Writings / Fiction: David Tasker

Pages: 1 2

Spread the love

We Are All Scarred

 

I stood outside the concert hall, leaning against the brick wall and listening to the local band inside playing some punk rock version of Mmmmm Bop made famous by that goddamn pop group Hanson.  The band was off beat and the singer was mediocre, but Craig seemed to really like them and he had made me come along.  He was inside somewhere, probably in the mosh pit bouncing off other sweaty guys and trying to show his dominance.  I had stood at the back for a few songs, but after four beers and two Librium I had become uninterested in the music and had desperately needed a cigarette and to get away from the deafening subwoofers.

I took a long drag and chased it with two big gulps of beer.

“Hey how’s the show in there?” someone asked me.

I looked over and saw a petite girl dressed all in black sitting on a patio that belonged to the bistro next door.

I told her that the band was impressive and took another drag of my cigarette.  I noticed that she had a spiked collar around her neck and black nail polish and lipstick.  I also noticed that sitting beside her was a dark skinned man about my age, his left arm was around her, a half-finished pint glass was in front of him.  He was wearing a tight Billabong shirt and had a middle aged man’s haircut, short and parted at the side.

“I can hear them from here, and I like the sound,” she said.  She had a European accent, I think, probably somewhere from the east, but I couldn’t quite place it.  Truth be told, I probably hadn’t heard of the country anyway.  I was never particularly good at geography.

I told her they were pretty tight, but that I just needed some air.

The man said something into her ear, but she chose to ignore it and asked me if I’d like to share a pitcher with them.  The man’s eyes narrowed and he was looking at me disapprovingly.

Had it not been for that look, I probably would have declined and went back into the concert, but he was looking like he really didn’t want me there, and she was looking like she did.

It had the potential to be more entertaining than the band.

I told her that I’m partial to beer and also had a rubber arm.  She smiled, the man didn’t, and I poured the rest of my beer down my throat, dropped my cigarette into the bottle, placed it on the ground and staggered over to where the couple was seated.

I practically collapsed into the chair, nearly falling over sideway, but caught and righted myself clumsily.

“Had a few beers already?” the man asked.

“Yeah, but I’m always this clumsy,” I replied.  “A bull in a dish shop or whatever.”

A waitress brought an empty pint glass and another pitcher out and placed them in the center of the table.  I wondered how she knew to bring them and then realized the woman sitting across from me must have ordered them when I wasn’t paying attention.  My hands immediately shot out to the jug and pint glass and I filled my glass and then topped up the man’s glass and his assumed girlfriend’s as well.  The girl smiled at me, and the man muttered his thanks.

“So are you from around here?” The man asked, taking a small sip of beer.  I was enjoying his wariness.

“I am actually,” I replied, leaning forward as I spoke.  The girl was fingering her spiked collar and was looking intently at me.  “I grew up in this city, born and raised.  I don’t mind it, but I haven’t been anywhere else so I suppose I may just not know what I’m missing.  But we get a lot of immigrants coming here so I guess it’s gotta be better than a lot of places, you know?”

The man nodded, the girl continued to smile.

“I’m from Pakistan,” he said.  “We just got here two weeks ago.”  He put his arm around her.  She looked uncomfortable.

“Pakistan, huh?”  I said.  I paused and everyone took a sip.  “My name is John,” I said, extending my hand.  “Welcome to my city.”  He shook it and saying that his name was Ramesh and that he was happy to be there.

“My name is Karen, and I love this city of yours,” she said, also shaking my hand, although she shook it for longer than Ramesh did.  Her thick accent and the alcohol and Librium swimming through my head made it difficult to understand. “It is very big and very busy though.”  Her accent was also little bit irritating, and I took another huge gulp of beer.  I noticed that I had already gone through half of my glass.

“Yeah, but you get used to all that.  I kind of drown the noise out now.  And the people aren’t so bad but you do have to elbow your way through the crowds sometimes, especially during rush hour and on the subway.  Well, its called rush hour but it should be called rush three hour here.”  Karen and I laughed in earnest, Ramesh laughed politely.

I could hear the band now starting a cover of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.”  It sounded much better with distorted guitars, and I said this to Ramesh and Karen.

“Who’s Celine Dion?” Ramesh asked.

“Some French Canadian singer,” I replied, and then sighed.  “Never mind.”

“Ok.”  He looked at the street.

“Where are you from?”  I asked Karen.  I took another gulp, realized that my glass was empty, and proceeded to fill up the pint glass with more of their pitcher.  Ramesh turned back and watching me while I did this, and I smiled at him.

“I’m from Czech Republic,” she said, her bright blue eyes staring at me intently.  I shifted in my chair, her gaze making me feel slightly uneasy for a moment.  Taking another long sip from my pint glass, I felt better.

“Oh, the Czech Republic.  I hear it’s nice there.  I’ve never been over to Europe though.  Did you two meet here?”

“No no no, we met about six months ago,” Ramesh said, removing his arm from around her shoulder.  His accent was thick as well, but in a slobbery sort of way like he had just been shot up with too much Novocain, and I had to lean in farther at times to understand him.  The noise from the concert hall made it even harder.

…every night in my dreams, I see you, I feeeeeeel you…”

“Yes, we meet six months ago,” she confirmed, and reached out for her pint glass.  As she did so, the sleeve of her shirt was pulled back slightly, exposing her wrist, and I noticed deep red scars lining it, the red contrasting immensely with her pale, pasty white skin.  She noticed me looking at it, and immediately pulled her sleeve back over it.  I smirked at how cliché she was; the black hair, the black lipstick, black clothes, spiked collar, a cutter.  I was sure that if I saw her bedroom Marilyn Manson posters would cover the painted black walls.  I then put what they had both said together, and was confused as I processed the information.

“Wait, wait.  You’re from Pakistan, and you’re from the Czech of Republic.”

“No, just Czech Republic.”

“What?”

“You said Czech of Republic.  It’s just Czech Republic.”

Ramesh laughed lightly.

“What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know.”  She looked somewhat confused.

“Oh, ok whatever. Well you’re both from different parts of the world.  What brings you together?  I mean, how the hell did you two meet?”

They looked at each other.

Karen said they had met over the internet, and that they had been dating online for six months before coming to Canada and getting married and settling into a place together.

I was taking another sip of beer when she said this (my glass was almost empty again) and almost sprayed it across the table.  I choked it down my throat and then threw my head back and laughed.  The merits of the internet were endless it seemed.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not something you hear everyday,” I said after I could control myself.

She said she understood, and reminded me that my glass was empty.  I thanked her for pointing that out and filled it again, emptying their pitcher.  I asked her if she was going to be getting another one, and she said yes.  Ramesh turned to her and said no, but she ignored him and again told me yes.  I said that was great, and when the waitress came out to retrieve the empty pitcher I ordered the next one.  It was put in the center of the table a few moments later, and I pulled out a cigarette.

“So you two met on the internet and did the whole internet dating thing and all that,” I said. “Why did you come to Canada?”  I took a long drag from my cigarette.

“Karen didn’t want to come to Pakistan and I didn’t want to go to the Czech Republic,” Ramesh explained.  “We both wanted to see Canada and here we could get married and get a place together.  It’s working out very well.”

“I will be going home in few months,” Karen said pointedly, causing Ramesh to glance at her.  “I miss family.”

I told her that the whole point of getting married was that you start a new family, and she smiled at this and said that she liked her old one.  Ramesh told her that she should listen to me, and that she had a new family now, but she ignored him and continued to smile at me.  I finished my cigarette and dropped it on the patio stones, not bothering to put it out with my foot.

“You have a beautiful wife here, Ramesh, congratulations,” I said.  My speech was starting to slur, and the gothic Karen, with her slightly sunken eyes that showed a slight depression and desperation, lit up.  Her smile also widened, showing me more of her imperfect teeth.

Ramesh thanked me, and tried to put his arm around Karen again, but this time she shrugged him off.

I finished my pint and Karen filled it again, also topping her own up, although she had barely gotten through half of her original glass.  Ramesh picked his glass up and waved it in front of her, but she put the pitcher back on the table, and I caught a glimpse of hurt on Ramesh’s face.  She continued to look at me, he looked at her, and I looked from her to him, from him to her.

Pages: 1 2

One Response to “Writings / Fiction: David Tasker”

Read below or add a comment...

  1. Lynn says:

    Great job. This story kept me wanting more. The tempo was wonderful and I couldn’t wait until the ending.

Leave A Comment...

*