Seeing Red (5 page)

NINE

In the cab, I'm crammed between Doc and Craig in the middle of the backseat. Our cab driver is a balding, middle-aged man in an old brown jacket. He has no neck, only shoulders, and he speaks with a Middle Eastern accent. When I'm drunk I have no qualms about initiating conversation with anyone, so after we state our destination I immediately ask the driver, “How's your night going?”

“Ah, I'm not too happy about it.”

“Why's that?”

“It's slow, man! Business is very slow, much slower than it used to be, you know? It's the recession. I think the reason is, people have less money, so they go out less. It affects the business. I mean, I thank God I still have a job and I haven't been laid off yet, so I can still put food on the table and feed my family, but it should be better. . . . It should be better than this.”

His words seem to hang in the air. I reflect on what he's said, what he's going through, and I empathize. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to be a parent, to have to provide for others, to know you're solely responsible for their well-being and their security and whether or not they eat dinner that night. And the fear that must come when you realize you might be unable to take care of them due to reasons beyond your control—because of governments or economic fluctuations or the price of gas. A long, lingering silence envelops us. And then Scott asks, “Do you have any weed?”

The driver laughs. “No! I can't spend money on that kind of thing. I have to buy shoes for my kids. They'll be back in school pretty soon . . . and there's always something they need. Can't be spending money on things like that.”

“Hmm. We have different priorities, I guess.”

The taxi stops at Bay and Bloor where tall office buildings and high-end stores surround us in all directions. I tip the driver well and thank him for the ride and then follow the guys into an empty shopping mall. At the far end we enter a black elevator and push a button for the fifty-first floor. Nobody says a word, except for Scott, who mumbles to himself, “I hope I get laid tonight.” It's past midnight and we're all intoxicated, but I still feel anxious; Natalie is on the other side of these doors and I'm always apprehensive when I'm about to see her.

The elevator opens and we're immediately greeted by a formally dressed maître d' who ushers us to a table. The restaurant gets its name from the one-hundred-and-eighty degree view of downtown Toronto; you can see the entire skyline via the large glass windows and adjoining balcony that surrounds the room. Surprisingly, the place isn't busy—I suppose the type of people who frequent fancy cocktail bars don't often stay out past midnight. Then, through the window, I catch a glimpse of Natalie standing alone outside smoking a cigarette with her back to me. Behind her, the city shines brightly in a cascade of red, blue and purple. Without saying a word, I leave the others and open the glass door to the balcony, and she glances over her shoulder and spots me just as I arrive.

“Ethan!” she says, smiling and wrapping her arms around me. She's wearing the usual perfume and it smells like shea. I read somewhere that being at a higher elevation increases our feelings of attraction; it might have something to do with the thinner air or the adrenaline rush induced by our fear of heights, but either way, I believe it. “I heard you might show up.”

“Yeah, we just got here. How's it going?”

“Awesome! I'm glad you came. Wanna smoke?” She pulls a cigarette from her pack and I light it by pressing it against the one in her mouth.

“So, how's your summer been? I haven't seen you in a while.”

“Oh it's been crazy,” she says. “I've been super busy with the band and everything. Tonight we played a show down at this club on Spadina.”

“How'd it go?”

“It was good! Decent crowd. And we didn't screw up too much. I think we're getting better.”

“Cool. I've gotta see you guys play again sometime.” I haven't seen them do a live show since the first time we met. They were kind of sloppy, to be honest, but I hardly noticed; Natalie made up for any mistakes with her bouncy self-confidence and stage presence, so the imperfections of the band didn't matter. Besides, the songs were catchy—I still have one stuck in my head.

“You should! We sound way better now. We've been practicing, like, two or three times a week. What about you? What've you been up to?”

Drinking. Smoking. Popping pills. “Not much, really,” I say. “Just trying to find a new job since I quit the call centre. And I'm still waiting to hear back from the law schools I applied to.”

Months ago, when I was having an internal crisis about my life and future, I decided to write the Law School Admission Test on a snowy day in February. The exam was five hours long and it tested logical reasoning and reading comprehension skills. I scored fairly high—not well enough to be accepted into any school of my choosing, but, with a good application letter, I certainly had a chance. And while I wasn't dead set on becoming a lawyer, I figured applying to law school would, at the very least, impress people. Better than telling them I was unemployed, anyway.

“Really? Where'd you apply?”

“Just the ones around Ontario, like Windsor, Queens, Osgoode Hall. . . . But yeah, I haven't heard anything back yet.”

“That's cool. I never had you pegged as a lawyer though,” she says coyly.

“Yeah, me neither. Gotta grow up sometime, right?” I pause before adding, “Anyway, can I get you a drink or something?”

“I'm good, thanks. Somebody left their water here.” She holds up a glass of ice water and dangles it in front of her face. “I might drink this. Think it'll be okay? It doesn't look like they touched it,” she adds, inspecting the rim.

“There could be germs.”

“Yeah. Probably syphilis.”

“Let me try it.” She hands me the glass and I take a sip. “Hmm. Tastes like syphilis.”

“I knew it!”

“You have to try it too. I don't wanna be the only one here with syphilis.”

She laughs and takes a drink. “Ew! It burns!”

Natalie and I spend the next few minutes catching up, talking about the people we know, the places she's visited over the summer, and whatever else was new. When she speaks, I can't focus on anything else and time passes quickly. She can turn any mundane, trivial activity into an interesting story with her natural enthusiasm and that ever-changing expression on her face. Everything seems better when she's around, so when she tells me she has to leave because she's driving her brother to the airport in the morning, it completely takes the wind out of my sails.

“We should get together soon though!” she says.

“Yes! We should. I have so many great, great anecdotes to share with you,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.

She smiles. “I'm sure you do.”

“What about tomorrow night? I don't have any plans yet.”

“Maybe. I've gotta work in the afternoon, but maybe after that? How about you give me a call and we'll set something up, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

She hugs me again and I wish her goodnight and then she disappears. Still in a daze, I stare out at the city and it looks peaceful and silent, like it did this morning. Even though I was happy to see her, I can't help but feel despondent now that she's gone. I replay the entire exchange in my mind, trying to interpret the signals, wondering if she actually has any interest in me: she stood close, she played with her hair, her body language was open, but she was also quick to leave and noncommittal for tomorrow night. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

Resting my arms against the railing, breathing in and out, I glance down at my feet and then back at the city again. Then I notice Doc and Amber sitting across from each other at the other end of the balcony and I unintentionally eavesdrop on their conversation. Her voice is low and agitated:

“He saw your text messages, Jeffrey. Now he's worried there's something going on between us and he's all angry because he thinks I lied to him.”

“Well, you
did
kinda lie to him.”

“No I didn't!”

“Why don't you just tell him what's up?”

“I can't. Not now. We have a good thing going.”

“No,
we
have a good thing going. He sucks.”

“I'm sorry, Jeff. Why'd you have to send me those texts?”

“I didn't think he'd go through your phone! What's wrong with this guy? He's paranoid. I bet he's got a bunch of STDs too.”

“
What?
Anyway, I'm sorry, but we can't keep doing this. And you can't keep texting me at, like, two in the morning. My phone vibrates and Justin's there and it's really awkward. I don't like it.”

“Look,” he whispers, “why don't we just go back to your place and spoon? Then we can talk about this in the morning.”

Pause.

“As great as that sounds, I'm gonna pass.”

Amber begins to rise from her chair and Doc interrupts her by placing his hand on her wrist. “Wait, don't go yet. There's something else you should know. . . .”

“What?”

He inhales deeply and pauses, considering for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Amber peers back at him with a dumbfounded expression and then gives him a brief hug before leaving through the balcony door. Doc sits and stares at the table for a few seconds, probably wondering where he went wrong, until he sees me watching in the background.

“Reid! Man, you hear any of that? Psh. Didn't go well!”

“Sure didn't.”

“I was gonna tell her about the whole chlamydia thing, but then I thought, y'know, fuck it.”

“I'm sure she'll find out eventually.”

“Exactly!” Then he clasps his hands together and rubs them back and forth before asking, “So! Where's Natalie?”

“She had to go, but we're supposed do something tomorrow night. Hopefully.”

“Cool. Well, fuck this shit. Let's go back inside.”

The two of us leave the balcony and rejoin Craig and Scott, who have continued to drink heavily in our absence. There are several empty pint glasses on the table and Scott is noticeably less coordinated than before. With Natalie out of the picture I see no reason to stay at this bar any longer. “Well, I think I'm gonna call it a night. I wanna catch the subway before it stops.”

“What?” Doc objects. “Why on God's green fuck
would you do that? The night's still young!”

“It's very
young,” Craig mutters. “It's like . . . prepubescent.”

“Yeah, but I'm still hungover, and I don't wanna take the late bus.”

“Get Scott to drive you!” says Doc. “He left his car at my place.”

“He can't drive. Look at him! Look at his stupid face!” I point at Scott from across the table and he feebly smiles back at me with vacant eyes.

“He's fine!”

“I'm alright,” Scott mumbles. “I can drive . . . if you want.”

“Really?” I say skeptically. Then I pull my keys from my pocket and shout, “Scott! Think fast!” before throwing them at his face. He doesn't catch them or even raise his hands to defend himself. He doesn't react. The metal keys hit him squarely between the eyes and make a loud
ping
sound as they knock his head back. Doc and Craig start laughing.

“Ow,” he yelps.

“See?” I say, picking up my keys. “I'm taking the subway.”

“What's going on tomorrow night?” Craig asks.

“I don't know yet. We'll figure it out.”

“Alright, cool man. Take it easy.”

I wave goodbye to the group and take the elevator down to the ground floor and then exit through the empty mall. Once outside, I cross a quiet intersection, and when I arrive at the subway station the last train of the night is waiting to take me north. There are no other people on the platform and the train feels empty. Everything is silent. As the train passes through a dark tunnel, I stare at my reflection in the window and the edge of the glass distorts my face so that my cheekbone seems to sag, my jawline looks ghoulish and unnaturally thin, and my eye appears to be nothing more than a hollow, blackened pit.

TEN

As I get off the train at Eglinton Station the sharp pain in my chest suddenly returns and I lose my breath. It often hits me at night: a crippling tightness in my heart that makes it difficult to inhale. I know I'll need another drink if I'm to fall asleep—a night cap, a libation, whatever you want to call it, I need it. I exit the station and hunch forward while clutching the left side of my chest for a block or two until I pass by another cocktail bar called Coquine. Inside, people are still standing and drinking beneath the neon blue lighting—an older crowd, mostly, well-dressed in suits and ties and expensive outfits. I cut through the flock and eventually find an empty stool at the end of the silver bar. The bartender pours me a double scotch on the rocks and I sip it and the pain gradually subsides. I quietly keep to myself, watching sport highlights on the television in the corner and staring at the various bottles of colourful liqueurs that adorn the shelf.

Later, as I'm trying to find the washroom, I come across a small table where a woman is holding a camera and taking a picture of what I can only assume are her two friends: one male and one female. She appears to be in her early thirties and she has curly brown hair and a low-cut black dress revealing ample cleavage. Sensing an opportunity to help her out—and to strike up a conversation—I fearlessly approach.

“Hey, I can take a picture of the three of you if you want.”

“Oh, no, that's okay,” she says.

“Really, it's no problem.”

She leans into my ear and whispers, “I don't want to be in any pictures tonight.”

“Why not? You look great.”

“Because I'm cheating on my husband right now.”

I try to remain composed, act unsurprised, but I'm sure she can tell by my inadvertently raised eyebrows that I'm somewhat taken aback. “Well, we've all been in
that
situation before.”

“Not me. This is my first time.”

“My name's Ethan.”

“Melanie.” She shakes my hand and her grip is soft. I don't know what else to say, so I simply offer her encouragement.

“Well I hope this whole affair thing works out for you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I just want you to be happy, Melanie,” I say, touching her shoulder and tilting my head to the side in a gesture of sincerity. “I'll be at the bar if you need a drink.”

About half an hour later I'm surprised to find Melanie pulling up a stool beside me. She orders a vodka martini and then shifts her body to face me. Fortunately, I'm significantly more intoxicated than I was before and brimming with self-confidence; I've even introduced myself to the bartender, Marty, who was kind enough to offer me a sample of Grey Goose on the house. “Customer appreciation,” he called it.

“You can put her martini on my tab,” I tell Marty. Then I look at her and ask, “What happened to your suitor?”

“He had to leave early.”

“I see. I'm probably more interesting than him anyway.”

I take a sip and she smiles. “What do you do, Ethan?”

I need to come up with something. Fast. Can't let her know I'm an out-of-work ne'er-do-well who doesn't contribute to society in any meaningful way. I'm currently enrolled in the journalism program at Ryerson, so I decide to run with it. “I'm a journalist.”

“Really? What kind? Like, print?”

“Yeah. Freelance, mostly.”

“Where have you been published?”

“Oh, y'know, the Star, the Globe and Mail, that paper they hand out for free on the subway. . . .” Desperately wanting to change the subject, I ask, “What about you?”

“I'm a teacher. Third grade. Up in North York. We're on our summer break right now.”

“Cool. Do you like it?”

“It's great. I love it.”

“What about the kids? They give you any trouble? If so, I can sort 'em out,” I say, grinding my fist into my palm.

“Nah, we get along fine. Well, there's always one in every group. I'll show you.” She opens her purse and pulls out a class picture—the kind we used to have before digital cameras were invented. It feels nice to hold an actual photo again.

“See this guy right here?” She points to a kid in the front row wearing a green sweater with red hair, freckles and a goofy smile on his face. “That's Kevin. He's a little cocksucker, that one.”

“A cocksucker, huh?”

“Yeah. Huge prick. Huge! His parents are pricks too. He made my life a living hell the first month. He has A.D.D. and is probably obsessive-compulsive.”

“So how'd you straighten him out?”

“Well, eventually we had a meeting and the doctor decided to put him on Ritalin. That definitely slowed him down. Sometimes I just bribed him with candy,” she says with a grin. “If he could be quiet for the whole day, I'd give him something sweet at the end. We got along great after that.”

“One in every group,” I repeat.

After a brief pause, she asks, “Do you smoke?” as she retrieves a pack of menthol cigarettes from her purse.

“Like a goddamn chimney! I go through two lighters a day.”

She smiles, not realizing I stole that joke from Bill Hicks.

“Let's go outside.”

After finishing her pack of menthols and ordering a few more drinks before last call, I ask Melanie if she wants to come back to my place, split a bottle of wine and see what happens. Soon we're standing in front of my apartment room door on the stained blue carpeting, and we're slurring and giggling and her body is leaning into mine with her arm wrapped tightly around my waist. My room is still a mess—an accomplished, upstanding journalist of my supposed reputation would never live in a dump like this—but I've come too far to back out now.

“Do you have any roommates?” she asks as I fiddle with the keys.

“Yeah. He's really messy. Just . . . disorganized. I think I'm gonna tell him to move out.” As soon as we're through the door, she immediately pushes me up against the wall and starts kissing me, occasionally biting down on my lower lip. Her mouth tastes like an ashtray, but it still feels good. Then she stops for a moment to survey the room.

“Wow, he
is
messy.”

We start kissing again, and with my eyes closed I lead her toward the bedroom while trying to avoid all of the clothes and garbage on the floor. “Yeah, messy guy. That's why I call him Tornado. He destroys everything in his path.”

As I'm guiding her through the apartment, her foot catches on a pair of boxer briefs and she trips and falls to the hardwood floor. I expect her to wince in pain, but she just snorts and laughs it off. I help her upright and we continue the foreplay without missing a beat. Then I accidentally smash my knee on the metal leg of a table. “Fuck! My knee!”

Damaged and bruised, we finally make it onto the bed. I worry I might be too drunk to engage in any carnal activity, which is often the case, but thankfully I'm not entirely numb yet. As her clothes come off, I feel that air of accomplishment and validation every man feels anytime he adds another notch to his belt. But when I start to fuck her—a married woman—the feeling is diminished, followed swiftly by an overwhelming sense of guilt, sadness and self-loathing.