RESIDE

Posted on November 17, 2016 | 2 comments

This is the thirteenth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

The houses along the margin of the park are pretty nice. He can see how someone as resourceful and, apparently, magical as Janet would have the means to buy a nice big place, one of these red-brick Romanesque four-storey piles. Which one? They walk along in silence on the broad sidewalk across the street from the park, every five metres punctuated by another pretty elm or maple, each ringed closely by a low wrought-iron fence, its own solipsistic parkette. They are leafy for November.

Generally the space between him and an attractive woman on a walk like this is filled with the fuzz of conversation or the silent electromagnetism of expectation, but this time he feels as if he’s in an anechoic chamber with a glowing sword-bearing bejewelled idol, ensorcelling but ambiguously beneficent or baleful.

And yet she’s just wearing teal jeans and a SPAM-coloured shirt. And walking as though everything is exactly unexceptionable. Continue reading →

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HOME

Posted on November 16, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the twelfth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

“I came crashing through the leaves,” Janet says. “The same way you did, I presume.”

“I guess. I was a little disoriented. I might have lost consciousness for a moment or two.”

They’re walking down a street, a different street, perpendicular to the other one. What is the name. He never looks at the signs! It’s a nice enough neighbourhood, feels central, old buildings, restaurants, stores, cabarets, trees in the boulevard. More places are closed now, but the night life continues. No one will hear the two of them talking, not because there’s no one around but because other people bring enough noise with them to drown them out. There’s not a lot of sobriety to go around.

“I found myself in a forest of words with a stack of books and a wad of money,” she says. Continue reading →

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VICES

Posted on November 15, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the eleventh chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

He’s no closer to home. Not his home, anyway. Maybe hers. Who knows. We’ll see.

He’s met women in many places, but a men’s washroom is a first for him. A men’s washroom where she was mopping up someone else’s emesis. And now she’s here in this other bar that looks like a famous painting. And it’s he-still-doesn’t-know-but-it’s-been-dark-a-while o’clock. Continue reading →

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STREET

Posted on November 13, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the tenth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

He needs to hit reset and steer himself aright. He likes a game, but he likes a game where he’s on an even footing.

So easy to get caught up in a game, too. His whole life is that. Games. He likes winning. He likes the challenge of playing. He can put up with losing if he was beaten fair and square. If he still has a chance to win again.

He walks down the street. It is post-crepuscular, tenebrous; the time is unclear but it is well into a November e—ning. It’s after se—n, and probably after ten, maybe e—n ele—n, but he has no watch. He ne—r wears one around the house. He was not dressed for external perambulations and peregrinations. Especially not in No—mber. Dammit. The month after October and before December. November! Continue reading →

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GOOD

Posted on November 11, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the ninth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

Something’s af—t. He’s g—d but he’s not perfect; his lacunae don’t ch—se where to l—k, it’s always the first thing he sees, which is not always worth the most, and sometimes it’s the second thing t— and he is sn—kered. His eyes are wide open but not under full conscious control. But it makes the game exciting, and that’s what keeps the betting going and the money flowing. He’s a useful t—l… but he’s not a f—l, not a clown, not a patsy, not a chump. He’s OK, better than OK.

And not losing, not all the time. He wins the first game by a bit of an edge; Tanya isn’t used to him yet. He loses the second by a little and the third by a little more. But he’s picking up the strategy. It’s not just finding the patterns; it’s building opportunities and openings and maintaining flexibility, and it’s limiting your opponent’s flexibility and cutting off openings. Watch: where is she looking? What kinds of things is she laying down?

He wins the fourth game. And the fifth. Continue reading →

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INVISIBLE

Posted on November 9, 2016 | 1 comment

This is the eighth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

This is a game Frank could kick butt at anytime, anyplace. As he watches it, he can’t help but want to play it. The cards seem to be thesaurus extracts: each has several related words on it. Frank can see that the aim is to make sets of two or more cards that have words with sequences of two or more letters in common. He can see it because he glances at the cards and sees gaps, invisible spaces, and Walter is grouping them together. Frank’s graphemic dislocation, his mental hiccup, is made for this. As long as it’s only gapping one set of letters at a time.

In fact, it’s beginning to bug him, how much Walter is missing. He wants to step in and do it. Look, INV—BLE, CONC—ON, D—NTERESTED, PAR—AN. Lay it down! Is there something you can’t see? Or is the problem exactly that there’s nothing you can’t see? Continue reading →

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ANY

Posted on November 8, 2016 | 2 comments

This is the seventh chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

It’s the same walk back to Novelty for Frank and one, on the same street, past the same buildings darkening with the hour and with the prospects of the neighbourhood’s residents. Bars are getting brighter as stores are dimming out. Every so often there’s a light they have to stop at to let Toyotas, Hondas, Hyundais, Renaults, Dodges, Chryslers, Fords, Mitsubishis, and their mostly lone occupants go past. At one of these, one turns to Frank and puts a hand on his chest and leans him against the brick wall behind. One scans Frank closely, reading his face like instructions for assembly.

Frank looks back steadily, weighing one in ounces and grams. This is a fun game but Frank will keep some cards hidden.

“Describe me,” one says. Continue reading →

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JANITOR

Posted on November 8, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the sixth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

Frank’s ears instinctively pull back – not visibly, but he can feel the muscles behind them contract, as they do when he is startled. He has peed in front of women before, but there is something about being in a men’s room, exposed at a urinal, and hearing an unexpected female voice addressing you. Gendered spaces can be pyschological inhib—s.

But of course he doesn’t spin around. He turns his head casually and says, “Oh, hey. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

“Or the sign, I guess.” Continue reading →

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ART.

Posted on November 6, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the fifth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

Frank (not his real name) is walking in new, good-looking shoes, cap-toed lace-ups. They sharpen up his look, add a dash of crisp acidity to the smooth off-whiteness of his clothes. He is almost visually fit to walk next to one. If he could keep up. One moves quickly.

He is also riding waves peaking at intrigue and troughing at fear. He is in a place new to him, following a person who was unknown to him only an hour before; his name is refusing to surface, words and parts of words are blinking on and off in his mind like broken Christmas lights or sliding around like magnets on a greasy fridge, he has no money and is increasingly indebted to this sylph of smoke and glow, and he has an overriding desire to play whatever game it is is going on between him and one, even if someone gets hurt in the end.

And then he wants to go home. And fill in the blanks. Continue reading →

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NOVELTY

Posted on November 5, 2016 | Leave a comment

This is the fourth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

The forest is still slowly chasing this end of the street, but they’re at a city, no mistake, and not much walking will put them in it well and proper. The air here is a dingy wet rag that was used to overscrub the buildings and then wrung out. It smells of dirt with experience. The concrete in the sidewalk is so grainy and crumbly it must be gluten-free, but it supports as much weight as it has to. The doors look well kicked, the walls well leaned on. But the people are too busy living their lives to be picturesque. Frank is following one down the street. One is a vision: a squirt of squid ink swirling in the viscous atmosphere. Frank, by contrast, is pale putty in Ralph Lauren cotton and muddy Rockports.

Whatever part of town this is, whatever town at all, Frank does not recognize it. On the other hand, it’s a dull walk of an obtuse part of an hour to get to this shoe store, so Frank can’t see how it could be a dream: at least in those the boring trips are shortcut. This has much newness, or — oldness, to it to keep Frank vaguely diverted: it’s not as though he k— all this was here and is re—ing his acquaintance.

Damn. The synonym trick was going so well. Is this a curse for his constant quest for —ness? For…

The shoe store is not a — store. It is old and it is in an aged building on an experienced street. It does repairs, too. It has a sign:

NOVELTY

Ah. Continue reading →

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