Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

Myron is his parents’ third child but unlike the elder siblings who went on to take business training, Myron has been adrift. He skipped classes during his first, second and third years of high school, and eventually dropped out, which his parents passed off as growing pains. When he started snorting cocaine at the age of fifteen, they blamed his social circle and sent him off to rehab, never sitting down with him for a frank discussion or administering any discipline. He’s one of those people who has always been afforded the benefit of the doubt.

Wren has stalked Myron enough to piece together a pretty good picture of his life. He works a part-time job in a local convenience store where he makes minimum wage, but not to worry, he’s learned to get what he wants. No longer snorting cocaine, he now sells it—a lucrative business that allows him to live alone in a historic, renovated war-time home near Scoundrels, where he makes his deals. Each time there’s a nod from a stranger amongst the smoke and darkness of this forsaken place, Myron goes to the bathroom, followed closely by the buyer. Everyone knows that neither are heading to the can because they need to pee. Other patrons don’t get involved. They’ve been scared, been hurt, been damaged and are just too blind-drunk to care.

Myron hasn’t used ever since he smashed a brand-new car his parents bought him as soon as he got his licence. High as hell at the time, he wrapped it around a telephone pole on the highway. But before the police arrived, he called his parents at four in the morning to come pick him up, which they immediately did. The next day they filed an insurance claim that the car had been stolen. Because of the family’s prominence, there were no questions and no consequences. Myron’s parents replaced the vehicle within days with a fully loaded suv. He promised them that he’d stop snorting, and so far he has.

Wren knows all of this because people repeat things they have been told, even if the story was told with the promise of secrecy. Myron likes to brag about things he’s done and gotten away with, too, about how he’s above the law. Wren discovers where Myron lives from a casual conversation with a new clerk at the convenience store. She also finds out that Myron’s new drug of choice is vodka. “He turns up at work so often hungover. Or, I swear, he’s still drunk. But hey, the customers seem to like him,” gossips the clerk. Of course they like him , Wren thinks. He provides them with blow .

Wren sits in her car, waiting for him. She is armed with the information the convenience store clerk provided. It’s almost showtime.

It’s nine-thirty in the evening by the time Wren finishes her takeout food and wipes her mouth with a napkin. For the past half hour, she’s been staked out in the parking lot, regularly checking her rear-view mirror and see what activity is happening on the street, who is coming and going.

A bag lady wearing black rubber boots wheels a rusted, old shopping cart across the Scoundrel’s parking lot toward the dumpster. She’s just tall enough to look inside, but she doesn’t seem to find anything of interest so she moves on. Wren watches two young boys carrying hockey skates tied together and slung across their shoulders. They walk quickly on the icy sidewalk followed by a medium-sized brown mutt that isn’t on a leash. A few cars drive by, most of them older models. The last one Wren saw was missing a back bumper and was obviously in need of a new muffler.

Wren notices a dark figure walking up Pasqua Street. At first, she can’t make out his face because every second streetlight in this area has a bulb that is either burned out or smashed. As the person comes closer, Wren can see it’s a man. He is wearing a toque, a three-quarter length parka and is tall. He walks with purpose, like he has somewhere important he needs to be.

Wren naturally wonders if this might be Myron. She’s been watching him enough lately to know that he has some odd mannerisms. He incessantly picks his nose, for example. Wren thinks about how Myron handles food when he’s working at the convenience store. Even though it isn’t a restaurant, there are items like hot dogs or beef jerky in a jar, food items that need to be handled by a clerk. As if on cue, Wren sees the walking figure raise his right hand to his nose, dig around, and then flick whatever he’s found toward the street. As he comes nearer to the parking lot, she can also begin to see the outline of his face. It’s Myron.

Wren is heavily disguised wearing a long, pink and blonde wig and exaggerated makeup like an Egyptian princess. She imagines that Myron’s warped sense of entitlement means he thinks can do whatever he wants, including be violent with women—especially brown women like her, many of whom live in the area. He’s already proven he can get away with anything.

Wren leaves the safety of her vehicle and follows Myron into the bar. The heavy, wooden door weighs a ton and she has trouble opening it. Once inside, she glances around the dark room for Myron. She catches a glimpse of him and walks over to him. He is already drinking a beer. “Mind if I sit here?” she asks.

“Please do, baby girl,” Myron responds, looking her over. “You look just like cotton candy.”

Wren takes a seat at an empty table near the bar. Myron moves from his stool to join her. “Can I join you?” he asks.

“Sure,” she manages to say through her disgust.

“I’m kind of alone right now,” he says. “So thanks.”

“I’m just here to meet a friend,” she lies. “We were supposed to meet an hour ago, so I’ve been waiting in the parking lot. She hasn’t showed yet, so I thought I’d pop in to see if she came in without me knowing.”

“Well, sugar,” Myron says, making an attempt at being charming, “I’ll be your friend, if you like.” He sloshes down the drink he’s holding and some of the liquid splashes out on the table.

“Let me get the next round,” Wren offers.

“Works for me,” he says. “I’ll have a vodka.”

She walks to the bar in her frilly, silver chiffon shirt and orders. “Double vodka,” she says to the woman behind the bar, “and a cranberry juice with soda.” Wren slyly examines the area around the bar to see if there are any visible security cameras in place. It makes sense that there should be, but the only camera she sees is facing the cash register, which she stays away from. The young bartender hands Wren the drinks without making eye contact, then continues wiping down the surface of the counter. It seems as though this barkeep has learned the benefits of paying minimal attention.

“Actually, better make that two doubles. My friend seems thirsty tonight.”

The barkeep hands over a second drink. “Honey, you need to find yourself a better group of friends.”

As the night wears on, Wren continues to purchase drinks for Myron, adding up to about a half-dozen trips to the bar for double shots. Wren always pays in cash, leaving a big tip for the bartender each time. By the time Myron is almost finished his last drink, Wren makes a suggestion: “I think my friend is a no-show tonight, so I might as well just head home. It’s been nice sitting with you, but I think it’s time to go.”

As she reaches for her purse, Myron offers to walk her out to her car.

“I need to have a smoke anyway,” he slurs. “May as well walk you out and then maybe head home myself.”

It’s been over two hours. The clock says it is 11:32 as Myron follows Wren out the front door. She told him she was drinking vodka as well, so Myron believes she’s as wasted as he is right now. She didn’t give him any personal details all night long. She didn’t have to. The entire conversation revolved around how much money he makes, how he plans to make more, and that he just bought a new vehicle.