That Dammed Beaver, page 9
I ain’t say that was Sandy with the spray paint. I said it was someone, an’ so what if the paint was from Rick’s Garage? I ain’t steal it. Sandy didn’t neether. She’s allowed o’er there though. Rick prolly gave it to ’er, prolly put ’er up to it. That is, if she did it. I ain’t sayin’ that. Heck, you want me to take the blame for stealin’ the paint? Go on, pin that one on me. If it saves Sandy I’ll take the blame for that. But look, the girl who walked o’er to the Tim Hortons that night, I know she defaced the thing. Drew the devil horns an’ tail on it like what’s there now. The Jesus deserved it, if ya ask me, trickin’ everyone like it did. It ain’t no sign from God, just someone else offerin’ some fake promises ta this goddamn town that never come true. Sandy knew that an’ she ain’t deserve an upbringin’ like that. Kids shouldn’t know that kind a thing yet, ya know. Let ’em have their parties an’ proms an’ that ’cause there ain’t nuttin’ ta look forward ta after that.
Look, that’s why I went o’er there. Sandy’s too young ta have ’er dreams already crushed ’cause the fake Jesus ain’t gonna grant her no wishes. She wanted her Daddy, so what’s a fadder ’spose ta do? I sure ain’t gonna just watch ’er paint the damn thing an’ not go o’er there! It was like reflexes. I had ta go. I didn’t care if I still had half the suit on or not. Sandy’s a good kid an’ she’ll love ’er Daddy, no matter what he’s wearin’. Her mudder already tellin’ her I was no good, like I was on the pogey an’ spendin’ it all on Captain Morgan an’ buyin’ two-fours fer the boys o’er the pier every weekend. I ain’t. So after thinkin’ all that, maybe it ain’t matter if she found out aboat the chicken suit. Maybe she wouldn’t tell ’er mudder, an’ Sandy could come in ta the Lick-A-Chick with ’er friends after school knowin’ the truth. Her friends wouldn’t have ta know, neether. It’d just be our secret.
I tells ya, I was the one who went an’ grabbed the tire iron from my truck an’ went o’er the Tim Hortons there the night the Jesus went away. Sandy was shocked at first, threw ’er paint can at me ’cause she thought I was a creeper, but then saw it was me an’ thought I was gonna bust ’er instead, like turn ’er in ta the cops or somethin’. That’s when I smashed the lightin’ out. I just pushed Sandy out the way an’ took out the bulbs, glass all rainin’ down into my feathers, but I didn’t care. The Jesus disappeared after that. Just those painted devil horns left on the wall now an’ a shrine ta them. We laughed our holes out at the sight of it, we did. First time I seen Sandy laugh in God knows when. I won’t take that back for nuttin’, even if it does cost me every second weekend.
So arrest me if yas want ta. But I’s jist doin’ what had ta be done, what was right. I’ve gotta take care of my kid. You tell that to the courts if yas like, tell ’em I done it for my kid. Theys can’t hold it against me fer stickin’ up fer my Sandy, fer tryin’ ta protect ’er! I tells ya one thing, though. I ain’t never had a double double an’ chocolate glazed since. It jist don’t feel right. Jist like it don’t feel right leavin’ prayers an’ makin’ wishes that ain’t gonna come true with a fake Jesus on the side of a Tim Hortons. Whatever git’s ya through, I ’spose, though. Whatever gits ya through.
EVERLASTING LOVE
CLAIRE DÉ
For me, it’s not the same as for my sister Anne: tits-and-ass gets me nowhere. When you look like me – fifteen years old going on ten, no breasts, or even a bush, an oversized head full of oily hair tied with a pink bow, glasses thick as ice cubes, and a mouthful of braces – it isn’t leather shorts and purple hair-dye that are going to improve the situation. What’s more, in school I’m at the top of my class, in every subject, which isn’t hard, the courses are so dinky. Then there’s my mother who buys me nothing but “pretty little dresses,” and I collect exotic fish in a giant aquarium: nothing you would call a turn-on.
Looking back, I’m surprised that someone of average intelligence, in fact somewhat above average, like me, didn’t understand all that, before sleeping with Yves Lachaille. But I fell badly in love with Yves Lachaille the very first time I saw him, playing harmonica in a sort of café steeped in darkness, on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. On that score, too, I’m unlike my sister Anne: she prefers established rockers, those hairy comets who whip up tornadoes inside the temples of pandemonium. As for me, I’m drawn more to performers on the rise, the ones said to be up-and-coming, though I always wonder: coming up from what, exactly?
Anyway, him, with his eyes closed, his dejected dog look, the wolf howls and whale blasts of his mouth harp, he got to me: made me all hot between the thighs, and wet, practically an orgasm. I was done for, Yves Lachaille too: I loved him, I would love him as long as I lived, he was mine, I needed him, right away. Do it now, or die tomorrow: that’s what they say in English, and my age group can’t say it any other way.
Either it was too dark in the café, or the guy keeps his eyes closed even when they’re open: it had never been so simple. All I had to do was to wait – granted, till five in the morning – and ask him if he was interested in a smooth little pussy. If it works with members of Parliament, it ought to work with harmonica players. It worked.
Yves Lachaille must sleep with anyone who makes him a fairly straightforward proposition. That’s what’s so tough in life: conquests are too easy, there’s no romance. Or maybe my literature teacher has had me read Wuthering Heights too many times. Anyway, it’s a lucky thing I’m Mister Trudel’s pet – he’s my chemistry teacher – because on April 25, the day after my night with Yves Lachaille, I was all thumbs with the test tubes.
The thing is, that fool Yves Lachaille called me again. Okay, he did sleep with me one time, in a rented room on Rue Sanguinet, because he was too drunk or because it was too dark. But to want to repeat the experience without loving me, this I just could not accept. It doesn’t work that way with me. Adolescence feeds on the absolute – I don’t know who said that. Me, perhaps. It would cost him.
I telephoned and told him to come over. The fool, he probably never even suspected. I let him in through the basement door while my mother was sleeping, and she sleeps very soundly, my mother. I had him lie down in my little princess bed and whispered that he would get harder, that it would be better, if I pretended to strangle him when he came. He believed me, boys like that are willing to do anything for an extra thrill.
I strangled him for real, of course. Strange, but I hadn’t read anywhere (maybe they don’t tell you everything in books) that, at that moment, their tongues swell and jut out of their mouths, and that they keep their hard-ons. I even put my glasses back on, to observe the phenomenon more closely: yes, Lachaille’s hard-on wouldn’t go down even when he was dead. I’ll have to mention it to my biology teacher one of these days.
I emptied my giant aquarium, a bucket at a time, into the toilet, exotic fish and all. I packed Yves Lachaille into it. Not the toilet, it would have become blocked, but my aquarium, and hid the whole thing in my closet. I’ll tell my mother I’m not interested anymore in exotic fish. In any case, she never comes into my bedroom, my mother. No need to, it’s always neat.
At my next chemistry class, I’ll find out from Mister Trudel how to get hold of two hundred litres of formaldehyde. I’m not his pet for nothing, he won’t deny me the information, not me, his brightest student.
They’re starting to worry, in the show biz community, about Lachaille’s disappearance. I read it in my mother’s L’écho des vedettes: “There has been no word from the famous harmonica player, Yves Lachaille.” Famous…they’re always overstating things. Anyway, I’m quite pleased: today my biology teacher said that specimens have been preserved in formaldehyde for periods of over a hundred and fifty years. So, with his closed eyes, his jutting tongue, his erect member, my pickled love will marinate in my aquarium for a long while. So I have the last laugh. Love does not linger so well.
(Translated by Lazer Lederhendler)
TIMOROUS IN LOVE
CHRISTINE MISCIONE
Beautiful man. Beautiful scarf-wearing man. Man under duress, dressed up in a baby blue scarf and studded cowboy boots. Boots up to his knees crossed, and hands on knees are clammy, and hands wear chunky jewels bejewelling clamminess because he’s shy. And he’s a thinking man, a singing man, a singer-songwriter-soulful man, performing under duress of his dress and audience stares. My favourite song: Cleavage of Persona and Person. The lyrics leave his mouth travelling room to ears, entering ears to canals, and words in canals are brilliant, and words wax too abstract to understand. But he’s singing about shyness. Debilitating shyness. His own shyness, because he’s a shy man. And he’s defining shyness in one hundred ears. He’s saying shyness is fullness, need-an-audience fullness, and I’m shy, he says, filling one hundred ears.
Then in leopard-print pants the next day. Feathered scarf the next day. He’s a shy man with defined eyebrows. He’s a yellow-pleather-purse man. A heartbreaker. A singer. He’s bashful in frilly leotard. Timorous in red lipstick. A man of lace gloves that hold hands with a man in suspenders, and all four hands stroking later in positions For Men Only, on bed sheets For Men Only, with twists and thrusts For Men Only, no women allowed. And what shyness as he struts, his pleather dangling, and the click-clicks of studded cowboy boots. And what fullness as he writes songs that sparkle, with pens that shine, pens writing songs about men and love and shyness, and his work is exalted, and his work is profound, and he’s a superstar of a man, a super-extraordinary man, a man like no other around.
And no one knows what it’s like to see his shy brow furrow above blue eye-shadow’s creasing, as timid blush glitters beside his pink mouth that’s speaking. Because he’s speaking about love. And he’s singing about shyness. And his lip curls to smile, and eyes soften in kindness. And no one knows what it’s like to write him an email later, “Ode to a Beautiful Scarf-Wearing Man.” Then every day by your computer, fingers clicking beside your computer, mouse scrolling, neck cramping, eyes glazing beside your computer. And every day moving in and out of an email inbox. Waiting in front of an email inbox. Hoping and waiting for a reply, a Bonjour, for something, anything in an email inbox from the beautiful scarf-wearing man.
But nothing ever comes.
Instead you watch him in dimly lit taverns. His jade beret bashful. His pink halter shining. He struts and he laughs and spills brilliance in other ears, his smile filling other eyes, while you’re invisible in dark corners, a ghost, a groupie. No one knows what can happen to your heart when your heart sits in an email inbox, ignored. When your heart loves a man of scarves, a shy man, a man nothing like his shyness, who instead clicks his high heels across tavern stages, click-click-clicking into ear canals, and dive-bar laughter, and later, click-clicks under bed sheets, filling holes in bed with another man.
No one knows how it feels to fill your own bed with straight men. To kiss and fuck straight men. Filler for your hole, because you’re not a man yourself. And to always kiss perfect strangers. To floss and smell perfect strangers. Floss your left molar and smell Tommy. In-between canine and incisor, Jake. And bits of Christopher fling onto your bathroom mirror four days after you kissed him because you only floss once a week, and you kiss a lot of men, and all the men you kiss, you kiss to replace the one who has your heart in his email inbox, the beautiful scarf-wearing inbox, the man of shyness and softness and pleather purses that sway.
And how your heart tumbles when he enters the bar! And your brain stops when he throws off his coat! You feel your panties rise with his eyelids – he’s opening his mouth to speak: Love and shyness in pink lips that glitter – but you have nothing in those panties to rise. A will to rise but no manhood for hardening. No filler for filling. And you’re unlovable with no penis. You’re incompatible. Incongruous. Instead you’re filled with everything inside of you. Full of sex and love inside of you. And shyness is fullness, a Beautiful Scarf Man once said.
And all the daydreams of gaiety with your shy man. All the fantasies of love with him, filled by him, naked together on bed sheets. And all the sleepovers in fancy pajamas. The pillow fights and giggles. Strolls with your shy man. Baths with your shy man. Bubbles and matching shower caps, lavender creams and tickles. Oh, the kisses! And the laughter! And all the pretty things you could do together! You’ll ride buses from Hamilton to Toronto, laugh at sculptures in the AGO, pretend you’re mummies in the ROM. Then you’ll walk Yorkville in matching colours, dine at Bistro 990; you’ll order the same thing wearing the same purple and you’ll laugh together happily. And when you fall asleep at night, he’ll pet your face with lace gloves because you like it. In the mornings he’ll wrap you in his satin arms and kiss you, because you like it. Every Tuesday he’ll loan you his leopard-print pants because you like them, and he knows that, and he wants to make you happy. Only ever wants to please you. And he’ll write you words that sparkle, with pens that shine, lovely songs of whimsy and passion entwined. Then on Monday nights he’ll dress in mauve tights with paisley cravat. He’ll stand below your window, your beautiful shy Romeo, and profess his love to you, sing in a soprano so high your fullness will seep into panties, run down thighs.
THE PING-PONG AFFAIR
LARRY ZOLF
She was standing on her toes. She was peeking through a transom window at dirty movies. The movies were being screened by the Manitoba Censor Board in the basement of the Manitoba Legislative Building, where I was working at a summer job. It was 1955 and I was one year away from completing my Bachelor of Arts. The calves of her legs were taut. Her flapper haircut set off a very handsome face, and her quirky curiosity set off my own. I joined her on tiptoe. The movie was Lover Boy Meets the Sex Kitten Bandit, starring no one. My calves hurt. I could stand on my toes for only a minute.
Flat-footed, I could see that the young lady had a fine figure.
“I’m Larry Zolf,” I said. “I’m the shipper’s assistant in the Department of Education. I go to United College. My majors are history and poli-sci. You?”
“I’m Patricia Legge. I’m an assistant to the Minister of Mines and Natural Resources. I’m also at United; I go to the Fort Garry campus. My majors are mathematics and physics.”
Wow. I had always hated mathematics; it was the one subject that was totally resistant to my capacity for bafflegab. I had failed it twice in high school. In fact, mathematics had helped put me in the “dummy” class – I was too stupid to take physics.
Patricia Legge. My daydream was upon me: I would become the Clarence Darrow of the 1960s, and she would be my forensic expert, my science advisor. Together, we would conquer.
But first things first.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked with a little woo on my mind.
“Sure.”
Patricia Legge was the women’s table tennis champion at the University of Manitoba. I had been taught to play ping-pong back in high school, by Holocaust children. After the Americans had liberated the concentration camps, the first items they’d brought survivors were bushels of food; second were ping-pong tables so that the survivors could play while they awaited repatriation. I had never met a teenaged camp survivor who wasn’t an absolute ping-pong shark. These survivors had taught me to play hard and fast – back apace from the table, rapid fire, constantly spiking the ball.
The next time I saw Patricia Legge, she was at her porno peephole. The flick was Hand Job to Paradise; it starred an ex-sumo wrestler.
“I hear you play a little ping-pong,” I said. “How about if I play you a game or two?”
Over the ping-pong table at the Students’ Union, I fired one spike after another at the head, shoulders and ample chest of the lovely Patricia Legge. All my spikes were quietly and quickly returned. At the end of the day, I had lost each and every game.
The race for her heart was on full tilt. I took her to museums, art galleries, impromptu campus debates (in which I starred), intramural basketball games (in which I held my own), pool halls and gambling emporia, and bowling alleys. We drank beer in the ladies and escorts section of the Bell Hotel, and visited the odd after-hours club. We went to movies, lots of them, and we did not stand on tiptoes. Au contraire.
I had not laid a finger on Patricia. I didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship. With my huge hooter and skin-and-bones body, I was no prize package. But we kissed and miracle of miracles, our teeth did not collide. Patricia Beatrice Legge put her tongue in my mouth (no one had ever done that before) and leaves fell, trees bent, sparrows fled. I was head over heels in love. Beauty had aroused the Beast. But because the pill had not yet been invented, and condoms and diaphragms were not common among the mostly uninitiated, oral sex was our delight of choice. We’d sixty-nine in the back seats of cars, in front of the legislative buildings late at night, in the last row of the Capitol and Garrick movie theatres, in the laundry room of her apartment building. We groped on elevators and escalators.
