The Antagonist by Lynn Coady Read Free Book Online

dancing together): It’s not that I can’t hear you, son. I may have a few years on you, but I don’t have any trouble with my hearing.
    (Oh Christ, I think, he’s called him “son” again.)
    Croft: Sorry, bud. Guess it must be the Alzheimer’s setting in or something.
    (More skeezer tittering. Even though it isn’t quite time, I rapidly flip all the patties on my grill to get this particular obligation out of the way.)
    Gord: My problem, son , is with you. And the fact that you little assholes keep coming in here . . . 
    Croft (flipping his hands into the air at the word “assholes”): I just want a Coke! I’m just thirsty!
    Gord: . . . and you sit in the back corner both scaring people away and reeking of maryjane . . . 
    Croft: I don’t even know Mary Jane! I never touched her!
    (skeezers holding their sides at this point)
    Gord: . . . and then you have the goddamn nerve to come up here and grunt at me in my own restaurant. “Coke” (Neanderthal grunt-speak here). “Coke, bud . Gimme Coke.”
    Croft: Look, bud  . . . 
    That’s what did it. The slavering insolence of that third and final “bud.” I dropped my flipper and hurled myself forward, reaching Gord just before his extended hands could secure themselves around Croft’s neck.
    There was a lot of yelling. The word “punks” occasionally leapt like a salmon from an otherwise undifferentiated stream of obscenities where my father was concerned, whereas on Croft’s side of the counter, as he and his crew sauntered (but sauntered somewhat hurriedly, I’d like to point out) toward the door, I heard — along with their own laughing, obscene stream — the words “Crazy” and “. . . should call the fuckin cops!”
    Once Croft et al. had taken off, I yelled — still clinging to Gord — something around the restaurant about complimentary single cones for everybody, but everybody was too busy gathering up their bug-eyed children and herding them toward the exits to notice. The only people left to take advantage of the offer were a few workers from SeaFare grabbing burgers after their shift, and they seemed to regard the incident as a kind of floor show. They laughed and applauded and generally made me regret the free ice cream I ended up doling out to them.
    “Nice reflexes there, Rankin.”
    “You shoulda let him go off on that little tool.”
    “Why you giving my food away to those assholes?” Gord wanted to know once I had rejoined him behind the counter. He had yelled at me for burning my patties but otherwise seemed cheerful and refreshed after his lunge at Croft, like he’d just woken up from a nap.
    “Because you attacked one of the customers,” I explained. “Those assholes are only ones who didn’t run screaming out the door.”
    “‘Customer’ my ass, goddamn little punk! Sorry, bud. Coke, bud . They oughta give me a medal.”
    So about twenty-five minutes later, a pair of Mounties came strolling through the doors.
    “Here they come,” I said. “They got your medal, Gord.”
    06/01/09, 11:32 p.m.
    And now I find myself starting to panic a little, for a couple of reasons.
    Because I just told you another whole slew of stuff about Gord and reading it over I can see that I still haven’t got to the heart of the thing. I can feel you still aren’t getting it — my father is coming across to you the same way he came across to my Jesus-freak girlfriend all those years ago — as a foul-mouthed but mostly harmless “character.” The same kind of creature I must have been to you and Wade and Kyle when we all started hanging out — a shape in the distance; a figure on a screen, behind Plexiglas. You lean forward, no matter how dangerous the guy’s antics might become — no matter how much he shrieks and sweats and bares his teeth — knowing he can never touch you, ultimately. You can watch him and see him and go home and think about him, even be disturbed by him a little. But it’s not like he can