Johnny Fox

You don’t fuck with women

My Second Drive of the day: 7 May 2006–7:47 am

Sitting in the passenger seat of my car was a man I had never seen before. He introduced himself. His name was Johnny Fox.

Johnny was eager to tell me about his life. He calmly told me he had done hard time.

You were incarcerated. Can I ask what for? I asked with great interest.

He told me he had made some mistakes. He told me he didn’t regret what he had done.

I continued to drive. I asked him to continue.

I came home from work and headed up to my room on the third floor. I laid out my goods: a bag a blow to the right, next to the blow, my rigs. On the left, five spliffs lined up in perfect order: cigarettes; cold ones in the fridge. I wanted to go up.

I made a right hand turn. I looked toward Johnny. I was riveted by his story.

I popped the cap off a beer, tilted back, and took a swig. I puffed and then drew in the soothing death of nicotine. I toked. I slammed a rig into my veins. Instantaneously a warm rush of cocaine entered my veins. I began to climb.

Johnny’s eyes sparkled as he relived his story.

I never missed work. I was a functioning addict. In my life I host a roster of demons. I took another toke and I looked down to the street below. A white van was parked in front of my house. Two cretins were standing beside it; one large, balding, gruff — the other skinny, slimy, both lowlifes. They were trying to force two girls into the back of the van. The girls were resisting. I slammed another rig into my veins, continued my climb, took another swig — and started my descent to the street below.

He took a deep breath and continued.

The slimy one passed me on my way out the door. He entered my building leaving the big guy by himself. I turned around the back of the van and put my boots so far up his ass that they came out his mouth. I blanked and didn’t stop until his movement ceased. The girls thanked me and ran away. I back stepped into my building. The other scumbag was in the communal washroom on my floor. I confronted him and did what I needed to do. He paid for his vile indiscretions.

What did you do to him? I asked.

I can’t recall. I blanked out as I shot for the stars above. Another smack, toke, swig and puff; and I headed down to the Sunrise Pub. At the pub I sat at the bar, blood staining my shirt and knuckles. I shot back scotch and swigged beers. The police arrived. They chanted my name.

Johnny Fox. Are you Johnny Fox?

They took me outside. Asked me where I lived. They escorted me back to my place. The haze was beginning to lift. We climbed the stairs as I dropped from the sky. The slimy punk was a blooded mess. He was out cold. Lying on the floor of my room was a butcher knife. My room was dripping in blood. Next to the knife lay a scalp. I did what needed to be done. I have no regrets. You don’t fuck with women.

Did the man die? I asked.

Johnny paused, opened the car door, and stepped out onto the curb; looking back at me, he said: Unfortunately, no…

  • Excerpt from upcoming meta-memoir: Driving in Reverse — The Life I Almost Missed
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Lindsay Wincherauk is a Vancouver based author. He is currently in the process of finding a publishing home for his provocative, playful, disturbing, edgy… disruptive meta-memoir: Driving in Reverse — The Life I Almost Missed.

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