Sometimes I imagine standing next to him in the dark. The blood is sticky on my boots, there is a silence reaching across us like the sky, and all of the fences and all of the walls that keep things neat and tidy have toppled over. I can see us from above: two figures in the halo of light from the town’s only streetlamp in the middle of the black and roiling Atlantic Ocean.
His name was Joe. He was 22. Her name was Rose. She too was young. I was 15.
In the Barrio Gotico, Tony, lately jilted by his American girl friend, groaned after tapas and too much peseta-a-glass wine, “I need a woman.” So we, a couple with sex guaranteed, followed him here, to what is known as the Barrio Chino, to the notorious Calle Robador to support his search for a paid partner. Robador is narrow, and from the balconies above, laundry banners it, signalling with sheets, shirts, and children’s clothes that families live here too, that women do laundry here, keep house here.
The winner of the 2015 carte blanche/CNFC competition for creative nonfiction.
At the burial site, my aunt’s husband sprinkles earth on Nana’s casket: “Let us remember that we are dust and we will return to dust.” Out here the Skype reception is clear and fast. I wonder if a packet has picked up a wandering particle of Nana energy and delivered her to me in my study.
By the time our relationship ended, years later, I knew that Fort McMurray was a place she’d never been to, and that the long-haired guy was a man she’d never met. But this was first love; I wanted to follow the scent, not heed the warning signs. Standing by the side of the road, thumb extended, it was exhilarating to improvise and be anonymous and totally confused.
On March 6, 1999 you took me to Sacred Heart to get my first tattoo. Two hearts in contrasting colours entwined like the Star of David.
That night, back at your place, I drank too much of the cinnamon liqueur with real gold flakes in it. When I became sick and ridiculous you helped me into bed. I fell asleep lying heavily on the bandage.
For my next, unrelated market research group, I sit at a conference table in a Yaletown office with ten other men, aged twenty to me. We snack on Digestive biscuits and coffee, while a robust woman tells us that our conversation is being filmed, recorded, and transcribed, indicating a two-way mirror that runs the length of one wall. As part of the agreement, we have each brought a collage we have created, plastered with pictures and words that describe our ideal restaurant environment; mine has slogans like Service! and Drink Specials! and a lot of photos of exposed wood beams.
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