by Tyler Keevil
I found the whole thing pretty traumatising, actually.
We don’t keep photos of her around the house. My mom, I mean. It’s not like my dad doesn’t have any, either. He’s got tons and tons of photos from this trip they took down to South America the year before I was born. They bought a Volkswagen camper and ran away without telling anybody, and when they came back she was pregnant and they were married. It was like an elopement and a honeymoon all rolled into one. On the way they took about nine hundred photos. I know because my dad showed me the ones he turned into slides. He would never have done it when he was sober, but he came home absolutely hammered one night and woke me up at one in the morning. He’d been out to dinner with a client or something. First he wanted to arm wrestle – he loves whipping me at arm wrestling when he’s drunk – and afterwards he decided to show me those slides.
It was a super big ordeal. We had to haul the projector and slides out of the attic, then set up the projection screen on a rickety old tripod. Lastly my dad made me wipe down the slides while he changed the lamp on the machine. By the time we got started it was nearly two o’clock, but it was worth it. Up until then, I’d only seen my mom in tiny photos and portraits and crap like that. The slides were ten times better. She looked young and real and alive – this skinny, dark-haired woman in a straw hat and huge sunglasses. My dad looked pretty much like he does now, only thinner and with more hair. Also, he had a goatee – this hippy goatee. There were shots of them hanging out at beaches, and lounging by their van, and hiking around Mayan ruins, and partying in rundown villages with all these natives. Wherever they were, it always looked way too hot: trees dry as kindling, roads parched and cracked, ramshackle clay buildings sagging in the sun like melted plastic. The heat never seemed to faze them, though. They were just happy to be together, surviving on tortillas and pop. They only drank pop because you can’t trust the water down there.
That’s what my dad said, anyhow.
My favourite slides were all in one sequence. It started with the two of them standing on the beach beneath a palm tree. In the second shot, my mom had climbed onto my dad’s shoulders, and by the third one she’d shinnied halfway up the tree. Then, in the last slide, they were holding this coconut between them, cracked in half and dripping milk. Something in their expressions really got to me. They’d completely forgotten about the camera and whoever was taking the photos. They were both gazing into the coconut like it was this rare treasure they’d found in the middle of the desert – a treasure that held all the secrets they needed to live happily ever after. It didn’t, of course. It was just a coconut.
I mean, she died pretty soon after that.
15
‘You feel anything?’
‘No, nothing yet. You?’
‘No.’
We only tried it once. Once was enough. It was back when we were too young to get booze or weed or anything good. I think we were twelve. Or maybe eleven. I can’t really remember. But we’d read on the internet that nutmeg could get you high, so we boiled half a cup and rented The Lion King. Chris loved that movie. He couldn’t get enough of it. He was convinced it would be ten times better if we were stoned – especially the part where Simba’s dad comes out of the sky in the shape of stars. As soon as our brew was ready, we each shotgunned a mug of nutmeg. It didn’t taste like much – kind of like weak soap mixed with cinnamon.
It didn’t do much, either.
‘How about now?’
‘No.’
Neither of us could sit still. Our rec room is filled with a bunch of crap my dad bought at garage sales: old reclining chairs, this water-stained coffee table, and a threadbare two-seater sofa. Chris was pacing back and forth in front of the TV, playing with my kung fu sash. First he tied it around his head. Then he draped it over his shoulders, like a scarf. I sat on the sofa and picked at the armrest. There was a hole in the cover and all this loose stuffing sprouted from it like a bizarre, spongy fungus.
‘This blows, man.’
‘Yeah.’ Chris threw the sash on the floor. ‘Nutmeg blows goats.’
‘I’d rather be blowing a goat.’
We weren’t high at all. We were just bored. After a while we got sick of waiting and put on the film. Our favourite part was the bit where Simba goes to live in the jungle with that pig and the little squirrel. Usually, those guys harsh cracked us up. That night, though, I don’t remember laughing once. I was exhausted. I couldn’t figure out why. Chris kept dozing off, too. When the movie ended he mumbled something about going home. I yawned and nodded and shuffled to my room and passed out.
Then I woke up.
Somebody was banging on my window – the little window above my bed. It freaked me out. I managed to sit up, but couldn’t really stand. My head was reeling and my limbs felt as if they’d been dipped in cement. Also, I started gagging: these weird, dry gags. Somehow, I batted aside the curtains. Chris was out there, his face pressed to the glass.
I unlatched the window.
‘Get out here, Razor,’ he said. ‘You can see the fucking Northern Lights.’
I had no idea what was happening. I staggered to my back door, then crawled over the fence and met him in the front yard. The nutmeg had smashed me into this pulpy, unthinking mass – I was a blob of human jello. Chris slapped me playfully across the head, pawing at me with his palms. The impact bounced around inside my skull – this super weird sound hallucination. His eyes were wild and his face had gone all sweaty and pale.
‘You feeling it?’
‘I’m feeling sick, all right.’
‘Sick as a dog, huh?’
‘Sicker than Snoop Dogg.’
I was trying to laugh about it, but only because I didn’t want to look like a bed-wetter. Secretly, I thought I might be dying or something. No joke. If Chris hadn’t been around, I probably would have called an ambulance to come get me. That’s how screwed up I felt.
Chris threw himself down on the grass.
‘Look, man.’
I looked. I saw a black sky and these bright clusters of stars.
‘Yeah. Cool.’
‘No, asshole. Look!’
I looked again. After staring for a minute, I saw it. There were ribbons of colour – pink and red and purple – rippling against the blackness. I let out this little squeak and stumbled back, falling to the ground beside him. The grass felt wet and prickly against my bare skin. I hadn’t even bothered to dress myself. I was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts.
‘What is it?’ I whispered.
‘The Northern Lights, man.’
‘You can’t see them this far South.’
Chris snorted. ‘Oh, yeah?’
We lay like that, spreadeagled on the grass like gingerbread men. I started feeling a little better. It was just me and him and those waves of light washing over the sky. The city was silent. The world was silent. Everybody had died and left us alone.
‘What makes them do that?’ Chris asked.
‘I heard it’s the earth’s magnetic field or something.’
He thought for a while, then said, ‘You know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘It’s dead people. Dead people are hanging out in the sky.’
‘Like ghosts?’
‘No – not the normal kind. They wouldn’t be allowed.’ He gestured towards the flickering colours. ‘It’s more like the energy of dead warriors. Vikings and shit like that.’
I didn’t say anything. If I’d tried to say anything, I would have cried. I’m serious. For some reason, ripped as I was, his version sounded better than any afterlife I’d ever heard of – better than heaven, and way better than reincarnation. Reincarnation is the worst of all, no matter what Karen said. I mean, who’d want to live all over again?
‘How do we get up there?’ I whispered.
‘You just got to make sure you go out with a bang.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
I don’t think
he really believed that, but it sounded pretty sweet at the time.
16
We were driving back from the Avalon – that same bar where Chris almost fought the turtleneck – when we got pulled over. It was the four of us, like always. Julian had his dad’s new car, this super nice Mercedes with crazy rims and huge tyres. Karen rode shotgun. Chris and I sat in the back. What I remember most is the smell of the perfume she always wore. I don’t know the brand name or anything, but it smelled sort of like oranges and lemons and a bunch of citrus fruits rolled into one. It might not sound like much, but that perfume drove us completely insane. I would have jumped out the window just to get her attention – that’s how great she smelled.
We took turns shouting shit at the pedestrians we drove by, trying to impress her. Julian tore up and down all these little side streets. At every corner he’d gun it and pull a huge fishtail. Then we hit Marine and saw the lights – blue and red in the rearview.
‘Shit.’
‘Pull over, man.’
Julian did. For whatever reason, he’d headed back towards Taylor Way to get on the Upper Levels, which meant we were in West Van – and everybody knows that West Van cops are the most insane fascists you’ll ever meet. No joke. They’re always shooting poor people for carrying pellet guns or cap guns around. Their mission is to keep the district rich and white and crime-free. They even shot this one teenager for answering the door with a remote control in his hand. The cop who did it claimed he thought the remote was a gun, which was a total lie. He just wanted to get rid of that kid. Those jokers shoot more kids than almost any other police force, except maybe the corrupt ones in third world countries.
‘Ditch that booze, Razor.’
I had a mickey of rum in my hand that I’d completely forgotten about. I looked at it stupidly, like the guy in a movie who’s picked up the murder weapon just as the detective comes in. I was pretty hammered, actually. We all were, except Julian. That was one thing about Jules. When it came to drinking and driving, he happened to be extremely responsible.
‘Here,’ Karen said.
Snatching the mickey from me, she leaned forward and tucked it into the back of her jeans. Then she pulled her shirt down to cover it and the rum disappeared, like a magic trick.
‘Everybody be quiet.’
The cop got out of his car, leaving the emergency lights on. All we could see was this spooky silhouette marching towards us through the red and blue beams.
Then I saw his face as he passed my window.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘It’s Bates.’
Karen asked, ‘Who’s Bates?’
We didn’t have time to explain. Bates was right there. I don’t know what a North Van cop was doing in West Van. Maybe he was already bucking for a transfer. He had a flashlight in his hands – one of those heavy duty Maglites that doubles as a nightstick. He used it to rap on the driver’s side window. Julian pressed a button by his armrest and the glass whirred down. Just before he opened his mouth, I had the feeling Jules was about to say something super stupid.
And he did.
‘What’s the problem, Batesy?’
Batesy. No joke. That’s what he said. Bates did a little double take, and there was this moment when you could tell he’d recognised us but didn’t really know how to react.
Then he said, ‘Licence and registration, please.’
That was it. He had this super severe expression on his face, too. Before then, I’d just thought he was a bit of a treat. That was the moment I realised he was a total marzipan.
Jules handed over all that junk and Bates flipped through it.
‘This isn’t your car.’
‘No, it’s my dad’s.’
Bates smiled, as if establishing that Jules didn’t own the car was a major personal victory. Then he rested his hand on his holster and peered around the car. Mostly he looked at Karen. He looked her up and down in this really sick way – totally perving out.
‘Do you know how fast you were going?’
He said that to Jules, but he was still eyeballing Karen.
‘About fifty?’
‘That’s what you should have been doing. You topped eighty back there.’
‘Sorry about that, officer.’
‘You kids been drinking tonight?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you won’t mind breathing into this, will you?’
Bates whipped out his breathalyser, super fast, and shoved it right in Julian’s face.
‘What do I do?’
‘Just breathe.’
Jules opened up and blew. We waited while Bates checked the reading.
‘Stay right here.’
It was total crap. Jules had been drinking pop all night. But Bates wanted to jerk us around a little. He went back to his car and sat inside it for about three hours. I could see him fiddling with the radio and poking at his computer screen.
‘What’s he doing in there?’
‘Pulling his goalie,’ Chris said.
Julian laughed, but it was a fake laugh. He had both hands clenched tight on the wheel and he kept glancing anxiously in the rearview mirror. Totally wetting the bed.
Eventually, Bates came strutting back.
‘You passed your breath test,’ he said. ‘Doing eighty in a fifty zone still counts as excessive speeding – but I cut you some slack and charged the minimum fine.’
He held out a slip of paper. Julian stared at it, sort of bewildered.
‘You’re giving me a ticket?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, this is great,’ Jules said, getting all flustered. ‘Just great. Last week you gave me a medal and now you’re giving me a ticket. Thanks a lot, officer. Thanks a lot.’ His voice trembled a little, as if he was having a hard time keeping it from breaking.
‘You’re lucky it’s only a hundred, hero.’
‘You know what this is?’ Julian muttered. ‘It’s bullshit.’
That surprised me, actually. I didn’t think Jules had it in him.
‘What did you say?’
Jules kept his head down, his hands on the wheel. ‘Nothing.’
Bates smirked. ‘That’s what I thought.’
He hitched up his pants, like a cartoon cop. You could tell he really thought he’d taught us a lesson. Then, just as he turned to go, those words came out of Chris’s mouth.
‘Let’s remain calm, here,’ he said – sounding exactly like Bates when we’d dragged Mrs Reever out of the water. ‘Everybody just remain calm.’
Bates froze, as if he’d been stabbed in the spine. Then Chris started laughing. So did Karen. She didn’t even know why it was so funny but she laughed anyway. That got me going, too. We were all cracking up. The only one who didn’t laugh was Jules. And Bates, of course. He just stood there, looking like he wanted to pull out his gun and shoot us.
He probably would have if he’d thought he could get away with it.
The weirdest part of all is how Bates ended up being the hero. After Chris kicked his ass, Bates got the same treatment as us: interviews, talkshows, the whole deal. They probably even gave him a medal. If they haven’t given him one yet, they should. Seriously. They should give him a medal for being the biggest dickhead on the entire planet, and the biggest liar in history. He’s told his story so many times he probably even believes it by now. I bet he actually thinks that he helped save Mrs Reever, instead of standing around like a crash test dummy. And you know what? I couldn’t care less. Not any more.
My dad wrote a letter for me, and mailed it to all the papers and networks. He loaded it with complicated references and legal terminology, so it sounded totally professional. Then he got his secretary to type it on official letterhead, just to scare the shit out of them. The letter said he was working on my behalf, and if they printed any more bullshit we’d sue their asses off. It was pretty sweet. He also filed a formal complaint with the police department, questioning Bates’s actions. Nothing happened to Bates, of course. Act
ually, something did happen to him – he got promoted, and transferred to West Van. He got all of that, and he got away with what he’d started by giving Julian a ticket: he punished us for doing what he couldn’t that day at the beach.
After Bates left, Jules drove along Marine Drive at about thirty clicks. He gnawed on his lip and wouldn’t look anywhere but directly ahead, at a fixed spot on the windscreen.
‘What a total asshole,’ Karen said.
Nobody answered.
Then it happened. Julian emitted a little, choking sob – like a child. We all sat there, frozen. I don’t think I’ve ever been more embarassed for a guy in my life. Part of me knew exactly how he felt. It was pretty shitty and hypocritical for Bates to turn around and do that. At the same time, one thing I wouldn’t recommend is crying in front of girls. It doesn’t go over so well. I mean, sure, we all have to cry sometimes. I still cry myself to sleep thinking about Chris. That’s not the same, though. Nobody ever sees me cry – especially girls.
Karen reached over and patted him on the knee. ‘It’s okay, Julian.’
You could tell she was a little disgusted, though. That’s the thing about girls. They hate cry-babies. They might say they like sensitive guys, but that’s a lie. What they really want is somebody who wouldn’t think twice about fighting six people at once, or staring down a guy with a gun, or beating a cop half to death.
That’s what she wanted, anyways.
17
When we were younger, another thing we did was make movies.
We used my dad’s video camera – this bulky old camcorder he’d picked up at a garage sale. I must have been about two or three when he bought it. I can’t really remember. It was a little while after my mom died and I guess he wanted to capture a few memories. He took some footage of us at the wading pool and me riding my tricycle around the yard and a bunch of other typical things, but the best stuff he shot was during my fifth birthday party.
In the video, we’re getting ready to eat my cake. My dad must have baked it himself, since the icing is all lumpy and messy. But he made up for that by covering the cake with army men – those green army men that stand on plastic bases. When the lights get turned off, everybody starts singing happy birthday. In the darkness, you can see the faces of my friends gathered around the table, watching as I blow out the candles. Jules was super thin and pale back then. He keeps poking his finger in the icing and licking it off. Chris is sitting beside him. I don’t think he had many birthday parties of his own. He’s got this extremely solemn expression on his face, as if blowing out candles is the most important thing ever.