Seeing Red (13 page)

“You should hear my movie idea!” Doc exclaims.

“Why, what is it?” Ben asks.

“Okay, so it's about this cop, right? He's a real live wire who plays hard and fast with the rules, but he ultimately gets the job done, y'know? I was thinking DiCaprio, or McConaughey, or maybe Diesel—any badass, really. Anyway, at the start of the movie, he's trying to bring down this big crime boss, but he's got a bunch of other
shit
going on. Like, personal issues and
shit
. And then, at the end of the movie, you find out that the bad guy he's been chasing after for the past two-and-a-half hours is actually
him
!
He was hunting
himself
the whole time. . . .”

There's a long pause before Ben finally says, “Wow . . . that . . . that sounds awful.”

“It's good, alright?” Doc snarls, and then with disdain he screams, “It's a good movie for people who aren't
FAGGOTS
!
”

This causes a furious uproar at the table. Doc and Ben and his friends start pointing and shouting and shaking their fists at each other, arguing about the merit of Doc's movie idea, while Sofia and I remain silent. Suddenly, a bouncer at the far side of the room slams a door to get our attention and the music screeches to a halt. Everything goes quiet. Then he calls out, “Alright! Everybody file out through the back! The cops are out front!”

At that precise moment, of course, the MDMA kicks in. Perfect timing. I feel dizzy and light seems to stay in my eyes for longer than usual and the nerve endings in my arms and legs begin to feel warm and sensitive as they tremble. Then I drop my plastic cup on the floor and gin spills everywhere.

“Fuck!” I shout. Sofia sighs and grabs me by the hand and her grip feels different now. Very soft. As we're all shuffling through the main room, I suddenly remember Scott and run back through the crowd to find him unconscious on the couch with drool dripping from his mouth. Doc wakes him up by slapping him unnecessarily hard in the face several times and then we help him to his feet. Sofia leads us down a set of stairs into a utility room filled with stacks of empty beer cases and the concrete floor is soaking wet. There's an exit at the end of the room which takes us outside into an alleyway—the same alcove where I snorted cocaine earlier.

The four of us quietly follow the herd, careful not to alert the police on the opposite side of the building as we evacuate the area. No sign of Ben or any of his friends. They must have escaped before us. We see a police cruiser parked by the main road and manage to evade it by sneaking behind a short wooden fence through a darkened path. Once we're at a safe distance we stop to gather our bearings and catch our breath. While he's panting, Doc strikes up a conversation with Sofia.

“So . . . you're from Russia?”

“Yes. I'm Russian-Armenian.”

“And what brings you to Toronto?”

“Well, when I was young, there was a lot of fighting and conflict in my country. I had to leave. It was very, very violent there. I saw some . . . unspeakable things.”

“Like what?” Scott asks.

“I can't say. That's why it's unspeakable.”

“Oh.”

“My apartment is nearby,” Sofia whispers into my ear. “Walk with me there.” And then, inexplicably, she takes off her shirt. Why, I don't know—maybe she's feeling the warming effects of the MDMA too. Her bra is black and her breasts are pouring out over the top and I can't help but stare. Within seconds she is surrounded by a circle of random men, most of whom left the after-hours club alongside us. They're all hooting and hollering at her at the same time, drowning each other out. Thankfully, Sofia has no interest in any of them, so she reaches through the crowd and takes me by the hand again.

“Alright!” I shout. “Show's over! I'm walking her home.”

I hear a few resentful groans and disparaging remarks as they gradually disperse, and one of them continues to follow us as we walk down the road. At the first intersection Doc hails a taxi before grabbing Scott by the neck and the belt and literally throwing him into the backseat. “I'll talk to you tomorrow,” he says. Then he winks at me as if to wish me luck before closing the door and speeding off.

We continue walking in the direction of Sofia's apartment, and that stalker from the club is still following behind us. It's creepy, and we try our best to ignore him. Along the way, she says out of the blue, “Can I ask you
one
question? Are you circumcised?”

I'm not circumcised, but I'm not sure that's what she wants to hear. So I say, “Uh, which style do you prefer?”

“I don't like it when they're uncircumcised. It's not as clean, I think?”

“Oh. Good. Because I've never
been
more circumcised.”

“Okay. I know I'm gonna see it anyway, but I just wanna know.”

Sofia's apartment building looks new and expensive with its shiny black walls. Through the window, situated in the lobby, I can see classy leather furniture and exotic green plants. She stops me in front of the entrance by pushing her palm against my chest and then, without warning, she pulls my face toward hers and starts kissing me. Our timing is a little off—presumably because of the drugs—but we keep kissing until she laments, “You Canadian boys are so nice.”

“I'm not
that
nice,” I mutter.

“Hmm. I doubt that. I'm sorry, but you can't come in tonight. My roommate is sleeping and she will not allow it. But, if you call me tomorrow, I might let you take me out.”

Part of me is actually relieved Sofia doesn't want to bring me upstairs. I'm probably too drunk and miserable to perform even if prompted, and when she catches a glimpse of that foreskin it's all over. Still, the thought of being with her in a nice warm bed is comforting and I don't want to be alone. “Can I use your bathroom real quick? Get a cup of coffee? Do you have a dog? I really want to meet him.”

She laughs. “Not tonight.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.”

“Now, Ethan, let me tell you something for your own good.”

“Uh oh,” I mumble, predicting some forthcoming criticism.

“Listen,” she says while rubbing my shoulders. “You only live once. This here . . . it's all temporary. After that, it's gone. And either you did it, or you didn't do it, so as long as you're not hurting anybody, you should really take that chance.”

“So . . . you're saying you want me to sleep with you?”

She laughs again. “No! I can't tonight. I'm asking you what you
really
want to do. I mean, in the big picture.”

I look down at the pavement and consider the question. What would really make me happy? Everything I've ever wanted to do seems so impossible now. Granted, I'm only twenty-four years old, but I've been in college for the last six years and I can't stay in school for the rest of my life. I don't want to be paying off student loans until I'm sixty. Sure, I would love to have a job where I could travel and see the world, but it's just not in the cards. I chose the wrong degree, plain and simple. Literature. History. Journalism. Why did I study those things? Nobody cares about those things anymore.

We have too
many goddamn choices nowadays: ice cream flavours, cellphone plans, hair care products, toothpaste brands, TV channels, university courses—there are too many to choose from. With so many options, not only is it more difficult to make a decision, we're never satisfied with the decision we make because we're always wondering what the grass is like on the other side. How are you supposed to know which side is right?

“I don't know what I want to do,” I tell her. “I've tried different schools, different cities, worked a bunch of shitty jobs, but nothing ever seems to stick. Honestly, I just don't think I'm good at anything.”

“I didn't ask you what you were good at,” she says. Then she repeats, “You only live once. And then, one day, just like that—it's gone.”

“Hmm. I'm gonna ponder that.”

“And you'll call me tomorrow?”

“To be honest, Sofia, I might not remember this. I drank a lot. And the drugs. . . .”

She reaches into my pocket and pulls out my phone and programs her number into my contact list. Placing it back in the palm of my hand, she kisses me again.

“I think you will.”

I stand there on the front steps and watch as she enters the lobby without looking back. Will I forget this moment? What's the point of going out and meeting people if you have no recollection of it? How many times have I made a connection, promised to call somebody, only to never speak to them again? There are so many questions swirling around my head. I don't know how to feel. I wonder if Sofia and I would actually have any chemistry if we were sober, if we'd even be able to make it through a date, and why she chose me over an entire club of suitors. Many of them were better-looking and better-dressed. What did she see in me? What does anybody ever see in me? I hope I still remember her in the morning.

TWENTY-THREE

I'm sprinting down the sidewalk, trying to shake off the effects of the drugs and alcohol while searching for an ATM so I can buy some late-night food and pay for a cab home. As I'm running, I inadvertently trip over a pylon that's been left on a patch of weathered concrete. Angered, I pick up the pylon and hoist it above my head and attempt to throw it onto the roof of a nearby store. It almost reaches, but the base of the pylon catches the corner of the wall and it comes crashing down. I try another throw. Same result. Then I hear a man shouting gibberish at me from across the street; he runs out in front of oncoming traffic and a taxi has to slam on the brakes to avoid plowing into him. He's rushing toward me. Why? I'm confused, in a daze, and all I see is a shadow, an apparition approaching me from the darkness. I hurl the pylon at him and yell “Eat pylon!” but my throw misses the target by several feet.

He's close now. I watch the shadow leap up onto the sidewalk and then his right hand shoots forth and hammers me on the left side of my face, slightly below the eye. I'm so numb from the alcohol that I barely feel any pain; I simply stagger backward and grab onto the shadow by his collar. To my surprise, this apparition is nothing more than a stocky, college-aged Korean kid with spiky black hair and a beige shirt. I cock my fist and press him up against the wall.

“Now why the fuck would you do that?” I shout. Maybe I accidentally flirted with his girlfriend tonight, or maybe his family owns this store, or maybe he just wanted to punch somebody—I don't know, but I'm guessing the latter. He gawks at me without answering. His mouth is wide open. His eyes appear vacant and stunned. He doesn't try to push me away or even raise his hands to defend himself. He doesn't react. I realize he might be even drunker than I am.

“I said, why did you do that?”

In the corner of my eye I see a girl running toward us. She grabs onto his arm and starts pulling with both hands, trying to drag him away from me, but I won't let him go. I want retribution. I want to imprint four knuckles into his goddamn forehead. But, for whatever reason, my arm begins to relax, and I refrain. I think about what happened earlier at the bar with Natalie and all the anger I felt and I look into her eyes and I can't bring myself to hit him. I let go of his collar and they both fall backwards to the ground. Then I slowly stumble away, watching as she scrambles to get him into a taxi.

When I reach up to feel my face, I find a swollen lump about the size of a quarter below my left eye and there's wet blood all over my fingertips. I didn't realize he had caused so much damage. Enraged, I run toward them, intent on evening the score, but they're already in a cab and driving away. I chase the car down the yellow line in the centre of the road until they're out of sight; my sprint gradually slows to a crawl and then I come to a standstill, admitting defeat. I pour some gin from my flask onto my hand and rub it into the wound and it stings, so I take another swig to ease the pain.

I need to wash this blood off my face. The lake can't be very far from here. I start heading toward the water, following the road south all the way across the bridge overlooking the old railway tracks and underneath the Gardiner Expressway. At the last intersection before the waterfront, a police van parks beside me as I'm waiting for the light to change. Inside, there are two officers; one of them pokes his head out through the passenger side window. He's balding with a comb-over and a big moustache.

“Hey you!” he hollers. “You're the one who's been kicking over all the mailboxes!”

“Uh . . . I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy.”

“No! I know it was you.” He pauses for a moment and examines my face. “What the hell happened to your eye?”

“Some asshole punched me! He's the guy you should be looking for. He's got spiky hair and a fat, stupid face.”

“Oh, well then! We'll keep an
eye
out for him.”

The two cops chuckle at each another.

“Can you give me a ride home?” I ask. “Or at least drive me to the bus stop?”

“No!”

“Well, I'm just gonna kick over more mailboxes then!”

“You better not!” he shouts as the van pulls away. I scan the intersection for any mailboxes, but, finding none, I cross the road and continue southward toward the water.

Past the sidewalk, I see a small metal sign nailed to a piece of wood resting a few inches off the ground marking a dirt path through the shrubbery. The sign reads:
SPADINA QUAY WETLAND
. I follow the path as it curves through the bush and leads me onto a stone walkway running alongside the waterfront. There are boats docked to the left of me and a small park to the right; I stumble as far as I can until I find six black benches at the end of a wide pier. With absolutely no energy left, I stretch out and collapse onto one.

The lake is calm and tranquil. To my right, a monolithic building once used by the Canada Malting Company looms heavily in the background, like a mummified corpse, stained yellow from time and rain and rust. Across the water, the lights of the island airport blink and flash, but all I can hear are the subtle waves pressing against the docks. I decide to remove my leather jacket and wear it like a blanket and suddenly I'm no longer cold. Before I fall unconscious, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket: Doc is texting me to ask if I slept with the Armenian girl. No, I tell him—I'm actually lying on a pier bench and I might die here. By the time I press
Send
, my eyes are already closed.