“It’s no big deal,” I said. “We just kind of see things differently these days.”
“You mean you do. Everything is all green and clean and stuff.”
“I guess.”
“So who do you hang out with at school? You don’t eat lunch by yourself, do you?” As if eating alone in the cafeteria was the number one worst thing that could happen to someone. Though it was pretty large on the list of high-school horrors.
“No, I have other friends,” I said. But just barely.
There was Shane McCardle, who now nodded and half waved whenever he saw me, though he hadn’t said much since Be Green Day. Not that he’d actually said much of much before.
And lately I’d taken to eating lunch with, or maybe I should say for, Alexis Shaw and her girlie gaggle. After her post BGD confession, she had somehow glommed onto me. I was surprised to discover that she was actually more interesting than her two-dimensional body suggested. She was actually a classically trained flutist and spent her evenings and weekends studying at the Royal Conservatory! Who knew? Certainly not the old cliquey jump-to-conclusion me I used to be.
“You must feel like such a loser,” Clare said. “Lucky you have your boyfriend.”
I just nodded.
“He didn’t tell you not to be friends with them, did he?” Clare asked suddenly, like she was gathering information for a cult or maybe the Girls Intelligence Agency.
“Of course not. I would never be with a guy who told me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
“Good, because he’s pretty hot and I’m sure he’s very persuasive.”
“I may be new at the whole boyfriend thing,” I said, “but I’m not stupid.”
“So no Fancy Pants this year, I guess?” she said, reminding me of the annual holiday gift swap that took place between me, Carmen and Ella.
Every year for the last forever, we would exchange mixed CDs and cute underwear. I hadn’t thought about it at all till Clare reminded me. Now I realized with exams and Christmas break a mere blink away, Fancy Pants was also approaching at full throttle.
I just shrugged.
“We could do it if you want. I could buy you big all-cotton granny panties. I’m sure your eco-head boyfriend would find them very sexy!”
“Thanks,” I smiled, almost tempted to give her a hug for being so sweet for a change. “But it looks like the days of Fancy Pants are over.”
“Figures, just when you might actually need them to lure your guy to your lair.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I asked, even though I knew it was all those insidious magazines and web-sites she cruised for dish and rules to live by.
“I make it my business to be in the know,” she said proudly.
“Hate to break it to you Clare-bear, but not so much. See, Vray’s actually mad for my stellar mind, cutting-edge politics and fabulous sense of humor and that’s why we hang out. It’s not just all horny guy stuff.”
“Like that’ll last.”
And I realized that she was probably right. Not that I necessarily wanted it to. It’s just I didn’t want our first time together to be some fumbling oopsy of being reckless and carried away. Some accident of sex that caused bad feelings and worse memories. On the other hand, meticulously organized wasn’t the plan either.
You could say, when Vray and I finally did the big it, I wanted it to be spontaneous, but in a planned kind of way.
But right now, mostly, I wanted to be absolutely completely positive that he truly cared about me as a person. That who I was and becoming and what I believed and felt truly was as important to Vray as it was to me. And that I, Sabine Olivia Solomon, was as important to him as he was to me.
As in extremely.
eleven_
A funny odd, not funny ha-ha thing happened today. Shane McCardle asked if I wanted to see David Suzuki, the major scientist and envirovisionary, talk about the planet and what we’re doing to it.
“The dude walks the no-footprint walk. You gotta admire that,” Shane said in that slow, low tone of his.
“I used to watch his science show on TV with my dad,” I answered without actually answering his question about going to the lecture.
“Should be an all right talk. I think you’d get into it.” I smiled, nodded and looked down at my feet. I was flattered and flustered. Flattered because finally I had a fledgling new friend with similar interests who even showed initiative. Flustered because I didn’t want to be a goof and say, “You do know I have a boyfriend,” like I was some smug girl who assumed every guy who talked to her was after her.
Sure it was just a lecture. But Shane was also compelling and delicious and I was now, finally, a boyfriended girl. It was seemingly non-consequential yet potentially loaded moments like these that really tested my commitment to the cause and my love for Vray.
I stood in front of Shane who bobbed his head gently, like he was listening to music in his brain, as he patiently waited for my answer. My mind was racing. I considered asking if Vray could come, too, but quickly realized that was a bad plan. If he did, Shane might be insulted and if he couldn’t, Vray might be jealous. I also mulled over just saying no, but I didn’t want Shane to think I wasn’t interested in him as a friend. Especially since friends, or anything remotely resembling them, were hardly at a surplus at this particular juncture.
“Do you believe in cosmic coincidences,” I asked, hoping to get additional insight into whether the invite was innocent or loaded.
“That a special blend or something?” he smirked.
“No, I mean people or situations popping into your world at these serendipitous, simpatico kind of moments?”
“It’s just an invitation to see the guy talk,” he answered, looking a tad baffled. “We don’t need to hook up, unless you want to.”
“I know, that’s not what I meant,” I blabbered, certain my face was as red as my sweater. “Anyway, it’s on Thursday right? I’m pretty sure I have to work at the co-op that night.”
It was the first time ever in my life that I lied to someone right to their face. And the way the words popped out of my mouth so easily also suggested it might not be the last.
“Cool. I like that place. They give out free tasters,” he answered. “So, I’ll let you know how it goes then.”
“I’d like that,” I said, which was completely true even if the part about working wasn’t.
“Later,” he nodded, as he sauntered off down the hall in all his laid-back, dreamy glory.
I stood there shaking my head, vowing to myself that if I had to stretch the truth again, even in a small way, it must definitely be for the good of humanity.
e a r t h g i r l
[ Dec. 02nd | 8:45pm ]
[ mood | disillusioned ]
[ music | As Serious As Your Life I Four Tet ]
Politicians are really total fools. I know, I know, I’m stating a totally “doh” obvious thing and all that but here’s yet more proof. The local goofs in the otherwise fantastic metropolis known as Toronto (hometown of Stars, Sum 41, Scott Speedman, Ryan Gosling and Ms. Naomi Klein) have decided that POSTERING is an ugly blight/blite/smite? on the city.
Postering, that grass roots, mucho effort practice of walking or riding your bike around with a staple gun and some glue and letting people know about kewl ideas and events.
Bad, bad, bad!
But, get this, GIANORMOUS TV sets and light boards four stories high that blink and glow 24/7 at a major downtown intersection like Yonge + Dundas forcing you to watch commercials for things you don’t need and promos for CSI: Universe are... GOOD!
Um? Excuse me?
No wonder people my age don’t bother with politics beyond signing online petitions or seeing some honking big concert. Or worse that we don’t get our hands dirty or think about being future leaders of the world. Who wants to hang out with such idjits — or worse risk becoming one!?
link read 7 | post
www.publicspace.ca/postering.htm<
br />
www.illegalsigns.ca
lacklusterlulu 12-03 03:57
In my town street cleaners go around with razor sharp spatulas and scrape posters off hydro poles. Gotta keep the streets clean and free of community info that might pollute or corrupt impressionable minds!
earthbound01 12-03 14:21
I think they – the big idjits – don’t like postering cuz the corruptrate power monsters have started using it to act all grassrootsy and cuddly (har-har, like they fooled us wily critters!). Another example of the big guys stomping on the little guys. Meanies.
altalake 12-04 22:22
Sarah Harmer and her rockin + rollin friends had a sick benefit concert to fight the anti-postering poopheads. She is one cool chick and as beautiful as her music.
Despite the ostracism (if that’s even a real word/ ostrichacism?) caused by my at-school and at-home eco-heroics, or maybe because of it, I decided to take my fight to the street. The real streets of the big city.
My new subversive action attack? To fight the silly anti-postering by-law by...postering! Pretty clever, I thought when the idea came to me in a flash as I showered. Funny how a torrent of hot water and some cruelty-free soap gets the inspirational taps flowing.
Plus it would be an excellent togetherness activity for me and my incredibly fantastic boyfriend. The right mix of quasi-radical, middle finger skyward political statement and romantic jaunt about town. It gave me goosebumps to picture it. Vray and me, sticky hand in hand in glue pot in brush on hydro pole. Bummer I hadn’t thought of it sooner since the balmy, early wintermission had ended and it was now freakishly chilly.
I just wasn’t sure what my poster should say. But I did know that I planned to strategically and ever-so-neatly deface the rows of big glossy album, megamovie and shoe adverts plastered on construction hoarding everywhere. And with the explosion of humungous condo buildings on every single street corner and formerly empty dandelion-infested lot in downtown, there were lots of construction fences to contend with.
The point was, this abuse of power by the corporate monoliths was ruining the artistry and guess-what-dude ethos of the posters put on lamp posts and hydro poles by the staplegun-packing, glue-toting little guys. The posters for yogalates classes and big-hearted movers and little lost doggies and neighborhood garage sales and up-and-coming bands with inventive names and no advertising budgets. The real grassrootsy stuff of our lives.
Finally, after a conversation with, of all people, my dad, I came up with STEAL THIS SPACE. To throw him off the scent, I pretended it was for a school project about urban planning.
Anyway, the words were a modern update on some seventies slogan and book title, Steal This Book, which I didn’t quite understand since if people stole your book it would be pretty difficult to make a living as a writer (something I imagine isn’t easy in the first place). Then again, I suppose that must not have been the point. Or I just missed the point because it was so very clever and subversive and my sophistication radar was not yet so highly attuned.
Needless to say, after some dexterous photoshopping and font sizing and resizing, my poster was done. Well, 8 1/2 x 11 flyer-poster in black on fluorescent green 70% recycled paper. And I was amped!
“Where’s the glue bucket,” Vray asked as we chose our first target, these big shiny posters announcing U2’s album and upcoming tour lined up row after tidy row along a wooden construction fence.
I like to think Bono would approve, given his efforts to make all things equal for as many people as possible. I mean clearly the mucky-muck marketing people didn’t ask the BIGGEST BAND IN THE WORLD if they could cheap out and do clandestine quasi-illegal advertising that cannibalized all the space from the LITTLE GUY. Or could they have?
It didn’t matter. It was an ideal target. And we were standing right there!
“I brought these.” I handed him a yellow sponge-tipped pot scrubber with a hollow handle pilfered from Mom’s under-sink collection of about a thousand (for a lifetime of manual dishwashing despite our constant use of the dishwasher). Clever bee that is me, I had filled them with wall-paper paste where the dish soap would normally be.
“It’s um, inventive, Bean, but it’ll only last for like a dozen posters,” Vray said, looking like he’d never seen a clear-handled dishsoap-dispenser sponge in his entire life.
“That’s why I brought a whole bunch,” I smiled, opening my pack to flash the Tupperware container packed full of them.
“A bucket of paste and a paintbrush would have done the same,” he sighed. “These will just end up in landfill when we finish.”
I felt a little sick. I hadn’t thought of that when I was being an inventive creative genius. Dum-dum me.
“It’s not like I went out and got them,” I explained. “They were just under the sink begging to be used.”
“All right,” he said, looking around and grabbing a fistful of flyers from his orange courier bag. “Let’s fuck up the man!”
About a half-hour and many dozens of STEAL THIS SPACE mounted flyers later, we were like a couple of giddy teenagers. The fact that we were in fact a couple of giddy teenagers might have had something to do with it, but I couldn’t believe how much fun it was to do something that was making a statement and quite possibly a difference! How visceral and exciting it was to actually be out here getting our mitts dirty.
We walked along for a few blocks holding mittened hands, sussing out our next target and just being crazy happy. Then suddenly I had another one of those out-of-body Meta moments where I wondered what we must look like to the people who saw us.
Did we look intense, committed (to each other and other important things) and meaning business? Or maybe just young, silly, carefree and maybe even in love.
“This was an awesome idea, Bean,” Vray said as he grabbed me by the waist and pulled my hip up tight against his. “Culture jamming, very cutting edge.”
“Frustration does that, I guess,” I said, trying to explain why I was motivated to do something about what was going on in the world and not just complain. Not that I needed to because he of all people understood.
“Sexual frustration?” he asked, coyly turning me to face him and pulling my body hard against his hard body and then kissing, kissing, kissing me.
I was quite breathless when I pulled back from him, smiling and a bit dizzy as I found myself falling into his green gaze again.
“Having fun?” he asked, grinning as our frosty breath lingered in the small space between our faces.
I nodded, figuring it was best not to speak for a minute in case my tongue was sprained from all the intense exercise.
“Thought so. Me, too!”
“How do you do it? How do you stay so up about everything that’s so crappy?” I asked finally. “Every time I think about everything that needs fixing my brain hurts. Most people don’t even care.”
“Most people do care. They just need to be reminded what’s important and that’s where we come in.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I sighed.
“It isn’t that hard. Look what we’re doing today. You had an idea, a really great idea, so you did something. Pretty easy, really.”
“Cause you’re already on my side and knew it would be fun. Most people don’t want to listen, let alone act. I mean Be Green Day was close to a complete bust unless you count Alexis Shaw putting food in her mouth again.”
“Then it was far from a complete bust,” he said logically. “Everyone just has to do a little bit. It all counts for something. Like cars, right? They aren’t going away, so I just never go in a car alone or I subway, walk or ride my bike instead. It’s actually kinda fun when it snows.”
“So you have your licence?” I asked, confused that Vray might actually be okay with cars.
“Sure, you never know when you have to drive the getaway car!” he grinned. “Look, walking around feeling guilty all the time is not going to help anyone or change anything. Trick is to walk around and be conscious.”
“What do you have to get away from?”
“What?”
“The getaway car.”
“You’re so literal sometimes,” he scoffed. “All I’m saying is cars exist, obviously, and people love them. Hell, I even love some of them if they aren’t road pig SUVs or those bastard Hummers. You just have to find your line and stick to it.”
“My line keeps moving.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “As long as it’s in a direction that helps.”
“I am trying to move it that way,” I answered. “Does trying count?”
“It all counts, Green Bean,” he said, sweeping me up again into one of his mind-blowing hugs and staring right in my eyes. “Everything you do matters. You matter.”
He said the last two words really slowly and for a split second it almost felt like he was telling me he loved me. And suddenly everything, even the confusing stuff and the tingly electric-shock smoochy stuff, was starting to make sense.
“Let’s go. It’s freezing standing around and we’ve got more work to do,” he said, taking my hand again and leading me along the sidewalk.
I totally, completely loved this. This day, this moment, this world, this boy. This absolutely everything.
“What are you doing?” I asked Vray as he stopped suddenly and started gluing a poster to the side of a parking tag dispenser – these nifty green solar-powered boxes that had replaced all the parking meters in the city. Pretty progressive actually and no-muss, no-fuss for parking since they took debit and credit cards so you didn’t even need change. My mom thought they were great.
“When they took away the parking meters they took away all the places to lock bikes,” he explained as he slopped glue all over the poster.
Then he took a step forward to a No Stopping sign and rattled it.
“See the bolts at the bottom of this? People loosen ‘em and you think your bike is locked up safe but then – whoop – out comes the post and goodbye bike.” He yanked on the post trying to demonstrate, except the bolts were tight and the sign didn’t budge.
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