The Monkeyface Chronicles (20 page)

“But I didn't invite you here to impress you with my wine cellar or my cigars or my real estate holdings. There is something else I want to tell you about, because I may need your help at some point.”

“Sure,” I say. “Anything you want. What is it?”

“To quote George Bernard Shaw: ‘
We don't stop playing
because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing
.' And, even if I am eighty-four years old, even if they have taken away my driver's licence, even if my eyes are beginning to fail me, I am not ready to quit playing just yet. Can I trust you to keep a secret, until I decide the time is right?”

“Of course!”

He slowly sucks the last bit of cigar down. When the last tendrils of smoke have risen out of his mouth, he crushes the butt of the cigar in the silver-and-marble ash stand next to the sofa. “I'm coming out of political retirement,” he says. “I'm going to run against Clarence Brush in the next municipal election, and I'm going to beat him. I'm waiting for exactly the right moment to announce my intention. I am going to be the mayor of this town again. When the time comes, Philip, will you help me?”

“Sure,” I say. “Anything you want.”

“Excellent. Would you like another splash of port, my boy?”

Of course I would.

As I leave his house, my grandfather slips a roll of five fifty-dollar bills into my hand. “Invest it wisely,” he says.

I stumble through town in a pleasant, drunken haze. I hold onto the handlebars of my bike as I walk, to keep myself from falling over. As I roll through the Downtown Business District, past Jackie Snackie's, the Sergeant-at-Arms, Angus Angelo's, The Goode Faith Gift Shoppe, The Tea Cozy, and Faireville Worldwide Wonders, I wonder just how many of them are paying rent or mortgage money to my grandfather.

By the time I reach the spot where our laneway meets the highway, where the Tabernacle of God's Will stands, my legs wobble like they're made of half-melted rubber. Everything I see is in blurry duplicate. It's Sunday afternoon now, and the Tabernacle parking lot is packed full. I walk my bike between the cars and right up to the towering concrete structure
.

“My grandfather owns you!” I shout at the Tabernacle building. “And one of these days, I'll own you, too. Whether you like my family or not. Whether you like my face or not. I'll get you back for what you've done to Adeline. And to me. And to Cecil and Caleb and everyone else you look down on.”

And I realize that I am speaking not just to Pastor Vangelis and Candace Brown and the other members of the Tabernacle of God's Will, but to
all
of them. To Sam Simpson, Trevor Blunt, and Brandon Doggart. To Graham and Grant Brush, and to their father as well. To the Little Colour Girls, and to their mothers, too. To people like Willie Wendell, who assume I'm retarded because of my face. To the people like his wife who giggle about it.

“All of you!” I holler. “I'm gonna be the gear that drives you all!”

Then there is a liquid roar as my stomach erupts, blasting hot, acidic bile up through my throat and mouth. I launch a slick of crimson vomit onto the Tabernacle's concrete steps.

And now I notice the tiny surveillance camera mounted just above the door of the Tabernacle of God's Will. Great. Wonderful.

I grab my bike and run uphill as fast as my melting rubber legs will carry me.

City Girl

I
n my dramatically intoxicated state, I somehow manage to crawl up the stairs and wobble into my bedroom. Looks like I left the computer turned on. Adeline's daily email is waiting for me:

Phillip,
The only thing I miss about Faireville is you. When are you going to scrape together the train fare and come visit me in Toronto? I'll make it worth your while!
Love and other indoor sports,
Adeline

I pull the roll of fifties from my pocket. “Invest it wisely,” he said. I call Dennis.

“Dennis? Remember you said I could come visit you any time? How ‘bout next weekend?”

“Phil? Bro? Is that you?”

I can hear a girl giggling in the background.

“It's me. Can I come stay at your place next weekend?”

“Are you okay, Phil? You sound funny.”

“I'm drunk.”

“You're drunk? That's hilarious! I musta set a good example
for you. Atta boy! I'm so proud!”

There is more of the girl-voice in the background.

“
My little brother is calling me drunk
!” he says, forgetting to cover his phone. “
No, no — of course
I'm
drunk — he's the
one who's — aw, never mind. Oh, yeah, yeah — it's in the brown
envelope on the side table . . . ”

“Dennis?”

“Sorry, buddy — I've got a friend, well, a colleague here at the
moment. And, yeah, sure you can come up next weekend. But I
won't be able to spend a whole lotta time with you. I've got some
business, and a date, and . . . ”

“It's okay, Dennis. I'm coming to Toronto to visit this girl I know . . . ”

“Little bro's got a chick? Awesome! Hey, maybe we'll both get
lucky next weekend!”
There is the sound of a door slamming from beyond Dennis' phone.
“Hey! Hey! Wait!”
Dennis abruptly hangs up the phone.

I turn back to the computer and type:

Hi Adeline,
You've convinced me. I'll be there next weekend. See you then.
Philip

PS –Do you happen to know how often the Tabernacle checks the tape from their security camera?

People born in little towns like Faireville grow up believing that leaving is a difficult and scary thing to do. It isn't. Getting to Dennis' place in Toronto is almost too easy — I walk across the East End to the train station, buy my ticket, and then I just relax and watch the flat scenery of Southwestern Ontario roll past the window of the train for the next few hours.

The train arrives in Toronto right on time, exactly four hours and twenty-seven minutes after it pulled away from Faireville. As soon as I step out of the car, I feel the difference. While Faireville Station is nothing more than a wood-sided shack at the edge of a farmer's field, entering the Great Hall of Union Station feels like emerging from a cocoon into the great big world.

People dragging luggage and swinging briefcases crisscross around me as I stop to absorb the Beaux-Arts details of the massive space, its vaulted ceiling, its cast-framed windows surrounded by sturdy arches of carved stone. The names of Canadian cities are carved in bold Romanesque letters half-way up the tall stone walls: EDMONTON · SASKATOON · WINNIPEG · PORT-ARTHUR · NORTH-BAY · SARNIA · LONDON · TORONTO · OTTAWA · SHERBROOKE · LÉVIS · MONCTON. The names tell me this: A person can go anywhere from here.

Now I'm sitting at the desk in the small living room of Dennis' apartment, enjoying his view of Centre Island and Lake Ontario while I log on to my email account to get Adeline's instructions to let me know where and when to meet her. Humming underneath the desk is a hot rod server-style computer and a rack of interconnected storage drives, which Dennis must use for his internet business.

Dennis taps me on the shoulder. “Turn around, buddy, I need some help.”

I spin the high-tech ergonomic office chair around to see him holding two virtually identical purple ties in front of his shiny black shirt.

“Okay Philip,” he says, “if you were a woman, which one of these would make you feel more inclined to give me a blow job?”

“I don't really think I'm qualified to . . . ”

“Just pick one.”

“Okay, the one on the left.”

“The one on the right it is, then,” he laughs, knotting the shimmering strip of material into a four-in-hand knot with a few swift, fluid movements. “I met this lawyer chick at Ki last night, and we really hit it off. I'm taking her for lunch at Bymark this afternoon, then hopefully we'll hook up again tonight for some dinner, dancing, and a bit of the ol' rumpy pumpy.”

“Good luck.”

“Bro, I don't need no luck.”

I turn my attention back to the computer screen, where there is a new email from Adeline.

Phillip,
Meet me at the La Maison Chaude, en Anglais
Intersection: House of Worship (Christian) and Back
(opposite of)
Famous Western Movie
Green on bronze minus na plus o (unless it precipitates)
Love and other indoor sports,
Adeline

“Hey, Dennis, is there a Church Street around here, or maybe Chapel or Cathedral, or . . . ”

“Church Street's just a few blocks east. Why?” He looks over my shoulder at the computer monitor and reads Adeline's email aloud, then says, “What the hell is all
that
supposed to mean?”

“Her message is telling me to meet her at a place called the Hot House, at the intersection of Church and Front at high noon, and to meet her on the patio, unless it's raining.”

“Why didn't she just
say
that?”

“It's a little game we play.”

“You smart kids are weird.” Dennis squints at the screen again. “Okay, I get the Hot House and street bits, but how does that third line tell you you're meeting on the patio?”

“The greenish tarnish that forms on bronze is called a patina. Minus the letters N and A, plus the letter O makes patio. And precipitation means . . . ”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it now. Like I said, you smart kids are weird.” He tosses a key to the apartment on the computer table. “Knock first before you let yourself in, okay? The forecast for me gettin' lucky tonight is about ninety-nine per cent.” Before striding out of the apartment, he says, “See ya later, bro. Try not to miss me too much.”

I arrive at the corner of Church and Front a few minutes before noon. Adeline is already sitting at a table on the large patio at the Hot House Cafe. She stands up as I approach, hugs me, and plants a dry kiss on each cheek.

“That's what people in Toronto do,” she says as she sits down. They kiss on both cheeks. Even if they don't know you that well. It's way less uptight here than in Faireville.”