Chapter 15 and 16 of The Trickster

1:17

I fucked everything up didn’t I?

I look up. Its back is to me, hovering over the body of a woman sprawled out on the floor. Her face turned away from me. I’m so sorry. It bends down, picks up the woman’s lifeless hand. What have I done?

Its words are vexed with death, trembling with murder. It looks over its shoulder at me, dew pooling in its eyes.

It

It is as ignorant as the internet porn it uses as a gauge to measure whether its relationship with Emma is a success or failure. When you fuck like porn stars it must be love is one of its favorite lines. Obsessed with control and domination, it undermines their intimacy with stratagems designed to force her to submit to its kinky cravings.

And the things it wants to do to her! No matter how I try to shift the conversation away from the backdoor rhetoric, it remains conversationally fixed upon one thing and one thing only: Emma’s ass.

A couple of days ago when we were assigned to sort books together, the only subject it wanted to talk about was sodomy.

Can we talk about something else? Please, I shook my head. Honestly, I think you need to talk with a shrink.

It laughed away my objections: but its cheeks flushed and its blood sallied with anger. I’d stop talking about it if she just gave it up.

That’s what you always say. Maybe you’re just a terrible lover. I’d hoped some blunt honesty would seal its mouth shut.

Dude, believe me, it tugged at its crotch, I have more than enough weaponry to satisfy a woman.

Weaponry! Repulsed, I took a deep breath. Burning with rage my hands knotted into fists: I’m taking a break. The temptation to punch the preposterous smirk off its face was so intense I had to walk away.

I can only imagine how Emma’s mother must fret about her daughter being intimate with such a cowardly thug. As foreboding as a frozen January night, she must feel that Emma has abandoned the light. Plagued with fears about its potential for physical violence combined with the degrading spew that spills out of its mouth, it is something no mother should have to worry about.

It amazes me that it even managed to find a girlfriend. Like a ponderous mace of brass, its perilous sway inspires nothing but skin-crawling trepidation. Surely Emma, born to a well-to-do family, must recognize it for the parasite that it is. It makes no sense to me. Even if she craves a bad-boy with a criminal record, surely she could do better than it. Either that or her self-esteem is so tenuous that she believes a leach for a lover is all she deserves.

Even on a physical level, the weak chin, the cold, black eyes and receding hairline don’t inspire confidence. A pathetic nobody who lugs around a suitcase full of I want to be somebody dreams; it is an ingrate, blind to all the providence that life inspires.

It has no clue how thankful it should be for the love of a woman like Emma. But for some perverse reason it actually believes that Emma, in terms of market value, ranks beneath it… Could it be any more ridiculous? Not only is Emma an honour roll student, she’s the offspring of a media-savvy union: her mother, Sylvie, is an iconic Montreal visual artist and her father is a renowned poet and book publisher. Just the sort of catch most would-be writers would be thrilled to be with. Not only that, she’s pretty cute to boot. Her eyes shimmer, forest green. And her radiant smile is warm and genuine.

But everything about its life is void of course. Even its diet is suspect: fruit loops for breakfast and whoppers for lunch. At work it is always slurping a coke or scoffing a doughnut. It told me it never eats vegetables, French fries excluded and the only fruit it ever puts in its mouth is watermelon… but only rarely.

There was an afternoon a couple of weeks ago when I was enjoying a solitary lunch in the park that runs adjacent to the Necropolis. Molly had made lasagna the night before. I was sitting in the sun… at a picnic table… there was still snow on the ground but the air was warmed by a breeze from the south. I was enjoying Molly’s leftovers when it came bounding towards me. In its hand it carried an obligatory bag of Burger King, self-destruction. I was partially obscured by a tree and hoped it hadn’t spotted me. I remained perfectly still: a monument of invisibility. And it was just about to scurry past me when out of the corner of its eye…

Hey. It scurried up to me slurping on its 32 ounce root beer. Sitting down beside me, it didn’t bother to ask whether I wanted its company. It removed the wrap from its feed and began chomping. Mouth full, it started describing the movie, it had downloaded the night before, featuring its favorite porn star Taylor Rain.

She did three guys. All of them fucked her in the ass. Then they all came in her…

I interrupted it. Dude, I’m eating. Please.

It wiped whopper sauce from its mouth with the back of his hand and smirked.

I shook my head. My appetite lost, I put the lid back on the Tupperware of lasagna. The epitome of ignorance, it wolfed down its slop: grease dripping off its chin. I don’t know what Emma’s problem is. She got all porn-star with that Mexican. Why won’t she let me fuck her that way?

For a moment my blood shivered, congealed and nearly forgot to flow as yet another wave of menacing desires to physically assault it began to surface. If only it was capable of wrapping its whoppery brain around all the reasons Emma would object to it fucking her prison style.

Maybe the Mexican was gentle.

Its face tensed alert. I smiled to myself with the knowledge that I hit a nerve. A tiny snarl curled at the lip as it waved off my comment. He probably got her drunk. It slurped its root beer… burped. Get a little liquor in her and the filthy ho makes an appearance.

I could give it a litany of reasons why Emma might be repulsed by its sexual expectations. She doesn’t trust it. It’s about as sensitive as a bull dog chomping on a wasp. It smells like processed burger. It doesn’t perform oral sex because, and I quote, eating pussy makes a man soft.

Can you believe it? She won’t even shave for me.

It’s so insecure, always zeroing in on Emma’s erotic foibles... making it sound like it’s some kind of savvy Don Juan, capable of arousing tremolos across her pleasure zones. It never speaks of her in an affectionate tone – its hate, so constant, is never beguiled even for a moment.

Do you want a Barbie Doll or do you want a woman?

Does Molly shave?

That’s none of your concern.

It nodded his head and pointed a finger at me. She does. It pondered for a moment, studied me. She does it to please you.

I shook my head. If she does shave and I’m not saying it’s true. She would only do it because I’m always trying to please her.

Poor Emma: clouds and double darkness veil her skies. Although she's the one who suffers from a lack of physical gratification, it has the audacity to complain that its orgasm is being neglected. Such is the state of its megalomania; no wonder it’s chronically disappointed. When its expectations aren’t consolidated, it refuses to accept any of the responsibility. Instead of shouldering some blame, it accuses her of being sexually dysfunctional.

It wouldn’t be so shitty, the same tired complaint repeated, if she’d only swallow every once in a while.

I shook my head. You don’t go down on her.

That’s different.

How?

It smiled. Women go down, men hold their ground. Unable to censor itself, the hideous pest continued: But I bet she swallowed the Mexican’s load.

My laboring eyes rolled. Why not just leave her? I was so fed up, I exaggerated, I’m sure you could do better.

Damn right. My sarcasm had gone right over its head. Sometimes I think her clit is defective. It stuffed French fries into its hole.

I looked at my watch, stood up. I have to run an errand. Before walking away, I made a dabbing motion with my hand against my chin. You got some cum there.

It immediately rubbed its jaw. I laughed. Its face was red with rage.

The Trickster - Chapter 14

Molly

I snubbed Molly three more times after her sudden reappearance at the bistro two weeks earlier. The next encounter was at the retro-cinema. Casablanca was playing. Despite its kitsch, the story of love and sacrifice has always resonated in me. I was ten years old the first time I saw it, home, sick from school, it was the afternoon movie on the tube.

The night I ran into Molly I went to the seven o’clock screening.

Box of popcorn in hand, I knew every line by heart. It was Bogart’s character, the archetypal Rick that appealed to the hurt in me. I’ve probably watched the film fifty times… but never tire of it. Repressing what his heart pines after, the noble Rick accepts the cold, harsh fate he faces. I know it’s just a movie, but his decision to do what is right and honourable rather than embrace a cruel and selfish alternative always leaves me with a feeling of hope...

After the film ended, I milled about with the patrons as we funneled towards the exits. Although my heart was light and my thoughts free, peace of mind was undermined by an approaching blonde tempest. At the top of the stairs where the doors to the street were located, Molly was at the ticket booth purchasing a pass for the nine pm show. Our paths would inevitably come to pass. Christ Almighty, I muttered, and scanned the crowd around me.

My blood hung shivering in my veins as I frantically devised a plan.

There was a young Asian woman to my left. She looked cheerful enough, she was alone… and I made straight towards her. I hate to impose upon you. My smile was genuine. The young woman regarded me with suspicion. My ex is about to walk down the stairs and I don’t want to talk to her. If she thinks I’m alone... my words hung in the air.

The stranger laughed: You want me to pretend I’m on a date with you?

If you wouldn’t mind!

She laughed and placed her hand on my forearm. Where were you yesterday when I ran into my ex? We moved towards the stairwell just as Molly began descending down.

Is she the one in sun-dress?

I nodded my head, but didn’t dare look up. My focus remained on Molly’s feet and I knew by the stutter in her step the exact moment she recognized me. Compounding my good fortune, my companion leaned into me and whispered seductively into my ear: This should do the trick.

Rick to Ilsa: Here’s looking at you kid. I walked right past her without looking up.

At that moment I thought the hold that Molly had on me was over; that I’d somehow slipped the noose she had lassoed around my heart. Was I ever in denial!

When my new-found companion and I reached the exit, she immediately removed her hand from my forearm. Her smile was warm and sincere. That was fun.

I cleared my throat and stared a moment too long into her eyes.

She laughed: Was that really your ex? She scrutinized me. Because if it was some lame attempt to pick me up… I have a boyfriend. She smiled at me, rubbed my shoulder with her hand and walked away.

Hit and run followed hit and run… Our next encounter happened at the Musee d’art contemporien. I was strolling through the galleries featuring paintings of Murdoch Matheson. As I walked from one gallery to the next, I spotted Molly surrounded by more than a dozen somber landscapes. When our eyes met I turned around and beat a quick retreat back into the room I had just walked through. Once inside I turned to my left and stood flat against the wall. I started to count and just before I hit the number six, I heard the hurried click of Molly’s shoes strumming across the hardwood floors. She raced right past me hurrying towards the preceding exhibition space. With her back to me I quickly slipped back into the room we’d both just left and raced towards the exit.

Three days later I spotted Molly while I was sitting in a taxi. We were heading north on St Laurent when the driver stopped for a red light. She was standing on the corner, waiting for the traffic signal to change. She held onto a shopping bag in one hand and balanced an umbrella above her head with the other. When she turned to her left, she noticed me right away. Our eyes met. She smiled, but the joy on her face quickly disappeared when I failed to respond. I wanted to turn away, to break the gaze, but I couldn’t. But then a crack of thunder echoing across the sky shattered the spell. Molly shuddered and moved towards the taxi. Rain streamed down. I locked the door. Not wanting to be dragged down into Pluto’s house of horrors I shook my head.

She dropped her umbrella and shopping bag and pulled on the door handle. Please. Open the door. We need to talk.

The light turned green and my ride rolled away.

That night I tossed and turned in bed. The look on Molly’s face: haunted with rain as she struggled with the taxi door was embedded in my thoughts. It bothered me how my anger was receding. Worse, I was actually feeling empathy for her.

When I finally dozed off the night sky was turning from black to blue; the last of the stars diving below the ethereal plain. Falling into a dream; I found myself, lying down, in a king-size bed, covered in a white duvet. Through an open window a soft breeze sent a white curtain fluttering over the bed.

Then Molly appeared. She strolled through the bedroom door wearing pajamas and slippers and looking sleepy-eyed. After years of dream scenarios that highlighted the divisions between us, my heart began to thump. The smog of direful nightmares was giving way to a purer air. As she approached the bed, I lifted the duvet. She spooned in beside me. I wrapped my arm around her waist and kissed the back of her neck.

Why won’t you talk to me? She whispered

I sighed. What can I possibly say that isn't going to make matters worse between us?

You could start with your feelings.

I don't want to, I shook my head.

Please, she turned around and kissed me softly on the mouth.

I’d rather not open a wound I prefer to heal. I touched her pollen scented hair. Inevitably, I’m going to start sounding hurtful and cruel and that is the last thing I want to do. I caressed away a lock that fell across her face. I’ve never wanted to hurt you and I don't want to start now.

We could always start over.

I shook my head. I’ve already exposed my neck to you once and the puncture marks from your tiger fangs are still bloody on my throat.

Are you frightened of me?

I nodded my head. Worse, I feel ashamed.

Why? Molly kissed me more passionately. 

I woke up before I could answer.

Chapter 13 of The Trickster

Prelude

The cafe is filled with familiar faces. Some patrons, sitting alone, are either working away at their computers or buried in the pages of the morning edition. For others, it is a time for discourse, friends gathered together, sipping espressos, animated in conversation.

Crossing the threshold, the cafe, irradiate with morning light, welcomes me. A few of the regulars look up and acknowledge me with smiles. Against a backdrop aroma of fresh coffee and the succulent eggs, bacon and fried onions I feel the first pangs of hunger. Tara the waitress, greets me with an obligatory wink and Stone, sitting at the end of the counter, huddled over the Globe and Mail, waves and makes space for me to join him.

Hey Amigo, what’s up? He folds up his newspaper.

I pat him on the back and seize the review section. Are any of your dead in here today?

Thronged with pale ghosts, the obituary writer laughs: As a matter of fact...

Across the counter Tara interjects… Ca va. Val?

Oui... toi?

She nods her head; smiles: Bagette, espresso?

Avec fromage si vous plais.

When Tara walks away, she smiles seductively at Stone, her Asiatic eyes dancing with joy. My friend blushes and shifts his weight, sitting more upright in his chair.

What’s up with that? I whisper.

I don’t know. But the big grin on his face suggests otherwise.

She’s been real sweet on you lately.

When Tara returns with my fix of espresso, Stone follows her with his eyes. Now it’s Tara’s turn to squirm. She places her hand on his, Arrete. You’re making me blush. She laughs and begins to walk away, but Stone still has a hold on one of her fingers.

She warns him playfully before spreading her sails and floating away.

She likes you.

You think? Stone rolls his eyes.

Hey don’t be getting all cocky with me now.

He comes back down to earth. Sorry. I’m just a little surprised.

Me too! It’s a chance turn to turn the screws. It must be true that love is blind because I have no clue what she sees in you.

Hey… Stone elbows me softly and laughs.

Play your cards right and you’ll be doing the horizontal dance before sunrise tomorrow.

The writer shakes his head. What's the rush? He sips his coffee and leaning closer to me whispers. Right now everything is fun and games and she's happy to see me here. He ponders before adding: I like this place… I’m not going to allow my dick to ruin a good thing.

I shrug, unable to understand the forces that are holding him back. From the love 'em and leave 'em Casanova he was back in his twenties and early thirties, Stone, now in his forties has turned into a celibate monk. Or at least that’s what he wants me to believe. Who knows, maybe you can have your cake and eat it too: the café and the girl?

He shakes his head. We’ll see how it plays out.

Stone has been working on his novel for as long as I’ve known him. You’d think he was Goethe crafting Faust. More and more a recluse, his enthusiasm for companionship has dramatically cooled. All of his focus is geared towards his novel. Ergo, the long oblivion of his carnal hopes: no longer the neighbourhood Romeo, he’s become solitary and Salingeresque. Either that or he’s become a damn good liar.

Dude, you have to admit that you’re tempted.

Stone waves off my Mephistophelean dig, then ponders for a moment before picking up the challenge. Ten or fifteen years ago I wouldn't have worried about consequences. He smiles. But today I’m a different man.

I gesture towards Tara with my chin. Sensuality orbits around her and she moves with regal grace. It amazes me that Stone can resist. Or maybe the two of them are just having me on. The tender way they regard one another, I bet they’ve already slept together. I can't believe that you'd even consider keeping a woman like that waiting. I shake my head. If you don't put your foot on the gas, you'll find her sitting in another man's car.

He laughs. Stop living vicariously through me.

I just don’t understand how you can be so complacent?

Stone shoots me a look. You call it complacency, I call it respectful caution.

You’re lying. I can tell just by looking at the two of you that something is going on.

You’re way off the mark, but he winks mischievously at me.

It’s been years since he and Melissa broke up and as far as I know he hasn’t been terribly interested in anyone since. I fear he’s turning into a romantic who dreams bigger than what reality can provide.

Stone shrugs. I know I’m hopeless, but… He doesn’t complete his thought. It’s clear that until the fates decree either the brilliance or folly of his ways he’ll remain a loner... or a secret ladies’ man.

I’m starting to shake the morning argument I had with Molly from my thoughts. Our drama had me all wound up with adrenaline and bile. But now as calm settles in the effect of the poison is beginning to wane. Still…

Mornings are often the highlight of my day. This cafe... I find its warmth and familiarity comforting. I'm stung by the thought of losing it. What am I going to do in Hudson? Play a lot of golf I suppose. I could play every morning. Imagine the strokes I'd shave off my score: like Bobby Jones living on the grounds of my own private Augusta.

I shake my head knowing that I'm hard-wired for city-living and no amount of golf is going to undermine that default setting. This neighbourhood... all the people I know… it’s an enormous part of who I am. I feel dread. My routine... what am I going to do without my routine?

Some gift! I feel like prey, ignobly trapped in the predator’s lair.

It sounds more like a prison than a home to me. Complete with in-laws moonlighting as prison guards. Hudson isn’t what my nature craves. I'll go stir-crazy out there. I can just picture the endless family dinners and the heap of Tremblay woes. Monotonous scenes born straight out of hell: just me, Molly, the steer and the rest of the cult all huddled around the dining-room table. E-gads!

Molly's parents are thieves, picking my pocket, stealing my future. They think that their money, tempting like a serpent’s whisper will win me over. Cringe! Just the thought of that busy-body Judith in such close proximity makes me shudder. Skilled in her smooth self-denial and unrepentant love for the sound of her own voice, her blather is never ending. Even worse, she’ll be peering through our windows watching my every move. What a nightmare! I already feel stymied and I’m not even there yet. God damn it, they’ve cornered me.

There’s no escape. Checkmate!

Earth to O'Brien I snap out of my introspection as Stone waves his hand in front of my eyes. Tara is hovering on the other side of the counter, baguette et fromage in hand.

Pardon me. I smile and make space on the counter. I’m not quite awake yet.

As I polish off my breakfast, I flip through the Globe and Mail. Both the Habs and the Leafs were victorious the night before. Tiger Woods has a three stroke lead after the first round of a tournament in California. Nothing catches my eye until I reach the back page of the arts section. There’s a photograph of a group of fireman standing around their truck. The accompanying article; written by Stone himself.

It was an unfortunate twist of fate that found a firefighter in the wrong place at the wrong time. A captain at fire-station 14, Marcel Marleau wasn't scheduled for duty last month when a blaze broke out at an apartment building in the city's north end. But when a co-worker requested a change of shift, Captain Marleau readily obliged. Such was the bitter irony that preceded the death of the 28-year veteran of the Montreal fire department.

My dream: the cemetery, the firemen’s lot, Shirley and dad all come flashing back. I’m unnerved. But I continue reading Stone’s article and when I reach the end, I summon Tara over.

Did you read this? I show her the article. Mr. Modesty here, I gesture with my thumb at Stone, wrote it.

She stretches out her elegant hand, takes the paper and smiles. Why didn't you tell me?

Stone shrugs. It's no big deal.

She folds up the paper and tucks it under her arm. I’ll read this later.

Well, it’s pretty obvious that she's smitten with you.

Stone’s is glowing from her attention. The sly grin on his face reveals a deep contentment. Calm as a gentle stream, his happiness is refreshing. But when I press again that he and Tara should intensify their intimacy, Stone immediately shifts the focus onto me. So how's Molly?

I sigh: She wants me to quit my job and move to a house her parents are buying us in Hudson.

Lucky you!

I give him the dumb-dumb look. It’s just two doors down from her parents.

Stone laughs at me. Ah, you poor schmuck.

And her sister lives right across the street.

This fills Stone with even more uproarious laughter. The steer’s wife… The one who told Molly that she should leave to you.

The one and only!

Well you won't have to worry about a shortage of baby-sitters.

I feel like I’m wandering with the wind through empty air. My freedom is being snatched away. Great!

The remoteness will do you some good. You'll have more time to invest in your art.

You’re starting to sound like Molly. I shake my head. Have you seen my bank account? She wants me to quit my job and paint full time. It’s ridiculous… especially with a baby on the way.

Hasn’t it always been your dream to paint full-time?

Stone has me there. I huff in agreement. But at the back of my mind I’m thinking about Skip and the ancient promise I made.

Besides, don't you have a big show coming up in New York? You're going to make a fortune. He pauses. You should be grateful. They're buying you a house. You’re a lucky bastard! Enjoy the fruits of their wealth and quit being such a douche.

Nibbling at my baguette, I bat away his arguments with my hand. How about the taxes and higher heating bills we'll be paying. Anyway, you don't understand Molly. Ever since she's found out about Michelle... I think moving us out to Hudson is just her way of keeping me under wraps.

Well you did cheat, Stone blurts out in a voice that carries with volume.

Keep your voice down, I whisper. Stone is the only other person other than Molly and her sister who know about the indiscretion and I want it to stay that way. And it wasn’t really cheating.

Okay Bill Clinton, sorry, he continues in a softer voice. Look at it from her point of view. Her maternal instincts are kicking into high gear. Her desire to nest has never been so strong.

Shrugging my shoulders, I exhale. I hate to admit it, but for once in your life you may be right.

Stone dismisses my backhanded compliment with a shake of his head. You're in the big leagues now, my friend. If living next door to her family is what she needs, I suggest that you quit your job right now.

If it was only that simple; she didn't even discuss her parent’s plans with me. It's either I do as I’m told or I can fuck off.

Too great a bliss to weep away, my only choice is to surrender.

Tara returns to the counter and clears away the cups and plates that have accumulated in front of us. On display, outside the cafe window a parking attendant double parks in front of a car with an expired meter. Instinctively, Stone jumps from his chair; loony in hand and hurries out the door. He drops the coin into the meter before the functionary has a chance to write up the ticket. The attendant shrugs her shoulders and returns to her car.

When Stone returns to his seat at the counter, Tara has a perplexed look on her face. Is that your car?

Stone shakes his head.

Tara giggles: Just a good Samaritan eh?

Stone smiles: Nah, I just hate authority.