THE MALL OF HEROES – Part I

 

A Summons from the Capitol

 

A quiet drink. Some peace in the night. These were not extravagant requests after a day like today, surely. How could he spark an explosive plagiarism dispute at the Institute his colleagues wondered, since every primary and secondary digital source had been wiped almost four decades ago in the Great Crash of 2255? Every thesis and every theorem was new knowledge, they said. Original thought. Not so, the librarian had argued. There was still paper, reams of it. Admittedly, the ancient records were fragmented and often incomplete, but they constituted living, surviving proof that his fellow scholars, and indeed the Overlord himself, were not creating a new world. They were remaking it from scraps.

 

Magda reached across the table and cupped her husband’s knuckles beneath the palm of her hand. ‘Irony and futility,’ she said, ‘add up to despair.’ The librarian sunk his chin to his chest. Yes. From down the hallway a whimper whipped into a wail. Magda smiled, ‘Our “government issue” is having another hard night.’ Her husband made a noise about sipping his drink in peace. Every family on their street had just one “government issue,” a sly social joke even as scores of cats and dogs ran feral.

 

Their son’s birth followed the French letter of the law, one child per family. And Magda had had to follow the decree of the Secretary of Industry and Prosperity: males preferred (or else). She’d undergone two pre-emptive procedures before they’d gotten it right. The librarian wondered if his boy grieved his aborted sisters in some mystical way, or was it more the usual fears of a monster in the closet or underneath the bed? Difficult to know.

 

He entered the darkened room. He sat down on the edge of his son’s bed and tousled the boy’s hair. ‘It’s time to get tucked into the rocket ship and blast off to other worlds,’ he said. ‘Get ready for count down.’

 

‘Are there real rocket ships?’ the boy asked him.

 

‘There are,’ the librarian confirmed. He chuckled. ‘But they don’t work. We’ve lost the instructions. Perhaps when you’re grown up you can help fix them. And fix the country while you’re at it! Now, good night. Go to sleep. Ten, nine, eight…’

 

As he rejoined Magda in the living room there was a stern, repeated rapping at the front door. What now? And the boy trying to fall asleep. He answered the sounds. A messenger accompanied by a uniformed and armed escort confirmed the librarian’s identity before handing him a package.

 

‘What’s that?’ Magda asked him after they’d gone.

 

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. He examined the markings and the waybill. ‘It’s from the Department of the Secretary of Heritage, the Capitol.’

 

‘You’d better open it, Stefan.’

 

‘Yes, I suppose I should.’ He wondered what he had done, or more importantly, what they believed he had done. His latest published essay had appeared months ago, an arcane rumination on the great, lost library of Alexandria. There were many modern parallels, how could there not be? But what had been lost had been eventually recovered; he’d concluded his piece with a regrettable but apt cliché about hope springing eternal: surely there were worse crimes.

 

‘What would they want with an obscure academic from a second-rate school?’ Magda asked him. She was smiling.

 

‘You flatter me, darling.’

 

‘How else could a woman like me keep a hold on a man like you?’

 

‘Here, you open it and tell me what it says.’

 

‘It’s a letter bomb, isn’t it?’ Magda tore away the perforated seal and scanned the document. She covered her mouth with her fingers. She reread the document closely. ‘The Secretary of Heritage himself has invited you to the Capitol for discussions regarding the possible prominent appointment of yourself to the public service.’

 

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

 

‘It would be the pinnacle of your career. Your life’s work has been recognized by the authorities.’

 

‘I’m really sure I don’t like the sound of that.’ The librarian peered around the room. ‘Where’s my drink?’ He paced an oval around the table. ‘Still, many are called and few are chosen.’

 

She said, ‘I think you’ve been chosen.’

 

*

February is dystopian sci-fi pulp serial month at meGeoff. Today’s installment is the first of 10 parts. If you’ve read this far I hope you’ll return tomorrow for part two as I’ll post each subsequent installment daily. Last year’s story Last Chance Gas is in the February 2014 archive.

EDMONTON EXISTENTIAL

 

Of Aphorisms, Euphemisms and Bullshit

 

There was during the 90s a line of skater-punk clothing called No Fear. My friend Paul who’s generally miserable unless he’s listening to the Stranglers, riding his Harley or watching Man U on the pitch envisioned a more realistic competing brand designed exclusively for the vast majority of people: Scared Shitless.

 

Yesterday was the day of many errands. Though January in central Alberta has been alarmingly tropical, winter is still the time for interior projects as summer’s lease hath all too short a date. I’ve big plans for a portion of our basement, plans so big that someone who knew what they were doing might spend a couple of days seeing them through to fruition. But me, I have to gird to even over-think the job at hand and that process can take up to a week. I’m as plodding and potentially as useless as a Royal Commission. Still, I’d stood around in the basement doing little more than sipping a beer long enough to know that we had to hit the marketplace for crucial supplies.

 

The hardware department clerk, pardon me, retail associate, at Canadian Tire is unsure of her inventory. And tools on sale and advertised in the weekly flyer? Ain’t that peculiar. No, she herself doesn’t have a copy of the flyer, doesn’t know what’s in it, but we can get one ourselves somewhere, a pixie hand waves, over there. Lady, it’s a big fucking store; where is there? Appreciate your help. Thanks.

 

Our cashier does not exhibit any obvious passion for celebrating life in Canada. In fact, he may be the most morose member of the Canadian Tire family. Pardon me, this item’s on sale, it’s advertised in the circular. No, it’s not. It’s displayed on your centre power aisle. Go get me the sign. Dude, you sullen, mealy-mouthed little shit, we’re the customers here.

 

If our two engaged CT souls were employed by Target, they would be doomed team members. How the fuck did Target fuck up against fucking inbred competition like this!? I mean, the insane Soviet utilitarian hell of Costco is a warmer, more satisfying shopping experience. And I fucking hate Costco the way Ahab hated the whale or Khan hated Kirk or Dave Davies of the Kinks hates his brother and band leader Ray. Fuck.

 

I hate painting too. I have recently learned however that good quality house paint is worth paying for. Its application is easier and if you do a decent job, you won’t have to do it again for a long, long while. Painting requires planning and girding. We require a fresh gallon of Benjamin Moore Prairie Lily, a muted red I’d describe as ‘brick’ but I’m neither a designer nor an interior decorator. The guys and girl working the counter and mixing the paint know their product and they don’t seem to have Human Resources titles imposed upon them; I search happily in vain for an Eggshell Colour Expert Team Member Sales Associate.

 

But. The paint store just doesn’t sell paint, brushes, rollers and drop sheets. No, it also sells lifestyle. This means ceramic or stone do-dads or framed signs that read Family Friendship Love Happiness in various uplifting fonts. Are we so detached and self-absorbed that we must decorate our homes with trite reminders of fundamental human values? Don’t follow your dreams, chase them! Fuck me, there’s probably an app for this Lululemon-like motivational, inspirational bullshit.

 

Paint the sky, make it yours. Floss! If you reach the end of your rope I sincerely hope you’re dangling from a joist in your garage. May you always do what you are afraid to do. And after it all goes horribly wrong, Paul will gladly sell you a t-shirt.

HUMAN WRECKAGE

 

Doctor, My Colon

 

Oh God. There’s blood on the seat and around the rim of the bowl. There’s not enough hand and ass alcohol-based sanitizer in the world. I exit the toilet. Ann looks up at me from a row of attached chairs. Are you okay? I grimace. Ick, I need a shower. It’s Saturday night. We’re waiting on a friend in Edmonton’s downtown Royal Alexandria hospital. We’re in Emergency.

 

I sit back down beside Ann and try to ignore the round face of the big white clock keeping bedlam time. Minutes crawl over broken glass through administrated chaos. Stretcher cases line a dingy hallway. Paramedics are required to stay with their patients until a doctor is assigned the case. This could take hours. Like the harried nurses in scrubs, the EMTs are unfailingly polite and attentive even whilst ensnared in red tape, hanging around toeing the peeling lino and sipping dishwater coffee.

 

I’m reminded once again of society’s good fortune; there are many among us who don’t have jobs so much as callings. Ann says it might be a good idea if the Minister of Health sat incognito in this room for a few hours, if only to observe the outnumbered, overwhelmed and under-funded public servants in action. Good God, she’s right, as she usually is.

 

We sit. There’s no way I’m even going to touch one of the rifled and crumpled newspapers lying around. People queued in ER aren’t at their best. My stomach churns a soup of revulsion and pity. Christ, I may really need to use the toilet. This is a scary prospect, but less fearsome than a fate worse than death: meeting my maker in a place like this.

 

A uniformed peace officer outfitted with a heavy utility belt paces his circuit giving everybody a suspicious evil eye. He peers into the bathrooms. A filthy, hirsute homeless man is gently escorted to a seat near us. Is it rude to move away? A rubber gloved EMT affixes a white band around his wrist. The man begins to scratch at the unscabbed parts of his flesh. He then uses the toilet. A young woman wearing a cough mask talks to the ceiling about the electrical properties of egg yolks. She goes to the toilet twice. A young couple dressed in very stylish black, their faces bloodied, alternate clean up trips to the john. Four wasted street people come in. They occupy the four available bathrooms. They regroup and abandon one of their own who has since crashed out on a chair. Jesus. A pregnant redhead clutches her belly and looks anxious. Solidarity, sister!

 

The medieval system eventually spits our friend out unscathed. This is good, because hunched over with cramps I’m not exactly up to a great escape caper. We drive our friend home which means we’re a long, long way from ours. From the backseat he worries about his dog’s needs, the critter’s been inadvertently left alone for nearly nine hours. I can relate. Ann can’t drive fast enough.

A LONG WAY FROM MANY PLACES

 

A Rainy Night on West Georgia

 

An old friend once remarked, ‘There’s nothing like a visit to Vancouver to remind you that where you live sucks.’ This is especially true if you’ve just arrived from Edmonton in January. The saturating coastal rains imbue the entire city with a mossy hue. Pansies bloom in gardens and window boxes, the lawns and cedars are a rich British racing green. The encircling mountains are a radiant white, the fir trees on their slopes a cloak of indistinct dark velvet.

 

Impractical fashions course through this Pacific urban jungle. If Edmontonians dressed in Robson Street rags the result would be haute mode hypothermia. In Brown’s I examine a pair of what seem to be hi-top running shoes with gold fasteners: $1360.00 or $680 a foot. Very tasteful, they’d go nicely with a pair of M.C. Hammer sultan pants. Meanwhile, beggars hunched in hoodies in the downpour hunker on their haunches along the sidewalks facing the storefronts, their backs splashed by passing tires. Many have dogs. Shaggy men rifle the garbage cans and recycling bins, cigarette stubs clamped between their lips. Everybody else in the streets appears to be talking to themselves. They’re either attached to some discreet digital device or completely deranged. A twilight drive along East Hastings into Railtown offers a glimpse of an apocalyptic aftermath. It’s embarrassing and shameful to gawp at the milling, wretched throng of the addicted and infected but impossible to look away. There but for the grace of God…

 

My past couple of visits to the city had been mostly business, press checking art gallery catalogues. It’s good to be back without obligations even if our stay is brief as we’re just passing through en route to the provincial capital. There’s a record store in Vancouver we’d hoped to visit after reading about it in the Edmonton Journal, but foolishly I never did make a note of its name which may or may nor contain the word ‘Red.’ That’s all right; we’ve already planned to poke our noses into The Turntable in Victoria’s Fan Tan Alley.

 

Our hotel is situated at the west end of Robson, a themed place attached to a modern art gallery. It does not have a decent bar. That’s okay; Ann wants to walk some turf familiar to her anyway. We stroll down Denman Street to English Bay Beach. We trace the seawall until we reach Pacific Street. From there we wander uphill from the viscous water and the moored boats into Davie Village. I keep pausing at the windows of pubs and bars we pass: the Montreal Canadiens are playing Columbus but even with my glasses on I can’t make out the score on the flat screen TVs. Ann suggests we take a load off. No. We must push on to Granville Street, my turf.

 

I love the ancient two-storey theatre signs. I get a weird kick loitering outside the entrance of the Commodore Ballroom; it’s not 2120 South Michigan Avenue, but, wow. I want to eat dodgy schwarma, pizza wedges and hot dogs. I want to buy a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt I wouldn’t be caught dead in. Some sort of surgical steel facial, nipple or scrotal piercing seems like a good idea. Maybe a tattoo of a rainbow unicorn with frilly Japanese anime eyes surrounded by barbed wire with a dagger and my mother’s given name on an unfurling ribbon. Transit cables sway in the wind and the rain above Granville Street, a certain magic hovers an inch or two above the wires.

 

We retire to my second favourite Vancouver haunt, Doolin’s on Nelson. The Habs aren’t on the TV but we order pints regardless, mainly because I know from past experience that the pub’s toilets are immaculate and private; the stall doors go from floor to ceiling. As my old friend might say, ‘They’re like a home game.’ Indeed, travel to a familiar place provides its own peculiar rewards and relief.

 

The Lennox at the corner of Robson is our next stop. The Canadiens are on TV. We manage space for two at the bar. Ann takes a stool, I stand sideways. If I lived in Vancouver, I’d live here a lot. I look around the room for Rob, the dean of The Delete Bin music blog (link bottom right), wishing our fates had collided on this day. We first met over pints in this joint about a dozen years ago. There’s no reason for him to be here now. Besides, our own pre-ferry schedule is unscripted and I’d no desire to contact Rob with mere vague ifs and maybes. Habs win. Cheers, man.

 

We exit the pub to sirens and red strobe lights. A man lies still, comatose on the sidewalk. The police officers are bemused; the EMTs hopeful. He seems dead to me. We light cigarettes and walk away into the silver rain. Five or six more blocks of tragedy and credit card luxury to traverse before we’ll reach the shelter of our hotel room and close the curtains on the view.