The Luck Of Ginger Coffey

by Moore, Brian;

  "Rosy, dear/' Fox said, rapping his cane on the counter.

  Rose sent two eggs, sunny side up, flipping onto a plate. She turned, acknowledged the greeting with a nod. She was powdered and clean; she wore a white nylon coat, white rubber shoes and white lisle stockings. Under the transparent coat, a white slip. And biting tight into the soft pink flesh of her fat soft shoulders, white straps like tiny tent ropes converged to a double support of the mammary mountains trembling in bondage underneath.

  "Evening, Mr. Fox. What'll it be?"

  "Ever practical," Fox said. "We will have the usual. Three times. This is our co-worker, Mr. Coffey."

  "Pleased to meet you," Rose said. She opened a glass jar, removed three pickled eggs, put three slices of rye bread on three plates; then, turning again, looked at Coffey. "What's the matter with him?" she asked Fox.

  "He needs cheering, that's all," Fox said. "Go, lovely Rose, bring us that which cheers and doth inebriate."

  "Now watch yourself," Rose said. "The Provincials was in here last night. They'll be back."

  "We'll wu-watch it," Harry assured her. "Give us tu-two cu-Cokes to color it."

  From beneath the counter, Rose took a large paper bag, added two Coke bottles to its contents, and handed the bag to Harry. Fox led the way into a small back room near the toilet. The bag was opened and a large bottle was placed on the table. The label read: Vin Canadien-Type-Sherry. Fox uncorked it and drank several swallows. "Now, Harry," he said. "Pour the Cokes in. And if any policeman pays a call we are enjoying the pause that refreshes. Right?"

  "Right," Harry said. The Cokes were added and full glassfuls distributed. "Du-drink up," Harry said.

  Coffey picked up his drink. It tasted sweetish but not

  strong. He drank it down and poured another. Yes, what matter if he got drunk? Drink and these companions would be his future life. Down, down, down, all his boats burned. He had failed. Now he must do a far, far better thing . . .

  "Count your blessings," Fox told him. "Think of Old Billy. You have your health and strength/'

  He drank a third glass, not listening. Alone he would be, an ancient mariner who had looked for the bluebird. He would grow a feathery goatee, his voice would change, nasal and reedy. Old Ginger Coffey, fifty years a reader, a man in humble circs. He stared through the open doorway at the customers in the outer room. Humble circs, all of them. How many of them had dreamed, as he had once, of adventures, of circs not humble in the least? And what had happened to those dreams of theirs? Ah Dear God, what did you do when you could no longer dream? How did you reconcile yourself to those humble circs? "Suffering J," he said. "So this is what it's like."

  "What what's like?" Fox said, pouring.

  "The bottom. The dustbin. The end of the road."

  "Bottom?" Fox shouted. "Why, you don't know what bottom is, Paddy. Now, take me. Three years ago you could find me up the street outside Windsor Station, panhandling dimes at two in the morning. Without an overcoat, mind you, and the weather at zero. That's bottom, Paddy. Bottom is a dime. A dime and a dime and a dime until you can buy your peace of mind in the large jug of Bright's Hermitage Port. Bottom is when your clothes are too far gone for anyone not to notice, and there's no chance of a job because they do notice. Bottom is that, Paddy. Not this. Why, this is regular employment,"

  "Bottom's when you lose your wife," Coffey said thickly. "That's bottom. Bottom's when bloody liars make prom-

  ises and bloody wife-stealers run off with your wife. Bottom's this bloody country, snow and ice, bloody hell on earth — '

  "Yu-you leave Cu-Canada out of this," Harry said menacingly. "Gu-goddamn immigrants. Go on back where you came from."

  "No, we have room for all sorts," Fox said. "We're the third largest country in the world, remember. We need our quota of malcontents."

  "I'm sorry," Coffey said thickly. "Didn't mean to insult you fellows. Thinking about my wife. Not Canada. Leave Canada out of this."

  "He doesn't want to talk about Canada," Fox said. "Leave Canada out. There you have the Canadian dilemma in a sentence. Nobody wants to talk about Canada, not even us Canadians. You're right, Paddy. Canada is a bore."

  "No, I didn't mean that," Coffey said. "I'm just — listen, I've just lost my wife. And my little girl. Lost them/'

  But Fox was not listening. "Poor old Canada," he wailed. "Not even a flag to call its own. Land of Eskimo and Mountie, land of beaver and moose —"

  Coffey poured another glass and tried to stand up. Suffering J, what was in this wine, what's the matter? His legs felt like melting wax. How could he go home tonight to tell her that he would keep his word? How could he make his lonely exit in dignity, and him half drunk? Ah, dear God —

  "Sit down," Fox shouted.

  He turned towards the shouting voice, confused. "Must go," he said.

  "Sit down!" Fox's cane caught him a smart blow behind his woozy knees and Coffey sat down. "I'm speaking to you, you bogman, you!" Fox shouted.

  In trembling pain Coffey leaned across the table, inches

  from his tormentor's stubbled face. Cruel cripple doom-sayer! He bunched his fist, raising it to strike that yelling mouth —

  "Now don't hit me. Don't!" Fox shouted.

  Dully, Coffey lowered his fist. At once Fox picked up the wine jug, swinging it in a menacing sweep. "Don't you dare walk out on me," he yelled. "I can't stand people walking out on me!"

  White shoes, soundless on their rubber soles, moved up behind Fox. Rose Alma Briggs deftly caught the swinging jug. "That's enough of that," she said.

  "Oh, Rose of all the world," Fox shouted. "Go, lovely Rose."

  Rose moved behind him, reached under his armpits, set him tottering on his feet. "Out," she said. "That's an order. And this is the last time you use my place as a wine drop, any of you. Come on, Harry. Help him."

  For an instant Fox's glazed eyes grew bright with rage. He gripped his cane, raising it like a club; held it suspended over the table for a moment, then lowered it. "No," he said. "No violence. No police. No doctors. Give me liberty or give me death, right, Rose? Yes, Rose. Yes, all. Good night, all."

  Harry took his arm. Together they threaded their way among the tables of the outer room. The street door opened with a huff of wind, then banged shut as the drunkards met the winter snow, circling like lost birds on the pavement. Rose Alma turned to Coffey. "Poor man," she said. "He was in the asylum, you know. Dee-Tees." She bent and began to stack the dishes on the table. "You don't want to get mixed up with the likes of them. They're winos."

  Coffey felt for a chair and sat down. His legs were trembling, the sweat on his brow was cold, his head felt swollen and heavy. "Not mixed up," he said drunkenly. "This

  job — just a stopgap, you see. Tin a New Canadian, you see/'

  Rose looked at him. "You married?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, why don't you go home to your wife then? It's late."

  He put his hands up; felt his face fall into them. He rested his face in his hands. "My wife's leaving me," he said.

  "No wonder," Rose said, "if you carry on like this."

  "I didn't carry on. She did."

  "Maybe she had a reason; did you ever think of that? Now, go on home."

  He raised his face from his hands. Two Rose Almas stacked dishes, side by side. "A reason?" he said.

  "Carrying on like this," said the double images of Rose. "You men. Do you know what women have to put up with? Now, go on home."

  "Home?" he said. "I have no home," he told them.

  "Where do you sleep then?"

  "In my own bed. Not allowed in hers, you see."

  "Come on now." The two Roses came close to him. "This way."

  They raised him up. He tried to focus on the outer room. There were twins of all the customers. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make them come together, but they, like Rose, remained bifocal. "Come with me," Rose said. "Watch out for those girls over there. You don't want to get in trouble, now do you?"

&nb
sp; "What girls?" he said. "Where girls?"

  Rose took his arm, led him across the room, past the whores' table. "Have a girl," he said. "My own little girl. Going to lose her now."

  "No, you won't," Rose said. "Now, come on. Bus stop's right across the street. You got a ticket?"

  He nodded, not hearing, hearing only words.

  "You'll feel better tomorrow/' her voice said. "Things will look better then/'

  "No." He stopped, turned to her, his face pale and confused. Behind that large trembly dignity, behind that military fagade of mustache and middle age, Rose Alma saw his true face. Like a boy, she thought. Lost.

  "Never better now," he mumbled. "Got to give them up . . . promised . . . word of honor . . . word — of — honor. My Paulie too. Growing up. Trouble with boys. I — made mess that too."

  "Never mind," Rose Alma said. "They need you. Go home."

  She opened the cafe door and suddenly he faced the street. A gust of wind struck a nearby rooftop, whirling a powdery gust down to blind him, covering his mustache and eyebrows with a fine white granulation. Aged white in one moment, old Coffey crossed the street, stumbling over a snowbank, headed for two street lamps, each labeled with a tin sign: BUS. BUS. He was going home, wake Veronica, renounce her and then, lonely, his barque cast adrift, he would leave again, going into the Arctic night, condemned forever to this land of ice and snow, this hell on earth, alone forever in his Y.M.C.A. room . . .

  He tried to focus down the street, looking for a bus. No bus. Instead, a huge trailer truck came uphill, red warning lights aflicker, a groaning giant condemned to move at night. It drew near and, bifocally, two tiny drivers looked down on Coffey from their high-riding cabs.

  The driver looked out, saw the man standing under the lamp, tiny green hat snow-matted, his mustache and eyebrows white, peering up, a lost drunk night-face. The great truck rode on.

  A night wind crossed the frozen river, whirled along the empty ice-locked docks, rushed into the street. Coffey bent his head to the wind and, cold, confused, began to feel a natural urge which would not wait. The street was quiet. Only in the Five-Minute Lunch was there light. Still trying to focus, he peered at the buildings on his side, looking for a lane. There was no lane. But there was a large darkened doorway, some office building entrance, he thought, and there, unable to wait any longer, he stepped into the shadows.

  A police prowl car turned the corner from the railroad goods depot behind the station, its tires noiseless in the thick night snow. In the front seat, two uniformed constables looked over at Rose's place, then swept their searchlight beam along the front of the hotel opposite. The constable who was not driving rolled down the window and stopped the searchlight glare on what lie saw. In the main doorway, legs apart, head bent in humble concentration, a man.

  "Tu vois ga?" the constable said to his colleague.

  "Calvaire!" the driver said, revving his engine.

  Coffey, fumbling to adjust his dress, heard the engine sound. Still blinded by the harsh eye which had picked him out, he did not see the constable but felt a hand touch his elbow.

  "Viens id, toi" the constable said.

  "I— what?"

  The constable did not reply, but led him towards the waiting prowl car. The other constable sat quiet at the wheel.

  "What do you think you're doing?" the first constable asked.

  Coffey told him. "Just waiting for the bus, waiting a long time, you see, so I had a call of nature. I mean, there was nobody —"

  "You hadmit the oohfense?" the second constable said in a strong French-Canadian accent.

  "Well now, look here —"

  "Where do you work?"

  "The Tribune."

  Constable One looked at Constable Two. This was a matter for caution. Police and press relations. "What do you do there, sir?" said Constable One.

  "Proofreader. Galley slave."

  "C'quil dit?" the second constable asked the first.

  "Zero" said the first.

  "He's been drinkin' the wine," the second constable said, sniffing Coffey.

  "Well, I was with some friends — Look here, officer — Ah now, for the love of God, man, be fair. I'm not drunk."

  "Get in the car."

  "Ah now, we don't have to do that, we can settle this, can't we?"

  The first constable seized Coffey's left wrist and jerked it up against his back, bending Coffey double. In that way he was led towards the car. "Get in!"

  So he got in and the first policeman got in the back beside him. The car started its engine, the police radio crackled and the driver made a report to radio control as they drove through the deserted streets. The report was in French, so Coffey did not understand it.

  At the police station they made him wait. He sat on a bench, staring at a room full of two-headed policemen. Veronica must not know. Paulie must not know. Must get out of this. Just a fine or a warning, probably. Now see here, Sergeant . . . Reason with them. Och, now, listen to me sergeant, married man, little girl and wife, one over the eight, no harm meant, hmm?

  But still . . . there were so many tabloid weeklies in this cursed city. Suppose it were reported in one of them. All full of rape they were, and other sexual misdemeanors . . .

  He exhaled, feathering up the ends of his large mustache. IMMIGRANT CHARGED WITH DISORDERLY CONDUCT. A nice thing for Paulie to see. Nice thing indeed. Flute! You're not going to let that happen, are you? Not likely. He'd give a false name, that's what he would do. False name, that was the ticket. With any luck he'd get a fine and be home by morning. Right, then!

  The double images had diminished to single ones by the time he was called up to the sergeant's desk. "Name and address?" said the sergeant.

  "Gerald MacGregor," Coffey said, and gave the address of Madame Beaulieu's duplex.

  The desk sergeant started a long conversation in French with the radio car officers. They reached an agreement. "Okay," the sergeant said to them. He turned to Coffey. "We're not booking you on a vag," he said. "We're going to book you for indecent exposure. That's the charge."

  "Wait a minute, sergeant," Coffey said. "Couldn't we settle this here — it was all an accident. A mistake."

  "Now, put all what's in your pockets in this bag," the sergeant interrupted.

  "Ah now, wait sergeant —"

  "And take your tie off."

  "Ah, sergeant, ah now, listen, I'm an immigrant here, I didn't know it was any crime —"

  "And give me your belt."

  "Sergeant, did you hear me? Listen — I'm a married man with a little girl. Ah God, you've no right to enter a thing like that in the record/'

  "Prends-lui" the sergeant said to the jailer. "Numero Six."

  The jailer took him in the back and led him down a flight of stairs. A detective was coming up. They stopped to let him pass. The detective, a fat young man with a crew cut and a mustache almost as large as Coffey's, stopped and said: "Le gars, cquil a fait, lui?"

  The jailer laughed. "A fait pisser juste dans la grande porte du Royal Family Hotel"

  "Oh-hoh!" the detective said, grinning at Coffey. "What's de matter? You don' like the English, eh? Or the Royal Family? Or maybe you just don* like the hotel?"

  "What — what do you mean?" Coffey said. "What does he mean?" he asked the jailer.

  "Move your ass," the jailer said. He pushed Coffey towards the last flight of steps, led him along a corridor and unlocked the door of a cell. There were two men sleeping inside. Coffey, undignified, holding up his trousers with both hands, made one last appeal to justice. "Listen to me," he said. "Please, will you let me speak to the sergeant again?"

  "Don' piss on de other boys in here," the jailer said, shoving him in. "Dey won' like it."

  The cell door shut. The lock turned. The jailer went back upstairs. Sick, Coffey let his trousers sag as he groped for and found a bench. He sat down, hearing the harsh cough of his cellmate. The cell was clean but stank of beer or wine or something. Or, was it he who . . . ? He did
not know. One floor above him he heard the policemen walking about, talking, laughing at an occasional sally or bit of horseplay. Up there, just one flight of stairs, men were free. While down here — Oh God! Childish memories of being shut in a closet, of calling out to playmates who had run away, of beating on the door, unan-

  swered: these swam in on him now, making it impossible to say Chin up, Steady as she goes, or any of the rest of it. Ever since he could remember he had read of prison sentences in secret dread. Jail. Yes, they could send him to jail. O God, he prayed. . . .

  O Who? What did God care, if there were a God? Or was it God who had pulled the rug out, once and for all, who had now decided to show him once and for all that he had been a lunatic to have hopes, that his ship would never come in, that he had lost his wife and child forever?

  Steady. Steady as she goes, he told himself. Don't panic. Steady on there.

  But it was no good. Upstairs, the policemen broke out another round of laughter. He put his face in his hands, his lower teeth biting into the hair on his upper lip. Ah no, no, there was no sense blaming a God he could not believe in, there was no sense blaming anyone. Vera was right. He was to blame. If he had been content with his lot at home, he would never have come out to this cursed country. If he had never come out here, he would not have lost Veronica to Grosvenor; Paulie would not be running around with young hoodlums older than she. If he had not come out here, he would not be a proofreader with no hope of advancement, he would not be in jail tonight. Why hadn't he gone straight home? Whose fault was it he was drunk? His fault.

  Yes, his fault. What a bloody fool he had been giving that wrong name and address. They had put his belongings in a bag but if they looked in his wallet they would crucify him. He should call out now, go upstairs, apologize, get a lawyer, tell them his real name . . .

  He went quickly to the cell door and peered out of the small Judas window at the corridor. The window was thick-glassed, with a wire netting grille. He could see no one. He stepped back, trying to peer sideways down the

  corridor and, as he did, he saw his own face, angled in the reflection from the glass pane. He stared at that sad impostor, at that hateful, stupid man. Yes, look at you, would you? You that promised you would drop out of sight. You that would do a far, far better thing, look at youl What sort of man would call out now, what sort of man would disgrace Veronica and Paulie because he was afraid of being locked up?