The Falls (3 page)

“Well, if you don't
know
, and you didn't even really
know
me, I don't know how you could think
anything
about me.”

“It's just some of the things you said.”

“I don't remember saying anything to you. We didn't start hanging out until Grade 8.”

“It wasn't something you said to me, it was . . . it's nothing,” he mumbled.

“It's got to be something. Just spit it out.”

He didn't answer. He just kept digging the knife into the wood. He almost had the “T” completed.

“What did I say?” I asked.

Timmy looked up at me. “Do you remember Career Day?”

“Career Day? What are you talking about?”

“In Grade 7 they had a Career Day. People came in to talk to everybody about what they did for a living, and all the kids went and heard different people speak.”

“Yeah . . . I guess I remember that . . . so what?”

“You and me were in one of the sessions together,” Timmy said.

“Yeah, if you say so.”

“And we each had to say what we wanted to be when we grew up. Do you remember?”

“I remember that—sort of—but I don't remember you being there. There were lots of kids in the group.”

“I think there were like twenty or thirty,” Timmy said. “Kids from all different classes.”

“Well, obviously you remember me. What did I say?”

“You mostly just sat and listened while everybody talked about how they wanted to be a professional hockey player or a hairdresser or a rock star. When it was your turn you said you wanted to be an engineer,”
Timmy explained. “And I remember thinking, ‘What sort of a goof would want to drive a train?'”

“Not a train driver, you idiot!” I snapped.

“I know that now. I found out later that it had to do with building things.”

“That's a structural engineer,” I said. “There's lots of different types. Chemical, medical, aerospace, mechanical—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Timmy interrupted. “That's when I started thinking you were a loser. At least driving a train made
some
sense.”

“And what doesn't make sense about being an engineer?” I asked.

“How long you got to go to school to be one of those?” Timmy asked.

“I don't know. Five, maybe six or seven years of university, I guess.”

“And how much does it cost to go to university for a year?”

“I don't know exactly. A lot of money.”

“And to even get into one of those schools don't you have to have, like, really, really high marks?”

“I guess.”

“So to become an engineer you have to be smart and have lots of money, right?”

“Yeah, probably,” I answered.

“So, unless your mother's making a lot more money working at the casino than I think, you haven't got any money,” Timmy said. “And unless I saw your last report card wrong, you ain't that smart, either.”

“I do a lot better than you do!” I snapped.

“Big deal.
Everybody
does a lot better than I do. Being smarter than me isn't something that's gonna win you a medal . . . or get you into engineer school.”

Maybe my marks weren't that high, but I did pass every subject, and I was good at math, and if I really did work harder I knew I could bring my marks up and . . . who was I kidding?

“What do you want to be now?” Timmy asked.

I shrugged and shook my head. “I don't know.”

“Me neither, and that's why neither of us is a loser.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Before, you had all these dreams about being some sort of engineer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And now you don't, right?”

“Not anymore.”

“And that's why you aren't a loser anymore.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “When I had dreams, I was a loser. Now I don't have dreams, I'm not a loser.”

“Exactly!” Timmy stuck his knife into the table to punctuate his point. “The only losers I know are the guys who aren't smart enough to know that there's no point in having a dream that isn't going to come true. The ones who believe they have a chance to make something of themselves, they're the real losers.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

Timmy shook his head. “Look around. Who do you know who made it?”

“Made it?”

“Got their dream.”

“Some people get the things they dream about,” I argued.

“Yeah? Name one.”

“Well . . . people on TV, or that you read about in the newspaper or—”

“I'm talking about
real
people, people from here, people you know. Name one, just one.”

“How about the Jamisons?” I asked.

“They won a frigging lottery!” Timmy exclaimed. “And not even the big prize, just fifty thousand dollars! And besides, all they really did with the money was buy a second-hand car that kept breaking down and a double-wide trailer. Is that your idea of making it . . . to end up in a double-wide trailer?”

“No, it's just—”

“You're not a loser,” Tim said. “Just don't start getting any stupid ideas.”

“Wanting more than this is stupid?”

“Wanting it isn't. That's human nature. Thinking you have a chance to get it . . . now that's stupid.”

“You know what
is
stupid?”

“What?” Timmy asked.

“You!”

“Hey, don't get mad at me for telling you the truth,” he said.

“You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you in the butt!” I snapped.

“Look around,” Timmy said. “Nobody from here ever gets anywhere else. Nobody makes it.”

“I'm not from around here,” I said.

“You're not? You were born here.”

“But I left.”

“And you came
back
. That's even worse. Get real.”

“I am real. More real than you, saying that nobody from here ever makes it.”

“I'm not talking about somebody who got a job at the casino, or working in the Ripley's Museum, or some guy who's the night manager at some stupid hotel barely making minimum wage. I'm talking about somebody who
really
made it.”

I got up from the bench. “Well maybe I'm going to be the first.”

“You?” he asked, and he chuckled.

“Why not me?”

“A better question is ‘Why you?' What makes you think that you're better than everybody else? What makes you think you can make it when nobody else can? You think you're better than everybody else?”

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe you
are
a loser,” Timmy said.

“Screw you!”

“No thanks, you're not my type.”

“Screw off!” I yelled, and then I turned and started walking away.

“Real clever!” Timmy screamed. “That's the type of language I think of when I think of an engineer!”

I kept walking, not looking back, but I held up one hand with the middle finger raised.

“Hey!” Timmy yelled. “I got just one question!”

I stopped and turned around. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Bobby's older brother got him a two-four of brew. Me and him talked about splitting it. We're gonna meet up behind the power plant around seven. You coming?”

I wanted to tell him to screw off again. I wanted to go back and knock that knife out of his hand and smack him across the face. I wanted to do a lot of things.

“I'll see you at seven,” I said, and then I turned and walked away.

“And don't be too late or there'll just be empty bottles for you to sniff!”

I didn't answer. I just kept walking.

“Hey, Jay!” Timmy screamed, and I looked back over my shoulder. “Thanks for the breakfast, man!”

 

 

 

 

W
HEN I OPENED THE DOOR I
could hear music and smell oatmeal cooking. Both were sure signs that my mother was awake and up.

“Hello!” I yelled out.

“Good morning, Jay!” she answered. “Come and join me for breakfast!”

“I've already eaten!” I said and continued up the stairs.

“Hang on!” she yelled.

I stopped on the top step and she appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing a ratty old housecoat and her hair was in curlers.

“I want to talk. Come and sit with me while I eat.”

I never liked those
I want to talk
conversations. That never signalled anything good. I paused for a second, and then thumped back down the stairs.

“Take it easy!” my mother said. “I want you to come
down
the stairs, not
through
the stairs!”

“Sorry.”

“There's enough to fix up around here without you breaking the stairs.”

“If I broke 'em, I'd fix 'em,” I said as I continued down at a more gentle pace.

She met me at the bottom with a hug. I figured I was getting too big to be hugged all the time, but it still felt good. Besides, a hug meant that whatever she wanted to talk about wasn't something I'd done wrong.

“I know you'd fix them. I don't know what we'd do if you weren't here to do all the work that needs to be done.”

She let me go and I followed her down the hall to the kitchen. There was oatmeal bubbling away on the stove and a lit cigarette perched in an ashtray on the table.

“I thought you were quitting,” I said as I walked over and turned down the radio. Country music gave me a headache
and
indigestion.

“I did quit.” She gave a sad little smile. “I quit between each cigarette.”

“That wasn't even funny the first time I heard it.”

“It's not easy.” She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. “That was my last one, promise.”

“You shouldn't make promises you can't keep,” I warned her.

“This time is different. I'm trying something new.”

“I thought you'd already tried everything . . . gum, nicotine patches, acupuncture.”

“Hypnosis . . . I'm going to be hypnotized.”

“You're joking, right?”

“No. There's a hypnotist performing in the lounge this week. He's really very nice, and—”

“You think everybody is nice,” I said.

“Not everybody.”

“Almost everybody.”

She walked over to the stove and gave the oatmeal a stir. “Regardless, he said he's had great success in helping people stop smoking.”

“He's a nightclub hypnotist. He's probably had more success making people cluck like chickens.”

“Then we have nothing to lose,” my mother said.

“What do you mean?”

“Either I stop smoking, or he convinces me I'm a chicken and we have a steady supply of eggs for breakfast. Speaking of which, what exactly did you have for breakfast?”

“Coffee and a donut.”

“That's not enough for a growing boy. You need more than that.”

“There was cream in my coffee. Does that count as a dairy product?”

She burst out laughing. I could always make her laugh. “I don't know what I'd do without you,” she said. She put a bowl of oatmeal down in front of me.

“But I've already had—”

“Not another word!” she exclaimed. “Eat!”

I tried to get up out of my chair and she stopped me.

“I was just going to get a spoon,” I said. “Unless you want me to eat it with my fingers.”

“I'll get you a spoon.” She opened up a drawer and pulled out two, one for each of us.

“You said you wanted to talk,” I said. Whatever it was, I just wanted to get it started so it could end. I hated waiting.

“Yes,” my mother said. “You must have come in pretty late last night.”

“Earlier than you.”

“I didn't have any choice. My shift ran until almost three in the morning. So what time did you get in?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. I don't have a watch and I didn't look at the clock.”

“It had to be after one-thirty because I called and there was no answer,” she said.

“It might have been a lot earlier. I could have been asleep already. You know I can't hear the phone from my room.”

She took a long sip from her coffee. I didn't think she believed me, but there was nothing she could do about it.

“Do you know what tonight is?” my mother asked.

“Friday night.”

“It's more than just Friday night.”

“The first Friday night of the summer?” I asked.

“That too, but more important. I thought you'd know,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“I do know.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “It's your anniversary. Five years sober.”

“You remembered!” she exclaimed.

“Of course. I was going to get you a card, but Hallmark doesn't seem to make one that covers this occasion.”

“They should. Do you have an idea how many alcoholics and recovering alcoholics there are in this country?”

“I know exactly how many there are because you keep telling me,” I explained.

“At the meeting tonight I get my five-year medallion.”

“You're not working?” I asked. This was possibly going to put a wrench in my plans to be out late again.

“I'm going to work my shift after the meeting. I've got nine to three in the morning again.”

So much for having to come in early. I could stay out as late as I wanted.

“And because it's a special night, the meeting is open.”

“Closed” meant that nobody but AA people could attend. “Open” meant that anybody could come to the meeting . . . oh, no.

“Family and friends are allowed to come,” my mother said. “And since you're all the family I have, I was really hoping that you could—”