The Hole

Detective Sam Kelly is in the last days of a long career. His final assignment is to investigate Joe Mackenzie’s complaint that neighbours are dumping garbage down his well. Kelly soon discovers that many locals have vanished over the years. In every case the disappearances lead back to the mysterious hole in Mackenzie’s backyard.

This is a true story based on gossip, unsubstantiated rumors, exaggeration, and the American way.

It is not about a prostitute.

It is wildly entertaining or so says Time Magazine. (About a completely different book. But they did say it.)

Its a bargain at twice the asking price. Its free.

 

 

A World Of Certainty.

I met Matthew Chambers in a cafe in a small village of Hamme, Belgium. We talked on several occasions and always I had the impression that he was a man who was being pursued. I knew not by whom. And then one day he was not at the cafe at our accustomed time. Weeks passed. No Matthew. And then one morning this manuscript appeared on my door step.

Its not the first time that I have written a book in another name. A fictional author. Distancing myself. One more place removed from the work. I didn’t invent the idea. Kierkegaard did it with Either/Or.  I’m not sure why I like it. Maybe I thought I was being clever. The Box is followed by a second book which describes the author’s life. It is called The Moron.

The Box by Matthew Chambers is a book of stories written by Matthew Chambers, a visionary. People who are obsessed with their own view of the world. I studied one. Hegel. I lived through one. Marshall McLuhan. Hitler was one. So was Warhol. They are self-absorbed. And very uncritical of their own ideas.

They live in a world of certainty. That is why they are so influential. And ultimately boring.

………………………

Here Comes the Sun

A radio woke up, blurting out a Beatles’ song into the dark room. A hand reached out from beneath the bed sheets and slapped the radio. The music stopped. A low moan slipped out from beneath the sheets. A face moved out toward the radio, nose to nose, fluorescent numbers lighting up its dreary eyes.

“Oh!” Matthew moaned. The image of an atomic blast flashed through his brain. Hiroshima!

A middle-aged man sat up in bed, his eyes squinting, hair jutting out in several directions, his pajama top misbuttoned. His hand struck out into the darkness for his glasses, its legs wrapped suggestively around a desk lamp. Putting on his glasses, Matthew Chambers pressed his nose to the clock once again. He flicked the lamp on.

“Gads!” he cried. An image of Albert Einstein smiling flashed across his mind. Event horizon.

The clock radio showed the numbers 330.

Matthew turned and nudged the other body in the bed. The body was wrapped in sheets like a mummy. There was no flesh visible.

“Mumsy,” Matthew muttered and tapped her shoulder. “Wakey wakey.”

Martha Chambers moaned and rolled over, her head peaking out of her tent. She kissed the air where she expected to find Matthew’s cheek.

“Not now, dear. Later, I promise.’

Matthew smirked. He placed his hand on his wife’s hip and shook her roughly. She moaned again, stretched, yawned and in one movement, rolled out of bed into Matthew’s robe and sleep-walked out of the room.

“I had that dream again,” Matthew spoke unaware of his wife’s departure. “I dreamed that I got lost in a dream and couldn’t wake up. It was terrifying.”

He turned and looked to see his wife’s response. When he discovered her disappearance he leaned over the bed and looked for her on the floor. Martha! He fell back on the bed.

“What am I doing up at this hour?” he cried into the darkness.

“You love me,” Martha responded from the adjoining bathroom.

“One should never marry for looks,” he cried out.

“You married me for my money,” Martha’s voice found him again.

Matthew moaned, rose up into a sitting position, his feet on the floor, and looked around the room. He felt drunk. The face of an African warrior grimaced from the cover of the National Geographic. On the warrior’s chest sat a glass. Matthew picked up the glass. Thank you. Matthew attempted to drink its contents. The glass was empty.

“What are you laughing at?” Matthew scowled, addressing the smiling warrior.

Matthew placed the glass back on the bedside table and looked for his slippers. Here kitty. Bending over, he looked under the bed. There were no slippers. His head began to swim.

“Gads!” he cried.

Standing up, Matthew was temporarily overcome by dizziness. His glasses fell off. He sat down again and reached down for his glasses. He felt nauseous. The Theory of Relativity became suddenly clear to him. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much the evening before. Climbing to his feet he tramped over to the bathroom. Cold water would feel good on his face. The door was locked. The cat rubbed up against his leg. He tried to push the animal away with his bare foot.

“Get!” he muttered.

The cat persisted.

“Are you in there, Martha?” Where else can she be?

The cat licked Matthew’s bare foot. Sandpaper. Attempting to shoe the cat away, Matthew stubbed his toe.

“Gads!” Matthew cried out, dancing around on one foot as he nursed the other with his hand.

“Are you torturing that cat again?” Martha asked.

“Where are my damn slippers?” he cried.

“I’m wearing them, dear,” Martha explained. “The floors are like ice.”

The bathroom door opened.

“Why do you insist on locking the bathroom door?” he asked as he stepped inside. “And why are you wearing my bathrobe?” Carnal images.

Martha smiled as she stood over the sink brushing her teeth.

“I didn’t want to waltz around the house half naked. Allan is at a sensitive age right now.”

Matthew stood behind his wife, examining his teeth in the mirror. Terrorist plak.

“Are they all there?” Martha asked.

“Gads! You made me lose count. I wouldn’t worry about what’s his name.”

“Your son’s name is Allan.”

Matthew smirked. “Allan is fast asleep. You couldn’t wake that kid up if a bomb was set off under his bed. Cockroaches and teenagers would survive a nuclear attack. They’d sleep through it.”

“What a dreadful thought,” Martha remarked as she washed her mouth out with a glass of water and spit it into the sink.

Matthew stepped over to the toilet and began to urinate.

“Must you make such a racket?” Martha pleaded.

“Comes with the territory,” Matthew responded.

Martha began to wash her face with a face cloth and warm water.

“Look at how low our marriage has sunk,” she said. “You no longer have any respect for my female sensitivities.”

“I could have gone in the kitchen sink,” Matthew responded. “But last night’s dishes are still there.”

Martha turned to her husband. “That is disgusting!”

Matthew shrugged as he flushed. “I thought so too, but it was your turn to wash.”

As Martha continued her toilet, Matthew removed his pajamas and stepped into the shower.

“You’re going to steam up the bathroom,” Martha said. “I won’t be able to put on my makeup.”

“Shall I take another cold shower?” he smiled.

Martha pretended to laugh and left the room. Matthew showered, dried off, and then returned to the bedroom wrapped in a towel. Martha sat at her vanity, plucking her eyebrows. Matthew winced. The Inquisition.

“Gads!” he cried. “Must you do that?”

Martha ignored her husband.

“Why do women feel compelled to mutilate themselves in order to look beautiful?”

Martha glanced at her husband in the mirror.

“What have you got on your feet?”

“Towels,” Matthew responded. “These floors are cold as…”

“What time is it,” Martha said interrupting her husband.

“Almost four,” Matthew sighed. “Do you think they’ll sacrifice a virgin?”

Without glancing at her husband, Martha responded. “You know very well they’re not going to do any such thing.”

“Can’t find one?” Matthew grinned.

Martha took a deep breath. “This is a serious religious ceremony, Matthew. The Quinn’s have been our neighbours for fifteen years and I think it’s time we accepted one of their invitations. After all, they did come to Allan’s confirmation.”

“They stood outside the church distributing religious pamphlets,” Matthew muttered under his breath.

“The Cormier’s and McSherry’s will be there,” Martha added.

Matthew mumbled as he turned to leave. “I need a drink.”

Martha looked up from the mirror. “You’re not going to walk around the house naked, are you?”

“You’ve got my bathrobe,” Matthew said in his own defense.

“Wear something else. What if the neighbours see you?”

“I’ll wave.” Matthew grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around himself and exited.

In the living room, Matthew looked out the front window. Except for the streetlights, it was pitch black. Matthew stepped over to the bar and poured himself a scotch and returned to the bedroom.

“You certainly poured yourself enough,” Martha said scornfully.

“I didn’t want to have to make a second trip.”

“Don’t get drunk,” Martha pleaded. “I thought you and Vic Genova were going to have it out at the Cormier party.”

“The guy is a hot head,” Matthew said, taking a swallow of the scotch.

“You kissed his wife!” Martha cried.

“It was New Year’s.”

“It was eight o’clock!”

Matthew shrugged and sat down on the bed. He took another drink. A few moments of silence passed. Martha brushed her hair. Matthew smiled.

“What kind of party is this going to be?” Matthew asked.

“It’s not a party,” Martha sighed. “I told you that before. And there will be no alcohol.”

“No wonder Genova’s not coming. Gads! Am I to have no fun?”

“Just relax.”

“I’ll fall asleep.”

“Cloris said,” Martha explained, “that we would begin with some chants. And there will be a march around the fire.”

“I knew there would be dancing.” Matthew smirked. “The Quinn’s love to dance.”

“Just before dawn,” Martha continued, “Everyone will kneel down on the ground and chant as the sun rises.”

“Sounds pagan.”

“Don’t be so narrow minded,” Martha said reproaching her husband. “Accept the ceremony in the ecumenical spirit.”

“Was Father Branigan invited?” Matthew asked.

“You know how conservative Father is. He’s up in arms about hot tubs. How do you think he would react to sun worship? Besides, he’d be bored.”

“Ah yes,” Matthew responded, raising his glass. “There’s no alcohol.”

Martha turned around on her stool and shook her fist at her husband. Matthew squinted his face and took another drink. His wife returned to her vanity.

“What is the appropriate attire for the ceremony? Informal or tails?”

“It’s on the chair in the corner,” Martha replied.

Matthew stepped over to the corner of the room and picked up one of the two long red robes that lay across the chair.

“Gads!” Matthew held the robe up in front of himself. “You don’t expect me to wear this? And what’s this yellow circle in the middle of it? It looks like a jersey for a Japanese bowling team.”

Martha turned around again. She looked at her husband.

“Matthew, this is important to me. Cloris really helped us out with Allan’s math. And I like her. Please don’t make a scene.”

Matthew looked at the robe and sighed. “What a man won’t do for the woman he loves.”

Martha smiled. Matthew pulled on the robe and headed for the living room. He poured himself a refill. A few moments later Martha entered the room dressed in her robe. Matthew put down his drink and took his wife in his arms.

“What are you wearing under there?” He smiled.

“If you’re a good boy,” Martha said laying a kiss on his chin, “maybe you’ll find out later.”

Matthew blushed. Martha took his hand and led him to the front door. As they opened the door, a bolt of lightning slashed open the sky. A brief moment passed before thunder shook the house. It started to rain.

Martha looked up at Matthew sadly.

“No sun,” Matthew said.

Martha sighed. “Cloris will be so disappointed.”

Matthew looked out into the downpour.

“The gods must be angry!” he said.

we did it anyways

it was a mix of motown and tseliot. dylan and the drifters. eecummings and adolf eichman. virginity and wisdom. i was angry as hell. and always knew why. i knew i was talented and not good enough. afraid of being myself. and hating hypocrisy. in short i was young. and my friends were all mad men. in our mythology. suburban kids pretending to be from the east side. we were scared out of our minds. but we did it anyways.

 

and there was a bus. and a girl left behind. buried in a coat. and the motor gearing up. falling into a seat. and feeling eternity in every breath.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

 

THE MANHATTEN PROJECT

 

god is not dead

he was merely blown up beyond all proportions/made light of

dropped into a glass of water

where he burst into a million tiny bubbles

with the hope

that he would bring fast fast fast pain relief

from historic indigestion

 

and ise eno esc ape

noe sca pe

nof ork int her oad.

 

the ad-men sit in a trance at SAM’S

ironing out their problems

business is slow

a spider is spinning his fine web of suicide across their eyes

the janitor is sweeping around their feet

lifting the left leg when necessary

lifting the right leg when necessary

the dust continues to collect

piling up history

he files it away in green plastic bags

that bleed internally

 

…

god had tired blood

he was the multiple million eyed monster (incl. cable)

with multiple million cataracts

surrounded by crow’s feet

that slipped up on him at night – sorrow stalking sleep – ambush

 

god became irregular

short of the holy breath

tired of sticking his nose in other peoples affairs

pensioned off

lost forever

swapped for ‘dialectical materialism’.

 

in the back of SAM’S the pinball machines is rigged

the ball leaping and shuddering like an orphan from pin to pin

in perfect retrospective patterns

“A thousand times i have recalled it

and a thousand times it remains the same,” smiles richard

richard bought out sam

but is now haunted by SAM’S habits

like the prisoner of a hotograph

 

ica nse eno esc ape

ica nge tno ans wer

 

the exi tsi gns pum pou tth eir neo nes cap e

RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES I

 

…

 

our psyches have been burglarised

atomised

small bugs have been planted in the mob

small boys with their fresh pink bottoms torment the frenzied thought

love became the INFORME(D)R HEART

-         who will pay the ransom ?

the barbarians are at the gate

you can hear the crowd noises .

the barbarians have been inside the gate for some time,

their standards well in hand

tapping their toes , “who are the hypocrits coming back ?

must be the lawyers dressed in black.”

SAM’S place is hopping

some sassy gals are dancing up a storm , dancing to a tune

“NO HIDING PLACE”

richard rubs his head that is beginning to swell like the

entrails of a puppet

the rest of us sit , and order , and wait

—    hoping to outlive the funeral rites

 

READ ‘CROWD NOISES’

 

 

 

 

His wife left him for another writer. One that sells life insurance.

MAKING MOVIES. Believe it or not. This book was passed around for film options. I couldn’t see it myself. First of all it was written as a television documentary. A satire on those BBC documentaries. Filled with self-importance. But as I started to write it, a lot of the satire evaporated. Into scotch. I started to like the book. As fun. The first review of the book was in the national newspaper of Canada, The Globe and Mail. And they hammered it. The reviewer said that movies weren’t made in the way I represented them. It wasn’t a manual. It was a book of fiction. The reviewer died several years later. Maybe someone reviewed his column.

You don’t have to bother reading the blurb below. Its something the publisher drums up. It doesn’t sell the book but it makes the publisher sleep better at night. I think Making Movies was the best book published the year it was born. Not that I read all the other books. I’m sure some other worthy author ran off with all the awards. But no one except him and his surviving children will remember that.

[The magic of film is recreated, taken apart, examined and lovingly satirized in an unusual work of fiction. David Halliday imagines a BBC documentary about 'the well known Canadian film maker Samuel Bremmer'. We see moments of the films themselves; we hear the words of the actors, the designers and the commentary of the director, Samuel Bremmer. The illusion of film, and how it is created against a backdrop of money problems, personality clashes, jealousies, ambitions, love and vanity. Originally published by Press Porcepic.]

………………………………………………

The Gunfight

 

1.

Around a table four men playing poker

one is a squat man close to the earth

a farmer curly red hair invisible eyebrows divided by a scar

shirt sleeves rolled up

two buttons of his shirt undone

suspenders and trousers a suit jacket hung

limply over his chair

 

to his right a small thin man spider wearing spectacles

bank teller holds his cards close

close to his eyes to make sure they aren’t counterfeit

 

to his right the gambler dressed to win

three piece suit white silk shirt shoe string tie black curly hair

a smile hidden in a wrinkled mouth

 

the fourth is a blacksmith shirt stained sweat arms burned

from the elbows down hands awkwardly large

 

anyone care for breakfast kitty the owner of the saloon smiles

behind a deep purple dress with flat mirror buttons

 

i’d rather refill my pocket the blacksmith good naturedly grins

 

how about a couple of eggs with eyes bacon with sides

coffee with cream the gambler smiles

 

what have you got the gambler asks

 

pair of aces the bank clerk greedily grins

 

beats me the farmer replies

 

ménage a trios the gambler grins while strangling his tie

 

don’t you ever lose the farmer complains

no one can be so  lucky and not own the stars

 

calm down bill the blacksmith says

restraining a yawn swallowing his eyes

 

dealing out a new round the gambler places  the deck on the table

teller and smith nibble at their cards

the farmer rises pointing at the gambler

with a gun

 

sitting calmly the gambler holds his cards with five fingers

another finger beneath the table

fondling the trigger of his gun

two bullets splinter the table and the farmer’s brain

 

the farmer’s eyes are open round in surprise

hand drops gun fires into the floor

falls back into his chair

blood spits out of his head onto his shirt

it’s a new shirt

the farmer gasps and dies.

 

SET DESIGNER: All the indoor scenes, the saloon, the house, the farm, were shot in a warehouse in Toronto. I think the place had been used to store furs or something animal… you could still smell whatever it was. Sam had to live there while we were shooting. He had to; it was his furniture that we were using as props. I don’t know how he stood the smell. He told us that at night he could hear creatures scurrying across the rafters. He wasn’t sure whether they were mice or ghosts….

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: To save money we decided to make a western. Everyone wore old clothes they’d found in attics or picked up in the ‘Sally Ann’. They were close to the clothes that people wore in the 1800’s. Fashions for the poor don’t change much over time. And the men, except for Anthony, didn’t shave. We shot many of the outdoor scenes in an old abandoned farm near Pembroke, built, I think, about the time the story is supposed to have taken place. We used some of the locals and the crew as extras. And of course with horses you don’t have to worry about the date of the model…

 

MUSIC DIRECTOR: We had some trouble with the background noise. We didn’t notice it until we started to edit, but all the indoor scenes sounded dead, hollow. Solving this was more difficult than it might seem. I had to go out and record outdoor scenes. I went into the middle of the woods. I used some very sensitive recording equipment and discovered to my dismay that it picked up the sound of my breathing. So i had to re-record by leaving the machine by itself for a few hours. And then later i discovered that part of it was ruined by the sound of an airplane. So i had to do it all over again. The third time i was again frustrated. The recorder picked up the sound of a tree falling in the woods…

 

SCREENWRITER: In the original script there was much more dialogue… which Sam managed to eliminate in many ways… either by eliminating it all together or by making it almost inaudible behind the breathing of horses, or the sound of running water or by having more than one person speak at the same time. Sam explained these changes to me by saying that we were not putting on a play. Film is visual, he said. I asked him why he didn’t do the whole thing in pantomine. He didn’t like that. Maybe that’s why we haven’t worked together since….

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: I am nothing but a bag of voices… if they leave then I am…

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: I was very pleased with the farmer’s death. I played the part of the farmer myself, not only to save money but also I think because i liked the fantasy of being killed. And then of course surviving one’s own death….

 

2.

rain falls down

a river pouring out of a cloud

 

a man on a horse approaches a farm house and dismounts

knocks at the door a woman in grey opens

the door light flows out into the rain

 

through the kitchen window is seen the rider holding his hat

the woman turning away face in her hands

veil of darkness rain and silence rain and silence

 

out the back door the rider leaves heading toward the barn

rain pours down ditches swell rain barrel overflows

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: There was no rain in the original screenplay. We shot all the indoor scenes first in Toronto while keeping an eye on the weather conditions in Pembroke. Then it occurred to me that the rain could be a fundamental part of the picture. This meant of course that we had to re-write and re-shoot some scenes. And then we had to rush up to Pembroke and hope it wouldn’t stop raining. I sent one of the crew ahead of us just to shoot the rain falling. Luckily for us, because shortly after we began to shoot the scenes on the farm the rain stopped. Looking back i think the rain shaped the film. As if the gods were smiling down upon us…

 

LESJA BROWN: I saw the woman in two lights. Both in grief and joy. Grief because suddenly she has lost something in her life. I didn’t see her grieving for her husband but for herself and her son and a future that was threatening… but also with a kind of joy that she had to repress. Her husband was a drunk and she was probably glad to be rid of him. Although she could not admit this feeling publicly or perhaps even to herself. That is shy she feels a third sensation. Guilt. How many times had she wished, dreamed of him dead… ?

 

3.

inside the barn firing a harness a young boy

lifts a hammer kissing metal

the boy dressed in overalls

a piece of straw growing out of his teeth

a lantern lit hangs from a beam

the rider enters the boy looks up

 

sheriff the boy says

billy the sheriff replies

think this rain will ever end the boy laughs

come about your pa

drunk again billy grins shaking his head

dead  the sheriff says

staring into the fire

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: I couldn’t see Sir John as a Wyatt Earp or Gary Cooper in High Noon. So I had him play the sheriff as a school crossing guard, a man fearful of violence, knowing that he could do nothing to limit or restrain it….

 

4.

graveyard funeral in pouring rain billy

stands silent his mother weeps growing smaller

blacksmith is there

the sheriff

the minister reads from a book

a couple of buckboards wait at the border with a buggy

the horses are nervous

the hole in the ground filled

with water pine box lowered floats

then sinks the woman cries

remembering that her husband couldn’t swim

 

LESJA BROWN: Almost caught my death filming this scene. It was a cold September day as I recall and I remember complaining to Sam, who just smiled and said it was all in my head. I caught a bad cold and was laid up in bed for a couple of weeks. Sam was very sweet. Sent me flowers and candies. Came to see me about every other day. He was very concerned. Sam is quite superstitious. I think that because we were shooting a funeral, he was afraid we had somehow unleashed death…

 

5.

billy and his mother returning home rain pours down

not a word spoken rain pours down

not a word spoken water rushes down sides of the road

eats the earth roots of trees lakes from ponds rivers – paths

billy wears a straw hat now bent over his ears

his mother wears a shawl around her neck

the horse wears blinkers

so it won’t panic

 

ROBERT DRAYTON: Mr. Bremmer was no help to me at all. I asked him several times what my motivation was supposed to be. How was I supposed to play this farm boy. I had never acted before and felt quite in the dark. It worried me. I couldn’t sleep and I looked it. But when I asked him anything, Mr. Bremmer would just bark at me. I’m busy, he’d say, don’t bother me now. Several times I was ready to quit. After we finished the film, Mr. Bremmer came up to me, a big grin on his face and slapped me on the

shoulder. Bobby, he said,  you were beautiful – awkward, nervous, uncomfortable – young.

 

6.

inside the farm house Billy stares into the  fire bleeding flames

his mother at the window staring into the rain

shaking

won’t it ever end

 

7.

days passed rain pours on night and day are one

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: One day we left a camera for about an hour shooting rain falling into mud, then by editing, we condensed the whole hour down to a couple of minutes….

 

8.

Billy’s mother sits at the kitchen table rubbing her hands

he came again last night came again and stood there stood there

at the end of the bed and swore I’d never sleep again never again

until his vengeance was bedded

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: The only real close-up of the picture, a close-up of Lesja’s eyes through her reflection in the window. And the rain running down the glass and her voice mixed with the sound of the rain beating. I was trying to create a mood of forlornness, of people outside the stream (excuse the pun) of history, of important events. This was the worst hardship of these people, these pioneers, the feeling that they didn’t matter… it hardened some, destroyed others….

 

9.

in the saloon the gambler sits eating his breakfast

Kitty stands looking out the saloon window

finally stopped raining she mumbles

scratching the flesh above her wrist

sit down you’re giving me indigestion the gambler barks

 

Kitty sits down

her red dress flowing over the chair

a small silver hair smothered between her breasts

 

ANTHONY WHALE: I had to lose quite a bit of weight to play the gambler, which isn’t easy when your wife is Italian. Sam’s idea. He saw the gambler as an evil character and evil, he said, must always look hungry. I thought that this was too facile. I was determined to make a gambler into a real person. My dialogue didn’t allow this so I decided I’d have to do it through gestures. I’d make the gambler appealing. Practiced my smile. Watched a lot of old Clark Gable films. Practiced grinning in the mirror each morning. Used to break up my wife. She’d laugh and laugh. Sam didn’t like the smile. In the end we compromised. I’d be able to smile if I lost thirty pounds. I lost the weight. Unfortunately my grin changed with the loss of weight on my face. My charming grin began to look wicked. Sam was very pleased with himself….

 

10.

Kitty sits

playing solitaire

read my fortune the gambler yawns

Kitty looks at the cards remains silent

the gambler grabs her wrist and bends it unnaturally

to one side

you’re hurting me Kitty cries

read the cards read the cards the gambler demands

tell me how I shall die

 

Kitty bites her lip turns over a seven

you will die a rich man

turns over a queen

choking to death

the gambler laughs so I’m to hang

they’ll have to bury a bullet in me first

 

BARBARA HARRIS: I had to learn to shuffle cards. Bought several decks. Practiced between takes. Before I was served dinner n restaurants, during a bath, first thing in the morning. Maurice gave me some tips. He seems to know something about everything. A very talented man….SAMUEL BREMMER: Our budget ran out about this time I didn’t tell anyone. Told them I had to take a few days off. A small operation, doctor’s orders. I was not specific. Everyone, to my surprise, was quite concerned. I spent the next week haranguing, begging, pleading with friends and relatives. If the film had been a flop I knew I’d end up a sales clerk, or insurance agent somewhere spending years to pay off my debts. Fortunately for me when we finished the picture and I was able (through many frustrating weeks) to get the picture distributed we broke even. Which for a Canadian film at the time was considered a tremendous success. Since then the film to my surprise and delight, has become something of an underground classic in Europe…

 

11.

sheriff enters the bar

walks over to the table where the gambler

and Kitty are playing with a cat

the farmer’s boy is outside the sheriff begins

he’s come armed

I don’t want you to draw on him.

the gambler laughs

looks down at the sheriff’s muddy boots and flips him a nickel

sheriff why don’t you go and get your boots polished.

 

SIR JOHN BIRD: There was a tremendous fight about how the picture should end. In the original screenplay, Kitty talks the gambler into not shooting the farmer’s boy because of the gambler’s love for her. We all agreed that this was not satisfactory… Little Barbara thought that somehow Kitty should be killed at the end. This isn’t television, Sammy screamed. Then Maurice suggested that the sheriff save the young boy by shooting the gambler in the back. Sammy liked the idea but he was overruled by the rest of us. It just wouldn’t sell we all argued, it’s too out of character. The sheriff is inept, impotent. All of us agreed (all of us except Sammy and Barbara) that the gambler had to die. It was poetic justice…

 

12.

a boy’s voice cries

out from the street

mr gambler I come to kill you

 

the gambler stands up checks his gun heads for the door

Kitty jumps up grabs his arm

he’s just a kid she pleads

his gun ain’t the gambler replies

 

13.

the gambler stands on the wooden sidewalk

high above the street filled with water

a sea of mud

Billy stands in the middle of the road

reaches for his gun too late

the gambler’s gun is drawn

and fixed on the boy’s heart Billy faints

into the mud the gambler’s head falls

back and laughs

 

Kitty rushes up from behind and pushes the gambler

fire his gun two bullets graze Billy’s hat

the gambler falls into the street

face first in the mud motionless

Billy remains

for a moment in the mud

am I alive he asks

14.

Kitty kneels weeping over the gambler

the sheriff lifts Billy to his feet

did I kill him the boy asks

no one killed him the sheriff responds

he was just a man who struggled to rise

finally successful he reached his level.

 

THE END

 

SAMUEL BREMMER: I’m still not satisfied with the ending. But to tell you the truth I wasn’t sure how the thing should end. I wanted an ending that showed that violence was unpredictable. It was like an explosion where everyone is its victim. My intuition told me that the gambler should kill the farm boy. This was consistent with reality. But then film is not reality. No artistic form reflects reality. And of course everyone wanted the gambler to die. So the ending was decided through democratic means…. So much for artistic integrity..

 

 

The End of Romance

This is an excerpt from my ebook Somewhere in the 1970s. Its a manuscript I found recently. Stuck in a drawer. More than 30 years old. Reading it I hardly recognize the character in the stories that is me. I don’t know what you would call it. Prose or poetry? Or some hybrid. You can download it. It won’t cost you money. But it may have an effect on your peace of mind.

…………………..

The End of Romance

 

Laughter in crowds. The functioning of glasses. A rock group called PARADISE. Throb. Throb. Throb. The instruments of flesh. Teeth rattling piano keys. Music pumped out of house plants. A Party. Internal bleeding. I held my hand to my ear and listened to the sea.

 

Ray turned to me. ‘She was the kind of chick who made you feel personally responsible for the existence of boredom.’

 

Ray is an orphan. From Greenland. Abandoned on an ice flow. Moses of the Inuit. Ray says some day he will return to the North and part the polar cap.

 

Ray loved to plunder. The dresses of beauty. And rape. The vaults of women’s bank accounts. Ray has a tattoo. It looks like a scar. Divides his left eyebrow. He claims women. Are attracted to men who look battered. Ray winked. A lamb in wolf’s clothing.

 

Another rum’n'coke. From the flash he keeps in a drawer below his heart. I was humming Handel’s Messiah. Drinking Gilbey’s Gin. Ray leaned over. ‘Have you ever been in love? Felt the blood burning in your arteries? Your eyes drifting through the day like leaves in the fall? Not me. I’m wondering if love exists. And it exists, why? Tell me Michael, what is the end of romance?’

 

Modestly. Lit up a cigarette. Tried to remember. Something clever. ‘My affair with Monica. I suppose that’s love. The word must have been invented for something.’ I tucked a smile behind an ear. And shrugged.

 

Ray laughed. A cloud of rum. Streamed out of his nose. ‘Love is just a front. To launder our desires. To make our terrible longing palatable. To see cold cream. And life insurance. And a college educate. Love is an enema. Keeps everything moving.’ Ray licked his fingers. Looked at me from beneath his eyebrows. ‘Did you ever see THE THIRD MAN with Orson Welles?’

 

Ray leaned over. A table. Touched a girl by the hair. His ring got snagged. Apologized. ‘It seems our fates have crossed.’ The girl was from Michigan. A fluorescent smile. A laugh too loud. Too many daiquiris. She said her name was Thetis. She was doing research on the possible nutritional content of seaweed. Then Ray turned to me. Muttered. ‘Do you think she’s beautiful enough?’

 

The far side. Of the room. A Chinese girl. An ultramarine see-through blouse. A mermaid. In a goldfish bowl. I set across the room. To find the mystical east. Fell into the music. With my semi-natural rhythm. A fellow with striped pants. His legs like escalators. Asked if I’d seen the exit. Felt like he’d been lost for weeks. Tapped a girl on the back. She was talking as she turned. Wished she had a dime for every man who had turned her. On. Someone backed into me. I caught a current. Drifted toward the rubber plants. Monica appeared in my arms.

 

Years ran out of her eyes. Streaked her hair with grey. Don’t grow old without me, I wanted to say. She put her hands in my back pockets. I placed each one of her ribs between two of mine. We danced. ‘I’ve got to see you alone.’ I whispered in her ear.

 

Outside the parking lot was filled. With cars. All their doors were open. The moon was yellow. Like a single headlight. The moon multiplied. In each windshield. The night was soft. I reached out for Monica. Monica stepped back. ‘Someone might be watching.’

 

Put my hands. Under her breasts. Nipples pointing through. Her silk blouse. I could feel. Her thoughts slapping me. ‘You’re doing it again.’ I apologized. ‘I’ll have a talk with my hands. Its the Algonquin in my blood. I want you back.’

 

I looked into her eyes. Tried to hold her gaze. This time I was determined. To listen. She bit off my hands. At the wrists. Stuffed them down the front of her jeans. ‘You’re addicted to the idea of love.’ I leaned back against a Studebaker. Lit up a cigarette. Felt like my feelings were being buried. Alive. A cloud passed over the moon. And then she was on me. Thrashing like a captured bird. Beating against my head and shoulders.

 

She began. I wish she hadn’t. ‘You fall apart. Just to make me feel wanted. Call out my name in your sleep. Just to make sure I’m in the directory. Want me to pump out your tears. But my right hand is cramped. Your legendary melancholy is just a trumpet. Your smile is a drum. Your life is a parade. You’re the happiest person I ever met. You don’t need me or anybody else.’

 

Closed my eyes. Concentration. This was like a quarrel between clouds. While the real world busied itself below. There was a reality that all of our melodrama chose to ignore.  The bending of the long grass. The rustling of the silverware. The dissolving of automobiles in the melting snow. The movement of eyes. In the head of a pigeon. An abandoned farm house. Moaning like a loon.  A hole wrapping its arm around. A snake. A coin passing through the mouth. Of a parking meter. A tape recorder turning. With nothing to record. This reality functions quite well without us. Invaded occasionally by those. About to die. By catastrophes and their survivors. Robinson Crusoes. Weight watchers. Monks who momentarily forget their prayers. Assassins reading People. The pope’s wet dream. God when he’s looking for company.

 

I mention this reality because. I was using it as a bulwark. Against Monica’s voice. Against her despair. Her resignation. I wanted to stop her. To scream out NO. No. No. I could feel something. Black. Gleaming. Coiling and twisting. Around my heart. I wanted to tell Monica about  our moments of beauty. Smuggling innocence into each other. Touching each other’s private. Thoughts. I could not hold on.

 

I looked up. Monica glared at me. ‘You’re just like them. You think there is some new found land to be found. Between the thighs of each new woman. The end of romance for you is a tramp moving on. I want something more permanent.’

 

My eyes grazed the ground. A bus ticket. A candy wrapper. An apple core. When I looked up Monica was gone.

 

Cold. In the distance a siren. I walked across the parking lot. Toward the bar. On the way I found Ray. Sitting in a Dodge Desoto. With the back door open. He looked at me with glassy eyes. Stoned. Ray lit up a joint. Handed it to me.

 

Ray began.

 

‘I brought that chick from Michigan out here. She gave me half a tab. She was carrying in her purse. She called it Aspirin. Big joke. Said it was a sex drug. After I undid her blouse. Lifted her dress. I plugged in. At first… same old, same old. Then she changed into Marilyn Monroe. I crawled inside her. In a hospital. She was pregnant with me. Marilyn Monroe was having a child. Me. I could smell the iodine. And fresh paint. I could hear the air conditioners. Sucking off the air. Someone screamed. Marilyn Monroe was having an abortion. Air sucked up through a tube and along a black hose. And then. I was the hose. Alive. Turning and twisting. A house. Burning. Being swallowed by a television camera. A television burning. In a million living rooms. Sending its message into a million brains. Dissolving into death. The end of romance.’

 

‘And when I slipped back into consciousness. I was by myself. In the back seat of this Desoto. My cock in my hand. And when I looked around. I saw you. Standing in the middle of the parking lot. Arguing. With someone. Except you were alone.’

 

 

 

Its like church

I was sitting in Starbucks. A group of women stepped in. There were 5 of them. In their late 40s and early 50s. I think. One was very attractive. The other women seemed pleasant. My hearing is not great. And they were on my deaf side. I was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. They were congratulating one woman. Who was getting married. She was the oldest as far as I could discern. She didn’t seem happy. Particularly. I tried to get back to my newspaper. Listening in on other people’s conversations is such a temptation. Especially to writers. The woman who was getting married seemed to be talking about logistics. If it had been men they would have rapping the new groom in the shoulder and razzing him. Usually about sex. But not these women. And they were all contributing bits of information. Each was designated a certain portion of time. Like a debate. Women are too civilized.

This is a story about urinals. They are like subways. Everyone is using the facilities. But no one talks. Its a rule. And no one smiles. Its like church.

………………………..

THE URINE SAMPLE

 

When Paul stepped into the washroom he saw the small man standing by one of the urinals. Standing there like a guard at Windsor Castle. Except that the man was too small to pass as a guard. And the urinal… it was a urinal. He smiled at Paul. Like Moses. Paul hesitated. He wanted to use the toilet but the little man had positioned himself in such a manner that this was impossible.

“I’d like to use the urinal,” Paul said.

The little man smiled, his eyes bulging behind the coke bottle glasses.

“My name is Ford Harvey,” he said reaching out with his hand. The one that was free. Or so Paul hoped. And Paul looked. At Ford’s hand. Hovering there in mid-air. It looked so helpless. Like a dishrag hanging over a leaky faucet. Paul remembered that he was an employee of the drug store and this washroom was in the drug store, next to the doctor’s office. Was it mandated that he shake Ford’s hand? He didn’t know. It was complicated. But guessed it was better to error on the side of compliance. He shook Ford’s a hand. Ford’s hands were sweating.

“I need a favor,” Ford said. His voice was low. Almost weepy. Like a mouse’s. And his tongue darted out of this mouth. Like a serpent’s. The relationship of the two metaphors was completely lost on Paul. But not to those old explorers. Whose vision of a new land. Was not lost in their eyes.

Paul stared at the little man. Like a woman. He might hand a rose. A transient joy. What kind of favor could this little man be expecting? And why would he ask a favor of a complete stranger. Not that Paul was a complete stranger. He was wearing his drug store uniform. Perhaps Ford felt that he was entitled to certain privileges with employees of the drug store. Fords were like this. Wasn’t it a Ford that shot Jesse James. In the back.

The little man reached into his pocket. Like the sun behind a cloud. Of his cashmere sweater. He produced a small plastic container. Paul recognized the container. It was one of those vessels that were handed to people. At airports. And  in doctor’s offices. For urine samples. Called European Passbooks.

The little man looked up at Paul, almost bashfully. Like a kid. Handing a dandelion. To his best girl. In grade four.

“I can’t pee,” he said.

Paul was having difficulty absorbing the weight of Ford’s request. He can’t pee. Am I supposed to offer him moral support? Perhaps he wants me to go and retrieve the doctor. Maybe he needs counselling.

“I need a urine sample,” Ford added. “It’s for my job. I’m in insurance.”

“Yes, I understand,” Paul responded though still perplexed.

“Would you fill my cup?” Ford asked.

Paul’s mouth dropped. For a moment he said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said as he recovered himself. “I thought for a moment you asked me to fill her up.”

Ford smiled politely.

“I did,” he said.

“That’s not possible,” Paul responded. “That would defeat the purpose of the whole thing, wouldn’t it? I mean, I might have some terrible disease that would show up on your chart. And they’d be dragging you to every specialist. Known to man. Trying to cure you. While there was nothing wrong. With you but me.  On the other hand, my sample might be clear of any contagions and the doctor might get the impression that you were as healthy as a horse. They shoot horses don’t they? When in reality you might have only months to live. And a miracle drug. Produced just weeks before. Might save your life if only you’d take it in the next 3 or 4 days.”

“That’s okay,” Ford said. “I’ll take my chances.”

Paul stared at the little man. He considered leaving, but he still had to go to the washroom.

“I hardly know you,” Paul said. “I mean, I don’t know you at all.”

The little man smiled and shook his head. “That’s okay.”

“No, sir.” Paul tried to laugh, to lighten the prickly situation. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mr…”

“Harvey.”

“Mr. Harvey. I don’t want to fill your vessel.”

“I have a family to feed,” the little man said.

“But, that’s not my responsibility. Maybe if you just wait.”

“I’ve been in here an hour,” the little man said. “I don’t know how long I can stay here without raising suspicions. And yours is just going down the drain. Its not like you’re going to use it.”

“Suspicions?” Paul asked.

“You know…” Ford responded then sighed. “Guys that hang around washrooms.”

“Oh,” Paul laughed and pointed at Ford. Briefly.

Ford held out the vial to Paul once more.

Exasperated Paul grabbed the plastic container and stepped toward the urinal. Nothing happened.

“You’re making me nervous,” Paul said from the urinal.

“Why?” the little man asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul responded. “But I can’t go as long as you’re standing there watching me. It’s creepy.”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Ford said.

“That’s not good enough,” Paul said. “You have to go somewhere.”

“Where?” Ford asked.

“Outside,” Paul said.

“How long?” Ford asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul responded. “When I’m finished I’ll let you know.”

The little man departed. Paul stared down at the vessel in his hands. His penis hung in his fingers. Dejected.

“Why can’t I go?” he cried.

The door of the washroom opened. A middle-aged man entered. Paul zipped up, turned and stopped him in his path.

“I have to use the urinal,” the man said.

“I wonder,” Paul began holding out the vessel, “if you could do me a favor.”

Bicycle Thieves

Our parents had just come out of a great depression and a world war. Most of their lives were described in Newspaper Headlines. And then they moved to the suburbs. What could their kids possibly get into that was as dangerous or dramatic as their own experiences growing up. My mother lived on a farm. Her father had a nervous breakdown and her mother had a physical breakdown and had to go live with her mother. My mom as a 12 year old had to take care of six kids. And a farm. My dad was pushed out of his family when he was about 15. There wasn’t enough food to go around. So he and a close friend jumped freights working for food across the country. Then joined the army. Got sent to England. And on invasion day his friend died in his arms.

It was the nineteen fifties. The suburbs. Septic tanks. Cape Cod houses. Row on row. New schools. Bullies. Mad boys. Black and white television. Aerials. Dogs running free. Pond hockey. Cigarettes. Teenage crushes. Bicycle Thieves. And death.

Read Bicycle Thieves

Made him smell them

Everyone loves to laugh at them. So it seems. On television. But not in the supermarket. And not in the local pub. At one point when my hair had grown to the middle of my back my mother was afraid that I was becoming one. Gay. She wanted me see a psychiatrist. I reminded her that Jesus had long hair. Sometimes its not worth winning an argument. One of my best friend’s brother is gay. Funniest guy you’d ever meet. Like Larry David in ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’. He was in a restaurant one time. When he went to the washroom he discovered that there was no toilet paper. Demanded to see the manager. He held his hands up to the manager’s face.  Made him smell them. And demanded to know what he was expected to do now.

This story is just about people in business together. It doesn’t matter if they’re gay or straight. Or any other arrangement. You gotta love anyone who can make you laugh.

………………………………

MOVE OVER DARLING

 

Big Bob bit down. First saw James Garner with Doris Day. Didn’t know what the attraction was. James was better looking. Doris didn’t smoke. But there was always a cigarette. On his lip and looked around. What a sight. The aisle of the drug store. All that product. Moving. As fast as it could be stocked. Maybe it wasn’t James Garner. Could have been Rock Hudson.

“Was this necessary?” Bob asked. Bob looks like Rock. Same overwhelming height. And broad shoulders. Women looked like dwarfs next to him.

Tom Payne was Bob’s friend. He was short. Like Tom Cruise. Who he looked like.

Tom and Rock. Same good looks. In different sizes. Like Macdonald’s.

Tom Payne looked at the pile of paper towels. Stacked like the Alamo. Oh look, there’s Davy Crocket up near the air conditioning. Tom winked. And stretched. Reaching for the top package. But could not. Big Bob took a two step. Put one foot in between two of Tom’s. And grabbed the package. He handed it to Tom who put it in his cart.

“Was that necessary?” Tom asked and shook the long brown hair of his wig. Was there a knot? Was there something he had forgotten. To wear. To do up. To surrender.

“You!” Big Bob tried to explain. “Dressed up like…”

Tom was dressed in a dress. Bob was miffed.

“You don’t mind me dressing up in the apartment.” Tom had his own arguments. Mostly aimed at excusing his behavior. And he was thirsty. Shopping did that to you. More than once Tom had felt on the edge of exhaustion. Should have brought a bottle of… something. Too exhausted to say what.

“That’s different.” Bob retorted. Bob was big on retorts. He’d always wanted to be a lawyer but his grade eleven marks weren’t up to snuff.

Tom looked at Bob for a moment and shook his head. Why can’t he enjoy this moment? Tom turned and grabbed a bottle of dish detergent then gestured to another stack of potato chips. Bob grabbed one, than two, of the packages.

“It’s no different,” Tom dropped the dish soap on top of the potato chips. Sure to crush them. Or make them into chicken feed. Tom checked his list again. “I think we’ve got enough cat food.”

“We should have,” Bob replied. “The cat died last month.”

Tom looked at Bob. His voice breaking. A tear ran down his cheek and slipped into his mouth. Where it hid. For the time being. Later to slide out and run down his chin.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was there to say? Hair Ball was eighteen years old. She had her day.”

Tom took a tissue out of his purse and blew his nose. God, he felt like shit. He missed Hair Ball.

“I would like to have known.”

“You hated the cat,” Bob said.

“No matter. Hair Ball was family.” Tom sniffled. “You don’t have to like family to feel close to them. You don’t understand what it means to be family. Brought up like you were. Almost an orphan. Eating food directly out of tins. Never cleaning pots. Couldn’t your father have learned to cook?”

“What else is on the list?” Bob asked impatiently. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Why do you have to rush me?” Tom shook his head. “You’re always in such a hurry. You miss so much in life if you don’t take time. All things are enjoyed slowly. That’s something else you could blame on your old man. God, did he ever take you to a ball game? A dad should take his son to a ball game.”

Tom didn’t sound like Tom Cruise. More like Tony Randall. And Bob didn’t sound like Rock Hudson. More like Tony Randall.

“This can’t be good for business,” Bob said. And wondered why he had said it. It wasn’t business they were talking about. But the argument still held some water. So Bob was reluctant to give it up.

“You’re always so worried about what other people think. You have to live for yourself, Bob. All the time we’ve been together and you never learned a thing.”

“This is so exhausting. You’re so exhausting. It’s like you’re purposely trying to drain me of my last shred of patience.”

“You’re so afraid of intimacy,” Tom said, sniffling.

“And you’re living on Hallmark cards,” Bob replied. “Our life has come down to a series of melodramas. We’ve become the stereotypical flag raging faggots. It’s too stupid!”

“At least I’ve got my feelings.” Tom wiped his nose. “What happened to you, Bob? So cold. So out of touch with your…”

“Tom, you’re dressed up… in a dress.” Bob shook his head. “People suspect that we’re a gay couple but you don’t have to rub their nose in it. You’re not going to wear that dress in the shop, are you?”

“Of course not,” Tom responded. “I have a lovely pokka-dot item that I thought was more appropriate. And cross-dressing has nothing to do with one’s sexual preferences.”

“God, Tom. Wake up. We’re running a hardware store.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Hardware!” Bob sighed. “Guys come in looking for nails, hammers, screws, don’t want to see you in a dress.”

“You don’t find me attractive?”

“I didn’t say that.” Bob took a deep breath. And looked around the drug store. “Could we have this conversation at home?”

Tom stared at Bob. And then smiled.

Actually Tom sounded just like Doris Day. And Bob like James Garner.

“Oh you little devil,” he said and smacked Bob’s hand coquettishly.

Bob glared at Tom.

“Don’t push this, Tom. I’m begging you not to push this.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Bob. You always overreact.”

“Quit dismissing me!” Bob cried.

Tom laughed and waved his fingers in Bob’s face. Bob turned and before he could stop himself, sent Tom to the floor with one blow.

Bob looked down at Tom who was out cold. His mouth dropped. He dropped to his knees and leaned over to make sure that Tom was breathing. When he discovered that he was still pushing germs out, he lay on the floor beside his friend.

“Move over darling,” he said. And fell asleep.

 

Its as if women were kryptonite

I wonder if this is a power we all have. I’m watching television. News program. (I was watching the IOWA caucus results.) And when people are talking live, I can look behind their public persona. Not just the politicians but the news commentators as well. Its uncanny the vibrations you feel. (When I looked behind Perry’s mask as his mind went blank in a debate, I saw a little boy crying from a scraped knee.) BUT when you watch a movie or anything rehearsed and taped, you can’t see anything. But live people are open books.  People at work are talking to me, and I’m peeking into their real thoughts. Or shopping. At Starbucks. This applies to almost any situation I’m in as well. Except one. When a beautiful woman is talking to me, my mind goes blank. I can’t read a thing. Its as if women were kryptonite.

This story concerns masks. That people present to the world. And one old man who has adopted a whole persona.

…………….

EVERYONE WANTS TO BE SOMEONE. ELSE

“So…” Ralph Sampson cried. Looking down. A large black man looking down. At the demure coyly decorous middle-aged man below. A small white chubby man. Ralph was standing at the top of a ladder. Like the vantage point from the crucifix. Ralph liked the view. It was strangely empowering. As if by seeing the world from such a height he could see truths. Not available to the lowland man. That’s what the astronauts must have seen. On their little skate across the sky. Ralph looked around. The top of the shelves were revealing. Nothing was added to make their appearance appealing. There was dust. Old candy wrappers, spider webs. And to Ralph’s surprise, several condoms. Used.

Ralph was packing toilet paper rolls. Like clouds in cellophane. Packed high. An adventure for customers. Who wanted to get one down. I’m trying Mildred. But they’re so high. There were of course accidents. Puff avalanches. Luckily they weren’t cartons of cola. A truth ran through Ralph’s thoughts. It’s a sin to tell a lie. And why hadn’t those astronauts rolled downhill. Like Jack and Jill.

“You call yourself the wanderer,” Ralph spoke from his perch. Like God to Moses. That’s not the decorous middle-aged man’s name. He called himself Ralph Bellamy. For the purposes of clarity, we shall call him Bellamy.

“Yes.” Bellamy replied. By the way, Bellamy looked nothing like Moses. Or the Hollywood version of Moses. Ralph Bellamy straightened out. Not his life but his bow tie. Licked a finger to wet down a rebellious group. Of hairs. That kept threatening to rise up. From the masses on his head. The proletariat of keratinous filaments.

“I got the name from a 50s song, The Wanderer. Performed by Dion and the Belmonts.” Bellamy smiled. Not expecting that the tall dark figure on top of the very long ladder would recognize the song.

“I know that song,” Ralph Sampson said. “My father used to sing it to my mother. When he decided to take his vacation. Or when he forgot something.”

“They took separate holidays,” Bellamy suggested.

Ralph Sampson shook his head.

“My mother never took a holiday. There were nine of us in the family. Someone had to stay home and pull the plow.”

“Enough said,” Bellamy responded. His chest shaking with mirth.

Ralph Sampson stepped down from the ladder. A step at a time. No point in taking chances. Of missing that simple step. Ralph’s medical coverage didn’t cover accidents. Incurred on the job. Strange clause for a pharmacy to have.

“I like to wander,” Bellamy said, his eyes glistening with excitement. “Wander around. Especially here in the drug store. Drug stores remind me of the 1950s.”

“You liked the 50s?”

“Yes. My name is Ralph Bellamy.”

Ralph Sampson looked at the little man. Bellamy smiled. Sampson smiled back. The polite thing to do. Bellamy expected the younger, taller, and recent African émigré to ask for his autograph. But Ralph Sampson had never heard of Ralph Bellamy. He had never heard of anyone else being named Ralph. It was a shock when Ralph Bellamy introduced himself. And somewhat of a let down. He thought he was unique.

“That’s nice,” Ralph Sampson responded.

There was a look of disappointment on the old man’s face.

“You really don’t know me, do you?” Bellamy asked.

Ralph Sampson shook his head.

“Should I?”

“Well, you might. Ralph Bellamy was a famous actor in the 50s. And into the 60s. Mostly in television. Not so much on the big screen.”

“So you’re famous?” Ralph Sampson asked. Ralph didn’t trust famous people. Usually their celebrity was used to relieve common people of their purses.

“Well, Ralph Bellamy was.” Bellamy blushed. “I’m wasn’t born Ralph Bellamy. My real name is Dexter Peebody. I legally changed my name to Ralph Bellamy in 1994. The second Sunday of lent.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Ralph Sampson stared at the older man. He was taller then he looked from the top of the ladder. But heavier. And there was a small almost invisible scar under his left eye. He had tried to trim his eyebrows. While he was hanging from a swing. Upside down. When he was eleven.

“People kept telling me,” Bellamy spoke, “that I looked like the actor. So I changed my name. It seemed natural. Ralph Bellamy might not even have been his name. Actors are always changing their name. Maybe there was no real person named Ralph Bellamy. Makes you think.”

The tall African nodded. This deserved a good deal of thought. Which he didn’t have time for. There was pasta to be layed out. On the shelves.

“So you took the name of a well known actor because you looked like him.” He spoke these words questioningly. But it cannot be said that it was an actual question. Since he already knew the answer.

Bellamy nodded. “You could say that. Also I love the 50s.”

“Don’t you feel lost?” Ralph Sampson took out box cutter and began to cut up the boxes that toilet paper had been delivered in. These had to be broken down, tied together and put out for garbage. For recycling. As new boxes. A version of reincarnation with the depressing small print. We shall all return as ourselves.

“Lost?” Bellamy enquired.

“Your name is out there someplace,” Ralph explained. “On a library card. Or a hospital band. A childhood notebook. But it has no owner. It’s suspended. In time. And place.”

“I…” Bellamy hesitated. He was confused. “I don’t get your meaning.”

“Your real name. Dexter Peebody. Has no home.”

Bellamy shrugged his shoulders. He still didn’t understand what the tall African was talking about. A name was just a few words. It wasn’t like he had abandoned a child.

Bellamy pointed at the ID card on Ralph’s uniform.

“We have the same first name,” he said then continued to talk without waiting to receive the clerk’s response. “Everything was so well ordered then. In the 50s. People knew their place. Now everything is in an upheaval. Maybe its all these new people coming into the country. Back then it was mostly Irish and Poles who were the underclass. Now it changes every week. People from every corner of the world. I don’t mean the world is a box.” Bellamy thought about that last statement for a moment. It was quite unnecessary. So why had he been compelled to clarify his statement about corners? Bellamy shook his head. “Look around the drug store. It’s so well organized. Just like the 50s. Everything has a place. Reminds me of the airport. Safety dictates order. Comforting don’t you think.”

Ralph Sampson looked around the shop. The little man was right about the order. But. How else could you organize a store? Ralph Sampson was beginning to believe that he and Ralph Bellamy were the opposite of soul mates. Was there a name for such a relationship?

“Why do you call yourself the wanderer?” the clerk asked.

Bellamy chuckled although it seemed to have nothing to do with the words he spoke.

“Didn’t I answer that question at the beginning of our conversation?”

The clerk nodded. “Oh yes. The 50s song. But why do you come into the drug store?”

“To think. Out there,” Ralph Bellamy’s mind drifted off into unpleasant memories of the world outside the drugstore. “Outside everything is so messy. Disorganized. Chaos rules. It’s all you can do to walk in a straight line. In here, thoughts wander through my head. Easily. It’s like church, but cleaner.” The little man straightened out his tie.

“And what thought comes to you today?” the clerk asked.

“Well,” Bellamy said looking around the aisle. “Look at that stand of toilet paper you’ve just assembled.”

The African looked at the product of his labour. “Yes. What about it?”

The little man leaned toward the tall clerk.

“Well, kind of makes you speculate on all the assholes that will be wiped by those tissues. Imagine them. Thousands of assholes. Flying around like bats. Swimming like fish in a school. All those brown little mouths sucking on tissues.”

The clerk stepped back. His face screwed up.

“Cat got your tongue?” Bellamy asked.

“That’s a very disturbing image, Mr. Bellamy.”

Bellamy laughed.

“Oh son. That’s the power of poetry.”

Ralph Sampson thought about that for several moments.

“Why would you change your name? What was wrong with your original name? Dexter Peebody. It’s not so bad. Your parents gave it to you? It’s how you were introduced into this world.” Ralph Sampson thought for a moment. “Is there something you’re trying to hide?”

Bellamy shook with laughter.

“Hide. Of course not. In the future everyone will change their name. Everyone wants to be someone. Someone famous. Changing your name gives you a jump start. Why be Joe Blow when you can be Sylvester Stallone? If you want to be rebellious and conflicted, troubled and angry, you might change your name to James Dean. Perhaps you want to be sexy but intelligent. With a streak of the melodramatic and tragic. Why, you might name yourself Marilyn Monroe. Perhaps you see yourself as enigmatic but brilliant. Einstein might be your moniker. There could be millions of Brandos. Thousands of Reagans. We will imitate our heroes. Become them. In person as well as in name.”

The clerk stared at the little man for several moments before responding.

“What happens to individuality?” he asked.

Ralph Bellamy smiled. “Why, then you become T. S. Eliot.”

Consciousness is a rumor

Trying to remember what innocence was like. Its impossible. I suppose history is against us. Every generation thinks that somewhere along the way they lost their innocence. For us it was Kennedy’s assassination. For the generation in college it was 911. For our parents it was Pearl Harbor. Or maybe The Crash. But the world has never been innocent. We’ve just been stupid.

So I’ve imposed innocence on this story. I’ve treated childhood like a cartoon. That everything is exaggerated. Or surreal. Or big. Or completely misunderstood. Sometimes I feel consciousness is a rumor.

…………..

EYE BALL

 

Little Alvin McGuire sat in his stroller. Slurping back some snot. That had rolled listlessly out of his nose. Like some primordial intelligence. Out of the froth of time. Alvin’s eyes were wide open. Shut. Open. He loved his lids. Like a saloon owner likes that swinging door. Like the massage therapist likes those tugs. Those mugs. Like the housewife adores. That brand new screen door. Flies out. Kids in. So Alvin loved his lids. The way they swung open. So blue. His eyes. Like a tropical sea. Clear as glass. That you could see through. At the Angel fish. Waxing those wings. Strutting their wares. Down Yonge Street. Carrying brightly lit bags out of fancy shops. And the sharks moving slowly in smaller and smaller circles. Pimps in Cadillacs. Fresh. Could eyes look fresh? Alvin’s did. Everything was an adventure. Inside them. Like learning a new language. New words. Pinatha. That was something. Meaning something. Alvin looked around. No one paid much attention to little Alvin sitting in his stroller. Except the eye ball. Alvin looked up at the eye ball. A monitor. Fastened to the ceiling. But not to Alvin. It was an eyeball. Was it a warning of nearby alligators? Alligators frightened Alvin. It was mostly the small warts on their snouts. And the wicked smile. Reborn something or other. Bad breath. Mostly retired car dealers. Caused from too much smoking. Or was it the presence of the Merrimack? Alvin gurgled with laughter. The eye ball above him had another eye ball inside it. A dream inside a dream. An infomercial. It was a sad eye. Dry. Itchy. A man was raising a tube above this eye ball. Could have been a gun. Was he going to blow his brains. Out. All over the pharmacy floor. Where someone would surely slip. Spend months in rehab. Alvin reached out. To the applicator. A golden drop of gob, it could have been snot, descended out of the nostril. Applicator. Slowly. Like a dance. And dipped its toe gently into the pupil. Like a flower just come to bloom, the eye changed from its desert personality to a more tropical incline. The eye ball got smaller until it fell into a face. The face smiled. Inside the monitor. Inside the eye ball. And it seemed to Alvin that the eye ball was God. That God was smiling. Alvin squirmed in his stroller. He needed some of that miracle snot. That stuff that put you in touch with the Supreme Being. He looked around. There were a lot of miracle tubes of snot on the shelves. Which one could he reach? Alvin burped. That looked good, he thought. And reached out for a package near him. There was a large word on the package. Hemorrhoid. He could not say the word. But he loved the way the h’s rhymed.