Better not to think of that. Better to turn my attention to the radio, The Beast, and the clairvoyant from California who is finishing her explanation of how she determines a psychological profile from an object owned, or even merely touched, by the “subject of investigation.”
“Amazing,” says Tom when she has concluded. “As my listeners know, Madame Sosostris, I’m nothing more than a country boy, and country boys are by nature a suspicious lot. But who’s to say? Stranger things have certainly happened and I wouldn’t want to discredit anyone’s claim to anything. We’ve got the Bermuda Triangle and all that craziness going on down there, and the evidence seems to point to spacemen having a hand in erecting the pyramids, and Uri Geller has been on Merv Griffin bending spoons with his mind. It seems to me that we have no idea of the ultimate potential of the human brain. All I say is: Who knows?”
Who knows indeed. And, as to bending spoons, Tom Rollins has bent one or two with his mind. Listening to him in the morning over Cocoa Puffs I’ve found that a number of tableware items have inexplicably contorted and twisted in my hands.
“What was it the great Bard said, Tom? There are more things in heaven and earth, Horace, than philosophy ever thought of,” adds Madame.
“And that’s likely true,” says Tom, “but getting back to energy waves and personality and psychological analysis and so I on. That really intrigues me. I wonder if you could give us an on-the-air demonstration? The other day I received a letter in the mail and I was wondering if you could profile the character of the man who sent it by immersing yourself in the energy waves of the envelope. And I say envelope because I don’t want the contents of that letter to give you any clues.”
Vague rustling of paper. “Well, Tom,” says Madame Sosostris, “envelopes are particularly difficult because the sorting machines in post offices tend to rub off the energy waves.”
“But could you try, Madame Sosostris?”
“Yes, Tom, I could. But without any guarantees as to complete, infallible, irrevocable accuracy.”
“I understand, Madame. Nobody is asking you to do the impossible. Just let me pass the envelope over to you.”
“Thank you, Tom.”
An interval of expectant silence.
“Madame, are you getting anything?”
“Tom, the waves are very faint. I believe the postal machines have practically erased them. It’s very difficult.” Hesitation. “Maybe this is a friend of yours?”
“No,” laughs The Beast, who finds the suggestion hilarious, “I’d hardly say that.”
“Just as I thought. I had a sense of hostile emanations but they were quite feeble. They seem to be getting stronger now. Yes, I feel hostility coming off this envelope. Very definitely.”
“Anything else?”
“A lot of hostility and …”
“Yes?”
“I’m not entirely one hundred per cent sure. Perhaps revenge?”
“I’ve got to admit it was that kind of letter.”
“We’re speaking about a very dark soul. The emanations are very, very black. This is a very vengeful person. Maybe even sick. Oh goodness, it’s becoming overpowering! I feel like I’m choking!” A moment to recover, then, conversationally, “There’s sure a lot of hate on this envelope.”
“Male or female?”
“Could be either. Sex gender can’t be determined from emanations.”
“Oh.”
“But I can say definitely that this human being’s profile is sick and vengeful.”
“Dangerous?”
“Could be if provoked. You can’t be absolutely certain with this type of sick and vengeful person.”
“Well, well,” says The Beast, “this has all been very interesting and informative. As to the accuracy of Madame Sosostris’s profile – why, I’ll leave that up to the judgment of our listening audience. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, to you. Because the letter comes from an old friend of ours, the gentleman who regularly calls in to give yours truly, Tom Rollins, what for. How do I know it’s him, you say? Well, Tom Rollins has his sources – sources which for the present shall have to remain confidential.” The Beast decides to let Madame in on the private joke about the local maniac. “Maybe I ought to explain to Madame Sosostris. You see, Madame, I’m plagued by a man who imagines I’ve done him some wrong, or insulted him, or cast some kind of slur on his good name, or something of that kind. He regularly phones ‘A Piece of Your Mind’ – no matter what the day’s topic is – and begins haranguing and harassing—”
“If I could just interrupt,” says Madame Sosostris, “when I called this unfortunate individual sick, I should have been more specific and used the correct medical term. What I meant to say was that he is paranoid. There are very pronounced paranoid emanations coming from that envelope, believe you me. That guy is paranoid sick. A severe case.”
“You don’t have to sell me on that diagnosis, Madame. Paranoid is right. You wonder where these types get their strange notions. Over the past several months I don’t know how many of my programs he’s disrupted with his accusations and complaints. A real pain in the you-know-where. And now he’s taken to writing letters to me. Very disturbing letters.”
“It comes as no surprise to Madame Sosostris. Those are just about the darkest emanations I’ve felt in my entire clinical experience.”
“Well, my experience with this individual has made me reflect. So it hasn’t been altogether a write-off. In fact, I’ve found it quite thought-provoking. So much so I jotted down a few observations. That’s why – right now – I’d like to take a moment to read an open letter addressed to this gentleman – and I use the word loosely. I sure hope he’s listening.”
The Beast cleared his throat. “Dear Aggrieved,” he read, “this letter to you is about democratic rights. As you know, my little program, ‘APiece of Your Mind,’ only exists because we in Canada enjoy Freedom of Speech. To me, Freedom of Speech, along with a number of other Freedoms, is our most precious possession, more precious even than the clean air we breathe and the clean water we drink. In Canada we’re free to criticize our government in the coffee shop, or state our opinion about last night’s controversial TV show, or discuss the book that’s made it to number one on the bestseller list without fear of reprisal from the Thought Police. It’s this kind of freedom that’s made our nation healthy and I, for one, would be willing to die to defend your right to speak up for what you believe in.
“But freedom, Dear Aggrieved, isn’t the same thing as licence. In Canada licence is curbed by rules called laws. Now I’m not saying you aren’t free to criticize Tom Rollins or his program as strongly as you please. I’ve been in the public eye for a long time and I’ve come to learn to expect criticism. There’s an old saying: The tallest tree in the forest catches the most wind. And you can bet I’ve caught plenty of wind in my day. If you remember, a while back I came out strongly for seat-belt legislation at a time when it was pretty darn unpopular to do so, and I made enemies by going against the grain. And I’d do it again because I believe that the life of one child saved is worth any number of enemies.
“But, Dear Aggrieved, remember this. The word Freedom infers fair play and fair play is just another way of saying rules and rules are laws and we have them in Canada, don’t forget. Now you break those laws when you threaten me and forge another man’s name to a document. That isn’t Freedom of Speech. It’s something else. It’s licence.
“I know who you are, sir. Be assured I know who you are. And be assured that if I receive another letter like the one I received the other day I’ll make it warm for you. Like you, I’m a citizen, and, like you, I have rights. I have the right to live without fear of threats. I can’t bend to your will or allow myself to be pushed around. As an electronic journalist I have the duty to promote a free exchange of ideas and opinions. I like to think of myself as an ideas broker and I like to think of ideas as the fuel, the gas, of democracy. I can’t allow myself to be muzzled, because if I did, one
voice of our democracy would be stilled. And one voice stilled is one voice too many.
“I think it’s clear to my listeners what I stand for, what I’ve always stood for. What you might stand for nobody knows. So I’m appealing to you, Dear Aggrieved, to join the majority. Try to do something positive like the rest of us poor slobs. Don’t brood on imagined wrongs and imagined insults. Help make this a better world. Don’t retribute, contribute! Yours respectfully, Tom Rollins.”
There is a dramatic pause to allow this all to gel in our minds. Madame Sosostris breaks the spell. “Beautiful. Just beautiful. And so constructive.”
“I don’t know,” says The Beast, “maybe I’m way out of line here but I felt it needed saying.”
In the next fifty minutes The Beast was treated to a multitude of calls of congratulation and numerous requests for a copy of “Dear Aggrieved.” It had struck a chord in the greater public. A grade seven social studies teacher informed The Beast she often required her class to listen to “A Piece of Your Mind” because it was “contemporary issues oriented.” She also wondered if he could supply her with a hundred copies of “Dear Aggrieved” for distribution to her pupils. Cynicism, she said, was rampant in the eighties.
The market for Rollins’s epistle to Ed was so bullish that towards the end of his program The Beast confessed himself delighted to announce that the owner of station CKKX had made an unprecedented management decision to print “Dear Aggrieved” as a community service and provide copies at “less than cost to any listener who so desired them.”
All the heady applause given The Beast’s excursion into belles lettres unhappily tended to cast Madame Sosostris and her considerable talents in the shade. From the sound of her voice I was pretty sure The Beast had another Dear Aggrieved on his hands. But Madame bravely soldiered on and the last words were hers as she shouted into the microphone her mailing address in Anaheim, California, and the information that “Madame Sosostris is available for psychological profile constructions at an entirely nominal fee via the U.S. Mail for those who cannot attend my seminar at the Holiday Inn, 2:30 p.m., Saturday afternoon, registration fee twenty dollars only!”
Now I wonder if I haven’t hallucinated all of this. I must have, because this very minute, through the windshield of Rubacek’s Grand Prix, I am watching myself, yes me, Ed, waddling up the walk of 918. What a queer sensation it is, too. A little like knowing the dream you are dreaming is a dream. I hold on to that sensation, savouring it, before I realize I ought to be made afraid by what I’m seeing. After all, this isn’t a dream, is it?
Christ, what a morning. I press my forehead against the cold plastic of the steering wheel, trying to force the image clear out the back of my head. It resists eviction. I still see myself, huffing up the walk, glistening snow hip-deep to either side of me.
I open my eyes wide and there I am again, mounting the steps of the house. Ed, or my doppelgänger, is panting steam which flies over my shoulder like rags of cheesecloth. A tan duffel coat is stretched taut over my backside.
It’s the tan duffel coat which causes me to reconsider. I don’t own one. This hallucination has no consistency. The thought strikes me that I am not imagining the fat man inserting the key into the lock of 918. Is it possible? Is this Anthony Peters? A fat Anthony Peters?
Good Lord, he’s got to weigh as much as I do. He’s gross. He must have his pants tailored at Canada Tent and Awning Ltd.
The door closes. Gone. The heartening vision is gone.
Was what I saw Peters? I light a smoke, unscrew the thermos cap and have another drink. I’m staring, and the snowbanks begin to twitch and shiver under the noonday sun like the muscles under the coat of a sleeping animal. I look away, squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh light.
If that was Peters, Hideous Marsha kept a choice tidbit to herself. She never even so much as hinted at what Victoria’s latest playmate weighed in at. Victoria springing out of the frying pan and into the fire. My wife wallowing on the couch of shame with Moby Dick. I have another strange thought: the baby may look like me.
I take another snort from the thermos to jolt the faculties. What are the symptoms of snow blindness? I’ll run a quick check. Eyes open and forward. White snow, blue sky, black elms. All correct. It’s got to be Peters.
I have to see him close up, in the flesh. The car door swings open. Cold air. A scurry across the street. My mitten buried in the yawning maw of the lion, I begin knocking, the frozen air rings. Jesus, it’s cold. He takes his sweet time.
The door opens. It’s the man I saw and he is obese. This is no insubstantial airy doppelgänger, this is real live meat and suet. He’s got ten to fifteen pounds on me, easy. The way I can tell is the eyes. He has those little white bumps just below the lower lid that are symptoms of massive cholesterol build-up. When I bury the needle on the scale I have those.
And he buys his clothes too small. We have an optimist here. The waistband on his trousers is doubled over on itself, burying his belt, and he had to have shoehorned himself into that blazer. God, the man is an oink.
“Yes?”
Here I am without a plan of attack. On a whim I’ve trotted up and pounded on the front door. Clear the head. You’ve got to wing it.
“Yes?” he inquires again.
“Is the lady of the house in?” Brilliant opener, dork.
“No.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back?”
Peters is scrutinizing me very closely. Studying my face in a searching way. “You’re Ed, aren’t you?” he says.
“Fuller Brush.” Oh Jesus, Ed, what are you doing?
He laughs, takes it as a joke. “I recognize you from a wedding picture I saw at Victoria’s. I was hoping we’d meet some time. Come in.” He opens the door a little wider.
One more denial? No point really. Warm house air is mixing with the cold and forming a rolling bank of fog at the threshold. I rip it apart stepping inside.
“Let me take your things.”
I divest myself of parka, scarf, mittens, overshoes. I’m beginning to sweat before I’ve struggled free of it all. In the sudden warmth of the house I feel a little giddy. Drunk? How much have I downed this morning? Can’t remember.
Peters is making conversation. “I see you’re adding a little winter insulation.”
What the hell is he nattering on about? “Pardon?”
He illustrates by stroking his jaw with pudgy fingers. “The beard.”
I realize he is referring to my unshaven state. “Right. Face fur.” Free of my parka in the narrow confines of the hallway I also realize I smell. However, if Peters has caught a whiff of pong he doesn’t let on.
“I’m just having lunch,” he says. “Would you care to join me?”
By the look of butterball Peters, lunch is a euphemism for tucking into the hindquarters of the fatted calf.
“Pass. I’m dieting.” To tell the truth I can’t remember the last time I ate.
“As a matter of fact, so am I,” he says tartly. The boy seems a little prickly about his weight.
I’m curious. “What diet has she got you on?” Victoria had me on them all at one time or another. Dr. Atkin’s Diet Revolution, the Grapefruit Diet, Dr. Pritikin’s Diet. I’m interested to hear what’s current gospel.
“Victoria? You mean Victoria?”
“Yeah. How’s she starving you? I was starved every way known to man and a few others besides.”
“It was my idea. Free choice, really.”
I bet, buster. Don’t parade your balls back and forth before me, I think, as I trail him down an eggshell-white hallway. The hardwood floor is wax and light, Victoria’s handiwork no doubt. The walls are lined with paintings hung gallery fashion. There must be forty or more suspended on fine brass chains fastened to a bar fixed just below the conjunction of ceiling and wall; the colours flicker at the corner of my eye as we pass along the corridor; scarlet, bold yellow, a passage of blue. Anthony is explaining. “My first real love. A year at art sc
hool taught me I’m not a painter. Collecting is my compensation. My little gallery.” A sweeping gesture, deprecating emphasis. He halts our progress. “That works rather well, don’t you think?”
“Works its little buns off.”
This he doesn’t appreciate. “I’d forgotten Victoria said you hadn’t much interest in art,” he says stiffly. “I’m boring you by pressing an enthusiasm.”
“I don’t think Victoria does me justice.”
“You ought to be fair. She’s rather an admirer.”
“Of what in particular?”
“Your potential,” he says, moving on.
I follow him into the kitchen. There’s a breakfast nook with what looks like a bowl of cold soup on the counter. It appears I disturbed him crushing a lemon into it when I rang the doorbell.
“I’m fixing spinach borscht. Would you like some?”
“Is that a cold soup?”
“Yes.”
“In February?”
“It’s low on calories and quite tasty,” he bridles. The guy is very sensitive. He slices a hard-boiled egg into the soup and ladles in some sour cream. “Do you think we might be permitted an indiscretion?” asks Anthony after a time. “I have quite a nice bottle of white we could have with the soup.”
“Why, Mr. Peters,” I say, “indiscreet is my middle name.”
There is a great fuss of uncorking, a bowl of soup is pressed on me, and in a short time the two of us are face to face across the table, spooning up spinach borscht. It has a fine flavour, piquant, rich. I try to remember when I ate last.
“A poor effort,” says Peters. “Winter vegetables.”
“Au contraire, mon frère.”
Anthony parts his lips and trickles a little wine between them. We have taken the measure of one another by now and we know we don’t like each other. He has me pegged as a second-rate boor. I have him pegged as a second-rate snob. I’ve detected, as he’s grown angry, that the slightest suggestion of an English accent has crept into his voice. That is his high-horse voice, the one he assumes to ride roughshod over the wretched, huddled masses. I know what I’m talking about because I do exactly the same thing, adopting a high-flown vocabulary of abuse when working over, say, Benny or the old girls who loitered in the china department. Unnerving, the similarity. I suspect Anthony Peters did graduate work in Britain, though. He has the look of one of those characters who come back to Canada and insist on playing cricket badly with West Indians and Pakistanis who know what they’re doing.
My Present Age Page 17
