Neighbourhood Watch

him.
‘How come you don’t have any money, Dad?’
Steve lights another cigarette.
‘Eh, Dad?’
‘ … I don’t have money because I don’t have a job.’
‘ … ’
‘The garage didn’t need me anymore.’
Kevin starts the game again.
Between puffs, Steve starts skating a little. ‘It’s too bad you weren’t at the last match. I had a couple of pretty slick holds.’
Shoot, shoot, shoot. Kevin isn’t listening.
Steve goes back to his paper, but he can’t see anything anymore.
* * *
‘Francis! Dammit. Put this back. I just put it away!’
Mélissa picks up everything off the floor and puts it on the sofa. At least it’s not on the floor anymore.
All the dishes in the sink, all the clothes in the washer, all the leftovers in the fridge, it’s all rotten, it stinks, everything stinks, Mélissa dumps everything on the floor – the food, the pots, her little brothers – she dumps them on the floor and kicks them.
* * *
Mélissa is washing the kitchen floor. On the radio, Madonna is singing ‘Like a Virgin.’ The boys are at school but she isn’t going. She’s decided. At least there are some advantages to being on your own.
The phone rings. Mélissa turns down the radio and answers.
‘Hello?’
A serious voice on the line, a voice that enunciates every syllable, a voice from a world that looks down on hers. Mélissa holds her head up and puts some gravitas into her little girl’s voice.
‘This is Mélissa.’
‘( … )’
‘Hello.’
‘( … )’
‘Not here.’
‘( … )’
‘Working.’ Mélissa makes her voice curt. ‘Yes, everything’s fine.’
‘( … )’
‘No, there’s nothing, ma’am.’
The voice on the other end insists.
‘Okay, I’ll take it down anyway.’
‘( … )’
‘Okay, thanks then.’
Mélissa hangs up. She throws out the paper where she has just written down the number of the bitch from Youth Protection. She should have said: ‘Hello? Bitch from Youth Protection? Oh, yes, my mother’s told me so much about you. No, no, nothing good, no.’ She better not show up here.
Mélissa turns up the sound, pours diluted bleach on the floor, and mops while dancing to ‘Like a Virgin.’
* * *
Steve, in the kitchen, hunched over the Journal. He is deciphering the classified ads. His thick finger runs over the small letters. Small letters that make or break a life.
He opens a beer, downs it, opens another.
His thick finger has no more traces of sludge, not even under the nail, not even in the folds of the skin. His thick finger with no personality continues its path in vain over the small letters that ask for everything he isn’t. Not meant to exist.
Downs his beer, opens another.
* * *
Kevin goes down to class. Holds the handrail because today he’s afraid of falling.
The teacher says the names of the animals in the nativity scene, in English. The ox and the donkey watch the baby.
Kevin lays his head on his desk, his cheek plastered against his Batman book. Beside him, the crazy girl is talking to herself, meaningless words. He wants to tell her to shut up. He lifts his head, looks at her: ‘Shut up,’ he tells her. Puts his head back down on the desk.
Roxane couldn’t give a shit; she can’t hear anything anymore. Snieg snieg snieg. Her eye wanders to the light from outside while the teacher places the figurines from the nativity scene under a fake Christmas tree that doesn’t smell like anything.
Other girls ended up making Mary. She’s beige, she has no smell, no boobs. Flat as a board, Mary. Eat shit, Mary.
The donkey is grey, the ox is brown, and it’s almost Christmas. Things are going really well in the remedial class.
* * *
Kathy and Kelly are clinging to each other under their soaked covers. Meg is crouched beside them. Kathy holds the joint out to her. On the TVS, time has stopped on the bands of colour that bleed onto the grey of Rue Ontario. Kathy inhales the smoke.
‘So apparently women think more about shopping than making love.’
Kelly bursts out laughing.
‘It’s true. They said so on TV. Three out of four women think about buying something, a dress or whatever, every sixty seconds. I mean, come on! I counted, that’s 960 times a day, for fuck’s sake.’
Kathy accepts the joint back from Meg. Takes a long drag.
Silence.
Meg, her voice trembling from the cold: ‘Well, I’d like to shop instead of making love.’
‘You don’t make love. Here, take some covers.’
Kelly holds out the sleeping bag, and Meg drapes it over her shoulders.
‘It’s true. You don’t make love. That’s not making love.’
‘So what am I doing then?’
‘Well, you fuck.’
Silence. Between confusion and reflection.
‘ … I make love to them.’
‘They buy you, you sell yourself, you– ’
‘I make love to them. I know what I do, for fuck’s sake. I’m the one doing it!’
‘Okay, okay. Here, have a puff.’
Meg has a puff. ‘It’s true, or else what? If I don’t make love and I don’t shop, then what the hell am I doing?’
‘Don’t cry, Meg.’
‘Yeah, don’t cry, Meg.’
* * *
Roxane and Louise are in the living room, in front of the TV. Under the spotlights, they’re deciding who to eliminate. Roxane on one sofa, Louise on another.
‘Pass the tobacco.’
‘He’s going to get booted off.’
‘Yeah, for sure.’
They roll cigarettes together. Roxane concentrates because she’s going to bring some to her father. The nicest ones, the best-rolled ones.
Outside, the yellow brigade has its equipment out: snowplows, scrapers, spreaders, loaders. All the machines are out. It’s been snowing all day, and it’s still coming down. The sidewalks are going to be a big job.
Footsteps on the stairs. It’s the stepdad coming home. A case in his hands.
Roxane looks up. At him. And her mother. Puts the half-rolled cigarette on the table. Gets up. Her mother heads her off.
‘Oh, c’mon, Roxane, relax!’
‘No, I have stuff to do. Homework.’
‘Hey! Enough of this crap! Sit down! I’m not drinking! Jesus, quit running off every time you see a bottle. You’re the one who’s sick!’
Roxane sits back down.
‘The edge of your ass on the edge of the sofa.