To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “I tried to call him last Sunday when he was supposed to be at his parents’ place,” she explained. “I couldn’t get the remote to work with the new DVD player. I had just rented Love Actually and I really wanted to watch it. He wasn’t picking up his cell, so finally just I dialed his parents’ landline, even though I hate talking to his mother on the phone.”

  It turned out that her husband was not the infuriatingly dedicated mama’s boy she believed him to be. For almost two years he had not been visiting his parents in Dryden every two or three weeks, but rather a twenty-six-year-old phys. ed. teacher named Natalie who lived in Marathon.

  “They met online,” she added bitterly. “Who meets online? Losers. Shut-ins. People with too many cats.”

  “Actually,” I said, “online dating is becoming a pretty legitimate—” My defence of the internet ended abruptly when I saw the murder in her eyes. “Sorry.”

  She sighed and tugged a tank top over her skinny frame. “It’s okay. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  When you’re having an affair, you tell yourself that every time is the last time. At least, that’s what I did. But when the last time comes, it always comes too soon. Vicky is old enough to play a hot mom on TV. She has those weird, stripy highlights women over thirty colour into their hair, and she thinks alternative is a real genre of music. We have absolutely nothing in common except adultery and teaching high school. And yet, when she was standing in my bedroom that night, buttoning up a very professional-looking blouse and seeming very out of place next to my clip-framed album covers and cheap Ikea bookshelves, I knew I still wanted it to happen again.

  After that, she stopped calling me. We never talked about it, but when I saw her at work, I could tell by the sad little smile she gave me that things were probably done. She didn’t really need me to self-destruct anymore. What’s weird, though, is that over the last few days, she seemed to be overtly avoiding me. I’ve caught her a couple times in the photocopy room, and I’ve tried to be friendly—you know, just let her know there’s no hard feelings—but both times she made an excuse and disappeared.

  Stupidly, I finally broke down and told Deacon about the whole situation over a couple beers—Vicky, Jamie, the phys. ed. teacher from Marathon. Now that it was over, I had to tell someone. Apparently, so did Deacon.

  When the three of us arrive at Sharon and Ray’s place, I realize we’re not alone. Sharon introduces me to “one of the girls from work,” a thin, big-eyebrowed woman named Carol, and just as I start to feel a little apprehensive, she introduces me to Nick, her chubby, cherub-faced husband. Nick is pleased to meet everyone. Carol seems relatively indifferent. Once everyone finishes the very grown-up business of shaking hands, Sharon offers to take us on the “grand tour.” Carol and Nick choose to stay and catch up with Ray. Apparently they’ve seen it.

  Sharon and Ray have one of those big places up in Cherry Ridge that was built in the late eighties. They bought it a couple years ago and since then had ripped out and renovated most of the interior. As we walk, Sharon proudly explains that Ray’s done most of the work himself. He owns a small contracting business, and it looks like he knows what he’s doing—cathedral ceilings, marble countertops, swooping Gone with the Wind staircase. It’s the kind of house I could afford to live in only if I married rich.

  On our way upstairs to see Sharon’s favourite feature (it turns out to be a shower with a glass door and a hydra of built-in shower heads), we pass a series of framed photographs that could be called Sharon and Ray: A Sears Portrait Retrospective. Deacon nudges me, just before our hostess slows down to carbon-date each image.

  “We get these done every couple years,” Sharon explains. “Ray knows the photographer.”

  When we get back downstairs, we find Ray, Carol, and Nick standing in the kitchen. Ray has a bottle of Coors Light in his hand, while Carol is sniffing at a glass of red wine.

  “Can I offer you something?” Ray says. “We’ve got beer, rye, vodka—I just opened a bottle of Chateauneuf ...”

  Deacon and I each take a Silver Bullet.

  “Just one—” Ruth says to Deacon. “You’re driving.”

  Deacon shrugs. When Ruth turns away, Ray gives him a covert wink. Short leash, huh, buddy?

  The living room has one of those swanky raised fireplaces. I stand with a flaming orange log unsettlingly close to my face and try to follow Ray and Nick’s conversation about the Leafs. Eventually, Sharon says something about checking on the chicken, and Ray redirects the conversation away from hockey. At first, I think it’s a good thing.

  “Hey, Shar,” he says, “do you mind if I take the boys downstairs before we eat? I want to show them something.”

  “Sure, hon.” There’s something suspiciously complicit in the tone of her voice. I half expect her to pull a big open-mouthed wink. “Maybe the girls could help me in the kitchen.”

  I feel a little weird about this very 1950s division of gender. Despite my best efforts, I always find most “Men Only” stuff kind of lame. As we head down into the finished basement, I wonder on what field of masculinity I’ll inevitably disappoint our host. Will I be forced to grimace down some stupidly expensive scotch? Or hack on an imported cigar? Maybe I’ll luck out and Ray will turn out to be a model train aficionado. Those I could get behind.

  It turns out to be none of these things.

  “Nicky’s seen this before,” Ray says, “but I thought you guys might get a kick out of it.”

  We round the corner past a cold storage and wine cellar, where Ray opens a door on which a sign warns Beatles Parking Only, All Others Will Need Help.

  “Holy ...” I hear Deacon say.

  Suddenly I find myself in what has to be the most tricked-out rehearsal studio I’ve ever seen in my entire life. First of all, he’s got this beautiful set of clear-finish Gretsch USA Customs, along with a full arsenal of cymbals, percussion, and a fucking gong behind it. Beside that he’s got a rack of synthesizers, and a bunch of crazy shit I don’t know anything about except for the fact that they’re expensive as hell. He’s also got a real deal Hammond B3 and a Leslie speaker. On the far wall, a rack of seven or eight guitars and basses stand like erect penises.

  Ray and Nick watch us, beaming like a couple dads letting their kids run wild in a toy store. I’m no gearhead, but I can tell Ray’s got at least twenty thousand dollars’ worth of stuff in here, easy. Deacon, who is a gearhead, has already camped out in front of a wall of amps—Fender, Marshall, Trace Elliot. He seems particularly taken with a big Traynor.

  “You want to try it out?” Ray asks.

  He lifts a polished MusicMan StingRay out of the rack.

  “Holy!” Deacon says again and takes the bass with two hands.

  “That’s a rosewood fretboard, there. The body’s ash. Neck’s maple. It’s got dual humbuckers, and I’ve got a set of flatwounds on it right now. Sounds fat as hell. Plugger in!”

  Deacon’s eyes find the ceiling. “I better not,” he says. “It’ll be pretty loud.”

  “Ah, hell,” Ray dismisses him. “I soundproofed the shit out of this room. See these?” He raps on the wall with his knuckles. “Acoustic panels. And behind that, you got high-density concrete. Between them I’ve got a layer of rockwool. I could wail on those drums for hours and Sharon wouldn’t hear a mouse fart.”

  Suitably impressed, we all nod our heads.

  “Here, let me get you a patch cord,” Ray tells Deacon.

  “You know what?” Deacon gazes lovingly at the bass, then holds it back out to Ray. “Let’s do it next time. If I get started, I might not want to stop.”

  There’s a little pause, and I notice Ray gives Nick a look.

  “Well,” he finally says, “to be completely honest, Deacon, that’s sort of what I brought you boys down here to talk about.”

  The tone of his voice confirms my earlier suspicions. This was a fix-up after all.

  Nick, who’s been pretty quiet this entire time, suddenly chimes in. �
�Sharon says you guys used to back up Jesse Maracle.”

  Ray flashes a shut-up look at Nick. “So, yeah. Nick and I have been practising a bunch down here. You know, rocking out on some covers with a drum machine, but writing some of our own tunes, too.”

  Let it be known: I hate it when people call songs “tunes.”

  “In any case,” Ray continues, “we thought you might like to, shit, I don’t know, come jam sometime. See what happens.”

  The thing is, I know already that I have no interest in “jamming” with these two. Ray’s not a bad guy, and Nick seems okay, but the truth of it is, we’re just not on the same wavelength. We’re not going to make beautiful music together. That’s just the way it is. Of course, that said, it’s going to be hard to find a way out of this that doesn’t sound like I’m calling them a pair of assholes.

  Thankfully, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Sharon.

  “You boys and your toys,” she says, pleased as punch to be scolding us. “You’d spend all night down here if I didn’t come get you. Dinner’s on the table, so come on up.”

  When she leaves, Deacon shrugs a little What can you do? toward our would-be bandmates. I’m hoping we can leave things a little fuzzy, but Ray presses the issue.

  “So what do you guys think? Jam sesh? Next weekend?”

  “Well,“ I hear myself say, “the Gentlemen Callers have a show coming up in June—” Deacon looks at me sideways. We do? “—so let’s table it until then. Cool?”

  I leave twenty thousand dollars’ worth of musical equipment in my wake before Ray can respond. I can tell he’s not completely happy. He wants to pin us down, but I’m not going to let that happen. Maybe next time he’ll know enough to get us a little drunker first. Deacon would’ve had his hands all over that StingRay after a couple more beers.

  When we get back upstairs, the spread is pretty formal. Sharon’s busted out the cloth napkins and wine glasses, and she’s making rounds with a bottle of expensive-looking white wine. Ray gives a toast about old friends and new, then we all dig in. The dinner conversation begins. Everyone except Ruth and Deacon agree that the chicken is great. Sharon is so sorry that she forgot her cousin and husband are vegetarians, and loads them up with the lion’s share of pasta salad. Ruth says it’s no big deal, really. I’m constantly afraid that Ray’s going to want to chat a little more about “jamming” on his “tunes,” but thankfully, he steers clear of the subject. I guess he’s keeping it in the clubhouse for now. Instead, he circles back around to the hockey season, but when Deacon and I don’t bite, he starts in on teaching.

  “So what do you guys make of these new ‘standard practices’ I keep reading about in the paper?” Ray asks.

  “They’re a pain in the ass,” Ruth says after another mouthful of pasta salad.

  “Well,” Ray says, smiling sagely at his chicken, “I guess no one likes being told what to do.”

  For a brief moment, there’s just the sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain, and I wonder if Ruth is going to let it go. She isn’t.

  “It’s not that at all.” She takes a sip from her wine glass and puts it back down on the table. “You just can’t expect every class to be taught the exact same way.”

  “Hey, what’s good for the goose ...” Ray reinforces his position.

  “Standard practices aren’t good for anybody,” Ruth fires back. “They just kill anything we do in class that’s interesting or creative.”

  That last bit should strike a chord with Ray. Wasn’t it just last month that he talked about how boring school was, and how the best thing he ever learned in English class was how Neil Peart had a boner for Objectivist authors?

  “Ah, hell, you know, being creative is great and all, but kids need more than that touchy-feely crap. You can’t be out there playing jazz on the taxpayer’s dime. Don’t forget, Ruthie, I’m the guy who pays your salary.”

  ‘Ruthie’ puts down her fork with a clatter and I ready myself for the inevitable shitstorm.

  Nick’s hand drifts across the table for wine, like a tumbleweed at high noon. Sharon smiles some more, but she looks uncomfortable. “Does anyone want seconds? There’s lots of everything ...”

  Just in time, Deacon successfully changes the subject. “So ... how are the wedding plans coming?”

  Sharon, sensing both an ally and an opportunity to turn things around, clutches her fiancé’s arm and explains to Deacon that, as an early wedding present, he’s building them a brand-new camp out on One Island Lake. She imagines her future summer home in a filibuster that details two fireplaces (fieldstone), a deck (wraparound), a sauna and boathouse (western red cedar), paint colours (Dark Truffle and Kenya), living room upholstery (microsuede), and other excruciating particulars.

  Later, even a much-hyped lemon meringue pie fails to neutralize the toxicity of the evening, and we soon say our farewells with all the thespian stiffness of fourth-graders in a school recital.

  “Dinner was delicious.”

  “Thanks. That was really fun.”

  “Yes. We should do it again. Soon.”

  Neither Ray or Nick mention anything about getting together to “jam” on their “tunes.” I suspect the crisis has been averted. On the way home, we tell Ruth about Ray’s masterbatorium.

  “Completely soundproofed? God. Are they really that terrible?”

  “We didn’t stick around to find out.”

  “Hey, Pete,” Deacon eyes me in the rearview. “What did you mean about the Gentleman Callers playing in June? That was just bullshit, right?”

  When Ruth turns around to hear my answer, the look on her face makes the decision for me.

  “You know what? Fuck it. Let’s play the Bunsen Burner.”

  Ruth smiles. “It’s not called that this year. Since the city’s involved, Matty’s mom made it all legit. Now it’s the Wheeler Foundation Fundraiser for Spinal Cord Research.”

  “Just rolls off the tongue.”

  “And it’s not at the Polish Legion either. It’s going to be this big outdoor concert dealie down by the Marina.”

  “Well,” I say, “it looks like spinal cord research is moving up in the world.”

  The next day at school, I see Vicky. Twice. The first time is in the morning. She passes me as she comes out of the staff caf with a cup of coffee that lurches like a miniature wave pool. She doesn’t seem to notice me. Later, I see her just before I get to my second-period class. She appears at the other end of the hall, then stops and stares at me like a deer that’s just wandered out of the woods and into oncoming traffic. I give a little wave, but she looks away and keeps walking. I feel a little bit sad and a little bit free.

  Kids start filing in and taking their seats, pulling their binders out of their bags, chatting with their seating partners, checking their cell phones. I review my notes and remember that I’ve actually got a pretty decent lesson on Aztec ruins, so I pick up a piece of chalk and tell students to take out a sheet of lined paper. Just then, as I’m writing the word Mesoamerican on the blackboard and silently congratulating myself on having climbed out the Sarlacc’s Pit of ill-advised romance, Video Store Girl walks in. She sits down in an empty desk and unzips her backpack, as if she’s been in my class all along.

  “Alex?”

  “Hey, good job,” she says, smiling. “You remembered my name. See? You don’t have brain damage after all.”

  “Uh, what are you doing here?”

  Before she has a chance to answer, Jonathan Heyen-Miller walks in and spots her.

  “Alex?” he says, crossing directly in front of me. “Are you in this class now? That’s amazing!”

  I looked for her. In spite of what was happening with Vicky, I stopped by Video Hutch no fewer than six times in the past month. I had never rented so many movies in such a short period of time. The Bourne Supremacy. Dodgeball. Mean Girls. Mystic River. The Day After Tomorrow. And, for some reason, White Chicks. Finally, I swallowed my pride and asked the tattooed kid behind the counter w
hen Alex was working next. He looked at me like I was old and square and told me Alex had quit a couple weeks ago. And now here she was, sitting in my Ancient Civilizations class.

  “Alex, can I see you out in the hall for a sec?”

  “Sure thing, Mister Curtis.”

  When she says my name like that, something feels very wrong. I shut the door of my classroom and look at her. She’s still smiling.

  “So, what are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice down.

  “Well, I had planned on studying Ancient Civilizations. And your note on the blackboard says something about the Aztecs, so I’m thinking ...”

  “I mean what are you doing in a high school?”

  “I’m a high school student.” She takes the attendance folder out of my hand, opens it and points to a name on the class list. “See? Right there. Alexandra Carter.”

  She had been in my class all along. On paper, at least.

  “But—” I try to make sense of it “—you were an art student. You went to an art school in Montreal and rode your bicycle and lived with some guy with a weird French name I can’t remember right now.”

  “Joaquim. And it was an arts high school. And I never graduated. Look, I need two more credits to get my diploma. The guidance counsellor put me in grade twelve Art because I can just hand in a bunch of the paintings I did in Montreal. She put me in your class because, well, apparently it’s a bird course.”

  “But ... we went to a bar ... together. You bought me a beer.”

  “Why are you yelling?”

  “I’m whispering!”

  “You’re whisper-yelling. Calm down.”

  Bethany Atkinson, arriving late, gives us both a strange look as she passes us and goes inside the classroom.

  “First of all,” she explains, “I’m twenty years old, and I imagine you’re twenty-something—”

  “—eight.”

  “Twenty-eight. So there. We’re both old enough to buy alcohol in the province of Ontario. No problem. Secondly—” she looks around and says the next part quietly “—nothing happened. With us, I mean.”