Beer
just didn’t taste that good to Stefan tonight.
One mug at the Ivanhoe seemed all he could stomach. The place was a dive anyway, with some of the
cheapest and stalest draft in the city.
A nightly side-show of punks, trailer trash and Indians. He just wasn’t in the mood for squalor. He did not feel like drinking tonight, which
seemed most unusual. Had he not just
broken up with his girlfriend? But he
wasn’t feeling anxious. For a change
Stefan didn’t feel tortured. He couldn’t
understand why. Except, perhaps, that he
had done the right thing? He had set
Melissa free. He thought of dropping by
the Steel Toe. No, she was working
tonight and his presence would only upset her.
He could return to the house. She
might be off somewhere fucking Ed, or fucking some worthy guy. She was an extremely sensuous woman. Melissa in Stefan’s opinion needed an awful
lot of sex. Far more and of an
infinitely more concentrated variety than he had been able to provide her. That’s if he was going back to the
house. It wasn’t that far from the
Ivanhoe.
At least it had finally stopped
raining. The air was cool, fresh, a
delicious contrast to the smoke-filled, baptized in beer tavern he’d just
walked out of. He had spent most of what
he’d made last night panhandling. He
didn’t feel ready yet to use his five hundred in silence money. That was in reserve for something special,
though what he didn’t know. He wasn’t prepared
to tell anyone about his windfall.
Suddenly a car lurched out of the alley he was about to cross. Stefan leapt back, falling on the pavement. The vehicle—a red Jaguar—backed up and came
toward him again. He just dodged it, and
hid in a doorway. He was breathing hard,
his heart beating wildly. He was sure
that he recognized behind the steering wheel the handsome young
paedophile. From the safety of the
doorway he ran back to the Ivanhoe and called a cab. He would have to start spending the silence
money.
No one else was home. He sat in front of the TV chain-smoking and
channel-surfing. He was home. He ought to feel safe. He didn’t feel safe. There was nothing worth watching on TV. He’d missed the Simpsons. He didn’t like to
read, and he wasn’t in the habit of phoning people. He wasn’t tired yet, so he couldn’t
sleep. It was just past midnight. He was restless. He needed movement, motion. He wanted to walk. And walk.
And walk. But what if that
paedophile should find him. Stefan had a
knife, he had pepper spray. He was a
good fighter when he had to be. But that
idiot, or whoever it was who tried to kill him, was in a car. An uneven fight, if it should come to
that. He would have to think, devise
some method of hunting him down, getting even.
But he wasn’t interested in getting even –he just wanted that perverted
moron as far away from him as possible.
Only killing him would do it.
Kill or be killed? Murder? Self-defense.
And defense of vulnerable children.
He was not going to permit some damn paedophile to kill him. Not after what he himself had experienced as
a boy. This guy should not be permitted
to walk, or drive, the street. He
couldn’t go to the police, not when he could be counter-charged with
extortion. But he had to get out. He felt restless. There was no one home he could debrief
with. And how could he disclose any of
this to anyone? He didn’t feel safe
walking, and was now, but for the five hundred dollars, minus $6.75 cab fare,
strapped to his ankle, out of money. He
would have to start spending it. There
was no other way.
It wasn’t quite that odd that he
would be wandering around in Stanley Park after midnight. He had slept there often enough when he was
on the street. He glanced at the
illuminated fountain in Lost Lagoon, then paused to observe the progression of
colours. He began to stroll along the
water’s edge. Perhaps he’d walk the
trails. He felt safe enough there, and
had slept in the woods there himself at times.
He had come to know the area well.
Not as many men as usual were haunting the gay cruising area. It had been a while since Stefan last had had
or craved sex with a man. He kept
walking. He wasn’t sure where he was
going, nor whether he needed any kind of destination. This he was certain of: it was finished
between him and Melissa. A clean
severance. How could he go back to
her? He supposed that he could sleep on
the couch until other arrangements were made. But what kind of arrangements? He honestly believed that she deserved better
than him or anything that he could offer her.
Neither could he understand what she meant about “Liking it” with
him. What was there to like? He couldn’t remember when they’d last
properly made love, he was broke, unemployed, often hygienically
challenged. Did she merely enjoy him for
slumming? All those rich twinky chicks
were alike. But Melissa wasn’t exactly a
twinky. When they met she was on the
street and authentically homeless. All
he could do was try to help her out.
Sure she had a little money, but he knew where they could find a decent
room. He became her protector and she
seemed genuinely grateful and appreciative.
He had never expected that they’d become lovers, nor even sleep
together.
In the hotel room he was all set to
give her the bed and he would sleep on the floor. He hadn’t even been thinking of sex at the
time. She was under his protection and
that’s all there was to it. Melissa said
she didn’t mind sharing the bed. For two
nights he turned her down, stubbornly remaining on the floor. The third night it became cold, uncomfortable
for him. Not that she couldn’t be
desirable. She was out of his
league. In the unwritten rules of
courtship he would never be permitted to sleep with someone like her, much less
desire her. He was beginning to desire
her. On the third night he asked if he
could sleep on top of the bed covers.
She consented; then, as they were falling asleep, she said that he’d
might as well crawl in and get properly warm.
For another week they slept each on their own side of the bed. Then, one night, they gravitated towards the
middle. Finally Melissa said, indignant,
“Well, are you going to make love to me or what?” They should never have become lovers. Under ordinary circumstances they never would
have gotten together. And her fierce
type of loyalty to Stefan frightened him.
He didn’t know why he’d just stepped
onto the Lions’ Gate Bridge. He had no
desire to go to the North Shore. It was
too close to home for him. But there it
was, right in front of him, waiting to be walked on. The motor traffic was light, practically
nonexistent. The lights on the bridge
with the lights of the North Shore shone mesmerizingly in the chill night. He almost walked past her before he
recognized that she already had one leg on the railing. “Hey!” he shouted, wheeling around and
running at her. He grabbed her around
the waist. She put up a struggle.
“Let go of me! Let me go!” She was trying to pull away, but
couldn’t conquer his tight grip on her.
“You’re not going to jump. No.
You’re not going to.”
“Let
me go! I’ll call the fuckin’ police.”
“For trying to stop you from killing
yourself? Then what are you going to
tell them once they’ve stopped laughing?”
He pulled her down onto the sidewalk, where they both sat, breathing
hard.
“You realize”, she said, “That you
haven’t saved me? As soon as I’ve caught
my breath I’m going to jump.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Okay then.” She was perhaps in her early thirties. Her blonde hair limply framed a rather gaunt
hollow looking face. She was dressed in
a dark duffel coat and jeans.
“If I light you a cigarette will you
reconsider?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“What’s your name?”
“Michelle.”
“I’m Stefan.” She ignored his hand.
“Why were you gonna do it?”
“Jump? Because nothing works any longer.”
“What—your life?”
“And yours. Everything.
Nothing works anymore.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” She was weeping.
“Hey Michelle. Can you tell me what happened. Please.”
All she did was weep. It was as
though not Stefan, nor anyone else, was there.
She was soon quiet again, staring straight ahead as though at the
passing cars. She was getting up.
“Where you going?”
“I’m getting away from you.”
“You’re not going to try to jump
again?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Michelle—“
“—Don’t follow me. I’m not going to jump. Thanks for your help, but I think I’m going
to be alright.” She stared him down. He remained standing still. She was heading toward the North Shore. She began to run. Stefan was chasing after her. Again she climbed over the railing. He was almost on her when she let go and
plunged into the frigid water of Burrard Inlet.
He didn’t have the stomach to look after her, and tried to close his
ears to sound of her limp body hitting the water. Stefan sat down on the sidewalk of the Lions’
Gate Bridge, hid his head between his knees, and wept.
No comments:
Post a Comment