Mouthquake

by Daniel Allen Cox

  Two Jessicas raised their hands to answer the question. The Jessicas always had the answer. But the teacher had this way of ignoring student participation by pretending to look for hands and then, seeing none, feigning near-sightedness when it was a deliberate act of blindness. He let the Jessica hands wilt on the vine. We watched them fall in disappointment.

  Well, it’s kind of the shape of that thing you’ve got there, so if I said the word, I’d be in trouble.

  The class laughed. I knew the teacher was going to make me pay for that remark. I could feel the full weight and heft of his retribution coming at me in slow motion, ever closer as the laughter died down and we could all see the meanness in his face. I was about to get demolished by the nastiest homeroom teacher this side of the Miron gravel quarry. I suddenly pictured myself dead at the bottom of the pit, a pile of boy bones that the city vultures picked clean. This vulture swooped in too coolly. It knew exactly what it was doing.

  Say it.

  Why are you asking me if you already know?

  Because it’s your job as a student to say it, not mine. If you don’t say it, everyone here will get detention tonight. Every. Single. One. Now, do you want that? Do they want that?

  Game changer. I could feel the allegiance of the class suddenly shift. They dropped me. Self-interest and the prospect of a lost hour had cost me the kids who, a few seconds prior, had been so impressed with my wit. I felt heavier; my ass was cemented to the wooden seat, my tongue even harder to lift. I resigned myself to my fate. As always, that fate was whatever unimaginable future awaited me at the start of a word.

  Say it.

  L-L-L-ubbock.

  Yes, it’s Lubbock, Texas. Neighbouring Quebec. A-plus for that.

  L-L-L-L-

  I blocked. So typical of me. A block is ugly to watch—my jaw seizes up, forcing my lips together. The word literally has nowhere to go. The pressure deforms the lower half of my face. Enter the freak.

  We won’t judge you. Just go ahead and say it.

  I felt all the students’ eyes fixate on my mouth and throat, students who probably imagined throttling me if squeeze came to choke. Eight eyes of Jessica, six retinas of Christine, and at least eight sets of Michael eyelashes. It was in these moments—when I took a hard look, not just at them and our brutish and sadistic leader, but at the classroom itself, the stupid art projects on the wall beside the fundraising thermometers coloured in with marker, the stupid snowflake cut-outs, the stupid everything—that I wondered if I even belonged there, if they even deserved to hear my answer, if it wasn’t easier for me to move to another school, pack up our apartment into boxes. I could imagine moving as the easier alternative to answering the question, but of course, I had no packing tape, no boxes, no X-Acto knives, no markers, and ultimately, no place to go. Anywhere I travelled would be territory alien to the terrain of my mouth. I would always be unwelcome. So while my body stood still, my mind wandered to these forbidden, unspeakable places.

  You must really want to spend the rest of your afternoon in detention. Maybe we’ll even throw in some extra homework for everybody.

  L-L-L-sorry-L-llllllllll

  Are you waiting for help? Should I reach into your mouth and pull it out for you? Come on, you can push it out yourself, you’re a big boy.

  L-Labrador.

  Brilliant! Now kids, that’s how you put on a show.

  I was always so freaked out by classroom experiences that I ran to the arcade afterward to lose myself for awhile. I wasn’t very good at video games, so I stuck to the easy ones, the ones where you shot random animals in the face and made their brains explode on heavily pixilated scenery. Their heads were so big, you just couldn’t miss. The moose made giant splats.

  So I was always late to see Rosa, my speech therapist who worked at the Montreal Children’s Hospital.

  That day, she sat me down in front of her and started our session with a physical treatment. She wrapped her hands around my neck, gently at first. Then she started rolling it like a pat of dough. As she twisted, I could almost feel my neck growing longer, my head extending further from my shoulders. While she massaged my jaw muscles, I looked down to see my body far below. Maybe that was how a giraffe saw the world. (As a dog boy, I would never know.) I cleared my throat and felt new space opening up, a hollowness I wondered how to fill. That’s when I began to suspect that words got bigger when you got older, that they needed more room inside you.

  It was always comforting to see her silver curls, the warmth of her smile, the sureness of her touch. At the time, I thought she lived at the hospital. After all, it was very homey (there was a rug, sofa, and TV), and she was always brewing tea. Looked like a living room to me.

  She felt my voiced and non-voiced breath to make sure I was doing it right. I spent my childhood in this loving stranglehold, this embrace, my veins reddening to the touch. I wondered if some kids were freaked out when an adult did this. I was always at ease with it. It actually relaxed me to the point of sleepiness. I stared at her silver hair and was mesmerized in the gleam until it all became blurry and my eyes started to close.

  How was school?

  Huh? Oh, fine.

  That doesn’t sound fine to me.

  It was okay. Just stupid.

  I see. Have you been using the techniques we practiced?

  Yes.

  And how do they work out for you?

  I don’t want to say.

  Why not?

  Because if I say the truth then you’ll feel bad.

  You can be open with me.

  Okay. Well, like, it’s really hard? It’s hard enough to think about what I’m trying to say, never mind how I’m saying it. Know what I mean? I’m not sure if that makes sense.

  I know it’s hard. That’s why I’m helping you.

  And um, um, um, um, sorry—even if I did, um, practice, and it came out smoothly, nobody would know how much work it took to get it out.

  It’s normal to want to feel appreciated. You could tell them about our visits.

  Tell them about you?

  Yes.

  And us?

  You seem shocked. There are far stranger things than what you and I do together. Do you think they would make fun of you? Is that it, sweetie?

  What I was thinking but didn’t want to tell her is that they wouldn’t believe she was real. By that point in my life, I had already experienced enough heartbreak about people assuming I had imaginary friends. I didn’t want Rosa to fall into that category, so I figured it was best never to mention her to anybody.

  The techniques. Most were innocuous, if a little oddball. Sometimes she made me hum to myself through a bendable straw connecting my mouth to my ear. Mostly, I heard the music of drool. That was fine. She would take notes in a scrawl I couldn’t read. But there were stranger techniques. She made me realize that when I hit words head on, they blocked. So she presented a way for me to soften my approach, to avoid attacking them: Come to the first word of a sentence in a long, slow breath. A constant stream of air. Lips don’t touch. Blow it out sultry. Blow it out like Marilyn.

  Those Montreal summers in the 1980s, my lips became two strips of red velvet. At first, I was drop-dead serious about the therapy. I practiced the techniques and started to take care of my lips. I applied cherry lip balm all the fucking time. Part of my practice involved having conversations with strangers on the street; I had to buy a copy of the Montreal Daily News, ask about Metro fare, and deal with strange men. I had to give them my best Marilyn Monroe, I mean, whatever I said, it must’ve sounded like I was asking for a cigarette and a lift. I did my sultry little boy routine all across town, bouncing my imaginary blond curls in their faces. With every breathy inquiry, I called them “mister.” They stared at my shiny red lips that were always slightly parted, always about to say something. I made many new friends that summer. Montreal was mine, but I was a rather nervous bombshell. I’m sure some people assumed I had a breathing problem because on several occasions I was offe
red an inhaler.

  I had telephone exercises as well. I’d have to call a place of business and ask three rehearsed questions. Sometimes I got really nervous and mixed the questions up. I’d call the bibliothèque and ask them to reserve a table for me and my wife. I’d ask Revenu Québec what time the next flight left for Baltimore. I drew all my words out in sexy moans. One time, I called Birks to ask for a diamond necklace that I could wear to l’Orchestre symphonique de Montréal that night—since I was the esteemed guest of Maître Charles Dutoit—and of course, if someone could come to my hotel the next morning to collect the used merchandise. They actually thought I was Marilyn Monroe. I told them she was dead. That I was dead. They said they knew all along that the suicide was a cover. I hung up the phone as fast as my sticky impostor fingers could drop the receiver.

  Sometimes I made an unscheduled call to Rosa, so I could test the doctor’s medicine on the doctor herself.

  Hello?

  Don’t ask me why I’m calling, gorgeous. Ask me when I’m going to hang up.

  Who is this?

  We were in a picture together. Doncha remember, baby? When I kissed you, I made you know it was for real. But they wouldn’t let us kiss anymore, so we beat it. We beat it, baby, and never came back. Do you know who this is now?

  How could I forget?

  That’s what I mean. You don’t forget dynamite. But here’s the thing. I’m getting sick of this town. We need a new one where we can be gorgeous.

  I assume you have a plan for that.

  Sure do, but you gotta shut up about it.

  You can trust me.

  Do you know how to drive stick? I like to see my old l-l-l-llllady behind the wheel.

  That sounds fine, but can you remember to breathe?

  Click.

  I hung up on Rosa so I could unleash a stream of pent-up stutters, jerking and bobbing and convulsing in the corner for a full minute, some of which was pleasurably silent.

  It was really hard to keep the Marilyn act up. It was easier for me to stutter than to enact my fluency tools, so I eventually let them drop. I’m sure that, to Rosa, it seemed my stuttering got worse during our time together. That was exactly what I’d expected: I’ve always stuttered heavily around people I’m most comfortable with because I feel I can be myself with them. And don’t you want to be comfortable around your therapist? Oh, well. Every industry has its built-in paradoxes. I eventually let Rosa drop. Maybe I’d never outgrow my voice, but I definitely outgrew the Montreal Children’s Hospital.

  There was one thing that really made me question my decision to leave, however: Rosa was the only adult, aside from the Grand Antonio, who ever bought my dog act. If I was thirsty, she’d fill a metal bowl with water and place it on the floor. She’d scratch me roughly behind the ears while I dozed on a cushion in the sun. She’d blow a dog whistle for a few minutes before our sessions, knowing I’d hear it when I came bounding up the stairs. When I galloped through nearby Cabot Square, the spaniels, terriers, and setters would be yipping on high alert. Thankfully, they only let biped German Shepherds into the hospital.

  On our last visit, I stole the dog whistle that was on her desk.

  Another year went by, and I grew even more uncertain. How long could a Marilyn creature last in a world as brutal as this one without breaking? How long could a boy go misunderstood? How much pretending until I bought my own act and excused myself from reality? How many years would it take for us to accept that we’re all butterflies with wings so mismatched that camouflage is impossible? That no matter how deep the snow gets, we’ll never learn to lift our feet high enough? Strangely, these were the uncertainties that kept me trotting, one paw after the other.

  There were only a few unquestionable facts.

  For instance, if I was a dog, I wasn’t a Labrador.

  E = MJ SQUARED

  After these things I saw, and, look! a great crowd, which no man was able to number, out of all nations and tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, dressed in white robes; and there were palm branches in their hands.

  —REVELATION 7:9

  It’s true, my favourite lyrics were written by the prophets. I’d go to le Stade to hear them. The summer District Convention of Jehovah’s Witnesses was always good for a performance. I’d sit and listen to speeches about the Book of Revelation, about the seven-headed wild beast, all muscles and testicles, slicked and oiled horns at least nine smooth inches of solid length. We followed along in a book with illustrations. The beast waged war with body-building angels, packages bulging through their tunics, hard-ons for the righteousness of Jehovah’s Kingdom. They wrestled and fought until they were covered in each other’s sweat, tears, and spit, a roiling mass of hotness until, a few Bible passages and illustrations later, we, the teenagers sitting under the semi-retracted stadium roof pinched together imperfectly like a wrinkled scrotum, couldn’t tell good and evil apart, the beasts from the angels.

  Sometimes we, the teenagers, needed to excuse ourselves to the bathroom.

  On one such pleasure trip, I wandered a little too far. I went past the bleachers and into the bowels of le Stade, into the dark service corridors where water rotted the concrete and lime seeped through, where tiny mineral stalactites caught the flashlight beams that the clueless security guards waved in my direction but somehow never shone directly on me. I roamed farther away from Jehovah and deeper into the heart of this building I loved. These were the paths that the superstars travelled on their way to the stage or the baseball field, I thought. I tried to feel the silence just before the roar, just before the spotlights hit. I found an unopened CroBar on the ground—a candy bar honouring the Expos’ very own Warren Cromartie. Rumour was that proceeds went to juvenile diabetes. I was happy that adults were always thinking of kids that way. I stuffed the seven inches into my face and promised myself I’d never get the affliction.

  I wandered farther backstage to get some alone time with my book so I could fawn over an illustration, an image of Moses leading his people through the desert. Windswept, sunburnt, all bent out of fashion, yet resilient. A creature of the sand. It is said that he had an “infirmity of speech,” and I was proud of that, proud that we shared a trait so many centuries apart. I felt like I knew him, could connect with him through the pages. How did he routinely address thousands of people huddled in sandstorms? Did the sand not steal a single word he didn’t steal from himself? The mystery of a mouth held sway over me. He wasn’t the first stutterer I ever knew, but he was still a role model.

  In the dark stadium guts, I gazed lovingly at Moses.

  When I heard footsteps approaching, I thought I recognized the sound of his sandals. But then I saw that the footfalls belonged to a stick-like man with a sure gait, impeccably groomed, with skinny black flood pants, cocaine-white spats of a regal nature, a human nature, midnight-black silk chemise covered in rhinestones chiselled to catch the sharpest edges of shadow, curls that covered his face, and a brimmed hat that covered the curls. He looked down and walked forward with tap-dance clicks that echoed in the depths of the cavern until I thought I would go deaf.

  Of course, it was Michael Jackson, a former member of our flock. Seeing him immediately brought a scripture to mind:

  Look! He is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, and those who pierced him; and all the tribes of the earth will beat themselves in grief because of him. Yes, Amen. —REVELATION 1:7

  The most famous Jehovah’s Witness of all, the closest we ever got to a flesh-and-blood saviour. His fall from Jehovah’s grace started with his video for “Thriller,” which the Witnesses accused of promoting the occult—a no-no, according to what we were taught. Then they printed a grovelling and probably fabricated apology from Michael in Awake! magazine promising never to do it again. Who makes the greatest music video ever and then disowns it? It’s just not done. (Besides, when you throw zombies under the bus, they don’t die.) When MJ later disassociated himself from the or
ganization, I was relieved, because I knew that he would pour his anger into music, and that it would be great.

  I couldn’t help but ask what he was doing there. I suspected that either he was trying to catch echoes of his Victory Tour performance at le Stade several years prior, or he was planning to take the stage at the District Convention to reclaim the hearts of Jehovah’s people—the only fans he has ever truly cared about—with choreography that was so stunning and unprecedented that the Witnesses could only interpret it as prophecy and be forced to take him back. He confirmed one of my suspicions.

  Oh, hi. I’m just…I’m just, you know, rehearsing for my new show.

  What’s it called?

  It doesn’t have a title yet. Still figuring out the dance moves. Then the music will come, I guess. I was wondering…I don’t know, it’s just an idea…do you want to be in it?

  Um, sure thing, Michael Jackson. Why not. But what would I do?

  Whatever you want.

  I could be a dog. Hey, I can lap a gallon of water in under forty seconds! Not just any mutt can do that.

  Oh wow, that sounds wonderful. You could totally be our new dog. Hey, you want to see a new move? I’ve been working on something. It’s just…it’s just that it’s not ready yet, so I hope you understand. I hope you like it.

  Of course. I’m sure I’ll like it. Show me.

  That’s when I saw the King of Pop move like water slipping through concrete. He melted into a shape I couldn’t process and moved around me to an indefinite beat, a fractional time signature, elbows where knees should be, ankles and wrists switched on the joint; he enveloped me like a wraith, graced me with cool air from all sides, wobbled me into imitations of the movement, but they were slightly too sophisticated for a boy still becoming a phantom. So even though I witnessed him become time itself, time that slowed down, a theory of dance relativity in which everything passes more slowly for a body in motion than one in stasis, I still missed everything.

  MJ finished on an uncertain hover. He leaned against a wall. I lobbed a soft question at him to make sure he was actually there.