Cortez's Story: Part 4

Isabella has a great piece of wisdom regarding relationships. She likes to say that you can be spending time with two people and though you like them equally, the person with whom you spend the most time is the one you’re more likely to develop feelings for. It makes sense right?  You get to know them, and if they mesh with your life, you keep them around. If they don’t, you’re not apt to maintain the relationship long enough to get to a bonding point.

David, with whom I spent the majority of my free time, walked down at three am to meet me that first night after hanging out with Cortez. He was leaning against the brick wall out front of the Laughing Trout, waiting for me to float over. My head was in the clouds as I processed everything Cortez had told Eric and I about his lifestyle, past experiences and spirituality-inspired tattoos. Knowing how nervous I was about the new job and forming relationships there, David was curious to hear how staff bonding went. At home I gave him the rundown as best as I could remember it while he packed a bowl in our bazooka-shaped bong. My closing statement a half hour later was, “Cortez is interesting, but I wouldn’t want to be friends with him.”

As I spent more time with Cortez, at work and late night blaze sessions, it turned out he had a lot of wisdom nuggets as thought provoking as the dish comment. Through after work ‘safety meetings’ he taught me to relax about time and fielded questions about raising parents. We talked about the possibility that thousands of years ago we destroyed the Earth-like environment of Mars before flying to this planet and somewhere between being interesting and being the man I wanted as my boyfriend, I started to ask him every question I could think of. At first I asked personal questions: where was he from, did he ever plan to finish high-school, where did he learn all of the things he knew. Slowly they evolved to be about space, chakras and vibes, things former party pals had mentioned but never explained formally. It was like going to the school of life for eight hours a day and getting paid to do so! I didn’t agree with all of Cortez’s philosophies, but I immediately implemented the ones that resonated with me. Probably the most important thing that I learned was that things in our life, whether they are material, emotional or mental, have only so much meaning as we give them.

 Halfway through my short stint at the pub, a guy left me his number after seeing me back in the dish pit. Feeling adventurous, I agreed to meet him for coffee, and later we went four-by-four-ing up the local mountain. It was going unbelievably well until the jeep broke down. A few weeks ago, I would’ve been making myself sick with worry. I’d be convinced I was fired as I made the hour long trek back to cell coverage, with only a half an hour to get to my shift.

“Is it fixable?” I asked my date. He shook his head slowly, looking like a dog with his tail between his legs.

“I am so, so, so sorry.”

“It’s fine, really,” I smiled on the third repetition. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’m going to enjoy the walk until I can get a hold of Chef. Seriously, don’t worry about it!” I practically skipped down the gravel road, knowing that I was doing everything in my power at that moment to fulfill my responsibility to be at work. If Chef fired me – well, that would suck, but I couldn’t do any more than I was already doing. I had quite the story when I rushed in the Trout’s back door, and enjoyed being the kitchen entertainment for the evening.

“Hello Madame, how are you this evening?” asked a thick French accent during the unofficial break-time. Cortez sidled up to me, holding a small cup of coffee and a cigarette. It was the first chance we had had to talk about non-work related things that night. Wednesday Wings was our busiest night by far, and this one had been at least double the usual volume. “I heard you had quite the adventure.” He bared his stained teeth in an oddly charming smile.

“Did I ever,” I giggled, clapping my soapy hands. “It was fantastic Cortez, I only stressed for a second after the jeep broke down. I remembered what you said about the dishes not going anywhere. The situation was out of my control!” I felt like a groupie meeting her hero and wanting to impress him by knowing every detail of his past.

“Would you care to have a cigarette and tell me about it?” He opened his large hand to reveal a second cancer stick. I glanced around the kitchen quickly, taking in the lack of dirty dishes and activity. The kitchen was all but dead. “C’mon, they’ll be fine for five minutes.”

“Okay. Thank you!” I chirped, hopping a few inches in the air. I wasn’t yet at the point where I’d buy a pack, but the cravings had begun. I walked a few steps behind and to the side of him, looking up in growing admiration as he ranted about police and the New World Order.

“The bible,” I blurted as we settled on the smoking bench behind the dumpsters. I edged an inch closer to him so that we were sitting a hands width apart. He stroked his bushy ginger goatee while I took my turn lighting my cigarette.

“Hmm...” He took a drag and blew an O with the smoke. “The bible… is open to interpretation. Some men on a big fucking high horse interpreted it as a rule book to control people, but I say God is a metaphor for the power that you have within you. Just a big fucking metaphor; there’s no guy sitting on a cloud, judging us. That’s just crazy.”

“Like when you pray; you find that strength in yourself, because you believe God is taking care of everything for you.” I took another drag, feeling a head rush coming on.

“Exactly!” Cortez grinned, a tooth split clean in half. The colour of wet cement, it looked like it hurt.

“Not all brawns and no brain,” I smiled playfully. The cigarette was making me feel light and happy.

“No, you’re definitely more than just a pretty face,” he replied slowly, scrutinizing my tan face. I stared back openly. I stifled a giggle as the thought that his facial hair reminded me of pubic hair floated into my consciousness.

Underneath the long whiskers, his skin was thin and aged prematurely from a pack-a-day habit. Ten years of playing around with hard drugs didn’t help either, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his teeth. Thinning blonde hair framed his face in an exaggerated widow’s peak, curled just past his shoulders and punctuated by scraggly dreadlocks. The signature paisley bandana hid the near-bald spot on top of his head that I later learned was a genetic gift from his father. He looked thin but upon inspection had great muscle definition from years of manual labour. He was far from my usual definition of attractive, but there was something about his eyes, his smile and demeanor that put me at ease. I was under a spell of comforting relaxation and almost obnoxious honesty around him.

“Look, an eagle!” He hissed, putting his arm around me to point up to the branches of a lone oak tree. I wondered if he could read my mind, the way his arm had wrapped around me just as I was thinking about what it might be like to kiss him. Turning my head away from the bird, I inspected his face up close.

“He really isn’t that attractive,” the snarky voice of reason chimed, “and he’s way too old for you.” The want for love and the feeling that I was enough, with no make-up and sweaty from work, quickly silenced it.

 “Taylor,” Cortez started, his eyes softening as they seemed to read mine. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“At my old job, customers used to stop mid-sentence to compliment them,” I breathed, neither of us moving. “’Oh, they’re so blue! Look at her eyes, Minerva,’” I mimicked in a falsetto. His arm was still around me, making me feel small and protected. I leaned ever so slightly into his chest, picturing myself as light as a feather.

“There you are, c’mon, let’s go lovebirds,” grumbled Chef, appearing from in front of the dumpsters.

“We’re not—” I tried to explain.

“Nobody is. I don’t give a shit, just get yer butts back inside and get scrubbing!” He laughed, gently kicking my behind and spurring me to trot quickly towards the rotting backdoor. Cortez whirled around, prompting a mock karate fight.

My mom picked me up after work that night with the plan being that I was coming back home. I was excited to sleep in my own bed again, but of course the natural high I was riding was ruined when we got into a screaming match. It was my own fault for having a cigarette while I waited for her to arrive. I was counting on her habit of always being fifteen minutes behind schedule whenever it involved me, and was enjoying the last of my cigarette when the purple Honda pulled up. It didn’t matter that I was seventeen and had been allowed to smoke when I was only fifteen. Logic is not Mom’s strong suit.

I sat in the basement after the fight, spitefully smoking bowl after bowl from my miniature pipe. I was so mad I didn’t care if I got caught, and hadn’t bothered to crack a window. My feet resting on the computer desk, I packed one last bowl before I made an attempt at sleep. Cortez suddenly popped up as online on my favourite social networking site, and immediately started chatting to me. He invited me down to his apartment, a forty minute walk from my mom’s place, to smoke some hash and listen to local independent radio. Feeling special, I agreed right away. I thought about putting on fresh makeup and doing something with my knotted hair before swatting the air to send the self-consciousness away.

He’s twenty-six, Taylor, I told myself. He’s not interested in you like that; if anything, he’d be your mentor.

 I made little effort to be quiet as I climbed the creaky stairs, layered sweatpants under jeans, and packed my backpack. There was no way Mom didn’t hear the stairs groan loudly on the return trip to the basement. Fredrick and I used to joke that she would wake up from a moth flapping in the other end of the house, but I didn’t hear the tell-tale footsteps for which I waited, frozen in ninja-stance. I opened the window slowly before tossing my backpack onto the lawn, suddenly cautious. I took a long look around the basement, shocked at the ease of it all. I was not a good mid-night escape artist; the few times I’d tried climbing out the basement window, I’d been caught and picked up on the one occasion I actually made it off of our street. I eased the window closed from the outside and ran through the sleeping neighbourhood like I was being chased by flaming Dobermans.