John
Woolfrey 1059 words
1729
Rue de la Visitation
Montreal,
Quebec, Canada
H2L
3C3
(514)
597-2189
Le Jardin des
Merveilles
Copyright by Raymond John Woolfrey
Published in Queer View Mirror
(Vol. 1),
Arsenal Pulp Press, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. 1995
From East of the Big Q,
a collection of gay short stories about Montreal
“ ‘Never go east of Morgan’s,’ ” I
said.
“What’s Morgan’s,
and why shouldn’t I go east of it?” asked Michael, impatiently. Michael moved
to Montreal two years ago from Vancouver. He’s thirty-six, about six-foot-one,
short dark-brown hair, and he usually wears a big earring. His hair and his
body are wiry; his disposition wired. As a result of the latter, he’s pretty
skinny, with a somewhat bony face, thick, dark eyebrows, and black eyes that
dart around ceaselessly. We often go out to bars where we yack for hours. This
evening we were in La Queue Dorée.
“Morgan’s used to be a department
store. Now it’s The Bay — the one on Philip’s Square,” I explained. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t go
east of it— I was quoting my mother. Lots of mothers said that to their kids.”
“Really? Why?”
“I never
asked. I just lumped it in the same category as ‘never get into a stranger’s
car.’ ”
“Wow. Like the
East End was full of child molesters, or something. But when you were older,
weren’t you curious?”
“Not until I
was fourteen. I was a pretty obedient kid. Rather a priss, really. So I
contented myself with exploring the West End and downtown. I didn’t know
anybody in the east, anyway.”
“Did you find
out why anglo boys shouldn’t go east of — what is it again — Morgan’s?”
“Well, sort
of.”
“What
happened?”
“I wanted to
go to the zoo. I’d never been to one. My mother said she was too revolted by
the animals always ‘getting sexy.’ And back then there was a children’s zoo in
La Fontaine Park called the Garden of Wonders, or Le Jardin des Merveilles
in French. I figured I’d better go before I got too old for a children’s zoo.
“So I went
alone one Sunday afternoon in late June. After I’d been there for awhile, I saw
my math teacher from the past year out with his family. I didn’t want him to
see me—partly because I was embarrassed at being alone and partly because I was
afraid he knew I used to peek down his shirt to see his chest hair when I went
up to his desk.”
Michael
laughed. “I had a teacher I used to do that to.”
“I figured I’d
had enough of monkeys picking each others’ assholes anyway,” I continued, “so I
headed for the bus stop. As it came into view, the 24 was just pulling away. I
ran to the stop ahead to try to catch it, dodging a car that was creeping along
the parking lot. Halfway there I realized I wouldn’t make it, so I walked back
to the other stop, which was closer. On the way I became aware of the same car
I had just dodged cruising back, moving alongside me, and at the same pace as
my walking. I glanced inside and noticed the driver was looking over at me,
sort of leering. Once I got to the bus stop, he stopped his car, and gestured
with his head ever so slightly that I should come over to him. But the movement
was so understated and, well, furtive, I wasn’t sure if I imagined it. So I
pretended I didn’t see and looked up Sherbrooke Street for the bus.”
“Was this
across from the library?” asked Michael, suspiciously.
“Uh-huh.”
“He thought
you were a hustler! I heard that that parking lot and Dominion Square were the
places where hustlers went before the village.”
“I had no
idea! I didn’t even know the concept!” I said. “So, on the bus-stop sign,
somebody had written Once Every over
the number 24: I figured I might have a while to wait. From time to time I
looked out the corner of my eye at the blue Chevrolet still parked nearby. I
didn’t dare look at the driver. As time crawled on and the car didn’t budge, I
was getting rather nervous. Was he a policeman? Had I done something wrong? Was
it illegal for English-looking boys from the Town of Mount Royal to venture
into the East End?”
“You should
have listened to your mother!” Michael schticked.
“Yeah,” I
said. “I wasn’t really worried at the time since there were other people
waiting for the bus. But I did start wondering if I was getting paranoid when I
thought a guy waiting at the bus stop was watching me too. He was kinda weird
looking, with narrow shoulders and a face like a turkey vulture.”
Michael made a
face: “Eeooh!”
“But after a
while I realized I wasn’t paranoid. He was staring at me. So was the guy
in the car. I didn’t know what was going on. Finally, the turkey-vulture guy
spoke: ‘Do you want to come with me?’ he asked, in English.”
“Why in
English?” asked Michael.
“You know.
Everybody speaks to me in English, even before I open my mouth.”
“Yeah, you
look pretty anglo—a real tête carrée.[1]”
“So I looked
at him. I wondered if he meant what I thought he meant. No, he’s just a little
a bit weird and he wants a friend, I thought. Besides, I knew that if I left
then I’d get home just in time for Bugs Bunny.”
“Yeah, after
all, you were still a kid!”
“So being the
polite little bourgeois boy that I was, I looked him straight in the eye and
replied, ‘No thank you, but maybe the man in that car would like to,’
indicating the blue Chevrolet to my left.”
“You little
snot! You knew the score, all right.”
“I guess so.
It’s like I did and I didn’t, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know—
At that age … What happened next?”
“The bus came.
I got on and I went to the back, like all teenagers do. As the bus pulled away,
I saw the man at the bus stop through the rear window, and I felt a small pang
of. lost opportunity, I guess. I realized he was offering me something I’d been
wanting so long for: sex with a grown man. Surely it would have been some kind
of adventure, at least. But as the bus headed west, I looked at him again. He
really was unattractive, being turkey-like and all. And I really did want to
get home in time to see Bugs Bunny.”