Archibald Full Frontal, page 1
Copyright @ 2018 Kasey Goldstraw
Published by Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5S 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
“Kubla Khan” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and “And Death Shall Have No Dominion” by Dylan Thomas.
Front cover design: Daniella Postavsky
Cover image: courtesy of Shutterstock.com and Unsplash.com
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-283-3 (paperback). 978-1-77180-284-0 (epub). 978-1-77180-285-7 (Kindle).
This is the original electronic edition of Archibald Full Frontal.
For Peter and his love of cliff jumping
In the Closet
I stand in the sticky semidarkness of the laundry room. In the corner, a naked bulb flickers on and off, the chain dangling below it. A fat fly hovers in the light’s dismal orb, determined to suck out the golden, electric juice or die trying. I pray for its electrocution.
It’s the heat, I tell myself. It rained last night, but the morning freshness has disintegrated into a head-pounding humidity. I can feel the warmth seeping through my skin, baking my internal organs. Everyone is grumpy, especially Archibald. He’s been in a violent mood all morning, taking his wrath out on his beloved orchids, then hurling insults at a potted iris that has failed to bloom. To make matters worse, he cancelled his plans for lunch at a posh beachfront restaurant when he couldn’t find his favourite button-down shirt.
Instead, he has been treating me to a litany of my shortcomings: I am behind on his letters; I have forgotten to pick up his pain medication; I lost the phone messages from his publicist in Germany. I listened to him in sullen silence while my stomach juices simmered, the acrid taste of anxiety coating my tongue: his washer and dryer were on the fritz; the freezer wasn’t producing ice fast enough to chill his drink; the fan squeaked and inflamed his migraine. And so on.
I volunteered to take a load of dirties down to the communal laundry room, desperate to escape the old man and his flatulent moods. Now I regret my decision.
The buzz of the laundry machine startles me. I wipe the sweat off my neck and onto my shorts and swing open the door to extract the clothes from their scalding prison. Suddenly, a piercing pain shoots up the back of my thigh and frays out into my lower back. I scream as the paroxysm rips through me then hover over the machine, panting, trying to figure out if I have been stabbed or torn apart from the inside out.
“Everything okay in here?”
I jump, startled by the low, quiet voice, and turn towards it abruptly, kick-starting the pain. I manage to suppress another howl. I crane my head upwards. From my stooped-over position, I can just make out Sam, the building caretaker. He leans against the doorway looking annoyingly relaxed. I manage to straighten myself until I am halfway standing.
“Sure. I’m fine — I just … must have pulled something in my back.” I grit my teeth as shocks continue to shoot up my thigh, like fingernails slicing my muscles.
“You’re sure? I thought I heard a weird noise…” He is still leaning casually, his features flipping between curiosity and mild concern. He’s in his late twenties, with long hair hanging just above the shoulders, the colour of milky coffee. His T-shirt is ripped at the shoulder, and faded jeans fall over scuffed work boots. Though unremarkable overall, he is vaguely attractive, if slightly unkempt. He gives the impression that how he looks is the last thing on his mind. I feel my irritation mounting. We had had an encounter a few weeks back when Archibald’s toilet overflowed. Although he had successfully fixed the leak, he had left me to clean up all of the dirty piss-water. And I am not a dirty piss-water kind of girl. That much had become clear during my painful encounter with nursing school. As punishment, I had ignored him the last few times we bumped into each other in the halls.
“Weird noise?” I struggle to keep my voice even. Dealing with Archibald for the past month has made me paranoid: I now think that everyone is fucking with me.
“Yeah, like a sick cat moaning or—”
I make the mistake of trying to let go of the machine. “Ahh — ouch!”
“Yeah. Just like that. Let me give you a hand.” He takes a few steps towards me.
“I’ll be okay. I will be okay,” I mutter, like a denial-laced self-help mantra. I’m unused to my body being so uncooperative. At twenty-three, I have barely hiccupped into adulthood. I’m supposed to be running at full speed. “I’ll just give it a couple of minutes. Maybe it will fade.”
“You’re completely hunched over. You’re really okay?” he asks, doubtfully.
“Of course.” I try to look casual, like chatting ass-end-out is commonplace.
“Stand up, then.” He is very close, and my shorts and halter top suddenly feel inadequate under such scrutiny. I had been a modest teenager and am still trying to recover from it.
I strain and manage to pull myself up an inch or so when my back spasms vengefully. I give in to the truth. “If you must know, it’s my back. Lower back. It’s killing me.”
“Can you walk? Here. Try leaning on me.” His hands are surprisingly cool against my shoulder. He’d have to be an amphibian to be so cold down here in this hellhole. No wonder he bothers me so much.
I try to lean against him but the pain makes me dizzy. “Maybe … if I sit down,” I suggest.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Come on. I’ll take you upstairs…”
Before I can protest, he has me off the ground and is holding me, balanced in his arms, an easy weight. Maybe it’s all the manual labour, I muse. He navigates me towards the door. My mind spins frantically. I can’t face Archibald like this … he’ll never let this slide. I’ll bear the brunt of all his jokes. He loves nothing better than new material. No, I need to go somewhere else to escape him and his pronged, menacing tongue. But where?
“Not upstairs, right now…” I fish for words. “Archibald will drive me crazy. Really, just put me down.” I try to worm out of his arms, pain and all. But he grips me firmly.
“The old guy getting on your nerves, is he? We’ll just leave Archibald out of the picture then.”
He carries me through the hallway quickly. The sickly fluorescent bulbs turn the world a faded, old-photograph yellow. The basement of the apartment building is surprisingly seedy considering the rest of it is so well-maintained. I can feel his heart pulsing a rhythm against my ribcage.
“That’s right … I forgot you two get along so well,” I say bitterly. It isn’t that I want to be best friends with Archibald. He is my employer. He pays me for my company. I just want to get to a point where he doesn’t irritate the crap out of me. Meanwhile, Sam plays cards with him, voluntarily, for fun.
“We weren’t always buddies…” he says, as if hearing my accusation. He opens a door as he shifts me to one arm. My eyes adjust to a darkened hallway, much cooler than the lava pit of the laundry room.
“Where are you taking me?” He opens another door with a key from a set attached to his hip by a chain, and I’m in a small ground-floor apartment.
“My place. It was all I could think of. It’s more like a closet actually, but I like to call it home.” He puts me down on an old couch the colour of sand. The room is simple but comfortable. Black and white photographs fill the wall behind the couch. A huge bookcase covers the opposite wall. It is stacked with classics, volumes and volumes of fat, worn books.
He notices my shock and grins. “What? Are you surprised that I read?”
“No.” I collect myself. “I’m just surprised that you read so much.”
“I used to be an instructor over at the community college, and reading can come in handy.” His voice is lightly sarcastic.
“Oh.” I gulp, embarrassed. “What did you teach?”
“Introductory philosophy … until the cutbacks, that is. Humanities is always the first to get cut, and I was the new guy. Anyway, how’s your back?”
“It’s much better.” I had almost forgotten about it. “This is really nice … for a closet.”
“Thanks. Don’t move yet.” He disappears for a few seconds behind a small partition, giving me time to take a couple of deep breaths. He returns and hands me a glass of ice water. I take several grateful gulps.
“So, Archie has you doing his laundry these days, too?” he asks.
“Yep, and cleaning his toilet.” I can’t resist the dig.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He glances away for a moment. “Toilets are my least favourite part of this job.”
“I’ll bet. Thanks for … helping me out.” He crouches beside me, and I notice his eyes are hazel, chipped with yellow. “I should get going, though. Archibald will be wondering where his clothes have gone.” And teetering on the brink of a temper tantrum, I finish to myself. I attempt to sit up but am arrested by the familiar screaming twinge.
“Archibald will have to wait. You could mess your back up worse if you’re not careful. Backs can be very unforgiving.”
“Well, this has never happened before … I’m usually fine—”
“Just lie bac
“What?” I’m not used to orders, especially not of this nature.
“Lie down and roll over,” he repeats. “We should really do it on the floor, but the couch might work.”
“Do what exactly?!”
“Fix your back,” he says, as though it is completely obvious.
“Fix my back?” I look at him like he has three heads.
“Otherwise, I don’t think you’ll be walking anywhere for at least a couple of days and then Archie will pick your brains and really get to you.”
“Okay. Okay.” He has a point.
I roll over while attempting to adjust my shorts so I don’t show my underwear. My mom gave me a set of African safari underpants last Christmas. Today it’s elephants. Not cool at all. He sits still for a few moments. I can hear the sound of a clock ticking in the background and beyond that the muted noise of distant traffic.
“Is the pain shooting or stabbing?”
“Umm … it was stabbing, now it’s more … shooting. Both, I guess.” The couch smells like gingersnaps and instant noodles. I notice the carpet is brown shag.
“Above your right hip?” His voice is just above a whisper. I realize that this is what I find most irritating about him. He is always so damn calm.
“Yes. I think so,” I say, trying to work out right from left.
“I’m going to touch you. It shouldn’t hurt but I have been wrong before…” Then before I can react, I feel his palm firmly pressed against my lower back. Once, twice. Then again on my upper back. I hold my breath, trying not to gasp. His hand is running down my left thigh, like liquid energy. My head shoots up suddenly. Then the world sighs and settles into a quiet fog. “There. I think that should help, temporarily anyway.”
I turn over and sit up slowly, feeling really stoned, evaluating. “It does feel … improved. Where did you learn that?”
“It’s a technique I learned in Japan a few years ago … a kind of body work. I think your problem is probably stress related.”
“Stress related?” More like Archibald related.
“Sure. The stress of day-to-day existence can be a bitch. And if you don’t handle it, sometimes it manifests physically.”
Life lessons from a janitor, just what I need. “I’m not that stressed…” I protest, but the strain in my voice gives me away. He observes me patiently. And suddenly I am crying, tears leaking from my eyes, cooking my cheeks, dripping onto my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to stop the deluge.
“What’s wrong with me?” I gulp. What is wrong with me?
“Don’t worry … it’s just the energy work. It can have this effect. It’s good, though, you know, not to keep it all wound up.”
I wipe my face on my arm. “Why do I hate my life so much? I can’t stand it here. I’m not usually like this … I don’t usually blubber in front of complete strangers.”
“Hey, we all go through crap … Archibald can be a handful, and he gives everyone a hard time. Believe me. You’re not alone.”
“He’s the Antichrist.” My nose is running. He rifles around in the drawer of a nearby side table and hands me a tissue.
“He’s not evil. Well, maybe a little.” He smiles. “Maybe … he’s just testing you, seeing what you’re made of. Everyone has a limit. Let him know you’ve reached yours. He might surprise you.”
“And if he doesn’t listen?” I pinch my nose with the tissue.
“Then you’ll move on … to something different. You’ve got a lot going for you.” And now he is giving me a pep talk. I glance up at him trying to ascertain if he is secretly mocking me. He seems sincere, maybe even sympathetic.
Just then, there is a mechanical bleating. He pulls a pager from his pocket, giving it a cursory glance. “Duty calls. Stay here awhile, until you’re feeling better … as long as you like. I mean it.”
“Well, thanks for — thanks!” I call after him as he lets himself out.
I lie back on the couch in the quiet of the room. It’s not much bigger than Archibald’s master bedroom walk-in closet, but it feels like an oasis. A hidden place. I’ll get up in a second or two, I think without moving. My attention is drawn to the photos on the wall. They’re good. Are they Sam’s work? Was this another of his hidden talents?
All of the photos are of people. I survey one after the other: A little girl in a dress surrounded by balloons, her mouth open in a jaw-breaking yawn. A beautiful girl with dark hair leaning against a brick wall, eyes closed, face covered in despair or happiness or both. A wrinkled old woman with a baseball cap on top of her wiry curls, sitting in an alleyway, eating an ice cream cone. A baby pulling on its tongue, perplexed. Each person seems unaware of the camera, natural, in progress.
One in particular catches my attention. It’s of an elderly man dressed in a floral shirt. The face seems familiar, and then I recognize it. Archibald. On a bright summer day, sitting in a wicker chair, his head is tilted back, mouth open in unabandoned laugher, white hair ruffled as in a breeze. He looks as though he has just played an extravagant prank on someone and is fully immersed in its successful outcome. His eyes, like magnets, pull me in. They seem to issue an invitation. They promise nothing but hide everything. I find I cannot look away.
Sudden Death
I awake slowly, floating down from sleep as though cradled in the arms of an enormous, billowy feather. The first thing I notice is the smell. Books, dust, and something pleasantly musky. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? It is him, completely. I open my eyes and realize I am still in Sam’s apartment. The room is dim, the last pallid rays of light easing into darkness. How long have I been here? At least four hours, I guess. I get up and stretch cautiously. My back is almost completely better, apart from a dull ache that throbs at the base of my spine. I quietly let myself out of the apartment.
Upstairs, Archibald seems to be in a substantially better mood. He is playing cards with the Deliah sisters, two petite, elderly spinsters with tightly wound perms, and Rita, a buxom, middle-aged German whose lips are unrepentantly slathered with bright orange lipstick. Archibald takes a deep gulp from an alcoholic concoction in a tall, wide-mouthed glass.
“Well, there you are! I was beginning to think you had been captured by dingoes,” he sings cheerfully. “Good thing Sam thought to bring up my laundry.” Not requiring a response, he continues on, “We decided to have a beach party anyway, didn’t we, girls?” He squints shrewdly as he observes me. “What’s wrong with you? You look like your feng was just shuied.” He chortles his loud “Ha, ha, HA!” The twins titter sympathetically and Rita exhales a thick groaning laugh that reveals the decaying state of her lungs after several decades of chain smoking.
I pause and survey the group. The twins are wearing matching floral dresses on their teeny sparrow bodies. They are like the kindly, eccentric great aunts you imagine everyone has. Former elementary school teachers, they are vaguely encouraging in all things and go about their days cheerfully, if slightly muddled. Their only observable difference is that Edna is somewhat shorter and stouter than Dorothy, the more observant of the two. Edna is forever losing things. They live two floors down and are always baking pies and cookies for Archibald, who is delighted to accept their offerings on behalf of his insatiable sweet tooth. Rita also lives in the building. I can tell when she has been in the elevator before me. She is perpetually cocooned in a cloud of smoke and the smell of peppermint schnapps. She has attitude for miles and carries herself like the former beauty queen she claims to be, despite her less-than-glamorous present-day appearance.
I open my mouth to mumble a pathetically insincere apology, but what comes out is: “Archibald, go fuck yourself.”
Everyone, including me, freezes in silent disbelief. The twins’ mouths hang open in unison. Rita narrows her eyes and simultaneously raises a pencilled eyebrow approvingly, as if reassessing me, and Archibald looks positively dumfounded. I feel a rush of self-confidence. My sojourn in Sam’s apartment has awakened in me something strange and exhilarating.
I realize that I am done apologizing. For weeks, I have put up with Archibald’s mood swings and tantrums. I am tired of being the butt of his jokes, the straight man in his mean-spirited comedy routine. My mother, a nursing executive, had found me the job as the old man’s assistant, and I had done my best to keep it. The job and her approval, she had made clear, were inexorable. But now I had reached the end of my rope; he could fire me if he liked. I had been fired before. In fact, after dropping out of nursing school, I had been let go from a string of menial jobs. By now I should be good at it.
