Freely Released

A stab at the arts + anecdotes.

Once More!

After a couple of false starts, maybe this time... I put up tries and took them down.  I realize that is not the point of blogs, that many intrepid bloggers out there somehow synthesize daily experience and serve it to appreciative readers with wit and candor.  But... you are quicker on the draw, so to speak.

  I'm a high school teacher; after next weekend, term marks are due.  No hope of a post this coming week.  So am going to dash one off now.  Because I like to.  Hope it sticks.  Anyone who's reading - thanks, it's good of you!

                                                                                   *         *          *

    It's summer, 1993.  The lights are bright and the paint fumes bitter.  Inside, it's nearly forty degrees Celcius, and we're baking in our combats.  The mission: earn money for university next year.  The path: the Canadian Army Reserves.

    Inspection is at 7:30 a.m., at the edge of the parade square.  The parade square is not a square.  It's a massive indoor rectangle, dark khaki.  Above are wooden balconies, off lecture rooms, and from which vantage point the sergeants and master-corporals spy on us in our few moments to ourselves.

    The Sergeant-Major, a burly Scotsman in his late fifties, is hollering in my ear.  Or he would be, if my ears were where my nose is.  "You're an idiot!  Those boots are scuffed, your hat is askew... this is the military, not a summer camp!"  And so on.

    I have a mental dialogue with the Sergeant-Major. 

SERGEANT-MAJOR: You are an idiot!  Your boots are scuffed!

ME:  If your definition of idiot is "holder of scuffed boots," then you are correct.   Go ahead.  I don't agree with your definition, however, so it doesn't touch me at all.  Also, it doesn't stop the paycheques.

   The thing is, I work hard on the boots, every night.  I'm not a military rebel.  I try to please these people.  But it's impossible.  My sergeant has already christened me Private Fuck Up.  I share the nickname with Jimmy Black.  Jimmy's well-meaning and gentle, and has no head for technology.  When we were told to bring lighters in - to burn stray threads off the uniform before inspection (cutting them brings more fraying) - Jimmy offered a long, impressive barbecue lighter.  The flame was a little thick.

   "Smith!"  The Sergeant-Major heaves her last name at my friend.  As usual, Emily's uniform is faultless.  She doesn't have a natural inclination towards military tasks, but she pursues them faithfully.  As proof of this, she has no nickname.  Beyond the one she gave herself.

   "I'm Emily," she said, shaking my hand on the first day.  Then she presented it to our nearest neighbour, a stocky blond man who eyed us severely. 

   "We should be using our last names," he said.  "I'm Badger."

    "That's all right," she said, grinning at me.  "You can call me Babe.  And I'm not a flash in the pan in this army.  I'm going to work my way up to Major.  Then you can call me Major Babe."

   The blond snorted.  She rolled her eyes at me and I felt instant relief.  She'd chosen me as her friend.  Something told me this was worth a lot.

  Emily had a swath of yellow hair on her right cheek.  It formed an uneven square, from ear-height down to her mouth.  Yellow also made a stripe through her thick brown hair.  Her eyelids were permanently swollen, and, at first, she looked like she'd been stung by an insect she had an allergy to. 

  She was part romantic, part adventurer.  We were't living at the base.  As musicians, we did the same training as the Infantry, with the exception of forty-five minutes of rehearsal per day.   On weekends, we were called for ceremonial performances.  For this reason, we were allowed to sleep at home.  Concerts were usually on Saturday.  On Monday, Emily would approach with news.

  "You will not believe who I slept with," she'd say, breathlessly.  I didn't know anyone Emily named.  But she had a way of summing up, so at the end, it did seem unbelievable and amazing that this had occurred.  "What about you?" she asked. 

    I had little to say.  Mike and I had started dating.  He was training with us, in another section.  Dating was strictly against the rules.  You could get expelled from the unit.  Mike and I had decided not to say anything about it.  I longed to tell Emily.  I trusted her.  It was just - I needed the money very badly, and had a knack for trouble.  Risks multiplied in my hands.  It'd have to wait.

    Emily loved mischief and used it for moral purposes.  Her first target was Badger.  Badger had taken to showing the rest of the section up, bringing another berating.  We felt this was not only unfair but ridiculous.  Why make your fellow trainees look bad?  Our least favourite of his habits was to show up just before we were due at any given spot.  Then the rest of the section appeared to be late.

   One day we were finishing a very brief lunch.  Usually it was forty minutes, but our section had screwed up and we'd had to do some clean-up detail first.  We had only twenty minutes.  Emily chose this time to strike.  "Get your weapon," she whispered to me.  We were responsible for carrying rifles at all times.  I looked at her curiously.  "We're going to beat him."  I nodded and grasped the barrel.

   Our fellow soldier saw us, took up his weapon, and moved toward the door.  "Run!" Emily yelled.  I did. 

   Emily surged ahead, thumping down the creaking wooden balcony.  "Smith!"  Badger hollered.  I blocked him by slowing down.  We moved through a double-doorway and with the extra room, Badger pulled out, getting to the staircase first.  Emily galloped down.  My feet were landing here and there.  They hit the parade square first.

   "You go!" she called.  I kept up the pace.  Emily parked a foot in front of Badger.  He fell, but snatched at her jacket, pulling her down too.  I sprinted to our appointed spot and put myself at ease, breathing hard.  Emily and Badger fell in.  "You're an idiot," Emily said, panting, glaring at Badger.  "Can't let anyone win even once."

  "You're not a soldier,"  Badger spat.  "I do it because I'm a soldier."

  Our names were called.  Loudly.  From above.   Three sergeants, two master-corporals and the warrant officer were standing on the balcony.  "You morons."  The tall sergeant let the words hang.  "You're all written up."  Another sergeant shook his head.

   It was odd for Emily to have the freedom to pull the stunt.  Usually, she was tutoring another recruit.  As musicians, we'd all had to audition.  Some of us, though, weren't as proficient.  Emily was a flautist who made the breathy instrument elegant and assured.  As far as I could tell, she was the best of us, and studied music at the nearby university. 

    Others had different plans.  One recruit was a young father who'd been on welfare and wanted to get off.  He'd auditioned on the trombone, and had been admitted, thanks to a lack of trombonists.  In conversation, he was dignified and scrapping.  On the trombone, he was terrible.  One failed musical requirement, and you were out.  Emily practiced with him and others every lunch to ensure they'd pass their checkpoints.

   Since I was a drummer, she didn't work with me.  But the Major who conducted chose a fife-and-drum march.  It opened with a long duet between the flute and the snare drum.  Whenever we played it, I was happy and grateful.

   Though she didn't help me with the music, she assisted me in every other area, leaving me in awe, guilty, and scared.  She was so independent and spirited, so competent in her tasks and her humanity, that I despaired the whole summer would pass without me being able to repay her.

   This anxiety reached its height the morning we went to the firing range in Niagara.  In the grass, we hunched over our rifles, semi-prone.  The targets were two hundred metres away.  When were were assigned the weapons on the third day, I thought I'd feel constant revulsion.  I didn't.  They were inert machines.  They were, at most, filled with darts launched at hay bale targets.  Weren't they?  A bullet is not a bullet if it is not aimed at a body, I reasoned.

   But when I pulled the trigger for the first time and the rifle butt kicked back into my shoulder, I started crying and didn't stop for nearly three hours.  A pleasant Scotch corporal bent down.  "You're getting your weapon all wet," he said in a jaunty accent.  He took out a handkerchief to dry it off.  "Holy Moses," he screamed over the spotty blasts.  "Back off!"

    He opened a door in the rifle and peered in.  His eyes broke wide open and he pushed me.  He retrieved an instrument that resembled oversized, delicate tongs.  Maneuvering inside, he removed a round that was glowing red from base to tip.  "Jesus Christ, you're lucky," he sighed.  "This got wedged inside.  It could've blown them all in your face!"  He was smiling.  I didn't react to this incident until days later.

   Seeing my stillness, his attitude changed, the bullet still in the tongs.  "You hate this," he said.  "Don't you."  I nodded.  "I'll tell you a trick.  Set your weapon on automatic.  They won't let you out of here until all your bullets are fired off.  It'll get it done quick.  Then after that, I'll take you on my inspection rounds, in the Jeep.  Leave these buggers for a bit.  How's that sound?"

    I nodded, feeling the world cascade and fall.  With a gentle click, the weapon was set on automatic, and I fired until the machine was quiet.  My sergeant was not impressed.  "Jesus," she said.  Then she laughed.  "You want to hear something funny, Private?  Somehow you scored better than eight of your friends!"

   The trip around the base was a blur, shades of green in the trees and unbridled grass singing and fading.  I can't remember my parting words to the corporal, and hope, badly, that he was thanked, although I'm not sure I said anything at all. 

    When I met the unit, they were at lunch.  Emily came up fast.  "God, wasn't that amazing?" she was saying.  "What a rush!  Where were you?"  Then she was close.  "Good lord.  What happened?"  I couldn't say anything.  I had stopped crying and was terrified of starting again.  "No, no," she said.  "That's okay.  Let's take a walk.  Don't say anything."  Then she took my hand, and held it, as we circled the crowd.

   "Smith!" a master-corporal yelled.  "What is that?  That's disgusting!  Not on the base!"

   Emily gripped my hand.  "She's upset.  So leave us alone on our lunch!  Haven't you got anything better to do?  Or are you such a weasel that you can't even eat with anyone else?" 

   The master-corporal must have been shocked out of his system, because there was no response, and no discipline.  Emily led me in another direction.

    A week after our return from the base, we had a practical test: weapons assembly.  Our job was to take apart the rifle, including a sequence of tiny screws, and reassemble it from the barrel to the base in a set time.  We sat on benches lining the parade square, waiting for our turn.  As one after another returned, we asked them for a head's-up.  Everyone was failing.  Even Badger didn't pass.

   I went, and failed.  But it didn't matter.  You had to pass everything, or risk being discharged.  I'd almost been discharged after the incident at the firing range, but the Major needed a snare drummer, and that brought a reprieve.  With everyone failing, I'd get an automatic second chance.

   Then Emily went.  I waited, ready for her return so we could pick up the chat where we left off.  But when she sat down, she put her head in her hands.  "Emily," I said.  "What is it?"

   She drew up.  "I failed," she said.  Her face was wet.  Her bright eyes, which usually belied her oversized lids, looked beaten. 

   Now, I thought.   You can help her.

   "Look," I said.  "You've got to understand.   What they say - it doesn't matter.  It doesn't have to do with anything.   They tell you you're a moron because you can't do something that it's perfectly normal not to do."  She was pale and unchanged.  "They created this whole way of talking that's designed to make you feel stupid.  It's not about you at all!  If anyone breaks it down, they can see that it's gibberish."  She said nothing.  "It can't touch you," I concluded.  "It's nothing.  Compared to what you are."

   From behind, another recruit, Bai, appeared.  Bai was a tiny Vietnamese girl who'd nearly gotten kicked out.  As a Buddhist, she refused to swear on command.  Emily had reassured her, too. 

   Emily looked at Bai with round eyes.  Bai wrapped her arms around Emily, and Emily relaxed, then held her tightly.  "You'll be okay," Bai murmured, and released her.  Emily just nodded.  Bai smiled and turned, stepping upstairs.

   Emily let out a breath, leveling her gaze at me.  "You were supposed to do that," she said, and left.

   Of all the lessons Emily taught me that summer, that's the one which stays with me most.   She was decent enough to give me other chances.  I'm still trying to use them. 

'til next weekend.

PS.  Here's some Ben Folds Five lyrics I like.  Maybe you will too.

Jane

Jane, be jane.
You're better that way -
not when you're trying,
imitating something you think you saw.

Jane, be jane -
and if sometimes that might
drive them away,
let them stay there.
You don't need them, anyway.

You're worried there might not be anything at all inside.
But that you're worried should tell you that's not right.
Don't try to see yourself the way that others do.
It's no use.

You've had it harder than anyone could know -
So hard to let it go.

But it's your life,
and you can decorate it as you like.
Beneath the paint and armour,
in your eyes, the truth still shines.

Jane, be jane.

  

  

 

  

  

  

  

 

 

 

posted by: FreelyReleased at 02:34 | link | comments (5) |

My Grandmother's London & My Montreal

Montreal: Six or Seven Years Ago

  It's night.  Dark morning.  We're winding through a park, lit by white Christmas lights, hanging in leafy trees.  Pathways trace a pale blue fountain.  The ground nearby's damp, thanks to the men and women cooling off, including two with guitars.  Cigarette and weed smoke mix above us.  Dogs are meandering, black noses in the air, wheedling for food.  A sidewalk cellist has his bow out.

  She's a step in front.  Still going forward, she turns, grins, and faces ahead.

   Into the pedestrian street.  Restaurants still flush with customers.  Waiters holding up; this evening must be putting diners in the mood to tip well.  To the side, a squat, tired man with a violin.  He saws and bows and change is dropped in his case.

   We thread through the crowd, by couples absorbed in one another, alongside drunken university students who're pleased with themselves.  A cyclist swerves around us.  I remember my friend saying, two months ago:

   "I can't bike downtown!  It's too dangerous."

    I'd tried to reassure her.  We got to a frantic street and I understood.  It was the most daring set of swoops this side of figure skating.  Between parked cars!  Facing down jaywalkers!  Taking stop signs for granted!  This was take-no-prisoners road biking.  The only other person I knew who'd tried it was Fisher.  Fisher was known for breaking both legs in a skiing accident, using a wheelchair for six months, and surfing the pavement on rollerblades while hanging on to the back of a truck.  The day after the casts came off.

    Once we were safely lying in the grass near the river at the Old Port, I looked over.  Her eyes were closed, hands neatly folded over her white shirt, as if she were prepared for burial.  Not inappropriate, I thought.  She turned.

   "We did it!"  She smiled brightly.  "I made it!"

   "Wear a helmet next time," I muttered.

    The Port appealed to us.  We'd grown up on separate shores of Lake Ontario and missed the water.  Each time we returned, we'd drift through the crowd, enjoy the grass, and later I'd wonder.

    "What should I be thinking about this?" I asked an old friend one night.

    "Hmm."  After a moment, she said, "It's still the best summer of your life."

     My friend and I pass two jugglers in primary colours.  St. Laurent Street approaches.  She grips a black lamp-post.  Her arm bends, and she drops, slightly, as she circles the base, her blond hair flicking out.  She lifts herself from her knees.  "That was fun," she says evenly.  As if she wanted to be sure, first, and now is.

   "Yeah," I say.  A little off-kilter and suddenly strong.  "Where should we go?"

   "Let's head back."  She puts an arm around my shoulders.  "Let's walk."

   It'll take at least an hour.  I don't mind.  We've gone to movies and dinner and plays across town.  Each time I've crossed my fingers for her vote on a walk.  We'd end up in front of her apartment.  I'd make idle conversation, she'd answer, I'd continue, and she'd volunteer that it might be better to have tea, inside.

   I hate tea.  But who'd down turn doorstep kindness?

   On the cement steps, this time, she shakes her head.  "It's nearly two.  Just come in."  Her cats are waiting.  As usual, they ignore me and go straight for her legs.  Even though she speaks to them in this saccharine tone.  Beneath members of the Animal Kingdom.

   After the kettle goes off, she prepares a mug for me, with milk and sugar.  This is what I've told her I like.  She sips with what appears to be genuine pleasure.  I try for the same look.

    "Are you upset?" she asks.  She's giving a mischievous glance.  This expression has only surfaced this past two weeks.  I like that her mystery surfaces when she's unguarded.

   But I am, kind of.  Sad.  Somehow.  Not that there's any excuse for it, with a friend like her around.  Not if you're clearheaded.  "Upset?" I ask.  "Why?"

   "Oh," she says.  "About Boxer.  Going to the glue factory."  She puts her tea down.  "Oh, gosh, please - don't let them take the horse away!  He worked so hard!"

   "It's called understated tragedy," I say, holding up a hand.  "Maybe you've heard of it?  Oh, wait!  Who needs it?  Oliver Twist lives with rich Mr. Brownlow in the end!"

    "Why shouldn't he live with Mr. Brownlow?  Just because it wouldn't happen doesn't mean it shouldn't!"

      A few weeks ago, she said she wanted to read some of my books.  She was sick of ticking off long A's and short U's in the exercise duotangs, she said.  We'd both taught English as a Second Language to Asian immigrant children the past two years.  Last summer, I'd been with my then-girlfriend, and hadn't paid attention to much else.  

    "My books?"

    "Ones you love," she replied, as if this were obvious.  We agreed on an exchange.  Her choice for me was Great Expectations.  By Charles Dickens.

    Despite my grandmother's praise, I'd never taken to Dickens.  He'd cropped up in university classes.  After an essay on his work was assigned, I'd set up on the couch.  Lemonade in one hand, Dickens in the other.  I'd read until the lemonade was gone and wake up an hour later. 

    "I don't need to read it," I said.  "I can tell you the plot right now."  She rolled her eyes.  "Dickens talks.  He talks, and talks, and talks.  People suffer.  Fate shows up.  Happiness ensues."

        "You're such a cynic," she said.  "It's a tad more complicated than that."  A tad, I was thinking, when she went on.  "What do you have for me?" Earlier I'd discovered she'd never read George Orwell, who had my unflagging trust.  "Animal Farm," I said, as if hoisting a banner over her head.

    "Sounds thrilling," she said, but took it.  I made the mistake of telling her I cry every time Boxer, the amiable, unintelligent workhorse, is packed into the "ambulance" and is driven to the knacker's.  She didn't get it.  All animals are equal.  But some are more equal than others.  And Boxer dies because of this, this -   

      I throw up my hands.  I can't admit to her that Great Expectations is still unfinished.  I keep falling asleep.  Even on the bus.  I march to her bed and fling myself on it.  Like a jerk I cover my face.  I'm counting off beats, ready to get up, sip tea and laugh, when the bed gives.   I turn.  Her blue pupils are steady.

   Her face is red.  I'm pale.  When she starts an untried lesson, she goes pink, then red.  And dislikes it.  She tries to wish it away.  But she's just immersed.  She hasn't learned to watch from a distance, from beyond the kind of blankness that bordered me. 

   A shallow light from her lamp left her face clear, and her body darkened.  "What's on your mind?"  I smile.  "No," she says.  "Will you tell me?"

    She's referring to the doctor's appointment today.  A regular one, at the hospital.  She's asked before.  If I say anything, these things will take the foreground.  They run and run, rumbling, but fall quiet under her gaze. 

   I don't want to rouse them.  But with her it's impossible to stay in that familiar, remote place.                             

   

                                                             *        *       *

   

 "A woman after my own heart," said my mother.   

    My friend wanted to meet my parents.  We'd taken a Greyhound after our shifts ended one Friday.  Over a seven hour ride we'd gossipped, slept, made fun of magazine quizzes, invented one of our own, argued, and split a bag of white cheese curd.   From there, a commuter train trip.  Fields and suburbs fought over passing land.  The suburbs were ahead, crass concrete dwellings breaking the blue sky.

   My mother was referring to my friend's excellent posture and spirited, fresh energy.  My friend was making a class-A impression.  She offered to help with everything and had a solid thank-you - a real one - for each bit of hospitality provided.

   After breakfast, my friend skipped upstairs for a shower.  My mother and I washed dishes.  "Is she your - special friend?"

   "Mom," I say, giving her a punch to the shoulder.  "All my friends are special."  After that, I want to apologize.  To tell my mother forget it, forget when I'm joking and assuming and trying to be up front, like that's some virtuous act instead of - figuring this is hard.  

   "You know what I mean." 

   "If I know what you mean, and you know what you mean, why don't you just say it?"

    She looked at the ceiling and sighed.  Her voice jumped a pitch.  "I don't know what you want me to say.  What do you want me to say?" 

    "Ask me if she's my girlfriend," I said.

    She inhaled.  "Is-she-your-girlfriend."  A statement.   Proof of what she's willing to do.

    "No," I said, drying a bowl.  "I wish she were."

    "She's a smart one," my father added, coming in from the garage.  "She's a keeper."  

     "Dad!" I shrieked, unprepared for that.

     "Just an opinion," he remarked, shrugging and heading downstairs to the basement, as if he always gave lesbian dating advice.

      "What are you two going to do today?" my mother asked.  We were finished, and the water had stopped running.

       "We talked about biking to the lake," I said.

       "It's a beautiful day," my mother said.  "I'll pack you a picnic."

       Later on, my mother presents the sandwiches proudly.  "There's vegetarian pate, and spiced peppers.  And there's chutney.  On special rye."  My friend is impressed, and says so.  "Tell my daughter how good it is, then."      

   The sun is bright and appreciative of the afternoon, and we arrived at the sandy lakefront in record time.  A strange tension has descended.  We ate more or less in silence, talking about the birds on the beach or the pollution.  

      It's an odd spot.  One of the most polluted in the country.  Dead fish, thrown up on the sand, are common.  After a clean-up operation nearly a decade ago, it's safe to swim there again.  Sometimes.  A radio report will tell you whether it's risen or fallen below an 'acceptable level.'  You never know.  I've never gone in, figuring that if it's poisonous one day it's probably only a little less poisonous the next.  But everyone who's grown up there half ignores it.  Beach volleyball games take over; picnics spill over blankets and when it's dry, the sand still looks fresh.   

     "I like seeing you with your parents," she said at last, rising off the driftwood log. 

     "It wasn't always like this." I replied.  But left it. 

     She walked to the shoreline and picked up a handful of rocks, tossing them into the black waves one at a time.  They soared and plummetted.  I trotted up and tried to show her how to spin them over the surface.  She wasn't interested.  We packed up and went back without much more.  

    

                                                                  *      *      *

      That Christmas, my grandmother asked my sister if there's a young man she's seeing, and my sister said yes.  Nana asked for pictures.  When she asked about me, there wasn't much to say, but she wanted to know how things were.  Did I have a Christmas dinner party?  Like her, I loved entertaining over homemade food.

     "Oh yes," I said.  "And we talked a lot about Dickens."

     "You did?  Well!  That's lovely, then."

     "Yeah," I said.  "Yes.  My friend, she's a Dickens fanatic.  She knows everything about him.  Read all the books."

      "She sounds like a good friend, indeed," states my grandmother.  "A good influence."                                                 

       

'til next weekend.

PS.  This is from Morley Callaghan's More Joy in Heaven (Callaghan was trained as a lawyer in Toronto in the 1920's, but never took a case, turning to fiction-writing straight off): 

     That's my idea of what would be pretty swell - going from day to day lost in town you're crazy about, bumping into something fresh every day, finding out how it all worked in together.

   I wanted to put it in, but couldn't seem to.  So here it is. 

posted by: FreelyReleased at 04:27 | link | comments (9) |

My Grandmother's London, Part 2

By later summer trips to our grandmother's, I still haven't read Dickens.  But based on her bearing, I have an imaginary picture of London roads.  No grimy laneways.  A promenade of polish and lace.

   After one of her excellent meals, my grandmother washes dishes, and my mother dries.  My sister and I sit at the table, bored by Go Fish.  Ready for words we shouldn't hear.

  "I don't quite know why you let her dress like that," my grandmother says.  My sister relaxes.  I tense.

   "She's neat and colour-coordinated."

   "That's not what I am talking about, dear."

     As usual, I'm wearing a boys' t-shirt, backing the Montreal Canadiens, and blue cords.  My sister sports a pink t-shirt and white shorts. 

    My mother has been letting my sister and I pick our clothes for years.  I like boys' stuff.  Simple.  If you like a team, wear their emblem.  If you bike through dirt ditches, wear black, and the oldest jeans in the drawer.  If you dismantle a broken television, wear overalls.  The ones with the oil stain.

   My mother probably thinks I don't like pretty clothes.  That's not true.  But they're like a foreign language.  Knowing nothing about the words makes them sound perfect.  There's magic just beyond you.  You can't use it.  But you can feel it.  That's how beauty is.
 
   I've known for a while that other mothers didn't treat their daughter as mine treats me.  But her key lessons are:

1) Treat others fairly
2) Don't steal (or take markers from your mother)
3) Take your vitamins (liquid and capsules)
4) Clean your room (and vacuum like you mean it)
5) Always love
6) Be yourself, fully.  Because everyone can.

  There's a picture that displays this well.  In first grade, our teacher took Polaroid portraits of us at our desks.  Holding a pencil purposefully.  Mine shows a kid with very short red hair, looking away.  Wearing suspenders, which I loved, over a t-shirt, with hand-drawn letters spelling KID POWER.  My mother and I decorated it together.  The shot looks to be of an unlikely, dreamy boy.

   In six years, this hasn't changed.  Two weeks before the trip to our grandmother's, I went to a summer leadership camp.  The school board put us up at a local college dorm.  Separate floors for boys and girls.  Twice, when I stepped into the communal bathroom, a girl screamed.
 
   "It's okay," I explained.  I'm just backward, I wanted to add.  It's not the same as wrong.  Hopefully that was true.

    One afternoon, a pick-up football game captured nearly everyone.  I usually played, but felt like watching, and stood under a high tree with drooping branches.  In the distance, colours darted, fell and rose, against green that reached the horizon.

   A girl approached.   She was known to be sensitive.  It was the kind of place where she was admired for it.  "Are you okay?" she asked.  I nodded.  She tilted her head.  "Can I ask you something?  I was just wondering.  You don't have to answer, if you don't want to." 

   I nodded.
 
   "Do you want to be a boy?"  Her eyes bolted open.  She covered her mouth.  "I'm sorry.  That was so rude!"

   "It's okay," I said.  "No.  I don't.  But sometimes, I wonder if it would make things easier.  Sometimes."

   "How?"  She sat down, resting against the trunk.  I sat down beside her.  The game was a quiet hum.  The view was better, from this now-private place. 

   "I'd get left alone," I said.  Her expression made me start.  "No, not you!  Or a lot of people.  It's just, sometimes - "  She looked as if she were hoping I'd go on.  That was a shock.  I felt rude.  "Look, where are you from?"

   She extended a thin arm.  "Just over there.  It's pretty boring."  She smiled.  "I know what you mean.  Sometimes I want to get away from everyone."

   This was terrifying and joyful.  Wonder brushed through the grass with the wind.

    "You know something?" I said.  "I heard this, this thing, on the news.  It was about two men.  They wanted to - I mean, they were trying to get married."  Words were rolling out.  "But they aren't allowed."

   They're so brave.  Braver than I knew people were.  I'm not like them - not strong like that.  But still.  It's something. 

   Isn't it?

    She was pushing herself to her feet.  "Well," she said, gazing at the field, "I guess we should go back.  The counselors are so anal!  They're probably looking for us."  She took a step.  "You probably want to stay here, eh?  That's okay."

  
                                                                    *       *       *
  
  
   The second day of the visit is pushing my mother.  My grandmother disagrees with my mother's cooking.  She opposes my mother on the weather.  She is against my mother on household matters.  

     Such as the manual lawnmower: Rural Enemy Number One.

   "Electric ones cut corners," my grandmother proclaims, putting on her gardening gloves and taking to the haywire grass.  She has full-body arthritis.  The morning after a lawn-mowing, my grandmother wakes up stiff.  Once, my mother told us, she couldn't move.  "Your Nana shuffled to the side of the bed and tipped herself out.  I found her on all fours, trying to make the bed with her teeth." 

    "You can't tell her anything," my father tells my mother behind a door.  "You just have to let her be."
  
    "She's hurting herself," my mother says.

     "Not enough to stop," says my father.  "So we'll have to let her go for now."

     No matter what, my grandmother will be on her feet throughout meals.  There's always more of everything, she tells us.  If we don't have more, she can sit.  If we don't ask for more, she's insulted.  My mother tries to help.  Nana dismisses her with a wave of bony fingers.

    Again, they'd wash the dishes, and my sister and I'd wait for something to happen. 
   
    "Well, dear," my grandmother says, "she's your daughter, to be sure.  But she's getting older."

    My mother has dropped into silence.  The only mark of her exhaustion.

     "You might just make the decision, now."

      Nothing.  I wonder if my mother is thinking about the drums.


                                                                          *      *      *

     
      A few weeks before, she took me to a windowless white building.  It turned out to be the local music centre.  We stood inside a small room, littered with trophies.  "You're going to join a marching band," she said.  A tidy man looked on.  "What instrument do you want to learn?"

    "Drums," I said, not caring. 

    "Drums?" asked my mother.  Uneasily.

    "Sure," I replied, staring at a large trophy. 

    "No," said my mother.  She leaned down to fill out the form.  The man passed her a pen.

    "Why not?" I still didn't care, but smelled injustice.

     "Just no."  Her mouth formed a firm, neutral line.  "Your friend Heather is going to play the flute, and so are you."  She wrote in decisive strokes.  "You'll like it."

     Unfortunately, the start of flute lessons coincided with visits to an enthusiastic orthodontist.  He prescribed braces and headgear.  The kind with attractive leather straps, fixed on your crown.

     After a few weeks, the flute teacher called my mother.   She explained it was impossible.

     Drumming had become a star worth following, brighter for its place in the far-off dark.  The campaign began.

     "It's the cheapest instrument!"  My mother was beating cookie batter.  She had started making good oatmeal-carob.  Not decadent, like Nana's.  But fortifying.  Pioneer dessert. 

      "It's quiet!  You play on a practice pad, not real drums.  I bet you can't hear anything!"
   
      She folded in oats.

     "They have group lessons!  If I start soon, I won't have missed hardly anything!"
 
      She spooned batter onto waxed paper.  Victory!  She hadn't said no.


                                                                       *      *      *

  
       "You know," says my mother to Nana, "she wants to play the drums."

       "Well," my grandmother says, "you know how she'll turn out, then."  She fills the kettle.

        "I think she will play the drums," my mother says, looking over, briefly.  "They are the cheapest instrument, after all." 

   We leave my grandmother's in the early afternoon.  After a few hours, we're home.  The evening is fresh, and my father feels like some air before dinner.  He asks my sister and I if we'd like to go to a car lot.  We say yes.

     My father is a natural with tools, and loves cars.  He fixes broken ones.  When he's finished, he doesn't drive them much.  Instead, he sells a new beauty and buys an old piece of junk.  He takes us to dealerships in off hours, to teach us.  Look at the dash.  Check the wheels.  Which car is decent?  Which is scrap metal waiting to happen?  He always asks which one we like best.  To make sure we know the right ones. 

      Once, I picked a Nissan. 
      
      "No!" my father said, eyes determined.  "It's built in Asia.  They don't pay their workers enough.  Somebody could be on the assembly line day and night and still starve."  This was in the mid-eighties, before Nissan plants showed up nearby.  "Always buy North American cars.  That's how you know the family's eating."  My father works for a steel company and is unflinching on this point.

    All day, I thought, and no food?  How do they keep wanting to live?

   That night, he drives us to a lot with a battered wooden sign.  LADA / SKODA.  It's tiny.  The office looks like a shack.  My father leads my sister and I to the centre of the lot.  "What's the best car?" 

     There are only two answers.  Lada or Skoda.  One has to be right.

    "That one," I say, pointing to a red, hunchbacked car.

     "A Lada!"  My father is horrified.  "That car is a pig!"

     "That one!" my sister says, pointing in the other direction.

     "That's a Skoda.  Pig!  If you can only choose between a Lada and a Skoda, you walk off the lot!"   We climb back in the family Oldsmobile.  Maybe dinner will clear everything up.

     "Go wash up before eating," my mother calls as we tumble in.  I beat my sister to the bathroom, and for some reason want a look at my face.

      A stranger's in the mirror.  A stranger to everyone.

     When there's people around, I feel a part of them.  Just as when you walk into a forest, and, surrounded by trees, are lost and free.   But the reflection holds no such girl.  She's too withdrawing to be with the boys.  Too stark for the girls.   And the other thing.  But that's only sometimes.  And -

   "Gi-irls!  Dinner in five minutes!" 

     Down the carpeted hall, the inside of my mind resurfaces.  Filled with the hellish cranks of an Asian auto factory.  Sweaty men, injured women.  Children in thin-walled homes, starving.  There is agony in their bodies.  But not their eyes.  Their gaze releases a clean, fiery light. 

    How else could they go on?
 
   "Hurry up!" my mother hollers.  "We're waiting for you!"

    I run, sure that because of what I think, what I do, I am strange.  But that's all.  I could've been an Asian auto worker.  And wouldn't've survived.   There was no reason for anybody to be that.  

    But some people are.



'til next weekend.

posted by: FreelyReleased at 12:29 | link | comments (12) |

My Grandmother's London, Part 1

Bombs, she told us, were dropped on London daily.

  "Well, it wasn't easy, y'know.  Shampooing in the Women's Air Force.  You could be called to duty just like that!   When we got the slightest freedom we'd run straight for the things we missed. 

  "That morning I had my head over the tub, giving myself a thorough wash.  The water was dead cold, y'see.  But I wanted for a scrubbing.  And just when I'd got a lather - wouldn't you know!  The siren!  Everyone out!  Well!  I wasn't leaving with my hair like that!   So I went about my business, just the same as I would otherwise, y'see.  

   "I gave my scalp a good rinse, dried off and headed out.  And wouldn't you know it.  I'm alive today!"  My grandmother laid her hand on the chestnut wood table. "Who'd like another one?  You'll take one, won't you?" 

   My grandmother tilted a plate of handmade goodies towards my father.  He muffled a laugh with a hand, raising his eyebrows.  Saying he might have to take just one more.  Then he slanted his eyebrows, as if the choice between sprinkled rum balls and iced shortbread would turn everything.   And picked both, with two hands.  "Well, there you go, then," my grandmother said, shifting the plate.  "That's what they're for."

   Summer visits were easy.  My grandmother and her husband lived on untamed green acreage, in rural Ontario.  The air was thick with sweat.  Work was constant.  But without strain.   My mother's stepfather would survey the property on a riding lawnmower.  When he attached a two-wheeled cart to the back, my sister and I'd ride in it, legs over the side, heads back to catch the breeze.  In the afternoon, we'd fish the creek with our young uncle.  We each had our own yellow pole.  We used Lifesavers as bait.  The fish liked these best, we knew, better than worms or glistening, metal insects.  They'd nibble at the candy, wearing the rings thin, until the rainbow circles had been devoured.

   In the morning, my grandmother would treat us to a grand meal.  At home, my mother had taken to sprinkling nutritional yeast on everything.  Dessert really had the exhileration sucked out of it.   Spoonfuls of unsweetened yogurt.  A dollop of frozen orange juice on top.  "It's delicious," my mother would say victoriously.  My father, sister and I would wrinkle our lips at the bitterness.   Sunrise also brought a vitamin regimen.  It began with a tablespoon of cod liver oil and was followed by a marching line of globules. 

   "You'll have the English breakfast," my grandmother told us, as we stumbled into the stocked kitchen.  My sister looked pleased, but I was ecstatic.  On the three hour drive out of the suburbs, I dreamt of Nana's English breakfast: bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, white toast, real butter, jam too, sophisticated marmalade.  Nana darted from black pan to pot.  She hovered gracefully.  It was as if the ingredients cooked themselves.  It took everything I had not to agree to her offers of extra bacon.   Actually, my mother would stare me out of it. 

  "No thank you," I'd say, looking to my mother.  She would nod with a grim smile.

   My grandmother's favourite topics of conversation were, in rotating order of importance: family members and how proud she was of them, family members and how they should get themselves out of the muck they were in, family members who were lost in the muck for good, the Queen, the Lord Jesus, and Charles Dickens.

  "You're a reader," she'd say.  "Have you read Little Dorrit?"

   I was ten.  I knew Mickey's Christmas Carol and that Dickens had something to do with it.  But was not as prodigious as my grandmother.  She had a fifth grade education, and had read all the works of Dickens and Thomas Hardy. 

  I shook my head. 

  "Ah, but you must!  Oh, dear, you must read Dickens.   A Tale of Two Cities.  Have you read that yet?"

  "No," I said.

   My grandmother hummed, and took in a dramatic breath.  "What about The Pickwick Papers?" 

   "Uh-uh," I said.  I liked detective stories and tragic romance.

     Nana's wistful smile made her beautiful.  "Oh.  That's my London.  The London Dickens sees.  The streets and the crowds."  Her bombs were gone.  "Tell me your favourite Bible story, then," she said, rising to punish dirty dishes. 

    My sister looked off, as if to say,  All yours. 

     It was okay, though.  Our Sunday School had presented me with a wide, blue paperback I loved.  Bible Stories for the Young.  Young what, they didn't mention.  The stories didn't have an inch of the violence sapped off.  These were sermons bred for an audience of thrill-seekers.  Stop doing things to get you thrilled, they said.  Unless you ask God to get you through it.  Or it's a horror zone, and no hope out.

   "It's Shad-rack, Me-sak and... "

    My grandmother nodded with pride and authority, her eyes shining.  "Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego."

    I nodded.  "Yeah."

    "Yes, dear," she said. "Say yes. And tell me about them."

     "Yes," I said.  My sister was under the table, searching for Seamus, the affable Scotty dog.  "Well, the three of them say they're going to worship God, not a statue.  The tell the king that, even though the King thinks they're dumb, they're going to do what they want."

     "They refuse to worship an idol," Nana said, hoisting dishes into the top shelf with sinewy arms.

     "Yeah, they hate idols.  Yes.  They hate idols more than anything.  But the King is a jerk.  He's really going to punish the three boys.  So - " 

     A scene lit my mind.  It was ringed with black.  I couldn't describe it. 

     The fire.  The freedom of standing in flames, the terrible light close.  A brotherhood forged.  Salvation in rebellion.  The ghostly being that arrived, and disappeared, without needing a name or wanting recognition. 

     "The king puts the boys in a furnace," I dictated, trying to be full of facts, ridding myself of the silent impressions.  "But they don't burn.  They are saved.  The king changes his mind and says it's time for everyone to worship their God."

  "Not bad at all," said my grandmother, finishing the chore.  I slipped under the table, where my sister and I competed for Seamus's attention.

            

                                                       *      *      * 

 

   Five months later, it was time for the winter visit.  My father squinted over the dashboard.  Snow swirled endlessly.  Traffic out of Toronto was barely moving.  The horizon was gone.  Dirtied white and raw black fought in the windows.  The radio reported a car, turned over thanks to ice on the 401, our highway.   My mother was still.  My sister and I had been doing sock puppet shows through the back window, but gave up. 

   We were trying to make it to Nana's for the Christmas Eve service.  Even with the weather, there was no question:  we will go to church.  We must go.  My mother spoke in strained tones, and my father reminds her it's possible - essential - to be calm.  She turned to the window.  I could see the reflection of her eyes.  Was she crying, or was it the dull glare?  We ground forward.

   After piles of hours, we pulled into the winding driveway, sidling through the curves.  We rushed through the vicious wind to the door.  After being welcomed by relieved hugs from my grandmother and her husband, Nana said, "Get changed for the service.  We can still get there right on time."

   My sister and I headed to the guest room.  Once we were ready, we limply presented ourselves.  We were very tired.  Even the thought of belting hymns in gibberish Latin didn't appeal.  My grandmother shook her head and narrowed her eyes, hollering for my mother.  My mother emerged, an elegant emerald scarf over her black sweater.  Her eyebrows bent sadly, uncertainty sweeping across her face.

  "Please," said my grandmother flatly, "tell those girls to change into proper church clothes." 

   My sister and I stared at each other.  Both of us wore pressed shirts and dress pants.

   "Mother," said mine, "those are their church clothes."

   "They most certainly are not," shrilled Nana.  "Tell them to get into their skirts or dresses."

   "It's very cold," my mother argued.  "Too cold for stocking legs."

    "They have to go from the house to the car.  Then from the car to the church.  Surely, on Christmas Eve, when we are approaching the Lord's House, they can find the strength for that little thing." 

    "Girls," my mother let out.  "Go and wait in the side room with Seamus, please."

     We walked into the other room, hearing the door shutting behind us.  Seamus was sleeping.  He woke, hearing us, and ran over.  My sister gave him a half-hearted pat.  We sat near the door, listening.

     My father's dark, warm voice was heard.  My mother's faded.  The door opened, and my mother's heels clacked in the other direction.  We could hear her released, and catching herself, fighting tearful spasms.

   "Now, listen," my father was saying, "they don't have anything else with them.  We only packed for the two days.  Please - I know it's not your ideal.  But for tonight -  Your daughter -"

  "My daughter," my grandmother announced, "should set a proper example.  She should direct those girls in a way that is decent and respectable.  If you insist on attending the service in that manner, I will not sit with you, or be seen with you."

  "We were five hours in the snow!"

   The next day, at 1 o'clock, my grandmother served a delicious turkey.  The ovular white plate was adorned with green sprigs and bacon, and though she was the oldest person in the room, she served and served until no one could eat any more, and everyone felt guilty, watching her move, and move, and move.  My father accepted scoops of homemade stuffing, which Nana said, briskly as ever, was made especially for him.  Once she finally sat down, she smiled, closed her eyes gently, pressed her hands together, and urged Oliver Twist to me.  

    She'd gone to the Lord's House alone.

   Later, on the highway, I asked my father what had happened.  "Years ago, your grandmother became a hard woman," he said.  But he wouldn't elaborate yet.

'til next weekend.

EMERGENCY PS:  If you haven't heard Aussie SIA's recent album - Some People Have Real Problems  - do yourself a favour and give it a listen!  Gorgeous, sad, strong, lifting too.  Better yet, see her in person.  After selling out across North America, she's still got dates in Atlanta, New Orleans, Houston, Austin, Dallas and New York - but the NY show is sold out, too! 

   If the show in Montreal is any example, she's playing intimate spots with an amazing band.  Lots of audience dialogue, an engaging, eccentric personality to go along with it.  If you can't get there, lots of decent YouTube videos.  Check her out!

posted by: FreelyReleased at 05:45 | link | comments (12) |

Joking Gods

  Harold Bloom's outlook makes me itch.  Because he writes things like this:

  How to Read and Why
  The Best Poems of the English Language
   Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds

  As if there could be a code for literacy success!  Or genius!  Or reasons to read!  He might as well write a book called How to Like People and Why.

  Admittedly, I may not be qualified for these pronouncements.  For instance, there was a ditty called But I Am No Poet.  It was written in high school for a poetry assignment, during an irritating phase in my development.  I was the irritation.  At eighteen, my parents had granted legal power to excuse myself from class.  One morning, I had a dentist appointment.  Easily excused, right?  But the teacher received this obnoxious ticket: I acknowledge my absence.

  That was also the first year I was accused of brutal literary taste.  The commentary took physical form, during English class.  We'd just finished Margaret Laurence's The Stone Angel.  I'd loathed it.  Or I'd loathed the first twelve pages, for a month.  The prairies, beaten by the empty sky.  Beating the inhabitants.  Good times!

  Then the test was days away.

  During grades 10 through 12, I hadn't read much.  I hadn't cared, either, proudly skimming and barely passing.  When independent study novels were offered, I chose the shortest.  Then I ran off to drum, date or dance, depending on rehearsal schedules, faltering social skills, and publicly played music. 

  But there was no screwing with Grade 13.  In 1993, Ontario's Ministry of Education still had the now-defunct year.  Good grades meant a scholarship.  A scholarship meant money to go away.  The year was a final stage in a countdown, one of the days left in our home town. From page 13 on, I was devoted to Margaret Laurence.  
  
   She turned out to be funny, crude and brilliant!  Scrapping and hopeful.  Never poised.  Always graceful.  Here was someone who would teach me not what life should be, but what it was.  To my teenaged view, most of the writers shown to high schoolers were simple-minded idealists.  Margaret Laurence's appeal lay in her raw anger at these types.

  And there was this:

  Pride was my wilderness, and the demon that led me there was fear.  I was alone, never anything else, and never free, for I carried my chains within me, and they spread out from me and shackled all I touched.

   To be haunted was one thing.  You could submit to mystery.  Make anxiety romantic, you know?  To have ghosts laid bare was another.  And I'd foreseen a pleasant future of minor backlash against authority.  Just resenting a trap now seemed cheap. 

    There I was, sitting terrified in those lines.  Telling myself to be happy.  Giving up and grinning.

   Margaret Laurence's code, I thought, must've gone something like this:

   I will say what is honest.
   I will do what is not done.
  I will fail, because to try, I had to, and will leave those failures undisguised.

   Suddenly Grade 12 math resurfaced.  It was obvious that I was already pretty solid at undisguised failures.  One down.  Two to go.

   It would take a three-pronged effort, I felt:

   1)  Speak frankly.
   2)  Act frankly.
   3)  Write frankly.

   Hmm.  It lacked a certain something.  But I'd push on.

   One night I sat at my desk, in a tiny blue room, still splayed with tropical designs.  Not exactly gritty Manitoban farmland.  I longed to write a story.  But found nothing to write about.   No matter!   Be honest, I instructed myself, and see what happens.   The story was about an eighteen year old trying to write a story.

   They think, and think, becoming frantic and depressed.  Then they catch themselves in an error.  Life was not as they thought!  And end up hopeful. 

  I read it back.  Godawful!  But that would have to be forgotten.  My music teacher, who I adored, had offered to read my writing.   The wish to give her something wouldn't go away.  This was all I had.

   A few days later, she drew the story out of a ramshackle range of sheet music on her desk.  I prepared to hang my head.   "This is the best thing I've seen you do.  Enter it in that regional contest."

     I did.  And was a winner.   Technically.
 
     Three judges wrote comments.  One thought the story was a satire.  The next thought it was hilarious.  But there were no jokes, I thought.  The third saw it as autobiography, and dissected my personality. 

    I hadn't expected anyone besides the music teacher to care (and understood why, once I'd won).  So I hadn't held back.  The opening provided an unflattering picture of my English teacher.  I used a different name, but everything else was identical.  This would literally be my downfall. 

   A copy of the winners' stories was sent to all the schools in the region.  The yearly awards committee invited me to an evening ceremony.  My parents and I dressed up and climbed into the van.  While I shook in heels backstage, my English teacher gave an introduction to the award. 

   Then he paused.

   "You know," he said genially, "the story contains a very interesting portrayal of a certain English teacher."  He read it.  Then he said my name.  I stumbled on stage, shook his hand, stared at his feet, saw my parents' faces there.  As I stepped away, a flashbulb went off.  I lost control.  And fell down the stairs.

   So far the Margaret Laurence plan was not a success.  But, further and further into my eighteenth year, it was becoming clear: as far as life went, you were never excused.  Another chance loomed.  Independent study novels were offered for sign-ups.  One of them, A Jest of God, was written by Margaret Laurence.   That was my book.  There was no other option.  Then Peter leaned off his desk and boomed:

   "Margaret Laurence?  That bitch?  Everybody hated that thing!  Anybody who presents on that book will get stuff thrown at them!"

  Since ninth grade, our class had been told we were the worst-behaved class the school had seen in ages.  Peter's handsome face, contorted with glee, filled my eyes.  I took in the classroom.  Dust-coloured walls, a portrait of the Queen over the intercom.  Many bodies.  Arid air.  Surely everyone else felt warm friendliness?  They'd band together in friendliness and chuck paper balls.

   A Jest of God was very different from The Stone Angel.  Angel's language was kaleidoscopic and its narratives were braided together, like in a tapestry.  God's wording was piously pared down.  Its plot was threadbare.  I loved it too.  The same stark refusal to lie. 

   Years later, I'd be bitter and confused.  Why was the gay woman in A Jest of God desperate, morally deformed, and destructive?  Then I'd see similarities in other Laurence novels.  A gay man who's sexually crude in front of his mother.  He commits suicide.  A gay woman, hating herself by day.  A snake-charming stripper by night.

   I read Dance on the Earth, Laurence's posthumously published autobiography.  I cried, seeing the picture of her father and one-eyed uncle, serving in the First World War.   I listened when she wrote that, given the choice between writing and taking care of your kids, your duty goes to the kids - always.  Then I read James King's The Life of Margaret Laurence.  Her children refuted much of what Laurence said about herself, including her mothering instinct.

   Peter from Grade 13 was right, I thought, eyeing at a portrait Laurence happily called "The Dragon Lady."  She does look like Roy Orbison.  But when Peter and I were in the same class, she was my idol, standing for poetic justice.

   We were to choose a character in the novel, write a monologue in their voice, and deliver it.  When the day came to present, I sat hunched in a desk.  Peter was just a joker.  Everything would be fine.  Sometimes it is, after all, right?

   The teacher called me to the front, asking me to announce the book.   Peter's fingers expanded, enveloping a sheet of looseleaf.  One ball was crumpled.  Launched.  Then another.  Classmates joined him.

   After the bell rang, the brown lockers were fading dull and the sun white.  I felt awful and free.  Decent and wrong.  Clarity - unbroken reams of truth - was easier said than done.  I thought of the story:  what I'd try to say, what the judges had said, what my teacher had said.  Easier said than done?  Scratch that.   It's only easily imagined.

  So I'd have to imagine it.

   Free evenings were spent typing out stories.  They were banal and hackneyed, but my music teacher read them all.  This brought happiness as I fumbled in front of a blue screen.  Black doubts were countered by her attention.  She began dating a writer.  He was just as kind, and his enthusiasm, reported by my teacher,  propelled me.  One night, at a school concert, I met him.  He was tall and calm, with dark, square glasses.  But there was joy in his gaze.  Since he and the music teacher would marry, this was his love arriving.  But also his was the sight of  an artist, taking in everything, willingly.  Freely!

  At the end of the year, the music teacher sent me to play with a regional concert band.  As the only graduating drummer, I was the lone choice.   Where others would've resented the evening rehearsals, I looked forward to them.  I had just met Dylan, the other half of the percussion section.   He had very blond, very curly hair.  He was gentle and smiling.  We were both reading Dubliners. 

  "I write stories," he said, at a halfway break.  We watched others smoke in the distance, their thin spires released into the dusk.   "Do you?"

  Sort of, I went to say.  "Uh-huh!" I nodded.  Fuck.

  "Would you show me one?"

  "If you will," I said, pleased.  We planned to exchange them on performance day.

   Hamilton Place was the largest concert hall in the area.  Two balconies.  I pretended not to care, but it always filled me with mountain air.  That afternoon, though, all there was to do was mill around in blank dressing rooms.

   Dylan had asked for a story in the morning.  He'd forgotten his, he'd said nonchalantly.  I'd brought the contest story.  Maybe someone had thought something of it.  Somehow.  I was bored and tired and sad, and had nothing to say to anyone.

  Wandering, I'd dip into free-spirited gossip sessions.  One circle pointed out the girl Dylan liked.  Kelly.  Tall, blond and thin.  Very pretty.  She sported a happy look.  I decided to be annoyed with her.  She was probably a soccer star.  They always were. 

   At lunch, Dylan sat down with his sandwich.  I willed him to say something about the story.  Then realized what he'd say!  I willed him to never say anything.  He was immersed in swiss cheese.
 
  "Um, could I have my story back?" I muttered.

   "Oh!"  His eyes widened.  "I'm sorry, no."

   "No?"

    "You know something?"  He put the tiny remains of his sandwich on the table.  "I loved it.  So I gave it to someone to read."

    "Who?"

    Dylan glanced over his shoulder into the noise.  "Mark.  Don't worry.  I told him to give it back when he was done."  Dylan rubbed my shoulder and stood up.

    Mark and some trumpeters were playing poker in a far-off corner.  "Hi," I said.  "Ah - do you have a story somebody wrote?"

    Mark shook his head.  "I gave it to someone.  Do you want to read it?"

    "No," I said, stalking off.  The afternoon was spent searching for fresh air. 

    Finally it was six, and we were dressing for the show.  A few minutes before lining up, a tall, blond, vaguely familiar girl approached.   "Hi," she said.  Holding the story.  "I'm Kelly.  Did you write this?"

    "Yes," I said.

     She stared.  "I never knew anybody else felt like this.  Thank you."  She held the story out.  When I took it, she turned and waved. 

     Rushing to catch up with Dylan, I grabbed a pair of drumsticks, gripping them tight.

'til next weekend.

posted by: FreelyReleased at 15:31 | link | comments (11) |