Seeing Red

by Shawn Sutherland

  “Hello, Spoonman,” I say, shaking his hand. He responds to me in gibberish; I can’t make out any of the words, but he’s smiling and laughing and so I smile too. Then he looks down at the spoons and starts to play a beat. It has no discernible melody.

  “Hey, do you know ‘Hey Jude’?” I ask him.

  He grits his teeth and makes a loud, guttural noise, which I assume to mean, “Yes.” Then, with quick, erratic movements, he jingles the spoons in such a way that sounds absolutely nothing like “Hey Jude.” I sing a few of the lyrics anyway.

  “Hey, how about I play a song with you?” I say. “We’ll have a jam session.” I flag down the bartender and ask her for a pair of spoons.

  “I’m sorry,” she tells me, “but we don’t give out spoons at night anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  She lowers her head and whispers, “Well, unfortunately, some people were taking them into the bathroom and using them to light up heroin. All of our spoons kept going missing.”

  “Really?” I say, motioning to Spoonman. “Are you sure this guy didn’t steal them all?” Spoonman bellows out in disapproval and then laughs. Heartily. He reminds me of one of those walking trees from The Lord of the Rings.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” she says. “We caught them in there a couple of times. It was sad. And now we keep the spoons on lockdown.”

  “Okay. Thanks anyway.” I turn back to the fisherman and we shake hands again. “Well, it’s been a hell of a ride, Spoonman.” He pats me on the arm and then mumbles something that sounds like “Goodbye, friend.” I grab the scotch Craig ordered me and clink it against his pint of cider and then return to the table. I notice Doc is missing.

  “He went outside to make a phone call,” Craig tells me. And then, right on cue, Doc rushes back into the bar and impatiently pushes through the crowd to huddle beside us.

  “Okay, we’re on,” he says emphatically.

  “What’s on?” I ask.

  “Amber and her friends are at Panorama. We’ve gotta drink up and go.”

  “C’mon, man,” I object. “We just got here. Let’s stick around for at least a drink or two.”

  “Nah, we gotta go now. Trust me. It’ll be fun. Natalie’s there too.”

  Natalie. I’m crazy about Natalie. I met her late last year when she was playing a show with her indie pop band The Crunchy Mondays—that name always makes me laugh. She’s absolutely beautiful: she has long dark hair with red highlights, striking eyes, and her smile—the one she makes when she finds something really, really funny—just kills me. Thankfully, I can make her laugh pretty often. Whenever our mutual friends meet up at a bar, we usually spend the entire night talking and ignoring everybody else. She’s the first girl I’ve had any real hope for since Rachael.

  Unfortunately, Natalie lives in the suburbs and works two part-time jobs, so she’s a hard person to get a hold of. The chemistry is definitely there between us, but when we’re not in the same room she seems completely indifferent to me, like I’m an afterthought. I occasionally give her a call and ask about her plans for the weekend, but the correspondence is always one-way. In fact, I haven’t seen her in over a month. As far as I know, she doesn’t have a boyfriend—she tells everyone she’s too busy for a relationship—but still, I can’t make sense of it. Maybe that’s why I’m so infatuated: she’s unpredictable, mysterious, and impossible to comprehend.

  A few months ago, a large group of us went to an animal shelter to look at the puppies. Nobody had any intention of adopting one—we just wanted to gawk at them because they’re cute. The dogs barked and pawed at us from behind thin metal bars, crying out with open mouths and round eyes, and it was difficult not to take one home. While most tried to get our attention, there was this one dog that simply lay down in the middle of his cage and stared at me. I put my hand up to the bars and he gently licked my fingers. He was brown, with white patches and dark circles around his eyes, and his fur was a bit straggly. It seemed as if he was nursing an old injury. I wanted to take him with us. Natalie urged me to buy him. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to live an ordinary life in the suburbs with her and the dog and a boring job and it actually didn’t seem so bad—but I knew that was just a pipe dream.

  “What would you call him?” she asked me.

  “Interceptor,” I deadpanned.

  She laughed. Said it was a funny name for a dog.

  “Okay, yeah, we should probably check this out,” I tell the guys.

  Doc grins and slaps the table. “Cool! You guys coming?”

  “Yeah, sure,” says Scott, his speech beginning to slur. “But I wanna get laid tonight. It’s been awhile. And I wanna buy some weed.”

  “Didn’t you hook up with a girl last weekend?” Craig asks. “At that birthday party?”

  “Nah, we didn’t do anything.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I was really into this girl and she was pretty attractive and I told her I hadn’t had sex in, like, three months, and she said, ‘Try two years!’ So I was flirting with her pretty hard and she was giving me the eyes and then Doug started eating a jar of mayo and I got distracted. And then I just, y’know, kinda wandered off.”

  A brief moment of silence ensues before Craig explodes into laughter. “That’s it? You were busy watching a guy eat mayo?”

  “It was a big jar.”

  “I don’t know why,” Doc interjects, “but Amber sounded kinda pissed off at me. I might not be getting laid tonight, but goddammit, I’m gonna try.”

  “You have chlamydia!” Craig reminds him.

  “That remains to be seen. Besides, I can still spoon her.”

  NINE

  In the cab, I’m crammed between Doc and Craig in the middle of the backseat. Our cab driver is a balding, middle-aged man in an old brown jacket. He has no neck, only shoulders, and he speaks with a Middle Eastern accent. When I’m drunk I have no qualms about initiating conversation with anyone, so after we state our destination I immediately ask the driver, “How’s your night going?”

  “Ah, I’m not too happy about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s slow, man! Business is very slow, much slower than it used to be, you know? It’s the recession. I think the reason is, people have less money, so they go out less. It affects the business. I mean, I thank God I still have a job and I haven’t been laid off yet, so I can still put food on the table and feed my family, but it should be better. . . . It should be better than this.”

  His words seem to hang in the air. I reflect on what he’s said, what he’s going through, and I empathize. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to be a parent, to have to provide for others, to know you’re solely responsible for their well-being and their security and whether or not they eat dinner that night. And the fear that must come when you realize you might be unable to take care of them due to reasons beyond your control—because of governments or economic fluctuations or the price of gas. A long, lingering silence envelops us. And then Scott asks, “Do you have any weed?”

  The driver laughs. “No! I can’t spend money on that kind of thing. I have to buy shoes for my kids. They’ll be back in school pretty soon . . . and there’s always something they need. Can’t be spending money on things like that.”

  “Hmm. We have different priorities, I guess.”

  The taxi stops at Bay and Bloor where tall office buildings and high-end stores surround us in all directions. I tip the driver well and thank him for the ride and then follow the guys into an empty shopping mall. At the far end we enter a black elevator and push a button for the fifty-first floor. Nobody says a word, except for Scott, who mumbles to himself, “I hope I get laid tonight.” It’s past midnight and we’re all intoxicated, but I still feel anxious; Natalie is on the other side of these doors and I’m always apprehensive when I’m about to see her.
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br />   The elevator opens and we’re immediately greeted by a formally dressed maître d’ who ushers us to a table. The restaurant gets its name from the one-hundred-and-eighty degree view of downtown Toronto; you can see the entire skyline via the large glass windows and adjoining balcony that surrounds the room. Surprisingly, the place isn’t busy—I suppose the type of people who frequent fancy cocktail bars don’t often stay out past midnight. Then, through the window, I catch a glimpse of Natalie standing alone outside smoking a cigarette with her back to me. Behind her, the city shines brightly in a cascade of red, blue and purple. Without saying a word, I leave the others and open the glass door to the balcony, and she glances over her shoulder and spots me just as I arrive.

  “Ethan!” she says, smiling and wrapping her arms around me. She’s wearing the usual perfume and it smells like shea. I read somewhere that being at a higher elevation increases our feelings of attraction; it might have something to do with the thinner air or the adrenaline rush induced by our fear of heights, but either way, I believe it. “I heard you might show up.”

  “Yeah, we just got here. How’s it going?”

  “Awesome! I’m glad you came. Wanna smoke?” She pulls a cigarette from her pack and I light it by pressing it against the one in her mouth.

  “So, how’s your summer been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Oh it’s been crazy,” she says. “I’ve been super busy with the band and everything. Tonight we played a show down at this club on Spadina.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “It was good! Decent crowd. And we didn’t screw up too much. I think we’re getting better.”

  “Cool. I’ve gotta see you guys play again sometime.” I haven’t seen them do a live show since the first time we met. They were kind of sloppy, to be honest, but I hardly noticed; Natalie made up for any mistakes with her bouncy self-confidence and stage presence, so the imperfections of the band didn’t matter. Besides, the songs were catchy—I still have one stuck in my head.

  “You should! We sound way better now. We’ve been practicing, like, two or three times a week. What about you? What’ve you been up to?”

  Drinking. Smoking. Popping pills. “Not much, really,” I say. “Just trying to find a new job since I quit the call centre. And I’m still waiting to hear back from the law schools I applied to.”

  Months ago, when I was having an internal crisis about my life and future, I decided to write the Law School Admission Test on a snowy day in February. The exam was five hours long and it tested logical reasoning and reading comprehension skills. I scored fairly high—not well enough to be accepted into any school of my choosing, but, with a good application letter, I certainly had a chance. And while I wasn’t dead set on becoming a lawyer, I figured applying to law school would, at the very least, impress people. Better than telling them I was unemployed, anyway.

  “Really? Where’d you apply?”

  “Just the ones around Ontario, like Windsor, Queens, Osgoode Hall. . . . But yeah, I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  “That’s cool. I never had you pegged as a lawyer though,” she says coyly.

  “Yeah, me neither. Gotta grow up sometime, right?” I pause before adding, “Anyway, can I get you a drink or something?”

  “I’m good, thanks. Somebody left their water here.” She holds up a glass of ice water and dangles it in front of her face. “I might drink this. Think it’ll be okay? It doesn’t look like they touched it,” she adds, inspecting the rim.

  “There could be germs.”

  “Yeah. Probably syphilis.”

  “Let me try it.” She hands me the glass and I take a sip. “Hmm. Tastes like syphilis.”

  “I knew it!”

  “You have to try it too. I don’t wanna be the only one here with syphilis.”

  She laughs and takes a drink. “Ew! It burns!”

  Natalie and I spend the next few minutes catching up, talking about the people we know, the places she’s visited over the summer, and whatever else was new. When she speaks, I can’t focus on anything else and time passes quickly. She can turn any mundane, trivial activity into an interesting story with her natural enthusiasm and that ever-changing expression on her face. Everything seems better when she’s around, so when she tells me she has to leave because she’s driving her brother to the airport in the morning, it completely takes the wind out of my sails.

  “We should get together soon though!” she says.

  “Yes! We should. I have so many great, great anecdotes to share with you,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.

  She smiles. “I’m sure you do.”

  “What about tomorrow night? I don’t have any plans yet.”

  “Maybe. I’ve gotta work in the afternoon, but maybe after that? How about you give me a call and we’ll set something up, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  She hugs me again and I wish her goodnight and then she disappears. Still in a daze, I stare out at the city and it looks peaceful and silent, like it did this morning. Even though I was happy to see her, I can’t help but feel despondent now that she’s gone. I replay the entire exchange in my mind, trying to interpret the signals, wondering if she actually has any interest in me: she stood close, she played with her hair, her body language was open, but she was also quick to leave and noncommittal for tomorrow night. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

  Resting my arms against the railing, breathing in and out, I glance down at my feet and then back at the city again. Then I notice Doc and Amber sitting across from each other at the other end of the balcony and I unintentionally eavesdrop on their conversation. Her voice is low and agitated:

  “He saw your text messages, Jeffrey. Now he’s worried there’s something going on between us and he’s all angry because he thinks I lied to him.”

  “Well, you did kinda lie to him.”

  “No I didn’t!”

  “Why don’t you just tell him what’s up?”

  “I can’t. Not now. We have a good thing going.”

  “No, we have a good thing going. He sucks.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeff. Why’d you have to send me those texts?”

  “I didn’t think he’d go through your phone! What’s wrong with this guy? He’s paranoid. I bet he’s got a bunch of STDs too.”

  “What? Anyway, I’m sorry, but we can’t keep doing this. And you can’t keep texting me at, like, two in the morning. My phone vibrates and Justin’s there and it’s really awkward. I don’t like it.”

  “Look,” he whispers, “why don’t we just go back to your place and spoon? Then we can talk about this in the morning.”

  Pause.

  “As great as that sounds, I’m gonna pass.”

  Amber begins to rise from her chair and Doc interrupts her by placing his hand on her wrist. “Wait, don’t go yet. There’s something else you should know. . . .”

  “What?”

  He inhales deeply and pauses, considering for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  Amber peers back at him with a dumbfounded expression and then gives him a brief hug before leaving through the balcony door. Doc sits and stares at the table for a few seconds, probably wondering where he went wrong, until he sees me watching in the background.

  “Reid! Man, you hear any of that? Psh. Didn’t go well!”

  “Sure didn’t.”

  “I was gonna tell her about the whole chlamydia thing, but then I thought, y’know, fuck it.”

  “I’m sure she’ll find out eventually.”

  “Exactly!” Then he clasps his hands together and rubs them back and forth before asking, “So! Where’s Natalie?”

  “She had to go, but we’re supposed do something tomorrow night. Hopefully.”

  “Cool. Well, fuck this shit. Let’s go back inside.”

&
nbsp; The two of us leave the balcony and rejoin Craig and Scott, who have continued to drink heavily in our absence. There are several empty pint glasses on the table and Scott is noticeably less coordinated than before. With Natalie out of the picture I see no reason to stay at this bar any longer. “Well, I think I’m gonna call it a night. I wanna catch the subway before it stops.”

  “What?” Doc objects. “Why on God’s green fuck would you do that? The night’s still young!”

  “It’s very young,” Craig mutters. “It’s like . . . prepubescent.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still hungover, and I don’t wanna take the late bus.”

  “Get Scott to drive you!” says Doc. “He left his car at my place.”

  “He can’t drive. Look at him! Look at his stupid face!” I point at Scott from across the table and he feebly smiles back at me with vacant eyes.

  “He’s fine!”

  “I’m alright,” Scott mumbles. “I can drive . . . if you want.”

  “Really?” I say skeptically. Then I pull my keys from my pocket and shout, “Scott! Think fast!” before throwing them at his face. He doesn’t catch them or even raise his hands to defend himself. He doesn’t react. The metal keys hit him squarely between the eyes and make a loud ping sound as they knock his head back. Doc and Craig start laughing.

  “Ow,” he yelps.

  “See?” I say, picking up my keys. “I’m taking the subway.”

  “What’s going on tomorrow night?” Craig asks.

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Alright, cool man. Take it easy.”

  I wave goodbye to the group and take the elevator down to the ground floor and then exit through the empty mall. Once outside, I cross a quiet intersection, and when I arrive at the subway station the last train of the night is waiting to take me north. There are no other people on the platform and the train feels empty. Everything is silent. As the train passes through a dark tunnel, I stare at my reflection in the window and the edge of the glass distorts my face so that my cheekbone seems to sag, my jawline looks ghoulish and unnaturally thin, and my eye appears to be nothing more than a hollow, blackened pit.