Self (36 page)

This thing wasted four years of my life. Four years of vagrancy and confusion. And counting.

Sometimes I would forget. It was most often right after sleep, when I managed to sleep. I would open my eyes and look at the geometrical shapes of sunlight against the wall,
and for a few seconds I would be open to the day. Then my emotions would wake up and the book of my memory would open at
that
page, among the thousands of pages, and
it
(and the fear, the anxiety, the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the panic, the depression, the loss, the sadness) would come back and the day would become an ordeal, a trap of five senses and one voice inside my head, a voice that never shut up, only sometimes changed languages.

I took a bus to Toronto and arrived early in the morning, but next thing I remember I was in an eighteen-wheeler heading west. I believe I got the ride somewhere along Lake Superior, along that huge reservoir of tears shaped like a fish arching in the air, a caught marlin. I remember that ride only because of a road sign that has stayed imprinted in my memory. The truck’s cab is a large, well-appointed space that looms so high above the highway I feel I’m in a low-flying plane. It’s very warm. I feel numb. I’m resting partly against the back of the seat, partly against the door, not looking straight ahead but off at an angle, so I can keep the driver in the edge of my field of vision. He doesn’t talk much; last thing he muttered was, “Manitoba soon.” He’s concentrating on the snowstorm outside, the great sweeping gusts of white numbness that obliterate everything with a raging howl. He has both hands on the steering wheel, as big and round as the globe. I don’t see much outside. Then a sign appears out of the blankness: “Lake of the Woods”. Away, away into the coldness I go. I’m numb, so numb, God, so numb. Away, away I go. I fall asleep as we roar through Demeter’s rage.

Looking at a map one day in a fish and tackle store — I was there because I saw the map from outside and went in to look
at it more closely — I was surprised to see how many lakes there were in the Prairies. Hundreds of them strewn across the landscape, many without names and most without any access except by air.

The land so far away from the sea, the air so dry, yet so many lakes.

Later, when I was so dried out that my lips were cracked and my skin was like a dried mud-flat, I saw humidifiers on special in the display window of a pharmacy. They were “ultrasonic”. The word seemed to promise comfort. I bought the jumbo ten-litre model and hurried home to my latest rooming-house. I read the instructions carefully, filled the two containers with water and set the control to maximum. A cool, evanescent mist came forth from the nozzle. I breathed in this properly humid air, filling my lungs with it, moisturizing my parched interior. I imagined that I felt better already, much better. This was the solution to my problems. Three days later, when the machine clicked off for lack of water, I never filled it again. I left it behind though it cost me over a hundred and twenty dollars.

It was the same with every other purchase I made with redemption in mind.

I stayed in the Prairies. Am still here. A roving existential monkey. I bought a battered car and moved from Winnipeg to Banff and back, through every big town and many small ones.

I taught French in night-school. I did janitorial work in commercial buildings. Mostly I washed dishes. I liked being a dishwasher. I didn’t usually talk to anyone in the restaurants where I worked, tried to understand my predicament only in reference to soap, hot water and piles of dirty dishes. I liked
the transformation from dirty and splattered to clean and squeaky. I liked the steam and the humidity and the infinite quantities of hot water. I was a good dishwasher. Never received a complaint, never produced a greasy spoon.

He left me with herpes B. Every birthday it flares up.

You wouldn’t believe the things rape eats up. Your taste buds. Your voice: you’re left with a weak, hoarse whisper (while yet your brain agonizes). Your libido, completely, not a twitch, not a twinge of desire. Your imagination: your reality becomes deadened, your dream world a graveyard (except for the nightmares that scream through you). Your ability to sleep, nearly. Your vitality: washing dishes consumes every ounce of mental and physical energy you have.

Imagine this play:

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

an
OLD WOMAN
with a bag of groceries

a
GOOD SAMARITAN

a straw-filled
DUMMY
with a painted unhappy face
SCENE:
a bench along a sidewalk

(
The
Dummy
is sitting on the bench. The
Old Woman

appears, slowly walking along the sidewalk
.)

OLD WOMAN (
nodding her head to
the Dummy): Hello.
DUMMY: (
nothing
)

(
Fifteen or so feet past the bench, the
Old Woman
slips
.

She falls heavily, like an injured dictionary. Her groceries scatter. A grapefruit rolls … rolls … rolls … to between the
Dummy’
s feet
.)

OLD WOMAN
: Oh! Oh!

(
The
Good Samaritan
appears
.)

GOOD
S
AMARITAN
: Oh my God! Are you all right? Can I help you? Are you hurt?

(
The
Good Samaritan
assists the
Old Woman.
Helps her get up. Fetches her groceries from here and there. Except for the unseen grapefruit. The
Dummy
leans forward and stares at the grapefruit. Exit the
Old Woman
holding onto the
Good Samaritan’
s arm. A long pause. The
Dummy
places a foot on the grape fruit. Feels its bouncy resistance. The
Dummy
squashes the grapefruit. The squashing sound is heard amplified over a sound system for thirty seconds after the action is over. After a pause, it is heard again. Then again. Exit the
Dummy
stage left, shuffling. From stage right the
Good Samaritan
reappears. Looks about. Sees the squashed grapefruit. Looks to stage left. Exits stage right
.)

GOOD
S
AMARITAN
(
from off stage
): I couldn’t find it.

OLD WOMAN (
from offstage, in a tremulous voice
): I guess that young man took it.

CURTAIN

There were moments when I thought I had sunk to the very last stage of psychic disintegration. Sometimes I was so distraught that movement, even simple balance, became a source of anguish. I would have to lie down. There, on occasion, I would try to count to ten, a desperate, random symbol of psychological normality. But try as I might — and I tried, I tried, believe me — I couldn’t. I would hear myself whisper One … two … th-three … f-f-four.… Perhaps five, but never six. I would forget the next number, or my mind would simply lose its bearings and wander onto something else. It was as if I didn’t have a will any more. I would just lie there,
conscious yet inanimate, only breathing. I can’t communicate the pure agony of those moments except to repeat,
I could not count to ten
.

The old man pulled on his cigar. A point of red glowed in the dark. He got up. “A harrowing tale, Captain Marlow,” he said, and walked away.

“Who is that?” asked Marlow, who hadn’t noticed the old man.

“It is Dr. Roget,” said the Director of Companies. “A good man, Marlow. He has done much good for this Thames of ours. And for many sick, destitute people in town. You’ve no doubt heard of his Thesaurus?”

“Is he the one?”

“Yes. And he’s an excellent chess player, possibly your match.”

The chess game on the
Nellie
between the aged Dr. Roget and lean, hard Marlow has barely begun — Marlow’s king’s knight is in a weak position — when my novel falls silent.

It became a pile of tattered papers alien to my dumb brain. I looked at it, cradled it in my hands, carried it in my pockets, but my mind was incapable of the least creative impulse.

I thought of Tito all the time, of our 8008 precious moments together. I supplemented remembered reality by imagining walks with him, talks, restaurant outings, museum excursions, games, love-making. In the feeble realm of my imagination, everything went on as before, the future was still on.

It’s sometimes in small ways that the pain comes. I spread my arms and legs and make angels in the snow. But I stop right away. Spreading my legs makes me miss Tito.

I began to dream of my parents. I saw them, I heard them, exactly as if they were in front of me. I would begin to weep in my sleep and I would awake in tears.

I saw him every day, in the street, in restaurants, on buses, at gas stations. I saw his face on every man. I would turn a street corner and quake with fear at the sight of a stranger, who would look at me, startled, and move away quickly.

There were the nightmares. The exact re-enactments of the whole thing — I am at my office door, he is approaching — with only my screams to break the spell of sleep. Or variations on the theme: he’s chasing me, he’s behind my locked door but it’s a Japanese door made of paper. Or variations on the anguish: I’ve fallen head first into a barrel full of water, I can’t get out, I drown till I wake up. Or I’m in bed, I wake up because red smoke is coming into the room from a window opposite me, I start to choke, I hit the wall beside my bed in an appeal for help, I realize that it’s not a wall but the enormous palm of his hand, I choke till I wake up.

I heard my name over the radio once. “Twenty-six-year-old woman. Five foot seven and a half” — the dial was turned in search of music. This was in a corner store. The dial was turned back. “Bilingual. Last seen in” — right to the end of the band, but nothing good found so once again the station with the public service message. “If anyone has seen this woman or has any information on her, could they please contact the RCMP at.…”

Only once did I have a nightmare where I directed the violence. Through the dark, limpid air of a street a crossbow
arrow travels and strikes him exactly where I aimed it: in the spinal cord. The arrow makes a smacking cracking sound when it hits him. I consider where to send the second arrow. Through his pleading hand and into his begging mouth? Or to burst an eyeball? I will spare his heart, pump of life, symbol of love. Finally my disembodied hands strangle him. I vividly recall the feel of the killing, especially the horror in his face, that glaze of overwhelming fear. He is so afraid that his features begin to melt. I am left strangling a blank head of skin. I awake still strangling him.

Mostly I am too afraid to express my anger, even in my dreamworld. The world is Pandora’s box and my eyelids are its lid: every time I blink, evil and horror escape the world and jump in through my eyes.

The simple truth is, I am afraid of men.

I was walking down a street in Regina late at night, a commercial sidestreet deserted of its daytime bustle. I walked quickly. I came upon a man lurching along ahead of me, an Indian so drunk that every step forward was a victory against gravity. He looked like a child learning how to walk. He was in such an advanced state of intoxication that I felt he could do me no harm. His reflexes would be slow, his coordination poor. I felt stronger, tougher. If something were to happen, it would be to him, not to me. I slowed down, fell into step behind him. He turned off. I followed. Curiously, he did not make a sound: not a song, shout or mutter, only laboured breathing. Alongside a brick wall, he stopped and lifted a hand and set it against the wall to steady himself. Then he half leaned, half fell against it, his back to it. I too stopped. I examined his silhouette, some twenty feet away.

“I’d like to kill the whole human race,” was what I was thinking. My mouth began to salivate. I had the urge to vomit, which I did. A brief, sudden explosion of whitish vomit. My heart was beating like crazy.

I moved forward. I kicked the Indian’s feet from beneath him. He fell to the ground heavily.

“Huh?” he said. He had a fat, round face with thick features. He wore a stupid, uncomprehending expression. I was enraged.

I kicked him again and again. All the while, he said nothing coherent, only a few syllables.

“Oh! Oh!”

I felt invincible. I could have picked this Indian off the ground and thrown him clear across the street.

With one final kick to his head, putting everything into it, I ran off. I nearly wished he had got up to chase me, so that I could run, run, run. But he just lay there.

He said, “You’re a young one. Let me suck your cock. Let me give you a good, good suck. Oh, it’s a nice one. Let me put that in my mouth.…”

I leaned against the tree. My knees were trembling. It was a bitterly cold day yet I remained comfortable within my open coat and undone pants. He was a fat, white-bearded man with a high voice and a wet sucking mouth. He looked like Santa Claus. He was of such girth that he leaned against a tree to ease himself to his knees. I rocked my hips until he broke his seal and said, “Don’t move. I’ll do the sucking.” So I remained still and his head began to bob back and forth. My erection grew in his warm mouth.

After my pleasure climaxed, he said, “Thanks, you’ve made my day,” as he laboured back to his feet. I closed up my clothes and left.

He was the first of a number. For some, the desire was to have me in their mouths. Others I knelt down and took in. I lost myself in this, awoke only when they ejaculated in my mouth and the illusion was broken. Some fucked me, and I tried to feel in the difficult pleasure of sodomy the pleasure I had felt with Tito.