Vendredi

(the events described below take place approximately eight months after Simon's disappearance)

The room is completely dark, lit only by Biscuit’s cigarette and the beam of the streetlight shining in. I stare over at the faint ghost on the other side of the room. Biscuit hasn’t moved for hours. He just lies in bed, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m so bored I’m going crazy,” I say, hoping to elict some kind of response. I have no idea why it surprises me when there is none.
“I heard Cassie called.”
Biscuit takes a drag off his cigarette.
“She’s, uh, she’s been throwing up a lot lately.”
Biscuit looks over at me, but just for a second.
“Is she, um, is she like preagnant…”
-there is a quick glimpse in my head, the image of a young girl in her twenties keeling over as a sudden pain comes over her-
“…or something?”
Biscuit makes a low, quick, moaning sound in the back of his throat.
“Well, I’m, uh, I’m going out – like right now, yeah,” I say, and as usual, there is no response from Biscuit.

***

I’m outside, walking down the street with my hands in my pockets and thinking of home, of fishing with Warren Proyas, of lighting magazines on fire behind Mr. Botnick’s car, of chasing my sister into a deserted woodshack, of stealing pills from Simon’s grandmother’s medicine cabinet when I realize I have no idea where I am. I have become lost in the suburban maze and eventually succumb to panic when I cannot locate a street sign anywhere. I walk in a complete circle around a green dumpster sitting on the curb before sitting down on in the middle of the street.
It is very quiet in this suburb and I can faintly hear cars in the distance. I wonder if anyone in the cars knows me. I turn my head and look at the house on the other side of the street. I spot a window on the ground floor. Through it I can see a girl, slightly older than me combing her hair in front of a mirror. I study her for a long time to make sure I don’t know her and have never met her before I get out my cellphone and dial 411.
I have done this so many times that the process is automatic. Jodie Mercer is my operator tonight.
“Good evening, how can I help you?”
“Hey…ah…Jodie. What’s…what’s up?”
“God damn it, Vendredi, what do you want now?”
“I’m, um, I’m on this street…”
“You know that what you’re doing is illegal.”
“Uh…”
“It’s sexual harassment, Vendredi.”
“I just…want to know…what’s – what’s right…you know?”
“I’m sure it could even be constituted as rape.”
“Could you just…help me here, Jodie? I mean, I am, like, lost, you know.”
-the girl is clutching her stomach-
“Fine. Whatever. Where are you?”
“Well, I like, went walking, and I turned a right on Temple Fields, and I, I headed into the graves and,uh, past there…”
There is an incredibly exasperated sigh from Jodie. “You’re out by Mossy Hill? What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just…you know, I just like, well, got here…you know?”
There is another sigh.
“Okay,” Jodie says impatiently. “If you walked straight past the upper graves you should on Brown Place, which makes sense because you’re lost and there aren’t any street signs-“
“Yes-“
“And all I need from you now is the house number.”
I walk backwards a few steps, backing into the street that the house actually faces and quickly spot the gold numbers by the front door.
“78180.”
“419-2232. Go have fun, you sick fucking freak.” Jodie hangs up.
“Yeah…yeah,” I say to the dial tone before hanging up and calling the number.

***

I wake up, not moving a muscle, and assess the situation. The girl’s sheets are clean, uncomfortably clean (not good, but not a major problem) and she has posters on her wall (good) of bands – Placebo, Sum 41, The White Stripes – and one signed Jon Spencer Blues Explosion t-shirt hanging on a nail next to the door (all good[not the bands, but the fact that she has posters]). She also has some artwork (not good), most of it on posters (not good), but some of it is in specially marked posters (bad) presumably bought at the museums the artwork was on display at (very bad). The room itself is messy (good), although I don’t quite remember if it was that way when I came in yesterday, and I seem to remember her wearing a blue shirt with a stencilled picture of a woman on it (bad).
I very carefully turn onto my side, facing the girl’s room. Her clothes are lying around on the floor. I chew on my lip as I reach deep inside me, searching for anything that might mean I care. How often has she worn that bra? How many people have dreamt about her? Who gave her that Oasis album? How often has she listened to it? What did her parents think when she got her bellybutton pierced? Do they even know?
I admit I am curious, but I don’t care. Not really. I stare at her stereo system, the No Doubt CD that was playing last night long since finished. The stereo’s LED blinks happily in the dawn light, ready to serve, eager to please. It has no doubts,no second thoughts, no need to prove anything, no need, even, to find fulfillment in it’s faithfulness, it sees no necessity in purpose. The only thing it has ever known is patient service. The emptiness in my soul threatens to swallow my mind, and I curl up carefully so as not to wake the girl and sob into my knees, all too aware of my nudity.

***

I walk through the cloudy daylight, silently wishing I had not walked quite so far last night.
I cannot see the girl’s face, but I hear her voice, at first a gentle whisper, inquisitive, curious and unsure what’s wrong, but as she slowly turns-
I fumble for my keys outside the apartment door, suppressing a shudder. I wish I hadn’t cried, but not really. I finally find my keys, closing my eyes and tilting my head back as I put them in the lock and turn them. I step through the doorway and take off my shoes, a process that I get very wrapped up in.
I gently pull the two lace-ends apart until the bow on my left shoe unfolds, and then pull the overlapping end of the remaining knot off the other end, letting it flop softly against the side of my shoe. As for the bow on my right shoe, I pull only one lace-end – the one facing toward me – and let the knot dissolve in a slightly more complicated fashion. I then sit there in silence looking at my untied shoes for eleven minutes.
I close my eyes to better suppress a sob, but fail and feel tears running down my cheeks. When I open my eyes again I notice something. There is a small, grayish chip of something resting just past the threshold of the door leading to the hallway. I reach over to touch it. It is slightly soggy, and has the texture of something that used to be very wet but is now dry and crusty. It isn’t until I smell it that I realize what it is: a piece of vomit. I flick it into the hallway and stare at the parted door at the end of it.
“Biscuit?”
There is no answer.
“Uh…Biscuit?”
Still, there is no answer, and I wonder if he heard me cry.
“Biz?”
I decide to use his real name, for no obvious reason.
“Warren? Are you home?”
Somewhere in the apartment, a throat clears.
“Yes.”
When I step into Biscuit’s room I look at everything in it but him. Anything is better than having to look at him. Not that the room looks any better. Cans and shards of glass lie everywhere, with puddles of wetness glistening in the scant daylight reflected in through the hallway. One of the shelves by the back wall has been completely smashed, and a box of vinyls in the corner has been ripped apart, with it’s contents strewn across the room. I can see the cover of The Shamen’s Axis Mutatis lying ripped apart on the bed.
“So like…what, um, what’d you do…last night?” I ask.
Biscuit sniffles in reply, and I’m suddenly aware of someone standing behind me.
“Nothing a little chewing gum and vicadin can’t fix,” says a familiar voice, and I turn my head to see Tanner standing shirtless in the doorway behind me holding a cup of coffee.
“Oh, um, hey, man,” I say. “So I guess you’re like, back now, huh.”
“Fuckin’ right I am,” Tanner says and takes a sip of his coffee. “You look like shit,” he says to Biscuit before stalking off in the direction of the bathroom. I look at biscuit, expecting to find him exasperated and annoyed, but I am mildly surprised to find the most sincere and open expression on his face, and although it takes me a while, I eventually figure out what that look is: it is Biscuit being scared. At this exact moment, Biscuit is the most deliriously terrified I have ever seen him, or anyone else.

Serenity

(the events described below occur approximately 18 months after Simon's disappearance)

I wake up to the sound of my body screaming for water. I half-turn in the bed, wondering where I am while trying to peel apart eyes glued shut by dried sweat, tears and hastily applied make-up. I vaguely remember falling asleep to the sound of a voice -his voice- singing and a slightly out-of-tune guitar softly ringing. For some reason I desperately try to remember the lyrics to whatever song he was playing.
I finally open my eyes and realize I'm looking at someone -him- and he's hunched over, sitting on the edge of the bed and I think he's crying...
I have a hard time staying awake and I try to ask him for water but my voice fails me and instead I cough and he turns around and he's about to say something but doesn't and I realize he's looking at the sheets and I realize I coughed up blood...
...I pass out.
***
It's probably hours later and I wake up. I have two glasses of water but can't keep them down, and barf clear, watery sludge mixed with random bits of food into the toilet and collapse against the bathroom wall, wiping my mouth off with my top. I close my eyes, searching my body for any signs of what might make me feel better. Where is he? Why do they always leave like that? Is it some macho guy thing? Would it kill them to ask how I feel or if I'm gonna be okay or if I want some breakfast or some shit?
I instantly regret thinking about breakfast; the very thought of food shoves me reeling back to the toilet and I dry-heave agonizingly, feeling every muscle in my torso contract reflexively to bring up the food that isn't there. I give myself a small measure of credit when I realize I held my hair back. After several moments of gathering strength I open my eyes and stare into the toilet at a bloated wad of something covered in a tattered square of tan paper: a cigarette butt. I shudder and decide not to remember what I did last night.
***
Oh well, I think to myself, at least I figured out what I want. I'm sitting outside in the remarkably uncold breeze, watching the snow reflect early afternoon sunlight with solemn, hung-over calm and smoke the best cigarette of my life. There are not many moments that I enjoy living so far away from downtown, but this is definetely one of them. I am particularly glad there is no-one around to see me in this state, or to be bothered by the Bonnie Prince Billy wafting lethargically out of the kitchen window.
I take a long drag of my cigarette and ponder what I'm going to wear to Steini's thing tonight. My orange blouse is still at Lara's house and I just can't wear that thing Vendredi got me, even though it looks pretty good with my brown skirt.
I'm sitting there, wondering if the cooling air and my bralessness are wreaking havoc upon my modesty, when I spot two figures making their way over the hill across from my apartment. Although they are far away, silhouetted against the still-rising sun and I don't have my contacts on, I have a decent idea of who they are. I take a long drag off my cigarette, listening closely to the faint rustle of smoldering tobacco, and brace myself.
They're my manhunters, my detectives, my darlings and my devils. They're the reason I'm here, strung out on my ass in the middle of nowhere, working awful shifts in awful bars, and sleeping with awful guys in awful apartments; they're the ones that found Simon.
***
"We met someone yesterday," the tall one says.
We are sitting in my apartment now. The CD has finished and the three hours or so of daylight are spent. I'm lighting another cigarette. I closed the window when I let them in, leaving the smoke to waft freely around the single large room that is my home here.
I met them when they came to Stephenville looking for someone, a guy I don't know called Warren Schreifels. They said Warren and Simon had known each other. They'd been friends.
So, they told me some stories about him. Said he'd been spending a lot of time at a local bar in their neighbourhood (hardly a coincidence, seeing as there's only one real 'neighbourhood' here), and that they'd gotten to know Simon pretty well. Anyway, they were badly in need of work and a reason to leave the country (I don't think I'd need that strong of a reason to leave this shithole), so Simon told them about this kid Warren, who was in NYU and writing a thesis on some rare disease, and they'd known a guy who had it. Simon said Warren would pay them for an interview, and they got in touch and agreed to meet while Warren was on his summer break in Stephenville.
I met them at a party. No-one had seen or heard from Simon in months. We talked. Hearing Simon's name brought tears to my eyes. I went home and cried until dawn, which is when I made up my mind: I was just going to have to go there and find the fucker. I said I'd personally pay for all our plane rides back, offer to share an apartment with them and basically offer them anything short of my body if they'd help me find him. They agreed, saying it sounded far more interesting than some disease.
I couldn't pronounce their names, but one was slightly taller than the other. They had several other differences in appearance, but height seemed the best way to diffrentiate the two.
At first I had had a little bit of a crush on the short one, but eventually, the tall one started hitting on me, and I grew to like him more, even though he often annoys the living shit out of me. I suppose the little 'thing' I had for the short one was just that, just one of those things you have on people for a while, until you realise the personality you think they have is something you made up, a false hope at the end of a collapsing tunnel of loneliness. Every once in a while though, I'll catch him watching me flirt with the tall one, and his eyes will fill with such a rabid, burning and disgusted hatred that it stays with you for days. There's something about those eyes...
"Who?" I ask while putting out my cigarette, not really in the mood for Tall's shit. I risk a glance at Short, who is standing, absently running his hand accross the wall.
"This guy, this blond dude from the states. He said he wanted to buy some cocaine from us, so we just assumed he knew Simon."
I catch Short smiling. Asshole.
Still, I admit to myself as I reach for another cigarette Tall offers me from his pack, he has a point.
"Did he say they'd met?" I ask, lighting the cigarette.
"Well, yeah, we started talking and he knew a lot of the same people. That british dude, for one."
A slight shiver runs through me. Short's looks of hatred are nothing compared to one of Remarque Holloway's cold, contemptuous stares.
"Mark," I say quietly. There is a silence and I take drag. I stare openly at Short with an I-want-you kind of look. He gives me a once-over and swallows.
"Yeah, well, if that's the british dude-" Tall begins, but I cut him off.
"Yes, that's the british dude."
"Well, he's uh, gone back to Canada, and-"
"I know."
"And so we were thinking, well..."
"He knows something," Short says suddenly, staring me straight in the eye.
"Yeah." Tall adopts an officious tone. I know from experience that he's about to ask me for money. I take drag and look down at the tabletop. "We think it's imperative to our investigation to go back to Canada, find this Mark guy and ask him some more questions."
Short seems dissapointed, somehow, and swallows again, averting his eyes from mine. I look from him to Tall.
I feign shock. "What? Why can't you just call him?"
"Well, he just didn't really strike as the type of guy who'd have, like, a solid number we could reach him with."
I place my cigarette on the ashtray lip and slip a little condescendence into my tone. "Well, considering how well your last 'interview" with him went, I can't see how another would make any difference."
"Exactly the reason why a face-to-face conversation with the dude would be so much better. The guy's not gonna say anything over the phone he wouldn't say in real life."
I surprise myself by seriously considering this for a moment, staring at the guitar someone left on the couch a week ago.
"Wait for him to come back, then we'll talk," I say without looking at either of them.
"But what if-"
"He'll come back. He always does."
I glare at Tall. "Trust me."
***
That night I started having the dreams again.
You see, it’s interesting how accurately you can remember certain moments in your life without even realising just how deep an imprint a certain image can leave in your subconscious. Simon taught me this, so it comes with the proverbial grain of salt attached.
But the imprint will be so powerful, so deep and potent that your rational mind will refuse to acknowledge it, leaving it to fester in the subconscious. This is, perhaps, due to the fact that said image has such a great effect on you that it becomes part of your personality, lost in the myriad labyrinth of the id and surfacing only in dreams.
It was such a dream that I had on that night.
Simon is sitting in Melissa’s couch next to me. He’s drinking some foul Canadian whiskey from a red and blue mug he borrowed from her kitchen. I’m slouching with my legs underneath my body, my left hand propping my head up to look at him and my right draped over my legs. This was during Melissa’s Zoot Woman phase and we’re up to the instrumental song on the album with the neon letters on the front. Everyone else is in the kitchen.
“Everything here is just such total shit. I wish there were some way to make everyone see just how much shit they’re putting up with just by living here,” Simon is saying.
“Well, maybe they just don’t want to know. Maybe they like it here and they don’t want anyone to change that,” I say and open my mouth and run my tongue over my lips, swallowing at the bitter red wine residue.
Simon surprises me yet again (I love it when boys surprise me) by turning towards me, genuinely interested. “Oh yeah, you mean like ignorance is bliss and all that?”
“Well, maybe not ignorance…maybe they just know that they’re putting up with shit, but choose to focus on the good things in life. I don’t think you give people enough credit, they’re smart.”
He encourages me to go on by nodding his head and gesturing with his free hand (he never lets go of his drink, never puts it on the table). I smile and look down as I feel my face redden. I place a stray lock of hair behind my ear before continuing.
“They…know…that, well, they’ll never get anywhere focusing on the negative things in life, so they remember what they’re working for and they work harder. I mean, all I’m saying is that people know this, people know that, well, life is short and…” I’m on the verge of breaking into a fit of laughter.
He grins. “…and…”
“…and, well, if you don’t stop to look around every once in a while, you might miss it.”
We say this last part together. God, we were idiots back then.
After a short laugh, I say, “People are just happy because they find other people to share the shit with them. We’re social creatures, Simon. You can be addicted to a person on a level no drug can reach.”
…and there it is. I was just quoting some dumb movie or book at the time, and the truth of it had yet to dawn on me. It’s the simple, clichéd pains that sting the worst; no matter how much you suffer, it doesn’t make you special.
“Really? ‘Cause I don’t see it, I really don’t. People lie to, cheat, steal from, kill and rape other people. They’re constantly striving to be better than everybody else, to be more.” I toy with his hair.
“Well I’m here talking to you because I want to get to know you and I’m attracted to you, isn’t that evidence of the fact that people like each other?”
He turns to me at this and laughs.
“Oh, no, that’s a whole ‘nother bag of shit. That’s physical attraction, that’ll play tricks on you.”
“Well, okay, so I want to fuck you, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to get to know you.”
“Uh, you don’t want to sleep with me. My age wouldn’t look good on your C.V.”
I laugh slightly. “Okay, well, can I just get to know you then?”
He becomes slightly more serious again. “Well, you don’t want to do that either.”
“Why?”
“Because if you do, I will destroy you. I will completely gut you from the inside out. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen girls lose their minds and become emotionally crippled because of me. You see, first I’ll dig deep inside you and get you to tell me everything you’ve ever felt, done and thought, and then I’ll know exactly what it is that makes you function and I’ll know everything you’re going to do before you even think of doing it, and this will, eventually, annoy me so much that I will disappear from your life, but not before wishing you didn’t exist and we had never met.” I begin to inch towards him.
“You know those photos you see of all those villages in Africa or wherever the fuck, those little towns that have been completely wrecked by landslides or floods or hurricanes or whatever? That’s what you’ll be like, after getting to know me.” My face is almost touching his now.
“You know what I like best about you?” I breathe noisily into his face.
He turns to me. “What?”
“The fact that you don’t give a shit what I like best about you.”
We kiss; it’s passionate, but awkward. He sits at first, but reacts quietly, gently, but forcefully when I put my hand on his face; he’s thirsty, desperate for my touch, anywhere, or so I’d like to imagine. As the taste of whiskey and cigarettes dissolves, a taste like peaches or slightly stale black grapes enters my mouth; I miss it more than the world. Something explodes inside me as his hand grips my hip and presses me against him.
He breaks the kiss.
“This is gonna kill you,” he breathes exhaustedly.
“Good,” I breathe back, caressing his face. “’cause I’m about ready to die for it.”

***

Dying would have been easy. At least hell is supposed to be warm. I shiver cigarette smoke through my teeth, sitting, freezing cold in a bus stop, waiting for the bus to Steini’s house, periodically taking sips from a cheap bottle of wine, feeling the contents weigh down my stomach and thicken my mouth and brace myself for the worst.