Thirteen Crucifixions, 2

Here is some more from my novel, The Thirteen Crucifixions.  Only read what you want when you want.  Hope it doesn't bore you.  And remember that the time setting is 1985 so don't be surprised if things seem a little bit quaint.

            Pierre came in and slumped into the opposite seat.

            “I thought you were working.”

            “They only wanted me for half a shift.”  Pierre ordered fries, and Stephen began to write: “Pierre just came in and I still wish he’d shave off that ridiculous moustache.”

            “What are you writing?”

            Stephen shoved over his journal.

            “Don’t you like being tickled?”

            “You make me itch.”

“Aw.  You said it was sexy.”

“When it was stubble, yeah, it made you look fifteen.”

“You pervert.”

“For your wildest fantasies, deah.”

They both dug into the fries.  They never asked permission from each other, for anything.  There were no boundaries between them.  They were always mistaken for brothers, often as twins with nearly identical dark-haired, dark eyed and faun-like lithe good looks.   Pierre was stockier, verging on muscular.  Stephen was lean and androgynous, making it very easy, during his time in the sex trade , to fool most of his johns into believing that he was a real woman.  They both left the sex industry more than a year ago.
It was getting late, and the sun seemed exhausted from its final effort to shine through the pre-winter darkness.  Nearly every conceivable variety of human being walked passed the window  outside.  Stephen always chose the same window table, second to the wall behind him.  A wealthy matron came in wearing a champagne mink car coat that nearly matched the colour of her hair.  She took the large table across from theirs.  She ordered a cup of tea while trying not to look at Stephen and Pierre.

“She’s back”, Pierre whispered theatrically.

“Sh, she’ll hear you”, Stephen said.

Looking over at her Pierre said, “Hi.”

“Oh, hello”, she said, evidently, but not convincingly startled.  “Still rather cold out, isn’t it?”

“Welcome to the Ice Age”, Stephen said, not looking at her.  Her accent was English, her voice plummy, her intonation upper-class, but somewhat North Americanized.  He could almost smell the money on her.

“Hasn’t it been chilly.  We’ve already had an entire winter and we're still in November.”  She had beautiful doe-like eyes set in a pale, powdered and discretely lined face.  Stephen couldn’t guess her age, but it was obvious that she had been very well taken care of.

“It’s still cold”, Stephen said. 

“It’s warmer in Montreal”, Pierre said.

            "Probably warmer in Siberia", said Stephen.

“In more than forty years in this city I have never seen such bitterly cold weather” the lady said.

“Dibs we have a warm Christmas”, Pierre said.

“Rainy Christmas”, said Stephen.

“Do you like the rain?” the lady said.

“As long as it stays outside where it belongs”, Stephen said.

“Are you English?” Pierre asked the lady.

“Yes, but I have lived here for quite a long time.  My husband and I moved here during the War.”

“Lots of rain in England?” Pierre said.

“It’s much like here”, she said.  She smiled as though to silently ask them to include her in their lives.  Something about this woman instinctively made him want to say “yes”, though he also wanted to scream over and over “No!”  The lady was giving all her attention to her tea, and Stephen stared blankly at the single sentence he'd just written.  Pierre devoured the rest of the fries.  He wanted to tell her something, anything, but he felt speechless and paralyzed.  Pierre, who had the social skills, alone could help, but seemed entirely uninterested in coming to the rescue.  One of the “Nancy Sisters”, as the Chinese waitresses were almost affectionately known, stopped by to sell them another coffee refill.  As though well aware that she was addressing a social inferior and trying her best to hide it, Pamela asked for more hot water.  Good, Stephen thought, she’s not about to leave yet.  In his journal he recorded another sentence: “That rich bitch is going to keep me in diamonds.”  He looked over.  She was reading a magazine.  Pierre still appeared oblivious, totally absorbed in eating.  Suddenly Stephen blurted, “Is that the National Enquirer?”

The lady reddened a little, shoved it an inch away, and said softly, “Yes, it is, I’m afraid.”  She smiled and took a sip of tea, as though to remedy her embarrassment.  “It’s rather nice to relax with.”

“Is that Joan Collins on the cover?” Pierre said.

“The poor man’s Liz”, Stephen said.

“Oh, Liz Taylor, you mean.  She is actually”, the lady said.  “Don’t you agree?”

“Do you watch ‘Dynasty?’” Stephen said.

“I daresay that I’ve seen it on occasion.”

“Do you agree that Larry Hagman is gay?” Pierre said.

“Different show”, Stephen said, “He’s on Dallas.”

“I haven’t thought of it, personally.”

“He must be a fairy”, Stephen said.  “Look how in ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ he always let Barbara Eden sleep in her bottle?  A luscious dish like her?  He must be a fag.  And those hissy-fits of his?  C’mon!”  To the lady he said, “Me and Pierre, like, we been together for, what, six years?  Since we were kids.  We’re, like, married I guess. Might as well be anyway.”

“You both seem very young”, said the lady.

“We have a good plastic surgeon”, Stephen said, giggling.

“You can’t be more than twenty.”

“A little more, but not much”, said Pierre.

Stephen then just noticed how badly applied was this woman’s make-up.  The kohl lay thick like fresh bruising around her pretty eyes, as though she’d hastily reapplied it after weeping.  Her hands, wearing very costly looking rings betrayed an age more advanced than her face would admit.  He was sure he could see some evidence of nip and tuck and wondered how many facelifts she had had already.  Certainly now a very handsome woman, in her youth she must have been ravishing.

“I’m afraid that I must be off”, she said, picking up her bill.  “My husband will be needing me soon, and I don’t want Margery to tire herself.”

“Margery?” Stephen said.

“She is helping me look after my husband, who is quite ill.”

“Margery Germaine?”

“Do you know her?”

Pierre said, “Say hi to her for us.”

“And you are?” she said bending over him with her bill in her hand.

“Pierre.  And this is Stephen.”

“Pierre?” she said, evidently charmed.  “Are you French?”

“My mother is.  My father was Peruvian.”

“Was Peruvian?”

“He died when I was a kid.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“I was only two at the time.  I don’t remember him at all.”

“Well, it’s been very nice chatting with you, Pierre and Stephen.  I must be on my way now.”

“Wait a minute”, Stephen said.  “Do you have a name?”

“Oh, that was rude of me I suppose.  I am Mrs. Newtonbrook-Jones.  You may call me Pamela.  Ta-ta.” 

As soon as she left Stephen wrote, “She looks like an old drag queen who still can’t get her make-up right.”

“What did you just write?” Pierre said, taking a sip of his coffee.  Stephen showed him the page.  “Oh, you’re too funny.  And too fucking true.”  In unison they cackled and giggled like two little schoolgirls trying to sound like Hallowe’en witches.

“I think she likes me”, Stephen said.

“Likes us”, Pierre said.

“She likes me better.  Hey, Sugar, let’s get rich.”

“Don’t expect me to bone her.”

“She’s a wannabe fag-hag for fuck sake.  We’ll be for her a nice, safe little investment.”  They started cackling and giggling again.  They had actually noticed this Pamela Newtonbrook-Jones for the past several weeks, walking up and down Davie Street, shyly and not very discreetly peering in the window whenever they happened to be sitting in Chino’s. Only today she had mustered the courage to come inside and introduce herself.  What would she, a wealthy British matron, possibly want with Stephen or Pierre or Chino’s or Davie Street, Stephen couldn’t begin to guess.  But now their chance to pounce had arrived.  She had only to come in again, and she surely would come in again.  She was so dewy-eyed with need and desire and thirst for a good slumming that there was no way they were going to turn her down.  Stephen had only to phone Margery, or get Glen to talk to her, since she was looking after the old lady’s husband.  Whatever emotion it was that this encounter had summoned in him, it was making his skin clammy.  He was feeling grumpy and irritable.  He really wanted to be right now as far away from Pierre, away from everyone, as possible.  Pierre, as though on cue, got up to leave. 

“What, you’re leaving?”  Stephen always said this, whether he wanted him around or not.  It was love-talk.

“I’m going to look for Glen.”

“Suit yourself, Sugar.  You always do, anyway.”  Even though they both knew how untrue this was, they silently acknowledged this as one of their many little rites of bonding.

“I’ll see you at home”, Pierre said, sweeping up both their bills together.

As soon as Pierre was gone Stephen wrote “I am a prisoner.”  Twirling the pen in his fingers he stared at the brief sentence. He wrote, “I am waiting.”  For what, or for whom did he wait?  He did want Glen to show up, but this wasn’t always likely because one never knew with Glen, who, like a friendly neighbourhood cat, always came and went as he pleased.  He’d finally abandoned his fantasy of ever going to bed with him.  Glen was too pure for that sort of thing.  He was holiness personified.  Stephen wrote “Glen is holiness personified.”  Not really his style of speaking, it was more like Glen who always, these days, appeared to be on some sort of mission.  He’d given up on trying to save Stephen, though he still focused some effort on Pierre, who was more suggestible to religious manipulation.

How long had he been sitting inside Chino’s?  It had already been dark out for a while.  Glen hadn't appeared.  Barbara the glamorous tootsie had made a brief appearance, remaining seated across from Stephen long enough to bore him while finishing her coffee and muffin.  She wasn’t usually boring, and she remained, though already approaching forty one of the most supremely beautiful women he had ever known.  He simply wasn’t in the mood, as usual, for company, unless with Pierre to whom he was almost disturbingly accustomed, or Glen.  He stared down at the three pages of writing.  It was as though something had taken possession of him.  Stephen had never written anything like this before:

“I’m an orphan.  I am a survivor.  I don’t know who my parents are.  They tell me that when I was two I was taken into foster care in Ashcroft, after living in the care of the local Indian band.  I’m not an Indian.  They tell me that my mother, if she’s still alive, would be a very rich white woman.  They had me in a lot of different homes.  I still don’t know how many.  Only in grade two and three did I actually stay in the same place.  It was kind of nice, actually.  She was a nice lady, Mona, with her two daughters who were kind of like big sisters.  She didn’t have a husband, and life seemed pretty normal.  They said I was doing really well in school.  The food was always good.  I think I might have been happy.  But it didn’t last.  Bert and Wilma decided they wanted to adopt me.  Turns out they just wanted cheap labour for their fucking cherry orchard.  Good thing they left me alone.  It could’ve been a lot worse.  Turns out I could come and go as I pleased, as long as I did something in the orchard, even if it was just cutting the grass between the trees sometimes.  I think they really did want a kid, at least Wilma seemed to but Bert was usually too drunk to even notice me, or care.  I can’t remember how many times I caught him drunk and passed out on the kitchen floor near the stairs, usually reeking of piss.  What a fucking loser.  Wilma I would sit with at the kitchen table in the mornings.  Her hair in curlers and wearing her bathrobe.  She liked doing the crossword with me.  Not exactly a Mom, and we never talked about much, but she was THERE, and I think that we did love each other.  Then her brother came and changed everything.  I was thirteen the first time he had sex with me.  I didn’t know whether I was enjoying it or not.  He wasn’t exactly studly, but he was kind of sexy in a creepy wannabe a rock star kind of way.  And I fell for it, because I was only thirteen and I didn’t know what I wanted.  He was eighteen.    We continued fooling around for the next year or two and then he gets the idea that we should drive down to Vancouver together in his truck.  That’s when I met Pierre.  Dave met this girl in Vancouver and ended up staying with her.  I wasn’t welcome, so he gave me twenty bucks and told me to fuck off.  Fortunately it was summer and not raining, so I tried to sleep on the beach.  Well, there was Pierre, out looking for some tail, and he ended up taking me home with him.  He was already hooking, and he taught me the tricks of the trade.  I don’t know.  Could have done worse, I guess.  He’s never left me, really, and I still can’t imagine life without him, which I guess is kind of scary, because one day something might happen and I don’t want to think about it.  Where the fuck is Glen.  I guess I could phone him, but I don’t phone people.  I don’t know why, I just don’t.  Sometimes he phones me.  He’s almost the only person I know who really bothers, or who cares.  No one cares really.  Except Glen, and Pierre.  No one else really gives a fuck, so then why should I? I can’t remember the last time I worked.  Don’t miss it.  God, some of the crap on the street.  At least I could get away with being selective.  Only when pickings were real slim would I go with someone ugly, and fortunately I always did pretty good with my regulars.  Yeah, Pierre taught me well.  We even shared a few.  Never felt like we were competing, we were always looking out for each other’s ass.  Too bad that doesn’t happen in the straight work world.  Fuck, I had enough of that kind of shit working in the fucking Pitstop.  Probably about as straight a job as I’m ever going to get.  Drugs everywhere, and still some of the customers expected me to blow them, even with lousy tips and minimum fucking wage for pay.  I did better working the corner.  Now that the Pitstop’s closed I don’t know what I’m going to do.  Haven’t gone back to turning tricks, and I don’t want to.  That’s all there is to it.  I was warned about all that when I was dead.  If I was dead.  yeah, I was dead.  I couldn’t even kill myself right, and now my wrists have the scars to prove it.  I don’t remember what I saw, but I was distinctly told that I was going back to start a new life, and that I was not to resume my old way of life.  I was also told that I’d be returning to them soon, only permanently. This can only mean that I’m going to die young.  I bet I already have AIDS.  Probably the virus anyway.  I never bothered to use protection , but no one started using condoms till it was too late.  Now we’re paying the piper for this one.  Well, I’m sick of writing this horse shit, but I don’t know what to do.  Oh no, it’s one of the Nancy Sisters again, trying to sell me another coffee refill.  I don’t think so.  It’s cold out there, but not as bad as it was for a while.  I should go home. I don’t know where the fuck Pierre has got to. Where’s Glen.  I’m leaving.”

The tiny bachelor apartment was empty but for the usual chaos of clothes, unwashed dishes and other detritus of living.  Stephen, without turning on the lights, since he enjoyed sitting in the dark, channel surfed from the one comfy chair in the place.  He was smoking a cigarette.  There was nothing on that he wanted to watch.  He turned on the radio, going from station to station, eventually settling for some classical music, which he had recently discovered that he had a taste for.  He still didn’t know Beethoven from Brahms, but Mozart he could recognize and enjoy as Dame Kiri Te Kanawa warbled sublimely the Aria of the Queen of the Night.  Butting the cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray he stripped naked and crawled into bed.  He wasn’t normally this tired so early in the evening.

By the glowing red numbers on the digital clock radio, Stephen could tell that he had slept for exactly two hours.  He sat up awake and fully alert.  He did not want to turn the light on.  It was ten past nine.  Suddenly he was thinking about Margery.  He had no idea what had become of Pierre.  He might be at Glen’s, but Stephen still wasn’t about to phone him.  As for Margery, he didn’t know how to contact her, nor had he seen her in months.  Glen had told him all about the dying rich man, husband of Pamela whatever her faw-faw-faw name was.  If he could track down Margery then she might get them in touch with each other, or maybe it was better that he wait for her next visit to Chino’s.  She would be back.  Her kind always returned.  She was ripe for the picking, this one.  Probably weeks, or even days before her old man would croak and then she’d be all ready for him.  He wasn’t used to connecting so strongly to a female.  Maybe he was looking for his mother.  He’d never met the woman.  Simply that she was wealthy and had given birth to him in the bush, and then the Indians got him.  Could she be?  Might she be?  He had seen stranger things occur.  But he didn’t think so, and Stephen didn’t dare assume anything about this Pamela except that she was going to be for him and Pierre both one lovely meal ticket after another.  He always knew these things in advance, and Steven in his prognostications was never mistaken.  He was hungry.  He knew that the baloney in the fridge was still good, since Pierre had bought it only two days ago.  There was bread, mustard, and a tomato.  That would do it.  He hadn’t bothered to get dressed and stood naked in the kitchen cobbling together his sandwich.  He heard the door open and Pierre came in with Glen.