Authors: David Anderson
My heart stood still and I prayed to whoever might be listening that the cop wouldn’t lift the lid and look in. That would really be game over.
“Shit, I’m getting out of here, Mack,” one of them shouted, right next to the bin. “I just slipped in somebody’s puke.”
I held my breath and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Mercifully, the bin lid stayed closed. Eventually I started counting seconds: “Mississippi one, Mississippi two, Mississippi three . . .” When I reached five minutes I forced myself to count five more.
By now my body was stiff as a board, and every muscle protested as I slowly flexed my arms and legs to get the blood flowing again. I was facing the wrong way to look back down the alley to where the cop car had parked. I’d have to take my chances anyway, as I wasn’t staying here all night.
I raised the lid and peeped out. The alley was pitch black again and I could hear no sounds of boots or conversation. Cautiously, I raised the lid a bit further and craned my neck around so that I could look behind me, back up the alley. The cop car was gone.
I would have cried with joy if my ankle hadn’t been hurting so much.
I got over the side of the bin, landed successfully on my good foot, and began to brush myself down. My hands made contact with sticky hard things all down my front. I could guess what they were and tried not to look. Bits of slimy lettuce had stuck to my shoulders and I had to peel them off. I was a disgusting mess.
But, a free disgusting mess.
I forced myself to continue down the alley and eventually came out at a side street that looked deserted. For a long time I peered up and down until I was sure it was safe. I hobbled down it, trying to figure out what I was going to do next. The ankle was getting worse the more I tried to use it and I had to stop more and more frequently. I kept glancing behind me, fearful that another cop car would appear.
At last I admitted the truth to myself. There was no way that I was going to make it back to my student digs, far out on the university endowment lands, on one good foot only.
I didn’t seem to have any options left. There were no taxis in this part of the city at this time of night. Even if I could find one, I didn’t have a penny to pay for the ride. In my present state I looked more like a homeless person than a
bona
fide
student, so it was unlikely that any taxi driver would take the risk of letting me into their cab for a long trip to the university campus.
I didn’t even have a quarter to make a phone call. Not that there were any pay phones around here either.
It was hopeless. I collapsed in a heap on the sidewalk and quietly wept.
*
The bawling made me feel a little better. Somehow or other I had to get help. But I had little energy left to do anything. I forced myself to get up one more time and shuffled to the end of the block. As I approached the intersection I heard sounds of something going on, involving several people, and these increased as I got closer. At the corner I peeped around and saw what it was.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. A big old school bus was sitting in a parking lot on the far side of the street in front of a concrete wall. It had been painted bright red and converted into a mobile soup kitchen. People were milling around it, most of them with hot dogs or steaming Styrofoam cups in their hands. Though their clothes were a lot cleaner than mine currently were, none of them looked like the cream of society either. Several had shopping carts stuffed with garbage bags; others were wearing backpacks that had seen better days.
A couple of workers on the bus were pulling down a flexible metal shutter above a high, narrow counter. I hoofed it across the street, pushed my way through the crowd and banged on the metal slats with my fist.
For a moment I thought they weren’t going to open up. Then the shutter rattled, a gap appeared, and someone peeped out. I could see him eyeing me. I must have looked pretty bad because the shutter immediately slid all the way back up.
“You look like you need help.” The guy was about my age, wearing a baseball cap, a t-shirt with a little dove emblem or some such on it, and a white apron over his pants.
I wet my lips. It seemed like a year since I’d last spoken. I made up a story fast.
“Some bastards mugged me, stole my wallet and tossed me in a dumpster,” I said. “They beat me up real bad. I think my ankle’s broke.”
The guy gave me another long appraisal. “You need to go to hospital,” he said. “Come round behind here and I’ll drive you.”
I did my hop-along act around the side of the bus and met him coming out the back. Turns out he had his car, an old model Honda, parked nearby. He went and fetched it and picked me up a couple of minutes later.
We drove along for a while, my ankle aching even worse in the cramped passenger seat. I must have stunk pretty bad as he wound the window halfway down on his side.
“My name’s Michael,” I said to break the silence, “What’s yours?”
He kept his eyes on the road, but smiled a little. “I’m Justin,” he replied, “Pleased to meet you, Michael.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I said, “What’s your organization?”
“Glad you asked. We’re the Lifeline Gospel Mission. We do what we can for the homeless. That’s our Red Bus soup kitchen.”
“Ah . . . that’s what was in the Styrofoam cups. Sorry I missed that.”
“Don’t worry; we’re there every Tuesday night if you need us. We serve sandwiches, coffee, juice, sometimes even dessert.”
“You’re making me hungry. You work late hours too.”
“We have to. Those guys have nowhere to go. They treat it like a social event, a once a week, late-night street party. Most like to talk. Some want to pray, read the Bible, whatever.”
“Much need for soup kitchens these days?”
He gave me a quick look that said ‘
You’ve
got
to
be
kidding’
. “More every year. We get two hundred people on average. Homelessness in Vancouver is at an all-time high.”
Despite the discomfort I was in, I was impressed by this guy and his work. But I was too tired to say any more and desperate to get to the hospital.
He took me to Vancouver General, parked in the outrageously expensive stalls in front, and insisted he accompany me to the Emergency Department. I’d never been there before and when we walked through the automatic doors I was stunned at how busy it was, even in the wee small hours of the morning.
The nurses here must have seen every depravity under the sun but they still looked at me with undisguised distaste. They insisted I undress myself and toss my foul rags into a transparent laundry bag, which they promptly sealed with a massive twist tie. They helped me put on a pale blue patient gown that barely met at the back and laid me out on a gurney in the hallway, all the wards being full.
At this point my new-found friend Justin took his leave. He’d saved me from more than he could ever guess and I was profoundly grateful. I gave him my heartfelt thanks and made a mental note that if I ever had any money I’d send the Lifeline Gospel Mission a large donation. They’d earned it.
I was expecting an internee or whatever it is they call trainee doctors, but eventually an old geezer with a handlebar moustache and an English accent came around and introduced himself as ‘Dr. Spurgeon.” I immediately began to think of him as Spurgeon the surgeon. He grabbed my ankle, twisted it a bit until I screamed, then let it alone, after which I didn’t have to scream anymore.
Now that he’d broken my resistance, he gave me what he no doubt thought was a penetrating stare.
“How the hell did you do this, man?”
I gave him the same spiel as I’d given Justin.
“Muggers, eh? Did they drop you from the top of a tall building or something?”
I had to think fast. “They pushed me down some steps. Tall steps.”
The gimlet eyes looked unconvinced. “Well, we’ll have to take X-rays, of course, once the swelling goes down, but I’m pretty sure that what you have here is a Pott’s fracture.”
I must have looked suitably blank.
“Do you know why it’s called a Pott’s fracture?”
“No.” I couldn’t have cared less.
“Pott was a surgeon whose nag threw him and when he fell one ankle got caught in the stirrup. Ever since then this type of fracture has been known in the trade as a Pott’s.”
I nodded, praying this torture would end soon.
“Interesting injury. Back in the old country, it’s normally found in burglars who have fallen off a drainpipe.”
My heart suddenly stopped. This guy was more worldly wise than he looked; either that or he was clairvoyant. Then he let out a loud guffaw and I realised that he was jesting.
“Anyway, I’ll give you a quick jab to kill the pain and an orthopaedic surgeon will see you tomorrow.” He looked me over, top to toe, poking and prodding where it hurt most until I was almost screaming again.
At last he stopped, took a step back and stuck his bottom lip out pensively. “That shoulder of yours looks pretty nasty too; it’ll also need to be X-rayed. Assuming no bones broken there, I’ll prescribe some antibiotics for it, plus those nasty cuts in your chest and forehead.”
He went away and came back with a needle which he stuck into my ankle, tut-tutted a bit more, and duly wandered off.
Whatever it was that he pumped into me soon made me drowsy and I began to fall asleep. Through half-closed eyelids I saw what looked like the Jolly Green Giant approaching, but it was only a very large ward orderly. He pushed the gurney slowly down the corridor and the gentle repetitive motion soon sent me blissfully off to dreamland.
MOTH TO THE FLAME
Present
day
“You got away then.”
“Yup, no jail time, not even an arrest. Just several weeks on crutches. Are you disappointed?” I asked her.
She looked flustered. “No, of course not. I’m glad about it. I’m just sorry that you had to go through so much.”
I stretched out my leg and rotated the ankle. “If you’re real quiet, you can hear the bones rubbing together.”
She ignored that. “What did you do afterwards?”
“Well, as you might remember, I owed thousands in student loans and didn’t have a penny for my final year. And, my little fundraiser hadn’t worked out.”
“So what did you do?”
“I dropped out.”
I could tell that surprised her. I’d been a pretty committed student. “You didn’t finish?”
“Nope, I got a job and started paying down the loans. Only took about a million years.”
“What did you work at?”
Why was I allowing her to interrogate me like this? After I’d finished my story I’d expected to be cursing her and storming off. Now I seemed to have stumbled into a live performance of ‘Twenty Questions’. I wasn’t particularly proud of my employment record and had no intention of mentioning the stints in Safeway and Starbucks. “I took a job at a jewellery business for several years, learned the trade, thought it was what I wanted to do. But I moved on, ended up where I am now.”
I’d set a deliberate little trap. Did she know where I was working?
“Where’s that?” she asked.
“Volumes Books, at the corner of Cambie and Broadway.”
“You like it there?”
I shrugged. “It’s not bad.” Again, I wasn’t going to tell her about the ongoing friction with my boss and the threatened layoff. “Anyway, there’s not much else I can do with three quarters of an arts degree.” A thought occurred to me. “Did you finish your philosophy degree?”
“In another city.”
“Top of the class?”
“You must be joking. I was never that good. Just a regular degree.”
“Come on, you must have got at least an Honours, you were really into it. I remember you going on about Hegel and stuff. Didn’t understand a word.”
She laughed. “You just nodded as if you did.”
“That’s right.” It was an unplanned moment of levity in an otherwise serious discussion. I killed it. “So fill me in on what came next.”
For the first time I detected uncertainty on her face.
She looked at her watch. “Michael, we’ve been talking here for ages and that guy behind the counter is getting sick of us hogging his best seats. There’s somewhere I have to be soon. Can we meet again – talk some more?”
“Is there any point?”
“I think there is. This has been on my conscience for ten years. Seeing you today has enabled me to explain myself.”
“So we’re done then.”
“No, I’d like us to become friends again.” I must have looked sceptical, as she quickly added, “It’s possible, you know. Maybe I can answer your last question and tell you what I’ve been up to.”
Ten years ago I’d have replied with a cutting remark and turned my back on her. But I kept looking at her face – so beautiful, perfect, and flawless, with the look on it of earnest concern, whether genuine or fake – and felt old urges stirring. I’d vented a lot and now I wasn’t sure what I should say or do next. In the end, I found myself trying to think of something funny to say just to keep the conversation going, but concluded that it wasn’t a good time for humour either.
“OK,” I said flatly, “Where do you want to meet?”
“Can you come to my place, maybe tomorrow? Say, four thirty?”
My shift ended at four o’clock. “Sure. Where do you live?”
“Here, take this.” She fumbled in her bag and gave me a small card with her name, address and phone number printed on it.
She got up and I followed her out. On the sidewalk she turned and smiled. Before I knew it she planted a quick little kiss on my cheek. Then she walked away without looking back.
I stood there, her card in my hand, watching her slim legs disappear around the corner. So much emotion had been compressed into the last hour or so. Eventually I placed the card in my wallet and walked towards the nearest bus stop.
Did I still hate her? Maybe. I was no longer sure about that. I’d liked the kiss, and her apology seemed sincere enough. It had been an unusual day, one that I had thought about many times but had never anticipated turning out like this. She’d brought up a complicated turmoil of emotions inside me and I felt like a conflicted mess. My palms were sweating and not just because of the hot sun, my heart was beating fast and I needed somewhere quiet to do some thinking.
I could have just gone home to my bachelor apartment, but here I was at the bus stop and a 99 B-Line coach was approaching from a block away. I got out a yellow ticket and waited, not really knowing where I was going to go.
The concertina-style bus was half empty and I took a single seat on the left side behind the driver. My mind was still full of Emma, and we crossed the busy intersection at Cambie Street without me really noticing it. I pulled the cord for the next stop and got out at Broadway and Main.
I crossed at the lights and walked half a block to my favourite bookstore, Pulp Fiction. Even with my ‘generous’ (to use old Barnes’ description) Volumes staff discount of ten whopping per cent, I still could buy three ‘used’ books at Pulp for every new one at Volumes. And, the three ‘used’ books would probably be in new or nearly new condition. That’s why I rarely left Pulp without having spent whatever money I happened to have in my wallet.
I nodded to the owner at the checkout counter, passed the ‘New Arrivals’ section and made my way into the cool depths of the store. My eyes roamed across the philosophy section and I thought of Emma. Then I stared at the crime fiction shelves opposite, my gaze fixing on half-a-dozen ‘Parker’ heist novels by Richard Stark, and thought of myself ten years ago.
I plonked myself down on a small wooden stool. Okay, so I had never exactly been Raffles the Great Cat Burglar. I’d done something very exciting and rather clever a decade ago, something that had gone disastrously wrong through no fault of my own. And, I’d been damned lucky to get out of without getting caught. Since then? A succession of dead end jobs.
Why had my life turned out like this? There was a big alive world out there but something inside me had died ten years ago and I’d gone from doer to watcher. Now there seemed to be the possibility of getting that excitement, that aliveness, back. But could I trust this woman? Was she trying to manipulate me? More to the point, did I really care if she was?
This wasn’t providing the calming distraction I’d intended.
I strolled around some more, idly browsing, my mind barely registering the titles of the books I took down, flicked through, and put back. Eventually I found myself in front of a bookcase labelled ‘Local Interest’. Once again, my eyes scanned the titles without really registering any words in my brain. I pulled out a book without knowing what it was and looked at the front cover.
A
Traveller’s
Guide
to
Victoria
and
South
Vancouver
Island
.
I found the nearest stool, sat down and looked in the index for a place outside Victoria called Oak Bay, flicked to that section and looked at the pictures. It brought back vivid memories of ten years ago when I’d discovered things about Emma that she’d never revealed to me and still didn’t know I’d found out.