The Monkeyface Chronicles (37 page)

Although it feels a bit like we're back at our cafeteria table at PDHS, I decide it might be amusing to go incognito for now. “Tobias Fluke,” I say.

“So, 1990 Petrus, eh? That stuff goes for
thousands
at auction.” Anthony turns to Cecil and says, ceremoniously, “Barkeep, this fine gentleman may drink as much of my private reserve as his belly can hold.”

Cecil reaches under the bar, and removes a bottle identical to the previous one. He unceremoniously peels back the foil cover and is about to ram the tip of a winged corkscrew in, when Anthony cries out, “Jesus, Cecil! That piece of crap always leaves cork bits in the wine! Invest in a decent corkscrew, would you? You got the building for free!”

I pull out my jackknife and flip out the corkscrew. “I've got one.”

Cecil shrugs and hands me the bottle, and I uncork it with one swift pull.

Anthony clinks his glass against mine and says, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I reply.

He opens his law book, and turns his back on me again.

Cecil reaches across the bar and nudges Anthony.

“For Chissakes, Cecil, I'm trying to read!”

“Well, speaking of
Chrissakes
,” Cecil says, gesturing toward the pool tables on the other side of the room, “look who's having a solo game of billiards.”

“Holy crap,” Anthony says, “is that Bradley
Vangelis
? He looks like shit.”

“I think he's going by Bradley
Miller
again.”

“Probably a good idea,” Anthony says.

Bradley is alone at one of the pool tables, robotically shooting the balls directly into the pockets with the rental cue, then racking them up and doing it all over again. He seems to have lost weight since I last saw him being led by a policeman out of the basement of our old house. Maybe, like with Adeline, his Tabernacle outfit made him appear bulkier than he really was. Now he's wearing a plain T-shirt and blue jeans. His face is gaunt and shadowy, and he moves in a twitchy, spastic way.

Two young men saunter in through the swinging door. I've never seen the first guy before, but the second one I know all too well. It's Trevor Blunt. He hasn't changed a bit.

Cecil barrels out from behind the bar and runs at them, shouting, “
NO! NO! NO!
Turn right around and get
OUT!
”

“Aw, c'mon C.B.,” Trevor says in a wheedling tone, as he pulls a chair out from under a table, “we're just here for a few beers.”

“No way, Trevor,” Cecil says, pointing to the door. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Seriously, Tubby,” the other guy says, “if we wanna hang out here, what are
you
gonna do to stop us? Sit on us?”

Cecil folds his arms over his big belly. He turns toward the kitchen door and hollers,
“DOGGER!”

Looking bigger and angrier than he ever did sitting on the bench as the underplayed backup goalie for the Faireville Blue Flames, a sweaty Brandon Doggart emerges from the kitchen, wearing a hair net and a white chef 's apron. He shakes off his oven mitts and drops them on the nutshell-speckled floor.

“I was going to let Dogger keep cooking until the band goes on,” Cecil says, sounding more like a bar owner named C.B. than ever, “but I can put him on Bouncer Duty now if you boys want.”

“So what?” Trevor's colleague wheezes, “What's one guy gonna do against the two of us?”

“I think you'll find that Dogger's
bite
is much worse than his bark,” Cecil says calmly. “Wouldn't you agree, Trevor?”

During the melee that followed the hits on Michael by Graham and Grant Brush, Brandon Doggart took out his frustrations on several teammates, reserving an especially thorough pummeling for Trevor Blunt.

“Fine, fine!” Trevor says. “We're leavin' already.”

As soon as Trevor Blunt and his sidekick have retreated, Bradley Miller puts down his pool cue and slinks out after them through the swinging doors.

Cecil returns to his spot behind the bar and says, “Okay, Dogger, thanks.”

Brandon picks up his oven mitts and returns to the kitchen. At least now he has a better nickname than “Dogfart.” “Troublemakers?” I have to ask.

“Drug dealers,” Cecil says. “They know I don't put up with that crap in here.”

“They're just trying to cash in on the home-for-the-summer university student market,” Anthony interjects. “Just like you, eh, Cecil?”

“But the chemically simulated joy
I
purvey is
legal,
” Cecil says, tapping the cover of Anthony's
Martin's Annual Criminal
Code
. Bradley Miller eventually drifts back into The Incredible Blues Bar, stepping lightly as if he is made of vapour. Apparently he's replaced pseudo-religious euphoria with chemical hallucinogens, which explains his skeletal frame and sunken, concave face.

Anthony rolls his eyes at Bradley, and then raises his wine glass to me. “To chemically simulated joy,” he says.

A female voice cuts through the din. “Tobias!”

I spin around on my barstool to see Carrie Green emerge from the dense crowd. She's dressed the same as when I saw her earlier this evening, but now a waitress's apron hangs from her hips. Lara Lavender trails behind her.

“How long have you been here?” Carrie shouts to me through the noise. “Sorry I didn't find you sooner. It's crazy busy in here.”

“Ahem!” Lara Lavender grunts. It looks as if an entire team of stylists and makeup artists worked on her all day. Her black leather mini skirt hovers just millimetres below her crotch, and her large breasts are pressed together so that they practically generate their own gravity. Her stretchy lavender top is so sheer and tight I can see the goosebumps on her areolas.

The skirt is just a bit shorter, and the top is just slightly more revealing than the last outfit I saw Adeline wear. It's but one small step from sexy to slutty.

“Oh, sorry,” Carrie says. “This is a friend of mine from high school. She's just home from college.”

“
University
, darling,” Lara corrects her, “not
college
.”

Lara pushes past Carrie and stands before me like a billboard model, hands on her hips, thrusting her breasts forward in case I hadn't already noticed them.

“So, you're the hot Newbie Carrie's been going on and on about,” she says. “For a change she's right!”

“Um, thanks,” I say.

“I'm Lara.”

“Tobias.”

“I know,” Lara says. “So, where do you go to school?”

“Oh, I did my undergrad at Yale, and I was working on my Masters at Harvard when my business suddenly took off.”

Over my shoulder, I see Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright at the end of the bar shaking his head.

“Oh my GAWD!” Lara shrieks. “What fraternity do you belong to? I rushed the Kappa sorority last year, but eventually I pledged with the Delts, ‘cause there are so many Beta boys around all the time! You
must
be a Beta, right?”

Carrie looks at the ceiling.

“Don't let me keep you from your
job
, sweetie,” Lara says to her. “In fact, why don't you bring us some tequila shots!”

“Oh, Lara,” Carrie says, “you've had a lot to drink already.”

“
TEQUILA!”
Lara shouts, mimicking the one-word chorus of the old pop song. “Three for him, and three for me!”

“Oh, no thank you,” I stammer. “I'm more of a wine and beer guy.”

“BORRRR-INGGGG!” Lara cries, just as The Blues Defenders kick into their first song, an upbeat instrumental. “AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!” she screams, “Let's go dance!” She grabs me by the wrist and tows me toward the dance floor, with Carrie trailing behind us. Since I've never really danced before, I just sway back and forth to the music while both Lara and Carrie bounce and gyrate around me.

“Don't you have tables to wipe or something?” Lara snaps at Carrie.

“I'm on my break,” Carrie retorts.

Lara locks her eyes on mine and licks her lips, twisting back and forth, leaning forward to give me a good view of her cleavage.

Carrie dances off to one side, just within my peripheral vision. She closes her eyes, tosses her long hair, and lets the music wash over her body, the bassline spiraling around her hips and legs, the beat of the drums guiding her shoulders and arms, the melody of the lead guitar kissing at her open lips.

The keyboardist coos into her microphone, “Are you ready to hear some
bluuuuuuues
singin' now?”

The crowd responds with a cheer.

“Who is it that you wanna hear?”

The crowd chants,
“C.B.! C.B.! C.B.!”

“I'm not sure he can hear you callin'!” the keyboardist coaxes.

Everyone screams,
“C.B.! C.B.! C.B.!”

Cecil Bundy steps up behind the silver vocal microphone at centre stage, now wearing a slick, black three-piece suit. There is a roar from his gathered fans as he begins to sing in his deep, rich baritone:

I got the blues I got the blues you see

‘Cause I'm under cover

And I wanna gitcha

Under the covers with me

I got the blues

I got the Undercover Blues

“C.B. wrote this song himself!” Carrie hollers to me.

“We went to high school with him,” Lara adds. “He
sooooo
rocks!”

I never would have imagined this: two of the Little Colour Girls praising the talents of Cecil Bundy, the kid they used to call Baby Bulk and tease for his weight and stutter, while they writhe and spiral and shake their physical assets to compete for the attention of the guy they used to call Monkeyface. It's like a strange dream.

People clap and cheer as the song winds down, and Cecil says, “Whaddya say we get a little slow and grindy for the next one . . . ”

Lara Lavender grabs me around the waist and pulls me against her. “Ooh,” she says, “wanna get slow and grindy with
me
?”

“Actually,” I say, glancing over at Carrie, who is already retreating, “I'd like to have this dance with Carrie, since she invited me.”

Lara shrugs and says, “Your loss.” Then she hollers, “
TEQUILA!
” and pushes her way toward the bar, swaying and undulating excessively.

“Sorry,” Carrie says, as she reaches up to place her arms around my neck, “my friend is kind of . . . ” Her voice trails off as my palms settle onto the gentle curve of her hips; I could almost wrap my hands right around her slight waist. “She's not really my friend, even,” she says. “Our
mothers
are friends.” As the gentle rhythm of the song gradually swells into the first chorus, she pulls her body close to mine. “Is she watching?”

“Do we care?”

She's wearing heels tall enough that the contours of her small body fit perfectly against my tall frame. One small, hard breast tucks in under the cleft between my pectoral muscles. Her groin brushes gently against my thigh with each downbeat. She is so warm. She smells like fresh peaches and baby powder. She dances with her eyes closed. “Thanks,” she says. “I haven't danced like this for a long time.”

This is so strange. I want to thank
her
, to tell her that I've
never
danced like this, I've only ever watched from the sidelines as other people danced. I want to thank her for being close to me, for sharing her shape, her texture, her scent, her colour. But then I remember that I am not Philip Skyler. I am Tobias Fluke, and Tobias Fluke has been all over the world. He has been to Yale and Harvard. He has danced with lots of women.

So Tobias Fluke simply says, “You're welcome.”

There is a tap on my shoulder.

It's Sam Simpson.

“Mind if I cut in?” he says darkly. He pushes himself between me and Carrie, and glares at her. “So, you won't go out with
me
, but you'll get all fuckin' slutty with the first Newbie who walks in off the street?”

“Sam,” Carrie says, “I told you before, I'm not . . . ”

He grabs her arm and tows her to the centre of the dance floor. “Don't make me look like a fuckin' idiot, Carrie,” he says. “You can finish this dance with
me
.”

“Excuse me,” I say to Sam, “but . . . ”

He jabs a fat finger in my face. “You don't wanna fuck with me, pretty-boy. Just walk away while you still can.”

“I don't think so.”

“Listen, buddy, either you walk off this dance floor right now, or you and me are gonna go outside and have a little
talk
.”

“So let me see if I've got this straight,” I ponder, rubbing my reconstructed chin. “My first choice is to simply walk away and abandon the attractive young woman with whom I've been dancing. And my second choice is to go outside with you to discuss the situation, and presumably whoever pleads their case most reasonably gets to return and continue dancing. These are my choices, yes?”