by Joe Davies

"And so I said to her, I said: ‘First I shall say something outrageous, perhaps even offensive, and then I shall willingly lay myself open to you. I shall be wide bare, a model of vulnerability. And from there,’ I said, ‘You must feel free to scold me as you please. I swear I won’t defend myself in the slightest. I’ll look wide-eyed and hurt, yet still somehow stoic. And then, after you've raked me over the coals for a little while you'll see a certain something about my eyes. You'll see it and suddenly you'll feel sorry for me. You'll feel so sorry that you'll have to jump my bones and bonk me silly.' And then she squawked, 'Bonk? What do mean by bonk?' And she shot me an evil look, which of course meant she knew exactly what I was saying. And I leaned forward and said, 'See what I mean? You can take the piss out of me now if you like.'"

At this Angus stops and stares at me to be sure I'm following. He needs prompting to finish, but I hate it when he thinks I'm interested. He never shuts up then.

"Come on and serve, you bloody fool," I say.

"But it didn't work. She turned all sour and wouldn't look at me for the rest of the night." Angus brings his badminton racket in front of his face like a child pretending to hide. "I was kind of drunk, anyway."

"Oh, come on," I say again, beckoning, trying to get another volley going. This is one of his tricks. If he has something you want he teases you with it, he holds you captive. And me? Well it's sad really, but I figure I'm lucky enough to have a room-mate who'll do the dishes once in a while, even if he never brings home the dish soap.

But this is a big day. The first day of Angus' new job. For some reason some interviewer figured Angus MacPherson was the one. Today he gets to boldly push a tea trolley out to the fleshy gents of the John-Bull club. Now, today, he begins his mighty ascent out of the land of the unemployed and perhaps (I dream) he'll even make it home one day with toilet paper and garbage bags in hand, perhaps a little rent. The landlady's not a bastard about it, but I hate slinking in and out to avoid the liability in her gaze.

"How's your head?" I ask, changing the subject. It works sometimes.

"Huh?"

"Your head? Okay?"

"Oh god, we're really gonna have to do something about that beam. Every goddamn day. I can't believe it." Angus raises the hand which holds the bird, sweeps it backhand over his forehead. Angus, who is six feet tall, was never meant to live in a basement apartment. Every morning he thumps his head on the beam just outside the washroom door. He barks and cusses up a storm so loud that I have to turn away, sometimes just so I can hide my evil, heartless laughter.

Suddenly the shuttle-cock is flying at me. Angus has served. I dash to make a return. We play with one dollar, second-hand rackets from the Sally-Anne and without a net. Even though we play often, we play badly. I miss the bird, and pick it up. Now I control.

***

"Shirley?"

"Shirley."

Not very far from us some rowdy rot is scrambling all over the chains of the jungle gym yelling the same word over and over. "Gully-gully-gully-gully."

"Shirley?"

"Yes. Her name is Shirley. Something wrong?"

"No," I say, "Just sounds like one of those names you make up when you need to make up a name."

Angus stares back at me a complete blank.

"Forget it," I say.

"Her name is Shirley. She's bright. She has a job. She's almost as tall as me. I was drunk. She hates me. Okay?"

"Okay." I throw up my hands. "Shirley. Sounds good."

"No. Go on. Make the most of it. My pockets are empty. My heart's broken. Does that make you happy?"

"How's your head?"

"Just serve, all right?"

"All right." And I hit the bird over to Angus in a gentle arc that's almost impossible to miss.

He slams it straight back at me. I jerk up my racket, thinking mostly of self-preservation, but I wind up deflecting the bird almost directly back to Angus, who, for some reason can't resist slamming it again, only this time so hard the rubber nose shoots off like a bullet and sails into the bushes behind me while the plastic feathers float to the ground at my feet.

***

"Watch out for the dog shit," I say.

"Where?"

"There," I say, and point to a small and oily looking black coil.

"Are we going to find this?"

"I don't know."

"Do we have another bird?"

"I don't think so. Try looking over there."

***

I walk over to him.

"We aren't going to find it, you know."

I hold it under his nose.

He stops snooping in the bushes. "Oh," he says, sort of brightening, "Goody."

"You should go get changed. Don't want to be late for your first day."

Angus holds out his hand and I give him the nose. He tucks his racket under his arm, pulls the phoney feathers from his shirt pocket and squashes the bird back together.

"One more volley," he says. "A good one. We have to get to twenty, okay?"

I shrug my shoulders as if to say 'okay'.

Behind us the kid tumbles off the jungle gym. Summer in the city. Children hollering at the top of their lungs.

***

At first I think it's just bad luck. Every time we get near twenty one of us misses, mostly Angus. Then I begin to realize it is deliberate.

"Oh, crap," I say, trying to return a wild volley from Angus after having gone back and forth about fifteen times.

"Sorry," Angus says. "Come on, we can do it. I'm not going till we hit twenty."

"It's getting late Angus. You should go."

"Come on. Serve."

"Angus."

"What?"

"You should go."

"There's still time. I won't need a shower."

I serve. Back and forth. Eight, nine, ten, gentle little swats, Angus, me, Angus, me, fourteen, fifteen, a good save by me, a harder hit by Angus, a gentle return, seventeen, eighteen, then Angus slams the bird so hard the nose comes shooting off all over again. It whizzes past my cheek. I see the feathers floating to the ground, I dive and manage to tip them with the wood of my racket.

"Twenty!" I shout.

"Doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Has to come back to me."

"Does not. I just had to hit it."

"But you didn't. You missed it."

"I tipped it with the wood."

"That's not a hit."

"Sure it is. It counts," I groan.

"Let's look for the tip."

"Angus..."

"What?

"Angus, you should go," I say a little louder than I intend.

He is about to say something but stops. I see his whole body surrender. He nods.

"Oh, well. Yup," he sighs, "Guess so."

"I'll look for it. Why don't you go and get ready."

Angus turns and leaves and for some stupid reason I start feeling guilty.

***

It takes me two minutes to find the tip of the shuttle-cock. I cross the street and head back to our apartment, hoping the landlady is out shopping or something. I open the front door and as I start to climb down the steps I hear the radio, a talk show, and then find Angus sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. I look at my watch.

"You'll be late...," I begin to say.

"I'm not going. I don't want the stinking job. It sounded good at first, just the idea of having a job, just getting one, you know? It was like this great pat on the back. But look at it. Think about it. What is it? What's it going to be? Sliding a bunch of pompous old farts a bit of strawberries and cream and saying, 'Will there be anything else, sir?' or 'Can I have your signature on that please....'"

I wait for a second then ask, "So, what'll you do?"

"I don't know, steal bikes, mug old ladies. Why should I bother being so well-behaved? There's no prize for being a good little bugger. Nothing happens when you're good. Not a thing. You become one with the fungus in some basement apartment you can't even afford. I hardly need to tell you."

Since I can't think of anything else to say I tell him that he should go anyway. I admit I am selfish, thinking of the rent, of not having to look for a new room-mate or a cheaper basement, nothing higher.

Angus shakes his head. "God, why is it...?" Angus stops, drags on his cigarette. "Why is it...?" And Angus pauses again. "I'm not even sure what I'm thinking any more. All I know is something's got to be wrong when you're always thinking something's wrong, even if nothing is."

I think about that for a moment, then say, "You'll be late."

Angus sits a moment longer, finishes his cigarette, then expels a final cloud of smoke. He stands up, shoulders hunched and refuses to look at me. He shuffles to the washroom, ducks as he enters. I hear him turn on the taps and start to scrub his face. I notice I have been squeezing the head of the shuttle-cock in my hand and put it on the table. A man on the radio says: "You can expect a beautiful summer." Another man on the radio says: "That's so good to hear." Angus slams the bathroom door so hard I almost felt sorry for the hinges.

Joe Davies is a stay at home dad and part-time catering chef. His work has appeared in Pottersfield Portfolio, Filling Station, the Wascana Review and the New Quarterly. When he was a kid it was his face on the box of Pablum.