I could feel electric shocks running up and down my body, from my ankles to my neck. I looked at my hands. They were trembling. It was no use fighting it. Worst case I wouldn’t lose that much. I picked up my beer and headed for the machine. I rationalized my decision, told myself I deserved it. I’d stop at twenty. After all, I’d been good for more than a week.
I climbed up on the stool and put a twenty in the blinking slot. Game on. For the first while I won small amounts, but whenever I bet a touch less cautiously I’d lose. I was riveted in place. It felt like I’d never breathed that deeply in my life. A second twenty found its way into the machine. All I had left in my pocket was one more twenty but, in this state of elated denial, twenty dollars seemed like a fortune, enough to live for two months. I patiently ran my wins up to seventy dollars. It was 7:30. I had nothing but time. I could definitely work my way up to a hundred dollars. It was doable. I’d done it before. If I could just bring it up to a hundred, it would be a perfect day.
But I was stuck at seventy. My wins and losses were balancing out, my lucky breaks fewer and farther between.
Eight-thirty. I’d just be a little late meeting Jade. A shadow loomed in my blind spot.
“What kind of idiot do you think I am? Jesus.”
My dry eyes stayed glued to the screen. But I recognized the voice. It seemed I might melt then and there. She almost never used that cold, insulted tone of voice. My heart began beating at breakneck speed. My ears were buzzing. Everything slowed to a crawl: the fruits on the screen, the second hand on the clock, the rotation of the earth.
Marie-Lou was standing next to me with one of her friends. They were dressed up for a night out. She was wearing her bullet-belt and eighteen-hole Docs. Her friend had a pierced nose and eyebrows, and caked-on makeup. She looked like a porcelain doll in a khaki army coat.
“You’ve got some nerve. You’re too busy to come see me. But you’ve got time to sit around gambling. At my work! With my money! No fucking shame whatsoever.”
Her eyes were popping out of their sockets, her cheeks and forehead breaking out in red spots. With her upper lip curled up in a snarl, baring her teeth, she looked poised to bite. In the corner of my eye I could see the fruits, the 7s, and the bells scrolling by on the screen. I tried to mumble some sort of apology, or explanation, told her I’d come here to see her.
“Shut up!”
She stormed over to the bar to pick up something by the cash register. The soles of her boots battered the floor. Then she came back toward me. Her friend was staring at me like I was a piece of shit in a pool of puke, black-lipsticked mouth a grimace of disgust.
“You’re just a fucking liar.” Marie-Lou said.
“Marie. . .”
“Just leave me alone.”
Her friend pushed the door open. Before leaving, Marie-Lou turned back to me.
“Keep my fucking money. But don’t let me ever hear you call Jess a junkie again. You’re way fucking worse. Pretending to be such a good guy. All hard done by. You make me sick.”
They took off outside. Like a fighter struck by a knockout punch, I didn’t move. I tried to pull myself together. I knew I should get up and run after her. But the money spinning around in the machine kept me anchored to the spot more firmly than the strongest chain.
Diane came by to make sure I was okay. I gave her a curt nod, without looking up. My shame had hardened into anger. I started playing aggressively. Maximum bet every time, as if I was doing my best to lose everything I had. Marie-Lou’s words kept echoing through my head. My winnings would balloon, only to disappear again. I put what was left of my last twenty in the machine, then lost that too. The machine wouldn’t take my last five, it was too crumpled. I got Diane to change it for two toonies and a loonie. Then I went back to my machine, the one I’d leaned a stool against to reserve. Benjamin had gone home, it was night, I was cold, I was hot, I felt like I was going to cry. I slid a toonie into the machine.
At 10:20 I left the bar, pockets empty, stunned by the violence of my shame.
Chapter 27
Ispent the following day curled up on the couch watching movies Vincent had rented, Reign of Fire and Men in Black II. Last night’s events had taken on the consistency of a nightmare come true. I was refusing to think about it. As Christian Bale and Matthew McConaughey vaporized dragons in some post-apocalyptic future, Marie-Lou’s furious words haunted me, sounding in the echo chamber of my mind with a heightened brutality and ferocity. Then my thoughts turned to Jade. I pictured her waiting for me at the bar, looking at her watch, saving a stool next to her, pushing away anyone who attempted to cozy up to her, scanning the room for a sign of me, or doing whatever she’d be doing to keep busy once she saw I wasn’t showing up.
I somehow summoned the strength to call Alex, who had paged me that morning, before leaving for work. We didn’t talk long. He was at work, and his tone was a bit warmer than the last few messages.
“Man, I saw what you sent. It’s rad. But do you listen to your messages all the way through?”
I was standing up in the living room, with my bag at my feet, staring at my still reflection in the window that looked over the now-dark Boulevard Henri-Bourassa.
“Yeah. Why?”
“So you understand we need it earlier? Are you gonna have our album cover done in time? We got three big gigs coming up in January. The EP has to be ready to go.”
My eyes opened wide. I tried not to panic.
“Oh yeah, that. I got that. It’ll be ready.”
I tossed out a random date, without even thinking about it.
As I hung up I realized just what I’d done. It was one thing to finish the album cover, another to pay for printing. I knew what “cash on delivery” meant. I went straight over to count my money. Rechecked three times just to be certain. With my next paycheque coming in, I was short five, maybe six-hundred dollars. I thought back to the hundreds of dollars I’d squandered the night before. I started casting around for solutions, concocting all kinds of far-fetched schemes and ridiculous capers. This bitches’ brew of bullshit forced me to face an ugly truth. The Deathgaze gig was the break I needed, and I was proceeding to fuck it up. And once I did everyone would see me for what I was: a joke, a screw-up, a liar. That was the part that was hard to swallow.
When I went back to work after my day off I swore I was through with gambling. I was going to be disciplined. I’d come home every night straight after work, catch the last Orange Line Metro toward Henri-Bourassa.
I didn’t see Jade until she got back from her days off. She ignored me. When work forced us into contact, we both acted like we were dealing with an ATM or a vending machine. I never tried to explain myself. Giving reasons for not showing up seemed worse than living with her indifference, and glacial indifference seemed like a fair reaction to getting stood up. I wasn’t about to invent a second lie to justify what I’d done.
So I kept my head down. Meanwhile, Bébert was spiralling out of control. His funny side had gone on hiatus and his mean streak was on full display. He took the piss out of everyone, just for kicks. Fatigue was catching up. When he was working Bébert was still the most dependable cook on the line, except Vlad maybe. But he was slipping, harder and more often. He was talking as much shit about Renaud as he used to about Christian. Steven had become his bugbear, and Bébert peppered him with slander and digs, even though he was merely a stand-in for Renaud, the true target of his wrath.
“Hey, why don’t you tell your buddy Renaud there’s more to being a chef than watching porn in the office all day.”
Vlad usually avoided confronting Bébert when he was on a tear, but one night he told him, coldly, to stop talking behind the chef’s back. Bébert hit right back, saying Renaud could call himself a chef when he was clocking the sixty hours Bébert worked every goddamn week.
“And until then, I’ll keep calling him ‘wanker,
’ if that’s okay with you. Or ‘Head Wanker’ if you want.”
And he didn’t stop there. He was cursing out everyone all the time now, even to Séverine.
“I don’t pay you to talk shit about my staff,” she answered with an otherworldly calm. “I pay you to put out food. If you’ve got something to say to Renaud put on your big-boy pants and say it to his face.”
“He’d have to come out of his cave for that,” Bébert shot back.
It was a fact: Renaud had up and vanished. You’d only ever see him with his clipboard doing the ordering. He’d spend an hour or two in the office, then head out at the end of the lunch service, leaving everything unfinished and Bébert holding the bag, while he waited to be officially named sous-chef.
I was the only one Bébert spared. He’d still come back to the dishpit to smoke and vent. There was a new theme now, about how everyone was out to get him. But he wasn’t going out like that. He had big plans. Different ones each time. One night he swore he was going to punch Renaud out, truss him with ten feet of nautical rope, toss him in a hockey bag and thrown him off the Champlain Bridge. When he finally cooled down, he said he would have to negotiate his promotion directly with Séverine. I was Bébert’s confidant, his witness and secret ally. This sudden trust was incredibly important to me. Here at least was one person I had to make sure to never, ever disappoint.
Chapter 28
I’d arranged with Renaud to work December 31 and January 1. That gave me a valid excuse not to go see my family for New Year’s. But there was no getting around Christmas. Even if he was going to Cuba, if I skipped Christmas Malik would catch wind of it and hold it against me for a long time.
On Christmas Eve I set off from Vincent’s in the early afternoon.
When I cleared the top of the stairs at the Longueuil Metro station, I joined the sea of people immersed in the final preparations for celebrations. The McDonald’s was full. Since they’d finished the renovations, the skids that usually hung out around the pay phones had abandoned their old turf. At the taxi stand old friends were jumping into each others’ arms, weighed down with bags of every shape and size. I made my way through this joyful commotion and let it rub off on me, and for a moment I was almost light-hearted. I realized I was looking forward to seeing my parents.
I took Bus No. 20 along Highway 132 home, along the still-unfrozen St. Lawrence River. The water glimmered under a low-hanging sun and on the banks the year’s first snows hadn’t melted. The neighbourhood I grew up in was snowy as well. I got off a few stops early, by the overpass where we’d smoked our first joints and drunk our first beers. I wanted to walk the streets a bit. Elaborate Christmas decorations lit up the fronts of houses and poked their heads through the haphazard snow in flowerbeds.
My parents welcomed me like an intrepid traveller back from a trip around the world. My mum jumped into my arms, and held me tight, and I held her too, happy to hear her voice and smell her familiar scent again. My dad shook my hand, with a wide smile under his long beard. They were both dressed up. Then I went to say hi to the rest of the family. Everyone was gathering in the big kitchen. Malik’s dad Claude had driven up from Sherbrooke. Standing there like a giant in his turtleneck and jacket, he shook my hand vigorously. Jacques, my mother’s youngest brother, was there too, with his daughters and new girlfriend. I was both relieved and disappointed Malik wouldn’t be there. He was the only one who knew the truth about my life across the river.
Once I’d said my hellos and given everyone a hug, my dad handed me a beer.
He clinked his bottle against mine. I looked at my mum. She was laughing with my uncles. My dad and I leaned against the counter, next to the oven. It smelled like cloves and browning pie crust.
“I’ve got something for you to listen to. An oldie but a goodie, I think you’ll like it. Mountain.”
My mum was serving veggies and dip, pickles, and marinated olives. My uncle Jacques was teasing her gently, with a whisky and water in one hand and a butane lighter in the other. My dad gave me a little pat on the shoulder.
“That reminds me. Malik told us you had a little contract? For an album cover? That’s cool.”
I was about to take a sip of beer, but stopped short.
“When did he tell you that?”
“At Jacques’s place, when we were over for dinner. You never tell us anything, so we get our news wherever we can. . .”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I’m super busy.”
“Still, you could have told us that. Your mum is really proud. Is it coming along?”
“Yeah, it’s almost done. I’ll show you once it’s finished.”
He clinked his beer against mine again. The adults were chatting as they sipped their drinks, and my cousins were bickering about something. Jacques cut in and happily asked them to sing us the theme song of their play. The oldest one rolled her eyes up to the ceiling.
My mum had made tourtière, and pork hock stew as she did every year. I helped her serve. I now saw the thoughtfulness that went into her every gesture, and from the way she talked to me I could tell she was happy to see me. She told me she’d set aside a bunch of books that were waiting to be catalogued at the library where she worked. She’d been doing that since I was a little kid, whenever a new title came in that she thought I’d like. That was how I’d read all the Thorgal series, and a bunch of Druillet comics. At the table she and her brothers were swapping family stories. At one point Claude went and got the sparkling wine that they’d put outside to chill by the patio door.
“So, big guy, how’s life in Montreal?” he asked as he poured me a glass. “Where are you living?”
“I’m not too far from Ahuntsic park. On Henri-Bourassa.”
“Really? You moved?” my mum asked.
“Well, yeah,” I said, taking a bite of tourtière. “Vincent’s roommate moved out, and I wasn’t getting along with Rémi, really. It’s way better with Vincent. We’re on the same page more. I should have moved out with him from the beginning.”
“It’s true, Vincent’s a good boy,” she said, picking up Jacques’s empty plate.
She headed to the stove to give him a second helping. Claude said you couldn’t make him live in Montreal again, not in a thousand years. In Sherbrooke he had peace and quiet. My dad and Jacques talked about the cottage. He said it would be a good idea to spend Christmas there next year. Then he got up to change the music, put on a Charlie Parker disc, and went downstairs for more wine.
Jacques hadn’t touched his sparkling wine. He kept going back for more whisky with water. He’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His girlfriend was picking at her food and following the talk, her gaze travelling from one person to the next.
“What about school? How’s that going?” Jacques asked, turning toward me.
“Yeah, this semester was great. My illustration teacher is amazing. He thinks I have what it takes to be a graphic designer.”
“It’ll be Julie’s turn soon enough.”
He made a face at his oldest daughter sitting across the table. She sighed.
“C’mon, dad, Cegep isn’t for like a million years.”
“Are you going to have such a heavy course load next semester?” my mum asked.
“Yeah, it should be just as busy. The teachers are already warning us about next fall. The projects are going to be much more challenging. I’m looking forward to it.”
“You should try to find a little time to come see us once in a while. Montreal’s not that far, it’s not like you’re in Sherbrooke.”
She gave Claude a mocking smile, and he shrugged his shoulders, with an apologetic look. Then she went on.
“Your dad stays home Sundays now. You could come for dinner.”
“Okay, I’ll try. And I could cook for you. I’m working in a restaurant now. I’m learning tons.”
“In a restaurant?” my d
ad asked.
He stopped in the middle of opening a bottle of red wine, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I work a couple of nights a week.”
“That’s not too much for you, on top of school?” asked Claude.
He was looking at me, with his fork in one hand and his knife in the other. When he chewed he looked serious. It gave me a glimpse of Malik twenty-five years from now.
“No, it’s just right,” I said. “It gives me a little extra for expenses. I’m not using up all my savings from last summer, it’s one less thing to worry about.”
“Really. That doesn’t sound like you, planning ahead and all. Eh, Jacques?” my mum said.
“But you aren’t actually cooking are you?” my dad asked. “The fanciest thing I’ve ever seen you make is a tomato sandwich. Tell me the name of the restaurant so I can make sure to never eat there!”
He gave me a pat on the back and a glass of wine.
“Actually I’m washing dishes.”
“That’s more like it.”
Sitting there talking, it was as if the zombie plunging ever deeper into debt in front of the video poker machines was a figment of the nether regions of my imagination. My anxiety had dissipated. My appetite was back. I was having seconds of everything, and laughing at the childhood stories my mum was telling her brother’s new girlfriend. He was looking at my mother with a smile, proud of his youngest-kid shenanigans, holding an unlit Players between his fingers.
The Dishwasher Page 31