Chapter 3 is here but skip it if you want and read it next week if you have decided to do so. Contact me if you want membership to the editor club that i have neither put enough time into, really given full thought, or had time to. But I am close to starving myself out of self loath of not doing so, so fuck ya. If ya just bail ya just bail. I am going blind into this for fun and I am poorer than a good few men up in this Mf, but not all, so if you cant pay we can work it out.Also free if you happen to be bill murray, btw.
 Never Let Anything Own You (or) Petty Harbor Gothic
Of all the tales lain upon me by my Grandfather, the one that haunts me with laughter concerns that eerie evening he went to “make a pick-up” with his drinking buddy, “The Drunken Mortician of St. John’s”. At the time gramps was just a young man, still hungry for a thousand drinks he would drink, a hundred fights to fight, decades of varying work for his father, then himself. He’d fallen in with a strange companion, “a brief drinking buddy”. As was often the case with his real gems, we were a half case (or a half-flask) in already before he brought out the “vintage material”. For this reason my own recollection is accentuated, fermented even, by Molson Dry and Gin. The year is irrelevant and it’s burial avoids any insult to any family still living, for something tells me the Mortician has already joined that often referred to conglomeration of steadily increasing membership of my grandfathers friends and enemies: “dead and buried”.
He went down there and drank with him some nights in the old city, when it still had bakers and butchers, sailors, rough townie kids. Gramps, in confessional poise, clutching (and having chastised me for having been ‘owned by’) cigarette from my pack always leans in; “I was…” pausing for effect, then hauling long on the cigarette with his arthritic claw of a hand “always a bit… morbidly fascinated.” And that’s when you knew the story was about to get…interesting.
“The Mortician is forever drinking embalming fluid when out of the real stuff”, Mickey gives testament to this by deeply staring into my eyes; “It was pretty terrible stuff…I only tried it once”. I always thought of how people said of Grandpa: “he’s preserved all right; Skipper hasn’t aged since his 50’s”.
What happens next varies in the telling also: sometimes, he suggests driving the, preserved, Mortician when one unexpected night the black rotary phone called him to Petty Harbor, in the bleary eye of night, fog of the fluid clearly in his eyes. Other times the task is thrust upon him and as he interjects then with; “not that I was not in too good a shape, but I trusted myself more than him!”
Either way, they make it to the destination far out into Petty Harbor herself, pale and veiled in fog grandfather once called “a massive plank”, other times “white squall”. At some point, (again, variations compete as to who suggested it) the consensus to shroud Young Gramps in a little white lie rose; he’d pose as the potential Apprentice of the St. Johns Mortician of 19– , and this would be his test, his “dry-run”. The Mortician of St. Johns assistant: a nephew, in fact! Not that he needed to have bothered or concerned he’d be revealed a fake. The man who greeted them next, in every variation I witnessed in 10 years of listening to Grandfather his own prior and final departure, “was the happiest man in all of St. John’s, that twisted, foggy old night.’
He’s exuberant; Undertaker and Apprentice introduced, the two, still weaving from the ‘straighteners’ they’d bitterly ingested prior to undertaking said voyage, somehow manage to sit at the kitchen table, half in view of the bedroom, and as such the prostrated lower half of the oddly giddy man’s wife. My grandfather says it was the first time he’d seen a dead (albeit permeated) body. The jubilant man bounces from one man’s setting to the next, distributing healthy, if not overly generous portions of rum into each glass, slammed before them in a fantastic, hopping rage. Making the final pour for himself he spilt half of it by jerking it so quickly to the air and while staring dead at the Mortician in a cordial, almost too-close to prestigious manner: “You sir are a fine man!”, to which the already Drunken and soon to be Quite Inebriated Mortician retorted, “well, don’t know about that but I’ll drink which-ya all the same”. He then rose, perhaps sensing that he might not get the job done if he remained for the even more generous helpings of rum being poured for both the cracked old man and my young Grandpa, who through each manner of variation to the dying day, never waivers in the precise recall of this moment. The man was sat beneath a photo of he and the recently departed; not unlike American Gothic- which my gramps described to me well enough that I could show him a print; “Sheeesh, yeah that’s the one. The man was the opposite in that photo- he was dark. And her lips were pursed in such a queer way, like she’d just finished giving him a good tellin’ off.”
He describes to me as an aside, that “in those days see, the Mortician went in and” (making a zipper noise while his arthritic smoking hand imitates the hands) “he sewed up the lips, see? ZZZZZIIIIP!” He always would look at his hands until getting to the word, “Lips” at which point his eyes straightened and darted energetically to mine for the reaction that, in all those years of hearing it, never failed to explode on my steadily buzzed face.
When the job was finished (in record time I was told one night, “that’s what the Mortician said later- fastest he ever did one up”), the queer old fellah in the kitchen looked, grinning, to young Gramps and asked how he liked the job so far? “So far…So Good!” manages young Gramps, adding extra emphasis on the last two words as though needing them still to keep from falling into the scene he’d retold for more than 50 years, until it had become like so many; “a job to remember”.
The Mortician came back; somehow the act had stabilized him enough to enlist the help of the apprentice, the now-wobbling, morbidly obsessed boy, to get the body into the fog engulfed hearse. And away from this strangeness. But not before the vaguely content man insisted on a third drink. “By this time, I was wondering if we were getting out of this-” and with glassy eyes returning to me for the final narration, professes it went just like this:
Joyously overcome, old fellah raises his glass extra high this time, insisting everyone follow the eerie toast: “You sir, are the greatest man who ever lived!” staring penetratingly into the Mortician’s eyes he had no choice but to inquire as to meaning of this profound declaration – this final answer was all that transpired between the three before, slamming back there hearty, ambrosia-like flasks before the old man, gushing, bid them off. Smiling, Grampa reveals:
“I’ve been tryn’ta shut dat woman’s mouth for the last forty frigging years, & you went and done it Just Like That!”
With each and every re-telling, we then both burst into a state of sardonic laughter, with his almost always ending in a hacking fit, from those bummed smokes he loved to remind me that he’d “quit nearly thirty years. Just woke up morning, couldn’t look at ‘em.”
Often the old man repeated, “Like my father used to say, never let anything own you. Once it does? Well, that’s it.”
December 8th, 2011
I’ve always been quiet, and even more so scrawny, even frail in form, and most especially so when in that most wretched and inspiring, that most depleting and renewing of places; the institutions of education and vocation. I make this distinction not to inflate the story herein; for be assured it is a short and narrow version of a variety of moments, but I digress- I have always been a thin fellow, and at 30 years only now entering my 3rd year of university, and what was incidentally my first since leaving St. Mary’s in Halifax to come home, to Memorial), I was just a little less so on both accounts. I was still in that earliest of stages to the campus: when I entered the tunnels I wasn’t sure where I would end up, when I wanted to go to the Library from anywhere, I walked above ground no matter what the weather…it was…trying. Luckily I took a day before classes started and mapped out my class locations- I was after all, a two year vet to the game and the race.
His class was three of my mornings, every week, earliest of them too. Anyone who has had a morning class knows how debatable mere attendance, let alone the gods forbid, attention, can be at these classes. But I love short stories, and from the start I enjoyed His lectures both for their literature, and his personal asides. There is not even really much mystery to why the fondness was so instantaneous either, I hate to disappoint, although in fairness: I warned you this story was short. It’s really hard not to be content with a teacher who at once evokes figuratively and literally, the reincarnation of Santa Claus with white beard, round face, blue eyes and even pot belly, and in temperament were like the kind sort of grandfather everyone idealizes someday. He even had a couple blue wiry veins along the nostrils, like mine did, although I suspected for different reasons.
It helped that the stories were so good I think; Poe’s House of Usher, Sonny’s Blues. The Lottery. Oh and that one where the captain watches over his men in a boat after their ship is sunk. That was one of my favorites. When He read passages from the story He got into the roles of the different men, and even waved when reading the part about the useless priest on shore. I got a real kick out of him I must say. It wasn’t one particular thing he said or did either; it was the overall way he said it all. He was almost…sly the way he snuck knowledge into stuff. Took a little while, see, because as I said I have long been thin and quiet, and even after you age some, the rooms of uniform chair-desks, or “Chesks” as I call them, still have a way of…quieting you. Thinning, even. The room, and my foolish choice to of spots in it- they kept me uncomfortable for most the semester. But I took solace, perhaps especially so, in the Grand-Pa-Santa performed tales all the same.
Front Row, top left had corner of the class. It’s been one of my preferred seats for some time now; you are far enough away from most the students to avoid most eyes, and when the time nears you can make a decent bolt around whoever threatens your anxiety-like, sweat-drenched, and itchy exit. All because of one unseen, but major issue which quickly, ahem…’arose’ that first morning. I hadn’t really considered, and it worsened as class progressed with such steadiness that I actually began to clear a course of each one based on my state of discomfort- each state that worsened told me we were one step closer to the climax, then the denouement, and finally, His final remarks on the story. My release from this mental ambrosia, yet this physical hell. You see, the entire circumference of the left bank of our class, our troop toward understanding- our exile from darkness to lights unfathomable- was window…window that called the heat of earths mother, a window that was directly and forevermore, facing the god-damn sun.
It was not even an issue for much of the left bank o the institutional trench; it was just the top corner of the teachers desk – which incidentally He never once sat at, for obvious reasons standing center, in the beloved and cool shade of the other 80 percent of the warzone of quiet ignorance and brilliant conjecture of young minds, which somehow surmised my place in the whole of things- skinny, quiet, and usually somehow on the fringe, mature student in the hottest little corner of the room, wondering on that fateful morning when silence killed the battlefield all over- even (and be assured to my shock) my own lips couldn’t find it- the name of the town or state or city of the days short story. And there he was, finally exasperated with months of only a couple students answering the bulk of the questions, and ready to blow his top. They had finally done the impossible with their silence: they had broken the sunny demeanor and light hearted kindness of Grampa Santa. But first, a lesson in the history, short as it had been, yet excruciatingly long for me, of that very quiet front.
As established, I was older than most 2nd years, having doddled a bit with my course load and not entered University until 27. There we have my state, and of course here we are at my predicament; the sunny corner of short story class taught by cooly shaded Grand-Pa Santa, who just happens to be a naturally gifted teacher of one of my fondest subjects, as though the torture of basking in the rising sun, magnified by double pained Atlantic ocean style windows. Already born quiet and thin, it seemed my lot to waste away in sweat during what should have been fully joyous runnin through the windy hollows of literature. I should have been as free as that biplane pilot in the Alice Munro story that one day. But instead I was stranded, with only one calming source of hope- the man himself.
Every once in awhile He spoke in a Newfoundland accent, quite intentionally mind you, and yet he didn’t. It was so sparse, see. And He used it always to drive a point home, or restate a previously “properly enunciated” version of the same sentence. “So…whats dis all about”. “Now, what in god’s name is Poe on about with dis passage”. That was part of the charm I guess. He already emulated Gramps, now he occasionally became the old man when he was on the piss. For like Him, Granmps could manage mainland elocution just fine- if he chose to do so. Unlike many younger teachers, he didn’t waste time trying to win the affections of his students either. And to me that was respectful of himself, the profession and us most importantly- to be an ambassador of learning, a Captain of the written word as it were, this is an honorable title in my opinion, and its one that needn’t wilt or waiver in the face of modern youths expectations of “new wave” teaching. Rather than capitulation, we got these wonderfully crafted excursions into the jungles of each authors mind and life- we became enthralled by osmosis- myself perhaps also some photosynthesis- of being in his well laid paths. We were safe from many things, though. We wouldn’t be spoiled. Fooled into thinking it was easy to navigate a great short story. Imbued with the notion that stand up comedy and lecturing university are one in the same. No Sir.
We were going to learn the easy way- which is to say the only way, that is, the Right one.
He was never forceful, quite the opposite in fact. He would ask and re-ask and re-ask questions, never a hint of stress level raised, never any indication, save the accent coming out in planned, perfect intervals for humor and emphasis, that anything changed in him despite its obvious challenge. Especially when it was place names and easy stuff like that: stuff that was on the first damn page. But he didn’t. And I guess that’s where I found some recompense for silently melting to death in the top left hand corner of the chemistry building at memorial, those September days. To raise my thin arm and quietly break the quiet a little more often than usual. Because I was about to experience one of the quietest semesters…of my life. Perhaps, I thought squinting one day with arm raised so as to both block sun and grab His attention, of all time.
Yes,it was That quiet. Young people today, I remember thinking, are just quieter I guess. Tweet, Text, Gaming Online. It’s all very semi-social, and often with the graces of distance between target and shooter, talker and listener, teacher and student, to wit. But even by that standard, this class was a trench of young kids yet unable to even raise the white flag of uncertain hypotheses. It got so that each time I raised my holy thin branch of relief, I would first look back to the class and just make sure I wasn’t being too eager. I’m no greenhorn remember. Never once did it occur that way. Never. Once.
Maybe it was because he was so kind, the kids could sense it as a way to subvert the morning and half sleep through his lectures, my answers, the wind whipping around the curtain in the left corner of the room, the only redemptive burst of cool in the sun-lit area, which was two desks away from me at all times. And not a word mentioned that wasn’t dragged out, often with such reluctance He almost had to do it himself. It was a horror-show some mornings. If I had read the wrong story or not had a chance to re-read the one we were covering, it could get truly atrocious, even gory.
But then one day the impossible happened. Nobody could answer the first and most basic question of the story. I had been under incredible stress that week, my best friend and fatherly-influence, my grand, grand Grampa…had taken a stroke. Then a second. Now he was hospitalized. He was tied up so he wouldn’t continually rip out his own feeding tubes, with his gnarly, bar-fight-fed fists. He was 76, and still drank a flask or a half in the evenings with is best friend “Prince William”. He had been my confidante for a decade or so of close conversations and laughter and home cooked meals, and now, he was one foot in the grave and refusing anyone outside his own kids the chance to visit.
And here was this man, who by all accounts had given it the best fight a man can give in the battle for young minds’ attention and, god forbid, the insight of that holiest, most divine thing: an individual thought. A step. It was all he had begged for, just one foot gained. It wasn’t as though he’d expected us to win the war. Just take a yard. Even a mile. And all that withstanding, if nothing else can ya please Name the god fer’saken town b’y da jeeesus. This was late November now. We had been to the House of Usher, we had survived the sinking of the Lusitania with Stephen Crane and we had even survived the smothering sadness of Gogol’s Overcoat, and now we would fumble and break the perfect demeanor near the end, hung up on a story I can’t even recall, though I am sure it was either Cheever’s The Swimmer or Carver’s Cathedral. I mean these were modern stories, not like Poe with the weighty tongue of old gothic- and yet I couldn’t summon the answer. And he finally broke. The man who had been by all intents my Grand-Santa, smiling back at you when you asked who is speaking in A Clean, Well-lighted Place, smiling when he agreed about the ending of Yellow Wallpaper, smiling and kind despite the artillery of silence and more silence daily aimed toward him, despite all the eyes blankly unable to mouth even a guess and left him to lean on even the hope of one- had finally had enough.
“Well I Just Can’t Believe It. I mean come ‘Awn guys”
“This is ‘tree months IN”
“Does ANYone ”
I think of him now with the other running list of them. The good ones; Mr. Pardo and the voice, he later became it. Mr. Hadwyn; taught me the word ambrosia, Ms. Macdonald who wanted my short story to get published way back in grade three. And Mrs. Kelland later in adult high- the one who he held all pther people to as a sort of moral and human metre-stick. The ones who should never have had to run out of patience. Not because of that gawd fe’ersakin quiet, of all ‘tings.
I was perfectly out of place to see it all; I was Older, I was 3rd year, I was the guy who’d deluded himself out of adolescence with delusions of being the next Jack Kerouac or London, but ended up looking more the Burroughs, or worse, Huncke. I could see the literal unfolding of the silence over just a single gap of time – a decade and a half or so- from my eariest years as the tall lanky ginger school- wise-cracking but otherwise shy kid. In high school I don’t really remember cell phones. Just weed and hacky sack, pool halls and public parks. Now a hush comes over the titillated mind. The over-twittered, under-spoken. A nation of shyness to hold us back. And the last few good people aghast at the funeral of conjecture, of discussion, of thought- paid to try to hustle a few marks into an average- nothing more than monks robbed of their patience, hope. Passion.
And yet, by the next class, his temper returned to the infinitely Buddha-like smile and, as though Cheever’s Swimmer, half –senile, or as even the rider who manages to escape Usher- Mr. B- made his way through the trenches of quiet once more…a few good hands to aid, be assured, but amidst the fiery true force of a silence, all the same.
By the time I lost Mick, exams had rushed past. I wasn’t really there anymore though. I was finally making my way from the hellish prism of that vantage; courtside to the slaughter. It didn’t even occur to me until shortly before sitting down to provide my portion of the events leading up to December 8th that he was technically only a few parking lots away the whole time. My grandfather, who hated more than anything the thought of dying for years in a hospital, visited by those he hated but loved. He had refused me admittance after the second stroke with the spastic waving of clawed hands, a childish face according to one family member, who in her usual crudeness had remade the sour pus and claw outside Carnell’s Funeral Home.
The entire time I was writhing in wonder and later despair and being powerless in his end, he had made his way closer still to my discomfort able place. Whereupon he was eventually sedated and restrained after several, quite violent and swift attempts to dislodge his air tube- he finally followed that hellishly bright light.
Mick loved a few things enough to break his staunch agnostic approach to life “I say a prayer still for my boys dead and buried” (he lost three to Hastings Street and the drug war)-and my old man (his father a veteran at 15 – notoriously declaring himself the youngest Newfoundlander to enlist and lying about his age tat 14 to escape the coal mines of Glace Bay) – and of course… he loved to drink, he loved his dog, he loved a woman once, and he loved to tell and almost as much hear, a great story. Maybe I am misguided in my detail of his last attempt then; perhaps; hearing the silence broken by the voice of a clearly trained professional in the trade of storytelling and re-telling and re-telling again – perhaps ole’ skipper wanted just to get a better seat for the show!
To sneak one last laugh out of it all! To be away from dat god forsaken hospital. There’s a story yet to be told.
It’s a good one, bout two atheists who end up praying on each other’s souls, in the end.
Next Chapter Rules etc,
- editing (as in you take it have a laugh cut it up post your comments, i dont care it is literally word play that motivates this so have a time wit dat.)
- option to tell me off
- option to be called and read to
- tea with me: priceless
- my opinion on literary, or really any snobbery of class: language is beautiful, and most bad criticism of half decent writing that is often class warfare, bad practice, or, if not, something personal. Poem is experience. it’s critic is either the honest appraiser they should be, or simply something personal, like next weeks chapter. what would you add? to this chapter?
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