I’m not sure why I write. It’s certainly not to reach thousands of avid readers. And I don’t write for myself. So for who. Hope, I suspect. A writer/artist is the most vain and optimistic of creatures, thinking that his work is worthy of attention. As I get older I realize that its not the amount of money offers you for your work as it is their time. All of us have only so much time and we must spend it wisely. We never do
The girl in The First Day does exist. She works in the drug store, but not as a cosmetician. She is a pharmacist. A tall think red head. Pretty in a stern focused way. The fear of first day is not uncommon. You wouldn’t think that someone’s first day could be so traumatic. But I met a teacher whose first day went horribly. In his first class he challenged five of the boys in the class to a race. Why? He thought this would gain their respect if he beat them in a race. He took the whole class out to the field. All five boys beat him in the 100 metre race. He hit the finish line, gasping for air. He made a complete ass of himself.
They Call Me Mr. Fu was an experience we’ve all had. Of being cornered by someone who bores us to death with their conversation. And they never get it. Nothing you say discourages them. Sometimes you have to wonder when you’re in a group of people if you aren’t the bore.
………………………….
“Hey, look at this.” The giant called Everest moved slowly across the sidewalk in front of the drug store. Fu watched with amusement as the big man moved slowly, his feet gliding on invisible wheels. Turning and ever so slowly twisting, the big man seemed to float, his eyes closed, his lips moving, his voice low and soft. He sang: In my solitude you haunt me. With revelries of days gone by. In my solitude you taunt me. With memories that will not die. Everest stopped dancing and looked down at the smiling panhandler sitting on the ground, his back leaning against the wall of the drug store.
“That’s called the waltz. There are many versions of the waltz. Like there is of life.”
The panhandler did not respond.
“You got a name?” Everest asked.
The panhandler looked up from the book he was reading at the large man looming over him. He gestured to the shoebox beside him where a few coins lay. He expected to be paid. No pay. No talk.
“Folks around here,” Everest continued, “call you Fu. Because of your Fu Manchu moustache. I tell them you insist on being called, Mr. Fu. It hasn’t caught on. I doubt if any of them know who Fu Manchu was. Anymore than they know who Caesar is when they pour his dressing over their salad. Most of them probably think that Fu was some kind of Mongol warrior. Or a Khan. He was a criminal in pulp novels. Did you know that? Sac Rohmer was the author. A great name for a writer. But who knows these things? And of what use is the information? Fu Manchu is just part of our cultural wallpaper. People associate the name with the moustache. Maybe they call you Fu because you’re Asian. Though you could be Native. Even Mexican. Maybe Finnish. You know that the blood lines of the Finns go back to the Huns. Finns don’t like you telling them that. Huns aren’t crazy about it either.”
The panhandler took a deep breath and returned to his book. Everest did not miss a step. He continued to talk even though it was evident to anyone passing by that Fu was not listening. And perhaps Everest knew himself but continued to talk because that had been his habit most of his life.
“Or maybe they call you Fu, because there are so few of you,” Everest added. “Ever the individual. People always going on about individuality. Like it was something special. The opposite is true. There are no two things alike. I’d go so far as to say that it was impossible for two things to be the same. They’d have to occupy the same space. Breath the same air. Answer to the same calls. Nature’s and God’s.”
Everest waited for a response. There was none.
“You’re not too chatty,” Everest declared. “That’s alright. I like a man who’s not always shooting his mouth off. Don’t trust a man who has an opinion about everything. Usually means that he doesn’t hold fast to any opinion. A mile wide and an inch thick as they say. What are you reading?”
For a moment Fu did not respond. Everest waited. Finally, the panhandler turned his book over so that Everest could read the title.
“The Dubliners,” Everest read. “Good book?”
The panhandler grinned. And went back to his book.
There was a long period of silence.
“I used to hang out with Dylan,” Everest said. He waited for a response from the panhandler. When there was none, he continued. “They call that a brush with greatness. When us plebs have a passing relationship with the aristocracy of the world. That’s what famous people are, Fu. They are aristocrats. And we are fascinated by them. Their habits. Their loves. Their addictions. Their passions. Their tragedies. The Greeks started the whole thing. This preoccupation with the gossip of the days. All those gods. Like the folks on Coronation Street. You like soaps, Fu?”
Fu did not respond.
“Human nature,” Everest continued. “That’s what soaps are about. Oh, how we love their tragedies. I’m talking about the rich and famous. We’re not too interested in each other’s tragedies. That my friend is a downer. No sir. You interested in your neighbours problems? That’s called being nosy. And you better not be interested in your neighbour’s passions. We call that, perversion. Both his passions and your interest. The common man is not interested in other common men. That’s why it took so long to have universal medical coverage. I’m not boring you, am I? I do tend to go on.”
Fu did not respond.
Everest cleared his throat. “But you were asking me about Dylan. I mean Bob and not Thomas. I used to handle their gear. We didn’t have a name for it back then. I think they call them roadies now. I used to handle Bob and his band. Called the Band. Talk about imagination, eh? My, those boys had a good time. Girls coming out of the woodwork. Not too many smart ones. But girls nevertheless. Mostly high school drop outs. Girls who couldn’t pass grade 10 math. Well, who passes math anyway? Beautiful girls. With liberal views on life if you take my meaning. You know what I’m saying?”
There was a anger in Fu’s eyes. He glared at his book, determined not to pay any attention to Everest. And yet he did listen.
Everest smiled. “And I got some myself. Like the crumbs from the master’s table. There were a lot of crumbs. Girls would sleep with the hands that served the master, so to speak. You know what I’m saying. Of course you do. I guess I got arrogant. Forgot my place. Figured Bob and I were buds. I don’t know what got into me. I got it in my head to tell him to stop smoking. He was coughing a lot. I didn’t want the world to lose another voice to smoke. That’s what I said afterwards. But truth be told, it just got annoying. Coughing first thing in the morning. Right over your breakfast. And in the middle of your afternoon nap, Bob starts hacking. And there was phlegm. Disgusting. Horking and snorting. Spitting. Well, you get the image. So I told him to quit the fags. And Bob looks at me like I’m from Mars and tells me to fuck off. In front of everyone. Later one of his people told me I was fired. Bob couldn’t do it to my face. Royalty doesn’t do that sort of thing themselves. It’s beneath them. I got other work. Frank Zappa for a while. That was one crazy fucker. He loved motels. Wouldn’t stay in a hotel. Had to be a motel. With a pink Cadillac parked out front. Like he might have to make a getaway. But, I quit. Couldn’t work for a guy named Zappa. What kind of name is that? Zappa. Like something from a science fiction movie. Flash Gordon. I love the evil guy in those flicks. What was his name? Merlin? Maurice? Mandrake?” Everest scratched his head. “It was Ming. Emperor Ming. A relative of yours?”
Everest looked down at the panhandler. Fu continued to ignore him. To read his book.
“I guess the Dubliners must be about people in Dublin? I’d like to write a book about the people around here. In the Six Points. What the hell would you call it? Etobians? Etobicokians? Six Pointers? Just doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Who wrote the Dubliners?”
The panhandler turned his book up.
“James Joyce,” said Everest. “Sounds like a happy name. What is he? Jewish?”
The panhandler shrugged.
“No, not Jewish. Irish. Sounds Irish. Bob Dylan sounds Welsh. He’s Jewish. Did you know that?”
The panhandler nodded angrily.
“I think he changed his name,” Everest said. “Why do you figure he would do that? Sounds like a cliché in show business. Folks are always changing their name to make them sound more memorable. John Wayne changed his name. As did Cary Grant. Bob Dylan. Wonder what Dylan’s name was before he changed it.”
The panhandler looked up at Everest.
“Zappa,” Fu replied and went back to reading his book.
Everest looked down at the panhandler as if his feelings had been hurt. Then he looked around to see if anyone was watching began to slowly dance again.
“I believe that a dance can save your heart,” he said, smiling, thinking of the lovely women that he had held in his arms. Had moved around the dance floor. The smell of their hair. The touch of their shoulders. The gentleness of their hands on his back.
Everest opened his eyes. Fu was gone. He looked around. Spotted the small man walking off across the parking lot. Cried out to him.
“Wait for me, Mr. Fu.”
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The Burnhamthorpe Bus from The God of Six Points
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