Oh and I saw ... what was her name? She had a big hit in the ’80s.
The concert was packed. You know, that song: (sings) “We ...” No. (sings) “You ...” Whatever. And twenty-five bucks to get in. And back then. Oh well what’s twenty-five bucks today. Nothing to die over.
Note: the price “twenty-five bucks” recurs through the piece. This number should be the highest ticket price the audience has paid to see Cul-de-sac.
No, in terms of “cultural events” my “entertainment dollar” was more spent at a little place called The Drive Shaft. It was an “alternative space,” which was a phrase they developed in the ’90s to replace “seedy dive.” But it was “home.”
(To himself: remaking quotation gesture with his fingers) Stop that.
I do that too much. It kind of takes over. Gets into “everything.” A simple greeting becomes Hi “how are you?” Oh “Fine.” Stop it! It’s on my list. Was.
No but The Drive Shaft could be interesting. Especially on Sunday nights they used to have these variety shows with local ... (He can’t help himself, he makes the gesture) “talent.”
You know, drag queens, S and M fashion shows, the occasional dancer.
Which brings me to my story. Which is a little on the embarrassing side. But what the heck. It is my story. Of course there are people who say there’s only one story and everything else is a variation. You know variations like: a man against the world, a young girl comes of age, a lonely soul loses his cat, two neighbours fight about a property line, a young nobleman is accidentally raised by a band of soft-hearted orphan pirates. Just variations on: the hero and the journey and the hero has to say yes to the journey because there’s no journey if the hero says “nooooooo”
(cough). And those same people also say it’s not about the story anyway, it’s really about the purpose of the story. And if that were true and you were to ask me, I’d have to say the purpose of the story was something to do with something about the potential for, the desire to, believe in, the possibility of, transformation. Transformation.
You know what is interesting? I lived in this neighbourhood for fifteen years as a person and I had more impact in my last five minutes as a sound.
Thunder—light/sound shift.
2:01 AM. Sunday night. It’s raining. It had been a beautiful spring Sunday with summer just coming into view—eager to spread her lazy smile across the well-kept lawns and budding gardens of the neighbourhood. But now it’s night and now it’s raining. The street is still. The Bickerson house is dark—but behind the open bedroom window he lies calmly sleepless—jousting with memory as he does most nights.
Across the street the Walshes are awake. Joy and Eddy. Eddy is upstairs pretending to be asleep in anticipation of Joy coming up to bed. Joy is downstairs in the den hoping the scary movie will end, desperate to get upstairs to Eddy, but not being able to turn off the movie until she finds out who did it.
The nicest house is bright—Samuel and Virginia. Samuel has risen and gone downstairs in search of the last leftover portion of chocolate pudding. Virginia is upstairs in her office grading papers, wishing she were working on her memoirs, kicking herself for having eaten the last of the last leftover portion of chocolate pudding.
The Saeeds are away for the weekend. Their house is dark but the radio is left on as a tepid security measure against faint-hearted thieves.
The empty house is empty still—but apparently a young couple with children has made an offer and everyone is waiting for the bank.
My house—we’ll get to that later.
The Turner house. Ken Turner is asleep on top of the covers, his glasses still on, dossiers for tomorrow’s court case spread open across his lap. And in her basement bedroom—her fortress of defiance—his daughter Madison lies still but fully awake. The rain picks up. Madison counts the drops as they plip and plop from the leaky eavestrough onto the empty can of catfood outside her basement bedroom window and thinks about her novel. She’s been working on her novel since she was eleven. She’s thirteen now. Her novel is called The Balsawood Astronaut. Every night it would come to her in her dreams and every morning she would diligently write the chapter in her journal. That all ended after Christmas when her journal was stolen. It didn’t really matter anyway since her plan had been to finish the novel and burn the journal. Now she just leaves the chapters in her dreams. The rain slows down. Between the drops Madison chants “The balsawood astronaut ... the balsawood astronaut ... the balsawood astronaut ...” In hopes that the words would become sounds which would envelop her in sleep and into another adventure. And it begins to work: just as the balsawood astronaut is strapped into his seat and the rocket is about to be launched for his first trip into space—his mission to Jupiter— and all systems are go and the engines fire ... she hears it.
A long kind of low kind of strange kind of moan kind of sound. It seems to travel along the ground and into her basement bedroom window, along the concrete wall beside her desk where the lamp is off but still warm from where she was studying for her math test, along the wall behind her bed and out the window on the other side of her basement bedroom. The sound changes now—it rakes slightly up and bounces off the empty house, and into the tree in the front yard, moving through the wet branches gaining a kind of slippery momentum, leaping across the street and landing on the Walshes’ roof, slithering down the shingles, and seeping ... seeping ... seeping ... seeping ... through the siding. It’s 2:02 AM.
JOY
(to audience) Excuse me.
Light shift.
Excuse me. Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt but it was 1:30. I remember. I remember I remember because I remember hearing the sound and turning over in bed and looking at the clock radio as soon as I heard it. It was 1:30.
EDDY
It wasn’t 1:30 Joy, you weren’t even in bed at 1:30.
JOY
Shut up Eddy I was so.
EDDY
You were not, you were still downstairs watching the end of that stupid movie you made me rent.
JOY
I didn’t make you rent it.
EDDY
You did so, you told me to rent something scary, I don’t like scary movies.
JOY
Well neither do I.
EDDY
Then why did you tell me to rent something scary?
JOY
Oh I don’t know maybe I was just remembering back to when we used to watch scary movies and I’d get scared and you’d give me a little comfort. Forgive me if I was just trying to get a little contact.
EDDY
Shut up.
JOY
Well it’s true. (to audience) Ever since he quit smoking. I mean if it’s going to mean a bit of contact for me I say just smoke.
EDDY
Oh that’s helpful. Thanks a lot for your support. It’s not f’ing easy.
JOY
Oh I know I know I know all about it. Anyways. The interesting thing was—when I heard the sound—without even knowing I knew it was coming from Leonard’s.
EDDY
Leonard was the fag across the street.
JOY
Eddy!
EDDY
What?
JOY
You can’t call him that.
EDDY
Why not? He called himself that.
JOY
But you can’t say it unless you are it. You have to be it to say it. If you’re not it and you say it it’s degrading. You can’t say it unless you are it. Unless you are it. Maybe that’s why I’m not getting any contact.
EDDY
Shut up.
JOY
Well I’m not.
EDDY
Like they need that information. What are you going to tell them next, how big my dick is?
JOY
(indicates small) Eddy I wouldn’t.
EDDY
What?
JOY
Nothing nothing. Anyways, the thing is, Leonard was
a really good neighbour. Not a bit of bother at all.
EDDY
Oh come on, he was a trouble-maker.
JOY
He was not.
EDDY
He was so. He made me cancel the street hockey tournament. I had fifteen fellas from work signed up.
JOY
Oh for God’s sake Eddy, street hockey tournament, it was just an excuse for a big booze up. (to audience) He put his back out anyway.
EDDY
He wouldn’t let us barbecue!
JOY
Well not in the front yard Eddy! Who barbecues in the front yard? What kind of neighbourhood would it be if everybody was out barbecuing in the front yard! You don’t barbecue in the front yard. That’s what back yards are for. (to the audience) He’s a savage.
EDDY
Whatever.
JOY
(to EDDY) He wasn’t such a trouble-maker when he was paying for the cocktails though was he? (to audience) Leonard used to have us over some weekends in the summer for cocktails. You never brought a bottle.
EDDY
Whatever.
JOY
Whatever whatever. And what a beautiful place. The stuff he had. Oh my God. And the books, my dear you wouldn’t believe the books. A dozen shelves just books, not a knick-knack on 'em. And all these beautiful beautiful masks from Mexico with all this beautiful beautiful beadwork—and hand-painted—beautiful. Oh God I’d love to get to Mexico. (a look to EDDY) Yes well. Oh what a place, put together in the most exquisite way like out of a magazine. Leonard was a very sensitive soul.
EDDY
You think so?
JOY
What?
EDDY
Well not if you believe what you read in the paper.
JOY
Oh for God’s sake Eddy.
EDDY
Well that’s what it said in the paper, (to audience) The go on over there I guess it was scandalous. The sex and the drugs. All sorts of unsavoury types in and out of there day and night. Computer full of porn.
JOY
Oh Eddy shut up.
EDDY
That’s what it said in the paper.
JOY
All you need to say something in the paper is a big mouth and some ink.
EDDY
You don’t want to be talking to us anyway. We hardly knew him. Talk to the ones next door.
JOY
Virginia and Samuel.
EDDY
“Samuel.”
JOY
What?
EDDY
“Samuel” why do we have to call him Samuel, what’s wrong with Sam.
JOY
His name is Samuel, if he wants to be called Samuel call him Samuel, it’s his name.
EDDY
And “Virginia” she’s just as bad. One time I called her Ginny you would have thought I stuck my hand up her skirt.
JOY
Eddy! Savage. They’re nice. A little fancy for us but nice. They always have the Christmas party every year for the neighbourhood.
EDDY
Who cares.
JOY
Eddy, shut up. But anyways the long and the short of it is that Leonard was a very good person. Period. I don’t know why everybody’s getting all caught up in this sex business. There’s nothing wrong with sex. I like sex. My mother liked sex.
EDDY
Oh my God like I got to listen to this.
JOY
Maybe what you really need Eddy is to talk about it.
EDDY
What?
JOY
They got commercials on TV now for it and everything.
EDDY
(to audience) Listen to what I gotta put up with. That’s the go on. You wouldn’t believe last year at Thanksgiving, her and her mother sitting at the dinner table talking about sex like it was the weather, like it was Current Affairs.
JOY
Well it is Current Affairs for some people Eddy, not like you Ancient History.
EDDY
Shut up I’m hungry.
JOY
So what?
EDDY
I’m just saying I’m hungry.
JOY
Then make yourself a sandwich.
EDDY
All right I will.
JOY
All right then do.
EDDY
All right then fine.
JOY
All right then fine.
EDDY
All right goodbye.
JOY
All right goodbye.
EDDY
(to audience) Good luck.
JOY
Shut up. Good God. He’s exhausting. Anyways. I like sex. My mother liked sex. There’s nothing wrong with sex. And I don’t just mean religiously and all that with one person for your whole life. No. I played around a bit before I met Eddy. Why not. And I’m not going to say I didn’t have a tingle or two when we moved in here and I saw Samuel next door. God forgive me. Not that I would though—Eddy’s enough for me—if he’d ever get around to being enough again—I settle for less than “enough”—I’d settle for “a little”—I’d settle for “some.” And don’t take Eddy the wrong way. He comes off like a bit of an arsehole but that’s just when there’s people around. He’s fine when he’s alone. And him and Leonard got along good. Oh yeah one time Eddy went over and fixed Leonard’s washer, they were there all afternoon talking, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes.
I don’t believe what they put in the papers. Let them have their gossip and their taudry talk I won’t have any part of it. Live and let live. People get mixed up. It happens. And the world today. You look at the young people. It’s all sex and drugs and drugs and sex ... I mean it was in my day too. And when our daughter Trisha was in high school I’d find the odd thing lying around. I’d have a little puff. Don’t tell Eddy for God’s sake he’d have me in a rehab. But now it’s all crazy. Especially the sex. The kids today. Going home from school, instead of going home they’re sneaking off to somebody or other’s basement where the parents are split up or working and they’re down there popping pills and having group sex when they should be smoking cigarettes and heavy petting. There’s nobody to say what’s what. There’s no good examples. And in the case of what happened to Leonard ... Well it must be hard for two men, with a man and a woman there’s the woman there to sort of balance things out, for two men it must be so hard ... (laughs) Well that’s it, it’s always hard for the men— but for Eddy, (laughs) Oh I shouldn’t laugh. It must be difficult. But with Leonard I don’t think it had anything to do with sex at all. I think he was just lonely. People get lonely God knows. Anyways.
EDDY
Are you still talking about sex.
JOY
I thought you were making yourself a sandwich.
EDDY
I did.
JOY
And you ate it?
EDDY
Yeah.
JOY
That fast.
EDDY
What?
JOY
No wonder you’re always complaining you got indigestion. And you never made me one?
EDDY
You didn’t say you wanted one.
JOY
Fine fine.
EDDY
You want me to make you a sandwich? (burps) I’ll make you a sandwich.
JOY
No fine fine. I shouldn’t eat this late anyways.
EDDY
Anyways.
JOY
Anyways.
EDDY
I remember the sound. And that it was Sunday night.
JOY
It was Monday morning.
EDDY
It’s not morning if you haven’t gone to bed yet.
JOY
No.
EDDY
And you were still up watching the end of that foolish movie.
JOY
Maybe. I guess it was closer to t
wo.
EDDY
2:02.
JOY
I remember the sound.
Light shift.
LEONARD
Island people. How’s that for sophisticated. Make me look pretty oh la la. And she did love to talk about sex. It was her favourite topic of discussion. Followed closely by her dream of going to (pronounced phonetically:) “Porta Vallarta.” I didn’t bother to correct her though. So I just called it Porta Vallarta too. Which when I think of it was probably the highlight of my generosity as a neighbour. Oh I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Hey maybe that’s Eddy’s problem he’s hard on himself. And he never fixed my washer thank you very much. Oh he came over and he smoked all my cigarettes and drank all my coffee and regaled me with tales of his high school exploits—he left and the washer still didn’t work. Five hundred dollars later it was a loose wire—ah but what does he know about loose wires he’s a plumber. He was right about the time though, 2:02 and fifty-eight, fifty-nine, 2:03.
Thunder—light shift.
And the sound continues through the bedroom, down the stairs, into the den, mixing in with sound of the scary movie, and out under the back door into the rain which is helped along now by an easterly wind. You’d think that such a sound, such a low strange sound such as this, might get lost in the rain—splintered in the drops. But this is not the case. It rides the wind through the rain, sweeping around the still bright house of Samuel and Virginia and on to the dark house at the end of the street and in through the open window. Open even in the rain. The sound pooling there on the sill of the open window. Pooling with the rain. On the sill of the open window.
BICK
2:03. I was up. Not up but awake. It made me think of the cat. The sound. I heard it because I had the window open. I still do. Sleep. With the window open. It wasn’t me though. I never did like it. Sleeping. With the window open. That was her. Doreen. She used to. Like to. Sleep. With the window open. I never did. I’d have to get up so early. So I’d be in bed first. Close the window. Go to bed. Fall asleep. She’d come up. Doreen. Open up the window. Go to bed. Fall asleep. I’d wake up. Freezing. Get up. Close the window. Go to bed. Fall asleep. She’d wake up. Get up. Open the window. Back to bed. Fast asleep. I’d wake up. Freezing. Close the window. Open the window close the window open the window. Back and forth back and forth just like that the whole night through. Went on like that. I don’t know. Years. Eventually though I just gave up. It was my feet mainly. Would get cold. So I just took to sleeping in socks. Let her have her open window. I did get back at her though. From time to time. I’d leave the seat up on purpose. Never did admit it was on purpose. She suspected but never did admit she did. I think she enjoyed it. The tit for tat. Bit of a scrapper she was. Doreen. Good bit of a sense of humour too. Gone now what? I don’t know. Years. Funny thing is. Don’t have to anymore but still do. Sleep with the window open. Funny. She’d enjoy that.
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