“Can I abstain?”
“Daniel, please, humour me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Harold in March, Maude in May.”
“Thank you!” Parker made a precise note on a slip of paper on the refrigerator. After that, he busied himself assembling bottles and measuring out ingredients into two stainless steel shakers. “Tomorrow is the first of May. It’s my favourite month, you know. Everything comes back to life in May and starts all over again. It’s also my birthday month, of course. I was never allowed pets growing up. My parents thought keeping pets was cruel. Harold and Maude were my very first birthday gift to myself. I remember the day I brought them home, swimming round and round in that clear little plastic bag. They were utterly adorable. They still are. I used to hide them in the closet whenever relatives came to visit. But then one day Mother dropped in unannounced. She was in a tizzy and absolutely needed to consult with me on my eldest sister’s wedding. (She’s since consulted with me on all my sisters’ weddings.) Well, she pretended not to notice them, right there literally under her nose, even when I served tea at the table. My hands were shaking, I was so upset. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up, threw down my napkin, and declared that yes, in fact, I was the proud owner of my very own goldfish, and that I would not be hiding my Harold and Maude from the family any longer. I was sure it hurt their feelings every time I put them in the closet. That day was momentous. It was a turning point for me.”
“You are talking about goldfish?”
“I am.”
“And what did your mother say?”
“Well, it was extraordinary. She stared at Harold and Maude as if she were seeing them for the very first time. One thing let to another. In the end, pairs of goldfish formed the centrepiece for every table at my sister’s wedding reception. The floral arrangements and saris were all selected to match them. Everyone thought it was delightful and magnificent. I’d never been more validated in my life. It was the most beautiful thing my parents had ever done for me.”
“Wow.”
“I know. Of course, when they finally go belly-up, I’ll buy myself another pair. But those two are the first. I’m glad you’ve had a chance to meet them, Daniel. Kiss the bowl.”
“What?”
“Like this. Kiss the bowl.” Parker leaned over the table and kissed the fishbowl. He handed me a martini glass containing a pink liquid garnished with a delicate coil of orange rind. “It’s such a fresh, bright and happy drink,” he said, sighing, “don’t you think?” I nodded appreciatively, leaned over and kissed the fishbowl. Harold and Maude bobbed up to stare at me. Parker held up his own drink. “To May.”
“To May.”
In the end, we never did go to our matinée. But Parker put on an LP of Paul Anka’s greatest hits, and had us sit on his tiny, south-facing balcony overlooking Bay Street, drenched in sunlight. Eventually, he made me three more cosmos in a row. He didn’t ask about Marcus or David, and to my own surprise, I felt no inclination to bring them up. But we wore our sunglasses and opened the collars of our shirts and took off our shoes and socks, and talked about our families, and our grandparents and their grandparents. And they weren’t wrinkled and dusty dead people, but young and alive, dancing in the evenings under electric lights for the first time in history, and wearing the latest fashions in an era when men showing their nipples on the beach was indecent, and blacks in America were newly liberated, and the independence movement in India was gaining strength, and Freud was looking up ladies’ skirts, and Manet was painting nudes, and the Kama Sutra had just been translated into English, and the Wright brothers were still just boys flying kites, and Rimbaud and Verlaine were tearing across Europe madly in love, and Oscar Wilde’s trial was the scandal of the century.
After that, Parker invited me to stay for dinner but I told him I had to go home and study, which was true. But instead, I went downtown and bought a journal and the fanciest wrapping paper I could find. On the front of the journal was Henri Matisse’s The Goldfish which the master had painted in 1912. I knew this because it said so on the inside back cover. On the inside front cover, I wrote, “Happy birthday Parker Kapoor, may your memoirs be full of poetry and light. Your friend, Daniel Garneau.” Then I texted Parker and asked if I could meet him for coffee the next day and he said yes. After I wrapped his present, I went to bed and slept well and didn’t dream at all. I woke up on the first morning of May, feeling remarkably refreshed and not hung-over at all.
By the end of May, I’d yet to introduce David to Marcus, as I’d promised. So it was an awkward moment when we bumped into Marcus, Fang and Joseph in a line-up at Toronto’s Inside Out Film Festival. We had planned to see some generic, forgettable Hollywood blockbuster, but at the last minute opted for a Festival show, a screening of a compilation of short films. We figured they couldn’t possibly all be bad or boring. I was surprised by the diversity of people in the crowd. David nudged me in the side. “Hey, isn’t that your Marcus?” As discreetly as I could, I leaned over the red velvet rope and craned my neck. Marcus was turned away, speaking with another person I couldn’t quite see. Too late, I noticed Fang had spotted me. He whispered something in Marcus’ ear. Three faces turned in our direction. Then Marcus ducked under the rope and approached us. His hair had grown out and he sported a trim moustache and beard, perfectly matched by a silk shirt opened at the collar and pleated pants held up with suspenders. He walked slowly, with a limp, leaning heavily on a cane. “You must be David Gallucci,” he said upon arrival. “I’ve heard so much about you.” It was an outrageous statement, since it couldn’t possibly be true, and I was immediately annoyed. David shook his outstretched hand and regarded me curiously.
“David,” I said, waving, “meet Marcus Wittenbrink Jr.”
David said: “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
“Have you, now?” Marcus said, smiling. “Nothing too scandalous, I hope.”
“Not yet.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think your boyfriend here was trying to keep you all to himself.”
I folded my arms. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about, Marcus.”
“You’re looking well, Daniel. You seemed a little pale back in the winter. I enjoyed my cigarette with you.”
“How’s the leg doing?”
“Improving. How are you enjoying the Festival?”
“We’ve never been before.” I made a point of holding David’s hand. “We thought we’d check it out this year. See something different. And yourself?”
“Well. I’ve made this little film, an adaptation of the title poem from my book. It’s a small project, nothing too ambitious. But it’s kept me busy. You remember my book, Daniel, don’t you?”
“Tales From the Bottom of My Sole.”
“That’s right. You attended the launch at Hart House two years ago.”
“That’s an interesting title,” David said.
Marcus leaned forward on his cane. “It’s about love, in dark places.”
“Dark places?”
“Darkrooms, to be precise.”
“It’s about photographers?”
“No,” I said. “He means darkrooms in bathhouses.”
“Most of my male friends are in this film,” Marcus said pleasantly, “or at least their feet are. You know, of course, how in a darkroom you sometimes step barefoot into ejaculate on the floor? Sometimes it’s fresh and still warm. More often it’s cold. The experience may fill us with horror and disgust, or perhaps something else: desire, connection, intimacy, lust. There’s always a story, one that happens here.” He touched his breast. “I like to imagine that in the end, all these stories are about our relationships with love.”
“Oh,” David said. “Sole. Not soul.”
“That’s right. I hope you enjoy it.”
“Enjoy it?”
“My film. It’s on the Mixed Shorts bill you’re seeing today.”
David turned to me. “Did you know that?”
“No,” I said
truthfully, “I didn’t know that.”
“Really?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” David said.
“Really. I had no idea.” I sounded more defensive than I’d intended to. “Marcus, congratulations. I didn’t know you’d been working on a film.”
A balding gentleman in a lavender scarf turned around. “I’m, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he said. “That’s why we’re here, actually, you see, to see your work.” He clutched his partner’s shoulder, a short Middle-Eastern fellow with startlingly white teeth. “My husband and I met in a bathhouse. Your book, it’s meant a lot to us.” He fumbled in his side-bag and withdrew a slim volume. “I don’t suppose you might consider ...”
“Of course.” Marcus produced a gleaming fountain pen. (It was like a magic trick.) “It would be my pleasure.” He opened the front cover. “Daniel, would you mind?” He handed me his cane, turned me around and bent me over, and autographed the book against my back.
“We really, really are quite the fans of yours,” Scarf Guy effused. “Thank you, thank you so very much. Actually, would you, I mean, do you mind if?” He thrust his phone at me, and drew Marcus in between him and his husband. I handed Marcus’ cane to David, ducked under the rope, stood back and took their picture.
“Thank you so much. We really appreciate it.”
“You’re more than welcome,” Marcus said. “Now, let me tell you something that’s not in the credits.” He drew near conspiratorially. “All the ejaculate you see in the film, it’s authentic.” He winked. “I should get going, my lovers are waiting for me. Thank you for coming.” He touched David’s elbow. “David, it was a pleasure meeting you. Daniel.” He retrieved his cane and limped back to the front of the line.
“You two are friends of his?” Scarf Guy asked.
“Yes,” said David said.
“No,” I said.
“He is,” David said, pointing at me.
Scarf Guy regarded me expectantly. “So, are your feet in the film?”
“What? No. No, my feet are not in the film.”
“Oh.” Scarf Guy’s face went blank. “Well, then.” He turned his back. The line was starting to move. I had a vision of body checking Scarf Guy into the sideboards as hard as I could. The truth was, my feet could’ve been in the film. They should’ve been in the film. Marcus had asked all his male friends to be in his stupid film, but he hadn’t asked me. Even worse than feeling excluded and shamed, I felt envious. It was juvenile and pathetic, but I couldn’t help it. Why hadn’t I been given the opportunity to walk over Marcus’ cold and slimy jizz in front of the camera? After everything I’d done and been through, I’d at least deserved that opportunity.
“He seems like a nice guy,” David said, perusing the program. “Oh look, here he is: ‘Tales from the Bottom of My Sole. English language. Canada. Runtime 19 minutes. Directed by Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. No animals were harmed during the making of this film. Nor does this film contain any footage of Daniel Garneau’s feet.’”
Then I felt like body checking David. But I didn’t. Instead, I bit the bullet, accompanied David into the theatre, and watched eight short films back to back. The shorts were from all over the world, ranging from two to twenty minutes. Marcus’ piece was the only Canadian entry in the lot. In the end, when the houselights finally came back on and as the audience applauded, I sat mutely in my chair. Although I hated to admit it, Marcus’ Tales had been by far the strongest, most honest, creative and moving piece on the bill. And it was clear to me that the jizz on the bottom of Marcus’ feet was the story of my life.
That summer, I decided I would move in with David in the fall. I’d lost count of the times I’d been woken up in the middle of the night by shouting or screaming in the alleyway outside my bedroom window, or the sound of bottles smashing. Going to school and working part-time at the group home was hard enough without having to lose sleep like this. The turning point came when I arrived home one evening to find a large man in a hoodie slumped over against my front door. For a few seconds, I thought he might be dead. The entrance to my basement apartment was at the bottom of a narrow concrete stairwell, and any casual passer-by might not notice a body in that alcove. Immediately, I set my bike aside, and took out my phone to call 911. Then the man raised his arm. “Hey doc, how’s it going?” I recognized that voice. It was Robert Burns.
“Robert Burns, Jesus Christ.”
“It’s just Robert Burns, doc.”
I descended the stairwell. “Are you okay?”
It was a stupid question. He was not okay. It was obvious he’d been beaten up badly. Blood gleamed in his hair and one eye was swollen completely shut. When I fumbled with my phone, he gripped my ankle. “No. Don’t.”
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No, don’t. No ambulance.”
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No ambulance. No hospitals.”
“Okay, look, Robert Burns, the Sherbourne Health Centre is just around the corner.”
“I’m just banged up. I’m okay. I’m okay.” He gripped the door handle and pulled himself to his feet. He would’ve fallen if I hadn’t caught him in both my arms. “I just need a place to lie down, catch my breath.”
“Robert Burns, seriously, we need to get you to a hospital.”
“No!” he screamed, his voice breaking. “No!” He flailed and shoved me aside. “No fucking hospital!”
“Okay.” I stood my ground, and wiped the spittle from my face. “Okay, no hospital. Look. Hey.” I put away my phone. “No hospital.”
“You’re a doc, doc. Can’t you just. Can’t you just fix me up? I just need a place to wash up. Maybe get a few stiches. Fuck.” He had slumped down again against my front door. Now there was blood on the handle.
“You know I’m not a doc, right? I just got into med school. I haven’t even started yet.”
He looked me in the eye. “Please. I’m asking.”
Then I realized something I’d never realized before in all my encounters with Robert Burns since last summer. Maybe it was because I’d held him in my arms. Or maybe it was because of the way he’d screamed at me. Or maybe it was simply the naked look in his eye in that moment. I was shocked and shaken I hadn’t realized it before now. I keyed open the door and helped him inside. Most of the blood had come from a cut on his head. He smelled like he’d pissed himself. I gave him a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks and a pair of my underwear, and told him to take a shower which he did. I also gave him a plastic bag to put his dirty clothes in. He was in the washroom an hour before he finally came out. During that time, I wiped down the chair he’d sat in, as well as the front door. Then I went to get my bike which I remembered I’d left on the sidewalk. But it was gone. Jesus fucking Christ. I went back inside. I called Blonde Dawn, but there was no reply. When Robert Burns finally came out of the washroom, I took out my first aid kit and cleaned and bandaged his injuries as best as I could. He had a few serious contusions. I thought he might have a broken rib from the way he was breathing and holding himself but I didn’t ask to examine him more closely. Instead, I rummaged out some leftover mac and cheese and microwaved it in a bowl. I set this on the kitchen table along with a beer. He ate slowly, in silence, as I watched.
After a while, I said: “Robert Burns, what happened?” But he didn’t reply. I knew better than to ask if he wanted to call the police. After he finished his beer, I gave him a glass of milk. “Look,” I said, “hospitals can be shitty places.” He chewed methodically. “Some doctors can be assholes.” He glanced up at me and down again. “I promise you, I promise you, if you go to the Sherbourne Health Centre you’ll be treated okay.”
He didn’t say anything but finished his mac and cheese. He pushed his empty bowl and glass away. “I’ll take it under advisement, doc.” Then, without another word, he got up, pulled on his shoes, picked up his garbage bag of dirty clothes, and left. The front door clic
ked shut behind him. I sat for a moment, drumming my fingers on the table. “You’re welcome,” I said.
Two weeks later, my bike showed up on my front walk, chained to an iron fence and secured with an industrial padlock. It’d been cleaned and tuned up. One of the loose brake cables had been replaced. I had to check twice, but there was no mistaking the fact that this was my bike. An envelope had been slipped through the mail slot on my front door containing a small key. I unlocked my bike and brought it back inside.
I didn’t see Robert Burns for the rest of that summer and figured he must have moved on, maybe gone back to the States. He’d said he was from Montana. But then one morning late in August, while passing through Allen Gardens, I spotted him across the street coming out of the Sherbourne Health Centre. I cycled around and caught up to him at the intersection. “Hey Robert Burns, how’s it going?”
“Keeping it real, doc, keeping it real.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been around.”
“You like my new bike?”
“It’s not new.”
“Well, you’re right about that. This was the first bike I got when I moved to Toronto. Bought it off Kijiji. It has a lot of sentimental value.” I nodded towards the Sherbourne Health Centre. “They treating you okay?”
Robert Burns turned and observed the building behind him. He squinted at me in the sunshine. “Got four stiches in my head.” He parted his hair to show me.
“Looks all healed up.”
“That’s a Medicine Wheel.”
“What?”
He pointed at the ring on my finger. “That’s a Medicine Wheel.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Your girlfriend give you that?”
“No. A friend did.”
“Your boyfriend?”
I watched the black squirrels in the park scrambling after each other. “No,” I said. “Just a friend.”
“The Medicine Wheel, you know what it means?”
“I have an idea.”
“You still got the feather?”
I pulled out the little wooden eagle feather which I’d bought off Robert Burns over a year ago.
A Boy at the Edge of the World Page 18