"Outside the Regence"
(Chapter One of Longing For Catastrophe)
Marquee-tide flowed with current--backwashing glare. Chandeliers rouged cracks in the ceiling, exposed dust in the air. Cherubs swirled in the molding, beneath layers of paint. A soundtrack hailed something in the room with the screen. A girl at the counter ransacked her jeans. The cashier paused on a smile halfway through the routine.
Infantino?on a break?leaned ?gainst the window; sneaker toeing the carpet; hands in his pockets; eyeing shadows through the pane.
Green shards of alarm, tumbling into the black. Nostrils shrinking, forehead creased. Body stiffening, pulse unleashed.
Mild air blew through the door with the ten-fifteen crowd. Infantino set sail on the trade wind.
Churning cement on a treadmill, blocks long. Crosswalks, stoplights, thronging surge. Club-music and laughter, bits of talk overheard. And nothing deciphered. Earlobes reddening. Tracking shot. Two perspectives converging?on some hair and a walk.
Bodies aligned, light years apart. Illusory motion, stymied march. New constellation?black holes, not stars. Declining?on a roll?in love with the part. Beyond posters (warmed over)?dates gone up in smoke?blonde glinted through haze, hips arced down the slope.
Monoxide mists and vacant plots. Panels haunted by staples, where the publicity stopped. Silver canister/theatre?eye-beams at the booth. Free-magazine racks, pasta-bar views. Soft awnings, sharp menus, gold colour scheme. Glass-shots of attitudes culled from the scene. Quick dissolve. Down St-Laurent to Ste-Catherine?full head of steam.
Zooming lens at red corners, but no pans left or right. Horizontal distortion, fun-house stretch. Tracking resumed, when the coast turned green. Twice, between lights, the middle-man froze, back neatly framed. Over those shoulders?ghost of an object, subject the same? The procession kick-started, head-bob setting the range. Then both leads cleared the stage.
The sidewalk eddied forward at a crowd-controlled pace. ?Closed? sign, open door?brackish vestibule snag. Back out on the street, ambient waves rolled away. Sandy brick-rock, bits of moss in the cracks. Black Sabbath climbed the stairs.
A-frame wooden sign, flecked with mud and desperation: ?25% OFF?, ?movies?, ?records?, ?posters?, ?XXX?, ?LIQUIDATION?. Yellow banner above it, windblown shadow going round. In a rusty circle, at the core, white letters spelled ?Red Planet Comics?.
The dim lights got dimmer, the music fizzled out. Hoarse, nasal grumbling ricocheted off the walls. The basement door closed. Boots shuffled up the steps. A mucousy sigh. Sunglasses bugged out of greasy gray hair.
?You?re way too late, honey. Come back tomorra hunh? I gotta close.?
Keys shook in his fist.
The street bounced on a shrug. Came misting back down. A lather of rain scoured sightlines away. Infantino obscured. No sign of his prey.
?I?d letcha wait it out at my place, but my lady?s there tonight.? Forehead winked above lenses. ?You?ll be fine, though. Lotta places still open??
Dry path, beneath awnings, lit by Burger King glow. Pay phone at the entrance, fingers dropping touch-tones.
?If you have a voice mailbox on this system, please? press? pound and dial the number??
?Anne St-Michel? Please enter? your password??
?You have?two?new messages??
?Hey Anne, it?s Th鲨se. Just wondering how you?re doing, what?s been going on, all that stuff. I don?t have to explain this do I? I must care, right? Otherwise, I wouldn?t call. I hate talking to machines; they?re even quieter than you are? I know, I know, that?s how I want it, right? It?s true, you?re right. Anyway, let me know what you?ve got planned this week, and I?ll squeeze myself in! Bye??
?Anne. C?est ta m貥. Rappelle-moi. On veut te voir pour souper cette fin de semaine. Am讥 tes taxes, si tu veux. On les fera ensembles...?
Back on the hook.
Sports pages smeared across non-smoking tables. Trios posed with low prices plus tax. Orange booths swamped by newly soaked kids. Whopper sauce in the air.
?It?s really comin? down man.?
?Yeah baby, cats and dogs!?
?No man, perpendicular river, fuck!?
?That?s stupid, you?re tryin? too hard.?
?Funk?n?Wagnall?s baby! Can?t try too hard. You?re just lazy? Grab me some bukkaw bits while you?re up there, hunh.?
?You mean chicken shrapnel? How many? And with what??
Wallet deep in a pocket?purple bill unfurled.
?With this, man. Take what they give you.?
The other pocket rang.
?Yeah? Yeah, we?ll be there? Soon?s the rain and the chicken give out? Okay, say it wi? me: my batt-rees are dyin?? Love ya??
Green aura sloughed, the machine clammed shut. Arrhythmic fingers drummed melamine gloss. Hands stretched and met at the back of the head. A quick scan of the room, playing close to the vest. Yawning mouth locked?knit brow covered the slip. A full tray alit.
?Alright!?
?Hey man, you see that chick with the glasses? She was dialed in man. On us!? Ouvert Jusqu?a 4h 00, mirror image in red, swung to the left, came righted again.
?Yeah? Too bad it stopped rai??
The door sealed off the frame.
Skimming uphill; side-street puddle-slicked. Fog binding the mountain, feet slogging through clay. Night chiaroscuroed by taxi-light sweeps. Metro-sign arrow aimed down and away.
Tarnished risers melting into the ground. ?Vietnam Vet? below?a cup in his hand, a sign round his neck. A spin through the turnstile, another flight down. Platform crowd swelling?last train of the night.
Red-faced man at a phone-stall. Fingers menacing buttons. Jaw grinding the mouthpiece.
?Don?t?make me?come home?for nuthin.?
