Small Game Hunting at the Local Coward Gun Club

by Megan Gail Coles

  But John would take a run at Iris always and forever until she made it impossible for him to ever do so again. And she knew it. She fucking well knew it all along but had hoped against hope that she might be wrong. That it might be prevented. But John would not be put off Iris. Or the next Iris. Or the one after that. John is a fuck collector. And Iris recognized herself for the bit of tail he thinks her to be and it makes her very angry.

  Despite all her rage she is still just a rat in this cage.

  But she is still raging.

  She has not given in or given up on the rage. It persists. Her rage is not a new story. Not even for our Iris. But the ending must change so Iris decides she will change it. Expecting otherwise is just fucking foolish. Iris wants to stop lying to herself. She wants everyone to stop lying to themselves.

  And she wants to gnaw John’s cock off as a matter of public safety.

  Iris thinks she really needs to find someone else to make her come. Or burn down this jesus restaurant. She should set this fucking place on fire. She recognizes this is not sensible or generous or even feasible but Iris is tired and hungry and hurt. She didn’t eat family dinner with the rest of the staff today because George has been here all afternoon lording over her like she has nothing to offer. Maybe she doesn’t.

  To John, Iris has nothing. Is nothing.

  She’s nothing to me, he will say soon. Very soon he will start saying Iris meant nothing to him and say it as often as he feels it is necessary to clear his name and a way forward.

  But Iris is not nothing.

  She’s a person.

  * * *

  Ben has served the red dress and her boyfriend a complimentary cocktail with cherry pieces ringed up by maple sugar to calm them. They are starting to settle into the sweet warmth when Damian approaches the pair. He does not want to. He has told Queen Bitch it is a bad idea to do so. But Queen Bitch is buoyed by some formidable mystery win and tells him to question the young woman about the drunken men who have been removed from the building.

  Someone should pay their bill. And that someone should be her.

  Damian has reiterated that the bill is rather steep given that they had been downing drinks with recreational assistance for the better part of the day and evening, but Queen Bitch doesn’t mind that much.

  Not my problem, she says. Tell the sister, she says.

  So Damian is asking Amanda if she can contact her brother who never actually intended to leave without paying. Calvin is all kinds of things but bold is not one of them. Dine-and-ditch would be well beyond his level of initiative. To do so without first clearing the whole process with Roger was unthinkable. And Roger had been thrown out by the owner so that conversation had certainly not occurred. Calvin had just followed Roger without thinking through the consequences, because that is what Calvin does.

  He follows Roger. He is a follower.

  And Damian can see how much it pains Amanda to say this about her brother. He reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder. The boat neck shows off her fine collarbone and he compliments her on the dress. She says she ordered it from a favourite shop in Belfast and Damian knows this is noteworthy. Amanda is wearing a special occasion dress, and Damian frowns. Not at her but at the evening in general. The very need of it grieves him. He wonders where Tom is tonight. He hopes he is home alone somewhere with their cat. The cat. Tom’s cat now, he supposes. In Damian’s mind, he hopes Tom is missing him, wondering if he is also alone. Tom probably knows exactly where he is. So it’s not like Damian can even pretend Tom might be trying to reach him. Tom could reach him every way a human can be reached. Damian didn’t even ask for the house key back. He didn’t even change the locks.

  He should not have yelled at Olive.

  He was outside chain-smoking during staff dinner. He could not sit there with them and pretend Queen Bitch was not sitting in Iris’s chair. John laughing and eating too much to hide his repulsiveness. Shovelling food in everyone’s direction. Food fucking them into silence while Iris was folding table linens in the vestibule.

  Not hungry, she said when the sous asked her to join them. Already ate, she said when Ben urged her to sit next to him. But they knew well enough that she had not. They had all been held hostage in the building together since lunch. And she was here when they mostly arrived so it was impossible for her to have eaten earlier. Maybe breakfast.

  But you were supposed to eat more than once a day.

  Not that Damian is excelling exactly in eating but he knows you’re supposed to eat. He had tried. Sat down with the coconut green curry soup anticipating the warm hit to his belly. But he couldn’t get through it. It was too awful. Queen Bitch praising the curry, commenting on the lime, suggesting John make it at home or more often. She cannot remember having it. Ben piping in, as if unable to resist, how that was odd because John made it at work all the time, at least once a week.

  Because it was Iris’s favourite.

  And the barely discernible twinge is clocked before Queen Bitch decides to shrug it off and carry on complimenting her husband’s cooking. Shrug it off by launching into a detailed recounting of the first time John cooked for her, while Iris sits on the floor in the vestibule guarded by the fine French doors pulled close around her. Damian can tell she is a little bit crying as she folds the napkins into bunny ears and small swans. Delicate romantic gestures come naturally to Iris. What a waste.

  Queen Bitch is speaking loud enough for the anecdote to carry across the dining room and it is rather hurtful that she has to on purpose remind Iris that John is her husband. Everyone is well aware. Now anyway.

  So Damian does not eat the curry, as a show of solidarity. He looks down at the ice shrimp floating amongst the water chestnuts and thinks that he will wish later he had eaten it. Later when he is trudging through the snow without even a slice of Sal’s to sustain him. Later when he is drunkenly opening and closing cabinets that house old crackers and an abandoned bag of almond slices. Later when he is spooning just salsa into his mouth because he has not properly eaten food in days, Damian will remember the citrus soup with fresh cilantro and wish he had eaten it.

  But now he is still loyal to some notion of friendship and he does not even clear his place.

  He just gets up after having a spoonful and goes outside to smoke. This will enrage John. Any perceived slight is enough to send him over the edge. He freaks when customers add salt. John’s father always adds salt without tasting as if John’s mother was not even deserving of the pretence that she had adequately cooked anything in her life. His father just dumps salt in, remarking on how he knows it is too fresh. After, he may even remark that he wasn’t fussy on whatever had once sat atop of a plate he just wiped clean with the heel of bread. John’s mother taking it all as John simmered and seared at the other end of the table. Just to hear a patron request salt and pepper shakers sends John into an unholy frenzy, blurting that it was already perfectly seasoned as he paces around the kitchen. John thinks his way is the right way. He does not allow much for personal taste. Everything contrary to him is shit.

  Leaving the table to smoke makes John crazy.

  But he won’t say fuck all about it today. Damian knows it. He’s probably not working here for much longer anyhow so he is taking some liberties. Besides, he is half cut and has no appetite for curry. Jesus, of course that’s what John made for Valentine’s lunch. Gross, b’y.

  And them fuckers from the hotel had stuck around. As if Damian didn’t have enough to deal with. The right ugly one kept asking if they knew each other. Asked if Damian ever played any Triple A hockey. Blew through his fo
od like a missioned man. His risky-mission-almost-definitely-possible was in one of the too many pockets on the sleeve of his stupid snowmobile jacket, Damian figured. And it wasn’t long after dessert that the two of them started their steady tag-team trips to and from the bathroom. Handing off like no one in the dining room had eyes.

  Everything had made Damian snap at Olive when she came around looking for a smoke.

  That, and fear.

  He had bawled at her when she came around the corner to ask for a cigarette. He laced into her about sneaking up on him. Bitched her out for being places where she wasn’t supposed to be all the time. Told her off about taking Iris’s boots and complained that he only had three smokes left for the whole night. Damian had said everything he could think to get her to leave before the men saw her. Or she saw them. Who knew what they might do? Maybe rape her again! That’s what rapists do, right? Rape.

  So he tried to scram her off like a stray dog. Get on. Go. Get.

  But Olive just looked further hurt. Beyond her normal regular agony. And so Damian gave her his last twenty and told her to get her own jesus smokes.

  Get a whole deck, he said. Smoke yourself silly. Smoke yourself to death sure, girl.

  Damian had been mean to her face. The exchange had confused Olive, though she decided Damian was obviously on drugs and went off in search of an open store in the storm. She was actually delighted. She had change enough in her pocket to buy them a deck apiece! She would bring Damian’s back to him because he was stuck at the restaurant. With John. Ugh. Damian could probably definitely use cigarettes and it would be like she had done something to earn hers. Iris might even give her a ride home because John’s real wife was here so Iris would be going home on her own.

  The last Damian saw, Olive had turned to walk toward the gas station that stays open late.

  Now, the red dress and her bow are once again rightfully twisted. Amanda is attempting to call her brother on the phone. She has already sent him a number of increasingly threatening texts concerning not paying for his fucking bender.

  * * *

  Calv hasn’t had a chance to deal with the mounting notifications on his phone yet.

  He hasn’t even thought to look at it. Each little red flag flies a warning about his life but he is too busy chasing Roger from bar to bar on a fiendish hunt for more blow. Roger says he needs to find another gram in order to drive his truck home. Roger says he can’t leave it downtown in the storm. It will be destroyed if he does so. The skeets will have at it.

  Roger tells a story about waking up in the back of a parked Corolla years ago. He was after snapping the side-view mirrors off himself and bringing them in the car with him. He woke up with one held tight to he’s chest. Calv can barely hear the words what for the blowing snow but he is pretty sure Roger says he pissed in the driver’s seat and slept in the passenger’s seat.

  And Calv is yelling, what do you mean you pissed in the driver’s seat? Like in a pop bottle or something, right?

  But Roger is after moving on to a new topic. He’s zipping between stories.

  Calv suggested calling a cab to double them home and they tried for a time but there are hardly any cars on the road. Snow in combination with any holiday means you are walking the streets in your finest duds like a streel. Roger says it’s not fucking dignified. He thinks walking is beneath him. They stop into the Celtic Hearth to warm their hands by the dryer in the men’s room. Roger gums the baggie before tossing it in the urinal. Not enough to straighten up a pixie sure, he says, before heading upstairs to ask the bartender if he knows where they can find some party favours.

  Roger does not wash his hands.

  The twenty-two-year-old bartender looks Roger over and says she don’t know where he can find party favours. Roger don’t hear her hit the you hard but Calv clocks it and gets them out of Celtic Hearth before buddy b’y taps in to her disdain. Them young ones is right provocative. They’re doubling back toward The Hazel again. Roger says he knows this shitbox where they can for sure get blow. Calv cautions to maybe not call the place a shitbox while they are there. He doesn’t think the regulars will be enamoured with them even if they know it’s true. It’s like he can call Amanda a bitch but nobody else can. And then he suggests maybe not announce they are looking for blow real loud like he did in the grimy wine bar that smelt of sewer. One woman sitting at the bar actually thought they were narcs cause of Roger’s lack of propriety. Her friend agreed that it was a pretty heatbag move even for such obvious assholes. No one else would make eye contact. So Calv is preaching discretion which is pretty rich considering the fucking state of the two of them.

  Roger is saying, yeah yeah, I got this, I got this, Calvy.

  But it don’t seem like he actually got fuck all when they gets inside the shitbox. Seems like he just looks at the three people sitting at the bar and says yayo in a variety of ways. Like this:

  Yay oh.

  Ya yo.

  Yayo!

  Yah yo . . .

  Ya yoh.

  Yayo?

  Yayo yayo!

  It is like listening to a bay baby seal beg for cocaine in the coldest dive yet. They are looking at Roger like he is someone out on a day pass they are considering sacrificing for media coverage. This is not a friendly room. They are right hostile in here. Calv thinks they should not be here at all. Some dives will accept anyone with cash but the bartender is in no hurry to pour the round of shots Roger has ordered for the works of them.

  One for yourself, too, Roger says, oblivious.

  Whatever you wants, he says. I got lots of dough, he says.

  Calv thinks he is going to get them killed. He takes in the room. There are two skinny guys and one woman. It is the woman he thinks they might have to worry about in this instance. She looks very capable of throwing lighter fluid. Might even have a pocket knife. For protection.

  And the bartender looks to a dark-haired woman who raises her eyebrows in permission.

  He mixes lemon drops as Roger makes his case for an eight-ball. He says he’ll share with the works of them. Or a gram if it’s dry around. Or whatever they got on them is where Roger lands after the shots hit their stomachs. They’ve been shooting booze while on this campaign trail. Roger claims it is so they can leave right away but Calv knows it is because Roger thinks it makes him look tough. That, and he’s not got a lot more space for tossing rum and Cokes into himself. The burps coming from him are a wild mixture of food, pop and blow. And something worse.

  Rot. Calv thinks Roger might be rotten inside.

  All pretence of sobriety, once maintained with the assistance of their good friend Charlie, has been abandoned and Roger barely turns his face away to release wind. He has his hand across his belly like a man in distress and the dark-haired one looks at her companions and questions Roger’s reality. Is this guy for fucking real? she asks no one and everyone at the same time before looking straight at Calv, who is honestly kind of scared of her. He is not at full life force just now and she looks like someone who might self-identify as a feminist.

  These women have always worried him. Amanda says if he’s not a feminist then he’s a fucktard, but Calv thinks he’d rather be a fucktard if these are the only two available options. Roger has downgraded his request to a rip because can’t they see he’s in punishment here. He says, c’mon, b’y, ate too much. And the dark-haired one stands before saying he looks like a person who does a lot of everything too much.

  But she tells them to come the fuck on so he will shut up begging and heads toward the toilet.

  Roger thinks he can
drive again now. He says he got a window open where they can get the truck home. Calv tried to convince him that the dark-haired one was into him but even Roger’s not stunned enough to fall for that. Or not openly. He secretly grabbed at her in the ladies’ while Calv was having a smoke in the men’s, but she gave him an elbow to the side of the face and said the word never very slowly to make him comprehend. And they was outnumbered so Roger bawled that it was time to go to Calv, who came out the men’s with a smoke in his maw. Time to go when you’re outnumbered but Roger never mentioned that bit. He just called misses a dyke as they walked up the road and continued rambling about getting the truck back to her own driveway.

  He tries to bribe Roger into a cab with promises of a bottle and dope he got hid in the shed. But Roger don’t fall for it. He knows Calv will fuck off in the house when the cab pulls up and it’s not like Donna is going to let them sit to the table and drink peacefully. Donna is going to go wild as soon as Calv gets through the door. Roger thinks it is better to keep on drinking or get right sobered up for that.

  More blow is the only way Roger can see them going forward.

  Everything about this sounds crazy but also very rational to Calv, who’s too drunk and high to formulate a better strategy. Roger cannot drive, though. Don’t let Roger drive. This is all Calv got by way of common sense right now as he trudges through the drifting snow behind the man who first explained to him that one day a girl would put her mouth over his penis.

  Right over it, Roger explained to twelve-year-old Calv. She ain’t going to puff air over on it neither. She was going to put it right in her face and suck on it and lick it and stuff.

  This was the very same man who once coached him not to panic when this happened because the girl wasn’t going to hurt him. The man who advised young Calv to just put his hands on her head and help her out if she was doing it wrong. Just move her head around for her if she’s not doing it right. She won’t care.