Gene, Genie
Fiction by Gerilee McBride
For weeks I’ve been catching glimpses of him everywhere. The grey of his hair on a crowded bus. His skinny legs walking down the street in front of me. His jean-jacketed torso with old-man neck poking out the top. There was a moment when I thought he must have died and I was seeing his revenant—like seeing a the afterimage of a recently deceased pet, the flash of familiarity until your brain catches up with reality. But I know my dad hasn’t died. Yet. He just drunk-dialed me last week. Still. I can’t shake off the feeling that he’s somehow here and not fourteen hours away tucked in his own home as he should be.
I saw him again today. We were opposite in a crosswalk and I made the decision to turn around and follow because there was no mistaking him this time. And when he pulled open the door to a down-and-out bar in the middle of a dead-end street I wasn’t even surprised. When I caught up with him he was already seated at the counter and had a cold pint of beer to his lips and was drinking thirstily. The inside of the bar had dark corners and a handful of what I would guess were the regular patrons of this not-so-fine establishment. It was only half past five but I couldn’t imagine the place livening up much more. I sat down at an end corner of the bar, keeping a seat between us, waiting to see if dad recognized me. It had been a long time since we saw each other but there was still enough of the Norwegian in us both that couldn’t be denied; same ski-slope nose, same pale skin, and the very same grey-blue eyes. I could see the resemblance in the mirror over the bar. It was him, wasn’t it? Catching the attention of the bartender I ordered a beer in the noisiest way possible to see if dad would look up. Only when I fumbled my change on the counter did he sweep his eyes my way. There was no surprise of recognition but he didn’t seem in a hurry to get back to pondering his now almost finished beer either. He caught one of my rolling coins and slid it back to me.
“Better watch your loose change in here. These people have no manners. They’re just as likely to grab it up and pretend they dropped it themselves.”
“Now, Gene, you know you’re just describing yourself. Let this young woman have her drink in peace.” The bartender, who’s name tag read Brett, gave me a wink, and went back to sorting out the dishwasher at the other end of the bar.
Gene? Not the right name and yet the voice was instantly familiar, the long drawling of the vowels that makes dad sound like he’s a 45 on a 33 spin. Why didn’t he know it was me? I was trying to gulp down the last of my pint and grab my bag to go, figuring it was just a bad coincidence, when Gene started talking to me.
“What’s yurrr naaaame?”
I told him and he nodded long and slow, seemingly satisfied. I decided to stay a while. The eyes that I thought were like mine were just a little bit on the glacial blue side, more light than grey. His voice was so close as to be almost better than the real thing and it made me want to listen more closely. I leaned in and bought us another round since Gene started making a sour face with his lips which I could only guess was his way of indicating he was parched. Dad would have just asked or scrounged some change to buy some off-sales to drink at home. I didn’t mind drinking with Gene. Gene was quite pleasant company. I would never have drunk with my real dad. He’s a genuine drunk, the kind that has a pickled liver and the pigmentless hair to show for it. The kind that buys a six-pack of the cheapest beer and is slurring, falling-down drunk after two cans but always, always finishes off the six. Not a mean drunk but one that you don’t really want to spend any time with as his conversation skills deteriorate like the dead-end pathways in his brain. The kind of drunk that drunk-dials his daughter twice a year to ask how she’s doing and who won’t remember he had the conversation the next day. I’ve learned not to answer the phone after 3 p.m.
This guy Gene, he seems different. Instead of starting to slur his speech upon the downing of his second beer, his underwater voice has actually cleared up a little and we’re able to have a fairly viable conversation about the recent Ryan Gosling movie. I say ‘fairly’ since I’m now the one concentrating on not slurring and trying to keep up with Gene’s drinking skills. I’m not a big drinker, though, like dad; it only takes me two beers to get loaded.
“Gene, want another one?” I can’t resist, it’s like watching my dad in reverse. He’s even started to sway less.
“Well, aren’t you generous. Why yes, I would like another drink.”
I ignored the fact that he hadn’t offered to stand us a round, that and his vision seemed sharper, more calculating as the night wore on wondering just how many drinks a girl like me will buy a skeleton like him. I like Gene, but his seeming sobriety was making me nervous. It wasn’t just the kind of sobriety that drunks try to mimic—the careful drawing out of words, the slow consideration to a question asked—Gene has none of that pretense. He’s even stopped sloshing his beer around when he makes a particularly impassioned argument about why Gosling is the new Pitt.
Now on my third beer, I’ve had too much to drink and my vision is starting to pan like a bad student film. I gather my scarf and coat and pat my pockets making sure my phone and keys are where they should be. I’m ready to say Seeya Gene, nice chatting with ya Gene, gee you look an awful lot like my dad Gene but I guess I’ve drunk too much and should really get home now Gene when he grabs my hand, squeezing my knuckles together until they’re grinding within his grip.
“You’ll come back again, won’t you?”
“Um, sure Gene.” I respond and try to pull my hand out of his grasp. We stand there for a full minute with my hand in his as he stares at me through his now cold eyes. Then, like nothing is amiss, he drops my hand, smiles with a vague grin on his face (just like dad would), and slaps me on the shoulder.
“Okay! Good. I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”
I can only grunt in reply, looking around to see if Brett noticed anything off but he’s serving another customer so I turn away and walk quickly through the bar until I’m outside taking huge gulps of the fresh and crisp winter air into my lungs and trying not to vomit.
I went back. Of course I did. It was like sniffing milk from an expired carton to see if it’s still good. I got so used to the smell that it was a little over two weeks later and I still found myself walking into the now familiar doors to sit at my now usual seat at the bar. I was also now up to a five beer minimum and Gene’s stories were getting funnier with each telling (he sometimes forgot he was telling the same ones but I didn’t mind). Gene played dad so well that I would pretend for a beer or two that he was dad because that was a nice warm feeling that went well with the nice warm feeling of inebriation. Then he would tell a story that wasn’t particularly nice and would sneer while telling it and I would be reminded of that knuckle-crunching grip and feel little shivers run up the back of my neck. That’s about the point in each night where the drink would catch up with me and my memory would flood out and yet somehow I made my way home to sleep it off.
Tonight was the first time that I arrived at the bar and had to wait for Gene. I was already two pints in (and finishing a third, but who’s counting) when he made an appearance.
“Hey, Gene-Genie,” I laughed a bit to myself as he climbed onto his stool, “Where’ve you been?”
“None of your fucking business,” he said, barring his teeth. That aggressive response blanked my mind and I could only stare at his perfectly straight, bright white and solid teeth. They were miraculous really, how could they be so perfect with all the drinking he did? I imagined he could do all kinds of things with teeth like that. Visions of Goya’s murderous father entered my head; chewing and spitting bloody bits of arm. So cavernous was Gene’s great tooth-filled maw that even though that terrible mouth had closed in a frown I couldn’t manage more than a gasp and a long draw from my now-warm beer in response. I also had a real need for the bathroom, since my traitorous body decided to put up a fight in response to Gene’s aggressiveness even as my brain said flight.
Slipping from my seat, I wound my way to the poorly lit hallway leading to the washrooms, trying not to piss myself along the way. It was close but I made it, just. A hard prickle of sweat trickled under my arms and when I looked in the mirror my skin was tinged green and my eyes sallow. I felt my mouth water and spots were forming at the periphery of my vision. The drink was catching up with me. Crouching down to lay my head against the cool ceramic of the sink, I waited for the nausea to pass. I had to get out of there but I couldn’t make my body cooperate. It wanted to throw up and I was fighting it. I focused on counting the small black squares of the black and white tiled floor and eventually my breathing became less erratic and my stomach settled enough for me to pull myself up, wash my face and get the hell out of the bathroom.
Before I could pull open the door I felt my leg vibrate. Reaching with a shaking hand into my pocket I grasped my phone, reading the display, and before I thought about it too much I answered the call from ‘Dad.’ My hello was greeted with silence, which while not unusual, as it sometimes takes dad a few seconds to kick in, my earlier unease was returning. Finally, I could hear breathing on the other end and a voice slowly asking if they had the right phone number. The voice was his and not his; it was playing at being dad. That fucker. Vibrating with an anger so furious my jaw ached from it I ended the call, locked my knees, and flung open the bathroom door ready to stomp back to confront Gene only to see that he had vanished from his perch. I whipped my head around, sure I would find him lurking in the corner waiting to see the result of his little gag. When it was apparent that Gene hadn’t stuck around I went back to my seat to gather my coat, still grinding my teeth at having been played.
“I was just about to put that in back,” Brett said, nodding to where I had gathered up my coat. I paused in my perusal of the bar, “Why would you do that?” I asked.
“You’ve been gone for almost an hour,” he stated and then gave me a puzzled look.
“Yeah, sure.” Was he in on it too? I gave him a look to accompany the sarcasm in my voice. “Tell Gene, good one, but I’m too tired to play whatever game this is.” I turned around and slammed out of the bar. »