The Antagonist

17


08/04/09, 4:25 p.m.


BRIEF INTERMISSION HERE TO relay what I have to contend with now that Gord’s ankle is healing and he knows what I am up to in the back bedroom.

Crutch-bash! A nice solid whack that vibrates one entire wall of my room. He has to be standing directly outside my door.

“How’s it going in there son?”

“Well you just scared the shit out of me and I spilled my coffee everywhere, but otherwise it’s fine, Gord, thanks.”

“You need any help?”

“You can put on more coffee if you’re up to it.”

“No, I mean with your book stupidarse. “

A befuddled pause. This is the first time he’s even acknowledged what I’m doing since he learned I wasn’t in here compulsively masturbating. Since the revelation that provoked his attack on Sylvie’s teapot.

“Help?” I say. “With my book?”

“Like when you called me that time. I got a good memory for details. Thought you might need help.”

“No, I — not right now. I’ll let you know, Gord, okay?”

“Don’t forget to tell them about that nice letter Owen wrote the judge.”

I’m sitting there in front of the laptop holding the dirty T-shirt I’ve been using to sop up the spilled coffee. The stench of it co-mingling with my sweat fills the room. Gord is talking about my release at age sixteen, after Owen wrote a letter to the judge to help get me out of the Youth Centre early so I wouldn’t have to start the school year midway through. It was, according to the judge, a “glowing” letter.

“Yeah,” I say. “Wow. I forgot about that letter.”

“This is why you need me. I still have it somewhere.”

“How the hell did you get a copy?”

“I asked him for one. You want me to dig it up?”

“No, Gord. That’s okay. I gotta get back to this.”

Silence. I chuck the T-shirt into the closet, read over where I was, am just about to hit a key, and then:

“Make sure you tell them about your hockey scholarship! And that you went to university.”

I have to smile at Gord’s “them.” Who is them? Who does Gord think I’m in here appealing to?

“Yeah. I will,” I say. “I’ll tell them, Gord.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, son.”

“No — I won’t.”

“I dug out some more old pictures for ya. You gonna use pictures?”

I drop my poised hands into my lap, collapse backward in my chair.

“I didn’t plan on it, no.”

“You should. I hate a book without pictures. Most people don’t even bother if there’s no pictures.”

“Well —”

“A picture’s worth a thousand words, they say.”

“It’s not really —”

“Might help jar your memory in any case.”

“I’ll take a look at them when I’m —”

“I’ll bring em in. Can I come in?”

He’s already in.