Bishop-Stall - Ghosted

For Dr. Kate
The Wasko boys
And the late, great Mr. Q

Whos going to ride that chrome three-wheeler?
Whos going to make that first mistake?
Who wants to wear gypsy leather?
All the way to Fire Lake?

These pages were written under the influence of many things, including Bob Segers Fire Lake. And I recommend you read them in much the same waya little high, a little low, with Fire Lake playing in the background, or at least strumming through your head: the scratch of the grooves in the record, then piano and acoustic guitar, that strong steady back beat, those first haunting lines

For my money thats the best song ever about going to hell. In fact, Bob Segerlong may he runshould get me to write his epitaph:

Here lies a man who wrote the best song ever about going to hell. So let him rise.

INTRODUCING:

Mason, Chaz

Warren

And a little bit of Fishy.

Mason Dubisee dodged a booze-propelled bullet on the day he was born.

His father came in to the hospital room smilinga bottle of champagne cradled in his arms. He looked at his wife and newborn son, tore off the foil and cranked the wire. Angling the bottle heavenward, he pushed with his thumbs.

The cork shot out with incredible force. It ricocheted off the ceiling, a wall, then rocketed into the pillow an inch from Masons infant cranium.

His father told the story for years to come. Grinning with pride, hed pass around the infamous cork: I swear to God, he dodged the fucking thing.

It was a feat that would prove more difficult as Masons life went on.

On his thirtieth birthday, Mason opened his eyesand saw water pipes. They were painted white, against a white ceiling. It took him a moment to realize he was somewhere comfortable and quiet. There was nobody kicking him, or trying to grab his stuff or banging on the door. He wasnt too cold and he was barely hung over. There was a pillow beneath his head and when he rolled onto his side, it smelled like a new stuffed animal.

He looked at the far wall: exposed brick, power-washed clean. There were silver and bronze specks in the bricks and in the grouting, and they sparkled beneath a skylight. Against the wall was an ancient curlicued radiator, painted deep chestnut. The floor beneath it was hardwood, also dark, giving way to ceramic tilesmidnight blue and mottleddemarcating the kitchen area.

It was a thousand square-foot loft. According to Chaz it used to be a belly dance studio. If he kept turning around in bed like this he could see every corner of it.

After a while Mason was ready to get up. Or rather, down. The bed was fairly highnot so much that youd injure yourself if you fell out, but enough that it would hurt to land. There was a three-step ladder, with storage space beneath. A captains bed, it was called. Mason kind of liked that. He kind of liked everything right now. It was his thirtieth birthday and here he was: waking up in a captains bed. He had an open concept, a skylight and hardwood floors darkened by the sweat of amateur belly dancers. The day was full of possibility.

He climbed down and pulled on a pair of boxers. They were green, with penguins on them. He stood in the middle of the room, light spilling in from all directions. There were two large windows at the front, looking down onto Spadina Avenueand one at the back that opened onto a flat tarmac roof. He surveyed the apartment, flecks of gold dust in the air.

By one of the front windows stood a simple oak desk, by the other a seating area with a burgundy couch, two easy chairs and a TV, then a shelving unit, a cabinet and a dresser, all empty. Masons to fill.

Other than the duffle bag by the door, the only proof of habitation was on the table in the centre of the room. Mason pulled up a chair and studied it: Johnnie Walker Blackalmost emptytwo glasses, a rolled-up twenty, an ashtray surrounded by ashes, white residue, playing cards, poker chips

How much did you lose?

He wasnt sure, but he knew he hadnt wonChaz was better at poker than he used to be.

Mason picked up one of the glasses and walked into the kitchen area. The icy ceramic felt good on the soles of his feet. There was a coffee maker on the counter. He looked at it for a while, but there were too many buttons. He opened the fridge: beer and an open box of baking soda. He poured himself a glass of water, dug into his duffle bag for paper and a pen, then crossed the room and sat down on the sunlit couch. He wrote:

To-Do ListMonday

He wouldnt usually have known the day of the week, but today was a day for cognizance, for new beginnings. He underlined To-Do List. Then Monday. Then he looked out the window.

He was sitting on the couch in his underwear staring out the window when Chaz came in. Whats the headline, pigeon?

So what? You dont knock?

Not till you start paying rent. He walked over to the table in the centre of the room, slung his jacket over a chair, then started gathering up the cards. Chaz was sort of a neat freak.

How much did I lose last night?

Two and a half.

Masons heart rate doubled, his skin got cold. Thousand?

Dont worry, said Chaz, stacking up the chips. I know where you live. He went into the kitchen area to get a dishcloth.

Until yesterday it had been five years since theyd seen each other, but Chaz looked much the same. He was wiry and there was a slickness to him, like shiny leather. Mason was well-worn suedebarrel-chested, beaten in, rough around the edges.

Theyd been friends since they were kids. And now, as adults, they came on like men whod gotten away with something, tough guys who liked to dance. Both were handsome in certain lightsdim ones mostlywhich fit their lives just fine.

Chaz was wiping up the ashes. You got some rhino coming, right?

Other than being better at poker, this was another way hed changed. It used to be Chaz only talked like a whacked-out gangster when he was drunk, but now he was like Jimmy Cagney on Ritalin. Im in a good mood, hed said the day before, by way of explanation. But Chazs mood was often good. He was the least haunted smart guy Mason had ever met.

Rhino? said Mason.

You might have called it something else. Chaz threw the dishcloth into the sink. But if its a problem

No. No. Youre right, Ive got magazine money owing, from like three different stories. I just got to give them an address.

Well, you got one now. Chaz spread his arms, indicating opulence as he walked across the floor. Then he sat down in one of the easy chairs.

Yeah. Thanks for this.

I was just going to say, if its ever a problemI mean, I dont know what its like in this town, as far as the writing biz goes and all but if youre short, I can set you up.

No thanks, Chaz.

Chaz shot him a sharp glance, then rubbed his hands together and looked around at the apartment, surveying the reno job that he himself had done. I wasnt talking about dealingnot a bindle-stiff like you.

Then what are you talking about?

Hotdogs, he said, as if hed burned himself happilythe emphasis on