Down to the Dirt

by Joel Thomas Hynes

  Someone was nudgin’ me, shakin’ me in a most aggressive manner. From the back of my soggy brain I could hear:

  —Hey! Buddy? Get up! C’mon, you can’t sleep here.

  I musta dozed off. On such a pissy park bench. Halifax City. Friday night. My neck all stiff and feelin’ like it might break. My head pounding. Limbo. Floatin’ somewhere between rip roarin’ drunk and mildly ossified. I reached for a match to light a cigarette and it all came rushin’ back to me. Fuck. I squinted up into the face of one ragged-lookin’ old night crawler. Faded denim skirt, black tights, red cowboy boots with white trim, a black low-cut blouse and a white leather jacket with fringes. I thought there must be a Sally Ann around there somewhere. And she was standin’ right in front of my face, pushin’ fifty if she was two days old. She had a bottle of beer in her hand. It looked some good.

  —Fuck d’ya mean I can’t sleep here? Is it your goddamn bench or something?

  Ms. Sally Ann proudly informed me that this was her place of work, verifying my suspicions. As if her queer rig-out hadn’t already made perfect sense to me. I gave her a good sizin’ up, asked her for a light and inquired about her prices.

  —Twenty for a blowjob, fifty for a fuck. I don’t waste time on handjobs if you’re wondering.

  I drained a little bottle of Bacardi and slipped her a twenty, wishin’ it was a fifty. That left me with about seven bucks in change after what I forked over for the shuttle bus from the airport. Thievin’ bastards. And that schemin’ fuckin’ cab driver then. Lucky thing I’m such an easygoin’ fella.

  Ms. Sally Ann took me over behind some shack at the other side of the park. There was a swing set and a busted merry-go-round just to our left. Her knee cracked when she eased herself to the ground in front of me. She laid her beer down and slid her cold hands up under my coat. She was searchin’ me. I almost took offence but then I figured that even though her job must be jam-packed with all manner of glamour and perks, it wasn’t without its share of risks. I raised my arms skyward.

  —I’m clean, girl. Search away. They cuntfiscated my lighter at the airport, so I can’t even set your hair on fire. No, seriously. I’m only coddin’ ya. I wouldn’t harm a fly.

  She started in on me. I couldn’t help wonderin’ where that mouth was after bein’. Fuck it. I let my head fall back against the shack and waited for something to happen. Waited. But nothing happened. Something was wrong. Like my lad was gone numb or simply refused to wake up. Sally Ann kept at it though ’cause this was her job and I was a payin’ customer and she knew I wanted my money’s worth. I did too, seein’ how I was basically broke. But something was definitely wrong. She was goin’ up and down, up and down, squeezin’ and spluttering, but I wasn’t responding at all.

  After about ten more minutes I got to feelin’ all guilty and told her to stop. Don’t know why I felt guilty about it though, seein’ how she just took my last twenty bucks for not even twenty minutes’ work. That’s over sixty bucks an hour, for Christ’s sake. Fellas don’t make that on the goddamn draggers.

  —Ah shag it, girl. Shag it. It’s no use. Been drinkin’ since last Wednesday. Don’t know, girl, never had it happen before…Well, once or twice I suppose. But only when I’m drinkin’.

  I pulled my pants back up. She held her hand out to me like she was lookin’ for more money. I was about to tell her to fuck off before I realized she just needed a hand gettin’ back to her feet. She moaned on the way up, asked me where I was from. When she heard I was from Newfoundland she went over the moon and insisted that I come back to her place to meet the man of the house. Her invite struck me as a bit wacko, given that she just had my cock in her mouth. But, she assured me that all was well, that the man of the house was totally supportive of what she did for a livin’. She only had to give him sixty percent of her income and that covered her rent and a few small habits. In fact, he was the only man allowed up in her without a condom. So, there was his sense of security present and accounted for before I was even in through the door. But what about mine?

  She handed me the last of her beer. I drained it and smashed the empty bottle off the merry-go-round. She laughed and slipped her arm around my waist. As we wobbled back through the park, I found it hard to tell for sure whether she was holdin’ me up or just usin’ me to support herself. A car backfired somewhere in the city, the engine spluttering, asking to die.

  We walked for a bit. She swore on her dead mother that everything was fine and dandy with her man. Not to worry. I was still feelin’ pretty stupid and apologetic for my…lack of performance. I tried to explain myself, but she wasn’t really interested. I s’pose she’d heard it all before. Then, for no apparent reason, she stopped, put her two hands on my cheeks and looked straight at me.

  —You’re young and you think you know it all but you don’t know anything yet. Everything is already laid out for you, written in the stars. You can only go with it, wherever the road takes you. But you have to slow down and enjoy the ride because life is short and we only pass through once.

  —Bullshit. Life is—

  —Life is short as shit, little man! Believe me I know. You take your eyes off the road for a split second and then glance in the rearview to see forty-five years behind you. Gone. I know.

  Sally Ann lit a smoke and shook her head. She stared off into the dark, all forlorn and teary-eyed. For the first time in a long time I thought about Glenda Devereux. I s’pose Glenda’d be about thirty-three or thirty-four by now. Haven’t laid eyes on her since she left the Cove. Standin’ on her doorstep with her life packed into boxes. Someone mentioned a while back that she was runnin’ a club out in Torbay. I s’pose you never knows from one minute to the next where you’ll end up in the world. Life is fuckin’ long.

  Myself and Sally Ann stumbled up the walkway and in through the front door of this lopsided old bungalow that was badly in need of a facelift and a paint job. That’s where I met Renny.

  Renny in his cheesy sneaker-boots with the chunky tongues. Thick gold chains on his wrists and neck. Hair cut short on top, long and stringy on the back. Green, blurry, tattooed prison knuckles. One of them Pat Garret beards, and the beady, sunken, dead eyes of a shark. The world owes Renny a favour. Probably never out of jail long enough to settle in somewhere. Back and forth between halfway houses, boarding rooms, crack houses and prison. He sparks up a smoke in the non-smokin’ section and gets six months for parole violation. He’ll never leave the system behind and it’s only a matter of time before he murders someone. Lifer.

  The pissy, spiced stench of free-base cocaine hit me square in the face. It wasn’t lost on me that I’d just gotten a blowjob off this guy’s missus. I parked myself down at the head of the table but he hardly noticed me. Sally Ann told him where I was from, that I was lookin’ for Agricola Street, lookin’ for my girlfriend. He mumbled something about Newfoundland but he couldn’t muster up enough coherent thought to make a full sentence. Our Renny struck me as a bit of a time bomb. Just tickin’ away. I whipped out a couple of the little Bacardi and, for a brief moment, his eyes came alive, only to retreat just as quickly, back down into the depths of criminal limbo. Tick tick tick. He fumbled over one of the little bottles, tried to read the label. Unable to decipher the strange markings on the bottle, he opened it up and poured it down his throat like water. He slammed the bottle down hard on the table in front of me, darin’ me to walk down the same roads he had. Psycho crack-head or not, though, he wasn’t drinkin’ me under the table, especially with my own liquor. I guzzled mine too, only, not wantin’ to come across as confrontational, I was a little easier settin’ the bottle back down. I tried hard not to acknowledge the burnin’ fire in my guts. Tough as nails is our Keith. Renny stared at me for a long time, but I don’t think he was really seein’ me. I looked around for Sally Ann. She was gone. Renny started to sway back and forth, starin’ at me with them sunken, lifeless eyes. Starin’. Hateful. Pasty, bone-white skin. Spittle ran down his beard and it suddenly became a great eff
ort for him to keep his head up. Renny was leavin’ me. I stared straight back at him, feelin’ safer due to his wasted state, and I flattened another Bacardi. Before it even hit my stomach, Renny slumped over, slid off his chair and plastered himself to the kitchen floor. Lifeless. Well, not dead but close to it.

  I swiped one of his smokes.

  The fridge cuttin’ in and out.

  Renny snorin’ away.

  Lucky fucker.

  Next thing out strolled Sally Ann in a spandex suit, her tits saggin’ out through roughly cut holes in the fabric. I got on like it didn’t shock me in the least, probably ’cause at that point it didn’t, and I suggested that she see to her husband or her pimp or whatever she called that droolin’ lump of snot on the floor.

  I made my way to the toilet.

  There was no light to guide my passage to the end of the hall, where I assumed the bathroom was. I was gettin’ a bad case of the spins and I thought I might vomit. The door at the end of the hall turned out to be a spare room. No furniture, but neatly adorned, wall-to-wall, with boxes of what looked like cartons of smokes, cases of liquor and beer. A sobering moment for our Keith. It dawned on me that Renny’s house was more than likely bein’ watched and, for that matter, so was I. His place was probably wired for sound. So much booze and smokes was worth at least a few years in jail. Liftin’ Christ. I switched off the light and left.

  Takin’ a leak in the bathroom and something didn’t feel quite right. Something was a bit off. Wasted as I was, it took me a moment to realize that nothing was hittin’ the toilet at all. I was actually pissin’ into a condom that Sally Ann, the Queen of Spandex, had, unbeknownst to me, hauled on over the old lad before we did the business back in the park. Fuck. I jammed it tight at the top, yanked it off, and tossed it into the bathtub on top of a thousand old butts and roaches. Hot piss runnin’ down my thighs. I was fuckin’ outraged. No wonder I couldn’t get it up. Sure it was wrapped up in a rubber suit. Who ever heard tell of suckin’ someone off with a safe on? Especially a payin’ customer. A first for me.

  I could hear Sally Ann in the kitchen crucifying the chorus to the “Ode to Newfoundland.” What a goddamn madhouse. I had to get the fuck out. Fast. Before I was killed. But I was gettin’ my money’s worth first.

  I peeked out into the hallway. No one around. I slipped out of the bathroom and crossed the hall to the contraband bedroom. I left the door open a crack so’s I could see. Didn’t want to turn the light on in case Sally Ann looked up the hall. I popped open a case of, lo and behold, Jim-fuckin’-Beam. Don’t know if I even had more than a taste of the vile shit in my life and there I was rippin’ off a second bottle of it in the same night. I moved on to another box that said Player’s on the side. It wasn’t sealed. It was full of loose Styrofoam packing. I rooted around but couldn’t find any cigarettes. Then my hand found something heavy and cold down in one corner. When I wrapped my fingers around it I knew right away what it was. I’d never even seen a handgun before, let alone held one. Not in real life. I had no clue what kind or calibre or any of that macho shit. I just knew that I wanted it in my own pocket. And that’s where it went. Get fifty bucks for it back home. Then I really started to panic ’cause I figured if there was a loose gun lyin’ around in here, then someone obviously misplaced it, or worse, miscounted it. Either way, it was safe to assume there was more guns around the house. And Renny was just the type to use one on me. I had to move fast. Faster. I opened another box and pulled out a handful of Nevada tickets. Stuffed ’em in my arse pocket. Finally I found cigarettes. A carton of Player’s Light. Not my brand but they were gonna have to do.

  Under any other circumstances, like if I’d come across this stuff in a cabin in the woods or somewhere, I’d count myself the luckiest bastard on the planet. But my knees were shakin’ and I could feel sweat rollin’ down my back in buckets. I stuffed the bottle and the smokes into my backpack. As I was tyin’ the string on top, I turned around to see Sally Ann standin’ in the open doorway. Watchin’me. A tight, stoned grin on her face. Busted. I yammered what excuses I could muster up, but she just waved me off and told me to help myself. I doubt she meant the gun though, if she even knew it was there. I tried to push my way past her. Had to get as far away from that house as fast as my legs would let me. But she wouldn’t let me pass. She made a grab for my crotch, tellin’ me that Renny was out for the night and maybe she’d like to give me a freebie. The whole shebang. She pressed her bare tits to my chest. For the first time I noticed the stench of festered sweat rising up from her body. I cringed at the thought of what a fine state her bed must be in. Her and Renny’s bed. Fuck. I could hardly have been declared Mr. Hygiene Newfoundland myself, what with piss dryin’ into the leg of my pants, but I have my limits, if not my preferences. I’d not be rollin’ around on her sheets anytime soon. I bulled past her and made a straight cut to the front door. She started whinin’ and huffin’, wantin’ me to stay. Apparently I had no idea what I was missin’. She told me I’d never find another night like she could show me. I was in total agreement. She called me an ingrate and a stupid fool, until finally, as I was walkin’ down the front path, I heard her screamin’:

  —Renny! Renny! Get the fuck up! He’s after stealing a case of liquor. RENNY!

  But Renny didn’t stagger out the front door wieldin’ a shotgun in a shit-stained strap shirt. I was pretty sure Renny was out for the night. Still, to be on the safe side, I ran like hell ’til I thought I’d drop dead.

  Set to wander once again. Round and around in circles like a dyin’ spin-top. Back up and down the same streets ’til they became one strangled mess of fences and road signs, streetlights and parking lots. On the verge of collapse, I flagged down a cab. A green cab. I had the back door opened and one leg in before I realized it was old hook-nosed Gerard. He grinned a big toothless grin back at me.

  I slammed the door and took off straight down the road in the other direction from where he was facin’. The road was pretty narrow, so I figured he’d have a hard time turnin’ around a big car like that. He’d at least have to find a driveway and I’d run until I heard him turn around, then I’d duck in out of it somewhere. Maybe I’d even have to shoot him in the face if he got out of hand. But I didn’t hear him. He wasn’t comin’. I stopped and looked back. He was pulled up to the curb where an old couple was gettin’ into the car. I s’pose he had his money made by then and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.

  One thing though, between Gerard and Metal-Head and Sally Ann, I hadn’t had that much exercise in years.

  I fell into a phone booth. When I picked up the goddamn receiver there was no dial tone. A couple of buttons were missin’ too. For the love of fuck. I rifled through the phonebook for a roadmap. Sure enough, there was one on the inside cover. I tore out the map and walked into the street to see where I was. I walked ’til I came to a couple of signs where Robie and Young Street crossed and from there I had to swing back around to get to Agricola Street. Sure it was just around the fuckin’ corner the whole time. When I turned onto it I realized I’d already been on it once or twice already. I counted down the numbers on the houses ’til I finally found Natasha’s place.

  Funny, but I had it pictured different from the stale yellow house that stood before me. One of them row houses. There’ll all over downtown St. John’s. Everybody squat right tight. People on either side of you. No yard. The fella next door has a smoke in bed and the whole block goes up. Rat-holes. Deathtraps. Thing is, any time I spoke to Natasha on the phone, I had her pictured livin’ in some bright, spacious Victorian-style mansion with a huge lawn and garden, complete privacy, trees, bronze water sprites round back. The good life.

  I sauntered on up to the door. Absolutely good intentions. Absolutely. Put on my best sober face and gave a loud bang on the screen. Waited for a bit. Not a stir in the house. It was already pretty late and Natasha was likely asleep, so I whacked a little louder. Footsteps. A light in the hall popped on and the door creaked open a few inch
es ’til it brought up on a chain. Right out of the movies. It was Gertie. Shit. Forgot all about her. She’s an old friend of Natasha’s mom. No relation, but Natasha still calls her Auntie Gert. I think she used to live in St. John’s but moved to Halifax years ago to work with underprivileged kids or some such shit. She won some kinda humanitarian award a while ago and it was all over the news back home. So she took Natasha in as a favour to the family, meanin’ that Natasha had no real bills to pay, no real expenses, aside from long-distance phone calls. But I doubt that particular bill was very costly, seein’ how the precise reason I was there on her doorstep was because she couldn’t pick up the goddamn phone once in a while.

  Gertie in her nightdress. Half asleep.

  —Hi. I’m Keith. Is Natasha at home?

  Gertie the nervous twitch.

  —Keith? Natasha’s Keith? How did you get here? It’s two in the morning.

  —Listen, I’m sorry for the intrusion but I really needs to see her. I’m not cracked or nothing. It’s been a long day.

  —Well, she’s not here now. She won’t be back until tomorrow morning. She’s staying at a friend’s house. You can’t stay here—

  A friend’s house? A fuckin’ friend’s house? I knew it. My heart raced at the thought of Natasha off with some fuckin’ artsy Nova Scotian mommy’s boy. Smokin’ cigarettes in bed and watchin’ late night TV in the buff. All fucked out. And there I was, half-dead from exhaustion on her doorstep. After comin’ through all this shit. All the way from St. John’s. Just to lay eyes on her. And where is she? Off fuckin’ some pansyassed theatre cunt.

  —Ah…what exactly do you mean by friend? Like a b’yfriend or something? Do you know the address? I really needs to find her.