by Tyler Keevil
‘Just spoke to Fred.’ He pauses, picking at a callus on his palm. ‘He’s decided to go ahead and plant the cream himself. Him, Neil, and Kurt.’
The crew deflates. We slump down at the mess table. I feel like the projector of my life has sputtered and died just before the big finish.
Brady brings his fist down on the tabletop, and winces. It’s his bad wrist.
‘That motherfucker.’
Clayton hands out beers. There’s nothing else to say or do. We skip dinner and drink without enjoying it, smoke joint after joint like we’re on a mission to get as fucked up as possible. Time evaporates; the evening hazes over. After several hours, Annie and Brady walk back to our trailer, holding hands. Walter starts weeping, telling Clayton over and over again how sorry he is about the truck, and passes out on the table. Clayton’s wife has already gone to bed, and at the end it’s just me and him. We shift to Alberta Premium. Between each shot, he stares moodily into his glass, harelip twitching in the way it does when he’s wasted.
‘You know,’ he says, looking up, ‘they offered to take you on. Fred and Kurt. You can still plant the cream. I just didn’t want to bring it up in front of the others.’
The strange part is, it’s obvious he expects me to do it.
‘Fuck that,’ I say.
With the cream taken from us, the relationship with Fred broken, and no other contracts on the horizon, Clayton disbands the crew. Walter offers to drive Brady and Annie home in his car. Since Clayton has to go into town to see his insurance company, he says he can drop me off at the bus station. His truck is still roadworthy, though the wheels dog-track now, and the steering alignment is shot. We all pile into our vehicles, and it only occurs to me then that I won’t see them again. I roll down my window and they do the same. Walter waves.
‘See you later, city-sucker!’ Brady shouts.
Annie hits him, and he grins like a kid. I have time to flip him the finger and then Clayton hits the gas and we’re heading off in different directions. On the way into town, we pass Kurt’s place, and I ask Clayton to pull over. I’ve forgotten something. Fortunately, I don’t have to deal with seeing Kurt or the rest of the family. Sorrel is sitting by herself in the front yard, reading. I walk over and crouch next to her. She doesn’t look up from her book.
‘You’re going, aren’t you?’
‘Looks like it,’ I say.
‘Well, you might as well have this. I made it for you.’
She hands me a crayon drawing of a long-limbed stickman standing in a field of baby trees. He looks enormous, like a modern-day Paul Bunyon – except with a shovel instead of an axe. I smile, thank her, and give her a hug goodbye. Over her shoulder I can see a dark head peering through the living room window. I don’t acknowledge it.
Sorrel walks with me to the truck, holding my hand. When I let go to get inside she doesn’t cry. She just stands at the end of the drive, growing smaller with distance.
At the station, the Greyhound bus is already out front, and a line of people is waiting to get on, tickets in hand. I hop out of the truck with my bag and walk around to the driver’s side. Clayton reaches through the window and we shake. He smiles at me, but it still looks like a sneer.
‘It’s been an experience, man,’ I say.
‘Sure,’ he says, starting the truck. ‘Take care in the city.’
I’m still thinking about Clayton when I get off the bus in Vancouver. The station is right downtown, close to False Creek and the inlet, and the air is rich and thick with the salt smell of the sea. I stretch out in the park at Main and Terminal among the rest of the drug addicts that so terrified Clayton, and roll up the last of Annie’s weed. But it’s not the same – the buds have gone stale. I only smoke half the joint, and flick the roach into the grass, where it sits and smoulders. I should probably call my parents but don’t think I’m ready for that, yet. Instead I just lay there with my eyes closed, feeling the sun on my face. A sky train rushes overhead, shaking the tracks. Across the street a busker is plucking at his guitar. I listen to that, and the traffic humming in the street, and the tap-tap of passing feet, and all the other sounds of my city, my home.
Mangleface
She had been beautiful once. I could tell by the way she walked: straight-backed, long strides, confident. She walked like a beautiful person. The first time I saw her I was putting rentals back on the shelves. I noticed her studying our foreign-film section. I couldn’t see her face but I had a good view of her body. That was enough to make me put down my armload of movies and saunter over.
‘Can I give you a hand with anything?’
She turned towards me. She had her hair styled so that it partially obscured her features, but it didn’t really hide much.
‘Yeah, I’m looking for—’
She saw my expression. I couldn’t help it. The skin of her face was cross-hatched with scars, dry and leathery. Her nose seemed to melt into her mouth, which twisted down on one side.
‘Never mind,’ she said.
I stood beside her for a minute, couldn’t think of anything to say, and slunk back to my till in a daze. As she moved around the store I watched her out of the corner of my eye, like I usually did with potential shoplifters. I wasn’t satisfied with how I’d left things. After several minutes I tried again.
‘Hey, I’m sorry about that.’
She picked up a display box, avoiding my gaze.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘You like foreign films?’
A shrug. ‘I’m getting bored of the normal stuff.’
I figured if I was in her place I’d watch a lot of movies, too.
‘That one’s all right.’ I tapped the case in her hand. It was a Brazilian film about this lady who falls in love with a dolphin man, and has his kid. ‘Weird, but kind of cool. I dug it.’
She smiled at me. It was hideous enough to shatter all the mirrors in the world.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
I wouldn’t say she came in frequently after that, but she came in regularly. She stopped by in the mornings, when I was the only cashier and the store was empty. On Fridays, she always rented two or three movies. She never came in on weekends.
She walked in one day when I was training a new kid on the till, this kid from West Van. He served her politely – giving her our usual sales spiel – but after she left he turned to me and asked, ‘Did you see good old mangleface there?’
I told him to shut his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know you had a thing for her.’
He was a lippy little shit. She probably got that kind of comment a lot, from assholes like him. At the end of the week, I told my manager I’d seen the kid taking pop and pretzels from the confectionary without paying for it, which was something I usually did. He was still on his two-week trial period. That was enough to ensure he didn’t get the job.
The nickname stuck, though. I started thinking of her as Mangleface. I never learned her real name. She rented movies on her father’s account. I only knew that her last name was Rice. Mangleface Rice. It seemed to fit.
Mangleface had a boyfriend. I only saw them together once, but that was enough. They made the mistake of coming in just after five. The pre-dinner rush is our busiest time of day. I didn’t notice them until they got in the checkout line, which snaked halfway to the back of the store. Between customers I kept an eye on them as they waited. He was dressed in black jeans and a silk shirt – a real cold lampino. They stood a little apart, muttering to each other occasionally. Everybody was staring, of course, while pretending not to. It was almost as if they were celebrities of some sort.
When they reached my till, the guy asked, ‘Is this flick any good?’
He thrust the tape into my hands. I glanced at the title on the spine. It was a documentary about this crazy Italian guy, driving around on his scooter
, looking for Jennifer Beals.
‘Sure, it’s kind of all right.’
‘Kind of all right,’ he said to her. ‘You hear that?’
‘I want it,’ she said.
He lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders, then slapped ten bucks down on the counter. I took it and asked him if they wanted any popcorn or candy. I didn’t address her, or look at her much, because we were both pretending we didn’t know each other, in that way you do.
‘Why would we?’ he said.
‘I have to ask.’
‘We don’t need any of that crap.’
I scanned the movie, fed the ten into my till, and gave him his change. The store had gone quiet. He took the movie and walked out without waiting for her. As she left she glanced at me. It was hard to read her expression, because her face didn’t work like a normal face. It always looked sad, clownish, the mouth drooping down on one side as if she’d had a stroke. But just then there was something resigned about it, as if she knew what was coming, and soon.
The more accustomed I grew to her disfigurement, the more I was able to ignore it. It was as if her face was changing. For me, anyway. And as it did, over time, we got to know each other. If there was anybody else in the store, she was anxious, shy. When we were alone, though, she wasn’t afraid to talk to me. I learned that she liked pecan ice cream and skiing. Her favourite movie was Night of the Living Dead – the original black and white version.
I never asked about her face.
Sometimes, though, when she wasn’t looking, I’d check her out. If her back was turned to you she was hot. She had a great body: tanned and lithe and toned. Then you’d see her face, and that would be it. It could be pretty unsettling. I wondered if her boyfriend felt similarly. Did they ever have sex? Maybe every so often – but only with the lights out. In the dark it could be anybody’s face. He wouldn’t kiss her. He’d just grab her tits and squeeze her ass and imagine she was somebody else. That asshole didn’t deserve her. He really didn’t.
Chatting with Mangleface became part of my routine, like unlocking the store and emptying the returns bin. I opened at nine, and she usually came in just after ten. She would linger at my till, telling me what she thought of the movies I’d suggested. I started keeping a copies of the new releases behind the counter, which we weren’t supposed to do, in case she wanted to rent one. Sometimes she did, other times she didn’t. But the choice was always there.
If she didn’t turn up, I got worried. What had happened to her? Maybe she’d had a fight with her boyfriend. I would wait for her to come running to me. She would be in tears. She would need a shoulder to cry on. Who else could she turn to? Me, of course. I was the only one who could see past the horror of her face.
Other times I imagined she was in trouble. She would rush in, distraught. She was sick, injured. She had an enormous debt. Loan sharks were after her, or some lunatic. A lunatic who only stalked chicks with disfigured faces. Or maybe it was something simpler, like her car had broken down. Whatever the scenario, I would help her. I’d take care of her.
I had a lot of time on my hands at that video store.
I was talking to her one day when this guy came in. He wore a pinstripe suit with burgundy leather shoes, and his hair was crusted with mousse. He looked like the kind of guy who managed a bunch of other people for a living. He was drunk, too. Vodka. I could smell it. Drunks think you can’t smell vodka, but you can.
Mangleface was at my till. When he saw her he did a double-take.
‘Holy shit – what happened to your face!’
Silence. Nobody else was in the store.
‘I’m sorry – I don’t mean to pry – but Jesus Christ.’
He turned to me. He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was just another asshole.
‘You seen this poor girl’s face?’
‘I seen it, man. Settle down.’
‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help it. What happened?’
Mangleface had a hard time controlling herself. She was looking down at the movie she’d just rented. She didn’t cry. I never saw her cry, not even once. I sometimes thought her tear ducts might have been damaged, somehow. But her eyes were fine, so I don’t know if that makes any sense.
‘Car accident,’ she whispered.
‘Jesus. That’s tough.’
I gave Mangleface her change. She left without saying anything. Even after she was gone he couldn’t let it go. He went to the window to peer after her. He was really unsettled by it.
‘Did you see that, man? I never seen anything like it.’
He kept saying that. I kept telling him I’d seen it. Eventually he left. Afterwards, I accessed his account and ran a pre-authorisation on his credit card for three hundred bucks. We do that for renting games consoles, occasionally. It wouldn’t take the money out, but it would freeze the funds for a month, or until he caught on. It wasn’t much, considering how he’d behaved, but hopefully it would screw things up for him a little.
I started thinking of Mangleface outside of work. It was weird. My friends and I would be shooting hoops, or down at the beach, and she would be there, in my head. It worried me because that usually only happens with girls I like. Somehow, without my realising it, Mangleface had become one of those girls. That was okay, I told myself. Nobody has to know. You’ve got a secret crush on Mangleface – so what? It’s not like you’re going to do anything about it.
A date with Mangleface would be agonising. Everybody would stop and stare and wonder what the hell you were doing with a chick whose face looked like that. And those were just strangers. What would happen if my friends found out? I’d never hear the end of it. My friends could be merciless like that.
Some days I wished everybody were blind.
At night, I began to think of doing things with her. I focused on her body. That was safe. Her body was beautiful. I wouldn’t admit what I really wanted. Her body eased me into it.
I imagined running my hands over that body. I was always very tender with her. She was timid. It had been a long time since she’d been appreciated. I took my time, kissing her legs, her belly, her breasts. I didn’t look at her face, not at first. I approached it indirectly. I kissed her throat, her earlobes, the nape of her neck.
A few weeks went by before I imagined kissing her face.
It was a frightening experience. Her lips were dry. All the skin on her face was withered like a scorched prune. But I liked kissing her. It drove me crazy kissing those twisted lips. Soon enough we were making love.
I fantasised about that every night for months.
Though in my head we had gone all the way, during the day our relationship remained chaste. She would come in, wander for a bit, then ask my advice on picking a film. I’d walk with her up and down the aisles. Sometimes she wanted a horror movie, sometimes a love story, sometimes an arthouse flick. With Mangleface it was never the same. I would take my time helping her. I knew that she appreciated my company as much as my advice. She liked hearing me summarise the plots of films.
‘What about this one?’
‘It’s awesome. There’s this guy who goes around killing people with his electric guitar.’
‘His guitar?’
‘Yeah. It’s got a drill attached to the end. Whenever he hits the strings the drill starts spinning, and he drills people.’
‘That sounds hilarious.’
‘It is. You’d love it.’
We had pretty similar taste in films. That was part of why we got on so well. Any movie I liked she usually liked. Or maybe she was just being nice to me because I was being nice to her. Maybe she secretly hated all those movies but kept renting them just so she wouldn’t hurt my feelings.
I’d never thought of that.
I knew it was finished between her and her boyfriend when he came in with another girl. She was wearing heels and a mini
skirt and no tights. She had these legs. Bare and smooth as a mannequin’s. In the kids section, where we keep all our cartoons, I saw him snort something off the back of his knuckle, like a total Carlito. As they stumbled about the store he kept slipping his hand up her skirt. Whenever he did this, she giggled and swatted it away.
They grabbed the latest blockbuster – this movie about an asteroid hitting earth – and came to my till.
‘You got your membership card?’ I asked.
‘I forgot it. I can give you my phone number.’
‘Can’t rent to you without a card. It’s policy.’
I rent to tonnes of people without a card. Not him, though.
‘I’ve done it before,’ he said.
‘It’s a new policy.’
She leaned over the counter so I could see her cleavage, and put her hand on my wrist. ‘Can’t you make an exception, just this once?’ she said, making a pouty-face. ‘Just for me?’
I wondered if Mangleface had been like that, before the accident.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I can hold the film for you, if you want to come back.’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Come on – let’s go someplace else.’
‘Have a good night.’
‘Fuck you, pal.’
He flipped me the finger on the way out.
In the parking lot, car doors slammed. An engine roared to life. I looked out the window and watched his Jetta fishtail around the corner, the engine whining, the wheels screaming.
I thought about things for a few minutes, and then went to get three pornos from our adult section. It’s a family store but we have this backroom. I got real dirty ones – the dirtiest. I scanned the tapes onto his account, carried them outside, and tossed them in our dumpster.