Pontypool Changes Everything Part 6

28.

Hungry Like The Wolf What is an autobiography? What can fairly be said to lie within its bounds, share in its purpose? Is there someone hidden in Les Reardon? Was he a garbage truck driver who had a psychotic breakdown? Did he then become a drama teacher? Did a woman one month pregnant leave him in the middle of this career s.h.i.+ft? Did he battle zombies across Ontario in a stolen car with his son wailing in drug withdrawal beside him? Are these little autobiographemes inserted into imagined lives? Probably. But still, that's not autobiography. Not really.

Is this an autobiography?

Yes.

29.

Autobiography Twelve years ago you were living on the streets of Vancouver. You panhandled every day on Robson with a partner named Tommy. Those were miserable days - the good ones spent on the nod, the bad ones spent in a Lysol induced aggression. You had come to these dire straits in the usual way - an enduring dependence on substances and a persistent holocaust of personality. Usual, yes, but very difficult to survive. You tell this story not to mark yourself with it or to gain sympathy - it is, after all, only the story of a stubborn little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You are telling this story, or at least just enough of it, so that you will never have to mention it again.

This one day you stirred to life beneath a shrub in Oppenhiemer Park. The s.h.i.+rt you were wearing had a light green fuzz growing across the back. You remember it because it was pretty. You had a sharp pain in your right forearm. You made your way across the park to where you knew Tommy would be waiting. You noticed you were getting a lot of attention from people who had, like you, spent the night in the park. There was something wrong with the way you looked. You remember someone saying to you, "In the first month you get stabbed; in the second month you'll stab someone." You had the feeling that somehow you were entering one of those months when people pay their last respects. Tommy grabbed you by your good arm and hurried you towards Robson. He was excited about something that had happened. At the best of times you can't understand him and this morning he's so stimulated by something that you can only grunt back at him in the language you share. You know that you have been barking at people lately. In fact, that's why you got thrown out of the Columbia Hotel. "Do you know you've been barking at people in the lobby?" You shrug miserably at this kind of question. No, I'm afraid I didn't know. No, I'm afraid I didn't know.

You notice people staring at you while Tommy pantomimes a little war scene. You smile and feel something warm drip off your chin. You cup your hand against your face and watch it fill with fresh blood. Oh dear. Sometimes you can't help notice how sick you're becoming. You look over your shoulder, but n.o.body's looking. They have stopped staring. Tommy drags you into a public washroom. You throw up in the sink. It's a dry heave, productive only in the spray of blood it forces out of your face. You look up into the mirror. You have two black eyes, cut deeply, and a missing eyebrow. Your bottom lip has fallen free of your mouth and is lying in the fresh blood on your chin.

You can't pretend that you don't feel very sorry for this man and his self-portrait. He has completely lost the ability to take care of himself. He will die soon, and the fact that that is merely all he ever wanted doesn't make you feel any less protective of him now. You remember looking in the mirror and feeling awe: the self-portrait is complete. You think that you have found the face that can finally say goodbye.

That's when Tommy slipped, unconscious, to the floor. You stepped over his body to find him a coffee. When you returned a few minutes later an ambulance was pulled up on the gra.s.sy hill that sloped down to the men's washroom. Two attendants were putting Tommy's body in the back of the vehicle. You attempted to stop them, dropping the coffees and yelling what you can't say for certain now wasn't barking. You tried to tell them that he was fine, that he just needed coffee, that he'd be OK OK. You tried to tell them that you needed him. As the ambulance drove off you felt an idea throbbing in your forearm. You'll meet him at the emergency. You'll tell them about your arm. They'll let you in.

No one at the hospital had seen or heard of Tommy. You waited for three hours to see a doctor. Every time a door opened or a gurney banged through swinging gla.s.s you'd look up for your friend. One of the effects of the wait that you hadn't counted on was that you were beginning a fairly complicated process of withdrawal. Your legs began to hurt. Your arm began to shake.

When the doctor finally takes you in she searches the holes and bruises in your head. It's not your head, however, that you want her to look at. It's your arm and you hold it up. She holds it gently and lays cool fingers on your wrist. She disappears, and soon a technician appears to take you to X-ray. It takes him a few runs to get a good shot. Your arm is jumping around. You feel miserable about this because you like working with people. He is impatient - with himself you think - and when he gets a satisfactory picture he puts a hand on your shoulder, including you in the success.

"Well, there's three hairline fractures on your fibula."

The doctor supports your hand by the palm with three of her powerful fingers.

"We'll have to put it in a cast."

She lays your arm on your thigh and it jumps up across your knee. She watches this and then turns to a cabinet. She pulls a gauze sleeve over your wrist and your fingers catch on the fibre, each one snapping out independently. She stops. You can tell that she's looking at your face, your self-portrait. You don't look up. You hold it as still as you can.

"You're going to have some trouble with this. I'm going to get a Valium for you, maybe two."

When she leaves you hold your forearm up. A long, white glove. You let a falcon land on it and draw it closer, allowing its hooked beak to close on your lips. The bird flits a tiny brown tongue along the rip of your bottom lip. By the time the doctor returns you have an erection. You fold your wrists in your lap and as she unties the swollen arm from the thin one she sees your c.o.c.k standing against the filthy fabric of your crotch. It's confusing to you. Clear to her. She places two powder blue pills in your good hand and you pop them across your mouth and down your throat. She leaves again; to let the benzodiazapine have its effect, to let the benzodiazapine have its effect, you think. you think.

Your arm softens in your lap, your erection subsides, and you feel the emotional catchbasin of interrupted withdrawal back up, clogging your pores, drying your forehead. More of a wreck for the abating anxiety. There is an opiate drizzling weakly across the agony in your back.

The doctor comes back.

"Do you drink?"

You smile. Well, isn't it a shame? Well, isn't it a shame?

"I notice you have track marks on your arms."

You make a face like Buster Keaton, tilting your jaw. Yes, the problem is huge, altogether too far gone, I think. Yes, the problem is huge, altogether too far gone, I think.

"I've been talking to another physician and he's calling a detox for you now."

You look up. No, you don't have to do that for me, but thank you so very much. Do you think it will help? Doctor? you don't have to do that for me, but thank you so very much. Do you think it will help? Doctor? You can tell she likes you, which is such a strong feeling that you are already looking forward to saying goodbye. A man appears in the door and they look at each other. A sweet history of desire links them and you believe, as you watch them, you see her panties tugging upward and the jelly mould of his c.o.c.k melting down his leg. You believe that they are becoming linked through you. You can tell she likes you, which is such a strong feeling that you are already looking forward to saying goodbye. A man appears in the door and they look at each other. A sweet history of desire links them and you believe, as you watch them, you see her panties tugging upward and the jelly mould of his c.o.c.k melting down his leg. You believe that they are becoming linked through you.

"Uh ... I contacted a detox and, well, you've been banned from there for thirty days."

The female doctor drags four spears of black hair from her forehead with the plaster-speckled back of her hand.

"Well, there's more than one detox in the city."

You think they will take you home.

"Yeah, I know doctor, I've tried a few actually, and there's a ..." He nods to you, too late to say serious things, it's time to load the bier. "There's a province-wide ban on the fella."

The doctor looks at you. The worse you are, the more you matter to her. She would do anything not to insult you now. Now that you are what these two have always shared, the patient still living who will be lost. She pauses dramatically over the wounds on your face, and you turn your head slightly, so the light catches the medical rainbow that bends across your left cheek.

"I can't believe that. What are we supposed to do with him?"

With him, you think. you think. She didn't say for him. She didn't say for him. You feel a light whip turn over inside your arm. You feel a light whip turn over inside your arm. We all love each other, that is obvious now. We all love each other, that is obvious now.

The emergency ward has wide windows that slide open at the prompting of ocean air, warm air that moves in across the sunlit desk. There is a white grit of beach sand on the floor emptied out from the sneakers of hundreds of children who pa.s.s the same foot wound back and forth around a giant log in English Bay. You are standing halfway to the sliding door, with a white cast and dark smelling clothes. She is upset, standing behind the desk. She looks to him, we can't just let him go. we can't just let him go.

He looks back. We have to. We can't kill him. We have to. We can't kill him. He looks to you. He looks to you. I wish we could, but we can't. I wish we could, but we can't.

Then they smile. We have to learn how to say goodbye now. We have to learn how to say goodbye now. You smile back, not so confused by the pitch of emotion as they are. You are, after all, the one who is going to die, the one they'll think about. You smile back, not so confused by the pitch of emotion as they are. You are, after all, the one who is going to die, the one they'll think about.

As you leave through the doors you look over your shoulder and see them hook arms; the wave they share to you says: No one has mattered until you, thank you. They No one has mattered until you, thank you. They have an enthusiasm about where you're going that you know will take you there. have an enthusiasm about where you're going that you know will take you there.

You decide that you have enjoyed saying goodbye so much that you will spend the rest of the day looking for people to say goodbye to. You make your way to the social services office.

You tell them that you are leaving the province. There are two women behind desks who are visibly relieved.

"Oh, I think that's a wonderful idea."

The other, more serious, looks up above her gla.s.ses.

"You would die here soon, you know. That's what happens, I've seen it. Good for you. You should go."

"Yes, yes, congratulations. I think you've finally come to something."

It's all they can do to remain at their desks and not come around and kiss you. You lift your cast and wiggle your fingers. They return the wave, nodding to your cast. It hangs now from a rear-view mirror. You include everything in the enthusiasm that you feel.

You have trouble finding more people to say goodbye to, and as the afternoon tips toward the end of office hours your Valium stay is starting to come loose. Buildings close in, much like you'd imagine, and you start to react fearfully to the people around you.

Soon you're in a small parking lot between two cars fighting with two guys. They seem to think the key to the struggle is to pin your elbows together. You remember clearly piping in a voice to throw them off: A calmer head prevails, and, sirs, it is the same head that bites you. A calmer head prevails, and, sirs, it is the same head that bites you.

You say in a universally appealing voice: "I can see a straitjacket working rather well in this type of situation."

It is the first clear sentence that you've spoken aloud in weeks. One of the men raises his hand and grunts. He hates you. You grunt back. You're not saying goodbye to these f.u.c.kers. As far as these things go, you'll just stick to formula and soon you'll be unconscious. Put there either by the blows they deliver or by violently ducking from hands that reach down to help you.

The next day you are a psychiatric patient at St. Joseph's Hospital. They start you almost immediately on a diet of Lithium, Amitriptiline and Ativan, with a methadone taper. Fine, Fine, you think. You know exactly how long it will be before these drugs change your circuitry. you think. You know exactly how long it will be before these drugs change your circuitry. Fine. A long way off. Fine. A long way off. You spend the day sitting on the brand new couch in a tiny smoking room. Floating across the carpet at your feet, like an immense cat, is H/ellen. You spend the day sitting on the brand new couch in a tiny smoking room. Floating across the carpet at your feet, like an immense cat, is H/ellen.

H/ellen is about sixty, with long grey hair, and she is pulling at the hem of a light linen smock that is too short. She lies on her side, and you think she must weigh about three hundred pounds. She has the expression of an eight year old in trouble. Around her swollen hand on the carpet lie cigarette spokes. Twelve of them, browned at the tips, but unsmoked, they fan out from her splayed fingers.

"Gotta smoke?"

You flip H/ellen a cigarette. In ten minutes you flip her another, this time watching what she does with it. She puts it in her mouth and reaches down to a pack of matches folded into her sleeve. The heads of the matches are bent up like a fleeing mob and she twists off a stick to strike it. She manages this, rolling onto her back, and she takes the flare before it becomes orange and extinguishes it in the tip of the cigarette. She rolls back onto her side and smiles at you brattishly and asks for another cigarette. You give it to her. You think she confuses lighting cigarettes with putting them out. You think that's it. You lay your pack open on the floor beside her, and she leaves it alone. Instead, she asks you for a cigarette every five minutes, without taking one. Soon she lies on her belly, drawing her hem midway up her back, rocking the giant white cheeks of her a.s.s in the sun. She looks up at you, flirting and smiling. You return her looks and nudge the pack with your toe, closer to her. She laughs. You've surprised her somehow.

And then she says: "And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves."

"What is that?"

H/ellen knocks a cigarette out of the pack.

"Walt Whitman, part-time carpenter."

You sit up on the edge of the couch, looking down at her face. You don't know what else to ask. She looks up and licks the air between you.

"Ahhh. There you are. I've been looking for you, young man."

A doctor is standing at H/ellen's feet.

"Pull down your dress H/ellen. Do you think we all want to see you?"

The doctor pats you on the shoulder and stretches an arm leading to his office down the hall. You follow. As you approach his office you can tell that something is making him uncomfortable. Something is bothering him. You sit in his office and he flips open a file. You can tell he's not reading it.

"So, so, so." How twitchy this man is. How twitchy this man is. You see a lot of doctors and you've begun to wonder: You see a lot of doctors and you've begun to wonder: What on earth do they have in common? What on earth do they have in common?

"So, so, so." He's trying to say something, but he doesn't know how. "You're a painter, huh?"

You milk the painter angle whenever you can, it seems to satisfy something about you.

"Yes."

"OK, you're gonna think this is a little odd, but I want your professional opinion on something."

You squint to picture yourself at an easel, in a paintsmeared smock, with one of those wood things hanging from your thumb. Art history: Cezanne, Polenc, and ... and ... Walt Whitman. You imagine lifting the back of your smock, flas.h.i.+ng your a.s.s at H/ellen, who is your model.

"Sure doc, anything. Shoot."

"Yeah, so I bought this painting, that one over there."

You recognize the building in the painting. It's the Queen St. Mental Health Centre. And it's painted by Mendelson Joe.

"Yeah, that's Mendelson Joe, isn't it?"

The doctor becomes tense again. Your observation is almost too astute.

"Well, I wanted to know if it's ... if you thought, whether you thought it was any good."

You stand up and square off in front of the painting. You try to raise your hand to your mouth, but the cast clunks against the desk.

"Oh dear!"

You gesture for him to stay seated.

"I'm fine. I'm OK OK."

"Well, what do you think?"

"Yeah, it's good."

The doctor sits up.

"Really? You think so? I thought so. Sort of ... uh ... primitive, wouldn't you say?"

You cough and hold your mouth in a plaster palm.

"Yeah, I like this kind of thing. Sure. I was there."

The doctor nods seriously. You were there. Oh yes, oh, I see. You were there. You were there. Oh yes, oh, I see. You were there.

You're lying. You were in the Clarke Inst.i.tute.

"Well, good. Everything else is OK OK? We have you on the medication now, do we?"

You cough again.

"Yes, but I think that the Lorazipam dose is too low and I think I need some Percodan."

You hold out your hands and they jump involuntarily at the air. You wince and pull your cast to your chest.

"Ah, yes, it's going to be a rough couple of days for you. I'll tell the med-girl to double up on that for a while."

30.