One Night on Saint-Catherine Street

          I’m lost in a dizzying array of lights and people streaming; horns and motors blare outside The Montreal Forum. I imagine Larry Robinson holding the Stanley Cup toward the hallowed rafters. Further down the street, I pass a porn shop that sells small green bottles of Spanish Fly; its labels picture women performing oral sex on dicks the size of baseball bats. I stumble past a variety of packed pubs, clubs, busy fast food restaurants and Club Super Sex. It’s only –13* on Saint Catherine Street as I drink a cold bottle of Choix du France, stashed in my jacket. I’m pretty buzzed.

       “Je mange la fille!” I yell, smiling.

       Locals point judgingly toward me, yes me, the obnoxious American. I swig from the bottle and turn toward Chateaux du Sex.

                                                                        *

        We had taken a bus from Boston with another group of revelers—it was an all in one package to Montreal that included the bus and hotel fare. During our street exploration we had happened upon Chateaux du Sex. We climbed a staircase and at the top, a doorman collected a dollar from each of us as we entered. There was Henry Chucker and Mike Garret and Chris Wayside— we were eighteen, and only Mike had been to a strip club. We were all a little crazy and in awe that we could purchase alcohol legally.

        It was dark but lively with servers and topless barmaids. Through the stage area, perimeter lights washed a naked big-breasted woman in white light. I couldn’t believe she was real— as she danced with sultry steps around the pole and spread her legs wide, she seemed to hypnotize the drunks who sat at a table beside the stage staring at her private parts.

        “Look at those,” said Henry.

        “Incredible.”

        “That’s it. The pussy hunt is on,” said Mike.

        As I looked around, I noticed curvy naked women serving drinks or performing personal dances on stools. One red head looked like she was fifteen years old with twenty four year old tits.

         “You know, Chris got booted,” said Henry.

         “Why?” I asked.

         “He’s fucked up,” said Mike.

         “He broke a window with his hand. He cut it pretty good.”

          “He’s an idiot,” I said.

          As the stage dance ended Mike waved a handful of cash toward the woman. She smiled, held up her finger as if to say hold on a minute.

           “He’s back at the hotel passed out.”

           “That drunk bastard better be in his own room,” said Mike.

           In the back corner, a DJ, lowered the music and began to speak into the house microphone. “And here we have our very own, voluptuous Amili— yeah, look at that body…. Oooh, Amili, you doll. Do it Amili, yeah!” He cranked up Bon Jovi’s ‘You give love a bad name.’

            A graceful Canadian beauty, moved her hips across the stage, soft flashes of skin caught my eye. She touched her nipples and licked her fingers, one at a time. My eyes seem to probe, penetrate her body. When the dance ended, I felt like I just had survived something I couldn’t put into words.

            “She is the greatest living thing I’ve ever seen,” Mike said, wiping his brow.

Bobby Jones tapped me on the shoulder.

            “Whats up boys?”

            “Bobby!”

            Bobby had been on our bus.

            “Hey I met this dude who wants some,” said Bobby.

            “I only have a little,” said Mike.

            “Sell it. He’ll do it with us. Money is no object.”

            “I wouldn’t sell this shit to anybody. It’s crap.”

            “Come on, man.”

            “I won’t do it.”

            As Amili went to the bar, the DJ spoke into the microphone and announced another dancer. Mike rose to his feet and strutted toward the bar where he took a seat beside Amili. He wasted no time and in that easy and cool way he had with women and began a conversation with her.

          “If he gets that girl, I’ll hang myself,” said Henry.

          “No way. She’ll hustle him, that’s all. No chance,” said Bobby.

          Henry and Bobby turned their attention back to the stage with lustful eyes, forgetting all about Mike’s pursuit. I couldn’t take my eyes off Amili. It wasn’t just her hot body; there was a radiance and shyness that shown through her smile. Her blond curls framed a face with cherubic glow; and my stomach palpitated. She devoted her full attention to Mike, never turning away during conversation. They began to flip through the pages of a book. She laughed at one of Mike’s stock jokes. I knew all his lines, his approaches.

          When Amili walked away from him, I shuffled over to the bar and stood beside him. I waved my fist toward the bartender.

          “Bud, please.”

          “Hey Mike. How’s it going?”

          “We’re just talking ya know.”

I gazed thoughtlessly at the assortment of liquors on the shelf. The bartender brought me the beer and I took a huge swig.

“Why would she ever work in a place like this?” I asked.

           “For the money probably.”

           Bobby snuck up behind us. He tapped Mike on the shoulder who looked at him and nodded maybe. They began a quiet dialogue that I couldn’t hear and in a moment, they disappeared in the darkness behind me.

Amili returned and chimed hello. I smiled back. The book on the bar was a song book of top hits.

          “I like that statue,” I said. It was a replica bust of Aphrodite just across from the cash register.

          “Pardez-moix, monsieur?”

           “There. Statue.”

          “Statchu?”

           I laughed. “Never mind.”

          ‘Er, I speak anglais not well.” She shrugged in apologetic manner.

          “But I like to try.”

          “You are very beautiful. You should model,” I said.

          “The monay is good. I like to dance. I will to pay lots… much of monay to model.”

          “You would be great.”

          “Oh, thank you. You are kind, very. Are you for nearby?”

          “I’m from the states. Just visiting.”

          “I once work for Sex Sex Sex but not much monay. You like Montreal?”

          “Yes. It’s my first time….”

          She held up a finger, an elegant finger.

          “I must go. My manager watch me. I see you later, yes?”

          “Definitely. Comment-t’appelle tu?” I asked.

          “Oh! Parles-tu France, oui? Je m’appelle, Lauren.”

          “Hi Lauren. I only know a little.”

           “What is your name?”

          “Richard.”

          “Bye bye Richard. I must work.”

          She danced for more men, who were coming in greater numbers. I felt, in just that brief exchange, strangely seduced by her. I watched, stared really and admired. I drank another beer and lingered and dreamed of another life outside my own narrow edges.

           “Hey. Are you coming?” asked Henry.

He was all geared up for the cold outside.

“Mike and Bobby left.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She was alone at the bar momentarily, searching through the song book. It was my moment. I had to be quick and assertive. I raced to her before anyone bought her services.

            “Richard how are you?”

            “I once had a pen pal with a girl who lived in France. We wrote all the time. Could I have your address? Can we be pen pals?”

            “Pen pal? Oh that is nice idea, Richard. Yes you write Anglais. That is good. I very much like to learn Anglais.”

            I snagged a book of matches from a bowl on the bar top. I gave her a pen. She thought for a moment and then wrote on the inside of the matchbook.

            “Bye Lauren.”

             “You write.”

            I smiled, turned and caught up with Henry who shook his head.

             “What did she say?” asked Henry.

            I showed him the matchbook: 19 Ru Place Lapraire, Providence of Quebec, Montreal.

            “You bastard,” he said, laughing.

            “Are you going to write her?”

            “Of course.” 

                                                                       *

 

           Hungry now, I finish off the Choix du France and toss the bottle into a trash can where a pair of legs rests beneath a pile of trash bags. The freezing wind, coming off the Saint Lawrence River no longer has the numbing power with the swelling buzz inside my brain. Just ahead, is a McDonalds where I turn inside and carve a path through a slew of bodies. I order two cheeseburgers and stand off to the side, away from the register and wait.

           Two young women, wait beside me, speak English with a hint of French accent.

“Can you believe these prices?” the woman says. She rolls on her heels. Her body is shaped like an onion. 

“I know. It’s pure robbery. Let’s go someplace else,” says the other woman. She huffs at the thought of spending her money here.

“At least it’s not a long wait,” I say, smiling a little.

           The onion shaped woman looks at me with not a little disdain; the other stares at me like I have an Ebola virus enveloping my face. I nod and step even further back.

I collect my food and sit at the only available eating area, two small connected tables. An old man sits on the other side leaning sluggishly against the wall. He raises his head and looks me over. He is maybe 65, grey and hawkish.

“Say could you spare a dime?” the old man asks.

           I gaze a moment and decide to give him a dollar.

           “Do you live around here?” I ask.

           “I live everywhere.”

           “I’m from the states.”

“I used to live in New York with some friends.” He coughed and cursed. “I got fed up with it.”

           I nod then bite into my burger. A line of grease runs down my chin.

The two girls appear nearby, looking over the restaurant for any seat other than the free one beside us. Resigned, they sit beside us, sighing and indifferent.  

           Almost immediately as if on queue, the old man speaks out. “Help an old man. Spare a dime?”

           “Get away you old fool. I have no money for a scoundrel,” she says.

She is blondish and wears big earrings.

           “He’s not going to hurt you. He’s just asking for a little help. You don’t have to call him names,” I say.

           “Oh, please. Are you two working together or something?” she asks.

           “No.”

           “First you try to pick me up. Now you are with this… hobo.”

           “For one thing, you have no right to judge this man. He is what he is. Another thing, I could be wasted and I wouldn’t touch a phony like you.”

            “Oh please. You foolish boy.”

            “You’re a bitch… and a stuck up cunt.”

            “That’s right! Yes! Bitch, bitch, bitch!” yells the old man.

            “Some people are so childish,” says the onion shaped woman.

            “Right. You two are probably lesbians anyway,” I say.

             In a minute, the manager appears and asks us to leave without explanation. Outside, the wind gusts.

              “Come on. Let’s go to a club and get warm. I’ll buy. We drink,” I say.

              “All right, all right, let’s go.”

              It is almost one o’clock in the morning. We hunch and stagger slowly down St Catherine Street. But everything looks the same— traffic, bright lights and storefronts washed together like grey water. Sometimes the wind holds me back and whips my face, other times it pushes me forward like a prankster. I wait a moment for the old man to catch up. He breathes more heavily.

              “I know its here someplace,” I say.

              “God damn wind.”

              “This is familiar. It’s got to be close. Come on!”

              “I’m coming. You don’t have to shout.”

              Saint Catherine Street just goes on and on. The old man’s cursing lessens then ceases. He slows with every step until he finally calls it quits outside a busy bar.

“I don’t think I can go on. My legs are hurting.”

             “Where will you sleep?”

             “Right here.”

             He gazes toward a dark alley.

             “You go,” he says.

             “Why don’t you just get a job?” I ask.

              “I can’t. They won’t give me one. They take it right away. They’re all bastards. They’re out to get me. They want me to be homeless.”

I give him five dollars; he nods thank you. As I turn to go, he beckons a group of well dressed folks smoking by a cabstand.

             “Hey mister… could you spare a dime?”

             “Hey bum… a penny for your thoughts,” a man says, laughing.

             “Just a nickel. Can you spare a nickel?”

              “Stubborn old fool. Away with you!”

              The old man slinks his way toward the alley.

              I forge ahead, faster without the old man, even jay walked twice from curb to curb. Montreal drivers, I swear, aim to take me down. The wind drives through me, slowly twisting like an ice stake. At the club, I climb the stairs and greet petite Katherine.

             “Bonjour Richard.”

             It is the most surreal thing— trying to have a normal conversation with a nude woman, especially in a public place.  

             “Bonjour. Is Amili still here?”

             “She’s dancing. You better sit down.”

             “Thanks.”

             I sit in the back as the club is packed now with horny men. College guys in sweaters and slacks shout dirty things at the dancer and sweaty palms slip Canadian money into her thong. Other dancers wait nearby, away from the spotlights checking their play lists; while others perform personal lap dances.

         After her routine, Lauren bounds to my table, smiling. She even brought me a beer.

         “Hi honey. We very busy tonight. Where are your friends?” she asks.

         “I don’t know.”

         “I will dance. Do any songs interest you?”

          She hands me the song book but I have no interest. I just want her to sit and talk. She pushes the book into my face and turns the pages until she reachs the last.

          “That one,” I say.

          “I will tell Guy to play it for you. Do I dance good?”

          “You are a fine dancer.”

          I give her four American dollars for the beer.

          “No. It is for you. No monay.”

          “I owe.”

          “A gift for you,” she says.

          “Okay.”

          “I must go. The manager is looking.”

          I already knew every curve and line, the winter white of her flesh. I no longer feel the lustful desire to stare at her ass. I lost interest in the spectacle. I even feel slightly embarrassed. I just want to talk to her about life and the choices we all make. 

            “Here’s five dollars,” I say.

            “You want me to dance for you?”

            “No. Just talk. This way the manager can’t yell at you.”

             She shook her head. “I will dance for you.”

             “Enough dancing,” I say, raising my voice.

              She shoots me a crooked brow.

             “I have to go,” she says.

              She disappears in the crowd. I remove my pen from my jacket and draw up the paper menu from across the table. I turn it over to the blank side and stare at it, waiting to see if any words might come.

          I am an American in search of experience. 

         I write. In the darkness of my swelling buzz, I can not see the words— only a sinking charcoal landscape. A cloudy turbulence runs through me, like sooty train tracks across a country. My thoughts, however random and idiotic, control my hand and my fingers curl around the transparent plastic pen. Maybe this foreign culture is forcing me to look at myself— this lonely, restless 18 year old. I have no idea why I feel the way that I do.       

            “Hey… are you all right, honey?”

            I lift my head heavily with slitted eyes.

            “What time is it?” I ask.

            “Two thirty.”

            My head hurts and the room spins a little. I rest my hands flat on the table.

            “Just making sure you are still alive.”

            “Yes, I am.”

            The waitress smiles and walks off. I scan the room but Lauren is gone.

I stuff my hand into my pocket and pull out the matchbook. I lay them on the bar, away from me, pushing it with my finger, an inch at a time. I push until it teeters on the edge, slightly tipping over until it finds a natural balance and hangs there.

Right there— I knew that I wanted more than this lame life. I wanted to travel, adventure, meet new people; explore foreign lands and burn across the road like Jack Kerouac. I knew that I was going somewhere. I couldn’t pinpoint when, where or with whom. However the clock was ticking. I knew that much.