The Coming Anarchy

Two 25-year-old short stories, plus one

After posting Douglas Glover (2001) this past weekend, which includes a look at my 2001, which included published two short stories (“How Many Girlfriends” and “The Coming Anarchy”), I thought: Where are those stories now?

They weren’t collected in my trade books, but in 2010 I self-published a collection of whatever left-over stories I had on hand, titled it How Many Girlfriends, and sold certainly less than 10 copies. Less than 5 copies. Perhaps exactly zero. In any case, that product is no longer available.

So, I thought, if I can find them, buried in old e-files, I’ll re-post them here. Reader, I found them. Interestingly, I also found a variation of “The Coming Anarchy,” titled “The Jazz Age,” so I will paste that below as well.

What can I say about them? “How Many Girlfriends” is a microstory, perhaps more of a prose-poem. It has no plot, but a compelling voice. “Everywhere I look there are signs pointing to washrooms, but there are no washrooms,” it begins. This is one of those lines straight out of life. I was somewhere, needing the WC, and everywhere were signs for washrooms, pointing to washrooms, yet where were the washrooms. One wanders around a nondescript commercial space, could be any nondescript commercial space, anywhere, and there are signs, but no reality. Signifiers, but no signified. The voice prattles on after that, seeking resolution or perhaps epiphany.

Polypockets!

“The Jazz Age” and “The Coming Anarchy” feature folks you’ll recognize: Scott and Zelda. I don’t know what I was doing with that. Trying to imitate some Bright Lights, Big City urban satire or something. The heavy dialogue approach is influenced by Commitments-era Roddy Doyle, surely. The two stories overlap, share sections, but they also differ in perhaps interesting ways. Both are kind of bleak, but the latter is bleaker. Does that make it more interesting? Or just darker? More cynical?

I didn’t want to write cynical, but I would tend to flirt with it. My characters, often couples, would circle each other, attempting connection, often failing. “How Many Girlfriends” hints at this too. We want each other. We want attachment. To affirm what is real, we are thrown back on our alienation, our one source, ourselves. I kept trying to find ways around that, I think, only sometimes succeeding. Maybe.

The stories…

*

HOW MANY GIRLFRIENDS

Everywhere I turn there are signs pointing to washrooms, but there are no washrooms. I know you have been here too.

It has been years since I have heard a bird sing. When did the change happen? Every day there are more cars, bigger cars. Not so long ago all of this seemed resolved. There was an oil crisis. Baby seals, whales, wetlands, the whole bloody planet was dying. Everyone went green. The change came.

The economy is improving. At work everyone gets a new computer. It is a banner day. People are talking to each other. We make plans to go for lunch. The manager gives a speech about working smarter, not harder. Half of the people head to the water cooler, the other half stare at the floor. Tomorrow I will start to look for a new job. I don’t need this, I think. I have choices. I have options.

Once it seemed possible to have a separate existence. To pull away. Step out. Carve a hole in some rock and waste out eternity in silent starvation while everyone else died happily eating cheeseburgers, back bacon and homefries. What happened to that feeling? What happened to Once upon a time? I have strong memories of beginnings. I remember thinking that time would never end. I remember making promises.

You can say what you want about pocket watches, but time piles up whether you wind them or not. My grandfather’s pocket watch runs fast. It sped him to his early death. I buy those ninety-nine cent digital watches you can get at Becker’s. They don’t biodegrade even in one-thousand years. I don’t have a problem with that. One-thousand years is no time at all. I’d like to make a mark against eternity. A small scratch on our ever-expanding universe.

It’s the position you take against the sun. It’s how your shadow falls. It all depends on a change in government. We are never without weather, though the weather is changing. It isn’t what it used to be. It’s always changes. Some changes are bigger than others. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

You never get over your first love, you just integrate that trauma into your new reality, your new personality. This is the line of argument I take with my new girlfriend. I am talking too much about my first love. I am jealous of her two ex-fiancés. Both of them keep calling her. One calls a couple of times a week. I talk about my first love, but I don’t call her. My girlfriend think I’m not over her. You never get over your first love, I say. I tell her I don’t call her, which is true. I don’t call her. I admit that sometimes I want to, but I don’t.

From time to time one has moments of intense intimacy with complete strangers. A glance, a smile. On the subway, at the library. Sometimes you might even think someone on TV is staring deeply into your soul, but this is never so. Sometimes it may seem that way, but it is never so. Sometimes you wish it were possible, but it is never possible. Somewhere scientists are trying to track and crack the untrackable and uncrackable, they are trying to make it possible, but they never will. Television is one arena the soul will never enter. Scientists know a lot of things, but they don’t know everything. Poets are like that, too.

My new girlfriend has pretty eyes and a complex about her body image. What’s a guy to do with information like that? She has a deep relationship with her hair dresser. She drinks too much. She believes in the ideal of romantic love and regrets she isn’t more fun-loving. She is not so unusual. Not as unusual as she thinks. What’s a guy to do with information like that?

It is possible to be lonely and inside someone, lonely and have someone inside you. This is a truth no one wants to acknowledge. Everyone wants to be inside someone, or have someone inside them. The Pope is not always wrong. Sometimes there are better ways to spend twenty minutes. On Friday nights you can rent a sheet of ice by the hour. The nets are often unguarded.

How many ex-girlfriends does it take to form a pattern? She said love denied isn’t love at all, but I wasn’t so sure. More kinds of love than Eskimos have words for snow. More kinds of aftermath. I have a friend who calls it “back story,” as if it all adds up to something more, something larger. The sports bar on the corner has a new waitress. She looks like the old waitress, only cuter. Only younger. Years ago I thought I would stop making this distinction. Years ago I thought another story would emerge.

Girls make good hockey players. No one should be surprised by this. The evil agenda to keep us apart is crumbling. Soap operas are a tool of the devil. Blondes have more fun, but that will change, too. Urban sprawl kills trees. We knew that a long time ago, but we keep doing it. The elements that add up to a meaningful life are ephemeral. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s true. No silver bullet exists. You can’t hold love forever.

How many ex-girlfriends does it take to change a light bulb? Three. One to list your faults, one to sing your praises, one to change the damn light bulb.

Let there be light. Let the world shine on.

*

THE JAZZ AGE

Scott watched her undress and sipped his brandy. It was 3:30 in the morning. The party had run late. He had already finished off more brandies than he could remember. They had taken a taxi home, sitting close together in the back seat, holding hands. Every time they stopped at a red light, he pulled her closer and kissed her. She had ruddy cheeks and a full figure. She often complained about her weight, but it meant nothing to him. He had never stopped desiring her, and she knew it. Her complaints echoed with a tinny ping against the lonely drum of her self-esteem. They didn’t touch Scott, but they didn’t stop.

He had poured himself another brandy the moment he had entered their apartment. He didn’t know why, except that he felt thirsty. He poured one for Zelda, too, but she didn’t touch it. She left it sitting on the table in the kitchen and then disappeared into their bedroom.

Scott followed, taking up a position cross-legged in the middle of their bed, and watched her undress.

They were not married. They were unlikely to get married. They had exchanged no vows. He had never told her he loved her, although she had said it once, spitting it out before collapsing in his arms. When he caught her, he thought she was crying, but she wasn’t. She was trying to stifle a fit of giggles. She never told him what the giggles were about. “Don’t go there,” she would say every time he asked about it. It became a kind of game for them. “Don’t go there,” she would say. Then she would try to touch him, laughing, as she groped him, and he touched her back, and she screamed, “Don’t go there. Oh, don’t. Don’t.”

That day, he had picked her up at a bridal shower at the home of one of her childhood friends. She had childhood friends like he had cousins. Never really there and never really not there. They were like designer blue jeans, or Jamaican rum. Fade-resistant. Like digital audio. There was no loss over time, though nature’s laws said there ought to have been. He told her this was so because she had gone to private schools and he had not. He communicated regularly with only two people he knew in public school, and even then only a couple of times a year. She told him this was plainly bullshit, socialistic, and a cover for his own inability to maintain social relationships. She also pointed out that he was a man, and this factor was more than a coincidence, didn’t he agree? No, he did not. Well, yes, perhaps he did, but that did not invalidate his original statement, which remained true. She had been a private school girl, which was the same as joining a life-long clique; life-long cult he said when he was truly angry. She spoke severely about each of her so-called friends behind their backs, but she continued to pass through the stages of life with them, celebrating each new ritual with the same worn collection of bitches.

That day, she had consumed a large amount of champagne. The heavy pink of her cheeks had turned a rosy hue. The bride-to-be, the least favorite of her childhood coterie, was marrying a banker from New York. The groom had already bought her a house. She had already chosen the names of her children: two boys names, two girls names. Charles, Peter, Dorothy, Susan. The night before the shower Zelda told Scott the bride was best known for running naked through one of her parents’ garden parties shortly after her sixteenth birthday. Zelda repeated the rumours about the bride’s sexual preferences, about her summer of lesbian love in Spain, about her fantasies for large, athletic black men. Scott had heard it all before, or at least he had heard similar stories. He was a novelist, and Zelda tried to impress him with details. The details of her friends lives, mostly. But also details she had heard about strangers, conversations she overheard on the subway, or tidbits she heard around the newsroom.

Zelda staggered out of the bridal shower and slid into Scott’s arms.

“I love you, honey. I really do,” she said.

He had spent the afternoon golfing. He had recently bought his first set of clubs. He had recently sold the film rights to his first novel. He had major cash in his life for the first time and also the combination of leisure time and the desire to spend it. That day, he broke 100 – for the first time – and was happy.

He took Zelda’s declaration of love like a slap in the face.

“Honey,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

He felt her breasts against his arm. She seemed to want to push herself into him, perhaps through him. He staggered backwards on the verandah and threaded her arm through his.

“I love you, I love you,” Zelda said again.

Scott said, “Let’s get you home.” He led her down the front stairs of the house and along the sidewalk to where he had parked. He had a strong desire to kiss her, and did. She repulsed him. She didn’t say anything. A streak of lipstick smeared her left cheek. She wrapped her arms around him as he opened the passenger-side door. He felt the heat of her body. Perspiration had soaked through her dress. Her hair was damp and stuck to her neck. Red blotches were beginning to form on her skin. It was what happened when she over-heated. Her arms still wrapped around him, he pushed her hair away from her left ear and kissed it on the tip, on the side, and on the lobe. She released him and slid into the car. He lifted her purse in behind her, and closed the door.

They met when she was just seventeen. She was going through her promiscuous period; he was in law school; and it was he who fell for her hardest. She insisted they not talk about love. He always felt on the verge of losing her. She made him no promises. She demanded of him time, money, and affection, and gave him – besides her body – nothing in return. She told him not to phone her. She made and cancelled many dates. As they lay in bed sticky and contented after making love, she talked to him about her other men. Her other companions, as she called them then. She talked about her school friends and their competitions. It was a world foreign to him. He had never felt such anxiety, such fear.

He had other women, too. At that time, he had to. Other women kept him sane, even if they didn’t satisfy him. He thought about Zelda all day and all night, and the thought that she might desert him caused his blood to melt. Then for six months he didn’t see her, he didn’t hear from her. Without telling him, she moved to Europe for the summer. She had just finished high school. Then in September she moved to Montréal to begin a degree in religious studies. He found out these things by tracking down one of her friends – Zadie – a sickly looking bulimic-anorexic who worked at the cosmetics counter at the Bay downtown.

Zadie said, “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you. The lawyer, right?”

“Law student,” Scott replied.

“Okay,” Zadie said. “Whatever.”

She smiled at him when he told her he was looking for Zelda.

“You mean she didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh, God,” Zadie said. She flashed her fingernails at him, and said, “Okay, it’s like this.” When Scott didn’t say anything, she said again: “Okay.”

“Okay,” said Scott.

Zadie told Scott that Zelda wanted to “clean out” and “start over”. She had moved to France to live in a convent and practice her French. She had given up booze, boys, and bad living. “It’s, like, an experiment, okay?” Zadie said. “Zelda has this premise she wants to test out. So, it’s like an experiment. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you, but maybe that’s part of the experiment. I’d tell you more, but Zelda was kind of weird about it. All I know is that it’s an experiment, like. It doesn’t mean forever, but maybe it does. Who knows? It’s an experiment. An ex-per-i-ment. Okay?”

“Okay,” Scott said.

He felt like he was giving his permission or his resignation. Zadie gave him her business card and wrote “Nice talking to you!” with a little heart on the back. He never called her and didn’t see her again until years later, when she showed up at the house party he held with Zelda after they moved in together. She had put on twenty pounds, and he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

Zelda wrote a weekly column about young people for the local newspaper. Many of her friends had found jobs in publishing. One of them had even taken over the editorship of one the country’s prestigious small press houses.

*

THE COMING ANARCHY

Scott watched her undress and sipped his brandy. He had already finished more brandies than he could remember. It was 3:30 in the morning. The party had run late. They had taken a taxi home, sitting close together in the back seat, holding hands. Every time they stopped at a red light, he pulled her close and kissed her. She had ruddy cheeks and a full figure. They were not married. They were unlikely to get married. He had never told her he loved her, although she had said it once.

Scott sipped his brandy and watched her undress. He sat silent like the Buddha cross-legged in the middle of their bed, looking at her impassively, and she ignored him as she slipped out of her bra and pulled on her nightgown. He had poured the brandy the moment he had entered their apartment. He didn't know why, except that he felt thirsty. He had poured one for Zelda, too, but she'd passed it by on her way to their bedroom.

It was dark outside, except for the flashing blue light from a snow plow, which pounded through the window.

Zelda took down her hair and shook it. She circled their bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Scott sipped his drink, loosened his tie, and, without thinking, padded after her.

They were one of the city's darling young couples - one of the couples you find in photographs in the style section of the weekend newspaper; one of the couples on the A-list of all the best parties in town, no matter who's hosting, or what their sphere of influence. Admired and envied, they inspired many stories, both true and false, among the young, the hip. Scott's and Zelda's sexual histories and tales of their current living arrangements, dominated the rumour mill, circulating frequently, particularly among their peers in publishing and the newspaper biz. Every couple of months, someone would pull Scott aside at a party and ask him - wink, wink - had he heard? Usually, he had not. Occasionally, he was appalled. Inevitably, he would pause over his sipping rum, shake his head, and thank his friend for the information and their honest communion.

In the bathroom, Zelda flossed.

Scott watched her, then placed his hands on her hips and slid them around her until he could feel the warmth of her tummy on his palms.

She had put on twenty pounds since they’d first met, though she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever known. She complained about her weight, but it meant nothing to him.

They had been together seven years, and it had never been better.

Suddenly, she said: "Do you know what he said to me?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Him?"

"Yes, him. Do you know what he said to me?"

"Why do you let him get to you?"

"It's outrageous what he says."

"Yes, but you don't have to let it get to you."

"Do you know what he said?"

"The usual."

"The usual, yes. But there was more this time. He said: 'Scott's writing is shit. I'm not saying he writes poorly. In fact, he writes well. His writing is strong, clear, and interesting in its own way. I would never ask for more. But at the same time, it's shit.'"

"That's what he always says."

"Not in so many words."

"He was more direct this time."

"He asked me if I could see myself five years from now reading your book. He talked about the test of time. 'Good writing aims at permanence; all else is shit,' he said. 'I can't see Scott's writing standing up against time, but maybe I'm wrong.' He admitted he could be wrong."

"That's good of him."

"He was drunk, of course."

"Of course."

"And I smiled at him. When he was done, I smiled at him. It was all I could do to stop myself from screaming at him and causing a scene."

He pulled his arms tight around her and buried his face in her hair.

"Oh, Zelda," he said.

He could feel her crying, and he thought he could kill the bastard. If only the bastard were brave enough to show up at their apartment. If he walked in right now. If he showed up complaining about a flat tire, he could kill him for the pure meanness in his soul, for his cruelty and malignant self-confidence.

Seven years earlier, it had been he who had fallen hardest.

He had been in law school. Just seventeen when they met, she insisted they not talk about love. He had never felt such anxiety, such fear. She told him not to phone her. She talked to him about her other men. Her other companions, she called them. She talked about her school friends and their sexual competitions.

At first, she had been the latest blonde bombshell in a long series of blonde bombshells. But she had been the one who demanded of him time, money, and affection, and gave him - besides her body - nothing in return. He always felt on the verge of losing her.

Then she disappeared.

For six months he didn't see her; he didn't hear from her.

She finished high school and disappeared.

He tracked down one of her friends - Marilyn - a sickly thin girl with streaked blue hair who worked at the cosmetics counter at the Bay downtown.

Marilyn said, "Oh, yeah. I've heard of you. The lawyer, right?"

"Law student," Scott replied.

"Okay," Marilyn said. "Whatever."

She smiled at him when he told her he was looking for Zelda.

"You mean she didn't tell you?"

"No," he said.

"Oh, God," Marilyn said. She flashed her fingernails at him, and said, "Okay, it's like this."

When Scott didn't say anything, she said again: "Okay."

"Okay," said Scott.

Marilyn said Zelda wanted to "clean out" and "start over". She had moved to France to live in a convent. She had given up booze, boys, and bad living.

"It's, like, an experiment, okay?" Marilyn said. "Zelda has this premise she wants to test out. So, it's like an experiment. I can't believe she didn't tell you, but maybe that's part of the experiment. I'd tell you more, but Zelda was kind of weird about it. All I know is that it's an experiment. It doesn't mean forever, but maybe it does. Who knows? It's an experiment. An ex-per-i-ment. Okay?"

"Okay," Scott said.

Marilyn gave him her business card and wrote Nice talking to you! with a little heart and her home phone number on the back. He didn't see her again until three years later, when she came to the house party Zelda threw to celebrate the fact that they had moved in together.

Zelda returned from Europe after two months in the convent and began a religious studies degree at McGill. Home for Christmas break four months later, she called Scott and offered to meet him anywhere any time. She was, she said, in the middle of three concurrent affairs - one with a professional hockey player, one with a bartender, and one with a rabbinical student - and she felt like she was flying apart.

"Now," he said. "Come now."

When she arrived, Scott cut a line of cocaine and blindfolded her.

They did the coke together, then he took her, still blindfolded, on a tour down Queen Street. The first place they stopped was an underground bar west of Bathurst, where he introduced her to strange men and asked them to interview her about her fantasies. The first man, who said he was a speech writer for the provincial government, bought her a peach schnapps and asked if she had ever kissed another woman.

"Yes," she said.

"Passionately?"

"Yes."

Scott, sitting beside her, pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, and lit it.

"When?" the man asked.

"What do you mean?"

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen or fifteen."

"Did it only happened once?"

"It happened more than once."

"With the same girl?"

"No, with different girls."

"How many?"

"Three."

"When was the last time you did it?"

"I was probably sixteen. Three years ago."

"Why did you stop kissing girls?"

"Who says I've stopped kissing girls?"

The next man, a plumber, asked her about masturbation: frequency, intensity, level of satisfaction.

"Onanists Pride Day, that's the one I'm waiting for," he said. "The state has no business in the bedrooms of the nation, and neither does anyone else!"

The third man, a gay TTC bus driver, asked her about real estate.

"Location, location, location. Give me three places you want to get it on, and they better be good!"

Scott took her to four bars, witnessed fourteen interviews, then dropped her in a cab and sent her home, drunk, sad, and exhausted.

The next day she called him and told him she loved him.

"Don't talk about love," he said. "Don't ever talk about love."

"Okay. Not after this," she said.

Then she told him again that she loved him. They were soul mates. He was the only one for her. She would be true to him forever.

"Clichés," he said, and hung up.

But after that, things turned around.

She went back to Montréal to finish her degree, and was not chaste, but she was also not the slut she had been. Then they moved in together, and the past seemed both like a blur and like something that hadn't happened. It seemed like something that had happened to someone else, which is maybe why the rumours meant nothing to him. They were about someone else, too. Someone devious. Someone deviant. Someone who deserved to have rumours spread about him. Scott was not that person. He was only a minor novelist living in a marginal country at a transitional moment in history when the Industrial Age was breaking down and no one knew quite yet what was going to replace it.