All the Anxious Girls on Earth (12 page)

Across the alley, the staple-gun men are singing a cappella—”Up on the Roof,” of all things. You wonder if someone has slipped Xanax into their Cheerios, or Ativan into their thermoses. You wish a talent scout would come by and spirit them away in a long, tacky white limo with a soft-drink logo on the side. They’re young, agile. They’re Canadian boys and probably already know how to skate, so they could join the Ice Capades doing some sort of Village People redux act. And why not? Just why the heck not? Stamp your little foot for
effect. Dust bunnies rise from the parquet floor in a fury—rabid, grey, feral, gathering courage and growing in number through your neglect. They trust in Nietzsche: Those who do not destroy us, make us stronger.

Although, if you were to be perfectly honest, all the Nietzsche you know could be gleaned from the opening credits of
Conan the Barbarian
.

Week Four: Make an effort to get to know your fellow rim pigs, after all, they’re the only ones who’ll talk to you instead of at you besides the donut-cart woman. Decide Dave the slotman’s not so bad. He’s tacked magazine photos of Susan Sarandon all over the pillar beside his desk along with a crayon drawing by his daughter Kristal of what looks like a Sikh temple, but could be a birdcage. It lends him a hint of complexity, this attraction to an actress of a certain age. After all, it could have been Pamela Anderson Lee. You find something reassuring about Dave—his comfortable slovenliness, the way he whistles theme songs from kiddie cartoons as he dummies up the pages, the way his wife makes sure that at least his socks match.

Gustav the Montrealer, on the other hand, has the look of an unloved man. It’s not just the missing button, it’s his needy air. He used to work as a reporter at
Le Devoir
, or so he tells you, and he never lets a night go by without reminding everyone that he’s a
real
journalist and this rim-pig thing is only a temporary gig. He confides in you one night, thinking you can relate. To sensitive men. Because you’re a gal. He tells you he left a son behind out
east after his wife kicked him out. He spends a good part of his time sending E-mail messages to his son, who’s only five but can evidently read at grade six level—in English
and
French. He tells you he wants to pitch a column to the features editor on contemporary men’s issues.

He says
(sotto voce):
“There’s a whole segment of the population that’s not being served in the popular press. You know, the father thing. The pain thing. The anger thing.”

Say (in French): “You mean huffing and puffing and drumming and stuff, reclaiming the maligned little beast—sorry, little
boy
—within?”

He looks quizzical and then laughs a fake jolly-hearted laugh and touches your forearm with the tips of two fingers, showing he knows his Dale Carnegie, indicating he thinks you’ve said something terribly funny. You don’t know which is worse. That you’ve mocked him, or that you’ve discovered—
confirmed
—that he doesn’t understand French, or that his fingers, you’ve just noticed, have been chewed until they’ve bled, the hangnails peeled off, leaving thin scabby strips. They’re the fingers of the nervous little boy you and your friends shoved into the older girls’ bathroom during one recess at Sacred Heart, alone with the Kotex machine, while you piled your squealing bodies up against the door so he couldn’t get out even though he pushed and pushed until his small heart was bursting. The boy, Eugene, ended up crawling out the window and had to be rescued from the fire escape by one of the nuns. When Sister Scholastica reached the bottom rung, she sat down and slung him
across her knee and started to spank him. The crackle of plastic was shocking, even to you. But that didn’t stop you, eyes wide, from excitedly whispering, “Eugene still wears diapers.” There was no need, of course, to whisper:
Pass it on
.

The Montrealer, as if he can see into your rusted-out carbody of a Catholic soul, avoids talking directly to you from this point on. Out of the corner of your eye, you’ll be aware that his hands, on occasion, tremble.

You fare better with the Matador. The Matador has a trait you must admit you envy. He has this incredible posture. In this nocturnal universe of slouching men, he stands out, ramrod straight even under duress, like George C. Scott playing Patton. He has settled into the numbing delirium of the job with a Zen-like aplomb. Nothing seems to faze him, or move him. He is the perfect rim pig, smartly robotic, emotionless as a Vulcan, except for the deep pleasure he gets from hearing about stupid deaths. You only have to

Say: Hungarian woman falls in barrel of cabbage juice and drowns,

Say: Kansas man punctures brain by accidentally ramming car antenna up left nostril, Say: Toronto Blue Jay kills seagull with homer, and a deep, indecorous chortle will rise from his belly and burble up his throat and out of his mouth, masking the thin, prissy whine of the fluorescent lights for a few seconds. His laughter is steam—it scalds and leaves something sulfurous in its wake.

Just don’t ask him about his daughter who lives a few miles away in Coquitlam and whom he’s not allowed to see. And she’s only three, so E-mail is not an option.

The Pumpkin usually sits to the left of you and is what they call a lifer. He’s been here for longer than anyone can remember and perhaps thinks that if he just keeps really quiet, he can stay forever. The Pumpkin has seven children and a wife to feed. He has beautiful, long eyelashes—as do all his children—and for some reason those eyelashes break your heart.

The Pumpkin is kind. The Pumpkin is inoffensive. The Pumpkin, you realize, might as well wear a sign reading: Kick Me.

Pick a day, any day. “Hey, Murray,” Dave says. “Do you think they should let the U.S. extradite those two pricks from the island who killed the one guy’s parents and retarded sister in Bellingham?” The Pumpkin stops, his fingers raised above his keyboard, looking uncertain. “Sure, Dave. I guess they deserve it.”

The Matador scoops the puck. “But, Murray, you know they’ll probably fry. Don’t you Catholics believe guys shouldn’t fry on earth, only after they’re booted out of heaven?” This is where the Pumpkin starts to sweat and looks around for moral support. You try to flash him a look of concern, smiling wryly and winking, but he just thinks you’re flirting and turns even redder. “You’re right, maybe we should keep them here.”

Dave says, “Right, Murray. Make them do fifty pushups or ten Hail Marys or something.” Now the Pumpkin
smiles a watery smile, thinking he’s said something witty, and then sees the smirk on Dave’s face and the disdain on the Matador’s. He hurries to the bathroom while everyone, including you, snickers. The Pumpkin spends a lot of time in the can summoning the strength to do his job.

Start to say: You guys—

Then remember: Nietzsche.

Decide he’s in there turning into superman and that he might just come out and bash in everyone’s head. Wish that your look of empathy had been less wishy-washy, more distinct. Vow to practice blinding glances of compassion in front of the bathroom mirror on your break, if you’re not too tired.

What does it take to push a man over the edge? Nine out of ten disgruntled U.S. postal workers agree: Not a whole heck of a lot.

Consider circumstances under which you might kill. Imagine you have a daughter—seven? strawberry blonde but has begged for highlights? My Little Ponies™ are strewn all over the hallway and you tripped on one earlier that day and twisted your ankle and whaled on her. And during a party a man—a friend’s friend’s friend? uninvited? jovial uncle? choirmaster? blond monster in nice khakis and Florsheim shoes? high school dropout beaten by stepfather and driven mad by the Scott Joplin tune that spews incessantly from the speakers of the ice-cream truck he drives due to reduced opportunities (he really wanted to be a vet, loves animals, it truly broke
his heart)?—enters her bedroom. Seconds later you stand in the doorway and see him burrowing under the covers behind her. You return, limping because of the ankle, with a meat cleaver—still flecked with minced cilantro from the guacamole you made for the party?—and chop off his head, surprised at your own strength. Surprised it was so easy. Thinking about it now, grit your teeth so hard your jaw just about cracks. Wonder what would be a worse trauma for this unknown daughter: the rape itself or the head—the neck a bloodied stump—rolling to the centre of the bed and her mother standing above, wild-eyed, a Chinese meat cleaver in her hand?

To know you would readily kill—to have considered the possibilities—brings a grim relief.

At least you don’t call guys like that
Mister
here like they do in the
Globe and Mail. Mr
. Olson.
Mr
. Bernardo.
Mr
. Lepine.
Mr
. Karadzic. And
Miss
or
Ms
. Homolka, is that one lump or two? You don’t know what you’d do if you had to do that, probably want to quit. Probably wouldn’t, though. Just like your compadres there in Toronto don’t quit over it. But don’t think it doesn’t bother them. Rim pigs dream in Technicolor.

Week Five: Learn to look death in the face and laugh. Remember: Rim pigs don’t cry.

The formula for what you do here is simple. You could call it the slide rule of tragedy. Take the number of dead and divide it by the number of miles the site of the disaster/ murderous rampage/political upheaval lies from
the epicentre—which in your case is Vancouver. Then multiply the figure by the importance of that place or the dead to your readers on a scale of zero to ten (this last part is subjective, of course). For example, a plane crash in South America would have to involve at least fifty dead to make it into the paper with three column inches at best. A plane crash up north may get three column inches on page A6 even with only two dead. A plane crash at the Abbotsford Airshow, one dead, makes fourteen column inches on the front page. Two dead in Azerbaijan due to rock slide, well, that wouldn’t even make the wire if they’re Azerbaijanis. A Burnaby couple killed in Azerbaijan due to rock slide? Now you’re cookin’ with gas!

You do get bonus points for ironic circumstances. For example: Fitness guru dies of heart attack. Eighty-eight killed in Punjabi village by flooding dam during feast day celebrating opening of said dam.

You could say that you do body counts in inches here, and that’s all you do.

Strangely, you wake up most afternoons to find your pillow covered with big, wet blotches. Decide you were drooling. Try to remember your dreams. Even if you can’t remember the specifics, you’re aware they’re always filled with a weird chiaroscuro effect. That’s the essential difference between those who dream in their sleep during the day and those who sleep and dream at night, this razzle-dazzle mix of light and shade to create an illusion of depth. All that,
and
Technicolor, especially when it comes to blood and auras.

Bodies plummeting through water in chiaroscuro light, feet encased in cement—or is that concrete?—blocks. Bodies piled by the shed like cordwood in chiaroscuro darkness, still too green to burn. And you, you’re the one with the measuring tape and the maniacal laugh.

Week Six: See Week Five

Week Seven: Take in a photo to make your desk area more homey. But remember, its not really
your
desk, so don’t forget to put it away in your mail slot at the end of your shift. Its tough to decide whose photo to bring. A picture of your boyfriend will just remind you of what you’re missing and how this job is ruining your life. You have no nieces or nephews. Your brothers never caught a big, huge fish. You have no dog. You decide on Pamela Anderson Lee. This will remind you that things could be worse. You could be a perky, supernatural blonde bombshell who no one in their right mind would make the subject of a visual essay. This way, at least, you stand a slim chance.

The Matador raises his eyebrows. Decide he’s kind of attractive at a certain angle in a wan, androgynous way.

Say: I like her, okay?

Say: Its just so you don’t confuse us. Ha ha.

Say: Kidding!

Your bra, on the inside of your T-shirt, feels saggy.

The explosion comes in the middle of the week at about 3:00
A.M
. There’s a dull boom that you barely notice
because it comes from so far away. Later you’ll remember thinking that it sounded like the nine o’clock gun, but, of course, it couldn’t be since it was nowhere near nine o’clock.

Its the sirens everyone reacts to and soon all the phones in the newsroom are jangling. Martin, the young guy from the
Delta Mirror
they brought in to replace the ambitious Anny who’s now on courts, is going nuts. He doesn’t know which phone to pick up. He runs to the windows to look outside, which is stupid, you think, since the only view is of the back parking lot.

Pick up the nearest phone. Take notes. Realize that you, too, can be a reporter. Anyone can. Just take down the facts, Jack. And don’t forget to ask if there were any fatalities. But this is harder than it sounds. You just can’t form the word “dead” in your mouth. But there’s always hurt—hurt is easier.

Say: I’ve got the scoop. Its at Broadway and Cambie.

Say: A pizza parlour blew up.

Say: There’s glass everywhere.

When Dave asks who you were talking to, force yourself to be honest.

Say (quickly): I don’t know.

The Matadors laugh rises up sharp, hot, sulfuric.

Riding the Broadway bus home at 7:30
A.M.
, you find that the street has already been largely cleared. Workers are putting new plate-glass windows up at the Royal Bank, while small business owners are busy measuring, taping, sweeping, up and down the block. Enormous piles of
glass are heaped on the sidewalks and sparkling mounds line the gutters like some dangerous new drug.

Decide to ring the bell and get off the bus even though it’s not your stop and your brain is zinging with fatigue, the skin pulled tight across your temples. All that glass is mesmerizing. It looks positively Arctic. Forget the summer heat for a moment and stroll along as if you’re on a polar expedition. Stand on a large slab of cracked blue glass and imagine you’re an Inuit grandmother sent off to die on her very own ice floe. Decide the idea sounds peaceful. Think about how quiet it would be, lulled to sleep by the waves sluicing across your hands and feet, the ice cracking imperceptibly beneath you as you drift off to sea. All those other worn-out grannies floating on the water.