Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (23 page)

Sure, everyone
says they understand. They feel awful. Oh, if there was only
something someone could do to help.

Blah blah
blah.

I’d seen it
happen my whole life. To other people. To Mom. To myself. And while
it was all terrible – no matter how much crap got dumped on you and
everyone around you - at the end of the day everything boiled down
to one simple reality.

Shit
happens.

And it
sucks.

So either you
whine and cry about it, or you pick yourself up off the ground.
Face your shit head on and tell your shit that you ain’t gonna bend
no matter how much more shit gets piled on top of you.

Still sucks
though. Especially when you see others bitching about the system
and being rewarded for it.

Pisses me
off.

So does the
price of gas.

And knowing
that the kid who shot me is wandering the streets a free man.

I slammed the
steering wheel with my fist in frustration. My poor van lurched
from the impact, nearly causing an accident because I was being an
idiot. I made conciliatory waves out my window, acknowledging my
buffoonery.

Once out
of the main crush of traffic I took the side streets and managed to
keep my cool until finally pulling into Mom’s driveway. I then
began the usual circus trick of carrying fifteen plastic bags and
my keys all at the same time, an important skill to have if one
wants to avoid more than one trip from the van to the house.
Shutting my van’s sliding door while balancing on one foot, cursing
vociferously the whole time is usually worth style points depending
on your level of grace and dexterity. Then making that quick – but
not
so
quick that I tear the
handle on one of my bags – walk to the back door is a talent that
rarely gets acknowledged by the Russian judges.

“Joseph?” Mom
called as I fumbled my way in through the back door. “Is that
you?”

Who else would
it be?

“Yeah. Sorry
I’m late,” I grumbled using my elbow to try and shut the door
behind me while trying to kick my crummy boots off amidst the
collection of feminine shoes. “The Goddamned stores are packed and
everyone’s as slow as hell today.”

“That’s all
right, Joseph…”

“I honestly
don’t get why people would choose to go anywhere on a Sunday,” I
continued, lost in my own frustrated headspace as I heaved the bags
carefully up onto the kitchen counter. I shook my hands out, trying
to get the blood back into my fingers. “All those people in the
fucking way. Crowding you. It’s impossible to get anywhere in
anything resembling proper time.”

“Don’t worry
about it, Joe. Why don’t you …”

Food stuffs
began going into cupboards with loud clunks of tin cans, certainly
louder than they needed to be. “It’s just so damned frustrating,
Mom” I grumbled, assorting soups apart from canned vegetables.
Tomato paste apart from tomato sauce but opposite from the crushed
tomatoes. “I mean, can’t people use their brains and shop on
different days? Everyone would have an easier time. There’d be
better overall selections.”

“I should do a
story on that.”

“Well somebody
should! It’s bad enough that the damned stores are only open for
six fucking hours on Sunday so of course ….”

Wait. What?

I paused in the
middle of separating the microwaved popcorn from the rice cakes and
checked back over my shoulder, one arm still buried in the
pantry.

Cathy leaned
against the doorframe to the dining room with her happy dimples
striving to show through. She wasn’t dressed for work unless CTV
had instituted a casual broadcaster uniform that included blue
jeans and cream colored turtleneck sweaters.

I said nothing
for a moment as my brain informed me of things it had noticed while
the rest of me was too grumpy to listen. Pastel colored Volkswagen
Passat parked out front. An unfamiliar pair of heeled boots at the
back door. The smell of fresh coffee in the air at three-thirty
Sunday afternoon.

Shit.

Feeling
my face begin to heat up I withdrew my arm from the pantry and
proffered the item to Cathy. “Generic microwave popcorn? Only half
the fat?”

Her dimples
came all the way out of hiding as she laughed lightly. “I’m good.
Want a hand in here?”
“Joseph’s very particular about the groceries, my dear,” Mom called
from the living room, dooming me to the embarrassed flush I thought
I had left behind at fourteen. You know, back when Mom would get to
the phone before I did and begin chatting up my girlfriends. “Might
be better off leaving him to his own devices.”

“Is that so,
Joseph?” Cathy asked, making extra emphasis on my full name.

“No popcorn for
you.” I grunted as items started going into the pantry again. I
made my voice as huffy as possible, still trying to hide my
embarrassment. “Surprise visiting is considered extremely gauche,
Miss Greenberg.”

Funny voices.
Always gets a laugh.

“Fine, I’ll go
sit with your mother. Take your time.”

I set the World
Record for putting away groceries in the Joe Olympics that day.
Medalling in egg arrangement on the proper shelf, roast beef
slicing into manageable steak sized chunks and placing in prepared
marinating baggies. My vegetable crisper storage was a little
shoddy however. Stupid asparagus, never fits in there with the
salads and tomatoes.

Five minutes
later I strolled into the living room as casually as possible.
Poker face up at full power.

Mom and Cathy
sat on opposite ends of the couch from each other. As per her
custom, Mom had stayed in her Sunday church clothes after the
service. “Honoring the day” as she put it until at least
suppertime. A good thing too, because I know how embarrassed Mom
would have been if Cathy’d come by while she was in her housecoat
with her hair all messed up.

Which somehow
would’ve been my fault.

“I did
very much enjoy your story the other night, my dear.” Said Mom
politely from behind her coffee mug. “It was very nicely
done.”

I managed to
keep my questioning eyebrow from twitching to the sky, remembering
my weeping mother sitting in that very same spot two nights
ago.

Cathy flushed politely, making a tiny
aw
shucks
motion with her hand. “That piece wrote itself,
Mrs. Donovan. I have been compiling information on civic and
provincial corruption for months.”

“Even
still, it was very compelling.”

“Well, thank
you. I just hope it brings more awareness to people.”
“I’m definitely more aware,” I muttered to myself, taking a seat in
Dad’s battered and oh so comfy recliner.

“Did you
remember the honey?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“The
organic, all-natural kind?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“You know how
the regular processed kind affects my stomach.”
“I know, Mom. It’s the organic kind.”

“Very well,
then. I just remind you because you’ve forgotten before.”

“I’ve done lots
of things before. Including all the times I didn’t forget.”

Cathy looked
back and forth between us bemusedly.

“Yes,” I
answered her unasked question. “It’s always like this.”
They both laughed, though Mom was a bit flushed as she did so.

Cathy caught my
eye and made a show of finishing her coffee before standing. “Thank
you so much for the company, Mrs. Donovan. It was nice to meet you
and to let me wait.”
“Oh it was my pleasure, dear. Joseph rarely has any friends
over.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-three years old.”

“That doesn’t
mean you can’t have company now and then.”
“What? You want to skin my buddies on a poker night?”

Cathy gathered
up Mom’s empty cup as well, prompting my manners to stand me up and
take them from her. She gave me a bemused smile.
Mom made a shooing motion with her fingers. “Go ahead you two, I’ll
be fine right here. Go have your private chat.”

Is it
possible to die from humiliation?

Cathy
followed me back into the kitchen where I hoped like anything the
flush on my face would be mistaken for an early spring sunburn or a
heart attack or
anything
other
than the flush of childish embarrassment. I ran the cups under some
hot water while Cathy slipped on her heeled boots and shrugged on
her coat. In the living room I heard the snap-whine of our old
model tube TV clicking on as Mom settled into her spot on the
couch.

“So,” I said,
drying my hands on a dishtowel. “Three visits in a week. I’m not
sure my debt collectors are that persistent.”

Her dimples
flashed again. “Well, there’s interest on missed dates ...
appointments.” She finished in a rush, correcting herself.

I chose to
ignore the miswording. Nothing good would come from pursuing that
line of self-flagellating humor.

“What’s
up?”

“Can’t a friend
just pop by for a visit?”

“Not when she
never has before. How’d you even know where I live?”

Cathy
shrugged, looking a tad sheepish. “Hospital records. Is that
okay?”

The paranoid
part of my brain shuddered for a moment, giving me a full high-def
imagining of the tattooed kid and his buddies hanging out in front
of my Mom’s house with my hospital transcript in one hand and
firearms in the other.

“Sure.” I said
through my poker face. “No worries.”

We stood there
silently for a moment. My Mom in no way eavesdropping from the
other room.

We both tried
to talk at the same time. Then we laughed.
“Just like a bad movie,” I chuckled softly.

“No doubts.”
Cathy replied. She looked up at me shyly. “You got dinner
plans?”

Something
clattered noisily in the living room. I closed my eyes and
sighed.

“Sorry!” Mom
called. “Everything’s fine. Don’t mind me!”

“Why don’t you
get out my baby pictures while you’re at it, Mom?” I called, my
face heating up again as Cathy covered her dimples with one
hand.

“Sorry!” she
called again, the TV volume suddenly increasing. Vic Router’s
famous voice making the call at the Brier apparently.

I ran my palm
over my face and tried to regain some sense of dignity.

“Dinner
plans?”

Cathy laughed.
“Yeah.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” I
checked the clock above the kitchen sink. “Can you wait two hours?
I could use a shower and stuff.”
“Sure. Don’t get all fancy or anything.”

“No. Of course
not. Why would I do that? It’s just dinner, right?”

“Exactly. Just
dinner.”
“As friends.”
“Right.”

“Right.”
“Okay.”

“Sounds great.
Where?”

“You like
steak?”

I winced
internally at the thought of a steak house then remembered the
thick wad of cash I still had in my coat pocket.

“I love steak.
Hy’s?”
She blinked in surprise, clearly doing some quick math in her head.
“Wow, uhm I was thinking more of …”

“No worries, I
got it.”
“Joe, I can’t ask you to…”

“It’s fine. You
got breakfast last week. This one’s on me.”
Cathy screwed up her face in thought. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Now scoot, I gotta get all purty.”

Cathy smiled
quickly and let me escort her out the door. I prayed that she
didn’t hear the hammering of my heart as she passed by. She waved
over her shoulder as she hurried to her VW.

Mom was behind
me as I closed the door. Her eyes alight and excited.

“So,” I asked
her as calmly as possible. “What can I make you for dinner?”

Chapter
20

“Really? Twenty
dollars for a glass of wine?” I muttered sourly.

My earlier
spendthrift bravado began to retreat faster than a whole pack of
schoolyard bullies in the face of literacy. All my bluster and
affluent talk smacked aside by the harsh slap of reality and fear
as I perused the finely designed wine list in my hand.

Overall,
the prices at
Hy’s Steakhouse
weren’t too outrageous all things considered. I’d seen worse,
though it was definitely beyond my standard fast food fare. Dining
out wasn’t really my thing. Always sucks to say “table for
one.”

“Hmm?” Cathy
asked from behind the rim of her sparkling white wine flute.

I forced my
small smile back into place, trying to ignore how much that glass
was costing me per sip and shook my head slightly. “Never
mind.”

Located
on the main floor of one of the office buildings at the famed
corner of Portage and Main,
Hy’s
was considered the trendy place in town to go to by all of
the haughty folks that gave me attitude at
Cowboy Shotz
. I figured that meant the prices
were high with great atmosphere and lousy food.