Parallel Rivers Page 8

  What’s it today?

  Coke. A Coke.

  Anything else, mac?

  Yeah. I’ll take one of these and a packet of these. And five bucks of quarters.

  You following the Olympics, mac?

  Olympics?

  Right. What you bought here, those companies, see, they’re all sponsors.

  What are you talking about?

  You live on this planet? Twinkies. Coke. Hostess and Coca-Cola. Lots of folk buyin’ them. It’s Twinkies, Coke, M &Ms all the time.

  That okay with you?

  I figure. Hey, I’m not trying to hassle . . . Did you see the insects?

  Yeah.

  Got dark enough in here I can tell you. Everyone in the arcade went out in the street. Traffic slowed right down. I hate bugs. I can’t stand flying bugs.

  Listen, I’m going to play a few games.

  You know what? Ever since they flew over, people been acting strange, like real friendly. Guys in the arcade actually passing the time of day. Maybe it’s germ warfare, or something. You never know. Maybe Chinese locusts?

  Not fucking locusts. I got one in a box upstairs.

  I’ve seen a bunch. Maybe they’re Chinese, though.

  Listen. What’s the difference between horse piss and whore’s piss?

  I dunno. What?

  Beats me. I’m gonna play some games.

  Turn around. Video night. Push the apple. The monster looks like a bug. Turn. Climb up, and up, and up, turn, and.

  Renée?

  Hello, Gerry.

  How are you, sweetheart?

  Frazzled actually. You sound like you’re in a zoo.

  I’m at the arcade. Did you see the insects today?

  Insects.

  Thousands. About noon they flew through here.

  You know what the map room’s like. I see nothing all day but coloured discs and tiny flags and screens. Jesus, one insect would be an event.

  I’ve got one in a box, Renée. Kind of like a stretched bee. You busy tonight?

  Yep. I am busy. Got to rush. You’re bored, Gerald. Sign up for another contract or go get laid, my friend. It ain’t going to be me. Leave the bugs alone. Creepy.

  The Blue Jays got rained out in Cleveland. Hey, you finished with that phone?

  Finished, Gerald snapped.

  Yeah, the arcade proprietor was saying, been a terrible season so far.

  I’ll bring you that insect, said Gerald. You see for yourself.

  I’ll be here right till midnight, said the proprietor.

  Gerald brushed shoulders with the shining half-naked jogger on his way out. Giving artificial respiration to such a person would be disgusting. Once, at the beach near Uncle George’s place, Gerald and his sister had tried to revive a drowned deer by blowing into its nostrils. The foam at the corners of its mouth bubbled and the eyes slowly glazed over. Above them, on the cliff, their mother and uncle watched anxiously. They took turns carrying the dead deer along the path, away from the ocean, to a glade of birch trees. The silver light stilled as they laid the deer in the dry stream bed and covered it with dead branches, moss and leaves. A young buck, Uncle George said. You could feel his horns coming in. Must’ve been scared by something to swim out far enough to drown. Gerald looked at his mother. The light held the family, their feet did not touch the ground.

  He put three candy-covered chocolates into his mouth one at a time and re-entered the lobby. He wanted to keep the chocolate in his mouth, let it melt by itself, not chew. But he was nervous, he had to chew. In the elevator he read VILE SIN BURNS WITH LOVE. REPENT OFF YOUR WICKED DEEDS. DEVIL FULL OF MISERY AND UGLINESS AND GREEDINESS. THE DOOR TO HELL IS LOCKED ON THE INSIDE. He remembered writing that last line. Amanda had loved jazz. Place your fingertips, she said, just lightly on the speaker, close your eyes and feel Lena Horn’s voice. Now his arms tingled from the fingers to the elbows. His hands grew weak with the memory and he felt dizzy as he strode down the corridor to his door, then swung round and scribbled on the pad fixed to his neighbour’s door.

  My name is Gerald Thonger. I live across the hall. I’ve noticed you with books and magazines about animals. I’d like to ask you about an insect I found today. I’ll be home until ten tonight. Give me a buzz.

  He closed and locked his door behind him, switched on the coffee percolator, then sat on the straight-backed chair by the window, leaning over the yellow box. He sniffed at the insect, poked it with a finger. The fading daylight gave a queer colour to the things on the table. The roar of evening traffic lulled him. With one hand he rearranged his figures on the sill. Although the window stood wide open, not a breath of air entered to disturb the scarlet peacock, the orange hen, the carmine eagle, the black penguin, the marine monkey, the canary nightingale, the olive parrot, the crimson tortoise, the grass-green pig, the violet dog, the white stork and the rose duck. The animals looked warm and at peace in this light. Elbows on the table, he rested his chin in his cupped hands, watched through half-closed lids the room lights in the highrise opposite turn on and off and on. The lovely coloured animals on the sill seemed to shift a little as if grazing, as if sleeping fitfully. He too felt sleepy. He’d show the arcade keeper his insect in its box. Perhaps a nap first and in a little while a cool bath. He wouldn’t phone Bernice; after all, prostitutes weren’t real. His white suit hung in the closet, in its dry cleaner’s plastic. Betty had liked dancing. He once screwed her in a public washroom. A drowned horse lay beside them on the tiles, pools of dark water round their frantic bodies as they blew into the horse’s nostrils. The horse was exhaling a warm wind. A breeze stirred his hair. Something about the thighs of a horse, the tail. Feel Lena. Feel Lena. Look at Joan from Memphis, smiling like a little girl.

  Gerald put his head down until the bristles on his cheek rasped against his bare forearm.

  An hour later he crossed the room to pour himself a coffee. He opened two Twinkies, stuffed one in his mouth, and reached for the black book under the telephone. His fingers shook as he dialled. He sneered when the recorded voice answered at the second ring.

  Hello. We’re Bernice and Justine, we’d love to play in your scene, leave your message after the tone. Anxiously awaiting your call . . .

  Bernice, this is Gerry. I’d like to do it, same as last time, midnight tonight, make that five after. The parkade, okay? I’ll leave the door open. The money will be tucked above the wires to the right of the door. Wear high heels and the works. Black, or something dark. That’s fine. Okay. That’s all. Don’t screw up.

  He felt a pain in his shoulder. He bent to retrieve the orange owl from the corner, blew softly to dislodge the dust from the furled wings, then set the owl between the grass-green pig and the violet dog. The animals, illumined now by the table lamp, looked garish and drunk.

  It was ten o’clock when he lifted the blue lid and peered into the yellow box. The woman across the hall would not come now. He sat at the table, turning his head slowly from side to side. Lifting both arms, he stuck his nose into each armpit. In the bathroom he filled the tub with lukewarm water, undressed and got in. The old Beatles song “Ticket to Ride” spun round in his head. He washed himself. He touched his cock. He walked with an erection from the bathroom to the main room, to the window, back to the bathroom where he dusted himself liberally with Old Spice talc. His erection subsided as the tub drained. He opened the freezer section of the fridge, slapped a pound of bacon into his palm; from the package he drew a wad of notes and counted three one-hundred dollar bills onto the hotplate. At the table he swiftly folded a leaf of burnt-orange around the money. He pulled on his light zip-up windbreaker, combed his hair, and left the room.

  As he waited for the elevator, his neighbour from across the hall appeared through the Exit door and stepped unhurriedly toward her apartment.

  Hello! Hello! Hey! I’m sorry. Wait a minute, I’m not threatening you. I live right here. My name’s — you can’t hear me, can you? I’m sorry . . . sorry. Listen. Wait.

  By t
his time they’d reached her room. Gerald tapped the pad on the door. The woman pointed to his door. He nodded twice, then offered his hand. Her skin felt sticky, but her eyes were bright and friendly. He bowed. He held a finger in the air, then tore off his note and printed on the back: What’s your name?

  She wrote, Lucy Vincent.

  He wrote, The insect I want to ask you about is in this box. He waved the box in front of her nose.

  She ducked, then unlocked her door and signalled him to follow her.

  Gerald counted eight potted African violets in flower by the window of the clean and sparely furnished room. Lucy took off her scarf and mimed drinking, inclining her head slightly.

  Coke. I’ll take a Coke if you have it.

  She pointed to the little fridge, raised her eyebrows. He grinned yes. Inside, he found a bottle of Perrier and held it at arm’s length. She motioned to the cupboard above the sink where he discovered two tumblers. He felt her studying him as he poured. They toasted, clinking glasses. A lot of books, he said. His voice sounded forced and loud, and she couldn’t hear him. They sat down on the small sofa. She smelled of healthy sweat, with a flowery perfume behind it. Juicy Fruit. He placed the yellow and blue box on the coffee table, lifted the lid, and they bent heads over the insect. She put out a finger and flipped the insect into her palm. How lovely she was. Direct, straightforward, graceful, quiet. A self-conscious, big-boned woman with dark hair, shoulder-length, an open face, magnetic skin. She took a pencil and pad from the shelf under the coffee table.

  I’m interested in living things, he read, but I’m not an entomologist. I write poems. If you leave the insect with me I will find out what kind it is.

  I need it to show to a guy, he wrote. What about tomorrow? Would you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?

  He felt her hesitate and looked away abruptly, his face on fire. When she gave him the next note, she deliberately held his gaze.

  Yes I would like that. I’ll dig up some information. Tomorrow at five-thirty. Okay?

  He nodded fiercely. They both stood and walked to the door.

  She scribbled again. Use the button. It lights the lighthouse.

  She opened the door, reached around the jamb to press the buzzer. Above the inside doorway a plastic lighthouse flashed on and off. He wanted to stay with her, writing and passing notes, such peaceful communication, but Lucy, not closing the door, held out her hand. When they shook this time it was different, different.

  Riding the elevator to street level, he remembered his arrangements with Bernice and felt his stomach drift loose. Wow. The last time. The very last time.

  Gerald slouched against the counter watching the video arcade proprietor patrol the aisles. When the guy spotted him he hurried along the last row. Out of breath, he swept a rag over the perspex of each screen and game he passed. He wore pinstriped coveralls that were faded over his big belly.

  You got it?

  Gerald held out the box.

  You’re just in time, mac. My nephew minds the joint while I grab a bite. Wanna come along?

  A dark young man slid behind the counter, folded his arms possessively over the displayed donuts, chocolate bars, cigarettes, gum, and peanuts.

  Gerald followed the pinstripes through a curtain beside the pop cooler into a dark passage. They picked their way between stacks of empty bottles and stuffed garbage bags to a door that gave onto another passage. A breeze flapped his jeans about his ankles and one bare bulb silvered the proprietor’s thin hair. At the end of the corridor were two steel doors, one facing them, the other to their right.

  Name’s Sid. What’s yours?

  Gerald.

  Sid grunted. I want you to see something, Gerald. You ready?

  The short man opened the facing door. A blast of hot air and exhaust fumes enveloped them. Gerald shielded his eyes, took a step back, then leaned forward to look down into the huge cement hall; three tiers of parked cars divided the area horizontally.

  Great, huh? Listen. You wanna buy a used car!

  The man chuckled as the words rolled back to them.

  The words grew enormous and boomed in waves of overlapping sound. Just then he recalled the dream he’d had earlier as he’d slept at his table. By arrangement, he and the arcade man had met two girls in this very place. The lower region of an underground hall. The floor was under an inch of water and the girls wore rubber boots. One carried reins and a bit. They waited patiently for the two men to take off their shoes, and then the girls (and this memory came with a sexual jolt) drew off their own black rubber boots.

  C’mon, let’s go, said Sid. I ain’t got much time.

  Sid shut the parkade door, then led Gerald through the other door and up a short flight of cement steps, across a bleak alley that smelled of rotting vegetables, and into a tiny basement apartment.

  Home sweet home. Wife’s out at work — waitressing — make yourself cosy. But don’t open that door. Dog’s kept in the bedroom, ’cept at night. He’d eat you for a horse hoof. You hungry?

  Not particularly.

  Either you are or you ain’t. I got some stuff the wife brings home from the restaurant. Leftover omelettes and bagels and french fries and ketchup. It’s for the dog but I just fry it up. Add garlic and it tastes real good.

  Sure. Okay.

  Gerald picked up a photograph of the proprietor, his arm around the waist of a skinny redhead with a large empty face. He found in his pocket Lucy’s note. Use the button. It lights the lighthouse.

  Sid returned with two steaming plates of multi-coloured mush. He had unbuttoned the coveralls to the top of his belly and his grey-haired chest wore tiny beads of moisture. Gerald tried not to look at him or at the food.

  So let’s see that. You make the box?

  Yeah.

  Nice work . . . Beautiful. You score the guide-folds or just fold?

  Just fold, mostly. Sometimes I score.

  Yeah? This is pretty good. This is a good box. Hey, if the wife comes in you gotta split fast. She don’t like strangers here. And just dump the food in the dog’s dish by the door, understand? She gets madder than hell if she finds I’ve been eating the dog’s food. It’s just easier to prepare, know what I mean?

  Yeah I do. Convenient.

  Convenient. That’s it. Married?

  Gerald shook his head.

  So let’s take a look. Whoa. Yeah, pretty odd-looking, you ask me . . . Weird the way they all come flapping over. Seen nothing like it before. Like locusts but not.

  No way.

  No. I seen locusts.

  People still acting friendly at the arcade, Sid?

  Naw. I guess the novelty wore off. Maybe I was excited and just imagined the folk being friendly. Hey, I got an answer for your riddle. What’s the difference between horse piss and whore’s piss? Whores piss you out and horses piss you off — like they lose, they don’t even place. Get it?

  While they ate, Gerald relaxed. Two friends today. Two new people. He couldn’t concentrate on the date with Bernice, kept thinking of the deaf woman, Lucy Vincent. Lucy Vincent. And “Ticket to Ride” went round and round in his head. Can deaf people have music in their heads? Imagine the way words sound? Arcade, parkade. Sid’s parkade was the same as his parkade, yet from that vantage utterly different. He could show Lucy how to feel Lena Horn. The fry-up tasted good, and Gerald felt warm and happy.

  The dog in the next room started to growl. Sid cocked his head. They listened to the dog growling for some minutes.

  Naw. It’s not the wife. Dog always barks when the old lady’s back. Guess he’s just hungry.

  Gerald snorted. So what’s the dog getting for supper?

  That’s a problem, ain’t it? Good watchdog, though. German shepherd. Real mean when he’s hungry.

  Sid winked.

  Then they laughed hard till both were pounding the table. Gerald felt stoned, blissful. He watched tears stream down Sid’s cheeks and, rocking back and forth in his chair, he hugged himself.

 
; At five to midnight, he was lounging against the ramp railing at the bottom of the parkade. He squinted at the far wall, at the system of metal stairs zigzagging from door to door in the cement. Four levels of doors. Twelve altogether. Two traffic barriers on each of the three levels. The top door must be the one he’d stood at with Sid less than two hours ago. His stomach was in knots. He thought of trying the echo from this position. He looked at his scuffed sneakers, put his hands in his pockets, made a fist of his left to protect the box. The place was quiet except for the fans and the lights. The parkade closed at eleven, opened again at six in the morning. Pretty soon the lights would go out and the noise would be zero. He’d hear the clicking high heels very distinctly. He thought of Lucy and his throat went tight. He remembered again the hammock scene with Amanda. What he was doing was so weak. For a second he thought he might be sick. And then the lights went out. The fans stopped.

  Gerald advanced from the railing, listening to the dark, nursing his cock. Nothing. Not a whisper. Then a car door closing softly. Stupid bitch. That’s wrong. Christ.

  Hey, Bernice! You fuck-up. The money’s not in the car. You’re so stupid. Bernice! I’m not paying for screw-ups.

  The steps came closer. The measured pace of hooves. His mother and uncle were here, his sister too. He felt deep terror as the darkness turned silver and the glowing animal trotted mournfully toward him. Devil full of misery. When the figure came within reach, he lunged. She felt soft and big, all wrong, too real. She didn’t even whimper. He must bring her to life — but she was alive. Glassy eyes stared at him. He avoided her mouth, blew into her nostrils. He came; he hadn’t got inside her. Gerald peed on the horsie’s back! He remained frozen on top of her on the cement floor. Bury her in leaves? Now she moaned gutteral baffling words and he broke free, scrambled the length of the parkade. Outside he jogged to lose himself in his own pace, his own breathing, in the hustle of streets and alleys, coughing his throat raw.