by Iain Reid
I remember the summer I worked for the university grounds crew. I was well into my third month of employment when Doug, the brusque backhoe operator, finally muttered his first and only words to me. I’d been working closely with Doug every day. He’d been at his job for more than thirty years and had seen many students come and go each summer. He must have been in his early sixties. He was strong but wiry, and had white hair and a hoary stubble beard. I never had any problems with him. I liked him. He was a man of few words — so what?
I was wielding an old wooden-handled spade, digging a ten-foot-long trench to plant some shrubs. Doug, on his smoke break, was watching from his tractor, sitting back in his seat resting a foot on the wheel. As I paused to wipe the sweat from my face, Doug stood, and with his burning smoke still dangling off his lip, walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder with a mighty grip. Was he finally going to commend my work? Or maybe insist that I’d put in my time for the day and he would graciously take over? It was a scorching day, after all, and I’d been going at the trench for almost an hour. I was starting to feel a trifle flushed.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I hope for the girls’ sake you can fuck better than you swing a shovel.” And with that he released a scratchy cackle, spat on the ground, and hobbled back to his tractor.
On Sunday night my parents again put me to the test. I hear them calling from upstairs. They’re watching TV with a bowl of popcorn between them, each with a paper towel resting on their lap.
“We’re thinking of going to bed soon, but there’s a mystery on PBS we’d like to see,” says Dad. “Do you remember how to set the VCR to tape?”
Obviously I haven’t set anything to record on VHS since the mid-nineties. “Do we still have a VCR?” I ask.
“Course,” Dad replies. “We need something to watch all our videos.”
I can’t recall the last time either of my parents has watched a VHS video. I quickly scan the bookcase by the wall, which displays their collection. I can make out only three. Animals Are Beautiful People: The Secret Lives of Wildlife is in a white box with a cartoon giraffe smiling broadly on the front. Next to it is The 1992 Major League Baseball Season in Review; its box is in much worse condition, faded and torn at the corners. Third is a black cassette without a box. A handwritten label on the front clearly reads honey i shrunk the kids without commercials!!! Dad’s right; thank God we still have a VCR.
“You know, Dad, a lot of people just record TV right onto their satellite box these days. It’s called PVR, and they can watch it anytime they want just by pushing a button. No tapes or cords needed.”
“I don’t know about that,” Dad says suspiciously. “Besides, we still have all those blank tapes to use.”
“Waste not, want not,” Mom adds, picking a kernel off her paper towel and popping it into her mouth.
I nod and move to my least favourite area of the room, the back of the TV. It’s a lifeless jungle, a mess of tangled cords, power bars, and dust. There isn’t much space, and with the lights dimmed it’s difficult to see. The room is stuffy and I can sense my forehead starting to glisten. Meanwhile my parents are enjoying the commercials, laughing out loud at the animated gecko with a British accent. He’s trying to sell car insurance and is doing a fine job.
“Sorry to interrupt, Dad, but I’m not really sure which cords to change here.”
“Oh, I don’t think you need to change the cords. I think there’s a button on the front of the machine or something.”
I swivel around and sink down in front of the TV on my stomach. The next ad is for a new low-calorie sports drink being promoted by hockey star Sidney Crosby.
“Huh, remind me to look into that,” Dad says to no one in particular.
Mom perks up, licking the tips of her salty fingers. “What, you mean that sports drink?”
“Yeah,” says Dad. “It has zero calories. I could use that.”
“But you’re not a professional athlete. You don’t need that.”
“But I work out. And I lose more than water when I sweat.”
As my parents debate Dad’s hydrating needs, I’m becoming increasingly confused by the VCR. I can’t find a Record button anywhere.
“So why don’t you shake some salt on your hand and lick it off after a workout? That’s what my dad used to do.”
“No, no, they say you should never do that. And anyway, I need more than salt. Potassium, for example.”
“So eat a banana.”
“Um, sorry, guys,” I say. “Are you definitely sure this thing records?”
After a moment’s pause my parents are up out of their seats and joining me on the floor. Dad pushes his glasses atop his head and squints at the front panel. Mom kneels beside him. She’s brought a pillow from the couch with her for her knees. Her hand is resting on Dad’s back.
“What do we have here?” he asks.
In the snug, stuffy space in front of the TV, three’s definitely a crowd. I won’t be much help, so I leave my parents on the floor.
The air in my bedroom is anchored and thick. It’s difficult to sleep. I’m brooding over what stories I’m going to pitch at tomorrow’s meeting. I have no ideas. None. Maybe something about plumbing, how complex it has become in the twenty-first century.
Lying on my back watching the ceiling fan swirl around and around, I eventually hear Mom’s excited congratulations to Dad as he successfully sets the VCR.
Six
No Rest for the Unweary
THIS MORNING AFTER MY PORRIDGE I sit in my room to “write.” Staring at the white computer screen, I use my left index finger to pull down and then snap my bottom lip against my top lip. It makes a funny sound. Well, not funny per se, but there is a sound. It proves entertaining for much longer than anticipated. My lip tires of the game before I do.
I’ve worked only two shifts this week. Two days of being an associate producer. What does that make me for the other five days? And those two days weren’t exactly reassuring. I strolled into the story meeting a few minutes early, feeling unusually confident. I felt I had two strong ideas to pitch. Everyone seemed energized after the weekend, and the meeting was going well. Pens skated along notepads, people were laughing and nodding and passing articles from the paper along with mini-doughnuts someone had brought in.
And then it was my turn. I had the attention of the group, an abruptly quiet, suspicious group. All eyes turned on me. But as I started to explain my ideas, those same eyes moved on, finding other things to explore — the white ceiling tiles or tiny pieces of lint on the floor. Laughs were replaced by yawns. Pens lay frozen to the table.
“Okay, well, another idea I’ve been thinking about,” I say, flipping through my papers, “is a little different. I’m thinking we could do a story about walking.”
“Walking? How so?”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure. I just think walking is a good thing for people to do and it’s underrated.”
“You mean just walking, like strolling outside?’
“Sure, just walking.”
“Sorry, Iain,” another associate producer said, tossing her pad onto the table, “what exactly do you think the story is?”
“Well, that’s a valid question. Couldn’t we maybe talk to people who like to run or something, and compare them to people who like to walk? It just seems to me, with all the popularity of running, walking doesn’t get the credit it deserves. I always see people out running. Everybody thinks that to be healthy you have to run.”
The room was silent.
“Okay, thanks for the idea, Iain. I think that’s it for this morning, guys. Let’s get to work.”
Five minutes later the senior producer assigned me a story about deer whistles.
I spend part of my next few hours pacing around the room,
reading aloud in a Cockney accent from a paperback copy of A Concise History of the Theatre with pages 113 to 176 missing. I find it under my bed when I’m bouncing a rubber ball off the wall trying to see how many times I can catch it without a drop. When I start screaming some pretty heinous insults at myself after fumbling the ball on throw 143 (six away from a new personal best), I figure a change of scene might help.
I shamble into the kitchen in my slippers and slap together a pathetic-looking peanut butter and honey sandwich. Aside from Meg, the old border collie, who’s watching me intensely, I eat it alone, not realizing that I’m collecting drops of honey on my shirt. It’s been escaping out the back of the sandwich with each bite. I’m licking the honey off my shirt when Mom walks into the kitchen carrying a basket of clean laundry.
“Are you eating honey off your shirt again?” she asks indifferently.
“What?” I say. “No! Well, yes, but what do you mean ‘again’?”
“I saw you doing that last week too. What’s wrong? Are you overly tired?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“That honey on your shirt says you’re tired. It’s a calling card of fatigue. Plus I can see it in your eyes. I hope you don’t have to work any more shifts this week.”
“I’m feeling fine, Mom, but, you know, when people are actually tired, the last thing they want to hear is that they look tired.”
“Okay. But you don’t care now, because you’re not tired.”
“But you thought I was.”
“I still think you are.”
“What?”
“I just think you should go to bed earlier tonight, that’s all.” She’s picking socks out of the basket now and balling them together.
“Mom, I went to bed at nine thirty last night, like, an hour before you and Dad.”
“You need your sleep, though, Iain. It’s very important.”
The truth is, I am tired — I’m exhausted. Those dark circles under my eyes are genuine. I’ve been going through these dry spells lately when sleep becomes inexplicably scarce. One night I’ll sleep through until morning uninterrupted; then the next three or four nights will be spent lying on my side, the covers balled up beside me, while I stare vacantly at the wall. I just lie there frustrated, struggling to restrain my spinning thoughts, thinking and thinking about thinking, for hours.
It likely has something to do with sitting around the farm most days at my desk, bent over my laptop, tapping my keyboard intermittently. Or maybe it’s because for the past several months I’ve been calling goodnight to my parents with the same childish inflection I had as a boy, before scurrying off to the same bed and crawling between the same blue sheets with yellow crescent moons I first used when I was eight. It’s probably a little of both.
These restless nights leave me agitated, lethargic, melancholic. More so than a mind, a good night’s sleep is a terrible thing to waste. And that’s what’s most troubling: I’m trading away sleep in an unfair deal. I’m not getting drunk from expensive whisky and waking up in a stranger’s bed naked, with a lampshade on my head. No, I’m isolated in the countryside, sitting by the fire with Mom and Dad, finishing up the weekend crossword puzzle by trying to think of a three-letter word for sarcastic. That’s a tepid mug of chamomile tea I’m sipping, not tequila. It’s rarely that I’m not tucked into bed with a book by 10 p.m. Yet still, sleep ignores me.
This morning, before I had my porridge, I woke from a particularly frustrating night. I dozed sporadically for maybe three hours, even though I spent nine curled up in bed. I watched the lenient October sun appear between my blinds sometime around six and slowly grow brighter until two thin shafts of yellow light were spotlighting the base of my bed. In the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, I found a sticky note with wry! written in my mother’s hand stuck to the vanity mirror.
You already know where my day went from there. The honey has caked onto my shirt now. I’m helping Mom fold a massive king-sized sheet for her bed. We do this without talking, and I’m thankful for the quiet. It doesn’t last long. Dad comes in from feeding the sheep and collecting the eggs.
“You’re looking tired, bud,” he says. “Are you sleeping enough these days?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“How many hours are you getting?” he wonders as he sits to unlace his boots.
“I’m not sure. Definitely more than four.”
“Four? That’s not nearly enough. You need at least eight to ten. You should try going to bed earlier tonight.”
“Much earlier,” echoes Mom.
“It’s not really about when I go to bed; it’s that I’m not really sleeping while in bed.”
“That’s probably because you’re too tired to sleep,” says Mom.
“Definitely,” agrees Dad. “And some people need more sleep than others. Sounds like you’re one of them. What’s that on your shirt?” He’s moved over to the sink, where he’s washing the eggs and handing them to Mom to dry.
“He spilled honey on himself again,” answers Mom, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Dad holds up one of the wet brown eggs he’s just collected from the coop. “Well, I suppose honey on his shirt is better than egg on his face.”
Mom tries to hold her serious face but bursts into a giggling fit, doubling over into Dad’s side like a domino. She bumps him just enough that he has to take a step back to keep his balance. The two are still laughing as I head upstairs.
Mom and Dad are asleep. I’ve popped some corn and am lying in front of the TV. At the farm, television is still a novelty to me. We never had cable when I was growing up, and I didn’t own a TV in Toronto and rarely had the opportunity to watch one. It’s late, and although tired I’m still hoping to squeeze in another hour or two of the moving pictures.
After instinctively scanning through all the channels three or four times, I’m forced to choose between an infomercial trying to sell me a vibrating abdominal belt and a horror movie called The Mothman Prophecies. Considering that my popcorn was gone in five minutes and I’ve moved on to a bowl of cheese curds, I stay on the infomercial for only a few minutes. I’d love to actually meet these actors. Get inside their heads. Find out what motivates them. Do these infomercial spots figure into their childhood dreams and aspirations? Or are they aware of their inherent ridiculousness?
I flip the channel over to The Mothman Prophecies. I remember hearing about this film a few years ago — it’s adapted from a novel of the same name and generated substantial buzz. I scan the information on the satellite guide. The movie is set in a small West Virginia town where a reporter from Washington, D.C., investigates several strange encounters, unusual sightings, and mysterious phone calls. It’s believed that a large supernatural moth-like creature is responsible for the chaos. I haven’t seen a good horror movie in a while.
My introduction to horror films started early, when I was a wide-eyed seven-year-old. I remember sneaking out of bed and furtively crawling down the carpeted hall on my forearms and knees like a Navy Seal. Using the screams as my compass, I would converge on my older brother and a group of his teenage pals, slung over the couches in our TV room. It was the golden era of the horror genre. Fans had the luxury of choosing from a wide range of villains, the likes of which had never been seen before. There was the dream-invading Freddy Krueger, the machete-wielding Jason Voorhees, the demented Michael Myers, and even that homicidal doll from Child’s Play.
Chucky, as he’s known, quickly became my favourite for two reasons. One, because of his surprisingly sharp wit coupled with his peerless comedic timing, and two, because I figured that if ever faced with any of these hellions, I would have my best chance against the rubber doll with tiny hands. The slasher films of the late 1970s and 1980s were built on clichés and relied almost exclusively on bloody violence and excessive gore.
For me, peering through the tiny opening between the wall and the door in my jammy-jams, these predictable plotlines and extravagant death scenes were both alluring and terrifying, a most unfortunate coupling for a vulnerable seven-year-old.
The images of these killers hiding in my closet or crouching behind the shower curtain consumed me in the way most children of that age obsess over boy bands or professional athletes. Unable to sleep, I would be forced to confess the details of my illicit late-night viewings to Mom. Her disappointment soon led to anger. But Mom’s not one to carry her temper long, and inevitably she would set it aside. Her anger would evolve into support, insisting that those awful characters were completely fictional and imaginary. We would sit together over a cup of warm milk or a bowl of her homemade soup as she explained in great detail how some Hollywood film screenwriter had been paid to invent the scariest creature he could imagine and then write a story about it. Like any business, the point was to make as much money as possible, so the scarier the better. She would always accentuate the fact that these monsters were conceived in someone’s head and born on the set of a movie, never borrowed from real life. “It’s not reality,” she would remind me over and over again, dunking a chunk of cookie into her mug of milk. “It’s just pretend.”
On the occasions when her consoling words weren’t enough, Dad would be summoned and asked to declaw any potential threat that might be looming in my closet, under my bed, or, most often, in my head. When words and ideology weren’t enough, the sheer physical presence of Dad clad in boxer shorts and a tattered undershirt always carried the trump card of reassurance.
But as the years passed, my nightmares lingered. My mental maturity had ignored its assigned task. Instead of leading me away from these fabricated scenarios of nighttime killers, my supposedly wiser mind paved a straighter road to the elaborate plotlines and frightening characters. I wondered why my older brother, the source of all the slasher flicks at the farm, never required Mom to offer him a reassuring explanation or Dad to shine a flashlight under his bed before he could fall asleep. What was it about me? Although the youngest, I was significantly bigger than Jimmy. It didn’t make any sense. When asked, my mother would always answer with the best of intentions, blaming my hypersensitive imagination, saying it was just “so big” that it made it easy for me to get scared. “You’re the creative one, like me,” she would say with a wink. “Remember, Iain, a vivid imagination is a blessing.”