Seeing Red

SEEING RED

SEEING RED

A Novel

SHAWN SUTHERLAND

Copyright © 2014 by Shawn Sutherland

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced

in any manner whatsoever without the prior ­written permission of the publisher,

except in the case of brief quotations ­embodied in reviews.

Publisher's note:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either the product of the author's ­imagination or are used

­fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead

is entirely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Sutherland, Shawn, 1985–, author

Seeing red / Shawn Sutherland.

ISBN 978-1-926942-86-5 (EPUB)

ISBN 978-1-926942-88-9 (MOBI)

I. Title.

PS8637.U864S43 2014 C813'.6 C2014–904747–9

Printed and bound in Canada on 100% recycled paper.

eBook development:
WildElement.ca

Now Or Never Publishing

#313, 1255 Seymour Street

Vancouver, British Columbia

Canada V6B 0H1

nonpublishing.com

Fighting Words.

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council

for the Arts for our publishing program.

Contents

—PART 1—

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

—PART II—

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

—PART III—

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

—PART 1—

EN BLOC PARTY

ONE

The blackouts started shortly after I arrived in Toronto. I typically spent the night hunched over a bar counter, sipping scotch on the rocks and making small talk with the regulars before waking up hours later in an unfamiliar place with no recollection as to why I was there. I'd open my eyes to find myself lying on a park bench, a stoop in a dark alleyway, or in a woman's bedroom on the other side of town. It was easier in those days, a year ago, when I didn't know anybody. I could drink as much as I wanted to with no fear of reprisal, no consequence. I spoke exclusively to strangers and kept the conversation on the surface. Names, faces—they were all interchangeable to me.

When I first came to the city in the summer of '
09
, I had nothing. The apartment was empty: no bed, no furniture, they didn't even leave me a shower curtain. Just hardwood floors and a balcony overlooking the streets. I threw pillows and blankets down in the centre of the room and slept there, passing the time by reading novels, perusing through the phonebook and setting up appointments to have the cable installed or a futon delivered. Nobody knew I was there, separated from the world, and the hours passed slowly.

Resting downstairs in the parking garage, my rusted black '
98
Cavalier, a car I affectionately nicknamed “The Widowmaker,” was loaded to the brim with everything I owned: mostly clothes, books, silverware and small appliances. I gradually unloaded the car piece by piece, lugging boxes up and down the elevator again and again. On one occasion, I ran into a frail elderly man originally from India. He had awful posture—his legs and torso met at a ninety-degree angle—and yet he offered to help me move as he welcomed me into the building. I smiled and politely declined. Another woman held the elevator door open for me as I awkwardly tried to balance a box full of dishes. She had just purchased a big flatscreen TV and was excited to tell me all about it. The people in Toronto had a bad reputation—all my life I had heard they were rude and cold—but these tenants seemed more than friendly enough.

The apartment looked sterile and desolate, like a hospital room, even after I finished unpacking. I didn't have any pictures or paintings to hang on the walls because I wasn't accustomed to staying in one place for very long. My father had died three years earlier and I used the money he left me to live like a vagrant, driving from place to place and working odd jobs while attending various post-secondary schools. By that time I had already spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on tuition fees and bar tabs and my savings were disappearing fast. To keep my cost of living low I often rented rooms in dingy basement apartments, and by doing so I was able to allocate more money to beer, gin, rum, wine—whatever I could get my hands on at the time. My daily routine consisted of sleeping until noon, drinking two cans of beer in the shower, attending a lecture, opening a bottle of liquor after class and then frequenting the pubs at night, where I sat and drank and waited for something, anything, to happen.

That's how it was for me. I'd arrive in town with no contacts and no place to stay, then gradually meet the locals, make a few acquaintances, wear out my welcome and move onto the next place, transferring school credits and burning bridges wherever I went. I was alone during the holidays. I did everything alone. I remained in contact with no one—save for one girl.

But Toronto was going to be different. I had grown tired of the aimless drifting and the meaningless, half-hour friendships and decided to draw a line in the sand. I envisioned myself getting a journalism degree and a job at a local newspaper and then settling down and sobering up once and for all. I was only twenty-three years old, but I knew exactly what I wanted. The goal was simple. My plans were derailed, however, when I received a phone call at three o'clock in the morning a few days after moving in. It was from an old friend, one I hadn't spoken to in a long time, so I knew it was important. And after I hung up the phone that night, I immediately reverted back into old habits.

There were never any slow nights. Even on a Tuesday—typically the worst night of the week for social drinking—I could find people willing to binge. And so we did. The city allowed me to indulge in my aberrant lifestyle to an extent I had never experienced before. I became addicted to it. And, as time went on, my alcohol-induced amnesia gradually progressed until weeks and months seemed to disappear altogether, like a dream that fades soon after you wake.

It was perfect.

TWO

Somebody told me one time that once you've lived here long enough, your mind begins to tune out the noise. Humming traffic, sirens echoing in the distance, recycled air spewing in and out of the sewers and skyscrapers—it all conflates into a hollow silence. It's comforting, and I could probably sleep here for several hours were it not for the cool breeze blowing against my face. As I gradually open my eyes, I realize I'm lying on a patch of artificial grass on the rooftop of an old two-storey building.

Judging by the sun it's around six o'clock in the morning. I slowly lift my head off the grass to see a small garden with an adjacent wooden patio. There are empty beer bottles, metal kegs, cigarette butts, pieces of clothing and red plastic cups strewn all over the roof. No sign of anyone else. It's July
2010
and I'm wearing nothing more than a pair of brown shoes, grey jeans and a black t-shirt with the Brian Jonestown Massacre logo on the front. Climbing to my feet I see the CN Tower looming in the distance, and with the sun rising in the background it looks like the scene off a postcard. A faint taste of liquor still lingers in the back of my throat, the daylight hurts my eyes and my head is throbbing. I have no memory of the night before—only subtle glimpses, transparent faces and a vague recollection of the words I might have said.

The silver hip flask in my back pocket has remnants of gin left in it. I take a short sip and it burns away the morning grime on my teeth and my lips, and then I exhale and wipe my mouth. As my hand pulls away, I notice a patch of dry blood on the last two knuckles. Could be mine, could be from someone else. There's also writing on my left forearm. The name
Jody
—along with her phone number—has been scribbled onto the skin with a black magic marker. Definitely not my handwriting. Underneath it reads: “Call her! She's really nice!”

I'm probably not going to call her.

I have only a brief moment to orient myself before the phone in my pocket begins to vibrate. I check the display to see it's Jeff Dockett, a former classmate and current drinking buddy of mine. He's a crude, abrasive, frat-boy prick, but for some reason we seem to get along. You can't explain chemistry. We met in the fall of last year while we were both taking a survey course at Ryerson University. He was majoring in business and I was studying journalism. Why, I don't know—I no longer had any intention of becoming a journalist. Maybe I was just so used to being in school that I didn't know how to function outside of it. School is safe, familiar. You can hide at the back of a lecture hall and go completely unnoticed. And they let you choose your own schedule—I always ensure my classes are held in the afternoon so I can sleep off the hangovers.

Anyway, one day I ran into “Doc” at the campus pub when we were supposed to be in class and discovered he shared a similar penchant for hard liquor. I had seen him on campus prior to that, but never thought much of it; he had a tendency to wear big sweaters and brand new baseball caps and he seemed far too confident and outgoing for my liking. However, that afternoon, he pulled up a stool next to me and proceeded to order glass after glass of whiskey. Perhaps I'd underestimated the man. Eventually we struck up a conversation, and from that point on we became the best of friends. He was the catalyst for my social life in the city, the kind of person who seemed to know everybody. I met several people through him and now I had friends to drink with on the weekends—I only drank alone during the week.

“Hey,” I mutter into the phone. My voice is stale and raspy.

“Ethan! What's up, man? We just landed. How far away are you?”

I remember it now: I was supposed to pick Doc up from the airport. He had flown in on the red-eye from Vancouver and needed a ride home. I check my watch. The battery is dead. The hands aren't moving. I tap it with my index finger and nothing happens.

“Oh, I'll be there . . . any second now.”

“You haven't even left yet, have you?”

“Not yet.”

“Man, you sound like complete dog shit! And your phone keeps echoing. I can hear everything you say twice.”

“I bet it sounds even better the second time,” I say, coughing hoarsely.

“Did you go out again last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don't know.”

“You
don't know?
”

“Never mind. I'll be there soon. Just . . . sit tight.”

“Hurry! I'm fuckin' tired. I didn't sleep at all on the plane. There was this kid whining in front of me, and I was like, ‘Shut up, kid!' I was kicking his seat and shit.”

“Did it work?”

“Nah, it just upset him more.”

“Huh. So, how was Vancouver?” I ask, scanning the rooftop for an exit. Doc had been visiting his older sister Kelly to congratulate her on delivering a baby boy the week before. While not particularly interested in meeting the newest member of his family, Doc jumped at the opportunity to go on a trip and get drunk and embarrass himself in a whole new city.

“Oh man, it was awesome. Got to meet my new nephew! He's an ugly,
ugly
looking kid though. He just looks . . . terrible.”

I can't help but laugh. Doc speaks without a trace of malice in his voice, so he can usually get away with saying things most of us can't, no matter how offensive. People just accept it like they would from a small child. I prefer to have friends who don't sugarcoat the truth anyway. It's better than being lied to.

“That's too bad,” I deadpan. “I was hoping he'd be really good looking.”

“Nope! Must skip a generation. Anyway, I'll tell you more when you get here. Hurry!”

“Okay, I'm leaving now.”

I hang up the phone and gather my bearings while staring out at the skyline. Despite the constant hum, the stagnant noise, the city looks peaceful. No swirling lights or gaudy signs, no people shouting or music blaring. Just a cool breeze and the small onset of sunlight peering over the horizon. I gaze at the downtown core and wish it could always look this peaceful; that I could enjoy all the benefits of this mass urban collective without the crowded sidewalks, the herds, the shoulder-to-shoulder transit rides, without cramming onto elevators or standing in line. I wish I could walk down the middle of Yonge Street and scream as loudly as possible and hear nothing but the sound of my own voice reverberating off the buildings. I always appreciate mornings like these because I come across them so rarely. Watching the city rise before anyone else—that's something to be savoured.

There's an open hatch at the far end of the patio across from a crudely written sign that reads:
Fuck with the garden, and the garden fucks with you!
I make a mental note not to fuck with the garden and carefully climb down a ladder leading to the top of a wooden staircase. The interior of the building looks and smells like sawdust and every door is locked shut. With nowhere else to go, I descend the stairs and walk out onto the street.

Searching the neighbourhood, I find the Widowmaker abandoned beside an old yellow church, sheltered beneath a row of maple trees. A taxi speeds around the curb and nearly barrels into me, but I barely notice because I'm fixated on a fresh crack in the windshield—a small, white spiderweb on the upper-left corner. Somebody must have thrown a rock at it last night. I unlock the door and slump down into the seat only to realize that the window on the passenger side has been completely smashed and there are shards of glass all over the floor. My iPod is also missing; the cord is still plugged into the auxiliary port of the car radio, but the unit itself is gone.

“Goddammit!” I shout, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. Technically this isn't even my car anymore; I sold it to Dockett months ago. Living in the city, with access to buses, subways and streetcars, I didn't see the need to own a vehicle anymore—besides, gas and insurance prices were too high. But I was reluctant to sell it to a complete stranger, unwilling to part with it entirely. The old bucket of bolts had sentimental value and we had traveled far and well together. I'd slept in the backseat on more than one occasion—not exactly the Hilton, but it sufficed. While he was away, Doc lent me the keys on the sole condition that I provide him with a ride to and from the airport. It felt good to be behind the wheel again. Like seeing an old friend.

I kick the remaining pieces of glass out onto the pavement, then start the engine and put it in gear and navigate through the streets of downtown Toronto toward the Gardiner Expressway. The wind blows furiously through the missing window, my eyesight is still foggy from the night before and traffic lights seem to have a fourth dimension to them. Admittedly, I'm too hungover to be driving, but the inner city roads are sluggish and the odds of a fatal collision are relatively low. Still, I'm overwhelmed by the urge to recline in my seat and sleep it off for a few hours, despite already being late. I put on a pair of sunglasses to ease the burning sensation in my eyes and then turn up the radio to drown out the noise from the window. It's set to a college station playing indie rock music from the nineties—the last decade before everything turned to shit. An indifferent singer pines for a girl over oddly-tuned guitars and understated drum beats. I like it.
From now on, I can see the sun.
Makes me nervous, makes me run.

More cars and trucks appear seemingly out of thin air as I merge onto the
427
. The traffic becomes stagnant and congested and the big SUV behind me nearly touches my rear bumper. “Stop tailgating, you asshole!” I yell into the mirror. During a commercial break, I switch the radio over to classic rock playing the same old songs they've had in their rotation for the past forty years. I know all the lyrics, even those of the songs I hate, and when the opening riff to “Pretty Woman” starts pouring through the speakers I immediately turn it off. That song is a repetitive piece of shit. Without music, I can hear the engines and the screeching of tires and an occasional honk and I feel the pressure against my temple with every pulse of sound. Gridlock. The city has awoken. The tranquility and solitude I experienced only minutes ago is long dead. The pawns, the sheep, they're all awake.

I follow the airport signs to the arrivals section where I find Doc sitting on the curb next to a row of idle cabs. He's wearing a red plaid shirt and a black baseball cap turned backwards, and he has one hell of a scowl on his face. I pull up beside him and he angrily opens the passenger side door. “Took you long enough!” he growls, tossing his bag into the backseat. As we're driving away, he tries to roll up the window, but nothing happens.

“What the hell?”

“That's weird. It was there a minute ago.”

“You broke my window? How?” He looks down at my forearm. “And who the fuck is
Jody
?”

Doc complains throughout the entire drive back into the city, alternating between cursing at me and muttering to himself. He tells me stories about his exploits in Vancouver and then interrupts his own anecdotes just to swear at me some more, calling me a retard and a piece of shit and a fuck-face for breaking his window. Gusts of air hit him directly in the eyes as we speed down the highway and he awkwardly tries to block the wind with his hands, but to no avail.

“Look, I'm sorry. I'll pay for it,” I tell him, and he shakes his head. “Hey, believe me, I'm pissed off too. They stole my iPod. Now how am I supposed to listen to Whitesnake?”

“Just . . . just get me home. You bring the booze tonight and we'll call it even. But I'm warning you, I'm gonna be drinking a
lot
. Like shit-faced, puking, pissing-all-over-myself drunk. You in?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Good. I told Craig and Scott to show up around eight.”

No surprise there. The four of us drink together every weekend without fail. Today is Friday, so we'll go to Dockett's apartment and stock his fridge full of alcohol and then laugh and play cards until we're sufficiently inebriated. Then we'll frequent the bars, the seedy clubs, and awkwardly talk to women. Sometimes some of us get lucky. Most of the time we don't. But that's the game and we play it every goddamn weekend.

“Sounds good,” I say, fiddling with the knobs on the radio. “I have a few errands to run, but I'll come by after.”

“What kinda errands?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.”