We hired both Eduardo and Basile. In Renaud’s words, it was better to get two and have a spare just in case.
“A good dishwasher’s hard to find.”
As for me, I allowed myself to hope against hope that they’d hired two dishwashers to put Bébert’s plan into action and move me up to the kitchen soon. Little did I know, Renaud had something else altogether in mind.
The nights before Christmas flew by. It was always just busy enough that by midnight we were tired but not exhausted. The main difference for me was that I was starting to know what I was doing. But our customers still never seemed in a hurry to leave. Séverine’s friends especially enjoyed nothing better than showing up ten minutes before closing, ordering food that wasn’t on the menu, then partying into the wee hours. I remember having to clean up the men’s room the morning after one of those parties. Someone had thrown up undigested pasta in a urinal. I found a Moët & Chandon ice bucket full of brown bile. I guess the Holiday Spirit hit everyone differently.
Early in the week it was me, Vlad, Steven, and Bébert. Renaud was nowhere to be seen: he stuck to whatever day shifts Bob didn’t take, and left the rest to Bébert, who still hadn’t been officially promoted to sous-chef. I only ran into Bob once or twice. We promised to have a beer next time we closed together. The rest of the week varied, sometimes I’d be with the new guys, and sometimes the old guard: Bébert again, Jason (who’d given his two weeks to work at Latini), Jonathan (always sad and distracted), and Bonnie of the Perpetual Hangover. I never knew how to act around her. The friendlier I acted, the more her reactions were tainted by impatience tinged with malice. She was even nastier to Bébert, but it went right over his head: that kind of attitude just bounced right off him. At any rate, work had swallowed the man whole. He was tackling double after double, working full tilt and then getting right back on the horse after every shift. He was deep in some kind of alternative existence, like a touring rock star or a soldier at the front. Just watching him was exhausting. He was going out pretty much every night. I’d go with him, to save me from the machines, and from Jade, too, I guess, who knows. She hadn’t asked me out again, but I had a bad feeling it was coming. At the same time, I was the only one who knew what had really happened the first time. I was avoiding her, staying in the pit and sending Basile out front when we wanted coffees or Cokes. Then I’d drink my staff beer while I closed, then slip out the back door with Bébert and Jonathan.
Bébert fought off constant fatigue with a battery of Greg’s pills. As the night wore on he’d grow increasingly volatile, and liable to blow his top at any moment. I remember one night, his seventh or eighth shift in a row, fed up of the interminable closing, he just did a key of ketamine right there in the kitchen, before the waitresses’ disapproving stares.
“What, I can’t keep up with my friends? Just because we’re serving goofs who can’t eat at seven like normal people?”
Bébert was doing lots of ketamine, it was his favourite way to jump start his night. It helped the booze kick in and bring on the buzz he’d then maintain with an uninterrupted flow of beer and the occasional jolt of speed, to keep from crashing.
When we weren’t out with Jonathan and his buddies at the Zinc we always ended up at Roy Bar. I would have followed Bébert anywhere. Being with someone who burned so hot helped me steer clear of my own temptations.
On the last night of a string of shifts I’d be working, I was sipping my staff beer at the bar after work. Bébert and Nick were going to the Stereo, and I didn’t feel like going, that place wasn’t my scene. That’s when Jade pounced. Whenever she came within a six-foot radius of me it had the same effect on me: I grew feverish and nervous, just like when the need to gamble took hold. The same implacable fist in my chest. She was nothing like the metal and punk chicks I was usually into. Jade brought out another desire in me, one I didn’t feel often. The deeply sensual energy she gave off was intimidating. She held me captive at the bar while she finished her close. Vlad and Steven had already taken off, and Sarah was chatting with a couple tourists.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Renaud gave me a day off.”
I was tearing a coaster into strips.
“We should do something.”
“Like what?”
She took a sip of a glass of white that a customer had bought her.
“My friends are playing a show. You should come.”
“What kind of show?”
“Jazz. Funky though. You’ll see.”
“Could be fun.”
She poured me another beer, which Sarah didn’t punch in, probably to save time. I watched Maude putting glasses away behind the bar. She opened the fridge doors and checked what was left. When her face took on a serious, concentrated look she was even more beautiful: her eyebrows scrunched up and her big eyes looked almost angry, as she counted bottles.
“Call me if something comes up.”
We’d arranged to meet in two days at eight, at the bar where the band was playing.
I walked to Mont-Royal Metro station. In the dry cold every sound rang out sharply, in high definition. A crystal powder floated through the air. My head was spinning.
At that time of night the Metro only ran every twenty minutes. I pulled out The Trail of Cthulhu and reread the same page, reliving Abel Kean’s walk toward Innsmouth five times. It was no use, I couldn’t concentrate. I slid the book into my back pocket.
You could hear a distant rumbling of trains. The smell of dust and spilled soft drinks wafted through the station. Faint echoes resounded throughout the tunnel. It brought to mind the cavernous, forgotten chamber of a necropolis. Drifters of all stripes made their way through these passageways, spectres bobbing their heads under the flickering light of unaccommodated fluorescent tubes.
Beside me, two Asian guys were chatting in English, coming off night shifts just like me. They wore unfashionable clothing that looked like it came from the Salvation Army: parkas soiled at the elbows and cuffs, a faded Jazz Festival cap. One was trying to borrow money off the other. Nearby, an old woman was dozing in her parka with her hand on her shopping buggy. The Metro pulled up. The doors slid open. We got on. The woman remained in her seat, still sleeping. “Change Your Mind” played on my Walkman.
The following day I woke early. It was nine o’clock and I felt possessed with an unfamiliar strength, as if I were emerging from a prolonged catatonia. It might have been the day off, or the fact that Vincent was home with me. We cooked up a breakfast of scrambled eggs, enough bacon for a small army, toast, and peanut butter, and while we ate we caught up and listened to Dr. Dre. My renewed sense of energy spurred me to get my shit together. I made another coffee and went to set myself up in the living room.
I took out my sketchbooks, and spread out a few sketches I’d decided to keep. The most promising was a seascape with a giant octopus. I only had a couple of scratch boards left, but I also had two or three sheets of glossy cardstock. I carefully brushed them all with white oil pastel, then covered them with black gouache. Vincent came by to see what I was up to, sipping on a shake. Once the gouache was dry, I started working the surface with the back of my X-Acto blade, or the dry nib of a calligraphy pen I kept around for this type of job. As I scratched away the layer of gouache receded, revealing the white beneath. I worked on it all afternoon, until dusk fell, only stopping a couple times to make more coffee, eat a handful of chips, or take a piss.
Around five or six Vincent came in to see if I wanted to order St-Hubert chicken. He was still barefoot in an undershirt and Adidas track pants. When he saw the monstrous octopus in the centre of the page he let out an admiring whistle. The beast’s tentacles were all spiralled up like boa constrictors around deformed human bodies.
“Sick, dude.”
“It’s not finished yet. I still have to fill in some volume in the tentacles, and add a sort of underwater temp
le in the background. And also a kind of vapoury aura, around all monster’s head. That’ll make it stand out more.”
I wiped my hands, which were covered in dust and black gouache. I looked over what I had done. It was something. I was proud of how it looked. An entire day had passed and I hadn’t thought about the machines, not even once.
Our chicken showed up. Vincent had ordered a thigh and a breast, and I had breaded filets. After dinner, while Vincent watched the hockey game, I looked through my sketches for the Deathgaze logo lettering. A few were really good. One in particular, with letters reminiscent of tarantula legs, would look perfect right above the monster’s head.
The next day I got up early, still full of adrenaline. I was going to meet Jade that night, but that still left me some time to work on my illustration. I was on a roll. I picked up my octopus and my demonic-lettered “Deathgaze” logos and slid them delicately into my backpack. I’d left my leather portfolio at Rémi’s. I searched through my stuff to find my zip drive and then, without even having breakfast, headed to school to use their equipment.
When I got to my Cegep I went straight to the computer labs reserved for the graphic design students. Walking in it hit me that I’d missed the smell of acetone and plastic, and the soft whirr of the computers. It felt like I hadn’t set foot here for six months or more. There were five or six students spread around the room. All had the sickly pallor that comes at the end of the semester. Time seemed to pass at a different speed here. Someone asked where I’d been. Someone else, busy with their final project, wanted to borrow contact cement.
I logged in to one of the computers and went to scan my drawings and lettering tests. I set the resolution to 400 dpi, to give me some play. I had six or seven hours ahead of me: it wasn’t enough to produce a final version, but it would give me something to keep the guys in the band at bay. I spent the day on Photoshop, fine-tuning the contrast on my octopus illustration, cleaning up my lettering tests, and sharpening and stretching out the edges. I tried out a few different logo positions. By three o’clock I had two preliminary covers ready. They were pretty badass. Definitely good enough to show Alex I was getting close. I took a deep breath, saved everything to my drive, then compressed the files so I could email them. I wrote Alex a long email, apologizing profusely. I blamed my own failings on my new job, said I was still doing my best to work out how to balance everything. I attached jpegs of the two versions, and hit send. I felt relieved. I checked the time on top of the screen. Four hours left till I had to meet Jade. I was proud of myself, and even thought about stopping by to see Marie-Lou, right then and there. She usually worked Wednesdays. I stopped at the Pita Pit for a sandwich to go and headed off. Big snowflakes were falling and sticking in the hair of the girls I passed on Rue Ontario. For the first time in weeks, I was actually looking forward to Christmas.
I’d just finished my sandwich when I walked into Chez Maurice. They’d strung Christmas lights along the walls. Diane was waiting tables. She was around forty, maybe a touch younger, with a laugh like a crow and jokes even dirtier than the filth you got accustomed to working in kitchens. Diane loved nothing better than making fun of me and Marie-Lou, as if we were an old married couple.
Benjamin was behind the bar. He was reading a book placed between a take-out coffee and a full ashtray, big forehead resting in his hand. He looked up at me.
“What can I do you for?”
He always asked me the exact same question, before getting down to business, never led with a “What’s new?” or “How’s it going?” He set a coaster down on the dented bar. I ordered a beer.
“You know when Marie-Lou’s coming in?”
“Marie-Lou isn’t working today. She got someone to take her shift.”
“Oh, okay.”
He looked kind of sleepy, looking around for his lighter with a smoke already in his mouth.
“Did you come to see her?”
“Yeah and no. I was in the neighbourhood, had some time.”
He took a puff.
“Hey I just remembered,” he said. “I have something for you.”
He went down into the basement. I had a sip of beer. It was nice and cold. I relaxed, and had a look around. The room was full of regulars with beer bellies and two-day stubble. Diane was counting change at the end of the bar with a friend. They both favoured matching Pat Benatar hairdos. Her change purse lay on the stool looked like the carapace of some sea creature.
Benjamin came back up with a book.
“Here man, read this. It’s good. And tell me what you think. The movie’s coming out next week. Scorsese. But the book’s actually old, from the twenties.”
I read the title. Gangs of New York: An Informal History of the Underworld, by Herbert Asbury. I’d never heard of the author, but I sure loved Cape Fear, Casino, and Goodfellas.
“It’s in English. I can’t read that.”
His coffee cup stopped moving halfway to his mouth.
“Remember what I told you about that. Just give it a try. It’s not that hard. If you understand a little English you can read in English.”
“Thanks, that’s nice of you. But I haven’t even started the last one you gave me.”
“No worries, I’ve read them both twice. Keep them as long as you need.”
We talked a bit. He served me a second beer. My tongue was loosening, and I ignored Bébert’s warning. It’s not like he was here to hear me anyway.
“Tell me about Greg.”
“Who? Normandeau?”
“Yeah. How’d you meet him?”
He rubbed his hands together as he sized me up, as if trying to decide whether to tell me the story or not.
“Let’s say he owes one of my brothers a favour.”
“Which one? Simon?”
I’d seen Benjamin’s brother Simon a few times. He was a real live wire, never stopped talking. He owned a bar on Saint-Laurent and another one in the Gay Village.
“No,” he said, laughing. “François.”
I’d never seen François, but I’d heard about him. Marie-Lou knew him a bit. He was like a stockier, even more laconic version of Benjamin. He’d been to prison.
In the end that was all I learned about Greg that day. A customer came up to the bar.
“Go tell your waitress there’s no way I drank all that,” the guy said.
The guy was in his late forties, with massive hands popping out of a winter-lined flannel shirt. He leaned over the bar next to me. He was holding up his bill. Benjamin took it from his hands.
“Let’s have a look, Marcel.”
The guy kept right on mumbling, something about how women couldn’t count. Benjamin took a close look at the bill.
“Looks good to me. It’s all there,” he said, passing the bill back. “Don’t forget the tip.”
Marcel took the bill and crumpled it up. He turned red, as if he’d dropped a cinder block on his foot. Benjamin was stone-faced behind the bar.
“I’m. Not. Paying.” Marcel said. “Your waitress can’t count.”
“How many beers did you drink, then?”
Marcel hesitated.
“See that’s the thing. We count every beer you drink. Then we print them on the bill. If you want I can even tell you what time Diane took them over to you.”
“I’m. Not. Paying.”
Benjamin leaned over the bar, with open hands.
“Yeah you will. Just like every other time we let you run a tab. You drank those beers, now it’s time to pay. That’s how it works.”
“Oh yeah. What if I don’t?”
Marcel was getting cheeky. He started smiling with a mouthful of brown teeth. Benjamin was still leaning over the bar. He was calm: not in the least pissed off but not friendly either.
“You gonna ban me?”
Benjamin looked him in the eye.
> “Believe it.”
Marcel held Benjamin’s stare for moment. He was a pretty intimidating guy. After a while his heavy eyelids blinked. Benjamin didn’t give an inch, just kept right on staring him down.
“All right, fine,” Marcel said, lowering his head.
The guy took three twenties from his back pocket and threw them down on the bar, in front of Benjamin. Then he crossed the room, limping slightly. He didn’t say a word to anyone, just pushed open the big metal door and disappeared outside.
Benjamin brought me another beer.
“On the house.”
He wasn’t rattled in the least. On the other hand, who knew what was going on behind that impassive mask.
It was 5:45 on the big Molson Export clock. I checked my pager messages, in case Alex might have called back to talk about the sketches. I was on my fourth beer. I had a good sixty dollars left. It was more than enough for the night. I’d left the rest at Vincent’s, just to be safe. It filled me with confidence, with a warm feeling that nothing could go wrong.
As usual I’d been careful to sit at the bar with my back to the machines. But I still had to walk by them to go to the bathroom. I’d gotten a little too sure of myself, and gone over to check out the jackpots. Almost all empty. One of them was sure to pay out soon. I went to piss and went back to the bar without a second look at the machines. But halfway through my beer, I started doing the math. What if I played just twenty, maybe forty bucks, I could come out with a hundred, one-twenty, even two-hundred. Especially if I picked the machine that was about to pay out. I imagined playing and my vision grew fuzzy. I bit my lips. I tried to catch Diane’s eye. She was always ready to strike up a conversation, just jump right in without warning or niceties. With Diane conversation was a one-way street. You never had to utter a word. Usually it was annoying, but right now I would have killed to have her come up and tell me a few stories I’d already heard ten times, about her life as a “biker girl,” her hard-partying teenage years at the Rouville campground, the legendary 1983 Plume Latraverse show, the time she and her boyfriend ordered hot dogs on acid, her friend who went out with a Hells Angels striker. But she was nowhere to be found. Even Benjamin had disappeared.
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