*
Oscar felt bad. Very bad. Alcohol, which had been such a gentle friend at first, a soft hand on his shoulder, soothing the physical and emotional bruises of his disgrace, had turned into an aggressive bully, punching him in the head and chest and making it difficult for him to walk. And then there was that strange cigarette Willard had made him smoke: far from making things better, it had taken the curvy lines of alcohol and turned them into jagged spears that cut through everything like an old TV with poor reception. Now, finally, Oscar understood what people meant by living in the moment: like train cars unhitched at a station, every second that passed felt disconnected from the one before and the one after.
Coming to in a moment of clarity, he looked around. There were fewer people now and most of them seemed tired. Several could barely stand, stumbling about in confusion and often taking offense to gravity. The air was full of smoke and noise and a strange screaming came from the speakers. Something about Satan. A sudden horror swept over him: they were devil worshippers! That explained everything. The drugs. The alcohol. The grinning skull on their jackets. Terrified that the floor would open up and plunge him into the pits of Hell, Oscar ran screaming out of the house and into the yard, where he promptly puked.
"Fuckin' A," Willard said approvingly. "He made it outside."
*
Oscar stopped. Where am I? he wondered. That he had been walking was clear. But for how long and in what direction... he had no idea. He remembered the party, the bar and the Palace but all as isolated incidents, mountain peaks of memory separated by deep valleys of forgetfulness. The long suburban street stretched out in front of him, its dark and silent houses patiently waiting for day to begin. Too tired to walk any further, he looked for a place to rest. Spotting an open garage, he went in and laid down on the cement. Moments later, he got up again. Too cold. A door led to the house. Oscar tried it. It was unlocked. Just a few minutes, he thought, to warm up. He quietly opened the door and stepped inside.
I can't stay here, he knew. But the longer he lingered, the less he wanted to leave. Searching for a place to hide, he saw a staircase that led to the basement. Moving slowly so as not to bump against anything, he made his way down the stairs and into an unused room. The feel of a bed was the loveliest of his life. Taking off his shoes, he carefully placed them beside the bed, climbed in under the covers and fell asleep.
*
Oscar awoke to the sound of a family having breakfast.
Why, he wondered, are they in my apartment?
Only then did the full horror of his situation hit him. He was a sinner: a dirty, smelly desperado who had assaulted a customer, drunk alcohol, taken drugs, hung out with devil worshippers, fornicated with a Jezebel, broken into a stranger's house, soiled their bed with his presence and was now trapped in their basement. Speaking of soiled, what was that smell? A quick sniff test strongly suggested it was coming from his underpants and Oscar was forced to face the unpleasant fact that, somewhere in the course of his adventures, he had crapped himself. Glancing about, he saw a plastic bag, into which he dropped his dirty shorts. Unable to find a garbage can, he tightly tied it up and threw it under the bed.
Wait or run, he wondered. If he waited too long and they found him, there would be no escape. But if he ran and they saw him, they might chase him. Unable to bear the suspense, he decided to try to sneak out. He put on his shoes and quietly crept up the stairs. Peeking up over the staircase, he saw a family sitting around a table with their backs to him - all except for the youngest, who was looking directly at him with an expression that suggested either confusion or gas. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Oscar continued up the stairs and out the door, the little girl watching him all the way. Once out of the garage, he hurried down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, all the while resisting the impulse to run.
Several weeks later the mother found a plastic bag under the downstairs bed and, upon opening it, was disgusted to discover a pair of underwear smeared with shit. Convinced that her eldest son had had a party in her absence, she confronted him with it. Outraged by the accusation, he emphatically denied it and she, just as strongly, disbelieved him. For years this remained a sore point, with each accusing the other of obstinacy but, no matter how often they revisited it, the matter was never resolved - until, decades later, as the youngest was living out her last in a nursing home and ruminating upon the soft pablum of her youth, she suddenly remembered the strange man who had snuck out of their house that early Sunday morning and the mystery was finally solved. And then, just as quickly, she forgot.
*
Finally, Oscar thought, a bus stop. Trapped in a suburban maze of crescents and closes, he had struggled to find a main street. Now he could take a bus to the central station and another one home. Just then he saw one turn the corner and ran to the stop and reached for his wallet only to find... nothing. It was gone, leaving only a sad emptiness in his pocket. But how? A memory came to him, of a guy doing magic tricks, one of which involved making Oscar's wallet disappear. At the time he had thought it hilarious but it now seemed considerably less amusing. Oscar looked at the bus. Onboard were a dozen members of the non-driving class: the disabled; teenagers; poor university students; pensioners who, unable to see or hear, had been deemed unfit to drive; and the occasional crank who refused to own a car. Amongst them, head down in shame, was an embarrassed alcoholic who had been caught drunk at the wheel; mortified at having to ride with the rest, he looked out as they past, his sadness matching Oscar's own.
*
It was only when Oscar spotted a local mall that he realized where he was: a long way from home. There was no way he could walk back. Crestfallen, he almost started to cry. But then he thought of Barkie. What would he do? Cold and hungry and far from home? Well, one thing for sure: he wouldn't stand around feeling sorry for himself. Not with all those cats and dogs to take care of. And so he continued on, heading for the mall.
As soon as he stepped inside, people started looking at him oddly. Besides smelling of beer and smoke, with more than a whiff of puke and shit and a generous side dish of B.O., his clothes were torn and dirty, his hair clearly uncombed and his face covered in bruises. More than a few people veered sharply away as he approached. Smiling pleasantly to dispel their discomfort, he headed straight for the bathroom and cleaned up as best as he could.
Coming out of the washroom, his nostrils were entranced by the smell of the food court and, looking over, saw an abandoned plate with the remains of a meal. Pretending to return to his lunch, he walked over to the table, sat down and began eating.
"Hey!" a loud voice addressed him. "You can't do that!"
Oscar looked up. A mustachioed man with a mop stood over him. On the front of his overalls, covering his heart, was an oval that read Earl.
"Do what?" he asked.
"Eat other people's food."
"But he's gone," Oscar pointed out.
"Then it's garbage."
"Sorry," Oscar said, "I'm hungry."
"Then buy your own."
"I can't. My wallet was stolen by a devil worshipper."
"Likely story," Earl scoffed. As a mall janitor, he had seen it all: toddlers riding the Bronco Buster till their faces went white; tweeners slurping pop like oil riggers draining a well; acne-scarred adolescents in sideways ballcaps swapping cigarettes like hardened cons; horny youths groping greedily behind the dumpster; drunks drooling onto their breakfast; middle-aged couples allowing a dispute about drapes to mushroom into marital meltdown; and miserly retirees risking a heart attack by racing to collect carts for the quarter deposit. "Next you'll be telling me Satan took your car."
"Don't have one," Oscar answered. "I don't drive."
"Don't drive!" Earl exclaimed. "What are you, homeless?"
"No," Oscar explained. "Just poor."
"That's even worse. What the hell you doing here?"
"I came to use the washroom."
"Let me get this right," Earl said, leaning f
orward. His mop hung over the table, dripping onto Oscar's plate. "You come into my mall, piss all over the floor-"
"I'm not supposed to touch it."
"-eat garbage-"
"No one put it in the bin."
"-lounge around like a king in the food court and without a penny in your pocket?"
"I guess so," Oscar reluctantly admitted.
"Get the hell out," Earl ordered. "Before I call security."
*
Now what? Oscar wondered, as he stood in front of the mall.
"Spare change?"
Oscar turned. Beside him stood a man equally unwashed; like twin clouds of poison gas, their odors wrestled in the invisible air.
"Yes please," Oscar replied and held out his hand.
The stranger blinked. "You making fun of me?"
"Certainly not!" Oscar answered. "I need money."
Donald looked him over. "New to the game, are ya?"
"What game is that?"
"Scrounging."
"I guess so."
"You'll never get anywhere like that."
"Like what?"
"All beat up. You got to look respectable. Like you don't need the money. Otherwise they won't give you none."
"Really?"
"Absolutely."
Donald knew what he was talking about. Unsettled since birth, he had spent his life sailing the sidewalks, wandering from place to place in search of nothing more than the satisfaction of his most immediate needs. He had tried normal life once by working at a shoe store but something about waking up to the sound of an alarm clock and shaving regularly hadn't agreed with him so he purchased his freedom by showing up drunk and hadn't regretted it once. Ever since, he had lived off the generosity of others and found it an agreeable calling. I'm helping them be good, he claimed. Like Jesus, only different.
"So what should I do?"
"Got any skills?" he asked. "It's all skill based these days."
"Like what?"
"Drawing or being able to play the spoons."
"Not really."
"That's too bad. Especially in this economy."
Donald sighed. Gone were the days when you could just hold out your hand and strangers would put something in it. Now people expected value for their money. Music or a missing leg. Not to mention the competition, all those accidental homeless who really did prefer having a place to live. Comfort addicts, he thought, with a trace of contempt. Always complaining about being cold and hungry. Which is why he resented being lumped in with them. I'm a hobo, he'd insist, not homeless.
"Tell you what," he said. "I gotta take a dump. How about I lend you my spot for a bit and you give me half?"
"That sounds fair."
"More than fair," Donald agreed. "So let's make it two-thirds."
*
Most of the people Oscar approached ignored him. They seemed to have a special vision which only saw far ahead and blocked out everything around them. Others gave him a shy "sorry no" while steadily shuffling away. Only one guy stopped to converse and although he stoutly declined to give Oscar any money, was kind enough to give him a lecture on fiscal responsibility. Oscar was about to give up when he remembered what Donald had said about the value of entertainment. Of course! The Incredulous Journey! He could act out scenes. That would surely cause people to open their wallets. Dropping down on all fours, he began by striking various heroic poses - Barkie perched upon a precipice or checking a trail for clues - and worked his way up to a very dramatic scene where, growling and snarling, he impersonated Barkie fighting a bear. Oddly enough, this had the opposite effect, with everyone moving further away. Not that it mattered: like all true artists, he lost himself in the moment. Suddenly he was Barkie and, picking up a fast food wrapper with his mouth, tore it apart with his teeth.
*
Donald was feeling good. Not only had he forced out a footlong, he had done so on the back step of a restaurant that had refused to give him leftovers.
What the hell? he thought, his good mood suddenly soured by the sight of Oscar rolling around the ground and clawing at the air like a madman. Must be the shakes. Surprising really because the guy didn't look like an alkie. Not a serious one anyway. Too bad for him but the real problem was the spot. A fine piece of real estate like that... between the ambulance and security, it would stay hot for at least an hour.
Donald hesitated. He wanted to help but what could you do? A guy like that... he was just too far gone. Besides, the do-gooders were coming. They would take care of him. Put him somewhere in a nice warm bed and give him three squares a day. Donald knew. He'd been there. The soft life of prisons and hospitals. And all it cost you was your freedom. So long stranger, he thought, and good luck to ya.
*
"Here's your bill Mrs. Hootch."
"Thank you," Mabel said with a smile.
What a nice young man, she thought, determined to leave a large tip. Of all the waiters at The Blind Unicorn, Steve was her favourite: blond, clean-cut and polite, he was exactly the sort of young person she approved of. Not like those others, those hairy, fanatical freaks who chained themselves to trees to keep them from being turned into toilet paper. Always whining about the environment and how the earth was dying when, as far as she could tell, it was all hogwash. There would always be a future, she believed, so long as there were nice young men like Steve.
Outside, lying on the ground and panting heavily, was a disheveled drunk, his rumpled clothes stained with dirt and puke; pausing only to belch ladylike into her fist, Mabel pondered the sad hold alcohol has on some people. Then, overwhelmed by generosity and gin, she opened her purse, pulled out a five and and gave it to him.
"Thanks," Oscar said.
"You're welcome. Just don't spend it on booze."
"I'll never drink again," he vowed.
"That's what we all say," Mabel replied, and walked away.
*
The bus ride was the most luxurious of his life. The warm air. The padded seats. The peaceful pleasure of moving while sitting still. To think some people actually complained about taking the bus! When they crossed the bridge Oscar felt like a tourist on vacation and enjoyed it so much he almost missed his stop.
Unfortunately, when he arrived home, he found his apartment padlocked with a sign that read: For Non-Payment Of Rent. True, he had been a bit delinquent but that was because he had used the money to offset Pete's stealing. Surely Mr. Frost would understand.
*
"Hold on!" Norman shouted, his mouth full of food. "I'm coming!"
Sandwich still in hand, he got up and went to the door.
"Oh," he said, suddenly sullen. "It's you."
To say that Oscar was not his favourite tenant would be misleading since he didn't have any; to him, they were all unpleasant, some more than others, but each and every one a necessary nuisance that stood between him and his money. Sometimes, when he knew they were out, he would assert his ownership by letting himself in and checking the place over. It particularly irked him that people might be having sex in his buildings and often rummaged through their drawers, searching for condoms, porn and sexy underwear, some of which he sniffed, just to be sure.
"Sorry to bother you Mr. Frost but my door... It's locked."
"Damn right," the angry landlord replied, waving his sandwich in Oscar's face. "And it's going to stay that way till you pay me."
"But I can't," Oscar explained. "I spent that money on a friend-"
"Not my problem."
"-then I got fired-"
"Tough titty."
"-and Rupee," Oscar added. "He's dead!"
"Dead!" Norman exclaimed, suddenly noticing Oscar's swollen face. "Was it a fight?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"It's all my fault. I went crazy and attacked him."
"He's not still in there, is he?"
"What?"
"Don't want that smell in the carpet. It's spring after all and if I have to steam clean... What did th
e police say?"
"Didn't call them."
"Jesus Murphy!" he cried and ran for the phone.
Oscar followed him into the house.
"Hello police. Got a stiff for you... 437 Glendale Road... Don't know. Argument I guess."
"Hey," he said, turning to Oscar. "Your friend, what's his name?"
"Rupee."
"Rupee," he repeated into the phone.
"And what's he look like?"
"Short, fat, bit pinkish."
"Short, fat, bit pinkish."
"How big?"
"About three inches. Longer if you count the tail."
Mr. Frost looked at him in temporary incomprehension.
"Never mind," he said, and hung up.
*
Pastor Wilcox or Pete? Pastor Wilcox was sure to help but would want to know what happened. How could Oscar tell him about the fight, the drinking, the devil worshippers and the fornication? He was bound to take a negative view of it all. Sure, he could confess, claim to have been led astray by his co-workers and ask for forgiveness, but only if he was genuinely sorry. For the most part, he was. But, to his shame, not entirely. Part of him had enjoyed it - especially that thing Stacy had done with her hand, the memory of which was strangely stirring.
Oscar was confused. All his life he had believed in right and wrong and tried to act accordingly and, for the most part, it hadn't been difficult. Temptation had been limited to the last potato chip in the bowl or excessive pride in the Palace. When Warren, his prayer buddy from Bible school, unexpectedly confessed to an inordinate interest in underwear ads, several of which he put aside for nocturnal perusal, Oscar had no idea what he was talking about. If it feels goods, Pastor Wilcox warned them, it's bad. According to him, God made the world full of beauty and wonder so that we could choose not to enjoy it. At the time Oscar thought he was talking about nature. Now he realized such desires went deeper and the knowledge made him uneasy.
*
"Broke!" Pete exclaimed, putting down his glass in shock. Had he known he would have to pay for his own drinks, and maybe Oscar's as well, he would never have brought him to the bar. "Already?"
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