To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “Hey, Pete!”

  It’s lovely to hear Rita’s voice.

  “What are you doing in town?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be at some industry party, playing beer pong with Avril Lavigne?”

  “I still like to visit you northerners now and then. You know, rub shoulders with the common people,” she says. “Remember my humble beginnings.”

  “She met Geddy Lee!” I hear Deacon shout ludicrously in the background.

  Even after everything that happened with Soda, I still saw Rita now and then until she finished her BA. After that, she moved to Toronto and immediately made herself invaluable to a series of boutique record labels, each one more fashionable than the last. I still get the occasional email from her.

  “So are you coming out tonight or what?”

  “I don’t know ... It’s been kind of a weird night. I was just on my way home.”

  “Eff that. It’s eleven thirty!” she says. “I’m ordering us a pitcher. Get your ass over here!”

  Then she hangs up.

  I’m not sure why seeing my friends has started to feel like an obligation. Maybe it’s just something that happens as you get older. Maybe that’s why my parents never seemed to make any new friends after they turned fifty. One day, they just met their quota.

  I’m about fifteen minutes from the bar and ten from home. I feel the old exhaustion working its way into my back, my shoulders, my eyes, but with a Herculean effort I cut down a side street and head toward the Dugout.

  How much longer can I do this? I wonder. How much longer can I keep living in the past? As I watch the machinery of my feet below, it occurs to me that I’m still wearing my Hush Puppies and my interview suit. I’ll definitely be a little overdressed for Duggy’s, but fuck it. If I’m going to travel back in time, I might as well arrive in style.

  SIDE A

  It Falls Apart

  “And let me remind everyone that ‘Those who cannot remember History are condemned to repeat it.’”

  “God,” Rotten moans across the aisle to me, “does he have to say that every time he hands back a test?”

  “Those who can remember stupid sayings are condemned to repeat them,” I tell him.

  Rotten snorts.

  Looking at the stack of paper he’s cradling in his arm, I suspect that Hildebrandt spent a good chunk of his Christmas vacation marking our test on the Industrial Revolution. How the difference between a spinning mule and a spinning jenny is ever going to be useful to me in the future is a mystery, but at the very least, memorizing a bunch of historical terms is a lot easier than the voodoo magic of math and science.

  “I’ll hand the tests back in no particular order,” Hildebrandt promises and then immediately slams mine down on my desk. I search his face to see if, despite what he just said, it’s some kind of bad sign, but his eyes are distant and impassive. I try to imagine a time when Hildebrandt didn’t look ugly and old, but I can’t do it. Under his glasses, the skin around his eyes is loose and the colour of a bruise. Jowls tug at his cheeks. Feathers of hair rest tenuously over his blotchy scalp. I’d kind of feel sorry for him, if he wasn’t so terrible.

  It’s my nightmare to wind up like Hildebrandt—rhyming off the same tired facts year after year, trotting out the same tired anecdotes. He’s like some kind of assembly line worker in a kid factory. It’s no wonder he’s so fucking nuts. I want a job where I can change things up. Throw a wrench in the works. If the whole music thing doesn’t work out, I think I’d want to be a lawyer. Fight the system from the inside out. My marks aren’t half bad, so who knows?

  When I turn my test over, I see I’ve managed a seventy-one percent. It’s respectable, but I kind of expected to do better. Admittedly, there were a few questions I blanked on, but even still, something doesn’t quite add up. For starters, I’m pretty sure James Watt invented the steam engine, but Hildebrandt put a big red X beside my answer. And as much as I wanted to write “A fluty prog rock band from the seventies,” I explained quite admirably that Jethro Tull was the guy who invented the horse-drawn seed drill. Hildebrandt gave me a zero on that one too. In fact, there are a bunch of questions I thought I had right but he marked wrong.

  “When you’re done looking through your test, read Chapter Eight in your textbook, then answer the first six questions,” Hildebrandt instructs us. “Quietly, please.”

  He sits down at his desk and shakes open a copy of the Chronicle-Journal, his daily constitutional. Tim Puurula once tried to tease Hildebrandt about doing his “personal reading” in class, a line he borrowed from the history teacher himself. Over his glasses, Hildebrandt told Tim that news was history in the making and gave him two detentions for impertinence.

  “Rotten,” I whisper across the aisle, “what’d you get?”

  “Ninety-two,” he says.

  “Bullshit!”

  “Ten bucks.” He puts out his hand. Rotten’s always betting people ten bucks.

  “Just let me see it.”

  He holds up his paper and I lean into a fog of fresh Cheetos and armpit tang to see that he has in fact clocked an incredible ninety-two percent. Usually, he pulls sixties, or maybe the occasional seventy. The last time he got a better mark than I did, I’d been off sick for three days with the stomach flu and Hildebrandt dropped a pop quiz the day I returned. Even then, it was still kind of close. Something’s definitely up.

  I’m a little torn, because I don’t want to rock the boat. Seventy-one is a decent mark, and I don’t want to seem like a grade grubber. So, instead of slinking up, hat in hand to Hildebrandt’s desk and asking for special treatment, I try to make it a public problem.

  “Uh, Mr. Hildebrandt?” I ask. There’s no use putting my hand up. He can’t see me through the Arts & Entertainment section. “I think there’s something weird about the way you marked my test.”

  Behind a wall of newsprint he says, “There’s nothing ‘weird’ about the tests, Peter. Please get back to your reading.”

  I hate it when teachers just dismiss you like that. I look around helplessly, polling the faces for dirty looks or allies. That’s when I notice that everybody’s looking at their tests with more than purely academic interest.

  I’m not saying I started it, because I didn’t. Someone else would have said something eventually. I just happened to notice it first. Soon, people are comparing their tests and pointing emphatically at their papers. Jeannie Drew, an apple-cheeked sweetheart of an overachiever, is at the front of the room, standing over Hildebrandt’s desk and attempting to direct his attention. Her sandy curls bounce diplomatically. Jason Sebesta hovers next in line with his test rolled up like a billy club in his fist. Hildebrandt continues to read his paper seemingly unconcerned. Over my shoulder, I notice Padma Singh using a calculator to figure out what this test will do to her ninety-something average and her chances for premed. Mazz Moore, a squinty stoner who sits at the back, stops carving his name into the file cabinet beside his desk long enough to high-five Kyle Beaton on a job well done.

  I look back to Hildebrandt and see that Jeannie has given up. As she walks back to her desk she directs a disappointed shrug to Brandy Sawchuck. Sebesta has taken Jeannie’s place, interrogating Hildebrandt with his palms down on the teacher’s desk, his head cocked between his bulky shoulders, bad cop to her good. Still, Hildebrandt reads his paper and avoids eye contact. There’s a weird tension in the class. The academics are at a rolling boil, while slackers are stirring the pot. A balled up piece of paper bounces off Jason’s shoulder and he stomps in the general direction of his assailant. Brandy Sawchuck is scolding Kyle Beaton for flying his test like a paper airplane. I just keep my mouth shut and watch. Unexpectedly, it’s Padma who brings things to a head.

  “Mr. Hildebrandt, this is bullshit!”

  Everyone in the class is immediately silent. Padma, who’s usually the poster girl for student obedience, stands up at her desk and stares through Hildebrandt’s newspaper shield. Her voice is an iron bell.

  “Yo
u must collect these tests, and you must grade them again. Properly.”

  The kids I’d expect to shout her down hesitate, possibly because picking on Mackenzie King’s only Indian student might smack of racism, or conversely, because Padma’s expensive Mumbai English rings with all the authority of the British Empire. Maybe they’re just waiting to see what happens. What does happen is a whole lot of nothing, an eternal silence that is finally broken by the crackle of Hildebrandt turning a newspaper page.

  “Mr. Hildebrandt!” Padma says again. This time it’s an accusation, a command, a condemnation all rolled into one.

  Finally, Hildebrandt folds the Chronicle-Journal, opens a desk drawer and puts the paper inside. He stands up and walks to the front of the class. Still, he doesn’t look at anyone. His eyes seem lost in strategy, as though he’s only now understood that his class is on the verge of mutiny and he must act. He crouches down, and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to plead his case, or attempt to reason with us on our level. Instead, he puts his foot in an invisible hack, squares his shoulders with an invisible broom, and lets loose with an imaginary curling rock down the centre aisle of the classroom.

  “Hurry hard,” he whispers urgently. “Hurry hard.”

  “So, like, what? You spent the rest of the class watching him hallucinate?”

  Kim speeds the Divorcemobile toward Mackenzie King so recklessly that, were I not still in a constant state of trying to prove how cool and laid back I was about everything, I would make her pull over and let me out so I could call the cops. It’s official. My feelings for her have become a danger to myself and others.

  “Not the whole period,” I reply. “Most people took off, and—Jesus, watch that—”

  Kim blows through a four-way stop as another car lurches to a standstill and the driver leans on the horn.

  “Yeah, fuck you too ...” A moment passes. “Okay ... and ... ?”

  “And, uh, this girl—Jeannie—she went down to the office and came back with the vice-principal, and we got the rest of the period off. Apparently, the Hawk escorted him to his car at the end of the day.”

  Kim rolls into the student parking lot in fourth gear and hurtles into the first available spot. We’re thrown forward and then back into our seats.

  “So. You finally drove him crazy. Nicely done.”

  “Well, I don’t think we drove him anywhere. He arrived at crazy months ago. We just sort of opened the door and let him out.”

  “Speaking of which ...” She ratchets the parking brake into position and steps out of the car. She looks across the street to the yellow lights burning in the school. “I can’t believe you talked me into this. I swore I’d never set foot inside another high school.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a rock show. There’ll be lots of different people there, like students, and parents, and teachers ...” She raises an eyebrow and I realize I’m not making it any better. “Well, it’s not like I’m taking you to the prom.”

  “I should fucking hope not.”

  We walk through the parking lot, across the street and through the front doors. It’s a little depressing being at school when you don’t have to be, but even still, the Battle of the Bands usually has a good turnout, and there are a lot of people buzzing around in the front hall. It’s not long before Deacon finds us.

  “Heard you broke Hildebrandt’s brain.”

  “I didn’t—he was already—”

  “Apparently it was more of a group effort,” Kim explains.

  “Oh. Like a lynch mob?”

  I change the subject. “So is Ruth excited for the show?”

  The real reason for coming tonight was to support Martha Dumptruck, but as one of last year’s Citywide Champions, I kind of felt a certain responsibility to make an appearance. The rules stated we weren’t allowed to compete this year, but I was still a little surprised when no one asked us to perform a song, or even help out with the judging.

  “Richard Starkey! And you brought Annie Leibovitz!” Mr. Murdock is all smiles and wears an Odds Bedbugs t-shirt under a black blazer. For the first time I notice that there’s a little impression in his earlobe where an earring must have once dangled. “Annie, how did that SLR work out for you?” Even though he’s clearly forgotten her name, he engages Kim in a five-minute conversation about lenses, every minute of which becomes exponentially more technical and boring. I smile and nod stupidly, until Deacon takes me aside.

  “Who’s Annie Leibovitz?” he asks.

  “No idea. Is Soda coming tonight?”

  Deacon shrugs. “Does Soda show up to anything anymore?”

  He’s got a point. With the exception of a couple half-hearted band practices, I had barely seen him since that awful End of the Century show last month.

  “Well, Annie ...” A few feet away I can hear Murdock’s voice swell to a note of finality. “I should probably go collect my offspring and find ourselves a seat. Ali, honey—” he yells into the crowd “—don’t drink all the orange pop, Sweet Pea. No, I said one glass—” And then he’s gone.

  “That guy is so weird,” Kim says as the three of us make our way to the auditorium.

  The Andrew Wyndham Memorial Auditorium is a wonder of modern theatre, the likes of which are usually reserved for community auditoriums or Catholic schools. Andrew Wyndham was this rich kid in the seventies who died of something—Lyme disease or not wearing a seatbelt or, I don’t know, being a teenager in the seventies—and his parents donated a pile of money to the Drama Department because, apparently, Andrew had wanted to become an actor. I imagine if he wanted to be a football player we would’ve got a stadium.

  We make our way inside and grab some empty seats. Deacon sits on my left and Kim takes the outside seat, just in case she has to “flee in absolute horror.” Soon enough the room darkens and the spotlight shines on a lone microphone. There’s a temporary awkward silence. Then, from behind us, an unfamiliar sound surges down the aisle. A battle cry. An air-raid siren. Roger Daltry at the end of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Todd Farkas flies past us, running down the aisle with his arms outstretched like an airplane. His goatee is a concentric circle around the perfect O of his open mouth. His oversized Cat in the Hat hat bounces as he leaps up the stage steps two at a time, and his oversized novelty sunglasses flash in the spotlight. When he reaches the microphone stand, he takes a deep bow, and his hat falls off to reveal springy curls recently dyed green and gold—the school colours. Everybody cheers on cue.

  “Hello, Mackenzie King!” he bellows into the microphone.

  The final syllables are swallowed up by a tsunami of shrieking feedback, and the clapping and cheering stops as approximately three hundred friends and family members simultaneously clutch at their ears. I turn around to see Mazz Moore calmly adjusting levels in the sound booth. He grins under a bird’s nest of hair and finally gives Farkas the thumbs up.

  “How’s everybody doing tonight?” The crowd cheers cautiously, and the feedback threatens to swell again, but Mazz quickly wrangles it under control.

  “Welcome to the Twelfth Annual Mackenzie King Battle of the Bands!”

  The cheering doubles in strength, and Farkas is now unstoppable. “Aw, man,” he says, “we got a sweet show tonight. Lots of homegrown talent from right here at Mackenzie King.”

  More cheering.

  “Okay! All right. Let’s get to it. Our first act tonight describe themselves as cross between Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

  Deacon turns to me and rolls his eyes.

  “Barf,” Kim decides.

  It’s not because either of them dislike the “influences” Farkas has just listed off—I mean, who doesn’t like Zeppelin? It’s just because they’re all safe and meaningless references. Why not say the Beatles? Why not say Classic Rock? Why not say “their influences include breathing oxygen and having listened to the radio at least once or twice in their lives”?

  “Please give it up for Holden Minefield!”

>   As Farkas runs off into the wings, the curtains behind him open on a four-piece band, poised and ready. I recognize one of the guitar players from my Science in Society class. The drummer counts in and they launch into the first of three solo-heavy and hookless songs.

  Drawing first in a battle of the bands is basically drawing the short straw. People need a little bit of time to warm up to the fact that they’re being sonically assaulted, and the first few songs don’t always stick. Plus, the soundguy is still working out the bugs, so if it’s someone like Mazz—and inevitably it’s someone like Mazz—it takes at least two or three songs just to get the levels right. By the time Farkas is back centre stage, everyone has forgotten all about Holden Minefield, partly because they were forgettable and partly because, in the fifteen minutes he’s had backstage, Farkas has managed a costume change. He reappears wearing a vampire cape and long black wig. He eyes the crowd from behind a cloaked forearm.

  “Bevare, ladies and gentlemen!” he vamps into the mic. “I varn you that our next act is very scary! Ah ah ah!”

  His Count is way more Sesame Street than it is Bram Stoker, and I’m sure that whatever metal band is waiting behind the curtain is seething with gothic angst.

  “Spawned from the darkest pit of evil—”

  “You mean your asshole?” somebody shouts. Angry forty-somethings in front of us crane their necks to see who. Ten bucks says it’s Rotten.

  “—please velcome Open Casket! Ah ah ah!”

  Farkas swoops away and the curtains part to reveal four young men who look like the result of a cloning experiment gone just slightly wrong. They all have the same long black hair and black t-shirts, and the same sallow, acned faces, but one is short, one is tall, one is fat, and one is incredibly thin. I recognize the short one from a Media class I took in grade eleven, but I don’t think he lasted the semester. The fat one plays a few dreary chords on his B.C. Rich Warlock, and then they’re off and running with their double bass drum pedal, their five-string bass, their white-noise distortion pedals, and their muppety monster vocals. I suppose you have to give them a little credit. Metal guys never win these things. Most of the audience watches them like they’re some obnoxiously loud joke with no punchline, and still they soldier on, feet planted, necks hinging, hair swirling, completely lost in the ecstasy of their own sound. To commit so fully to an aesthetic enjoyed by so few is, in its own way, kind of admirable. After an abrasive fifteen minutes—the maximum time each band is allowed—Open Casket end their set with manic guitarmonies and a final note that stomps down like the foot of some giant demon.