High For This
After school ended that year, I started working full-time again at Toronto Community Living. Karen moved back to Manitoulin where she’d gotten an internship at the Ojibwe Cultural Foundation. Both she and Liam were living on her aunt’s farm. Pat moved in with me for the summer. He and his matzah ball girlfriend were apparently on a break. He said he needed to get out of Sudbury, and practically begged me to let him sublet Karen’s room. He arrived on my doorstep in his battered backpacking gear, with his guitar in one hand and a case of Moosehead in the other.
That first weekend I figured I’d show Pat around town, and we made plans to go out Saturday night for a drink. I came home from work to find Ricky Martin’s Greatest Hits cranked on the stereo. Two girls were dancing in my apartment, slicing avocados and going through my DVD collection.
“Who are you?” I asked, standing in the doorway holding my keys.
They immediately turned down the music and introduced themselves as Carolina and Yuko from Colombia and Osaka (respectively) and friends of Pat, and I must be his homosexual brother Dan. They were to have an extravaganza bonanza movie night and wanted to know if I would join them.
“Where’s Pat?”
As if on cue, Pat arrived hefting two grocery bags, accompanied by a statuesque brunette balancing a two-four of Corona on her shoulder. “Hey big brother! I see you’ve met Yuko and Carolina. This is Sindija. She’s from Latvia. Girls, meet my brother Dan.”
I waved. “Hi.”
Pat dumped the groceries on the counter. “When I spotted these beautiful ladies, I just had to help them out. I ran across Dundas Street and practically got creamed by a streetcar, isn’t that right?”
“Creamy by streetcar.” Yuko nodded emphatically.
“Help them out?”
“They were lost downtown looking for the Eaton Centre. And get this.” Pat clapped me on the shoulder. “They all go to U of T.”
“We are international students,” Yuko explained, “in summer intensive at University of Toronto English Language Program.”
Pat flung open his arms. “Dude, they’re your classmates!”
“Pat, seventy thousand students go to U of T.”
“Dan, Pat tells to us,” Sindija said, handing me the two-four, “you are very good ice hockey player.”
“Um, I used to play hockey, that’s right.”
“Sindija played goaltender two years,” Pat said, “at the Latvian women’s national level. Dan here was almost captain of his team. Isn’t that right?”
“Sure.”
The truth was, Sindija looked more like a fashion model than a goaltender. When I set down the beer case, she reached out and ran her painted nails through my hair. “I love to play,” she said, “good ice hockey.”
“Well.” I blinked and swallowed. “Welcome to Canada.”
“Thank you, Dan,” Carolina exclaimed, washing her hands at the kitchen sink.
“Thank you so very much, Dan.” Yuko giggled. I noticed she had a red streak in her hair, and a tiny skull tattoo on the side of her neck.
Pat tossed limes and salsa chips onto the counter. “We’re having an extravaganza bonanza movie night. Their instructor wants them to watch English-language films so I told them about your famous movie collection and here we are about to taste the best, kick-ass guacamole in the entire mundo, because that, big brother, is what Carolina has promised us.”
“Hola,” I said. “Gracias.”
“De nada.” Carolina smiled sidelong at me, sorting through her ingredients. “That is very good. Do you speak Spanish?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Carolina winked. “I will teach you. I am very good teacher.”
“Did you know,” Pat said, “that ‘avocado’ comes from the Aztec word for ‘testicle’?”
“No, Pat,” I said, “I did not know that.”
Carolina crushed a garlic clove with the flat of a knife. “This guacamole, it is very special recipe by my mother. She teach us how to make with love.”
Sindija dabbed on some honey-coloured lip gloss with her pinkie finger. “Yuko, Carolina and I, we meet one week ago. Now we are best girlfriends, jā?”
“Sí!”
“Hai!”
The girls high-fived each other. I half-expected them to break out pom-poms, but instead they just grouphugged and kissed. “We,” Carolina declared, “are the Three Amigas!”
That evening, Pat and I squeezed onto our couch with the Three Amigas and watched Charlie’s Angels and then the sequel Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle back-toback. The girls fed Pat and me Carolina’s mother’s guacamole, and it was the best, kick-ass guacamole I’d ever had in my life. Matt LeBlanc was cute, but I’d forgotten just how hot Justin Theroux was as Drew Barrymore’s evil ex-boyfriend. When Yuko told us she actually had her brown belt in jujitsu, Pat insisted on pausing the DVD and moving the furniture just so she could teach us all exactly how to immobilize a larger assailant in real life. The girls enthusiastically practised their moves on Pat and me. After each take-down (resulting in one broken lamp and more than one rug burn), Yuko and the others would shout: “And that’s kicking your ass!” By the time we were done, we’d polished off all the beer and the girls were feeling festive and wanting to go out. Like Pat, they’d just arrived in town, so by default, I was their point man. Then I figured I’d take them all down to Little Italy to check out El Convento Rico.
My ex, Sean the DJ, had introduced me to El Convento which, he explained, always offered up a worthwhile mix of Top 40’s, hip-hop and Salsa, Merengue and Chacha with a bit of Bachata. I really had no idea what he was talking about, but the drunken bachelorette ensembles that night were amusing, as was the midnight drag show. Half the guys in the club were straight Latinos, but the other half were gays. Something for everyone. Since then, I’d never thought to go back on my own. But I figured at least Carolina would feel at home, and the club was a five minute cab ride away.
When we finally got in, it was getting on towards 1 a.m. and the venue was packed. All three girls were delighted. As it turned out, Carolina was an excellent dancer, and immediately attracted a colourful entourage. She took it upon herself to teach us the Merengue. She had both her hands on my hips, helping me move to the rhythm, which the girls thought was hysterical. I did my best to be a good sport, but balked when she tried to take off my shirt. Then Pat cut in and cheerfully whipped off his own shirt, and soon there was a small cluster of dancers grinding, at which point I bowed out and headed outside to get some fresh air.
Because of hockey, I never did get into social smoking, but tonight, on an impulse, I bummed a cigarette from a passer-by. I was puffing away, enjoying the cool breeze, when I observed a man in a Second City tank top give the bouncer a fist bump. When he noticed me looking, he strolled over and asked if I was looking for any favours. I asked what he had and he rattled off an impressive list. Apart from pot and poppers (and acid once at a bush party), I’d never tried recreational drugs in my life. I told him thanks I’d think about it, and he told me where I could find him. I tossed aside my cigarette butt, headed down the block, took some money out of an ATM, returned, showed the bouncer the stamp on my hand, and went back inside. If at all possible, the venue seemed even more packed than before. I found Pat and the girls on a leather couch in the back doing tequila body shots. “Pat,” I said, “I need to talk with you.” In the alcove to the washroom, I told him I wanted him to buy some drugs. I described the dealer, and gave Pat the cash I’d taken out.
“You sure about this?” he shouted in my ear.
“No, but fuck it. There’s a first time for everything, right?”
Pat laughed in my face. “Alright. What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Surprise me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Pat shouldered his way back through the crowd and pressed up next to me. He palmed into my hand a tiny plastic Ziploc bag. The girls waved to us from the dance floor. “What is it?” I asked, scanning the mass of patrons.
“I got us MDMA, five caps.”
“You swallow it?”
“Yes, you swallow it. Here.” He handed me a beer.
“I can’t do this here. Let me go to the washroom.”
“Yes, you can. Give me the bag.”
I gave him the bag and after a minute, I felt him press a single capsule back into my palm. I felt subversive, energized and absolutely thrilled, like I was some covert operative in a spy thriller. “Where’s yours?” I asked. Pat opened his mouth to reveal a capsule already on his tongue. He raised his bottle in salute and took a swig.
“Cheers.” I followed suit. Down the hatch. There was no turning back now. All the bridges were burning, in flames. After a moment, I leaned into him. “How long is this going to take?”
“I dunno. I guess we’ll find out.”
“Well, what’s this going to feel like?”
“I dunno. We’ll find out.”
“Look, Pat, what’s this going to do to me?”
“It’ll make you feel good. Just go with it.”
“Well, how good?”
“Dan, freakin’ chill. I don’t know. I’ve never done MDMA before.”
“What? Pat, I thought you had.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I just assumed you had.”
“Well, I haven’t.” Pat draped his arm over my shoulder and grinned. “But there’s a first time for everything.”
Sindija cha-chaed over to where we were standing. Smiling at both of us, without missing a beat, she reached into Pat’s pants pocket and extracted the bag with the remaining three caps. She blew us a kiss and danced away. Dumbly, Pat and I stared after her, and then at each other.
“Latvians.”
“Whoa.”
That night, Yuko, Carolina and Sindija took turns giving us head on our living room couch. I’d never had sex in front of my brother Pat before. I’d never had sex in front of anyone before. I’d never had sex with a girl before. As it turned out, the girls had also acquired a quantity of coke, so while two of them were on their knees in front of us, the third one would be tap-tap-tapping with a credit card and assembling lines on the Ricky Martin CD case. As their heads bobbed up and down to “She Bangs” on the stereo, Charlie’s Angels played on the TV in the background. At one point, Pat and I happened to glance over at each other at the same time. Our arms were splayed across the back of the couch, and I wondered if I looked as dishevelled and sweaty and crazyeyed as he did. I’m sure I did. Our hands touched and we locked fingers. When I finally came, the girls cheered. But whether because he was too drunk or too high or a combination of both, Pat couldn’t come. In the end, he did a line off my shoulder, pulled on his underwear, jumped up and simply danced with the girls until dawn.
“You woke up with what in your face?”
“Pat’s underwear. Pat and Carolina had sex in the shower later. And Pat finally got off.”
“And these girls,” McNeil-Tsao asked, “you’re planning to see them again?”
“Pat definitely is. I’m not so sure. They know I’m gay. They still want to hook up again. The next morning they all kept saying: ‘The Chad was great.’ They want to meet Liam, but that’s not going to happen. They all go back home at the end of the summer.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“What?”
“Sex with these girls.”
“It was, I don’t know. It was weird. I don’t want to lead them on, you know? One part of me thinks Pat orchestrated this whole night from the beginning. But that’s not true. It really was just a random hook-up.”
“Purchasing illicit street drugs isn’t random, Garneau.”
“I know.”
McNeil-Tsao and I were taking a break, sitting against the wall of our squash court. He was beating me four games to two. He’d stopped giving me any advantages months ago. There was absolutely no way I was going to tell Karen about what had happened, but I had to tell someone.
“Your brother,” McNeil-Tsao said, “Pat. You say he does this all the time?”
“Pat’s been a Casanova ever since I can remember. In middle school, he’d spy on the girl’s change room and jerk off in the broom closet. He started a garage band in grade ten just so he could attract groupies. He gets around.”
“So really, all things relative, this was nothing out of the ordinary for him.”
“All things relative, I guess you could say that. Although he keeps insisting he’s never done party drugs before, besides pot and acid.”
“Acid?”
“There was this bush party back in our senior year. You ever heard of a bush party?”
“I’m from North Bay. I know what a bush party is.”
“Okay, well all three of us, my two brothers and I, decided we’d drop acid. It was towards the end of our final year in school.”
“And?”
“It didn’t do much for me. It wasn’t even that psychedelic. It was some cheap-ass batch some local kid cooked up in his bathtub. But practically the whole graduating class dropped that night. Someone made a speech. It was a memorable moment. There was also a lot of rum and whiskey going around. Out there in the forest under the stars, we felt like pirate kings and queens. We all bonded over it.” I balanced the squash ball on my racquet. “The point is, I don’t do drugs. I haven’t done drugs since. I can’t believe I let some strangers blow me in front of my brother.”
“Maybe the point is the bonding. And everything else is just a means to an end.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, every human being is wired to connect. We all crave intimacy in one form or another.”
I closed my eyes and thought of Grandpa taking a hacksaw to my old pair of skates for Halloween. I thought of Liam’s excitement at showing me a moose skull he’d found. I thought of the time Karen and I shared pizza together in the shower. I remembered clasping Pat’s sweaty hand in my own as I climaxed from a blow job by Carolina Sanchez. “In one form or another.”
“You ready for another game?”
“You ready to finally get your ass kicked?”
“Don’t make me bury you, Garneau.” McNeil-Tsao drew himself to his feet and then helped me up. “Because I will bury you.”
“You just try, old man.” I spun my racquet, and tossed him the ball. “You just try.”
That summer, living with Pat never got as crazy again as it had that first weekend, but it was memorable. We got into the habit of shooting pool at Sneaky Dee’s and checking out live music at Rancho Relaxo and The Free Times Café. Pat made friends as easily as someone else might take out library books. At the Christie Pits drum circle, he met a bunch of musicians, and by midsummer was spending most of his time hanging out with them on the Toronto Islands.
Around this time, at the group home, I started working shifts with a new staff member named Parker Kapoor. Although we were both gay and about the same age, there was never any weirdness or tension between us. Instead, we hit it off almost instantly. Parker Kapoor thought my encounter with the Three Amigas was the funniest story he’d ever heard in his life. Parker laughed at pretty much everything I said, even when I wasn’t trying to be funny. Somebody else might have thought he was permanently stoned, but he was Hindu and didn’t even drink or smoke. He was the youngest of five siblings, and had come out to his parents (both doctors) when he was twelve. Ever since, they’d been enthusiastically on the lookout for a nice Canadian boy to match him with.
One Saturday we were sitting on a Church Street patio when his eyes grew big and he said: “Don’t look around don’t look around don’t look around.”
Of course, when someone says something like that, a person looks around. Although the patio was full, I didn’t see anything unusual. It was a pleasant evening in June, and the Village community was out in numbers, like Serengeti fauna at the watering hole. The tables were crowded with pitchers of beer and sangria, frosted martini glasses and baskets of pita and calamari. Parker, who was wearing Birkenstocks, low-rise jeans and a loosefitting tee, leaned forward, pretending to sip on his virgin mojito, and mumbled something without moving his lips.
“What?” I asked.
He mumbled again, his large eyes swivelling in his head like semaphore.
“Parker, I can’t understand a single word you’re saying.”
Then Parker picked up his over-sized aviator sunglasses and placed them on me, turned in his chair, crossing his legs, and studied the high tree canopies intently. “Now look,” he instructed. “But don’t look like you’re looking.”
I pretended to reach for my wallet in my back pocket and glanced over my shoulder again. This time, I spotted a distinguished-looking gentleman three tables away in the company of a woman in an eggshell dress. I didn’t place him at first, since he was dressed casually in a polo shirt, but I recognized his face from the media. He was a well-known politician based in Ottawa who had come out publicly some years ago.
I asked Parker if that was who I thought it was. He indicated frantically with one finger that I should return his glasses. I did so, and he immediately put them on and moved his chair to better conceal himself.
I’d become accustomed to Parker’s dramatics, and waited patiently for him to compose himself. To his credit, it was an aspect of his personality he kept in check at work. Parker was a boy who had played with Barbies when he was young, and was the hugest Bollywood fan I knew.
“Daniel,” he said, “I have had sex with him.” He enunciated each syllable like he was speaking to Bill, our group home client who was partially deaf.
“Really? When did this happen?”
“Six years ago. He picked me up at Goodhandy’s.” Although he didn’t drink alcohol, Parker Kapoor was the quintessential barfly. Early on in the summer, Parker had taken me to a burlesque show fundraiser at Goodhandy’s benefitting a friend’s sex reassignment surgery. Goodhandy’s was billed as a pansexual playground, notorious for its live porn-tapings and rent boys with questionable hygiene.
“What on earth were you doing at Goodhandy’s?”
“I was going through my neo-Depeche Mode phase back then,” Parker explained. “And I was wearing eight thousand dollars worth of braces. It was not a pretty time in my life.”
“Okay.” I thought of when I was seventeen, high on acid at drunken bush parties, secretly jacking off to a cum-stained photograph of my assistant hockey coach, my hair cut in a style frighteningly reminiscent of a mullet. I certainly wasn’t one to judge anyone.
“He offered to buy me a drink. I had no idea who he was. Older guys hit on me all the time.”
“They do?”
“Look at me, Daniel. I’m jailbait. I look like I’m twelve years old.”
Parker was regularly prone to exaggeration. He looked at least sixteen. “So what happened?”
“What happened? What’s more to say? We went to one of the back rooms upstairs. I never saw him again.”
“So what did you do?”
“You mean what sexual perversions did this older man get up to with that seventeen-year-old brown boy? Not much. To tell the truth, it was a little boring. He made me show him my ID, can you believe it? Although I will tell you,” Parker whispered, “his penis goes like this.” He manoeuvred his fingers into a painful-looking position.
“Parker, do your parents know their son is having sex with high-ranking Canadian politicians?”
“It happened once, Daniel. Once. This girl has class. Mind you, if that man over there and I publicly professed our undying love for one other, I think my parents would be thrilled. We already have doctors, two lawyers, a physics professor and a microbiologist in my family. No politicians though. Although, by the way, he was only a midranking official back then. You do realize his ministry funds our employer?”
“I never thought of that.”
Parker peered around me and over the rim of his glasses. “I should hit him up for a raise.”
“Didn’t he marry his accountant last year? It was all in the news. I hear they’re planning to adopt.”
“They are. A little brown baby.”
“Really?”
“From Florida. That’s probably his adoption agent he’s talking to right now.”
“How do you know these things?”
Parker tapped the side of his large and perfectly straight nose. Holding his straw with his pinkie extended, he sat back and slurped down the slushy remains of his virgin mojito.
I found out later that Parker had skipped two grades in elementary school and was a freshman at university at the age of fifteen. It was Parker’s idea to take me shopping one Sunday afternoon. We met in a part of town called Yorkville, a high-end district of art galleries, boutiques, chic cafés and fashionable eateries. We strolled from store to store, admiring the architecture, the elaborate window displays and various passers-by. I felt conspicuously underdressed, but Parker reminded me that the neighbourhood had been the epicentre of the Canadian hippie movement back in the 1960s.
Parker had an opinion on almost every brand name. I eventually bought a T-shirt off a 50% sales rack. It was by far the single most expensive shirt I’d ever owned in my life. I usually wore a size large or extra-large, but Parker insisted I get the medium. He had the staff snip the tags, and I wore it out of the store sipping on a Dixie cup of complimentary espresso. Then Parker bought himself a pair of skinny jeans and a pair of Ray-Bans and gave me his old sunglasses, since they framed my bone structure so much better than his. After that, he took me to the MAC store. He seemed to be on intimate terms with the staff and I stood by self-consciously as he underwent a makeover.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Parker said, waving in my direction, “although my parents would be absolutely thrilled if he was. He’s going to be a doctor.”
One of the girls asked if this was true and I told them I was considering applying to med school. Her smile was whiter than Wite-Out. None of the MAC staff appeared to have pores. When they were done with Parker, neither did he. Apart from that, he actually didn’t look that much different, which made me wonder if he wore make-up more often and I just never noticed. Then the staff insisted it was my turn; I adamantly refused, but eventually let them test swatches of foundation on my wrist. That opened a floodgate. One thing led to another and, under Parker’s incessant cajoling, I caved and found myself perched up on the high stool.
I’d been at the MAC counter ten minutes when I heard someone call out my name. Melissa poked her head in the store. “Oh my god! It is Daniel. Michael, look, it’s Daniel.” Mike peered around Melissa and gave me a cheerful thumbs-up sign. Apparently, they’d been shopping at the babyGap around the corner. As my MAC girl massaged a hypoallergenic moisturizing foundation into my forehead, Melissa and Mike introduced themselves to Parker who offered a civil, if somewhat chilly, response. Melissa gingerly settled herself on a stool next to mine. She looked like she was ready to deliver yesterday.
“One more month, can you believe it?” she huffed. “Someone should build strollers for expectant mothers to ride in. My back is killing me, I feel absolutely bloated and disgusting. Look at me, I am a cow. I am a whorish, crippled cow. But Michael here has been simply wonderful, haven’t you been, Michael? He’s been patient, compassionate and attentive in every way a woman might possibly want or need.” She silently mouthed for my benefit, “Cock ring,” and squeezed my knee.
The MAC girl leaned on my shoulder, brow knit in concentration, her breasts pressed firmly into the side of my arm, and applied some kind of lip gloss with a brush. I mumbled something unintelligible and gave Melissa a thumbs-up sign.
After that day, I politely declined Parker Kapoor’s eager invitations to go shopping again. A few weeks later, Pat did the laundry and shrank my Yorkville T-shirt so that it barely covered my ribcage. When I took it to work and offered it to Parker, it fit him perfectly. I liked the sunglasses he’d given me though, and wore them for the rest of the summer, at least until Pat sat on them one day. When I went to buy a similar pair, I discovered they cost a whole lot more than my Yorkville T-shirt had. Then I figured I’d spend the money instead on a baby gift for Melissa and Mike. In the end, she’d given birth to a beautiful healthy boy whom they’d named Benjamin. In all their Facebook postings from the maternity ward, both parents appeared exhausted but ecstatic. Melissa looked luminous. The kid was tiny, pink-faced and more than cute. He seemed to be sticking out his hand in what strangely resembled an affirmative thumbs-up sign. Welcome to the world, little guy.
That fall, Karen’s biological father died. He’d been in a federal prison in Kingston for fourteen years. The last time they saw him, Karen and her little sister Anne were seven and four. It was Karen who arranged for the body to be transported back to M’Chigeeng on Manitoulin. She took a bus home to oversee the paperwork. She insisted it was merely a formality and that I should stay in Toronto and hold the fort. School had started already, but she’d gotten an accommodation for a leave of absence. Karen reminded me she had the Miltons and her extended family for support. She also had Liam. Later, I heard Anne had refused to attend the funeral. On the day Karen was to finally return to Toronto, I vacuumed and tidied, set flowers in a vase, and prepared her favourite foods: grilled cheese-and-steak sandwiches and tomato soup. When Karen stepped through the front door, she gave me a hug, shuffled into the kitchen and lifted the lid to the pot simmering on the stove. Then she opened the door to the oven where I was keeping a stack of sandwiches warm on a foil tray. I offered her a glass of red wine which she cradled mutely in both hands.
“Karen,” I finally said. “You okay?”
She nodded and set the glass down. She looked past me. Liam was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t seen him since I’d visited Sudbury during Toronto’s Pride Weekend in June. He was unshaven and heavier than I remembered. His hair had grown out, framing his dark features.
“Liam,” I exclaimed.
Liam set his backpack down on the doorstep. “Hey.”
“Holy cow.” During my two years in Toronto, he’d never visited once. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced at Karen and then back at me. “Karen and me, we thought I’d come visit, a week maybe. Sorry we didn’t ask you sooner. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Sure, of course. As long as you want.”
“Jackson’s in the Jeep.”
“Jackson?” For a second, I couldn’t figure out who Jackson was. “Jackson, right. Okay, of course. Bring him in. Don’t keep him out there.” While Liam went to fetch Jackson, I grabbed his pack which was surprisingly light and compact. It smelled faintly of burnt sweetgrass and cedar. “Karen, you guys hungry?”
They were ravenous. Apparently, they’d driven from Sudbury through Parry Sound to Toronto non-stop. Liam fed Jackson before doing anything else. While we ate, Jackson settled himself on the couch, licking his chops, and curled his bushy tail up beneath his chin. His eyebrows individually rose and fell as he watched each one of us in turn. “How was he on the drive down?” I asked.
“Jackson? Great,” Liam said. “He loves the Jeep. He’s been riding with me all summer.”
“So how are things on Manitoulin?”
“Great. Karen’s whole family is great.” Liam glanced again at Karen.
“This is really good soup, Daniel,” Karen said.
“Thanks.”
When Liam was in the washroom, I asked: “Look, is everything okay between us, you and me?”
She squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll explain later. But everything’s good. Trust me. We’re good.”
Later that night, I thought I heard Karen and Liam arguing. After a while, just as I was dozing off, I was sure I could hear them making love. I could tell they were trying to be quiet about it, but I could make out their exhalations and the rhythmic creaking of Karen’s bed. I imagined their hands and their mouths, the position of their limbs. I imagined Liam inside of her. I resisted an impulse to sit up and press my ear against the wall. Jackson nosed open my bedroom door and tentatively crept up onto the mattress. I rolled over and let him curl up on top of my feet. After some time, the apartment and the whole house fell quiet. Directly above me, Melissa and Mike’s newborn baby slept in his crib, breathing in and out through his tiny nostrils, with his miniature hands curling and uncurling. I fell asleep feeling the pulse of Jackson’s heartbeat against my feet.