Toronto Noir Page 10

  Couldn’t tune out Harmony though. Her disapproval. She was giving me a lot of attitude right there on that little stage. Still not quite sure I deserved it. Wounded me a bit. Man, I just want to play. Anyway, nobody was really watching. Saw one pair of eyes out there, peering at me. Guess it didn’t matter too much when she fired me right there onstage. Full house chattering beyond the bar.

  You got to think it wasn’t too good for her career either. Pulling a stunt like that.

  It was still before 10. Harmony kept playing. I lumbered off, graceful as I could. Dragged my bass over to the side. Down that little hallway. Then I was in this little closet-sized dressing room type thing. Had a chair and a bunch of brooms in it. And my travel case. I moved the chair out into the hallway and propped the instrument up against it. Ducked back in and was trying to get the case to stay open so I could just slide the bass over and in. Then I was backing out into the hall again. There was a dude standing there. I’d missed him somehow. I said excuse me or whatever and was pulling the bass up away from the chair. He didn’t say anything so then I stopped for a second and I turned and looked up into his face.

  Next two things happened almost the same time. He brought down this bottle of Grolsch on the top of my head and the tips of my fingers went up into his windpipe.

  Funny thing I noticed about the Grolsch bottle, as it rolled away. It hadn’t broken and he’d resealed it before using it on my head. I think he was hoping to finish it, instead of choking from a crushed windpipe, which was what he was doing. I’ve got strong fingers from playing. Stronger than I think. Even if they’re not as dextrous as they ought to be.

  I’d let the bass fall back against the chair. He was making some kind of noise. I was holding onto him, felt like my armpits were on fire, and he was looking down into my eyes like he wanted to ask me a question. Like he wanted me to help him. Did he want me to help him? Is that the way dying works? You forgive your enemies and ask them for help? All I could think was he better hurry up and finish—the questioning, the forgiving, the dying—because somebody was bound to come around the corner of that hallway again real soon.

  Harmony was still at it though. One of my faves too. She had talent. Maybe I had good taste. Maybe the song would hold them just long enough to keep their bladders. It was old blues. A cover. Rabbit Brown.

  I been givin’ you sugar for sugar.

  Let you get salt for salt.

  If you can’t get along with me well it’s your own fault.

  I think about the way that guy looked. I do. The way he was looking before he took that swing. I see it in my head. That moment. He didn’t look angry. More helpless. Anxious. He looked a lot like me. Except he was taller and fair and pretty narrow at the shoulders. So this was the husband. Fucked up like me. Didn’t look like he wanted to be in this hallway any more than I did. He really was dying too. I felt bad for him.

  Sometimes I think you too sweet to die.

  And another time

  I think you oughta be buried alive.

  I didn’t know what was happening. The husband had fallen against me and wasn’t making any more noise. In the other room, the song was coming to an end. The door was still open and I heard voices. Nasal. Girls. Approaching the corner. I pulled him up and dragged him in. Reached forward and grabbed the knob. It was damp and nearly slipped from my hand as I closed the door.

  Two grown men, one of them not breathing, and a double bass case leaning up against a pile of broomsticks in a closet. The one thing I wanted with me was still out in the hallway. Some drunken asshole was going to knock it down. Or mistake it for the wall beside a urinal and piss on it. Or steal it. I couldn’t afford that.

  Don’t know how much time went by. A couple of minutes maybe. Felt like an hour. I heard a snippit of conversation between a pair of girls. It was about fake leather. Like in a jacket or something. And some dude having a bad trip, talking to himself about how Wednesday was zero.

  Wednesday was going to be zero for me if I didn’t find a way out of this.

  There was only one way to go. You probably saw it coming. I didn’t. Took a bit of thinking. First I had to rip the neck guard out of the case. Made me feel like I had tendinitis. Then I had to push back against the door for leverage. At one point, two or three broom handles fell across to the other wall. They made a loud noise. Insanely loud. My ears were ringing. I even heard the echo of the ringing.

  Then everything stopped and I listened to my breathing. Somebody flushed a toilet and opened a door. Footsteps down the hall.

  Harmony was still at it.

  Things could have been worse. Case might have been too small. I might not have had a case at all. Or a soft-shell case.

  There was no air left in the room. I just wanted to get out of there. Took a chance and opened the door wide. No one in the hallway. The case was facing the wrong way. By the time I was ready to go, there was a guy there, trying to get past me to the bathroom. He had to wait while I propped the case against the wall and slid the double bass from the hall into the closet. Closed the door. Then I lumbered down the hallway, past the men’s. He went in and I was alone again. Standing in front of the fire exit. I banged it open and stumbled out into the alley.

  Urine never smelled so much like freedom. It was starting to rain though. Thought that might do something about the heat, but it didn’t. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my Tilly knockoff.

  Queen Street was busier than it had a right to be west of Dufferin on a Tuesday night. Still, all that traffic would come to an end if I was willing to go far enough. West is the way to go when you’ve got a body in a case and time on your hands.

  I started walking, trying to pretend I was just heading to a gig on a usual night in the usual way. But it wasn’t a usual night. And it wasn’t the usual way. Sweat was pouring off me with the rain. Still, people on the sidewalk parted to let me by. Respect for the musician. Nothing like it.

  There was a streetcar coming, making its way at a snail’s pace through the traffic in the street. 501. The rain started coming down harder. The sign said, Humber. I figured I’d take it all the way to Humber College and then I could empty out my case somewhere on campus where my cargo might be taken for a wasted student. Humber College. All those red brick buildings where the crazy people used to live, back in the old days when it was the primary mental care village for the whole province.

  Getting on the car wasn’t the problem I thought it’d be, though it took a couple of minutes. The driver said something I didn’t understand. I’d turned and was trying to get my weight under the back to pull up the rig and he said, It’s your lucky night. No pole. Air-conditioning.

  He was right. There was air-conditioning. It felt good. If he was actually referring to the size of my case relative to the size of the door, I’d have to say he wasn’t making himself very clear.

  Car was empty. There’d been people waiting with me at the stop, but they didn’t get on. Made me a bit paranoid. Like maybe I didn’t look as innocent as I thought. People cut a lot of slack for musicians. But maybe they notice when your case weighs more than you do.

  Still, we were headed west and nobody was stopping us. We went past the streetcar station at the bottom of Roncy. Caught a view of the lake at the left. There was a big empty patch of darkness on the right that spooked me until I realized it was Grenadier Pond. Then new town houses on the left. I thought I spotted a garbage nest under a bush.

  Then something I didn’t expect. We cut to the left suddenly, off the Queensway, and drove underneath the Gardner Expressway. I realized I’d never been this far west before.

  Driver said, Humber Loop, last stop, and pulled into the bleakest lot I ever saw. A figure eight of track next to an abandoned snack bar with a sign on the wall that said, Don’t feed the pigeons, beneath a dark wet sky, between two concrete overpasses. Last stop.

  I was not going to fit out the center doors, so I rolled my rig up to the front.

  Is there going to be another car?
I asked.

  Yup, said the driver. This car’s 501 Humber. Turns around here. You want the car that says 501 Long Branch.

  I hobbled down the steps with the case. He closed the doors. Then opened them again.

  Oh yeah, he said. Better hope it has AC.

  He closed the doors again and left. Went around the loop and back the way he came. That was pretty funny, I thought, what he said about the air-conditioning. Except the rain was really coming down now. I was starting to get a bit of a chill.

  On the upside, I was alone. Looked like I was going to be alone for a while. I leaned my load up against the building and took a look around. Every square inch of that wall had a urine trail leading away from it. Right in front of me there was an electrical tower on a big patch of grass. More streetlights than you’d expect, place like that. To my right, though, the tracks headed south into the gloom. Pulled me to it like a safe haven. There was a wide ditch full of cattails over there below the corner of an old wall. No streetlights. Another circle of tracks with weeds growing out from under them. Right in the middle, a pile of dirt and rocks. That was interesting. I walked over to have a look.

  The rain tapered off a bit. I should dump the body here. I tried to think the thought again, so it would make sense. I should dump the body here. Wondered if I’d be able to get him out of the case. No, I should stick to the original plan. Farther west. The red brick buildings of Humber College.

  I heard a lurch and rumble behind me, turned and saw a streetcar barreling through, back by the building. 501 Long Branch. I suppressed a surge of panic and started to trot over. Driver didn’t see me and didn’t stop. Didn’t see anything suspicious either, I guess. He barreled around the bend, passing the loop, and moved south under the second overpass.

  Next car took its time coming and was heading back around the loop. A couple of teenagers got out. A boy and a girl. Made me nervous at first, but they got preoccupied with one another around the corner of the building.

  Finally, the Long Branch came through again. The kids got on, side by side, but they had to break their hand-hold to get around the bar that was inside the door. It was right in the center. Handy for the old ladies to hoist themselves up. My case was two and a half feet wide and over a foot and a half thick. The opening was just about four and a half, with a bar in the middle. There was no way I was getting around that. No way.

  Sorry, guy, said the driver. You need a car with AC. He pulled away.

  Who calls a guy guy these days?

  Looked like I was going to get a cool ride whether I wanted it or not. Next car to come through was going around the loop. This dude got off looked like a sailor in an old movie. He was practically black-and-white.

  Car after that had the bar. Driver opened the doors, expecting me to get on. I gestured over to my case.

  Any chance of an AC car coming?

  They’re rolling them off the lines, he said. Account of it’s cooling off. They’re expensive to run. But there might be one or two of them left on the road.

  He pulled away. Tell you one thing about these drivers. They’re polite.

  I stood for a couple of minutes. Armpits burning. Turning into a chronic condition. I felt faint. I was digging my fingers into my eyes when I heard movement to my left. Realized the sailor was still there. Just by the corner of the building. Probably the biggest fright of the night. He was looking at me. Hadn’t boarded the last car. What was that about?

  I eased the case up against my chest, trying to make it seem lightweight, and dragged it past the other end of the building. Pulled out my cell phone and looked at it. No calls. I glanced over at him. He was gazing up at the top of the electrical tower.

  I called my land line. She answered. Baby, she said.

  Baby, I said, but I didn’t feel anything lower than the pit of my stomach.

  I told her what I had done. She said, You did what? And I told her again. She hung up. I was starting to get anxious.

  I called back. She let it ring for a bit and then answered. Don’t come here, she said.

  It’s my place, I said. She told me it was some serious shit I’d done and she didn’t want to get involved. I asked her why she didn’t warn me that her husband was a psycho freak. He wasn’t my husband, she said.

  What? I said.

  I’m not the marrying type, in case it wasn’t obvious. He was just a guy I used to see. Guess we hadn’t had our fill. Guess we’ve had it now, whether I like it or not.

  A bus pulled in from a road I hadn’t noticed. Down from the Queensway on the other side. The black-and-white sailor got on and it went back the way it came. I was alone again at the Humber Loop.

  Don’t be a drama queen, she said. He’s dead and you’re an asshole. Killing’s wrong.

  So’s lying.

  For an intelligent girl, she said, I sure surrounded myself with some collection of dopes. And then she hung up.

  Conversation got things going though. Set me in motion. Like the kid in the TV ad who laces up the shoes and drinks the drink and climbs up behind the eight ball. With his skateboard. I dragged the case down into the ditch below the corner of the wall and opened it. I felt sorry for him. I did. But there was no time for the Catholic shit. I tried to roll him out but the top parts were stuck together. The case and the body. I walked around the other side, turned the case over on top of him, stepped on his back, and pulled. His head popped out and I fell into the cattails. Lay there for a couple of minutes. I hadn’t been that close to cattails since I was a kid. Then I got up and rolled him down to the bottom of the ditch. Walked over to the rusty loop and filled my case with gravel and rocks. Dragged it back and dumped the rocks on top of him. A couple more trips and he was covered. I tried to think of a little prayer. Heard the rumble of the streetcar and dove into the weeds.

  It rolled by. No idea what he saw.

  After a bit, I stood up and brushed myself off. Don’t think my two-dollar suit looked like it was worth much anymore. Case was a mess too. Only on the inside. Worry about it later. Closed it and latched it and dragged it behind me back up into the glare of the lights. It felt buoyant. Like a balloon. A breeze caught me in the face and woke me up. I noticed the rain had stopped.

  Things were good.

  Then I remembered I still couldn’t get on these streetcars. Had a picture in my head of walking east along the Queensway, middle of the night. A cheap and filthy suit. Dragging an empty case with the Styrofoam impression of a human body pressed onto the inside. And the bass was still in that closet. See why I’m not telling you the name of that bar? Four grand, it cost me. Some people kill for that. I thought I might dump the case in the lake. But Styrofoam floats. And the case cost a bundle too. I tried to think of the worst case scenario: dump the case, head back to the bar, bass is gone. A ten grand debt—two instruments and a flight case—nothing to show for it. Move up to Wicky. Take up the washtub. Pretty indestructible, the washtub, no matter what the devil might say. Don’t cost anything either. Not so bad. I’d be able to play. Man, I just want to play.

  My phone was ringing. Missed it the first time around but it rang again a minute later. It was her. She said she was in trouble. That didn’t make any sense.

  She said she’d left my apartment, but there was something wrong with the freight elevator.

  Take the stairs, I said.

  Too late for that, she said. She’d been in a huff. Couldn’t get the barrier to slide up. Finally lost patience and jumped over it. The elevator wasn’t there so she fell three floors. Landed in the basement and broke her hip.

  Call 911, I said. I’m stuck at the Humber Loop.

  She said, You think 911 can help that the elevator’s coming down right now?

  I said, You think I can?

  She said, Maybe you know some tricks.

  I said, Don’t jump over the barrier.

  Then there was this horrible sound coming into my ear and I realized I wasn’t holding the phone anymore. Had to go poke around the dandelions und
er the electrical tower till I found it. There was one message. I checked it. It was from the first call she’d made. She called me baby and told me she was sorry and she was in trouble and could I call her. Is that the way it is with people? Do they hate you until they’re dying? And then they don’t hate you anymore?

  Do you ever find yourself wishing you could just have an aneurism? Allow the vessel in your brain to just pop and let you go? Is there some kind of higher state of concentration that would allow you to do that? Could it be learned? That’s the feeling I had, right then, standing beside the snack bar with the sign on the wall that said, Don’t feed the pigeons. Every square inch of wall, a urine trail leading away. Going exactly nowhere. Nowhere to go and nothing to take me and a cargo that won’t fit anyway. That’s how I feel, standing at the Humber Loop. Been told that bass players live a long time. Like elephants with their ears that grow large, encouraged by low and gentle music. I’m still waiting for that. I’d like to feel that.

  LAB RATS

  BY IBI KASLIK

  Dufferin Mall

  Volunteers needed for psychiatric study.

  Generous compensation offered. (416) 539-4876.

  Supervised by Dr. Bot.

  Outside the Dovercourt 7-Eleven, K. watches police cars roll by from the nearby station. Young Portuguese gangsta impersonators with peach fuzz glance at K. in disgust from their souped-up Honda Civics as K. pops his skateboard into his hand like an ejected tape. He sips on his Blueberry Buster Slurpee, as if the life-giving fluid might suddenly be stolen away from him. K. sneers at the teens and smiles at the cops; he conducts most of his life in this territorial, animal way, though there are few things he possesses—a few good soul records, a signed copy of Paul Auster’s Moon Palace—and only small bits of earth he inhabits. He sips and slurps until his lips are blue as a death mask and he has given himself brainfreeze.

  He pulls out the wadded piece of newspaper that Christmas gave him and studies it for a moment before jamming it back into his oversized shorts. He slaps his board on the concrete and begins to roll down Dundas, past Brazilian bikini shops that look obscene and unseasonable, given the cool climate and great distance from anything resembling a beach; past heavily stocked hardware stores and stunted middle-aged men and women sloshing their words together as if there are shells caught in their mouths. He crosses Dundas and makes a sharp left with his board, as if cutting through waves, on Gladstone. He uses the momentum of the hill to avoid Dufferin, its swath of train tracks bisect east and west; he scales up and down residential streets for an out.