Poison Shy (5 page)

I looked at Chad. He shrugged. Farah put her hand to her chest in what I assumed was an attempt to hide her cleavage from the greasy stranger hanging over our table.

I stood up. I was a good four or five inches taller than Darcy. His matted hair smelled of gravy and hairspray.

“What's your poison?” he asked as we walked to the bar.

“Just a beer, thanks.”

He sucked his teeth. “You sure? My man Viktor makes one hell of a Bloody Paw Caesar.”

“Beer's fine.”

We sat down. Viktor Lozowsky, the owner, was shaking up a martini behind the bar, his thick-rimmed glasses bouncing up and down on his nose.

“Hey Vik!” Darcy shouted. “Can we get a beer down here? Your cheapest brand, please.” He turned to me. “I'm a firm believer that someone's choice of drink says more about them than anything else. You know what beer says? Boring.”

“Listen, man,” I said. “If you brought me over here to be ridiculed, I'd just as soon go back to my friends.”

“You're seeing Mel on Thursday.”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”
he said, imitating me, his pale tongue hanging out. “You're meeting her here on Thursday.”

“That's right. So what?”

We were interrupted by Viktor. He plunked a foamy pint in front of me. “One boring beer for Mr. Excitement. Anything else?”

“The usual for me,” Darcy said.

“‘The usual'?” I asked him. “What's that?”

He counted the ingredients off on his fingers: “Shot of tequila. Shot of vodka. Shot of gin. Shot of rum. Fill the rest of the glass with root beer and you've got an Adios Motherfucker.”

“And what's that supposed to say about you?”

His yellow eyes seemed to flash. “No fucking fear.”

Viktor returned and placed a soupy mixture in front of Darcy. “You puke, you mop.”

Darcy took a sip and swallowed noisily. “
Sanguinis Christi
,” he said. “Back to Mel. And you. And Thursday.”

I sipped my beer and waited.

“So it's like this,” he went on. “She's my best friend. I look out for her, make sure she doesn't get mixed up with assholes — especially assholes who refer to themselves as Mr. Exterminator. Or are you going by Mr. Excitement now?”

I didn't know what to say.

“Yeah.” He raised his eyebrows. “You don't think I know her email password?” He leaned back and sipped his concoction. There was a whitehead on his neck that could have exploded at any moment.

I wanted to tell the dirtbag that it was Melanie who'd given me the name, but what good would it have done? I didn't need to tell him shit.

“What do you want from me?”

He chugged his drink and slammed the mug down onto the counter. “I want you guys to have a good time,” he said, foam dripping from the sides of his mouth. “And if you hurt her, I'll fucking kill you.”

It was the first time I'd been threatened with death. I won't lie — it scared the shit out of me. But I didn't want to give Darcy the satisfaction. I stonily downed the last of my beer. “Fair enough. We done?”

He turned to face the bar. “You betcha.”

“What was
that
about?” Farah asked when I returned to the table. Chad looked up from his basket of wings.

“Just some asshole,” I said. “You guys save some for me, or what?”

The following Monday, Bill and I were sent to an old textile warehouse on the west side. They were experiencing the second coming of a pharaoh ant problem that our competition, Eco-Zap, had fucked up royally. The thing about pharaoh ants is, if you don't eliminate every last one, the colony will split and multiply. Sprays don't cut it, either. You have to use insecticide baits, and you've got to put them
everywhere
.

I got to work right away while Bill sat on a pile of bricks with his thermos of coffee and a copy of
The Frayne Exchange
. “Listen to this,” he said. “‘Councillor proposes
Sweep the Streets
campaign in effort to reduce prostitution, STD infection.'”

I was down on my hands and knees, attempting to slide an ant trap into a crack in the wall. “Sounds like they're talking about small-scale genocide.”

“We should be so lucky,” he said. “Says here they want to feed and house the freaks. Offer them counselling paid for with
your
tax dollars. Jeez Louise.”

It was a good half hour before Bill decided to join me. He farted as he squatted to remove the plastic cover on an electrical outlet. I turned to comment and got an eyeful. “You know, Bill, you would have made a good plumber.”

He responded with another crackling gust.

“Christ, Bill.”

“Sorry, kid — why don't you do us both a favour and get some more coffee? You've been working hard, and I've been shitting my pants all morning.”

“Sure. You want anything else?”

He struggled to pluck the mini screwdriver out of his Swiss army knife. “No, just a coffee. Lotsa cream, lotsa sugar.”

I hurried to fetch the coffees from a Tim Hortons across the road, and was almost run over by a minivan on the way back. I lingered outside the warehouse and caught my breath.

There was something in my back pocket. I reached inside and pulled out the crumpled photograph I'd taken from Melanie's apartment. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen in it. Drinking vodka. Screaming. Looking at it made me feel like a criminal.

Bill had done a decent amount of work while I was gone. He'd finished putting traps in the walls and was up on a ladder removing some of the ceiling tiles.

“Is it safe to enter?” I asked.

“All clear. But things could change after lunch.”

We spent the rest of the morning stuffing the place with ant traps. We left no floorboard unturned or wall crack unpoisoned. Bill offered to buy lunch, and brought back two ham and Swiss baguettes from Tim Hortons.

“The price of a sandwich, Jesus,” he said.

We sat down cross-legged on a small patch of grass outside the building like a couple of kids at a picnic. Bill's legs cracked as he made himself comfortable. His round, red face smiled at me and then he dug in. He was unmarried and overweight, with IBS and a nose mutilated by too many years of hard Canadian rye. I thought he must be lonely. It struck me that I didn't know much about Bill. I knew he liked the Maple Leafs. I knew he owned a cottage up north that had been passed down through his family over generations, and that he stayed there when he wanted to do some deer or bear hunting. I knew he didn't like vegetables unless they were deep fried or sprinkled over nachos. For the most part he was nothing more than my jolly supervisor, as much a mystery to me as any middle-aged stranger I passed on the street. Who was I to assume Bill was lonely? He probably had things figured out far better than I did.

“Before I forget,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sandwich wrapper. “I wasn't supposed to say anything, but I'd feel like an asshole if I didn't.”

“Oh?” I thought he might be joking. He was almost always joking.

He took a deep breath. “Dick asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Dick was our boss, the head honcho at Kill 'Em All. The guy who'd hired me on a whim. I kept quiet and fidgeted with my sandwich wrapper, tore it into smaller and smaller bits.

“He said he's worried you might be involved in some kind of funny business, calling in sick a lot lately and stuff. He thinks your life outside the company might be interfering with your work. I told him not to worry. I said, Brandon's a good worker. A no-bullshit kind of guy.”

“Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it.” I held up my sandwich to him in salute.

“You got it.”

We sat in silence for a moment, then Bill said, “Everything
is
okay with you, though, right? No problems at home? I don't mean to be a jerk but I gotta ask.”

“No, everything's fine.” I mustered a thin smile. It seemed to satisfy him.

“Great.” He clapped his hands together and grunted as he wobbled to his feet. “Now, give me ten minutes to empty my guts and we can get back to work.”

Bill wheezed on his way to the porta-potty. I tossed my half-eaten sandwich into a nearby garbage can and watched as a halo of flies claimed it for their own.

The days came and went. When I got home from work on Thursday, I checked myself out in the mirror. My skin was yellow-grey, almost translucent. I looked like a fucking zombie. What did I expect? I probably inhaled more poison in a single day than most people are exposed to in a year.

I got in the shower and scrubbed my whole body twice over. Shaved my face and coated it with aloe. Dug the dirt out from under my nails and trimmed my pubes with a stubby pair of Ninja Turtles scissors I'd had since childhood.

I lay down for a nap and dreamed I was digging a grave that kept refilling itself. I had to double my efforts if I wanted to make any progress with the ditch. At one point my shovel struck something hard. I jabbed at the thing, hoping to break through whatever it was. When I scraped the dirt away I saw that what I'd struck was a face — Melanie's — pulped and lacerated from my shovel thrusts. I woke with a ringing in my ears, my heart beating fast.

I nuked a frozen Salisbury steak and ate it slowly, choking it down.

After my meal I put on my best pair of jeans and a green and black argyle sweater, then sat down on my pullout and stared at the red glow of my alarm clock. 9:13.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Opened them. 9:13.

I poured myself a glass of red wine, some inexpensive merlot a client had sent to Kill 'Em All as a thank-you gift. Somehow I'd ended up with the bottle. I bounced my knee anxiously up and down and waited for the clock to change. The wine whirlpooled in the glass. How the hell was it still 9:13?

My hands were slimy with sweat. I stood up and wiped them on the ass pockets of my jeans. Looked at myself in the mirror.

“Relax, pussy,” I said. “What's your problem? Chill . . . the fuck . . . out.”

I wanted my reflection to open its mouth and speak, or psychically burn words of wisdom into my brain. Instead I noticed a nose hair curling sharply out of my left nostril.

I went to the bathroom and plucked the bad boy out. When I checked the time again it was 9:20. If I walked slowly to The Bloody Paw I'd arrive just before ten, with enough time to down a shot of liquid courage before Melanie showed up.

The night was breezy. The wind whispered through the trees like a scheming god. Discarded food wrappers cackled along the pavement. Cab drivers prowled the streets and hollered at girls in skirts too short for the weather and heels too high for the uneven sidewalk. A bus zoomed past as I stood waiting to cross the street. Its momentum almost pulled me onto the road.

As I neared the string of campus bars, someone behind me shouted, “Brandon Galloway eats dick!”

I spun around and saw Chad, his arm wrapped around Farah's gourd-like waist. The top four buttons on his shirt were undone, exposing a mass of wiry chest hair. Farah smelled as though she'd just taken a bath in Chanel No. 5.

Chad cocked his head at me. “Hot date?” He turned to Farah. “What'd I tell you? The guy's a Casanova.”

“I'm meeting Melanie, actually.”

Chad lowered his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He looked like an ape. “Melanie . . .”

“The redhead.”

“Oh! Right on. We're hitting up Shock for martinis.” He leaned toward me and mock-whispered, “I'm gonna get her
smashed
!”

Farah whacked him playfully on the shoulder.

“All right, we better get going,” Chad said. “I want to make sure we get the loveseat by the fireplace.”

They started down the street, Chad's right hand clinging firmly to Farah's backside. As I waited to cross the road, Chad shouted, “Hey Brandon! Don't forget to equip your little soldier before you send him into battle! You can never be too careful!” He threw back his head and laughed.

I zigzagged through a gathering of future lung cancer patients outside The Bloody Paw and found a seat at the bar. Melanie wasn't there. Viktor Lozowsky stood behind the beer taps, setting shots on fire. When he finished, he handed the flaming glasses to a white girl with dreadlocks and her purple-haired boyfriend. They blew out their drinks and gulped them down in unison. The boyfriend let out a whoop and wiped his eyes, while the girl thumped her chest with a toddler-sized fist.

“What can I get you?”

Lozowsky seemed to be looking just to the right of my face. The ceiling lights reflected off his waxy bald head. I wasn't sure he was speaking to me.

“You deaf or something, slim?”

“Sorry, I . . . I'll wait to order if that's okay. I'm meeting someone.”

He slung a greasy towel over his shoulder. “I remember you. The boring beer guy.”

I tried to laugh but it came out in a sneeze.

“You mind if I ask who you're meeting? I get a lot of regulars in here.”

I looked at the nest of crumpled twenties bursting from his pouch. “Her name's Melanie.”

“Melanie Blaxley? Red hair?” He snickered. “She was just here. I think she went to the bathroom. Hopefully she's not barfing all over the hand dryer. It was expensive to replace last time.”

A loud cat-call came from behind me. I turned and there was Melanie, strutting out of the bathroom in yellow short shorts and a black baby-tee. It had an image of a giraffe with the words
DEEP THROAT
written along its neck in letter-shaped spots. On her feet she wore a pair of pink pumps, small enough for a doll. She stuck up her middle finger at the guy who'd whistled — a Che Guevara wannabe in a beret — and continued in my direction, hips swaying. Her unsupported breasts vibrated with each step.

“You're late, prick. And you better close your mouth or you're going to drool all over your zipper.”

“Sorry, I — Aren't you cold?”

“Weather doesn't scare me.” I caught a whiff of her perfume (raspberries) and her armpits (sweet chili).

“Ready to order?” Lozowsky asked.

I had to think for a moment. “Yeah, I'll have . . . Let's see. I'll have a rum and Coke.”

“Psshh.” Melanie shook her head.

“What?”

She ignored me and turned to Viktor. “Give me the usual. In a frosted mug this time.”

“The usual?” I asked her. “What's that?”

“It's this awesome drink called an Adios Motherfucker. Whole bunch of shit mixed into root beer. I forget the ingredients but it fucks you good and hard. I saw this clip on YouTube where these dudes chug them, then barf into one of those plastic pumpkins kids use for trick-or-treating. They mix all their pukes together with a ladle and dump it on some passed-out chick like a barf bukkake. It's fucking hilarious! This drink is the shiz, niggz.”

I quickly scanned the bar. No black people anywhere, thank God.

Lozowsky came over with the drinks. “You two on separate tabs?”

“Nah! Bug Man here's gonna buy all my drinks tonight. We're on a date.” She slapped and squeezed my thigh.

Her touch set off a series of loin-centred explosions that forced me to adjust myself. I took out my wallet and robotically tossed bill after bill onto the counter like a bank clerk.

“Whoa, Money Man!” Melanie said. Lozowsky stuffed the bills into his pouch. “Well, this should cover you for about a week. Cheers!” Then he was gone.

Melanie picked up her mug with both hands and took a big gulp. Threads of amber liquid ran down the sides of her mouth and dripped onto her bare knees. “Shit, that's harsh!” She wiped the booze off her knees with her palm, then brought her hand to her face and licked it.

“That's your roommate's drink of choice too, isn't it?”

“Darcy's? How would you know that?”

“I saw him order one.”

“He stole it from me. How's your rum and Coke, sailor?”

“It's good.”

“Fuck that. Get something more exciting next round. This place is, like,
known
for its cool drinks. The Bloody Paw Caesar's got mashed-up jalapeños in it. Ice cream vodka's not bad, but it gives me brain freeze. The best is the champagne whisky bomb, aside from the Adios Motherfucker, of course.”

I sipped my drink. It actually wasn't very good. I didn't know why I'd said that. “How long have you known Darcy, anyway?”

“Since first year. He lived down the hall from me in rez. Helped me write my essays a bunch of times. If it weren't for him I probably would have flunked out. Why?”

“Just figured you must be pretty good friends to decide to be roommates.”

“Is someone jealous?”

“Not at all, I just —”

“But yeah, he's a cool guy. Weird, but cool. But who
isn't
weird, you know?”

“Are you weird?”

“Me?” She leaned in close. Licked her lips and crossed her eyes. “I'm fucking insane!”

We had a few drinks at the bar, then moved to a two-person booth in the corner. On the wall above our table was a giant portrait of a dead polar bear, half-buried in a glacier, the landscape a sheet of nothingness.

Every now and then Lozowsky would approach, swinging dish rags like they were nunchucks, and take our orders with his eyes closed and his hands in his pockets.