All We Want Is Everything by Andrew F. Sullivan

Author:Andrew F. Sullivan [Sullivan, Andrew F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Short Stories
ISBN: 9781894037471
Publisher: ARP Books (Arbeiter Ring Publishing)
Published: 2013-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

Thaw

I have two fingers lodged in Big Dave’s right cheek when his fat fist connects with my left eye socket. The world is made of gin and pain and salt as I hit the ground amongst the snow. Blood is spat onto my face and some of the townie girls are giggling, but they don’t move to lift me up. I can hear Tanya in there somewhere, her voice hitching itself to the tumour in her throat, the one the doctor’s called benign and circled in red marker on her scans.

This is the third weekend in a row; the third time I’ve stumbled out behind the Trap with hands balled up into fists and tonic on my tongue. I can already hear the siren again, but for once I’m the one on the ground and there is a weight on my chest. It joins forces with some other pain and presses down onto each rib, reminding my lungs of their limits. Big Dave kneels down over my face and his thin blood drips down into my eye. He is silent, except for the hoarse cough rattling his chest. I think about diseases, the viruses coursing through his veins, the smell of his two kids covered in their own shit down at the welfare office. His wife lost custody a few weeks ago. Big Dave rolls back off my chest, and I gasp for breath as one more fist connects with my teeth. I underestimated his rage, the hate boiling in his rounded gut. Women’s voices scatter as a flashlight reveals their bundled faces to the dark.

“Get offa him. Now. Get. All of you. Get. Go home.”

Red and blue lights go on and off, but the edge of my vision only sees snow and broken bottles. Bottle caps and cardboard support my back as I try to piece together what my face must look like now. Probably like the two boys I clashed with last weekend, the ones who asked for their mothers while their girlfriends fled screaming for non-existent bouncers and help, help from anyone who would listen. I ruined my new winter coat with the splash-back from their pimpled faces. I got locked up for a few days after that one. I have a lot of fines to pay.

The Trap stands on the edge of town, the end of one long road with two stoplights and no crosswalks. There are dead dogs under the snow that we will find in May once all the ice recedes back toward the lake. There are teeth and fleshy bits of ears and gums beneath the frost, pieces put there by men like me and some of the natives who fall asleep while trying to walk home after the bar has closed. The government ships us body bags at a discount in the spring once the snow starts to disappear. Lately, I’ve been sleeping with the Zamboni at the arena, letting it thrum against my chest when I wake in the morning, scabs and fluids dripping from my face like fleshy post-it notes from the night before.

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