Читать книгу Anxious Gravity - Jeff Wells - Страница 9

Dou an’ me, Gideon,” my grandmother wheezed between slurps of her gin and tonic when I asked for a subscription to TV Guide for my 13th birth-day, “we’re different than them others, eh?” Them others, I understood, were my father and mother — a pair of old-school Trotskyites with little time for capitalist eye candy. Until, that is, my Mom hitched a ride with Jimmy Swaggart on the ever-metaphorical Road to Damascus, and Dad suddenly couldn’t get enough of Canadian football.

From my bowel’s first untoward movement (a scherzo, I’m told, conducted against a heavily-scored volume of Deutcher’s The Prophet Armed), to the Sunday morning she flew away from us to live for a time with her sister in Birmingham — and particularly from the moment of my mother’s conversion from Marx (and my father) to Christ — my grandmother and I had been a Grand Alliance of non-aligned souls. Her tiny sitting room down the stairs, always stinking of potpourri and a smoking picture tube, was the one place in the house I could rest in peace. It was the free space in my Game of Life; out of bounds for parents trying to raise my consciousness about the fall of Allende, and later, the resurrection of the dead. When my parents fought, I preferred Nanny’s room to my own because it was usually the furthest removed from their state of permanent revolution, and the volume on her Zenith console was always cranked up so she’d have a shot at following her “stories.” And since she’d often fall asleep while I was visiting, I was often left in my own company. I usually watched her television.

I started seeing a lot more of her the spring that Nixon resigned, after an old classmate of my mom’s, someone with whom she’d long been out of touch, invited her to a Swaggart crusade at the CNE Coliseum. I remember the days before, the anxious lines on my father’s face. Attendance, he argued, was “anti-revolutionary,” and he offered to picket the rally with her in protest. (“What’s wrong with us?” he whined. “We don’t go to the barricades like we used to.”) My mother confessed she’d always sort of enjoyed Swaggart’s singing voice and why shouldn’t she go and what was he afraid of, anyway?

He should have had his reason, ever since Mom accepted his proposal with, allegedly, an off-handed “What the hell?” It embarrassed me, even as an adolescent, to hear them tell that story. I knew even then that considering marriage demanded a tad more gravitas.

Dad used to say Mom looked like a vanilla sundae in her wedding dress. The wedding photos are more dulled than his memories; Mom looks like two modest scoops poured into a caramel-coloured sugar cone. A tiny smile plays with the corner of her lips that could have meant I love you or I can’t believe we’re doing this. They tied their slipknot in Calgary, for the benefit of his parents and a Jasper honeymoon.

While she was out, my father found time to watch SWAT with me. He even asked my grandmother to come up and join us, which was unusual, as he typically coped with her presence downstairs by embracing her upstairs’ absence. She declined. She was happy to be left alone with her gin and imported sweets once I’d told her there was a Sanford and Son listed she hadn’t seen.

It’s one in the morning and I’m Barney Rubble. I’m walking through a scene with the Great Gazoo when Flintstone stumbles onto the set, refreshed after happy hour at the lodge, and promptly knocks me out with his lunch (Bronto ribs, naturally). When I come to, Fred’s doubled over me, blubbering his “bosom buddy, life-long pal” routine, but I’m in no mood for that. I look up, from his toes that swell like ripening grapefruit to the shiny tips of his starched black hair, and tell him I’m one pissed Cro-Magnon. “Don’t fuck with me, Flintstone!” Gazoo whispers something to Wilma that makes her laugh (What’s going on between those two, anyway?), and I wish Betty were here. I awake with a start to an argument between voices I barely recognise. Mom and Dad.

The next morning when mother shook me awake for school, she said with a tremulous smile and gooey red eyes that she had died to the world; Christ had made her a new creation. She’d been renovated, she said; “What yesterday had been an abandoned flop house has become a temple of the living God!” I didn’t have a clue what she meant, but I knew enough to be scared.

Dad was mortified. God had never been an issue for him. He’d always taken his disbelief on faith, and would have presumed the Road to Damascus to be nothing but a hoary Crosby/Hope comedy. But once his wife was born again he became a student of atheism to turn her head and trust her heart would follow. “Jesus was a good man,” he’d say. “A revolutionary, even. But to believe everything in the Bible! That the world’s 6,000 years old …” Mom would begin by smiling indulgently, quoting the latest Scripture she’d committed to memory, but often wound up screaming that he was going to Hell and she wouldn’t be held responsible for it. It was times like these that I’d decide it was time to visit Nanny

“A man forced his pig and it died,” she’d often say without elaboration, once I’d settle into her musty, lemon sofa beside a bowl of calcified fruit drops. I never knew what she was talking about. I was just glad to be there, out of the reach of old Phil Ochs LPs or a gospel “translated into the idiom of today’s youth” my folks would try to fob off with a promising, “close your eyes and hold out your hands.” Unlike my bedroom, which could only be locked from the outside (though thank Christ it never was), my grandmother’s basement suite was an inviolate demilitarised zone.

Tabula rasa and erasa; we were different than them others. Faith, secular and religious, was rolling snake eyes throughout my adolescence, as it was for my grandmother ever since she’d heard her son had fallen from Heaven. I got a boost from my grandmother’s cranky disbelief — it helped me say “Thanks, but no thanks” whenever I felt pressed to choose sides.

We didn’t talk much, even when she was awake. She might ask what they were fighting about now, or if there was anything good on. If we tuned into a rerun of Bewitched boasting “that bloody bugger,” the second Dick, she’d likely mutter some Edwardian imprecation of quaint gibberish, ask me to pour her another g&t, “there’s a good lad,” and keep watching until she fell asleep. We were more comfortable watching bad television than was good for someone of either our ages; certainly far more than my folks, what with their educating the masses and, later, my mother’s preparing the way of the Lord, and all.

Nanny left for England when I was 14, but I felt 5 that morning at Terminal One; red-eyed and clutching a bag of licorice all sorts she’d bought for me, not knowing when I’d see her again.

Less than six months later — around the time of the Mayaguez incident — my parents split up. One evening, while Dad was recounting the problems jiving the chronologies of the synoptic Gospels, she walked out and into her old classmate’s apartment. All she’d taken was her Bible and tampons; four days later she returned with her friend for the rest of her things. A month later she had a rented bungalow and I went too, because everyone expected that of me.

Left with scant sanctuary from my mothers grasping faith — not to mention my roaring antipathy towards her for the meltdown of our nuclear family — my father’s politics suddenly seemed a liberal, inviting alternative. Though weekly Mom would cajole me into joining her for Pastor Vern Filmore’s three-point, 40-minute sermons, I slowly began to cultivate a secret life of subversion that I thought would make my old man swell like the Red Flag seized by an eastern gale.

It began with my Radio Shack short-wave radio — an old, didactic gift from my father to wean me from American television. I’d hardly used it before, but within a month of moving out I’d graduated from the white noise of the police band and was regularly tuning in to Radio Peking. I spent hours, some evenings, twiddling the dial for gossip from Mao’s China. The Great Helmsman was still alive then, and the news was intoxicating and strange. I toyed with my geometry homework while listening to reports of campaigns to educate the masses by the examples of exemplary peasants. I hummed along with the heroic operas of the Long March, celebrated the weeding out of capitalist roaders, and nodded sagely to the warnings against Brezhnevian revisionist hegemonism. Occasionally I’d listen to Havana and Hanoi and, on rare nights, quite late when I wasn’t masturbating to the grainy memory of my science teacher’s panties when she crossed her legs on a classroom stool (“why Mrs Pocaradi, I had no idea…!”), I’d pick up a weak English transmission from Albania. It sounded as distant as Alpha Centauri.

It was 1975: Nixon was gone, Angola was free and we could still believe that Pol Pot meant well.

I embraced communism only when my Mom no longer approved, so it felt properly wicked and delicious. She found me out on account of my having requested a programming guide from Radio Peking. One late afternoon after soccer practice, I clopped home in muddy cleats to find her sitting at our kitchen table clutching my mail from the People’s Republic. The rice paper envelope had been slit and resealed in a clear plastic pouch stamped with the mark of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “What will the mailman think?” I remember her moaning.

She didn’t know what to make of me. Her bilious self-assurance that it was “just a phase” only encouraged further acts of civil disobedience. I took down my Guess Who posters and entered my period of socialist realism. Agitprop collages with block red caps began popping up. “SOLIDARITY WITH THE WORKERS AND PEASANTS OF SOUTH YEMEN!” wheezed one. “USA OUT OF NORTH AMERICA!” another bawled. My bedroom was a Marxist Magic Kingdom where I could liberate Alaska and deliberate with my fantasy cabinet. (Minister of Finance, Milton Acorn? My eyes watered at the thought.)

I wasn’t surprised — though I was surprisingly hurt — when upon my 15th birthday, upon the counsel of Pastor Filmore, Mom chose to trust the Lord for my soul and let me live with my father, who had decided he wouldn’t mind having a little fellow traveller around the house.

I didn’t mind, either. It was good to sniff about the only place that had smelled like home to me.

It stank of solidarity forever.

To credit my father, my nascent Maoism was never much of an issue to him, even though, down to his Troskyite bones, I was committing egregious heresy. He dismissed it, largely, as youthful ignorance and overzealousness; something I would undoubtedly outgrow given the right literature and emotional muzak. After all, I was only fifteen, and discounting an hour spent on the American side of the Falls six years before, I’d never left the province. How could I be expected to appreciate the vanguard role of the urban proletariat or be on guard against the Stalinist fallacy of socialism in one country, let alone know the essentially reactionary nature of the petty land-owning peasant masses? Besides, he seemed honestly happy as hell to have his son back.

At this time, I was working after school and on Saturdays in a musty shoe store on Mount Pleasant Avenue. It was where I had my first close encounter with a woman’s privates.

Mylo’s Discount Shoes typically drew mature women smelling of mothballs and perms, searching out sensible shoes to fit their insensate feet. Our shop specialized in the hard-luck cases: the women the chains wouldn’t look at once if given the chance, who had bunions like hazelnuts but still wanted to cha-cha-cha. There was a sense of mission about Mylo’s that I picked up naturally. If these hobbled souls had faith enough to brave the smouldering cigarette butts, the pools of bitters piss and rotweiller excreta of our store front, then I wanted to be able to tell them with confidence, “Take up thy bed and walk.” Mylo’s was the problem foot’s Hail Mary, and I saw us — sometimes — as miracle workers, helping our customers make it to the grave on their own two legs. Other times, the Great Commission meant nothing more than 20% off the top. Mylo’s served no men, and few women below pensionable age, so when a slender, late-20s beauty with a close-cropped black bob strolled in, bare-legged in two-inch heels, a black skirt and red halter that clung to her with sweat, she did not go unnoticed

I may have just turned 16, but I had a cock that, like a colicky babe, cried hysterically for attention every half hour. She smiled at me; I blushed and twisted awkwardly to hide the bold new crease in my pants.

With me in the store were Barry Myron, grandson of the “My” in “Mylo,” who was working his way through a degree in endocrinology, and Nick Granakis, the thick-lipped, pooch-faced assistant manager who had been selling shoes since he’d left the Greek army half his fifty years before. The three of us were occupied with other customers, but Barry and Nick began to rush their sales, each hoping to be the one to serve her. She just browsed, occasionally scratching the back of her neck and smirking in the mirrors at nothing in particular.

Nick beat us to her, but the woman was still “just looking.” Barry was so distracted that he fit a left walking shoe on a decrepit regular’s swollen right. (She liked it, however, and eventually bought two pair.) My customer finally strolled, and when I asked the dark-haired beauty if I could help she promptly smiled again, sat down and stretched a leg between mine. “Fit me for a pump,” she sighed. I found a foot scale and crouched before her. When I dared to look between her legs, I saw she wasn’t wearing any panties. Omigodomigodomigod: the first live, naked girlie-equipment of my life.

I might have shown her a dozen shoes but I wasn’t counting, or even giving much thought to what I showed her. The store’s selection, by design, wasn’t sexy, but with each fitting I’d hold her higher on the back of her calf, letting my hand slide slowly over the contour of her heel as I’d slip it into the shoe. She stayed long enough for the crowd to thin, and through much of it Barry and Nick sat staring at us, whispering to each other and shaking their heads. Eventually Nick left, looking clammy and agitated, for his usual lunch across the street at Mr Submarine, and Barry muttered he was going downstairs to “rotate stock.” We were alone, and couldn’t be seen from the doorway or windows thanks to a rack of canvas sandals reduced to clear.

I licked my lips and looked again between her legs. Did she know? Of course she did. Her carnal smile bearing down on me said she did. But nothing like this had happened to me before. Could I trust my good fortune? I wanted to let my tongue trace her salty, soft leg till I found the sticky sweetness where one thigh met the other, but I was still afraid the moment I stuck out my tongue for her she’d run screaming for the cops. (It didn’t even occur to me that she might get in trouble too, for corrupting the morals of a youth.) Pussy lips practically in my face, sweetly singing “Come on-a my place,” but I wasn’t convinced one hundred percent that they were singing to me.

Barry bounded up the stairs, looking noticeably more relaxed, and the woman soon said sorry, but we had nothing she wanted, and was gone. She couldn’t have been in the store for more than 30 minutes, but it was enough to imprint a new erotic ideal upon my id. Until then, busty, big-lipped vixens with Farrah-hair had cavorted in my night-sweats. Now, it was time for slender, leggy brunettes from the Louise Brooks’ School of Sexual Pathology to assume the lion’s share of my fantasy life.

I happened to see her agin a couple of months later when she came by to see Steve Loeb, son of the founding “Lo” in “Mylo,” my boss and, COINCIDENTALLY, her husband She smiled at me in passing, an unspoken admission of something shared, but there was no carnal spark. Still, I blushed and twisted at the waist again. I found a job closer to home soon after and never saw either Loeb again, nor discovered if he had known of or even planned her adventure. I didn’t think so at the time, but now I’m not so sure Now, as an adult, I know what we’re capable of suggesting.

And even though it had come a bit late, and I’d balked at loosening the final ribbon, it was a hell of a birthday present for a 16 year old. She’d given me the perfect gift: a story to tell back to myself when no one else could hear

My father’s small, radical clique of disaffected ex-NDP Wafflers and Spartacus League die-hards came and went, drinking acrid coffee ground from the beans of Honduran coops and bitching about Trudeau’s wage and price controls. They’d suffered a big blow when the Yanks fled Saigon, and now numbered in the low severals. Before mothers conversion my Dad had begun to think them ludicrous. By the time I returned home, he had become their leading light. I supposed he was warming to desperate causes.

With the tenacity of pubescence I began to find the life of a teenage communist a hard thing. Were the Beatles right? Would I really not make it with anyone, anyhow? When, one evening, my father showed more interest in defending the suppression of the Krondstadt Rebellion than in the score of my soccer game, even when I’d been prepared to lie that I’d scored the winning goal, I quietly decided enough’s enough. Behind my bedroom door, under the ferrous gaze of Che, I called Mom and told her I was interested in her church’s summer youth retreat. Her jaw must have hung slack and dumb at the news, as though she were about to receive the body and the blood.

“You’re not having me on, are you?”

“No, no. Might be a nice change. For a change.”

“Well then, praise God!” Unintentionally, it seemed I’d answered a prayer. “A boy your age needs some fun. Not to mention food and fellowship.” She giggled, nearly hysterical. “The three f’s!”

Hanging up I turned on the radio, switching the band from short wave to AM, dialling away from Radio Tiraña and tuning into CHUM’s Top 30. I pulled something by Isaac Asimov out from beneath a collection of Mao’s poetry, stretched back upon the bed and fell asleep to Paul McCartney and Wings.

Why doncha listen t’what the man said?