The Not So Simple Life (A Comedy)

by Shea, Stephen

  "No...no...not at all." The driver doth protest too much. "I don't really believe in anything, but maybe people can visit...you know...after they die. Maybe."

  "You don't sound too certain." I thought she was offended, but a quick glance revealed a mischievous glint in her eye.

  "I'm not certain about much," I began, seeing this opening as an opportunity to display the knowledge I had gleaned in twenty-nine years on the third planet from the sun. "I...uh...don't believe in anything."

  "Aren't you a Christian?"

  "No. I'm trying to be a Taoist but it's hard to force my Western mind to understand it."

  Violet laughed. "It's never forcing, it's natural. You breathe don't you? Anyone who breathes is on the edge of understanding Taoism."

  She sounded like my Tai Chi instructor. How had the Chinese developed such a practical view of life?

  "So why aren't you a Christian?" Violet asked.

  A car appeared in my rear view mirror, a long way off. Someone else was actually on the highway. It took me a moment to remember Violet's question. "It's all like a big secret that was told to one or two people a long time ago and those two told two others and so on. But now, 2000 years later, who knows what the truth is? For me the West would have been so much better if Jesus had come down with the gospel and taught Tai Chi."

  "What!" Violet slapped my knee playfully. "Blasphemy!"

  "It's a good idea."

  "I know but imagine the Pope and his followers doing Tai Chi. Would his Holiness leave his hat on?"

  I laughed so hard I almost drove off the road.

  I caught my breath, suddenly. A car was passing right beside us, mirrors nearly bumping. He's found me! I swerved towards the side of the road.

  Ssilly Cay-sssee, there iss no esssscape.

  A glance revealed an tiny old woman; some retired farmer's wife, squinting ahead through her steering wheel. Can't see through these cataracts like I used ta. My heart slowed.

  "You know what you are?" Violet commented, not noticing my panic, "You're a dragonfly."

  I breathed in. "I'm a bug?"

  "No. It's an old Canton belief. The new spirits always came to earth first in a dragonfly's body. Have you ever seen a dragonfly up close? They look a million years old, but in their eyes is this alien innocence...like they're not from this world. They flit around, check everything out, then flit away. You're like that. A new spirit. Everything you encounter is unique and yet you can't trust it because of its uniqueness."

  Was she seeing right inside my head? I rarely trusted anything: new friends, bank machines, weathermen. "I like that. A dragonfly spirit."

  "We're opposites, that's why I was attracted to you. I've been here forever. Nothing is new."

  "Of course this all sounds interesting, but I don't believe a bit of it."

  "You never will. Believing isn't important. It's seeing the new spirit as a symbol of your life."

  I nodded. My stomach gurgled: Hey buddy enough with the high fallutin' talk, Me need grub. "Why don't we stop somewhere? Odin deserves a rest."

  "Who?"

  "Odin. My Volvo." I patted the dash affectionately, dust floated down. "That's what I call him."

  Again that grin. She was holding something back.

  The next town materialized on the horizon. That's one of the beauties of the flat, unassuming prairie—you always saw things before you arrived. If only life was like that.

  "We'll find a place to eat," Violet predicted.

  I slowed and turned off the highway.

  Eight

  Turkey Dinner at Bob's

  I didn't know which Saskatchewan town we had entered. It didn't matter: here was just another grassland settlement named after a forgettable train conductor, centered in a sea of wheat, two tall elevators acting as bridges from earth to big blue sky.

  It could have been my home town.

  We pulled in, drove down main street, which was two blocks long and consisted of a hotel, a Co-op, a garage, and a restaurant. Three trucks and an ancient station wagon, were the only signs of life. Was it a busy day or a quiet one?

  We angle-parked in front of BOB'S, a restaurant. Violet got out, stretched, arching her back in a feline motion. She yawned, looked at me and we exchanged smiles.

  We went inside, less than a dozen steps took us back a few decades—the place hadn't changed since the fifties; booths along one wall, round blue vinyl padded stools next to the till. There was even an unlit jukebox in the corner.

  At the only table slouched two stubble-faced men and an older woman whose gray, straggly hair was crowned by a PIONEER ball cap. They turned to take measure of us.

  Lookit that! Strangers, in our town. Might change things ya know. Might upset the wheat cart.

  We chose a booth opposite our audience, sat. Violet tittered a moment; at me, the attention we had garnered, I didn't know. As if on some invisible cue, the kitchen door creaked open and an ancient Chinese man clad in loose tan pants and a green silk shirt tread silently across the floor, smiling. Bob, I presumed. He looked as if he'd just won a hand of poker.

  "Today's special, hot turkey sandwich, five-ninety-five," he explained, wisely, then lowered two menus to the table and padded slowly away. He appeared beside us again a moment later and we both ordered the special and Cokes.

  "Good, good." Bob gathered up our menus, bowing slightly then began his thousand step journey towards his kingdom, the kitchen.

  "Have you been writing anything interesting lately?" Violet asked.

  "How did you know I was a writer?"

  "When you first met me you said 'Hi, I'm Casey, I'm a writer.'"

  "I wasn't that obvious was I?"

  "I could be exaggerating. So what are you working on?"

  "I haven't really written anything for a little while"—Like about three years—"But I have this feeling something really big is going to come out of me. I can just sense it building inside my brain." I tapped my skull. "It's like—"

  Violet grabbed my left wrist as if she had just caught me pilfering. She was looking at my missing digit. "Were you ever part of a gang?"

  "Me? Never. Joined a book club once."

  She narrowed her eyes. "I know this bothers you, but how did you lose your finger?"

  "In a farming accident."

  "What happened?"

  "What's it matter?" My answer was more snarky than I intended. Why was she prodding me?

  Violet released my wrist, her smile a peace offering. "I'm curious, that's all. Some gang members cut off their fingers on purpose. As a ritual."

  "It wasn't intentional. I lost it while we were killing chickens on the farm. The axe slipped and...well...the rest goes without saying."

  "So it was an accident."

  "Yes." What had gotten into her?

  "I'm sorry, Casey."

  "It was a long time ago."

  "You don't get what I mean. I'm sorry I upset you, not that you lost your finger. Everything happens for a reason. You might not be who you are today if you hadn't lost it."

  What kind of theory was that? I was about to ask her when Bob gently slipped our meals and drinks in front of us. How could he be so silent?

  To our turkey dinners we turned. White meat resting on a thick slab of bread, dark spicy gravy, three potatoes leaning protectively over a colony of peas and corn—it was a masterpiece of small town cooking. Violet ate with daintiness. I gorged myself, a prisoner on death row. Don't overcook it when you stick me in the chair!

  I suddenly had the urge to talk more about my finger. "Frodo gets cold sometimes, even when the rest of me is hot."

  Violet coughed, almost spat out her Coke. "Frodo?"

  "Yes, sorry, I call it...I mean my finger...Frodo."

  "Thank God! I thought you were talking about your penis. You men and your nicknames." We both chuckled, though I felt slightly uncomfortable. No matter what the context, it's a natural male reaction to cringe when a woman says penis then bursts into laughter.

 
"So you call your finger, Frodo? Why?"

  "After a character in The Lord of the Rings. A hobbit."

  "Hobbit?"

  "Yeah, uh...ummm...a short guy with big, hairy feet. It's a long story, but the gist of it is Frodo lost his finger fighting against evil. Got it bit off by Gollum, a bad guy. So I named my missing finger after him. Frodo, that is." I scooped up a group of peas and dumped them in my mouth.

  "What's your car's name again?"

  "Odin. But he's not a car, he's a Volvo. There's a big difference."

  Violet was nodding to herself as if a piece of a puzzle had come together. "You say your finger gets cold."

  "Yeah, specially in the winter. Frodo starts to freeze and there's nothing I can do to warm him up."

  "When else does this happen?"

  "Anytime the weather changes and sometimes..." I paused—what the hell she believed in these things, I didn't, "...just before an event is about to happen in my life. Bad or good, Frodo tingles."

  Violet nodded, went back to her meal, disappointing me. I had pegged her as someone who would talk endlessly about ESP. Instead, she ate. I followed suit.

  When she reached for her Coke, I unwittingly mirrored her movements. As I sipped I noticed a flurry of black lines on her left wrist—a tattoo with a complex wriggling design. I squinted, but she moved her arm below the table. I couldn't tell if she had noticed me staring.

  I finished quickly and excused myself, gravitating to the bathroom. I stumbled inside and shut the door before finding the light switch. Brilliant move, Plato. I felt the wall, smooth paint, a bump here, a hole there and finally a knob—voila—let there be brightness! The washroom was small and clean.

  As I gently ushered forth liquid waste from my body into the waiting receptacle, my eyes rested on a condom machine. There was Chinese writing on the side, perhaps it said happy lotus love to you. I knew I should buy some just in case the impossible happened—but ever since my mother had found one in my room in grade six, I'd had a fear of owning them.

  It's a balloon, Mom! Let go of my ear!

  Besides I didn't have a loonie with me.

  Once finished my business, I paused to look in the mirror. My hair was tangled, but I seemed happy—my outward appearance reflected my inward feelings. It doesn't always work that way. I wondered if Violet found me attractive? My eyes were small and beady. My lips had always been too thin for my taste; they were a pink equal sign below my nose. And finally there was the cleft in my chin, that looked like I'd gotten too close to a golfer.

  Swoosh! Smack! Oh, sorry, Son, I forgot to say, "Fore!"

  Well, at least I had my sparkling personality.

  I checked my teeth for turkey then returned.

  Violet was gone. Well, deja-vu all over again! I picked up the bill and went to the counter. A young Chinese man leaned on the till, grinning at a secret joke—Bob's son? Where his father was imbued with an old world calm, Junior was a product wired together by the video generation: slick hair, an earring, premature wrinkles around his eyes—not from smiling, but from squinting at monitors and credit card numbers.

  I gave him my Visa. His hands blurred as he took an imprint, filled it out and shoved it towards me. I signed it and he tore away the customer's copy, tossed it and my card to me and leaned on the counter. I glanced down.

  He was missing the little finger on his left hand. The sight frightened me. Like meeting your long lost brother, the one who killed your cat just before he vanished.

  "What your friend's name?" Junior motioned towards the door with his head. He had a scar on his left eyebrow. He'd obviously spent too much time near sharp objects.

  "Violet. Why?"

  "I thought I see her before. At a party. But no. If she Violet. I never meet Violet." He smiled, eyes glinting. He was lying—he did know her. Somehow. "She pretty girl, huh?"

  "Yes, she is...thanks." I added, meaning for the food, not the compliment about Violet.

  I turned, driven by a sudden urge to find her and run.

  Once outside I glanced at Odin.

  No Violet.

  I scanned main street—nothing. I looked at the grocery store across the street, tape tracing a spider web crack on the window.

  Maybe Violet had wandered in there.

  When I was halfway across the street, I stopped. Frodo tingled. Something was wrong, I had missed a tiny clue that would explain a puzzle. Following a feeling, I turned towards Odin.

  Violet was in her seat now, her backpack open. Was this hide and seek? I went over, got in my side.

  "Sorry, Casey. I felt sick so I got some air. Here's my half of the bill." She pulled seven dollars from a giant wad of money, handed it to me, then zipped up her pack and set it in the rear. It made a clinking sound. "Are we on our way?"

  "The guy in there thought he might know you."

  "The old man?"

  "No, his son."

  Violet turned hesitantly towards the restaurant. Was I imagining fright on her face? "I didn't see anyone else."

  "Then he said he didn't know you."

  "Guess he didn't then." Violet shrugged. "I don't know anyone out here. A lot of my own people think I'm someone else. It's cause I've lived so many other lives."

  Her answer was unconvincing but what else could it be? And what did it matter if he knew her or not? I turned the key. Odin coughed, fired up, then chugged backwards under my control.

  A few moments later we were on the highway.

  Nine

  A Day Some Chickens Would Die

  We drove deeper into an ocean of wheat fields, heads heavy with seed. I had never liked harvesting much, but I recognized a wholesome beauty in a crop that's grown hip high without being battered by hail.

  Once, as a young child, I had wandered through a field for hours, barely able to see over the wheat; dreaming I was in a kingdom of gold.

  A happy memory from my childhood. How rare.

  "You know I left some things out...more happened when I lost my finger."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, I forgot to tell you it was my father who cut it off...accidentally."

  "Your father?" Violet whispered.

  "Yes. We have chickens on our farm and every fall we kill a few to get us through the winter. Lopping off their heads and all that. It's really kind of grotesque."

  "I doubt anything can beat what my mother does when she cooks chicken feet. But, go on."

  "Well, we have a little chopping block and one person holds the chicken and the other swings the axe, just a short snap of the hand really, then the head's off and the chicken's running around...well...like a chicken with its head cut off." I paused for laughter, received none. Oh well, on with the story: "I was eight years old at the time and my brothers were gone so I had to hold the chickens. I've always been squeamish about blood and I tried to get out of it, but Dad'd have none of that. I don't raise no ten year old babies, he said. Eventually he got me to kneel down, both hands wrapped around the base of the chicken's neck. I closed my eyes and thunk! Dad chopped off its head. We did three more quick."

  "When I grabbed the fifth one and lowered it into place I decided to watch. And as Dad raised the axe skyward I was overtaken by this weird empathy and thought no, not this one, Dad, it doesn't deserve to die! Somehow my hand had crept up the chicken's neck or Dad swung the axe back too far towards me, and just like that my ring finger flew to the ground." I paused; even now, twenty-one years later, the memory had an overwhelming clarity. "It happened so fast I didn't feel a thing. Then I noticed the blood on my pants and shirt was mine, spurting from a little stump. Dad, I said really softly like I was trying to wake him up, I think I'm missing a finger. Of course I knew it was gone, I just couldn't believe it. What? What! Dad grabbed my wrist. His hand was shaking and cold."

  "I saw a tiny movement out of the corner of my eye. My finger was on the ground a few feet away, wiggling. Dad was desperately trying to wrap his blue, dotted hankie around my hand, but it was too slippery and he
couldn't tie a knot. I tried to tell him where my finger was but I was struck dumb by everything. Then a chicken toddled by, picked—or should I say pecked?—up my finger and bolted away, wings flapping, feathers flying. Dad that chicken's got my finger! I yelled. It stole my finger! My father had finally succeeded in getting a knot in his hankie and he was gritting his teeth, tightening it. Jesus Son, shuddup! Don't cha know you're bleeding to death? He yanked me skyward, hugged me to his chest and marched towards the house. I gaped over his shoulder as the chicken disappeared among its kin. Mom took me to the hospital and Dad searched for my finger thinking the doctors could sew it back on, but the chickens had hid it; perhaps were going to build a shrine." I glanced at Violet, seeing if she was still awake. She seemed pale. "And that's the truth," I finished.

  "It must have really hurt."

  "Oh, it wasn't all that bad."

  "Were you mad at your father?"

  "I haven't talked to him for three years." Where did that come from? Just a simple no was the answer I had planned.

  "Because of that?"

  "No...there are other things."

  Violet fell quiet, her silence urging confession.

  But I had let too much out already, time to slam stones into the breaches, fingers in the dikes. Where would my untrustworthy mouth take me next?

  Ten

  A Shoe and a Story

  We wayfared on—Odin thrumming contentedly below us. The sun was starting to slip, slide its way towards another oblivion.

  Dusk.

  And a shoe.

  I slammed on Odin's brakes, he skidded slightly to the right. Violet braced herself, bent into a crash position. I pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

  "What happened?"

  "Someone left a perfectly good shoe on the highway. Can you believe that?" I'd already undone my seatbelt and was out the door.

  "What?" Violet followed me as I strode back down the pavement. "What?"

  I bent over my prize. It was a Nike. Its stateliness had been dampened by rain and faded by the sun. What was happening to civilization? Someone had thrown out a Nike.