I stands starin at her until she sees me. She smiles from ear to ear like she was expecting me all along. In one movement she lunges from the cooler to the edge of the bar where I’m standin. She lays her two hands flat on the bar as if to say, anything you want, it’s yours. Her breasts.
Some precious dyke in a long black coat standin next to me shouts:
—Hey? I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes!
But my new flame doesnt even look her way. She keeps starin at me. She’s lookin at me. And for the first time in a long time I dont know who or what I am. Because she’s all there is and I knows I’d give over to her in a flash. I’d let her break me and reshape me any way she sees fit. I would. She keeps starin, her bright grey eyes.
I’m fuckin well in love.
—What’ll it be?
—Ah…
And I catches meself then, tryna figure what’s the best thing to order to give her a good impression. But that’s not me. I just wants to be meself.
—Pint. Guinness. Please.
—Water?
—No, Guinness.
—Last call for alcohol! Last call!
She shouts this across the bar and people groan and you can see ’em flatten their drinks so’s they might get another one in before the night is up.
Every move she makes causes me an awful distress. The pulsing flex of her calf when she reaches for a glass on the top shelf. Her shirt rises over the waistline of her pants, the flash of her belly with the fading hint of a late-summer tan. She whirls around on her heels and bats the tap down playfully with the palm of her hand. She fills the glass halfway and looks over at me, not smilin, her cheek restin on her shoulder and her hips keepin time to the stereo. Paul Simon. This song burned into me head for the rest of time. She resets the tap when the pint is three-quarters full, to let it settle. And she turns away then, while it’s settling, the head slowly swellin and the underbelly blackening, as it does. But she’s turned away, plucked a twenty from an outstretched hand, leanin in, ear first, to better decipher the drunken patter from yet another slippery, gap-toothed mouth that wants, wants, wants. Always. And who doesnt? I cant stand it. I hates her. I just wants her here, serving me. Now. Look at me. Ask me. Tell me. Me. Everything. Anything. She delivers a drink and divvies out the change. Her small hands. On me.
I feels a dull pull in me foot and when I looks down at it the floor is further away than it should be. My legs are longer. And then I remembers the pill. Fuck. No. No. It’s more than that. I’m open to it. I’m open to the possibility of disappearing. With her. In her. Living. With her. Fixin breakfast and runnin the bath. She sees me there then, remembers me pint and pulls the last quarter from the keg. When the glass is full she brings the head up to touch the mouth of the tap and makes a quick little movement. She carries it over to me, not smilin, just looking, with gleaming grey eyes. Right. At. Me.
—You sure you can handle this? You’re looking kind of pale. I can get you a water?
I dont have any idea how to respond to that, seems like months now that everybody’s been linin up to pour it down me throat whether I wanted it or not. Donna, how she has more fun when I drinks with her. Val with his lines and hot whiskey.
I starts diggin through me pockets for the ten bucks but she’s off to the other end of the bar already. I glances at the creamy head of me pint and sees that she’s after drawing a little heart in it with the mouth of the tap. That’s what she was at. I dont know what it means, me brain is temporarily scrambled with lust and love and the results of that pill. Maybe that I owes her a drink, that I’m to take her up on it, later on, wait till she’s gettin off. And then we’ll all get off. No. No. I dont wanna think about this one like that. I’ll do this right. Have something real.
I turns to have a look at the crowd. The motion of turnin, with me elbows tucked into me chest because of the crowd, and the old weakness in me foot, puts me right off balance for a second and I stumbles forward. The top part of me pint, the froth, me favourite part, the heart, her heart, slops into this big fella’s hood. He dont feel it soak into his back though and I takes the opportunity to get clear of him before he does feel it.
There’s someone up on stage now, tellin everybody to gather round while the judges decides who’s got the best costume. Four of ’em. The Toilet Man, Hugh Hefner (minus his love bunnies), Death, of course, and Strawberry Shortcake. They’re to be judged based on audience response, the loudest applause. Hugh Hefner takes a step forward and bows. There’s a half-hearted reaction from the crowd, a courtesy. Strawberry Shortcake receives about the same, except for a patch of young ones in the far corner, who’re obviously her friends, that’re goin nuts. Too obvious. Toilet Man is next. He gets the biggest applause so far. Then Death steps forward, bows, and the place goes up. I dont get it. It’s likely the third or fourth Death or Grim Reaper I’ve seen tonight, but the crowd is goin mental. They starts chantin:
—Death Death Death Death Death Death…
Death’s arms raised high in the air, victorious. The host hands Death a dozen Dominion Ale and a gift certificate for a free lunch at…the Ship! How considerate. The crowd starts to recede. As Death is steppin down from the stage he removes his hood, and it’s Monica for fuck sakes. I was wonderin what she was up to with her face painted earlier. Pretty slick. Cause you’d never stop to think of it that way. You just automatically assume Death to be male, like God is.
The crowd starts to shift towards the exits. I’m after gettin way too fuckin hot now and tries to shove me way to the back door. Feels heavy all of a sudden. That little teddy bear doin backflips in me gut. Might get sick yet. She did say I looked pale. The crowd is even thicker where it’s tryna clear out and at its worst towards the back, so I makes a go for the bathroom instead. Men’s bathroom got a lineup. Fuck sakes, am I trapped in the Ship with no place to vomit when I needs to? What if there was some kinda crisis? I pushes me way into the women’s and barely gets the stall door open in time before it all comes up outta me guts. Pina colada. Never fuckin fails. Girlie drinks are for the morning, when you needs the added vitamin C and sugar, no good to go mixing it around with the beer. I had a half case sure before I left the house this evening. Some black-clad yuppie missus at the sink screws up her face in disgust at me in the mirror. I tries to tell her to fuck off but all I can get out is the f part.
Cant catch me breath, a chunk of pineapple lodged in me throat. I tries to wash it down with me pint but cant take in more than a mouthful, barely get a drop past me teeth before I’m heavin again. I shoulda opted for water shouldnt I? The pineapple stays where it’s to. Must be the tablet, the little blue teddy bear, reachin back up and chokin me with his furry little evil blue paw. I’m really startin to choke to death here. I turns around to see if the yuppie at the sink is still there to help me, but she’s gone. There’s me in the mirror with me face turnin blue, same colour as the pill that’s chokin me. Pineapple, yes. But the pill is what got it lodged there. The little blue teddy bear dippin his paw into the sick mix in me guts, finds the perfect size hunk of pineapple and jams it into me windpipe. Drugs kill. I rams me back off the bathroom stall in an archaic attempt to dislodge it, some idiotic trick I learned on the playground growin up that’s since been fanatically dispelled as a valid lifesaving method by that fuckin Heimlich crowd. All this flashes through me head as I beats me back off the door. That pain, that sinkin dark weakness in the stomach, the limits of me vision blackening from the edges inward, pinpoints of light before me, all that’s left. And a lightness, a dangerous weightlessness. Then panic. Not me own, but the presence of someone else’s fear. A thump in the midsection and then air, the precious, life-affirming, piss-ridden, fishy air of the women’s toilets at the Ship, rushes to me head, me knees. And I’m back. Like it never happened. Well no. The moment bein so close and all that the panic takes a few seconds to rear its head. Where it never got the chance to in the first place, now it all hits me the once. I turns to see who helped me out. Monica, beautiful deathly Monica. Saved me. She’s got tears runnin down her cheeks, streakin black rivers over the bright white death mask. She musta gotten a fright, the poor thing. Real death, right there. I opens me arms and collapses into the spongy bust of her robe, buries me face in her firm chest and breathes deep the smell of the musty, smoky fabric. She pushes me away and holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length.
—Clayton? Clayton are you h’alright? I ’ave to tell you something.
A faint whiff of cheap house wine on her breath. I stumbles forward again and she latches her arms around me waist to hold me steady. Heart poundin, me chest hot and tight. She pushes me back against the wall and I can feel me stomach revolt again, me head too heavy for me neck muscles to hold.
—Clayton fuckin snap h’out of it! It’s Val. Someone told ’im…
Me knees gives out and I’m heavier than I’ve ever known meself to be. I starts to slide down the wall to the floor, Monica’s voice a muddy echo.
—Clayton did you ’ear me? Val says ’e’s gonna kill you…
She tries to pull me to me feet, I latches me hands around her hips and me head falls forward till I’m face and eyes into the stuffy midsection of her death robe. Behind me there’s the door, someone tryna shove their way in. Me heel jammed against the bottom of the door. I muffles deep into the heat of Monica’s crotch:
—Val? Fuck would he wanna kill me for?
—Can you please stand up?
Monica’s head falls back against the wall, her two hands restin on me shoulders, and she lets out a big deathly sigh. Then the door busts in. There’s a quick flash of a black wig and the telltale trace of Donna’s mall-bought perfume. She goes:
—You bastard!
The colossal, leaden slab of antique cedar that makes up the door of the women’s washroom at the Ship hits me square in the forehead. Hard. Harder than I was ready for. I mean, I can ram me head off a wall or the floor or the pavement all night, as long as I’m the one doin the rammin. Dont bother me in the least then, but catch me off guard like that and I’m just as fucked as the next fella. Down I goes. Not out though. Never out. The blow actually brings me around a bit. I slumps against the wall in the corner and slides down to the floor, maybe more outta melodrama than the result of the impact. It just feels like the way it should happen. Monica brings her hands to her face, but not quick enough. Donna gets the first one in, a clever, vicious jab to the bridge of Monica’s nose. Hit first and hit fuckin hard I s’pose, no matter whose side you’re on. No blood, thank fuck. Monica screams all the same, a throaty full-speed-ahead death howl. I tries to pull meself to me feet but Donna intercepts me attempt with the heel of her sharp black Morticia kickers. She catches me in the chest and I can feel the hard wood heel rippin into the flesh. She puts all her weight on me then and shoves me to the floor. Part of me is lovin it. The other part wishes she was a fella, so’s I could have a crack at her. Cant stand the cocky mask of power and control she’s suddenly become. I wants Monica to strike her down. She should be able to. But that’s the way women are: you expects they can hold their own in a scrap just because they talks rough and got the hard look, maybe the wide shoulders, but more often than not the little scrawny ones are just as savage. Sure enough though, when Madame Death catches her balance she manages to get her hands in under Donna’s wig and latched into her real hair. She yanks Donna forward and what’s Donna do if not bite down on Monica’s chest. Donna’s growlin through clenched teeth:
—Stay the fuck away from him. Hear me? Stay away. He’s mine!
I scrambles out between their legs and crawls to the other side of the bathroom. There’s me pint, on the sink where I left it when I was chokin. I pulls meself to me feet and has a glance in the mirror, the two ladies, Morticia and Death, with their hands around each other’s throats. There’s a lump on me head, a white streak of makeup smeared across me neck. I pulls up me shirt to have a look at me chest, a bright hickey-red scrape about four inches long. Madame Death hisses in Morticia’s face:
—I was savin ’is goddamn life! I dont h’even like ’im.
I slips outta the bathroom and while the door is swingin closed behind me I sees the rage in Donna’s eyes blaze to full again as she launches another series of jabs at Monica. I knows I should stay and do something, but I cant.
The club is after clearin out nearly altogether. I turns to this one skinny little queen who’s grindin his hips off the centre beam of the club. Someone’s after paintin an underwater scene onto the beam and this little queen is lickin at a mermaid’s crude, one-dimensional tits. Fuck.
I glances at the clock on the wall. It’s past three o’clock already. Where did the fuckin night go? I staggers over to bar and there’s the manager behind it, puttin dishes into the dishwasher. He sees me comin.
—Last call is gone. Bar’s closed.
But I didnt want booze. I wanted…I want…her. I dont even know her name.
—Where’s the girl gone?
—The bartender? Is she still here?
—Gone. Might catch her if you hurries out though.
And I knows he’s just sayin it so’s I’ll leave the bar, but I dont give a fuck. I hop-walks to the front door with me pint tucked into the crook of me arm. Just as I’m reachin the door I hears Donna screechin after me to wait, come back. I turns on her:
—Take one step more you crazy fucker and I’ll flatten you. I should too.
She thinks I means it. Maybe I do? No. But there’s no need of what she just went and done. She puts her hands over her face and starts sobbin. Her wig drops to the floor. Her knees buckles and she flops into a chair. She coulda left Monica for dead in the bathroom. Doubt it very much though. Donna looks like she got the worst of it actually, a scratch on her cheek and a glisten of blood on her bottom lip. My heart goes out to her for a second, and Monica. Fuckin mental night that has nothing to do with me no more.
I darts out through the front door, looks down towards Water Street. Nothing. I takes the steps up to Duckworth. And there she is, waitin against the building with a bag of beer. I tries not to limp as I’m walkin towards her. Feels like I’ve come a long, long ways, a lifetime, to see her and she’s been waitin here forever, waitin for me. She smiles in this dangerous, sulky little-girl way. I reaches her just as her cab pulls up to the sidewalk. She takes a step back when I comes under the streetlight. I tries to touch her face but she pulls it away and takes me by the wrist. I leans in to kiss her. She looks up and down the street like she’s seein if anyone is lookin, but I couldnt give a fuck if the whole goddamn world was watchin us on a wide-screen TV. I wants her worse than I’ve ever wanted anything in me whole miserable life. The cabbie blows the horn. She gives me a sizin-up. I’m terrified in that moment, when she’s lookin me up and down like that, that she’ll see the ugliness, that dark shit. I wears it on me fuckin sleeve most of the time, but I dont want her to see it now. I wants her to see someone who wants her like I do. I leans in to kiss her again. She pulls away from me. She opens the door and holds it open for me.
—I guess you’re coming with me then?
So fuckin saucy like that. I climbs inside and she slides in beside me. Before she shuts the door I hears Donna shout me name. We both looks back through the rear windshield to see her runnin up the sidewalk towards the cab in her black stocking feet. This new one beside me, she goes:
—Is that your name then? Clayton?
—Yes. What’s…what’s yours?
—Isadora. You can call me Izzy though.
Holy sweet fuck. What a name. Imagine shoutin that name from the bottom of the stairs. And like fuck I’ll call her fuckin Izzy. Isadora? How can I squander a name like that? Fuck, that’s like something outta some fantasy book, the name of some goddess or princess or something. I tells her this, that her name is gorgeous. She smiles shy, says how she’s named after some dancer from New York. I’m just watchin her lips move. Then she says how my name is nice too. And the way she says it makes me believe that maybe it is a nice name. Growin up I always found it to be a lippy and sharp name, right common too, cause where there’s more than one Clayton on the Shore. I says thanks. And I says her name, kinda under me breath, cause I cant help it. And with that she finally leans in to kiss me. And it’s one of those kisses too, the ones that fit. Like Donna’s lips were always so tight and thin and just, well didnt suit mine. And some women’s lips are nice and full and you thinks they’ll make a great kiss but they turns out to be right soft, like there’s no meat to ’em atall. But this one, Isadora, her lips, that’s where she carries her heart, her soul, that’s where all the sex is. Her lips have been waitin for mine for all time. She slides her tongue into me mouth. Here’s something real now. A beginning. Not the quick, go-nowhere kinda downtown stolen-moment tongue that means we’ll never work, we’re just here now cause we’re lonesome and intrigued and it’s just too late to start lookin elsewhere. But this tongue, Isadora’s tongue, flicks and probes and teases and dances and says: Let’s begin again. And that’s what she makes me want, a clean slate, a new look, a new life altogether. I slides me hand up under her top and she catches me by the wrist, pulls it away. She laughs and goes:
—Okay mister. Slow down.
And yes, that’s perfect. That’s exactly right. That’s precisely what I needs to do. Slow down. Take it easy. Relax. Live for a while. Slow down. With her. Isadora.
There’s a nice, warm glow in me belly now. That little blue teddy bear is finally after givin over, curlin up and snugglin in for the night.
As we’re roundin the turn onto Prescott I has a last glance out the back window to see the shrinkin form of a now blond Morticia, still runnin to catch the cab. I pats the new knife in the leather case on me belt.
I s’pose I should feel bad.