by Shilo Jones
“How is it everyone knows this but me?” Eric moans. “The hardwood guys said they needed to finish here and move to another—”
I try not to laugh. “You bought that bullshit? It’s Friday night. You haven’t even got the thing framed. Hardwood goes in last, or right before the paint. You think the hardwood guys want to be here first thing Saturday morning?”
Eric looks panicked, asks how I know so much.
“I spent high-school summers painting houses.”
“Perfect!” Eric leans in for a kiss. I deflect with the blueprints, fight the memory of a beaked half-human creature shattering a car windshield. Eric says he’s sorry he’s gotta bail on dinner but he could really use some help—the weed-smelling guy drops another piece of plywood at our feet and a dust cloud billows around us—and could I stick around, maybe grab us some takeout sushi.
“On two conditions.” I check the blueprints. “First you tell Mr. Chronic to move the insulation to that corner and stack the plywood where the insulation is now.”
Eric pinches the blueprints, tugs me toward him. “He’s gonna hate that. He already moved the plywood—”
“Just tell him. That’s what bosses do. This isn’t a sales negotiation. He’s pissed because he isn’t getting paid to make decisions, even about something stupid like where to put plywood. That’s your job, and you’re not doing it.”
Eric’s excuse-making is interrupted by the hardwood guy screaming holy fuck while he cradles his hand and hops across the platform—
Eric takes a step toward the display suite, hesitates, asks if I think the guy’s okay.
“Probably nail-gunned his finger. Happens all the time. But you could ask him.”
Eric says nothing.
“Hey!” I yell at the hardwood guy. “Get bone?”
The guy walks to the edge of the platform, shields his eyes against the shop lights. Torn jeans and a threadbare Pixies T-shirt. Early thirties. I tap the blueprints against my shoulder. Eric’s irritating inability to deal is helping remind me that I’m here to break things off with him. The hardwood guy holds his hand up, makes sure I see the blood running down his palm, says, “No bone, stapled my thumb-web thing.”
“We have a first aid kit. You need it?”
“Actually, Jaz, I don’t think we—”
The hardwood guy laughs, says it’ll stop bleeding soon enough, returns to his work.
I grab Eric’s elbow. “This is where you make a crack about him not bleeding all over your expensive hardwood. Lighten the mood?”
Eric looks about to be sick, manages to stammer the updated plywood-pile instructions to Mr. Chronic, who whinges about how having to do everything twice is total bullshit, no wonder these hamster cages are so bullshit expensive, which seems reasonable enough.
Eric and I hurry to the back, where he spreads the blueprints on a piece of plywood stretched across two sawhorses. The half-finished condo suite, ringed by shop lights and broader darkness, looks like the armature of a lunar pod or a museum reconstruction of a prehistoric dwelling. Eric’s blathering about high-end fixtures and costs per square foot. The guy in the Pixies shirt catches me watching him. What would I say? To break the ice? That must’a hurt? Amar always knew what to say. Reporters, cops, groupies, rivals—always ready with a slick line.
Dealing with the construction crew on Eric’s behalf leaves me feeling capable but on the outside of things. Eric knows my brother was murdered, but he has no idea about Vincent Peele’s connection to Clint Ward. No way a guy like him could keep his mouth shut. Criminal activity? Please. Do that, you’re no better than them. That’s what Eric would say. Let the police handle it. Besides, what do you possibly hope to accomplish? Order, civility, security. The bedrock of Eric Hull. Even now, after he’s ditched his journalistic aspirations and devoted himself to hawking real estate, there’s still a pretentious twang in Eric’s voice when he speaks to me, a South Van girl. Eric was born and raised in Lonsdale. Grew up gazing across Burrard Inlet. Feels possessive of Vancouver, the city beyond reproach, a treasured trinket he covets and secrets away. But he’s involved in the story now, whether he knows it or not. I fold my arms and worry about guilt, and more specifically why I don’t feel much of it—
Eric rolls up the blueprints. “What’s condition two?”
“You impart a smidge of your vast realtor wisdom and tell me how to run my first open house for Marigold.”
“Open house? Fantastic! When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Eric laughs. “Yup, sounds like Peele. No concern for anyone but himself. See? If you came and worked with us, that would never happen—”
“Nothing ever gets dumped last minute on a Western Rim agent? You volunteered to be in this sweltering dust pit all Friday night—”
Eric raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But I’m not sure I understand what you need. You did amazing during the probation period. Keep doing more of the same?”
I thread my arm through Eric’s. “Advice? Insight? I’ve never been solo on an open house.”
“Don’t stress. These widgets sell themselves. But that’s my advice: make sure the unit sells tomorrow. That’s what Peele expects.”
“Other than that I’m good to go?”
Eric scrolls through a menu on his phone. “Absolutely. Except…it’s important to be…animated. Is that the right word? Do you want gyoza?”
“Cartoons are animated. Or is that anime?”
This is a man who once spent an entire meal explaining the difference between anime and cartoons.
“Uh, sorry, of course you’re right, animated is the wrong word. Important to show enthusiasm? To be communicative.”
“Am I not enthusiastic?”
The guy in the Pixies shirt wraps a strip of duct tape around his injured hand.
“Oh, sure, yeah,” Eric says in his most aggravating falsely conciliatory tone. “You have enthusiasm. But…people sense when your heart’s not in it, you know? I believe that. We’re more in tune with one another than we—”
“Say it. Please.”
Eric falters. Takes off his hard hat, rubs the back of his neck. “You’re quiet sometimes, Jaz. It throws people off. When you’re talking, it’s easier to warm to you.” Puts the hard hat back on, tries to smile. “You have a nice voice. When you’re with a client, your enthusiasm needs to be evident, your excitedness. Excitement? This is an exciting time for our clients. We should be excited too…”
“I am excited. How about we say ‘excited’ some more? Will that help?”
Eric swats me with the blueprints. “Okay…but still. Clients want their agents to be confident, to display a certain joie de vivre, vivaciousness—”
“I fucking know what it means.”
The circular saw screams, startling Eric. He glances at the work crew to see if anyone notices. “It’s the tiniest of tweaks. Because you asked for my opinion, for a place to begin, you know, improving. A tweak can make all the difference—”
“A tweak? I’m not sure exactly what—”
“A slight adjustment. Do you practise in front of the mirror?”
“Excuse me?”
Eric sighs. “Speaking. Enunciating. Are you upset?”
I sit on the plywood table, remember it’s covered in sawdust, stand up, brush myself off. “Forget it. No. Upset? I’m not exactly skipping the light fandango.”
“Is that something your mother says?”
“She used to. So what? What the hell are you saying? Practise in front of—”
“If you want. To try?”
I should be getting angry, but mostly I’m tired. “Eric, I asked for advice on how to run an open house, not how to speak the language. Are you saying people have a hard time understanding me? Because of my—”
Eric waves at a woman in the doorway carrying two massive binders stuffed with fabric samples. Hammer noise quiets as the carpenters pause to decide if she’s worth paying attention to, then quickly resumes.
Eric tries to brush past me. “Anyway, it’s nothing. Want to help me pick window coverings?”
“Not in the slightest. You remember I was born here? On Knight Street. I don’t have an—”
“Well, maybe. But there’s this perception. Among a particular group of people who happen to make up the majority of our client base. I’m not saying it’s right. We have to work within it, even though—between you and me—it sucks. Speaking in front of the mirror might help. More for them than for you. But also try making eye contact more frequently. Not aggressively, but in an appropriately engaged fashion. Constructive, communicative eye contact works wonders. We’re dealing with language barriers, all kinds of cultural assumptions. And stop fiddling with your hands—”
“My hands?”
“Stop fidgeting with them. Like you’re doing now.”
The saleswoman tiptoes into the construction site, winces at the noise. I decide I want to leave before we’re introduced. A half-finished journalism diploma and a Hail Mary story. Maybe it’s time to take this real estate racket, and Eric Hull, more seriously. Who’s the dipshit now, Jasminder? “Enthusiasm. Speak proper English. Got it. Thanks, Eric. Anything else?”
“Takeout sushi? I’m buying.”
I tell him sure, but only because I’m in no position to pass up a free meal, and after slipping outside and walking a few unnoticed blocks I find myself standing directly in front of the nightclub, now converted to a trendy brand-strategy agency, where Amar was shot point-blank in the back of the head and his name means forever, long life, luck, the everlasting.
* * *
Parked across from Andy Livingstone Field, psyching myself for sushi with Eric. Up the volume on the stereo, a playlist of early punk and current dance pop, violent rebellion and vapid conformity, alternating through the extremes. I haven’t spoken to anyone about the visions. Sky ripped apart over Point Grey. Yaletown condominium with a femur still blood-wet and as large as an airplane chained to the exterior. North Shore Mountains torn from granite bedrock, flipped upside down, hovering. Half-animal, half-human dancers circling Canada Place plaza. Blue fire consuming the Nine O’Clock Gun. Misshapen skinless creatures emerging from a Saint Laurent handbag in a window display on Robson Street.
They began a few months after Amar died. Post-bereavement hallucinatory experiences. Ghosts of loved ones glimpsed in bathroom mirrors. Their voices singing a favourite song (Amar’s secret fave was Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up,” partly because it was on the soundtrack to New Jack City; his public fave was Tupac’s “California Love”). Usually I’m not lucky enough to see Amar. All I see is this city. Only happened once or twice a year, until now. Enough time in between to pretend they were isolated incidents. But coming more frequently as the anniversary of my brother’s death approaches. Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds in a day. And of those maybe only a half-dozen are inexplicable, horrifying, beautiful. So isn’t that an acceptable ratio? Of mental normalness and day-to-day grieving and keeping on versus the other stuff? All things considered?
There’s a soccer tournament at Andy Livingstone. Three different games. A city block glowing bright enough to accurately kick a checkered ball. In a local entrepreneur magazine, I read about a guy who invented a new way to light mud huts in Africa. He took a clear-plastic water bottle, stuck it through the roof. It collects and redirects sunlight into the hut. Cost-effective, efficient. I think he won some sort of award? The soccer ball spins through the air. Men in stockings chase after it while rain needles through fluorescent light, narrows to a single point, aimed, wilful. My sunroof’s leaking onto the passenger seat. Damp fast-food wrappers disintegrate into the carpet. I grab a flannel blanket from the backseat, wrap it around my shoulders, hold my hands to the heat vent. Is it time to consider my next move with Vincent Peele?
Up the volume on a Subhumans song called “Oh Canaduh.” Working at Marigold is partly about money. At least I admit that to myself. Partly about paying bills. It’s also about imagining the story that will transform my life forever, reveal the highly regarded journalist I always knew myself to be—
My phone vibrates. Must be Eric wanting to change his sushi order. Ignore it, happy to be hate-dreaming about an unlikely future while Wimpy shrieks about the sea getting blacker and the sky turning brown. Recorded thirty years ago. What a strange feeling, wanting wealth and success but feeling cynical about it at the same time, desiring and despising, a weird mental split like that disorder everyone used to believe in, split personality, rack ’em up, never a dull moment.
It won’t work. The thought is buried in my skull, undermining everything I do. Why are you even trying? Sometimes, when I’m well rested or feeling confident, I have the energy to choke it down. Other times, like now, when I’m tired and stressed, the thought is right in front, evident in how I pull away from people, in how hard it can be to leave my apartment, do stupid chores, never mind live a twentysomething life full of Kitsilano parties, holiday travel, Bellinis, Pinterest repurposing, community activism, caring—
Lady Gaga comes on, suggests I just dance.
Reach into my purse, find a Ziploc filled with photos, while outside the soccer players cheer a goal.
Amar standing beside his first car, a slammed pearl-black Prelude. T-shirt tucked in. Hair cropped short. All the world in his smile. Amar and my younger sister, Meeta, on a rare family outing to the blueberry fields in Delta, faces smeared with inky summer stain. Amar standing neat and nervous in front of the fake fireplace in our tiny South Van apartment with the first girl he ever brought home, a blonde named Rebecca so small-minded and idiotic I spent dinner dropping peas onto her lap, waiting for her to notice. A photo of Amar hanging with a group of friends outside Oakridge mall. Spiky gelled hair, gold chains, oversized shirts. Amar’s turned away from the camera, slumping, trying to hide the cigarette in his hand. I took the photo to blackmail him, was going to threaten to give it to our mother unless Amar bought me and my friends coolers. I never made the threat. Another photo, one of the last, of a bulked-up, pissed-off Amar in a downtown nightclub, arm draped over the shoulder of an ugly tattooed white guy named Clint Ward.
Amar and Clint came up around the same time. Met in one of the gyms Amar frequented. Hung out a bit. But by then I’m sure Amar no longer had true friends. He had associates. Business partners. Alliances. Connects. He had dealings. Territory. Corners. Dope lines. Double-crossings. Fallouts. He had muscle and payback, beef, heat, pigs, rats, weed, smack, crystal, gats, Glocks, nines, AKS, green. He had image. A rep. He was gettin’ paid. Makin’ bank. He had to prove points. Make examples of. Teach lessons. Motherfuckers had to bleed. By the time this last photo was taken Amar was a criminal. A vicious new breed of Indo-Canadian gangster, the media called him, which made me wonder: who were the old breed? And soon after the photo was taken Amar had a bullet in the head. An unsolved murder. A nightclub full of witnesses and not a single person who’d say a word—
Not even me.
Like Amar used to say. A little mouse.
Neighbourhood rumours about Clint being the killer never went anywhere. Newspapers moved on when the drug war ended. New weather systems blew in, new imagined terrors. Cambodians. Somali refugees, children of the snow. Afghans. First Nations gangs. Latino cartels. Muslims of every description. Always another threat from somewhere else. Fear is a lot of what Western culture is. Which means no one wants to remember. We live like rabbits ducking into holes.
Looking at my brother’s picture, it feels like my life lacks present or future. Everyone endures an occasional rut. But what happens when the rut is so deep and lasts so long it alters something integral?
There’s no way to link Clint to Amar’s murder. All I have is memory. Lights spinning across a dance floor. My brother dancing, laughing, snapping his fingers, waving, trying to pull me onto the floor. Me shaking my head no, far too shy to leave my seat, intimidated by the glam club-girls swarming around him or maybe intimidated by the man he’d
grown into. The bass rattling my chest, making my voice sound hollow. Maybe if I’d had the courage to dance with my brother he’d still be alive. Then a concussive crack I felt more than heard. And Clint Ward motionless in the middle of the dance floor, face shadowed by a hoodie and ball cap, mouth hanging open like he’d surprised himself. I ran for the door, not my brother. Let the crowd carry me into the rain.
Little mouse.
Was Amar right? Am I doomed, or a secret superstar?
Mark Ward
“—taxed to shit so you junkies can live easy—”
“Not a junkie.”
“Splitting hairs? How’s it feel? Ditching your woman and baby daughter?”
“Feels shit.”
“Juuun-kieee…”
“Daree’s sorted. Has her head on. Easier without me. Farang. Makes shit hard—”
“Ooh, life’s haaard for a loser…Ox-eee…juuun-kieee…”
Smoking bowls, glaring at the GPS screen on the dash, trying to tune my dickhead brother out. A glowing red dot tells me where I’m located, halfway up the North Shore Mountains at the corner of Southborough Drive and Kenwood Road, parked across from the Capilano Golf and Country Club, deep in the British Properties, deep in enemy territory, lofty aerie of rich pricks, oh the horror that the neighbourhood’s strict whites-only policy has fallen by the wayside but hey-ho times have changed and money is money and the TV news says they arrive with suitcases full of cash. There’s a buzzing in my ears and I’m very grateful for the red dot on the GPS screen, like it’s giving me an irrefutable proof, an affirmation I am in fact where I think I am, that I exist in this particular time and place.