to be a little bit of monster in me.
― Jennifer Lynn Barnes
Chaos
I've probably wandered aimlessly in pouring rain for half my life and where has it gotten me? Tonight I'm on Yonge Street in search of a bar or crowded bistro where I can blend anonymously into the fabric of human cacophony.
Nobody talks any more, just make noise and I'm in search of peace and a haven from the storm―the one inside me that's a lot more frightening than thunder of lightning.
The rain's turned the asphalt road into a riot of blurred and marred colours and that's fine with me. I don't want reality or even too much actuality―I just want to fade into the background and yet still be part of the scene.
I'm a chameleon intent on fitting in but remaining separate.
That makes no sense to most people but it's code to others like me. We've seen too much and don't want explain. We just want to be near, not be seen, but to be there and disappear.
I veer off the main drag and end up in a dive bar called The Horseshoe Tavern. I've been here before with Kenny when his band was playing and the joint was jumping.
The place is legendary. The Stones played here back in 1997 but that's not why I'm here. The front part of the bar is tacky and sticky. There's a pool table and $8.00 beer and shadowy denizens who don't ask questions.
It's not a cocktail party―nobody asks what you do for a living. Like I said, I just want to blend in. The bar's crowded and noisy and no one notices another stiff nursing a beer.
Past midnight, the rain's stopped or at least it's let up and so I take advantage and head home. This time, I flag a cab and end up in my condo just before one.
I'm on the top floor, technically the penthouse. The place is old and has seen better days but still offers a good view of the Toronto skyline. A myriad lights are out there, blinking in the wet night and I sit and watch in my darkened front room until I also blink out and sleep overtakes and engulfs me.
I awake in the grey morning light my mouth feeling and tasting like the bottom of a bird cage and my bed unslept in again. But my sleep was dreamless so I count it a win.
I'm hung over from booze but something else keeps me awake nights. Strange images of death―something an ordinary person might fear, but then, no ordinary person would pursue my trade.
I spent ten years as a criminal profiler for the RCMP and now I'm out of it and write about it. It's a way of exorcising my ghosts but it doesn't work. They still return to haunt me.
My shrink tells me to take my meds. I'm on a benzo and prazosin for insomnia and nightmares. They don't get rid of the symptoms but make them manageable...supposedly.
And yes, I've been through all the therapies but they don't reset my psyche or the recurring horrors disturbing my sleep. I need a distraction and right now self-medication and losing myself in a crowd don't seem to be working for me.
"Hey Cam!" Marta's cheerful voice sounds in my ear. She's my literary agent and it's her weekly call.
"Publisher bought, Cold in the Earth and wants more. "Congratulations!"
"Good to know," I force myself to sound excited, "I'm glad to discover I'm not working for nothing."
"By the way, do you know a man named Cyril?"
"Yeah, he's my uncle."
"He's been looking for you. Sounds desperate. Hope everything's okay."
"I've been invisible. I'll get back to him. Thanks, Mar."
I hang up the phone with a sense of dread. Cyril isn't the type to phone about trivia. I haven't talked to him much since quitting the force. He's staff superintendent in some small town and is as driven about police work as I once was.
Wonder what he wants? I muse, Maybe some info on a case I worked.
I've only been out of police work for a year, but it's been a struggle. Hard to make ends meet as a full-time writer and I actually miss the work, aside from the nightmares.
I punch his number into my cell and pray he doesn't answer.
No such luck. He picks up on the second ring. Busted!
"Cam, where you been? I've been trying to reach you all week―even phoned your publisher."
"Marta's my agent, Cyril and she just told me."
"I need your help on a case. How soon can you get out here?"
"Uh, you remember the fact that I'm retired?"
"I really need you help, Cam, or I wouldn't be asking."
"Two hours," I say flatly.
"What's that?" he asks, puzzled.
"My E.T.A. and make sure there's plenty of Timmies coffee―not that gut rot you guys drink."
"I'll put my assistant right on it....and thanks, Cam―I owe you."
He's right―he does owe me big time for even going out to the boondocks let alone looking into one of his cases.
Truth be told, I was feeling sidelined and on the shelf and it wasn't helping my mood or outlook. I did enjoy being a cop―I just kept ignoring the struggle that came from profiling gruesome murders. I should have sought help earlier.
I've been involved with exposure therapy to deal with my PTSD but maybe aiding Cyril on this case might also end up benefitting me.
It's worth a try. Nothing else is working right now and to tell the truth I'm done with dives.