What about him? had been George’s initial thought.
But as the night progressed into morning she became more about that guy over there. About fucking that guy. Andrew would not be the last man she slept with. This guy, whatever guy, could be the last guy. What did she care? Champagne!
The first night after John, George had called Miranda and gushed.
She had not known it could be like that. Her ass in the palms of his hands, held feet off the floor. George had not known. Did Miranda know? Did everyone know? Why had no one told her? Someone should have told her. Someone should have said. All that time with Andrew only to find out he had not been fucking her right.
George would have left had she known they had been doing it wrong all that time. And the morning after the rebound, George, now horrified, admitted that she would have continued on with Andrew like that forever had her father not found out. No tee time at the club, he had said.
George, that husband of yours has no tee time at the club this morning.
Miranda, in her concerned cousin voice, warning not to get attached. You are not ready for another relationship. And he’s a cook. You don’t want a cook.
Miranda then evoking her special incantation. Georgie, Georgie, newly divorced women are meant to bounce around now. You cannot date the first man you fuck.
But George was not the bouncing type.
And she didn’t date him.
She married him.
George had tried to live quietly after Andrew had not teed off. She had taken a leave from work that turned into a leave from working. It was her father’s idea. He said she should concentrate on herself. So she did. On what would have been their anniversary, she randomly walked into a salon and got a spontaneous Brazilian and a blond bob. There was no saving that day. It was ruined anyway.
She ate only spinach for a week even though she hated how it felt across her teeth. She put a gym-style treadmill together by herself. She would be entirely self-sustaining. She imagined all the things she would master in the stead of human interaction. Mandarin or Japanese. All of her friends spoke French. She signed up for diving classes, considered buying a horse. She would speak only to Miranda. She would not entertain the idle questions of women who pretended to care.
They were just pleased it was not their husband.
George had thought she would ease out of the world gradually and they would forget that it was her husband who was not the golfer she thought he was. Ex-husband. She always forgot the ex part. George had accidentally referred to Andrew as her husband so many times after the separation because the idea of having a husband was hard to quit. Or maybe it was the idea of being a wife. Regardless, her readjustment to the idea of single life was not smooth.
She often reminded herself of this for motivation. She’d make her second marriage work.
Their last blowout had been over John’s smoking.
She was having needles shoved in her ass with a thermometer in her vagina and he couldn’t manage to stay away from cigarettes. Perhaps he should get loaded in a hot tub while eating sticks of butter and shoot up before baking his knit tighty-whities in the oven to wear under brand- new too-small leather pants. Fucking idiot. George was ready to leave him on the spot. And he would get nothing. Nada. There was no cash-out option. Her daddy had been sure of that the second time round after lawyer boy did his gouging.
She would do it. Get out there and search for number three. Fuck it. Relationships are hard. And everyone would forgive her this sexy little marriage.
But then John bought the patch and the gum and the book and the video to show her he was trying. And, truthfully, she settled down cause maybe, maybe she didn’t want this guy’s baby either. Maybe she needed time to think about what she wanted.
It bothers her though when people ask if this is her family, pointing to the dogs. Or if she likes kids. Or why she didn’t want them. These tiny barbs cut her through. And there were also comments from John. Minor asides about taking too many pictures of the dogs.
You will seem like one of those sad childless women.
This was a crushing blow. It made George feel pathetic and embarrassed. It had not occurred to her to be ashamed of her life. Certainly, it was different from the lives of her friends, but it was still the life she was leading. This was her husband. These were her dogs. Her experiences were not wholly traditional but they seemed to be worthwhile experiences.
That is until John suggested that posting another photo of Gretchen and Mol would make George appear foolish. This too was a brand new notion to George. Foolish not being a complaint ever lobbed at her. Andrew had said she was overly focused. Miranda encouraged her to relax. Her father remarked that she was much too stern.
Be like that if you want, my girl, but you will be alone.
So she softened. Made herself sweet. Wore pastels and said please.
She met John and things improved after they let a little air out of the tire. He had grown more independent in the last year. Pleasant at home, eager to go to work, excited about the business and the future. He even walked the dogs.
It will happen for you, love, if you stop trying and don’t want it so bad.
That’s the kind of passive nonsense they said to her in the frozen food section. The exact inactive advice that John devoured. If it’s meant to be, John says, but that is just idle. And George is many things but she is not idle about her life. So she forges on doing the back-breaking emotional labour of two humans because one is busy making fancy custard that brings him great stores of admiration from strange women.
George regrets the restaurant. But it was that or have a husband who was a sous-chef alongside twenty-three-year-old skaters. No way. Not on. Off. That could fuck right off. What is worse still is she gives him credit for things he’s nothing to do with, in order to make it seem all right and forward moving. The alternative would be to admit that she once again made a wrong-headed decision having learned no lessons from the first rather public undoing. She definitely, without a doubt, heard them refer to her as Mom once when she arrived ten minutes early to catch them shooting Jameson before dinner service.
B’ys, put that away, Mom’s here.
Tears had stung the inside of her eyes and she had turned to take a pretend phone call because you never let the help see you cry.
And George disciplined them with a heavy hand. She had to because John refused. He said he needed to keep up morale in the kitchen. But that wasn’t it. He just didn’t want to, and John is not great at doing things he doesn’t want to do. Miranda pointed this out regularly, being as close to a sister as George ever had, closer even, as they need not enter into any competition for resources.
Both George and Miranda were resource rich.
The dogs are licking at a broken soup bowl on the floor.
George shoos them away. That is all she needs, poodles with gashed up tongues. A massively annoying trip to the veterinarian who is never the same veterinarian. More useless antibiotics and stitches they can tear at with their paws. Bloody mouths and draggy red spit all around the house. Why is this happening to her? She is a good person. John. Where is John? John!
George thrusts the dogs’ leashes into Iris’s hands as she slides around the corner.
You stay!
Iris doesn’t know if George is speaking to her or the dogs but stays and stares.
George moves on around the corner to the kitchen where she finds John in the dish pit. She has grown furious again and needs to buy herself a moment to collect her thoughts. All the intrusive interviews and childproofing the house followed
by years of silence. The countless emails concerning their application status that went unanswered. Children’s parties and baptisms, every fucking holiday a reminder of her lonesomeness. George had almost given up. She was considering buying them a trip around the world as consolation. Until the phone rang and everything became new again. Now, John had put that all at risk. For nothing! Who doesn’t pay their taxes? Poor people. And they are not poor people.
George vows to murder him if he has fucked this up for her but attempts to calm herself. She still needs him. Act dignified, she thinks.
What’s wrong with Iris?
Iris?
She looks upset.
Having some man trouble, I think.
And George gathers up her snares in one sweep. Sets them. Souvenir key chains for all.
She’s not the only one.
* * *
Damian enters The Hazel to find Iris on her knees wiping soup from the floor with leashes tied around both ankles, poodles pulling her feet toward the loud kitchen. This day that Damian is about to have is going to be a bad one. He mixes himself a fast Caesar while listening to the yelling. Shit is not right here this morning and they are about to open for lunch. And Damian hates his fucking job and this place and his mother and even Iris who is giving him a terrible look with them watery eyes of hers.
You smell like booze.
You smell like cock.
No, I don’t!
Honey, believe me, I know what cock smells like.
Lunch
Some young one leads Major David to an empty table in the centre of the room.
She obviously does not know who he is so he tells her. When she still doesn’t address the appalling seating arrangement, he repeats it again slowly in case she’s stoned.
I am the Mayor of St. John’s.
But she just stands behind the chair opposite, arms criss-crossed atop her menus, over her breasts, of course.
This is a business lunch, he tries again.
Nothing. She just nods and continues staring at him with a blankness common in women her age.
There was a time when waitresses in this town knew to be warm. They smiled readily and wore lipstick during the day and said sir without contempt.
Not like now. Everything is ruined sure now. Just like lunch is being ruined by this skinny waitress.
Major David watches her scurry in and out of the kitchen. Nothing in her hands. Nothing on her person. She appears to be doing nothing at all. And she can hardly manage that from the look on her face. She is not in any kind of mood to be interacting with the public. Thank god there are no tourists around at this time of year. And look at the arms on her. Covered in fucking tattoos.
Sleeves they’re called. Major David has learned this off the television. A lot of humans in need of intervention have sleeves. Major David bets his skinny waitress does drugs. She’s certainly thin enough. Her hollowed-out eyeballs suggest something quick. Cocaine. Probably buys a ball of the coke and then complains about being paid minimum wage.
That’s why Major David doesn’t tip.
He will not have hard-earned money going up some server’s nose. If his group is leaving a cash tip on the table, he’ll have “no change.” Or when he’s using a machine, he’ll make a “mistake” putting in the percentage.
No change and lots of mistakes.
If they call him a moron, he’ll act like a moron.
They don’t know what hard work is anyway. They should try teaching thirty-two fourteen-year-olds algebra. That is easily harder than pouring water into mason jars. And what’s-her-chops hasn’t even mastered this skill apparently. Major David has been sitting here water-less for what feels like eons. Alone. She has not even thought to bring him a newspaper or a magazine or even that hateful arts rag.
Major David needs a new table.
And this young one needs a cardigan with full-length sleeves. She probably doesn’t even need sunblock in the summer. Can you get sun damage on top of skin damage?
Can’t break what is broken. Surely the same would apply to damage already done.
There are a lot of commercials about undoing skin damage and Major David thinks this is a great swindle. But he can’t stand Diane when she is feeling helpless so he lets her waste his money on pots of whipped chemicals and caffeine mist meant to tighten what already let loose years ago. He doesn’t dare say that, though, cause she would be in the bathroom sobbing and then she would for sure look a fright. Diane has complicated feelings. Like all women. They’ve catacomb minds simultaneously working through a baker’s dozen of emotions. Going to brunch is like eating waffles with a fleet of NASCAR drivers ready to take the steep angle at a moment’s notice.
Major David sighs and peers out the window.
The harbour is still tight with slob ice packed in and piled against the dockside. The iron fence, now wrapped in a shiny coat of freezing drizzle, is right majestic looking. He pictures it adorned with welcome signs and balloons, hung heavy with banners of tiny flags from visiting nations delivered to their doorstep by modern and stately vessels. All those fine Europeans in linen suits walking the streets of his city taking photographs. And buying things. The retail experts claimed that the revenue generated from cruise ships was minimal and hard to measure but what the fuck do they know? Of course people would spend money.
The shops just needed to sell better stuff.
He told them so. It was the shopkeepers’ responsibility to sell what visitors wanted. In retrospect, he should have not used the word responsibility. That always sends the downtown crowd into a frenzy during the winter months. They become agitated and spit as they rant about sidewalks. Not like in summer.
Summer is best.
Never mind what the bearded hipster twerps say about the changing foliage or the crisp smell of autumn. It’s decomposition they’re happily hauling in through pierced nostrils.
Major David knew all about fall. Fall meant youngsters and germs and hormones.
Teenagers have the strongest stench of pheromones. Tangy and unpleasant. They’re not yet smart enough to talk sense and they require a lot of praise for keeping themselves upright.
People in the service industry are like that, pseudo adults trapped in everlasting adolescence. Just muddling along whilst hating any authentic adult for embarrassing them by doing stuff and owning things.
Skinny waitress probably thinks the frown stretched broad across that lovely wide mouth of hers is somehow Major David’s fault. She has no actual comprehension of what the world entails. No concept of what it means to contribute to community. Her notion of contribution is reaming off needless details about how food is cooked.
Sheer lunacy: the things young people believe.
They want food trucks and parades and music and art. Fish tacos and foreign films and bikes and espresso. Right there, on the road, where the cars go, all summer long. People-friendly. Stroller-accessible. Green space. In the downtown corridor. Preposterous.
Regardless, summer is still best, even if it does inspire outrageous thinking in youths.
Don’t have to worry about that now. Months (months!) more of winter coats to go before any of that. Wet wool scarves full of tears and snot smelling of sour breath and neck musk. Women think men like scarves but they don’t. When a man tells a woman he likes her scarf it is because he wants to tie her up and is pleased she has all the necessary equipment for the whole outfit.
Not that Major David could ever get away with that anymore either.
Too old. Past the point where women will allow him to wrangle them. And he mourns bondage as
the skinny one re-approaches uncrossing and re-crossing her arms over her chest. It is a tease. But also a reminder. Peekaboo for the aged. Her body language proclaims that she has a beautiful rack, one she surely tips back in ecstasy; he can picture the curve of her neck, the underside of her chin, arched. But it’s not for him.
Life is hardly worth living, Major David thinks as he takes a sip of finally poured water.
* * *
Roger thinks drinking without getting drunk is a waste of money.
And Calv got to agree with him, though he’s not sure he should get drunk today.
Donna said not to bother coming back if he gets on the beer with Roger again.
She also said she’d sooner eat shit and die then hang out with the likes of Roger and whatever tramp he got rolling through he’s rental apartment full of cheap Walmart furniture not fit to sit on.
Just sawdust glued together by little immigrant youngsters over to China somewhere!
Calv don’t mention they’re not immigrants if they still lives in their own country cause Donna would fly off the head asking him if he thinks he’s funny, only to follow it up with the ever growing list of reasons why he wouldn’t. He failed out of college, twice. He’s father is a fishermen, still. He’s mother can’t read, even. And he’s sister is a bitch.
Calv was soaked in the same utero juice so it’s fairly likely that means he’s stupid too.
Once Donna accidentally said stupid blood of a bitch and Calv hove a potted plant at her head, so she’s after learning there are lines not to cross. Like, Calv don’t say fuck all when Donna gets going about Amanda being a stuck-up cunt. He don’t even register that kind of stuff anymore. People have been saying stuff about Amanda he’s whole life. Calv is proper immune to it now.
Small Game Hunting at the Local Coward Gun Club Page 11