The Man Game (24 page)

He pushed me, with his eyes. He was ugly all over. At first I thought he had a misaligned jaw because of the way his mouth moved when he talked, or that it was a distended neck; something was causing his mouth to move side to side when he talked and not up and down like anyone else's. It could have just been some gristle caught between molars that he was using his tongue to pry out. Whatever it was about his jaw, the effect was undeniable. His hair was so thin that by the strength of the winter sun I was able to see right through every follicle, and underneath this pile of transparent noodles I could easily see that his skull was terribly malformed. Dented. So I wondered to myself: What
was
I looking at?

Now where to put my eyes, I thought.

'The fuck you looking at? he said, paraphrasing himself. This time he aimed a knobby-ended finger at me and stabbed me in the chest with it. That's when I saw there weren't any fingernails on any of his fingers.

Meanwhile, Minna was bent over, returning the one-hit wonder to a zippered compartment of a side pocket on her mountaineering bag, bent over and subliminally wriggling.

I savoured her accidentally bared skin, as I always did, when suddenly I felt something, must have been as painful as a long steel thorn, prick its way through my heart. It hurt, and I wondered how I could go another day with Minna. I held my breath through the sting. And to tell the truth, I
did
turn to look at him again, right in the damn demonic eyes on his speckled face.

I said to him: No, no nothing, ha, I wasn't looking at anything.

I scratched the top of my hand with my teeth. I was suddenly keenly aware of the fact that I was the only person in the yard wearing a tie. In contrast, I was now convinced that this guy was the tallest ugly man I'd ever seen. He must've been seven feet tall.

He laughed, or gagged, at me:
Haw
. Throat adaquately cleared, he said: Bro-
ther
, who is
that
? Leaning on me like I was a kitchen counter, the guy proceeded to full-on leer at Minna as she rose from her tree planter's saddlebag and straightened her shirt out, covering her navel, to my relief, and then smiling at me. Oh, those sloe eyes. I gazed at her same as him.

What? she asked me. What's wrong?

Nothing, I said.

He gave Minna a look, as if intrigued to see that she and I were here together, then patted me on the shoulder and said with a smile: Nah, ha ha, I was just fucking around, man.

Why, what happened? Minna said.

We were conversating, he said. Me and this guy here. I was fucking with him. You were scared, right? Shit, brother, I'm sorry. But ha ha, that was a funny scene, right?

I said: That's not how I'd paint the picture, no.

Ha, ha, okay. Nice work, Picasso. He leaned over to place a hand on Minna's back as if to help her stand up straight, but she was already fully erect. See, he told Minna, it was funny, what you missed was me pretending to be all tough and shit. I was acting all threatening, you know? I'm such an asshole, I know. That's my picture. That's my status. That's my sense a humour. My name's Cedric.

Minna laughed giddily as they shook hands. She really was too giddy, laughing way too generously for my taste. I drooped my head. I might as well have drooped right to hell. These unforgettable episodes. That's all life is, isn't it? Nothing but a series of quiet humiliations, defeats, and intangible shavings-off of promise.

The guy laughed again, put one of his mangled hands on my shoulder again. I'm sorry, buddy. I'm just fucking with you.

Minna laughed with him again and we all shook hands (with those fingers) and introduced ourselves and I realized he was telling the truth. He had been joking with me. I put on the mannerisms of someone who was cool, with the vague chance he'd think I'd been playing along the whole time.

I re-entered the conversation with a harsh, dry swallow.
I was thirsty. A marijuana-induced panic chuckled down my neck, arms, and fingers. I said: That's funny.

What's wrong? Minna said. She petted my arm delicately.

Oh, nothing, I said, quietly. Nothing now, only now the only thing left intact is my lack a dignity.

Huh?

He's trying to impress you with his wit, the guy said to Minna, leaning completely over me to say it.

She laughed again. He doesn't have to worry. I've been impressed by his wit for ages.

Oh, man, he said to her chest. I can tell he's a real wit. It's all in the timing, isn't it? No, no. I'm just fucking with you again. Seriously, I'm a sweet guy underneath all the layers, the layers, the many layers. What's your names again?

Minna.

What are you doing here anyway?

We came to see the show, she said.

What show?

The men, the wrestlers.

What
wrestlers
?

She gave him an easy push: Don't be a prick. You know what I'm talking aboot.

Seriously, I don't know how you heard aboot this, but it's not a show. It's not wrestling. I don't mean to insult you.

Whatever.

Those are my friends out there. Ken and Silas, for them it's annoying to hear it called that, is all. They don't see it like a show, and they aren't perceiving themselves as wrestlers. When you've been hanging with these guys as long as I have, watching them totally improve, with no one paying any attention, it's frustrating to see them get an audience a people who
still
don't seem to get what they're watching.

Okay, fine, so …, Minna said, shifting her weight from hip to hip. She seemed eagerly unimpressed.

Well, no, I should—I mean, I didn't—. He gave Minna a sort of bashful smile meant to remind her of other, more sensitive, less indecent smiles. It's no big
deal, really, he said, that you didn't know.

Tell us aboot it, if you're such an expert.

I liked nothing about the jollity or aggravated intimacy of their conversation. I interrupted: All I want is beer, actually.

What? As if. A course you want to know, Kat. My god, you dragged me here. You better want to know. We might as well figure out what we're watching, right?

I raised my eyebrows. Then, when nothing changed, I lowered them.

Right?

I shook my head and sighed and rolled my eyes and said:I didn't
drag
you here.

Minna, this girl who owned my love on a shoestring budget. I should have dreamed of others: one-scene starlets, women with smiles they saved for the internet, the chesty baker who crossed the
t
on my birthday cake, every woman in a commercial for hair and makeup, my sister's boyfriend's brother's ex-girlfriend's best friend, the one with the legs.I can dream of Molly
now
, not that it does me any good. But I know that men loved Molly. Every man she met loved her. And she loved all her men.

Clough invited Campbell for a drink over at the Stag & Pheasant, a little fancier for a tavern than Campbell was probably used to patronizing, but out of eye and earshot of Campbell's bosses, Furry & Daggett. For one, the floor was made of wood, not peanut shells. For two, the prices. Campbell quickly realized that he was paying for the honour of sitting at the same table as the one-armed warden of the chain gang, ex-miner, part-time poundkeeper, occasional bounty hunter—Clough listed off his curriculum vitae with practised monotony—and so the prices were preposterous, nickel beers seemed preposterous, preposterous was the only polysyllabic Campbell could think of at the moment.

Why, in that corner over there, Clough said, you can see RH Alexander himself, manager a the Hastings Mill, conversating with his accountant—, Clough hesitated to say: Mr. Erwagen. And his wife, Mrs. Samuel … Molly Erwagen.

Campbell turned to gape as well. She was sitting there as if that seemed reasonable.

Not even in the hoary days a the first gold rush has Clough seen a lady with such unblemished features, said Clough, awkwardly referring to himself in third person, a slip, an accidental confession of his grand delusions. I wonder what she drinks? he asked, craning his neck until it squeaked. Might she too sup from the Squamish potato? Appreciate the beauty a
that
, he instructed Campbell. She's how we know God exists.

Molly acknowledged the impolite gawking with a mere wince of flattery, then refocused her eyes and hands on the husband at her side, as if to make clear her life, if not her origin.

I'd fuck her, said Campbell.

Clough shook his head, and said: Okay, Jesus, that's enough looking. Stop looking, I say.

What? What?

Campbell, he said. Drink your beer.

They cleared the foam off the tops and drained half their pints. Clough leaned his elbow on the table and wiped his moustache on his jacketcuff, peeking looks at pretty Molly.

Interesting show fight the other day with Litz and Pisk, he said finally.

Campbell, for a man of such middling height, had good reflexes and a long reach, as Clough so quickly learned when he found his collar in Campbell's fist. Tugging, Campbell said: I'm ready to knock their skulls apart.

Clough, unfazed: Those are direct orders from Daggett?

It's what I believe.

You put chickamin on Pisk, eh.

Said I got beliefs. Pisk is the all-round better player between the two. That don't mean he's foolproof. Whatever. Sitting back down, Campbell adjusted his coats and collar bib and finished his beer. Beliefs are all I got. I watch that game,
and all I think is those two bohunks aren't half enough man to play that game. Who's coaching them?

Who is coaching them, dammit, cried Clough in agreement.

And why didn't he pick me, not them? I could easily play that game.

I'd bet good money to see you try.

Don't tell Furry and or Daggett I said that.

How old are you? said Clough.

I'm twenty, I'm twenty-uh-seven.

Come on, you're a bunnyrabbit, you don't even shave, you little—

Oh, that's class. How's aboot I punch you in the eyes?

Not long after her drink at the Stag & Pheasant, Molly made an unscheduled visit to Wood's on Dupont Street. She arrived as if she were the landlord—unexpected and by unknown means—and sat down in Madam Peggy's room.

My heavens, said Peggy, please tell me you're here for business?

If I may, Peggy, allow me to describe for you exactly how I arrived here.

Please, always pleased to hear the story a such a fateful journey, dear. Sit sit, please. Don't mind me if my eyes close a little, I've heard so many girls' stories over the years. Oh, look now. Careful. Shoo, moth. Shoo, creature. Let me—shall I … well, he was a fast one for so big, wasn't he. Dirty beasts. I'm sorry everything around here isn't up to snuff, you know. The girls stitch up the furnishings one day and the next night things fall apart again. When you deal with men night after night, it's like that.

A moth has the same rights as an eagle to a nest. I should be sorry I disturbed its sleep.

Humour, like the moth, was lost on Peggy at this moment. She was used to seeing a man there across from her, a hungry, lascivious lumberjack or a hungry, lascivious tycoon
of great wealth and refinement who wanted to know only two things: the price and the pickings. She laughed if a man asked to kiss her neck. Ha, no. Peggy, shifting her weight self-consciously on her own well-stuffed high-backed chair and watching her visitor with great interest, was keenly aware of the signature aroma of her establishment. She might even admit to taking some slightly cruel pleasure in living softly within the rankness like a pussywillow growing robustly in a sulphuric swamp. Feminine smells, yes, but above all it was the scent left behind from so many thousands of men, few of whom were familiar with soap and even fewer still who came and left without a trace. A rich, throaty tamarind, a plummy sap, coppery blood, and the unmoving salt-air smell found in the deepest recesses of a great big seashell washed ashore. These smells now made Peggy feel more uncomfortable than usual simply by the fact that Mrs. Erwagen didn't seem at all insulted by them.