three of us and Captain Morgan. —She asks: who's Captain Morgan? —And he says a business associate of Rob's. —Every time we have a threesome after that, he tells Wendy that Captain Morgan made up the fourth. —This goes on for a month or two. —Wendy's not the sharpest tack in the box. —Finally, she figures it out, who knows how, and she's outraged. —Yeah. She gets over it though. Next thing you know, she's the one telling the story and putting everyone in stitches. —That's right. Funny

xjH

Stan Rogal

^Yeah, yeah. Funny: We laugh and even Sarah's grinning and chuckling a bit along with us. Or maybe at us, it wouldn't surprise me. She sips her drink. There's a brief silence and she turns to Jan. "I'm sorry," she says, totally serious. "I don't get it." "Don't get what?" "Who's Captain Morgan? Why was..." She shakes her head. This really kills us and my brother grabs the bottle and hands it to her. "Meet the Captain," he says. Rob announces that dinner is served and we sidle to the table. Rob sits at the head, Jan and I are on one side and Sarah and my brother sit across. We finish our cocktails and pour the wine. There's Jan's avocado and shrimp appetizer with a lemon sauce and Rob's famous Caesar salad with homemade dressing to start things off. "Everyone has salad," says Rob. "If I'm eating garlic, we all eat garlic." He claims that garlic stays with him for a week. "I exude garlic," he says. "I should own shares in Listerine, the money I spend." "No one's interested in your personal hygiene problems," Jan is polite, but firm. "I'm just saying," and he drops the subject. There's pork chops and scalloped potatoes (my creation) and broccoli and wax beans and a pickle tray The dishes pass person to person. My brother has always been a slow eater, claiming that he likes to take his time in order to appreciate the flavour of the food. The real story is that he enjoys talking at least as much as eating. Rob is the exact opposite. He chows down in no time flat. If he had his way he'd be clearing the table and setting the dishwasher going. "Don't you dare start cleaning up," Jan says this as an aside, but we all hear. "I wasn't going to." "But you want to. I can see it." Rob moves his hands from his plate and grabs his wine. "OK? Satisfied?"

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Jan is a meticulous eater who somehow manages to never smudge her lipstick through a meal. Eerie. I'd place me as average. Meanwhile, Sarah's still got most of her food on her plate, even though she only started with one small chop, a spoonful of potatoes and a couple of lettuce leaves. She said she didn't care for broccoli or beans. Rob offered to cook up another vegetable and she said no, she was fine, thank you very much, and no one was about to twist her arm. My brother scans the table, knife and fork in hand. He turns to Sarah. 'Are you done?" ""Yes," she says. "I've had sufficient. It was delicious." She leans back in a way suggesting she expects the remains to be removed. Instead, my brother spears the partially eaten chop and plunks it on his plate. Sarah looks on in disbelief as he carves and eats it. Rob, Jan and I share a quick exchange which the other two miss. "There's more chops," offers Rob. "This'll do it. I was just looking for another bite. No point letting this one go to waste." He gives the bone a final gnaw and tosses it down.

We transport ourselves and our drinks into the living room. Rob tops up Sarah's scotch and drops in a fresh cube. My brother and I have a last rum and Coke before he hits the road. His girlfriend had a previous family obligation. "Who knows what," he shrugs. "Maybe who gets the chipped crystal vase or the Elvis memorial plate when the grandmother dies. Or a Pyramid scheme. It's always money with her family. Not that she gives a shit. It's for them, so...anyway, we're meeting at the Wheat Sheaf." He exits the way he arrived—through the patio doors. Rob has the music playing and Jan sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me. She tells Sarah that I give the best massages. Sarah asks how I learned. There's a slight slur in her voice and a giggle that wasn't present earlier. "We did massage work early on in theatre classes. It was like a bonus. Then I took a night school course in Shiatsu. Nothing big. A few weeks."

1/6

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"You should let him give you a massage," Jan says. "Oh no, I couldn't. I've never had a massage." Sarah is losing her consonants and her s's are sounding like sh's. The giggle increases, perhaps at the realization that her words are going mushy. "Then you should definitely do it." Jan crawls to Sarah and pulls her by the arm. "Oh, OK," she giggles, and plops down between my legs. She extends her glass to no one in particular. "May I have another?" Rob carries in the bottle and a bowl of ice cubes, refilling the glass and leaving the rest on the coffee table. He saunters over to his favourite armchair and snuggles in while Jan curls at his feet. The two sit all comfy-cosy, content to simply take in the proceedings. As I work on Sarah's shoulders she becomes a real motormouth, alternately trashing Howard, commenting on how good the massage feels, the fact that she should make plans to change her life and how much she loves scotch. Something like: Mmm, this is nice and Howard would never do this, he's such a bore and too clumsy anyway and maybe I should go on a holiday, somewhere exotic, and yes, that feels great there, right there, and the scotch going to my head but I like it and Howard is an idiot and doesn't know a good thing when he has it and maybe Mexico and your hands feel so good and strong and I shouldn't drink scotch, I know, but so what, and ohhh, that's tender, but go ahead anyway and the entire time drinking and slurring and giggling. As for me, I'm fine like this, rubbing Sarah's shoulders, neck and back; feeling her relax under my touch, the rumble of her voice vibrate through her flesh. It's nice; it's comfortable. Of course, looking across the floor, there's Rob raising his eyebrows at me and Jan smiling like "who-knows-what. I smile too, only thinking: No way, and I'm reminded of an earlier time, a few years ago when Rob was still married and living in a different apartment. His wife, Linda, decided to invite a couple for dinner. Rob loved to entertain but was uncomfortable meeting anyone new, especially outside his realm. It would be Linda's turf and what would he have to say and what could he possibly have in common with them? Linda worked with the guy They were both dentists in a medical centre. Rob decided to invite me along for moral support. Again, it was the

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old story: be on your best behaviour, and whatever that meant to anyone. I said sure, anything for a free meal Chez Philips. As is my habit, I arrived early to help out and share a drink or two with Rob. I recall that he opened the booze cupboard to see if there was any green chartreuse. He was into it at the tune, the major reason being, no one else liked it. I had to agree. It was like drinking gasoline. I'm not even sure that Rob cared for it that much. For him, it was more a statement. "People come over, they finish off all my liqueurs. Not that I care, but this is for me. It's mine. I know that when it's gone, I'm the one who drank it." I believed him. Rob was a generous guy. He didn't care. Like everyone else, he simply had his little rituals, his coping mechanisms, and you either accepted them or you didn't. Simple. This may turn out to be a green chartreuse evening, he said, meaning that he fully expected he'd have to be somewhat ripped in order to survive. I said that the couple might be fun and Rob glared at me. Why not, I asked? Because, said Rob. He's a dentist. He stares into people's mouths. And the wife? No idea. To his mind, that seemed to settle it. When the knock came, the table was prepared, dinner was in its various phases of completion and we were well into cocktail mode. Linda answered, the couple entered and we were introduced. The guy (his name eludes me) opened a large paper bag, saying things got busy and they didn't have time to stop at a liquor store (seeing the wheels turning in Rob's head: right, here it comes, a tin of apple juice and some dental floss) so they grabbed a few things from home, not knowing what Rob and Linda would enjoy. Well, there were two jugs of vino, three one-litre plastic bottles of micro-brew, a mickey of rye, a folded baggy of home-grown pot and a half bottle of green chartreuse. I figured Linda was about to take a bite out of her glass when Rob said: Welcome, you shouldn't have, we have plenty, green chartreuse, you say? Yeah, there aren't many who like it, but we figured, why not? and the two of them getting filled in on Rob's leanings toward the stuff, though without the nitty-gritty.

i/8

Stan Rogal

From dinner, we moved to the living room, opened the windows and the women lit up a joint and passed it around. I declined, never having had much luck and preferring the wine. Soon, we were feeling no pain and Rob was sitting on the floor playing DJ, spinning tunes, making jive-ass talk over a makeshift microphone—a carnival glass martini stirrer or something—and people were dancing and joints were passing and I started singing "smoke, smoke, smoke a little dope..." One line repeatedly and everyone joined in and it was like a mantra and we continued this until it reached its natural demise. Thirty seconds or thirty minutes, who knows? Somehow or other, Linda ended sitting with the guy at one end of the room, his hand up and down her leg, and I was at the other end of the room with the guy's wife, my arm around her and the two of us whispering who-knows-what-sweet-nothings into each other's ears and Rob continuing to play DJ, happy in his own private world, the headset on and a tumbler of green chartreuse beside him. There was potential for something very weird to happen. I'm thinking this now, my eyes on Rob and Jan; my hands in Sarah's hair, rubbing her head. I may have thought it at the time, but being in the moment probably not. I mean, naked dancing, pairing off in corners, group sex, bloodshed, anything. There was the possibility of entering completely unknown territory Instead, and for some reason that escapes me, the couples realigned into their proper order and the guy and his wife left. But wait—it all comes back. Linda removed the guy's hand, jumped up and said: Time for coffee! Or maybe: Time to go. At any rate, that was a wrap for the evening. Strange, thinking back to that, my fingers tugging and squeezing Sarah's earlobes, suddenly aware of the sound of my own voice and when did I start and how long have I been talking and what have I been saying, if anything? Or was it simply this: The ears are largely forgotten during massage, whereas they need attention as well, Sarah's head lolling side to side, her ooh, ahh tirade subsided and her body succumbing to the pleasure of my hands. Then, for whatever reason, she snaps to attention, as if from some realization. "Oh," she cries, gazing at her watch, "it's after midnight. I've got to go."

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"You sure?" asks Jan, who was drifting off herself "Tomorrow's Sunday You can sleep in." No. I'd better leave now Thank you," she says to me. The slur has disappeared, as has the giggle. Remarkable. "Or stay You've had a fair amount to drink." "I'm fine, really" She gathers her belongings and makes for the door. "At least let me walk you to the car. I'm heading home anyway I'm around the corner." "Yes, it's late," says Jan. "I'm just out front. I'll be fine." "You can't be too careful these days." "No. I guess not." She tilts her head toward me. "OK."

Sunday afternoon, I'm at my desk drinking coffee. The phone rings, I pick it up and it's Jan. "Howyafeelin?" "OK. Not bad. So so. A bit hungover. I'm trying not to think about it. "You?" "OK. I talked with Sarah." "Uh-huh." "She made it home all right, eventually" "Good." "You want to know what she told me?" "Sure." "She's feeling guilty" "Guilty?" "Extremely guilty." "What for?" "Last night." "What about last night?" "The massage." "What about the massage?" "She says that when you massaged her head, you crossed the line. It was too intimate. So, she's feeling guilty" 'All I did was massage her head."

i8o

Stan Rogal

"I know. I told her. I asked did she like it; she said she did. I said, so, what's the problem?" "Uh-huh?" "She didn't know All she knows is that she feels guilty because you were intimate with her, or she with you." "So?" "So? She called Howard and confessed. They're back together." "Wow." "Yeah. I told her she's nuts, but there you go." "Hmm." "Rob says come over for a cold beer. The game's on." "OK. See you in a bit." "Intimate?" I open the dictionary to discover: i) closely connected by friendship or association; 2) pertaining to the inmost being; ^proceeding from within; 4) having illicit sexual relationships with; 5) a euphemism; 6) a close or confidential friend. Where the hell did the two of us fit in any of this and what did it have to with a head massage, I wonder? I take a breath, recalling what was going through my mind as my fingers pressed into her flesh. Consider the possibility of transferring messages or images or feelings from one person to another, through straight physical contact, and the fact I was getting excited contemplating what could have happened those years back, even knowing that nothing did happen beyond some innocent flirting. Typically, the imagination jumps a step or two ahead, fully expecting reality to catch up. In truth, it rarely does, and we are left holding the bag, so to speak, plain and simple. Though, not so simple maybe. Aware of members of tribes who must atone for their dreams of harming others by offering the victims gifts, or certain religions that punish the sins of the flesh and the sins of the mind equally. And, what exactly was going on in Sarah's mind? How deep had my fingers probed? How far had she gone in terms of our relationship in those short minutes? What had we done, and was it my recollection of Linda breaking the spell that also brought her back? But it's all too much to consider at this point, the moment passed, the time ended, a cold beer and a ball game waiting up the street. Perhaps even dinner, if I play my cards right. Certainly a bet-

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ter chance of this happening than...but, there it is again, the imagination kicked in and no good reason. Then, there's Howard. I picture Sarah prostrate at his feet, he standing above her, not knowing what to do or say, only conscious of the fact that whatever he tries, he'll be dead wrong, and if he doesn't try he'll also be dead wrong, and it's a no-win situation for both of them, and there's no way around it and no hope of redemption and no possibility of satisfying either him or her, and yet, something must be done. Someone must act. Though, perhaps not. Perhaps no one acts and no one has to act and the picture is skewed. More likely the two have settled back into the old routine. God is in His heaven and all's well with the world. I give my head a rub and the memory of a joke pops up. It goes like this: One kid puts his hand on another kid's head and starts to squeeze up and down with his fingers. What's this, says the first kid? I don't know, says the second. It's a brain-eating alien, says the first, starving to death, hahaha! "Good one," I grin, and grab my coat. "A cold beer and a ball game—just what the doctor ordered."

I'm lookin' for some action. I'm sick of sitting around here Tryin' to write this book. —Bruce Springsteen