Taking Stock

by Scott Bartlett

  “Yeah?”

  In the background, the buzz of conversation.

  “Hi, my name’s Sheldon. I work with Casey at Spend Easy, and he needs someone to drive him to the hospital. He cut himself pretty bad.”

  “Why don’t you drive him?”

  “Me? I don’t drive.”

  Casey’s roommate sighs. “Well, I don’t feel like driving him either.”

  “You don’t feel like it?”

  “I’m not his chauffeur, okay? I’m his roommate. Is he dying, or something? Can he still pay rent?” Someone laughs in the background. “If he bleeds to death, I’ll have to post another ad.”

  “He’s going to need stitches.”

  “I can’t drive. I’m drinking. Mitch, pour me a shot of that. Pass that here.” There’s a slurping sound. “I’m drinking, dude.”

  I hang up.

  Casey comes down the stairs, cradling his hand. “What did he say?”

  “Uh, he’s busy. Is there anyone else?”

  Lesley-Jo walks through the red doors and comes around the corner. Her eyes widen when she sees Casey. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  “He needs stitches.”

  “Do you have someone to bring you to Emergency?” she says.

  Casey’s bottom lip is quivering.

  “You poor thing! Come with me, I’ll take you. It’s not very busy. They can do without me for a half hour. Sheldon, can you tell them where I’m going?”

  I nod. Casey gets his coat from a pallet and gingerly pushes his injured appendage through a sleeve. He follows Lesley-Jo through the red warehouse doors.

  *

  Paul says he’s halfway through his first draft, and he asks me to come to his house and have a look at what he’s written. I’m not sure how he knows he’s halfway without having finished the book, but I decide not to ask.

  He lives in a large two-story house with his parents. “They’re vacationing, right now,” he says. “I’m having a Christmas party while they’re away—gonna invite people from Spend Easy. Doesn’t seem like Frank’s throwing a staff party, so I figure I might as well. You should come.”

  “Sure.” It will be my first party ever, but I don’t tell Paul that.

  He offers me a drink from the bar he says his dad installed last year. I take a beer, and he leads me to what used to be his video games room. “It’s my writing room, now. All the time I used to spend gaming—probably six hours a day—I write fiction instead. I gave up my blog, and my journal, too.”

  “You write six hours every day?”

  “Yeah. I tend to get obsessive about stuff.”

  There’s a tiny desk, in the shape of a quarter circle, shoved into the corner. His manuscript’s the only thing on it. I walk over, pick it up, and settle into an armchair.

  Paul sits across the room, watching me read. I pretend not to notice. After a couple pages, I chuckle, and he says, “What made you laugh?”

  I clear my throat. “Um, the part with the employee who’s told he looks like Toby Maguire, so he starts acting like him. I like what Saul says—that the guy basically copied and pasted Maguire’s personality.”

  Paul smiles. “Cool. Thanks.”

  I try to continue reading, but I’m having trouble concentrating. Paul’s manuscript feels so bulky in my hands. How many words is this? Have I written this many words in my life?

  I told Bernice I wanted to improve my confidence, in order to write more. I feel like I’m doing a bit better, socially, but I haven’t written a word. Seeing Paul dive straight into novel writing, unflinching, and get this far this fast…something about that makes me angry.

  I pretend to read a few pages more and then I toss the manuscript back on the desk. “I’m impressed, Paul. It isn’t complete garbage.”

  His smile falters.

  I head for the porch. As I’m putting on my coat and sneakers, he thanks me for coming over.

  “Sure,” I say. Before I leave, I get the urge to say something nice. I feel sort of lousy. But I can’t think of anything. “I’ll see you at the party.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I stand on the sidewalk in front of Paul’s house for at least 5 minutes, hidden from view by a big leafy maple, holding a half case of beer. I can hear the party from out here.

  I’m not sure I can exactly call anyone at Spend Easy my friend. Will they be glad to see me, or indifferent?

  I take a deep breath and step into the driveway.

  Someone left the door open. I enter the porch, and find Casey leaning against the wall, eyes closed, a bottle of wine dangling from his hand. As I’m untying my shoes the wine starts to fall, and I catch it. Casey glances down at me.

  “Sheldon Mason,” he says, pronouncing each syllable with great care. “Here’s a man with a high case count.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s slackers in there.” He jerks his thumb toward the hall. “They should be thrown out!” He shouts this, and swings his arm around to point at the door, nearly swiping me across the face in the process.

  “Think so?”

  “I need a coffee.” He walks outside, not bothering with shoes.

  “Do you want your wine?”

  He points back at me without looking. “Keep it secret. Keep it safe.”

  I put it in the corner and take off my other shoe. Jay-Z booms from deeper inside the house. As I walk down the hall, a door opens to my right, and Donovan emerges. “Sheldon! Follow me.” He leads me to Paul’s gaming/writing room and lifts a cloth draped over an end table. “Hide your beer here. There’s a Produce employee skulking around this party. He’ll probably try and steal our beverages.”

  “Won’t they get warm?”

  “Yes, so drink three or four right away. After that, you won’t care.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “When you drink all your beer, come find me. I have a couple shots of tequila with your name on them.” He heads farther down the hall. The Scissor Sisters pick up where Jay-Z left off.

  Gilbert, Matt, and a guy I don’t know are sitting on the couch, and Paul is in the armchair. The three on the couch are holding Nintendo controllers. They’re playing Bomberman.

  The current match ends, and Matt says, “I suck at video games.”

  Gilbert notices me standing in the doorway. “Hey.”

  “Hey Sheldon,” Paul says. “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand. Who’s winning?”

  “Gilbert. For now.”

  Paul challenges Gilbert in Call of Duty, and for a while I watch them vie for supremacy. They seem pretty evenly matched. Eventually I decide to explore the rest of the party, so I grab another beer and head into the hall.

  There are three people lined up to use the washroom. Lesley-Jo’s one of them, and she asks if I’ve seen Casey.

  “He went to get a coffee. He’s not back yet?”

  “I haven’t seen him. The nearest place to get coffee is a half hour walk. Oh my.”

  “How many stitches did he end up getting?”

  “Seven.”

  In the living room, they’re playing a drinking game at the bar, and in the kitchen, they’re playing Poker. The guy from Produce is leaning against the counter by himself. I walk over.

  “Hey,” I say. “Vern, right?”

  “Yeah. You’re Sheldon.”

  “Do you know many people here?”

  “Well, from work.”

  “You probably wish there were more here from Produce.”

  Vern glances sideways, toward the Poker game. “Actually, I’m not here as a Produce employee. I’m here as Paul’s friend.”

  “Of course.”

  “That said, it’s been a real honour, rubbing shoulders with you Grocery guys. Excuse me. I need another drink.” He leaves the room.

  I remain leaning against the counter, watching money change hands around the table. After a few minutes, Casey enters the kitchen and stumbles over to me, clutching the counter with both hands.

  “Les
ley-Jo was looking for you,” I say.

  “I know. I just escaped her.”

  “Why’d you want to escape?”

  He doesn’t reply. He stares into the sink and belches. God, he’s drunk.

  Someone sitting on this side of the table is holding four kings. “All in,” he says.

  Casey looks at me and says, “Know what bothers me about people?”

  “What?”

  “Their annoying tendencies. Where’s my wine?”

  “Porch. How was your coffee?”

  “Couldn’t find a store.” He turns on the water and drinks from the tap, gargles, and spits. “She asked me to add her on Facebook.”

  “Lesley-Jo?”

  “Wants to keep tabs on me. Browser tabs.”

  “Are you going to add her? She seems nice.”

  “She’ll want me to change my relationship status, next.”

  “She asked you out?”

  “Not yet.” He turns around, his back to the sink. “She will, though. She’ll want me to say I’m ‘In a relationship’ on Facebook, so that once we have kids, other women will know to stay away.”

  “What?” He’s making me not want to be near him. He’s making me want to avoid him for the rest of the party.

  His voice is getting louder. “She’s trying to turn me into a vegetable. I won’t have it.”

  Everyone sitting at the table stops playing and looks at Casey.

  “Don’t fall in love,” he tells them. “It’s a trap!” He stomps out of the kitchen.

  They look at me. If they want an explanation, I’ve got nothing for them. “I need another drink,” I say.

  Walking down the hall, I become aware that I’m grinding my teeth.

  Other than Gilbert and Matt, the game/scribbling room is empty. I grab a beer and walk toward a chair.

  “You can sit by me, Sheldon,” Matt says. “There’s lots of room on the couch.”

  “The chair is fine, thanks.” I sit.

  Matt says, “That was kind of gay, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I asked you to sit with me. It doesn’t really matter where you sit.”

  Gilbert and I exchange glances.

  “You know, I could be gay,” Matt says. “I don’t find girls all that attractive. And I have these dreams, sometimes.”

  “Look, Matt,” Gilbert says. “See the blank expression Sheldon is wearing right now? Take a few seconds and study that expression. Learn to recognize it. And the next time you see it on someone’s face, just stop talking.”

  “I haven’t seen Brent,” I say. “What’s he doing tonight?”

  “No clue,” Gilbert says.

  “Was he invited?”

  Gilbert shrugs.

  I finish my beer and grab another. The second I sit down again, Donovan comes in and points at me with the hand holding a drink. “That your last one?”

  “It’s my fourth.”

  “Whatever. Follow me.”

  I follow him to the kitchen, and he lines up a couple tequila shots on the counter. “I hope you’re not about to ask me for a slice of lemon, or some shit,” he says.

  “I’m not.”

  “Good—I only have enough for myself.” He opens the fridge and takes a lemon slice from a little plate on the top shelf. He licks his hand, shakes some salt onto it, and picks up the shot. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  He licks the salt, takes the shot, and sucks on the lemon. I throw mine back and fight to keep a straight face. Donovan gags. “Delicious,” he says. He sips some beer, and I do too.

  Cassandra comes into the kitchen, sees me, and squeals. “Sheldon!” She runs over and hugs me, pressing her head into my chest. “We finally get to party together.”

  “I think this is my cue to leave,” Donovan says.

  “I just came from another party.” Cassandra says. “I’m already drunk.”

  “That’s awesome. Where’s Sean?”

  She lets go of me. “I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.”

  “I need to use the washroom.”

  “Okay. Talk to you after?”

  “Maybe.”

  Entering the washroom is like stepping into another world. Music and conversation become muffled once I shut the door, and I’m left alone with my thoughts, as well as the taste of tequila in the back of my throat. It’s like a brief intermission where I realize how drunk I am.

  When I leave the washroom, I find Casey waiting to use it.

  “Hey.”

  “Did you wash your hands?” he says.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I didn’t hear the water running.”

  “I washed them.”

  “Did you use soap?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you pay special attention to your wrists and fingertips?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  His mouth turns downward at the corners. “You disgust me.” He goes in and slams the door.

  I grab another beer and make my way to the living room. Paul calls out to me from the bar. “Sheldon! Come have some Gladiators with us.”

  I walk over. “Some what?”

  “Gladiators. Half a shot of amaretto mixed with half a shot of Southern Comfort, dropped in a mixture of 7UP and orange juice.”

  “Are you sure that’s what gladiators drank?”

  “You’ll love it.” He makes me one.

  Gilbert, Cassandra, and Paul are all standing around the bar. “Cheers!” We all drink.

  Silence.

  “That was anticlimactic,” Gilbert says.

  “Ooh, that’s a big word,” Cassandra says. “Did they teach you that in your Philosophy degree?”

  I look at Gilbert. “You have a Philosophy degree?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “He would have a Philosophy degree,” Cassandra says. “If he did one more course.” She holds up a finger, to indicate ‘one’.

  “Why don’t you, then?” I say.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for the vast riches that await me.”

  Casey drinks even more, and is soon so drunk that he shuts down the party. He ends up in the backyard with an armful of drinking glasses, smashing them one by one against the fence. Paul’s already called a cab to come collect him, but until then he asks me and Gilbert to help restrain him. Gilbert tells Cassandra to watch for the cab, and we put on our shoes and head out back.

  “Casey,” Gilbert says. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry,” Casey says. “It’s under control. I’m breaking all the glasses, and then I won’t be able to drink any fucking more.”

  “You were drinking from a wine bottle, earlier,” I say.

  “Wine’s gone. All I have left is Lamb’s.”

  “Paul has plastic cups too,” Gilbert says. “You can’t break those.”

  Casey falters. “We could melt them.”

  “Do you have a lighter?”

  “No. Do you?”

  Gilbert shakes his head.

  “Damn it.”

  Casey puts the glasses down on the grass. We get him into the house and onto a couch. He’s passed out by the time a cab arrives. Gilbert takes Casey’s phone from his pocket, looks through the Contacts, finds “Mom”, and calls her. He gets her address, and says her son is on the way. We carry him out to the taxi.

  Most of the guests are gone by now, and the rest of us gather in the living room to watch TV. I sit on the floor against the wall, and after a few minutes Cassandra sits beside me and takes my hand. She holds it in her lap and strokes it.

  I don’t talk to her, and I don’t look at her. But I don’t pull away, either.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gilbert and I are at the coffee shop again, at a table near the window, with drinks he purchased sitting between us. He just finished his shift, but he offered to take me here on my break before he went home.

  I have a fierce headache.

  “You and Cassandra were getting pretty cozy last night,” he says. He sips his
coffee and peers at me over the rim.

  “I didn’t do anything. She came over and took my hand.”

  “Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?”

  “Probably.”

  “Did you hook up after the party?”

  “No. God, no. And I only let her take my hand because I was drunk.”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we change the subject?”

  “Only if you have something more interesting to talk about.”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Wait. I have something. I think Frank smokes pot.”

  His coffee halfway to his lips, Gilbert puts it back on the table. “What are you talking about?”

  “The guy who lives in the apartment above me is a dealer. I saw Frank leaving there this morning. Pretty funny.”

  “Does Frank know you saw him?” Gilbert says.

  “I don’t think. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  *

  Bernice says I should be proud of the progress I’ve made with Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.

  She thinks I’m pretty quick picking up the techniques. There are four steps: identifying problematic situations; becoming aware of thoughts, emotions, and beliefs about these situations; identifying negative or inaccurate thinking in response to the situations; and challenging the negative or inaccurate thinking. There have been worksheets and exercises for each step, and we’ve already progressed to the last one.

  Once I’ve ‘mastered’ CBT, I’ll be able to mentally apply all four steps, in a matter of seconds, during the actual situations. In theory, anyway.

  During each session with Bernice, I come up with examples from my life where the techniques I’m learning might have come in handy. I figure the first party I’ve ever attended should provide an excellent source for today’s session.

  “Casey was at the party,” I say. “A guy I work with. He was super drunk—he kept ranting about how women use Facebook to keep track of their boyfriends, or something. It was embarrassing.”

  “How did it make you feel, listening to that?”

  “Well, embarrassed, like I said. I tried to change the subject a few times, but he wouldn’t quit it—it was like he was intentionally trying to piss me off. There were people at the kitchen table playing cards, and I was worried they’d think I’m Casey’s friend. Not to say I’m not his friend. But I was afraid they’d associate his behaviour with me.”