Damage

by Shea, Stephen

Tyler sat alone at a booth that faced towards the front door. Here he had a good view of the t.v. The color on the t.v. was a little fuzzy but he could see two lightweight boxers squaring off. A few minutes into the fight, a waitress came up. Her hair was pinned back, her face prematurely wrinkled and permanently stamped with boredom.

  "What would you like?" she asked, not looking directly at Tyler. He ordered a draft and she left. She returned a minute later with a glass of beer and placed it on the table in front of him, taking the five dollars he offered. She set the change on the table then went back to her station by the bar.

  Tyler drank two huge gulps from the glass and watched as the Mexican boxer in the red trunks backed the other boxer into a corner and began to reshape his nose. The referee broke them up just as blood started to stream down the first fighter's face.

  "Stupid Spic!" someone yelled and there were nods of agreement and more grating laughter.

  Tyler glanced around the bar. The faces looked familiar to him and yet none were anybody he knew well enough to talk to or name. Millworkers who had brought their car in to be fixed. People he had passed on the street. He returned his gaze to the t.v.

  He ordered another beer a few minutes later. She came back with a glass that was too full; it spilled over the lip as she set it down. Tyler paid the waitress and after she left he grabbed the glass and discovered it was sticky. He drank, feeling a slight anger at the minor nuisance.

  The door to the bar opened, drawing Tyler's attention away from the t.v. Conn entered the bar, his dark hair wild about his shoulders and he was wearing thin leather gloves. He glanced around, then towards Tyler. A wide smile slowly split his face as he walked up.

  "Hello, Mr. Karate. Mind if I sit?"

  "Sure." Tyler nodded and waited for Conn to sit before he asked, "How'd you get here?"

  "I flew in." The smile widened into a leering parody of its former self as if he'd told a hilarious joke. "Buy me a beer?" he asked.

  "I'll get us a pitcher." Tyler motioned for the waitress. She came over, fixed him with another bored look, listened to his order, then returned to the bar.

  "What're you doing in town?" Tyler asked.

  "I was bored with Kinniwaw. Thought I'd check things out in P.A."

  "How'd you know to find me here?" Tyler asked.

  "Who said I was looking for you?"

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Looking, that's all. Looking. Checkin' things out." He glanced around the bar, returned his gaze to Tyler. "How ya been Buddy Boy?"

  "Good," Tyler answered but the question irritated him, Conn's presence irritated him. He used to enjoy Conn's personality, at one time he was funny; a "good time" guy. But in the last few years he'd degenerated into a low class punk with a smart mouth. "What was all that shit on the phone?"

  Conn laughed. "Prank call. Just got a little bored."

  The waitress came and set down the pitcher and a glass, then left. Conn filled the glass then topped off Tyler's. Conn took a swig of beer. As he held the glass his gloved hand trembled. Is he an addict? Tyler wondered. For the first time he noticed the mess that Conn's clothes were in. They were spotted with mud stains as if he hadn't washed them for weeks. His frayed hair had leaves in it, but contrary to his appearance he emitted no noticeable smell. The skin on his face shone with a strange, unhealthy gleam, as if it were covered with a thin layer of wax. He looks like he's dead.

  "I've been good too, I know you were going to ask. I've been Goo-ood!" He howled then he sipped calmly from the glass, set it down. "Eyow!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes, "tastes good!" With the exclamation came a waft of breath that stunk with the sweet-sick smell of rotting fruit. Tyler leaned away from Conn. He drank from his beer and noticed that one or two of the bar's other patrons were looking towards him, staring at Conn.

  Tyler finished off his beer, filled his glass again. He drank and felt as if the alcohol was spinning through his brain. It was over two years since the last time he'd been drunk. He hadn't eaten since dinner and his body didn't know how to react to the alcohol, he felt heady and thick. Good, Tyler thought. He took another gulp, to punish his body and, through it, his mind.

  "It's good to see you drinking, pal," Conn said.

  Tyler looked up and flashed an alcohol slowed smile that progressed into insincerity. It was hard to smile at Conn. His body was betraying him again.

  "I've got to go to the bathroom," he said then he stood. He rose so fast he worried momentarily that he would be carried off his feet. Once he began to walk he felt as if the balancing gear had been removed from his mind. The bathroom door loomed up suddenly and Tyler pushed it hard enough that the door banged against the wall. The bathroom was bright, too bright, like a hospital hallway. He stumbled over to the urinals.

  When he was finished, he went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, looked up into a cracked mirror. Whiskers were emerging from his pale cheeks. He smiled a false smile at himself and left the bathroom. When he sat down, Conn giggled and shook his head.

  "L-K-hol bothering you?"

  "No," Tyler answered. He had walked a straight line, hadn't he?

  "Then have some more." Conn motioned towards the pitcher.

  Tyler nodded and carefully poured another glass. He leaned back and sipped, then noticed that Conn was staring at him.

  "Do you ever think about the lonely, Tyler? I mean there's so many people in this world, so many." Conn's face was strangely sincere. "Do you ever wonder how one person can feel all alone. Cut off from the world?"

  "Why are you asking this?"

  "I'm just wondering if you ever think about them."

  "No."

  "Well, you should. You should. Cause the lonely turn weird, the ones who feel betrayed. They go...warped."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Nothing," Conn answered, then he chuckled. He looked to both sides, leaned closer and whispered, like a child with a secret to tell that the teachers shouldn't hear. "There's a story, an old Shuswup legend, I think. About the raven. It's a good story Tyler, listen up." Conn sipped from his beer. "The story goes that in a time of famine and drought all the animals were told that if they took out their hearts and put them on a silver plate and not one of the starved animals ate from the plate for a full day, rain would come. Abundance. So they did it. But the raven, who had white feathers then, ate a small heart from the plate. He thought no one would miss it. And the rain wouldn't come, Tyler. And his feathers turned black. And all the animals knew he had eaten the heart, so he was forced to eat only what they left from their meals. The rotting leftovers. Isn't that a strange story, Tyler? But the funny thing was the raven had eaten his own heart. Now what does that mean, Karate man? What the fuck does that mean?" He looked into Tyler's eyes.

  Tyler clenched his glass. "I don't know. It sounds stupid to me."

  Conn snorted. "It would, wouldn't it? It's probably something I should've saved for Rand. He would've understood. Maybe."

  They were silent for a time and Tyler decided to switch topics. "What're you going to do now?"

  Conn shrugged and looked slyly away. "You mean what am I going to do with my useless life?"

  Tyler frowned. "Why are you so defensive? You always take things as insults."

  Conn ignored the question. "What will I do with my useless life?" he repeated. "I suppose I'll do like the rest of the losers; walk around the streets all day or pollute the mall with my presence."

  "All I asked was what you're going to do!"

  "But I know what you really mean, Tyler."

  "You do, do you?"

  "Yeah, I do. I know what you think, Tyler. I can read it on your ugly face, Tyler!" Conn narrowed his eyes. "You're such a fuckin' hypocrite! You despise me! But you're not brave enough to say anything. It's really sick how much you hate me, you know. Cause I don't get a chance. You don't ever give us one bit of a fuckin' chance!"

  Tyler slammed his fist on the table. "Us? Who's us? All you do now is moan about
how much it hurts to get kicked. Dog's moan, men don't. Men never moan."

  Conn's face tightened with anger. He rose slowly, his hand clenched to the beer mug. "I'm not a dog Tyler," he said, his lips twisting as he spat out the words. He raised the glass.

  The whole bar was silent and still. Every eye was turned towards the two. Tyler stared, unblinking, at the glass that he knew was going to come right for his head.

  Conn pulled back his arm and threw the glass straight down. It shattered on the floor. He stared at the broken glass then glanced slyly up at Tyler, smiling. "It's too late," he whispered hoarsely, so only Tyler could hear. "It's too late for you and for me." Then he turned away and before anyone could move he disappeared out the door of the bar.

  The patrons came alive then, everyone talking and staring at Tyler. The bouncer, a hulking man with dull eyes and a simple face, came over and asked Tyler to leave.

  Tyler did so, feeling numb and worn. The alcohol weighted his blood like lead and when he got home he fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed of fighting but he was so weak that his faceless enemy only laughed and laughed at his attempts to defend himself.

  17.

  There was no more time. There was no more place.

  Conn shed tears as he drove past Kinniwaw and turned left towards Minnow park. He cried, not because he had any enduring love for Tyler, but because he could feel the world skidding to a halt and he was getting off. Dying to get off. The heater in his car blasted out fiery air, but he shivered anyway as if a wind were growing in his heart.

  His car coughed twice and died. Conn got out, stepping into the night. He felt an emptiness and he realized he could no longer cry.

  Hush now, baby—the lines came into his head.

  Mommy? His mind grasped at the name, saw the shadow of a face of someone who once held him, but the face shifted to a skull. He started to walk north, his body drawn towards a point ahead of him. But who was Mommy? There was a question.

  Everything slowed as Conn walked, the night became a thick molasses. He was aware of his muscles, aware of their movements, their perfect unison with every joint. His legs. His arms. All moving together with the strongest muscle of all, his heart, feeding his entire system with blood, with life. How easy it would be to spill it.

  Don't you cry.

  Trees surrounded him, swarmed about him like a silent, vengeful crowd, their leaves and branches flicking out and poking at his skin. He fell twice, the second time a branch stabbed slightly above his left eye, drawing blood. Anger pooled like acid in the center of his stomach and spread outwards. How many times had he been cut?

  Too-la-Roo-La Ay!

  He walked with more determination now and everything about him, the trees, the sounds, were familiar. He dreamed them all, had seen heard felt tasted them all. Hush. The woman was still singing in his head, every word adding to his anger.

  Hush now, baby, don't you weep.

  He seethed now. Boiled.

  Cause Daddy's gonna kill you in your sleep.

  Conn fell again, this time into a thorn bush. Thorns stabbed him like tiny knives, piercing his flesh. He pushed himself up off the ground and a thorn thrust its way through his gloved palm. He took no notice of it and walked forward, bleeding.

  But now he needed to be free, to be unconfined, unlimited. He shook off his jean jacket then grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and ripped it in half, he left both of these behind him. He felt strong, nothing could deny the power in his muscles. Without breaking stride he ripped off his jeans. Finally, he was naked.

  Leaves crackled under his feet, branches snapped. The world was pushing him forward. He was moving like a wave, a force through the forest. The trees parted for him.

  Hate so sweet. Angel. To me.

  The words shot into his mind. His anger no longer had limits, it grew exponentially, raging through him to ever new heights, burning him so that every emotion he had ever felt was consumed and turned to ashes.

  The trees opened into a clearing and Conn felt, with certainty and strange warmth, that he had come home. That this was his place. His. He entered the grove.

  There was an oak tree there, the ruins of a shack, and thirteen stones forming an X over a grave. There were footprints about it, the grass, yellowed and dry, had been pressed down.

  Conn recognized the grove immediately, knew he had been here in his dreams. His body knew the place. His vital organs, the liquids of his body, were all attuned here. His hands raged in remembrance. He had been here before, he had touched those stones.

  He stepped forward and the anger that was screaming though his body vanished into silence.

  He was at the center of the grave, listening and hearing nothing.

  Then, a stirring...the moaning of an oak...a voice.

  Do you remember me? it asked. In the background someone was crying. Like a lost child.

  "Yes," Conn answered. The crying stopped. The hair on his arms and neck stood straight up. Something invisible touched his forehead. A hand.

  Angel. You are. Here to release me.

  An image of an old man came into Conn's face. The man was rolling stones across a grave, carefully making a cross. He whispered in another language to himself as he worked, but Conn knew what he was saying: Stay down, in the name of God, in the name of all the good spirits, stay down.

  The hand moved from Conn's head. The image faded.

  They tried to bury me. They tried to weight me down with stones. But how do you bury yourself?

  Conn was silent.

  I have no name but Swallower. I am you. I am them. Time changed me. Hate woke me. There is no absolution.

  Conn nodded.

  Look, it said, Look into yourself.

  The hand again brushed his head and at once Conn was plunged inside himself, into his mind, his memories. He saw his life as a scorching, raging flash before his eyes. He was born, his parents shadows. He felt the warm hands of Sylvia Stafford. The brush and the Chair of Mrs. Stogen. The red sun, someone singing. High school friends. Rand smiling. Bumpa reaching for him. Winnipeg. Georgie dying, dying, his mouth open. Flies.

  This is what they gave you.

  Hush little baby.

  Is this what you deserved?

  Conn shook his head. He felt the rage burning in his heart, his nerves crackling with energy, his veins, his synapses. A sparking electrical storm in his psyche.

  An oak moaned. Will you catch the lightning?

  "Yes," a whisper, an admission. He was crying, slobbering, dying, living, slaying.

  "Yes!"

  The lightning came.

  Hush.

  And later when the lightning was gone and more stones had been rolled, he lifted his feet and walked like a god. Westward, towards Kinniwaw.

  BOOK TWO: Damage Inc.

  1.

  "Fuckin' shrooms," Boris whispered, shaking his headHis left eye had a twitch. It felt as if a fly had perched there, then taken off. He glanced around, his pupils dilating slowly, hesitantly. "Fuckin' shrooms," he said again, a little louder.

  It was Friday night. Boris was at a house party at a farm about four miles outside of Kinniwaw. He had guzzled six beer in fifteen minutes then taken the gram of mushrooms he'd bought in Saskatoon. Now he was drinking again.

  Boris wasn't sure whose party this was. At one point in the evening he'd known, but the information had somehow grown its own insect limbs and climbed out of his mind. He found this vaguely disturbing, but he was more unsettled by the fact that the faces of people at the far end of the room had become fuzzy. He had his glasses on didn't he? He felt his face and the familiar frames. Yes. Then what was happening?

  "Fuckin' shrooms," he said as he leaned back against the wall and turned to the guy beside him, a long-haired, pimply-faced, slim dude. "It's like someone else is in your head, like someone else is seeing through your eyes. And he's scared and he wants to panic but you don't want him to." He paused. "Are you listening?"

  Goldilocks nodded.

 
"You should. I mean...sorry. I was just afraid you weren't. Where's he going?"

  Steven, one of Boris's friends, detached himself from the crowd and headed upstairs.

  Goldilocks shrugged.

  "Well, Jesus, I hope he comes back." Boris closed his eyes and leaned against the wall finding comfort in its solidity. A picture of grisly arms reaching out of the wall, grabbing his face, his neck, his screaming mouth, flashed through his mind. He threw himself forward, almost toppling over.

  Boris straightened up, looked over at Goldilocks. "I've gotta take a piss," he said. "I'm going out. Don't leave. O.K.? O.K?" He stared until his companion nodded. "And don't drink my beer, either...please." Boris turned away. As he disappeared into the crowd of teenagers Goldilocks smiled and bent down towards the three beer cans on the floor. Boris made his way towards the door, bumping into the occasional partier. He didn't stop to apologize because he was afraid of their reaction. He went upstairs and through the back porch.

  When he was outside the house, he stumbled towards the trees surrounding the yard. His muscles didn't seem quite connected to his mind: they were slower now, un-attuned, working against each other. He had to adjust himself after every step.

  He stopped just outside the white circle of the yardlight.

  "Dark out here," he whispered. "Fuckin' dark. Make ya wonder." He stepped further into the darkness, stopped by a tree, and leaned against it. Unzipped. It was a struggle to find his penis and extricate it from his shorts. When he finally did he had another battle; to get the piss to come out.

  He waited. And waited.

  He pulled his pants down a little further and bent his knees to relieve the pressure. He concentrated, closing his eyes, and at last liquid relief began to flow towards the ground. The sharp smell of urine floated into his nostrils reminding him that he'd had asparagus for dinner.

  When he was nearly finished he opened his eyes.

  "What the--?"

  Another pair of eyes, glowing yellow, were staring into his, only a few feet away. Boris yanked up his jeans spraying the last of his piss over himself. He backed away, his fingers fumbling to button his pants.