The Monkeyface Chronicles (26 page)

“I do my advertising exclusively around Toronto,” he says, like he's trying to sell me a used car, “and I make vague references in my videos to places around the city. Then, local guys watch
me
, this average-looking guy, with an average-looking body and an average-looking apartment, have sex with a different babe every week.”

He closes the web browser, and spins around in his desk chair to face me.

“And that's why they're willing to pay for
my
site, even when there's so much free stuff all over the net. They watch me having the life they fantasize about,
right here in their
own backyard
, and they believe that they could do it too. So, Philip,” Dennis proclaims triumphantly, “I'm not selling
porn
. I'm selling
hope
.” He gets up from his chair and stretches. “I'm gonna have a shower now. I smell like Desiree.” He turns and wanders toward the bathroom and says, “If you want to familiarize yourself further with my work, my password for the website is
‘silverdollar1983,'
no spaces.”

I think I've seen enough of Dennis' work for one night, though, so I log into my email account instead. There is a new message from Adeline.

Philip,
I'm really sorry about tonight. It wasn't quite the evening I'd had in mind for us. I wanted to call you, but your brother's phone number isn't listed. I hope you get this email. If you do, why don't you meet me outside your brother's building at midnight. I owe you an explanation for the way I acted earlier, and I think I know a way to make it up to you — see the attached photos for a hint.
Love,
Adeline

PS — The beautiful man is what your soul looks like to me.

I open the first attachment. It's the photo I took of Adeline on the patio of the Hot House Café, her back arched against the back of her chair, her legs crossed at the knee, her eyes averted. If only she knew how gorgeous she is.

The second picture is of the bronze lovers from the cemetery; intertwined, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. The impassioned expressions on the sculptures contrast dramatically with the empty poses of the women on Dennis' website.

The third photo is the close-up of the male figure's face, lit softly by the diffused sunlight from earlier this afternoon.
“The
beautiful man is what your soul looks like to me.”

The clock at the bottom right corner of the computer screen reads 12:08 AM. I jump up from the desk and run through the apartment door to the elevator, where I frantically jam my thumb against the down button. The elevator finally reaches the ground floor, the doors slide open, and across the foyer I see Adeline. She's outside, sitting on the steps in front of the building

I sit down beside her.

Dennis has got a pretty good view from his apartment window, but the scenery around the entrance to his building is pretty grim: garbage dumpsters, cracked tarmac, the backsides of other buildings. A sandwich wrapper and an empty paper coffee cup spiral on the blacktop in a whirl of breeze. A car alarm bleats in a nearby parking lot.

“Philip, I just want to . . . ”

“Forget about it, Adeline. It's okay.”

One of the two overhead lights is burned out, so that everything casts a strange, sideways shadow. Everything is half light and half dark, including Adeline and me.

“My period started just after you left,” she says. “My emotions always get knocked off-kilter when it comes.”

“It's okay, Adeline.”

“You should see how crazy my mother gets when
hers
comes,” Adeline says.

I contemplate for a moment how her mother's craziness could possibly increase.

“Listen,” she says, “do you want to come back next weekend, maybe pick up where we left off? We could see where Robert Raycroft is playing.”

“Sure,” I say, “although I'm not sure I want to stay with Dennis again.”

“You could stay with me. Dad's leaving on a business trip Thursday night. He'll be gone for a week, and I'll be all by myself.”

“Our last hockey game before the playoffs is on Friday. I probably shouldn't miss it.”

“Oh,” she says, “that's too bad.” She turns away, and her face disappears into its shadow.

“I'll come on Saturday, though,” I say.

She turns back to me, and her face brightens again. “Okay. Good. Okay. I'll see you Saturday, then.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now I'd better get home. I didn't tell Dad I was going out.”

Lightning and Flames

T
his is the last game of the regular season for the Faireville Blue Flames Triple-A Junior Hockey Club. We are about to play the Clementville Lightning, a team that we destroyed twelve to one in our previous contest. Statistically speaking, this is a meaningless game. Even if the universe turns inside-out and the Lightning beat us, the outcome will be the same: we will advance to the playoffs in first place, and the seventh-place Clementville Lightning will have played their final game of the season.

Nevertheless, it's the biggest hockey crowd of the year at Faireville Memorial Arena. At most games we get about a dozen spectators, a handful of players' bored girlfriends and a few hockey moms and dads, who holler helpful advice at their sons from the sidelines, like “Skate! Skate!” and “Finish ‘em!” Today, though, the arena is filled to capacity. People sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the wooden bench seats on either side of the rink, and those crushed in behind the boards where the Zamboni comes on and off the ice are tapping on the glass and taunting the Clementville goalie.

Usually, the agitators from the Tabernacle of God's Will would be assembled at the arena entrance, chanting and waving
Music, Movies and Sports — The DEVIL'S DISTRACTIONS
! signs, but today for some reason they've decided to allow Faireville's hockey fans to enter the arena unimpeded.

There is a red carpet rolled out at centre ice, and all the players line up, the Lightning in their Black and Silver jerseys on one side, us in our Blue and Whites on the other. The Tragically Hip's “Fifty Mission Cap” blasts through the arena's tinny loudspeakers, and a group of girls with faces painted blue and white cheer,
“Faireville! Faireville!”

Clarence Brush, the mayor of Faireville, strolls out onto the long strip of red rug, holding a wireless microphone and sticking his chin out like he's about to deliver a victory speech. The music stops and there is a smattering of applause.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” Mayor Brush's voice echoes against the concrete-block walls. “Today is a special day for the Blue Flames,
Faireville's hockey team!
”

People cheer and whistle on cue. The mayor's microphone hums with feedback.

“Today, one of the fine young men from this team will be awarded the Plympwright County Hockey League Trophy for
Most Goals Scored
in the 2005-2006 regular season!”

More cheering.

“As the mayor of Faireville, I will personally hand the trophy to that young man and shake his hand. So . . . ” he flourishes his hand dramatically, “may the best man win, and
let the
game begin
!”

There is much cheering, whistling and foot-stomping. The crooked grin on Mr. Brush's face makes his slim little moustache shift to one side, like a fuzzy caterpillar crawling from his lip to his cheek. He seems to think that the cheering is for
him
. Some of the noise is, in fact, for his son Grant, who is behind by only one goal for the scoring title. Some of Grant's weekend drinking buddies are shouting
“Grant! Grant! Grant!”

The majority of the female voices in the arena are screaming for my brother Michael, who is only a goal behind Grant Brush. Caitlin Black sits in the bleachers at centre ice with Lara Lavender and Carrie Green, holding a banner made from a white bed sheet and blue spray paint that reads “MICHAEL SKYLER IS #1!!!!!!!!”

This is not technically true. Although practically everyone in Faireville Memorial Arena is cheering for either Michael or Grant, in reality,
I
am Number One. I'm ahead of Grant by a goal, and ahead of Michael by two. I'm not going to let either of them beat me without a fight.

Of the two hundred or so people in the place, no more than five are rooting for me: my cafeteria buddies Anthony, Caleb, and Cecil, and maybe my mother and my grandfather. Mom won't cheer out loud for me, though, for fear of making Michael feel bad, and my grandfather sits with his arms folded and his lips pursed tightly, not wishing to add to the applause that Mayor Brush thinks belongs to him.

I had so badly wanted my father to be here to see me beat Michael, his genetically perfect creation, for the scoring title. But, of course, he is not here. He's locked away in his basement laboratory, scientific responsibilities once again trumping fatherhood. I'll show him the trophy tonight, even if I have to kick down the steel door and
force
him to look at it.

Mayor Brush waves, switches off the microphone, and says to the referee, “Now let's have a fair game here, eh!”

“Yes, sir, Mister Mayor!” the referee says. Mr. Brush gives him the thumbs-up sign, then saunters along the red carpet to his first row seat. When the mayor's back is turned, the ref looks at the linesman and rolls his eyes. As the Zamboni guy rolls up the red carpet, the Lightning players skate to their bench, and our team does the same.

Coach Packer paces back and forth. “Passmore and Blunt on defense,” he says, in a voice loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. “Line One-A starts the game — Graham, Grant, Michael, you're on. Keep the shifts short, and give ‘em something to cheer about, boys.”

This is Mr. Packer's moment in the sun, too. He's never been married, never even had a steady girlfriend. He lives in his deceased mother's home. This is what he lives for. This will be the year he finally coaches his team to the regional championship. This is the reason his life matters.

The five starting players glide out for the opening face-off, and I glance up at my grandfather, who sits in the top row of the bleachers with my mother. He catches my eye and gives me a nod. My savvy grandfather suspected that Clarence Brush would use today's hockey game as an opportunity to score some pre-election goals of his own with Faireville's voters. If Grant wins the scoring trophy, as Mayor Brush expects him to, Brush will use the moment to announce that he's running for re-election.

But my grandfather and I have a plan to steal Mr. Brush's thunder:
I
will win the scoring trophy, and when Mayor Brush hands the trophy over to me, I will announce to everyone in the arena that I'm dedicating my performance to my grandfather, Vernon Skyler, who taught me everything I ever needed to know about playing to win, and who is going to run once again for the office of mayor of Faireville. My grandfather has helped me practice my speech. I'm ready.

The puck drops, and Michael easily wins the face-off. Brian Passmore sends the puck right back to Michael, who maneuvers around a Lightning defenseman and fires at the net. Clementville's goalie seems sharper than last time we played them, and stacks his pads to block Michael's shot. Grants Brush wheels in to pick up the rebound, and lobs the puck over the fallen goalie.

The arena roars with screaming and stomping. Grant's buddies in the crowd holler
“Grant! Grant! Grant!”
Less than a minute into the game, Grant Brush has scored the first goal. The notorious Grunt is now tied with me for the league scoring title. He looks over at the bench and blows me a kiss.

That's right, Grunt, get the gloating out of your system, because that's as close as you're going to get to the prize. I'm about to leap over the boards for my first shift of the game, when Coach Packer grabs me by the shoulder and gestures at Michael, Grant and Graham to stay on the ice.

“What?”
I protest.

“Individual awards are nice and everything,” Packer says, “but this is a team sport, boys. Remember that.”

“What about ‘short shifts,' coach?” my line mate Billy protests.

“Their shift was a little
too
short,” Coach Packer says. “You guys'll get your chance in another minute.”

The early goal charges up the Clementville Lightning, and they fight back hard. For the next two minutes, there is no opportunity for a shift change. The puck goes up and down the ice a half dozen times before Michael manages to get open in the slot. He slaps his stick on the ice to signal Graham Brush, who ignores him and chips the puck to his brother Grant. The Clementville goalie reads this play easily, and comes way out of the net to take away Grant's shot. Grant could pass the puck over to Michael, who is in the clear on the open side of the net, but instead he wrists the puck right at the goalie and gets lucky. His weak shot trickles between goalie's pads.

Mayor Brush jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air; his son is now in the lead for the League Scoring Trophy. Grant's buddies chant,
“Grant! Grant! Grant!”
with a lot of other voices joining in this time. Grant raises his stick in the air and skates a circle around the Lightning goalie, which is his routine whenever he scores. “Got a hole in those pads, buddy?” Grant says. Agitating the opposing goaltender is part of Grant's post-scoring ritual.

Toby, Billy and I are about to jump onto the ice, when Packer says, “Give ‘em another minute, boys. Line One-A is hot.”

“They're gonna be tired,” Toby says.

“They'll be fine,” Packer says, without looking at any of us. “They got a rest in between whistles.”

For the remainder of the first period, the forward line of Michael, Grant and Graham plays twelve minutes. My line, One-B, plays four, and the third line gets just two thirty-second shifts. Coach Packer is stacking the deck in favour of Grant and Michael; I can't score if I'm not on the ice. This is not his usual style. You don't win hockey games by playing one line to death. I wonder what Mayor Brush, Mr. Packer's former boss at Faireville Elementary, is holding over his head.