The Bewdley Mayhem

by Tony Burgess

  I do feel sorry as shit for all those poor straight bastards who kept getting hospitalized for limping or for liking French painting or whatnot. I might have even come out of the closet one sunny day, if only to have surprised the shit out of all those cowardly assholes about what a fearsome gay man was capable of. And of course to get some payback for all those sorry heterosexuals who could of used a coupla angry gay fists when they was getting shitkicked. If they were heterosexuals — like I say, I’m not altogether clear on that score. Maybe some was and maybe some wasn’t, but one thing I know for sure is that I was one lonely man-hungry homosexual. I know that we’re all supposed to be able to identify each other from a mile away, like a secret society, and maybe that’s the truth for a lot of guys. I’ve read about signals and elaborate winks and gestures, and that we’re all just supposed to know it, like some sixth sense, but either I’m just plain dense or maybe there were just no other gays in this whole damn town to send me any knowing looks. I like to assume the latter is true.

  I sure wouldn’t come out to get laid, Christ, for that I’d have to leave town for sure, in a big fuckin’ hurry. And to tell you the truth I kind of liked being the only gay man in town, even if I was the only one who knew it. Though maybe, just maybe, if I had come out, a whole shitload of bearded, barrel-chested motherfuckers would come around, kicking the dirt, blushing and reaching for my hand. I like to think the world should be a bit weirder than it is. Just a bit.

  There’s another type of man, here in Bewdley, I need to talk to you about. These guys are scarier, if that’s possible, than the gay-bashers. The leader’s name is Ron. He’s a very big guy, from down east originally; he moved here ten years ago and married a local woman, Helen. They built a marina on the lake and are raising two boys, Robbie and Bennie. Ron gets together with his brother-in-law to go on week-long fishing trips. Only they do more than fish. What I heard was that they get drunk and bust into cottages, spend the night then move on down the lake. The police have always figured it was teenagers, and since nothing was ever stolen, there wasn’t a hell of a lot done about it.

  Anyway, one day I was canoeing along through these high reeds, enjoying the sound they made and my own privacy, when I hear this loud bang, not a gunshot, more like plank of wood hitting something. My instincts told me to sit still and listen and sure enough I start hearing voices, real close, and I could make out every word. I recognized big Ron.

  “Oh boy. I think you’re gonna die if I do that again.”

  He sounded really drunk. There was a scraping sound and a sort of weeping noise.

  “Do you think you’ll be dead if I do it again? Huh? Do ya?”

  I figured Ron had either surprised somebody while breaking into a cottage, or he was beating up on somebody he fancied was gay. Either way it sounded like I had stumbled onto something about as nasty as anything I’d ever heard of.

  “Ron, let’s get out of here. If you kills this son of a bitch, we’re in real trouble.”

  There was a real sad sobbing sound now. I was finding it hard to listen. It was like the weakest sound a desperate man had ever made.

  “You should be worryin’ about that bit of fun you had with him, faggy ass, and be glad I’m here to tidy up.”

  There was another loud crack. He was using a plank. This time the man made louder sounds. “Eesh. Eesh. Eesh.” More like an animal now.

  “What a mighty head-bone you got, son. I’ve killed cows easier, and they got conks like anvils. Maybe we made a mistake here, an’ you ain’t nothin’ but a dumb fuckin’ cow. I never thought I’d see a man sink so low as to fuck a cow.”

  Ron was laughing drunkenly. His partner was saying “Oh shit. Oh shit” over and over again and crying I think, like a scared kid. The man Ron had beaten was now trying to say “fucker,” but it came out more like “fasher.” The two men started whispering and I couldn’t make it out, but Ron, it sounded like Ron, was trying to calm the other guy down, who just kept sniffin’ and coughing.

  I thought I was going to maybe be sick, my arms and legs were getting all tingly. I thought that maybe I was shaking with fear, but I wasn’t. I was feeling a trembly rage all through my body. I didn’t welcome it, no way. I could feel my hands start tightening around the oar and I knew, god dammit, I was gonna make an appearance. Oh damn, I did not want to.

  “Hey shithead, quiet. I thought I heard something. Over there.”

  I held my breath and froze, but the reeds were scraping against the boat and a hunter, like Ron, would easily sense my presence once he zeroed in on me with his hunting ear. I took a deep breath and then I stood up. Thank God I couldn’t see them. Just the tall reeds against an empty bank of sand, with some trees grouped out in front of the deeper woods. No Ron, no nothing. I was about to ease myself back down when a loud voice made me jump and bounce the oar off the side of the canoe.

  I had to speak up, now. They’d heard me for sure, and if I played hide and seek I knew these boys’d find me.

  “Everything alright over there? Hey, who’s there?”

  Nothing in my voice. I probably didn’t really hear anything much. Just say the word boys and I’ll be on my way.

  “Yeah. There’s a big fuckin’ problem over here. You got a radio? Somebody’s been hurt bad here.”

  “What happened?”

  “There’s a guy here been beat up real bad. We heard some noise, but the bastards got away. He needs help real bad. Go straight to the marina, tell my wife to call the OPP and a helicopter with paramedics.”

  I waited a few seconds. There was dead silence. I slid my oar in the water and drew myself towards them. Oh. Shit. I can’t do this. I felt the prow run up onto the sand and I stepped out, holding onto the oar as casually as I could.

  “Ron? Where are you?”

  Suddenly big Ron came around a clump of trees, without a plank of wood, but fists almost as big and a face as red as Mars. “What are you doin’? You simple bastard! I told ya a man needs help. Now get back in that canoe and go get some fuckin’ help. Right fuckin’ now!”

  I stood still for a second, my mind empty, then I heard a low moan. The poor bastard was still alive and if I left they’d sure as hell kill him, and if I stayed they’d kill me too. So for a brief second I seem to forget my own name as I swung the oar hard into the side of Ron’s neck. He leaned over a bit, that was all, and then he stood up very tall with a grin so full of sickness it stopped me breathing.

  “Oh. You don’t have a clue what you just done for me, do ya?” He snickered and shook his head.

  “You best do that all over again if you want some results.” Suddenly another man appeared around the bushes, white and shaking, and biting down on his hand. He made me think of a rabbit.

  “This here’s the sodomite faggot murderer. He just tried to knock me out with his oar so he could fuck me, just like he did to that other poor fellow.”

  The other man looked at me, then back at Ron, and he started nodding his head up and down like a rattle.

  “You’re right Ron, holy fuck. Here he is in the goddam flesh. It’s him alright, Ron, that’s the guy, ain’t it. The very fuckin’ guy who fucked and killed that guy right behind those bushes. It’s the guy, right Ron.”

  “Shut up, you idiot. Who the hell else could it be?”

  “Nobody else, Ronnie boy, nobody. We caught the son of a bitch red-handed didn’t we, buddy?”

  Ron tilted his head and winked at the other man, but I could see that there was nobody on earth Ron hated more than this other man. I wondered what obscene things Ron had seen this character commit, and it was even harder to imagine what compelled Ron to allow, maybe even encourage, the acts.

  “OK. Good, Ron, now what? We have to take this guy in. He’s goin’ to prison forever, ain’t he?”

  Ron rubbed his neck and stared at his feet for a while and then he looked up and stared straight into my eyes. He
suddenly looked very sober.

  “No. The problem is that our man here is a psychopath and he ain’t about to let us just waltz him into town, now is he? He’s already tried to kill me with that fuckin’ oar. No. Me and you are gonna have to fight for our lives against this mad dog.” Big Ron was starting to walk towards me slowly, holding out one hand in case I took another swing with the oar. He stopped about six inches from me, breathing whisky into my face.

  “Listen Ron,” I said, “you guys have been into some real nasty shit here, and it ain’t any of my business. I only hit you ’cause I was scared. It was not a personal thing. I don’t give a damn what you’ve done, I don’t even wanna know. But if you kill me you’re gonna have to come up with about a thousand lies, starting with why and how I managed to perform a two-man act of damage on this island. That’s only the start, Ron, the OPP are gonna be all over your story. Your best bet is to let me go and leave here, too. Without getting messed up by story-tellin’.”

  Ron seemed deeply disappointed, which meant he saw my point. “How do I know you don’t go directly to the OPP once I let you go?”

  “I won’t, Ron, I swear. You spare my life and I figure I owe you at least that much.”

  Ron’s friend was getting skittish again, hopping from one foot to another and shaking his head. Ron, on the other hand, was suddenly very calm; his whole body seemed to relax, and then he smiled, what I would call an evil smile.

  “Here’s what we do. This’ll make us all happy. You take that mean oar of yours around behind those bushes, where you’ll find a man who’s only half alive. I want you to take that oar and kill the half that’s still kicking. You won’t have to hit him any harder than you done me and I assure you that you will live out your natural life and he will not. Do you comprehend this situation?”

  Ron smiled all the way through this, and continued smiling as I felt my teeth close and my mouth twist down. Our faces still inches apart. The wind was dying, which meant it would soon be dusk.

  “I understand Ron. It’s the only way.”

  “Then you go your way and we’ll go ours.”

  I walked around Ron’s wide body, holding the oar like a club, and I went to find the man I was supposed to kill.

  He was laying on his side with his pants pulled down around his ankles. His head was black with blood, and only one eye, just a slit in a black bulb, was looking at me, the other eye was lost in his head somewhere. I nodded to him like I was there to help him, though that was only a reflex, ’cause I still had this crazy feeling I was going to end up killing this guy. His little red eye slid across the black ball that held it and looked down at the ground. He was far beyond letting me know anything. I held the oar up and put my fingers to my lips and then I made a whole series of complicated gestures to try to explain that I wasn’t going to kill him, but that he had better help me make it look that way. His face just hung there stiff, with that one eye moving slowly around. I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on in that poor bastard’s head. Then I brought the oar up high and swung it down hard into the earth right next to his neck. He didn’t even flinch, just kept staring at me. I rolled him over slightly so as to cover the slice I’d made in the ground and to make it look like I’d knocked him over with the blow. I stood hovering over him like I was arranging flowers when I heard Ron come up behind me.

  “Is he dead?” All of a sudden Ron sounded real grave, all the fun and games had left his voice.

  “Yes Ron,” I said, flatly, “he is now dead.”

  I thought for sure Ron was going to go and make sure, but he just turned around and walked back to the shore. I stood there for a long time staring at this poor bastard, wondering how I was going to get him help, cause he was gonna need it fast. Suddenly I heard Ron’s engine start up, and before I could call out they was gone.

  I figured I might be able to move him back to my canoe safer if I loaded him on that plank. I slid it out from under the bushes, feeling the slivers pierce my palms, then I laid it beside the man. I held him carefully by the shoulders and started moving him slowly on to the plank. That’s when I noticed he was dead. He’d probably died the moment he saw me raise that oar; he’d seen the end coming and gave right in to it.

  I was convicted of sexual assault and murder. Ron had worn gloves, and I was the one with the splinters. His friend had used a condom, which was never found, and nobody saw any point in looking very far past my presence at the scene for evidence. What really turned the jury on me was the magazines, the back issues of Honcho and Inches the police discovered in my home. They assumed it was the only collection of its kind in all of Bewdley.

  The moon through the bars is a cowboy’s girlfriend. She does not see me, but I see her, separated from the bars, hanging in deep sea panels against the night sky. I am in the wrong place. Caught among intersections, long red corridors and high concrete corners. I commit myself to being a dream the world would have, if it ever slept.

  Leon has long, muscular legs that he uses to pull me close at night. When I wake up from bad dreams, he cups the back of my head in his hand and whispers in my ear, “It’s OK, I love you, darling.”

  And I love him too.

  A STRIPPER, A BIKER, A MOTHER AND A MAN’S DRESS

  Her mother ran out for the fifth time onto the balcony. She balled up a pair of spandex pants and threw them hard like a baseball. They opened up and spun around in the wind as they fell. They were her daughter’s clothes, working clothes mostly. Her daughter was a stripper, and to stop her daughter’s life she was now emptying the young woman’s closet out among the white painted rocks on the lawn below.

  Watching her was her daughter’s boyfriend, looking like a biker; in fact, he was a biker. He wore the bored look of someone who has just had sex with his girlfriend’s mother. When he heard the mother begin what promised to be a sustained speech from the balcony to her daughter below, he lifted a small mirror, which held a blade and a rather precious amount of cocaine, out from under the coffee table, where it had been kept safe from flying hems and sleeves.

  The mother turned dramatically against the railing, left hand for right, the moment the blade clicked against the mirror. She stood in the wind for some seconds, becoming unhappy, and then she propelled herself back into the apartment. When she slid the mirror across the room he bounced back and up from the couch. He struck her hard and then he fell on the glass table, which broke cleanly into two sailing panes. In the few seconds that he lay still the mother kneeled beside him and slid the blade along his side.

  “Oh, shit. You cut yourself.”

  The biker boyfriend brought a palm full of blood up close to inspect it then dropped his forehead to the carpet and blew out a weary breath that flapped his lips.

  The stripper daughter sat cross-legged on the lawn. Beside her a feather boa had wrapped itself around the trunk of a tree. The leaves were beginning to turn underneath the bright pink and black dresses that draped the boughs. She knew for certain now that she had begun to hate her mother and to despise men. She sat there throughout the night, disappointed that this certainty wasn’t enough to help her leave this spot. In the morning, however, she crawled over to her purse and was relieved that it contained twenty dollars. She was very hungry and it was time for breakfast. She knew that she couldn’t afford to look unwell. Not yet.

  ★

  Emotions Anonymous is an organization patterned after all Twelve-Step Programs, and its members all knew, with chin-quivering certainty, that with it they could move mountains. They met every Wednesday night in the basement of Bewdley’s United Church. And they were all men. And they all deeply hated the women who had cored them like apples. They also deeply hated homosexuals. This was complicated, because each member was certain that every other member was in love with him. Everyone of them had begun to live for this fact. They were rooting for their team, unconditionally, holding hands and praying. Somewhere down
the road, one member would kiss another member, and the twelve steps would be exchanged, by some of them, for a simpler program based on a batter progressing around a diamond.

  Then she showed up in her underwear. Her eyes were bloody from crying, her back was sore from coughing and her body shimmered from fasting. One of the men, who had shared his transvestism the week before, offered her some of his costumes so she could work again. He took her home and she cried when she saw his beautiful dresses. She tried each one on and modelled them for him. When she showed him her routine he gazed at her with silent awe and admiration. His cheeks became wet as she bounced into splits, tumbled onto her shoulders and scissored her legs.

  Soon she was working again. In the two months that they lived together he went to every single one of her performances. In every one she wore his clothes. At home she would teach him how to dance like a female stripper. He asked her what it was like to be a woman and if she thought he could ever become like one. She told him not to worry and that she would be a woman for him. When they both fell over laughing at this, a loud rip tore up the back of his dress. She reached around her back and felt the loose fabric, and they both smiled at her large breasts.

  SPRING

  On Highway 401 to Kingston, east of Toronto, hangs a green sign indicating the turnoff to a very small resort town that lies on the southwest corner of Rice Lake. There is nothing inherently remarkable about this little place. Bewdley is simply a copy of every other place on earth, somewhere for the blind warrior to return to and sleep off his madness, a stage for the finite stories of the world to repeat themselves, a wrinkle made out of the wrinkles, home only to those who live there. The population of Bewdley, at least the population that remains after we’ve pulled our boats up to shore, is two hundred and one. The gender ratio of this population breaks down to roughly twenty-three to one. That is, twenty-three males to every female. For every drooping set of male genitals there is a mere twenty-third of the rarer female set. Some of these women, as twenty-thirds, regard the others with suspicion, certain that they are all merely her other twenty-two parts. And some nestle themselves sagely inside their portion, nodding to the partial world. No women own land in Bewdley and none own their own businesses. There are, of course, a great number of men for each to choose from, and the women of Bewdley find themselves satisfying a variety of needs with a variety of men. The survival of both genders in Bewdley, their strategies and failures, is so specific to this small town that this story is probably useless to, say, nearby Wiarton, which has been free to struggle with a more conventional bondage for as long into its future as can be seen in its past. The more legible disparity of status between Wiarton’s genders, however, is only useful at the expense of another mad specificity: Wiarton is so very white that the only reason there aren’t separate facilities for the ‘coloured’ is because there are no ‘coloured.’ Except, of course, for those silhouetted on the lawns — the standing shadows of the old jockeys. At any rate, it is probably important to say ‘damn you all’ and to only be persuaded by arguments that appear too often in the same place. The place, like Bewdley, will almost always rest in a shape that serves only the devil.