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  MONDAY NIGHT MAN

  Monday

  NIGHT

  Man

  stories by

  GRANT BUDAY

  Anvil Press Publishers

  VANCOUVER / CANADA

  Anvil Press Publishers

  175 East Broadway, Suite 204-A

  Vancouver, BC V5T 1W2

  CANADA

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review to print in a magazine or newspaper, or to broadcast on radio or television.

  Some of the stories in Monday Night Man have been previously published as follows: “Rent and Fifty for Food,” “Sonnet to Melissa,” and “A Welcome Plague,” The Vancouver Review; “Toads” and “Saw-Blade Sky,” The Capilano Review; “Romance,” Blood & Aphorisms; “The Tears of Saint Lawrence,” sub-TERRAIN.

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblances to people alive or dead are purely coincidental.

  © Grant Buday, 1995

  FIRST EDITION

  CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Buday, Grant, 1956–

  Monday Night Man

  ISBN 1-895636-07-8

  I. Title.

  PS8553.U444M66 1995 C813'.54 C95-910381-3

  PR9199.3.B82M66 1995

  He felt as though he had been sprayed from head to foot with human civet and would never again be clean.

  — Samuel Beckett

  CONTENTS

  RENT AND FIFTY FOR FOOD

  TOADS

  DAMAGED GOODS

  THE TEARS OF SAINT LAWRENCE

  KISS YOU FOR A QUARTER

  THE EMPRESS

  THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

  THE YOUNG AND THE OLD

  STAR

  BROTHERLY LOVE

  ROMANCE

  SAW-BLADE SKY

  A WELCOME PLAGUE

  NOVEMBER

  SONNET TO MELISSA

  SERGIO SANTINI

  HORST NUNN LIVED in a suite in East Vancouver. His front door faced the alley, where cats in heat fucked under his wrecked Pacer. Worse, johns brought whores up from the waterfront and parked. Horst always knew when that was happening. He could tell by the slow crunch of tires on gravel. He’d crouch at his window and watch. Within five minutes, the car door would open and a woman would lean out and spit or drop a rubber. Then the car would start up and leave. Sometimes the john left the woman in the alley, and she danced on her spike heels as his tires shot gravel at her.

  That was outside.

  Inside, Horst had plants. Gloxinias, philodendrons, jades. They made a lonely room feel busy. The previous tenant got put in the bughouse. That used to worry Horst — maybe the place was haunted? But after thirteen years no ghosts had stepped from the lath and plaster walls, though each spring mice rustled.

  The house was built in 1908. Now it was divided into apartments. It had high ceilings, cut-glass doorknobs, and a claw-footed bathtub. Horst liked that. Old things reassured him. He imagined people living here before World War One, when milk was delivered by horse and cart, the streets were cobbled, and women wore pearl-buttoned shoes. Besides the age of the house, he also liked the cheap rent. His friend Boyle Rupp paid four-fifty, twice as much as Horst, and lived in a box.

  RENT AND

  FIFTY FOR

  FOOD

  Horst Nunn watches the phone ring. It sits there like a black cat daring him to answer. Come on, it taunts, come on. Each ring jolts his heart. What bad news this time? It’s eleven Saturday night. What could it be but bad news? Unless it’s a woman. A woman from years past. A schoolmate or acquaintance, someone he never got to know, yet someone who wanted to know him. Who, alone and desperate and drinking, has mustered the courage to call. Is it possible? Does he dare hope? Horst snatches up the phone as if rescuing it from fire.

  “Are you watching channel nine?”

  Horst wilts. “No.”

  “Turn it on. It’s a French film. Tits everywhere.”

  It’s his friend Boyle Rupp.

  “Oh God, look at that. I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

  Horst flashes on fifty-year-old Boyle, pants down, in front of the TV. Horst is impatient. “Why aren’t you at the casino? You broke? I’m not lending you anything.”

  “I was there last night. I tell you, some of those Chinese guys. Thousand dollars in an hour. Sell their daughters on the black market, then go to the casino. And the way they talk. Horst! That’s not language. That’s not human. Okay, they’re not as hairy as us, but — ”

  Horst cuts in. “How’d you do?”

  “I won.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I was up eighty when Bunce grabs my arm. He threw me off. You don’t grab someone in public when they’re placing a bet. He’s an animal. He said I owe him eighteen hundred dollars. I said I’ll sue him for harassment.”

  “So you lost?”

  “I was winning.”

  “How much you need?”

  “Rent and fifty for food.”

  “You blew your rent money? You said you were going to stop.”

  “And do what? Stay home and watch Bill Moyers? I was up eighty and that was just the beginning. I could feel it. Fuckin’ Bunce. I’d be treating you to a steak dinner and a night on the town if that guy hadn’t showed up.”

  “I can’t do it now.”

  “Just to the machine! It’s two minutes! The landlord’s gonna be here first thing in the morning. Jesus! Look at that. They do this on purpose. They know I’m home Saturday night so they put these French movies on.”

  There’s silence while Rupp watches.

  Horst swears never to answer the phone again.

  Rupp comes back on. “Well, they were at it again this morning.”

  “Who?”

  “Who?” Rupp is shocked. “Those two lesbians that’s who! They know I listen. They know I’m next door. They do it on purpose. Jeez, Horst, I thought they were killing each other. Lasted two hours. I was exhausted.”

  Horst laughs, imagining dirty old Boyle Rupp with his ear to the wall.

  Horst’s laughter gives Rupp confidence. “I’ll give you twenty-five bucks when my cheque comes. He’ll evict me. He’s a rat’s ass.”

  “You hate the place. You’re always talking about moving.”

  “Horst! I been here nineteen years. It’s my home! You gonna let me get kicked out?”

  They hit the bank machine at a 7–11 on Hastings Street. Behind the counter, an East Indian guy with a plastic nametag that says Harish flirts with a fat Chinese girl whose nametag says Betty. Betty is unclogging the Slurpee machine, and her hands, held up like a surgeon’s, are wet with sugary juice. Harish wants to lick those fingers. Horst can see it in his eyes. He can also see that Betty is ready, willing, and able. Ready, willing, and able, just like it’s phrased on the UIC cards Horst fills out. Horst joins the line at the machine, imagining a regular Romeo and Juliet story starring Harish and Betty, the Singhs versus the Wongs. They could make a movie of it. They’re always making movies in Vancouver these days.

  It takes Horst two separate transactions to get the five hundred. He crams the twenties into his pocket then heads for the door, past Betty flicking Slurpee slush at an ecstatic Harish. Horst is jealous. He’d give anything to have Betty flicking slush at him, certainly the money in his pocket.

  Back in Rupp’s Bug, Horst waves the money like a warning. “Last time, man.”

  As Rupp slips the twenties into his wallet, Horst notices something. “Hey … What’s that?” Horst grabs Rupp’s wrist. There, in the wallet, right next to the money Horst just handed over, sits a neatly folded hundre
d dollar bill.

  Rupp snatches his wallet.

  Horst screams, “You scab!”

  Rupp screams back, “It’s my casino money!”

  “You fuck!” Horst fights and gets the wallet. “How much did you have the last two times I bailed you out?”

  “Nothin’! I swear!” Tears of panic fill Rupp’s eyes as he watches Horst take the hundred. “You know I can’t make it without something for the casino!”

  “Well, you’re about to learn how. No way you’re blowing my money at roulette.”

  “Horst!”

  Rupp’s cry of an addict-deprived almost makes Horst relent. It brings back memories. Then he hardens. “No.” They enter the Waldorf in time for last round.

  “Bunce’ll be here,” whines Rupp.

  “Good.”

  The Waldorf, once dark and bare-walled, is now oak and brass, with colour TVs perched in every corner. The clientele hasn’t changed though. A dumpy woman in an AC-DC T-shirt and backward baseball hat sings “Third-Rate Romance, Low-Rent Rendezvous” on the karaoke stage.

  A burly waiter with silver muttonchops appears.

  “Six pints,” says Horst. “He’s paying.”

  “Aw, c’mon. I only got fifty bucks food money for two weeks.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  When the beer arrives Horst drinks down an entire pint in one go, then bangs the mug on the table. The cold weight of the beer settles him. Each time his frustration at getting sucked-in by Rupp threatens to explode, he drinks. As Horst starts in on his third pint, he understands Ray Bunce’s frustration at discovering Rupp at the casino when Rupp owes him eighteen hundred bucks. Horst also feels betrayed. And not just because he’s bailed Rupp out before, but because he’s actually worried about him, worried he’ll sink if no one looks out for him. I’m a sucker, thinks Horst. Taken in by paunchy, seagull-eyed Boyle Rupp. But no more. Deciding to take back the other four hundred bucks, Horst leans forward.

  “You’re a leech.”

  “I know you’re pissed off — ”

  “Gimme your wallet.”

  “Horst.”

  “Gimme your wallet!”

  “No!”

  Horst lunges. “You’re fifty and I’m still bailing you out!” The table rocks, mugs topple, Rupp yells for help; the burly waiter grabs Horst around the neck. First he drags Horst back — then drives him toward the door. Horst covers his head and bangs like a battering ram. He staggers into a mailbox, which crashes into Hastings Street.

  The people on the sidewalk, two of whom are cops, look up. The woman cop has her hand on the back of a man’s neck, and is in the process of ducking him into the car. The man is Ray Bunce. All three stare, as do two hookers in the background. Bunce, at the whores again, has been nabbed. Rupp emerges from the pub talking amiably with the waiter. The waiter points to Horst.

  “That bugger’s been causing trouble.”

  Horst is surprised to discover how soft the back seat of a police car is. He stares out the rear window at Rupp, who, along with his new-found friend, the waiter, chats up the hookers. Horst shuts his eyes, chokes down his frustration, and tries feeling as drunk as possible. Then he faces the front. Bunce, professorial and calm, argues mightily, lecturing the cops on their inefficiency, their proven record of corruption, this criminal waste of the taxpayers’ money, the infringement not only of his rights but those of the two prostitutes trying to earn an honest wage.

  The woman cop slides the glass divider shut.

  Bunce turns. “Did he hit you up for money?”

  Horst nods.

  “He’ll drag us both into the gutter,” says Bunce. He folds his hands on his briefcase full of racing forms and pornography, and resigns himself to being chauffeured, once again, to the police station.

  Bunce spends the night in the lock-up. Duly warned, Horst takes a taxi to Rupp’s apartment, blowing seven of the hundred dollars, and pissing off the cabbie by taking all his small bills. After the fourth buzz on the intercom, there’s a tentative hello.

  “Don’t hang up!”

  “Why?”

  “I wanna talk.”

  “Talk? Since when? You never wanna talk with me. You avoid me. You scorn me. Between you and Bunce I’m a punching bag. Fuck you!”

  “Wait!”

  “For what?”

  Horst tries to think.

  Rupp says, “I invite you to the casino and you laugh. You say I’m an idiot. I’m a loser.”

  “All right, all right. Bunce threw you off. He grabbed your arm.”

  “I was up eighty. And more was coming. When I win I always share. When I won big in June I phoned you. Remember? I phoned from the casino. I invited you downtown. I offered to buy you supper, a girl, everything. And what did you say?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I do. You called me a degenerate. You said I was pathetic. Fuck man, I’m getting evicted. I called you in need.”

  “And I came through!”

  “Horst, I know you did. And I know you’re upset. I’m gonna pay you back.”

  “Like you pay back Bunce?”

  “Bunce! You know how Bunce paid for those racehorses? His mother died and left him everything. Bunce used to come around here at night looking for a place to sleep.”

  “I’m broke, too, Rupp. My UI runs out next month.”

  “And I haven’t been laid in six years. What do you want me to do? Cry?”

  When Horst gets home, he recognizes the familiar sound of the door closing behind him, and feels, even in the dark, the shapes and positions of his furniture. In the dark he reaches for the coathanger. In the dark he unties his shoes. In the dark he crosses the floor. And in the dark he watches the stove ring become a glowing red spiral. Then he turns on the light and puts the water on for tea. It’s four in the morning. He decides never to answer the telephone again. Ever.

  But then he reconsiders, because what if it’s that woman calling? What if it’s that acquaintance he never got to know, yet who wanted to know him, and who, at last, has mustered the courage to call?

  ANOTHER THING HORST LIKED about the past was the two mail deliveries. Living back then would have meant two events to look forward to each day instead of just one. Not that much ever came in the mail. But the possibility existed. Sometimes letters arrived for people who hadn’t lived in the house in twenty years. Horst opened them. Once a letter arrived from Portugal. Horst got a dictionary and translated it. From a sister to a brother. First it mentioned that Mrs Fonseca had emigrated to Venezuela. Then came a request for money: the sister needed a new boot for her club foot. Finally there was a description of how Jaoa had died. His last words were, “Stick ‘em up!” Jaoa, it seemed, was a parrot.

  Rupp once owned a parrot. He sold it for gambling money. Then he had finches. He kept the finches in a cage above the bathtub. Which meant the tub was an inch deep in feathers, seed, and guano. It also meant Rupp didn’t bathe. Two years he went without a bath or a shave. His beard ran like black mould right down his neck into his shirt. He also got a fungus in his crotch. Rupp stank so bad Horst and Bunce made him sit at a separate table in the pub. They made Rupp go to the doctor, who gave him a bar of black soap and said, “Try showering each morning.” Rupp did. Yet he still stank like piss-fried onions. Svoboda, Rupp’s landlord, complained that the stink would rot the carpet. The neighbours thought Rupp had a corpse in his room. Rupp’s odour made Horst’s eyes water from five feet away

  It was embarrassing being around Rupp, especially because dogs were always running up and sniffing him.

  TOADS

  Rupp went right back to the casino again and blew the money Horst had loaned him. So Svoboda turfed Rupp. Svoboda already had five TVs from tenants who couldn’t pay their rent in cash. He didn’t want another one, especially from Boyle Rupp. He wanted Rupp out and this was his chance. The vacancy rate in Vancouver was zero, so it also meant he could jack the rent as much as he wanted on the next person.

 
Svoboda was a reformed alcoholic whose teeth looked like rusty nails. Instead of a case of beer each evening, he drank a case of Coke. He was there when Horst came over to help Rupp move. Svoboda was in working greens. He lived in working greens. Rupp said he’d seen him in Bino’s on Saturday night with his wife eating baron of beef wearing those same clothes. He even went to church in them.

  While Rupp and Horst packed stuff out, Svoboda inspected the suite, hunting for excuses not to return the damage deposit. When Rupp had moved in, the rent had been a hundred a month and the damage deposit half that. Still, Svoboda meant to keep it. He managed to write up a list — using one of those flat carpenter’s pencils — that included: skuf florz, holz in wall, broken ice tray in frezer. He estimated the costs at fifty on the nose.

  When Rupp complained, Svoboda said he was lucky he didn’t make him pay more. “Look at that oven!”

  “I haven’t used the oven in ten years!”

  “You’re the worst tenant I ever had. Noise all the time!”

  “Noise! I’m never here! How could I make noise?”

  “What about those whores?”

  “Whores! With the rent you charge? Who could afford it!”

  Arguing was useless. When the place was cleaned out, Rupp didn’t even stop for a last look. He and Horst just got into the car. “Goddamn Bohunk. I never made a sound. Nineteen years.”

  “So this is it?” Horst was looking into the back seat piled with boxes.

  “That’s it.” Rupp pulled out. “You’re saving my life.”

  Horst said nothing.

  At first, Rupp had planned to move into his Bug. But, as he’d said to Horst — “Where can I park without the cops getting on my ass?” The answer was clear to both of them: there was room in the alley behind Horst’s place to park. The problem was Rupp drove for Mad Mouse Messenger Service, so he couldn’t have his own car full of boxes. Rupp also knew that Horst’s Pacer was parked out back and had been off the road for a year. So it was let Rupp sleep in the Pacer or have him camped out on the living-room floor, and Horst wasn’t having that. Never. This way Rupp could use the Bug for work and the Pacer as a temporary home. “Temporary.” Horst emphasized that.