Janine Armin - Toronto Noir

After a couple days, I was still trying to get a grip. I tried to imagine our relationship in a year or two. Maybe less than a year. Maybe six months. Not having sex anymore. Me starting to think she talked too much. She telling me what she thought of my playing.

Didn’t work though.

Eleventh day she came up the freight elevator and appeared at my door. Said the husband was gone back to Iowa or Idaho. I was a bit stunned. I’d taken the mushrooms she’d left for me. When she came in, she sat down in the only chair in the room, petting the cat that got in with her, and telling him that he was a bad cat, that he shouldn’t be there. I looked at her. Her skin was paisley and her eyes were burning brighter than a mirror in the sun.

She said it made her feel like a cheap whore, coming from her husband’s bed to mine. I told her it wasn’t her husband’s bed and she wasn’t a cheap whore. I told her she was my precious flower. She told me to shut my mouth. Said she felt like a cheap whore. Said she liked the feeling. Liked putting her mouth around the words.

I should have taken my cue from that, I guess.

She chastized me later. Said I burned her insides. Truth is, it burned me too. Hurt to pee for a couple of days. What comes of a girl making you so you don’t know which end is up.

She seemed flattered though, she could screw me up so bad to get a bona fide chemical reaction. Like I was her little science project. And it calmed me down too. I remember getting up at dawn. Saw the sun coming in through the window. Thought, I’m normal. Wondered if I’d stay that way. Remembered how things had been a few weeks before. When I’d rehearse with fellow musicians.

Musicians are generous people, the same way that language instructors are. They know you want to communicate. Nobody wants to stab you in the back. Been told too that bass players live longer than all the others. Like elephants with their ears that grow large, encouraged by low and gentle music. I’m still waiting for that.

We holed up for a few days. I cancelled all my gigs. Was running out of money but she didn’t seem to mind. Told me when we came up for air we’d figure something out. Said she knew a guy who knew a guy.

She sure knew how to make me relax.

Still, after five or six days, I realized it was the night of my second-chance gig with Harmony. The last thing I wanted to do, this stage of my career, burn my bridges.

I said I was going and she was insulted. Like, really insulted. Like a whole different person came out. I said I just wanted to play and she said I sounded like a broken record. Said her baby sister played better than me. Said if I was going to treat her like trash, she was going to treat me like something worse.

She really didn’t mean it though. She was just feeling sore.

As I rolled out the door she threw an old mandolin at me. Hit the wall beside my head. I heard the crack. Reminded me how I backed the car over that bass. I lived a nightmare for a while after I lost that bass. Felt like I’d had this pact with the devil. Said he’d come to collect his pay. Only I couldn’t remember any of the good parts. The upshot was any instrument I put my hand to was set to break. Even the washtub bass in Wicky. Even the one I had now. Devil promised it would make the sound of a wrecking ball going through old paneling. It was my destiny, he said. Didn’t make any sense. All I did was back over a bass in a driveway. Where’s the unpardonable sin in that?

There was something wrong with the freight elevator. In the end I took the stairs, lugging the rig down two floors. Awkward at the corners of the landings. Then out into the street, rolling up Niagara to Queen. Heading west. Like it was your average night.

It was hot though. Muggy. I was sweating by the time I got to that bar. With the blinking flowers and the narrow bathroom hallway. Like half the bars in Toronto, you’re probably thinking. I’m sure you don’t mind me keeping it vague.

From the sound of it, there were a lot of people beyond the edge of the bar, where I couldn’t really see them. They didn’t care too much about us. I tuned them out mostly. Toronto is a city where they welcome you with folded arms.

Couldn’t tune out Harmony though. Her disapproval. She was giving me a lot of attitude right there on that little stage. Still not quite sure I deserved it. Wounded me a bit. Man, I just want to play. Anyway, nobody was really watching. Saw one pair of eyes out there, peering at me. Guess it didn’t matter too much when she fired me right there onstage. Full house chattering beyond the bar.

You got to think it wasn’t too good for her career either. Pulling a stunt like that.

It was still before 10. Harmony kept playing. I lumbered off, graceful as I could. Dragged my bass over to the side. Down that little hallway. Then I was in this little closet-sized dressing room type thing. Had a chair and a bunch of brooms in it. And my travel case. I moved the chair out into the hallway and propped the instrument up against it. Ducked back in and was trying to get the case to stay open so I could just slide the bass over and in. Then I was backing out into the hall again. There was a dude standing there. I’d missed him somehow. I said excuse me or whatever and was pulling the bass up away from the chair. He didn’t say anything so then I stopped for a second and I turned and looked up into his face.

Next two things happened almost the same time. He brought down this bottle of Grolsch on the top of my head and the tips of my fingers went up into his windpipe.

Funny thing I noticed about the Grolsch bottle, as it rolled away. It hadn’t broken and he’d resealed it before using it on my head. I think he was hoping to finish it, instead of choking from a crushed windpipe, which was what he was doing. I’ve got strong fingers from playing. Stronger than I think. Even if they’re not as dextrous as they ought to be.

I’d let the bass fall back against the chair. He was making some kind of noise. I was holding onto him, felt like my armpits were on fire, and he was looking down into my eyes like he wanted to ask me a question. Like he wanted me to help him. Did he want me to help him? Is that the way dying works? You forgive your enemies and ask them for help? All I could think was he better hurry up and finish — the questioning, the forgiving, the dying — because somebody was bound to come around the corner of that hallway again real soon.

Harmony was still at it though. One of my faves too. She had talent. Maybe I had good taste. Maybe the song would hold them just long enough to keep their bladders. It was old blues. A cover. Rabbit Brown.

I think about the way that guy looked. I do. The way he was looking before he took that swing. I see it in my head. That moment. He didn’t look angry. More helpless. Anxious. He looked a lot like me. Except he was taller and fair and pretty narrow at the shoulders. So this was the husband. Fucked up like me. Didn’t look like he wanted to be in this hallway any more than I did. He really was dying too. I felt bad for him.

I didn’t know what was happening. The husband had fallen against me and wasn’t making any more noise. In the other room, the song was coming to an end. The door was still open and I heard voices. Nasal. Girls. Approaching the corner. I pulled him up and dragged him in. Reached forward and grabbed the knob. It was damp and nearly slipped from my hand as I closed the door.