Cyril Devine

By Heidi Wicks

 

His cat is called Scabface.

He lives in a frigid apartment on Lime Street, with a slanted floor, and three items in the cupboard – a mug from Keyin-Technical College, an East Side Mario’s bowl decorated with the old Twin Towers-New York skyline, and a Styrofoam ‘Coffee & Company’ cup. Three items from three jobs, per se. A janitor, a line cook, a…salesman.

 

Cyril Decline, Cyril Define, Cyril Devine.

 

Cyril Denine. He’s moving up in the world. His time is coming. He’s about to sell NuYu – an exclusive line of ladies skincare, only available from a certain peroxide-tanned Daisy Duke celebrity, via infomercials that air at an ungodly hour. NuYu is a miracle cure. It makes you young forever. The stars use NuYu. But nobody, especially not in St. John’s Newfoundland, dares order from an American infomercial. The insanity.

 

Cyril is about to fix this. He has devised a plan – a plan where he’d found a supplier on Ebay. He uses his friend Eileen’s computer and credit card to order mass quantities. Eileen owns the convenience store on the hill. He intends to then sell the product out of Coffee & Company, “at cost”, to the eleven o’clock ladies who click in daily on their patent leather pumps with insoles. They will sip their lattes and dab up every last crumb of bakeapple cheesecake with the pads of their fingers attached to their glistening coral painted nails, as they delicately drive the bitter sweetness into their gossiping, matching-coral-coloured lips. They will stare with intrigue and passion, as Cyril Denine entices and beguiles them with this new world of skincare – a world that will erase the signs of ugly ageing and give them new hope.

 

He looks at himself in his distorted bathroom mirror.

 

“This is the day,” he said, licking his thumbs, smoothing his eyebrows, practicing his smile. He smoothes his Cosby-style sweater, the sweater with art deco-ish shapes – black triangles, stretched circles blotching a Christmas green background. He pulls his only blazer on over the sweater, smoothing his thinning 38-year-old head of mouse-brown hair.

 

His telephone rings. Staring at his own eyes in the mirror, the blue goes a little grey. He knows it’s Ray. His brother.

 

****

 

In the woods behind the house, a wrangled stray cat struggles under the grip of a chubby, grubby 13-year-old Big Brother.

 

“Go on,” his voice is husky with wheezing mucous, “I dares ye, crack ‘im in the skull wit’ dat rock, I fuckin’ dares ye,” he laughs, a bubble of green snot popping under his right nostril, joining the cluster of dried gluck that crusts between his upper lip and nose.

 

Baby Brother stares in horror, shaking his head. Big Brother has the cat’s head rammed into a muddy plastic Labatt’s Blue cup, its’ body writhing in panicked agitation, the dirt under his own too-long fingernails fiercely stabbing in where a collar would be.

 

“What. S’not like he can see what you’re doin’, he blindfolded, don’t be such a pussy,” the sneering lip, shimmering with dripping nose water, is menacing.

 

“I…I…,” Baby Brother is only 8-years-old. “That’s not fair, you doin’ dat to ‘im!” he is about to cry. He knows it, he wills himself not to. He imagines his father – a bigger, even meaner-looking version of Big Brother – hovering above him, his hands on his hips, that all too familiar look of disapproving ridicule smeared across his face like the Cheshire Cat, antagonizing with moronic, falsely philosophical debate. “What an excuse for a son you are,” he’d smirk at the boy who is 8-years-old. Always ready to snap.

 

“Das not fair, yew dewin dat to ‘im!” the older brother mocks.

 

The thump-thump-thumping of his heart rises to his throat, pounds at his temples, the familiar burning bullies his eyes. It is his mother now that he thinks of, sitting lovingly, rocking in her chair, working on the peach cross-stitched towel that would hang in the ‘proper’ bathroom. She’d been working on that towel for months, it had to be just so. His mother understood him with one glance. She’d just look at his bullied, tormented eyes or listen to his footsteps to know something was off, that he was affected.

 

“Nothing doing,” she’d say, her eyebrows raised, a teasing smile on her face, as if to say, ‘don’t you dare cry!’. With those two words alone he’d crack into a grin, skip off, forgetting the dirty fingernails and boogery nose that waited to pounce outside next to the shed. As long as his mother was near and capable, he was fine…

 

****

 

“I tink Mom’s dead,” Ray’s voice is gruff from 30-plus years of smokes.

It sounds like feedback from a microphone. Piercing, right into the eardrum for what seems like an eternity.

 

“Whu…what do ya mean-“

 

“BAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA ‘course she’s not dead, ya faggity faggot!” Ray’s wheezing laughter makes Cyril feel that someone is stabbing him in the heart. Mucous-induced, violent coughs in rapid succession interrupt Ray’s laughter.

You Goddamn sonofabitch asshole cunt bastard prick dickface pig slob, I wish you would have a massive heart attack become deaf and mute and impotent and stop mind fucking me every chance you get…

 

“So…how is mom? How is she feeling then?” Cyril is still staring at himself in the mirror. He wishes his face were stronger, his hands were stronger, his heart was stronger. Cyril Decline.

 

“You’re some idiot,” Ray finally manages to subdue his coughing, “I can’t believe you ‘tought she were dead, you’re stunned as me hole, wha??”

 

“Yeah…actually Ray I’m on my way out, so can you tell me-“

 

“Oooooo!!! On yer way out is ye??  Where’s you goin now? Beauty school? Lemoine’s are ye? Getting yer nails done is ye?”

 

Real fucking hilarious Ray those jokes never get old. Funnier every time I hear those, you’re a real original.

 

“If you could just tell me how mom is, Ray?”

 

“Yes b’y mom’s alright I spose…moaning about someone named Ella May, but I just give her a drop o’ brandy, that shut her up.”
         

“But did the doctor say it was alright to mix that with her pills?”

“But did the doctor say it was alright…are you a doctor? Yes b’y maybe you are…oh wait, no, you’re a fuckin’ beauty queen, das right! Now shut the fuck up, and go paint your nails!” and there’s the dial tone.

 

Still staring in the mirror, his eyes grow greyer by the minute.

“Today will be the beginning of something different,” he shifts his glance down towards Scabface, then looks over at the newly arrived order of NuYu that is sitting on the Willy-Wonky kitchen table. He throws the cat some nip, strides through the door, kissing his finger then pressing it against a photograph on the fridge – 8-year-old Cyril on a bike, his mother holding him up.

 

Sneering surpassing Zeus’ Grinch, Big Brother holds the rock threateningly, just above the feline’s skull.

 

“Look at yer little snotbox now,” his nasally tone teases and prods and tears at Baby Brother’s heart, “scared shitless, you are! Don’t even got the balls to stop me, do ye?”

 

The boy’s heart pounds, Just tell him to give it up, go over and take that rock from him, the cat can go free…

 

Lurching, gooking in the back of his throat, the terror is unstoppable. He pukes all over the woody earth. Salty tears burn his cheeks, seep into the corner of his mouth to mix with the sour vomit. Quickly, he squalls, “Don’t!”

Big Brother unashamedly, almost joyously, cracks the rock into the cat’s skull - an explosion of brains, head guts and glug paint-ball-splattering the fragrant trees, turning them from fresh to vile like sick on newly washed sheets.

 

“Luh,” he sniggers, “if you weren’t such a faig, if you coulda stood up fer yerself, fer dat cat, and this wouldn’ta happened.” He stalks past Baby Brother, hawks the same green gunk right in his face. He jabbs his shoulder with the kind of sharp fist where the middle finger is slightly out from the rest – the kind that hurts more.

 

Standing alone, Baby Brother wipes the vomit, tears, and spit from his face, still sniffling. He walks over to the mangled feline carcass, picks it up, cradles it in his hands.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” he whispers.

He digs a hole next to the tree, putting that cat-who-was-not-Cheshire, to rest.

 

Scuffing home at dinner time, the October sky is foreboding. From inside the house comes murderous clanging, banging, thumping. This is not unusual

 

“I am sick and tired of this…shit everywhere, you piece of-“ the father’s voice is terrifying – like something enraged.

 

“Ah don’t mind that,” Big Brother approaches from behind, shoving Baby Brother’s shoulder. “No use pissin yourself over that, s’not gonna help nothing. Besides, don’t you tink she deserves it, only a bit?”

 

Baby gawks at his sibling.  His only sibling, so different from him. His only mother, so different from his only father.

 

“She doesn’t deserve it, not one bit,” he whispers to himself.

 

“What??” Big Brother shoves his snotty nose milli-centimetres from his brother’s cheek. He holds his eyeball right next to his brother’s. “You’re some baby,” he spits, “some mommy’s b’y ye are.” He licks his brother’s cheek then, his breath smelling like dirt and cigarettes. He stands back, stares at the trembling 8-year-old, rage stifled by terror staining his tear-streaked face. Why is he such a wimp? It makes him angry, makes him want to be meaner, not nicer, not more sympathetic.

 

“If dad likes ye, if he respects ye, he won’t look down on ya so much, ye understand?” he places a pudgy hand firmly on his little brother’s shoulder, who continues to pout, peering through the kitchen window of their house. The drapes are drawn, so he tries to peek through the tiny opening where each curtain joins. “Tom, don’t!” shrieks his mother from inside, the sound of a pot slamming, clanging with great force against the side of the fridge.

 

“Look. When you comes across arseholes in ‘dis world,” he continues, “cryin’ like a little baby’s not goin to help you. Yer mommy’s not always gonna give you hugs and kisses and cookies and paint yer nails.” He stares at the 8-year-old’s face.

 

“Tom I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“You rotten bitch, you makes me fuckin’ sick…” his father’s fist pounds against the wall, right next to the window. Both brothers jump back startled. Big Brother quickly composes himself.

 

“He’s only talkin’, das all, he’s only talkin’…s’true though, she sits around all day doin that sewing, in a daze, don’t talk to no one no more…”

“Shut up,” the younger brother softly kisses the window several times in quiet agitation.

 

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” demands Big Brother.

 

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up…” the little frightened whispers and kisses continue. Big Brother draws back, looks toward the window. He too, is now terrified.

 

From inside the house comes a sadistic bellow, a shriek and a violent, lurching crack.

 

“Fuckin Jesus what did I do…” yells their father.

 

 

Cyril walks into Coffee & Company at exactly 10:47am. Just enough time to grab his copy of The Current, local alternative newspaper, and sit down amidst the swarm of demanding, self-important lawyers who pestered the baristas at this exact time, every single morning. God forbid they’re in the office for more than two hours without their second cuppa.

 

While the lawyers demand their lattes and macchiato and bleepoccinos be made just so, it is the perfect opportunity for Cyril to find a seat in the corner, set out his paper and Styrofoam cup filled with Nescafe and boiling water, and appear important. No one notices that he didn’t purchase the coffee.

         

“Hey asshole, you finished with that paper? There’s no more left.” A man with a square-shaped head, piercing blue eyes and a long grey pea jacket furrows his brow at Cyril, who passes his paper over without a word.

The Barista. Yvonne. She stayed so calm, so beautiful as the lawyers barked and flirted obnoxiously, audaciously at her. “C’mon honey, let’s move from the Age of Aquarius now,” they’d wink cockily and look at each other, making gyrating motions as if she was too stupid to notice. Her lovely flushed cheeks and wavy hair - which usually had two tiny loose braids on either side, pulled back loosely so that her hair was half up – remained slightly sweaty under the pressure of the morning rush. She would never say anything to their faces, just smile politely, until they left, and she would curse like a sailor to Dora, the Hungarian owner of the coffee shop.

 

Yvonne possesses a mildness. A gentleness, a free-spiritedness, an air that she would do what she existed in her own realm and no one else’s. She could, in another time, have and should been a wood fairy carrying a wooden flute, wearing wild flowers in her hair. In this time, she should have been exactly what she was – a beautiful bohemian barista maid.

 

Cyril sits at his table in the corner. Through the door come the 11 o’clock ladies. Today their nails and lipstick are fuchsia, not coral. That’s a nice change, he thinks, with sincerity. They bustle in, order their coffees, teas, cheesecakes and scones. Waddle their fat arses towards the plush microfiber sea foam chairs in front of the window. Likely so that they can spy on Water Street’s pedestrians, make conceited, snide comments whenever possible.

 

Cyril begins working his mind, preparing himself to make the sales pitch that will change his life.

 

“I’d like to take that vile son of a cunt and rip those tiny balls of his right off, and then ram them up his asshole, I bet he’d like that, I bet he’s used to those tiny steroid/power-shakes balls too,” he hears Yvonne giggle to Dora, the corner of her mouth upturned mischievously. He looks at her laughing, it catches him somewhat off guard. She has foam from her latte on her nose, like she’s in some ridiculous Church of Jesus Christ of Ladder Day Saints commercial on TV. She’s so kind, yet has such force within.

 

She’s so kind, yet with no strength inside. Why…

 

His pants become tight as he watches her, trying not to. He is embarrassed. He begins to throb. Sweat.

 

He looks sat Yvonne, and he thinks about his mother.

 

Author’s Bio: Heidi Wicks holds a Bachelor of Arts in English and Sociology from Memorial University of Newfoundland and is currently completing their Creative Writing diploma. She works as an arts reporter for The Telegram newspaper in her hometown of St. John's, and also as a Public Relations Officer for Memorial University's Faculty of Education. She has recently begun submitting her writing to literary journals. In her spare time she sells specialized skincare products from downtown coffee shops.