Seeing Red

by Shawn Sutherland

  I meander past the bar through a mob of people until I find Doc and Scott relaxing on one of the couches with their legs outstretched. They’re clearly drunk; when I pull up a chair, they can only muster a halfhearted greeting and for some reason their hair is wet.

  “Oh, man, you missed out!” Doc exclaims. “We went to this swimming pool at Christie Pits and it was awesome. Me, Scott, and like thirty other people hopped the fence and swam in our undies! There’s a huge water slide, a bunch of diving boards, and a lot of the girls went topless. . . . It was awesome.”

  “I’m going back there every weekend,” Scott mutters.

  So while I was busy arguing with a prostitute and listening to spoken word poetry, I could have been jumping down a giant water slide and staring at half-naked women. Well done, Reid.

  “What happened to Craig and Nikki?” I ask.

  “Nikki had to go home early for some reason and Craig left the bar with some blonde chick,” says Doc.

  “She was fairly attractive,” Scott tells me. “And she had big cans. But yeah, I don’t think I can stay out much longer. I gotta go to job tomorrow.”

  “What time do you have to ‘go to job’?”

  “I gotta leave my place at, like, eight-thirty.”

  “Man, that’s in six hours! You’ll never make it.”

  “You . . . shut your mouth. I’ll make it easy.”

  “C’mon, Scott!” says Doc. “Don’t be such a goddamn pussy. Stick around for another couple hours.”

  “Okay,” he replies.

  After a few more minutes of lazing on the couch, Doc grows impatient and starts surveying the room. “Man, there are some decent-looking girls in here. We should be hitting on them.”

  “You really shouldn’t,” Scott replies. “Your genitals are riddled with diseases.”

  “One disease!” he shouts, holding up an index finger. Then he turns to me and says, “Craig texted me earlier and said his new lady-friend has a couple roommates. He’s gonna try to get them to invite us over . . . so, basically, he’s our last hope for getting laid tonight.”

  “No!” Scott objects. “He’s not our last hope! He’s not Star Wars! I still have a shot. I just need another drink. Then I’ll go find a girl with low self-esteem.”

  “Dude, I can’t buy another beer,” Doc says. “I don’t have any burn money left and there’s no ATM. But look! Some girls left their drinks. Let’s just take them.”

  On the table in front of us there are two yellow cocktails served in curvy glasses with little plastic umbrellas and rims garnished with maraschino cherries.

  “No way,” Scott says. “What are they?”

  “I think they’re called ‘bee stings,’” I tell him. I raise one of the glasses to my nose and it smells like honey. “Yup. Definitely a bee sting.”

  “I’m sure they taste good,” Doc says.

  “Well, I’m not drinking those,” Scott declares.

  “Hey!” Doc yells, slamming his fist onto the table. “Are we gonna drink these bee stings . . . or are we gonna be faggots?”

  Long pause.

  “Fine, I’ll drink it,” Scott replies.

  “Dude! You shouldn’t say that,” I warn Doc.

  “What, ‘faggot’?” he repeats loudly. As expected, people in the immediate area take notice and frown. “I can say anything I want all the time!”

  “You’re gonna offend someone!”

  “Whatever, man! Why should I give a shit if they take it the wrong way? I meant it, like, ‘stop being an annoying faggot.’ Not the homophobic way.”

  “But some people might not make that distinction!”

  “Hey! I support gay rights, dude! What do I care if two consenting adults wanna engage in hot, man-on-man action? I’m using the word in a different context in order to change the definition. I call everybody faggots! I told my sister she was being a faggot yesterday! Those people should be thanking me.”

  “Just shut the fuck up and drink your bee sting!”

  The two of them sip feverishly on the straws of their stolen cocktails and within a minute the glasses are completely dry.

  “Well, that was delicious,” says Scott.

  Unsatisfied, Doc mutters, “I’m still kinda thirsty though.”

  “Well, I’m gonna go buy another gin-and-tonic,” I tell them. Thankfully, I still have enough coins on me for one last drink. Doc follows me to the bar where we stand in line behind several other people. One of them looks a lot like the bouncer from Vanessa’s parlour; I lower my head and turn away to make sure he doesn’t see me. The last thing I need is another confrontation with that goon. Fortunately, he buys a drink and immediately leaves through the stairwell. We order our drinks and the bartender—a very attractive girl with long blue hair—hands us a gin-and-tonic and a bottle of beer. I give her my change while Doc empties out his pockets, trying to pay with something other than money.

  “All I have are these subway tokens. . . . Oh! And an individual pack of crackers. They’re salted.” To my surprise, she actually accepts the tokens as payment. Apparently she rides the subway quite often. “Keep the change,” he tells her, pronouncing the word as though it rhymes with “dawn.”

  Doc and I take our drinks to the front of the stage and watch the band play a paint-by-numbers punk set including all of the classics from Black Flag, The Sex Pistols and the first record by The Clash. As we stand there bobbing our heads to the music, I notice a girl making eye contact with me. She has straight black bangs, dark eyes and massive breasts—obviously, she’s way out of my league. Throughout the night I watch several other men try to make a pass at her, but not one of them is even remotely successful; she bats them away like she’s swatting at flies. Occasionally, when we’re all jumping around to the chorus, she intentionally bumps into me and then leans up against me, as if she wants to say something, but she never does. Maybe she’s teasing me.

  When the band hits the cymbals on their final song, we applaud and cheer and whistle as they vacate the stage. The girl with the dark eyes finally locks onto me and advances. I feel Doc shove me forward from behind, and then he scurries away like a cockroach in daylight and it’s only me and her. She speaks first.

  “Hey. I like you. You’re polite . . . unlike some of the other boys in here.” Her accent is Eastern European and she reminds me of a James Bond villain. “I have a surprise for you,” she whispers, holding out her hand to reveal a small yellow capsule.

  “Whoa. What’s that?”

  “MDMA. It’ll make you feel amazing.”

  “You’re not gonna take advantage of me, are you? ’Cause I’m feeling pretty vulnerable right now.”

  She laughs. “If you don’t want it, I’ll keep it for myself.” She slowly brings the pill to her lips and I grab her wrist to stop her from putting it in her mouth.

  “Wait. I’ll try it. But . . . just don’t let me pass out here.”

  “I won’t.”

  I place the capsule on my tongue and chase it with gin. I’ve tried ecstasy before, but this is supposedly more potent. Every time I experiment with a new drug I feel a deep fear of the unknown—the fear that I might have an allergic reaction or hallucinate or lose control of myself and run around naked screaming “Attica! Attica!” In this case, my fear is amplified because this girl is a stranger; for all I know, she could have given me a roofie. Maybe she’ll steal my wallet. Or my kidney. If I wake up tomorrow in a bathtub full of ice with a big scar across my back, I’m going to be really pissed off.

  “Wait until it settles in,” she tells me. “You’ll feel amazing.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Sofia.”

  “Ethan. Where are you from?”

  “Russia. Armenia, to be exact. Do you like Armenian girls?”

  “You’re the first one I’ve met, but you seem pretty ni
ce.”

  Whenever I meet someone from Russia, I immediately ask them about the Cold War, the Summit Series and Rocky IV, but with Sofia I refrain.

  “I love Canadian boys. You’re so nice.” She grabs me by the wrist and scratches me with her fingernails, digging deep into the skin, so deep she almost draws blood. “Do you feel it yet?”

  “I’m starting to get a little tingly.”

  “Good,” she says.

  Suddenly, I hear Doc whistling and catcalling at me from across the room. I figure he’s teasing me, but when I turn around I see him standing at a table with four other people and he’s motioning for us to join them. Sofia and I approach the group and he introduces us to a handsome, well-dressed man in his mid-thirties named Ben who apparently works as a television producer in Los Angeles. Ben, his tall blonde girlfriend, and his two buddies are out celebrating because he recently sold a new reality show to a major cable network. In his right hand he holds a ziplock bag full of white powder which he periodically offers to the table, bringing it directly to our noses with a tiny metal scoop. We all partake, including Sofia.

  “I grew up here, but I moved out to L.A. like, ten years ago,” Ben tells us. “Eventually, I’d like to get into movies, but you gotta start somewhere, right? The fact of the matter is, reality shows are the most lucrative thing in the business right now ’cause they’re so cheap to produce. You don’t have to pay actors, you usually don’t need writers, so your production costs stay low. That’s why practically every channel is jumping on it—even the artsy, high-brow ones. But it’s hard to keep it fresh, you know what I mean? I mean, you can always . . .”

  For the next five minutes he continues to drone on about his issues with the contemporary television industry and I have no interest in what he’s saying, but I nod and smile and listen politely nonetheless while I wait for him to offer me another hit. I feel like a real big shot, snorting cocaine from a TV producer with Sofia hanging on my arm. I could get used to this.

  “You should hear my movie idea!” Doc exclaims.

  “Why, what is it?” Ben asks.

  “Okay, so it’s about this cop, right? He’s a real live wire who plays hard and fast with the rules, but he ultimately gets the job done, y’know? I was thinking DiCaprio, or McConaughey, or maybe Diesel—any badass, really. Anyway, at the start of the movie, he’s trying to bring down this big crime boss, but he’s got a bunch of other shit going on. Like, personal issues and shit. And then, at the end of the movie, you find out that the bad guy he’s been chasing after for the past two-and-a-half hours is actually him! He was hunting himself the whole time. . . .”

  There’s a long pause before Ben finally says, “Wow . . . that . . . that sounds awful.”

  “It’s good, alright?” Doc snarls, and then with disdain he screams, “It’s a good movie for people who aren’t FAGGOTS!”

  This causes a furious uproar at the table. Doc and Ben and his friends start pointing and shouting and shaking their fists at each other, arguing about the merit of Doc’s movie idea, while Sofia and I remain silent. Suddenly, a bouncer at the far side of the room slams a door to get our attention and the music screeches to a halt. Everything goes quiet. Then he calls out, “Alright! Everybody file out through the back! The cops are out front!”

  At that precise moment, of course, the MDMA kicks in. Perfect timing. I feel dizzy and light seems to stay in my eyes for longer than usual and the nerve endings in my arms and legs begin to feel warm and sensitive as they tremble. Then I drop my plastic cup on the floor and gin spills everywhere.

  “Fuck!” I shout. Sofia sighs and grabs me by the hand and her grip feels different now. Very soft. As we’re all shuffling through the main room, I suddenly remember Scott and run back through the crowd to find him unconscious on the couch with drool dripping from his mouth. Doc wakes him up by slapping him unnecessarily hard in the face several times and then we help him to his feet. Sofia leads us down a set of stairs into a utility room filled with stacks of empty beer cases and the concrete floor is soaking wet. There’s an exit at the end of the room which takes us outside into an alleyway—the same alcove where I snorted cocaine earlier.

  The four of us quietly follow the herd, careful not to alert the police on the opposite side of the building as we evacuate the area. No sign of Ben or any of his friends. They must have escaped before us. We see a police cruiser parked by the main road and manage to evade it by sneaking behind a short wooden fence through a darkened path. Once we’re at a safe distance we stop to gather our bearings and catch our breath. While he’s panting, Doc strikes up a conversation with Sofia.

  “So . . . you’re from Russia?”

  “Yes. I’m Russian-Armenian.”

  “And what brings you to Toronto?”

  “Well, when I was young, there was a lot of fighting and conflict in my country. I had to leave. It was very, very violent there. I saw some . . . unspeakable things.”

  “Like what?” Scott asks.

  “I can’t say. That’s why it’s unspeakable.”

  “Oh.”

  “My apartment is nearby,” Sofia whispers into my ear. “Walk with me there.” And then, inexplicably, she takes off her shirt. Why, I don’t know—maybe she’s feeling the warming effects of the MDMA too. Her bra is black and her breasts are pouring out over the top and I can’t help but stare. Within seconds she is surrounded by a circle of random men, most of whom left the after-hours club alongside us. They’re all hooting and hollering at her at the same time, drowning each other out. Thankfully, Sofia has no interest in any of them, so she reaches through the crowd and takes me by the hand again.

  “Alright!” I shout. “Show’s over! I’m walking her home.”

  I hear a few resentful groans and disparaging remarks as they gradually disperse, and one of them continues to follow us as we walk down the road. At the first intersection Doc hails a taxi before grabbing Scott by the neck and the belt and literally throwing him into the backseat. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says. Then he winks at me as if to wish me luck before closing the door and speeding off.

  We continue walking in the direction of Sofia’s apartment, and that stalker from the club is still following behind us. It’s creepy, and we try our best to ignore him. Along the way, she says out of the blue, “Can I ask you one question? Are you circumcised?”

  I’m not circumcised, but I’m not sure that’s what she wants to hear. So I say, “Uh, which style do you prefer?”

  “I don’t like it when they’re uncircumcised. It’s not as clean, I think?”

  “Oh. Good. Because I’ve never been more circumcised.”

  “Okay. I know I’m gonna see it anyway, but I just wanna know.”

  Sofia’s apartment building looks new and expensive with its shiny black walls. Through the window, situated in the lobby, I can see classy leather furniture and exotic green plants. She stops me in front of the entrance by pushing her palm against my chest and then, without warning, she pulls my face toward hers and starts kissing me. Our timing is a little off—presumably because of the drugs—but we keep kissing until she laments, “You Canadian boys are so nice.”

  “I’m not that nice,” I mutter.

  “Hmm. I doubt that. I’m sorry, but you can’t come in tonight. My roommate is sleeping and she will not allow it. But, if you call me tomorrow, I might let you take me out.”

  Part of me is actually relieved Sofia doesn’t want to bring me upstairs. I’m probably too drunk and miserable to perform even if prompted, and when she catches a glimpse of that foreskin it’s all over. Still, the thought of being with her in a nice warm bed is comforting and I don’t want to be alone. “Can I use your bathroom real quick? Get a cup of coffee? Do you have a dog? I really want to meet him.”

  She laughs. “Not tonight.”

  “Well, it was worth a shot.”

  “Now, E
than, let me tell you something for your own good.”

  “Uh oh,” I mumble, predicting some forthcoming criticism.

  “Listen,” she says while rubbing my shoulders. “You only live once. This here . . . it’s all temporary. After that, it’s gone. And either you did it, or you didn’t do it, so as long as you’re not hurting anybody, you should really take that chance.”

  “So . . . you’re saying you want me to sleep with you?”

  She laughs again. “No! I can’t tonight. I’m asking you what you really want to do. I mean, in the big picture.”

  I look down at the pavement and consider the question. What would really make me happy? Everything I’ve ever wanted to do seems so impossible now. Granted, I’m only twenty-four years old, but I’ve been in college for the last six years and I can’t stay in school for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be paying off student loans until I’m sixty. Sure, I would love to have a job where I could travel and see the world, but it’s just not in the cards. I chose the wrong degree, plain and simple. Literature. History. Journalism. Why did I study those things? Nobody cares about those things anymore.

  We have too many goddamn choices nowadays: ice cream flavours, cellphone plans, hair care products, toothpaste brands, TV channels, university courses—there are too many to choose from. With so many options, not only is it more difficult to make a decision, we’re never satisfied with the decision we make because we’re always wondering what the grass is like on the other side. How are you supposed to know which side is right?

  “I don’t know what I want to do,” I tell her. “I’ve tried different schools, different cities, worked a bunch of shitty jobs, but nothing ever seems to stick. Honestly, I just don’t think I’m good at anything.”

  “I didn’t ask you what you were good at,” she says. Then she repeats, “You only live once. And then, one day, just like that—it’s gone.”

  “Hmm. I’m gonna ponder that.”

  “And you’ll call me tomorrow?”

  “To be honest, Sofia, I might not remember this. I drank a lot. And the drugs. . . .”