Dire Strait Girls

Final credits appear slowly in uneven ransom-note style across the oversized flat-screen television in Aja’s den. As each actor’s name materialized, Emily struggled to remember who played whom. After a very short time (three names, tops) she glanced over at Aja, who was focusing all of her attention on the screen. The hyperballad chosen for use in the background was piano-heavy and featured a whiny vocalist who’d probably done a billion years in minor city’s second-rate bar scene.

Emily opened her mouth, but before she could let a syllable escape, Aja put her finger up near Emily’s face to indicate that need for total silence. Only after the final name emerged onto 52 inches of plasma, “Introducing Paige Sue Namoon as Abeille Montes” did Aja finally move her hand from Emily’s face to her own heart.

“She will be mine.” Aja swooned and giggled. “Isn’t she just perfect? She’s so strong and fucked up and her accent is so cute!”

Emily didn’t want to say what she was thinking, which was that the dialogue in the movie was contrived, the fight scenes looked too choreographed and that Paige Sue herself was just unconvincing as a teenaged vigilante gangster detective. Instead she said, “Who sings this song?”

“It sounds like Le Fortress. Or it could be… shit. What was the name of Morey LeFort’s original band? It was something totally stupid.”

Emily thought back to Wendy Taylor’s blog and said, “I think they were called Rhinocratic Oath. But he was also in Wicketkeeper.”

“Oh yeah.”

The girls sat in silence for a while, passing a bag of green liquorice whips back and forth. Aja had convinced Emily that green liquorice (unlike its black and red counterparts) didn’t have any animal product in it whatsoever. Even though Emily knew her friend was incorrect, she never said anything. Aja didn’t like being corrected, and it wasn’t worth the fight. Besides, Emily actually liked the cheap stale green ropes they bought in bulk – if Aja stopped buying them, she’d have to stop eating them.

“So… I watched Down With Woodstock. The agreement was that I could tell you about Malachi.” Emily grabbed a handful of candy and stuffed it all in her mouth, puffing her cheeks exaggeratedly.

“That’s very attractive, Mitch,” Aja poked one of Emily’s inflated cheeks, “and you know that I would have listened to your boy gossip even if you hadn’t seen the movie. I just wanted you to know who the bride is when I send out wedding announcements.”

“I wouldn’t do that just yet. I mean,” Emily said through a mouth full of half-chewed liquorice, “I can see why you’re getting the lesbian vibe. I get it too. That’s how I know she’s straight. You know how bad I am with this kind of thing. Remember Roland? I had absolutely no idea he was gay. And I could have sworn that Anthony from high school was closeted until you… um… proved me wrong.”

“That’s true – you’re really bad when it comes to that.” An evil smile crept over Aja’s face, “So… did Irish Boy come across as completely straight?”

“Mal? I dunno. He dressed well. He spoke highly of his grandmother, I guess. But he certainly started flirting with me, so I’m going to say that he’s straight.”

“Well now you’ve jinxed it! He’s out doing unmentionable things to his hipster boyfriend AS WE SPEAK.”

“Oh LAME.”

“You should totally call him and interrupt that love fest.”

Emily stopped laughing. “You think I should call?” She asked, “You know I only met him for three minutes, right? I know nothing about him other than he’s Irish, he smells good and has the greenest damn eyes I think I’ve ever seen. Oh, and I met him on the subway.”

“Was it an eastbound train?”

“Northbound, from Union to Spadina. Why?”

“That’s a shame. All good romances need to start on eastbound trains. That’s why so many songs are written about them.”

“Oh. But do you think I should call him?”

“Did he look like a musician?”

“Yeah. He was skinny and had floppy hair and hadn’t shaved that morning. I’m thinking either a musician or a student.”

“Then yeah, you should call him. There needs to be a good love song about a Northbound train.”

“Lamest justification ever, Mitch. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a boy with a very sexy accent to call.”

Emily’s breach of etiquette

When you find yourself a frequent patron of public transit, it is important to establish the unspoken etiquette and never stray from it. Offer your seat to an elderly or disabled person; if travelling with children, keep them amused and quiet; never stare. Emily Chen, her stomach gurgling in distressful hunger, was making good use of her new metropass and decided to travel three subway stops to get some decent Thai food.

Eating out was a luxury Emily couldn’t always afford; she cursed herself for sleeping in, depriving her of the precious five minutes it takes to throw mock turkey between two slices of egg bread, fill her water bottle and grab three granola bars for snacks. She hadn’t had time for breakfast either, and by the time her lunch hour (which was actually, in fact, 40 minutes) rolled around, she had blushed permanently red as her hunger became more audible and obvious. She knew that Elvin Schaffer, the girl in the ticket booth next to her, had heard, because she exclaimed in a whisper, “Cripes, Emily! Did you eat a live Wookie or something? Your insides are making Chewbacca noises.”

Emily barely understood the reference.

As she boarded the subway, she was thankful that it was too early for everyone else to start their own lunch break. She immediately took a seat near the door and smiled into her long, cream-coloured scarf as she dreamed of chunks of golden tofu in spicy saffron sauce. Lost in her daydream, she didn’t register anyone else in the car. She tilted her head, mouth watering as she imagined herself sitting alone in the corner of a brightly lit restaurant with a big plate of piquant noodles.

The computerized voice announced the next stop, and Emily realized that she had inadvertently broken one of the biggest rules for public transportation travel; lost in her food fantasy, she had spent the past two minutes staring at a young man sitting across from her. And he’d caught her. Though he wasn’t typically handsome, his gaze grabbed hers and shook it; she tried to figure out the name for the green in his eyes, and settled for peridot when no closer description could be recalled.

“Hey.” He said.

“Hey.” She squeaked back.

An awkward silence.

“I’m sorry for staring…” she started, “but I’m –” She stopped. Possible exchanges ran through her mind, each ending with him making a face and getting off the train whether it was his stop or not.

“You’re what?” There was no malice in his voice. If anything, this guy sounded curious. Curious with a slight accent from somewhere European… with Emily, accents could go two ways: generally, she found them creepy, possibly due to a childhood incident with an Italian landlord which she had repressed in all ways except when it came to rolled R sounds.  This one, though, was faint. She didn’t feel threatened.

“I was just admiring your scarf.”

“Oh! Thanks. My grandmother in Ireland knit it for me. It’s striped like the Irish flag. I guess my years spent in boarding school there didn’t make me aware enough of my heritage for her liking. Your scarf is pretty nice too.” He smiled. His lips were thin but his teeth were dazzlingly white.

“Thanks. It’s also hand-knit but my friend Aja made it for me.” She fingered the fringe lovingly.

“Sorry, what? Your friend in Asia?”

“No, her name is Aja. A-J-A.”

“Oh, apologies. So now that I know your friend’s name, can I get yours?”

“It’s Emily.”

He got up gracefully and walked over to shake her hand. “I’m Malachi. Nice to meet you, Emily.”

She blushed. “Yeah, same.” Her lust for hot Thai cuisine had been replaced with a different hunger; one she hadn’t felt this strongly since high school.

The voice called her stop, and she rose from her seat. “This is my stop,” she said pathetically. “It really was nice… meeting you, that is.”

 He pulled a pen from his pocket and grabbed her hand. “This is my cell,” he said as his scribbled ten digits on her palm, “It’s the only number I’ve got in Toronto, or else I’d write those other ones down too. I know how creepy it must seem to meet someone on the subway, but the ball is in your court, so to speak. No pressure or anything… I would just like to get to know you better.”
 

Emily didn’t say anything as she left the train, but as she walked up the stairs to street level she realized that she’d never been so pleased with herself for sleeping in – Malachi was so much better than a sandwich.

In which we meet Malachi

The easiest decisions for Emily to accept were always the ones that were made on her behalf. Aja was a vegan, so they only ever ate out at veggie-friendly restaurants. Aja knew all the cool stores and bands and cafés, and Emily would tag along happily. Aja decided which films to see and which ‘zines to read (they were always independent). Emily wished that everything in life was as easy as her friendship with Aja, and it wasn’t until Mal pointed out that the friendship was more of a dictatorship that Emily really started to notice how much more content she was with being a follower.

“If you don’t want to see Foghorn Choir again, you shouldn’t have to. I mean, they’re not your scene, right? You told me you didn’t really like the venue and that they were really boring.” Malachi Kirk slowed his pace to allow his girlfriend to catch up. Walking down the street was never this awkward when they held hands, but since an early thaw had rendered gloves unnecessary, Emily insisted they not be so affectionate in public. (“Really,” she stated, “it’s only cute when we’re all bundled up.”) Emily sped up, keeping one hand on her beret, and reached him in a few steps.

“I know, but Aja already bought tickets… and maybe FC’ll be better this time. Aja says they’ve gotten a lot of buzz lately. Plus they’re the opening band. I don’t know if we’ll stay for the rest but the other groups could be good? It’s just bad timing mostly. I hate having to cancel plans with you – I see you so often and I still can’t get enough.” She put her arm around his waist briefly before remembering her own stance on public displays of affection.

“Aww… I just don’t like that you’re changing our three-month anniversary plans two days in advance. What if I had something really cool planned?” He looked at her and flashed an effortlessly handsome thin-lipped smile. Malachi’s youthful optimism showed in his dishevelled manner. Dressed in a dark green jacket and tight jeans, Mal looked like he could be a member of the latest indie group from Queen W or the bassist of an Irish punk band (his accent, a remnant of a childhood spent abroad at a primary boarding school in Dublin, makes the latter seem more likely).

Emily’s eyes lit up. “Did you have something really cool planned?”

Mal regretted getting her hopes up. “Er… no, not really. I was going to take you to dinner at a nicer-than-usual place, though. And maybe bowling.” He winced at how lame it sounded.

Emily, on the other hand, hugged him elatedly and said, “That sounds wonderful. I’ve never been bowling before. Could we go on Saturday instead of Friday, though? Please? I feel like such a disorganized idiot. Aja won’t understand because she’s so anti-relationship… well, except for this one she plays out in her head in which she seduces some actress… and…”

Mal interrupted her by kissing her forehead. He let his lips linger long enough for her to shoot him a dirty upwards glance. “That’s fine. When do I get to meet Aja anyway?”

“Soon, I guess. She wants to meet you too. She says she wants to know if I talk about her when I’m with you. I told her that I talk about her just as much as I talk about you. You could come to the show with us on Friday!” Emily exclaimed excitedly, “There’s no effing way that stupid Foghorn Choir sold every ticket.”

“Sure, I guess… It’s not like I have anything better to do that night anymore.” He smiled again, scratching the back of his head where unruly dark brown hair escaped from under a dark green knit cap. “You really talk about me as much as you do about Aja?”

“Of course. It’s either you or complaining about how much I hate my job and wish I was in school like the two of you are. Mentioning how great my relationship is going is much less negative than anything else I’ve got going on.”

Mal knew she didn’t want pity when she said things like that, but his heart broke for her whenever she told him of how she had to forfeit her entrance scholarships to U of T because her deadbeat Dad hadn’t paid taxes or child support for years or how she was forced to work full-time at a job she hates on the other side of the city. Mal, who had a trust fund, couldn’t imagine having to commute back home every night to a judgemental mother who blamed Emily for all her own failures… No one in his family loved each other either, but at least he was always sent away from it all. Being the poor little rich boy was a blast compared to being the poor little welfare girl.

Thursday Morning’s regret

Emily tried as hard as she could to fall back to sleep, but she found Sean’s room stuffy and cloying; it was a chore to breathe – not difficult, but the air seemed thicker than usual. She inhaled and exhaled deeper as panic crept from the pit of her stomach to her lungs. She sat up, whipping the blankets over Sean’s awkwardly lean body. He groaned and rolled onto his side, keeping his legs bent in what seemed to Emily to be the most uncomfortable sleeping position possible. 

She moved to the edge of the cheap came-with-the-apartment mattress and coughed weakly. She heard a creak in the frame as she lifted herself to stand. Adjusting her underwear, she walked slowly over to the window and looked out. She saw dozens of trees, thick with branches just beginning to bud. The sun hadn’t begun to rise yet, but she could faintly make out the row of hydro poles fading off like some art student’s example of horizon. The view left Emily with something to be desired, but she was calmed by the tranquility of the scene – even when human technology interfered with nature, as the power lines did, Emily found it serene. She pressed her forehead onto the glass, but it wasn’t as cool as she’d hoped.            

She tried opening the window, praying for a breeze; for some circulation in the air. She searched for the crank to turn, the latch to unhook, the fasteners to push together but found nothing. She couldn’t figure out how to open his damn window. After several failed attempts and a justified hatred for whoever invented that kind of pane and the architects who installed them in a room with no airflow to begin with, she slammed her palm against the glass and moaned in frustration.           

“Emily, you okay?” Sean croaked from the other end of the room, not opening his eyes. His body didn’t move.           

“How do you open your window?” She asked, trying to hide the waiver she developed in her voice when she wanted to cry.           

“You don’t. C’mon back here.” He lazily beckoned her back to his bed with a half-awake limp wrist.             

“Sean, I should… I should go. I have work in two hours and my uniform needs to be ironed…” She grabbed her clothing and started to awkwardly dress herself as far away from the bed as possible.           

“But we have so much catching up to do! It’s been over six years since we really talked to each other.” He sat up and reached for his glasses on the bedside table.           

“Uh, we’ve actually probably never really had a conversation. I don’t see why we should start now.”           

“Em, are you saying this needs to be a one-night stand?”           

“This was a mistake, I’m sorry. I was feeling really awful about myself and you started talking to me in Has Bean and you obviously didn’t recognise me and I just needed to know that I’m better now than I used to be. I went about it the wrong way, I know, but nobody understands how I can be so insecure about something so stupid and I’m sorry Sean. I need to go.”           

“Can you stay to at least talk about this? I have an iron; you can save yourself the trip home.”           

“No. I need to mull things over. But thanks. For a few seconds there I actually forgot about her.”           

“Her?”           

Emily froze, and quickly corrected herself. “Him. Him. Mal, my boyfriend. I think. Well, he used to be.”

Down With Woodstock

Emily ran a mitted hand over rows of movies absently; the click-click-clicking sound made by each case hitting its neighbour did nothing to distract her from her thoughts. She watched the lithe figure next to her making the same motion with unwavering concentration – Aja Nguyen always knew what she wanted, even in the video store.

Aja had been searching through the rows and rows of unorganized films for almost an hour, and Emily (who didn’t bother keeping up with celebrities and recent films firsthand) was ready to kill her, half out of frustration and half out of envy. Nothing could hold Emily’s attention for even ten minutes these days, and Aja could spend hours sorting through piles of crappy secondhand DVDs for a single obscure title that might not even be there.

“It might not even be here, Aja.” Emily suppressed a yawn. “Let’s just go rent something.” She rolled her head to the tune of the muffled rock trying to escape the speakers.

“I’ve only got, like, two rows to go, Em. I need to see this movie. I asked and the guy told me they had it in the delete bins. It’s not my stupid fault they don’t organise these things.” Aja tossed her head to glare at the underweight, prematurely gray-haired employee standing at the register. Her red beret remained perfectly lopsided. Emily thought about how often she had to rescue her own red beret from puddles and snowdrifts whenever she’d try to mimic Aja’s head toss.

“Well, what does the cover look like? I can’t even remember what we’re looking for. That’s how long we’ve been here. Mitch please.”

“It’s called ‘Down With Woodstock’ and it’s got a picture of a tough Asian girl with a fat lip and her arms crossed. It’s supposed to be, like, this intense psychological revenge story. I’ve heard amazing things about the actress. She’s from Vancouver!”

Emily thought for a second, walked two isles down and grabbed a slate blue DVD case. Returning it to Aja triumphantly, she said, “You must’ve missed it. I missed it too, the first time. She’s BARELY Asian. Look at her, she’s like 95% WASP. Like, a hundred years ago some rich guy knocked up one of his factory workers and every generation after that just made the genes more whitewashed. ”

“I’m in love with her, Emily.” Aja grabbed the movie and stared at the actress longingly. “And for your information, she’s second generation Laotian and half Irish, but since gay marriage is acceptable I will take her as my bride. I will not accept any slander of Paige Sue Namoon. She is an impish, freckled prodigy. Don’t you think we’d be a cute couple?” She held the case beside her face

Emily stared at her best friend and the picture. Of course they’d make a cute couple. Aja, who made bleached dreadlocks and an eyebrow ring look feminine, and some pretty Vancouverite actress… Why wouldn’t they be destined for each other?

Worried about sounding sycophantic, Emily simply said, “Aja… you’re straight. And this girl probably is too.”

Aja tossed her head and marched over to the counter, where the clerk endured a two minute speech on organizing shelves. He and Emily exchanged apologetic glances as the girls left the store.

“We are going to my place right now to watch this. Afterwards, you can tell me about your new Irish boy, and I’ll talk about how effing cute Paige Sue no doubt is in Down With Woodstock.”

Emily couldn’t see a better alternative, and she was dying to tell Aja more about Malachi, so she agreed.

Visions of Vancouver

One of these days, I’m going to get on one of these fucking trains and I’m not going to look back…

Emily’s favourite fantasy played through her mind like a badly lit movie, the lense of her imagination covered in Vaseline to make everything appear less harsh. She’d be on the other side of the ticket counter, snapping gum in her mouth, which was still perfect, despite never wearing her retainer. She’d treat her former coworkers with the same disdain as any other customer would; patronizingly exclaiming that she’d like a one-way youth sleeper class ticket to Vancouver, single bedroom please.  She’d debit the almost $2000 as though that money wasn’t a large chunk her life savings and all she had to show for two years of working at that very ticket booth.

She’d wave goodbye to her mother, who wouldn’t even be there. Emily won’t have told her that she’s leaving. She’d think fondly of Aja, whom she had always thought of as a best friend but never actually trusted. Everyone else in Toronto – her former lovers, lecherous bosses, everyone she had ever observed while stalking around the university campus she’d always hoped would one day be familiar, anyone who’d ever used a racist slur against her – would receive a big FUCK YOU as she’d leave, never to come back.

Emily dreamed of Vancouver as her ultimate escape – she recalled an acquaintance from high school, whom she met during her brief but disastrous foray into journalism. This acquaintance was, after Aja, the person Emily most wanted to be. Wendy Taylor, who wrote under the pen name Robin Reyna, was a hard-drinking, nomadic arts columnist whose self-professed “bad taste” had lead her all over North America in search of the ultimate story in the shape of a tragic, drug-addled rock star named Morey LeFort. Wendy didn’t often respond to Emily’s emails, but the occasional barely-coherent rambles that made their way into her inbox were heartbreaking tales of everything Emily had always wanted to think but had never thought.

Wendy’s Vancouver, home of Morey, home of reinvention; where you’d go if you wanted to re-start your existence in a newer, more bohemian setting. More rain, less snow. “The skies still cry to the tune of Morey’s guitar,” Wendy would type, “but they’re warm tears of experience.” Whatever that meant. Emily’s reasons for choosing Vancouver were baser and less ambitious: Vancouver was where Emily hoped to say everything she’d ever wanted; Vancouver was where she and her mother had received their last child support check eight years ago, when Emily was twelve. Vancouver: last known whereabouts of Fred Li Chen, her father.

waking up with someone new

Plaid cotton sheets folded and curled over two restful bodies as the candle finally burned itself out. The soft crackle it made when the wick smouldered to an ashy black stub was barely audible, but other than the rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of the couple breathing in tandem, the room was perfectly quiet. Always a light sleeper, she opened her eyes and began to take in all the details of the room. She would have done it earlier, but – well, her mind had been focused on other things. 

           Cold, she tugged on the sheets. Red and green and blue lines intertwined methodically, obviously the tartan of some unknown highland clan mass-produced for department stores to sell to poor university students. The small room, located off-campus, was the colour of margarine with accents of new bruise purple carelessly painted around the closet and baseboards. The walls were unadorned with the exception of a full-length mirror, egotistically placed horizontally where the headboard to his bed should have been.

             Emily Chen turned her underwear-clad body to face her soundly sleeping bedmate. His alarm clock blinked 4:17 am in digital red, a time that meant nothing to her. She smirked, which quickly turned into a yawn. She’d never seen anyone sleep the way that Sean did – his long legs were tucked up tightly against his chest and his arms were bent askew over his face as if shielding his eyes and checking for a temperature at the same time. His black hair was even messier than usual (quite a feat) and his mouth was wide open.  He slept on the white duvet, not under it, which made Emily wonder why he had one on his bed at all.

             She stared at him for a while. His grey plaid boxers clashed with his sheets, but other than that Emily couldn’t find a flaw. Even his armpit was perfect, she thought. She counted the curly little hairs – only 36 – and resisted the urge to tickle him. He’d changed a lot since they’d last seen each other. He’d gone through puberty, for one thing.

Who is Sean?!

Shivering and soaked through her three layers of clothing, Emily meandered slowly down the darkened early-morning street. Each step echoed loudly as she cracked the surface of frozen shallow puddles in the pockmarked pavement. Frozen rain pelted her face like little pinches. Her head throbbed, as though her temples had been stabbed by knitting needles. A hollow fear had consumed her energy, heat and hadn’t even left enough substance in her to let her cry. She was familiar with this feeling – a physical reaction to guilt, as though her body rejected its own role in what had happened.

She paused, wondering how much of this was actually her fault, and how much she could convince herself to displace; to blame on others… She veered to the right and sat herself down in front of a store window display. The hail continued to fall all around her as she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She didn’t want to read the text message again, but she flipped her phone open and scanned the tiny text for any hope; anything she’d missed. Plainer than white bread, the words glowed:

“I know about what happened with you and Sean. Don’t call me.”

Snowflakes

Who says that no two snowflakes are identical? Who could possibly conceive that the Goddess Of Winter or Jack Frost or whoever is responsible for frozen precipitation is creative enough to design the billions and billions of flakes that have fallen? Have samples been compared scientifically in a lab, and if so, wouldn’t the flakes have just melted into identical droplets as soon as they were thrust into the harsh heat of observation? Maybe snowflakes are a form of reincarnation; a soul in miniscule, “original,” barely-solid state. If you’re a good person and pay your taxes on time you last all winter as pure as possible. In that case, yellow snow and that polluted brown slush shit at the side of busy city streets must be Hell.

Snow in snowglobes and glittery patterns on holiday clothing and bedsheets and even the toxic snow that comes in a can mock the snow-souls with their mass production and indelibility. Emily throws her flannel sheets into the old Maytag washer in disgust, admitting to no one in particular that it is time to switch to a load of whites. The denim is clean and in the dryer with those new hard balls that look like cat toys which were supposed to eliminate the need for fabric softener. The reds were going to be next, but she hasn’t yet sorted out the pinks and oranges and burgundies and how can she possibly have this many dirty clothes when she just did laundry last month?

Gathering her unmatched socks she returns to her snowflake quandry; actually, Emily hated snow and almost everything else about winter, so it shouldn’t matter to her. But it does.

When children cut out snowflakes from paper for school (snow is non-denominational and the board is very interested in activities that are both safe for five year olds and won’t offend uppity parents), are there ever designs in nature exactly like them? Are they like snowflake photographs or portraits?

The round, glittery ones printed on her bedspread now oscillate slowly in the soapy water with half a dozen facecloths as though dacing to a record that skips in all the wrong places…  

I used to actually have that ringtone…

Her cell phone shuddered violently, snapping Emily and several of her transitory comrades out of their frigid midnight funk. She reached her rainbow-gloved hand into her pocket, hoping to retrieve the mobile before it started playing its tune – an almost unidentifiable, midi-fied version of “Girlfriend In A Coma.”

The 24-hour streetcar swayed along its tracks; Emily was probably as familiar with the route as the driver. After all, she’d been taking the 2:00 am Carleton car three times a week for almost a year now, and she’d seen the rougher side of her city: drunken prostitots giggling loudly at men ten years their senior (of whom, Emily was sure, their parents would never ever approve); stoned frat boys relaying tales of their sexual conquests; tired cocktail waitresses anxious and relieved to put their feet up after last call; schizophrenics clutching puppies or rusty bicycles muttering tyrades against injustices felt only by them; a French Canadian hockey player whose thick accent and cigarette breath repulsed Emily, and whose advances she rejected at least six times.

When he continued to pursue her, she asked Malachi to accompany her home from his apartment (which she’d always wanted, but was too shy to demand of him prior to this). Jacques or Etienne or Yves – whatever his name was; he’d told her once – witnessed the theatrical PDA-ing between Emily and her boyfriend and had since left her alone, though he still rode the same streetcar as she did, clutching his duffle bag every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.

These were not Emily’s people. Emily’s people wouldn’t be caught dead heading eastbound any more than they would be caught listening to top 40 radio.