Forty Words for Sorrow

Unfortunately, that day had come and gone. When the St. Charles could not compete with the cut rates charged by such self-service enterprises as the Castle Inn or the Birches Motel, it converted its upper stories into small, oddly shaped apartments that now housed mostly transients and ne'er-do-wells. All that remained of the former hotel was the bar downstairs, the St. Charles Saloon, which retained nothing of its original elegance and was now the establishment where the young of Algonquin Bay learned to drink. The management wasn't overly strict about checking driver's licenses, and they served beer in enormous pitchers.

The kid, whose name was Keith London, was standing at the bar, smoking and looking around in the slightly anxious way of a stranger. The St. Charles Saloon was essentially a warehouse divided by two long tables where boisterous parties of young folk were making an enormous amount of noise. Along the walls, smaller groups of drinkers perched around tiny, disklike tables. Carved above a door beside the bar a sign, the remnant of an earlier era, said LADIES AND ESCORTS ONLY. A multicolored jukebox was blasting out Bryan Adams. Above it all hung the murky cumulus of a hundred cigarettes.

Keith London finished one beer and debated whether he should have another; that hamburger had been the only food he'd eaten since Orillia. The crowd looked as if it had passed the point where a newcomer might be welcomed. To his left a couple was discussing in harsh terms other people not present. To his right, a man stared in autistic wonder at the hockey game swirling across a silent TV screen. Keith's adventurous spirit began to wilt.

He ordered another Sleeman. If nothing interesting happened before he finished it, he'd head over to the motel the cabdriver had pointed out.

He was only about halfway through his beer when a man in a knee-length leather coat left the jukebox and came over to the bar. He shouldered his way between Keith and the couple next to him. The coat was like something you'd hide a shotgun under.

"Boring joint," he said, tipping the muzzle of his Labatt's toward the crowd.

"I don't know. They look like they're having a good time." Keith nodded toward the middle of the room from where gusts of laughter kept blowing.

"Idiots always have a good time." The man upended his beer, pressing it to his lips like a trumpet, and drained half at one go.

Keith turned away a little, feigning a sudden interest in the jukebox.

"Hockey. If you took hockey away, this country would shrivel up and die."

"It's a decent game," Keith said. "I'm not a fanatic about it, though."

"Why do Canadians do it doggy-style?" The man didn't look at Keith as he spoke.

"I don't know."

"So they can both watch the hockey game."

Keith left the bar and went into the men's room. When he was at the urinal he heard the door swing open behind him and then the creak of leather. There were several urinals available, but the man bellied up to the adjacent one. Keith washed his hands quickly and headed back to the bar; he still had more than half a beer left.

The man came back a moment later. He kept his leather-clad back to the crowd this time, and Keith had the feeling the man was staring at the back of his head in the bartender's mirror. "I think I've got stomach cancer," he said. "Something not right in there."

"That's rough," Keith said. He knew he should feel sympathy for the guy but somehow he didn't.

The music changed to some ancient Neil Young song. The man pounded the bar in time to the music, hard enough to rattle his ashtray. "I know what we could do," he said, suddenly gripping Keith's bicep. "We could go to the beach."

"Uh-uh. It must be twenty degrees out there."

"Twenty degrees, big deal. Beach is great in winter. We could buy a six-pack."

"No, thanks. I'd rather stay where it's warm."

"I was kidding," the guy said, but the grip on Keith's arm intensified. "Could take a drive out to Callander, though. Car's got a CD player. What kind of music do you like?"

"Lots of kinds."

A woman materialized out of the haze and asked Keith if she could bum a smoke. The man instantly let go of Keith's arm and turned his back. It was as if a spell had been broken.

Keith offered the woman his Player's Lights. He would never have paid her the slightest attention if she hadn't spoken to him. She was pudgy around the edges, with almost no chest. And there was something off-putting about her face. The skin was stiff and shiny from some skin disorder. It was more like a mask than a face.

"My boyfriend and I were just saying you looked interesting. Are you from out of town?"

"It's that obvious?"

"We thought you looked interesting. Come and have a beer with us. We're dying of boredom."

Now, never mind how someone looks, Keith said to himself. This is just the kind of thing you always want to happen and never does: friendly people taking an interest. He regretted his inner critique of her appearance.