Her voice, after a pause, said, “I’m sorry. I think I have the wrong number.”
“Sadie?”
“Trace? Why’d you say Patterson’s Realty?”
I explained that it was my aunt’s line and that was how she wanted me to answer it.
We asked each other about our breaks; and after a long story by Sadie about how she had quit Earl’s and now worked at the Cactus Club and how her new manager was better than her old manager and how the new manager took her out for drinks, I asked, “So? Are you and—Brad—dating?”
“You mean Chad?”
“I guess. The guy at the Avalon.”
“No—well, yeah. Yeah kinda.”
“Really?” I said.
The movie was coming to my favourite scene. I held the phone away and covered the mouthpiece.
“Well, we’re just seeing right now. I don’t want to rush anything. I think that was the problem with Steve.”
“Sure,” I said.
On screen, Frank Zito (the maniac) leaped onto the hood of the parked car in which a couple had been frolicking. He held a hunting rifle and, crouching, taking careful aim, squeezed the trigger. The head of the driver exploded in slow motion, flinging brain and blood all over the woman’s face.
“What’s happening?” Sadie asked, sounding alarmed.
“What?”
“The screaming? Is someone hurt?”
“Oh, no,” I said, imagining that the man in the car was Chad. I reached for the remote. “It’s just some late night movie.”
2
Cam’s flight was late. To kill time I wandered the airport, went to the kiosks and through the souvenir stores, and got the impression of the city that a tourist might get—maple syrup, smoked salmon, totem poles, stuffed toy killer whales.
The girl I’d noticed earlier was still at the flight status screens when I returned, and I went up beside her. She was about my age—maybe nineteen or twenty—she had an olive complexion, and hair that was thick and wavy and black. She stood patiently, holding her black leather handbag at waist level with both hands, a purple cardigan draped over her right arm. The dress she wore was white with black orchid prints, and there were copper medallions on her brown leather sandals.
As I stood beside her, I took furtive glances while pretending to study the computer terminals. Her demeanour and clothing suggested that she wasn’t from here, and that fact, for some reason, made it easier for me to speak to her.
“Are you waiting for someone from Mexico?” I said finally.
My voice was weak and I started to repeat the question.
But a smile was already there. “Yes, yes, Me he co.”
The smile remained and I felt encouraged to say more. I forced a grin. “My friend. He’s coming from Mexico.”
“Yes? He from Me he co?” she said. She had obviously misunderstood and thought Cam was from Mexico.
The strap of the blue bra was visible beneath the white dress strap. I looked back at her face. “Are you staying in Vancouver?” I asked.
“Yes, studying English.”
“You like it?”
“Yes. It very nice.”
“I’m Trace,” I said. I held out my hand, and she shook it, her hand soft and cool. “My name Maria,” she said.
We said one or two more things.
Then, afraid of freaking her out by asking for her number, I offered mine.
She seemed enthusiastic. She took an agenda from her handbag. As I waited for her to open it and get a pen, I tried to guess the size of her breasts under the dress’s material.
“O. Kay,” she said carefully.
I gave her my number. She wrote it on one of the pages, and I noticed her chipped nail polish. She looked up at me. Her eyes were very dark brown.
“I. Will. Call.” she said, concentrating hard on the pronunciation of each word.
She waved to someone coming through the door, then turned to me and said—this time a bit faster, “I. Will. Call.”
Cam came through the doors, wearing a sombrero, and so tanned he looked black. As always, he had the hulking posture and the intense glare that had frightened people in high school.
I had to shout twice before he saw me. When he did, his expression softened.
“Hola,” I said.
“Mr. Patterson, Mr. Patterson,” he said, shaking his head with a sort of sad/happy disbelief. “Long time no see.” He held out his hand and I put mine in it, and he squeezed hard.
We didn’t say anything else till we reached the end of the railing that separated us.
“Can you watch this?” He handed me his grey duffle bag. “I got to use the washroom. Those fuckers in customs wouldn’t let me go.”
The duffle bag was the one he’d taken to outdoor school in Grade 11. I had a clear memory of that period, but at the same time, the memory seemed distant.
When Cam returned, I pointed at the bag and asked him if he remembered outdoor school.
“Oh. Yeah,” he said, obviously thinking of something else.
“Trouble with customs?”
“Fuck! I was this close,” Cam said, indicating a few millimetres with his thumb and index finger, “to punching the bitch in the head.”
He picked up the duffle bag. I started toward the parking lot and he followed. “Is there a number you can call to complain about those people?”
“I guess.”
“They took away my tequila.”
“All of it?”
“Except one bottle.”
“Isn’t that all you’re allowed?”
“I really wanted to punch that bitch in the mouth.”
When we stepped through the doors, the early June heat wave hit us like a wall. We crossed the road and went through the parkade and out again into the hot bright sunlight. A plane roared by overhead.
By the time we reached the BMW we were sweating.
“Nice car.”
“It’s my aunt’s.” The leather seat was burning and I slid forward and tried to keep my bare thighs off the seat.
“Crank the air conditioner.”
“I did,” I said, and shifted into reverse.
A mile from the airport Cam’s mood improved. Air-drumming along with the Chili Peppers on the stereo, he said for the sixth time that he couldn’t believe he was back.
“So, tell me a story, Mr. Patterson. What’s been happening?”
“Not much. Just going to some parties,” I said. “By the way, I saw Damien.”
“Damien!” Cam slapped the top of the door and glared at me. “Fuck! Don’t tell me you still hang around with that loser.”
“Shouldn’t I?” I said, pretending not to know what was coming next.
“The loser fucking totalled my car.”
Cam, for some reason, always blamed Damien for the accident we were involved in.
I didn’t say anything more, and we were downtown before he asked, “So tell me, has he put his life back together again?”
“He had to spend some time in A2 again. Some problem with his meds.”
“I bet you liked that.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
But Cam only laughed and said, “Don’t worry. Forget it.”
Cam’s parents had sold their house in North Van when he was in Mexico and now lived in the Properties. As I started the maze of roads up the mountain, the city falling away behind us, I asked, “So why’d they move?”
“I don’t know,” Cam said staring out the window. “My father made a bunch of money on some land deal or something.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I guess not.”
We didn’t speak again until we arrived at the house. The houses across the road were down the hill and over their roofs I could see Vancouver from
the tip of the UBC endowment lands in the west to Burnaby Mountain in the east. But Cam’s parents’ house, like a lot of houses in that area, had a shabbiness to it, and if I had my back to the view and ignored the Mercedes and Range Rovers in the neighbours’ driveways, I’d assume it was worth a tenth of its value.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Cam said. “I’d invite you in, but…”
“Sure.”
“We’ll do something this weekend.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”
“No problem.”
“What was he even doing there?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—where he was?”
“Mexico?”
“Mmm,” Damien said, gulping the end of his beer. It was Friday night and he and I were sitting in The Bourbon, a bar in Gastown where college students went to slum. We were supposedly there “to celebrate” his release from the psych ward.
“I mean, what was he doing in fuckin’ Mexico?”
“I think he expected to meet some women,” I said, gazing at the circling bodies. The counter we sat at ran along the long edge of the dance floor.
“What?”
“He Expected. To. Meet. Latin. Women.”
Damien sneered. He took a drink and said, “Why’d he go there? There’s enough here.”
He gestured with his head to the dance floor. I didn’t know what he was talking about, then saw an East Indian girl in a purple tube top and realized that that was his idea of a Latin woman.
Damien shouted something.
“Say that again.”
“—hope he gets bit by a fucking scorpion.”
“Why?” I asked, laughing. “Do you hate him?”
Damien didn’t answer. He downed the remaining beer and told me to guard his stuff while he used the washroom.
I sipped my drink and watched the dance floor. It was crowded with dancers, but all of them danced in loose groups or alone—none of them danced in pairs. I thought about why I had mentioned Cam’s arrival and realized that I guess I had hoped they would repair their friendship now that they were out of high school. Why this was important to me, I didn’t know.
Two middle-aged women circled toward the counter. They’d beckoned me and Damien to join them earlier, and I waited to see if they would repeat the invitation. The one with the rhinestone top was staring in my direction, but she didn’t seem to see me.
A few feet from her, there was another person I’d noticed before. He was about my age, but he had this immense afro that made him look like someone from the ’70s. All night he’d been attempting to dance with someone. He would keep going up, and keep trying to join the circles of dancers. But each time the circle closed without him.
He had now moved close to a woman in a white halter top and the woman, without losing sync with the beat, turned her shoulder to him, then her back.
“What I Like About You,” was just fading out when Damien returned. He was carrying a pitcher of beer. He started to pour some into my glass.
“I can’t. I got to drive.”
Damien shrugged, and filled his own glass. He pulled out the bar stool and sat on it.
“So why do you hate Cam?” I shouted.
The guy with the afro was directly in front of us. He tried casually to attach himself to another circle of women as the circle closed without him.
“What?” Damien yelled, craning his head toward me.
But I didn’t get a chance to repeat the question. The afro kid had his hands on the brass rail in front of us, then his foot.
“Hey! Hey!” Damien yelled, holding his hands out to stop the guy. But the guy catapulted himself over the counter, catching the pitcher with his knee.
Beer was everywhere.
I had pushed back in time to avoid it running on my legs, but Damien’s jacket was soaked. “Fuck,” I thought I heard Damien say as he stood up. He was facing the afro boy, his back to me. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the afro kid looked down, his arms hanging loose at his sides.
A group of four men stood behind the afro kid, watching. Though the music was too loud to hear anything, I was certain that someone was chanting, “Fight, fight, fight.”
Damien held his jacket up, shaking it. He pointed at it and the kid said something, nodding.
After what seemed like a long time, Damien turned to me. “Let’s fucking go.”
The cold night air was a relief. A line up of people stood waiting to enter. The doorman, glancing at us as we came out the door, I guess noticed the expression on Damien’s face. “Is everything alright, gentlemen?”
Damien stopped. “Look what this fuckin’ asshole did to my jacket.”
The man leaned closer, and the specks of dandruff became visible on his black dress shirt.
As Damien started to explain, the people in the line-up watched. The dirty blond with the red poodle skirt had bare legs that ended in Dorothy-from-The-Wizard-of-Oz ankle socks and I was staring at those legs when Damien said, “And he threatened me with a fuckin’ knife?”
The doorman’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out. “A knife?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yeah, a knife,” Damien said, his tone so earnest that even I believed him.
“Where? What does he look like?”
The description Damien gave, fortunately, wasn’t too accurate; he described the guy as having dreadlocks. He gestured with his head to where we’d been sitting, and the man, leaning forward and pointing, said, “There?”
Damien nodded.
“Okay, thanks.” He patted Damien on the shoulder. “Can I get you another drink?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
“You sure?’
I assured him we were.
“I’m really sorry this happened. Come again, guys. Next time I’ll make sure you get free drinks.”
We thanked him and left.
I’d parked the car on Robson. As we started back, Damien and I were silent. The streets looked how they always looked after you left a club, cold and deserted. It must have rained when we were in the bar because everything had a fresh shine to it.
When we turned onto Seymour Street, Damien said “Sorry dude, sorry dude,” making his voice sound like a stoner’s. “Sorry dude, Sorry dude—Fuck!”
“Is that what he said?”
“Fucking hippie.”
“He didn’t have a knife, did he?”
As if in explanation Damien said, “Look what he did to my jacket.” He held up the coat, the Manchester United windbreaker his dad bought for him in England.
“A brand new fucking jacket, and some Rastafarian dumps beer on it.”
We were almost at the car when Damien said, “Just one more beer.”
“You sure?”
“Just one.”
We checked one place—that bar wanted five dollars to enter. The next club was the same. When we finally found a bar without a cover charge, it was a café on Burrard Street. There was a group of young men in the fenced section under the canopy, but inside the café it was deserted. The woman behind the counter was olive-skinned, and was so short only her elfish face showed above the glass. Damien ordered the pitcher special and I asked for steamed milk. When I placed my order, the young woman made a cute expression. I tried to think of something witty to say to her as she prepared the orders.
“I should have wasted that fucker,” Damien said.
“Yeah, you should have,” I said, watching the woman froth the milk with steam.
“But I didn’t, did I?”
“No, you didn’t,” I said.
When we were seated, Damien asked, “Why did I even order this?” and pointed at the pitcher.
“Because you’re an alcoholic,�
� I said. I began to laugh, but stopped, noticing the expression on his face.
“Sorry,” he said. “We’ll go soon. I probably won’t even finish this.”
“Whatever.”
He showed me his jacket again and said, “I should have wasted that fucker.”
“Uh huh.” My eyes followed the server as she wiped the counter with a cloth and washed the cloth and wrung it out.
“But I’m so controlled. I mean, isn’t that the most controlled thing you can do, a guy spills beer all over your jacket and you’re like cool about it? One of the guys standing there said, ‘Man, I would’ve wasted the guy,’ but I didn’t, right? I just stayed cool. Now that’s controlled, isn’t it? Right, Trace? Right?”
“Uh huh.”
The server was now on the lap of one of the guys under the canopy outside. He’d passed her a hand-rolled cigarette—or maybe a joint—and I wondered if she knew them, or if they’d just invited her to join their group.
“That’s controlled, isn’t it?”
“That’s controlled,” I said, wishing that I knew the answer.
“Anyway, I’m almost finished,” Damien said, dumping the last of the beer into the schooner.
The bubbles on the top of the foam in the pitcher started to pop.
By the time we got back to his place, he’d want more. That, and to listen to the cassette tapes we made of our band when we were sixteen. He kept them in a shoebox by his ghetto blaster, and when we stayed up late drinking, he brought them out and said how good we were, how we should have played Seylynn Hall, how we could have been Nirvana.
And if I had been Kurt Cobain…
To save money Kris had flown into Seattle (instead of Vancouver) and taken the bus. It was due in at Pacific Central at about nine.
On the way to meet her, I stopped by Sadie’s house. She was sitting on her bed when I came in her bedroom, cutting split ends out of her hair and watching television. “Men are so fucked up,” she said. I was tempted to ask her who fucked them up, but instead asked if she was still going out with Brad, but she said I meant Chad (whom I think was the boyfriend after Brad) and no, she wasn’t going out with him anymore because he’d cheated on her, that her friends caught him downtown with this Asian girl.
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