Archibald Full Frontal, page 3
His first book, an erotic thriller called Red Lizard Inn, was about a man who hires a hit man to murder his wife and then falls in love with the hit man. Despite its initially lukewarm critical response, he followed it up with three more moderately successful mystery novels. Red Lizard Inn became a cult hit in the seventies when it was turned into an off-off-Broadway play, making Archibald something of a celebrity. He took up residence in New York for a handful of years where he wrote the play, Burnt Iris, Burnt Life, which chronicled the demise of a modern-day marriage. When it didn’t receive the recognition he had hoped for, he abandoned his theatrical hopes again and travelled extensively through Europe and Asia. He found himself in Myanmar (then Burma), where he joined a Buddhist monastery for a time, until he had an epiphany that “the West was the new East,” or something like that. Reading between the lines, though, it sounded like austere monastic life did not agree with him. “Those cold stone floors gave me hemorrhoids … and the snakes.” He shuddered. “Only a cruel God could make such a venomous creature so silent.” He packed up and settled down in West Vancouver, which was just about as far west as you could get, in Canada at least.
His apartment, like him, is an eclectic if unusual study of conflicting styles, which somehow create a pleasant fusion. It is open and airy with hardwood floors and large windows and an enormous balcony with a small, enclosed hothouse on one end. Much of the interior furniture was picked up on his travels in India and Asia. An overstuffed Roman-style couch sits on top of a Persian rug; the end tables are teak, carved in the shape of elephants. Jasmine incense burns continually throughout the room, giving it an exotic spicy scent.
Although the rooms are large, they are brimming with knick-knacks. Several Buddhas sit regally in front of the fireplace, watching silently. He has an entire cabinet in the dining room dedicated to Hindu love statues. His office is the only sparsely furnished room in the house. A desk sits up against a large window, and the other wall is occupied by a large bookcase, and there is always a vase of red roses on the desk to inspire him as he writes. But this room is off limits to visitors and even me, unless he asks for me specifically.
Archibald hosts weekly “tea parties” during which any number of people stop by. The Deliah twins are regulars, as are a few other neighbours in the building. Sometimes an author friend or two shows up. There is also usually Leo, a historical biographer, good-natured, plump and balding with greyish skin, shrouded in the smell of pipe tobacco and B.O. A party typically begins with tea and ends with something stronger and a gang of five or six people gathered around Archibald’s small piano singing show tunes late into the evening.
But often disagreements arise, usually inflamed if not outright instigated by Archibald when he turns sour and abusive. The evening often climaxes with a guest rushing from the apartment in tears, usually as the result of a personal verbal assault by Archibald. But by next week, the scene is always completely forgotten. He presents a gift to the injured party and welcomes him or her back with his sweetest ministrations, and it’s as though the incident has been wiped clean from the victim’s memory. I often wonder what draws people back after Archibald has publicly humiliated them. I have concluded that their lives are hopelessly boring and Archibald, even in a bad mood, is more entertaining than whatever tiresome drivel their televisions can offer. It strikes me that Archibald is a combination of magnetic game-show host and aging egotistical soap star; you never know if you are going to win big, lose the farm, or simply be relegated to the sidelines to watch the show. I know where I prefer to be.
In the Cosmos
I dreamt of her again tonight. It was the same as always, except she was driving my mother and me this time. In the dream, I am just a baby, maybe one or two at the oldest. She is laughing and crying at the same time, tears running down her narrow, lined face. I can see her eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror, two white ovals staring back at me. I shiver in my baby’s body. Her hands grip the wheel tightly, even as the car swerves back and forth in the lane. It is like we are trapped, my mother and I, pressed together in the back seat, caught in the eye of a storm. The dense blackness of her emotions swirl all around, imprisoning us inside the moving car. My mother suddenly gathers me to her and pulls me into her lap. Her hands hold me firmly. I can tell she is scared by how quickly her heart is beating. Her breath comes in short gasps.
It is dark outside, and I cannot see a thing. Then the sky fills with tiny flecks of light. In my dream, I know they are fireflies, but I remember them as magical sparks, as the sky’s protestations, warning the driver to slow down as the car picks up speed and we move faster and faster. And then there is the scream as the car swerves and flies out of control. The smooth heaviness beneath me is gone, and I feel light, bottomless. The sensation is exhilarating. And then we are falling and falling, gathering speed. My mother screams and screams. I squirm to be free of her iron grip. I want to float like the car. I don’t want to land. I don’t want to be down here on the ground watching as my grandmother, forehead pressed against the rear-view mirror, unconscious and broken, takes her last few breaths.
I awake with a shudder, surface too quickly. I time my own breaths, faster and then slower. I have often dreamt of my grandmother’s death, though I never knew her. She died in a car accident when I was a baby. But the dream is so vivid. It began when I was twelve years old and has continued all these years. It’s always slightly different. Even though my mother says that isn’t how it happened — I wasn’t there—it seems too real.
I lay in bed listening to the jingle of wind chimes on the balcony. The sound blows in through the open window. I like that I have my own private balcony. It is my hiding place. Just big enough for two chairs and a jade plant that Archibald says I couldn’t kill even if I wanted to. The red letters on the digital clock say 2 a.m. The moonlight makes a pale, lemony pattern on my floor. As a child, I used to think of this time as a magical hour. This was before my parents’ divorce, before we moved from city to city. I would slip out of the house in the summer and swing in our backyard. I was never really afraid of the dark the way other kids were. For an only child, caught in the unpredictable eruptions of parental discord, the dark felt like a friend, a way to escape, to forget.
Now, I lie here with my eyes open, mind idly drifting. I know I won’t be able to get back to sleep after the dream. It unnerves me to feel like a witness, to be so close to death, even an imagined one. So, I dress silently, in cutoffs and an old T-shirt, and slip out the front door, not sure where I am going, just wanting fresh air, to be alone.
I find myself in the garden at the back of the building. Here, the owners have their own vegetable plots and flower gardens. I kick off my flip flops and walk barefoot through the cool grass. The sweet smells of runner beans and ripe tomatoes perfume the air. I walk through a neatly manicured path to the flower garden, which is sculpted in the English style: delicate mounds of old-fashioned pink and mauve flowers bordered in lacy foliage. I walk past rows of lavender, lemon balm, and tea roses and stop in the alpine section Archibald designed. Towering blue lupines, yellow-tipped moonbeams, and bunches of daisies are silent bedfellows. I sit on a bench at the edge of the waist-high cosmos, and it is as if I am sitting in a sea of long-necked, purple faces, swaying in the moonlight. They have always seemed unearthly to me, the flower of wandering spirits and faraway places. I feel as though I am lost in a mountain meadow on an alien planet.
I lean back on a bench and close my eyes. I love the aloneness of night. It is as if I have dreamt myself awake. A rustling far off by a lavender bush draws my attention. Probably some kindred nighttime creature, I think. A raccoon scrounging for food or a tomcat up to mischief. But the noise grows louder, and to my surprise I can just make out a human silhouette crouching by the roses. I squint, peering into the darkness, heart accelerating.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
The silhouette stands up in the darkness and speaks. “Hello.”
I recognize but cannot quite place the voice. It moves closer with steady strides until it stands beneath the moon and I can finally make out that it’s Sam.
“I thought you were a raccoon,” I say, not certain I am relieved.
He grins, his teeth glowing in the darkness. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“What are you doing out here so late?” I ask.
“A little gardening,” he remarks casually, as though the middle of the night is the best time for gardening.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. It’s cooler at night. What about you?” He takes a few steps closer, slouching easily into his tallness.
“I couldn’t sleep, so … just thought I’d go for a walk.” The moonlight illuminates him, makes him seem like a ghostly apparition. I feel awkward in the silence.
“Well.” He turns away as if to return to his gardening.
“I think you’re bleeding.” I point to his forearm. I can just make out a streak of dark blood.
“A side effect of gardening in the dark.” He takes a large stride towards the bench and sits down beside me, holding up his elbow for inspection. “Probably a thorn, from the roses.”
“I’ve never cared for roses.” I smack a mosquito off my calf.
His eyes dart towards the sound. “Because of the thorns?”
“No, because they’re just … too neat. Don’t get me wrong, they’re pretty, but too perfect. I definitely prefer wild flowers. What about you?” I ask, relaxing again, though he’s still sitting very close. I have seen him around but not really spoken to him since my back episode.
“Roses?” He stares off into space. “I’m with you — they are pretty high maintenance. There’s nothing better than a flower that grows and blooms all on its own.”
I pause for a moment breathing in the perfume. “I haven’t seen you around a lot lately.” I run my hand through my hair, which hangs curled and tangled around my shoulders. I’m relieved it’s so dark.
“I’ve been spending time at the university … working on my thesis.”
“Oh. How’s that going?” I ask, scratching the bulbous lump left over from the mosquito’s kiss.
“Not bad. Tiring sometimes. How’s your back?”
“Much better. Thanks again. You were a lifesaver.” To prove my point, I lean back and look up at the moon, legs dangling off the side of the bench.
“Anytime.” He pulls himself up and then hesitates as if deciding something. “What are your plans on Friday?”
“Friday?” I keep my voice idle, casual. “I’m not really sure. Why?”
“Do you want to grab a bite? There’s a Greek restaurant downtown that’s pretty good. If you like Greek…”
“Sure. Who doesn’t?” I pause for a couple of seconds, pretending I am working the idea around in my mind, considering my options. “I could do that.”
“Cool. Night, then.” He disappears as suddenly as he appeared.
“Night,” I call after him, alone in the cosmos.
We sit tucked in the corner of a restaurant in the west end. Our table is small with a checkered blue and white tablecloth and a little candle for effect, even though the restaurant is brightly lit. I bite into my falafel sandwich, savoury grainy chunks coated in tzatziki stuffed between pita bread, heavy but not meaty. We’ve just seen an art house flick about euthanasia, which we are now discussing, or, rather, he is discussing. He speaks with vigour, gesturing with his arms for emphasis, his long fingers flexing and recoiling. My mother always said long fingers were a sign of intelligence. Of course, I realize now, she probably said that to make me feel better about my own fingers. My father had always called them piano fingers.
I scan the half-empty restaurant. My eyes settle on the couple across from us, two women, playing footsie under the table. They sip wine, deep in conversation. In their early twenties, they are both dressed in jeans and tank tops. One woman has longish hair and the other has a short, spiky cut. I run my hand over my own cluttered hair, imagining how nice all those short spikes would feel. I clipped my hair up on my head at the last minute, but it’s too thick and keeps falling out. The woman with the longer hair smiles at her lover. Then the short-haired woman turns abruptly, noticing me staring at her date. She looks from me to Sam, and back to me again, and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Hands off. It’s not my fault you’re stuck with him.” I shrug lightly, a silent apology.
I return my attention to Sam, who has noticed that I’ve been drifting. “Is the food okay?”
“It’s great,” I say, dipping my sandwich into a little plastic tub of hummus. “I was just thinking … about getting a haircut.” I notice his hair looks great, pulled back with an elastic.
“I was lecturing, wasn’t I?” He looks sheepish.
“Nope.” I hold up my hands. “See, no notes. Besides, it’s an interesting subject … if a little depressing.”
“I just miss the whole teaching thing.” He sighs. I look away. There is nothing more appealing than a sad, attractive man. I find myself staring at the hair on the backs of his arms. I notice he is waiting for a reply.
“Teach away. Although I was happier than anything to get away from university.” I chew an olive and spit the pit into an empty plastic container.
“So, English wasn’t too satisfying?”
“I don’t know. It was okay. English wasn’t really my first choice. I switched from nursing to English, as reading seemed like a plausible escape. Now, I’m just one credit short of my degree. But my mom was so disappointed after I dropped out of nursing school, and I never really got into it.”
“Your mom is a nurse?”
“Yep. She was so pleased when I decided to follow in her footsteps, but somehow my heart just wasn’t in it,” I mumble through my usual explanation. “‘An Arts degree is for the willfully misdirected,’ I think is how she put it.”
“Tough critic.”
“Yeah, well … most of the people I know with English degrees are shop clerks or gas attendants. So, I decided to get out and get on with the real world.”
“Everyone feels that way from time to time. Even nurses. And hey, I was a gas attendant and a lifeguard and look at me now. I’ve made it to the coveted position of resident janitor with only a master’s degree.” He laughs, and I notice the little crinkles around his eyes. His white button-down shirt sets off his tanned skin. I had dressed carefully for the occasion but then changed at the last minute to a summer dress that’s slightly too big. The thin straps keep falling off my shoulders. “What was your first choice? If not English, then what?”
“You know, I think life would be much better if we had a six-day week.” I take a sip of the house red wine. Strong and bitter, it tastes like it has spent the last six years in a tin.
“Really? What day would you eliminate?” He leans forward on his elbows. I take the opportunity to appreciate the angle of his jaw.
“Wednesday. Definitely Wednesday. Everything bad that has happened to me has happened on a Wednesday,” I say, as if it should be obvious.
“Such as?” He neatly saws off a piece of roasted lamb.
“My parents’ divorce, for starters — I’m pretty sure my dad moved out on a Wednesday, and um … my dog was hit by car on a Wednesday when I was fourteen. My first boyfriend, Larry Andrews, broke up with me on a Wednesday, and then we got back together, and then I caught him cheating with Susie Heicmen…”
“But isn’t that a good thing? Catching him?” he asks, amused.
“Have you ever noticed that it rains more often on Wednesdays?” I finish my wine with a gulp. Bad wine always tastes better in large quantities. That was the first thing I learned at university.
“No, I can’t say that I have … So anyway, in your world we would go straight from Tuesday to Thursday, just like that?”
“Yep,” I say with satisfaction. “A Wednesday-less world.”
He tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear and smiles his crooked smile. “I don’t think it would make much difference.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s clear that you don’t really want to eliminate the day. You just want to stop the events of the day. All of that stuff would still happen but on a Tuesday or a Thursday. Wednesdays aren’t the real problem.”
“What if they are? What if they’re cursed or just evil?” I chew on my now-cold pita bread and pour out more wine, sloshing a little on the table.
“You know what I think you really want?” He leans forward, eyes flickering, warm amaretto.
“What do I really want?” I ask.
“A three-day weekend.” His mouth turns up in a satisfied grin. “Now that is something I would be hard-pressed to argue against.”
“Your forehead wrinkles when you think too hard,” I say, feeling quite warm and tingly and drunk.
He laughs and looks at me as if I am an amusing windup doll. “You twist your hair when your mind wanders.”
“No, I don’t,” I say, immediately untwisting a long strand from my finger. I feel warm from the inside out. I hold his gaze for a moment. He shifts and looks away. I look away too and see that the lesbian couple is gone. I notice the remnants of their dinners, napkins crumpled beside their plates, empty glasses, and wonder if it is proof they were there in the first place.
Outside, the evening is balmy and vibrates with people. Denman Street is packed with couples on their way to ice cream shops, cafés, and nightclubs. Traffic clogs the street. Sam leads me to a nearby club to see a popular Cuban band. Inside, the dance floor is packed and thick with smoke. The air is humid from the heat of people crowded together, dancing to the pulsing music. I grab a seat at a table a safe distance from the stage while Sam goes for drinks. I can’t take my eyes off the dance floor. A man with mocha skin caresses a woman as they dance closely, oblivious to the crowd and my watching eyes. I am on the verge of hypnosis when Sam returns. We attempt to talk, but it’s so loud we can barely hear ourselves, and I can’t think of anything to say. I gulp back a beer, refreshed by its coldness, and feel a little better, if drunker.
