I’m jiving down Bridge Street toward Carl’s Tearoom. “Rock & Roll,”by the Velvet Underground. A guy named Luc from Montreal blasted it day and night in Hadwin House last year until inevitably some football player would yell at him to turn off his fucking faggot music before he shoved his entire record collection up his ass,
and not sideways either, you French faggot, I’m not gonna just slip it in like a letter in a mailbox
. I remember that particular threat so well because it was Chuck Slaughter who made it and I spent around twenty minutes trying to figure out what it was supposed to mean. Chuck’s rage was often of the incoherent variety.
But Luc never stopped. He played whatever he wanted because he knew the football and hockey players wouldn’t touch him or his turntable. He played the Doors and the New York Dolls and David Bowie. He was the only guy on the floor with a decent stereo, which meant girls always came to Hadwin House parties. And on those nights, out would come the Elton John and the Stevie Wonder and they all bowed down to Luc’s power and genius.
I am so into the song I’m practically singing out loud, lips moving, spreading my hands wide on
FINE FINE music
, getting threatening looks from passersby. Hello everybody. Hello town of Timperly. Jim Arsenault loves me. Despite all the amputations, just like Lou Reed says. Amputated personality. Amputated literary ability. Amputated power of coherent speech in his presence. I’m grooving down the sidewalk in my curling sweater with the moose and hunter on the back. Past the Sub Stop, where I get my all-meaters. Past Razors Sharp, where I get my hair trimmed about once a year. Past Rory Scarsdale Holdings with its stupid, meaningless flag—
“Ask For Rory!” 362–9130
—made all the more infuriating by the arbitrary quotation marks.
It doesn’t bother me so much today, of course, but the flag was like an insult when I first arrived.
It’s a university town! Whom are they quoting? If it’s Scarsdale himself, then why
quote? It’s his flag
. On and on, I ground my teeth over it countless times on my way to the tearoom. I could have stayed in Summerside for pointless quotation marks. The sign outside the Legion:
“Ham Dinner” Friday!
Is it a ham dinner in theory? A euphemistic ham dinner of some kind? Notes left on the table from my mother:
Larry give Aunt Maudie a “ring.” Give lawn a “trim.” Don’t forget to “pick up” new putters
. Her letters are the same—quotation marks jumping around all over the page like ticks.
Anyway, I don’t care. I love Timperly. I love quotation marks. I love my mother.
Ring-a-ding
goes the bell above the door at Carl’s Tearoom. Sherrie’s not here yet. I boogie my way into a booth. I’d like to go and play the jukebox but know from experience it’s all country and western, with a little bit of Don Messer and Stompin’ Tom thrown in to remind us where we come from, and I’m not in a twangin’ mood today. I order tea and french fries with Beef Gravy with a jaunty sort of flourish, looking the waitress straight in her remarkable amber eyes, taking the time to ask how she is today. She has a tag over one breast reading
Brenda L
. I say,
How are you today, Brenda L.?
and it goes over well. She tells me she is just dandy. She looks like she’d like to lean over and ruffle my hair, maybe kiss the top of my head. I watch her shuffle away, energyless, like a lady in a housecoat. I think Brenda is maybe around thirty. Quite old. A body that Jim would call
overripe
in one of his poems. But I find Brenda nice, comforting to look at. I bet the underneaths of her arms would wobble whenever she reached for things. To me that seems nice. Soft. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand—that’s from Joyce, I think, the only novelist so good he’s practically a poet. Soft and white. Smelling heavy and soft, like grandmother’s soap. Maybe she has children. MaybeI could have an affair with Brenda L., instead
and not sideways either, you French faggot, I’m not gonna just slip it in like a letter in a mailbox
. I remember that particular threat so well because it was Chuck Slaughter who made it and I spent around twenty minutes trying to figure out what it was supposed to mean. Chuck’s rage was often of the incoherent variety.
But Luc never stopped. He played whatever he wanted because he knew the football and hockey players wouldn’t touch him or his turntable. He played the Doors and the New York Dolls and David Bowie. He was the only guy on the floor with a decent stereo, which meant girls always came to Hadwin House parties. And on those nights, out would come the Elton John and the Stevie Wonder and they all bowed down to Luc’s power and genius.
I am so into the song I’m practically singing out loud, lips moving, spreading my hands wide on
FINE FINE music
, getting threatening looks from passersby. Hello everybody. Hello town of Timperly. Jim Arsenault loves me. Despite all the amputations, just like Lou Reed says. Amputated personality. Amputated literary ability. Amputated power of coherent speech in his presence. I’m grooving down the sidewalk in my curling sweater with the moose and hunter on the back. Past the Sub Stop, where I get my all-meaters. Past Razors Sharp, where I get my hair trimmed about once a year. Past Rory Scarsdale Holdings with its stupid, meaningless flag—
“Ask For Rory!” 362–9130
—made all the more infuriating by the arbitrary quotation marks.
It doesn’t bother me so much today, of course, but the flag was like an insult when I first arrived.
It’s a university town! Whom are they quoting? If it’s Scarsdale himself, then why
quote? It’s his flag
. On and on, I ground my teeth over it countless times on my way to the tearoom. I could have stayed in Summerside for pointless quotation marks. The sign outside the Legion:
“Ham Dinner” Friday!
Is it a ham dinner in theory? A euphemistic ham dinner of some kind? Notes left on the table from my mother:
Larry give Aunt Maudie a “ring.” Give lawn a “trim.” Don’t forget to “pick up” new putters
. Her letters are the same—quotation marks jumping around all over the page like ticks.
Anyway, I don’t care. I love Timperly. I love quotation marks. I love my mother.
Ring-a-ding
goes the bell above the door at Carl’s Tearoom. Sherrie’s not here yet. I boogie my way into a booth. I’d like to go and play the jukebox but know from experience it’s all country and western, with a little bit of Don Messer and Stompin’ Tom thrown in to remind us where we come from, and I’m not in a twangin’ mood today. I order tea and french fries with Beef Gravy with a jaunty sort of flourish, looking the waitress straight in her remarkable amber eyes, taking the time to ask how she is today. She has a tag over one breast reading
Brenda L
. I say,
How are you today, Brenda L.?
and it goes over well. She tells me she is just dandy. She looks like she’d like to lean over and ruffle my hair, maybe kiss the top of my head. I watch her shuffle away, energyless, like a lady in a housecoat. I think Brenda is maybe around thirty. Quite old. A body that Jim would call
overripe
in one of his poems. But I find Brenda nice, comforting to look at. I bet the underneaths of her arms would wobble whenever she reached for things. To me that seems nice. Soft. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand—that’s from Joyce, I think, the only novelist so good he’s practically a poet. Soft and white. Smelling heavy and soft, like grandmother’s soap. Maybe she has children. MaybeI could have an affair with Brenda L., instead
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