Underwater Heartbeat - Saturday Looks Good to Me(listen in new tab)
You could pass it on the street if you weren’t looking for it.
The neon sign above V. I. Lenin’s hasn’t been lit since the late 90’s, when the tubes’ noble gasses gave up their spirits, flickered and darkened. These days the silhouette of the bar’s namesake, traced abstractly in dead glass, keeps a dim vigil over the regulars and intrepid new comers.
Few except the bar’s owners, two failed band mates who took up the cause when the first owner disappeared, remember when opening the faded and scuffed, peeling red metal doors meant passing under the sign’s stern glow.
Tonight the doors swing open. A cluster of girls come out for a smoke. The door drags shut behind them, dampening the sounds brazen enough to escape into the night. The loose corners of hanging gig posters flutter in the spring night’s lazy wind.
Two 30-something men, bearing the clothes and meager wages of their self-absorbed, unending liberal education arrive. One pulls open the door, while the other makes quick eye contact with a skinny blonde as she casually lights her cigarette. He follows his friend inside. The blonde watches them enter as she gently waves her match in the wind to extinguish it.
Inside the music is cranked up and loudly echoes down the short hallway that leads from the door. The walls there are lined with gig posters of various currency and importance.
The two men walk past the folded-up table where cover is usually collected and passed the dormant empty coat check. They pass a few people who came into the hall so they can hear their cell phones, straining ears against the noise.
As the two enter into the main part of V.I.’s, they crane their necks looking for friends, their faces etched in a vain look of confident frequency. They are regulars - capital R regulars. With practiced ambivalent looks, they peer through the crowd milling back and forth from the bar to tables or the slowly filling dance floor. They mark paths through the complex valleys of necks and shoulders.
One looks with disdain at his watch. It’s still relatively early, only 10:00pm. Friday night is still getting into its swing. The other waves to someone off at the tables where a large group sits crammed in on the raised floor along the far left wall. He taps his buddy on the shoulder and heads in that direction. The other follows, and in his inattentiveness, shoulder-checks K.
K, pint in each hand, does his best to dodge, executing a 180 degree turn to avoid spilling. It ends up being more of a 140. He stops short of colliding with a heavy set man in a varsity football jacket.
G.T. leans against the rail that hems in the dance floor, watching K’s evasive maneuvers. He laughs to himself as K mouths a silent curse when the football player turns to tell him to “watch it”.
G.T. finishes his current glass. The slightly warm beer catches in his throat, causing him to cough into his fist. He places the empty glass on the wooden ledge behind him without looking.
A cluster of women walk by back from having a smoke no doubt. They’re maybe 23. G.T. eyes them discretely, but but not so covertly as to prevent himself from making eye contact with one of them when she looks back.
He’s not on the market. But, he loves that moment, the brief second when you meet eyes and your mind ripples. That second of tangible mystery. He lets it pass unchased and chastened.
He loves this bar. He met K here during an undergraduate pub-crawl way back when, and they latched onto it as favourite watering hole. G.T. does not view himself as one who is in the habit of living in the past. But he enjoys his history in place.
He likes the gentle wash of his past indiscretions. When he’s here, he gets to wade into them. Like tropical waters, safe and warm near the shore, but they drop off quickly - more often than he’d care to admit. And then you’re out to sea…
G.T. is also not in the habit of reliving his mistakes.
K finally navigates his way over. He hands off one pint to G.T.: “You’re up next.” It has been almost eight years that they’ve known each other, and K insists still on reminding G.T. whose turn it is.
G.T. taps K’s glass with his. The fragile clink is lost in the bar, washed over and under by a sudden burst of “Wooos!” from the dance floor.
K: “You hear from the girls?”
G.T.: “No. You?”
K doesn’t feel his phone vibrate in the pocket of his windbreaker. A few moments later, G.T. PDA, tucked into the pocket of his jeans start to ring. He barely hears the little jingle, but somehow senses. He pulls it out, looks at the display, his face lit blue-grey in the LCD glow. He takes on an unintended pallor. He smiles, shows K the display. “Hey, it’s Claire.”
Showing posts with label Saturday Looks Good to Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Saturday Looks Good to Me. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
When I Lose My Eyes (Part 2)
When I Lose My Eyes – Saturday Looks Good to Me (Part 2) (listen in new tab)
[editor's note: works best if you start mid way through the track, at approximately 3min20sec]
Maura’s head is cupped in her hands, held up by her arms, propped up on elbows, supported by a scratched and worn desk. Her eyelids are heavy as she casually eyes her classroom. She’s taught at this ESL school for years and could do it in her sleep.
Her afternoon students are all teenagers, all Koreans. She surveys the fifteen dark-haired heads crammed into books. It’s quiet reading. Not a good use of their time, but it passes hers. She’s tired right now, but that doesn’t bother her.
Everything drifts to black for a moment. She catches herself as her arms buckle, and her head starts to freefall. She looks around the room. No one saw that.
Sitting tall in her chair, she breathes deeply. It’s 1:00. The clocks tick, incessant and teasing. Her mind is a transcript of the late night calls. She wants to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
She can’t deny she’s excited. But, he's has only been trouble so far. Trouble seems to find her. She tries to fold those doubts into the smallest possible square. They bloom out again, creased and familiar.
On the other hand… she runs out of hands.
She casually pulls her phone out of her purse. It vibrates quietly in her palm when she turns it on. She stares at the little screen for a moment, stands. Her chair scratches loudly along the cheap linoleum. All fifteen heads look up.
“I have to…umm… go to the washroom. Innsook, can you lead the class in conversation.”
Innsook looks like she just woke up. “Yes, Miss. About?”
Maura: “I don’t know. Talk about what you’re doing tonight.” She exits the class, palming her phone so no one sees her leave with it. Dials as she walks down the empty hall.
At the library. K leans forward on the circulation desk. He thinks for a moment about bolting over it, making a run for the door.
The library has been busy today. A lot of people, worried about the strike, are trying to get all the books they can. K dutifully reminds them that the library will still be open limited hours if the strike happens. Non-union contract workers like him are going nowhere. But, he leaves out that last part.
It’s a little after one and there is a lull. A phone rings. He grabs at his pant pocket where his cell is. He sighs. It’s the desk phone. Picking up the receiver, he prepares his standard pre-strike message for its hundredth performance.
K: “Hello, Toronto Public Library. Neighbourhood Branch.”
G.T.: “K? Sweet, and on the first try. What’s up?”
K: “Not much. It’s busy here.”
G.T. leans back in his chair. He’s surrounded by his cubicle. Beyond the semi-permanent walls, stretched out in tedium, lies the ringing and mumbling sales department of Percy, Bors, and Galahad Marketing Inc.
G.T. keeps the fuzzy grey walls barren, except for a few family photos and two rock concert posters; their corners are tattered from the staples that once held them to telephone poles.
G.T.: “Man its slow here. I’m at quota for the month. Gonna ride that wave for the week. Did you talk to Claire? I haven’t been to Caxton’s in forever. They have the best salmon whatever it is. Do you know what she’s celebrating?”
As G.T. talks, K sees Candice leave her office. He knows that she’s coming to talk to him. Her mouth is a line; her eyes cut a swath across his face.
K pretends to look something up on the computer. “Sir, let me check to make sure we have it in. There is a lot of demand for that book.”
G.T.: “What? Is Candice there? Tell her we should get together. Tell her that I want to have her hard, man.”
K’s mouth tightens. His throat chokes down the laugh. His eyes bulge a little.
Candice: “K? Do you have a moment?”
With his free hand, he points to the receiver he holds against his ear. “Yeah, we have it in.”
Candice crosses her arms. Her eyes flare. K reconsiders.
K: “One moment please, sir.” He holds the receiver against his chest. “Yeah?”
Candice: “Can you come and see me around three? We need to have a short talk.”
K: “Yeah, sure. Three. Sorry about that, sir. What is your card number? I can put it on hold for you.” Candice goes back to her office.
G.T.: “What was that about?”
K: “Candice is gunning for me.”
The afternoon picks up, becomes an ellipsis. K recites the strike hours notice, over and over. One woman argues with him over borrowing limits.
Three o’clock comes quickly. K pulls up a chair. Candice's hands are folded neatly on her desk. Studying her face, he can see how the stress is weathering her. There are new lines.
K is prepared for her speech about professionalism. About how she needs him with the strike coming. About how library work is about more than showing up. About how the strike will be an opportunity to show that commitment. About how he needs to show more commitment to the library if he wants his contract renewed.
It drones into senselessness. Her mouth bristles with anxiety, trenchant with the languid fear she brings to middle management.
As she talks, K’s cell vibrates. Ignoring her, K slides the phone out of his pocket, casually looks at it. It’s a text from Maura.
Candice: “K? Mr. Dean? Are you listening? This is not the time to be checking your phone. This is exactly what–”
K looks up. His face had been firm, cavalier and defiant. Now it is slackened. The change stays her. “K?”
K: “Jenny died.”
[editor's note: works best if you start mid way through the track, at approximately 3min20sec]
Maura’s head is cupped in her hands, held up by her arms, propped up on elbows, supported by a scratched and worn desk. Her eyelids are heavy as she casually eyes her classroom. She’s taught at this ESL school for years and could do it in her sleep.
Her afternoon students are all teenagers, all Koreans. She surveys the fifteen dark-haired heads crammed into books. It’s quiet reading. Not a good use of their time, but it passes hers. She’s tired right now, but that doesn’t bother her.
Everything drifts to black for a moment. She catches herself as her arms buckle, and her head starts to freefall. She looks around the room. No one saw that.
Sitting tall in her chair, she breathes deeply. It’s 1:00. The clocks tick, incessant and teasing. Her mind is a transcript of the late night calls. She wants to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
She can’t deny she’s excited. But, he's has only been trouble so far. Trouble seems to find her. She tries to fold those doubts into the smallest possible square. They bloom out again, creased and familiar.
On the other hand… she runs out of hands.
She casually pulls her phone out of her purse. It vibrates quietly in her palm when she turns it on. She stares at the little screen for a moment, stands. Her chair scratches loudly along the cheap linoleum. All fifteen heads look up.
“I have to…umm… go to the washroom. Innsook, can you lead the class in conversation.”
Innsook looks like she just woke up. “Yes, Miss. About?”
Maura: “I don’t know. Talk about what you’re doing tonight.” She exits the class, palming her phone so no one sees her leave with it. Dials as she walks down the empty hall.
At the library. K leans forward on the circulation desk. He thinks for a moment about bolting over it, making a run for the door.
The library has been busy today. A lot of people, worried about the strike, are trying to get all the books they can. K dutifully reminds them that the library will still be open limited hours if the strike happens. Non-union contract workers like him are going nowhere. But, he leaves out that last part.
It’s a little after one and there is a lull. A phone rings. He grabs at his pant pocket where his cell is. He sighs. It’s the desk phone. Picking up the receiver, he prepares his standard pre-strike message for its hundredth performance.
K: “Hello, Toronto Public Library. Neighbourhood Branch.”
G.T.: “K? Sweet, and on the first try. What’s up?”
K: “Not much. It’s busy here.”
G.T. leans back in his chair. He’s surrounded by his cubicle. Beyond the semi-permanent walls, stretched out in tedium, lies the ringing and mumbling sales department of Percy, Bors, and Galahad Marketing Inc.
G.T. keeps the fuzzy grey walls barren, except for a few family photos and two rock concert posters; their corners are tattered from the staples that once held them to telephone poles.
G.T.: “Man its slow here. I’m at quota for the month. Gonna ride that wave for the week. Did you talk to Claire? I haven’t been to Caxton’s in forever. They have the best salmon whatever it is. Do you know what she’s celebrating?”
As G.T. talks, K sees Candice leave her office. He knows that she’s coming to talk to him. Her mouth is a line; her eyes cut a swath across his face.
K pretends to look something up on the computer. “Sir, let me check to make sure we have it in. There is a lot of demand for that book.”
G.T.: “What? Is Candice there? Tell her we should get together. Tell her that I want to have her hard, man.”
K’s mouth tightens. His throat chokes down the laugh. His eyes bulge a little.
Candice: “K? Do you have a moment?”
With his free hand, he points to the receiver he holds against his ear. “Yeah, we have it in.”
Candice crosses her arms. Her eyes flare. K reconsiders.
K: “One moment please, sir.” He holds the receiver against his chest. “Yeah?”
Candice: “Can you come and see me around three? We need to have a short talk.”
K: “Yeah, sure. Three. Sorry about that, sir. What is your card number? I can put it on hold for you.” Candice goes back to her office.
G.T.: “What was that about?”
K: “Candice is gunning for me.”
The afternoon picks up, becomes an ellipsis. K recites the strike hours notice, over and over. One woman argues with him over borrowing limits.
Three o’clock comes quickly. K pulls up a chair. Candice's hands are folded neatly on her desk. Studying her face, he can see how the stress is weathering her. There are new lines.
K is prepared for her speech about professionalism. About how she needs him with the strike coming. About how library work is about more than showing up. About how the strike will be an opportunity to show that commitment. About how he needs to show more commitment to the library if he wants his contract renewed.
It drones into senselessness. Her mouth bristles with anxiety, trenchant with the languid fear she brings to middle management.
As she talks, K’s cell vibrates. Ignoring her, K slides the phone out of his pocket, casually looks at it. It’s a text from Maura.
Candice: “K? Mr. Dean? Are you listening? This is not the time to be checking your phone. This is exactly what–”
K looks up. His face had been firm, cavalier and defiant. Now it is slackened. The change stays her. “K?”
K: “Jenny died.”
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
When I Lose My Eyes (Part 1)
When I Lose My Eyes – Saturday Looks Good to Me (Part 1) (listen in new tab)
K’s alarm clock goes off. The noise wedges itself into his dream. An osprey in a fine Edwardian suit yells at him, trying to tell him about what he’s forgot to do, that he’s out of time. They stand on top of a sea of pine trees. The suited bird hands him a spear carved from what looks like whale bones, says that it’s imperative to remember to–
He wrenches up sharply. K’s right arm flails down at the offending sound. The fuzz in his eyes shifts to focus, as he looks at the green LED lights. They’re suddenly numbers. 7:02 becomes 7:03, and K realizes he’s going to be late for work.
“Dammit.” And he’s off. Shower. Breakfast. No wait, vitamins, then breakfast. He pulls on his pants while loading his toaster. He drinks a cup of cold day old coffee, switching the mug in his hands as he puts on a collared shirt. After a dash around his apartment, he pulls on his parka and is out the door. And then back inside. “Keys.”
K runs down the street as fast as the January thaw will let him. It’s not quite a full run; he stomps through the slush, slipping a little every few steps. His breathing starts to get heavy.
In his pocket he feels his phone vibrate. He pulls it out. It’s Claire.
K: “Hey, Claire. You’re up early.”
Claire: “I opened this morning. Are you dying?”
K stops, bends over to catch his breath. “No, I’m just out of shape. I woke up late. What’s up?” He starts again, moving at a more conservative, fast walk.
Claire holds the wireless phone between her shoulder and her ear as she works the espresso bar. Her arms flow with practiced precision. She has put Danielle, the new hire, on cash. She isn’t ready for the morning rush, not on cash - especially not on bar.
Claire looks over at, smiles at Danielle's exasperation. She drags her eye down the lengthening line of groggy customers and thinks: Oh, rookies.
Claire, to K: “Danielle’s dying this morning. [to Danielle] Listen, sweetheart you’re doing fine. What was the last one? Ok… K, I should go. I wanted to remind you that you’re meeting me for dinner. The lawyers are calling me today. We’re gonna celebrate for reals tonight. Woo! What was that?... Whole latte? Got it. K, I gotta go. 7:00 at Caxton’s. You know, the fancy place? Ok, later. Have a good run.”
She hangs up, placing the handset above her, atop the hissing machine, next to the paper cups.
Danielle: “Claire, what do we do with these coupons?” Her voice wavers.
Claire, tapping spent grounds forcefully into bin beside her: “Tell him we don’t have coupons, and then say ‘next’ loudly.”
Danielle: “What?”
Claire shakes her head. Danielle cannot receive jokes at this time: “Ok. One sec.”
Back on the street, K passes quickly by Ulysses’s. He looks in, sees the new girl throwing her hands up in capitulation to the line-up. Claire is soothing her, taking orders, still somehow making drinks. He sees her face for only a moment. This morning she’s the queen of the place.
And around the corner. He dodges into the street to avoid a delivery man’s loaded dolly. The move gains K moments, but soaks his left foot.
His head is still a little foggy. Maura has taken to calling him late at night, talking herself to sleep. A transcript would be pointless. It doesn’t matter what they talk about, just that last night when looked at the clock once it said 10:23 and then when he looked again it said 12:45.
They both had to get up early. She doesn’t care. He doesn’t either. Except right now, things feel a little pressing.
He smiles as he jumps head long, making a skillful leap across a lake of slush. As he lands, he thinks excitedly about later. He and Maura set tonight for their first real date. Dinner at some Sushi place she wants to try. Kasigi Yabu. 7:30. A late dinner.
He stops. Wait. Dammit.
He pulls out his phone as he starts his run again. He dials, hoping he can get her before she starts class. He gets her voicemail, slows down to talk: “Hey. [Heavy breath] I’m gonna sound like a stalker. [Heavy breath] Ok. Give me a call. It’s K. [Heavy breath]”
As he hangs up, he checks the time before he shoves his phone back into his pocket. He hits his stride again as rounds the last corner. He knows he’s late, but he may be able to beat Candice to work. He runs a tally in his head. He doesn’t have many last chances left to be late.
That thought shatters as he comes up to the door. His hopes fall in rose glass pebbles to the floor of his skull, Candice is there talking to the new morning librarian. They both look over at the door when K opens it. He walks in, his pants soaked almost to the top of his shins. He’s red faced and out of breath.
Candice’s face is a grimace, a glimmer of malice. K feels his recalcitrance. She goes to her office without a word. This day is going to be a battle.
As K settles in behind the circulation desk, the new morning librarian sips her herbal tea tersely. She’s in the union. Midnight, Thursday is the strike deadline. She says, coolly: “Two days, K. Candice is going to explode.”
K shrugs: “Yeah. I wish we could find the pin to put back in her.”
New Morning Librarian: “What? What do you mean?”
K: “Nevermind.”
The morning regulars start to filter in through the door, leaving wet footprints on the institutional blue-green carpets.
K checks his phone covertly. No messages. He knows she’s in class, and won’t call him back until after she leaves the school at 3:00. But, he will check it a hundred times that day, anyways.
K’s alarm clock goes off. The noise wedges itself into his dream. An osprey in a fine Edwardian suit yells at him, trying to tell him about what he’s forgot to do, that he’s out of time. They stand on top of a sea of pine trees. The suited bird hands him a spear carved from what looks like whale bones, says that it’s imperative to remember to–
He wrenches up sharply. K’s right arm flails down at the offending sound. The fuzz in his eyes shifts to focus, as he looks at the green LED lights. They’re suddenly numbers. 7:02 becomes 7:03, and K realizes he’s going to be late for work.
“Dammit.” And he’s off. Shower. Breakfast. No wait, vitamins, then breakfast. He pulls on his pants while loading his toaster. He drinks a cup of cold day old coffee, switching the mug in his hands as he puts on a collared shirt. After a dash around his apartment, he pulls on his parka and is out the door. And then back inside. “Keys.”
K runs down the street as fast as the January thaw will let him. It’s not quite a full run; he stomps through the slush, slipping a little every few steps. His breathing starts to get heavy.
In his pocket he feels his phone vibrate. He pulls it out. It’s Claire.
K: “Hey, Claire. You’re up early.”
Claire: “I opened this morning. Are you dying?”
K stops, bends over to catch his breath. “No, I’m just out of shape. I woke up late. What’s up?” He starts again, moving at a more conservative, fast walk.
Claire holds the wireless phone between her shoulder and her ear as she works the espresso bar. Her arms flow with practiced precision. She has put Danielle, the new hire, on cash. She isn’t ready for the morning rush, not on cash - especially not on bar.
Claire looks over at, smiles at Danielle's exasperation. She drags her eye down the lengthening line of groggy customers and thinks: Oh, rookies.
Claire, to K: “Danielle’s dying this morning. [to Danielle] Listen, sweetheart you’re doing fine. What was the last one? Ok… K, I should go. I wanted to remind you that you’re meeting me for dinner. The lawyers are calling me today. We’re gonna celebrate for reals tonight. Woo! What was that?... Whole latte? Got it. K, I gotta go. 7:00 at Caxton’s. You know, the fancy place? Ok, later. Have a good run.”
She hangs up, placing the handset above her, atop the hissing machine, next to the paper cups.
Danielle: “Claire, what do we do with these coupons?” Her voice wavers.
Claire, tapping spent grounds forcefully into bin beside her: “Tell him we don’t have coupons, and then say ‘next’ loudly.”
Danielle: “What?”
Claire shakes her head. Danielle cannot receive jokes at this time: “Ok. One sec.”
Back on the street, K passes quickly by Ulysses’s. He looks in, sees the new girl throwing her hands up in capitulation to the line-up. Claire is soothing her, taking orders, still somehow making drinks. He sees her face for only a moment. This morning she’s the queen of the place.
And around the corner. He dodges into the street to avoid a delivery man’s loaded dolly. The move gains K moments, but soaks his left foot.
His head is still a little foggy. Maura has taken to calling him late at night, talking herself to sleep. A transcript would be pointless. It doesn’t matter what they talk about, just that last night when looked at the clock once it said 10:23 and then when he looked again it said 12:45.
They both had to get up early. She doesn’t care. He doesn’t either. Except right now, things feel a little pressing.
He smiles as he jumps head long, making a skillful leap across a lake of slush. As he lands, he thinks excitedly about later. He and Maura set tonight for their first real date. Dinner at some Sushi place she wants to try. Kasigi Yabu. 7:30. A late dinner.
He stops. Wait. Dammit.
He pulls out his phone as he starts his run again. He dials, hoping he can get her before she starts class. He gets her voicemail, slows down to talk: “Hey. [Heavy breath] I’m gonna sound like a stalker. [Heavy breath] Ok. Give me a call. It’s K. [Heavy breath]”
As he hangs up, he checks the time before he shoves his phone back into his pocket. He hits his stride again as rounds the last corner. He knows he’s late, but he may be able to beat Candice to work. He runs a tally in his head. He doesn’t have many last chances left to be late.
That thought shatters as he comes up to the door. His hopes fall in rose glass pebbles to the floor of his skull, Candice is there talking to the new morning librarian. They both look over at the door when K opens it. He walks in, his pants soaked almost to the top of his shins. He’s red faced and out of breath.
Candice’s face is a grimace, a glimmer of malice. K feels his recalcitrance. She goes to her office without a word. This day is going to be a battle.
As K settles in behind the circulation desk, the new morning librarian sips her herbal tea tersely. She’s in the union. Midnight, Thursday is the strike deadline. She says, coolly: “Two days, K. Candice is going to explode.”
K shrugs: “Yeah. I wish we could find the pin to put back in her.”
New Morning Librarian: “What? What do you mean?”
K: “Nevermind.”
The morning regulars start to filter in through the door, leaving wet footprints on the institutional blue-green carpets.
K checks his phone covertly. No messages. He knows she’s in class, and won’t call him back until after she leaves the school at 3:00. But, he will check it a hundred times that day, anyways.
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