George immediately ordered a second pint. Before it arrived, the groom and his
brother—standing behind George—hemmed and hawed about ordering shots, so George
just waved the bartender over and got all three of them tequila. They toasted
to the beautiful bride. The drink made the groom’s eyes water. Almost at the
moment the second pint arrived, one of the wait-staff showed up at George’s
elbow with champagne turned pink with watermelon.
So George sat in front of drinks three and four
and watched his mother dance. He imagined blasting that tight silver bun off
the back of her head. Moving back home had been hard. The bun had come to
represent certain things he disliked about her: general tightness, yes;
ability to obey rules, particularly the twelve steps, but even things like her
sanctimonious observance of all traffic laws; mostly, though, her previous life
as a dancer—a prima ballerina—and the beautiful series of photos of her in a
leotard that haunted George from the walls of their home, had haunted George
from the time of his earliest wet dreams. When she danced, the bun seemed like
severe counterpoint to the organic, troubling beauty of her movements.
The MC asked the DJ to turn down the music.
George’s mother looked around as if to find where in the corners of the room
the song was hiding. It was time for a toast followed by the first dance.
George’s mother looked around for George so that she could stand beside him
while she waited for the appropriate moment to return to the dance floor.
One of the groomsmen was looking her up and down.
She grabbed and started to roll down George’s sleeve. He pulled his arm away.
“Keep it covered,” she said of his tattoo.
“Dragons are auspicious. And a symbol of
fertility,” he said, looking at the bride’s generous hips, the groom’s fists
resting chastely in the small of her back. What is this song, anyway? It was
mushy shit. He started humming Dr. John’s “Such a Night”: “If I don’t do it, you
know somebody else will.”
His mother lifted his hand and was buttoning his
sleeve. “Oh, come on.”
“It makes you look cheap.”
George shook his head.
“You must need a drink after that beautiful
dancing.” The groomsman who’d been eyeing Mom up was standing in front of
George, his shoulder inches from George’s chin. George stood up straight and
the groomsman turned his head to briefly acknowledge George, then smiled at
Mom.
“She doesn’t drink,” George said. He tried to
drain his champagne, but was struck by a watermelon ball. Some of the pink drink
splashed his cheeks and shirt.
“Oh, Busby,” Mom said, laughing and looking for
her clutch so she could fetch a tissue.
George grabbed a napkin off the bar. “I’ve got it,
Mom.”
“Nice to meet you Busby,” the groomsman said.
“George,” George said.
“Busby George. He prefers George.”
“I got this, Mom.”
“I’m David,” the groomsman said, holding his hand
out.
“Nice to meet you,” George said.
“Likewise, Busby George,” David said. George was
dying to knock David’s teeth in.
“And your name?” he asked Mom.
“Natasha,” she said. “Tash.”
“Can I buy you a drink, Natasha?”
“I’d love a soda,” she said, girlish.
“Got it, Tash. Can I get something for you
George?”
“Another pint of—” George turned around. He swayed
a little in his seat while he tried to steady his pointing finger. Closing one
eye helped. “—that one.”
“Sure thing.”
Of course David and “Tash” danced together. George
watched from his barstool until he had to find a seat that was sturdier and
lower-to-the-ground. At one point, the bride walked by on her way to the
washroom and he reached out his hand to touch her. He brushed her dress. She
felt it and looked back at him like she was considering being angry about it.
He had trouble focusing, but he saw her shake her head. Shit, he thought, how
many had he even had? No more than six or seven.
People were leaving when Mom woke him up. David
was beside her. George stood and lurched. “Whoa,” David said, catching him.
Like a boxer using his opponent to hold himself
off the mat, George wrapped his arms around David.
“Okay, Busby,” Mom said. “David is just going to
help you to the car.”
“I don’t need his help,” George breathed into David’s
jacket.
“Put your arm around my shoulder,” David said.
Mom lifted George’s arm for him. David wrapped a
hand around George’s torso, his fingers digging into a ticklish spot under
George’s armpit. George’s body jerked away from David’s touch and right towards
David’s body. “Hey, watch it,” George said.
Mom found George’s jacket and draped it over her
shoulder.
The walk to the car felt long because George just
couldn’t make himself throw up. Of course, he probably could have if he’d stuck
his fingers in his mouth, but he decided that when he puked on David it should
look like an accident.
As David helped George into Mom’s car he pressed
his hand tenderly against George’s crown to keep George from banging his head.
For a few seconds George waved his hand in the
vicinity of the seatbelt. David handed George the buckle.
“Are you going to be able to get him into bed?”
David asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” Mom said.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” David said.
“Yes,” Mom said. “We’ll talk soon.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Good night, Tash.”
“Good night, David. Thank you.”
The latch’s curved sides helped George direct the
latch plate into the slot. George slapped the side of the seat searching for
the lever to help him recline.
“Watch your hand,” David said.
George put his hand in his lap and scowled. David
closed the door.
“We’ll talk to you soon,” Mom said before ducking
into her seat.
David bent at the waist to stick his head through
George’s window and wave goodbye to Tash.
The real reward for George during his drinking
days was that the nights were a blackout. Since he’d been on the twelve steps,
nightmares of terrifying intensity had again overwhelmed his sleeping life.
Despite being drunker than he had been in ages, that night he still dreamed. He
was on a beach and in the distance he saw a wall of water moving towards him.
Before the tsunami arrived, George had time to dump a sandwich from a Ziplock
and put his book into it. As the water struck him, George noticed a blot of
mustard on the open page. George panicked that he couldn’t breathe, though he
knew that if he could just calm down and read one page he would be brought back
to the surface. His book was gone and he was on a beach with something in his
throat. George’s tongue lifted a hair to his fingers. He pulled. The grey hair,
which must have escaped his mother’s bun, was too long to pull out with one
full extension of his arm. He found a grip lower down and pulled again. In the
dream, he vomited.
In reality, too. All over his pillow and mattress.
Some even dripped onto his bed skirt. It smelled of beer and bile and while he
was taking his bundle of heavy, sagging bedclothes to the laundry, he got a
whiff of champagne, which already smelled sickening to him. George started
hating himself a little bit.
“You’re up early,” Mom said as he passed through
the kitchen.
George grunted.
Mom’s hair was down.
The bedclothes landed in the washing machine with
a splat. It took George a minute to spot the detergent on top of the dryer.
Back in the kitchen, Mom’s coffee smelled warm and
good. George washed his hands at the sink.
“Were you sick?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like to hear your horoscope?”
“Sure.”
“‘Before you even can make a suggestion, others
will come forward with theirs. You might be overwhelmed when weighing the
choices that are presented. You will see a personal matter differently from how
a loved one sees it. Tonight: Juggle your needs with someone else’s.’”
George looked at the clock. It was seven thirty.
There was no need to stay up, but he didn’t have the energy to put the sheets
back on his bed.
“Coffee?” Mom asked.
“Sure.”
“Water?”
“Sure.”
“So sweetie.”
“Mm-hm?”
“I’m meeting David tonight at six.”
George nodded.
“We’re going for dinner and to dance afterwards.
David says he knows a place.”
“Great,” George said.
Whatever.
(Toronto, July, 2015)
Emoji Sequence: Abbey Jackson, contributor to The West Enders, Vol. 1, Issues 1 and 2
Story: Lee Sheppard
No comments:
Post a Comment