She met a man in a staircase. They went out for two years. He’s a philosopher now. Earl Quigley knows him. He asked her to marry him. He had met her parents. But she said no.
Alex: I dont know why now, and I regret it. But at the same time I wonder.
I drive her back to her place on Duckworth. On the way I stop at Lydia’s and point out her house. All the windows are dark. It’s about midnight.
She’s working late, I say.
I shift from first to second and accidentally touch her knee. Alex’s knee doesnt flinch.
21 I tell Lydia of Alex’s idea. Of taking pictures of men, concentrating, as they play pool. As part of the passion exhibit.
I’m speaking into the pillow. I’ve decided I have to tell her this.
You crop the photo so you dont know theyre shooting pool. Youre left with the concentration.
Lydia: Concentration brings a peculiar look to the face.
Me: A lot of my memories of my father are in acts of concentration.
It’s like lovemaking.
Well. That’s not what I think of when I think of my father. I think Alex telling you this is a bit like lovemaking.
It’s intimate. But it’s art.
22 I rent Raging Bull. I’m walking along Gower Street at 10 p.m. Three kids, fifteen years old, start yelling.
Beat the fucking shit out of ya!
A dirty snowball hits a light pole ahead of me. I cross the street, pass them. Another snowball whizzes by my head. I stop and stick the video in my jeans. Turn. I point to one of them.
He says, Are you giving me the finger?
They wonder if I speak English, because I havent spoken. One walks close, yelling like a mongrel, and I grab him at the collar, take him down and feel like smacking him. I have a knee to his chest. I’m surprised I’ve managed to catch him, like swatting a fly with one hand. The other two scream. Four more boys run up, bigger shapes. Some as tall as me. I back off and I see they have hockey sticks. But theyre in silhouette. I decide to boot it out of there. And they, of course, run after me. Running is a bad idea, I realize. Running obliges them to catch me. I turn to see about three eighteen-year-old boys with the younger pack behind them. They doggedly run after me along Gower. I run past Lydia’s (they’ll just beat out the windows) and jog up Garrison Hill. They are shouting for me to hold up. I continue west along Harvey Road. And make a stand under a streetlight by the Big R. If I’m going to be beaten up it will be in the light, the police station just across the road. They surround me, catching their breath, bent over, hands on knees.
We just want to know, the biggest boy says, what happened.
I tell them, my throat burning for air: Throwing snowballs, verbal threats, I live in the neighbourhood. I took one down. Big boy: That’s okay. We’ll take care of things.
I say, Youre a good feller.
They walk back. My throat raw from the run, exhausted. I can barely laugh at my own panic. The adrenaline still hot in my skin. I walk down Long’s Hill, past Gower Street United, and wait in the shadows. The boys are slow returning, as if changing their minds. They pick at potholes with the hockey sticks. I walk briskly to Lydia’s, but her door’s locked. I dont have a goddamn key. She’s on the phone. She stretches the phone cord into the porch to open the door, and I rush past her. I drink water in the bathroom and try to tell her what happened. She says, You should have pounded them.
But they were fifteen years old.
So what?
They’d have me up on charges.