Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was suggested by some that I shouldn’t go to Edmonton for the wedding. The trip might be a bit too taxing and besides, how would I pay for it? It was reasoned that I could phone my brother and wish him the best and look at all the photographs when my parents came home. The more guff I endured, the more I fancied I understood Cinderella. The more I thought I understood Cinderella the more determined I became. In June, I bid farewell to the friends I had made and after cashing my welfare cheque I once more hit the highway, heading west. My stubborn streak hadn’t been gobbled up by my unbalanced chemistry - one of the best ways to get me to do something was to tell me I couldn’t do it.
The trip was uneventful, so much so that it was a bit irksome at times. There were some really pleasant people, a few jerks and one dyed in the wool asshole that stood out in the crowd. He was ordinary looking, drove at the speed limit, sober, clean – an everyday guy. We were driving along, listening to the news. Pressure was being put on South Africa to release Nelson Mandela. Like someone who was out of touch would, I asked my companion who Nelson Mandela was.
He replied, “Nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger, should never have been born.”
“Why?” I asked, already ashamed of my skin.
“Let me tell you. In life what do the bad guys wear?”
“Pardon me,” I returned, “I don’t think I…”
“No, no, you wouldn’t understand, I can tell that. The good guy always wears white, and, the bad guy always wears black. Enough said, I’m not saying any more.”
We drove quietly and then the penny dropped, I understood. I asked him to drop me at the next place that sold gas. A few miles went by in uneasy silence and when at last I was getting out of his car he said, “See ya, Nigger Lover.” I shut the door and walked away, filled with worry for those who have to put up with people that grotesque.
Gradually I made my way. Slowly past Winnipeg, so slow it seemed that we were walking. I wanted to go into the city and present myself at the front counter of the Salvation Army. I wanted to say to them, “I’m not a mess anymore. You can’t kick me out because I’m showing myself the door.”
I floated through the province of Saskatchewan on a stranger’s dime and I was thankful for the strangers, for their charity. I fought hard the urge to find my way to Moose Jaw, just to look in a store window at a guy who weighed what he was supposed to.
The miles passed and I lost count of the days. My trip was full of beauty; hills and the valleys that kept them company, the vibrant green of tender, youngish leaves on grand old trees, sprawling, majestic prairie farms stretching out forever, ponds and forests and all along, it seemed, the warm wind blustered through car windows helping me stay very relaxed.
Before I knew it, I was in Edmonton. It had been an easy trip – only two drunks (depending on how you define the term), no stuttering men lisping, “I need you,” and no violence. My odyssey had played itself out quietly.
I was back in Edmonton, home of my brother, Jesus. Seriously though, after I had been on medication for awhile and had therefore escaped the nettling intensity of insanity, I knew my brother was as mortal as the next guy, a human, not a part of the Holy Trinity at all.
I had tried to contact Bob once during my hiatus from reality. In a phone booth I had picked up the phone and without depositing any money punched a great many numbers at random. Of course it didn’t ring but I defiantly gave vent to my suspicions anyways.
“I know you’re Jesus,” I hollered, “and you’re not sending me to hell, you son of a bitch.”
My other brother, Bill, would also be at the wedding. He hadn’t yet played much of a role in my disrupted normalcy. I had believed he was a horse and also a chess piece. I briefly believed that he had some connections in Hollywood.
The way it’s told, when we were kids I watched out for Bill wherever he went, to the point where, looking back he joked that he’d never had any friends of his own age. After we were reacquainted and I’d had a chance to watch him out of the corner of my eye, I had a disquieting thought - was it possible that at some time in my life he’d end up watching out for me, that he’d be saddled with the responsibility for his handicapped, older brother?
My brother’s wedding was, in a good sense, a blowout. There were a highly respectable number of toasts made after the ceremony. With each one everyone seemed to get a little bit happier. One more salute to the bride and groom would have been one too many for more than a few in attendance. I wasn’t drinking so eventually, feeling as a fish out of water, I left the festivities to walk for a while, to compare my relative unhappiness with the near bliss experience many seemed to be having at the reception. As I was going out the door I heard someone ask, “What do John Hinkley Jr., Jodie Foster and a chimpanzee have in common?” I didn’t stay for the answer.
I had set ashore in Edmonton well in advance of the wedding. I had found myself a place in the city and worked selling light bulbs over the phone. At work it was understood that I was only going to stay in town until the end of July and that I was then leaving for parts unknown. It was prudent to keep one’s eastern roots to one’s self.
After the newlyweds had driven into the sunset with tin cans intact, I thought about the trip back and it didn’t seem inviting at all. The more I thought of it, the more I grudgingly accepted my journey as a chore that obviously couldn’t be left undone.
Sadly, most of the fun had played itself out. I would miss everyone I was supposed to as I wound my way along the path back to Ontario, back to head shrinks and to the system. I had no choice though, I had to don the air of a beggar, stick out my thumb and pray for the best.
The month’s end came. I said goodbye to everyone and then I was on the highway, shaking the western dust from my boots, reconciled to doing what I had to do.
My ride and I passed Winnipeg. I imagined the cold, cracked, stone floor of the Main Street Project and the way it looked back and absorbed you when you lay down facing it. Who knew what lived in its corners, nooks and crannies? Who thought of the people, flesh and blood, as is anyone, prone on pieces of wood on that floor, stretched out like so many corpses. I wondered how I let myself end up there. As the miles passed I forgot about it almost entirely.
Ten miles from Peterborough and the green fields welcomed me; my nose contemplated the sweet, gentle breeze and for just a few moments, it smelled as it had always used to. Past the well kept properties and then, in the twinkling of an eye, getting out downtown. The hustle and bustle said hello as I blended in; a nice feeling, blending.
Not much time passed, a month or so, until I applied to once again lay claim to a bed in that old, yellow, ghostly house, still referred to as the Transition House. It was a place I would take a bed in with the full knowledge that living there would not help me recover my sanity in its entirety.
The necessary paperwork was completed three times over, or so it seemed. There were meetings with those whose opinions mattered and an interview or two with others who were merely mortal. I was deemed acceptable. The obstacles between a life of relative ease and me were removed from sight. I was officially free from worry as long as I stuck with the program and didn’t try to stay for more than a year. I once again would inhabit a space where I would not be alone in hiding the shame that encompassed me, the shame of one who had been crazy and would be medicated for life. It seemed strange to me that I could still often pass, that is, others often mistook me for normal.
Unlike hearty, homemade stew, the Transition House wasn’t better the second time around. Later I moved to a co-op house where you were not required to do anything, aside from your chores. You didn’t have to go to the hospital, you could sit in the same chair all day and smoke your life away, you could sit or lie through TV movie marathons, professional wrestling, hours of how to improve your home or cartoons that eventually convinced you that animated violence really was a bit much. If nothing caught your fancy, you could always spend the day in bed.
I didn’t want to live in an unending rut. I needed something to be involved in, something that was at least potentially rewarding. So, I delegated one to two hours a day as time to be spent in the damp, unfinished basement, where I boned up on my skills with the clarinet. When I felt ready, I joined the Peterborough Concert Band.
I wanted to get to know people who weren’t on medication and the band gave me that chance. I was expected to have a working knowledge of the pieces we were playing and I tried to meet my responsibilities. My obligation to others motivated me to work hard even when I didn’t feel like it. The whole band experience was good for my health, a restorative that, given the nature of my life at the time, had no choice but to grow bitter.
Everything was rosy. Sometimes I thought that my life was going to just continue on a gradual slant upwards and get better and better until I burst and flew heavenwards in a million pieces of bliss. For the time being I was buying into the idea that if I stayed on the medication and took it faithfully, I would end up being a reasonable facsimile of myself.
This belief quickly became old news and nonsense. I would end up starting all over again, beginning with some good old suffering of the mental and emotional variety.