With Gusto

The Cane

The three of them sat on the rocks in the sun, the harbour out in front of them. Some ships sailed past, and boats holding squads of tourists puttered about. Behind the three of them, in the small park, pools of junkies and First Nations sat around, talking, though they couldn't hear the words. The first one, Jenny, held a cup a sangria, and so did Brent and Mike. Jenny lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the salty breeze.
“Now you listen here,” Brent said. “I don’t want you getting on my case again. I’ve decided, and that’s what important.”
“But you don’t need a cane,” Mike said, putting his hand on Brent’s shoulder.
“Don’t condescend to me,” Brent said, and shook off the hand.
“Yeah Mike, don’t condescend,” Jenny said, and sipped her sangria.
“Then what, Jenny. Let him have a cane?”
“I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“What does he need a cane for? You guys are nuts.”
“Weed?” The noise came from behind them. Brent turned around and saw a tall, thin man without a shirt on. Even though he was skinny, his flesh hung off him, which made his muscles look out of place. Brent shook his head, and the man went away.
“I could teach him something about using a cane. . .” Brent mumbled. “Okay,” he said and turned to Mike, sipping his sangria. “I’ll tell you something, Mike. You better shut your face about this cane thing.”
“You and your cane can fly away,” Mike said. “I don’t want a friend with a cane. I’m too young.”
“You’re getting older,” Jenny said, and rubbed Mike’s leg, the nub of her smoke making small wakes in his leg hair.
“What if I got a scooter, then?” Mike said.
“You did drive one,” Brent said.
“Not that kind of scooter. A three-wheeler. What if every time you wanted to go somewhere, I’d be in one of those, taking up the side-walk. Driving down the streets, getting held up going down the wrong way down one way streets.”
“You can’t afford a scooter, Mike,” Jenny said as she flicked her smoke in the water. A sea plane landed, making noise.
Brent said, “I’ll tell you why I need a cane.” Brent said, “About two years ago, when I was living in Panama, working the door for the men’s brothel. This one day, oddly cold, business was slow. I had to stand all day with nothing to lean on. When it started getting light out, a man, middle-aged, brown, came up to me. He was on a cane. He said, ‘betcha you could use one of these.’” Brent took a sip of sangria, remembering the glory days. “Anyways, I told the old man if he wanted in or not. 'Twenty bucks up front,' I said. The man mumbled something through his white teeth. He upturned his cane and unscrewed the rubber nub at the bottom and pulled out a small knife. So I signal for help. Brenna, an ex-mechanic, comes out of the brothel. She’s huge, and asks if there’s anything the matter. I point at the man with the cane, and he’s holding out twenty bucks, the knife gone, the cane at his side, where it should be.” Brent poured more sangria into his cup and took a long fizzy gulp.
“Cool,” Jenny said.
“Yeah. A cane. It’s a good place to keep money,” Brent said.
A man on a bike drove past them slowly and said, “Bike for a dollar?”
“No,” Jenny said, and lit another smoke.
“Listen here, Brent,” Mike said, putting his cup on the ground. “I swear, if you get a cane.” But he couldn’t think of what to say. Jenny took a long drag off her smoke and said, “That’s it. I quit.” She got up and tossed her pack of smokes to a First Nations couple, who nodded sagely. She walked back to the other two, sipping heavily on her sangria.