Janine Armin - Toronto Noir

The evening after Beth met the nameless baby, Miguel invited her on a jungle walk. Paul had gone to bed early, blaming the bug bites and cheap wine for his fatigue.

“It is possible we will see some night animals, the nocturnals,” Miguel said as they traipsed carefully along the path. “Do you have any like this in Toronto?”

Beth laughed. “Maybe raccoons,” she said. “They’re the cleverest creatures you’ve ever met, and they’ve adapted to us, so now we adapt to them.”

“Adaptation,” Miguel said. “Is that how you call it?”

The light was beginning to fade, making shapes waver, turning living tableaux into unreliable dreamscapes. Miguel placed his hand at the small of her back and invited her to take a closer look at an orchid the size of a thimble which was growing in the crook of a tree.

“Can you see?” he said. “Here.” He slid a penlight from his pocket and shined it tightly on the flower. “It’s precious, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Beth said. And then, in a rush, “There was a child, back there, in the forest. She was maybe three months old, so sweet, and she didn’t have a name. I was wondering if there might be a way, if she is not wanted or a burden of some kind, I know I — we — could provide a good home. We live in a village of sorts — clean and comfortable, with very good educational opportunities and lots of diverse friends and toys for her to play with, secondhand clothes, because we don’t like to be wasteful, and love. We have love for her. We can’t have kids of our own, or at least that’s what we’ve found.”

“I don’t think so,” Miguel replied.

“But I don’t understand!” Beth began to sob, then stopped when she noticed Miguel chortling to himself, bent at the waist with the laughter that was coursing through him. He stopped for long enough to hold out a fibrous piece of bark he had pulled from the trunk of a tree. The bark was a coppery color, flecked with a darker, richer brown, and the piece he had stripped sat in the palm of his hand like a special seashell.

“Try it,” Miguel said. “Rub it here.” He ran his index finger across his gums. “Chew on it. It was what we used when we went to the dentist, to do the dental work. A way of freezing, of feeling no pain.” He passed her the bark and she put it in her mouth like a lozenge. It was true what he said; within seconds her tongue felt clumsy and numb. She looked at him, shocked, and found she could not speak.

“Shh,” he said, although she had not uttered a word. He sidled up close to her, from behind, and put his arms around her in a restrictive embrace.

I should resist, she thought, but fear was making her tingly and compliant. She wondered if there was a place where she truly belonged.

Then Miguel’s fingers were down the front of her pants, his lips tender at her neck, his fingers rubbing and hooked up inside of her. “Here you go, Toronto,” he said into her ear. “A souvenir.” And Beth came, gasping soundlessly into the hand he had clasped firmly across her mouth. “Now,” Miguel said. “Now do you understand?”

Humber Loop

She said she wasn’t married anymore. But then, about two weeks into our thing, the dude came to visit, from Ohio or Iowa or someplace like that, I don’t even know. And he insisted that they sleep together, side by side in the same bed, every night for ten nights. Said she owed him that since he was her husband and she was his wife. She agreed to it, she told me, because she was afraid of him. Said she’d left a little something under my pillow to get me through. Said she’d call again in eleven days. I could hear him in the background, demanding to know who she was talking to. She told him to fuck off and then she said bye and hung up.

Reflecting on it now, it didn’t sound too much like she was afraid of him.

I had three gigs lined up. Double bass players can always find a gig, even if they only know ten or twelve notes. I don’t have a car, but it’s not a problem. I used to have a car. A big car. Fit the soft case nicely in the backseat. But then one day I backed the car over the bass. It could not be salvaged. I kicked the car a couple of times and then sold it so I could buy myself another bass, along with a lightweight, state-of-the-art Styrofoam case, more than an inch thick, with an Oxford cloth surface. Meant for air travel. It was six and a half feet tall and weighed just over twenty pounds without the instrument. I didn’t mind. The contents would not get damaged. And there were wheels. I could roll it down the street to wherever I was going, even in the rain. Means I was generally available to play. Man, I just want to play. Never tried to pull that rig onto a streetcar. Wasn’t even sure it was possible. Just did gigs in the Queen West area, mostly. Walking around. And up Roncesvalles. I got a rain hat that looked like a Tilly but it wasn’t, though that didn’t stop people from calling me asshole.

Day after the husband showed up, it was Monday. I played the Local on Roncy, with an old-timey type group that wanted to keep things pure. Pure meant three-chords, nothing fancy. A fiddler from BC sat in that night. Changed the key in the middle of a number, tried to ramp things up a notch. Sent everyone scrambling for their capos. Afterwards I broke his nose. Wasn’t myself really.

Tuesday I played with a singer-songwriter-type girl. Bar on Queen West. The flower sellers come in there. Some of them sell flowers that light up and blink. The hallway to the washrooms is pretty narrow. Her name was Harmony. Pretty sure it was a fake name. Don’t know how she came up with Harmony when she sings by herself. She looked like she had kicked a bad habit and was starting over a little old. But she had talent.

Turns out she wanted to fire me. Told me after the gig I was too intense. It’s true I get nervous. I take calcium supplements for that. Like beta-blockers, only cheaper. When you get nervous, your body eats up calcium, and then the depletion gives you a case of the shakes, which makes you even more nervous. It’s a cycle. I tried to take glucosamine too, for arthritis. But it hurt my stomach too much so I had to stop. Anyway, I don’t have arthritis.

I don’t know where Harmony got this idea I was messed up, but she was pretty intense herself so it was hard to convince her of anything other than what she believed. I asked if she’d give me one more chance and she said come back in two weeks and see if she hadn’t replaced me yet.

That was an early night. I went home and thought about my girl. How she told me when we first met that I made a two-dollar suit look like a million bucks. How she kept me relaxed. I was always getting paranoid. She kept me relaxed. That was her primary virtue. Guess that’s what turned a little thing into love.

Wednesday I played a blues set at the 403 on Roncy. Only pops up from time to time. Singer’s name was Gloria. She’s Ojibway, with a blind and swollen eye and a voice like Stelco. I met her a few years ago. Up north in a tee-pee. Introduced herself while sitting on the can. Made a joke about how it was a throne and the people had to bow down before her. And they did. Then she sang some and I played on a washtub bass that someone dragged out. I hadn’t played since high school. Gloria told me music was going to save my soul. She was right. Called me Plunk Henry, which I guess is who I am.

I’m Plunk Henry. How do you do.

The rest of the time was a bit of a blur.

I was living in a big warehouse building on Niagara Street. Still am, I guess. You really live alone there. You take the freight elevator or you take the stairs. I stayed in my bed, knowing no one would come and bother me. Tried to imagine her but instead I’d see the husband with her. She’d be fulfilling her wifely duty over and over and over again. Made me a bit crazy. I’d lie there in my underwear and jerk off and cry. Or try to cry. I don’t know if I cried. I never thought about anyone else. Even tried to draw a picture of her. Tried to draw her mouth. Looked more like a mustache. Tried to draw her breast. Looked more like a fried egg. Still, my doodles were better than all the porn on the Internet.