“You’re in a hell of a mood today, aren’t you?”
“Just upping the dose, Mr. Dante—or was that his first name? You really think I’ve got this far without knowing my meds?”
“So you’re stoned is all?”
“No more than you.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m going to plunge a large blade into my chest, pull it down, turn the handle, push it left then draw it all the way to the right. After that, my stomach will spill out, along with some other gut-type things. I figure I’ll need a real long blade to get to all of that. What do you think, Dr. Faustus?”
“He’s a fictional character, Sissy.”
“And what are you, Mason D?”
28
“So, you’re a writer?” Dr. Francis was looking at his file again. “You going to write me into one of your stories?”
“Uh …”
Did it say it on his T-shirt or something? I want you to be my character.
“Just don’t use my name, okay?” She smiled, like it was a joke.
“You got it.”
“Seriously, though. What you need to do right now is focus on yourself.”
Mason looked at her. A wavy tendril of brownish blonde hair had broken loose from the tuck behind her ear. It brought to mind a highway sign, a squiggly arrow. He imagined her looking into the reflection of her own eyes in the morning, trying to seem older. Her throat was smooth, freckles on her collarbone—but there was age, if you looked closely, in the tautness of her narrow shoulders. “I’ll try,” he said.
“What kind of things do you write?”
“You know … got a novel I’m working on. Like everybody else … Oh yeah, and I wrote a poem the other day!”
“You seem happy about that.”
“No, just amused.”
“It’s a funny poem?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh.”
“But it was funny writing it. I hate poetry.”
“I see. Do you enjoy writing, though?”
“When I’m high, I do.”
“Do you always write high?”
“Pretty much—that and drunk.”
“What if you weren’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if you wrote sober?”
“I don’t know …”
“Well, let’s try.”
Mason looked warily at the doctor.
“Do you use a computer?”
“Yeah … for the most part.”
“Okay, so you’ll do it by hand. I’d like you to start a notebook.”
“I’ve already got one.”
“Do you write in it sober?”
“Not particularly … No.”
“Okay then, let’s try this again. I’d like you to start a new notebook. We’ll call it ‘The Book of Sobriety.’”
“That’s a terrible title.”
“So come up with a different one—you’re the writer. Anyway, what I want you to do is this: every way you usually write, you’ll do it differently. So instead of typing, you’ll write by hand. If you write at night, you’ll write in the day. I want you to change where you sit, what music you listen to, everything you can think of. And, most importantly, when you write in that notebook, I want you to do it sober.”
“I don’t know,” said Mason. “I really hate journals.”
“Did I say the word journal?”
“Nope.” They looked at each other. “So what do I write?”
“What did you write in your other notebook?”
“Notes.”
Dr. Francis just looked at him.
“On my novel, mostly. On the novel in progress.”
“So not that,” she said. “For now, I’ll give you a topic, and you’ll write me a little something. Okay? Don’t worry about how good it is, or how well-crafted, or whatever. It just has to be sober.”
“Should be a real page-turner.”
The doctor waited.
“Okay,” said Mason. “What’s my first assignment?”
“Your first memory,” said Dr. Francis. “You can make it a poem if you want. Maybe even a funny one.”
17. I’m scared of people knowing things about me.
18. If I were a tree I’d be a cut-down tree.
29
It was a thing of beauty, this Cave. Mason wondered if he should have told the doctor about it. If he was even partially serious about detox or rehab or harm reduction, or whatever the hell they were setting out to do, having this place a hundred yards away from his door was going to be an issue. But even with doctor-patient confidentiality it felt wrong to say anything. Like a betrayal. And anyway, there was a good chance she already knew about the place, it being right across the street. Most of these people were probably her patients.
A duo of well-dressed lawyers had abandoned the nine-ball game to messily grope each other, pissing off the punks who’d been trying to get some trash talk going. A large Métis man in a trench coat was looming over the SpongeBob pinball machine, attempting to beat high score while snorting a series of lines off the flashing Plexiglas. Vlad the DJ put the needle to “Baby’s on Fire” and Kristen—the cute, slutty bartender—sang along as she cracked a Bud for Christian, the petite Haitian stripper.
The poker table was full—a blue, green and black monster in the centre of the felt, tumbling stacks, cards snapping, thick lines of coke on metal discs, cigarette packs, forearms with fresh tattoos still leaking blood, a card burning then turning to the river.
In all corners the shadows were full: skids, capos, trannies, nannies, boxers, traders, waiters, goths, hookers, dealers, doctors, DJs, addicts, assholes, punks, bikers, cabbies, teachers, dancers, drunks, dilettantes, dentists and debt collectors—Chaz’s patrons, getting blasted in the early morning.
A thing of beauty, just beneath the earth’s crust: Plato’s good old Cave.
30
“Here,” said Mason. He put the manila envelope on the orange tabletop. “You can go ahead and read it.”
“I’ll do it when I’m alone,” said Sissy.
Warren said something like that.
“There’s a few options here….” said Mason. “One of them’s a poem.”
“A poem?”
“Kind of a response to ‘Circe and the Stallion.’”
“I’m not sure how I feel about an homage….”
“It’s more a fuck you.”
Sissy nodded. “Your eyes look weird,” she said.
It seemed like Mason was about to say something. But then he didn’t.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, then got up and left.
19. People will never change.
20. I would rather be a bird than a businessman.
Two loud and skinny prostitutes push through the open door. Sissy gets up and follows them to the counter. She orders two bacon burgers, medium fries and a milkshake.
Sitting back down she unwraps one of the burgers. A few large bites, and her eyes are glistening—with tears or fluorescence, it’s hard to tell. She opens the envelope and starts to read.
Sissy and the Fucking Stallion
How about this: I disregard your bullshit myths, and care
Not a piss where the gods might keep them, cuz
I take the horses anyway
I can, and I can change
Any verse structure, just by sticking a knife in
To packaging bubbles or a belly, believing, my sweet lords, that plastic surgery
Or suicide, if done on the trot—one of necessity, the other not—is the exact same
Fucking thing.
I once had hope, apologies at the ready,
That someone would save me or just give a smile
Every day every minute every stride through the sand
Ideas and courage, sonatas and throwing stars, the beat of hooves
Racing though my head, the ocean in all directions, t
he terrifying promise of a universe.
I get rid of it now—the sea brine, island, hope and just be
Heavy on a horse, breathing on his back, following that thud thud
Thud across the earth, until we all feel the same weight
Dead on the back of a stunning horse, in a poem, and not sorry any more
I love and hate you all
Giddy fucking up.
Joe’s run off to Fire Lake.
THE FOURTH
INTRODUCING:
Sarah, Soon and Willy
and the Ghosts of Gauguin
31
Mason was sitting on the deck amongst the debris of nests, surrounded by dead baby birds, when Sarah showed up. She was carrying a beach towel. She didn’t say anything, just sat down next to him. Every so often a mourning swallow dove at Mason. He watched it coming, trying to stay steady. Eventually he turned to Sarah. “Why aren’t you at the lake?” he said.
She shrugged. “It got boring.”
“I’m having a rough day.”
“I can tell. It’s time to stand up now.” She helped him to his feet.
He looked at her. “Have you been crying?”
“No,” said Sarah. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
“My boots …”
“Don’t look down. Not just yet.” She led him into the kitchen and put a beer in his hand.
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to go clean that up, okay, before the others come home. Then we’ll go for a walk.”
Mason nodded.
Sarah was his favourite cousin, named after his mother. He’d gone out of his way to be nice to her in the past and today she was making up for it. He had a beer ready for her when she came back in.
“Thanks,” he said. “I lost it there for a moment.”
“No problem.” She took the beer. “That was pretty gruesome.” She tipped her head back and glugged half the bottle.
“Slow down there, cuz.”
She wiped her mouth. “You’re a fine one to talk.”
“Are you even old enough to drink?”
“In some provinces.” She finished the bottle. “I hear you broke up with Katya.”
“Come on,” said Mason. “Let’s take that walk.”
They got two more beers from the fridge and headed back outside, swallows diving at both of them. They walked alongside the paddocks, Warren and Zevon trotting along next to them. “Does Zevon like beer?” said Sarah.
“I’d assume so.”
She gave the horse a slurp, and laughed. “Can we go for a ride later?”
“Maybe.”
They walked through the trees for a while, came to a clearing, then a cliff that looked out over the pasture. “Check it out,” said Mason. “What does it remind you of?”
Sarah walked to the edge and peered down the steep slope. “The prize colt,” she said.
“Ha! I knew you’d know.” He took a swig of beer. Sarah did the same. They both looked down.
THE BOOK OF SOBRIETY
I don’t know
To talk, to walk
My feet from a flower in a vacant lot
In the lap of a woman
Her long hair, a blue dress
I don’t know rippling
From the sky, its cool, safe breath.
“What do you know, baby?” she asks
And waits.
I know babies’ bodies don’t rot in back alleys under trash.
Eighty-five-year-old men don’t jump out of hospital windows.
Soldiers don’t hold gypsy children by the ankles
And swing them against pillars
Until their heads break off.
Sightseers don’t videotape drowning mothers.
Gunmen don’t stage massacres at funerals
Or in quiet Indian villages.
People don’t starve to death
Or beat you for your boots.
And I will never leave
This summer field of flowers.
But I don’t know
To talk
To write
To say all this.
Her hand strokes my head.
“You’ll know some day,” she says
And smiles
The kindest smile
I don’t know from my eyes
Scares me
For the first time in my life.
32
He just wanted to sleep, but couldn’t. It felt like someone was hollowing him out with a ladle, body and soul. He gasped and shook, like some feeble anti-hero in a comic book—drugs not working! Must … correct … body chemistry … find a way to … survive … For no clear reason he was rolling cocaine, tobacco and marijuana together, but kept spilling it all over his lap. Must … roll… better! Finally he made a smoke of sorts and lit it, the flame licking his cheek. He inhaled, and turned on the computer. It felt like there was someone crying in his chest … Too low. Must get higher! He cracked open a popper, inhaling deeply. Then another. For a brief but thankful moment, a faint high lifted through him. He clicked on the Internet icon, then his email. At that instant the marijuana, coke and amyl nitrite collided in his bloodstream—opposing mercenaries with the same damn purpose. Demons with demons …
He awoke beneath the desk. His shirt was off, as was one shoe, but he was still wearing his sunglasses. He pulled himself up onto the chair. A message was open on his computer screen.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Sir
How very novel—a morbid scribe for hire! I require, for my own personal project, someone discreet, artistic and hesitant to use exclamation marks. Does that sound like you?
I think it does! I think that you might be just the man I’m looking for.
Sincerely,
Interested in ending it all!
Mason found a cigarette, lit it, gagged, then hit Reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Interested in ending it all
What the hell are you talking about?
Sincerely,
Not feeling too good right now!
He clicked Send, looked for his other shoe, couldn’t find it, took off the one he was wearing, then stumbled over to the sink for a dozen glasses of water. He was only partly hydrated when another message came through.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Not feeling too good right now!
Sorry to hear you’re not feeling too good right now.
Happy, however, to see that you have a sense of humour. (Do you, though? It’s hard to tell in emails.)
Now, to your question: I am talking about the possibility of hiring you for, as I said, a personal project—a rather morbid one. Would you like to know more? I sure would, including your rates.
Sincerely,
Interested to know more,
and also in ending it all!
Mason belted down three more glasses of water, took some Alka-Seltzer, brewed some coffee, forgot to pour it, lit another cigarette, gagged again, then typed out another response.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Interested
I appreciate your interest.
My sense of humour is actually hurting quite a lot today, and I seem to have lost a shoe. I still don’t really know what you’re talking about, and I don’t discuss business details, including rates, via email. I may be willing to meet with you—once I’m feeling better.
Sincerely,
Not feeling any better yet!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Not feeling any better yet!
How are you feeling now?
Sincerely,
Interested in how you’re feeling now, more about your business (including rates) and, of course, ending it all!<
br />
Mason turned off the computer, took off his sunglasses, then climbed the ladder to his bed.
33
The cod liver oil girl smiled down from the poster on the wall. The doctor finished reading and looked up at Mason. “It’s not very funny.”
“You asked for my first memory,” said Mason.
“I’m not sure it’s that either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I remember it: sitting in the lap of a woman, her blue dress …”
“Sure. But the rest of it—don’t get me wrong, it’s a clever device: the negation of these unspeakable thoughts in the mouth of a child who can’t talk—but it’s also very distancing.”
“You told me just to write!”
“Which you did. And I just read it.” She picked up the notebook and looked at it. “It’s very sad.”
“Okay. Enough already! Next time I’ll write a funny one!”
“Well, that’s just it: in person you distance yourself with humour. And yet, here …,” she turned the notebook to face him, “you found a way to bring sadness—all the sadness in the world—to your very first memory. What does that tell you?”
Mason glared at her. She stared back at him, waiting.
“I’m sad,” he finally said. “Is that what you want to hear?”
She shrugged slightly, in a way that made him crazy.
“My friend just killed herself!” It came out before he could stop it. “So—so I should be sad, don’t you think?”
The doctor blinked. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mason took a breath, then nodded.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head.
“It must have been difficult to write this sober.” Dr. Francis tapped the notebook with a finger. Mason nodded. “That must have taken a lot of strength.”
His shame felt visible. He tried to make it look like anger, but she’d opened his file now. “Hmm …,” she said.
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