Chump Change (23 page)

“Dave?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me, Dave.”

“Why don’t you come around the front? I’ll let you in.”

“O.K.”

She opened the door, squinting and smiling, wearing a shirt of Andrew’s. It barely covered her ass, and though she held it together in front with her hand, her breasts still kept peeking and poking out. Hi, Dave!

“Want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Come in.”

She busied herself in the kitchen. I sat on the couch.

“ Where’s Andrew?”

“He’s taking a shower.”

“Were you guys out late last night?”

“Yeah, one of the other waiters had a martini party. It didn’t start until after two.”

I could see she was leading him quite a life, a double life; he was starting his evenings at 2:00 a.m., trying to keep up with this sex-bomb, then dragging his sorry ass half-dead into work in the morning. No need to guess where that would lead.

Lola brought out the coffee. She sat down next to me. I tried to keep my mind on the conversation, while parts of her body played peek-a-boo with me from under Andrew’s shirt.

“You guys having fun?” I asked her.

“It’s alright. It’s just sex, for him, I think. He never phones me, he won’t even introduce me to people as his girlfriend. He just comes home with me after closing, basically, when he’s loaded. Still, he’s better than a lot of guys I’ve dated.”

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Somehow the gesture was eloquent, speaking of a string of boorish, biker-ish boyfriends, her resignation in the face of the fundamental swinishness of our gender.

Andrew came out of the shower, looking fresh as a daisy in a striped shirt, black jacket, tie. I marvelled at his ability to bounce back. “I called you at the office,” I said. “They didn’t know where you were.”

“I’ll tell them I was at a meeting.”

“Your funeral.”

“Got a cigarette, pal?”

“Yep.”

I gave him one. He lit it, then turned to Lola.

“Did I get laid last night?” She laughed.

“Like you don’t remember.”

“Did I have a good time?”

She smiled.

Andrew had a coffee, then fucked off to the office. I hung around for a while and chatted with Lola. Then I had to go. I went around the corner to the Avenue Road Diner, ordered a burger, went downstairs to the bathroom. Standing in front of the urinal, I hauled it out and started stroking. If anyone came in it would look like I was taking a piss, if you didn’t get too close a look. But it was all over in a matter of moments, anyway. I guess Andrew was right. She was my type, after all.

The next time I saw her was at a party at Andrew’s place. She looked beat up: lipstick smeared all over her face, standing swaying in the kitchen by herself, talking to no one, dead drunk. Andrew was elsewhere, it was rumoured he’d disappeared into a closet with a woman. I went over and talked to her.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thanks, I’ve had plenty.” Her speech was slightly slurred, her gaze vague.

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Andrew dumped me. He got bored, I guess.”

She smiled sadly.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well, I’m really enjoying being single. I like the freedom.”

She looked very sexy, maybe it was her vulnerability, her pathetic attempt to convince me she was having a good time being single when it was obvious she was miserable.

On the other hand, it might have been the little purple halter-top she was wearing, made of some sort of scuba-type material, with a zipper down the middle, unzipped halfway. I was a bit drunk, also a bit stoned. I kept staring at the zipper, trying to use telekinesis to get it to move lower. I think I even managed to will it to unzip a few teeth (on the other hand, it might have been the natural shifting of Lola’s breasts) when Andrew’s sister, Carol, passing by, said in a loud voice:

“DAVE, WILL YOU TAKE YOUR EYES OFF MY BROTHER’S GIRLFRIEND’S TITS?”

I didn’t point out they weren’t going out any more, that she was no longer his girlfriend. Instead, I blushed, mumbled something, and slipped out of the room.

Then there was the party at our place, the
Casa di Fromaggio
.

A disaster from every point of view. It was supposed to be a select affair, a “small-and-early,” as they used to say, just a dozen dressed-up people standing around noshing and exchanging sophisticated chit-chat, ostensibly to celebrate my ascension into the Cosmodemonic world. However, word got out and it quickly turned into a classic blowout.

It started off in a promising way, about a dozen people in the kitchen, having snacks, sipping wine. Les was wearing a stunning red dress that fit her like a balloon fits the trapped air. Sam looked good, too, though I can’t remember exactly what
she was wearing. Max wore a white dinner jacket. Les had made some delicious snacks, cold roast red peppers with capers and garlic, various dips, something with eggplant. We stood around in the kitchen and chatted.

But then, around 10:30, people started pouring in. They kept coming and coming. Andrew’s policy vis-à-vis parties in that era was “arrive loaded,” and this party was no exception — he was drunk and boisterous the moment he stepped in the door.

Something about his vibe worried me, made me nervous. He brought a friend with him, a guy who worked in his ad agency, Lou, a stumpy little homunculus with a Napoleon complex. He stood with his chest thrust out, challenging, getting too close to you, chin held high like a tray, defying anyone to call him “shortie.” He arrived loaded, too, and turned ugly quickly.

“LET’S ALL FUCK SAM!” he said at one point in the kitchen, moving towards her. “I’LL GO FIRST!”

Someone restrained him from actually touching her. Sam quickly exited the scene, left the kitchen, along with the few other women.

Max went over to where Lou was standing, pulled out his wallet, and started riffling bills under his nose.

“Listen, Lou, I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ll give you five bucks if you leave this party.”

“FUCK OFF!” Lou said.

“O.K., make it ten.”

Lou cocked his cowboy boot, then stabbed Max in the shins with the point. Max, surprised, grabbed his shin, hopping on one foot. He didn’t know what to do, how to deal with this.

I did. I crossed over to where Lou was standing, grabbed him by the shirt, and propped him up against the wall, his
boots two feet off the ground. He thrashed around, trying to kick me. I brought my face close to his. I had a cigarette in my mouth, the glowing ember about an inch from his cheek.

“Listen, Lou. I’m a peaceful man by nature. But if you piss me off I’ll put my arm down your throat and rip out your lungs. Do you understand me?”

He simmered down. I half-carried, half-dragged him out the door and chucked him out onto the porch. He hesitated, I glared at him, and he took off into the night.

Women were leaving the party in droves. Les came up to me.

“I’m going for a walk, with Sara, until things maybe cool down a bit. We’ll be back later,” she said, and took off.

Mary Jo, a model/singer friend of Sam’s that I sort of had my eye on, came over.

“Great party, Dave,” she said, sarcastically. “But I have to go home and feed my dog.”

“Oh, well, sorry about everything,” I said. “See you later.”

“If you’re lucky,” she said.

That was a bad sign. Mary Jo was an emissary, a sort of scout, from Toronto’s chic,
au courant
Gen-X hotshots, sent to check out two possibly promising youngish bachelors. Unfortunately, her report would have to be negative: “Two thumbs down. Not only do they live in a dump, but this noisome twosome never rises above their tacky surroundings. Drugs, sexual harassment, drunken frat-boy antics. To be avoided at all costs.”

And things just kept getting worse. Andrew was getting out of hand. He’s one of those who become a completely different person when drunk, Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde style. Now he was definitely Mr. Hyde. I later found out he was doing “foilers” of “brown lady” (smoking heroin off a piece of tinfoil) in the bathroom all night, which probably didn’t help. Andrew/
Mr. Hyde was staggering around the party with his shirt off, bouncing off the walls, bumping into people and saying: “Excuse me, I’m with the band.” There was no band, needless to say. He knocked over a lamp, the bulb exploded. He ran into Mary Jo in the hall, on her way out, and grabbed her, trying to maul her.

Finally, we had to throw him out, too. Max and I forcibly put his shirt on, then his jacket — it was tough, because he’s strong, and he didn’t want to be dressed — and bundled him out the front door.

He didn’t disappear into the night, though, like Lou. He staggered over to our scruffy, scrofulous hedge, unzipped his pants, and started to piss copiously. Meanwhile, with his head thrown back, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “I’M THE TYPE OF NIGGER THAT’S BUILT TO LAST. IF YOU FUCK WITH ME I PUT A FOOT UP YO’ ASS,” a line from a rap song.

The cops weren’t far behind, I knew. Sure enough, they appeared — no doubt called by one of our angry neighbours. I observed everything from the window, from between the slats of the venetian blind. I couldn’t believe how quick they were — they came in the time it took to take a piss. On the other hand, it was a long piss.

Andrew didn’t seem at all perturbed by the arrival of the constabulary. In fact, he was glad of the audience. He strutted like a drunken bantam rooster over to the squad car. He appeared to have adopted the persona of some sort of drug-dealer/pimp.

“HEY, PIG, WANT TO BUY SOME HEROIN? WANT TO GET BUSY WITH ONE OF MY BITCHES?”

Just then, in a stroke of terrible timing, Les returned from her walk, without Sara, who had no doubt wisely gone home.

“THERE’S ONE OF MY BITCHES RIGHT NOW!”

Les headed for the house, gamely trying to skirt the scene on the lawn, but one of Andrew’s arms shot out and grabbed
her by the sleeve. Suddenly, to my horror, he had her ass on the hood of the cruiser, and started mock-humping her.

The cops crouched, tensed, hands over their holsters. I realized it was time to act. I came out the door, drink in one hand, smoke in the other, trying to look calm and casual.

“Is there a problem, officers? I’m one of the hosts of this party.”

“Is he your guest?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s just a little drunk, officer. I apologize for his behaviour.”

I made a long arm for Andrew and detached Les from his grip. She fled like a scalded rabbit into the night. Andrew gnashed and thrashed, but I held him firm. I had looped an arm around his shoulder, old-buddy-like, but my grip was tight as a vice.

“Are you taking responsibility for him?”

“Yes, no problem, officer. I’ll take him inside, get him a bit of coffee, see if we can’t sober him up.”

“I’M WITH THE BAND!”

I held him tight.

“Don’t worry, officer, I’ve got the situation under control.”

The cop looks a bit doubtful. But I can tell that, at the same time, he’s glad to have Andrew off his hands. That’s the last thing he needs tonight, I can see that: a drunken maniac in the backseat, rage in the cage, and, back at the station, a mountain of paperwork.

“Alright,” he says finally. “But keep the noise down, will you?”

“Yes sir.”

They zoom off.

Argh, what a party. Tiring. I think I began to understand, that night, what Baudelaire meant when he said, “One must work,
if not from inclination, at least from despair, since, as I have fully proved, to work is less wearisome than to amuse oneself.”

Perhaps I’ve made it seem I was a pillar of morality, virtue and nobility at that party. Alas, far from it. In fact, in the end, when all is said and done and St. Peter weighs the pros and cons of everyone’s behaviour at that party, I’m afraid it is I who will come out the worst, it is I who will have sinned the most grievously. Everyone else’s sins were strictly venial, easily put down to high spirits, inebriation, youthful exuberance. Everyone else will eventually be forgiven, but when I approach the Pearly Gates, St. Peter will just shake his head, smile, and say, “If for nothing else, you deserve this for your behaviour at that party.” Then he’ll pull the lever controlling the trapdoor on which I stand.

Yes, only I committed a mortal sin that night, only I contravened the all-hallowed tenets of… The Dude Code.

The various precepts, statutes, ordinances, and codicils of the Dude Code control all male behaviour, ladies, and the Dude Code is not only unwritten but unspoken — how else would you expect a male code to be? It is simply understood. Through male osmosis I too am familiar with the code:

Lola was the last guest at the party that night, unless you count Andrew, passed out cold on the living room floor at our feet. She had shown up late, after work, at around two, when there were only three or four guys left, Andrew included. She was wearing her scuba-top again, and at one point Andrew reached forward and, with supernatural swiftness, deftly unzipped it. Her big, soft-looking, coral-tipped breasts swung into view. Once again I had occasion to think, “Now,
those
are some breasts.”

I had a feeling about Lola: everyone wanted her, but he who could stay up the latest would win. I won the Waiting Game. One by one, all the other guys went to bed, until it was just Andrew, Lola, and I. Finally, he passed out at our feet, and it was down to Lola and I, mano a hermana, passing a bottle of brandy back and forth, smoking, using Andrew as an ashtray — that is, we’d balanced an ashtray on his chest, which rose and fell as he sawed logs, and we were tapping our ashes into it.

Lola was impressing me more than she could know. It wasn’t just a matter of her magnificent body, her lush lovely figure, but also I was awash in respect for the fact that this 19-year-old girl was drinking me under the table. I, David Henry, who, back in college, once outdrank the legendary 300-pound El Salvadorean Omar Aguilar in a tequila-off.