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  Advance Praise for Use Your Imagination!

  “Use Your Imagination! is propulsive, taut, tough and emotionally charged; full of charismatic characters who are hungry for money, power, and love, or even just to be liked; they are desperate for all the things they can almost get their hands on but can’t quite touch. The people here suffer beautifully crafted, disturbing downfalls; they are viciously smart, vulnerable, breathtakingly hardened; they are trusting and innocent; they are betrayed—sometimes all at once! Bertin is a wickedly masterful writer—these stories tantalize and enthrall.”

  –Lisa Moore, Giller Prize–longlisted author of Something for Everyone

  “Reading Use Your Imagination!, I had the impression that Kris Bertin had written into the origins of human cruelty—which isn’t to say this book is a grim read. Its darkness is matched by equal moments of heart and laughter. Every story is written with an honesty and tenderness that demands the reader lean closer. Pay attention, and you will glimpse the affinity between love and torment, and the characters who have taken root in this seam.”

  –Eliza Robertson, Commonwealth Short Story–winning author of Demi-Gods and Wallflowers

  “The human condition is a profoundly bizarre one, and in Use Your Imagination! Kris Bertin’s characters grapple with what it is to be broken yet hopeful, happy but not quite happy enough, to attain a state of grace one moment too late—in essence, the simple vexations of being human—in stories that are wise, funny, heartbreaking, and most of all, feel achingly true.”

  –Craig Davidson, author of The Saturday Night Ghost Club and Cataract City

  Praise for Bad Things Happen

  Winner: 2016 Writer’s Trust of Canada’s Danuta Gleed Award

  Winner: 2017 ReLit Award

  Shortlisted: 2017 Alistair MacLeod Short Story Award

  “This first book is line by line quite brilliant, the stories varied and beautifully turned and paced—tragic, yes, but at times very funny; the voice is consistently informal, the tone sincere and the choices essential.”

  –The Malahat Review

  “Excellent…. This is a forceful, well-written collection with breadth of imagination—at times melancholy but never depressing.”

  –Publishers Weekly

  “Bertin’s collection offers a delightful showcase of interests and an accomplished range of styles and tones, running from relatively straightforward realism and mirthful comedy to transplanted “swamp Gothic” that wouldn’t have felt out of place as a border-crossing episode in the darkly panoramic first season of True Detective…. Brash (in the best possible sense), intriguing, and consummate without being showy, these are terrific stories in a strong, diverse, and fascinating collection.”

  –Quill & Quire (starred review)

  “Bertin’s characters are misfits and malcontents, battling various demons and addictions while trying to stay sane enough or straight enough to make it through one more day…. Bad Things Happen is at its best when it sticks to the spirit of its title: blunt, forthright and jarring.”

  –The Globe & Mail

  Copyright © 2019, Kris Bertin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Vagrant Press is an imprint of

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3660 Strawberry Hill St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1448

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  “Cowan” was previously published in The Walrus, October 2015

  Editor: Ryan Paterson

  Editors for the press: Elaine McCluskey and Whitney Moran

  Cover and interior design: Jenn Embree

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Use your imagination! : stories / Kris Bertin.

  Names: Bertin, Kris, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20189068639 | Canadiana (ebook) 20189068647 | ISBN 9781771087520 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771087537 (HTML)

  Classification: LCC PS8603.E76393 U84 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  For Ashley, who allows me to do this

  1

  Frank opens the screen door, sweating, his shirt already ruined.

  There is a note by the handle:

  Doorbell terminally ill

  Try knocking

  The note is new, but has nothing at all to do with the doorbell, which has never worked. The note is a joke, which isn’t funny.

  Everyone has been counting their visits—counting each moment—making note of the decline. Everyone has told Frank this week is the worst one yet, and to be prepared. He’s looking bad, they told him. This is probably it, they said. That the lights are off seems to confirm this. When Frank looks inside the dark glass, all he sees is himself. His shining silver head, floating in blackness, like something at the bottom of the ocean. He takes a deep breath before entering.

  Inside, it’s dark and smelly—the musk of someone trapped indoors—but there is at least music. Frank identifies the record immediately as one he gave Luke years ago, when he was a FM radio DJ. He knows his friend keeps all his records upstairs, and for this one to be playing means Luke went up there—all ninety-eight pounds of him, wracked with terrible pain—found the record, then took it back down, just for Frank. Just so his friend could hear some music.

  After two more very deep breaths, Frank makes a sound. A croak. In the front hallway, he covers his face and cries.

  He tries hard to stop but then he sees a framed poster on the wall. The cover of Luke’s DVD, all blown up. Luke with muscle and stubble and a black T-shirt like every other stand-up comedian. A mic in his hand, his mouth open, his face pulled back in a roar. Comedy Central Presents Luke Baumgaertner: Why Anything?

  Sobs come out of Frank, one after another, hot sounds into a clenched fist.

  2

  After a moment, Luke’s voice pipes in from the living room:

  Hello.

  The voice from the dark is small, alien-sounding:

  Hello who is it.

  Everything he says is practically a whisper, like someone’s last words in a movie.

  Frank inhales again, as deeply as he can, then clears his throat, hard. So hard it hurts. He’d promised himself to never do this in front of his friend and had, until now, succeeded. He sniffs and his voice scrapes against itself the whole way up his throat:

  Hey Luke.

  Frank clears his throat, even harder than before. It feels like something is shredding apart in there. He calls out:

  It’s Frank.

  Oh good.

  There’s a long creak in the other room and then the sound of footsteps. They’re soft, carefully short strides on hardwood with bare feet. In his state, a fall could be something he spends all week recovering from. It couldn’t kill him, Frank was told, but it would put him ahead of schedul
e—so watch out when he walks around for Christ’s sake.

  Slowly, a form emerges. Luke, in a bathrobe with a towel on his head:

  It’s good that it’s you. I was worried.

  Luke with parts of his face sunken in, Luke with huge, wide-open eyes:

  I was worried a baby got in here. A stray baby—from the street?

  He points towards the door with a hand like a Halloween decoration.

  Sometimes they get inside. Start crying. All week long. Bunch of babies coming and going.

  Luke, looking up at Frank, Luke with all the cords in his neck standing out.

  He makes a crawling gesture with his skeleton hands, one hand a baby, the other hand the ground.

  Baby gets loose in the house? And then you can’t get it out.

  Luke, trying to make a joke, and Frank trying not to cry.

  Knew you were coming but thought—couldn’t be Frank. Frank’s not a baby.

  Sorry, Luke.

  Sounded like a baby. In here. Waaah. Waaah.

  Thanks, Luke.

  Come in Frank. Stop crying.

  Luke turns and walks into the living room, his spine visible through the back of his robe. His movement slow, like something just come back to life—like he’d been resurrected just for this visit. His face strains at the mere act of making it back to the couch. Sitting down is difficult too.

  Frank wipes his face and joins him, effortlessly, from the entrance to an armchair in one smooth motion. Luke glances at his friend:

  You’re looking good, Frank.

  Thanks.

  How do I look?

  You look a little green.

  Green’s in this year.

  You look like the guy on the cigarette package.

  That’s me, actually. I’m the guy.

  Do you need anything?

  Pancreas.

  Yeah.

  Got one?

  No.

  Luke winces again, tries not to cough and instead hisses. Despite the moistness in the air, and the mugginess, the sound is dry, like there’s no liquid in his body. That’s when Frank notices his sick friend isn’t drinking anything. Every other visit, he had a milkshake or a meal replacement or water or tea or something. This was another warning from everyone on the Luke-visiting roster—make sure he’s drinking. Then Frank realizes they’re alone, and no one is here taking care of him.

  Where’s Jill?

  Luke lets his head hang back against the couch. He winces again and manages to smile. His face pulls in a weird way, like the muscles in his jaw are set to snap. A grin:

  She was sucking the life out of me.

  Luke uprights his head. It’s like he doesn’t have enough face for the smile to work and now there are too many teeth in his mouth. Frank shakes his head and laughs.

  I hope you didn’t actually say that to her. I was just—

  Luke burps.

  I’m burping a lot, sorry.

  It’s okay.

  It’s a side effect.

  It’s fine, Luke.

  What were we saying?

  I can’t remember now. I had something to tell you when I came in.

  And then you started crying.

  And then I started crying.

  You’re sad about me. So you cry—under my ceiling fan.

  Sorry.

  How do you think—excuse me—that makes me feel?

  I know. I’m sorry.

  What are you crying about? Me?

  Frank motions at the air with his hand:

  Just the, uh, the record.

  The record?

  You going and getting it for me. It’s touching, or something.

  I don’t understand.

  I gave you this record. It’s Fats Domino. The K-Tel one.

  You didn’t give me this.

  Yes I did, Luke.

  No, my brother gave me this back in the ’90s.

  I think I’d remember. I gave it to you from my collection.

  No.

  Luke burps again, then lets his head flop back.

  Excuse me, sorry.

  You don’t have to say that every time you burp.

  I didn’t get anything for you. I haven’t been upstairs in six weeks.

  You haven’t?

  No. You were crying over nothing. Something you made up.

  Is there a shower down here?

  No. Jill’s been washing me with a cloth from the sink—excuse me—like a trucker.

  I didn’t know.

  Why—excuse me—why would you?

  Do you want me to, uh, take you upstairs?

  You’re gonna carry me?

  Sure, I’d do that for you.

  Luke points at the floor above him and Frank tries not to look at his hand with all its veins. Luke’s arms used to bulge with meat and muscle from chin-ups and push-ups and lifting steel weights. There’s a sharp knob of bone on his wrist that was never there before.

  But what if you start crying? On the way up.

  Frank nods, makes a get-on-with-it motion with his hand:

  Uh huh. I get it. Crying’s for babies.

  You sound like such a tough guy on the radio. But really—

  I’m not. Yes. Am I crying now?

  No, but. Who knows how long you’ll last.

  All right, Luke.

  Anyway. Big B brought all my records down for me. Last month.

  He did?

  Didn’t even cry or anything. It was nice.

  Frank realizes he’s sweating badly. He can feel it all down his back and ass, running down his legs. Outside, there’s the faint hiss of wind and one of the trees hanging over the house shimmers for a moment as the sun rises from a cloud, only to retreat again. Then things are dark and Frank notices Luke seems to not be sweating at all.

  This fucking weather.

  Yeah.

  Luke cranes his neck to the window behind him and looks out. Then, after a moment, he stands, and the towel falls off his head. Frank expects to see something horrible, but his hair is just damp. Otherwise normal. Beautiful. Blond and wavy, the kind of hair people would kill for. Big B, arguably the funniest among them, once pointed at Luke’s perfect pompadour and crooked nose and remarked that Luke was James Dean if he’d survived the car crash. Except now with his face so small and sunken, his hair looks too big, like a silly wig a celebrity might wear on Saturday Night Live.

  I hate this weather. I can’t afford to sweat.

  I can imagine.

  I need this heat to break. Cold air and rain to move in.

  Luke’s face contracts into a stern mask:

  This could kill me. No joke.

  Do you want something to drink?

  Yeah, I should.

  The absence of humour in Luke’s answer makes Frank spring up extra fast.

  I’ll go get you something. I’ll get water. You want water?

  I’ll come. I hate this room. This room stinks.

  3

  It takes a long time for Luke to walk to the kitchen, and when he finally reaches the island and gets on a stool, he lets out a sound like he’s taking a shit. Frank watches him so closely, hands ready to catch him, that until Luke sits, he doesn’t notice the counter is covered in food. Cakes and pies and casseroles, checkered Jell-Os and big bowls with tinfoil over them, Tupperware piled into a pyramid with cookies and macaroons and brownies and other indiscernible contents.

  Holy shit, Luke.

  I know. Eat something. Do you want to eat something? Have anything.

  Who’s this from?

  Jill’s friends. You have to eat some. Eat it or it’s going in the trash.

  Crystal and I ate before I came here.

  Where is she, by the way?

/>   I’m supposed to lie and say she’s getting her hair done. But she’s with the dog, hiding from you.

  But she’s afraid of me.

  Her mom died of the same thing that you died of.

  Frank feels a jolt of horror as he hears his own words, but Luke smiles enormously. Laughs—the hardest one yet—and Frank joins in. He grabs Frank’s greasy arm with those skeleton hands. They’re very dry, and Frank imagines him absorbing much-needed moisture right off his forearm, like some kind of lizard. One moment later, they’re both holding each other, laughing.

  4

  The hardest they’d ever laughed was in studio—on the air—when they’d had two male interns fight for a permanent place on Frank’s show.

  This was when Frank had made the move from terrestrial to satellite and had ditched his former partner, an emotionally unstable DJ who was prone to passive-aggressive comments, pettiness, and delusions of grandeur. It was a big risk for Frank, who had to move from Boston to New York to take the job, and who took on more work for less money, but it paid off because of guests like Luke. People who weren’t well known, but who were genuinely funny, quick-witted, and combative. People like Frank.

  The interns had battled with mop handles and bicycle chains, sprayed each other with aerosol cans, and seriously, actually, punched and kicked one another until welts formed on their faces and heads and hands. Then, when Frank revealed to them the truth—which was that there wasn’t any permanent job available—Luke began to laugh so hard he gagged on a sip of coffee and nearly vomited. For the rest of the show he couldn’t contribute anything, and whenever he’d start to get on track, he’d think back to Frank’s big revelation and lose all composure. People had called in and complained that Frank’s guest wasn’t doing anything but laughing. This was when Luke was a just getting ready to stop being a nobody, when he was middling as a stand-up. Back when an appearance like this really mattered and he desperately needed to put on a good show to boost his ticket sales. But Luke couldn’t do anything but laugh, and the more he laughed, the more Frank laughed, and soon, everyone in the studio was laughing too. Even the staff. Even the producers. Even the bloodied and swollen interns holding ice cubes in paper towels against their injuries.