by Shilo Jones
Eric tosses the blanket on my unoccupied chair, stands. “Jaz, is it getting late?”
Zachary, through a cloud of exhaled clove: “Okay, I think you’re right on the money and all, but it doesn’t need to be said—”
I open the barbecue, take a bite of pineapple, wash it down. “Like hell it doesn’t. Please let me finish. Because here’s the thing, Brice. The market privileges few at the expense of many. Always has, always will. Only…you’ve never experienced this other side. You’ve been riding this incredible tsunami—to use your awful expression—of advantage your entire life. And now, by some fluky collision of global circumstance, the market doesn’t work only to advantage Bricey and his born-in-Vancouver Sauder business buddies. Suddenly there’s—gasp!—actual competition for resources in this town. Valuable, scarce resources that are in global demand. And now, golly shucks, it’s time for government regulation to protect your interests. It’s time to whinge and whine and point fingers at all those criminal foreigners.”
Eric’s trying to wave me down, makes me furious. “Jaz—”
“Eric, yup, I’m a little drunk. Don’t like it, too bad. Am I such an embarrassment? Could you get any more boring? Seriously. You’re like a fucking walking Ambien.”
Zachary laughs, pats Eric on the shoulder, and before Eric can interrupt again I continue. “Bricey! Take home, ha? You feel absolutely entitled to homeownership. It’s an integral part of how you envisioned your life. Your colleagues in Seattle have houses. You’re in the top who-gives-a-fuck per cent! But the market entitles you to exactly nothing. This is a lesson people all over the world—in far less advantaged circumstances than yours—have been learning for a long time. And you, unlike so many others, are still fortunate enough to have choice. You know, all those hard choices people very unlike you have always had to make to own property. Zachary, lovely view, thanks for the pineapple. Eric, goodnight. I’m a big girl. I’ll find my own way home. Do not call me.”
* * *
My key’s in the lobby door when a man slides from the shadows behind a pillar and I get a conflicted fear that’s all about fighting the urge to scream and not wanting to look foolish should the threat be imagined.
“Hey, easy,” the guy says, and I laugh, embarrassed, when I see who it is.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a beefy brown dude, Sim? Sneaking around in the dark? You already have an image problem.”
Sim makes an unimpressed sober-person-speaking-to-drunk-person face.
“Sorry. Shitty thing to say. You could’ve called?”
“I did. Several times. Why’s your phone off?”
“Because I want it to be.”
Sim looks at my apartment’s flaking pinky-green stucco and the weird thing is with him I’m not embarrassed. We came up together. I dig my nails into my palms, remembering how good Vincent Peele’s envelope of cash felt. Slump against the door, almost slide onto my ass, ask Sim what the hell he’s doing here.
“You all right? Jaz?”
“Ducky. You?”
Sim’s wearing designer jeans with a slight sheen to them, a white dress shirt, and a black leather jacket. His bulk fills up the jacket very nicely. I notice the worry lines around his eyes, realize we’ve both aged. My oldest and only friend Sim Grewal is exactly how I want the night to end. He catches me looking, returns a glance that feels heartworn, makes my pulse quicken in unwelcome ways.
“Let’s get outta here,” I say. “I still haven’t seen your new place? Then I’ll be all right. I miss your legs.”
Sim almost smiles. “Legs?”
“Sexy legs…something wrong?”
“Sexy legs? No. Just…”
“I miss all the usual, too.”
“Sorry, Jaz. Not what this is.”
“Lucky me. Not only not getting laid but making an ass of myself. Seems to be the theme tonight. Thanks for stopping by—”
Sim widens his stance, lets me know he’s not leaving. “You got a new job. You didn’t tell me.”
“This is your business because?”
“C’mon, Jaz. I’m a friend. Remember? My business because I know why you’re at Marigold.”
Sim’s tone makes me want to kick him. “So you’re ambushing me to say congrats? Celebrate? Because that’s what I’m doing. Less than a week and I’m already working on several significant property deals. There. You’re the first person I’ve told.” I hiccup, cover my mouth, apologize. “Maybe I’ll even get my brakes fixed. Imagine that! This mouse is moving up. It’s about risk, isn’t it, Grewal? Risk and reward. Amar knew that.”
Sim withers at my mention of Amar. “Not here to celebrate.”
“You never look happy anymore. Where’s that gorgeous Grewal smile? Too much time holed up in the club?” I lurch from the door, do a passable job maintaining my balance as I walk to him. Sim holds his ground. It’s a cool, cloudless night. A man filters out of the apartment and walks past, head down, pretending not to notice us. Drape my arms over Sim’s shoulders, tug him away from my shitty apartment, my mother up there, miserable, grief-stricken.
Sim takes a step away but I hold on, pushing into this man I loved, remembering the quiet girl I was with him only a few years ago, feeling him here now, wondering why I’ve changed and he hasn’t, that I want him tonight but not in my life—
Sim steps out of my arms, plants a hand on my shoulder, pushes me away. “You have your brother’s ambition, Jaz, but not his street sense.”
“Has-been,” I say, shocked at the fury in my voice. “Don’t you mention Amar. You’re not in the same league, and never were. What’ve you done after him? A sort-of pimp. A wannabe with pretensions, couldn’t make an honest living, and now that I am—”
“Honest? You fucking serious?”
“I’m not disinfecting brass poles.”
“Hate on me. But you have to quit that job. Those are not good people. Phone Peele now. While I’m with you.”
The stolen documents are stashed beneath my bed. What if I don’t write the story? I heard the sales numbers Beckett and Elodie trotted out in the Flowroom. “What if I don’t care who Vincent Peele is? What if all I want is in?”
Sim waits for a semi-truck to crest over the Knight Street hill. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not hearing me. Quit the job. Fuck’s the play, anyway, Jaz? Money on the line for that project…you think Peele will risk having you around if Clint outs you?”
I cross my arms, try not to think about Clint’s warning. “Peele’s a twerp. All talk.”
“That right? Here.” Sim shows me his phone. A photo of a recent arson on a block of Main slated for redevelopment. “That look like talk?”
I’m stunned, try to rally. Sim waves his hands in appeasement like hey little girl sorry to deliver the bad news but it’s time to wake up, like I haven’t made my choices knowing the consequences full well. “Are you not hearing me, gangster man? Everyone’s into something. Why should I be any different? Because you have a teenaged bullshit fantasy of who I am? Here, let me find my fucking sari…” I stop, wait for my voice to strengthen. “I made three grand this week. Maybe that’s not much to you. But to me? That’s life-changing.”
“Jaz, money’s not enough.”
“Really? This brown bitch makin’ real bank. And you hate it?”
Sim retreats down a few stairs, seems about to say something, stays quiet. It’s late, but there are plenty of people around. I know what he’s thinking. Drama. What a fucking heat score. I could call after him. What would I say? What if Sim’s involved? These guys are all connected. Sim learned from my brother’s death. Invested in the club. Other legal businesses. It was wrong to call him a pimp—
A blacked-out suv speeds by, the rear window rolls down, a man wearing a balaclava raises an AK-47, and I almost shout a warning when the suv accelerates and its muffler roars and I’m left alone, staring into shadows.
Mark Ward
Pacing outside Lord Byng Secondary, staying close to Sebastian Price’s car, waiting for the kid
to come out from evening basketball practice, shake him down for dirt on Hannah Reed, piece of piss. Kid’s family’s loaded. I’m guessing he’s never been in real pain. Maybe not even afraid. Easiest kind of shakedown there is. Drop my smoke, step on it, keep walking. Voices drift from beside a three-storey brick building that houses the classrooms. A group of guys come out of the gym, wearing basketball jerseys despite the rain, walking quick, jumping and smacking at one another, whole life ahead of ’em.
The jocks reach the street and split up, heading to their cars. Beamers. Mercedes. Lexus. Sculpted cars, streamlined by a heady mix of money and aggression. Cars that speak like weapons. That convey a very specific message. Cars that are more articulate than their drivers. I see my target: gangly, no chin and big nose, sweaty blond hair, carrying an army-green backpack. Walk by him, take a look as he hops in his gunmetal-grey 911.
Alone. That’s good news.
Problem is the target’s buddies are hanging around bullshitting. Decide to take a risk. Hurry past my target, get in the Ford, tear down the road a few blocks, thinking about where Sebastian’s house is and the route he’ll take to get there. I could wait outside his driveway. But that’s dogshit. I need to cut him off before he gets too close to home, so I crank a right, then a U-turn so I’m facing the street I think he’ll take. Out of the truck, hang back from a stop sign, listen to the kids’ pimped-out cars as they leave Byng, throbbing bass, squealing tires, performance mufflers. Pull my hoodie up. A car slows at the intersection, not the target’s. Bend down, pretend to tie my shoe, nearly miss Sebastian, the fucker, coming in fast behind the first car and rolling through the four-way—
Leap in front of the Porsche, deploy, no time to put my balaclava on. Sebastian slams the brakes, clips my good leg. I take a dive, slam my hand on the hood as I fall. Face first on the road, rain thundering down, the Porsche’s lights blinding me, five hundred idling horses rearing to charge. The puke floors it, tries to pull around me. Hit and run. Or maybe Sebastian’s not a total moron, senses something’s off, carjacking, stay indoors, it’s a scary world full of people who want what we have, son.
Either way I fucked up.
The car doors will be auto-locked. Sebastian’s pretty safe unless he gets out. Which is what I need to have happen. So—not thinking; acting on instinct—I fling a handful of gravel at the Porsche as it screeches past.
Kid’s a dumbass. Cocksure. He’s a somebody. This is his neighbourhood. His sports car. Who am I? No one. A vagrant, a beggar, maybe a junkie out casing houses, and now I’m throwing gravel at his Porsche? The nerve of a nothing like me not knowing my place? This is a big affront to a kid like Sebastian, fucks with his world view, his pride and vanity. He slams on the brakes, hops out, blinking against the rain, chest swelling up like a jungle bird, amped to kick this junkie dirtbag’s ass—
“What the fuck was that?” the kid shrieks, his voice cracking.
I let Sebastian lift me, let him raise his hand to smash his fist in this junkie loser’s face, look him in the eye and knee him straight in the balls, real solid, whump, oh you need those? Kid crumples, throws up, just misses me. So now we’re roses. Sebastian’s a baby-doll in my hands, limp, moaning. Grab the target by the hair, drag him to the Porsche, shove him in headfirst.
Slip my balaclava on, set my watch timer to four minutes, tell the shitbag well hey buddy that’s that.
Carl “Blitzo” Reed
My wife’s lawyer visits, bringing good drugs and bad news. Name’s Leon Burris. Leon’s short, bulbous in the middle, squished. Wearing tennis shoes without socks, dorky pleated shorts, a lemony golf shirt that matches the walls of the room, leads me to believe there’s a weekend occurring somewhere. Leon is completely unassuming. A slack-jawed shuffler. A man unconsciously avoided for fear his loser-dom can be caught like a cold. Heels brush the floor as the lawyer shuffles to my side, puts his body between me and the security camera, plunks a Ziploc bag filled with white powder in my palm.
“Forever yours,” I say, sincerely grateful. “Anything she wants for more of this. You tell Heather that. Tell her she doesn’t even have to come to the surprise summer solstice party they’re throwing for me. Have we nailed down dates? So I can pencil it in? Because, uh…unjustly incarcerated, and possibly for quite a while? Speaking of which, Leon? Is today Saturday?”
Leon doesn’t say a word.
Takes a lot of self-control not to place the entire Ziploc over my face. A giant bump reveals icing sugar. I choke and sneeze, dust myself in sickly-sweet powder, too disappointed to scream. Drop the Ziploc on the floor.
Leon doesn’t move. Just stands there, looking like a loser, winning. “It’s Thursday, not Saturday, and yes, you’re in prison again,” Leon observes, his voice lispy but lacking inflection, breathing on me on purpose. “You owe me fifty dollars.”
“Huh? Did we bet—”
“And…you pretend not to remember. Which means you owe me another fifty.”
I decide not to let the message boy into my head. “Holdout’s digging an escape tunnel. Gonna chew through that lino any second. Don’t make me sic him.”
“Your super-pig’s not here, thankfully.” Leon sets a manila envelope on my chest. Taking his sweet time. Taps it and says, “Divorce.”
“Capital D?”
Leon taps the envelope again.
“You sure?”
“This time she means it.”
“What’s different?”
Leon rubs his nose, sniffs his fingers. “The teenager, Trent, your lovely young daughter’s elementary school friend, has provided ample photographic evidence of your most recent aberrant behaviour. We were very fortunate to acquire those photographs before they were made public. An embarrassing state of affairs for the minister of the environment, as you might imagine. But we have them all. Among other evidence. A carefully curated history of your various studied and storied…perversions.”
“If you only knew.”
“We know plenty.”
“Nah. You weren’t around for the real Heather Reed. Honourable Minister, my bumpkins! Uh…bum kiss? What if I air it out? Another ruling-class drama? I hear the hoi polloi can’t get enough. Set it in the seventeenth century, somewhere exotic, boobs and bad language, score a Netflix deal! Cuz you want to talk perversion, I once saw Heather—”
“You won’t do that, Carl. Everyone knows you won’t.”
“I almost could too. Why won’t I?”
Leon pretend-smiles. “Because you’re weak, or good, which in your situation amounts to the same thing. You care about your soon-to-be-ex-wife and your emotionally fragile daughter. Don’t go down that road. The ethical course of action is to let yourself be destroyed, spare your family, take that quiet victory to your grave.”
“Had my fill of self-sacrifice when I turned myself in. Besides. Smacks of unenlightened ego.”
Leon opens his arms. “Then please, air it out, as you say. Hannah on the stand. Sobbing.”
“Heather’s tired of the close calls? Fine. Tell her I want to hear her demands delivered in person. Tell her I do not negotiate with the undead.”
“The undead are beyond making demands. We’ve risen to feed.”
I close my eyes, wave the lawyer away.
When I open them Michael Zenski’s sitting in an orange vinyl chair, looking tired. I tell him his facelift is slumping. Ask when I’ll be released. Michael says it depends on how I behave. I tell him that’s wonderful, thanks for taking the pressure off so I can focus on staying sober.
Michael sets a cellphone on the bedside table, talks about impending criminal charges and all I hear is: driving under the BAD, possession of BAD, resisting BAD.
I try and appear concerned, ask if he wants to get right in my face, yell BAD PERSON. He calmly assures me I’m not a bad person, I just make bad choices. I say oh my fucking god are you serious? Michael doesn’t answer. I tell him substituting a watered-down definition of a word for the word itself doesn’t help in any way, only se
rves to confuse the issue, delays the fact that I must accept and come to terms with the truth that I am a BAD PERSON in order to move on, recover. Michael says no, you’re not a bad person, but your behaviour is bad.
I say Chrissake, you did it again, please say what you mean, please respect me that tiny bit, please treat me like an adult who is capable not only of dealing with the actual honest-to-god truth of what I am but also understanding when I’m being bullshitted to death and talked down to using ridiculous condescending euphemisms. Ask him if a person who consistently makes BAD CHOICES is not, by fucking definition, a BAD PERSON.
Michael says no, there’s a moral dimension. I say bet your ass there is, and you’re on the wrong side of it. Michael says it’s about not being judged. I laugh, maybe a bit too shrill, say look around, I’m in PRISON. I’ve already been JUDGED. Then I say, wait, no, this is fun: I’m not in PRISON; I’m just LOCKED IN A ROOM AGAINST MY WILL. I’m not SICK; I just have DIARRHEA, NAUSEA, A FEVER. I’m not CRAZY; I just BELIEVE THE EARTH IS A FLECK OF ALIEN TOE JAM.
Michael says okay okay, there’s a finality to calling someone a bad person, it robs said person of the opportunity for change, suggests that if I am bad in the past I will always be bad, whereas highlighting specific behaviour emphasizes what the person does, their choices, which are changeable, as opposed to what a person is, which maybe isn’t? I ask if he’s saying BAD PEOPLE CAN’T CHANGE. He says maybe? Then he tells me he’s done talking about it, it’s not why he’s here.
I say: wait, we’re finally getting somewhere, is that why it’s so hard to say BAD PERSON, because really deep down you believe it’s for sure FOREVER? Michael stays quiet. I say because that sucks, Michael, really really sucks, because the truth I want to hear is that I am a BAD PERSON now, and was a BAD PERSON then, but can work to become a VERY GOOD PERSON forever, TRANSFORMATIONAL CHANGE, chemical as opposed to physical, an entirely new substance, chrysopoeia, OURO-FUCKING-BOROS!
Michael asks can you please keep your voice down? I say all right but never mind, I’m not in LOVE with you, I just want to LAY DOWN AND CRY WHEN YOU’RE CLOSE BECAUSE I’M AWED THE IDIOT UNIVERSE OFFERS SUCH JOY.