Read Online Three Years with the Rat by Jay Hosking - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jay Hosking
Ads: Link
Every bite tasted meticulous and rich and complex. I ate with my eyes closed. When I was finished, she asked me to help finish her plate. While she washed up for her shift, I smelled traces of her sticky, sweet scent on the back of my hand.
I kissed Nicole goodbye and deliberately held it for too long, until she was laughing and her tongue curled up and our teeth clacked together. She hated this, she loved this, she put her palms on my shoulders and pushed me away. I told her I would make dinner that night and she didn’t say anything, only walked backward into the kitchen with a long, genuine smile on her face.
Duchenne.
Work ended late so I drove to Bloor to buy kimchi, Nicole’s current favourite. Even after a year of living in the city, I still found it amazing that the street was so divided at Bathurst, with bookstores and record shops and the Fortress to the east and the vibrant Korean neighbourhood, its restaurants and Asian produce and beauty salons, to the west. Night was already casting its deep pinks and blues over everything. I called Steve on the walk back to my car and told him I’d been humming his song. There wasn’t a chance to gauge his reaction, though, because I ended the call when I saw John coming toward me on the other side of the street.
Though the daylight had faded, I could see that John was struggling. Eight or ten planks of wood and a heavy, arrowhead shovel were balanced over his arms. With every step the wood slid and jutted at bad angles. To compensate, he shifted his frame and walked with an increasing lope. But it was no use. Eventually he stumbled under his own gait and dropped the supplies. Other pedestrians circled around him while he fought to collect the wood. As he lifted the pile, the shovel fell out of his hands. As he knelt to grasp the tool, the wood slipped away from him again.
Hands empty, he shouted, “Fuck!”
Passersby scattered and fretted.
By this time, I had jaywalked across the street and was shouting to get John’s attention. He startled like an animal when I touched his sleeve but regained some composure when he finally recognized me.
“There’s a reason it’s evolutionarily conserved, you know.” He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke. “Anger. Aggression. They’re useful. My hands are shaking now, over some inanimate objects, but it’s a fair trade-off. Violence is the logical extreme of communication, the only language that people will not ignore, the only language that everyone understands.”
While he rambled I separated the wood into two piles on the gritty sidewalk. I helped him up and together we carried the supplies back to his apartment. My hands ached from the chilly air.
John avoided using the overhead bulbs of the apartment and switched on the table lamps instead, a bath of warm light. He left the wood piled at the door and lowered himself onto the couch like an old man. He jammed his fists into his armpits and rocked a little. His shoulders stretched the shirt but his chest had started to look deflated.
On the coffee table was a piece of paper, printed on which was a grid, the alphabet running across the rows and columns.
“It’s called a
tabula recta
,” John said absently.
“What’s it for?” I asked.
“Officer 2510 asked me the same thing when she came by to see me today.”
“2510? What did she want?”
“Only to ask me the same questions, as per her usual.” He un-tucked his hands and began to massage his face. “Have I heard from Grace. Do I have any new information. Why am I so convinced she’s gone for good. Why am I keeping things from the police.”
John pulled his mouth tight at the corners and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. I sat down on the other end of the couch. He removed his hands from his face and his eyes flitted without focus.
“And what did you tell her?” I asked.
“Nothing she wanted to hear.” He coughed, closed his eyes, kept them closed. “I’m starting to treat her like my therapist.
I kissed Nicole goodbye and deliberately held it for too long, until she was laughing and her tongue curled up and our teeth clacked together. She hated this, she loved this, she put her palms on my shoulders and pushed me away. I told her I would make dinner that night and she didn’t say anything, only walked backward into the kitchen with a long, genuine smile on her face.
Duchenne.
Work ended late so I drove to Bloor to buy kimchi, Nicole’s current favourite. Even after a year of living in the city, I still found it amazing that the street was so divided at Bathurst, with bookstores and record shops and the Fortress to the east and the vibrant Korean neighbourhood, its restaurants and Asian produce and beauty salons, to the west. Night was already casting its deep pinks and blues over everything. I called Steve on the walk back to my car and told him I’d been humming his song. There wasn’t a chance to gauge his reaction, though, because I ended the call when I saw John coming toward me on the other side of the street.
Though the daylight had faded, I could see that John was struggling. Eight or ten planks of wood and a heavy, arrowhead shovel were balanced over his arms. With every step the wood slid and jutted at bad angles. To compensate, he shifted his frame and walked with an increasing lope. But it was no use. Eventually he stumbled under his own gait and dropped the supplies. Other pedestrians circled around him while he fought to collect the wood. As he lifted the pile, the shovel fell out of his hands. As he knelt to grasp the tool, the wood slipped away from him again.
Hands empty, he shouted, “Fuck!”
Passersby scattered and fretted.
By this time, I had jaywalked across the street and was shouting to get John’s attention. He startled like an animal when I touched his sleeve but regained some composure when he finally recognized me.
“There’s a reason it’s evolutionarily conserved, you know.” He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke. “Anger. Aggression. They’re useful. My hands are shaking now, over some inanimate objects, but it’s a fair trade-off. Violence is the logical extreme of communication, the only language that people will not ignore, the only language that everyone understands.”
While he rambled I separated the wood into two piles on the gritty sidewalk. I helped him up and together we carried the supplies back to his apartment. My hands ached from the chilly air.
John avoided using the overhead bulbs of the apartment and switched on the table lamps instead, a bath of warm light. He left the wood piled at the door and lowered himself onto the couch like an old man. He jammed his fists into his armpits and rocked a little. His shoulders stretched the shirt but his chest had started to look deflated.
On the coffee table was a piece of paper, printed on which was a grid, the alphabet running across the rows and columns.
“It’s called a
tabula recta
,” John said absently.
“What’s it for?” I asked.
“Officer 2510 asked me the same thing when she came by to see me today.”
“2510? What did she want?”
“Only to ask me the same questions, as per her usual.” He un-tucked his hands and began to massage his face. “Have I heard from Grace. Do I have any new information. Why am I so convinced she’s gone for good. Why am I keeping things from the police.”
John pulled his mouth tight at the corners and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. I sat down on the other end of the couch. He removed his hands from his face and his eyes flitted without focus.
“And what did you tell her?” I asked.
“Nothing she wanted to hear.” He coughed, closed his eyes, kept them closed. “I’m starting to treat her like my therapist.
Similar Books
