by Alayna Munce
Even before this all started, before he announced he was selling the house, even then the workshop already looked plundered—not plundered by a son’s hobby or a granddaughter’s fancy or an auctioneer’s weary categories, but by the disorder that rises as naturally as weeds or cream when you leave anything be: the hummingbird feeder stuck upside down in an old tobacco tin; a cracked outdoor thermometer, mercury gone; a yellowing page—hand-drawn pictures of tools—torn from Eaton’s catalogues and tacked up. When you pulled at random from the set of little drawers meant for nuts and bolts and nails, sometimes you’d find those things—nuts and bolts and nails—sometimes a nest of old filigreed keys, a greasy tangle of string, shoe tacks in with a flat tin of lozenges.
Beside that, an empty drawer. Beside that, birdseed and hinges.
Below that, a ball bearing and a slip of paper with some words written in a different alphabet.
Just before I have to leave, as he and I are sitting in silence at the table with empty teacups, he starts to sing in Russian, maybe Ukrainian. When he’s finished we sit there for a long time.
It seems incredibly important somehow, but I can’t remember now whether I asked him to translate or whether he just did:
Oh Uncle tell me
is this life all for nothing
Moscow is burning
and the French are all around
Contents of the shed everbodyhadachancetotakea
lookattheshed?welltoughifyadidn’twe’restartinthe
biddin HEYwillyabid20doIhear20 25overhere30
Ihear30dollarabiddollarabiddoIhave35 35for
everythingintheshedIhear40 40 45overherefor45
hey’llyabidwho’llyabid 60! Ihave60 70 70 the shed
is hothotmustbesometreasureintheshedwho’llgimme
75 Ihave75 80 Ihave80dollarswhat’llyabiddollarabid
dollarabidwhat’llyabidnow Ihave80anyoneanyone
dollarabid85 Ihave85 88 88doIhear90 Ihave90 92
92overhere 94 94 sir?100? yessirhey’llyabid
dollarabidwouldyabidnow 100Ihaveonehundrednow
who’llgimme110 toorichforya?
100
100
100
SOLD to number 21 in the back
(got that Mary-Anne?)
1
I stand there weighing one of Grandpa’s old hand planes in my hands, pass my finger over the polished wooden knob on the front, leave behind a line in the dust. That certain kind of dust. Fine and thick and democratic. The kind you only find in old workshops and basements with a particular sort of foundation. The dust of authenticity and neglect.
The dilemma: do I keep the plane because it is beautiful, because it is my grandfather’s, or do I give it to my downstairs neighbour, the woodworker, who says he can always use old tools, although, to be truthful, it’s probably sentimentality on his part too; the new planes with plugs and motors and switches and who-knows-what do a much better job, and so much quicker it’s ridiculous. I put the plane in a box and decide to decide later. In the end, when I get home and my neighbour’s there, on a whim with a wake of regret, I hand it to him and go to bed without washing my hands.
2
I admit, holding the hand plane I considered learning the art of building furniture—doing it the way it once was done. I considered making it all by hand, only hand tools; I considered making that effort. I even asked myself, almost seriously, What precisely makes it old? Where exactly do you draw the line? I cut my finger testing the blade, drew blood and thought, You need metal (the iron age was long ago). But how far to go back? No electricity? Or arbitrary: only tools made, say, before Grandpa sold his tobacco farm in 1961? How do you decide? And how do you explain yourself to those who do it quicker and better with new tools that aren’t even really that expensive at Canadian Tire?
You don’t.
The old art no longer makes sense in this element; it breathes another kind of air, wholly other lungs; it needs life support.
3
But what if you were to preserve the old art because the millennium has turned, and a part of you holds a belief—as firmly as your hand holds the polished hardwood knob on the front of the old plane—a belief that this civilization will someday collapse. There’ll be no electricity. We’ll need the old arts.
Could it be a practical act?
It’s not even a belief, really—more
like a vision.
Of a burning city.
Of burning cities throughout
history. The Fall
of Rome. The Retreat
from Moscow. Troy. A sense
that our city is not immune. A certainty, a
lump in the throat as you walk home passing the East Indian greengrocer, the hardware store, the wig shop that’s been having a going-out-of-business sale for over three years, and the second-hand clothing store where the woman has an accent you can’t place
and circles under her eyes
that you can.
The day of the auction people are already swarming the house when I arrive. They’re everywhere—in the front room, the living room, the bedrooms, the kitchen, the basement, the yard, the shed. There’s a guy all set up selling hot dogs in the workshop. I wander among them, anonymous, aware of the resistance of the screen door spring, of my hand on the railing on the way down to the basement, the too-steep stairs—all familiar, all mine, but no way to assert it, my allegiances so simple, so quiet, so accurate, so inconsequential.
The auctioneer calls out, Watch that step folks, the last one’s a lu-lu.
In the end a small crock with the word Berlin on the bottom of it goes for $195. The brand new gas stove sells for $35 to the young man who bought the house.
“I’m about ready to sell my soul,” says Grandpa.
Stan Felder, auctioneer
A man likes to have a job he’s good at. Simple as that. Being an auctioneer is a calling I always say. Pun intended, of course. The way I see it is you’re there to make it a good time. Amuse the crowd, so to speak. People like to let go. Be swept up, if you know what I’m saying. That’s my job and as I said, I’m good at it. You see you gotta get the crowd going to your rhythm. Box them in and let them loose at the same time. Get ’em all caught up. Wave your arms around and get yourself right up into their faces some of the time. You gotta corner them with the patter and then, when you’re sure you got them really going, once in a while—WHAM—outa nowhere, give ’em silence. Just like that. Silence. Then, calm as could be, Would you bid forty? Silence. Look her right in the eye. Would you bid forty? And she’s got to say yes, she’s got no choice but to nod and then you’re off to the races again before they can even take in what happened. Yessir. You don’t have to be particular with it all, just as long as they know the general range you’re in doesn’t matter one bit if you’re at thirty-two or thirty-four dollars, you just keep sending the numbers up and around till they get the feeling like they gotta keep up. Just give them the gist is what I say to Norm. Cut off the word as soon as they got the idea and onto the next one, run ’em together fast as you can think—and we human beings we can think pretty goddamn fast, let me tell you. Faster than we think we can think. So it’s not about punctuality. You don’t have to be so particular is what I always say to Norm, my nephew. Norm’s trying to learn the patter. He helps me out at a weekend sale every now and then, holding things up for the crowd to see. Likes to picture himself up on the stool with the cane and all eyes on him, but I keep telling him it’s a calling. Norm, I say, you gotta stop being so goddamn serious about it, pardon my French. You gotta have humour. Gotta amuse the crowd. That’s the name of the game. Gotta make the people laugh. Let down their guard. Have a good time. That’s why I always get Bob Cartwright to set up a concession someplace on the property—in the garage if there is one, or the barn, or out on the lawn if it’s a fine day. Pop and foot-longs. Bob always gets onions frying on the grill. Gives people a good feeling to smell that. Makes them feel at home. The regulars always sa
y something if Bob isn’t there with his coffee urn and grill. He’s one of them Kingdom Hall folks. But a good man—never tries to talk a fellow into any religion and I respect that. Well anyway the bottom line is you’ve got to have a way with people. You might say I’m a sort of a leader in the community. Not in the way of a doctor or mayor or minister, but a leader all the same. People tend to get the idea in their heads that auctions are the end of the road if you know what I mean. Death or bankruptcy or what have you, but I always say it doesn’t have to be that way. No sir. An auction is like a party as far as I’m concerned, only better. It’s party, commerce, community meeting and what they call these days a recycling effort—all rolled into one. Now what more could you ask for on a Saturday afternoon, I ask you that. Course there’s the business side of things too. It’s always in the back of my head so to speak that I want to get the best sum I can for the seller as much as I want to get it for my own commission, so it’s not just greedy when I say I know how to work a crowd, by God. Yessirree. It’s a public service as far as I’m concerned. In more ways than one. And it’s a grand old time like I said. No, an auction doesn’t have to be all doom and gloom like some folks would have you believe. Take for instance the one we held last Saturday just on the outskirts of the town of Paris. An old fellow selling off his place cause he can’t take care of it properly anymore, you know the story. The daughter arranged it all with me and said she was going to stay away, didn’t want any part of it. Fair enough I said to her, probably wise. The man himself only came for the end. I don’t generally recommend it that the owners be present. Too many memories. But as it turned out the granddaughter was there the whole time, hanging about. A grown girl. Norm whispers in my ear at the break that she’s wandering around, staring. Norm says he saw her asking some poor fellow if she could buy back something he’d already bought, telling him how she remembered it from when she was a kid. Making everybody feel a little antsy, if you know what I mean. So I come up to her and introduce myself. You’re the granddaughter, aren’t you? I say, I heard you were around. You’re the spitting image of your mother. I’m Stan Felder. Stan? she says, her eyes wandering over my shoulder. That’s my name and you can go on ahead and wear it out all you like, I say, and she smiles. You got a nice property here. Lotsa memories, I say, and her eyes start to tear up you know. So I lean in close and tap her on the nose with the handle of the cane and say, Don’t worry honey—it’s got to be done and it’s the best way to do ’er. Just relax and enjoy the show. And she finally looks me in the eye and shakes my hand when I offer it and after that she wasn’t so bad. Even bought herself a hot dog. You got to have a way with people. Yessiree. Like I said, it’s a calling. Pun intended, of course.
Too damn many sides to the story all the time. Makes me tired. Makes me just want to lie down. Bone-tired, like the saying is. I’m bone-tired these days. Air’s cold if you go out but in this place it doesn’t matter a bit what season it is outdoors—it’s always too goddamn hot in here. Nick came and rigged up a fan on the bedroom ceiling where the light fixture is, so it goes on when you switch on the light. It’s slow enough I can pick out one arm of the thing and follow it around and around and around. Makes me seasick though, so I keep one foot on the floor. One foot warm in the bed, one foot cold on the floor.
After a while I can’t look at the fan anymore so I just turn my head to the side and look past the geraniums out the window. You’d be surprised how much of an afternoon a man can piss away lying on his bed staring out the window, not even at anything, just bare branches and sky.
That Lois King came around the other day, fussing. I’m guessing Ruth asked her to come and check up on me. She thinks I don’t notice her going through my refrigerator throwing things out. Well this time I told her. Gave her a shock. Came up behind her and yes sir I told her. Nothing’s bad in there, it’s all good, I said. Get your meddling hands out of my goddamn food. They’ve all got it in their heads that you can’t save a thing more than twenty-four hours. Got it in their heads I don’t know what I’m about. Well it put her in a flap, that’s for sure. She denied it all over the place. Oh, no, she said, I’m just looking around, just straightening up. Don’t mind me, she said. I just went back and lay down again without saying a word. To let her know I know what’s going on.
She didn’t make any noise out there for must have been near ten minutes. Then she came into the bedroom, me staring at the fan, one foot on the floor as I said. I expected her to fuss some more over me but you’ve got to give her credit because she didn’t. She just looked at the ceiling fan with me for a few minutes with her one hand on her hip there. I glanced at her for a second. Saw she’s shrunk a bit. Used to be taller, I’m sure of it.
After a while she sighed and said, Well, Peter, it’s a hard life.
I let the arm of the fan that I had my eye on go around three more times before I looked at her in the doorway there.
Isn’t it just, Lois. Isn’t it just.
Takealookattheboxfolks whatsit got Norm
holdituphighthere flowered bedsheets bedsheetsand
ballsayarn that’sadandyboxfolks wouldyalookat
thecoloursinthatbox let’sstart’eratadollaronedollar
HEY’llyadbidwho’llyabiddollarabidnow
onebuckfolks andI’llthrowinthequiltingframehere
packagedeal onedollardollarabidwillyabidnow
c’monfolkswho’llgimmeonedollar dollarabid
overhereIhaveonedollarSOLD thankgodferthat
A documentary on the radio about land mines and undetonated cluster bombs and the proliferation of small firearms on the world market. At the moment in the Sudan an AK47 goes for the price of a chicken. Late November. Sun sets early, leaving the whole city feeling low. Or maybe I’m projecting.
I go to the No Frills and, when I’m ready to pay, choose the longest line so that I can watch the habits of the other customers. Volumes of information in short exchanges between parents and their small children over whether or not they will buy one of the chocolate bars displayed at each checkout like a test. Information about who’s got the power and whether it’s stable and what tactics they rely on to maintain it. I stand in line and try to pinpoint the juncture where principles lose their foundations and slip into tactics. All in a glimpse at the gates of heaven.
The checkout girls banter with one another over our heads as if we were cattle waiting to be processed. Mine is a large-eyed dimpled South Asian girl whose black braid is thicker than my wrist. She moves languidly, as if in another set of stimuli altogether. Her braid reclines against her spine as she bends over to unclog the conveyor belt. Around me families bicker in their mother tongues and buy in bulk. I tenderly memorize everyone’s groceries. I love the man in front of me for buying only plum sauce and cat food and loading them into his Labatt’s Blue duffle bag. He has a plan which involves plum sauce. He changes the kitty litter. He finds ways to keep his spirits up.
I walk out into the 5 pm darkness with my purchases, the plastic bags cutting into my palms as I navigate the sidewalks home. In the Sudan an AK47 goes for the price of a chicken. I keep thinking that if I’m going to eat chicken I should raise and kill and pluck and cook one all by myself someday, but I doubt it will ever happen—more likely, my conscience will continue to let itself be soothed by the thinking of virtuous thoughts.
The street lights are on. Like nightlights for children afraid of the dark. Such thoughtful, coddling city planners.
12 the canada goose (branta canadensis)
The November after Grandpa sells his house, he is almost too depressed to speak. 150 km away I walk mornings by the lake, angling for a glimpse of water only, wanting no city anywhere, not even in periphery.
The Canada geese at the lakeshore in Toronto don’t fly south anymore—they stay, all winter, for tossed crusts.
The Canada geese at the lakeshore in Toronto don’t fly south anymore, don’t get
hungry
anymore.
These days I’ve
got to make sure I’m holding onto something steady all the time. It’s not just falling anymore. It’s like the ground is sucking you down. Ever since I sold the house. Even on solid ground it’s nip and tuck keeping your balance these days.
Well. Whatever else can be said about me, I still put on my own socks by God. Takes me ten goddamn minutes for each one. But I do it. I have this way of fixing them, bunching them up you know. I have to sit in that low chair. The one that came from the Dowswell place. And when I first bend over I have to rest there like that for a while. Give my blood a chance to get used to the arrangement. Blood’s getting to be awfully finicky these days. Dizzy all the time. Doc says it’s either a something or other in the ear or a brain tumour. Well I guess I like a straightforward man. So. I’m booked in to have a whadyacallit. A CAT scan. In January. The new year as they say. See if my brain is still there. Or if it’s altogether dissolved. Wouldn’t be surprised. What was I saying? Oh yes, so once I get my blood ... acclimatized you might say, I can start to work it on. Goddamn fingers puffy good for nothing. Look at the things. Tires a man out when he’s got all this useless flesh to look after. Can’t even pull on a goddamn pair of socks without starting to bleed under the skin. There, like that. Look at them. Goddamn useless. Rotting. Wish they’d just rot right off some days and have it over with. See the trick is getting it over the heel. Goddamn feet more swollen than the goddamn fingers. I tried to use the shoehorn once but it gave me a bastard of a bruise. Well. Doesn’t matter. When I get the one sock on I take a rest. Lean back in the chair. And I sit there for a while with one sock on. I often think it’d make a funny picture. I mean if somebody came in on me then. Old geezer leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and one sock on. And the sun not even up yet.