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 Decrepit Remains, the 2008 Down in the Dirt collection book
LOVE’S LABOUR

Andre Kocsis,

    Rooney’s lower body had taken up an urgent rhythm of its own, uncontrolled, driving, until a great wave traveled down his spine, and he was racked in a convulsion of release. Another wave, and another, his back arching, a giant hand around his torso, squeezing the life out of him.
    And then it was over. With a last shudder, Rooney rolled off Jane. She gave him a peck on the cheek, and turned away. He lay next to her for a few moments, but she was definitely in a different place, he sensed that, in fact he had sensed it the whole time. He felt a vague guilt and befuddlement.
    But most of all, he felt thirst. Rooney got up and padded out to the kitchen in his bare feet, his manhood wet against his thighs. He was a big man, with a broad, muscular upper body that made his head seem a little too small.
    He took a beer out of the fridge, started to close the door, then paused.
    “You want a beer, baby?” he yelled.
    “Sure,” came the answer from the bedroom.
    He grabbed another beer, and hurried back. Jane had propped herself against the massive dark wood headboard, and was smoking a cigarette. She looked great. Her long blond hair in a ponytail, the brown eyes with long black lashes, made to look slightly oriental by some cosmetic trick he never understood. At twenty-two, there was a ripeness in her body that had not been there at fifteen, when he had first met her. He liked these first hints of mature softness.
    He jumped into bed, and pressed the cold bottle against her shoulder, but she didn’t react, didn’t even look at him. She took the beer, took a deep drag from her cigarette, put it in the ashtray on the night table, wiping the ashes she had spilled on the sheets, then raised the bottle to her lips.
    Rooney sat next to her, and took deep swigs from his bottle. He was feeling drowsy, but it was too early to go to sleep.
    “You wanna watch TV?” Jane asked.
    “Sure,” he replied. “Where’s the remote?”
    They looked around the room, but it was hard to tell, with scattered clothes, the remains of snacks, the general chaos of a room well-used. He started to grope under the covers, touching her nether parts.
    “Knock it off, Rooney,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice.
    “I’m just looking for the remote,” he said, all innocence. And sure enough, he pulled his hand out from under the cover, the device gripped in his hairy paw.
    She took the control, and chose a sit-com. Eventually they had another beer, and then a third, and then it was lights out. He had to be up at five. The construction site was at least forty-five minutes away, and he had to load his truck at six-thirty. She didn’t go to the restaurant until seven, but she liked to take her time with the make-up in the morning.
    They lay beside each other, not touching, the street noise a dull hum outside, with the occasional headlight sneaking between the slats of the blind and sweeping across the ceiling in a great arc and then disappearing.
    “We should get out tomorrow night,” Rooney said.
    She didn’t reply.
    “Go to that pub, you know?”
    “Which pub?” she asked.
    “You know, the Rose something ...”
    “The Rose and Fox?”
    “That’s it.”
    She snuggled close to him, and he put his arm around her.
    “We can’t go back there for a while,” she said.
    He thought for a moment. “We’ll find another one.” And they drifted off to sleep.
    
    The next day, Rooney was at the site a little after six. The long line of dump trucks, splattered with mud, stood waiting along the wasteland that would one day be a subdivision of cheap houses, squeezed too close together. His truck was second from the end. He jumped in, and started the creaky diesel, then left it rumbling like an oversized percolator.
    He went into the dispatcher’s hut, where there were already three drivers ahead of him. The old Italian was handing out routes.
    “Pete, you and Todd are on gravel. Get going right away, ‘cause they need a couple loads pronto. Marco, you back your rig up by the pit, and Tim will load ya. Take it to the fill site on nineteenth. Off you go, son! Ah, Rooney, I got a special job for you. They’re tearing the forms down, and you’re taking the scrap to the dump.”
    “Shit, Luigi, why me?” This was the worst job he could get. Long waits at the dump, the smell of rotting garbage permeating every pore in his body.
    Luigi glared at him with his one good eye, the other in a permanent squint. “You want the job or not?”
    “For fuck’s sake!” Rooney stared at the ground.
    “Make up your mind, Rooney. I got plenty waiting to get on that truck.”
    “Okay, don’t get your ass in an uproar,” Rooney said, heading out the door. Luigi suppressed a smile.
    The day was even worse than he expected. The lines at the dump were longer than usual, and, considering it was April, the weather got surprisingly warm by mid-day. The stench was suffocating. Most of his time was spent waiting, putting the truck in gear every few minutes, moving forward five feet, and then waiting again.
    He loved to barrel along the roads in the old rig, but this was really hard work. He almost wished he was back in the lumber camp up north, where he had started at seventeen. That was before he was a driver, and he generally got the hardest jobs in the camp. He was always exhausted by the end of the day, but it was a good fatigue, not like this, with his nerves jangled by all the waiting.
    Rooney had been so proud when he was put on the log truck at nineteen, first as a helper, and by twenty, a full-time driver. Those were good times. That’s when he met Jane, she was just fifteen, but already a looker. Jane was just getting over that pretty boy football player that had dumped her, and Erica had just left Rooney, when her husband came back. It all seemed so long ago. God, it was almost seven years!
    Rooney was startled by a long blast from a horn behind him, and he looked up to realize that a full truck-length of space had opened up ahead, as the line made its glacial progress toward the tipping site. He put the truck in gear, closed the gap, and then put it back in neutral, pulling hard on the handbrake. It was hot and dusty, and he could hardly breathe. The ripe smell of garbage made him gag, so he tried to keep his breathing shallow.
    Flocks of seagulls were dive-bombing everything in sight with their runny droppings, and his windshield had not escaped their attentions. To top it all off, Luigi would probably make him wash the truck at the end of the day, and he would have to stay an extra hour.
    Still, it was a job. When they moved to Toronto from the little town up north, he was happy he had the driving experience. On his first job after they arrived, he was driving only part-time; the rest of the time he was lucky when they called him in as a “gofer” on the site. But with this outfit, he was driving full time, even if he did get all the shit jobs. Anyhow, it paid well. With both of them working, he and Jane were not lacking for anything.
    Still, he sensed that not all was well. He thought back to the previous night. She seemed ... what was it exactly? Not repulsed, but ... disinterested, maybe. But then, women were different. He just liked getting his rocks off. Of course, it made a difference that it was with Jane. He liked to lie next to her, after. With the pros he had frequented as a youth, he would clear out as soon as he was finished.
    A gap had opened up in front of him once more, and he inched the truck forward.
    Again, his thoughts drifted back to Jane. A vague unease gnawed at him.
    
    That night, they were both tired, and after watching a sit-com, they turned in early. The following night, Friday, they decided to go to the local pub. Jane was particularly careful with her make-up. She put on a thin, clinging dress which showed off her figure, the front plunging to reveal cleavage. Her bright blond hair was loose, reaching to the middle of her back.
    The place was not very full, and they sat at a table by themselves. Rooney had a few beers, and she nursed a gin and tonic while they watched the hockey game.
    Around ten o’clock, Rooney stood up and said, “Let’s go.”
    Jane looked at him questioningly. “The game’s not over,” she said.
    When he continued standing, she shrugged her shoulders and got up. They walked out into the brisk April night. It had rained, and the pavement was slick. Jane held her thin coat together against the wind which tugged at her. They walked down the block. There were not as many streetlights in this part of town, and, through their thin shoes, they could feel the ridges in the broken sidewalk. Rooney stopped in front of a bar, gazing through a window at the crowd inside. Jane looked in as well, and he glanced at her questioningly. She shook her head slightly, and they moved on. Finally, they chose a place that looked rougher than the previous, but with a moderately young crowd. Rooney stood outside while Jane went in and sat at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic. He followed a few moments later, also sitting at the bar. There was an empty stool separating them.
    Rooney asked for a beer, and swiveled his seat to survey the surroundings. The main room was larger than it looked from the outside, with another couple of rooms off to the back. The space was dominated by the massive bar stretching the full length of one wall. It was of ancient vintage, made of dark wood, with racks of glasses hanging from the ceiling. The construction of the counter indicated that at one time, decades before, this had been a high class joint. The rest of the space was filled with a number of beat-up wooden tables. Nearly all were occupied, by groups of various sizes. The crowd was early to mid-twenties, and mostly working stiffs. But then, this was not exactly the part of town frequented by the limousine crowd.
    A jukebox played in the back corner, and a few couples danced in the small clear space around it. At the bar, the music could be heard only in snatches. The general hilarity at the tables filled the room like some thick vapour straining to burst the walls.
    A pretty woman entering a saloon always elicits attention. Hope flares up in the men that this could be the one, even if only for the night, and the women size up the new competition. Jane definitely created a stir as she sat demurely at the bar, sipping her drink. The table nearest her was occupied by a group of almost a dozen revelers, clearly celebrating the birthday of a short, rotund young man of about twenty. There were three women in the group, but the general tone was carried by the guys, who, within minutes of Jane’s entrance, started exhorting the object of the celebration with yells of, “Go, Andy!”
    And Andy did go, soon enough. With a large mug of beer in his hand, he waddled over to Jane, and struck a pose of sophisticated nonchalance with his back to Rooney. His dignity was somewhat undercut by the fact that he stood a full head shorter than Jane, sitting on her elevated stool, but he was bolstered by yells of encouragement from his table. Rooney sucked on his beer, indifferent to what was happening right next to him.
    “Hi, baby,” Andy said.
    Jane looked at him with the same interest that she would have awarded an unusual species of insect. Andy took this for encouragement.
    “We’re having a little celebration,” he continued.
    Jane did not answer; she only raised her eyebrows, neatly plucked and darkened only hours before, into two prone commas arching over her shadowed eyes.
    “Yeah, it’s my birthday.”
    “Happy birthday.”
    “I just thought you might want to join us.” He was encouraged by the lack of outright hostility, as he continued, “I guarantee you a good time.” He leered at her seductively.
    “That’s very tempting,” she said. “Maybe another time.”
    Andy stood staring at her for a few seconds, debating whether to push his luck, but decided against it. The walk back to his table was difficult, so he fortified himself with a deep pull on his beer. Once with his group, he smiled at his admirers indulgently, and tossed out some profound witticism which no doubt alluded to the vicissitudes of gender relations. This was greeted by an uproar of laughter, and some back slapping. He glanced at Jane, who had by this time turned her back, and then he sat down to immerse himself in the conviviality of his fellows.
    Over the course of the next half hour, Jane was approached by two more potential suitors, and she rebuffed each. In the meantime, Rooney had another beer. He was now facing the bar, appearing to examine the row of bottles displayed behind the bartender. In fact, it was the mirror behind the bottles which held his interest.
    The place was filling to capacity as more and more people drifted in, accompanied by gusts of wind from the outside. All the tables were now full, and there were only a few stools at the bar which were still unoccupied. Because Rooney sprawled on the bar, his elbows splayed out, the empty seat next to Jane was uninviting except to the most determined of patrons.
    Two young men entered, about twenty, dressed casually, but perhaps a cut above the run of the mill. They had the vibrant health of young bulls, cheeks red from the wind, well-muscled. They could have been construction workers. Equally, they could have been from the suburbs, attracted by the musk of easy pickings in this part of town.
    They halted near the bar, looking for a table. Clearly, none was available. They ordered beers, and stood drinking, surveying the scene. One of them, tall, with the easy confidence of good looks, sat next to Jane. Soon, he was engaged in conversation with her. Her face changed, smiling, teasing. Rooney slid off his stool, leaving his half-full bottle on the bar, and slouched off toward the washrooms in the rear.
    He was gone a while, and when he came back, his seat had been taken by the other young buck. In the meantime, the first one had his arm around Jane, and was leaning toward her conspiratorially. She was laughing at something he had whispered into her ear.
    Rooney grabbed Casanova’s arm, pulling it off Jane, and spun him around on the stool.
    “That’s my seat, asshole,” he said, sticking his face close to the young man’s.
    The latter looked at him with eyes wide, for a moment speechless. Finally he gathered his wits, and said, “What the fuck you want?”
    “I want you to clear out.”
    “What is your problem?” There was a slight note of doubt in his voice.
    “Clear out, punk. That’s my seat, and that’s my woman.”
    The buck looked at Jane. She smiled at him, encouragingly. He slid off the stool. He was slightly taller than Rooney, and had the stance of the athlete, balanced, ready. Rooney backed up a step, and the other took this as a sign, shoving him on the chest. Rooney staggered back, seemingly startled, and the buck advanced again, cocking his fist. Before he could throw the punch, if, indeed, that had been his intention, he was staggered by a kick from Rooney that caught him square in the crotch. He crumpled, and Rooney was on him. With three quick but powerful punches he transformed the helpless man’s face into a bleeding landscape.
    All this happened in the space of a few seconds. The victim’s partner was frozen in his seat, staring down at the body lying almost at his feet. Jane, on the other hand, was off her stool, and Rooney grabbed her arm as they both made a hasty exit. There was a stunned silence in the bar, and then an explosion of noise as people crowded around the victim, who was moaning on the floor, one hand covering his demolished face.

    “You really messed him up, baby, God, you wrecked his face, oh, God, baby, you feel so good, oh Jesus ...” Jane was straddling Rooney’s hips; he was supine on their bed, one large hand kneading her breast. He looked up at the joy on her face, her eyes closed, matching his rhythm, heave for heave.
    She was back, yes, she was back, just the way it used to be.



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