by Greg Kearney
When Out of Africa is over they sit and listen to the tape rewind. He asks her how she’s feeling. She says she’s feeling like she doesn’t want to talk all the time about how she’s feeling.
“But guess what Shary’s last name is.”
“Who’s Shary — Oh, right. I don’t know. What is her last name?”
“It’s hyphenated; her parents had her out of wedlock. ‘Spaz-Monk.’”
“No way!”
“I’m telling you. Isn’t that the best? ‘Shary Spaz-Monk.’ I told Dallas to marry the poor thing, if only to get rid of that awful name.”
His mother’s endless, only slightly cruel curiosity about life’s small phenomena: this was something he took for granted until he moved to the city. Not everyone takes an interest like his mother does; many people prefer to overlook the little curios of a given day.
It’s night now, and Joel is in bed flipping through an old Rolling Stone. The house is hot; the fan by the bed whips out a small, hot wind. That was the trade-off of Joel’s special, attic room: it’s his own private space, but it’s hot as fuck in summer.
He hears a dog bark once. He is back home, in the bush, once again. He could have a brain hemorrhage, or get snuffed out by some psycho trucker passing through, and nobody apart from his immediate family would know or care. His burgeoning romance with Edmund, his art — well, his process at the very least, his obvious, formidable process that could only lead to art, or something — all of that would be buried in the bush. This thought, along with an odd, looping mental picture of Donald Tait’s face made into a button, with buttonhole punctures in his drawn cheeks, brings Joel’s breath faster and faster; his heart hammers, he bolts out of bed, all sweaty now, dancing about in full frightened flight.
He calls Edmund, who answers on the first ring.
“It’s Joel. I’m back in northern Ontario. I know you’re a night owl so I thought it would be okay to call you. Is it a bad time?”
“Umm. No. Well, I am expecting a call, but I have call waiting, so it’s fine. How are you?”
“I’m feeling somewhat anxious. I don’t know why. I really needed to hear someone’s voice. To hear your voice. I’m still savouring our night together. It so blew me away. I have this buzzing sensation in my head and I’m afraid I’m about to have a brain hemorrhage. How are you? You sound much more perky.”
“I am more perky. I feel great. I feel like I’ve turned a corner.”
Someone on Edmund’s end yelps out the chorus to “That’s What Friends Are For.”
“You have company. You should’ve mentioned.”
“I have a friend staying with me. He’s very musical.”
Joel’s chest tightens. He pictures Edmund on the phone in bed, being spooned by his perfect, new lover. Was it too much to expect fidelity from Edmund after one date? Yes, probably. Joel is devastated just the same.
“I’ll let you go,” says Joel, “so you can resume lovemaking with your friend.”
“Oh, you. Too funny. Yeah. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and I’ll give you a ring when I’m free.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be okay without your pity call.”
Edmund laughs distractedly. “You’re too funny. So we’ll talk to you really soon, then.”
“Maybe. If I’m still alive.”
Edmund hangs up. Joel hurls himself onto his bed. He is without a lifeline now. He longs for eternal sleep. But first he eats three bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios and then beats off, to the thought of hands again. Cruel, faithless, roving hands.
14
THEY’VE BEEN AWAKE FOR THREE days, Edmund and Binny. Binny came back with the crystal, but he wouldn’t smoke any until Edmund agreed to try it. Edmund hadn’t heard a lot about crystal meth, but the way Binny touted it — “crystal turns my ass into the Cookie Monster! So hungry! Double penetration, fists right up to the shoulder, fuckin’ whatever! More! More! More! Andrea True realness!” — he would’ve been a fool not to give it a go. And, he figured, if he didn’t like it, the high would pass quickly, like with coke. This is what he figured, three days ago, before he smoked crystal.
Happily, he liked it! It was life changing, a glimpse of a fun, fleecy-faced God at work, apparent in the underside of every breath, every eyelash, every slat in the closed blinds in every room of his cozy, sexy house! Instantly Edmund was lucid and keen as he hadn’t been in years, if ever; as Binny spoke at length about his stable of divas, how each one represents different aspects of his personality — Diva Tina is Binny’s strength and resilience, Diva Foxy his brazen sexuality, while Diva Whitney is all about “P ’n’ P” — which, in Binny parlance, stands not for the customary “Party and Play” but “Pretty Nippy Part-tays.” Edmund found himself rapt, hanging on every word as though he were at the foot of the Buddha.
A deep, dense, unceasing fog of sex enveloped the both of them. Made impotent by the meth, they zipped over to Church Street to buy a huge double-ended dildo. Together they lay on Edmund’s increasingly greasy bed, feeding the thick thing into themselves and talking, talking, talking.
Binny wept briefly and involuntarily as he described childhood hurts — neglect and solitude in various foster homes, rape, something about a burning curling iron pressed to his forearm. Edmund pushed, but he wouldn’t say more. Edmund was thrilled by this sudden trust, this accidental closeness; he could tell it wasn’t shtick or hustler hard-sell — he’d glean that falsity instantly. No, this was real and so heady that Edmund has had to break periodically and catch his breath in the walk-in closet. Binny’s confessions aren’t all moony and speculative like with the boy from the phone line; Binny is only relaying the grimy facts of his hard life, no embroidery.
Edmund was moved to share some of his own childhood pain, baroque shit that took Dean years to extract from him: he found his morbidly obese father dead on the toilet when he was eight, after which his already delicate mother all but surrendered Edmund to their housekeeper, a German woman who hauled Edmund to church with her daily and often made him pray for the soul of “that poor man who only try to help make things nice” in World War II. Binny immediately put his headphones on, and sang along with the CD until he saw that Edmund’s mouth had stopped moving. It seems that Binny is only able to cope with his own tragic narrative at the moment. Edmund could listen to Binny talk forever: his jerky cadence, that hectic head of his, always seeking a way to tie the present moment to his inner trove of high-heeled celebrity advocates. Who cares if it’s all the product of speed and mental illness. It’s rare that you find someone you don’t want to stop talking.
Edmund has come upon a wonderful, rushing relationship, just when his life had turned to rot. He has only good things to say about Binny and crystal meth. The palpitations and sporadic anxiety are fair trade for the euphoria and the sexual glamour.
He’s pacing the study as he muses on the magic of meth. Then he notices that Binny is gone. He goes downstairs. Still no Binny. He hears a whipping sound, like clothesline laundry on a windy day. He finds Binny in the basement; he’s pretending to be a toreador, with a damp, pink bath towel for a cape. When he sees Edmund he stops.
“Eddie, I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting,” he says. “Who were you talking to on the phone?”
Edmund waves a dismissive hand. “Some kid I met off a phone line. He’s such a sad case. I feel bad for him but I just can’t take responsibility for his —”
“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it. As long as she knows that you’re MY man, ’cuz this time I know it’s for real, Diva Donna, God made AIDS because he thinks homosexuals are gross realness. Does he know that? Did you, how you say, establish that with him?”
“Yes, oh, definitely. Everyone knows that you’re my love interest. Or he does, anyway. I don’t think anyone else knows, because we haven’t really left the house yet.”
“Right on party cool. Now
, I have something very important and private that I need to share with you. Are you ready?”
“Yes. No. Wait. I’m feeling a bit barfy. Fucking Crixivan.”
“What is that? Are you hiding some party favours from your girl?”
“Huh? No. It’s my meds.” And then, without thinking: “What meds are you taking?”
“You mean, like, pills, from, like, a doctor? I don’t go to the doctor. Last doctor I saw was when my ex pushed me off the roof of Spa on Maitland and I broke all my face. Year ago.”
Edmund nods. No one is monitoring this lovely boy. He could have full-blown AIDS. Edmund will have him checked out by his own doctor, get him all set up, pay for his meds. He would be happy to do that for Binny. Grateful, even.
“We’ll get you all sorted out,” Edmund says. “Once we get you on anti-virals you’ll feel so much better.”
“I don’t want to go on anti-virals. I feel fine the way I am.”
“But you might have AIDS. You might have full-blown AIDS.”
“So? If I do, I don’t want to know about it.”
“But you should live.”
“I am living. I don’t want to start taking pills and shit, and have one of those fucking plastic pill planner things, and go to the grocery store. That’s not me. You should know that by now.”
“But what about —”
“Fuck, shut up about it! It’s so boring. She wants to lead the glamorous life, Diva Sheila, Prince protégé realness. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that I really like you and want you to be around a long time so I can get to know you better.”
“You can get to know me better right now.” Binny finds a metal folding chair and scrapes it across the concrete to the centre of the basement. He sets the chair up and sits on it, crossing his legs demurely. He holds his head at an angle, then contorts his face into a silent scream, less terrified than emphatic. He says nothing.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Edmund says.
“I’m showing you myself, my dream self that can never be,” Binny says, dropping, then resuming the scream face.
“Thank you.”
“Oh my God, what’s your problem? I’m sitting on a bare chair, singing my heart out.”
“So you want to be a professional singer?”
“I want to be a female professional singer, and songwriter, like, a Canadian treasure like Diva Buffy Sainte-Marie, I breastfed my baby on Sesame Street realness.”
Edmund wants desperately to understand Binny, at exactly the slant Binny intends, but it’s almost impossible. “So you are a transgender woman who wants to be a famous Canadian folksinger.”
“I am so not a tranny.”
“I’m sorry, Binny. I’m a dumb guy. I want to know what you mean, I really do. Could you just spell it out for me, like you would for a moron?”
Binny pauses and gathers himself. This is the most meditative Edmund’s seen him.
“Okay. I want to be a famous singer-songwriter, but only if I could be a famous female singer-songwriter. A born-female singer-songwriter. I’m not a tranny, or a drag queen. I enjoy having boy parts. I only want to be a famous female singer-songwriter, and I only want to be female when I sing. So it’s, like, a no-win situation. It’s sad. I was dealt shitty cards by the god of war or whatever.”
Edmund doesn’t really know a lot about gender issues; he’s only hung out with white gay men, whose issues mostly revolved around “learning to feel” and “daring to love again after the death of a dog.” There was the time he met up with a guy off one of the phone lines who, when Edmund got to his place, was wearing lingerie, full makeup and a wig, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Maureen Stapleton. The guy got angry when Edmund declined: “I told you I’d be dressed when you got here,” the guy huffed. “I thought you meant leather,” Edmund replied. That guy was simply a cross-dresser, though; this is the first time that someone Edmund is deeply in love with has declared himself as … a situational trans woman.
“It’s totally fine with me if you want to identify as a woman.”
Binny snorts with disgust. “I don’t want to! Do not make me smash your face in! Fuck. I’ll take it from the top. I want to be —”
Doorbell! Someone’s at the door! Who could it be? The doorbell never rings! Edmund, spooked, looks at Binny; Binny lets out a worried whinny and runs behind an old sofa propped up on its side.
“Who is that?” Edmund whispers.
“How the fuck should I know? It’s your fucking house. Oh my God — did you call the AIDS doctor? I told you I didn’t want no AIDS pills!”
“When could I have called the AIDS doctor? We’ve been together this whole time. Could it be the drug dealer? Did you give the drug dealer my address?”
“Fuck you! I told you I didn’t give him your address! Thanks for trusting me!”
“Okay,” Edmund says, attempting a deep breath. “I’ll go see.”
“I’m not here! I’m so not here!”
Edmund hugs the wall as he heads up the stairs; he takes a quick peek into the foyer, like a cop in a shoot-out. Finally, on the fourth ding of the doorbell, he makes it to the peephole. Lila.
As he opens the door he sees she holds a deep dish, still steaming. “I’m pathetic! I’m so bored at home, I couldn’t stand it. I made you that meatloaf with bacon that I made you that one time.”
“You sweet thing!” he says, not moving.
“Is it a bad time? Is it gay-sexy time? I should’ve called.”
“No! It’s not a bad time! I’m just puttering!” He should let her in. He lets her in. They go into the kitchen. She puts the meatloaf on the counter.
“It smells extraordinary! I’m so excited to sample it!”
She studies him. “Eddie, are you okay? You seem really anxious.”
“I’m great! I’m great. I drank too much coffee. Things are going really well. How are you?”
“Oh, fine. Not really. I’m so precarious emotionally these days. Marci … I mean, she’s great, but sometimes, the way she keeps talking about the baby — how it’s our top priority, the only thing that matters is the baby — sometimes I feel like I’m just an incubator to her, like … like that woman who had those babies for Michael Jackson. See, now I’m going to start bawling.”
Edmund hugs her, and she bawls into his shirt. “You’re not an incubator, sweetheart.”
“I know, I’m just … Are you sure you’re okay? Your heart is racing.”
“Hellooo!” says Binny, behind them. Edmund whips around.
“Binny! Don’t creep up like that!”
“I did not creep up. Fuck you.”
“Who is this person,” Lila asks Edmund. Binny slides his way into their open embrace; he pulls at Lila’s hand to shake it.
“I’m super rude! My name is Bernard. I’m so very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He does a campy curtsey.
“Hi. Lila.”
“Hi, Lila. I love your hair. It’s very Diva Suzanne, my name is Luka realness.”
“Thanks. Eddie, could you help me with something in the bathroom?”
“Ooh, I know what that means!” Binny hoots. “I’ll be right here.”
In the half-bath off the kitchen Lila grabs hard at Edmund’s arm. “I know this is really classist of me,” she whispers, “but that person looks really rough. I don’t feel safe in his presence.”
“He’s fine. He’s a friend. We’re having a really nice time.”
“Are you? Are you — doing, you know, hard drugs together?”
“No! My God. Well, he might be, but I’m certainly not.”
“Are you sure? Because you also seem somewhat altered.”
“No! Well, he may have — I hope he didn’t slip me something.”
“I think we should call the police.”
&
nbsp; “No! He’s really a very — he’s not an immediate threat. I can handle it, definitely. I am going to handle it very shortly.” He opens the bathroom door and tugs at her.
“Was that fun?” Binny asks. Edmund nods vigorously. He offers Lila some of her own meatloaf; she says she’s nauseous and should get home before Marci does.
“It was so fantastically wonderful to meet you, LilaSuzanne,” Binny beams as she leaves. Lila’s eyes narrow. She hunches into his face.
“I want you to know — I am aware of you. And I will be checking in. Should anything … transpire, you are being watched.”
“What do you mean? What does she mean, E? What did you say to her? Did you tell her that I’m some sort of — fuckin’ — psycho freak?”
Lila’s and Binny’s lower lips tremble in tandem. Edmund churns. This is all so unnecessary. And now the neighbours can see.
“Everyone is great,” Edmund says. “Lila is a dear old friend who is overprotective. And Binny is a dear new friend who is not psycho, who is so dynamic and not a threat at all. Okay, so you head on home now, Lila. We’ll talk to you real soon.”
“I’m just trying to be a good friend,” Lila insists as she shuffles off the porch.
“You don’t even know about friendship, ya fucking bitch!” Binny yells as Edmund closes the door.
Binny is shivering violently. His teeth chatter. Edmund hasn’t seen him like this. He wants to wrap his arms around Binny, but he’s afraid.
“Did you say mean things about me to her?”
“No. Binny. No. I’m so sorry. She’s not herself. She’s pregnant.”
“I’m not a bad person, you know. I try not to hurt people. Just because I don’t have very much money, or just because I am sometimes an escort and I party — I say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’! I’m not mean in my heart.”
Binny. Trembling bit of tinsel in a furious storm! Edmund will do anything for this lovely bit of tinsel.