Seeing Red (9 page)

SIXTEEN

The wind is blowing harder now and a few smokers have gathered on the sidewalk, standing in a circle like a pack of hobos at a burn barrel. In the midst of the herd, I recognize a girl from my campus pub: her name is Caitlyn and she works there as a waitress. Naturally, I met her when I was drinking scotch between classes. She graduated in April, from what I heard, and I didn't think I would ever see her again.

I like Caitlyn, but she's a bit of an idiot. She has no interest in contemporary books or movies or music and she spends most of her time watching old sitcoms like
Perfect Strangers
and
Coach
. In her defence, though, I've met thousands of people in my life and I've found that a person's taste in art and entertainment is usually irrelevant. I once heard somebody say “What matters is
what you like
, not
what you are like
,” and trust me, that's complete horseshit. Don't believe it for a second. I have a theory that a successful friendship, or a relationship of any kind, is based on three simple things: chemistry, circumstance and longevity.

Chemistry refers to the undefinable biological forces that attract people together. Sense of humour, friendliness, pheromones—they're all a part of chemistry. Good chemistry doesn't necessarily require common interests, which is why people from entirely different cultures and backgrounds can become friends almost instantly upon meeting. And chemistry can build over time. Rachael and I had it in spades. But chemistry isn't always enough—you also need the circumstances to be in your favour. You have to work at the same job, or go to the same school, or have the same friends, or live in the same city, or be single at the same time. If the circumstances don't match up, then the relationship probably won't last; in fact, a change of circumstance is usually what causes people to drift apart. And then there's longevity: some people are your friends simply because you've known them for such a long time. Even if you no longer have anything in common, you can still reminisce and talk about years past and stay bonded out of a sense of loyalty or obligation—family being a good example of that, too.

My point is: I don't fault Caitlyn for her horrible taste in books and movies and music because
it doesn't matter
. The chemistry is there. We find things to talk about. We tell each other stories and discuss people we know and current events and our plans for the future and the conversation always flows easily. Besides, she's attractive and I wouldn't mind jumping her bones.

“Hey, do you have a light?” I ask.

She notices me and her eyes widen with recognition and then she embraces me with a lazy hug. “Hey man! What're you doing here?”

“Ah, my friends dragged me out. I was supposed to meet up with somebody, but they didn't show. What about you?”

“A friend of mine just got engaged, so a bunch of us are out celebrating. But yeah, good to see you! You're done school now, huh?”

“Not quite. Still trying to figure out what I wanna do.”

“That's cool. You gotta add me on Facebook!”

“I will. Real soon.”

“Good. Do it.” Then she looks down at her shoes and fidgets awkwardly as if she's cold before saying, “Do you wanna sit down somewhere? I've been on my feet all day.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I follow Caitlyn through an alleyway at the side of the building where we find a short concrete wall and a wooden fence to lean against while we smoke. She tells me she's going on a trip to Europe in August, and when I ask her where, she confuses Denmark with the Netherlands. I don't call her on it—she'll find out soon enough when she lands in Copenhagen. We talk for several minutes and she touches me on the arm when I make her laugh and I'm beginning to think she might actually like me. Or maybe she's just drunk.

“So, what about you?” she asks. “What're you doing for the rest of the summer?”

“Job hunting, mostly. But it's not going too well. I just wanna find a job I don't hate going to everyday, y'know?”

“Mm-hmm. Any idea where you wanna work?”

“I'd take anything, really. I don't have any marketable skills, though. Or unmarketable, for that matter.” I shrug and haul back on my cigarette. Thinking about the future makes me anxious. I try to avoid it entirely.

“Too bad we're not hiring at the pub. They really cut back on hours during the summer. It'd be fun if you worked there, too.”

“Yeah, I could bartend. Or serve. I've seen what you guys do and it doesn't look too hard,” I say jokingly.

“Hey! It is hard! Especially when you get some asshole trying to walk out on the bill. I had one the other night. Cost me, like, fifty bucks. That comes out of my pay. They expect me to keep tabs on every table. I'm like, ‘Install a camera or something.' But no, they basically want me to serve
and
work security.”

“Sounds like they need another bouncer.”

“Well yeah, among other things.”

“I could do that. I mean, I'm pretty intimidating.” I flex my biceps and she laughs and then halfheartedly punches me on the shoulder. “Be honest. You're intimidated right now.”

“Terrified!” she says.

I was so dispirited by Natalie's no-show tonight, but Caitlyn here might save the day. We could have a few drinks and then take a taxi back to her place and watch
Coach
. Or, at the very least, I can get her phone number and take her out at a later date. The possibilities are endless. Things are looking up.

“So, you got any plans this week?” I ask.

“Yeah! Big plans. I'm
so
looking forward to it. On Thursday, my boyfriend's band is playing at this house party and . . .”

As soon as she says the word “boyfriend,” I tune out.
Girls always drop that word into a conversation so callously, with such indifference, as if this homely-looking son of a bitch standing right next to them couldn't possibly be interested. I should've known. Every girl my age has a boyfriend. Boyfriends! I hate them more than any other demographic on earth. Under normal circumstances, I'd conceal my disappointment, continue to make eye contact and laugh and smile and nod at all the socially-required moments until I could politely excuse myself from the conversation. But tonight has been exceptionally fucked up and I don't have the patience to perform the usual song and dance routine.

“You have a boyfriend, huh?” I interrupt her.

“Yup! Been together almost six months now.”

“Any . . . friction there?”

“Any what?”

“Friction. Between you two.”

While initially confused by the question, she eventually answers, “No, things are going pretty good. I like him a lot.”

“So, you're probably gonna be together for a while, huh?”

“I hope so. . . .”

“Ah, crap.”

I drop my cigarette onto the ground and stomp it and then start walking away.

“Ethan? Where are you going?”

“Sorry, I gotta go . . . take a shit.”

Back in Lee's Palace, I leave the bathroom stall and wash my hands and then return to the bar upstairs where I immediately spot two of my friends on the dance floor. Craig is in the corner making out with a short blonde girl, possibly underage, while Doc is grinding his hips into another teenager who could be her twin. Rather than interrupt them, I go to the bar and order three shots of Jägermeister. The bartender nods and arranges three plastic cups in a row and then fills them to the brim and I pay him the money. As soon as his back is turned, I drink all three shots one after the other. By this point in the evening my taste buds are so numb that the shots go down like water. I push the empty cups forward and then momentarily rest my chin on the countertop between my folded arms, disappointed by Natalie and jealous of the fact that Caitlyn's boyfriend has his own rock band.

As I'm standing there brooding, I'm suddenly approached by a short, stalky, bald-headed bouncer who gives me a hard tap on the shoulder. He's shaped like a perfect sphere—a goddamn
orb
—and he has a gold earring in his left ear. “You can't stay here, man. You gotta go.”

“What? Why?”

“You were sleeping. Can't have that. You gotta go.”

“I wasn't sleeping! I put my head down for, like, five seconds! I'm fully awake!”

“Doesn't matter. You gotta go.” I can tell by the stern expression on his face that he's not going to budge. When bouncers want you out of their club, there's little you can do to persuade them otherwise. For a moment, I consider pushing him so that he'll roll away, but I refrain.

“Fine, let me get my coat,” I say reluctantly. He follows me to the front bench and watches me put on my jacket, and then I walk down the stairs and out onto Bloor Street as he closes the door behind me. It's surprisingly colder and windier than it was earlier in the evening, and the crowd of smokers who were here only minutes earlier have all but dispersed, although a few stragglers still remain.

Suddenly, I feel a vibration in my jacket's inner pocket and reach inside. My phone is ringing. It's Natalie.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hey! What's up?”

“Not much! I'm downtown on Bloor. What about you?”

“We're just leaving now. Sorry I didn't call you earlier! I had to work later than I thought I would. Me and my co-workers are on our way to Sneaky Dee's, if you wanna meet us there.”

“Yeah, sure. I'm pretty close now. Probably be there in ten?”

“Sounds good! See ya then.”

As soon as I hang up, I immediately dial Scott's number to let him know what happened and where to meet me. The phone rings. “Hello?” His voice faintly reverberates over the sound of dance music in the background.

“Hey! It's Reid!” I shout.

“Reid! Why are you calling me? Man, this chick is smokin'! She's Joe Frazier! And she said she'll do whatever I
want
!” He's clearly intoxicated and stumbles over his words.

“Scott! Listen to me! I got kicked out of the bar, so—”

“You what? Your phone is echoing.”

“I got kicked out, so you're gonna have to meet me at—”

“Why'd you get kicked out?”

“Just shut up and listen! Meet me at Sneaky Dee's, okay?”

“Man, you gotta stop getting kicked outta things—”

“I know. But listen. I'm gonna—”

“What?”

“I said I'm on my way to—”

“I can't hear you!”

“I SAID MEET ME AT SNEAKY DEE'S, YOU ASSHOLE!” I scream into the phone. A couple of concerned passers-by glare at me as if I'm off my medication.

“He's being an asshole,” I quietly assure them.

SEVENTEEN

At the intersection of Bathurst and Bloor I hop on a streetcar heading south. It's overflowing with people, so I stay at the front and hold onto the metal bar until I get off at College. Sneaky Dee's is on the corner, and its green, spaced-out bull sign is hard to miss. The building is divided into two sections: the first floor is a Tex-Mex restaurant specializing in large platters of enchiladas, quesadillas, nachos and refried beans with a kitchen that stays open until the early hours of the morning, long after the bars have closed. Upstairs, there's a small club complete with a stage and dance floor and tonight they're playing upbeat music from the fifties and sixties. It's very warm when I get to the top of the stairs and a haze of sweat and steam seems to emanate from the wooden floor like a sauna. I pay a five-dollar cover fee and then walk inside and immediately spot Natalie standing at the bar by herself waiting to order. I sidle up beside her as the opening guitar riff to “Cherry Cherry” begins to flow from the sound system.

“Man, this song got me through some tough times,” I deadpan, leaning against the counter with my eyes aimed straight forward.

“Really?” she says without turning her head. “You're a big Neil Diamond fan, huh?”

“Oh God yes. He changed my life.”

She laughs and then we say hello and she kisses me on the cheek. “I'm glad you came. Come on, let's dance. I'll teach you how to foxtrot or something.”

“Don't you wanna get a drink first?”

She grabs me by the hand and starts pulling me onto the dance floor. “Nah, I'm already buzzed! Come on!”

Natalie chaperones me through a sea of people until we're somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Then we start dancing, badly, essentially doing a contemporary version of “the twist.” Occasionally, I hold onto her hand and spin her around, or she wraps her arms around my neck and pushes her hips into mine, but we're both drunk and clumsy and I can't help but laugh at how uncoordinated we are. I should be embarrassed, but I don't care—I'm just happy to be with her again. She actually knows the lyrics to the song and she occasionally lip-syncs them with her eyes closed. It's cute.

When the song ends, she tells me she wants to go outside for a cigarette. We part the masses and go downstairs onto the street and then she leads me to a fire escape at the rear of the building. We climb halfway up the stairs and my knees ache and then we sit on the steps. The brick wall behind us is decorated in colourful graffiti and it shields us from the wind and everything is calm.

“I didn't know you
actually
smoked,” she says as I hand her a cigarette from my pack.

“I don't, really. Only when I drink.”

“Me too. Probably not a good idea to get addicted, what with the lung cancer and all.”

“Yeah. It's weird. Nicotine's never really done it for me. I can smoke an entire pack in one night and never get another craving.”

We both exhale and stare out into the night.

“So, let's talk about this whole law school thing,” she says. “What if it doesn't pan out? Are you gonna stay in Toronto? Get a job here? Or keep studying journalism?”

“I don't know. My lease is month to month, so I can leave anytime I want, but I don't know where else I'd go. I'm kinda tired of moving around all the time, y'know? I'd like to make it work here, but it's so expensive. . . . I don't know. What about you?”

“Well, our band is recording right now, so I'm hoping we can finish by the end of the summer so we can go on tour in the fall. Nothing fancy, just around Canada. It's pretty hard to turn it into an actual career, though. I mean, everybody can just download your stuff for free.”

“Yeah, but they'll still pay to see you live. And buy your shirts. I'll buy a shirt.”

She smiles. “I can get you a shirt.”

“Cool. I'm a medium.”

“But I don't think live shows and t-shirts will pay for the van and the studio costs and all that, y'know? Don't get me wrong, I don't really care about the money, but still, I have to pay my rent
somehow
.”

“I hear ya.”

She exhales slowly and the smoke dissipates into the midnight air. “Music used to mean more to people, y'know? Vinyl records were really, really big.” She holds out her hands vertically about a foot away from each other. “You took it home, you read the liner notes. It was art. They were valuable. People would go from store to store looking for that one
rare B-side. Then they came out with tapes and CDs and the music got a little smaller and smaller. Now it's on MP
3
files . . . what is that? You can't even see that. And you can download a whole record in, like, thirty seconds flat. All for free. It's the one thing in life people expect to get for free. I dunno. Maybe I'm wasting my time. I'm starting to think I should just go back to school—like you.”

She's right of course. Music doesn't mean anything to me anymore. I guess I was born in the wrong decade. I love old blues songs from the forties and fifties, rock n' roll from the sixties and seventies, punk rock from the eighties, grunge and alternative from the nineties, but what is there now? Maybe I'm just bitter because I spent almost ten years—ten!—learning how to play the guitar only to realize it didn't make me special at all. Almost everybody I know can play the guitar to some extent. Guitarists are a dime a dozen. Being able to write songs and play them live and jam with other musicians to create something original—
that's
what makes you special.

So, should I tell Natalie to be idealistic and follow her dreams, or suggest she pursue a more stable career path? Part of me wishes I had spent those ten years studying to become a doctor or a professor or an accountant, but where's the fun in that? And, honestly, who am I to be giving anyone advice?

“You'll do fine,” I say. “You're a really good singer.”

“Thanks.” She smiles and pauses to take another puff from her cigarette. “Again, I don't care about the money. I'm just sayin'.”

“I know.”

“Somebody told me you play guitar? It might've been Amber. Whoever it was, they said you were really good.”

“I was okay. I don't really play anymore though.”

“Why'd you stop?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Ah, I broke a string on my acoustic a while back and I just, y'know, never got around to fixing it.”

She glares at me, baffled.

“That's it? You need a
string
?”

“It's a real pain in the ass to change those!”

She tilts her head back and laughs and then flashes me that signature smile. “I'll buy you the strings, Ethan. It'll take two minutes.”

“Nah, I wouldn't remember how to play anyway.”

“Why, how long has it been?”

“I don't know. . . .”

“C'mon, tell me!”

“Um . . . maybe a year or two?”

“Jesus. Are you serious? A year? Well, that settles it. I'm getting you a pack of strings next time I'm out.”

I laugh and think nothing of it. “Okay. Deal.”

There's a long pause. We breathe in our cigarettes and continue sitting there in silence until she says, “You don't remember calling me a couple nights ago, do you?”

“What?”

“You called me really late. I think it was on Thursday night? At like,
2AM
. You don't remember this?”

“No. I don't remember anything.”

“You were really drunk.”

“That . . . doesn't sound like me. What'd we talk about?”

“Lots of things. We spoke for a good twenty minutes or so.”

“Oh, shit.”

“No, don't worry! It was fine. But I hope you feel better.”

I feel my heart tighten inside my chest, and so I try to shift the blame elsewhere. “I guess I drank too much that night. It's hard to keep up with Jeff and those guys, y'know? Sometimes they really go all out.”

“Hmm . . . You ever think about getting new friends?”

“What, ditch the guys? No way—”

“I didn't mean it like that, but—”

“No way. I couldn't.”

“I just meant that
maybe
it would be better if you didn't hang around people who were drunk and high all the time, that's all.”

“Look, I know they can seem like assholes, but they've been really loyal . . . like, no matter how badly I screw up, they always just laugh it off and invite me over the next weekend. So no . . . I couldn't ditch them like that.”

“Hmm. . . . Well, anyway, I hope you feel better.”