I'll Be Here All Week (8 page)

“What do you do for a living?” he asks when the excitement dies down.

“Retail sales,” she says. “I work at the Gap.”

“Yeah?” Spence says and shows her the label on his jeans. “Check that out.”

“Gap jeans,” she reads.

“You got it!”

“Must be fate,” she says.

“Must be.”

“Either that or millions of people buy Gap jeans every year.”

“I prefer to think of it as tens of thousands,” he says, “which still makes it better odds that our meeting was fate.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she says.

“Hey, I coulda been wearing Guess jeans.”

“Blasphemy!” she yells.

“See?” he says. “Maybe you should just be thankful I'm brand loyal, huh?”

“Or that we make jeans that are cheaper than Guess.”

“Checkmate.”

She laughs again and, for the first time, he notices how big her eyes really are behind her plastic-framed glasses. She looks in one direction, closes her eyes and, when she reopens them, is looking right at him. It's either brilliantly cunning or completely unintentional, but it might as well be a fishing lure.

A familiar feeling hits him all of a sudden, and he chuckles to himself. It's awkward at first because he knows this feeling but doesn't normally have it when he's sitting at a bar having drinks. It's normally the feeling he gets when he's standing onstage. Now he's getting it while sitting on this stool, talking with Sam. He's comfortable.

 

The time gets away from him. Beer and women have that effect. Out of nowhere it's two a.m. and the bar is closed. Before he knows what happens next, he's on the street next to the pub and saying good night to Sam in the freezing cold. He tries, but he can't remember the last time he did this and just said good night on the street and walked home. Or the last time he didn't try to push some girl out of his hotel room after lying his way into bed with her.

He thinks Sam is beautiful. He likes listening to her talk (he normally likes the sound of his own voice too much to listen to anyone else), but he can't imagine asking her back to his room. Ending it here seems oddly more appropriate. He likes himself more when he doesn't feel as if he's just being a horny toad.

“You wanna come see my show?” Spence asks, and puts an arm around her waist. He's afraid she'll back away, but she doesn't. She responds by doing the same and rests her hand on the top of his Gap jeans. It feels right. It doesn't even feel new.

“Tomorrow night?” she asks.

He nods. “I can put you on my guest list.”

“Sure,” she says. “Just don't put me in the front row.”

“Never,” Spence says. He wouldn't want that, either. It's hard enough to perform when someone he knows is watching the show. It's the only time he ever really gets nervous onstage. Being able to see them four feet in front of him is even worse. It's like being sent by Rodney to a bad Broadway audition.

“Okay,” she says. “But I mean it. No front row. I don't want you heckling me.”

“It doesn't work that way,” he says. “The audience heckles the comic. The comic doesn't heckle the audience.”

“Same difference,” she says.

“How do you figure?”

“Look,” she huffs, “I don't tell you that the way you fold your pants is all wrong, so don't tell me when I screw up your comedian lingo. Got it?”

“Fair enough,” he says.

He leans in and kisses her. It's quick and it's sweet. It's not at all the drunken make-out session that more than a few of his recent nights have ended with. It's a change of pace, but he likes it. She smells good, and her lips are soft. He wants to stay there for about a year.

“Tomorrow then?” she says into his ear. He can feel her breath on his skin, and the hairs on his neck stand up when she speaks.

“I hope so,” he says.

Five seconds later and she's gone. She walks in one direction while he heads the opposite way. Somewhere in a cab, Marcus is probably trying not to pass out or puke or both. Sam walks with Claudia and hopefully talks about the nice guy she talked to all night long. Claudia hopefully has his back and tells Sam she must go to his show tomorrow night.

Spence turns the corner on Saint Catherine and starts walking toward his hotel. He's freezing, but he doesn't button his coat. He doesn't even pay attention to the cold as it pierces through the buttons on his shirt. He's alone, but he really likes it. He thinks that this must be what it feels like to walk with a skip in his step. There are people on the street, but he only hears the cold wind in his ears. He smiles and, for once, enjoys the sound of nothing.

Spence taps at his laptop, checking his bank account online. Not having an apartment anymore was supposed to save him a ton of money, but he hardly sees it. His expenses are still too high. With the price of gas more than double what it was when he started touring, it costs him too much to get to some of his gigs. It's almost cheaper to fly. He wonders when that happened and if it's going to be like that for good.

His computer chimes a binging sound that lets him know he has an e-mail from Rodney:

Idiot,
he thinks.

The phone on the nightstand rings, and he nearly falls off the bed trying to get to it. It's always jarring to him when the phone in a hotel room rings since he takes most calls on his cell phone and never expects anyone to know where he is. Usually it's just the front desk asking if he needs housekeeping or towels. In this case, he's pleased when it's Sam.

“Do I have the right room this time?” she asks.

“Why?” Spence asks. “Did you call here earlier or something?”

“They gave me the wrong room twice,” she says. “I almost gave up and asked some old man out to lunch instead of you.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Tell me about it,” she says. “I'm good company.”

“No argument here.”

“Did I wake you?” she asks.

“No, I've been up for hours,” he lies. He's barely been up for thirty minutes. He checked his bank account online the minute he woke up as an incentive to go back to sleep for another hour or two. He would have done exactly that if she hadn't called.

“Well, I'm bored and not working,” she says, “so I figured I could get out for a while and you might want to explore the city a bit.”

“I do like to explore,” he lies again. He's been to South Dakota, a few times and has never seen Mount Rushmore. He only saw the Saint Louis arch because he looked out the window of his car as he drove past it. He's seen more shopping malls than landmarks.

“Does this mean you're free?” she asks.

“I'm available, but I'm never free.”

“Blech,” she says. “Forget I asked.”

“I thought it was clever.” He smiles.

“You were wrong.”

“Ouch.”

“Despite that, I'm still asking you to lunch,” she says.

“I will again consider myself lucky,” he says.

“What do you say to fifteen minutes in front of your hotel?”

“I only get fifteen minutes with you?” He grins like an idiot, as if she can see him through the phone. “That's not much of a lunch date.”

She sighs dramatically. “I mean that we will meet in fifteen minutes, not
for
fifteen minutes.”

“Ah, I see my mistake.”

“I think you were smarter last night.”

“I'm the anti-drunk,” he says. “Alcohol makes me smarter.”

“Fifteen minutes, weirdo?”

“Easy.”

“See you then,” she says and hangs up.

Now he's in trouble. He's not remotely ready. He's lying dirty in the hotel bed in his boxer briefs with his laptop on his stomach. He's unshowered and unshaven. He looks like the kind of person who sleeps until after noon every day, which is what he is. But he wants to see her and he wants it to be soon. He can't remember the last time he showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth at the same time, but he'll remember from now on.

On the corner, Sam meets him dressed in a long green overcoat and very sexy black boots. That's three for three with him; he likes short hair, glasses, and boots. She's just getting better every minute. She's wearing a dark scarf wrapped up to her chin, and her short, pretty hair is hidden underneath a knitted hat that matches the scarf.

“Cute hat,” Spence says as he leans in to hug her. She offers her cheek, and he kisses it as he takes in the smell of her perfume. It could just be her shampoo or skin cream for all he knows; he's never been one to tell the difference. Whatever it is, he likes it.

“It's called a ‘toque,' ” she says.

“A what?”

“A toque,” she says again. “That's what we call hats here.”

“Really?”

“You didn't know that?” she asks.

This makes him smile. Every Christmas he hears “The Twelve Days of Christmas” on the radio. It's a Canadian novelty song that he's heard since he was a kid. It was recorded by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas from
SCTV.
They mention “toques” in the song, and it always threw him off. He never knew what the hell a toque was until now. It's nice to have the mystery solved.

“See?” he says. “Two minutes into the day and you're already teaching me stuff about Canada I never would have learned otherwise. I wouldn't have even thought to ask.”

“That's what you're impressed with? Finding out what a toque is?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Nothing about Canadian history or politics,” she says. “You just want to know what we call things.”

“Works for me.”

She holds up her hand. “This is a glove,” she says.

“Alright, smart-ass,” he says, “where are we going to eat?”

“I figured I'd leave that up to you,” she says.

“McDonald's it is.”

“Such a charmer.”

“Only the best for you.”

“Alright,” she says, “lunch is on me.”

“Shit.” He smiles. “In that case, take me to the most expensive place in this city. Nothing's too good for us, I say.”

“Burger King it is,” she says.

“I prefer McDonald's.”

It's the middle of the afternoon, and people are everywhere. As dozens of people scurry past them, no one seems to notice the shaggy-haired guy talking to the bespectacled woman bundled up in front of him. Even wearing a sweater and heavy overcoat, he looks underdressed compared to everyone else walking by. At least the locals are better prepared for the weather than he is. He's still freezing.

“Okay, more Canada,” Spence says.

“The first prime minister of Canada was John A. Macdonald,” she says.

“Screw that,” he says. “I told you, no history. Just tell me what they call a quarter pounder with cheese here.”

“It's called a quarter pounder with cheese.”

“Really?” he asks. “I thought it was called a royale with cheese. Like in
Pulp Fiction
.”

“That's France.”

“But Montreal is French, right?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You really don't know anything about Canada, do you?”

“Nope. That's why you're not allowed to give me any history lessons. I like to be as ignorant about Canada as possible. You know, just like the rest of America is.”

“Mission accomplished,” she says.

She takes his arm and leads him while making it seem like he's doing the leading. They walk down the street that way for a couple of blocks. It's odd to him that it doesn't feel odd to him. He likes walking with her and likes her on his arm. He also likes her near him because her body helps shield him from the wind. No one told him Montreal was so windy.

“It just hit me,” she says and comes to a stop. “We're going to eat at Manny's.”

“What kind of place is it?” he asks.

“Well, it's kinda like any other sandwich place, but we're going to get you some poutine.”

“Pou-what?” he says. The name sounds like an accident.

“
Poo-TEEN,
” she says slowly. “It's food.”

“It sounds like an intestinal problem.”

“It's one hundred percent Canadian, and it's yummy. The perfect lunch lesson for you today, Mister American-Who-Has-Never-Been-to-Canada.”

“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Well, if it will further my lesson of learning Canada without having to actually learn anything about Canada, I'm all for it.”

“You sure? Because poutine is made from moose hooves.”

“Get the hell outta here,” he scoffs. “Really?”

She rolls her eyes.

A half hour later the two of them are sitting at Manny's, and he discovers that poutine is french fries covered with cheese curds and gravy. It's a huge plate with huge fries, full of starch and fat. It's so messy and so greasy that he has to eat it with a large fork and shovel it into his mouth in enormous gulps. It's too much, and it's a ridiculous thing for him to be stuffing into his face. It is, without question, delicious.

“Did you know that we call the Gap “le Gap” here?” she asks.

“Now you're just fucking with me,” he says.

“No, really. That's what the French Canadians call it.”

“I'm not that stupid. ‘Le Gap' just means ‘the Gap' in French.”

“Very good.”

“Did you know that ‘La Bamba' is Spanish for ‘The Bamba'?” he asks.

“I did not.”

“See?” He shovels a mouthful of carbohydrates into his face. “Now you've learned the only Spanish I know.”

“I know that
agua
means ‘water,' ” she says, “from watching
Sesame Street
.”

“They have
Sesame Street
here?” he says, and she kicks him under the table.

Spence watches her eating, mesmerized by the way she shovels food into her mouth and yet manages to make it look cute. She's beautiful, but not like the statuesque women he sees littered all over the streets of Montreal. He still can't help but find her sexy. Her long legs and short, curvy frame make her just as tempting as any other woman he's been with for as long as he can remember. But she's quirky, and he finds that adorable. She's funny and quick. He thinks that in high school she was probably a very attractive geek.

“So how's Canada treating you thus far?” she asks, while trying to hide the fact that she just dropped food on her lap.

“So far I love it,” he says, and immediately blushes. He's normally better at not showing all of his cards at once.

“Yeah?” she says. “Do you wanna see Parliament?”

“Nice try, but I know that's not in Montreal.”

“Very good.”

“Isn't it in Toronto?”

She rolls her eyes. “Ottawa.”

“I knew that,” he lies.

“Just checking,” she says.

Canada is different enough that he's aware he's in a different country, even though most of the things he is familiar with at home he finds right here in Montreal. Sure, the money is different and, yes, everything being printed in two languages is strikingly noticeable. But he expected that. It's the subtle things that he stumbles across that really stand out in his head.

“Like what?” she asks, and he realizes that he's been rambling, mostly thinking aloud.

“Well, like little things on television,” he tells her. He recalls the
Canadian Idol
billboard he saw the day before.

“That was canceled a while back,” she says. “You must've seen an old ad that hasn't been taken down.”

“That's a shame,” he says. “I would've liked to have seen it.”

“Trust me, you didn't miss anything.”

“I'll take your word for it.” He shrugs and realizes that he's never even seen an episode of
American Idol,
so he doesn't know why he'd ever watch the Canadian one.

“We have all the American shows, too,” she says.

“Yeah, but check this out. Yesterday on TV here I saw a commercial that had two men together as a couple shopping in a grocery store. Holding hands and everything.”

“Yeah, so?” she asks.

“That's just it,” he says. “Two gay men shopping. It was wild. I don't think you'll see a commercial like that in the United States for years, if ever.”

“Really? You don't have commercials like that?”

“Not at all. Just the occasional print ad, and those are always controversial.”

“That surprises me.”

“It's stupid,” he says. “It should be just like it is here: No big deal. But people are still really nuts about gay people. Even people who don't think they're homophobic get weird about it.”

“That just seems silly,” she says.

“It is.”

“Maybe you should move to Canada.”

“If the rest of Canada treats me as well as Montreal has, I just might have to consider it,” he says and winks.

“The Comedy Crib,” she says. “Do they treat you really well?”

“They do,” he says and then checks himself. “That is, they treat me the way comedians should be treated, but usually are not.”

She raises one eyebrow. It's a neat trick.

“Let's just say my job isn't nearly as glamorous as people think it is,” he says and shrugs his shoulders. In the background he can hear some band whose name he can't remember playing on the radio and tries to remember if it's a Canadian group. He wonders how many Canadian bands he could name if he tried. Rush is one.

“Where do you want to go from here?” she asks.

“After all this poutine, I could use a nap,” he says. He remembers that Bryan Adams is Canadian, too.

“No, jackass,” she says. “I meant with your career.”

“Ah.” He winks. “Good question. As soon as I figure it out, I'll let you know.”

“Really?” she asks. “No big plans? No talk show in your future? No big movies?”

“Oh, sure, I'll just make a few phone calls and make it happen.”

She thumps his arm with her index finger. “No, seriously,” she says.

“I want all of that,” he says. He's pretty sure Alanis Morissette is Canadian.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“The whole nine yards?”

“Well.” He takes a long sip from his Diet Coke. “I used to think that, anyway. Now I'm not so sure. My plans seem to keep changing, whether I like it or not. For a while there, everything seemed to be going along just like it was supposed to. I got an agent, did the Kilborn show, started getting regular gigs. That's the way it's supposed to happen and that's what I was doing. Then everything just kinda leveled out.”