Extreme Vinyl Café

by Stuart McLean

  “Turn around.”

  She said this quietly, ominously. Then she said, “You should go to bed.”

  “I’m fine,” said Sam. But he didn’t sound convinced. He headed for his room. Stephanie came upstairs ten minutes later. “People turn orange from eating too many carrots,” she said.

  Sam was lying in bed, on his back, the covers up to his chin. “I’m not turning orange,” he said. “I’m turning green.”

  Stephanie said, “Because maybe you’ve eaten too much green stuff.”

  “But I haven’t had a single vegetable since Mom and Dad left,” said Sam.

  Stephanie was back ten minutes later with a plate. There were beets, an apple and a cut-up red pepper.

  Sam said, “You want to turn me red?”

  Stephanie said, “Red and green are complementary colours. I am trying to balance you.”

  “I feel sick,” said Sam.

  The next morning he was definitely worse. He came downstairs and there was an undeniable mouldy pallor to his skin. It seemed worst around his head, his wrists and his neck, but his whole complexion was vaguely off.

  “I am going to phone Dr. Keen,” said Stephanie. “You should stay in bed.”

  Stephanie’s concern scared him. She never paid him this much attention. And she wasn’t just paying attention—she was being kind and concerned. It could only mean one thing: He was dying.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  Sam went upstairs. He didn’t want to stay in bed. He wanted to get dressed. He opened a drawer and stared at it. He pulled out a green sweatshirt. Maybe if his shirt was green, it would mask his skin. He stared at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t decide whether it made it better or worse.

  He came downstairs and stood in front of his sister.

  “Do I look like a broccoli?” he asked.

  Stephanie said, “You have an appointment with Dr. Keen this afternoon. You should stay home from school.”

  He went back upstairs and got back in his pyjamas. He read for a while, but he was feeling worse and worse. It was hot under the covers. He began to sweat. He rubbed the perspiration off his forehead onto his pyjama sleeve. And he froze.

  There was a bright green smear on his shirt sleeve. His sweat was the colour of lime Kool-Aid. Now his sweat had turned green. That could only mean one thing: Whatever he had was coming from inside of him.

  It was suddenly obvious to him. He had been colonized by some weird green thing. A space creature, possibly. Or some sort of pond algae. Maybe his insides were going mouldy— like swamp water, or a piece of cheese that had been in the fridge too long. It really didn’t matter what it was, because it was pretty obvious that whatever had taken hold of him wanted out. His chest could erupt at any moment.

  Murphy came over after school.

  Sam said, “I think I have an alien.”

  Murphy nodded earnestly. Then he took off his glasses, pulled out his shirt and polished his glasses on his shirttail, which is what Murphy does when he is thinking very hard. He polished his glasses, then he put them back on and bent over Sam, who was lying on his bed despondently. Murphy peered at Sam, coming closer and closer until their faces were less than six inches apart. Sam was getting uncomfortable.

  Sam turned his head and said, “What are you doing?”

  Murphy reached out and took Sam’s chin and twisted it so they were face to face again, and he said, “Breathe.”

  “Why?” said Sam.

  Murphy said, “I want one too.”

  At five o’clock, Stephanie took Sam to Dr. Keen.

  On the way there, Sam was thinking Dr. Keen would tell them there was nothing to worry about. Sam thought Dr. Keen would say that boys his age turned green all the time, that it was a perfectly normal thing and would go away in a couple of days.

  But that’s not what happened. Dr. Keen took one look at Sam and frowned. He agreed that Sam did not look at all well. Dr. Keen listened to Sam’s heart, and looked in Sam’s ears. He took Sam’s temperature. Then he shook his head and said he was flummoxed.

  “We’ll do some tests,” said Dr. Keen.

  Sam said, “Do you think maybe I have an alien?”

  Dr. Keen said, “I don’t know what you have. I’m a little perplexed.”

  Dr. Keen was writing in his file. Sam wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or talking to himself. He was muttering. This is what he was saying: “If he were blue, that would be a different matter. If he were blue, then cyanosis or something else that involves his heart and lungs … if he were yellow, well then … primary biliary cirrhosis, Wilson’s disease, yellow fever, liver or pancreatic cancer, jaundice, hyperbilirubinemia, anemia, hepatitis A, B, C, D, E, or Y, or, of course, gallstones.”

  “Hyperbili … what?” said Sam nervously.

  Dr. Keen looked up at him and said, “What? Oh. Hyperbilirubinemia. But you’re not yellow.” He looked back at the file and muttered, “And you’re not blue, either.”

  “No,” said Sam. “I’m green.”

  “I’m going to take some blood,” said Dr. Keen.

  Sam looked away as Dr. Keen got ready to draw the blood.

  “Deep breath,” said Dr. Keen.

  Then he said, “All finished.”

  Sam said, “Well?

  Dr. Keen said, “Well what?”

  Sam said, “What colour is it?”

  On the way home, Dr. Keen’s list of diseases echoed in Sam’s ears. He couldn’t remember all their names … just hyperbilirubinemia, and that there were a lot more. Blue ones and yellow ones.

  When he got home, he crawled morosely back into bed. Pretty soon he was crying. He wanted his mother and father. Why were they away when he needed them? Probably he would be dead when they came home.

  Maybe he should call them. If his mother were here, she would sit beside him on the bed and tell him not to worry. If his father were here, he would … panic.

  Okay, he wasn’t going to phone them.

  He got out of bed and began to pace. Maybe he could figure this out. Stephanie was right. If carrots made you orange, it made sense that green stuff made you green. He had to avoid anything green.

  He went over to his desk and started making a list: beans, broccoli, Brussels sprouts. There was a lot of green stuff when you thought about it: lettuce, spinach, peas—though it had never occurred to him just how much—asparagus, apples…. He kept adding to his list. No wonder he was turning green. Cabbage, kiwi, and cucumbers … he was slowing down. He stared at the paper for a moment without writing anything. Then he added Collard greens. Bok choy. Mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.

  He was staring at his list when Murphy called.

  Sam said, “The doctor did a blood test.”

  Murphy said, “What colour was it?”

  Sam told him about Dr. Keen’s list.

  Murphy said, “I’d better come over.”

  Murphy was standing at the foot of the bed wiping his glasses.

  Murphy said, “It’s worse than we thought. All those blue and yellow diseases.”

  Sam said, “I don’t have them.”

  Murphy was shaking his head. “When you mix blue and yellow together, what do you get?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “You get green,” said Murphy. “It is possible you have all of them.”

  It was the worst night of Sam’s life. A sense of doom settled upon him. His mother and father called, but he couldn’t remember what they talked about.

  Murphy was right; the doctor wouldn’t have taken blood if he didn’t think something horrible was happening. In his head, he had already got the tests results back. He had hyperbilirubinemia. His life was as good as over.

  At nine o’clock the phone rang. He prayed it was his mother. He and Stephanie had decided not to tell their parents anything until they got the test results. They didn’t want to ruin their trip. But if it was his mother, he was going to tell her now.

  It wasn’t his mother, of course. And the wheels of the nigh
t ground on. Sam lay in bed working through all the possibilities. What if it wasn’t fatal? What if it was worse than that? Exactly how green could he turn without dying? What if he was as green as a frog by the time he got to high school? And what about university, when he didn’t know anyone? Would they hold it against him if he was green?

  Maybe they wouldn’t even let him into university, even if his marks were good enough. What would happen at the interview when they saw he was as green as a broccoli? They had done a unit on the civil rights movement in school. He knew you weren’t allowed to discriminate against people because of the colour of their skin—white, brown, black or yellow. But the books never mentioned green.

  And even if he got into university, would he ever get a job? Or a girlfriend? What girl would want to take him home to meet her parents if he was green?

  He fell into a fitful sleep around midnight. But he didn’t sleep well. He kept waking up.

  Murphy phoned in the morning, all excited.

  “You don’t have to worry. It’s okay. You’re not the only one. I just heard that the prime minister is going green. And he wants other people to turn green too.”

  Sam said, “Did they say how you do it? Is it a voluntary thing?”

  He clung to that for an hour. Maybe he was one of the first. Maybe he would go down in history as a trailblazer. Maybe in two hundred years he would be a folk hero. Like Jackie Robinson. Maybe he would be the first green boy to go to university. The first green Olympian. Like that.

  Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe his hormones were messed up. Maybe he would keep getting greener the older he got. Or worse. Maybe this was just the beginning. Maybe as he got older, his skin would keep changing colour. First green, then blue, then … oh this would be bad … what if he turned purple? It was bad enough being green, but purple would be pure torture. Or what if he was both? What would life be like if you were multicoloured?

  He fell asleep at noon wishing that he could just worry about pimples like a normal kid.

  Dr. Keen called in the afternoon and said the test results were normal. But he wasn’t. He was still green.

  “I am not sure what to think,” said Dr. Keen. “If it continues for a few more days, you should come back in.”

  “Can I go to school?” Sam asked.

  “I think so,” said Dr. Keen.

  It was obvious Dr. Keen didn’t have a clue what was going on.

  But Sam was certain about one thing. When his mom and dad called at supper, he was going to tell them. His mother, that is.

  It was his father who called.

  Sam said, “Can I speak to Mom?”

  Dave said, “Mom is right here. There are just a couple of things I want to go over first.”

  “I want to speak to Mom,” said Sam.

  “Tonight is garbage night,” said Dave. “I want you to empty the garbage cans in the upstairs and downstairs bathroom and take everything out before you go to bed. And make sure the lid is on tight so nothing can get in.

  “Also, make sure the milk is still good. If it’s off, Stephanie should buy some new stuff tomorrow.”

  Sam said, “Please can I speak to Mom?”

  Dave said, “One more thing. If you want to use your new sheets, make sure you wash them first.”

  “Pardon?” said Sam.

  “The Ninja Turtle sheets,” said Dave. “Make sure you wash them before you use them. ’Cause if you don’t …”

  Sam interrupted his father. He was talking on the portable phone. He was sitting in his bed. He was beginning to feel a wave of relief descend on him. “If I don’t wash them first …” said Sam. He was looking down at the Ninja Turtle on his pillow, at the green Ninja Turtles on his sheets. “If I don’t wash them … I’ll turn green, right?”

  “Right,” said Dave. “Now do you want to speak to Mom? She’s right here.”

  “Naw,” said Sam, “it’s okay. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  Sam had already hung up.

  He jumped out of bed. He grabbed his robe on his way out of his room. He was heading for the bathroom. He was heading for the bathtub, about to have the first bath he had ever really wanted in his life.

  Dear Stuart,

  Last Sunday night we went over to my mother’s house for dinner and, as usual, before the night was done, she brought up the time someone demolished her entire stash of homemade jerky. This was like twenty years ago.

  She used to keep the jerky in a tin on the counter in plain view and I was only sixteen at the time and starving, so I don’t think I am to blame.

  But I feel guilty and wonder if it is time to fess up. Everyone I ask tells me that I should totally tell, but they don’t know my mother, or at least they don’t know her when it comes to jerky. Anyway I know you used to date her when you were at camp, and I thought you might have an idea.

  Sincerely,

  Elizabeth Watson

  Dear Elizabeth,

  How nice to hear from you. I remember your mother well, or rather, I’ve had some trouble forgetting. I had an unfortunate incident with her jerky too. If I were you, I wouldn’t approach her. Not in person, anyway. If you really feel strongly, I would suggest you have a third party there. People can be very prickly about food. I have attached a cautionary tale you might find interesting.

  THE BIRTHDAY CAKE

  They say love is blind. We all know they’re right. And there is no end to the mischief a myopic heart can hatch, no end at all. But you don’t have to be lovestruck to stir up trouble. Those lesser emotions can be just as dangerous.

  No one would ever say Bert Turlington loves Dave. But Bert wouldn’t deny that he feels a certain fondness, he might even say affection, for his neighbour. It is not love—more the accumulation of feelings that bind people together when they live side by side for many years, the small kindnesses and courtesies of their “arranged marriage.”

  So you could forgive Bert his neighbourly heart when he blurted out his invitation to Dave that night in the park.

  You might. But Bert’s wife, Mary, didn’t.

  “You what!?” said Mary.

  Bert had invited Dave and Morley to drive with them to Montreal for Harold Buskirk’s sixty-fifth birthday.

  “And to stay with us?” added Mary. “In Rene’s house?”

  “It just came out,” said Bert. “Unexpectedly.”

  Dave had said something about how he and Morley weren’t sure if they were going to make it to the party. They hadn’t made hotel reservations and … you know.

  And Bert thought.…

  “No,” said Mary. “Don’t use that word. You didn’t think. There wasn’t any thought involved.”

  Harold Buskirk, who used to live up by the park, was turning sixty-five. Pretty much the whole neighbourhood was going to Montreal for the party. People had been working on sketches and speeches and songs.

  Mary had been working on the cake. And not just any cake. For Harold, she was creating a masterpiece—a Frangelicosoaked chocolate fudge cake with white chocolate fondant and an orange buttercream and truffle ganache filling. It was Harold’s retirement as well as his birthday. Mary was going to decorate her cake so it looked like a golf course—complete with little buttercream golf balls and a marzipan foursome standing triumphantly on the ninth tee.

  Bert and Mary were driving to Montreal. They were staying at Rene Gallivan’s house. Rene Gallivan is Mary’s boss. Rene was in Florida, or Palm Springs. One of those places.

  “You said it was a mansion,” said Bert. “I thought there would be plenty of room.” There was that word again. Bert was talking to himself. Mary had stormed off.

  They left on Saturday morning, just after breakfast. Not that anyone actually ate breakfast. They were supposed to leave before breakfast and take a break on the road for brunch, but Mary had a moment with the fondant, and amid the last-minute cake flurry, brunch was lost.

  There they were, on the road, two in the afternoon and only halfway to Kingston, two hours b
ehind schedule. The four of them were in Bert’s Volvo, their luggage in the trunk, Dave and Morley in the backseat and Mary in a state.

  The cooler, with the cake, was wedged onto the armrest between Dave and Morley. They could barely see each other.

  As they roared past Kingston, Dave said, “There’s a great burger joint up ahead. If anyone felt like—”

  “No stopping,” snapped Mary. “There’s no time for stopping.”

  At Iroquois, Dave, who was completely famished, made a lame joke that if he could have his cake now, he wouldn’t eat any at the party. Mary whirled around and said if Dave as much as breathed on her cake, he could start walking.

  There is no doubt Mary was wound up. The cake was iced with the fondant, but she still had to add the decorations, and it had to chill after that. And Mary had told Harold they would be at the club early, to help with the set-up.

  They were two and a half hours behind schedule when they pulled up in front of Rene Gallivan’s limestone house on Upper Walnut Crescent, a little-known cul-de-sac near the top of Westmount Mountain.

  “Holy crow,” said Dave as he unfolded himself from the backseat.

  He was staring at the huge red oak doors, at the mahogany fluting around the lintel and the maple rosettes on the door’s frame, at the lead-paned windows, at the thick stone walls.

  “My,” said Mary. They were all standing on the sidewalk staring now.

  “Wow,” said Bert.

  “Oh dear,” said Morley.

  “Remember everyone,” said Mary. “We have to leave everything exactly the way we found it.”

  She was staring at Dave.

  “Oh dear,” said Morley, again.

  As Dave stepped through the threshold and into the marble foyer, Morley put her arm on his elbow and whispered, “Don’ttouch-anything.”

  The kitchen turned out to be in the basement. It was the kind of a kitchen where help, rather than family, worked.

  It had a fireplace.

  “Holy crow,” said Dave. “You could roast an ox in there.”

  It also had a walk-in cooler.

  “Look at this,” said Dave.

  Mary was decorating her cake, sticking little marzipan flags carefully into the centre of the little greens. Morley was standing beside her, holding a bowl of brown icing for the sand traps. Bert was wiping down the counters.