Seeing Red

by Shawn Sutherland

  I’m sleeping on a bench at the end of a pier when I’m suddenly awoken by the sound of Doc’s voice. He’s kneeling beside me, trying to shake me back into consciousness. “Hey! Reid! Come on, man, wake up!” He lifts my shoulders off the bench, forcing me into a seated position, and my eyes gradually begin to open. Then he passes me a bottle of water and I try to drink from it, but the water seeps down the back of my throat and I cough.

  This isn’t the first time he’s come to help me. Last winter, I was stumbling home from a bar one night when I got lost in the midst of a violent snowstorm. I trudged through the ice and blowing snow and tried to make it back to my apartment, but to no avail. Eventually, I became enervated by the cold and my legs failed me and I collapsed into a snowbank. Before I fell unconscious, I called Doc and told him where I was and said that I might freeze to death. He immediately hailed a cab and within minutes found me lying deep in the snow. The cab driver refused to take me because he thought I might vomit or die in the backseat of his car, so Doc propped me up by the shoulder and carried me all the way home. I’ve cheated death like that probably a dozen times. Yet, somehow, I was still alive while so many more deserving people lay cold in the ground or with their ashes stored in urns above the fireplace. It’s an unjust world.

  “Give me a minute,” I groan. “I’m not ready to go yet.”

  “Sure,” he says, slumping down on the bench beside me.

  This is the hangover Walton warned me about. Although I can barely recall anything, there is an inherent feeling of guilt and embarrassment constricting my entire body. Then I remember the awful text messages I sent to Natalie. The uncertainty makes my heart clench and tighten. My bones ache and my eye is swollen and my nose is clogged and runny. The discomfort is inescapable, excruciating. I never want to feel this way this again. He was right.

  Doc tells me it’s almost six o’clock in the morning and the sun should be rising soon, somewhere over the lake. Even now, I can see the first signs of daylight as the sky gradually changes from pitch black to powder blue.

  “What the hell happened to your eye?” he asks.

  I shake my head without answering.

  “Did you punch him back?”

  “No.”

  Pause.

  “Did you sweep the leg?”

  “No, I didn’t sweep the leg!”

  A few moments pass.

  “Man, I feel old,” I say.

  “I know, man. Me too.”

  “You realize it’s been, like, seven years since we left high school? Our ten-year reunion is coming up soon.”

  “That’s crazy. . . . I don’t know where the time went.”

  “There’s no way I’d ever go to the reunion. I haven’t done anything I wanted to do since then. . . . I just drank and took some classes. I wouldn’t know what to tell people.”

  “Me neither. But nobody else from my school has done anything either. I mean a few of them have jobs, but nothing special.”

  “But how many of them are married now? Or have kids? I can’t imagine having kids at this age.”

  “I’d be terrible at it.”

  “Yeah. Maybe when I’m, like, thirty-five. But now? Shit, I still feel eighteen.”

  “Me too.”

  Another long pause.

  “Remember the days when we didn’t have to be loaded drunk to have a good time?” I say. “When you could just play basketball or video games on a Friday night and still have fun?”

  “Yeah, man! Me and my friends used to play ball hockey every day after school. I’d totally be up for it if other people were. Why don’t we do that anymore?”

  “Nobody has any equipment.”

  “Still, that can’t be hard to come by.”

  “Yeah . . . I miss those days.”

  I brandish the hip flask from my pocket.

  “There’s still a bit left,” I say. “Want some?”

  I pass the flask to Doc and he takes a swig. Then he exhales and hands it back to me and I do the same. A moment later we spot a police boat patrolling the harbour in the distance.

  “Think they’ll mind?” I ask.

  “Nah, fuck ’em.”

  Doc takes the flask from my hand and holds it up high in the air, waving it at the boat. Then he drinks from it again. Time passes slowly as we sit there gazing into the water. The waves gently rock back and forth like a cradle and I can hear seagulls cawing on the other side of the channel.

  “Man, if my ten-year-old self could see me right now, he’d be so pissed off,” I say.

  Doc laughs. “Same.”

  “I thought I would’ve done so much more by now. Orson Welles was working on Citizen Kane when he was our age. Neil Young wrote ‘Old Man.’ What have I done?”

  “Man, we’ve still got time. We should just go somewhere. Go to fucking Asia and teach English or something. . . .”

  “I knew a guy at my old job who did that. I think he went to Japan? He said it was awesome.”

  “See? Why don’t we do that?”

  “I don’t know. He also said it was kinda like . . . putting your life on hold. You make a bit of money, you get to live in a different country, but eventually you’ve gotta come home. And when you do, all the same shit is still here waiting for you, only now you’re a year older.”

  Doc considers for a moment. “Still, it’d be better than staying here and doing nothing, wasting our lives. . . .”

  “Maybe. . . . I know I can’t keep doing this every night, going out and drinking like this. What’s the point? I just end up spending a bunch of money and feeling like shit the next day anyway. And even if I meet a girl, I usually never see them again, so what’s the point of that? The hangovers keep getting worse and worse, too—some days I can’t even get out of bed until, like, four in the afternoon. Honestly, it’s not even fun for me anymore. I don’t have a job, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in school, I’m running out of money. . . .”

  Doc nods his head and looks down at his feet for a while before saying, “Well, I’m gonna get that teaching certificate. Then I’m gonna look into one of those programs. Some of them even pay for your flight and accommodations.”

  “Yeah, I remember you talking about it. Don’t you have to sign a one-year contract though?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t know if I could do a whole year. . . .”

  “Ah, c’mon, man. A year will fly by. What’s keeping you here?”

  I try to think of an answer, but take too long to respond.

  “You’ve been to Hong Kong before, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah. My old man took me when I was twenty.”

  “We could go there? They must need teachers?”

  “I don’t know, man. . . .”

  “Well, I’m doing it. I’m definitely going. If not Asia, then somewhere else. And you should too.”

  In lieu of answering, I glance over at Doc and grin and then lift up the flask and finish the last remnants of alcohol. We both stare out at Lake Ontario and watch as the sun rises over the horizon and the city begins to wake once more.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Doc helps me to my feet and tells me he’s driving to the family cottage in Kincardine to visit his oldest sister Karen, her husband Charlie and their three-year-old son Jacob. He invites me to come along—says a ride through the countryside and a decent meal might help with the hangover. I reluctantly accept. It’s not like I have anything else to do today. And it’ll be nice to get out of the city for a change. It’s been almost a year since I last got out.

  The Widowmaker is parked on the lot next to the pier and the headlights are still on. When I open the door, I remember the passenger side window is broken and I can’t help but feel partially responsible. Doc turns the key in the ignition and we start driving; there are a few early morning joggers
and the occasional taxi, but aside from that the city is calm. Doc must be groggy—he probably didn’t get a wink of sleep—but he assures me he’s okay to drive and I’m in no position to argue. We move north on Jarvis Street up to Mount Pleasant Road and a few minutes later we’re parked outside my apartment. “I’ll wait here,” he says. “Get everything you need. And take as long as you want, I don’t care.”

  I enter the lobby and ride the elevator and unlock the door to my apartment. The air inside feels stale, as if the windows haven’t been opened for days, and the daylight is barely visible between the gaps in the blinds. Normally, I’d be huddled in bed right now, completely immobilized, but today is different. I have a second wind. I open my closet door and snatch a change of clothes and a pair of sunglasses and stuff them into an old backpack. Then I go into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush, a comb, a stick of deodorant and a towel. As I’m walking out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror for the first time since last night and I’m horrified to see the large pink circle surrounding my left eye. It looks like it’s turning purple, and there’s a deep, rounded cut underneath. He must have been wearing a ring, maybe two rings, because there’s another long cut above my eyebrow. The wound is throbbing and I need a painkiller; almost instinctively, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the bottle of codeine. I hold it there in my hand, studying the label for a moment, and then I think about what Walton said to me a year ago and I realize I don’t want to have anything to do with this stuff anymore. I’m tired of it. All of it. I toss the codeine into the trash and then open the medicine cabinet and drop more bottles, one by one, into the same bin. By the end of it, the shelves are nearly empty, save for a few vitamin supplements and some ibuprofen. I take two ibuprofen—the recommended dosage—and swallow.

  Before leaving, I decide to pick up some of the dirty clothes on the floor and throw them into the laundry basket. Then I stack the pizza boxes, organize the liquor bottles, make the bed and scrub a few of the dishes in the sink. What a difference it makes. I also make sure to grab an ice pack from the freezer and wrap it up in a paper towel. Everything is organized and ready to go, but I can’t find my camera. I check my desk before rummaging through the hallway closet where I eventually locate it on one of the shelves. On the shelf below I notice an old photo album with three individual books I haven’t looked at in a very long time. I open the first book to the first page and there are random shots of me taken by my father when I was about eight years old. I’m at a public playground and I’m going down slides, hanging upside-down on monkey bars and throwing a little yellow football around. My hair is blonde and bright and my adult teeth are coming in crooked. I seem happy. I was a completely different person back then. Looking at that kid makes me smile.

  Wedged between two of the books is an old postcard dated from when I was fourteen. It’s from Rachael. There’s a picture of a wildlife zoo and a polar bear on the front. I can’t believe I’ve held onto it for all these years. The postcard reads: Ethan! Where are you? Why are you not at home? I mean, it’s nice to visit your family and all, but wouldn’t you rather talk to me? I’m joking, of course. Hope you’re having a great time. I have lots of stories to tell you when you get back. Rachael.

  For a moment I consider throwing the postcard and all of the photos into the trash and starting over. There are some things in life I don’t want to remember. While the thought is temporarily comforting, I can’t bring myself to let them go. I leave the pictures where they are, safely stored on the closet shelf, and put the postcard in my backpack and leave through the apartment door. Downstairs, Doc is waiting for me in the driver’s seat sleeping with his face pressed against the window. I knock on the glass to wake him up before getting into the car and tossing my bag into the backseat. I realize a night in the countryside probably won’t be enough—I want to stay for a couple days, maybe weeks, and clear my mind.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Following a brief stop at a gas station where we buy sports drinks, potato chips, meat sticks and a few other necessities, we’re soon on the road heading west. Doc brought his iPod for the trip and he fumbles with it while driving, eventually settling on “Blueprint” by Fugazi. My chair is reclined and my right foot is resting on the open window as I slide the ice pack underneath my sunglasses to relieve the swelling. Our clothes are dirty and my eye still hurts, but with the sun now fully awake and rising in the eastern sky, its light gently warming my face, I’m starting to feel a little better. The cool morning air blows against us and renews our senses and the memory of last night begins to stray from the forefront of my mind. Most of the traffic is moving eastbound—probably returning to the city after a weekend in cottage county—but we’re swimming against the current. Doc keeps the car moving a little over a hundred kilometres per hour, coasting behind a big SUV in the right lane. He’s too tired to drive aggressively or even carry on a conversation. So am I.

  I stare out at the roads and the concrete as we drive past strip malls and industrial parks on our way through the suburbs. Eventually the highway narrows to six lanes and the buildings and noise barriers are gradually replaced by rolling hills and trees and farmland. We’re finally out. I close my eyes and manage to catch up on some sleep as we coast alongside Milton and Campbellville. By the time my eyes open again, we’re already in Guelph turning left on Woodlawn Road. I see a few stores and fast-food restaurants and car dealerships and a big movie theatre before Doc takes a right onto Highway 86 toward Elmira. He asks me if I need to stop for a bathroom break and I tell him “No” and he says “Good.”

  There’s barely any traffic for miles in either direction. We pass a few solitary houses in the countryside and I think about how different it must be to live in the middle of nowhere, miles away from your nearest neighbour. I can see the appeal. Later, we speed past a traditional horse-and-carriage trotting on the shoulder and Doc tells me, “We’re now entering Mennonite country.” I ask him about the Mennonites and he explains how they shun automobiles and electricity and make their own clothing. “They fixed my uncle’s roof for free one time,” he says. “He woke up and they were already working on it. Nice people.” As I’m quietly reflecting on their pastoral lifestyle, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of horseshit wafting into the car and, sadly, we can’t roll up the window.

  A blue sign tells us we’re approaching a small town called Dorking and I throw a piece of gum at it as we pass. Rural Ontario is full of these tiny farming communities; most of them only have one intersection with an old brick church and maybe a general store. The road is straight as an arrow and Doc barely has to touch the steering wheel. I notice he hasn’t spoken for several minutes and I imagine the nostalgia is beginning to set in for him; his family has been coming up to Kincardine every summer since he was born, so he’s probably driven this road more times than he can remember. As we’re approaching Listowel, my eyelids begin to feel heavy again and I slowly drift off to sleep.

  Sometime later I feel the car come to a stop and the engine turn off. I hear Doc open the door. When I open my eyes I’m surprised to see an elementary school with an outdoor basketball court. The court itself is cracked and fractured, the painted lines having long since faded, and neither hoop has any mesh on the rim. Doc stands outside the car and says to me, “Hey! Wake up! Come out here for a sec.” Then he moves around to the back of the car and pops open the trunk and retrieves a basketball. I watch as he casually shoots the ball at the nearest hoop and it hits the right side of the rim and bounces away.

  “Come on!” he calls out to me.

  Reluctantly I get out of the car. My knees are stiff from having been cramped inside for so long. I stroll over to the court and he passes me the ball and I catch it in my chest.

  “This is stupid, Jeff.”

  “No it isn’t. C’mon! Take a shot.”

  “I’m too hungover for this—”

  “Shoot the fuckin’ ball, Reid!”

 
Doc glares at me, waiting impatiently, so I grudgingly hold the ball in my right palm and steady it with my fingertips as I squint my eyes and line up the shot. My knees bend and release like a coiled spring as I hop an inch off the ground and toss the ball into the air on a perfect arc. It misses the backboard entirely and rolls off onto the grass. Doc retrieves the ball and passes it back to me.

  “Okay, let’s try that again,” he says.

  I look at him skeptically before repeating the process. This time the ball hits the lower part of the rim and quickly bounces right back into my hands. I pass it over to him.

  “Your turn.”

  Doc misses wide again and catches his own rebound. Then, in frustration, he launches the ball overhand and it hits the top of the backboard and flies several metres away from the court.

  “Man, we suck!” he notes.

  “Nah. We’re just out of practice.”

  He pauses. “This’ll be really embarrassing if I ever have a kid.”

  I laugh. “You should never have a kid.”

  “No, I shouldn’t,” he admits.

  As time goes on, we gradually improve to the point where we can score on roughly a third of our shots. I remember how to do a right-handed lay-up and begin to put them in consistently; I’m taller and stronger than I was in elementary school, though, so my brain has to adjust to the size difference, using less energy than it did years ago.

  Ten to twenty minutes pass, and then we pick up the ball and start walking back to the car. Suddenly, Doc taps me on the upper arm and points to the school. Apparently somebody left the back door wide open. I follow behind him as he peers through the doorway to reveal an empty gymnasium with hardwood floors, clean basketball nets and a big stage. We cautiously wander inside and our footsteps echo. There’s no one else around.

  “What’re we doing?” I ask him.

  “Shh!” he whispers. “Maybe it’s unlocked. . . .”