Skepterminator 2: Judgment Day

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quiet riot (cum on feel the…poise?)

 

From VANCOUVER,

June 19th, 2011

 

I’m the first to admit…things got a little out of control.

The game had just ended and we were angry and shocked and upset. The atmosphere in Sarah Cobb’s West End apartment was tense and just ready to blow.

We heard a crash from the kitchen. Ashley, washing wine glasses in a frenzy of rage, had broken one.

Stacie threw a napkin on the floor.

Nick uttered the word “fuck” several times in rapid succession.

Jacquie was so mad she wasn’t even there.

The other women suddenly banded together and, in a case of classic mob mentality, began looting the apartment, raiding a box of clothes that Sarah was getting rid of with a savage ferocity.

Shaughnessy, who had flown all the way from Toronto for this, was turning a dangerous shade of red. “Man, if I had a hockey stick I would bust some shit right now. Luckily, I just have this pencil.”

Toby grabbed the pencil from Shaughnessy’s hand. “Hey man - did you have this pencil here the whole game?! This is a Sanford Number One, asshole! Don’t you realize that this pencil is painted the exact same shade as Bruin yellow? And that the Sanford Pencil Company was founded in Massachusetts?! How DARE you bring that pencil into this city, let alone this house?” He threw the offending utensil on the floor and grabbed Shaughnessy by the collar of his threadbare Canucks t-shirt, shaking him back and forth. The other men backed away to the hors d’oeuvre table, trying to avoid this sudden outburst by munching on some delicious charcuterie.

A roar came from the Designated Looting Area in the other room as the ladies discovered a one-shouldered summer dress and proceeded to tear it to pieces.

Shaughnessy scrambled to defend himself. “Sanford’s now a subsidiary of Newell Rubbermaid and based in Oak Brook, Illinois!” Toby’s right fist was cocked and ready to throw a punch but now he hesitated. “This pencil was manufactured in their Mississauga, Ontario factory by proud Canadians!” The grip of Toby’s left hand on Shaughnessy’s collar loosened slightly. “This shade of yellow also matches that of the old Vancouver “flying skate” logo, used from ‘78-‘97, as evidenced by the faded but still sufficiently clear t-shirt I am wearing go Canucks!”

Toby let him go. They hugged. The women shredded a pair of navy blue capris.

“That’s it,” said Mike, who had sat silent all this time, his post-game pout looking more and more menacing with every passing minute, his rage increasing as he checked Facebook on his iPhone and read the taunts of his asshole Ontario friends saying horrible things like “Nah nah na-na nahhh” and “Maybe next time”. He now made a sudden and threatening move up out of the leather armchair. “I’m gonna go downtown and throw an egg at the bank of Montreal.”

“Hey now, whoa, let’s not get carried away,” said the others. John handed him a slice of prosciutto and one of those squishy stress balls. “Here. This should help.”

“Thanks, guys,” said Mike, sitting back down. “Wow, I was really out of control for a second there. Thanks for talking me down.”

                       BEFORE THINGS TURNED UGLY

But the calm would not last long. After smoking an unhappy cigarette, and an even angrier joint on the pretty balcony overlooking the ocean, we were all raring to go. We girls had each scored a garbage bag full of clothing, but now Sarah was telling us we couldn’t have her dishcloths and fridge magnets. The men had eaten all the brie and oven roasted tomatoes. Clearly, we needed an outlet.

Out we poured from the apartment building, spilling drunkenly, rowdily onto the mean streets of English Bay, wielding bottles of Heineken and pinot grigio at threatening angles. I looked around for someone to pick a fight with and settled on a Chihuahua being walked in the park across the street. “What are YOU barking at, motherfucker? I will fuck you up!” The dog and the old man walking it hurried away. “That’s RIGHT, you BETTER run!”

We stumbled across the street and onto the beach, all ten or so of us, and sat down on some comfortable-looking logs in an intimidating manner, where we would continue to wreak our havoc on the City of Vancouver for the rest of the night. We savagely kicked the sand, utterly destroyed some innocent twigs and then, in a burst of violence unprecedented thus far, gathered rocks and started throwing them viciously at the ocean. “Take THAT, Pacific!”

The savage beast inside each one of us had taken over and there was no turning back, not that night. We were monsters.

I was so ashamed of myself the next day. I headed back to Sarah’s apartment to apologize. To her credit, she let me in and accepted my offer to help clean up. The place was in a sorry state, still the wreck we had left it. Crumbs everywhere. Empties on the counter. For the love of God, a kalamata olive on the floor. It was hard to look at, especially knowing that I was partly to blame.

Then, as I was sweeping up, the others started to arrive, with brooms and offers of help. We swept and scrubbed and spent several hours reassembling a large jigsaw puzzle that had been savagely knocked to the floor. Soon, a spirit of love and cooperation spread throughout the rooms, a spirit stronger and more true than any of the ugliness of the night before. This was The Real Us. The Real Vancouver.

I picked up a Sharpie from the coffee table. (Also manufactured by Newell Rubbermaid, if you were wondering.) Standing on the couch, I wrote upon the wall in three foot high letters: I ♥ VANCOUVER.

And you know what, Dear Reader? It wasn’t long before everyone else joined me. We passed the Sharpie from hand to hand to hand, each person writing a heartfelt message about his or her true feelings of pride and love for this city, of contrition for rash actions the night before, of hope for the future and togetherness in this beautiful moment.

The living room walls were now covered. We stood back, arms linked, tears in our eyes. Sarah walked into the room and, while she’d been in the kitchen and had missed out on the actual ritual, you could tell from her face that she was as moved by the result as the rest of us were.

She just stood there staring, absolutely speechless.

__________________________________________________________

* Now: this is not for the faint of heart, and some of it is difficult to watch…but here, if you must, is video evidence of our riot on Sunset Beach. Note particularly Jaimie and Jenny’s flagrant insolence toward the photographer and Josh’s terrifying ferocity.

(Not suitable for children.)

blue

He didn’t usually drink. It wasn’t a good idea, with all the pills. And tonight he’d had a lot.

“You wan’ the lasso, Mary? I’ll sthrow a moon aroun’ it! Hooowwwweeeeeeee!”

He was slurring his words, he knew. But maybe he liked slurring his words. Maybe he meant to do it. It was FUN. It was liberating. HA! LIBER-ating? Is this how the Liberals felt all the time? Was Jean Chretien off somewhere, wheeling around, doing whatever the hell he felt like doing? Probably. That made him depressed again. He took another swig of the schnapps and dropped back on the wet grass. He howled at the moon.

It had been a wild night, starting at two-thirty am, his security detail first chasing him out of the hotel in the pouring rain as he ran across the parking lot to Jason Kenney’s rented SUV, bottles from the mini-bar spilling out of his suit jacket pockets. He’d gotten in the car, starting it with the keys he’d swiped when Kenney had passed out drunk on his bed.

Steve had looked down at his snoring immigration minister, lying there all smug and pink, triumphant with his overwhelming victory in Calgary Southeast that night, hogging the entire hotel bedspread. Yeah, I won my riding too, big frickin’ whoop, that’s not the point.

“Forget you, Kenney”, muttered Steve. “You aren’t even listening to me. I tried to tell yooou, I tried to tell you how I feel. And look at you. Screwww you.” A lump came to his throat. He didn’t like it. Jason was sleeping on his back with his mouth agape, and for a moment Steve thought of sticking something in it. “Let you choke, you jerk, ‘d serve you right.” And then he saw the keys.

Screeching out of the hotel parking lot, round corners, howling down the quiet wet suburban streets of Calgary Southwest, the two bodyguards on his tail in one of the Cadillacs. When he’d skidded up onto a curb and then fallen out of the car, subsequently running from lawn to lawn, pulling up campaign signs, they’d tried to talk sense to him. But he wouldn’t have it. For one thing, he wouldn’t stop singing.

“I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY—”

“Shuddup!” yelled a man behind a screen door.

Dogs were barking behind every fence.

The guards had watched, helpless, unsure what to do, as he’d surrounded himself with the signs, knocking each into the wet ground with the post of the next and barricading himself, eventually, inside a circle of them on someone’s front lawn. He held onto one of the signs for balance and stared at it. The big C for conservative, glowing in the dark. His name, coming in and out of focus, the blurry blue and white. “Go Leafs!” he shouted. “Losers! Just like meeeee!”

The bigger of the guards reached for his tazer. “That’s it, he said,”I’m takin’ him down.” The other stopped him: “No, Jim, wait. Is that strictly necessary?” “ ‘Strictly necessary’? Oh man! When AM I gonna get to use this thing? First no eleven year old kids, now this? Besides, this is getting embarrassing – the press could show up any minute. We gotta get him outta here.”

“Just let me talk to him.”

“HE’S A REEEEEAL NOWHERE MAN, SITTING IN HIS NOWHERE LAND, MAKING ALL HIS NOWHERE PLANS FOR NOBODEEeeeee…”

Another neighbour: “Keep it down, we’re trying to sleep!”

“I WILL NOT,” he shouted, reeling back, face pointed at the drizzling dark sky. “You can’t tell me what to do NO MORE! No more Mister Cares-what-you-say! I’m on the right track baby, I was born thi-is wa-a-ay!” He lost his balance and fell back on the lawn. His head knocked against one of the sign posts. “Aww, jeez,” he said. “Now my azz is wet.” He started to giggle. Then cry. He curled up in a ball, shaking with sobs, shivering, tears and snot running sideways down his face and pooling in his ear.

He was so alone. So lonely. No one understood. “Laureeeeeeeeen!,” he shouted. Then, “Stellaaaaaaa!”

The squeak of a window. “I’m calling the police!” One of the security guys – was it Barry or Jim, Steven suddenly realized he’d never known which one was which - on his hands and knees, reaching through the signposts. A hand on his shoulder, gentle. “Mister Harper. Sir. It’s time to go.”

“Iz Steeeve! Why duzzin anybody call me Steeeve? It’s been so lonnng!”

“Okay, Steve. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“I wanna play the Playstation witchu guys!”

“Okay, Steve, we’ll do that. We’ll have some beers.”

“How come you never invited me?! I’s in the next room! ALL ALOOONE!”

“We didn’t think you’d want to, Steve. We…uhh…figured you were busy.”

“I wanna play Digimon! Like you guys!”

“Okay, Steve. Hey, you know what we’ve got now? Wii bowling. You’d like that one.”

“Tha’ sounds fun. Can I wear your hat?”

“Of course you can, Steve. Here you go.”

“Hey! Whuzz yer name anyway? Which one are you? You wan’ some Bailey’s?” He cracked another mini bottle.

“My name is Bar—”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hold on, Steve. Hold on. Just breathe. Focus on something.”

They started to pull out the signs, the burly men, as the flashing cop car lights approached. They helped him up from where he sat trembling, snot-nosed, staring at his hand. They walked him towards their car, his arms around their enormous shoulders. “I’m focuzzing, Jim, look I’m focuzzing.” “That’s real good, Steve.”

“Ah poop. I zink I lozzzt my glasses.

“We’ll find them, sir.”

They slid on the wet grass and wiped out in a heap.

The Global and CTV vans screeched up at the same time as the cruiser. Reporters leapt out of the doors, cameras and microphones in hands. “Mister Harper, is that you?” “Call me Steve,” he bellowed. “Is is true that you’ve been drinking?” “FUCK YEAH,” yelled Steve, into their shocked faces, giving one cameraman the finger.

Ha HAW! – he could swear now. “Fuck fuck fuck! Titty shit McFucker!” Oh sweet Jesus, that felt good. It had been years. He’d submitted himself to that rigorous Reform Party leadership program in 92, been hooked up to electrodes and shocked whenever he thought an impure thought or uttered a bad word.

Now, Steven realized, he really could do anything he wanted, just like Jean Chretien. What was there to stop him? He could wear a t-shirt! Go a day – two, even - without shaving. Have sex with men if he felt like it. Would he feel like it? He had no idea! It had been years since he’d even allowed himself to wonder such a thing. He could get an abortion! Okay, technically he couldn’t, but well, whatever the male equivalent was; he’d do that!

He grabbed a cute CTV blond and kissed her on the mouth. “Hey baby! You wan’ some tequila? I got these li’l bottles. See?” She stared in shock.

Jim-or-was-it-Barry pried him away, tried to block the reporters’ view, hustling him into the back seat, and firmly closed the door, while Barry-or-was-it-Jim talked to the Calgary cops.

He could still see the press in the windows, eager faces, microphones. He could hear fragments of their muffled, frantic questions, shouted through the glass. “—disturbing the peace”…“—you and Mrs Harper?”… “What now, Sir? What’s your next move?”

Steven popped out of the sunroof as the car sped away. “I’m going to Disney Land!” he called out behind him. “And I just farted!!!”

orange

WEYBURN, SASKATCHEWAN, SEPTEMBER 2010

Well, the genie was unexpected. I mean, who believes in genies, let alone expects one to pop out of the nose of a Tommy Douglas statue? Less than three percent of Canadians, that’s who, according to polls taken since 1982. And of those three, only .08 “strongly believe”; the rest believe in genies only “slightly”. (And even if they existed, who expected them to be orange? They were supposed to be blue, weren’t they, and talk like Robin Williams? This one didn’t even have the nose ring, it had glasses, and looked…well, like Tommy Douglas.)

Jack wasn’t in either of those categories of belief. He was in the “genies died out in the eighteenth century” camp, as per the accepted wisdom at his alma mater, McGill University.

When he had taken out his handkerchief and rubbed the foot of the Tommy Douglas statue, he had done it not looking for a magical shortcut to fortune, and not even, as you may suspect, out of some vague superstitious hope that it would give him luck in his political career. Sure, he’d wandered back here, alone, hours after the unveiling ceremony, but that was just because he couldn’t sleep. And the statue was pretty, he thought it might look nice and shiny in the moonlight. As for the rubbing, he had merely noticed that there was bird poop on the foot; he was trying to wipe it off.

“I AM THE GENIE OF THE NOSE OF TOMMY DOUGLAS!” shouted the genie. “AND I GRANT YOU THREE WISHES!”

Jack shit his pants. “Oh. Oh! This is gross. I’m…sorry. Ugh.”

“I can fix that for you, if you wish,” said the genie.

“Aw, would ya? That’d be swell.

Shazam. “Thanks a ton.” The genie snicked a little snicker. “Waaait,” said Jack, “When you said ‘If you wish’, you didn’t mean—”

“Of course I did! Jeez, man, have you never watched any cartoons? We get you with that one every time!…Though usually in cartoons it’s not about somebody crapping himself.”

“Dammit,” said Jack. And let me guess, no wishing for—”

“Extra wishes? No. Obviously. Now what’s your sec—”

“Tickets to the U2 concert!”

“Done.”

They appeared instantly in Jack’s hands, two gleaming tickets for U2 at the ACC next July, not right up front, but not bad either, Row K on the side. Olivia would be so pleased. They’d managed to score seats last time and then Bono threw his back out. He was proud he’d thought of this one.

“You do know,” said the genie, “That scalper prices go way down twenty minutes in.”

“What and miss half of Zooropa? Not on your life, bud.”

Now it was time for Jack to think long and hard and honestly. This next wish, the third and final one; the thing he was contemplating wishing for – was he sure he wanted it? Could he do it justice?

Oh hell yes.

And yet…he almost daren’t say it. For years, any time he’d even skirted around this, come close to mentioning it, even with those on his own team, he’d been laughed at.

He beckoned the genie closer, raised his mouth to a big orange ear and whispered.

“Sure thing,” said the genie, “Not a problem. Shazam and all that.”

Jack could not believe it. Couldn’t process what had happened. He pinched himself. He bit his lip. Punched himself in the face. No, apparently he wasn’t dreaming. He threw his arms around the genie in gratitude, squeezed with all the strength of his undying thanks. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” said the genie. “Now I feel bad. I gotta tell you. You just threw away your final wish. Truth is, that one was gonna happen anyway, with or without me.”

“You must be joking!”

“No, seriously, it’s your time. Think of all the karma you’ve built up over the years. Sticking with your party even when most people dismissed it as a joke? Being saddled with orange on all your signs? I mean what a pansy, third-rate colour. And nobody looks good in it – trust me, I know. Plugging away with so little reward? Look, I know unfair: before this I spent nine years stuck inside that god-awful painting of Douglas looking out over a wheat field – at least now I get some fresh air. But you! A Ph.D. from York University, of all places? And teaching at RYERSON, for pity’s sake? The prostate thing? The hip surgery?”

“The what now?”

“Nothing. That time you rode your bike into a newspaper box and had to cancel your honeymoon? Talk about embarrassing. And pictures like this?”

“And this?”

“Okay, that last one is kind of sexy”, admitted the genie, making the photos vanish again. “But what about the topper, the whole inheritance thing? What a cruel joke, for your father to have stipulated in his will that you wouldn’t get a cent until the day you became prime minister, and only then if you wore a ridiculous moustache until then? I mean, come on, longest playoff moustache ever.”

“Yeah, old Dad had a strange sense of humour. I remember when he became a Conservative for thirteen years, just as a joke. What a card! Anyway, I gotta say, I like the moustache now. And maybe Pop knew what he was doing - it helped build character. That’s why my Mike’s middle name is Jennifer. Besides, Olivia thinks the ‘stache is hot.”

“And it will help you with Quebeckers. Boy, they love their moustaches, those frenchies. What’s up with that?”

“Don’t ask me. But hey, I’ll take it.”

They laughed.

“By the way, Genie…how do you know all these things about me?”

“What, you think just because I live up the nose of a statue of a long-dead politician in Weyburn Saskatchewan, I’m out of touch? I have ways of knowing things.”

“Magic?”

“Wireless signals. If it weren’t for that, this indenture thing would be way more of a drag. Seriously, you should read Anne Murray’s personal emails – disgusting!”

“I can imagine. That little minx.”

“You know, I like you Jack. I don’t know what it is. The smile? The tan? Those twinkly baby blues? And you’re right, the moustache does grow on you. Anyway, I feel bad about you getting gypped on your wishes.”

“What are you talking about, Genie? I’m going to the U2 concert!”

“Uhh, about that…they’ll be cancelling again.”

“Oh no. Bono’s back injury?”

“No, the Edge this time. The Big C, I’m afraid.”

“Oh that’s terrible,” said Jack. “The Edge has cancer?”

“Chicken pox, man! Wow, I can never get the hang of human slang. Is ‘bad’ still good?”

“No”, said Jack, “Epic hashtag fail there, I’m afraid.”

“Are you still speaking English?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But seriously, Jack, before I go…one piece of advice. That raid back in ‘96?”

“At my registered massage therapist’s?”

“Yeah. Just stick to that. Now let’s see…what else? Oh- I’ve got these magic beans – you want some?”

Jack smiled, shook the genie’s huge orange hand, and headed out into the Saskatchewan night.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

red

Michael hated dumplings. Or did he fear them? Yes, it was fear, this feeling; blind, abject terror.

It was skin they made him think of. Human skin. Full of…human meat.

Jowls. Gall bladders.

Or he thought of a picture he’d seen of baby mice, all curled up and blind, translucent skin. Eating a dumpling was like biting into one of those; he kept expecting it to squeak and writhe and wriggle in his mouth.

Who had chosen dumplings? Why hadn’t he been asked?

The crowd outside the bus was oppressive. He couldn’t catch his breath. Next to him was whatsername, the candidate, all smiles. Wait – what was her name? He’d gone blank. How could he have gone blank like this? Shit, what was it?! He’d be expected to say something, raise her hand up high, call out…Karen. Kate? K…Ka…Christine! Phew. That would have been terrible.

He wished Zsuzsanna was here. Today of all days. A doctor’s appointment, of all things. “You’ll be fine”, she’d told him on the phone. “It’s just pasta. It’s like a ravioli. You’ll only have to eat just one.” I know, he’d said, I know. He didn’t have the heart to tell he he was scared of ravioli too. Wontons were the worst, perogies not much better. Oh God – Roncesvalles wasn’t on the itinerary, was it? They could make it borscht, he loved borscht…he’d have it leaked, some story about his grandfather and beets grown in the backyard, in the homeland. Yes. Borscht.

But now it was the dumpling. Any minute now. No way out. No turning back.

“We love you Iggy!'”, someone shouted. Dumpling, he thought. Dumpling dumpling dumpling.

He knew it was irrational. But look, he’d known someone once who was afraid of purses. That’s the thing about phobias: logic has nothing to do with them. At least his wasn’t purses, they were everywhere. That friend had given up his early political aspirations, dropped out of the university, withdrawn to his mother’s basement. There but for the grace of God, thought Michael. On the other hand, look at where he’d landed himself: no one would ever ask his school friend to eat someone’s purse. And no one would be filming it.

Hello, cameras, Hello! Yes, I’m extremely excited to be here! Oh, what a great neighbourhood! CHRISTINE will represent this riding very well!

They were getting closer. Sweat formed all along his hairline. He kept smiling. Don’t drip down, sweat. Stay right where you are.

A path cleared to the door. The sign, Dumpling House Restaurant. In neon underneath: “Got Dumpling?” He gagged involuntarily. Pretend that it’s a cough. Breathe. And whatever you do, do not throw up…

Back on the bus, the tiny bathroom; whoever built these things had not done it with vomiting in mind. He had to do it standing up, jackknifed in two, aiming down into the toilet. And quietly. The press corps erupted in laughter on the other side of the door – some joke, or was it him? Had they heard the retching? Had he looked as green as he felt, weaving up the aisle past them? “Hey, Mike, how were those dumplings? Save some for us?” Thumbs up, grin, can’t speak, mustn't puke on the reporters, just make it to the other side.

This could be bad. The papers, IFFY SICK ABOUT HIS CHANCES. RACIST MIKE GAGS ON FOOD IN CHINATOWN. “RISE UP”, INDEED! IGNATIEFF: HIS LUNCH CAME BACK FOR YOU.

When George H.W. threw up on the Japanese Prime Minister, his approval rating dipped for weeks. He couldn’t take a hit like that, not now. (And would they drag up Kinsella’s idiotic comment about BBQ cat, two years later?) Meanwhile, Jack and Olivia, all over town, eating pigs intestines and snake brains, grinning, jumping up and down. Snake brains would have been fine; he’d done that, plenty, in Afghanistan. Eaten rats in Kosovo, no fucking problem. Undone by a dumpling. God dammit. As Steven simpered in Tim Horton's, well-protected, taking no chances. Five questions a day and celery. But Steve liked hot sauce. Oooh, they cried. Play another Beatles song.

He could still feel the dumpling skin in his mouth, though he’d purged it all. There it was, a disgusting beige blob in the toilet, some creepy, amorphous underwater creature, its fins swirling under the surface. Some floated back up to the top, taunting him. He wanted to cry. He heaved some more, and spit. Dear God, please God, if they heard me, let them say I have the flu. Let them say that I’m a trooper. I ate it, didn’t I? I fed half to Christine – brilliant! – but I ate it. Like a man. Zsuzsanna will be proud.

He wiped his mouth with the tail of his red scarf. He flushed. Sprayed air freshener. Put on a smile. And headed out.