Those Days Are Over
by Steve Anwyll
Drivers treat rue Saint-Jacques like a race track. Waiting at the corner S hoists a bag meant for camping on his shoulders. The weight is meant for a younger man. All his dirty clothes. Blankets too. Ash asked him when the last time he washed them and he didn’t have a good answer.
I want her to keep coming back, he says out loud like a prayer.
S waits for a lull in traffic. He makes a break for it. His spine compresses under the burden on his back. His legs ache but he pumps his knees. Nearly fifty and I’m still dragging my shit to the laundromat, he chuckles, picturing his father doing anything but sit around.
On the sidewalk S slows down. His breathing does too. There’s a cool breeze blowing through the trees on rue Saint-Jacques. The leaves flutter. It tickles his skin and S remembers the French countryside where Ash is from. Montréal hasn’t been the same since he returned.
S passes a building that caught fire two years ago. All the tenants gone. The boarded up windows pasted with advertisements.
Don Giovanni at the opera. A record release for a francophone artist S’s never heard of. The words Ending Isolation printed in bright letters above a smiling elderly couple.
Ash beat ’em to it, S thinks, looking at the autumn sky.
Adjusting his pack, S enters the laundromat. A television hung on the wall plays the same tired cop dramas it always does. Without looking up S stops to listen to the cheesy dialogue. He shudders. He swallows as not to retch.
At least I haven’t heard this one before, S consoles himself. He prides himself on never watching the screen. He only knows the voices. He pictures two detectives hassling an arsonist as he turns to a table where the woman working sits.
How are ya?
She looks up from her phone smiling. But it seems like a grimace. She uses her left hand to massage the right shoulder. She rolls it in the socket. God damned tendons are acting up again, she complains for an answer. S shakes his head. His bag pulls him down.
The laundromat isn’t much more than a hallway. Ancient dryers on one side. Washers along the opposite wall under pictures of the red-cheeked owner atop Mount Everest. S rubs his tongue against his palate wiping off the bad taste.
He heads toward the back. That’s where they keep the old washers. Top loaders. They’re cheaper than the modern ones in the front. S’s clothes always come out clean.
In the centre of the room is a long wooden table painted yellow and blue. Same as the walls. Fluorescent lights don’t help the colour scheme. S pulls a chair from under it, scraping the linoleum floor with the feet. Sighing with relief his bag slides off his shoulders.
That’s when S notices he’s not alone. A young man with dirty blonde hair curling to his scruffy jaw. Dark sunglasses cover his features. A black leather jacket hangs on the hunch of his shoulders. S sees a tattoo on his neck, another on his hand as it reaches towards him.
When S was young this is the kind of guy he’d know. Someone who loved heavy metal and abusing alcohol with abandon. But that was years ago. S is old enough to be the guy’s father. And he no longer likes the music, or the damage he was doing himself.
Even through the dark sunglasses S feels the young man’s eyes lock on his. The contact is heavy. S shakes with anticipation. He expects a confrontation but isn’t scared. I got too close…I smell alcohol…or maybe it’s bleach.
Good or bad he’s looking forward to it. Days blend together. So much so even a punch in the face would be welcome. It’s a way out…an escape from the drudgery…a path to something new.
The hand of the young man rests on S’s shoulder. I could tell you a sad story, the young man says in a voice matching his touch. S notes the tattoo, a black widow spider with blood on the fangs.
Man, I had this girl…we were talking all the time…she was telling me I’m beautiful and writing poems about my eyes. Then all of a sudden…shit…she cut me off with one sentence. Can you believe that? One single sentence and that’s it. Over.
The young man hangs his head. His hand falls off S’s shoulder. His chest caves. S stands silently. Every woman hurts to lose. But then another comes along and rescues you.
S thinks of Ash, and all the times she’s looked at him with bright, hazel eyes saying you’re beautiful, for no reason at all.
It’s not the end, S says without thinking, you’ll find another one…she’ll love you even more…there’s always hope as long as you’re breathing.
The young man lifts his head brushing back his hair. S feels him looking in his eyes again. Yeah, I guess you’re right, he says bending under the weight of his bag, all I can do is try to heal…try to forget, he smirks, standing to his full height.
S nods saying, that’s all any of us are trying to do.
As the young man walks away S opens his mouth to call him back, ask if he can buy him a drink and lend him an ear. But his lips don’t work, his tongue is dry, and the young man is out the door. Oh well, I gave that up…those days are over.
S puts money in three machines after wiping out the bottoms. He pours in soap. In one set to whites he splashes bleach from an old water bottle. It spills on his fingers. The tips burn. He inhales. S is happy to feel.
Steve Anwyll is the author of Welfare from Tyrant Books and his second novel Chinatown is forthcoming from House Of Vlad. He lives in Montréal and can be found online @oneloveasshole.