Seeing Red (19 page)

“Of course I'm right! When you come visit me in Perth, we'll jam together. Here.” She retrieves a pen from her pocket, removes the cap with her teeth, and then grabs my left wrist and begins scribbling her email address and phone number across my forearm. The pen digs deep into the skin and I try not to wince from the pain as she goes over each letter a second time. By the time she's finished my entire arm is etched in black ink.

“There,” she says.

“How long are you in town for anyway?”

“We're leaving tomorrow morning. Going back to Perth for a couple days and then me and Emily are driving out to California.”

“Really? What for?”

“Just to check it out. I've never been to the West Coast before or seen the Pacific Ocean. We're gonna go surfing and mountain biking. It's gonna be great. You should meet us out there.”

“Hmm. I don't know if I can.”

“It won't cost much.”

“It's not that.”

“Why? Can't get time off work?”

“No, I'm still looking for a job.”

“So how do you pay the bills?”

“I've got a credit card and some savings.”

“Huh. And what're you gonna do when your savings run out?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Party's over, I guess.”

She reflects for a moment and then says, “Well then you should definitely meet us out there.”

“I don't know. I've still got a lot of things to sort out back home. And my car is kinda dead. . . .”

As I'm talking, the bottle of Jack Daniels is passed to me and I examine the label a moment. Instinctively, I want to take advantage of the free alcohol and drink as much as possible, but after last night I'm afraid, worried I might get horribly drunk and embarrass myself again.

“Speaking of which, it's getting late,” I say as I pass the bottle to Anna. “I've gotta get up early and find a mechanic. I should probably get going—”

“You're gonna leave us? Already?”

“I've got your phone number. I'll call you.”

Anna stares straight into my eyes and then holds onto my arm and rests her head against my shoulder. “Come on, Ethan.
Stay
.”

I don't think anyone has ever asked me to stay before. Ever. In my entire life. People usually express some mild regret that I'm leaving, but they never put up a fight. Her emphasis on the word is mesmerizing.
Stay
.

“You said you like Neil Young, right?” she asks, beckoning the musician across the fire to let her borrow his guitar. After strumming a few chords, she begins to play a song I don't recognize, a song about childhood memories, and it feels as if she's speaking directly to me. Her voice is like a whisper—it's subtle and understated and haunting, and the lyrics conjure various images of the past. She sings about going to the fair, falling in love, becoming an angry adolescent, smoking that first cigarette and wanting to be alone—the gradual descent into adulthood. It makes me realize how much I miss my family, my friends, and feeling young and optimistic about the world.

The song stays with me. I hear it over and over again in my mind as Anna and I wander along the beach until the sun begins to rise. She's light-footed and graceful, guiding me along through the sand and over the rocks and hills. We visit other bonfires and greet the locals and search for more firewood in the tall grass to keep the fires burning throughout the night. Stripping down to our underwear, a few of us go swimming in the shallow lake and the water is warm and calm in the darkness. All of my worries and concerns about the car and money and Natalie seem to vanish and all that matters is the moment. Moments like these are what it's all about. The day-to-day experience will always be a grind for me, but every once in a while I have a moment where everything feels okay, where I feel at peace. It might only happen once a week, a month, a year, and it may only last a few seconds, but they do happen, usually when I'm least expecting it. Those moments, however brief, those are the ones worth waiting for.

It's the early morning and Emily, Anna and I are walking across a parking lot underneath an orange sky. Our hair is wet and we're carrying our shoes in our hands and a van full of people is waiting for them at the other end of the lot. Emily waves goodbye and runs off ahead of us so we can have a moment alone.

“Do you need a ride?” Anna asks.

“No, it's okay. I can walk.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She hugs me tightly and holds onto me for a long time. “Take care,” she whispers. “And come see us in California.”

“I will.”

“Hopefully your eye heals up by then,” she says with a smile. Then she kisses me on the cheek and turns around and jogs toward the van. The door closes and the engine hums and they drive away down the street and out of sight. I stand there dripping wet, holding my shoes, and then I look up at the morning sky and breathe it all in.

Soon I find myself back inside my motel room, writing all of her information down in a notebook. I run a bath and soak in the tub and relive the entire night in my mind, staring down at the ink on my forearm and wondering if I'll ever see her again.

THIRTY-FIVE

Today, I don't know what to do. I'm lying beneath the blankets, staring at the white ceiling with a few hours to go before I have to check-out of the motel. There's no hangover, no headache, no stomach pain, but my car is still stalled on the side of a road two kilometres away. I walk to the lobby and try calling Doc again, but he still doesn't answer, so I look through the phonebook and try to find a tow truck driver who can drag my car to a mechanic. Before making the call, though, I figure I should try to start it one more time. I put on a change of clothes, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and retrace my steps from the previous night along Kincardine Avenue. Soon I'm alone in the countryside again, and the Widowmaker is parked right where I left it.

I unlock the door, toss my backpack inside and put the key in the ignition. I look upward and send a silent prayer to no one in particular, then turn the key and step on the gas. The motor sputters and whines. It screeches loudly. And then, to my surprise, it suddenly relaxes and settles into a sustained hum. I thank whoever answered my prayer, then shift it into gear and slowly press down on the pedal. The car moves sluggishly off the shoulder onto the road. The engine is shaking violently, but as soon I push it past sixty everything runs smoothly again. “Woo-hoo!” I shout, patting the dashboard to congratulate her for a job well done. I soon realize, however, that when I hit the brakes the engine begins to stall. I reapply the gas and push it past sixty and it runs normally again.

The mechanic marked on my map is only a few kilometers away. I drive down the country road, careful to keep my speed above sixty until I spot the garage. There are two broken cars on display on the front lawn and the place looks vacant. I pull into the parking lot and the car jerks to a complete stop. I walk into the garage and meet Gerry, an amicable old guy wearing a dusty grey jumper. He's relaxing on a chair and reading a newspaper when he notices me. “Good morning! What can I do for you?”

“Gerry, right? How's it going?”

“Good! How're you doin'?

“Not so good. My car's fucked up.”

“It is, huh? What's wrong with it?”

“Well, the engine keeps smoking for starters. It runs fine if I'm going over sixty, but any slower than that and it chugs and stalls.”

“So you've gotta keep it above sixty, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Kinda like that movie
Speed
?”

“. . . I suppose.”

“And you're like Sandra Bullock? Drivin' that bus?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I've always wondered what that'd be like, y'know? Drivin' a big bus? Anyhow, I don't know much about Cavaliers, to be honest with you. I'm more of a Ford guy. But bring her in here and I'll see what I can do.”

The car shakes and fumes as I slowly drive it into the garage. Gerry tells me, “It might be a while, but we've got some newspapers and magazines over there. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No thanks, I'm good. But is there a phone around here I can use?”

“Yup, there's a phone booth outside. You need change?”

“No, I should be alright.”

The booth at the side of the garage has seen better days: the door is broken, the paint is peeling off, and the yellow phone book attached by a chain has been soaked in rain and snow, rendering the pages virtually illegible. I pick up the receiver and listen to the automated voice system, surprised to learn that phone calls now cost more than a quarter, especially long distance calls. I grudgingly swipe my credit card through the yellow slot and dial a number—one I wrote in my notebook before I left the cottage. The phone rings four times before a recording answers:
Hey! Natalie here. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you real soon. Thanks!

I haven't thought about what I'm going to say. Any of it. And so it all pours out, unfiltered, from the moment I hear the beep:

“Hey, Natalie. This is Ethan. I'm sorry for calling you so early, but I kinda figured I'd get your voicemail anyway, so . . . I'm actually stranded in Kincardine right now, believe it or not. Jeff and I drove out here yesterday and then my car broke down, so now I'm stuck—oh, and I'm calling you from a pay phone, so if it cuts out, that's why. Anyway, I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about what happened the other night. I don't know why I get like that. I think I'm just . . . angry at myself for things that happened a long time ago and, for whatever reason, sometimes it just comes out. But it had nothing to do with you. I, uh . . .” I exhale and shake my head, trying to find the words. “I don't know . . . I guess I kinda push people away, y'know, when it feels like they're getting too close. It's easier that way. It's . . . it's easier to be alone, to stay detached, to keep everybody at arm's length and leave them before they leave you. But I don't wanna do that anymore. . . .

“Anyway, I really liked spending time with you. I mean, I don't know what I want, but the truth is, I don't even worry about that stuff when I'm with you. So, if you'll let me, I'd love to make it up to you sometime. My friend was telling me about this coffee shop on Bloor where they have, like, a thousand different board games, so we could check that out. Or I could come see your band play again sometime. Anyway, that's it. Call me when you get the chance, okay? Take care, Natalie.”

I hang up the phone and stare vacantly at the receiver. Not the most eloquent message I've ever left, but, for once in my life, I was being sincere.

THIRTY-SIX

“How long have you owned this car?” Gerry asks. We're standing in the garage and his arms are crossed and he appears to be agitated.

“Actually, I bought it yesterday.”

“From who?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Well, let me tell you something. This friend of yours? He treated this car like a piece of shit!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! The oil was way down. We're talkin' bone dry here. The brake fluid. The transmission fluid. Christ, even the
wiper
fluid was empty. And look at these spark plugs!” He shows me a handful of small metal cylinders covered in black gunk.

“Looks bad.”

“Oh it's bad. Not to mention she's leaking oil all over the damn place.”

“Can you patch her up?”

“I can try. But my God, do me a favour and tell that friend of yours to never, ever own a vehicle again, would ya?”

“I will.”

Within two hours Gerry has the Widowmaker working properly again. I hand him a credit card and we wait for the machine to print out a bill.

“So where you off to now?” he asks.

“Well, I've gotta drive my friend back to Toronto, but after that?” I pause a moment. “Say, if you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

“Someplace warm probably! It's great here in the summer, but wait 'til winter rolls around, I tell ya. I'd rather be at an all-inclusive resort somewhere, kicking my feet up and drinking margaritas all day long.”

“I hear ya.” He passes me a receipt and I sign it. “Thanks, Gerry. Have a good summer.”

“You too! Safe travels. Hope she runs well for ya.”

I get in the car and drive down the road, leaving Gerry and his garage behind. The engine is running smoothly with no hiccups and no shaking. I fill up at a gas station and then stop at the first intersection I come across—there's no traffic and the radio is off and the air is silent. All I hear is the hum of the engine and I notice my knees aren't aching anymore. The day is young. Another beautiful day and it's not even noon yet.

I idle at the intersection while I think back to all the people I met over the weekend: Charlie, Swan, Sofia, Anna. Each of them tried to tell me something. People have given me advice before, but they're all just words, and they all fade, eventually. I continue to live my life through trial and error, sometimes not recognizing the error until it's too late. Ultimately, the question I struggle with most is: What am I supposed to do with my time here? In other words: What's important to me? A career? Earning money? Family and friends? Love? Do I stay in one place and try to build something, or do I travel the world and live out of a suitcase? Do I live solely in the present, or focus on creating a future? Time is the most valuable thing we have, and I'm so afraid of squandering it. So now I ask myself: What should I do?

My phone is dead. The gas tank is full. And come tomorrow there's nowhere I have to go, nowhere I need to be. It's a freedom most people will never know. I may be running out of time and money, but, right now, the past doesn't matter. Neither does the future. It's only the moment. A clean slate.

The town of Kincardine is in my rearview mirror. I think about the beaches and the bonfires and the lighthouse at the edge of the river and the pristine waters. It's a shame I have to leave this place, but I'm overwhelmed by the curiosity, the sense of wonderment and intrigue of what else is out there for me to find. One day, when this is all over, I'll return to Toronto and build a real life: get a decent job, start a career, form long-lasting relationships. I might even hang some paintings on the walls. But for now, all I have is a map and an open road. An entire continent to explore. And I'm ready.