Thirteen Crucifixions 40

                                                        1986

 

            The cool breeze blowing in off the water licked Barbara’s cheek like the tongue of a friendly dog.  She walked up Comox Street, leaving behind her the hospital, the Psychiatric wing and Rafael, who was authentically mentally ill.  Why hadn’t she guessed?  But how, while feeling thoroughly victimized by him, could she ever guess that he himself might be… a victim?  For half an hour while she visited he sat next to her on the sofa, frighteningly thin and crumpled into a heap of bones barely covered by skin, hospital pyjamas and robe.  He said almost nothing to her throughout, until, as she got up to leave he touched her lightly on the shoulder and weeping he told her “Hans is dead”.  He thanked her for coming and asked that she please return again soon.  She was trying not to tremble.  She was walking fast, past the park on her right and the old houses of Mole Hill on her left.  All the fear, hate, terror and resentment he had once summoned in her, now had been drowned in a slough of compassion.  She was easily moved to pity, had always been.  It didn’t seem fair, and she knew she was letting him off easy but she couldn’t help it.  She had just narrowly avoided wrapping her arms around him when she left, it somehow would have seemed inappropriate.  She still wanted to hold him, Rafael, in her arms and rock him into a leaden slumber.  She knew she would be returning to see him, perhaps not tomorrow, but soon, likely later in the week.

            She didn’t know whether to believe what he said about Hans.  She carefully examined herself, her state of being, to determine if this would be indeed upsetting news to her.  She really couldn’t tell.  She didn’t think that she’d ever really actually loved her husband Hans, who controlled her and ruled her life for her more than anything.  She supposed that she had at one time respected him, but soon the respect had given way to terror, which soon manifested itself as hate.  Then, after the out of court settlement, with having a greater sum of money awarded to her than she might ever hope to see in her lifetime, Barbara had summarily forgotten that she had ever known the man.  He had, upon her leaving and returning to Canada, simply ceased to exist for her.  She supposed that she did feel a certain sorrow, if he was indeed dead.  The marriage had lasted a little over two years.  They had first met at that party where she had also met Rafael for the first time.  She had not thought, at first, much of either of them, simply that Rafael was a bit repulsive and Hans was rather cold and aloof.  Otherwise, she hadn’t expected that upon re-encountering Hans in that café.  He had quite insisted on taking Barbara out for dinner, and after several such tries, successfully led her to the Justice of the Peace.

            She didn’t know where she was going. Barbara supposed that she was heading towards Stanley Park.  Well, she could think of worse places to go to. She needed to be surrounded by nature right now, especially after those thirty minutes spent with Rafael inside the Psychiatric ward.  She was still feeling fragile herself and could only tolerate so much stress.  Her psychiatrist had been adamant that she take things easy, that now was not the time to even think of looking for employment.  Besides, she was comfortably fixed for life, and really didn’t have to work again, not if she didn’t really want to.  She knew that she ought to find some constructive way of occupying her time.  She had long been interested in helping prostitutes.  Her own modelling experience, for Barbara had really presented her with some rather interesting parallels to the oldest profession.  She also knew that she was indeed one of the lucky ones.  She did not have to apply for social assistance nor for disability payments.  She lived in a nice apartment in one of the better parts of the West End.  She really considered herself to be a very lucky woman.

            She walked all the way up Comox Street, flanked by apartment buildings of various sizes, shapes, and vintages.  Then she crossed Denman, ignoring the temptation of visiting the various interesting shops that lined that street.  She continued along the remaining few blocks to the park.  The rhododendrons were no longer in bloom, and many of the huge bushes still held brown dead flowers that looked rather like soiled tissues trapped amid the green leaves.  She had heard that there were prowlers in the park, and that no sensible young woman ought to be walking there alone.  Barbara supposed that she was sensible enough.  As for young, she was now forty, but could easily pass for thirty.  She didn’t expect that anything untoward would happen to her, and she didn’t even feel inclined to watch her back.  She felt that she was on some kind of quest.  Like Glen, she decided to simply allow God to lead her in the way she should go, which was never easy, since Barbara was often at a loss as to what was really divine guidance.  She went past the tennis courts, then took the path down through the Rhododendron Garden, then further to the edge of Lost Lagoon.   A thin dark-haired man in a teal coloured tee shirt sat on a bench staring at the swans that sailed on top of the water with arched wings and serpentine necks.  As Barbara drew a bit nearer she realized that it was Randall.

 

Race To The Bottom

I can be annoyingly politically correct sometimes.  Or to put it simply, I can be annoying.  Period.  Ever since I was the super bright gifted little know-it-all in my family when I was a kid I haven't been able to keep my mouth shut about my superior wisdom.  (Now, before y'all gag on yer Shreddies, please note that I am employing here what is known as irony.  Oh my God, I can't stop!! I just cannot stop.)  Maybe I'm a born educator.  Or maybe just a born pain in the ass.  Which reminds me of once, many incarnations ago (well, thirty years anyway, in 1984, remember that year?  Remember the book?  I have read it maybe five or six times.  And now I have it in Spanish translation and it is just sitting there on my bookshelf waiting for me.  I purchased it recently at one of Vancouver's few remaining independent bookstores where I met the owner who is also the husband of a recently retired co-worker whom I run into from time to time.  She looks ten years younger now that she's retired.)  But thirty years ago when I mentioned in the presence of one super uptight, self-righteous, self-hating, stuck way in the closet homosexual Christian about something or someone being a pain in the ass, he prissily corrected me saying that I meant to say a pain in the neck which sounds much nicer and less profane and edgy than pain in the ass but as I tried to explain to the Christian Ayatollah, who also happened to have a violent temper and a tendency of physically assaulting anyone who disagreed with him, pain in the neck simply does not convey the annoyance in the way that saying pain in the ass does, especially when referring to someone like him.  Or me when I'm being an annoying politically correct pain in the ass.

Just the other day I heard someone mention while describing an interaction with her building managers that one of them is black, but really very nice.  I did say that we no longer identify people by race or skin colour.  After all her being black or whatever colour I'm sure has nothing to do with her ability to do her job or her status as a nice person.  But it is difficult for anyone born before 1960 to really adjust to modern (post-modern?) thinking which, among other things, is completely inclusive to the point of no longer even noticing that we are being inclusive.  Like one of my co-workers who mentioned at a meeting that one of her clients is gay but that's okay, she doesn't mind at all and he's still a nice person.  I kept my mouth shut.  She was also born later than 1960, but she is from a conservative and visible minority culture (now I'm doing it!)

I thought of this a bit more this afternoon when I was enjoying an excursion in a local coffee shop with my sketch book and coloured pens and pencils.  I intentionally sat on the other side of the café because two patrons were talking very loudly and very noisily and I frankly wanted to be as far away from them as possible.  About forty minutes later they moved to my end of the café (well, not really mine but the area where I was seated.)  They were not going to leave.  They simply moved to sit just three tables away from me and I really did not want to listen to them.  I packed up my stuff, flashed them both a dirty look and moved to the table they had abandoned, which suited me well since I was wanting to sit there in the first place.  On my way home I stopped at Shoppers drug Mart, famous for crappy customer service.  I mentioned to the cashier how poor I found the service and she of course shrugged it off and I did notice too that all the staff seemed to be the same ethnicity, but what difference should that make since I've been given crappy service by all kinds of people.  And exemplary service.  By all kinds.

At the end of the day, I really don't understand race, or even if there's anything to understand.  Same DNA, more or less.  And by the way I have not bothered to mention anything that might identify the race, ethnicity, gender or age of the two ignorant and annoying customers in the coffee shop nor what language they were speaking, because you know something?  No single group has the monopoly on ignorant behaviour and really most of can be pretty awesome sometimes.

Thirteen Crucifixions 39

It had been for Glen a troubled night.  Even though he’d slept right through he still didn’t feel properly rested.  It was early.  He couldn’t tell how early, since he didn’t have a watch and there was no clock in the room. Of course, he had forgotten to plug in his clock radio that was still hidden in his duffel bag, along with his midnight blue oversize coffee mug.  These alone, outside of his clothes and a few of his most cherished books, remained of his earthly possessions—these, his paintings and some art materials.  He had survived his first-ever eviction.  He could not pay the rent.  His mother had invited him to stay with her as long as he wanted.  It had been for them both a comfortable co-existence.  He was even able to paint, and his mother was very supportive of what he was doing.  But, at 45 Glen was too old to be living with his mother who, at 71, was still relatively youthful and in robust health, therefore not in any great need of his assistance.  But for the odd painting sale and the work he did for Randall and Barbara’s second child once a week he had no income to speak of. Which had made Bruce and Sue’s offer all the more tempting—free everything and pocket money besides while staying in their palatial home.  They wanted a mural, and so he was going to be looked after and given money for doing what he enjoyed the most.  Too good to be true.  He knew he should not have rushed into this arrangement—he hadn’t realized that he’d been so eager to get away from his mother.  It was the next morning, when Glen, lying awake in bed was greeted by Bruce walking into his room without knocking, wearing nothing but a royal blue silk robe and one of the smarmiest smiles he had ever seen.  Bruce announced that Glen was expected in the bed that he shared with his wife for a little morning refreshment.  Glen sat up, mustering all his strength not to betray the alarm that he was feeling.  He even managed to force what he hoped came across as a convincingly eager smile.  He said, “Can I just have a shower first—I’m feeling pretty grubby right now.”  Bruce volunteered to join him in the shower.  Glen countered that it would only feel right if Sue was in there with them, which wouldn’t be very practical since there wouldn’t be quite enough room for all of them.  Bruce saw his point and told him that he would get his wife all warmed up for him.

            He didn’t have to think hard or long.  Fortunately he had not unpacked, had learned already where the phones were, as well as the bathrooms.  Jumping into his clothes he went into the bathroom, phone in hand, turned on the shower and called a taxi.  They never saw him leave.  The next stop was Pierre’s, who gladly put Glen up for the next five days.

            He supposed that he’d been guided to Sheila who he had not been expecting to invite him into her home.  They had got on together very comfortably.  And now, after all these years, he was engaged in more than a passing acquaintance with her son Michael.

He liked them both, enormously, but he was also well aware of the hunger for him that her son still entertained.  This worried Glen, as well as Michael’s connection with Pierre.  He had dreamed all night, but now he couldn’t recall anything, except that someone, or something, kept trying to force entry into his room. That’s all he could recall.  And that he felt really and truly frightened.  Maybe it was the house, which didn’t really feel creepy, but there was something here.  He couldn’t name it, and he wasn’t sure if he could even call it a presence.  Perhaps it was the apple tree outside.  Sheila had mentioned that the tree was sacred.  Michael referred to it as nasty.  Perhaps it was both, and was it because of this tree growing on this property that Glen’s sleep had been disturbed?  How could he tell?  He couldn’t.  Did he need to know?  But now his mind was beginning to wander into some pretty ridiculous places again. He opened his duffel bag and dug out his clock radio which he plugged in and his midnight blue coffee mug.  The radio was always set to CBC Radio 2, as was his mother’s radio, but hearing it in his own room from his own radio which he’d inherited from Stephen Bloom when he died ten years ago, while drinking dark French Roast coffee from his own favourite coffee mug –this was how Glen had coped with being homeless.  He sat quietly on the bed, waiting for the newscast.  Then he would know what time it is.  He always wanted to know the correct time, as though it mattered, which he realized it didn’t.  The World at Six came on, and Glen knew it was earlier than he’d thought.

            He tried to remember where Sheila kept the coffee filters—she had shown him last night, and of course!  In the cupboard directly above the automatic coffee maker.  A thoroughly practical woman.  The coffee he found in the freezer.  Sumatran.  His favourite after dark French. Glen had landed very well in this house, all things considered.  Sheila wouldn’t be up for another hour.  Glen had the kitchen to himself.  He looked over his shoulder.  A large white cat rubbed against his leg.  He picked up the cat and held it, all purring blue-eyed white-furred warmth.  The cat went limp in his arms, resting its head on his shoulder.

            The early light was strong, cool, golden and white—the radiance of everything almost hurt his eyes.  The blossoming apple tree was an incandescent, frightening grace against the luminous wall of cedar.  The azaleas shone like the precious, sacred and redeeming blood.  With his blue mug replete with steaming and strongly-brewed Sumatran and the white cat licking his paw on the step behind him, Glen stepped into the cool and flaming morning.  He didn’t notice at first the white wooden bench, nor the youth curled up asleep on it.  He approached the apple tree, inhaled the fragrance, and a sleep-laden voice said, “Got the time?”

            Glen looked at him without speaking.

            “Sorry man, is this your house?”

            “I’m only staying here.”  Stefan sat up.

            “Hey, you’re the artist guy.”

            “From the café?”

            “Yeah—you do awesome work.”

            “Who are you?”

            “Stefan.”  He put out his hand for Glen to shake.

            “I’m Glen.”

            “Cool.  I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

            “I was wondering, actually.”

            “I got lost.  Just sorta ended up here.  Don’t worry, I was just about to go.”

            “Would you like a coffee first.”

            “Hey, could I, please.”

            “I’d invite you inside but this isn’t my house.”

            “That’s cool.  I understand.”

            They sat side by side on the bench, Stefan drinking from an equally large mug, white with a rainbow sweeping across its side.

            “I just got off the street, thanks to Melissa.”

            “Melissa?”

            “My girlfriend.  Green hair.  She was in the café with me yesterday.  She got me off the street.  She was on the street herself, had some money so we got a room together.  That was, like, a few months ago.”

            “So she was on the street, and by being on the street she could get you off the street.

            “Yeah, something like that.”

            Glen heard the back door open and there was Sheila in a pink fuzzy housecoat, towering above the white cat. 

            “Good morning Sheila, I’d like you to meet Stefan.”  She said nothing, but only looked at him, not really glowering, not quite comprehending.

            “Hey, I was just going”, Stefan said.

            “Finish your coffee first”, Glen said.

            “Look, I’m almost done—see?”  He swallowed carefully the remains of his hot coffee, then handed Glen the mug.  “Thanks man.”  He shook Glen’s hand, glanced at Sheila who hadn’t moved nor given any indication of not being a waxwork, and looked for a way out.

            “The only way out is through the house”, Sheila said.  “Come up the steps here.”  Stefan obeyed, and she showed him out through the front door.

 

            Glen and Sheila sat at the kitchen table.

            “How did he get in?” she said.

            “He told me he was lost and that he’d penetrated in through the cedar hedge.”

            “Oh God I hope not.”  No one had ever penetrated the hedge.  It had become notoriously impregnable.  But it wasn’t any damage being sustained by the hedge that was worrying Sheila—it was that it was such an act of violation.  Something whole, intact and complete had just been invaded, ravished, undone.  This would be the beginning of new sorrows.  She knew this, how could she not know this?

            “You would need a very good and extremely sharp set of clippers to even make a dent in that thing.  Are you sure that’s how he got in?”

            “That’s what he said, anyway.”

            “Where did he come in?”

            “The hedge?”

            “No”, she snapped irritably.  “Where in the hedge, what part of the damn hedge did he come in?”           

            “He didn’t say.”

            “Well, surely you would have noticed?”

            “I wasn’t looking, really.  But nothing looked damaged.”

            “Let’s have a look.”

            While robins and other birds sang volubly across the neighbourhood Sheila led Glen along the cedar hedge, like the Queen and Prince Philip inspecting the palace guard.

“Nothing”, she was muttering.  “Nothing, nothing, nothing.  He’s lying, that little skinhead punk must be lying.  Look at this.”  She made a sweeping motion with her hand. “No damage.  Nothing.  No damage anywhere.  He’s lying.  Or he was dreaming it.  Probably on drugs.  But how could he have got here without having first to go through the house.  Glen, did you or Michael let anyone in last night?”

            “No.”

            “The front door was locked, the windows?”

            “As far as I can tell they were.”

            They walked back toward the corner.  “Hey Sheila, have a look.”  The grass, still heavy with dew, showed a single set of footprints leading from one spot of the hedge—just as intact and unviolated as the rest.  Together, Glen and Sheila followed the prints to the white bench.  “That’s where I found him.”  They followed the prints back to the hedge.

            “The little bugger”, Sheila was saying, “How did he do it.  How—did—he—do—it?”  She looked at her watch.  “If I don’t get out of here now the Westwind opens late today.  Have you eaten?  No?  Then come to the café with me, I’ll make us both breakfast there.  Glen—promise me one thing please.  Tell no one about this. Not about that little creep, nothing about the footprints or the hedge—just pretend it didn’t happen.”  Beseechingly she laid her hand on his arm, a look of horror and alarm suddenly and briefly overtaking her usually calm face.  “Just pretend that nothing happened.”

            “What should I say to Michael?”

            “Especially don’t say anything to Michael.”

 

 

 

 

 

Are We Evolving?

I think many of us have already heard about the CEO who has been arrested and charged with animal cruelty.  He was abusing in an elevator his Doberman puppy and the news is all over the local media.  Until just the last five years or so I don't recall animal cruelty being so reported about and so condemned in the media.  Could it be that we are making yet another step forward in becoming a kinder and more peaceful humanity?  Wouldn`t it be lovely?

Ah, the poor old school Canadian male.  And can just hear him grumbling between drags from his near-illicit cigarette in a shop doorway while ignoring the dirty looks of fit and healthy young pedestrians waving away the second hand smoke: "Can't hit the ol' lady no more; can't smack the kid; now I can't even kick my dog.  Goddam politically correct police state."

At least I could imagine my dad saying something like that, though, as far as I know, he never hit my mother, at least not in front of me except one time when I saw him slap my mother's face.  They were having an argument, more a screaming quarrel.  I must have been...ten?  He didn't hit me too often, though he did use emotional and sexual abuse as a weapon of dominance over me.  He really beat my brother a couple of times within an inch of his life.  And kicking or slapping down a badly behaved dog?  He'd sooner shoot it.

Now, in our enlightened time, such behaviour is not only unconscionable.  It is illegal.  I could have called the cops on both my parents.  I would have been taken away from them into protective custody.  I would have testified against them in court.  I am not exaggerating.

Could this be the New Jerusalem?  Even if we are hearing on the news about two young idiot, brothers, from Calgary, brought up in the middle class comfort of a privileged Christian home, have converted to Islam and are now radicalized thugs with Isis in the Middle East cutting throats and chopping off heads of infidels and the wrong flavour of Islam?  Their understandably traumatized and heart-broken mommy and daddy have publicly expressed dismay and fear of the harm their cherished darlings might encounter.  They don't appear terribly concerned about the harm their little boys are inflicting on innocent others.  And maybe this is exactly why have they turned out this way.

Don't get me wrong.  I am absolutely overjoyed that here in the West we are becoming increasingly humane, gentle and empathic, despite, in Canada, anyway, a near decade of this country being ruined by a backward Conservative government.  Set foot though anywhere in the Middle East, Eastern Europe, Africa, and Asia, and from all the news reports it would appear that we have not progressed one single micro-millimetre.  This is a judgment I cannot really make given that I have only media reports to go by and we know what reliable information this can be.

All I hope for is that we continue to evolve in this direction of kindness, in the hope that our compassion and love proves to be stronger than the hate and brutality that does not seem to be prepared to release a large chunk of the world from it`s bloody and stinking claws.

Thirteen Crucifixions 38, and a word to my Turkish readers

Hello, my friends from Turkey.  I am glad to know that so many of you have taken an interest in reading my blog sometimes.  I am very curious about all of you and would be honoured if some of you would introduce yourselves in the comments section.  Please keep reading and I wish you all the very best.
warmest regards
Aaron

                                                           2001

            “Spare change?”  The red fuck-me heals walked by.

            “Spare change?”  As did the green Doc Martens.

            “Spare change?” And the sensible walking shoes, probably Rockports.

            “Spare change?”  And there went the Birkenstocks.

            “Spare change?”  The black Adidas paused and into Stefan’s upturned cap dropped one tarnished brass-yellow dollar coin.

            “Thanks man”.

            “No prob’”, said the young guy with the red doo-rag on his head.  “I been there myself.”  He stared at the single looney that shone out from the dark recesses of his hat.  Generous for a male.  And not likely gay.  Or if he was he didn’t show it.  He scooped out the coin and stuffed it in his pocket.  Twelve bucks he’d made in less than three hours.  Not a bad take, considering.  Now he could get a pack of smokes, something to eat—ninety-nine cent pizza or a somosa.  Also a mug of beer and bus fare home.  He’d stop panning once he had enough for three mugs and bus fare.  He wasn’t walking tonight.      “Spare change”.  Away went the Oxfords.

            “Spare change.”  And the John Fluevogs.

            “Hey you know what time it is?” He kept walking.

            “Spare change?”  Beat up combat boots with a cute goth chick in them.  Smiling, she tossed him another looney.  “Cool.  Thanks. Got the time?”

            “I think it’s almost nine.  Hey, you’re Melissa’s boyfriend.”

            “Sometimes.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “Stefan.  What’s yours?”

            “Jen.”

            “Hey.”

            “Hey.  I’m just on my way to see her.”

            “Yeah, at the Steel Toe.”

            “I’m just going there now.  Wanna join me?”

            “I gotta pan a bit more.  Tell her I’ll be there around ten.”

            “Okay, nice meeting you, Stefan.”

            “Nice meeting YOU!  Thanks for the buck.”  Thirteen dollars.  Why couldn’t they all be this nice?  He pocketed the looney. The sixth pair of Nikes since he sat down. Don’t even think of asking.  Only one person in his three years of begging had ever given him money while wearing Nikes.  A well-fed young jock with his young jock friends from suburb hell had thrown at him a fist-full of pennies laughing.  And Stefan wanted to throw them back.  Not that he minded pennies—people often gave whatever they could or wanted—but that was an insult.  A short, plump old woman in short stiletto heels walked by with her Lhasa Apso on a retractile lead.

            “Mmm… Looks tasty.”

            She paused, cautious, looked at him and her little dog, then she tittered nervously.

            “Why you must be hungry.”

            “I am, as a matter of fact.”

            She reached into her bag.  “I’m sorry”, she said as she handed him, graciously, a gleaming two dollar coin.

            “Thank you”, he said, smiling with authentic gratitude.

            “You’re most welcome.”  She walked away just before he could pat the Lhasa Apso.  “And yer little dog, too.”

            Nikes and more Nikes.  A few sandals, not many. Still too cold.  Whenever he saw a guy wearing sandals Stefan wanted to stomp on his bare little toes.  He dug looking scary—combat boots, black T shirt, shaven head, tattoos and piercings.  But not while sitting in doorways begging.  Even if he tried to he still couldn’t look frightening sitting down there.  Pathetic.  Just pathetic, and maybe appealing in a whimpering spaniel sort of way.

            “Spare change?  Spare change?  Spare change?  Spare change?  Spare change?”

            “Why dontcha get a fuckin’ job, man?”

            “What don’t you GIVE me a fuckin’ job?”

            “What do I look like—a fuckin’ job board?”  He was wearing Nikes and a backwards baseball cap, his bloated face suffused with that soured look of a guy whose girlfriend has just cut him off.

            “Whatsa matter dude. Yer girlfriend ain’t puttin’ out for you, or what?”

            “How did you know?”  His eyes had widened somewhat.   Stephan felt towards the young lout a stirring of compassion.  “Here bud.”  He slipped in his cap a handful of nondescript change and walked away.

            “Thanks.”  Stefan counted, carefully.  Six dollars and ninety-eight cents. “All-fuckin-RIGHT!”

            It wasn’t the shoes that gave him away, nor the expensive cut of his jeans, but the way he walked.  A contained arrogance.  A domesticated swagger.  The walk of someone who knows he was born to rule.  And Stefan knew him immediately.  Before he knew it, he was standing up, in this guy’s face, his hand out, palm outward.  “Okay man!  Pay up.  Silence money.”

            “Who are you?”  He had a handsome, slightly gaunt face, high cheek bones, perfect chin and flawless blue eyes.  His short blond hair was slightly combed back.

            “You know who the fuck I am.  Just thank the gods that I wasn’t aiming those rocks at your head.  Now pay up, fucker.  Silence is golden.”

            “I don’t carry cash with me”, he said, composed but clearly cowed.

            “There’s an ATM on the corner—let’s go.  C’mon.”

            “And what if I don’t co-operate?”  He was speaking in a clipped, well-educated whine.

            “I know every fuckin’ pig on this beat and I happen to know they’re lookin’ for you.  ATM.  Let’s go.”

            The floor surrounding the bank machine bore a light litter of receipts, which gleamed like discarded tiles in the poor light.  “How much do you want?” he asked calmly.

            “Everything in your account.”

            “I have a mortgage to pay.  How about five hundred?”

            “Deal.”  As he handed him the money, Stefan said, “Okay, man, we’re square.  You’ve paid for my silence.  You got my silence.  Now fuck off.  I don’t want to see you again.  But listen here, buddy, and listen to me good.  If I ever catch you, or hear about you diddling another kid ever again, then I’m gonna fuckin’ hunt you down.  And you know what I’ll do when I catch you?  I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”  He said this standing less than an inch from this man, their faces so close that they could almost have kissed each other.  Not that Stefan couldn’t have, or wouldn’t have kissed him full on his perfectly formed lips, for he was suddenly and powerfully aroused.  He left.  Stefan counted the money again.  He kissed it, then very deftly stuck it into his left boot.

            The rest of the evening was a blur for him.  All he could do was walk, everywhere, over the Granville Bridge then back over the Cambie Bridge, then over the Georgia Viaduct.  He couldn’t settle anywhere.  Twice he came near the Steel Toe, then thought better and retraced his steps.   It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Melissa, or Jen to whom he was majorly attracted—he couldn’t see anybody, or settle down.  Anywhere.  All he could do was walk.  And walk.  And walk. With five hundred extorted dollars concealed in his left combat boot.  He felt nothing that resembled guilt, nor shame, nor even remorse for taking the money. Stefan, so far as he was concerned, was thoroughly entitled to it.  Just three or four weeks ago he’d caught that same handsome impeccably groomed man on a trail in the woods of Stanley Park, just in the act of coaxing a ten year old boy into unzipping the fly of his costly designer jeans for him.  Stefan shouted “Hey! What’s going on over there”.  Quickly the man zipped up his jeans—“I’m taking a leak—do you mind.”  “Yeah, like you need a little boy to pull down your zipper for you—get the fuck outa here and leave him alone.”  He at first appeared as if he was going to stand his ground.  That’s when Stefan began hurling stones.  He turned and fled, just as his shoulder was grazed.  The boy, who appeared part native, stood there, staring at Stefan with wide, frightened brown eyes.  He was scrawny, his long hair tangled, his blue jacket and black pants rumpled, as though he’d just been in a struggle. “You better go”, Stefan said.  The boy stared at him. “Did that man try to hurt you?”   The boy continued to stare, slack-jawed.  “Is your mom nearby?”  Slowly, stupidly the boy nodded.  Then he heard a weary angry woman’s voice call “Tony—Tony!  Where the hell are you.  Tony!”  “Is that your mom?”  The boy nodded.  “Then go find her.  What that man was doing to you was something very bad.  Don’t let anyone do that to you again.  Not ever.  Do you know him?”  The boy shook his head.  The woman’s voice was coming nearer.  Stefan was making as if to leave.  “Go to you mom, Tony.  Don’t tell her what happened. Don’t tell her you saw me.  Don’t tell anyone ever.  Just forget what happened and live your life.  Live it the best way you can.”  The boy turned and ran toward the voice of his mother and Stefan quickly and silently walked away.

            He was sitting in a doorway.  It was late, very late.  He didn’t know how late it was.  And now he couldn’t turn off this harsh memory that kept flooding his mind, not of that boy he had rescued from the paedophile, nor the paedophile himself from whom Stefan had just won his five hundred in silence money.  But himself, a twelve-year old boy being driven from school by his guidance counsellor, who wasn’t driving Stefan home, but to his own house.  His wife was vacationing somewhere with her mother.  And there on his guidance counsellor’s love seat was where it all began and where it continued to go on for the next year or so, and Stefan suddenly wanted to be violently ill.  He didn’t want this god-awful memory, he didn’t even want the money, he just wanted to be sick and forget everything that had happened, everything that had been done to him.  He wanted to smash something, a window—anything.  He wanted to hunt down Mr. Stark, Mr. Gordon Stark, the guidance counsellor and do him serious bodily harm, if it wasn’t too late, for Gordon Stark had been caught en flagrante, tried, convicted and imprisoned long ago.  He was dead now, subjected to the mob justice of the jailhouse.  Stefan still didn’t feel vindicated.  He wanted now to forget, only to forget.  He thought of Tony again, and wondered if and hoped he was indeed all right.  He was shaking all over, trembling with extreme violence from head to foot.  He wondered about checking himself into hospital emergency, then recalled that he had a home to go to but he did not, did not wish to see Melissa, nor anyone.  Not now, not in this state of having this awful memory thrusting itself on him like this. Better to stay here in the doorway.  There was no one around.  He would be safe.  He could get over it here.  He suddenly wanted to die, he wondered how he would do it—the Shopper’s Drug Mart on Davie Street was open all night.  He could get enough extra strength pain killers to put out an elephant.  Or maybe one of the bridges.  But he was drained of energy, emptied of resolve.  He could only crouch here in this dank smelly doorway, a trembling mound of bone, skin, lean flesh and musty dark clothes, and wait…

            He supposed that he’d been sleeping.  He felt cold, and sore from sitting in a hunched position.  But rested.  He felt even a little better.  Maybe more than a little.  The sky was lighter, though the street lights still glared like a garish reminder that the city must never sleep. A robin nearby was singing, heralding the new day.  Stefan lifted himself up and began to walk.  He did feel rested. And he was better.  Of all the doorways he had slept in, he had never found one so refreshing.  He remembered the natty young paedophile, he remembered Tony with his stupid victim’s stare, he remembered Gordon Stark and his own stupid victim’s stare.  Somehow none of this any longer was bothering him as he walked back over the Georgia Viaduct to lay down next to his sleeping Melissa.  Maybe even he could make love to her again, for she had never stopped being desirable.

            He supposed that he’d gotten lost.  This wasn’t quite the neighbourhood they lived in.  The sun was almost fully risen.  He was feeling tired again as he turned up a lane that was ebullient with new growth between large and elegant old houses.  He paused to sniff a newly bloomed lilac right next to an impregnable cedar hedge.  He wanted to get past the hedge, behind it.  He must see what was there, he must see, he must, he must see.…

            Getting through was easier than he expected.  A big green back yard with an apple tree in full flower in the centre and a big, towering blue house.  He strode over to the white wooden bench where he curled up and fell asleep.

Do It Yourself

I just unplugged my ear.  Every couple of years or so my ear, usually my left becomes completely plugged with wax resulting in temporary hearing loss.  This happened just last week, the first time in about two years and what a nuisance because I had lost half my hearing in that ear. 

Now, I don't know what causes the wax build up.  I suspect that stress could be a significant contributing factor, especially the constant noise one is exposed to living downtown.  Especially from sirens, not to mention this goddam fledgling seagull (they leave the nest this time of year) hanging out under my window (I think one of my idiot neighbours might be feeding him) and its strident pathetic nonstop squealing.  In a way it might be the body's way of saying "Okay, that's enough.  I'm shutting down for a while."

My doctor, who practices at the local community health clinic today said that he was going to give me a self-care kit: basically a syringe that looks rather like a turkey baster.  He told me how to use it with hot but not scalding water to help melt the wax.  I took it home.  It works like a charm.  Now I will always have this syringe available to deal with my ear wax build up.  Intermittently I could use it for a turkey baster.  But wait a minute, I'm vegetarian.  How easily I forget.

In passing I also mentioned to my doctor how much this reminds me of my arrangement with my counsellor whom I see maybe four times a year.  She thinks I'm fine and probably don't need to see her at all.  And I would agree except for one or two little details:

1. I'm a post traumatic stress disorder survivor.
2. I often have a lot going on in my life and sometimes things get pretty stressful and if you have been reading enough of this blog for a while then you will know exactly what I'm talking about.
3. I live alone and even though I have friends it is still at times easy to become or at least feel isolated.

My independent nature works well with this kind of arrangement.  Just enough support or input to help me keep a sense of proportion and otherwise it's do-it-yourself.  Now all we need is a refresher in do-it-yourself brain surgery.  Or how about a do-it yourself quintuple bypass? Neat, eh?

Thirteen Crucifixions 37

Maria knew the weather would be cold in Canada.  Worse than England.  Richard had assured her that Vancouver had a climate much like southern England.  She wouldn’t freeze.  She did not want her child to grow up in Nicaragua, where life would always be dangerous.  She had always hated the Sandinistas.  Now she hated the Contras as well.  They were going to Canada, which was like England without the history, but according to Richard, much better food.  Maria woke up briefly to look at her sleeping lover’s naked arm hanging like death over the edge of the bed.  She turned away and began to weep.

            Randall’s nose was no longer bleeding.  He was surprised that he was so hungry  He swallowed down his cheese burger and fries.  Never had he been hit by a woman before, nor for that matter, by a man.  He owed Carol an apology.  Even if she refused to see him it was the very least he could do.

            Pierre and Glen walked together under the vaulted expanse of the Burrard Bridge.

            Dwight, Margery and Carol watched together the eleven o’clock news.  Then they were going to watch “Diva” on the VCR.  Carol dug her greasy hand into the popcorn that Margery had generously laced with butter.  So what if it made her fat.  She didn’t want to go home.

           

            How long have you guys known each other?”

            “I adopted him when we were teenagers.”

            “You’re like family?”

            “We’re all we have, both of us.  My mother lives in Montreal, my father’s been dead since I was three.  Stephen has no one.”

            Bryan was drunk.  Alcohol and religion together sustained him.  Tonight everything stood out with a stark clarity.  He was going to get his revenge on Rochelle, formerly known as Donny, with tits as fake as the night was dark.  Donny had been Bryan’s world, Bryan’s universe.  Never had he exacted, nor expected from him any kind of sexual payment for his friendship.  It all ended two years ago when one night he savagely beat up Bryan, then returned to the street, where he earned enough money to pay for his surgery.  Bryan, suddenly had a terrible headache.

            “I was born in Peru”, Pierre said.  My last name is Valdez.  My father was a mining engineer who my mother married when he was a student in McGill.  My mother’s from Quebec.  He died in an avalanche.  He’d taken her back to Peru with him.  I was three at the time. So, we returned to Canada and settled out here with Mom’s new man.  I was sixteen when they split up.  She had a job to go to in Ottawa.  I didn’t feel like leaving, so I stayed.”

            “She let you?” Glen said.

            “She didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

            As soon as Derek Merkeley got home he stuck a cassette in the VCR and sat down in his favourite arm chair.  The scene on his t. v. screen opened with a large breasted young woman, naked but for a black leather thong, thigh-high black leather boots with spike heels and a black executioner’s mask, whipping a rippling muscled body builder, fully nude and fully prone on a pink satin counterpane.  He unzipped his pants and reached for the baby oil.  He hadn’t turned any lights on. He was suddenly thinking of Glen.  

           

            Marlene was curled up asleep on the sofa.  Her gray cat was curled up on top of her, where she rested purring.  The TV cast shades of blue flickering light across the living room.

           

            Carol was on the TV publicly mocking Derek Merkeley and Alice was horrified.  She was going to file a complaint with the CRTC.  She wondered how he must be taking this.  Almost she phoned him.  They would soon be parting.  As a young woman Alice had never guessed that breaking up with someone would become this easy, nor that, even in her fifties she would still have anyone to break up with.  She felt tired, and almost ready for sleep

            “You don’t live in the West End?”

            “I’ve been in East Van over five years.”

            “Isn’t that a scummy area?  Excuse me, but, you see, I never leave the West End.”

            “I like Commercial Drive.”

            “It isn’t dangerous?” Pierre said.

            “Not by a long shot”, Glen said.  “Beautiful old houses and lots of big trees.”

            “And plenty of dogs to pee on them.”

            Margery was feeling tired.  And irritable.  All day she’d been around people.  Too much melodrama, too much heightened emotion.  Tomorrow she would have to face Peter, in order to get the rest of her belongings.  She felt a twinge of regret for letting Carol have her room, if only for one night.  She felt selfish, and guilty. Carol had just entered into this precious solitude that Margery shared with Dwight.  She liked Carol.  She loved her.  Suddenly she was thinking of Glen.

            “So, Marlene says you’ll be working at the Pitstop.”

            “I start training tomorrow.”

            “Glen, that would be super.”

            He felt touched, embarrassed, and deeply warmed by Pierre’s naked display of affection.   He wasn’t used to this and he struggled to lower his customary guard. 

            Doris finally got into bed.  She felt too excited to sleep.  She felt a longing, a yearning she could not name.  Perhaps it was grief over Sam?  She couldn’t begin to understand this process of bereavement—feeling simultaneously abandoned and liberated.  Had she loved her husband?  Foolish question.  No, but had she, had she really, truly, sincerely loved Sam Goldberg?  Long ago, yes.  And then?  A most difficult man to be married to, certainly.  But weren’t they all?  And no children, by his decree, no children.  Twice she had been pregnant.  The first ended in miscarriage.  Sam knew nothing about it, and she concealed from him her grief.  The second time, her doctor did it for her.  She still felt guilty.  She couldn’t stop thinking of Glen.

            This could go on all night and into tomorrow if Glen didn’t put a stop to it.  At some point he would have to say good night to Pierre and go home.  He wasn’t sure exactly how to do this.  He was thoroughly enjoying him.  But Glen was tired.  He had no plans for staying out late.  He was going to go over to Granville Street and get on the next bus.  Pierre asked, “Want to go to Burst Arteries with me?  Stephen’s there and I think he’d like to see you.”

            Stephen nursed his drink—a rum and coke.  The place was just starting to fill up.  He was bored.  He couldn’t even get interested in the gay pornographic action on the big screen behind him.  He was thinking of Glen.

            It had been years since Glen last stepped inside a gay bar.  He wasn’t sure about this one, nor what kind of plans Pierre might have for him.  He felt beguiled and intrigued.  He felt warning, as though the dead raven was speaking to him—“No.  Don’t.  Avoid.  Leave.  Go home.”  He knew what he ought to do and didn’t do it.  From the window of Denny’s Randall was trying to wave them in.

            Dwight hadn’t said anything to Margery about his seeing a psychiatrist.  No one knew.  Likewise the conditions and circumstances of his divorce.  He wasn’t intentionally secretive, but these were things that no one needed to know.  He put away the Scrabble board.  Carol had gone back to bed. Margery was just bedding down on the couch.  He was thinking of Glen.

            Randall seemed a little more composed than earlier in the evening.  They ordered coffee.  Sitting with him and Pierre both, he felt somehow disloyal to them, for he had consented to the claims they were each making on him.  Randall stared, intrigued, at Pierre’s hand as he squeezed cream into his coffee then slowly, methodically stirred.

            Maria lay awake, she had turned away from Jose who snored softly from his side of the bed.  Mariana was quiet.  She had not absorbed her father’s death.  Yet she knew, surely must know.  “Papa no nos vuelve”, she said to her daughter.  “You’re daddy isn’t coming back.”  Mariana simply stared at her mother with Richard’s big blue eyes.  “Por que te lloras, Mama?”  She said as she saw her mother weeping.  “Why are you crying, Mommy?”

            Randall said he was going with Glen and Pierre to Burst Arteries.  He didn’t care if it was gay.  People are people.

Marlene slept and dreamed that she was sitting in an ice cream parlour, eating an enormous hot fudge sundae.  On his rare visits, when they were children her father would take Glen and her for hot fudge sundaes.

            There didn’t seem much to talk about.  They paid their bill—Randall insisted on treating—and left the restaurant.  Even though it wasn’t cold, the air still had a bitter edge.

            Carol lay awake in the dark.  She always slept poorly in a strange bed, and could only see Richard’s body parts scattered across the mountains of Nicaragua.

            Glen could still back out.  He knew this.  He walked between Randall and Pierre.  He could still bolt off to Granville Street and wait there for the next bus.

            Bryan explained to the cashier that he was buying the tampons for his wife, who was in no shape for leaving the apartment.  She smiled knowingly as she handed him change for the cheaper Life-Brand tampons.

            Rochelle, with the enormous silicone breasts pulled up a stool next to Tanya. “Darling, you look dee-vine tonight, who’s cock have YOU been sucking?”

            Glen was almost poised to tell them both about the dead raven whose wing feather he carried in his nap-sack.

            Derek reached for another video.  He willed only to have Carol at the earliest convenience.  It was over between him and Alice.

            Suddenly, Glen realized, he had lost that sense of blessing that had earlier overwhelmed him.  He wanted it back.

            Randall felt restless, agitated and a bit irritable.  Perhaps he should leave these two men and return to the Y, which was just a block behind them.

            Sirens were sounding, more and louder and more strident than usual.  He did not like what was in the air.  Glen badly wanted his blessing back.

            Pierre felt truly blessed.  Like trophies won in a war, he escorted these two handsome men on the sidewalk.

            They waited for the light to change.  Three punk rockers with mohawks walked past them, ignoring the red light.  Glen felt a pang of envy.  Randall excused himself and returned to the Y.

            Bryan didn’t know why he’d bought the entire bag of tampons, when he would only be needing one.  Unfortunately, like cigarettes, they were never sold individually.

            With Randall gone, Glen felt it would be inexcusable if he backed out now.

            Pierre didn’t much mind that Randall had left, so long as Glen stayed with him.

            Stephen really couldn’t stand Rochelle. Like everyone else he tolerated her.  Like everyone else he was truly frightened of her.  He wished he’d stayed home.     

            “There’s no line-up yet”, Pierre said.  Glen couldn’t conceive of standing in line for a place like Burst Arteries.

            Bryan was sure that was Glen McIntyre he saw going into Burst Arteries.  And who was that young man with him?

            The throbbing dance music was grabbing Glen hypnotically.  “Boom! Boom! Boom! Let’s go up to my room—”

            “Rochelle, you look totally scrumptious tonight”, Stephen said.  “And I just love your nails, they’re so Lily Munster!”

            Pierre had no illusions about Glen.  He didn’t want him as a lover.  Still, he knew they would be in each other’s lives for an awfully long time.

            Bryan wasn’t absolutely certain, but he did know that Donny—or Rochelle, was often seen here.  He sidestepped the dance floor and started climbing the stairs.

            Pierre led Glen up the stairs.

            On Rochelle’s insistence Stephen squeezed one of her breasts.  It was hard, like a honey dew melon.  “Oh! What two handsome men!” she purred as Glen and Pierre appeared.

            Glen tried to ignore the gay porno on the screen.  He couldn’t keep his eyes off of Rochelle’s magnificent breasts.

            Bryan paused to look at the action on the big screen. He was sure he knew one of the actors.

            “They’re REAL!” Rochelle growled as she shoved her breasts into Glen’s face.

            “Be nice to him, Rochelle”, Stephen said, “We want to bring him home undamaged.”

            Bryan reached into his coat pocket, produced a tampon.

            Rochelle looked up, and a look of distaste mingled with muted horror warped her carefully made up face.

            “Rochelle!” Bryan crooned, “Or should I say Donny.”

            Glen was shocked to see Bryan here.

            Pierre watched, bemused as this funny-looking bald man approached Rochelle holding what looked like a tea bag dangling from his fingers.

            Bryan dangled the tampon in Rochelle’s face.

            Stephen felt only terror.

            “What the fuck do you want!” Rochelle roared at Bryan.

            His heart, he was certain, had never beat so fast or so hard.  He dangled the tampon in her face, as though he were teasing a cat.  “A life-time supply for you dear.”

            “You fucking asshole!” Rochelle reared up like a killer rottweiller and punched Bryan hard in the face.  Then she got him in the stomach, threw him on the floor then proceeded to kick him in the head.  He had already lost consciousness when they pulled her off of him.  He was bleeding from the mouth and from the ears.  Glen, Stephen and Pierre looked on horrified and helpless as the police came to take Rochelle and the paramedics arrived for Bryan.  They left the bar, quickly and returned all three of them to Stephen and Pierre’s apartment.  They all knew that they would need to stay together for the night.