Fireball (16 page)

‘What did it taste like?'

‘What did what taste like?'

We were pretty wasted, obviously – or I wouldn't have had the guts to ask him. I mean, I may as well have asked him about his dad or something super personal like that.

‘You know. When you gave her mouth-to-mouth.'

Chris picked up a stick and poked at the fire. Me and him sometimes went camping at this place on Mount Seymour. We called it Julian's Birthmark. Don't ask me why. I guess because the spot was all mottled and muddy and sort of hidden. It was in the woods near a little stream. There was a clearing for our tent – a beat-up canvas tent my folks had used in South America – and this log that jutted out like a pirate plank over the nearby ravine. That was our toilet. If you had to piss, you pissed off the plank. The rest of the time we would sit around the campfire wearing my dad's old ponchos and getting absolutely hammered.

Chris said, ‘It didn't taste like anything. It was one of those tastes that reminds you of a smell.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. Like the smell of sour milk.'

‘Not even.'

‘Or like meat you've left out too long. Or like fish guts rotting on the beach.' He didn't look at me as he spoke. He was staring into the woods and talking sort of quietly, almost to himself. I had to lean closer to hear. ‘Like the inside of a compost. Like a raccoon flattened at the roadside. Like the time me and you found that nest of maggots.'

He tapered off, still staring. I took a slug of rum. It was pretty fucking creepy, hearing him say that shit. ‘Seriously, man?' I said. ‘Or are you just messing with me?'

‘I don't know.' He shrugged. ‘It tasted like all those things, and none of them.'

Then he poked at the fire again, turning over one of the logs without looking directly at the flames. Chris never looked directly at the flames. You know – so he didn't lose his night vision completely. His dad had taught him all about surviving in the wild. It wasn't like he was paranoid, though. He just liked to be ready, in case a bear attacked us or something.

‘Sometimes I can still taste it,' he said.

‘Shit, man. Here.' I offered him our mickey. ‘See if this helps. Captain's orders.'

I'd cut a few lawns that day and we'd used the money to buy some Captain Morgan. The label showed this guy in an old-school naval costume, standing with his hands on his hips and looking like a total marzipan.

‘A dose of the captain's special sauce, eh?'

‘He's getting pretty saucy, all right.'

Chris tossed back what was left, his throat pulsing in the firelight as he swallowed. I reached over and sort of patted his knee. I almost said something like, ‘It's okay, buddy.' But luckily I didn't. I mean, it obviously wasn't okay, so saying stupid shit like that wasn't going to make any difference.

When Chris finished he stuck the bottle in the fire. It cracked and started to melt. We sat and watched the glass as it heated up, glowing orange like blobs of lava.

I went back there last week, to camp by myself. It wasn't the same, though. To start with, somebody had cut down all the bushes and turned Julian's Birthmark into a bike track. Then, almost as soon as I set up my tent, this fucking guy appeared with a big black dog and told me he'd bought the land and that I had to leave.

‘You can't just buy the woods, dickhead. Nobody owns the woods.'

‘Do you want to see my deed, kid?'

‘No I don't want to see your fucking deed!'

I freaked out a little. I think I even threatened to kill his dog. I wouldn't have done it, obviously. I'd never kill a dog – unless it attacked me first. But this one seemed okay. It started rolling around in the dirt, trying to cool off, panting and grinning at us.

The owner took my threat the wrong way, though.

‘I'm gonna report you,' he said. ‘You mountain bikers are all the same!'

‘I'm not a fucking mountain biker!'

We shouted at each other like that until eventually we established that I'd never ridden a mountain bike in my entire life. I only owned a BMX. After that the guy seemed to calm down, and I did, too.

‘It's the mountain bikers that are the problem,' the guy said. ‘They come up here and destroy the woods and shit in my stream.'

‘They shit in your stream?'

‘Uh-huh. It's my only water supply, too. They shit in it because they hate me. I think they're trying to give me cholera.'

‘That sucks, man.'

He bitched about the mountain bikers for a little longer, but I wasn't really listening. I'd come up there to be alone, and remember Chris, not to hang out with this joker. Eventually he got the hint. Then he walked in a circle around the campsite, inspecting everything – like he thought maybe I'd hidden a mountain bike in my tent, or behind a log.

‘Well, I guess if you're just camping you can stay the night.'

‘Thanks a lot, man.'

I said it pretty sarcastically, though. Then, because the whole situation was starting to piss me off – especially him thinking he could tell me whether it was okay to camp at our campsite, the one me and Chris had found way before this fucking guy had bought the woods – I stood up and started taking down my tent. And the whole time, I kept thanking him and telling him how great a guy he was. He stood and watched, getting more and more confused.

Eventually he asked, ‘What are you doing?'

‘Thanks for your support. You're super generous, you know that?'

I packed up my stove and my beer, too, and stuffed it all in my pack.

‘I thought you wanted to camp here.'

‘For sure, dude. It's going to be awesome.'

I was still saying shit like that as I walked away.

28

‘Try this one, man.'

‘Not bad. It needs more booze, though.'

At the party in West Van, after we got that Linda chick baked, me and Chris went hunting for some liquor. It took us a super long time to find the bar, which was hidden in the basement. But it was worth it. We were expecting a little table with the usual selection of twixers, and maybe a few cases of beer. It turned out to be ten times better than that. They had an actual bar, with barstools and brass taps and every kind of booze imaginable: Grey Goose vodka, Drambuie, Grand Marnier, Glenfiddich, and a bunch of other shit neither of us had ever heard of before. They had all that, and there wasn't even a bartender to look after it.

‘How about now?' I asked.

‘That's perfect.' Chris took another sip. ‘What did you add?'

‘Grand Marnier and some of this Czech shit. Becherovka.'

‘Sweet. What should we call it?'

‘How about Monkey Balls?'

We took turns making the most expensive shit mixes imaginable. Behind the bar we found all these cocktail shakers and measuring shots, along with a huge tub of ice. Chris's mom would have been in heaven. It was all hardbar, and it went straight to our heads pretty quick. We didn't screw around or anything, though. We were pretty careful about that. Whenever somebody stopped by for a drink, we acted like bar staff and offered to serve them.

‘What can I get for you, miss?'

I said that, super professionally, to the next mannequin who came up – this pretty hot brunette in a strapless black dress.

‘Uh… a cocktail, please. Can you make Sex on the Beach?'

‘I could, but I'd suggest you try some of this. We call it Monkey Balls.'

‘Sure. Okay. Thanks.'

She didn't know what the hell to make of us. Nobody did – but none of them had the guts to say anything. They just assumed we were meant to be there. It was pretty hilarious, actually. Monkey Balls was a huge hit. Within five or ten minutes other mannequins started coming up to ask for it specifically. I couldn't really remember how I'd made it, though, and by the fourth or fifth batch we started running out of Grand Marnier.

‘Dude – we should probably get while the getting's good.'

‘All right, you go-getter.'

We each poured half a twixer of Grey Goose into a pint glass and went to stand in the corner of the living room. We figured we could do the least amount of damage that way.

‘Just think,' I said. I waved my hand in a big, sweeping gesture that took in the whole room – like a salesman presenting his goods. ‘One day, this could all be yours.'

We gazed together at the crystal chandelier, the hardwood floors, the monster fireplace, the widescreen TV. Chris didn't say anything. He just shook his head.

‘What would you do if you had this much money?' I asked.

‘Burn it all.'

‘Give it the old bonfire of the vanities, huh?'

‘Yep. The straight up bonhomme de feu.'

We sank down onto this recliner – one of us on either arm. All that classy booze was weighing pretty heavy in our brains. We'd sampled a lot of Monkey Balls ourselves.

‘You know what's crazy?' Chris said.

‘What?'

‘Say life is a game. Take a look around. These are the winners.'

I stared at all the mannequins in their super pricey outfits, chatting and smiling and drinking and going through the motions of having a good time. I tried to imagine being like that. I couldn't. I just started laughing.

‘Shit,' I said. ‘I'm glad I'm a bit of loser.'

Chris grinned. ‘You're a bit of a boozer, all right.'

‘A real bulldoozer.'

Half an hour later Julian came looking for us. He had a huge frown on his face so I knew right away that something was up. I thought maybe somebody had ratted us out for drinking and shit-mixing all that expensive hardbar.

‘What's up, guys?' he said.

‘Not much, gigolo.'

Jules leaned closer, drawing us into a huddle and lowering his voice. ‘Tim's house is a bit overcrowded. He's asking people to leave.' He shoulder-checked, getting all anxious. ‘Don't worry. Just play it cool. If he comes up, let me do the talking.'

It was pretty funny. He kept telling us to play it cool when he was obviously shitting himself. We could see Tim across the room: this beefy, dark-haired guy, swaggering around and acting like a complete gearbox. He had his bouncer trailing along in his wake. All the girls smiled at him, and all the guys gave him a little nod. Totally smarmy. Every so often he'd stop and talk to somebody. If he laughed and joked around, it was all right. But if he acted super serious, you knew the person was about to be kicked out. When the killing blow came, they always looked heartbroken, but none of them put up a fight.

‘Okay,' Julian whispered. ‘Here he comes.'

He spotted us from across the room. Me and Chris were hard to miss in our shitty shirts. I stood quietly, trying to look as sober and casual as possible. I don't even know why. The last thing I wanted to do was spend another minute at that party. But sometimes, in the middle of things, you don't really think straight, and I didn't want to be one of the ones sent away. As Tim came up, Julian held out his hand and they shook.

‘Tim – how's it going?'

‘Pretty good, Julian. Pretty good.' He looked at me and Chris – this very significant look. ‘I don't think I've met your friends, here.'

‘They're my buddies from way back.' Jules looped his arms around our necks to show how tight we all were. ‘Chris and Razor. Razor and Chris.'

I smiled. Chris just stared at him. Tim didn't even break stride. He was all ready to launch into his little spiel. He started by holding up his hands in apology. Then he took a deep breath, as if he really didn't want to say what he was about to say.

‘I'm sorry, boys. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. It's getting a little crowded in here.' He spoke in this pretty loud voice, so everybody around us could hear. ‘No hard feelings, okay? I just didn't expect so many guests. I take it you can see yourselves out.'

He nodded and patted me on the shoulder. All done. He was so used to being obeyed that he'd already started walking away when Chris said, ‘What happens if we don't?'

Tim froze. His big bouncer stepped up and crossed his arms.

‘You got no choice in the matter, buddy boy.'

I don't think I've ever wanted Chris to clock a guy as badly as I did right then. Even more than Crazy Dan. He would have, too, if Karen hadn't turned up all of a sudden.

‘Hey guys,' she said. ‘What's going on?'

That was when Chris remembered the promise he'd made about not getting in any fights. He'd almost forgotten. He never broke promises, but he did forget them occasionally. He looked from Karen, to Tim, and back to Karen. It was one of the hardest decisions he'd ever had to make in his life.

‘We're going,' he muttered.

‘Just you two,' Tim said. ‘Her and Julian can stay.'