Please Proceed to the Nearest Exit

by Jessica Raya

  “You’re not too bad yourself.”

  We smiled at the ground and drank our pop.

  Another plane rumbled over us. Jamie reached up to graze it with his fingertips. “Maybe I can learn to fly planes in the army,” he said.

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  “I’ll be eighteen next month.”

  “You’re joking, right? Nobody signs up.” It wasn’t true, but it should’ve been.

  “Maybe I want to protect my country.”

  “Protect it from what? We shouldn’t even be over there.”

  “What am I doing here that’s so great? Moving rocks and stacking bricks? Those pilots save people. They risk their lives. Maybe I’ll get a medal or something.”

  “Maybe you’ll get killed.”

  Jamie shrugged and took another toke.

  The gas station guy was making a lot of noise inside. It sounded like he was tearing down the walls in there. It sounded like bombs going off. I stuck my hands in my pockets and found the button Mom had made me. World’s Greatest Kid. I gave it to Jamie.

  “What’s this for?” he said.

  “Just don’t go to Vietnam,” I said and went home. I probably didn’t deserve my own old person anyway.

  17

  In January 1965, on a highway outside a town in British Columbia, a small avalanche forced four drivers to stop their cars. They idled a few minutes, deciding whether they should turn around. It could be they’d never heard of fault lines and shear zones, that the rubble on the asphalt was just something between them and home. While they thought about the time they were losing sitting there doing nothing, a second avalanche triggered a landslide. A hundred million tons of earth crashed down, enough to displace all the water in the lake below and strip the surrounding forest bare. Those four people died, of course. Two of them were never found. Their bodies are still there, buried under the rubble because they couldn’t decide which way to go.

  This was the only disaster story my mom ever told me. She said that my grandmother had called from Alberta to tell her about it. It was the only time she could remember hearing her mother cry. It was the largest landslide recorded in Canada. It’s known as the Hope Slide. I always thought that meant something, that it was some kind of commentary on the nature of life, but it wasn’t. Hope is just the name of the town.

  —

  I was discovering several benefits to not being friends with Carol Closter. One of them was sleeping in on Sundays and not worrying if I was damning my soul to hell for all eternity. I had done bad things that nobody cared much about and well-meaning things that hurt people. It seemed to me that we’d all be a lot safer if I just stayed in bed. I was contemplating the feasibility of doing so for the rest of the day when Mom knocked on my door. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “You’ve got to come outside.”

  We stood on the front step with our hands over our mouths and noses, trying not to breathe too deeply. The wildfire had spread north to the valley on the other side of the hills. From there, the gentlest wind carried the ash to Golden. Everything was soft and muted, coated in a fine grey snow. We stood on the step watching it fall. It would have been beautiful if you didn’t know what it was.

  Surfaces were dusted, swept, mopped, and covered. Rugs and crocheted wall hangings were beaten and put away. All schools and most businesses were closed for two days. But you couldn’t escape the ash any more than you could your own senses. On the news they were telling everyone to stay inside, warnings that carried about as much weight in Golden as water restrictions. Our neighbours were outside at all hours, hosing down their cars and driveways. Sprinklers were spitting on every lawn but ours.

  “Where is their sense of civic duty?” Mom said. “We’re in a drought.”

  “It’s always a drought,” I said. “We live in a desert.”

  Mom shook her head. “This is exactly what’s wrong with this country. Nobody wants to deal with reality. Nobody wants to see what’s really going on. It’s always easier to close your eyes.”

  “It keeps the ash out,” I said, wiping mine with my sleeve.

  “George says apathy is the death of democracy. George says doing nothing is the most dangerous thing we can do.” Mom was helping organize the reception for the senator’s visit to Golden. She’d spoken to one of his personal assistants on the phone, so now it was George says this and George thinks that. It reminded me of the way she used to speak for my dad, the other deaf-mute in our lives.

  “George says people would care more if they participated in the political process.” She looked at the Cardboard George on our front lawn as if he might have something to add. It was a new Cardboard George. There were a dozen more like it in the foyer. Every night, somebody stole the sign from the lawn. Every morning, Mom got the dented can of tomatoes out of the pantry and pounded another George into the grass. It seemed to me that everyone on our block was participating in the political process just fine.

  Ash swirled prettily in the runoff around Mrs. Houston’s slippered feet as she hosed off the lime tree in front of her house. Behind her, the lime leaves dripped, impossibly green and glossy against all that grey sky. Grey water streamed down the sidewalk and into our driveway. We followed it with our eyes. “We can’t hose our problems away,” Mom said. The Buick’s windshield was thick with ash. We couldn’t drive away from them either. When Mrs. Houston was done with her tree, she dragged her hose across our lawn. “You’re welcome to it, Elaine. I have another one out back.” Mrs. Houston got started on her azaleas. Mom looked down at the hose coiled sinisterly in her arms.

  “I give up,” she said.

  “Promises, promises,” I said.

  —

  When school reopened, hand-painted banners announcing Miss Blumberg’s Pageant of Ideas! hung on every wall. A day later, someone tore them all down. The day after that, more went up. “They won’t silence us this time,” Missy Carter said, storming the hall with a roll of newsprint under one arm, thrusting a handful of paintbrushes in the air.

  Mr. Galpin, suddenly beside me, asked me to step into his office for a moment.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said, hovering in his doorway. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I smelled booze.

  “What didn’t you do?”

  I tipped my head back toward the hall. “Participate in the dialogue.”

  “Oh that.” He scratched at his neck under his collar. His unattended stubble had become a patchy beard. “I’ll leave that to the poster police.”

  Mr. Galpin settled behind his desk and motioned for me to sit. “I wanted to speak to you about Miss Closter, actually. She’s missed a bit of school.”

  “It’s probably the ash,” I said. “Her asthma’s pretty bad. She’s allergic to the world, basically.” Mr. Galpin nodded slowly. I didn’t actually know why Carol wasn’t at school. The truth was, I hadn’t even noticed. I hadn’t torn down Missy’s posters, so I assumed she had.

  “Well, let’s hope that’s all it is,” he said. “I wouldn’t want her to fall too far behind. Junior year can be a tough nut. It’s normal to feel overwhelmed, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.” I didn’t know how much further Carol would fall behind seeing as she rarely went to class to begin with, but Mr. Galpin seemed pretty worried.

  “If you think of anything she might be having trouble with, if there’s anything I could do—well, I’d like her to know that she has a friend.”

  “Okay,” I said and stood up to go. But Mr. Galpin leaned back in his chair and kept talking. I figured he didn’t have anywhere better to be either.

  “I suppose this business with the posters is to be expected,” he said. “Some people aren’t happy with the idea. I can’t say it’s the sort of thing I generally lean toward—better to let sleeping dogs lie, I’ve found. But some parents have voiced their support. And parents, let me assure you, do not voice their support. What do you think about it?”

  “I think you have a really hard job,” I
said.

  He smiled a little. “Harder than some, not as hard as most. But I think you’re right. There might not be any clear answers here, which is more often the case than not, I’m afraid.”

  He scratched his neck. There was that smell again. My dad had smelled the same way on Sunday mornings sometimes. I hated that smell. Even more, I hated to think of Mr. Galpin drinking alone in his empty house.

  “Why isn’t there?” I said. “I mean, there’s an answer key in the back of my math book. Why isn’t there an answer key for stuff we actually need to know?”

  “That’s a very good question. I suppose some would say the Bible is a sort of answer key.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Sure.”

  “I like to think of myself as a man of science, Miss Fisher, but I don’t think it precludes me from believing there’s something out there that we can’t yet see or understand. Believing is one of man’s basic needs. It’s a form of hope. Even science requires hope. We don’t get far in this life without it.”

  “Maybe it depends on what you believe in,” I said.

  He frowned a little. “And what do you believe in, Miss Fisher?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said and stood to go again. “The jury’s still out.”

  He scratched his neck again, then loosened his tie. “Do you know about the canaries in the coal mines?” he said.

  “Yeah, sure.” My dad had told me about how after an explosion or fire, miners took those delicate birds down into the mines with them. Canaries are highly sensitive to toxic gases. If they showed any sign of distress, it was back up to the surface, pronto. “They use them to tell if there’s gas.”

  “Correct. The interesting thing is, most people assume the birds die from the gas. I suppose sometimes they do, that’s true, but the miners don’t want them to. The miners have those birds for years, you see. They’re like pets. They love those canaries. I think that’s why it works. They’re both looking out for each other, you see—man and bird.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. My dad never told me that part of the story.

  “Most people don’t.” Mr. Galpin yanked at his tie until it hung loosely around his neck, a ready noose.

  I took my chance and moved to the door.

  “You know, perhaps you should,” Mr. Galpin said as I turned the doorknob.

  “Sorry?”

  He leaned back a little more in his chair and shut his eyes. “Participate in the dialogue, Miss Fisher. Perhaps you should.”

  —

  I sat at the back of the auditorium that Thursday, wondering what the hell I was doing there. Most of the kids around me looked like they were thinking the same thing. Posters or not, Rona Blumberg had packed the place with the promise of extra credit to any of her students who participated. It said so on the flyers Missy had handed out. Students for Social Harmony Through Bribery.

  Miss Blumberg was trying to get a brainstorm going. “Expand your minds,” she told us, smiling under her blue beret. “The sky’s the limit—within reason, of course. Our goal is to represent the full spectrum of voices. We don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. Every point of view is valid and valuable. There is no such thing as a bad idea in this room!”

  “What about that beret?” someone cracked.

  “If you’re here, you keep it positive, okay? There’s no extra credit for negativity.”

  A hand shot up near the front. “How about lip-syncing a folk song?”

  “That’s great. I love that. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. What are you thinking—Bob Dylan? Joan Baez?”

  Kids called out their favourite songs. Miss Blumberg nodded encouragingly while Missy wrote them down on a clipboard. I watched the side door, half expecting Carol to bust through it any minute, pocket Bible in hand, shouting scripture and calling everyone communists. This was exactly the kind of thing she loved to hate.

  “We could do a skit,” Joyce Peyton said.

  “Okay,” Miss Blumberg said. “I like that. That’s good. A skit about what?”

  “Freedom?”

  “Okay…I think we’re getting there…”

  “Choices? The freedom to make your own choices and be yourself?”

  “Choices. Yes, okay, choices. Good. That’s the direction we want to go.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “What’s that?” Miss Blumberg said, squinting to find the source of disruption.

  “I was asking what that means—choices.”

  “Choices. Freedom. Free will. Can you hear me back there? Maybe you could move up a little closer. Don’t be shy.”

  “What if you don’t have a choice?” I said.

  “We all have choices,” Joyce said, turning around in her seat. When she saw me, her eyes narrowed. “This is America, in case you forgot.”

  “That’s right,” Miss Blumberg said. “That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’re talking about. Choices. Perspectives. Great. Okay, we’ve got a folk song, a skit—what else? Let’s keep those creative juices flowing. I want to hear from everyone.”

  “What’s so great about having choices?” I said. “Maybe you have a million choices, but that’s just a million chances to make the wrong choice. One wrong choice can ruin everything. So you can choose to stay in your car or turn around and drive the other way, but either way, you could still get buried under all that dirt.”

  Everyone was looking at me. I had gone to school with these people my whole life and I still didn’t recognize any of their faces.

  Miss Blumberg squinted in my direction. “Who is that?”

  “Pyro freak!” Joyce shouted as the auditorium door slammed behind me.

  I had no idea where I was going. I thought about heading to the library to look up coal mining and see if what Mr. Galpin said was true, or maybe I’d bury myself under a set of encyclopedias and wait for the end of time. As I rounded the corner, there was Melanie, struggling with one of Missy’s newly hung banners. It was still wet and stapled in a million places. There was paint all over her hands and clothes. I didn’t know why she wanted it down, but I knew why I did. I walked over and grabbed a corner. The banner released and crumpled to the floor. We stood staring at it.

  “Have you noticed how nobody around here ever says what they mean?” she said. “We’re all hypocrites.”

  “Not all of us.”

  Melanie nodded. “Would you tell her I’m sorry? For last year? Freak or not, nobody deserves that.”

  “You could tell her yourself.”

  “But I won’t,” she said, wiping her hands on her sweatshirt, beautiful streaks of blue, red, and green. “See what I mean? Hypocrites.”

  I wrestled the paper noisily into a ball nearly as big as I was. Then Melanie went one way, and I went another, through a door that led, among other places, to the furnace room.

  —

  I walked to the gas station but it wasn’t there anymore. It was just a hole in the ground where a gas station used to be.

  Jamie’s car was parked on the street. He was sitting behind the wheel, staring at the hole as if he’d lost his best friend down it. I dropped to my knees in front of the Pinto. “God damn you,” I said, beating the ground. “God damn you all to hell.”

  Jamie laughed. I got up and walked over to him. I was covered in ash. My throat was dry with it.

  “Aren’t you working today?”

  “I quit. Today was my last day.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Can we drive somewhere? I don’t care where.”

  He leaned across the passenger seat and pushed open the door. As I slid in, I saw the button I gave him stuck into the dash.

  Ash had collected on the sides of the road like snowdrifts. We kept the windows rolled up to keep out what we could. Jamie turned the radio on, then off again. We cruised by the new golf course being built into the hills, and Jamie surprised me by knowing something about skid-steers and backhoes. We saw the gap left by the old b
ridge they’d finally blown up to make room for a new one. “That soil won’t hold anything,” he said. “They might as well backfill it and call it a day.” We whipped past the stunted, shuddering palm trees out to the Joshua fields where the old-man branches shook their gnarled fists at the sky. When we reached the town limits, Jamie pulled onto the shoulder and parked between the two signs. One welcomed us to Golden. The other thanked us for visiting. As with most things, what you saw depended on which side you were already on.

  There was nothing around but asphalt and road cut, that endless wall of red rock that ran alongside the highway where it sliced through the hills. Geologists drove up from the city sometimes to read its sacred layers. You’d see them standing by the side of the road in orange vests, gazing lovingly at their core samples. But that day it was just me and Jamie.

  On the other side of the highway, Golden spread out like a monopoly board. It was about as good as views got in a town with a six-storey height restriction. We sat on the hood of the Pinto and pointed out things we recognized. You could almost make out our school and the hospital, but not individual houses, not anything you’d want to call home. In the distance, the wildfire smoke caught in the trees like hair on a brush. I felt bad knowing that somewhere out there was an old person with knots in her hair.

  “The view’s better when it’s dark,” Jamie said.

  “It’s nice now,” I said, wondering who he brought there at night.

  He took a joint out of his jacket and got it going. I stared at the glowing tip, a tiny wild fire.

  “I want to try it,” I said, taking the joint and holding it like a cigarette.

  Jamie laughed. “Maybe don’t inhale.”

  I inhaled anyway. It felt like somebody was scraping my throat with a melon baller. When I was done coughing, I took another drag. Maybe everything hurts the first time.

  We passed the joint back and forth, not talking. Every couple of minutes a car drove by, coated with ash, windshield streaked with wiper fluid.