Down to the Dirt

by Joel Thomas Hynes

  —’Tash…C’mon. All I wanted was to see your face, girl. I can’t stand it without you. Nothing makes any sense to me. Everything seems like shit when you’re not around. You knows I’d keel over and die for you.

  —You’d keel over and die for the cat, Keith. When was the last time you went a day without a beer or a draw or a pill?

  —’Tash, I’m sorry. Drinkin’ just makes it easier to handle. Nights are so fuckin’ empty with you gone.

  —Does it have to be fuckin’ empty? Can’t you speak one sentence without cursing? You know, if I thought for a second that you could get off the booze, straighten up and get some kind of future going for us, I’d be there in a flash. I wouldn’t think twice.

  —Alright. Alright. I’ll give it up—

  —Yeah. Right. I heard that one before—

  —Look, I just came all the ways up here to see you. Don’t that say nothing to you? I loves you, girl. There’s nothing more important to me on this planet. Not booze, not fuckin’…sorry, not booze, not partying. Nothing. And if I thought that you were serious, that you’d come home to me if I sobered up, I’d never touch another drop. I loves you, ’Tasha sweetheart. I really do. Come here to me—

  I reaches out to her but she pulls away, glancin’ out at the mouth of the alley.

  —Keith, you’re a lunatic, you know that?

  She says it soft though, and I finally gets a glimpse of the girl I came lookin’ for. I brushes her cheek with the back of my hand and I leans in to smell her hair. She finally gives in and lets me collapse into her arms.

  Here, in a piss-ridden alleyway off Agricola Street, I actually have her in my arms. Nothing ever smelled so good.

  I starts bawlin’ and after a while she starts in and you can hear it echoing up off the rooftops. But I feels lighter now than I can ever remember feelin’. Me and her, we’ve come through worse shit than this. Sure this is fuck all.

  —So you’re not screwin’ him then?

  —Keith! For the love of God.

  —I’m sorry. Sorry. Just wanted to make sure.

  Mitch gives us a ride to the bus station in a brand new 4x4. Must be his mommy’s. I feels like such a hypocrite. I don’t want nothing from this prick. Natasha talked me into it. She sits in the back with me and I slumps down across her lap. We rides in silence. I can feel Mitch watchin’ us through the rearview mirror. She gets out with me when we gets there. The bus to North Sydney is already boardin’ so I have to be quick about buyin’ my ticket. We leaves one another with a thousand little promises and I love yous. She seems to be lookin’ forward to Tuesday night as much as I am. I hugs her tight and gives Mitch the finger from behind her back. Cunt. I makes a mental note to meet him again some day in some other dark alley.

  There’s a smokin’ section on the bus, which surprises and delights me, so I smokes my way through the lonesome deciduous landscape of Nova Scotia. As Acting Ambassador of Newfoundland I decides that Nova Scotia is probably a prosperous place to live if you’re a sheep farmer with a video camera. All tasteful jokes aside though, I’m gonna make a go of cleanin’ myself up. The very thought of goin’ sober scares the shit out of me, but I s’pose I’m strong enough to pull it off. I’m sick of this shit. Wakin’ up and not knowin’ where I’ve been or what I said or did to who, never havin’ a cent and always feelin’ like I’m comin’ down with some disease. I’ll give it a try.

  I’m still not fully convinced that Natasha wasn’t up to something with this Mitch fucker. Despite all that, I feels a warmin’ kind of…lightheartedness towards people in general as I’m driftin’ off to sleep. Things are gonna be alright.

  I feels pretty broken and wore out boardin’ the ferry in North Sydney five hours later. About fifteen dollars left from what Natasha gave me and I heads straight for the bar. I’m thinkin’ about beer, but I orders up a big old pint of ice water at the last second. I can feel it rushin’ through my body, cleansing and healin’. Some dick named Evan Roberts is playin’ the most ridiculous newfie music you could ever imagine. This type of garbage is the very reason the word newfie still exists. Nothing wrong with traditional Newfoundland music, just the way some guys turns it all into this big joke. Like, hey everybody, look at me, I can barely play this here guitar and I can’t sing for shit but I’m gonna stand on stage all night long just to prove I don’t have a dust of sense either. And of course the crowd loves him. He’s a fuckin’ star. Fuck. People from all over the planet comes to Newfoundland and this type of shit is their first impression of our culture and heritage. It should be outlawed.

  I watches one sorry bastard get hauled out of the bar by the bartender. Everyone gawkin’ and laughin’ at him. Sad. I can’t believe that used to be me. Never again.

  I finds my way out onto the deck. Half a dozen smokers are leanin’ on the railing. I finds my own little spot away from the rest of ’em and I leans way out over the rail, fillin’ my lungs with good, clean salt air. The only thing visible is the wake of the ferry, its powerful rudders slicin’ through the icy water. After that, all I can see is black, black night. A lonely hole in the world and I’m right in the middle of it. At least Nova Scotia is gettin’ further away. But the prospect of gettin’ closer to home don’t exactly thrill me. What am I goin’ back to? What if I falls back on the booze and me and ’Tash goes right to hell again?

  I pulls the gun out of the bottom of my bag, where I’d stashed it while I was still on the bus. That’s the best thing about ferries and buses I s’pose; no one gives a fuck who you are or what you got in your bags or none of that shit. No goddamn metal detectors.

  I points the gun into the darkness and takes aim. There’s got to be some purpose behind this little excursion of mine. Don’t tell me this wicked hunk of metal in my hand is the reason I travelled all the way to Halifax. If this was all meant to happen, written in the stars like Sally Ann said, then what’s the big deep meaning I’m s’posed to get out of it? Why was it written? Where’s the lesson learned? Why do I feel so hollow, so…finalized? Where am I ever gonna find the strength to get through it all, the days and weeks and years to come? And are they really even comin’? Imagine me tryin’ to go straight and sober. Me. Keith Kavanagh.

  I peeks down into the barrel of the gun. I could splatter myself all over the deck right here and now. Matter of fact, I could hold the fuckin’ gun to my head and jump overboard. Shoot myself on the way down. They’d never find me. Plus I wouldn’t have to drown. I wouldn’t have to suffer that sense of peace that’s s’posed to come over you when you drowns. Sure what’s the good of it when you’re dyin’? Ahh…I don’t have the guts to do it anyhow. I hangs my head and tries to cry but nothing comes. A fine sight I must be.

  Fuck it! Fuck it. I flings the gun over the side into the swirlin’ path of the ferry. I loses sight of it before it hits the water. Can’t even hear the splash over the roar of the engines. Don’t know if it’s the smartest or the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I coulda gotten a bit of money for that gun. But I s’pose I’m lucky I never killed someone. And maybe I actually saved a few lives by takin’ it out of the hands of that sleazy Renny. The deed and the thought gives me a fresh sense of hope about myself. I’m gonna have to try. Gonna make it work this time. Turn it all around.

  Drained and cold, I makes my way back to the passengers’ lounge and finds a nice little spot to lie down between a row of seats next to some big guy with a seein’-eye dog. I’m hungry but I knows I won’t be able to eat for a good while. I earned that I suppose. Rummaging through my backpack, I finds the last little bottle of rum from the airplane. Seems like ten years ago now since I went through the metal detectors in St. John’s. I puts the rum back in the backpack, which I’m once again usin’ for a pillow, and tries to get some sleep. But my brain won’t let me. I flips and tosses around like I can just turn away from the bad shit goin’ on in my head. No matter which way I adjusts myself though, I’m always right there. Tears wellin’ up in my eyes.

  Fuck sakes. Look at m
e. All in a huff ’cause I thought my missus was fuckin’ around. Off on some kind of self-righteous mission to find her and along the way I stops and mouth-fucks a hooker on the street. Meanwhile, the girlfriend is after makin’ arrangements to come home and surprise me ’cause she misses me and she loves me. Now I got the gall to go pitying myself? And I expects the world to commiserate? I s’pose I’m a hypocrite if ever there was one. Then again, I was there. I looked her straight in the fuckin’ eye and I knows what I saw. She’s been with him. I knows it in my gut. But what the fuck should it matter to me now? I got the truth. I saw with my own eyes. And she’s comin’ home now anyhow. I just wants things to heal. And as for Sally Ann, well, I s’pose I could offer myself some boring excuse about bein’ drunk, that it never meant nothing and all that shit. But I won’t. I knows it’s hypocritical, but I can live with it’cause that was the nature of the old Keith.

  Next morning, after a horrible night with the screamies, I grabs a handful of them little coffee creamers on my way off the ferry. They settles my stomach quite nicely.

  The best I can do to stay alive as I’m walkin’ up the highway into Port Aux Basques is take comfort in my cigarettes and sing and stick my thumb out. Seems like a hundred big old tractor-trailers tears past me ’til I gets the hint and just starts walkin’. After what might be two miles I comes to a sign that reads:

  —ST. JOHN’S – 931 Kms.

  This sign breaks my heart to pieces. The reality of my situation hits me like a hard crack across the face. I starts thumbin’ again, but I guess I still got that Nazi look about me. Before I knows it I’m screamin’ and dancin’ and cursin’ God, makin’ deals with him.

  —God, please, just get me to a gas station. I’ll start doin’ it all different. I’ll pick myself up. I’ll give up the booze. For real. Just get me home. Please, God?

  I takes out the last little bottle of rum and, after eyein’ it for a bit, I tosses it down over the bank into the woods.

  —I’ll never drink again, God. Just get me to St. John’s.

  Then a car comes along and keeps on goin’ and I’m cursin’ him all over again.

  —Go on to fuck then, you miserable bastard. I’ll walk before I asks for your help!

  I even walks back about half a mile to see if I can locate the rum. It’s nowhere to be seen. Just as well. I’m laughin’ now, but not in a healthy way. More or less as a last resort.

  Joey Smallwood walked right across Newfoundland one time. Unionizing the logging camps or some shit. Well if that festered, four-eyed, gangly fuckin’ sell-out could do it, so can Keith-fuckin’-Kavanagh. Least I knows where my heart is. I starts walkin’.

  After about an hour, during which time my spirit gets on like a yo-yo on acid, someone finally stops. A black van. Fuck. Never even had my thumb out. In all my years of hitchhikin’ I’ve never trusted black vans. Fuck it. I swings open the clunky side door and jumps on in.

  Lo and behold it’s Bobby O’Neill! Long time no see and all that shit. He says he’d seen me on the boat but wasn’t quite sure it was me or not. I can’t imagine that I’m that different lookin’. But it’s been a long week. Bobby’s put on a bit of muscle, workin’ for some transport company in New Brunswick. On his way home to his grandfather’s funeral. Other than that he seems happy and comfortable with himself. But our conversation is strained and awkward and I knows I’d have tons more to say to a stranger. I can tell he’s dyin’ to ask me a thousand questions, like where I’m comin’ from and why I looks like I’ve been run down on the road by a garbage truck. After the initial mandatory small talk and a quick jaunt down memory fuckin’ lane, we lapses into a smooth, monotonous silence. I remembers I stole Natasha right out from under his nose a few years back. He didn’t seem to hold it against me at the time though, and I guess he wouldn’t now if I told him what I was really up to these past few days. Funny how two fellas can come from the same little scrap on the map, reared up pretty much the same way, then head off in such completely different directions. Same with Andy. Imagine Andy O’Toole with a fuckin’ psychology degree. Dr. O’Toole.

  Fuck.

  I have a vague sense of my eyes closin’, the drone from the engine consuming my thoughts. Bobby gives me a shake to tell me that if I’m tired I can crawl into one of the bunks in the back and go to sleep. I’m tired and I wants to. Badly. He hands me a draw of a joint before I goes down back. I don’t normally smoke it ’cause I gets vicious anxiety attacks. But what odds? I takes a little draw and climbs out back. My brain shuts down as I curls up in Bobby’s huge down-filled sleepin’ bag. Thanks be to Jesus. I don’t hear a sound or make a move after we pulls out of some gas station outside Corner Brook. Next thing I knows, we’re pullin’ into Stockwoods in St. John’s. Bobby drops me off without ceremony, just a wink and a nod, as if he’ll surely see me tomorrow. He disappears into the city. Fine by me. The apartment is only a two-minute walk away. Now that’s a good ride.

  The cat seems happy to see me, at least for a while, ’til he finds interest in a ball of paper on the floor. His dish is full. There’s a note from Andy askin’ me to give him a call when I gets home. Home. The place is a state. I’m afraid to take my boots off. I just wants to sleep now. I never wants to see the light of day again. Five bottles of cold beer in the fridge. I pours four of ’em down the sink. Can’t bring myself to dump the last one. There’s a half-pound of bologna there too. It’s turned hard and greasy at the edges but I just drowns it in mustard and wolfs it down. Even though I just slept for about eight hours comin’ across the Island, and I had a bit of sleep on the ferry, I’ve never experienced such exhaustion in my whole life. I turns on the heat, locks the doors, unplugs the phone, turns out all the lights and goes to bed. The rent is not due for another week. This place is mine. The cat is fed. Keith is off to the Land of Nod.

  I spends most of the next day cleanin’ up, myself along with the apartment, and sleepin’. The shakes have me by the balls. My skin is crawlin’. I feels like some cold-turkey junkie, lyin’ on the couch sweatin’, the walls spittin’ abuse at me. I vomits the bologna and the only thing my guts can handle is the last beer. One beer and that’s it. For medicinal purposes, to help me further my campaign towards sobriety. I’m just about flat broke anyhow and Natasha will be home tomorrow. It’s as good a time as any to straighten myself out. I’m not gonna fuck this one up. I’m not.

  Feelin’ better on Tuesday. The big day. More energy, although my stomach is barely hangin’ on by a thread and I still can’t eat. Can’t wait to see Natasha. The place is startin’ to look good. Not much I can do about the carpet. I took a couple of Valium. Forgot they were in my coat. Feelin’ a little less edgy. They don’t seem to make me drowsy like they normally would. The shakes are subsiding, the walls have stopped cursin’ at me. That’s a good sign. I manages a trip to the gas station and picks up some milk and bread and Rolaids. They don’t sell whole wheat bread, but that’s what I would’ve bought. I would.

  Anyhow, it’s a start.

  Tried callin’ Natasha last night to let her know that I made it home alive. She wasn’t there. I s’pose she was out sayin’ her goodbyes or goin’ down on what’s-his-face one last time. I don’t know. Don’t know how to feel about it all. Just wants to forgive her now and move past it. Try and understand it from her angle. Have to find some measure of peace in myself before she gets home. But it’s not that easy. I put a cigarette out on the back of my hand right before I got in the shower this afternoon.

  I tries to get hold of her all evening. When I finally gets past the busy signal, Gertie says she’s out. I asks her what time Natasha’s flight is due in, but she makes like she knows nothing about any of it. She thinks Natasha might have been stayin’ at a friend’s house. A friend’s house.

  I says I’m sorry to Gertie for my recent histrionics, but she makes it clear that she’s just as sympathetic now as she was at the time. I don’t blame her. I don’t really mean it anyhow. She says she’ll tell Natasha to call me as soon
as she hears from her.

  I tries to do some readin’ but I can’t concentrate, thoughts dartin’ off in a thousand directions. I digs around in the medicine cabinet ’til I finds a half-bottle of Demerol that I bought outside the Hatchet months ago. I pops a couple to ward off the anxiety. One more for luck. The night slows to a crawl. Starin’ at the phone. Pacin’ the floors. Imagine, a fine and handsome fella like myself up pacin’ the floors over some young one.

  Tunnel vision from the pills.

  My face starts to itch and I starts in scratchin’.

  Gnawin’ at my bottom lip ’til I gets the taste of blood.

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to express thanks to the following organizations: Newfoundland Labrador Arts Council. The Resource Centre for the Arts. St. John’s City Arts Jury. ACTRA. Artistic Fraud of Newfoundland. Writers’ Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador. Newfound Films. NIFCO. Kickham East Productions. FilmPro. CBC Radio and Television. The Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Association. Creative Book Publishing.

  Friends and allies, past and present:

  Gina Anderson. Chris Barlow. Arnold and Nancy Bennett. That crowd of hooligans in Cape Breton. Renee Boland. Tommy Boland. Shaun Bradley. John and Nikki Christian. Jennifer Clouter. Steve Cochrane. Stephen Condon. Michael Crummey. Damienne Cryderman. Mary Dalton. Ramona Dearing. Glen Downey. John W. Doyle. Michelle Cable-Foot. Ray Guy. Debbie Hanlon. Jonny Harris. Kevin Hehir. June Hiscock. Amy House. Declan Hughes. Connie Hynes. Lily Hynes. Lois Hynes. Michael Hynes. Mom Hynes and Granda. Vicky Hynes and all the gang from A Feast of Cohen. Andy Jones. Bruce Jordan. Karen Kane. Nicole Kane. Bride Kavanagh. Susan Kent. Dwayne LaFitte. Ruth Lawrence. Kevin Lewis. EmirMahic. LisaMoore. Roger Maunder. Stephanie McKenzie. Fionnuala McMahon. Heather Mills. Barry Newhook. Cyril O’Keefe. Lorraine O’Neill. Marnie Parsons. Rhonda Pelly. Helen Peters. Anna Petras. Dave Picco. Liz Pickard. Angela Pitcher. Emily Pittman. Margie Pryde. Holly Reddy. Dawn Roche. Gordon Rodgers (my merciless editor). Paul Rowe. Dennis Saunders. Don Sedgwick. Bernie Stapleton. Alana Steel. Edith Steffler. Mrs. Gertie Sullivan. Helen Sullivan. Joan Sullivan. The Traynors in Clontarf. Bob Tucker. Iris Tupholme. Agnes Walsh. Des Walsh. Mary Walsh. Anne Whelan. Jon Whelan. Lee White. Leoance White. Michael Winter.