The Falls (6 page)

The smoke wafted in through the open doors and permeated the church's basement. I hated the smell of smoke. If there was a Hell the flames would smell like cigarettes.

I glanced at my watch again. It was almost eight-thirty. My mother had to be leaving soon if she was going to get to work on time. Being on time for me wasn't going to happen. By the time I got out of here and up to the power station I was going to be really late, and most of the beer would be gone already. Actually, knowing Timmy and Bobby the way I did, it might
all
be gone. Wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth—this AA meeting would be keeping
one
person from drinking tonight . . . me! My drinking problem
would be that I had nothing to drink. Just the thought of that was making me want to bolt for the door.

“That's everybody,” Mrs. Bayliss said. “And that means that this piece is for you.” She handed me a plate. There were also pieces for both her and my mother. The three of us were the only people left inside the hall.

“Are you missing school?” Mrs. Bayliss asked me.

“Are you joking?” I exclaimed.

She laughed. “Mostly. You may not believe this, but the only people who look forward to summer vacation more than the students are the teachers.”

“Then you must
really
look forward to the summer,” I said, and both she and my mother laughed.

“You know, I heard some good things about you, just the other day,” she said.

“You did?”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“Who were you talking to?” my mother asked.

“Gus Green.”

“My shop teacher?”

“And my neighbour.”

“Jay got a great mark in auto shop,” my mother said. “Wasn't it a ninety-one?”

“Ninety-three,” I corrected her.

“Gus says you have a real talent.”

“Jay has always been really good with cars—actually, anything with a motor. I don't think I could even keep my old heap on the road if it wasn't for his help.”

“I don't know the first thing about cars,” Mrs. Bayliss said. “If the engine makes a funny noise I just turn up the radio.”

That sounded like most of the people in my class. My marks were so good because most of the other people were stupid when it came to engines. A lot of the jokers in my class couldn't even figure how to release the hood, let alone know what to do if they ever managed to open it.

It also didn't hurt that I liked Gus—he let me call him Gus. If I was late for class I could make it up by walking in with a couple of coffees. He liked his done the same as Timmy, with three creams and three sugars. And if there were problems in the class he didn't send people to the office, he dealt with it himself. There was one class where a couple of guys—older guys who should have been in Grade 12—started challenging him. It looked like it might come to blows. Gus just reached behind the counter and pulled out a good-sized piece of pipe and told them to sit down, shut up, screw off, or get smashed. They decided it was time to sit down. Gus was cool. Way too cool to be a teacher.

“When Jay was ten he built a go-kart,” my mother said. “And after that there were mini-bikes. He could have a great future as a mechanic.”

“Gus thinks more than that . . . not that there's anything wrong with being a mechanic. Good money, honest work, and who doesn't need a good mechanic?” Mrs. Bayliss said. “Gus said that Jay understands the bigger picture— those were his words—not only how to fix things but how they work, and how they could be designed to work better.”

“What did he think Jay could be?” my mother asked.

“He said he thought Jay could be a great engineer.”

“That's what Jay wants to be!” my mother exclaimed.

“You do?” Mrs. Bayliss asked.

“I
did
.”

“But now you don't?”

I shook my head.

“What made you change your mind?” she asked.

“Things change. I wanted to be a garbage man and a cowboy once, too.”

“That cowboy thing sounds promising, but maybe you should think about engineering again. I know it would take a lot of work and time . . .”

“Five years of university,” I said. I had a strange feeling of déjà vu. This was a warped version of the conversation I'd just had with Timmy.

“It sounds like a long time, but—”

“And a lot of money. A whole lot of money,” I said, cutting her off.

“Yes, it would be,” Mrs. Bayliss said, shaking her head slightly.

“I'll do whatever I have to do to help,” my mother said.

“Unless you're going to start
winning
at blackjack instead of dealing, it's a lot more money than you can raise,” I pointed out.

“There are also loans and even scholarships available to good students,” Mrs. Bayliss said.

“Yeah, good students . . . like that applies to me.”

“It could,” Mrs. Bayliss said.

I wanted to ask who was fooling who, but I didn't want to waste any more time. There might still be two or three beers left if I hurried. The longer I was here the more I needed those beers.

“I was also hoping to ask you about something,” Mrs. Bayliss asked. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Um . . . not really . . . I'm already late.”

“Speaking of late, I'd better get going myself,” my mother said. “I don't want to get fired . . . especially if I'm going to be saving up for engineering school.” She and Mrs. Bayliss hugged. “Thanks for everything,” my mother said.

“Come on, I'll walk you out,” I offered.

“I've got an idea,” Mrs. Bayliss said. “How about if I drive you where you're going, and then I can ask my question and you won't be any later than you already are?”

That had to be the worst idea I'd ever heard in my entire—

“What a wonderful offer!” my mother said. She gave me a hug and then hurried down the aisle and was gone.

“So where am I driving you to?”

“That's okay,” I said. “I don't want to put you out.”

“I've got nothing else on my schedule. I was just going home to watch TV.”

The last thing in the world I wanted was for anybody to see me being driven around by one of the teachers from my high school. That was even worse than my mother driving me. Besides, how could I explain to Mrs. Bayliss that I was headed for a bush party behind the power station?

“I'm not going far. Just to Timmy's,” I lied. “Maybe you could ask me that question before I go.”

“Don't want to be seen with one of your high school teachers, huh?”

“Well . . .”

“I understand. I'll be quick. I was wondering if you've ever thought of getting involved in Alateen.”

“Alateen?”

“It's a group run by AA for teenagers who—”

“I don't have a drinking problem!” I exclaimed.

“I didn't say you did.”

“I don't even drink!” I lied.

She shot me a look of disbelief, and I stared down at the floor.

“Alateen is for teenagers who have a parent who has a drinking problem.”

“My mother doesn't have a drinking problem . . . not anymore.”

She smiled. “Your mother is still an alcoholic and she always will be.”

“That part doesn't make sense.”

“It doesn't make sense to a lot of alcoholics, either. That's why they start drinking again, because they forget.”

My mother wasn't going to start drinking again. I didn't have to worry about that—at least, not the way I used to worry about it.

“Alateen is a group of teenagers, led by a counsellor, who talk about their shared experiences coping with an alcoholic parent,” she said.

“Coping?”

“Problems that it caused them, difficult times, things that they had to do for their parents, things that their parents should have done for them but didn't.”

I shook my head. “I didn't have any of those.”

“Denial is the hardest part.”

“I'm not denying anything. I gotta go.”

I started to walk away and she reached out and grabbed my arm. “I just want you to know that there's help out there if you ever want it. Okay?”

I nodded. She let go of my arm and I turned and walked away, quickly, not looking back, just hoping she wasn't going to call out to me.

 

 

 

 

I
THREADED MY WAY
through the throng of people crowding the sidewalk. There were parents with little kids in tow, groups of Japanese tourists all following dutifully behind their guide, flashing away with their cameras, single men and women, and groups of teenagers in town for the night, looking for excitement, or trouble . . . or both.

It was now just on the edge between day and night. The neon signs that had been lit up for hours were starting to glow brighter in contrast to the darkness settling in around us. The signs offered flashing glimpses of excitement—food, drink, entertainment, gambling. Even though I'd walked down this street a million times, it still sent a little rush up my spine. I knew that the signs were mainly just hype, but it was flashing, multicoloured, brilliantly bright hype.

I looked up in time to see the fake volcano rumbling on top of one of the buildings, threatening to shower the people with fake lava. There were a lot of things along the strip that were fake.

I stopped for a few seconds to watch my personal favourite. It was a mechanical mannequin dressed in circus tights moving along a tightrope stretched high above the
traffic. Slowly, foot over foot, he made his way across the street. I couldn't help thinking that it would be quite the view from up there. I loved high places. Besides, I thought, with a little training, I could learn to walk a tightrope or—

“Sorry,” a man said as he bumped into me.

Instinctively I put my hand down to my pocket to check for my wallet. That was a trick pickpockets used, bumping into you so they could lift your wallet. Mine was still there.

“I was so busy looking up,” he said, gesturing to the tightrope walker above our heads, “that I wasn't watching where I was going.”

“That's okay,” I mumbled in response. “I was looking at the same thing.”

The man rejoined his girlfriend and I started off again. I chuckled to myself. It was stupid of me to think that somebody would try to take my wallet. Not because there weren't pickpockets around—there were groups that worked this strip regularly—but because they didn't usually target kids. Taking my wallet would mean getting about three bucks, an out-of-date library card, and a couple of bus tickets. Not exactly the score they would be looking for.

As well, there'd only been him and his girlfriend. Pickpockets usually worked in a team of three. At least, that's what my mother had told me, and she knew about these things. She was pretty friendly with Dan, the head of security at the casino, and she often told me the stories he'd told her.

She said there were teams of thieves who travelled the world, moving from city to city. Pickpockets, thieves, and
con men of all different types would work the circuit, from London to Monte Carlo to Atlantic City to Vegas to Niagara Falls. Where else except on a list of casino towns would you hear Niagara Falls in the same sentence as those places? It sounded like a great way to see the world and rack up some frequent flier points.

All of the casinos knew about these people and tipped each other off. They exchanged information and photos and video. Almost every square inch of most casinos was covered by video cameras. The security guys did whatever they could to stop the thieves. They didn't like anybody ripping off their customers . . . well, anybody who wasn't them. Not that the casinos ripped people off, exactly. Everything done in the casino was legal. They didn't actually cheat anybody. It was just that the odds were always stacked in the casino's favour. Whether it was blackjack, roulette, or the slot machines, you were going to lose in the end. Sure, some people won for a while, but most lost, and some lost big . . . really big.

My mother had told me that the dealers and other floor staff were trained to tip off security if somebody ended up a really big loser. Especially if it was somebody who was taking it bad or looked like he couldn't afford to lose. Security would stay close and even follow him out of the casino and back to his hotel, just to make sure he was safe. The last thing they wanted was for a big loser to go to the river and jump in—commit suicide.

When my mother first told me that, I said I thought it was pretty decent of them, watching out for these guys. But she told me that “decent” had nothing to do with it.
Public suicides made for bad publicity, and that could drive away business. They didn't mind so much if some guy killed himself, as long as he did it quietly—hopefully after he'd left town—so nobody could blame the casino.

“Hey, Jay!”

I looked over. My friend Jack was standing at the open door of one of the video arcades that lined the streets. He was wearing one of those aprons that hold change in a bunch of pockets. Jack worked there.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Busy. And noisy.”

The ringing, buzzing, and roaring of a hundred games flooded out through the door. I looked in. The place was packed, and every game seemed to be in use.

“You talk to your boss yet about me working here?” I asked.

“I talked. He said there's no spots right now. Although, to tell you the truth, if he doesn't get off my back and stop giving me so many crappy shifts you might get
my
job.”

“You really thinking about quitting?”

“I'm thinking about it all the time. If I could find something else I'd be gone.”

“Yeah, jobs are hard to find,” I said.

“Maybe for you, because you're only fifteen. I could find another job in ten minutes.”