Page 6 of Mann Hunt
Charlie nodded.
“Then stop wasting your valuable time with an old lady, and get moving. Go find your own Constable Winslow. I dare you.”
Charlie popped up onto his feet. “Love you, Gran.”
He bent down and gave her another kiss on the cheek. He turned to leave when she interrupted.
“Oh, here. I have something for you.”
Charlie turned. Her hand was extended towards him. She held up two twenty-dollar bills.
“Gran…” he said, reprovingly.
“Go on. Buy yourself and the constable a pint on me.”
“I don’t drink anything that expensive.”
“Maybehedoes. Now go.”
She shooed him out like a fly, both of them laughing.
* * * *
Charlie wandered down 17thAvenue with his closest friend, Carrie Wallace. They had met in Charlie’s second-year Introduction to Social Psychology course and soon become inseparable. Carrie was the only person, other than Gran, who knew for certain that Charlie was gay. She was sympathetic to his frustration with living back at home and had taken him out to try and drown his sorrows.
They had started at the Crown and Anchor Pub with a few pints and bar-hopped their way to the bright red and blue neon sign of the Wild Rose Saloon. They’d snuck in through an exit to the tent set up for the throngs of tourists in for the Calgary Stampede known best for its world-famous rodeo. After several shooters, they were feeling no pain. Carrie clutched Charlie’s arm as if she were trying to stop him from floating away.
“I think I gotta call it quits,” she said. “When the patio lights get this swirly, it’s time to go home.”
“Noooo,” Charlie sang out. “One more drink. Pleeeeeease,” he begged.
“I am way too drunk. Thank God I’m working the evening shit tomorrow.”
Charlie burst out laughing. “Haaaaaa—you said shit.”
“I did not!”
“You did too! You did, you did, you did.”
“Oh shut up,” Carrie countered, then gave him a big, sloppy, tongue-filled kiss, which Charlie returned in kind.
“You know what I love about you?” Charlie slurred as he held her.
“Is it my beautiful wavy black hair? My perfect nose? My copper-coloured eyes? How about my luscious lips?”
“All of those, but what I really love is that you tolerate me,” Charlie replied. “We’re perfect for each other… If only you were a guy.”
“Can’t help you there, sweet man. Anyway, I’m grabbing an Uber, which I will hopefully not vomit in on the way home. One more of those and I’m banned for life.” She thought for a moment. “Can you imagine? I’d have to lower myself to taking cabs like the other puking drunks?” She grabbed his face and kissed it again. “Look what’s become of me!”
“You look great to me, my love. Now, you take your magic carpet ride home. I’ve got one more stop before I return to prison.”
They stepped out onto the street and Charlie waited with Carrie until her ride showed up. He walked a few blocks then hailed a cab, giving the driver instructions to get to his last stop of the night.
Ten minutes later, Charlie got out of his cab and stepped into Bar-None. He admired the huge space with its wooden floors, polished over the years by many feet and grit from the streets—wood that was washed cleaner, but not entirely clean, by some poor, nameless staffer, who everybody called the Kid. Thename was more of a job title than an epithet—sometimes it was a young, muscled blond, sometimes a young skinny brunette. He was responsible for maintaining some level of cleanliness in order to keep the health board happy. The clients didn’t care. Today’s Kid, a short, shaved-headed tough, walked by Charlie and headed towards the toilets with a box of urinal cakes and the ubiquitous pail filled with bleach and water. Without looking back, the Kid shouted a general announcement, “Toilets are being washed in a minute. Use ‘em now or forever hold your pees.” The Kid laughed at his own joke. Two guys at the bar did the math in their heads, then, just to be safe, slid off their stools and headed off to relieve their bladders.
Charlie had only been here a few times before. He found a seat at the bar, recognising the bartender on duty. His name was Mickey. Charlie loved his short black, textured hair with rainbow highlights. He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt, open to the waist showing off his hairy muscular chest, and tight jeans that left nothing to the imagination.
“Hey, Mickey, how’s it going?”
