Part 15

Yanick Champoux (13/01/2002)

It was with an odd mixture of emotions that I climbed the steps of the little brownstone's porch. I had left Joe to the good attentions of a pub, a few blocks before. While it was dubious that he would encounter any problem with the law -- the Fish's attention had been so intensively focused on my person back in the basement of my building that I was pretty certain that he hadn't even realized we weren't alone before the shovelful interjection -- he had insisted on following me.

He had mentioned something along the lines of feeling bad for having been instrumental in my attempted murder, however failed it turned out to be. Typical. I had been in the milieu for a long, long time, and I had learned to understand the like of him. Those denizens of the underworld, those dealers of death and destruction, they were all big softies, inside. Knowing that not one but two of his creations have been used in belligerent ways against a neighbor affected him more than he would ever admit to anyone, beginning with himself.

So, out of respect for the man, I accompanied him to the Stuttering Spinster, a pub we knew to be off-limit for the forces of law and public health. There, we calmed our apprehensions and fears in a true male way. Namely, we drank a lot of beer and discussed at length of how likely the Dolphins would make it to the SuperBowl next year.

Seven pitchers of beer and more than four hours of ferocious argumentation later, Joe finally came to accept how things turned out to be. Along the way, and somewhat helped by this emotional lubricant that alcohol is, he came to realize how much similar we were. Soul brothers, meant since the dawn of time to meet in a garbage chute. I tried to gently tell him how honored I was, but how unlikely his affirmations were, but he wouldn't hear any of it and insisted to go to the Lonesome Crab, another pub of the sector, to celebrate the joyful discovery.

In normal circumstances, I would have politely refused. But what if he was right? What if we were indeed spiritually linked in some deep, mysterious ways? What if he was truly the sibling the tragic accident that my father had with the pneumatic stapler denied me? Could I really find in my heart to be so cold as to refuse to raise one, only one, more glass to our mutual health? Could I really be so monstrous?

So off to the Lonesome Crab we went. There, with the help of a low double-digit count of pitchers, we came to realize how different our appreciations of the charms of the females of the human species were. But it was all right. To each his color and taste, and of the magazines we own we should not discuss. And to prove that we could have divergent opinions and that was okay, from the Lonesome Crab we moved to the Jiggling Marshmallow, a strip joint not far from there.

After the Jiggling Marshmallow, the details get fuzzy. Only thing that is sure, is that we ended up at the Hallowed Harridan, the pub at which I had finally bode farewell to the man that had became more than a man for me, and a little less than a blessing for my liver, in the past few hours.

I couldn't exactly go back to my apartment, as I was sure some of Fish's friends would be there, ready to welcome me in a most law-enforced way. And here I was, battered, smelling of garbages, dressed in clothes six sizes too big, climbing steps that were paved not in stones but in bittersweet memories. Joe had me waylaid a little bit, but I was now back on (sightly woobling) track, at the very doorstep of one of the only persons on this dirt-covered orb that could help me get out of this mess relatively unscathered.

For in times of need, to who could I turn, if not my ex-wife?

I took a deep breath, and rung the doorbell. As I stood there, in the cold air of the small hours of the morning, I hoped she wouldn't mind too much.

From inside, I heard heavy footsteps climbing down the stairs leading to the first floor. The light above the door came to life, tracing a heavy, broad-shouldered silhouette against the door's stained-glass window. Horrid suspicion arose in my breast as the door creaked open, stopped a few inches later by a heavy chain lock. A meaty hand covered with thick, coarse hair came to rest against the door. Cold sweat began to run down my back. I knew this hand. Quite well. This hand, and also the bead-eyed stare of a dead bulldog that was peering at me from behind it.

Why, in the name of everything that require batteries to function, did my ex-mother-in-law had to choose this day to pay a visit to her daughter?