Westlake Soul

by Rio Youers

  Mom’s eyes popped open. “You mean killing him?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, Mrs. Soul.”

  “But ending his life?”

  “Discontinuing life support.”

  “Yes. Ending his life.”

  Dr. Thinker sat back in his chair and the sunlight bounced off his glasses. I could see his eyes now. Small and gold, with flecks of red. Made me think of the Devil. He plucked his ear lobes—perhaps his own nervous habit—and picked up a pen on his desk. Didn’t write with it. Ran his thumb along the barrel.

  “I’m not a counsellor, and I’m not here to tell you what’s right for you and your son.” He tried a compassionate expression, but couldn’t nail it. Maybe because of the red flecks in his eyes. “That’s a decision only you can make, but experience has taught me that, at some point, you’ll ask yourself what Westlake would want. I’m informing you of your options. Nothing more.”

  Dad nodded and Mom’s eyes filled with tears. I flitted, agitated. The shimmer from a candle.

  “I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you.”

  Mom fished a Kleenex from her purse and dabbed her cheeks.

  “Excuse my ignorance,” Dad said. “This is all very surreal and emotional . . . but how would you end life support?”

  “His feeding tube would be removed,” Dr. Thinker replied.

  “Right. Of course.” Dad thought about this for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “So he would starve to death?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t receive the hydration and nutrients required to sustain life.”

  “Don’t pretty it up, Doc. He would starve to death.” Dad shook his head. “Jesus Christ, it’s not like flicking a switch, is it? How long would he take to die?”

  “Impossible to say.” Dr. Thinker moved back into the sunlight. His eyes disappeared. “There are many variables. It can take days, sometimes even weeks, depending on hydration levels in the patient.”

  “Weeks?” Dad said. His voice climbed in pitch. He sounds like Mickey Mouse when he gets excited. Mom sometimes finds it hard to keep a straight face when they’re arguing. “What are we talking . . . two weeks? Three?”

  “In some cases, yes, but again there are many variables.”

  “And I’m sorry . . . did you use the word sympathetic?”

  “It’s a decision you’ll make based on how you feel after a given period of time, and what you believe Westlake would want.”

  “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want to starve to death.”

  “If he were able to think for himself, do you think he would prefer to remain in a vegetative state for the rest of his life?”

  Dad picked at his cuticles and puffed out his cheeks. Mom ruined another Kleenex. There were tiny white shreds in her lap. Down the front of her sweater. Still the tears came. They glowed in the sunlight like Dr. Thinker’s spectacles. I continued to flit around the room, amazed that this conversation was even taking place, and wondering if—when I ghosted back into my physical body—I would be trembling.

  “And there’s no quicker way?” Dad asked.

  “Cedar,” Mom said. “We’re not—”

  “I’m only asking,” Dad said.

  “Quicker?” Dr. Thinker said. “What do you mean?”

  “A pill. An injection.”

  “Cedar—”

  “Euthanasia is illegal in Canada, Mr. Soul.”

  “So inducing a quick, merciful death is illegal,” Dad said. “But allowing someone to starve for an indeterminate amount of time is perfectly acceptable?”

  “I don’t make the rules, Mr. Soul.” I could tell from his clipped tone that Dr. Thinker was growing impatient. There were spots of colour on his cheeks as red as the flecks in his eyes. “I’m providing information so that you can make an informed decision should the situation arise.”

  Thick silence hit the room. It was like blue sky without sunshine. A washed and chilling emptiness. It was broken by Mom, trying not to sob. She hissed, shoulders bobbing, fragments of Kleenex glued to her face by tears.

  “Never,” she whispered.

  I went to her and held her but knew she couldn’t feel me.

  5. Hub.

  His full name is Hubba-Hubba Artful Soul (my parents again, man—I swear to God). He’s a schnoodle, a cross between a schnauzer and a poodle, which means he’s insufferably cute. Golden fur, drops of black liquid for eyes, a warm nose. Now that I don’t see too much of Darryl, or any of the guys, I’d say that Hub is my best friend in the whole world. No, that’s wrong; Hub has always been my best friend in the whole world. It just took a change in circumstances for me to realize that.

  Schnoodles (but don’t call him a schnoodle—dude answers to Hub or nothing) are by nature quite active. They love to play. Fetch sticks. Go for walks. Join in when humans are playing Twister. You know the kind—running around, ears cocked, wanting to get involved. But not Hub. It’s not that he’s lazy. He’s just . . . laid back. What can I say? The dude is cool.

  We got him from a shelter four years ago. He was eight months old at the time. An unwanted Christmas present. Talk of a family dog had been circulating for a while. Lectures in care and ownership. Name suggestions. Breed suggestions. Feeding and walking schedules. Finally Dad declared us ready and we arrived at the shelter as a family, united, but with completely different ideas about the kind of dog we would be leaving with. Dad wanted something dependable and protective, preferably the size of a horse. Mom wanted something with pleasant breath, and that didn’t shed. Niki—going through her Paris Hilton phase—wanted something she could smuggle out of the house in her purse, and that would totally rock a Lady B. Couture dress. I wanted something I could teach how to surf.

  To paraphrase Messrs. Jagger and Richards, none of us got what we wanted, but we all got what we needed.

  Hubba-Hubba.

  Most of the dogs went nuts when we walked into the room, yapping in their cages, pawing at the bars, chasing their tails, fighting for attention. Mom covered her ears while Niki squealed and looked for something suitably purse-sized. Dad rolled his eyes and took a step backward. I could see second thoughts dashing across his face like spooked cattle. One of the few dogs that wasn’t barking—wasn’t doing anything, in fact—caught my eye. He was lying at the back of his cage, one foreleg covering his eyes, like a man with a headache. I strolled over, crouched, looked through the bars.

  “Hey, pooch.”

  Nothing. Only his pink belly moving as he breathed.

  I tapped the bars. He lowered his foreleg and cracked open one eye. This made me laugh. Ever see a dog open just one eye? Doesn’t happen very often. He regarded me for a moment, then closed his eye. The foreleg crept back into position.

  “I think this dog is hungover,” I said. “I want him.”

  Mom and Dad joined me. I willed the pooch to do something—anything—to endear himself to them, but he remained in the same position, as if he’d just returned from a weekend in Amsterdam.

  The attendant gave us the skinny. Unwanted Christmas present. Schnauzer/poodle mix—a schnoodle, by God. Faithful, intelligent, doesn’t shed. Mom was sold. I think Dad was sold on the word, “schnoodle.” Niki wasn’t thrilled, but was outvoted 3-1. She sulked all the way home, texting her friends. I read one of them over her shoulder: FAMILY R RETARDS!! H8 MY LIFE!!! H8 NEW DOG 2!!!

  Didn’t take long to change her tune, though. Less than two hours later, Hub (though still without a name at this point—Mom and Dad were arguing about it) leapt onto the sofa beside Niki and fell asleep with his head resting in her lap. Niki beamed, braces glimmering, as if Kanye West had curled up next to her and assumed the same position.

  “He. Is. Adorable,” she decided, and texted this exciting development to her friends. Hub gave his tail a couple of sagacious wags, and that was it—dude was part of the family.

  My relationship with Hub was always good. He was the Souls’ dog and he loved us all equally, but I was the one who took him for long walks (and not jus
t for a quick poop next to the mailboxes), and sometimes to the Beaches in Toronto, even to Skateboard tourneys. We understood each other. And sure, it would have been bitchin’ to dress him in a Toes on the Nose T-shirt and get him on a shortboard, but that wasn’t going to happen. Dude was—and still is—too cool for school.

  The dynamic changed radically when I returned home after my accident. There’d be no more long walks or strolling along the boardwalk in the sunshine, but I had gained a superbrain and could communicate with Hub on a new and far out level.

  The first thing he said to me was, So . . . you got a king-sized chip on your shoulder? You going to be an unconscionable prick?

  Dude, I said. This deal is temporary. I guaran-fucking-tee it.

  I hope you’re right.

  I am. So chill.

  Dude, he said. I define chill.

  Okay. Talking to dogs. Kind of gnarly. But you should know that it’s not like a normal conversation. We’re not talking in English, or in any spoken language. It’s more like a sequence of symbols and feelings, like mental sign language, with a dash of intuition. This latter is something that all dog owners are familiar with. Ever look at your dog and sense—with eerie certainty—what they are thinking? There’s a connection. Canines operate on a different bandwidth, and every so often are able to break through a human’s cerebral firewall.

  It’s the same with all animals. You just have to recognize the bandwidth, which is one heck of a lot easier, I’ll admit, without the firewall. But again, it comes down to the feather in front of the electric fan. It comes down to letting go.

  So Hub struts into my groovy room a few days ago, slouches next to the Mork chair, his head propped on his front paws.

  I’m in the doghouse, he said. Again.

  What did you do? I asked.

  Took a shit in the garden, he replied, and smiled. Well, on the deck, actually. A sloppy one. Dad . . . not happy. He’s out there with the hose right now.

  Nasty, I said.

  Yeah, and the hose isn’t so much washing it away as distributing it over a wider surface. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Still, that’ll teach him for not taking me for a walk. It’s been three days now.

  Jesus, I said. So that was a protest-shit?

  Hell yeah. A revolutionary shit. I’m like the Che Guevara of the dog world.

  Un chien Guevara, I said.

  Hub cracked another smile. Che Grrrrrvara.

  We both sighed happily. Hub rolled on his side, tongue lolling. My head flopped to the right, tongue lolling. Best friends, man. No doubt.

  You know if I was able to, I said, I’d take you down to the Beaches, go check out the honeys.

  I know that, brother, Hub said. Miss those days.

  Me too.

  You told me it was a temporary deal. Hub’s tail thumped once. Not a happy wag, but an agitated one. That was eighteen months ago, dude. What gives?

  It’s not like I haven’t been trying, I said. It’s painful how hard I’ve tried, and for how long, covering miles of cortical highway, around gyri, over sulci, looking for my exit. And sometimes I feel I’m getting close. Maybe I’ll see a lighted off-ramp and I’ll take it at thrilling speed, only to find that the road loops around to where I was before. It’s like a frickin’ Escher painting, man. You think you’re going up, but you’re only going down.

  I’ll miss our chats, though, Hub said. You know, when you go back to being normal.

  I know, I said. I’ll have to give up all my superhero powers. It’ll be like Superman II, when Kal-El has to become human so that he can be with Lois Lane.

  Whatever, man. I haven’t seen Superman II.

  Right. I shrugged. Have you seen Schnoodleman II?

  That’s not even funny, asswipe.

  It’s kinda funny.

  You’d think, having the world’s most incredible mind, that you’d be able to come up with a funny joke once in a while.

  Any time I say the word schnoodle, it’s funny.

  Whatever.

  No . . . really.

  Hub lifted his foreleg and curled his lip. Tell it to the paw.

  That got me laughing hard. Inside, of course. On the outside I stared at a faint water stain on the wall and drooled. Hub laughed, too, whuffling through his lips, his tail slapping the floor. We’d no sooner stopped than we heard Dad storm into the kitchen, cussing Hub and the Alaska-sized puddle of dogshit that was spreading across the rear deck. This got us laughing again, and so passionately that I could feel a tiny muscle in my jaw twitching.

  There followed a moment’s reverie, during which Hub yawned and licked his lips, and I composed a string quartet arrangement in the key of E minor.

  I came in to see you last night, Hub said, cutting through the rapturous applause in my mind. The lights were on but there was nobody home. Scratch that . . . the lights weren’t on. You were gone, brother.

  Tell me about it, I said. The atmosphere in the house was shitty. Has been for days. I jacked out of here. Went to Springsteen’s pad. He had guests over. Elvis Costello. Tom Morello. They were jamming until four in the morning.

  Sweet, Hub said.

  Then I sat on the edge of the Hudson and watched the sun rise over Manhattan’s skyline.

  Pretty, Hub said. But I think something is going on, man. The vibe is heavy, and Mom was crying. All night.

  She gets upset, is all, I said, but my heart tripped in my chest and sent a flare of pain down my left side. She cries a lot.

  Last night was different, though, Hub insisted. He sat up, looked at me, ears cocked. Dad was quiet, too. Real sullen. Can’t you jump into their minds to find out what’s going on? A little psychic investigation?

  Come on, man, you know I don’t like to do that. An involuntary, almost musical groan escaped me. My head rolled to the other side. Eyes fixed on the window now. A square of grey sky. I see things I have no right seeing. It’s totally uncool.

  Hub settled back down on his paws. I’d just like to know that it’s nothing serious. That’s all.

  And even if I did break into their thoughts, I said. What good would it do? I can’t influence their decisions.

  This is true. There are, unfortunately, limits to my abilities. Just because I have access to other people’s minds doesn’t mean I can control their actions. Wish to hell I could. And sometimes I wish I could make their heads explode, like in Scanners. That would be awesome. But the reality is that humans operate within the tiny bubble of their conscious mind. Freud likened the psyche to an iceberg, with only 10% (the conscious) visible, and everything else (the ego, the superego, and the id—all the bitchin’ stuff, in other words) hidden below the surface. It’s a good metaphor, and for the most part accurate. But I prefer to think of the conscious mind as a wall. Solid and resilient. Not like a garden wall, that you can hop over whenever you wish. More like a barricade, heavily guarded, designed to protect, to keep unwanted things from entering, but also to prevent the essentials from leaving. The conscious mind is more like the Korean DMZ than the topmost portion of an iceberg, believe me.

  I call it the Wall of the Self. It defines you. Built of genetics and experience, with each brick bonded by emotion. The things that make you strong. Every sane human being has this wall (it’s what keeps you sane). I can jump into your mind and see it. I can rap my knuckles against it, too. But the only way to the other side—to get inside you, where I can govern your decisions and communicate at a telepathic level—is for you to invite me in. And that’s not going to happen. Not if you’re sane.

  My wall was destroyed in the accident. Nothing left. To use Freud’s metaphor, the iceberg has flipped for me. I now exist in the 90% you cannot see, with no access to the 10%. Thus, I can’t walk or talk, but can dive into the warm waters of the pleasure principle at will, and totally rock the secondary process. I have access to my psychic energy and all my memories. My soul has grown wings and my brain—despite what Dr. Thinker says—runs at petaflop speeds.

  There are ins
tances when the wall is weakened. During sleep, when the subconscious comes bubbling to the surface, and in moments of impassioned creativity. Artists often talk about being in the zone—channelling their muse. The exterior world fades and they exist, for a delightful moment in time, in a different place. Essentially, they have called the guards down from the wall and opened a tiny window, but one that allows information to pass through. Creativity is all about opening the blockades. Jesus, it’s the reason you’re reading this now. There’s a writer somewhere who thinks he’s making this up, when all the time, I’m passing information through his creative window.

  The inventive and the insane . . . the only people who let their walls down. Make of that what you will.

  Animals have walls, too, but they’re low and unguarded, which makes the exchange of information easier. Oftentimes their heads are empty, but some animals—dogs in particular—are sharp. Hub is no exception.

  You said it yourself, man, he said, getting up and padding around to the other side of the bed so I could see him. The atmosphere in the house has been shitty, and I for one don’t dig it.

  I don’t dig it, either, I said. But it happens from time to time. Mom and Dad probably had an argument and it’s still a little frosty. It’ll pass. Trust me.

  You better be right.

  Of course I’m right.

  Spots of rain against the window, tapping, like some small creature trying to get out of a box. The sky a darker shade of grey. My soul ached to stretch its wings. I imagined a fawn ribbon of sand, The Beach Boys singing “Good Vibrations,” and the refreshing tang of mojitos. I could have released there and then—wanted to—but I stayed with Hub. My buddy.

  It’s been a crazy week, he said. What with the atmosphere, Fat Annie quitting, and nobody taking me for—

  What? I said. Fat Annie quit? Are you serious?