My Life Among the Apes Read Online Free Page B

corner, thrashing away on some Rush song as if they’re playing Maple Leaf Gardens. Most of the bar stools are empty and I pull myself onto one. The bartender, a woman my mother’s age (although I doubt my mother would show that amount of cleavage), gives me a friendly smile as she wipes down the bar.
    â€œWhat can I do you for?”
    â€œI’ll have a Blue.”
    â€œYou got it.”
    The band takes a break. Only when they come down to join the bikers do I realize they’re not young guys. I don’t think the bikers are Hells Angels, at least it doesn’t say so on their jackets. The beer is so cold it hurts my teeth. Suddenly I have to pee and find the john down the hall from the grease-stinking kitchen. It reeks of piss and marijuana. I relieve myself, decide against touching the sink, and head back to the bar where I down half my beer. My hands are trembling, God knows why, and I slip my right hand into my pocket for some change to jangle but instead my fingers touch the smooth side of a pick. I must have put it in my pocket after practising. I bring out the pick and press it in my palm so that I can feel its rounded corners. I place it on the bar and admire its triangular shape, like it’s one of those basic forms of nature.
    â€œYou play guitar?” the bartender asks, spotting the pick while she taps a beer.
    â€œJust started really.”
    â€œWe got an open mic night on Mondays. We could use a fresh face. What’s your name?”
    She is already taking a clipboard down from a nail beside the shelf holding the hard stuff. I say, “Mitch.”
    â€œWhat’s that, a nickname?”
    â€œIt’s short for Mitchell.”
    â€œOkay, Mitch, you’re on for next Monday. Eighth slot. We start at seven-thirty. You get a free beer.”
    â€œAll right,” I say.
    â€œYou want another?”
    â€œI’ve got to get up early for work.” I take out my wallet and put down a bill and some change. Outside the door, the night air caresses my face, the black star-filled sky sprawls above me. Going down the cement steps I hear grunts, and coming round the building see a couple of bikers beating up some guy, each taking a punch at him in turn, hauling him up for another. I realize that the guy is the lead singer in the band. They let him drop in the dirt and walk past me as they go back into Bob’s Place. The singer is up on one knee, spitting blood. I head back down the highway.
    ON FRIDAY, THE PRODUCT REPS have a conference at the airport Delta. The star reps are all men in their fifties who never wanted desk jobs. The crowning moment of the day occurs in the conference theatre where a sleek video advertisement showing sunsets and mountain vistas and waterfalls is projected on the huge screen. And then the name
Sopora
, our new sleeping pill. The Canadian vice-president of marketing walks out to a standing ovation, our fists punching the air.
    I GET BACK TO THE motel about eight, pulling onto the gravel lot. It isn’t as dark as it was a week ago; spring is moving into summer. I drop my crap, throw off my jacket and tie, and pick up the guitar from its case. It was while listening to the vice-president’s speech that I suddenly decided what song I wanted to perform at the open mic: Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on the Wire.” I’d loved the song when I was sixteen — it was so melancholy and cool, and it implied that the singer had experienced a lot of sex and that there would be more in his weary future, but that he would always be moving on. Plus, I still remember the words.
    It takes me a full hour to figure out the key and the chord changes. Hearing the A, D, and E chords aren’t too hard; it’s the B minor that takes me so long, but when I get it the melody falls into place. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to create something so yearning, so egotistical, so perfect. I sing and play it over and over, trying