To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “Well ...” Steve? Brandon? I scan the seating plan. “Dylan, that’s not quite—”

  “All in favour we watch the movie?” Dylan polls the room. A number of enthusiastic hands bolt skyward. A few others follow along shyly to make up the majority. Marshall looks at me, shrugs, and also puts up his hand.

  “All right,” I say, “we’re not—” but before I can kibosh the impending mutiny, Dylan is at the front of the room, squatting in front of the television cart.

  “Where’s the ... ?” He pokes experimentally at a button and white noise explodes into the room.

  “Dylan!” I shout over the static. He points to his ear and mimes deafness. I reach down and yank the plug out of the wall. In the sudden silence, my voice sounds too loud. “We’re not watching that right now.”

  Dylan lets out a heavy sigh and takes the DVD back to his desk, rolling his eyes like a dissatisfied customer. “This class buh-lows,” he says. I ignore him and try to salvage my introduction.

  “Okay. So, yeah, when you live in a democracy, you get to make decisions based on majority rule—like whether or not you listen to me or watch a movie—but, one of the things we decided as a society is—”

  Before I can finish my thought, a short electronic melody sounds out from the vicinity of Dylan’s desk. I look in his direction, and his entire attention seems to be suddenly focused on his own lap.

  “Dylan, please turn your phone off in class.” I’m still relatively new at this, but I imagine teaching was a lot easier before the invention of wireless devices.

  “I’ll put it on vibrate.”

  He slips it into his pocket.

  “Off, please. And away.”

  More eye rolling. He pulls it out and puts it in his empty desk with a hollow clatter. Good enough.

  “So,” I return to the class, “because you’re all under the age of eighteen—”

  “I’m not,” says a large and impressively bearded student in the back row.

  “Okay, because most of you are under the age of eighteen—”

  I’m interrupted again, this time by the sound of Dylan’s phone buzzing against the metal of his desk. Dylan grabs it, but instead of sheepishly turning it off, he holds it to his ear and says, “Hello?”

  I make a beeline to his desk and hold out my hand.

  “Give me that.”

  He eyes me narrowly, raises a silencing index finger, and continues to talk. I feel something like a blood vessel burst in my head.

  “Dylan, give me that phone right now,” I say. I hear my voice getting shaky with anger.

  By now, even the students who were only vaguely tuned in are watching hungrily, eager for a showdown. This is better than a movie. Definitely better than a Civics lesson.

  Dylan holds his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s my mom!” he whispers viciously, and then, to his alleged parent, “Yeah. I know. I’ll have to call you back. I know. Okay. Bye.”

  He puts the phone down on his desk. I snatch it away with an animal dexterity I didn’t know I had.

  “What the hell?” By some impossible teenage logic, Dylan is the victim. “That’s mine!”

  “I know it’s yours,” I say, walking back to my desk where I lock the phone in a drawer. “You can have it back after school.”

  He slides down in his seat and stares past me. “Fuckin’ fascist,” he mutters. The girl sitting next to him stares, wide-eyed and happily scandalized.

  “I’m sorry, what did you just call me?”

  Dylan sits up in his seat. “Did I stutter? I called you a fucking fascist.”

  “Get your things,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady, “and go to the office.”

  “Whatever.”

  He reaches into his pocket, puts a cigarette behind his ear, and as he walks past me, casually pushes my coffee cup off my desk and into the garbage can. Sixty eyes watch for my next move, but I just let him go. At least I have everyone’s attention now.

  When I first started teaching, I wanted to be cool. I mean, I wasn’t expecting kids to get up on their desks and recite “O Captain! My Captain,” but I wanted to have interesting discussions about why the world is the way it is and how we can make it better. So far, it doesn’t seem to be working out that way. I guess it’s hard to stick it to the Man once you’ve become the Man.

  At lunch, I find Ruth in the staff cafeteria and sit down across from her with my plate of chicken nuggets, fries, and gravy.

  “God,” Ruth says, looking at my food in disgust. “How can you eat that?”

  “It’s comfort food,” I say. “I need comfort.” I crack the tab on a can of root beer and dare her to challenge my choice of beverage.

  “Any classes this afternoon?”

  Through a mouthful of inferior chicken, I answer, “Physics. Third period.”

  “Did you even take physics in high school?”

  I got hired this semester to fill in for a woman on maternity leave. I teach a sleepy Canadian History class first thing in the morning, and then the nightmare that is Civics just before lunch. The office is usually pretty good at throwing me enough supply work in the afternoon to keep me busy, but that includes anything from girl’s phys. ed. to woodworking. Of course, none of this is permanent, which means that unless someone retires, dies, or gets fired, I’ll be out of a job by February.

  “Well, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?” Ruth asks. “I’ll cook you something that isn’t slurry based, and you can distract Michael from whatever stupid video game he’s currently obsessed with.”

  “Okay, but what if he seduces me with superior graphics and elaborate weaponry?”

  “Then I’m feeding your dinner to Pepperoni.”

  “I can’t imagine that’s healthy for an octogenarian cat.”

  “He’s eleven.”

  “That’s pretty old for a cat.”

  In the background, I can hear a phone ringing. Just as I lift another bite of chicken to my mouth, Jim Lodge vies for my attention.

  “Kovalski on the phone for you, Curtis.”

  I put down the fork and make my way to the staff cafeteria telephone. Chances are that someone went home sick and they need me to cover a class fourth period. I could use the extra money.

  “Hi, it’s Pete,” I say into the receiver.

  “Hi, Peter. Listen, I’ve got a parent in the office, and she’s a little concerned about what happened in your period two class today.”

  In the background I can hear a woman’s voice: “completely unacceptable ...”

  “Did you confiscate a student’s phone?”

  Ah. Dylan’s mom. “I sure did. And then I sent him down to see you.”

  “Okay. He never showed up. Did you fill out an incident report?”

  A what? “Uh, no, I was trying to corral my class after he left. He was pretty disruptive.”

  “That was private property ...” Dylan’s mom protests in the background.

  “Right. Well ... you can’t send a student down without filling out an incident report, and legally, we’re not really supposed to take their phones away. I’m going to need you to come down and have a chat with us, okay? And bring the phone.”

  “... and he has no right to ...”

  I sigh and look sadly at the gravy congealing on my plate. “I’ll be right there.”

  I walk past Ruth and shove one last forkful of food into my mouth. It’s going to be a long day without a lunch.

  “Problem?” she asks.

  I take a final swallow of root beer. “Yeah. The crazy apple doesn’t fall far from the crazy tree.”

  “Truer words, my friend,” she says. “Hey, can I have the rest of your fries?”

  SIDE A

  French Inhale

  “Hands off.”

  Soda swats Deacon away from the faders on our brand-new Tascam Portastudio.

  “Hey, I paid for it. I can touch it all I want.”

  “We all paid for it, dumbass,” I say. “It’s the band’s
four-track.”

  “Yeah, and as a member of the band, I’d like to fix my levels. The bass sounds like a farted-out tuba.”

  “I thought that was your signature sound.” Soda grins. He makes a few adjustments and then hits RECORD. “Okay. Let’s try this again.”

  Our rehearsal space is a wood-panelled room in my parents’ basement that’s now plastered with photocopied show posters. Some of the shows were ours; others I wish had been ours: hHead and Mystery Machine in June; King Cobb Steelie in August; Hayden in September. My dad had some ambitions about turning this place into a rec room, with a big-screen TV and surround sound, but I think by now it’s safe to say we’ve got squatters’ rights. Of course, we’re still subject to the will of the landlords. We get halfway through ‘Glass Knuckles,’ without making a single mistake, when the overhead lights flash.

  Deacon stops playing first. Soda finishes the chorus and then drops out, but I can tell he’s irritated. I unleash an indignant drum solo in protest. Soda hits STOP on the Tascam.

  “Mom, we’re trying to record down here.”

  “Well, I have a load of whites to do,” my mom fires back, navigating the stairs from behind an avocado-coloured laundry basket. Before she’s even halfway down, Deacon unstraps his bass and takes the basket out of her arms.

  “Can I throw this in the wash for you, Mrs. Curtis? Permanent press?”

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  Deacon smiles smugly in my direction, and I roll my eyes.

  “Peter,” my mom says, “Rita called. She wants you to call her after practice.”

  She pauses for a moment, like she’s just now realized we’re all waiting for her to leave. “You guys are sounding ... better.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Curtis.”

  Once she’s gone I turn back to the other guys. With his thumbs and forefingers, Deacon is dangling one of my mom’s bras in front of his chest. He winks at me.

  “I can’t even begin to tell you how gross that is,” I tell him.

  “What does Rita want?” Soda asks.

  “I don’t know. She probably needs us to confirm the Super Friendz show.”

  “Super Friendz ...” Deacon says, dropping the offending underwear back in the basket. “Who names their band after a cartoon?”

  “Mystery Machine is from Scooby Doo,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, Mystery Machine sounds cool. Super Friendz sounds kind of gay.”

  “You named our band after a fairy tale,” Soda reminds him.

  “Well, I had another name, which would’ve been infinitely cooler, but you guys just didn’t get it.”

  Soda groans. Deacon had wanted to name the band Kid Charlemagne, but Soda and I vetoed it: “We’re not naming our band after a fucking Steely Dan song.”

  We eventually decided on Giant Killer. Despite its questionable origins, it did sound pretty badass. Plus, it was kind of a fuck-you to Thunder Bay’s foremost geological wonder, the Sleeping Giant, this peninsula that everyone’s so proud of because they think it looks like a man lying down on his back. Personally, I think it looks like a giant green turd floating in Lake Superior.

  We agree to do the show and practise for another hour or so. After Soda and Deacon take off, I call Lovely Rita and confirm. Rita laughs and tells us she already booked it.

  “As if you guys would ever turn down a chance to be on stage.”

  We met Rita Bachinsky one night last year at End of the Century. She was originally from Windsor and doing her first year at Lakehead. She came out to watch a couple guys from her hacky-sack club play covers of Soul Asylum and Sublime songs that were somehow worse than their source material. She stuck around to watch Giant Killer play, and right after our set she came up to us and announced that she wanted to be our manager for life. At first—I’ll admit it—I was a little put off. I imagine the other guys were too. Basking in the sweaty afterglow of our best and most crowded show to date (almost twenty people!), I thought she might damage our newly established cred. I mean, she didn’t exactly scream rock ‘n’ roll.

  The thing is, Rita is fat. If I wanted to be politically correct, I might say she’s big-boned, or husky, but that’s not quite the truth. The truth is, she’s just fat. Enormously fat. Like Rita MacNeil fat. In fact, the unfortunate coincidence that she shares her name with Canada’s premier heavyweight songbird has led her to slap at least two people who were stupid enough to make the comparison.

  It’s possible that Rita sensed we were a little leery of her that first night. Maybe she was just used to having to prove herself. In any case, the next thing we knew, she had sneaked us a free pitcher of beer and talked the bar manager into paying us an extra fifty bucks. That’s when I realized Lovely Rita got shit done. From then on she booked our shows, helped design our t-shirts, sold our merch, and drove the Sabre if everyone else wanted to get drunk. She couldn’t play a note of music, but Rita was in the band.

  The next day, Deacon picks me up around one o’clock so we can put up posters around town. Even before he pulls into my driveway, I can hear ‘Rikki Don’t Lose That Number’ blaring through his windows.

  “Where’s Soda?” I ask, easing into the passenger seat.

  Deacon plays drums on the steering wheel.

  “He said he’s not feeling well.”

  With Soda, “not feeling well” could mean a lot of things.

  “Hey, check out the Super Friendz poster Rita made,” Deacon says, reaching in the back and then handing me a piece of paper stiff with glue. “Think it’s too obvious?”

  “Nah. I like how she replaced Aquaman’s head with a Telecaster.”

  Luckily, Deacon’s sister Deandra is working that day, which means we can get the photocopies for free and pocket the money from the club manager. But not before Deandra gives the poster a once over.

  “Super Friendz?” The Bubblicious snaps between her teeth. “Like the kids’ show? Sounds kind of gay.”

  “See?” Deacon says, elbowing me.

  How Deandra “Double D” Deacon shares any DNA with her brother is something of a mystery. In her glory days, she was the Metal Queen of Mackenzie King, all hairspray, fishnets, feather earrings, and black leather. In grade nine, I was only lucky enough to spot her a couple times before she dropped out and moved to Calgary, but those rare sightings had a profound impact on my young libido.

  She came home about a year ago and got a job at Business Depot. The rumour, as yet unconfirmed by Deacon, was that she had a kid, then gave it up for adoption. She seems kind of faded now—her hair’s a little out of date, and she’s put on a few pounds—but I love that she still wears those studded leather bracelets under the red uniform and plastic name tag.

  “Hey, Mikey, tell your friend there to quit looking at my tits.”

  Deacon glares in my direction, and I hold up my hands like someone’s got a gun on me.

  “You wish, Deandra,” Deacon says.

  Deandra shrugs, snaps her gum again, and winks at me. I experience a minor heart attack as she goes back to check the copy machine.

  “Were you looking at my sister’s tits?” he asks me quietly.

  “Shut up, ‘Mikey.’”

  For the next three hours, Deacon and I cruise around in the Sabre and poster the town. Armed with a staple gun and three rolls of packing tape, we hit every telephone pole, streetlight, and phone booth in Port Arthur. Dave at Cumberland Stereo lets us put a poster up in the store. We also put posters up in Comix Plus, Colosimo’s Music, and the Calabria. Then we go to the South End.

  For a city of just over a hundred thousand people, Thunder Bay sprawls out for over three hundred square kilometers with no clear urban plan. In a rare moment of lucidity, my OAC History teacher, Mr. Hildebrandt, told us the story about how Thunder Bay got its name. Apparently, in the late sixties, when the powers-that-be amalgamated Port Arthur and Fort William, they took suggestions about what they should name this new, booming metropolis. Thunder Bay made the short list, becau
se that’s apparently what the Ojibwe called this area: Animikie, which I think means thunder. The most popular name, though, was actually Lakehead, which kind of makes sense because we’re at the top of Lake Superior. But then, some genius thought it’d be a good idea to put both Lakehead and The Lakehead as options on the referendum ballot. The two names split the Lakehead vote, which would’ve otherwise won, and it was the loser name that they put on the sign. Loser name for a loser town. That’s Thunder Bay.

  We come back to the north side and finish up in front of Mackenzie King. Already the sun’s starting to go down. Deacon and I take a minute to admire our handiwork. Our breath is visible in the cold air.

  “Fuck,” Deacon says, putting the staple gun under his arm and rubbing his hands together. “I should’ve worn gloves.”

  “Did Rita tell you about that kegger tonight?” I ask. Rita’s always trying to get us to get drunk with university kids. She calls it networking.

  “Yeah,” Deacon says. He points the staple gun at the nearest telephone poll and fires off a couple rounds. “I think I’m doing something with Ruth instead.”

  “Hmm,” I say, mildly intrigued. Since I’ve known him, Deacon hasn’t had a real girlfriend. Just a series of awkward misfires. “How’s that going?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno. She’s cool.”

  I listen for a moment as Deacon pulls the trigger again.

  “So what was the deal with Soda today?” I ask. “For real.”

  “I don’t know. I saw Mark Zaborniak at Robin’s Donuts this morning and he said Soda was out partying with Emily last night. Said they were both pretty hammered.”

  “Emily Gardner? I thought they broke up, or whatever.”

  “No, Emily McCormack.”

  He fires another round and I see a staple ricochet off a pole and fall through the fading light.

  “Aren’t Emily McCormack and Emily Gardner best friends? You know, that whole ‘Emily Squared’ thing they used to do? I thought they were inseparable.”