Five Days in May
Rumours of Marcus’ death were greatly exaggerated. He’d fractured multiple bones and suffered a concussion, but was expected to make a full recovery by the spring. It was true, he could easily have died. He could’ve suffered a more serious head or spinal injury, but none of that happened. He’d fallen four stories into a snow bank piled up by the side of his building. Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. was the luckiest man alive. When I visited him in St. Michael’s Hospital in early February, he was manoeuvring himself around in a wheelchair and asked if I would accompany him outside for a smoke. “Since when,” I asked, “did you start smoking?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied, lighting my cigarette for me. We were bundled up just outside the Queen Street entrance, between the Eaton Centre and the Metropolitan United Church. We hunched next to a parked ambulance, shielding ourselves from the wind. Nearby, an elderly gentleman in bunny slippers, attached to an IV rack, puffed leisurely on a cigar. A few cyclists in ski masks braved the icy roads. A streetcar rumbled past, streaked with brown, salt-stained slush.
“My new boyfriend,” I said, “he smokes.”
“David Gallucci.”
“That’s right.” I regarded Marcus sidelong. “You still with Fang?”
“I am, and another boy Joseph.”
“Joseph?”
“The three of us, we’re together.”
“I see.” So this Joseph was my replacement. “Well, I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you. I’ve missed you, Daniel.”
I nodded, tight-lipped. “And how are your parents?”
“Enjoying the seaside, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
“They winter in Costa Rica.” Marcus flicked ash from his sleeve. “New Year’s in Santa Teresa is their tradition. They sent a money transfer, of course, to cover anything I needed.”
I was dumbfounded. “They didn’t come back?”
“Why?”
“Because they’re your parents?”
Marcus said nothing. I should’ve been accustomed to his equanimity, but on this occasion, I wanted to shout at him, I wanted to shout on his behalf. But I swallowed it down, and all I said was: “I’m sorry.”
“Trust me, Daniel, it is for the best.”
“Is it?”
“It is, truly. I’m grateful for the space they afford me. Without them, I would not have a private room.” He glanced up and winked.
“So, how’s the food?”
“I’ve been ordering take-out.”
“You can do that in a hospital?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I wasn’t, actually. Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. probably had the head nurse personally fetching his take-out for him. “Daniel, thank you for visiting. I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”
“Of course, I would come. Why wouldn’t I come? I was just waiting for the right time. I figured the first month you’d have like a million visitors. I guess I just wanted you all to myself.” I regretted that last remark the moment it was out of my mouth. I’d also wanted to say that I’d missed him too. Even in his injured state, Marcus was beautiful to me, like a bird with a broken wing. His nails weren’t pared, and it seemed as if he hadn’t shaved in a month. I did my best to change the topic, and lighten the tone. “That’s an interesting look on you.”
“What, this?” He stroked his thin beard and puffed delicately on his cigarette. “Surprisingly, people find it compelling. I think I might keep it after this is all over. What do you think?”
“I like it.”
“The physiotherapists say I should be on my feet in a week, with the use of a cane.”
“That’s good news. Shall I get you a top hat?”
“I already own a top hat, and a frock coat.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
“Victorian garments would suit you, Daniel. You have a timeless quality about you.”
“Timeless and simple,” I said, “that’s me.”
“Yes, it is.”
Back in his room, I helped Marcus out of his winter jacket and hung it up for him. He was only wearing his blue hospital gown underneath. He must’ve been chilled outside, but he hadn’t complained. “Daniel, can you assist me, please?” He draped an arm over my shoulder and I supported him as he stood. In the end, I half-lifted Marcus back into his bed. His brow gleamed with perspiration. It took him a minute before he could catch his breath again. “Thank you.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
I stood back awkwardly. I could tell he hadn’t showered in some days, and he wasn’t wearing deodorant. I wanted to bury my nose in his armpit, and lick the salt from his throat and neck.
He sipped from a glass of water on the side table. “There are metal pins in me now. See what they’ve done to me?” Gingerly, Marcus pulled up his gown.
“They’ve performed an arthroscopy,” I observed. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“That’s right.” He traced his fingernails over his scars. “These aren’t so bad, are they?”
I reached out and touched his scars, red and bruisedlooking against his pale skin. “No,” I lied, “you’d hardly notice them at all.” Tentatively, without meaning to, I stroked and squeezed his thigh. His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch. The door behind me opened out into a bustling hallway. When I rested my palm against his hip, Marcus bunched his gown up in his fist and pulled it further aside. “See, Daniel, what you do to me?” When I didn’t move, he took my hand and placed it over his exposed erection. The thick head of his penis was pierced at its base. Before meeting Marcus, I hadn’t even heard of a Prince Albert, much less seen one up close.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry. “Marcus.”
“I really have missed you, Daniel. You and David came to my party New Year’s Eve. Why?”
“You invited us.”
“You never RSVP’d.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, I’m glad you decided to come. I’m sorry about what happened. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve waited for you. I’m sorry we missed each other. I truly am. I hope there is another chance the three of us might meet.”
If I clambered onto the bed, I could straddle Marcus, spit in my palm, sit back on him and feel him push up inside of me. Instead, with an effort, I withdrew my hand. “Marcus. I need to ask you something. I don’t want you to get offended. Okay?”
He gazed at me, unblinking.
“It was an accident, right? It was an accident, that night you fell.”
Marcus covered himself with his gown, and turned towards the window. In that light, his brow and cheek seemed to be made of alabaster. After a while, he said: “Does it matter?”
“Of course, it does. Of course, it matters.”
“Was it an accident,” he said, “when Icarus fell?” Shyly, he searched my face.
I buried my hands in my pockets. “Marcus, I gotta tell ya, I have no fucking clue who Icarus is.”
“He was a boy who grew up in a Labyrinth.”
“He was like some Greek god or hero, right?”
“No,” Marcus said. “No, he wasn’t a god or a hero. He was just a boy.”
“Okay.”
“Yet,” Marcus said, sighing, “Daniel Garneau, I am sure you could name every player on the Canadian Olympic hockey team, couldn’t you?”
“Well that would depend.”
“On what?”
“On which Olympics you’re talking about.”
“The last one.”
I thought a moment, then named the head coach and the assistant coach and all twenty-three players on the last Canadian Winter Olympics hockey team. It wasn’t hard. “What?” I shrugged. “Those guys are hot.”
After that, we shared a laugh.
Before I left the hospital, Marcus made me promise I would introduce David to him sometime soon. When I gave him a parting hug, he squeezed my arm and pressed his lips against mine. It was a companionable gesture, like a kiss between friends. Nevertheless, it sent electrifying shock waves through me. I’d wanted to kiss him back, bite his lip, hold his tongue between my teeth. I’d not told the whole truth to David. In our five months together, Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. was, in fact, the most extraordinary lover I’d ever had. His Prince Albert was the least of the surprises I’d encountered along the way. If I knew what I wanted sexually, it was because Marcus had taught me to know. If I was able to take charge, it was only because Marcus had taught me how to take charge. I hadn’t even begun to share with David the things I’d learned. If David only knew just how much I could take charge. But it was clear to me that David wasn’t ready yet, and I wondered if he might ever be.
“I need your finger, Daniel.”
I stuck out my finger and held down the gold ribbon that Parker was using to wrap his gift. The wrapping paper was satiny fuchsia, the box the size of a large toaster oven. Every year, for his own birthday, Parker would purchase a gift and wrap it the prior day. “That way,” he explained, “in the morning, I wake up and voilà! There it is waiting for me. Then I make myself a mimosa (from a dealcoholized sparkling wine beverage, of course) and ring in the newest year of my life. This is a big year for me, Daniel. This spring, I’m one quarter century old.”
“I take it that’s not a toaster oven.”
“Who can say? I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“But you bought it, Parker. You brought it home and you’re wrapping it yourself.”
Parker positioned the gift on the coffee table. “I have no idea,” he murmured, carefully adjusting the gigantic bow, “what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t your family ever give you presents?”
“They would give me cheques which I was obligated to deposit in the bank. Birthday bank deposits are a tradition in the Kapoor family. You can read all about it in my memoirs.”
“You still working on that?”
“Of course, I am. You’re in it, you know. There, now doesn’t that look just perfect? I love it already. Thank you for your help. I’m so excited. I love opening presents. We have time for a drink, don’t we?”
I’d swung by Parker’s condo to pick him up en route to a Saturday matinée. He lived on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise just north of City Hall. The place was tastefully decorated with vintage furniture and chrome fixtures. Black and white headshots of Hollywood stars from the 1950s and 60s adorned the wall. He had a turntable set up next to a mini bar, complete with a stainless steel martini set. “I like making virgin drinks for myself,” Parker explained. “It’s also for the guests.” His face lit up. “Why don’t I make us some cosmos?”
“Sure,” I said, although I had no idea what a cosmo was. Two goldfish in a bowl occupied the centre of the dining room table, next to a towering vase of pink and yellow tulips. “Their names are Harold and Maude,” Parker announced, scrubbing an orange in the sink. “They’re in love. All my friends are in a pool to guess what month each of them will die.”
“That’s a little macabre.”
“On the contrary, it helps me appreciate every day that they’re alive. I’ve had them both exactly six years, since I moved out on my own. Did you know goldfish can live for decades, given the proper love and care? So, Daniel, what are your guesses?”
“What?”
“Who and when?”
“Oh, no.”
“Just pick any two months.”
“Can I abstain?”
“Daniel, please, humour me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Harold in March, Maude in May.”
“Thank you!” Parker made a precise note on a slip of paper on the refrigerator. After that, he busied himself assembling bottles and measuring out ingredients into two stainless steel shakers. “Tomorrow is the first of May. It’s my favourite month, you know. Everything comes back to life in May and starts all over again. It’s also my birthday month, of course. I was never allowed pets growing up. My parents thought keeping pets was cruel. Harold and Maude were my very first birthday gift to myself. I remember the day I brought them home, swimming round and round in that clear little plastic bag. They were utterly adorable. They still are. I used to hide them in the closet whenever relatives came to visit. But then one day Mother dropped in unannounced. She was in a tizzy and absolutely needed to consult with me on my eldest sister’s wedding. (She’s since consulted with me on all my sisters’ weddings.) Well, she pretended not to notice them, right there literally under her nose, even when I served tea at the table. My hands were shaking, I was so upset. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up, threw down my napkin, and declared that yes, in fact, I was the proud owner of my very own goldfish, and that I would not be hiding my Harold and Maude from the family any longer. I was sure it hurt their feelings every time I put them in the closet. That day was momentous. It was a turning point for me.”
“You are talking about goldfish?”
“I am.”
“And what did your mother say?”
“Well, it was extraordinary. She stared at Harold and Maude as if she were seeing them for the very first time. One thing let to another. In the end, pairs of goldfish formed the centrepiece for every table at my sister’s wedding reception. The floral arrangements and saris were all selected to match them. Everyone thought it was delightful and magnificent. I’d never been more validated in my life. It was the most beautiful thing my parents had ever done for me.”
“Wow.”
“I know. Of course, when they finally go belly-up, I’ll buy myself another pair. But those two are the first. I’m glad you’ve had a chance to meet them, Daniel. Kiss the bowl.”
“What?”
“Like this. Kiss the bowl.” Parker leaned over the table and kissed the fishbowl. He handed me a martini glass containing a pink liquid garnished with a delicate coil of orange rind. “It’s such a fresh, bright and happy drink,” he said, sighing, “don’t you think?” I nodded appreciatively, leaned over and kissed the fishbowl. Harold and Maude bobbed up to stare at me. Parker held up his own drink. “To May.”
“To May.”
In the end, we never did go to our matinée. But Parker put on an LP of Paul Anka’s greatest hits, and had us sit on his tiny, south-facing balcony overlooking Bay Street, drenched in sunlight. Eventually, he made me three more cosmos in a row. He didn’t ask about Marcus or David, and to my own surprise, I felt no inclination to bring them up. But we wore our sunglasses and opened the collars of our shirts and took off our shoes and socks, and talked about our families, and our grandparents and their grandparents. And they weren’t wrinkled and dusty dead people, but young and alive, dancing in the evenings under electric lights for the first time in history, and wearing the latest fashions in an era when men showing their nipples on the beach was indecent, and blacks in America were newly liberated, and the independence movement in India was gaining strength, and Freud was looking up ladies’ skirts, and Manet was painting nudes, and the Kama Sutra had just been translated into English, and the Wright brothers were still just boys flying kites, and Rimbaud and Verlaine were tearing across Europe madly in love, and Oscar Wilde’s trial was the scandal of the century.
After that, Parker invited me to stay for dinner but I told him I had to go home and study, which was true. But instead, I went downtown and bought a journal and the fanciest wrapping paper I could find. On the front of the journal was Henri Matisse’s The Goldfish which the master had painted in 1912. I knew this because it said so on the inside back cover. On the inside front cover, I wrote, “Happy birthday Parker Kapoor, may your memoirs be full of poetry and light. Your friend, Daniel Garneau.” Then I texted Parker and asked if I could meet him for coffee the next day and he said yes. After I wrapped his present, I went to bed and slept well and didn’t dream at all. I woke up on the first morning of May, feeling remarkably refreshed and not hung-over at all.
By the end of May, I’d yet to introduce David to Marcus, as I’d promised. So it was an awkward moment when we bumped into Marcus, Fang and Joseph in a line-up at Toronto’s Inside Out Film Festival. We had planned to see some generic, forgettable Hollywood blockbuster, but at the last minute opted for a Festival show, a screening of a compilation of short films. We figured they couldn’t possibly all be bad or boring. I was surprised by the diversity of people in the crowd. David nudged me in the side. “Hey, isn’t that your Marcus?” As discreetly as I could, I leaned over the red velvet rope and craned my neck. Marcus was turned away, speaking with another person I couldn’t quite see. Too late, I noticed Fang had spotted me. He whispered something in Marcus’ ear. Three faces turned in our direction. Then Marcus ducked under the rope and approached us. His hair had grown out and he sported a trim moustache and beard, perfectly matched by a silk shirt opened at the collar and pleated pants held up with suspenders. He walked slowly, with a limp, leaning heavily on a cane. “You must be David Gallucci,” he said upon arrival. “I’ve heard so much about you.” It was an outrageous statement, since it couldn’t possibly be true, and I was immediately annoyed. David shook his outstretched hand and regarded me curiously.
“David,” I said, waving, “meet Marcus Wittenbrink Jr.”
David said: “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
“Have you, now?” Marcus said, smiling. “Nothing too scandalous, I hope.”
“Not yet.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think your boyfriend here was trying to keep you all to himself.”
I folded my arms. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about, Marcus.”
“You’re looking well, Daniel. You seemed a little pale back in the winter. I enjoyed my cigarette with you.”
“How’s the leg doing?”
“Improving. How are you enjoying the Festival?”
“We’ve never been before.” I made a point of holding David’s hand. “We thought we’d check it out this year. See something different. And yourself?”
“Well. I’ve made this little film, an adaptation of the title poem from my book. It’s a small project, nothing too ambitious. But it’s kept me busy. You remember my book, Daniel, don’t you?”
“Tales From the Bottom of My Sole.”
“That’s right. You attended the launch at Hart House two years ago.”
“That’s an interesting title,” David said.
Marcus leaned forward on his cane. “It’s about love, in dark places.”
“Dark places?”
“Darkrooms, to be precise.”
“It’s about photographers?”
“No,” I said. “He means darkrooms in bathhouses.”
“Most of my male friends are in this film,” Marcus said pleasantly, “or at least their feet are. You know, of course, how in a darkroom you sometimes step barefoot into ejaculate on the floor? Sometimes it’s fresh and still warm. More often it’s cold. The experience may fill us with horror and disgust, or perhaps something else: desire, connection, intimacy, lust. There’s always a story, one that happens here.” He touched his breast. “I like to imagine that in the end, all these stories are about our relationships with love.”
“Oh,” David said. “Sole. Not soul.”
“That’s right. I hope you enjoy it.”
“Enjoy it?”
“My film. It’s on the Mixed Shorts bill you’re seeing today.”
David turned to me. “Did you know that?”
“No,” I said truthfully, “I didn’t know that.”
“Really?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” David said.
“Really. I had no idea.” I sounded more defensive than I’d intended to. “Marcus, congratulations. I didn’t know you’d been working on a film.”
A balding gentleman in a lavender scarf turned around. “I’m, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he said. “That’s why we’re here, actually, you see, to see your work.” He clutched his partner’s shoulder, a short Middle-Eastern fellow with startlingly white teeth. “My husband and I met in a bathhouse. Your book, it’s meant a lot to us.” He fumbled in his side-bag and withdrew a slim volume. “I don’t suppose you might consider ...”
“Of course.” Marcus produced a gleaming fountain pen. (It was like a magic trick.) “It would be my pleasure.” He opened the front cover. “Daniel, would you mind?” He handed me his cane, turned me around and bent me over, and autographed the book against my back.
“We really, really are quite the fans of yours,” Scarf Guy effused. “Thank you, thank you so very much. Actually, would you, I mean, do you mind if?” He thrust his phone at me, and drew Marcus in between him and his husband. I handed Marcus’ cane to David, ducked under the rope, stood back and took their picture.
“Thank you so much. We really appreciate it.”
“You’re more than welcome,” Marcus said. “Now, let me tell you something that’s not in the credits.” He drew near conspiratorially. “All the ejaculate you see in the film, it’s authentic.” He winked. “I should get going, my lovers are waiting for me. Thank you for coming.” He touched David’s elbow. “David, it was a pleasure meeting you. Daniel.” He retrieved his cane and limped back to the front of the line.
“You two are friends of his?” Scarf Guy asked.
“Yes,” said David said.
“No,” I said.
“He is,” David said, pointing at me.
Scarf Guy regarded me expectantly. “So, are your feet in the film?”
“What? No. No, my feet are not in the film.”
“Oh.” Scarf Guy’s face went blank. “Well, then.” He turned his back. The line was starting to move. I had a vision of body checking Scarf Guy into the sideboards as hard as I could. The truth was, my feet could’ve been in the film. They should’ve been in the film. Marcus had asked all his male friends to be in his stupid film, but he hadn’t asked me. Even worse than feeling excluded and shamed, I felt envious. It was juvenile and pathetic, but I couldn’t help it. Why hadn’t I been given the opportunity to walk over Marcus’ cold and slimy jizz in front of the camera? After everything I’d done and been through, I’d at least deserved that opportunity.
“He seems like a nice guy,” David said, perusing the program. “Oh look, here he is: ‘Tales from the Bottom of My Sole. English language. Canada. Runtime 19 minutes. Directed by Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. No animals were harmed during the making of this film. Nor does this film contain any footage of Daniel Garneau’s feet.’”
Then I felt like body checking David. But I didn’t. Instead, I bit the bullet, accompanied David into the theatre, and watched eight short films back to back. The shorts were from all over the world, ranging from two to twenty minutes. Marcus’ piece was the only Canadian entry in the lot. In the end, when the houselights finally came back on and as the audience applauded, I sat mutely in my chair. Although I hated to admit it, Marcus’ Tales had been by far the strongest, most honest, creative and moving piece on the bill. And it was clear to me that the jizz on the bottom of Marcus’ feet was the story of my life.
That summer, I decided I would move in with David in the fall. I’d lost count of the times I’d been woken up in the middle of the night by shouting or screaming in the alleyway outside my bedroom window, or the sound of bottles smashing. Going to school and working part-time at the group home was hard enough without having to lose sleep like this. The turning point came when I arrived home one evening to find a large man in a hoodie slumped over against my front door. For a few seconds, I thought he might be dead. The entrance to my basement apartment was at the bottom of a narrow concrete stairwell, and any casual passer-by might not notice a body in that alcove. Immediately, I set my bike aside, and took out my phone to call 911. Then the man raised his arm. “Hey doc, how’s it going?” I recognized that voice. It was Robert Burns.
“Robert Burns, Jesus Christ.”
“It’s just Robert Burns, doc.”
I descended the stairwell. “Are you okay?”
It was a stupid question. He was not okay. It was obvious he’d been beaten up badly. Blood gleamed in his hair and one eye was swollen completely shut. When I fumbled with my phone, he gripped my ankle. “No. Don’t.”
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No, don’t. No ambulance.”
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No ambulance. No hospitals.”
“Okay, look, Robert Burns, the Sherbourne Health Centre is just around the corner.”
“I’m just banged up. I’m okay. I’m okay.” He gripped the door handle and pulled himself to his feet. He would’ve fallen if I hadn’t caught him in both my arms. “I just need a place to lie down, catch my breath.”
“Robert Burns, seriously, we need to get you to a hospital.”
“No!” he screamed, his voice breaking. “No!” He flailed and shoved me aside. “No fucking hospital!”
“Okay.” I stood my ground, and wiped the spittle from my face. “Okay, no hospital. Look. Hey.” I put away my phone. “No hospital.”
“You’re a doc, doc. Can’t you just. Can’t you just fix me up? I just need a place to wash up. Maybe get a few stiches. Fuck.” He had slumped down again against my front door. Now there was blood on the handle.
“You know I’m not a doc, right? I just got into med school. I haven’t even started yet.”
He looked me in the eye. “Please. I’m asking.”
Then I realized something I’d never realized before in all my encounters with Robert Burns since last summer. Maybe it was because I’d held him in my arms. Or maybe it was because of the way he’d screamed at me. Or maybe it was simply the naked look in his eye in that moment. I was shocked and shaken I hadn’t realized it before now. I keyed open the door and helped him inside. Most of the blood had come from a cut on his head. He smelled like he’d pissed himself. I gave him a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks and a pair of my underwear, and told him to take a shower which he did. I also gave him a plastic bag to put his dirty clothes in. He was in the washroom an hour before he finally came out. During that time, I wiped down the chair he’d sat in, as well as the front door. Then I went to get my bike which I remembered I’d left on the sidewalk. But it was gone. Jesus fucking Christ. I went back inside. I called Blonde Dawn, but there was no reply. When Robert Burns finally came out of the washroom, I took out my first aid kit and cleaned and bandaged his injuries as best as I could. He had a few serious contusions. I thought he might have a broken rib from the way he was breathing and holding himself but I didn’t ask to examine him more closely. Instead, I rummaged out some leftover mac and cheese and microwaved it in a bowl. I set this on the kitchen table along with a beer. He ate slowly, in silence, as I watched.
After a while, I said: “Robert Burns, what happened?” But he didn’t reply. I knew better than to ask if he wanted to call the police. After he finished his beer, I gave him a glass of milk. “Look,” I said, “hospitals can be shitty places.” He chewed methodically. “Some doctors can be assholes.” He glanced up at me and down again. “I promise you, I promise you, if you go to the Sherbourne Health Centre you’ll be treated okay.”
He didn’t say anything but finished his mac and cheese. He pushed his empty bowl and glass away. “I’ll take it under advisement, doc.” Then, without another word, he got up, pulled on his shoes, picked up his garbage bag of dirty clothes, and left. The front door clicked shut behind him. I sat for a moment, drumming my fingers on the table. “You’re welcome,” I said.
Two weeks later, my bike showed up on my front walk, chained to an iron fence and secured with an industrial padlock. It’d been cleaned and tuned up. One of the loose brake cables had been replaced. I had to check twice, but there was no mistaking the fact that this was my bike. An envelope had been slipped through the mail slot on my front door containing a small key. I unlocked my bike and brought it back inside.
I didn’t see Robert Burns for the rest of that summer and figured he must have moved on, maybe gone back to the States. He’d said he was from Montana. But then one morning late in August, while passing through Allen Gardens, I spotted him across the street coming out of the Sherbourne Health Centre. I cycled around and caught up to him at the intersection. “Hey Robert Burns, how’s it going?”
“Keeping it real, doc, keeping it real.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been around.”
“You like my new bike?”
“It’s not new.”
“Well, you’re right about that. This was the first bike I got when I moved to Toronto. Bought it off Kijiji. It has a lot of sentimental value.” I nodded towards the Sherbourne Health Centre. “They treating you okay?”
Robert Burns turned and observed the building behind him. He squinted at me in the sunshine. “Got four stiches in my head.” He parted his hair to show me.
“Looks all healed up.”
“That’s a Medicine Wheel.”
“What?”
He pointed at the ring on my finger. “That’s a Medicine Wheel.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Your girlfriend give you that?”
“No. A friend did.”
“Your boyfriend?”
I watched the black squirrels in the park scrambling after each other. “No,” I said. “Just a friend.”
“The Medicine Wheel, you know what it means?”
“I have an idea.”
“You still got the feather?”
I pulled out the little wooden eagle feather which I’d bought off Robert Burns over a year ago.
“You got any Indian in you?”
“My grandmother’s Métis.”
“That means you got one-sixteenth Indian blood in you.”
“I suppose it does. She was a school teacher. She taught English. She pretty much passed as white her whole life.”
“Good for her. You do what ya gotta do to survive.”
“She’s got dementia now. I don’t think she remembers much of who she was anymore.”
“That ain’t so bad.”
“Maybe for some people.” I tucked the eagle feather back under my T-shirt. “You’re a good man, Robert Burns. I want you to know that.”
He studied his shoes. “You know I’m not, doc.” When I didn’t say anything, he grinned and shook his head. “Doc, I know you know. I saw it in your face, that day you took me in.” I still didn’t say anything. Robert Burns pointed behind him. “I just got a needle in my butt. Hurt like hell. You know what for?” I shook my head. “It was my T-injection. You know what that is?”
“Testosterone.”
“Naw, man, T’s for Thunderbird. I just got my Thunderbird-injection. If things go right, they’re gonna help me get my top-surgery come spring. You know what that is?”
“A mastectomy.”
“Naw, man, c’mon. That means top-of-the-world, top-o’-the-mornin’-to-ya, top gun, top notch, top dog. That’s right. So fuck these bindings. I am so sick of them. I am so fucking sick and tired of it all. Sometimes, you get so sick, eh, you get tired of walking Mother Earth. Ever get that sick, doc?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Don’t. It sucks. You know why I carve my feathers and wolf-heads?” I shook my head. “So I don’t carve myself. Check it out.” He rolled up one sleeve of his flannel shirt. Dozens of white scars covered the inside of his forearm. “I hear voices they tell me to carve myself, eh. But I carve my feathers and wolf-heads. There’s a lot of medicine in that.”
“I think you’re onto something there.” He rolled his sleeve back down. “Here,” I said. I took off my ring and handed it to him. “You take this.”
“I can’t take that.”
“Sure you can. I’m giving it to you.”
“Fuck that. Your friend gave that to you.”
“Yeah, and now I’m giving it to you. Look, I’m moving at the end of the summer.”
His broad brow furrowed. “You leaving town?”
“I’m moving across town.”
Robert Burns blinked and ran his hand over his face. He reached out and took the ring. He examined it in his big stubby fingers. After a while, he said: “You need anything.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to go now.”
“Alright, doc. Don’t be a stranger.”
“Keep it real.”
“I always do.”
I rode away. I needed to start packing. I never was one to leave things to the last minute. Rounding the corner, I glanced over my shoulder and waved. Robert Burns, who was still standing where I’d left him, raised his fist. The truth was, I was going to miss this neighbourhood. I was going to miss the Conservatory in Allen Gardens, St. Lawrence Market just a few blocks south, and the Gay Village on Church Street just a few blocks north. But most of all, I was going to miss its colourful characters, and people like Robert Burns. I knew his was one of just countless stories out there. But like Karen had said, I’d still barely scratched the surface of everything this city had to offer. And it was time to move on.