White Flag
Nathan Dempsey / Other
Nathan's lover does not
want him to leaf the St John's Leafs for the Blackhawks
Nathan has signed a
contract with Chicago and is never coming back to Newfoundland. And really why
would he?
"How can you sleep
there? All the traffic and noise?" But Nathan has insomnia, he always has.
He spends every night awake staring at the ceiling. The lover only thinks he
can get him to sleep, Nathan is very good at pretending.
"The arie in
Newfoundland is wholesome good."
Is written along the living room wall. "The fire as sweet as any made
of wood. The Waters very rich, both salt and fresh." Spray-paint, Jesus fuck on wallpaper that will never
come off.
Dimly Nathan realizes at
the very least he is going to lose his deposit on Harold's house.
If Nathan smells anything
in his dreams it is wet paper. A cardboard box that has been left in a damp
basement, and opened up is an abandoned drowned mouse nest.
"The beach. You'd have
to miss the beach here."
Over the noise of the
shower Nathan can pretend he didn't hear the words. Of course he'd miss the
beach. What is more fun than going to the beach in the middle of winter? When
the waves at any moment could freeze into peaks.
The mouth telling him what
he will miss stills only to lick down his back and grab his cock.
"Stop unpacking my
stuff." Nathan looks at the empty box on the floor the bedroom, and at the
bed where all the sheets have been put on it. It's half a foot higher than
usual.
"Nothing gets dry ever
here, I'll have to wash everything again." He looks at the bed and climbs
onto it anyway.
"You cunt." He
adds for good measure when he feels how damp everything already is and
discovers just how wet a bed can become when a bathtub of water has been poured
it.
The bucket is right there,
in the corner of the room.
Not that anyone is here to
hear those words, but whatever they have been said. Half of the pillowcases are
gone. The ones that were not part of a set have been cut carefully in half.
There is no hot water left.
And he dreams of a long passageway filled with boxes
and everyone he opens is filled with someone else's thoughts and wants and
desires, leaving no room for his own.
"Fish and rum. One fresh, one not so fresh."
The lover stabs the air with his fork and scowls.
Nathan thinks he is in a maze, wondering around in
circles waiting for the monster to get him. And it's so much worse to be toyed
with.
'Get it over with and eat me.' He grouses out loud.
Worse than death, is he dreams he is one of the youths
sent to Crete the year before Theseus killed the Minotaur, and oh irony to die
in the trenches a day before the armistice.
"What the fuck do you want to be rich for
anyway?" Asked in a belligerent tone of voice. "What do you spend
your money on?"
"My wife." He had calmly pointed out to the
lover, who scowled and stole all the light bulbs from the hallway on his way
out the next morning.
And he thinks others thoughts have invaded his dreams.
They wave pennants to welcome home the heroes from over the sea, and it is the
week after D-Day and the battle of Britain, and the women are looking down at
the street wandering who has made it home.
"You'll miss me." But of course, and Nathan
misses him when he is here so it's safe to think he will miss him when he is gone.
Nathan would truly like to live in a world were it was all so easy.
"Chicago doesn't have Tim Horton's." Reads
the note at the bottom of the (empty) can of coffee. The box for tea is filled
with dried maple leaves and the sugar is salted though. The decafe is
untouched.
"You'll regret going." It says on the
whiteboard, and the fridge has been turned off. The light does not go one when
the door is opened.
Nathan throws the shredded tea towels into the ragbag
for recycling with the half pillowcases.
He dreams that he is in the confederate army. And on
the end of his bayonet is half a pale blue pillowcase. And that isn't surrender
so much as a target.
"Chicago doesn't have me." Traced on the
dust on the back of his car.
"It has me though." Nathan writes
underneath.
