Seeing Red (10 page)

EIGHTEEN

An hour later we're back inside Sneaky Dee's and Natalie says she wants to do a shot of tequila with me. I explain that tequila is my Achilles' heel and that even a whiff of the agave plant will twist my stomach into knots, and then I tell her about the last time I drank a bottle of Jose Cuervo and how I blacked out and woke up hours later on someone else's bed in an apartment on another floor. She laughs, thinking I'm joking, but I'm not. That actually happened. I accidentally walked into the wrong room and slept there for several hours. She orders us two shots anyway, saying she'll drink mine if I can't handle it.

“Alright, but you better clear me a path to the bathroom,” I tell her.

“Why?”

“Because this stuff will make me puke until I die.”

She grins. “Well, you've had a good run.”

I'm standing at the bar with my arm around Natalie's waist while the bartender pours us two shots. We have the lemon wedges and the salt shaker ready to go when all of a sudden an older man in a black blazer sidles up next to her and starts explaining in great detail how to do the shot: how to prepare the salt between her thumb and forefinger, when to lick it, when to drink it, and when to bite down on the lemon. The nerve of this prick! I have my arm around her and he starts hitting on her right in front of me? He looks to be over forty years old. How does he know I'm not her boyfriend? Maybe he doesn't see me as a threat, or he doesn't think a pretty girl like her could possibly be with a guy like me, but either way, it's insulting.

I can't hear what he's saying because he's whispering into her ear, but Natalie listens and nods and laughs periodically. It's hard to tell if she's merely humouring him or if she's genuinely interested; admittedly, he's better-dressed, better-looking and probably more financially secure than I am. They keep talking and ignoring me for what seems like two or three minutes while I stand there awkwardly like a third wheel. I gradually feel my blood pressure begin to rise and I lose patience. Maybe it's the alcohol. Or the cocaine. Or both. I don't think it's in Natalie's nature to tell somebody to fuck off, but it sure as hell is in mine.

“Hey! Why don't you fuck off?” I yell at him.

That got his attention. He breaks his trance with Natalie and looks over at me. “What?”

“You heard me. Fuck off. Right now.”

“Ethan? What're you doing? It's okay,” Natalie says, calmly putting her hand on my arm.

“No, it's not okay!” I shout. “I'm standing right here and he starts hitting on you? He's like, forty years old! You're forty years old, asshole! What, can't get someone your own age? Gotta hit on college girls
,
you fucking loser?”

The man glares at me with seething eyes as he slowly steps around Natalie and moves toward me until our faces are mere inches apart. Luckily, I'm slightly taller than he is. I stare back at him and grit my teeth and then clench my right hand into a fist, waiting for him to either throw a punch or walk away. I refuse to walk away. Not with everybody watching. I'd rather get the shit kicked out of me than look like a coward. The tension reaches a boiling point. In the corner of my eye, I see two members of the security staff monitoring the situation; if I try to hit him, they'll immediately wrestle me to the ground and drag me out of the club, but not before I catch him with a good shot or two.

I hold my breath. He stands perfectly still with his lip curled. Then he glances to his left and notices the bouncers watching us closely; with a smirk on his face, he slowly raises his open palms in a placating gesture before calmly stepping away to the side. Then, as he's walking past me, he rams his shoulder into my upper arm. The hit is jarring, but I stand my ground and stare straight ahead. “You better watch your fucking mouth,” he mutters. “Something's gonna happen to you.” I keep looking forward until he disappears through the exit and the security staff gradually disperse.

“What the hell was that?” Natalie snaps.

“That guy was an asshole! How'd he know I wasn't your boyfriend?”

“He was just talking, Ethan. I could've handled it. You didn't have to pick a fight.”

“If I didn't say anything, he never would've left!”

At that moment somebody taps me on the shoulder; I expect to turn around and see another bouncer, but instead it's a skinny guy with long hair and a shaggy beard.

“I saw all of that,” the stranger tells me. “And I just wanted to say I would've done the exact same thing.”

“Hey, thanks, man.”

“He can't come on to her like that. Not right in front of you. That's not cool.”

“I know! See? This guy gets it.”

I return my attention to Natalie only to find yet another man flirting with her. This one is younger and clean-cut and he has a smug, condescending grin on his face. “What's this guy's problem?” he asks her as he drapes his arm across her shoulders. “Little overprotective, huh?”

I have no patience left and I'm still chock-full of adrenaline from the last encounter, so I immediately cock my fist and say, “Get the fuck outta here before I beat the shit outta you!”

“Whoa. Relax, buddy. I'm leaving.” He smiles at me through his teeth and then struts back to his circle of friends where they giggle and sneer at me.

In the midst of all the animosity, I realize I forgot to drink my tequila. “Cheers,” I say to no one in particular while holding up the glass by the rim. Then I toss back the shot without using the salt or the lemon and the tequila burns my mouth and sinuses and makes my innards feel nauseous from the scent. I tighten my eyes and scrunch my face, worrying I might vomit, but the feeling quickly subsides.

Natalie stands there glaring at me with her arms crossed. “Hey, you know that guy you just threatened? His name's Dylan. I work with him.”

Now I feel like I'm going to be sick again.

“Aw, shit, Natalie. I didn't know. . . .”

“I'm going out for a smoke,” she mutters. Then she departs through the crowd and walks down the stairs without me. As I'm watching her go, one of the bouncers approaches me from the side and lightly taps me on the upper arm. “Alright, man, I think it's time to go,” he says as he begins to usher me toward the exit.

“Get your fuckin' hands off me,” I groan. “I'm leaving.”

The bouncer escorts me down the stairs and pushes me through the doorway at the bottom where I find Natalie standing outside the entrance with her arms still crossed and a cigarette hanging between her two fingers.

“Hey, I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I don't know what got into me. I blame the tequila, really. We never should've ordered that.”

“You were being a
bit
of an asshole. . . .”

“I know.”

We stand there in silence for a moment before Natalie sighs and puts out her cigarette and then says, “Look, Ethan, I think I'm gonna go home.”

“Natalie, come on—”

“You should probably call it a night too. I've had a long day and I think we both drank way too much.”

“Okay, fine, but let's at least split a cab? My sense of direction is kinda messed up right now. . . . I don't know how to get home from here.”

She seems distracted, like she's not really listening to me. Then she closely examines my face and points at me and says, solemnly, “You have some white stuff on your nose.”

I hurriedly wipe at my nostrils and examine my fingertips to find small remnants of cocaine.
Was it there the whole time? When I look up again, she's already walking in the opposite direction. I follow behind her until we're both standing alone on the street corner.

“On Thursday night, when you called, do you remember what we talked about?” she asks. “You told me about this girl Rachael. Remember that?”

“No. I don't remember anything.”

“You said you two were close. For, like, ten years.” She takes a long, deep breath before continuing. “And then you told me that she died . . . and you still weren't over it.”

My face goes pale and I remain silent.

“So I worry about you when you get like this.”

“Look . . . I'm sorry about tonight. I don't know where that came from. I, uh . . .”

My voice trails off.

“You don't have to explain anything to me, Ethan.”

“Let me make it up to you, okay? Don't leave. We can go somewhere and talk.”

She shakes her head. “I'm sorry. I gotta go.”

I stand frozen on the corner while she turns away from me and crosses the street. No hugs, no handshakes or goodbyes. A streetcar is waiting for her on the other side, and by the time I decide to chase after her I lose her in the swarm of oncoming passengers. As the car departs, I slump down on the curb and lower my head between my knees and close my eyes.

NINETEEN

I'm angry. So angry I want to scream. Angry at the forty-year-old man, that smug co-worker friend Dylan, and at the world in general. Incensed, I send Natalie a barrage of drunken text messages berating her for leaving me lost in the middle of downtown Toronto. She doesn't reply. That's the part that gets me the most: she doesn't care. Doesn't care if I'm upset or if I don't make it home or if we never speak again. All it would take is a one-word response—just one word!—to let me know she actually gives a shit and then I'd apologize immediately. But, deep down, I know I'm not actually angry at her. She did nothing wrong. I'm furious with myself for getting blackout drunk on a Thursday night and calling her at two o'clock in the morning and telling her about Rachael.

The appropriate thing to do would be to go home. Sleep it off. Sober up and try to make amends in the morning. I know this. But I also know I'll never be able to fall asleep: my heart will pound and my mind will race and the pain in my chest will become excruciating. I'll spend the night recounting every word, every moment, trying to determine where it went wrong and what it means and how to explain myself to her in the future.

No. I can't go home yet. Not like this.

I retrieve my phone and dial Andre's number. Andre sells drugs. Real drugs—not just marijuana and mushrooms. I first met him a few months ago outside a bar on Bloor Street; I was asking around for some cocaine and somebody pointed me in his direction. He was surprisingly upfront about what he sold—I guess he could tell I wasn't a cop. That, or he was brazenly reckless, but reckless dealers usually don't stay in business for very long. He gave me his number and told me to call if I ever needed anything else. I've called him a few times since. We have a standard rendezvous point in an alleyway where we make the exchange and then quickly part ways—I don't know anything else about him aside from his name and number.

“Andre. It's Reid.”

“Hey, what's up, man? Lookin' for something?”

“Yeah. I've had a pretty rough night.”

“Shit, sorry to hear that! I can't really leave my place right now though 'cause I've got some people over. . . . Why don't you stop by here?”

“Really? You sure?”

“Yeah, man, it's cool.”

Andre gives me the address to his apartment and, unsurprisingly, it's only about a block away from where we usually meet. He buzzes me in and I have to take the stairs because the building is old and there's no elevator. When I knock on his door, I can hear loud rock music playing on the other side followed by the sound of footsteps.

The door opens. “Come on in!” Andre says.

His apartment is very spacious, probably a three-bedroom, but it feels bare and empty due to the plain, cream-coloured walls. There's little in the way of furniture aside from a couch, a coffee table and a big flat screen television in the living room. Four of Andre's friends are busy crushing hash in a coffee grinder in the kitchen and they completely ignore me. I collapse onto the couch as Andre grabs a rolling desk chair from the corner of the room and pulls it forward to sit down.

“Hey man, good to see ya,” he says. “You hungry at all? Want a candy bar? We're eating Coffee Crisp!”

“Sure, I'll take one.”

He passes me a bowl of bite-sized chocolate bars that look as if they've been sitting there since last Halloween. I take two and unwrap them while he's talking. “Had a shitty night, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Ah, sorry to hear that. I've got something cool for you though.” He rises from his chair and disappears into the hallway for a moment and then returns with a thin orange bottle. “My roommate just had his wisdom teeth pulled out and they gave him a bunch of codeine. There's still half a bottle left. You can have it. They load it up with caffeine and some other shit, but you can extract all that with some warm water and a coffee filter. Then you leave it in the fridge for a while and—”

“I know. I've done it before. Thanks, man.”

The directions on the label read
TAKE 1–2 TABLETS EVERY 3–5 HOURS WHEN NECESSARY FOR PAIN
. There's also a red sticker warning about the dangers of combining it with alcohol or operating heavy machinery. I open the bottle and pop a pill into my mouth, swallow, and then pocket the rest.

“So, what else are you looking for?”

“Coke. I had some tonight and now I want more.”

“Alright, man! It'll run you at least forty bucks, though, depending on how much you want.”

“I don't need much.”

“Cool.” Andre leaves the room and returns a minute later with a square piece of paper folded inward at the corners. I hand him the money and he counts it as I get up to leave. On my way out, he says, “By the way, be careful with that codeine shit! I read somewhere that, over the long term, it'll totally fuck up your dick.”

I scoff. “I don't think I'll be needing
that
tonight.”

“Bullshit! I've seen you! You're a ladies man! Why don't you go say hi to Vanessa? She'll cheer you up, ya mope!”

I halfheartedly smile and then give him a quick nod before exiting through the doorway and down the stairs and back out into the darkness.