The CTR Anthology

by Alan Filewod

  (Beat.)

  Him: (stunned at first, then relaxes) I’d laugh in your face.

  Inspector: Oh yeah?

  Him: It takes three days by car to get where she goes on vacation. And mountain climbers don’t carry phones in their knapsacks.

  (Beat.)

  Inspector: Okay. So you had reached the square.

  Him: You try to pull any other ones like that?

  Inspector: You reached the square.

  Him: Hold on.

  Inspector: Too late. Should’ve thought of that earlier. The square.

  Him: The bit about the diary … was it true?

  Inspector: (goes to take a sip of the coffee he hasn’t touched since he called his wife but it’s cold)

  Him: And the bit about his girlfriend?

  Inspector: Whatcha got against that girl?

  (Beat.)

  Inspector: Let’s get on with it. You reached the square. What time did you get there?

  Him: I told you five minutes ago. The time it took to hear the first last call at the Taureau, go out the door, down the stairs and walk over to the square.

  Inspector: You didn’t stop anywhere on the way?

  Him: No.

  Inspector: Didn’t meet anyone you knew?

  Him: No.

  Inspector: Okay. So you reached the square. Then what?

  Him: I sat down on a bench, over by the caleches.

  Inspector: In the park?

  Him: Yeah. Along the walk that leads to Peel.

  Inspector: The first bench on the walk?

  Him: Yeah.

  Inspector: How come your friends didn’t see you?

  Him: Who says my friends didn’t see me? Maybe that’s another one of your stories …

  Inspector: If you had talked to your friends, you’d know I was lying. I could only be making it up if you didn’t talk to them. Are you sure you went to the square?

  Him: Yes.

  Inspector: So how come your friends didn’t see you?

  Him: ’Cause I usually move around. And I hang out around the statue.

  Inspector: How come you didn’t go there this time?

  Him: I didn’t feel like it.

  Inspector: Why didn’t you feel like it?

  Him: ’Cause I felt like bein’ alone. That’s why.

  Inspector: So why did you go to the square?

  Him: ’Cause I didn’t feel like stayin’ at the Taureau for the parade, and I felt …

  Inspector: Parade? What parade?

  Him: The game. When everyone knows the last call is comin’ up, they go to the john and comb their hair, splash some water on their face and then they line up as close to the door as possible, so they can’t miss anyone who’s leavin’ on his own. I call it the parade. I didn’t feel like watchin’ it that night and I didn’t feel like goin’ home either. I wasn’t sleepy. So I went over to the square before everyone else and I didn’t go to my usual spot. That’s why nobody saw me. I was sittin’ on a bench facing Peel.

  Inspector: For how long?

  Him: Not long.

  Inspector: You sure?

  Him: Yeah, ’cause I left before the whole gang started to arrive.

  Inspector: How long?

  Him: The time it takes to walk outta Pepe’s and cross half the park, lengthwise.

  Inspector: Huh?

  Him: I’d just sat down when I heard someone shouting in the middle of Peel Street. I stood up. At first I thought someone got hit by a car … but it was just a bunch of Americans comin’ outta Pepe’s. Having a good time. They stopped the traffic to cross Peel and they came into the park ’n’ went over to take a look at the statue. Then they headed towards me.

  Inspector: To talk to you?

  Him: No. They wanted to go for a caleche ride. I’d sat back down on the back of the bench. They walked right by me. There was one good-lookin’ one in the gang but he was the drunkest. They all looked at me when they walked by. The good-lookin’ one stopped and gave me a big smile … then he went and caught up with the others. They were talking with one of the caleche drivers. Then they went over to another one. None of the drivers wanted to take them cause they all wanted to go in the same caleche and they were too pissed. All of a sudden the good-lookin’ guy covered his face with his hands for a second, then looked up at the sky. Then he turned around slowly and he saw me. Another big grin. And he came over and sat down beside me. On the seat of the bench, not on the back. He muttered something. I think he was apologizing for being too drunk to keep his balance on the back of the bench. Then he asked me to get down ’n’ sit beside him. So I did. He asked me if I wanted to go home with him. I told him it would cost him. He asked me how much. I told him and he gave it to me right away. He put his hand on my neck to get me to stand up. He shouted “bye” to his friends and we headed towards Peel to grab a cab. His friends shouted something at him. We took a cab to the corner of Pine and Aylmer. It had started to rain. He was staying in a flat there with his friends. It belonged to one of them who’s studying at McGill. He said we’d have plenty of time before they got back. But he didn’t touch me. Usually I can’t stand customers who beat around the bush. I like it short and sweet. Don’t like hangin’ around for an hour waiting for something to happen. But he didn’t touch me and I didn’t mind. He took out a map of the city and started askin’ me different things. Where was the Wax Museum, stuff like that. I told him. He was really pissed and he started to make a speech. Couldn’t understand much of it, but I think he was talking about one-night stands and people who hang out in bars checking each other out for hours, without ever saying a word. People who don’t wanta talk, they just wanta fuck. He seemed fed up. Then he finally said, all right, let’s go to bed. We went into the bedroom, he threw himself on the bed and fell asleep on the spot. I undressed him tucked him in. He was sound asleep. I looked at him lying there sleeping. Then I turned out the lights and left … (Beat) … I left his money on the table … (Beat.) … First time I ever did that. I always figured, once they get me there, what the fuck do I care if anything happens or not. Like at the dentist’s. You got an appointment. They charge you whether you come or not. But this time, it just didn’t seem … Something … When I got outside, it had almost stopped raining. I walked back to the square. I knew there was something waiting for me there. I didn’t know what. But I had to go see … Anyway, it was there in the bedroom with the surfer … that I realized that I wasn’t gonna be anyone’s chicken anymore.

  Inspector: …

  Him: It’s got nothing to do with how old you are. Chicken is a way of life. A way of looking at life. It means going through life with a little smirk on your face, a smirk that says everything’s gonna be fine, even if you’re up to your eyebrows in shit. A smirk most people don’t even notice. When it works, you stretch out naked on the bearskin rug and strut your stuff. And when it doesn’t, you take off, on your tiptoes, the way you sneak away from some customer’s house, at five in the morning while he’s sound asleep. Saying to yourself, that guy was really cheap, but there’ll be others. And you take off with his watch if you feel like he took more than he gave.

  (Pause.)

  Inspector: Finished?

  Him: (he nods yes.)

  Inspector: My turn now. Now that you’ve told me everything that crossed your mind. I’m surprised we didn’t get to hear about your ancestors and when they first arrived from Brittany. And I still don’t know any more than I did at one o’clock yesterday morning. You want me to tell you what I think of your story? Eh? Want me to tell you what I think you’re after?

  Him: (doesn’t budge)

  Inspector: Stop looking at me like I was dogshit. I wasn’t born wearing a uniform. But I’m not about to tell you my life story just to make you cry. Your friend there … Thursday night … when you went to see him, I think you were stoned. Stoned outta your mind. I think you got into a fight cause he lives on Casgrain while you work the square for money, and the mountain for fun. I think you got into a fight a
nd you lost control. I think you went nuts cause he wanted to kick you out. I think you killed him without realizing what you were doing. Then you went home and hid. And when you came down off your high, you were scared shitless. And you made up this whole friggin’ story, just hoping you could pass for crazy. Right? Called the reporters. Arranged to steal Judge Delorme’s keys. Where did you get them? Huh? Forget it. Don’t bother. I know. In his pants pocket. Perfect set-up for blackmail, right? Did you steal them before you killed your boyfriend or after?

  Him: After.

  Inspector: That’s right. What could he do about it? If he calls the cops, he’s cooked, right? And all you had to do is call him and tell him: keep this case outta the papers or I call the reporters, or your wife, or the provincial police and I show them the keys … Am I right or not?

  Him: No.

  Inspector: No? No, what? When are you gonna come out with it, for the love of Christ? Why did you take them? And when did you change your mind? And why? Listen. I’ve met hundreds of smartass kids like you. Ten a day, every day, for the past five years. I’ve seen all kinds. Some get into it cause they need the money to pay for university, and when they’ve got enough money, they stop. Some of them start one night when they’re high on acid and they never come down. Others it’s just too much beer. Some of them do it ’cause they’re starving to death. Some come down from Out-remont, just for the trip. They come in all shapes and sizes. Tall and short, fat or skinny as a toothpick. I’ve seen some with faces that look like they been carved with a tomahawk. And others with real babyfaces. It’s the 50-year-old ones that scare the shit outta you. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, thinking I can smell their perfume … I’m not stupid. I know chickens aren’t just something you eat for Sunday dinner. I knew it before you were even born. And your profound observations on the subject aren’t teaching me a thing. Nothing! So drop the pretty speeches and deliver the goods.

  Him: (stares at the Inspector without blinking. Makes no move to respond. Pause.)

  Inspector: Okay. So let me tell you something else. Something you can call my wife and tell her when you get outta jail, or if they give you one last wish. Something I’ve never told anyone. There are times when I’m sitting at my desk and they’re sitting there across from me and I look at them and I feel like crying my eyes out. Sometimes, if Guy wasn’t there to transcribe what they’re saying, I wouldn’t be able to remember what they said for two, three, maybe ten minutes. I don’t hear a thing. Nothing. They could be speaking Hebrew or Arabic, for all I understand. And it takes every last bit of strength I got not to tell Guy to leave. Not to get up and go over to them and take them in my arms. Okay? (Beat.) I’ve seen all kinds. You name it. But I hope I’ll never see another one like you as long as I fuckin’ live. I hope you’re the only one of your kind. ’Cause your little trip is the lousiest, the sickest trip I’ve ever seen.

  (Pause.)

  Inspector: (slowly, deliberately) I don’t know how I’m gonna prevent you from getting what you want. But you can be sure, I’m gonna do everything I can. I dunno how I’m gonna prove you stole those keys. I dunno know if I’m gonna have to commit perjury, but I’m gonna prevent you from implicating the judge. Not because he’s a buddy. Not because there’s anything in it for me. Not even to save my job; I’ve had tougher nuts to crack. I’m gonna do it just for the pleasure of shutting you up and taking you out of circulation. And for that pleasure, I’m willing to do anything. You hear me? Anything. I’m gonna get you. You can count on it. (Beat.) And for starters, I got a big disappointment for you. Your reporter friends aren’t even gonna get to see you walk outta here. (Shouts.) Guy!

  (The Stenographer opens the side door and looks in. The Inspector motions him to come in and shut the door.)

  Inspectors: Have the reporters taken out to the lobby.

  Stenographer: Okay.

  (The Stenographer opens the door.)

  Inspector: Wait.

  (The Stenographer closes the door and waits.)

  Inspector: Get instructions to Judge Delorme to come in through the back door of the courthouse. And make sure the photographer doesn’t see him arrive. Then come back here.

  Stenographer: Okay.

  (The Stenographer exits, closing the door gently behind him.)

  Inspector: (brief pause) Maybe it won’t do any good. I’m too tired to think. But I’m gonna find a way, you can count on it.

  Him: (after a pause equivalent to the time it takes to count from 1,000 to 1,030, without looking at the Inspector) I wasn’t stoned. It was worse than that. I was in love. I never been in such a state in my life. I never been so out of it. I’d called him from the Peel metro station, to tell him I was on my way. I was feelin’ good cause I’d had a good day and I wanted to invite him out for supper. Nothing fancy. Maybe at the Saint-Denis or Gabrielli’s. Afterwards, we would’ve gone back to his place and made love. I called it recharging my batteries. Everytime I spent two hours in his arms, I felt like nothing bad could ever happen to me again. You’re right – he lived on Casgrain Street and I work the square. But he never talked about it. And it’s true that I sometimes went up on the mountain right after I left him. I’m an addict. Understand? You capable of understanding that? Sure you are. But you don’t feel like it. If you let yourself understand that, how could you continue doing your job? You see, I’m capable of understanding things too. (To himself again.)

  It’s not true that doing it for money, or getting off on the mountain five nights a week and being in love is all the same thing. It’s easier to believe that. But it’s not true … there are some things you’re just born with, you don’t get to choose. Your ass is no different from your head. Some people can’t do any better than the quiz shows on Channel 10. And even that’s an effort. Others, they write. They don’t do it to put other people down … but it just comes out beautiful. Fucking is the same thing. It’s a gift. Either you got it or you don’t. You do it well or you don’t. Either you like it or you don’t. I like it. Any old way. Doing it for money is just a job. I don’t even want most of them to touch me. Some of them I do. Why some and not others? I dunno. I never bothered to ask myself the question. It’s not necessarily the good-lookin’ ones or the nice ones. It’s sure not the rich ones. Some customers, I’ll giv’em whatever they want as long as I don’t havta take my clothes off. Others, I’ll spend the night with them for the same price. But they’re all just customers. I never forget there’s cash at the end of the line. Even when they’re really nice.

  (The Stenographer comes back in and closes the door behind him, silently. The Inspector motions to him to start transcribing.)

  Him: On the mountain, it’s a whole other trip. I get to choose. And if I get fed up, I can drop it right there. And it’s outside. Sometimes, just before dawn, when the birds first begin to sing, it’s something else. It’s so quiet. Almost everyone’s gone home to bed. And the ones who are still around are finishin’ up fast. It’s always a real gang bang just before day-light. Then there’s hardly anyone left on the trails. Sometimes I go there without lookin’ for anything special. Just cause I know I’ll be with other guys like me. All lookin’ for the same thing: somebody to fool around with, have some fun, maybe get a bit of pleasure out of it, you never know. No more, no less. Sometimes I’m lucky and I pick up a couple of customers early at the square; when I figure I’ve made enough money and it’s still early, one o’clock maybe, I go up on the mountain, don’t even havta be stoned, and I spend the whole night walkin’ around all by myself, playin’ games. Sometimes it’s Cowboys and Indians. Or Robin Hood. Sometimes I play war, I’m in enemy territory, the last survivor of a commando unit, and I practise walkin’ around without makin’ any noise. Can’t let anyone see me or hear me. Sometimes it turns into a horror movie. I brace myself against a tree and let the spooks roll by. Until I can’t stand it anymore … that’s usually when I imagine this … guy, about 30-35, with a plaid shirt, fat, bald, and he’s got a … a kn
ife. (Beat.) I don’t even know where Brittany is.

  (The Stenographer looks up from his work, glances at the Inspector. But the Inspector is looking out the window.)

  Him: Anyway, if there’s anyone who didn’t care about my workin’ the square, it was him. He was another one capable of understanding. He didn’t mind my talkin’ about it. Sometimes, when we spent the night together, just before I’d fall asleep I’d feel like this wave of disgust and I’d ask him to kill me to prevent me from going back. And he’d just take me in his arms and hold me so tight I couldn’t breathe, and he’d whisper, shhhh, shhhhh. But I tried not to say things like that to him, even when I felt them, cause sometimes it made him cry. And I could take anything but that … (To the Inspector.) To see a man come, any man, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Even if he’s ugly. But with him, it was more than that. It was like the first sunrise. But I can’t stand seein’ a guy cry. I never know what to do. And when he cried, especially because of me, it was the end of the world. I’d rather disintegrate than make him cry. (Back to himself.) Sometimes he told me stories. Any old story. Hansel and Gretel. Little Red Riding Hood. He had a voice … like … made me feel … I dunno … just fine. He could’ve told me his carrot cake recipe with that voice and it would’ve had the same effect on me. Once he read to me out of a book by Claudel. The book was beside his bed. “Wait a minute, I’m going to read you something.” He managed to get an arm free. He picked up the book. “Hold on, I can’t read like this.” I was sorta lyin’ on top of him and he rolled me over on my back. He propped the book up on my chest and started lookin’ for the page. When he found it, he moved up and kissed me. He said “Goodnight.” And he moved back down and started to read. I can’t remember what it was about. But I remember it’s the only time in my life I ever fell asleep on my back. Like on an air mattress in the middle of a lake. He lent me the book. It’s over at my place. I never managed to get beyond the part he read to me.

  When I arrived at his place, he was cookin’ supper. He’d bought some wine and he’d run me a bath. Stupid, huh? But that’s all it took. When I saw the bath full of bubbles – I’d gone rushin’ into the bathroom cause I had to pee bad – and when he came in behind me and put his arm around my chest and kissed me on the neck … I stopped breathing on the spot. It wasn’t … how can I say it? … it wasn’t anything like the lovin’ wife greetin’ the husband when he gets home from a hard day at the office. It wasn’t like the mother in “Father Knows Best.” He was the one who joked about it afterwards. But it wasn’t like that. He was a guy. A boy, I mean. And it was simple. Perfectly natural. It was like … like … suddenly I was at home. And I wanted so bad to make him as happy as he’d just made me. And the great thing was: I knew how. For the first time in my life, I was sure I understood how someone else’s head worked. It was easy. So easy. All I had to do was ask myself what I felt, what I wanted, what would make me happiest in the whole world, and then do it for him. The way he’d just done for me. That’s all. (To the Inspector without looking at him.) You fed up?