Guy

by Jowita Bydlowska

  “It looks delicious,” I say. I smile at the waitress with my eyes.

  “Thank you,” Sylvia says.

  The waitress walks away. She’s got a nice walk, a nice swaying bounce in her hips.

  Sylvia says, “I think it’s strange when girls don’t have waists, don’t you?” Her cattiness could be because the waitress doesn’t recognize her, but most likely it’s jealousy.

  Our meeting isn’t too long. For a while, Sylvia talks about her mother, whom she’s become close with. Her mother quit smoking. They are going to Cuba together in the winter.

  “It’s hard to get good vegetables in Cuba.” I’m proud of myself for remembering the weird diet that she’s on. Ten cups of vegetables a day. They wrote about it on some gossip website.

  “Communists don’t believe in vegetables?” she says.

  “What kind of vegetables do you have to eat?”

  “Squash, broccoli, peas, carrots, asparagus,” she says and pulls out her phone to check the rest. I look down at my plate, at my untouched burger.

  “I should send you some recipes. There’s a very easy butternut squash pasta dish –”

  “Raw vegetables, Guy. I can’t boil them.” She smiles at me like I’m annoying.

  The waitress asks if we want any desserts but we don’t.

  I ask for the bill. Sylvia talks some more. There’s a boyfriend, a guy she met in Alcoholics Anonymous who is “really talented.”

  The waitress hands me the bill. The waitress’s name is Amy. I think about writing my phone number on the bill but decide against it.

  I have an acute understanding of what feeling empty means. I feel vastly, tragically empty, like there was no past and there is no future.

  35

  FOR MY SENTENCING, I DRESS IN A SUIT. I BUY IT ESPECIALLY for this occasion. It might seem stupid to buy yourself a suit right before you go to jail, yet this is precisely why I get it. I need to reassure myself that this, going to jail, is in no way the end of my life. I pay extra to have the suit altered on the same day.

  I wait for my suit in a cheerfully clean, cream-coloured coffee place in a shopping district. It seems surreal that right now I am here and tomorrow I will be incarcerated. I drink my tiny cappuccino, my pinky raised.

  I watch the fat tourists going in and out of high-end shops. Small packages. They can only afford wallets, scarves, belts. But they seem happy. When they come out, their eyes are feverish. Fuck it, they’ve got credit cards. They can always take on some extra shifts! You only live once! In contrast, the expensively bored cuntpets of rich men – women who can afford everything – look miserable. Massive parcels. The bigger the unhappiness, the bigger the parcels.

  I watch the older ones with stretched, pinched faces – veterans of diets and loneliness. The younger ones trot on legs like needles, expertly not tripping over their fluffy white dogs, one bony hand clutching plastic bags packed with tiny doggie turds, the other hand wrapped around enormous cups full of zero-calorie froth. Many of these women are too skinny to fuck. I cannot imagine myself fucking them.

  I order another coffee. There’s a new girl behind the counter. She’s got dark skin, a big ass.

  “Oh my god, you look like that actor,” she says.

  “My wife said the same thing. That’s how we met.”

  She shows her bottom teeth. “Cool.”

  I try to jerk off twice in the toilet. I imagine the coffee girl sitting on my face. The sweet, musky smell of her. My tongue in her ass. Her disgusted face as I try to kiss her afterwards. I’m half-erect. I can’t get myself inspired.

  Later on, I try on my new Paul Smith wool suit. The colour is called anthracite, which is coal, which means black. It’s a black suit; the suit is black. The sales clerk claps his hands. I’m not irritated by this. I want to clap as well. I look great. I take a picture in the mirror and send it to Henri, my old shopping consultant. He sends back a picture of himself giving a thumbs-up.

  I wish I could send a picture to Em. Look, Em. Your man. Such a beautiful man with perfect skin. What a nice body. All of it contoured into this fine suit. A perfect male form, perfectly useless now. Look. All for you.

  36

  WHEN WE’RE NOT WORKING WE CAN WATCH TV. WE GET CABLE here. We watch the news. One inmate’s wife was gunned down on the outside. He first found out about it on the news.

  We get newspapers. There are computers although there is no Internet. We get board games. The board games are almost as popular as getting high in here.

  You can ask for sketchbooks and crayons. It’s good for us. Each request is assessed on its own merits and according to a list of approved items. There are carefully monitored cell inventories. My cell is always impeccable. I don’t abuse my privileges. I don’t get high. I behave when I’m in the shop. I blank, emboss and finish licence plates. I behave during roll call, in the kitchen, cleaning cells, working out at the gym.

  I don’t pace here. I’m good at being locked down. If I get anxious, I do sit-ups and push-ups. When I’m not anxious, I read or watch TV. This is how I come across the Tarantino film Kill Bill. I’ve never seen it. It was quite a big deal back when it first came out. I wish I had seen it.

  It’s a violent movie. I don’t know why we’re allowed to watch it. Maybe because it’s funny-violent. Heads flying off, swords slicing off arms, ha ha ha. A slapstick of splattering blood. I don’t care for that stuff. Yet I’m drawn to it because of the lead, played by Uma Thurman. The lead is a sweat-soaked, nostril-pumping character named Bride. She kills her former colleagues and her former boss and lover, Bill (played by David Carradine), who tried to kill her in the past.

  Before Bill dies, they forgive each other. I laugh out loud when I figure it out. Bride. The granny rapist next to me shouts to “shut the fuck up” and I shut the fuck up because I suddenly don’t feel like laughing at all.

  ***

  “She was so beautiful in it, wasn’t she?” Em says. “I watched that movie after a difficult breakup and it really helped.”

  “You said you’ve never been in love.”

  “That’s right. I wasn’t in love. I was just annoyed at having been dumped. That’s all.” She shifts in her chair. Yawns. Raises her arms quickly to stretch, shakes her head at the guard who starts walking up to us. “Everything okay?”

  The guard likes her, I can tell. The guard looks like one of those guys in PUA basements. I can tell he’s having trouble getting women. I can picture him sweating discreetly, trying to impress her, listing his accomplishments. He enjoys going to the movies. He peaked in high school.

  “Everything’s okay,” she says softly.

  (When I first sat down, I watched her closely. I assumed this was her first time in a prison visiting room. I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. I had words of support ready: Just pretend this is a movie. But her face was all indifference behind black-framed glasses. What kind of person isn’t anxious about visiting prison for the first time? At the other end of the room, an inmate lunged at the woman sitting opposite him. The guards shouted, swarmed the table. He didn’t fight the guards. They walked him out of the room. Em took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with her sleeve.)

  “Everything’s okay,” I say.

  The guard walks away. His body stiffens. He tries to make himself look bigger. She’s not looking at him. She drums on the table with her fingers. Her hard nails are shiny and red. The red matches her outfit. She gives me a quick, forced smile.

  I smile back. “You look great.”

  “Oh yeah?” she says.

  Her hair is dyed dark blond; it’s shoulder-length. It’s hair used to being outside in the sun. Possibly used to having fingers woven through it. I try very hard not to ask. Is someone doing that? Waving his sausage fingers through her hair?

  She’s heavier now. The pounds sit on her bones, weighing her down, making her seem hunched. She’s too skinny to handle being this fat.

  She’s wearing a bright red dress. She must be wearing
it to divert attention from her tired face. The colour does exactly the opposite, making her seem older. It’s an unusual colour to wear in here. Most visitors try to be anonymous. The two of us must look like some weird Halloween decoration. An orange squash and a tomato in the bland, white room.

  “You don’t get the Internet here? It was all over the celeb sites. Your girl has retired,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “$isi. She has a blog now. It’s all about cancer. But it’s all good news, don’t freak out. Her treatment is working. But she’s done with music. Too bad.”

  “Too bad,” I say, but I feel immense relief. Almost euphoric relief. As if I’d been forgiven.

  “You really okay?” she says after we don’t talk for a while. This is fine, not talking. It’s more than doing something romantic like sitting and holding hands together and talking. If you can be silent together, that’s a good sign.

  “I’m really okay. You?”

  “Okay too. Really. Busy. Finished making my first audio for a movie. It was stressful. I shouldn’t complain.”

  “What’s the film about?”

  “Nothing you’d find especially sexy. But it’s about music, so it’s a bit up your alley. I’ll try to remember to mail it to you when it’s done.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “I really am.”

  “You don’t need to be proud of me. I’ve got people to be proud of me,” she says a bit too loudly. “Sorry. God. That’s not what I meant.”

  “It is. And it’s okay. You’re throwing a tantrum. But you’re right. You probably have lots of people to be proud of you. So I’m just going to be proud independently if that’s okay.”

  She sighs. “Yeah.”

  “Why are you here?” I say, even though I’m afraid. What’s the worst answer she could give? She’s curious. That’s the worst answer. Nothing else. Or she’s cruel. That’s a bad answer, too. Pulling wings off a fly.

  She says nothing for a while. “Why did you plead guilty?”

  “Why?”

  The guard is watching us again. Or watching her. To him, the red dress probably signals all kinds of things. She wants it. She wants him. Only sluts wear red.

  I was guilty. Not of raping her, but of betraying myself. I’m not here because of my nature, like the pedophile in the cell across from me, or the granny rapist. I’m here because I went against my nature. I am also here because I liked going against my nature.

  I called Gloria from here once. She was hysterical. I should appeal. Could she contact Thomas the lawyer? She’d never stopped loving me! I couldn’t calm her down. “Why are you so fucked up? What are you, some kind of masochist? You’re not a masochist! You only think of yourself,” she shouted.

  She was confused. I had to hang up.

  ***

  I think of my dream from long ago, running through the forest. My face smeared with blood, my feet turned into hairy paws sinking into mossy ground. I was hunting. No. I was being hunted. Em catching up with me and sinking her teeth into my artery. Gotcha.

  I could free myself. Protest my innocence like a stupid little bitch. Call in favours: Gloria, the Grey Campaign people, $isi. Character witnesses. Petitions. My passion for good causes. My selflessness. My martyrdom. We could find holes in Em’s setup. Proof it was consensual. No tears in vaginal walls, no bruises on the insides of her thighs.

  I want to say things to her. It was all for you.

  “Fifteen minutes!” the guard yells.

  “How is Dolores?” I say

  Em sits up straight, her shoulders pushing back. There’s a slight twitch in the corner of her mouth. “We’re not friends anymore. But she’s okay. I think.”

  “You’re not friends.”

  “She dropped out of school after she met you, after the accident, and went to a loony bin for a bit and came back and got engaged and married some loser. She never left our hometown. The end. I was so mad at her. I blamed you, but I was also mad at her, if you need to know.”

  “Has she said anything about –”

  “Nope. She just moved on. We never really talked. She met her idiot husband in the psych ward. I went to her wedding and the baby shower. And then we lost touch. That’s all.”

  I wish I could slide right next to her. She sits with her elbows on the table. Oh, to touch those elbows. Feel their hardness.Take her head in my hands. Force her to look at me.

  “Was she in on it?”

  Em shakes her head. “God, no.”

  Sometimes I imagined both of them plotting. The two of them sitting on their girly beds. $isi blasting on the speakers. Newspaper clippings about me strewn around. Lots of giggling. A pile of limbs and hugs. Dolores. Open mouth. Protesting. Em outlining a particularly brutal detail (the choking). Or, conversely, Dolores egging Em on. Dolores coming up with the particularly brutal detail.

  I’m relieved it was just Em. Her own crazy idea. That’s how much it mattered. I mattered. We are in this together. I feel bonded to her. Married. Another freedom that I would give up for her if she’d let me.

  She will let me. Her visit to me is a weakness. She has this weakness and I am it. This is the opening in her, to her. I wish I could reach across this table, feel the warmth of her blood pulsing underneath the pale skin. I would grab the back of her neck. I would smash her chapped lips against mine.

  I finally say it.

  She looks at me and says nothing. We both look around the room, stopping once in a while to take a break in each other’s eyes. I hold her this way. She lets me hold her. We could be talking right now, but what’s the point? We are saying everything we need to say.

  Before she leaves, she leans forward – that guard watching us, inching closer. She says, “Wait for you.”

  “Wait for me.” Is there or isn’t there a man weaving his fingers through her hair? It doesn’t matter. The tiredness that seems to permanently reside in her ashen skin signals trouble. I will never make her look this way.

  I reach out to grab her hands. The guard starts walking toward us. “Hands,” he shouts. She starts to pull her hands out of my grip. No. Please.

  She stops struggling.

  We’ll go through years of sexual discovery. Years of sexual plateaus. Years of headaches, lies, infidelities. Reconciliations and – what else? – apathy. It’s better than nothing. I have nothing. This is me capitulating to love. I am its ultimate conquest. I’ve always wanted to cheat it, give it as if it was mine to give. I’ve never meant a word of it. And here I am with a fluttering chest. Inside me, this love like a heart attack. Imprisoning me for life. Because this is for life, this will be a life sentence, her loving me.

  Wait for me.

  “I said hands,” the guard barks right in my ear.

  Hands. I let go of her hands. The past is no longer important; the future is a possibility. I cannot feel the emptiness anymore – I cannot feel what isn’t there. She smiles. This is the first real smile she’s given me today. Maybe the first real smile she’s given anyone in a long time. It seems to shatter a thin veneer of sadness that’s accumulated on her face. I can see all of her hidden beauty, its secret kept from the needy, predatory world.

  The End

  THANK YOU:

  The crew at Wolsak & Wynn Publishers

  and Buckrider Books:

  Paul Vermeersh

  Noelle Allen

  Emily Dockrill Jones

  Ashley Hisson

  Joe Stacey

  Designer Michel Vrana

  My literary agent, Chris Bucci

  Friends and family:

  Stacey Madden

  Danila Botha

  Neil Sharma

  Laura Bydlowska

  Russell Smith

  Erin Kobayashi

  Tim Rostron

  Sheila Heti

  Joseph Boyden

  The Ontario Arts Council

  and the Canada Council for the Arts

  Jowita Bydlowska was born
in Warsaw, Poland, and moved to Canada as a teen. She is the author of the bestselling memoir Drunk Mom. A journalist and fiction writer, she lives in Toronto, Canada.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, places and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © Jowita Bydlowska, 2016

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Buckrider Books is an imprint of Wolsak and Wynn Publishers.

  Cover image: istockphoto.com

  Cover and interior design: Michel Vrana

  Author photograph: Russell Smith

  Typeset in Sabon LT

  Printed by Ball Media, Brantford, Canada

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Book Fund.

  Buckrider Books

  280 James Street North

  Hamilton, ON

  Canada L8R 2L3

  Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada.

  ISBN 978-1-928088-23-3 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-928088-36-3 (epub)

  ISBN 978-1-928088-39-4 (mobi)

  ISBN 978-1-928088-40-0 (ePDF)