I Have Demons

by Adam Christopher

  “Dame Wanda? Franco sent me to help you with your garden…”

  The smile vanished from Dame Wanda’s face. She suddenly appeared taken aback and her hands travelled from her pearl necklace to her hips.

  “Garden? Now what’s this I hear about a garden?”

  David stared at her pathetically.

  “Oh, this is most inopportune…” Dame Wanda seemed momentarily lost in her thoughts, before returning to being irritated. “Very well, enter, enter! Conversing on the porch like this is rather too common, I am afraid. You shall have some Jaffa cakes and cream and I shall get to the bottom of this terrible misunderstanding!”

  Dame Wanda’s home smelled of frankincense. David felt increasingly alarmed when he noticed that the curtains in the living room were pulled and candles were lit in all corners, providing a certain ambience. A fuchsia statue of Buddha occupied the centre of the coffee table, in front of which sat a basket of overly ripe fruit, burning incense and votives. In every corner of the home sat a knick-knack or collectible, and the walls resembled those of an overstocked commercial art gallery. The space, though large, felt claustrophobic.

  “I shall thank you to mind the Rhodesian copper tray on the end table!” Dame Wanda didn’t even glance over at David, who sat in the far side of the living room near the corner of the couch, as she dialled from a darkened alcove. “My late husband brought it back from Salisbury. I am sure you will have noticed that nearly every nation or territory is represented here. I like to say that the sun never sets on this house.” Dame Wanda cleared her throat and resumed her pearl clutching.

  “Ritchie? Dame Wanda! I say, I face a most unpleasant predicament once again as a result of your fiendish machinations! Does it pain you to speak honestly with the young gentlemen in your employ? You know very well that it is not my garden that requires tending. I dare say, we have been through this before, Ritchie!”

  Dame Wanda glanced over at David, who helped himself to another Jaffa cake from a crystal bowl on the coffee table. He usually wasn’t hungry when he was this nervous, but he had to eat something. He felt light-headed again.

  “You say that he is amenable to addressing my needs, do you? Very well, we shall see. But you understand, Ritchie, that this leaves me in a most delicate position.” Dame Wanda put down the phone without a good-bye, walked over to David and sat across from him in the oversized burgundy wing chair. He slowly stuffed the last of the Jaffa cake into his mouth and realized that he wouldn’t be able to respond until he swallowed.

  “I should make it perfectly clear to you, young man, that what I ask of you is strictly therapeutic in nature. I shall not tolerate any unconscionable conduct whilst you are tending to my needs, and I say this with particular respect to those moments when I might be in a more vulnerable position. May I assume that this is understood, yes?”

  David worried that the sticky, chewed-up ball of pastry would get stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and felt it slide down slowly, then nodded his head slightly in uncertain agreement. Dame Wanda’s facial muscles eased.

  “I am told that you are a master of high diction…” David raised an eyebrow. “As I am sure you can appreciate, I shall expect nothing less than high diction whilst you are providing me with my therapy.”

  ***

  Franco seemed immensely satisfied as he slid some toonies and loonies across the desk to David, who looked dishevelled and held his head in his hands.

  “You did good, Davey. Don’t worry about it one bit! Dame Wanda called me right after you left. She gave you a rave review. Good job!”

  “That's why she only paid eleven bucks?” David sounded so disappointed that he seemed ready to cry.

  Franco cleared his throat.

  “Well no, no. Not quite. I had to take my cut. I’m very modest with that sort of thing. A percentage here, a percentage there — a nice office like this doesn’t just grow on trees, you know. Cheer up, Davey! Buy yourself a cheeseburger. You’re losing weight. We need to keep you able-bodied!”

  ***

  Back home, the campfire roared and crackled as David gulped down his second can of beer. He crumpled it up and hurled it at a tree but missed by a good two feet. He never had much of a throw. David picked up the anthology of Philip Larkin poems. It was lying in the dirt near the fire. He opened it to “Aubade” and hunched over to read the text in the growing darkness.

  Every now and then, the neon lights of a bus cut through the trees as it sped into the night along Macdonald Parkway. One by one, the lit windows of the grey high-rises that crowded on the distant bank of the river receded into darkness as their residents climbed into bed. The city was never entirely quiet; at night it hummed softly beyond the trees in the distance, but the many pieces of this urban puzzle melted and oozed into each other. Its various sounds became indistinguishable.

  David felt entirely alone and discarded. The heavy, humid air threatened to suffocate him, as though some invisible hand from above were holding a pillow over his face. Memories of home, however frustrating or imperfect, seemed safe and welcoming against the backdrop of this vast, uncaring urban misery. Far from being a maze of endless opportunity for this small-town boy, it seemed for the first time like a boundless cesspool where you had to fight to stay afloat.

  Humid daylight arose over the city, but David couldn’t remember seeing it creep up from behind the trees. He wasn’t sure how or when he got there, but he caught himself walking in a despondent haze past the red neon lettering of a bank in Chinatown. David looked like a slight, wretched figure against the grand, shining sign — slighter still as he slunk beneath the ornate Royal Arch. The smell of recycled cooking oil mixed with the fragrant steam from bubbling cauldrons of broth travelled through the air. The doors of shops and family-run grocery stores opened. Neon tube lights flickered. Civil servants with identification cards hanging from necks and pinned to belts hurried to their offices while weather-beaten shopkeepers, abiding by a daily routine — an unchanged routine that spanned decades — pushed carts of fresh vegetables down Somerset. On a patio, young men in skinny jeans and black-rimmed glasses, with just the right amount of facial hair, goji berry smoothies and an abundance of time commiserated smartly about the nature of privilege.

  ***

  “Jesus, you look like shit.” Franco’s words displayed a mix of irritation and genuine concern.

  “Yeah, I had that cheeseburger you suggested. The eleven bucks was even enough for me to supersize it.” Bitter resentment tinged David’s every word.

  “I’m sensing a tone and I don’t appreciate it, David…” Franco stared at the scrawny kid — clearly hungover — through his tinted glasses.

  David slammed Franco’s desk with his right hand.

  “Hey, what do you say to this Frankie: If I suck off some old pervert, can you give me a twenty?” He glared at Franco, who sat back in his chair and observed the boy for a few seconds before speaking.

  “Okay, fine. I get it: you’re pissed. There’s a washroom down the hall. Go wipe yourself up. You’re useless to me like this. Today’s a new day, Shakespeare, but you need to work with me dammit! Don’t lose faith!”

  ***

  David emerged from the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. The refrain from “Snow White” — “Mirror, mirror, on the wall” — bounced about inside his head annoyingly. He looked tired, with dark circles around eyes that bore an almost lifeless expression. In the background, yellowed wallpaper adorned with red and green grapes covered the thin wall. Grapes made David think immediately of Dame Wanda, spread across the sofa. He could hear Franco carrying on a heated telephone conversation on the other side of that thin wall.

  “I told you not to open the door! You don’t have to accept that letter from him … no, I know that it won’t make it go away. But work with me, Lina! For God’s sake, work with me … yeah, I know, I know.” Franco paused, before his voice rose in exasperation. “Who said anything about having to pay legal fees? Did I ever say that? We
ll, did I? Fuck no, I didn’t, and you know it!”

  David closed the tap and listened intently.

  “Well we don’t have any kids, so why are you bringing that up? Why are you worrying about that now? Look, I said I’ll sort it out. You don’t need to freak out about it. I’m expecting a deposit to hit the account any minute. We’ll be fine … yeah, I promise.” Franco’s voice softened. “I promise…”

  David wiped his hands on his pants and returned to the office.

  “Everything okay?” David felt as though he had a duty to strike a compassionate, caring tone with Franco, who seemed preoccupied with his phone. Franco looked decidedly stressed but forced a smile.

  “No need to worry about me, Shakespeare. You’ve got enough on your shoulders as it is. Besides, things are looking up! And I mean really up! I have a friend who owns a sandwich factory. He supplies all the government cafeterias and convenience stores in town.” Franco seemed satisfied with himself.

  “I have to make sandwiches?”

  “That’s right, Shakespeare!” Franco got up from his chair and sat on the edge of the desk facing an incredulous David.

  “Egg salad, tuna salad, salmon salad, hummus and veggies for the granolas; the whole gamut. But don’t worry, it’s only temporary. Just while I find something better; it will put a few more dollars in your pocket than you’ve seen in the last little while. You know, just to tide you over.”

  ***

  It was more of a sterile laboratory than a kitchen: some type of subterranean workshop with low ceilings, blinding neon lighting, metal tables and work surfaces that seemed more becoming to an autopsy room. There was not a person in sight. David mechanically plopped scoops of tuna fish onto white bread, one after the other, as the refrigerator hummed. He had been given a white lab coat to wear, along with a hairnet and surgical gloves. Every quarter of an hour, the PA system blared, breaking the monotony. A lifeless male voice spoke in an oddly transatlantic accent.

  “Your safety is our number-one priority. In case of an accident or emergency in your kitchen, please press the red panic button located on the side. Do not enter another employee’s kitchen area. Do not disturb your colleagues while they are at work. Your cellphones do not have reception in our kitchens. Please rely on the panic button. Do not panic, assistance is on its way.”

  The PA system fell silent and David began mindlessly chopping cucumbers. Instructions appearing on a flat-screen television above his work area informed him of the sandwiches he was to produce next. It was granola time. As he completed each batch, he packed Cellophane-wrapped sandwiches in boxes, placed these into the dumbwaiter and pressed the big green button next to the door. The sandwiches made their way up to freedom from this clinical underground lair.

  David’s thoughts started to drift off to nowhere, his exhausted eyes glazed over, before being rudely awakened by the transatlantic man in the speaker.

  “Attention, attention! We are now seventy-five percent through the workday and have reached fifty percent of our daily sandwich production target. Please speed up. Please speed up. Please, speed up! We thank you for your enthusiasm.”

  “Okay, that’s it!” David peeled off the surgical gloves, tore off his hairnet and climbed out of his lab coat. He hurried from the kitchen to a bland office, where a landline phone sat untouched and soundless on the metal desk.

  By now, he knew Franco’s number by heart. Admittedly, it wasn’t hard to memorize: 613–777–LUCK.

  “Franco? Good, you picked up…” David breathed a sigh of relief. “Am I getting paid today? It’s the fourth day. I really need the money now … But you promised me eleven dollars an hour! I’ve been here eight hours a day … No, I never see the boss. I don’t know why he never shows up. I barely see anyone else working here. We’re all in these separate little kitchens. Almost like little cubicles or laboratories. It’s pretty weird, Franco. I don’t know what to make of it. I really need that money tonight. Please! I need to pay my cellphone bill and finally call home. Okay, okay … Great. Can you meet me this evening? Do you want me to come to you? No? … Well, I’ll send you the directions in a text.”

  ***

  At his campsite, David could barely hear the music of Tim Buckley emanating from the public beach beneath the voices of a half-dozen men and women sitting in a circle passing around a joint and a bottle of rum. He put on his best polo shirt and waited anxiously, wondering if Franco would actually arrive with his pay. He was ten minutes late and David’s stomach was becoming a knotted mess. If he didn’t get paid today, he’d have no choice but to stand in line tomorrow at the soup kitchen, and that would seal his fate. It would turn his adventurous, youthful camping trip on the edge of town and his stab at building a new life into a state of homelessness. And David knew that homelessness was neither youthful nor adventurous, but simply hopeless, tired and undignified.

  The branches and leaves rustled, and since there was no breeze on that stuffy, sticky evening, David realized that it must be Franco making his way to the camp. Sure enough, Franco, in his signature blazer, with cellphone in hand and eyes peeking out from the top of those tinted glasses, emerged from the woods and looked genuinely perplexed.

  “Jesus. This is where you live?” Franco looked around briefly before returning swiftly to the purpose of his visit. Whatever was happening in David’s life was unfortunate, but he didn’t want to get deeply involved. “Here you go, Shakespeare. You’ve been doing good. Real good.” Franco handed David an envelope and turned around as quickly as he could to leave.

  “Forty dollars?” David held up two twenties and looked at Franco in exasperation. “Where’s the rest?”

  “There was a little glitch at the bank, Dave. No need to worry about it though. I’ll have it sorted by tomorrow, Davey.”

  “A glitch?” David found his bearings and laughed scornfully. “Sounds to me like you’re a glitch!”

  “What did you just say?” Franco walked up close to David and removed his glasses.

  “Oh, sorry. Let me put it in clearer language: you’re a fuck-up!” David was beginning to relish this exchange — maybe even more than if he had just been paid what he was owed.

  “Excuse me?” All show and pretense were gone. Franco sounded genuinely taken aback.

  “You’re a stain on the fabric of society. You’re like the guy in a polyester suit sitting behind the desk in the lobby of a cheap hotel, renting out rooms by the hour to burnt-out hookers, with nothing but big dreams to keep him alive!”

  Franco looked both astounded and enraged. He pushed David but didn’t manage to get him to fall to the ground. In the midst of an adrenaline rush that made him feel simply fantastic, David grabbed Franco, put him into a headlock and tightened until Franco’s face turned the colour of a beet. Franco struggled, tried to use his hands to claw himself out of the lock, heaved and huffed and groaned like a cornered wild animal, before giving in.

  “Okay, okay! Please!” David felt satiated and let him go. Franco stumbled away to a corner of the campsite, hunched over as he spat, tried to catch his breath and regain his composure. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve before turning to David, who was rummaging in his backpack. David retrieved a bottle of sparking wine and had the glow of a man who had just struck gold. He unwrapped the purple aluminum on the neck of the bottle and pulled the cork with skill and ease.

  Franco looked confused and beat.

  “What exactly are we celebrating?”

  “Here, it will make you feel better…” David passed Franco the bottle and motioned for him to sit next to him on a log. Franco reluctantly took a gulp, sat down and passed the bottle back to David without making eye contact.

  “I guess it’s my turn to ask questions…”

  Franco offered no response and continued staring at the water in front of them. He was visibly deflated.

  “How long were you going to have me work at that sandwich place before paying me, or telling me that there’s no money?” Franco bo
re the expression of a petulant child who had been caught. He sulked quietly and continued staring at the water.

  “How many people have you duped so far, Franco?”

  He turned to David and his expression transformed into one of resentfulness.

  “I don’t dupe people, David.”

  David laughed dismissively.

  “Okay. I see. So how long have you been keeping up this charade, Franco? It’s not so much that I’m angry with you anymore, but I am curious.”

  “That just shows how little you understand. Charade, lifestyle, image, perception. Can you tell me the difference between them?” Franco took the bottle of sparking wine from David and chugged it.

  “I’ve been through some tough times even back home. I know.”

  “You know squat, Shakespeare. Everything happens on a different scale in the city. And on this scale, you can’t see the end of the road, whether you’re going up or whether you’re going down — it’s endless either way.” Franco set his eyes on the river again. As the sun descended, the waters looked as though they were pure, flowing gold.

  David’s mood, first anger and irritation, then aggression, changed again. The adrenaline rush mostly subsided.

  “You should write that down. It’s pretty good.” David smiled faintly and tapped against the bottle.

  “Like Margaret Laurence’s diviners, all of us on the periphery of respectable society are collecting, sorting and hunting through garbage, looking for clues and treasures about this mysterious, multi-faceted, brutal, uncaring, unlivable, yet somehow mesmerizing society … in the garbage. It helps us understand. And if you understand, you can probably learn how to cope…”

  He thought that his literary life-coaching monologue was superior to anything Franco had offered him over the past week. But David had become so lost in the imagery of it all, in the underappreciated work of divining, that he didn’t notice Franco remove his blazer, shoes, watch and wallet with surgical dispassion and precision, and walk away a few feet in the direction of the river.