Down to the Dirt (15 page)

I hadn’t seen her in a long time and would have been content to have gone another while, let alone share an airplane with her. But I decided to do more than that. I was plankin’ right down next to her, even if I had to beg someone to move. I was a walkin’ tornado and she was about to develop a fear of flyin’. Did I mention she gouged the heart right out of my chest? Oh yeah, left me curled up in a ball for weeks.

—Juliet! My God, this is a queer one. I was lookin’ over and I said is that who I thinks it is? Looks like we’re sharin’ a seat.

I sat myself down before she even registered who I was. She looked tired.

—Christ, you looks like hell, girl…I mean, you looks tired is all.

Big dark bags under her eyes and she was chewin’ on her thumbnail. For a second my heart almost went out to her, but I put a stop to that right away. The last thing she wanted was to share a seat with someone from her old life, from
that
world. Especially me. She was bankin’ on a bit of sleep. I could tell. Poor girl.

—Fancy this then. Where you off to?…Ot-ta-wa? What’s takin’ Miss Juliet to Ottawa? Must be love is it? Oh right, right. I remembers hearin’ tell of you gettin’ yourself engaged or pregnant or something…Ah Christ, girl, I’m only coddin’ ya.

She rolled her eyes at me, sighed, turned to the window. Her hair had gotten long and fell across her face when she turned. I caught a hint of her perfume, the same stuff she always used to wear. An intense loneliness washed over me. The smell of her. I wanted to reach out, lay my hand on her face and talk. Find out about the roads she’d gone down. Maybe she could help me straighten out the one I was on before I went through with whatever it was I was doin’. I wanted an old friend.

The engines roared and worked their way into a mad frenzy. We were rippin’ down the runway and all I could think about were the lives that I’d led and the people I’d hurt along the way, how we realistically got no control over where our lives go. A lump swoll up in my throat. I watched my hand make its way toward her hair. Just before it reached her, she turned to face me. Caught me. She shook her head.

—Same old Keith.

—What’s that s’posed to mean? I was only tryin’…

—Well don’t bother ’cause it won’t get you nowhere. Now be sensible.

That look came over her face and I wanted to haul the cheeks off her. What a fuckin’ shit-sham world we got ourselves into. Try and reach out to someone and all they does is shoot you down. I sat back in my seat and thought about takin’ a vow of silence. I was still determined to come out on top though, and I cursed myself for that moment of weakness. Weakness.

She turned back to the window and soon enough we started to feel that rush, that last chance to change your mind, as the plane was sucked up into the night. Very strange and unnatural that is. Her knuckles were bone white from the grip she had on the armrest. So Miss Priss is a very nervous flyer.

—Ho-ly Fuck! This frightens the shit out of me, girl. Completely at the mercy of nature now. Or I guess this defies nature altogether, don’t it? If we crashed in the woods somewhere would you eat me? If I was dead, I mean?

She bust out with a nervous giggle. It was gonna backfire on me. She seemed all of a sudden delighted with me, or the distraction I was offerin’. Something to focus her anxiety on. I had a couple of Valium in my jacket but I wasn’t givin’ her one. She wasn’t gettin’ off that easy. Besides, I realized I was at that point where I could hardly string a sentence together, let alone know what buttons to push.

Then, luck of all luck, the stewardess was stunned enough to park that little bar-on-wheels right next to me and walk away. I stuffed my pockets with little bottles of white Bacardi. I don’t normally drink Bacardi, but they had to do. I managed to capture seven of ’em before the stewardess got back, at which point I ordered a beer. Seemed like forever since I had a beer.

—Yes, I’ll have a Black Horse, seein’ how we may never
see this lovely land again. And Miss Juliet will have a…what will Miss Juliet have?…Jesus, you have to have something, girl. How often do I get to buy you a drink? Vodka and 7Up?…Yes, one Black Horse and one double vodka and 7Up…Yes, girl, have a double, sure two in the air is only equal to one on the ground. It’s the truth. Ask the Captain. Captain!?…Ah sure I’m only shaggin’ around, girl. Now then, Cheers! Catnip and the little tin can. Catnip. Have you never smoked catnip? You don’t know what you’re missin’. I’m smokin’ it all evening.

She started in askin’ me this and that about my life. As if it was any concern to her, as if she had any fuckin’ right to share a seat with me. But I’ve never been one to hold grudges and I s’pose it’s always good to resolve matters through a little civilized conversation. Sure you can smooth out years and years of shit-stained wrinkles with a little sweet talk. But sweet talk was just a little out of my reach right then and there. So I grabbed hold of the moment, feelin’ my second wind, and filled her with shit. My life is fuckin’ grand.

—I’m on my way to Halifax to meet some people about my book.

—Book? Wow. Still writin’ your little poems?

My
little poems.
Fuck.

—I am. Puttin’ a book together these days. Gonna call it
Old Scars and Open Wounds.
Fancy that. Like to be able to say that I’m off to the vastly cultured city of Ot-ta-wa for love, but life just ain’t that special for the rest of us.

She just sat there starin’ at me like I had ten heads and then, would you believe, she had the fuckin’ gall to go haul out some novel and start lookin’ for her page? Nothing drives me more. Here I was, makin’ a
second
attempt to be friendly, tryin’ to
reconcile and make good and all she could think to do was further insult me. Some people got no sense of timin’.

—I actually had a close call with death not too long ago. Takin’ a little weekend excursion now. Yup. Got run down by an off-season snowplough on Queen’s Road. Broke my back, my skull. Shattered every bone in my face. I got up and walked it off but they still gave me a disgusting chunk of cash. How’s that sound?

She wasn’t listening to a word I said. I was the same old loud-mouthed cunt in her eyes. Still, I knew the truth. I’d come through hell and back and the world had changed me. It had. It has. There’s so much I could’ve said to her, but all that came out was that same kind of drunken bullshit. I got savage with myself for tryin’ to justify my life to the likes of her. Cold bitch. Then, feelin’ deflated and disgusted with myself, I realized it was all just misdirected anger and rage that I was unsuccessfully takin’ out on someone who’s got absolutely nothing to do with me no more. I’m a constant discredit to myself. Makes me almost want to lay my cards on the table and tell it like it really happened. I wished I was sober, but I couldn’t stop drinkin’. We spent the rest of the flight in a repressed, sullen silence, me breakin’ it only when the mini-bar passed by, and she by makin’ light of my drinkin’.

—Jesus, Keith b’y, you never changed a bit.

Fuck you, Miss Priss.

Relief washed over me when I felt my balls come up in my throat, my eardrums on the verge of collapse. The plane creepin’ down over Halifax. I wished I’d stayed home in bed. I wished I was just a little more loaded.

—Well, Miss Juliet, here’s to love in our country’s capital, unwanted pregnancies and tainted engagements. Cheers.

She didn’t look too pleased with that.

It pleased me just fine.

We quickly separated once we were in the airport, only to come face to face again in the hallway outside the public toilets. It was an awkward moment to say the least. Somehow the contrast between the tight, closed quarters of the plane and the spaciousness of the bright, fluorescent hallway made for a sense of nakedness and vulnerability. Like she was in an even better position to judge me, as this was the way I actually looked in public these days. For the love and honour of Christ. I didn’t know whether I should apologize or piss on her boots. So I told her to fuck off. She slipped past me without so much as a goodbye.

I turned and made a straight cut for the security booth where I waited in a fat line-up for about twenty minutes only to discover that my lighter never made the flight.

—Yes, I had a silver Zippo lighter
cuntfiscated
before I got on the plane. I was wondering where I could pick it up?…I came in that time from St. John’s…What do you mean
on the way back
? I bought a one-way ticket…Ohhh, so I lost it is what you’re sayin’? Great. Grand. I’ve only had it all my Jesus life. It belonged to my grandfather, you know. It’s a fuckin’ family heirloom.

I stormed off in a rage. What a bunch of rogues. I turned to go back to the booth but I s’pose that would’ve constituted a scene. I had to find some way to get the bastards back though, no doubt about that. I’d just spent two hundred bucks on a flight and then they had the cocksuckin’ gall to rob my lighter besides.

After buyin’ a ticket for the shuttle bus into town, I strolled on in to the liquor store. With absolutely good intentions. Absolutely. Who was I hurtin’? Really? Not like the liquor board was gonna go under ’cause of little ol’ Keith.

Robbin’ a flask is pretty much the same thing as robbin’ a book. Ever rob a book? Easiest thing in the fuckin’ world. Just make sure you wears a good jacket. Hold the book in your right or left hand, depending on the position of the salesperson, and slip it up under your armpit inside your jacket while you pretends to coop down to a lower shelf. In the same movement, that’s the trick, pick up another book, preferably of the same size and colour, in your free hand and then stand upright again. There’s only a split second where anyone can possibly detect what you’re after doin’. And they’d have to be pretty keen or pretty goddamn bored with their job to catch you at it. Then you just browse for a bit, natural as possible, eventually deciding against a purchase, holdin’ the other book firmly under your armpit. You’d be surprised at the size of the books you can get away with too. Oh, it’s also a good idea then to ask the clerk to locate a book that you knows the store don’t carry, or one you knows don’t even exist.

—You got anything by that Kavanagh fella? Ahh…Keith Kavanagh?

This helps them feel as though they’ve let you down. All’s left to do is to walk off lookin’ disappointed. Easiest thing in the world. And a respectable crime at that. Oscar Wilde’d be right proud of me if he could see my bookshelf. Sure he’s long dead. It’s just some money-grubbin’, trice-removed, distant bastard relatives makin’ a fortune off of his words, which they’ve likely never even read. And if they have, they’re probably the same type of cunts who had him locked up all them
years ago. Myself? Well, I’m gettin’ a free education out of it. What with the cost to educate yourself these days, I sees no harm in pickin’ up a few good books from time to time. Especially the classics.

One of these days, when I’m old and grey, I’m gonna walk into Weston’s Books in St. John’s with a big bag of books, dump ’em all out on the floor and say:

—I stole every one of these books in this very store while…that guy right there was workin’.

Then again maybe I won’t. I can’t stand scenes.

So I pocketed a flask at the airport liquor store in much the same fashion. I asked for Screech at the desk, knowin’ full well that it’s rare outside Newfoundland. I laid on my thickest accent, playin’ up to the old stereotype so’s to alleviate any suspicion. I sounded too stunned to steal anything. Buddy behind the counter even talked really loudly to me, like I had some kind of handicap.

Walkin’ out through the doors I got the wickedest rush of adrenaline when I came face to face with some pig and his drug-hungry German Shepherd. Lookin’ at me. Sizin’ me up like I’m some kind of low-life, his dog sniffin’ at my nuts. I loves cops. Did I mention that?

Then it struck me that I was Newfoundland’s Acting Ambassador to Nova Scotia for fuck sakes. I was in a position to grossly misrepresent my fellow countrymen, ’cause I doubted very much I’d make anyone proud. That last thought depressed me to no end and I even contemplated returning to the liquor store and payin’ for the flask. But it was Jim-fuckin’-Beam. Hardly worth the hassle. Besides, what would it all come down to? What was the worst that could happen? No
one ever remembers the time it
didn’t
happen. So one way or another you just gotta live to twist the tale.

—When I was your age I got caught stealin’ a flask in Halifax airport. Took four big old security guards to wrestle me to the floor. And by the time they finally did, I had the fuckin’ thing gone. So they couldn’t arrest me ’cause they had no goddamn evidence. Now don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Be good. Hear me?

I dipped into the flask outside at the bus terminal. It burned and bubbled in my guts and I knew there was no goin’ back for me then. But I made up my mind on the shuttle bus into the city that I’d try hard to make the best of this little trip for all those involved. Other than that, I tried not to think about what I was doin’. My physical situation had nothing to do with my quest. Quest. That sounded good. A little adventure. Better than lookin’ back some day and
not
rememberin’ that time I decided
not
to jump on the next available flight to Halifax. That’s like sayin’:

—Remember that time we decided
not
to slash Art Cumben’s tires after he sold us savory for weed?

That Andy b’y, he’s some nuisance.

I considered myself privileged to share a seat with some guy who was obviously well practised in the ancient art of fellatio. But I didn’t care. I was determined to be nice. I broke out the Jim-fuckin’-Beam and we started chattin’ her right up. We were soon havin’ a gay old time of it. Yes, and he simply
adored
my leather pants and even wondered out loud where he could get a pair. I informed him that if he played his cards right he
could probably have mine. I think I was half-serious too. I often wondered you know.

Jesus, Natasha kicked up some fuss when I bought them pants. She went on and on about bills and rent and responsibility to one another, now that we were shacked up. The way I sees it, I was only
savin’
money in the long run. She goes out and buys half a dozen pairs of fancy jeans every year, and the knees and the arse wears out of them in no time. Leather pants are gonna last a lifetime. They’re designed for landin’ in the ditch for fuck sakes. I mean, I s’pose I coulda spent that money on the rent, but where’s the month of June to now? Gone. Never comin’ back. And where are the leather pants? Exactly.