The Antagonist

28


08/16/09, 10:04 p.m.


AND SO, WHAT A coincidence. There sits Wade’s beloved with two of her friends, huddled together around a pitcher of Long Island ice tea at the closest table to the door, all the more easily to greet the Brothers of the Temple when they at last present their half-cocked selves at Goldfinger’s. Kyle is so disgusted with Wade, with this screamingly obvious set-up, he refuses to even look at him and simply heads to the bar with his hands in the air. Wade follows, laughing and protesting his innocence, but actually — you can tell — a little worried.

Emily sits there smiling like a sixties-era Mona Lisa. “Sit with us!” she calls to Rank and Adam. Rank casts an eye over Emily’s friends and thinks okay. Adam also doesn’t hesitate, maybe because he figures the university girls’ table will provide a nice little bulwark of decency against the bar’s progressively squalid atmosphere. Saturday night at Goldfinger’s is hitting its stride.

It had been crazy even in the line-up. They’d tried to greet Ivor upon their arrival, but he’d been too distracted by the necessity of repeatedly shoving a couple of guys — two nearly identical brothers, a shitfaced, belligerent Tweedledee and Tweedledum — from out of the doorway, which they kept trying to rush.

“I said get out of here before I murder you,” Ivor kept screaming.

“I know where you live! I am a human with human-being rights! And I know where you live!” Tweedledee was screaming in counterpoint. Tweedledum, meanwhile, was holding his gut and threatening to “blow chunks all over this shithole.”

Rank stepped out of line and helpfully grabbed Tweedledum by the back of the collar, propelling him into the back alley where he could blow chunks in relative peace. Tweedledee, meanwhile, had taken issue with Ivor’s gold chain. He had decided it was the stupidest, gayest, piece-of-shit gold chain he had ever seen and, furthermore, he wanted it.

“Gimme that f*ckin thing,” he said, blearily swiping a flaccid hand toward Ivor’s lack of neck.

Rank was about to lay a hand on his shoulder when Ivor grabbed the tweedle by his jacket and wrenched him forward, about a centimetre from his own glaring nose.

“Buh,” remarked Tweedledee, twisting away, likely being baked by the heat pouring from Ivor’s boiling face.

“You do not put your hands on me.” Ivor spoke these words directly into Tweedledee’s mouth. He was sweating and panting to an extent that made his usual, workaday sweating and panting seem almost temperate — more typical of a senior’s cardio class. “You do not put your hands on me because you will lose those hands, and you will lose the arms attached to those hands and that is when I f*cking kill you, do you understand.”

This was something of a new side to Ivor. Ivor had never been much of an orator when it came to bouncing drunks. He did not typically veer off into rhetorical flights of fancy beyond: “I said get the hell out,” punctuated with an inarguable shove.

“Ivor,” said Rank. “Need help?”

Ivor responded by shoving the tweedle hard into Rank’s chest.

“Whoa,” said Rank, stumbling.

“You can help this scumbag by getting him the shit away from me.”

But Tweedledee had already writhed away from Rank and was staggering off to find his bilious brother. Likely it was the nearness of Ivor’s breath that had finally wrung the fight out of him.

“Jesus Christ,” said Ivor, wiping his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Just a onslaught of dicks tonight, Rank. You shoulda seen them going after each other on the dance floor. Broke a whole tray of glasses.”

“They were fighting each other?” said Rank.

“Well until I stepped in they were. Then I had the two little dirtbags all over me.”

Rank sighed. “You want me on the floor?” he asked at last. And didn’t bother to look over at the groan this offer provoked from Kyle.

Ivor did look over, however — then looked around himself as if in surprise, like Kyle’s groan had had the effect of an alarm clock. Then he wiped his face on his sleeve some more and smiled a slick, twitchy smile up at Rank. “No, no, no,” he hollered. He reached inside the coat check booth and took a long haul from a beer he’d been keeping on the counter. “No, no, no, it’s your night off. You have fun, Rank. It’s Christmas. You go on inside and have some fun.” Ivor was speaking so loud it made Rank flinch.

“Well — just . . . give a shout if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” Ivor yelled, bouncing his head around by way of agreement. His nose had begun to run a bit dramatically, so he put his T-shirt sleeve to use again. “I will, son,” he hollered as Rank was moving toward his friends.

“We thought you guys would never get here,” Emily tells them with unmistakable relief. Rank can only imagine the calibre of sexual invitation the girls have been fending off for however long they’ve been sitting here. At the same time, he is thinking what a complete and total p-ssy Wade is. Wade has obviously made it clear to his beloved in advance that she and her friends would be both welcome and expected. Kyle will never forgive him.

Neither Rank nor Adam, however, particularly gives a shit. On the other side of the table, Adam is busy shaking the hands of the other two girls, so Rank turns his attention to Emily.

“Hey you’ve got some kind of sparkly crap in your hair,” he observes by way of opening gambit.

“Yes,” says Emily. “It’s on my face too.” She gives him a three quarter profile and her face shimmers like fish scales.

“Nice!” enthuses Rank.

“Thank you,” says Emily, smiling her this-is-the-smile-I-give-everyone-whether-I-like-them-or-not smile.

Rank sets himself a task then. Rank decides to see if he can make her smile for real.

He asks Emily what she is studying, and Emily says art history.

“Really?” says Rank. “That’s awesome. I love art.”

“You do?” says Emily.

“Yep. The Impressionists. I like the Impressionists best.” Rank has recently rented a movie that had to do with the Impressionists. Adam recommended it to him kind of as a joke because it was an actual film about Paris in the twenties. Consider it a primer, said Adam.

“Like who?” says Emily, testing him.

“Monet,” says Rank, bullshitting happily. “Cézanne. You know, all the French guys.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an art lover,” says Emily.

Rank allows himself to sulk slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m not surprised. A lot of people pre-judge me that way.”

He is gratified by the startled look this provokes in Emily. Of all the things she thinks about herself, he’s betting she never for the world would have believed herself closed-minded, a pre-judger of her fellow beings.

“No, no, no!” she exclaims. “It’s just that, you know, I thought you were a hockey player.”

“Sports and art aren’t mutually exclusive,” Rank hears himself saying. Oh, Rank is on fire. Rank is at that ideal point of inebriation, a kind of golden mean where the percentage of alcohol in the bloodstream produces just the right balance of confidence and eloquence. No doubt after one more swig the whole thing will go pear-shaped and Rank will default into slurring and grunting obscenities. Meanwhile, however, he cups Emily in his very palm.

“Hemingway, after all,” he adds, “was a boxer.”

He glances over and notices Adam is watching him with a wide, incredulous smile. Rank hasn’t seen Adam wear a smile like that for at least a couple of months, it seems. It makes him happy. Maybe all is forgiven — whatever it was that needed to be forgiven between them. He shoots his friend a grave, professorial nod, which causes Adam to cover his face abruptly, as if in a sneeze.

In a matter of seconds, Emily is leaning toward him, the drawn-on smile gone completely. Now, her pale lips are nicely parted and Rank understands that with her wild hair and shimmery face she is actually pretty hot. Conversation continues and Long Island ice tea is shared until a waitress comes to offer them a pitcher. Who knows how long they’ve been there at this point. The crowd roils on all sides, sometimes crushing against the backs of their chairs begrudgingly. Rank feels himself growing hoarse as the conversation wears on and he realizes he’s had to shout progressively louder with practically every sentence in order to penetrate the crowd-sound and music. Emily is cupping one ear to catch his pearls of wisdom as they drop. Adam meanwhile seems to be holding his end of the table up quite nicely, a girl on either side, bending toward him. Way to go, Grix, Rank tries to transmit psychically. We should thank Wade later on.

It’s at about this point when Kyle appears wearing a face like one of those Easter Island statues.

“Hi Kyle!” burbles Emily, who is deep into the Long Island ice tea at this point and has been magically endowed with personality and charisma as a result.

“Let’s go, you two,” says Kyle, ignoring her. “I got us a table.”

“We already have a table,” says Adam, and he gestures to the two empty chairs that he and Rank have dutifully slung their coats over to reserve them for Kyle and Wade.

Wade, Rank sees, stands behind Kyle with arms crossed: a full-bodied pout.

“I got us four chairs up at the bar,” says Kyle. “Lorna’s watching them for us.”

“Who wants to sit at the f*cking bar?” says Rank. “It’s a zoo up there.”

“Come on,” says Kyle.

Rank has seen Kyle like this only a couple times before — all his politician’s polish and cultivated courtesy thrown completely to the wayside as a result of not getting his way. It’s always an amazing transformation when it happens — all the animation leaves his face, his eyes go so dull it’s as if they have filmed over like a zombie’s, and you find yourself seized by the conviction that at any moment he might fling himself to the ground and start squalling like a 155-pound two-year-old.

“Kyle,” says Adam. “We’ve got a great table right here.”

“I’ve got us four seats up at the bar,” repeats Kyle. “Come on. We’re going.”

“We’re going,” Rank mimics, fake-sullen, causing Kyle’s Easter Island expression to contort into an actual scowl. “Wow,” remarks Rank at the sight of it. He glances over at Adam, who sits there looking as astonished as Rank feels. Their eyes meet. Psychic transmission: Holy shit. Kyle is beyond even being razzed.

But, press pause. They are drunk. They are peevish. They have been having fun with the ladies and have no desire to leave. They usually tolerate being pushed around by Kyle because that’s just Kyle, and most of time it’s friendly and well-meaning, if completely self-interested. But that kind of shit can pile up after a while. Both Rank and Adam are known to get quietly fed up from time to time, and avoid the Temple out of irritation with Kyle Jarvis’s magisterial approach to friendship. When by themselves, Rank and Adam’s running gag is to refer to Kyle euphemistically as “The Lord and Master.” It’s a joke, but one with a defensive edge.

Okay? We clear? And so to continue.

Wade is yelling over the crowd: “That’s what I told him, I told him like f*ck, we’re lucky the girls saved us such an awesome table, let’s just get some drinks and sit down.”

Kyle starts shaking his head rapidly, like a furious dog, as if to shake off Wade’s insubordination.

“I can’t believe you guys. I just cannot believe you guys.”

“Dude,” says Rank, getting to his feet. The weary realization has set in that Kyle is going to require some big-time mollycoddling if the evening’s fun is to be salvaged.

“I go to all this trouble to set this up,” complains Kyle, “and you guys are like: Yeah, whatever.”

On the other side of the table, Adam says exactly the wrong thing.

“Oh come on, man, who gives a shit? It’s a drunk. We’ve been getting drunk together all year and we’ll get drunk together next semester. It’s not like we’re going off to war.”

Kyle looks over and his eyes seem to take on an extra layer of zombie-film. Rank intuitively steps in front of him to block his view of Adam.

“All he means,” says Rank, “is that this is not worth getting pissed about. We’re supposed to be out having fun together, right? That’s all. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

“No, it’s not a big deal,” says Kyle. “Nothing’s a big deal. Why don’t you just go tend bar or bounce drunks or something, Rank? You’d obviously rather be working. We’re not here five seconds and you’re asking Ivor for a shift. Okay, fine. If that’s all it means to you, whatever.”

Rank cannot believe the soap opera this is turning into. “Kyle,” he says, starting to laugh in his frustration. “We’re having some drinks. Relax.”

It’s funny to think that with the crowd and the music, they are all actually screaming at each other. If the bar was empty they’d sound like lunatics.

Kyle turns his blank eyes to Adam. “Are you guys coming or not?”

“Kyle,” says Rank, wilting with frustration. In the background, Wade throws up his hands.

“What’s the matter?” calls Emily, who has been watching them open-mouthed and hearing only every other word.

“F*ck it,” says Kyle, turning away. “I’m out of here.”

“Man, come on,” says Rank, reaching for him.

“No, f*ck it man,” says Kyle again, assuming a final, tragic pose — the Deposed King. He pushes Rank’s hand away before it can land on his shoulder.

It’s all so stupid. It’s such a joke. Kyle’s pride is wounded. He’ll go home, stew all night, and the next day the guys will show up, apologize en masse, tease him a little until he allows himself just a hint of the old Jarvis twinkle, until finally they are laughing together and saying “f*ck you” in the spirit in which it should be said among friends and Kyle is chasing them all around the room demanding hugs.

Rank follows him a couple of paces and reaches again to stop him from going. Kyle whirls around and bats Rank away using both hands.

“I’m warning you, Rank,” says Kyle.

“Kyle,” says Rank again, spreading his arms wide, thinking maybe he can just employ a little humour and fast-forward to the inevitable hugs-and-apologies segment of the evening. “Brother. Hey. Come on, bro. Where’s the love?”

“Screw off, Rank, I’m serious.”

Rank advances on Kyle, neglecting to screw off. “Love me, my brother,” he says.

Kyle’s mouth is shut tight but Rank can tell he is clenching his teeth.

“Don’t touch me, Rank.”

“Let me love you,” Rank insists, moving in. “Come, my brother. Let us love together.”

Press pause. Is Rank aware of what he’s doing? Does he know what’s coming? Have he and Kyle locked eyes and — even from the depths of their mutual alcoholic fog — arrived at an understanding? Yes. Yes, yes.

Does Rank keep moving anyway, toward Kyle, with arms outstretched? Vulnerable? Heedless? In full knowledge?

He does. Let it be said. Let it be known.

Press play.

Kyle shoves Rank. It’s not a particularly violent shove. It’s half-hearted, if anything. But seeing as how the act is a surprise to neither of them, and even as he feels himself propelled backward, Rank has already decided to let it go. He’s going to take the shove, turn around, sit back down at the table with the girls, drink more, and wait for his friend to cool down.

Before any of this can happen, Kyle goes flying into the abruptly shrieking crowd. And Ivor is standing in his place, one massive bulge of a human being — eyes, veins, belly, muscles — hoarse voice sounding trumpet-clear above the shouts and music, shouting at Kyle as he skids across the floor: DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM? YOU GOT A F*ckING PROBLEM YOU F*ckING F*ckWAD YEAH?

Rank is in front of him going Ivor! Ivor! Ivor! And Ivor can’t even focus on him, his baby’s face entirely red and slicked as if with oil. Suddenly they are standing in an empty circle, as if the crowd has moved aside for them to breakdance. At the edges of the circle, Kyle wobbles to his feet, dripping in other people’s beer, and Rank moves to block him from Ivor’s view — the same way he’d positioned himself to block Adam from Kyle’s only moments before.

Rank hears faintly a “Jesus!” from Wade. A “holy shit,” from someone else. An “Oh my god,” from Emily.

I WILL F*ckING TEAR YOU APART, says Ivor, somehow managing to look directly through Rank to Kyle. No matter how deep Rank sticks his face into Ivor’s, Ivor seems incapable of focusing on him. Ivor’s eyes are enormous and both stupefied and hyper-aware like a stunned animal’s, a dying moose. Rank puts his hands out then and makes the mistake of glancing over to see if Kyle has done the wise thing and skedaddled for an exit. But apparently this is just what Kyle is in the process of doing when Ivor shoves Rank aside and launches himself across the circle.

The crowd makes a tidal sort of noise as Kyle tears his way through, women’s shrieks sounding above it like the cries of gulls. Rank plunges into the scattering human mass behind Ivor.

“Rank,” says Adam from somewhere. “Rank. His gun.”

Oh that’s right, thinks Rank from some distant place in his mind. It’s familiar, this distant place. He hasn’t been there for quite some time, not since looking over at his mother in the driver’s seat and thinking: Oh that’s not good. I don’t think that can be good.

Ivor does carry a gun, doesn’t he, thinks Rank from his distant place. Yes that’s right isn’t it; that’s what Wade told us.

There’s no time, then, to develop strategy or think about what he’s doing or try to holler some kind of sanity into Ivor. Rank simply pursues Ivor’s black expanse of Motörhead T-shirt into the fluttering crowd and throws himself upon it. Ivor is a creature of flab but only the same way a bear is. That is, bears are fat, as Ivor is fat. But underneath, still bears.

What Rank must do is kneel on him; pin his arms.

The crowd is in his ears. Ivor’s body is heaving and boiling against him.

Ivor has a fever, thinks Rank in his distant place — he is maybe a little insane in his distant place. He remembers looking at what happened to Sylvie’s head and thinking: Oh — you know what? That’s not too bad, actually. The doctors will be able to fix that.

Poor Ivor, thinks Rank. Flu season. Not enough vitamin C.

“Rank get off of me, you’re heavy, guy,” moans Ivor beneath him. And suddenly he bucks.

“Ivor, stay down.”

“LET THE F*ck GO OF MY ARMS YOU PIECE OF SHIT I AM LOOKING OUT FOR YOU.”

Rank braces his legs and rides him thinking gun. Gun. Gun.

“WE DO NOT TOLERATE SHIT IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT. RICHARD WILL HAVE NO SHIT IN HIS PLACE. RICHARD IS F*ckING SICK OF YOU F*ckING UNIVERSITY KIDS — OH RANK,” Ivor interrupts himself abruptly and starts to shudder.

“Calm down Ivor, please,” Rank says into the gulf of Ivor’s sweltering shoulder blades.

“Ow,” says Ivor. “Ow, ow.”

Then Kyle is with him in the circle. “Rank you need help man?”

But Rank needs no help at all anymore. He climbs off Ivor, the front of Rank’s body going cool where the two of them have sweat through each other’s clothes. He stands for a minute beside Kyle, then kneels down again and even though he is very much in his distant place now, he is very much where he was the day his mother drove him out to serve his time at the Youth Centre, having insisted Gord stay home, so she could talk to him mother to son, so she could cry herself hoarse at the wheel and keep reaching up to blouse-sleeve the water from her eyes, even though he is very much in that distant, delicate realm where his inner voice speaks with strange formality, prefacing all directives with polite preambles like: Maybe you should; Perhaps it would be best. As in Maybe you should unbuckle her seatbelt for when the paramedics come. Perhaps it would be best not to move her. Even though he is in that place now, or perhaps because he is, he manages to — without giving it too much thought — roll Ivor onto his back. Because if he were to give it any thought, he would be thinking it’s probably not okay that Ivor needs Rank to roll him onto his back at this point. It’s probably not okay that Ivor isn’t doing it himself.

Rank can feel the sweat on Ivor, too, already cooling. He flops him over with a grunt and glances up at Kyle, Kyle already moving backward.

Kyle who helps by saying: “Whoa. Whoa, Rank. Jesus, man.”

There’s no music anymore. Somebody — it might be Adam again — says the word “doctor.” Then “ambulance.” Then “cops.” Ranks look up, and he does see Adam, but Adam is turned away from him, submerged deep in the surrounding crowd, and all Rank gets is a blank, eyeless profile of jawline and the wire-glint of glasses. Rank feels a pair of legs close by, looks up, discovers Richard. Richard seems confused and pit-faced and a little sad, thinks Rank from his distant place. His distant place is a place, it seems, of a kind of unconcerned compassion for all men. Richard clears his throat.

“What the f*ck,” he wants to know, “is this?”

Ambulance, says somebody. Cop.

“Rank,” says Richard. “Would you please help me get him to my office?”

Perhaps it would be best, thinks Rank, to go.

In thinking this, he has managed miraculously to transport himself into the parking lot — it’s science fiction all of a sudden, beam me up, Scotty, beam us out of here, the planet’s about to blow. And now he moves at warp speed, now the Millennium Falcon makes its escape as stars smear up against its windshield like gnats, Christmas lights on houses blazing streaks in his periphery.