“And then, of course, there was ‘Pee-Wee’s Big Mistake.’” He laughed and shook his head. “That,” he said, “was my real masterpiece! The original title was ‘If Pee-Wee Ran Things.’ It was a smart, kind of cheeky thing about civic duty and infrastructure and things like that and I got a big grant for it. But then—between the conception and the realization—I had a breakdown … Isn’t that a great word?”
“Yeah. Like a car,” said Mason. “So what happened to Pee-Wee?”
“Things got confusing …” He looked down at the table. “I set up these big speakers right outside the courthouse that blasted ‘Right on for the Darkness’ over and over—you know, Curtis Mayfield?”
Mason nodded.
“I had these floodlights that strobed in time with the music and a bunch of homeless people wrapping city hall in cellophane. And I can’t really remember why now, but I painted a bunch of stop signs blue. It was a messy night. There was like three million dollars in accident claims.” He sipped his beer. “Eleven injuries.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah. That’s when I started teaching. But you know what?” He looked up at Mason, a glistening kind of hope in his eyes.
“What?” said Mason.
“In some ways, those failures—the novel, the viaduct—they’re the best things that ever happened to me.”
Mason waited.
“They’re pure inspiration!” he said. “The kind that turns art into life! Which brings us to here!” He held up his beer as if to make a toast. “To our collaboration!”
Mason lifted his drink, warily. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll do better than write The Ghosts of Gauguin! He crashed his beer into Mason’s. “I’m going to live the fucking book!”
29. I prefer solitary exercise to team sports.
30. Telling the truth is often foolish.
THE BOOK OF SOBRIETY
The man in the black helmet is coming.
He is riding out of the ashen fog, speeding straight for Circe.
His motorcycle is black. And so is her horse.
Her sword is glistening silver, soaring in the air above her head.
Just before they collide, the man in the black helmet pulls out a glowing red sabre. And now there’s fear in Circe’s eyes—but it is too late….
The crash is ferocious. Sparks like fireworks, like strobe lights, a battlestar exploding. The sabre cuts through Circe’s belly, and as it does her face changes—from fear to knowing—from Circe to Sissy to Sarah.
And as it does, her sword strikes his helmet. His visor cracks.
And then I wake up.
38
“Who is Sarah?”
“A girl I knew.”
“Do you want to tell me about her?”
“Not really?”
“What about Circe?”
“Same.”
“She’s the same as Sarah—or you don’t want to tell me about her?”
“That second one.”
“What about Sissy?”
“She’s the same as Circe.”
“Uh …”
“I mean she’s the same person.”
“You sure about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are a lot of amorphous identities going on here.”
Mason said nothing.
“Is she the friend who killed herself?”
Mason said nothing.
“What about the man on the motorcycle?”
“The man in the black helmet.”
“Have you dreamt of him before?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does he ever have a face?”
“I’m sure he has one. Under the helmet, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean I know who he is.”
“You do?”
“Not really his identity—but I met him once.”
“When was this?”
“I was ten.”
“Could you write about that?”
“I guess I could try.”
31. The past does not affect me much.
32. It hurts behind my eyes when I pee.
39
Between assisting a suicide and collaborating on a performance art piece (as Soon was describing his self-serving scam), Mason preferred the latter: less money up front, but easier on the soul.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised him, considering Soon’s previous endeavours, that aspects of the caper seemed less than airtight. The original plan had involved upstaging “The Saving Grace.” Mason had to convince Soon that faking a suicide off the Bloor Street Viaduct was impractical, if not impossible. The Don Valley was pretty much devoid of water, so when bodies fell they were quickly found, often stuck in the middle of a windshield. They needed a bodyless suicide—a location that could swallow a corpse.
Still, it seemed difficult for Soon to put aside his bitterness. And so they agreed to correspond “the event” with the unveiling of the Saving Grace, which was supposed to take place in early July. They’d chosen a new location: the Old Jackson Bridge, fifty miles northeast of Toronto. It was secluded and high enough, spanning tumultuous waters.
And the new plan was this: Soon would set up a video camera on the bridge and film himself delivering his final lesson, entitled “Drowning in the Presence of Art,” written by the two of them together. Soon would be wearing a long coat (colour and style as yet undetermined) and underneath it, a harness attached to a bungee cord (itself attached to the underside of the bridge). The last line still echoing, he’d turn and make the leap …
Then Soon would disappear, his legacy left in the hands of Mason. Mason would play a character based on the baser parts of himself—a dishevelled drifter who thinks he’s a writer, a directionless lover of art. Soon had already enrolled him in the summer class he taught. It would be Mason’s job (apart from helping with the jump) to make sure the public put it all together: misunderstood genius, unappreciated artist, a saviour who’d come in second.
He’d have the video in his possession—Soon having placed a last-minute call to his favourite student—and he’d put it out there for all to see. No matter how Mason tried to keep Soon focused on the money (Soon had promised him a cut of the windfall), the idea and the spectacle of the thing continued to distract him. He saw “Drowning in the Presence of Art” as the perfect showcase for his creativity and knowledge—a public phantasmagoria of art, death, art history and the death of public culture.
“But they won’t know it’s Art.”
“But I will,” said Soon. “And what if one day they find out the truth?”
Mason didn’t love that scenario. But compared to some of the things he’d done, the thought of owning up to Soon’s devious art project didn’t seem so bad. In the meantime, they both had work to do. They had to write the letter Soon would recite, and Soon had to create the art that would eventually be sold on eBay. He envisioned a series of paintings that no informed collector could resist. The maudlin taste of prophecy would simply overwhelm them.
In addition to attending Soon’s summer classes, Mason had a wake to plan.
“In the Wake of Sahala” would embody the sensibility of the moment. It would be an outpouring of grief and artistic recognition—without a body to mourn—staged in a public space. Ideally, it would feel more like birth than death, the first spark of a movement: Soonism. The mourners would be known as Soonies, though Mason preferred Saholes. He knew where to find a bunch of those.
40
Mason spent his nights and mornings in the Cave, playing poker and hanging out with Willy whenever her friend Bethany ditched her. He hated Bethany. She was a snarky, nasty, mean-eyed bitch with stringy hair pulled back in a pink scrunchy. She treated Willy like a burden. Until someone got too close that is—and then Willy was her “precious.” Mason called her Gollum.
Without Bethany, Willy couldn’t move. She couldn’t get a drink, go to the bathroom or shoot heroin. Bethany would disappear
then come back hours later, strung out or pissed off—ready to fight whoever had been helping Willy out.
“Sure she’s a bitch, but what am I supposed to do?” Willy said. “She cleans me, feeds me, gets me high … even braids my hair sometimes. Who else is going to do that?”
Mason said nothing. But it wasn’t like Bethany did it for free. Willy’s disability cheque paid for a lot of smack, and a small, subsidized apartment. Then there was the motorized chair Willy used to own. Bethany had sold it when they’d run out of money a few months back.
“Fucking Gollum,” said Mason.
Willy laughed. “It’s not just her,” she said. “I was jonesing, too.”
33. I would rather spend money on shoes than a night out.
34. A major world catastrophe would not affect me much.
During the afternoon Mason slept or hung out in Ho-vee’s. He’d pretty much given up on hotdogs. Then there was the class he was taking: Art and Death 101. He enjoyed it more than he thought he would. Located in the looming Gothic castle in the middle of Spadina Avenue (half of which, it turned out, was allotted to the University of Toronto’s Visual Arts program—the other half to the making of prosthetic eyes), it was a great place to be hung over.
There was something both soothing and invigorating about sitting half-asleep in a darkened room, images of beauty, passion and discord flashing on a screen. And from the darkness Soon’s voice was surprising, uttering the commanding narration of a beautiful nightmare.
It was a crossover course—on the cusp between art history and fine arts. So, while most of it was dedicated to Soon’s slide-show lectures, students in the Fine Arts Department were also required to complete a creative project of their own. At the end of the second week, they began the presentations. A young lady stood in front of the class. She didn’t smile. She didn’t seem nervous. Her bangs were long, her voice thin.
“This is the Ghost Station,” she said. “Other than video and recording equipment, my materials are all found. They are the environment itself—that of Lower Bay Station. It existed as a subway stop for only six months, in 1966. Since then it has been abandoned, as are the tunnels leading in and out of it. The sounds you will hear are at least partially due to the movement of surrounding subway lines, running alongside and above the Ghost Station. The rest is ambient, unknown …”
The lights dimmed and the projector chugged on. For the next five minutes the room became a virtual tunnel, a hollow, haunting projection of echo and shadow, then a sudden flashing—the reflection off an old sign or a mirror. The tunnel stretched on and on, into a black hole, both claustrophobic and limitless. When it was over, Mason approached the young lady.
“How did you find this place?”
“Spooky,” she said, then smiled. And before he could rephrase the question she’d left the room.
35. In my dreams I’m often falling.
36. I like finding shapes in the clouds.
Mason asked Chaz if he could use the Cave to rehearse a performance art piece, using some of the patrons as extras. Chaz looked at him sideways, then shrugged. And so Mason recruited a couple of dozen Saholes—offering fifty bucks each for the rehearsal. The actual performance (date and location to be announced) would earn them another two hundred. He chose carefully among the Cave-dwellers: those who needed money, rarely partook in sunlight (let alone street-level socializing) and never picked up a newspaper.
“First rehearsal’s tomorrow,” said Mason.
Soon looked pleased. “I’d like to be a part of it.”
“Well, we haven’t made the idol yet—so in its absence you could represent that which will represent you in your absence.”
“Perfect,” said Soon. “I’ll work on a costume.”
41
The rehearsal was a fucking disaster.
Mason had told Soon to get there around noon so they could get started when the Cave closed. He had planned to get some rest, but at 10 a.m. he was still playing poker, popping poppers, doing lines. Willy was with him, and for a change he was stacking up chips.
Then Bethany showed up. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and put her hands on the back of Willy’s chair.
“No,” said Willy.
“What?” It came out like a gust of wind. Mason felt her breath on the back of his neck. For a moment all was quiet.
“He’s winning,” said Willy. Mason turned to look at her. She was smiling at him.
“This fucking guy?” said Bethany. “He ain’t winning shit. Not with a pair of threes.”
The table erupted into swearing, players slamming their cards on the table. Mason could see the bouncers across the Cave, busy with something in the bathroom. Chaz was out of sight. “Get the fuck out of here, lady,” said the guy across from Mason.
“That’s what I’m doing,” said Bethany, and she tugged at the wheelchair. Mason grabbed a hold of it too. “She wants to stay,” he said.
“Don’t you speak for her!” said Bethany. Chaz was coming through the crowd now.
“I want to stay,” said Willy.
Bethany still tugged, glaring at Mason. Then, “Fine!” she said. “You take care of her!” She shoved the chair forward.
Willy hit the table—chips, cards and drinks exploding into the air. Chaz grabbed onto Bethany. Mason got a hold of Willy and pulled her away from the mess. Bethany was screaming now, the players were shouting, and the bouncers were crossing the floor.
“Are you okay?” said Mason.
But Willy didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything until Bethany was gone.
Chaz tried to avoid barring people. That was how booze cans got raided—some asshole, sore from being kicked out, went to the cops for revenge. But everyone agreed: wrecking a high-stakes poker game by throwing a handicapped girl at it was definitely a barring offence. But what to do with the game? Three thousand dollars in poker chips scattered across the floor? In the end they were redistributed, but to no one’s satisfaction. Chaz gave the players drinks on the house then agreed to stay open for two extra hours.
While all this was happening, Willy smoked her dope in the bathroom stall, Mason cutting lines on the counter.
“You okay?” he said.
The smoke rose, a thin cut above the door. “You were doing so well.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me. I want to see you win.”
“All right,” he said, and did a line. “Then I guess it’s time I win.” They went back to the table and Willy sat beside him. He huffed and he puffed, and by noon there was fire on the felt.
When Soon saw the Cave he almost fled. But he spotted Mason through the crowd, and charged onward with trepidation, as only a sober, impatient artist in a midday speakeasy could do. Then he just stood there, looking at the gamblers. People started to grumble. Mason was intent on taking this pot down, and didn’t even recognize Soon in a long purple coat of leather and suede, dark eyeliner beneath Buddy Holly glasses, a po’ boy cap and a Fu Manchu. Even for the Cave, Soon was sporting a creepy look.
Mason glanced up. “Play or walk,” he said.
“It’s time for rehearsal,” said the weird purple stranger. Chairs scraped the floor.
“Soon?”
But Soon had begun to sweat. He opened his mouth to speak and the Fu Manchu fell across his mouth. Someone yelled, “Narc!” and then, once again, things got messy.
Mason pulled Soon away from the table.
“Why the hell are you dressed like that?”
“You wanted a representation of my representation!”
“And this is it?”
“And also a disguise—so the Soonies won’t recognize me.”
Mason shook his head like he was trying to get bugs out of his brain.
“I thought about it a lot!” said Soon. “And anyway, you said this place was going to be closed!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Are you on drugs?” said Soon.
“Yes, a lot of th
em. But just relax, okay? I’m going to get you a drink. And then I’ll round up the Saholes.”
“Soonies.”
“Right,” said Mason. “I even made you T-shirts.”
37. To give is a blessing.
38. I’m sure there’s life on other planets.
Just after 2 p.m., Detective Flores descended from street level with two patrolmen. He’d known this place existed and wasn’t going to bother with it. But now there were assault charges pending, laid by an angry girl with a pink scrunchy in her hair.
As he adjusted to the dark, Flores identified an illegal poker game, a non-licensed bar, open use of contraband narcotics and stimulants … but that was all in the background, barely interesting compared to what was going on right in front of him.
Twenty or so people in purple T-shirts, with Soon has already happened on the front and !!! on the back, were chanting, “Sa-ha-la. Sis-boom-bah! Sa-ha-la. Sis-boom-bah!” over and over, though apparently not quite loud enough … For in their midst, standing on the back of an occupied wheelchair, stood a young man (who Flores thought he recognized) bellowing this same chant and waving his arms like a conductor. The rhythm improved and the young man shouted: “Cry! Now everyone start to cry!” The girl in the wheelchair beamed.
Suddenly, above all this, rose the opening verse of “Take My Breath Away” (which Flores definitely recognized from the Top Gun soundtrack). And into the spotlight on the stage came six stumbling men carrying a folding table, on top of which sat a bespectacled swami with a taped-on moustache.
“Sa-ha-la. Sis-boom-bah!” chanted the purple people.
“Cry!” shouted the young man on the back of the wheelchair. “You’re heartbroken! Cry!”
When he finally saw Flores, Mason stopped shouting. The detective appeared to be mouthing something to him—something like, “What the hell, Mason? It’s 2 p.m. on a Wednesday!”
Then there was a crash as Soon Sahala tumbled from the stage.
42
“It could have gone worse,” said Soon.
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