Out for a Day...

Note: I was thinking of making this the start of a longer narrative, but I think the first part can stand alone as it is. Make of it what you will...

It wasn’t damp. It wasn’t too cold, either. It was just right for what he wanted to do, which was to have a long run before he headed to work. He had woken up early enough to see the sun come up over the first line of squat homes in front of his apartment and take its place at an angle and position that let its rays scare off any shadow that he may have wanted for his callisthenics. It was only six o’clock in the morning; a Monday; the start of his work week. The only addiction he had that he cared to admit was the one that had him in his track pants stretching on a barren stoop in the middle of a winter where he worried more about the heat than his ability to pay the rent when the landlord would send her son up to ask why he constantly “refused” (her word) to pay on time (first of the month). He had told the son and the landlord that he could always pay the right amount but never on time because of the forms that had to be filled out and processed before he saw a cent of any amount of the money he earned by travelling by train to different offices with the alleged intent of teaching. More like he was trying to get them talking by making sure that he did all of the talking himself. When he explained this to the son, all he could say in reply was, “You’re lucky she likes you, G. You’re her favourite tenant. Tells everyone that you’re quiet and don’t even make noise coming in at night. You’re alright.” He didn’t think about how he was going to cover things this month, since he had been told that he would have to skip several classes for the Christmas season and that they would not be able to renew things when he came back in January. It seemed to him that things just got harder as the year went on. He needed to take a turn around the neighbourhood.

The rest of the floor was quiet. He thought he had heard his roommates come in earlier but he could not put a time to things. Loether was out with his girl at his bar on the Main and had to make sure that things ran smoothly when his junior partners thought that they were charge. The last time L. let them run things he had received a call the next day from a police officer who wanted to know just where the “head shit in charge” lived and if he could answer some questions about his buddies’ erstwhile actions the night before. That at least was not too serious; only one guy trying to start something with someone else who thought that he wasn’t doing anything other than passing a glance at someone else who didn’t like what someone else had to say to someone he could not remember, etcetera. That was only one cycle of the reasons why he didn’t hang with L. at his club. Other reasons would include money, lack of love between him and the alcohol that was part of the price of a ticket, and then the women. It seemed as though none of them had an original thought about anything other than their clothes. He had to think about other things besides the ones who came into Nova with stretch jeans and blouses that never seemed to cover the bellies thrusting and sinking over their belts. Saddest thing he ever saw was a woman closing in on forty who forced herself into a set of denim that allowed an extra fold of flab both above and below the rivets. Add to that the tight t-shirt that she was wearing that announced she was a “Porn Star.” G. wondered if she was hitting on him when she decided to sit next to him while he waited for L. and the ride home at the end of another busy Saturday night. It was quiet for the club during the first week of school. Instead of the DJ taking requests, he just let the records in his milk crate spin as he found them. He could remember her name. Nadine, just like something that he thought an elderly woman should have, and she was drinking a screwdriver (he hated vodka). The thing about them talking to each other is that it did not seem desperate at all, not to him. He just thought that since the club was so scarce that he could just sit and not be bothered with trying to pick anyone up who was not in favour of being picked up by him. Nadine was just sitting on her own and decided to come over to his table while the DJ switched discs and had his drink refilled.

She was nice and that is what bothered him. His friends were already worried about his love life - such as it was – and being seen with a woman in such a get-up would help him out in their eyes. Here, it was more charity than attraction; more to do with desperation (hers or his?) It was nice to sit there when he could actually hear things and talk with someone about what his life was like. It just spilled out of him: the running; the return to school after years of work that seemed to go nowhere; the non-existent dating since his return; the very real debts he had picked up since coming back. Nadine listened to all of this and wondered aloud why he came back. He had to pause at this. He didn’t have an answer that satisfied him as much as it satisfied his listeners when they asked about it. It was not to do with just school and a return to things he knew. G. knew that the bigger problem was the routine of just working in an office nine-to-five without any chance of things improving beyond a rare break in a day when a class was cancelled and he found that he had time to do something more than just listening and repeating. It was stalling his thoughts; it was an act of attrition. He had to make sure that there was something else that he could do in his own country before he decided to give up on what was his past. Nadine nodded at his confession and smiled, saying, “I think you made the right choice in comin’ back to whacha know.” He knew that she was right, for the right feeling came to him when he heard those words. His chest heaved slowly but sincerely and he knew that he could tell her anything.

But it was late. The club was closing just as the liquor rules forbade anything that came from an expensive bottle touching the bottom of his glass. Loether was putting chairs on tables, looking in the near-darkness for anything that could be a coin or an untended purse or wallet. His girlfriend was behind the counter, trying to keep a straight face while a Rasta on the stool in front of her offered his reasons for her spending the night in his room. G. saw that, had to clear his eyes of the cigarette smoke from Nadine’s hand, and knew that he would leave her alone. Not for him. She was already taking out a business card from her handbag. He still had it:

Nadine Johnson

Psychic and Professional Consultation

Phone #:***-****

Nadine was a smart one, handing him the card just as she was about to leave, slipping it into his jacket without him noticing her swift movements under the table. She could have taken his wallet without him noticing, but he would never have made her out to be a thief. There was something too sweetly composed about her to think that she could harm anyone. She made you think that there was something to trust.

He came in from his run, the water of his sweat wringing out in his stretched pants and sweater. The house was still quiet. It was ten to seven. G. wondered if he should give her a call tonight. It had been over a week since he’d seen her and he hadn’t found the time to go with Loether to his club. Why did he need to go with him, anyway? Did he still have to wonder why he did not have a girlfriend?

On the hardwood floor of the front room, he stretched and stripped away his running shoes, finding the remote control for the T.V. on a side table. On the local news, the weather and some sports ended the half hour before the news was repeated. He heard that a local woman had gone missing and his heart sank as he stared at the photo the police were using to locate anyone with any information on her. It was Nadine, now a Janet Freedman, looking back at him from the upper right of the screen. G. decided to call in sick today. He would not need to worry about anything else.

*

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