The Dishwasher

by Stéphane Larue

  “You realize this is getting serious, right? If it was up to me I’d have kept you in Trois-Rivières. You could have stayed with me until New Year’s, like it or not.”

  “Don’t start. I’m not a kid, man.”

  “Actually that’s exactly what you are. A little kid. And you have to get your shit together. I’m not going to be there to bail you out every time. You’re dragging me into your lies, and it makes me sick.”

  I resisted the temptation to answer. It would have shown a flagrant lack of gratitude, and respect. After all, Malik hadn’t said a word to anyone. And then there was all the money he’d lent me. But at that very moment, in his sweltering Golf, I was seriously tempted to get out and take off with a slam of the door. Though with everything he’d done for me, shutting my mouth and hearing the man out seemed like the least I could do. I sighed and nodded. My coffee had been cold for a while, but I kept taking bitter little sips, as if it might make this whole situation less awkward. I didn’t look at him. Without really noticing I was examining the crap littering the floor between the two seats. Old McDonald’s cups. Torn-up parking tickets with the university logo. Protein bar wrappers. CD cases mixed in with the piles like little squares of crystal: Stratovarius, Rhapsody, Dream Theater. Leftovers from meals wolfed down on the road. The inside of Malik’s car was a dump for the detritus of a busy guy who spent his life driving between three cities, between his girlfriend and university in Trois-Rivières and his dad and friends in Sherbrooke and his mum and the rest of the family in Montreal.

  It was 4:11 on my pager.

  “I’ve gotta go. Dave said they were expecting me at 4:30.”

  “Think about what we talked about.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’m serious. This shit’s gotta stop.”

  Malik had raised his voice, but then he calmed back down.

  “Okay,” he said, pulling his lumpy, worn-out wallet from his leather jacket.

  He took out four twenty-dollar bills and handed them to me.

  I pocketed the money.

  “This is the last time I lend you money. You have to swallow your pride and talk to your parents.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t answer. I took another look at the pager. Through the windshield I could see a teenager begging. He was soliciting every person who went by. I sniffled, as if to grab a hold of myself.

  “No need. I’ll figure it out. Get my shit together.”

  Malik put his hands back on the wheel and lowered his head. He looked exhausted. Cars drove by on Mont-Royal. You could hear tires squeaking on the wet asphalt.

  “Good, stop messing around. You’re pushing your luck.”

  “All right, I get it.”

  I checked the time, yet again.

  “I really have to go.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in Montreal after finals. You’ve got my number if you need to talk.”

  “I know.”

  I took another sip of coffee and grimaced. Opened the door. Montreal was warmer than Trois-Rivières. I turned back to Malik and tried to mean what I said:

  “I’m sorry about all this hassle. And thanks for the money.”

  Malik started the car.

  “Do me a favour, and be more fucking careful.”

  He held out his hand and I shook it. I took my bag and got out. His old Golf went up Mont-Royal, then turned on Mentana. After the snowfall, a light fog was lifting. Lampposts, car headlights, and storefronts stood out against the dense blue evening sky enveloping everything. I stayed still for a minute, taking the measure, though I tried to push it away, of the solitude I was returning to. The days at Malik’s already seemed far away. I started walking toward the restaurant.

  More and more people filled the sidewalks, their hurried shadows brushing by me. A dad pulled his two daughters out of a daycare, holding their hands while they told a story. Clearly it was an exciting one: they kept interrupting each other. A woman in a long cream-coloured coat cut me off and marched on, leaving a wake of vanilla perfume. She was talking on her cell in a caustic tone, and her high heels clacked on the wet sidewalk. A group of young teenagers with schoolbags slung over their shoulders were hanging out in front of their school. Under their open coats you could see their grey, white, and navy-blue uniforms. Their boastful, high-pitched, and inflected voices made me almost jealous to no longer be their age, with a little routine every evening, hot dinner waiting on the table at home, homework to be charged through before playing some video games. I would gladly have changed places with any of these people on the street. It seemed like every one of them had a better life that mine, not that I wanted to start feeling sorry for myself. I felt the cold deep in my ribs. I tried not to think about the situation, to concentrate instead on the here and now. But despite my best intentions I kept replaying the conversations with my cousin. It helped me steel myself and keep going.

  I took out the stub of paper Dave had scribbled the address on. Dave was a friend who went to Cegep with me. He hated his job and wanted out. I absolutely had to earn some money, the sooner the better. I’d been looking for work for two weeks now with no luck. Searched the classifieds in the Métro free paper from top to bottom. Wasted mornings that should have been spent studying on soul-destroying trial shifts in a sinister telemarketing office. I’d frozen my feet off every evening in November, under chilling rain, going door to door in the suburban labyrinth of the West Island without managing to sell a single alarm system. My boss at my summer job had nothing for me. The guy who’d taken my place had his construction ticket.

  Dave had taken care to warn me, as if he wanted to be certain I understood that his offer came with small print.

  “You’ll see, it’s a lot of work. But the people are fun, and you get free food. Ever worked in a restaurant?”

  “No.”

  I knew how to work with my hands, though. I’d been a labourer on renovations, cleaned houses on an army base, swept chimneys, done demolition. Sure, I would have rather spent my days reading and drawing, but I wasn’t afraid of hard work.

  “Whatever, do your training and they’ll see.”

  “Anyway, I need a job.”

  In front of the drugstore a homeless man was buried under a massive pile of rags and wool blankets. I crossed over to the other side of the street, to move a little faster. I forced myself to forget about the eighty dollars in my pocket. But I was out of harm’s way, for now. The two most dangerous spots in the neighbourhood weren’t on my route. Bistro de Paris was to the west, on Saint-Denis, and Taverne Laperrière was on the corner of De Lorimier and Mont-Royal. Both were too far, I wouldn’t have time. I walked past a stationery store. Every item in the window was decked with Christmas decorations. I passed a first restaurant, then a bar, already full. A grey-haired man came out, with a woman on his arm. They were both laughing. The woman’s loud, melodic laugh rang out as the couple walked off into the distance, arm in arm. It made me think of Marie-Lou, and I missed her. The bar’s seedy scent of cigarettes and beer was soon overpowered by the metallic smell of the cold mixed in with car exhaust.

  I crossed two more streets and got to the restaurant. Four-thirty. It was already night. My heart started beating more quickly than before. I took a deep breath. The Bistro de Paris wasn’t actually that far, when you thought about it. All I had to do was turn around, walk a few short blocks. I could always find another job later that week. I looked toward Rue Saint-Hubert and pulled myself together when I saw the place Malik had dropped me off. I managed to chase the image of the lcd screens with twirling multicoloured fruits and the tic-tac of credits accumulating as I landed on one winning combination after another.

  Chapter 2

  I slunk out of the bar feeling defeated and empty, turning my back on the machine I’d been glued to for nearly three hours, the machine I’d skipped out on my meeting with Marie-Lou
to play with what was left of the money she’d lent me for rent two weeks earlier. Under the October sun I headed down Ontario toward Papineau, to meet the guys at the jam space. As I walked I listened to a mixtape I’d made with the best tracks of the last Amon Amarth album. “Risen from the Sea” had just kicked in. I turned it up to ten. I was trying not to think about how much money I’d lost today. How much had I lost since March? Who knows, I couldn’t even round it to the nearest thousand. The mental highlight reel of my VLT sessions was always there for me to play back, the magic days and the big wins and the combinations that sent you flying through the air. Deep down I knew my little mental movie was lying like a used car salesman. But I was powerless to fight it. I’d win it all back next time.

  Cité 2000 loomed in the distance between two rows of squat attached buildings. For Quebec metal bands, this was Mecca: a monolith at least four storeys high tucked between the Jacques Cartier Bridge and the Molson brewery, bathing in the pungent odour of yeast and fermented grain. The building overlooked the beat-up apartment buildings south of René-Lévesque Boulevard. When I saw I was getting closer I picked up the pace. I was late, and the three hours spent playing the machine had left me frustrated and a touch confused, so I was suddenly nervous as I came through the door. The cavernous lobby reminded me of an empty warehouse. In the middle was a big reception desk, behind it a grey-faced security guard dozing with his cheek on his fist. I went up and asked him to buzz the guys from Deathgaze.

  “Room number?”

  It took me a while to come up with the right number. He picked up the headset next to his register. He called one of the guys. I spent around ten minutes waiting, pacing.

  Alex came down to get me at the front desk. He had his sleeveless black jean vest on with the sweatbands he wore at shows on his forearm. His straw-coloured locks cascaded over his broad shoulders. He’d let his beard grow out. He was only a year older than me, but most people would have guessed five or six.

  “What happened, man, couldn’t find the place?”

  “Nah, sorry. My class went late.”

  I followed him to the stairwell, up to the third floor. He led me down long hallways littered with drywall dust. The sounds of bands practising all blended together and transformed itself as we went forward, screams piercing like needles, guttural growls rising from the floor, guitar riffs assembling like a swarm of giant bees, the muted, metallic bombardment of drums overlaying everything. I must have smiled like an idiot looking at the group names on the massive doors: Cryptopsy, Anonymus, so many more I’ve forgotten today. Finally we reached the Deathgaze practice space.

  Alex pushed open the door and I followed him in, closing the door behind me. The room was small and packed tight with Marshall stacks and cases of empties. The walls were covered in some kind of black stucco, with holes here and there. Posters of Immortal, Cannibal Corpse, The Haunted. At eye-level they’d posted crumpled old set lists and school notebook pages covered with lyrics. Twisted or crushed pop cans littered the floor. The thick mats rolled out on the floor were stained and encrusted with crumbs of food and cigarette ash. A full ashtray crowned every speaker. A busted-up couch with a sweat-stained yellow pillow on one of its arms was wedged between two shelves overflowing with cables, extension cords, pedals, and drumsticks. High windows with metal grilles over them let in a trickle of grainy light. A hockey bag had been thrown into the corner of the room and forgotten, perhaps since the previous spring. A Tama drum, half taken-apart, gathered dust in one corner; another, as huge as Nicko McBrain’s, towered in the other corner. When we walked in the drummer was messing around with his hi-hat, adjusting the height of the top cymbal. Beefy arms blackened by tattoos emerged from a Darkthrone Transilvanian Hunger t-shirt whose sleeves looked like they’d been cut off with a pocket knife. He gave me a nod. He had a crooked nose and a long goatee, like Dimebag Darrel. The other guy was sitting on an iron stool, noodling on an unplugged guitar. He raised his eyes to look me up and down wordlessly, then went back to the chord progression he was trying to nail down. He had a triangular jaw and a clean-shaven face and head. The neck of his guitar looked like a twig in his big, bricklayer’s hands. I tried to find a place to put down my stuff. I stepped over guitar cases and patch cords connected to amps and a microphone plugged into some kind of PA. I took care not to snag anything.

  Alex did the intros. The guitarist was Mike, the drummer Sébastien. The bassist wasn’t there, he had his daughter that week. Alex was telling them about me, that I was “studying in the field.” He probably thought I was an art student. I was too embarrassed to correct this misunderstanding, which didn’t matter anyway. I’d brought a big sketchbook full of finished and unfinished drawings. The drummer snatched it from my hands. He gave me some enthusiastic compliments when he stumbled on my pastiche of the Iced Earth album cover, done in lines even thicker and rougher than Travis Smith in his Marvel phase.

  “We’re death metal, man,” the singer said. “Not some shitty power metal band.”

  I looked at him for a second, unsure what to say. Perched on the little drummer’s stool, Alex looked like a grown man on a child’s trike. He raised his hand at the guitarist. Before talking, he tucked his long hair behind his ear, the way he’d always done.

  “Man, this is just to give you some ideas. He’s gonna make us something we’ll all like. That’s why he’s here.”

  Alex was the one who’d convinced them to choose me to illustrate the EP they were bringing out early next year. My job was to draw them a band logo, make the files, and send them to the printer. Alex had made up his mind, and would stick to it like a sacred oath. Which it was, in a sense: back in high school he played in four bands and was always telling anyone willing to listen I was going to design the cover of his first album.

  Alex grabbed the sketchbook from the drummer’s hands and started flipping through it, like he was looking for something specific. He appeared to know my sketchbook better than I did. He showed them some Gimenez-style drawings I’d coloured in with watercolours, talking with the exact same confidence he had back in the day, when his pointless stories always had the whole room in stitches and made him the life of every party. The guitarist had laid down his King V, and the drummer was listening to Alex too, with his hands on his thighs. He held out my sketchbook and explained what they had in mind, pointing at certain drawings, almost tapping on the page. No one else could get a word in edgewise. He’d already talked to me about his ideas, and I had a sense of what he wanted, a sort of oceanic landscape with a giant octopus. The guitarist was poker-faced. When he looked at me I looked down. With his voice full of exhilaration, Alex kept haranguing us for another ten minutes. Then he turned to me and gave back my book.

  “Show them your logo sketches.”

  I took out a Canson pad from my bag. He practically ripped it from my hands, and opened it straight to the page he was looking for. I’d made a logo kind of like Darkthrone’s, with letters that seemed to be melting. The drummer swore appreciatively. The guitarist raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s not fucking bad.”

  Alex closed the Canson pad, a little smile in the corner of his eyes.

  A week later Alex met me at Café Chaos after my first page layout class. We went there because he had to talk to the booking agent. When he told me the guy used to be the singer of Necrotic Mutation I was impressed. We took a while to drink a few pints and talked over the illustration, then he put an ATM envelope on the table, fat with money. Two thousand dollars: enough to cover printing, and my own work as well. I’d never gotten that much cash in one shot. Two thousand dollars, a million: it was pretty much one and the same to me. Maybe it wasn’t that big a deal for the guys in the band though. Alex drove a forklift in a factory, the other guys worked construction or had other high-paying jobs.

  The afternoon was coming to an end, it must have been four or five o’clock. It was going to be a cool night. We went to d
eposit the money in my account, at one of the ATMs on the corner of de Plessis and Ontario. My balance had suddenly leaped, like after an especially lucky sequence at the machines. My heart almost skyrocketed out of my chest. I was floating, two feet off the ground, shivering all over my body. I almost withdrew two hundred dollars, out of habit.

  Then, as if to seal the deal, we went to Pijy’s Pub and drank a toast. We went there a lot. Two-for-one pitchers. Copper and varnished wood. A persistent odour of mothballs. We continued the discussion we’d begun at Café Chaos. He told me about the tour they had planned, might take them as far as Rimouski. I was having trouble focussing on his words. I kept looking at this old guy behind Alex’s shoulders, playing a machine. He seemed to be winning a lot. It was unbearable to watch, with two grand in my account. My head was spinning. Alex’s plans for the tour, his stories about shows: nothing held my attention. My concentration was wandering. I was tracking the old guy’s every move. He kept right on tapping the screen, adjusting his bets, and pressing the bright yellow buttons. I stared at the box of his winnings at the bottom of the screen. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the money I’d just deposited in my account.

  We drank for another hour or two. Alex bought another round. We’d put back two pitchers and a pint each. I was starting to slur; Alex was barely affected. He could hold his liquor a lot better than me. Back at the end of high school, when most of us were still just learning how to handle our beers, he was tossing back Chemineaud brandy.