Panegyric

by Logan Macnair

  ***

  I dream of a horse that has been placed under my care. The horse is lame, and he slams his body against brick walls and he collapses in exhaustion after being ridden for only a short distance. His heart beat is pronounced and audible. I sense the horse is famished and I lead him into a field of tall grass but he refuses to eat, instead he falls onto his side. I look around the dying field for a moment before I lie down beside him, my head resting inches away from the violent pounding of his chest.

  ***

  In the morning I have breakfast with M and I think long on whether I should bring up what I saw the previous night. There’s a guilt of potentially knowing something that I was not meant to know and revealing my hand might be the only means of alleviating it.

  “Duh-duh-duh diiiid I suh-suh-see you in the back yuh-yuh-yard last nnnnight?”

  His expression changes, though I don’t possess the skill to articulate how.

  “I don’t know, Lawrence. Did you see me in the backyard last night?”

  “I think sssso. There was suh-suh-sommme-someone else too.”

  “And so it would appear then as if you had the answer to your question well before you decided to ask it. Surely I haven’t enlisted you under my employ to waste words so? You were meant to do the exact opposite as I recall.”

  “I was just wuh-wuh-wuh-wondering about—”

  “You were just wondering about things that are beyond your required understanding. I’ll not claim you a liar or attempt to discount what you may have seen but nor will I offer any explanation beyond those that you might of your own volition fathom. And now if you will excuse me, the day beckons. I expect you will be wanting to start work as well.”

  As Montblanc gets up from the table and carries his empty plate to the kitchen his arms begin to shake and I hear his fork clattering against the porcelain as he leaves the room. A few scattered possibilities burn through. Maybe it was some sort of drug deal? No, that’s small-time thinking. To the best of my knowledge Max isn’t a user, and even if he was, he’s a powerful man with access to any vice he desires; he wouldn’t need to subject himself to shady midnight dealings. Maybe he was soliciting the assassination of a rival? No, that’s thinking a little too freely. Of course he has enemies but that’s not how problems are handled in the real world. Unless that’s what they want me to think? Before I can explore any more asinine scenarios I see M opening the front door to leave. Before he walks out he stops in the doorframe and without turning around to face me he offers a parting gift of sorts.

  “There are mysteries in this life that are indeed worth exploring. And explore them I might if aught it were in my capacities to do. Strychnine is bitter to be sure, but inelegant and ultimately outclassed by the weight of your words. Cherish them thusly.”

  16

  PENUMBRA

  FOGGY BACKSEATS AND a concealed waxing crescent. Please, she’s overdone it this time. Others too. Like the same disc we’ve been listening to now only one track shy of starting its fourth go-round. Never seen these hours this way before. Never known better. Sneaking my head closer to hers, every motion a victory. Please, she’s overdone it this time. Neighbourhood streets to nowhere, specked with concrete abutments, the immovable, walk-over-able markers of progress. Not sure under this light. This was when one spoke only in absolutes. The sky was never falling in, despite the eyewitness testimony to the contrary. Fixed from the start. Please, she’s overdone it. Intimately familiar with the underused ashtray, anachronistic signifiers. Acceptance now—you won’t be getting out of bed until early afternoon at best. Small agreements, justifications, the maiden voyage of the ‘special night’ clause. Written in hope, written with the expectation of a gambler. I’ll be there. Maybe not now, but I’ve handed my shiny marble to Mr. Rube Goldberg and now I can wait. Sitting on my hands. Arm falling asleep. Best not to move. Best not to disturb the sanctity of the arrangement. Stay still like a picture. Keep this pose forever. This was when one spoke only in absolutes.

  I confess to nothing because I’m innocent.

  Hmm, not quite.

  I choose to confess to nothing because I’m innocent.

  No, try this one:

  I am confessing to nothing because I am innocent.

  Okay, but what about this?

  I’m innocent, and as such, I have nothing to confess.

  Wrap it up already.

  I have nothing to confess, though my innocence is open to interpretation.

  Yeah, that’s the one.

  17

  POLTROON

  REFLECTING ON FAILURES today, and why not? When there’s so much to be happy about the temptation to ask my friends Regret and Shame to double-up on the other side of the seesaw becomes too strong. I, in my infinite wisdom and generosity, only wish to share my profundity with those closest to me. Tips on becoming a productive member of society: 1) avoid clocks with audible ticks, 2) wear shoes that match the occasion, 3) periodically dwell on past failures, embarrassments, and unfulfilled aspirations. The finale of this triad now beyond appeased on this late and languid morn. In the tenth grade Michaela Flores paid me twenty bucks to write her a short story for her English class. Alas, Michaela, notoriously amoral and destined to perpetually graze the fetid fields of unremarkability. With eyes affixed to the floor I accepted her proposition. The story was well-received and Michaela earned an A. Cut to fifteen years later and count the circumstantial similarities. Devourer of life, do not go hungry on my blank curriculum vitae, let me offer to you a nourishing alternative worthy of consumption. The parsing and cataloguing of Mister Maxime Magnificent. All the angel’s blessings on the ground he walks. At fifteen M would partially spend his summers with his parents, largely unsupervised, at their rented cabin on Tisdall Lake. A majestic memory meriting mention in Montblanc’s marvelous memoirs. What gets left out is the fact that he used to sneak out at night to fuck the daughter of the guy who ran the campsite down the way. At fifteen I was writing a short story for Michaela Flores in the hope that she might let me touch her. No grace allowed through my windpipe, so no invitation for her to touch my ‘puh-puh-puh-puh-puh-puh-puh-puh’, forcing me to rely instead on my precocious affinity toward arranging and aligning the proper phrases on paper, translated from carnal thought to pen. Don’t scoff. I wasn’t the only one. If it redeems me I’ll happily mention that my libido, much like the list of my professional accomplishments, is as dry as flaky apple pie. Continuing the tradition of doing things wrong, folded and inconspicuously slipped, promptly ignored, and I sleep only after blaming the fashions of the time and choking the piece Father Munroe said I oughtn’t to. In the rare instances when Regret and Shame had conflicting schedules, I continued to write short stories. Not for the promises of meager sums of money or requited lust, but out of genuine enthusiasm. At age twenty-two I submitted for publication a collection of these stories. Roundly rejected. I’m allergic to structure and plot, they say. Stories need arcs and characters need growth and I don’t know anything about that. At age twenty-two Montblanc was a few months away from becoming a self-made millionaire. That’s because he is a natural winner. Not like us. Keen historians like myself may pinpoint his first steps on the path to victory, and indeed I have. In third grade (making him around eight years old), Montblanc won the position of class mayor in an exercise designed to teach young minds the merits and mechanics of democracy. An excellent anecdote for the book that will emphasize his natural ability to lead. What will be left out is the fact that Montblanc’s primary ‘competition’, a gangly kid named Tony, was something of a dud. Lacking the charisma and social gifts of Montblanc, Tony was destined to lose from the start. In secret, the two of them made a deal. ‘If you vote for me, I’ll vote for you.’ They both made this promise yet when the votes were counted Tony received not a single one. Some of us are just natural winners. As for the rest of you, I cordially invite you to join Tony and I at the loser’s table. Re
gret and Shame will be arriving shortly. Remember to bring appropriate footwear. At age twenty-seven I was spending my nights on a mattress in the corner of my room when I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime by the former Premier—ghostwrite his memoirs. My name was recommended for the job by a former professor who praised my attention to detail and my ‘natural sounding literary voice.’ They were released to near-unanimous critical praise, and more importantly, they were read by many people. Still, my name was nowhere near them. At age twenty-seven, and about thirteen years away from becoming an MP, Montblanc was the CEO of a company responsible for about 400 jobs. By this time he had permanently relocated to Southern Ontario to be closer to Canada’s business and political epicenter. That’s the decision of an undeniable winner. Shadows can’t move in the dark. They too are bound by the rules of the natural world. I can count on one reddened hand the number of women who have let me inside them. Is M at all concerned that the daughter of the guy who ran the campsite down the way might speak to the press about their summer night trysts on the shores of Tisdall Lake? Or any of the others for that matter, numbering in the triple digits as I understand it? He recognizes no problems born from these unions. ‘If anything, that would only serve to bring me more votes.’ Oh, Great White Mountain! How attuned to the heartbeat of humanity you are! The natural shepherd of the confused flock. Bombastic bravado and braggadocio seeping through your perfect pores. Today, at age thirty, I’ve a collection of poems and short stories unpublished and unread. On a scale of remedial to Leonard Cohen, the average of them falls within the ‘faded denim’ range.

  I don’t dare to describe or distinguish my discarded discord or discolouration—deep down, drawing distinct and disguised drafts of delectable decoctions and counting my options, I see the faintest hint of light. The shadows begin moving again. Who—heaven save me—who owns the hands reaching from above to pull me to safety? They look friendly and familiar to these strained and glassy eyes of mine. Oh, my dearest friends! I knew you wouldn’t abandon me to these closing caverns!

  And as the cracked hand of Regret and the supple hand of Shame pull me to safety, I knew in that brilliant moment that I would never be alone.

  18

  PRORATION

  M. M. M. HAD RECENTLY adopted the habit of skipping all attempts at introductory formality when making his semi-­regular appearances in my office. My office? I’ve never had an office in my life. It’s his house, it’s his office. Maybe I’m ­getting a little too comfortable here. The onset of Stockholm syndrome perhaps? Don’t think too hard about that. Don’t think too hard about anything beyond the immediate. ‘One day at a time’ as the newly free apparently say. Anyway, he arrived fully suited and seemingly ready to make the public appearance he was undoubtedly dressed for, save for the newspaper he carried in his left hand, folded in half and opened to a specific story. There was something endearing about the fact that Monty still read the newspaper in the morning. I couldn’t quite place it, but I took a small comfort in knowing that the unshakeable mountain of a man may be, by just a hair, a touch out of sync with this brave modern world of ours. And I would always have that on him. Without any attempt at verbal foreplay he begins reading.

  “A community firestorm erupted after a fifteen-year-old girl was filmed engaging in sexual acts with as many as two dozen boys in a bathroom at Oshawa’s Elm Bay High School. The girl allegedly invited one boy into the bathroom to have intercourse, and soon after several other boys entered the bathroom to watch and to engage in sexual activities with the girl. Several of the observers took pictures and videos of the events, many of which would later circulate on the Internet and social media. No legal or disciplinary actions have been taken as of yet, though the school’s principal has said that she is working with witnesses and law enforcement officials to ‘get the facts straight’ before making any decisions regarding punishment.”

  Montblanc tosses the paper onto the empty seat in front of the desk and directs his attention to me for the first time since entering the room. Without waiting for my response, he begins his performance.

  “Shame her. Shame her until she doesn’t want to live anymore. Shame her so that she, and any others who would emulate her reprehensible behaviour, know full well that we, as a civilized and decent society, will not tolerate such vulgarity. Most of those boys were on the hockey team. They were good kids who got carried away in the moment. But this girl needs to be made an example of. Let us all shame her in unison for corrupting the moral fibre of our great city!”

  My head tilts to the side and the ever-perceptive politician picks up on my expression of bewilderment.

  “Perhaps a shade too zealous? Indeed, it is hard to justify the call for a witch hunt these days. Trying times aren’t they? I’ll likely not be asked to comment on this story, though seeing as how it did occur within my district it is always important to have a piece prepared just in case. Still, I seem to be having more trouble than usual in formulating the correct response. Blaming the girl is sure to backfire, though defending her may indicate a lapse in moral order. A finicky one this. What say you, Lawrence?”

  “Is, is, is she okay?”

  “Come again?”

  “The g-guh-guh-girl, is she, is she, is she okay?”

  “Oh sweet friend, how unparalleled our priorities.”

  19

  PANGLOSSIANISM

  THIS MIGHT BE the nicest day I’ve ever seen, and by gum, I’ve seen a few. These clear Oshawa summer skies make a guy’s head spin with fancy ideas that might seem scary had they not been baking all day. Maybe it does get better than this, but I’ll leave those questions to greedy gazers with more sophisticated vocabularies. Who can sit inside and write on a day like this? I have a daily word quota I need to hit but wouldn’t you know it, it’s just not coming. Maybe I can blitz through the rest of this chapter and get to seizing what’s left of this day. All work and no play, right?

  ‘And so it was that Maxime Magnificent Montblanc bought, bullied, and bonked his way to the top of the political food chain—and all was well in his glorious kingdom of Canada.’

  Wonderful penmanship, old chap! No, wrong word. Penmanship refers to the aesthetic quality of the physical writing itself, and remember, your physical writing looks worse than you sound when you try to say that Peter Piper thing. Zing! But please stop making fun of yourself, it’s not fair, you know all of your weaknesses. Regardless, the penmanship is irrelevant because it’s not there. People type on computers these days.

  Come to think of it, that reminds me of something. This is somewhat tangential and only relevant to purists who insist on reading every word on each page in sequential order, so skip this paragraph if you need to be somewhere soon. Still here? Okay, so toward the end of his life, Nietzsche’s eyesight was beginning to fail and he found it difficult to focus on writing the old-­fashioned way—that’s pen-to-paper for any precocious ­youngsters who happen to be reading this. As a refresher, Nietzsche was that old German philosopher that people new to philosophy often think is the greatest philosopher to ever philosophize. The truth? He was okay. Anyway, to compensate for these difficulties Nietzsche acquired for himself a typewriter and starting doing his writing on that. The typewriter allowed him to continue working, but it has been suggested that when he started using the machine, the style of his writing shifted noticeably. It became tighter and more surgical. More mechanical. Something to think about, people.

  As for my writing, well, it’s shit. Maybe I need a new typewriter. But who cares? There’s more important things in life. That sun out there is smiling directly at me, practically begging me to enjoy its company. How do you turn that down? Are there any beaches in this shit town? Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. This is a great town. Seriously. No disrespect intended. So, to the nearby beach of Lake Ontario then? I mean, that’s fine . . . It is the smallest of the Great Lakes, but whatever. Still bigger than most lakes, I guess. Do I have a bathin
g suit here? More importantly, is my body bathing suit ready? The sands of Lake Ontario are as good a place as any to meet the one.

  Yeah, I can see it now. She’s sunbathing on a floral towel and she’s wearing one of those floppy sun hats. She’s wearing sunglasses that obscure most of her face, but I can still tell that underneath she’s a special kind of pretty. She’s wearing a black two-piece bathing suit and you can tell that she doesn’t regularly skip leg day at the gym. Okay, no. You just ruined it, that’s disgusting. You could have just said ‘she’s attractive’ and left it at that. Don’t focus on her appearance, if she really is the one she probably has more going on than just her looks. Oh, what’s this? She’s brought a book with her. Who is she reading? McCarthy? That’s sexy but not realistic. No one in history has ever brought McCarthy to the beach. It doesn’t matter. She sees me emerge from the water and she calls to me. She says:

  ‘Hey cowboy, a little help?’

  And then she throws me a bottle of sunscreen and uses her thumb to point to her back.

  No, cut! Have you ever listened to people talk before? Nobody would ever say that. Let’s just skip ahead to the part where we’re making sandcastles on the beach. No, that’s not a euphemism, we’re actually making sandcastles and I’m even resisting the temptation to tell her that she’s doing it wrong and the structural integrity of her castle’s walls are compromised because of it. Because in this fantasy I’m only a shitty person on the inside. After sandcastles, we go to the quaint little ice cream parlour nearby that for decades has been the go-to first date location for uncreative people. I get myself a single scoop of vanilla and she—no, stop right there. You don’t order vanilla. You’re not eighty. Order something that has a bit of character. Okay fine, I get myself a single scoop of, I don’t know, rum raisin? Oh, sweet lord I’m pathetic. Whatever, the flavour doesn’t matter. She eats hers from a colourful paper bowl because she doesn’t like cones. Wait, what kind of person doesn’t like cones? Are we sure she’s the one? She uses a little plastic spoon that would make anyone holding it look adorable. When she’s finished eating I take the spoon home to keep as a memento of our time together. No, you’re ruining it again. That’s just weird. Skip to the end already.