I saw her drop her eyes. Then she raised her head and spit through her teeth. The slimy oyster wad landed on the hood of Miss Craig, the Phys. Ed. teacher’s, turd brown hatch back.
“Poor old Rose, you just don’t get it, do you?”
“Nope, I guess I just don’t get it.”
“Live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse behind. Words of wisdom, kiddo.” She put her cigarette back in her mouth and let in dangle from her chapped lower lip. She pushed her red gloveless hands into the pockets of her imitation leather jacket and stared at the leaf-bare trees, wind tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
I turned and went back into class, leaving Lee-Anne leaning up against the side of the red brick building. She blew smoke rings. Caught by the wind gusts, they blew apart to nothing in the cold November air.
DROP IN ANY TIME
Word of what happened to Stewart circulated quickly. Did you hear? Did you hear? Did you hear? The story swept through the streets like water in the gutter.
The Toronto neighbourhood was one of oak-lined streets and second hand bookstores, coffee shops and bars with tiny spaces called ‘open stages’ where on Friday or Sunday night anyone could grab the mike and read poetry, rant about the conservative provincial government or sing the song they’d just written.
Stewart knew every shopkeeper by name, knew how many kids each had; was recognised by every panhandler, plus Elio, the guy who ran the news-stand, depended on him to drop off a hot coffee every day on his way home from work. Stewart was a neighbourhood fixture, an always-smiling face. He was kind and so, if people made jokes about his bad comb-over or his brightly patterned vests, or his sometimes overpowering aftershave, they never teased him to his face. He was also, if the truth be told, a bit of a gossip. If you wanted to know anything about anyone in the neighbourhood, Stewart was the man to see. He knew where Mrs. Cheung’s daughter was hiding out when she ran away from home, and why. He knew the amount Mr. Davidson had to pay when he was audited last year and why the Campbell’s marriage broke up. He even knew the name of the girlfriend.
Every Sunday morning Stewart went to the Renaissance e for a vegetarian brunch. There he met with four or five friends and they talked over each other’s romantic problems, job problems, talk about the books they’d just read or were attempting to write, the politics that influenced them. He was the sort of fellow who made friends with strangers at the next table, drew them into conversation, and later exchanged phone numbers.
He worked in the printing department of the University of Toronto, copying reports and dissertations, brochures and lesson outlines. The job paid the rent. But he knew he was far more sophisticated than his career indicated. His real interest lay the healing powers of music and one day he dreamed of travelling to Mongolia to study shamanic chants.
“I’ve never heard of a sickness or an injury that could not be made better by listening to the Vivaldi’s Four Seasons,” he said. “You can laugh, but just try it the next time you get a bad cold.”
On a day in June, warm enough that you could finally do without a jacket, Stewart stood in line to pay for his Globe and Mail and noticed a boy standing behind him. He was eighteen, or nineteen, tall and lanky, dressed like a million other kids his age: running shoes, jeans, a T-shirt that read “There’s no such thing as gravity, the earth just sucks.” He wore a gold ring through the right side of his lower lip.
“The news just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn’t it? Just for once I’d like to see something in the paper about someone not doing something despicable to someone else, wouldn’t you?” said Stewart.
“Yeah, I guess. What a world, eh?”
That was pretty much the extent of the conversation, but it was enough to make them remember each other the next time they passed in the street and Stewart said hello. The kid asked Stewart if he could spare any change. Stewart gave him a couple of ‘loonies’ and introduced himself. The kid said his name was Philip.
And so it went. Stewart and Philip met in the street, turning the corner, in the convenience store, in the donut shop on Bloor and St. George. Once or twice they struck up a conversation. Stewart bought Philip cups of coffee, heard about his troubles. He had that knack. People he barely knew were always telling him their troubles.
Philip told Stewart how hard it was to make ends meet, to pay the rent on the room he shared with his girlfriend, Pam. Philip said he’d had to sell his stereo, his guitar. He was looking for work, he said. Stewart sympathised. Times were hard. Now and then he slipped the kid twenty bucks, bought him a hamburger, or gave him a few dollars for bus tokens, just to help out. He liked Philip, felt a soft spot for the kid. He wanted to do what he could to make his life a little easier until his situation improved.
Once he invited Philip to eat at his apartment. The kid sat hunched over his pasta, fiddling with the ring in his lip, the pierced hole red and inflamed, slightly crusted with infection. It made Stewart a little queasy to watch, and he spent the time focused on fussing about the tiny kitchen. Philip seemed ill at ease, looking around constantly and shifting in his seat. Stewart put this down to Philip’s embarrassment with is own reduced circumstances. He concluded this was why he’d never learned where Philip lived - because it would make him uncomfortable to have Stewart see his dingy lodgings.
Late one sticky Friday night in early August, it was after 11:00, there was a knock at the door. Stewart was reading, thinking about how good it would feel to soon be tucked up in bed. He went to the door, expecting it to be Craig, one of his neighbours, who locked himself out with regularity and left a key at Stewart’s. He opened the door. There stood Philip, smiling, and behind him another man and a young woman, her hair dyed a gothic blue black.
“Philip! What a surprise! What’s up?”
Philip stepped toward him, causing him to step back into the room. The other two followed close behind. Now they were all standing inside Stewart’s apartment. The other man closed the door and leaned up against it. Philip twirled the ring in his lip. He was standing too close to Stewart. Stewart backed up another step, smelling beer, cigarettes, and sweat.
“Are you all right? Is something wrong?” said Stewart. When Stewart’s friends showed up this late at night, something was usually wrong; a romantic break-up, a sick relative, something Stewart could be helpful with. Something a cup of tea and a long chat could help solve.
He wished Philip would say something.
“Is this Pamela?” Stewart extended his arm to shake the girl’s hand. Her skin was very pale, her lipstick and fingernails painted a grape colour so dark it looked almost black. She didn’t take his hand. He dropped it. He looked at Philip.
“Philip?”
“Stewart, man, we’ve come to get your stereo.”
“My stereo,” Stewart repeated, “...you want my stereo?”
“Clever boy.”
Stewart thought Philip’s eyes looked very odd, hollow and colourless, like mine shafts.
“Philip, be serious!” Stewart tried out a little laugh. “My stereo. Very funny.” He waited for Philip to join in on the joke, but Philip remained mute. Stewart concluded the situation required normalcy.
“Why don’t we have a cup of coffee? We can sit down and talk about what’s going on. You’re always welcome here.
