Wrong

Fedden.

Two For One

The bottles twinkled on the shelf like amber jewels. Dill stood staring, unable to make up his mind. Should he go with the Wild Wedding again, or should he try something new? His hand moved towards a bottle of Canadian Guild then stopped, hesitant and trembling. Is this what it’s like to be old? he thought, shaking his head briskly. At the ripe old age of forty-four, Dill wondered if he was doomed to waste the remaining days of his life trying to decide what to drink next. The numerous brands all contained exactly 40% alcohol and the price varied little, so what did it matter which he chose.

In his mind Dill pictured a massive whisky vat filling a large variety of bottles from a single tap. No matter how he looked at it, buying booze was about name-brand recognition and little else. His hand shot out decisively and seized the closest bottle, which just happened to be a product of Western Distillers. Dill figured he could drink weasel piss if it contained 40% alcohol and came in a purple sack. He started towards the checkout, arms swinging purposefully. Hell, the bottle in his hand didn’t even have a fancy bag.

The clerk grimaced as Dill began to count a large handful of loonies, dimes, and nickels. Darnelle, according to her nametag, was a tall, angular woman with hair dyed a mysterious shade of red. I’m gonna have to charge you extra for holding up the line, she said, dryly. Customers like Dill, of which there were many, made her extremely thirsty. Lately, she had been taking her work home with her.

Dill paused to glance over his shoulder and saw that there was no one behind him. Okay if I pay the fee in pennies? he asked, resuming the count. He didn’t blame Darnelle for being grouchy. She had to work here, thirsty and miserable, and he would soon be drunk. Life wasn’t fair. Never would be.

Darnelle opened her mouth to bite off Dill’s head, but shut it again and waited for him to finish before recounting the money herself. If the customer made a mistake, it was unlikely to be on behalf of the store. Amazingly, the junkie had counted correctly. "Have a nice day, sir," Darnelle sneered, jamming the bottle into a paper sack. Only three more hours before she could go home with a nice Chablis.

Sarcasm was wasted on Dill. He took the jug from the clerk and exited the store, whistling (Ghost) Riders in the Sky at volume but slightly out-of-key. For a singer, Dill wasn’t the most tuneful guy around. Still, he could fake it when he had to, and some critics actually claimed his voice was passionate or soulful, which always made him laugh. Dill was certain he had no soul.

Rounding the corner, Dill nearly collided with Gramsey. A guitarist of excitable disposition and indeterminate heritage, Gramsey pulled a hammer from his waistband and waved it at Dill. Where the hell were ya? I was gettin’ thirsty! he yelled. He swung the tool in an alarming and unsafe manner.

At least I came back, didn’t I? grunted Dill, neglecting to mention that it had taken him a good five minutes to select his purchase. And then there was the counting of the change. Anyway, quit swingin’ that damn thing in my face and let’s get down to business. I just hope our scam will work this time, but I ain’t so sure. He reached out and snatched the hammer from his eager companion.

Whaddya mean? asked Gramsey, looking worried. He took a large plastic bowl from his backpack and set it down on the concrete. Inside the bowl was a grey T-shirt that had once been white. He stretched the fabric over the rim and waited expectantly. Why won’t it work?

Dill raised the hammer. The clerk at the liquor store ain’t ‘zackly overflowin’ with the milk o’ human kindness, if ya catch my drift. She’ll probably tell me to fuck off. He brought the hammer down sharply, smashing the bottle. Whisky poured onto the T-shirt and collected in the bowl underneath. It always felt so wrong to break a bottle of booze on purpose. For any reason.

Good shot! exclaimed Gramsey, watching keenly as the whisky cascaded into the bowl. Trapped by the T-shirt, bits of shattered glass sparkled brightly in the sunlight. As Gramsey removed the shirt, he nicked himself on a shard of glass and a drop of blood fell into the whisky. The friends watched as crimson tendrils slowly radiated outwards from the droplet, diluting the alcohol at six parts per million. Ouch! said the guitarist, moving his bleeding finger away.

Look what you did, you got blood in our booze! cursed Dill. Watch what yer doing! He peered into the whisky and imagined that it was slightly darker. Hopefully, the alcohol would kill whatever nasty diseases the guitarist might have. At least Gramsey didn’t shoot dope, so he probably didn’t have the HIV. After successfully avoiding AIDS this long, Dill would hate to be infected from an innocent glass of whisky.

Gramsey wasn’t overly concerned about the cut. Luckily, it was on his right hand and wouldn’t affect his chording, and was too small to affect his wanking. As soon as we get back we can have a Bloody Mary, using rye instead of vodka, he snickered, yanking a thin sliver of glass from his index finger. Blood dripped slowly but steadily from the end of his fìnger, drip drip drip.

Very funny, said Dill, fighting back an irrational urge to jab Gramsey in the throat with the jagged bottle. Instead, he helped Gramsey pour the whisky from the bowl into a plastic bottle before setting off for the liquor store, boozy droplets from the bag in his hand following along behind. Several ounces always had to be sacrificed, but that was something that just couldn’t be helped. Don’t start drinking until I get back! the singer called over his shoulder. If he had to wait then so did Gramsey.

Sure, said Gramsey, taking a swig.

Dill contemplated life on the short walk to the liquor store. Other than welfare, his only source of income was from the occasional gig with the Fat Bastards, his long-running punk band. The name choice was ironic, because none of them were even the slightest bit overweight, especially Dill. Actually, the group broke up in ‘92 but had reunited last year when Gramsey moved back to Vancouver from Toronto. Dill and Gramsey were the only original members, and the current bassist and drummer weren’t born yet when the Fat Bastards first formed. Amazingly, the band was at least as popular now as they’d been in their heyday, and shows were generally packed. Personally, Dill couldn’t understand why anyone would pay to see a couple of old geezers like him and Gramsey. Not that he minded. Money was always nice, even if he did spend most of it on liquor and drugs. Unfortunately, the steady barrage of intoxicants wasn’t doing much for his health. Dill was not a young man anymore.

Back at the liquor store, Darnelle bagged a jug of cheap sherry and handed it to a wobbly customer. Business at the Harbour Centre branch was a bit slow today. The clerk had to admit that time went faster when the store was busy, even if she did have to deal with an endless number of drunken fools and drugged-out losers. She thought about the junkie with the thick black hair and admitted to herself that he may once have been good-looking. Drugs really sucked the life out of people. Then, looking up from her wristwatch, she saw that very same junkie enter the store, but now his bottle was broken. Darnelle frowned as he approached with the dripping bag. "What do you want?" she asked in a confrontational and irritable manner. Not that she didn’t have a good idea.

Dill had already decided that outrage wouldn’t work and his only hope was to throw himself on the mercy of the court. I dunno how it happened, he said, showing Darnelle the unbroken seal, but I was just walking down the street and the bag ripped. The bottle fell out and there was nothing I could do about it! He put on his most pitiful, helpless expression and blinked moist puppy dog eyes.

Darnelle glared at Dill. So…

So can I please have another bottle? It isn’t my fault that the bag ripped.

Listen, pal. This ain’t no free store. Take that dripping mess and get the hell outta here! She pointed to the door.

Dill’s shoulders slumped. He’d been afraid of this. But then, before he could argue, another employee appeared on the scene. A short man with bulgy blue eyes and bad teeth, the branch manager usually stayed in the office and rarely ventured into the store. Darnelle didn’t know why he had chosen this minute to make an appearance and wasn’t happy to see him. She screwed up her face, but not so he could see.

The manager looked into the bag and frowned. He knew that there was more than one way to get whisky out of a bottle. Just take another one from the shelf, sir, said the manager.

Thanks very much! said Dill. He quickly deposited the bag in the trash and helped himself to a fresh bottle. Seeya later, sweetheart! he said, blowing Darnelle a kiss on his way out the door. She stuck out her tongue at him and crossed her eyes.

Don’t try that trick here again, the manager warned. He was no fool.

But Dill was already gone. He sauntered down the street, clutching the bottle tightly to make sure it didn’t somehow escape his grasp. No way would they believe him if he really did have an accident. The singer needed this booze more than he cared to admit.

Although Dill had been drinking more lately, at least he wasn’t doing heroin today. Clean and sober for the first time in his life, the singer had relapsed just after his second-year cake. Since then, he’d been fighting a running battle with the junk. The elation he felt only moments earlier took a nosedive as the only cloud in the sky passed in front of the sun. He still couldn’t understand why he relapsed; only that he’d missed the familiarity of it all. Smack and crack were as comfortable as an old pair of shoes broken in just right. Today, however, he would stick with the booze.

Gramsey appeared by Dill’s side, grinning to split his face. I see everything went according to plan! he said, eyes fixed on the full bottle. Fuckin’ Gramsey never had to worry about kicking dope. Fuckin’ Gramsey would never even think about getting sober, either. Sometimes Dill hated the bastard.

Yeah, I got the fuckin’ booze. So fuckin’ what, muttered Dill, still riding a wave of misery. He missed the freedom of being clean.

Gramsey cocked an eyebrow at his old friend and frowned. Are you moping about the drugs again? I dunno why you worry so much. Doesn’t booze help you stay off the smack? Sometimes he couldn’t figure Dill out.

"Alcohol is a drug! Dill sneered. Ya just don’t get it, do ya?" He handed the brown paper bag to his friend.

Gramsey made a sour face. Like fucking hell it is! The second bottle joined the first in his pack. Whoever said booze was a drug didn’t know what they were talking about.

The two walked along, towards the poverty and despair of the Downtown Eastside. Dill was staying at the Marbella Hotel, which he claimed was better than most of the others. Gramsey, who lived in a house like a normal person, thought Dill was out of his mind to live in the DTES. For his part, Dill claimed to like it here and said that at least you knew where the people were coming from. Everyone had but one motive: Get more drugs. He could relate to that.

Gramsey cast a sidelong glance at the singer to see if he was cheering up yet. Sometimes he was morose and sullen for hours, which made him a less-than-ideal drinking companion. Other times he would snap out of it and be okay. One could never tell what the skinny little fuck would be like from one minute to the next.

So, Gramsey said, cautiously, did Stacy talk to ya about the show next Friday? Maybe Dill could be distracted from his gloomy thoughts.

Yeah, she came by yesterday, scowled Dill. She told me that you printed more shirts and hats. How come ya didn’t tell me ‘bout that? Stacy was the Fat Bastards manager and Dill’s on again-off again girlfriend. It was complicated.

Gramsey snorted. Yeah, well, ya said ya didn’t wanna be in charge of merch because ya might spend the money. I was just tryin’ ta make things easier for ya. The guitar player shook his head negatively. Dill could be a pain sometimes.

Dill grinned meanly and socked Gramsey on the arm. I’m just fuckin’ with ya! We can’t have a junkie holdin’ the money, can we? His squinty grey eyes sparkled mischievously.

Yer not so bad, Gramsey lied. I was just saving ya the trouble. He was glad that Dill was back to his old self again, even if his smile did remind Gramsey of a shabby fence with several pickets kicked in. The singer could use a little dental work.

Just make sure that I get my share, warned Dill, instantly regretting his words. Gramsey wasn’t like the dope fiends he generally consorted with.

Gramsey gave Dill the stinkeye. Fuck you, dickweed. I don’t rip people off, unlike you, he said, pointedly.

Fuck you, too, Dill said, almost contritely.

West Hastings became East Hastings and the boys passed the infamous corner of Pain & Wastings without comment. Dill knew most of the people gathered in front of Carnegie Centre, and it was difficult to walk by without trying to score. Some of them owed Dill, while others might be persuaded to part with a point of junk. He subconsciously walked faster, trying to put the corner behind him.

Slow down, willya? complained Gramsey. The pack containing the plastic bowl and both bottles of whisky bounced against his spine as he struggled to keep up. He knew why Dill was in a hurry, but sheesh! Did he think someone was going to leap out with a syringe full of dope? Around here, actually, it was possible. But not when you wanted them to.

Dill didn’t slow his pace. He trucked on down the sidewalk dodging crackheads and junkies with the confident dexterity of a geriatric shopping for bargains on Senior’s Day. Gramsey, jogging along behind, struggled to keep up. Dill moved pretty fast for a skinny old dope fiend.

The singer didn’t stop until they reached the Marbella, which was on Hastings just before Gore Street. He banged on the front door and waited impatiently for the desk clerk to make an appearance. Finally, a surly old geezer with severe glaucoma tottered out of the washroom and buzzed the thirsty punks into the building. ‘Bout fuckin’ time, muttered Dill, as he and Gramsey passed the front desk. Behind a scratched Plexiglas barrier, a faded and misspelled sign read Absolutely no gests after 11 PM!!!

The pair took the pissy elevator to the fourth floor where Dill popped into his room to fill a bottle with tap water before rejoining Gramsey in the hall. They walked to the north end of the building and stopped in front of a rickety steel ladder. After you, sir, Gramsey said, gallantly allowing Dill to pass. The singer lifted an eyebrow at his companion before clambering up the ladder. With a grunt, Dill pushed open the rusty hatch and pulled himself onto the roof. Gramsey soon joined him, and the two stood there at the epicentre of the Downtown Eastside. There was no view quite like it.

Behind them on Burrard Inlet, towering orange cranes lifted consumer goods from rusty freighters. Beyond the inlet on the North Shore, yellow mounds of sulphur appeared as shimmering piles of gold. To the left, the hulking Balmoral Hotel jutted into the sky like a malignant tumour on the arse of the city. Dill had lived there once and was pleased to have escaped. The Marbella was no Hilton, but it was better than the Balmoral, renovations or no renovations.

So then, gimme a fuckin’ drink, said the singer, looking around at the discarded condoms and used syringes scattered about the pebbled rooftop. He wished those naughty tenants would pick up after themselves.

Gramsey removed two cups and the plastic jug containing the pirated whisky from his backpack. He poured a healthy tot into one cup but Dill stopped him before he could fill the second.

Nuthin’ doin’, said Dill. This is tainted whisky!

Tainted? asked Gramsey, puzzled.

As in ‘tainted with yer blood, said Dill, filling his cup with whisky from the other bottle. He topped both drinks up with water and took a good belt. Ahhh!

But this bottle is missing a couple ounces! complained Gramsey, lifting his cup.

Deal with it, Dill replied curtly, taking another, smaller sip. He didn’t care to drink blood.

Fuck you, Dill, said Gramsey. He was pissed off that Dill would insinuate he might have some terrible and contagious disease. Sitting down in the shade of the mechanical room, he took a good-sized slug from his drink. There was nothing wrong with his blood, of this he was sure.

Dill left Gramsey and walked to the edge of the roof overlooking Hastings Street. The residents below strutted, limped, pranced, gimped, and crawled along on the hard sidewalk. Like some bizarre social experiment gone horribly awry, the street scene was endlessly fascinating to Dill. He could watch it all day long, when not participating himself that is.

The addicts came in all shapes and sizes and from every economic status. There was Terry the Rake, still alive and still drunk after all these years. The redheaded old fart had once owned a chain of laundromats, until he drank them all away. A skinny bleached blonde teetered past, reminding Dill of Angie. Sadness flared briefly in his chest. Angie was gone now, of course, OD’d long ago. It occurred to Dill that he should treat his few remaining friends better, as they could be snatched from him at any moment.

Just as Dill was about to walk away, a police car, lights flashing but no siren, slid to a stop in front of the Marbella. The singer stepped back instinctively, even though the policemen obviously weren’t interested in two losers on the roof. A pair of pudgy and bored looking cops got out of the car and ambled slowly into the hotel. They were probably picking up some poor sap for an outstanding warrant. Fuck it.

Dill shuffled back to Gramsey, kicking up little stones along the way. Those dope fiends down there have given up drugs, he reported. They’ve finally seen the error of their ways.

It was really just a matter of time, said Gramsey, nodding sagely. He refilled his cup and accepted Dill’s peace offering for what it was. He understood if Dill didn’t want to drink his blood.

The singer sat down and finished his drink so he wouldn’t fall behind. Dill poured another and the friends drank quietly. Like an old married couple, they were comfortable together and felt no need to make small talk. Booze, however, loosens the tongue and after a few more drinks they eventually began to converse. They spoke mostly about music, and all went well until Gramsey unwisely brought up the subject of the 2010 Winter Olympics. He should have known better.

The guitarist said, innocently enough, I hear that the owners of the Curtis Hotel used the ol’ ‘renovations’ excuse to give the residents ninety days notice. Very convenient for the city to leave that loophole open, dontcha think?

Dill choked on his drink. He coughed explosively and sprayed Gramsey with a fine mist of premium Alberta whisky. WHAT? Who told you that? This is the very first I’ve heard of it! The Curtis Hotel was directly across the street from the Marbella. Apparently, no one was safe.

I heard it on the news, I thought you knew, Gramsey said, kicking himself for bringing it up. It took very little to get Dill started. Maybe he could steer his friend to another, less volatile subject.

But no, it was much too late for that. Annie lives at the Curtis, and she just moved in last month after being homeless for a couple of weeks, said Dill, becoming even more agitated. Now she’ll be homeless again!

Don’t worry; I’m sure she’ll find another room soon, lied Gramsey. Dill watched out for Annie when he could because the girl wasn’t very good at taking care of herself. He wasn’t sure why he cared about Annie, but he did.

No she won’t! She’ll be on the street again! exclaimed Dill, throwing down his empty cup. He jumped to his feet and paced back and forth. I can’t believe those evil sonsabitches are forcing more people from their homes! He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand and barred his teeth. When is it going to end?

Being a little drunk now, and more than a little reckless, Gramsey foolishly threw fuel on the fire. It’ll end when the Olympics end, and then the taxpayers will be stuck with a bill that lasts for decades. Expo ‘86 lost 310 million dollars! He smiled wickedly and knocked back his drink.

Just the mention of Expo ‘86 was enough to set Dill frothing at the mouth. Sometimes he forgot that he wasn’t a taxpaying citizen. Every week another hotel evicts its tenants and more citizens are forced onto the street! he snarled, his eyes crazed and wild. "Meanwhile, our elected city officials stand by and allow it to happen. No, the muthafuckas encourage it to happen, all the while pretending that they’re making ‘inroads on the homelessness problem’! Things are bad enough here without this fuckin’ bullshit! He snatched up his bottle of whisky and took a mighty pull. We have to do something, now!"

Whoa, whaddya mean ‘we,’ objected Gramsey. I don’t even live here! Besides, whatcha gonna do? The way I see it, ya can’t do fuck all. He turned his palms skywards to indicate helplessness.

This was not what Dill wanted to hear. We need to take what the Anti-Poverty Committee is doing a step further! We must take those fuckers to war! He swung around to shake his fist at City Hall, but his whisky bottle, which was less than half-full, connected with the corner of the mechanical room. The bottom broke off and the booze gushed onto the pebbles. Dill looked at Gramsey in disbelief and, for a moment, the only sound was of traffic rushing by on the street below. Dill stood there holding the empty bottle and time stood still.

Then the singer threw back his head and screamed at the top of his lungs. FUUUUUUUUCK! He marched to the edge of the rooftop, mad enough to spread his arms and fly. To his surprise, the police car was still parked in front of the hotel with no officers in sight. Dill wound up and threw the broken bottle, which struck the windshield of the cruiser squarely, sending shattered glass splashing in all directions. It was a glorious blow for the revolution.

At that moment, the policemen emerged from the hotel. One of them, a formerly apathetic doughboy, was absolutely enraged. He pointed up at Dill and made eye contact. You! he shouted.

Gramsey appeared at Dill’s side. Way to go, numbnuts, he said, sipping a fresh drink. The cops had a way of ruining perfectly good afternoons.

Oh shit, muttered Dill, feeling oddly flat. Then his eyes settled on the cup in Gramsey’s hand. Let’s see how much of your bottle we can kill before the pigs get up here.

Homecoming

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The room key in Dill’s hand made an awful noise as he dragged it along the side of a brand-new Hummer. The key cut deeply, penetrating all the way to the steel beneath. Dill wiped flecks of glossy black paint on his jeans before returning the key to his pocket. Out of jail for only ten minutes, the singer had