Part 33 (1/2)

”We must argue there are better places in the city for a veterinary centre. The buffalo head house must be here.” Rajinder pointed out the window at 10 Garneau. ”In this neighbourhood.”

Raymond walked to the window and looked out over the falling snow, illuminated by the street lamps. ”It needs a better name than the buffalo head house.”

”I met a guy the other night called The Goo,” said Jonas.

”We can't call it The Goo.” Raymond turned and regarded his two friends in their chairs. ”It needs to sound inevitable. It needs to sound as though it has existed for all time.”

”It's only a buffalo head house with a bunch of we-don't-know-yet inside,” said Jonas. ”So it needs a cool name.”

”At one time, this area was a rolling sea of buffalo.” Raymond tapped his bottom lip with the neck of his beer bottle. ”To have killed them all: this is the very essence of us. We are capable of philosophy and love and science yet...yet we rape and destroy. The end of buffalo, the life of Benjamin Perlitz, this is us.”

Rajinder paced the room with Raymond. ”What do the Aboriginal people call their chief deity?”

”Manitou?” said Jonas. ”But we can't call it Manitou, the G.o.d of all that is good. The guy who plays Manitou in the soaps is an illiterate little dope fiend. After a show he smells like the plastic wrap wieners come in. You know, that wiener juice?”

”The great spirit.” Raymond put his hand on Rajinder's shoulder. ”We can call it The Great Spirit. That way it's native-y and not-native-y all at once, urban and rural, churchy and secular. The Great Spirit says everything.”

”Yes,” said Rajinder.

They turned to Jonas. He paced a bit himself, and joined the other two men in the centre of the room. ”The Great Spirit.” A truck commercial featuring splashed mud and busty young women in cut-off jeans blasted country music on the television. Jonas watched the commercial for a moment, scowled, and turned to Raymond and Rajinder. ”I hate everything, and I don't hate it.”

Raymond pulled a small notepad out of his pocket and wrote: THE GREAT SPIRIT.

10 GARNEAU.

EDMONTON, ALBERTA.

CANADA.

80.

carlos's last stand Jonas and Rajinder and Raymond celebrated their revelation. After drinking several beers each, it seemed important they retire to Rajinder's backyard and frolic in the new snow. Jonas could not remember who suggested it, but at some point they drew a squared circle and engaged in a wrestling tournament with no hitting or kicking.

Fifteen seconds into the opening bout between Raymond and Rajinder, the professor called uncle and proceeded to his bedroom at the Weisses' with what he called ”a severely kinked neck.”

Before he left, Raymond kissed both men on the mouth.

Raymond's sloppy kiss reminded Jonas that he was a failure with no romantic prospects. So instead of burdening Rajinder with a weepy tale of misfortune, he wiped the snow off the young Indian man and took the long way home.

Snow was romantic in a different way than rain. On a windless night with the temperature hovering around zero, after seven to nine bottles of Dutch beer, light snow and mature trees helped Jonas feel bigger than himself. In his twenties, he had often felt this way, humming, with an irresistible sort of energy.

At his best, on stage, he knew the audience plugged into this energy. Jonas also recognized, in moments of pure honesty, that his transistor was fading. New kids coming out of the university and Grant MacEwan were upstaging him. Even when the audience didn't feel it, Jonas did. And if he did not act now to get out of acting, his reliance on diminis.h.i.+ng energy would eventually destroy him.

The long way home, from Rajinder's house, was through the alley and past the closed diner, bike shop, lounge, and travel agency. A block west to Emily Murphy's house and north to Saskatchewan Drive. The cool dampness in the air, after a warm day, brought a particular kind of fragrance to the air. A smell that would soon hibernate until its stinky cousin arrived in March.

Jonas walked into campus and past the Arts Building where, as always, he stopped to admire the cla.s.sical details and wonder why the cheap fools who built this city didn't follow its model everywhere else. His careerlessness. .h.i.t him like a snort of amyl nitrate and he considered going back to school for a law degree or an MBA. That way, sometime before his death, Jonas might actually be able to afford one of the 1905 American Foursquare houses he pa.s.sed on his way back to the Garneau Block.

In the alley, Jonas greeted two cats. One of them flopped on its back, in the snow, to receive a belly rub. He entered his backyard and noticed another, much larger creature slumped on its back in front of his door. It was convenient and soulful to live in the inner city but there were compromises, including close relations with the homeless and dest.i.tute.

As long as the man wasn't trying to ruin or steal anything, Jonas would be kind. This wasn't the first time an uninvited visitor had taken advantage of his covered back patio. The man wore a parka and lay in the fetal position, his back to Jonas.

”Okay, time to get up.” Jonas walked on to the concrete patio. ”Levantate.”

Carlos rolled over and sat up and rubbed his eyes. ”What time is it?”

”Late.” Jonas sighed and leaned on a white plastic deck chair. ”Why are you sleeping in front of my door?”

”I was gonna sleep in the 'stang but then you wouldn't find me.” Carlos sniffed and hugged himself. ”Were you out at the Roost tonight?”

Jonas sensed a species of jealousy in Carlos's tone. ”No.”

”Where were you?”

”None of your business. Now get up. I'll make you some coffee and you can drive home.”

”You're drunk, Jonas. I can hear it in your voice.”

”Of course I'm drunk.” Jonas held his hand out.

Carlos took his hand and pulled Jonas in for an awkward embrace. It didn't last long. Jonas wanted to shake Carlos and shout at him, and he wanted to tell Carlos how miserable he had been since Halloween night. Most of all, Jonas just wanted to ask Carlos to stay with him.

Instead, Jonas said nothing.

”You don't miss me?”

”I can't.”

Carlos stepped away from Jonas. ”You can't miss me or you can't be with me?”

”I just can't.”

”Why? Because I'm not gay enough?”

Jonas wanted to lift one of the terra cotta tomato planters and smash it on the concrete. If he opened his mouth, he knew what he would say. So again, despite his drunkenness, he stayed quiet.

”I love you.”

”No you don't.”

Carlos made two fists and growled. ”Why do all you people have to be like this? Why does it have to be politics? Why can't it just be?”