The Garneau Block (27 page)

 

78

american or japanese

A
bby Weiss sat behind the steering wheel of a hybrid
SUV
. “I liked the Toyota better.”

“Listen sweetheart, you're just saying that because this one's an
SUV
. What I'm trying to get across is it's a good
SUV
.” David summoned all of his energy and prepared himself for a long afternoon. “Now sit back in that tasty leather and give this one a chance. Put your hands on the wheel. Think about how this will blend with the giant buffalo head next door.”

Abby pretended to drive. “We don't need all this space, and
the little cars are cheaper. Think of all the cows that had to die for these seats.”

“They were going to die anyway, Abby. We barbecued them in August, remember?” David hopped out of the passenger door and walked around the vehicle. A salesman with fake hair had been hovering since they walked into the showroom. For ten minutes, David had done his best to avoid eye contact. But the salesman intercepted him by the opened hood before he could reach the driver's side window, and Abby.

“She's a beauty, ain't she?”

“What's your name?”

The salesman shot his hand out so fast David thought he was about to receive a blow to the solar plexus. “Greg McPhee.”

David kept his voice quiet, so Abby wouldn't hear. “Listen, Greg McPhee, go grab a donut or something. We're buying a hybrid and I want one of yours.” He turned around to see Abby leaning her head out the driver's-side window. “My wife wants a little foreign number.”

“No, no, no.” Greg McPhee shook his head. “That'd be a
huge
mistake, sir.”

“I know, I know. But my wife's easily infuriated by a certain kind of consumerism. She won't like you at all. So how about this, Greg McPhee? If we want one of these, I'll find you.”

“If you have any questions–”

“I don't. Now beat it.”

David pretended to inspect the engine for a minute, as though he knew what was going on in there.

“Nice,” he said, “real nice,” as he sidled up to the window and Abby. “You know, I was thinking. This vehicle proves you
wrong about North America being a gas-addicted monstrosity hypnotized by multinationals. Unionized workers built this thing in Michigan.”

“Kansas, actually!” Greg McPhee handed David a brochure with a big smile. He winked at Abby. “How you doing today?”

David slapped the side of the
SUV
. “What did I just tell you?”

“I'm beating, I'm beating.” Greg McPhee hurried away to a cluster of pickups.

“Sweetheart, if we buy a Japanese car we'll just make elitists of ourselves, alienate our own people, drive them to Hemis.”

“David, please, we don't have a
people
. We're Canadians.”

“You know what I mean.”

Abby opened the truck door. “This company, all these companies, have reprehensible environmental records. Every other vehicle in this showroom is a crime against humanity.”

“But sweetheart, you have to admit…”

“I'll admit nothing.” Abby pulled the brochure out of his hands and flipped through it. She pointed at the green-power logo on the front and shook her head. “Criminals.
Criminals
.”

David leaned against a shiny pickup truck and pondered his next move. A few metres away, Greg McPhee smiled and shuffled like a nervous ballet dancer waiting for his big demiplié. David bared his teeth.

There were a few weapons in David's arsenal that he could always pull out to soften Abby. He could sing one of four songs from Joni Mitchell's
Blue
, an album that held magical sway over his wife. Its relevance in this situation, unfortunately, was wanting.

It came to him like a jolt of caffeine.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and put his hand on Abby's waist. “If we start that business together, we'll need a vehicle. The little
SUV
will carry children
and
the toys and bags and giant strollers children of this generation always seem to have.”

“So will the little cars.”

“What about poor Maddy? When she borrows the hybrid and has to carry her little bambino into the house, are we going to make her bend down? Bend down and strain those precious muscles? She's already doing this all by herself. If we're going to make her bend down like that, we might as well push her against a wall later this afternoon and punch her in the lower back.”

“You're veering into ridiculousness.”

“Let's at least take it for a test drive.”

Abby sighed and rolled her eyes. “This is stupid, David. It doesn't pass the need test. For me, it doesn't even pass the want test.”

“Greg McPhee!”

The salesman came running over, his shoes squeaking on the shiny floor. “Yes, sir?”

“Can we take one of these for a test drive?”

“You bet, sir. Ma'am. If you'll just follow me into my office here.”

David and Abby followed Greg McPhee, who walked with his toes pointed way out, to his office door. “You're gonna love 'er,” he said, as Abby signed a couple of insurance forms. “She's a real beaut.”

Aware of Abby's growing irritation, David put his index finger in front of his lips.

Greg McPhee winked and nodded.

On their way out to the car, David said into his ear, “If you say
beaut
one more time, all this is finished. We'll be driving right back to the Toyota dealership.”

“No beauts. Gotcha.”

In the lot, Greg gave Abby the keys and explained the particularities of the engine. As he did, the salesman referred to the hybrid
SUV
as a daisy, a sweetheart, a baby girl, and a little lady. Right after
little lady
, Abby dropped the keys on the concrete and walked to the Yukon.

 

79

the god of all that is good

R
aymond squeezed his bottle of Dutch beer so hard he thought it might break. Fearing humiliation, he opened his eyes and closed them again as Rajinder switched back and forth between two local television news programs. At the end of an item on obesity, the Garneau Block story began.

“In the nineteenth century,” said Raymond, next to the model in the lobby of the theatre, “the great European cities were defined by language, war, history, the industrial revolution. Edmonton is defined by singular forces today, however more subtle they may be. The boom cycle, immigration, triumph and murder and gambling and theatre, the ghosts of recent wilderness, a powerful river.”

Jonas laughed. “What a pile of bullshit, professor.”

The shot switched to a slow pan of the Garneau Block. The reporter made a lot of the fact that Raymond didn't know what actual
stuff
would go inside the buffalo head. Rajinder pointed at the television. “There is Madison. Her shiny legs in that red Japanese skirt.”

Raymond was pleased that Madison had smiled at Rajinder in the theatre. Suddenly, the patron had some enthusiasm for his project. However, Raymond was not pleased to see they had cut out the most resonant parts of his interview, when he expanded on the mythic power of buffalo and the mystery and beauty of the North Saskatchewan River. He had even quoted Gwendolyn MacEwan. After a short bout of disappointment, Raymond was stricken with the certainty that the boobs in the editing suite had laughed at him.

The university public affairs official provided his counterargument. Jonas opened a new beer. “Liar. Dirty liar. Stinking whoring greasy…do you guys think they're really planning on building a veterinary medicine centre here?”

Rajinder, in his seat again, shrugged. “Raymond and I rushed to see my friend on the board of governors this afternoon, and he confirmed it. Yes.”

“May Dean Kesterman burn, burn, burn.” Raymond imagined the burning for an instant, with a stake and some kindling underneath, the flames licking up teasingly at first and then, as the Dean screams,
inferno!
He sat back and lifted his bottle of beer. “Don't be discouraged, fellows. We'll get that cultural designation. We can convince the people of Edmonton that art and mythic power are more important than beef.”

Rajinder and Jonas looked at one another, and then at Raymond. “Fat chance,” said Jonas.

“We must argue there are better places in the city for a veterinary centre. The buffalo head house must be here.” Rajinder pointed out the window at 10 Garneau. “In this neighbourhood.”

Raymond walked to the window and looked out over the falling snow, illuminated by the street lamps. “It needs a better name than the buffalo head house.”

“I met a guy the other night called The Goo,” said Jonas.

“We can't call it The Goo.” Raymond turned and regarded his two friends in their chairs. “It needs to sound inevitable. It needs to sound as though it has existed for all time.”

“It's only a buffalo head house with a bunch of we-don't-know-yet inside,” said Jonas. “So it needs a cool name.”

“At one time, this area was a rolling sea of buffalo.” Raymond tapped his bottom lip with the neck of his beer bottle. “To have killed them all: this is the very essence of us. We are capable of philosophy and love and science yet…yet we rape and destroy. The end of buffalo, the life of Benjamin Perlitz, this is us.”

Rajinder paced the room with Raymond. “What do the Aboriginal people call their chief deity?”

“Manitou?” said Jonas. “But we can't call it Manitou, the god of all that is good. The guy who plays Manitou in the soaps is an illiterate little dope fiend. After a show he smells like the plastic wrap wieners come in. You know, that wiener juice?”

“The great spirit.” Raymond put his hand on Rajinder's shoulder. “We can call it The Great Spirit. That way it's native-y
and not-native-y all at once, urban and rural, churchy and secular. The Great Spirit says everything.”

“Yes,” said Rajinder.

They turned to Jonas. He paced a bit himself, and joined the other two men in the centre of the room. “The Great Spirit.” A truck commercial featuring splashed mud and busty young women in cut-off jeans blasted country music on the television. Jonas watched the commercial for a moment, scowled, and turned to Raymond and Rajinder. “I hate everything, and I don't hate it.”

Raymond pulled a small notepad out of his pocket and wrote:

 

THE GREAT SPIRIT

10
GARNEAU

EDMONTON, ALBERTA

CANADA

 

 

80

carlos's last stand

J
onas and Rajinder and Raymond celebrated their revelation. After drinking several beers each, it seemed important they retire to Rajinder's backyard and frolic in the new snow. Jonas
could not remember who suggested it, but at some point they drew a squared circle and engaged in a wrestling tournament with no hitting or kicking.

Fifteen seconds into the opening bout between Raymond and Rajinder, the professor called uncle and proceeded to his bedroom at the Weisses' with what he called “a severely kinked neck.”

Before he left, Raymond kissed both men on the mouth.

Raymond's sloppy kiss reminded Jonas that he was a failure with no romantic prospects. So instead of burdening Rajinder with a weepy tale of misfortune, he wiped the snow off the young Indian man and took the long way home.

Snow was romantic in a different way than rain. On a windless night with the temperature hovering around zero, after seven to nine bottles of Dutch beer, light snow and mature trees helped Jonas feel bigger than himself. In his twenties, he had often felt this way, humming, with an irresistible sort of energy.

At his best, on stage, he knew the audience plugged into this energy. Jonas also recognized, in moments of pure honesty, that his transistor was fading. New kids coming out of the university and Grant MacEwan were upstaging him. Even when the audience didn't feel it, Jonas did. And if he did not act now to get out of acting, his reliance on diminishing energy would eventually destroy him.

The long way home, from Rajinder's house, was through the alley and past the closed diner, bike shop, lounge, and travel agency. A block west to Emily Murphy's house and north to Saskatchewan Drive. The cool dampness in the air, after a warm day, brought a particular kind of fragrance to
the air. A smell that would soon hibernate until its stinky cousin arrived in March.

Jonas walked into campus and past the Arts Building where, as always, he stopped to admire the classical details and wonder why the cheap fools who built this city didn't follow its model everywhere else. His careerlessness hit him like a snort of amyl nitrate and he considered going back to school for a law degree or an
MBA
. That way, sometime before his death, Jonas might actually be able to afford one of the 1905 American Foursquare houses he passed on his way back to the Garneau Block.

In the alley, Jonas greeted two cats. One of them flopped on its back, in the snow, to receive a belly rub. He entered his backyard and noticed another, much larger creature slumped on its back in front of his door. It was convenient and soulful to live in the inner city but there were compromises, including close relations with the homeless and destitute.

As long as the man wasn't trying to ruin or steal anything, Jonas would be kind. This wasn't the first time an uninvited visitor had taken advantage of his covered back patio. The man wore a parka and lay in the fetal position, his back to Jonas.

“Okay, time to get up.” Jonas walked on to the concrete patio. “
Levántate.
”

Carlos rolled over and sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Late.” Jonas sighed and leaned on a white plastic deck chair. “Why are you sleeping in front of my door?”

“I was gonna sleep in the 'stang but then you wouldn't find me.” Carlos sniffed and hugged himself. “Were you out at the Roost tonight?”

Jonas sensed a species of jealousy in Carlos's tone. “No.”

“Where were you?”

“None of your business. Now get up. I'll make you some coffee and you can drive home.”

“You're drunk, Jonas. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Of course I'm drunk.” Jonas held his hand out.

Carlos took his hand and pulled Jonas in for an awkward embrace. It didn't last long. Jonas wanted to shake Carlos and shout at him, and he wanted to tell Carlos how miserable he had been since Halloween night. Most of all, Jonas just wanted to ask Carlos to stay with him.

Instead, Jonas said nothing.

“You don't miss me?”

“I can't.”

Carlos stepped away from Jonas. “You can't miss me or you can't be with me?”

“I just can't.”

“Why? Because I'm not gay enough?”

Jonas wanted to lift one of the terra cotta tomato planters and smash it on the concrete. If he opened his mouth, he knew what he would say. So again, despite his drunkenness, he stayed quiet.

“I love you.”

“No you don't.”

Carlos made two fists and growled. “Why do all you people have to be like this? Why does it have to be politics? Why can't it just
be
?”

“It's dishonest.”

“My feelings aren't dishonest.” Carlos pushed a plastic deck chair over. “Isn't
that
what's important?”

The saliva in Jonas's mouth had gone rancid. His heart was beating too fast and when he looked down he saw his hands were shaking.

“I'm not a bad person.” Carlos backed out from the patio into the snow. “You know I'm not.”

At that moment, Jonas teetered between kissing Carlos and shouting at him. In what he felt might be his last great performance, Jonas pretended he didn't care. Without a word, Jonas turned, opened his back door, and went inside, where he was bombarded by the mournful smell of his kitchen–two old banana peels, coffee grounds, and an unwashed fried egg pan.