Holding Still for as Long as Possible (22 page)

A man stood in the driveway and pointed at the garage. “The only way in is through the garage door.”

He didn't look too shaken up, almost business-as-usual.
Must be shock
, I thought.

The garage door opened slowly, making an arduous buzz as it showcased the feet, legs and torso of a man who must've been six feet tall, about 250 pounds, his arms straight out, his face the kind of white that could erase you. It was one of the eeriest things I'd ever seen. The
VSA
smell turned my hangover from mild to tragic. I ran behind the truck and threw up. Pieces of peach. Coffee. Ninth hanging, and first time throwing up.

“Fucking Hangman!”
I heard
Dave mutter as he walked towards the body
.
“Code 5, baby, Code 5!” He said this as though he were rolling dice in Vegas. “You think you'd be used to it by now, kid.”

Two cops stood by their cruiser and laughed.

When we cleared that call it was only 2:15 p.m., and I couldn't fathom the shift being much longer than it already had been. Amy had texted me,
I hate that I sometimes still miss you
.

Back at the station for lunch, I picked up a voice mail from my sister, who'd called to explain how she'd had a revelation about our dad, made peace with his violent past, and was making an effort to reconnect with him. “
You know
,
I want to talk about it with you when I come to town at the end of summer
,
because I'm also coming to see him
.
People can change
,
Josh
.
You of all people should know that
.” She had read a book recommended by Oprah, had broken up with her abusive boyfriend, had turned a new leaf.

I loved her for trying, but I didn't think making peace with Dad was on the agenda for me, at least for the next ten to fifty years. When you watch your father try to kill your mother on numerous occasions, and spend a good amount of your job-life dealing with domestic calls and parents just like yours — well, no. Having a heart-to-heart with him was not going to cut it. That's all I would be able to say to my sister.

“It's pretty simple,” was how I had once explained it to Amy.

“It sounds really complicated,” she replied. “There are so many emotions involved.”

“No, there aren't. Maybe there were at one point, but I've seen enough now, and I've realized that it
is
actually quite simple. He's not a good man, he's certainly not a very complicated man, and I really enjoy the quality of my life without him in it.”

Amy was silent after that and didn't broach the subject directly again.

I turned off my phone and slept for half an hour on the couch, waking up to our next call. “
Delta fall, male, 55, not alert. Possibly
hbd
.
”

The call was at the Oak Leaf Steam Baths on Bathurst Street. I'd driven by the sign many times and wondered if it was really a bathhouse, was curious about what it looked like inside. It was so out of place in the neighbourhood. It had clearly been there pre-war and survived the gentrification.

“Is it a real bathhouse, you think?”

“Why you asking me?” Dave winked. “I'm not that kind of guy. I'm more monogamous husband material.”

When we walked through the door of the brick building, we were greeted by a huge guy tattooed on just about every inch of skin. He had an oversized ring of keys around his neck.

“There's a guy downstairs, eh, and he fell down. He's been drinking, right, so he's really starting to piss people off. Won't shut up with his wailing. I think he might have broken his wrist.”

The tattooed guy led us along a narrow hallway, and then down two flights of stairs. I felt as if we might be descending into hell, or at least a weird underground zombie world. In my imagination, bathhouses conjured up gay guys having hot anonymous sex, white towels and bleach and cum, and all sorts of reasons for me to keep my gloves on.

Though it smelled overly clean, this place looked more like a shelter, and when we got to the room with the patient, it may as well have been one. There were rows of dark brown beds, looking like tacky '70s psychiatrist couches, about ten to each row. Five middle-aged men were either sleeping or sitting up staring at our patient. I recognized the patient immediately as a regular rubbie, Al-with-the-One-Foot. I kind of liked Al when he wasn't too drunk. He told funny stories.

He recognized us, and so stopped wailing and slurring, and said, “Hey guys, nice to see you again.” He smiled with his awful teeth. “My wrist, it's broken, right? I fell.”

“Did you hit your head, Al?” I asked, as we got out the equipment to check his vitals. “How many drinks have you had today, Al? What's the drink of choice?”

Al told us his story, admitting that he had indeed been “having a little champagne with the King of France” at the time of his fall, and we suggested he come for a ride with us up the street. He agreed. Dave helped him to his feet.

Most of the other guys on the beds got back into passed-out position, except for one. He was staring straight at me. I stared back, and felt a hard punch in the gut. My father? Possibly. I kept staring. He'd aged a lot, if this was him. He wasn't wearing a black T-shirt, or a lumberjack jacket, or the ratty suede pouch around his neck like he did in my childhood memories. He wore mismatched shelter-clothes, a shirt that said
Rogers Cares About Homelessness
!
His hair was white, and he was balding, and half his face was bruised up, so I couldn't see if there was a tattoo. He had the same build as my dad.

“Josh, buddy, you coming?”

I turned to look at Dave, halfway up the stairs, supporting Al as he hopped. “Sorry, man.”

I put the bag around my shoulder and turned back once more to scan the possible-father guy.

“What the
fuck
are you
fucking
looking at,
faggot
?” the guy roared.

Without cops or backup, and with Dave holding onto Al, there wasn't much I could say to this asshole. He horked and spit on the ground, and lay back on his couch. I helped Dave and Al up the stairs.

“That fucking little bitch,” Dave swore. “I wish I coulda kicked him.”

When we got out to the truck, I breathed in the non-chlorinated, non-rubby air. Chances were fifty-fifty, I thought calmly, that the guy really was my father.

And I really
, really
tried not to give a fuck.

[ 23 ]

Billy

Hey! Amy! How are ya?

Or:
Hey . . . Amy, hello, so, how's it going? You look great. I just wanted to chat with you so we would both feel comfortable, you know, in case you are feeling awkward. I want you to know I respect you and . . .
that's where my thoughts broke.

Shouldn't it be obvious that I respected her? Was I stupid for wanting to make it clear? I felt like one of those people who write personal ads and say they want to meet someone who
likes to laugh.
Who doesn't like to laugh?

I was standing by the bar at Ciao Edie, a tiny club on College Street, rehearsing possible ridiculous monologues. Amy and Josh had walked in together a while ago, and I was trying not to stare at them, even though Roxy and I had come with a group of friends to meet up with them. Since it was the first time we'd all hung out as a group, Josh and I decided to play the night by ear, see if things felt comfortable. If not, one of us would find an excuse to bail. The game plan was to have a quick drink, and then possibly go to an art show.

My reverie was interrupted by Roxy, who was returning from the bathroom with Tina in tow.

“We've decided,” she said. “I'm going to have a birthday party at the Red Room this Saturday night. You game?”

“Sure.”

I tried to pay attention to Roxy while she talked quickly. But I seemed to have become one of those morons who wonders why the person they're dating doesn't see them right away, ignoring everyone else in the room.

I had spent the day trying to go places. I went halfway to school, got off the Dufferin bus and walked down into the subway. I stood by the tracks and the closer I got to them, the more I became certain I would jump in front of the train as soon as it pulled into the station. I turned and ran up the escalator, then ran all the way south on Dufferin, past the mall, in tears. When I got home, I pulled off my clothes and climbed under the covers, my heart still pounding. I had cancer. I was going crazy. I was about to be felled by an impending aneurism, that old standby.

Eventually, I slept again. I woke up to Roxy knocking gently, offering me soup, urging me to go out for some drinks.

I always found it easier to go outside when I was with someone else. For some reason, my anxiety wasn't as pronounced when someone else was with me. I felt safer. We got on our bikes, and it felt good to move, the air against my face washing away another day of failed life.

Now I retreated to the men's washroom, which was quieter than the women's, to apply lipstick while I tried to decide whether or not to split. I contemplated calling Maria, hooking up for coffee. I texted her:
I miss you
.
In that moment, it was the only thing I was certain about. Maria was a solid while everyone else appeared to be made of water or fire, hard to hold onto.

Josh opened the door and jumped, literally, at the sight of me. He probably hadn't been expecting to see anyone because he was one of the few guys in the bar besides the
DJ
. I put my phone in my pocket, swivelled down the cap on my lipstick and slid it into my purse, turned, and smiled.
Hey.

“Hey, baby, you surprised me.”

“A good surprise, I hope
.”

Without further discussion, I kicked open a stall door and pulled him in by his shirt collar. I was too preoccupied to feel fear. He bit my neck. I dug my nails into his back.

When we were interrupted, it was with a sense of relief that I disengaged. Something was happening between us that I didn't understand. I straightened my dress. My cheek lingered against his for a few seconds. I loved the smell of him. Once identified and adored, the smell of a face is hard to give up.

We left the bathroom separately, with a purposeful thirty-second delay between us. Roxy, Amy, and Tina had gathered at a table together by the dance floor. Josh went to get some drinks at the bar, and I joined the group.

“Hey, Amy. How's it going?”

Tina smirked a little, and looked towards the dance floor.

“Great, Billy. Things are good. You?”

“Not bad.”

“I guess you're in exams and stuff right now, right?”

“Well, I'm supposed to be. I haven't done so well this term.” And Amy went mute until Josh put drinks down in front of us.

“Thanks,” we said in unison.

Tina checked her phone. “Amy, we'd better get going. It's almost ten.”

The two of them stood up and put on their jackets.

“Sure you guys don't want to come see some video art with us? There's free wine,” Amy asked.

“Sorry, I feel like dancing!” Roxy exclaimed.

“We've still got drinks and stuff . . .” Josh said. Josh and I had talked earlier about hopefully avoiding the video-art screening part of the night. Amy looked more relieved than disappointed.

Walking down College Street, Josh and I stopped to make out against the front window of Soundscapes, a record store. Our kisses were clumsy and some sixth sense made me open my eyes. The abandoned street revealed Maria's unmistakable walk, hurried and purposeful. She was towing a bike. My heart sank.

I pushed Josh's hand away, saying, “There are people coming. We should stop.”

Maria walked straight past me, stone-faced, like someone passing strangers in a mall.

“So, who was that guy you were kissing on the street?”

I was crouched in the bathroom, looking for a new roll of toilet paper under the sink, wondering why Maria was calling me at 4:30 a.m.

“Did you really call to ask me that?”

“Well, it looked pretty serious. I didn't know you were dating anyone. I thought you weren't ready to date. Besides, you'd
just
texted me. Did you text me while you were on a date?”

“His name is Josh. We're not dating — at least, not officially. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Well, of all people I never expected
you
to go straight.”

“
Go straight.
God, Maria, did we go back in time? Who cares if I date a boy?”

“Is he at least a nice guy? Is he a musician? You always used to have crushes on musicians, if I remember correctly.”