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Return of the Gander
August 05, 2003
So this weekend, with everyone departing
to celebrate Heritage Days by sleeping in musty
tents and throwing up on gravel campsite sleeping
beds, I was staring at a solid 72 hours worth
of net porn, drinking, writing and personal solstice
with no certain amount of imminent self-loathing.
Fortunately, I got one of those last minute calls
from the governor, in the somewhat pariah-ridden
form of the one and only Marvin Gander.
Marvin, for those of you not knowing, is a freelance-journalist
friend of mine from the BF era who has since gone
on to bigger and somewhat better paid things.
When BF collapsed and we were all able to collectively
use the shares we received for toilet paper, he
packed up and left the Big Onion for Pile of Bones
to follow his true love, Celina. She works for
the government.
Marvin does not. In fact, Marvin and the government
do not particularly see eye to eye, as he holds
a dual citizenship in Canada and the UK, and though
he was born in London, Ontario, Marvin is unrepentantly
English, unrepentantly left-wing, and unrepentantly
answers his door in his barely closed house robe
which he wears almost everyday, as he sees no
reason to wear clothes while writing his pieces
smoking clove cigarettes and sipping early-afternoon
Scotches. He tries as hard as he can not to pay
Canada or the UK any income tax, appreciates good
British Columbia weed and savours decently written
articles about Georgio Bush and non-existent WMD.
We get along rather famously.
Marvin is in town for the next three to four months
writing a bunch of articles about the provincial
government for his contract employer, whom I am
forbidden to mention here. He phoned very late
on Friday night, suggested that we get together,
sit down at a table and drink and talk until unable
to do so any further. I quickly agreed, remembering
I wasn't supposed to drink alone, much. We met
down at the Strat, for old time's sake. The conversation,
as I remember it, went something like this:
Gander - Well, I'm eight drinks in already. Took
you long enough.
Tourette - I'm ten drinks in. I had to walk.
G - I see. That's excusable, then. How's it going?
T - I don't know, not bad. Yourself? Big fucking
gig,eh?
G - Fucking huge. I've never written a series
like this. Bit of a dream job, really. I've always
wanted to get paid for 10 000 word essays.
T - Even if it's on the Mad Cow?
G - Just a bit on the Mad Cow. One in the series.
The rest is politics. And I'm going to fucking
hang them all out to dry.
T - Sounds like fun. I need a drink.
G - She'll be around. So? Need I ask? Nat? Any
talk?
T - No.
G - None?
T - No.
G - She around, then?
T - She's somewhere in the city, which causes
no end of nervousness and fear, because god only
knows what day I'm going to walk into a bar with
Chloe, who's this girl I've been fucking for about
six months, off and on, and see Nat and be forced
to fake an aneurysm because I would not know what
else to do.
G - Good you're moving on, then. That the same
Chloe from that production?
T - Very astute. Yes. But we didn't 'get involved'
till recently.
G - The actress?
T - The actress.
G - Crazy, with a tight ass.
T - Crazy, with a very tight ass.
G - Irish, too. And you? Still at the Abattoir,
I'm assuming?
T - Still. And yourself? Celina?
G - Still good. Enjoying her work. Unhappy that
I have be away three weeks at a time, but understanding
that I have to do this. She's being really great
about.
T - She's really great about most things. How
long you here?
G - Till mid-November, I believe. Quite a stint.
100 000 words.
T - That's a fucking novel.
G - Would be nice, but yes, it's novel length.
Speaking of which?
T - No movement on Divinity, but Nunt...
G - I heard, you might have a publisher? Very
exciting. Congratulations.
T - Maybe a publisher. These people are interested,
but no congratulations yet. I don't think there'll
be much of an advance, but fuck, just to see that
thing in print would be something.
G - No fucking shit. And so quickly?
T - Well, it's their first book. And I turned
them on to a few other of the pinheads we know,
so they might follow up with something by Yuriko
or whoever. Sweaty Charles, if he could finish
100 000 words. You interested?
G - Definitely maybe.
(Waitress shows up, takes drink orders. A pitcher
of beer, and two rye and ginger. She leaves. Marvin
pulls out a long fat gagger of a joint, raises
his eyebrow. I nod. We leave our coats, walk outside,
take a quick step down the alley, light up and
don't say a word until the whole thing is ashes.
We smile a lot, and wander back inside. Mary,
the waitress, gives us a crossways glance, smells
the weed on us, smiles fiendishly, and gets a
good tip. We recline, pour a beer each and stare
at each other for a full five minutes. I sip on
my rye and ginger. Till Gander breaks the silence.)
G - Now then, what do you think about this whole
situation?
T - Which situation?
G - Fucking Iraq, what other situation? Blair's
going to fucking get it up the ass, I fucking
hope. Not that it means anything for the Yanks.
They don't realize we're in the war.
T - Obviously, I think it's a bad idea. I wore
the gasmask and American flag diaper in minus
ten degree weather to say so. I sent you that
link, didn't I? And you saw Warback.com?
G - Oh yes, that was all quite good, I think.
It was a nice image.
T - And that was the point, to present that image.
To let people in the Onion know that there are
fuckheads out here who aren't going to quite pour
gasoline on themselves, but they will get snowed
on and make fools of themselves to make a point.
G - It's good, but it's not quite enough.
T - Well, it was fucking something. I didn't see
you out there buck naked in a gasmask.
G - Because I'm soft and English and I have gawky
legs and a cock that would frighten an elephant.
T - The same way a mouse frightens an elephant?
G - The same way T.T. Boy or Peter North frighten
people. Women think of the tearing and men think
of the shame. That's why Celina's the only woman
for me, cause she's got a cunt you could stuff
a pumpkin into.
T - Down the rabbit hole!
G - Exactly. Which is a perfect fucking metaphor
for our current situation. Old Shrub's jumped
through the magic mirror and every minute after
this we're in his fucking wonderland and the only
way to get back is to hack off his fucking tits
and break that mirror and get back on track, without
Alice or any of his merry band of thieves.
T - I don't exactly understand.
G - What's to understand. We're fucked. We're
looking at six more years with the Shrub, cause
the fucking Democrats have nothing. Gore and Clintette,
and neither one's running. Where in god's name
is Meathead? Eh? Where's Rob Reiner? Christ. Fucking
Liebermann. It's going to be a fucking dictatorship.
T - So what do you suggest?
G - Fucking invasion. Let's invade.
T - Pardon me?
G - In the name of all that's right with the world,
we declare ourselves a country, and attack. And
specify rules of engagement to include a declaration
of weapons that include all the printed lies from
the opposing country. We'd certainly win then.
T - I don't think we can declare ourselves a country.
G - Fucking yes we can. Look what Shrub is doing.
We can do anything we fucking want. I'll beat
that motherfucker to death with a rolled up copy
of his State of the Union speech.
T - So that will obviously be in the rules of
engagement. A mortal combat challenge of the leaders.
G - Yes. Remember the weapons. They won't have
a stitch to defend themselves with. Like the Iraqis.
Oh, the bloody irony. Bloody! Irony!
(beat)
I don't know if I want to be leader. I'm much
more Secretary of Propaganda material.
T - Fuck off, that's me.
G - You're the fucking front man. Look, you could
beat Shrub hands down. Maybe not Shrub I, but
definitely Shrub II. The only one you've got to
worry about in hand-to-hand combat is Powell.
Jesus, Ronald Reagan could pistol whip the rest
of them by himself, Alzheimer's and being 92 and
all. And I'll take care of Powell. Yes! I'd beat
him to death with his address to the UN!
(And at that point Gander is laughing to himself,
and I am laughing enjoying his company, and the
door swings open at the far end of the bar, and
the two of us freeze and we don't say anything.
In a very strange light, with the ringing of VLTs
and through the haze of cigarette smoke and farmer's
hats, Nat walks through the door with a friend.
They are laughing. We can't stop staring. At the
same time, both her friend and Nat see us. They
stop laughing. They turn and pretend not to have
seen us. But they have. They talk. Seriously.
They turn back to the door, and walk towards it.
Nat stops just before walking out. Her friend
stops. Nat doesn't move. She turns around and
stares at me.
And waves.
And smiles.
It's sort of a wan, thin smile, and her eyes looks
heavy and sad and she seems tired and I want her
to come over and sit down and talk and laugh and
entertain Gander like she used to, to sit with
us and drink and have a good evening and let the
fighting begin the next day, but for the night,
it would be good. Old friends and cheap beer and
then some real crazy fucking in the bathroom downstairs,
not even able to get out of the tub. Cause that's
what it would be, the two of us stumbling off
into the distance as we bid a fond farewell to
dear Marvin, so tinker fucked he can hardly stand
and he makes a big deal about finding his keys
and does impressions of George Bush all the way
home and we hug and part ways in the street and
vow to get together again soon, and we will, because
these kinds of things don't happen all the time
to shitheels like us.
But then she turns back to the door and leaves
and is gone and I realize I didn't smile or wave
or make any kind of gesture except a stupid shocked
look and fuck fuck me, I'm too stoned for anything
like that, but it's all gone now anyways.
And there is a long silence and Gander stares
sagely at the waitress as she wanders by, and
I suck my rye and ginger to the dirt and start
sucking hard on that beer and eventually look
up and shake my head. Cause I don't want it to
ruin this reunion, cause I like to have old friends
around. And Darwin bless him, Gander speaks, which
is good, cause I couldn't speak first and after
that, the spell is broken and we can continue
on and talk nonsense and I won't think about Nat
until later tonight when I am alone and staring
at the ceiling. And all weekend. And for weeks
to come.)
G - You're pretty quiet.
T - Just enjoying the rigours of my drink.
(beat)
You got anything worth chewing on?
G - Lots of big ideas, my friend. Lots.
T - Well, come on then, let's hear them.
(beat, and it goes all night from there)
CUT TO:
INT.-OLD STRATHCONA PUB-NIGHT
WIDE SHOT of Gander and Tourette laughing, as
the waitress approaches to tell them to get out
of the bar, cause they're the only one's left.
The two stand up shakily, still laughing and walk
out, wobbling.
Or something like that.
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