I'm Not Scared of You or Anything

by Jon Paul Fiorentino

  I fell in love for the first time. And it was the exciting new living situation with Jasmine that led to the discovery of Perry. Perry was also an MA student in Film Studies and the teaching assistant for a class on propaganda film aesthetics that Jasmine was currently taking. They had become fast friends on account of their mutual love of marijuana and binge drinking. Perry: dark brown hair and eyes. Pixie cut. Jean jacket. Pinstriped baggy men’s slacks. Checkered suspenders. Clash T-shirt — Combat Rock. She was neither masculine nor feminine. She was unique. Genderless. Like I had always thought God probably was if God existed but she/he didn’t. Perry. There was only one Perry.

  In this moment I felt like I was in a poem. Something like “A Supermarket in California” except in Harlem and I was not into other dudes. As Jasmine and Perry made small chit-chat about the aesthetic value of The Triumph of the Will, I was moved to speak to this woman, this vision, this fancy graduate-level angel.

  “Do you like Allen Ginsberg?” I blurted, at a volume of eleven.

  “Alex! Don’t interrupt,” Jasmine snarked.

  “What?” asked Perry.

  “Sorry. Umm . . . do you like Allen Ginsberg? ’Cause he’s like, uh, one of my favourite poets and I’m, like, writing a song, because I’m a songwriter, and it’s sort of based on a poem of his that is set in a grocery store and is very beautiful, the poem I mean, although the song’s alright too. It’s kind of got a Roxy Music vibe to it but with a tinge of Peter Gabriel, the good stuff of Gabriel’s, you know. Like ‘Sledgehammer.’ Anyway, that poem is in a grocery store, just like us! We are in a grocery store too! Right?”

  Jasmine looked at Perry with eyes that simultaneously said, “I’m sorry” and “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah, Ginsberg is OK. But, like, wasn’t he a member of NAMBLA or something?” Perry asked.

  “Oh, probably! He was probably very, very smart.”

  “Right,” Perry said, laughing.

  “You’re thinking of MENSA, Alex,” Jasmine said.

  I did not miss a beat. I remained fixated on Perry. I couldn’t help but spill everything that could possibly be surveyed in the landscape of my grey matter. “Do you like Gowan? He’s a Canadian singer. Maybe he’s not known here but he will be. Very cool, very cool stuff. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you originally from Harlem or Manhattan or something? Do you like strawberry sundaes? I play guitar at the Ninety-Sixth Street station every day. You know, just busking for cash and stuff. I have a sweet guitar. Cherry red Gretsch. Not a real Gretsch, but it looks just like one and it has f-holes. Do you like f-holes? Most people like f-holes. What’s your favourite OMD song?”

  Perry laughed a bit more. “You’re sweet and super ridiculous,” she said.

  Jasmine yanked me by the sleeve of my army green cardigan. “Listen, Alex. You can make yourself useful, OK? There’s a party tonight on Amsterdam Avenue. You’re totally invited. But you got to get to the health food store. Here’s sixty. Go get, like, two bags of the indoor stuff and meet me back at home OK? I will grab the beer.”

  “OK. Cool.” I turned once more to Perry and said, again too loud, “I’m going to purchase some drugs for us. We’ll do them later together, OK?

  The girls hurried down the aisle clutching each other’s jackets and whispering.

  The party was intimidating, even after one joint and three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I hovered around the periphery. A sea of plaid, vintage jeans, bandanas — of goatees, wizard beards, chin straps — of nose rings, tattoos, ironic makeup. From the dreadlocked to the finely coiffed, the students of Columbia’s arts community were simply out of social reach. Perry smiled politely at me; Jasmine bounced her way toward a graduate student dude with thick pork chop sideburns and a ratty Vans T-shirt. There was a level of discourse that seemed unattainable to me. There were vaguely familiar name drops: Deleuze and Guattari, Butler, Foucault, Derrida. There were terms bandied about like shuttlecocks: “Hegemony,” “Phallocentrism,” “Phallogocentrism,” “Interpellation!” Instead of risking embarrassment, I reminded myself of my failure at the grocery store, and remained quiet, cool, content. I nodded my head to the Counting Crows, even though I had always despised them.

  The trick of surviving a grad school party is to just be cool. To not make waves. To look like you belong and it’s all good. This is what I kept telling myself. I glanced over at Perry but also gave her distance. As long as I had a beer in my hand and my wits about me, there was going to be a moment when we would speak and Perry would come to realize the connection that was so clearly there.

  As I feigned interest in a slurry speech about Russian formalism by some guy in a hemp sweater with a bright green bead in his straggly goatee, I met eyes with Perry who smiled and gave me the international signal for “let’s smoke a joint!” I darted over, mid-Russian formalism speech, and followed Perry out to the balcony. It was a humid spring night and I was sweating more than a healthy young man should. I wiped my brow and watched as Perry expertly rolled a joint on her lap.

  “Hot night, eh?” I said.

  “Not really. I’m kinda chilly.”

  “Me too!”

  Perry sighed. “Uh-huh? Well you’re sweating a tonne.”

  “Oh yeah? It’s my diabetes.”

  “You have diabetes?”

  “Probably. Or maybe I’m just nervous.”

  “Yeah. Why are you like this? You seem like a normal kid. But then you are psycho-frantic, or withdrawn and weird. What is your story, anyway?”

  Normal kid. Those two words simultaneously made my blood boil and anxiety heighten. “I’m not a kid. And I’m proud to not be normal. Normal is lame. And I’m Lamé. I’m an artist and, I must confess, I’m a little tortured. I had a very difficult upbringing. What I mean is that I was abused, sort of. That is to say, at least not treated well. I have some things to work through and I plan on doing that. I plan on working through things with my music and whatnot.” At this point, I was sweating so profusely that I resembled a some sort of sea creature with a glandular problem. “Life is difficult business, Perry. That’s why I recently wrote this new power ballad called “Life Is Difficult Business, Perry” and I would love to sing it for you sometime soon. Frankly, I am doing my best to face what we have in front of us. I will be damned if I were to somehow not honour this thing, this special thing that we could have, that we do have if only you would open your eyes to this thing which is clearly love!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Perry said, handing me the joint and a tissue. “First off, there is no way in hell we could ever hook up. You’re kind of cute, but you are a child! I date men and women, not children. Jesus Christ! And secondly, everyone has had a fucked up childhood. Everyone. It’s so boring. Like, who cares? Get over it and grow up...kid!”

  I rolled my eyes, wiped my brow with the tissue and handed it back to Perry, who grimaced and dropped it. I just stood there. I tried to remain composed. I tried to take it in stride. To grow up. Instantly. Right there. On the spot. Grow up, Alex. Grow up now. Instead, my lower lip quivered and then I cried. I sobbed. I wailed and tore through the incense-drenched apartment and spilled out onto the street.

  On Morningside Drive, Jasmine found me slumped over in a phone booth.

  “Hey, cuz, it’s not safe out here this time of night,” Jasmine said.

  “I’m alright.”

  “That was quite a scene back there. You sure you’re good?”

  “Did people laugh at me?”

  “Oh yeah! Pretty much everyone. It was pretty hilarious. You have this weird thing when you cry. You look like a manatee with a glandular problem. And you make this noise, sorta like a screech, but even higher pitched. It’s, well, just weird. And super funny. People were trying to do impressions of it, but it’s so hard to do! It’s like not even a human sound. It’s like a fucked up mating call or something. Maaaaaaaayah! Maaaaaaaaayah! Oh I can’t do it now! I totally had it down like five minutes ago. Ha! Anyways. They’re all calling you ‘Mana
tee Boy’ now.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Listen, cuz. Maybe you should go back to Winnipeg soon. I think you might be a bit in over your head here.”

  “But...I don’t want to.”

  “I think it may be best.” Jasmine reached out her hand and pulled me up onto my feet. “Think about it. Here. Take my key. I’m gonna get back to the party. Just buzz me in when I get back, OK? Love you cuz.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I rifled through Jasmine’s desk and found her address book. I located Perry’s phone number and dialed.

  “Hello?” It was a man’s voice.

  “Is Perry there?”

  “No. She’s out. Can I take a message?”

  “Yes. Yes you can. But it will be quite long. Do you have a good pen, a pad of paper and around twenty or so minutes?”

  The man hung up. I called again and this time, the answering machine picked up. It was Perry’s voice. “Hello. You’ve reached Simon, David, Sparkle, and Perry. Leave a message!”

  And so I left a message. “Perry, it’s Alex. I am a little drunk, to be sure. I drank some Chinese cooking wine that I found in Jasmine’s kitchen. It was pretty OK. And listen, I need to express, for the first and possibly last time, that you have destroyed me but I will rebuild myself. I am a human, grown-up man, Perry. Just like you. A man’s man among men. Except you are a lady. A man’s lady. And God knows I’ve never truly humped a lady, but I know that I would be just fantastic at it. Listen Perry, if that is your real name, Perry, I’m totally good at fucking. I can just feel it in my bones. I mean, people look at me and probably think, that dude is too lame to be good at fucking. And he probably cries like a weird half-man/half-manatee. But that’s so very wrong to assume and so fuck all of those people. I mean, it’s weird, me telling you this when you were so very cruel to me tonight. How can someone who likes Allen Ginsberg and is artistic-looking and so pretty also be so mean? I mean, I mean, I was hoping and willing and planning on giving you my very first virginity. So what I’m saying is that if you gave me some minutes to love you I would still say yes. Still, despite your cruelty, I know if you change your heart and mind, I would make you explode with happiness and sexual fulfillment. Absolutely explode, Perry. Absolutely explode. Just like my exploded heart. Which is the name of my new song I am writing right now, as we speak.”

  I hung up. From then on, my music took on a whole new life. I moved back home, found some like-minded individuals, and formed a prog-rock band: Protoplasthma. You know the rest of the story.

  THE PARABLE

  OF BRYAN DONG

  This is the parable of Bryan Dong. It is somewhat parabolic. Back in the day, in a very specific suburb of Winnipeg, specifically Transcona, when I was an elementary school student, from the age of six, I used to go to Bryan Dong’s house every weekday for lunch. I was a latchkey kid. Bryan was the greatest person in the world. I was perfectly aware that I sometimes annoyed Bryan. It was hard not to be somewhat overenthusiastic in Bryan’s presence. I felt a real sense of dedication to my best friend. Not only was Bryan one of the most popular and physically attractive boys at Harold Hatcher Elementary School, but his parents, Roy and Deandra, were the Block Parents of Allenby Crescent. Every decent street in Winnipeg had a house that was designated the Block Parent home. If a child were to be in danger of any kind, they could find safety and solace in the arms of a Block Parent. I felt especially lucky that my mom had brokered the lunchtime deal with Mrs. Dong. Not only did it result in what I was sure would be a deep, lifelong friendship, it was also the best possible scenario in terms of safety. I worried about the black vans with tinted windows, the leather-jacketed, mustachioed loners that seemed to linger around the school at recess and after 3:30 pm. I had an acute sense of security about the whole thing. And I had an even more acute affection for Bryan Dong.

  Bryan played hockey. Bryan was popular. Bryan dragged me into the basement to make him bang on pots and pans to Boney M. and Queen songs. I would always keep a faithful beat as Bryan crooned “Another One Bites the Dust” or “Rivers of Babylon.” I once told Bryan that I considered him to be my best friend and that sometimes I would lie in bed at night and close my eyes and imagine the next time we would play together. Bryan said nothing, just sat there cross-legged and brushed neon orange Doritos seasoning from the crotch of his jeans. Bryan was stoic as shit.

  During our lunch hours, I would cross my legs, attempting the same pose that Bryan had perfected, and eat macaroni and cheese and watch Spiderman cartoons. When Spiderman was over, we would watch the first twenty or so minutes of a thirty-minute kids’ show, Uncle Archie and also Neil and Bob. This particular show was hosted by an old dude, Uncle Archie, who was accompanied by his two puppets, Neil and Bob, who provided Winnipeg-specific commentary on the Winnipeg Jets, thevWinnipeg Blue Bombers, the Rotary Club, and the Shriners. I was captivated by this spectacle and would do my best to hold on to the lunch hour. Oh, Uncle Archie.

  I hung on every slurry word. I would do my best to linger until the end of the show, when he would hold up a prop hand-held mirror with candy-red trim and an empty space where the mirror should be and peer through it. Then he would call out the names of all the special boys and girls he could see out there in their living rooms. I would concentrate as hard as possible on Uncle Archie’s kindly, wrinkled face, his tobacco-stained teeth, his bloodshot eyes. I would try to make eye contact with Uncle Archie, desperate to be named. Bryan was named at least once a week. For me, it only happened once: I was purposefully repacking my GoBots backpack slowly, stalling. Uncle Archie lifted the hollow mirror to his face and gazed directly at the camera lens which was me. Bryan had already made his way to the front entrance where he was velcroing his shoes. “I see so many wonderful children out there, all of my special friends: I see Jeffery, Bradley, John, Matthew, Brittany, Kenneth, and Bryan! And I see you too, special friend.” I gasped and felt a jolt of something I had never felt before. Some sort of swelling. I think it was a swelling of pride.

  “Bryan! Did you here that? Uncle Archie saw us! Both of us! He said Kenneth!”

  “Big deal!” Bryan said, “He always sees me.”

  “It is a big deal to me!”

  “Whatever.”

  The next morning, before school, my mother pulled me aside.

  “Kenneth, today you will be having lunch at Vance Sawatsky’s house.”

  “What? Vance Sawatsky is the worst — the absolute worst kid in school, Mom. He is so much the worst that his nickname is ‘The Worst!’ Bryan is my lunch buddy. He is my one and only lunch buddy!”

  “Not anymore, dear. Now shut your trap, and off you go.”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. I was at a loss. I trudged to school at a slower-than-usual pace. The air was crisp and asthmatic and the leaves were changing. I booted little gravel stones and choked on the dust they kicked up. What had happened? Why was I being torn away from the one person who mattered? As I entered Harold Hatcher Elementary School, I knew that I had to see Bryan as soon as possible and tell him. Bryan would be so disappointed.

  The cloakroom was empty except for Bryan and me. I reached out to touch Bryan’s hand. Bryan recoiled.

  “So, before we hit the monkey bars, I need to tell you something. My big dumb mother won’t let me come to your place for lunch. What the heck, hey?”

  “Yeah, Kenneth. I think that’s probably a good thing.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Kenneth. You are a good guy and stuff, but I feel that we should move on.”

  “Move on?”

  “I don’t want to be your friend.”

  “But you’re my best and only friend! Why are you doing this?”

  “Kenneth. I’m just going to say this once. You are emotionally needy. Like, way too needy. It’s too much for me to take.”

  “What does that mean? We’re only ten years old, Bryan. Those are grown-up words.”

  “Well, I guess I’m just a grown-u
p then.” With that, Bryan Dong left me alone in the cloakroom. I slumped to the floor, buried my face in my GoBots backpack, and wept.

  As the days became shorter and the fall grew colder, I was more and more withdrawn. I went for long walks after school, exploring the ditches and abandoned lots and cars of Transcona. I felt no need to report to dinner on time, to adhere to any familial imperatives. I was searching for something. Something about myself. I needed to find a way to be less needy. To be more likeable.

  One late afternoon, I was rummaging through the sticky backseat of an abandoned 1980 Dodge Dart in the southwest corner of a small field swathed in prairie tall grass, when I saw a black van with tinted windows slowly making its way down Redonda Street. I sat, hunched over in the backseat, motionless, hoping to not be noticed. But the black van kept swinging back around, creeping up and down the street. I clenched my fists; I saw my breath in the air. I decided I had to head home like a bastard. But I told myself to be casual. To walk swiftly, but not to look panicked. I began to march through the tall grass and toward my home. I made it to the back lane of Allenby Crescent. The black van turned off Redonda and down the lane, still crawling along, but gaining on me. I quickened my pace to a brisk jog. The van adjusted its speed accordingly. I was now behind the Dong home. Block Parent! Block Parent! I zigged toward the back door of the safe house. And, almost as quickly, I zagged back to the lane. Emotionally needy! Emotionally needy! I swore to God I would rather be chopped into a thousand pieces and have those pieces sold to perverts from around the world through some kind of intricate black market mail-order type system than be seen as emotionally needy in the eyes of the Dongs once more! I quickened to a sprint as the van’s high beams enveloped me. I bolted home as fast as my underdeveloped legs could take me and I almost made it, too.