Saint of Whales - Chapter VI

The cab screeched away into the night, leaving Saint standing under the moonlight and staring at the 14th Street hill. It wasn’t that the hill was overly hard to climb, but -30 Celsius had him wanting the taxi to drive him to his door, not announce an inability or unwillingness to drive up the hill for fear of getting stuck. Saint wanted to curse the driver out, wanted to shout obscenities and refuse to pay, but he didn’t do any of that. He told the driver he understood and he wouldn’t have wanted to get stuck in the snow either, and, of course, he knew there were a lot of other people stuck out in the cold right now who needed a lift. How much bullshit the driver had been feeding him, he wasn’t sure, but the way the car sped away towards the bars on 17th Avenue told him all he needed to know.  

Saint shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his face as he stared up the hill. Objectively, the incline wasn’t even all that much—barely more than an inconvenience—and if Saint was honest with himself for once, he might not have felt so hard done by. He tugged at his scarf again, trying to ward off the snapping and biting wind that threatened to freeze any bit of skin left exposed. As a boy, he remembered his mother telling him watch out for frostbite on the faces of others at the school yard and it had always stuck with him. The weather could be a killer to those who weren’t adequately outfitted. And, yet, he found himself standing at the bottom of a very walkable hill feeling sorry for himself because he didn’t get what he wanted. Saint sighed and shook his head before putting one foot after the other. 

As he walked, Saint let out a long sigh, watching his breath trail away in the air. He couldn’t ward off the feeling that he should have done more for the homeless man he encountered. The wings were a nice thing, so were the running shoes, but it wasn't as though either of those acts carried much salt. He knew when he got home he would sit in some sort of soup of privileged guilt, bemoaning about how he’d tried to help, how he didn’t know what else he could have done. He would encourage himself to know at least he did something, but he was aware enough to know empty words when he used them, and he knew the empty calories of guilt when he chewed them. Doing something wasn’t anything but hot air. If he were serious about wanting to do something, he would do some appropriate digging, find a community to which he could contribute in a specific capacity and he would do it. Guilt and anxiety flared in his guts, and he kicked at the ground while sighing again. Being a part of any meaningful change required something more than thought, more than just doing something from him.

The roar of a vehicle sent Saint jumping and a white van with its windows all newspapered over sped by him, just about flying up the hill. The driver was one person who wasn’t worried about getting stuck. Even with the brief glance he had of the van, Saint found himself deeply worried. While he hadn’t seen the license plate just now or earlier, he recognized the van from outside the gym, and he knew it had followed him. The distance to his home wasn’t such that someone looking in the area around the gym would end up near his apartment, not just by driving around looking for someone. His neighbourhood of Bankview was close enough that someone could have walked from the downtown core, but it was unlikely given the weather. Besides, between his gym and his condo was the old Electric Avenue, and then the Red Mile. If someone were lost, there were a lot of bars and restaurants, late-night food joints and convenience stores where someone could ask for help. Getting out the way of Saint’s apartment was a different story entirely. For someone to wander from his gym at 8th Avenue and 2nd Street Southwest meant almost thirty blocks of walking and, in the bitter February cold, there simply were better options than that. 

A knot tightened in Saint’s stomach as he thought about the man in the van on the hunt for someone, maybe for the old-timer outside the pub. Sensations of guilt and anxiety began bubbling in his guts and he stopped in his tracks. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly and smoothly. Something had been wrong with the driver of the van, and he worried about the old-timer being snatched up. Maybe the driver of the van was a maniac killer on the loose, hunting and killing the folks most people wouldn’t miss. Maybe Saint was at risk for just having seen him. He just couldn’t put his finger on why the van with papered-over windows would be in his area. There didn’t seem to be any good reason, unless it was to follow him. Saint shook his head and cursed at himself again. Like he was someone worth following, like he was someone who would be missed, like anyone would wonder about him missing for any reason beyond a missed payment.

At the first plateau in the hill, Saint turned to his right. If the van were in his neighbourhood, he didn’t want to be on the main drag, even though, in a way, being out on the most public of street would have been the better idea. Whatever the case was, he knew he didn’t want to see that van again or the man behind the wheel. There had been something about him that set off every alarm in Saint’s mind. He wanted to believe it was drugs, and maybe it was. He didn’t know. What he did know was the importance of him hurrying home. He would sleep on the man in the van and if he still felt the same way in the morning, he would call the police. Of course, there were the small matters of his not knowing the license plate number, nor the make of the van itself. If pressed to remember, what Saint could recall wasn’t much of anything really, except for how hard it was to remember anything about the man. What a laugh the police would get at his expense. 

The sound of a vehicle speeding back down 14th Street, gave Saint a reason to sigh in relief. Maybe the driver would move on after racing up and down the street a few times. With fear and guilt and shame motivating him, he knew he would be home in fifteen minutes or less, even considering the vigorous run he put himself through not too long ago. The frigid weather didn’t exactly incentivize being outside, especially without gloves. The cold didn’t bother his left hand so much in the sense that he could flex and stretch as needed to keep the blood pumping. His right hand was a different story, however. With really only being able to move his index finger and thumb, there wasn’t much opportunity to goose the circulation. Saint stuffed his hands into his pockets as deep as he could and kept trudging, despite the numbness spreading through his legs. 

Calgary was such a funny place in that if one could deal with the weather, the city held an immense amount of beauty. Even the cold carried its own charm. On the nights where the temperature dropped so low the measurements ceased to truly matter, peace and quiet and calm settled over the city, with only lonely sojourners wandering through the cold and darkness on their own.

The roaring of an engine pulled Saint from his thoughts, and he half turned around to see the same white van with newspapered windows speed by on 22nd Avenue. He couldn’t shake the notion that anyone searching for someone who’d been in the area around his gym just wouldn’t be in the area of his apartment. For anyone living outside, the downtown area had the most services, the most access points, the most places to at least try and grab something hot to eat. Near Saint’s apartment, there was a 7-11, a gas station, and a liquor store. He picked up his pace and he pushed himself harder. It wouldn’t be long and he’d be kicking his feet up with a cold beer in one hand, and ordering a piping hot pizza topped with pineapple, mushrooms and garlic. Normally, he would take some time to decide which pizza joint to order from, but the events of the day had him not caring about where he ordered from. Pretty much, he would find where he could get two pizzas for a good price, and maybe a side of wings since he didn’t get to eat any earlier. 

When one wasn’t paying attention, reality had a way of snapping sharply and pulling one back from the haze of dreaming, and Saint found himself recalled in stinging fashion. He felt his left foot touch down on snow-covered concrete with relative firmness, while his right foot touched down on the same snow-covered sidewalk with slightly less firmness. Saint stopped dead in his tracks. Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath in, counting to five before following a similar count as he let it out. He knew the feeling he felt.

With the temperature being what it was, Saint knew he didn’t just step in dog shit, but he stepped in a fresh pile of dog shit. His eyes still closed, he pulled his scarf down and took quick sniff. The stink of feces struck his nose immediately and failed in fighting back the series of gags surging up from his stomach. Covering his nose with the crook of his left elbow, he took a step forward before turning around and looking down at the ground. Sure enough, he saw a hulking pile of dog shit, or, at least what he hoped was dog shit. Saint pulled his eyes away. He couldn’t handle the visual along with the smell.

Despite his best efforts, he knew he wouldn’t be able to collect himself so long as he stood in such close proximity to the pile and he started to head up the street towards his apartment. However, the stink of dog shit on a shoe wasn’t something one just walked away from, and it wasn’t even really something one could clean off—at least not in Saint’s experience. He thought maybe the cold would help freeze it or something, but with every inhale and every step he knew that wouldn’t be the case. Knowing his home wasn’t overly far away, maybe a ten minute walk, He tried his best to ignore the smell, but he couldn’t do it.

He dropped his head forward, sighing and grumbling, while swinging his gym bag off his shoulder. Lowering to a crouch, he set his bag onto the ground and recoiled as took out the pair of moccasins. The stink of the man’s rotten feet carried an almost physical quality, giving Saint pause to wonder whether it was better or worse than his current situation. A sniff of the air brought the dog feces up to his nose and he blinked, trying to keep himself from gagging again. As worn out as the moccasins might have been, as badly as they might have smelled, they were a damn sight better than the alternative. Standing up straight, he first kicked off the shoe with the shit on it, wobbling a bit as he tried his best not to touch his foot to the ground while slipping on the moccasin and setting his foot down. He closed his eyes immediately, trying to regulate his mood and more or less failing. Nothing had gone right today, and he blamed a lot of it on his poor decision making from the night prior. Beating himself up over what had already happened was a fool’s errand, but sometimes it just was what it was. He kicked off his remaining shoe and slipped the other moccasin on. Setting his hands on his hips, he looked up at the cloudless sky, staring at the moon hanging high above him. One more deep breath, one more look at his former footwear—content to leave the shoes where they lay—and resumed walking up the hill. Only another handful of blocks and he was home. 

A part of Saint’s mind drifted away as he walked, floating around what it would be like if he didn’t make it home, if he somehow froze to death on the way. Maybe it wouldn't be all bad. He’d read freezing to be similar to drowning, so while maybe there would be some panic until his body shut down, he would end up at peace before he knew it, probably without even knowing it. A deep sense of wonder settled over him. Maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad. He was fairly sure no one would even notice he was gone. Maybe his work would notice, but he would be replaced. Maybe the bank would notice, or the cable company, or the phone company, or the hydro company, but it wasn’t as though he would be leaving anyone who actually cared. 

Squealing tires and beaming headlights bearing down on him jarred Saint from his reverie and he jumped away from the street and headfirst into a snowbank, jamming his left wrist and shoulder in the process. He rolled onto his back, wincing as he tried to sit up to get a look at the vehicle careening down the street before ripping around a corner. Whatever vehicle had driven past was out of view now. The anxious corner of Saint’s mind told him it was the same van from his gym that had just nearly run him down, and he should call the police. He should hurry home and get on the phone right away and report dangerous driving, maybe even drunk driving. The thing about Calgary was that bad drivers weren’t anything new or notable. The stereotype, of course, was a laid-off oil patch worker in a dual-axle diesel truck blasting around town because he was a jerkoff, and the stereotype existed for reason. However, the driving culture reflected the larger corporate culture of the city, which was about getting to a desired location and everyone else be damned.

As much as Saint worried about the van, it was also the last thing he needed to worry about. He had no proper footwear, he was freezing and covered in snow with no gloves, not to mention his wrist and shoulder on his good arm were killing him and he was hungry, angry and tired. He needed to get home and put himself to rest. With that, Saint pushed himself up out of the snowbanks and tried to dust himself off, like that would make any difference at all. What a day so far. 

“Motherfucker. Fuck this. Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker,” he grumbled as he took another step, and, of course, life couldn’t be easy. His extended foot—all heel—hit the ground, and shot out from under him, sending him ass over teakettle and flat onto his back, the back of his head smacking the concrete. He gasped at freezing air while supernovas cascaded across his field of view and a shrill whining started up in both ears. He cradled his right hand and rolled side to side. Every ragged breath sent stinging pain streaking up and down the left side of his rib cage and out from sternum to spine. Directing his focus as much as possible, he rolled onto his right side before pushing himself to his hands and knees. With eyes closed, he tried take to stock of the pain. He couldn’t tell if his wrist hurt more than his ribs, or if his difficult breathing was a result of broken ribs and a collapsed lung or just from slipping and landing on his back. Slowly, he got his left foot under him, then his right, and he started to push himself to standing. It was difficult to get a sense of much, except for mulling on how much worse his day could get. Of course, he knew as soon as he asked the question, he would get the answer. A day could always get worse.

Crouching down again, he grabbed his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder. He took a deep breath and, once again, started up the hill towards his apartment. The lower right portion of his back throbbed with every step and it felt as though he’d twisted every muscle from his left shoulder blade down and across to his right hip. Maybe he had, and wouldn’t that be lovely. He knew he couldn’t call in sick. Karlo wouldn’t have any of it. In fact, his manager would probably blame him for what happened, declaring that he'd doddled after work instead of heading straight home. Saint knew Karlo would try and ask him how things were at home, which was his manager’s way of prying into someone’s life with the intent of using the information as a tool at a later date. Maybe it would be a justification for rejecting a raise or a reclassification of a job, or for denying a transfer to another role within the organization. Maybe he would take the information and leverage it against him in the manner of a poor reference for a job with another organization because he considered someone taking a change in work as a personal affront. 

“Motherfucker,” Saint grumbled, kicking at the snow and the ground, catching a piece of something and sending a blue spark across the ground. He shook his head and wiped at his nose with his right wrist. The ringing in his ears hadn’t died out yet, instead having settled into a low whining. He was pretty sure he read somewhere ringing in the ears could indicate a concussion. The same with the veil of glitter cast across his entire field of vision. With quickly numbing feet, he kicked at the ground again.

“What a motherfucking day.” 

Another series of blue sparks streaked in front of him, and he started to kick at the sidewalk with every step.

“Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker.” 

A piece of ice came into view and he pulled back his foot and kicked at the chunk with as much effort as he could, not caring in the slightest if he slipped again. Kicking something felt good and he wanted to feel good. After his toes connected, the bit of ice skipped up the sidewalk about six feet with blue sparks trailing behind it. He kicked at another piece of ice once more, giving it everything he had. The chunk of ice lifted off the ground, leaving an arc of blue energy behind it. Saint took a few more steps forward before stopping, as his eyes focused on the specks of blue energy in front of him beginning to vibrate, energetically pulling towards one another from scattered points and coalescing into a perfect circle of energy on the ground. 

Saint blinked a few times. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. The circle of energy rose up off the ground, lifting towards him and flashed brightly, blinking into a window of sheer blue energy. His eyes bugged out and he tried to take a step back, but instead he felt the strength sapping away from his legs. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he toppled forward through the window of energy which, conveniently, blinked shut behind him and left only a burnt spot on the ground and a few remaining blue sparks crackling on the sidewalk.

As if on cue, the van with newspapered-over windows pulled up and the driver’s side window rolled down. A perfectly round head atop a skinny neck popped out the window. Upon seeing the blue sparks and the burnt spot, the man sucked his teeth loudly and pulled back into the van. He tapped away at something on the dashboard of the truck and the headlights of the van shifted to a similar blue colour as the sparks still scattered on the sidewalk. A whining began filling the air, and the blue beams broadened out until a window of blue rose up off he ground, just big enough for the van to fit through, and fit through it did as the man drove the van in. In a blink, the window disappeared with only a scorch mark on the road remaining as a sign of its appearance.