Savage

by Nathaniel G. Moore

  "OK."

  "See you soon," Dad said, a minor winter howl sneaking inside for a second, only to be snipped off by the door closing.

  I stepped towards the front door to see Dad smoking and backing out; our weird two-tone grey second-hand Oldsmobile had trails of exhaust billowing a temporary cloud onto the street. Mom would be home from Community Care East York, where she worked Mondays in a basement office, mostly filing and faxing and calling the elderly and their immediate families.

  I fished around in my corduroy pockets, remembering the clipping I had cut out from a newspaper at the school library. Last night was Wrestlemania VII, and the results were published in Monday’s paper. I pulled it out and read as I chewed my creation.

  Hulk Wins 3rd WWF Title! Plus, Warrior Ends Randy’s Career! More on S15.

  Despite delivering five big top-rope elbow drops on the Warrior, Macho King is no more, as The Ultimate Warrior bested Randy Savage in their career-ending confrontation at Wrestlemania VII last night in Los Angeles. In other big matches, The Hart Foundation (Bret "Hitman" Hart and Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart) lost the WWF tag-team belts to The Nasty Boys, managed by Jimmy Hart, and Hulk Hogan became a three-time WWF Champion when he defeated Sergeant Slaughter (with his advisor Colonel Mustafa, an Iraqi military personality who was rumoured to be a close confidant of Saddam Hussein) in a bloody encounter in which Slaughter got a hefty dose of justice at the hands of Hogan...

  *

  It was Friday evening. After some miserable meatloaf, boiled green beans and a soft-core salad (iceberg lettuce, choke-cut carrots, frayed celery and dressing-drenched raisins), I was in my bedroom watching Holly do laundry. She was back from university in Kingston for the weekend. When she came to the pantry in the basement stairwell to sneak beers, I poked my head out.

  "I didn’t know you were coming back this weekend." I said.

  "Yeah, last-minute thing," Holly said, blowing her bangs from her eyes, putting the beers into her laundry basket.

  "I have to do a multimedia thing tomorrow for English. Like film it with some guys from class. On the play Death of a Sales Guy."

  "Man," Holly said, dragging her still-warm laundry into my room.

  "Yeah, Man. These guys from class are coming over."

  "Andrew?"11

  11. We had quarreled in January while watching Madonna’s Justify My Love video, which Andrew had taped. This full version he had taped was a hot property, and he wanted me to see it because it was banned in late 1990 when it was released. He kept putting it on PAUSE/STILL as Madonna undulated in black lace panties. Andrew shut the door to his den and began to prod and poke at my semi-erect penis with one hand as his high-powered VCR slow-motion scanned the shot of Madonna’s lace covered behind writhing in black and white. I got up to leave, feeling a strange reluctance to participate. I got up off the couch and stormed out, with Andrew’s condescending tone reverberating down the stairs, something about never talking to me again. I walked home feeling angry and somehow relieved. We had just started speaking again weeks later in early March, the incident erased.

  "No, he’s not in my class."

  "Don’t tell Dad," she said, putting a bottle of beer into the laundry basket. "What time are they coming?"

  "Noon."

  Holly was balling socks. "This laundry is a futile abyss."

  "Maybe you could be in it, like the video we gotta do, help us out?"

  "No way. Going shopping; can’t."

  *

  "I’m going to punch that little bitch in the tits next time I see her!" Holly shouted on the phone. I shook my head and torpedoed down the stairs to my room. I had no time to spare; those idiots from school would be over in less than two hours to work on our English assignment.

  I shifted my custodial activities to the basement, attempting to normalize it. Mom chimed in, with her usual mauve sweater, and exhausted, dowel-eyed glare. I was halfway down the stairs.

  "Better clean your room!"

  To which I retorted, "Those jerks aren’t going anywhere near my room!" Then I laughed maniacally. "They will never see my laboratory, my master plans, my secret hidden..."

  "All right, fine," Mom growled. "Help me unload the dishwasher!"

  I knew finding material to add realism to the video project wouldn’t be hard; props were in abundance; excess wood, metal and plastic objects were everywhere. Mops, lumber, pipes.

  From where I stood, I could see that my bedroom door was ajar. I had moved my geeky sci-fi props from the main basement into my room (wooden guns painted grey and black, model space ships and other odd creations were covered with clothing). The thought of strangers from school sitting on my bed, asking me questions about my choice in décor or requesting an explanation after giving me a what the hell is that? twisted-teenaged face in regard to a Star Wars prop made me shudder with disgust and terror.

  Mom shouted, "What time are they supposed to be here?"

  "They’re coming at noon, I told you already!" I shouted up the dirty stairwell.

  "Do they want food?"

  Mom had a thing about food and people coming over, no big deal but really, even the most minor snack getting plus-oned was enough to throw her into a fit; as if another hot dog or peanut-butter sandwich was the equivalent to fixing a rack of lamb followed by a deep-dish seven-cheese lasagna.

  "I told them to eat their own food outside in the driveway before coming in."

  "Oh, be quiet," Mom said. "Just answer the question."

  "I don’t know; think they probably will have eaten."

  "Well, you should have asked them," Mom said, shaking her head and vanished in a wash of late-morning noise.

  "I can’t think of everything," I said, appearing with a half-full plastic bag. I shoved it into the kitchen garbage can. "But it’s been a big learning experience for all of us."

  The boys arrived just after twelve, refusing at first to really speak to or accept any offers of sustenance from Mom. She helped them put their coats away and repeated the offer of a hot drink or sandwich.

  "I thought we’d start in the basement; there’s way more room."

  Politely repeating their refusals for sustenance, they swished their way down to the basement, wall-pawing in astonishment along the way.

  "Just let me know if you get hungry," Mom said, with a shake of her head in all directions that at once amused and confused me. She mouthed something as I left the kitchen, but I couldn’t decode it in time.

  I carefully shepherded them past my bedroom door.

  "Uh, is this your room?" Stephen asked.

  "No, it’s the basement."

  "Where is your room?"

  "Upstairs."

  I lied.

  Once the minuscule red REC button went on, the camera was capturing us in all our bad-acting glory, our ums and uhs, stutters, and I dunno’s and oh shits.

  "Uh, can we start over?" Stephen Chaing asked, his braces covered in shiny elastics, bits of dribble pooling along his lips.

  "No, just keep going; we’ll edit it out," I shouted.

  "Where’s the script?" Stephen asked.

  In class, Stephen used mechanical pencils and chewed on his eraser. I also remember his very, very bad breath and how his braces kept his mouth constantly agape—a further public cruelty.

  I moved the shoot into the next scene. "What act are we on now?"

  "Still, ah, act one, I think."

  For some reason we decided to narrate the scenes from the play in fake British accents, perhaps taking our cues from Stephen, who began speaking in this slant when we started to shoot news-desk commentary scenes.

  "Jesus, if this guy owned a funeral parlor, nobody would die!" I shouted.

  "What’s that?"

  "What’s what?"

  "That line?"

  "From Wall Street."

  Stephen had headgear and braces, and spat when he talked. He wore a tie and played three different roles. He was nervous, doubtful of my creative ideas, but for the most part, coop
erative.

  "It’s cold down here," Jeremy12 said.

  12. Jeremy was a nice enough guy. I remember he wore a blue mock turtleneck. He wore Dad’s bowler hat in one scene. I hated having them backstage in my real life. Still, we did a good job and got a pretty good mark, though our teacher, Ms. Fertuck, admonished us for being a bit too tongue-in-cheek and comedic.

  I scanned the script.

  "Hey, I just thought of something! For that scene with Willy and the hose, when he tries to kill himself, we can use the vacuum cleaner!" I beamed. "It’s perfect. Those hose parts!"

  "I guess," Stephen said. "Uh, you don’t have a normal hose?"

  "What’s a normal hose?" I countered. "I don’t have a box full of hoses to choose from."

  We all paused at the sound of Mom’s footsteps on the metal stairs. A pained smile and bright-eyed greeting, as if she were flexing her pupils, took over the basement. All this action previewed her inquisition.

  "How’s it going?" she asked as she entered the basement, carrying a tray of food and beverages. "Thought you guys could use a break," Mom said, setting the wooden tea tray down on a small table.

  "Yum, radioactive pink water and egg-salad sandwiches," I said. I hated the strong egg smell, but thanked her.

  "Let me know if you need anything else," Mom said, leaving the basement, returning to the surface.

  The boys nodded, slurped on their drinks, took quiet bites from the soft oozing egg salad on brown bread. "Let’s film the rest upstairs in the den. We have a piano; it might look good in the background," I suggested.

  "Uh, who says that line again?"

  "Which line?" I asked Stephen.

  "Ah, the one that goes, ‘He’s liked but he’s not well liked.’ I think it’s Biff, right?"

  "I’ll check."

  We moved the filming upstairs, taking the fireplace and piano as our backdrop.

  Stephen was now playing Linda, Willy’s wife. He wore an old hat of Mom’s from the 1970s, a floppy felt black one with a thin pink ribbon that went all the way around. "Willy, darling, you are the most handsomest man in the world," Stephen said, putting his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

  "Thanks," he said. "Shit, that’s not right," Jeremy said.

  "Should I keep going or stop it?" Stephen asked, the camera humming along, recording everything.

  "Just keep going," I said. "We’ll fix it."

  At my direction, Jeremy stood by the fireplace, walked over to the piano, paused, then looked off-camera. The camera followed. "Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You finally pay for it, and there is no one to even live in it," Jeremy said, trying his best to remember the line.

  Stephen and I looked down at a scrap of paper where we had written in all capital letters: ATTENTION MUST BE PAID!

  "That’s Linda’s big line," I said.

  Jeremy looked at Stephen. "You were great as my wife."

  "OK, so let’s do that line, the one about, you know, the one where he says, ‘I realized what a ridiculous lie my whole life has been,’ OK?"

  Soon it was time for the abject hose scene. I intentionally overacted the scene, struggling with the vacuum hose as if it were a live snake. Everyone cracked up.

  "You guys OK in here?" Mom asked, poking her head through the door frame.

  "Cut," I yelled. "Let’s do that again, and Jeremy will try to hide the hose and Stephen you come in and ask what he’s doing."

  Mom shut her mouth slowly into a flat line. She saw me holding the vacuum hose extension and shook her head. "Just be careful, Nate," she said, disappearing again.

  "We’re almost done: just the car-washing scene. We can do that with Lego."

  "You have Lego?" Stephen asked, his face trussed in judgment.

  "Sure." I said. "Why wouldn’t I have Lego? Everyone has Lego."

  "Oh, Nate, I’m picking up Holly from the subway. I’ll be back in half an hour or so."

  "OK, thanks for the newsflash."

  Setting up three Lego men beside a toy car, Stephen did the final commentary, his sloppy pronouncements the results of egg salad, his severe dental work and forced British accent: "Willy becomes immersed in a daydream. He praises his sons, now younger, who are washing his car. The young Biff, a high school football star, and the young Happy appear. They interact affectionately with their father, who has just returned from a business trip."

  Slow fade.

  "That’s a wrap, boys!" I said. "I’ll be right back; hold on a sec."

  I ran to the front of the house, knees on the pink couch, peering through the curtains to see if Mom had returned with Holly. The driveway was blank.

  The phone rang. I hoped it was Andrew or Holly.

  I picked up before the third ring. It was Dad.

  "Is your mother there?"

  "Nope," I said. "She went to get Hol." I twirled the cord in my fingers, turning them beet red.

  I could hear a faint organ playing in the background. It was death, and now I knew that it was true. It was that close. He was there. Working.13

  13. Dad started working at a few funeral homes in late 1990 after several months of secret temp work, the result of his being fired from Aaron Elliot Ltd., a Toronto insurance firm where he had worked as an environmental insurance specialist for the last five years.

  Dad asked some more questions, his voice remixed in an indiscernible glaze but with the same focus. I just snapped in frustration, "I don’t know! Ten minutes ago? OK, I’ll tell her, I’m busy, school project—" and hung up.

  I scuttled on my sock feet along the tiles, stopping at the cupboards, doors smacking into their frames, quick pours and plopped in some ice cubes, returned with three glasses and a bowl of chips.

  Ejecting the videotape from my camcorder, I put the tape into the VCR, hit rewind and sat down on the floor.

  The VCR gears whirred.

  When it finally stopped, I pressed play. Instantly we began to laugh, watching the inside of my house transform into the Loman household: the bad costumes, the bad acting, the stammers and acne.

  "Oh God!" I choked.

  Stephen was chomping away as the opening shot played out, his braces overcome by pre-digested potato chips.

  Mom was home, her feet across the carpeting, down the hallway.

  "You guys OK?" she asked. When her eye scan met me, her eyebrows went up high, along with her voice. "OK?"

  "No, we’re all dying. Help us," I said. I hit PAUSE on the tape.

  "I went to get your sister, and she wasn’t there. Did she call?"

  "No."

  "It’s pouring out. Do you boys have umbrellas? I can drive you to the corner when you’re ready to go." The boys nodded in slow motion.

  "Oh, Mom, Dad called looking for you. He is coming home at seven, he said, with two dead bodies."

  She was now upstairs, probably in the master bedroom. We returned to our academic video theatre. Squirming on the couch, I hit PLAY.

  "Oh, come on!" Mom yelled. "Don’t give me that!"

  I shuddered at the shrill reverb.

  Stephen stared at me. I blocked them out and listened to the shuffling upstairs and cringed at Mom exhaling dramatically and stomping, "Well, when will you be back?"

  I turned the volume up on the television.

  Mom’s voice tore through the afternoon. "I WAS THERE!"

  I could still feel the boys’ eyes on me but wasn’t going to let them in; it was all business, a class assignment. I focused on the television. I eyed the chips. Took a sip of icy juice. We laughed at our British accents.

  "Not bad," Stephen said, reaching for some chips. "I think it’s OK, I mean, we gotta edit it."

  "I’ll edit it," I said.

  I wiped some egg salad residue off on my pants. "I think it’s great. Fertuck will like it. When are we presenting again?" I asked.

  "I think we’re third, so probably not ’til uh, Tuesday," Stephen said.

  It was nearly five o’clock when Stephen and Jeremy left, having narrowly escaped the prospect
of staying for dinner and working into the night. I felt relieved watching them walk down the driveway into tiny rainy blurs.

  "They seem nice," Mom said.

  "Yeah, they are the best friends a boy could ever ask for."

  "Oh, be quiet and set the table."

  "I will. I just have to make a phone call."

  "Who are you calling?"

  "The prime minister," I said, and dialed Andrew’s number on the kitchen phone and pulled the cord around into the hallway.

  "He’s helping me with my assignment." The last four digits of Andrew’s number were permanently etched into me, and when Andrew got the number, he told me it was sixty-four, thirty-six, and I remembered how he pronounced the two numbers instead of four. I heard him saying those numbers whenever I dialed.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, recognizing Andrew’s voice when he picked up.

  "Nothing. Going out for dinner. Then might play squash."

  "Oh," I said. "Squash, huh. You love that now."

  "What?"

  "Squash. I thought we could play hockey after dinner."

  "Naw, too dark," Andrew said.

  "Yeah, you’re probably right," I said. "Who you playin’ squash with?"

  "Alex."

  "Oh."

  "What are you doing?" Andrew asked, half-enthused.

  "Just finished my English project, Arthur Miller thing. Salesman. Who’s in your group again?"

  "Stuart and Cam."

  "Oh."

  "Hey, is your dad working at the funeral home now?"

  "Uh," I stalled, "whaddaymean?" My heart sank. A choke was building around my throat. I remembered the joke Andrew had with his dad, who was round and fat: So you’re going to be around the house? Emphasizing around, as in mass, as in elastic, as in—

  "My brother says he saw your dad14 there all weekend."

  14. I could just imagine my father’s interaction at Beverly Funeral Home, quick to laugh at his own jokes, stepping on everyone’s silent pauses and excusing himself for cigarette breaks. Dad had method-acting intensity; he treated everyone, no matter what age, in the exact same way. A child’s ball would find itself in the path of his car on a family trip, and he’d pull over and get out and begin to lecture the tot. I would begin to panic, heart flooding into my lungs as the parents of the confused youth would come down the driveway onto the street, where Dad would continue his sermon, the same speech: how he was right and they were wrong and that this should not have happened. He loved his voice and sang in the choir. Mom would get nervous whenever a hymn began. Dad sang loud and odd, perhaps out of a necessity to be heard. “I’m doing the harmonies,” he would say. When he was young the choir master taught him to sing harmonies, which is fine, but to the general pedestrian world, well, kids in Sunday School would often ask me, “Why does your Dad sing off-key all the time?”