Cameron was drunk the night he found out that Alex Jarvis was dead. His phone buzzed with a text message from an acquaintance whom he hadn’t spoken to in a few years. The message read: remember alex jarvis from high school? He flipped his ATV and crushed his skull. Died in hospital today.

He and Lex were seated at a glossy hightop table at a new queer bar in downtown Ottawa. Everything about the bar felt too new, too contrived. It had a chemical, plastic smell. Cameron read the message several times, hoping he could blink it away like a mirage. When the message insisted on existing, he put his phone screen-down on the table and relayed the news to Lex.

Lex was his best friend, but she wasn’t from the same town as Cameron. They had met working at a Cineplex two years prior and bonded over being the only two queer people on staff. Lex knew Cameron well enough to recognize the name Alex Jarvis from his past. She widened her eyes and clutched Cameron’s hand. Her nails were painted black, and so were his. Mourning colours, he thought, and the thought made him feel momentarily sick.

Cameron wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but he allowed her to hold his hand because it felt socially appropriate in this moment. Cameron didn’t want to admit that he had felt an evil surge of relief and satisfaction when he saw the text message. Then came the inevitable shock and sympathy for Alex’s family and friends. But the initial emotions had been there, and they disgusted Cameron. He was unsure what his face looked like right now so he downed the rest of his drink. He sometimes cried when he heard shocking news, but he wouldn’t cry now; it had taken him an hour to do his make-up.

Lex seemed to sense the conflicting emotions warring inside of her friend, because she withdrew her hand and gave him a knowing look. “He was a bad person,” she said.

Cameron looked at his empty glass and wished it would magically refill itself. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I hope his family is okay. They must be heartbroken.” These were nothing words. He felt like he was reading aloud a platitude from the crumpled paper within a fortune cookie.

The last time Cameron had seen Alex Jarvis had been three years ago. Cameron was on an obligatory twice-a-year visit back home. He had just broken up with his boyfriend, Liam, and he was riding an emotional tailspin. He went to the gas station to get a coffee and nearly bumped into Alex, who was walking out of the gas station bathroom with the bathroom key dangling from his hand. The two men stared at each other, their faces blank for an instant before recognition and old resentment settled in. Alex had put on a lot of weight and looked unwell. His blonde hair was thinning at the front. His shirt was untucked, streaked with white stains from laundry detergent or bleach.

Cameron made a conscious effort to stand out less when he visited home, but he still looked like a different species than Alex. He wore tiny hoop earrings, a tight black turtleneck sweater, and cuffed jeans. He gripped the cup of coffee he had just poured himself from the dispenser. He had the sudden, anxious thought that if Alex attacked, he could throw the coffee in his face as self-defense.

“Hi, Cam,” said Alex. His smile was performative.

Cameron didn’t smile. “Hello.”

“You’re back home, eh?”

“Just for a few days.”

“Still living in Toronto?”

Cameron had never lived in Toronto. He saw no point in correcting Alex. “Yeah, I am.”

Alex nodded. “That’s really good, man. Really good.” Then he waved the bathroom key at Cameron, as if to signal the end of the conversation. He dropped the key with the cashier and left the gas station.

Cameron felt disturbed, like he had just been visited by a ghost. The Alex Jarvis he knew in high school had been bombastic, cruel, the loudest person in the vicinity. This version had been faded and pitiful. Not that Cameron preferred the old version. He liked his bullies washed-out and depressed. It gave him satisfaction when their fires were extinguished early on by the bleakness of life.

Cameron and Lex left the queer bar in favor of somewhere quieter. The venue where they worked had a backroom that was dark and secluded. There was an indie rock band from Vancouver playing on the main stage tonight, but Cameron wasn’t in the mood for music. Cameron and Lex got a booth in the backroom. Their boss, Aiden, smiled at them from the bar.

Aiden was an attractive man in his thirties. He had very dark, curly hair and always dressed impeccably. Cameron was still uncertain as to whether Aiden was queer or not. He knew that Aiden had a girlfriend a few months back, but that didn’t rule anything out. Cameron did not always trust exceptionally beautiful people because he assumed that they had been unkind in highschool. But he couldn’t imagine Aiden hanging out with the popular kids. He was too much of a music nerd. More likely he was the weird kid with long hair at the back of the class who spent all his free time playing guitar and listening to obscure albums on vinyl.

Lex asked Cameron if he was okay a few times. Cameron gave robotic assurances that he was fine. They parted ways an hour later. Cameron walked home and called his parents. He was very close with them, and they always stayed up late, so he often called them on his way home from a night out.

Tonight, it was his mom who picked up. Her voice sounded happy. “We were just talking about you.”

“Alex Jarvis died,” Cameron said. He hadn’t planned on blurting it out, hadn’t even planned on bringing it up. But the information had wanted to escape from Cameron. It forced its way out of his mouth. Cameron wished he could spit it out on the ground and be rid of it forever. But the knowledge of Alex Jarvis’ death hung above him like a mangled, useless umbrella in a torrential rainstorm.

His mom went quiet. Then, she asked, “Did he take his own life?”

“No, Mum. He died in an ATV accident.”

“How did you hear?”

“Jeremy texted me.”

“I’m putting your dad on the phone,” she said.

Seconds later, his dad’s sombre voice: “You okay, Cam?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I’m surprised we didn’t hear yet. Your mom’s on Facebook and all.”

“Jeremy’s wife is a paramedic,” Cameron said. “He was probably one of the first to find out.”

“Well, it’s a tragedy to die so young.” His dad sounded like he wanted to say more. His parents were very aware of how Alex had tormented Cameron in high school. They had attended several meetings with the principal and one or two with Alex’s parents. They had wanted Alex to be expelled. Cameron remembered his dad saying that people like Alex were life-ruiners. During Cameron’s senior year, anytime he accomplished anything—a good grade, high praise from the art teacher—his dad would say something to the extent of: “See what kind of kid you are? A great kid. A smart kid. And what’s Alex Jarvis doing right now? Smoking weed and throwing bottles at cars from the overpass. Rubbing his two dying brain cells together.”

“Are you and Mum watching Netflix?” Cameron asked, wanting to change the topic.

“Oh, no, we watched a bit of news and did some crosswords. Where are you?”

“Walking home. I’m downtown.”

“Okay, Cam. Be safe, alright?”

“Yeah. Night, Dad.”

When Cameron got home, he saw that Lex had posted a picture of them on Instagram. It had been taken mere minutes before Cameron got the news about Alex Jarvis. Lex looked great: dyed blond hair slicked back, winged eyeliner, crisp white collared shirt. Cameron looked nice as well. He was wearing a pale orange linen shirt that looked nice with his complexion. Cameron had very few friends from back home, so there were no cringy RIP posts about Alex Jarvis to scroll through. He no longer had Facebook, but he imagined Alex Jarvis’ Facebook wall would be flooded with heart emojis and ludicrous claims of him being a “good guy” and a “great friend”. Death sometimes made awful people shine brighter. No one would remember that Alex Jarvis once smashed his fist onto Cameron’s fingers in art class because Cameron’s painting had apparently been too feminine, but everyone would remember the cheerful barbeque that Alex hosted in his backyard a few years back.

It took Cameron a long time to fall asleep.

***

Aiden wanted to teach Cameron how to bartend. Cameron sold tickets, stamped the back of peoples’ hands, and ripped ticket stubs. He did a little backstage work if it was a busy night. But he had never envisioned himself behind the bar.

“I see potential in you,” Aiden told him the day after Alex Jarvis died. “People like you.”

Cameron stopped himself from asking, “They do?” Lex was a people person. She could befriend anyone. Cameron was quite anxious around strangers. He also had poor hearing, and didn’t think he would be able to hear peoples’ drink orders over the loud music. He still flinched when big straight men near him gestured too dramatically or laughed too loudly, a habit from high school that he would probably never outgrow. He expressed none of these things to Aiden and instead said, “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to learn how to bartend.”

Learning to bartend would mean more time with Aiden. Aiden was the venue manager, but he spent most of his time behind the bar. Cameron loved the way Aiden left the bar area to deal with “issues”. He would listen to whatever employee had come seeking his wisdom, patient and concerned. He nodded a lot and never interrupted. Then he would calmly walk around the bar and put his hands in his pockets. This made him look non-confrontational, but also confident in his own territory. Once, a drunk person had pushed Aiden. Instead of retaliating, Aiden raised his hands in the air and gave the guy a look, like, “Was that really the best decision?” The lack of reaction, the rejection of violence, had thrilled Cameron.

After his shift, Cameron found himself scrolling years back into Aiden’s Instagram. There was a very old framed photo that someone had taken a picture of with their phone. It was a high school age Aiden with his friends, presumably at graduation; they were wearing dress pants and button-ups. Aiden was handsome, fresh-faced. He was squinting his eyes as if looking into the bright sun. One of his buddies had his arm slung around Aiden’s shoulder. The photo made Cameron feel unsettled. Aiden was not the long-haired, guitar-playing creature in high school that he had imagined. The other guys in the photo looked like jocks. They looked like the kind of people that Alex Jarvis would hang out with.

Cameron put his phone on his bedside table. He placed his hands over his eyes, blocking out the light. He wished that Jeremy had never texted him. It only now occurred to him how unnecessary it had been for him to be notified of Alex Jarvis’ death. Did Jeremy think he would be devastated? Thrilled? What was Cameorn supposed to do with this information?

Cameron wanted to hate Alex—it was his right to hate him—but his hatred had deflated the last time he saw Alex. The way Alex had waved the bathroom key at Cameron in the gas station. It was somehow vulnerable, embarrassed. There had been a Kitkat sticking out of Alex’s pocket. Cameron had imagined him sitting in his pick-up truck after their interaction and eating the Kitkat. Alone. The thought made him inexplicably depressed. Cameron thought about how much his dad talked shit about Alex in his high school years. Not just the life-ruiner stuff, and the bits about Cameron being a smart kid and Alex having two dying brain cells to rub together, but really deep-cutting stuff too. He said that Alex was socially underdeveloped and would likely be profoundly unhappy by the time he was twenty-two. At the time, these things had soothed Cameron, like cold water on a sunburn. Now, his dad’s words felt strangely prophetic.

Maybe they should have never said those things about Alex Jarvis. They should have been like Aiden when the guy pushed him at the venue; stoic, unreactive. Coolly superior.

Cameron touched the fingers on his left hand, which Alex had slammed his fist upon in art class. He wondered if he should have thrown his hot coffee at Alex when they encountered each other at the gas station. The thought was ugly, but it came from a place of revenge, not malice. That had been his last chance to find peace, to speak his mind. He could have made Alex feel ashamed of himself.

But Alex had already been ashamed of himself. The Kitkat, the embarrassed bathroom key wave.

Everyone about him was defeated. Cameron asserted his victory simply by standing there holding his coffee and saying very little. Alex had looked at Cameron and known in that moment that Cameron had ascended, and he had not. Cameron had moved on from their town, got a job, made friends, established a life. Alex Jarvis would go sit in his pick-up truck and eat his Kitkat in wretched silence.

Cameron picked up his phone and blocked Jeremy’s number, to ensure that no further communication about Alex Jarvis could happen. This felt surprisingly cathartic, like he had just severed all ties with his hometown by blocking Jeremy’s number. Aside from Cameron’s parents, this was essentially true. He felt protected, now, free, even. He would not have to endure Facebook posts memorializing Alex’s mediocrity. He would not have to listen to people lament what a tragedy it was.

Cameron’s friends here did not know Alex Jarvis. Ottawa did not know or care about Alex Jarvis. Therefore, Cameron had no obligation to give a shit about Alex Jarvis.

When he turned his light off, Cameron fell asleep almost instantly.