Touching Strangers Read online

  “I did not! I was very careful.”

  He rolled the used tissues into a ball and wrapped them inanother tissue. “So what does it say? Over a hundred?”

  Samantha held the thermometer right in front of her eyesand squinted. “Huh.”

  “Oh my God. Is it one-oh-three? One-oh-four?”

  “Ninety-seven point eight. You’re actually cold.”

  “That’s bullshit. I feel awful. Let me see.”

  She handed him the thermometer and shrugged.

  He looked at it, shook it in the air, and looked at it again.“Weird. Maybe I have sepsis.”

  Samantha flopped down onto the bed and sighed. “Youdon’t have sepsis. Your body’s just cold from the shower.” Sheused her toenail to scratch an itch on her opposite leg.

  He looked at her, spread out topless on the mattress, herblack hair splashed around her head like tentacles. “So . . . Whatwas up with that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He picked a pair of boxers out of his dresser. “That was pretty intense.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “It was unexpected, that’s all. Is penis cancer an aphrodisiacfor you? Or maybe you get off on shoving thermometers upguys’ asses.”

  She sat up. Her vision blurred then slowly fuzzed back tonormal. “Seems like you’re the one who’s into that.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Are we in a fight or something?”

  He stumbled a bit as he stepped into a pair of jeans. “No. It’sjust . . . weird.”

  “Well I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I gave you a blowjob.” Shelaughed and flopped back down on the bed. “I think that’s thefirst time in history any girl has ever apologized to a guy for that.”

  He opened the closet and took out one of his many plainwhite t-shirts, his self-prescribed work uniform. With his back to her he said, “You going to be okay until I get back? I can call insick if you want. I feel like I should keep an eye on you.”

  She crawled across the bed to the window and looked out. “I wanted to fool around, Aaron. That’s all.”

  “That’s what I mean! That’s fucked.”

  She continued to look out the window. “I wonder whenMr. Böröcz is going to repaint the parking spaces.”

  Aaron sighed. “I hate it when you get like this.” He pulledon his shirt, picked the paper cup of mint-flavoured ejaculatebackwash off the floor, took it to the bathroom and poured itdown the sink. When he came back into the bedroom, Sam wassitting at her desk with her laptop, still topless and looking atmagnified images of colourful bacteria.

  He decided not to say anything. He grabbed a brand new surgical mask from a box on his dresser and slung it around his neck.He rubbed sanitizer on his hands, up his forearms, on the back ofhis neck, and dabbed some on his face; equipped his knapsack withsanitary wipes, Windex, Tylenol, Advil, Echinacea, Gravol,Vitamin C, Ginger, Benadryl, Polysporin and NeoCitran. He’dslap on a fresh pair of gloves on his way out the door.

  From the hallway he said, “You sure you’re okay, Sam?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “I love you.Have a good shift. Be careful.”

  *

  Doug Chisholm felt like shit. He sat with a moist faceclothfolded on his forehead and his feet in a bubbling foot bath, flipping through the movies listed on his cable provider’s ondemand service. He wished they had more porn.

  The closest thing they had was David Cronenberg’s Crash,but he felt too sick for violence. He’d already gulped down threetablespoonfuls of Robitussin and an extra strength Advil. If hedidn’t start feeling better soon he might have to cancel his seveno’clock appointment with Claire, one of his go-to escorts.

  He put the remote down and stood up, knee bones cracking,and shuffled to his kitchenette to make tea. What he really want ed was a coffee, to caffeinate his lethargy away, but the last timehe had coffee while battling the flu, he got cataclysmic diarrhea.The better option was to finally bust open the box of chamomiletea he’d received anonymously as a secret-Santa gift from one ofhis co-workers at the dealership. He didn’t think a bunch ofcrushed-up flower petals mixed with hot water was capable ofgiving anyone the runs.

  He filled his kettle with tap water, took the unopened boxof tea out of his cupboard, and placed a single teabag in hisfavourite mug, adorned with a cartoon image of a large-breastedbimbo in a purple bikini top. When the mug got hot, the bikinidisappeared, revealing two perfectly circular boobs with nippleslike candy buttons. Beside one of her blonde pigtails was a caption that said Hubba hubba! Doug liked to think of the bimbo asa sexed-up version of Betty from Archie comics, who, coincidentally, was the first woman he’d ever whacked off to as atwelve year-old. Because of this, Doug Chishom’s cartoon mugwas chock-full of sentimental value.

  Before the water in the kettle was completely boiled, he tookit off the burner and filled his mug. Porno-Betty’s bikini top vanished. Doug held the mug to his nose and breathed in the steam.The tea smelled like perfume. Disgusting. He shuffled back to hisfuton and placed the mug on the coffee table; dipped his feet backin the footbath and pressed the turbo button with his big toe. As hereached for the TV remote he was seized by a coughing fit. It feltlike Satan had grabbed him by the throat and was digging his nailsinto his Adam’s apple. He leaned forward, eyes bulging, andhacked and spit into the footbath. His knee bashed against the coffee table and sent the bare-chested Betty mug tumbling to thefloor. There was tea and spittle and salty foot water everywhere.

  He couldn’t have Claire over now. Not with his apartmentin this state. He thought about calling her to cancel, but he’dmissed her while he was away—she knew exactly what he likedin bed, unlike the little Dominican dumpling he’d slept with atthe resort. Maybe all he needed was a decent nap. Then hewould wake up feeling refreshed and invigorated, do a quickclean-up, and be ready for some kinky fun.

  He stood up to convert his futon to bed-mode. He felt dizzyand sweaty. As soon as he was horizontal, nausea hit him like agong. He reached down, picked the Betty mug up off the carpet,and downed the single gulp of tea that was left in the bottom. Histhirst was barely appeased but his need to rest, to keep still, wasstronger. He closed his eyes and thought about the Dominicangirl.

  Her name was Maria, and she was a member of the resort’sdance troupe, performing stage shows in the evenings for thedrunken guests. She was a little thick and buxom for a dancer,but she moved with a slow, graceful fluidity. He danced with herone night at the disco, mesmerized by her citrusy eyes and pockmarked collarbone, and invited her back to his room. Offered hera fistful of Canadian twenties when she seemed a little reluctant.Under the sheets she smelled earthy and peppery, like soil andsmoked meat. When she went down on him her teeth scrapedlightly along his johnson, and when she rode him she seemeddetermined to bounce out of sync with his thrusts, so hemanoeuvered her onto her belly and put himself inside her frombehind. She lay there with her eyes closed, whispering softly inSpanish.

  It wasn’t until early the next morning, when he got up topee and saw her sprawled naked across the bed, that he noticedher rash. Large red pustules were spread across her body likeinsect bites, clustered around her neck, chest, and inner-thighs.Her breathing was laboured and raspy, like her lungs were filledwith fluid. Her fingernails, which the night before he’d assumedwere painted black, were caked underneath with dried brownblood. Lime green mucus oozed from her nostril onto the pillow.How had he failed to notice these things at the disco? He must’vebeen smashed and blinded by his own sex-tourist’s intentions.

  He emptied his bladder and went immediately to the cafeteria for coffee. When he came back to his suite Maria was gone.On the soiled pillow was left a pile of twigs and feathers, tiedtogether with string. He threw the little scrap of voodoo in thetrash and hooked the sign on his door handle signalling thehousekeeping staff to change his sheets. />
  The last thing he thought of, before drifting into a feveredsleep on his futon, was that at least he’d had the good sense towear a condom.

  *

  Zack Pike blew two jet streams of smoke out of his nostrilsand flicked his computer on. He placed the joint in the orangeplastic ashtray on his desk and waited for the secondhandmachine he’d bought off his dealer, Ugbo, to start up.

  Beep, boop, beep, followed by lots of whirring.

  He took another drag on his spliff until his lungs were full,held his breath for ten seconds, then let the smoke curl slowly outof his mouth as he adjusted his balls in his Transformers boxershorts.

  The computer stopped making noise and up popped theWindows login screen. He typed in his password—smokeweedeveryday—and waited for his settings to load.

  His babe-alert software informed him that Youporn.com hadrecently uploaded new video clips featuring three of his “preferred” starlets: Ashli Orion, Remy LaCroix, and Ashlyn Rae.The thumbnail for the Ashli Orion clip led him to believe it wasa gangbang scene, so he saved the link in his “favourites” folderand decided to come back to it later.

  He took another toke on his joint and looked out the window across the lot. The curtains to unit 404 were closed, but he knew she was in there. She was some kind of shut-in, which he found strangely arousing, like an extra-challenging game of hard to-get. He wondered what she was doing right now. Maybe she was having sex with her pretty-boy boyfriend.

  He put his hand down his shorts and logged in to his Facebook account. He had no new messages, no friend requests, and nobody had liked or commented on any of his posts. Fucking typical. He briefly scrolled through the news feed before typing Samantha Riske into the search box.

  There she was—the first entry displayed—sitting sideways in an armchair, legs hooked over the side, face half-hidden by her mane of black hair. Aside from the photo, however, her profile was blank.

  Samantha only shares some information publicly. If you know Samantha, send her a friend request or message her.

  Zack let his cursor hover over the link that read +ADDFRIEND, but opted not to click it. He’d never actually spoken to her in the whole three years they’d lived in the same building.There was a chance she wouldn’t recognize him and reject hisrequest.

  Instead, he chose to send her a harmless, neighbourly poke. Then he right-clicked on her picture, saved it to his computer,and enlarged it four-hundred percent on Paint, so he could cutoff her digital head and paste it onto the body of a pale chick getting triple-penetrated by three muscular dudes.

  STAGE 2: CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

  Faucet Fountain was a fifteen-hundred square foot retail outleton Kingston Road, between a KFC and an erotic boutiquecalled Lips. Aaron showed up fifteen minutes early for his shift infull Hospital Man garb.

  A woman in a headscarf was at the counter, buying the newDelta single handle rain shower kit and some bath towels.Aaron’s boss, Mr. Vaughn, gave the woman her change. “Havea nice day, ma’am,” he said.

  The woman let the coins fall into her hand, craning her headto stare at Aaron with a troubled look on her face, then hurriedout of the store.

  “Mister Cordic,” Mr. Vaughn said. “I thought I told you tostop wearing the mask in here. It freaks the customers out.”

  Aaron walked across the floor, peering down all three aislesto make sure the store was empty before removing his mask.“Relax Mister V,” he said.

  “Me, relax? You want me to relax?” Mr. Vaugn laughed andshook his head. He had an unruly coif of reddish brown hair thatstuck out sideways behind his ears like wings. Aaron felt that ifhis boss hadn’t gone into bathroom supplies, he would’ve madea great circus clown.

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. He removed his gloves, crumpled theminto a ball, and pulled a fresh pair out of a side pouch on his backpack. “Just playing it safe, is all.”

  “There’s safe, and then there’s paranoid,” Mr. Vaughn said. “I’ve never met anyone so young and so afraid in my life. It’sworrisome, is what it is.”

  Aaron smacked on the new pair of gloves. “What’s worrisome is the idea—no, the likelihood—of a customer not washingtheir hands after taking a shit then passing me a five dollar bill smeared with HIV-positive fecal matter. Now you tell me, Mr.V—what could be more worrisome than that, huh? Don’tanswer that, by the way.”

  Arthur coughed into his hand. “How’s Samantha?”

  “Sick.”

  “Really?”

  “Always.”

  “I guess you better move out of there, then, eh? Wouldn’twant to risk catching it.”

  “I probably gave it to her.”

  “Should have called in sick then.”

  “Don’t you have a family to go home to?”

  Mr. Vaughn stepped out from behind the counter and fakecoughed onto Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron jerked out of the way andalmost knocked over a shelf of aerosol spray cans.

  “Please don’t take it upon yourself to close early tonight,”Mr. Vaughn said on his way to the back room. “I can’t afford tolose any more business.”

  “I did you a favour, Mr. V. Trust me.”

  Two days before, a homeless man had wandered into thestore and was browsing the bottles of mouthwash when heunleashed a crackling sequence of farts that smelled so vile Aaronthought his nose hairs were going to fall out.

  “Excuse me,” Aaron had said, donning his mask. “I’m sorry but our cash register just broke. I’m going to have to close up, so . . .”

  The hobo ignored him and continued to pick through theblue- and green-coloured bottles with his dirt-blackened fingernails. There was a clump of mustard in his beard and a pattern oflittle scratches on his face.

  Aaron went to the door and took the store key out of hispocket. “Yeah, so um . . .”

  The hobo belched and approached the counter, carrying thecheapest bottle of mouthwash they had in stock.

  From where he stood by the door, Aaron could see that theman’s right ear was shrivelled and scabbed to an unrecognizableshape. It was probably being consumed by some kind of flesheating disease.

  “How much?” the homeless man gurgled.

  Aaron shook his head quickly. “Just take it and go. We’re closed.”

  The hobo slammed the bottle down onto the counter, causing the display of hand towel rings to tinkle. “Let me pay,Goddamnit!”

  Aaron held his breath and moved slowly to the register,keeping one eye on the Billy club Mister V kept under thecounter in case of emergency.

  “Let’s see, uh . . . Four ninety-nine, please,” Aaron said.

  The hobo sniffed loudly, examined the bottle a moment,then shoved it in Aaron’s face. “Says six forty-nine right here.”

  “Okay, okay,” Aaron said, leaning back. “That’s seven thirty-three after tax.”

  The hobo reached into what looked like his underwearinstead of his pocket, and pulled out a moist and floppy ten-dollarbill that looked like it was about to disintegrate. He dangled it inthe air. It smelled like skunk.

  Aaron took a pair of tweezers out of his pocket and pinchedthe grimy bill out of the bum’s hand, then took the change outof the till and placed it on the counter, ignoring the man’supturned palm. “Thank you. We’re closed now,” he said.

  The homeless man winked at him and smiled a near-toothlesssmile. “Glad to see your register’s working.” He unscrewed the capon the mouthwash bottle and began glugging it down as he walkedout of the store, leaving the stench of flatulence in his wake.

  Aaron locked the door as soon as he was gone and dove intohis knapsack for a can of germ-killing air freshener. He filled thestore with so much poison he had to close himself in the bathroom until it settled. Then he stationed himself behind thecheckout counter and looked up the symptoms of overexposureto air freshener on the Internet. Every now and then a customerwould knock on the door and shout, �
�Hello?” or mutter aboutthe sign on the door with the store’s hours on it, but Aaron didn’tgive a homeless person’s shit about the store’s hours.

  After a while he noticed the decrepit ten dollar bill thehomeless man had forced on him, lying beside the register like a piece of garbage. He took out his tweezers, placed the bill in are-sealable baggie, stuck a post-it note on it that read CONTAMINATED and left it on the counter for Mr. Vaughn to deal with inthe morning.

  When he got home later that night he had a twenty-minutepower-shower with the nozzle cranked to the hottest possiblesetting. He figured a third degree burn would be favourable to aflesh-eating infection.

  “You know,” Mr. Vaughn said, putting his jacket on, “ifyou really needed to go home after your encounter with thehomeless gentleman, you could’ve called me. I might’ve beenable to come in for a few hours. Or I could’ve called Nicole tosee if she was available.”

  Aaron shrugged. “Didn’t think of that. I was distraught.”

  “Well, no more closing early. I mean it, Aaron. I really don’twant to fire you.”

  “Then let me wear the mask.”

  Mr. Vaughn sighed. “Fine.” He opened the door to leave,then stopped and said, “I’m going to call just before nine to makesure you’re still here. Oh, and Nicole’s paycheque is in the filefolder in the office. She may stop by tonight to pick it up.”

  Aaron offered his boss a military salute and watched himleave. Once he’d driven away in his Volkswagen Bug, Aaronlocked the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and removed the boxof antibacterial wipes from his knapsack so he could start his ritualistic Cleansing of the Register. He’d re-open the store whenhe was satisfied—probably sometime after rush hour when themajority of the Kingston Road foot traffic was at home havingdinner.

  *

  The blueberries were still in the sink. Samantha noticedthem when she went to get a glass of Brita water to wash downher multivitamin.

  If she threw the berries in the garbage bin they’d sit there androt for days. The mere sight of them convinced her that millions of little blue flu particles were coursing through her system thatvery second, obliterating her healthy cells and filling her lungs withgoopy fluid. She wanted the berries out of the apartment immediately, but Aaron wouldn’t be home from work for another threehours. A trip to the parking lot dumpster might be necessary.