Against God

by Patrick Senécal

  - Why not? It hasn’t been a good time for nine whole years! I’ve been keeping a lid on it for nine whole years, always doing the right thing, and what good was that, eh? What good was that?

  attract stares, Sylvain begs you to calm down, which you do eventually, but you throw back your beer, and your friend tries to reason with you, states you need to go back to the funeral home, everyone’s waiting, someone told him one of your cousins almost had a heart attack earlier on but that she’s out of danger now, you tell him you know all that, you were the cause, Sylvain doesn’t understand, you explain, he stares at you then, outraged, how could you push her wheelchair into the street, you point out you didn’t push her, but hearing her bullshit, you simply lost any desire to keep holding onto the wheelchair, you wanted her gone from you, actually you’re not really sure what you wanted, to let go, just let go, but you couldn’t have predicted she would roll right onto the street, or that a car would nearly hit her, or that a second car would run into the first, or that your cousin would come that close to having a heart attack, no, you couldn’t have predicted that the mere loosening of your fingers would provoke such a chain reaction, just as Judith and your children couldn’t have predicted that they would die on their drive home, no one can predict anything, no one can know anything, no matter how well-organized, how well-prepared, how much in control, or more specifically how much a person feels in control, and you get excited again, you ask your friend if he remembers when you were teenagers, how irresponsible and disruptive you were, how you didn’t give a damn about a thing, how when you came home from parties totally hammered you’d still drive your parents’ cars, or how you skated on the lake during the early April thaw, and then you got older, you came round, like everyone does, or at least, you came round even if he didn’t, and the whole while you thump on the table as though trying to squash the phrase, pulverize it, and you raise your

  - Me, the sucker, I swallowed it all: take responsibility, prepare for the future, get your life in order. . . But you got it! You got that it’s all pointless, you didn’t change and you were right!

  voice, but Sylvain retorts it isn’t that simple, so you bang even harder on the table, you yell at him to stop lying, everyone has been lying to you for years but not him, he’s not allowed, not your best friend, and you get to your feet, intent on leaving, on hitting every single bar, you want to get pissed with Sylvain like you used to, hey, Sylvain, c’mon, let’s go, but Sylvain looks somber, Sylvain doesn’t want to go, Sylvain tries to pacify you, you don’t understand, you remind him he’s usually the first to jump at the prospect of a party, he loses patience then, gets to his feet, says you’re upset, urges you to go back to the funeral home where everyone’s waiting, but you yell you don’t want to go back, you yell you want to stay here, you yell as loud as you can, Sylvain grabs your shoulder then, says okay, fine, don’t go back there, but he begs you to come to his place instead, right now, you’ll keep talking and drinking all night long in his apartment, but that’s not what you want, you want to get out, erupt like a volcano that’s lain dormant for too long, and you’ve started back on your litany of excess when Dan, the owner, comes over to ask you to leave the premises, because by now everyone is looking at you, annoyed and apprehensive, but Sylvain knows Dan well, takes him by the arm, leads him aside for a talk, you sit, wait, glare at the other patrons, and once more you notice the pretty girl on her own, who’s still watching you, but this time you don’t look away, this time you raise your glass in her direction, this time you wave her over, and she, after a moment’s hesitation, stands up, walks toward you, sits down on the chair you motion to with your chin, and you tell her that just three days ago, you would never have dared invite a beautiful girl over to have a drink with you, that you would have been too afraid of any problems that could cause, and you give a joyless laugh while the girl nods, then you ask her her name, Mélanie, so you ask Mélanie if she would like to go out with you tonight, another moment’s indecision, then she agrees, her voice calm, which is when Sylvain comes back to tell you he’s smoothed things over with Dan, but you get up, announce you’re going out with Mélanie, invite your friend to come along, but Sylvain refuses, discouraged, Sylvain begs you to be reasonable, and you get angry all over again, you yell at him, how can he ask you that, him, your friend, but you see a furious Dan approaching so you throw on your coat, grab Mélanie, who has her coat on by now too, by the hand, head for the door, and Mélanie hesitates slightly but finally does follow you, she says her car isn’t far, but you insist on taking yours parked out front, you open the car door and see Sylvain coming out of the bar, looking for you, but you order him not to follow you, you don’t want to see him again, he stops but begs you not to do anything stupid, call him later, crash at his place, but you get in the car, Mélanie too, the doors slam, the car takes off, Mélanie is worried, haven’t you had too much to drink to be driving, but no, you only had four or five beer, she asks where you want to go, you have no idea, other than Le Maquis you don’t know many bars in Montréal, actually the ones you hung out at over ten years ago must attract a crowd much younger than you by now, so she suggests a little bar she knows, right next to her place, that way you won’t have to drive if you have too much to drink, all spoken as naturally as can be, you shoot her a knowing glance, but she looks straight ahead as she gives you directions, the neighbourhood you’re now in is on the poorer side of town that you don’t know all that well, finally you park, you both get out of the car, you follow Mélanie into a bar, Le Losange, a fairly shabby interior, slot machines at the back, so-so music, a dozen seedy-looking customers, for the first time you notice that Mélanie’s clothes are a little worse-for-wear themselves, not that that lessens her desirability, you find a table, the server comes over, her outfit too sexy for her body, she greets Mélanie like an old acquaintance, Mélanie introduces you, her name is Guylaine, Guylaine sizes you up quite openly, amused by your suit jacket and tie, you order two shooters, Mélanie refuses at first but you insist so she accepts, downs her drink in one go without pulling a face, then you order two beer, Mélanie still hasn’t said anything, just looks at you often, you ask her why she agreed to come with you tonight, and her answer

  - Because you’re suffering.

  rattles you somewhat, you ask if it shows that much, she doesn’t answer but her silence speaks volumes, you drain your beer and laugh condescendingly, she doesn’t react, you look deep into her eyes, her gentle but sad eyes, and point out she doesn’t look like she’s in such great shape herself, she half-smiles, her voice barely more than a

  - You see, it’s not that hard to tell . . .

  breath of air and yet you hear her over the background music, but you shake your head, as though you don’t like the direction your conversation has taken, and you order two more shooters, Guylaine brings two glasses but Mélanie doesn’t want to drink anymore, you insist but in vain, so you drink them both, you speak then, yes, you’re suffering, you admit it, but you don’t feel like talking about it, just like you don’t want to know why Mélanie isn’t doing all that well herself, just like you don’t give a crap about anyone else’s suffering, because tonight is a night for living it up, because dammit! we’re all going to die so we might as well make the most of it, and your companion listens in silence, her expression sad, and you’re fed up with her gloominess, so you suggest going back to her place, she agrees immediately, Guylaine waves coyly as you leave, there’s a cold wind blowing, you make as though to take your car but Mélanie says you’ve had too much to drink, anyway she lives just one block over, so you start to walk, you say a little stroll in the crisp night air will only make you appreciate the warmth of her body all the more, and you snicker, surprised at your own audacity, yet I remember when you were single, how you were always quite brazen with the ladies, but Mélanie looks serious all of a sudden and tells you there’ll be no sex, which throws you for quite a loop, you try a bit of provocation, tell her girls who take guys home rarely want to
play Parcheesi, at least not in your day they didn’t, but she shakes

  - No, not tonight. That’s not what you need. Me either.

  her head, you pout, you mutter oh no, this can’t be happening, you tell her to stop jerking your chain, but she doesn’t back down, so you turn on your heel, walk to your car, she cries after you that you shouldn’t be driving but you ignore her, she calls out for you to wait a second, you turn thinking she’s changed her mind but when you see her digging through her purse and scribbling something on a scrap of paper, you begin walking again, get into your car, start to close the door but Mélanie is there, holding out a piece of paper, it’s her address, she’s usually at home in the evenings, you can drop by whenever you want, you take the paper scornfully, stuff it in your coat pocket and start up the car without a word, a quick check in the rearview mirror, she’s still standing in the street, all alone, turned to watch your car as it drives off, you scowl, frustrated, the clock on the dashboard reads eleven fifteen, you drive aimlessly, straight in front of you, a traffic light about a hundred metres away, it turns red, but you don’t slow down, but you keep going, but you drive right through the intersection and feel little surprise when the other car hits you on the passenger side, it shakes you up a bit but not too much, you take your time getting out, the other driver, in his fifties, approaches, furious, he wants to know why you didn’t slow down, why you didn’t stop for the red light, his questions tumble over each other, punctuated with many a flourish, you listen calmly, wearing an ambiguous grin, as though biding your time, and when he finally stops to catch his breath, it’s your turn, your words slurred because

  - Didn’t expect that, did ya? Thought you’d be home in ten minutes in your warm bed like usual! No reason for it to be any different, right? But I was here, that’s all it took. I came out of nowhere. That’s the way it is, my man! That’s the way it is!

  of the alcohol, he stares at you then, bewildered, finally he seems to clue into the fact that you’ve been drinking, you reach for your cell phone, he asks what you’re doing, you tell him you’re calling the police, you tell him not to worry, you’ll tell them it was your fault, no problem, but he’s not the least bit reassured, in fact he starts getting genuinely alarmed, he stammers there must be a way to settle this without involving the police, c’mon, why complicate matters, and he hands you his business card, and he invites you to call him tomorrow, you open your eyes wide, surprised, then you understand, you give a knowing look, he doesn’t want his wife to know he was in the City tonight, that’s it, or he has drugs in his car, or something along those lines, isn’t that right, and he finds the allusions even more distressing, he shoots a hunted look at the couple of curious bystanders watching off to one side, then he steps up to you, reiterates that the cops mustn’t come, promises he’ll pay you tomorrow, you study his fear then, yes, his fear, next you slide his card into your pocket, tell him he can go, and the guy sighs, he thanks you, he shakes your hand, but you raise a finger, add that you won’t call the police tonight, of course, but tomorrow, you just might, who’s to know, or the day after tomorrow, or another day, who knows, or never, actually you have no idea, you’ll have to see, it will depend on your mood, in any case, you have his card should you need it, and all colour drains from the guy’s face as he listens, you put a hand on his shoulder, your voice is unctuous but

  - From now on, it’s me who’s got the power to screw up your life . . . or not . . . You’ll have to go about life knowing you don’t call the shots . . . That’s what lucidity is. You’re a lucky man.

  final, and he’s on the verge of tears, he insists, he’ll give you loads of money if you’ll just call him tomorrow, he swears, but no cops, no, not the police, you’re already getting into your car, you drive off, without looking back, but after eight or nine blocks, the engine hiccoughs, sputters, the fuel gauge on empty, but you just filled it up not long ago, you park at a fast food joint that’s open twenty-four hours, you get out, peer under the car, see gas dripping to the ground, must be a crack caused by the collision, so you abandon your vehicle and start to walk, your hands in your pockets, you pull out the guy’s business card, look at it for a minute, then tear it into small pieces that you drop behind you, the breeze is light but freezing, you turn up your coat collar, you reach a busier boulevard, pedestrians, cars, a nightclub disgorging dozens of patrons, must be the end of a show, you stop, you watch them laughing and talking among themselves, you sigh, then you pull out your cell phone, snap it open and punch in the first digits for Sylvain’s number but you stop, upset, and eventually put your cell phone back in your coat but it starts ringing almost immediately, you check to see who’s calling, your brother, you rub your forehead, turn back to the dozens of people milling about across the street from the club, your expression sinister, and suddenly you hurl your phone in their direction, but up high, as high as you can, you watch it rise, become lost for a second or two in the darkness, then hurtle back down, toward the crowd, but it hits no one, it plunges into the snow a few centimetres from the feet of a young woman who remains totally oblivious, your lips pull back into a bitter, ironic smirk, you cross the street, approach the woman and

  - You’ve got no clue what a close call you just had . . .

  she, clearly tipsy, has no idea what you’re talking about and giggles, you keep on walking then, now you’re in a posher neighbourhood, lots of hustle and bustle, you stare at the people whose path you cross, they ignore you, you pick a bar at random, enter, the place is more stylish and trendier than Le Losange, there’s even a no-nonsense bouncer, not too many people, mostly couples or small groups, two girls, both pretty and sexy, alone at the bar, you walk over, offer them a drink, the brush-off, annoyance, heads turned, you don’t insist, you down a shooter, then another, make your way to the bathroom, empty your bladder, totter slightly on your return, you’re drunk and it shows, you repeat your offer and one of the two girls, fed up, tells you to leave them alone, you lose it then, you yell at them then, you unload on them then, if they don’t want to be hit on, why go to bars alone wearing sexy clothes, they should just stay home, dammit, and they stare at you, dumbfounded, call you a bastard, a frustrated bastard, and you shoot back that they’re right there, damn right, you’re frustrated, have been for years, just like everyone else, just like them, you’re sure they are, everyone is frustrated over something or other, you insist, so why not get rid of the frustration together, eh, right now, a threesome, a first for you, at thirty-five it’s about time, isn’t it, and what about you girls, have you already been in one, but you don’t give them time to answer, you’re in a hurry, you order them to follow you, now, c’mon, let’s go, quick, you even take each of them by the arm, they yell at you, try to get away, but another pair of hands swoops down on your shoulders, it’s the bouncer, direction exit, you protest, not much, for form’s sake, and you find yourself out on the sidewalk, and you lean against a wall, and you close your eyes, you look as though you might throw up but the moment passes, you start to stagger down the street, weaving, take a few seconds to get your bearings, keep walking and walking, eventually find and slide into your car, and you stare at the frozen expanse before you, and tears roll down your cheeks, and you’re asleep before the tears have had time to freeze, it’s the cold that wakes you, you’re frozen stiff, the clock on the dash reads six, you take off your tie and throw it onto the back seat, you get out, your head’s pounding but it’s bearable, you shiver on your way into the first open café, a coffee, a muffin, you slowly drink and eat sitting at a table, stare at the three other customers, they look lonely, they look depressed, and you don’t budge from the table, two hours, you close your eyes and fall asleep, the waitress wakes you, tells you you can’t sleep here, the clock on the wall reads nine thirty, you leave, a light snowfall, you stare at the ground, your boots beneath you, the soles of your boots splashing, slush on the sidewalk, the metro station, you head inside, pay for a ticket, stand studying the map for a long time, maybe you’r
e remembering just how much Alexis loved coming to Montréal to take the metro, just like you when you were a kid, I even remember that you used to dream of driving the metro, yes, all that may be crossing your mind, finally you choose a direction, the platform is almost deserted, rush hour is over, the train stops in front of you, you step inside, remain standing, holding onto the centre pole with your right hand, the train rocks its way through the tunnel, a couple sits across from you, a baby stroller in front of them, an old woman sits farther up, the young couple murmurs sweet nothings, the young couple smiles, the young couple kisses, the young couple is alone in the world, as for you, you eye them witheringly, and you turn to look at the stroller, and you see the sleeping baby, and you turn back to the couple, to their smiles, to their cooing, to their kissing, then the train stops, the doors open, no one stands to leave, the couple still lost in loverland, the couple oblivious to one and all, you give the stroller a push then, quick but firm, and the stroller rolls outside a second before the doors close, the couple must realize then something’s amiss nearby because at last they stop devouring each other with their eyes, turn to look, jump to their feet, glance frantically left and right, finally the woman sees the stroller on the platform and starts to scream, slowly the train starts up again, the man’s hands tear at the doors, the train already in the tunnel, the woman’s screams, and her tears, and her cries for help, suddenly the man wheels on you to ask what happened, you say nothing, you gaze calmly at the two of them, he asks a second time, shouting, panic-stricken, hysterical, in stark contrast with your calm, your silence, your fascination, he grabs you then by the collar, shakes you, asks if you’re the one who did this, his eyes rolling in rage and incomprehension, and his spouse grabs for the emergency lever on the wall, practically pulls it off, twice, three times, but nothing happens, no bell rings, the woman shrieks that it’s broken, you can’t help a strident laugh then, devoid of gaiety, the harshest sound to have ever crossed your lips, and your voice is as empty as