Ghosted (5 page)

His family moved to Florida. He read a lot, went to university but quit to work with a newly established branch of the International High Commission on Refugees. He learned to travel, and to control his breathing. He was freaked out all the time, and the world was his. In Mozambique he fell sick. Small worms started
crawling out from behind his eyes. He went blind and almost died and fell in love with one of the nurses. By the time he could see again, his fear of the dark—once unbearable—had disappeared. But so had the nurse. And then all he wanted was to be in love.

Mozambique was the wrong place for it. When an eleven-year-old boy kicked a sick dog in the head right in front of him, Warren threw him onto a pile of tires. A hidden tire jack, broken and sharp, went through the boy’s ribcage. There was death all over the place, though, and Warren returned to the United States without being charged.

He started drifting. He’d never been a drinker, but one night he found himself in an Oklahoma bus depot bar on open mike night. He drank a bottle of Baby Duck champagne, got on stage then spent the next three years travelling up and down the east coast as a stand-up comic. Mason found this difficult to picture.

“Were you, um …?”

“Funny?” said Warren.

Mason shrugged, half apologetically.

“What? You don’t think I could be funny?”

“I’m just asking…. What kind of bits did you do?”

“Bits?”

“Or whatever …”

“Mostly they were, you know, personal anecdote stuff—honest things about my life, but with a humorous slant….”

Mason tried to imagine it:
Right onto a tire jack … I mean really! You can never find one when you need it!… Did I mention I’m short a testicle? Trust me: girls just love it. They’re like Oh! Didn’t Hitler have that…? By the way, I have a fear of people looking at me. No, I’m serious—can you please stop looking at me!

Canadian audiences were particularly receptive to Warren’s brand of counterintuitive, confessional humour. He scored a
two-month gig at a racetrack outside Toronto, rented an apartment, won six thousand dollars on the trotters, quit comedy, enrolled himself in a computer programming course, got a job and now—six years later—had fallen in love with a woman named Carolina.

Nowadays he liked to read and go for walks. His favourite thing was to walk down to the lakeshore when the fog rolled in. He spent a lot of time alone.

“I guess you’re right,” said Warren. “I wasn’t very funny.”

Mason shuffled cards and drank, thinking about Warren. Usually, neurotic people drove him kind of crazy, but Warren was different. Right from the start he’d confronted his fears, even as his life had become more dangerous—a hostile world of stilettos, worms and broken tire jacks. Mason could identify with that. Not that he himself had ever been a fearful person—quite the opposite—but, like Warren, he’d sought out danger, had decided early on that middle-class life would make him soft, and set out in search of trauma. And now here he was—a drunken, traumatized thirty-year-old hotdog salesman writing love letters to people he’d never even met. And still he wasn’t particularly scared. But he
was
impressed by Warren.

People had this romantic view of facing down their fears, as if only good could come of it. Warren could testify otherwise, and yet he kept on doing it. Case in point: this love letter Mason was supposed to be writing. It was a ballsy move on Warren’s part. At every step—approaching Mason, commissioning the letter, delivering it to a woman named Carolina—it must be freaking him right out. The least Mason could do was start to write.

He put aside the cards then carried his drink to the desk. He sat down, turned on the computer and picked up a book of matches. With his right hand he pushed the left-most match out and around the edge of the book, turned it in his fingers and struck down at the flint. The match-head burst into flame. He lit his cigarette then a candle.

He didn’t bother blowing out the match, just threw it over his shoulder, where it smoldered, then flickered out. Mason laughed out loud and took another drink. He turned up the music, trayed his smoke and did a line.

Leaning forward, he began to type.

Mason sat back. In some ways he liked the idea that Warren, a non-writer, would be spell-checking his way through the letter. And it was kind of refreshing to be working on something other than his novel, like he was feeding the good dog inside him more than the bad. Sometimes that’s all you could do: give the good dog an edge. It did bother him a bit, though, that he’d thought
sensical
was a word.

Shake it off, Shakespeare
.

He lit another smoke.

His job was not necessarily to put Warren in a true light—a multiphobic, unitesticled, manslaughtering ex-comedian looking for love—but rather a
good
light. The trick was not to freak the lady out. There’d be plenty of time for her to get to know him.

So what could he write about?

It’s a
love letter
, Einstein. Write about Love
.

Shit
.

He poured another drink.

“You know what I think the problem is?” Mason flipped the bun, then took it off the grill.

“What’s that?” said Warren.

“Carolina. You haven’t told me anything about her. It’d be easier if I knew who we were in love with.”

“Hmmm…. That
is
a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just don’t know her that well.”

“I thought you were in love with her.”

“Well, I know her
that
well.”

“I’ve already got a headache, Warren.”

“Sorry.”

“What does she look like?”

“She’s beautiful.”

Mason waited.

“Caucasian. Brown eyes. Five-foot-nine.”

“Well, that’s romantic.”

Warren took a moment, then spoke: “Her eyes are almond-shaped, like a cat’s—but with only two eyelids, of course. Cats have three, you know? I think it’s called the nictitating membrane.”

“Now
that
I can use,” said Mason pulling an invisible pen from behind his ear to scribble it down: “No nictitating membrane.”

“She’s got a small mole on her upper lip.”

“Okay …”
Scribble, scribble
. “Got it.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Good enough. So what does she do?”

“She works at a video store.”

Mason looked at him. Warren looked back.

“Is that how you know her, Warren? She rents you videos?”

“You sell me hotdogs.”

“Good point. What have you talked to her about?”

“Mostly videos…. What?”

Mason took a breath. “Okay. Well what movies does she like?”

“I know this … her favourite movies are—let me think.
Chariots of Fire, Pretty in Pink
and
First Blood.”

“Really?”

“Those are all good movies. Have you seen
First Blood?
It’s an excellent film.”

“Great. This has been really helpful, Warren. Thanks.”

Writing about love hadn’t worked. Writing about Warren could scare her off, and he hadn’t exactly got a clear picture of Carolina. So what was left?

Feelings
.

Feelings?

How does he make her
feel
?

No. Too close to that Jack Nicholson movie: “You make me want to be a better man.” Gag.

How about this:

Short and sweet.

Not worth five grand, though
.

Mason sat there, drinking and shuffling cards, bereft of inspiration. Finally he reached for the phone. Twenty minutes later, Chaz was at his door.

“Howdy, popstand. What’s the haps?”

“I’m writing a love letter.”

“Aw shucks, for me?”

“Nope.”

“Who else are you acquainted with?”

“People.”

“You’re a halfwit.”

“Play some cards later?”

“You’re already into me for too much dough. And little lambs eat ivy.”

“Well, that’s why I called you.” From his desk drawer, Mason pulled out the thousand Warren had given him. “I’m making some money.”

“That’s from hotdogs? Maybe I should switch jobs.”

“Aw, c’mon. Drug dealing suits you.” He passed him half the cash. “We’ll play for the rest later. Just leave me some powder, okay?”

“Sure enough,” said Chaz. He put the money in his pocket and tossed a baggie on the desk.

After Chaz left, Mason did a long, thick line and tried to imagine what would make someone fall in love with Warren. He wanted Carolina to envision him in some seemingly real yet romantic light—what he was, but also what he’d been, and what he
could
be.

Yeah, it is
.

Mason did another line. Then he pushed back his chair, shuffling cards.

“You don’t look so good,” said Warren.

Mason broke off some lettuce. “I missed my morning workout.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me, Warren.” Mason’s head throbbed. “Why don’t you write this thing yourself?”

“Writing scares me.”

“You don’t say?”

“It’s not like some other fears, where I’ve just got to find the will to step up. It’s more like eating when you’re nauseous.” Mason handed him the hotdog. “Every word is a new struggle.”

“That’s what writing is.”

“Do you want this gig or not, Mason?”

Mason nodded. “Yeah, I want it. I just need more material … Or maybe less—there’s so many ways to go….”

“How about this?” Warren was dressing his dog. “Why don’t you write me a few different letters? Then you don’t have to worry about it being perfect. I can choose what parts to use. It’s not like I’m going to just hand over whatever you give me, right?”

“All right.” Mason handed him a Sprite.

“Tell me,” said Warren. “Why did you start writing in the first place?”

“What do you mean
why?”

Warren seemed to think about it, then changed his question. “Well, if it’s so difficult, why do you keep doing it?”

Why did you start writing in the first place

Is that a pertinent question?

Think about it
.

To tell stories.

No
.

To tell
my
stories.

Closer
.

To bear witness.

To whom?

To me.

Why?

So that others would, too.

Now we’re getting somewhere
.

Yeah. I’m a narcissistic jerk. How’s that supposed to help?

Try it in the third person
.

Mason used to be obsessed with being cool. He roamed the world in search of ways to prove just how cool he was. But it’s a tree-falling-in-the-forest type of thing. It doesn’t matter how many trains you hop, how many rabbits you skin, how many rafts you build, how many bar fights you almost win, how many times you crouch in the shade of your own duffle bag—boots beaten and dusty, the desert burning behind you—waiting for that next ride to anywhere, if nobody’s there to see it.