by Greg Rhyno
I make my way up Cumberland, and once I cross Park Street, I walk backward to protect my face against the razor wind. In the distance, I can see Trevor Beaucage, Brandy Sawchuck, and a couple other legal-aged stragglers file into the bar. Even Mr. Murdock is among the elect. He seems weighted down in a very adult-looking peacoat, and he holds the door open for a short, red-haired woman who’s probably his wife. When they go inside, I turn around to face the cold.
“Uh, hello?”
In the back room I can hear the rattle of someone shaking up an aerosol can. The whole store reeks of spray paint.
“Where are your new releases?” I call out.
Eventually, a familiar figure appears. She’s wearing a baggy Harley-Davidson t-shirt tucked into a pair of acid wash jeans. Her big, blonde hair is pulled back in a scrunchie, and she’s admiring a freshly stenciled sign that says Be Kind Rewind. She doesn’t bother looking up when she answers me.
“We don’t separate current releases and older releases,” she recites. “We organize the films by director.” When she finally puts down the sign, she squints at me and snaps her gum. “Hey, aren’t you Mikey’s friend?”
I hadn’t seen Deacon’s sister for at least a couple of months.
“Yeah. I thought you worked at the Business Depot.”
Deandra starts stacking returned videotapes on the countertop. “Well, Business Depot money isn’t great, so I work here, too. Fuckin’ graveyard shift. Won’t make it to the bars before midnight tonight.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. Well. What are you looking for?”
“Uh, True Lies?”
She blows a small purple bubble and chews it back into her mouth.
“Seriously?” she says. “I mean, I know Valentine’s Day is bullshit and all, but this is how you’re going to spend it? Watching True Lies? That’s fuckin’ sad, dude.”
There’s nothing worse than being pitied by a pretty girl, especially if you spent a good portion of your freshman year imagining her naked. I puff my chest a little.
“Maybe I’ll be watching it with someone.”
Deandra smirks. “I highly doubt that, but look—” She unlatches the little door at the side of the counter and comes over to my side. I follow her across the store as she decodes the baffling library. “If you’re going to lower yourself to renting a movie tonight, at least get something ... appropriate.” She crouches down and traces her finger along the video spines. She finds what she’s looking for, and on her way back behind the counter, drops it into my hands.
Four minutes later, I’m out the door and wondering just how she’s convinced me to leave with some ancient artifact called Roman Holiday. It’s not like I have anything against old movies. I just think they could be improved with a little colour and actors who don’t walk around wearing suits all day. In any case, the issue is quickly resolved when the movie suddenly disappears from my hands.
“Hey, I didn’t know they sold gay porn here.”
I hadn’t seen Brad McLaren all that much at school, even though he’s in my fourth-period law class this semester. The few times he has shown up he just gives me the stink-eye from under the brim of his Montreal Canadiens ball cap. He passes the tape over his shoulder to Dave Greatorex, who menaces beside him like an escaped gorilla. I can smell the alcohol coming off both of them like aftershave.
“Roman Holiday, hmm?” Greatorex muses. “Wouldn’t have guessed you were into Italian queers, Curtis. You like those hairy-chested wops, huh, paisan?”
“You know, I don’t want to point out the obvious,” I say before my brain can stop me, “but you’re the ones renting a movie together on Valentine’s Day. So, really, if we’re going to point the gay finger somewhere—”
And that’s when Greatorex breaks my nose.
“I’m tired of your fuckin’ mouth, Curtis.”
Once again, things aren’t working out the way I expected them to tonight. First of all, I just assumed there’d be a little more back and forth with the Pussies, a little more gentlemanly repartee during which I could talk them down or make a run for it. I’m pretty fast when I want to be. Also, I never imagined that Greatorex would just haul off and sucker-punch me. I’d never been punched in the face before, and I always expected it to be kind of like in a video game, where you can take a few hits before your opponent does any real damage. Apparently, this is not the case. Instead, there’s a dull thud of meat and bone, a stabbing in my sinuses, and a blinding blur as my eyes tear up. I swoon back and forth like an inflatable clown, and he clocks me again in the jaw, which doesn’t hurt quite as much, but sends me sprawling. My toque leaves my head, and I find myself down in the salty beige snow of the Video Hutch parking lot.
McLaren’s voice is suddenly inches from my ear.
“Where’s your bogan boyfriend, Curtsey? He leave you all alone tonight?”
Greatorex puts his boot on my throat and pushes down on my Adam’s apple like it’s a gas pedal. The hard rubber tread bites into my collarbone, and I can imagine a small Size 12 imprinting itself into my neck.
“How’s that feel? You like that, Curtsey? I heard you faggots were into this kind of shit—auto-erotic-whatever-you-call-it.”
“Asphyxiation?” Brad offers.
“Yeah. That. You’re probably getting off on this aren’t you? You’re loving this ...”
I can still hear him, but his malicious cooing gets further and further away. Brad’s talking too. The nasally timbre of his voice is advocating for other forms of abuse. I feel the pressure on my neck diminish a little, and while I’m grateful for the oxygen, I know that whatever’s coming next can’t be good.
Then I hear the beautiful music of a deus ex machina. Deandra’s voice. I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but I have a feeling it has something to do with me.
“Fuck you, slut. Call the cops,” Greatorex says.
I hear the music again, on the move now, with added percussion: the familiar rattling of a spray can.
“You do it and I’ll kick your ass. I don’t care if you’re a girl, I’ll—”
Suddenly, Greatorex’s bluff is silenced by the shushing of atomized paint.
“What the fuck?” There’s a hysterical edge to his voice. “That’s my dad’s truck!”
In an instant I’m free. The sprinkling of loose snow from their boots as they give chase is celebratory confetti. I turn over and watch them all clomp around the corner of the building chasing after her. I worry for a silent second about what they might do if they catch her, but by the time I get my feet under me, there’s a wild slam and the sound of Pussies pounding on a locked door.
“You bitch!”
“Fucking cunt!”
As they continue their assault against the back door, Deandra appears through the front, grabs me by the wrist and yanks me inside. She locks the door, kills the light, and turns the Come In, We’re Open sign to Sorry, We’re Closed. For a moment, there’s only the sound of my broken, hitching breath. The wall-mounted television silently broadcasts chiaroscuro images of Johnny Depp in a John Bull hat and face paint from a remote VCR.
“What if they break the windows?” I croak, consonants sticking in my throat—Uht ih dey reak duh indows?—and then proceed to double over in a coughing fit.
She waits patiently until I finish and then points to another sign that says Smile! You’re On Camera!
“They can’t be that fuckin’ stupid,” she says.
I shrug. I want to tell her that I’ve never fully plumbed the depths of their stupidity, but I ration my air instead. Through the glass we watch the simian form of Greatorex slouch out of the shadows and around the corner with Brad trailing behind. He puts a cupped hand to the window and peers into the near-darkness of the store. We crouch down, out of sight behind the collected works of Martin Scorsese and Ridley Scott. Greatorex hammers once on the window. It warbles a little, but doesn’t break.
“You’re a dead man, Curtis.” His menace is muffled by t
he glass.
We wait a few moments and then peek around the video shelves. The two of them stand behind the enormous blue-and-white Ford inspecting the damage.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts. He kicks his own tire and then shoves Brad to the ground. He gets in the cab and starts the engine. Brad pushes himself up to his feet and races to the passenger door. They fishtail out of the parking lot, then accelerate down the street, a dripping black-paint cock and balls adorning the truck’s tailgate. My face is still raw and aching, but I can’t help but crack a smile.
The front of my jacket has soaked up most of the blood from my nose, but Deandra has me perched on a stool, one hand pinching my nostrils, the other holding a plastic bag full of broken icicle on my nose.
“Keep your head back,” she says. “I am not cleaning your fuckin’ blood off the floor, so don’t make a mess.”
The night continues to defy my expectations. I sit and watch the rest of the black-and-white movie on the store TV while she cashes out. It all seems very surreal. Things don’t go so well for Johnny Depp at the end.
“Okay.” She appears before me as the credits roll. “Let’s see what we got.”
She gently removes the plastic bag and lifts my nostril-pinching hand by its wrist.
“Well, I hope you weren’t planning on doing any modeling soon, because you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. She puts away my stool, and I stand around stupidly as she slides into a Ski-Doo jacket. “It would’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t ... I mean, like ... that was awesome. Thank you.”
“All in a day’s work. Speaking of which—” she looks at her watch and exhales. “Jesus fuck.”
“What time is it?” I remember that, a million years ago, I agreed to meet somebody somewhere.
“It’s time for you to go. Chop chop. No more convalescing.”
Outside, the cold air feels good on my face. Numbing. Deandra’s keys jingle, and on the ground I find my toque, matted with snow, and Roman Holiday in its plastic case. I hold up the latter up and show her, like it’s a good omen, a relic from better times.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Definitely. Wait. What time did you say it was?”
She sighs. “Well, it’s still Valentine’s Day. For another half hour, anyhow.”
I realize I’m screwed.
Deandra jams her hands in her pockets and starts walking backward away from me. “Hey, if you see Mikey at school, tell him I’m coming over for supper on Tuesday.”
“Okay. I will. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I start jogging, and despite the ache of my face, I make pretty good time until I cut across the Holsum Bakery parking lot—which has turned into a giant skating rink—and go down hard. I get back up on all fours, teetering like Bambi, and press on. When I finally arrive at “this very spot,” the place where Kim’s Docs were planted mere hours before, she isn’t there. Seconds later, the bells of Trinity United tell me that it’s midnight, and I’m half an hour late.
Through the windows I can see that there’s still a pretty sizeable crowd in the bar. It’s possible that the band went on late, or she decided to wait for me inside. If I can’t get in, I can at least wait for potential emissaries to come out. I watch a little group of people leave, but there’s nobody I recognize. I reach into the inside pocket of my coat for another cigarette. I’ve started buying my own packs of du Maurier now. Health Canada Warning: Pretty Girls Make Graves.
“Ponyboy?” A hand comes down on my back. “Jesus. What happened to your face?” Soda stands there, guitar case in hand.
“Dave Greatorex.”
There’s a dark flash in his eyes. “That guy’s a piece of shit. You okay?”
“Yeah. Hey, do you know if Kim’s still in there?”
I don’t like the sympathetic look he gives me when he answers. “I think she left a little while ago.”
“She went home?” I offer the explanation I want to hear.
“No. She took off with the Bunsen Honeydew guys. They were going to party with the headliners at that band house out Highway 11/17. You know, the one Ariss Donaldson’s parents run?”
The ground shifts a little under my feet, and for the second time tonight I feel clobbered. I play it off like it’s no big deal, like Kim and I were having a see-you-if-I-see-you kind of night.
“How come you didn’t go?” I ask him.
“I don’t know. Not really my scene.”
“Where you headed now?”
“Home.” He switches the case from one hand to the other. “You should come over.”
“Dude. Look at my face.”
“Nothing a couple beers won’t fix.”
It’d been ages since I’d hung out at Soda’s place, and a couple beers sounded pretty good right about now. “Yeah. Okay.”
We start walking, and Soda points at my cigarette.
“Why don’t you give me one of those things, and I’ll show you how to do it properly. You smoke like a cancer patient.”
“Fuck you. Smoke your own.” But I give him one anyway. And just like that, we’re cool again. No teary-eyed hugs or pledges of eternal friendship. Just cigarettes and the promise of beer.
“Play a little Floyd tonight?” I nod toward the guitar.
He flicks his BIC and a little cumulus drifts away. “Yeah. Matty got me up for a few songs.”
“A few songs? What—do you practise with them now?” I try to sound casual, but the question is deadly serious.
“Not really. I just sort of wing it.” I don’t press the issue. For a moment there’s only the sound of our running shoes squeaking on the packed snow. I worry that I’ve disrupted our new equilibrium.
“Dude, it’s not like the three of us are married to each other,” Soda says finally.
“I know. It’s cool.”
Then Soda sighs. It’s the kind of deep, preparatory sigh that people sigh before they’re about to bear some bad news. “Bunsen Honeydew got the opening slot for Sloan. In April.”
“What?” How many times can a guy get sucker-punched in one night? “That’s fucking bullshit.”
“Maybe it’s bullshit. But—” the gravity in his eyes lightens a little “—the bar wanted one more local band to open things up. I got Matty to suggest us.”
“And?”
Soda makes a no-big-deal face. “It’s ours if we want it.”
“Of course we want it, but you’re going to have to talk to Deacon.” Soda doesn’t say anything, and my words hang in the cold air.
As far as I knew, Deacon was still pretty pissed off about whatever part Soda had played in Martha Dumptruck’s second-place finish in last month’s Battle of the Bands. When Soda eventually suggested he should join his girlfriend’s band if he was going to “keep PMSing,” Deacon threatened to do just that. “At least,” he said, “there’d be fewer dicks.” Then we didn’t practise for three weeks, and Soda and Deacon avoided each other at school like wounded lovers while I waited around for them to reconcile.
Soda’s house is a slightly crooked, one-and-a-half-storey fire trap on Secord Street, kept erect by a load-bearing exoskeleton of once-white vinyl siding. It’s next door to a hair salon called Contours that went out of business a couple years ago. The chain-link fence that separates Soda’s house from the salon and from his neighbour on the other side (an Italian widow who always wears black and intermittently accuses him of stealing her mail) has been bashed nearly horizontal. Absurdly, the little front gate still stands sentinel, and even though we could walk past it, Soda always makes a show of holding it open and ushering me through.
“Mauri says he’s going to fix the fence this weekend.”
It’s an old running joke. Mauri has been saying that as long as I can remember.
Four concrete steps that don’t quite touch the ground lead up to a screened-in porch. Over time, the porch has become less of an antechamber and more of a chaotic storage facility for empty beer cases,
a rotting turquoise armchair that never quite made it to the dump, and the shrouded corpse of a Broil King barbecue. By this time of year, the steps are just an icy booby-trap for mailmen, newspaper carriers, and door-to-door salesmen. We squeeze past Mauri’s pickup and take the side door. The landing is littered with boots and shoes and serves as a no man’s land between the upstairs and the basement, which Soda claimed when he was thirteen and has since used to live as separately as possible from his father.
We go down the stairs, and I wonder how the smell of damp never sticks to Soda. His room is a wide, unfinished cell with two by four bars, a concrete floor, and bare light bulbs. He’s managed to outfit it with a bunch of stuff he’s picked up over the years. Soda’s never had any steady work, but his cousin brings him along on landscaping jobs when he needs an extra set of hands. Last year he sold a bunch of hash he got from this Vietnamese kid who always drove a Mercedes to school. Most of the money he’s made over the years has gone into his black-on-black Telecaster and his eternally fritzing Peavey Bandit, but he’s also got about five mattresses stacked Princess and the Pea style, an exhausted futon on which I’ve crashed more than once, a functional record player and tape deck, a TV, a VCR, and even a mini-fridge. Pictures of his favourite singers and bands, cut from the covers of music mags, are tacked to undrywalled framing or duct taped onto bulging plastic vapour barrier. True Grunge: How Neil Stays Forever Young. Nirvana: Corporate Magazines Still Suck.
Soda’s prize possessions, though, are two milk crates full of old records that used to belong to his mom. He rescued them from the curb one morning when he was twelve. Mauri never really talks about Soda’s mom, but every October nineteenth, he apparently gets a little extra wasted and pitches a bunch of her stuff. Soda figures the nineteenth is either her birthday or the day she died, but he doesn’t want to ask. Over the years, Soda’s rescued a jeans jacket, a mood ring, an eight-by-ten graduation photo, and the records. Sixty or so well-worn vinyl records. There’s a lot of your standard fare in there, like those red and blue Beatles compilations, Hot Rocks, and Rumors, but there are some real finds too. Sam Cooke’s Twistin’ the Night Away. Patti Smith’s Horses. Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey. The Diodes self-titled first album. Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s Rust Never Sleeps. These were the records that taught Soda how to sing. There were even some country and western albums—Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Waylon Jennings—that I kind of snickered at initially, but when Soda started sneaking them on mixed tapes he made for me, they were actually kind of cool. Plus, I was always jealous that, unlike the kachunks of my compilations, the songs on Soda’s tapes were bookended by the creak of the record player’s arm and the soft, dusty crackle of the needle touching down.