The Chill of Death is from Let My Children Hear Music, an album released by Charles Mingus in 1972, around the time P was discovering musical riches on the path that lay before him. I have included an excerpt from the most recent draft of P minor blue.
is a novel about the struggles of P and Cliff, an aimless boy and his reluctant father. It’s set within the political tensions of Montreal in the early 1970s where P is befriended by a reckless thief and lured into stealing a car. They crash and P’s life unfolds before him, revealing the complex relationship he has with Cliff. After surviving the crash P seeks independence from the thief and forgiveness from his father. He also plans to become a musician but is unwillingly drawn back into crime and arrested, and it’s up to Cliff to save him.
I finished the third draft and am reading through it to make sure it flows right. I look forward to the next stages leading to its publication.
“Waiting for raisin toast to pop up…”
- P minor blue
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.
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.
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? Okay, you can go but be careful. Straight there and straight home.”
“Thanks Mom. I really appreciate it and I’ll be super, super careful and come straight home right after.”
Rotating the phone dial seven times connects me with Marc.
“Hey P, I was just gonna call you. 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 and washes my back.
“But I’ve got no one to go with.” I want to turn around but she hugs me from behind, 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.
A line of hot light seeps through a split of dark green curtains and onto my face. I roll over to the other side of the bed to get away from it but nearly fall off. The clock says it’s almost noon.
“Ran?” Buck naked, with my head sticking out my bedroom door I wait for a reply. Nothing. I check out the windows to see if he’s outside. I bet he’s out with his buddies racing mini-bikes at Terracotta. Dad won’t buy him one because he’s too young, and they’re too expensive. It pisses Ran off but he’s lucky his friends let him use 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 sing, strumming the chord even harder. “I loved you…“ I fingerpick A minor seven singing, “…so.” I toss my guitar on the bed and run into the bathroom to pee.
I head downstairs in a pair of blue jean cut-offs in case anyone suddenly shows up, plus I don’t like our chairs in the kitchen, your skin gets all sweaty from the plastic seats covers.
Our kitchen’s small and has super-fake flower patterns on the wallpaper, table cloth and chair covers. Even the phone receiver has flowers on it. It feels crowded at dinnertime and Wilt’s not even here anymore. The dining room has a large oak table that sits eight, if we add the extra sections to it, but we only use it on special occasions with extra family around.
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 blues-rock band from Montreal. I love the sound of the organ. “Câline de blues,” says the announcer, as I fill the coffee machine with water and throw a filter in the basket.
P minor blue
the story of an aimless, Prairie boy coming of age in 1970s Montréal…, has early drafts in first person. It seems appropriate since the book is based on my early years. And though it helped me create the plot’s general structure, I did struggle telling the tale, feeling vulnerable, exposed, and too self-conscious. So I changed to third and completed a couple drafts over the last few of years, while maintaining my musical commitments.
This latest draft I’m calling Draft 3/1st person because half way through Draft 3 I hit a wall, the one I saw off in the distance. I stopped writing in August to reconsider the Narrator’s perspective. He was proving unreliable. So I got another one. Those who know him, call him P.
With P reborn and freed from the uptight voice who worried too much the draft ran away with itself. Now I can add …whose life finds direction when he discovers the creative spirit in music.
After the snowstorm, early the next day.
Having managed to dress and pack without uttering a word we leave the shed and cut between the farmhouse and the barn. The sun explodes onto glossy white and nearly blinds me. Dawn and I glide across the ice-covered snow skating to the road close to the bridge.
On the other side of the bridge at the gas station we enter a door marked café. Behind a cash register a thin, blonde woman in a blue parka flips pages of a People magazine, smoking a cigarette. Fiddle music scrapes on a roughly tuned radio.
“Bonjou’.” The woman peeks over her glasses as she blows a stream of smoke to her side, and continues reading.
A chunky unshaven man in a black toque sits in a booth with a cigarette and coffee staring over at us. He makes me nervous.
“Un café pour moi, et…” Dawn glances at me.
I hold up two fingers.
“Deux, s’il vous plait.” Dawn points at the washroom sign and leaves. She looks pretty tired.
Sitting at the counter I cream and sugar my coffee worried I might have suffered brain damage from smacking my head against the windshield last night. The bump feels pretty sore and I have a bit of a headache, but that could be from the whiskey. I hope so.
Dawn returns and drinks her coffee in silence. I spin on my swivel stool and catch the toque guy staring at Dawn as he puts on a plaid jacket and comes over to the cash register. Dawn asks him for a ride in French. I shake my head at her but she ignores me and organizes a lift.
We follow the toque guy to a red three-quarter ton truck where he insists that Dawn sit in the middle. He talks to her in French laughing and rubbing his hand against her thigh as he grabs the stick shift. I want to slug the bastard but he’s pretty big and we’d probably crash so I turn and glare out the window. Dawn takes my hand and places it on her thigh. What a gal. She seems to know what she’s doing. She must be at least eighteen.
The truck pulls over to the side of St. John’s Road. Thank god.
“Merci. Salut.” Dawn shuts the door and waves.
“That was lucky,” I say. “I can easily walk home from here.”
“Where do you live?”
“By the hospital. And your place is just over there. God, I can’t believe we just met last night.”
“It’s amazing.” Dawn gives me a nice long hug. I don’t want her to let go. “You know, even though last night was a nightmare, it turned out okay. I had a great time getting to know you.”
“Yeah, me too. It was fantastic.”
“You’re really sweet. And I’d like to see you again.”
“Really? That’d be great.”
“But I don’t want you to think we’re dating or I’m your girlfriend. If you wanna see someone else that’s fine. I just wanna keep it, entre nous, you know, between us. You know what I mean?”
“Sure. That’s cool.”
She takes my phone number and gives me a kiss. “I’ll call you later. After I talk to Nigel and find out what happened. I hope they’re okay. Anyway, good luck with your parents.”
slithering trails stream riddled smears
of splashing smattered gustwail howls
branchbrush mudgreen blackened sprays scrape
clickclok clickclok clickclok
clickclok clickclok clickclok
clickclok clickclok
smackplop muddled puddles
and drizzledrooping leaves
thightapping fingertips
wake up a silent sneeze
descending ethereal trumpet wails
upbeat a pained lament
melodic growls a scat
the trumpet sad song ends
faint piano into winds
a voice pours into hearts
filling joy with warming sadness
a curious soul departs
at the entrance by the phone slithering past a woolen couch
underneath a pair of hairy legs up the wall looking down
the man alone with piles of wax
dealt out like cards to invisible friends
inspects the covers and listens well
the turning discs of wonderful sounds
he smiles and laughs and listens close
feeling deep the poetry sung so right
the words without release a spell
of love and caring for a boy
a downward float invisibly
he brushes face-to-face
feeling warmly leaking dripdrop tears
a moment touched with grace