Black Rabbit and Other Stories (25 page)

“This is Tommy's response?”

“That's what it is.”

I heard something creak above my head but did not look up. “How can I believe you?”

“Tommy wrote it, okay. And if I were you I'd read it.”

“You would, eh?”

“You're a touchy sort, aren't you?” he said.

“If you were me, you would be too.” The creaking above me continued.

The little man shook the envelope again.

Glancing up and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I took the envelope from his hand.

“Step back,” he said.

“What?”

“Step back.”

By then he had pushed the button that triggered the door, issuing a hydraulic whoosh and then the liquid sucking sound as the door inched shut. The creaking I heard earlier continued. I looked above the entrance and saw the end of a lead pipe jutting out of a window. Someone or something was turning it, hence the creaking. Puzzling. I stared at the pipe for another moment then held up the envelope and tried to read the writing on it—
worromot
—but it made no sense. Then I realized the word was
tomorrow
written backwards.

Did Tommy want me to return tomorrow? This sounded odd. I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the slip of paper inside it, hopeful that it would provide a more comprehensive explanation. But on this slip of paper appeared the same handwritten word:
worromot
. It
meant nothing to me, much as tomorrow meant nothing to me, if that's what it meant. I was not about to wait until tomorrow to meet with Tommy. My schedule would not permit that. And I suspected he understood that all too well. The situation demanded expediency, like fish heads waiting for the bouillabaisse. Delaying a conference by a day served no purpose whatsoever, to my mind. It merely delayed the inevitable. I glanced up again and saw that the pipe had been withdrawn.

I walked along the wharf, breathing in the cold harbour air. I liked it near the water, even on a chilly December evening. Snow on the sidewalk resembled heaped ashes, and black slush frothed in the gutters. I felt disoriented, somewhat detached from my surroundings. Things changed as focus and perspective changed, my skull shifting this way and that, my eyes thinning shut then popping open. A block of desiccated blood became a fire hydrant. A Santa Claus with his back to me turned and flashed a pair of bulging D-cups. An undressed mannequin lying by a trash bin jumped to its feet and started sprinting toward the water. Jesus walking an elephant yielded nothing but a snuffling pug and a teenaged boy in a silver costume with spikes poking out of his head. I wanted to hate him for being so young, for being so bizarre, but hate takes time and energy. It is not a simple emotion. Hate must be laid down brick by brick for it to take hold, for it to be strong. Something splashed, something black and slick, a scuba diver—no, some kind of fish, huge. My eyes blurred over; the cold air raked them. I took out my drops and squirted.

When my eyes cleared I looked at the black water and considered how cold it would be if I fell in. I could swim, but not well, given my weight. I had ballooned in the past year, a glandular issue. I detected no movement among the blocky shadows and heard nothing but the distant traffic and machines of night, and the water.

I needed to find a quiet place to sit down and sort this out, drink something hot, warm up. I couldn't think straight in the cold; my ears ached, I could not feel my toes. I walked up from the wharf to a street lined with Christmassy boutiques and candle-lit cafés. I ducked into a place with multi-paneled leaded windows. I sat by one of the windows, beside a blue aluminum tree strung with tiny white lights, and tried to
make myself at ease, removing my gloves and stretching my legs. Xylophone music tonkled a gentle Christmas groove over the speakers, and I found myself nodding to its rhythm, feeling it in my bones.

A red-vested waiter, a man with gaping nostrils and a moustache drawn in with eyeliner, approached the table, crossed his arms on his chest, and stood there without saying a word. His head was square in shape with bloodshot eyes edging toward the temples.

“Hook me up with a hot toddy,” I joked, but the waiter didn't flinch. “I'll have a coffee and a snifter of Grand Marnier, okay?” Unimpressed, the waiter slid off.

Other patrons occupied tables in the back, and though I heard the muted tones of their conversations and the light tinkle of their glasses and cutlery, and though I smelled their perfumes and colognes, their sweat and their breath, and felt their mild scrutiny thrashing like snakes in the shadows, I made a point of not looking at them.

The drinks arrived; I creamed my coffee and took a sip. A rich, nutty brew, it pleased me, and I am not easy to please when it comes to coffee. I grind my own beans and so forth. Not that I pretend to be anything but what I am—a working stiff—I do like a nice cup of coffee. I swirled the Grand Marnier around in the snifter and I felt quite light and happy for a moment, almost in a swoon. I sniffed the orange bouquet and let the liqueur trickle into my throat where it burned going down and settled in my stomach like a cool flame.

The waiter returned.

“I'll have another snifter of the juice,” I said. But the waiter lacked affect. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“What could be wrong?”

“You look—I don't know—disgruntled, depressed. Not the best face to put forward to the public. You think?”

“Are you some kind of smart ass? I'm just saying.”

“See. Hostile. What if I were to crack you across the face with a karate chop? Or rip your throat out? Would that discourage your rudeness? I'm just saying.”

Why wait tables if you can't give a customer a little smile, a bit of poetry, some song and dance, whatever? Especially during the holiday
season. Why piss in
my
egg nog? Many people get depressed during the holidays, it's
normal
, we've all
been there
. So, when all is said and done, it's absurd to continue doing something that makes you unhappy. Life is very short. In the past, I had been a heedless young man, roaming around without a plan, without a thought in my head, a maniac, a brute. I had come a long way since then—but it had not been an easy road. I had to get the pick and shovel out and break things down, then rebuild, brick by brick. Was I happy now? Well, perhaps not ecstatic. I was not walking around wearing a simper or an expression of beatitude. I was not handing out free balloons and jellybeans at a corner. I had been happier in the past, likely, at some point—I draw a blank but blame that on a memory shot full of holes for many reasons, and not on the past. The past is an elephant: it forgets nothing. It is like the Incarnation, forever in place as time speeds toward the future—or gives that illusion. I was neither unhappy nor labouring at something I hated with my entire being, like the waiter for instance. The waiter sniffed.

“I hope I didn't offend you,” I said, noticing his chafed, scaly hands.

“You did.”

“But you still brought my drink.” I wondered if he had stuck his finger in it, or worse. Angry waiters like this one had a million tricks up their sleeve.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Well, thanks. Professional of you. It's admirable. I was starting to lose faith. And it is the
holiday season
, after all. Isn't it? But, seriously, you should cheer up. Probably hurts on the tips with the sourness.”

“My mother died yesterday.”

This took me aback. “Geez—I'm sorry to hear that, man. Your mother? Well, when is the funeral?”

“She lives in Greece. I can't afford to fly out.”

My mouth fell open. I didn't know what to say. Life is a bastard sometimes, a real cocksucker. But we had a point of contact here, a shared human thing occurring. “I've also had a situation arise.”

The waiter did not reply; instead his eyes filled with tears and his chin quivered.

“I'm sorry,” he said, blowing his nose into a large, checked
handkerchief. “I'm afraid you've caught me at a moment of great weakness, what with the Christmas holidays and so on. It's been rough. You were saying?”

“Nothing,” I said, watching him fold up the handkerchief with those hideous hands. He must have doubled as a dishwasher. But anyway, why bother going into details about my situation with this poor guy? I thought. Nothing was for certain. Despite the simplicity of my objective, an octopus of intangibles clouded my clarity, wrapping its tentacles around my head and dragging me along like some kind of mindless meat-puppet. What could I do about it? Sometimes intangibles trump common sense and steer you to dark corners. And yet, without intangibles the world would be a boring place. “It's not important,” I said to the waiter. “Believe me. And I'm real sorry about your mom, there. I truly am.”

“Thank you,” said the waiter, dabbing his nose with the folded handkerchief.

“Hey,” I said. “Not to change the subject—but I have a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“You must know this neighbourhood, eh? I mean I used to know it well when I was a kid. Oh yeah, used to come down here all the time with my mates and horse around. My buddy Turkey Mancini fell into the water one windy November day way back when—I remember like it was yesterday—and drowned beside a docked cargo ship. That's right. But tell me, what's up with the fishhouse these days?”

“The fishhouse?”

“Yeah, the fishhouse down on the wharf.”

The waiter shrugged.

“No, no. Come on. Don't play dumb, now. You must know what I'm talking about. The fishhouse right down the street. Some big shot lives there. Yeah, the fishhouse down on the wharf. Real ugly looking building.”

“I'm sorry, I can't help you.”

And with that he turned and walked off. Son-of-a-bitch.

I glanced at the blue Christmas tree flanking my table and while
it pleased me, with its little white bulbs glowing so prettily, it gave me no Christmas feeling whatsoever. Even the vibraphones, now soft-hammering a moody rendition of
We Three Kings
left my Christmas spirit unmoved. I had grown too cynical perhaps, too hardened, too conscious of the commercial propensities of the season. To think that not so long ago Christmas filled me with ticklish ebullience, with joy. The sight of a twinkling Christmas tree or a diorama of the Nativity would bring hot tears to my eyes. I would sob with delicious self-pity watching
It's A Wonderful Life
and almost be overcome with emotion when I heard Vince Guaraldi's soundtrack to
A Charlie Brown Christmas
, for it summoned all my childhood Christmases. Yes, quite a softy when it came to Christmas. What happened? What happens to everything. It gets old.

The patrons in back erupted with laughter. I looked but saw only shadows. The laughter continued, surging and withdrawing like an ocean wave. Well, at least someone was having a good time of it, and that was key. I finished my coffee.

As I headed back to the fishhouse, a high-gloss black Hummer pulled up in front of an antiques shop. I wondered if Tommy had sent some of his boys down to further press home his message. But what was his message? To come back tomorrow? That wasn't going to happen. Two Frankensteins in black leather overcoats jumped out of the Hummer. They carried dark green cases and neither took notice of my presence. I could have nailed them right then and there and they would not have seen it coming. They stiffly moved to the shop entrance and one of them removed a key from his pocket. He dropped it and when he bent down to pick it up his mate did the same, and their foreheads clunked.

I kept walking and soon realized I was lost. The structures, many windowless, abandoned, or serving as sets for American film production companies, looked unfamiliar. Comical this, for me to lose my bearings in a neighbourhood I could have called my own. As a youth I had spent so much time near the water, on the docks, by the wharf, that I felt quite at home, quite easy in my feeling there.

Clouds blocked the starlight and fishy odors swept through the
street arousing my disgust. Acid burned in the back of my throat, cheesy and scalding. I swallowed. Despite the cold air, sweat beaded my forehead, and my limbs trembled.

I continued toward the water, guided by the winking harbour lights and the sloping shadows of the wharf. My legs moved of their own accord, or at least I wasn't conscious of guiding them. Tommy—I had almost forgotten about Tommy. I wondered what he was doing at that moment—with an inward chuckle I imagined him and his little man decorating their Christmas tree. Not likely, but in this life one should presume nothing.

By the time I found my way back to the fishhouse my face felt like a mask of carved ice, my feet like frozen cinderblocks. The fishhouse stood dark and silent—abandoned? The blue light on the pier floated there like some kind of plasmic phantasm. Had Tommy and his boys left the premises? I shouted out his name several times with no response. I neared the door and banged my fist against it.

After a moment, the door thudded and started opening. The little man reappeared holding a lantern and wearing a black fedora.

“If you really have to see him,” he said, “I'll take you. He's around back.”

“Around back?”

“Yes, follow me.”

He led me down an auxiliary dock next to the blue-lit pier to a loose row of wooden planks roped together haphazardly and jutting out on the water. He said something under his breath, gave me a sidelong glance, and stepped across these planks as nimbly as a tightrope walker, the lantern swinging back and forth, its greenish light washing over everything like a dash of chartreuse. Below us, black water gurgled and splashed. I walked with a wide base and my arms spread for balance.

The little man flashed the lantern beside the planks, and I saw a wooden rowboat bobbing in the water. He planted his polished shoes, bent his knees, and jumped into it, gesturing for me to follow suit. A man of my size doesn't just jump into a rowboat. My days of jumping into rowboats were long gone. With great exertion, I flung my left leg
over, my foot hitting like an anvil, and then when my right leg crashed down, the boat almost tipped. It rocked for a moment, threatening to toss the little man, who clung like a lemur to the bow, eyes gleaming, his free hand clawing for purchase. When the boat stopped rocking, he attached the lantern to the bow with a rope catch and then grabbed the oars.