One Good Hustle

TWENTY-SEVEN




IT’S ABOUT TWO in the afternoon when I get to the balcony of our apartment. I was supposed to be here sometime around noon but I decided to walk from Jill’s and the closer I got the more anxious I got. I stopped at a phone booth on Kingsway and dialled Marlene. I’m going to be late, I said. Have an errand to do. Have to pick up something for Ruby.

“That’s okay,” my mother said. “I’ll be around.”

The way she said that made me feel sad. Ruby had said that Marlene sounded good, but maybe what “good” meant to Ruby was that Marlene had lost her will to kick ass.

I stood on the sidewalk and tried to think of some decent way to stall. I glanced at the arcade a few doors down but I can’t stand those crummy places. Talk about the ultimate sucker’s paradise: a room stuffed with flashing machines that scream for quarters.

The Pantry Restaurant was behind me. I thought about going in there and killing time over a cup of coffee. Then again, I was right beside the bus stop. Why not go downtown for an hour, hang out. The sight of Vancouver would probably do me good, remind me of my goal in life: to get the hell out of Burnaby.

The more I thought about it, the better downtown sounded. I could even hit the big drugstore down on Robson Street again. Sitting in the bus shelter, I imagined myself walking into that drugstore, bag in one pocket, receipt in the other, but every time I tried to see it in my head, a hand landed on my shoulder, and that voice echoed in my head again: Come on, kid. Seriously?

When the downtown bus finally stopped in front of me, I just sat there looking up at the driver while a wrinkly little man moved slowly down the steps and onto the sidewalk. The driver raised his eyebrows at me but I didn’t budge. Come on, kid. Seriously? He shut the door and drove on.

Shut up! I thought. Get over it. Shake it off. That hustle was amateur-hour anyway. There are better reasons to get out of Burnaby. Go down to Robson Street and look in the fancy shops, walk all the way down to Denman. Hang out at English Bay.

I imagined myself hopping on the next bus, getting off downtown and kicking around Robson Street without a care in the world. I’d be just turning away from a store window when I’d run smack into Sam.

Fancy meeting you here, I’d say.

He’d be stunned and tongue-tied at first and then he’d ask me if I wanted to grab a bite. We’d go to a restaurant. Someplace nice. We’d sit down at a table and … And I couldn’t imagine what then. Sitting in the bus shelter, I worked on witty lines, clever quips that would cause Sam to see me in a way he never had.

Come on, kid. Seriously?

The thought of those words in Sam’s mouth made me shudder.

Fact of the matter is, if I were to see my dad on some street like Robson, he’d likely be with Peggy. I wonder if Peggy still boosts, if she’s been working her way through those designer shops downtown already.

Marlene told me that people used to place orders with Peggy for exactly what they wanted, right down to the brand name, size and colour. Peggy would make a list and go shopping. That’s nerve, boy. I guess that’s why Sam likes her.

I must have sat on that bench for an hour thinking about that stuff. Four busses went by, until I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. I finally got up and headed into the Pantry.

It was quiet in there. On Sundays, the Pantry is loaded with churchy-looking types: moms in pastel suits and dads in shirts and ties. The little kids always have shiny patent-leather shoes. I kind of enjoy looking at them. They seem more like illustrations of people than real ones. Happy, shiny people.

I sat down at a booth in the corner and ordered a cup of coffee. As soon as the waitress came back with the cup-and-saucer on her tray, I changed my mind. Before I could speak, she set it down.

“Can I have tea instead?”

She looked at the coffee and let loose a sigh as though she’d just jogged down to Colombia and picked the beans herself.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really like coffee. I forgot.”

She came back a minute later with one of those little aluminum teapots and a fresh cup. As she set them down on my table I heard a familiar voice. I cringed, not wanting to be seen.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly, trying to keep the waitress near to block me from view a little longer. “Can I have some, uh, do you—Hey, do you have honey … dear?”

When I called her dear she gave me another one of her world-champion sighs and pointed to a blue plastic bowl at the side of the table with packets of jam and marmalade.

“Should be some in there,” she said and walked away.

Glancing around, I caught sight of Jill’s poofy hair sprouting up over the back of a booth. Facing her, droopy nose and all, was Roman.

He probably wouldn’t have recognized me but I slunk deeper into the booth anyway. I didn’t want to talk to them. Either of them. He’s twenty-two years old, I thought. Doesn’t anyone else find this icky? Doesn’t anyone else want to call the cops?

Picking up one of the creamers on my saucer, I peeled back the paper top and poured it into my tea. I put the teaspoon in and stirred a little, then stopped and listened. Couldn’t hear a word from Jill or Roman.

Inching sideways on the bench seat, I tried to get a better look. Roman wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Jill. His hands reached across the table toward her. His face looked pained. His eyes were red-rimmed and baggy. He leaned forward as though he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was telling her.

The waitress headed over to them. I sipped my tea. It tasted like rust. I glanced at the back of the waitress at their booth, decided I didn’t want to be there any more, got up and walked out the door.

Didn’t occur to me until I was on the sidewalk that I’d just pulled a dine-and-dash. My heart started to thump. I imagined I heard my waitress sigh. What if she has to pay for it?

Just as I turned back to look at the entrance, she shoved through the door. She looked at me. Her mouth hung a bit as if she didn’t know what to say at first.

Finally she said, “Are you taking off? Or what?”

I glanced across the street and then down at my watch, patted my pockets as if I were looking for a smoke. “Um, yeah,” I said. I found a crumpled dollar bill. I came toward her a couple steps. “Is that enough?”

She looked down at my buck, then snatched it out of my hand.

I watched as she yanked the door open and went back inside.

I called myself a loser on the waitress’s behalf. Kingsway traffic rushed past me, trucks and buses roaring, exhaust pluming. I headed west, in the direction of our apartment. Felt strange to think our apartment. Walking toward it, I tried to picture myself sitting in the living room, hanging out with Marlene like old times.



And now I’m here. The sliding glass door is open and the television is on. The sheers are drawn but I can see Marlene sitting on the couch, bent over the coffee table. She’s playing cards. Solitaire, it looks like. Since when does Marlene play solitaire?

I can hear a rerun of Alice but I can’t see it. Marlene lays her cards down uncertainly, as if she isn’t quite sure of the order of things any more.

The canned laughter roars and one of the actors yells a twangy, “When donkeys fly!”

Marlene looks up and blinks at the TV and then sets the deck down and picks up a thin paperback and a pencil. Crossword puzzles? She stares at the page and then carefully prints something. Her hands look frail from here, not like the pale, elegant hands I’ve always known, but pink and bony and raw. If a chicken had hands, they would look the way Marlene’s do.

I open my mouth to make some sort of noise to announce myself, but then I stop.

Say something. You can’t just stand here spying on her like a goddamn peeping tom.

But I don’t. I just listen to the people on television rail at one another in familiar voices: Stow it, Flo! Kiss my grits! Big laughs.

I stand still and listen to the catch-phrases I’ve heard a thousand times and all the phony laughter and when the theme music starts up to let me know it’s over, I nod a couple of times as if to show that I’ve been listening, as though somebody flesh-and-blood has been talking to me all this time.

I turn and slip quietly down the cement path and into the alley where I won’t be seen.