Friday, 6 June 2014

The Thirteen Crucifixions

Hi everybody.  Did you know that I wrote a novel?  Which never saw the light of day?  Well here it is in my computer files and from time to time I am going to share it on this blog a page or two at a time.  This is going to be my back-up formula for when I'm too tired or lazy to write anything fresh, new, zippy and original for your reading pleasure.  Or if you happen to know a reputable literary agent....

                                                                   1985


            Whiter than freshly fallen snow the two blank pages of Stephen’s journal stared up at him from the table.  It was a quiet afternoon with surprisingly few patrons coming in for refuge from the unseasonably cold November day.  He was already on his first refill.  He had carefully counted out his pocket change.  He could afford just three cups today.   He always went out for coffee.  He had a coffee maker, but they never troubled to make it at home.  Instead, they faithfully went to the local cafes to fulfill their devotions to the caffeine goddess.  He hadn’t seen either Pierre, who was at work, or Glen who wasn’t always in the neighbourhood.  He fished a pen from his pants pocket.  The old woman, last year, gave him the black Papermate, and the journal.  He still hadn’t written anything.  Stephen had never kept a diary before in his life.  He never wrote, and seldom read.  Like most people of his generation- he had recently turned twenty-three- he got most of his information from watching TV.  Who needed books?  He had never entered a library in his life, and only occasionally read the newspaper for the comics, the horoscope and the help wanted, all in that order.

            He met the old woman at a dinner party in Glen’s apartment, almost exactly a year ago.  Stephen was fragile from his botched suicide.  His wrists were still bandaged, and the old woman, whom he had never met before, sat serenely beside him on the same couch on which he had once tried to seduce Glen.  He told her about his near-death experience, of seeing and being sent back by a being of light who seemed to know him completely.  Glen had had a similar experience, years before.  They never discussed it.  Glen was willing but Stephen was weak.  He always backed down at the critical moment in which he wanted to tell him everything that happened to him, no matter what it was.  This old woman, Doris Goldberg, was the only one who knew everything about his near-death experience, which they discussed in depth later that night in her apartment, where she had invited him to spend the night in her guestroom.  He never saw her again.  

            He tried to sweep away the four empty cream containers he had left strewn in front of him. Even if he had no intention of writing, he still wanted to gaze on the pure white of the blank pages.  One of the Chinese sisters stopped by with a full coffee-pot.  “Mo’ coffee fo’ you?” she said rapidly.  Without answering he shoved his cup towards her, which she dutifully filled.  He had absolutely no rapport with staff or management.  It wasn’t much of a diner.  The booths were upholstered in dull orange vinyl, the tables were dingy-white.  It was too completely void of character or atmosphere to really qualify as a greasy spoon.  For Stephen and many of the locals it was a perfect blank canvas for them to paint their sad and sordid lives on.  He’d heard Glen name it “Chez White Trash”.  On the top of the left page he wrote, Nov. 25, ’85.  It had been a scandalously cold November, with average temperatures that were more typical of Ottawa in January.  No one had seen the like.  It seemed almost like the beginning of the last days, the final judgment.  It was warmer again but still a bit below seasonal values.

No comments:

Post a Comment