Poster Boy (15 page)

It was pretty distracting. Stoner stuff.

I told her I refused to go back to school because the walls were filled with asbestos and they sold cancer foods in their vending machines. (I had practiced things I could say.) I listed the many ways, from toothpaste to car exhaust, soap to drywall, that we were poisoning ourselves in the name of progress. And pointed out that people were getting rich making toxic stuff that was killing people, fish and whatever else. The government not doing dick about it.

I talked a lot about Maggie, made it sound like she could die any second and even got choked up a little. I was determined, I told her, to show people that we could live without polluting.

I was pretty pumped watching her scribble on her pad of paper quoting me. Thought I sounded damn smart, too. Dad, I bet, was going to feel different after seeing this article. I mean, somebody thought what I was doing was important enough to write about, didn't they?

“What would you recommend to people? Product wise.”

“Stay away from anything with ingredients you can't pronounce.”

Harry sneered, which I think was her way of smiling, then asked if they knew specifically what caused Maggie's cancer.

“I'm still trying to sort that out. I mean, it's not like her friends at school have it or any of the neighbor kids. They're all exposed to the same crap.”

Though Harry looked just as depressed as when she arrived, she said she was really happy with the interview. And that she would send me two free copies of the magazine when it came out.

I had to ask her why she smoked when it was so carcinogenic.

“I hate myself,” she answered flatly, took a last puff and dropped the butt to grind under her boot.

Oddly enough, the local rag came around the next day, even took my picture. And then a couple of days later, while I was cleaning the mold off the hothouse windows, some environmental magazine called
E
showed up. The guy drove an electric scooter and wore “fiber-friendly” clothing, as he called it. He was into “waking people up to their toxic lives,” and he made me feel like some sort of hero. When I asked how he'd heard about me, he said a friend of his at Solar Enterprises had passed on my story.

“Really? Does that mean they might give me some free panels and stuff?”

“I can't say for sure, but my friend's pushing for you.”

“Cool.”

He left me a couple of their mags, then sadly got nailed by Clarence (front of the knee) as he was putting on his helmet. It made him stumble and nearly fall over his scooter.

After the guy left, I went back to cleaning the greenhouse windows. I pictured the article being posted on the school bulletin board. Imagined Ciel seeing it.

* * *

Before I biked home on Saturday, I filled my two jugs with water, nabbed a bucket of compost and went to feed Davis's girls.

Judging by how green and bushy they were, they were loving their new forest home. Anything had to be better than Davis's desk cabinet. I swear they were a lot bigger already but maybe that was because they had room to spread out. I tossed some compost around their stalks and gave them a good drenching.

First thing I did when I got home was to check MSN. I'd decided on the bike home that it was okay to use my computer to not only do research but to check my mail. Because what if some journalist was trying to track me down?

I was kind of hoping there'd be something from Ciel but there wasn't.

* * *

My weekend was spent babysitting Maggie because Mom was off doing a weekend conference called “Cancer and the Food We Eat” and Dad was in Chicago giving a paper. So it was just Maggie and me. I showed her my shot of the skunks which had come out well.

Then, though I'd already heard most of it, I let her read her finished science fair report to me. Monday was the start of the fair. Maggie was too tired to go herself so Mom had worked it out that she would take the project over and Maggie's science teacher would present it to the judges.

That night I called Davis and begged him to come over. To give babysitting more dimension, he arrived with some weed and we blazed on the back porch. Back inside, we played cards with Maggie for awhile and then watched a movie together. Mom had bought some organic “treats” to help satisfy Maggie's junk-food cravings. We ate organic popcorn with flax oil instead of butter and gummi bears made from fruit juice and seaweed. Being stoned, anything tasted good. Davis and I both drank pomegranate juice with Maggie. That actually tasted really good.

I wasn't that interested in the movie and kept stealing glances at Maggie.

I didn't think it was my stoned imagination. I truly think she was looking stronger. And the tumors didn't seem as noticeable. Maybe the steps Mom and I had taken were finally making a difference. She was getting better slowly but surely.

Doctors didn't know everything after all. Dad would have to choke on his words when Maggie recovered. I pictured him bowing at my feet.

After the movie, I took a bunch of pictures of Maggie and Davis making goofy faces together. Davis got Maggie to laugh a lot. Laughing led her to have a coughing fit but I didn't worry about it because I remembered hearing somewhere that laughing was healing. Besides, how sick could she be if she could still laugh?

It hit me how much stronger I felt since living and working on the farm. If Maggie could live there, she'd get better even faster.

19
Boo Yeah

Pushing a hand tiller up the potato field, I hit another rock. Thinking of how I owned Dad over the weekend, I heaved that rock up the hill into the woods.

Two of those articles on me had come out and on the weekend I'd arrived home to a pile of letters supporting my cause and asking my advice. Mom was hyper-proud, and even Dad had to admit I was “making a difference for some people.”

I'd even gotten a letter from Ciel, sort of, but really it was from the E-Club at school. They'd written the school board demanding that asbestos be removed from the walls and healthier stuff be put into the vending machines. They sent me a copy of the letter, Ciel's name one of eight who'd signed at the bottom. It had to be her who brought me up to the club. Who else?

Though it had taken up most of my weekend, I answered each letter. Some, like me, had family or friends fighting cancer. Some had cancer themselves. One woman thanked me for trying to “clean up this country's cancer minefield.” That was a pretty dice image and I thought I'd use it in my next interview.

My shovel hit another rock. I pried it up, tossed it on the pile.

Maggie had won a blue ribbon for her science project. We had a celebration dinner and Mom gave in to Dad and cooked Maggie's favorite meal, though the ribs were from un-medicated cows and the potatoes and peas organic.

I finished tilling the last row and could tell by where the sun hung in the sky that it was near quitting time. I was covered in sweat. I needed a shower. Which meant I had to decide whether to stand under a freezing-cold hose or jump in the pond. Because I used non-toxic soaps, the D.s didn't mind me washing in their pond, which had warmed up with the weather.

I was digging out my shampoo when I heard Litze's throaty growl down by the barn. Some girl in sunglasses was pointing at the dog and backing up. She was saying something to Mr. D. that I couldn't hear.

I had a crazy thought that it was Ciel. That she'd come to apologize.

I squinted to see better. Brown hair, thin. Litze came wagging over to her, his massive head bowed for a pat. She didn't pat him. Then Mr. D. said something and pointed in my direction.

My stomach seemed to jump up and bang into my throat. God, I looked like shit and smelled even worse. I'd taken off my shirt but grabbed it again. It stank worse than me. Did I even have any clean shirts? I had purposely stopped taking laundry home on the weekends to prove I didn't need modern conveniences. Had been meaning to hand-wash stuff in the outdoor sink and hang it out but…

Another dog growl and a guy — with two heads? – was coming up the path. No, a black box was perched on his shoulder. A camera?

I could see now it wasn't Ciel. The woman and camera guy continued up the path and I saw Clarence sneak out from behind the workshop. The woman screamed as he nailed the back of her knee. Ouch. He hopped in the air, then toddled off. The woman rubbed her leg and said something to the camera head.

I settled back on my stump to watch them pick their way up the dirt path.

The woman finally saw me.

“Graydon? Graydon Fallon?” she called out before stumbling on a rock. The camera which had been aimed at her now panned up to me.

Was he actually filming? I nodded and raised my hand.

Definitely not Ciel, this woman was thirty-something and, as she shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head, heavily made-up. She smelled of perfume. What I thought was a black brooch of some kind on her blouse was actually a microphone.

I was either going to be on television or in some movie.

I combed a hand through my sweat-slick hair.

“So nice to finally meet you.” Her voice was loud. She extended her hand. A monarch butterfly floated up and landed on her left hip. She didn't even notice.

“I am so impressed with what you're trying to do, young man. My name's Cynthia and this is Greg. We're from the nightly news.” Greg peeked his very bald head out from behind the camera just long enough to lean forward and shake my hand. Cynthia's handshake was twice as firm as Greg's.

“So I guess you're a Swiss Family Robinson fan?” she said and, not waiting for an answer (which would have been no), walked right past me to peer into my net house.

“Is that thing on?” I asked, pointing at the camera. She didn't answer, nor did Greg. I was wondering if he could talk at all.

“Uh, I was just going to – ” I began and Cynthia whipped around and thrust a large black phallus-shaped microphone in my face. “Uh, wash up a bit, put on a clean shirt.” Relatively clean, I hoped.

“And where do you do your washing up?” she asked.

“Well, either under the hose or in the pond.”

“Oh, will you do the pond for us? That would be just great.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you bring soap? Shampoo?”

“Uh, I'll use this stuff for both — ” I held up my bottle.

“You don't make your own soap?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed.

I went into my tent and grabbed a towel. I needed to put on my bathing suit but since a TV camera was right outside my see-through house, this meant going down to the outhouse.

“I'm just going to go down to the outhouse and — ”

“There's an outhouse?”

They followed me to the outhouse, Cynthia describing everything she saw for the camera. Then they followed me down to the pond. She had me doing a kind of James-Bond-emerging-from-the-water thing several times in a row. They filmed me toweling off and hanging stuff on my laundry line.

When I said I needed to go back to the outhouse to get dressed, she asked if I'd do it in the tent instead.

“We'll turn our backs until you've got your boxers on. The light through the netting will make for a nice shot, wouldn't you say, Greg?”

Greg's camera nodded.

Once I was dressed, she had me sit on my stump and then asked what products I'd recommend people using. I didn't want to repeat what I'd already said in other interviews so I said, “Generally you could think about it this way. Our skin is our biggest and most porous organ. So if you wouldn't put it in your mouth, don't put it on your skin. Because it's no different. So unless you'd roll your scented antiperspirant on your tongue, don't roll it under your arms.”

She gave me a big nod and a smile.

I let them film me collecting eggs and picking lettuce greens for dinner. “The yolk of the Daskaloffs' eggs is a deep orange color, not that pale yellow you get from factory chickens. And they taste totally better.”

I picked some strawberries, which I offered to them with some homemade dandelion tea. I topped up our tea cups with a dandelion flower for effect. Cynthia liked that, as I figured she would, her camera man zooming in on her cup.

She asked her questions and I did my best to answer them. When she asked my philosophy on life, I thought of Maggie's science project. I said that I thought people needed to appreciate life more and quit trying to improve it all the time. That nature couldn't be improved on. I told her about this Japanese scientist's (I couldn't remember his name) experiments with water crystals and the G2L equation. I was going to give Maggie the credit but Cynthia looked so impressed that I didn't bother. Didn't think Maggie would mind.

“I guess you'd call yourself a pretty clean liver?”

“Well, I'm underage so can't drink. I don't drive. I stay away from processed food. And I don't smoke.”

She raised her thinly plucked eyebrows, held a pretend joint to her lips.

“No, not that, either,” I said. Was she trying to get me arrested or something?

“He doesn't smoke, do drugs, eat junk food, drink or pollute the planet,” she said.

“Don't make me out to be some perfect guy,” I said, not wanting to come off as some kind of suck.

“Perfection is what the people want,” she said with a sideways smile. “I mean, perfection is also what you want, right?”

“Well, you have to admit it's criminal what we're doing to ourselves. The modern world's a cancer minefield.”

She didn't appreciate that one as much as I thought she would.

“How long do you think you'll keep this up?”

“It's a lifestyle change, so I guess forever.”

“You can't live in this tent forever, Gray,” she said. “Winter's not going to go away.”

“No, I'll need more of a shelter at some point.” I recalled reading something about a bale house in that
E
magazine the guy left me. “I'm considering building a bale house.”