stopped at the liquor store and bought a case of Lucky Lager and a bottle of Alberta rye. After the fourth beer the hollow stare in Gloria’s eyes as she turned away from Ralphie’s photograph had started to fade. After a few more, chased by shots of rye, it was almost gone, and his crushing sense of inadequacy and helplessness had been replaced by a familiar and comforting numbness.
He woke the next morning lying on the kitchen floor, his shirt soaked with spilled beer, the overturned rye bottle lying beside him. He staggered upstairs to the bedroom. As he peeled off the filthy shirt he felt something solid in the pocket. He reached in, pulled out a business card, and stared at it blearily:
Rebecca Hanon, M.Sw.
Community Development Services BC
Community Support Officer
Underneath was an address and phone number.
He tossed the card on the dresser beside him, set the alarm – two hours in the future, and collapsed on the bed.
It was the same dream. He stood in the vacant lot near the street lamp. Again a figure stepped out from behind a dumpster, holding something in its right hand. Again Frank reached for his gun, but was paralyzed. Again the figure approached and again Frank knew who it was. The face pushed out of the shadows, which stretched over its contours like black shrink-wrap. The blackened lips twisted into an insane leer.
“We’re going to play the crazy game. I’ve got a present for you…” the lips sang.
Before Frank could respond the figure flung something large and round at his chest. Instinctively he reached out and caught it with both hands. It was slimy, hairy and warm. His hands were still masked in shadow. He dropped it to the ground and it landed with a wet thud. His breath accelerated as the object rolled slowly toward the light.
A clattering bell demolished the scene. He swatted at the alarm clock and it was silent. He sat shaking for several minutes, then swiveled around, put his feet on the floor, and tried to stand. His legs gave out. He lost his balance, staggered sideways, and bashed his knee against the dresser.
“Shit!” he yelled, rubbing his kneecap. Suddenly he felt sick. He stumbled toward the bathroom, again lost his balance and fell to the floor. It was too late – he threw up on the bedroom carpet. Rising shakily to his knees, he put his head in his hands. His mouth tasted of acid and metal; a throbbing ache jackhammered the inside of his skull.
He turned and peered into the mirror over the dresser. Only his head and shoulders were visible. Squirming floaters swam across his line of sight as he blinked at his reflection: his hair caked with dried beer, his face lined, drawn, and clouded with stubble, the corners of his mouth specked with vomit.
He glanced at the dresser. The business card Gloria had given him lay there upside down . He staggered to his feet and stuffed the card in his wallet.
Rebecca Hanon
After two aborted attempts and two panicked retreats back outside for a smoke, Frank dragged himself for a third time down the brightly lit hallway of an aging brick building in Yaletown. The hard polished floor reminded him of a hospital corridor. The meshed glass in the windows reminded him of a prison.
His stomach churned as he opened a door marked Community Development Services BC and stepped inside. The reception area was furnished with institutional-looking couches and a metal and glass coffee table strewn with aging psychology magazines. To his relief, nobody was waiting.
Behind the receptionist’s desk sat a cute blonde with glasses, studded nails, and lots of rings on her fingers.
“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.
“I want to speak to Rebecca Hanon.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
He felt himself blush. He wanted a cigarette. “The name’s Langer,” he said. “I’m sort of a friend of her sister Gloria.”
The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom and talked to somebody at the
He woke the next morning lying on the kitchen floor, his shirt soaked with spilled beer, the overturned rye bottle lying beside him. He staggered upstairs to the bedroom. As he peeled off the filthy shirt he felt something solid in the pocket. He reached in, pulled out a business card, and stared at it blearily:
Rebecca Hanon, M.Sw.
Community Development Services BC
Community Support Officer
Underneath was an address and phone number.
He tossed the card on the dresser beside him, set the alarm – two hours in the future, and collapsed on the bed.
It was the same dream. He stood in the vacant lot near the street lamp. Again a figure stepped out from behind a dumpster, holding something in its right hand. Again Frank reached for his gun, but was paralyzed. Again the figure approached and again Frank knew who it was. The face pushed out of the shadows, which stretched over its contours like black shrink-wrap. The blackened lips twisted into an insane leer.
“We’re going to play the crazy game. I’ve got a present for you…” the lips sang.
Before Frank could respond the figure flung something large and round at his chest. Instinctively he reached out and caught it with both hands. It was slimy, hairy and warm. His hands were still masked in shadow. He dropped it to the ground and it landed with a wet thud. His breath accelerated as the object rolled slowly toward the light.
A clattering bell demolished the scene. He swatted at the alarm clock and it was silent. He sat shaking for several minutes, then swiveled around, put his feet on the floor, and tried to stand. His legs gave out. He lost his balance, staggered sideways, and bashed his knee against the dresser.
“Shit!” he yelled, rubbing his kneecap. Suddenly he felt sick. He stumbled toward the bathroom, again lost his balance and fell to the floor. It was too late – he threw up on the bedroom carpet. Rising shakily to his knees, he put his head in his hands. His mouth tasted of acid and metal; a throbbing ache jackhammered the inside of his skull.
He turned and peered into the mirror over the dresser. Only his head and shoulders were visible. Squirming floaters swam across his line of sight as he blinked at his reflection: his hair caked with dried beer, his face lined, drawn, and clouded with stubble, the corners of his mouth specked with vomit.
He glanced at the dresser. The business card Gloria had given him lay there upside down . He staggered to his feet and stuffed the card in his wallet.
Rebecca Hanon
After two aborted attempts and two panicked retreats back outside for a smoke, Frank dragged himself for a third time down the brightly lit hallway of an aging brick building in Yaletown. The hard polished floor reminded him of a hospital corridor. The meshed glass in the windows reminded him of a prison.
His stomach churned as he opened a door marked Community Development Services BC and stepped inside. The reception area was furnished with institutional-looking couches and a metal and glass coffee table strewn with aging psychology magazines. To his relief, nobody was waiting.
Behind the receptionist’s desk sat a cute blonde with glasses, studded nails, and lots of rings on her fingers.
“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.
“I want to speak to Rebecca Hanon.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
He felt himself blush. He wanted a cigarette. “The name’s Langer,” he said. “I’m sort of a friend of her sister Gloria.”
The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom and talked to somebody at the
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