Kicking Tomorrow Read Online Free PDF Page A

about yourself, OK ?”
    She turned her head in the direction of the stage. Robbie watched her with nervous interest. She was batting her soggy eyelashes and chewing her mouth. He knew she wasn’t enjoying the concert; that more than anything she wanted to talk. And sure enough: “I mix you up, do I, you poor confused thing? Here’s what you should know about me, then: I don’t wear glasses so I don’t have to
see
all the goons who want to hassle me. It’s OK if I only have to hear them, well, it’s
partly
OK , but if I look them in the face I’m DOOMED . That’s all they want, and I won’t give them the pleasure.”
    “What about working at your club, then?” Robbie said, superciliously. He’d been wanting to get around to this for a long time. “All men do there is stare, and you give them lots of pleasure.”
    “But standing real close and staring the customers down is, well, it’s
different –
it’s like, when they look into their drink as ifthey’ve found something floating around in it, they’re just like little boys. And anyhow, the bouncers protect me in there. Out in the REAL world I don’t
want
to see too clearly.”
    “But, Rosie, maybe if you didn’t, uh, dress the way you do, you wouldn’t attract so much, you know, attention.”
    Rosie punched him in the arm and gave him a resentful glare. “You sound like a politician,” she said, her voice clogged. “What should I wear? Rusty spiky armour? Why should I change the way I
dress?
Sexy is fun, although the way most men behave, you’d think it was a THREAT . Why
should
I change the way I dress. Men should change their
minds
, instead, like, turn ’em in and get a new, improved model.” She blew her nose on her towel. “I’m all forlorn now, Bob. I want to leave.”
    Robbie felt shitty. Truly he did. He held her arm, like a male nurse, guiding her through the crowd. On the bus he stared hard at anyone who might be curious as to why her eyes were wet. The bus passed through Westmount, only one stop to the park now. He prepared to stand up, taking her hand.
    “Oh no, not me,” Rosie said. “I’m going all the way home.
Alone please.”
    Robbie pulled a glum face, real hangdog, like the sun and the dope had warmed and softened it to Silly Putty. He slumped his head down between his shoulder blades He held onto her hand sorrowfully, gave it an ingratiating squeeze. At last she looked at him.
    “Bob!” Squinting in disbelief, shifting her weight away to get a better look. “You look so sad. Have I really upset you? Wow. Now, that – is – DYNAMITE!”
    In the middle of Westmount Park was a brightly painted booth equipped with a sound system, known in the neighbourhood as the Kiosk. There was a concrete clearing around it, with blisteredwooden benches, provided by the municipality to keep all the trouble in one place. Across the park, past the swings and past the library on Sherbrooke Street, you could always hear the supreme heaviosity of guitar riffs, whumping out over the trees.
    It was mostly Anglo-Quebeckers who gathered there, Westmount High students, famous in the city for the achievement of being perpetually stoned. (Years ago Robbie’s parents had refused to send him there for fear of Bad Influences, but look now, he thought, at least this school is still standing.) These cats liked to just hang out, revving their bikes, perching on the backs of the benches like patched-up parrots, smelling of patchouli and savage B.O. They smoked joints and grooved, sunlight flashing off the little mirrors embroidered into their Indian-cotton frog shirts. And the main thing was that to maintain your cool, you had to act unfriendly. You had to sit there looking like a Strolling Bones album cover, just being a lizard with a sewed-up mouth, sitting in twilight, in the crack between worlds, Castaneda-wise, not releasing a drop of emotion. Now Robbie wondered why he’d come. He looked around him with a sinking heart. He’d been so
up
until he