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Onthecover:DetailfromSpring&Summer1930Eaton’sCataloguecourtesyofIreneVillamere.
VillamereJUNOS:WHYSOCHEESE?+RussellSmithGetsTurnedDown
THESPRINGTIMEOFYOURMIDDLEAGE2016VOLUME1ISSUE2$6.95 THELOWBROWMAGAZINEOFHIGH-ENDCANLIT
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JenniferVillamere
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CONTRIBUTORS
KeithBurgoynestudiescreativewritingatUPEIinCharlottetownandservesonthePEIWriters'Guild'sboardofdirectors.Heiscurrentlylearningtounicycle.“Iffallingoffandbleedingisthepointofit,thenI'mdoingverywell.”
Cara-LynMorganisaGTA-basedwriterwhosepoetrycollection,Cartograph,isduein2017.Itfollowsher2014debut,WhatBecameMyGrievingCeremony.HerworkisincludedinTightropeBooks'2015’sBestCanadianPoetry.
TomMcMillan’sfictionhasappearedintheTorontoStar,Grain,Housefire,PitheadChapel,SporkPressandmore.HehasaMaster’sdegreeinjournalismandhisnon-fictionworkhasappearedinnewspapersacrossCanada.
a.m.kozakwarpsbetweenOttawaandthewestcoastwithtwowiserabbitsandwonderswhentowearwhite.OtherpoemsappearinArcPoetryMagazine.
JacobMcArthurMooney'ssecondcollection,Folk(M&S,2011)wasshortlistedfortheDylanThomasIntlPrizeandtheTrilliumBookAwardinPoetry.HisnextcollectionisDon'tBeInteresting(M&S,2016).
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eagertoworkwithyoutohelpyouanywaywecan.
SUBMISSIONS
3
BeeSounds
(buzz.)
4FromUstoYou
YoureditorsJENNIFERVILLAMERE
andCHRISBAILEYshowyoujusthow
lowlowbrowcango.
5Peeps
FunnythingsyousaidonTwitterandstuff.
7WhytheJUNOSsuck
#JunosSoMaleisbutoneoftheirmany
problems.
BYJENNIFERVILLAMERE
20YourGroceryList
Tapeittoyourfridgeandcheckthese
itemsoffasyoucollectthem.
BYJENNIFERVILLAMERE
CanStanzas
10She,thedarkenedjoy
BYCARA-LYNMORGAN
11Mother
Laurel,Therese,Alanna,Jacqueline
BYCARA-LYNMORGAN
11Father
BYCARA-LYNMORGAN
Hereisyourexclusive
guidetowhatthingsareonwhichpage:
RUSSELLSMITHGETSTURNEDDOWN:PAGE13
...................................................................................................................................................................................................
17AliKillsListon
BYJACOBMCARTHURMOONEY
19Ottawa
BYa.m.kozak
TheHarvest
8ThingsThatTurn
BYKEITHBURGOYNE
16AHappyUnhappyLife
BYTOMMCMILLAN
Longreads
13RussellSmithGets
TurnedDown
ToCanadianswhoreadnewspapers
orpracticallyanythingelse,Russell
Smithisabigdeal.Sowhywouldhis
ownpublisherturnhimdown?
BYJENNIFERVILLAMERE
4
Fartjokes?Notperse,morelike
wise words re: farts and also
somemanuretalk.
FromUstoYou
JENNIFERVILLAMERE
Editor-in-ChiefTwitter:@jenvillamere
Email:[email protected]
ByfarthestrangestadviceI’veever
heardmyfathergiveisthis:“Never
trustagoodfart.”
Usingthatasmycoldopencanbe
consideredlowbrowbecauseitappeals
broadly.Youdon’tneednopapersfromany
highfalutininstituteoffancybook-learnin’
tofindthehumour.It’sdisarmingandit’sa
gateway.Itgrabsyourattentionandnow
you’reherewithme,atthebeginningof
issuetwoofVillameremagazine.
Beinglowbrowgivesuspathstothingswe
otherwisecouldn’ttouchandexpandsour
vocabularytoincludevulgaritiesyou
wouldn’tseeinotherpublications.
There’sanintimacyinthis,thelanguage
weuse.Moreconversationalthan
academic,morehowyou’dspeaktoa
familymemberorafriendthanabossor
superior.Wecanrefertoyouasadummy
orajerk,usetheseastermsof
endearment.It’sabettereconomylike
that.WecantakeyoutoCapeBreton,like
KeithBurgoynedoesinhiscreative
nonfictionpieceonpage8,andwelcome
youtoourfamilywithopenarms,like
we’reCreedorsomething.
AndIcanletyouin.
Icanletyouinontheintricaciesofmy
father’sadvice,which,takenaspresented
atthestartofthisletter,isabsurd.But,if
he’stellingthattohissick10-year-old
grandson,thenit’spoliteadviceonhowto
manageillnesswithoutshittingyourself.
Inthislight,hiswarninggoeswellwithhis
mostusefulbitofadvice:
“You’vegottotakecareofnumberone
becausenooneelsewilldothatforyou.”
Justbecausesomethingislowbrowdoesn’t
meanitiswithoutcharmorwit,orinsight.
Tothinkotherwiseisatbeststupidandat
worstdangerous.
Sowatchoutwhenyoufart.It’sthattime
ofyear.
Posteasuitoucher,
CHRISBAILEYManagingEditorTwitter:@thischrisbailey
Email:[email protected]
Whatisthedifferencebetweenaliterarycritic
andaneditor?
Aliterarycriticcanbreakitdown,thewriting,butthey
canalsobreakitfullstop.Criticscan’thelpbutimpose
themselvesonthework,tobringtheirownbiasestoit,
againstit,uponit.
Iamaneditor.Theeditorprunesthewritingsothatitcan
achieveitsbesthealth.Ideally.Ibringmybiasesandall
theresttoitbutnottobreakit,pokeholesinit,butto
bringitsoitcanbestbloomandreach.
Inthismetaphor,thewritingisorganicmatter,likeatree.
Ormanure.
Whichbringsmetothematterofissuenumbertwo.The
deuceyouholdinyourhands.Enjoyitsfreshwarmthand
ripeness.Itisfertile.Soareyou.
Howlowislowbrow?
Youreditorswenttothevery,veryhigh-endGillerPrizeGalaandallthey brought you was this lousy selfie and a crippling inferioritycomplex.Nov.10,2015.PHOTOBYJENVILLAMERE
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
5
MichaelWinter
@michaelwinter34inbath&justappliedfirstfacialscrubexfoliant&itstruemyskinisnowfreeofcrops,bushes,leaves.
Peeps
O
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urfavebooky
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messages.Getbusyand
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us.Email:
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#fifteendogsat@torontolibrary
DanMacRae @danmacraeI'matNoFrillsonaSaturday
nightbecauseIfeltlikedoing
theoppositeofwhateverThe
Secretis.
SirRealVisions @PajamaStew
Haroldsippedtea.
Hiswifesmiled.They
touchedhandsover
anembroidered
pillowwhichread
"SomedayI'llmurder
youwiththispillow".
JustinMcElroy
@JustinMcElroy
Criticswhohaven't
seenRoomagree:
"It'samazing...
uplifting"--Sydnee
McElroy,TheCouch
GrantTanaka @GrantTanaka
gettheword"taToo"
taTooedonyourbody
causeyou'reironicas
fuck
MattCahill @m_cahill
Youareappreciating
second-personvoicein
fiction.
6
IN2003,NICKELBACK'SCHADKROEGERBEATRONSEXSMITHTOWIN
THEJUNOAWARDFORSONGWRITEROFTHEYEAR.#NEVERFORGET
TextandgraphicbyJENNIFERVILLAMERE
Watching the JUNOS is frustrating
and humiliating, like cheering for a
belovedteamthatalwaysfallsshort.
Through the low lights, faux fog and thumbing bass,
wecanallsensetheelephantintheroom:Cheese.No
matterhowprogressivetheworkofthenominees,the
JUNOSareacornballproduction.
The music is good. The show is bad. There is no
tension,nosnark,noglamour,noGrimes,nobeefs,no
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
eight since thenand thatmeagre tally includesa
tick in the column for his induction into the
CanadianMusic Hall of Fame, the AllanWaters
HumanitarianAward, and an award given to the
producerof'PrairieWind.'
But the JUNOS worst sin is that it panders. It
expressesthetasteofthemajorityinanattemptto
draw ratings. It aims to catch everyone. But the
hunterwhochasestworabbitscatchesneitherone.
THEJUNOAWARDS
TheJUNOSarenotcoarseorrude.They'reworse.
drama,nomadeuptiffs,nolove
triangles, no divas, no one
poised to bite the head off a
chicken or rip up a photo of the
popeorevenslipanip.
The JUNOS are not coarse or
rude. They’re worse. The
JUNOS are vulgar. They’re
vulgar inthesensethatthey’re
tinselly, cheap, inauthentic,
schmaltzy and filled with the
crass commercialism that
regularly dumps praise on has-
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAA
been,majorlabelacts.
Manyof theaward recipients, and likely thehost,will
resemble the fictional third-rate Melonville television
celebssentuponSCTV.Youwillwishitwereaparody.
Naturalness is everything on TV and when it’s not
there,itsabsenceisamplified.Tobenotrelaxed,tobenot
natural,itistheantithesisofwhatitistobeCanadian.
They’realsopretentious.Noonewillgotoworktheday
aftertheJUNOSandsay,“Holyfrig,didyouwatchthe
JUNOS last night?” And it’s not because of the
fragmentation of the media landscape. You can still
anticipate water-cooler talk the morning after the
Oscars:whowon,who lost,whoworewhat,who threw
shadeatZendaya’shair.
TheOscarsmatterbecausetheymeansomething.They
have proven themselves to be a reliable (if imperfect)
gaugeofqualityinfilm.Howpoorofameasurearethe
JUNOS for Canadian musical talent? Nickelback has
had12winsin32nominationsovertheir20-yearcareer.
This is a bandwhowrote one good song about getting
drunk,highandlaid,thenproceededtorecorditunder
35differenttitlesoneightalbums.
In contrast, Neil Young’s solo career started 48 years
agoandhedidn’twinaJUNOuntil1994.He’sonlywon
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
TheJUNOSassert that all ourmusic is good and
worth celebrating. If we just acknowledged that
someof thesenomineesare totalpilesof crapand
thenwepittedthemagainstthetalent,we’dreally
havesomethingexcitingworthwatching.Wearea
nationthatriotsatchildren’shockeygames.Surelywe
canmustersomeexcitementforourwould-bestars.
Wehave toallowourselves to trash talk the team
—Imeanartists—thatwewanttolose.Weneed
thecouragetobellow “IHATEBRYANADAMS!”
withoutfearthatyourmomwillshakeherheadat
youandsay,“Aw,but lookatallhe’sdoneforour
countryabroad.Anddespitehiscomplexion!”
Youmight say that knocking down the JUNOS is
themostun-CanadianthingIcoulddo.Idon’twant
tobemeanto theJUNOS.Iwant it tosucceed. It
shines a light on great Canadian talent. But let’s
taketheJUNOSintothecornersandroughitupa
little bit, teach it to keep its head up. I want the
JUNOStoreflecttheCanadianethosandnotbea
cheap Grammy copycat. I want it to hunt the
rabbit. I want it to fucking rock. Right now, it’s
clingyandannoyinginitssappyquesttobeloved.
7
IN2003,NICKELBACK'SCHADKROEGERBEATRONSEXSMITHTOWIN
THEJUNOAWARDFORSONGWRITEROFTHEYEAR.#NEVERFORGET
TextandgraphicbyJENNIFERVILLAMERE
Watching the JUNOS is frustrating
and humiliating, like cheering for a
belovedteamthatalwaysfallsshort.
Through the low lights, faux fog and thumbing bass,
wecanallsensetheelephantintheroom:Cheese.No
matterhowprogressivetheworkofthenominees,the
JUNOSareacornballproduction.
The music is good. The show is bad. There is no
tension,nosnark,noglamour,noGrimes,nobeefs,no
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
eight since thenand thatmeagre tally includesa
tick in the column for his induction into the
CanadianMusic Hall of Fame, the AllanWaters
HumanitarianAward, and an award given to the
producerof'PrairieWind.'
But the JUNOS worst sin is that it panders. It
expressesthetasteofthemajorityinanattemptto
draw ratings. It aims to catch everyone. But the
hunterwhochasestworabbitscatchesneitherone.
THEJUNOAWARDS
TheJUNOSarenotcoarseorrude.They'reworse.
drama,nomadeuptiffs,nolove
triangles, no divas, no one
poised to bite the head off a
chicken or rip up a photo of the
popeorevenslipanip.
The JUNOS are not coarse or
rude. They’re worse. The
JUNOS are vulgar. They’re
vulgar inthesensethatthey’re
tinselly, cheap, inauthentic,
schmaltzy and filled with the
crass commercialism that
regularly dumps praise on has-
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAA
been,majorlabelacts.
Manyof theaward recipients, and likely thehost,will
resemble the fictional third-rate Melonville television
celebssentuponSCTV.Youwillwishitwereaparody.
Naturalness is everything on TV and when it’s not
there,itsabsenceisamplified.Tobenotrelaxed,tobenot
natural,itistheantithesisofwhatitistobeCanadian.
They’realsopretentious.Noonewillgotoworktheday
aftertheJUNOSandsay,“Holyfrig,didyouwatchthe
JUNOS last night?” And it’s not because of the
fragmentation of the media landscape. You can still
anticipate water-cooler talk the morning after the
Oscars:whowon,who lost,whoworewhat,who threw
shadeatZendaya’shair.
TheOscarsmatterbecausetheymeansomething.They
have proven themselves to be a reliable (if imperfect)
gaugeofqualityinfilm.Howpoorofameasurearethe
JUNOS for Canadian musical talent? Nickelback has
had12winsin32nominationsovertheir20-yearcareer.
This is a bandwhowrote one good song about getting
drunk,highandlaid,thenproceededtorecorditunder
35differenttitlesoneightalbums.
In contrast, Neil Young’s solo career started 48 years
agoandhedidn’twinaJUNOuntil1994.He’sonlywon
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
TheJUNOSassert that all ourmusic is good and
worth celebrating. If we just acknowledged that
someof thesenomineesare totalpilesof crapand
thenwepittedthemagainstthetalent,we’dreally
havesomethingexcitingworthwatching.Wearea
nationthatriotsatchildren’shockeygames.Surelywe
canmustersomeexcitementforourwould-bestars.
Wehave toallowourselves to trash talk the team
—Imeanartists—thatwewanttolose.Weneed
thecouragetobellow “IHATEBRYANADAMS!”
withoutfearthatyourmomwillshakeherheadat
youandsay,“Aw,but lookatallhe’sdoneforour
countryabroad.Anddespitehiscomplexion!”
Youmight say that knocking down the JUNOS is
themostun-CanadianthingIcoulddo.Idon’twant
tobemeanto theJUNOS.Iwant it tosucceed. It
shines a light on great Canadian talent. But let’s
taketheJUNOSintothecornersandroughitupa
little bit, teach it to keep its head up. I want the
JUNOStoreflecttheCanadianethosandnotbea
cheap Grammy copycat. I want it to hunt the
rabbit. I want it to fucking rock. Right now, it’s
clingyandannoyinginitssappyquesttobeloved.
8
ThingsThatTurnNEWCREATIVENON-FICTIONBY
KEITHBURGOYNE
There'ssomesortofprimalsatisfactionwatching
thespeedometershakepast140withthewindows
down.Keepingtheoldcaronthestraightand
narrowisadelicatebalance,oneI'musedtowith
ourfrequenttripstoPam’sfamilyinCapeBreton.
She’sbesideme,edgy,onherphone,anythingto
distractfromwhatliesahead.Thetearysmilesand
long,mournfulhugs.Whisperedcondolencesand
runnynoses.
Herunclehadaheartattack.He'sgonenow.She
saysitdoesn'tfeelrealyet,thatshedoesn'tfeel
muchatall.Thatchanges,thecloserweget.Flying
throughPictouandAntigonish,creepingtowardthe
CansoCausewaysoslowlythatwehavetimeto
standunderawaterfalljustpastthetraintracks
beforerunningbackandmovingthecarahead
anothermetreortwo.Herwetskinandhaircover
sadnessthatgrowswitheachtownwepass.
Iletuponthegasanddrivemoresensibly.There's
somethingaboutgoingtoseeamanwho'spassed
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
thatwisensyou.Remindsyouofyourfinity.
“Peopleare21ounceslighteraftertheydie,”Pam
readsaloudtomefromherphone.“Theythinkthat's
howmuchthesoulweighsonceitleavesthebody.”
“Yeah?”“Theyconductedtheexperimentagesago.
Haven'tdoneitsince.”
Idon'texpectanafterlifeonceI'mgone.IhopeI'm
wrong.Notjustforme,butforeveryonegone
ahead.ForPam'suncle,whowas77.Doesn'tseem
thatold,notfromwhereI'msitting.
IthinkthisasIleanagainstmyin-laws'kitchen
counterinGlaceBay,eatingcoldpizza.It'sthe
familyviewingtonight.
Thegiantwindmillacrossthelakeisn'tturning.I've
beenwaitingforthatmomentwhenthebladesbegin
theirlazyrotationbutithasn'tbudged.
Wegetinthecaragainandpulloutofthe
driveway.Iturnthewheelandthefrontcreaks.I
pressthegas.
Clunk.Metalstrikesmetalandeverynotchwe
rollovermakesthesamenoise.IlookatPam.We
bothsigh.
Wemakeittothefuneralhomeandparkina
spacefarfromtherest,likewe'regivingtheoldcar
9
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
somebreathingroom.
We'relate,butothersarelater.Pamhesitatesatthe
entrance,andafewpeoplefilebywithweteyesand
afewwhisperedwordsofsupport.Wedon'tmove.I
watchPamandwaitforsomecuetocontinue,but
there'snone,justthatcripplingreluctancetoseethe
casket,thepersoninit.They'realiveuntilyoulook
atthem.
Shefinallypullsmeforward,in.Thelightsaredim.
Peoplefileslowlypastthecasket.Gracie,Pam's
nine-year-oldcousin,greetsus.
“Themintsarefree,”shesays,handingmeone.Her
parentshaveherinagreensummerdress.Herhair
iswild,hercurlsalmosttoostrongfortheelastic.
Herhandsarefilledwithmints.Thebowlsaround
theroomareempty.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling one from its wrapper and
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
popping it in my mouth.
She shrugs. Mints spill
frombetweenherfingers.
So many handshakes,
hugs, and how-are-yous
thenwe’rethere,standing
next to him. His pale
skin, his peaceful face. It
looks like he fell asleep.
And then there's Gracie,
reachinginand—ohJesus
—she's straightening his
tie,hislapel.Brushinghis
hair away from his
forehead thenkissingher
fingersandtouchingthem
against his cheek. My
eyesburnasIwatch.
“He'scold,”shesays.
Thedayofthe
funeral I'm under the
car, laying on the dirt
driveway staring at a
pair of worn-out sway
bar linkages. The source
of the problem. I’m not
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
sureoverhowI'llfixitbeforeweleave.
Iclimboutandpullofftheworkglovesandreturn
themtothepileoflumberIfoundthemon,oneof
manyprojectsNormwon'tgettofinish.
“Finlayson's,”Pam'sUncleDavidsaysover
potatosalad.“Gettherefirstthinginthemorning
andhe'llhaveyoufixedupbytheendoftheday.”
Adozenvoicesinthenextroom.Whatalovely
service,they'resaying.Theministerdida
wonderfuljob.
“HeknewNorm,”Davidsaysbetweenchews.
“Didn'tevermeethim,buthetookthetime.Spoke
toeveryone,youknow.AfterthatheknewNormas
wellasheknewanyoneelse.”
Hewasagrocer,theministersaid,andthat
surprisedme.Fromthepilesoflumberinhisbarn
I'dhaveguessedhimacarpenteroracraftsman.I
can'timaginehislarge,age-spottedhandsholding
anythingbutahammer.
Thewindmillstillisn'tmoving.Iwatchitthrough
thepicturewindow,itswhitebladesresolute
againstthegentleswayofthetreetopsbehind.
IwalkintothebackyardandthechildrenofPam’s
familyarethere,someofthemtossingaball
around,laughing.
Pam'southeretoo.Isitnexttoheronthe
overgrownlawn.Iplucka
thickbladeofgrassand
twirlitinmyfingers.It's
betterouthere,Isay,and
Pamnods.
Iplacethegrassbetween
mythumbsandblow
throughthem,andthe
whistlereverberates
throughthedense,vinyl-
sidedneighbourhood.
Thenthekids,they'reall
arounduswiththeirown
bitsofgrass,eachofthem
shouting“How'dyoudo
that?”Ishowthem.Hold
ittightbutnottootight.
Finlaysonsaid10:30on
thephone,butIgetthe
feelinghetellseveryone
that.I'mwaitingtohand
himmykeys,buttheline
upfortheservicedesk
goesoutthedoor.
Finlaysonmansthedesk,
therepairbays,
everything.He'sgrey,
linedwithgrease,hasaphonetohisearwhilehe
huntsoutkeysonadustycomputer.HisReserve
Minesaccentisthick.
Heshakeshishead.“Iwasheartbroke,just
heartbrokewhenIheard,”hesaysintothephone.
“Hewasagoodman.”
Thenheturnstome.“I'llgiveyouacallwhenshe's
done,”hesays.
Wegotothemallandthenforlunch.Thegarageis
onthewaybacktoCatalone,andwe'reaboutto
Ipluckathickblade
ofgrassandtwirl it
in my fingers. It's
betterouthere.
10
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
passbybutInoticemycar'sbeenmoved.Westop
in.There'snoonearound,soIwaitatthedesk.
Finlaysonwalksinfromthevehiclebayandstops.
Helooksatmethroughsquintedeyesanditfeels
likehe'ssizingme.
“Didthetwolinkages,”hesays,approaching.
“Fiftybucks.”
Iopenmywalletandshakemyhead.He'snot
chargingmelabour,andI'llbedamnedifyoufind
linkagesforlessthan$25apiece.Ihandhim
three$20s.
Hepullscashfromthepocketofhiscoveralls,finds
a$10billandtossesitmyway.Hedoesn'tlookme
intheeye,justnodsandwishesusadecentride
back.IthankhimandIheadforthedoor.Thecar
drivesperfectly.
Everything'spackedinourcar.Promisestocall
assoonaswegethome.
Andthere'smotionthroughthetrees.Itcatchesmy
eye.Istarecloselyandrealizeit'sthebladesofthe
windmilloffinthedistance,turningatlastin
whateverfaintbreezemovesthroughthefog.
Andthenwe'reoff,theMiraRiverdisappearingin
therearview,thehighwaystretchingaheadand
overthehorizon.Theneedlehits110,120,130.
WepasstheexittoNorthSydney.140.Andthen,
bang.Likeagunshot,maybelouder.Thecarpulls
hardtotheleft.There'sasteadywhompwhomp
whompcomingfromthefrontdriver'ssidewheel.
Ihaulthewheeltotherightandhitthebrakes,but
thecardisagreesbutI'mmoredeterminedthanit.
Wereachthesideoftheroad.Ibringittoastop.
OutsideIfindaholeinthecentreofthetire.It'sa
wonderthewholethingdidn'tjustriprightoff.
We'llnevermaketheferrynow.
Pam'sstandingbesidemeasIgetthecaronthejack.
Iforgettosetthebrakeandoffitrolls.Vehicleswhip
byus.Thewindthrowsmeoffbalance.
ImakeittoCanadianTire,thepartsdesk.The
storeisoldanddim.I'mpickingatanup-turned
corneroftheraggedydeskblotterwhilethe
managertypesonayellowedcomputer.
“Icansellyousometires,”hesays.“Butwecan'tget
themonrimstoday.ServicebaysareclosedSundays.”
Apieceoftheblottercomesoffbetweenmyfingers.
“GuessIwon'tbegettinganythen,”Isay.“Idon't
haveaplacetoputthem.”
Themanagernods,chewsontheendofapen.“Wait
hereasecond,”hesaysandwalksoutthefront.
Hecomesbackaminuteortwolater,chuckling.
“There'sawomanupthere,”hesays,tappinghis
penagainsttheblotterI'mslowlydamaging.“She's
gotthesameproblemasyou.Listen.Wegotaguy
comingin.”Heleansinclose.“He'lldoyourtirestoo,
butyougottapaycash,okay?He'snotreally
workingtoday.”
Ibringthecararoundtothebay.A20-ishkidcomes
uptothegaragedoor.Hecheckstheleftandthen
theright,likehe'sabouttodealmecontraband.He
throwsthedoorupandmotionsmethrough.Soonas
I'min,heslamsitbackdown.
Hedoesn'tsaymuch.ChangesthetiresandIthank
himforcominginonaSunday.“Wasn'tdoin'nothin’
anyway,”hesays.
“WhatdoIoweyou?”Iask.
Heshrugs.“Whateveryouthink.”“Will$65doit?”
“HolyJesus,yes.”Ihandhim$10sand$5s.
Thehighway.I'mstickingtothespeedlimitthis
time.Ilookattheclock.There’splentyoftimetomake
theeveningferryfromCariboutoWoodIslands.We
approachtheenormousSealIslandBridge.
Everythingisstill,notanothercarinsight.Islowus
downuntilitfeelslikewe'rebarelymoving.
She,thedarkenedjoy
byCARA-LYNMORGAN
offireworks.Abody
againsttheshowerofspark
palmsout,singed.
Mimicry
ofmushroom.Ofcourse
theseoncewere
thethingsofwar.
11
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
Father
byCARA-LYNMORGAN
ItisyearssinceIhavecrept
inhereatnighttosit
inthecold
leatherofyourofficechair,pressed
myfeetagainstthepolished
desk,mausolean,thedoor
alwaysclosed.
Asagirl,Idreaded
tobecalled
here.You,framed
darklyagainstthebay
window,empty
street.Yourheavytenor
sorarelyengaged
withmyteenagedself,growling
thedaggerofmyname
first,middle,last.Acrow
tositacrosstheinterminable
desk,recallalltheways
Ihavefailed.Always
horrifiedtobe
here,inthedark,surrounded
byphotosofinflamedcolons,slick
intestines.HereIlearned
tonavigate
thecoiledGItract,unreadable
scrawl.Often
Icreptinheretotouch
thestrictframes
ofyourdiplomas.Toshake
thedelicatevials
ofink,touch
buttonsonthephone.
Therearenopictures
ofmehere.Iamnot
solemnnorcerebral
enoughforsuchadark
andheadyspace.Somale
andleather.Yettonight,
Ihavecreptheretoleave
theprintofthesesmalltoes
inyourcleanandcarefulrug.
Mother
Laurel,Therese,Alanna,
Jacqueline
byCARA-LYNMORGAN
1.
octopus
herdarkandsleeplessvigil
brushing,brushingalgae
fromathousandmirroredeggs
curlinginoxygen.
Monthslater,thehatchlings
breechandshe
letsgo
herstoneygrip
starvedlifeless
shesettles
intotheoceanfloor.
2.
Thedelicatetreefrog,scaling
rootandbranch,hertadpoles
onherback,one
bytinyone.Shefinds
thedewycentres
offlowers,nests
theminthendescends
forthenext.Onetadpole,
oneflower,sothey
neverwillthirst.
3.
Thepebbletoad,musclestight
frightenedondelicate
bone,amphibiousrock.
Itwasneverthefall
thatwouldfinishher.
4.
Thepygmygecko
hydrophobicscales
shewalks
onwater
tosaveherself
fromdrowning
inasingledropofrain
12
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
RussellSmithgetsturneddown
FROMTHETURNTAFFAIRSDEPT.
TextandgraphicbyJENNIFERVILLAMEREPhotographbyJOWITABYDLOWSKA
WhenJianGhomeshi’sshitarsedactions
became public last year and the press
wentbananascoveringeveryaspect,one
storythatcametolightwashowmuchof
amenschfellowCBCpersonalityGeorge
Stroumboulopoulosis.Notbycomparison
toGhomeshi—anospreyeatingitsown
chicksstilllooksawesomenexttohim—
but just of his own accord. By all
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAA
accounts, folks love The Strombo.
Reader’sDigestdeterminedhimtobeone
of themost trusted Canadians. He calls
himself ‘the nation’s boyfriend,’ and you
knowwhat?He’sprobablytheboyfrienda
polite, erudite nationwould be happy to
wearontheirarmtoMom’shouse.
But what about a boyfriend this nation
canfuckinglustover?
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
13
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
RussellSmithgetsturneddown
FROMTHETURNTAFFAIRSDEPT.
TextandgraphicbyJENNIFERVILLAMEREPhotographbyJOWITABYDLOWSKA
WhenJianGhomeshi’sshitarsedactions
became public last year and the press
wentbananascoveringeveryaspect,one
storythatcametolightwashowmuchof
amenschfellowCBCpersonalityGeorge
Stroumboulopoulosis.Notbycomparison
toGhomeshi—anospreyeatingitsown
chicksstilllooksawesomenexttohim—
but just of his own accord. By all
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAA
accounts, folks love The Strombo.
Reader’sDigestdeterminedhimtobeone
of themost trusted Canadians. He calls
himself ‘the nation’s boyfriend,’ and you
knowwhat?He’sprobablytheboyfrienda
polite, erudite nationwould be happy to
wearontheirarmtoMom’shouse.
But what about a boyfriend this nation
canfuckinglustover?
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
14
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
Canada,pleasespreadyourlegsforRussellSmith.
Bywayofintroduction,Iofferthislisticle:
He has written four novels, two books of short
stories, an illustrated fantasy novella, plus the
aforementioned pornographic novel. He’s been
nominated for the Governor General’s Award,
longlisted for the 2015 Scotiabank Giller Prize,
shortlisted for the Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction
Prize, and won the Canadian National Magazine
Award for fiction. He teaches in the MFA
programmeattheUniversityofGuelph.Hisstories
aredark,filthy,knowing,ripeandwet.
All this is to say that inCanadian literary circles
and among people in this country who read
newspapers or practically anything else, Russell
Smithiskindofabigdeal.SoitwasashockwhenI
talkedtohimabouthislatestbook,Confidence,and
hetoldmehe’dbeenshafted.Recently.
“This book was turned down by my previous
publisher,HarperCollins,whopublishedmynovel,
GirlCrazy,becausetheysaid,‘Wejustcan’tpublish
abookofshortstories.Noone’sgoingtobuythem.’
It’s still not clear whether anyone will buy them,
but that has nothing to do with the critical
response,whichhasbeengood.”
Indeed, Confidence was longlisted for the Giller
Prize.Butthisepisoderaisesthequestion:Whodo
youhavetobe inCanadian literaturetobesecure
in your projects when evenRussell Smith can get
shotdown?
“Itwasashock,”Smithsaid. “IrememberwhenI
moved from DoubleDay — I had published three
bookswithDoubleDayandIwassortofatthetop
of the world there. It was kind of the top of
Canadianpublishing.HarperCollinswasvery,very
pleased to take me from DoubleDay and I
rememberwhen Iwent into the office for the first
meeting with the editor there they had set up a
surprisepartyforme,mynamewasonabigscreen,
there was champagne, the CEO came out of his
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
office to welcome me and I remember all these
speeches (stating) ‘We’re not in the business of
publishing books, we’re in the business of
publishingauthors.’Well, it turnsout thatwasn’t
quitetrue.AssoonasIgavethemabookofshort
storiesthey’renolongerinterestedintheauthor.”
Butwhypickonshortstories?Lookatthesuccess
HeatherO’Neillhasfound.Smithconcurs.“Itwas
just around the time that Alice Munro won the
NobelPrizeforhershortstories,itwasalsoaround
thattimethatLynnCoadywontheGillerPrizefor
Hellgoing,abookofshortstories,andthisyearall
theprize listshavehadbooksof short stories
onthem.”
When HarperCollins turned Confidence down,
Smithwentstraight tohisoldmentorand former
editor John Metcalf at the now mythically
influential small press, Biblioasis. The Windsor-
based publisher is now considered the most
prestigious small press in Canada, neck-in-neck
withCoachHouseBooks.
“They’re just being intellectual in a way the big
pressesareafraidtodoandit’spayingoffforthem.”
Oh that swagger. The balls to call the shop that
takes a chance on you “intellectual,” the cock-
suredness to show the Goliath that turned your
bookdownwhata critical juggernaut theypassed
up.Andyet,ahintofhumility:“I'mstillquitesure
that HarperCollins made the right decision in
economic terms. The numbers are just dismal.
Even for these prize-nominated books. Iwould be
very,verypleasedtosell2,000copiesofthisbook,”
hesays.
Don’tyouwanttopleasehim,Nation?Wemade
Ghomeshi's squishy and lacking memoir, 1982,
debut at No. 1 on the bestseller lists. And, sure,
George Stroumboulopoulos has a lovely rapport
with Margaret Atwood. But Russell Smith? He
hasConfidence.
1.MiddlenameisClaude,acommonFrenchname
butstillit’srarerthatPierre.Rarityisdesirable.
2.BorninJohannesburg,thatcityyoulearned
aboutinGrade10whenyouhadtoreadCry,the
BelovedCountry.
3.GrewupinHalifax,homeofgoodthingslike
SloanandStephMcGrath.
4.Learnedtheukulelebeforeitwascool.
5.StudiedFrenchliteratureatQueen’s.Can
probablyrecitepoetryenfrançais.#swoon
6.Wroteafull-blownpornonovel,Diana:ADiaryin
theSecondPerson,whichIamtotallygoingto
readwhenIgrowup.
7.Candresshimselfandtherestofthecountryas
witnessedbyhislong-runningmen’sstylecolumn
intheGlobeandMail.
8.Hisarmslookstrong.
15
BYTOMMCMILLAN
Jasmineswigstheraspberry
vodkabeforekillingtheengine.
Onesip,two.Fine,three,butthen
twiststhecapandstuffstheplastic
bottlebackbehindthemapsinthe
glovecompartment.
Thedoorhingessqueal.She
exhales,fruitflavouronherbreath.
“Thisismyhouse,”Jasminesays
aloud,agrowinghabit,oneof
many.“It’smylife.Ichoseit.”
Thehouseisabrick,three-storey,
withawrap-arounddeck.Jasmine
hadmadealifetimeofgood
choices:boughtagoodhomeina
pre-gentrifiedneighbourhood,
datedmanymentolearnwhatshe
liked,testedmanyjobstofinda
realpassion.Shepickedthekind,
interestingguyandnurtureda
well-payingmarketingcareer.She
didyoga,atekale.Shetravelled,
investedhardwhenthemarkets
dipped.Learnedhowtoquilt.Ran
theCalgaryMarathon.
Andnowshe’sdrinkinginher
driveway.
Thecardoor’sslammakesJasmine
flinch.Ahead,thelivingroomlights
burn.SheknowsshewillfindHafeez
slumpedinhisleatherrecliner,feet
up,televisionglowing,lostina
documentaryoncoralreefs,white-
collarcrime,femalecircumcision.
“Whatshouldwebeashamedof
now?”she'llaskoversupper,their
game,andhe’lltellheranother
waythattheplanetshouldbe
behavingbetter.They’lltalkabout
whathelearned.Theconversation
willbeinterestingandstimulating
andmeaningful.
Oritusedtobe.Nowitissawdust,
tasteless.Alaxativerunning
throughher.
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
GRAPHICSBYJENNIFERVILLAMERE
16
Truthfully,Jasminelikestheworld
thewayitis.
Theleatherchairsits
empty.Thehousefeelswarmand
Jasmineletshershoulderbag
clunktothefloor.
“I’mhome,”shecalls,waitingfora
response,fearingthatmoanthat
tellsherhe’ssufferedastroke,
fearingbeingchainedtoadrooling
invalidfortherestofher
shorteninglife.
Noreply.NowJasmineimagines
herhusbandonthefloor,throat
cut,linoleumshinywithblood.She
imaginesaburglarinaskimask
leapingoutofacloset.Feelsthe
sharpknifepressedtoher
wrinklingthroat.Anightmare
flashesinside:beingshoved
againstthekitchentable,thetear
ofherpencilskirt,pain.Itwould
behelltoberaped.Sheshiversat
thethought,butlikesthinkingthat
alloutcomesarepossible,thather
worldisstillfullofopendoors.
“Hafeez?”
Herhandisatherthroatnow.
Impossibletoswallow.Whereis
he?Heshouldbehere.Sheopens
hermouthtocallagain,then
registersthesoundforthefirst
time.Afaintbutsteadypounding
below,everythreeorfourseconds,
fromthebasement.
Thestairscreak.Oldhardwood.
Hafeezissittingagainstthe
furnace,toplessinhisrunning
shorts,gentlybangingthebackof
hisskullagainsttheplumbing
drainpipe.AllofJasmine’sfriends
saythatshemarriedwell.Every
otherhusbandballoonedbut
Hafeezstayedthin,keptmosthis
hair.Sensitiveyetalsoman
enoughtofixthewasherandre-
grouttheshower.
He’dmadegoodmoney,takenher
toAfrica,retiredearly.
Shechosewell.Whocouldever
imaginethatwouldbeabadthing?
“You’resickofme,”he’dslurred
lastNewYear’s,salty-eyed,drunk
ontheChang’sgod-awfulpunch.
“You’retoogood,”Jasminehad
replied,aimingforajokebutboth
catchingthejaggedwaythewords
cameout.“I’vespentmylifebeing
thebadguy.”
He’dblinked.Paused.His
wrinklesdeepenedand,forabeat,
she’dthoughttheyweregoingto
haveafight.Arealplate-
smashing,heart-scarringbrawl.
Howglorious.ButthenHafeez
cockedhishead,smiledwith
infinitepatience,andaskedif
she’dcareforatonicwater.
“You’vebeencrying.”
Eveninthedimbasement,shecan
seehiseyeslookshiny.
Hafeezdoesn’treact.Jasmine
stepscloser.Herhusband’shands
areworkingthelipofhisstomach,
kneadinghisbellyfatlikebread
dough,andsheisunsettled.Her
firstthoughtis:Idon’trecognize
thosehands.Shewantstofind
Hafeez’sshirt,putitonhim.She
wantstogetinthecar,driveto
NewYork.
“Ifoundheronthebeach,”hesays
eventually,facesinkingbackinto
theshadows.“Icamedownto
replacethefilterand,bam,thereit
was.It’sbeendecadessinceI
rememberedher.”
“Rememberedwho?”
“Iwasten.I’dneverseenonebefore.”
Exhaling,Jasminewondersifhe’d
rememberedtoputtheSauvignon
Blancinthefridge.Shewonders
whatit’dfeelliketogetdivorced.
Excitinglypainful.Shelia,thenew
headofdigitalmarketing,hasbeen
marriedthreetimesandnowlives
withthatgolfpro,what’shisname,
theonewithabeerbellyandfake
tan.Mr.City-SizedEgo.She
doubtstheydiscussdocumentaries
oversupper.
“You’renotmakingsense.Let’sgo
upstairsandhaveadrink.”
“ShewasalreadydeadwhenI
foundher,”Hafeezsays.Hishands
rise,gesturinghercloser.Heneeds
her.Still,afterallthistime.It’s
wonderful.It’ssickening.“Itwas
onthegulf,bymygrandma’s
house.Mymomwasreading,and
Dadwassomewhere,probably
working.Iwanderedoff.”
Jasminesitsdown,leaningagainst
thewashingmachine,lettinghim
talk.Heisgoodattellingstories.
Alwaysbuildingtoapoint,adding
awell-placedcurse.
“Iwalkedandwalkeduntilthe
cottagewasaspeck.Iremembered
myheelsgotblisteredbutIkept
going,restlessinthatwaykids
get,youknow?Thesandbarended
andallofasuddenIsawacave,
itsmouthdarkandsmall.The
kindofplacethatlittleboys
suspectwouldbeperfectfor
piratestohidetreasure.”
Theboywhowouldbeherhusband
tightenedhissandalsand
musteredhiscourage.Hecrawled
throughtheholeintherock.
Acrossthebasement,Hafeez
moveshisarmstoshowherhow
hedidit.
Thecavewasdark,musty,witha
slopingceiling.Fadedgraffititags
dottedthefrontwalls,
GRAD68andKS+TH
FOREVER.Itgotdark
furtherinside.The
wavesmurmured
behindhim.Andthen
hesawher,slumped
inthebackofthe
cave.Herbodywas
curledlikeasnail,her
milkyeyesstaringat
theocean.Shewas
old,wearingablue
hospitalgownwith
stainsacrossthe
front.Itlookedworn.
“Herhairwaskind
ofdustedbysand,”
Hafeezsaysnow,
thefurnaceathis
back.“Ittookme
forevertobrush
itout.”
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
17
ChesterTamozki
changedherlife.Hertrajectory
wastantalizinglyunclearuntil
theymetinfall’82,andifshe
wasn’tnecessarilyonapathto
greatnessthenatleastshewas
consideringit.Fragile,sure,but
whatwomanisn’t?Jasmineenvied
thesemenwhowalkedaroundthe
world,100percentconfidentthat
peopleneededtohearwhatthey
hadtosay.
JasmineknewwhatChester
wantedbeforethey’devenspoken.
Fridaynightatadullgradschool
partyhostedbysomeassociate
professor,thekindofwine-and-
cheeseaffairthatalwaysgottoo
drunkortooboringwaytoofast.
Hewasfacingthelivingroom.She
couldonlyseethemusclesofhis
neckandupperback,butitwas
enough.Hafeezwasallslender
hipsandsinewybiceps;Chester’s
pecsstrainedthefabricofhis
shirt.Hisfacewasimperfect,the
nosetoolargeforthemouth,and
heseemedunsophisticatedinthat
waythatevensmartmenoftendo.
Shewantedhimdespitethis,
becauseofthis.
Hecrossedtheroomliketheywere
alone.
“Youspilled.”Chester’svoicewas
gravel,allmumble.
Jasmineglanceddown,saw
nothing.Lookedbackuptofind
himgrinning.
Thatwasthemomentshedecided
tokisshim.Notlater,aloneinthe
dark,inthesafetyofanight
withoutstars,butthereinfrontof
hersupervisorsandclassmates.
Oneortwoofthemhadmet
Hafeez,thoughthimdarling.
Chesterkissedherback,gentlyat
first,butthenjammingtheir
mouthstogether,handsswooping
acrossthesmallofherback.When
hepulledaway,Jasminesmiled.
Thenstopped.Shewassurprised
tofindhimlookingstartled.
Chester’seyesdartedtheroom.He
blushedlikehe’djustspilledsalsa
onhisshirt.Whichmadethekiss
themistake,andherthesalsa.
Bythetimeshegothome,
outrunninghershame,italready
feltlikeancienthistory.Likethe
beginningofastorywhereshe
learnshowtobeagrown-up,how
tosucceed.She’dalreadydecided
totellHafeez.Lookingback,that
wasprobablyevenwhenJasmine
decidedtomarryhim,ifhe’dstay,
thegoodguywhowouldmakea
goodhusbandforhergoodlife.
AliKillsListonBYJACOBMCARTHURMOONEY
YounolongerbelongtoLouisville.OrLouis.YouareLewiston’s.
Bythiswell-spokenphantomhandyournamehasbeencommanded
outofKinshasa,yourchainsoffeatherboasboiledintosugardrink
tobesoldatborderoutletstoimpatientlocalkids.Itgetsworse
thanthisinshantytowns.InuntestedruralGeorgiaafarmerfires
offhisrifle.Youreffigyrope-a-dopesamoment,thenexplodes.
Threethousandwitnesseswalkthechalkperimeter,makeuntelevised
appealstotheharvestgodsofMaine.NothingbecomesofNathanHare.
Nixon’slistdrainsofenemies.HumphreybeatsNixon.Calekills
Allison.Mondalekillstherapist.Itsurprisesuswithsnow
forallof’88.HardingkillsKerrigan.McSorleykillsBrashear.
Thecelltheymoveyoutoisflooded,soyouhangfromtheceiling.
TysonkillsHolyfield.Youareapproachedbynobiographers.
Americagoesmetric.Orderliesarrivetofindyouburningfightcards.
....................................................................................................................................................................................................
Continuedonpage18>>
18
Handsome,smart.Never
embarrassedbyher.Thekindof
manwhocouldlistenpatiently
whenshebitchedabouther
friends,butalsoopenaCorona
withhisteeth.Whocouldspillsalsa
onhisshirtandlaughaboutit.
“You’reselfish,”hesaidwhenshe
finishedexplaining.
“Iwasn’tthinking.Itwasamistake.”
“You’reselfish,butwe’llget
throughthis,”hecontinued,voice
evenandmeasured.Mature.
“Iwanttobeabetterperson.”
“Youcanbe.Youalreadyalmostare.”
Fornearlythreedecades,Jasmine
hadworkedhardtodeservehis
trustandunderstanding.Sheread
Harpers,limitedherdrinking,
actedlikethematuregrown-up
Hafeezwasandalwayswouldbe.
And,whenhespenttoomuchtime
playfantasyfootballwithhis
friendsorinsistedonbuyingthe
newMercedesSX,shere-paidhim
bybeingpatientandmeasuredin
return.Oratleasttryingtobe.
“I’vegotagreatwife,”hetoldthe
boysonepokernight,drunker
thanusual,voicerisingthrough
thefloorboards.“BestdecisionI
evermade.”
Afewyearsago,Jasminehunted
ChesterdownonFacebook.Didn’t
sendamessage,butstudiedhis
photoalbums.He’dgainedweight,
mainlyinthebellyandjowls.His
wifewasablondetartwitharose
tattoostampedonherleftbreast.
Inonepicturetheywerebowling
withfriendsbutneitheronefaced
thecamera.Heeyedthelane,she
staredofftotheleft,andifyou
croppedthatphotoinhalfyoucould
imaginethemasstrangers.
“Atthatage,theonly
womanyouknow,really,isyour
mother,”Hafeezsaysnow,sipping
theDietCokeshe’dgothimfrom
upstairs.“So,whenherhairwas
clean,IthoughtIshouldtakeher
tomyparents.Butherbodywas
tooheavy,andherskinfelttoo
gross.SoIusedmyleftsandalto
buryherinsand.”
Hepullsoffhissockandmimes
usingitlikeashovel,scoopingthe
airoftheirbasement.Shewatches,
stomachgargling.Heshowsher
howheburiedthewoman’sfeet.
Herlegs.Herchestandpattedthe
sanddown.Notthehead.Heleft
thatopen.
“Then,whenIwasdone,Itookoff
myshirtandcurledupbesideher.”
Shelooksupathim.Hadsheheard
thatright?
“Why?”
“Iwasakid,Jas.”Hisvoicecuts
sharp.“Eventhroughthesand,she
hadaterriblesmell,rottenand
dank.Ihadtobreathingulps.”
“Butyoustayedthere,spooninga
buriedcorpse?”
“Forawhile,yeah.Ididn’tknow
whyIdidit.Tookmeyearsto
figurethatout.”
Whenthespooningwasdone,
Hafeezsays,herealizedshoulddo
somethingniceforthewoman,so
hekneltandmumbledmade-up
prayers.Hewasn’treligious,the
manshemarried.Jasminedidn’t
knowthisboythatHafeezwas
describing.
“Thefollowingsummer,we
returnedtothebeachbutthebody
wasgone.Idugforhertobesure
butallIfoundwasanearringin
thesand.Iswalloweditand
walkedback.Idon’tthinkI’ve
thoughtaboutherintwentyyears.”
“Didyougiveheraname?”Jasmine
askswhenthestoryisdone.
Helooksup.“Whywouldyouask
that?”
Sheshrugs.
“Idid,”Hafeezsaysaftera
moment.“ButIcan’tremember.”
Jasminehearshiminthe
shower,humming,adistanttrill.
TheSauvignonBlancisstillinthe
winerack,butshecracksit
anyway.Swigsstraightfromthe
lukewarmbottle.Themotions
settlehernervesmorethanthe
wine.Settingdownthebottle,she
climbsthestairsandknocksonthe
bathroomdoor,shoutingabove
runningwater.
“Whydidyouspoonher?”
“What?”heshoutsback.
“Yousaidittookyouyearstofigure
outwhyyoudidit.”
Thewaterdies,thoughlonelydrips
tinkleagainstthetile.
“Yeah,itdid.”
“Sowhy?”
Thedooropens.Heisflushed,
pink-chestedfromtheheat.
Grabbinghistowel,Hafeezcovers
hisface,nothisgenitals.Hetalks
intothetowel.
“IthinkIwaslonely.Myparents
weresodistant.”
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19
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OTTAWA
BYa.m.kozak
Ottawablastsleeannwomackinvisiblyfromrolleddownminivan
windowscruisingsuburbsofasparsemetropolisonasunnysummer
solsticethatevaporatestohumidmidnight
Ottawaisasmoke-breakbureaucratwhoparksinkanata&busestoa
seriesofmid-risebuildingstired&tightlypiledlikealivingroom
ornamentthatbecomes3-Dwallpaperaweekaftermove-in
Ottawaisahipunclewholistenstojazz&smokesmarijuanatimeto
timebutwldbeoutofplaceatatrendyrestaurant&doesn'tgetthe
appealofprimetimevampireshows
Ottawaisabullyvictimwhoelevatesmontreal&torontotoSuperior
DestinationStatusforcoolkidswhochuckleonrooftoppatiospastone
a.m.&tossmartinisoffthesidenotstirredenuf
Ottawaisstandingnotjumpingataconcertw/inquisitivegrindreading
earlyalarmchurntoacubiclenearthetransitwayincentretownto
developfurtherexpertiseonweather&unilingualjobloss
“Soitwaswhat,therapeutic?”
“WhenIsawher,deadornot,she
wasthefirstpersonIcoulddo
anythingIwantedto.”
Jasminewantstoaskwhyhe
remembersnow,whatthehell
happenedtoday,butherhipsare
alreadyturning.
Intheirhomeoffice,shefindshis
laptop,hiscoffeemug,her
degreeshangingonthewall.She
pullsdownthemaster’sandlooks
atit.Hernameiswrittenonit,
butitfeelsliketheworkofa
youngersister,aformerfriend.
HerdegreebutJasminewantsto
smashit.Shefeelsliedto,
betrayed.Wherehadthisfreak
flagbeenforthelastthirtyyears?
Whatelsehadhekeptsecret?
She’dworkedhardtobecome
better,tomatchhisgoodness
andhereHafeezwas,fakingit
allalong.
Thestairscreakfromhissteps.
Oldhardwood.
Chester’sFacebookprofile’sbeen
updatedtoday.Heandtheblonde
bimboarestandingoutsideaLas
Vegascasino.Thecaptionreads,
GONNAMAKEMY$$.Jasmine
closesthelaptop.She’snever
wantedtoseeVegas.
FromthekitchenHafeezcalls,
askingaboutdinner.Sheknows
hewillcomehuntingforher.He
isnotthekindofmantomarch
straighttotheTV.Hewillneedto
lookherintheeye,smile,seethat
sheisstillhereinthecentreof
theirhouse,theirshared
existence.Shepriesherlipsopen
acrack.Whenheenterstheoffice,
Jasminedoesnotknowwhatshe
willsay.Divorce?Tears?Raging
orlaughterorsharing?Shesees
multiplefuturesripplingoutat
once.Themtalkingallnightand
swappingsecrets.Herpacking
herbagsanddrivingto
Washington,toPhoenix,toSan
Diego.Gettingdrunkonwhite
wineandwatchingaKenBurns
documentaryinsilence.
Shesucksinahotbreath,her
pulseracing,intenselyalive.
20
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Onthecover:DetailfromSpring&Summer1930Eaton’sCataloguecourtesyofIreneVillamere.
VillamereJUNOS:WHYSOCHEESE?+RussellSmithGetsTurnedDown
THESPRINGTIMEOFYOURMIDDLEAGE2016VOLUME1ISSUE2$6.95 THELOWBROWMAGAZINEOFHIGH-ENDCANLIT
