Utilities

I can see the sunlight, streaming through the thin curtains that hang over my window, before I even open my eyes. I struggle to keep my eyes closed, to sleep a little longer, but the sun seems to have other plans for me, battering at my eyelids like an angry landlord knocking on my door. I finally accept defeat, and pry open my eyes.

Sunday mornings are so much easier to handle when they're rainy, gloomy -- even just a nice smattering of grey clouds would do the trick. But this morning, my sore, protesting eyes are assaulted by the perfect day. It looks like something you'd see in a movie, or on a calendar (the page for July, or August); the sun big and bright, the sky as blue as a pencil crayon, with only a couple of cute, fluffy white clouds to be seen. Which is fine, when you see it in a movie, or on your calendar in July. But when the last things you can remember from Saturday night are darkly lit bars, frequently refilled glasses, and intensely pointless conversations ... then, such a calm, perfect Sunday morning makes you feel displaced. It makes you feel like a fraud.

I fumble for my watch, on the desk beside my bed. 10:42am. Hardly even qualifies as "morning" anymore. I lay in bed a while longer, needing to piss but not wanting to stand up. I look at my watch again: 10:51am. This is stupid, I think; if you're going to be awake, then be awake, do something -- piss, at the very least. I remain motionless, continuing to ponder my situation, until I glance at my watch a third time: 10:58am. I finally get out of bed, walk to the bathroom, and piss for what seems like minutes.

I feel like I've been dipped in wet concrete. My movements are slow and clumsy; my head is heavy; my mouth is dry and sticky. I take a bottle of water from the fridge, and drink the entire thing. My stomach is problematic -- I remember taking shots of something last night, I should know better -- but I'm beginning to feel hungry, which is probably a good sign. I start getting dressed. It's a slow process, involving all the concentration I'm able to muster at the moment.
Finally dressed, I scan my small apartment. I've been letting things go for a while now. There are dishes in the sink, dirty glasses on the kitchen counter. The garbage bag in the kitchen is awfully full, and starting to smell (faintly for now, but it'll be bad soon). I can't even remember the last time I did any laundry -- the shirt I'm wearing was fished out of the pile of dirty clothes near my bed. The coffee table is littered with empty beer bottles.

The thought of even attempting to clean up this mess makes me feel claustrophobic. I decide, instead, to get out. I need to get some writing done, anyway, and that coffee shop a few blocks away is as good a place for it as any. The walk might help to clear the static out of my aching head.

With my laptop case slung over my shoulder, I leave my apartment. Someone down the hall is cooking a real meal, roast chicken, probably some roast potatoes; the smell is jarring after the stale, slightly rotten air of my apartment. I walk down the stairs to the first floor and push through the front door, wincing as the sunlight and fresh air wash over me.

It really is a beautiful day out here, which only makes me feel worse. I lumber down the sidewalk along Francis Street, which is lined with nice, old houses and well-kept yards. The apartment complex I call home is relatively new, but the surrounding neighborhood is one of the oldest parts of this city. The houses, and the lots they were built on, are much larger than average these days. The trees around here are bigger and older than anywhere else in town. Their branches stretch out over the sidewalk, creating a canopy of leaves; when you look up on a day like this, you can see dozens of little beams of sunlight poking through the leaves. This part of the city is so quiet on a Sunday; I can actually hear the leaves rustling, which I had thought was a sound that only existed in the pages of cliched stories. I pass the occasional old couple out for a stroll, and a group of children drawing on the sidewalk with coloured chalk. As I walk by these average, respectable people, I expect them to scowl at me and demand: "What are you doing here?" But instead they simply smile and say hello, or nod at the very least.

Making my way through through this quaint residential neighborhood, my body starts to feel a little better, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm out of place here. In my mind, scenes like this are so completely entwined with my childhood; pleasantly aimless walks through residential neighborhoods which I was too young, at the time, to recognize as quaint. If this were a Sunday morning fifteen, twenty years ago, I might be walking alongside my parents or my grandparents, maybe an aunt, an uncle, a cousin or two. I was so often surrounded by family and friends back then, and I hardly even noticed. I certainly didn't appreciate it. If anything, it irritated me, and left me craving privacy, craving control over a small space I could call my own. And now here I am, walking down the same old quiet streets by myself, just to escape that small space that's all mine.

I'm nearing the coffee shop. It's on my side of the street, at the end of a line of businesses all housed in old brick buildings. These kinds of buildings always captured my imagination when I was a kid; the pyramids they're not, but in a small city on the prairies like Credit Hills, they seem like relics from an ancient time. I look to my right and see the word "CONFECTIONERY" still branded across the door frame of a faded red building which now houses a pet supply store. The Greasy Bean used to be a butcher's shop; the side wall still bears a faded mural of pigs, chickens and cows, under the words "SOUTHERN ALBERTA'S FINEST MEAT". Some comic genius has drawn a predictable penis under the word "MEAT". It's one of the only coffee shops left in town that's not a Starbucks or a Tim Horton's. It will probably be absorbed in a year, maybe two. Kind of a shame; Starbucks would probably remove the weird old mural. Not to mention the cartoon penis.

I walk into the Bean and sit down at a table. I'm still dehydrated, and now very hungry. I stare at the menu above the counter, my eyes struggling to adjust after the too-bright sunshine. After taking far too long to make such a simple decision, I walk over to the counter, still feeling like I'm moving in slow motion. I order a coffee, a sandwich, and a large glass of water from a server whose name tag says "Bailee". She's young and pretty, and perky, which just makes me feel tired. I sit down at a table with my glass of water. I ask for a refill on the water before my sandwich is even ready. I ask myself for the hundred thousandth time why I drink so much, if it makes me feel so shitty the next day. It's a meaningless question, but the ritual is comforting.

The Bean is almost empty, with only myself, a young couple, and a trio of old ladies sitting at the rickety wooden tables. Jazz music wafts out of half-blown speakers in the wall, and the smell of coffee permeates everything; my clothes will reek of it when I leave. I stare at the screen of my laptop, listening to the jazz and smelling the coffee. The young couple are whispering in each other's ears. The old ladies burst out laughing. I continue to stare at the screen.

Bailee startles me, setting my sandwich down on the table next to my laptop. "Oops, sorry to sneak up on you there!"

I laugh, trying not to sound embarrassed. "Oh, no problem." I'm convinced that she can smell last night's liquor on my breath.

She peers down at my laptop, smiling. "Whatcha working on?"

I'm blushing. "Oh, um, just, uh, something I'm working on ..." Brilliant.

She looks genuinely curious. "An essay?"

I'm flattered that she assumes I'm a student. University seems like a million years ago. "Ah, no, it's ... well, I'm working on a novel."

"A novel! That's awesome! What's it about?"

I hate it when people ask me that. "Well, ha, it's kind of hard to explain ..."

Bailee reads from the screen: "James Dean sat at the bar, nursing his drink ..." She turns to me, bemused. "You're writing about James Dean?"

"Uh, no, it's ... the protagonist is named James Dean, but he's not the famous James Dean ..."

She nods. "Hmm, that's cool. So he has to, like, struggle to live up to the awesomeness of his name?"

"Haha, yeah, something like that." I really hope my breath doesn't smell like booze.

"Cool! I've always wanted to write a novel, myself. I have lots of ideas, it's just hard to get them down onto paper, you know? Well, haha, you must know if you're writing one yourself!" She looks over her shoulder as an old man walks into the shop. "Oops, better get back to work. Enjoy your sandwich!"

I push the laptop aside, and take a bite of my sandwich. I've forgotten to ask for no cucumbers; I open the sandwich, peel the green disks of cucumber out of the mayonnaise, and drop them onto my plate. They seem to be staring at me as I eat.

The bell attached to the front door is ringing steadily now - the after-church crowd has appeared. The tables fill up fast, and I watch Bailee rush around the shop, dealing with the surge of customers. Old people supported by canes, men in dark suits and women in subdued dresses, neatly groomed children eager to vent their energy after an hour spent sitting silently. I feel like I've been transported to an alternate reality in which the nineteen-fifties never ended.

Now finished my sandwich, I turn back to my novel. I read over the last paragraph, and get the feeling it doesn't work. But I can't think of a way to fix it; the rising noise level inside the Greasy Bean is drowning out my thoughts. A four-year-old boy suddenly runs straight into the back of my chair, and collapses into a crying, snotty pile on the floor behind me. His mother scoops him up and offers a flustered apology. I smile and say, "No problem." I need to get out of here.

I pay for my meal at the counter; Bailee is hurriedly wiping down a table, so an older woman takes my money. I walk out the door, happy to be free of the commotion. It feels like I've been balancing a brick on my head. I see a park bench across the street, on the edge of Francis Park, and decide to take a seat there. I need to actually get some writing done.

I go back to reworking the last paragraph I'd written. I feel a familiar frustration; the plot seems full of holes, the characters seem inconsistent. I'm getting bogged down in details.

After working for a while, I look up to see Bailee standing over me. I almost jump straight off the bench.

She laughs. "Sorry! Didn't mean to freak you out."

"Ha, no, it's, uh, no problem. So ... you're done for the day?"

Bailee climbs onto the bench, sitting on the backrest and resting her feet on the seat next to me. "Nope, smoke break." She removes a pack from her jacket, shakes out a cigarette. "Do you mind?"

"Go ahead."

"Want one?"

"No thanks."

Bailee lights her cigarette. "I'm not supposed to smoke near the store, and I saw you over here, so I figured you could keep me company." She furrows her brow, looking thoughtful. "I'd like to write a novel about a coffee shop. You know, about the people who work there, and their personalities and stuff. A lot of times, I'll be at work, and something funny will happen, and I'll just think, 'that would make a great story', you know?"

"Really?" I shrug. "I usually feel the opposite way ... I wish I were living in a novel, or a movie. Things would make more sense, my jokes would be funnier, and I'd end up with Megan Fox."

She laughs again. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a Megan Fox kind of guy."

"Oh no?" She's right, I think Megan Fox looks like a robot.

"Nah, I'd have guessed ... Scarlett Johansson, maybe?"

"Good guess. And you're right. I think Megan Fox looks like a robot."

"I knew it. I'm an excellent judge of character." She inhales and exhales a stream of smoke. "So, what do you do? Besides writing novels?"

Another question I hate. From the moment I meet someone, I dread having to tell them what I do. There's simply no way to make 'stationery manager at Shop-N-Save' sound sexy. "Well, you're the excellent judge of character, what do you think I do?"

She looks thoughtful. "Teacher?"

"No."

"Television producer?"

"Nope."

"Crime scene investigator?"

"Oooh, I like that one ... but no."

Bailee takes one last long drag from her cigarette, and drops the butt onto the ground. "Tough but socially responsible lawyer who once worked for the man, but then had an epiphany, and now fights to protect the environment, and takes pro bono cases defending homeless people?"

"...Can we just pretend that's what I do?"

She laughs. "Deal. And feel free to use that in your novel. But if you make a kajillion dollars, I expect royalties."

"Deal."

"Well, sorry to chat and run, but I'd better get back there. Still looks pretty busy." Bailee jumps down from the back of the bench. "Good luck with the Great Canadian Novel!"

"Thanks, uh, have a good day." If I were a character in a story, I would have said something a lot less lame than that. As it is, I just sit on my bench and watch Bailee walk back to the shop, waving to me over her shoulder.

I sit there a few moments longer, then decide it's time to go. I save my novel, even though I've changed almost nothing. James Dean will be stuck in limbo a while longer. I pack up my laptop, sling it over my shoulder, and begin the walk back to my apartment.

Following the sidewalk back towards my apartment, I wish I'd gotten Bailee's phone number. Then I realize that I didn't even tell her my name; I only know hers because it was printed on her damn name tag. Very smooth. Of course I can go back to the Greasy Bean another time, try and talk to her again ... I hate this, I think, squinting in the bright sun. I hate getting excited about things. I hate meeting a girl and liking her. I hate hope. How does hope help me live my life? Besides, she's probably too young for me.

My cell phone rings, scaring an old man who's passing next to me on the sidewalk. I nod to him apologetically, take the phone out of my pocket, and check the caller ID. It's Greg, he was at the bar yesterday. The last thing I want right now is to hear about what I did or didn't do last night while I was drunk. I put my phone back in my pocket. I'll call him later. Maybe tomorrow.

I arrive back at my building, my head aching. I need a nap. I climb the stairs, and can still smell the roast chicken from earlier -- although now it's mixed with another smell, maybe Indian food. It smells good, but my stomach is starting to shift unpleasantly, trying to deal with my lunch. I unlock the door to my apartment, put down my laptop, make my way to the couch, and collapse. These hungover Sundays always make me feel trapped in my own life. I'll feel better after a nap ... or by tomorrow, at least. And then I can really get some writing done.

From my position on the couch, I can see unpaid bills stuck to the fridge door with alphabet magnets; a Q, an H, and a V. Utilities. I've been meaning to pay them for days -- must be almost past due by now. Better do that soon, before the power company cuts me off, like the drug dealer it is. I close my eyes, lean my head back against a couch cushion, and stretch out my legs, kicking a stray DVD case off the couch and onto the floor. I turn my face into the backrest, so the daylight can't get through my eyelids. I'll feel better after I get some rest.


Copyright Peter Byrne 2009

With thanks to Courtney and Lindsay Field

Karma at 3 A.M.

"Man, don't be such a pussy!"

"Having morals doesn't make me a pussy."

Shane laughs with his mouth full, sending tiny particles of deep-fried chicken flying in my direction. He swallows and says, "You're right, it doesn't. Jesus had morals, and he wasn't a pussy. Jesus had balls. That's why you're a pussy, you have no balls, man!"

I raise my eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure Jesus wouldn't have run out on his bill at Denny's."

"Man, how can you possibly know that? They didn't even have Denny's in Jesus' time!"

The two of us are sitting in a booth near the back of the nearly empty restaurant, speaking in low tones, almost whispering. It's late, or early; we'd been on the highway for hours before hunger finally forced us to stop. The highway had taken us through a small city, and we spotted a Denny's connected to a hotel. Just two other tables were occupied, and there was only one waitress around.

"If we dine and dash, the money for the food probably comes right out of the waitress' pay. That's a fucked up thing to do to someone. We might as well pick her pocket while we're at it."

Shane rolls his eyes at me. "Oh yeah, I'll feel really bad for ..." he looks over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the waitress' name tag, as she walks quickly by. "...Lisa. She's been giving us shitty service ever since we got here. Spending all her time getting hit on by those cowboy assholes over there. And she never did bring my damn ranch dressing! It would serve her right."

'Lisa' hurries over to a table where three guys in white cowboy hats are talking and laughing, loud, almost shouting. One of them says something to her, which gets an even bigger laugh out of the other two, and earns a flirtatious smack across the brim of his hat from Lisa herself.

I turn back to Shane, shaking my head. "OK, fine, but do you really think she should have to buy us dinner just because she's not very good at her job? How would you feel if I made you buy a round for the crowd every time you hit a wrong note?"

"Every time? Thanks for the self-esteem boost, man." He actually looks hurt, and I feel bad for saying that. He was pretty embarassed over his sloppy work during our show in Saskatoon. Since then, I'd noticed he'd been drinking less before we went on stage.

"Sorry, Shane, I didn't mean ... but you know what I mean. Don't make it sound like this has anything to do with the shitty service. You just don't wanna spend the money."

Shane wipes his mouth with a napkin, crumples it and throws it down onto his now-empty plate. "You're right, I don't! We have to make it from here back to Vancouver on exactly ..." He thinks for a moment, "Ninety-seven dollars and fifty-five cents! And we haven't even gassed up the van yet!" He glances around the restaurant, worried that he's been speaking too loud, then lowers his voice. "You think I want to run out on the bill, like some dead-end stoner kid? I know it's a shitty thing to do, all right? But sometimes you've just gotta suck it up and do what you have to do. Those are the sacrifices we make for art, man!"

I'm slowly and systematically shredding my own napkin. "It's bad karma. And if we want people to actually pay money to hear us play, we could use some good karma."

Shane is starting to look truly exasperated. "What the fuck are you talking about, karma? I'm talking about getting us and our equipment all the way to Vancouver from ..." He frowns. "Where are we, again?"

I have to think about it for a second, myself. "Credit Hills, I think."

"Anyway, from the middle of the fucking prairies! Karma, or fate, or pixie dust or magical elves aren't going to get us there! When we're back at our Joe-jobs in Vancouver, we can pay for our food like good little citizens. But right now, we need every cent we have, man!"

I sigh, dropping the remains of my napkin onto my plate. "Okay, okay, fine. I'll do it."

Shane smiles like a little kid. "That's what I'm talking about, man! We can do this, trust me! We've just gotta make like we're going to the bathroom, out in the hotel lobby, and we duck outside instead. I'll go first, then you come next, so it doesn't look suspicious. We're parked right around the corner of the building, so once we're outside we should be golden. Lisa's so busy batting her eyes at the fucking cowboys, we'll be halfway to the BC border by the time she even notices we're gone."

I don't share his optimism; our van has seen better days, and it would be just our luck to break down in the parking lot, while Lisa sends the cowboys after us like something out of fucking Deliverance. But I nod, for Shane's benefit.

Shane's getting up already, apparently not wanting to give me the chance to change my mind. "It'll be fine, dude." And he's off, walking down the aisle, past the front counter, into the hotel lobby, and out the door. I wait a couple minutes, then get up from the table and begin walking towards the front of the restaurant. Lisa the server is leaning over the cowboys' table, her back to me. I can hear her laughing at whatever the boys are saying. Shane was right, I could be naked except for an oversized sombrero and she still wouldn't notice me. I'm just about to pass the cash register, and from there it's just a couple steps to the door. Shane gives me a thumbs-up from outside the glass front doors. As I arrive at the counter, I hesitate for a second or two, then call out, "Excuse me?"

Lisa turns around, looking irritated. I make a point of not turning to look at Shane, outside the door; but I'm sure he looks like he wants to kick me in the balls.

Lisa walks over to the counter, looking almost as pissed off as Shane probably is. I put on a smile that I hope looks authentic. "Could I pay the bill?"

"Of course, sorry about the wait." Lisa tries on an awkward smile herself. I don't think she's pulling it off as well as I am, but at least she's making the effort.

"No problem." I can feel Shane's eyes drilling through the glass and into the back of my head.

I pay the bill and walk out the door, as Lisa heads back over to the cowboys' table. Shane is standing there waiting for me, and once the door closes behind me, he lets loose.

"Man, what the fuck was that? I thought we had a fucking agreement!"

"I'm sorry Shane, I just couldn't do it."

"All I can say to you," Shane begins as we round the corner of the building, "is you're gonna miss that twenty bucks when ..."

He trails off and stops walking, just stands in the parking lot and stares straight ahead. I'm about to ask him if he's alright, when a thought occurs to me.

"Shane ... where did we park, again?"

He doesn't say anything, just keeps staring at the ground in front of us. Now I notice broken glass scattered across the white lines of the parking spaces.

I start to ramble. "Oh. Oh, man, oh, shit ..."

Beside me, Shane moans, "My fucking guitar, man ..."

My brain had still been processing the fact that our piece of shit van had been stolen, leaving us stranded. It hadn't moved on to the additional fact that all of our equipment had been inside the van.

"Oh, for Christ's sakes ..."

Shane stands beside me, not moving, not saying anything else, although he seems to be making some kind of sputtering noise, like a kettle that's almost ready to boil. Finally he spins around, red in the face, and bellows, "WHAT HAPPENED TO FUCKING KARMA, MAN?!?"

He stumbles around in a semi-circle, kicks an empty beer can halfway across the parking lot, then half-sits, half-collapses on the curb.

I can't come up with anything to say that won't sound stupid, so I just sit down on the curb beside Shane. I'm thinking about my keyboards, about how amazing they sounded, and about the billions of hours I'd spent bussing tables to pay for them. I feel dazed.

After some time, I say, "Guess I'd better call the cops ..."

"Can you hold off a minute on that, man?" Shane takes a joint out of one of his jacket pockets. "I could really stand to burn one right now."

I sigh. "That's not a bad idea."

Shane lights the joint and we pass it back and forth, still sitting on the curb, not saying anything. The cowboys, the ones who had been hitting on Lisa, come around the corner of the building into the parking lot, walking towards an expensive-looking SUV. They glance over their shoulders at us as they pass by. One of them says something, and the other two laugh. Shane and I finish the joint as the cowboys drive away, gunning the engine on their way past us.

My eyes follow the SUV out of the parking lot. I turn to look at Shane. I'm almost scared to say it. "Umm ... are you still hungry?"

Shane actually laughs. "Yeah ... Yeah, man, I am! Fuck, does Denny's ever suck!"


Copyright Peter Byrne 2009

With thanks to Lindsay Field and Ethan van Winkle

Conversation Over Skimmed Milk

"Skimmed milk? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I'm trying to lose weight."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No, I'm not. Stop being an asshole."

"I am not an asshole!"

"Yes, you are!"

"Jesus Christ."

"And you swear too much."

"Why are you trying to lose weight?"

"Because I want to."

"Are you fucking crazy?"

"You're right, I was completely wrong. You're not an asshole at all."

"Christ, I hate sarcasm."

"You hate pretty much everything."

"How much weight do you want to lose?"

"At least 10 pounds."

"Fucking Christ."

"If you want regular milk, there's a store around the corner. But the coffee's ready now."

"Fuck it, skimmed is fine."

"Your sacrifice won't be forgotten."

"Again with the fucking sarcasm."

"You knew what you were getting yourself into."

"You don't need to lose 10 pounds."

"Wow, flattery! Without a single swear, even!"

"You're not fucking overweight."

"Well aren't you sweet."

"Fuck you. I'm fucking serious."

"You're always serious. And now you're just swearing to piss me off."

"Fucking rights."

"How's the coffee?"

"It's alright. Not bad. So, when does he get back?"

"This evening. I'm picking him up around 7."

"Have a nice romantic evening planned, do you?"

"Fuck you."

"Geez, speaking of foul language --"

"I'm serious. Stop being an asshole."

"Ok, alright. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"You know, the skimmed milk isn't that bad..."

"... that's good."

"But seriously, tonight ..."

"Why on Earth would you want to ask me about that?"

"Just curious."

"Curious? How curious? Should I draw labelled diagrams? Maybe a flow chart?"

"Well, now who's being ... flow chart? Why a flow chart?"

"How about a pie graph? We'll spend 13% of our time catching up, 0.01% of our time taking our
clothes off --"

"Ok, I've learned my --"

"Foreplay should take up approximately 32% of the evening ..."

"Wow, I really have pissed you off, haven't I?"

"Just trying to satisfy your curiosity."

"Ok, ok. Relax."

"I hate it when you tell me to relax."

"Do you think he cheats on you when he's away?"

"...Who knows."

"I mean, he's no Adonis or anything, but I'm sure he can get laid when he feels like it."

"That's nice. You're a class act, Nick."

"Do you think he knows that you cheat on him?"

"...No."

"You don't sound too confident, there."

"No. He doesn't know."

"That's a relief. I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Really? I never would have guessed."

"Ouch ... so, who are you losing the weight for?"

"What?"

"Are you losing the weight for him? Did he tell you that you need to lose weight?"

"Oh yeah, right after he told me to fetch him a beer, and shot out the TV with his gun. He's not a fucking stereotype. And neither am I, you jackass. I'm not losing the weight for anybody."

"So you're saying you're losing the weight for me, then. I'm touched, really I am, but really, it's not necessary. I think you're right purdy just the way you are, darlin'."

"You're touched, alright."

"So you just like the taste of skimmed milk, is that it? The enticing texture and aroma?"

"It's not that bad."

"No, it's not. But it's not that good, either. It's not really anything. That's my point."

"I didn't realize you had one."

"It's something new I'm trying out."

"Ok, I know that I'll never hear the end of this, but ... I'm losing the weight for Lent."

"Lent?"

"Yeah. You give something up, or do something good, for 40 days before Easter."

"I am familiar with the concept, yes."

"So you can give up being pointless for Lent."

"I can't believe you go in for all that nonsense."

"Be happy I didn't give you up. Believe me, it was a close call."

"Wait, wait just one second ... are you saying you'd rather lose 10 pounds of your own body than lose me?"

"... I certainly wouldn't put it like that."

"Aww, that's so romantic!"

"I'm starting to reconsider my decision."

"I'll bet you are. Let's go for lunch."


Copyright Peter Byrne 2009

With thanks to Ethan van Winkle