The Doorman Read online

  And neither, he suspected, would Myrtle - with whom, despite his promise to Pete, he had continued to play horsie almost every night. Do you really think we should? he had asked, as she positioned herself over his penis. Oh yes, she had replied, sliding down it. Definitely yes. But that was nothing compared to this. Something about it, the solitary secrecy of it all, seemed especially shameful. What's worse, it changed the way he saw the world, stripping away the innocence of animals and replacing it with a mad lust for fornication: instead of cute or cuddly, every dog he saw was the potential partner of a bestial union and the thought both excited and appalled him. How could he continue with their nocturnal sauntering when all the while he had this vile ugliness within him?

  And so he said nothing. At first, sensing his shame, Myrtle let him be. Not discussing things had worked so far so she continued, making him dinner and talking about her day as though everything were normal. And even after he declined to play horsie that first night, claiming to be sick, she let him off, giving him time to come to terms with things. But as the days passed and he continued to avoid sex, her frustration grew and patience declined. Eventually, unable to wait any longer, she asked him what happened.

  "Nothing," he mumbled as, unable to meet her eyes, he looked down at his plate.

  Great, she thought, he's turned into Pete.

  Desperate for an answer, she called Doctor Kelsey, who was equally unenlightening. All he would say was that there had been a breakthrough and Oscar was now a fully functioning sexual being - whatever that meant. Was he gay? Myrtle thought not. She had met a lot of homosexuals in her life and he lacked their peacock sense of personal appeal. So what was it? Had he been molested? That would explain his frigidity. As well as the immaturity of his interests. A clear case of arrested development with a bit of idiocy added to the mix. A sexless simpleton. No hope there. Much as she felt sorry for him, she couldn't spend her life with a sexual invalid.

  "Your wound is getting better," she said. "Maybe it's time to go back downstairs."

  But Pete would have none of it.

  "Oh no," he said, barring the door with a banana. "Don't even think about it. You made your choice. Now live with it."

  And so she was stuck with him. Dinner, once a delight, became a chore. Nothing he said or did interested her. On the contrary, she felt bored, even irritated. Where was that charm, that boyish sense of wonder that had thrilled her so? Now he seemed like a sullen teen, a second Pete, silent and self-absorbed. One night, while watching yet another kids flick, she looked at him and wondered who he was. The distance was getting bigger.

  Not that he noticed. All he could think about was his obsession and the price he would pay for it: Hell. Although most of the people who went to Holy Tabernacle did so for the consolations of Heaven, Pastor Wilcox preferred to talk about the punishments of Hell. According to him, Hell was a vast place where people suffered horrible pain for the sin of having enjoyed themselves here on earth. At death God opened His book and if you hadn't been sufficiently miserable He sent you to Hell where you got to make up for it by being speared and flayed and boiled and burned until the end of time, at which point you just got more of the same. Sometimes, when he saw someone having a good time, a couple kissing in a park or a smiling man on a sunny day, he would think: Oh, you'll pay for that. Just you wait and see. And, whatever his worries, the thought always cheered him up.

  It got to the point where Oscar couldn't wait for Myrtle to leave so he could go back to his fantasies. Once, in a shop, he saw a copy of Dog Fancier and knew he had to have it so he rummaged through the house until he found enough money to buy a copy, which he kept carefully concealed in a plastic bag under his bed. The other problem was tissues: having used them all, he resorted to toilet paper, which caused Myrtle to wonder if he really was sick. Every time it was the same: the rapid onrush of desire, the wallowing in sick fantasy, the desperate pulling of his penis, the explosion of pleasure and the collapse of remorse. I'll never do it again, he'd say, determined to rise above his desires but soon succumbed.

  This went on for about a week until one morning, having forgotten something, Myrtle returned home and heard some strange noises coming from Oscar's bedroom. He isn't, she thought and crept up the stairs. But there he was, lying in bed with a magazine and pulling on his penis with a mad hunger that strained his face. Furious, she burst into the room and slapped the magazine from his hand.

  "I don't believe it," she said. "After all I've done for you!"

  "Sorry," Oscar answered, deeply ashamed.

  "What is this?" she asked, picking up the magazine.

  "Nothing. Just..."

  "Dog Fancier? You want to have sex with animals?"

  "No, no, it's just-"

  "Just what?" she asked, throwing the magazine at him.

  "I like-"

  "What?" she asked. "This?"

  Myrtle dropped to the floor, aimed her butt at him and shook it suggestively.

  "This? Is this what you want?"

  A lock of hair fell onto her face as she looked over her shoulder and snarled.

  Tremendously excited, Oscar leapt off the bed and onto her back, tearing at her panties with one hand while grabbing her waist with the other. Myrtle moaned as he shoved it in and they fucked hard, barking and yelping and snarling. A sudden inevitability closed in on him and he exploded inside her, straining to go as far and deep as possible. Finished, he fell forward, pushing her down and trapping her beneath his fat. Despite the discomfort, Myrtle smiled, her nerves tingling with unfinished glee. What a great way to begin the day.

  *

  Did they get a dog? Pete wondered. It sure sounded like it. Maybe more than one. Typical. All those years he had begged for a pet and she said no. Too much work, she claimed. You'll never do it. And now, for some guy she hardly knew, she got one.

  What's worse, he was hungry. Last night, too drunk to think, he had forgotten to stockpile some food and so, was starving. If only they would go out. Or to bed.

  After a while the sounds ceased. Probably took it for a walk, he thought, and crept up the stairs. Hearing nothing, he opened the door and tiptoed into the kitchen.

  "Woof."

  Pete glanced into the living room. There, wearing nothing but a pair of matching dog collars and lapping liquid from bowls, was Oscar and his mother. Just then Oscar looked up, a rivulet of water running down his chin as his penis, fully erect, hung in the air.

  War, Pete thought. This means war.

  *

  Yes, Pastor Wilcox thought, perfect. All morning he had been searching for something to write on his placard, something short and stinging that would express just how strongly he disagreed with the government's policy of giving money to unwed mothers. Then, suddenly, it had come to him: Make Money Not Love. The cameras were sure to spot it.

  Just then there was a knock on his door.

  "Come in."

  The door opened and Oscar entered.

  "Oscar," the pastor said, breaking into a smile. "How nice to see you. Haven't seen you in church recently. Have you been sick?"

  "No," Oscar admitted. "Just busy."

  "You're never too busy for the Lord."

  "I know."

  "How can I help you?"

  Oscar told him about losing his job, getting kicked out of his apartment and moving in with Pete but neglected to mention the fight, the party or his various sexual adventures. He did, however, say he thought he had a girlfriend.

  "Girlfriend! Congratulations. Who is it? Emma?"

  "Who?"

  "You know, Emma. With the wart on her nose."

  "No, no, not her. Actually, she's not a member of the church."

  "But she's a Christian, right?"

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  "Don't know? That's the first think I'd ask. How did you meet this woman?"

  "She's Pete's mom."

  Pastor Wilcox's face suddenly darkened. "You're not..."

  Oscar hung his head in shame.

/>   "The harlot! She's seduced you!"

  "But I like her," Oscar feebly protested.

  "Of course you do. Satan made her so."

  "I thought God made everyone."

  "They take turns. God makes the good ones and Satan, the bad. Catholics and Jews and people like that."

  "But," Oscar asked, "what if it's God's plan?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "She's alone and I'm alone and Pete has no father. But together... we're a family."

  Pastor Wilcox brightened. "A Christian family."

  "But now they won't talk to each other and it's all my fault."

  "I see. Well, the answer is clear."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Marriage."

  "Marriage?"

  "Don't you see?" he asked. "That's why he's angry at you. Because you're living in sin with his mother. But if you marry her..."

  "You think so?"

  "Of course I do. Marriage is a holy thing. A sacred union of souls designed by God to destroy individuality and produce babies."

  "It's all so simple."

  "Of course it is. Difficult problems always are. All you need is faith. Now, let's pray."

  *

  "Married!" Mabel exclaimed. "You're getting married?"

  "Of course not," Myrtle replied. "He just proposed, that's all."

  "What did you say?"

  "No."

  "But why?"

  "Well for one thing, he proposed in a food court."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. One minute he's slurping his drink and the next, he's asking me to marry him. For a moment there I thought he was going to offer me an onion ring."

  "Nothing wrong with that," Mabel insisted. "So long as they ask. That way you've got them. Oral contact, you see."

  Rudy, ever romantic, had proposed midway through a car wash. At first, because of the noise, Mabel didn't notice. True, he seemed excited but she just thought he was playing his usual trick of farting while she was trapped in the car and so, smiled wearily. It was only after he offered her a beer cap with the center punched out that she realized what was happening. At the time she was so happy she simply said yes. Only later, long after the wedding, did she wonder about the timing. Maybe something about all that rushing water had put him in the mood for a honeymoon, reminding him as it always did of Niagara Falls.

  "I thought you liked him."

  "I do."

  "Then what's the problem."

  "He did it for the wrong reason."

  "There's no bad reason to get married. They're all good. Even if it is to the wrong guy. Better miserable than alone."

  "His pastor told him to."

  "So?" Mabel asked. "What's wrong with that? That's the good side of religion. Forcing everyone to get married. The rest of it, all that stuff about God and sin and Jesus died so you can eat pie on Sunday, I can live without."

  "I want it to be for love."

  "Love?" Mabel asked. "At our age? Besides, love and marriage are totally different. Like chocolate and cheese."

  "Chalk," Myrtle corrected.

  "Nonsense," Mabel replied. "Who eats chalk?"

  Myrtle sighed. "Things were going so well. Why ruin it by getting married?"

  "Ruin it? Isn't that the point? To make men marry us so we can resent them for it?"

  "I just want to be happy."

  "That's your problem. Always trying to be happy. The world would be a much better place if everyone just gave up trying to be happy and enjoyed themselves."

  "You may be right."

  "Of course I am. So, what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know."

  *

  Why, Pete wondered, can you never find a bum when you need one?

  In his hands was a jar of change, most of it pennies, which he shifted about like a fat baby. He finally saw one, a bulky guy in torn jeans whose dirty hat sat atop a furball face.

  "Hey," he asked, "wanna make some easy money?"

  *

  Oscar was puzzled. Why didn't Myrtle want to get married? According to Pastor Wilcox, that was all they thought of. A woman's head is an empty thing, he explained, which nature fills with thoughts of marriage and babies. Feminism, and here the good pastor looked like he had swallowed a rotten pickle, was simply the curdling of such desires: fertility deferred or, worse, denied, poisoned the soul and was the real cause of such ridiculous demands as the right to work or do with their bodies as they pleased. As they pleased! Like getting drunk and having sex with strangers was in any way acceptable! No, the best way to keep a woman docile was to get her pregnant.

  Well, he was certainly trying, although not intentionally. That they were having sex outside of marriage was of course a sin but one that could be neatly tidied up with a lifetime commitment. But, for some reason, Myrtle was reluctant to pledge herself to him.

  Why, she asked, can't we just enjoy ourselves?

  So Oscar explained that life was bad and we must all prepare ourselves for the next world by being as miserable as possible in this one.

  That's ridiculous, Myrtle responded. Life is all we have.

  Pete was equally obstinate. Oscar had gone to him to ask for his permission, thinking that that would solve everything, and was surprised to see him become even more hostile.

  Fuck you! he said. You're not my dad. And never will be!

  Just then the phone rang.

  "Freeland."

  "Yes?"

  "We've got your dog."

  "Barkie?"

  "That's right. Now listen closely."

  *

  "Dognappers?" Myrtle asked. "You've got to be kidding."

  But he wasn't. On the contrary, he was extremely earnest and no amount of argument could convince him otherwise.

  "Why you?"

  "Because I'm the president of his fan club."

  "In Kastasoon."

  "We have some very enthusiastic members."

  "One in particular. Besides, you have no money."

  "I'll get some."

  "Why only a thousand? Isn't he worth more than that?"

  "A lot more!"

  "Don't you see?"

  "What?"

  "It's a joke."

  "A joke?"

  "Pete is playing a prank on you."

  "But why?"

  "Because he's angry. About us."

  "It wasn't Pete."

  "How do you know?"

  "It wasn't his voice."

  "Someone else then. A friend maybe."

  "He doesn't have any friends."

  "Some drunk in a bar then."

  "You don't know. You're not in the business."

  "Neither are you."

  "I was!"

  "No you weren't," Myrtle snapped. "You were just the doorman of a shabby little theatre that went bankrupt."

  Oscar was shocked.

  "How can you say that?"

  "I'm sorry Oscar but it's true."

  *

  "So," Jimmy said, waving his knife in the air, "you wanna borrow some money."

  "Yes," Oscar answered.

  "How much?" he asked, slicing off a piece of ham.

  "A thousand dollars."

  "You like the horses?"

  "What?"

  "You know," he said, popping the meat into his mouth, "the horses. Gambling."

  "Certainly not!"

  "Well, I just ask. Tony."

  "Yeah boss?"

  Jimmy pointed his knife at Oscar. "Give him his money."

  Tony pulled out a big wad of bills, peeled off ten hundreds and gave them to Oscar.

  "Ten percent," Jimmy said. "A week. Don't forget."

  "I won't."

  "Better not."

  *

  Oscar followed the instructions exactly. He put the money in a paper bag and left it beside the bench. Minutes later Pete walked up and collected the bag. He wasn't nervous. He knew Oscar wouldn't call the police or hang around to watch. Besides, he could always just say it was a joke since he hadn't a
ctually kidnapped Barkie. Truth was, he wasn't even expecting any money and half thought there might be a sandwich inside instead. The whole point was to create conflict between Oscar and his mom. That he had actually managed to raise the money was a disturbing surprise. Now he was nervous and hurriedly left the park.

  *

  When Myrtle came home that evening she expected to find Oscar still sulking about the slight and her refusal to pay Barkie's ransom but, to her relief, he didn't seem to bear her any ill will at all. On the contrary, he was quite cheerful. Not only that: he made her dinner. Admittedly, it was just macaroni and cheese with a few mangled hotdogs tossed in for colour but she happily took it for the peace offering she believed it to be.

  The following days brought more good news as Oscar got a part-time job at Pet Purfect where, as he put it, I get to clean cages and everything. To celebrate, Myrtle took him to her favourite restaurant for dinner where Oscar was amazed to discover that food could come in courses, with one dish following another rather than all at once on a plastic tray.

  Even Pete was less of a problem since he never seemed to be home.

  Maybe he's got a girlfriend, Myrtle thought, and wondered what kind of woman would go for him. Someone antisocial no doubt, with ripped clothes and jagged jewelry who, like him, enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and sneering at the world. Misery loves company but contempt is a close second.

  The only problem was Oscar's insistence they get married. Myrtle understood: it was the nature of innocence to believe that marriage solved your problems when, in fact, it just created more. As someone who had been both married and divorced, she knew only too well how that mad rush of emotion can mutate into a lifelong hatred. No, it was better to go slow. Much better. But how to convince him of that?

  Mabel, as usual, had some inappropriate advice.

  "Just lie," she said. "Tell him you'll marry him but not now. 'Cause you're in mourning for your mom or something."

  "I don't know," Myrtle replied. "That doesn't seem right."

  "Nonsense," Mabel insisted. "The best marriages are built on lies."

  She should know. How else had she and Rudy lasted so long? She had tried, really she had, to explain why shopping gave her such a thrill and he had looked at her like she was an alien. As for him... try as she might, she could never understand why he liked getting up at four to sit in a cold hole and blast birds out of the sky. It was a guy thing, like his obsession with tools and never asking for directions. I'll figure it out, he would say, as he drove them ever deeper into confusion. Communication was a mistake because it led to arguments and frustration. It was better, much better, to just live in your own world and lie. Honesty was always the worst policy.