NOVEL

CHAPTER

 

As a final "Farewell!" to being alive, I decided some half-year ago to listen to all the CDs I own. For all the 'classical' ones, I decided to start with the massive label collections. Living Stereo, Decca Sound, Archiv, Chandos, EMI Schubert songs, Kovachevich doing Beethoven's sonatas. I had to listen to another set, and I had this Warner collection of Beethoven's hits, some 25 CDs in all, down on top of my computer tower. I looked at it two weeks ago. The first CD consisted of

Beethoven: Symphony #1

Beethoven: Symphony #3

That sounded kind of mundane to me.

I looked around my disgustingly filthy den, and I spotted my Arturo Toscanini complete RCA collection. I've looked up there when I've had to look somewhere, on many occasions. It was perched on top of a folded polythene map of the United States roadways. So, all I had to do was get up there, high up, seven feet up, and grab it.

Alcohol made me do it.

I put me left foot on top of a stack of books. Christ Stopped at Eboli was the topmost book.

I knew I was taking a risk. Famous last words! Florida man!

My left foot felt sound on the pile of books. Then I balanced rightly enough to put my right on top of an upturned box within which was a turntable, a DJ turntable, a T.80 from Stanton, which I'd packed up since I'd gotten a better Cambridge thing in January.

Left foot: books. Right foot: box. Defying the odds, I got my hands on the Toscanini collection, the box, all 72 CDs of it, and I managed to get my right foot down off the turntable box and my left foot off Christ Stopped at Eboli.

I had the box. I opened it up. And the first CD in the collection turned out to be

Beethoven: Symphony #3

Beethoven: Symphony #1

 

When I was living in David Smookler's house, I had to do laundry up the street, at Dovercourt Coin Laundry. (Find it, and set up a shrine.)

I went there some day, long ago, with my white meshed laundry bag over my shoulder. This all must've all taken place around 1990. I got my dirty clothes into a washing machine, and fired her up. Then I sat down to read some book or another. Something big, something complicated, something classic. I don't remember what.

A noise disturbed me, and the noise was caused by a girl. She couldn’t get a machine to work. I was the closest hominid to her, so I reluctantly went to her aid. She didn't know how to put the coins into the machine.

I don't remember her name. She was cutely boyish. She had short blonde hair, a spotless complexion, and she couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds. I put the coins in for her, then we talked. We sat on top of the machines to do so, and they hummed under our thighs.

Her boyfriend was kind of an asshole. He didn't treat her right. (I'll treat you right.) She was living in a dump. (I'll find us somewhere nice, of you want.) Nothing in her life was going right. (I'd like to set it right.)

Then the laundromat owner came in and told us to get off his goddam machines.

We made a date to meet. Nothing special, just to meet. We met, and we walked over to Christie Pits. We sat and watched a baseball game going on.

For some reason, I told the truth. I told her I really liked her, and I wanted to be with her, and I thought we should go have sex some place as soon as possible.

She said, more or less, "Woah."

We walked back to the corner of Dovercourt and Hallam. I was grousing with rejection all the way. (Kids, don't try this! It doesn't work!)

She went into her apartment, and I continued, to my home in David Smookler's house.

I never saw her again.

Sometimes I wish I could understand art.

 

Two Ottawa federal bureaucrats get into a car accident.

Yells bureaucrat one: "You ombuds average person! Look at my fender!"

The other bureaucrat yells: "You person who has spasms and who may be a person of colour! It was all your fault!"

The first bureaucrat yells (all this is happening on Sparks Street, and a crowd has gathered): "What are you, a person with a mental health disability? You ran right into me!"

The second bureaucrat replies: "Are you a person who is deaf, or are you a person who is blind? Or are you rather an autistic person with high needs? Fuck!"

The first bureaucrat pulls out a handy knife. "You person of short stature! God fucking dammit! 'Intellectually disabled' doesn't even being to describe you!"

The second bureaucrat pulls out a .45. "Who the fuck are you? Are you underrepresented? Are you a member of a traditionally itinerant ethnic group?"

The first bureaucrat rounds, aggressively, his dented fender. He's ready with his shiv. "Golly, you really got it, you person who doesn't experience sexual attraction! Were you assigned female at birth?"

That was almost too much for the second bureaucrat. He was waving his gun around. "You ran into me, you person who has been diagnosed with mental illness!"

The knife goes in. The gun goes off.

Sparks Street goes back to normal.

 

This

On the island, we had trouble getting anywhere. We only had one horse, and it needed a fresh horseshoe before we could get anything done. For some reason, I was the one appointed to take it down a long road where there was believed to be a blacksmith who was good with horses. Island-famous, in fact.

This is

Down the road I went, driving the hobbling horse in front of me or behind me. In the distance I saw a house and a barn and a stable. That looked like the right place. The image grew fuzzier as I approached it. The barn was replaced by an outhouse, the stable by a lean-to, and the house by a Winnebago.

This is the

Turned out, no-one there knew anything about horses. I was a bit confused, and I turned to my father-in-law for help, but he pretended not to know anything either, and he got mad at me because I continued to pester him. My wife hopped a fence with him. Maybe she could calm him down, and we could get on with the business at hand.

This is the obligatory

The Winnebago people were packing up to leave. Apparently, we were to become the new tenants of the place. The horse was long-forgotten. The Winnebago was full of stuff, including a fully-stocked liquor cabinet. I climbed into the passenger side to see how roomy it was.

This is the obligatory traum

My mother-in-law was in the driver's seat. She started it up and started driving. We drove into a pond, she backed up. As she was reversing, I got back to the lean-to. The vehicle was coming straight for us! Then, magically, it left the ground and floated above us, its wheels spinning and its engine screaming loudly.

This is the obligatory traumspiel.

 

"I understand that there's different types of weather.

"Wait. Let me start again. Given: there's different types of weather. Agreed?

"And those different types of weather affect people in different ways. You understand that, right, buddy?

"Most people prefer sunshine, and dislike the rain. That's the normal reaction. It must go way back to those early days when we all crawled out of the ocean and started to hate getting wet. Was that a kind of self-loathing?

"I'm getting off-track! Where was I? Yes, most people are like that: sun yes, rain no.

"Also: and this isn't a matter of weather: they prefer the day to the night. Days are safe, and nights are not safe. Again, that's the norm. I mean, what's out there in the darkness? What about things that can't be seen in the dark? It's no co-incidence we don't trust night time.

"Also, maybe we're all kind of sleepy. Off-guard. Practically hallucinating, practically already dreaming, when the sun goes down.

"You get the point. Now, what happens when you put them together? Sunny day, rainy night. It's pretty clear the former us superior to the latter. But--not for everyone.

"Me, I'd like it to stay night all the time, and I'd like it to rain all the time. If you can like that kind of a situation, you have an immediate advantage over the people who like sunny days. They barely know where they are or anything. And if you're used to them--rainy nights--there's plenty you can get away with.

"Ah, but, don't worry, it's all in my imagination. It's the thrill of the possibility, see. I prefer the imagination to reality. All my advantages are imaginary, you see. Actually, I'm a perfect coward, but I like to pretend I'm not, in a spectacular way."

 

It was a rocketship all right. I remember it well. It was a Battleship Cruiser, and we were the crew. All the battleships were different, but ours was a cruiser. We'd stick out hands out the windows to feel space go by.

The other ships, the ones we were among, were all going in the same direction. Over on the left was another bunch of spaceships, all going the other way. I'd look at the people in them and I'd wonder where they were going. They certainly seemed to be going very fast. A couple glimpses was all I could get, but one was a little girl, and we looked at one another. It only lasted a sec.

The pilot in the front seat moved the rocketship over to the right. He had to slow down because we were in another lane. Some other ships shot lasers at us, and our pilot swored as if the other pilots could hear him.

We had to stop at some coloured lights then. Tick-tick-tick went something in our ship. Tick-tick-tick. Something changed, and I was pushed to the left from some interstellar force field. My arm pressed against the outside of the ship and it hurt a bit because of all the space-travel equipment that was there.

We weren't going as fast anymore. It got boring. I didn't recognize anything, just planets with people in them passing us by. Some were on the surface. Some were playing, and some were watering their crops.

We docked somewheres. We all got out of the ship. Where were we? I didn't know. Then a door on the planet opened, and someone came out. Then I realized: we'd come to visit our ancestor! It was the Goddess herself!

 

"Whew, I'm beat! That was one tough day! I'm so glad it's over and done with! Now I can go home and forget all about it until tomorrow! Isn't that swell?"

"Yes, very good, time to pack it in."

"Well, tomorrow is another day, as someone-or-other said somewhere-or-other. See you in the morning!"

"Perhaps, perhaps."

"What do you mean? You might not be in tomorrow?"

"I'll be here if I can, but there's no accounting for accidents."

"There won't be an accident, Biff! I'll see you in the morning."

"I wouldn't want to bet on it. I don't know what's going to happen, and you can't say you know either."

"Oh, but, really, you can't actually believe something like that! You got to have some idea of, of futurity, right?"

"I suppose I lost out on the illusory sense of things that almost everyone else has. I simply can't plan anything ahead of time. Even the idea of an hour makes me nervous."

"But you must plan things. Plans for holidays?"

"No; I only go anywhere if I'm dragged there by circumstances."

"I feel the same way sometimes too! Okay, what about saving for your elder years? You must have some plan for that."

"No, certainly not. A year in the future? It could easily come to naught. I can't even plan a year into the future."

"You must have a pass for your commuter rail."

"No, I pay in cash every time."

"You don't actually believe the sun might not rise in the morning, do you?"

"I'm 75% or so certain of that, but I don't know if I'll be around to see it."

"But: you work here!"

"I have to work somewhere."

"Hell, for God's sake, Biff, you're an insurance salesman!"

"Where's it written I have to believe in the product?"

 

The young lady had been working there for over a year before she started showing symptoms. For twelve months, she was healthy and fine, and then, some time around her first anniversary, she went a little mental, then she went a little more mental.

To her, the world was resolving itself into nexuses of feelings. A colour would affect her; blue, for example, made her feel romantic, while purple, any purple, would begin a pattern of thoughts that seemed to revolve around regicide. She didn't know where all these thoughts came from; she was beginning to act out.

One day, a book with a green cover crossed her desk, and she started chewing per pencil. She chomped through the wood and masticated, and her mouthful was nicely flavoured with graphite. She had almost no pencil left with which to write the prices inside the covers of the piles of books she had to mark. She felt a little sick, and her throat was scratchy from the not-entirely-saturated shavings.

She went to one of her co-workers to tell her what she'd done. "It was because of the colour green," she said.

The co-worker said: "There's some good books on that. Check the psychology section."

She read a book about OCD. It made her worse. Sounds began to give her strange ideas. She started walking into traffic because all the signs reverse for her.

She went to her boss, who said: "Mindfulness. Read up on mindfulness."

Mindfulness: Gaining Your Core Strengths distorted another sense: the sense of smell. Now she wasn't getting any sleep, and going to dive bars.

She explained it to a rummy. He said: It seems obvious to me. Get away from that psychology bookstore!"

She quit the job at the psychology bookstore. The symptoms went away.

 

The expendables. They fought a duel here, once upon a time. They were just a couple of hooligans fighting about the honour of a maiden. One of the hooligans had seemingly insulted her at a royal event. (I say seemingly because no-one, save the other hooligan, could agree there had been such an insult.) The lady wasn't present at the duel that frosty morning; however, she was in the royal castle, and fretting about the outcome, not knowing who would win. Would it be her betrothed hooligan, or her third cousin, who was also a hooligan? She'd said: "There had been no such insult, and I forbid you to fight a duel about it!" But would her betrothed hooligan listen? No, he would not listen, for the challenge had already been made the previous day, and said intercourse with his betrothed had happened some hours later. And so, she was in her room in the castle, wondering which hooligan would emerge alive. The seconds examined the pistols. The pistols looked quite alike. Any differences between them had been created by the will of God. The third-cousin hooligan, the défense, as the term was, had first choice. He chose quickly from the box of pistols, choosing the uppermost. The attaque, the betrothed, took up the other weapon. They took up their stances, back to back, and awaited their orders. Twenty paces they stepped, then they together turned and fired. The hooligans barely knew the terms of themselves, and yet they fired at one and the same time. Some crows flew up from nearby trees. The nearby pond was misting indifferently. The sun didn't care either. Both hooligans clutched at their chests. At the same time they fell upon their knees. They looked up at the sky at one and the same time. It had been ... a draw.

 

I don't know how to tell you this, Edna, but I feel I have had a part in all this current 'end of the world' business. I may have been the first to notice. That is entirely possible. If I had raised the alarm immediately, perhaps things would be quite different today.

It started when the Canadian Pacific Railway, the company that owns the lands upon which we, our company, had its head office. One day, the CPR referred to a little-understood section of our contract which stated they could, for a time, convert the land to its own use in an emergency, and such an emergency had arisen. Nonce to the details, but the upshot was a great re-arrangement. Our floors were pulled up to reveal, of all things, train tracks beneath!

That fateful day we watched from the upper floors of our non-seconded wing to see a great train come onto what we thought was ours; the train was a heavy and experimental model. The ground shook beneath the feet of everyone within six blocks. Verily, it was like an earthquake! More than a few precious objects fell from shelves, and the dogs barked in their terrors.

The train went away, leaving the ground trembling in its wake. We went down to the scene, where the CPR workers were hastily re-assembling our offices. It was then that I noticed a great number of bugs on the pavement. You could barely avoid stepping on them, and yet they always managed to scurry out of the way, as if guided by a collective sensorium.

One such bug seemed larger than the rest; I took off my glasses, and realized it was upon my very eyeball. I brushed it away, but I failed to squish it in time. It was too wise to be thus extinguished.

The bugs were so, well, everywhere. If I had said something at the time, humanity would have gained a precious two hours' time for a proper defence. I did not, and I fear the end of the current world is at hand.

I bless the pigeon upon whose leg this note is tied.

Yours in love, Quatermass

 

I was making up a shopping list with Mary. She mentioned cookies. At first, she said Viva Puffs, but then changed her desire, to Whippets. I wrote down 'Whippets'. Then she said: "The Black Forest ones." I added 'BF' to 'Whippets'. I said: "I'll have to become a DJ. 'Whippets BF'."

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! ALL THE WAY FROM TORONTO CANADA! IT'S ... WHIPPETS BF!!!"

Maybe you had to have been there.

 

There's a seed in the ground.

From that seed spouts a stem. We could call it stem number one.

Something else emerges from a pre-ordained spot on one of the sides of stem number one. It's new, it's a new idea. Perhaps.

Now, from stem number one, there's another one. It sprouted on the other side, a couple inches higher along.

From the other one comes another branch-in-training. (I apologize for Nature, for all of this seems to take an eternity.)

A new seed prematurely is formed, but it doesn't thrill or thrive. It drops, and rots. This happens 99.999999% of the time. Dry your eyes, sweetie.

Another branch, on the first branch.

Another branch, on the second branch.

In its surroundings, it reigns. It is the King, of sixteen square centimetres.

Another branch emerges, off the second branch of the third branch.

This could go on for sixty more years. I will not be alive to see its end.

 

My second neighbour to the south, Daqui, has been re-building his garage. He's been putting on a whole new roof. It's a big endeavour. He's been working on it for two-and-a-half weeks.

I went outside today and asked him: "When do you expect to be done?"

"Conservative estimate? I think in two days."

"What's your liberal estimate?"

"I'll get it done when it feels good and it doesn't hurt anyone."

 

I promise you this won't be long.

 

 

I don't know if you've heard of Captain Whizbang. Only a select few know him to be the greatest artist of our time.

Arriving at his 'PLAYHOUSE', what struck me was the unbalanced order of the place. Some rooms were immaculately clean, while others were, frankly, pigstys. The artist himself was in his kitchen drawing with crayons on a wall. He put down his crayons upon seeing me, and we settled down on two oversized highchairs.

He told me of his life. "I had to make a choice at the age of nine. I chose the life of the artist."

His works sell moderately well, at low prices. He showed me his closet (which he called his 'vault') in which he kept his money. It was the messiest vault I'd ever seen. The shelf, upon the door's pressure on opening, spewed forth some dozen or so hundred-dollar-bills. (He can keep his prices low because he is so prolific. Four canvases, a short story, and three songs a day can do that, if only one applies oneself.)

"Hurry! This morning's painting isn't finished!"

We went into his studio, and I watched him apply some colours to a scene involving a maiden, a dragon, and a knight. "The dragon's a kind of cop!" he explained.

All around me: canvases in various conditions, depicting meadows, portraits, seas.

"Oh! Oh! Sit there! I'll make you a portrait!"

In twenty minutes, it was finished. He handed it to me, saying: "This'll buy you lunch for the week, if you sell it!"

I bid adieu to the great artist Captain Whizbang. Somehow, I felt sadly, knowing now what I had abandoned by becoming adolescent.

 

She is purposefully vague, in many ways. She is vague about where she came from. She is vague about the minute, hour, day, year. She won't be clear and above-the-board with anyone. It's her disposition. She simply cannot be anything other than vague. Her clothing is vague, too. How can clothing be vague? There are no labels or insignias on anything. All of it could have come from pretty much anywhere. It's like she chose it, if she chose it, to be as vague as possible. Even her hat is vague. What style is it? Who knows? It's purple, and small, like a skullcap. There's a green tassel hanging from one side. Why not the other side? Who knows? It would be easy to wear it the other way.

She appears at all times of the day or night. Her speech, if you can call it speech, is full of qualifiers. "Perhaps.... Like.... As if.... Similar to.... Not quite...." It's intentional, that's for sure. She may be hiding from something. It's difficult to tell. She may be half-hiding from someone. That's possible, too.

Her outline is vague. She appears to blend in with the air. She is fuzzy on all sides, and she doesn't appear to notice. It's like she has a wash over her that makes her blend appropriately into the background. There's nothing of her to grasp onto, if you ever wanted to grasp onto her.

Stop me if you've heard this one.