The Society of Experience

Chapter 3-2

He flipped the collar up on his jacket, the plastic gasoline container awkwardly hanging from his fingers.

I had fifteen bucks. I was waiting on cheques.

As if tapping into my thoughts: “Please, sir. Anything . . . I’d really appreciate it.”

I took out a five. “It’s all I got.”

“Thanks, sir. That’s wonderful. Thank you very much,” he said, raising his arm in a weak salutation as he turned around and walked somewhat obediently in the direction I’d pointed.

I spotted him later on my trudge home, in an alley off of Bathurst, beside a Vietnamese karaoke bar. He had his back against the wall but even then seemed like he couldn’t remain standing. A shorter man in a Chicago Bulls jacket lit his cigarette. I kept walking.

Everything felt rehearsed. The stranger. Karen’s tungsten bedroom. My dad.

I remember getting home and lying on the futon, the winter sun on my face as I stared blankly at a wall. Eggshell. A streetcar roared past beneath the apartment, its steely wake threading itself into my head.

+ + +

[Notebook excerpt | Derrick van der Lem | February 13, 2008]

There were so many people coming in and out of the café, their entrances and exits over the floorboards amplifying off the walls, like on a theatre stage.

There were many people coming in and out of the café, the floorboards amplified by the empty basement directly beneath, their entrances and exits sounding like a theatre stage.

Locals came in and out of the café regularly, footfalls on the floorboards amplified by an empty basement beneath; every entrance and exit sounding to him as if performed on a theatre stage.

Patrons came in and out of the café regularly. Footfalls on the floorboards amplified by an empty basement beneath; each entrance and exit sounding as if on a theatre stage.

People came in and out of the café regularly, their footfalls on the floorboards amplified by the empty basement beneath; every crossing sounding to him as if on a theatre stage.

People came in and out of the café, their footfalls amplified by the empty basement beneath; every crossing sounding as if on a theatre stage.

+ + +

“I’VE SPENT YEARS trying to avoid this question.” I fidgeted with my stool, moving it first back then forward. “I didn’t have to deal with it until now.”

Paul and I were upstairs at The Rivoli, on Queen West near Spadina, ostensibly to shoot pool. I just wanted to drink and soak in the atmosphere. I couldn’t avoid seeing the happy-go-luckiness around us. I couldn’t unhear the shitty grunge rock someone had filled the jukebox with. For my own sake, I kept Paul within an arm’s-length periphery; conversation safe, not looking directly at him, not exactly listening closely to what he had to say because the last thing I needed was advice-advice-advice, which people who might as well have been strangers had been attempting to offer me over the last week. Paul was a better friend than a stranger and, even though he could be odd, I valued his perspective.

“I’ve hit a brick wall, and everything in my life is being questioned right now. It’s all up for grabs.”

He nodded obligingly. He was taller than me, with a semipermanent smirk.

“Derrick, didn’t you say once that you wanted to open a bar?”

I stared straight at him, my spell broken. “What? Did I?”

“That’s a cliché.”

“W-what is?”

“Hitting a brick wall. Isn’t that a cliché?”

I looked at him, confused, running my hands over my thighs.

“I remember you told me once that you wanted to open a bar,” he leaned forward. “Just asking . . .”

“I think so?”

“Well, would you rather run a bar?”

I shook my head. “Rather than what?”

“I don’t know. The music rights stuff. Writing.”

He bent over and, with a swift jerk, struck the cue ball, which collided with the others at the far end of the table.

I didn’t want to telegraph an answer so I didn’t budge on my stool. I didn’t even exhale until I could think of a proper response. Paul sank two stripes on his break, the bastard.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He nodded encouragingly, perhaps falsely; in brief moments he would glance back at me, smiling.

“Look,” I said, staring at a few tables around us, making eye contact with whoever happened to stroll by. “Once upon a time. I don’t know. I probably said something about a bar. Five years ago I wanted to do things. Start things. Hell, ten years ago. And then I just put things off and then there was . . . the back and forth with Karen and s**t. It’s like I just woke up one morning and discovered I’d gotten lost. All I have is writing. That’s the only thing, I swear, that keeps me from becoming some sort of f*****g psycho. But, with Dad gone . . .”

Paul put up his hand. It was also my turn.

“Derrick, I don’t know anything about writing. I’ve read one of your stories once, but like, who am I? I’m just a guy who likes watching basketball and having a good time. In spite of this, I think I qualify — as your lawyer — to, you know, say you have some talent,” he smiled and sipped his gin and tonic.

I was staring at a crowded mess near the corner pocket, as if all the other balls had decided to g**g up on mine. Paul had a degree in law — JD/MA from U of T — even though he never took the bar exam. Instead, he abruptly changed course and decided to focus on an acting career. He lived with his common-law partner who, despite them being together for as long as I’d known him, he still referred to as his girlfriend. She was a lawyer.

With my cue stick angled high, I tapped my way out of the mess, pocketing one of Paul’s in the process.

“One story,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “I’ve had just one story published . . . three years ago, under a f*****g pseudonym because I was scared shitless my dad would read it. And then there was the stoner essay I wrote about camera lenses.”

He looked at me critically. I remembered that look from when I told him I’d cheated on Karen.

“But you’ve started something lately, right? It’s not like you haven’t been writing, right?”

“The cowboy stories,” I mumbled.

“The cowboy stories!” he said.

He was the life coach I never quite felt I needed. I stirred my glass. He dropped two more stripes into their respective pockets.

“You haven’t really had a clear shot yet,” he said, taking inventory of the game. “What’s it called again? The Empty something? It’s not a novel but a . . . thingy-thing.”

I cleared my throat and tried to speak in a calm, deep voice.

“It doesn’t have a name yet. It’s a collection of stories.”

“Yeah, but what’s it about?”

A party settled at the table next to ours. Everyone was happy. The music got worse. Foo Fighters.

“Uh . . . They’re about the . . . ah . . . Injured Cowboy. The Injured Cowboy.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s a short story collection — it’s not a novel. It’s about a mysterious drifter in a kind of self-consciously clichéd Old West. He rides into town on a horse, or he comes in on a bush plane, or on a wagon with immigrants. That sort of thing. And in every story, he has to confront . . .” and then I paused, rolling around my words, “a sort of existential heartbreak.” I waited, wondering if that phrase made any sense to him. “And there’s a sort-of running tragedy as well: he has a handicap that keeps him from settling down and forging a newer, happier life.”

“What’s the handicap?”

“Well . . . you know, that’s sort of a secret. I’d rather you read it in the book.”

“Okay. Let’s say I’m your editor. Let’s say you just tell me what the handicap is.”

“It’s his heart. His heart was broken long ago when his bride-to-be disappeared just before they were to be wed.”

He nodded and came over to fetch his glass. I could never read his face, which made everything he did unpredictable.

“She left him a note,” I added.

“And what did the note say?”

“I don’t know, Paul.” I raised my arms helplessly. “It’s not sketched yet. I’m not sure. All I know is that he’s trying to kill himself over the course of the book. He puts himself in worse and worse situations with a kind of subconscious desire to find something that will obliterate him. But, after resolving each conflict, he only gets stronger. It’s this weird, elaborate self-deception and at the same time he’s only half-aware of it.”

He nodded, staring off into space. “Well, it certainly sounds neat.”

“If I can get it past the concept stage, yeah. But . . .”

Paul’s attention turned to the table. “Wait . . . whose turn is it? Did you go? Did I go?”

I’ve tried this before — not just this, but other things: novels, short stories. They don’t go anywhere. They sit on my hard drive like photographs of dead relatives. I considered how naturally I allowed that idea to appear in my head, with out hesitation.

Paul shrugged and opted to take another turn, perilously leaning across the table to make his shot. It made me wonder if he was ever actually competing with me.

“Look, I think you’re being a little hypercritical,” he said, trying not to brush the 7-ball aside with his sleeve. “I know your father’s gone . . .” he paused. “And I know from, you know, our previous conversations that he was, for better or worse, an influence, let’s say,” his eyes darting up to mine. “But it sounds to me like you’re kinda chastising yourself. And these are classic symptoms — self-recrimination, guilt.” He tapped the cue ball so that it banked off of the side table and knocked a striped ball into the opposite side pocket. “I know it’s natural, but f**k, it’s not healthy.”

I let out another slow breath. I was looking at an empty glass and had forgotten what the hell I was drinking. I needed to answer him. I saw him looking at my glass. He raised his eyebrows, offering me another one. I nodded.

When he left for the bar I noticed a woman with short, black hair staring at me a few yards away, standing alone. I thought it was accidental because she happened to be behind Paul and it was only as he stepped away that I caught her looking. Or I was making this up — maybe she was looking at something else, maybe at Paul. Her cheeks were flushed and she was dressed for the winter. She turned away and reached into a pocket. It occurred to me I was just as visible to her but doing nothing about it. She pulled a card out from her pocket.

“Derrick, sorry. I need you at the bar. My debit card’s not working.”