Circle of Stones (19 page)

POST PUNK SELLOUTS

Directed by Tim Tavistock:

#56 WALDORF LANE

I stand outside the door and mess with the white balance on my camera. I hesitate before knocking, wondering now if I should have called ahead. I didn't expect to be nervous. Why am I nervous? It's Sharon and Glenn. I press buttons, tweak settings. Finally I knock, then step back to get the best shot. Sharon opens the door dressed in black leggings and an oversized black D.O.A. tour T-shirt. The sleeves are cut off the shirt, exposing the Bettie Page tattoo on her right shoulder. She still has dreadlocks, although the dreads are shorter now, plain brown instead of dyed, and tamed with a stretchy red headband. I notice she's wearing glasses. Then I see her huge, pregnant belly.

“Yes?” Sharon says.

I wait for Sharon to recognize me. I'd imagined instant recognition. Adoration. I flick the standby button on my camera and lower it.

“Hi. Um, hi. It's Tim. Remember? I guess this is a bit of a surprise.” I shrug and attempt to grin at Sharon, but it feels like I'm flashing her my teeth, wolflike at the door. “I got your email.”

“No fucking way.”
Sharon shakes her head and stares at me. “I don't believe it! You look so different.”

“You do, too.” I gesture at Sharon's protruding belly and look up at the house. “This is —”

“Totally wild, eh? We're squatting the suburbs.” Sharon smiles. “With twenty percent down, and monthly payments, of course.”

I look down at my camera, think of my friends in Europe, hear Micheline's voice. Stop myself from saying I think it's tragic, too.

“I thought I'd film this. Um. Mind if we try that again? Just close the door and I'll knock.”

“I'm cool with that.” Sharon steps back into the doorway and smirks. “You and your cameras. Glenn never should have thieved that tourist gear for you that summer in Amsterdam.”

POST PUNK SELLOUTS

Directed by Tim Tavistock:

#56 WALDORF LANE

I turn off the camera and set it on the table. I run my fingers through my hair and rub my nose.

“Thanks for that. Camera's off.”

“That was my best TV real-estate bitch impression. Like it?” Sharon makes a face then turns to fill a battered red steel kettle at the shiny silver sink. “Fuck, Tim, how long has it been? Ten, eleven years?”

“No. Not
that
long.” I frown and fiddle with buttons, first on my camera, then on my cellphone. “I'm sure we met up a few times when I was back for Christmas and family stuff, didn't we?”

“Maybe. A couple of times at the airport, I think. You must have been on your way home to Winnipeg.” Sharon leans against the counter, her face brightening. “We always liked your phone calls though. Good journalism always tracking down our number when moved, like,
all the time
.”

I think for a minute. “Used to be harder to stay in touch, didn't it? Back in the telephone era.”

“Ohhh. The olden days before Facebook.” Sharon flips through the options in a variety box of tea then waves a packet at me. “How's lemon green?”

“Nice.” I look around and then tap my ears, blow my nose, swallow. I realize it's not congestion from flying. It's lack of sound. Other than the kettle gently rattling on the stove it's so quiet I can hear the kitchen cat clock ticking, its cartoonish eyes rhythmically shifting from left to right. My ears, accustomed to city noise, are ringing.

Sharon plunks a chipped orange mug and a box of pre-packaged organic chocolate-chip cookies on the table in front of me.

“There. That's as hostessy as I get.”

I look up. Suburban Sharon is sounding more like Punk Sharon than I'd expected. I remember the patched shorts she wore over ripped tights. Black sweaters so full of holes she wore them through summer heat and doubled them up in winter. There was nothing stereotypically feminine about her. She refused to cook and clean, always putting herself on water and carpentry duty at squats. And she made everyone — even the toughest, surliest punks — scrub up their own puke after parties. Glenn was the cook. An inventor of vegan dishes made with whatever ingredients materialized in the fridge from collective Dumpster-diving efforts.

“Do you still know how to rewire a circuit breaker?” I grab a stale cookie and dunk it in my tea.

“Of course, but I'd rather not electrocute the baby before it's born.” Sharon sits down heavily on a kitchen chair beside me and pats her belly. She notices me staring. “What? Need me to explain how this happened?”

I cough, choking on my cookie.

“Glenn's at work, by the way. He's in construction,” Sharon says, pre-empting my next two questions. “He gets up at six, but he's usually home by four.”

“Huh.” I say, sipping my tea. “He said he was going to keep driving that Guinness truck forever, back in the day. Called himself the beer missionary, didn't he?”

“People change.” Sharon shoves the box of cookies in my direction. “Have another.”

I shake my head, sniff the air.

“That's pulled pork you're smelling. Glenn set it up this morning. The slow-cooker his mom gave us totally rocks.” Sharon pauses, shoves a whole cookie in her mouth, and chews. “We buy everything organic and local, but obviously we're not vegan anymore. Are you?”

I shrug. “If you can live in Europe for an extended period of time without eating sausage and cheese you're not human.”

POST PUNK SELLOUTS

Directed by Tim Tavistock:

MORE OF THE REAL #56 WALDORF LANE

I grab the camera from Sharon and follow Glenn through the house, collecting footage. The map of muscles rippling through Glenn's grimy grey T-shirt. Glenn's faded full-sleeve tattoos. The rec-room flat-screen TV, home gym set, and beer fridge. A simple futon on the floor of the upstairs master bedroom. The near-empty guest room. The animal-decaled walls, yellow-lined bassinette, changing table, stacks of folded sleepers and cloth diapers, rocking chair, SUV stroller, Donald Duck lamp, and plethora of stuffed toys in the baby's room.

“The kid has more stuff than we do,” Glenn says. “The grandparents are already going berserk.”

“Baby capitalist,” I say, lowering my camera. I turn, expecting Glenn to agree, but my old friend is busy adjusting the drawer of the changing table.

“This furniture's kinda shit,” Glenn says, frowning. “I could have made better. Sharon's mom picked it 'cause it was cute. She's always falling for that damn cute thing.”

I lower my camera, turn and see a framed photo hanging on the otherwise bare hallway wall. “I remember this.”

Glenn leans over my shoulder to look. “Yeah, that's all of us after those student protests in final year, 'member? There's me, Share, you, Evil Genius, Crazy Cari, Stank, Warren,” he says, pointing. “Just before we got wasted.”

“Environment? G8? Animal rights?” I shake my head. “I can't remember the issue.”

“Well, I've got an issue right now.” Glenn starts down the stairs. “The issue is I really need a beer. C'mon.”

In the kitchen Sharon is putting groceries away. Glenn steps up behind, wraps arms around her, bearlike, then pushes her toward a chair. “Get outta here. Sit down with Timbucktoo and put your feet up.” Glenn reaches into the fridge and pulls out two bottles.

“Here, Timbucktoo. It's organic. Not like that chemical piss we used to drink.”

“Thanks.” I watch Glenn wrench the bottle cap free with a quick flick of two fingers. Glenn takes a swig, washes his hands in the shiny kitchen sink, then selects the biggest knife from the wooden block. His vegetable-chopping is part showmanship, part mercilessness. I get beaned in the head with the nub end of a carrot top and step back. I struggle to open my beer, aware Sharon is watching.

Glenn pauses from chopping, grabs and opens my bottle, hands it back, punches me in the shoulder. “What are you doing these days? I mean, besides European women.”

“Journalism and documentaries.” I take a big gulp from my bottle. “I'm always off to a different country covering issues, and going to film premieres for fun — you know. I go to Cannes every year.” I'm stretching it. I went to Cannes once and I've been finagling to get an editor to send me again ever since. I remind myself of my mission. “Actually, do you mind if I get my camera and tape some of this?”

“I don't care.” Glenn dumps minced vegetables into a sizzling iron skillet on the stove. “What's it for?”

“Oh, nothing, really. More of a pet project than anything else.” I set my camera up on stack of cookbooks so I can drink my beer and shoot Glenn cooking at the same time. Glenn twists the stem end off a romaine lettuce head. He rips the leaves and tosses bigger-than-bite-sized pieces into a sturdy wooden bowl.