Forty Words for Sorrow

17

A GRAY COACH BUS TURNED the corner with a roar and pulled into the station, twirling capes of snow in its wake.

Passengers disembarked stiffly, some exchanging hugs with waiting relatives, others making straight for the pay phones, still others rushing toward the taxi stand. A small knot of people gathered around the belly of the bus from which the driver began to deliver luggage like a litter of puppies. Diesel fumes billowed around their feet.

The driver pulled out a guitar in a hard-shell case and handed it to a thin youth shivering in a thin parka. He had long hair that he had to keep flicking out of his eyes. His eyes were round, his eyebrows high and arched, as if life were taking him by surprise. He hefted an enormous knapsack onto his back, picked up his guitar and went inside to the bank of luggage lockers; it took two to stow his stuff. Then, holding his thin parka together at the throat, he went out to the taxi stand. He bent over and talked to a driver, then with one last flick of his hair, got in.

The cab was the last one at the stand. There was only one other car in the bus station parking lot—a grey Pinto near the entrance. All the Toronto passengers had cleared out by now, but as the taxi pulled out of the lot, the grey Pinto— motor running, windows fogged—remained by the Do Not Block Entrance sign, patiently throbbing.

The cab drove exactly four blocks downtown, made a left and let the boy out in front of Alma’s Restaurant. He made his way through the snowdrifts like a highwire artist, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. Snow melted in his shoes; his boots were in the knapsack back at the station.

He was the restaurant’s only customer. On a small TV screen behind the counter, Chicago was playing the Canadiens. The bearded bear who took his order scarcely removed his eyes from the game. When he brought the food, cheers and organ notes cascaded from the TV. “Damn,” the bear muttered. “That better not be Chicago.”

“I was gonna go out for a beer or something,” the kid said. “Can you tell me where young people hang out around here?”

“How young? My age?”

“Mine.”

“Try the St. Charles.” The bear waved a paw like a traffic cop. “Make a right on Algonquin. Go two blocks till you reach Main. It’ll be across the street.”

“Thanks.”

The restaurant was about what you’d expect a cab driver to recommend: vinyl banquettes, Formica tables, plastic plants everywhere and, despite the name, no Alma in sight. The boy sat at the counter looking out at the silent street. The red neon of the diner’s sign turned the falling snow bright pink. Chances of finding any excitement were looking slim. Nevertheless, when the kid had finished his hamburger, he headed out to find the St. Charles.

Elderly inhabitants of Algonquin Bay remember the days when the St. Charles was one of the city’s better hotels. For decades its location at the elbow of Algonquin and Main drew visitors who wanted to be right downtown, as well as tourists looking for easy access to Lake Nipissing, just two blocks south. The train station was less than five minutes away on foot, so for passengers arriving from Quebec City or Montreal it would be the first building of any size they’d see. The St. Charles in that earlier incarnation prided itself on pleasing both tourist and businessman with charm, convenience and first-class service.

Unfortunately, that day has come and gone. When the St. Charles could not compete with the cut rates charged by such self-service enterprises as the Castle Inn or the Birches Motel, it converted its upper storeys into small, oddly shaped apartments that now house mostly transients and ne’er-do-wells. All that remains of the former hotel is the bar downstairs, the St. Charles Saloon, which retains nothing of its original elegance and is now the establishment where the young of Algonquin Bay learn to drink. The management isn’t overly strict about checking driver’s licences, and they serve beer in enormous pitchers.

The kid, whose name was Keith London, was standing at the bar, smoking, and looking around in the slightly anxious way of a stranger. The St. Charles Saloon was essentially a warehouse divided by two long tables, where boisterous parties of young folk were making an enormous amount of noise. Along the walls, smaller groups of drinkers perched around tiny, disc-like tables. Carved above a door beside the bar a sign, the remnant of an earlier era, said Ladies And Escorts Only. A multicoloured jukebox was blasting out Bryan Adams. Above it all hung the murky cumulus of a hundred cigarettes.

Keith London finished one beer and debated whether he should have another; that hamburger had been the only food he’d eaten since Orillia. The crowd looked as if it had passed the point where a newcomer might be welcomed. To his left a couple was discussing in harsh terms other people not present. To his right a man stared in autistic wonder at the hockey game swirling across a silent TV screen. Keith’s adventurous spirit began to wilt.

He ordered another Sleeman. If nothing interesting happened before he finished it, he’d head over to the motel the cab driver had pointed out.

He was only about halfway through his beer when a man in a knee-length leather coat left the jukebox and came over to the bar. He shouldered his way between Keith and the couple next to him. The coat was like something you’d hide a shotgun under.

“Boring joint,” he said, tipping the muzzle of his Labatt’s toward the crowd.

“I don’t know. They look like they’re having a good time.” Keith nodded toward the middle of the room, from where gusts of laughter kept blowing.

“Idiots always have a good time.” The man upended his beer, pressing it to his lips like a trumpet, and drained half at one go.

Keith turned away a little, feigning a sudden interest in the jukebox.

“Hockey. If you took hockey away, this country would shrivel up and die.”

“It’s a decent game,” Keith said. “I’m not a fanatic about it, though.”

“Why do Canadians do it doggy-style?” The man didn’t look at Keith as he spoke.

“I don’t know.”

“So they can both watch the hockey game.”

Keith left the bar and went into the men’s room. When he was at the urinal he heard the door swing open behind him and then the creak of leather. There were several urinals available, but the man bellied up to the adjacent one. Keith washed his hands quickly and headed back to the bar; he still had more than half a beer left.

The man came back a moment later. He kept his leather-clad back to the crowd this time, and Keith had the feeling the man was staring at the back of his head in the bartender’s mirror. “I think I’ve got stomach cancer,” he said. “Something not right in there.”

“That’s rough,” Keith said. He knew he should feel sympathy for the guy, but somehow he didn’t.

The music changed to some ancient Neil Young song. The man pounded the bar in time to the music, hard enough to rattle his ashtray. “I know what we could do,” he said, suddenly gripping Keith’s bicep. “We could go to the beach.”

“Uh-huh. It must be about two degrees out there.”

“Two degrees, big deal. Beach is great in winter. We could buy a six-pack.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather stay where it’s warm.”

“I was kidding,” the guy said, but the grip on Keith’s arm intensified. “Could take a drive out to Callander, though. Car’s got a CD player. What kind of music do you like?”

“Lots of kinds.”

A woman materialized out of the haze and asked Keith if she could bum a smoke. The man instantly let go of Keith’s arm and turned his back. It was as if a spell had been broken.

Keith offered the woman his Player’s Lights. He would never have paid her the slightest attention if she hadn’t spoken to him. She was pudgy round the edges, with almost no chest. And there was something off-putting about her face. The skin was stiff and shiny from some skin disorder. It was more like a mask than a face.

“My boyfriend and I were just saying you looked interesting. Are you from out of town?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“We thought you looked interesting. Come and have a beer with us. We’re dying of boredom.”

Now, never mind how someone looks, Keith said to himself, this is just the kind of thing you always want to happen and never does: friendly people taking an interest. He regretted his inner critique of her appearance.

The woman led him past the jukebox to a small table in the corner, where a guy who looked maybe thirty was peeling the label from his Molson bottle, frowning as if it were the most important project in the world. He looked up as they approached, asking before they even sat down: “So, was I right? Is he from Toronto?”

“You two are amazing,” Keith said. “I just got into town an hour ago. From Toronto.”

“Well, it’s not that amazing, really,” the woman said, watching her boyfriend pour beer into their three glasses. “You look far too cool to be from around this dump.”

Keith shrugged. “Place doesn’t seem so bad. Guy at the bar was a little strange.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” the man said quietly. “Figured someone should come to your rescue.”

“Hey! You’ve got cigarettes!”

The woman said, “It was the only way I could think of to introduce myself. I’m terrible at talking to strangers.” Her boyfriend was lighting an Export “A” and offering the pack with a flick of the wrist. He was not quite handsome. Dark hair swept back from his brow and sat up in oily spikes along the crown of his head, as if he had just matured from a punk rock phase. His skin was so pale that blue veins showed below his eyes and at the temples. The ferret-like cast to the eyes spoiled his face a little, but he had a huddled attitude, an intense way of moving—now leaning forward to pour beer, now offering a cigarette—that captured Keith’s imagination. It seemed to say he had far more important things to do at any moment, but just now he would pour you a beer or offer you a smoke. It was very compelling, and Keith wondered what he was doing with this woman with the fibreglass face.

“I guess I forgive you,” Keith said cheerfully. He took a sip of beer. “My name’s Keith, by the way.”

“I’m Edie. He’s Eric.”

“Eric and Edie. Awesome.”

Keith became chatty over the second pitcher of beer. It was a weakness he was aware of in himself but could not stop. “Such a Chatty Cathy,” his girlfriend teased him sometimes. He was telling Eric and Edie he had just completed high school and was taking a year off before university to travel the country. He had already been to the east coast and was now headed in a leisurely way toward Vancouver. Then he got on to politics and the economy. He delivered his opinions about Quebec; now he was going on about the bloody Maritimes. God, I’m a motormouth, he thought. Somebody stop me.

“Newfoundland,” he heard himself saying. “Man, what a disaster area. Half the province is out of work because we ate all the fish. Can you imagine? There’s no goddam cod left! If it wasn’t for oil, the entire island would be on unemployment.” He flicked his hair for emphasis. “Entire island.”

The couple didn’t seem to tire of him at all. Edie kept her face in the shadows, probably to hide that weird skin, but she fired off question after question. And Eric spoke up every now and then, asking this or that, and off Keith would go with another opinion, another report. It was like being interviewed.

“What brings you to Algonquin Bay, Keith?” Edie asked. “Do you know anybody here? Do you have relatives?”

“Naw, my family’s all from Toronto. Toronto from way back. Real old-school Anglican, you know?”

Edie nodded, although Keith had the sense that she didn’t really understand. She kept bringing a hand to her face or pulling her hair over her cheek like a curtain.

“I didn’t really have any reason to stop here,” he told them, “except a friend of mine passed through Algonquin Bay a couple of years ago and said he had a really good time.”

“Didn’t he give you some names of people to stay with? You’re not staying at a motel, are you?”

“Thought I might head over to the Birches after. Cab driver said it’s pretty decent for the price.”

They asked him more questions. About Toronto, the crime, all the films being shot down there. Who were the hot bands? Where were the hot clubs? How could he stand the crowds, the pace, those subways? Pitchers of beer appeared. Packs of cigarettes. It was exactly the kind of convivial scene Keith loved, the kind of thing that made travel such a kick, the three of them really hitting it off. All the time, Edie seemed to hang off Eric’s every word, and Keith began to see what it was he saw in her: adoration.

“We’ve been thinking of visiting Toronto,” Edie said at one point. “But it’s so expensive. It’s outrageous what hotels charge down there.”

“Stay with me,” Keith said. “I expect to be back there by August at the latest. You could come and stay at my place. I could show you the big city. Man, we could have a time.”

“It’s awfully kind of you …”

“Consider it done. Give me something to write on. I’ll write down my address.”

Eric, who had been practically motionless all this time, pulled a small pad from his pocket and handed him a mechanical pencil.

While Keith was writing down address, phone number, e-mail and everything else he could think of, Edie and Eric conferred in whispers. He tore off the square of paper and handed it to Eric, who studied it closely before slipping it into his pocket. Then Edie said decisively: “We’ve got an extra room, Keith. Why don’t you come and stay with us?”

“Oh, hey, I wasn’t angling for a free room.”

“No, no. We realize that.”

“It’s so nice of you, I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to impose. Are you sure it’s all right? You’re not just being polite?”

“We’re not polite,” Eric said, staring into his beer. “We’re never polite.”

Edie said, “It’s easy to get into a rut up here, Keith. It would be interesting for us to have you. You’d be doing us a favour. It’s just so interesting to hear your views about the country.”

“Fascinating,” Eric agreed. “Refreshing, even.”

“You seem to have a special insight into people, Keith. Maybe because you’ve travelled so much. Or were you born that way?”

“Not born that way,” Keith said, and raised a professorial finger. Oh, boy, listen to that Molson’s talk. He gassed on, couldn’t help himself, about what an ignoramus he used to be—saying how it wasn’t travel so much, but his experience with girlfriends, with teachers, with his high school buddies, that was where he had learned so much about himself. Experience. And when you learn about yourself, he explained, you learn about everyone.

Eric suddenly leaned forward. It was a dramatic gesture after his stillness. “You have an artistic look about you,” he said. “I’m thinking you’re an artist of some kind.”

“Pretty close, Eric. I’m a musician—not professional, yet, but I’m not bad.”

“Musician. Of course. And I bet you play guitar, too.”

Keith paused with his glass in mid-air. He set it slowly back down on the table, as if it were an object of extreme fragility. “How could you know I play guitar?”

Eric poured more beer into Keith’s glass. “Your fingernails. They’re long on your right hand, short on your left.”

“Jesus, Edie. You’re married to Sherlock Holmes, here.” Were they married? He couldn’t remember if they’d told him they were married.

“It so happens I’ve got some recording equipment,” Eric said quietly. “If you’re as talented as I think you are, we could make a tape. Nothing elaborate. Just a four-track cassette.”

“Four tracks? Four tracks would be awesome. I’ve never done that.”

“We can put you and the guitar on two tracks, mix them down to one, and it would leave three for keyboard, bass, drums, whatever you want.”

“Fantastic. Have you done a lot of recording?”

“Some. I’m not a pro.”

“Well, me neither. But I’d love to do that. You’re not just making a joke, are you?”

“Joke?” Eric leaned back against his chair. “I don’t make jokes.”

“He’s very serious about it,” Edie said. “He’s got two machines—the cassette thing and a reel-to-reel outfit. When Eric makes a recording, it’s really something special.”