P.S. It's still a work in progress and needs A LOT of editing. Just sayin' :)
Cocaine
“Two
days straight of cocaine is what I call a weekend. It usually starts
on a Tuesday too.” She says as she flicks at the cherry on her
joint and pulls her beachsand-hippie hair into her bandana. I just
stare at her, unfazed. This is typical Courtenay speak.
“So
is that why I haven't heard from you in four days?” I ask. She
doesn't answer, just pulls at the fringe on her jeans.
“You
should try it sometime Merissa. I think you'd like it. It'd kind of
be your thing.” She shuts off her computer and clears off the desk,
making room for her drug of the day – plain old weed.
“Are
you nuts? Can you imagine me on cocaine? I would get so much done.
I'd be like a lesbian times two.” I sit on her bed, shoving
clothes, books, magazines and dishes to the floor. She just laughs,
nodding, humming to the Beatles song that's floating in from the room
next door.
“So
how are things with Richard?” I ask, trying to ignore the hardened
chunks on the sheets beside me.
“I'm
having an affair with a married man.” She says, deadpan, throwing a
roach into her already-full ashtray.
“What?
How did that happen?”
“Yeah,
him and his wife are good friends of mine. I just went to their
Halloween party last weekend actually. A couple days before that, we
were at his place him and I – I don't know where his wife was –
and we were doing lines. He looked at me and said: Are you a brave
woman?”
“What?
Do people even say that?”
Chuckling
in that strange disbelieving voice, she says: “Yeah I know eh? So
I'm like, well I could be, why? And he says: I've always wanted to
take a line off a naked woman.” She pauses, and rolls her neck with
that Joker-like half-smile. “So I took my pants off.”
“You're
really serious, aren't you?”
Again,
she doesn't answer. Just grinds more weed and starts rolling another
spliff. I watch her take out her cherry flavoured Mantra papers and
use the makeshift poker (the inside of one of my pens) to readjust
her pregnant joint.
“So
you want some of this?”
“What?”
I ask, snapping out of a daydream and feeling as though that's the
only thing I ever say to her.
“You
want some of this joint?”
“Nah,
I'm still good from the last one. So how come you're doing this to
Richard? I mean, he moved
in. I thought you
actually liked him.”
“I
dunno. I think he might actually be gay. We haven't had sex in like
four days. It's like he doesn't wanna touch me anymore.” She
baptizes the joint and lights it. It's a new lighter. She must've
lost her Fear and
Loathing one. She was such a wannabe hipster.
“Well
how many times have you had sex in the last two months of the
relationship?”
“With
him? I dunno, maybe seven to twelve.”
“Wow.
That sucks.” I pause, remembering the lines of his face and the
tiny twitches of his thumb and forefinger. The look of contempt on
his face when he sees me. “Is there something wrong with him? Ya
know... Like medical?”
“I
don't think so. I just think he's gonna go all Elton John on me.
Anyway, you better get outta here. I have to get supper ready for
Rich.” She gets up from her swivel chair and opens her mini fridge.
She takes out two beers and a small container of potato salad.
“Alright,
I'll be by in a couple days.” I walk out, still fairly stoned,
thinking of this married man. Of Richard. Of what I would do for Courtenay.
* * *
I
couldn't remember a time when my life didn't revolve around Courtenay. I
first met her in the second floor lounge of McLeod House the only
year I lived in residence. I had been in my room trying to watch
Jeopardy when I heard Rush’s Tom Sawyer playing through the wall.
Knowing full well that my neighbours were pop princesses, frat boy
jocks and lipstick lesbians, and completely devoid of any real taste
in music, I went in search of the music’s source. It was coming
from the lounge. And it was just her. Not a large group of people
celebrating last class bash. Not the beginning of a pub crawl. Just
her. The CD was playing in the DVD player; she was lying on the couch
with Batman slippers and a George Harrison chakra t-shirt. No pants,
just a pair of boy’s gym shorts. She looked up at me, her look
turned to shock, and she said: “Holy fuck you’re small.” I am
rather short, being only four foot eleven inches, and my first year
of university had been a tad rough on my weight. I had lost about 25
pounds, so I was maybe 100 pounds soaking wet. She, however, seemed
huge to me, larger than life itself. She was easily six feet, big
boned, and she oozed confidence and self esteem. I told her I loved
this song. She asked if I had heard any of their other stuff. If I
had REALLY listened to Rush, apparently only the greatest Canadian
band ever, according to her. I hadn’t. She made room on the couch
for me and I sat next to her. She said: “Close your eyes and feel
the music through the couch. Listen to the voices in your head.”
She hit play. We sat in silence for 92 minutes. Rush played the whole
time. Then she spoke: "Hey, I'm Courtenay."
We
quickly became inseparable. Not in a lover way, nor a high school
best friend kind of way. We just saw each other every day. We did
nothing. We did everything. We travelled, listened to music, cooked,
did yoga in the mornings, and fucked other people and compared notes.
She’s the one who taught me how to eat a pomegranate. I showed her
how to do yoga. She introduced me to Bob Marley, I introduced her to
Placebo. She’s the one who gave me my first joint, then taught me
to roll my own. She’s the first person I’ve ever seen do cocaine.
And she’s the first person I’ve ever really fallen in love with.
I
remember our trip to Cuba like a ghost in the mirror, even though it’s
been almost four years. We sat on these lounge chairs by the beach,
sunbathing topless, as she sipped a mojito, and I had a virgin pina
colada. I had never been a been drinker. Not till I finished Uni
really. She had bought a pack of cheap cigarettes and asked if I
wanted one. I had never smoked a day in my life, but I said sure. She
had to tell me how to hold it, and how to inhale, how not to choke.
The cigarettes were sweet, but she said they weren’t as smooth as
cigars. The sun warmed our faces and turned her hair an even dirtier
blonde than it was. The water was warmer than the air.
I'm
not even sure how we ended up in Cuba. She just showed up at my
apartment one day, and said: “I'm going to Cuba for ten days. Wanna
come? I need a salsa partner.” I had some time off from school, so
I said sure, why not - I had never been to the Caribbean. The smell of jasmine
flowers was overwhelming the minute we got off the plane. It took us
no time at all to get through security, surprising given Court's tendency to smuggle anything she can get her hands on. We were staying at a Varadero
resort called Tryp Peninsula. It was an all expense paid resort, and
our room, room 12, had a king size bed, a hot tub, and a big screen
TV. One day, we decided to go off the resort, against all warnings from fellow tourists. We took the bus to
Havana, and spent the morning and lunch at the local market. She
bought a couple tops and I got some necklaces and earrings, in an
attempt to be girly, to be attractive. We walked around Havana and visited some local
hotspots during the day, and that evening, we went to a local club
and salsa danced with everyone. Courtenay got rip-roaring drunk and
went home with two cuban boys, and I got a drive from the bar owner.
His name was Jorge and he lived near Varadero, so he dropped me off.
I wasn't worried about Court. She knew how to take care of herself,
and she had been in worse situations. Besides, we were in Cuba, of
course she had to have a little fun. Courtenay never travelled
anywhere without fucking one of the local citizens. Some people had
to visit museums; Courtenay had to try the drugs and have sex with
the local culture.
I
never minded her drug use. She always seemed smart about it ya know.
She always knew when to stop, when she’d done enough. I didn’t
see her as an addict. Until she ya know, became addicted, but even
then, that was different. She could just stop if she wanted to. I’ve
never seen her go through withdrawal. But she enjoyed doing drugs,
kind of how someone enjoys a hobby. She epitomized the sex, drugs and
rock and roll cliché, but I loved her for it. She was an on-again-off-again vegan,
and she’d love to cook me all these exotic vegetarian dishes. Wheat
dosa with dal chutney. Moroccan orange carrot salad. Wild mushroom
risotto. It was something new and different every couple of days. I
usually hated every dish ‘cause I'm a horribly picky eater, but I
admired her passion for these strange foods. To me her love of food
translated into a love of life. And that was Courtenay. But then she
met Richard, and I lost my chance with her. Not sure if I ever had one to begin with really. He hates me 'cause he
thinks I'm constantly trying to steal her away from him, which I kind
of am, but still. And I hate him 'cause he's a pompous prick. There
had to be some way to get her away from him.
* * *
“So
I went to the bar last night and didn't have two of the same drinks,
so I feel like all kinds of shit today. I also lost my wallet and I
think I may be pregnant again. So I've been sitting on the couch all
day downing Ensure and telling Richard I hate him.”
“Is
it his?”
“I
guess.”
I
watch her as she moves around the kitchen, slowly, methodically,
calculating. She stirs the homemade macaroni and cheese, debating
whether or not she should put ground beef in it. I could see the
struggle in her face; her vegetarian side is fighting with her
redneck side. Her hair is green now. She says she's decided to tap
into her Joker side again, that he hasn't come out in awhile. I keep
wondering how far back her Batman obsession goes. She brings her nose
to the pot, smelling to see if it's right yet. She dumps three scoops
of the pasta onto my plate and then five scoops on hers.
“So
what you gonna do about it?”
“I
don't know yet.”
“You're
not going to keep it, are you?”
“I
said I don't know. I think it may be a boy.”
“What?
Courtenay, what are you talking about?” I ask, leaning forward on
my chair. “What about last time? Why not just get another
abortion?”
“No.”
And I know by the shortness of her voice that she isn't going to be
discussing it anymore for awhile. Which also means that Richard
doesn't know about her decision. We eat in silence for a bit. She
tries to pick out the meat from her macaroni. I don't know why she
bothers putting it in. Out of habit maybe. She still holds her fork
with her index and middle finger too, from when she had the broken
thumb. Once she gets used to something, she rarely goes back.
“So how's Mr. Married?” I ask casually, hoping to soothe the
tension between us. She pushes the food around on her plate,
signifying that she's back to her old self.
“Good,
just went on a weekend vacation with his wife, then came over to tell
me all about it.”
“Well,
how was it?”
“Good
I guess. Now she's gone camping with her friends. So, yeah.”
“Free
game?”
“Yeah,
but now Richard has the day off today, so I'm home and miserable.”
That pouty face again. Fuck she's beautiful.
“So
where is Richard now?” I hadn't seen him at all since I'd been
there. I was hoping that maybe he
had finally decided
to leave.
“He's
out buying me more Ensure and more chocolate. I've been having
cravings all day.”
“Gotcha.”
I
sit back in my chair, my plate still nearly full. I try to imagine
Courtenay with kids. Last time this happened, she went to the clinic
right away. Asked me to go with her. She was so calm, so passive. It
was like she was just going to get groceries. What's so different
about this time? She says she feels things, things that she can't
explain or see. Things that help her make decisions
and change her life. I still couldn't really wrap my head around it
all. I blame the gypsy in her.
I
get up to help her with the dishes, but she shoos me away. Despite
her independent hippie attitude, she's every bit the housewife. I
walk around the house, touching the tiny idols and figurines she
keeps on the bookshelves and the mantle. A couple magazines litter
the end of the couch: High Times, Reader's Digest, Popular Mechanics,
a National Geographic from 1968. I sit on the floor in front of her
movie collection and read over and over again the titles we've
watched together a dozen times.
Even my copy of
Mario Party 8
for the Wii was here. We don't really play anymore though.
“So
what's on your mind Iss? I can hear you over there being small.”
I
lean over to look in the kitchen. She hangs up the dish towel and
grabs her hoodie. She zips it up, walks into the living room, and
settles down on the rocking chair across from the TV. I stare at the
Pink Floyd design on her sweater for a second before answering.
“Nothing
much. I got that job I was telling you about.”
“So
when do you start?”
“Wednesday.
Their life drawing class is on Wednesdays, and the one-on-one
modelling is done on Fridays.”
She
flicks on the TV and stares absentmindedly at the guide screen. “So
you only work two days a week?”
“Not
really. Those two for sure, but if the students need more time to
work on their stuff, we work out a time throughout the week and get
together.”
“I
think you'll like it. It's kind of your thing.”
“What?
Taking off my clothes?”
“No,
being looked at.”
Speechless
again, I lean back on my elbows and stare at the TV. She had already
changed the channel. “What is Canberra?”
I say to the screen.
“I
hate watching Jeopardy with you.” She doesn't even bother to look
at me. Her eyes are pointed at the screen, but she's focused
elsewhere. Maybe in another country. Singapore probably. She hasn't
talked about it yet.
The
backdoor opens and I know it's Richard. He most likely won't want to
see me here. I nod over to Courtenay and get up. Slipping out the
front door before he makes it into the living room, I only catch a
bit of the conversation before I'm already on the sidewalk.
“What
took you so long Jackass? I have been tossing and turning on the
couch for an hour and my head has been...”
*
* *
“He's
gone.”
She's
sitting on my bed while I finish drying myself off. She was already
here when I got out of the shower. I still don't know how she gets
in.
“What
do you mean, he's gone? Who's gone?”
“Richard.
He left. He found out about Josh. He doesn't believe the baby is his.
And he doesn't want me to keep it.” She traces the lines on my
pillowcase.
“Who's
Josh? Wait... Mr. Married? So Richard's not coming back? Because
you're keeping the baby?”
“No.
It's more than that.” She stares as my towel drops. I have
fantastic breasts, and though I know she's upset, I want her to look.
She does, but she doesn't really see me.
I
pull my pants on and try to find socks that somewhat match. I finish
dressing and take a good look at her face. She's
been crying. A lot.
Not like her at all. And I think she's been drinking. That, however,
is less of a surprise.
“Court,
what's going on? What happened?” I sit next to her and try to take
her hand. She pulls away.
“I'm
further along than I thought. I went to the doctor.”
“Wow,
you must be really serious about keeping it.”
“Him,
Merissa, not it. I'm sure it's a boy.”
“Okay,
him. So why are you so upset? Is the baby okay?”
“They
did some kind of test on him. He's not... normal... They're pretty
sure he has Down's Syndrome. There's only a 5% chance they're wrong.”
“So
what are we waiting for? Let's go to the clinic and get it taken care
of.”
“No.
I told you. I'm keeping him.”
“Is
that why Richard left? 'Cause you're keeping it? Or is it because it
has Down's? Or because it might belong to Mr. Married? You gotta
explain there Court, I don't understand what the fuck is going on.”
“Will
you please stop calling my baby “it” for fuck's sakes?” She
gets up off the bed and starts pacing around the room. She digs in
her coat for a cigarette. I don't smoke in the house, but I figure
it's best not to say anything.
“Okay,
okay, I'm sorry. Wow. So, you're having a baby. With Down's Syndrome.
Do you even know anything about Down's Syndrome?”
“Well
I was thinking of going to the library to get a couple books or
something. I also need to go buy a few things, diapers and stuff.”
“Mhmm,
so what are you going to do about Richard? Are you going to tell
Josh?”
“No.
I don't think it's his. We used a condom a couple of times. I don't
know about Rich. I want him to come home. But I know he won't. I
don't know what the fuck I'm doing.”
“Well,
you should not be drinking for one.”
“Yeah
I kind of freaked out after my fight with Rich. I just took a couple
of sips. I should probably stop doing that, right?”
“Yeah.
The drugs may have to stop too. Think you can do that?”
“I
can try. Can you help?”
“I
can try.”
She
sits back down on the bed and lays her head on my shoulder. This is
the first time in all the years that I've known her that I actually
think she's crazy.
“So
you gonna be alright Court?”
“Yeah.
I think being a Mom could kind of be my thing ya know?”
“Yeah,
I think so too. We'll just have to see, right?”
Fuck beans.
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