Seeing Red

by Shawn Sutherland

  “Yeah, Vancouver. He went to see his sister.”

  “Which one?” Craig asks. “The hot one?”

  “Nooo,” Doc moans.

  “Yup. She just had a kid.”

  “I wanna see his sister,” says Scott, rising from his chair. The three of us saunter over to the computer while Doc rests his head sideways on the tabletop; he tries to object, but can only muster an incoherent groan. Craig logs onto Facebook and immediately finds a picture of Kelly standing on a sunny beach with her arm wrapped around the waist of another girl. Both are tanned and wearing brightly-coloured bikinis. Scott is impressed. “Wow. She is hot. She reminds me of my friend, Doug.”

  The three of us pause and look at one another.

  “. . . Because he also has a hot sister,” he adds.

  Craig returns to the table and asks, “Who’s this husband of hers anyway?”

  “He’s an alright guy,” Doc says, rearing his head. “But he’s German so, you know, he’s got a lot to atone for. He’s a massage therapist.”

  “Did he go to school for that?”

  “Must’ve. You can’t just start massaging people. But yeah, me and him went to this party, and he’s German, so he was drinking all efficiently and shit, but I went overboard and ended up puking on the patio. The next morning I was so hungover I tried to clean it up with a rock.”

  Craig furrows his brow in disbelief. “You threw up? I’ve never seen you throw up. You have, like, an iron stomach.”

  “Iron? Come on. My stomach’s harder than that.”

  “Like what? Diamond?”

  “No. Harder.”

  “Nothing’s harder than diamond.”

  Doc thinks for a moment. “What about boron?”

  “Boron?”

  “Yeah!”

  Craig scoffs. “Boron’s not hard.”

  “Boron’s tough, baby!” Doc yells.

  Doc and Craig will fight about anything, but this is the first time I’ve heard them argue about the Periodic Table. I think that’s the sign of a good friendship: when you can yell and scream at each other without getting angry. Both are well-read and opinionated, but they live at opposite ends of the political spectrum: Doc is an anti-government libertarian with a “screw-anybody-who-isn’t-me” philosophy, whereas Craig is more compassionate and perhaps too idealistic, the kind of person who gets upset about the starving children in Africa but doesn’t give a damn about people going hungry in his own backyard. Politically speaking, I suppose I fall somewhere in the middle. I can relate to Doc’s apathy and indifference toward others—although I hate to admit it—but I used to be a lot more like Craig. I think your idealism gradually fades as you get older. Cynicism is easier to believe in.

  They continue to argue and bicker about boron for several minutes while Scott and I drink our gin-and-tonics on the couch. When their debate finally dies down, I calmly ask, “So, where are we going tonight?”

  “A bar called the Phoenix,” says Craig. “There’s a band playing that’s worth checking out.”

  Scott is puzzled. “Didn’t you see it on Facebook?”

  “Reid doesn’t have Facebook.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause he’s a weirdo.”

  “Man, you gotta get on Facebook.”

  Whenever I tell people I don’t use social media, I get one of two reactions: what Scott just said, or Good, don’t get it, it’ll take up all your time. Either way, they always look at me like I’m an alien—or the last person on earth who hasn’t joined their little club. To me, the whole concept seems entirely unnecessary. What’s wrong with a phone call? Or an email? Or actually meeting someone face to face? It wasn’t so long ago that everybody was telling me to get a Myspace page. Now it’s Facebook. Soon it’ll be something else. Where does it end?

  The most egregious aspect of social media, in my opinion, is the fact that anything you post could potentially stay on the internet forever. People save it and pass it along. I say and do so many stupid things I would never want to be permanent. I don’t want to leave a trace of myself anywhere. I’d rather be a ghost. Scorch the earth, that’s my policy. And to be honest, I have no interest in seeing pictures of people I knew however many years ago. I prefer to keep my head in the sand. Regardless, this is an argument with society I’ll never win, so I always lie and say, “I’ll get on it eventually.”

  “Well, we should get going,” Doc announces. We all look at the clock and nod in tacit agreement before swilling the rest of our drinks. Then we put on our shoes and turn off the lights and head downstairs to the city below.

  SEVEN

  At night, I come alive. In the daytime I feel like a fraud, a pariah hiding in plain sight. But when the sun sets and the streets go dark, that’s the only time I feel truly at ease. My eyes are bright, my mind is alert, and my complexion, which is often red and blemished due to immoderation, is concealed beneath a veil of dim, artificial light. I never feel alone because there’s always somebody willing to talk. Alcohol breaks down the walls, the barriers enforced by reticence and inhibition. People become more interesting to me and I approach them effortlessly. Normally, I withdraw from the world. At night, I become a different person. I embrace it.

  The four of us wander down the centre of the road on our way to the Phoenix, each sporting a different style: Doc has short, sandy blonde hair and wears a red plaid shirt, unchanged from this morning; Craig has glasses and a striped green top featuring the logo of a band I’ve never heard of; and Scott is wearing a good old-fashioned Cosby sweater. In terms of presentability, I rank somewhere in the middle: my straight brown hair is slightly tousled and parted to the side and I’m wearing a blue dress shirt, a thin leather jacket and grey jeans. We each brought a can of beer with us, and anytime a police car drives by we conspicuously hide them underneath our shirts.

  “I’m gonna text Amber!” Doc suddenly proclaims before drop-kicking his empty can into a nearby yard and spooking a cat. Amber is a girl we know from school that Doc has been sleeping with periodically for months. He speaks aloud as he types a text message on his phone, accentuating every word: “Dear. Baby. Can’t. Wait. To. Get. All. Up. In. That. Ass. Love. Jeff.” We all laugh and demand that he send it. He does.

  When we arrive at the Phoenix, there’s a short lineup of people stretching from the sidewalk to the front door where two bouncers are checking IDs. Once we’re inside we pay the cover and walk through a narrow, L-shaped hallway. The red walls are adorned with black-and-white photographs of musical acts that have played the stage, but it’s too dark to read any of the names. The hallway leads us into the main venue: a massive room the size of a high school gymnasium with bars on either side and a giant stage to our right. Opposite the stage is a balcony equipped with its own bar and several black leather couches. We buy our drinks upstairs and then commandeer two couches and a long table. I ask Scott what band we’re seeing tonight, but the music is too loud for me to hear his answer, so I lean forward and ask him again.

  “Silverchest!” he repeats.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Man, you’ve never heard of Silverchest?” Craig says as he takes a seat beside me. “They’re amazing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I downloaded their first album last night,” says Scott. “It’s awesome. You’ll like them.”

  “Ah, I dunno. I don’t really listen to a lot of new stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just got tired of it. I think we ran out of ideas. It’s all recycled and auto-tuned now. We can’t play any faster, or scream any harder, or write any songs better than what they did in the sixties, so what’s the point? Somewhere around that last Woodstock, when those assholes were setting everything on fire, we should have just given up. Waved the white flag.”

  Scott considers what I’ve said before adding, “Woodstock ’99 was defini
tely one of the best Woodstocks of all time.”

  “Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “Definitely in the top five.”

  “You’ve gotta look harder, man,” says Craig. “There’s lots of good music being made nowadays. Nobody cares about the videos anymore, so your image doesn’t matter, and new bands can post all their stuff online, so radio stations and record labels aren’t really necessary either. There are no rules. It’s the way it should be. You’re just being a dick.”

  I like Craig, but he’s somewhat of a hipster and often exhibits many of their holier-than-thou personality traits. Hipsters claim to be devoted music fans, but at the same time they disapprove of anything that’s popular, so in reality it’s not about the actual songs for them—if it were, a band’s popularity would be completely irrelevant. They’re also very fickle; quick to anoint an up-and-coming band as the next Nirvana and just as quick to dismiss said band for having “sold-out” because they made enough money to buy a van and tour Wisconsin. The truth is: hipsters want that feeling of superiority that comes along with being one of the few people who know about a particular artist or band. Once that’s gone, they go looking for the next indie act to latch onto. Weird music is preferable to good music and they often can’t make the distinction. They’re also unnecessarily opinionated about things that do not matter and abruptly piss on anything that doesn’t meet their ridiculously high standards. Nothing makes a hipster happier than playing the devil’s advocate, which gives them an opportunity to display their pretentious, faux-intellectual prowess. They’re a drag. They’re socially awkward and a pain to be around. And they can’t drink worth shit. I’ve met jocks, nerds, gamers, goths, punkrockers and metalheads, and I would take any of them any day of the week over a hipster.

  Fortunately, Craig isn’t nearly as bad as the rest of them. And he can drink. Nonetheless, when it comes to music, he definitely has that hipster mentality. I can’t really fault him, though; he works at a music store and is therefore constantly surrounded by hipsters. One time, he told me his dream was to form a band that sounds like Dinosaur Jr. meets The Strokes, but he can’t seem to find any like-minded individuals who share his vision—probably because everybody he meets is a goddamn hipster.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, “I just haven’t heard any new bands that are any good. I mean, nothing affects me the way In Utero or Siamese Dream or OK Computer did the first time I heard them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Scott says. “Silverchest will change all that.”

  I notice Doc hasn’t said a word in several minutes, and this is the kind of discussion he usually revels in. He loves talking about old punk rock records from bands like The Adolescents, Bad Brains, Jawbreaker and Operation Ivy and then explaining in great detail how and why the genre has been in decline since the late eighties. Instead, he’s staring down at his phone, typing text messages with an uneasy expression on his face. When we ask him what’s wrong, he tells us a girl he recently slept with just informed him that she may have contracted a sexually transmitted disease from an ex-boyfriend.

  “Ah, you’ll be fine,” I assure him.

  “You wore a condom, right?” Craig asks.

  “God no!” he says with a disgusted look on his face. “Never! Everybody knows that. I play the skins!”

  We gradually dissolve into laughter.

  Doc takes umbrage. “It’s not funny!”

  “It’s kinda funny,” says Craig.

  “You have crabs now,” Scott deadpans.

  Doc lowers his head and nervously fiddles with his thumbs. “Actually she says it might be chlamydia.”

  We start laughing again and Doc angrily stands up from the couch.

  “C’mon, we’re joking!” I say. “Where are you going?”

  “To the bathroom. I gotta go check my balls.”

  We sneer and chuckle as he hurries downstairs.

  “Shit, I don’t know what he’s so worried about,” says Craig. “You go to a doctor, get some antibiotics, and you can bust that shit out in a week.”

  Ten minutes later, I go to the bathroom in search of Doc but the stalls are empty and there’s no sign of him anywhere. I relieve myself and then wash my hands and walk back into the crowd only to find the lights have dimmed as the band is about to take the stage. The guitarist is illuminated by a single beam of light and he’s picking one string at a time in a crescendo of notes that rise, echo, and fall. Then the bassist is introduced. I look around at the audience and even in the darkness I can see the elation on their faces: they’re staring at the stage with widened eyes, gape-mouthed like fish, completely in awe.

  Suddenly the drummer smashes his sticks against the cymbals as the lights flare and the audience erupts into applause as the singer is finally revealed: a skinny woman in her mid-forties with straggly blonde hair and a silver washboard hanging from her neck. She moves up to the microphone and taps the metal with her fingertips to produce a dull, repetitive sound.

  “YEAH! SILVERCHEST!” a fat man screams from behind me, pumping his balled fist into the air. I leer at the band and listen with contempt as they play slow, boring experimental music. After the first song, the singer retrieves a trash can from behind the drum kit and sporadically hits it with a large wooden stick. I scan the crowd and the people are going absolutely bananas. They love it. The third song they play is called “Your Golden Soul” and it’s even worse than the first two. Disinterested, I stand at the bar for the rest of their set, drinking shots of whiskey by myself with my back facing the stage.

  EIGHT

  The concert mercifully ends and the crowd begins to shuffle through the hallway and out onto the street. I’ve lost track of my friends and so I wait for them on the sidewalk by the entrance. A homeless man with tattoos, a shaved head and a loose black sweater—he can’t be much older than I am—approaches from the road and asks me for spare change. Says he wants to buy a coffee.

  “Yeah, sure man,” I reply, reaching into my back pocket. I find a few coins and count them in the palm of my hand. Three dollars. “Sorry I don’t have more for ya.”

  He takes the money from me and says, incredulously, “Aw, c’mon, you gotta have more than that. Check your wallet.”

  I’m slightly taken aback by the imposition. “I don’t keep change in my wallet. Besides, I thought three dollars was pretty good.”

  “Nah, man, you gotta have more.”

  “I thought you just wanted a coffee?”

  “Coffee’s expensive these days.”

  “What kind are you buying? A fucking latte macchiato?” I’ve learned a few things about coffee since my failed job interview.

  “Come on, man!” he demands. “You’ve got more!”

  “No! In fact, I want my three bucks back.”

  “You serious?”

  “If you’re gonna be like that, I want it back.”

  “No way! Fuck you!” he shouts before sprinting off down the middle of the road. My three friends arrive just in time to see him go.

  “What the hell was that about?” Doc asks.

  “Panhandler! Didn’t like my three bucks!”

  “Weird.”

  “Why do homeless guys always wanna buy a coffee anyway? Why not get something more filling, like a can of Chef Boyardee?”

  “His ravioli is delicious,” says Scott.

  “Exactly!”

  “Man, don’t even worry about it,” Doc assures me. “The guy must be crazy. He’s probably pissing and shitting himself right now. Probably has shit running down his leg.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Craig here wants to go to a bar in Cabbagetown. It’s kinda small, but the music is good. They play a lot of, uh . . .” Doc snaps his fingers while trying to recall a name. “Who’s that gay guy that plays piano?”

  “Rufus Wainwright?”

  “No, the other one.”

&n
bsp; “Elton John?”

  “Bingo!”

  The walk to Parliament Street is relatively short and I’m surprised at how small the pub is once we arrive. Half of the clientele is smoking cigarettes on the front deck and the other half is standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow space between the bar and the dining area. The decor is very casual, like the living room of an old Victorian home, with green carpets, a fireplace and dark wooden furniture. We manage to seize the one empty table in the corner by the window, and while Craig is off at the bar ordering our drinks one of the waitresses stops and squints and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey! I remember you. It’s Ethan, right?”

  I haven’t the faintest idea who she is, but I feign recognition anyway, as I always do. “Yeah! Hey! How’s it going?”

  “Good! Haven’t seen you in a while. What you been up to?”

  “Uh . . . you might have me confused with somebody else, actually. This is my first time here.”

  “No I’ve seen you here before. What, you don’t remember? You sat right over there.” She points to a stool on the other side of the bar. “I remember because you ate a bunch of chili peppers and then drank straight vinegar.”

  “That doesn’t sound like me.”

  “Trust me. It was you.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To impress the girl sitting next to you.”

  “Really? Did it work?”

  “No!” she scoffs, then laughs and walks away.

  Maybe I have been here before. Though I doubt I would ever drink vinegar to impress a girl, no matter how drunk I was. I hate vinegar. And how is that impressive? Still, she seemed fairly adamant.

  While I’m pondering it, I notice Craig calling me over to the bar to help him carry some drinks back to the table. I meet him at the counter and he leans into my ear and whispers, “Man, you gotta talk to this guy” while gesturing to the old fellow sitting next to him dressed from head to toe in grey fisherman attire. He has a raincoat, a bucket hat, a prickly grey beard, an eyepatch, and he’s missing several teeth. He looks like the kind of guy you would expect to find on a box of fish sticks. In his right hand he holds two metal spoons and he clinks them together against his thigh. “Meet my friend, Ethan,” Craig tells him before quietly making his escape.