Republic of Dirt (25 page)

F
eelings of uselessness and helplessness are at war in me. I’m not sure which one is winning.

Yes, I feel good that I’ve been able to help Sara in some small way, but long-term, I have no idea what to do about that situation. Her mother has the worst decision-making skills of anyone I’ve ever met, including me. But she’s the mother and she has all the rights. Her dad is basically a prick who would rather hang around with a mule than spend time with his excellent kid. So in relation to them, I feel needed and useful if basically ineffectual.

The same sort of calculation is at work in my dealings with the drama teacher. She needs my help and I need hers to relieve me of the bondage of my virginity, if you’ll forgive me for paraphrasing AA’s Big Book.

I may be the only person in the rooms (twelve-step slang for “person who attends meetings”) who is a technical virgin. Could anything be less heavy metal than being a full-blown alkie who couldn’t even break the virginity barrier? Any normal alcoholic would have at least
two entrenched STDs to go with a severely checkered sexual history by the time he gave up the drink. There is no area of life in which I am not ass-backward.

The night before my date with the drama teacher—though
date
doesn’t seem quite the right word for the afternoon of pest control and devirginization we had planned—I didn’t sleep at all. I’d pushed the day back three times already, partly because I was on call if Sara was going to be alone and partly because I was scared.

I compulsively watched the DVD that came with the bedbug supplies, the one that showed in careful detail how to start at the outside of a room and work your way toward the bed. It showed a hugely unconcerned guy hosing harsh pesticides into corners and crevices.

Then I reread the online tutorials and message boards again, and stared at the images of bedbugs in their different life cycles until my eyes quit focusing.

By the time dawn lightened the sky on the big day, I was in pieces. I thought about trying to go to an early meeting, but the only one I knew of was in downtown Nanaimo and the truck was on the fritz again.

It occurred to me that without wheels, I had no way to get to the drama teacher’s place with my stand-up steamer, handheld steamer, talc-lined passive traps, bottles of diatomaceous earth and assortment of pesticides, not to mention huge rubber boots, face mask, full protective mechanic-style jumpsuit, boxes of heavy-duty contractor bags, packages of gloves, and hat (in case one of the little bedbug bastards threw himself off the ceiling into my unsuspecting hair, perish the fucking thought).

If I was a normal guy trying to get laid by a normal woman, I could walk over there, weighed down only by a few premium condoms and modest expectations. But no. Nothing is ever simple for me.

I considered calling Eustace and asking him for a ride. He’d been keeping his thoughts about the whole thing to himself and I appreciated that. I’m well aware that the drama teacher is sixteen years older than me and that’s the least inappropriate thing about our liaison. It’s never a good sign when your potential lover has already been questioned by the police about your relationship, as happened after we broke up the first time.

No. If I was going to make shitty choices, I wanted to make them without assistance from my support network.

I couldn’t ask the drama teacher to pick me up, because
(a)
it would make me feel twelve and
(b)
it could land her in jail, or at least get her fired, given the accusations that flew after the school concert.

My breath was labored, like I was about to give birth to a goddamned fear baby, when my computer chimed that I had a new email.

My editor at
The Cure
always calls me HM, short for Half Measures, after my column. It’s kind of endearing but also kind of dismissive of me as a man.

I hoped that response would make me sound like I’d had extensive experience.

I sent her the number for my new cell, bought because Eustace’s old one had quit not long after the incident at the parent-teacher meeting, and the phone rang ten seconds later.

Before I knew what was happening, I was telling my editor everything.

I told her about us losing Sara. About how her parents wouldn’t let us see her, even though they were perfectly happy hanging around here themselves. I told her how me and Earl had been sitting with her at night for several nights while her mother fucked off who knows where. I told her about the affair with the drama teacher and about the incident at the premiere of the school production of
Jesus Christ Superstar
. About the years-long bout of agoraphobia that had followed. I didn’t have to tell her about sobering up and getting a life again, because she’d read all my columns. Then I told her about what I had planned for the afternoon.

“Well,” she said. “I have to say I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s too much.”

“Look, I don’t believe in telling people what to do, even though I run an online recovery-advice and how-to-live-your-life magazine. But maybe you should just focus on getting the kid back. The other thing, with that teacher, it doesn’t sound great.”

“I don’t know what else to do about Sara. Until the social worker
comes around, her parents won’t budge. It’s this point of pride with the two of them. And I told the drama teacher I’d help her out.”

“You sure it’s worth it? Being around the teacher and her bugs? What if you go full phobic?”

“Already there,” I said. “At least this way I might get laid in the bargain.”

Tamara made a sympathetic noise.

I could hear the roar of traffic in the background.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Montreal.”

“You don’t sound French.”

“Because I’m Anglo. I only sound French when I speak French.”

“Oh.”

“If I was there, I’d help you out,” she said.

“You know how to get rid of bedbugs?”

“No, dumbass. I know about sex with virgins. Deflowering boys used to be a hobby of mine. Back in my using days.”

“Really?”

“Nah. I just said that to be shocking. You sure you don’t want to wait for a woman who loves you? One who isn’t a borderline pedophile?”

“The drama teacher likes me. And I’m not … I mean, I wasn’t a
child
… at least not in terms of years. She finds me very attractive, which makes her unusual.”

“The drama teacher sounds like a deeply troubled person, if you don’t mind me saying. But I understand where you’re coming from. The pathologically selfish and perverted heart wants whatever the fuck it wants, as Woody Allen might say. Just don’t go getting a busted heart to go with your new phobia.”

“I won’t.”

“At risk of sounding crude, HM, wouldn’t a hooker be cheaper and simpler? I’m not talking about some desperate addict. I’m talking about a mature call girl. Someone with experience and discretion who is just planning to work until she’s maxed out her RRSPs.”

“I don’t know anyone like that, and even if I did, I spent all my money on bedbug supplies. Plus, Prudence would freak if she knew.”

“Didn’t you say Prudence is bedridden? How would she find out?”

“She’s only in bed half the time. Plus, she has a finding-out way about her.”

“Well, if you insist on going over to the predator’s house, take a cab and send me the bill. This would make a killer feature story.”

“No,” I said. “There’s no way I’m writing about this. It’s private.”

“I know. Your sponsor knows. Why not tell the world? We’ll call it ‘Half Measures Takes the Plunge.’”

“No, we won’t.”

“‘Bedbug and Beyond’?” she said.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Call me! I want to hear every detail,” said Tamara as I hung up.

At 3:30, I called a cab. At 3:45, Sara’s dad, the Mule Man, showed up.

I considered canceling due to possible complications from him knowing me, but my nerves were too shattered to think things through any further. Also, he never seems to notice anything or anyone around here except for our mule.

“Where to?” he asked, after I had wrestled all of my equipment into the backseat with me.

I gave him the drama teacher’s address.

He didn’t respond. He just drove his rattlecrap Prius down the
driveway. I hoped Prudence hadn’t seen me go. She’d been on the couch in the living room for most of the afternoon, reading what I think may have been Mrs. Spratt’s manuscript. When I left, she was on the phone, talking to one of her friends in New York.

Lucky and Bertie had come to the fence when Dean Spratt pulled in, and Lucky trotted along the fence line after us when we left again, like Old Yeller, only red and a mule and without rabies. At least not yet.

“That mule is sure attached to you,” I said, trying to sound calm, even though I felt like my heart was racing so hard it might go off in my chest like a badly assembled IED.

“He’s a …,” said Mr. Spratt.

“Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Mr. Spratt muttered something else.

He obviously struggled with giving compliments or saying anything else that was positive.

“What’s the plan now that we have the wagon and everything?” I asked, making small talk, even though what I really wanted to do was burst into tears. Arriving with a tear-stained face probably wouldn’t be a sexual deal-sealer for any woman. Suddenly, I wanted a drink. A coffee mug full of vodka would go down nicely, followed by two or three beer. Then I’d start drinking for real. Why did I have to do terrible things just so I could have a normal life experience that other people seemed to get in a matter of course?

I could not handle people’s opinions, my own expectations and desires. I couldn’t handle disappointment or worrying about people I cared about.

I could not handle life.

Mr. Spratt said something about the wagon, but I wasn’t listening because I was deciding which liquor store he should take me to.
I would get a bottle and
then
go see the drama teacher. The trick was to avoid AA people on my way into and out of the store. I thought of Eustace and my stomach curled up like it’d been hit by a car and left to die by the side of the road.

Fuck it. The decision was made. I would tell Mr. Spratt to drive me to the Wheatsheaf. I’d give him five bucks to go in and get me a case of beer and a bottle of vodka. That would leave me with enough money for cab fare, and it would keep me out of the public eye. Then I reconsidered. Skip the vodka. The family drink was rye. I’d get cola to go with it. I could mix up a wet-your-pants-size drink and put it in one of those no-spill coffee cups while I was treating the drama teacher’s house. She wouldn’t care. I hadn’t told her I was sober. It’d been long enough between drinks that I’d be painless in about ten minutes. Painless, fearless. Less. That was always the goal.

Finally I tuned back into what Dean Spratt was saying.

“Got a feeling he was already trained as a driving mule. Going to give him a three bells if that’s the case.”

“Huh?” I said.

Dean Spratt was talking about putting bells on Lucky’s tail, and the part of my brain that wasn’t engaged in plans for self-immolation wondered at the wisdom of that idea. On the other hand, at least if he had multiple bells tied to his tail, innocent passersby would have time to get out of his way when he went charging all over Cedar at 160 kilometers an hour after something spooked him.

My phone vibrated in my sweaty hand. It scared me so bad, I nearly flung it into the front of the cab but settled for dropping it onto the dirty leather of the backseat.

The screen lit up and I saw a text flicker across the top.

Then we were pulling up to the drama teacher’s little house. It was a small, wood-shingled cottage. The drama teacher used to live in a larger house when she was married.

I would have to ask Dean Spratt to back out of the driveway and take me to the liquor store. He couldn’t do it quietly, due to the jalopy nature of the car, but too bad. He wouldn’t care about the booze run. Like the drama teacher, he didn’t give any sort of crap about me or my sobriety. He didn’t even know I had any sobriety to protect.

Dean Spratt seemed to be in a hurry. He was rambling on about all the things he had planned for Lucky when he got back to the farm. He’s obsessed with that mule. If I didn’t have so much on my mind, it would be very concerning to me. I wanted to shout at him that maybe he should be a little more obsessed with his daughter and what his wife was doing when she was supposedly looking after her. But no. That wouldn’t help Sara or us. We’d kept the campground thing a secret. We were committed now.

He leapt out of the front seat, pulled open a back door and started removing my steamers and bags and boxes from the seat. I sat with my cell phone in my hand.

“Okay,” said Dean Spratt, standing in the open door, hands on the roof. “That’ll be $8.50.”

“I was wondering if we could make one more stop,” I said.

He was shaking his head before I finished speaking.

“I’ve got to get back to the farm before it starts raining. I’m off shift now.”

I wanted to say,
Look, I’m attempting to relapse here
, but thought
better of it. We were trying to get Sara back, and doing my Charles Bukowski impression in front of her dad wouldn’t help that cause.