WM_0015 ::::::::: Funeralis
June 02, 2003
I never did explain what exactly happened
down there in Cowtown, which has led to a certain
instability in my current situation with old Chloe.
You see, I didn't exactly warn her about the article,
and she in turn, didn't warn her parents. I met
them the first day we got down there, a Thursday,
and I was introduced to the parents as a nice intellectual
student sort of writer, who hoped to someday write
the Great Canadian Novel. It was a short visit and
we were able to leave fairly quickly after Chloe
and her mother'd had a decent cry.
We spent that day and the Friday after in a cheap
hotel room watching throw away porn, drinking red
wine and smoking weed and fucking uncontrollably.
Chloe was, as I had predicted, dead set on trying
to drown out any sound of death with her own echoing
voice. It was fucking fantastic.
Of course, Saturday came soon enough, the day of
the planting, and we were up early to get to the
house to make sandwiches and shake hands. We smoked
one last joint before getting out of her car and
walking in.
The parent's house was way more crowded than Thursday,
and this time I was quickly introduced to several
uncles and a sister-in-law whom I was to understand
were all involved in cattle ranching of some kind.
While Chloe went to see her Grandma, I was left
standing in the kitchen with the uncles. The room
was perfectly fucking silent.
Eventually, one of the uncles spoke.
Uncle Number 1- So you're a writer.
Mingus Tourette - Yes.
U1 - Who do you write for?
MT - Sorry?
U1-Who do you write for, what paper?
MT - Oh no, I don't write for a paper.
U1 -Well then, who do you write for?
MT -At the moment, I do some work for a company
called the Abattoir, but mostly I work on my own
material.
U1 - What kind of material?
MT- Novels, screenplays, poetry, that kind of
thing.
U1 - Like Tom Clancy?
MT - Sort of.
U1 - He's a good fucking writer, eh? You ever
read The Sum of All Fears?
MT - No, no I haven't.
U1 - It was a good movie.
(pause)
So you write books? What's your books about?
MT - It's sort of difficult to explain - I guess
it's partly autobiographical, some political commentary,
social commentary...
U1 - Sounds sort of like the shit that Jew from
Quebec writes. The Frog Jew. What's his name?
MT - Sorry?
U1 - He sings, too.
Uncle Number 2 - Leonard Cohen. He sang that 'I'm
your Man'.
U1 - Yeah, that's him.
MT - I don't know if he's French.
Sister - inLaw - He's French, but I think I read
somewhere he's a buddhist now.
MT - I don't think Cohen is French, actually.
I think you're thinking of Mordecai Richler. Wrote
Duddy Kravitz?
U1 - Nope, it's the singer. Who's Duddy Kravitz?
(pause)
You mean Lenny Kravitz. He's a jew, you know.
Black jew.
MT - No, Mordecai Richler wrote a book called
Duddy Kravitz. Richler's a Montreal Jewish writer,
or at least, he was a Montrealer Jewish writer,
but he died a couple of years ago. He wrote Jacob
Two-Two and the Hooded Fang.
U2 - I read that book! It was fucking awesome.
Loved it!
Sister-InLaw - Passed away.
MT - Pardon me?
SIL - We're trying not to say 'died' this weekend.
It's 'passed away', or better yet, 'passed on'.
(bows head briefly, crosses herself)
MT - I'm sorry.
U1 - There any money in poetry?
MT - Not much, at least, not yet. Unless I can
sell a pile of books.
U1 - You know, there was some fucking writer in
the EdmonChuck paper that Laurence brought down
who was bitching about how little money he made.
And get this, this guy was dressed like a fucking
Iraqi, with the gasmask and everything. Fuck,
you should read this.
(yells to backroom)
Hey Laurence, bring that EdmonChuck rag out here.
I want to show this young writer something.
Laurence - What young writer?
U1 - The one that Chloe brought down, does it
fucking matter? Get off yer ass and bring me that
piece of shit, will you?
MT - Oh, don't worry about it. I can check it
out at home. It's no big deal.
U1 - No, you should see this. This guy's a regular
fucking asshole. Thinks he's funny.
Laurence brings out paper. Laurence is the youngest
uncle, just over thirty, wears glasses and works
as an accountant clerk and farmer. He comes in,
helps himself to coffee, puts the paper down on
the table. Uncle One goes through it, pulls out
the Ed Magazine. I am on the front cover in my
gasmask. It is an absolutely thrilling moment
to see the photo - words on the chest came out
perfectly, caption reads 'One day writers will
be treated like rock stars - Mingus Tourette'.
My excitement is shortlived, however, as he opens
the paper, and I see my face on the second page
of the article. On the rest of the photos, I am
wearing the gasmask, but The Uncle also sees my
face on the paper, and looks back at me. He looks
back at the paper. He looks back at me and sees
that I see it, and that I see him.
There is a long fucking silence. Nobody says anything.
Laurence bumbles around the kitchen. Uncle Number
One reads the article again, carefully. It's as
though I have cut a rancid fart that smells nothing
like the family fart, and everyone knows it. Eventually,
the mother and father and grandmother enter the
room with Chloe, and everyone's in black and solemn
and waiting to grieve. Uncle Number One, finishes
the article and speaks without looking up.
U1 - Hey Chloe. Your boyfriend's in the paper.
Take a look.
At this point, Chloe and mother and father huddle
around paper excitedly. The father nods at me
approvingly, before looking at the paper. Chloe
is confused, raises her eyebrow. Turns to read
the paper. More silence as they read the paper.
Chloe looks up first, her face red, eyes wide.
The mother turns up her head, not really understanding.
When the father raises his head, he is obviously
disgusted.
Mother - What's a nunt?
At that point, there was more stuttered conversation,
poor explanations that beat around the point,
more long silences, more confusion and lots of
disappointment. Chloe didn't say much, and I didn't
ask her about what she thought of the article.
We stayed high as much as possible for the weekend
and she cried when her grandfather went into the
ground, and I cried, and maybe that was a little
redeeming, 'cause she wanted more Mingus that
night, and nobody mentioned the article for the
rest of the weekend, but there was certainly no
heartfelt conversation about writing or life or
death or future endeavours, and when I left, the
handshakes and the thanks were limper than they
should have been.
And now, since we've come home, Chloe and I haven't
seen much of each other, except late at night,
when she calls around eleven or so and wants me
to give her a solid once over. Earlier this week
she didn't call one night because she had to go
for coffee with her old boyfriend who happens
to be an accountant and is thoroughly acceptable
and was well loved by the family. They were just
going to catch up, because he had heard about
Grappa and was being a nice guy.
So that's all fine and fucking dandy, but I can
smell the fuckover just around the corner. I can
already hear the conversation when she's suddenly
reconsidered the accountant's proposal and weighs
his paycheck, house and straight teeth against
a lunatic who doesn't have a proper job and is
mostly embarrassing in public, and whose only
real value lies in his ability to balance a woman
on his thighs in a standing lotus position after
drinking three bottles of red wine.
If I had to bet, I would say that I shall soon
be found wanting and Chloe will be marrying off
her old accountant. I have run this gambit before,
but it will still surprise me, as all betrayals
do, grand or small. But I want to make it clear
that I know, because I know how people work. I
can see it coming. And that's all I know. And
the reason I'm saying this is to say that I know
and I don't want to look like a fucking patsy,
so this is simply for the record, and not at all
because I'm starting to get attached and that
I'm worried about it falling apart and that if
it happens I will be far more alone than before.
Nothing like that at all.
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