Record One: Peep Show

by Allthing Publications

  I’m smoking a cigarette with a blue stripe on the filter, a beer-and-a-smoke kind of cigarette that imprints on my lungs a hot patch tingle. Not a Dunhill, a Canadian Classic. The pack has snow on it.

  Despite the warmth of an atomic orange hoodie and thick green-scale lumberjack-chequered pyjama pants, I’m sick as a parrot on a three-day saltine bender. My nostrils are dripping. Wiggly phlegm is coalescing in my throat.

  The wind tends to blow in on the twenty-eighth floor, and I’ve taken precautions. There’s a pair of dark blue skinny jeans slotted under the door with a wet Martha Stewart-striped towel to prevent smoke swirls from sliding into the living room where Mom and Dad are on the Internet. A plastic fan whizzes against the breeze—blades speckled with soot and ash because I only look at them when they’re spinning—and I try to exhale into it from behind, into the window.

  I don’t know it’s my last cigarette. At a more basic and less demanding location in my brain, where the fundamental processes that keep me alive are carried out by idiots and country bumpkins, I’ve known for a while. I’ve felt the tipping point approaching on piles of guilt and cancer-Googling.

  I smoke by the window nightly; otherwise, I’d have to step onto the terrace in coat and shoes, count airplanes and risk getting sick. My window opens max eight inches sideways, compressing air into a fanned-out stream of needle-thin icicles. The ground floor probably has windows that open farther. I butt out in a clay ashtray that’s traveled with me from South America to the Caribbean to Toronto and smell my fingers before readying for bed.

  Falling asleep is not pleasant. My last puff is twenty minutes gone and my mind is fucking the brains out of its memory to make it come back. I think about how cancerous chemicals will be cannonballing with each piss and I feel cleansed, jittery, like my unshaven antibodies, seven years nicotine’s bitches, are beginning to shake off the warm tar of my dreamy addiction mellowing their violent natures and allegiance to me. On the dresser, the television is on to blanket the rustling of the vertical blinds; my window isn’t hermetically sealed. I prefer the voices of sportscasters; reporting deaths makes them uncomfortable. Even though deep down I don’t want to quit and would rather die at fifty-five after a solid thirty-eight of lung-crunching bliss, I close my eyes to the Score’s Games of the Night and whisper “Max Pacioretty... Max Pacioretty... Max Pacioretty” because his name sounds like peanut butter.

  Three a.m. and my kidneys can suddenly work. I’ll be up in the middle of the night for months pissing tobacco ooze, hurriedly in an attempt to preserve the half-dazed haze of sleep. I flip my pillows over and push my toes out into the lip-cracking cold, then back under, searching for temperature equilibrium. My bed is three feet tall, old enough to weigh noticeably more than it did new. I block the television’s glare with a carefully placed fold of comforter that’ll stay still only if I do and instantly want to turn on my side; I will put out for thick sweet smoke like that fat chick on Maury that fucked strangers for cheeseburgers. It’s when I recognize the script and realize that SportsCentre, which I flipped to when Games of the Night looped over, has looped over too that I set the sleep function to 90 minutes and trail away into a one-shot withdrawal nightmare.

  I’m running in the dark across a field of Kentucky bluegrass; it’s windy and oak leaves are whistling to hide the sound of their branches knocking boots. Chasing me is Trent Reznor with a sawed-off shotgun. His eyes, stretched wide with alt-rock, proto-Marilyn-Manson lunacy, are as level as a Steadicam. He is dressed in black rags arranged into a sleeveless tee and leather pants simulacrum. I don’t know what he wants or what I’ve done to put us in this predator-prey context.

  Fifty yards ahead there’s a shoddy wooden garage with a jeep in it; the shingles resemble a violated honeycomb. The inside smells of mould and disintegrated root beer. In the corner by the left headlight, a scythe, a rake, and a hoe lean together like the arse of a bar joke. I see Reznor through a crack in the wall. He giggles feigned dejection. His combover is smoother than the top of his skull and his bangs touch nostril in a languid droop. I inch around to put the car between us; the crisp chuck-chuck of the loading gun affords me the instant I need to get under the jeep while he circles it. My plan is to crawl with Reznor’s feet so we shift dirt and gravel at the same time à la Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption.

  I wake up in the vicinity of 10 a.m. in a fit of deathy pangs, shaking like there’s a midget in my midsection trying to push himself out my skin by striking a kneeling ta-da! pose. My stomach wants coffee and three cigarettes for breakfast, but all I can handle from the fridge is Minute Maid fruit punch juice boxes cut with a double shot of tap water. I lie down again and take short, frequent sips watching the highlights I listened to through my comforter the previous night.

  Refusing lunch I pace from my bedroom door to the kitchen thirty feet away and back; my stomach is dilating with bubbles of citric acid and it tugs for eggs Benedict, the exercise is distracting, and outside is full of other people. Artaud thought he could feel his blood flowing: I’m sure the full-body clench I feel on my two-thousandth step is the toxin exodus doubling in numbers. I plop on the couch to rest burning calves and close my eyes and convince myself I’m wilting while I pound fruit punches. The couch is brown, a poor man’s velvet, but it may as well be the real thing; I have only a moderately certain idea of velvet’s texture. I watch a two-day Top Gear marathon on BBC America, and it heals me like a forehead smash from Benny Hinn.

  The staple of British television assuages my sensitivity, which has heightened considerably since the previous evening. I jump at dishes clinking in the sink; the microwave’s quintuple beep keeps sounding off minutes after it’s finished; I tear up when I see Andy Roddick winning the U.S. Open on SportsCentre’s Top 10 segment entitled “The Top 10 Tennis Celebrations”; I forget to breathe when a lady from Omaha can’t think straight in the perennial brightness of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and answers “bunting” when she knows it’s “pennants” in the U.S. of A.

  There’s confrontation and emotional stirrings from every energy source except Top Gear’s James May, Richard Hammond, and Jeremy Clarkson, a trio medicinal by ubiquity: when the first two wish Clarkson would die for his unending smugness and systematic racism, they say it in jest.

  The episode I’m watching challenges the men to drive hot hatchbacks from Lucca to Canelli, Italy foraging individually for each of the following items: a dog, a CD from a service station (which has to be purchased without leaving the car), a branch from a cedar tree, some ice, a picture with as many people he can fit inside the car, a bicycle, and a vine.

  My mother, sitting at the beige and swamp-green dining table, asks me how I’m doing with a pause on the word “doing” that signifies “How are you doing at this stage in the smoking cessation process?”

  “I’m dying.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asks.

  “I’ll think.”

  She sits next to me and learns what a cedar tree looks like and I have a good shuddering cry for the first time in years.

  At 9 p.m., I stand and stretch to the episode when Clarkson is caught fucking a black Alfa Romeo in the show’s military-green hangar/studio at the BBC. Hammond and May go for the obvious “What the hell are you doing?” and Clarkson says, “An Alfa Romeo.”

  In the shower, the water is stabby but steaming. There are two frilly carpets on the floor but no safety mat in the tub. The midget trying to rip my skin decides at the end of my three-minute shampoo to dig a hole as an alternate escape route. He places his knuckles on my sternum and kneads; it doesn’t so much hurt as waddle on a cellular level. I put a cheek against the cold yellow tile on the wall and pretend I’m in a spa that offers ice baths as well as a sauna.

  Pyjamas pre-warmed in the drier, Napanee Home Hardware t-shirt and beige and maroon chequered pants, I beam with post-shower tickle for the same seven seconds that that bucket of water felt good on James Hetfield’s face after he stepped into those fireworks
in Montreal in 1992. I say goodnight to my parents at a quarter past 10 p.m. to decrease my odds of relapsing on the first day. The blinds are still grinding like reggaeton dancers. I smell my fingers and get Dove.

  One of Those Days

  Katherine Luczynski

  I sit in my futon in my bedroom and flick through Facebook status updates on my iPhone. The sun streams through the blinds and brightens my already bright yellow-painted room.

  My iPhone starts buzzing and a number I don’t recognize flashes across the top of the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Katherine? I’m calling from MIJO about the closed captioner position you applied for a few weeks ago. Your resume looks great! Could you come in for an interview this coming Monday?”

  “Hello, yes. That sounds wonderful.”

  We work out the details. The interview is Monday at 9 a.m.

  “Ahhhh! I got an innnnnterview! I am da booooooomb!” I sing and jump around on my futon.

  *

  Fast-forward to Monday.

  “Fuck! It’s 7:50 already?!” I scream and grab my travel mug, filled to the brim with coffee, and rush out the door, much to the dismay of my black and white cat Kiki, who spent the last half-hour making figure-eights around my legs. I’m not wearing pantyhose, so at least my legs aren’t covered with fur. Instead, they’re covered in hives. I only found out about my cat allergy after getting Kiki, but I could never give her up.

  I jet down the stairs and run across the parking lot to my black Echo. Kipling Station is only about a twenty-minute drive from my condo. I can make it. I can totally make it.

  *

  “Shit!” I scream. I slam my steering wheel and hit the brakes. My car screeches to a halt at the fifth red light.

  I’m only at Dundas and Tomken, not even halfway to Kipling. It’s 8:15 a.m. My interview is downtown at 9 a.m.

  The next seven lights each turn yellow as I approach them. Normally, I’d speed through them, but every time I’ve been too far to attempt it without smashing into another car and veering into a pole, building, or bus shelter. “Young woman dies terrifying death by bus shelter.” I’d rather avoid that headline.

  At 8:30 a.m., I’m circling around the Kipling parking lot. I peer past the wooden fence as I drive outside the lot. Earl, the oh-so-lovely TTC worker, wouldn’t let me put my $5 into the machine unless I actually saw a free space. There aren’t any spaces.

  I’m already late because of those damn red lights, and maybe because I couldn’t figure out which shoes worked best with my outfit. I finally settled on my new grey BCBG flats, which only took about half an hour. But those red lights definitely didn’t help the situation.

  Finally, I see a spot in between two SUVs. I’ll just be able to squeeze in. I speed toward the parking lot entrance and press the intercom button.

  “I saw a spot, Earl! Let me in!”

  “Sorry, ma’am, the lot is full. We can’t let you in at this time.”

  “I just drove around the lot. There’s still a space left! Just let me pay. I’m late for an interview!”

  “Are you sure you saw a spot?”

  “Yes!”

  “Because the TTC won’t refund your money if it turns out there’s no spot.”

  “Okay. Fine. Whatever. Just let me pay!”

  I push my coins into the slot. The gate lifts. I speed down the parking lot and squeeze my car in between the two SUVs.

  It’s already 8:40 a.m. T minus twenty minutes to my interview. I rush down the stairs and catch the subway just before the bing, bong, boom sounds, and the doors shut behind me. We’re off. I tap my foot as the subway speeds into the downtown core.

  Okay, pretend interview time:

  “So, Katherine, why do you think you’d be a good closed captioner?”

  “Well, Adam, I like TV and I like writing, so why not combine the two? Isn’t it everyone’s dream—to watch TV while doing what they’re most passionate about? For me, that’s writing.”

  Boom! Check it! This job is mine!

  A weird homeless dude is staring at me and giving me a toothless grin. No thank you, buddy! I’m a lady with a job … almost!

  *

  Of the millions of times I’ve been to Queen Station, I’ve never actually needed to take a bus. The only reason I come to Queen Station is to go shopping at the Eaton Centre. Isn’t that why everyone comes here?

  MIJO is on Queen Street, but according to Google Maps it’s not close enough to walk to from Queen Station.

  It’s now 9:20 a.m. I called Adam to let him know I’d be late because of a freak accident blocking the subway.

  “A pack of wild teenagers had started fighting over the hottest girl in school and one of them, in all his anger, threw his friend’s backpack and coat on the subway tracks! Everyone thought he threw his friend on the subway tracks! It was horrible!”

  It sounded more believable in my head. Hopefully, Adam doesn’t watch the news.

  Finally, a bus pulls up. I don’t know who runs Google Maps, but I get to MIJO in less than 10 minutes. So much for not being able to walk.

  MIJO is in the basement of a small mod-looking building. Adam greets me at the door, wearing tattered jeans and a blue golf shirt. His five o’clock shadow tells me he hasn’t shaved for at least two days. I definitely feel stupid for looking for the perfect pair of flats. I’m completely overdressed in my frilly shirt and pencil skirt. I know it and the look he’s giving me, tells me that he knows it, too. Well, this is off to a fabulous start.

  *

  We sit in a small office crammed with boxes of CDs and programming software. Adam asks me a series of questions. Why did I apply to MIJO? Why would I be the perfect fit? What are my worst qualities? The usual trick questions.

  “Okay, so everything sounds great! We’ll just get you set up with Natalie in the other room so you can do some practice runs. You said you were fluent in French and English, right?” Adam asks as he leads me down a long hallway to a room whose walls are lined with computers.

  “Yep,” I nod. I don’t mention that I’m not completely fluent in French anymore. The last French course I took was a linguistics class that I didn’t really understand, but managed to pass. No big deal.

  Adam introduces me to Natalie: another fan of tattered jeans.

  She leads me to a computer and hands me giant headphones, the kind that you’d see DJs wear around their necks. “So all you have to do is listen to the program and type what you hear into this box. You can’t erase, so you need to be sure what you’re writing is correct. You can rewind though. Good luck!”

  Well, this seems simple enough. What kind of idiot can’t write what he or she hears? I press play and a French Nice ’n Easy commercial starts playing. Oh hey! That’s the chick who plays Angela on The Office! Damn it! I forgot to listen to what she was saying. I hit the rewind button. Oh jeez, I hate the Quebec accent. It sounds so weird. I try to type exactly what I hear, but it’s not making any sense. The commercial ends and I only transcribed half of what I heard. I pound the rewind button. Nothing! Damn it! The next commercial starts playing. Another person speaks to me with a Quebec accent.

  I transcribe the next two French commercials as best as I can. Finally, an English cooking show starts. Now this I can do. “The trick to making the perfect linguine is …” I begin transcribing the program.

  “Hey, umm, Katherine? Adam’s been looking the commercials you’ve transcribed. He was going to meet with you after you finished, but it looks like his next interviewee is here so he’ll give you a call to let you know if you got the job or not,” Natalie mumbles before scurrying back to her spot at a computer in the corner.

  Great, so I can’t even finish my interview. I’m not an interview whiz or anything, but that’s definitely not a good sign.

  I leave the building. I’m not going to get the job. This is the fifth interview I’ve bombed.

  I don’t see any buses coming so I decide to walk back to Queen Station. It wasn’
t that far on the bus, so it can’t be that far of a walk.

  Twenty minutes later, I realize that actually, it is a long walk. I’m only halfway there and already my feet are throbbing. Maybe wearing brand-new shoes on a hot day with no pantyhose wasn’t the best idea. Come to think of it, my right shoe feels extra soggy. That’s weird. Why would one of my feet sweat more than the other? I pull my foot out of my flat.

  Ouch! My heel feels like it’s raw. I look into my BCBG flat. The entire leather heel is covered in blood. I look at my heel. Layers of skin are missing. Blood is gushing out and dripping onto the sidewalk.

  I suddenly feel woozy. My head is spinning, I feel like I’m about to puke, and tiny black dots start to cloud my vision. Looking at blood has never been my strong suit. I look behind me. Still no bus. Okay, I guess I’m walking the rest of the way to Queen Station.

  *

  By the time I get to Queen Station, my heel feels like someone’s been sawing through it with a blunt knife. The blood has now seeped through and stained the grey felt. I had tried to put the back of the flat down so I could wear it less like a flat and more like a slipper, but the sturdy heel wouldn’t give. Damn it, BCBG!

  I limp down the stairs and walk into the Eaton Centre. I buy flip-flops, Band-Aids, and medicated cream. As soon as I’m inside, I slip off my flats and throw them into my purse. Today, I will be the weirdo person who wears fancy clothes, has a bloody foot, is completely drenched in sweat, and is walking around barefoot inside the Eaton Centre.

  Once I get all my supplies, I make my way to the nearest women’s washroom. I clean my heel, put on some Polysporin, and stick on a Band-Aid, all without ever looking directly at my heel.

  I feel hungry, but I’m not ready for any more stares and girls not-so-quietly whispering, “Did you see that girl? She’s wearing pink flip-flops with a pencil skirt!”

  I head back to Queen Station. I get off at Yonge-Bloor Station to transfer trains. I give in and walk over to the small kiosk and buy a vitamin water. I head downstairs to catch my next train back to Kipling. Finally, luck is on my side! The train is here. I limp toward the doors.