I walked through the gate into the outdated 1970s interior of the airport, with carpeting underfoot, and I realized I was holding my breath, and had to tell myself to relax.
I recognized him as soon as I entered the terminal—a man in a baseball cap wearing a red Eddie Bauer jacket and blue jeans. He was thin and about five foot ten. He still had the same mustache and beard from twenty years before, except it was now graying here and there. And as I was the only brown guy on the plane, there was surely no reason for any kind of mix-up on his part. He smiled and walked toward me.
“Hi, Steven,” I said, shaking his hand and looking up at him.
“Hi, nice to meet you.” Steven replied. “Raaa-jeeve, is that right? Am I saying it properly?” he asked casually.
“Yeah, that’s it. There are lots of ways to say it, and I don’t even say it properly, so however you say it is fine with me,” I said easily.
“I’ll carry your bag,” Steven offered, as we made our way out of the terminal.
“No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ve got it.”
His face was made up of the features that I had imagined a weather-worn sailor to possess—freckles, skin that was aged by the sun, almost like fine leather, and crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes, with grooves that deepened with the widening of his smile. I was forcing myself to act casually and hide my overwhelming feeling of awe, walking side by side with this modern-day Odysseus. Lost at sea for over two months, pushing away sharks and dying of thirst, being lured by the deadly sirens and incurring the wrath of Poseidon.
The night air was blisteringly cold as we walked through a set of sliding doors and headed to Steven’s car. The snowbanks on the side of the road were waist-high. I had debated wearing my snow boots, but they seemed too adolescent and clunky, so I wore my leather penny loafers instead and in the place of my heavy down jacket, I chose a thin brown, woolen, tweed coat from Brooks Brothers. Shivering in the cold, I chastised myself for stupidly dressing to impress instead of being practical. I was glad I had decided to wear long johns underneath my corduroy pants.
“So, how was the flight?”
“Fine, no problems.” I said. “But it wasn’t easy getting here, there weren’t any direct flights from Toronto, so it meant I had to leave the house early this morning.”
“There’s actually a line that the local old-timers use, ‘Ya can’t get there from here!’ they say.”
We both laughed.
It was almost 11 p.m. when we arrived at Jasper’s Restaurant and Motel, a tiny little place off the main road. I had expected my room to be something from a Hitchcock movie, but it was far from that—clean, with shiny new furniture; a single bed with a Queen Anne–style headboard; and a framed print of a sailboat on the wall.
“Jeez, it’s freezing in here,” Steven exclaimed, heading for the thermostat. He seemed worried about not being a good host and leaving me there in this refrigerator of a room, so I insisted that it wasn’t that bad, that I actually preferred to sleep in rooms that were on the colder side.
“I can’t thank you enough for letting me come down here . . .”
“Well, technically it’s ‘up’—‘up’ here to Maine. Maine is north of Toronto, ya know,” Steven said with a cheeky grin.
“Soooooo,” he started, looking down at the generic gray motel carpeting, “I’m not exactly sure of what it is you’re looking for from me . . .” he said slowly, doing his best to not sound discouraging. “You have my book. There really isn’t any more information I can offer you than what’s already in there . . .” All he knew about me was that I was an actor chasing a role.
“Do you have time to sit down for a bit?” I asked, motioning to the small round table and two chairs near the door. “I know you actually experienced all this . . . but it’s just . . . kinda tough connecting to it.”
“Well . . . .” he said, stretching out the vowel of the word, “the book is about survival. And while I am actually talking about what happened to me on that life raft in the middle of the Atlantic, survival isn’t just something that people have to deal with when they’re lost at sea or stranded in the woods . . . in a way, every single person’s day-to-day existence is about survival—you’re doing it right now; you’re here because you’re doing your best to survive.”
I nodded.
“Your story is amazing, though. And what you endured, how you managed to survive . . . it’s incredible. I kind of can’t believe I’m actually here, sitting with you . . .” I admitted.
“My experience on the raft is often idolized as a heroic accomplishment, but it’s not,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrendering. “In fact, I see it as the opposite. Too many people want to play hero because they have a notion of glorification by the media.” He wasn’t reprimanding, just full of passion, waving his hands as he spoke.
I had an impulse to argue. To me he was a sort of hero, a mythical figure who had survived an epic journey and I did very much idolize him. That’s why I came here, dammit. He survived against incredible odds and it was his wit, internal strength, and unique makeup that contributed to making this possible—why wasn’t I allowed to glorify that? I was a little disheartened, but decided it was too soon (and too late at night) to begin a debate about his identity.
“The part of your book that floored me the most was when you finally saw land. After all those days at sea, when you describe seeing the faint outline of land on the horizon, I lost it.”
He leaned back in his chair, put his glasses back on, and cocked his head, keeping the same pleasant smile on his face.
“Stepping out of the boat and onto land was like having my senses plugged into an electrical outlet. It was like what it must have felt like when we were first born. Seeing all that color again, after being at sea for so long, was like seeing it for the first time . . . the smells, the faces of other people, all new again.” There was a calming, stoic quality to Steven that made him very easy to talk to.
“That’s what brought me here,” I proclaimed, almost as if I was articulating it to myself for the first time, “Pi being lost at sea, for so long . . . it’s still a story, it’s romanticized—and just hearing you tell me that it isn’t heroic is exactly what I came here for. I may not personally agree with it, but I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth. You’re the horse.”
Steven sat up in his chair and cleared his throat. I sensed it was getting late and had a feeling he was going to look at his watch, but he didn’t, so I pushed ahead. “I have a list of questions I’ve made—from reading your book. Things that weren’t quite answered in there. Is it okay if I asked you some of them now?”
“Sure,” he said.
I got up and ran over to the armchair where I had put my bag. There was a bedbug scare going around, and I knew better than to put anything on the floor (where there were also probably traces of pee/period juice/semen). I pulled a small notebook out of my bag, one that I was saving for something special—I had bought it at the school store in Petit Séminaire, a small, blue, square notebook with thin lined paper in it. The school crest appeared on the cover, a small torch with a ribbon banner around it encasing the Latin motto, Nil magnum, nisi bonum (No greatness without goodness).
I excitedly opened the book to the page with the questions I had noted down and asked the first question. “What do you think was your most valuable trait that allowed you to survive, aside from luck, chance, and that stuff?”
Steven thought about it only for a few seconds. “Well, my ability to survive was most likely a product of my previous experience—a mariner is often alone, and deals with problems that may arise at a moment’s notice. Doctors, policemen, and guys in the army usually do better and react more quickly in these situations of distress than people who haven’t been trained to do so.”
I was going to ask my next question, but I decided to wait in case he had more to say, which he did. “Those first two weeks on the raft were a period of shock, adjusting to the environment—mentally,
physically. Then another period starts, of routine, or acceptance, maybe. Acceptance of the situation. You know, my greatest enemy wasn’t the water, the weather, or the sharks . . . it was my mind. If I thought about my chances of surviving and dwelled only on that, I would have given up completely. But I realized that in order to stay alive, I had to focus on what I needed to do just in the present moment— collect rain water, catch the dorado fish that was swimming under the raft, protect myself from the sun.”
I had a pen and was frantically taking notes.
“Your sex drive completely shuts down after a few days,” he added as an afterthought.
I moved to my next question. “I would think that surviving something like this would make you appreciate life so much more than anyone else . . . that you’d return to land and be so grateful for being alive that . . . Do you get what I mean?” I tried to articulate the question I had written down, which was simply, Lucky to be alive/No more complaining. “I don’t know, like you wouldn’t sweat the small stuff anymore . . . almost like you see life through new eyes? Does that make sense?”
“Yeeeeeah, I get what you’re asking,” he said, taking a deep breath, crossing his arms and looking to the ceiling. The room was still freezing, and I hadn’t even taken my coat off. He didn’t seem to be too bothered by the temperature. “You know, the experience is not a salvation. Life goes on; I continue to make mistakes. The fact that I survived doesn’t change the fact that I’m a human and have human qualities. It did make me more patient, initially, but later, especially nowadays, I’ve become a lot more impatient with the world. I have faults and flaws—I still get in silly arguments and fights with Kathy, and still have to admit that I was being a jackass . . . and apologize. None of that ever goes away completely.”
Hmmm. I like this man. I like his answers. This is fun. Next question: “At the end of Life of Pi, his own personal salvation is how he looks back at his journey. He spent all this time drifting, waiting, hoping, and eventually surviving . . . but when he finally landed, although he had lost everything he had in the world, the way he mentally recovered was by looking back at his journey and crafting it into a story. Do you feel like that was what helped you recover from the ordeal?”
He was nodding slowly as he started with his response. “Choosing a story to tell, after the fact, is actually very cathartic and maybe it is what enabled me to go on. You know, there’s case after case of army officers from Vietnam or even Iraq who fly home then kill themselves because even though they are safe now . . . they haven’t found a healthy way of dealing with the trauma. Officers from World War Two spent a month in Europe after it was over, another month on a boat coming home, and then another month on a base here before returning to their families. They were together with other officers and had a chance to process and construct a story.”
I was scribbling furiously, wishing I’d brought along a tape recorder.
Then, he subtly lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. He looked back at me and smiled again, not moving in his seat. He’s being polite, I thought. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost two,” he said calmly.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” I winced, getting up from the table and closing my notebook.
He asked me if I’d be okay in the room, pointing out again that it seemed a little too cold, but I reassured him that I’d be fine, and then we made plans to meet in the morning, at the local greasy spoon across the street. His wife, Kathy, was looking forward to meeting me, he said, and there was no rush to get up early—they had cleared the day just for me.
Steven left, and I changed into a T-shirt and my favorite pair of plaid, flannel pajama pants, threadbare at the knees. I pulled back the quilted polyester coverlet on the bed, got in, and then jumped right out and ran for another pair of socks and the sweater I was wearing when I arrived.
I was shivering for a couple of minutes while my body heat filled the cocoon formed by tightly pulling the coverlet over my head and around my body. But although I was cold, there was a warmth to knowing that I was missing school for the week, playing hooky for a very worthy cause.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: New Director?
Date: Thu, 19 Feb 2009 18:41:11
Dear Rajiv,
Yes, it sounds like it’s going to be Ang Lee. The studio flew me to New York to meet him. I spent five hours with him. And now he’s committed himself to helping develop the screenplay. Don’t know why he’d do that if he wasn’t keen on directing. But who knows, Hollywood moves in mysterious ways.
We’re in Bristol. But we should be heading to warmer climes in a few weeks, when I’ve actually, truly finished my next book.
Stay well.
Yann
14.
I WAS BLEARY-EYED WHEN I woke up the following morning. It was still absolutely freezing in the hotel room, even the baseboard heaters were ice cold. I called the front office and asked if they’d send someone over to check, and then headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth, only to realize that I had no toothpaste. I had packed a tube but it was confiscated at the airport.
“Iss too big, you can’t take dis on da plane,” the sassy officer at the security scan stated flatly. Her name tag read “Laverneesha.”
“That makes no sense; I was able to take it through airport security in Toronto,” I said, annoyed. “Why can’t I take it through here?”
“I dunno what dey’s doin’ in Toronto, butchew ain’ gonna take dis on da plane here.” She held the full tube of toothpaste with her latex-gloved hand up in the air, her hip cocked to one side and her lips pursed.
“It’s brand new!” I argued.
“Iss not about bein’ new or not; iss too big,” she said in a monotone voice, turning her head and looking blankly to her side, impatiently. “I already said dat . . . shoooot.”
“Fine,” I conceded reluctantly—and with that, she just opened her fingers to release the tube, allowing it to fall from eye-level, going straight into the garbage bin with a deadening thud.
Fucking liquid restrictions, I thought to myself, shivering in the bathroom.
I remembered spotting a supermarket across the street as Steven pulled into the parking lot the night before, so I put on all my skimpy layers and ventured out into the cold. It was snowing again, and I had to walk carefully in my penny loafers to make sure my feet didn’t get soaked.
Everyone at the supermarket seemed to be giving me sideward glances. I guessed that Ellsworth was small enough for people to be familiar with most of their fellow townsfolk, and I assumed that the locals were probably all white.
I found my toothpaste and picked up a can of hair mousse—it had been confiscated, too, and without it, I’d end up with an Afro after showering.
Martha’s Diner was packed. Waitresses ranging from twenty to sixty years old were dexterously weaving around the tables with plates full of food and carafes of black coffee. Hearty laughs shot out randomly, regularly, and people were chowing down on their meals with fervor.
Heads turned in unison as I made my way along the black-and-white checkerboard floor tiles, through the rows of tables to a booth at the back where I had spotted Steven. He didn’t have his baseball hat on, and I could now see that the full head of waving hair in his dust jacket picture was no more—he was bald up top, with thick dark brown hair around the sides and back. I slipped into the red faux-leather booth, opposite him.
“Here’s Kathy,” Steven announced, his gaze focused over my head at the crowded front door of the diner. Kathy walked over and I stood up, towering above her. I didn’t think there was any other woman in North America as short as Ma (four foot ten), but Kathy almost made the cut. She was dressed for the cold, in a knee-length parka, with heavy-duty winter boots and a knitted hat, which she pulled off, revealing her shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair. On her face was an incredibly genuine (and huge) smile.
“Raaa-jeeve? Am I sa
ying it properly?” Then she pulled off her gloves and cupped my face in her hands, “It’s so nice to meet you,” she exclaimed in almost a whisper, beaming. “Oh, jeez, Steven,” she said, still holding my face as she turned to her seated husband, “he’d make a perfect Pi, wouldn’t he?” I loved her instantly. Steven nodded nonchalantly as he took another sip of coffee.
“I thought about what you asked me last night, what it was that I wanted from you,” I said as I pierced my poached egg with the tip of my knife, the dark yolk spilling out onto my buttered toast. “As cheesy as it might sound, I realized that all I’d really like is . . . for me to be able to get to know you and, hopefully, for us to become friends.” When I had actually said it out loud I was reminded of how childlike the thought had been and I laughed at myself. But still, it was exactly what I was looking for, and I figured I’d just say it with no frills.
“Awww, jeez, isn’t that wonderful, Steven?” Kathy placed her hand on mine and gave it a rub.
“Oh, I don’t knooow . . .” Steven jested, tilting his head and looking to one side with his eyes widened, in an exaggerated gesture of cautioning me, “I’m not so sure you want that—I’m kind of an asshole once you get to know me!”
A woman in her fifties, wearing an apron and holding a coffee pot, walked over to refill our mugs. Kathy proudly informed me that this was Martha.
The Elephants in My Backyard Page 16