Circle of Stones (18 page)

POST PUNK SELLOUTS

Directed by Tim Tavistock:

TOUCHDOWN TORONTO

“Are you a movie producer?”

I look up from the shooting script I'm typing on my laptop. At this stage of a project it's usually more of a fantasy script than anything else — part self-indulgence, part best-case-scenario planning. The waitress, who had avoided eye contact up until now, is standing in front of me, from behind the counter. I notice her right eye is dark forest brown, almost like an animal's. Her left is blue Antarctic ice. All I can think of is how remarkable this effect would look through my camera's lens. I feel my feet begin to lift off the ground. Feel myself being sucked in. I already know she's a story I want to tell.

“So, are you?”

I pause, trying to think of an answer that will impress. I doubt she'll care about culture and travel journalism — or print media of any kind.

“Not quite. I do documentaries.” I lean back to study the waitress. Her features are all angles and lines. Nothing rounded. It takes me a moment to realize why looking into her face is so odd — I'm almost at eye-level with her sitting down. She would appear elfin next to any Eastern European woman.

The waitress frowns and steps back. Her performer's glow suddenly dims, as though an invisible lighting technician turned off her spotlight on cue. She hoists a full coffee pot with her spindly right arm and refills my mug with a careless swoop. Hot coffee spills into the saucer.

“So I'm not going to discover you and make you a Hollywood star.” I pick up the chipped ceramic creamer and pour a dollop into my cup. Does that sound too glib? Harsh? I try to soften it, explain the theory. “Fame ruins people, and I wouldn't do something that horrible to someone as lovely as you.”

“Yeah, well thanks for a whole lot of nothing.” The waitress plunks the coffee pot back onto its burner and limps toward the cash register. Her hands flutter across the buttons. I consider the exclamation mark linearity of her spine, the ostrich length of her neck. Her dark T-shirt, black mini-skirt, and violet tights could be a costume if it weren't for the stained white half-apron folded and tied around her waist. When she turns sideways she's as thin as a credit card. I wonder how there is enough room in her chest cavity and torso to contain human organs.

“You're a dancer, right?” I lean forward to try to see her feet.

“Was.” The waitress shakes her head. “Got injured. Career killer. I thought the Toronto specialists might be able to do something. But …”

She hobbles over to me, drops the bill onto my napkin, and turns to tidy the neglected slices of cake in the glass dessert display case.

“Fucking hell.” The waitress talks quietly into the glass, more to herself than for my benefit. “No more lights or stages, rehearsals, fans …”

“I'm a fan.” I say it softly. The waitress inclines her head. I know she heard and is choosing to ignore it. I wait for an opportunity to tell her about Europe, make myself seem more impressive. But she busies herself attending to other customers. Finally I take out my Credit Suisse card and plunk it on the counter. The waitress grabs it — eventually. She's about to shove it into the handheld terminal when she notices the bank's logo. Her already enormous eyes widen. She hands the terminal to me and I type in the numbers of my PIN. When I look up from the display our eyes meet. We share one incredible, magically sustained second. Then she looks away. The machine prints two copies of the receipt. She tosses mine down on the counter. I pick it up, place it in my wallet, and imagine filming her, interviewing her. What I'd ask. What she'd say. What she'd do. How she'd look — at me. She walks away, stabs my transaction slip through the pierce-point of the wire receipt spike.

“Thanks.” I place my laptop in its leather case and stand up, waiting for a signal, a sign. I try to tell myself I only want her story. Then I take one long last look at her neck, shoulders, back, ass, legs. “I'll be back for breakfast again during my stay.”

“I'll be here.” The waitress turns to make more coffee. She seems sad — distraught, even — and I can't let her be defeated this way. I start planning the documentary. Based on the shortened lives of injured dancers. Featuring the enchanting, photogenic waitress. Putting her on camera would be a resuscitation — almost medical. I could bring her back to life. I mull over the concept as I stroll to the door.

“Wait a sec.” The waitress makes a fluttery motion with her hand. She undoes the strings of her apron and throws it on the counter. She hobbles toward me, nods to the door. I open it and follow her outside, exhilarated by the narrative possibilities I see in her every step.

The waitress stops in front of the letterpress shop next door to the diner. She extends her hand. I clasp it, enjoying the gentlest, most exquisite shake. I have no idea what she wants from me.

“I'm Jennifer.” Her smile is an illumination. “Would you be interested in making a documentary about a street artist? I know this painter. He's brilliant.”

I feel a strong visceral
no
. It has to be about her, not some guy. “A street artist? It's been done. You know, Banksy, that Parisian guy JR.”

Jennifer crosses her arms. But maybe I can negotiate.

“Well, does he have an international angle? Or a completely new technique? Some kind of activist message?”

“He immerses himself in dangerous situations. Then he paints it.” Jennifer's skin is the smoothest ivory. The shadows under her eyes add the perfect hint of tragedy. I study the curve of her nose, the protrusion of her clavicles. I try to think of how I could get footage, make the film I want.

“Is there a connection to your story?”

“He paints me.” She says it quietly. I smile to myself, imagining the portraits, but I must look weird doing this, because Jennifer sighs. “He used to, anyway.”

Her hair ripples in the wind. I watch it flutter. But when she speaks again there's urgency in her voice.

“Look,” she says. “This is important. He followed me for a long time.” Her hair ripples in the wind. She flicks it out of her eyes. “But he left Ottawa, and I did, too, and I don't know where he is now. I haven't seen him in a few weeks. I need to find him.”

I think for a minute, realizing I'm not Jennifer's only fan. But it doesn't matter.

“I've been watching the news in case something happened to him.” Jennifer leans toward me now. “Do you think he's in the city? I don't know where else he would have gone. I've been looking for him in my tarot cards, but nothing is clear.”

She smells like oranges and coffee. I breathe in the scent of her hair. It smells like something dark and pungent, like incense. Sandalwood. Or Nag Champa. Now I can't remember what I'm supposed to be negotiating. And I have no idea what she's talking about. Something about being worried. Or wondering. Or wanting him to come back.

A man in expensive jeans walks past, carrying a paper coffee cup.

“So what do you think?” Jennifer smiles again. “Will you help me? We'll collaborate.”

“Sure. Yeah, of course.” I agree with her smile. “Absolutely. Let's get together and talk details.”

I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out my business card. “I'm on another project today, but here's my information. It's an international number, but if you email me later when you're home from work I'll get back to you right away.”

Jennifer gives me a confused look. “Home?”

Oh, the reaction of a true traveller. I don't know what that word means anymore, either. I watch Jennifer examine the card, turning it over and over. She's seriously considering my offer now. Or at least seriously thinking something over. I feel a twinge of pride over the deep blue cardstock. I hope she's impressed by it. “We'll film a little background on you first. For context. You'll be stunning on camera.”

“Huh,” she says, and I don't think she's heard a word I've just said. I wait for a moment, and she recovers, but now she looks uncertain. Like she's not sure whether to trust me. I smile at her. Try to act friendly, convincing. Producer-like. She is the perfect subject. I can make this project work. And I'll get to spend time with her, get to know her.

“This is going to be about him, though, right?” As she says it, face expressive, hands fluttering, collarbone protruding, I realize she's probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. “You'll help me find him? He's amazing, you'll see.”

“Yeah, I'm sure he is,” I say, again trying to smile the right blend of assurance and expertise and awesome, without looking awkward. “Email me, and we'll work it out. I'm happy to help.”

“Thanks.” Jennifer turns and limps back to the diner. I study her, planning shot lists and camera angles. I light a Canadian cigarette, cough and contemplate. I had hoped to shake her hand again.

Back in my hotel room, I stand in front of the long bathroom mirror and adjust the random tufts of my messy-on-purpose haircut. I've always been very particular about my hair. I remember how long it used to take to spike my kelly-green tri-hawk. Glenn used to concoct a glue mixture for it when neither of us had spare cash for hair products. Or sugar water when we couldn't afford glue. We wore tattered band T-shirts. My favourite was a black Misfits one I wore so often it hung together with safety pins and electrician's tape. In winter we wore band shirts over the plain long-sleeved ones we'd get in Chinatown for five bucks each. I can still feel the texture of green combat shorts — washed so often the cotton became ultra soft and prone to fraying. I'd spent hours sewing punk and anarchist patches over the holes. Once when my dad sent a cheque for groceries I bought brand-new Doc Martens — and endured months of teasing until the leather became acceptably cracked and scuffed. Glenn told me what it meant when people stuck different-coloured laces in, and my lesson was promptly reinforced with a boot-kicking in a parking lot: avoid anyone with white laces and red suspenders. When Glenn found out what had happened, he'd gone out hunting skins with a baseball bat. He didn't find any, but I still think it was awesome he did that for me. That's the kind of guy he is — or was. I stick my tongue between my teeth, scrunch my eyes into a glare, and form a devil horn with my right hand in homage to Glenn's outrage.

I hum a riff from D.O.A.'s “Burn It Down” as I repack my bag. I slip my Italian leather loafers back on. Gift from Andreas. At the front desk, a platinum-haired clerk — with a cherry blossom tattoo stretching the length of her neck, down her chest, and plunging the depths of her cleavage — lets me check out three hours late without paying the extra fee.

I hail a cab. I could rent a car, but I like being chauffeured. It frees up more time to think, write, and observe. And after countless travel junkets through Europe I'm used to it. I like the company of other journalists. Banter. Talking with European colleagues using hand gestures when necessary. Jokes over language mishaps. And I prefer not having to own the responsibility of getting somewhere. I imagine travelling with a film crew would be even better.

The cabbie weaves through traffic on the Gardiner and the Queensway, but it takes almost an hour to reach Sharon and Glenn's Burlington-area subdivision. Sturdy brick gates emblazoned with the word
WESTBRIDGE
mark the entrance. I snap digital photos from the backseat as the streets curve and twist. Near-identical three-storey houses line every block, squashed so close together it takes me several minutes to notice they're only brick across the front, with cheap plastic siding stuck to their ribs on either side. The cabbie makes a three-sixty-degree turn. We're on a dead-end cul-de-sac. Lost. Confusingly, every street name starts with a
W
— Wellington, Willoughby, Wilfrid. I let the driver keep on. On street after street there's no art, no colour, no public parks. Eventually the car eases onto Waldorf Lane, where none of the houses have landscaping yet, and many appear unoccupied. It feels desolate compared to Queen West, and blank compared to Berlin. I pay the driver with my credit card — it's over seventy dollars — and tuck the receipt into my pocket for a tax write-off. I drop my bag in the middle of the concrete driveway and get my camera ready.