Seeing Red (4 page)

SEVEN

At night, I come alive. In the daytime I feel like a fraud, a pariah hiding in plain sight. But when the sun sets and the streets go dark, that's the only time I feel truly at ease. My eyes are bright, my mind is alert, and my complexion, which is often red and blemished due to immoderation, is concealed beneath a veil of dim, artificial light. I never feel alone because there's always somebody willing to talk. Alcohol breaks down the walls, the barriers enforced by reticence and inhibition. People become more interesting to me and I approach them effortlessly. Normally, I withdraw from the world. At night, I become a different person. I embrace it.

The four of us wander down the centre of the road on our way to the Phoenix, each sporting a different style: Doc has short, sandy blonde hair and wears a red plaid shirt, unchanged from this morning; Craig has glasses and a striped green top featuring the logo of a band I've never heard of; and Scott is wearing a good old-fashioned Cosby sweater. In terms of presentability, I rank somewhere in the middle: my straight brown hair is slightly tousled and parted to the side and I'm wearing a blue dress shirt, a thin leather jacket and grey jeans. We each brought a can of beer with us, and anytime a police car drives by we conspicuously hide them underneath our shirts.

“I'm gonna text Amber!” Doc suddenly proclaims before drop-kicking his empty can into a nearby yard and spooking a cat. Amber is a girl we know from school that Doc has been sleeping with periodically for months. He speaks aloud as he types a text message on his phone, accentuating every word: “Dear. Baby. Can't. Wait. To. Get. All. Up. In. That. Ass. Love. Jeff.” We all laugh and demand that he send it. He does.

When we arrive at the Phoenix, there's a short lineup of people stretching from the sidewalk to the front door where two bouncers are checking IDs. Once we're inside we pay the cover and walk through a narrow, L-shaped hallway. The red walls are adorned with black-and-white photographs of musical acts that have played the stage, but it's too dark to read any of the names. The hallway leads us into the main venue: a massive room the size of a high school gymnasium with bars on either side and a giant stage to our right. Opposite the stage is a balcony equipped with its own bar and several black leather couches. We buy our drinks upstairs and then commandeer two couches and a long table. I ask Scott what band we're seeing tonight, but the music is too loud for me to hear his answer, so I lean forward and ask him again.

“Silverchest!” he repeats.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Man, you've never heard of Silverchest?” Craig says as he takes a seat beside me. “They're amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“I downloaded their first album last night,” says Scott. “It's awesome. You'll like them.”

“Ah, I dunno. I don't really listen to a lot of new stuff.”

“Why not?”

“I just got tired of it. I think we ran out of ideas. It's all recycled and auto-tuned now. We can't play any faster, or scream any harder, or write any songs better than what they did in the sixties, so what's the point? Somewhere around that last Woodstock, when those assholes were setting everything on fire, we should have just given up. Waved the white flag.”

Scott considers what I've said before adding, “Woodstock '
99
was
definitely
one of the best Woodstocks of all time.”

“Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “Definitely in the top five.”

“You've gotta look harder, man,” says Craig. “There's lots of good music being made nowadays. Nobody cares about the videos anymore, so your image doesn't matter, and new bands can post all their stuff online, so radio stations and record labels aren't really necessary either. There are no rules. It's the way it should be. You're just being a dick.”

I like Craig, but he's somewhat of a hipster and often exhibits many of their holier-than-thou personality traits. Hipsters claim to be devoted music fans, but at the same time they disapprove of anything that's popular, so in reality it's not about the actual
songs
for them—if it were, a band's popularity would be completely irrelevant. They're also very fickle; quick to anoint an up-and-coming band as the next Nirvana and just as quick to dismiss said band for having “sold-out” because they made enough money to buy a van and tour Wisconsin. The truth is: hipsters want that feeling of superiority that comes along with being one of the few people who know about a particular artist or band. Once that's gone, they go looking for the next indie act to latch onto. Weird music is preferable to good music and they often can't make the distinction. They're also unnecessarily opinionated about things that
do not matter
and abruptly piss on anything that doesn't meet their ridiculously high standards. Nothing makes a hipster happier than playing the devil's advocate, which gives them an opportunity to display their pretentious, faux-intellectual prowess. They're a drag. They're socially awkward and a pain to be around. And they can't drink worth shit. I've met jocks, nerds, gamers, goths, punkrockers and metalheads, and I would take any of them any day of the week over a hipster.

Fortunately, Craig isn't nearly as bad as the rest of them. And he can drink. Nonetheless, when it comes to music, he definitely has that hipster mentality. I can't really fault him, though; he works at a music store and is therefore constantly surrounded by hipsters. One time, he told me his dream was to form a band that sounds like Dinosaur Jr. meets The Strokes, but he can't seem to find any like-minded individuals who share his vision—probably because everybody he meets is a goddamn hipster.

“I don't know,” I mutter, “I just haven't heard any new bands that are any good. I mean, nothing affects me the way
In Utero
or
Siamese Dream
or
OK Computer
did the first time I heard them.”

“Don't worry,” Scott says. “Silverchest will change all that.”

I notice Doc hasn't said a word in several minutes, and this is the kind of discussion he usually revels in. He loves talking about old punk rock records from bands like The Adolescents, Bad Brains, Jawbreaker and Operation Ivy and then explaining in great detail how and why the genre has been in decline since the late eighties. Instead, he's staring down at his phone, typing text messages with an uneasy expression on his face. When we ask him what's wrong, he tells us a girl he recently slept with just informed him that she may have contracted a sexually transmitted disease from an ex-boyfriend.

“Ah, you'll be fine,” I assure him.

“You wore a condom, right?” Craig asks.

“God no!” he says with a disgusted look on his face. “Never! Everybody knows that. I play the skins!”

We gradually dissolve into laughter.

Doc takes umbrage. “It's not funny!”

“It's kinda funny,” says Craig.

“You have crabs now,” Scott deadpans.

Doc lowers his head and nervously fiddles with his thumbs. “Actually she says it might be chlamydia.”

We start laughing again and Doc angrily stands up from the couch.

“C'mon, we're joking!” I say. “Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. I gotta go check my balls.”

We sneer and chuckle as he hurries downstairs.

“Shit, I don't know what he's so worried about,” says Craig. “You go to a doctor, get some antibiotics, and you can bust that shit out in a week.”

Ten minutes later, I go to the bathroom in search of Doc but the stalls are empty and there's no sign of him anywhere. I relieve myself and then wash my hands and walk back into the crowd only to find the lights have dimmed as the band is about to take the stage. The guitarist is illuminated by a single beam of light and he's picking one string at a time in a crescendo of notes that rise, echo, and fall. Then the bassist is introduced. I look around at the audience and even in the darkness I can see the elation on their faces: they're staring at the stage with widened eyes, gape-mouthed like fish, completely in awe.

Suddenly the drummer smashes his sticks against the cymbals as the lights flare and the audience erupts into applause as the singer is finally revealed: a skinny woman in her mid-forties with straggly blonde hair and a silver washboard hanging from her neck. She moves up to the microphone and taps the metal with her fingertips to produce a dull, repetitive sound.

“YEAH! SILVERCHEST!” a fat man screams from behind me, pumping his balled fist into the air. I leer at the band and listen with contempt as they play slow, boring experimental music. After the first song, the singer retrieves a trash can from behind the drum kit and sporadically hits it with a large wooden stick. I scan the crowd and the people are going absolutely bananas. They love it. The third song they play is called “Your Golden Soul” and it's even worse than the first two. Disinterested, I stand at the bar for the rest of their set, drinking shots of whiskey by myself with my back facing the stage.

EIGHT

The concert mercifully ends and the crowd begins to shuffle through the hallway and out onto the street. I've lost track of my friends and so I wait for them on the sidewalk by the entrance. A homeless man with tattoos, a shaved head and a loose black sweater—he can't be much older than I am—approaches from the road and asks me for spare change. Says he wants to buy a coffee.

“Yeah, sure man,” I reply, reaching into my back pocket. I find a few coins and count them in the palm of my hand. Three dollars. “Sorry I don't have more for ya.”

He takes the money from me and says, incredulously, “Aw, c'mon, you gotta have more than that. Check your wallet.”

I'm slightly taken aback by the imposition. “I don't keep change in my wallet. Besides, I thought three dollars was pretty good.”

“Nah, man, you gotta have more.”

“I thought you just wanted a coffee?”

“Coffee's expensive these days.”

“What kind are you buying? A fucking latte macchiato?” I've learned a few things about coffee since my failed job interview.

“Come on, man!” he demands. “You've got more!”

“No! In fact, I want my three bucks back.”

“You serious?”

“If you're gonna be like that, I want it back.”

“No way! Fuck you!” he shouts before sprinting off down the middle of the road. My three friends arrive just in time to see him go.

“What the hell was that about?” Doc asks.

“Panhandler! Didn't like my three bucks!”

“Weird.”

“Why do homeless guys always wanna buy a coffee anyway? Why not get something more filling, like a can of Chef Boyardee?”

“His ravioli is delicious,” says Scott.

“Exactly!”

“Man, don't even worry about it,” Doc assures me. “The guy must be crazy. He's probably pissing and shitting himself right now. Probably has shit running down his leg.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“Craig here wants to go to a bar in Cabbagetown. It's kinda small, but the music is good. They play a lot of, uh . . .” Doc snaps his fingers while trying to recall a name. “Who's that gay guy that plays piano?”

“Rufus Wainwright?”

“No, the other one.”

“Elton John?”

“Bingo!”

The walk to Parliament Street is relatively short and I'm surprised at how small the pub is once we arrive. Half of the clientele is smoking cigarettes on the front deck and the other half is standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow space between the bar and the dining area. The decor is very casual, like the living room of an old Victorian home, with green carpets, a fireplace and dark wooden furniture. We manage to seize the one empty table in the corner by the window, and while Craig is off at the bar ordering our drinks one of the waitresses stops and squints and puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Hey! I remember you. It's Ethan, right?”

I haven't the faintest idea who she is, but I feign recognition anyway, as I always do. “Yeah! Hey! How's it going?”

“Good! Haven't seen you in a while. What you been up to?”

“Uh . . . you might have me confused with somebody else, actually. This is my first time here.”

“No I've seen you here before. What, you don't remember? You sat right over
there
.” She points to a stool on the other side of the bar. “I remember because you ate a bunch of chili peppers and then drank straight vinegar.”

“That doesn't sound like me.”

“Trust me. It was you.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To impress the girl sitting next to you.”

“Really? Did it work?”

“No!” she scoffs, then laughs and walks away.

Maybe I have been here before. Though I doubt I would ever drink vinegar to impress a girl, no matter how drunk I was. I hate vinegar. And how is that impressive? Still, she seemed fairly adamant.

While I'm pondering it, I notice Craig calling me over to the bar to help him carry some drinks back to the table. I meet him at the counter and he leans into my ear and whispers, “Man, you gotta talk to this guy” while gesturing to the old fellow sitting next to him dressed from head to toe in grey fisherman attire. He has a raincoat, a bucket hat, a prickly grey beard, an eyepatch, and he's missing several teeth. He looks like the kind of guy you would expect to find on a box of fish sticks. In his right hand he holds two metal spoons and he clinks them together against his thigh. “Meet my friend, Ethan,” Craig tells him before quietly making his escape.

“Hello, Spoonman,” I say, shaking his hand. He responds to me in gibberish; I can't make out any of the words, but he's smiling and laughing and so I smile too. Then he looks down at the spoons and starts to play a beat. It has no discernible melody.

“Hey, do you know ‘Hey Jude'?” I ask him.

He grits his teeth and makes a loud, guttural noise, which I assume to mean, “Yes.” Then, with quick, erratic movements, he jingles the spoons in such a way that sounds absolutely nothing like “Hey Jude.” I sing a few of the lyrics anyway.

“Hey, how about I play a song with you?” I say. “We'll have a jam session.” I flag down the bartender and ask her for a pair of spoons.

“I'm sorry,” she tells me, “but we don't give out spoons at night anymore.”

“Why not?”

She lowers her head and whispers, “Well, unfortunately, some people were taking them into the bathroom and using them to light up heroin. All of our spoons kept going missing.”

“Really?” I say, motioning to Spoonman. “Are you sure
this
guy
didn't steal them all?” Spoonman bellows out in disapproval and then laughs. Heartily. He reminds me of one of those walking trees from
The Lord of the Rings
.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” she says. “We caught them in there a couple of times. It was sad. And now we keep the spoons on lockdown.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.” I turn back to the fisherman and we shake hands again. “Well, it's been a hell of a ride, Spoonman.” He pats me on the arm and then mumbles something that sounds like “Goodbye, friend.” I grab the scotch Craig ordered me and clink it against his pint of cider and then return to the table. I notice Doc is missing.

“He went outside to make a phone call,” Craig tells me. And then, right on cue, Doc rushes back into the bar and impatiently pushes through the crowd to huddle beside us.

“Okay, we're on,” he says emphatically.

“What's on?” I ask.

“Amber and her friends are at Panorama. We've gotta drink up and go.”

“C'mon, man,” I object. “We just got here. Let's stick around for at least a drink or two.”

“Nah, we gotta go now. Trust me. It'll be fun. Natalie's there too.”

Natalie
. I'm crazy about Natalie. I met her late last year when she was playing a show with her indie pop band
The Crunchy Mondays
—that name always makes me laugh. She's absolutely beautiful: she has long dark hair with red highlights, striking eyes, and her smile—the one she makes when she finds something really, really funny—just kills me. Thankfully, I can make her laugh pretty often. Whenever our mutual friends meet up at a bar, we usually spend the entire night talking and ignoring everybody else. She's the first girl I've had any real hope for since Rachael.

Unfortunately, Natalie lives in the suburbs and works two part-time jobs, so she's a hard person to get a hold of. The chemistry is definitely there between us, but when we're not in the same room she seems completely indifferent to me, like I'm an afterthought. I occasionally give her a call and ask about her plans for the weekend, but the correspondence is always one-way. In fact, I haven't seen her in over a month. As far as I know, she doesn't have a boyfriend—she tells everyone she's too busy for a relationship—but still, I can't make sense of it. Maybe that's why I'm so infatuated: she's unpredictable, mysterious, and impossible to comprehend.

A few months ago, a large group of us went to an animal shelter to look at the puppies. Nobody had any intention of adopting one—we just wanted to gawk at them because they're cute. The dogs barked and pawed at us from behind thin metal bars, crying out with open mouths and round eyes, and it was difficult not to take one home. While most tried to get our attention, there was this one dog that simply lay down in the middle of his cage and stared at me. I put my hand up to the bars and he gently licked my fingers. He was brown, with white patches and dark circles around his eyes, and his fur was a bit straggly. It seemed as if he was nursing an old injury. I wanted to take him with us. Natalie urged me to buy him. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to live an ordinary life in the suburbs with her and the dog and a boring job and it actually didn't seem so bad—but I knew that was just a pipe dream.

“What would you call him?” she asked me.

“Interceptor,” I deadpanned.

She laughed. Said it was a funny name for a dog.

“Okay, yeah, we should probably check this out,” I tell the guys.

Doc grins and slaps the table. “Cool! You guys coming?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Scott, his speech beginning to slur. “But I wanna get laid tonight. It's been awhile. And I wanna buy some weed.”

“Didn't you hook up with a girl last weekend?” Craig asks. “At that birthday party?”

“Nah, we didn't do anything.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I was really into this girl and she was pretty attractive and I told her I hadn't had sex in, like, three months, and she said, ‘Try two years!' So I was flirting with her pretty hard and she was giving me the eyes and then Doug started eating a jar of mayo and I got distracted. And then I just, y'know, kinda wandered off.”

A brief moment of silence ensues before Craig explodes into laughter. “That's it? You were busy watching a guy eat
mayo
?”

“It was a big jar.”

“I don't know why,” Doc interjects, “but Amber sounded kinda pissed off at me. I might not be getting laid tonight, but goddammit, I'm gonna try.”

“You have chlamydia!” Craig reminds him.

“That remains to be seen. Besides, I can still spoon her.”