Vicar slowly processed her statement, his eyes glazing as he suddenly read the subtext. Anyone in her position would be fighting depression, certainly, and might even have suicidal thoughts. Her survivor’s guilt might have evolved into some type of anger, perhaps toward him. Grief could overcome logic. Did she resent him for helping her, but not saving Gary? The thought dawned on him like a slow-motion punch to the gut.
“Mr. Vicar? Tony?”
He nodded and stared at her, looking right at her mouth as she spoke. The rest of the room was blurred.
“Tony, I wanted to thank you, not worry you. You did the best you could. More than anyone else could have. I can only soldier on and try to honour Gary’s memory. He was going to be a great success. We were going to have a great life together,” she said.
Vicar glanced down at the floor, a rusty-brown indoor/outdoor carpet that had surely complemented the avocado-green appliances a half a lifetime ago. Nervously, he began to fixate on how his underwear was bunching up, and he swivelled his hips around in the chair as if a skivvy readjustment might improve the mood. Desperate to move the conversation along, he looked up and asked cautiously, “Do you remember anything from the accident?”
Julie couldn’t tilt her head back, but her eyes went toward the ceiling, and she blinked a couple of times. “I remember telling Gary to slow down and then we hit something. I lost consciousness about then, I think.”
“Is that all you can remember?”
She licked her lips and said, “I thought I was flying, like on a flying carpet. It was night and I was lost. I thought I’d lost my balance and fallen off the carpet. I was going to splat into the ground. I could hear my grandmother’s voice, but I couldn’t see her. She kept saying, ‘Come toward my voice. You can fly, you can fly. Don’t be scared, you can do it. Keep going, keep going.’ Not much else, though.” She lowered her head and gazed directly at him, but her eyes were distant.
Vicar stared at her with intensity. He had urged her to come to his voice. He had pushed her to keep going, going. He had been sure it was only a fluke that she’d come back from the brink. But this — this was spooky.
Fourteen / The Elephant
in the Room
Poutine had supplied gratis all the booze for the memorial service. He was tending bar tonight in his frilly, age-yellowed tux shirt, but at the moment he was skulking around someone’s donated platter of Nanaimo bars, ravenously inhaling them one after another. This past Christmas had been his best ever. Vicar’s facelift of Liquor had made a huge difference, so he wanted to give back a little bit. Having just returned indoors from hoovering a fat bomber with a couple homeboys, his customary goaty aroma was muggy with an additional skunk of Texada Timewarp.
For the people he knew, his free pours were outlandishly generous. He was not fond of funerals — hated them, in fact — and simply presumed that everyone else would likewise prefer to be drunk when forced to attend one. That this one was happening after Christmas felt like a bad omen. Death was no way to kick off a new year.
He frowned as he slopped precious vodka on the counter, and he tried to locate Vicar in the gathering. He’d heard Vicar’s brief account of the accident, but the story he’d heard today blew his mind. Added to that was the murmur of gossip he was overhearing at the bar.
Abruptly, Poutine set his sights on a two-tier tray filled with confetti bars — he had demolished the delectable Nanaimos, leaving behind only crumbs and an untidy smear of chocolate. Luckily, an entire banquet table was reserved for roughly two dozen different kinds of funeral squares.
In the enveloping brain fog brought on by the thunderfuck he’d just smoked, Ross Poutine daydreamed about the heretofore undiscovered similarity between bars, brownies, baked goods and ancient death symbols. Where there was a funeral, there was a scrumptious square. Would skull and crossbones go the way of the dodo, only to be replaced by depictions of chocolate nut clusters? Heavy, man. Death, traditionally to be feared, was now looking sinfully delicious. He giggled just a little too loudly and then suddenly fixated on a hole in the old Arborite counter that looked just like a tiny elephant.
---
Vicar stood with Jacquie over by the bingo machine, which was covered up with a grey plastic cowl.
“Gary’s father was awfully brave,” Jacquie said to Vicar. “I don’t know how you’d find the oomph to speak at your own child’s memorial service.”
Vicar glanced at the father, standing with his wife in the far corner, a clutch of friends surrounding them protectively. Julie Northrop orbited wanly on the periphery.
He had been taken aback when the late Gary’s father had mentioned his attempts to rescue and revive at the scene of the accident, making the whole eulogy more about Tony Vicar and his miraculous ministrations to Julie Northrop than about his dearly departed son, Gary. The tone was hyperbolic, metaphysical, even mystical — in fact, it was uncomfortably over the top. He’d missed his calling as a preacher. Over the last twenty-five years, he must have roused his customers into quite the frothy farm-implement lather while selling them tractors.
Vicar had forced himself to appear impassive throughout the entire ceremony and afterward, too, but he realized that the silly story circulating had just been confirmed by an unimpeachable source. Though the account had been rife with artistic licence and a dollop of brimstone, the attitude of the room had altered perceptibly; to his consternation, Vicar had felt his stock shoot upward.
Afterward, almost everyone had come by and gripped his hand or clapped him on the back, saying, “I just wanted to meet the miracle man,” or “Good job,” their dewy, saucer-like eyes showing awe. Some of them had nervously asked him to pose for a quick photo — as if he were Paul Henderson or something. Vicar had noticed Jacquie’s face begin to darken as the stream of wellwishers each tried to outdo the last with superlatives, until their tone had bordered on hysterical. Vicar hadn’t known how to respond. The bizarre and mysterious turn of events that had given rise to such unwarranted compliments was not digestible. He’d decided to simply leave it aside and chew on it another time.
Now, he found an old friend who wanted to talk guitars and was relieved to be briefly distracted by George Harrison’s rosewood Telecaster reissue.
Catching Jacquie’s eye, he panned around the room, looking at all the people present — some of them obviously talking about him in that moment — and paused to enjoy the sight of Poutine leaning over deeply, his jaw agape, profoundly stoned and drooling just a tad as he closely inspected the counter, while bemused attendees stood waiting for a drink.
Vicar flashed back on Gary’s father’s agonized remarks. Brought her back from death? Gave her the gift of another chance? Summoned unseen spiritual powers? Performed a miracle? Good job?
Fifteen / Let Them Eat Pasta
Tony Vicar stood over his sink, straining a colander full of pasta, and glanced out the window toward the country road at the end of his driveway. A microbus drove by ever so slowly, its signature heterodyning, whiny drone so distinctive that Vicar could have identified it blindfolded. He presumed it was continuing toward town.
Rinsed pasta? He’d never tried it before, but Jacquie said he was a caveman if he didn’t. It made no sense, but just for fun, he’d try it this once. Why would you rinse something that had just come out of boiling water? Fussy. As the hot water drained through the colander, some splashed out of the sink and scalded his bare leg. He jumped and sloshed a puddle onto the counter. His grand plan to keep the cleanup to a minimum was going for shit.
He was cooking dinner in his tattered briefs, his usual sad evening wear. The bedraggled T-shirt he sported had been badly distorted through the years by heaven only knew what kind of torsion. The back stretched far down to almost mid-thigh, but the front rode so high that his navel was fully bared. His pits were a bit ripe, and the state of the shirt was not helped by this. But he didn’t care. If some alien intelligence dropped a spaceship down into his yard, would its first judgment be abou
t haute couture? Would it even be able to tell one human from another? Could humans tell one squirrel from another? One monitor lizard from his buddy? He managed to riff on this theme for a remarkable length of time, at one point quite grandly lecturing out loud, as if he were orating to a room filled with students.
At any rate, Vicar sometimes went to the shopping mall looking every bit as bad, but with pants, of course — he wasn’t out to lunch. He felt he was making a statement with this outfit; it was his version of Einstein’s go-to-hell hairdo. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that when he started defending bad deportment and poor hygiene, he was off a bit.
Pasta water dripped down the cupboard door and pooled on the floor, where he was conveniently able to dab it up with his sock — but it was blazing hot. He leaned over and got the tea towel off the oven handle, chucked it down onto the puddle, and manipulated it with his foot while fooling around with the noodles.
In the background, the radio was playing some variety of dreck by a hectoring rapper back-phrasing so hard he sounded like Sammy Davis Jr. during his Nehru jacket phase. His subject matter was indecipherable, but almost certainly to do with cash and bitches. Man, and the old folks used to think rock ’n’ roll was repetitive.
Paying more attention to the spill on the floor, Vicar fumbled the colander, and half of its contents ended up in the sink next to the pot. The rotini just lay there sadly. He grumbled and rummaged around for a big spoon. Well, now there’s a legit reason to rinse the pasta, he thought, as he noticed the breakfast debris still covering the bottom of the sink.
As he flailed with the escaped noodles, his gloomy mind wandered aimlessly, musing randomly about things like Tamagotchis and gym memberships. By God, they were a symptom of decline. He’d read today about a health club in Vancouver that offered valet parking. Beautiful dunces with servants, same as it ever was.
In his mind’s eye, he saw imperial French heads rolling around in a basket, recently separated from their noble, aristocratic bodies because they couldn’t tear their focus from themselves as tout went to merde royale. Perhaps they could extinguish burning torches with seven-dollar bottles of glacier water. Or with cake made from free-range everything and a sprinkle of dust from the bones of St. Edmund, disinterred just in time to bless their multiple sets of hamstring curls, performed, of course, in front of a mirror.
Vicar could see in the dim light that the tea towel was now sopping wet, and he was only smearing the puddle around.
He felt the start of his usual slide down the all-too-familiar dark rabbit hole and tried to back away from it like a running dog trying to corner on linoleum. He decided to skip the Chianti tonight; it wouldn’t help.
He poured a mountain of poorly rinsed noodles into a large bowl, the blue heavy one, now with a fresh crack heralding its imminent demise. Damn. Fave bowl — he’d gotten it at a thrift store in Victoria twenty-five years ago for about fifty cents, along with one of those sweet old railroad mugs with an image of a locomotive that said it was a 2-6-2. He didn’t have the faintest clue what that meant and was loath to find out. He was aware that he had many shortcomings; he didn’t want to add trainspotter to the list.
Spill ineffectively sopped up and food put on the table, he went back to the fridge to retrieve some Parmesan, his sodden left sock leaving a little trail of wet.
Then he noticed what appeared to be the same microbus passing by his house again, in the opposite direction. It crawled along, and this time he could see its occupants peering down his drive and into his window. Seeing him, a female with alabaster hair piled high pointed and turned her head toward the others. He could see flashes going off as all of them took pictures.
He drew back in surprise, not believing what his eyes were telling him. Those passengers were surveilling him, stalking him. Driving around his house to get a lookie-loo. He’d never heard of such a thing in this country, where most celebrities still mowed their own lawns.
Glancing at the street out front, he vainly attempted to find some alternative explanation, any plausible reason why they’d be out there skulking around. But there was only one: they were staking him out to get a look, like he was the real Elvis hunkered in a hotel room with tinfoil-covered windows, shacked up with Ginger and blowing holes in televisions for sport.
He’d known that memorial service was going to cause a ruckus, but this? The van came to a brief stop, and the carload of weirdos gawked for a moment, multiple phone cameras capturing the scene. Feeling rather aggravated, Vicar scrunched up his face, pulled up his shirt and stuck out his tongue. There was some excitement in the car, and then they were off.
Vicar let his T-shirt fall and stared after them, confused and feeling the unwelcome creep of something he couldn’t quite see.
Sixteen / The Hinge of Fate
The lottery machine clacked out a ticket, and Poutine passed it to his customer, who had added it as an afterthought to his basket of wine.
“I sure could go for that jackpot. It’s getting huge,” said the customer amiably, riffling through his wallet.
“Me, too,” grunted Poutine. “I’d be able to make a few altercations to my lifestyle.”
The man smiled and said, “If you bless it with some good luck, maybe I’ll win.”
“If you want magic you’d better get him to bless it,” Poutine said, pointing at Vicar standing over near the tequila.
“Oh, is that him?” The customer sounded impressed.
“Hey, Tony,” Poutine called casually, “you’d better use some of your spooky stuff on this guy’s ticket.”
Vicar looked up from his work distractedly. “Whazzat?”
“I said, this guy needs some of your special magic on his lottery ticket, dere.”
Vicar looked uncomfortable. He smiled mildly, pointed his finger like a pistol and pretended to shoot the ticket. “Bam! It’s a sure winner.”
The customer laughed, but soberly folded the ticket with care. “Thanks, buddy.”
---
Jacquie O stood amongst the produce clad in yoga pants and Nikes, hair under a hat, vaguely comparing cantaloupes. They looked like they’d crossed the Pacific on a raft. She glanced at the price. “Good lord, they have got to be kidding.”
She noticed someone behind her. A woman stood there with her back to the bananas.
“Why, hello, aren’t you the wife of the Liquor Vicar?”
“You mean Tony?” Jacquie responded guardedly. “Actually, we’re not married.”
“Mmm.”
The woman looked Jacquie over as if she were some pox-ridden piece of roadkill and pursed her lips. Jacquie’s tats and piercings clearly did not pass muster; ice and judgment crept over the woman’s face. Inwardly, Jacquie smirked at this poor, brittle soul clearly mired in some Victorian concept of propriety. She’d probably burst into flame if she knew I used to be a stripper.
“Why do you ask?” Jacquie spoke the words carefully, so as not to inadvertently blurt out piss off.
“My husband and I are to be grandparents,” the woman announced proudly. “We hope to have an audience with him.”
Eyes wide with disbelief, Jacquie asked hesitantly, “An audience with … An audience?”
“Yes, yes. We very much hope that the child will be a boy, so that the family name can continue. We feel the Liquor Vicar could assist.”
Jacquie was generally quick on her feet, but right now she was at a loss. What utterly loony fantasy planet had this broad beamed in from? She glanced around, looking for cameras, or maybe some kind of unhinged Morning Zoo team camouflaged behind the romaine lettuce. But only the tiny woman stood there primly and totally straight faced, turned out in a throwback tartan getup that made her look like a walking toffee packet. She stared up at Jacquie with challenge, her lips creased firmly together in an obvious attempt to broadcast moral purity, and she was expecting an answer — one to the affirmative.
As far as she could tell, Tony Vicar couldn’t consistently guide dirty dishes to the s
ink, so using some kinda cray-cray voodoo to select the sex of this lunatic’s grandchild was likely outside his skill set. She imagined him — dressed like the King in a crown, cassock, and stick-on sideburns — giving this nutbar an “audience.” What other subjects would come up? Alex Lifeson’s double-necked Gibson? Sinatra’s Reprise years? How it only sounded like Manfred Mann was singing “wrapped up like a douche”?
Jacquie bought a few seconds by gingerly putting the melons back into position and patting them deliberately, as if deeply concerned for their well-being. Finally, after a few beats of stunned silence, she replied carefully, “You’ll no doubt understand that he has many demands upon his time these days. Perhaps I could take your name and number and have him respond to you at his earliest convenience.”
The human shortbread tin smiled with a level of self-satisfaction that would have been infuriating, had it not been so disturbing. She proudly proclaimed, “I am Mrs. Kenneth Morrison of Sandringham Mews. Please have the Vicar call us. We are listed in the directory. Thank you and good day.”
Jacquie stared after her, disbelieving and creeped out. The full-blown plaid wacko marched off quickly toward the spaghetti sauce, made a quick left, and vanished.
Seventeen / Let Us Therefore
Brace Ourselves
“Oooh! You mean a private gig, like a corporate event? Did she say which band? Maybe Colony Collapse? I knew word would get out.” Vicar was instantly sky high with gusto, launching into an outlandish victory celebration, half jig, half hip thrust, with a prominent overbite. He began compiling his “input list” for the event’s “production manager.”
Jacquie was completely bewildered. “Colony Collapse? What in the hell are you talking about?” she blurted, hoping her question would halt his idiotic happy dance. She’d attempted to open this discussion a few minutes earlier, and now he was failing to get the point a second time.
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