Liquor & Whores

Acknowledgments

1

Life Choices

Olaf Hendrickson soared gracefully through the air. The sensation might have been pleasant had it lasted longer, but any enjoyment he might have taken from the flight ended abruptly when his head struck the swinging doors at the Belmont Hotel with a resounding thump. Clear of this obstacle, Olaf continued his voyage like a drunken, wingless bird, landing in a heap just inches from the curb. Seconds later, his cane swooped out the door after him and bounced to a stop near his head. The bouncers, for all their many faults, were not weak of arm or shoulder.

Lying on the sidewalk looking up at the sky, Olaf paused to reflect on his sorry life up to that point. His biggest mistakes included nearly killing a man in a bar fight, and cheating on the only woman he’d ever truly loved. The first mistake had cost him five years in Kent Penitentiary; the second had almost cost him his life. Had the girl stabbed him in the neck just a half inch to the left, she would have saved him from all the poor choices he made later. Shit, thought Olaf, rubbing a raw patch on his elbow, damn near every decision he’d ever made had turned out to be a huge fucking mistake. His ejection from the Belmont Hotel didn’t even rate.

Still, considered Olaf, hoisting himself painfully from the sidewalk, he was not a young man any more and his poor decisions hurt more than ever. Although his attempt to cheat at poker last week was a worse idea than it was to raise hell in the Belmont, he could hardly overlook the connection.

There was no question that angering the bartender today was merely the latest in a lifetime of terrible choices, and it was abundantly clear that he was absolutely incapable of making the right decisions. Everything he did was a mistake.

The sun beat down as Olaf picked up his cane and hobbled away. At age sixty, the parts of his body that still worked ached horribly, and decades of hard drinking had taken a considerable toll. His decision to accept a quick settlement for a crippling workplace injury was merely another example of his inability to look out for himself. If money hadn’t been such an issue he might have waited, but booze wasn’t free and neither was rent. That money was mostly gone now, and he was scraping by on Disability, living in a roach-infested dump with the empty bottles and bills that seemed to grow larger each month. His circumstances made him very thirsty and more than a little ornery. No one had ever accused Olaf Hendrickson of being a kind and gentle soul.

Olaf didn’t care much for people. They walked around with their eyes glued to hand-held devices, barely aware of their surroundings. Detached homes cost more than most people could earn in twenty years, and decent housing was beyond the reach of average citizens. The city was nothing but luxury cars, corporate logos, designer clothing, shopping malls, and high-end grocery stores that sold food so expensive they had to weigh it by the gram. Although modern appliances were brighter, shinier, and inexpensive, they broke down almost immediately or didn’t work at all.

Not just that, but everything was on the computer these days and you couldn’t even park a car in the city without a mobile phone and a credit card. Single serving coffee pods filled the garbage dumps, and the madness would continue until some asshole designed a system that was even more wasteful. Nothing made sense, and everything Olaf knew was gone, replaced by a sterile, overly-complicated facsimile of the original, made out of plastic and impossible to open. The more Olaf thought about what was wrong with the world, the more he needed a drink.

Aching and cranky, Olaf arrived at the Sylvester Hotel and paused briefly to lean on his cane. A smoker and a heavy one at that, he winded easily. Panting slightly, the old man pushed the door open and lurched into the darkened and odorous interior, dropping into the nearest chair facing the door. His poor life choices did not include sitting where his enemies could sneak up easily. Those who wished him harm would have no choice but to make a frontal assault.

The bar was cool and quiet, with only a handful of patrons scattered about. In various states of intoxication, the men and women chatted amiably or sat hunched protectively over shots of whisky or pints of beer. Olaf scanned the room impatiently, and was relieved to see a server headed his way. The young blonde who arrived to take his order was equal parts sad and bored, her ennui a cinder block she carried at all times. What can I get you? she asked, wondering why she’d ever dropped out of school. The Sylvester was full of people who had made unfortunate decisions and she was one of them.

Olaf hesitated. Bottled beer was always a safe bet, but was more expensive than whatever the bar had on tap. Unfortunately, the quality of draft beer on Hastings Street varied widely, and none of the bars cleaned the tap lines with any regularity. Olaf wasn’t particularly fussy, but some of the draft tasted as if the residents in the rooms upstairs washed their socks in the vile stuff, and the hangovers it produced were spectacular. On the other hand, he had to watch what he spent and needed to stretch his drinking dollars. He could always buy off-sales and go home, but those old walls were such a bore. With no one for company, he’d go insane. Olaf didn’t like people but he hated being alone even more.

Well? said the waitress, scowling. Are you gonna order, or are you just gonna sit there lookin’ miserable?

Olaf returned the frown with interest. Keep yer damned shirt on! he croaked, his voice an oil tanker scraping over barnacle-encrusted rocks. Bring me a pint of draft, and don’t linger too damn long! He hated being rushed when making weighty decisions.

The waitress contemplated the old man with his leathery skin and grey, tobacco stained whiskers. He’d been in here not long ago, arguing loudly with some other drunk about God-knows-what. She opened her mouth to give him shit, but turned on one heel to fetch the pint. The cranky old fart wasn’t worth her trouble, and the sooner she was shut of him the better.

A minute later, the waitress was back with the pint. With a foamy head and delightful beads of condensation dotting its surface, the frosty mug looked absolutely perfect sitting there on the table in front of him. Instead of lifting the beer to his lips, Olaf stared into the mug as if it were a crystal ball, the amber beer an answer to every problem. Indeed, liquor was the solution to many of life’s quandaries. With a glass of beer or whisky in hand, Olaf didn’t care that he might soon be homeless, pushed from his neighbourhood of thirty years by the relentless onslaught of gentrification. Drunk on wine, he was tolerant of the crime and the drugs and the stink from the rendering plant down the street. Liquor made the world tolerable, but just barely.

Olaf continued to study his beer. A mere six-pack in the fridge dramatically improved his outlook, giving the day a rosier hue that would only improve after he downed a few. Even a single shot of bar whisky could brighten an otherwise unforgiving and dreary day. When Olaf got right down to it, booze was the only thing that never let him down, even when his ankles puffed up and the whites of his eyes turned yellow. With liquor, you always knew what to expect, and so what if it killed you? Women were another matter entirely.

Having studied his pint long enough, Olaf lifted the mug and took a hearty swig. His pleasure, however, turned to disgust when the suds reached his taste buds. Not only was the beer vinegary and bitter, but it also emitted an unpleasant, sulphurous smell reminiscent of burning eggshells. Over the years he had consumed many beers that were less than excellent, and this one topped that nasty list. This tastes like shit! exclaimed Olaf. He slammed the mug down on the table, causing much of it to cascade over the sides. He couldn’t even order the right beer successfully.

Olaf contemplated the pint unhappily. He thought about complaining to the barkeep, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. After all, he was not quaffing pricey craft brew in a trendy Yaletown taphouse—he was drinking the cheapest draft available in a greasy Downtown Eastside watering hole. A quick glance around the bar confirmed that other patrons were drinking the noxious stuff without complaint, so the bartender would just assume he was being difficult. Given his unceremonious eviction from the Belmont earlier, Olaf had to ask himself if he really wished to anger another barman. Perhaps he would choke it down and order a bottle of domestic beer for his next round.

Using all the coping tools in his considerable arsenal, Olaf plugged his nose, took another hit of beer, and swallowed quickly, forcing the beer past his taste buds to his stomach. This time, although the aftertaste was still awful, he found the brew somewhat more palatable. Olaf was not the fussiest man in the world, after all. When nothing else was readily available, he would drink cooking wine, rubbing alcohol, or mouthwash, so his credentials as a connoisseur were suspect at best. In the ultimate analysis, beer was beer.

The next swallow was even less of a shock and Olaf didn’t bother to plug his nose this time. In fact, he was feeling a bit foolish for being so finicky when two new patrons entered the bar. Although Olaf recognized one of them as Alvin Roberts, a small-time pimp of lowly reputation, he didn’t know the young whore with him. The flat-chested ginger-haired beanpole kept her eyes on the floor as Alvin led her across the bar to a table nearby. The bar was almost empty, so Olaf couldn’t understand why the pimp would choose to sit so closely. People nowadays had such little regard for personal space.

With his back to Olaf, Alvin lashed out at the whore. Fuck’s sakes! You let the trick take his money back from you? How did he get your purse, and why didn’t you jump out of the fucking car before he did? What are you, new? He scowled at the lanky ginger, his unruly black eyebrows curling up like horns. Olaf knew that Alvin used his fists to keep his girls in line but he couldn’t understand why they didn’t murder him in his sleep.

I-I’m sorry, Alvin. I w-wasn’t thinking, and I had a lot on my mind. I thought my purse was out of reach but he leaned over and grabbed it… Chastised, the whore trailed off, her chin trembling. She was obviously having a bad day and the pimp was making it worse.

I don’t give a FUCK about your little problems! barked Alvin, his voice rising sharply enough to draw a frown from the barman. Keep your eyes and ears open when you’re working! I ain’t running no fucking charity here! He turned to the waiter and ordered two pints, his eyes leaving his troublesome worker only briefly.

Olaf couldn’t fault the pimp’s advice. Whores needed to keep their wits about them if they were to survive here, and even that often wasn’t enough. What he didn’t like was Alvin’s manner. The girl was obviously distressed, yet Alvin was giving her shit for simply dropping her guard momentarily. Olaf couldn’t give a damn about some naïve young whore, but Alvin rubbed him the wrong way. He didn’t like him.

The pimp continued to berate his worker. Another thing, you listen to me when I tell you to stay on your corner until you earn enough goddamned money! We all pull our own weight in my stable, and that includes you! He paid for the pints and took a huge swallow of rancid draft without making a face or spitting it out.

The girl was becoming increasingly miserable. Trembling, she took a sip from her pint and grimaced slightly, but Olaf didn’t think her frown had anything to do with the lousy beer. I’m sorry, Alvin! Gimme another chance, willya? I’ll go back to work right after this beer! I’m not feeling too well. To illustrate this, she produced a frayed tissue from her purse to wipe her runny nose. Alvin glowered at her.

Olaf finished the remainder of his pint and ordered a bottle of domestic beer. The whore continued to sniffle and not just because she was dopesick, or at least not entirely. The staff and patrons alike regarded her uneasily as she covered her mouth and attempted to stifle a loud sob. An ambulance screamed past on the street.

What the fuck is your problem now, you little slut? growled Alvin, glaring at the despondent young hooker. Shut your fuckin’ yap and get that beer in you! To demonstrate, he lifted his pint and downed a large portion of the nasty brew. The last thing he needed was a crybaby whore.

I-I-I’m s-sorry! said the ginger, trying unsuccessfully to marshal her runaway emotions. Despite her best efforts, tears began to roll unchecked down her freckled face. Everyone in the bar was trying to ignore the sobbing woman, but that was becoming increasingly difficult.

SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU DUMB SLUT! bellowed Alvin, lifting his hand to hit the girl. The patrons tensed for the slap that was sure to come, but no one was close enough to stop it from happening. Besides, that could be dangerous.

THWACK! The mighty crack resonated throughout the bar, but the girl was not on the receiving end of that blow. Instead, Alvin Roberts fell from his chair and crashed to the floor as if shot through the head. Olaf stood above him, cane in hand, panting lightly. The patrons nodded in approval, pleased that someone had addressed the problem so handily.

The young whore was no longer crying. She sat in her chair staring open-mouthed at Olaf. Thanks, I th-think? she said, confused. Alvin remained prone on the floor, a nasty welt growing on his temple. If his chest wasn’t slowly rising and falling, the pimp could easily have been dead. Not that the patrons cared one way or the other.

I wouldn’t hang around if I was you. Alvin ain’t gonna be too happy when he wakes up, said Olaf, draining his crappy beer in one extended guzzle. I’ll also have to keep one eye open for that prick from now on, so thanks a fuckin’ lot! He hobbled for the door, his cane pounding heavily on the floor. The cane not only helped him get around, but it also made a dandy weapon.

WAIT! cried the whore, running after Olaf. She caught up to him on the sidewalk. What am I supposed to do now! she bawled, clutching at the sleeve of Olaf’s threadbare jacket. I can’t go back to Alvin or he’ll kill me! The look in her eyes was one of abject terror. She wasn’t faking it.

You had nothin’ to do with that! It was me who thumped him, so why would he blame it on you? Already Olaf was cursing himself for becoming involved and knew that he had acted irrationally. Just one more bad decision in a lifetime of poor choices.

"You don’t know Alvin! He blames everything on me!" cried the girl, on the brink of hysteria. Her eyes were wet with tears, the pale, freckled face flushed with alarm.

Jesus fuck! How is that my problem, kiddo? Lissen, if you want my advice, just go back to Mommy and Daddy and try to put this shit behind you! You’re still young, but this game will fucking kill you, so get out while you can! Olaf shook the girl’s hand away and resumed his headlong journey down the sidewalk. He was reasonably certain that he had a little whisky left at home, but he would grab a six-pack on the way just in case.

The girl wouldn’t quit. She caught up to Olaf again, her teary face a tragic sight to behold. PLEASE! I’m an orphan and my parents are dead! Just let me stay with you tonight, and I promise to leave the very first thing in the morning! She clutched at his sleeve as if it were a rope and she was dangling from a cliff.

FUCK! shouted Olaf. This is what I get for trying to do the right thing? Okay, you can stay tonight, but you better be gone when I wake up or you’re gonna wish you’d stayed with Alvin! He shook her hand off again and hobbled down the sidewalk as fast as he could, his guest in hot pursuit. What a shit show this had turned out to be.

The girl caught up easily, but now she was all smiles. The eyes that were so sad and red only moments earlier were now bright and happy. I’m Becky! she said, proffering a bony, needle-scarred hand. I thought I might hitchhike to Kelowna to stay with a friend, but staying with you seems like a much better idea! For once I finally made the right decision!

Olaf just looked at her.

2

Alvin Takes a Nap

Alvin was not happy when he woke up. Upon opening his eyes, the first thing he did was check to see if he’d been robbed. Incredibly, his bankroll was still in his hip pocket, and so were the bags of junk he’d bought for his whores, Becky and Scout. The girls always worked harder when they had dope waiting for them at home, but Alvin never gave them more than they needed to stay well. You okay, pal? asked bartender Dan, standing above the downed patron with a semi-concerned look on his face. He’d been wondering if he should phone an ambulance, but the decision was not an easy one to make. Dead customers were bad for business, and the cops would close the bar for hours while they investigated. A simple OD in the washroom could ruin the entire day and make the owner very unhappy.

Alvin touched the lump on his temple and spikey bolts of pain ripped through his body. Fuck! What the hell happened, and where is that little bitch who was with me? he groaned, forcing himself upright. Apparently, he’d been hit by a five-ton truck, but how did it fit through the door?

You were about to hit that little girl, but then a customer smacked you with his cane! volunteered the waitress, glaring at Alvin. She didn’t like men who hit women, and neither did anyone else in the bar.

Hmmm… said Alvin, still drawing a blank. He held out a hand for someone to help him up. When no assistance was forthcoming, he hauled himself up under his own power. So, who hit me, exactly?

That grouchy old guy with the suspenders! You know, the one with the cane who always snarls at everybody! I was sure he was gonna complain about the beer today, but he somehow managed to keep his mouth shut! exclaimed the waitress, still glowering at Alvin. She wasn’t trying to be helpful—she just wanted the pimp to know that people here weren’t afraid to put him in his place.

Alvin reached up to touch the bump on his head, thought otherwise, and grabbed his pint instead. White hair and blue eyes? I think I know who you mean. Didn’t he used to have a skinny little wife with one eye? What the hell is his name again?

Yeah, that’s the guy! I think his name is— She stopped abruptly as bartender Dan surreptitiously kicked her in the shin. Ow! she said, rubbing the injury.

I think Carol was trying to say that we never seen the guy before, interjected Dan, frowning at his loose-lipped fellow employee. I wish we could help, but I really don’t remember seeing him around here until today. Must be new.

Say, don’t pull that shit with me! She was just about to tell me his name before you opened your big mouth! said Alvin, pointing an accusing finger at the bartender.

Never mind that crap! Just finish your beer and get the hell outta here, okay? snapped Dan. He was a capable fellow, and not at all intimidated by an injured pimp.

I’ll remember this, said Alvin. He took a swig of tepid draft and slammed the half-full mug down on the table. By the way, this stuff tastes like rat piss!

Git! ordered the bartender, pointing.

Alvin got to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. Hold your fuckin’ horses! he growled angrily. Staggering towards the door, he stopped to steady himself against a pillar. After a good long rest, he finally found the strength to stumble out of the bar and onto the sidewalk.

The bartender frowned at the waitress. You gotta learn to zip it, Rach! What the hell were you thinking? I’m surprised at you!

Fuck yourself, mumbled Rachael, but not loudly enough for Dan to hear. She cleared the tables and took the glasses to the bar. Men sucked.

Down on the street, Alvin was in a rotten mood. His head ached horribly and there was too much blood in his alcohol. Barging through slow-moving foot traffic on Hastings, he glared aggressively at his fellow citizens like a shark amongst minnows, avoiding larger predators and compelling smaller fish to swim away. Most were smart enough to give him room.

Alvin struggled onwards. As much as he needed a good stiff drink, he had to find Becky and kick her ass all the way to next Tuesday. That old fool at the next table wouldn’t have hit him if she hadn’t started crying like a little baby. Tears were Becky’s secret weapon, and she had the ability to turn them on and off at will. She alone was responsible for the nasty lump on his temple, and there would be hell to pay when he got his