Graeme Gibson - Communion

The next cigarette is ready in her mouth as, poised, she forces his lungs empty, and then with amazing speed her left hand grabs the holder and brings the glowing butt to light the new one; at the same time, her thumb and index finger have pinched his mouth shut so he can’t breathe and break the cycle. Ashes fly as she ejects the butt into the ashtray, exchanges the empty holder for the cigarette in her mouth, firmly inserts the latter into the former and, letting go of his lips, jams the holder back into his mouth. He gasps, she lurches to maintain the interrupted tempo, “a thousand and one” and they’ve hardly missed a stroke . . .

It’s going very smoothly this morning.

Soon she stops the regulating pressure, stops the counting and relaxes somewhat back on the chair: she smiles, an imperceptible smile on her large face and hears again the birds, a car in the street, the day outside and sees the lines about his eyes, his mouth in rhythm now and knows the worst is over, that soon he’ll be awake.

When he reaches the floor of the ravine he turns right and climbs the small hill to the road, he crosses and descends to the railway tracks: Felix on the tracks in the Don Valley. A hundred yards from him, across a field, the river meanders beneath trees with rough bark, he knows somehow they’re trees from dream: he crouches smoking, vacantly he stares across the river to the parkway choked with cars, to the apartments above them bleak against the sky. Raucous birds wheel about his head. He can hear their wings. Although it’s early, the sun is hot: cars labour to work on raised arterial roads and high in the guts of the bridge a subway rattles to Bloor Street. He waits to see if he’ll cross the field to the river, or turn to his left along the tracks. The birds swoop angrily closer. He inhales, feeling the smoke sharp in his chest; without noise, unravelling above him is the vapour trail of a jet.

It’s not that he misses the job, he’s sure of that, time passes painlessly enough without it: for days now, it must be, perhaps weeks, he’s emerged from the house at his usual time, but instead of walking to the subway he’s come into the park, down into the ravine, he’s turned right, climbed the small hill to the road and descended into the Don Valley. What is it? Wandering in spring’s incredible violence, fearful with birds tumbling wildly to the ground, the headlong pursuit of squirrels among branches and out of sight, Felix, he doesn’t recall when he first became aware of it, how it was brought to his attention, perhaps it’s only just now become clear to him, Felix is impotent with dread.

Felix smoking a cigarette, leaning against a concrete pillar, staring out into torrential rain, it’s almost vertical now, it covers the highway with miniature explosions as cars with pale headlights crawl past him, drivers hunched and intense, they don’t appear to see him or his sign saying CALIFORNIA, and if some do, they don’t acknowledge him. The thunder has drifted overhead in its journey from the west. Lightning flashes sporadically, and the air is full of water. He’s beginning to feel uncertain. He crouches to rest his legs, bracing his back against the pillar he listens to the wheels of a transport braking on the overpass above him. He watches it descending into view, he gets automatically to his feet, he holds up his sign, he smiles hopefully, he sticks out his thumb, perhaps if the driver sees him smiling, perhaps he’ll stop, he sees the shuddering, hears air brakes as it drifts by him, huge wheels protesting as the driver steers onto the shoulder of the highway. Felix running with his knapsack in the pouring rain, into the exhaust, beside the gleaming trailer to its cab, the door is opening for him, he hoists himself up the step and scrambles, dragging his bag with him, he slams the door. The truck does not move. Brushing wet hair from his eyes, clearing rain from his face so he can see, Felix is startled by the voice: “That’s a bitch of a day baby.” An echoing bass voice, it fills the cab.

“Yeah, I’m . . . thanks . . . ” Brown eyes appraise him from a ferret face, what’s he waiting for? the mouth opens in a thin smile, Felix is disconcerted, he averts his gaze: the man’s white eyes staring at him, his face resting on the steering wheel. Rain hammers on the cab, the wipers thump back and forth. “I’m going all the way to California.” He wonders why the man doesn’t drive on, but he doesn’t, he just sits there with his delicate hands like paws on the wheel, he’s gazing at Felix, it’s as if he’s expecting something, Felix doesn’t know what to do. “I know a girl there, she lives in San Mateo county.” Cars and trucks pass them in the rain. The floor is littered with sandwich crusts and paper. “Her name is Morag.” There’s a movement to his left, he looks, the driver is nodding his head. “I met her one summer and then she went away.”

“I could tell right away you weren’t a chick, you know that baby?” Felix hears the voice, a resonant, engulfing voice. “Chicks wouldn’t be out here alone.” He leans finally to stare back along the 401 in his mirror, he shifts into low and begins to accelerate. “Once I picked up a coupla, hippie chicks, you know. Most times there’re guys with them but not those two. Shit.” Wipers thump as the engine strains to gain momentum. “Real jailbait, the two of them, little tits and long hair . . . but nothen, fuck-all happened.” Reaching down beside the seat, his hand re-appears: “I even showed them this BANGBANG! I said.” He presses a pistol against Felix’s cheek, he’s chuckling, the metal’s cold, he holds the accelerator to the floor with rain beating on the windows, the floor is littered with sandwich crusts and papers. “I told em about all the guys I killed, I thought maybe it’d make em hot, you know what I mean?” Felix nods, the muzzle bumps against his cheekbone. “All I did was scare the shit out of em.” He laughs and Felix tries to smile, he wonders if he can grab the gun in time.

“Is that . . . ” Blurred by rain on the windshield, headlights from oncoming cars; he tries to speak.

“You mean is it loaded?” Felix nods. “Fucken right baby.” Laughing explosively, the muzzle bumps against his cheekbone; blurred by rain on the windshield, headlights from oncoming cars hurtle out of sight. The pistol is removed. Felix looks, he doesn’t want to accept the proffered gun, he doesn’t know how to refuse its compact weight, he discovers his hands are sweating. “Women are funny chicks.” He’s driving with both hands on the wheel again, he turns to Felix, his voice like stereo, he grins: “Were you scared sweetheart?” Felix doesn’t respond, he doesn’t know what to say, the stench in the cab is beginning to nauseate him. He opens the window. The rain abates, they’re driving fast in light traffic, they’re approaching the airport road, Indian Line north to highway 50, for an instant he believes they’re going to turn, he struggles to protest, he opens his mouth but the words won’t come, his body’s drenched with sweat, they do not turn, they continue accelerating westwards. “My name’s Fripp.” Felix can’t reconcile the strength of the voice with this wiry man, the laughter. “What’s yours?” He can’t be sure, but he believes there are insects crawling up his legs, he swats at his calf. The floor is littered with garbage.

“Felix Oswald.” He sits with the automatic pistol, it’s got a wooden handle: he raises his arm, extends it from the shoulder, he’s aiming at a car in front of them, his index finger along the trigger guard.