Halloween. Donna wanted to go out as Sid n Nancy, only she wanted to be Sid. I said fuck that, she’s lucky I came out as meself. There’s a costume contest at the Ship but I couldnt be bothered. Halloween is for youngsters. Still, when she called me up I was kinda glad to hear from her, despite meself. I been layin low these days, tryna figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do with the rest of the year. Winter comin on and not the most stable of a home life have I got. And of course since I no longer have Donna’s place as an alternative hideout, me and Val are in each other’s faces a bit more than’s necessary. He’s been makin digs about rent and shit too. There’s a rumour that another chunky movie is gonna be shot here in the New Year. I’ve been thinkin about auditioning for that. Scrape up a few dollars and tell Val to go fuck himself. He was already in with some producers for a reading of the script. I had a glance at a couple of scenes that he left on the table. Cant be much to it. I’ll give it a go. Make some real cash and skin outta town. That leaves the next couple of months with fuck-all though. Christmas. Gonna be a rough go if I dont figure something out. Stay off the beer for a while too. Gonna have to.
When Donna knew for sure I wasnt gonna dress up for Halloween she decided on that Morticia character, that witch from the Addams Family. Typical. Even with the stringy black wig though, she’s only gone and made herself even more recognizable, like she’s merely enhanced herself. We hooks up at the Darkroom with that Clyde Whelan cunt and his good friend Philip. I dont normally come to the Darkroom. It’s kinda creepy with a lot of red lights and all the walls done black and everybody sort of lurkin in the corners. I like it. It’s a bit pricey, but at least it’s not George Street. Clyde’s done up like the Joker from Batman and he looks pretty freaky, ’cept he gotta make a special point of gettin up in my face with his eyes right wide and his teeth bared so there’s nearly a racket right off the bat. But I told Donna I’d at least try to have a decent time, not to be a fucker with everyone. As if I’m out to please her or something. But that’s just the way I’m feelin lately. There’s something in the air, pressin on me. I cant breathe. Like when Randy, me old man, use to push me face into the pillow when I was young, just wrestling like, but I’d go mad and lose it, kickin and screamin like a bloody retard. One time I bawled for me mother and ole Randy gave me a good crack across the face for it. I s’pose he was in the right though, where she’s dead and all. But that’s exactly what it feels like now, here in Town, like someone’s got this giant pillow held in front of me face every corner I rounds. Not pushin into me, but just holdin it there, lettin me know that any minute now they could suffocate me with it. And so I’ve been lashin out in advance. I s’pose.
And, surprise of all surprises, Philip is done up in women’s garb. ’Cept he’s gone right conservative with it, like he’s on his lunch break from the office: sleek black tweed skirt with a matching jacket and white blouse underneath. Not bad lookin really. Some fellas across the bar been glancin over at him and he dont seem to mind one little bit. Keith comes up the stairs and makes a straight cut to our table. He dont even look at me but zeroes in on Donna. Something concealed in the palm of his hand. He holds it out for her to inspect, looks around the bar, nervous, in case anyone is looking. I wouldnt blame him either; this bar is always chock full of busy, self-important, delicate types who only comes to a place like this in the hopes of catchin a glimpse at the so-called underbelly of the city that their otherwise cozy Monday-through-Friday lives have been deprivin ’em of. They’d get some fright if they saw where he lived though.
Once he decides it’s safe, Keith holds up a little film bottle, one of those black Kodak ones with the grey cap. Big shady grin. He’s gone all stoner these days: everything is cool and sweet and whatever man. I cant stand that shit.
—Trick or treat?
He’s focused on Donna, completely ignores the rest of us. She seems right smitten with him.
—Treat please.
I can nail that fucker though. And he knows it.
Donna whips out a few twenties and they makes an exchange, film bottle for the cash. Keith winks at Philip and fades away into the crowd. Philip looks quite impressed with himself.
—What’s that?
—A little Halloween treat.
She opens the bottle and taps four bluish pills into her palm. She gives one to each of us. Mine has a muddy impression of a teddy bear on it. I drops it under me tongue and lets it melt for a second before sliding it to the back of me throat. It sticks there for a bit and I’m tryna dry-swallow but it wont budge. Missus arrives with our drinks then, pina colada for me, and I fuckin devours it. I orders another before she’s even got the last drink unloaded from her tray. Best fuckin girlie drinks in St. John’s. I can feel the tablet still caught halfway down me throat on the way to me gut. That happens with cold drinks sometimes though. Best way to go about the pills is with a nice hot cuppa tea.
I gets up and makes me way to the toilet. Keith is standin in the doorway, talkin pretty close with Miss Monica. Val gets wind of this and he’ll shred the two of them. She looks like she’s been bawlin. She’s got a cheapish Halloween makeup kit and some kinda black robe or dress tucked under her arm. Keith’s talkin at her with this real coldness on his face. That’s what always happens though: the women gets all dramatic and passionate and the fellas goes right cold and rational to balance it out, and that drives the women even more cracked. When they sees me passin, Keith stops talkin to her and turns to nod at me. She looks down over the stairs so’s I wont see her face all puffed up. Keith says to me:
—Feel it yet?
—No.
—You will man. Wont be long.
Be nice to feel anything atall these days, drug induced or not. I goes for a piss, a long, burnin, disappointing piss like when you’re just after comin and your bladder feels fuller than it really is. Has a look at meself in the mirror. Feels a bit sleepy, a bit weak in the knees. Love to go lie down.
Back at the table and Clyde’s after takin my chair next to Donna. He’s got his arm around her shoulder in a sleazy, we’re-just-such-great-friends-that-we-can-be-close-like-this-and-it-doesnt-mean-nothing kinda way. I stands behind the chair and gives it a playful bump with me knee. Clyde gets up and goes back to his own chair without acknowledging that he’s gettin up because I told him to.
Donna slides her smokes to the middle of the table. Me and Clyde reaches for the package at the same time. Clyde’s always on the bum these days. Every cent he makes bartending goes right back on his tab. I heard that it’s somewhere in the five-hundred range. That’s a bit much, if you asks me. Most mine ever was was seventy-five and I’ll be fuckin well dryin up before I lets it go over that.
I leans back and lets Clyde take the first smoke. He pulls one from the pack, lights it and then holds it out to me, like I’m gonna just puff away on it after him slobbering all over the fuckin butt. I looks past the cigarette he’s holdin out and I reaches for the pack. They all starts snickering together, some inside joke that I aint quite privy to.
—What? What’s so fuckin funny?
Clyde gets right up in me face with that hideous Joker getup, the cheap green hair dye runnin down his forehead in buckets.
—You. You wont even share a cigarette.
—I likes to light me own, anything wrong with that?
—You’re paranoid. Here.
He snorts and holds out his drink, a brilliant blue concoction called an asskicker.
—Here, have a sip of this.
I takes the drink and eyes it. Sniff. Vodka and something. The rim is smudged with Clyde’s sweaty lipstick. I puts it to my lips, turns it around so the smudge is on the opposite side of the glass. There’s a bit of ash or dirt froze onto an ice cube. They’re all watchin me. I smells it again, then hands it back to him. He laughs triumphantly.
—What?
—You.
He looks at Donna.
—See? He wont drink after anyone either.
—I wont drink after you is all. That dont make me paranoid, that’s just common fuckin sense.
Donna puts her hand on me shoulder.
—Calm down Clayton. He’s only sayin you’re—
—He’s lookin for it.
Clyde stands up then. I stands up too and feels the first hint of the pill, a tiny teddy-bear giggle, a heat, a tingling new spring in me knees and shoulders. I holds me drink casually to me chest, tucks it in the crook of me arm just so. Friend of mine in Dublin showed me that. It makes you look nervous, like you’re covering up some weakness, and at the same time it draws the other fella’s attention away from your other hand. But my other hand right now is a tight-curled ball of barely contained rage and loathing, waitin patiently by me side, waitin for one false move.
Clyde cant keep me eye so he focuses on me drink. Precisely.
—And what is that, exactly? Lookin for what?
—A poke in the face, ya fuckin overgrown ape.
—Now see Donna? A fucking asshole of the highest order.
Clyde’s had it out for me ever since I hooked up with Donna. Not hard to tell he’s mad over her. He’s just dyin to expose me in front of her, like I’m hidin meself or something. But that’s one thing I never fuckin bothers with, hidin away, gettin on like I’m something or someone I aint. And I never fuckin will. Drink from his glass? If for some reason I ever needs to infect meself with a good dose of herpes, then maybe. Until then I dont fuckin think so. I glances at Donna, then back at Clyde. Philip pushes his chair back outta the way of what’s comin. I nods down at the top of Donna’s head.
—You want her Clyde?
Donna splutters into her drink. Clyde looks down at Philip. They both laughs, but they aint so cocky now. Neither one of ’em wanted me along tonight and figured they’d get rid of me right off the top. Not a bad idea really, but I’m gonna go once I’m fuckin well ready to go, not before, and not for them.
—Fuckin answer me. That’s what it’s all about isnt it? Cant stand to see me with her, or her with me? Figure she can do so much better, right?
—You’re embarrassing yourself Reid. Sit down.
—Sit me the fuck down.
I aint fuckin embarrassed, that’s one thing I dont get. That’s just an admission. That means we’re not responsible for what comes out of our own mouths. I aint no fuckin townie. Besides, what he’s really sayin is: You’re embarrassing me. Because it’s fuckin true. He’s dyin about her. Me and him, we mighta been great drinkin buddies if not for the fact that I hooked up with her. But that’s a stretch.
I sees he’s not gonna back down because all he knows is pettiness and rage. Big fellas like this are dangerous if you lets ’em get ahold of you. They’ll squeeze you and knee you and smash your nose in with their hard, thick foreheads. Push ’em to the point of confusion and that’s where they snaps. Because he’s right fuckin stunned. Sure, he can talk books and make fancy, regurgitated statements about the local arts scene and quote Dylan till the cows comes home, but when it comes to knowin what he’s all about, what his real strengths are and how they applies to the world around him, he’s a fuckin retard. You gotta be some quick with these types of fuckers. Hit first and hit fuckin hard, that’s the only way. Go for the nuts then and give him another crack on the way down. At least then he’ll be damaged when he finally does get ahold of you. I reinforces the grip on me pina colada glass. I’ll smash it off his face I s’pose, after I gives him a good right hook to the throat. That’ll fuck ’im up. He looks at me and I sees the squint fall from around his eyes, his shoulders drops back just a little bit. He knows. He knows I aint some fuck he can bully around. I’m after havin it out with every arsehole and his dog back home on the Shore and the scars are right here in plain sight. I can live through this big monkey the same as any of the rest.
I keeps staring at him. He stares back, but I sees he’s not into it so much now. He was more interested in seein me back down in front of Donna. He fuckin failed now didnt he? I flattens the rest of me pina colada then slams the glass into the corner. It shatters and a sliver of glass ricochets and pricks me hand. Heads turn from the bar. The blood wells up on me knuckle. Donna’s sitting calmly, smoke curlin up through her wig, like it’s all on television and she can change the channel any time she wants to. Which is kinda true I s’pose.
I straightens me jacket, wipes glass dust off me cuff.
—Well, thank you all for the lovely evening. I’ll be on my way now.
Donna looks up and smiles. Clyde sits down. I let him save enough face I s’pose. Now that the moment is gone it dont matter much anyhow. I pushes me way past the bodies. The waitress walks past me with a broom, asks me where the glass broke. I points at Clyde.
—It was that big nuisance over there, look, he’s fucked up.
I gets out to the street and takes a few deep, clean breaths. Me legs are shaky. I counts to five and sure enough Donna comes out behind me. I sees her reflection in the window of a car that’s parked in front of the bar.
—Clayton?
I turns to face her. She rummages through her big black witch’s satchel and comes up with a little grey box. It’s tied with a yellow ribbon. She hands it to me.
—What’s this?
—Just…I dont know. I feel kind of silly but…
I pulls the ribbon and opens up the box. A black leather case. That’s always a good sign. I pops open the snap. Something silver. A knife. A good knife. Compact and solid, no markings, a one-piece handle, thick blade. I looks at Donna and she’s smilin, delighted with herself. Her teeth are bright white under the blue light of the doorway.
—It’s our…ahhh…third-month anniversary.
She giggles then, but she’s far away somewhere.
—Anniversary of what?
—Us…our…
—Donna. How many times have I gotta say it?
—I know, I know. I just…I saw it and I wanted to get it for you, that’s all.
—For our anniversary?
—No. Well yes. But…
—Thanks girl. It’s dandy.
Her face lights right up then and I almost leans in to give her a peck on the cheek. Cant send her the wrong message though. I unhooks me belt buckle and slides the case on. Perfect. A bit stiff, but it’ll soften up.
Then I turns to leave.
—Where are you going?
—For a walk. I’m feelin sick. That pill…
—Arent we going home together?
—Donna, I said I’d come out for a few drinks. We’re not together, we’re just hangin out, remember? I might come back, but if I dont then that’s all there is to it.
—But, the pill, I thought we’d…
I turns and hops across the street, right out into the traffic. A cop car screeches to a stop and blows the horn at me. I glares at the young pup in the driver’s seat and, very slowly, winds up the middle finger for him. He stares back. He’s dyin to shoot someone. I walks on. I dont give two fucks. Donna shouts across the street:
—I’m sorry about the dinner Clayton!
No response from Mr. Reid. Scoot down the alleyway behind the Zone. There’s a bunch of drama queens huddled in a corner with a big fat joint and, when I floats past, one of ’em whistles. At me. He’s done up like that Ron Jeremy fella from the skin flicks, big moustache and afro, stuffed gut and bell-bottoms. I stops and glares at him, dirty like, with me one eyebrow scrunched down over me eye. He tries to keep his good mood intact, but I can tell he’s gettin right self-conscious the harder I stares. I’ve busted his bubble. He cant remember the punchline. The circle goes quiet, none of ’em wants to have a go at me. There’s two Draculas, one Madonna, from around her “Like a Prayer” phase, one Grim Reaper and one who may or may not be Joey Smallwood. There’s a clown. I feels like sluggin him out, stompin his face into the concrete till he’s nothing more than a sludgy mess of brains and bone fragment and lipstick. Me head goes reelin back, back to that day, the day before the accident. We’d all gone to the circus in Renews. Elephants and horses and that sad, angry tiger and the sword swallower. And clowns, lotsa bouncy, jittery, annoying clowns. Popcorn. My mother laughin, Randy sober, not yet a real drinker, and holdin each of our hands. Two of them singin along to Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” in the pickup on the way back up the Shore. Me half asleep across her lap. Her hand strokin me hair. Fuckin clowns.
Ron Jeremy holds out the joint. I plucks it from his hand without takin me eyes off his. I dont smile, but I nods, good-natured like, and walks away with the joint. None of ’em have the balls to protest. That’s always the way too. If you wants something, take it. He who hesitates is fucked.
Fuck, I’m lovin this pill, this Halloween mystery treat.
Down past the Crossroads and there’s a chaotic lineup outside. All hands freezin their holes off to get a glimpse at some band that fucked up and failed ten years ago but thinks they’re still in their prime. You can tell by the crowd, the big nostalgia trip. Please make me young again. We were the In Crowd. We were the scene. Singer’s gone fat and balding, hasnt done fuck-all since the band fell apart. Everybody treats him like he’s still actually got something worth payin to see, when in fact in the back of their mushy heads they all knows he’s now just a front man for their own failed and miserable lives. And they’re bitter, and the bitterness comes through, no matter how much age-defying makeup they cakes on to try and hide it. I knows that scene. I been fucked outta the Crossroads more often than I can remember. Well, to be truthful, I dont remember much of any of it.
As I’m pushin through the crowd to get down to Water Street, there’s a vaguely identifiable Gene Simmons on his way outta the club. He’s got a can in his hand and he takes a slug. A bouncer grabs the can and tries to pull it away from him. Mean Gene holds on to the beer.
—Hey? What the fuck man?
—Bring beer into my club?
The bouncer gives the can a twist and yanks it outta Gene’s hand. Warm beer squirts across my face, in my eyes. I’m blinded. Someone slams into me from behind, the Elephant Man. I tries to catch me balance with me bad foot but it wont offer no support. I goes down. Gene Simmons tumbles on top of me. Someone bends down and snatches the joint outta me mouth. Ron Jeremy. He laughs. It’s all numb. I’m jelly. Gene jumps up again and makes a run at the bouncer. Bad move. He’ll be dragged out behind and pounded by three or four of ’em and it’ll never, ever go anywhere in court. Halloween night. Drunk and up against a pack of sober bouncers who’re so tight they prob’ly had a circle jerk in the backroom together before the bar opened. Good luck Gene.
I tries to roll further down the steps to get clear of the crowd and keep from gettin trampled, but someone’s standin on the sleeve of me jacket. I pulls and hears the threads let go a bit. I looks up. Dracula, one of ’em. A big one. He’s lookin down at me, cold and bloodthirsty. Joey Smallwood and the Clown hovering beyond his shoulder. I’m down. I’m fucked. They’ll kick ten shades of shit outta me before I can make it to me feet. I pulls again and this time the sleeve rips free and I rolls down the slop-stained concrete steps, crackin me head hard on the sidewalk at the bottom. Dracula jumps the steps and I can see him in the air, his huge black cape filling the night behind him. He’s aiming for my throat. I rolls backwards and flips over onto me feet. He lands where I was lying. He starts for me and stops. He’s lookin at me hand. He backs away. I looks at me hand. Me brand-spankin-new knife is in it, gleamin beneath the streetlight. Dracula turns and scoots back up over the steps.
I slips the knife back into the case, brushes off me pants and coat, then heads up Water Street, lighter than I’ve felt in years. Crazy Clara is sittin outside the Rose. She makes to stand up when she sees me. I offers her me hand and she pulls herself to her feet. Big gummy smile, her teeth ground down to the nerves. She sorta rocks back and forth on her heels, pulls away and tilts way back like she’s fillin her lungs for what she got to say:
—Hello there Mr. Reid. Would you like a cigarette?
Poor old girl. I takes the cigarette she offers and flips her a loo-nie, the only one I’ve got. She misses it and it rolls under the table. I shuffles on up the street while she scrambles for it. God love ’er, someone said she useta be a teacher or a nurse or some such thing. Now she just wanders the streets.
Val is playin at the Ship. I can just hear him when I’m passin by the Hatchet.
I can still taste the gutter in the back of my throat
And some days it hurts me to swallow.
I saw him earlier at home, tryin on an old Elvis suit in the mirror, swingin his hips and pointin, curlin his lip. He does an Elvis set every year at Halloween, although I’ve never seen it. Must be finished with it by now though, gone over to his own tunes.
Some days I’m so full I might bust at the seams
Some days are so empty and hollow.
Fuck man, I minds the first time I got ahold of one of his albums when I was in high school. I was right into the Skid Row and Metallica and that sorta stuff back then and granted Val’s music wasnt as heavy, but, I dont know. It was wicked. To think that here’s my old man’s brother, my uncle, pumpin out these crunchy tunes and actually makin a name for hisself. It made shit seem a bit more doable for me back then, in that boring little dead-end harbour. I needed to get outta there some bad, by fuck.
There’s a sun up, a sun down, a great chance to skip town
I cant lead the way, you wont follow
There’s a blast and a handshake, a backstab for an old face
Who might drop by sometime tomorrow.
Some of his stuff is a bit vague, like he’s after just slappin the lyrics in without givin it much thought. But like with any music that you likes, you can always find ways to personalize Val’s stuff. He’s up on bust tonight, the door handle of the Ship vibrating in me hand. I checks me pocket and finds a ten-dollar bill. That’s enough for a few beer. I got Donna’s smokes here too, made sure of that before I left the Darkroom. Cover charge at the Ship, but not for me. Val said he’d leave me name on the door. The entrance is blocked with all sorts of ghouls and cowboys. Strawberry Shortcake, a dead zombie bride and one fella dressed like a toilet. I dont fuckin get it. He had to’ve put some fuckin hours’ work into that, and in the end what’s he sayin exactly? Shit here. Shit on me. I hope he wins something for it though, all the same. I slides past the crowd and gives a quick nod to the little chicky-chick on the door. I hafta get right up in her face and shout over the blare of the music.
—Clayton Reid! Val said he’d write me in!
To say get up off of that cold hard floor
And put it all back to the way it was before…
Loves that chorus I do. The whole bar is singing along. Chicky-chick does a little scan of her book. I sees that Monica is first on the list, but when I passed the Hatchet just now I seen her dartin up the alley towards Keith’s, her face painted bone white. Make up your fuckin mind missus. Her and Val are wearing pretty thin now anyhow, not that they seemed all that thick in the first place. Thick enough for him to give away me table though, cunty-balled old whoremaster. I heard him talkin on the phone to Massie the other night, Aunt Massie. He was screamin first, about some phone bill she’s got, but after a while he went right quiet and he might even have been chokin up a bit. That’s fucked, that whole situation. Me with Monica when she was with Keith and now she’s with Val, me uncle, while she’s still with Keith. And Val on the phone every other day with Massie, half the time gettin back together and half the time settin out to kill her. I s’pose I should go to Corner Brook and fuck Massie meself, just to balance it all out. I needs a good road trip.
The young one on the door is wearin that fuckin dandy hippie oil, what’s it called? Petunia? Patchouli? I gets right off on that. I could love her, if she always smelled like that. I hovers around her neck while she flips the page on her clipboard. She shakes her head and chews her lip and flips open the cashbox.
—Sorry, he said no one gets in who’s not on the list. It’s six dollars.
And I’m about to say, he’s me uncle, I lives with him, but I dont go in for that name-droppin shit, like I said. I feels the ten-dollar bill in me pants pocket, crispy and new, right outta some bank. S’pose I shoulda come in through the back door, like I normally would. Some Hugh Hefner type is next in line. He’s got two wicked young ones in bunny ears hangin off each arm. He holds out a twenty and when Miss Petunia takes the bill I backs into the sweaty, manic crowd towards the bar. She sees what I’m up to but she doesnt make a move towards me.
Leave it alone, you’ll only make it sore…
It’s not worth her while to come after me cause everybody’d just walk in then. The crowd swallows me up while I pushes and elbows me way to the bar. I’m dyin with the thirst.
And there’s not much left if you’d like a little more.
Val’s on his own tonight. He makes more money that way, where he aint gotta pay no other musicians. But still, you hafta hear him with a full band, drums and bass and another guitar. Piano sometimes. That’s his sound. That’s what his songs call for. But he always goes it alone towards the end of the month, when the rent is due. You’d think by now he’d own his own house somewhere, with all the money he’s after generating over the years. But no. Rent and sublet and fuckin squat, that’s his way. Dribs and drabs, feast and famine, that’s how he lives. I mean, he was on his way for a while, but he fucked it up. I cant say for sure how, just I knows something went down at some awards show one year and some stupid reporter got the story wrong on purpose. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Val dont talk about it.
By the time I gets a good spot at the bar his set is ending. He says good night and thanks for comin out. Someone shouts:
—“Gun Shy!” “Gun Shy!”
One of his earlier songs. His old record label is s’pose to be releasing a greatest-hits album sometime next month. About time too. I tries to catch his eye before he slips into the backroom. He sees me but he dont nod or smile or make any motion towards me atall. Fucker. He’s like that when he’s out in public. Home too. Everybody starts bangin their glasses and ashtrays and cheerin and shoutin for an encore but I can tell by the way Val’s luggin himself to the backroom that he’s all-in for the night. He never does an encore no more.
I reaches the bar then, and I can feel me life shiftin, changin, me whole approach turnin inside out and upside down. For good. Or bad. I dont give a fuck. I wants what I sees more than anything I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. And this is not some passing infatuation sorta wow-I’d-love-to-fuck-her kinda situation. This is the real fuckin thing. There she is again. The one who was with Robert Dawe that night, at his release party. The One. Behind the bar, working. Fuckin drop dead gorgeous. Just like I remembered her. Full lips and messy black hair, about my height, maybe a little shorter. Maybe my age, maybe a little older. She fuckin floats. High leather boots and skin-tight black pants that only comes down a little past her knees. She pulls a pint and shakes her head at some arsehole when he lays his hand on hers. She’s above the whole racket. She pouts and bounces to the cash register.
She’s mine.
I wants her.
She’s the One.