Atlantic City – Bruce Springsteen (listen in new tab)
It’s 8:00am. Early on a February Friday. Week two of the strike.
K walks up to the picket of cold, tired strikers outside the main entrance of his library. This morning it’s a young woman a little older than him, whom he doesn’t recognize, and an old man from cataloging. Dan or Ken. K’s trying to learn their names, since every day someone has stopped him, handed him a flyer and a stern look. It’s not always someone from his branch.
A few times a week K brings the morning picket coffee. It is his way of saying he wishes he could be out there. He hates crossing the line. Today he holds in his hand two cups, wisps of steam escapes in slow curls from the white plastic lids into the crisp air.
K: “It’s dark roast.”
They mumble thanks. The woman hands K a flyer. He flips it in hand before giving it back. “It’s the same as yesterday. Stay warm guys.”
Later, Candice stops K on her way to lunch. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are dark and soft. Management and the contract workers have been working long hours to keep the library system barely running. She’s been practically living here.
Candice: “I know it may be too soon. But we’ll be looking to fill the hole Jenny left in the roster. You know after all this hoopla is sorted out. You should keep that in mind.” She’s trying to be friendly. She feels alone in this place.
K looks at the floor, says nothing.
Since Jenny died, the library breathes differently. K feels now how much she imbued into the dusty shelves and stained carpet, the shell of the building. And now it echoes as it inhales and exhales him everyday. The building contracts and loosens around her absence, and he comes back for the extra hours.
Leaning at the circulation desk, he looks out at the two strikers stepping back and forth, slapping themselves with crossed arms to stay warm.
At Ulysses’s, Claire sits at a table talking about money with Esther and William Latch, long time proprietors. Esther, her head a frizzy mat of tied back silver hair, sits quietly. William coughs harshly into a paisley kerchief. Claire gestures sedately, but her eyes are kinetic. She writes down a number. Esther nods. Her eyes grieve though the money is good. William coughs again as he stands up. Claire beams and shakes Esther’s hand, then stands to shake William’s.
His voice is gravel: “That’ll make a difference in Cairo, eh, Esther dear?” He puts his hand on her shoulder with practiced care.
Esther is a thousand weeks ago. She thinks about turning the key in the lock for the first time and tearing old newspaper off the windows, letting the sun in. The dust danced in the rays. She remembers righting tables as she imagined what fresh paint would be like. Feels in her hand the first few quarters her mother gave her for the first cup on opening day. This space was nothing once. Now it is a last deep breath.
She looks up at Claire. “I’m glad it’s you.” Both their chests feel like they could burst.
William coughs roughly, his face covered.
Maura closes her books, writes the few short notes for Monday, and watches the last few students walk out of the classroom. She stands, packing what she needs into her purse, then walks out. The weeks with these kids have been passing quickly. She always thinks that on Fridays. Every other day in the week, she feels the days drag into space. But, it’s the weekend and K’s got tomorrow off. For the first time in a week and half he won’t have to work. She breathes out slowly and reminds herself that through the doors she isn’t a teacher.
G.T. stands on a dais in a large conference room. He shakes the hand of Val Percy, founder, with thin fervour. His peers clap cordially in the tiered audience. She hands him a brass plaque. He is a veneer of professional charm, but inside he thinks about what to do with the cheap wood and metal award.
G.T.: “Thank you very much Mrs. Percy. I really try to set an example for my coworkers.”
Val: “Well, your sales record speaks for itself.”
G.T. catches her eye. She’d rather be anywhere else on Friday, too.
Later that night at V.I. Lenin’s. The bar is crowded. Miracle of miracle, G.T. got them a table. Claire slouches in her chair, already a glowing mess. K sits next to Maura. Their knees pressed together make knots under the table.
G.T. appears and lines shots up along the table. Stubby glasses of amber, amidst the pints of beer. “Now, let’s get this started. Courtesy of the top seller in the region.”
Claire: “Hey, where’s Brae?”
G.T.: “She's at a conference in Kingston. Presenting something on bio-diversity voodoo. Drink up!”
The four of them pound back the shot. Slam the glasses down.
Claire gags, coughs: “Whiskey, G.T.? Jesus.”
Maura lets out a quiet cough, as the alcohol heats her throat and stomach.
K washes his down with a chaser of beer. “G.T., how do you get a sales award anyways?”
G.T. drinks from his pint glass deeply. “I show up and go to the washroom a lot. Also, look at me.”
Claire: “Ugh. When are you leaving that place?”
G.T. holds up the plaque. “I dunno. Who wants to watch me throw this under a subway later?”
Claire holds up a hand loosely. K makes his excuses. Maura laughs.
A while later, K and Maura get up to leave. Claire slaps the table demanding they stay. K makes their apologies. G.T. raises a glass casually to their leaving and gives K a knowing wink.
In the night, the clouds have made a rift. The few stars Toronto allows, only the brightest, make their billion year dash through the furrow. The planet inhales their light. Amidst that, K walks with Maura curled under his arm. The street is busy with Friday night traffic.
K: “Winter’s been long enough.”
Maura: “Yeah. It’s cold.” She tries to burrow closer into him.
K: “Where do you want to go?”
Maura: “It doesn’t matter. Some place warm, ok?”
K: “Sounds good. Some place warm, it is.”
End Volume 1: Run to the Lights of the City.
Showing posts with label Vol.1 Run to the Lights of the City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vol.1 Run to the Lights of the City. Show all posts
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Strangers in the Wind
Strangers in the Wind - Cut Copy (listen in new tab)
In the half empty church parking lot, K scrapes the windshield of his car. A thin layer of dusty particulate ice had crawled across the glass during the service and his stay at the reception.
The car rumbles and clatters under the layer of snow on the hood. The exhaust hangs low in grey white clouds by the muffler.
Since Jenny died, it had snapped cold, turned to blizzards, and this is the first clear day. The sky is a crystal blue glacial lake spilt across it. The old woman would be interred in the spring. The graveyard is frozen.
K stops, ponders up at the spires of St. Jerome’s Cathedral. The gargoyles, high up, look out sternly, obscured for a moment by the thin fog of his breath. The rose window is a Byzantine eye of tenebrous glass. He thinks: people will never build them like this again.
Maura comes out to him. She’s bundled into a dark grey wool parka. It hugs her curves. “You’re leaving?”
K: “Yeah. Well, I don’t want to impose on your family or anything.”
She casually knocks some snow off the roof; it falls in light streams, sliding down to the wipers. She watches it fall. “You’re not imposing.” Her face is ashen against the black scarf knotted around her neck. Her eyes look at him from far inside her. White breath escapes her mouth, her lips red in the cold.
K: “Well. I mean I don’t know my footing at these kinds of things.”
Maura shrugs off his words: “I don’t think anyone does. Half the people in there acted like I didn’t exist until three days ago. So awkward. Like all the time”
K opens the drivers side door, throws the scraper in. A little music escapes. He shrugs and smiles consolations. “Families are weird. You look exhausted.”
Maura: “I am.” She looks back at the Cathedral. It reaches up. Her feet feel fastened to the snow, locked in ice. She thinks for a moment. She wants to move. “Can you take me home?”
K: “Now?”
Maura: “Now.”
K: “No problem.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaches across and unlocks the other door. Maura yanks, breaking the weak ice that had sealed it.
A little later, K is pulling his car on to the 401. Jenny’s cathedral is in a neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The expressway is the fastest way back home. The Cavalier resents having to speed up, and rattles in protest.
Maura had been quiet for a while. “I don’t think your car likes that.”
K: “It’ll be fine.” He pets the faded and stained dashboard lovingly. “You’re a satisfying machine, and you know it.”
She smiles, lets out a little laugh. It floats on the currents of warm air that push out from the vents. It twists and falls and rises into his ears. Settling there it rings loud in his head.
Maura: “I’m surprised there weren’t more people from the library.”
K: “There were some there. Jenny was well known. I mean, she had been there about as long as anyone. She had a real impact on the place. But, I think a lot of them are on the picket line today.”
Maura: “Right. How is that thing going?”
K changes lanes, moving out of the way of a speeding SUV. “The strike? Hah. No one in the city cares. The branches are all open and us contract workers get to cross the picket lines. Listen menopausal women can be scary. And, when they’re fighting for their pensions. Oh man. Jenny would have loved it. She was such a– Oh. Hey. I’m sorry.”
Maura is crying. Tears fall in rivulets from the corner of her eyes. She rubs her nose with her sleeve. “No. Sorry. I just. Well, you know?”
K is silent for a moment. “Yeah. Jenny was special. Hands down. A real dame.”
Maura sniffles a Yes. She puts her hand on his thigh. He puts his atop hers. The car jerks suddenly, skidding on some black ice, forcing him to grab the wheel tightly with both hands.
K: “Hah. Always turn into the skid, right?”
Her hand is still there when he pulls into the plowed clearing in front of Maura’s building. The entrance has the same yellow-white sheen it had months ago.
Maura: “Do you want to come up?”
The car rumbles as it idles. She squeezes his leg. “I’ll make tea. You can park down there.”
K: “Ok.”
She will put the faded white electric kettle on. And while he looks at her bookshelf, she’ll touch his back lightly, not with her full hand. It will make him turn around. And their eyes will meet and push into each other’s head with unrestrained, abandoned force.
The world spins on their axis as his hand finds the side of her face and her arms reach around his neck. The planet crashes to a halt, throwing them together, so that when they kiss it feels like the inertia of their isolate world is on them.
And as they kiss: the kettle rumbles and whistles, and they ignore the click.
In the half empty church parking lot, K scrapes the windshield of his car. A thin layer of dusty particulate ice had crawled across the glass during the service and his stay at the reception.
The car rumbles and clatters under the layer of snow on the hood. The exhaust hangs low in grey white clouds by the muffler.
Since Jenny died, it had snapped cold, turned to blizzards, and this is the first clear day. The sky is a crystal blue glacial lake spilt across it. The old woman would be interred in the spring. The graveyard is frozen.
K stops, ponders up at the spires of St. Jerome’s Cathedral. The gargoyles, high up, look out sternly, obscured for a moment by the thin fog of his breath. The rose window is a Byzantine eye of tenebrous glass. He thinks: people will never build them like this again.
Maura comes out to him. She’s bundled into a dark grey wool parka. It hugs her curves. “You’re leaving?”
K: “Yeah. Well, I don’t want to impose on your family or anything.”
She casually knocks some snow off the roof; it falls in light streams, sliding down to the wipers. She watches it fall. “You’re not imposing.” Her face is ashen against the black scarf knotted around her neck. Her eyes look at him from far inside her. White breath escapes her mouth, her lips red in the cold.
K: “Well. I mean I don’t know my footing at these kinds of things.”
Maura shrugs off his words: “I don’t think anyone does. Half the people in there acted like I didn’t exist until three days ago. So awkward. Like all the time”
K opens the drivers side door, throws the scraper in. A little music escapes. He shrugs and smiles consolations. “Families are weird. You look exhausted.”
Maura: “I am.” She looks back at the Cathedral. It reaches up. Her feet feel fastened to the snow, locked in ice. She thinks for a moment. She wants to move. “Can you take me home?”
K: “Now?”
Maura: “Now.”
K: “No problem.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaches across and unlocks the other door. Maura yanks, breaking the weak ice that had sealed it.
A little later, K is pulling his car on to the 401. Jenny’s cathedral is in a neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The expressway is the fastest way back home. The Cavalier resents having to speed up, and rattles in protest.
Maura had been quiet for a while. “I don’t think your car likes that.”
K: “It’ll be fine.” He pets the faded and stained dashboard lovingly. “You’re a satisfying machine, and you know it.”
She smiles, lets out a little laugh. It floats on the currents of warm air that push out from the vents. It twists and falls and rises into his ears. Settling there it rings loud in his head.
Maura: “I’m surprised there weren’t more people from the library.”
K: “There were some there. Jenny was well known. I mean, she had been there about as long as anyone. She had a real impact on the place. But, I think a lot of them are on the picket line today.”
Maura: “Right. How is that thing going?”
K changes lanes, moving out of the way of a speeding SUV. “The strike? Hah. No one in the city cares. The branches are all open and us contract workers get to cross the picket lines. Listen menopausal women can be scary. And, when they’re fighting for their pensions. Oh man. Jenny would have loved it. She was such a– Oh. Hey. I’m sorry.”
Maura is crying. Tears fall in rivulets from the corner of her eyes. She rubs her nose with her sleeve. “No. Sorry. I just. Well, you know?”
K is silent for a moment. “Yeah. Jenny was special. Hands down. A real dame.”
Maura sniffles a Yes. She puts her hand on his thigh. He puts his atop hers. The car jerks suddenly, skidding on some black ice, forcing him to grab the wheel tightly with both hands.
K: “Hah. Always turn into the skid, right?”
Her hand is still there when he pulls into the plowed clearing in front of Maura’s building. The entrance has the same yellow-white sheen it had months ago.
Maura: “Do you want to come up?”
The car rumbles as it idles. She squeezes his leg. “I’ll make tea. You can park down there.”
K: “Ok.”
She will put the faded white electric kettle on. And while he looks at her bookshelf, she’ll touch his back lightly, not with her full hand. It will make him turn around. And their eyes will meet and push into each other’s head with unrestrained, abandoned force.
The world spins on their axis as his hand finds the side of her face and her arms reach around his neck. The planet crashes to a halt, throwing them together, so that when they kiss it feels like the inertia of their isolate world is on them.
And as they kiss: the kettle rumbles and whistles, and they ignore the click.
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.
Monday, November 2, 2009
I'm Loving The Street
I'm Loving The Street – Bonnie Prince Billy(listen in new tab)
It is bright outside. The sun pushes through the window panes, bouncing off the walls, the chrome, the monitors of this and that machine. The room is a glare of yellow white; everything is the colour of wedding dresses in fading pictures.
K walks in slowly. His eyes adjust. He carries a pot of African violets cupped in both hands. They're unwrapped in the cheap pot they came in at the grocery store. The nurse told him this was Jenny’s room, but he’s still unsure. He knows he should have come to see her months ago and feels that he has only selfish excuses. He asks awkwardly: “Jenny?”
The familiar lilt, slightly dampened, answers from behind one of the drawn curtains. It ends in a cough: “K? Is that you?”
He draws back the white cloth. She lies on the bed, tilted up with her torso at an incline. Jenny looks drained, as if the tubes in her arm were taking a share more than they were giving. Her eyes are sunken, but still are bright with their customary mischief.
K: “Yeah, Jenny it’s me. I didn’t bring you a coffee. I wasn’t sure if they’d let you have any.”
Jenny: “Sweetheart, they won’t let me have anything. It’s a tragedy. But I must say, some of these young doctors could lay their healing hands upon me a mite more often.” She laughs, her chest heaving into a deep rattling cough.
K still holds the potted flowers, bearing it carefully so he doesn’t spill the soil: “You want me to fudge your chart a little so they do? What do you want to have?”
Jenny laughs, coughs again and waves at him to come closer. “Oh leave it be. I see you brought me flowers.”
K puts the pot on the bed stand next to get well cards and a few vases of lilies. The brown plastic pot looks squat and nervous, a little pathetic next to the tall elegant bouquets. K suddenly feels a little embarrassed for them. “Yeah, of course. Cut flowers are so, I don’t know, pessimistic. I guess, I thought you’d like these.”
Jenny: “I think they’re resplendent.”
K: “Plus, I’m sure you could find a handsome orderly to keep them watered.”
Jenny winks at him: “Heavens! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I’m so glad you came. Tell me what’s happening in your life.”
K pulls an austerely padded chair closer to the bed and sits down. He puts a hand carefully on her shoulder. “So you heard about Shannon, I guess.”
Jenny: “From a few people. I’m so sorry for you dear.”
K: “Uh huh? Right. So, I’m going to tell you a story and you can tell me how much of it’s true.”
Jenny reaches up, slowly puts her hand on his. It’s thin now, her skin taught over her bones. “Honey, I’m not going anywhere.”
K: “Ok, so I met this girl at the Ulysses’s, right? ...”
It is bright outside. The sun pushes through the window panes, bouncing off the walls, the chrome, the monitors of this and that machine. The room is a glare of yellow white; everything is the colour of wedding dresses in fading pictures.
K walks in slowly. His eyes adjust. He carries a pot of African violets cupped in both hands. They're unwrapped in the cheap pot they came in at the grocery store. The nurse told him this was Jenny’s room, but he’s still unsure. He knows he should have come to see her months ago and feels that he has only selfish excuses. He asks awkwardly: “Jenny?”
The familiar lilt, slightly dampened, answers from behind one of the drawn curtains. It ends in a cough: “K? Is that you?”
He draws back the white cloth. She lies on the bed, tilted up with her torso at an incline. Jenny looks drained, as if the tubes in her arm were taking a share more than they were giving. Her eyes are sunken, but still are bright with their customary mischief.
K: “Yeah, Jenny it’s me. I didn’t bring you a coffee. I wasn’t sure if they’d let you have any.”
Jenny: “Sweetheart, they won’t let me have anything. It’s a tragedy. But I must say, some of these young doctors could lay their healing hands upon me a mite more often.” She laughs, her chest heaving into a deep rattling cough.
K still holds the potted flowers, bearing it carefully so he doesn’t spill the soil: “You want me to fudge your chart a little so they do? What do you want to have?”
Jenny laughs, coughs again and waves at him to come closer. “Oh leave it be. I see you brought me flowers.”
K puts the pot on the bed stand next to get well cards and a few vases of lilies. The brown plastic pot looks squat and nervous, a little pathetic next to the tall elegant bouquets. K suddenly feels a little embarrassed for them. “Yeah, of course. Cut flowers are so, I don’t know, pessimistic. I guess, I thought you’d like these.”
Jenny: “I think they’re resplendent.”
K: “Plus, I’m sure you could find a handsome orderly to keep them watered.”
Jenny winks at him: “Heavens! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I’m so glad you came. Tell me what’s happening in your life.”
K pulls an austerely padded chair closer to the bed and sits down. He puts a hand carefully on her shoulder. “So you heard about Shannon, I guess.”
Jenny: “From a few people. I’m so sorry for you dear.”
K: “Uh huh? Right. So, I’m going to tell you a story and you can tell me how much of it’s true.”
Jenny reaches up, slowly puts her hand on his. It’s thin now, her skin taught over her bones. “Honey, I’m not going anywhere.”
K: “Ok, so I met this girl at the Ulysses’s, right? ...”
Nice Fox
Nice Fox – The Rosebuds(listen in new tab)
K comes in from the cold, into the only decent bar on the way home. It was once called the Fisher King. These days it’s called the House of Peers. It is one of those bars that must have held a hundred names since they built it. Nothing changes in it. The air is always a nebulous brume from a century of life. Though now it is almost always empty.
Earlier K watched January’s Wednesday sun set through the windows of the library. He stood outside at around 8:30 as the security guard lock the door behind them. It was then that K realized his hazy, diligent routine, his torpor, had evaporated.
Before him for the first time in a long time was a night without object. Getting a pint seemed to him the best plan.
The old bartender follows a movie lazily. It’s a black and white Spencer Tracey movie set in post-war Berlin. He serves K without taking his eyes off the old TV set.
On the screen, two old men sit in a glossy Mercedes as the ruins of the Reich pass by. The sound is too low to really hear what they’re saying. The crumbled city is fuzzy and washed-out as it moves past, sharing only a casual, disassociation with the actors and the car. K fishes out the term for the effect. Rear Projection.
K, to no one in particular: “Maybe that’s what Berlin felt like.”
The bartender grunts a low acknowledgement. The sound of it dissipates like ripples in water. K takes a slow drink. The bar sinks back into silence, both of them absorbed in the film.
After a while, K asks the bartender to turn up the TV. “Can’t. It’s busted.” K squints and can see now that the knob for the volume is missing.
The swinging doors to the kitchen creak open on old resistant hinges. K looks from the TV. Maura comes in, untying a stained white apron, sweeps the empty bar dramatically with her arm. “Besides, if it were any louder, it’d disturb all the other the customers.” The bartender grunts at the familiar irony.
K’s stomach leaps and falls. Seeing her pulls something up and out through his chest. She walks over to sit on the stool beside him. Gives K a coy, knowing smile. He tries to avoid eye contact, but she catches him.
K is stymied. He wants to escape, or fall through floor, or be sucked through the ruddy pressed tin ceiling. He looks at her through the mirror behind the bar, fidgets nervously with his glass. “You work here?”
Maura: “Teaching doesn’t pay for all my habits, you know.” She taps K’s empty pint glass smartly. “He’ll have another, Titus.”
K: “Uh. Yeah. One for her, too.”
Maura laughs: “Such the gentleman. I hear your life is a real shit storm. Brae told me what happened.”
K goddamns G.T. in his head, and then thanks him. “Well. Yeah. I am a real idiot.” He holds his apology out with his hands “I’m really sorry for everything. I mean, man, it all was a real mess. Some of which was my fault. Most of which not yours, by the way.”
Maura: “Hah. You’re something. I’d suggest we start over, but frankly I don’t think you’re smart enough to remember what you did right.”
K: “Likely. You want to start with what’s new, then?”
Titus comes with their beers. “Keep it down. I can’t hear.”
Maura: “Oh Titus. Can you even hear anymore?” and to K: “What’s new, huh?”
K fishes for a topic. “Well, um, like: how’s your grandmother?”
Maura leans forward, takes a drink. “She had a stroke at work. She was home from the hospital, but now she’s back in again. Everyone thinks she’s pretty screwed, but I’m holding out hope, you know?”
K: “I never asked her name. I think we got distracted last time we had a chance to talk.”
Maura motions dismissively, playfully at K with her glass. “Titus! This guy’s a real piece of work. Distracted!” K can tell she is more than a little hurt, despite her efforts to hide it.
Titus: “Christ, Maury. Keep it down.”
Maura: “He’s my great uncle, or something, Grandma Jenny’s brother. He let’s me help out around here when I need extra money. Unkie Titus is the bestest. Cheers.” She clinks K’s glass, drinks from hers, and puts down the class on a faded coaster.
K turns to her: “Jenny? This may seem like a weird question, but I work with a woman named Jenny who-”
Maura grabs him by his shoulders. Holds him in place. “This, this is exactly why I have so little hope for you. You can’t put two and two together. Lord, you don’t think Jenny told me all about you? Do you have any idea how much she loves coffee?”
K rubs the back of his head. “Well, um… heh.” He plots back in his mind the extent of Jenny’s conspiracy.
Maura: “She has high praise for you, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still pretty pissed at you.” Her eyes are bright and shine into his. Her hands are warm on his shoulders.
K looks at the floor, then at her holding him in the mirror. She has him fixed, and he feels himself unfasten. “That’s fair. I’m very ok with that.”
Maura lets go of his shoulders. “That’s the spirit. Now, drink up.” She taps his glass with hers.
K comes in from the cold, into the only decent bar on the way home. It was once called the Fisher King. These days it’s called the House of Peers. It is one of those bars that must have held a hundred names since they built it. Nothing changes in it. The air is always a nebulous brume from a century of life. Though now it is almost always empty.
Earlier K watched January’s Wednesday sun set through the windows of the library. He stood outside at around 8:30 as the security guard lock the door behind them. It was then that K realized his hazy, diligent routine, his torpor, had evaporated.
Before him for the first time in a long time was a night without object. Getting a pint seemed to him the best plan.
The old bartender follows a movie lazily. It’s a black and white Spencer Tracey movie set in post-war Berlin. He serves K without taking his eyes off the old TV set.
On the screen, two old men sit in a glossy Mercedes as the ruins of the Reich pass by. The sound is too low to really hear what they’re saying. The crumbled city is fuzzy and washed-out as it moves past, sharing only a casual, disassociation with the actors and the car. K fishes out the term for the effect. Rear Projection.
K, to no one in particular: “Maybe that’s what Berlin felt like.”
The bartender grunts a low acknowledgement. The sound of it dissipates like ripples in water. K takes a slow drink. The bar sinks back into silence, both of them absorbed in the film.
After a while, K asks the bartender to turn up the TV. “Can’t. It’s busted.” K squints and can see now that the knob for the volume is missing.
The swinging doors to the kitchen creak open on old resistant hinges. K looks from the TV. Maura comes in, untying a stained white apron, sweeps the empty bar dramatically with her arm. “Besides, if it were any louder, it’d disturb all the other the customers.” The bartender grunts at the familiar irony.
K’s stomach leaps and falls. Seeing her pulls something up and out through his chest. She walks over to sit on the stool beside him. Gives K a coy, knowing smile. He tries to avoid eye contact, but she catches him.
K is stymied. He wants to escape, or fall through floor, or be sucked through the ruddy pressed tin ceiling. He looks at her through the mirror behind the bar, fidgets nervously with his glass. “You work here?”
Maura: “Teaching doesn’t pay for all my habits, you know.” She taps K’s empty pint glass smartly. “He’ll have another, Titus.”
K: “Uh. Yeah. One for her, too.”
Maura laughs: “Such the gentleman. I hear your life is a real shit storm. Brae told me what happened.”
K goddamns G.T. in his head, and then thanks him. “Well. Yeah. I am a real idiot.” He holds his apology out with his hands “I’m really sorry for everything. I mean, man, it all was a real mess. Some of which was my fault. Most of which not yours, by the way.”
Maura: “Hah. You’re something. I’d suggest we start over, but frankly I don’t think you’re smart enough to remember what you did right.”
K: “Likely. You want to start with what’s new, then?”
Titus comes with their beers. “Keep it down. I can’t hear.”
Maura: “Oh Titus. Can you even hear anymore?” and to K: “What’s new, huh?”
K fishes for a topic. “Well, um, like: how’s your grandmother?”
Maura leans forward, takes a drink. “She had a stroke at work. She was home from the hospital, but now she’s back in again. Everyone thinks she’s pretty screwed, but I’m holding out hope, you know?”
K: “I never asked her name. I think we got distracted last time we had a chance to talk.”
Maura motions dismissively, playfully at K with her glass. “Titus! This guy’s a real piece of work. Distracted!” K can tell she is more than a little hurt, despite her efforts to hide it.
Titus: “Christ, Maury. Keep it down.”
Maura: “He’s my great uncle, or something, Grandma Jenny’s brother. He let’s me help out around here when I need extra money. Unkie Titus is the bestest. Cheers.” She clinks K’s glass, drinks from hers, and puts down the class on a faded coaster.
K turns to her: “Jenny? This may seem like a weird question, but I work with a woman named Jenny who-”
Maura grabs him by his shoulders. Holds him in place. “This, this is exactly why I have so little hope for you. You can’t put two and two together. Lord, you don’t think Jenny told me all about you? Do you have any idea how much she loves coffee?”
K rubs the back of his head. “Well, um… heh.” He plots back in his mind the extent of Jenny’s conspiracy.
Maura: “She has high praise for you, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still pretty pissed at you.” Her eyes are bright and shine into his. Her hands are warm on his shoulders.
K looks at the floor, then at her holding him in the mirror. She has him fixed, and he feels himself unfasten. “That’s fair. I’m very ok with that.”
Maura lets go of his shoulders. “That’s the spirit. Now, drink up.” She taps his glass with hers.
For Real
For Real – Okkervil River (listen in new tab)
Sunday brunch at Cymbeline’s. The restaurant is packed. Claire sits alone in a booth by the window. People watch her from outside, jealous of the good seat she lucked into and holds alone.
Her head throbs slowly. She went out with some old girlfriends from school last night. The term to be applied to their night is ‘epic’. She’s surprised she could drag herself out of bed. She rubs her temples, resting her elbows on the syrup-sticky menu. Her head feels loose on her shoulders.
The clink and clamour of the customers mixes with the occasional yell from the kitchen. Somewhere under the din, music plays. It’s scrubbed by the bustle, so that only the loudest parts can be heard. The noise rattles in her brain. But, it doesn’t bother her. Friday she got immense news. Last night she was celebrating.
K arrives, weaving between overfull tables and past waitresses working with accustomed, cavalier grace. He looks rested. She can see some of his colour’s come back. Him and Shannon splitting up, it really gutted him. She had watched him walking through the city’s winter canyons hanging onto his entrails. But he is still here. Still an object in space.
But, Shannon. Clair has known her since high school. One night a few weeks ago, she had called Claire. It was late, her voice sounded like she was imploding, contracting to a single point in the centre of her stomach. Where she was now empty. The call had been a strained normal and ended abruptly. Maybe a battery died. And then that was it.
It made her sad. But, Claire doesn’t want to think about that.
K slides onto the bench opposite her. The vinyl squeaks a little as he settles in. “Breakfast was a great idea, Claire.”
Claire: “Totally. You hear from G.T.?”
K: “Yeah, he’s coming soon, I think. He’s got to pick up Brae or drop her off. I’m not sure. He wasn’t very clear.”
Claire: “Well, whatever.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. He knows she hopes Brae doesn’t come. It’s a malicious thought, her mouth bares a slight curl. “Thanks for taking my shift. I really wanted to go out last night. I had the get-ups-and-gos.”
K’s eyes light a little, like he figured out the riddle in her barely suppressed smile. “What’s the secret?”
She’s got a few, but Claire’s excited about only one of them: “You can’t tell anyone, like really, but my inheritance, you know, Grandpa Titus’s. It’s close to coming through. I mean it’s been like two years of legal BS. But, now it’s close.”
K: “Really, that’s amazing. Do you mind if I ask how much?”
Claire: “I’m not sure yet. It’s not going to be millions or nothing, but a fair bunch. I don’t really want to jinx it, you know? But it’s gonna be not nothing.” She holds her arm out as if measuring the fish she was about catch.
K: “Yeah. Well that’ll be quite the party.”
Claire: “Totally. Just totally.” She stops. A wheel turns in her head; it’s been turning for days. “You know Esther’s thinking about retiring, maybe selling the café.”
K: “Yeah, well she’s been running Ulysses for years, maybe decades. Last night she came in, was talking non-stop about villas and Egypt. Plus, her husband’s never really liked Toronto. I didn’t know she was thinking about selling, though.”
Claire smiles up at the waitress when she arrives. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee.”
K: “Smart”
The woman works with cool ambivalence. It’s the confidence of a brunch veteran. She unloads a pair of cups from one arm and pours out coffee. She throws down some creams and leaves.
Claire: “Huh. I guess we’re not ready to order.”
K shrugs. “Well, no. I always have the French toast anyways.”
Claire scans the people waiting outside. She sees G.T. trying to get in. Brae clutches onto his arm, trying to smile their way past the squad of frat guys at the head of the line.
Claire tries to get used to Brae, but something about her irks her. She’s dirt in the nails, as Grandpa Titus used to say. Not quite a problem, but irritating beyond ignoring. “Ugh. G.T.’s here, and he’s brought Miss Sunshine. I can’t stand her. She’s so damn perky. I mean god, she can’t be like that all the time.”
K: “You know, people might describe you as perky.”
Claire sends him a cutting glance: “Shut-up.”
K: “Just saying.”
Somehow, G.T. and Brae eventually make their way in and to the table. G.T. slides into the booth beside K. Brae lands cheerfully beside Claire. The women exchange acuminous hellos.
Brae: “Claire, you look good. I like your hair.”
Claire, her voice is piqued and poorly concealed: “What? I just woke up.”
Brae: “Well. It’s cute.” Her face is a smile with large doe eyes. What does G.T. even see there? It’s been months now. Usually he’s botched it by now.
Claire wants to say something, but stops her tongue, half-annoyed at herself for maybe liking the compliment. “Well, thanks.”
Things settle. They order. G.T. and K are talking about work. Brae wants to talk about the bars. She participates, but distractedly. Mid-meal, the table is filled with their dishes. The waitress comes to top-up their coffees. And then, the idea that had uncurled in her head explodes from the bottom of Claire’s brain, pushing a wave of force out to her face, erupting as an adumbrate smile.
Claire slams both palms down on the table. The cups jump. The pouring coffee misses it mark and flows hot onto Brae’s jeans, causing her jump up to get out of the way, bumping the table, spilling more.
Brae: “Hey! Jesus Claire.”
Claire ignores her.
Brae now in the aisle wipes at her legs frantically. G.T. and K stare at Claire.
“K! I just had the best idea!” She slams the table again.
The waitress stands with her arms crossed. Her foot taps. She does not have time for this. Her voice is irascible and heavy: “Is the idea to stop doing that?... Ugh. I’ll get a cloth.”
Sunday brunch at Cymbeline’s. The restaurant is packed. Claire sits alone in a booth by the window. People watch her from outside, jealous of the good seat she lucked into and holds alone.
Her head throbs slowly. She went out with some old girlfriends from school last night. The term to be applied to their night is ‘epic’. She’s surprised she could drag herself out of bed. She rubs her temples, resting her elbows on the syrup-sticky menu. Her head feels loose on her shoulders.
The clink and clamour of the customers mixes with the occasional yell from the kitchen. Somewhere under the din, music plays. It’s scrubbed by the bustle, so that only the loudest parts can be heard. The noise rattles in her brain. But, it doesn’t bother her. Friday she got immense news. Last night she was celebrating.
K arrives, weaving between overfull tables and past waitresses working with accustomed, cavalier grace. He looks rested. She can see some of his colour’s come back. Him and Shannon splitting up, it really gutted him. She had watched him walking through the city’s winter canyons hanging onto his entrails. But he is still here. Still an object in space.
But, Shannon. Clair has known her since high school. One night a few weeks ago, she had called Claire. It was late, her voice sounded like she was imploding, contracting to a single point in the centre of her stomach. Where she was now empty. The call had been a strained normal and ended abruptly. Maybe a battery died. And then that was it.
It made her sad. But, Claire doesn’t want to think about that.
K slides onto the bench opposite her. The vinyl squeaks a little as he settles in. “Breakfast was a great idea, Claire.”
Claire: “Totally. You hear from G.T.?”
K: “Yeah, he’s coming soon, I think. He’s got to pick up Brae or drop her off. I’m not sure. He wasn’t very clear.”
Claire: “Well, whatever.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. He knows she hopes Brae doesn’t come. It’s a malicious thought, her mouth bares a slight curl. “Thanks for taking my shift. I really wanted to go out last night. I had the get-ups-and-gos.”
K’s eyes light a little, like he figured out the riddle in her barely suppressed smile. “What’s the secret?”
She’s got a few, but Claire’s excited about only one of them: “You can’t tell anyone, like really, but my inheritance, you know, Grandpa Titus’s. It’s close to coming through. I mean it’s been like two years of legal BS. But, now it’s close.”
K: “Really, that’s amazing. Do you mind if I ask how much?”
Claire: “I’m not sure yet. It’s not going to be millions or nothing, but a fair bunch. I don’t really want to jinx it, you know? But it’s gonna be not nothing.” She holds her arm out as if measuring the fish she was about catch.
K: “Yeah. Well that’ll be quite the party.”
Claire: “Totally. Just totally.” She stops. A wheel turns in her head; it’s been turning for days. “You know Esther’s thinking about retiring, maybe selling the café.”
K: “Yeah, well she’s been running Ulysses for years, maybe decades. Last night she came in, was talking non-stop about villas and Egypt. Plus, her husband’s never really liked Toronto. I didn’t know she was thinking about selling, though.”
Claire smiles up at the waitress when she arrives. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee.”
K: “Smart”
The woman works with cool ambivalence. It’s the confidence of a brunch veteran. She unloads a pair of cups from one arm and pours out coffee. She throws down some creams and leaves.
Claire: “Huh. I guess we’re not ready to order.”
K shrugs. “Well, no. I always have the French toast anyways.”
Claire scans the people waiting outside. She sees G.T. trying to get in. Brae clutches onto his arm, trying to smile their way past the squad of frat guys at the head of the line.
Claire tries to get used to Brae, but something about her irks her. She’s dirt in the nails, as Grandpa Titus used to say. Not quite a problem, but irritating beyond ignoring. “Ugh. G.T.’s here, and he’s brought Miss Sunshine. I can’t stand her. She’s so damn perky. I mean god, she can’t be like that all the time.”
K: “You know, people might describe you as perky.”
Claire sends him a cutting glance: “Shut-up.”
K: “Just saying.”
Somehow, G.T. and Brae eventually make their way in and to the table. G.T. slides into the booth beside K. Brae lands cheerfully beside Claire. The women exchange acuminous hellos.
Brae: “Claire, you look good. I like your hair.”
Claire, her voice is piqued and poorly concealed: “What? I just woke up.”
Brae: “Well. It’s cute.” Her face is a smile with large doe eyes. What does G.T. even see there? It’s been months now. Usually he’s botched it by now.
Claire wants to say something, but stops her tongue, half-annoyed at herself for maybe liking the compliment. “Well, thanks.”
Things settle. They order. G.T. and K are talking about work. Brae wants to talk about the bars. She participates, but distractedly. Mid-meal, the table is filled with their dishes. The waitress comes to top-up their coffees. And then, the idea that had uncurled in her head explodes from the bottom of Claire’s brain, pushing a wave of force out to her face, erupting as an adumbrate smile.
Claire slams both palms down on the table. The cups jump. The pouring coffee misses it mark and flows hot onto Brae’s jeans, causing her jump up to get out of the way, bumping the table, spilling more.
Brae: “Hey! Jesus Claire.”
Claire ignores her.
Brae now in the aisle wipes at her legs frantically. G.T. and K stare at Claire.
“K! I just had the best idea!” She slams the table again.
The waitress stands with her arms crossed. Her foot taps. She does not have time for this. Her voice is irascible and heavy: “Is the idea to stop doing that?... Ugh. I’ll get a cloth.”
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route) [or Cherbourg]
Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route)[or Cherbourg] – Beirut (listen in new tab)
K felt like his life was a choppily spliced together strip of film. It moved past him, an abridged freefall of pictures. He could see where the frames were haphazardly overlaid. The flicker and vanish of the scenes removed.
Shannon went to her parents’. She came back once, but only to move out.
K drove her to the clinic for all her appointments. He was angry at her. Hurt. Confused. But, he didn’t mind driving her. Finally, they could be in the same place and know each other. It made him want to fall into himself that it was only now that it was like this. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.
The last time, he didn’t go in with her. He didn’t want to wait inside the clinic. Being watched by the nurses seemed too brutally exposing. He decided to wait in the car. They said it would take an hour or so. It was bitterly cold and blindingly sunny.
Despite the cold, two old men in worn old coats and fur caps carried pickets. K recognized one from the library. Shannon, hooded and resolute, had run past them. Their breath was thick and white as it escaped their mouths. They held their signs and sipped coffee from the travel cups in their free hands.
Eventually, the cold drove K into a Tim Horton’s across the street. He let his coffee cool, and then left it there when he saw her come out. He doesn’t remember her expression. Her face was scrubbed clean though it was rosy and pale from the cold.
He dropped her off. As she opened the door, she put her hand on the inside of his elbow. “Thank you. Sorry.” She walked slowly down the shoveled path. K knew she was crying.
Her parents and she came eventually to move her things out of the apartment. He was never sure what she told her parents, but they weren’t idiots. It was agreed to come while he was at work, but they were still there when he got home. Shannon sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the floor. Occasionally she offered her mom some instruction about what to pack.
Her dad tried to be cordial, asked weakly about K’s parents. “They’re fine.” “Good. Good.”
K watched the whole process blankly from a corner of the living room. Shannon sat still and her parents moved steadily, like sped up weather, eroding away the surface of the apartment. When they were done the rooms felt gaping. He saw that they’d left Shannon’s table. Her mother, never K’s fan, had put in the middle of the tabletop a young spider plant. It sat in a makeshift pot made of an old cup. K left it there. Something needed to be allowed to grow.
November and December are the busiest months of the year for Café Ulysses. It was for some reason that no one understood. There were no holiday decorations, except for the creepy Santa that Claire brought every year. He stared down at K from the top of the espresso machine.
There was lots of work, and between the café and the library he would slump onto his couch exhausted almost every night. He was happy to be able to feel tired, to know that the distance between then and tomorrow would be quickly closed.
Some days, G.T. tried to include K in life. Dragged him V.I.’s or the 5-Oh. K would get drunk, watch sullenly. The throb and press of people celebrating the holidays was a blank map. He scoured it. He thought a thousand times he saw Maura. But he didn’t. He stayed until close when he could. She never came to the café, either. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw her again.
Christmas at his parents was a debacle. His dad spoke clumsily around Shannon’s absence.
New Year’s Eve was predictable and gin soaked. Not necessarily unfun.
Days pass. He waters his plant. The routines sustain him.
K felt like his life was a choppily spliced together strip of film. It moved past him, an abridged freefall of pictures. He could see where the frames were haphazardly overlaid. The flicker and vanish of the scenes removed.
Shannon went to her parents’. She came back once, but only to move out.
K drove her to the clinic for all her appointments. He was angry at her. Hurt. Confused. But, he didn’t mind driving her. Finally, they could be in the same place and know each other. It made him want to fall into himself that it was only now that it was like this. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.
The last time, he didn’t go in with her. He didn’t want to wait inside the clinic. Being watched by the nurses seemed too brutally exposing. He decided to wait in the car. They said it would take an hour or so. It was bitterly cold and blindingly sunny.
Despite the cold, two old men in worn old coats and fur caps carried pickets. K recognized one from the library. Shannon, hooded and resolute, had run past them. Their breath was thick and white as it escaped their mouths. They held their signs and sipped coffee from the travel cups in their free hands.
Eventually, the cold drove K into a Tim Horton’s across the street. He let his coffee cool, and then left it there when he saw her come out. He doesn’t remember her expression. Her face was scrubbed clean though it was rosy and pale from the cold.
He dropped her off. As she opened the door, she put her hand on the inside of his elbow. “Thank you. Sorry.” She walked slowly down the shoveled path. K knew she was crying.
Her parents and she came eventually to move her things out of the apartment. He was never sure what she told her parents, but they weren’t idiots. It was agreed to come while he was at work, but they were still there when he got home. Shannon sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the floor. Occasionally she offered her mom some instruction about what to pack.
Her dad tried to be cordial, asked weakly about K’s parents. “They’re fine.” “Good. Good.”
K watched the whole process blankly from a corner of the living room. Shannon sat still and her parents moved steadily, like sped up weather, eroding away the surface of the apartment. When they were done the rooms felt gaping. He saw that they’d left Shannon’s table. Her mother, never K’s fan, had put in the middle of the tabletop a young spider plant. It sat in a makeshift pot made of an old cup. K left it there. Something needed to be allowed to grow.
November and December are the busiest months of the year for Café Ulysses. It was for some reason that no one understood. There were no holiday decorations, except for the creepy Santa that Claire brought every year. He stared down at K from the top of the espresso machine.
There was lots of work, and between the café and the library he would slump onto his couch exhausted almost every night. He was happy to be able to feel tired, to know that the distance between then and tomorrow would be quickly closed.
Some days, G.T. tried to include K in life. Dragged him V.I.’s or the 5-Oh. K would get drunk, watch sullenly. The throb and press of people celebrating the holidays was a blank map. He scoured it. He thought a thousand times he saw Maura. But he didn’t. He stayed until close when he could. She never came to the café, either. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw her again.
Christmas at his parents was a debacle. His dad spoke clumsily around Shannon’s absence.
New Year’s Eve was predictable and gin soaked. Not necessarily unfun.
Days pass. He waters his plant. The routines sustain him.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Bear
Bear – The Antlers (listen in new tab)
K walked into a record store. He needed to get out of the snow. He’d left his apartment suddenly. Stood up, slipped on his coat and boats. Grabbed his toque and his mitts, and out the door. It is now probably 9:30. The store was empty except for the two staff by the cash. They eyed him as he passed. He had his hood up. He didn’t want anyone to see his face.
The song playing over the speakers is apt. Folds too neatly into his life. It had become popular, somewhat. K wants to scream at it. Order it to silence. Shove the sound back into the speakers.
Half an hour ago. Maybe an hour. He had been sitting at the laminated wooden table Shannon had bought when she moved in with him. Hands folded, arms out in front of him.
Two days ago, he’d laid on the bed, listening to Shannon cry. That was the morning after the party. He had woken up on the floor of G.T.’s bathroom. He didn’t know how he got there. Stumbled home. Shannon didn’t speak to him. She cried, and when she stopped crying, she vomited. She was always sick now. K had decided he knew why, was mad at himself for not figuring it out right away.
That night, he slept on the couch. The next day. Silence grew in the rooms. It was solid. It pushed furniture aside, knocked cups off of the coffee table, made it harder to move around it without touching each other. They didn’t touch, not once since she pushed K at the party. So, K stayed as still as possible.
And then, the next night after, half an hour ago. Or an hour. K sat across from her. They never sat at that table together, not since they moved in, not once. It was something else she had brought that filled the space that he could have done without.
He watched her talk to him. Her lips formed the words carefully, like she’d practiced it for months in the mirror. Slowly enunciating each word, the syllables were sharp and clean. Wet from incubation. In the air, they floated limply on the currents of air.
She told him a story. About Paris. About one night. About too much wine. About how she’d been lonely before she left. About how Paris was a warm kiss, and kind words, and wine. And about a man. A man who talked to her the way K had, once. About one night, and a moment of confusion. She didn’t know if she didn’t want it to happen. But once he was done, she’d lain there. She wasn’t remorseful, not about that.
K listened. Trying to keep track of the words as they floated in the space in front of her mouth. It was hard. there was too much. He remembers his hands folded neatly in front of him and how he didn’t want to let go of them because he wanted so desperately to push her words back into her mouth, down her throat and into her stomach where they’d been safe.
K flipped through the used CDs. Looking for something. Anything. But his mind was still outside in the snow. Snow falls off his hood and shoulders, making snow piles on the CD jewel cases. K tries to wipe them away. But his hand leaves cold streaks and droplets. It couldn’t be done.
The second story Shannon told him wasn’t over. It was still growing in her. She figured out a month or so later that she was pregnant, and in a foreign country. And alone. She had come home because she was scared, lost with a life in her. And she knew she couldn’t get an abortion in France. Had no idea how to.
When she was done, she seemed reduced. She didn’t cry. Her face was obscured. From behind the flurry of all she said, it looked like it was collapsing.
K didn’t move. He shook. All of him was a deep tremor. A useless, sanctimonious part of him wanted to say he’d help her raise the baby. But, he knew as her words piled on the table, that they wouldn’t wipe away. That she’d already decided.
He had stood up. “I. I. Ok. I’m going to go.” He remembers her face.
“Mister. We’re gonna close. Man, it’s a mess outside.”
If the voice came from anywhere outside his head, K doesn’t hear it. He props himself up on the CD display. His back heaving. Tears fall out of his hood, mixing with the streaks of melted snow. And, he lets it out. He collapses onto the floor. His hood falls back when he lands. The clerk, a young woman, steps back.
“Sir?”
“I. I. Ok.” He tries to stop sobbing. Pulls himself up. Wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Sorry.”
“Sir?”
Back out into the blizzard.
K walked into a record store. He needed to get out of the snow. He’d left his apartment suddenly. Stood up, slipped on his coat and boats. Grabbed his toque and his mitts, and out the door. It is now probably 9:30. The store was empty except for the two staff by the cash. They eyed him as he passed. He had his hood up. He didn’t want anyone to see his face.
The song playing over the speakers is apt. Folds too neatly into his life. It had become popular, somewhat. K wants to scream at it. Order it to silence. Shove the sound back into the speakers.
Half an hour ago. Maybe an hour. He had been sitting at the laminated wooden table Shannon had bought when she moved in with him. Hands folded, arms out in front of him.
Two days ago, he’d laid on the bed, listening to Shannon cry. That was the morning after the party. He had woken up on the floor of G.T.’s bathroom. He didn’t know how he got there. Stumbled home. Shannon didn’t speak to him. She cried, and when she stopped crying, she vomited. She was always sick now. K had decided he knew why, was mad at himself for not figuring it out right away.
That night, he slept on the couch. The next day. Silence grew in the rooms. It was solid. It pushed furniture aside, knocked cups off of the coffee table, made it harder to move around it without touching each other. They didn’t touch, not once since she pushed K at the party. So, K stayed as still as possible.
And then, the next night after, half an hour ago. Or an hour. K sat across from her. They never sat at that table together, not since they moved in, not once. It was something else she had brought that filled the space that he could have done without.
He watched her talk to him. Her lips formed the words carefully, like she’d practiced it for months in the mirror. Slowly enunciating each word, the syllables were sharp and clean. Wet from incubation. In the air, they floated limply on the currents of air.
She told him a story. About Paris. About one night. About too much wine. About how she’d been lonely before she left. About how Paris was a warm kiss, and kind words, and wine. And about a man. A man who talked to her the way K had, once. About one night, and a moment of confusion. She didn’t know if she didn’t want it to happen. But once he was done, she’d lain there. She wasn’t remorseful, not about that.
K listened. Trying to keep track of the words as they floated in the space in front of her mouth. It was hard. there was too much. He remembers his hands folded neatly in front of him and how he didn’t want to let go of them because he wanted so desperately to push her words back into her mouth, down her throat and into her stomach where they’d been safe.
K flipped through the used CDs. Looking for something. Anything. But his mind was still outside in the snow. Snow falls off his hood and shoulders, making snow piles on the CD jewel cases. K tries to wipe them away. But his hand leaves cold streaks and droplets. It couldn’t be done.
The second story Shannon told him wasn’t over. It was still growing in her. She figured out a month or so later that she was pregnant, and in a foreign country. And alone. She had come home because she was scared, lost with a life in her. And she knew she couldn’t get an abortion in France. Had no idea how to.
When she was done, she seemed reduced. She didn’t cry. Her face was obscured. From behind the flurry of all she said, it looked like it was collapsing.
K didn’t move. He shook. All of him was a deep tremor. A useless, sanctimonious part of him wanted to say he’d help her raise the baby. But, he knew as her words piled on the table, that they wouldn’t wipe away. That she’d already decided.
He had stood up. “I. I. Ok. I’m going to go.” He remembers her face.
“Mister. We’re gonna close. Man, it’s a mess outside.”
If the voice came from anywhere outside his head, K doesn’t hear it. He props himself up on the CD display. His back heaving. Tears fall out of his hood, mixing with the streaks of melted snow. And, he lets it out. He collapses onto the floor. His hood falls back when he lands. The clerk, a young woman, steps back.
“Sir?”
“I. I. Ok.” He tries to stop sobbing. Pulls himself up. Wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Sorry.”
“Sir?”
Back out into the blizzard.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Where's Da G's
Where's Da G's (Ft. Bun B, Pimp C) – Dizzee Rascal (listen in new tab)
For a moment she is back in Paris. Her mind wanders down the streets. Fresh, clean, unmarred by what came next. And then she crashes through the cobbles stones. She’s back in Toronto, remember
Shannon thought coming home would help, that she could wrap herself up in the warm familiarity of what K and she had had. But lies thrive through mitosis, accumulate, and expand. She feels them in her stomach now, slowly growing so that one day they would push out through her skin.
The music drones. It punches her in chest, but she doesn’t hear it. She watches K. He’s staying close to Claire. She’s known him for years. She knows he knows that she’s hurting, and lost, and coming apart. He has been bending over backwards to help, trying to mend the distance she brought home with her.
K comes over. His breath smells like whiskey. He’s drunk. “You want to go?” He wants to leave so that he can put to bed one more episode and lie awake hoping he can think of something better tomorrow. His eyes plead with her.
She is tired. The party is thick around them. More people come and it closes in. She feels like she takes up more and more space. She likes to think they could all push hard enough to crush her. Forget about her.
Shannon: “No, I’m fine.”
K: “Want anything?”
Shannon: “No.”
K: “Listen. I’m sorry.” She barely hears him. It doesn’t matter. She’s jealous that he can say it and angry that he says it too much; that he says it for the both of them to the point where the words are pallid.
Claire comes. “Shannon, c’mon. I’m sure it was nothing. You know how K can be when he drinks. Guys are shameless. You see that girl that’s been all over G.T.”
Claire’s drunk, too. Shannon wants to be drunk like that. Drunker. It’s one more thing she lacks the courage to do. “I don’t care about that.”
Claire: “You’re too hard on him.”
Shannon won’t look at her, just the floor. “I know.” Her stomach churns. She’s been sick so much lately. “I need to go outside.”
They’re out on the back porch. She exhales the warm humid air of the party. The cold air shocks her lungs as she inhales. It settles her stomach.
A thin layer of snow covers the yard. The music, muffled by the walls, rattles through the windows. Laughing. Yelling. A thick chatter. All the noises fall numb in the cold November night air. What must have been a doghouse rests grey and fallen.
Inside, the party goes on. It’s 2:00 AM and it continues to gather steam. They watch the kitchen through the sliding door. They’re silent for a long time, leaning on the railing. Shannon would be silent forever, if she could.
People come out to smoke and go back in.
Shannon: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Claire: “I know.”
Shannon looks at her feet, makes piles of snow with the toes of her shoes, revealing the stained wood.
Claire: “I don’t know what it is. I think I know, but, you have to talk to him. He knows you’re lying. You owe him more than this.” She says it slowly. No rush, no crisis, no fear at all in her voice. Thank god for Claire.
Shannon wants to cry, to bury herself into Claire’s chest, to feel the warm, whiskey breath on the back of her neck. But she doesn’t. It won’t come out of her that way. It feels too big for her mouth.
G.T. and K appear in the kitchen. They check the rows of liquor bottles, looking for something to make a drink. They don’t see the two outside watching them.
A short blonde woman runs up to G.T., practically knocking him over. He catches himself. They kiss full on the mouth. K looks uncomfortable. Claire lets out a sound of disgust.
Shannon: “That her?”
Claire: “He could do better.”
Shannon: “I dunno. I mean, it’s G.T.”
Claire: “Ugh. She’s all over him.”
Another woman comes into. Shannon stands up straight.
Maura hugs K., leaning up on the tip of her toes to speak into his ear. She lowers herself down, but stays close. He’d shoved his hands into his pocket at first, and now one came out around her waist. Goddamn his awe-shucks charm.
Claire: “Shannon. Wait.”
Shannon is through the door before K sees her. His face melts in panic. Maura turns, her face painted with confusion. G.T. pulls Brae out of the way. Claire following on Shannon’s heels, gives him a dirty look.
Shannon pushes Maura off of K. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Maura, drunk and threatened, moves to retaliate. K stops her.
K: “Shannon. Listen.”
Shannon: “No. No!”
Maura struggling against K’s arm: “I don’t know who you think you are, you crazy–”
Claire, now holding Shannon back: “Whao.”
Shannon: “You shut up. You stay away from my fucking boyfriend.”
Maura stops struggling: “K?”
Brae: “What the fuck, Gregory?”
K stands in shock. He lets Shannon’s rage wash over him, he always does. It’s too much for her. Escaping Claire’s grip, Shannon shoves K hard into the counter. He almost falls over and grabs onto an onlooker to steady himself.
Shannon: “Why are you such a fucking idiot?” It is not a question for him, but she wants to push it through his chest.
Everyone in the kitchen is silent. Then K asks the only question left between them. The noise of it is deafening when it comes. It wants to shatter the light bulbs, to rain sparks and sharp shards of frosted glass into their eyes.
“Why are you even here?”
For a moment she is back in Paris. Her mind wanders down the streets. Fresh, clean, unmarred by what came next. And then she crashes through the cobbles stones. She’s back in Toronto, remember
Shannon thought coming home would help, that she could wrap herself up in the warm familiarity of what K and she had had. But lies thrive through mitosis, accumulate, and expand. She feels them in her stomach now, slowly growing so that one day they would push out through her skin.
The music drones. It punches her in chest, but she doesn’t hear it. She watches K. He’s staying close to Claire. She’s known him for years. She knows he knows that she’s hurting, and lost, and coming apart. He has been bending over backwards to help, trying to mend the distance she brought home with her.
K comes over. His breath smells like whiskey. He’s drunk. “You want to go?” He wants to leave so that he can put to bed one more episode and lie awake hoping he can think of something better tomorrow. His eyes plead with her.
She is tired. The party is thick around them. More people come and it closes in. She feels like she takes up more and more space. She likes to think they could all push hard enough to crush her. Forget about her.
Shannon: “No, I’m fine.”
K: “Want anything?”
Shannon: “No.”
K: “Listen. I’m sorry.” She barely hears him. It doesn’t matter. She’s jealous that he can say it and angry that he says it too much; that he says it for the both of them to the point where the words are pallid.
Claire comes. “Shannon, c’mon. I’m sure it was nothing. You know how K can be when he drinks. Guys are shameless. You see that girl that’s been all over G.T.”
Claire’s drunk, too. Shannon wants to be drunk like that. Drunker. It’s one more thing she lacks the courage to do. “I don’t care about that.”
Claire: “You’re too hard on him.”
Shannon won’t look at her, just the floor. “I know.” Her stomach churns. She’s been sick so much lately. “I need to go outside.”
They’re out on the back porch. She exhales the warm humid air of the party. The cold air shocks her lungs as she inhales. It settles her stomach.
A thin layer of snow covers the yard. The music, muffled by the walls, rattles through the windows. Laughing. Yelling. A thick chatter. All the noises fall numb in the cold November night air. What must have been a doghouse rests grey and fallen.
Inside, the party goes on. It’s 2:00 AM and it continues to gather steam. They watch the kitchen through the sliding door. They’re silent for a long time, leaning on the railing. Shannon would be silent forever, if she could.
People come out to smoke and go back in.
Shannon: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Claire: “I know.”
Shannon looks at her feet, makes piles of snow with the toes of her shoes, revealing the stained wood.
Claire: “I don’t know what it is. I think I know, but, you have to talk to him. He knows you’re lying. You owe him more than this.” She says it slowly. No rush, no crisis, no fear at all in her voice. Thank god for Claire.
Shannon wants to cry, to bury herself into Claire’s chest, to feel the warm, whiskey breath on the back of her neck. But she doesn’t. It won’t come out of her that way. It feels too big for her mouth.
G.T. and K appear in the kitchen. They check the rows of liquor bottles, looking for something to make a drink. They don’t see the two outside watching them.
A short blonde woman runs up to G.T., practically knocking him over. He catches himself. They kiss full on the mouth. K looks uncomfortable. Claire lets out a sound of disgust.
Shannon: “That her?”
Claire: “He could do better.”
Shannon: “I dunno. I mean, it’s G.T.”
Claire: “Ugh. She’s all over him.”
Another woman comes into. Shannon stands up straight.
Maura hugs K., leaning up on the tip of her toes to speak into his ear. She lowers herself down, but stays close. He’d shoved his hands into his pocket at first, and now one came out around her waist. Goddamn his awe-shucks charm.
Claire: “Shannon. Wait.”
Shannon is through the door before K sees her. His face melts in panic. Maura turns, her face painted with confusion. G.T. pulls Brae out of the way. Claire following on Shannon’s heels, gives him a dirty look.
Shannon pushes Maura off of K. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Maura, drunk and threatened, moves to retaliate. K stops her.
K: “Shannon. Listen.”
Shannon: “No. No!”
Maura struggling against K’s arm: “I don’t know who you think you are, you crazy–”
Claire, now holding Shannon back: “Whao.”
Shannon: “You shut up. You stay away from my fucking boyfriend.”
Maura stops struggling: “K?”
Brae: “What the fuck, Gregory?”
K stands in shock. He lets Shannon’s rage wash over him, he always does. It’s too much for her. Escaping Claire’s grip, Shannon shoves K hard into the counter. He almost falls over and grabs onto an onlooker to steady himself.
Shannon: “Why are you such a fucking idiot?” It is not a question for him, but she wants to push it through his chest.
Everyone in the kitchen is silent. Then K asks the only question left between them. The noise of it is deafening when it comes. It wants to shatter the light bulbs, to rain sparks and sharp shards of frosted glass into their eyes.
“Why are you even here?”
Party & Bullshit
Party & Bullshit (Biggie Smalls) – RATATAT (listen in new tab)
When G.T. announced that Brae had invited him to what might be “the best party ever”, K shuddered. He knew G.T. would be able to convince Claire and she somehow convinced Shannon.
Now he’s standing in a packed living room, or what could have been one if there were furniture. It is still early, and the hardwood floor already reverberates under the weight of people and the hip-hop’s bass boom.
His back is to the wall. He watches Shannon. She knows a lot of people here and has taken this occasion to talk to everyone, explaining over and over again why she’s back. A story that lacks detail, the footnotes blacked out and shoved to the bottom of the page where no one looks. It’s a lie repeated enough. She holds a bottle of coke loosely by her hip. Claire stands with her.
Nervousness has been keeping K company. He doesn’t notice how fast he’s drinking and doesn’t have much to say. Not his crowd. He feels alienated, more so as he gets drunker. Mostly, he just keeps an eye out. If Brae’s here, Maury’s going to be here.
He didn’t have the courage at the 5-Oh to tell her about Shannon. Instead, he pretended contrition, to have been wrongly distracted by work. That night he stayed too long; he touched her hips as he leaned his face next to hers to talk over the music. Their hands had become a knot. He watched her mouth form every word.
And then he left quickly on a poorly made excuse. She watched him go, hands on her hips. Those hips. Shannon was asleep in bed when he got home. His apartment felt empty. Dysphoria had settled on the place like dust no one cleaned.
G.T. appears from the press of people with two shots. He hands one off to K. “Good to see Shannon out and social.”
K: “Yeah. Brae here?” The question was kitty-corner to what he wanted to know.
G.T.: “Nah. Not yet. Man, this place is going to be busting at the seams soon. Cheers.”
K: “Cheers.” They down the shots. K coughs, caught off-guard by the whiskey. His stomach feels warm. It moves out from his centre, cascading up to his brain. His head gets heavy and starts to diffuse. “I need water.”
The kitchen is crowded, too. He runs the water cold before sliding a cheap plastic cup under the faucet. One hand on the edge of the counter, he drinks half the glass. Refilling the cup, he sees Brae out of the corner of his eye. His heart jumps. He tries to clear his head, but it’s buffeted with excitement and unfeasible schemes.
A soft hand on his back. He knows it’s Maury before he turns around.
Maury: “You gonna run off this time?” She’s drunk. She puts her hand on his chest as if to hold him in place.
K: “Probably. It’s a city of crime, and I’m the only one protecting it.”
Maury: “Would I have to kill someone to get you to stay?”
K sees Shannon walk past the kitchen door. He knows she saw him. K takes Maura’s hand off his chest. It is a fast, demonstrative action. “Probably.” Still holding her hand. “I need to go to the washroom. You’ll be around?”
Maury smiles at him. She steps forward a little, pushing him into the counter. Her eyes are focused and playful. “I don’t know. I should probably get to my secret lair and plot some sort of nefarious heist.”
K slides out from in front of her. “If that helps. I’ll find you later.”
He’s out of the kitchen quickly. He finds Shannon and Claire upstairs. He comes up behind them, putting his hand on the small of Shannon’s back. “Hey. What’s up, girls? I guess you know a lot of people here.”
Shannon looks back over her shoulder as she moves away. “So do you. Who were you talking to in the kitchen?”
K feels the back of his head with his palm. “Her? She comes to the café sometimes.”
Now facing him Shannon: “She’s cute.” Her eyes are electric, searching.
K: “Didn’t notice. She’s drunk though.”
Shannon: “Yeah, right.”
K: “Really.”
Claire moves her head back and forth between them. Their words buzz along the high tension wires between them.
Shannon: “Whatever. Drop it.”
K: “Shannon, really.” She says nothing. Shannon’s face is a well. His words echo down her.
There is a long pause. The air weighs on the three of them. Claire fumbles for a way out from under it: “Have you seen G.T.? Who’s that girl?”
K: “Oh, that’s Brae. I guess they’ve been dating.”
Claire, with a little malice: “I don’t like her. Did you see what she’s wearing?”
K looks at the floor. It’s still early.
When G.T. announced that Brae had invited him to what might be “the best party ever”, K shuddered. He knew G.T. would be able to convince Claire and she somehow convinced Shannon.
Now he’s standing in a packed living room, or what could have been one if there were furniture. It is still early, and the hardwood floor already reverberates under the weight of people and the hip-hop’s bass boom.
His back is to the wall. He watches Shannon. She knows a lot of people here and has taken this occasion to talk to everyone, explaining over and over again why she’s back. A story that lacks detail, the footnotes blacked out and shoved to the bottom of the page where no one looks. It’s a lie repeated enough. She holds a bottle of coke loosely by her hip. Claire stands with her.
Nervousness has been keeping K company. He doesn’t notice how fast he’s drinking and doesn’t have much to say. Not his crowd. He feels alienated, more so as he gets drunker. Mostly, he just keeps an eye out. If Brae’s here, Maury’s going to be here.
He didn’t have the courage at the 5-Oh to tell her about Shannon. Instead, he pretended contrition, to have been wrongly distracted by work. That night he stayed too long; he touched her hips as he leaned his face next to hers to talk over the music. Their hands had become a knot. He watched her mouth form every word.
And then he left quickly on a poorly made excuse. She watched him go, hands on her hips. Those hips. Shannon was asleep in bed when he got home. His apartment felt empty. Dysphoria had settled on the place like dust no one cleaned.
G.T. appears from the press of people with two shots. He hands one off to K. “Good to see Shannon out and social.”
K: “Yeah. Brae here?” The question was kitty-corner to what he wanted to know.
G.T.: “Nah. Not yet. Man, this place is going to be busting at the seams soon. Cheers.”
K: “Cheers.” They down the shots. K coughs, caught off-guard by the whiskey. His stomach feels warm. It moves out from his centre, cascading up to his brain. His head gets heavy and starts to diffuse. “I need water.”
The kitchen is crowded, too. He runs the water cold before sliding a cheap plastic cup under the faucet. One hand on the edge of the counter, he drinks half the glass. Refilling the cup, he sees Brae out of the corner of his eye. His heart jumps. He tries to clear his head, but it’s buffeted with excitement and unfeasible schemes.
A soft hand on his back. He knows it’s Maury before he turns around.
Maury: “You gonna run off this time?” She’s drunk. She puts her hand on his chest as if to hold him in place.
K: “Probably. It’s a city of crime, and I’m the only one protecting it.”
Maury: “Would I have to kill someone to get you to stay?”
K sees Shannon walk past the kitchen door. He knows she saw him. K takes Maura’s hand off his chest. It is a fast, demonstrative action. “Probably.” Still holding her hand. “I need to go to the washroom. You’ll be around?”
Maury smiles at him. She steps forward a little, pushing him into the counter. Her eyes are focused and playful. “I don’t know. I should probably get to my secret lair and plot some sort of nefarious heist.”
K slides out from in front of her. “If that helps. I’ll find you later.”
He’s out of the kitchen quickly. He finds Shannon and Claire upstairs. He comes up behind them, putting his hand on the small of Shannon’s back. “Hey. What’s up, girls? I guess you know a lot of people here.”
Shannon looks back over her shoulder as she moves away. “So do you. Who were you talking to in the kitchen?”
K feels the back of his head with his palm. “Her? She comes to the café sometimes.”
Now facing him Shannon: “She’s cute.” Her eyes are electric, searching.
K: “Didn’t notice. She’s drunk though.”
Shannon: “Yeah, right.”
K: “Really.”
Claire moves her head back and forth between them. Their words buzz along the high tension wires between them.
Shannon: “Whatever. Drop it.”
K: “Shannon, really.” She says nothing. Shannon’s face is a well. His words echo down her.
There is a long pause. The air weighs on the three of them. Claire fumbles for a way out from under it: “Have you seen G.T.? Who’s that girl?”
K: “Oh, that’s Brae. I guess they’ve been dating.”
Claire, with a little malice: “I don’t like her. Did you see what she’s wearing?”
K looks at the floor. It’s still early.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Saturdays
Saturdays – Cut Copy(listen in new tab)
Gregory Tours knows when K needs to get out and let off steam. He can see around his corners, over his horizons, or however you put it. K won’t ask for it, but G.T. always knows when to bring up this kind of night. Whatever he feels about Shannon being back, he knows whose side he’s on. He has never been against them as a couple. He has just always been for K as a person. And sometimes, he needs to be G.T.’s wingman and get a little (a lot) drunk somewhere.
G.T. takes K to an old favourite. Called, utterly pretentiously, OOOOO, everyone just calls it the 5-0. It’s a dark whole in the ground, a green and red-lit basement. But, it has three things going for it: a good DJ, cheap (decent?) drinks, girls. When it gets busy, it gets hot, the air thick with sweat, spilt beer, and later the spoilt smell of vomit. An atmosphere of tepid indiscretion. The music is loud. The beat buries itself in their chests.
G.T.’s not decked out, not showing effort, but he would describe himself as “having it going on.” K’s wearing his library clothes, which pass for nerd chic in this place. Cords and short sleeve collared shirts are fine. He’s not here to pick up anyways. No. His head bobbing slightly to the music, K has chosen tonight to bitch. It’s what he needs.
G. T. listens as best he can through the music. He’s looking over K’s shoulder, keeping his eye out. Normally he’d be hunting for a prospect, but tonight he’s waiting for someone specific. He casually checks the time on his cell phone.
G.T.: “Listen. Listen.” His tongue is loosening from the rums and cokes. It’s been two weeks since Shannon came back. From what he’s been able to gather from K and Claire, there were a few good days. “K. If she’s that unhappy she should talk to someone. Like someone who can really help her… Whoa.”
K looks to see. “Yeah. Well. Yeah. I’d say 7 at best. But look at the hair. It’ll drag her down to a 6 or a 5 by morning. All hair-do, man.”
G.T. “You wouldn’t need her by the morning.”
K: “You wouldn’t need her after 30 second, but you’d still have to pay to have the front of her dress cleaned, quick draw.” His speech is getting lazy, too. His vowels start to sound the same. His consonants round out. He looks like he’s on a good mixture; its starting to pulls him up.
G.T. smiles. He holds his drink to his face and then looks at K’s. “I think we’re due for another.”
The bar has a chain link fence around it. The bar staff hand drinks trough large holes cut in the woven metal wire, giving it the appearance of some of a distopic bank wicket. It’s crowded. They squeeze in to get the bartenders attention.
G.T.: “I can’t believe Shannon stopped drinking. She could really pack ‘em away.” He holds up his empty glass, rocking it back in forth.
K: “She said it was to save money. Anyways, she’s been sick all week, so I don’t think she’d come out anyways. Claire said she’d come later. After she closes.”
G.T., dismissively: “Whatever.” He checks his cell phone again. Should be around now. He waves a twenty at the sweaty man behind the fence. “Two rum and cokes, my good man.” He watches K. He knows from experience when he’s trying to look like he’s not looking. Tonight, it’s more than just checking out women as. From the way his head jerks at the movement, he’s either looking for someone or to avoid someone, maybe both.
It not long after they wade away from the bar, that G. T. finds who he’s looking for.
K doesn’t realize and continues his diatribe. : “G.T., I knows she’s been back only a short time, but I just have no idea how to handle this. She demands space, and then yells at me for ignoring her. And she sick, like most of the time. And she’s too embarrassed to be back to go out. Hey. Hey! Where are you going?”
G.T. looks back. “Be cool. Remember how it goes; help, don’t hinder.”
He walks up to a short curvy blonde. Her hair is cropped short in the back, long bangs frame her face. She hugs him excitedly. But she’s drunk and pushes him off balance. K puts out a hand to steady him. Her drunkenness manifests as unbridled, adorable excitement. “Gregs! 5-0! Wooo!”
K: “Gregs?”
G.T. “Shut up. K, this is Brae.”
Brae: “Hey. He’s cute. I bet my friend would like him. She’s at the bar.” She stumbles a little, falling into G.T. She wraps her arm around his waist to steady herself.
G.T. winks as K. “Yeah. No doubt.”
K: “Well. I don’t know.”
Brae: “No, she’s cool. Seriously. There she is. Hey! Maury! Over here!” She’s waving frantically.
K: “Oh Jesus.” He looks like he wants to sink into the floor. Maura is standing there with two beer bottles in one hand, and two shots in the other. She smoothly, miraculously dodges the elbows and flailing arms that strike from all sides. She looks good, casual, put together. She makes K feel all the frayed edges in his life.
Maury: “Hey Brae. This the guy you were waiting for?” She looks K over as she hands Brae her share of the drinks. Does the shot. K doesn’t look her in the eye. “Wassa matter K, don’t own a phone anymore?”
K looks up finally. He’s a little drunk, so maybe he looks at her breasts longer then he normally would. “Well.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, unable to keep his eyes from stumbling into hers.
G.T.: “Hey, you know each other? Don’t you go to Ulysses’s sometimes?”
K and Maury reply together, their eyes knotted. “Yeah.”
And then just Maury, her words bite facetiously and scathe: “But he’s a jerk that can’t use a phone.”
G.T.: “What?”
Gregory Tours knows when K needs to get out and let off steam. He can see around his corners, over his horizons, or however you put it. K won’t ask for it, but G.T. always knows when to bring up this kind of night. Whatever he feels about Shannon being back, he knows whose side he’s on. He has never been against them as a couple. He has just always been for K as a person. And sometimes, he needs to be G.T.’s wingman and get a little (a lot) drunk somewhere.
G.T. takes K to an old favourite. Called, utterly pretentiously, OOOOO, everyone just calls it the 5-0. It’s a dark whole in the ground, a green and red-lit basement. But, it has three things going for it: a good DJ, cheap (decent?) drinks, girls. When it gets busy, it gets hot, the air thick with sweat, spilt beer, and later the spoilt smell of vomit. An atmosphere of tepid indiscretion. The music is loud. The beat buries itself in their chests.
G.T.’s not decked out, not showing effort, but he would describe himself as “having it going on.” K’s wearing his library clothes, which pass for nerd chic in this place. Cords and short sleeve collared shirts are fine. He’s not here to pick up anyways. No. His head bobbing slightly to the music, K has chosen tonight to bitch. It’s what he needs.
G. T. listens as best he can through the music. He’s looking over K’s shoulder, keeping his eye out. Normally he’d be hunting for a prospect, but tonight he’s waiting for someone specific. He casually checks the time on his cell phone.
G.T.: “Listen. Listen.” His tongue is loosening from the rums and cokes. It’s been two weeks since Shannon came back. From what he’s been able to gather from K and Claire, there were a few good days. “K. If she’s that unhappy she should talk to someone. Like someone who can really help her… Whoa.”
K looks to see. “Yeah. Well. Yeah. I’d say 7 at best. But look at the hair. It’ll drag her down to a 6 or a 5 by morning. All hair-do, man.”
G.T. “You wouldn’t need her by the morning.”
K: “You wouldn’t need her after 30 second, but you’d still have to pay to have the front of her dress cleaned, quick draw.” His speech is getting lazy, too. His vowels start to sound the same. His consonants round out. He looks like he’s on a good mixture; its starting to pulls him up.
G.T. smiles. He holds his drink to his face and then looks at K’s. “I think we’re due for another.”
The bar has a chain link fence around it. The bar staff hand drinks trough large holes cut in the woven metal wire, giving it the appearance of some of a distopic bank wicket. It’s crowded. They squeeze in to get the bartenders attention.
G.T.: “I can’t believe Shannon stopped drinking. She could really pack ‘em away.” He holds up his empty glass, rocking it back in forth.
K: “She said it was to save money. Anyways, she’s been sick all week, so I don’t think she’d come out anyways. Claire said she’d come later. After she closes.”
G.T., dismissively: “Whatever.” He checks his cell phone again. Should be around now. He waves a twenty at the sweaty man behind the fence. “Two rum and cokes, my good man.” He watches K. He knows from experience when he’s trying to look like he’s not looking. Tonight, it’s more than just checking out women as. From the way his head jerks at the movement, he’s either looking for someone or to avoid someone, maybe both.
It not long after they wade away from the bar, that G. T. finds who he’s looking for.
K doesn’t realize and continues his diatribe. : “G.T., I knows she’s been back only a short time, but I just have no idea how to handle this. She demands space, and then yells at me for ignoring her. And she sick, like most of the time. And she’s too embarrassed to be back to go out. Hey. Hey! Where are you going?”
G.T. looks back. “Be cool. Remember how it goes; help, don’t hinder.”
He walks up to a short curvy blonde. Her hair is cropped short in the back, long bangs frame her face. She hugs him excitedly. But she’s drunk and pushes him off balance. K puts out a hand to steady him. Her drunkenness manifests as unbridled, adorable excitement. “Gregs! 5-0! Wooo!”
K: “Gregs?”
G.T. “Shut up. K, this is Brae.”
Brae: “Hey. He’s cute. I bet my friend would like him. She’s at the bar.” She stumbles a little, falling into G.T. She wraps her arm around his waist to steady herself.
G.T. winks as K. “Yeah. No doubt.”
K: “Well. I don’t know.”
Brae: “No, she’s cool. Seriously. There she is. Hey! Maury! Over here!” She’s waving frantically.
K: “Oh Jesus.” He looks like he wants to sink into the floor. Maura is standing there with two beer bottles in one hand, and two shots in the other. She smoothly, miraculously dodges the elbows and flailing arms that strike from all sides. She looks good, casual, put together. She makes K feel all the frayed edges in his life.
Maury: “Hey Brae. This the guy you were waiting for?” She looks K over as she hands Brae her share of the drinks. Does the shot. K doesn’t look her in the eye. “Wassa matter K, don’t own a phone anymore?”
K looks up finally. He’s a little drunk, so maybe he looks at her breasts longer then he normally would. “Well.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, unable to keep his eyes from stumbling into hers.
G.T.: “Hey, you know each other? Don’t you go to Ulysses’s sometimes?”
K and Maury reply together, their eyes knotted. “Yeah.”
And then just Maury, her words bite facetiously and scathe: “But he’s a jerk that can’t use a phone.”
G.T.: “What?”
Friday, October 23, 2009
Over The World
Over The World – French Kicks (listen in new tab)
It has been fours days since Jenny collapsed. The rumours at the library cut all ways. K has no idea what the truth is. That question appears to be running roughshod across his life. At least this evening he was driving to pick up an answer, finally.
Claire and K are in his Cavalier, bundled against the crisp early evening. In an act of futile optimism no one uses the phrase unseasonably cold, though it’s what everyone in the city is thinking. They are making good time. The traffic out to the airport alternates between easy and infuriating. It is hardly insurmountable. Halloween is tomorrow. They drive past decorated homes and stores, sometimes mocking their quality or applauding homespun ingenuity when they find it.
There are long pauses. It’s nervousness. Neither knows what to expect. Claire is more confused than he is. K is holding a lot close to his chest. Shannon has kept her out, too. Maybe more.
Claire, for the hundredth time: “I’m happy she’s gonna be here. I really missed her, but, you know, why now?”
K, for the hundredth time: “She was just too homesick.” It’s a lame excuse. He knows it was more than that. But, he does not know in the sense that he was told. He wasn’t. He tries to lays that aside by turning up the stereo. “I like this one.”
Claire: “It’s good.” She says it absently. K wonders where her mind is, what she knew.
K didn’t call Maura back when she called the day after Jenny collapsed. He didn’t when she called yesterday. He sat and watched his cell ring. Shannon was coming back. He wanted to focus on that and put the other thing behind him. He wants to help her and be there for her. Shannon sounded so desperate on the phone. Those calls had shoveled doubt like dirt on his memory of her, like dousing a fire. He despises himself for the lameness of the metaphor, and doesn’t tell anyone about it. He fronts buoyancy instead. It’s a hedge against his wish that the feeling was imperceptible. It is inscrutably large.
K: “Well, I don’t know. If this is what she needs, then I think we’ll round out ok.” Can something ring sincere and hollow at the same time?
Claire watches him. K feels how hard she is trying to read his mind. He knows how well she can do it. Under that pressure he tries to change the subject in advance. “I think G.T. has a date tonight.”
Claire: “Wow, where’d he find the money to pay for one.”
A car accident makes them late. When they arrive, she’s waiting at the baggage carousel, her head turning slightly back and forth, as she watches the suitcases past. It’s a succession of silent no’s. Shannon is wearing a new coat, one not quite warm enough for the weather. But, it’s flattering. K’s relieved, remembering that he’d recognize her wearing anything. They’d been together for four years. She was a map he knew all the inches of.
He shouts her name and runs up to her. She turns to him, standing hazily in jet-lagged disarray. Her eyes grow huge when she sees who was calling her among all the people waiting for their baggage.
And then they kiss. Their mouths collapse into each other's. She is warm, soft and moist. It is a kiss with familiar pressure and yet heavy with urgency. Their mouths open. She reaches in with an unfamiliar flick of her tongue. For a moment K’s mind is on fire. And the memory of a thousand long kisses pushes in. They envelope each other, squeezing their bodies back into the folds of their lives. He wants to be naked with her. He imagines his doubts falling away in layers, shed like translucent skins that pile at his feet.
Claire watches them. Her arms crossed. She doesn’t want to disturb them, but her mouth is about to run over. Shannon’s eyes seem too red. She hugs too firmly. She shouldn’t be here. It seems to her that it’s an alternate Shannon, from an alternate universe where every molecule is a nanometer farther apart. It’s as if she needs to be pushed back into shape, just a little. Or else, she is expanding slowly.
They ride back in silence, listening to one of K’s mix CDs. K puts his hand on Shannon’s thigh while she watches the city pass. They’d ridden in the car like that for a hundred drives. Claire sits in the back. Her eye is a sieve for detail. She is genuinely happy Shannon is back and starts to get used to the idea.
K and Shannon leave Claire outside the house she has lived in for years. She watches them drive away, in and out of the nighttime city’s light. There aren’t a lot of dark places, but still enough where the light doesn’t reach all the way. Walking up the steps of her porch, she smiles because the jack-o-lantern she carved survived another day. She holds the door for her cat. Sbeckett, fat and grey, enters lazily.
She imagines Shannon at K’s apartment, which was once the pair’s apartment, and is again. Shannon pulls him into bed. He falls on her and they sink deeply into one anther. In her mind, she always wants people to be happy. She also knows, her heart had been broken once or twice, that time always tells.
It has been fours days since Jenny collapsed. The rumours at the library cut all ways. K has no idea what the truth is. That question appears to be running roughshod across his life. At least this evening he was driving to pick up an answer, finally.
Claire and K are in his Cavalier, bundled against the crisp early evening. In an act of futile optimism no one uses the phrase unseasonably cold, though it’s what everyone in the city is thinking. They are making good time. The traffic out to the airport alternates between easy and infuriating. It is hardly insurmountable. Halloween is tomorrow. They drive past decorated homes and stores, sometimes mocking their quality or applauding homespun ingenuity when they find it.
There are long pauses. It’s nervousness. Neither knows what to expect. Claire is more confused than he is. K is holding a lot close to his chest. Shannon has kept her out, too. Maybe more.
Claire, for the hundredth time: “I’m happy she’s gonna be here. I really missed her, but, you know, why now?”
K, for the hundredth time: “She was just too homesick.” It’s a lame excuse. He knows it was more than that. But, he does not know in the sense that he was told. He wasn’t. He tries to lays that aside by turning up the stereo. “I like this one.”
Claire: “It’s good.” She says it absently. K wonders where her mind is, what she knew.
K didn’t call Maura back when she called the day after Jenny collapsed. He didn’t when she called yesterday. He sat and watched his cell ring. Shannon was coming back. He wanted to focus on that and put the other thing behind him. He wants to help her and be there for her. Shannon sounded so desperate on the phone. Those calls had shoveled doubt like dirt on his memory of her, like dousing a fire. He despises himself for the lameness of the metaphor, and doesn’t tell anyone about it. He fronts buoyancy instead. It’s a hedge against his wish that the feeling was imperceptible. It is inscrutably large.
K: “Well, I don’t know. If this is what she needs, then I think we’ll round out ok.” Can something ring sincere and hollow at the same time?
Claire watches him. K feels how hard she is trying to read his mind. He knows how well she can do it. Under that pressure he tries to change the subject in advance. “I think G.T. has a date tonight.”
Claire: “Wow, where’d he find the money to pay for one.”
A car accident makes them late. When they arrive, she’s waiting at the baggage carousel, her head turning slightly back and forth, as she watches the suitcases past. It’s a succession of silent no’s. Shannon is wearing a new coat, one not quite warm enough for the weather. But, it’s flattering. K’s relieved, remembering that he’d recognize her wearing anything. They’d been together for four years. She was a map he knew all the inches of.
He shouts her name and runs up to her. She turns to him, standing hazily in jet-lagged disarray. Her eyes grow huge when she sees who was calling her among all the people waiting for their baggage.
And then they kiss. Their mouths collapse into each other's. She is warm, soft and moist. It is a kiss with familiar pressure and yet heavy with urgency. Their mouths open. She reaches in with an unfamiliar flick of her tongue. For a moment K’s mind is on fire. And the memory of a thousand long kisses pushes in. They envelope each other, squeezing their bodies back into the folds of their lives. He wants to be naked with her. He imagines his doubts falling away in layers, shed like translucent skins that pile at his feet.
Claire watches them. Her arms crossed. She doesn’t want to disturb them, but her mouth is about to run over. Shannon’s eyes seem too red. She hugs too firmly. She shouldn’t be here. It seems to her that it’s an alternate Shannon, from an alternate universe where every molecule is a nanometer farther apart. It’s as if she needs to be pushed back into shape, just a little. Or else, she is expanding slowly.
They ride back in silence, listening to one of K’s mix CDs. K puts his hand on Shannon’s thigh while she watches the city pass. They’d ridden in the car like that for a hundred drives. Claire sits in the back. Her eye is a sieve for detail. She is genuinely happy Shannon is back and starts to get used to the idea.
K and Shannon leave Claire outside the house she has lived in for years. She watches them drive away, in and out of the nighttime city’s light. There aren’t a lot of dark places, but still enough where the light doesn’t reach all the way. Walking up the steps of her porch, she smiles because the jack-o-lantern she carved survived another day. She holds the door for her cat. Sbeckett, fat and grey, enters lazily.
She imagines Shannon at K’s apartment, which was once the pair’s apartment, and is again. Shannon pulls him into bed. He falls on her and they sink deeply into one anther. In her mind, she always wants people to be happy. She also knows, her heart had been broken once or twice, that time always tells.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
One Red Thread
One Red Thread – Blind Pilot (listen in new tab)
The snow turned to rain overnight. K didn’t sleep. Since Shannon called he’d been wreckage in white water. His mind a torrent he couldn’t calm. By morning he was placid and numb with fatigue.
He was late for work at the library. He forgot Jenny’s coffee. He didn’t have time to get one himself. She looked like she could have used it; she didn’t say anything, bless her soul. But, she did remind him bluntly that today was his six month performance review.
K leans on the wall outside Candice’s closed office door, waiting for his turn. He fidgets with the sleeve of his threadbare brown corduroy sports coat. He has had it forever and loves it, but wishes he’d worn something a little more professional.
Candice opens the door. She has a look for when she’s trying to be professionally cordial. It doesn’t work. K smiles, trying to look nonchalant. Her performance reviews were known for their venom and the lack of follow through. He knows what’s coming. He’d heard it all under her breath before. But, it was a lean year. Cut backs were on the wind. The union was close to a strike vote. It was not a good time to be marked by management.
Half an hour later, Candice shows him out of her office. It followed the pattern in the management manuals exactly. She started with vague, vacuous praise of what he does well. Then the endless and spurious critique. She finished, landing a weak bit of praise about his work with reference questions. K hardly listens. Candice’s words flow around him in eddies. He thinks about calling Maura again. That thought breaks-up against the list of reasons he compiled for why Shannon was coming back. All of them are there, except for the one he really wants. Where is it?
She closes her door behind him. He hears her chair creak and roll back behind her desk. She probably is relieved it is over, too.
He stands there a moment. A patron asks about some book. It’s an old man in a grey herring bone jacket and a faded wool cap. He rocks patiently on a cane waiting for K to reply.
K barely recognizes the question. “Uh, yeah. Let’s take a look on the shelf.”
They pass the reference desk. Jenny gives him a smile. “You survived, eh? You look like you could use a drink.” Despite the cheer, she looks pale. Her eyes maybe are glassy. But, K doesn’t notice. His whole world is pale this morning.
The old man eyes Jenny. “Who’s the dame?” He smiles are her. She doesn’t smile back.
K has gathered himself, pulling from his pocket his customer service self. “I don’t think she’s interested.”
Man: “Give’er time. You kids have no patience.”
K: “Likely. Anyway, it’ll be in the D’s. Fiction’s organized alphabetically by author, you know.”
The man taps K on the shin with his cane. “Boy, I know that. I just couldn’t find it.”
K: “Ok. Ok.”
They walk down between the shelves. K scans them. He doesn’t see it either.
The old man points with his cane to one of the catalog kiosks standing in the centre of the library. “That computer contraption. It said it was here.”
K: “Well, let’s take a look.”
They emerge from the row of shelves. K sees Jenny talking to a young mother holding a baby. K can tell from her exaggerated cheer that Jenny’s rolling her eyes in her head at the woman as she explains one thing or another. She is leaning a little on her desk. It’s not something she often does. But, K doesn’t notice.
At the stained brown, pressboard computer kiosk, K and the old man search the catalog. From there he can hear Jenny’s conversation. The mother wants a book that doesn’t exist, or only exists in her mind.
K points at the computer screen. “See here, sir? It’s in, but it’s in transit.”
Old Man: “Oh. What does that mean?”
K: “It means–”
In the back of his head, he hears the conversation at the reference desk stop.
K looks. Jenny is standing, gripping the counter.
And then she’s gone.
The mother squawks in alarm and startles her baby to crying.
The snow turned to rain overnight. K didn’t sleep. Since Shannon called he’d been wreckage in white water. His mind a torrent he couldn’t calm. By morning he was placid and numb with fatigue.
He was late for work at the library. He forgot Jenny’s coffee. He didn’t have time to get one himself. She looked like she could have used it; she didn’t say anything, bless her soul. But, she did remind him bluntly that today was his six month performance review.
K leans on the wall outside Candice’s closed office door, waiting for his turn. He fidgets with the sleeve of his threadbare brown corduroy sports coat. He has had it forever and loves it, but wishes he’d worn something a little more professional.
Candice opens the door. She has a look for when she’s trying to be professionally cordial. It doesn’t work. K smiles, trying to look nonchalant. Her performance reviews were known for their venom and the lack of follow through. He knows what’s coming. He’d heard it all under her breath before. But, it was a lean year. Cut backs were on the wind. The union was close to a strike vote. It was not a good time to be marked by management.
Half an hour later, Candice shows him out of her office. It followed the pattern in the management manuals exactly. She started with vague, vacuous praise of what he does well. Then the endless and spurious critique. She finished, landing a weak bit of praise about his work with reference questions. K hardly listens. Candice’s words flow around him in eddies. He thinks about calling Maura again. That thought breaks-up against the list of reasons he compiled for why Shannon was coming back. All of them are there, except for the one he really wants. Where is it?
She closes her door behind him. He hears her chair creak and roll back behind her desk. She probably is relieved it is over, too.
He stands there a moment. A patron asks about some book. It’s an old man in a grey herring bone jacket and a faded wool cap. He rocks patiently on a cane waiting for K to reply.
K barely recognizes the question. “Uh, yeah. Let’s take a look on the shelf.”
They pass the reference desk. Jenny gives him a smile. “You survived, eh? You look like you could use a drink.” Despite the cheer, she looks pale. Her eyes maybe are glassy. But, K doesn’t notice. His whole world is pale this morning.
The old man eyes Jenny. “Who’s the dame?” He smiles are her. She doesn’t smile back.
K has gathered himself, pulling from his pocket his customer service self. “I don’t think she’s interested.”
Man: “Give’er time. You kids have no patience.”
K: “Likely. Anyway, it’ll be in the D’s. Fiction’s organized alphabetically by author, you know.”
The man taps K on the shin with his cane. “Boy, I know that. I just couldn’t find it.”
K: “Ok. Ok.”
They walk down between the shelves. K scans them. He doesn’t see it either.
The old man points with his cane to one of the catalog kiosks standing in the centre of the library. “That computer contraption. It said it was here.”
K: “Well, let’s take a look.”
They emerge from the row of shelves. K sees Jenny talking to a young mother holding a baby. K can tell from her exaggerated cheer that Jenny’s rolling her eyes in her head at the woman as she explains one thing or another. She is leaning a little on her desk. It’s not something she often does. But, K doesn’t notice.
At the stained brown, pressboard computer kiosk, K and the old man search the catalog. From there he can hear Jenny’s conversation. The mother wants a book that doesn’t exist, or only exists in her mind.
K points at the computer screen. “See here, sir? It’s in, but it’s in transit.”
Old Man: “Oh. What does that mean?”
K: “It means–”
In the back of his head, he hears the conversation at the reference desk stop.
K looks. Jenny is standing, gripping the counter.
And then she’s gone.
The mother squawks in alarm and startles her baby to crying.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Greeting Card Aisle
Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer (Listen in new tab)
Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer
It turns out her name is Maura. Everyone calls her Maury. A few days later they met just as friends. Middle of the afternoon. A busy cafe. It was a safe plan. He told himself that. It was good enough for the second time, the day after that. This is the third date, though he doesn’t call them that. It's late, maybe 11:00 PM.
They've been walking in the cold evening, drifting down streets, carried on their conversation. All they've done is talk. Sometimes their arms touched, or she put her hand on his arm, near his elbow, when he said something funny, which was often.
He’s trying to stay in the lines. It's not easy. She’s disarming and absorbs his charm. K keeps a list of everything, cataloging it so he knows when he’s broken a rule. He hasn't mentioned Shannon. He doesn't forget about her, either. His mind is a scale.
Now they sit in Cymbeline's Diner (probably the best French toast in town not made by someone's mother). They're just having coffee. The only waitress on duty inattentively puts up Halloween decorations, standing on the empty booth benches as she tapes orange and black streamers to the top of the wall. There aren't many customers to serve.
The music is low and familiar.
K fidgets with his cup, turning it in his hands. She plays with her hair, making coils absently around her index finger. Their conversation has paused because they both stopped to listen to the song playing over the tinny diner speakers.
Maury: "She's incredibly sad in this song."
K: "Yeah. I guess it comes across. I was a big fan of her, way back." A small act of vetting.
Maury: "I still like her. Her early stuff is my favourite, too." A pass.
K: "Well, yeah. She has a gorgeous voice. Sometimes, when she sings it sounds like how kissing feels."
She looks at him. Her eyes grip him from behind her thick framed glasses. She pulls up her purse and fishes out a stick of lip gloss. He watches as she runs the waxen tip over her lips. "I can totally see that."
K: "You know when a girl puts on lip gloss, she’s thinking about-"
He's stopped by the waitress, who has appeared holding a half empty carafe of burnt coffee. "You need me to warm you up?"
K: "Huh?"
Maury: "She means your coffee. I'll have more."
K: "I'm good. Gotta work tomorrow morning."
Waitress: "Ok." She pours Maury a full cup. The dark coffee sloshes against the sides. A few drops miss as she barely, deftly stops pouring to swing the carafe over to K’s cup. She leaves behind small brown circles on the white, silver speckled aborite. She coldly drops a few creamers. Maury watches her walk away.
K runs his hands along the chrome band at the edge of the table. He creates an index for the lines and shadows of her profile, and he files a card for his subsequent thought. And makes one for the obdurate pang in the back of his brain. It's not the first time he has wished it was a different situation.
Maury: "I bet you chose this place for the service."
K, brightly: "You gotta have the French toast."
Maury: "No doubt."
K doesn’t notice when he casually puts his hand on the small of her back, as he holds the door open for her when they leave the diner.
It turns out they live close to each other – well, by Toronto's standards. It's snowing large, lazily floating flakes. They glow orange in the street lights. They walk closer now. He has stopped counting the little touches of their hands.
It's a roving conversation, not quite probing, but becoming more and more personal. Crossing lines.
She talks about her sick grandmother, and how the old woman tries to hide it.
K: "I was sad when my grandmother died. I was maybe 10. I didn't know her that well, but she was crazy, and I missed the old bat."
Maury: "My grandmother and I are very close. She’s amazing. I lived with her a few years ago. It was so much fun. But it’s hard now. She’s so stubborn." She stops walking. "This is it."
They are outside a low, brick apartment building. The large panes of the front entrance reveal yellowed light and the faded wallpaper of a stained stairwell.
K looks around and then at her.
Time slows, each second taking longer than they expected. The snow hovers in the air. They stand there facing each other.
"Well."
"Well."
A lone flake of snow lands on Maury’s cheek. Without thinking K smoothly, gently wipes it away before it melts. As he does this, Maury searches his eyes. He isn’t hiding now. K looks down at the ground, unable to bear it. She reaches up with her hand, placing it on the back of his elbow, pulling it towards her slightly. She leans in and up on her tiptoes.
Their faces are a breath apart.
K's phone rings in his pocket. It a ring he hasn't heard in days. K steps back, stammers something, anything. "It's not that I-" He pulls his cell phone out, looks. "I have to take this."
Maury’s face is covered with confusion and disappointment. It’s palpable. "K, if I was too forward..."
"It's not that." He presses the answer key, holding the small phone to the side of his face. "Hey. Hi. What time is it there? ... What? ... Really? ... Why? ... One sec." He covers the mouth piece with his palm. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
Maury: "We'll talk again soon, right?"
K: "Yeah. I'm sorry." He is. He watches her go inside and disappear up the stairs. He puts the phone back to his ear. "What do you mean you’re coming home? When?"
Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer
It turns out her name is Maura. Everyone calls her Maury. A few days later they met just as friends. Middle of the afternoon. A busy cafe. It was a safe plan. He told himself that. It was good enough for the second time, the day after that. This is the third date, though he doesn’t call them that. It's late, maybe 11:00 PM.
They've been walking in the cold evening, drifting down streets, carried on their conversation. All they've done is talk. Sometimes their arms touched, or she put her hand on his arm, near his elbow, when he said something funny, which was often.
He’s trying to stay in the lines. It's not easy. She’s disarming and absorbs his charm. K keeps a list of everything, cataloging it so he knows when he’s broken a rule. He hasn't mentioned Shannon. He doesn't forget about her, either. His mind is a scale.
Now they sit in Cymbeline's Diner (probably the best French toast in town not made by someone's mother). They're just having coffee. The only waitress on duty inattentively puts up Halloween decorations, standing on the empty booth benches as she tapes orange and black streamers to the top of the wall. There aren't many customers to serve.
The music is low and familiar.
K fidgets with his cup, turning it in his hands. She plays with her hair, making coils absently around her index finger. Their conversation has paused because they both stopped to listen to the song playing over the tinny diner speakers.
Maury: "She's incredibly sad in this song."
K: "Yeah. I guess it comes across. I was a big fan of her, way back." A small act of vetting.
Maury: "I still like her. Her early stuff is my favourite, too." A pass.
K: "Well, yeah. She has a gorgeous voice. Sometimes, when she sings it sounds like how kissing feels."
She looks at him. Her eyes grip him from behind her thick framed glasses. She pulls up her purse and fishes out a stick of lip gloss. He watches as she runs the waxen tip over her lips. "I can totally see that."
K: "You know when a girl puts on lip gloss, she’s thinking about-"
He's stopped by the waitress, who has appeared holding a half empty carafe of burnt coffee. "You need me to warm you up?"
K: "Huh?"
Maury: "She means your coffee. I'll have more."
K: "I'm good. Gotta work tomorrow morning."
Waitress: "Ok." She pours Maury a full cup. The dark coffee sloshes against the sides. A few drops miss as she barely, deftly stops pouring to swing the carafe over to K’s cup. She leaves behind small brown circles on the white, silver speckled aborite. She coldly drops a few creamers. Maury watches her walk away.
K runs his hands along the chrome band at the edge of the table. He creates an index for the lines and shadows of her profile, and he files a card for his subsequent thought. And makes one for the obdurate pang in the back of his brain. It's not the first time he has wished it was a different situation.
Maury: "I bet you chose this place for the service."
K, brightly: "You gotta have the French toast."
Maury: "No doubt."
K doesn’t notice when he casually puts his hand on the small of her back, as he holds the door open for her when they leave the diner.
It turns out they live close to each other – well, by Toronto's standards. It's snowing large, lazily floating flakes. They glow orange in the street lights. They walk closer now. He has stopped counting the little touches of their hands.
It's a roving conversation, not quite probing, but becoming more and more personal. Crossing lines.
She talks about her sick grandmother, and how the old woman tries to hide it.
K: "I was sad when my grandmother died. I was maybe 10. I didn't know her that well, but she was crazy, and I missed the old bat."
Maury: "My grandmother and I are very close. She’s amazing. I lived with her a few years ago. It was so much fun. But it’s hard now. She’s so stubborn." She stops walking. "This is it."
They are outside a low, brick apartment building. The large panes of the front entrance reveal yellowed light and the faded wallpaper of a stained stairwell.
K looks around and then at her.
Time slows, each second taking longer than they expected. The snow hovers in the air. They stand there facing each other.
"Well."
"Well."
A lone flake of snow lands on Maury’s cheek. Without thinking K smoothly, gently wipes it away before it melts. As he does this, Maury searches his eyes. He isn’t hiding now. K looks down at the ground, unable to bear it. She reaches up with her hand, placing it on the back of his elbow, pulling it towards her slightly. She leans in and up on her tiptoes.
Their faces are a breath apart.
K's phone rings in his pocket. It a ring he hasn't heard in days. K steps back, stammers something, anything. "It's not that I-" He pulls his cell phone out, looks. "I have to take this."
Maury’s face is covered with confusion and disappointment. It’s palpable. "K, if I was too forward..."
"It's not that." He presses the answer key, holding the small phone to the side of his face. "Hey. Hi. What time is it there? ... What? ... Really? ... Why? ... One sec." He covers the mouth piece with his palm. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
Maury: "We'll talk again soon, right?"
K: "Yeah. I'm sorry." He is. He watches her go inside and disappear up the stairs. He puts the phone back to his ear. "What do you mean you’re coming home? When?"
Howe Sounds
Howe Sounds - Said the Whale (listen in new tab)
It’s a slow Sunday at Café Ulysses. K’s been there all morning. Claire started her shift a short while ago.
Right now she hooks up her Ipod to the sound system. She searches, sliding her thumb slowly around the white circle, and eventually clicks play. “I love this song.”
K stands, leaning on the counter, staring absently out the window. “What?” He barely hears the music.
The café is empty, except for two teenagers who’ve been sitting for hours reading books too big for them. Probably Hegel or Hobbes. Sartre. Or Marx. Claire hums along to the song as she slowly wipes clean tables to kill time.
Claire: “You’re not here, buddy.”
K: “Guess not.”
Claire: “Shannon?” It’s a guaranteed conversation prompt these days.
K: “Yeah. You know she’s worrying me. She goes a week without skyping or emailing. Then when she does, she anxious and crying. And then everything’s ok. And now she’s back to crying. She’s been so closed. I, I don’t get it.”
Claire stops. Looks at him. Offers, “Yeah. It’s not really like her.”
Gregory Tours appears at the door. It rings its little chime as he swings it open. “Claire. A pleasure as always.” She rolls her eyes. He points at K. “And you! Get your mind off that girl. I need latte, all fat. Stat.”
K sighs and driven by habit sets to work. “Well, you know I’m screwed up by it all.”
G.T.: “Yeah. It’s not good, man.”
K: “Thanks. Just thanks.”
G.T.: “I think you appreciate my honesty.”
His back is to the door and he ignores the door chime and the soft scrape of the door on the tiled floor. Claire will get cash. Still humming, she takes the order. “No. We only have one size… Hotshot! To go, low-fat cappuccino.”
K slips a steel cup of new milk under the steam wand. He hands G.T. his latte in a white ceramic mug capped with foam. “You are salt in my eyes,” he says as he taps the fine, ebony espresso grounds into the portafiler. He fits it into place and sets the machine to work.
G.T.:“Kiss me.”
K gives him the finger as the milk roars. With casual skill he puts the one-size paper cup under the espresso nozzle just as it starts to drip. Then a cloud of foamed milk, faintly stained caramel as it fills the cup.
Claire comes over. “Don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out.”
K hands off the drink to her. He cleans the steam wand with a rag, and wipes the grate beneath the espresso nozzles.
He turns to Claire. “I want to believe that. It’s just starting to eat at me.”
G.T. shrugs: “Starting? Really? Just now? Relax. Not much you can do from here.” After a moment a few moments he taps K on the shoulder. “Hey, do you see that girl?”
K looks, finally. A the dark haired woman standing by the free local newspaper rack, looking for something recent. She puts the to-go cup to her mouth. He can only see her from the back. His eyes ride down her vaguely familiar curve. His mouth drops open a little. His mind floods. It’s a simple and expansive, enveloping moment of recognition. He barely recognizes what it is. He breaths out a quick, quiet “Huh.”
Claire is singing, dancing by the register. “Let’s go back to the coast baby westward to the ocean.”
Then, K says from across the café, “They’re all old. They don’t drop new ones off all the time.”
She turns. Her glasses shimmer in the light. Eyes meet. She smiles. It’s a vaguely knowing smile.
Now, no one else is there. They’re standing in a suddenly abandoned city. Silent, except for Claire’s looping chorus.
Her: “Yeah? Free almost always has lazy at its core. Do I know you from somewhere?”
K: “Yeah. You tried to pick a fight with me at V.I.’s once.”
Her: “Really?”
K: “Well. Looking at you, you do seem the type.”
Her: “Totally. I’d win too.”
K: “That remains to be seen.”
Her: “I think it’s worth seeing.”
It’s a slow Sunday at Café Ulysses. K’s been there all morning. Claire started her shift a short while ago.
Right now she hooks up her Ipod to the sound system. She searches, sliding her thumb slowly around the white circle, and eventually clicks play. “I love this song.”
K stands, leaning on the counter, staring absently out the window. “What?” He barely hears the music.
The café is empty, except for two teenagers who’ve been sitting for hours reading books too big for them. Probably Hegel or Hobbes. Sartre. Or Marx. Claire hums along to the song as she slowly wipes clean tables to kill time.
Claire: “You’re not here, buddy.”
K: “Guess not.”
Claire: “Shannon?” It’s a guaranteed conversation prompt these days.
K: “Yeah. You know she’s worrying me. She goes a week without skyping or emailing. Then when she does, she anxious and crying. And then everything’s ok. And now she’s back to crying. She’s been so closed. I, I don’t get it.”
Claire stops. Looks at him. Offers, “Yeah. It’s not really like her.”
Gregory Tours appears at the door. It rings its little chime as he swings it open. “Claire. A pleasure as always.” She rolls her eyes. He points at K. “And you! Get your mind off that girl. I need latte, all fat. Stat.”
K sighs and driven by habit sets to work. “Well, you know I’m screwed up by it all.”
G.T.: “Yeah. It’s not good, man.”
K: “Thanks. Just thanks.”
G.T.: “I think you appreciate my honesty.”
His back is to the door and he ignores the door chime and the soft scrape of the door on the tiled floor. Claire will get cash. Still humming, she takes the order. “No. We only have one size… Hotshot! To go, low-fat cappuccino.”
K slips a steel cup of new milk under the steam wand. He hands G.T. his latte in a white ceramic mug capped with foam. “You are salt in my eyes,” he says as he taps the fine, ebony espresso grounds into the portafiler. He fits it into place and sets the machine to work.
G.T.:“Kiss me.”
K gives him the finger as the milk roars. With casual skill he puts the one-size paper cup under the espresso nozzle just as it starts to drip. Then a cloud of foamed milk, faintly stained caramel as it fills the cup.
Claire comes over. “Don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out.”
K hands off the drink to her. He cleans the steam wand with a rag, and wipes the grate beneath the espresso nozzles.
He turns to Claire. “I want to believe that. It’s just starting to eat at me.”
G.T. shrugs: “Starting? Really? Just now? Relax. Not much you can do from here.” After a moment a few moments he taps K on the shoulder. “Hey, do you see that girl?”
K looks, finally. A the dark haired woman standing by the free local newspaper rack, looking for something recent. She puts the to-go cup to her mouth. He can only see her from the back. His eyes ride down her vaguely familiar curve. His mouth drops open a little. His mind floods. It’s a simple and expansive, enveloping moment of recognition. He barely recognizes what it is. He breaths out a quick, quiet “Huh.”
Claire is singing, dancing by the register. “Let’s go back to the coast baby westward to the ocean.”
Then, K says from across the café, “They’re all old. They don’t drop new ones off all the time.”
She turns. Her glasses shimmer in the light. Eyes meet. She smiles. It’s a vaguely knowing smile.
Now, no one else is there. They’re standing in a suddenly abandoned city. Silent, except for Claire’s looping chorus.
Her: “Yeah? Free almost always has lazy at its core. Do I know you from somewhere?”
K: “Yeah. You tried to pick a fight with me at V.I.’s once.”
Her: “Really?”
K: “Well. Looking at you, you do seem the type.”
Her: “Totally. I’d win too.”
K: “That remains to be seen.”
Her: “I think it’s worth seeing.”
Monday, October 19, 2009
Work Day
Work Day – It Hugs Back (listen in new tab)
It’s mid October. 7:30 AM. The wind is not too sharp, and the low sun is bright in the east, pushing up and over the buildings. The trees are almost naked. The light feels clean and solid, like he could hold it. K tries to walk on the side of the street with the least shadows.
That’s the kind of the morning it is; one of the last before winter makes getting to work a darker ordeal. A morning polished with optimism, even if you know it’s just another waged day.
Once or twice a week, K gets to be one of the librarians who open up the neighbourhood branch. Most of the time, it’s too early. Today, he doesn’t mind.
It’s almost muscle memory: security unlocking doors for him; lights coming on with the stutter and flick of the florescent tubes; the ritual of turning on each of the public computer towers, and doing the same circuit in reverse for the monitors; then the staffs’ computers at the reference desk; looking for a “To Do” list and finding none.
When he works mornings, K always brings two large coffees from Ulysses’s. He’s learned through experience that it makes his day easier for this reason: after a few minutes, Jenny O’Baird arrives. She’s probably the oldest librarian in the world – probably the dirtiest minded, as well. Grey, a little fat, and bubbling, K is confident that she’d been a looker in her day. Jenny always takes the morning shifts. She’d been there so long she could dictate terms. He knows that she can be a force, so he brings her a tithe.
Jenny “Darling. My coffee. You always remember!”
K: “How could I forget?”
She comes over to him, touches his arm.
Jenny: “I’d die without it, dear. You know, the other librarians don’t always bring me one.” She winks at him.
K: “Do my best, you know?”
She sips her coffee and sighs. She looks him over and pokes him in the side.
Jenny: “You seem chipper this morning. Maybe even spry.”
K: “Spry? I dunno. Maybe? I did talk to Shannon yesterday. It'd been a while. She’s been busy.”
She chuckles to her self. “Talk? In my day a phone was for more than conversation.”
K: “Well, umm…”
Jenny: “No need to say more. I can see it in your eyes. Sweetheart, if I had to go a year without my lover, I’d crawl out of my skin without a little fun.”
K, clearly awkward, scratches at his sleeve. “Well. I mean… we do talk about more intimate things.” He’s unsure if there was a lie in there.
Jenny smiles at him, accusing him of the dirtier things that percolate in her brain. “No need to say more. Still, I like to have my lovers in the here and now. There’s nothing like a warm touch in the dark hours of the night. Winter is coming after all…” The thought causes her to drift off.
K looks for a way to escape. “Umm… OK. I’m going to check the displays.”
Snapping back from wherever she’d been, “I have a nice grand-daughter your age.”
K: “Those displays really need work.” K tries to move around from behind the reference desk.
Jenny blocks his way. Waving her coffee cup disparagingly, she says, “Pish posh those displays.”
K: “Thoroughness is a virtue.”
She looks him in the eye as he shimmies past her. She smiles broadly. “This is something I’ve always believed for many things.”
K looks at the ceiling and then at her. He sighs.
Walking over to the book display, the one by the main entrance, he is passed by the branch manager. K can’t remember if she’d ever looked any way other than frizzled and exasperated.
“Hi. Early morning, eh?” K says warmly.
Her eyes are steely. “Glad to see you’re on time today,” she mumbles as she passes by.
She ignores Jenny’s “Hello, Candice!” and walks off to where her office is at the back of the branch. Jenny makes an exaggerated face of mock concern at the snub.
K watches Candice go. He lets out a quizzical “Huh”, as if to say, interesting, but only if he cared. But right now, he doesn’t care. It’s not that kind of morning.
It’s mid October. 7:30 AM. The wind is not too sharp, and the low sun is bright in the east, pushing up and over the buildings. The trees are almost naked. The light feels clean and solid, like he could hold it. K tries to walk on the side of the street with the least shadows.
That’s the kind of the morning it is; one of the last before winter makes getting to work a darker ordeal. A morning polished with optimism, even if you know it’s just another waged day.
Once or twice a week, K gets to be one of the librarians who open up the neighbourhood branch. Most of the time, it’s too early. Today, he doesn’t mind.
It’s almost muscle memory: security unlocking doors for him; lights coming on with the stutter and flick of the florescent tubes; the ritual of turning on each of the public computer towers, and doing the same circuit in reverse for the monitors; then the staffs’ computers at the reference desk; looking for a “To Do” list and finding none.
When he works mornings, K always brings two large coffees from Ulysses’s. He’s learned through experience that it makes his day easier for this reason: after a few minutes, Jenny O’Baird arrives. She’s probably the oldest librarian in the world – probably the dirtiest minded, as well. Grey, a little fat, and bubbling, K is confident that she’d been a looker in her day. Jenny always takes the morning shifts. She’d been there so long she could dictate terms. He knows that she can be a force, so he brings her a tithe.
Jenny “Darling. My coffee. You always remember!”
K: “How could I forget?”
She comes over to him, touches his arm.
Jenny: “I’d die without it, dear. You know, the other librarians don’t always bring me one.” She winks at him.
K: “Do my best, you know?”
She sips her coffee and sighs. She looks him over and pokes him in the side.
Jenny: “You seem chipper this morning. Maybe even spry.”
K: “Spry? I dunno. Maybe? I did talk to Shannon yesterday. It'd been a while. She’s been busy.”
She chuckles to her self. “Talk? In my day a phone was for more than conversation.”
K: “Well, umm…”
Jenny: “No need to say more. I can see it in your eyes. Sweetheart, if I had to go a year without my lover, I’d crawl out of my skin without a little fun.”
K, clearly awkward, scratches at his sleeve. “Well. I mean… we do talk about more intimate things.” He’s unsure if there was a lie in there.
Jenny smiles at him, accusing him of the dirtier things that percolate in her brain. “No need to say more. Still, I like to have my lovers in the here and now. There’s nothing like a warm touch in the dark hours of the night. Winter is coming after all…” The thought causes her to drift off.
K looks for a way to escape. “Umm… OK. I’m going to check the displays.”
Snapping back from wherever she’d been, “I have a nice grand-daughter your age.”
K: “Those displays really need work.” K tries to move around from behind the reference desk.
Jenny blocks his way. Waving her coffee cup disparagingly, she says, “Pish posh those displays.”
K: “Thoroughness is a virtue.”
She looks him in the eye as he shimmies past her. She smiles broadly. “This is something I’ve always believed for many things.”
K looks at the ceiling and then at her. He sighs.
Walking over to the book display, the one by the main entrance, he is passed by the branch manager. K can’t remember if she’d ever looked any way other than frizzled and exasperated.
“Hi. Early morning, eh?” K says warmly.
Her eyes are steely. “Glad to see you’re on time today,” she mumbles as she passes by.
She ignores Jenny’s “Hello, Candice!” and walks off to where her office is at the back of the branch. Jenny makes an exaggerated face of mock concern at the snub.
K watches Candice go. He lets out a quizzical “Huh”, as if to say, interesting, but only if he cared. But right now, he doesn’t care. It’s not that kind of morning.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
New York
New York – Cat Power(listen in new tab)
The sound system of the bar was cranked up. The steadily dragged thump of the bass pounded into K’s skull. He presses up against the bar, leaning over the wet polished wood surface. He's trying to get the bartender's attention. She is busy. V.I.LENIN’s is crowded for late on a Wednesday. There is a cluster of women on his left talking over the music, or trying to. One keeps bumping her elbow into his side and apologising. K is congenial, but otherwise ignores them. He knows how that goes; better to leave it be.
K's longtime friend saddles up beside him, wedging himself in on K's right. Gregory Tours is trying to give every women there just a little attention. Statistically, that night he's been often ignored.
"Listen G.T., it's too busy here."
G.T.:"Leave? I know, but you said Claire was coming."
Another nudge from the errant elbow.
K: "Don't look so hopeful."
G.T.: "C'mon."
K: "Never gonna happen."
The bartender comes, finally. Her eyes look frustrated as too many try to order. K leans far over,. Stepping up on the tarnished brass rail at his feet, holding up two fingers, he says "Fifty". She nods and he lowers himself down again.
The elbow returns with more force.
In annoyance, K turns to her. "Oh C'mon."
And he pauses.
She gave him pause.
Can dark hair glow? Must be the light. He couldn't see her eyes through the glare of her glasses.
"Sorry," they both say. The words drop from their mouths and pile together on the floor.
Her: "You're in my way." A wry smile
K shrugs. "Hey, it's crowded."
The beers come. K leaves a ten on the bar.
"Let's go find Claire, G.T." He doesn't turn his head away. Her friend taps her on her shoulder. She leans over to listen, but doesn't look away.
G.T. comes around him to hear him. "What? Shots."
K looks at his feet and rubs the back of his head with the cold bottle of beer, feels the condensation drip onto his neck.
"Claire. Find," he says.
G.T.: "Oh. Totally."
The sound system of the bar was cranked up. The steadily dragged thump of the bass pounded into K’s skull. He presses up against the bar, leaning over the wet polished wood surface. He's trying to get the bartender's attention. She is busy. V.I.LENIN’s is crowded for late on a Wednesday. There is a cluster of women on his left talking over the music, or trying to. One keeps bumping her elbow into his side and apologising. K is congenial, but otherwise ignores them. He knows how that goes; better to leave it be.
K's longtime friend saddles up beside him, wedging himself in on K's right. Gregory Tours is trying to give every women there just a little attention. Statistically, that night he's been often ignored.
"Listen G.T., it's too busy here."
G.T.:"Leave? I know, but you said Claire was coming."
Another nudge from the errant elbow.
K: "Don't look so hopeful."
G.T.: "C'mon."
K: "Never gonna happen."
The bartender comes, finally. Her eyes look frustrated as too many try to order. K leans far over,. Stepping up on the tarnished brass rail at his feet, holding up two fingers, he says "Fifty". She nods and he lowers himself down again.
The elbow returns with more force.
In annoyance, K turns to her. "Oh C'mon."
And he pauses.
She gave him pause.
Can dark hair glow? Must be the light. He couldn't see her eyes through the glare of her glasses.
"Sorry," they both say. The words drop from their mouths and pile together on the floor.
Her: "You're in my way." A wry smile
K shrugs. "Hey, it's crowded."
The beers come. K leaves a ten on the bar.
"Let's go find Claire, G.T." He doesn't turn his head away. Her friend taps her on her shoulder. She leans over to listen, but doesn't look away.
G.T. comes around him to hear him. "What? Shots."
K looks at his feet and rubs the back of his head with the cold bottle of beer, feels the condensation drip onto his neck.
"Claire. Find," he says.
G.T.: "Oh. Totally."
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Two Weeks
Two Weeks – Grizzly Bear (listen in a new tab)
Some days are longer than others. K works two jobs: Part-time as a public librarian and the rest of the time, practically most of his “free” time, he slings espresso at Café Ulysses. It’s not a bad gig. But he’s tired today. He’s late, too. His friend behind the counter, the slender and indefatigable Claire, throws him an apron. In a blind methodical way he ties it on and washes his hands. He takes his post behind the espresso machine. The smell of fresh ground beans usually woke him up, but today it teases his nose with limp promise.
Claire: “You’re late.”
K: “Almost always. Busy?”
Claire: “Almost never.”
She’s right. The place is almost empty. But soon, people walk in and ask for cappuccinos. Everybody who comes in orders like they’re in Starbucks. Grande. Tall. Café Ulysses has one size, which is always a site of confusion for newcomers; the lack of choice is occasionally beleaguering.
Claire: “Anyways, they never come until our star hitter gets here.” She slaps K on the back causing him to spill steamed milk over himself.
K: “That was perfect foam.”
Claire: “I got a post card from Shannon. Looks like she’s having fun.”
K gives her a tired look and resumes staring dully out the window as he pulls the shots of espresso. The new milk roars into foam.
K: “Yeah. I guess she must be. I haven’t talked to her this week. We’re both busy you know? She’s got her classes and is trying to get as much out of Paris as possible. I can’t blame her.”
Claire to K: “Totally. Gotcha.”; to a new customer: “Well no. We only have one size.”; to K, again: “Low fat latte. Soy Chai, no foam.”
K: “Right. You know Shannon, she gets absorbed by the world around her. It’s been a month or so, she’s settling in.”
Claire: “She won’t forget about you. She’s probably busy. I’ve known her for like forever. She’d tell me, you know.”
K: “Sir, your low fat latte. The soy latte will be just a moment.”; to Claire: “Try to make me worry less. Ok?”
Claire: “I’m sure she’s passed out in the disheveled bed of some graying poet, spent from wine and love making. She’ll touch base soon. No doubt.”
K: “No doubt. Soy latte. Why even order a drink if you’re going to walk away? Soy latte!”
Claire: “Cheer up. Wanna come out later? We’re all going out somewhere, anywhere.”
K: “Try and sell it a little, ok? Soy latte!”
The old hand of a caped, gray haired woman grabs the white ceramic cup. She takes a sip. “This is cold. Can you make me a new one? And I said no foam.” Foamless coffee drinks are a fantasy. A myth. He dumps the cup in the sink and starts the drink over. The length of a day is proportional to the number of moments such as these.
Some days are longer than others. K works two jobs: Part-time as a public librarian and the rest of the time, practically most of his “free” time, he slings espresso at Café Ulysses. It’s not a bad gig. But he’s tired today. He’s late, too. His friend behind the counter, the slender and indefatigable Claire, throws him an apron. In a blind methodical way he ties it on and washes his hands. He takes his post behind the espresso machine. The smell of fresh ground beans usually woke him up, but today it teases his nose with limp promise.
Claire: “You’re late.”
K: “Almost always. Busy?”
Claire: “Almost never.”
She’s right. The place is almost empty. But soon, people walk in and ask for cappuccinos. Everybody who comes in orders like they’re in Starbucks. Grande. Tall. Café Ulysses has one size, which is always a site of confusion for newcomers; the lack of choice is occasionally beleaguering.
Claire: “Anyways, they never come until our star hitter gets here.” She slaps K on the back causing him to spill steamed milk over himself.
K: “That was perfect foam.”
Claire: “I got a post card from Shannon. Looks like she’s having fun.”
K gives her a tired look and resumes staring dully out the window as he pulls the shots of espresso. The new milk roars into foam.
K: “Yeah. I guess she must be. I haven’t talked to her this week. We’re both busy you know? She’s got her classes and is trying to get as much out of Paris as possible. I can’t blame her.”
Claire to K: “Totally. Gotcha.”; to a new customer: “Well no. We only have one size.”; to K, again: “Low fat latte. Soy Chai, no foam.”
K: “Right. You know Shannon, she gets absorbed by the world around her. It’s been a month or so, she’s settling in.”
Claire: “She won’t forget about you. She’s probably busy. I’ve known her for like forever. She’d tell me, you know.”
K: “Sir, your low fat latte. The soy latte will be just a moment.”; to Claire: “Try to make me worry less. Ok?”
Claire: “I’m sure she’s passed out in the disheveled bed of some graying poet, spent from wine and love making. She’ll touch base soon. No doubt.”
K: “No doubt. Soy latte. Why even order a drink if you’re going to walk away? Soy latte!”
Claire: “Cheer up. Wanna come out later? We’re all going out somewhere, anywhere.”
K: “Try and sell it a little, ok? Soy latte!”
The old hand of a caped, gray haired woman grabs the white ceramic cup. She takes a sip. “This is cold. Can you make me a new one? And I said no foam.” Foamless coffee drinks are a fantasy. A myth. He dumps the cup in the sink and starts the drink over. The length of a day is proportional to the number of moments such as these.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Not a Goodbye
"Not a Goodbye" - Contrived (listen in new tab)
A man, 30-ish, and a woman, about the same age, lie in bed. Everything starts when the alarm clock goes off. But it’s not the alarm. It’s the snooze button and our protagonist wakes up and realizes it’s almost too late. He wakes her up. There’s a mad scramble around the apartment. It’s her last day in Canada. She grabs her tickets from the kitchen table. They read Paris, France. That’s a long way from Toronto. It’s chaotic as the two tear down the stairs, with toast in mouths, arms full of luggage.
Out into the early morning. It’s late summer, and the sun is cool in the clear eastern sky. The city isn’t quite awake yet. Everything is piled into a beat up green Cavalier. And then there is a montage of them driving through the city. The sunlight is yellow and orange, and flares in the camera’s eye as they move past some familiar landmarks on the way to Pearson Airport.
They park. Into the airport. The lines are miraculously short and they run to security, dodging other morning travelers. Outside security, the flight is called. She has to leave him there. They hug. Kiss. And she is waved away by metal detecting wands. Someone steps in and takes her place. He stands there for a moment, a long moment, watching the gate where she left his sight.
A man, 30-ish, and a woman, about the same age, lie in bed. Everything starts when the alarm clock goes off. But it’s not the alarm. It’s the snooze button and our protagonist wakes up and realizes it’s almost too late. He wakes her up. There’s a mad scramble around the apartment. It’s her last day in Canada. She grabs her tickets from the kitchen table. They read Paris, France. That’s a long way from Toronto. It’s chaotic as the two tear down the stairs, with toast in mouths, arms full of luggage.
Out into the early morning. It’s late summer, and the sun is cool in the clear eastern sky. The city isn’t quite awake yet. Everything is piled into a beat up green Cavalier. And then there is a montage of them driving through the city. The sunlight is yellow and orange, and flares in the camera’s eye as they move past some familiar landmarks on the way to Pearson Airport.
They park. Into the airport. The lines are miraculously short and they run to security, dodging other morning travelers. Outside security, the flight is called. She has to leave him there. They hug. Kiss. And she is waved away by metal detecting wands. Someone steps in and takes her place. He stands there for a moment, a long moment, watching the gate where she left his sight.
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