Lemmings
BACK TO THE GRID: Chapter Three
NESTER WILEY
A failed bike theft attempt, an awkward encounter with the bartender at The Rev after suggesting Trudeau got replaced by a body double in 2016, getting kicked out of The Rev for not being able to pay his tab, witnessing a woman with an orange Mohawk walking two men dressed as dogs in leather bondage while a camera crew documented them, watching a medium-sized protest with people holding signs reading GOD HATES ABORTION and STOP KILLING CANADIANS, and he could have sworn one guy waved a Nazi flag. This is what Nester Wiley was up to since he left Eddie at the bridge.
Jesus, Wiley thought, where am I?
He adjusted the collar of his billowy black T-shirt and stumbled away from the circus. He snapped back into focus and found himself on Carlton Street, passing other stragglers in the dim light from frequent street lamps.
Wiley passed Tent Park, a makeshift encampment for the city’s down-and-out and homeless. Tepees and tents littered the green field. It seemed more people moved in every week. Wiley ignored the voices asking for change, focusing on his balance until he teleported back to Parliament Street, heading towards Cabbage Town. He passed the dilapidated homes until, little by little, inch by inch, they transformed into bright, vibrant mini-mansions.
A great plastic crash erupted behind him. He cranked his head back: A family of raccoons rummaged through compost cans left out on the curb. Once night fell, they were unavoidable, and only the blind or unbothered seemed not to notice them. They gnawed and devoured the filth with glee.
“Dirty little fuckers,” Wiley muttered.
He passed a group of drunk homeless men outside another Tim Horton’s. The drunk men eyed Wiley with instant disdain, which he obviously couldn’t ignore.
“Nice night for a drink, boys,” he said, staring down one of the men. He wiped his face. “You got a little shit right here.”
“Prissy boy,” one of the drunk men slurred back.
“Get lost, queer,” said another one.
“On it,” Wiley said as he gave them the peace sign. “Godspeed, losers.” And he stumbled along the sidewalk again as the men cursed and tossed empty beer cans at the back of his head. Wiley was too drunk to care, lost in thought about how he was born to be a legend—even more than Jimmy. He couldn’t wait for old classmates and family members to gossip about him and his absence.
“What happened to Nester?”
“Didn’t you hear? He vanished.”
“No, dude. No. He found it. He’s free.”
His drunk thoughts dissolved as he got closer…
He was suddenly sober—sick to his stomach. How did he get here?
And like a static hiccup in the frame, he was there, and there it was:
His old home, his mother’s, which she shared with her second husband, Wiley’s stepfather, David. The old but pristine blue Cabbage Town home was three stories high with luxurious vines and foliage growing from the top balcony and swinging down to the front porch entrance. No lights were on.
The door was locked, to be expected.
Wiley peered in through the front window, which was dark and seemingly empty.
He took a step back and processed his next move, then, without thinking too hard, he scaled the side of the house, making his way up to the second-story balcony leading to his old room.
Wiley climbed over the wooden railing, crept over to the window, and opened it. Unlocked…
He broke inside and crawled back into his room and into his past. Most things were either rearranged or thrown away, and the walls were repainted a bright magenta he didn’t care for. Wasn’t his style.
The smell was the same: old wood and lavender with a slight permeation of the darts he used to smoke and blow out of the window through a sploof, but not secretly enough, as David would always catch him in the act and give him his standard beating.
Wiley rummaged through his closet. He was looking for one thing: his father’s old hunting knife, and to his surprise, he found it buried between old track and field medals, bib numbers, and old indications of his past life.
He pulled out the knife and gazed down upon the dull blade, smiling.
Wiley crept out of the room, past his mother’s bedroom, and descended the stairs to the third floor, one last thing nagging at him.
He cringed every time he stepped up another stair. Each one creaked or cracked with each step until he reached the top.
He gazed upon the paintings, small statues, and shiny trinkets his father collected still lining the pale blue walls. Wiley already stole and sold some of the smaller pieces, but he knew his father would want them to be his, even if he did remove him from his will. That was the illness talking, Wiley told himself.
Resting on the mantle over a fireplace was a small silver Buddha statue. It was calling to him.
Wiley grabbed the Buddha but didn’t expect the texture to be so smooth and slippery, something he couldn’t hold onto. It slipped out of his hand.
The Buddha landed on the wooden floor with a great thud.
Wiley squeezed his eyes shut.
Get yourself together, man.
“David?” Wiley’s mother screamed from the second floor.
Another moment.
Wiley was still. His stepfather’s voice came from below—loud and bellowing with an Alberta accent. “Yeah, Hon?”
“I hear something upstairs,” she shouted.
Wiley quickly shoved the Buddha into his backpack—the sound of heavy footsteps walking up the stairs. They were getting closer.
He hurried over to the window on the other side of the room, yanking it open, but it was jammed. No way out from this room, but Wiley tried again as the footsteps made it to the stairs of the third floor.
David was getting closer. Wiley’s eyes were wide with panic.
The door kicked open, and there was David, fifty-two, with a large stature and a modest, receding haircut, holding a baseball bat. “Jesus. Nester? What in the hell you think you’re doing?”
Wiley pretended this wasn’t happening.
“WHAT IS IT?” cried Wiley’s mother from downstairs.
“IT’S NOTHING. A RACCOON. I’LL HANDLE IT.”
“KILL IT, DAVID!”
Wiley put on a cheesy grin and acted casual. “Mom hasn’t gotten rid of you yet, eh? Good on you. What did you drug her with now?”
David inched closer to Wiley with the baseball bat, shaking his head like a pretentious nun.“How do you live with yourself? Stealing from your own mother? Your own flesh and blood? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong, homewrecker. I’m taking back what’s rightfully mine and what isn’t yours.”
“Put everything back. Go out through the back and save your mother another night of crying over your pathetic ass. You need help, Nester.”
“What? Are you gonna beat me up again? Give me another black eye?”
“What drug are you on?” David asked him.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I tried, Nester. We both did.”
Wiley’s cheeky little smirk turned to pure hatred in seconds. He took off his backpack and reached inside, fishing around for something.
David flinched, raising the bat.
“Easy. Easy. I’m putting it all back. You’re right. I’m a waste,” Wiley said as he grabbed the Buddha and skidded across the room, trying to escape—but David reacted and swung the bat, only grazing the side of Wiley’s arm.
Wiley reacted and lunged at David with the Buddha, swinging it recklessly. David reacted and swung his bat again, but it was pointless.
The Buddha cracked into David’s skull, and he collapsed to the floor with a great thud.
“David??” his mother screamed.
Wiley was shocked as if the violence was somehow out of his control—like sneezing and waking up from a cold dream.
“David,” Wiley said, desperately waiting for a reply—
But David didn’t move.
And his mother opened her door and walked up the stairs. “David??”
Wiley bent down and shook David. “Shit. Please, wake up. Wake up,” he whispered.
“David. Answer me.” His mother said. She was almost at the door.
There was no time to wait and see, no time for anything except a sloppy getaway. He sprinted past his mother in the dark. She screamed and cowered in fear until she yelled out, confused, “Nester?”
But Wiley didn’t slow down. He muttered, “I’m sorry, Mom,” unsure if she heard him. She screamed something incoherent as he sprinted out of the house and down the Cabbage Town street.
Panic in his eyes. He made a sharp right, ran through a yard, cut through a small patch of trees, and eventually returned to the bridge to hide and collect himself. His phone buzzed and buzzed. It was his mother.
Wiley shed a tear. Just one. One single little salty tear. He chucked his phone into the river, pulled out the small silver Buddha statue, and wiped it with his shirt. There was still a bit of David’s blood on it.
EDDIE INGERSOLL
The fluorescent lights hanging over him had a distinctive low-pitched hum. It was inescapable. Even hours after he would leave, Eddie could still hear the hum inside his head. In a way, it was comforting, addicting even, like a reminder of where he stood. He’d know he was progressing forward if he could escape the noise.
He stood behind the counter of the Circle K Gas Station. His shift was almost over, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Wiley’s plan, or lack thereof.
Is Miranda safe and sound?
Is she really in love with Bryan?
Stop thinking.
An elderly couple argued over which kind of milk to purchase. A tweaked-out homeless man paced back and forth near the instant coffee machine, talking to himself.
Eddie tried to keep his eyes from closing. He hadn’t gotten a proper night’s rest in weeks. Something was eating away at him, and Wiley’s escape proposition only worsened it.
Another customer walked inside—a young man around Eddie’s age. Eddie looked down and avoided eye contact. He knew this guy. The young man sported a gelled front-flip haircut and a nice button-down shirt and golf shorts. He immediately recognized Eddie and strolled up to the counter, mouth ajar.
“Eddie Ingersoll. No way.”
Eddie couldn’t remember his name. He thought he wouldn’t remember his either, but then again, Eddie was the only American at Woodcrest, the high school he attended. He always stood out as a dangerous threat.
“How’s my favorite Yankee doing these days?”
Eddie forced a smile back. “Hey, what’s up, man.”
“Busy night?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“But not too busy, eh?”
“How have you been,” asked Eddie, trying to be polite.
“Terrific. Jess and I had our first kid a couple months ago. It’s crazy. You have to have kids someday. It’s life-changing.”
“No way. Congrats.”
“Thank you, Eddie. I appreciate it. Wow. This is nuts. What have you been up to? What’s new?”
“Working here,” Eddie said, his eyes scanning the room, searching for an escape.
“Working hard. That’s great. This is crazy. How long has it been? I can’t believe you didn’t return to the States—well, I guess I can. Kind of a shit show, eh? No offense.”
Eddie shrugged, noncommittal. “I’m Canadian now.”
“I thought I heard someone mention you left a few years ago. Do you still hang out with Nester?”
Eddie hesitated. “Nah. Not really.”
“Ah, gotcha. Good call. Good call. He was always pretty… strange. I heard he took too much acid and got pretty fried after high school.”
“Do you believe everything you hear?” Eddie shot back, his voice sharp, defensive. “Did you even talk to him back then?”
The old acquaintance cringed a little bit. “Oh-OK, man. I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I saw him downtown earlier. He looked high…homeless. That’s all I meant. Sorry.”
“You sure it was him?”
“Positive. I’m sorry,” he said, his tone softer, almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories. I’m sure he’ll get the help he needs.”
The older couple arguing over milk were now in line behind him, looking impatient.
“Yeah, me too. That everything?”
“Yeah…the gas on number three and…” he perused through the limited selection of candy at the counter. He grabbed a Milky Way bar and placed it in front of Eddie. “That should do it.”
Eddie rang him up for gas and candy, and they stood silently. The fluorescent light’s buzzing increased in volume.
“Good seeing you again, Eddie.”
Eddie took a shortcut home through Dundas Square and maneuvered through the congested and over-saturated area. The almighty grid: Toronto’s Times Square.
It was inevitable—a hostile takeover—inescapable noise.
Towering skyscrapers framed the square, their glass facades catching the reflection of car lights and scattering it in a dazzling array of colors. The digital billboards and neon signs flickered to life, casting a kaleidoscope of hues onto the maelstrom of people below. Slick advertisements disguised as friends for the latest gadgets, previews for blockbuster movies, and animated displays dancing with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Everyone was documenting the mundane spectacle, phones everywhere firing off like rifles, capturing dance routines and dramatic poses and forced grins.
And worst of all: they all glared back at Eddie, tearing through his soul. They knew. They knew exactly what he was.
What happened?
Was there something he misconstrued? Some memory gap from drug use? The disdain and contempt for the Yankee in Canada reached its zenith, and yet, there it was, unraveling before him: an American fever dream.
Eddie hated the sight of the square, but after finally making his way around the conjoined bodies and the speeding cars, he realized it was the best way to solidify his decision to leave, but not just yet.
He thought about the high school acquaintance he ran into at the gas station, and the wife and kids he probably would never have, and the job and success that could make his father proud of him. Maybe that was a dream worth remembering.
His mind ceased production once a homeless man bumped into him.
“You have a minute to talk about the second coming of Jesus Christ and the rapture of 2020?”
“No, sorry. Have a nice night.” Eddie picked up his pace.
“Don’t let Canada burn, son!”
Eddie returned home to his father’s small apartment: one bedroom, one living room/kitchen, and one tiny bathroom. Dirty dishes clogged the sink, and clothes and boxes littered the kitchen floor. Something expired by the smell of it.
There were no decorations except a framed photograph of Robert G. Ingersoll, “The Great Agnostic,” hanging on the orange wall in front of his father’s room. Eddie’s father told him they were Robert’s ancestors— the last of a great American bloodline—of a man who preached enlightenment and rational thought above all else.
His father used to quote him all the time before his illness got serious: “All the meanness, all the revenge, all the selfishness, all the cruelty, all the hatred, all the infamy of which the heart of man is capable, grew, blossomed, and bore fruit in this one word – Hell.”
Eddie opened the fridge and discovered the rank culprit: expired milk. He grabbed a tall boy from the back and closed the fridge shut.
He flopped down on the ratty orange couch, which was also his bed, and cracked open his beer, illuminated by the only light source in the tiny living room: the television. A light wave of dust was visible through the dim light.
A nature documentary about lemmings played through slight static. Eddie took another chug of beer, his eyes zeroing in on the small screen. Zoned in, lost in space, letting the British narration of the documentary spill over him like the word of God:
“Lemmings are incapable of committing suicide. The explanation for the aforementioned myth revolves around genuine lemming habits and our misunderstanding of them. Around every four years, lemming populations experience huge increases. A large group will depart, searching for a new habitat when their population in one place becomes too concentrated. If they come across a body of water—like a river or a lake—they might subconsciously try to cross it to help their fellow lemmings. Some will inevitably drown, but not by choice.”
As Eddie took another swig, staring into the oblivion of the grainy images of lemmings toppling over a cliff to their death when—the doorbell rang.
Eddie didn’t react, eyes still glued to the outdated television. 576 lines of interlaced bliss.
From the other room, Eddie’s dad grunted and groaned in a drunken half-slumber. He wasn’t conscious, though. His father was never aware after nine p.m.
The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. Eddie rolled his eyes with frustration. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote and paused the lemmings documentary. It wasn’t live TV anyway, just something he taped and watched often.
The doorbell rang a third time. Eddie heaved himself off the couch, muttering as he approached the door.
Eddie swung the door open:
Wiley was panting, his eyes bulging out of his sockets. “We gotta go. Right now.”
Eddie blinked, the haze of alcohol clouding his mind. He was too drunk for this.
“I messed up, Eddie… Is your Dad home?”
Wiley wasn’t sporting his usual shit-eating grin; this was serious.
Eddie’s face turned pale. “What did you do?”
Wiley hesitated.
“Tell me what you did, or I’m closing the door.”
“David and I got into an…altercation.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie’s mind was already racing, thinking about the possibilities of what Wiley might have done this time.
“It doesn’t matter. Point is we gotta split. Get your money, get your gear, get your beer, and let’s bolt.”
“Up North? Right now? You said a week.”
“Don’t give me that. No way David won’t call it in.”
“Why were you even there?” Eddie’s frustration boiled over. “Why would you hit him?”
“Stop asking questions. Get your stuff. We’re finding them.”
Eddie’s thoughts tumbled over one another, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Wiley was right. What did he have going on here anyway?
“I have work tomorrow,” Eddie mumbled.
“You’re better than that, and you know it. It’s now or never. We’re not wastes of life, man. We’re radical pioneers. We were meant to do this. Remember two years ago when you needed help with Trish? Remember when I loaned your Dad ten Gs? I was there for you, man. And now I need you.”
It wasn’t Wiley’s guilt-tripped words forcing Eddie’s hand; it was the promise of silence, and maybe because he wanted to see Miranda again. Just maybe.
And then his vision grew cloudy…grainy…trapped within a 4:3 frame.
Eddie nodded, the decision made. “Give me five minutes.”
“Grab his keys,” Wiley said.