Home on me own watchin some angry Clint Eastwood flick when Val busts in with a whole crowd from that special film he’s workin on. I goes to excuse meself cause I cant take the racket. When I’m halfway up the stairs Val shouts to me. I turns around and he’s standin there at the foot of the stairs with his bottom lip nearly scrapin the floor cause it’s so numb with the coke and he says:
—Are you better? There’s someone here wants to talk to you.
—Who?
—Come down. And be nice.
So I hops down to the kitchen then, even though I cant stand the smell of meself. There’s a bunch at the table with fancy downtown clothes on, one missus in a fuckin orange suede jacket lined with fake fur. There’s the stink of weed and wine and whiskey and a couple of guys holdin fuckin hands across the old wooden table in the corner. Fuck sakes. My table, rightfully. Me mother gave it to Massie years ago, and I’ll be takin it outta here whenever I gets me own place to crash.
Val puts a glass in me hand but I dont really feel like drinkin it. Didnt I soak enough up last night to get me through another lifetime? And I went a whole week before that too, with not a drop. I sets the glass down. This hefty missus with a bushy drugstore-blond, just-fucked hairdo and a shiny satin shirt that she thinks should make her look younger and more on the ball she stands up and holds out her hand to me. I takes it. It’s embarrassing. Cause who the fuck am I that she wants to meet me? And I knows I should be puttin more force behind me handshake to show that I aint no fuckin underdog. But I cant.
—Hi Clayton. Ahhh, Val tells me you’re looking for some work?
And I realizes then that everyone in the kitchen is gone quiet and watchin. There’s the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock and I knows I aint standin up straight and that if I tried to now I’d come across too self-conscious. Me shirt’s too big and makes me look like I have more of a gut than I do, and it’s maggoty from where I slopped root beer on it while I was watchin old Clint crackin heads. Nobody cracks heads like Clint fuckin Eastwood. I’m wantin to look this woman square in the face. But I cant. There’s a spot of grime on the floor. I cant figure how in the hell I missed it this evening, where I scoured everything in sight for three hours straight. I nods me head and says yes to her, then goes over to the sink and rinses out the cloth. I can feel ’em all starin at the back of me head and I’d love to drink that glass of whiskey. But I cant. I wont. Cause I’ll slay the fuckin works of ’em. I manages a quick and mostly laid-back glance at the woman before I drops down and scrubs at that spot of grime on the floor. Val lays his hand soft on me shoulder and when I peeks up at him he’s got his head tossed back, laughin hard without makin no sound.
—Clayton. For fuck sakes…
And then the woman with the just-fucked hairdo pipes up, but I can only see the tapered cuffs of her baggy leather pants from underneath the table. She crosses and re-crosses her legs like a schoolgirl.
—Well…we need a driver for tomorrow if you’re…available Clayton.
—Clayton cant drive.
And that’s Val spillin the beans right away that I got no licence. But it’s not like I dont know how to drive cause I been rippin around the Shore in people’s rigs since I was twelve. I feels like sayin how it’s just as fuckin legal for me to drive as it is for Val to. But he thinks it’s such a big secret he’d likely flip and then all this crowd’d get to see me at me absolute worst cause I’d fly right into him. Show ’im me best Eastwood impression wont I? Not much chance of a job after that though.
Missus clears her throat then in that fake way like people does when they feels put on the spot and shit.
—Ah…well I’m sure we can find something for you to do then Clayton?
And I knows I’m s’pose to jump up and smile and say yes, thank you, I’d love to and ask what time and all that, but I can still see the outline of that patch of dirt on the floor no matter how hard I scrubs at it. I can feel me eyes well up and that lump in me throat. I knows what’s comin so I gotta keep scrubbin cause if I stands up now I’ll blow to bits and she wont wanna hire me after all. From the floor I manages to nod and I hears Val sayin to her that he guesses that’s a yes. I glances up at him and he’s mouthing something across the table to her and then I feels his hand in me hair and he scoops me under the arm. I gets to me feet without lookin at anyone. They’re all starin into their drinks anyhow, like that’s where the secret of a peaceful existence is.
Tunnel vision to the bottom of the stairs. It takes forever to get there cause me feet are too heavy where the bad one is actin up more than normal. Before I makes it to the bottom step the tears are drippin off me chin and me nose is all stuffed up. Cause I really didnt wanna see people for a while. Didnt really wanna talk to no one either. Me old buddy Brent called me up from somewhere out west, said he was makin his way back home, said something ’bout gettin stabbed in the back. He sounded pretty messed up and wantin to talk. I can barely remember our conversation, just wanted to get off the phone and slip back into me bubble.
Val’s got his hand on me back, tellin me to just go on to bed out of it. The racket is startin up again in the kitchen and I hears someone say What was that all about? But it’s like a faraway echo from someone else’s life and I feels like callin up the Shore and checkin in on Randy. Randy, that fuckin wasted cunty-balled…no, no, no. Because blood is blood. Blood is fuckin blood. I dont know his new number anyhow. And it’s late. It’s always this late.
Me head is on the pillow, the rain slashin at the window and I’m fallin, sinkin deep down into this squeaky old mattress and it feels safe with the door locked and this musty old quilt me grandmother stitched together before I was ever even dreamt of.
Donna is there at the table with Val the next day. She got no makeup on and with her hair tied back she looks like a skeleton on a crash diet. You could hang your jacket on her fuckin collarbone. She smiles right gentle and mellow at me, talks right soft and motherly, like I was dyin or some shit. Val dont even say hi to me. I hears someone skippin down over the stairs. There’s suddenly another human in the kitchen, a woman, over turnin the kettle on like she owns the place. She looks familiar. I knows her from…from…Big burst of red hair and mascara smudged on her eyes. She’s good lookin in a rugged dont-fuck-with-me-just-fuck-me sorta way. She wraps her arms around Val’s neck and kisses his cheek, but he keeps starin at me like I’m some sorta shithead.
—Hi Clayton.
Val’s redhead waves at me like I’m on a boat headin off to the war. When I meets her eyes I realizes she’s one of me flings from the Ship that I took to the General’s in a taxi back in August or July. Melanie? Didnt she work at the Hatchet last year? Fuck. And here she is clingin off Valentine Reid, who’s old enough to be her father’s uncle. And he just might be, considering the state of the Newfoundland gene pool.
—Dont say youse dont remember me Clayton?
With Donna there just starin bug-eyed and jaded into her coffee, chompin on her bottom lip. I cant believe this redheaded impostor is so brazen to go gettin on with this kinda shit here and now. Cause she dont know how delicate me and Val are these days. I glances at the man of the hour, but he’s lost in some other world now, twistin up a fat starter joint. I just shakes me head at her, all nonchalant, and determines to get cracked and expose her for the lyin fuckin impostor that she is. If she takes it one step further. I gives Donna’s ponytail a playful toss and swipes one of her smokes, then stands behind her with me two hands on her shoulders. Lookin straight at Val’s redhead.
—Clayton do you know Monica? Monica, my nephew Clayton.
Monica, right. From down around B——somewhere. Tryna be a photographer or some such shit. Mike Quinn’s new/old bartender, I’ll wager. She had blond hair when I saw her last, and some kinda punkish goth thing goin on. I was right taken in with her accent, droppin her h’s and addin ’em on all over the place. Val looks back and forth between the two of us, the blood vessels busted and raised on the bridge of his nose. Monica reaches across the table with this brassy, sarcastic smirk and I squeezes her hand good and hard, just to send her the message that she better keep her mouth shut. She winces ever so slightly and juts her jaw forward with the pain. That’s my message missus, loud and clear. She raises her eyebrows and nods at me as if to say Fuck off asshole, your secret is safe, or at least that’s what I’m takin it to mean. She spins around then and goes over to the corner and slides her fingers along the edge of my table. I notices there’s a black mark burnt into the face of it near the centre, like a scar from a blasting knife. Fuck sakes. Monica rubs her finger across the new scar.
—Wow, this’s gorgeous. Where did it come from?
Val perks right up then, actually turns around to see what she’s talkin about. Donna tries to cup me face in her hand but I pulls away and wanders over to the sink where I can get a better gawk at Monica. I’m about to tell her the table is mine when Val intercedes:
—Clayton’s mom gave it to us when we first got shacked up. Must be twenty-five years? One of the hind legs is loose. There’s a false bottom in the drawer.
That’s Val’s term for marriage, shackin up. He gives his little history lesson then, how the chrome table was likely “the defining symbol of progression” in the average Newfoundland home back in the sixties. How the finest handmade wooden tables “such as the one you see before you” were foolishly tossed off cliffs, burnt for firewood, or relocated to stages and wharves to “bear the scars of every abuse the fishery had to divvy out: salt, iron filings and engine juice, maggots and gurry and gull shit, capelin spawn and the jagged backbones of hundreds upon thousands of bloated cod…”
I cuts him off for fear I’ll heave up me guts:
—Alright Val. And you saved its fuckin life. It’s mine anyhow.
—Is it now? Wants it all dont you Clayton?
—Only what’s rightfully mine…
He stares at me with that smirk that makes you wanna bash his head in with a blunt object. I tries to mirror it but I knows it’ll be years yet before I got it down like him. I walks over to the table and pulls out the drawer to see about this false bottom. I reaches me hand around inside but I cant make head nor tail of it. And I’m hardly gonna ask Val to show me either.
The phone rings then, and I hops into the living room to catch it.
On the phone it’s that just-fucked missus from the movie. She calls herself Patty. I says hi and sorry about last night, that I wasnt feelin too good. She says dont bother about it and I says thanks.
—Alright Clayton, we need someone on security tonight if you’re interested. Just someone to stay in the building to watch over the set. We have a lot of equipment. We’ll send someone to pick you up at eight this evening. It pays a hundred dollars a night. If it works out you might get another couple of weeks out of it. Are you up for that?
—What? Holy Christ. Yeah, that’s, that’s perfect.
—Bring a good book with you…
—Alright then. Thank you. Listen I—
She hangs up on me then, but I dont care cause I’m ten feet fuckin tall. A hundred bucks a night? For two weeks? Holy fuck. That’s like a couple of grand! That’s me straightened right out for a while. Put it away sure, and get the fuck outta town. Montreal. Back to Dublin. Am I up for it? Fuckin right I am. When I turns around, Val and Donna are standin in the doorway lookin at me. I realizes I must look a bit too fuckin jovial cause they’re both smilin at me. It feels right creepy. I pushes past ’em both and heads up to the shower cause I havent had no energy for one in days and days. Val wants to know what Patricia said on the phone, but I just says I’ll let him know later on. I dont wanna let Donna in on it. She knows enough about my goddamn life now dont she?
On me way upstairs I has a glance into the kitchen at that Monica. She’s bent over the centre table scoopin toast crumbs into the palm of her hand and the sharp fall sun is shinin right through her skimpy top. I can see the outline of her big rosy nipples. I stops for a second and she looks up and catches me and smiles at me. I has a flash of the fun we had that night at the General’s, her on top and her head thrown back. We had the Pogues on too, for rhythm. Her hair was shorter then. The red suits her now though. I musta been a fuckin fool not to keep shit on the go with her.
In the shower it’s scaldin hot and I soaps meself up good, but I dont bother to wack off. When I gets out Donna is sittin on the foot of me bed and she takes the towel off me and sees that I’m already hard. She sucks it into her mouth and before I knows it she’s stripped off and face down on the bed with her legs spread wide. She’s got a bit of a rash and stubble where she shaves it, but I likes it cause of the way it scrapes at the head of me lad. New job comin up, two grand. How the fuckin tables have turned. Donna’s face pressed into me grimy, ashy, drool-stained pillow. I should maybe wash that later on. We’re goin right to it but all’s on me mind is that big head of red hair downstairs, hard pink nipples and toast crumbs. Maybe I’ll drop down to the Hatchet later on for a few easy beer, see if she’s started workin yet. I’m poundin harder and harder and I dont care if Donna gets off or not, but I hope Monica can hear us downstairs cause it’s gettin pretty loud up here with the bed hammering off the wall and I’m thinkin, yeah Val you old bastard, well done yourself.