by Greg Rhyno
“Hi,” he says, “I’m Marshall’s father, Michael Heyen.”
I stand up to shake hands. He’s a good bit taller than I am, with broad shoulders made broader by his sport coat. He extends his wrist to reveal a watch that would cost me a month’s salary. He grips my hand a little harder than I grip his, and then he gives me his card: Michael D. Heyen, MBA, PhD, Professor of Economics. This is a first. We take our seats and get down to business.
“I’m sorry my wife couldn’t make it tonight. She had to take our other son to a concert.”
“Oh. Who’s playing tonight?”
“Well, actually,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “Jonathan is. Youth Symphony. He’s turning out to be quite a musician.”
“Oh. Well, that’s great.”
For a moment, he chews on my statement like a piece of uncooked meat. “I suppose it is. So how’s that other son of mine doing in—what is it? Civics?”
I provide the same basic information I’ve given everyone else tonight: Marshall’s marks, his behaviour in class, and even what we’ll be studying in the months to come. It’s all pretty straightforward. Marshall’s doing well, so I figure his dad should be happy. Still, as I talk I can’t shake the feeling that, instead of listening to me, he’s silently measuring me for a coffin.
“So, did you have any questions or concerns about Marshall’s progress so far?”
He hesitates leisurely. He frowns a little and flares his nostrils as though someone farted a few desks down. “Well, I wouldn’t say I had any concerns so far about Marshall’s progress. I have to say I was a little concerned to hear that you were lamenting the re-election of George W. Bush earlier this month.”
He’s caught me off guard. “Well, I wasn’t really—”
“I mean, I’m no fan of the Bush Administration per se, but we have to teach our kids to respect the democratic process. We can’t just go around indoctrinating them, can we?”
“Of course not, but I didn’t—”
“There’s no need to get defensive, Peter, I’m sure your intentions are good, but ...”
What follows is a lecture on the need for objectivity in public education that far exceeds Dr. Heyen’s seven-minute appointment. As he pontificates, he seems completely oblivious to my 5:24 and my 5:31 who have lined up behind him, and who have started to compare their watches to the gym clock.
Finally, Heyen lands on the topic of the school board’s recent plans to standardize exams, which has been hotly editorialized in both the Chronicle-Journal and the Source.
“... and frankly, I think it’s a great idea. I don’t think this kind of standardized testing is viable for, say, something as specialized as a university course, but when it comes to a provincial education, it only makes sense. Tax dollars pay for a specific curriculum, and the public should know if they’re getting what they paid for. Are you guys delivering the goods or not?”
When he finally stands to leave, I consider calling him Mister Heyen, only because I want to hear him correct me (“Actually, it’s Doctor Heyen”), but I don’t bother. What I do instead is shake his hand and say, “Well, good talking with you, Professor.” These are literally the only words I’ve said in the past ten minutes. If he hears the irony in my voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
By the time I get to Ruby’s, everyone’s finished eating, and the lasagna they’ve ordered for me is getting cold. The “few of us going out for dinner” idea that failed to hit the mark with Molly was actually just the usual dinner with Deacon and Ruth. It was a schemey way to turn a staff outing into a double date with my pals, but with that plan foiled, I’m forced to reattach myself as the third wheel on Ruth and Deacon’s bicycle built for two.
“I still can’t get used to you with a beard,” I tell Deacon.
“You’re probably just threatened by my masculinity.”
“How was your pizza?”
“Meh,” Ruth says, see-sawing her hand. “I guess it’s hard to totally screw up pizza.”
Three months ago, you couldn’t get into this place. Now the only other patron is dressed in a Mr. Sub uniform and slurping up a bowl of soup. This is the shelf life of the Thunder Bay restaurant. I give this place another six months. Tops.
“So what took you so long?” Deacon asks.
“I had this parent lecture me on ‘objectivity’ and ‘accountability’ and all this crazy shit about standardized testing. Totally put me off-schedule.” I take a bite of lasagna.
“Well, get used to it,” Ruth says. “Come next semester, that’s all we’re going to hear about. You know all those lessons you developed on social justice?”
“You mean ‘You’ve Got to Fight for Your Right to Participate’?
“Can’t use them any more.”
“What?”
Admittedly, Ruth’s love of bearing bad news and my love of being indignant are the hook and loop of our velcro.
“Yep. Your girlfriend Molly isn’t going to be able to play her Protest Song of the Day, either.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“School board’s investing in all this revamped curriculum shit. We’re going to have to overhaul everything and teach to standardized assessments. Plus, the vice-principals are going to start randomly checking in on our classes to see if we’re on schedule.”
“Jesus. What is this? A fucking police state? Kovalski’s going to just randomly show up in my classroom to make sure I’m teaching the right bullshit?”
Deacon and Ruth look at each other.
“Well, I guess that’s the one silver lining with all this. Apparently, Kovalski’s going to retire a semester early to avoid all this crap.”
“Fucking A.” I high-five her across the table. “Any word on who the new guy’s going to be?”
“That’s actually the best part,” Deacon chimes in. He’s been fully briefed on Ruth’s Kovalski hatred and has a pretty good idea about what happens at his old alma mater.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
Ruth smiles. “Howlin’ Mad Murdock.”
I put my fork down next to the lukewarm lasagna and wilted spinach salad. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
SIDE A
Today I Hate Everyone
“What the hell? You said you were hungry.”
Kim’s all wide-eyed and indignant.
“I am hungry,” I say, looking at the enormous slab of pizza in front of me, “but I didn’t mean you should swipe someone’s order from Mrs. Vanelli’s.”
Apparently, my girlfriend is a kleptomaniac. Or wait. Let me rephrase that. Apparently, I’m “just hanging out” with a kleptomaniac. We’re not using the “g” word. Not yet.
While Kim “isn’t into proprietary labels,” she is into having sex with me. A lot. The first time we did it coincided nicely with our first date. I suggested we go out and see Interview with the Vampire, but she said that vampires were “faggy.” Plus, she didn’t want to do anything with me in public until she “sorted things out” with Sudbury Steve. I wasn’t about to pull on that thread. Instead, we wound up sitting on either side of a popcorn bowl watching Sleepless in Seattle at her mom’s place in Current River. It wasn’t until she paused the movie and reappeared with a small bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Fireball that I realized we had the place to ourselves.
“Sorry about the chick drink,” she said as she twisted off the cap and handed me the bottle. “My mom’s still weird about me drinking in the house, so we’re kind of limited to what I’ve got stashed in my closet.”
As I took a sip of the room-temperature, cinnamon-flavoured whiskey, I could hear Young MC giving me advice in my head. Quickly, I took stock of the very few moves I knew how to bust, and opted for the classic Yawn and Stretch. True, it wasn’t very original, but it got results. Unfortunately, the result it got that particular time was Kim looking at me sideways and saying, “Seriously?” I quickly rerouted my arm to land on the couch cushions and not her shoulder.
It didn’t make sense. She kissed me in her boyfriend’s bedroom, grabbed my ass in a bar, but now she wouldn’t let me put my arm around her in her own house? And also, when was this shitty movie ever going to end? Okay, I get it Tom Hanks. Your wife is dead, you’re lonely, and all of a sudden, a bunch of women—including Meg Ryan—want to bone you. Boo-fucking-hoo.
When the credits finally rolled, I figured I’d be out on the sidewalk sooner than later, so I did my best to stall.
“What’d you think?” I asked, like we had just watched Citizen Kane and not some crappy rom-com.
Kim’s response was to pull her shirt over her head and throw it on the floor. For a moment, I just looked at it, confused, as though it had some sort of subtext I wasn’t getting.
“I think I need to get the memory of that terrible movie out of my head,” she said. When I looked back, her bra fell away to reveal the unexpected whiteness of her breasts. “What do you think?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer. Her tongue worked my mouth while her fingers worked my belt buckle. Guess I wouldn’t have to hang myself with a celibate rope after all.
“Ribbed? Studded?” she asked. “Piña Colada flavoured?”
Already I knew I was out of my league. I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t had sex before. When Margie Nelson and I were dating in grade eleven we did it a few times, but I always suspected she wasn’t having as much fun as I was. Kim made it abundantly clear that she was having a good time, and although I think that had a lot more to do with her than it had to do with me, I was more than happy to help.
Afterward, she stretched out on the floor and caught her breath. I sat with my sweaty back against her mom’s couch and experienced the unusual sensation of Berber carpet on my bare ass. I stared at the front entrance way, listened for the sound of a doorknob turning, and felt very, very naked.
Kim rolled over and fished a pack of du Mauriers out of her jeans, which were lying in a heap nearby. She lit up and blew a plume of smoke over our heads.
“Want one?” she asked, shaking the carton in my direction.
I took a cigarette, and like I had seen Soda do a hundred times before, flicked the lighter and sucked the flame inside. Immediately, I doubled over coughing.
“You’re not really good at that, are you?”
I really hoped she was talking about smoking.
Three weeks and seven conjugal visits later, Kim continues to make it abundantly clear that I’m still on probation. So now, if someone were to ask me to define our relationship—and I keep hoping someone does—I’d have to say, “Who us? We’re just fucking.” Which, I guess, is kind of awesome.
Before I scarf down Kim’s ill-gotten pizza, I do a quick look around the food court. Even on a Saturday afternoon, Intercity Mall is really one of the saddest places in the world. Frazzled Christmas shoppers. Teenage moms with babies named after 90210 characters. Mall employees on break and eating alone. Old people.
I eat too fast and know I’ll get heartburn later, but I don’t care. I chug the watery fountain pop she also stole and punctuate my meal with a burp. Kim crinkles her nose, and I’m on the verge of apology when she gulps down the rest of my Coke and belches so loud that at least three people look in our direction.
Where has this girl been all my life?
“Okay. Can we hurry up and finish this Christmas shopping nightmare? This place is lousy with teenagers.”
“Aren’t you a teenager?” I ask.
“I’m a first-year university student. Totally different species.”
“So what does that make me?”
“You were just in the cradle I robbed.” She stands up while I’m still dusting crumbs off my coat. “Come on. Let’s go. If I have to hear ‘Tears Are Not Enough’ one more time, I’m going to stab myself in the eardrum with a candy cane.”
We start making our way to Music City where, at the very least, they’ll be playing a slightly better selection of shitty Christmas music, but we don’t get more than fifteen feet before I spot Mr. Murdock coming our way.
Usually, seeing a teacher outside of school is super weird for all involved. They always seem so uncomfortable, like it’s their responsibility to be nice to you but they secretly resent it. With Murdock, it’s different.
“Hey,” I say to him, trying to be cool, “don’t you need a hall pass or something?”
“Mister Starkey, as I live and breathe. And this is,” he says, directing his attention to Kim, “Missus Starkey, I presume?”
Who us? We’re just fucking.
“This is my friend Kim.”
“So, Kim, are you also a minstrel like our friend Ringo here?” Kim smiles and shakes her head. “I see. Not the musician, but the muse.”
“Something like that,” she says.
“So what have the Starkeys been up to this afternoon?”
A memory from earlier today blooms into full colour—Kim straddling me, her breasts bouncing under her bra, sweaty strands of blonde hair clinging to her cheekbones.
“Christmas shopping,” I blurt out.
“Okay then.” He looks at my bags. “Radio Shack for Dad ... Laura Secord for Mum ... and—what’s this?—something from Black’s for your favourite art teacher? How thoughtful.”
“That’s mine,” Kim says. “I just bought a thirty-five-millimetre SLR for a photography course I’m taking next semester.”
“Pentax or Kodak?”
“Nikon, actually.”
“I see. Brave girl. Well,” he looks at his watch and sighs, “best be going. Still have some errands to run.” He offers Kim his hand and she shakes it. “Nice to meet a fellow shutterbug. Ringo?”
“Yeah?”
“Take good care of Annie Leibovitz here. Buy her something nice for Christmas.”
“Will do.” In fact, I already had.
As Murdock strolls away, I realize I didn’t tell him about our show tonight at End of the Century. It would be pretty awesome if one of these days he actually showed up to see us play.
A few minutes later, we’re flipping our way through the albums at Music City. I’m hypnotized by the cassettes in the Alternative section: Afghan Whigs—Gentlemen; Alice in Chains—Jar of Flies; Bad Religion—Recipe for Hate. Kim’s browsing the Classic Rock CDs because her dad recently sent her a Discman as part of his ongoing campaign to buy her love. It makes me think that my folks could stand to put a few more dollars toward my love. I hate the idea of buying new albums in an outdated format. I feel like I’m just going wind up buying them twice. I wish technology would go ahead and sort itself out. Maybe everything will just stop at CDs, although Deacon was telling me just the other day that these new Japanese mini-discs are going to be huge in a couple years.
“So,” Kim says without looking up from AC/DC and Aerosmith, “your teacher seems kind of cool. I like his accent.”
“Yeah. I think he grew up in England.” Beck—Mellow Gold; Cowboy Junkies—Pale Sun Crescent Moon; Dinosaur Jr.—Without a Sound ...
“How old do you think he is? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
“Uh, I think more like mid-thirties.” Flaming Lips—Transmissions from the Satellite Heart; Green Day—Dookie ... “He’s got a daughter in elementary school.”
Eventually, I bring Pavement’s Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain over to the counter, and the cashier, a tiny replica of John Lennon circa 1971, detaches the enormous anti-theft casing and rings it through.
“That’ll be sixteen ninety-nine.”
I slip a twenty out of my wallet. Through the store speakers, I can hear Bruce Springsteen promise Clarence Clemons that Santa’s going to bring him a new saxophone.
When Kim’s hatred for the mall reaches a critical mass, she drives me home in her Mom’s 1988 Chevy Cavalier, or, as she calls it, the Divorcemobile. I talk about tonight’s show as we idle in the driveway.
“Do you know what time your brother wants us there for sound check?”
“Nope,” she says, “that’s out of my jurisdiction.”
“Do you think,” I ask the question I’ve been afraid to ask all afternoon, “you’re coming tonight?”
“No promises, Pete. I’m a busy girl this holiday season.”
“Okay. Fair enough.” I smile and lean over to kiss her goodbye, but she pulls away. I look at her, a little confused.
“That’s not what we’re about,” she says.
I get out of the car and watch her drive away. Then I spend the next few hours replaying the day in my head, trying to figure out what I did wrong.
End of the Century is a sketchy little club on Donald Street. Like a lot of bars in Thunder Bay, it’s changed its name and ownership a few times, and Soda claims it’s a money-laundering front for some Italian or Vietnamese crime syndicate. It’s basically the place people play when they can’t book anything better. The stage is weirdly high and the sound is weirdly terrible. The latest renovation features a chain-link fence motif inside, which I’m guessing the owners thought looked sort of industrial, but the effect is more Beaver Lumber than Nine Inch Nails. The only real upside is that none of the bar staff seem in a hurry to check ID.
After we finish loading in, we find Townie sitting around a table with Rita and the Marthas. When the three of us grab a seat, Townie presents us with a pitcher of beer and a problem.
“Okay, so first of all, don’t worry,” he says.
Immediately, I start to worry.
“The manager added another band to the bill, but you’re still getting paid the same, and you’re still the headlining act.”
Soda frowns. “So it’s Martha Dumptruck—”
“The Killjoys ...”
“The Killjoys, and then us.”
“Yep.”
“Why did those guys want the middle spot?”
“Don’t know. They mentioned something about having to drive to Winnipeg afterward.”
Soda shrugs and pours himself a glass of beer. “Whatever. It’s still our show.”
After sound check, we hop down from the stage as the new arrivals shamble their way out of the back corner. They’re baggy shirted and frizzy haired. They look tired, as if this wasn’t their idea, as if Thunder Bay is the last place they want to be tonight.