Waiting for the Man

by Arjun Basu

  I fell over the Atlantic and zoomed in. Past islands, bays, hooks, spits, tombolos, narrows, inlets, cays, gulfs, beaches, sounds, harbors, down the coast, past the gray smudges of cities, past the refineries and wharves and ferry boats and sewage pipes, down the East River, which is really a strait, it was obvious to me now, and then I was above land, above the checkerboard pattern of urbanity. I was almost on the ground. I fell past buildings worn gray with age and neglect, past deadened streets where the tireless cars sit on cinder blocks, to the signs of gentrification, the construction cranes, the scaffolding, the new building materials that signal wealth, and then . . . there. I. Was.

  I saw myself sitting on the steps. I saw my neighborhood and I saw myself, lonely, sitting, waiting.

  And I watched the crowd gather about me. I watched the studied indifference of nonchalant kindness of the people who gathered to watch, to observe, to solve the puzzle that was my act. I watched myself eat lousy pizza, watched another kind woman bring some delectable-looking leftovers in a pink Tupperware container. I watched Dan stare into his notepad, his face etched with the painful realization that nothing would be easy. I watched myself struggle, every night, with the fear of being hurt, the fear of every noise emanating from the darkness, the fear of a man enduring goblins and demons in his fitful sleep.

  And then I flew up. I took a look at America. At the continent. At its vastness, so open, so well connected. I saw how the roads in America are limitless; from my vantage they looked like the clogged arteries of an American man. Every village, every town accessible to the larger town, which in turn is accessible to minor cities, that connect to the major ones.

  I could taste the wind.

  I could see the anguish on my face.

  I could see that the sky never ends.

  I understood that the air is never clean, not even in America, a place where the activities of everyone I could see is visible only in the landscape, in the large golden squares that demarcate the properties of those whose job it is to make sure we eat. The air carried within it the stench of disappointments fulfilled. The jet stream shot by bringing with it exotic smells from Asia, faraway places, imagined places.

  I tried to remember when the world lost its potential for me.

  And I saw the minivan. I saw the minivan and the black bus hurtle through the countryside, the story beamed to an indifferent world. I saw the minivan cross the artificial boundary. I saw how artificial the boundary was. I saw how this line does little to the ground, how irrelevant it looked from up above and I thought the arbitrary nature of the thing only pointed to our frailties and failures. I recognized the irony of painting invisible lines, the wasted energy, the strange desire of people to divide, to separate, to close doors, to turn backs, to obfuscate, to commit unspeakable acts. All for an invisible line.

  I saw my minivan zig and the black bus zag.

  And I saw the bus stuck at a place where the invisible line is defended, actually defended by uniformed personnel, by confused personnel who had no idea where I was. I listened to a dead-end conversation between two spent forces, two impotent forces. There are no answers in these discussions because the questions are regurgitated, repeated, elliptical. One half of zero is always zero.

  I dove into the metaphorical hearts of those on the bus. I saw the hardening, the loneliness, the blank realization of futility. I felt it. I felt what it is to hold a heart that beats but is lifeless. I felt what it is to know that everything I have aspired to ends only in failure. I felt the inherent weakness of the world’s barely beating heart. I touched it. I put my hand on my chest and touched it.

  And then it was morning. The grand vista of the world around me returned. Nothing had changed. I watched the dance of the rising sunlight on the endless grass. I watched the wind come over the distant mountains and then kiss the earth. I thought about the folly of the events that had led me here, about the departure of logic in the absence of meaning from my life. I felt like a simpleton.

  I knew that to abandon the adventure here was noble. I began it alone, in my head. And it would end that way as well.

  And I walked. I began to walk away, my shoulders hunched, the sun’s new light elongating my shadow to make it appear a blackened carpet nailed to my feet. I was profoundly dejected. I thought of the possibilities of promises unkept. I felt tired, tired by a quest I now realized I was not strong enough to undertake. I walked staring straight ahead. Afraid of perhaps seeing the Man riding his white horse in the tall grass, his hat flopping about his head, promising things I now know were not his to promise, his empty hands held skyward.

  And I let it go. I just thought about this and let it go, and I felt a floating sickness in me that was enough to illuminate the darkest corner of the most despotic empire. I may have felt freedom. I’m not sure.

  The mountains were remarkable. There was a beauty to this place that resonated deep inside of me, that rewrote something, altered my DNA.

  And from those mountains a wind rolled across the flat land, a wind that had blown itself around the world since before the land existed, blowing over oceans and seas, mountains and prairies, cities and towns. This was the wind eternal, blowing by me, on its never-­ending quest for a final resting place. I watched the yellow-gold flicker of the tall grass bending in the eternal wind.

  Thanks

  Frankly, I don’t quite remember not writing or thinking about this book. It has been a long haul and this is a preface to say that it is quite possible (nay probable) that I am forgetting or have forgotten most of the people who should have ended up on this list. So remember that while I may be forgetful, I am never ungrateful.

  The first inkling of this book was borne of continental road trips from long ago, one with Doug and the other with Caroline. Photos from these long voyages remain in my possession and they continue to be useful for extortion purposes. It was also a memorable time because I still had a full head of hair.

  Then I started writing. Many people read earlier versions of this novel and the insight and wisdom of Timothy Taylor and Douglas Coupland stand out for being most insightful and full of wisdom.

  I must thank Dina Yuen for introducing me to Neil Salkind, who sold the book to Jack David at ECW. And thanks are due to absolutely everyone at ECW, including Crissy Calhoun and Erin Creasey, and especially to my editor Emily Schultz, who was kind and smart and encouraging and gentle. Oh so gentle. Thanks to Michel Vrana for proving you should judge a book by its cover.

  For whatever reason, I listened to a lot of Philip Glass during the endless editing of this work, especially the Koyaanitsqatsi soundtrack. So, um, thanks Philip Glass. And then there are the instrumental tracks from the soundtrack to The Life Aquatic of Steve Zissou, written by Mark Mothersbaugh. I listened to that when I wasn’t listening to Koyaanisqatsi. So thanks to Mark Mothersbaugh as well.

  Thanks, forever, to the late and great Lou Reed, whose lyrics started this process. And though the project ended far far away from the “man” Lou sings about, this book would be a very different creature without that first and fatal spark.

  Thanks, always, to David McGimpsey, who is not just a supporter of my work and drinking buddy, but someone who gets me without being at all demanding. And thus is the best kind of friend.

  And thanks to Milo, who has grown to something approaching adulthood during the gestation of this novel and, more importantly, has grown into a smart and sensitive person (who swears a bit too much perhaps, but so do his parents).

  And mostly, thanks to Naomi. I’m not easy to live with. But then again, neither is she.

  Copyright © Arjun Basu, 2014

  Published by ECW Press

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  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4E 1E2

  416-694-3348 / info@ecwpress.com

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transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Parts of the chapter "A Big Country" previously appeared, in a very different form, as “In a Big Enough Country” in joylandmagazine.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Basu, Arjun, 1966-, author

  Waiting for the man / Arjun Basu.

  ISBN: 978-1-77090-51-60 (epub)

  Also issued as: 978-1-77041-177-7 (pbk.); 978-1-77090-515-3 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8603.A797W33 2014 C813’.6 C2013-907755-3 C2013-907756-1

  Cover design: Michel Vrana

  Text design and typesetting: Lynn Gammie

  The publication of Waiting for the Man has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and by the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,681 individual artists and 1,125 organizations in 216 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.8 million. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.