Monkey Beach (36 page)

The tide rocks the kelp beds, the long dark leaves trail gently in the cloudy green water. I hear squeaking and chirping. Dark bodies twirl in the water, pause, still for a moment as I’m examined. I dip my hands in the water and the sea otters dart away, then back, timid as fish.

Well, I’m here, I think. At Monkey Beach.

In Search of the
Elusive Sasquatch

Weegit the raven has mellowed in his old age. He’s still a confirmed bachelor, but he’s not the womanizer he once was. Plying the stock market—instead of spending his time being a trickster—has paid off and he has a comfortable condo downtown. He plays up the angle about creating the world and humans, conveniently forgetting that he did it out of boredom. Yes, he admits, he did steal the sun and the moon, but he insists he did it to bring light to humankind even though he did it so it would be easier for him to find food. After doing some spin control on the crazy pranks of his youth, he’s become respectable. As he
sips his low-fat mocha and reads yet another sanitized version of his earlier exploits, only his small, sly smile reveals how much he enjoys pulling the wool over everyone else’s eyes.

I can hear them in the trees. They whistle—some high and musical, others just muted one-note shrieks—as my speedboat glides towards the shore of Monkey Beach. The hull grinds against the sand. I leap out and splash to shore. Once the boat is tied up, I pull my hood over my face and settle into a smoke. A raindrop splashes the cigarette tip, hissing.

They begin to giggle.

I was here last year with Jimmy. 1988. Another banner year. A catalogue of the parties I remember, the amount I drank, the drugs I did would be pointless. It’s a blur. A smudge. Two years erased, down the toilet, blotto. The first year, I managed to slog through grade ten, but I gave up on grade eleven altogether and took off to Vancouver with people I thought were friends but, it turned out, were not. Some of it was fun.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I was cool, if only because I bought the booze. What had started out as a way to escape turned out to be a ticket to popularity. Temporary, yes, but popularity nonetheless. My favourite bootlegger charged me only 10 per cent to go into the liquor store and get me what I wanted. I didn’t look old enough to get by the cashier without showing my fake ID, which I’d paid a lot of money for
but was a useless piece of shit that didn’t stand up to scrutiny. Sometimes I’d go to the pusher who lived two buildings away and get coke or hash or pot without a hassle. And since I was such a loyal customer, he usually gave me a discount. Or so he said. He had the same line for everyone. The longer he stayed in business, the more careless he got. He was busted a few days after he bought a new Corvette with cash. The same week, the trust fund allowance for that month ran out, and I was strapped and so were my friends. Without a party, we went our separate ways.

I would have stayed that way for years if it wasn’t for Tab. She came to me when I woke up lying facedown on cool, sticky tiles. My mouth was dry. My head ached like a bugger. I wanted to stay where I was, but I wanted a cigarette worse, so I put my hands under me and pushed myself up. I stopped when I was on my knees and put both hands against my temples, but that didn’t stop my head from throbbing. I searched through my front pocket and I found my pack and lighter. I became aware of someone staring at me and opened my eyes. The light was burning a hole right through my skull, so I could only squint.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Tab said, “You sober now?” She was scrawnier than ever, had dyed her hair red and was wearing a black, skin-hugging lace mini and bikini top.

“Mostly,” I said. I raised the cigarette to my mouth and lit up.

“You remember where we are?”

“East Van,” I said. “I’m awake, I’m awake. What happened?”

“You tell me.”

From her tone I could tell she was really pissed, so I must have been especially stupid the night before. Or the day before. Whenever. I didn’t feel up to one of her lectures. I flicked my cigarette into the toilet.

“Want some coffee?” she said. She stood up and waited for me to haul my ass up. I felt shaky and stiff from sleeping on the floor. I scrubbed my face with cold water and saw myself in the mirror. My hair was flat on one side and bar-hair high on the other. It was shoulder-length and tangled, oily—yet dry to the point of feeling like straw. My mascara had migrated down my face and smudged where I’d wiped it. I finally noticed my surroundings. The orange-and-brown sixties’ decor, the crackling silver on the mirror’s corners, the smell of mould and smothering Old Dutch cleanser all screamed cheap motel.

“What a night, hey?” I said. I unlocked the door and pushed it open. I used my sleeve to wipe off my scummy makeup and tamed my bar-hair with a liberal dose of water. She watched me with a curiously unmoved expression, like I was someone she didn’t know.

Six guys and three girls were passed out in the next room. I couldn’t remember any of them. None of their faces was familiar. Beer cans were piled on the tables, and the lingering cloud of cigarette haze spoke of a long, drawn-out party. Tab picked her way through their bodies like they had the plague. I followed her down the hallway and outside into a sullen rain squall. I patted down my jacket, then my jeans and was surprised that I still had my wallet.

“Hey,” I said. The sky was black with shifting clouds, then underlit with orange from Vancouver’s light pollution. Fresh rain had cleaned the skids of its normal bouquet of
eau de piss
. I was dizzy so I sat on a cracked seat at a bus stop and pulled out my cigarettes. I ran a hand through my hair. My reflection in the bus shelter’s glass blew smoke at me. I thought I could probably be a poster child for something, but I wasn’t sure what. Yes, I could be in a movie, maybe some cheesy TV special:
Poster Child Without a Cause
. I laughed, and people passing by steered a wide course around me. Tab watched me.

“Diner up ahead,” she said, walking away.

We went into a scuzzy diner with a sign saying Open, You Come In. The booth we sat at had a picture hanging over it of a mama duck and three ducklings in yellow sou’westers crossing a puddle. Inexplicably, this cheered me up. I expected Tab to light into me. Give me the standard how-could-you-be-so-stupid and look-how-you’re-ruining-your-life talks that she always gave me. Instead, she watched while I ordered a coffee. The waitress ignored her. I sat back and drew circles on the table with my spilled Cream-o. The coffee was flat and stale, but it was hot. The diner was overheated and I started to sweat after being out in the cold.

“What’s up?” I said, to break the silence.

She glanced at me, then back at the table. No smart-alecky comment. “Did I say something last night?” I said. “I’m sorry. Whatever it was, I’m sorry.”

She pulled her jacket in closer. “Who’s sitting here with you?”

“What?” I said fuzzily, wishing I was in bed.

“How many people are at this table, Lisa?”

“I’m sorry already.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Jesus, you’re in a mood.”

“It’s me and you. Just me. You. Your asshole friends buggered off last night and left you with a bunch of strangers.”

She was gearing up for a rant, and I prepped myself to tune out, turning to watch the rain hit the windows and stream down. The streets were empty. A traffic light blinked frantically as it swayed in the wind.

In the diner, there was just us and two guys at the counter, who were absorbed in eating a nauseatingly large breakfast. The waitress sat near the till, flipping through a
Cosmo
. She had her hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun and would check her watch every other minute as if she could speed time along by glaring at it. Tab’s fingernails clicked against the table. “Let’s call a cab,” I said, taking out money for the coffees and plunking it on the table. “I don’t feel like walking back to the motel.”

“I’m walking,” she said.

“What’s your problem?”

“Lisa, some people have lives. Some people are moving on. Some people aren’t wallowing in misery like they’re the only ones on earth who’ve ever had someone die on them.”

“Screw you,” I said, stubbing out another cigarette.

“You almost got killed last night, you know that?”

I shrugged, too mad to speak.

“I’m not going to be able to help you any more,
Lisa. I just can’t.” She stood up. “Don’t depend on me to bail you out next time you get in trouble.”

After she left, the waitress came over again, nervous until she saw the money on the table. She refilled my coffee while I watched Tab pull her jacket over her head. I sighed, then put a tip on the table and followed my cousin.

The section of abandoned warehouses, boarded-up stores and closed industrial shops was my favourite walking route. No one went there except people who were more interested in shooting up or shooting off. I could meander in peace, in a silence punctuated only by the occasional wail of sirens. I pulled the hood of my jacket far over my face and paid attention to where my feet were going.

When I caught up with her, I shook out a cigarette and sucked in three hasty puffs. She scowled at me. “Help yourself,” I said, tossing the pack to her. It went right through her body. Startled, I watched as it hit the ground and bounced.

“You moron,” she said.

“But you can’t be dead. I just saw you last week …” I touched my temple where a hangover headache was intensifying. “I must be dreaming.”

“Wake up and smell the piss, dearie. I just got bumped off by a couple of boozehound rednecks and I’m pretty fucking angry at you right now.”

“At me?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You and your fucking problems. Get your act together and go home.”

She disappeared. It was as if she had never been there. I waited, wondering if I was hallucinating.
Maybe I had alcohol poisoning. Then I shook my head, smoked another cigarette and went home.

I had a hotel room, just a dinky hole above a bar, but I had four prepaid days of relative safety to ponder the peeling walls and the cracked ceiling, and to listen to the throb of the cheap stereo system and incoherent arguments of the drunks and the shoptalk of the strippers entering and leaving their rooms. After three days, I had a Pepsi from the vending machine and realized I’d spent three days alone for the first time in months. My hands were shaky. The Pepsi went down in gulps. I bought a Five Alive for the vitamin C. The hallway light spazzed. I felt my way along the wall for the stairwell, then walked down, and out onto the street.

I would have money tomorrow. My party pals knew my payment schedule and would casually begin to feel me out, see how much I was willing to blow. Each time, I said to myself, Hey, let’s go somewhere nice this time. Disneyland. Las Vegas. Cancun. Let’s try being broke in some other country. But each time, I succumbed to the spurious pleasure of being Queen Bee. Friendship on my terms, with me pulling the strings, in control as long as I gave honey.

I went to a cheap hairdresser the next day and got a slightly crooked chin-length bob. Mom would be appalled. She hated shoddy work. I bought a small mirror, makeup, and went for a manicure. When I made my way back to the hotel, the desk clerk did a satisfying double take and said I looked good enough to be a call girl. This, I decided magnanimously, I would take as a compliment.