•
So time went on and then I did see Kenny. It was during the annual jazz festival, he was sitting outside a coffee shop in the old part of town listening to an open air concert up the street. His head was shaved. He was with a bunch of guys who looked rough but cheerful. My own weird reaction to the scene made me duck and walk away, a single anonymous thread in the wide carpet of people standing around listening to the fusion sounds blaring from speakers on the sidewalk. When I paused, up the crowded street, I was ashamed. I thought of running back and saying hello. But then Kenny and his crew strode through the throng not far away and I felt again that I would not be able to talk to him that day.
Later on I mentioned my Kenny sighting to Paul. We were watching the playoffs.
“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you …” Paul put down his drink. “A guy at the bar says he’s in rehab.”
“No kidding?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“I wonder why he shaved his head.”
“Male pattern baldness. I’d do the same if it were me.”
“Knowing Ken, he’s doing it for a laugh the next time he sees us.”
Paul looked at me sidelong and did not say anything.
“I wonder whatever happened to Gisela’s car?”
Paul shrugged.
“Where the hell did he go that day he said he would be gone ten minutes?”
“I can imagine …” Paul lit a cigarette. “But nobody knows for sure.”
I went for my drink. “What’s your favourite Kenny story?”
“You mean besides this one?” Paul did not take his eyes off the TV.
“What do you mean?”
“Well the guy’s supposed to be a good friend of ours, borrows a car out of this very room …” Paul gestured with his cigarette hand. “Disappears for several years. Turns up at the jazz festival looking like some cult wacko. I’d say that’s a pretty good one.” He smoked. “I’d sure like to hear the shadings that go with it.”
“I’m sure Kenny’ll some day tell it to us with all the details.”
“If he doesn’t turn up dead.”
That stopped me. “You think his life is that dodgy?”
Paul picked up his glass and gave me another of his looks.
I sat back and tried to watch the game. But a memory came to me about Kenny’s housewarming party years ago at the grow house that we were never supposed to know for sure was actually a grow house. It was a nice place in a quiet part of town. Everyone wondered how he could afford it. Kenny claimed he was making out fine as a props man for a theatre company. The job was perfect, he said. He beckoned me to come up to a room in the attic. I thought he was maybe going to show me a nude photo of his latest girlfriend, a sweet-looking thing who Kenny said worked in a bank but we all knew had to be a hooker, if she existed at all. The only clue to who she was could be found in one of Kenny’s proudly displayed faux paintings in the living room—on a background much like black velvet.
When we got upstairs Kenny flipped back some blankets on a dishevelled bed and pulled out a big black ugly gun.
“Whoa—what the hell is that?”
“It’s an imitation Bren.”
“Imitation?”
“One of those knock-offs they make somewhere in Michigan. A guy I know got it mail-order.”
“Knock-off or not, it looks damn dangerous.”
“It’s not.” Kenny offered the thing for me to hold. “Yet.”
It was as heavy as two cast iron frying pans and startlingly cold to the touch. “Is it really a phony?”
“Just a little.” He tapped a finger near the breech mechanism. “This needs some real parts. Then it shoots.”
•
I wondered at the time why Kenny had anointed me with the knowledge that he had a replica machine gun. All I could come up with was his odd degree of reverence when we spoke once about my having been a teenaged military reservist and a target-shooting prodigy with trophy and crossed-rifle badge to prove it.
Then I remembered that it was that evening I had recalled to him the night of my wild ride in the back of that truck he used to have. How illegal it all was with me spread-eagled, feet and hands holding to the edges of the wheel wells, trying not to slide around and hit my head. What fun I had gazing into the black night, watching the streaming rain, the flashing ethereality of car and highway and ambulance and police sirens screaming their unseen way about me.
“It’s a dumb thing …” I had told him. “But I think of it all the time. It’s one of my favourite things to remember.”
“I know.” Kenny awarded me a smile. “It takes guys like us to act like that.”
It was then that he showed me the Bren gun.
•
Paul and I sat and watched hockey.
I was chewing over the gun incident. “Did Kenny ever show you his replica machine gun?”
Paul winced at me. “His what?”
“He once gave me a look at this prop machine gun. A Bren, I think it was. I assumed it was from the movie outfit he was working for.”
“And it’s called a what?”
“Bren. I looked it up. It stands for Brno-Enfield. Ken explained it all to me. It’s supposed to be British but it’s not. It comes from some guy’s garage workshop back east. A nasty-looking handheld machine gun pistol-like thing with ugly black metal parts and no wood stock or anything. Looked like it was made from an old fireplace grate.”
Paul looked at me strangely. “I never saw it.”After that, Paul seemed reluctant to discuss Kenny or that fateful day when we had last all sat in front of this TV. I remembered too late that Paul tended to congeal at memories of the long-departed Gisela. Their few weeks together were a brief beam of light into his otherwise drab life. He quietly sneered at me the rest of the night.
•
Later on, I had a dream that I was sitting in an A.A. meeting. There were the expected kind of people. Some of them looked like Kenny then and now. There was much talking and frequent weighty silences. I listened. The stuff I listened to was interesting and dreadful. Many spoke; I heard it all. I sat on a folding chair and tried to comprehend each verbal bit and sweated at the effort. My head kept pushing toward the image of me face-to-the-heavens in the back of that truck. Such was the speed at which Kenny piloted us through the night, the rain scarcely touched me save for a light pelting at my feet. The droplets from the sky drew a solid web of constricting lines down my vision, as if I were in a straw prison. The hiss of tires on the pavement. The oncoming cars and trucks each their own separate roaring presence. The underpasses dinned weird interludes of discord. Supine inside this miasma I was seized with a stark aloneness. There was indeed fear, but I reminded myself that Kenny was at the wheel. Him knowing that after a night of drinking I needed to be where he was taking me. So I relaxed. The whole wobbling ride was like a giant rocking cradle.
I woke up confused. Every story and every silence from the A.A. meeting was present. I picked the stories apart and turned them over in my brain to see if there were marks or textures from which I might take meaning. Somewhere along the line I noticed that the silent parts were for thinking and that comfort takes different forms for everybody.
Detox
I didn’t like the look of things when Gus showed up. He wasn’t committed. This was going to take commitment.
“Paul.” Bill took charge right off. “We’re here because we’re concerned.”
Paul had poured himself one and was sitting on the couch. The easy sense that good friends were over to watch a football game was nearly gone but still showed vaguely on his face. “Concerned about what?”
“You gotta stop.” Nick stood over him looking grave. “We’re taking you to detox.”
Paul’s look faded to blank.
“We’re not going to shit-kick you or anything. Heh.” I spoke up in as assuaging a manner as possible, not liking the excess heaviness descending. “It’ll have to be your decision ultimately. But we can�
�t sit around and watch you kill yourself anymore.”
Paul sniffed and wiped his nose. “You guys want a drink?” His eyes hardened.
“No. We don’t want a drink.”
“You sure? Because I could swear you guys are just a bunch of burned-out alkies like myself.”
“We’re not. At least, not as bad as you.”
“Really? Gee. How could I be so wrong?”
“Stop it, Paul.”
“I mean …” He put down the drink and swept his arms wide. “I only drink as much as everybody else.”
I stared at him. “I only drink when I’m around you.”
“Jeez, you’re right, you know.” Nick was nodding his head. “I only ever get excessively pissed when Paul’s around.”
“Um …” I was still bruised by the vacuity of all concerned during my ill-fated dinner party, and particularly Nick’s sodden conversational impotence. “That’s not exactly true.”
“Knock it off, you idiots.” Bill turned and reddened at us. “That helps a hell of a lot.”
Gus snorted. “This is crap.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get him out of here and stick him in rehab and get it over with.”
“Yeah!” Paul attempted to get his drink back but misjudged the effort necessary to straighten himself from the couch. “Get it. Over with.” He struggled and gripped the glass. “So you can all go to the bar.”
“No, Paul.”
“And have a few quick ones to congratulate yourselves.”
“Don’t try to talk us out of it.” Bill nodded to the rest of us. “We hashed it out amongst ourselves. It’s for us as well as you. It’s no secret we all get a load on just about every day but in your case it’s way out of control. I mean the impaired driving alone. We have to do this or we’ll be sorry. And we can’t have you doing anything to yourself. We could never live with our ourselves if we didn’t.”
“So you guys are solid, eh?”
“Well. You could never say that. But we agree on this.”
“All of you?”
Silence.
“Don’t make it harder than it has to be, Paul.”
“I guess you had to come along on this.” Paul turned to me. “They needed a van.”
“If you wanna know the honest truth I was the one who suggested it in the first place.”
This created another silence. Bill sighed and found a chair to sit in. Nick shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. Gus grunted.
“Well, okay.” Paul performed a deliberate abs curl and put down his drink. “If this is my last one, I guess I’ll make a point of going slow. Enjoy it.”
“We want this to be voluntary.”
“Hah!” Paul glared at Bill. “I’d rather you picked me up by my arms and legs and packed me off. With conviction. With commitment. With real balls. If you were real pals and real men you’d do that.”
“We don’t want to do that. We can do it, but we don’t want to.”
“The program demands that you go on your own.” I tried to sound solid. “Voluntary. Having realized you need help. Accepting of the intervention and assistance of your friends. We just essentially provide you the transportation.”
“You crazy bastard.” Gus was acidic. “We’re here to tell you we’re not gonna let you do it to yourself!”
“We can’t drink with you anymore.” Bill, Nick, and I spoke at nearly the same time.
“Well …” Paul looked at us, then at his glass. “You sound like you’ve got it all rehearsed out.”
“Sorry if that’s what it sounds like.”
“I never heard bar guys talk in unison before. Like a comedy routine.”
“Don’t make things harder than they have to be.”
“Hokay. You don’t have to keep repeating yourself.” He picked up his drink, took a swig, then solemnly put it down. “What’s the procedure from here?”
“Get your jacket.” Gus huffed.
“But first …” I glanced around. “Make sure everything’s off. You might be gone some time. And phone up the guys at work. Tell them you need a couple of weeks.”
“If you don’t mind …” Paul lurched from the couch. “If you guys don’t mind.” He tottered for the door. “I’ll settle my affairs on my own.” He snatched his jacket from the hook in the entryway.
We filed out of the apartment. With the crowd of us standing in the hallway, Paul flipped off his lights and slammed the apartment door closed. He patted his pockets.
“You won’t need keys where you’re going.” Gus spoke with unnecessary gruffness.
“I need to lock the goddamn door.” Paul yanked a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of the jacket. “And these too.” He produced keys and locked the lock.
•
I was fighting qualms, being part of all this. Despite long conversations the four of us had had—plus intense soul-scouring and a long session of counsel from Simon the psychologist—I still felt lousy. I particularly disliked the custodial feel of it all as Paul finished locking the door. We were standing with ridiculously lugubrious expressions in a cordon around him. It must have been at least semi-comedic. Paul paused and grinned at us. Then, with startling agility, he deked between Nick and me and ran down the hall.
“Whoa …” Bill and Gus were slow to respond, given their bulk. Nick and I darted around them and made behind Paul as he disappeared through the stairwell door.
“Come on, man! Hold up.”
There were no further words. We scuttled down the stairs and got to the building entrance as the big front door swung shut. I hesitated. Despite years of friendship and utter faith in Paul’s passivity, I still preferred to have at least three guys with me when I tried to take his car keys away. By the time Bill and Gus appeared and we all hit the sidewalk, Paul was out of sight.
“Where does he park his car?”
“No particular place.” I looked up and down the curbs. “He gets whatever there is on the street.”
“Does he have a residents-only permit?”
I looked at Bill. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Over there and around the corner is just for residents.” Bill pointed to the signs. “But over here and down that block there are general two-hour parking sections. So he’s more than likely …”
“You guys go that way and I’ll go this way.”
“Oh, for chrissakes.” Gus pointed. “There he is.”
A white Honda speedily approached and then slowed at the intersection. I knew if we did not apprehend Paul now—while he was still obeying traffic laws—we would not do him any good this day at all. As if the others had been thinking the same thing, we stepped as a unit into the street and faced down the Civic.
Through the windshield I could see Paul regarding us without passion. He edged the car through the crosswalk and slowly toward us. Three metres out, he stopped. We stared at him. He stared at us. Slowly his forehead met the steering wheel and his shoulders went limp. I let myself sigh. Then gears gnashed and the Honda chirped backward. Paul’s arm was on the headrest of the passenger seat, his other hand expertly wheeling the car in reverse, accelerating along the narrow channel between parked cars. I watched—fearing a crash—and was nearly disappointed when he twirled unscathed into the alley, braked and shifted, then sped back out and away.
“Holy crap.” Bill stepped carefully back to the curb. “How pissed up is he, anyway?”
“Paul can do that in his sleep.” I reached for the car keys in my jacket. “He could do it in a coma. Any good cab driver can.”
Gus chuckled. “He’s one rangatang sonovabitch.”
“Headed for the bar.” Nick gazed after the disappeared Honda. “More than likely.”
I opened the van door. “Let’s get over there.” Although the plan as it had formed over the weeks had been contested and doubted and debated thoroughly, I now received no contradictions.
•
We hustled the eight blocks and got a parking spac
e by the door. Paul’s car was not present. Nor was he sitting in his usual spot in the bar or in any other area. The waitress hadn’t seen him.
I struggled to formulate a viable plan B. “We better call the cops.”
“What are you talking about?” Gus slumped into his chair. “He’s just out driving.”
“He’s tanked.”
“No.” Bill sat down too. “We better report it. What if he kills somebody?”
“Then he goes to jail.”
“And we don’t want that or the other thing.” I pulled a finger of change from my jeans. “I’ll make the call.”
“Put your money away, lame-o.” Gus’s face was ugly. “It’s a 9-1-1 call.”
“Oh yeah.”
He whipped out his cell and stabbed the keys with his thumb, then handed it to me. I stepped away and stuffed a finger in my ear to cut the bar sounds.
By the time I got off the phone there were drinks on the table. I hadn’t noticed anybody ordering.
“For crying out loud, you guys!” I nudged the nearest glass away. “We just tried to get our friend into detox. He’s out there somewhere impaired driving. We called the cops on him …”
“You called the cops on him.” Gus’s demeanour wasn’t getting any lighter.
“Well we have to finish the job somehow. And here you guys are drinking.”
Bill sniffed. “You do it your way.”
Nick shrugged and gazed into the suds at the top of his beer.
Gus turned to a football game and said nothing further.
There was a sound right then. Even with the place filling up of a Sunday afternoon—sports commentary from the jumbo TV; music system pumping out some kind of dance-mix pablum; the general drinking crowd palaver—it was unmistakably recognizable as a clash of metal-on-metal. We tensed. Someone called from the entrance, “There’s a car jam out here.”
One glimpse and I knew what had happened. Paul had bunted at low speed into the only side of my van that hadn’t already been dented.
“I thought it was a parking space.” Paul was struggling out of the driver’s seat.
I held myself calm, intent on counsel. “You know damn well it’s the walkway.”
Before Paul could fully emerge from the Honda, Gus wordlessly strode up and rammed an elbow into the side of his head, snapping his skull back against an edge of the car frame. Paul dropped directly downward.
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