Some Great Thing

by Colin McAdam

  “McGuinty here.”

  “McGuinty here.”

  “McGuinty here.”

  Endless goddamn meetings. I got so lost and tangled in that shopping-mall project, making sure my investment and bit of labor were working the right way. Those angel demons in the suits had me hypnotized, had everyone moving wherever they wanted, because they were so smart.

  Whenever I was at the site office, an angel demon would step through the door and say, “Mr. McGuinty, I’ve just got to confuse you with mathematical language for a minute and then take you outside to introduce you to an unforeseen complication,” and when I followed him outside the complication would be so white hot that I couldn’t look at it for a month or two.

  One day I discovered that a surveyor had pegged a road directly through the middle of eight intended houses, and my men had already started paving. “It’s only a few hundred thousand,” I say to the surveyor, while I see out of the corner of my eye one of the angel demons actually stuck in some fresh cement—both shoes stuck—and who runs over and clocks him in the eye? Mario Calzone. So while I’m arranging to sue the surveyor, one of my men is facing an assault charge.

  It was like that constantly, not always so dramatic, but Hot.

  Same for Edgar. I caught up with him at meetings sometimes and chatted with him afterward, but he always had to run away. He was too busy to look me in the eye.

  I was too busy to watch my men, my men were too busy to listen to instructions. I made Cooper and Antonioni my deputies, foremen of small crews. Tony started wearing a tie, “for respet,” he would always say, forgetting the “c” like he forgot that his tie got in the way of his carpentry.

  Everything got more political. Unions started behaving like sulky girlfriends. If I didn’t give them little gifts or promise a Big Gift in the future, they would send men out with clipboards who had little talks with my men, just near enough to me so I heard certain words: “action,” “lose your rights,” “can’t afford,” “danger.” I had to do things on any union whim.

  And, eventually, I had sex with a Real Estate Agent.

  LET ME PUT it this way: over the last year in our first house I had spent exactly 31 minutes inside Kathleen. Never mind how many separate occasions it took to reach that total, and as for how I knew the total precisely: we had a new digital clock with big numbers.

  Let me put it another way. I wish numbers like 31 could tell a complete story because I would leave you with a number and you would understand me perfectly. 1 = loneliness, 2 = want, 3 = revenge, 4 = the effect on my goof mind of a woman’s apple ass, 5 = the total irrelevance of 1, 2, 3, and 4, 6 = every thought I don’t have time to number. 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 = half a minute between the legs of a woman with a blazer and a golden scarf, who was probably funny and nice.

  Up yours if you want to judge me.

  “DAD?” SAYS MY young ten-year-old to me. Maybe he was eleven or twelve.

  “Yeah, buddy.”

  “I want to fly airplanes.”

  “OK, buddy. Where do you want to fly them?”

  “Do I need to understand numbers to fly?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “I don’t understand numbers.”

  “Fuck it, buddy. You don’t need numbers. Fly your dad somewhere warm.”

  I THOUGHT THAT KATHLEEN would be a bit more hospitable, you know, in the new house. I bought us a new bed and said things like, “We’ve got to break that in,” “Time to get our money’s worth,” things that were neither funny nor effective.

  She was hospitable in other ways, though, to strangers. After about a year she said, “Do you know, Jer, we’ve been here about a year?”

  “Really?” I said.

  “That’s right,” she said. “And it’s time for us to have a party.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. A real party. What’s the point in having such a big flippin house if we don’t have a party?”

  “We could have another kid.”

  “I know that I could, but whether you could is another ting, Jerry, and besides which a party is less work. Let’s have a party.”

  It didn’t seem like a bad idea to me, actually. I could invite a few of the union guys, maybe even some angel demons. But what kind of party?

  “A classy party,” she said. “Like the house. A big flippin blowout, but classy. It’ll do yiz good, won’t it? Invite some of them bigwigs of yours. But yooz’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s. Wear a tie. And I’ll make some classy things, whore doves and what not, little tings like what Edgar made for us.”

  “Everyone will laugh at us.”

  “What?”

  “They’ll laugh if we make those little things.”

  °Ah, Jerry, that’s class, you see. You don’t recognize it. Just trust me now.”

  So we had a party, a huge party—about a hundred people or so. We could fit most of them in the foyer, which made me proud, but gradually everyone spread through the house like a spilled drink.

  I greeted most of them at the door.

  “How are ya?”

  “How are ya?”

  “How are ya?”

  I knew most of them, but I didn’t know the wives of some, and there were a few people Edgar had invited (Kathleen said he could). Buzz Harmon was there—union guy (Plasterers). Hank Buley, Rip Hancock, Wayne McKenzie. Solid union men you had to have on your side. They admired my work for most of the night, which they were obliged to do on account of politeness and the quality of the work.

  Kathleen served food.

  “Whore doves?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That one’s, like, chicken, but wrapped up special, those are stuffed mushrooms, and those are the devil’s eggs.”

  “Shit. I’ll try them.”

  They actually liked the food, and they liked Kathleen of course, so that little pocket of union acquaintances was successfully taken care of. I wandered to people. People wandered to me. It was a party.

  One of the angel demons came, a Mr. Singleton, who I always liked. He spent his time talking to little Jerry, who was stationed behind the bar.

  (“People ask for a beer,” I had told him before the party, “you just grab the opener and pop off the cap, pour it in a glass if someone wants a glass. Some of the ladies will want wine. Ask them if they want red or white, then pour it in those glasses there . . .”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “OK. And if people want rye or scotch, you just pour a bit in the bottom of those glasses . . . ice over there . . .”

  “I know, Dad.”)

  It was a great little job for him, you bet, and that Mr. Singleton was complimenting me on my son while we stood in the family room.

  “Your son Jerry, Mr. McGuinty, made me an excellent scotch and soda. Just the right amount of each. And he says he would like to be a pilot. I am most impressed, Mr. McGuinty.”

  That Schutz guy was there as my Government contact. All bases covered. I had been getting his daughter to babysit Jerry sometimes, which is why he said, “Kwyet says hello to that young man of yours, Mr. McGuinty.” And I said, “Right,” because I didn’t want to say much to him.

  I told him my young man was serving drinks so he should go and make use of him. It wasn’t kind to Jerry, but I couldn’t stand that Schutz guy. I can’t explain why. His daughter was nice. Beautiful. But I didn’t feel much of a need to talk to him, and I also wanted to show that I was mad at him as my Government contact (they had threatened rejection of every phase).

  Who else was there?

  Antonioni was there with his wife. I had invited Cooper but he told me he would rather fuck his own ass. Tony and his wife stood near the union guys to let them know he had done some work on the house. One of them started hitting on Tony’s wife, so he grabbed her and left early. It was a party.

  Where was Edgar? I caught glimpses of him, but I couldn’t find him when I looked. You need to have friends at parties so you can talk to people who don’t
mind you not listening to them. But I couldn’t find him.

  Oh, there he is!

  No, he’s gone.

  I couldn’t talk to Kathleen because she was busy passing around food and wearing this terrifying face of happiness. When she finished with the food I tried to catch her, but I couldn’t move quickly because of the crowd.

  I was in the family room and I saw Edgar go through the sliding door toward the foyer, and Kathleen go through the other sliding door toward the kitchen. Either way I went, then, I would catch up with a friend.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Sure, Jerry.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “You bet, Jerry.”

  “Excuse me, Schutz.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Jerry! Have a drink with us!”

  “I’ll come back. Excuse me.”

  I chose the kitchen door, expecting that Kathleen would be in there more or less alone. When I slid it open the kitchen was full and Kathleen wasn’t there.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Sorry, Jerry.”

  If I pressed through to the dining room I would catch her, but she moved too quickly. Once I was there I saw her go through to the living room.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Hey, Jerry!”

  “How are ya? Excuse me.”

  And at least when I was in the living room I would have a good chance of bumping into Edgar there.

  “Excuse me.”

  But when I got to the living room, I couldn’t see Kathleen. I looked through to the foyer and saw Edgar going back through the door into the family room, in a circle. I made it into the foyer and gave up.

  Buzz and Rip were standing near me. “Who but God could touch that ceiling?” I asked them.

  “Cheers, Jer.”

  “You know it, Jer.”

  And I went outside because I felt a bit cramped. I had drunk enough not to notice the cold, so I sat on the top step of the porch. I’ve noticed that whenever people step outside from a party for a break, they always look a bit wise—they wear a look that says they must be more interesting than the party inside. Smokers especially. I was probably wearing one of those looks.

  I didn’t really intend to think of anything but my mind seemed to want to go back to the hours before the party.

  Kathleen had been wearing this pink spongy jumpsuit which she always wore when she was being efficient. (Jerry told me the other day that he used to try to avoid her whenever she wore it.) She had gotten up early and was banging cupboards, making the kitchen sound like a firing range. The theme of the day was “Why don’t you help me? Don’t help me!”

  When I got down to the kitchen the first thing she said was, “I want every one of your tools put away before you do anything today, before you say anything to me. It’s like two kids and not just the one.”

  It was fair warning to treat her gingerly, so I tiptoed behind her and went to make some toast.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting a bit of breakfast.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “What?”

  “Pick up your goddamn toys from around the house. I’m not doing any cleaning until you pick up your tools. You were lying in bed, playing with yer penis no doubt, while I’ve been down here busy. You would think this party was for me.”

  Jerry walked by the door of the kitchen so I called good morning to him and offered him some toast.

  “Don’t you bring him on to your side now. He was in here when I came down this morning . . . eating . . . sitting up there eating his own peanut-butter toast like he was King Flippin Shit of the Manor. I’ve already told him off, so don’t go bringing him on to your side. Just put the bread down and pick up yer toys.”

  So I got out of her way for a while, picking up my tools from around the place. You shouldn’t believe her when she implied they were all over the place. But it took a surprisingly long time to pick them up. I noticed one of my hammers had a hairline crack, which was something the manufacturer was going to hear about.

  “Where the shit have you been?!” was the next thing I heard from her. “We have six hours before that doorbell rings! Have we got enough booze?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Check!”

  We had far less than I thought we did. “Where’s all our vodka?” I said.

  “How should I know? If we’re out you’d better get some. Well?”

  “We’re out.”

  “Well? Christ, Jerry, a bit of planning, eh? You want to impress your bigwigs, eh? Your Big Mr. Larges? You go out and buy more booze than you have ever bought, and if you’re not back in an hour, I’ll hurt you.”

  So I did just that. I can still remember the bill for the booze but I still don’t believe it enough to say it aloud. I was back in forty-five minutes but it took me another forty-five to unload it all. Jerry helped me—that’s when I had the idea of making him bartender at the party.

  “While you two have been out farting, I’ve mopped every fuckin floor in here. Every one.” She poked my shoulder for every floor in the house. “And the bathtubs, I’ve cleaned the bathtubs, the sinks, your disgusting toilet. And you,” she tried to backhand Jerry’s face but he ducked so she grabbed him and shook him. “How many times have I told you to make your bed, and on the one day I need you to really make your feckin bed, you still leave it a mess. Get out of my sight. You get out of my sight, too,” she said to me. “Go look around at your self-cleaning house and see how goddamn clever it is when I’m in it.”

  I did as I was told and set up a few things wherever Kathleen wasn’t. I quickly whacked some legs into some chipboard, and behold, my friend, a bar. I set that up in the family room and covered it with a tablecloth.

  “What are you doing now?” she said.

  “Staying out of your way.”

  “Well, how about helping me? How many times do I have to ask?”

  “For God’s sake, Kathleen, you’ve been shouting at me all day. Take it easy.”

  “I’ll take it easy when I know I have people in this house, men I can rely on. This is your party, Gerald.”

  “My name is Jerry. It has never been anything other than Jerry. What do you mean, it’s my party? This whole fuckin thing was your idea.”

  “Oh, if that’s the sort of grammar you’re going to use in front of your bigwigs, you might as well call it off. And don’t you start FUCKin well SHOUTing at me, Gerald McGuinty, because I’ll tell all your friends tonight, Edgar and the rest of them, how bad you really treat me. I’ll tell your bigwigs what you are really like, about all your poking and begging in bed. I’ll tell them about your vasectomy, Jerry and then we’ll see how well your business does. They don’t have to live with you like I do.”

  It didn’t stop. All day she kept shouting like that. She told Jerry that he would embarrass the family if he was the bartender because he would cock it up like he cocked up all his chores. It was only ten minutes before the first guests arrived that I was able to bring him around to helping me.

  And when Kathleen got out of her jumpsuit, when she showered, fixed her hair, put perfume on . . . when the doorbell rang and every hair on our three necks stood up . . . when she emerged from the bathroom looking like the woman every healthy man dreams of . . . when she smiled and said, “Oh, I wonder who that is?” . . . when I answered the door and she came down my intelligent stairs in the body I built them for . . . when she said “Hello!” and smiled at the guests . . . everything was all right.

  It was a party.

  I WENT BACK in and joined the party because my ass was cold. There were still a lot of people there. I had a few whiskies to warm up, and I was lost in thought for a long time. I found myself laughing and saying “exactly” to every guest I encountered. There was a strange, steady bang in the background somewhere but I didn’t pay much attention to it—sort of a “whirr, BANG, whirr, BANG.”

  Guests left.

  “Hey
, Jer, you’re going to enjoy living in this house, aren’t you?”

  “Exactly. Ha ha ha.”

  “See ya, Jer. Catch you Monday morning, as always.”

  “Exactly Ha ha ha.”

  Whirr, BANG, whirr, BANG, whirr, BANG.

  I went to get myself another drink and I realized I hadn’t noticed Jerry behind the bar for a while. Whirr, BANG. And that’s when I became fully aware of the noise.

  I followed it around, through the kitchen, and came to the dining room. There was Jerry opening the sliding door and banging it closed, opening the sliding door and banging it closed.

  “Testing your father’s craftsmanship, are you, buddy?”

  “No.”

  “How come you’re not behind the bar any more?”

  He didn’t say anything and went upstairs to bed. He had a handsome little curl on the crown of his head, a sort of an elegant swirl, like a king should have. I realized he had got that from me, but when I felt my own head I noticed that most of my hair was gone.

  A NORMALLY reliable principle of development is that once it starts, it won’t stop. There are breaths, little pauses, of course. But they are only breaths. Put a house on a piece of land one year, and a hundred years later you can be guaranteed a suburb. It’s partly based on the principle that people don’t know that they want something until they see it, and once they see it they want and want and want. But there is also the obvious practical explanation that once water, sewerage, and electricity are set, the rest is inevitable, and as long as those webs of pipes and cables can be joined to new webs, we spider developers will be happy and fat and you flies can rest in peace.

  Continuous development, my friend, is a beautiful thing.

  But if something gets in the way, if something prevents those webs from linking, you have an abomination. My phase five and other future phases were encroaching on what the Government was calling the “Greenbelt.”

  I don’t know whether I need to say anything about the Greenbelt other than its name: green belt. A green belt. Green, like leprechauns and fairies, weird, imaginary, squeaky little freaks that make everyone sort of uncomfortable. Just because green is the color of leaves and grass doesn’t mean it’s not a fuckin weird color. There’s nothing natural about it. A green belt. I think we understand each other.