When Ryan got up that morning, he knew before his eyes were
open that the math was against him. He didn’t have the cash. He had to walk. It
wasn’t that far. He had done it dozens of times.
Tick tick. Tick tick.
He could smell fresh cigarette smoke rising up through the
century old floor from the room below. Rooney was smoking. If he was awake, the
man was smoking. He would smoke until he died.That was taking a lot longer than Ryan had thought it would.
It’s weird about some people. It’s as though smoking helps them live
longer. He talked to the guy once since he had
moved into the unit..
His accent was English in the way that must have been very identifiable but Ryan couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t My Fair Lady. It would be like trying to tell
the difference between a Scottish and an Irish brogue or Australian and New
Zealand based on movies. Maybe he was Welsh. Ryan was sure the second hand smoke was
taking two days from his life for every day he stayed at the place. It was like
living above an old dragon that no longer killed with violence but breathed out
poisonous fire, smoke and brimstone all day long while waiting to pass
away. He had the voice for it.
His eyes popped open and it felt like he had been slapped on
the back of the head.
He didn’t know why he had become such a poisonous thinker; the
kind of person who looked at life with such bitterness. He shook that from his mind.
It’s because you’re an asshole
and you’re too fucking old to do anything about it.
That’s why Rooney smoked
all the time. It wasn’t that he had lost his fair maiden to a prince. He just didn’t give a shit anymore. The poison became
thicker.
Tick tick. Tick tick.
Who was he kidding? He had smoked far worse in this
unit than old Rooney did down below. At
least as far as he knew; who knew anything about anyone these days? A chill ran through his body and he could feel the cold
sweats soaked deep into the mattress lurking like a gelatinous
ghost, biological and phantasm.
His body shivered and his memory was cast into darkness. It was the days of suicide and Ryan had smoked and drank with the intention of that night being
the last one. He changed his mind but when he came to his senses he had
lost the sun. He would be passed out all day long until he would awaken to see
the last rays of light sink away with cruelty.
He desperately wanted to stay awake to meet the day, but he could not get through the
night sober and nearly drowned in darkness. The memory roared through his body with more purpose and
settled with a clammy grip in his shoulders. He shook his head as the hair on
his arms rose and he felt the twinge in the broken rib that never healed
properly.
Drinking. Drinking. Drinking.
He flashed to his brother Laurence. His
face was right into his face and back into his face. He was him in that smile.
And they laughed. “A man who drinks like that….He’s going to die.” Big gulp of
water. “When?”
His brother could quote all of Blazing Saddles to him it was hilarious, to Ryan it was the most honest history of the United States on film. The line, “We will take the Chinks and Niggers…but we won’t take
the Irish” really had an impact on him. He recalls being offended when he first heard it. It was shocking that a White Man was put
in category lower than a Man of Colour. It made him think about himself.
He smiles in the dark and shifts the blankets squeezing out whatever comfort they offer. He pulls his arms into his body and rubs his legs together until the chill of the memory retreats.
The wind picked up outside with a sharpened scream and
reclaimed his attention. It was going to be wicked cold but once he got to
Portage and Main he would take the underground maze into the warmth. It made
the walk farther but it would be out of the wind.
Tick tick. Tick tick.
He rolled on his side and reached for his device. It was
8:47. He had almost two hours. He rolled into a sitting
position but did not touch his bare feet to the hardwood floor which would be cold
as concrete. In the murk, he sighted his moccasins and reached outward
delicately with his left foot. The tips of his toes felt the fur lining. He slipped
in his foot pressing against the floor with the ball to secure the slipper.
The soft leather was cold but was beginning to warm as his
heat connected to the life force that remained in the moose hide. The drum on
the wall made a ping in affirmative and Ryan nodded his head in reflexive
acknowledgement. With his right foot he hooked into the other moccasin and
lifted it up and across his knee and snugged it tight with his left hand taking
time to feel the comfort of the rabbit fur between his fingers.
He crossed his left foot up and snugged the other moccasin
with his right hand. This time he held the fur between his fingers longer and
he tried to find a memory. He spun the silk of the fur and then traveled deeper to the
supple strength of the moose hide. He
ran his hand over the sheen of the moccasin bottom. It was worn smooth and
thinner from the wear and weight but somehow seemed stronger and more
impenetrable.
He ran his hands up onto the beadwork. The flower beadwork
people. He could see his Grandmother smile. He brought his hand back to the fur
trim and with practiced delicacy he grasped as much of the fur trim as possible
with all five fingertips. And with gentle and determined pressure he ran his fingers
back and forth along the fur trim. His thumb and middle finger rubbed and pulled
upon each other on the edge of the moose hide and then were brought up to his nose and breathed in with deep hunger.
It was still there. The smoke of the hide and the life and
sweat and the prayers and the dreams and the life of all and the feeling that
sometime somewhere ago it was all the way it was supposed to be. He tried to reach out towards Grandpa and find that story about
the days gone by that would help him get up and get on with the day. He could
feel a warm hand at the base of his neck gently pushing him forward. He could picture the smile and he could smell the smoke. It
was the moosehide and the smoke and something else. Something burning.
Cigarette.
“Shit.”
Ryan put his foot on the floor with a bang and then pulled
his quilt around his shoulders and stood up.
“Fuck you, Rooney.” He muttered.
A long fit of coughing and hacking greeted upwards.
It was going to be a long day.
Tick tick. Tick tick.
He could hear the monkey dancing.
There would be no sunshine on this day but the solar powered monkey on the
window sill was swinging side to side.
Tick tick. Tick tick.
It danced with its little brown arms stretched upwards and reaching
to an invisible sun.
***