We can’t figure out why everyone else is so calm. We try to explain how we both worked at Jiffy Lubes at opposite ends of the country, which is how we re-met, via Jiffy Lube, and this is where you are supposed to bat your eyes in amazement, people. No one bats an eye. Fine. We discover old scrolls that we wrote to each other in high school, back in the Early Pneumatic Tube Era. One of us was bossy in her scroll. One of us said, I am disappointed you don’t remember that I have a Math test fourth period and therefore cannot meet you in the cemetery to smoke a joint. Meet me after. That was back when a PT message took five minutes to get across the city. We shake our heads. Now you can send a living butterfly to Dubai in ten seconds.
We did not lose our virginity to each other, but one of us lost our virginity in the other’s house. One of us lost our virginity in a tent while the other roasted a marshmallow nearby. We mourn this. We remember getting high. We remember buying dope in a neighbourhood that was over our heads, danger-wise. We drove a white Jetta. Well, one of us did. The other rode sidesaddle. You are my knight on a white Jetta. One of us preferred hash to pot. One of us did not prefer. One of us graduated to narcotics. One of us did not. One of us got a tattoo on the inside of her wrist that said: It’s cold in here.
On the night of our prom, which we did not attend together, one of us played that song that the other was always requesting, the Kate Bush song from the movie She’s Having a Baby. One of us played the grand piano while the other got all dreamy and draped herself across the top and tried to look what is called fetching. The one of us playing the Kate Bush song registered the one draped across the black surface but his eyes said, I’m concentrating on the chord progression. Right. And the other of us rolled over. Can’t you see I’m in love with you.
Twenty years later one of us is having a baby and the other is the father.
This after a long and difficult attempt to get reunited in the Late Pneumatic Tube Era when cross-continental VacTrains cost a million bucks and there are no more white Jettas, only trucks operated by large men with difficult-to-get permits issued by Transport Canada. The Jiffy Lubes are few and far between. We, the Jiffy Lubers, wait in our respective holes in the ground for a truck to run us over. Oh for a truck to run us over! We arrange bottles of Pennzoil in pyramids. We wait. We are sentimental about the trucks when they do come. We are pale and deficient in vitamin D and full of longing when we watch them go.
How we finally get reunited is this: He sends a PT cylinder with an oil-smudged request for a special brand of filter that is really scarce these days and signs his name at the bottom. This request is unscrolled at a Jiffy Lube on the other side of the continent where she reads the signature with batty eyes. Could it be he. She has not seen him since they were eighteen and his parents moved west. She sends a scroll back that says only his name, plus a question mark. He replies, Yes, plus a question mark. It’s me, she says, and signs her name. No question mark.
And they are off to the races. Exchanging scrolls like there is no tomorrow. Catching up. Finally, something to do in their underground holes! They find it unbelievable that they both work in holes. They find it unbelievable that they are both single. They play chess remotely. He teases her because she still doesn’t understand how the knight moves. How the L can be sideways or upside down or mirror-imaged. What the hell is your knight up to, she yells in her scroll. She is still bossy in her scrolls.
He sends her a stick of gum, just like he used to, as a peace offering.
She sends him her underwear, just like she used to, but this time he does not reply, Why are you sending me your underwear.
He sends her a song he wrote, transcribed on staff paper. She tries to bang it out on the piano in her basement. She is unsuccessful. She cries alone in her basement because she thought she was happy, protecting her parents and changing oil, but what she is realizing is that she has been missing someone for years and that someone is him.
The next day he sends her a scroll that says: If I could, I would play the Kate Bush song for you again, and this time I would not concen- trate on chord progression, but would break off mid-song to crawl atop the piano that you are so dreamily draped atop of, looking fetching.Your move.
She bats her eyes at this. Her move. Does he mean move your rook to h4, or does he mean move yourself across the board to me. Surely he means the latter. But how is a poor JL employee to move rook-wise across the country. VacTrains are out of the question, and she does not have a permit to travel above ground.
Well, you will recall that myth wherein Odysseus straps himself to the belly of a sheep in order to escape the cyclops he so conveniently blinded. Well, what is a truck travelling west if not a sheep. And what is Transport Canada if not a blind cyclops. And so the next time a truck drives over her head at the Jiffy Lube, she gets an apprentice luber, a kid named Cutler, to strap her onto the bottom of the truck. Are you sure this is legal, Cutler says.
Of course it isn’t legal.
It is early December and cold. She is wearing her JL coveralls, her white cowboy boots, and a stocking cap. She assures Cutler that the large mud flaps with the picture of the girl looking fetching will protect her from the wind.
Cutler looks dubious.
Do I look fetching, she asks.
The truck pulls out. And she is riding its belly! Stones hit her back. She is not used to stones hitting her back. Faster and faster. She is not used to fast. Her eyes get watery. She is rushing away from her Jiffy Lube. She is rushing away from her parents. Her whole life she has been lifeguarding her parents who cannot swim and who live beside a pond that every year gets a little bit bigger. Do not think about that. Also, do not think about how Cutler has for many months coveted her job as Chief Luber. Do not think, do not think.
Hours pass. She has no water. Occasionally there is a puddle. Water is overrated. The straps dig into her ribs. Finally the truck stops and the trucker debarks to check his tires. Hey! He catches sight of a pompom dangling above the pavement. Hey! He bends down. Git. Git out from under there.
However she is strapped in so tight that she cannot extract herself and the trucker must cut her loose with an exacto knife. She hits the pavement. The trucker bats an eye. He cannot believe he picked up a stowaway in a stocking cap at the Jiffy Lube. What is the world coming to.
He buys her a coffee and donut and listens to her story of pianos and chess games and true love and uncrossable distances that might be crossed if, and only if, a kindly trucker will play a sheep and carry her west to her true love’s Jiffy Lube.
He looks reluctant to play a sheep.
But she is black with soot and road dirt. She is bruised from stones and straps. She is thirsty and half-starved and, having already eaten her own maple dip, cannot take her eyes off his. The trucker, whose name is Ham, short for Hamish, buys her another coffee and donut and says, yes, fine, she can ride in the cab with him, in the back, which is like a little apartment, with a skylight and an ottoman. There is also a black curtain she can hide behind as they go through Transport Canada checkpoints.
And so it is that she is able to arrange herself like the Mud Flap Girl in the furnished back portion of Ham’s cab, her feet up on the ottoman. The moon is bright as she scrolls and unscrolls her true love’s scroll. She reads his message aloud, several times, until Ham says over his shoulder, okay, enough.
She asks if he remembers back in the Early Pneumatic Tube Era, how everything that came out of a PT gave you a shock. Remember that. And everyone who rode a VacTrain had staticky hair for days. And how staticky hair became cool. And everyone wanted staticky hair so it looked like they’d been in a VacTrain even if they couldn’t afford one.
He says he remembers and what is her point.
Her point is that those shocks have not gone away in terms of the scrolls sent to her by her one true love. She is still all static-electric with excitement when she touches his scroll.
Ham says that is more than he needs to know. Then he asks why is she the one makin
g the trip like Odysseus. Why isn’t the piano player strapping himself to a sheep and coming to her.
Well, that is a good question, and one she can answer only by saying that she is black and her true love is white, and black always makes the first move.
Ham says, I think it’s white that makes the first move.
She rescrolls the scroll. That’s not how I learned it.
And she remembers how, way back in grade seven when he first taught her chess, she thought he was saying ponds, not pawns. Slow-moving bodies of water.
And he said the goal of chess, the whole point of chess is, are you listening, to protect your parents.
He meant the king and queen.
Right.
And one time she even caught him carrying his king and queen around in his back pocket.
Outside the truck, snow swirls. She starts to drift off. Ham is saying about an old TV show called Fantasy Island, how that was the start. The start of what, she mumbles. The start of the PT Era. Oh. The head guy, Mr. Roarke, the fantasy facilitator, he’d get a request via PT, and then the people who’d sent the request would follow up and go to the island. You had to actually go to the island to have your fantasies realized. In a plane. And a little guy named Tattoo would point and yell, The plane! The plane! And they would get a lay when they arrived.
Wow.
A lei. A flower necklace.
Oh.
And their dreams would come true. But you had to physically go. Is my point.
Thanks, Ham.
The truck pulls to a stop at a checkpoint and a slippery Transport Canada bishop approaches sideways out of the darkness. What is your business, she hears him say. But she is safe in her Mud Flap Girl posture, concealed behind the black curtain.
Ham pulls into her true love’s Jiffy Lube. He, the true love, is underground, a bottle of Pennzoil Platinum at the ready. He notes the big trucker’s boots retreating in the direction of the free coffee. He notes the weird straps attached to the anterior axle. And then, lo! Two white cowboy boots descend from the truck. A face bends down. That face is wearing a Santa Claus– type hat. The pompom is dirty. It is a familiar face. Now she—for it is a she—is sliding down into the underground hole the way someone in a warmer climate might slide into a pool. And in that instant, he knows her. She slides down into his underground arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. They are fused together in their identical JL uniforms. He backs up. He walks in a wobbly circle, carrying her.
And you know how this story ends because we already said at the beginning. Remember how you refused to bat your eyes. Our story is like a new kind of chess game wherein the pieces lurch towards each other in longing. Wherein there is no battle. Wherein there is kissing. Wherein the king and queen are left unguarded. Wherein the only bad guy is a Transport Canada official, and he is not so bad. Wherein Ham stands up for us at our wedding. Wherein one of us plays the song from She’s Having a Baby and the other lies atop the piano, looking fetching, and, finally, being fetched.
ELYSE FRIEDMAN
I FOUND YOUR VOX
I FOUND IT in the park. The one behind the gas station. The one full of Filipino nannies. It was under the picnic table in the no man’s land between dog people and kid people. The Filipino nannies walk dogs too. They fly halfway across the world to walk dogs. They stoop and they scoop. Golden retrievers. I found it under the oak.
I was excited when I saw it—a wink of pink. I thought: I’ll just keep it in my pocket; I’ll just get a case for it. I picked it up and pretended to look around for the owner. I stood and scanned the park with a concerned and inquiring expression on my face, but my plan all along was to palm it. And anyway it was just me and the nannies and the kids and the dogs. The kids have very faint Filipino accents. Have you noticed that? Probably not, since you’ve only been to this park once, I think. Just long enough to lose your VOX to me. Under a tree. The nannies wear hand-me-down T-shirts. On their chests it says Parasuco. It says Juicy Couture. Across their breasts it says ROOTS. I see them all the time. I eat my lunch under the oak. Turkey sub and a half-ration of Diet Coke-GT®. Sometimes I think about Mount Pinatubo. I think about ROOTS and eruptions and Juicy Couture. Turkey is better for you than ham if you’re worried about your weight. The nannies all have iPhones. And Custom Gloves®. Tight. You could pick up a dime in those things. I seem to be immune to listeriosis.
The plan for Pinky was to erase and replace, but on a whim I decided to check out what was there. I put it on Stray and listened for a bit. And you know what? I was pleasantly surprised. You have good taste in music, Louise S. Graham, 575 Gladstone Ave., Apt. 301, [email protected]. I am suitably impressed by your extensive and varied musical collection. In just under two weeks you have introduced me to a panoply of unique artists that I never would have discovered on my own, like that ear-tickling harp sprite, Blossom Topsy—so off-putting at first, but then so addictive. Or the ultra-raw Vic Chesnutt and his southern-fried cat-gut moan. I like the horns and howls of Neutral Milk Hotel. And the retro get-down-to-it-ness of The Hold Steady. Swarmbots Do Sally I had heard of, of course, but never really heard. And what of that “Walking The Cow” tune? Zowie, Louise.
People always talk about the importance of a good sense of humour. Women especially say that’s the number one thing they look for in a man. This is not true, of course. I have a great sense of humour, Louise, but no chin, no gold card, and virtually no hair on the front half of my skull. A sense of humour is important though. Especially these days when planes keep falling out of the sky, and bacteria gobbles flesh and antibiotics with equal yum, and the colonized/cratered keep sneaking or suing their way out of quarantine, and a glass of water is just chlorinated piss. You have to laugh, right? If you work in a gas station you do. If you have a degree. If you’re a polar bear, or were born with AIDS, or you live in Alberta and your name is Abdullah. If you spent all your money on what you believed to be a well-respected business college. Or neglected to stockpile the correct masks, anti-virals and inhalers last October. If your best friend was devoured by exotoxins, and six hundred of your six hundred and two cronies on NETworks are marketing avatars. Or the bedbugs are still kicking after four professional sprayings, and the bumps under your left armpit might not be bites after all. That’s why it was so great to find those Sarah Silverman skits under Vids, Louise. You have a good sense of humour, I can tell. No SNL. No Funny Or Die. No PrankToob shenanigans featuring someone’s granny diving into an empty swimming pool, or some unsuspecting teen getting a surprise jizz shot in the face from a Kushner wannabe (I think it’s sad that Aaron Kushner’s Celebrity Poppers is the number-one show on VOX-TV). No, just a few of the better Silverman skits, which we both totally enjoyed and laughed at. It’s amazing, isn’t it, that she’s still doing her thing, even in Stage-IV Isolation, even working the amputations into the act? Brave. And so cool, don’t you think, that we have a similar sensibility when it comes to what’s funny? By the way, Louise, I should probably mention that I was totally awed out by your incredible collection of 1970s soul. Al Wilson; Charles Wright & the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band; Marvelous Marv Johnson . . . I’ve never met anyone with so much soul.
Listen Lou, when I saw your podcast list, I knew you were something special. I admire the fact that you subscribe to Bookworm and Ideas and the LearnOutLoud Philosophy Series, and was pleased to discover that you have all 1,272 episodes of This Americanadian Life stashed away. Obviously, you’re a brainy girl with a curious mind. I have to admit I was taken aback by the What Not To Wear: Trends podcast. But nobody’s perfect, right? Flaws are what make people individual and charming. God knows I have my share. Bites. Not bites. It’s kind of cute that an intellectual such as yourself—a woman with great taste in music and a great sense of humour—would be interested in hemlines and frills and all that white after Labour Day stuff. I noticed that under Shopping, you have carts crammed with shoes and purses and tops and dresses (I like the baby-blue one, Louise), b
ut no recent orders. I guess you just enjoy browsing. You are a female after all. And I don’t want a clone of myself. I appreciate and celebrate our differences. I have a toenail fungus that causes the toenails on my left foot to repeatedly come away. That is one of my flaws. Also, I spend approximately two-thirds of my free hours gaming, which most people (erroneously) view as a waste of time. A quick perusal under your Extras headings shows that you played Maze only once, and that you never even bothered trying Meltdown or Bacteria Blast. That’s okay. I’m not looking for a man with breasts and a vagina. Bacteria Blast blows anyway. And as for Maze and Meltdown, let’s just say they’re not exactly Call To Arms: Iran or EverQuest Live, both of which I’m sure you would appreciate once you gave them a try.
I’m working my way through your podcasts now. The words that filled your ears are the words that fill my ears. I take you to bed with me. The holes in my body absorb the same words as the holes in your body (except for the What Not To Wear: Trends words). I’m strictly a T-shirt and jeans man, Louise. I’ve actually managed to win quite a few T-shirts through competitive online gaming. A few years ago on Boxing Day I invested in a black leather Danier jacket, which I think is pretty respectable. I’m not averse to wearing a button-down shirt or a sports jacket, I just don’t happen to own any. I have one suit. I bought it for my father’s funeral. Itchy. Then I wore it to my mother’s funeral. Hot. Then I wore it to a bunch of job interviews. Futile. Then I had it cleaned. It’s somewhere in the back of the closet, wrapped in plastic. It’s too small on me. The toenail fungus is not contagious. I hate that fucking suit. Pardon my French, Louise.
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