Monday Night Man (2 page)

“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

R
upp 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.

So Rupp moved into Horst's car. He poured gas in the tank so he could run the heater, and pinned up towels for curtains. That first night Rupp used Horst's phone to order pizza. Yet Rupp couldn't convince the guy that the address really was a red Pacer in an alley. Horst, listening, finally said, “Fuck. Just deliver it here.”

When the pizza arrived, Rupp insisted on taking the delivery kid out back to show him the car so that next time he'd know Rupp was on the level. The kid still thought they were shitting him.

“It's a new trend in urban living,” said Rupp.

The kid was wearing a Corvette Stingray T-shirt. “Okay, but a Pacer?”

When the kid was gone, Rupp invited Horst to sit in the car and eat pizza. They played the radio and drank beer.

“So you're finding a place soon, right?”

“Jesus, Horst. I'm fifty. You think I like this?” Rupp insisted Horst take the last piece. Horst knew it was bribery, but after a month of Kraft Dinner, he went for it. “I never brought a whore there once,” said Rupp.

They arranged that Rupp use Horst's bathroom in the morning before work, then again at night before bed. Beyond that, they were living in separate houses.

That evening Horst's landlord, Leo Buljan, discovered Rupp out back. Leo was huge. Rupp, terrified, refused to get out of the car. He rolled the window down an inch and they argued. Then Leo lost his temper and grabbed the window, and Rupp quickly cranked it up tight, pinching Leo's fingers. Horst came running when Leo started howling. It took a lot of talking before Horst had him calmed down to where he wasn't going to get a hammer, break the window, and drag Rupp out.

“Okay,” said Leo. “He can stay. But I want rent. Hundred a month.” He hulked off to ice his fingers.

Horst was secretly pleased. It was great. Rupp got the message, loud and clear, that he better get his ass someplace else. It also meant Horst didn't take the rap for not letting him stay.

“That guy's gonna kill me!”

“You oughta see his gun collection,” said Horst. “Goes to the Barnet Rifle Club twice a week. Drinks vodka.”

“A hundred a month,” said Rupp.

“Yeah.” Horst tried sounding sympathetic.

“That's pretty good. Goddamn Svoboda was bleeding me for four hundred and fifty. What's this guy's name?” Rupp had his chequebook out.

The next night Horst heard singing. He peeked through the blinds and saw Rupp and Leo in the Pacer, drunk, singing Serbian songs.

In the morning, Rupp knocked on Horst's door carrying two cups of coffee.

“Leo hooked up an extension cord for me so I can use my perk. He's a good guy!”

“How're his fingers?”

“Not even bruised!”

Horst sat at the kitchen table while Rupp used the toilet. Horst hated anyone using his toilet. It disgusted him. He shut his eyes trying not to think about it.

“Jesus,” said Rupp when he came out, “been holding that dump all night. So. See you at the track?”

“You just got evicted for not being able to pay your rent and you got money to bet?”

Rupp peeled off a couple of twenties. “Leo's gonna lay down a piece of plywood and some foam rubber to level out the back seat. This should cover it. Hey.” Rupp looked at Horst's jungle of jades, ivies, cacti, gloxinias, and philodendrons. “I'll give you ten for a couple of these buggers.”

When Rupp pulled in about midnight both doors of his Bug opened and shut, and Horst heard a woman's laughter. He made it to the window in time to see a hooker getting into the back seat of his Pacer. Rupp had his hands all over her ass as he crawled in behind. Horst went from the bedroom window to the living-room window for a better view. He shifted some of the plants and watched. For a minute the light was on and he could see the silhouettes of two bodies moving about behind the towels. Then the light went out. Pretty soon the Pacer was rocking side-to-side.

In the morning Rupp appeared at the door with two coffees.

“Where were you? I got the triactor! Bunce got it too. Paid three-fifty!”

Horst smelled Rupp from across the table. “You stink.”

Rupp grinned. “Jesus, Horst. It's been so long I forgot what it looks like.”

“Where'd you find her?”

“Mr Submarine on Hastings.”

“I'd prefer you didn't fuck whores in my car.”

“Ok, ok.” Rupp strolled whistling to the bathroom.

A minute later Horst heard the water running in the tub. He shouted and ran to the door. It was locked.

“This isn't part of the deal!”

“I need a bath!”

“Go walk through a car wash!”

“Can't hear you!”

When Rupp came out he said he'd buy Horst another toothbrush, and by the way he was out of dental floss.

“You used my toothbrush?”

“I had something stuck. Hey. Me'n Leo're going to the casino tonight.”

“Leo doesn't gamble.”

“I'm gonna show him the ropes.”

When Rupp left for work, Horst took a deep breath, then pushed open the bathroom door. The window was steamed and the tub had a brown ring and was full of hair — Boyle Rupp hair. Horst felt ill. Two wet towels lay on the floor and the toilet hadn't been flushed. Horst stared at his toothbrush. Picking it up with a piece of toilet paper he threw it away. He spent the morning scrubbing and disinfecting.

The next morning when Rupp knocked with two coffees, Horst opened the door but kept the chain on. He stated the New Order.

“But we had a deal!”

“The deal didn't include you shitting up my bathroom or using my toothbrush.”

“So what'm I gonna do?”

“There's a hose around the side of the house. Wash with that. As for your other needs …” Horst pointed out the garden of the Chinese lady across the alley. “She'll appreciate the fertilizer.”

Every morning for the next week Horst watched Rupp head around to Leo's suite with two coffees. It was late April and the weather was warming up. In fact, it hadn't rained in five days, which had to be some kind of record for Vancouver. Horst knew Rupp had no intention of finding a proper place. The bugger liked it here. It gave him three hundred more a month to blow at the track and the casino. Horst decided he was demanding rent, too. It was his car. It was only fair. A hundred to Leo and a hundred to Horst …. Yet he wondered. If he took money from Rupp, then Rupp had rights. He'd be a tenant. Hell. He almost was already. No. The only way to get rid of him was to pay up the car insurance and get the Pacer back on the road. And that meant getting a job. What a choice — a job or Rupp. Horst usually worked as a gardener. And it was spring.

Saturday was not only sunny, but hot. Everyone was outside, waving hello to neighbours they usually hated. Rupp had the windows down and the seat cranked back, reading the
Racing Form.
Horst wanted to go out on the back porch and drink his coffee — but he didn't want to see Rupp. He especially didn't want to see Rupp smug and relaxed like he had the world where he wanted it. After an hour of pacing and picking dead leaves off his plants, Horst stamped down the steps to the car. Rupp saw him coming.

“Ever think of getting a sun-roof?”.

“Ever think of getting a proper place to live?”

Rupp picked up the classifieds on the seat beside him. “City's tighter than a frog's ass. You can get sun-roofs for a couple hundred.”

“If I had a couple hundred I'd renew my car insurance instead of riding the bus.”

“Couple hundred? You live under a rug? Insurance'll cost you a grand.” Rupp paged through the paper. “Here. Found you a job.”

Horst was both offended and intrigued. “Who're you, my mother?”

Rupp slapped the paper and showed Horst a job he'd circled. “Telemarketing. Work from your home. No traffic, no boss, no hassles.”

“No money either.”

“You gotta be a self-starter. I'm telling you Horst, I'm out there all day, it's hell. Driving's the shits. Gives you ulcers. If I could work from home I'd be happier'n a clam. Here's the number.” Rupp passed Horst a losing ticket from the track with a phone number on it.

“What else did you find?”

Rupp tossed the paper into the back seat. “Fuck all.” He picked up the
Racing Form
.

“Gimme the paper.”

Boyle passed him the
Racing Form
.

“The newspaper.”

“Told you. Nothing there.”

“Just let me look.”

“I'm doing the crossword.”

“I'll give it back.” Horst spoke with exaggerated calm. Rupp was hiding something. Horst smelled it. He took the paper and went inside. It took a while, but he found it: long weekend every week! Wanted: Experienced gardener for indoor plant maintenance throughout city. Four days per week. Good wage, great benefits. Reliable car a must.

Horst looked around at his plants. Rupp knew that of the hundred-some jobs Horst had held, a dozen had been in gardening and nurseries. “The motherfucker. So that's his game. I let him live in my car and use my bathroom, and this is what the guy pulls!” Horst swung open the door intending to throw him out. Rupp, however, was gone. He'd headed for the track.