by H. B. Hogan
THIS KEEPS HAPPENING
H. B. HOGAN
Invisible Publishing
Halifax & Picton
Text copyright © H. B. Hogan, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any method, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or, in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hogan, H.B., 1974-, author
This keeps happening / H.B. Hogan.
Short Stories.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-988784-11-3 (softcover).– ISBN 978-1-988784-15-1 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8615.O367T55 2018 C813’.6 C2018-905203-1 C2018-905203-X
Edited by Leigh Nash
Cover by Megan Fildes
Invisible Publishing | Halifax & Picton
www.invisiblepublishing.com
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
TARA FIRMA
Tara lay on her back in the tent. The knobby roots and hard, lumpy earth dug into her spine, but she was way too high to do anything about it. She could hear Jim lumbering around in the bush, collecting firewood. There was already a three-foot pile beside the unnecessarily large fire he’d built. The flames quivered and crackled to her left, and made the inside of her blue tent glow green.
There seemed to be a “Jim” at every bush party. That was the mark of a good party—some guy who drank too much or smoked up for the first time and spent the rest of the night crashing through the underbrush, trying to drag felled saplings out into the clearing.
“Yukinever have too mush,” he’d mumble if anyone bothered to ask him what the hell he was doing.
Tara knew that at some point Jim, cross-eyed and drooling, would either fall into the fire while pissing on it, or walk right into the centre of it and stand there till he ran back out, screaming and waving his arms, surprised at how much it hurt.
Tara listened to the swell of voices outside the nylon walls of the cheap, three-man tent. She isolated the sound of Darlene yelling about god-knows-what somewhere to the left, by the fire. And down beyond her feet, at the front of the tent, the party was building steadily as people parked on the side of the dirt road that lead to their camp site, or emerged from the bush beyond it. “Planet Caravan” warbled out of a car stereo. The bongos and the mellow, watery guitar were the perfect backdrop for twilight by a campfire. That’d be Dan’s doing, Tara thought. He paid attention to things like that, and had rigged up big stereo speakers in the back of his pickup for this very purpose. He’d stand there by his truck all night, playing all the right songs while everyone else drank to the point of chaos or unconsciousness.
Tara could hear two guys arguing about which Metallica album mattered more—Ride the Lightning or Master of Puppets. One of them said Master of Puppets was “a benchmark.” He actually said that. He must be a fucking idiot, Tara thought.
The guy labouring between Tara’s legs let out a moan and brought her attention back into the tent. Shawn. This guy’s name was Shawn. Tara studied his clenched jaw and felt his rapidly thrusting hips, and knew he’d be through in a couple of seconds. She turned her head to the right, and tried to see over the mound of coats and backpacks forming a ridge between her and the other side of the tent. She could see the profile of some other guy bobbing mechanically over her friend Michelle. Tara didn’t know the guy. Neither did Michelle.
Dan was over by the cars. He was Michelle’s older brother. Tara could hear him whooping it up with Paul, who was sort of Michelle’s boyfriend. They were out there telling tales about juvie. Shawn had just come back to town after serving three years, first in a juvenile detention centre up north of the city, then in the dilapidated maximum-security shithole downtown. That’s how Shawn ended up at this party with them—he’d met Dan and Paul in the can. Shawn had brought the other guy in the tent along with him.
Shawn stiffened suddenly and squished Tara’s ass cheeks in his hands. The meth was wearing off—she felt his nails break her skin. She watched his face freeze in that mixed mask of rage and fear men always wore when they shot their loads. To watch them, you’d think they enjoyed this even less than she did.
He pulled out of her the second he was done, tucked his flaccid, wet dick back into his jeans, and strode out of the tent while he zipped himself up. Tara heard him yell over to Dan for a beer before picking up the yarn they’d been telling, “Those goofs never woulda lasted two days on the inside.”
The guys all laughed.
Tara turned to see if Michelle’s guy was done. He was gone—must have wrapped it up before Shawn and left the tent. Tara hadn’t noticed. She could hear the snuffling sound of Michelle crying, but trying not to. Tara lit a smoke and pulled a couple of hauls off it before holding it out over the backpacks to Michelle.
“Here,” said Tara.
Michelle whispered thanks between hiccups and took the cigarette. Tara pushed her hips up into the air, reached down and pulled up her jeans, which had been scrunched around her knees. Then she rocked herself forward and left the tent. She walked over to Dan’s truck, where everyone was standing around drinking and laughing. She felt their eyes flit in her direction. They had all been standing there five minutes earlier when Shawn had given her a hit from the smoke wafting up from his foil and then walked her over to the tent for a quickie. Now he stood with his back to her, talking as if he hadn’t heard her approach.
Tara’s only currency in this group was her edge. She was reckless and people didn’t know what to make of that. Some guys liked it. Shawn had liked it. Shawn had matched it. So she knew there was only one play for her to make: she had to dominate the conversation while ignoring Shawn. Give him a reason to try and keep up with her instead of ignoring her. Except she’d already hesitated for a beat while all this social calculus rushed into the space in her head where her buzz had been.
“What do you think of Jim’s woodpile?” Dan broke her reverie. He smiled and looked her in the eye, like he could see what was going on in her head. He offered her a beer. Tara turned her back on the group, popped the can with one hand and took a long swig. She looked beyond her tent at the fire and the wall of broken branches that circled the clearing. She could see Jim’s staggering shadow flitting across the trees at the far edge of the firepit.
She wiped beer from her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “He’ll be in that fire before the end of the night.” She held out her hand for another beer and motioned with her head towards the tent. Dan nodded and handed her one.
“Good ol’ Jimmy,” he said. “Always fucking givin’ ’er.”
Tara headed towards the fire and stopped at the front of the tent to pass the beer in through the flap. She held it there for a second, then said, “Knock knock.” Michelle took the beer but said nothing.
Tara walked around to the side of the tent and sat on the damp grass, facing the fire. Darlene was making out with Michelle’s boyfriend on the other side of the fire. Tara lit a smoke and watched them. Paul mashed his tongue into Darlene’s mouth and reached down with his left hand to yank up her shirt. He broke off the kiss to suck frantically on Darlene’s boob. Darlene stared glumly over his head at Tara and took a sip of her beer without breaking eye contact.
In Tar
a’s experience, guys usually went straight for the main event and didn’t bother much with anything like kissing her or playing with her boobs. Paul must really like Darlene if he was doing all that. Sensing his audience, Paul stopped and looked over his shoulder at Tara. He swore under his breath and yanked Darlene’s arm hard enough for her to drop her beer.
“Fucker! My beer!” Darlene yelled.
“Shut it,” growled Paul, and they disappeared into the trees beyond the firelight.
For sure then, thought Tara. Paul likes Darlene.
Tara flicked her butt at the fire and closed her eyes. Her buzz was gone, which left her feeling jittery and annoyed. She could hear more people making their way up the dark trail towards the party, twigs cracking and popping under their high-tops. It seemed like there was too much going on, too many conversations, too many things for her to figure out. She tried to block out all the sounds except the car stereo, which was now pumping “Electric Funeral.” The fire burned high and hot. Tara felt the heat on her cheeks; it made her skin feel taut. Her jeans were heating up too, her knees and her shins, almost to the point of hurting, but not quite. It sharpened her focus into an uncomplicated point that obliterated everything else.
Michelle’s voice pierced her then, pleading, through the thin wall of the tent.
“Tara?”
“Yeah?” Tara said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.
Michelle was still crying. Her voice was distorted in her throat.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Michelle, her voice cracking.
Tara bit her lip. Michelle was taking in big gulps of air between her strangled sobs, and it was obvious she was at that point—the point where you start to seriously lose your shit. Tara knew that feeling well but she had no patience for it tonight. She was too preoccupied by the ugly reality of her own situation. No money, no food, nowhere to live. A backpack filled with dirty clothes, her underwear now a gross mess. Tara usually had no problem hooking up with someone new for at least a couple of days, but most of these guys already knew her and weren’t interested. She’d thought it would take Shawn longer to lose interest in her, but she’d miscalculated.
The sound of Michelle’s panic, of her struggle to breathe through her snot, made Tara want to punch Michelle’s wet, bewildered face right through the wall of the tent. It was such a fucking waste of time and energy—feeling—feeling anything at all. None of it mattered. Tara shook her head and turned back towards the fire. She could sense Michelle in the tent behind her, trembling, leaning towards Tara’s shadow, needing Tara to do what she’d always done before. Only Tara could pull Michelle up off the sheer face of whatever it was she was dangling from. Only Tara could hold Michelle tight enough while she cried, could rock her back and forth until she could feel the ground beneath her feet. This time, though, Tara said nothing. Michelle would have to figure shit out on her own. Tara was done.
Inside the tent, Michelle whimpered and bit down hard on the fatty base of her thumb as she watched Tara’s silhouette loom larger and larger up the side of the tent, till it seemed to bend right over top of Michelle, as if Tara was using her body to protect Michelle from the screams and the running footsteps that hammered the earth beyond the tent.
MR. GUPTA HAS HAD ENOUGH
“It’s your turn, Mr. Gupta.”
Mr. Gupta blinked beneath the glare of Abby, the volunteer in charge of their conversational English group. She sat in a folding chair facing him.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Abby,” said Mr. Gupta, offering his most apologetic smile. “But I am not sure this story is the right one for me.”
Abby sighed and tapped her pen against her clipboard. She wore running shoes, elasticized pants, and a tight top that revealed her muscular arms and back. Her hair was in a ponytail, and at her feet were a gym bag and a takeout cup of coffee. Despite her casual dress, she exuded control, and although Mr. Gupta suspected Abby was the same age as him, he was intimidated by her.
“Mr. Laszlo is your future employer,” Abby said. She gestured with her clipboard at Vladimir Laszlo, a heavy-set man in track pants, a fanny pack, and a muscle shirt who slouched in a chair to Mr. Gupta’s left. She pointed at the crumpled paper in Mr. Gupta’s hands. “Just follow the exercise, Mr. Gupta. Do you need help reading it?”
“Of course not, miss, but I—”
“You’re here for a job interview. Mr. Laszlo? Please begin.”
Mr. Gupta glanced down at his paper and sighed. This was his first class. His community bridging officer had told him that the government funded these free classes to help new arrivals. He’d been instructed to work on polishing his English, which Mr. Gupta knew meant reducing his accent. His temporary monthly government benefits were contingent in part on his attending government funded classes like these, so that he could prove that he was doing everything possible to gain employment. He fiddled with the lapel of his suit jacket and tried to look enthusiastic.
“Tell me, Goopa,” Vladimir said in a theatrical voice. “What makes me to hire you?” Vladimir wiped the sweat from his pock-marked face with the front of his shirt, exposing his hairy paunch. Abby averted her eyes.
Mr. Gupta smoothed his tie with the palm of his hand and cleared his throat. “Please understand, sir,” he said. “I have studied and prepared for this position for many years. I sincerely wish to be a member of your team.”
“Goopa,” said Vladimir, “what makes your Canadian work?”
Mr. Gupta raised his eyebrows and glanced at Abby.
Abby nodded. “Your Canadian work experience,” she said. Her pen hovered over her clipboard.
Mr. Gupta frowned and pulled his earlobe. He cleared his throat again and said, “It is true that I have not yet completed this task here in Canada, but I assure you, Mr. Laszlo, sir, that I am eager to do so.”
“Mr. Gupta,” Abby said. “I don’t think your enthusiasm counts as experience.”
Vladimir shook his head and looked solemnly at Mr. Gupta.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Mr. Gupta, feeling a bit hurt. He watched Abby’s pen, still poised above the clipboard. “I have not stocked any shelves here,” said Mr. Gupta. “But I would not even do so at home. That is for the maid to do.”
Abby glanced heavenward as she spoke slowly to Mr. Gupta. “This exercise is meant to facilitate your entry into the Canadian workforce, Mr. Gupta. Tell us how you’ve done this work, or if necessary, something similar to this work, here in Canada.” She bent over and picked up her coffee cup.
“Once again, I must beg your pardon,” said Mr. Gupta. “But I am an educated man. This job description is for a stock clerk in a grocery store. I would not dream of applying to a position such as this here or back home, let me assure you.”
“Well, there’s a consequence for every action, Mr. Gupta,” said Abby wearily. “You’re not at home anymore, you decided to come here. Please just stick to the script.”
“She is meaning,” said Vladimir, “Goopa, will you eat shit here?”
“Mr. Laszlo,” snapped Abby.
“You insult him with this exercise!” Vladimir bellowed, dangling his dog-eared instructions between his thumb and forefinger.
“Miss Abby,” said Mr. Gupta. He secretly agreed with Vladimir’s assessment of the script, but he was uncomfortable with the red creeping up Abby’s neck and onto her cheeks. “If I may speak, with respect—”
“Canadian shit makes for different eating, Goopa,” Vladimir said. He swept his arm in a wide arc, displaying clumps of white deodorant embedded in his armpit hair.
“Mr. Laszlo,” said Abby. “If you can’t respect our Safe Learning Covenant, you’ll have to leave.”
“You think I am stupid?” howled Vladimir. “You go.” He pointed at the door. “Find script that is help to educated immigrant. I stay here to get my cheque.”
“Please,” said Mr. Gupta as he loosened his tie. “I will enjoy this dialogue. I did not mean to start a—”
“Than
k you, Mr. Gupta,” said Abby. Mr. Gupta watched in despair as she stood up, unzipped her gym bag and stuffed the clipboard inside. “Thank you very much for degrading my work.”
“I am sorry, please— I only meant that we…” he trailed off as she made for the door.
Vladimir seemed indifferent to the fact that Abby was leaving. He frowned with concentration as he cleaned his fingernails with the arm of his sunglasses.
“Mr. Gupta,” said Abby, turning at the doorway to face the two men. “Let me tell you something.”
Mr. Gupta nodded eagerly.
Abby hung her gym bag over her shoulder and put her hand on her hip. “The universe will stop giving you these opportunities if you continue to waste them like this.” She stood there, head tilted to the side, nodding at Mr. Gupta as though she knew very well what the universe was up to.
“The universe, Miss Abby?” he asked.
“You apply to university?” asked Vladimir, who looked up from his fingernails. “Is good. They have union.”
Abby pointed at Mr. Gupta, who watched her, mystified. “I expect more co-operation on Thursday morning.” She turned and stalked out of the room.
Mr. Gupta leaned forward in his chair and cupped his forehead in his hands.
“So that is all,” Vladimir shrugged. “Is not first time she is angry.” He walked over to the card table at the end of the room, used his teeth to tear the corner off a packet of coffee crystals, and dumped the contents into a Styrofoam cup.
“Coffee is shit,” he said, filling his cup with hot water from the tap. “But to eat there is cookie. Fig Newton. My wife says is expensive.”
Mr. Gupta watched Vladimir fill his fanny pack with cookies from the box on the table.
“I leave some for you, Goopa?” he asked, extending a fistful of cookies towards Mr. Gupta.
Mr. Gupta shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Vladimir shrugged, stuffed the remaining cookies into his fanny pack, and left Mr. Gupta to listen to the plastic slats of the vertical blinds tap against the open window. Mr. Gupta glanced at his watch and saw that the class had ended a full hour early. He thought he might go for a walk before heading home.