 
The Doorman

by William Schrader

Copyright 2017 William Schrader

Smashwords Edition

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They also serve who only stand and waite

John Milton - On His Blindness

Table of Contents

Start of The Doorman

About the author

Connect with me

To the Kastasoon that no longer is and, of course, Yasuko

Shortly before the end of The Cold War

"Impossible!" Oscar declared. "Mr. Johnstone would never sell!"

"It's true," Pete replied. "I saw the papers myself."

"I don't believe it."

"Whatever. So long as we get paid. I need the money."

"Me too," Oscar admitted. "My foster child has ringworm."

So it seemed. For weeks he had been receiving desperate letters from his foster child - children, actually; he was supporting an entire village - complaining about a ringworm infestation and pleading for more money. This Oscar had duly sent. But now, with the Palace in trouble and his bank account empty, he was unable to satisfy their ever increasing demands. Every day he searched his local paper, The Daily Star, for news of the Great African Ringworm Epidemic but, for some reason, found nothing. That all the letters had the same handwriting was not something he had noticed and, even if he had, would never have considered odd or suspicious.

"Not that again," Pete said, his face screwing up with scorn. "How many times do I have to tell you. It's a scam."

Although only a student, Pete considered himself a cynic and prided himself on thinking the worst about everyone. Those boxes shopkeepers put out for UNICEF? Straight into their pocket. The only things he believed in were outrageous conspiracies in which top government officials acted in direct opposition to their own interest. Occasionally, especially when high, which was often, his reasoning became so convoluted even he suspected he was spouting nonsense - like the time he found himself arguing that JFK had had himself killed to hide the truth about the Bay Of Pigs.

"But why?" Oscar asked. "The Palace is his life."

"What are you, blind? Look around you. This place is a dump."

Pete had a point. Although once sumptuous, the Palace had long since descended into shabbiness: what little glass remained on the chandelier hung above them like jagged tears engulfed in a gloomy glaucoma of dust and spider webs; the carpet, beaten down by decades of dirty footwear, was a hopscotch of butter and vomit stains; and the marbled ceiling was an ugly measles of colour that, quietly crumbling, fell like the fake fluff of a snow globe.

The neighbourhood was no better. The short strip of shops whose ethnic otherness - Mueller Meats, O'Neil Cameras, Yip Lee Cleaning, Beaulieu Barbers and the Kiev Cafe - reflected the pioneer origins of Kastasoon was now a retail relic, overwhelmed by the twin cancers of suburbia and superstore. Surrounding them were the scavengers of urban slums: pawnshops and cheque cashing services, greasy spoons and sex toy stores, welfare hotels and sleazy bars where men sold drugs and woman waited to be bought with alcohol.

"Nonsense! It just needs a little cleaning, that's all."

A dedicated employee, Oscar was devoted to the Palace and could find no fault with it. All his life, in fact, he had wanted to work there. Dazzled by the magic of movies, he could imagine no higher calling than taking tickets at the Palace and had immediately applied for the position upon graduating from Bible College. Pastor Wilcox had had his doubts, fearful that he might see a stray tit or two but Oscar assured him he only watched children's movies and promised to cover his eyes in the unlikely event the actors kissed.

"Yeah," Pete sneered, "with an A-bomb."

As someone who only worked part-time, Pete failed to share Oscar's passion for the Palace. To him, it was just a job, albeit with certain fringe benefits - principally, the ability to steal. Not that he regarded it as such. On the contrary, like waitresses with their tips or bartenders drinking for free, Pete considered theft part of his income. Why else were his wages so low? Tall but thin, he bulked up by wearing several jackets, one on top of another, which, he believed, made him look menacing. Stymied by several splotches of skin, his beard, clustered about his chin, curled out to a point, giving him a stringy, wizardly look.

"Have you heard?" Louise asked, joining them. "He's selling. To Ziniplex. And we're all going to get a big severance package. One penny for every hour worked!"

A middle-aged popcorn girl, Louise, like Oscar, had spent the bulk of her life at the Palace but, unlike him, wasn't particularly interested in movies. Just romances, which she consumed in various forms: movies, TV and even books. On the rare occasions when she was not taking a smoke break, she could usually be found sitting behind the Candy Bar reading a Harlequin or the latest copy of Soap Opera Weekly. Often, when Mr. Johnstone was either down at the track "investing" the previous day's take or passed out at his desk in remorse, she would merge her pleasures by smoking at her post and had even been seen using the popcorn box as an ashtray, which had a noticeably negative effect on sales. As for men, several had come her way but none had measured up to the unattainable ideals of her fantasy so, one after another, she had rejected them. For a while, in her early days at the Palace, she had thought that Mr. Johnstone might be her prince but something about his old school sense of style struck her as soft and so, that kernel of love had remained unpopped.

"Bullshit," Pete replied. "They'd never do that."

"How do you know?"

"It's a big company."

"So?"

"Big companies don't get that way by giving away money."

As someone who had spent almost a full year at university, Pete was an expert on everything: history, finance, politics... nothing escaped his critical gaze. Most things, in fact, were just bullshit, lies spun by powerful people to make us accept things as they are. Fortunately for humanity, he saw through it all and resisted in small but powerful ways - like the time he defaced a Conservative candidate's poster by writing 666 on his forehead and the words Today Eckville, Tomorrow Alberta at the bottom.

Just then Mr. Johnstone emerged from his office carrying a suitcase. The grandson of one of Kastasoon's original settlers, a former farmer turned wheelwright who, largely due to lack of competition, had leapfrogged from the peasantry to a position of power in a single generation, and the son of an alderman who had dreamed of being premier, Mr. Johnstone prided himself on his sophistication: besides wearing a fedora and listening to old jazz, he felt totally at home in the few fancy restaurants his rural metropolis had to offer. In a land where most people considered dinner conversation an oxymoron, restaurants were proud to put the word Family in front of their name and portion size was considered more important than taste, being able to identify the salad fork automatically marked one as an aristocrat - a distinction Mr. Johnstone thoroughly embraced.

"Can I have your attention please?" he asked, slurring slightly.

The three employees turned to look at him.

"As you may know, I've decided to sell."

"No!" Oscar cried. "Don't do it!"

"Thanks Oscar," the drunk owner replied, tears forming in his eyes. "You wasted your youth working for me and I appreciate it."

Expecting similar outbursts from the other employees, Mr. Johnstone paused; getting only silence, he put his suitcase down and took out a tattered but stylish handkerchief.

"We've had a good run," he said, wiping his eyes. "I did my best and I'm sure you did too but there's just no place for single screen theatres. Not in today's market. People want more, luxuries like comfortable seats and a screen without slashes. We can't compete with that. So I've sold the theatre to Ziniplex."

"What about our pay?" Pete asked.

"That's the tricky part."

"Tricky?" Louise echoed.

"I had a lot of debt. Ziniplex took advantage of that."

"What do you mean?"

"They're only paying the bank."

"Fucking corporations," Pete muttered. "Always screwing the little guy."

"Believe me, I feel bad. You guys are like family to me. More than family really since you didn't leave me. But at least you get to keep your jobs. All you have to do is follow a few rules and regulations. Little things, like wear a uniform and be on time."

"Uniforms!" Pete exclaimed. "What is this, Nazi Germany?"

"I'm sorry," Mr. Johnstone said as, attempting to stuff his handkerchief into a pocket, he dropped it onto the floor. "Take what you want. Ziniplex won't know the difference."

Then, picking up his suitcase, he briefly looked around, tipped his fedora once and headed for the door. Inside his suitcase a pair of half-drunk whiskey bottles clinked quietly.

A stunned silence settled upon the three employees.

"Dibs on the cashbox," Pete shouted, racing towards it. But all he found was a note that read: Sorry Pete but it is my theatre.

"The bastard!" he yelled. "He took his money."

Unable to find any cash, Pete's thoughts turned to drugs. The First Aid Kit. There might be something good in there. But all he found was a bottle of cough syrup, some Band-Aids and a half-chewed vitamin.

"Fucking cheapskate!" he cried, flinging the box onto the floor. "What if there was an emergency? A fire or paper cut?"

"You could use the Band-Aids," Oscar pointed out.

"That won't get you high."

Pete opened the cough syrup.

"This will have to do," he said, and took a big greedy gulp.

"I claim the Candy Bar!" Louise said as, grabbing a handful of chocolate bars, she took a quick bite of each to establish ownership.

Just then Dale entered carrying a copy of Swank. Short and muscular, he was obsessed with fitness. Flexing and grunting were so natural to him he did it everywhere he went, in bars and restaurants and while waiting in line, which the people around him often found disconcerting. Not that he cared: spellbound by his body, he assumed others were too and was convinced that any woman who didn't want to have sex with him was a lesbian.

"What the fuck? Are you nuts? The old guy will have a shit fit."

"No chance," Louise replied. "He's gone."

"Gone?" the sleazy projectionist repeated. "Where?"

"Who knows? But he isn't coming back."

"What about our pay?"

"That's gone too."

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ! I just bought me a new chopper!"

"Here," Louise said, handing him a cup of pop. "Join the party."

Dale looked down at the cup in disgust.

"What am I, some fucking kid?"

"That's all we got."

"That's all you got," he said as, pulling a mickey from his pocket, he raised the level of his cup an inch.

"You drink on the job?" Oscar asked.

"I can't watch these movies sober."

"Me too," Pete said, holding up his cup in hope.

"What the fuck," Dale said. "Might as well. Ain't ever going to see your ugly faces again."

Splashing a bit of whiskey into their cups, Dale made up for his generosity by silently scowling at each of them. His disapproval made plain, he returned the mickey to his pocket and protectively covered it with the edge of a torn T-shirt.

"To the future," Pete said, lifting his cup. "Whatever it brings."

*

Pete awoke to a horrible headache. Whiskey, pot and cough syrup were clearly a bad combination. Who knew? All about him was darkness.

They must've gone home, he thought. The bastards. Leaving him passed out in his puke like that.

Stumbling towards the washroom, he saw a light on in Mr. Johnstone's office.

"Oscar?" he asked, pushing open the door.

Lying on the desk with her skirt pushed up to her waist, was Louise; between her legs and pounding furiously was Dale, his beefy buttocks taut with tension.

"Harley!" he shouted, and sprayed her with his biker seed.

Unable to move, Pete stood and stared.

Still stiff inside her, Dale looked up.

"What the fuck you want?" he asked. "Sloppy seconds?"

*

Never one to let the past get him down, Oscar arrived the next day ready and eager to work. Yes, Mr. Johnstone was gone and that was sad but the Palace remained. All morning, in fact, he had been reviving an idea which Mr. Johnstone had several times rejected: an Incredulous Journey marathon. That all the movies were the same - thoughtless owners take their pets into the wilderness, inexplicably abandon them and then rejoice when they return weeks later - mattered not a bit. No, the key was Barkie, their leader, whose unshakable altruism knew no bounds: several times over, often in the same movie, he risked his life to save his weaker, shockingly stupid followers. Jump into a raging river? Why not? Tangle with a snarling bear? Might as well. Put your paw into a hornet's nest? Could be fun. Each time, no matter what, Barkie was there for them. Nothing thrilled Oscar more than seeing him come running to the rescue. So much so he had founded a fan club, Barkie's Buddies, which he had convinced several children to join, largely through the lure of free ice cream. Fooled by the thought it would be fun, they were quite eager at first but rapidly lost interest upon discovering that it was mostly just sitting in a smelly room, talking about movies and discussing the pros and cons of various brands of dog food.

"Sean," Oscar asked, "could you please read the minutes?"

Sean reluctantly stood up. "Paul burped. Carol farted-"

"I did not!"

"Eugene said a bad word. George fell asleep. Henry picked his nose and we all ate ice cream."

"Is that it?"

Sean looked at his notes. "Yeah."

"Good job. Now," Oscar continued, "if you were Barkie and you saw a wolf with a puppy in its mouth would you: A, run away; B, play dead; or C, save the puppy? Henry?"

Henry pulled his finger from his nose. "Uh... save the puppy?"

"Correct. Come here."

Oscar reached into his pocket and pulled out a homemade badge.

Bee brave, it read. You can dew it.

"Congratulations."

Henry looked at the cloth blob.

"Ice cream?" he asked hopefully.

"No, not yet."

Disappointed, he sat back down.

"Now," Oscar asked. "Who can tell me how to get rid of fleas?"

But, to his surprise, the Palace was still closed. On the door was a sign notifying people of the change in ownership and promising to reopen soon. Although disappointed, Oscar took solace in the fact that a treasure like the Palace was not likely to be closed for long. The question now was what to do. Of course! The library. As a member of the motion picture industry, Oscar considered it his duty to be well-informed and there were several magazines that required his perusal. Variety, of course, although he often found it difficult to understand, and others, like Entertainment Always and Movie Magnet. Even publications like Humans or Scandal Surprise had interesting information in them sometimes. A regular, Oscar was well known at the library and affectionately referred to as "that movie nut."

Passing through the turnstile, he gave the receptionist a gracious wave and headed for the magazine corner. A few new issues caught his eye and he diligently gathered them up. Then, depositing his cumbrous rump into its usual spot, he considered them closely, paying special attention to anything that might soon play at the Palace. An hour or so of serious study was sufficient to pave the potholes of his ignorance and he carefully returned the magazines to their selected spots. Duty done, he rewarded himself with a quick trip to the washroom, which resulted in yet another successful urination, and then it was upstairs to Pooh Corner for Storytime. That he was the only unaccompanied adult bothered him not a bit. This too was research. Not to mention a prime hunting ground for Barkie's Buddies. For some reason - jealous no doubt: how could any of their stories compete with the big screen experience of The Incredulous Journey? - the staff had been reluctant to let him solicit new members. In time, however, they had come to see the error of their ways and his reputation as a deluded but harmless and, most importantly, free babysitter had attracted the attention of several desperate mothers. Go learn about the dog, they would say, kicking their kids out of the car. But it smells bad! the crying children would protest as their mothers raced away. Indeed it did since the class before them was judo, several of whose members considered deodorant a violation of their martial training.

That today's story was Charlotte's Web was an added bonus. Oscar loved that story, focusing as it did on the friendship between a spider and a pig. Unfortunately, however, he had a tendency to break out bawling at the part where Charlotte tells Wilbur she's going to die. Often, in fact, he had to be removed for upsetting the children. Oscar listened for as long as he could. Then, feeling himself well up, he quietly withdrew by tumbling over a small plastic chair, several of which he had bent with his big bulky bottom.

Returning to the washroom, he wiped his eyes with a tissue. The lure of the urinal was there before him but he resisted it, preferring to wait till later. One of the many perks of the library was its free phone, which was quite convenient since his own had been inexplicably cut off. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he called Pete, eager for news of the Palace. He of course had none but did claim to have some other information he wished to share so they agreed to meet for coffee.

Leaving the library, Oscar wandered deeper downtown in search of lunch. Entering Burger Majesty, he ordered the Super Duper Special: burger, fries and a drink. Oscar was hardly a fine diner. To him, a fancy restaurant was one where the ketchup and mustard came in plastic bottles rather than individual packs. Fat, sugar and salt were the triple pillars of his diet and he considered vegetables an unnecessary adornment. Anything green, in fact, he regarded with extreme suspicion. More satiated than satisfied, he took his tray to the trash and dumped his greasy wrappers into it.

Pete, as usual, was late, which gave Oscar time to settle in. He was not used to such spots, being far more familiar with the Co-op, a pleasant place where farmers sat around clutching cheap coffee and swapping horror stories about hail. Although generally sedate, it was not without drama - like that time the cleaner found some out of province bottles in the parking lot and called the newspaper to warn them that devil worshippers had come to town and, being smugglers as well, brought their own beer. Further investigation revealed it to be a local brew from Quebec whose Satanic image referred to an old Quebecois folktale. Catholics, devil worshippers, Pastor Wilcox had replied. What's the difference?

This place, however, was totally unlike that. For one thing, they had magazines, none of which, Oscar was sorry to say, had anything to do with the motion picture industry. The customers, students most likely, were much younger than at the Co-op and none of them wore caps advertising farm machinery. There did seem to be a uniform of sorts but it was mostly scarves and sweaters and soft funny hats that didn't look at all warm. As someone who didn't drink coffee - Oscar preferred apple juice - he couldn't speak to its quality but, judging by the smell, it was much plusher than the coloured water his farmer friends drank.

Pete, on the other hand, was quite familiar with the place, having spent many an idle hour there pretending to study. From time to time his classmates would join him and they would argue about philosophy, the point of which, as far as he could tell, was to prove that nothing mattered and so, impress girls.

"Nonsense!" Oscar insisted, upon hearing the news. "Louise is a lady. She would never do such a thing!"

On this point, like so many others, Pastor Wilcox had been clear: there were two kinds of women, nice girls and whores. The former were sweet and lovely and more than content to wait for marriage. The vast majority of them, in fact, didn't even like sex and only did it to please their husbands. That and to have babies, which was their real purpose in life. The latter, however, were lewd and lascivious and the most powerful implement in Satan's toolkit, which he used to snare wayward souls and send them plummeting down to Hell. That someone like Louise, who was hardly a Jezebel, would have sex on Mr. Johnstone's desk was totally beyond belief.

"It's true," Pete said. "I saw it myself."

Despite being a university student and so, thoroughly jaded by life, Pete had been shaken by the experience. The sight of her lying there, eyes glazed with pleasure as Dale slapped himself against her crotch, his muscular body straining towards success, had disturbed him deeply. Every night since, as a matter of fact, he had gone to bed with that image in his head and each time his hand had wandered down, his thoughts following their experience stroke by stroke right up to the moment Dale shot his filthy seed inside her.

"It must've been the chocolate," Oscar said. "Too much sugar."

"Maybe."

"What about the Palace? Any news?"

"I already told you," Pete replied. "No, nothing."

Oscar was confused. They should've called by now. What kind of business lets a treasure like the Palace lay dormant? Unless of course Pete missed the call. He did have a tendency to toke up first thing in the afternoon. To make things interesting, he claimed. As someone with a superior intellect, he often found it necessary to handicap himself with drugs to bring himself down to the level of those around him. That he couldn't remember anything his professors said was an unfortunate but irrelevant side-effect since, as a nihilist, he had no faith in the future. Only the moment mattered. Intensity was everything.

Oscar was also feeling a bit anxious. Hardly a day went by without him visiting the Palace. Even on his day off he would drop by, just to make sure everything was okay. Much as he liked Ralph, the part-time doorman, Oscar couldn't help but suspect he lacked zeal. It was partly his clothes, which were rarely washed and so, bore the signs of various adventures. One could almost draw a map of his meals, a gastronomic guide to his gut, by linking the stains on his shirt. He was also rarely shaven, miraculously managing to always appear scruffy, never clean-shaven or bearded but ever in-between. His ticket-taking skills were also suspect: not only did he not look at the customer, he often accepted tokens which had clearly been bought at a bingo supply store and had even been known to take Canadian Tire money on the rare occasions he had worked as a cashier. As Head Doorman, Oscar considered it his duty to be on top of things and felt frustrated that he could not do so now.

"Tell you one thing," Pete said. "I'm not wearing a uniform. No monkey suit for me."

"It might not be so bad."

"Are you kidding? It'll be hell."

"You don't know that."

"Oh yes I do. I have a friend, he works for them and he says they're total fascists. You have to wear a uniform, shave and even wear deodorant."

"Deodorant?" Oscar repeated. "Ralph won't like that."

"Who would? Not only that. You have to use a timecard."

"What's that?"

"It's a card you put into a clock and if you're late, you get a shock."

"Goodness!"

"And they only let you go to the can once a shift."

"But what if you have to? What if it's a number two?"

"Then a supervisor goes with you."

"Why?"

"To check."

"Check what?"

"That you really did something."

"No!"

"Yeah. And if it isn't big enough, they dock you."

"Goodness!" Oscar repeated. Due to his diet, constipation was a problem. The thought that someone would measure his movements made him nervous.

"And the worst thing is, they hate kids."

"No!"

"Yes. They never show family movies and most of their films are flat out porno."

Oscar felt faint. Pastor Wilcox was not going to like this. He didn't even like movies where people kissed. A peck on the cheek or top of the head was okay but mouth to mouth was full on lust. If you have to put your lips on something, he would say, make sure it's food. That gluttony was a sin was something he reluctantly admitted but it hardly compared to lust which, he believed, was the original sin. What was the apple after all but an aphrodisiac? And the shame that Adam and Eve had felt after eating it was clearly the self-loathing one feels after sex. As much as possible, Pastor Wilcox avoided having sex with his wife, preferring to put his energy into prayer instead. She, however, was considerably less content with the arrangement and frequently found herself having lustful thoughts about the strangers who passed through her life. The highlight of her day, in fact, was usually a trip to the supermarket where, besides accumulating imaginary lovers, she spent an inordinate amount of time staring at cucumbers and eggplants.

"But why," Oscar asked, "would he sell to such people?"

"You heard him. He was broke. It was either that or close."

Oscar was appalled. For years he had looked up to the stylish owner, seeing him as a second father. His own, along with his mother, he had lost in a freak accident. They had been watching Lawrence Welk on TV when their house was hit by a bolt of lightning: exploding outwards, the screen burst into bits, shredding them with its glass and leaving Oscar an orphan. Pastor Wilcox, ever one to sniff out sin, had, without explicitly saying so, more than once suggested that it was at least partly their fault for watching such fare - all those racy German girls in skirts that showed the knee - and that, had they been watching Hymn Sing (which was on the other channel), God might've fired his bolt in another direction, at a Methodist maybe, or an Anglican, and so, ruined someone else's life instead. That he, Mr. Johnstone that is, would let the Palace fall into the hands of such people was deeply discouraging.

"Well," he said. "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

*

"I'd like to begin," Camila said, smiling broadly, "by saying how happy I am to be here and how much I enjoy working with you."

The truth was quite different. The transfer had clearly been a demotion, punishment no doubt for her refusal to sleep with her boss, a bald, middle-aged man with a penchant for popcorn girls. See that one, he'd say nudging a junior. I popped her. Popped her good, know what I mean? That Camila would refuse him he took as a personal affront. A simple no would have been bad enough but she actually seemed to find him repulsive and that he could not bear. At times, especially after a few drinks, he saw himself as the victim: besides hurting his feelings, she had brought into question his belief that money conquers all. So naturally she had to go. And what better place than Kastasoon, a small prairie city with little to offer a sophisticated urbanite like her? Condemned to a life of listening to farmers complain about how Golden Topping gives them gas, she was sure to regret her refusal. Who knows? Maybe she would even reconsider. How sweet that would be. In his mind, he saw himself bumping into her at an event, indignantly listening to her apologies, repeatedly refusing her out of pride, slowly softening, finally relenting, and then, in the darkness of his hotel room, thoroughly enjoying her sexy Spanish body.

Camila of course had a very different view of the future. Although initially dismayed by the demotion, she was determined to work her way back, which was entirely consistent with her character. Like Louise, she had started in concessions. Although only a part-time job to save money for university, she was both popular and competent and soon caught the eye of her manager who, spotting her potential, offered her a full-time, career-track position which, after much thought, she accepted - largely out of consideration for her parents, who, as immigrants, lacked the means to pay for her education. A practical person, she was also reluctant to take on a large student loan that could set her back years since, unlike Pete, who fully intended to default on his, she believed that everyone should pay their debts.

Even so, the first time she saw the Palace, she cried. It was just so shabby, everything dirty and rundown. And the neighbourhood! Sleazy shops everywhere and drunks passed out on the sidewalk in their own urine. The employees were equally awful. The doorman, although friendly, seemed to do nothing but take tickets and even then rather haphazardly. Despite this, he saw himself as invaluable, the soul of the enterprise even and was full of suggestions, all of them expensive, most of them unnecessary, and more than a few involving a dog whose connection to the theatre she had yet to understand. The cashier was no better. Besides wearing a T-shirt that read Fuck You! he was unkempt past the point of laziness and even seemed a bit stoned. The concession area, archaically known as the Candy Bar, was a battlefield of cigarette burns manned by a woman whose customer skills lay on the far side of apathy. The worst, however, was the projectionist who, besides being drunk, had, in the mistaken belief that it would "get her juices going," shown her his pornography collection and was astonished to discover not only that it failed to have the desired effect but was also against regulations.

"What!" he exclaimed. "No porn? The union's going to hear about this!"

And so it was with everything. Not only was there no punch clock, the employees came and went as they pleased. More than once, in fact, the audience had been left waiting for the reels to change because the projectionist had run out of alcohol and so, stepped out for a six-pack. The woman in concessions was a chronic smoker whose work breaks rarely interfered with her addiction and the cashier seemed to consider his booth a jail cell, from which he escaped every chance he could. Only the doorman was diligent but even he had a tendency to disappear from time to time to do what he called research but usually involved chasing stray cats or watching pigeons peck for food. The basic constraints of conformity, such as wearing a uniform or being on time, were totally unknown to them and, by certain individuals especially, fiercely resisted. Only the doorman was open to the idea of wearing a uniform but even his face fell into a frown upon seeing it; obviously expecting something grander, a multicoloured monstrosity maybe, with sash and cape and even epaulets, he was clearly underwhelmed by the plain yellow jacket and pants. The only thing that appealed to him was the big black Z and even then he lamented that it was not sufficiently Zorro-like.

Camila was used to resistance. At first, like most people new to management, she had made the mistake of thinking she could continue being friends with the people below her. I'm just trying to do what's best for everyone, she had believed and was surprised by the unrelenting selfishness of her subordinates, who continually put their own interests first. Having failed with friendliness, she soon saw the value of strictness and, ever after, stood aloof from her staff. She still smiled and was friendly but always felt the falsity of their replies and tried not to take it personally. But this was something else. This was open rebellion and that she could not allow.

"And I know," she continued, "that most of you have never worked for a big company before but rules are rules and we must follow them. Some, such as health and safety, are laws that the company must obey while others, like wearing a uniform and being on time, are just common sense. I'm sure you understand. I've let a lot of things slide in the hope you make the adjustment yourself but you haven't so I'm going to have to institute certain punishments. From now on, anyone who is late, unshaven or not in uniform, will have their pay docked. Repeated offenses will result in termination. I do this reluctantly because I know such things are not popular but I really feel I have no choice. My hope is that you will be responsible enough to make these changes yourself and I won't have to resort to such measures. It may seem difficult but I'm confident you'll soon get used to it and if we all just pull together we can make this theatre a success. Are you with me?"

*

"Can you believe it?" Pete asked his fellow employees. "She actually told me to smile. Smile! Like I got anything to smile about, stuck in a hot smelly booth all day."

"Most of those smells are yours," Oscar pointed out.

"Doesn't make them any more pleasant."

"I'll say."

"Call the union," Dale advised. "That's what it's there for. To keep pricks like her from making you do your job."

"I would," Pete replied, "if I was a member."

"No union!" Dale exclaimed. "What are you, a communist?"

"No, I just didn't get around to joining."

The truth was quite different. A true individualist, Pete rejected all organizations, including those for his betterment. What was the point of pensions and dental care if you had to go to meetings and sit cheek by jowl with a bunch of halfwits? Pete would rather die a toothless hobo than hang out with lifers like that. Besides, Mr. Johnstone had offered him fifty dollars not to join and he had taken it.

"What about my ciggies?" Louise asked. "Can they do anything for me?"

Of the four, she had been the least affected by unemployment: other than the loss of a paycheck and having to do the bulk of her smoking at home, her life had continued largely unchanged. Having never felt the need to move out, she lived with and off her parents, a fat wart on the face of their happiness which neither of them had been ruthless enough to remove. Any suggestion that she might find a husband or a place of her own was skillfully ignored. Returning to work, however, had been full of unpleasant surprises: not only was she banned from smoking inside the Palace, her smoke breaks were limited to one an hour and she was forbidden to read her magazines on company time. The bitch actually expected her to work. But what if no one's around? she asked. Then you wait, Camila replied. Wait! With no cigarettes or magazines to distract her? Like it was a job or something! All her life she had listened to people complain about their jobs but never understood why. Can't you just slip out for a smoke or take a nap behind the popcorn machine? Now, for the first time, she realized that employment sometimes involved doing things you don't like.

"Fuck yeah," Dale replied. "No one can stop you getting cancer. It's your right."

"What about the machines?" Pete asked. "You know, the ones that keep a record of ticket sales."

"That's a grey area," Dale admitted, immediately understanding. "Losses are part of business but you gotta be careful."

Dale knew of what he spoke, having been fired more than once for getting his fingers caught in the till. Like Pete, he considered it an additional wage and was appalled by the honesty of others. Sadly, the union had been unable to help him and that, combined with a nasty argument with his rep, had even caused him to question his membership. What was the point of paying dues if they wouldn't represent you on matters of principle? In the end, lacking other options, he had accepted their judgement, albeit with bitterness.

His most recent bout of unemployment had been an unalloyed treat and he was sorry to see it end. In addition to his benefits, which he had immediately applied for, he worked part-time at a peep show. Paid in cash, which he did not declare, it had nicely topped up his pogey and although his job was merely to maintain order, he enjoyed chatting with the girls and often spent his free time sitting in a booth watching them perform. It was also a venue where his grunting did not seem out of place. Now, forced to work for the money he received, he was struggling to keep both jobs going and was deeply resentful of the fact.

"She's not so bad," Oscar offered.

"What?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Fuck that."

"I mean," he continued, "she's just trying to make things better."

Of all the employees, only Oscar appreciated Camila's efforts to improve the Palace. True, some of her ideas were unnecessarily strict but at least the dust and grime were gone and the washrooms had both soap and toilet paper. Surely they could see that. But, for some reason, they were blind to the benefits of sanitation. I'd rather drink my own urine, Pete said, than use her soap. Well, that was a bit extreme. And maybe an exaggeration, although you could never be sure. That both Pete and Louise were boycotting the sink to protest their current working conditions was worrisome, especially since Louise had a habit of dispensing popcorn by slapping it into boxes with her hand rather than use the scoop.

"It's because she's hot, isn't it?" Pete demanded. "You want to fuck her, don't you?"

This of course was pure projection. Although management and so, the enemy, Camila's femininity made it difficult for him to see her as The Man: beautiful, with black hair and dark skin, he found her relentlessly arousing. The fact that, despite only being a few years older than him, she was his boss added to his excitement in a way he found uncomfortable.

At first, because of her background, he made excuses for her. What choice did she have? She was poor. Just another exploited Hispanic, forced like him to work for an evil corporation. But surely deep down she shared his desire for social justice. And so, in a misguided attempt to impress her, he wore his Che shirt to work one day and even went so far as to show her his roach clip - which, he claimed, had once belonged to Bob Marley.

But, to his surprise, it had the opposite effect: although hardly a Lothario - his only real experience with the opposite sex being a bit of drunken groping at a party several months ago - Pete could tell from the glint of contempt in her eyes that his chances of having sex with her were now nil. And so his lust for her was transformed, curdling into a passionate hatred he told himself was political.

"No chance there," Dale declared. "She's as frigid as the North Pole. Either that or a rug muncher."

He should know. Besides insufficiently appreciating his porn, she had rebuffed him on several other occasions as well. Claiming that the air con in the projection booth was broken, he had spent several days working in his underwear, certain that the sight of his muscular body would, sooner or later, have the desired effect. But, oddly enough, that too had failed. Must be a Lesbo, he thought, certain that no straight woman could refuse him.

"Certainly not!" Oscar exclaimed. "That would be wrong."

Indeed it would. Lord only knows what Pastor Wilcox would say about that. Lustful thoughts were bad enough but about your boss? There must be a special prohibition against that. Unfortunately, the Bible, for all its profundity, rarely referred to office etiquette. Oh sure, some saw Jesus as the ultimate executive, a spiritual CEO who excelled at managing the assets of others - what was the parable of loaves and fishes if not a textbook example of compound interest? - while those lower down the corporate ladder saw Him as one of their own, a meek and mild financial advisor, struggling to make sense of the numbers. Go long, He'd say. Eternity is always a good bet.

"Liar!" Pete snarled. "Always acting so holy when really, you're just as bad as the rest of us. I saw you looking down her dress."

"It was an accident," Oscar insisted. "I dropped some chocolate bars and she helped me pick them up."

"Yeah, right."

"That old trick," Dale said. "Done it a million times myself."

"She probably did it on purpose," Louise added. "The slut."

"I didn't see anything," Oscar assured them. "I blocked it out."

"Bullshit!"

"It's true," he explained. "Pastor Wilcox taught me how. Like on TV, with the fuzzy patch, when they hide people's faces."

"I fuckin' hate that," Dale said. "That and when they cut out the cumshot. What's the point?"

"You think you're better than us, don't you? Just because you've been here for years and don't come to work high."

"No, no, not at all."

"You probably don't even steal."

"Certainly not!" Oscar replied, horrified.

"You can't trust a man who doesn't steal," Dale declared. "He'll rat you out every time."

"Brownnoser!"

"Snitch!"

"Teacher's pet!"

"And to think," Dale said, descending into self-pity, "I shared my whiskey with you. Me! A union guy through and through."

"You can't go on like this," Pete informed him.

"Like what?"

"Riding the fence, being everyone's friend. Sooner or later you're going to have to choose."

"Choose what?"

"Which side you're on."

"Damn right," Dale said. "You know what they say: if you aren't part of the problem, you're part of the solution. And we can't have that. Not now. Serious shit is coming and you'd better be ready."

"For what?"

"Union action," Dale answered. "I'm gonna file a grievance."

*

The next few days were difficult. Oscar could tell his fellow employees were angry at him but couldn't understand why. Several times he replayed the conversation in his head, as much as he could remember anyway, but each time some new element intruded until he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. Even Barkie made a brief appearance at one point, coming out of nowhere to sniff Pete's butt in a vain attempt to ascertain the truth. As far as he could tell, he hadn't done anything wrong but, despite that, they all gave him dirty looks. Neither Pete nor Louise would speak to him, not even to say hello. She did, however, continue to serve him popcorn, albeit densely speckled with ash. Only Dale was willing to talk but only in a drunken monologue, rambling on about strikes and scabs and how he was going to slash Oscar's tires - which would've been a very valid threat had he had a car.

This Oscar found deeply distressing. All his life he had been likeable, largely because of his passive personality, which most people saw as unthreatening. It was also because, as an orphan with no siblings, he had received a great deal of passionate pity from several church members, many of whom had informally adopted him. Fearful he might be scarred by the benefits of a secular education, they had kept him hidden from Child Services, passing him from one to another like a runaway slave and home schooling him to the best of their abilities. As such, there were numerous gaps in his education, made worse by a learning disability no one had quite been able to pinpoint. Never mind, Pastor Wilcox had declared. You don't have to be a genius to serve God. On the contrary, Jesus seemed to prefer simpletons. And why not? They never caused any trouble. Just believed what they were told and got on with their lives. Not like those eggheads down at the university who, when they weren't doing drugs or seducing students, actually encouraged people to think for themselves. For themselves! Like you could just fabricate a faith, taking a bit of this and that from the buffet of belief to make up your own religion instead of blindly adhering to the Bible. In his mind, Pastor Wilcox saw a bunch of students lined up with trays. Give me a bit of Buddhism, one said, to go with my Spinoza. Free will was all fine and well but only if you chose God. Otherwise it was just another way for Satan to pull you down.

Confused, Oscar turned to Camila.

"It's because you care," she explained, "and they don't."

This Oscar found hard to believe. Surely everyone was just as devoted to the Palace as him. What was it Mr. Johnstone always said when trying to persuade them to do something unpleasant? We're a family. Exactly! How could anyone say no to a family member?

"You'd be surprised."

Indeed he was. Oscar knew his co-workers weren't perfect but that they were actively sabotaging her was a shock: besides refusing to use soap, someone had slashed her tires, dosed her tea with LSD and taken a dump on her desk. All signs pointed to the projectionist but proof was lacking. The others, whatever their feelings, lacked the gumption for such aggressive action. Recounting her troubles, Camila came close to tears, which made Oscar all the more eager to help her.

"There's something else," she said, dabbing her eyes.

"What?"

"I hate to say it but I think one of our cashiers is stealing."

"Impossible!"

"So you say but something doesn't seem right."

"Really?"

"The receipts match up but... call it a hunch."

"What can I do?"

"You're always up front. Could you keep an eye on them?"

"Certainly! You can count on me."

"I thought so."

*

"You?" Oscar asked. "You're the thief?"

"Shh," Pete replied. "Not so loud."

Convinced of his innocence, Oscar had decided to confide in Pete. Surely it was a mistake, a confusion of coins or a few misplaced bills, which had somehow fallen behind the counter or into Pete's wallet, entirely by mistake. But no: he was guilty. What's worse: he openly admitted it, oddly unburdened by shame or remorse.

"But... why?"

"Why do you think? For the money."

"But it's stealing!"

"So is five bucks for a Jumbo Tub."

"You don't have to buy it."

"What choice do I have? Sit in my booth and starve?"

"You could eat before work."

"I'm not hungry then. Besides, if I spent my money on food, how would I buy drugs?"

"You don't need drugs."

"No drugs!" Pete exclaimed. "What are you, crazy?"

"What about Camila?"

"What about her?"

"She knows someone's stealing."

"So?"

"It's just you and Tom and he's a Christian."

"Bloody Christians. Always messing it up for the rest of us."

The son of a freethinker, Pete had grown up largely without religion - except for the time a classmate took him to an unofficial Bible school in the house of an old man who wore wool socks year round and always faintly smelt of urine. At first, unfamiliar with the material, he thought it was just another cartoon franchise, like Disney or Warner Brothers, and was surprised to learn that millions of people actually believed such stories to be true. The story of Jonah in particular disturbed him: how could someone be swallowed up by a whale and live? Let alone be spit out several days later? It just didn't make sense. There were, however, several things they didn't believe in, many of which his teachers taught him at school. Confused, he asked his mother about it. It's because they're crazy, she answered. Infected with the fever of Jesus. Well, could be. Besides being bug-eyed, the guy had an unfortunate tendency to spray them with spittle whenever he got excited, which was often. In the end, turned off by the absurdity of it all, he found a different hobby, judo, which he quit after a couple classes since, as far as he could tell, it was just being thrown down onto the floor, over and over again, and he soon tired of that.

"Besides," he continued, "what do I care? It's a shitty job."

Oscar was aghast. "How can you say that?"

"It's true. You want to spend the rest of your life there, go ahead. But I sure won't."

As someone who was both young and convinced of his greatness, Pete looked down on lifers. A career was one thing but to waste your life working at some shitty job for low pay and less respect was just sad. Fortunately, he didn't have to worry about that. Not him. He was going to go out in a blaze of glory. How exactly he had yet to determine but one thing was for sure: he wasn't going to end up some fat old hippie with a pathetic ponytail filling boxes in a factory because he lacked the courage to be a junkie.

"So, what are you going to do? Rat me out?"

Oscar hesitated. "I don't know."

*

For the first time in his life, Oscar faced a dilemma - on the one hand, his friendship with Pete; on the other, his loyalty to the Palace - and it confused him. Ever since he was young, he had believed that right and wrong were obvious and all answers easy. Untroubled by doubt or contemplation, he had sailed through life on a wave of certainty - an approach fully encouraged by Pastor Wilcox, who considered thinking a sin. If God had wanted us to use our brains, he declared, He wouldn't have given us the Bible. Well, what would Barkie do? Grab Pete by the scruff of the neck and shake him hard to teach him a lesson? Oscar could hardly do that. Nor could he establish dominance by peeing in the box office. If anything, that would probably only make matters worse. Unable to decide, he evaded the issue by watching Pete to see how much he took and then topped up the receipts with money from his own pocket.

"Oscar," Louise said, her sucker pointing to the washroom like a divining rod. "Take over, willya? I gotta pee."

"Certainly."

"Bladder infection," she informed him as their paths crossed.

Oscar waited until she was gone. Then, reaching into the box, he grabbed a few kernels and dropped to the floor.

"Rupee," he whispered.

A pair of eyes appeared in a hole beneath the counter. Oscar took a kernel from his hand and held it out.

"Here you go."

Rupee crept forward, sniffed the kernel carefully and then, taking it with his teeth, held it between his paws and nibbled quietly.

"Oscar."

Startled, Rupee dropped the kernel and disappeared into the hole. Oscar quickly threw the rest of the popcorn after him.

"What are you doing down there?"

"Nothing."

"Where's Louise?"

"She went to the washroom."

"Okay. When she comes back, come see me in my office."

"Okay."

When Oscar entered Camila's office, he found her studying the previous day's receipts.

"Do you know anything about this?"

"About what?"

"This," she said, showing him the receipts.

Oscar looked but the numbers meant nothing to him. Math never did. He could add and subtract simple digits but larger numbers eluded him; like goats on a mountain, they briefly bounded about before disappearing into the fog of his confusion.

"Is someone short?"

"No, over."

"Really?"

"Yes. Every day, the last few days. At first I thought it was an accident. But then I got this."

Camila showed him a note that read: I hope this is enough. Sorry.

"This is your handwriting, isn't it?"

Oscar looked at the note. "Could be," he admitted.

"Look, I understand he's your friend and you want to protect him but there's nothing you can do. He's stealing and that's totally unacceptable. I have to fire him."

Dejected, Oscar slumped down in his chair. How had it come to this? The Palace was a family, the only one he had, outside of church, and now it was breaking up.

Feeling sorry for him, Camila decided to let him in on a secret.

"Take a look at this," she said, unrolling some blueprints.

"What is is?"

"The plans for the new Palace."

"New?"

"Yes. Ziniplex didn't just buy the Palace. We also bought the buildings around it. We're going to tear them all down and build a big mall with a multipurpose entertainment center. Isn't it exciting?"

Oscar was shocked. "But the Palace... it'll be gone."

"The old one, yes. But a new, better one will take its place."

Unable to believe his ears, Oscar sat stunned and listened to her describe the coming complex. Her lips moved and sounds came out but all he heard was the tick of the clock behind her. Tear down the Palace? Impossible! You might as well blow up Big Ben or the Pyramids or some other wonder of the world. Surely she understood that the Palace was special and so, should be preserved, not destroyed. But no: like so many people without a heart, all she thought about was money.

Pete's right, he thought. She's a monster.

*

Martin was unhappy. A retired farmer, who had long since moved to the city to be near the hospital, his principal pleasure was his garage sale, which he hosted every week, weather permitting. At first he had done well, with whole carloads of people emptying out onto his lawn to examine his belongings. Soon, however, the best items disappeared and, far from fighting over his objects, people turned their noses up at them, dismissing them as so much trash - which, in truth, most of it was. Not only that: cheap bastards that they were, they found his prices too high and balked at paying top dollar for the detritus of his life. This is a garage sale, a fat woman with diamond-shaped glasses said, not an antique store. Some people even tried to bargain with him but he wouldn't budge. No one was going to tell him what his stuff was worth. He had tried spicing things up by tossing some odds and ends, dust balls and bent nails mostly, into paper bags and writing Surprise! on the front - the surprise being the utter worthlessness of everything inside - but only one person bought one and even he returned a little later to ask for his money back. Not that Martin gave it to him. A deal's a deal, he believed. Buyer be gone. Eventually, of course, word spread and the cars stopped coming. Now, instead of chatting with friendly strangers, who came and went in a constant stream of sociability, he sat alone on his lawn in a torn camping chair and watched the cars pass. Eager to lure people back, he began patrolling alleys in search of things to sell but his neighbours were so stingy, refusing to toss out their valuables and sometimes even selling them themselves. Recently, however, he had hit upon the idea of badgering local businesses for their leftovers and spent his days going from store to store in search of surplus. His usual gambit was to pose as a potential customer to gain their trust and only after reveal himself as a junk vulture.

"What's the discount for seniors?"

"Buck off," Oscar answered.

Unable to believe his ears, Martin blinked. "What?"

Assuming him to be hard of hearing, Oscar cupped his hand into a mini-megaphone and repeated himself, only louder.

"Buck off! Buck off!"

"But I'm a senior!" Martin thundered. "Show some respect!"

Indeed he was. Most people dread getting older. Not Martin. The day he turned sixty was the happiest of his life because it meant that he would never have to pay full price for anything ever again.

"Where's your manager?" he demanded.

"Over there," Oscar answered, pointing at the office.

"Hey Oscar."

Oscar looked at Louise. A sucker stick, wet and limp, hung from her mouth like the chewed leash of a crazed animal.

"Take over, willya. I really need a smoke."

"Okay."

Cigarette in hand, Louise dashed for the door.

Oscar looked around. Then, reaching into the popcorn box, he plucked a kernel from the pile and held it in front of the hole.

Moments later Rupee appeared. Oscar gently picked him up, placed him in his palm and put the kernel in front of him.

"Oscar!"

Startled, Oscar dropped his plump pet into the popcorn box.

"Did you swear at this man?"

"Of course not!"

"Liar! I heard him. Several times."

"Well?"

"He asked about seniors, if there was a discount, and I said yeah, a buck off."

"I see."

"That's it?" Martin asked. "You aren't gonna fire him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But I'm a customer and the customer is always right!"

"Would free entry and a Jumbo Tub help?"

"What am I, eighteen? I can't eat that crap. I've got a polyp the size of a pumpkin."

This was totally untrue. Martin had the digestion of a goat and the tastes that go with it but wasn't above playing the health card, especially if it got him things for his garage sale.

"What would you like?"

"You got any posters?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Louise returned moments later.

"What did she want? Did she ask about me?"

"No," Oscar answered. "Something about a customer."

"Not another one," she replied. "I'm so sick of them. Can't they just go away?"

Just then a man approached the Candy Bar, his unwashed body filling Louise's nostrils with a biker bouquet of sweat, smoke and beer. His T-shirt, old, faded and stretched at the center, defiantly declared: Eat Shit.

"Hey pretty lady," he said, resting his gut on the counter. "Gimme a Jumbo Tub."

Louise grabbed the scoop and thrust it into the popcorn box; swept up by the metal tool, Rupee flew through the air and into the cardboard container. "Here you go."

"Thanks. Hey, there's a party tonight. Wanna come?"

"No thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm not really the party type."

Barry smirked.

"That's not what Dale said," he replied, and walked away.

*

"Fuck you," Pete spat. "You and your fucking career. You think just because you're the manager you can fire me?"

"Well yes," Camila replied, somewhat surprised. "Of course."

"People like you," he said, jabbing his finger at her, "don't understand anything."

"I understand stealing."

"What do you call five bucks for a Jumbo Tub?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. It's just popcorn."

"So?"

"I gotta smell that all day?"

"Your shift is only three hours."

"Exactly! A Tub and a drink and I'm working for free. Even slaves get fed better than that. Plus which they put chemicals in. To make it addictive. And you call me a thief?"

"Just get your things and go."

"You of all people."

"What do you mean?"

"A visible minority. Doing the dirty work of The Man."

"Ziniplex is an equal opportunity employer. All you have to do is work hard and obey the rules. It's not my fault you couldn't do that."

"I opened up to you. I even showed you my Bob Marley roach clip."

"Like that would impress me."

"Aha! So you admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you're firing me because I hit on you."

"No, I'm firing you because you're a thief."

"That's just an excuse. Truth is, you don't like me."

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Admit it," Pete demanded. "You don't like me."

"No one likes you Pete. You're an asshole."

"Well," he said. "I've got all I need."

"For what?"

"My sexual harassment suit. I'm going to file a grievance with the Labour Board."

"But I didn't do anything."

"Exactly!" he replied, and strode triumphantly out the door.

*

"What the fuck is this?" Barry asked, slamming his Jumbo Tub onto the counter.

"Popcorn," Louise answered, "with Golden Topping."

"The fuck it is."

Barry plunged a tattooed hand into the greasy corn, searched around a bit and then pulled it out again; dangling from his smoke-stained fingers was Rupee, his body hanging in the air like a furry piñata.

"Look."

"Ouu," Louise squealed. "Gross."

Barry took a step back, spun Rupee around and hurled him onto the floor.

"No!" Oscar screamed and rushed forward.

Rupee twitched horribly, his little legs scuttling towards death.

Barry rested the heel of his big black boot on Rupee's head and stepped heavily, crushing his skull like a cracker and pressing his brains into the carpet.

Moments later he was hit hard from the side and crashed into the popcorn box. A plastic panel broke free, releasing an avalanche of popcorn which poured out over them. Blinded by the salty treat, Barry stabbed fists at his unseen assailant. Oscar punched him hard several times in the face until, largely by luck, he hit him square on the nose, crushing its cartilage with a noisy squelch. Barry made a strange sound and his muscles slackened. Filled with rage, Oscar hit him again and again. A stream of blood flowed from Barry's face into the surrounding popcorn, turning it rosy red.

"Oscar!" Camila cried. "Are you insane?"

*

"Drink up," Dale ordered. "Nursing drinks is for wimps."

Oscar stared at his glass.

"Come on," Pete said. "Cheer up."

Oscar's eyes filled with tears.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dale said. "Not again. So you beat a guy senseless and got fired. So what? Shit happens."

Indeed it did. Dale had a history of being fired from jobs, which he usually celebrated by getting wasted. The loss of a salary was a small price to pay for never having to see such assholes again and usually said so on his way out. Often, security was required to effect his removal and on one particularly memorable occasion, the police as well. Swept up by the excitement of the fight - next to sex and alcohol, there was nothing Dale enjoyed more than being on the periphery of violence - he had walked out with them. Now, however, he was beginning to regret that impulsive act of solidarity: besides seriously diminishing whatever grievance he eventually chose to file against the Palace, it meant that he would never get to fuck Camila. Despite her disdain for him, he had believed, right up to the end, that he had a chance. The LSD incident had been close. She had certainly been disoriented but, instead of responding to his advances, had gotten lost in the peculiar patterns of the wallpaper. Just goes to show, he thought. Drugs are overrated. Alcohol is the real panty remover.

Not only that: far from going on a glorious bender to celebrate their freedom, he was sitting in a bar with a pair of candy-asses, one of whom didn't even drink. Just sat there in his chair whimpering like a little bitch about the Palace and his pet mouse and what would Barkie say - whoever the fuck that was. As for Pete, he looked like he was going to crap himself, he was so scared. He had been all up for a beer, until he heard they were going to the Commodore. Suddenly he was full of excuses, had to go home and study or whatnot, but Dale refused to take no for an answer and was even a bit offended by his reluctance to spend the rest of the day in a dank and dirty dive. Too good to get drunk with a bunch of lowlifes? Or was it the violence. Dale knew the sort: wimpy college kids who act tough but piss themselves at the first sight of real violence. Shoulda stayed at work, he realized, and done my drinking there.

"At least we went out in a blaze of glory."

Pete was in the washroom smoking dope - one last act of defiance against The Man - when he heard the noise and came out just in time to see Oscar break Barry's nose. Pumped up by the fight, he had words with a teenager whose drink had been spilled in the scuffle. Sneers were exchanged and even a bit of light pushing but neither of them intended to take it any further and they both knew it. For a brief bit he was able to fancy himself a tough guy but that evaporated the moment Dale mentioned the Commodore. Despite having worked in the neighbourhood for years, neither he nor Oscar had been there. Why would they? Oscar was a non-drinker and Pete preferred the sort of place where a black leather jacket and a nihilist philosophy were all you needed to be considered dangerous.

This, however, was the real thing. A large silver metal detector, the principal purpose of which was to deter people from bringing in knives, gave several less than reassuring beeps but the bartender, an ex-hockey goon who kept a stick behind the bar and showed every sign of being willing to use it, ignored them. Happy Hour was a euphemism for daytime drinking since very few of the people there had jobs or anything to be happy about. Most, in fact, were quite miserable and several lived in the hotel which housed it. There was also a strong native element, which made Pete nervous. Much as he sympathized with the victims of racism, he preferred not to associate with them since they tended to be bitter about having their lands stolen and culture destroyed and sometimes took it out on those few foolish enough to enter their remaining sanctuaries - one of which was the washroom of the Commodore where, according to rumour, a certain reverse discrimination applied and a light skin colour sufficed to get you stabbed. As such, he had been sipping his drink extremely slowly to forestall the necessity of urination.

Dale, on the other hand, was a regular who frequently cut loose with beer, scratch 'n wins and women whose company can be purchased. That stabbings were now only an occasional occurrence was a point of pride with him and he had trouble understanding why people, women in particular, didn't want to go there. He was especially enthused about their most recent promotion, Breakfast Shots, which, he believed, almost made getting out of bed worthwhile. Pretty sweet, eh? he had said upon arrival. Too bad it isn't Wednesday. Pickled eggs are half price and the broken ones are free. But, sadly, neither of them saw the appeal of the place: Pete was too worried about his safety while Oscar, overwhelmed by grief, was insensible to the charms of cheap beer.

"Poor Rupee."

"Have a drink," Pete advised. "It'll make you feel better."

Oscar grabbed his glass, guzzled its contents and slammed it back down onto the table.

"Fuck yeah," Dale said, refilling his glass. "Now it's a party."

*

Halfway down the street Dale spotted a house besieged by bikes. The door was wide open allowing the relentless beat of heavy metal music to come pulsating out into the yard. Several bearded bikers stood on the lawn drinking beer and smoking dope. One of them suddenly turned and vomited onto a flower bed.

"Here we are," Dale said, and swerved up onto the sidewalk to park. They got out and started walking towards the house. The drapes next door opened and an old woman peered out at them, silently studying their features and mentally turning them into mugshots.

Oscar waved at her, his face fixed in a drunken grin.

The woman disappeared behind her drapes.

Inside a couple dozen people, many in leather, stood around smoking, drinking and talking, their dirty boots steadily staining the carpet. A pair of men stood in front of a giant speaker and bobbed their hairy heads to its angry music. Another sat passed out in a chair with a lit cigarette between his fingers; shaken awake by his girlfriend, he dropped it into his lap. Beside him, as though riding in a sidecar, a man with a moustache sat on a case of beer and hatched empties with his ass.

A muscular man in a leather jacket suddenly stumbled towards them.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, smouldering with menace. On the back of his jacket was a crest that read The Vikings.

"It's me, Dale."

"Dale?" Willard asked, blinking slowly.

"You know, Craig's friend."

"Oh yeah, Dale. The little fuck from the peep show."

"Yeah. I let you in for free, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. Okay, you can stay. But what about these fucks?" he asked, stabbing a finger at Oscar and Pete.

"It's okay," Dale assured him. "They're with me."

Willard eyed them warily. "They don't look okay. They look like a pair of fags."

As host, Willard considered it his duty to make sure all his guests measured up. So much so he had just kicked a guy out for not being drunk enough. I got no choice, he said. You're bringing everyone down. Only then did he notice Oscar's injuries.

"What happened to you? Fight?"

"Got that right," Dale answered. "He beat the shit out of Barry."

"No fuckin' way."

"Saw it myself. Broke his nose and everything."

"Fuckin' A. Hate that prick."

Willard hated a lot of people but Barry was near the top of the list: besides being a biker wannabe who enjoyed the glamour of associating with unwashed outlaws but was unwilling to commit to a life of full time drunkenness, he had eaten the worm at the bottom of Willard's tequila bottle and, when confronted with the fact, swore he thought it was snot. Willard wasn't perfect. He knew that. Many times, in fact, he had done things others had taken exception to, beaten a guy for nothing or fucked a brother's bitch but to eat a man's worm and then lie about it... you couldn't get much lower than that.

"You're alright man," he said, and handed Oscar a beer.

*

The moment Pete saw the bikes he knew he had made a mistake. However much he considered himself a danger to society, deep down he knew he was a skinny, unthreatening intellectual wimp. The last thing he wanted was to walk into that house and get beaten up but, enfeebled by fear, couldn't think of an excuse that would allow him to leave without looking like a coward. Now, wandering about in search of a place to hide, he exaggerated his drunkenness, partly to better fit in and partly so he could later pretend to pass out.

Nearby, on a torn and dirty sofa, sat Nick, Dale's boss from the peep show. Sensing Pete's discomfort, he nudged the woman next to him who, heavily made up in a short skirt and fishnet stockings, blinked slowly.

"Hey Merilee."

"Yeah?" she asked, her eyes drowsy with drugs.

"See that guy there?"

"Which one?"

"In the artsy T-shirt."

"Yeah."

"Play along, willya? I'm gonna fuck with him."

"Okay."

"Hey you."

At first Pete ignored him, hoping he wanted someone else.

"Hey, shithead. I'm talking to you."

Pete reluctantly turned. "Yeah?"

"Congratulations."

"On what?"

"Winning the door prize."

"What door prize?"

"Her," Nick answered.

Pete looked at Merilee, whose stupefaction betrayed no sense of surprise.

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, man. It's a bachelor party. Everyone chips in and the winner gets laid."

Pete froze, unable to speak. Inflamed by the heat of his embarrassment, his gut released a large gas bubble which, although inaudible, spread steadily outwards.

"Come on," Nick said. "What are you waiting for? Fuck her."

Pete looked at Merilee.

"It's okay," she said. "Whatever you want."

"What's the matter?" Nick asked. "Don't you want to?"

The smell of his accident abruptly announced itself. Nick and Merilee looked at each other and burst out laughing.

*

Ignored again, Stacy left the kitchen for the living room. A large woman in jeans and a jean jacket, she tried to please men by being like them but was rarely successful.

"Hey bud," she said, addressing Oscar. "What happened to you?"

"Fight," he answered.

"Really? Why?"

"Guy killed my pet."

"Gee, that's terrible. I had a pet once, a cat named Snookers. It was a great cat. Till it got run over. What'd you have?"

"Mouse."

"That's nice. What's his name?"

"Rupee."

"Rupee. I like that. Classy. Foreign even. Like French maybe."

"Thanks."

"Mouse, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Don't know many guys with a mouse. Rat, yeah. Snake, sure. But mouse... that shows a sensitive side. You married?"

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Oscar blushed. "Don't know. Career first, I guess."

"Yeah, lot of guys like that. But it's never too late you know."

A moment of silence settled between them.

"So," she continued, "what do you do?"

"I'm a doorman. At the Palace."

"Doorman, eh? You get tips?"

"No but I get to watch movies for free. At least I did."

Oscar's smile dissolved into sadness.

"What's the matter?"

"I got fired."

"What a shitty day! First some asshole kills your pet and then you get fired. Plus which you're all beat up. Does it hurt?"

Oscar thought about it. Below the soft blanket of alcohol was a prickly cactus of damaged neurons.

"Yeah."

"Come with me," she said. "I'll make you feel better."

*

Oscar found himself sitting on a bed in a dark room. Beside him sat Stacy who, putting her fingers on his face, lightly touched his bruises.

"Does this hurt?"

"A bit."

Her fingers travelled down his chin and chest to his crotch.

"How about here?"

"No problem," Oscar answered, feeling nervous.

"Lemme check," she replied, and unzipped his fly.

"No, no," Oscar insisted. "I'm fine. Really, I am."

"Better safe than sorry," she said, and pulled out his penis.

Oscar was shocked. Someone other than him was touching his unmentionable! And they weren't even in the bathroom! Pastor Wilcox had left no doubt. Use two fingers, he had instructed. And look away if you can. Ever obedient, Oscar had done his best, which sometimes made for a messy floor.

"Please don't," he pleaded. "I'm a Christian."

"That's okay," Stacy assured him. "Jesus won't mind."

A few flicks of her finger and his penis started to rise. Oscar was appalled. Of all the times for the little rascal to act up! It had happened before, in the strangest of times and places, but he had always been able to force it down by reciting Bible verses. Oscar closed his eyes. The Lord is my shepherd... But it was no good. It just kept getting bigger. And far from being disgusted, Stacy was encouraging it, wrapping her hand around it and making a strange pumping motion that felt surprisingly good. The only thing that saved him were the bangles on her wrist, which made a loud jangling noise. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...

And so they battled. The harder Stacy tried to get him off, the deeper Oscar retreated into his Christmas fantasy. Baby Jesus in the manger. The three wise men. Turkey and dressing. Cards and carols. Lights and It's A Wonderful Life. Santa with a big bag of presents and Pastor Wilcox leading the congregation in prayer. Silent night, holy night...

Eventually, too tired to continue, Stacy gave up.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "You're just drunk."

Oscar sighed. Christmas was never going to be the same.

*

Oscar felt bad. Very bad. Alcohol, which had been such a gentle friend at first, a soft hand on his shoulder, soothing the physical and emotional bruises of his disgrace, had turned into an aggressive bully, punching him in the head and chest and making it difficult for him to walk. And then there was that strange cigarette Willard had made him smoke: far from making things better, it had taken the curvy lines of alcohol and turned them into jagged spears that cut through everything like an old TV with poor reception. Now, finally, Oscar understood what people meant by living in the moment: like train cars unhitched at a station, every second that passed felt disconnected from the one before and the one after.

Coming to in a moment of clarity, he looked around. There were fewer people now and most of them seemed tired. Several could barely stand, stumbling about in confusion and often taking offense to gravity. The air was full of smoke and noise and a strange screaming came from the speakers. Something about Satan. A sudden horror swept over him: they were devil worshippers! That explained everything. The drugs. The alcohol. The grinning skull on their jackets. Terrified that the floor would open up and plunge him into the pits of Hell, Oscar ran screaming out of the house and into the yard, where he promptly puked.

"Fuckin' A," Willard said approvingly. "He made it outside."

*

Oscar stopped. Where am I? he wondered. That he had been walking was clear. But for how long and in what direction... he had no idea. He remembered the party, the bar and the Palace but all as isolated incidents, mountain peaks of memory separated by deep valleys of forgetfulness. The long suburban street stretched out in front of him, its dark and silent houses patiently waiting for day to begin. Too tired to walk any further, he looked for a place to rest. Spotting an open garage, he went in and laid down on the cement. Moments later, he got up again. Too cold. A door led to the house. Oscar tried it. It was unlocked. Just a few minutes, he thought, to warm up. He quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

I can't stay here, he knew. But the longer he lingered, the less he wanted to leave. Searching for a place to hide, he saw a staircase that led to the basement. Moving slowly so as not to bump against anything, he made his way down the stairs and into an unused room. The feel of a bed was the loveliest of his life. Taking off his shoes, he carefully placed them beside the bed, climbed in under the covers and fell asleep.

*

Oscar awoke to the sound of a family having breakfast.

Why, he wondered, are they in my apartment?

Only then did the full horror of his situation hit him. He was a sinner: a dirty, smelly desperado who had assaulted a customer, drunk alcohol, taken drugs, hung out with devil worshippers, fornicated with a Jezebel, broken into a stranger's house, soiled their bed with his presence and was now trapped in their basement. Speaking of soiled, what was that smell? A quick sniff test strongly suggested it was coming from his underpants and Oscar was forced to face the unpleasant fact that, somewhere in the course of his adventures, he had crapped himself. Glancing about, he saw a plastic bag, into which he dropped his dirty shorts. Unable to find a garbage can, he tightly tied it up and threw it under the bed.

Wait or run, he wondered. If he waited too long and they found him, there would be no escape. But if he ran and they saw him, they might chase him. Unable to bear the suspense, he decided to try to sneak out. He put on his shoes and quietly crept up the stairs. Peeking up over the staircase, he saw a family sitting around a table with their backs to him - all except for the youngest, who was looking directly at him with an expression that suggested either confusion or gas. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Oscar continued up the stairs and out the door, the little girl watching him all the way. Once out of the garage, he hurried down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, all the while resisting the impulse to run.

Several weeks later the mother found a plastic bag under the downstairs bed and, upon opening it, was disgusted to discover a pair of underwear smeared with shit. Convinced that her eldest son had had a party in her absence, she confronted him with it. Outraged by the accusation, he emphatically denied it and she, just as strongly, disbelieved him. For years this remained a sore point, with each accusing the other of obstinacy but, no matter how often they revisited it, the matter was never resolved - until, decades later, as the youngest was living out her last in a nursing home and ruminating upon the soft pablum of her youth, she suddenly remembered the strange man who had snuck out of their house that early Sunday morning and the mystery was finally solved. And then, just as quickly, she forgot.

*

Finally, Oscar thought, a bus stop. Trapped in a suburban maze of crescents and closes, he had struggled to find a main street. Now he could take a bus to the central station and another one home. Just then he saw one turn the corner and ran to the stop and reached for his wallet only to find... nothing. It was gone, leaving only a sad emptiness in his pocket. But how? A memory came to him, of a guy doing magic tricks, one of which involved making Oscar's wallet disappear. At the time he had thought it hilarious but it now seemed considerably less amusing. Oscar looked at the bus. Onboard were a dozen members of the non-driving class: the disabled; teenagers; poor university students; pensioners who, unable to see or hear, had been deemed unfit to drive; and the occasional crank who refused to own a car. Amongst them, head down in shame, was an embarrassed alcoholic who had been caught drunk at the wheel; mortified at having to ride with the rest, he looked out as they past, his sadness matching Oscar's own.

*

It was only when Oscar spotted a local mall that he realized where he was: a long way from home. There was no way he could walk back. Crestfallen, he almost started to cry. But then he thought of Barkie. What would he do? Cold and hungry and far from home? Well, one thing for sure: he wouldn't stand around feeling sorry for himself. Not with all those cats and dogs to take care of. And so he continued on, heading for the mall.

As soon as he stepped inside, people started looking at him oddly. Besides smelling of beer and smoke, with more than a whiff of puke and shit and a generous side dish of B.O., his clothes were torn and dirty, his hair clearly uncombed and his face covered in bruises. More than a few people veered sharply away as he approached. Smiling pleasantly to dispel their discomfort, he headed straight for the bathroom and cleaned up as best as he could.

Coming out of the washroom, his nostrils were entranced by the smell of the food court and, looking over, saw an abandoned plate with the remains of a meal. Pretending to return to his lunch, he walked over to the table, sat down and began eating.

"Hey!" a loud voice addressed him. "You can't do that!"

Oscar looked up. A mustachioed man with a mop stood over him. On the front of his overalls, covering his heart, was an oval that read Earl.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Eat other people's food."

"But he's gone," Oscar pointed out.

"Then it's garbage."

"Sorry," Oscar said, "I'm hungry."

"Then buy your own."

"I can't. My wallet was stolen by a devil worshipper."

"Likely story," Earl scoffed. As a mall janitor, he had seen it all: toddlers riding the Bronco Buster till their faces went white; tweeners slurping pop like oil riggers draining a well; acne-scarred adolescents in sideways ballcaps swapping cigarettes like hardened cons; horny youths groping greedily behind the dumpster; drunks drooling onto their breakfast; middle-aged couples allowing a dispute about drapes to mushroom into marital meltdown; and miserly retirees risking a heart attack by racing to collect carts for the quarter deposit. "Next you'll be telling me Satan took your car."

"Don't have one," Oscar answered. "I don't drive."

"Don't drive!" Earl exclaimed. "What are you, homeless?"

"No," Oscar explained. "Just poor."

"That's even worse. What the hell you doing here?"

"I came to use the washroom."

"Let me get this right," Earl said, leaning forward. His mop hung over the table, dripping onto Oscar's plate. "You come into my mall, piss all over the floor-"

"I'm not supposed to touch it."

"-eat garbage-"

"No one put it in the bin."

"-lounge around like a king in the food court and without a penny in your pocket?"

"I guess so," Oscar reluctantly admitted.

"Get the hell out," Earl ordered. "Before I call security."

*

Now what? Oscar wondered, as he stood in front of the mall.

"Spare change?"

Oscar turned. Beside him stood a man equally unwashed; like twin clouds of poison gas, their odors wrestled in the invisible air.

"Yes please," Oscar replied and held out his hand.

The stranger blinked. "You making fun of me?"

"Certainly not!" Oscar answered. "I need money."

Donald looked him over. "New to the game, are ya?"

"What game is that?"

"Scrounging."

"I guess so."

"You'll never get anywhere like that."

"Like what?"

"All beat up. You got to look respectable. Like you don't need the money. Otherwise they won't give you none."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

Donald knew what he was talking about. Unsettled since birth, he had spent his life sailing the sidewalks, wandering from place to place in search of nothing more than the satisfaction of his most immediate needs. He had tried normal life once by working at a shoe store but something about waking up to the sound of an alarm clock and shaving regularly hadn't agreed with him so he purchased his freedom by showing up drunk and hadn't regretted it once. Ever since, he had lived off the generosity of others and found it an agreeable calling. I'm helping them be good, he claimed. Like Jesus, only different.

"So what should I do?"

"Got any skills?" he asked. "It's all skill based these days."

"Like what?"

"Drawing or being able to play the spoons."

"Not really."

"That's too bad. Especially in this economy."

Donald sighed. Gone were the days when you could just hold out your hand and strangers would put something in it. Now people expected value for their money. Music or a missing leg. Not to mention the competition, all those accidental homeless who really did prefer having a place to live. Comfort addicts, he thought, with a trace of contempt. Always complaining about being cold and hungry. Which is why he resented being lumped in with them. I'm a hobo, he'd insist, not homeless.

"Tell you what," he said. "I gotta take a dump. How about I lend you my spot for a bit and you give me half?"

"That sounds fair."

"More than fair," Donald agreed. "So let's make it two-thirds."

*

Most of the people Oscar approached ignored him. They seemed to have a special vision which only saw far ahead and blocked out everything around them. Others gave him a shy "sorry no" while steadily shuffling away. Only one guy stopped to converse and although he stoutly declined to give Oscar any money, was kind enough to give him a lecture on fiscal responsibility. Oscar was about to give up when he remembered what Donald had said about the value of entertainment. Of course! The Incredulous Journey! He could act out scenes. That would surely cause people to open their wallets. Dropping down on all fours, he began by striking various heroic poses - Barkie perched upon a precipice or checking a trail for clues - and worked his way up to a very dramatic scene where, growling and snarling, he impersonated Barkie fighting a bear. Oddly enough, this had the opposite effect, with everyone moving further away. Not that it mattered: like all true artists, he lost himself in the moment. Suddenly he was Barkie and, picking up a fast food wrapper with his mouth, tore it apart with his teeth.

*

Donald was feeling good. Not only had he forced out a footlong, he had done so on the back step of a restaurant that had refused to give him leftovers.

What the hell? he thought, his good mood suddenly soured by the sight of Oscar rolling around the ground and clawing at the air like a madman. Must be the shakes. Surprising really because the guy didn't look like an alkie. Not a serious one anyway. Too bad for him but the real problem was the spot. A fine piece of real estate like that... between the ambulance and security, it would stay hot for at least an hour.

Donald hesitated. He wanted to help but what could you do? A guy like that... he was just too far gone. Besides, the do-gooders were coming. They would take care of him. Put him somewhere in a nice warm bed and give him three squares a day. Donald knew. He'd been there. The soft life of prisons and hospitals. And all it cost you was your freedom. So long stranger, he thought, and good luck to ya.

*

"Here's your bill Mrs. Hootch."

"Thank you," Mabel said with a smile.

What a nice young man, she thought, determined to leave a large tip. Of all the waiters at The Blind Unicorn, Steve was her favourite: blond, clean-cut and polite, he was exactly the sort of young person she approved of. Not like those others, those hairy, fanatical freaks who chained themselves to trees to keep them from being turned into toilet paper. Always whining about the environment and how the earth was dying when, as far as she could tell, it was all hogwash. There would always be a future, she believed, so long as there were nice young men like Steve.

Outside, lying on the ground and panting heavily, was a disheveled drunk, his rumpled clothes stained with dirt and puke; pausing only to belch ladylike into her fist, Mabel pondered the sad hold alcohol has on some people. Then, overwhelmed by generosity and gin, she opened her purse, pulled out a five and and gave it to him.

"Thanks," Oscar said.

"You're welcome. Just don't spend it on booze."

"I'll never drink again," he vowed.

"That's what we all say," Mabel replied, and walked away.

*

The bus ride was the most luxurious of his life. The warm air. The padded seats. The peaceful pleasure of moving while sitting still. To think some people actually complained about taking the bus! When they crossed the bridge Oscar felt like a tourist on vacation and enjoyed it so much he almost missed his stop.

Unfortunately, when he arrived home, he found his apartment padlocked with a sign that read: For Non-Payment Of Rent. True, he had been a bit delinquent but that was because he had used the money to offset Pete's stealing. Surely Mr. Frost would understand.

*

"Hold on!" Norman shouted, his mouth full of food. "I'm coming!"

Sandwich still in hand, he got up and went to the door.

"Oh," he said, suddenly sullen. "It's you."

To say that Oscar was not his favourite tenant would be misleading since he didn't have any; to him, they were all unpleasant, some more than others, but each and every one a necessary nuisance that stood between him and his money. Sometimes, when he knew they were out, he would assert his ownership by letting himself in and checking the place over. It particularly irked him that people might be having sex in his buildings and often rummaged through their drawers, searching for condoms, porn and sexy underwear, some of which he sniffed, just to be sure.

"Sorry to bother you Mr. Frost but my door... It's locked."

"Damn right," the angry landlord replied, waving his sandwich in Oscar's face. "And it's going to stay that way till you pay me."

"But I can't," Oscar explained. "I spent that money on a friend-"

"Not my problem."

"-then I got fired-"

"Tough titty."

"-and Rupee," Oscar added. "He's dead!"

"Dead!" Norman exclaimed, suddenly noticing Oscar's swollen face. "Was it a fight?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"It's all my fault. I went crazy and attacked him."

"He's not still in there, is he?"

"What?"

"Don't want that smell in the carpet. It's spring after all and if I have to steam clean... What did the police say?"

"Didn't call them."

"Jesus Murphy!" he cried and ran for the phone.

Oscar followed him into the house.

"Hello police. Got a stiff for you... 437 Glendale Road... Don't know. Argument I guess."

"Hey," he said, turning to Oscar. "Your friend, what's his name?"

"Rupee."

"Rupee," he repeated into the phone.

"And what's he look like?"

"Short, fat, bit pinkish."

"Short, fat, bit pinkish."

"How big?"

"About three inches. Longer if you count the tail."

Mr. Frost looked at him in temporary incomprehension.

"Never mind," he said, and hung up.

*

Pastor Wilcox or Pete? Pastor Wilcox was sure to help but would want to know what happened. How could Oscar tell him about the fight, the drinking, the devil worshippers and the fornication? He was bound to take a negative view of it all. Sure, he could confess, claim to have been led astray by his co-workers and ask for forgiveness, but only if he was genuinely sorry. For the most part, he was. But, to his shame, not entirely. Part of him had enjoyed it - especially that thing Stacy had done with her hand, the memory of which was strangely stirring.

Oscar was confused. All his life he had believed in right and wrong and tried to act accordingly and, for the most part, it hadn't been difficult. Temptation had been limited to the last potato chip in the bowl or excessive pride in the Palace. When Warren, his prayer buddy from Bible school, unexpectedly confessed to an inordinate interest in underwear ads, several of which he put aside for nocturnal perusal, Oscar had no idea what he was talking about. If it feels goods, Pastor Wilcox warned them, it's bad. According to him, God made the world full of beauty and wonder so that we could choose not to enjoy it. At the time Oscar thought he was talking about nature. Now he realized such desires went deeper and the knowledge made him uneasy.

*

"Broke!" Pete exclaimed, putting down his glass in shock. Had he known he would have to pay for his own drinks, and maybe Oscar's as well, he would never have brought him to the bar. "Already?"

"I spent it," Oscar answered.

"Spent it!" Pete repeated, unable to believe his ears. Because Oscar so rarely bought anything, Pete had always assumed thriftiness to be one of his faults and fully intended to someday tap the sizeable nest egg he must surely possess. That Oscar could be so selfish as to spend all his money on himself was beyond belief. "On what? Movie posters?"

"No," Oscar answered. "You."

"Me? But how?"

"Replacing what you stole."

Pete was appalled. To give your money to The Man like that and just because it belonged to him. It certainly took the sweetness out of stealing. "You idiot!"

"Sorry."

"Now what?"

"Don't know. Salvation Army, I guess."

"Salvation Army? You can't do that. They don't let you drink. Let alone get high."

Pete paused. Although he knew it ridiculous, in a strange way, he felt responsible. The least he could do was let the guy stay a few days. Maybe longer. Despite being fired, Oscar, as a long term employee, was entitled to pogey and Pete could take some. Call it rent. Yes, he thought, this could work out really well.

"Don't worry," he said. "You can stay with me."

*

Mabel was feeling good. The martinis, the massage and the ego-lift that comes from condescending to the less fortunate had combined to create a state of well-being that was almost spiritual. But then, glancing into a bar, she saw... him! The bum! The one she gave five dollars to! He was sitting at a table with a glass of beer in front of him. Convinced that she had been conned, she considered storming into the bar and demanding her money back. But no: it was too late. The money was gone and there was nothing she could do about it.

Well, she thought, I'll never make that mistake again. A tsunami could sweep away a village of peasants and she'd just sail by in her yacht. No way! I'm not falling for that. And all because a bum had caught her in a moment of weakness.

Too kind, she thought. I'm just too kind for my own good.

*

Pete pulled into the backyard, narrowly missing a garbage can whose beaten body played tic-tac-toe with the dents in his car. An old lawnmower, seemingly sated, stood at the exact spot its efforts had ended. They got out, walked to the door and went downstairs.

"Not bad, eh?" Pete said, showing him around. "Kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Separate entrance even."

"Where's this go?" Oscar asked, noticing a set of stairs.

"Upstairs."

"Who lives up there?"

"My mom."

"Thought you lived alone."

"I do. I'm squatting."

"In your mom's basement?"

"Someone has to. Might as well be me."

Despite being a blood relative of the owner, Pete saw himself as a squatter who had liberated the space from its capitalist landlord: he was, after all, depriving her of the money she would have received from a renter. Originally a bare concrete hole, his father spent several years finishing it and then promptly celebrated his achievement by leaving his wife for a younger woman. Soon after Pete's mom added a separate entrance and a kitchen and started renting it out to students until one summer Pete unexpectedly moved downstairs and declared it his own. A phase, she thought. He needs his independence. And so said nothing. But deep down she knew it was more than that.

"And your dad?"

Pete scowled. "He doesn't live here."

"Sorry."

"No problem. He left years ago."

Pete didn't like to talk about his parents. For a while, he had commuted between them. Until, that is, he had a fight with his stepmother and pushed her down a flight of stairs. He hadn't intended to. He just lost his temper and the stairs were behind her. After that, and his father's transfer to another city, communication between them steadily diminished, from infrequent phone calls and the occasional postcard to nothing at all, the hot trauma of his abandonment slowly fading into a phantom pain he rarely felt. Ever since, it had just been him and his mother, whom he blamed for providing him with the necessities of life.

"Well, at least you have your mom."

Pete grunted. Truth was, he didn't like his mother and avoided her as much as possible, waiting until she had left for work before going up for breakfast - which wasn't difficult since he woke up a couple hours later. The real problem was dinner, which he usually got around by liberating leftovers and placing them in his mini-fridge for later. Sometimes he would even collect a few groceries and attempt to cook something, usually macaroni and cheese. Either way he would return the dishes the next day for cleaning. At first his mother had been upset by his metamorphosis into a sullen shut-in but, in time, had gotten used to it and even left money around for him to find. On the rare occasion their paths crossed - a Saturday afternoon say, when she came back from shopping early or he got up late - an awkward embarrassment ensued, made all the worse by her stilted small talk and his surly grunts. When exactly, she wondered, did I lose the ability to talk to my son?

"That reminds me," he said. "You're going to have to be careful."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't make any noise or she'll come down. And then you'll have to leave."

"Really?"

"Yeah, she's as mean as hell. And hates strangers."

The truth was quite different. Myrtle, Pete's mom, was a social person who enjoyed meeting new people. His real fear was that she would use Oscar's presence as an excuse to snoop around. For the most part, she respected his privacy, only coming down when she knew he was out and only when she had a specific purpose, like to tidy up or check on the furnace. Occasionally, she would sit on the couch and linger, looking around the room for clues as to what was happening in her son's life and how she could repair the relationship.

"No problem," Oscar said. "I'll be quiet as a mouse."

"Great. Now let me show you where you're going to sleep."

*

Almost, Myrtle thought. On top of her, cradled in the valley of her pelvis, was Jack. Moments before he had been all muscle; a few spasmodic jerks and he was spent. Only his penis remained and it was slowly deflating like an old birthday balloon.

Penis... what a funny word. No wonder they preferred cock. So much stronger. Dick, dong, slong, tool, wang, prick, pecker, willy and wiener. And that's not counting all the individual names they give it, so many of which start with mister: Mister Happy, Mister Friendly, Mister Johnston - the last of which was a real name. She had even met a guy by that name once. Some jazz fan in a fedora who had felt her up in a cloakroom. Where was that, anyway? The country club? She was still married at the time and so, hadn't let it go any further. Maybe I should've, she thought. All things considered. But that was long ago and there was no way of knowing that David would leave her for Bobbi. The memory made her nostalgic. Men had been so eager then. So kind and generous. Romance was a given. And then, almost overnight, they turned into pigs. Either that or players. Myrtle wasn't sure which was worse, the slob with the beer gut who watched TV in his underwear or the slick charmer who broke your heart. But everyone needed a bit of affection from time to time so here she was, having sex with a married man. And it wasn't even enjoyable. Not really. So much buildup and then, the usual letdown.

There has to be more to life, she thought, than this.

*

"Pete?" Myrtle asked. "Is that you?"

Someone was definitely down there. She could hear him moving around. That there was no answer didn't mean it wasn't Pete. He often ignored her. But whoever it was was trying to be quiet and that was unusual.

"I'm coming down."

Or was she? What if it was a burglar? Did she really want to confront him? But what was the alternative? Sit upstairs and wait for him to leave? Grabbing a pepper shaker for protection, she opened the door and crept down the stairs.

The lights were on but the place was empty. Looking around, she noticed that the back door was open. He must've forgotten to lock it, she thought and, despite her fear, felt angry. At least the thief was gone. Nothing seemed to be stolen. The TV and stereo were where they always were. If anything, things looked neater, like he had tidied up. Must be one of those compulsive types who can't stand a mess. She had dated such a guy once. Although nice, he lived according to an invisible checklist: everything had to be a certain way and got upset if she ate her potatoes before her peas. At the time, shortly after her divorce, she had been fragile and so, unusually accommodating, but unfortunately his compulsions included cleanliness - he simply could not stop washing his hands - and his constant monopolization of the sink made it impossible for her to do her makeup and that she could not endure.

Myrtle was about to go back upstairs when she spotted a roach in the ashtray; picking it up, she dusted it off and sat down. Something shifted beneath her - a spring, no doubt. But then it happened again and she heard a sound, a muffled moan, and, looking between her legs, saw a head whose face opposed her own. Leaping up, she screamed and, grabbing the pepper shaker, turned it several times suddenly, spraying his face with spice.

"Ow!"

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

"Oscar," he answered. "Pete's friend."

Myrtle stopped. "Pete has a friend?"

Never popular, Pete had few friends. The last she knew of was back in grade school, some kid named Todd who always seemed to have his finger up his nose. But even then she knew that Pete, not Todd, was the bad influence. In her darker moments, she wondered if he would become one of those kids who takes a gun to school and kills his classmates. They'll blame me of course, she thought. and hoped she would at least look good on TV.

"From the Palace. We work together."

"What are you doing here?

"Hiding."

"I can see that. But why?"

"I got kicked out of my place. Pete said I could stay here but don't make any noise or you'll get angry."

"He did?"

"Yeah. He said you hated people and would kick me out."

"I see."

"Uh, can I come out now?"

"Oh sure. Let me help you."

Myrtle grabbed his jacket and pulled.

Heavy, she thought. Just imagine if he were dead. Disposing of a body must be a lot more difficult that it looks on TV. Hopefully it'll never come to that.

"Thanks," Oscar said, and slowly stood up.

Right side up, he looked a lot less threatening. Although a big man, he was more fat than muscle and his large moon-shaped face suggested an oddity that was more amusing than dangerous. His clothes, which proved his employment at the Palace, were torn and dirty and smelt suspiciously soiled.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Oscar thought about it. "Not really."

"Maybe we should wash those clothes," she said, as much for her sake as his. "Do you have anything else?"

"All my stuff is in my apartment."

Not that he had much. Oscar saw clothes as a necessary inconvenience and often wore the same shirt several days running. To him, a jacket was a lifelong possession and he had trouble understanding how clothing stores stayed in business.

"I might have something upstairs," she said, knowing full well there was a bathrobe in her memorabilia box of ex-boyfriends. Since her divorce, Myrtle had dated about a dozen men, each of whom had left something behind and, rather than throw it out, she had kept it as a reminder of their failure to connect. Sometimes, when she felt particularly self-pitying, she would open it up and rummage about, relishing the scent of an aftershave or stroking the silk of a scarf she herself had lovingly picked out.

"That would be great."

"How about food? Are you hungry?"

"Starved."

"Okay then. Let's go upstairs."

*

"Oscar?"

Pete looked around. No one. Above him was the sound of voices and laughter. Only then did he notice the open door.

"Oscar!"

Startled, Oscar turned and saw Pete in the landing.

"What are you doing?"

Oscar hesitated. "Eating?"

"I need to speak with you. Immediately!"

Oscar looked at his plate.

"You can bring it with you."

When Oscar returned to the basement, Pete was standing in the living room with his arms crossed.

"I thought I told you to be quiet."

"I was. But she found me hiding under the bed."

"That's no excuse."

"It's okay," Oscar assured him. "She said I could stay."

"That's not the point."

"No?"

"No. I don't want you going up there."

"Why not?"

"Because she's using you, that's why."

"For what?"

"To get at me."

"But she's your mother."

"Exactly."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to. But as long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules. Got it?"

"Sure."

"Now go to your room."

*

"A man!" Mabel exclaimed as, spearing an olive with a tiny plastic sword, she quickly gutted it with her teeth and spat the pit out onto the large pile that lay before her like the slaughtered skulls of a defeated army. "You have a man in your basement?"

"A friend of Pete's," Myrtle explained, "who got locked out."

"The basement's the perfect place for them. Keeps them out of trouble. They can fiddle with their tools and whatnot and all you have to worry about is them losing their fingers."

"It's not like that."

"Oh you don't fool me," Mabel replied, pointing her sword in accusation. "I can tell you like him."

"He's interesting. I'll give him that. But not really my type."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, he's fat. And not very bright. Simple even. And not only is he not a professional, he doesn't even have a job."

"No job!"

Employment was a deal breaker for Mabel. Unlike Myrtle, who fancied herself a feminist, Mabel was a traditional woman who saw men as raw material to be turned into husbands and fathers. According to her, bachelorhood was a crime and a man's true purpose was to be married and miserable. Sex was their reward for doing so. Why else would they want it so much? It also explained why women didn't enjoy it: each sex was only allowed one pleasure and for women it was shopping. That a man could be so selfish as to stay single infuriated her and she was convinced the real reason some men had sex with one another was to save money.

"At least he's young."

"Not really," Myrtle replied. "He's almost my age."

"So what's the attraction?"

"Well, he's kind. And gentle. I feel relaxed around him."

"Good enough. Now all we have to do is lure him up. Like the rat in the corner you coax out with a piece of cheese."

"Mouse," Myrtle corrected. "Cornered rats you leave alone."

"That's ridiculous. Why would I leave a rat in my house? Makes no sense."

"Whatever. Not sure I can. Pete's got him trapped down there like a prisoner. Won't even let him come up to eat."

"Typical. They're all like that, especially when they're young. Clinging to one another like drunken sailors."

Mabel saw it all the time: young guys swaggering in the street like outlaws when they should be home with a woman, buckling down to a life of low expectations. Cowards, she thought. Real men knew that the true test of toughness was giving up everything you enjoy for the sake of your family.

"Well," she said. "We'll see about that."

*

Over the next few days, Myrtle tried more than once to lure them upstairs by cooking something delicious but each time Pete resisted, forcing Oscar to stay downstairs with him and share his macaroni and cheese or burnt potatoes. But I made it especially for you, he would say, exploiting Oscar's sense of obligation. Only once, too drunk to remember to collect some leftovers, was there no food in the suite. Undaunted, Pete simply declared a fast and lectured Oscar on the merits of letting your digestion fully empty - a decision he quickly reversed once Myrtle had gone to bed.

And so Myrtle ate alone. The combination of a nice meal and the sound of their voices only added to her loneliness. It was so unfair. Yes, she was his mother but she had no desire to interfere with his life. She just wanted a little company, that's all. Was that so terrible?

Which made it hard to say no to Jack. He would call her up at the oddest of hours and have her meet him for a quickie. Part of her wanted to refuse, make him give her a date of some sort, even if it was just fast food, but her need for company always let her down. Sometimes he would just pull up in front of her house and fuck her in his car. At least she never invited him in. Her home was her sanctuary. She wasn't going to let him pollute that.

And these days the sex wasn't even good. Sometimes, after he was gone, she would wonder what she saw in him. True, he was her type - athletic and successful - but that didn't seem to matter anymore. Myrtle considered herself a feminist and justified the affair on the grounds that it was her choice, her body and her pleasure but the more she thought about it, the harder it became to distinguish her behavior from that of her opposite, the self-loathing woman with no respect who repeatedly gives herself to men who don't care about her.

More and more she found herself thinking about the peculiar stranger downstairs. Something about him, his innocence most likely, appealed to her. He reminded her of how she used to be and she wanted to be like that again. Before Jack. Before the divorce. Before everything. Back when she was a young woman full of hope and men were nice to her. She wasn't sure what she wanted from him but she definitely wanted something and, one way or another, was going to get it.

*

"The real question," Robin said, looking Oscar in the eye, "is do you have what it takes to sell sausage?"

"Maybe."

"That's not good enough. I need a yes."

"Yes."

"Louder."

"Yes!"

"That's better. Take a look at this," he said, pulling a plaque from the wall.

To Robin Wolfe, it read. For Outstanding Excellence.

"You see that?" he asked. "They could've just said Excellence but they didn't. They added Outstanding. Now what does that tell you?"

"Uh... they had lots of space."

"No. Well, yes. But that's not the point. The point is, we care."

"We?"

"Hermann's Meat. We're like a family here."

"And Mr. Hermann is the father?"

"Exactly," Robin answered.

The truth was quite different. Hermann, the smiling sausage maker on the front of the package, was the artistic creation of a large company which sourced its meat from several different locations. 100% Pure, it proclaimed, in large type. On the back, under Contents, in extremely small print, were the words Miscellaneous Farm Animals. Or, as some of the less enthusiastic factory workers liked to say, the finest lips and assholes money can buy.

"Let me show you your wagon."

Robin led Oscar to the back where several metal rickshaws, their seats replaced by a refrigerated box, lay slowly rusting. On the side of each was a picture of Hermann proudly holding up a fat red sausage impaled upon a double-pronged fork.

"Don't worry," Robin assured him. "They're quite light."

This was true but only when empty. Fully loaded, they were a backbreaking burden. The idea had come from the owner himself. While touring one of his factories, he noticed that machines did most of the work and his employees just stood around and watched. The least they can do is sweat, he thought, and suddenly remembered a photo he had seen of Chinese coolies pulling an overloaded cart up a mountain. Inspired, he sacked his sales force and replaced them with students and other derelicts, many of them homeless, whom he had sell his sausages door to door. But, for some reason, people were reluctant to buy food from salesmen who smelt. They also had a tendency to eat the sausages themselves. You'll never get ahead that way, he told some poor old wino. First you sell the sausages. Then you give me the money. Then I pay you. Then you buy the sausages from me. It's called capitalism and only works if you're willing to wait a month for dinner.

"And this," he said, spreading out a map atop Oscar's wagon, "is your territory."

Colour coded, it had several thrusting lines and X marks.

"What are these?" Oscar asked, pointing at an X.

"Conflict points."

"With who?"

"Sloboda Sausage."

"Who?"

"Sloboda Sausage. Our competitor."

"Goodness!"

"It's dog eat dog out there."

Oscar had always disliked that expression, especially when people used it approvingly, as a sign of seriousness, when really, all it meant was that they hadn't bought dog food for a very long time.

"Here," he continued, handing Oscar a walkie-talkie. "In case things get ugly. Or you run out of sausages."

"What do I do?"

"Just press the button. A dispatcher will send reinforcements."

"Okay."

After hitching Oscar's wagon to the company truck, Robin drove him out to a suburban area and dropped him off.

"Radio in when you're ready to come back."

"Okay."

Suddenly alone, Oscar wondered what to do. He had never done sales before. Good products sell themselves, he had heard. But how? In front of him was a house. He knocked. A middle-aged woman in curlers and a face pack answered the door.

"Excuse me," he said, sweating profusely, "but would you like to see my sausage?"

"Fuck you pervert!" she cried and slammed the door in his face.

Wow, he thought. It's true. Sales is tough.

*

Oscar's next few attempts were equally unsuccessful. For some reason, people were suspicious of a stranger selling meat door to door. One man even asked if it was stolen and seemed disappointed to discover it wasn't. Of course! he realized. Sloboda Sausage! They were spreading slander, telling people Mr. Hermann was a thief. Oh, the injustice of it all! Poor Mr. Hermann. Standing all day in front of a sausage grinder and for what? To have his meat tainted like that? His honour must be defended.

"Let me assure you," Oscar began. "Hermann's Meat is not stolen."

"Heavens!" the old lady cried, missing everything but the word stolen. "Teddy, come quick. There's a thief at the door!"

An old dog, spread out on the sofa and too tired to move, reluctantly opened its eyes. Although hard of hearing, it caught the anxiety in its owner's voice and so, barked once in acknowledgement. That ought to do it, he thought, as his head fell back onto the sofa. But then he smelt the husky odour of a male intruder. With his knees trembling from the effort, he slowly got up, dropped down onto the carpet and trudged towards the door.

"Woof! Woof! Woof!" he warned, as Oscar retreated to his rickshaw.

"Good boy!" the old lady said. "You sure showed him. I'll bet it's a while before he tries that again."

Teddy placed his nose against the screen. Sausages, his nostrils told him. Fat, juicy sausages. But it was too late: they were gone and all that remained was the tantalizing after-aroma. Duty done, Teddy plodded back to the sofa, crawled up onto it, sniffed around till he found his favourite spot and slowly lowered himself into it. Then, ignoring his excited owner, who kept prattling on about how she had just escaped death, he closed his eyes and drifted off, dreaming of sausages.

*

"Sausages, eh?" Martin asked, pretending to think it over. "You got any samples?"

"Of course," Oscar answered.

"Then come on in."

Martin led him down a hallway made narrow by opposing piles of junk. The kitchen was no better: an avalanche of utensils, most of them broken, covered the counter; a flute organ of empty cigarette packs climbed to the ceiling; the fridge was secured by a seatbelt; a dusty box of bent nails tumbled out onto the table; and the calendar was over a decade old, its faded tractor seemingly driving away in disgust. For a moment, Oscar thought he was in an antique shop - until he realized that everything was worthless.

"Well," Martin said, "what are you waiting for?"

Digging a pot out of the sink, Oscar washed it off, tossed in a sausage and a bit of water and set it on the stove.

"Not bad," Martin admitted, his mouth full of meat.

"So... how many do you want?|

"All of them."

Oscar was overjoyed. He had sold them all. And on his very first day! Mr. Hermann was bound to be pleased.

"Really?"

"Yup."

"And how would you like to pay?"

"Pay?" Martin asked, clearly insulted. "I'm not gonna pay."

"No?"

"No, trade. I'll give you that box of nails for them."

Oscar looked at the dusty box. "Sorry but I can't do that."

"What? A box of bent nails not good enough for you?"

"Well..."

"People like you," Martin continued. "Always wanting something for nothing. You know how hard I worked to get those nails?"

It was true. He had spent almost an hour pulling them from some broken boards he had found in the garbage of a building site.

"Sorry."

"You should be. You gonna take those nails or not?"

"No."

"Then get the hell out."

"Can I use your washroom?"

"Only if you pay me a dollar."

"A dollar?"

"Water isn't free you know."

"But I don't have any money."

"Then go somewhere else."

Oscar returned to his rickshaw and started pulling it down the street. I should've gone before I left, he realized, feeling his bowels bulk up. Trapped in a suburban desert, Oscar looked around for a place to void himself but saw nothing. Unable to wait any longer, he parked his rickshaw in front of a car, lowered his pants, placed a plastic bag under his anus and let a large turd fall into it. Then, pulling up his pants, he ducked down an alley and deposited it in a garbage can. Returning to his cart, he found it being looted by some men.

"No!" he cried and rushed forward.

One of the men, who wore a uniform identifying him as an employee of Sloboda Sausage, pulled out a double-pronged fork and raised it menacingly. Oscar grabbed his from the side of the cart and they battled, fork to fork and tine to tine, while the others continued transferring his sausages to their car. An evil look formed in the man's eyes and his lips shifted, inching over into a crooked smile. A deft flick of his wrist and Oscar was speared, the stranger's fork still sticking in his gut as he fell screaming to the ground.

"Man down!" he cried, clutching his walkie-talkie. "Man down!"

Pausing only to retrieve his fork, Oscar's opponent jumped into the car and they took off in triumph.

Oscar lifted his hand and looked at his shirt. A pair of holes were slowly staining it red.

I hope they have dogs in Heaven, he thought, and passed out.

*

What the? Martin wondered as he watched Oscar drop the bag into his garbage can. Didn't give permission for that. Illegal disposal, that's what it was. Compensation for sure. All he needed was the evidence. As soon as Oscar was gone he went out to retrieve the bag. Picking it up, he saw Hermann's face and felt something heavy. Sausages, he assumed, and opened the bag - only to find himself holding a fat lump of shit.

Disgusted, he threw the bag down and stormed back to the house.

Moments later he heard Oscar scream and, looking out the front window, saw him fall to the ground with a fork in his gut. Grabbing a broken Slinky from the nearest pile of junk, he flew out the front door and began battering him about the head and chest.

"Wha?" Oscar asked, prodded to consciousness by the pain.

"Get up!" Martin ordered, still swinging the Slinky. "You're staining my lawn."

"Sorry," Oscar replied as, protecting his head with his hand, he tried to get up. A sharp pain reminded him of his wound.

"I've been stabbed," he explained. "Call an ambulance."

"Hell no," Martin said. "I'm not paying for that."

"Then call my boss," Oscar pleaded, holding up the walkie-talkie. "He'll take care of everything."

"Everything, eh?"

Martin dropped the Slinky.

"Okay then but it better be worth it."

But it wasn't. Not only did Robin refuse to pay damages, he wanted Martin to pay for the sausage he ate. Furious, Martin continued to argue his case, all the while ignoring Oscar's repeated requests for an ambulance. In the end, unable to squeeze any money out of him, he seized the walkie-talkie as partial payment and went back inside. His first thought was to sell it at his weekly garage sale but soon found himself entranced by the brutality of the wienie war. Just like the old days, he thought, when his family had huddled around the radio in eager anticipation of news of Al Capone and his cronies. Martin had even met him once. Big Al had come north to hide out and was in need of a soda. Martin got him one and in return Big Al gave him a nickel. Ever after Martin had defended him. Sure, he was a gangster who had murdered many but anyone who gave him a nickel couldn't be all bad.

It was some time before Oscar realized that Martin had not gone to call an ambulance. Unable to radio in, he reluctantly got up and started pulling his rickshaw down the street. Several cars sped by, each interested enough in his blood-soaked shirt to stare but not enough to stop. One guy even looked at him in disapproval, as though silently suggesting it was his own fault for being a pedestrian. Eventually, a woman called the police - not to help him but rather, to rid the neighbourhood of an undesirable element. Officer Bankowski immediately knew what had happened: another casualty of the wienie war. Several people had been forked and even more robbed. At first, Oscar refused to abandon his rickshaw but relented when the policeman pointed out there was nothing left to steal.

Upon arrival at the hospital, Oscar was given a form to fill out. Address, it asked. He hesitated. Should he put Pete's place as his own? It didn't seem right. But if not, where?

Sensing his discomfort, the receptionist laid her hand on his.

"Is there anyone we can call?" she asked. "Anyone at all?"

And so Myrtle got her wish.

*

In the days that past, Myrtle became increasingly accustomed to Oscar's presence. Having successfully installed him in the guest room - Nonsense, she insisted, refusing to let him return downstairs, that sofa is too small - she made progress on other fronts as well. Eat, she said, plying him with food. It'll help you recover. Soon they were having dinner together every night while Pete fumed below. Discovering his love of film, she began bringing videos home with her. Dinner and a movie. It was like a date, except they never left the house. Night after night she waited for him to make a move but he never did.

Maybe it was the movies. For some reason, he was inordinately fond of childish fluff, especially that stupid series about animals that find their way home. Didn't he realize they had been ditched? Oh sure, the owner always acted happy when they arrived home but she wasn't fooled: tossing a kitten from a car was the easiest way to lighten your load. Not that she would ever say so. He would be horrified and that would be the end of everything.

She tried to get him to watch something else once by bringing home a pair of videos. Double feature, she said. He liked that. Reminded him of the Palace. They watched a kids film first and then she slipped something a bit more adult into the VCR. Nothing too racy. Just mature material with the occasional sex scene in the hope it would give him ideas. Far from it: the first flash of a tit, he blushed bright red. A virgin, she realized. Not that she was surprised. A guy his age, obsessed with kids movies... what did you expect?

What's worse, he seemed to be a Christian. Not the Praise Jesus type - on the contrary, he never mentioned God \- but there did seem to be something, some deep bedrock of faith. The unconscious type, who believes without thinking. Probably thinks sex is a sin. Well, that was going to be a problem. This sitting and watching movies was all very fine and well but was going to have to lead to something more sooner or later. He must have desires. Everyone does. Unless of course he was gay, which Myrtle doubted. Nothing about him suggested he preferred men. No, he was just a guy who hadn't made it past puppy love - in his case, literally. His sexuality was a box that hadn't been opened but couldn't stay closed forever. Someday someone would find the key and everything would change.

And then there was Pete. Myrtle could hear him stomping around below, slamming doors and banging things in an obvious attempt to make his presence felt. Yes, she had stolen his friend but there was no reason they couldn't share. Truth was, they already did: Pete had him during the day and Myrtle, in the evenings. And he was always welcome to join them, especially for dinner. Sometimes, when she felt particularly optimistic, she saw Oscar as the needle that would sew them back together. How nice that would be! The three of them, eating and drinking and laughing. It was David's leaving that had caused things to go badly between them. Maybe Oscar could fill that gap.

Either way she had to do something, and soon. He was healing - too fast for her liking - and would undoubtedly return downstairs. Hardly a day went by without him alluding to the guilt he felt about abandoning Pete. Myrtle's counter - that he chose not to join them - was becoming increasingly ineffective. His injury could only hold him so long. Sooner or later she was going to have to find a way to get him into her bed.

*

Pete was furious. The one thing he had asked him not to do and he had gone and done it. His first thought was to storm upstairs and have it out with him right there in front of his mother but then he remembered that it was actually her house and if he played the landlord card, she might do the same. Better to stay downstairs and make him feel guilty. And so he turned on the stereo, certain it would bring Oscar running. But it didn't. You're just making it worse for yourself, he thought, determined to give him a firm tongue-lashing. For about an hour he strode about the basement, practicing his speech and working himself up into a frenzy. Eventually, however, his fury peaked and began to subside, mutating into worry. What were they doing? Dinner was undoubtedly done. The blare of a TV had followed for a bit but was soon switched off.

Pete looked at his watch. It was almost eleven! He felt like a father waiting for his daughter to come back from her date with a sleazy guy. Another reason not to have kids. Pete had never seen the point of children. Little thieves, he considered them, who steal all your time and money. Accidents happen. Nature was good at that. But to have more than one was just irresponsible.

When it hit midnight and all above was silence, Pete became downright panicky. Surely they weren't.... The thought disgusted him. He knew his mother well enough to know that Oscar wasn't her type but feared the free-floating nature of her sexuality.

The slut, he thought. She'll fuck anyone.

*

Pete hit the stairs as soon as he heard the door close. All night he had slept fitfully, repeatedly waking up in the middle of dreams about Oscar and his mother, sometimes together, sometimes apart but always unsettling. Once, to his shame, he had an erection. But all his fury melted the moment he saw Oscar's bandage. That he had merely been stabbed rather than seduced came as a great relief. At first he tried to persuade him to return downstairs, claiming that the lumpy sofa was better for his wound, but Oscar was dubious. Plus which he had promised Myrtle he would stay upstairs till his wound healed.

"Just don't do anything."

"Like what?"

"You know."

"No, what?"

"Sleep with her."

"Certainly not! I would never do that!"

"That's what you say but things happen."

"Really?"

"You don't know her. What she's capable of."

"We just had dinner."

"Just? That's the first step."

"Of what?"

"Getting you into bed."

Oscar was horrified. Could it be? Was it all just a plot to rob him of his virginity? Pastor Wilcox had warned him about such women, all those Delilahs and Jezebels whose only aim was to sap the strength of men. One had to stand firm against them.

"But she seemed so nice."

"That's how they do it. With love. But all the while you're like a fly in a web. Is that what you want? To be eaten by a spider?"

"Of course not!"

"Then be careful."

"I will!"

*

The second the waitress looked in their direction, Mabel raised her hand; pacified by Kelly's knowing nod, she turned to Myrtle.

"So," she asked. "Any news?"

"No. I can't get him to make a move."

"What's wrong with men these days? Used to be all you had to do was look at them and they'd try to stick their thing in you."

"We were a lot younger then."

"Nonsense," Mabel insisted. "You're an amazing woman."

"If you say so."

"I do!"

Mabel was convinced that they were both beautiful. She herself had been Miss Turkey Breasts 1962, a title she bore proudly, and that was against the Delaney sisters, only two of whom were cross-eyed. Unfortunately, the group photo, which she still possessed, was less than flattering: not only was Mabel's mouth wide open in a huge horsey laugh, her rivals, one on each side, undermined her with their optical opposition. That was also where she met Rudy. He was working as a turkey plucker and her baton twirling stirred him deeply. So much so they were engaged within a month. Such happy times, she thought, and often got emotional in the poultry department.

"It could be Pete."

"That boy, he just doesn't want you to be happy."

"I did steal his friend."

"All's fair in love and war."

"I just don't understand it."

"Understand what?"

"Why he hates me so much."

"He's just going through a stage."

"That's what I thought at first but it's been going on for years. Ever since David left."

"Maybe it's a Freudian thing."

"What do you mean?"

"He wants to sleep with his dad."

"I think you got that backwards."

"His dad wants to sleep with him? Disgusting!"

Not that Mabel was surprised. Men were such perverts. Even Rudy, who was a saint in so many ways, liked to talk dirty in bed. There she'd be, lying on her back, thinking about Tupperware, and he'd be on top of her, grunting and groaning and snarling about how hard he was giving it to her - when really, all she felt was bored. That and uncomfortable. Oh yes, she'd say, after he finally spurted inside her. You sure showed me. And he'd smile, so pleased with himself. You had to give them that.

"No, I mean he wants to sleep with his mother.'

"Of course he does. Who wouldn't?"

"Oscar obviously."

"He just needs a bit of encouragement. Show a little skin.'

"I tried. Gave him so much cleavage I almost caught a cold."

"Maybe he's a leg man. Try black stockings. They're thinning."

"I did. Crossed my legs and dangled my shoe and got nothing."

"What else is there?" Mabel asked, throwing her hands up.

A virgin before marriage and a reluctant participant ever after, Mabel's only sexual experience was with Rudy, her late and much lamented lover, and, according to him, there were two kinds of men: leg men and tit men. He himself was one of the latter and often tried to guess women's bra sizes. She's a B for sure, he'd say, pointing at the protruding pair. Sometimes, at parties, when he'd had too much to drink, he'd ask point-blank, which often caused offense. Don't get all worked up, he'd say, raising his drink as proof of innocence. I'm just being scientific. But, for some reason, women rarely saw it that way.

"Thank you," Mabel said as Kelly placed a large pitcher of martinis on their table. It was important to be nice, especially to people who brought you alcohol. You may be the customer but they had the power to cut you off - something she prided herself on never having experienced. However drunk she got, she never descended into nastiness. On the contrary, she had a tendency to become excessively polite, which some people mistook as condescension. Fortunately for her, her peasant blood and uninspiring origins undercut the formality of her speech. Just a moment my good man, she'd say with a smile. I have to pee. Then, gracious as a queen, she'd saunter off to the can.

"Well," she said, pouring them each a drink, "can't you just make him?"

"How?"

"I don't know. You're the worldly one."

"But he's a Christian."

"All the better. Guys like that... you only have to give yourself to them once. And then it's all over. Game, set and matches. They practically march themselves to the altar."

Although a non-believer, Mabel had a great deal of respect for Christianity, Christians, whatever their faults, married early, rarely cheated and understood that the point of life was not to be happy but rather, to immerse yourself in the drudgery of family life. That weddings occurred in churches was only appropriate since it neatly combined two forms of servitude: familial and celestial. Only government remained and its principal purpose, as far as she was concerned, was to track down deadbeat dads and make them pay child support.

"Maybe you're right."

"Of course I am," Mabel replied, and drained her drink.

*

Oscar awoke to the sensation of movement. Something soft was sliding in beside him. A cocktail of scents, alien but inviting, crept into his nose and a hand touched his arm.

"Oscar?"

"Um?"

"Are you awake?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Can I stay here a bit? I had a bad dream."

"Uh, okay."

Oscar closed his eyes, expecting to go back to sleep but, for some reason, Myrtle wanted to talk. Must still be scared, he thought, and reluctantly opened his eyes. Half asleep, he hardly heard her. Broken bits of dream mingled with her words, producing odd images. Suddenly, to his surprise, she sat on top of him.

"It's a game," she explained, as she rubbed herself against him.

Unfortunately, his unmentionable was directly below her and the friction had the effect of making it larger. Now fully awake, Oscar was terrified she would notice.

It's Jingle Bells all over again, he realized and struggled to work up a sedate fantasy to counteract his excitement. But, just as he was beginning, Myrtle reached down between her legs, plucked his penis out from within his pajamas and lowered herself onto it.

"Don't worry," she said. "We're just playing horsie." And, hunching her hips, she lifted herself up and pressed back down, over and over again, softly sliding against his pole.

"Oh yes," she said, closing her eyes. "Oh yes."

Shocked into silence, Oscar lay still, allowing her to ride him at her leisure.

Leaning forward, she planted her hands on the bed and looked at him, her long hair falling down and tickling his face. Then, lifting her head, she closed her eyes again and her face tightened. Suddenly she shuddered and her body shook, twitching and jerking in many unexpected ways, and she fell, exhausted, upon him.

Goodness, he thought, she must really like animals.

*

The next day was much as usual. Neither of them mentioned their nocturnal adventure. Myrtle didn't want to risk embarrassing him or, worse, prompting a crisis of conscience which might result in him ending the relationship. As for Oscar... he didn't know what to think, let alone say. The experience had been so strange and shocking - his unmentionable had actually been inside her! - he half wondered if it had been a dream or hallucination, a side effect of his medication maybe or Satan tempting him with lustful thoughts. But no: whatever it was, it was real and he had done it. Pastor Wilcox was bound to disapprove: to be molested once was bad luck; twice, however, was habit-forming. What's worse, he had, despite his shame and embarrassment, enjoyed it. As had Myrtle. Which made her a Jezebel. And yet, she seemed so nice, making him dinner every evening and giving him a place to sleep at night. It just didn't make sense.

And then there was Pete. The thought made Oscar uneasy. He too would disapprove, maybe even more than Pastor Wilcox, although for very different reasons. Oscar wasn't sure what exactly he and Myrtle had done but felt sure Pete wouldn't like it. For some reason, he seemed to really dislike his mother which, as someone who had lost his parents early, Oscar found hard to understand. Sometimes, when he felt sad or lonely, he would imagine them in Heaven, which he saw as a giant dog park where people forever played with their pets. No one used a leash and there was free dog food for everyone. Other animals were welcome too and everyone got along. Oscar's favourite Bible verse, in fact, was the one about the lion and the lamb lying down together. Truly, that was paradise.

Myrtle felt no such uncertainty. The events of the previous night were an unalloyed pleasure and one she had not experienced for some time. Sex with Jack was a race and one she usually lost. Not only was he in a hurry - have to get back to the wife and kids - he seemed to regard sex as a sprint. She would've settled for two hundred meters but it was always the hundred meter dash: quick start, rapid acceleration and total focus on the finish line. Sex with Oscar, on the other hand, was a long slow walk in the park, holding hands and pausing whenever you pleased to smell the flowers. True, she had been on top and so, in control, but he didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he had seemed content to just lie there and let her do whatever she wanted. Myrtle wasn't even sure he had enjoyed himself but just assumed it to be the result of inexperience. The first time was often bad. Or at least, not good. She remembered her first, a pimply-faced teenager named Duane who hadn't been able to find her opening and so, just rubbed himself against her. On her way home she wondered if it was a good thing. No chance of getting pregnant but her panties were sticky. More to the point, did it count? Duane had no such doubts. He was convinced he had done a momentous thing and wasted no time informing his friends. Shortly thereafter Myrtle's popularity with boys took a sudden uptick and she found herself the recipient of several unexpected offers, most of them unsuitable.

That night, and for several following, Myrtle repeated her trick of simply coming into Oscar's room and getting into bed with him, and with much the same results. At first she continued to use the bad dream excuse but soon dropped it, realizing it wasn't necessary. That they would have a discussion about it eventually was inevitable but she wanted to put it off for as long as possible. Talking was always the enemy. She should know. How many relationships had she destroyed with her need to know how things stood? Maybe Mabel was right. The world was full of possible mates and the less you knew someone, the better.

If I'd known what he was like, she'd say, reminiscing about her Rudy, I'd never have married him. But I didn't. So I did. And now look at me!

That he was dead daunted her not a bit.

I have my memories, she'd insist. And a full pension!

Myrtle wouldn't go that far but her standards had certainly fallen. Now all she wanted was to be happy. And she was.

*

"Damn," Dale said. "It's like a porn mag, only real."

Confused and in need of someone to talk to, Oscar had invited him over for coffee.

Fuck that, Dale had replied and insisted on taking him to the Commodore instead. Having recently risen, he had a tomato juice with his beer, which he considered a balanced breakfast. That the Commodore served food was a well-known secret, largely ignored by the vast majority of people who went there. Occasionally, when starved, Dale would order a burger or some fries but, for the most part, lived on protein drinks which, besides building muscle, had the added advantage of not requiring any effort.

"I feel so bad," Oscar said.

"For what?" Dale asked. "The bitch is coming to you."

A sexual swashbuckler, ever randy, Dale's dream was to sleep with a woman of every race and type and had made considerable progress due to a total lack of discrimination regarding looks, character or personal hygiene but he had never slept with a friend's mother and considered that a black mark on his record. That Oscar, whom he had always seen as a loser, had been able to bed Pete's mom filled him with both envy and respect.

"What about Pete?"

"What about him? Not your fault his mom's a babe."

"He took me in. Gave me a place to stay and everything."

"Don't worry about it. Just do her as much as you can."

All women, Dale believed, had a time limit. As such, it was important to have as much sex as possible as often as possible since, sooner or later, they were bound to find out what a jerk you were. In his case, it was almost always sooner. Sobriety had a shocking effect on women. All his finer qualities fell away and some of them even scowled when he asked for a goodbye blowjob. Fortunately, alcohol had a liberating effect on women's morals and that, combined with his willingness to scoop up the big fish most men sailed past, made for frequent bedfellows.

"But I live with them."

"Sweet."

The guy had it made - delicious dinners, relaxing with a video and sex every night - and all he had to do was get stabbed. A small price to pay to escape the dating trap. Dale had never liked dating, which he saw as going to places you don't like and spending money on things you don't want in the hope it might lead to sex. The worst was Valentine's Day, which he regarded as a straight up scam. Women's expectations were so high. Once, when he was young, he took a date to Ollie's for Hot Dog Tuesday and she failed to appreciate the uniqueness of the event. But it only happens once a week, he repeatedly explained on the ride home, during which she stared ahead in simmering silence.

Best of all, it wasn't even his house so he didn't have to worry about losing it in the divorce. Pete was a problem but nothing a few slaps wouldn't straighten out. He saw himself in Oscar's place, a modern pasha, sitting on the sofa in a bathrobe and reading the sports section. Below him, sliding slippers onto his feet, was Myrtle. Liberated women were all fine and well - he liked the fact they paid half - but someone had to do the cooking and cleaning and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him. There must be some way to get in on this.

"No problem," he said. "I'll have a word with him."

"Could you? That would be great. Just... be gentle."

"Absolutely," Dale assured him. "Gentle is my middle name. Dale Tiberius Gentle Fucking Armstrong."

*

That Dale would invite him out for a drink was a surprise. Must be a trick, Pete thought and searched for an excuse to say no. But Dale was insistent and even offered to buy him a beer. How could he say no to that? And so Pete reluctantly agreed, all the while fearing some unspoken nastiness - like being beaten up by Dale and his biker friends for something he had done at the party. But what? Drunk and high as he had been, Pete was pretty sure he hadn't done anything wrong. On the contrary, he had been extremely careful not to offend anyone and had even pretended to be asleep at one point so as not to attract attention. Had someone spilt his beer by tripping over him? He would have felt that. And the guy would have said something right away. Or was his presence so repulsive they wanted to punish him simply for having been there? Again, they would've done so then.

To his credit, Dale was quick. He knew Pete was nervous and considered playing with him but lacked the patience.

"So," he began, almost as soon as they sat down, "I hear Oscar is fucking your mom."

Pete's first feeling was relief. They weren't going to beat him up after all - although the guy at the next table was looking at him in a less than friendly way. And far from surprised, it was just what he had feared. Pete knew his mom. Her easy sexuality had always annoyed him. How many "uncles" had he had? A lot. The vast majority of whom were morons. That Oscar had become the latest in her long line of lovers was hardly shocking.

It was, however, distasteful. Disgusting, even. A betrayal of the foulest sort. After all he had done for him! That Oscar's plight was a direct result of his pilfering was irrelevant. How was he to know the fool would replace what he stole? Only an idiot would waste his life savings helping a friend. And how had he repaid him? By fucking his mom!

"What do I care?" he said. "Not my fault she's a slut."

"Really?" Dale asked. "So I can fuck her too?"

"Go ahead," Pete told him. "She'll do anyone."

Dale felt himself get stiff. He had heard about such women - nymphos, they called them - but had never been fortunate enough to meet one. Not for lack of trying. At least once a week he walked around with his fly fashionably undone in the hope of attracting such a woman but, for some reason, had met with very little success. None at all, to be honest, and was even beginning to doubt their existence; like Nessie or Bigfoot, they were urban legends, monsters of the imagination only, a pleasant thing to contemplate but unlikely to encounter. That Pete's mom might actually be one interested him immensely.

Unless of course he was lying. Playing it cool to protect his pride. Eager to find out, Dale elaborated on Oscar's story, filling it with lurid details about sick acts and painful positions, many of them impossible. Soon, aided by alcohol, he began to believe his own lies and Oscar became a super stud who fucked Myrtle senseless a dozen times a night.

"They laugh at you," he said. "For being such a loser."

Throughout it all, Pete kept his composure and even tried to make light of it. What did he care that his best friend was fucking his mom? Or so he said. In truth, he was deeply disturbed. The sex was bad enough - Dale's graphic descriptions of Oscar defiling his mother shocked and repulsed him - but that the two of them were conspiring against him, whispering secret plots while lying in bed filled him with fury. And all the while Oscar had sat there, listened to his stories and said nothing. The traitor!

*

"Banished," Pete informed him. "You're banished from the basement. For life!"

"Sorry," Oscar replied.

"You should be. After all I did for you."

"Sorry," Oscar repeated, and looked down in shame.

"How could you do that? Betray me like that. And with my own mother!"

"It just happened."

"Just happened? What are you, Hugh Hefner? Sit around in pajamas and have sex all day?"

"It's mostly at night."

"Like that makes a difference."

"It's not sex. We just play horsie."

"What?"

"You know, horsie. She gets on top and rides me when she can't sleep. Says it relaxes her."

"I'll bet."

"She says it's okay. Just a bit of fun."

"What about your precious pastor? What did he say?"

Once again Oscar hung his head in shame.

"Don't know."

"Of course not! And why is that? Because you haven't told him, have you?"

"No," Oscar admitted.

"And why not?|

Oscar said nothing.

"I'll tell you why. Because deep down you know what you did was wrong."

Pete was right. Anything that couldn't pass the Pastor Wilcox test was wrong. Which meant that most things were wrong. But some things were more wrong than others and this was probably one.

"People like you," he continued, "disgust me. Always acting so holy and then, first chance you get, bang your best friend's mom."

"I'm sorry," Oscar repeated. "I won't do it again."

"Too late," Pete replied. "You made your choice. Now face the consequences."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

*

"Congratulations," Mabel said. "The fish has eaten the hook and all you have to do is rock the boat."

"Don't you mean 'reel him in'?"

"Whatever," she replied, waving her hand in protest.

Mabel had never seen the point of fishing. Why would anyone get up early and sit all day in the sun just to pluck a fish from a lake when you could buy them already cut up into nice neat little pieces at the Co-op? Because, after all, wasn't the whole point of civilization to escape such real life experiences? Rudy took her fishing once, for their honeymoon, and she hated it. Money was tight and his uncle offered them the use of his cabin. Mabel thought it would be romantic, just the two of them, eating and drinking and relaxing. Little did she know he would wake her up at five, make her sit in a hard boat on a blazing day and for what? Just to sit and watch him look at the water. Oh sure, he handed her a rod but there was no way she was going to use it. What if she actually caught a fish? Then what? She'd have to reel it in and if there was one thing she knew about fish it was that they didn't like being pulled out of the water with a hook in their face. Well, who would? So naturally she said no. And then there was the washroom issue. Their first fight, in fact, was when Rudy refused to return to shore to let her pee and told her to just hang her bum over the edge of the boat instead. On a small lake with other boats nearby! Needless to say that was the last time they did anything outdoorsy together.

No, Mabel preferred malls. No bugs or animals or fresh air or sunlight - it was all so pleasantly artificial. Sometimes, strolling past a store so clean and crisp or sitting in a cafe with a nice piece of cake in front of her, she forgot nature existed. And why not? What good was it? Except of course as raw material. Mabel couldn't understand people who preferred trees to wood. To her, a tree was just unfinished furniture. Either that or toilet paper. As for flowers, they were dirty and attracted bugs. A floral design was much nicer. It made Mabel mad to hear hippies talk about cavemen and how natural they were. Like they enjoyed wiping their bum with leaves. Give a caveman a roll of toilet paper and a bag of leaves and she had no doubt which one he'd choose. Just because they were cavemen didn't mean they were stupid. Unlike hippies, who probably did use leaves. Hope they get poison ivy, she thought, and relished the idea of some dirty hippie being unable to sit down.

That many of the wonderful things she liked to look at and buy were made by poor people in distant countries was not something she liked to think about and resented being reminded of. And not just by hippies either. Lots of seemingly normal people also felt that way. Spoilsports, she considered them. Always rabbiting on about injustice and how we shouldn't buy anything because the people who made it were being mistreated. At least they have a job, Mabel would retort, all the while suspecting that her accuser did not. Even Myrtle was not immune to such madness and had gone through a left-wing phase where she went to political meetings and wore a beret. Mabel had been to one. Myrtle told her it was for the Sandinistas but all she heard was the word sand and so, assumed it was about beach resorts. She was expecting a pleasant little talk, some slides say and maybe even a souvenir, a pen perhaps, with a lovely logo, and was shocked to find herself surrounded by a bunch of smelly radicals who argued about politics and demanded donations, which caused her to hold her handbag a little tighter.

"Either way," she said, "you've got him now."

"I guess."

"Don't tell me you're having problems already."

"Nothing major. It's just that... I'm not sure he's enjoying it."

"What do you mean?"

"It's been almost a week and he has yet to orgasm."

"No orgasm?" Mabel repeated, a little too loudly. "Impossible! All men orgamize. It's what separates them from women."

Rudy had never had a problem. He always came, and usually quite quickly. Which was just as well. So many other things to do in life. The less time wasted on sex the better.

"Not this one."

"Do you think he's a girlie-boy?"

Mabel hated the word gay and avoided it as much as possible. Just using it was a kind of acceptance. Not that she had anything against the act itself. Men were men and if they saw a hole, they naturally wanted to stick their thing in it. Nothing you could do about that. But to use that as an excuse not to have a family was unforgiveable.

"I don't think so."

"Maybe you should send him to a doctor. Have his wienie measured."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Of course it does. Girlie-boys have little wienies. That's why they can't do it with women. It doesn't reach."

This again was Rudy lore: gay men had female brains - which of course were smaller than male brains - which caused their bats to shrivel up. You'll never hit a homer with that, he'd say, spotting someone effeminate. Best you can hope for is a double.

"It's big enough," Myrtle said. "I can tell."

"I suppose so," Mabel conceded. As someone who had only had sex with one man, she wasn't in a position to compare and had no idea what was normal. She did know, however, that men thought it quite important. They were always talking about how big their member was, often at the most inappropriate times. A German girl, Mabel grew up eating sausage but Rudy ruined it for her. I'm bigger than that, he'd say, pointing at her plate. Once, just to shut him up, she went to a specialty shop that made them extra large but he was so dejected she never did it again.

"I think he's just repressed. He is a Christian, after all."

"Nothing wrong with that," Mabel said. "Unless of course you believe it."

"That's the problem. I think he does."

"Don't they have something for that? A pill or programmer?"

"That's for cults."

"Exactly."

"You're half right," Myrtle admitted.

"I usually am," Mabel proudly replied.

"I should send him to a therapist. Help him get unblocked."

"If you want. But what's wrong with being blocked? I've been blocked all my life and it hasn't done me any harm."

Mabel was proud of the fact that she had never experienced sexual pleasure. So many women get all confused, chasing men that only satisfy them sexually instead of focusing on the important things, like life insurance. Where would she be now if Rudy hadn't had insurance? Working at the Co-op most likely. Baton twirling can only take you so far and she didn't have any other skills. Mabel had never worked and didn't intend to start now. That she had managed to snag a man early was her greatest triumph. Not that there was anything wrong with working - someone, after all, had to bring her food and drink - but she preferred being the customer. So much easier. The other great joy of her life was children. Or rather, the lack of them. Mabel was grateful that God had seen fit to bless her with infertility. Rudy, of course, had wanted kids. A boy, naturally. Someone to go hunting and fishing with. But kids were a lottery. You never knew what you were going to get. What if you got an ungrateful snot like Pete? That would be horrible.

"Of course not," Myrtle agreed, all the while thinking otherwise. To her, Mabel was the life unlived. No career. No child. No boyfriend. Just a dead husband who had failed to satisfy her. Myrtle, whatever her faults, was adventurous. She said yes to life. Unlike Mabel, who always said no. Sometimes, Myrtle pitied her. Others, she looked down on her. Either way she was smart enough to keep such thoughts to herself. Mabel was her oldest and closest friend and she wasn't about to do anything to damage that.

"But," she continued, "it can't hurt, can it?"

*

Strange, Jack thought. No return address. Inside was a letter written ransom style with every word cut from the newspaper:

your girl friend is a slut ! her new boy friend is a circus freak with a monster clock who satisfies her in ways you never could . kill ! kill now ! sincerely , a friend

Enclosed was a photo of a fat guy standing in front of a theatre.

Jesus, Jack thought. It's only Monday.

*

"And how often," Dr. Kelsey asked, "do you masturbate?"

A short man in a stretched sweater, he held a pen which he compulsively clicked, every twenty seconds, blandly dividing his days by ballpoint. Aroused by something his patient had said, the clicking would speed up, and you could measure his interest by the briefness of their intervals.

"Sorry, what?" Oscar asked, confused by the question.

Oscar didn't know much about medicine and, other than the stabbing, hadn't been to a doctor in a long time - which was just as well since Pastor Wilcox believed disease to be a sign of demonic possession. True Christians never got sick and any illness was due to lack of faith. Cancer was simply Lucifer hiding in your organs and concentrated prayer could drive him out. The last thing you wanted was to die from it, or any other disease, because that meant you were going straight to Hell - a point the good pastor frequently failed to hide from the terminally ill, which made for some rather uncomfortable hospital visits. Even so, something about this clinic seemed unusual. It was partly the magazines. Despite checking every one in the rack, Oscar failed to find anything about the motion picture industry. There was almost always something, an interview with a star or a celebrity diet, but all he found were pictures of people with their clothes missing. And then there was the office itself, with not a single piece of medical equipment. In a way, he was relieved. No needles or probes to give him pain but the doctor didn't even check his blood pressure. Just asked him questions about his libido, whatever that was.

"You know, pleasure yourself."

"I like movies."

"That's a start."

"Especially ones with animals in them."

"Really?" the doctor asked, and double-clicked his pen.

"My favourite is The Incredulous Journey."

"Isn't that a kids movie?"

"It's for kids of all ages."

"You find that stimulating?"

"Very."

"I see," he said, making a note in his file. "Well, that is different."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, no, of course not," he assured him. "There is no right or wrong when it comes to sexuality. Only inappropriate."

"For example," he continued, smiling affably, "if you're in a crowded theatre, surrounded by children and attempt to pleasure yourself... well, that would be inappropriate. But if you do it at home, either alone or in the company of consenting adults, then that's your business pure and simple and totally acceptable."

Oscar was confused. Was he saying that movie theatres were bad and everyone should watch videos instead?

"But I like doing it around children."

"You do?" the good doctor asked, pausing mid-click. His face, once so warm and welcoming, fell into a worried furrow.

"Yes," Oscar answered. "I like their laughter."

"I see. So what you're saying is, you like being humiliated."

"What's that?"

"When people laugh at you."

"Sure. So long as it's funny."

"I see," he repeated, making another note. "And do you expose yourself in other situations."

"Sorry?"

"You know, pull out your penis for others to see."

"Certainly not!"

"So it's just in movie theatres?"

"Never!"

Now it was the doctor's turn to be confused.

"But I thought you said you did."

"Did what?"

"Pleasured yourself in movie theatres."

Oscar was shocked. "In a theatre? Surrounded by people?"

"It's been known to happen. Some places specialize in that sort of thing, although they're not as common as they used to be."

"Thank God!"

"Yes," the doctor happily informed him, "thanks to the miracle of videotape, people can now pleasure themselves in the privacy of their own homes undisturbed by police or unhelpful onlookers."

"Not me."

"Where then? At a friend's place?"

"No. I mean, I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Pleasure myself," Oscar answered, blushing noticeably.

"Really?" the doctor asked, extremely surprised. "Never?"

"No."

"I see," he said, repeatedly clicking his pen before making another note. Never masturbates. Liar? Or deeply repressed?

"Is that bad?"

"No, no, not at all. Just different. A celebration of life's diversity."

"Really?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "Let's try something. Close your eyes."

"Okay."

"Now think of something exciting."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Whatever gets you excited."

Oscar thought of Barkie, his long pink tongue hanging from his mouth as, panting joyfully, he was petted by a stranger.

"What do you see?"

"Barkie. From The Incredulous Journey."

"And what's he doing?"

"Just playing."

"Who with?"

"Some guy."

"That turns you on?"

"No."

"Then go deeper."

Now Barkie was running through a field. Ahead of him, standing beneath a tree, was a female dog. Barkie approached and eagerly sniffed her butt. His penis stiffened.

"Good. Now open your pants."

Oscar hesitated.

"It's okay. I'm a doctor."

Oscar obeyed.

"Touch it. Gently."

"But-"

"Relax. Go back to your fantasy."

Oscar saw himself behind the bitch, her smell in his nose as he scrutinized her ass. Heavy with blood, his cock climbed his crotch.

"Good. Now wrap your hand around it and rub."

Oscar's breathing deepened.

"Good. Very good. Keep going. Concentrate."

Excited, the doctor clicked his pen several times rapidly, heavily crunching the cap.

Suddenly Oscar was on top of her, his front legs grabbing her by the hips and holding her still as he thrust his cock at her.

"Woof!" he said. "Woof!"

"Keep going," the doctor urged, his pen clicking like a castanet.

Struggling to stay upright, his legs shook with the effort of finding her. And then, he was in. The feeling was so soft, so...

"Keep going! Keep going!"

"Uhhhhh!" Oscar shouted, as the sperm rocketed up from his crotch.

"Excellent!" the doctor cried, snapping his pen. "Such progress! And so soon!"

*

"Great idea that was. Now he won't touch me."

It was true. Despite Dr. Kelsey's assurances of a breakthrough, Oscar had declined to play horsie several nights running. At first he had claimed to be feeling bad and certainly looked feverish but Myrtle had been refused sex often enough to know when someone was faking it. My own fault for sending him there, she thought. For once in her life she had done the unselfish thing and look what it got her. Should've left him as he was. So what if he couldn't come? It was almost better that way. No danger of him spurting past the finish line before her. On the contrary, she could walk the whole track, waving to the crowd all the way and still beat him.

"Don't know what you're complaining about," Mabel replied, pausing only to spear an olive and strip it with her teeth. "I'd love to have a man lose interest in me. A marriage is never secure until the romance dies."

"We're not married."

"Whatever. He lives with you, doesn't he?"

"Unfortunately."

"See? The mouse is in the trap. No need to buy more cheese."

"But I like cheese."

"Of course you do. It's delicious."

"I'm beginning to think I made a mistake."

"Don't do that," Mabel ordered, pointing her plastic sword. "It's always a mistake to doubt yourself, especially when you're wrong. I can't count the number of times I've made a mistake. And it's never stopped me from making another."

"No, really. I should never have lured him upstairs. Now I'm stuck with him."

Myrtle prided herself on being a feminist, which she saw as being able to do whatever she wanted. I've got rights, she'd say, convinced it was the same as being right. To her, disagreement was discrimination and she had lost several friends by 'sticking up for herself' and 'refusing to be bullied'. Only Mabel was impervious to her self-righteousness and that was because her views were so fossilized no one could disturb them. That she, a free and independent woman, could be stuck supporting a guy who wouldn't have sex with her was extremely exasperating. It was like being married all over again, but without the financial assistance. At least David had had the decency to cheat on her. That she could understand. But someone who didn't want to have sex? What could you do with such a person?

"Give him back to Pete."

"Not sure he'd take him."

"Then kick him out."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"He has nowhere to go."

"That's what you get for taking in strays. Just stop putting food in his bowl and he'll disappear."

"Not sure it works like that."

"Of course it does."

"But I like him."

"Plenty more fish in the sea. Just get a bigger net. Or go to the Co-op."

"What do you mean?"

"Not sure," Mabel admitted, "but it's worth thinking about."

"If you say so."

"I do," Mabel insisted. "I most certainly do."

*

Breakthrough was hardly the word for Oscar. Revelation was much closer to the truth. Pastor Wilcox had warned him about the danger of self-abuse but he had always thought of it as being like eating too many potato chips: a steady gluttony followed by an unpleasant satiety. That it could be so intensely pleasurable was a shock and he vowed never to do it again but the miracle of masturbation could not be denied and, within hours of returning home, he found himself lying in bed, clutching his penis and humping bitches in his head. The shame he felt afterwards almost made him cry. At least at the doctor's office he had had professional sanction. This, however, was pleasure pure and simple and so, totally inexcusable. Pastor Wilcox was not going to like it.

And neither, he suspected, would Myrtle - with whom, despite his promise to Pete, he had continued to play horsie almost every night. Do you really think we should? he had asked, as she positioned herself over his penis. Oh yes, she had replied, sliding down it. Definitely yes. But that was nothing compared to this. Something about it, the solitary secrecy of it all, seemed especially shameful. What's worse, it changed the way he saw the world, stripping away the innocence of animals and replacing it with a mad lust for fornication: instead of cute or cuddly, every dog he saw was the potential partner of a bestial union and the thought both excited and appalled him. How could he continue with their nocturnal sauntering when all the while he had this vile ugliness within him?

And so he said nothing. At first, sensing his shame, Myrtle let him be. Not discussing things had worked so far so she continued, making him dinner and talking about her day as though everything were normal. And even after he declined to play horsie that first night, claiming to be sick, she let him off, giving him time to come to terms with things. But as the days passed and he continued to avoid sex, her frustration grew and patience declined. Eventually, unable to wait any longer, she asked him what happened.

"Nothing," he mumbled as, unable to meet her eyes, he looked down at his plate.

Great, she thought, he's turned into Pete.

Desperate for an answer, she called Doctor Kelsey, who was equally unenlightening. All he would say was that there had been a breakthrough and Oscar was now a fully functioning sexual being - whatever that meant. Was he gay? Myrtle thought not. She had met a lot of homosexuals in her life and he lacked their peacock sense of personal appeal. So what was it? Had he been molested? That would explain his frigidity. As well as the immaturity of his interests. A clear case of arrested development with a bit of idiocy added to the mix. A sexless simpleton. No hope there. Much as she felt sorry for him, she couldn't spend her life with a sexual invalid.

"Your wound is getting better," she said. "Maybe it's time to go back downstairs."

But Pete would have none of it.

"Oh no," he said, barring the door with a banana. "Don't even think about it. You made your choice. Now live with it."

And so she was stuck with him. Dinner, once a delight, became a chore. Nothing he said or did interested her. On the contrary, she felt bored, even irritated. Where was that charm, that boyish sense of wonder that had thrilled her so? Now he seemed like a sullen teen, a second Pete, silent and self-absorbed. One night, while watching yet another kids flick, she looked at him and wondered who he was. The distance was getting bigger.

Not that he noticed. All he could think about was his obsession and the price he would pay for it: Hell. Although most of the people who went to Holy Tabernacle did so for the consolations of Heaven, Pastor Wilcox preferred to talk about the punishments of Hell. According to him, Hell was a vast place where people suffered horrible pain for the sin of having enjoyed themselves here on earth. At death God opened His book and if you hadn't been sufficiently miserable He sent you to Hell where you got to make up for it by being speared and flayed and boiled and burned until the end of time, at which point you just got more of the same. Sometimes, when he saw someone having a good time, a couple kissing in a park or a smiling man on a sunny day, he would think: Oh, you'll pay for that. Just you wait and see. And, whatever his worries, the thought always cheered him up.

It got to the point where Oscar couldn't wait for Myrtle to leave so he could go back to his fantasies. Once, in a shop, he saw a copy of Dog Fancier and knew he had to have it so he rummaged through the house until he found enough money to buy a copy, which he kept carefully concealed in a plastic bag under his bed. The other problem was tissues: having used them all, he resorted to toilet paper, which caused Myrtle to wonder if he really was sick. Every time it was the same: the rapid onrush of desire, the wallowing in sick fantasy, the desperate pulling of his penis, the explosion of pleasure and the collapse of remorse. I'll never do it again, he'd say, determined to rise above his desires but soon succumbed.

This went on for about a week until one morning, having forgotten something, Myrtle returned home and heard some strange noises coming from Oscar's bedroom. He isn't, she thought and crept up the stairs. But there he was, lying in bed with a magazine and pulling on his penis with a mad hunger that strained his face. Furious, she burst into the room and slapped the magazine from his hand.

"I don't believe it," she said. "After all I've done for you!"

"Sorry," Oscar answered, deeply ashamed.

"What is this?" she asked, picking up the magazine.

"Nothing. Just..."

"Dog Fancier? You want to have sex with animals?"

"No, no, it's just-"

"Just what?" she asked, throwing the magazine at him.

"I like-"

"What?" she asked. "This?"

Myrtle dropped to the floor, aimed her butt at him and shook it suggestively.

"This? Is this what you want?"

A lock of hair fell onto her face as she looked over her shoulder and snarled.

Tremendously excited, Oscar leapt off the bed and onto her back, tearing at her panties with one hand while grabbing her waist with the other. Myrtle moaned as he shoved it in and they fucked hard, barking and yelping and snarling. A sudden inevitability closed in on him and he exploded inside her, straining to go as far and deep as possible. Finished, he fell forward, pushing her down and trapping her beneath his fat. Despite the discomfort, Myrtle smiled, her nerves tingling with unfinished glee. What a great way to begin the day.

*

Did they get a dog? Pete wondered. It sure sounded like it. Maybe more than one. Typical. All those years he had begged for a pet and she said no. Too much work, she claimed. You'll never do it. And now, for some guy she hardly knew, she got one.

What's worse, he was hungry. Last night, too drunk to think, he had forgotten to stockpile some food and so, was starving. If only they would go out. Or to bed.

After a while the sounds ceased. Probably took it for a walk, he thought, and crept up the stairs. Hearing nothing, he opened the door and tiptoed into the kitchen.

"Woof."

Pete glanced into the living room. There, wearing nothing but a pair of matching dog collars and lapping liquid from bowls, was Oscar and his mother. Just then Oscar looked up, a rivulet of water running down his chin as his penis, fully erect, hung in the air.

War, Pete thought. This means war.

*

Yes, Pastor Wilcox thought, perfect. All morning he had been searching for something to write on his placard, something short and stinging that would express just how strongly he disagreed with the government's policy of giving money to unwed mothers. Then, suddenly, it had come to him: Make Money Not Love. The cameras were sure to spot it.

Just then there was a knock on his door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Oscar entered.

"Oscar," the pastor said, breaking into a smile. "How nice to see you. Haven't seen you in church recently. Have you been sick?"

"No," Oscar admitted. "Just busy."

"You're never too busy for the Lord."

"I know."

"How can I help you?"

Oscar told him about losing his job, getting kicked out of his apartment and moving in with Pete but neglected to mention the fight, the party or his various sexual adventures. He did, however, say he thought he had a girlfriend.

"Girlfriend! Congratulations. Who is it? Emma?"

"Who?"

"You know, Emma. With the wart on her nose."

"No, no, not her. Actually, she's not a member of the church."

"But she's a Christian, right?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Don't know? That's the first think I'd ask. How did you meet this woman?"

"She's Pete's mom."

Pastor Wilcox's face suddenly darkened. "You're not..."

Oscar hung his head in shame.

"The harlot! She's seduced you!"

"But I like her," Oscar feebly protested.

"Of course you do. Satan made her so."

"I thought God made everyone."

"They take turns. God makes the good ones and Satan, the bad. Catholics and Jews and people like that."

"But," Oscar asked, "what if it's God's plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's alone and I'm alone and Pete has no father. But together... we're a family."

Pastor Wilcox brightened. "A Christian family."

"But now they won't talk to each other and it's all my fault."

"I see. Well, the answer is clear."

"Really?"

"Yes. Marriage."

"Marriage?"

"Don't you see?" he asked. "That's why he's angry at you. Because you're living in sin with his mother. But if you marry her..."

"You think so?"

"Of course I do. Marriage is a holy thing. A sacred union of souls designed by God to destroy individuality and produce babies."

"It's all so simple."

"Of course it is. Difficult problems always are. All you need is faith. Now, let's pray."

*

"Married!" Mabel exclaimed. "You're getting married?"

"Of course not," Myrtle replied. "He just proposed, that's all."

"What did you say?"

"No."

"But why?"

"Well for one thing, he proposed in a food court."

"Really?"

"Yes. One minute he's slurping his drink and the next, he's asking me to marry him. For a moment there I thought he was going to offer me an onion ring."

"Nothing wrong with that," Mabel insisted. "So long as they ask. That way you've got them. Oral contact, you see."

Rudy, ever romantic, had proposed midway through a car wash. At first, because of the noise, Mabel didn't notice. True, he seemed excited but she just thought he was playing his usual trick of farting while she was trapped in the car and so, smiled wearily. It was only after he offered her a beer cap with the center punched out that she realized what was happening. At the time she was so happy she simply said yes. Only later, long after the wedding, did she wonder about the timing. Maybe something about all that rushing water had put him in the mood for a honeymoon, reminding him as it always did of Niagara Falls.

"I thought you liked him."

"I do."

"Then what's the problem."

"He did it for the wrong reason."

"There's no bad reason to get married. They're all good. Even if it is to the wrong guy. Better miserable than alone."

"His pastor told him to."

"So?" Mabel asked. "What's wrong with that? That's the good side of religion. Forcing everyone to get married. The rest of it, all that stuff about God and sin and Jesus died so you can eat pie on Sunday, I can live without."

"I want it to be for love."

"Love?" Mabel asked. "At our age? Besides, love and marriage are totally different. Like chocolate and cheese."

"Chalk," Myrtle corrected.

"Nonsense," Mabel replied. "Who eats chalk?"

Myrtle sighed. "Things were going so well. Why ruin it by getting married?"

"Ruin it? Isn't that the point? To make men marry us so we can resent them for it?"

"I just want to be happy."

"That's your problem. Always trying to be happy. The world would be a much better place if everyone just gave up trying to be happy and enjoyed themselves."

"You may be right."

"Of course I am. So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

*

Why, Pete wondered, can you never find a bum when you need one?

In his hands was a jar of change, most of it pennies, which he shifted about like a fat baby. He finally saw one, a bulky guy in torn jeans whose dirty hat sat atop a furball face.

"Hey," he asked, "wanna make some easy money?"

*

Oscar was puzzled. Why didn't Myrtle want to get married? According to Pastor Wilcox, that was all they thought of. A woman's head is an empty thing, he explained, which nature fills with thoughts of marriage and babies. Feminism, and here the good pastor looked like he had swallowed a rotten pickle, was simply the curdling of such desires: fertility deferred or, worse, denied, poisoned the soul and was the real cause of such ridiculous demands as the right to work or do with their bodies as they pleased. As they pleased! Like getting drunk and having sex with strangers was in any way acceptable! No, the best way to keep a woman docile was to get her pregnant.

Well, he was certainly trying, although not intentionally. That they were having sex outside of marriage was of course a sin but one that could be neatly tidied up with a lifetime commitment. But, for some reason, Myrtle was reluctant to pledge herself to him.

Why, she asked, can't we just enjoy ourselves?

So Oscar explained that life was bad and we must all prepare ourselves for the next world by being as miserable as possible in this one.

That's ridiculous, Myrtle responded. Life is all we have.

Pete was equally obstinate. Oscar had gone to him to ask for his permission, thinking that that would solve everything, and was surprised to see him become even more hostile.

Fuck you! he said. You're not my dad. And never will be!

Just then the phone rang.

"Freeland."

"Yes?"

"We've got your dog."

"Barkie?"

"That's right. Now listen closely."

*

"Dognappers?" Myrtle asked. "You've got to be kidding."

But he wasn't. On the contrary, he was extremely earnest and no amount of argument could convince him otherwise.

"Why you?"

"Because I'm the president of his fan club."

"In Kastasoon."

"We have some very enthusiastic members."

"One in particular. Besides, you have no money."

"I'll get some."

"Why only a thousand? Isn't he worth more than that?"

"A lot more!"

"Don't you see?"

"What?"

"It's a joke."

"A joke?"

"Pete is playing a prank on you."

"But why?"

"Because he's angry. About us."

"It wasn't Pete."

"How do you know?"

"It wasn't his voice."

"Someone else then. A friend maybe."

"He doesn't have any friends."

"Some drunk in a bar then."

"You don't know. You're not in the business."

"Neither are you."

"I was!"

"No you weren't," Myrtle snapped. "You were just the doorman of a shabby little theatre that went bankrupt."

Oscar was shocked.

"How can you say that?"

"I'm sorry Oscar but it's true."

*

"So," Jimmy said, waving his knife in the air, "you wanna borrow some money."

"Yes," Oscar answered.

"How much?" he asked, slicing off a piece of ham.

"A thousand dollars."

"You like the horses?"

"What?"

"You know," he said, popping the meat into his mouth, "the horses. Gambling."

"Certainly not!"

"Well, I just ask. Tony."

"Yeah boss?"

Jimmy pointed his knife at Oscar. "Give him his money."

Tony pulled out a big wad of bills, peeled off ten hundreds and gave them to Oscar.

"Ten percent," Jimmy said. "A week. Don't forget."

"I won't."

"Better not."

*

Oscar followed the instructions exactly. He put the money in a paper bag and left it beside the bench. Minutes later Pete walked up and collected the bag. He wasn't nervous. He knew Oscar wouldn't call the police or hang around to watch. Besides, he could always just say it was a joke since he hadn't actually kidnapped Barkie. Truth was, he wasn't even expecting any money and half thought there might be a sandwich inside instead. The whole point was to create conflict between Oscar and his mom. That he had actually managed to raise the money was a disturbing surprise. Now he was nervous and hurriedly left the park.

*

When Myrtle came home that evening she expected to find Oscar still sulking about the slight and her refusal to pay Barkie's ransom but, to her relief, he didn't seem to bear her any ill will at all. On the contrary, he was quite cheerful. Not only that: he made her dinner. Admittedly, it was just macaroni and cheese with a few mangled hotdogs tossed in for colour but she happily took it for the peace offering she believed it to be.

The following days brought more good news as Oscar got a part-time job at Pet Purfect where, as he put it, I get to clean cages and everything. To celebrate, Myrtle took him to her favourite restaurant for dinner where Oscar was amazed to discover that food could come in courses, with one dish following another rather than all at once on a plastic tray.

Even Pete was less of a problem since he never seemed to be home.

Maybe he's got a girlfriend, Myrtle thought, and wondered what kind of woman would go for him. Someone antisocial no doubt, with ripped clothes and jagged jewelry who, like him, enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and sneering at the world. Misery loves company but contempt is a close second.

The only problem was Oscar's insistence they get married. Myrtle understood: it was the nature of innocence to believe that marriage solved your problems when, in fact, it just created more. As someone who had been both married and divorced, she knew only too well how that mad rush of emotion can mutate into a lifelong hatred. No, it was better to go slow. Much better. But how to convince him of that?

Mabel, as usual, had some inappropriate advice.

"Just lie," she said. "Tell him you'll marry him but not now. 'Cause you're in mourning for your mom or something."

"I don't know," Myrtle replied. "That doesn't seem right."

"Nonsense," Mabel insisted. "The best marriages are built on lies."

She should know. How else had she and Rudy lasted so long? She had tried, really she had, to explain why shopping gave her such a thrill and he had looked at her like she was an alien. As for him... try as she might, she could never understand why he liked getting up at four to sit in a cold hole and blast birds out of the sky. It was a guy thing, like his obsession with tools and never asking for directions. I'll figure it out, he would say, as he drove them ever deeper into confusion. Communication was a mistake because it led to arguments and frustration. It was better, much better, to just live in your own world and lie. Honesty was always the worst policy.

"Maybe," Myrtle admitted, "but I still don't like it."

"That's your problem," Mabel told her. "You're too kind. You know what they say: nice guys finish last."

"They certainly do," Myrtle said with a smile. "They certainly do."

*

Oscar was happy. It was partly Myrtle. Things were going so well. True, she still wouldn't marry him but he was confident he could win her over. You just have to woo her, Pastor Wilcox told him. Take her out on a date. Something romantic, like miniature golf. That he approved, albeit grudgingly, of the relationship was a major relief to Oscar. And he had a job. It wasn't the Palace - nothing could be - but at least he got to be around animals. Now he could go back to church and hold his head high confident he was contributing to society by cleaning poop from cages.

But the big thing, the one that really made him happy, was Barkie: he had saved him from the dognappers. The studio was bound to be pleased. Sometimes, while scrapping shit from a cage, Oscar would let his mind wander and he saw himself being awarded a medal. It would have to be secret of course so as not to encourage copycat criminals. Just a small ceremony, at the Palace preferably or somewhere equally classy: Dino's say or Motel Okay. Surrounding him were his friends, old and new: Dale and Ralph and Louise and Camila and Myrtle and Mr. Johnstone and even Pete - and as the production assistant pinned the medal to his chest they all burst into applause. The thought made him giddy.

Now all he had to do was come up with his payment. He considered asking Myrtle for the money but was reluctant since she had refused him once already and didn't want to risk upsetting her. Maybe Mr. Hofmeister could help.

"An advance!" the pet shop proprietor exclaimed. "What are you, a communist?"

"Certainly not!"

Oscar didn't know much about politics but he did know that communists were bad. For one thing, their movies were boring, all about workers laying bricks and stuff like that. Not that he had seen any. Such films never played at the Palace. Only at the university. Where, according to Pastor Wilcox, people reveled in sin by watching foreign films. Oh sure, they called it art but he wasn't fooled: what was European but a euphemism for nudity? Besides, they had banned The Incredulous Journey, dismissing it as sentimental bourgeois nonsense. There was just no reasoning with people like that.

"Then why do you want something for nothing?"

Mr. Hofmeister was as conservative as they come. According to him, the death penalty was insufficient. They don't suffer enough, he'd say, and lamented that the lash had been outlawed. One of the few failings of democracy, he believed, was its kindness to criminals. Was it a coincidence that human rights began with the guillotine? He thought not.

This also applied to his employees. Anyone who called in sick was a red. And what were paid holidays but a license to loaf? Health and safety were all very fine and well but someone had to clean the cages and masks cost money. That you might get a debilitating injury was just something you had to accept, especially if you wanted minimum wage.

The world was no better. All this talk of detente was coddling the reds. No wonder they had taken over half of Europe. Not the good half of course, the one with old buildings and rude waiters and cheeses that smell bad. Just the big boring parts, full of peasants and potatoes. Lord knows why the Germans had wanted that but they had and now everyone there was saying nyet.

Not that they were planning on stopping there. It was just a hop, skip and a jump over the North Pole, the arctic tundra and the boreal forest to Kastasoon but he would be ready for them. Unlike most people, who had either lost their edge or gotten lazy, Mr. Hofmeister was ready for the apocalypse. Against his wife's advice, he had built a bomb shelter beneath the gazebo and stocked it with such essentials as beef jerky and beer. Many of his happiest moments in fact were spent down there, chewing on jerky and waiting for the end of the world - which, oddly enough, was very late in coming. What was the point of having nuclear weapons if you weren't willing to use them? Surely the Soviets understood that.

"Not nothing," Oscar explained. "A loan. I'll pay you back."

Mr. Hofmeister's frown deepened. The world was full of people who needed money but very few deserved it. What most in fact deserved was a kick in the pants. The worst were those who said they didn't care about money and then asked for some. Occasionally, late at night, he had dreams of walking alone down a dark street, his pockets bulging with bills, when, suddenly, out of nowhere, a gang of greasy hippies accosted him, thrust their hands into his pockets and stripped him of his cash.

"A loan," he repeated, equally unimpressed. "What for?"

Oscar told him about Jimmy and the thousand dollars he had borrowed, but not about Barkie or the dognappers.

"A loan shark? We can't have gamblers here. You might steal something, some pet food say and sell it on the sly."

Oscar assured him he would never do such a thing.

"How do I know that?"

Good point, Oscar thought. And so, to prove his honesty, he offered to take a pay cut, which Mr. Hofmeister rapidly accepted.

"Just don't tell the others," he said. "Or they'll all want one."

*

As the date of his payment approached, Oscar wondered how he would make it. Maybe he would have to tell Myrtle after all. Pondering his predicament, he spotted a penny on the floor. Of course! Pete's money. Scattered around the house was some cash, not much, coins mostly and a few small bills, which Myrtle left for him as a sort of incidental allowance. It's not stealing if I pay her back, he thought. All he had to do was keep track and replace it when he got paid. With luck, no one would even notice. Myrtle would think Pete took the money and Pete would think she had stopped putting it out for him. Deep down Oscar knew it was wrong but what could he do? Not paying your debts was also wrong.

Unfortunately, all he could find was twenty-two dollars, which Jimmy graciously accepted as a late fee. Now you owe me eleven hundred, he said. And the vig is a hundred and ten. Oscar had never heard of compound interest before and struggled with the concept. How could he give someone money and yet owe them more? The same thing happened the following week. If anything, things were worse since Jimmy seemed a bit upset by Oscar's repeated failure to make his payment. You're going to have to do better than this, he said. Or else. The next week Oscar got paid and gave him some of his salary. All of it, actually. Not only were the wages at Pet Purfect lower than those of the Palace, working part-time further reduced his income. Who knew that cleaning cages could be so unrewarding? All he was able to do, in fact, was make his payment. But, for some reason, the interest not only remained but grew. And so he found himself falling further and further behind.

*

Myrtle was confused. Her glasses, which she had recently put down, were missing.

What did I do with them? she wondered, fearing, not for the first time, that she was starting to go senile. They were right here.

Searching around, she found a piece of paper, clearly written by Oscar, titled myrtle's money and her heart sank.

Why, she wondered, do they all turn out to be bastards?

*

To his credit, Oscar did not deny taking the money. On the contrary, he immediately broke down, confessed and, tears in his eyes, asked for forgiveness. Not so fast, Myrtle replied, and demanded to know what he had spent it on. Her first thought was that he had bought more dog porn but unfortunately, the truth was far worse: he had borrowed money from a loan shark to pay that idiotic ransom. That was the moment Myrtle realized it was hopeless and that, no matter how nice he was or how much she liked him, he was only going to bring her grief. She had been in a lot of bad relationships, often longer than she should've, and knew from experience the sooner you cut the cord the better. Tears were shed and sad words spoken but, in the end, Oscar agreed to leave as soon as possible.

Fortunately for him, Mr. Hofmeister doubled as a slumlord. Above his pet shop were several small windowless rooms which he rented out to recovering alcoholics, not all of whom had willingly given up the bottle. Several, in fact, were there by court order and their welfare cheque went directly to Mr. Hofmeister who not only took the bulk of it for rent but also charged them a small but far from insignificant management fee and then doled out the rest as a weekly allowance. I'm helping them get back on their feet, he would say, and took pride in the fact that most of his tenants preferred it to prison.

Once inside, Oscar failed to find the bed.

"It's behind this wall," Mr. Hofmeister said, and pulled it down as proof.

Splattered with stains, it filled the room like a swollen tongue. The kitchen was a hotplate, its single burner paved in grease. Dirty dishes filled the sink, garbage sprawled out of an overturned can and beer bottles, stuffed with cigarettes, clustered uncollected.

"Sorry," Mr. Hofmeister said. "It's the dead man's room."

*

"Glad I caught you. Been meaning to introduce myself. Wallace F. Tisdale. The F is for Frank. Like to think I am. But you can call me Wally. Everyone else does. Consider myself a sort of welcome wagon. Always meet the new guys, give them a few tips on how things work around here and help them feel at home. Just my nature. Most guys, they don't bother. Just sit in their room and get stewed. Not that it's allowed. The owner has rules about that. Too many fights. And fires. And guys screaming in the middle of the night. Still, guys do it. But you don't look the type. No Wally, I thought, soon as I seen you, this guy's a gentleman. Quiet. Reasonable. Generous. What's your story? Married? Didn't think so. Don't look it. Got that never been tamed look. Just like me. No matter. Better off that way. Less to regret. Working? Glad to see you're still able. A lot of guys... well, they're past it. Drunk half the time and crazy the rest. Had a lot of jobs myself. Always thought I'd end up somewhere but it never happened. Just kept moving. Prefer to see that as a positive. The sign of a curious nature. Pet Purfect, eh? I've been there. Did some temp work for them once. Nice place. Good lunchroom. Hotdogs every Wednesday. Was tempted to stay but... you know. Not sure they'd take me anyway. Too old. Funny thing that. When you're young, it's all right there in front of you like a smorge. Only thing is, you're not hungry. Too busy dancing with the girls and having a good time. And then, round midnight, when the party's almost over and you're starving, you go to the table but it's too late. All gone. Just a few broken crackers and some stale salami and you wonder, where did it all go?"

*

Pete felt bad. He had both drunk and smoked too much. By all rights, he should be puking and it was more than possible that he might yet have that pleasure. The problem with starting early, he realized, is that by the time everyone else gets there, you're too wasted to talk. Not that there was any particular anyone. He just went to the bar and talked to whoever was there. It was one of the many advantages of not having friends. You didn't have to make plans. Being a student also had its advantages: unlike workers, upon whom sobriety intruded a good third of the day, you could start drinking the moment you got up - assuming that is, you didn't bother with such trivialities as classes. Some people, and Pete was one of them, even considered it romantic to skip classes and fail tests. Success is for squares, he would say, and was proud of the fact he didn't have a future. You can't fail if you don't try. There was even literary precedent for it, all those books about lonely losers that college kids ate up. Posers, he thought, sneering silently, convinced that, of his cohort, he alone was one of the authentic few. And yet...

Something wasn't right. He had begun the day by celebrating his success in wrecking his mother's romance but now felt almost remorseful. They had certainly deserved it but his mother's tears and Oscar's absence made him wonder if he had done the right thing. Maybe he should've just let them be. Myrtle would've tired of him eventually and maybe, in time, they could've gone back to being friends. But he was gone and it was too late. Lifting his head from the bar, Pete looked around for a friendly face. A pair of cute college girls stood a few feet away. One of them smiled at him. He smiled back.

"Don't bother," the other said. "He's gay."

*

Finished, Oscar deposited his dish in the sink.

Moments later a timid knock echoed about the room. Getting up from the edge of his bed, he opened the door. It was Pete. In his hand was a half-drunk bottle of wine which he awkwardly offered as a housewarming gift. Oscar let him in.

"Nice place you got here," he said, regarding the room with evident approval. Small but self-contained, it was a hovel one could call home. The perfect place to hide out from humanity or write a book that would shake society.

Just then the sink backed up, engulfing the dish in a sudden pool of sewer vomit.

"Maybe we should go out."

*

Pete took a drink from his bottle, which was now almost empty. Hidden behind some trees, the two men were sitting in a park, Pete drinking and talking and Oscar doing neither.

"I know you're sad now," he said. "But you'll thank me later."

"For what?" Oscar asked.

"Breaking you up."

Oscar was confused. "Break us up? How?"

"I had that guy call you. About the dog."

"Barkie?"

"Yeah."

Oscar was shocked. He knew that Pete disapproved of their romance but to deprive millions of children of quality entertainment by dognapping their hero... He stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"Oh, come on. Don't be like that."

"Pete..."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to be friends anymore."

"Fuck you!" Pete yelled as, leaping up, he threw his bottle into a bush. "You fucked my mom and I forgave you and now this?"

"Sorry."

"Fuck you!" he repeated, and walked away.

*

What a day! So beautiful. And to think he had almost spent it sitting inside with that fat woman who fed him dusty rocks. Thank God for Jehovah Witnesses. And salesmen and deliverymen and anyone else who came to her door. Was usually pretty careful but made a mistake today and he went for it. Since then he had had a great day, chasing cats and eating garbage. Now if he could just find something to fuck. A poodle! Go! Go! Go!

HRRRRRRRRR!

Clancy looked up. A car! Right in front of him! Forgetting the poodle, he tried to turn - too late!

Oh no, he thought, as it slammed into him. The fat woman. She was right.

*

Stuart's first impulse was to keep going, like that time he hit a pole on his way home from Snarky's. But then he saw a young man in tears approaching his car.

Fuck, he thought. Just what I need.

"It was an accident," he said. "He ran right in front of me."

"I know," Pete replied. "I saw."

Stuart felt relieved. The guy wasn't angry. And he was in the clear guilt-wise. All he had to do was show a little remorse and he'd be out of here. Ten minutes max.

"I feel awful. Is there anything I can do? Push him to the side or something?"

"What?"

"Shit, sorry. Just making things worse, I know. Here," he said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a twenty.

"What's that for?"

"Your dog."

"You think you can buy me off with a lousy twenty?"

"No, no, it's just... how much do you need?"

"Two hundred should do it."

"For a dog?"

"For Barkie," Pete replied, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

*

"Courier."

Oscar opened the door. A bald man in a drab uniform stood scowling before him; stretched by his stomach, his shirt sported several slits, one of which opened up over his bellybutton, revealing an oasis of hair.

"Sign here."

Oscar did so. "What is it?"

The courier looked surprised.

"How the hell would I know?"

Oscar sat on his bed and opened the box. Inside was a note.

Fuck you, it read. The blame is yours. Goodbye.

Oscar pulled back the tissue paper. Beneath it was a big black paw, its matted fur stained with blood.

*

Jesus, Wally thought. Talk about weak. Half a dozen drinks and he was passed out like a teenager. No way he was a drunk. Something else must've brought him here.

He grabbed the bottle and was about to go back to his room when he noticed Oscar's wallet lying on the floor.

No, he thought, you don't do that. Not to a friend. But then again, he hardly knew the guy. And he was green. He needed to learn.

*

"Quick!" Lorne cried. "Call an ambulance!"

"Why?" Dean asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's Mr. Hofmeister. He passed out!"

"Oh, he always does that. Especially on Friday."

"No, no, I mean it. One minute he's sitting there talking about kitty litter and the next, boom, head down on his desk."

"Okay, I'll go with him. Michelle, call his wife. And Oscar, you make the deposit. Can you do that?"

"I think so."

*

"Freeland."

Oscar turned around. Behind him, blocking the exit, was Tony.

"You missed your payment."

"Sorry," Oscar replied. "Someone stole my wallet."

"End of the week Freeland. You know that."

"I'll pay you double next time."

"Doesn't work that way," Tony informed him.

"But-"

"What's in the bag?"

"My deposit."

"Hand it over."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's not mine."

"So?"

Oscar hesitated. Then, grabbing the handle, he opened the box and dropped the bag down the chute.

"Bad choice."

*

"Whoa," Pete said. "This is strong stuff."

"Sure is," Dale replied. "My guy knows his shit."

They had met up somehow, at a bar somewhere, each on their own private pub crawl, and come to the Commodore in search of dope. No problem, Dale had insisted. We'll be in and out in no time. But they hadn't. Pete had had to pass a very nervous hour or two before Dale's connection finally arrived and they were able to get their weed. The question now was where to smoke it. The washroom was the natural place but Pete was worried about his safety and Dale didn't want to share. Fortunately, Dale was friends with the clerk. He lets me crash here when I'm wasted, he explained. And I let him into the peep show for free.

"It's kind of hot," Pete said. "Can we open a window?"

"Fuck no," Dale answered. "They're nailed shut."

"Why?"

"Too many jumpers."

"But it's only the third floor."

"So?"

Leaping up, Dale took off his shirt and tossed it onto the bed.

"Look at this," he said, flexing his muscles. "You like that?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Bet you do."

Stepping forward, he stood in front of Pete and unzipped his fly.

"Hey!"

"Come on," Dale said as, grabbing Pete's hair, he pushed his head into his crotch. "Don't fight it."

No, Pete thought, his heart pounding with panic. But then his lips opened and he took the cock in his mouth.

"Good boy," Dale said. "Always knew you were a fag."

*

"Down the hall," the nurse said, "and to your right."

"Thanks," Myrtle replied, and continued on.

Outside the door she paused.

Propped up by a pillow, Oscar lay in bed watching TV; sad and swollen, he stared blankly at the screen.

She went inside.

*

The bus driver, a burly guy with a crew cut, stepped aboard carrying a coffee and deposited it in the drink-holder. Then, having adjusted his seat, he closed the door and backed out of the garage.

Same old city, Pete thought, looking out onto the quiet streets.

His father, now divorced for the second time and seeking to undo some of the mistakes of his life, had invited Pete to spend the summer with him. This Pete had accepted, the anger of many years washed away by a few words. He was even on better terms with his mother, having shocked her by apologizing for ruining her romance. That she and Oscar were back together eased the path of forgiveness. Not that he was planning on coming back. School was a washout. Failure may be glorious but you had to do something after and he didn't see a future for himself in Kastasoon. Not after what happened with Dale. No, he needed somewhere bigger and a lot more anonymous.

A few people, mostly elderly, stubbornly strolled the otherwise empty sidewalks. Shops, although open, looked sad and sleepy.

So this is how it ends. No big goodbyes or fond farewells. Just a few isolated strangers, too busy with their own lives to notice mine.

Just as well.

*

"How about some ice cream?"

"Sure."

"Be right back."

Oscar watched Myrtle walk away. Slim and sexy, she drew more than her share of stares.

In the center of the park was a jazz band whose cheerful music celebrated summer. Children played. Girls suntanned. A group of teenagers in shorts tossed a Frisbee around. Flung too far, it landed in the lap of an old man who, sound asleep, was missing all the fun. Retrieving it, the teen returned to his game.

Only then did Oscar see the blind man. In front of him was a dog whose face he had seen a thousand times before. Attached to his harness was a sign that read: Please Don't Pet Me. I'm Working.

He smiled.

###

Thanks for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm not a prolific writer. On the contrary, it took me decades to write this. It started out as a farce but, as my life became more serious, so did it. It's hard to know when something is truly finished but I don't think I can take this story any further. I do, however, intend to continue on with many of the same characters. The ones who interest me the most right now are Mabel and Dale. Maybe you can see that. It'll be a long time before the next installment is ready but, in the meantime, if you enjoyed this, please leave a review at the site where you downloaded it. Thanks again.

About the author: William Schrader is an English teacher living in Japan

Connect with me: mailto:willschra@gmail.com
