Chapter Six
“This is the deal,” said the man at the front desk without sympathy for my fragile state, “If it was up to me, you’d rot right here. You could have killed someone, but, it’s not up to me. You know how I stand though and I’m not alone.”
Keeping my eyes on the ground I offered no response. There was a blur of paperwork and possessions were returned to me. Signing on the dotted line, I agreed to the price of freedom. I gave up my right to drink, the privilege of not keeping the peace and assorted other conditions that had been worked out with my grandfather who I was to meet halfway between Toronto and Peterborough.
My grandparents had been looking after my younger brother while my parents were on vacation, which explained my confusion in the jailhouse with the phone. My mother and father weren’t due back for a few days. I was going to have to sit and ooze some big drops of sweat through the last few days of their holiday. I felt fragile; my stomach knotted and head aching. I was paranoid, which was nothing new. Everyone I saw knew what I did, and they all agreed that through my foolishness I’d embraced the loser’s role and elevated it to new and lofty heights.
It promised to be a long wait. I didn’t know quite what to expect, all that was certain was that I’d done it again. Everyone knew I’d done it again. I couldn’t claim innocence and make a break for it when nobody was looking; I was in way too deep for that. I was guilty, a criminal – all that remained to be decided was my punishment. I couldn’t sit and think happy thoughts because there weren’t any. I had to wonder if there would ever be happy thoughts again. If so, where would they come from?
“So long officer, it was nice to have met you.”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to say something to the one who would be three – judge, jury and executioner. I waved to him as I went through the door to a new type of freedom. I could have sworn I heard him growl.
So I was free; unbound and liberated, my horizon was limitless. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t do, except drink, which is what I most wanted to do. As I walked I thought about cold beer until I was thirsty for anything. I had a few dollars. I stopped into a restaurant and ordered a large Coke.
I had to find the freeway and travel east for a while. I was supposed to phone my Grandpa when I reached Port Hope and he would come and get me. I thought of staying in the city and downing a couple of quick beers but the timing was wrong. I knew, though, that I would pick a bottle up when we got to my parent’s house, that I would swallow sweet whiskey at night, in the dark, when I was supposed to be sleeping. I’d play records by the light of the moon, toast all the sad souls who’d ever screwed up and in the morning swear that I wasn’t like any of them.
Having a stashed bottle was about the only way I figured I could make it through the next few days. I’d never been in a treatment center, nor did I need to be. I had more than a few unhappy memories to supplement my hunch that I was an alcoholic and had no problem with the knowledge of my addiction. When I craved a drop, I wouldn’t stop until I had what I needed. Sometimes I stooped to begging. It was something I did well when I needed a drink in the worst way. When there was no other way to get my hands on the remedy, I could put on a sad face, sad enough that it wasn’t unusual for people to forgo pocket change and give me folding money and cigarettes. If I stood in the right place I could easily make thirty dollars in an hour. I knew that it was nothing to write home about.
I made it to an eastbound ramp courtesy of the Toronto Transit Commission. What I had done, the trouble I had caused hadn’t made it past my defences; the seriousness of my crime had yet to sink in. The blow was being cushioned. It was similar to banging your shin – you don’t feel it for a moment and that moment gives you time to prepare. So, I stood on the ramp, whistling stupidly, blissfully ignorant and full of impatience for the motorists who passed me by, some gawking rudely while others looking preoccupied and bored, ignored me entirely. Still, I had plenty of time to spare when an expensive looking sports car ground to a stop on the road’s gravel siding. I ran, which was always my policy when hitchhiking. I slid into a leather seat and was grateful yet wary, which was also policy.
“Hello,” I ventured, “thanks for stopping.”
The surly looking man at the wheel didn’t answer, choosing instead to glare at me for a few moments. He was preoccupied and I wondered if he saw me when he glowered. Maybe he’s heard what I’ve done, I thought, maybe that’s why he won’t talk to me.
“Where ya goin’,” he offered after awhile, without looking my way. His tone suggested that he only wanted the nuts and bolts, didn’t want to be my buddy, counsellor, confidant, boyfriend or big brother. He had little sympathy for me. I told him I was going to Port Hope and he exhaled a vague, “Uh huh.”
We drove in silence. I was trapped in a frightening world of my own making. Mercifully, as we journeyed, the sound of rubber on cement and the motion of the car were putting me asleep, giving me the loan of a few winks, which spelled temporary escape and mild relief.
No sooner, it seemed, had I begun to doze than I was being shaken with exaggerated vigour. I came to, wondering, “Now who wants a piece, who the hell wants some of me now?”
“Far as I’m goin’,” the man who’d subsidized my journey by burning a little fuel said and stuck out his hand, which I took. His handshake was quite weak and I was surprised to realize he had put something in my mitt.
“Where am I,” I asked, but he was already gone. Looking in my hand I saw a joint that seemed to be looking back and saying, “Smoke me, that’s what I’m here for.” I sat down and inhaled the whole thing.
I was taking note that I was near a strip mall when I started to trip out: 20th century schizophrenic male meets a pot-induced, psychotic wonderland. I looked at the shopping complex and the windows there reflecting the sunlight. The sun seemed warm and affable at first and then to suddenly be cracking the windows of the stores. My focus came to rest on the ant-like shoppers as they went here and there with great purpose. Foolishly serious, I thought, as if shopping is an activity of great importance. Something that stimulates the ant’s antennae I thought, and laughed a bit. I wondered if I should venture into a place where the sun breaks windows and the shoppers were giant ants. Without doubt, went the answer. I threw my bag over a fence and hopped over behind it, taking care not to hurt my hand. I looked around and walked forward. I hadn’t gone far when I knew for certain that the ants were people and the windows were whole. What, I wondered silently and not without grim amusement, was next?
I saw a coffee shop and it seemed to beckon. “Come in,” it said, “have a seat and you’ll swear you’re in your favourite chair. Taste a cup of coffee like no other.” Maybe they could tell me where I was. I entered and noticed on the way in that the brown outer door was scarred up. Inside I didn’t exactly find myself in my favourite chair. The coffee was stale.
I heard a humming. It kept my attention and as I tried to figure out its origin I visualized metal in perpetual motion, screaming colours, squealing tires. My sight blurred over with tears. I realized the humming was the sound of the expressway I’d just left behind. The cold purpose of everything snuck up and struck me and I fought an almost uncontrollable need to shout “Stop”, and to see everything do so.
The moment passed and I went back to sipping my coffee, maddened by the confusion that seemed to thrive around me while it left others untouched. Why not that guy over there, he doesn’t look like an angel? What about that crusty old dude at the counter, slugging away coffee like it’s his last? Why couldn’t he get sick? I was a young man. I was disgraced. God didn’t like me.
The waitress who was passing my table informed me that we were on the outskirts of Oshawa. The truck stop near Port Hope, our scheduled meeting place, was still a ways off and I didn’t feel as though I had the energy or perhaps the inclination to go there, to go any further. I went to the payphone and called my grandfather collect. He agreed with reluctance to come and pick me up where I was. The man behind the counter had given me a showy business card with the instructions that Grandpa would need to find me, written on the back. Once I had conveyed the instructions, Gramps and I said goodbye.
I sat back down. Deflated by illness, depressed over my legal problems and dependence on alcohol, I dropped into my chair with a small thud and let a huge sigh escape me. I held my head and squeezed it until I realized that none of the other patrons were speaking. A man cleared his throat as I released myself from the headlock I had forced on myself. Somebody shuffled his newspaper. I stood and moved to the back of the restaurant where I thought I’d blend with the semi-darkness and perhaps, sigh as loudly and frequently as I wished. Maybe I’d squeeze my head because, to be honest, it just felt good.
It could be infected I reasoned, and tried to convince myself that was the problem. It was too convenient though, and, even I could recognize it as a falsehood. An explanation that I did consider seriously was that I might have a tumour. At the moment, I would have accepted anything but the blame I deserved. Responsibility for my situation was a bitter pill to chew on. I began thinking of my grandfather. He’ll be here in an hour, I thought, he’ll help me through this, he’ll understand.
Predictably, everything started to go from ordinary strangeness to very weird. Marijuana and schizophrenia don’t mix, as I was realizing again, without the knowledge that I was afflicted by that particular disease. All I knew was that in the time it takes to turn your head things got pretty hairy. The counterman seemed particularly suspicious, darting in and out of view, talking on the telephone. I began to believe he was reporting to some type of citizen’s police, underground vigilantes. You dirty bastard, I thought, what do you have hiding in your closet?
Things were getting serious; I was no longer attempting to convince myself I had a terminal brain disease while life went on without giving me a second thought. Life was giving me a hard look. That guy was setting me up, he was selling me out and he knew I was on to him from the look I was giving him. The brazen SOB didn’t care if he aired my dirty laundry. Life was a John Wayne western. I was an outlaw and that was enough for him.
It seemed the other patrons all started talking at the same time. Furious glances were directed my way. People debated the punishment I should receive, “He could have killed someone, but he didn’t. What can we do? How do you punish someone like that?”
I started to credit everyone I saw with knowing about the accidents. I was alarmed as people passing the coffee shop looked in at me scornfully. I felt what it was to be shunned. I looked down and stared into my oily coffee, looking up now and then to see if matters could really be as I was discerning them. Weaving in my chair, I almost fell over. Spilling a bit of coffee while righting myself I heard a snicker and some guy say, “Hey, look at him, look how he gets his kicks.”
I felt him staring and heard his friends chuckling. Before I knew what I was doing I was on my feet, my heart pounding while I made a beeline for the door, past curious diners and coffee drinkers. Outside the distress that had embraced me eventually left, disappeared bit by bit, as, interspersed between deep breaths, a recitation of the many and varied obscenities I had learned in my first eighteen years found voice. The counterman came outside and demanded that I pay for my coffee. I dug in my pocket and coughed up.
Time sped up crazily; the minutes flitted while I slumped on a piece of concrete that met a pillar. A familiar voice imposed itself upon my gloom and the beginnings of remorse. Looking up I saw my father’s father looming over me, gazing at me with a question in his eyes.
“C’mon,” he said and turned to his vehicle.
His voice had reached me from far up, dripping with a measure of venom that was appropriate. Dizzy and drowsy I stirred, staggered to my feet and shuffled behind him, head down, good hand buried in my pocket with the fluff and garbage that lived there.
The trip to my parent’s house wasn’t graced with a single word – no off the cuff remark, stern declaration or wise counsel. Looks, however, were aplenty. Every five seconds or so, whenever the highway was clear Gramps would fix his lively, blue eyes on me and give me the look. The look, I figured, was meant to make me fade, droop and wither, however, since I was already there, it was an unnecessary ocular expenditure. Grandpa hadn’t had too much experience with marijuana. While he was gazing at regular intervals he couldn’t see that I was somewhere he’d never been, not in all of his street corner preaching days.
Along the way I was again attacked by the perception that I was being exposed as a disgraceful person, that everyone going in the opposite direction and those that passed us while going the same way all had the dirt on me. This was not a passing fancy; it was an acute fact that would not be mocked. It was real. When my grandfather turned on the radio things took a turn for the worse. I closed my eyes and all I heard were voices condemning me to every sort of punishment you could imagine. Gramps finally found a station. Someone was selling cars. My spell faded.
In due time, everything came full circle. I was back in the small town where it had all begun, with a joyride and a bottle of whiskey. We pulled into my parent’s driveway, tires chewing stone and sand. When I slammed the car door shut I felt a wave of, “We know what you did,” and I hustled into the house, abruptly leaving my grandfather behind.