by Bif Naked
“My shift’s up, girls. Let’s go home.” He slowly pulled the cab out of the parking lot.
We drove through the dark, tree-lined streets. I didn’t know what time it was, but it was somewhere in between night and morning, and it was time to pay the piper. I started to get anxious. We should have taken off while he was in the 7-Eleven, instead of just sitting there crying! I leaned into Connie. “I can blow him, but you have to fuck him, you’re on the pill.” She whispered back, “As if. You are doing all of it.” I glared at her. I had nothing to say. What could I say? She was right. I had to do it; it was my fault we were in this predicament in the first place. It was the fee for him having saved our lives, and it was the least I could do.
I took a deep breath and looked up into the rear-view mirror. The cabbie was looking straight ahead at the road and didn’t catch my stare. “All right, then,” I whispered. Connie lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out the window into the night. I looked out my window, watching the trees and street lamps and parked cars as we passed by, gathering myself before putting my game face on.
The driver stopped the car on a street across from a darkened house with awnings over the two front windows. The front door was a handsome blue. A car sat in the driveway. The neighbourhood was quiet and old, but the houses were close to one another, and all had cared-for lawns and flower beds.
“This is my place. I live in the basement suite.” He got out of the car and we did the same, sheepishly and not looking at each other. We didn’t look at him either. We just looked at our feet as they dragged beneath us. He unlocked his door and we all went inside.
“Might as well take your shoes off,” he said.
We sat down on the couch and watched as he went into the kitchenette and filled a kettle with water.
The living room had very little furniture and no pictures on the white walls. There was a coffee table with an ashtray and rotary-dial phone on it, a bookshelf behind the couch, and two chairs across from it.
“You can smoke in here,” he said from the kitchenette. I pulled out the cigarettes he had bought for us, handed one to Connie, and lit one for myself.
The driver came over and sat in a chair across from us. “I’m making more coffee,” he said, smiling. We just sat there, watching him and scarcely breathing.
“I’ve decided what I want you girls to do for me.”
“I will be the one,” I said quietly. I looked him right in his eyes. “It’s the least I can do, sir,” I said, hoping to sound respectful.
He chuckled. “My name is Norman. You can call me Norman.” He picked up the telephone from the table and placed it in front of me. “I want you to call your mother.” He sat back in his chair. “That’s all.”
I sat there in shock. Connie started crying again, and I couldn’t blame her. I felt like crying too, but I wasn’t getting out of negotiation mode just yet—I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“Right now?” I asked. It was the middle of the night and surely my mother would be asleep. I didn’t want to wake her.
Norman motioned to the telephone. “Trust me. Just call her.”
He waited. I waited.
“Just call her,” Connie said.
I picked up the receiver and dialed my home number back in friendly Manitoba.
Three rings.
“Hello?” My mother sounded as if she had been startled awake, but alert. It was either me or the cops. Who else would be calling her in the middle of the night?
“Mom?” I started, and my voice cracked. All I heard through the receiver was the sound of breathing, like a long exhale. It was her soft sobbing.
I was silenced, hearing what a broken heart sounded like. I broke my mother’s heart into a million little pieces that autumn. I can’t say if she ever found all of them. We talked a few minutes, but I didn’t say much other than that we were with a friend in Toronto and okay. I promised to call her again the next day and hung up.
Norman was in his kitchen making Kraft Dinner and hot dogs. “How am I supposed to know what kids eat?” he said, laughing.
Connie called her parents next and talked with them for a while. By the time the phone calls had finished, we’d each eaten two hot dogs covered in macaroni and cheese, and the last cigarette was smoked down to the butt, we were sleep-walking tired.
“Up you get,” Norman said. “Got to pull the bed out.”
He pushed the coffee table aside, pulled out the hideaway bed, flinging the cushions onto the floor, and unfolded the blanket that was tucked in there. “Now we sleep. You can both use my toothbrush if you want to. I’m sorry I don’t have another.”
“No. It’s okay,” I said.
Connie and Norman and I all slept in our clothes on the pull-out bed in the middle of the living room. The sun was starting to come up, but it mattered little; we were dead asleep before our heads hit the pillows. We were safe, and Norman had saved us.
When we woke, Norman had already made coffee and been out to buy us more cigarettes and arrange our bus tickets home to Winnipeg. Back then, people didn’t transfer money via the Internet like they do now. There was Western Union, but it was a Sunday. So there was no possibility of our quickly getting money from our parents. On Norman’s persuasion, the staff at the Greyhound station took up a collection to send us two girls back home that day, reaching into their own pockets.
“Come on, girls, we have to get a move on. I want to show you around before I drop you back at the bus station,” Norman said downright jovially. We spent most of the afternoon touring the city, learning about the Danforth, the CN Tower, and the waterfront, eventually winding our way up to Little Italy.
“Let me get you two the finest meal you will ever experience in your lives!” he said, pulling up to a takeout restaurant. The windows were painted with the words deliziosa and famosa and polpette—a hint of the culinary experience Norman was about to give us. We loved the food, and we loved Norman.
“Now, these sandwiches are the only authentic meatball sandwiches in all of Little Italy. From a crime family, a real crime family, big time. These families you want to belong to, like I do. Families you can never leave, but that you would never want to leave. They run this city, this neighbourhood. Take that place across the street . . .” He told us how one particular crime family blew up another crime family’s restaurant, which used to be in the building he was pointing out to us. He seemed extremely proud to be able to show us the crime scene. What a wealth of information he was. Then he spoke at length about the rich history of Italians—not just those from crime families—in Toronto. Unfortunately, it was lost on me and Connie. But we were lost to begin with. We were runaways.
“The spices are magnificent,” he said in between mouthfuls. “The delicate use of oregano and basil . . .” But Connie and I weren’t really paying attention anymore. We were too busy inhaling our meatballs. It was a beautiful moment, sitting there eating in the back of the cab—and so different from the previous night’s mercy dinner of Kraft Dinner and hot dogs. We ate with a kind of desperation, and from a relief of having been saved. Of not running. We were hungry for safety, and satiated by Norman’s nurturing and our trust in him.
Trust—what did I know about it? I was born swaddled in the concept, enshrouded in it, covered with it. I still have blind trust of just about anyone, but especially of heroes, and this cabbie who saved our lives was a hero. Norman truly did deserve our trust. It had been an exhausting few days for Connie and me, all because of my stupidity.
ELEVEN
The Peruvian
BY THE TIME THE GREYHOUND BUS HAD WOUND ITS way out of downtown Toronto, the bus depot staff waving goodbye, and eventually pulled up in the sooty Winnipeg bus depot, we were exhausted. Both sets of parents were there to meet us. Connie’s parents never spoke to me after that, and I didn’t blame them. I blamed myself for the whole thing.
Connie and I were home in time to resume our senior year at John Taylor Collegiate, and in time for the yearbook ph
otos, extramural basketball, and after-school jobs. But somehow, no matter what I did, it seemed, I was always getting myself into some predicament.
Calato is the Spanish word for “naked.” It’s a word I picked up one snowy night in a luxurious hotel room, where I was with a much older man from Peru. He told me that he was descended from the Incas. I believe this was his way of impressing upon me that he was exotic, and descended from kings. Both may have been true, but I didn’t really care much.
I met The Peruvian on my way home from ballet class in downtown Winnipeg. I loved ballet—I guess you have to love it to be doing ballet when you’re seventeen years old. I was on my way to catch the bus to our house in the suburbs. He was walking with another man to their hotel. He said something to me and I answered him back, it was as simple as that.
He decided, I guess, to go for it. And fortune was on his side: I didn’t want to go home and was happy to follow anybody, like a puppy. I went with him of my own free will.
Once in the hotel room, it dawned on me that he could kill me. I realized it was a dangerous situation, but not surprisingly, stayed anyway. After all, he had charisma and was kind to me, treating me with what I considered to be respect—he was courteous and warm—and for that I was so grateful that I was receptive to his advances.
He was a big man, and he roared with laughter when I told him this. I loved being there with him that night, and he liked me, and that was all I needed. He smelled of cologne, and I felt that this was of particular importance—I loved perfume and I loved men who smelled good. Smells had begun to be a message of sorts to me. Each person has his or her own particular scent, and I loved this. If I could have, I would have inhaled The Peruvian. He was loud and he smelled loud. I inhaled the heat from his skin in deep, steady breaths. I was drunk on him.
He told me he was in politics—“not military but ministry,” he said. Delighted and falling over with giggles, I told him that Ministry was a band. At his request, I sang a Ministry song, dancing around in a good imitation of the singer. This was met with huge laughs from him. (His laugh, like his voice, was big—in fact, everything about him was this way.) I felt validated by his laughing and enjoyed his company for this very reason. He laughed constantly and seemed joyful and, just being in his presence, I too felt joyful. I really felt that he respected me. He told me I was smart, beautiful, and sexy, and I loved hearing it all.
He told me his mother fed him cow-heart stew his entire childhood. When I said I thought this was abusive of her, he found this adorable and started kissing me, deeply and aggressively. His big hands held me in his grip and left bruises on my body. He didn’t know his own strength or, perhaps, my fragility. But I didn’t care. He was a passionate storyteller and a passionate lover. He taught me some Spanish words. And he blew smoke rings. I felt mature and empowered. It was a mutually beneficial encounter—we both enjoyed the time we spent together.
There is something vulnerable and intriguing about professional men in suits that appealed to me on a sexual level, I was starting to realize. I never considered myself to have a chance with a professional, especially a political man. Girls like me who feel they are not likeable or desirable enough to attract these types go for skate-boarder punks, or dudes in jail. The Peruvian? Well, I never really intended to have sex with him. I was actually just saying thank you to him. I had got myself into another potentially compromising situation, as I was so prone to do—I seemed to have a knack for it. I was saying thank you to him for not beating or drugging me, for simply extending me common courtesies.
The fog of his cigar smoke choked me, or maybe it was just fatigue. But I smoked and laughed appropriately, and sipped whatever godawful drink was in the champagne flute. It was sour and foamy and sucked all the saliva out of my mouth, like his kisses did. I was grateful that things hadn’t gone terribly, terribly wrong. He was not exactly handsome, but I didn’t care. He had been nice to me.
TWELVE
The Frat House Boy
I WAS PRETTY DISILLUSIONED WITH MY COURSES at the University of Winnipeg, and I felt useless. I was unmotivated and lost, with no focus other than on the male college sophomores. There were a lot of highly intelligent boys at university. Except I never seemed to attract any of them.
I would have likely completed my courses that fall, my first year at university, had I become someone’s full-time girlfriend and felt a part of the student culture. Perhaps I would have been raised up socially by dating. Not that I had that ambition—I’d seen it before, the cheerleaders dating the football heroes, the socially power couples. It was many a college girl’s dream, but it wasn’t my dream.
My ambition was to have a career in the performing arts—in theatre or film acting—or in medicine, if I had to have a second interest to fall back on. I was extremely optimistic, to say the least, about being successful on either of these career paths—and trusting in my abilities. Indeed, I had confidence about performing but not about my real life. And, as per usual, with my subconscious quest for unconditional love and acceptance, or whatever childhood bullshit I chased every day of my life, men or boys always wound up in the picture.
The trouble with men is that they are actually the more cunning of the sexes, contrary to popular belief that it is women who are calculating. Men certainly have a host of tricks up their sleeves, though often they are completely unaware of their own wizardry or manipulative skills. Often their behaviour just comes down to sheer stupidity.
The frat boy was my new secret boyfriend. I was a fresh-out-of-high-school eighteen-year-old and he was very much an eligible bachelor. He was definitely one of the popular boys, and the fact that he even talked to me was (what I considered) a miracle. I was never introduced to his friends, nor did we ever go to any student-union or fraternity functions. I was completely okay with being a secret; in fact, I told him I preferred it that way. The truth was, though, that I privately hoped he would change his mind and make our relationship “real.” But not a soul knew, and I was an invisible girl for him.
The big surprise for me came the night he invited me back to his dorm room. It was the first time I had ever gone with him to his place. He showered me with attention, then swiftly tethered me to the bedposts. He kissed me, his mouth covering mine, leaving behind, like a slug, a trail of sticky man-spit.
I coughed into his mouth, then laughed nervously. I was instantly embarrassed but, as you may have guessed, too polite to protest. What is a young lady to do? He was popular and I was a nobody, and I didn’t want to be rude or hurt his feelings. If this was his thing, well, who was I to not go along with it? I didn’t ever want anyone to feel judged. And besides, who was I to judge?—that I had been taught in Sunday school in fifth grade. God would judge him; I just felt lucky to be there!
I would remain there, tied to the bed, for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, in the dark, by myself. He had left the room after he had finished with me—he said he had to go out—and that was it. I felt totally humiliated. I knew he would eventually come back, but I didn’t know if he would bring his friends with him, to have their way with me too. The thought terrified me.
I tried hard to not choke on mucus—my nose was running profusely from all my sobbing. My tears came and went, but I never yelled or screamed. Finally, I fell asleep, exhausted. He did not return until the sun had come up.
I was so relieved. I was still feeling humiliated, but I guess that was the point. He untied the restraints silently. He didn’t speak; he didn’t look at me. He never apologized or explained, and I didn’t say one word to him. I was trying to not appear frightened, but I got dressed as quickly as I could, then ran down the stairs to the street. I never looked back, just swiftly scurried away along the snowy sidewalk. I didn’t stop moving until I was in my pyjamas and safe in my own bed. I was too ashamed to report him to the campus authorities.
I never saw or heard from that frat boy again.
THIRTEEN
The Chopin Café and Jungle Milk
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br /> SUNLIGHT HAS A WAY OF ILLUMINATING DUST SO THAT it sparkles. Dances and shimmers and floats. As sunlight shone on the musty rugs of the Chopin Café in Winnipeg’s old Exchange District, I felt transported to a 1930s Parisian bistro, me in my thirties, say, a tortured artist, surviving on bread and wine, and madly in love with some mad man who wore a dark green hat. Me with a haircut like Clara Bow and long false eyelashes. Maybe freshly heartbroken and freshly fucked. Smoking, the cigarette filter stained from the deepest shade of crimson lipstick. The pale grey ribbons of smoke joining the rays of dusty sunlight.
My mother would laugh and laugh whenever I told her this. “Beth! My stars! What an imagination you have.” But it was easy to envision every fantastical detail. I had read Anaïs Nin, of all things, in high school, and dreamed, somewhat melodramatically, about living the artist’s life. The Chopin Café held that dream for me; the place had an energy. It was small, dark, and mysterious. Rich brocade ties gathered the burgundy velvet that hung on either side of the windows. Dark, worn floors and brick walls. Billie Holiday, Glenn Miller, Count Basie, or some George Gershwin tune would be playing on the sound system whenever my mother and I arrived. Never once did we hear any Frédéric Chopin playing at the café bearing his name. My mother and I loved the café nonetheless and frequented it for tea. It was our place.
The café allowed my mother and me to live another life, even if for only a lunch hour. It was a sophistication far removed from our real life and from the constant struggles my mother had with my disobedience. I was not a disobedient girl when she took me for tea to our special café.
Jeanette Violet McCracken was the most dedicated, well-meaning, and conscientious mother any asshole-runaway-ingrate like me could ever dream of having. The least we could do was nurture our budding friendship in a neutral place, free of our former restraints and expectations, helped along by our loyal waiter, Marcos Torres—or Marcos X, the name by which he went.