Loose End

by Ivan Coyote

  I decided on Blanche Payne, because it is franglaise for white bread, a loose translation from the root pain blanc, according to my Grade Twelve French. Jan would be Dotty Yves, because it sounded good. We would pose as nice ladies in order to sell family-oriented stories of triumph and courage for other ladies to read in doctors’ offices and Wal-Marts all across America. I’ve written lots of stories of triumph and courage, after all, only they were for less family-oriented periodicals and the pay was shit. One in ten, they said. Do the math, I figure. I always did like a good come-uppance. We would then turn around and use the profits to fund our seamy, sordid, homosexual novels, where the villain gets the girl in the end.

  And I would get to tell my grandma to make sure to pick me up at the Costco. What could be better? We weren’t even lying, as they would only be stories.

  “My mom was really impressed, because she can get Women’s World in Indiana,” Eileen told us.

  Jan and I made arrangements for Eileen and Michelle, another student, to go over our stories for us, a little straight eye for the tomboy guys, to make sure we didn’t let anything strange or queer slip by unawares. “Who knows what could tip ’em off, eh?” I told Jan.

  “I couldn’t do it for my parents, or my husband,” Jan confesses, but for a buck American a word?”

  Eileen and Michelle will be there for us. Later that night, Jan sent me an e-mail, just to help me get into character.

  Dear Blanche: I love your column in The Definitely Straight. Where was such a wholesome woman like yourself raised? You’re not from here, are you? Regards, Dotty Yves.

  They’re gonna love us.

  Black, Blue, and Green

  Sometimes you look back on something that happened and wonder when you should have seen it coming.

  My sweetheart and I had hatched a pleasant plan: go to Moderne Burger for one salmon platter add mushrooms and one beef, (hold the tomato and split the fries). Then it was off to Granville Street to catch the matinee of Fahrenheit 9/11.

  Driving across the bridge in my car, I felt an absence in my pockets; empty where it should have been hard, room where there usually isn’t. Tragically, I had forgotten my cell phone in the diner. We were already almost late for the movie, so we couldn’t turn around.

  While my girlfriend stood in line to buy tickets, I crossed the street to use a payphone to call the restaurant to ask them to hold onto my phone for me. But all three payphones were occupied: the first by a couple of tourists with a calling card and a tattered piece of paper with an almost unreadable phone number on it. They were using trial and error to call home, and it looked like they were going to be a while. The middle phone was being used by a loud-talking, gum-chewing woman wearing über-tight jeans and a fake leather jacket with faker leather fringe. She was going on at length to a guy named Dennis about that fucking bitch Rachel and what had Dennis told Rachel about her and Ricky anyway, because Rachel was freaking and how Dennis should know better than to tell her anything and besides, what had Rachel said to Dennis about her, and so forth. Apparently, Dennis couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and neither would I for quite some time, so I focused on the guy using the third phone. He was wearing combat pants and a super-clean white T-shirt, and he looked to me like the kind of guy who could make a succinct phone call, just pass on a message and be on his way. The movie was going to start in two minutes. Combat Pants was definitely the guy to watch.

  I was right. He dialed, spoke briefly, and hung up. Then he did the same thing again with a different number. Then again. When he pulled a wad of change out of his pocket and slapped it on the shelf below the phone, I glanced at my watch and stepped up beside him.

  “Sorry to bother you, but do you think I could jump on the phone for just one minute and make a quick call? I left something in a restaurant and I’m late for the movie.” The woman in the fake leather fringe spoke before Combat Pants could answer me.

  “Why don’t you back off and wait your fucking turn, dyke?”

  This is where I would like to tell you that the man in the combat pants said sure, go ahead and we both just ignored the woman in the tight jeans. But that is not what happened at all.

  Combat Pants dialed his phone again, and I told the woman that I hadn’t been speaking to her, and that it is not okay to talk to people like that. That didn’t go over so well. She spit in my mouth and punched me in the head five times. This is where I would like to recount how the crowd of fifty or so folks milling around the theatre or bus stop sprang immediately to my aid, horrified to witness violence in broad daylight in a very public place. I would like to tell you about the kind, elderly gentleman who lent me his handkerchief to wipe her saliva off my lips and collar. But that’s not what happened at all.

  What actually happened was nothing. The tourists kept trying to call home, Combat Pants continued with his phone tree, and the crowd pretended they hadn’t been witness to anything. The woman hung up on Dennis and started to walk away.

  In retrospect, I guess I should have done the same. But someone who had just assaulted someone was about to disappear into the crowd, and someone had to do something. I followed her and told her to stop, that she had assaulted me, and as soon as I could get near a payphone, I was going to call the cops. She kept walking. I reached out and grabbed the sleeve of her coat, and she whirled around and jumped me, punching me repeatedly in the face until I got my arms up to protect myself.

  I thought about grabbing her hands to stop her, and, I must admit, I felt like punching her right back. But I knew that at least some of the crowd thought they were witnessing a woman punching a man, and that if I were to be seen by any of them as fighting back or hurting her, that I could be jumped by some guy who thought he was doing the right thing, and seriously pummeled. So I just held my hands in front of my face.

  She stopped punching me, called me a fucking dyke again, threatened to really kick my ass if I tried to stop her, and disappeared into the throngs of people on Robson Street. Again, the crowd did nothing.

  My girlfriend had heard the commotion from across the street, but was blocked from crossing over by two buses, one from each direction. She and a guy I know from the film industry came running up. By then, it was all over.

  One of the first things I said to her once we got in the car was to ask her to not tell any of our friends what had happened. I wanted to just forget about it. I felt hurt, angry, and ashamed. She said she didn’t think silence was very healthy. She was right.

  So here it is. I was gay-bashed on Friday, July 10th on Granville Street at 4:10 p.m. No one who actually witnessed the assault did anything to help me, or stop her. I think they thought I was a man. I am physically fine; the bruises on my forearms turned purple, then blue, then green, and disappeared. The swelling under my eye was gone by the next day; the cut inside my lip was healed by the end of the weekend. I don’t have anything witty or deep or uplifting to wrap this up with. I guess I could have avoided the situation by not asking the man to let me make one quick phone call, and I could have side-stepped further violence by walking away from her after she spit in my mouth and punched me the first time. But that is not what happened.

  I see on the news that gay marriage is a bigger deal than the war in Iraq when it comes to voting for America’s next president, and I know that this will inevitably result in more hatred aimed at queers between now and the American election. I am doing the only thing I know how to protect us. I am refusing to be silent.

  My Name is Sam

  I was smoking a cigarette with the performance poet outside the theatre. She smokes like a movie star, making sweeping semicircles with her forearms and revealing glamorous cheekbones with every inhale. When she exhales, a perfectly lipsticked stream of silver escapes her mouth between bits of story. I could watch her smoke until the sun showed up. I’m a Player’s Light regular peasant; she’s a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light King Size Menthol diva.

  We were interrupted by a squeal that belonged to a permed and tinted
blonde in a beige pantsuit and dyed-to-match pumps. She sniffed her way through our smoking circle to kiss the poet on both cheeks and hug her without really touching.

  “Oh my God,” the blonde exclaimed, “I thought that was you. You look fabulous. Haven’t changed a bit. It’s been a long time. When did we graduate? Nineteen seventy. . . .”

  The poet blanched, and interrupted her. “Ivan, this is. . . .”

  “Diane. I’m Diane. We went to high school together. Oh, I could tell you some stories.”

  The poet cleared her throat and took a long drag from her cigarette. “Well, actually, Diane, you graduated a few years ahead of me.”

  Diane looked confused. I smiled. The performance poet has been lying to me about her age for several years now, and for me to do the math at this juncture would be ungentlemanly. To know her age in people years would be tantamount to seeing the bride in her dress before the ceremony. She is beautiful years old according to the diva calendar, and that is all I’ve ever needed to know.

  Diane changes the subject. “Well, I married Richard of course, we have one son, twenty-three, and one daughter, twenty-one. They’re both at the University of Alberta, doing well, and I’m directing Fiddler on the Roof this summer, in the park right across the street. You should come by one night. We’re having a gas. The kids are just great. And you, are you still writing poetry?”

  “Always.” The poet exhales, blinking.

  “How interesting. We should do lunch one day, I’d love to hear all about it. Call me. I should be off, though, to round up the kids. It was nice to meet you.”

  And she was gone, leaving only a hint of Oscar de la Renta in the air.

  “She’s much older than me,” the poet whispered over the sound of Diane’s pumps retreating.

  “Quite obviously so.” I grind my cigarette under the heel of my Daytons. “Let’s head in. I’m on in half an hour.”

  Right at the end of my set, I heard a small kerfuffle in the balcony. It was over quickly, and I thought no more of it.

  Post show, we resumed our spot in the smokers circle, several hours and two beers later. There were five or six of us now, talking poetry, gossip, and business.

  A teenage boy paced around our circle a couple of times, took one huge breath, strode up and stood beside me. He seemed nervous, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his too-big-for-him black blazer. He waited for a pause in the conversation, and then placed a long-fingered hand on my forearm.

  “Sorry to interrupt you,” he stammered. “But I have to thank you for your stories tonight. You just changed my life. My life is changed now. I really needed to hear what you just said. I’m a huge fan of spoken word and poetry.”

  I tuned out everyone else except the boy. This was one of those moments, I could tell, one of those moments you conjure up when you’re trying to sleep on the cat pee-scented couch in a chilly basement room on tour somewhere in Manitoba, to remind yourself why you choose to do this for a living. I extended my hand to him.

  “My name is Sam. I’ve been reading Ferlinghetti and Rilke for years, and I’m a huge fan of Sheri-D. . . .” He shook my hand with baby-soft palms. His bangs hung over his caterpillar lashes and brown eyes. He had a peace sign and a Sex Pistols button on his lapel. The knees of his jeans were peeled back to reveal doorknob kneecaps. His dress shoes were spit-shined. I loved him.

  “This is Sheri-D right here, I’ll introduce you . . . she doesn’t bite, well, not strangers, anyway.”

  I tapped on the performance poet’s elbow. “Sheri-D, I’d like you to meet Sam. He loves poetry.”

  Sam swallowed, overwhelmed. “Wow, pleased to meet you, all of you, the show was, well, it blew my mind, and I’d do it all over again, it was worth it all, even though I got into trouble.”

  Sheri-D furrowed her brow and looked sideways at Sam. “You got into trouble for coming to a poetry reading?”

  “Well, I skipped out of our meeting after my show. I’m in the play across the street, in the park. I’m the boyfriend of the milkman’s daughter.”

  Suddenly Diane and her pumps and perm were upon us again. “There you are Sam, good, I wanted to talk to you. I want you to know, I’m not angry with you, just disappointed. You can’t take off like that without telling anyone where you are going. We were all concerned for your safety. This is downtown Calgary, and I am responsible for all of you. We had to call the police, and security.”

  The whole picture became apparent to both Sheri-D and I at the same time, and we simultaneously clutched our aching chests with our right hands. Sheri-D spoke first.

  “Sam is in trouble for skipping his notes to come and see Ivan tell stories?”

  I thought about all the things I ever got busted for when I was fifteen. Poetry readings were not among them. My heart opened and swallowed Sam up.

  Diane nodded. “We had to have security remove him from the theatre. They serve alcohol in there. We were looking all over for him. He’s been suspended from the play for two nights.”

  “I’ll leave you two tickets at the door for tomorrow night then.” Sheri-D smiled at Sam. Diane fixed an acid stare on Sheri-D. “Well, he might as well, since he’s not working,” Sheri-D shrugged.

  I nodded. The boy needed poetry, that much was obvious.

  “It is time to get you home, Sam.” Diane grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and steered him towards her mini-van.

  Sam called back over his shoulder to us as he was led away by one arm. “I’d do it all again. I loved it. They call me Art Fag at school.” The sliding door shut, and he was gone.

  “What a bitch,” Sheri-D breathed sideways at me. “No wonder she looks so much older than I do.”

  “Decades,” I agreed, and lit her next cigarette for her.

  Your Mom Told Me

  Dear Cousin Ella:

  I talked to your mom the other day, and she told me your news. She also asked me not to tell your brother, or my mother (your brother because your mom said she wants to tell him herself her way, and my mom because she’ll be all judgmental about it, or so your mom thinks.)

  What I didn’t tell your mother is that I’d already heard all about it from my mother who is not so quick to judge you as your mom thought she would be, or at least she didn’t sound like it to me on the phone. My mom told me not to tell your mom that she knew already because our aunt told my mom everything last week when she first heard about it from your mother. But our aunt told my mother not to tell your mom that she said anything because our aunt thinks maybe your mom is ashamed. I reckon maybe my mom isn’t as judgmental as everyone seems to think she is, and maybe your mom isn’t really ashamed after all. Maybe it’s just that our aunt thinks your mom should be. Or maybe the truth is it’s our aunt who would be ashamed if you were her daughter, but you’re not, you’re her niece. Maybe our aunt thinks her sister would feel the same thing she would feel if she were in your mother’s place. But our aunt only has the one kid, a son, and these kinds of things rarely happen with boys, and when they do, everyone handles it all much differently, the world being how it is and all.

  I must confess I did break down and tell your brother before your mom got around to it, but that was only because he asked me directly how you were, but I did ask him to pretend he didn’t already know when your mom finally told him herself, her way. I never was as good at keeping secrets as the rest of this family seems to be, and I can’t bring myself to lie to your brother, because he’s my cousin.

  But just so you know, I know already, and just for the record, I pass no judgment on you whatsoever, nor am I one bit ashamed that you are now working as a stripper. Do you prefer the term exotic dancer?

  I actually figured a while back that it would be the next logical employment opportunity to come up for you after the novelty of being a scantily clad mud-wrestler inevitably wore off, as I hear the money is better and stripping is a lot easier to clean up after. Easier on the wardrobe too, I imagine.

  I for one have completely accepted yo
ur choice of job, aside from a brief bit of reorganizing in my mind, due to the fact that the last time we spent any serious time together you were five or six and I was ushering you out of the bathtub and into your jammies for bedtime stories. Remember how I used to break Gran’s rule banning the unnecessary use of household appliances? I would pinch bath towels from the clothesline and heat them up in the dryer and wrap you and your sister in hot towels like little kiddie burritos and hug you until you said you couldn’t breathe? My God, you were cute when you were little.

  You are nineteen years old now, though. You’re not a kid anymore. I need to start thinking of you as a young woman. You always did like to dress up, I do remember that.

  Your brother had a bit more of an adjustment period to work through, as you are his baby sister and all, and I think the casual little conversation you had with him last week about your blanket routine kind of threw him for a bit of a loop. I don’t know for sure if either him or I will be there for your set at The Cecil next month, but I do know we’re both glad to have another artist in the family. He says he really feels you should hire a better photographer before you print up your next batch of key chains, lighters, and posters, but I couldn’t say because I haven’t seen any of your merchandise yet, and I sometimes feel he borders on being a bit of an art snob when it comes to that kind of thing.

  I had an interesting talk about it all with our aunt last week when she came through town, and I told her who am I to judge? Look how I make a living. You and I, we’re both entertainers, just with me it’s more my heart that undresses, and how is selling your heart and your secrets on stage ethically superior to taking your clothes off?