She grew up in Powell River. Her mother passed too early. Addiction smothered her brother dead in small room with a door that wouldn’t lock, filled with needles and cockroaches on Vancouver’s downtown East side. Her father hung on a while longer. She cooked his meals and paid the bills when work was no longer possible.

 

It starts the same way every day. “Bruce!” she will yell into the house that has always been much too big for them; bought by her daughter with the broken promise of seeing their grandchildren more.

“Bruce!” she will shout again from her ‘office’ – the spot on the end of the couch that she will occupy most of the day; where she will receive her coffee, nap, watch the talking heads on TV and vehemently refuse to acknowledge that her favorite ‘gal’ on Canada AM is gay.

“Bruuuuuuuuuuuuce!!” she will holler again, “Where arrrrrrre youuuuu?”

I am the banana too long in the bowl.

The punchline too long in the telling.

I am Monday’s meatloaf, this week? last week?, rescued from the back of the fridge.

I am the muddy patch of march snow under the pine tree in the back yard; peed on and half-eaten by the dog.

I am the flat glass of forgotten Prosecco.

The rusty chain of the bicycle that was bought on the promise to be rode.

I am the long pause after the first “I love you” –

the deafening silence…

It is bright red, the colour of a meraschino cherry floating in the bourbon and bitters of a perfectly crafted old fashioned. The hood hides a 360 cubic inch, 5.9 litre, straight-line V8. The trunk is large enough to hold three bodies. It is a 2-door, 1984 Buick Regal with a white roof and bench seats. It will become the only vehicle in which you have ever fallen asleep while driving.

You drive across the bridge that connects the highway to the city. Your apartment is not far from the place where the bridge ends. It is 6:30 and autumn and dark. Your jeans have the acrid smell of the chemicals used to etch designs into the glass of the shower doors. The tops of your steel toe boots are scuffed from where you rest the panes of glass before you transition them to the assembly table.

You are in the middle of the span. Traffic is moving slowly. You lower your window some, then all way the way, hoping that the fresh air will provide bracing relief from the weariness leadening your bones. You turn the music up, way up. If you knew the lyrics you would sing; sing every single word at the top of your lungs.

All you have to do is make to the end of the bridge. Do that and you are home free. You take your left hand off the wheel, rub your face and slap your cheeks “wake up” you say out loud. You don’t feel any less tired that you did two minutes ago. It feels like time is standing still. You have barely moved.

You are not aware of the moment when your levator palpebrae superioris, the muscles we have to retract our eyelids, fail to do so. You are not aware of the moment your brain stopped thinking about the motion of the car; stopped communicating instructions to your body about speed, breaking and steering; stopped caring about gravity, inertia, kinetic energy and friction; about counteracting the the centrifugal force that is tugging you into the lane of oncoming traffic.

You are not aware of the moment your brain began to wonder if you are home, left home, going home? If it is a work day or the weekend or day of the week where you don’t have to work? And then the image of the tree on the front lawn of the apartment building. The one that never grows any leaves. And then the image of a bird. A bird with blue feathers. A bird you have never seen before. It looks like a blue jay although you are almost certain that it is not, as you have never heard of a sighting this far West. It lands on one of the branches of the tree. As you look closer at it you notice that it has no eyes. In fact, as far as you can tell there aren’t any places on its head where it’s eyes once were. It turns its head toward you and opens its beak slightly. Whoa, what? No way, you say out loud. It cannot be! The birds teeth are small and sharp and crooked and yellow. How is this possible? And as you mind desperately tries to rationalize beak and teeth together in an eyeless creature, it launches itself at you. A blur of beating wings and rough dry feathers and two rows of fangs sinking into your neck.

You wake with a scream. Wrench the car back into your own lane.

Your heart beats loud in your ears. Your mouth is a desert.

Feeling nauseous and sweaty and cold you exit off the bridge onto a side street. You park in the first spot you can find, despite the sign on the pole that reads “no standing”. You walk the 5 blocks to your apartment which feels like 50 miles – uphill.

After passing out on the couch with all your clothes on you will wake at 10:30, hungry as hell. “Subway. Wednesday. Meatball sub special” are the next three thoughts that will arrive. You grab your keys from the bowl one the little shelf by the door.

Standing on the cobblestone walk that leads to the front door of your building you will look for the Regal to be parked in the spot that you usually occupy, the one directly under the branches of the tree that never grows leaves. Not finding it there, your eyes will dart up the block and then down in search of paint the colour of a fake cherry or a roof that is stark white as amnesia. After checking your neck and finding no evidence of puncture woulds, it will occur to you that you have no idea where you left the car.

You remember the way the seats in the green Dodge Dart burned the back of your thighs in the summer. You remember your sweat and brother sweat and parent sweat and dog sweat; one endless pant as hour upon hour you drove through the Dakota Badlands on an August day in a vehicle with no conditioning.

You remember how on the way back from practice, or the grocery store, or a friends place, you would always find yourself at the start of the long straight road by the university. The one that ran adjacent the forest and had no stoplights for miles. You remember the feel of gas peddle underfoot, the slow creep of the speedometer, the curiosity to see if you could really do 100, and the determination to find out. You remember the way the steering wheel would quake and the entire car would siezure trying to tear itself apart as you approached 80; the protest howl of the engine as you passed 90.

You remember that moment of inattention, that split second after you parked and opened the drivers door. Your intention of exiting the vehicle temporarily suspended as you reach to retrieve the rental documents for the goalie gear in the trunk. The stretch of your arm causes your body to shift ever so slightly; ever so imperceptibly away from the outer edge of the drivers seat, toward the center of the car and away from 3000 pounds of Ford Mustang that smashes the door head on, severs one of its hinges clean in two, mangles the other beyond recognition. Its momentum launches the driver’s side door onto the hood of the Dodge.

Your remember the dirt roads by the cabin on the lake where you first learned to drive. You would see people riding horses, crossing from one back country trail to the next. Pickup trucks with beds piled high with lumber, or straw, or gravel pass you fast as you struggle to keep the rubber of your tires in contact with the muddy road. Sometimes you steer straight on the straights and slightly turn the wheel to round the corners. Other times you drift off track, too far over, ride high up on the rolling mounds of earth, the edges of fields with waist high grasses and wild lilac and groves of poplar trees – unsure which way to turn the wheel. No idea how to find the road again.

You remember the ride home. Up the hill and then down from yet another easter-christmas-thanksgiving-long weekend-birthday get together with the cousins. Quiet in the back seat you listen to your parents assessment of the evening.  And you wish more than anything that he would just speak his mind, call “bull shit!”, say things like “fuck no!” and “hell ya!” right there at the dining room table in front of everyone.

They start with a stretch. Their shoes squeak on the gym floor.  “Move your knees! High! High! High! Keep them up. Now, kick the butt. All the way there then back. Good, next big step and twist, big step and twist. Good, on the line. Face this way. Quick feet up and down. Go! When I say sprint, we sprint. Fast there. Fast back. Got it! Sprint!”

“All right, nice job1 Bring it in. All of you in!. Let’s go!”

The boys take a knee. Coach lays out the way the day is going to go. They get in their teams: Red, Blue, Green and Gold.

“Green plays Red. Blue plays plays Gold. You know where to go. Let’s have some fun!”

They bounce the ball fast, up the court and then down.  Jump shot from the top of the key. Hit the rim. Bounce out of bounds. At the far end of the court, the Green team sets a pick. The guard opts not to use and drives to basket. He scores!

Blue team takes the ball up the floor. “Here, here, here!” yell the boys in the blue bibs. They wave their arms high and fast, hands spread wide. A pass. Chest height. Then one more to low post. A kid who is pound for pound one of the best on the floor but too short or any kind of real ball.

Gold bounce then hold then bounce ball once more. Can’t do that. Ref blows the play dead.

Time for Blue to put the ball back into play. A steal at mid court. Gold finds his man, a kid who can score, he does – points on the board.

Green takes it down court. Try a field goal. He makes it! All the folks nod at the good work. The kid and the coach high five as he walks back to the his bench. To sit and catch his breath and watch his team try and close the point spread. The game still well within reach. A good shot and few more and they could win this game.

A bounce pass too low to catch. Blue gets to put in the ball. The loud smack of skin on skin. Foul! One shot!

There are the ones who are made to do this. The ones who are built for this game at their core. These boys were born with this game in their blood. They have the gift. Where it came form no one knows. They shoot the the ball with so much ease, with what seems like no thought at all. They know where they are, where the rest of their team is, and where the net is all at the same time, all the time. They deak in and out of the key. They keep their head up when they are close to the net. They make the right pass. They jump and twirl and block and run and pick and move with no seams, no gaps at all. They are the ones who move quick and smooth; the ones who let the ball fly and turn to play D when it is still on route to the net, sure it will go in.

The rest of the boys have to grind. They miss shots. Call for the pass in the wrong spot. Get rid of the ball too soon. Hold the ball for too long. Trip on their feet. Fail to see the play. Are not sure where to be.  Give the ball up to the other team. Sit on the bench. Wish they were some place, any place else.

 

You are long and tall and sliver thin. Appeared one day unannounced. As surely you will disappear one day soon.

It will start like any other day. The morning will  be neither too hot nor too cold. I will leave the house not too early and not too late. I will park, buy coffee and walk the cobblestones to front door of the building.

The foyer will seem darker than usual, though the outside light will be unremarkable for this hour of the day. It will seem quieter in a way that I can’t quite identify. And as I wait for the elevator ‘s regular slowness, I will realize that you are gone.

Not a trace of you left behind.

I will try to remember what ear you tucked your hair behind as you walked the halls so fluid and soundless and smooth; the shape of your words, their texture as they formed on your lips; the way your palm felt as we shook hands.

“Claire,” you said.

But strive as I might, I will not be able to remember one single thing.

And standing alone in the elevator slowly making its way to the fourth floor, I will begin to suspect that perhaps you were never really here at all.

It’s storm season. The best time to be here. On clear days there is just horizon, vast and unending until the shores of Japan. But not today. Not today or tomorrow or the day after that. In fact, for weeks until spring will be all roil and smash, hurl and tumult, wind and squall, thunder and lightening and rage.

You buy rain gear at the supply store in town. It’s yellow and heavy and rubber; old school. She looks like she has been wearing it her whole life. Your sleeves don’t quite reach your wrists and your pants end some distance from your ankles.

On the beach hidden amongst the driftwood are large glass weights, translucent green and the size of grapefruits, used to keep the nets down; bright orange buoys, the kind flung over deck, protection of dock from haul and haul from dock; pieces of thick rope, knotted and oily; eagle feathers, black and white and grey, long and light and stiff; so sharp at the point of the hollow shaft that you are sure you could write with it.

Hundreds of bull kelp strewn about the sand. Large bulbous heads attached to impossibly long tapered tails.

Migration.

As if in mid voyage, an inexplicable urge; an electrical pulse of confusion blazes through their neurons causing them to

change course.

Tails whipping through the water; gliding in the slipstream of their brothers and sisters; the current pushing them fast through the dark sea. Some primal flaw convincing “this way to the breeding grounds”.

Their momentum carries them far up on shore. Sharp rocks gouge and tear their smooth bodies. Landfall sucks oxygen from their lungs.

They die on a beach, a hundred miles from any kind of help. Where on a clear day you can see most of the way to Japan.

You haven’t ever contemplated the sky at 2am in your backyard while you wait for the dog to go pee. However, at other times, you certainly have. Sitting on the patio chairs that you and your wife moved out from the patio enclosure so you could be closer to the acres and acres of grape vines. The lights of the cars visible as they drove to and fro on the country roads; one and then after along while, another. The dry grass cut short and prickly underfoot. The drone of the cicadas crescendoing, then falling and stopping; a brief respite before starting all over again.

The wine bottle within easy reach, tucked neatly between the chair legs. And the sky. Now dark. Stars just starting to announce themselves. You feel yourself breath. Long deep breaths. The kind that are true and genuine; the kind you feel like you has been holding in for months.

You wonder how this is possible. This oasis; this haven, this sanctuary to which you have sought refuge. Only two hours ago you were in the city. Only two hours ago you were encased in concrete and glass and one-way roads and construction which suffocates life to a standstill. The city where you only see pieces of sky:

cerulean with wisps of ivory clouds from the backyard

blazing lavender sunsets from the office

an austere cobalt, bright and sharp as knife’s blade as you drive to work.

Separate pieces, as if they are clues to a whole so awesome, so unfathomable that you are not able or not allowed to view due to your inability to comprehend.

And you live with this arrangement, the tacit understanding that you will only ever have one parcel; one expression of the infinite possibility of the sky. You try your best not to think about it. Because when you do, your chest tightens and your breath gets shallower as you stuff your yearning to be enveloped by the edge-less impossible expanse, deep, deep down.

On the days when you can’t do it fast enough; when you can’t quash this feeling, a scream that you can no longer contain barrels out of your lungs and hurls itself out of your mouth. Exhausted, you topple backwards onto the cool grass, face up at your turquoise allotment and squeeze you eyes shut; as tight as you can.

He listened to one of his newly discovered podcasts as he drove home from work in the snow. This one was called Levar Burton reads. The premise of the show is that Levar Burton, the actor, perhaps best known for playing Geordi La Forge in Star Trek, will every week pick a piece of short fiction that he enjoys, and then will read it. There is no relationship or connective tissue between the stories, other than the fact that he enjoys them.

This is the first episode that he has downloaded. If someone will ask him how he came to discover this podcast, he doubts that he could come up with any kind of an answer. Although forever a story fan and an enthusiast of language in general; this isn’t the kind of podcast that he naturally gravitates to. The ones that he mostly listens to when driving to and from work, to and from swimming lessons, to and from baseball practice, to and form playdates and the groceryt store and dropping the Nanny at the subway, on the nighs when he and his wife would have a cocktail or two after work at the Keg in the middle of the week; the podcasts that he would listen to during these times were political podcasts: slate’s Trumpcast, NPR politics, and VOX The Wees, the Ezra Klein show, and of course, perhaps his favorite one of all: The Axe Files with David Axelrod. And although he still listens to these he finds himself struggling with the relevance and up-to-dateness of the content. They always seem forever behind since most of the new editions come out on Thursday afternoon, and having to wait a whole week to hear about a conversation about the crazy that happens what seems like everyday, he has decided is not the best way to stay relevant, contemportary and up-to-speed. So he made the switch to fiction; narratives that are timeless, enduring, and can always teach us something about ourselves, no matter when they were written he thought.

Lavar Burton reads is actually his second foray into audible literature. He had heard on CBC, while randomly listening to a show in the middle of the afternoon, the kind of show he wasn’t even aware existed, a conversation about podcasts. There was a women whose name he did not recognize. Her voice was not like a newcasters voice, it was high and lilting and full of curiousity.  She talking to her co-host, a name and voice that he recognized immediately as the host of the national morning show. At the end of a conversation about a totally unrelated matter, the woman mentioned a podcast that she was fond of called The Paris Review. She said it was smart and well produced and definitely worth a listen.  He knew of The Paris Review literary publication. He knew it published essays and poems and short fiction and literary critque; he assumed the podcast must be the same sort of thing.

He easily found it on Apple Itunes and downloaded 2 episodes. Just in case that the first one was not up to his liking, he could quickly tee up he second one that may be more his style; that may make him laugh out loud in the car like a crazy person, or stretch a smile across his cheeks, or make his throat constrict ever so slightly with sorrow, or make him take pause and think  ‘that is so fucking great!’ after hearing a line, put together so sublimely; that sucked the breath write out of him, and left him thinking as his lungs refilled with air; if her will ever write a sentence that was half that good.

The Paris Review podcast differed somewhat from what he thought it may be like. There was music, a theme song, that played loud and prominently at first but then faded into the background when a womens voice announced the agenda for the show. Famous actors read the stories and soundtracks were added to enhance the sense of place for the listener; for instance, in one part of a story there was a scene that took place in a universty cafeteria and noises from the canteen played in the background; placing you right there beside them in line.

He liked the first story that he heard, it was titled GOD. It was written by Benjamin Nugent. The actor, Jesse Eisenberg, gave voice to the protagonist. The setting was a university Frat house. It examined the nature of the relationships formed in house and  and the event that took place that would sever these bonds of brotherhood.

After the story there was a commercial for audio books. Then, as the women’t voice had promised before the break, there was poetry. The poem was by John Ashbury. An original recording reading before a live audience. Before the recording played, the narrator commented that Mr. Ashbury wrote poems influenced by abstract expressionism, a movement of painting that focused on “nonrepresentational methods of picturing reality”. In other words, she said, he wrote poems the way that Jackson Pollack painted. She said that it wasn’t for everyone, but those that could get past this method of creating had a wonderful treasure store for them. And then he started to read. It was an old recording and he sounded quite far away, even though he was probably  standing right beside the mike. Even before Mr.Ashbury had started, in fact, at somep oint after after the first story and before the poem, he knew that he was hooked; that this will become one of his go to pod casts; that he will download 3 episodes at a time; quickly filling up whatever memory space his phone has left.

When it had finished, after she had given credit to all the folks who helped make the episode, he had planned to listen to the rest of the story.  The story that Levar Burton is reading. But he searched he podcast library on his phone he realized that he had one not-yet-listened-to political podcast waiting for his attention; forty five minutes with David Axelrod. David’s guest for the episode was Whoopi Goldberg. He was intrigued. She wasn’t like most of the guests that Mr. Axelrode invited on the show. No, she certainly was not. Most of the people who sit in that chair are governers and senators, congressman and house minority leaders, press secretarys and secretarys of state from past administrations. He pressed play.

During the conversation he learned that her real name was Caryn Elaine Johnson; that sher grew up in the projects in Chelsea; that she is dyslexic and she dropped out of high school; that she has one daughter; that she is one of the few actors who has an Emmy, Grammy, Tony and an Oscar. In fact, she was at the time, only the second black actress in history to win an Oscar! He learned that she refers to the current president as “the big man” or ‘the man upstairs” or the “big boss in charge” and refuses to acknowledge him by his proper name and title. Perhaps its disgust, maybe a protest of non-recognition, a refusal to validate?

After the Axe Files had ended and David had thanked Whoopi for the conversation; the jazz music played signaling the end of the podcast. Its also the same jazz music that starts every episode. And as he listened he always wonders the same thing, is it it part of a song that he could buy on Itunes, and if it is, is the rest of the song as good as this one little piece, or is it one of those songs you have to wait out just to hear this hook? And if it was a song and not a bespoke tune for the show, could he buy it a-la-carte or would he have to purchase an entire album to acquire it. Anyway he liked the way it made him feel: lighter, a little bit brainer, alive, as if he was somehow, just the tiniest amount, farther ahead.

He was stopped. The light was red. He was the third car back and decided it was an opportune time to check back in with Levar Burton. He resumed listening to the story at the same place he had left it. There 6 minutes and 4 seconds left. Lola, the protagonist is driving home from the bowling alley when she thinks she spies the teenager who had broken into her appartment; who had urinated in her toilet and not flushed; who had eaten all of her bananas, and most importantly – stolen her prize bowling ball which cost $140 and its bag which she paid $10 to have her name custom embroidered.

He hit play.

Six minutes and 4 seconds later found him halfway up the connector. It was snowing noticibly harder than when he had left and traffic was moving slower than usual. The story ended with Lola confronting the teenager in the Quickie Mart at the gas station. After several attempts to get her ball back and being rebuked every time, she decides to take the action of rolling her bowling ball down the aisle at him as if he were a recently set pin. That was how the story ended.

After Levar Burton had finished, there was a moment of silence before he shard his analysis of the story. Mr. Burton remarked on the way that Lola had come alive; fully realized the person that she is; an awareness that was only learned after the death of her husband. He reflected that this is common, particularly amongst couples that have been married a long time. He shared the insight that he felt that his mother, who had recently passed, was in some ways sinilar to Lola. That her reason for being, discovered in later life, was to spread lightness and joy.

He had reached the top of the connector and had made the turn onto the road which he lived. It was full of snow. The plow had not yet been by. People had put their recycling and organic waste bins, in the designated blue and green containers, by the curb for collection in the morning.

He thought about John Ashbury, his words crackling, hissing, popping, forever preserved, a digital fossil to be unearthed and examined and displayed and enjoyed time and time and time again.

He thought about Caryn/Whoopi; her rise out of the projects; her overcoming dyslexia; her multitude of recognitions for all the beauty she’s put into the world.

But more than anything he thought about Lola and the crazy amount of courage it took to find herself, to admit to her true being and foster it and live it and love it when her whole world had seemingly been taken away.

He pulled into the drive way. The truck rising over the bank of snow. He pressed the gas and the vehicle shimmied from side to side, lurched forward, before its tires stopped gaining purchase, sinking deep in the snow.

Tomorrow he will walk the dog, feed the dog, make breakfasts, pack lunches, put library books in backpacks, drive to morning basketball practice, work, walk the dog, review homework, drive to evening baseball practice, put on pajamas, brush teeth, read bedtime stories, organize gym clothes, and walk the dog.

Fuck ya, he will!