Y: A Novel (20 page)

“You can get six dogs for a dollar at the Mustard Seed and they throw out perfectly
good bread at this bakery on Robson,” he told me. “The dumpster’s got a lock, but
a small hand can fit inside.” He stared at my hands as he said this. We bought the
pack of hot dogs, then walked to Robson.

“Get as much as you can, don’t let anyone see,” the guy said and tossed me his backpack.
His name was Matthew, and he had curly hair that reached his shoulders. He wore a
black trench coat with a hole in the armpit and a silver pentagram around his neck.
He smelled like cigarettes and sweat and something I couldn’t put my finger on, something
like a wet carpet. He said he was twenty. I liked his boots, which he said were from
the army surplus store. They were two sizes too big, but he said he liked them that
way, ’cause then he could wear four pairs of warm socks. He took long strides when
he walked and kept his head down and his arms by his side. I’d never met anyone who
walked like that before, as though they were out to avenge something. He told me that
if the dumpster wasn’t locked I should climb inside, and then he disappeared into
an electronics store.

I stood in front of the bakery. Two Asian women were working behind the counter, putting
together sandwiches and toasting bagels for businessmen and women in jogging suits
with big strollers. I slung Matthew’s backpack over my shoulder and walked down the
alley. His backpack reeked of beer and the wet carpet smell. I wanted to take him
and the backpack to the laundromat and soak them for hours in soap. I tried to imagine
him with shorter hair and wearing a nice sweater. He’d be attractive if he were clean,
I decided. But who was I to insist that someone look better? I stared down at my chubby
legs in the tight jeans I’d chosen for the occasion, my white Adidas shell-toes with
fat pink laces, white tank top, suspenders from The Gap, the brand name cut out so
no one would know. I’d combed out my curls, and my hair stood straight up all around
my head like a big bright halo. A couple of weird-looking guys walked by and gave
me the eye, but I stared at them so hard and fierce that they scooted away.

The dumpster was locked. I dragged a pallet over and then another and stood on them,
finding my balance, until I could reach inside. The bread slid right into my hands;
it was all there, right there, filled to the brim. I wormed it out, using my elbow
to prop open the lid as best as I could, and got out five loaves—flattened and squished—before
I heard someone coming. I crammed the bread into Matthew’s backpack and
ran back onto Robson, where I was quickly sucked into the crowd. My tank top was covered
in sweat and grime, and my sports bra was showing through. I studied my reflection
in the glass window of the electronics store. With Matthew’s big canvas backpack on,
I didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen before.

Inside, Matthew was trying to sell a watch to the clerk, but it was a fake and the
clerk knew it. He asked us to leave. We walked up Burrard and it started to rain,
so we walked faster. There were cops outside the shelter, and when Matthew saw them
he grabbed my hand and we bolted.

I’ve never run so fast in my life. Matthew’s trench coat flew out behind him like
a cape, and the straps of his backpack whipped against my back so hard I thought I
might start crying. He had my hand tight in his. We ran all the way down Nelson until
we reached Granville. The blood was pounding in my temples and it hurt every time
my feet landed on the concrete.

Matthew pumped his fist in the air and hooted, then ducked into the doorway of a liquor
store to light a cigarette. He offered me a puff and I breathed it in deeply, surprising
us both when I didn’t cough. It tasted good, like warm rye bread. He told me he’d
teach me how to blow smoke rings. We stood on the corner of Granville and Drake, across
from the 7-Eleven. I looked at the White Spot across the street with envy; I wanted
a hamburger and French fries more than God. Matthew pointed down the street to the
Cecil—a strip club, he said.

“You’re like a little Marilyn Monroe.” He cupped my cheek in his hand, ran his fingers
through my hair. His nails were caked with dirt, the skin on his hands rough. He opened
the backpack, hooted again when he saw how much bread I’d taken. I waited outside
while he went into the liquor store, then he emerged minutes later with a mickey of
Jim Beam in his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Got a buddy who lives upstairs.”

He held open a door that I hadn’t even noticed; it was the same color as the wall
we’d been leaning on. We walked up a stinky flight of stairs covered in cigarette
butts and junk mail, then stopped in front of a door with
FAG
spray-painted across it in big sloppy letters. The hallway reeked
of pot smoke. It was dark except for a flickering black light at one end. Matthew
kicked the door, his hands full with the mickey of Jim Beam and a loaf of what looked
like cinnamon raisin bread. The pack of hot dogs stuck out of his front pocket. I
hoped he couldn’t hear my heart, which was pounding so fast and loud that I thought
it might rip out of my chest and dribble down the hallway like a basketball.

A tall skinny man with long hair and wire-rim glasses opened the door and looked at
us, the bread, the Jim Beam, the hot dogs. “Let’s do it,” he said, and held the door
open.

Matthew walked ahead of me and plopped down, wide-legged, on a couch in the middle
of the room. There was an old television on top of a milk crate in the corner and
a chest of drawers across from it with empty bottles of booze, some with candles shoved
into their spouts, the wax spilling down the sides. Two sleeping bags were splayed
out on the floor beside a hot plate. Aside from that, the room was empty. The only
window looked out onto Granville Street and I walked to it, stared across to the 7-Eleven.
I turned around and studied the room again. There was no bathroom, no kitchen. I rolled
my shoulders back, tried to hide the look on my face. I looked at the cigarette butts
on the floor, the ragged hole punched into the wall, the single burnt-out bulb swinging
from the ceiling, as if none of it surprised me. As if I’d been in rooms like this
all my life.

I found my voice. “We got bread.” The man in the glasses looked at me and nodded.
“I’m Shannon,” I said.

“Gregor.” He opened the chest of drawers and took out three plastic glasses. Matthew
poured the Jim Beam, and we each took a sip. I drank it as though it were apple juice.
Gregor took a little cassette player out of one of the drawers, unplugged the hot
plate, and plugged it into the wall. He pressed Play, and the Ramones shot out through
the speakers. I felt proud that I knew who the group was and tapped my foot in time.
This was all going to be okay. The Jim Beam was sweet and Matthew passed me his cigarette
and I sucked on it then blew the smoke out into the room. He ripped open the pack
of hot dogs with his teeth, tore off a hunk of bread, and pushed two dogs into the
center. He handed this to me and grinned. It was getting dark out, and I was starving.
I crouched
and ate the cold hot dogs like a wild animal. One of my suspender straps slipped off
my shoulder and I let it drag on the ground while I ate my dinner. Gregor and Matthew
sat on the couch across from me, passing the whisky back and forth. They were drinking
out of the bottle now, using the cups as ashtrays. I could hear people on the street.
Girls screaming and crazy men shouting back. The buses clanked along and blew exhaust,
and their brakes squealed and whined. There was no air in the room, and I struggled
to breathe. I hoped we would go for a walk or something. I wanted to see more of the
city. I looked out the window and saw a woman lift up her skirt for some guys in a
beat-up sedan. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and the guys honked the horn and
one of them threw something at her that looked like a crumpled-up paper bag. I tried
to pretend I didn’t find it shocking, the dark swatch of pubic hair, her skinny thighs,
her birdlike hands as she awkwardly caught the bag then threw it at the car, screaming
“Fuck you, too!” as they sped away. I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen anything at all.

Someone knocked and Gregor leapt up, peered out the peephole. He opened the door and
a tall, bone-thin woman walked in, covered head to toe in tattoos. Her lip was pierced,
pluglike earrings stretched out her earlobes, and her long black hair was shaved on
either side of her head so that it fell to the side like a horse’s mane.

“
Sexuelle Monstrositäten
was number one this week at the store,” she said to Gregor. Her voice was as deep
as a man’s—guttural and raspy. She held up a videocassette. Women with four-inch-long
nipples and men with more than one penis dominated the cover. He kissed her cheek,
took the video, and tossed it to Matthew, who studied it for a minute and then put
it aside as though it weren’t the least bit interesting.

The woman walked over to me and stretched out her hand. “Cole,” she said. “Pleased
to meet you.” She was beautiful, though she had the same wet carpet smell. She wore
an ankle-length leather coat and tight red pants with a snakeskin pattern.

“Shannon.” I tried to make it sound edgier. I wished I were wearing black boots and
some eyeliner. I wanted to find a way to tell her about the star on my calf.

“You Matt’s girl?” She didn’t wait for my response, spun around, and punched Matthew
in the arm. “She looks a bit like Kurt Cobain’s kid, huh?” she said, and they both
looked over at me. I could tell Matthew didn’t like her. He shrugged her off, took
another swig of Jim Beam. Gregor was rooting around in the chest of drawers again.
He walked over to the couch, grabbed Cole, and pulled her down on his lap. He stuck
out his tongue and made a big show of wagging it around. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,”
he said, wagging it at us. A little square of white paper was stuck to the end. He
motioned for Cole and Matthew to open their mouths and placed one of the little squares
on their tongues, too. Matthew came over to me, a little section of foil on his finger.

“You’ll never forget your first time,” he said, and knelt in front of me. “Time goes
by so slowly.” He raised his finger to my mouth, and I opened it hesitantly. He leaned
in and kissed me gently, and I smelled the wet carpet smell so deeply that I felt
as though my entire nose was stuffed with it. His breath was smoky and sweet from
the booze. “I like you,” he said.

“I like you, too.” And, to some extent, it was true. I looked at his eyes, a pale,
vibrant blue flecked with little black lines, like a piece of broken turquoise. He
had high cheekbones and a strong jaw lined with stubble. I understood that he was
a good-looking man. I understood that I was not the kind of girl he would usually
be with. He placed the white square on my tongue and kissed me again, even more gently
this time, as though he were scared to. He pulsated to the music, slid his trench
coat back from his shoulders, and took off his sweat-stained shirt. His chest was
smooth and almost hairless, deeply muscled and taut, with huge blue veins running
across his stomach and arms like vines. I told him I had to go the bathroom.

“Down the hall,” he said, unbuckling his pants.

Cole was straddling Gregor. He held her butt in his hands. She had taken off her shirt,
and I could see the back of her black satin bra. It rode high on her back, like it
didn’t fit right. Her skin was pocked with acne scars and looked greasy and pale.
I shut the door behind me and spat the white square of paper into my hand. I hoped
it wouldn’t already be in my
bloodstream. I could hear the music through the door and then the sound of someone
walking toward it, likely Matthew coming to look for me, and I ran. I ran as fast
as I could, down the stinky hallway and the filthy staircase and out into the horrible
dark street. The temperature had dropped and I hugged myself, rubbed my bare shoulders,
and wished I’d brought a sweatshirt—it had been so warm when I’d left home. My shoelaces
were untied but I didn’t want to stop. I ran past a tattoo parlor and a hash bar and
a Chinese takeout joint and a smelly little grocery store and a Pita Pit, until I
was in the front of the huge blinking marquee of a movie theater, a long line of people
waiting to see the shows. I had a bus pass in my pocket but I didn’t think it would
work on the buses here and I didn’t want to ask. I thought about Winkie, probably
waiting up for me, and felt a deep pang of shame. I looked at the people in line for
the movie and I hated them. I could tell they had never been unhappy.

To kill time, I rode the train. I climbed up onto the platform and pushed through
the crowd of bodies until I found a seat. My hands settled in my lap, and the train
shot out of the station like a mad dog unleashed.

I took the ferry back with two policemen, who bought me French fries with gravy. They
let me browse in the gift shop for a couple of minutes, and I pocketed one of those
pens where a whale floats back and forth when you tilt it the right way. The ferry
ride lasted a year. Everyone stared at the cops, then at me, and then looked away.