SHORT STORY: Tender

I'd always assumed it was a homeless shelter. The architecture, while plain enough to blend in with its aging neighbors, peaked and plunged like most of the city's older churches. It wasn't likely that this temple had seen any worshippers for decades. A moat of garbage spanned its cracked exterior and layers of bird shit marked its passage through the years. A few marred ornaments sprouted from the roof. No doubt the building had once commanded respect, but its flock had moved on. It wasn't abandoned; I had seen people inside, shuffling past the fogged windows. Some days the front door cracked open just enough to reveal the chipped tile floor inside. The sign on the wall said "Piscine St. John," which, I thought, sounded like a perfectly good name for a shelter. Of course, in French, a "piscine" is actually a pool, but I had only lived in Montreal for about two years at the time and still hadn't picked up the language.

In those two years, I hadn't yet experienced a true Montreal winter. Sure, it dropped well below the coldest I had known growing up in the South, but that winter, the winter I was to learn the truth behind St. John's, was a whole different creature. Even tucked beneath a thick scarf and a wool cap, the wind stung my skin. My eyes welled and leaked. That morning, I saw the real homeless shelters of the city--bank A.T.M. entrances, subway benches, and even telephone booths. Anything to escape the wind. Those who braved the weather tucked themselves into alleys and cocooned inside heavy sleeping bags. Some still walked the streets, bundled in awkward layers of filthy clothing. It was the first time I'd come face to face with human survival.

During the summer, in a big city, you learn to ignore the vagrants. It sounds cruel, but you cannot help them all. Newcomers will start out by giving quarters to each one they encounter (for about two blocks) before realizing that there is a whole society of needy people living off of pity. Soon, newcomers will begin to ignore the cries for money, look away from the signs begging for help, and only respond with an apology once they are called out by a passing fuck you. It's just easier that way - if you don't notice something, you can't feel guilty when you deny it.

Watching the winter try to claim these people, however, caused me a great deal of shame. I decided to pay St. John's a visit and see how I could help. I wasn't prepared to volunteer my time serving food but I did have my checkbook with me. I'm not going to portray myself as a benevolent spirit here, because at that time, I was not. The city has a way of forcing introversion upon you, teaching you hard lessons when you reach out to people. My hand had been bitten enough times to know that sticking to my routines was the safest way to get by. I needed a quick way to write off my guilt and be done with it, so I headed to the shelter.

By the time I reached St. John's, I was disoriented, stumbling, and I had developed a dull ache behind my eyes. Wind as frigid as it gets here can permeate your skin and sink even deeper. An ice-cream headache. That's the best way to describe it when the chill passes through your eyes. I considered warming myself with a cigarette, but I didn't dare expose my hands long enough to fumble with lighting one. I wasn't even sure if you could smoke through a scarf.

The shelter looked almost new to me. The garbage had been covered by several inches of snow and the stained roof was also veiled by winter. The front door stood about an inch open, allowing the warmth to leak out. Whether it was the promised relief from the cold, the apparent transformation of the building itself, or something less easily explained, I don't think I can properly describe how welcome I felt at that point.

It became clear that St. John's was not a shelter (or even a church) as soon as I stepped into the front room. The walls were colored with fluorescent blue and lined with lifesavers and pool cleaning nets. Painted footprints led around the corner. A yellowed photograph, labeled "Bain St. John--1926," hung unevenly behind the front desk. In it, two men in suits shook hands while people bathed in the water behind them. Public baths had long since become unnecessary, so the city must have adapted it to something more useful - a piscine.

I had forgotten about my original goal for entering; curiosity now compelled me to explore the odd building. I followed the path laid out by the tiny footprints. The pool room was cramped, yet comfortable. The pool itself retained an unusual shape from its past spent as a tub and didn't appear to have a "deep end". It struck me as odd that the place was even open in January. There was no cover over the clear water. I glanced back at the painted feet. No doubt the children of the neighborhood were aware of the pool here; with an open front door and an exposed body of water, this place was potentially dangerous. There weren't any lifeguards around. Or were there?

"Hello? The front door was open. Is anybody here?"

I thought I heard a faint reply from somewhere...outside? I tried again.

"I can't hear you. Speak up!"

Nothing. The thin windows along the sides of the room hummed as the wind caressed them.

I began to itch inside my winter gear. St John's was very well heated--too hot. I removed my coat and hooked it over the back of a chair. I tossed my gloves, scarf, and hat onto the seat. My clothes beneath were soaked in sweat.

I wanted to explore the rest of St. John's, but each time my eyes crossed the surface of the water, the hum grew louder and my thoughts slowed. Soon I was entirely focused on the pool and when I looked away from it, I panicked. I worried that it might disappear if I let it. I felt I was missing the big picture, that if I opened my eyes wide enough I'd see everything. In the middle of the harshest winter of my life, more than anything, I wanted to swim. I am normally a modest person, but that morning I stripped down to my boxers. I'd left the front door cracked open, and somebody could have walked in at any minute. But I needed to swim. There was no rationalization, something unnatural drove me forward.

Someone did enter. Even as he hobbled into the room, I continued to stare into the water. The surface blurred and writhed in response to the new occupant.

"No, God... No," he said. His words were thick with phlegm.

The voice woke me from my trance. On instinct, I reached for my clothes to cover my nakedness, but stopped as I caught site of the intruder. At first consideration, he appeared to be one of the city's vagrants. He'd layered himself thick with dull grey clothing. His hands were lost within oversized sleeves and most of his face masked by stacks of winter hats and hoods. The skin I could see was pale and sickly. Bloated lips twitched as he spoke.

"You can't do this! You can't!"

I clumsily pulled my pants back on. "I'm sorry... The door was open, I thought--"

"Who's there? Please! Don't let it put me in there!"

Homeless and drunk. It wasn't a fair assumption, but there it was. "Do you need me to call someone? I thought this was a shelter, but I guess it's--"

"No!" The man had reached the opposite side of the pool. The layers of soiled cloth peeled back and the hoods lifted. The man inside them was completely exposed. His flesh was gelatinous and it quivered as he was ejected forward towards the pool. I could see completely through his body. His bones and organs were visible, yet translucent. He flopped onto the concrete lip of the pool with a disgusting splat, and his entire body rippled. His eyes met mine as he slid helplessly into the water.

...And then I saw the true purpose of St. John's. For a second, the water seemed as clear as ever, but the illusion broke when the man slid into it. The entire basin was filled with living, jellied people, and all eyes were upon me! They mouthed words I couldn't hear, but I knew they begged for help. I could see through their bodies, all the way to the bottom of the pool. It was much deeper than it had appeared, by at least ten feet, and a hole opened at the very bottom. What looked like a simple breach in the floor chewed slowly with staggered brickwork teeth. I stumbled backwards and toppled over a chair.

The man's clothing, now floating a few inches above the ground, spun to face me. It began a slow drift in my direction.

"What the fuck?" I asked myself aloud. I dashed for the front door. More of the cloaks. At least three more had entered St. John's through the front. I grabbed one of the safety nets and headed back towards the pool. The first cloak still hadn't reached my side of the pool. Why were they so slow? Because their prey is usually slow, I realized.

I charged it, pole extended, and was shocked at how insubstantial the beast was when I connected. I easily snagged it from the air and hurled it towards a wall. Stunned, it hesitated a moment before floating upright. The room began to darken. Above me, the entire ceiling was obscured by descending cloaks.

I desperately gripped a doorknob at the back of the pool room, hoping it was a fire exit. It didn't turn. I kicked at the door with the flat of my foot, but without my boots, I had no chance of forcing it open. Weighing my odds, I sped back to the front room.

I failed to notice one of the cloaks that had flattened out along the floor and I stepped right into its trap. It snapped shut. The nerves in my leg screamed and I fell to my knees. I tried to kick the thing off, but it gripped tighter. The other cloaks in the room were almost upon me from all directions. I waved my makeshift weapon at them, but soon there wouldn't be room to even swing it. The warmth in my trapped leg was almost gone. With nowhere else to flee, I dragged myself to the pool and slid in. The cloak released its hold before I could pull my leg over the side.

It wasn't like treading water, though the bodies were slick with fluid. They still had weight, and I could keep myself near the surface by stepping on their rubbery limbs.

A woman's voice, full of liquid but definitely female, whispered into my ear, "Don't leave us."

The pool stunk of vinegar and my eyes stung. My exposed skin burned as it pressed against the slimy bodies. The mouth below still called to me, although it was less urgent now that I was already being digested. Let go. Swim.

It would have been easy to let go, too, but I had one trick left. I braced myself between one body and the wall and reached into my back pocket. I shoved my fist up into the cloud of cloaks and my lighter licked the beasts with flames. The blaze leaped through the creatures, gaining momentum with each new victim. They began to drop flat to the floor or into the pool. The digesting bodies began to howl as they burned. With pieces of burning clothing stuck to my back, and my hair alight, I pulled myself from the pool and ran towards the street.

I rolled myself into the thick snow banks to extinguish the flames, and then kept running until St. John's was nothing but a pillar of smoke in the distance. I ran through the streets of Montreal until I nearly collapsed, half-naked and smoking. Heavily bundled onlookers watched in pity but refused to help. Sirens rang out in the distance and I knew I'd have to hide, so I dragged myself down the stairs and into a subway station. I was completely numb and shaking. My skin had been burned by both the fire and the cold. I imitated the other vagrants in the station and rested next a large heating strip along the floor.

That night, I would sleep among the invisible, and if I woke up, I would leave the hungry city.