Record Three: Shame

RECORD THREE: SHAME

  Copyright © 2013 by Allthing Publications

  With stories by (Names Withdrawn)

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  The ten authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories. Opinions and stories presented in this publication are exclusively of the authors, and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors, or of Allthing Publications. Additionally, Allthing Publications and the editors take no responsibility for accuracy of facts, names, or events represented in this publication.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Happy Birthday

  Clink

  Haymaker

  Fool Myself

  Jennifer

  Cancerous Cyst

  The Closet Kafir

  Binge

  The Writer as Drunk Shithead

  Green Shirt

  Foreword

  I’ve done bad things.

  I’ve lied. I’ve cheated. Whenever my family gets doughnuts, I hide the blueberry fritter so no one else can eat it.

  And yet, it’s not me who does those things, not really. It’s another guy, another me that I push to the side of my head. I’m a nice guy. How could I do bad stuff?

  In this issue, we wrote about events we’re not proud of. It wasn’t easy. Dredging up those dark, wriggling bits of ourselves, throwing them into the light, taking careful pictures to record for posterity, we learned some uncomfortable truths about who we are.

  What we are, is stories. Some of which we’d rather not tell. It’s not easy to come to terms with the shameful parts, to admit that the same guy who gives money to the homeless guy by the subway is the same guy who undresses women in bars. But, on a positive note, I believe that by writing through them, by admitting our faults, we merge the shameful stories with the narrative of our life, and I think that makes us a bit more whole.

  (Name Withdrawn)

  (Location Withdrawn), 2013

  Happy Birthday

  (Name Withdrawn)

  The shower head spits spikes of cool liquid on my hair, and the water drips down my back. I turn the knob and the water warms. Beyond the glass door to my left, steam crawls across the mirror and covers my reflection with mist.

  Twenty-two.

  When I was five years old, I thought my thirty-something parents ancient. Hitting the age of twelve was a commendable feat. I thought fifteen years old was the perfect age—a nice compromise between childhood and adulthood.

  Today, I’m twenty-two. I glance at my misty reflection. I feel small.

  *

  I plop down on the carpeted floor of a Pantages Hotel room. Joseph sits cross-legged across from me, Anne props her chin on a knee, Ross sits like a mermaid with both legs stacked together beside Anne, Terry lies on his stomach on the bed, Mario kneels beside me while he shuffles a deck of playing cards, Jeremy lounges on the desk chair, and Joy perches on the floor to my right.

  A bottle of Smirnoff Ice, shot glasses of Jamaican rum, cans of beer get passed around. Hoots of laughter rip through the upbeat playlist in the background. Explosive chatter and inside jokes whizz between us friends.

  I scan their laughing faces. I’m missing one.

  *

  A firm grip on the crook of my neck, an index finger fiddling with the back of my ear. Terry’s elbows dig into the mattress of the hotel room’s king-sized bed. Half his weight falls on me. A trail of kisses from below my ear, along my jawline, and finally my mouth. He presses his lips against mine.

  I catch his lower lip with my teeth.

  I open my eyes and release him. “Sorry,” I mumble under my breath.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m a biter.”

  He grins against my mouth. “It’s okay.”

  The digital alarm clock sitting on the varnished side table reads 3:15AM in neon red. The air dips at twelve degrees Celsius. We writhe under the heavy comforters.

  My hands grope his back, and tug at his polo shirt. Terry snakes his rough hands under my tank top, around my waist, and below the band of my sweatpants. My back arches. I stop his hand and guide it back to my waist. Terry’s heavy breathing couples with mine. He finds my lips again and kisses me.

  I close my eyes and run my teeth across his lower lip. These lips are not full or plump. My fingers do not tangle in a forest of curly hair. Terry’s intimidatingly flat and muscular abdomen reminds me of an angry hiss when I poked fun at someone else’s stomach.

  “You’re so different,” I say.

  “Is that a bad thing?” he pauses and hovers over me.

  “No, not bad. Just different.”

  Terry pecks my cheek. He rolls over on his side. “When I did it with my ex, I never really felt a connection with her.” He stares at the whitewashed ceiling.

  I curl up beside him. “Really? Well, that’s not good.”

  Terry wraps an arm around my shoulder and tucks me beside him. He says, “Yeah. We just did it because we were a couple and, I mean, it wasn’t bad. I just never felt like we had a strong connection in bed.”

  “So you’re saying…” I draw circles on his chest.

  He laughs. He presses his face against my hair. He whispers, “You smell nice.”

  I lay my hand on his chest and rest my head on his arm.

  *

  In the morning before he leaves, Terry and I clean up after the party in the hotel room. We pack away bottles of soft drinks and alcohol in brown bags, fluff pillows, and collect garbage.

  “Thanks for helping me clean up,” I say. I prop the bag on a chair to adjust the contents of a brown garbage bag. I squeeze an empty bag of Lays chips beside a Coke bottle. “So are you--”

  I feel a pair of strong arms circle my waist and pull me into a hug from behind. Terry, a foot taller than me, bends down to bury his face in my neck. “Keep going.” I feel the smile playing on his face.

  I stare at the garbage. “—going to pick up your mom and take her grocery shopping now?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” He lets go and walks over to pick up his wallet on the side table. The digital clock displays 9:07AM. “Sorry, I don’t usually do that.”

  I nod. “Don’t worry about it.”

  *

  I dial a phone number I memorized from months before. Just 14 days ago, I dialed the same phone number to finalize a second breakup. Nathaniel is at work, but he answers my call.

  I stretch on the made up king-sized bed and pull the chocolate brown comforter to my neck. Three hours to go before I have to check out of the hotel.

  “(Name Withdrawn).”

  “Hi.”

  “How was your birthday party?” comes the voice from the other end of the line.

  “It wasn’t a party,” I say, failing to add an edge to my voice.

  Nathaniel chuckles. “Right, you don’t have parties. You have ‘get-togethers’.”

  “Precisely. It was good.” I roll on my side, my face sinking into the pillow. “Exhausting. I didn’t sleep. Can you, um, please pick me up?”

  We grow quiet, our silence only broken by occasional small talk.

  Three hours later, Nathaniel’s SUV rolls to a stop by the Eaton’s Centre James St. entrance. I hop into the passenger seat and buckle myself in. His pink, full lips stretch into a smile as Nathaniel reaches for the car heater and turns it on. The car spews warmth at my legs and my torso, the way Nathaniel knows I like it.

&
nbsp; “Thanks,” I say. I glance at the forest of curly hair cut short and close to the scalp, and hands that grip the wheel—hands I’m certain are soft and untouched by callouses.

  I stare out the window. A light drizzle peppers the windshield and my window.

  Nathaniel asks, “How was the dinner?”

  “Expensive.”

  “Was it good?” He steers the car onto Bloor Street.

  “We were confused which knives to use.”

  He chuckles. I can tell he’s waiting for the rest of the story. We weave through the city and reach the Gardiner. Nathaniel continues to wait for an explanation on the knives. We get onto the highway and his smile is gone. He’s annoyed at my silence.

  A quiet car ride delivers me home.

  Clink

  (Name Withdrawn)

  I tear the dry peanut butter sandwich into chunks and shove them into my mouth as I stagger up the driveway. I smudge the peanut butter over the inside of my cheeks with my tongue and press it into the spaces between my teeth. I take a large gulp of water and swish it around my mouth to wash it down. A few months ago when I came home chewing gum, my mom smelled my breath and asked what I was trying to hide. So recently I switched to peanut butter. I carry a sandwich and a large bottle of water with me every Friday night.

  As I get closer to the house I toss the empty sandwich bag into the bushes and fumble around in my purse for my keys. I find the hard metal with my fingertips, pull them out, and feel for the doorknob in the darkness. The key finds the slot and I step in onto the landing.

  The kitchen light flicks on and I squint up the stairs. In the haze I see the silhouette of my mother standing at the top of the stairs next to the light switch. She has her iPad in her hand, paused on a game of Angry Birds.

  “Probably thought I was asleep already didn’t ya?” she laughs. “Well, I waited up just for you ’cause I know you were going out tonight. So c’mon up, let’s have a whiff.” She steps back into the kitchen, puts down the iPad and stands in the centre of the floor with her arms crossed.

  She gazes at me smiling as I slink up the stairs leaning on the wall. I stop at the top and tighten my grip on my purse as I step towards her. I glare down at her as she nears my face and breathe out a long foggy sigh as her nose reaches my mouth.

  “I knew it. I smell vodka.” She steps back and leans against the kitchen counter. She glares at me, raises her eyebrows, and waits for me to speak.

  “Yeah, well, that’s ’cause you’re fucked. I wasn’t drinking. And even if I was, I’m going to turn nineteen in five months anyways, so get over it.” I turn to walk down the stairs. My fingers tremble as they conceal the outline of the glass bottle in the bottom of my purse.

  “Hold on a minute. We’ll see about that.” She turns towards the counter and rummages through the piles of crap layering the countertop. “Let me find my Breathalyzer and well see how much of a liar you really are. And when that light shines red it’ll be three months’ grounding, just like last time. I don’t care if you’re eighteen or eighty, you won’t be drinking while you’re living in this house.”

  I sigh and exhale away from her. I lean against the counter and watch her searching through the piles of papers and phone chargers. She spins around to face me and throws her hands onto her hips.

  “You stole it, didn’t you?! So that I couldn’t use it. You little sneak.” She steps towards me, leans forward and frowns.

  “What the fuck? No I didn’t.” I step back and look at her, disgusted. “Why would I need to steal your stupid Breathalyzer? I haven’t even been drinking. Besides, you shouldn’t even have that thing. It’s for alchies who need to check that they’re sober enough to drive. That’s why it’s on a keychain, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yeah, sure, well, I don’t believe you. I know you stole it.” She steps back and glances over the counter. “And until I find it I’m just going to assume you’ve been drinking.”

  “What the fuck. You can’t do that. It’s not my fault you lost it among all your shit.” I throw my arms up in the air and stare at her, my mouth hanging open.

  “Yeah, well, that's the way it works. Sorry, hun.” She shrugs at me, smiling, and walks down the hallway.

  “Well, I’ll find it and then you’ll see that you’re fucked. And you can’t smell shit.” I stomp downstairs and throw my coat and purse onto my bed. I take out the thick sock holding my vodka bottle and slide it into my underwear drawer.

  I stomp back up the stairs and scour the countertop. The hook where the Breathalyzer normally lives next to the phone hangs empty. I fumble with the stack of old mail on top of the spice rack and search through the folders in the filing box. Nothing. I sigh and glance at the bucket of pens and pencils before turning to leave.

  My heart stops. There it is. The small black box sitting in the bottom of the ceramic cup with the pencil tips and shavings. I reach for it and freeze with my hand stretched out in front of me. What if I give it to her, she makes me blow into it, and it says I have been drinking? I only had like half my mickey, so I should be okay, but I only stopped drinking like half an hour ago. So it still could show up.

  I glance around and carefully lean in over the counter. I can hear the TV in her room humming with Jay Leno. I hold the pencils in place and my fingers tremble as I reach down into the cup. I latch onto the small silver ring that the Breathalyzer hangs on and lift it out of the cup, keeping my fingers pressed on the chain so the links don’t clink together.

  When it’s free of the cup I gather the chain and the box in the palm of my hand and tighten my grip. I place it against my chest and slide it into my bra. I turn and carefully walk towards the stairs.

  “Nope, couldn’t find it,” I call out as I near the stairs, stuttering as I try to sound nonchalant. I step down the stairs one by one. As I reach the bottom the small chain of the Breathalyzer clinks as it touches the metal ring of my bra strap.

  “What was that?” my mom yells. The floor overhead thumps as she jumps off the bed and marches towards the kitchen.

  I panic. My knees shake and my eyes dart around for somewhere to stash the Breathalyzer. I see a space in the wall of movies of the cabinet at the bottom of the stairs, and pull the Breathalyzer out of my bra. I place it in the space and push another VHS in front. I turn and in three silent leaps I am across the room at my door. I press the switch and the light illuminates the room. I fling myself onto the bed and move up and onto the pillows. I grab my finance textbook from the drawer of my bedside table, break it open and run my eyes over the words as I try to calm my breathing.

  A second later she is at the door. “What was that noise?” she snarls. Her voice cracks and she breathes heavily.

  “What noise?” I say.

  “The metal clinking. I heard it from down here. It’s the exact noise that the Breathalyzer makes. Don't play dumb.” She sneers, turns, and stomps out of the room.

  My heart thrashes against the inside of my chest. I sigh long and deep. I stare past the book at the door. The light of the main room flickers on and I can hear her fumbling with the large plastic cases of the VHSs.

  I look back to the book and try to focus on what I’m reading, but can only hear the crashing of my heart and the plastic rustling of the movies. She snorts and I hear her heavy footsteps moving across the room. I squint at the words on the page, trying to look focused, and she appears in the doorway.

  “Ha. Thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you.” She holds up the Breathalyzer by its chain, swinging it back and forth on her finger as the links clink together.

  “Now get up. Let’s find out just how drunk you really are.” She comes towards me and clicks the “on” button.

  I sit up in bed. I exhale all of the air from my lungs and my breath catches in my throat. I gasp and suck clean air into my mouth without letting it touch my vodka-soaked lungs. I place my lips around the hole in the end of the Breathalyzer and blow all the air out of my mouth. I wheeze as I run out of air, and star
e down at the small blinking lights at the end of my nose.

  Haymaker

  (Name Withdrawn)

  “Take them off,” Mike says.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “No shoes.”

  I look down at my beat-up runners, and twist my lip. I’ve never fought in bare feet before. I pry them off.

  The Meadowvale Secondary gym is nearly empty now. The bleachers that we pulled out this morning, that were full of parents, grandparents, and siblings watching the kids perform their part of the kung fu tournament, are empty now. It’s just stray jackets and neon gym bags thrown over the empty seats as the competitors have trickled in for the adult division.

  It’s October 2013, at the annual tournament. My kung fu school sends competitors and volunteers every year. According to one parent I spoke with, these tournaments used to be huge; they needed university grounds to accommodate all the spectators and competitors. Now, MMA is the crowd-drawer, and we can use two gym floors in a local high school. This is my first time volunteering at the tournament. It’s also my first time competing.

  The guy I’m fighting is across the gym.

  He’s a big white guy with a scrappy beard and long arms. For the last ten minutes he’s been talking to his coach—a tiny Asian man in a rumpled black windbreaker. My opponent doesn’t say anything. He just nods. I heard he’s from somewhere up north. He’s taller than me. At over six feet myself, I’m not used to that. He’s not fat like me either, just a bundle of corded muscle. I watched him fight in the sticky hands division just a few moments ago, and win. He was fast.

  I pull off my socks and wad them into the shoes. I put the shoes against the wall. Beside me, Mike is doing a split. He’s an older student at my school. He’s trained in sparring for years, fighting and winning in tournaments all around Canada.

  I stretch my bicep. I’ve sat on my ass all day as a volunteer. I kept time, recorded judges’ calls, and ate greasy chicken-fried rice. I was sitting right up until now, with five minutes left to fight. No time to warm up. Mike came in half an hour ago and has been warming up with a rope and push-ups.