Where you’ve lived your whole life, in Montreal, in the city, in the buildings below Sherbrooke Street West and in the ones on the other side of the tracks too, where the streets get a little shabbier and the block apartments and postwar housing all seems a little jumbled and lopped on top of itself, the arrow’s not necessarily pointing up, baby. There’s a lot of blue-collar, a lot of part-time, a lot of people dropping unemployment cards into the mailbox on Friday afternoons. People still go to sad little restaurants with ancient signs out front that say Jimmy’s or Steaks or, more popular still, Restaurant. They still go to laundromats and sit there all afternoon with a magazine in their lap and one eye on the machines, making sure no one’s stiffing their towels. They still line up in banks to make deposits and withdrawals, some of them, because using a bank card or a computer seems like such a hassle. The passwords and codes and everything. Standing in line isn’t so bad when you know the people and have the time.
Unlike many big-city neighbourhoods, here time treads water in a way most urban areas aren’t used to. People planned to leave a lot earlier but just never did. There’s almost too little change. Too much continuity. There are still streets where generations endure, friends and family still around to remember and be remembered, people’s stories that have beginnings, middles, and even ends, entire lives sometimes wrapped up into what turns out to be not much more than an overly long anecdote.
You’re driving with Henry. Henry has a car. You don’t have a car. Henry is a poor driver, he never knows where he’s going. Even when he’s been there many times, each time for Henry is like the first time.
“Left,” you say between slightly gritted teeth. Already you’re on edge. You adjust your shades, glance over at him.
Henry sails straight through the intersection.
“When?” he says.
You look over at him again. “Then.”
“There?”
“Yes, there.”
“I didn’t think you meant there.” He approaches another cross street. “Anyways, isn’t it here?”
“You can’t turn here.”
Henry looks over, sees that it’s one-way the wrong way.
You say, “Alright, forget it. Make a right and we’ll go up and around.”
Henry edges over to change lanes but there are cars there. “Right?” he says weakly.
“Yes. Get over.”
“I can’t. There’s cars.”
“So slow down.”
“There’s guys behind me.”
“Speed up then.”
Henry nods. “I see.”
But he doesn’t, and you miss this turn too.
“That was sad,” you say.
“It’s not my fault.”
“Alright, just stay in this lane. Go straight until the lights.”
Henry squints up ahead. “Hey, that’s where you turn left. That’s where we turned last time.”
“Because we did it wrong last time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Flicker. Put your flicker.”
When he’s made all his rights, then a left, then a right again, and he’s finally got you within walking range of where you’re going, you see a place to stop.
“Alright. Let me out here.”
“I’ll go up a bit further.”
“Here!”
“I see.”
Henry swerves violently towards the sidewalk then yanks the steering wheel away at the last instant before he runs up on the curb. A girl and her dog yelp in terror, scramble onto somebody’s lawn.
“Dump the car and I’ll meet you later,” you tell him, hopping out.
“Don’t be forever.”
“I won’t.”
“Please, Lee. Last time was long.”
“Last time someone else was there. I told you.”
“Well, even if there’s someone, don’t be so long.”
“I’ll be fast.”
“I don’t want to wait forever.”
“Alright.”
“Don’t forget.”
“Go. Now.”
Man, it’s like a husband-and-wife thing. Enough. You’ll be as fast as you can. It’s not like you want to be there any longer than you have to.
You wince watching Henry pull away, careening into the oncoming lane, swerving back to his side. What makes you bring him with you, anyway? Well, he’s tough. And a little crazy. And you get nervous going alone. Even after all this time. It’s why you go through this stupid ritual. Henry drives you close, you walk the rest of the way, go in the front. When you leave, you go out the back of the building, through the basement door, cut through the alley there, and walk to where you’re meeting back up with Henry, who has dumped the car.
If everything is cool, you grab a cab together. Henry comes back for his car the next day.
If they’re watching the front door, they never see you come out again. If they’re watching Henry’s car, you never go back to it. It’s parked on a side street all night long. And of course if they’ve got a half a brain, they catch you anyway. Easily. It’s a pointless manoeuvre. It makes you feel better just the same.
Your long legs carry you quickly. The streets are nicer here, the sidewalks clean. It may be lower Westmount, but it’s still Westmount. Somebody’s sure paying some taxes. When you get to the building, you give a cursory look around, scanning the entrance and lobby to see if anything looks out of the ordinary. Other than that, what’re you looking for? To spot an undercover cop? As if. It’s impossible to make those guys. You just want to make sure that no one’s looking to jump you. That there’s nobody hanging around whispering into their cellphone. Nobody that looks like they’re there to let somebody else know you’re on your way. You heard of a guy who got robbed in an elevator on his way up. Not here, somewhere else. They got in with him on the ground floor, beat the shit out of him, and were gone by the fifth. The guy never even bothered going the rest of the way up. What was he going to do there without any money?
Another guy you heard about, you’re thinking this as you open the heavy glass door that leads into the names and buzzers, showed up at his dealer’s place right during a bust. Imagine that. This guy knocked on the front door as the narcs were combing through the apartment. Hello! And the guy’s name, this is the best part, was Lucky. Ha! Come on in, Lucky. Beer, Lucky? He did three months. For a while after he got out he was The Dealer Formerly Known As Lucky, but it never really stuck.
A lady’s leaving through the interior security door. She’s having trouble, struggling to squeeze two big bags through as she braces the door open with a hip. You hold it to let her out but then allow it to swing locked again without you going in. She looks back at you, wondering why.
Because that’s how Lucky got in.
“I’m not sure if my friend’s home,” you say. “I’m going to ring him first.”
She moves away, gives you another look as she goes.
Schmuck. Ring him first. What’re you, British? Just say nothing. You walk over to the listings, trace a finger across the glass panelling. Pretend like you’re looking for his name, searching for the code. Behind you, bag lady has heaved herself through the outside door. You press the tiny rectangular button beside 6060.
“Yes?”
“Lee.”
“Lee?”
“Lee.”
“Alright.”
Buzz. Click.
In the elevator you’re reminded of Honey and this morning’s fiasco. Yipes. You’re going to pay for that. It’s still so fresh in your mind, you haven’t even had a chance to freak out about it yet. Just forget it for now. Concentrate. Stay sharp.
You get up to fifteen, slide out the doors, and turn right. No one robbed you on your way up. This is a good thing. If they had, they would have run off with two thousand bucks. Not a bad ten minutes’ work. You make your way down the long carpeted tunnel. You’re going to the very end. Two thousand bucks. That’s peanuts in a place like this. You pass door after door, rich, dark wood. Pretentious little gold plates with the apartment numbers carved in. Thick locks. Stylish door handles. You keep waiting for one of them to turn and open, put you face to face with somebody coming out of their place, the once-over they’ll give you, look you up and down wondering who let you in the building. Or maybe they know who let you in the building.
You keep walking, staring straight ahead. Chest tight. Heart pounding. Still. After all these years.
Nobody’s door handle turns, nobody’s door opens. You let yourself relax a bit, breathe out, breathe in. Funny how even in expensive buildings you can still smell what people are having for dinner. You get to the end of the corridor, push the buzzer, and listen as the footsteps arrive.
Your Dealer opens the door, steps back from it. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”
“I’m five minutes late.”
You file past him and make your way into the living room. There are more plants here than you’ve ever seen in one room. Regular plants, not pot. Floor plants, shelf plants, rows of potted flowers. Mini trees. Bushes, even. Pots in waiting, filled to the brim with dirt. You sit down at one end of a leather couch, not far from a skinny cactus.
“So, what can be done for you?” Your Dealer asks, following you in. He’s sipping through a straw at some murky-looking shit in a tall glass. “Juice? Tea?”
Your Dealer is one of those guys who’s trying to live forever. He’s over fifty, always on one kick or another. He doesn’t drink or smoke cigarettes or eat anything that doesn’t have fibre and grain and sprouts and whatever else you’re supposed to need. He lifts weights and runs and reads health magazines and avoids the sun like the plague.
He sits down at his fancy antique desk.
“No,” you say, “I don’t want anything. I just dropped by.”
He opens a drawer, pulls out a little book, and flips through several pages until he comes to your name. “What’d you bring?”
“Two.”
“Two,” he says, studying the page then reaching for a pen to write this number down. “And you don’t want anything?”
“No, I still have.” You stand up and pull your jean jacket off, turning it around to find the double-sized pocket sewn inside against the back. You open it, take out the thick envelope that’s been gnawing at your spine the last half-hour. You walk over and hand it to him.
He pulls out the money, unwraps the elastic bands, and sighs. Begins counting.
“I’ve got to go in the shower,” he says. “You can’t stay long.”
You shrug. “You’re going out?”
“With Sharon.”
Sharon is his ex.
“Where?”
“Restaurant. Did you count this properly?”
“Yeah.”
“Properly?”
“Sure.”
“Mmn.” This comes out as a bit of a grumble. Is it all the little bills?
You watch him count.
After a bit he looks up at you. “You know what the problem with growing old is, Lee?”
You don’t answer.
He stares at you like there’s an obvious reply.
“I don’t know,” you say finally, fiddling with a stack of coasters on the table in front of you, nervous, anxious to go, watching as he returns his gaze to the money and continues counting. “Your eyesight goes?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
You say nothing. He says nothing. You wait. He waits you out, keeps counting. Christ, how are you supposed to know? He’s the one that’s old.
You guess again anyway. “All the time wasted with the little details in life?”
“No.” But a faint smile comes to his lips, a softened expression has worked its way into those pale little features. He likes these little discourses.
You think a little more, wonder what he’s getting at. And then it occurs to you that he’s referring to Sharon. Of course. She of the shrill, lispy voice. You’ve met her a couple of times. Ugh.
“Old relationships,” you say. “The tangled webs we’ve woven.”
He smiles again. “We weave. No.”
He slides a couple of piles away from him, starts on the rest. You watch him. He’s careful and practised, slipping each bill out from the one underneath it, feeling it to be sure there’s not another one hidden. Deliberate, unhurried. Precise and methodical. Slow. You could bash him over the head with a heavy pot of dirt.
Your Dealer decides to explain. “The problem with growing old” — he reaches over for his anti-aging serum — “is that your ass itches constantly.” He presses the straw to his lips and sucks in some goop.
You pick at your jacket, toying with the buttons. It’s always a little tense over here. The bizarre little conversations. The fear of a sharp knock at the door. The desire to leave as soon as you arrive.
“That’s fascinating,” you say.
“Itching, burning,” he says. “All the time. There’s always an irritation of some kind. It can drive you nuts. Sometimes it goes away for a bit, maybe a week. But it always comes back. Itching, tingling.”
He finishes a pile, starts another.
“It’s on fire right now,” he says, actually squirming. “On fire. My own asshole. It’s killing me. I could cut it out with my apple-paring knife. That’s how I feel. Like I could gut it right out. Or grate it raw with a great big vicious piece of sandpaper. Rub it raw. Or freeze it. Pack it with the coldest, driest ass-numbing ice I can lay my hands on. You know what I’m saying? It’s to that point. I dream of spiking my ass with a giant syringe full of cortisone. Can you imagine? It’s a curse.”
He takes another long, thick sip of that murky shit and pushes a small stack of money to the side.
You say nothing once again, remind yourself that you’ve heard this kind of stuff before. He goes off on tangents sometimes, Your Dealer. This isn’t the first time. This time it’s a bit incredibly stunningly astoundingly disgustingly freakishly weird, but what the hell. Maybe he had to tell somebody. Maybe he’s allowed. Maybe it’s good that he finally told somebody. He said it. Now it’s over and done with. After all, if his ass is that bad.
“You ever try that cream?” he wants to know. Oh God. You settle back against the couch. “That clear stuff in a tube? Useless. It does nothing. It’s for idiots. I’ve bought a ton of it. It never works. I smear it on me like icing on a cake. It does nothing. Within ten minutes I’m digging my fingers back in, up to the knuckles. I wouldn’t show you my underwear at the end of the day if you begged me.”
“Really?” you hear yourself say. “Not even if I begged?”
He finishes the last pile, pushes it by the rest. Counts the piles. Then one by one he places each of them in his bottom drawer and gently slides it closed.
He looks at you. Where is this going?
“The problem with getting old is that everything starts to go,” he says. “Your body starts to wear down. Like any machine, part by part. Piece of junk. Your back goes. Your ass goes. Your feet go. Your hair falls out, your joints get stiff. Your skin starts to loosen and turn colour and dry up. Your brain doesn’t want to learn anything anymore. It’s shrinking. In fact it’s getting so small it’s trying to get rid of things. It’s throwing stuff out. It’s why you can’t learn new things or remember old things.”
He takes another grotesque guzzle of his lumpy potion.
“Everything starts to hurt. Not a lot, just in little bits. When you’re young and you get hurt, you get better. When you get older, nothing ever comes back a hundred percent. An ache here, soreness there. Everything lingers. Just enough to make you wonder. Make you wonder what you’re getting. What new ailment. What sickness. What cancer is lurking behind the sore throat you had this morning? Why does one of my arms feel dead lately? What’s just a sore chest muscle and what’s a chest pain? Is one of my arteries about to collapse? Do I have a tumour in my head from all those hours on the cellphone?”
“I never use mine,” you say. Pointlessly.
“They’ll kill you. I had one when they first came out. Back then. You should’ve seen the size of it. Carrying a fucking brick around with you all day would’ve been lighter. Think of all the radiation that must have melted through my skull. I could have a brain tumour right now. I get headaches, you know.”
“Maybe you just exercise too much. Maybe you should take it easy a bit. Eat a pizza.”
A faraway look settles into his eyes, an expression he affects whenever he’s speaking with someone of obviously limited scope. He says, “Getting old forces you into decisions. First you have to decide to learn to live with it. The aches, the pains, all of it. The adjustments. The compromise. All of it. Then you have to agree to accept death. Not as hard as you think. You’re older. More tired. When you’re young, the inevitability of death drives you crazy. It makes everything pointless. What’s the point if we’re all going to end up dead one day anyway? That’s what stumps you. Why try hard? Why get rich? Why sacrifice? When you’re older you’re looking back on everything. A done deal. You did and he did and she did, and they did and life did. And that’s what ended up. Everything was pointless. And yet not. But it’s not so frustrating anymore. Death is closer, yet not as daunting. Fatigue has set in. Do you think I’m rich?”
You look up. “What?” You sort of nodded off there during the hedid-she-did bit.
“How much money do you think I have now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
Again with the guessing. “I said I don’t know.”
He raises an eyebrow, glares at you, giving you what he thinks of as his stern look. “Guess,” he says.
“No.”
“If you had to say.”
“I don’t have to say.” But it’s a lot, you think.
“Conservatively,” he prods you.
You shrug.
“C’mon. Conservatively.”
“Conservatively?”
“Right.”
“How much you have?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” His eyes light up, anticipating your answer.
“No . . . I don’t want to say.”
“Say!”
You glance over at his desk drawer. “Two thousand bucks.”
He stares at you. Smiles a tiny smile, the one he thinks is enigmatic. “Bright boy,” he says quietly.
The buzzer goes. From downstairs. Lord! It catches you completely off guard. Very loud. You actually gasp. How cool of you.
He laughs, picks up his remote, and turns the TV on. A grainy lobby shot of Sharon appears, squinting into the camera. She of the big purses and silly hats. Even in black-and-white they look gaudy. He clicks it off, goes over to the phone on the wall by the door.
“I didn’t shower yet,” he says into the receiver.
“What have you been doing?” she crackles back. “We’re —”
He stabs at the button to let her in, cuts her off.
You get up. The leather of the couch makes a slurping sound, glad to be rid of you. You flex your knees, unglue your jeans from the backs of your thighs, re-blouse your shirt.
“I better take off,” you say. “My ass is starting to itch.”
“Ah. Humour. I’m a big fan.” Your Dealer walks back across the room, burrowing into the back of himself as he goes. At his desk he opens a different drawer than the ones previously, pulls out a black slab, and flips it at you. “Here. Fabulous stuff. Let me know what you think. Twenty-four hundred.”
You catch it, unwrap it, smell it, seal it back up, and stuff it into the inside pocket of your jean jacket. Put the jacket on. Feel the bulge against your spine. You walk across the room, sidestepping bushes and trees much of the way. You hear him drain what’s left of his drink, hear the straw sucking at air, the bubbles cackling. You arrive at the door, turn back to look at him.
“You know, Lee,” he says, waiting for you, “I was born poor. Dirt poor. Less than auspicious beginnings, I assure you. But you know what? Do you know what I quickly realized? That it was only in relation to those immediately around me. That I was, in actual fact, very lucky. Privileged. To be born in North America. In the twentieth century. Like you. I was in no danger of starving to death. There were no flies hovering, looking to infect me with virus. I was not under threat of genocide. My country was not even at war. Both hands worked. Both legs worked. I could see and hear and think. Lucky indeed. At first I understood very little, of course, but as time went by I discovered that most people understood very little. Luck again. I worked hard. I made the most of my opportunities. I made the most of the opportunities of others too, on occasion. But that’s not to say I became rich. I didn’t get rich. I just ended up with a lot more than I started out with.”
You watch as he crosses back towards you, picking his way nimbly through the jungle. Not so bad for a guy whose machine is winding down.
“I have more now,” he says. “It’s true. More money. More clothes. More things. More taste. More expensive taste, certainly. More knowledge. More experience. More insight into what this world asks of us mere mortals. More lines on my face, more wrinkles, more grey, more worry. More problems. More aches, more pains. More self-doubt. More memories.”
Your Dealer opens the door for you.
“And so what is left can only be less. Less energy. Less desire. Less life. Less hair.” He smiles, runs a hand lightly across the front of his scalp, across the wispy strands that curl there. “Less time.”
His other hand rises to your shoulder, escorts you through the doorway. The touch is soft and friendly, but it’s telling you to go.
“At least you have your wealth,” you say.
He ignores this, bids you farewell. “Next time, not so many small bills. Okay?”
Without waiting for your reply, he closes the door. You retrace your path along the corridor. When you get to the end the elevator doors open and Sharon elbows her way out, sweeping the door aside with one arm and you with the other. She barely looks at you. You watch her barrel down the corridor, she of the flat feet and waddling hips. With each stride her purse bounces against her side and her hat struggles not to fall. Every time you’ve ever seen Sharon she’s been pissed off at something. She makes you think now of a very large, very angry duck.
You step in and punch for the basement. The doors slide shut and erase her image. You’re thinking of just one thing: get out of the building with your dope, out the door and through the alley in back to the next street over. Without anyone so much as looking at you. That’s all you want. That’s what must happen.
The elevator starts its descent. You make several vague, hasty promises to God, forgetting them as soon as you’ve thought them up, hold your breath, and start counting floors.