To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “Mister Starkey!” he says over the music as I walk into the Art Cave. He motions upward to the speakers he’s wired into the ceiling. “Moe Tucker. Played drums standing up. Didn’t use cymbals.”

  I smile and nod in agreement, as if I know exactly what he’s talking about, then take my seat on the stool next to Todd Lupinski, one of the headbangers from Open Casket, who’s spent the last three classes sketching a disturbingly anatomical depiction of a man being flayed alive by tiny demons.

  “Malachi,” Murdock calls over to Todd. “You’re a nihilist. What do you think of the Velvet Underground?”

  “I think they suck, sir.”

  “Ah,” he says with a squinty look of approval. “A man who knows his own mind.”

  I adjust my toque and take a pencil out of my backpack.

  Room 242—the Art Cave—is an enormous, windowless studio—four times the size of any other classroom in the building. It was originally built as part of a tech wing that was added when it was clear Mackenzie King could no longer survive as a strictly collegiate school. At any given time, the room is a chaos of wall-sized, half-finished paintings, melted-looking sculptures, and whatever crazy shit Murdock has deemed necessary to import. Some of his trophies include a V8 engine, which he apparently rescued from the wreck of his 1987 Trans Am, a life-sized model skeleton he christened “Geddy,” and a blown-up, framed photograph of a younger Ken Murdock shaking hands with a younger Bono (yes, the Bono). In the back, there’s an old potter’s wheel and a kiln that hasn’t baked any glaze since our class started. Past that, he’s partitioned off an area he calls his “Quarters,” where he occasionally invites the particularly inspired or discouraged student for a “little chat.” Though I haven’t seen it myself, there’s apparently an old pullout couch back there, which has led many to speculate that Murdock uses it to either nap at lunch, bed pretty seniors, or pass out after an evening of artistic frenzy.

  Today’s lesson is a continuation of yesterday’s. New York, the Factory, Lou Reed, Chelsea Girls. He talks a little about printmaking, and in a spontaneous burst of enthusiasm just before the bell, tells everyone we’re going to start silkscreening on Monday. I doubt it’ll actually happen. It’s not that he doesn’t mean it at the time, but Murdock throws a lot of ideas at the wall. I’ve learned to wait and see what sticks. Once in grade nine he promised us a trip to Kingfisher Lake so we could paint landscapes “the way they were meant to be painted: outdoors!” For weeks, I waited for the field trip permission forms to materialize and fantasized about sharing a cabin with Alyssa Becker, the hot hippie girl with patchwork pants who painted watercolours every day and listened to what I could only imagine was American Beauty on her Walkman. It never happened.

  Murdock’s own fifteen minutes of fame went down in the early eighties. Not long after he moved to Canada, he painted that portrait of Terry Fox called Marathon—the one they still use when they do Run for the Cure fundraisers in high schools. He did some other stuff too, but nothing really successful. One time, my dad pointed out one of Murdock’s paintings in this big Canadian art compendium he won at a shag. I can’t imagine why you’d want to become a teacher after making it kind of big in the art scene, but Murdock seems happy and does things on his own terms. If I ever fuck up so badly that I have to resort to becoming a high school teacher, I’d want to be like him.

  The last person I’d want to wind up like is my fourth-period law teacher. His name’s Mr. Kohler, but everyone calls him the Führer. In a lot of ways, the Führer’s classroom is the exact opposite of Murdock’s. It’s bleak with fluorescent lights and walls the colour of a hospital waiting room. He hasn’t put anything up on the walls except a framed copy of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and a yellowing piece of chart paper that lists, in red marker, Classroom Rules of Conduct. Some of his laws include No profanity. No chewing gum. No listening to Walkmans. No speaking out of turn. You get the idea. Not a lot of laughs in OAC Law.

  Signing up for the course seemed like an obvious choice when I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, but I had no idea I’d have to finish out my day falling asleep to the sounds of some old German guy reading straight out of a textbook. He also wears the same sweater every day, which has the effect of making every class seem like a tiny part of one long and fantastically tedious lesson.

  Although it’s on the other side of the school, I manage to get to Kohler’s room before the bell rings. Even still, I’m one of the last to arrive. People tend not to be late for this class, because people tend not to like getting berated in front their peers. Unfortunately, before my ass can even hit the seat, the Führer’s pointing at my head and then back to rule number seven on his poster.

  “You’re indoors now, Mr. Curtis. Please. Take off your hat and stay awhile.”

  Fuck. Of all the bullshit, arbitrary rules I hate, the one I hate most is the Hat Rule. Other teachers have backed off on the policy, probably recognizing it for what it is—an archaic tradition from a long-dead era—but Kohler’s the type that’ll enforce a rule until it’s off the books. Reluctantly, and now with the class’s undivided attention, I pull the hat from my head and reveal my disfigurement.

  “Jesus Christ, Curtis. Can you see out of that thing?” Brad McLaren asks. A couple of his Pussy buddies snort.

  It’s been real fun having McLaren in this class. When he’s not doing his best to publicly humiliate me, I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, plotting my death. For a while, I thought maybe the whole thing with Greatorex’s truck would just blow over. Nope. A couple weeks ago, when everyone was busy doing group work, I got called down to guidance to talk to Mrs. Leedy about this pre-law scholarship at U of T. When I came back, my coat was missing. It showed up a couple days later duct taped to my locker door, all cut to ribbons and smelling like piss. There was a note pinned to it that read YOU’RE DEAD FAGGOT. Deacon drove me to the Sally Ann, and I found this cool blue parka like Han Solo wore in Empire Strikes Back for twelve bucks. My parents just assumed I was trying to be hip, and that the two-hundred-dollar Sierra Designs coat they had bought as a Christmas present last year was still hanging safely in my closet. Still, it didn’t solve the problem of my imminent demise.

  Kohler rounds out my afternoon with an agonizingly dry lecture on constitutional law, and I start to wonder if law school will be as boring as law class.

  “Are you still listening, Mr. Curtis?” he asks when my eyes get a little droopy.

  “Hanging on your every word, sir.”

  “Then maybe you could explain the Oakes test to the class?”

  I sigh. Even the Führer seems incapable of directing his question to anywhere but the middle of my forehead.

  “Canadian courts use the Oakes test to determine whether a law violates one of our fundamental freedoms in the Charter. Like how your law violates my freedom to wear a hat.”

  “Ah. Good, Mr. Curtis. But of course, that test only works in a free and democratic society. The high school classroom is not such a place.”

  No shit.

  After the bell finally rings, I make my way to my locker. I grab the Zumpano tape that Evie lent me and drop off my history textbook. Kohler assigned some chapter questions, but as I’ve adopted an official Fuck Homework policy for my birthday weekend, none of my academic materials would be leaving the school today. I truck down the languages wing, past Wyndam Aud, and past the main office on my way to the exit. I’m in a hurry to get out of there, and I almost don’t notice Soda through the big glass windows of the office, talking to, or rather, being talked at by the vice-principal. I slow down a little and try to get his attention, but he doesn’t see me. He’s looking directly at Fat Fuck and even from this side of the glass, I can tell something’s up. The look on Soda’s face is pretty familiar. He had that look in grade six just before he nearly crushed John Tisdale’s larynx for calling him a wagon burner. Like his whole face becomes a middle finger. For a second, I wonder if I’m about to watch Soda punch the bifocals off Fat Fuck�
�s chubby mug, but then the two of them go into the VP’s office. I keep walking to my locker. I try not to think too much of it, but when I make it outside and walk through the staff parking lot, I notice a cop car sitting empty in the visitor’s spot, radiating official menace.

  I head home by myself. When you’re alone on your birthday, you kind of feel extra alone. I was hoping to catch a ride with Deacon, but he said he had some errands to run for his mom after school. I was also hoping to spend my night hanging out with Kim, but inconveniently, her dad’s in town this weekend and dinner with the Doctor is a command performance. I asked if she wanted me to come along for moral support, but she said, “Hell no.”

  Deacon calls me after supper and says we should grab Soda and play some laser tag at R.O.N.’s Virtual World. Admittedly, I think I’m a little old to be running around with a fake gun, surrounded by shitty glow-in-the-dark space murals, but I figure it’s better than spending the night watching TV with my parents. Plus if Soda was coming, it was entirely possible that we’d all smoke a joint first and the whole thing would be hilarious. It’s been a relief to see Deacon and Soda getting along again.

  A little after nine, the Sabre rolls up my driveway. I see it through the window and grab my coat and gloves.

  “We picking Soda up?” I ask Deacon as I climb in the passenger seat.

  “Can’t get ahold of him.”

  “Weird. Do you want to swing by his place?”

  Deacon yawns. “I guess. Mind if I stop by Rita’s first to pick up posters for the Sloan show?”

  Rita lives in a student rental with two third-year girls, Anna and Hannah. They both have short hair and round glasses, and they drape their seemingly shapeless figures with baggy jeans and fleece hiking sweaters. They’re always eating bowls of oatmeal, no matter what time of day it is. I can never remember which one is which, and I suppose I have no real reason to. The few times I’ve met them, I could never tell if they were shy or just quietly annoyed by my presence. Soda thinks they’re lesbians. Or Communists. I dread ringing Rita’s doorbell because they inevitably answer the door together, blink like twin owls, and never remember who I am.

  Waiting in post-doorbell purgatory, I turn around and look past Deacon’s shoulder.

  “Lot of cars parked around here,” I say. “Someone’s having a party.”

  When the door opens, it’s not Anna or Hannah. It’s not even Rita. It’s Evie. And she’s shouting something at me.

  Like funerals, surprise parties are gatherings in your honour that give you zero say over the guest list. At least at your funeral, you don’t have to mingle. I guess I really shouldn’t complain. Clearly, Rita has gone to great lengths to corral a This Is Your Life’s worth of acquaintances into her shabby little house. I’ve never belonged to a gang or a clique—unless you count the band—so seeing all these people under one roof is a little disorienting. It also makes me realize that my friendships—much like Dante’s vision of the afterlife—are divided into concentric circles: a hell of other people. The innermost consists of close friends. People I talk to and do stuff with on a regular basis. People like Deacon and Rita. People like Evie, and I guess Ruth, now that she and Deacon seem joined at the hip. Even people like Mike Rotten who’s already twiddling the knobs on the stereo and complaining about the EQ.

  Then there’s the circle of friends by special interest. People who are into the same stuff I’m into, or do the same stuff I do. Jacques pumped gas with me in the summer at the Husky and keeps telling me he’s going to teach me to hotwire cars. Trevor Barry introduced me to rap music early on—MC Miker G and Deejay Sven, to be specific—but nowadays he’s all about Wu-Tang and wears a lot of Adidas. Danny Grove and Mark Zaborniak are into a lot of the same bands I’m into, so I see them out at shows now and then.

  Further out, there are acquaintances and friends of friends. People who all might wish me a happy birthday but are here primarily because Rita bought a keg. People like Jay Olejnik, Brandy Sawchuck, Todd Farkas, and the recently reconciled Emilies that Soda used to date.

  Finally, on the periphery, there are the people whose names I won’t know in ten years. People who I’ll remember only as the Guy Who Brought a Flare Gun to School or the Girl Who Got Caught Having Sex Behind the Bleachers. People I might recognize in the halls and wave at without committing to conversation.

  All of these people have taken over Rita’s little house, drinking out of plastic cups, smoking cigarettes on the porch, scaring Anna and Hannah into their bedrooms, but as I weave through the crowd, I realize that there are two notable absences tonight: my best friend and my girlfriend.

  “Some party,” I shout to Rita when I shoulder my way into the kitchen.

  “Just keeping the talent happy,” she says.

  “The talent is happy. Now the talent needs to get drunk.”

  “Do it,” she says. “And hey, Martha Dumptruck are setting up their gear in the basement if you guys want to throw down some impromptu Giant Killer.”

  I do want to. That’s exactly the kind of thing I would want to do. But.

  “That’s going be tricky without Soda.”

  “He’ll show. It’s your birthday.”

  “Yeah, probably.” I study a plastic shot glass with a picture of Snoopy playing the guitar. “It’s weird that Kim’s not here, though, right?”

  Something flickers in Rita’s eyes. It’s not surprise. “Deacon tried to get ahold of her. He left her a couple messages.”

  “She’s having dinner with her dad tonight. Said she couldn’t get out of it.”

  Rita shrugs and changes the subject. “Who wants jello shooters?” she asks the kitchen, holding up a tray of little paper cups. Locusts descend.

  By the time Soda shows, I’m well on my way to shitfaced. I’ve been the Three Man twice in Three Man, the Asshole once in Asshole, and a Liar a bunch of times in Liar’s Dice. I notice him out of the corner of my eye, just as I finish my last roll-off and lose the game to Farkas.

  He arrives with Thaler in tow, and I find them priming the keg in the kitchen. As I watch them together, I get a weird sinking feeling. There’s nothing wrong with Thaler—he’s a good guy. It’s just that the two of them seem to hang out a lot these days. I guess it makes sense. They’re closer in age. They can get into bars. They both play guitar. They’re both tall, too. Thaler’s got that same quality Soda’s got, like the world is just a little too small for him. They duck when they go through doorframes, drape over couches when they sit down. They’re like adults pissing in elementary school urinals. With the game over, I head back into the kitchen for a refill.

  “Well, ho-lee shit,” Soda says when he sees me, “if it isn’t the birthday boy.”

  He’s drunk. I mean, I’m pretty hammered too, but Soda doesn’t get drunk like most people get drunk. He can knock back a twenty-sixer of whatever and still walk a straight line. He has to work pretty hard to get wasted, and when he finally does, it’s a significant transformation.

  “Hey, man! Glad you’re here,” I say.

  “Course I’m here. You think I’d miss your fuckin’ birthday party?” He grabs my shoulder and pulls me toward him. “You think I’m some kind of an asshole or something?” His breath is one hundred proof vodka.

  “No, dude. I’m just saying that it’s nice you made it.”

  “Well, sorry I didn’t hold your fuckin’ hand as you blew out the candles, buddy. Had some celebrating of my own to do. Not everything’s about the fact your mom shit you out eighteen years ago.”

  It’s good that Soda’s here. It is. But now that he’s here, I feel like I’ll spend half the night talking him down. Soda’s one of those paranoid drunks. He thinks that Everyone Is Out to Fuck with Him and he Refuses to Take Any Shit. Calming him down is like lion taming. Or harder. With lion taming, you’ve got a whip and a chair. You can back that lion into its cage and slam the door. Taming the drunken Soda is more of a finesse job. And there’s no cage. You’re constantly placating him, but if you’re t
oo obvious about it, he’ll suspect you of patronizing him, and all of a sudden believe that you, like Everyone, are Out to Fuck with Him. It’s exhausting.

  “So what were you celebrating?” I ask.

  “My fuckin’ emancipation!” Soda looks over at Thaler, holds his wrists together and then breaks free from invisible shackles. Thaler laughs at an inside joke I don’t get.

  “I saw you in the office with Sundell,” I tell him. “What was up with that?”

  “What’s up with that is I got fuckin’ expelled. That’s what’s fuckin’ up with that.”

  “What—you mean suspended?” No one actually gets expelled anymore.

  “You got shit in your ears? That Fat Fuck broke into my locker—fuckin’ illegally—and found a bunch of shit I got from Nguyen and accused me of ‘trafficking.’ They suspended me indefinitely—at least until the end of the semester—and because I’m over eighteen they don’t have to let me back in. So I when I say ‘expelled,’ I fuckin’ mean expelled.”

  “Maybe you could finish out the year at Churchill and still graduate.”

  “Fuck that.” He drains the plastic cup in his hand and lets out a wet belch. “I’m done. Cops were there and shit.”

  “Are they going to charge you?”

  He shrugs. “Probably not. I mean, they fuckin’ better not.”

  The night is getting weird, and then it gets even weirder. As I’m patiently listening to Soda describe his plans to dismember both the Hawk and Fat Fuck, I see Townie materialize by the refrigerator like he just crawled out of the vegetable crisper. He leans into a conversation with Farkas and the Guy Who Accidentally Set His Hair On Fire In Chemistry Class, and when he tilts his head back and laughs at something hilarious and out of earshot, I can’t help but wonder: if he’s here, where’s Kim? At that moment Soda cauterizes the wounds of the entire Mackenzie King administration so he can refill his beer, and I take the opportunity to interrogate my girlfriend’s brother.