I am in the last section of my book
and will post a few chapters.
P minor blue
the story of an aimless, Prairie boy coming of age in 1970s Montréal whose life finds direction when he discovers the creative spirit in music.
CHAPTER 18, July 1972
A line of hot light seeps through a split of dark green curtains and onto my face. I roll to the other side of the bed to dodge it but nearly fall off. It’s just before noon.
“Ran?” Buck naked, with my head out the door, I wait. Nothing. He’s not outside through the windows. I bet he’s at Terra Cotta racing with his buddies. He’s still pissed that I got a guitar and Dad won’t buy him a mini-bike, but he’s lucky his friends share theirs.
It’s great having the place to myself. I grab my guitar and strum an E chord as loud as I can. “Baaaaaaaaaa-by.” I strum the chord even harder. “I loved you…“ Then I softly fingerpick A minor seven and sing, “…so.” I toss my guitar on the bed and run into the bathroom to pee.
I head downstairs to the kitchen in a pair of blue jean cut-offs in case anyone suddenly shows up, plus I hate our chairs, your skin gets sweaty from the plastic seat covers. Our kitchen’s small and has super-fake flower patterns on the wallpaper, tablecloth, and chairs. Even the phone has them. It’s like a poor-man’s botanical gardens. It makes the space more cramped, especially at dinnertime, and Wilt’s not even here anymore. If Dad let me paint a pair of lions on the wall at least it would look better, kind of like that French jungle painting with the naked woman on the couch.
The radio drones on with the station Mom listens to when she gets ready for work. They don’t play any music, just talk. Every morning she turns it on and pours a coffee. She must carry it with her taking little sips until she forgets where she set it down, then has to run off to work. I find her cups all over the place, usually three-quarters full.
Changing the station to CHOM-FM I recognize the song by Offenbach, a local blues band with the kind of organ sound I like. “Câline de blues,” says the announcer, as I fill the coffee machine with water and throw a filter in the basket.
Waiting for raisin toast to pop up I browse the front page of the Gazette. Out of the background blur of ads “Open Country Joy” comes on. I leap at the radio and turn it up.
“John McLaughlin and The Mahavishnu Orchestra. Montreal Forum, July thirteenth, eight p.m.”
“That’s tonight.” I yank a drawer open and fumble through a box of slippery golf course pencils trying to take hold of one. “Where’s some paper?” I grab a notepad from the counter.
“P – Make sure you cut the grass before Dad gets home from work. He asked you yesterday! Mom.”
“Shit.”
I listen hard but miss the crucial information so I search the Gazette’s Entertainment Section and call the number listed for the Forum box office. Busy signal. I redial. Busy again. I try eleven more times, always reaching the same abrasive pulsating buzz. Frustration boils in my belly, I feel like smashing the kitchen window with a nine iron.
Taking a deep breath I dial once more.
“Le Forum.”
“Oh, thank god. Are there any tickets left for Mahavishnu Orchestra?”
“C’est quoi?” The man’s accent is thick Québécois.
“Ah, oui.” It figures I’d get a guy who won’t speak English.
I think back to Madame Grenier, my first French teacher at John Rennie. She looked as pretty as that movie star in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and was super-nice. I got a seventy-five in her class. It was the only one I passed that year. She taught me to start a sentence with “Je voudrais” because it’s the more polite way of asking for something, and the French appreciate the effort. It’s like saying “I would like.” Plus you can follow with a verb that’s not conjugated, which is always a relief, because some of their tenses are hard, and even if you get it right then you have to pronounce it properly. Sacrement.
“Allo?” The man sounds like he’s gonna hang up.
“Excusez-moi monsieur.” I stop and take another breath. She also taught me to speak slowly and to not garble my words. “Je voudrais, comprendre, si, vous, avoir, plus, les tickets, de, Ma-ha-vish-nu Or-ches-tra?”
The man laughs.
The sound ignites in my stomach, like being jabbed me with a hot poker. My cheeks burn and I can’t get a good breath. “I haven’t lived here that long, asshole!” I slam the receiver into the wall phone cradle. “Fuck!”
Realizing my error I redial but the fear of reaching the same guy forces me to hang up before the line connects. I search the phone book for an alternate number as the throbbing in my throat relaxes. I lean in to decipher the tiny print for the Forum box office. It’s the same. Discouraged but determined, I try again hoping for someone else.
Busy. Again busy. And again busy. Even though I remind myself to be cool, rumblings of impatience stir.
“Le Forum. Est-ce que je vous aidez?”
“Bonjour Madame. Parlez-vous anglais?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh, that’s great. Thank you. I’m so happy. I’m not so good–”
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry. I just heard my favorite band of all time is playing at the Forum tonight and need to know if there were any tickets left.
“Yes, it’s about three-quarters sold. If you come early you’ll be able to get a pretty good seat.”
“I live in Pointe Claire, do you know if they have buses that go anywhere near the forum?”
“Actually, I come in everyday from Beaconsfield.”
I can’t believe my luck. The woman explains to me where to catch a direct bus to the Forum, as well as the return times and the cost. I scribble the information on a square of paper, reminding myself to call Mom for permission to go. “Thank you so much. You’re a really, really nice person.”
“Enjoy the show.”
I hang up thinking I’ll ask Marc to come but I better call Mom first.
#
Knowing Mom’s not supposed take personal calls at the warehouse where she works I hope it will pressure her to overlook why I shouldn’t be allowed to go downtown to see a concert.
Mom picks up and tells me to keep the call short, so I propose the plan of going to the concert with Marc but don’t mention the part about still needing to invite him.
I hear metal wheels rolling on cement and a loud bang, like a washing machine being loaded off a truck. “This is something I should really talk to your father about.”
I keep quiet. The wheels roll again.
“You have enough money, and you’re sure about the buses, right? Okay, you can go but be careful. Straight there, straight home.”
“Thanks Mom. I really appreciate it and I’ll be super, super careful and come straight home after.”
Rotating the phone dial seven times connects me with Marc.
“Hey P, I was just gonna call. Got something to show you, but you can’t tell anybody.”
“What is it?”
“Not over the phone. Come to the park.”
“I can’t, I’m going to see the Mahavishnu Orchestra at the Forum. Wanna come?”
“That’s the weirdo you like with the double-neck guitar.”
“He’s not a weirdo, he’s a great musician.”
“Nah, that stuff sucks. If it was Sabbath, I’m there.”
“So, you don’t wanna go?”
“Nah. But come to the park before. You gotta see this.”
“I can’t. Gotta make sure I get a ticket.”
“Then tomorrow, at noon by the benches.”
“Sure.” A dial tone buzzes in my ears.
In the shower feeling rejected the water sprays into my face. No one else comes to mind. “Maybe I shouldn’t go?”
“You can’t miss this.” Del whispers into my ear as she washes my back.
“But I’ve got no one to go with.” I want to turn around but she squeezes me, her wet skin against mine.
“You need to see this.”
“But Mom thinks I’m going with–”
Her finger presses against my lips. “Just go.” Soap lathers on my chest and spreads over my belly and hips. “You’ll be fine.”
Her words change my mood as the water rinses everything else away.
#
Just before locking the side door I check my knapsack one more time, in case I forgot anything. Thank god it’s summer, I only had to pack a light sweater for later, and since the paper forecasts clear skies I’ll take a chance and not bring an umbrella, one less thing to carry. I tighten the knapsack straps, then take out my wallet to ensure that I have my Medicare card and enough money for a return bus trip, a concert ticket, dinner and a little extra in case I find a good record shop. With my watch synchronized to the den clock I lock the door and march double time to the corner of Cartier and Highway Twenty where I expect to catch the two-thirty bus.
“Je m’appelle P. J’aime jouer la guitare. Quelle sort de musique aimez-vous?“
A silver bus squeals to a halt inches from me. Exhaust fumes and dust blow into the side of my face. A wide door swings out and a longhaired driver, with a bushy mustache and a clump of hair under his bottom lip, stares down at me. I climb in checking out the cool “Mothers of Invention” tattoo on his upper arm.
“Je vais au Forum, s’il vous plait. Ça c’est correct?” I display the coins in my hands, the exact amount the woman on the phone had said.
“Ouais, c’est ça.” The driver cranks a lever and the door slams shut. “Tu parles bien, monsieur.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
Coins fall into a glass box, the bus lurches forward. Managing to make it to a pair of seats in the back I gaze out the window, the knapsack strapped to my shoulder.
All the green blurs against the blue. I’d like to make a movie of that in slow motion, only the trees, no houses or telephone poles. That’s all you’d see. It would be five minutes but the whole day passes from sunrise to sunset. There would be music that flowed like water.
I love the long hot days of summer, even when it rains. Thunderstorms happen here all the time. They’re great to watch. It gets dark but you can see everything more clearly because there’s no glare from the sun. Sometimes, when I have the house to myself, I set up a lawn chair in the carport and count the seconds between thunder and lightning to imagine where it struck. I love when it almost happens at the same time, the flash-slam of Thor’s mighty hammer. Each brilliant explosion a reminder that life can cease to be at any given moment. In ways I’d like to go like that, in a flash, but I wonder if you can remember your death, feel it afterward. Like you spend eternity in the midst of it. That’s a horrible thought. It can’t be that. Seems cruel, like a supreme punishment just for being alive.
Across the highway, on the other side of the tracks, we passed the place where Mithy and I stole the car. We were so lucky we didn’t get caught. If I had died in the crash then Mom and Dad would have found out. And that’s how I’d be remembered, as a car thief who died trying. How lame is that? Every so often I see a flash and feel myself rolling. Just before it’s night black, headlights cast a few feet ahead into a whirling blizzard, the road like white water rapids. Something bangs with bright light. Then, my mind goes blank, as if the memory of the crash has an empty space attached to it, like a glimpse of the afterlife.
Coming up on this side of the highway I can see the Holiday Inn sign when we first moved here, it’s just across from the airport. It was fun staying in a hotel. Mom and Dad had the room attached to ours. One time, when Wilt was out with his friend Billy Wickett, Ran and I had a highest-bed-jumper contest to see who could hit the ceiling first with their head. It was pretty high. The radio blasted and my heart pounded in time with the music. That was a cool song. L-o-l-a, Lo-la. The TV was on in the corner. Army jeeps driving through downtown Montreal, the cops hold back a mob, a huge piece of concrete falls into the rubble outside the Stock Exchange building.
“Montreal would be a great place if it wasn’t for the fucking frogs.” Mithy’s voice has a rhythm to it, like a drum fill that ends with a crash. Most of the time I don’t like what he says but the way he says it kinda makes me laugh. I’ve always wanted to write down the things he says. That’s one of the reasons I started keeping a journal. Just to remember some of his lines. The tone kills me. Everything is unquestionable fact, or he’ll kick the shit out of you.
This part of the highway’s really ugly. Concrete bridges, flat industrial buildings littered with rusting junk, train tracks, guardrails, wire fences, and cars everywhere. Green signs point in all sorts of directions, none of them makes any sense. Climbing exits swoop to connect with super-high overpasses.
Nauseating fumes seep into my stomach as the highway rumbles through me. I focus on a thought to settle the disorienting feeling I have in my stomach.
On the swinging bridge back home I lean against the rope and stare into the water. My rippling reflection flows downstream and joins the Assinaboine River, then floats off to the Red.
The bus suddenly stops with a squeal.
“Le Forum.”
I weave through the people up to the front. “Forum?”
“Et voila.” The driver points up the street. “Bonne journée.
Writing P Minor Blue
