Final Fire

by Michael Mitchell

  I’m back in the U.S. on my annual six-week photo dash documenting Canadian-owned commercial properties all over North America. Each year as I flit through dozens of cities in as many days I encounter new holdings. Among this year’s acquisitions is a mall in Monroe, Louisiana. This little city in the southern portion of the state has the standard American decaying downtown with the obligatory boarded-up little art deco office tower standing in blank-eyed dominion over the ruins. The mall on the edge of town is where all the action is. I rush into the parking lot in my rental and search out the manager. As usual I have about six hours to cover the whole thing before leaving town.

  Crash Kowalski (John Bell)

  The discipline that I’d have to bring to these operations became legendary among various assistants I had over the years. For a couple of seasons I had a rock and roll bassist named Crash — for good reason — who worked up an elaborate mythologizing scenario for these mall incursions. In his version of my secret life as The Mall Master I’d appear, all in black, mysteriously at dawn, backlit with a lot of dry ice fog at the main mall entrance. With my jaw set, skinny legs akimbo and a holstered light meter on each hip, I’d pause for a few dramatic seconds while my Crash-composed theme song worked itself into a frenzy. Then I’d heroically stride in my black stretchies down the main corridor shooting every last mothering shoe store, card shop, electronics outlet and jean joint until there wasn’t a single store untouched by my steaming shutter blades. At closing time I’d leave a still smouldering mall and vanish mysteriously into the suburban night.

  The last year that Crash worked with me this fantasy movie got a little messy. Unbeknownst to me Crash and his band had a hit song and a video playing on MuchMusic. We’d be trying to work our way through some bleak shopping centre in Calgary or Kelowna and a bunch of teenyboppers would spot Crash and start screaming. They’d take out your tripod and trample your camera bags to death. Worst of all was that my starring role as the mysterious Mall Master was getting eclipsed by this bass-slapping upstart. We finally had to have a heart-to-heart about who was really the boss.

  As my long day shooting the Monroe mall was winding up the manager offered to take me to dinner. I’m not a meat eater so dining in the land of the pork belly pig-out was always a challenge. My saviour in the South was usually the lowly catfish. So when the manager asked what I’d like to eat, I, of course, suggested that fish. Were there any good cat shacks around? Well, yes there were; he named two different ones. Which would I prefer? When I asked him what the difference was he told me that one of them was a 24-ounce drive away, the other a 48. I had no idea what he was talking about but since this was America where bigger is always better I choose the 48-ounce shack.

  I soon found out how Monrovians measured distance. He drove me to a chain drive-in that looked like a Dairy Queen but was called Daiquiris Unlimited. We pulled up to the takeout window and he ordered two 48-ounce daiquiris and both promptly appeared in a pair of foot-tall Styrofoam pails. After we’d manhandled these things into the car’s cup holders we pulled out into the street. Being a sucky Canadian I pointed out there was a cop car across the way. It was then pointed out to me that the officer was also enjoying a daiquiri. Apparently in this part of the state, drinking and driving was your god-given legal right. You could be charged with drunk driving but not with drinking. We wheeled off and onto the interstate.

  As the mall manager drove he sipped his drink through a straw. I just had to see what a half-gallon daiquiri looked like so I pried the lid off my pail and peered in. The only other time I’d seen a liquid with that weird green glow was when photographing pools of spent fuel rods at the Chalk River reactor.

  ***

  We’ve been paddling this long shallow bay for nearly an hour. Inches below the surface long emerald sea grasses roil in the wind-whipped waters, grabbing our blades and greedily fingering the bottoms of our boats. To look down is to drown.

  My photographer colleague Geoffrey James and I are having dinner on the Piazza Navona. We’re with Gilbert Reid who runs the Canadian Cultural Centre here in Rome. The others at the big table are various local cultural luminaries — writers, publishers, artists, journalists, cultural bureaucrats. Gradually talk turns to Canada and they start grilling Geoffrey. He demurs on the grounds that he’s actually Welsh. He didn’t come to Canada until well into his adult career as a writer for Time magazine. But they should talk to Michael. He’s the real deal — born there, parents born there, grandparents and so on. My family probably cut down the first tree and cheated the first Indian. In fact, I’m so Canadian that I drink beer for breakfast.

  Geoffrey James

  This cultured crowd draws back in horror. They hadn’t realized that they were dining with a primitive. I secretly have to confess that I have done as accused but really only occasionally and only on my northern island and only in summer and only when I was really thirsty and only for hair of the dog. I keep this to myself as all these sophisticated Italians are scrutinizing me for hairy palms, big incisors, small cranial capacity. Finally Paula, a well-known feminist journalist, stands on her chair and gives a speech about how it’s only right and appropriate that a hairy-chested, bearded, plaid-clad, real Canuck guy like myself get all his B vitamins from beer. As she sings my praises my mind drifts off to an old McKenzie brothers routine. As I recall they’re sitting in front of a pup tent wearing lumberjack shirts and toques. They’ve got a huge pile of two-fours — Molson Ex, Canadian, Labatt’s Blue, 50, Moosehead. They’re conducting a blind taste test; they’ve got slabs of Canadian bacon over their eyes so neither can cheat. They’re going to find a winner but as it turns out neither of them can distinguish between any of the great Canadian brews. By the time they’re finished all the cases are done and the bush is carpeted with empties. Finally Paula finishes her speech and sits down. I’m in love.

  But she’s a woman and — as every guy knows — they can be devious. There’s often a price to be paid. Paula announces that we’re all going to a Roman bar she knows to watch me drink beer. Exeunt omnes.

  I obediently follow my new love down into this bar where she orders me a couple of beers while the crowd gathers round. The brews arrive. They’re in one-litre bottles; they’re fortified like sherry or port. The drink is 20% alcohol. I try to down one of them and fail utterly. I’ve let down Sam McGee, Grey Owl, Charlie Farquharson and Don Cherry.

  After the Roman beer humiliation with Paula we all repair to her boyfriend Gianni’s apartment. It’s in the heart of the old city. We climb up several flights on spiral stone stairs and reach his huge dim apartment under the eaves. As I’m still conscious he pours me another drink and we all go into his bedroom and get seated on his ancient four-poster bed facing a towering armoire. He opens its antique doors to reveal a giant TV. He then fetches a videocassette and inserts it into a VCR. Press play.

  It’s the most boring movie I’ve ever seen. A dashboard-mounted camera is recording every mile of a drive down a bleak highway. As it’s now about two in the morning I start to doze off. To keep me awake Paula begins to supply voiceover. “A tree, a rock, a lake, more trees, rocks, lakes, trees and so on and on.” Suddenly I wake up. It’s highway 69 slicing north from Barrie toward Sudbury and my island. Soon as I announce that it’s game over. Gianni fast-forwards to a section where he veers off the highway and reconnoitres a few trailer parks and garage sales in small northern towns. Everything is shot from arm’s length — just above the knee. The engagingly naive Canadians proudly show off the features of their particle-board trailer interiors, the plastic fridges, the shag on the floor. The tour of garage sales is even worse — plaster statues, velvet paintings, weird lamps, sets of Reader’s Digests, jars of old screws and nails. My beautiful country never, ever looked so pathetic.

  ***

  When I step from the cabin door there is a sudden scramble in my little herb garden in a hollow. A pair of big Canada geese chase their goslings
down to the water and swim off annoyed, their plans for a salad and a shit aborted. The parents glare at me as they chug off escorted by their little tugs.

  2002

  I’m due at CityTV on Queen West by 6:45 a.m. to be interviewed on the morning show. It’s a half-hour segment during which I’m to discuss my book about the 19th century New York theatrical photographer Charles Eisenmann. I’ve worked up a highly compressed talk on popular culture in immigrant America and the place of dime museum freak shows and photography within the frenzy of America’s Gilded Age. I believe it’s interesting. I think I’m media savvy.

  But upon arrival I discover that I’m to share the 30 minutes with a dozen young women vacuum-packed into T-shirts, micro shorts and stilettos. This giggling pack of blondes are finalists in the Miss World Hooters competition. I’m not a finalist in anything.

  One of them begins to gush about the grand prize. Soon all of them are squealing about this prize. Even I start to get excited. The prize! The prize!! Finally it comes out. The totally awesome, fabulous, panty-peeing incredible goal that all of them are clawing their fellow contestants for is . . . a weekend of free shopping in the West Edmonton Mall!

  So I lose the pop culture wars by a wide margin. Who can identify with my rubber-skin men and lobster boys? Not even my pictures of Myrtle Corbin with her four legs can compete. I get out a few words of background and show a few photos before retreating to the Queen car and toast at home.

  My little media tour isn’t over yet. I’ve been booked for a segment on a morning radio show. The station’s specialty focus is “talk radio for guys.” After the TV disaster I’ve dramatically shortened my pitch. However I still naively think it germane to set the scene — late 19th century lower Manhattan and the popular dime museum — it explains why these photographs even exist. I get two sentences into my explanation before the host cuts me off.

  “That’s great, Mike, but let’s get to what the guys are really interested in.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ya know, that chick Myrtle with the two vaginas.”

  ***

  As I sit at my cabin desk I listen to birds. Every May and June there’s an amazing chorus from the surrounding bush. I understand that it’s basically “fuck me, fuck me,” but it’s still beautiful. For much of my life it was just a background — not anything I thought much about. But now that I’m moving rapidly into my last years, knowing has become more imperative. I now have more time to observe and reflect. Knowing has become urgent. There’s not much time.

  In an attempt to unmask these secret singers I’ve bought a bird program on DVD. For the uninitiated like myself, it’s much better than a classic Peterson guide. You can see the birds in colour, see them fly, perch and hear them sing. Ideally I’d like a device that you can stick out the window, record the song and have it search a database for a match. Instead I have to search through hundreds of songs to uncover identities.

  This weekend my elder son, Jake, is with me. He comes from a generation of button pressers. They dive right in to computers, dialing, keying, turning and tuning their way into an understanding of how a program or device works. I’m still a child of the mechanical age where if you fooled around with the wrong knobs or levers you got burned or lost an arm. Their keyboarding seldom has consequences. Losing data happens all the time. Shrug. Laptop terminally crashed? Shrug. It’s already a year old so it’s junk and an opportunity to buy newer and faster.

  Jake and I have the wall of windows at the west end of the building wide open. As he scrolls through the entries playing bird songs I become aware that we seem to be hearing each one twice. I ask him to stop twitching through the database and carefully play a single birdcall. He does. It comes back to us. We try another. Same thing. Some little feathered friend out in the woods is toying with us. We play more songs: he mimics each and he’s really good. I’m enjoying the game but Jake’s generation is different, it’s one nurtured on competitive video games. He quickly scrolls way ahead in the program and finds the call of a hawk. Our game is over.

  1977

  A mature city will have many specialized museums, some of which will be absolutely unique to that city. London has a steam pump museum upstream on the banks of the Thames. Philadelphia has the Rosenbach museum of rare books and illustrated manuscripts, and Detroit its various Ford museums. Although Toronto has lost its quirky medical museum it still has one devoted to shoes, another to postage and others to broadcasting, pioneers, Highlanders, textiles, railways and sugar. However few know that Toronto the Good has long had a museum of contraception. It displays vaginal plugs, penis protectors and pessaries of elephant and crocodile shit. It is there that you will discover that women of northern New Brunswick once drank a solution of beaver testicles soaked in alcohol in order to prevent pregnancy.

  My very first assignment for a national magazine sends me to the museum’s headquarters in darkest Don Mills to photograph various animal skin condoms and the many instruments of torture to which women have been subjected. A favourite is a series of loops and knots tied in monofilament by a fly-fishing doctor for an Inuk woman in our far north. It was his interpretation of the IUD and was implanted for decades until removed by astonished staffers at a Toronto hospital.

  However, it was in the office of host Ortho’s president that I found my favourite object. His office credenza, normally the territory of Chamber of Commerce trophies, giant ceremonial cheques and corporate golfing photos, supported what appeared to be a beige plastic filter coffee maker. This thing was designed to be a teaching tool for medical students. Where one would normally expect to slip in the filter basket hung a life size pair of soft pink plastic testicles. The device was accessorized with sets of alternate scrotums that could be locked into place like a bayonet-mount camera lens. Each pair of testicles modelled a different pathology to be diagnosed by squeezing the coffee maker’s soft plastic balls.

  My dreams are getting so banal — they simply take some inconsequential event from the previous day and work it endlessly, beating it to death until one is desperately sick of one’s own mind. And I’m now too old to have exciting wet dreams. Sheila asks me how my dreams were the previous night and I tell her how bored I am with their small mindedness. They’re starting to seem like network television.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks.

  “Search for a new dream provider.”

  “What do you think will happen next in your dreams?”

  “I think they’ll soon have commercials.”

  2015

  The dreams I’m now having nightly are a subset of the basic anxiety dream. They’re all about frustration. For some reason I’m driving a TTC bus in a bleak suburb of Toronto. I now marvel at the brain, my own brain, for imagining all the details of this place — the four lanes of traffic, the potholes, the median littered with garbage and its salt damaged grass. I pull the bus over to the shoulder because smoke is pouring out a hole at my feet. I dismount and open the hood at the front to investigate the source. Now that I’m awake I realize that this was stupid because the engine, like weekend drunks, is at the back of the bus. Just as I find the little levered valve that is the source of the smoke one of my sons, I can’t see which one, suddenly appears and flips the lever. The bus takes off, driverless and empty.

  I set off on foot in pursuit. The bus runs along ahead of me, doing the route on its own. At each stop, just as I catch up, it takes off for the next stop. The bus begins to get ahead of me. Worried that it’s going to kill someone I hail a cab. The cabbie dumps his current fare with his luggage into garbage-strewn median. I catch up to him and breathlessly explain the emergency as my bus drives itself around a corner and out of sight. The cabbie agrees to accept my fare but wants to go to Tim Hortons first.

  ***

  Four Roman Catholic priests from New York were the previous owners of my island. Their faith is a puzzle to me. They clearly didn’t trust God
to protect them: they had NRA stickers on all the windows. Like most Americans they didn’t have a cottage, they had a camp. However, unlike good Catholics they called it Camp Kosher. Each removable round burner plate on their wood stove had a secret Star of David cast into its bottom. They entrusted God with only one job. Every liquor bottle, empty bean can or old tackle box they’d ever owned found final rest in the bushes on Crown land behind the island. It was God’s job to do waste management.

  A major Canadian bank has built a new training centre in the northeast part of Toronto. Branch employees from across the country come here for training sessions and upgrades. The bank was having problems launching new financial products. Information packages would be sent out from head office to local branches across the country. Many of these packages would go into a drawer — for good. Change was work. It was also scary. Small town bankers are very conservative.

  Many of these sessions were conventional classroom ones but there were also exercises aimed at getting people to be more receptive to challenge and change. I photographed sessions where the many dumpy small-town women from local branches were encouraged to rappel down the tall face of the building’s interior atrium under the guidance of professional climbers. Some of these women would burst into tears, trembling as they went over the wall in their harnesses. This was not like going to the mall. Their terror at the top was alarming but photographing their triumph when they got down alive was deeply moving. I never found out if this exercise actually opened any drawers.

  The head of that bank also went through some changes. He got seduced by a well-known courtesan, a small-town Ontario girl who realized that she could make a career with her charms. A few physical enhancements and lots of practice in bed and she was off, sleeping her way through corporate Canada. She gave these driven men a great ride. Most of these guys were savvy enough to get the game. Not this bank president. He left his wife, married the girl and soon bored his trophy to tears. He was always on the phone — business, business, business. She cashed out in Nice and he retreated to run a bank in Ireland.