The Cold Lake Chapters

ONE

At twenty-six he believed he had life arranged. He had just received a raise. With overtime he would earn between 140,000 and 175,000 dollars a year. This placed him somewhere between the eight and fourth percentile of earners. Securely upper-middle class. If his overtime slipped to eight hours a week, he would still meet the lower figure. He was confident, over time, if he remained with the company, he could reach the second percentile. Beyond upper-middle class.

In anticipation of the raise he had booked a trip to Italy. He chose Italy because he owned a book on Michelangelo. During breaks at work he would leaf through it. The attention to form, the scale of the figures, the intensity of the labour left an impression. Eventually he began copying figures from The Sistine Ceiling during quiet hours at work, sometimes afterward. He thought he was not bad. Others at work thought so too.

He had never seen art or architecture like this in person. He had grown up in a small farming and oil town in Alberta. There were a few murals. One depicted the town's hockey family, painted on the outer wall of the arena where they had played as boys. The arena burned down when he was seven. Everything was demolished except one wall. The mural remained.

While he was in Italy, he decided that Rome would be his only concern. The first place he went was the Vatican. Along with hundreds of others he moved through corridors dense with painted bodies, until they reached the chapel. The walls were grey, brown, ochre. Earth colours. Against them the paintings burned-blue, red, yellow, green. Light entered through the high windows and settled unevenly on the reliefs, deepening some shadows while leaving others flat and pale.

He closed his eyes. He imagined the scaffolding. The painter standing, his arm raised, his face close to the ceiling. Paint dripped down, mixing with sweat on his arched brow. He imagined the discomfort, the long hours of patient labour. He thought he could smell the paint, a dry, earthy odour, though he knew this was invention. When he opened his eyes he walked towards the altar. He spun around, looked up at the images he had been copying for the past year. He stood there. He wasn't certain for how long.

Later, passing again through the museum, he was struck by the excess of it all-the marble, the gold, the endless surfaces worked by human hands. He wondered whether anyone should be allowed to walk there. Perhaps not even barefoot. In the square he thought briefly of St. Paul. He knew almost nothing about him. Inside St. Peter's he sought out Raphael, because Raphael was familiar. Familiarity brought a small relief.

Refusing the elevator. He climbed back to the dome and walked the narrow gallery, circling the space. Below him the basilica opened outward. Above him the inscriptions rose toward the curve of the dome. The paintings were broken into ribs, each image narrowing as it ascended, until all of them were drawn upward into the lantern.

Spiraling up the narrow staircase of the cupola, he took two steps at a time. When he reached daylight he drew in heavy gulps of air. The sun was on high. Thin cloud passed over the city, dulling parts of it while others flared a yellowy, pale-ochre. He could make out the Vatican gardens. Beyond that the city lost coherence.

He walked the narrow streets of stone. Light fell unevenly between the buildings. He was struck by the number of places open not simply for commerce or leisure, but for something else he could not name. Scooters passed close to him. He was hungry. The last time he had eaten was breakfast.

He stopped at a trattoria-Da Cesare al Borgo-and went inside.

'Benvenuto. Per uno?' said the hostess.

'Si. Ciao. Non parlo italiano. Parlo inglese.' he said, raising one finger.

He was aware of how he sounded. The accent embarassed him. Benvenuto was not a word he knew.

'Welcome!' she said. 'Are you visiting Rome?'

Her english was good, he noticed.

'Canada. I'm visiting. Here on vacation.' he said. 'I came to see Michelangelo's work. And Rome.'

He ordered a primo, a contorno, and a dolce. A tankard of Peroni Nastro Azzuro arrived, fresh from the tap. He drank half of it as the waitress stepped away. He felt his first relief since landing. The restaurant was full. The smell of freshly sliced vegetables and roasted garlic hung in the air. The language around him remained indistinct, at a steady level of sound in which he could sit without being disturbed. Images from the day returned to him.

During the meal he drank two further tankards. Conversation between him and the waitress moved easily enough. She was from Australia. She said she liked bearded men. She said she liked accents. He had both. She asked if he would come out with her and some of the staff. On Thursdays they went to a nearby bar where people danced salsa. He had never danced salsa. He said yes. They danced for a long time. He lost track of the hour. Numerous times she took his hand and led him away from the floor. They returned altered-lighter, quicker, less careful. She said it helped her dance. He just liked the feeling.

Back at the hotel they had sex. The awkward, hopeless kind. The kind that follows when two unfamiliar bodies come together too quickly. They had gone straight to it. The dance floor, the music, the drinks had served in place of foreplay. After some time he stopped without finishing. He apologized for the sweat. She laughed. It did not seem to bother her. They cleaned themselves and returned to the bed.

The dome was visible through the window. He could not decide whether it had been watching them.

'I've been coming here since I was a child.' she said. 'My father brought us here every year. I think he loved the city more than me. When we returned home he would become depressed. It lasted for several weeks. Like someone important to him had died. Still, he always came back.'

'Why didn't he move your family here?' he asked.

'His parents.' she said. 'His brother and sister. He didn't want to leave them. That was what he said.'

'And why did you move?' he asked.

'That's a good question.' she said. 'Maybe i'll tell you later. If you're lucky.'

He asked again but her eyes were closed; she didn't answer. He rolled onto his other side and looked out the window for a long time. Then fell asleep. In his dream was an enormous pine decorated with tinsel and ornaments. People stood in a circle, holding hands, singing as they looked upward: where a star burned steadily with light.

TWO

He was more relaxed at breakfast despite the hangover. The Australian waitress joined him. They each ate stacks of pancakes, bacon soaked in syrup. For dessert he had fruit and two glasses of chocolate milk.

'Maybe I'll go to the Coloseum today.' he said. 'Do you need a full day to see it?'

'It's Rome,' she said. 'You need a full day to do anything.'

'Maybe I'll just go back to the Vatican. What do you think?'

'You should. Everything else in Rome is great. But only okay compared to the Vatican.'

'After you're there, everything else is a disappointment, isn't it?'

'Everything of this Earth, yes.'

'Except me.'

She laughed and nodded her head affirmatively. They stood. They kissed. He gave her cash for the cab.

Outside the hotel the sun was out. A winter breeze brushed his skin. He decided to walk. On the corner block he found a cafe and went inside.

He ordered an espresso and sat with his book on Michelangelo. He sipped away at his beverage. He read:

"In this difficult position I've given myself a goitre - as does the water to the peasants of Lombardy, or anyway of some country or another - for it shoves my stomach up to hang beneath my chin.

My beard points to heaven, and I feel the nape of my neck on my hump; I bend my breast like a harpy's, and, with its non-stop dripping from above, my brush makes my face a richly decorated floor.

My loins have gone up into my belly, and I make my backside into a croup as a counter-weight; and I cannot see where to put my feet.

In front my hide is stretched, and behind the curve makes it wrinkled, as I bend myself like a Syrian bow.

So the thoughts that arise in my mind are false and strange, for one shoots badly through a crooked barrel.

Defend my dead painting from now on, Giovanni, and my honour, for I am not well placed, nor indeed a painter."

He turned the pages and studied the reproductions of the ceiling. He wanted to see the images up close. In person. He decided he would go purchase a pair of binoculars. If the improperly placed painter endured four consecutive years, he would manage the remainder of his stay.

That afternoon he entered the chapel. With the binoculars raised he scanned the ceiling hastily. He kept bumping into other visitors. 'Sorry.. scusa,' he said. He collided with a large man who seized the binoculars from his hand. The man took him by the arm and led him to the perimeter of the chapel. He spoke sternly, in Italian. He told the man he only spoke English. The guard returned the binoculars, still gripping his arm, pointing to the floor beneath them. This was where he was to stand. It was his scaffold. The guard was his Julius II.

Dark clouds hovered over the city on the final day of his trip. Rain fell steadily. He was forced to purchase an umbrella. When he entered the chapel he noticed the effect of the weakened light. The room's immensity had diminished. The ceiling seemed lower, closer.

He decided this day would be given entirely to The Last Judgement. He took up his usual spot. It had become ritual. His arms ached, his legs weakened, his neck strained. His mind was weary.

He raised the binoculars. He began at the bottom, where a cave opened in the earth. Within it were figures neither beast nor man. He moved in a clockwise manner around the fresco. Gradually he forgot his discomfort. He forgot himself.

At the upper left a cross ascended. On the right a column descended. He continued around the center until he reached Minos.

He lowered the binoculars, stretched his arms, walked closer to the wall. He peered up at the grotesque figure whose genitals were being bitten, whose muscular body was bound by a scaled tail, whose ears were incongruous with his head. Hell followed with him.

He moved to the center, a short distance from the altar. He lifted his chin past the trumpeters toward the image of Christ. Again he traced the circle. He arrived at the flayed skin. He knew it was Michelangelo's face.

On his way out he noticed the guard who had once removed him from the crowd.

'My work is over,' he said, smiling. 'I won't be a nuisance anymore.'

The guard looked at him blankly. He did not understand English. The man did not know who he was.

He hurried through the Vatican. His flight departed in three hours. It was time to go home.

Good-bye Bramante.

Good-bye Raphael.

Good-bye Michelangelo.

Good-bye Rome.

THREE

He looked out the front window. Snow had piled along the concrete path leading to the house. He rubbed his eyes. Across the street the condominium was barely visible. White flakes descended in a loose, whirling drift.

He had arrived home at three in the morning. His roommate had been awake with a girl. Both were intoxicated. Brass eagle ornaments sat on each coffee table. Flower paintings hung in the living room. Plant pots lined the island and the corners. The girl had moved in.

He had forced them to go to bed. There was yelling. He knocked on the door and told them to be quiet. He had become a parent to two unruly orphans.

Now it was morning. There was no breakfast. They would have to find their own. He went upstairs and knocked on Mark's door. No answer. He knocked again, then entered. Mark shifted in bed.

'Hey Mark, time to get up.' he said from the doorway.

Mark stirred some more before lifting his head. It was thin, oval. His almond-shaped eyes sat deep in his face. His posture was flat, slightly bowed by a growing belly. His body made his head appear larger than it was. His light hair gave the impression of no eyebrows at all. A few dark hairs clung to his pointed chin. He left them untrimmed. His scalp had begun to thin. He was thirty-seven.

Their manager had grown tired of Mark living at the work shop. He suggested he take him in. He had been between roommates. He had agreed.

Mark looked as confused as ever.

'Pack up what you need. Take her and leave,' he said. 'You have thirty minutes. After that i'll put you out myself.'

'All right,' Mark said. 'I'm getting up.'

'Did you understand what I said?'

'Yes, I'll be out. Thirty minutes.'

Minutes later the shouting resumed. Mostly hers. She was the stronger of the two. It was why they had bonded. She came down the stairs in her underwear, bare-chested, shouting. She stood below him, venom in her eyes, fury in her fists.

'You can't do this. It's winter. Middle of a big storm. Where will we go? We could die!' she screamed at him.

'That isn't my problem.' he said.

He checked his phone.

'You have twenty two minutes.'

'This is against the law! We'll have the police over here, we'll have you taken away!

'Hey lady, I tried to be decent. Now you either leave on your own or i'll throw you out whether you're dressed or not.'

She screamed and stormed back upstairs. The door slammed. She yelled some more.

Ten minutes later they came down with bags. She went out the door shouting about her rights. Mark lingered and asked about the rest of their things. He told him to collect it later, with notice. He would have to come alone.

'I called a cab' he said. 'It'll be here any minute. Good luck with her.'

He gave Mark money for the ride. He thought himself to be a good man.

After one day of rest he returned to work. His shifts were irregular. Days. Evenings. Nights. Sometimes all three bled together.

He told his co-worker what had happened. His name was Billy. He was forty-three. He enjoyed drinking, women, fishing, singing, playing guitar-in that order. He usually came to work drunk. Sometimes merely hungover.

He had spent his best years playing in dingy bars, singing in a cover band. He had been the frontman. Women from St. John's to the interior British Columbia had passed through his life. The frontman always got the most tail, he would say.

Eventually the band broke up. With only a high-school education and minimal employment history, he began the search. For real work. He was thirty-five then. Like an athlete past his prime. Like an animal without a calling.

'I told you not to let that dorky, alien-looking mother-fucker into your home.' Billy said. 'I guarantee they fucked in your bed. Did you wash the sheets? God knows where they've been. If it were me, I'd have fucked everywhere.'

'Of course you would. You're deranged.' he said. 'She was surprisingly attractive. Totally nuts. But attractive. If they did fuck in my bed, I don't mind.'

'You're sick. If it was just her-or her and another woman-I'd never wash the sheets. It's Mark's jizzum that would worry me. Alien jizzum.'

'I'll bring the black light home,' he said. 'You think alien jizz lights up the same as regular spunk?'

'Unlikely. Collect it. Send it to NASA for testing.'

They laughed. Their shifts began like this. He would pick Billy up then drive them to the site. Usually one or two locations per day. Sometimes more. Today they had only one, it was a welding shop. No supervision. Minimal safety requirements. Billy came to work drunk. He would drink on site.

Their work was non-destructive testing. Using various methods-radiation, magnetic particle, liquid penetrant-they inspected materials. In Cold Lake it was mostly oilfield fabrication. Ninety percent of their company's contracts were new construction. Testing new welds. Once approved, the spools were sent into service-extraction, processing. That part was above their pay grade.

When you made fifty dollars an hour with less than a month of trade school, you didn't ask questions. You did your job. The higher-ups, other trades didn't understand what they did. They didn't understand the others. Often they barely understood their own. Everyone earned a living. Only God was omniscient. That much he knew.

Billy usually managed his drinking. Not tonight. No one would take him as a helper while he was away, so Billy was effectively on vacation too. Free time destablized him. Freedom led to drink.

'You're not placing the film properly,' he said. 'Numbers are missing. You're handing me film out of place. I've got a list of re-shots. Slow down. And no more drinking.'

Billy staggered outside the door to the darkroom, slurring his words. Like the old days. Only now his skin was leathery, his chestnut hair dulled greyish-brown. The glimmering stage costume had become reflective coveralls. The microphone a film cassette.

Nearly three in the morning, he told Billy to rest in the truck. He would finish the job himself.

Snow covered the street. The truck idled. A streetlamp cast its cone of light as he helped Billy out of the vehicle. He guided him through the entranceway, steadying him as he kicked his boots off. The coveralls followed. Billy collapsed onto the bed fully clothed.

'Thanks buddy.' he mumbled.

He walked back out to the truck. The sun was beginning to rise. He had not eaten in thirteen hours. He went through a drive-thru, ate in the vehicle, and drove home. After a hot shower he went to bed.

FOUR

'Why do I never catch anything?' he said. 'I've been out here ten times this year. Nothing. It's bullshit.'

'It's because you're not enjoying it.' Billy said. 'You gotta relax or the fish won't come. Have another beer.'

He turned to Brittany.

'Toss him a fresh beer, the fish will come.'

Brittany was what some might call Billy's girlfriend. Billy said she wasn't. Brittany said she was. They lived together intermittently. When they fought, she stayed in his spare room. She was there now. An abstract painting had appeared on the wall that morning. She said she had made it by coating her torso in paint and pressing herself against the canvas. You couldn't tell.

She was short and overweight. She wore thick-lensed glasses. Her dark brunette hair was often unwashed, pulled back into a ponytail that emphasized her eyes, unnaturely enlarged by the lenses. She spoke with a lisp. She was twenty-two. Billy said she had autism. He did not doubt it.

She tossed the beer. It landed three feet short.

'Oops!' she said. 'I'm terrible at thowing thtuff!'

'No good at catching either, if you get my drift.' Billy said, winking.

She walked over and cuffed him on the shoulder.

'Ow, owie.' Billy said. 'Stop. You're hurting me.'

He covered his face and mimed a crying infant. He laughed. Billy smirked. Brittany rolled her eyes.

He stood from his chair and picked up the can. It was slick with melting snow. Each of them had a chair and a hole. Above each hole was a cross jig with line attached. If a fish bit, the jig would wobble or spin. After five or ten seconds you pulled the slack and hoped.

The ice was a foot thick. He had driven the truck out to the spot. They fished inside a large tent with a propane heater and a cooler full of beer. There was deer jerky and sunflower seeds. It didn't matter if they caught anything.

Modern fishing. Modern life.

He dragged the cooler next to him.

'I think it's best if I do the tossing.' he said.

He sat and unzipped a bag bedside him, removing a sketchpad.

'Sit still,' he said. 'Not a huge request since there's never any fish. I'll draw you together like you're in paradise.'

'So this is paradise?' Billy said. 'I expected it to be greener.'

'No, no. You can't expect anything. Both of you. Sit with that. Know the posture.'

Billy and Brittany looked at one another and shifted their chairs together. Billy wore a matte black jacket and blue jeans. His hair was cropped short, tapered at the sides. His olive complexion was flushed red from drink. Brittany wore a purple synthetic jacket and black slacks. A grey toque with red stitching and a fur pom sat on her head. Her hair was down beneath it. Her skin was pale.

Why do they look good together, he thought.

'I expecth we won't catch anything.' Brittany said. 'Acthually, I know we won't.'

They laughed.

Hours passed. The sketchpad filled. Beer cans emptied. Hooks remained bare.

'Done.' he said. 'Have a look.'

He handed the pad to them. They studied the two figures hatched onto the paper. Clothing was indicated merely with outline. He tried to be delicate. He tried to be precise. Their faces were modelled with directional strokes, hatched left to right. The darkest passages concealed the surface beneath. The light areas were left open.

'It'th beautiful.' Brittany said.

'Agreed,' Billy said. 'But it doesn't look like us.'

'It isn't supposed to,' he said. 'If it did, it would merely be a display of the imperfect illusions of the senses. Instead it's translated into an idea.'

'And the idea is?' Billy asked.

'Man and Woman. Male and female. Order and chaos.' he said.

'Oooo,' Billy said. 'That's deep stuff.' He smiled. 'Anyway you're getting better. I love being used in service of grand ideas.'

He handed back the sketchpad.

'We're all used,' he said. 'Until we're used up.'

'That's why we drink,' Billy said. 'It makes us less useful. Each sip helps.'

Billy stood, unzipped the tent, and shouted into the open air, 'Stop using us, you bastard!'

He disappeared briefly into the white.

'I wonder if anyone heardth him.' Brittany said.

'I doubt it,' he said.

Billy returned carrying an open case. Only four beers remained. They were frozen solid. He set them near the heater. The cans thawed quickly.

Billy cracked the final can. They had nearly finished what was left. At once his jig began to spin.

They stood. He pinched the line where it slackened.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He snapped the line back.

'He's hooked,' Billy said. 'I think I got him good.'

He pulled steadily. A lake trout emerged through the hole and slid onto the ice.

'Big Bastard,' Billy said. 'Brittany-pliers. Measure.'

He removed the hook. Sixty-six centimetres. Legal size. He struck the fish against the ice. It stopped moving.

'Fresh fish tonight!' Billy cheered, lifting it. 'Sorry it wasn't you this time, buddy. Thawed beer strategy worked. I'll remember that one going forward.'

'Order and chaos.' he said.

FIVE

April came. Three months had passed since Rome. Today was his first day off in two weeks. If anyone called, he would make an excuse. If anyone stopped by, he wouldn't answer the door.

He sat at his circular kitchen table. He had a planner. He never planned anything in it. He kept track of how many hours he worked each day. Regular. Overtime. Double-time. If he didn't work, he wrote DAY OFF. Simple. Keeping track of what mattered.

When the month ended, he created a spreadsheet. He populated it with his regular hours. Overtime. Double-time. The hours were added at the bottom of each column. Beside them were columns for money earned. Regular. Overtime. Double-time. At the end of the row: total hours worked, followed by total earned. Before taxes.

He tallied March. One hundred sixty-eight regular. Sixty-seven overtime. Seventeen double-time. Total hours worked: two hundred fifty-two. Total earned: fifteen thousand one hundred and twenty-five. Before taxes.

He printed the spreadsheet, brought it to the basement. The basement contained a washer, dryer, furnace and fuse box. A partition seperated this area from the hallway and the room where he stood. He unlocked a cabinet and filed the sheet. He locked the cabinet. It was the only object in the carpeted room.

He returned to the kitchen, drew the curtains across the patio door. He slid on his sandles as he pulled the door and stepped outside. Thin ice clung to sections of the deck beams. Most of the snow in the yard was gone. The yard held a garden shed and a fire pit. Chairs were stacked in the corner of the otherwise bare deck. Split wood leaned neatly against the shed. The yard was tidy.

On days off, he cooked for himself. Over fire. Bacon, deer, cow, eggs. Charred asparagus, broccoli, tomato. Steak spice. Salt. Pepper. Butter. Garlic. Onion.

He took four handfuls of kindling from the shed, sprinkled it over the damp ash. He split three pieces of wood thinner and stacked them like a house. With a barbeque lighter he lit the kindling. It would give him an hour of warm, steady fire.

He returned with two seasoned deer steaks, asparagus, and a pan holding a dollop of butter, two eggs. The asparagus went on the grate, indirect. Five minutes. Flip. Season. Then the meat and pan, direct. He scrambled the eggs, stirring continuously. He flipped the meat, seasoned the eggs. He slid the eggs onto his plate. Lifted the meat and asparagus.

While the plate sat he brushed the grate, cleaned the pan. Five minutes. He sliced the steak. Perfect rare.

Gigantic conifers stood all around. Mostly trunk. The foliage began midway. Scattered around were pines and shrubs. Toppled trees lay exposed, earth clinging to their roots. When he came upon them they startled him; from a distance they looked like bears.

He walked the worn paths. There were few. The animals were no different than people, he thought.

He searched the ground for antlers. He walked miles. The trail led into marsh. The soil-laden swamp rose nearly to the tops of his rubber boots. As he eased through, he sank, thick water poured. Against his leg. Down to his toes.

Using a trunk for support, he yanked his boots free.

Bloop. Splash.

Bloop. Splash.

Then the socks. He wrung them out one at a time. Moisture ran through his fingers and into the forest bed.

Throughout the afternoon, a drawing kept intruding on his thoughts. He reached a cut line, free of snow. Cows had carved miniature canyons in the soil. No sheds.

The drawing sharpened. He came to a closed gate. He ran along the fence. Sometimes when deer jumped they dropped them.

He tried to escape his thoughts. Leonardo's Lady with an Ermine. Lying motionless on the desk in his room. Waiting to be finished.

I'm sorry I have not done more.

His final words. Now replayed in the minds of men regardless of rank. His guilt. Our guilt.

Finally, he stopped. Panting. His face flushed. He sat with his back against a post. He thought of Rome. He lowered his head and cried.

SIX

Work had slowed with the winter thaw. It was his second day off. Billy had called in the morning. He texted, I'm sick. He wasn't. He worked on the drawing.

The walls had been bare since his teen years. Now, they accumulated framed Renaissance reproductions. He thought maybe one day he could frame one of his drawings. Standards were high. It wouldn't come easy. Or quickly.

He glanced from the reproduction to his drawing. Back and forth. He thought it was close. He had started shading in the value. He rested his eyes on the reproduction.

He had read about the painting. The blue cloak was called a sbernia. The silk created a soft, metallic luster, suitable for an area bathed in light. Unlike the one depicted in the Mona Lisa, this material framed her shoulder. Her right shoulder showed gold embroidery stitched into her velvet. Subtle, in shadow. Her hairstyle was a coazzone: hair held tight by a black band and a veil of gold-wound threads, visible along her brow, wrapping under her chin like a helmet strap. Both she and the ermine gazed into the distance.

His stomach rumbled. He went down the stairs to the kitchen, passing the new roommate seated at the table.

'Good morning.' he said.

'Morning.' Bruce said. 'What time you heading in today?'

'No work. Too wet.'

'Nothing wrong with that. Every man needs a day to put his feet up now and then.'

Bruce had been a police officer for thirty years, mostly in Edmonton. The last seven were in Cold Lake. 'Being on the force in a town is one thing,' he had said, 'but the city's a different animal.' In Cold Lake it was theft and drugs. Manageable. Now he worked as a military range officer-mostly catching speeders, occasionally drugs. 'Biggest threat is the bears,' he had said, 'plus it pays well.' All the range officers were police veterans in their fifties. Paid to put their feet up.

His wife of twenty-seven years had thrown him out. That's why he had called the number on the ad. That's why he had moved in. She'd caught him messaging his daughter's best friend. The girl had started acting provocatively-tight slacks, bending over in front of him. He had told her they had to be patient. Nearly two years passed. In Canada, he had to wait until eighteen. After her birthday, he started messaging her. Then they slept together. A few months of secrets passed before he made a mistake. He left his screen open. 'Luckily,' Bruce had said, 'my wife and daughter think it was just messages and pictures. Bad enough as it is. Knowing less can be a blessing.' 'Are you going to continue your relationship with her?' he had asked. 'She stopped talking to me. My wife called her parents. A big mess. I told her to say it was just messages. I'm not sure what they know.' Bruce had said, 'if she comes back, I would. What do I have to lose?

'No feet up today.' he said. 'I'm working on a drawing. One of Leonardo Da Vinci's. It's called Lady with an Ermine.'

He had decided to start preparing meals in the kitchen. He had purchased a toaster. Time to become more efficient. He put bread in to toast, started eggs and bacon.

'Very interesting.' Bruce said. 'Check out this new one I'm messaging.'

He handed him his phone. It displayed an image of a young blonde woman standing on a stone bridge. A canal passed beneath her, opening into a small channel. Old European buildings lined the far bank.

'She's beautiful. How'd you meet her?'

'Met her online. Dating apps. She's from Germany but she's going to visit me. We've been sending pictures.'

'Oh yeah? When is she coming to visit?'

'Next weekend. We're going to stay in a hotel, in Edmonton. A week of romance. Just the two of us.'

'That sounds odd. Are you sending her money?'

'Just the flight over plus some travel expenses.' Bruce grinned. 'She's sent plenty of pictures. Mostly without clothes.'

He handed the phone back.

'Good luck,' he said. 'Don't send her anymore money.'

Breakfast was ready. He carried his plate toward the hallway.

He turned around.

'I'm putting the house for sale next week.' he said. 'You'll have to start looking for another room.'

SEVEN

He gave his notice at work. Once the house sold, he would leave. They were surprised. It had taken three years to train him. To certify him. Wasted time. Money.

Fred, his manager, was pragmatic.

'You're always welcome back,' Fred said. 'Who are you going to work for?'

'No one,' he said, 'I'm going to enroll at the Art Academy of Toronto.'

Fred blinked. 'Well, good luck. Lots of brown people out there.'

'That's what I've read,' he said.

He told Billy when he picked him up.

'I'm fucked,' Billy said. 'You're the only tech who'll take me as a helper. They'll bleed me. Slowly, painfully.'

'You'll have to cut back on the drinking,' he said. 'Or change your schedule. Stay up till six, seven. Become a night owl.

'And not drink during the day while I'm fishing? C'mon man. What kind of life is that?'

'Just don't get plastered. One beer or one shot per hour. The golden rule. Stick to it and you'll be fine.'

'Oh, I'm screwed without you.'

'You'll be fine. Don't get your certification. Stay cheap. They'll keep you to save money. But more importantly-remember the golden rule!'

Alcohol: his grail and his noose. He admired the fight in him. Perverse, maybe-but real. The sparkle in Billy's eye reminded him of a cornered coyote. Scraped. Bruised. Wild. Never surrendering. Never letting the enemy win.

'Why you quitting anyway?' Billy said.

'Art School. I'm going to be a painter.'

'A painter? Billy scratched his chin. 'You'll do it. You commit. Something I could never do.'

'You're still fighting, that's not nothing.'

'It's better than feeling nothing!'

'Exactly. I've begun to notice something sad. In myself. In others. Too much calculating. Always planning ahead. You don't have that.'

'People are uptight. Like someone drove a long stick up their ass. Rigid. Stiff puppets. You get the idea,' Billy said, smiling. 'Sometimes I wish I were back in Newfoundland. Have my own shed to drink in. Maybe get a dog.'

'Save some money and do it. You've got family back home, right? Your mother. Siblings. Someone'll shelter your drunk ass. You could even play music again.'

Billy shook his head. 'Stupid of me to bring it up. I can't leave. I'd never see my daughter.'

The look on his face collapsed inward. He took a swig from a tall cylindrical container-the kind meant for coffee. His held vodka. He twisted the lid, poured a fresh shot, topped it with water and a squirt of artificial flavouring. Had an hour passed? Time would tell.

The day was being swept away.

They drove between the blinking dots of white and the solid strip of yellow. Tree shadows formed a thick wavering mass that spilled onto the asphalt, reaching to consume them. He pressed the pedal down. He wanted the truck beyond the trees before the shadows caught it. The white dots turned solid. The engine roared, jostling the truck-shaking them.

Billy's drink sloshed like tidewater.

Billy raised it again. His hand snaked upward and emptied the liquid into his body. Ten minutes? They crested above the land. The engine settled into a purr.

The sun was cut in half. It's light painted the clouds pink, orange, pastel purple. Over the white dots the sky glowed yellowish-orange, yellow-ochre, fading into azure. Over the solid yellow line it darkened-navy sinking into black.

'Awfully romantic, isn't it?' Billy said, pouring another, 'Come here. Let's have a smooch.'

'Honestly,' he said. 'I'd rather smooch Mark than you.'

'Alien jizzum? That hurts. Hurts deep,'

'I'm sleeping on his mattress now. That's real affection.'

'Sleeping on his mattress? Why the hell you doing that?'

'When I kicked him out, he left it behind. He had the company he bought it from come pick it up. He said he got a full refund because it was only a month old. I swapped my mattress into the box. They never checked. Took it straight to the warehouse.' he smiled. 'Thousand-dollar mattress. Score.'

'And he still got the refund?'

'As far as I know. I wonder what they thought when they opened it up. My old mattress was my grandfather's. Twenty years old. Torn up thing. Stains everywhere.'

'So many come and go. Maybe they never noticed.'

'Mattresses and people too. I thought about how many roommates I've had. Twelve. Bought that house just short of two years ago.'

'My favourite was the car detailer who had been shot in the neck.'

'I'll never forget tattooing him. Yelling at me-'PUSH HARDER!'-as he choked back opioids. He was the only one who frightened me. Always locking himself in his room with a girl and a bunch of drugs for the weekend.'

'He was fun to drink with.'

'He had nothing to lose.'

'We all have nothing to lose. He just ran out of hope. Running out of hope is a good thing.'

'You sound like a philosopher. A drunk one.'

'I am the Drunk One. '

'Where do you store your knowledge? Oh Drunk One.'

Billy lifted the bottle, pointing to it with menacing eyes and a wide grin. He would continue to spend his free time on the lake, on the dock, at the bar. Fishing. Chasing women. Playing guitar. Hollering. Singing.

Billy poured another one.

'When we get to site,' he said. 'Pour me one too, oh Drunk one.'