We’ve been married forty years. She brought home rum raisin ice cream even though I very specifically asked for vanilla. She ‘forgot’ to get cones too. The only thing keeping me going now is the hope that she might die before me so I can at least have a few days without her.
Yup, she’s the one all right.
Well that was fun if only a bit farfetched. A more accurate depiction of my potential day at the beach would involve me gauchely sitting in the dirt by myself as people younger and more attractive than me throw a Frisbee to each other while using words that I don’t know the meaning to. ‘Mommy, what’s that guy doing here by himself?’ Yes, mommy, what can you tell us about that guy? And all this would last for about thirty minutes before I convince myself that I’ve had enough sun for the day and slink myself back to the safety net that is M’s house.
At this point I need to ask if it’s normal for daydream fantasies to end as starkly as mine often seem to. I suppose it saves me the trouble of having to go out and live it for myself. I mean, it is a nice day and all but is it that nice that I need to skip out on writing to go try my luck at some beach that I’m not familiar with? From a purely statistical perspective the chances that I’ll meet the one there are negligible. Still, it might be nice to just turn off the old thinker and soak up some sun for a change. It might even be fun. Hell, maybe I’ll get some ice cream too. A double scoop. Of something crazy. Something like . . . I don’t know, tiger? That’s a thing, right? Yeah, to hell with it! You should take chances once in a while. Sometimes you have to give in to spontaneity to really feel alive. Wayne Gretzky said that you miss one hundred percent of the shots that you don’t take and, dammit, I’m going to take this shot! I’m going to get out there and enjoy this gorgeous day that’s been gifted to me from on high! I’m going to—
And it was right at that moment that Montblanc entered the room.
20
PARASITIZATION
CURIOUSLY CURT, MONTBLANC greets me with a surgically focused inquiry purposefully impervious to misinterpretation.
“How much of my book have you written today?”
I feel a chain drag across my chest as I come to the quick realization that the answer to that question is not the correct one.
“Hi Muh-Muh-Mmmmax, I, I was actually just about t-t-to, to, to start, I just needed t—”
“Do you know what your problem is, Larry Mann?”
A hesitation on my part. Though I am fine-tuned to the frequency of my problems to the point of disassociation, I don’t answer, knowing full well that the mountainous mammoth of a man is about to play my part for me.
“You are a parasite. You are a broken and incomplete organism listlessly floating through your existence until you stumble upon the lifeblood of an unsuspecting host, an oasis of soon evaporated opportunity where you may continue your insipid journey into meaninglessness. You are a paltry creature, sucking the vitality out of higher-functioning forms until there is nothing left. What type of existence is this?”
Harsh, but he’s not wrong. I’m surprised at my ability to maintain eye contact as he continues.
“I’m no longer fond of parasites. There are too many of them and their welcome has been roundly overstayed. I feel them in my hair, tearing it out strand by strand with invisible force. I feel them in my eyes, usurping the vision that I once had for this country. I feel them in my lungs, stealing my oxygen, leaving only just enough to keep me sustained. I feel them in my testicles, picking off my sperm one by one and replacing them with doppelgangers. And why haven’t you written anything today? Do you intend to fight with the others over the prime real estate of my body? I ask again, what type of existence is this?”
His body and tone soften slightly as he shifts into a story.
“I had an employee once, a manager type. A weak man. A parasite. The time had long since come for him to go, but understand, I was a blinder person then. A more forgiving person. His pitiful cries and assurances pierced me. ‘Mr. Montblanc, please give me another chance, I promise you won’t regret it.’ And so I cut open my body and invited the parasite back in. Silently gnawing away at me from inside, he went unnoticed for several months until he invited me to a company barbeque that he was hosting. ‘Have a beer with me, Max,’ he asked with a clumsy and unwelcome familiarity. ‘I just wanted to thank you again for giving me another shot, I truly appreciate it.’ The beer tasted like cyanide. I choked it down as this parasite laughed at me from inside. He introduced me to his daughter and explained that she was to be starting university in Alberta come September. And now I see that they had begun breeding! This particular female offspring was well-endowed in her chest and hips, no doubt the result of many fine meals provided vicariously by me. She too had been allowed to thrive on my valuable innards. She was a part of me. She was made from me. She was mine. I take only partial credit for the events that followed as the signs were not particularly subtle. In her eyes I could see this creature’s simple gears spinning. I had her not twenty minutes later in her basement bedroom after we stealthily stole away from the languid festivities. It was a trivial and conventional lay, though not an unimportant one. It was symbolic of me reclaiming what was mine and reuniting with my stolen flesh. She had told her father about our dalliance after a fight they had some weeks later. She wanted to hurt him. Parasitical cannibalism. He then confronted me about this, trying to strike a pathetic balance between anger and respect. The result of his inquiries? I fired him on the spot. The rage in his eyes suggested that he desired to attack me. Fortunately, this now starving creature had foresight enough to realize that such a decision would have resulted in his body becoming as thoroughly broken as his spirit now surely was. I had his daughter. I had stolen his career from him. And all he could think to do was slink away slowly, never to be heard from again, while I was made anew and left to feel pure and complete once more.”
I stand mute, waiting for an out that eventually comes.
“I no longer retain any tolerance for parasites. Understand?”
I nod diligently.
“Then you’d best get to doing some writing.”
21
PROSOPOPOEIA
I OCCASIONALLY EXPERIENCE exploding head syndrome. It’s a real thing, you can look it up if you don’t believe me. Apparently it tends to be more common in women and in people over the age of fifty. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it will always be right as I’m about to fall asleep. Alarming to be sure, but as I understand it, not a cause for major concern. Now compared to that other thing that sometimes happens as I’m falling asleep, a bit of exploding head is a blessing in brevity.
You are aware of your surroundings, but you are unable to move, speak, or react in any way. This alone is a disturbing sensation, but one that is further compounded when you realize that your senses are caught skirting the line between the empirical and the subconscious. The dark denizens of your nightmares introduce themselves and you are incapable of reaction or evasion. When your personalized demons make their slow advance you regain the appreciation that you ought to have for the taken-for-granted gifts of mobility and speech. If you are strong, persistent, and blessed with a touch of good fortune, you may be able to jerk yourself awake before the icy hands of your unwelcome visitors reach out to caress you, but if your body remains lame and your chest stilled under unseen irons, you’ll have no choice but to endure the advances while only bearing silent witness. This is how I have come to know fear in its most absolute and pure. No screen to look away from, no light to turn on, no safe word to hysterically utter. Just an inescapable embrace with your inner terror. You wake up to a barrage of cogitations and physical reactions not easily shaken off. Rapid palpitations, a heavy chest glazed in sweat, a slight sense of relief, but with a fearful respect of the darkness dormant within you. And always, the hope that such thing will never happen again.
Since beginning my residency as Montblanc’s g
hostwriter I have slept quite soundly despite the strangeness of the whole situation. I attribute this partially to the bed in the guestroom that I can only describe as ‘immersive’. The rich just have a lot of things better than we do. One night on that bed can attest to this. Quite soundly, yes, until last night.
I had gone to sleep feeling anxious, something I try to avoid whenever possible, but I had been having doubts. M seemed largely unimpressed with my progress and product thus far and I was beginning to wonder whether I could write his book to the quality that he expected. Maybe he would fire me? The fragility of my ego under the stage lights. Maybe I would lose the money he promised that I so desperately wanted? Desperately needed? No, better make the distinction, we’ll go with wanted. There needs to be a shred of something endearing about me. As I pondered my future and merit I slipped beyond the waking world to the peace of sleep, only to be interrupted by the unsettling feeling of paralysis. Try to move an arm. Try to roll over. Futility knows me tonight. I began to prepare my mental defences for the hellacious manifestations that I was expecting to see, but to my surprise my visitors did not seem to be of the macabre or otherworldly variety, rather, it was two men. Familiar men. Men that I had known since my youth. Men whose voices were burned into memories I hadn’t yet discovered.
The first man looked rather svelte, though this may have been an illusion caused by his well-fitting suit, complete with a white shirt and navy blue tie. His hair was graying and thinning and he struck me as a healthy, honest, and hard-working figure. The second man, seemingly older than his companion as evidenced by his snow-white goatee and seasoned blue eyes, was wearing a jacket with a black-and-white checkerboard design. A hideous jacket by any account, but he did not seem a man concerned with the opinions of others. The duo looked over me for a moment before they began conversing, though for reasons unclear at the time it took me far longer than it should have to realize that they were speaking about me. The older, more boisterous and garrulous of the two opened the discussion.
“Get a load of this slacker here! All you kids out there listen up and watch closely—you can’t be doing this kind of stuff if you want to compete at this level. What happened in the old days, if you were caught slackin’ like this, the coach wouldn’t pull you aside like they do today, he’d call you out in front of the whole team and you better believe that drove the message home!”
“You think it might have something to do with the schedule that many of these guys are on? They—”
“Nah, don’t give me any of that, these young guys are pampered today as far as I’m concerned. And look what happens! First of all, with the way they come up nowadays they aren’t made accountable for their mistakes. You pamper these guys and they get soft and lazy and they aren’t held accountable. This is supposed to be the toughest game in the world, but when you get these pampered young guys with their West Coast attitude—”
“Now hold on, Grapes, some of your favourite players are West Coasters, I don’t think that’s—”
“Never mind that, those boys you’re talkin’ about played most their lives in Ontario learning how to play the game right. Give me a good Kitchener boy over these West Coasters any day of the week. Anyhow, watch this guy here—here’s what you can’t be doing, kids. You got to show a little passion. I tell ya, if these guys played with any of the intensity that Bobby played with they wouldn’t be in this position. I don’t care how much talent you have, without the intensity it’s gonna be wasted every time!”
“What about this one, you think he’ll be able to bounce back?”
“Ah, he’s a good kid, just needs to smarten up. I’ll tell ya something from my coaching days—we had this one young guy, small guy, not much more than five and a half feet, but what a player. He knew he was never gonna be a big guy, but lemme tell ya, he went out there every night he and played like he was the biggest guy on the ice, and boy were the other teams scared of him! One of the toughest guys I ever known and it just goes to show ya that the fire inside is worth more than anything else. And you know what folks? This guy here’s got some fire in him yet, believe it! He’s gonna be a beauty!”
22
PALIMPSEST
WHO ARE YOU, Abigail Edington, and what role might you fulfill on this intrepid journey of ours? I might have lived my entire life without noticing the breadcrumbs of your own. Were it my fate to craft we would share our discoveries under dead or dying stars as black-clad choirmen sing in a language I would only pretend to understand. Alas, all I have is your digital footprint, fumbled upon during my perfunctory pursuit of prosaic perfection, and from this I know that Montblanc’s history can wait. I don’t know how great nor simple minds operate, but I will know no peace of mine until I pursue this unannounced question with the diligence it is due—who are you Abigail Edington? On the 24th of April 2015, an answer is attempted in the form of a post from your sparsely-coloured, templated landing page:
My name is Abigail Edington and I was born in the year 2000. I am a photographer, graphic designer, writer, and Reformed Christian, and I am writing my first novel! This blog is a place for me to share my writing and my pictures and just my general overall thoughts on things. I hope you enjoy!
With love,
Abby
A dozen sugar-coated strawberries for this Child of God, fifteen years young and somehow between the Sunday singing of hymns in her modest floral dress and the predicted pitfalls prescribed to her cohort she finds time enough not only to undertake the writing of a novel but also to maintain a blog dedicated to the specificities of the undertaking itself. And at twice her age what have I to offer but my own shallow meditation on the process? But this isn’t about me—who are you, Abigail Edington? I scroll down her landing page, blue text on white background, and open the post entitled ‘Choosing a Pen Name’, dated April 27th, 2015:
My name isn’t really Abigail Edington. I keep my real name a secret for privacy reasons, but also because I wanted my pen name to be something unique. I chose the name Abigail because it means “the Father’s joy” in Hebrew and because Abigail was the name of King David’s wife. The Bible describes Abigail as intelligent and beautiful. Not like I see myself that way or anything, but I figured my pen name should portray confidence. I also just think it’s a really pretty name. Choosing a pen name can be hard, it took a long time to narrow mine down to something that I liked and that sounded good when I said it out loud. I still feel like it would be really weird and hard to get used to being called something other than my real name if my novel ever got published and famous but the more I write it and say it the more natural it sounds. It would be so crazy to see it in print one day!
With love,
Abby
A penname, is it? Not something I have ever considered for myself. I quite like the exotic flair inherent in ‘Larry Mann.’ Sounds like the name of a plumber. I suppose I could just go with L. S. Mann, or maybe by my middle name—Sierra Mann. I never did forgive my parents for that one. I need more clues Abigail. What else do you have for me? On the inspirational power of music, May 5th, 2015:
I like to listen to music when I write, especially instrumental music. It’s fascinating how the melodies of instruments can bring out feelings of sadness, happiness, and nostalgia. I find that the emotions that music makes me feel really help with my writing, especially when I need to capture the relationship between two characters. In my novel there are many different types of relationships between all the characters and some of these have very established musical soundtracks in my head. I’ve put together a playlist of some of my favourite instrumental songs. Maybe they can bring out the same emotions in you that they brought out in me!
With love,
Abby
Damn, girl, your novel has more than two characters? I feel like I am getting closer to knowing who you are, but as I temporize my way through the entirety of the content on Abigail’s blog I notice the pattern of h
er updates. She posted consistently and excitingly for about two months, and then, nothing. Not a single update since the early summer of 2015 nearly three years ago. And now? The blog is a ghost town, preserving the architecture of a precocious and idealistic young artist in a buried corner of the Internet that no one will likely ever see again. But what ever became of the young Abigail? Did she finish her book? Does she still write at all? In desperation I try searching her pen name for any signs of recent activity but I find nothing. Nothing. And suddenly I feel betrayed and alone. Had she strayed from the path like so many others have? From the path that I still doggedly walk despite the incessant harassment of my better judgement? One by one I’ve seen my peers come to their senses and free themselves. I see guitars locked in their cases collecting dust. I see dancing shoes tucked away in boxes at the bottoms of closets. I see wooden hockey sticks standing guard in garages. And where is the young Abigail now? Waiting tables at some overpriced chain restaurant that forces her into tight black clothing that further constricts her will to creation?
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