Night Town

by Cathi Bond

I did, out of habit and respect, but the other speeders remained in their seats.

  Al recommended the judge deliver maximum sentences because of the severity of the crimes. The street dealers got two years each. Vic got five and Cope would have too, but since he didn’t have a record the judge handed down three. I thought Charlene would die, she was crying so hard until a young woman with a baby in her arms shot to her feet.

  “Please, your honour!” she cried. “I need my husband to provide for me and my baby.”

  “What?” Charlene shouted, as Cope shrank into the prisoner’s box. “You bastard! You told me you loved me!” Then she went even crazier and took off her shoes, whipping them at Cope.

  The judge slammed down the gavel, warning Charlene to settle down, as the court was adjourned and Cope was dragged off to jail. Al picked up Charlene’s shoes and brought them over.

  “You should have given him life,” she said.

  “If it was up to me I would.”

  Then he turned to me. “Have you seen Hermann?”

  “No,” Charlene replied. “And if we did we’d run the other way.”

  Al handed me a card. “If you change your mind call me.”

  I stuffed it in my pocket, but there was no way I’d ever call. Nobody screwed with Hermann. I just wanted to drop out of sight and prayed he forgot all about me.

  Charlene and I walked out of the courtroom onto the steps of Old City Hall. Everything was different now. My best friend was in prison, Hermann was missing and a long drought was on. The choice was simple. It was time to quit.

  We had no access to downers or money for booze so we spent that day tearing through the flat, pulling every pocket inside out, hunting through coats, turning drawers upside down, rooting through garbage cans, looking for the dregs of any old speed we could find. I slit plastic baggies open with a razor blade, scratching away any white film that hid in the corners or clung to the sides. Charlene doused used filters with water, trying to coax out even a single hit. There wasn’t enough to properly get us off, but it kept the monsters at bay for a day. After that, we stepped off the edge of an endless chemical run into the nightmare of a full out crash.

  I sat at the window staring out a crack in the blind, just as paranoid about Hermann as he used to be about me. Shapes on the street constantly shifted. Mailboxes transformed into goblins and normal pedestrians turned into trees that twisted into ladders that stretched up to our window. Then Hermann was climbing the rungs, face in the glass, gun in his hand. Charlene sat in a ball on the sofa, rocking back and forth and crying. We couldn’t survive like this. We’d been strung out too long.

  The next day I was knocking at the door of the rotting girl. Maybe she had some left. I kept glancing around, terrified that Hermann was watching. I’d taken the subway across town and run up an alley behind Main. Nobody answered. I sniffed at the door jamb. The rotting girl might already be dead or Hermann might be in there with his gun. My whole body shook with need. I looked up and down the street, knocking even harder until I heard a rustle coming down the hall. The door opened a crack and an eye peered out. The chain was on.

  “Can I come in?”

  The rotting girl weighed the idea. I could see her mind say no.

  “Please.”

  The chain dropped, the door opened and the girl pulled me into the foyer. Making sure the deadbolt was on, I followed her down the narrow hallway into the dark living room. A bag of speed sat on the coffee table. My heart jumped. She still had some left.

  “I can give you a hit but that’s all. I don’t have enough to sell.”

  The white rocks glistened as she squirted water into the spoon. I swallowed, already imagining the smell of green apples and feeling the rush, the Niagara Falls-speed rush that swept me away. I sat down, waiting, watching her mash the meth and thought of how many hits I’d done over the last nine months and how I didn’t remember most of it, because everything had all been the same. Days of nothing but speed and needles, floating up and flying around in the clouds of drug heaven and then crashing down, punctuated by painful hours of desperate, screaming need.

  Speed was all I wanted anytime, anyplace, anywhere. That’s all there’d been. That’s all I was now. It wasn’t heroic or death defying and it certainly wasn’t cool. I’d been such an idiot –a stupid, blind asshole. Cool is the last thing I was. In fact, I wasn’t really anything but dead while still technically alive and walking the earth. Dad would have said this was the behaviour of a parasite in suspended animation. The girl’s hands trembled.

  “You want me to hit you up?” I asked.

  She nodded, handing me the syringe. I wouldn’t look at her arm. The smell was worse. I tied her off and asked for a favour. She nodded, anxious for the syringe.

  “You got any downers?”

  “The shelf in the bathroom.”

  She stuck her arm out. I could see where she’d been stabbing at it, trying to mainline with her left hand and missed. Little abscesses bubbled and the surrounding skin was scabby.

  “You might want to try your wrists.”

  “Blown out.” She gave me a wry smile. “Hurry up.” She’d been pretty once.

  So I did. The intoxicating scent of green apples rushed out of her nose and my heart skipped and my body begged me to stay, but I dropped the fit on the table, went into the bathroom and cleaned her out of every downer she had in the house, everything except a bottle of blue Valium. If the rotting girl ever decided to come back to earth she’d need something to soften re-entry. I closed the front door behind me. It was time to get normal.

  A rectangle of white light woke me up and I could smell eggs. I really had to pee. Getting out of bed, I scratched my head. My hair was itchy, but the paranoia was gone. How much time had passed? Charlene was sitting cross-legged on the sofa eating a huge helping of scrambled eggs and watching General Hospital. That meant it was after three o’clock. I rubbed my eyes.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “A day and a half,” Charlene replied, taking another big bite of egg.

  We were down.

  My jeans struck the tiled floor as I sat on the toilet seat, but the moment I started to pee I howled. The pain felt like rubbing alcohol splashed on a burn. Doubling over, clutching my stomach, I tried to breathe through my nose. When my bladder emptied the pain stopped, but I had no idea as to the cause. There was no blood on the toilet paper or in the urine. I scrubbed my face and hands. It must have been some kind of bug.

  My stomach growled and I felt shaky. “Are there any eggs left?”

  Charlene shook her head, shoveling the last forkful of food into her mouth. I poked my head in the fridge. There was a loaf of bread and a pound of bacon in the keeper. I dumped all the bacon into the frying pan. I couldn’t remember when I’d ever been that hungry, and by nightfall Charlene and I had devoured every morsel in the house.

  Charlene sat in the window chain smoking, glaring out at the skyline.

  “He has a wife,” she said, tossing her butt out the window.

  I sat on the counter trying to figure out what to do. It was no minor bug. I was running a high fever.

  Charlene turned to me, so sad. “I loved him, you know.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since always.”

  “Me too,” I replied, stroking the soft red fabric of my cowboy shirt.

  Charlene began pacing the room. Clip clop, clip clop, her wooden wedges struck the hardwood floor. Her hair was greasy and stuck down on top and she had a funky smell. Charlene needed a bath. I probably did too. My jeans were filthy.

  “I want more food,” Charlene bitched. “I don’t think I’ve had anything to eat in over two years.”

  We both laughed. I couldn’t remember my last real meal either. In fact I couldn’t even remember how long I’d been stoned. All I knew was that I was going to be seventeen soon, and that meant I’d been out on the street nearly a year.

  “Now all I can think of is food,” Charlene said,
slapping her stomach. “And I’m going to get a big fat belly and you know what? I don’t give a shit because I’m never fucking another guy.”

  “I give you a week.”

  She sat down beside me and took my hand. “Can you be a virgin again?”

  “I think once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

  “You’re hot,” she said.

  I smiled at her.

  “I’m serious, Maddy, your hand is hot.”

  There was a loud knock at the door. We stared at each other.

  “I know you’re home.”

  My hand went up to signal quiet, but the landlady didn’t go away. She opened the door with the master key, hair twisted into a sloppy beehive and an apron tied around her waist.

  “I want you girls out.”

  Charlene reminded her we were paid up for another week.

  “There was a strange character asking for you last night.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Blond. Cowboy boots. Not the sort I want around my house.”

  Hermann.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you’d moved weeks ago.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I don’t know, but I want you out.”

  In less than five minutes, Charlene and I were on the street with everything that we owned stuffed into two green garbage bags.

  Charlene’s garbage bag landed on the sidewalk. “That bitch should have given us back the rent.”

  Steady drizzle was threatening to turn into a full out late summer storm. Lily and Gabe were nowhere around. The newspaper boy who always worked The Steps had just sold his last paper. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen and I always wondered why he wasn’t in school.

  “See Lily around?” I asked.

  The boy pointed up the billboard for The Green Door. “She got a job.”

  Charlene glared at the sign. “Whore house? No way.”

  “I’m going to borrow some money,” I said, stepping out into traffic.

  A horn blared. Charlene flipped the car the finger and reluctantly followed, dragging the garbage bag behind her.

  The lime neon sign at the top of a tall, rickety staircase read: “The Green Door.” Faded pin-ups of topless girls covered the walls on either side. Inside the body rub lounge there were sofas, a couple of puffy chairs and coffee tables with tin ashtrays and girlie magazines. A sign reading “Rules of the Management” hung over the manager’s wicket. The rules were: “No Extras, No Touching the Girls and Money Up Front.” I wondered what extras were.

  A pretty girl lay on the sofa. She lit a cigarette and asked me if I wanted a rub.

  “No, thank you,” I replied, trying not to sound judgmental.

  The girl had green hair with green eyes, green fingernails and wore ripped black pantyhose, fake black eyelashes and angry swipes of thick black eyeliner. She was stuffed into a bright green bustier and mini skirt.

  “Sit,” she said and I dropped down beside her, grateful to rest. My brain felt light, but my body was heavy.

  Charlene remained on her feet, hands on her hips. “Who are you?”

  “Helen,” the girl replied, blowing a thick plume of smoke at Charlene. She was about eighteen. Helen took my hand and held it.

  “You’re hot.”

  I smiled weakly.

  “You’re scared,” she added.

  “No I’m not,” I lied, yanking my hand away.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  There was something kind in Helen’s voice beneath the edge. A pudgy middle-aged guy with mousy brown hair appeared in the wicket. He was wearing a short-sleeved beige shirt with a white pocket protector. Leaning across the counter, he rubbed his hands, grinning at Charlene. He practically had no lips.

  “I’m Ivan. Pleasure to meet such lovely young ladies such as yourselves.”

  Charlene glowered. I told him we were there to see Lily.

  Ivan looked at the clock on the wall. “Should be out any minute. Unless of course things go over,” he said, rubbing his hands even harder.

  Helen started humming “Ziggy Stardust”.

  “David Bowie’s a fag,” Charlene said. “The Eagles are a real band that writes real music.”

  Helen turned to me. “Your friend’s a no taste fat cow.”

  Charlene dropped her bag to the floor. “Listen, bitch.”

  I reached out and touched Helen’s bare shoulder to stop her from getting up. I didn’t have the strength to stop a fight.

  “We just need some money and we’ll go,” I said.

  Helen’s skin was soft.

  While Charlene grumped around the lounge like a Presbyterian church lady, I tried to change the topic, asking Helen about David Bowie. Obviously fascinated, Helen sat up straight, crossed her legs and launched into a speech about glam.

  “Everyone’s either asexual or bisexual.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  A puff of smoke came out. “I used to be gay, but now I’m asexual. Working here will put you off sex for life.”

  Sure Helen had green hair, but she was definitely pretty. Was she really gay? And what was the real colour of her hair?

  “You’d be kind of cute if you cleaned yourself up,” she said.

  The downstairs bell jangled. Ivan poked his head out the wicket. “Sit up straight. Somebody’s coming.” Footsteps thumped up the steps. “Hurry up,” he whispered, scowling at Helen.

  Helen repositioned her tits in the bustier, leaned back and posed. A couple of men arrived in the room, looking for a body rub. One smiled eagerly at Charlene.

  “Pig,” she hissed, snatching up her garbage bag and heading towards the stairs.

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt too sick to stand, but Lily was still with her customer. I grabbed my bag of clothes and followed Charlene.

  “Wait a minute,” Ivan said. “If you need a job, come back. I can always use new talent and the pay’s good.”

  Helen was still reclining on the sofa as a man perched on either side, staring at her tits. She gave me an easy smile, while her boobs powered that room like a nuclear reactor.

  “I can’t believe you’d talk to that,” Charlene snapped, walking backwards up Yonge Street with her thumb out. “We’ll go and see a friend of mine. She’ll take us in.”

  But nobody stopped so we had to walk all the way in the rain. When Charlene’s friend saw us in the doorway, dirty, soaking wet, with garbage bags in our hands, she knew she’d never get rid of us. She knew we’d eat her food, drink her booze and probably rip her off, and she would have been right.

  “I’m sorry Charlene. The old man’s home,” the girl said, nervously looking over her shoulder.

  The door was open, and down the hall a bunch of guys were drinking beer and playing cards. Every once in a while somebody shouted, “Get your ass back in here!”

  When the girl closed the door in our faces Charlene finally lost it. She stood out in the front yard and whipped the garbage bag in circles over her head screaming about Cope breaking her heart and how everybody screwed her over and she never ever got ahead. That was it. Even if her father beat the shit out of her, she was going home to see her mother. There was no way she was going to work in some body rub parlour and whore herself out.

  “No fucking way!” Charlene screamed as I sat and waited for her to calm down.

  While Charlene yelled I checked my pulse. It was fast and jumpy, probably came from coming off the speed. The irregularity would eventually pass. After about ten minutes Charlene had worn herself out and she’d come up with another plan.

  “We can stay with my cousin. She won’t turn us away. Let’s go.”

  It took nearly three hours. Past diners and late night cab stands and wrecking yards full of snarling, white-fanged dogs crashing into rusted chain link fences. Charlene kept throwing away pieces of clothing to lighten her load. Every one she discarded was accompanied by some swearing about Cope. He must have given her everythi
ng she owned.

  By the time we reached her cousin’s apartment building we were both ready to drop. She pressed the buzzer. Nobody answered. She pressed it again. Nothing. Charlene didn’t have any angry tears left. We hung around waiting until a couple of kids came out. We snuck in behind them, took the elevator to the ninth floor and walked down to apartment 917.

  Charlene knocked and softly called out, “It’s Charley. Let me in.” But nobody opened the door. Charlene pulled what was left of her clothing out of the garbage bag and made a pillow for herself on the floor and told me to do the same. “We’ll just rest our eyes for a bit,” Charlene said, dropping onto the carpet. “And then I’m going home. I swear to God I’m going home,” she mumbled.

  I sat beside her and nearly lay down. I sure wanted to, but something inside me couldn’t. If I did I might not get back up. I knew by now I was running a really high fever and if I didn’t take care of myself I would be no better than the rotting girl, sitting alone in that house waiting to die. I had to pull myself up, force myself up and keep moving, because there was no way my life was going to end dead on the floor of an apartment hall. I kissed Charlene on the forehead and told her to take care of herself.

  “Watch out for Hermann,” was the last thing she said before she fell asleep.

  There was a payphone at the corner. I had a nickel left. Clickety-clack it fell through the mechanism into the coin box and the line came to life. I dialed the number by heart.

  “Hello?”

  It was so good to hear Aunt Anne’s voice.

  “Hello?” she asked again.

  I swallowed. “It’s me.”

  “Maddy! Are you all right?”

  “I’m really sick.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Do you promise you won’t call Dad?”

  A truck rumbled by.

  “Do you promise?”

  Another truck. A horn blast. I could almost hear her thinking.

  “Okay. Yes. Where are you?”

  I looked up at the crossroads. “Pharmacy and Eglinton.”

  “You stay put. I’ll be right there.”

  The line went dead. I sat down in the phone booth and passed out cold.

  CHAPTER EIGHT