Down the Road to Eternity

by M. A. C. Farrant

Then please …

  What we’re trying to get across here, Gwen says to the reporter, is that there’s more to pondering than meets the eye. Pondering can be a fun activity.

  Putting a bit of a light spin on things, Stan says. Aren’t you Gwen?

  The reporter interrupts: But deep thinking. I can’t see it. In my pocket of actuality there’s the man seeking revenge and the wounded man lying in a hospital bed, and there is constant gunfire but no resolution. What of this?

  We live in ponderous times, says Stan.

  Okay, but what of the damaged?

  Ah, the damaged, says Gwen. This is a music we ponderers know. Also traffic, the tarot, our sacred streets, men in white crying for salvation, clouds. What else?

  Ponderence, Gwen, says Stan. We know about ponderance. Which is our mission statement here.

  What Stan means, says Gwen, is that we need to keep things on track.

  Finally, says Stan.

  But deep thinking, says the reporter. I once knew a guy had his head up his ass. All the time. You mean like that? Doesn’t seem like a fun thing to me.

  Well, said Stan, we’d have to look at what fun really is …

  Careful, Stan. There’s a preponderance of guys not ready to be outed.

  My point exactly, Gwen. Which is why we’ve got to keep things general. Think of Martin and Gary and Brad and Imelda. They may be extreme ponderers but they deserve our respect like anyone else.

  Are you suggesting I don’t respect extreme ponderers? Says Gwen.

  I’m not suggesting anything, says Stan. I do wish you’d shut up.

  Another guy, says the reporter, kept his nose in his armpit. Eventually his brains leaked onto to the floor. I don’t call that a fun thing either.

  Of all the nerve, says Gwen.

  JESUS LOVES ME BUT HE CAN’T STAND YOU*

  I’m drinking alone this Christmas.

  I’ve hired a wino to decorate my home.

  I’ve put a bar in the back of my car so I can drive myself to drink.

  Jesus, will you be drinking with me this Christmas?

  Will you be thinking of me if you do?

  My head hurts and my feet stink.

  I don’t know whether to kill myself or go bowling.

  * Compiled from C&W song titles.

  BECAUSE OF RUSSELL EDSON

  They are clearing out old theories, their no-longer-fruitful theories: the theory of possible; the theory of want; the theory of restlessness; the theory of wandering; the theory of lizards; the theory of coffee mugs; the theory of figure skating lessons; the theory of clocks.

  They’ve shoved the old theories into garbage bags and set the bags at the end of the driveway. A propped sign says: Free.

  Behind the living room curtain they watch who stops by.

  A boy on a bike takes the theory of lizards.

  Predictable, says the son.

  A woman with a dog drags off the theory of clocks.

  She’s old, says the mother.

  A woman pushing a stroller grabs the theory of want.

  Makes sense, says the father.

  The daughter lets out a scream. You threw out the theory of want? While I was still using it?

  We thought, says the father.

  How could you? It goes with the theory of desire!

  We got rid of desire last summer, says the father.

  You what? screams the daughter.

  Oh dear, says the mother.

  We’ve still got the theory of open, says the son.

  Open? shouts the daughter. That old thing? I wouldn’t be caught dead.

  Dead? says the father. We threw out dead when you were born.

  Oh dear, says the mother.

  Now I’ll never, cries the daughter.

  Never? says the father.

  Shut up! screams the daughter.

  Didn’t we give never to your cousin Shirley? says the mother.

  Shut up! Shut up!

  SIXTY DEGREES

  The first thing our friend talked about was vampires. He was staying overnight at our house and, while we were having tea, he said there was a woman vampire who lived in his building; she was a regular user of the building’s swimming pool. This was in Toronto. He knew she was a vampire because she’d told him so. He believed her. Something about her eyes, the way she stared at him while he swam. Apparently she’s from Transylvania, he said, which was a dead giveaway. Ha, ha, he said, dead giveaway. Further, this woman was ugly-looking, with dried, yellowed skin like parchment, and stiff, black hair. Not necessarily vampire-describing qualities, he admitted, and said he only mentioned her looks because they contributed to the menace she exuded. She was about forty-five years old. He, on the other hand, was several years older, a celebrated poet and an artist, a man we admired because he lived, we believed, in a permanent state of wonder. He told us that the vampire followed him into the building’s sauna, sat close to him, and pinched his knee. He said he’d never been accosted by a vampire before, and that the incident had scared him. Freaked him, was the word he used. He ran from the sauna. This happened during the day and we asked why a vampire was on the loose during the day; we thought they did their evil work at night. Special powers, he said, maybe it’s different for the women ones, and maybe they have different rules. A few days later, while he swam lengths—again in the daytime—he told us the vampire swam across the pool and slammed into the side of his body. On purpose, leaving a bruise. This vampire assault was the reason, he believed, that his left eye had later gone funny and filled up with blood. Soon after, the vampire disappeared, left the building. Gone on a trip, he supposed, back to Transylvania. The doctor said his eye problem was curious and ordered tests. Meanwhile he’d formed a swimming pool committee. This had to do with the temperature of the swimming pool water, and was not exclusively about the vampire, although she had been involved. There were some residents who liked the water warm, he told us, and some who liked the water cold. The cold water lovers, he said, were dominating the pool temperature. A quiet battle had ensued, which included the bribery of the building manager for access to the pool’s thermostat. The cold water lovers, he said, were more affluent than the warm water lovers; they could afford the bribery fees. Because of this they were winning the war. The warm water lovers were mainly a group of frail pensioners, students, and people handicapped in some way, like him with the vampire bruise and the bloody eye, and, as usual, this group was being marginalized and trod upon by those with money. Sixty degrees. That was the temperature they were battling over. The cold water lovers preferred sixty degrees; the warm water lovers, seventy to eighty. Naturally, he said, the woman vampire, when she was in residence, had been among the cold water lovers, no doubt campaigning for an even colder temperature than sixty degrees. Somewhere around freezing, he imagined. Meanwhile, he was waiting for the test results about his injured eye. It was no longer filled with blood but it was sore, and his vision had become impaired. When he left for the West Coast there had been no resolution about the water temperature, nor had he received the test results. But he was glad to leave the vampire behind. At least he thought he’d left the vampire behind. Did we think he had? Yes, we did. Did we think she might find out where he was now living and follow him to the coast? No, we didn’t think she would. That’s good, he said, she’s probably on a vampire vacation; it’s spring in Transylvania; she’s sure to stay there for the summer. Or maybe she’s attending a vampire convention, or a vampire reunion. Or, ha, ha, he said, a vampire festival where hundreds of vampires gather to have workshops and panels and suck each other’s blood and talk with agents about selling the film rights to their books. He then mentioned the movie versions about vampires that he loved, the old black and white ones made in the forties and fifties, especially Son of Dracula. He liked the Bram Stoker versions, too, and the new movie just out, Van Helsing, which, he said, was doing well at the box office. He checked the movie grosses on his computer every night, he said, the daily takes for all the movies playi
ng in theatres across North America, and in the rest of the world. He didn’t ask to use our computer that night, though; he only asked for something to eat because he’d missed dinner on the ferry ride over. We gave him a late meal of chickpea soup left over from our dinner, and toast and cheese, and a plate of sweet mixed pickles. He’d missed dinner, he explained, because on the ferry he’d been sitting beside an old woman who had a walker parked in front of her, and they’d struck up a conversation. The old woman was worried about how she was going to get off the ferry when it docked. Where was the exit for foot passengers? He said he’d find out for her because he too was a foot passenger and this was important information. The ferry employee told him: See that wall? The one close to where you’re sitting? Well, when the ferry docks, a door opens in that wall, and then you walk through it. He reported back to the old woman: when the ferry docks, you walk through that wall; the wall becomes a door. The old woman became agitated. I’m not walking through any wall, she told him. I’ll help you, he offered. No thank you, she said, I’ll wait here until my family comes and gets me. When the ferry docked he said it was like magic. Suddenly a door appeared in the wall, and everyone walked through it. The old woman stayed seated and refused to move. When he left her, two ferry employees were trying to convince her to walk through the wall but she wouldn’t budge. He, on the other hand, was not afraid. He walked through the wall with the other passengers, down the steel mesh ramp that showed sea water sparkling far below, and reached the waiting room at the terminal. It was wonderful, he said, walking along with the disembarking passengers. Like being safe in the middle of a herd of humans where no marauding predator could pick you off. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, he asked, to be all the time moving through your life like that? It made him think of National Geographic specials on TV, the shows about herds of running gazelles and stalking lions. Only the straying young or the infirm were slaughtered. It made him think, once again, about the woman vampire. You don’t think she’s singled me out for some reason do you? You don’t think she’ll bother me again? I’m not very gazelle-like. No, we said, it’s likely she’s someone who thinks she’s a vampire but is actually a disturbed person with many problems of her own. Oh, he said, that’s a relief. Are you sure? Yes, we said, absolutely. We didn’t know if he believed us; though we were certain that an excellent poem or painting would result from his experience.

  POOF

  A doctor tells a woman during her regular checkup that her black hole is getting larger. Each of us possesses a black hole, he says, because each of us resides in a separate universe. Eventually we disappear down our own black holes. Then, poof, we’re gone! It’s neat. It’s tidy. It’s basic science.

  The woman does not share the doctor’s delight. We are one universe, one brain, she says. We are a flock of humans. And I won’t be disappearing, I’ll be recycled. I’ll be taking my place in the eternal white light. Thereafter to become who knows what? A worm, perhaps. A swan. Trust a male to come up with a black hole. That worn out womb thing. That vagina-gobbling-you-up thing. Crawl back in a hole if you want to. Not me. I’m spring-boarding in a different direction.

  Have it your way, says the doctor. But it’s a proven fact. As we age our black holes get larger. The universe is all about black holes.

  Gobble, gobble, gobble, says the woman.

  Just then a great black thing and a great white thing collide in the doctor’s office and an even greater grey thing is born. It looks like a cloud of ashes.

  My god! The doctor and the woman cry as they immediately age, wither, die and disappear.

  Imagine their surprise …

  A LITTLE SOMETHING

  Fifty thousand vaginas were sent through the mail. Free samples. Part of an ad campaign for a revived play. We couldn’t get ours open. It was shut tighter than a bivalve. “Useless!” My husband cried. “You call that a talking vagina?” I knew how he felt. Last week, a shriveled penis was left on the doorstep. Another free sample. It came with a card: “A little something from the Goddess.” Goddess is a line of lubricants. The penis was supposed to enlarge and chase you around the house and call you baby when rubbed with the cream. No dice. I couldn’t even get it to squeak. The cream’s a fraud. The penis lay on the dining room table like an old carrot. Then the cat dragged it off but gave up trying to chew it because the skin was so tough.

  We’ve buried the vagina and the penis together in the back garden. Perhaps a little something might erupt through the dirt this spring.

  SPRING IN NORTH AMERICA

  A man sits on a city curb with fir seedlings attached to his hair and a sign that reads: The Civil War Starts Here.

  A girl called Plain Trouble sits nearby. Her sign reads: Potent Guys Please Apply. She wants a baby but most of the sperm is dead.

  A boy holding a plastic cup for change joins them. His name is Ozone. His sign reads: I’ve Got Early Decadence Syndrome.

  A gang of children passes by and throws hamburger cartons at them. Otherwise—anonymity.

  It is spring in North America. The sun shines in biblical slants through the buildings. Light glints off windows, chrome, sunglasses …

  A crew across the street has set up a sign that says, Filming in Progress. They’re working on a popular TV show called Final Decisions. Today’s segment follows a woman while she purchases a dress for an important End Times Banquet. To spice things up the producers will add a vicious white monkey who is infected with the Ebola virus. After the dress is purchased the monkey will chase the woman through city streets.

  A crowd gathers to watch the shoot. Many hold placards with the shopping woman’s name writ in large letters. Beneath her name: We Love You.

  A derelict couple pauses beside the three on the curb. They’re worn out from wandering and sit down. The woman carries a sign that reads: Who Would Have Dreamed? The man: Poems by Bob Buddhism.

  Since it is spring in North America, there’s warmth on faces, hands; a gentle breeze blowing cartons along the pavement …

  FRIDGE MAGNET PEOPLE

  On the plane to Toronto I sat beside a man who was touring cross-country with fridge magnets. “I’ve got the latest thing in fridge magnets,” he said, snapping open his case. “They’re called ‘Types.’” He showed me his samples—miniature people that lit up when stuck to a smooth surface. There was a woman jogger in a blue track suit; a bank manager with a menacing look on his face holding a sheaf of documents; a kid in a backwards ball cap balanced on a skateboard; an old woman in a fur coat with a look of pride on her face. The salesman was doing five home shows in two weeks.

  I started seeing fridge magnet people everywhere. For example—myself. I was a woman in black clutching a book, the latest thing in imagination this season. I was on a book tour—one city in half a day. I lit up when stuck to a podium.

  The stewardess lit up when her hands made contact with the tray while serving our drinks. She told us she was going on tour next week with a cookbook for people with gluten intolerance. There’d be TV interviews throughout the province of Ontario.

  In the hotel café the waitress lit up while cleaning the counter and telling me about her sulphur-crested cockatoos. She’d be touring with them in summer—four bird shows in three weeks.

  When I returned home my husband—middle-aged, jeans, grey beard—lit up when his hand slapped his forehead; he’d had a brain wave. “Why haven’t I thought of this before?” he said. “Smith!” nodding at our nineteen-year-old cat. “I’m organizing a motivational tour. Smith’s story can provide inspiration to elderly cats and their owners.” The cat lit up when stuck to my husband’s lap.

  At the Dollar Store the gum-chewing teenager with the eyebrow ring lit up while working the shiny keys of the cash register. She told me she was going on tour with her Dad. “He’s filming the faceless,” she said. “There aren’t that many faceless people left. He’s found one old guy hiding out in a shed in Saskatchewan. It’s that guy’s boring story. Boring’s the new cool.”

 
Alighting on smooth surfaces—it seemed some kind of key …

  PERPETUAL CODA

  1.

  We bring our perfect intelligence to bear upon the situation, which is to say, our lives, which is to say our reasons; where the essential story is the one in which the world outlives our dreams, where human death outlives our knowing; where the sorry view is the one in which we stand, step, weep, and die; where bitterness produces stories that caricature mankind, hence our need for love, that neutralizing force we wear on our sleeves like an IV drip of soda; where memory is the salvation of the retired and the overwhelmed, but frequently a gift we give ourselves; where most understandings are accidental, the result of an ontological crapshoot; where self-admiration is a violent knowing that obscures all light; where the mythical forest is ourselves; where we lunch on lyric expressions, imagining rescue, escape; where our time demands simplicity as counterpoint to excessive detail—or so it seems—like a basic formula; where I am a woman stumbling without hope towards enlightenment as surely as if it were heaven; where I am a woman whose steps are dogged by violent reasons.

  2.

  We bring our perfect intelligence to bear upon small-time metaphysical points; where hope propels us towards heartbreaking wisdoms; where any church attempts to neutralize the natural acids that would caricature mankind; where love is our reward delivered often without enlightenment as though through a fog; where we lunch on various Buddhas still imagining rescue, escape; where hope is pinned on eternity; where thinking demands simplicity as counterpoint to excessive heart; where I am a woman participating in the small-time greedy view; where I am a woman stumbling towards love, light and the mythical forest.

  3.

  We bring our hunger to bear upon the situation, which is to say, our reasons; where the story, like a basic dream, is the one in which we stand, step, weep, and die; where understanding is frequently accidental, or the result of formula; where some of us engage in the work of archiving metaphors; where some of us can name at least seven bitter stories that caricature mankind; where love is the story of our heartbreaking wisdoms; where memory is the story of our IV drip of routine, which is to say, our violent knowing; where in every human death there is a story about land mines; where I am a woman stumbling towards the perpetual coda; where I am a woman stumbling as though through a fog.