Youth One (female): “We were dancin, yeah? Dancin’ and jitterin’ and humpin’, some sex on the floor but only for show, yeah? Sam Cooke, Bruce Springsteen, Jackie Wilson (access codes for information on these and other new buzz artists are offered to viewers) . . . all their new stuff, yeah? Even the new dance buzz by, by . . .”
Youth Two: “By Buddy Holly (access code offered). Honkin’ shit, yeah? Galsanboys on speakers, dancin’, some fights, but only for show, yeah? Couple get thrown off speakers, little bitta blood, not bad, yeah?” (Images of youth of today dancing to buzz music)
Youth One: “So couple guys, yeah? They go up to the BJ booth, I spy they got somethin’ in their paws, yeah?”
Youth Two: “Thinkin grandomatic, got some new buzz spottin’ here!”
Youth One: “Was not buzz they put out.”
Youth Two: “Was a disc, man, old stuff indeed. Punk, somebody say, Young Canadians12 (picture of Art Bergmann, details about punk music in late 20th-century Canada). Song called ‘No Escape.’”
Youth One: “Joyboy beside me starts jumpin’ up and down, hoppin’ like wackyow grasshopper. Then he stops, pumps his fists in the air and yells, ‘Time to shed the imperialistic cultural yoke of our Yankee bastard neighbors!’”
Youth Two: “Don’t know what the fuck he mean, but seemed like a good reason for party and fight.”
Hey Rocky, Watch Me Pull a Mountie out of My Hat
“Squad! You have been selected to serve your country. To serve your country must be the highest honor to ever be visited on your measly little lives!”
The man who speaks wears the traditional red serge of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. His hat is broad-brimmed, his boots spit-polished. Big-eared mouse pin, brass buttons and buckles shine, almost unnaturally. Service revolver sits in holster, looking menacing to the new recruits.
But it is his face that inspires the most stares, the most awe. His chin extends a full five, maybe even six inches beyond where it should stop. The cleft at the end of the chin is also enormous. Makeup covers the worst of the scar, but it is obvious that cosmetic surgery has been used to enlarge his chin.
Blond curls poke out from underneath the hat, and Sergeant Do-Rite’s voice also sounds funny. Like he forces it from his throat or something.
“Squad! Join me in singing ‘Rose Marie’! And that’s no request, mister!”
His singing voice is really quite lovely.
Foster Hewitt13 Rolls Over in the Broadcast Booth
(Excerpts from New-Net TV Guide, week of June 26)
Saturday 6:00 P.M. CBC (PAY): Hockey Night in Canada Double Header. Los Angeles Kings vs. Louisiana Acadians. Montreal Levesques14 vs. Oklahoma Oilers.
Sunday 2:00 p.m. TSN215/ESPN6: CFL16 pre-season. Austin Stampeders17 vs. Poughkeepsie Stallions. A rematch of last year’s Grey Cup.
Sunday 9:00 p.m. BBC International3: The Antiques Road Show18. This venerable show continues its visit to Canada with a visit to the former Alberta Legislature.
Monday 5:00 p.m. CBC (PAY): The New Front Page Challenge19. Mystery guest this week; former BCTV20 Host Michael J. Fox21.
Tuesday 9:00 p.m. Global22: Jerry Lewis Comedy Fest and Retrospective.
Wednesday 8:00 p.m. CBC (PAY): Wayne and Shuster23 Retrospective.
How’s It Goin’, Eh?
Large groups of youths now wander the streets, day and night. All wear toques24 and earmuffs and green army surplus jackets, drinking from the new-style, stubbie, beer bottles. Miller Canadian25 is the most popular brand. Moosehead26 ranks a close second.
As with other trends today, this does not crop up in one city and then slowly spread cross-country. Everyone is online, patched-in, wired and wigged. A trend one day is a tidal wave the same day.
They call themselves “Hosers.” Over fifty networks pick up reruns of the long-forgotten SCTV27, formerly relegated to late-night status on an obscure cable channel called TVO28. TVO responds by playing Strange Brew29 24-hours a day. The Ontario government, holed up in their offices now for over thirty years without talking, responds by finding a document that claims they own TVO. A takeover ensues.
After the initial shock of finding that they still have a provincial government, the people of Ontario (well, okay, Metro Toronto, but the rest of the province really doesn’t count) let their anger, pent-up over years of mismanagement and no management, explode. Riots unlike anything ever seen are dragged into the living rooms of millions of Canadians, and for thirty seconds every half-hour into the homes of Americans.
Troops are called in, but soon decide that they want to side with the “Hosers” and everyone else. The government resorts to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but image deals with Disney and years of training for the Musical Ride30 and singing Hollywood classics leaves them ill-prepared to deal with actual fighting.
One casualty is suffered by the Mounties before they decide to withdraw: Sergeant Do-Rite’s jaw is broken. He returns home a disgraced and dejected man after finding that Nell has left him for a Rich Little31 impersonator.
Louis Louis
The Assembly of First Nations announces that they have successfully created a clone of Louis Riel32. And while they were going to wait until he grew up before they made their move, now seems to be the appropriate time.
The Prime Minister, full of bluster, says that “We hanged the bastard once, and we can hang him again!” The press gallery falls in love all over again with this man. Their belief that he had slowly succumbed to the boredom of the job and that they would never again be offered another interesting quote is shot down with this one line.
Tabloids the world over bring interest in Riel to new heights. And in schools across Canada, Hangman becomes a very popular game.
Natives and Métis across the nation declare their independence. The crisis deepens.
Nothing Binary About 101
Old animosities still lingering, the government of the Republic of Québec offers financial aid to the native and Métis secessionists, as well as hinting at military assistance. Some tense moments pass by on the border between Ontario and Québec after an older gentleman sneaks across and erects and English-only No Parking sign in retaliation, but soon fall to the side when the Québecois troops are recalled to deal with native unrest in their own land.
Reforming 181233
The Prime Minister panics. After consultations with his ministers, he does the only thing he can think of. The phone call is not unexpected. Troops move across the border, officially as a measure of concern to protect American citizens. Resistance, except for in a few rare pockets, does not last. The troops stay. The tourists leave, and do not come back.
* * *
1 Wreck Beach is the nude beach in Vancouver, British Columbia. A popular place.
2 Also known as Ma Bell. Was a monopoly until very recently. Of course, Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone while he was in Nova Scotia, Canada.
3 Every Canadian government bill begins with the letter C.
4 Much, much worse than the postal service of our kind neighbors to the south.
5 It is a law that Canada Post can deliver all the junk mail they want, and no one can stop them. They deposit in every mailbox, often regardless of stickers requesting otherwise.
6 No, metric isn’t dead yet. But there are a lot of people up here who would like to see it go away. Many miles away.
7 Healthcare is what most Canadians think defines the difference between them and Americans.
8 No more home delivery to new subdivisions, just to big boxes that stand on the street so you can get it on the way home.
9 The people who broke Ma Bell’s monopoly.
10 Places with “American” or “Cheesecake” in the name are cyclically very popular where I live.
11 The Canadian Radio and Telecommunications Commission. Sort of like the FCC.
12 Go back to the story. I explain who they were right after this footnote.
13 For decades, the voice of Hockey Night i
n Canada on CBC Radio and then TV. The man who came up with that most important of Canadian phrases, “He shoots, he scores!”
14 Rene Levesque was the first separatist Premier of Quebec. The party he lead, the Parti Quebecois, came back to power in 1994, looking for a way to break up the country. They almost succeeded at the end of 1995, and vow to try again.
15 The Sports Network. Canadian version of ESPN.
16 The Canadian Football League. Three downs, 110-yard field, 15-yard end-zones. The CFL has expanded into the US, and the Stallions, at the time with Baltimore and calling themselves the Cs (because Colts was owned by the NFL) came this close to winning the Grey Cup in 1994.
17 Currently the Calgary Stampeders, but a threat of moving the team has been made.
18 A BBC show that runs on CBC Newsworld (sort of like CNN) every Sunday afternoon.
19 What was probably the longest-running show on Canadian TV; ran for around thirty years. A bunch of journalists sat around and tried to guess who the mystery guest was. They were given a few clues and then asked the guest questions. And people think Japanese TV is tough to figure out.
20 British Columbia Television. Currently a government-owned channel used for educational and more high-brow purposes.
21 Famous Canadian actor. Really.
22 A TV mini-network based in Toronto.
23 Once-big Canadian comedians. Made more appearances on Ed Sullivan than any other guest. Many are proud of that bit of trivia, which is really sad when you think about it.
24 Head gear for winter. Sort of like watch caps.
25 Well, actually Molson Canadian. Currently.
26 Famous beer from Atlantic Canada.
27 This all refers to Bob and Doug MacKenzie, as played by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas.
28 TV Ontario. Ontario’s version of BCTV.
29 Bob and Doug’s movie. A classic.
30 Famous routine where Mounties ride their horses and carry pikes, all to music and in formation. Also, the Mounties recently signed a deal with Disney to be the only authorized purveyor of the Mountie image world-wide. One pictures RCMP members collaring drug dealers in formation and to swelling music from cartoon classics.
31 Famous Canadian impersonator.
32 Métis rebel from 19th century. Hanged for treason.
33 Referring the War of 1812, where Canadians like to point out they handily kicked U.S. butt. Few, if any, point out that Canada didn’t actually exist until 1867.
Frail Orbits
I didn’t sleep well. Pressing crowds of people dominated my dreams and nightmares. The noise of the crush of hundreds of thousands drifting up from the streets below our windows colored what little sleep I did get.
Daytime now, and I stumble through my routines, breathing easier now that everyone hides from an almost pathological fear of skin cancer. The only sounds from the streets are machinery and vehicles, all far away.
The sun’s rays drift through the blinds, casting harsh lines on the hardwood floor. Dust raised by my sweeping floats through the light, thousands and millions of motes all orbiting each other, fashioning rough ellipses as they slowly circle to the floor, gravity wrestling them to earth, or spiraling crazily upwards with unseen currents of air.
I stick the broom under an old radiator, pull some king-size dust bunnies out, then lean the handle against the wall and limp over to the table where the others are gathered. Jason eases his wheelchair over a little, giving me room to pull the old kitchen chair up to watch the game. Hearts, a game I learned to hate a long time ago and very far away.
I sit and rest my knees, only half paying attention to the game in progress. My eyes dance from cards to the rest of the room, wondering at the stark brevity of this place where old wood has replaced the steel and plastic and ceramic of years gone by, this new home for the five of us. Old boxing ring in the middle, ropes long gone and mat torn and tattered. Two old wooden benches sitting on the scarred floor, a three-legged stool lying near one of the benches. A water fountain that no longer works.
On the other side of the ring, five beds—cots, really—with curtains hung between them to give some sense of privacy, as though a room this large could not afford any one of us the space we had come to crave, but still give us the company we cannot live without.
Behind me, a small kitchen; microwave, gas-powered fridge, ancient toaster oven, a sink and a few cupboards. Beside it, the door that leads to the showers and toilets and rusted-out lockers. I often find myself spending time in there, taking in the smells. I have yet to admit it to the others, but it sparks a certain something in my memory, being in there. I suspect it is the same for the others. Why else would we be here, together, after so many years, but for memory?
“Bastard.”
I turn my head, join in the laughter as Tom rakes in the Black Bitch. A quick look at the score sheet shows that he was winning, but the thirteen points will put him behind Peter.
Around the table. Beside me is Jason, the oldest of us. His wheelchair is powered, but not smart. Luckily, the arthritis has not too severely affected his right hand, so he is able to steer himself, and play cards, without help.
Next on the right is Peter, cane hanging from the back of his chair, patch covering his left eye. Scars peek around the edges of the patch, remnants of the accident that took his eye and killed three of our comrades.
Beside Peter is Tom, next to me the youngest. He inherited this old boxing club from his uncle, set it up to live in and invited the rest of us when it became obvious we’d been forgotten. He still walks okay, and so far his hands have escaped the withering. I’ve seen him, though, sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching. How he’ll stumble, just a bit, or lean on a counter and grimace, sweat on his forehead breaking out like condensation on a face-plate.
To my left is Alex, the other one with a wheelchair. His has a powerful chip running it, though, so he only needs to talk to it to get it to do what he wants. But his hands work fine, which is good since he is by far the best cook among us.
I’m Randall, the youngest, still moderately spry at fifty-eight. Sure, my knees are starting to ache with too much work, but my family has had a history of joint problems. This was expected, and only barely hastened along. And so far my hands and back give me little trouble.
Alex takes a quick sip of whiskey and taps my forearm. “Go look out the window, will ya? I’m getting antsy waiting for him to show up.”
Old habits die hard. Alex gives an order, I jump to obey. Well, I slowly get out of my chair and shuffle over to the window, but the idea is the same. I do not hesitate, do not question. Alex gave an order that saved my life once, and it has remained difficult to see him in any light other than that of superior.
The street outside is still quiet, bare. The people in this area have no reason to go out in the day, no jobs to go to, no one worth the risk to visit. But there are many people near us, surrounding us. This I do know. The city is congested, crowded beyond belief, thousands flooding in each day as they run from one disaster or another, swelling the numbers to millions and millions.
My first night here I sat and watched as they came out at dusk, setting up small booths on the street, a market taking shape before my eyes. People; men, women, children, pressing in on each other, elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder. The noise carried to the window, barking, hawking, yelling, arguing, laughing. No room, no space between them.
Tom had seen me and come over, closed the blinds, put his hand on my elbow and steered me to one of the wooden benches, sat me there and left me alone. So did the others, for the whole night. I just sat there, hearing the noise, thinking about the crush. I imagine the others must have gone through this, one at a time, as each moved in, although we don’t talk about it.
During the day, though, it’s safe. No people, no noise except the rumble of anonymous distant machinery, a comfortable sound for all of us. A sound that proves things are still running, that there’s been no breakdown.
I wa
lk back. “Nothing, Alex. Still plenty of time, don’t you think?”
Tom snorts. “Sonuvabitch always thinks there’s plenty of time. Drag his heels at his wife’s death bed, he will.”
Alex fixes Tom with a cold stare, the rest of us looking downward ever so briefly. After a second, Tom mumbles “Sorry” and we all turn our attention back to the game.
“You in this hand, Randall?”
I smile. “No thanks, Jason. Not interested.”
Peter guffaws. “You’d think after twenty-five years you’d get over being sick of this game, Randall. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
Everyone laughs, even me. They can bug me all they want, but each one of us has more than one strange habit left over.
Another hand is dealt, they pass across this time. “What do you think he’ll be like?” asks Peter.
“Hard to say. You’ve seen him on the news, looking pretty fucking spry, standing with the President and all the other politicians.” He almost spits the word. “I imagine still working for the government, they’ve managed to give him the best medical care that we all missed.” Tom plays the two of spades.
We all nod, not bitter about his luck, understanding that he was touched by God since he’d first been selected. Understanding that the touch had become a caress after the accident, after our return.
Jason takes the first two hearts, swallows the last of his beer and opens another bottle. “Shitheads,” he mumbles, but with a smile on his face. Five years of this, holed up together and playing this stupid game, swearing and bitching at each other. But all still friends.
I turn my head, watch the broom for a moment. It seems to be calling to me. After a few seconds that pass for thought I get up and make my way back to the broom, start pushing the dust around again. As I push and sweep, I listen to the conversation that follows the cards.
Over the Darkened Landscape Page 3
