Watcher (9 page)

chapter twelve

I
t looked like Tack and I might finally make it to Pockets after our detour, though we'd had another “offer” on the way when we ran into a couple of guys from school — Jake and Lee. They were heading to a party at Tiffany Rutledge's place and they stopped to ask if we wanted to crash it.

“She's like, unveiling her new piercing tonight,” Lee said. He looked like he might hang out his tongue and start panting any second. I didn't personally have much interest in finding out what part of her body Tiffany had decided to stick a hole in this time. Besides, Lavender Dean was supposed to be at Pockets and running into her was hardly ever the worst thing in the world.

We told them thanks but we already had plans.

“Cool,” Lee said. He grinned like we were sharing a joke.

“You got any smoke, man?” Jake asked unsteadily. By the look of them they'd already been into something a lot stronger than weed, but these two never seem to think they're high enough.

We told them we didn't and they left, making their way along the street in stumbles and lurches, which amused them to no end. I wondered, if it hadn't been for Daniels, whether I'd be in the same shape they were. It wasn't all that long ago that I made a regular habit of spending evenings floating along with that half-disembodied feeling.

No denying it — the pull is still there at times. The old urge to disconnect. It had seemed like a kind of freedom, except
that
had turned out to be an illusion.

I never saw it that way until I got probation — and Daniels. There were so many things that changed for me that year. It used to get to me, the way he seemed to see things. He was forever making casual observations, only they were almost always dead-on. It was as if he could see right into my brain.

“You think anything you've gone through is unique?” he asked once. “Like no one else has ever lain on their bed and fought for breath over the crushing weight on their chest? You think it's anger or hurt or something else, but what it
really
is, is
want
. All the stuff that fate hasn't given you. What swells up in a person that way is hardly ever what
is
, but what
isn't
. We can deal with the garbage that gets dumped on us — we learn how to handle that. But we never learn to stop wanting the things that are missing.”

“Did you feel that way when you were my age?” I asked, sure he'd tell me we weren't there to talk about him.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, surprising me. “Like I said, you can get used to almost anything. So if your father comes in falling down drunk, roaring and breaking things in the middle of the night, you find ways to get through it. What's harder to deal with — or forgive — are the things that just aren't there. Someone to help you lace up your skates, shoot some hoops, teach you to skip rocks, go camping. All the everyday stuff.”

Later on, when we'd moved past that and got to the place where we could really talk — and probably when I was more ready to hear him —
then
he seemed to mostly listen.

He was different. When I first met him I'd thought he was just a lazy slacker who couldn't be bothered to do his job. Truth was, he was tuned in enough to know what to say and when. Mostly, he
heard
more than any other adult I've ever known.

In my experience, most of the time, no one's listening or paying attention — not enough to hear any of the stuff that really matters. It's like most people watcher won't look too close in case they find out something they don't like, because that might disturb the nice order of things.

Like the year that Krystal Smithton OD'd on smack. She was with some friends, and word on the street was they took care of a few things before calling 911 — as if the emergency people were going to stop and search the place.

There were a few stories about what happened, but whatever the truth was, Krystal didn't make it. Maybe she would have if they'd called right away and maybe it was already too late for her by the time anyone noticed she wasn't just spaced out.

The really pathetic thing was how her parents blamed everyone else. Even after they'd been shown all the track marks, they refused to believe she'd been a druggie. They hung on to the idea that she'd been peer-pressured into using, and talked about her death like it was a murder.

I hadn't known Krystal, except from school, but I knew she'd been a stoner since around grade six — and that she'd moved up quickly from weed and had made her way to heroin the year before she died. Word was that she'd done whatever she had to do to make sure she could fix, and she'd been beaten up a couple of times although I don't know the details. So, how could it have been that her own parents
hadn't known
she was a doper? I'd have known within two minutes if I'd just met her for the first time.

My mother would never have missed all of the signs Krystal's folks missed. But back when I was smoking bud, she never once noticed anything different. Or, if she did, she never brought it up, and I think she would have if she'd realized. Come to think of it, we never talked about drugs — not
really
.

Oh, she gave me the speech once. Drugs are bad. Drugs will hurt you. Only losers use drugs. It was like having someone read to me from a grade one lesson book. “See kids use drugs. See kids drop out of school. Don't, kids, don't!”

Tack's mother had a different approach. Her approach with him was: “I ever catch you using drugs and I will kick your sorry butt all over the city of Toronto and back.” Tack could do a wicked imitation of that when he was stoned. We'd laugh ourselves sick.

But Daniels knew the score. He talked to me on a level playing field, too, once I'd cleaned up. Lots of times I found myself saying things I hadn't even known were in my head and some of them were pretty weird. Surprisingly, when we were talking, no matter what I told him, he never acted like the big P.O., if you know what I mean. And that made me tell him more — almost like I was trying to force him to react, to show his disapproval, to judge me. Only, he never did.

One day I found myself telling him the whole story about the bong.

“So this bong,” he said, “what was it that made you want it so much?”

“Uh, it looked …” I hesitated, half embarrassed. “I know this sounds stupid, but it looked wise.”

“Like it had answers?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Feeling stupid, I added, “It's not like I asked it questions or anything.”

“But you
have
questions.”

“Sure. Doesn't everyone?”

“I guess they do. Say you could ask the bong
one
thing and it would answer you, what would you ask?”

I laughed and shook my head. “I dunno, man. That's hard to say.”

“Because you can't pick the
right
question or because there are
too many
?”

“Probably both.” I noticed that Daniels had drifted, and could see that he was thinking about what he'd just asked me.

“What about you,” I said. “What would you ask?”

He seemed to think it over, and I thought something flashed across his eyes, like he'd decided, but then he just turned his hands palms up and shrugged.

“You're right,” he said. “That's a tough one.”

Other times we just talked about school and sports and general stuff. Then, one day, when we were wrapping things up, he said, “So, I guess you've probably done the math. But in case you haven't, this is it. Your year is up. This is our last appointment.”

“I'm not on probation anymore?” My mouth had a hard time getting around the words.

“Nope.” He stretched a hand out. “You did all right, kid.”

I shook his hand and squared my jaw. “Well, it wasn't so bad.”

“You have my number. Feel free to call if you run into any problems I can help with,” he said. “Otherwise, good luck and all that. You're going to do okay … you know that, don't you?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I stood up.

“Oh, there's one more thing.” He reached down beside him and picked up a book. He passed it across the desk.

“This is for you.”

I looked at the book. I read the title out loud. “
A
Prayer for Owen Meany
.”

“It's my favourite John Irving novel,” he said. “I thought you might like it.”

I held it up like I was showing it to him. “I'll definitely read it. Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

We said “So, all right then” and “Take care,” and a couple of things like that — the words you say when you can't say the real stuff.

Then I left his office for the last time.

All the way home I kept looking at the book, glancing down to where it was tucked between my arm and chest. It was — believe it or not — the first time anyone had ever given me a book.

The front cover displayed a picture of one of those things for making women's clothes. I read the back cover and wasn't sure I'd much like the story. It didn't sound very exciting.

But I knew I'd read it right away.

chapter thirteen

S
trains of the latest Nickleback CD met us before we reached the door at Pockets. Tubby played mostly Canadian groups and tunes — a pretty decent mix of new stuff and the classics. Lately he'd been playing a lot of Nickleback, Roman Dane, and old Bryan Adams.

We ambled over to where Tubby was sitting and said hello to him.

“Hey, how are you guys tonight?” He reached under the counter, pulled out a package of Nicorette gum and popped a piece into his mouth. Tubby quits smoking about once a month.

“Good. You?”

“Can't complain.” He chewed vigorously, not like they show on TV — bite, bite, stop. “And no one would listen if I did.”

That didn't call for an answer, so we ordered a couple of Pepsis and then sauntered over to the tables.

They were all occupied. We plunked down on a long bench along the right wall. I tried to see if Lavender was around, without making it obvious that I was looking.

“Think we should put up for a game?” Tack asked.

I'd made a point of looking over the players at each table, which was also a good way to see who was around without seeming to. The place was busier than usual but I didn't see Lavender anywhere.

“I dunno. They've all got two or three holds now,” I said.

What you did was put a toonie down behind the last one in line to reserve whichever table you wanted. When your turn came up, you put your toonie into the side slot to release the balls, then racked 'em up.

Without knowing who had reserved the tables or in what order, it was hard to know which table to hold.

We always dropped two toonies on one table and then Tack would take the first game because he was a better player than I was. We'd pick a table that didn't have strong players lined up, to more or less guarantee that he'd win his game. Then I'd be up next to play him.

Of course, it didn't always work out. Sometimes he would lose and I'd end up playing someone else. No big deal; that was just the way it went. All you could do was try to arrange things the way you wanted them and then live with whatever happened.

“I dunno,” I said. “It'll be a while before there's a table free. What do you think?”

We talked it over and decided to hang around for a bit, anyway. Since we could always pick up our money and leave if we wanted to, we dropped our coins on the back table and then wandered around to check things out.

Loren Vasey was shooting at the centre table and we stopped to watch her for a few minutes, admiring the smooth movements that sent the balls into one pocket after another. She had a good eye and steady hand and could beat almost anyone. We hadn't even hesitated before passing up that table when we were deciding where to place our money. She'd most likely be around until closing and, unless she decided to take a break, anyone lined up for that table was pretty well guaranteed to play her. And lose.

Loren and I had never been friends, really, so I was surprised when she spoke to me. If you'd asked me if she even knew I was there, I'd have said no way.

“Hey, Porter.”

“Hey.”

“I've never played you, have I?”

Ah. So she was looking for a fresh victim. Probably tired of beating the same guys over and over.

“I don't think so,” I said, like I wasn't sure.

“So, how about it?” She flashed me a smile and then turned back to the table to point out a combination shot that I couldn't make if I had a hundred chances. She chalked up, leaned over the table, and slid her cue forward just once to line up the shot before making it. She turned back to me without even watching to see if it all happened as she'd predicted, which, of course, it did.

“Uh, I already put up at another table,” I said. It sounded pretty lame.