by Mark Foss
AS I APPROACH the sleeping bag, a wave of caramel, vanilla, and musky flannel envelops me.
— I said I’d come back.
The voice, strangely familiar. Deeper than I had imagined. She turns to face me in the dark. Her breasts brush up against my chest. They are recognizably large.
— Rox.
— You were expecting someone else?
— You’re wearing Candy.
This is all she’s wearing, the first time I’ve seen her near a bed without four layers. Her long mess of hair has been cut and shaped, falling casually across her forehead. This is both Rox and not Rox.
We talk on our sides, elbows pressed against the thin mattress. Lightning illuminates our faces for a second every few minutes, not enough to make us uncomfortable. That will come when the sun streams onto our naked bodies and we have to fetch our clothes outside.
— You came out here once before. For a sleepover. I watched from the house.
— She liked the silence. The isolation. The desolation.
— We never talk about her.
— Why is that, do you think?
— Digital, man. We need to go digital.
Rox turns her back towards me again, retreats to the farthest reaches of the sleeping bag. The imprint of her warm body has disappeared from the length of flannel next to me, and the space has already gone cold. The vibrations of her laugh are nothing compared to her unfiltered tears. If I’m not careful, the pounding will crack my heart right open.
— The way you looked at me after my shower. I thought we were both ready to let her go.
In an episode of Gunsmoke, a rattlesnake crawls into Marshall Dillon’s sleeping bag while he’s camping in the wild. They have to pull the bag off him and shoot the snake before it can bite, all in one swift motion. That’s nothing compared to the savage and single-minded manner in which Rox flings off the sleeping bag and leaves me defenceless. She steps over my legs, crouching towards the flap. The zipper is jammed tight. She tugs, pulls, and curses.
— Your flashlight’s right here.
— Don’t you dare turn it on.
Go then, Lady Godiva. If you’re not ready for your close-up, strut naked up the third concession in the pelting rain. There are no shelters from this storm. Not since you ripped down Candy’s words from the wall.
She retreats to a corner and collapses. Was that a crack of thunder or the snap of my heart string?
— You’re leaving again.
— You’re not stopping me again.
— That polyethylene floor must be damp and unpleasant.
— It’s stuck to my ass if you want to know.
— Come back.
My sexual relations have followed the conventions of classical linear narrative — from title sequence to end credits, in that order and usually within the allotted ninety minutes. Every gesture and gasp, every stroke and sigh, has already been written, rehearsed, and played out many times before. My lovemaking with Rox is unscripted. I keep my eyes closed as she leaves before the lights come up.
45
ON THE TOP TIER OF the stage, under a corner of the canvas that still holds off rain, I put my back to the Wasteland and take an auctioneer’s view of the landscape. Stormy weather turns away the casual crowds, leaving hardcore patrons who stand defiantly in their slickers, refusing to be suckered into paying too much because of a little water. Joseph has to compete against their iron will and the sound of the pounding rain, all without a microphone. With a slight change in intonation, his honey-bathed voice places these grown men into strollers where they stare up into the loving eyes of their mothers. Squatting beneath him in our hideout, protected from the rain by the tarp overhead, Candy and I hold our mouths open under the cracks of the boards to let the chant soothe our fears.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I thank the Canada Council for the Arts, which provided funds for the writing of this book.
Through the Quebec Writers’ Federation, I met Marc Côté, editor and publisher of Cormorant Books, whose guidance was vital for Molly O to achieve its final shape.
I am grateful to MM Serra, executive director of the Film-makers’ Cooperative in New York, who gave me much insight into the workings of the cooperative and the experimental film scene in New York during the 1980s and 1990s. In addition, she steered me towards captured: a film/video history of the lower east side by Clayton Patterson (Seven Stories Press, New York, 2005), which helped me situate the apocryphal films of Mickey Nailand and Molly O.
Lee Goldberg’s Unsold Television Pilots 1955 through 1989 (McFarland & Company, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1990) offered a window into what might have been that fed my imagination.
Most of all I am indebted to Michka Saäl for her astute suggestions, her unflagging belief in this book, and everything else.
Molly O
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Acknowledgements