All I Ask

by Eva Crocker

  “Lost Pets NL just shared it,” she said. “They’ve got over two thousand followers.”

  “There you go,” the guy said.

  The cop came back from the filing cabinet empty-handed and said into the microphone, “Why do you think he’s stolen?”

  “The leash was clipped to the clothesline,” the girl said. “The gate was closed. It’s got a latch.”

  “We told your buddy on the phone this already,” the guy said. “It’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar dog. You can train them for acting, you see them in commercials all the time.”

  “People will steal anything,” the girl said. “They’re sick.”

  I thought I should make my way around the room and stand behind them, assert that I was waiting. Someone else might come in and take my place in the line.

  “I don’t know who told you to come in here. I can’t imagine what form they’re talking about. I’d say Facebook is your best bet, honestly. People have a lot of luck with that.”

  “First they sent us up to the other location, in CBS. We were waiting twenty minutes there, they said come down here.”

  “Must have been a misunderstanding,” the cop said.

  “This is a fucking joke,” the boyfriend said, shaking his head.

  His skin was windburned. He looked older than the girlfriend, easily ten years older. His hands made big fists at his sides. The woman looked at me, a look that was part warning, part apology.

  “Step away from the counter,” the cop said. “I’m going to help this young lady now.”

  The boyfriend bent and spoke into the hole, “A fucking joke.”

  “Garry,” the girl said quietly.

  The cop stood up on the other side of the glass.

  “Yeah, I’m going.” The guy rolled his shoulders and walked to the entrance, the woman followed behind him. The cop settled back into his wheelie office chair. The heavy door yawned shut behind the couple with the missing dog. By the time the door met the frame they were halfway across the rainy parking lot, the man stomping ahead of his girlfriend.

  The cop beckoned me by folding his fingers into his palm.

  “Someone delivered this to me,” I said into the hole and slid the letter through a narrow slot in the bottom of the glass shield.

  The cop opened the letter and read it. I watched his face, it stayed neutral. I had been wrapped up in the drama of Flakey and the poor woman sent out into the rain with her hostile boyfriend, but now that I was alone with the officer, anxiety about my own situation crept up through my chest. He dropped the letter on the counter and looked me in the face; I could tell by the way his chin moved that he was trying to work something out of his back tooth with his tongue. After a moment he picked the letter up again and looked over it.

  “Okay, wait here. I’m going to see if Constable Bradley is able to see you.” He left the open letter on the counter and disappeared through a door behind the glass.

  There was a clock above that door, a white face ringed in black plastic. Just after four. Since they’d taken my phone I was noticing clocks: like phone booths, they are a disappearing blessing when you don’t have a phone. Maybe Constable Bradley was going to tell me they’d found something disturbing on my hard drive or in my phone, something they hadn’t even been looking for. Texts about buying drugs, PDFs of anti-state literature. I didn’t want to meet the man who’d waded through everything inside my computer.

  Eventually the cop came back. He folded my letter up, fit it back into its envelope and slid it out through the slot.

  “Constable Bradley isn’t in right now.” The cop sat in his wheelie chair and rolled back and forth until he was at his preferred distance from his computer screen.

  “He said to come by any time, the officer who delivered it.”

  The cop sighed through his nose.

  “Normally that would be true, but Constable Bradley had some unexpected medical issues this week.”

  It was very quiet in the lobby. I picked my letter off the counter.

  “I need my things.”

  “We’re hoping Constable Bradley will be back before the end of the week. Call down tomorrow and hopefully I can give you some more information then. It’s a medical issue, see.”

  “I don’t have a phone.” My voice came out whiney.

  “You can find a phone.” The cop turned his attention to the computer. “Have a good evening.”

  Nine

  When I got back from the cop station I ate a piece of plain toast so I wouldn’t be hungry at work. I whipped the crumbs off my chest and sniffed my armpits. I stank; it was an unfamiliar, metallic stink. I went up to my bedroom and rubbed deodorant into my sweaty armpit hair and found a clean shirt. Then I rushed down the stairs looking for my swipe card for the theatre — sometimes I hung it over the post at the bottom of the stairs. I heard a noise in the bathroom and thought it was the cats. I went to shoo them out; they always tore up the garbage and stole used Q-tips. They ripped the fluff off the tops and left the naked plastic sticks on the couch or on the living room rug.

  But it was Holly in the bathroom. She had curled her highlighter-yellow hair into ringlets and pulled her fingers through it, turning the tight curls into loose, billowy waves. I’d watched her do that to her hair before. I used to sit on the edge of the bathtub and we’d share a joint while getting ready to go out. It was a ritual we’d started at Patrick Street with Viv and continued at Clarke Avenue.

  I stopped in the doorway. “Hi, I’m just getting ready for work, have you seen my swipe card?” I’d decided to act like our last interaction hadn’t been a fight. Like I hadn’t crushed her glasses under my bare foot. She was choosing an eyeliner from a pile of makeup on the shelf above the toilet.

  “I haven’t seen it,” she said without looking at me.

  I stood in the doorway, watching her make matching wings on her eyelids. As soon as we moved in she’d taken over that whole shelf with her little beige tubs and silver tubes. She didn’t even ask. Later more of it started accumulating on the skinny ledge above the mirrored cabinet.

  “Maybe I left it at work,” I said eventually.

  She kept her eyes on the mirror and didn’t respond. I slammed the front door when I left. I ended up having to borrow the box office person’s swipe card.

  * * *

  There’d been a media blitz about the cod moratorium play that morning. NTV and CBC Newfoundland & Labrador had shown up earlier in the week with all their gear to film the rehearsal. They’d interviewed the actors on the wooden stage outside the theatre — the cast wore their costumes under winter coats. A reviewer in the Telegram called it “Nouveau Codco.”

  When the show got out, the cast and their friends thronged to the bar with an endless supply of drink tickets.

  “That little change in the blocking completely transformed the scene for me,” the lead was saying as I poured a glass of house white for her. I scribbled house white in Sharpie on the ticket and dropped it into a mug filled with used drink tickets.

  “You could feel it in the audience,” her friend answered. “When it lands, it lands.”

  “I looked over my shoulder and saw the anger on his face and I really felt it, right in my guts. Thank you.” She took the glass of wine from me, turned and leaned both elbows on the bar.

  “And that’s what we need to carry us into the next scene,” her friend said, squinting at the menu above my head.

  “I never looked back at him before, so I never saw the anger — I was imagining the anger but I wasn’t seeing it. Like literally seeing it.”

  “As an audience, we need to see you see that anger, to justify the next scene,” her friend said. “I’m going to have a glass of the Pinot Grigio too, please — actually, two glasses but you can just pour them into the same glass, save me coming back up.”

  “You felt like it was stronger t
han Monday night?” the lead asked.

  I tipped two pours into one glass and lifted it carefully up onto the bar. The surface of the wine shivered against the rim of the glass.

  “Oh my god, yes.” The friend slopped some wine on the bar when she picked up the glass. She looked at the puddle and then looked back at the lead, deciding to ignore it. “Wednesday was good but if I’m honest, the transition between those two scenes wasn’t there. Tonight it was there and it made a difference. It was an important lesson for me, actually, as a director.”

  They sauntered back into the crowd. A man in a suit jacket and jeans put a hand on the lead’s back. I saw her stiffen then soften, smiling a customer-service smile at him. Probably a funder.

  I’d been hoping to get off early but the cast and crew were high on post-media-blitz glee. Plus there’d been a standing ovation. And it was one of the cast members’ birthdays. His mother had brought a lemon meringue pie and everyone sang to him. I dug through the catering cupboard and got them plates and plastic forks. I even found a pie server, a flat stainless-steel triangle with an ornate handle.

  “Not very environmentally friendly,” I heard one of them say once I was back behind the bar. I looked up and saw a tall skinny guy in a salt-and-pepper hat, one of the actors, twirling a filling-streaked plastic fork.

  “You kind of expect more from an arts organization, right?” the stage manager said.

  That was when the jealousy hit. No one had even offered me any pie. I thought of how satisfying it would be if I landed a part in the joint-production movie. They’d all be up my hole then.

  After they left and I’d done the cash and the inventory count, I wiped pie crumbs off the table at the back of the room. There was a jellied lump of bright yellow filling on the table: I scooped it up with my finger and ate it. Much tarter than I’d expected.

  Viv was waiting for me outside the theatre when I got off. She was sitting cross-legged on the wooden stage, her bouncy red curls spilling all over the shoulders of her puffy black coat. She was wearing the dark red lipstick she sometimes put on for a night out.

  “I’ve been here for an hour,” she said, hopping off the stage. “We have to hurry, they’re on next.”

  “I’m sorry — I would’ve texted you if I had my phone.” I pulled on the door, making double-sure it was locked. I could hear the alarm beeping inside, counting down the ten seconds until it was activated. The transport truck that would carry the set across the country was parked beside the loading door to the theatre. There were two guys inside the truck smoking; I recognized them both from the bar earlier. They’d come down after loading the sets and drunk a quick beer by themselves while the actors and their friends decided where to go next, The Duke or The Rockhouse.

  “It’s okay,” Viv said.

  One of the guys in the truck cracked the window as we walked past. He was probably in his mid-thirties and he was wearing a cowboy shirt. His lank hair was down to his jaw.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” I stopped.

  “Want to check out the truck? We have weed.” He held up the joint.

  I looked at Viv.

  “We have to get to the show,” she said. “They’re on next.”

  “We’re going to a show,” I said to the guys in the truck, even though I really wanted to see inside. I was picturing a bunk with a quilt tucked around a thin mattress, a stack of paperback books, a cooler with some sandwiches. Maybe a lamp?

  They nodded and put the window up. Viv was a couple of paces ahead of me and I had to rush to catch up to her.

  “Have you been talking to Holly? Is she going to the show?” I asked her.

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s going?” I asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “She’s not talking to me.”

  “It’s because of the glasses thing,” Viv said.

  “It’s just really childish. Can we slow down?”

  “They’re going on now.”

  “Now?”

  Viv looked at her phone. “He said in ten minutes, that was a while ago.”

  “Like we’re living together, don’t you think that’s childish? Refusing to speak to someone? Someone you’re living with?”

  Viv can make her blue eyes go completely dead: it’s like there’s a dimmer switch on her irises. When she’s annoyed she cranks the voltage down; she won’t be dignifying you with the full intensity of her beautiful eyes.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I can’t understand why you did that.”

  “She has like three pairs of glasses. They’re probably from one of those cheap websites.” I’d had the same scratched-up glasses for about five years.

  “It’s not okay, it’s shitty,” Viv said.

  There was a big group of people smoking outside The Peter Easton when we arrived. I checked the crowd for Holly. It was mostly men, metal guys with long hair and chunky rings on their fingers. When we got inside I ordered me and Viv two double gin and sodas. The bartender poured them into fluted glasses like the ones my grandmother used for Jell-O sundaes. She hooked a wizened lime wedge on each glass.

  I paid with my tips from the theatre. Some people with drink tickets don’t tip at all, others tip more because they’re not paying for drinks. In the end it rounded up to a better than usual night money-wise; I’d left the theatre with four twenties in my pocket. I saw Holly as I was handing the bartender my money. She was coming out of the bathroom, noticed me and looked away.

  I found Viv up front, nodding along to Mike’s band. The singer took one big step forward, bent at the waist, and started whipping his head around, turning his long brown hair into a tornado. Viv was smiling at Mike, who was playing an elaborate guitar solo on the left side of the stage. I presented her with the drink and she wrapped one arm around me in a hug; she’d forgotten she was annoyed with me. I was leaning into Viv’s hug, holding my drink up high to protect it from getting jostled, when I saw Kris over her shoulder.

  “I don’t really want this,” Viv said about the drink I’d bought her. “I’ll hold it until you’re ready for it.”

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked her.

  “I’m just tired, I’m going to leave after the next band.”

  I finished my drink in three long slurps on the short straw and took the second glass from Viv.

  Halfway through the set there was some technical difficulty — a pedal wasn’t working, cords had to be adjusted. Viv ducked through the crowd to say hi to her co-worker, the girl with the neck tattoo. Holly was on the plaid couch in the corner of the room, cozied up to Dave King. I waited for Kris to look my way. When she did, I smiled and she nodded. The band started back up and a mosh pit erupted between us.

  “I was about to ask if you wanted a beer but it looks like you’re all set.” Kris was whisper-yelling in my ear with a hand cupped by her mouth. I hadn’t seen her cross the room.

  She walked off in the direction of the bar.

  “What did she say to you?” Viv screamed in my ear when she reappeared beside me.

  “Asked if I wanted a beer,” I screamed back.

  * * *

  A couple of drinks later I kissed Viv goodnight on each cheek in the bathroom. A stall door opened behind her and pushed her into me while my lips were on her face. We fell against the sink. I smeared saliva across her cheek; the back of my shirt got wet from water that had splashed up on the lip of the sink. We both laughed.

  “Okay, I’m leaving,” Viv said, untangling herself from me. “Are you going to sleep with Kris?”

  “I think so, I want to, does it seem like it?”

  We both stepped back to let the woman who’d been in the stall get at the sink.

  “Yes.”

  “Either of you girls spare a cigarette?” the woman asked. She looked about sixty; she was wearing a
pink top with spaghetti straps and her hair was dyed jet black. The pores on her cheeks were deep and wide. Her eyes were glossy with drunkenness.

  “Sorry,” Viv and I said together.

  We followed the woman out of the bathroom into the bar. Mike was waiting by the door, his guitar case strapped to his back, Viv’s coat in his arms. Sometimes I got overwhelmed with affection for Mike, because he loved Viv too. She walked over to him, waving to me as she went. The punk band that’d been playing were tearing down and Blue Öyster Cult came through the bar speakers.

  I found Kris in a crowd of people gathered around the break-open dispenser. Holly was in the middle of the semicircle, feeding a five dollar bill into the slot in the front of the machine. The bill shot back out and floated down to the carpet. Kris made room for me to stand beside her but her eyes were on Holly. On either side of the break-open machine there were four VLTs pushed up against the wall, a tall stool set in front of each one. Every one of those stools was filled. The screens flashed bright lights on the faces of the VLT players.

  “Put it in the other way,” someone said.

  Holly smoothed the bill out, flipped it around and fed it into the slot. The machine obediently swallowed it. Everyone cheered. Kris made a fist by her chest and slowly pulled it down to her hip in celebration. Holly clocked me at Kris’s side. In the machine, the metal rings that held a row of break-opens twirled backwards and released two tickets. Holly crouched and fished the tickets out of the bottom.

  “Last ones,” she said, holding them up.

  “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” shifted from the wheedling guitar solo to the pounding finale. I felt Kris’s arm around my hips, her small hand squeezing the pudge there. Holly tore open all the tabs on the first ticket. The crowd moaned when she flashed the worthless rows of mismatched symbols that had been hidden under the tabs. Kris stood on tiptoe to whisper in my ear, “What are you doing now?”