Yams do not exist Read online

  Mull in the Mirage

  Wisteria wondered aloud about the new regular, or believed she had, and checked herself. That was how it would sound in a book, right? With her behind the glass partition, peering through, brimming over with reflections. She was to be the object of his fascination, which was all right for a lark when no one was looking, something to pack tightly into a ball and tuck in the right place when a spot of shallow breathing occurred, something to fill in the gap like music—no, she was getting carried away. This could never be “real” in The Mirage Club, where docile fantasies occupied the air. She was reminded of this cool movie about a writer who penned a silly story about a man who was warned not to fall in love with these female service robots whose ridiculous heels generated electric sparks. The movie came to mind now and then, when she was behind the glass, looking through at the customers. If she ever ran into the new regular outside, this would be something to bring up. She had various phrases stockpiled, because he looked clever and she wanted to sound clever, or at least not as dopey as some of her coworkers sounded to her.

  She knew all about him of course because last time he had left a book in a booth—blatant strategy of the grosser sex?—and Ashley had asked her about that dog-eared keepsake, as it was in her section on her shift and she knew when an intrigue was in the works, but did not force the issue. Taking note of the book and the name, she watched Ashley toss it into the lost and found with special instructions. Wisteria could have reached in and nabbed the book, but that would have felt like pulling a medium-rare twelve ounce out of the oven with her bare hands while everyone was watching through the glass. It was not at Readerz and she felt awkward about ordering it—did she have it right that people liked to make an informed decision before buying the one book they planned to read in a given year? In any case, peeping through the windows of a soul was okay, but climbing in through the window head over feet was a shade extreme. She settled for a few sample patches of it online. He had never met her, but he was writing about her, or someone very like her. How odd, to consider he was scrunching up his face and concentrating on making her into an unfamiliar object for others to examine in private moments while she was looking back at him through the glass and making up her own version of events or non-events, such as pounding the transparent barrier of her observation tank.

  They didn’t say much whenever he came in—she knew about his allergies that (refreshingly) had no relation to nuts or gluten—but it was clear he saw her as a person of quality, incredibly conscientious. There was no reason to fuss over him. She found him “thinky” and that was something, but it was like that show about the birds—sometimes the female preferred an excellent builder and other times she preferred a clown, as with budgies, if she remembered correctly. He was easy enough on the eyes, and then she supposed she had murmured “pretty” or “thinky” like a heavy breather against the glass because the next order was taking a long time. She was tall, or as she read in a poorly formatted snippet, “too tall to drop forks on a Friday,” and she kind of liked that. She was under the impression that he could see her as she was, beyond all this day-to-day twaddle. Some of the men who leered said “hot” when in larger groups. She would smile in response and usually she would receive a decent tip. It was all standardized, along with her tight top and short, dark skirt, with everything decided long ago by the crotchety ancients at corporate headquarters.

  The movie came to mind again because it was imitating life, in which you are not supposed to think or feel anything, only suppress your slightest inclination. For one thing, she appreciated that he lowered his eyes when she came closer and did not play games with the water glass, the way some of those tedious goons did. Yes, she was tall and she knew since that first growth spurt early on in high school that she was like an animal—she had no wish to remember which animal—trying to lower itself to take a drink of water, or to pour water out for the new regular. Maybe being “hot” blotted out that memory of herself that sometimes returned with a vengeance, along with those spiteful commentaries. Her sense of self was different in this case, as she thought she could see a tinge of red creeping about his ears and neck and she knew she had caused that with the simplicity of her pour. Maybe he could see something that would surprise her, something more non-objective than her “girls” or her rear. According to his biography, that is how he saw the world.

  Wisteria’s keen awareness of his perception made her want to press the issue, to squeeze some objective remark out of him, to brush her body against his the way people did so easily in some novels, to make sure everything was understood between them, even without words. Not that it was impossible to make contact. He was wrong about the impossibility, but it was still terribly hard at times, to say what you wanted to say and mean what you wanted to mean, when it counted. Anyway, he would probably write about her and give the impression she aspired to be a cheerleader for the home team, or more likely an actress. She had a Creative Communications degree and had tried a few jobs, but in the end it was less boring to wait on people than it was to sit in an office all day. Somewhere, her funny customer had come up with a citation about Juan Gris the painter becoming a baker to look at people and it was like that, only she was not a painter. On a good day she was a still life, a quick sketch, a study—she did not mind being so. Therefore, it was more than fair to desire the object of a decent perception to come along, to take a look and see her in a light removed, or even as she really was. Reciprocity is the word he would use.

  Then she saw him enter, and she stepped out from behind the glass and warned Ashley to watch what she was doing, vacuuming up those crumbs, as she was blocking the way through with her tush—she bit her lip for even thinking of calling attention to it—and returned to fetch the pitcher before he could follow that interfering tush to a seat. Wisteria turned over the empty glass and poured the water in; the new regular looked into her light brown eyes. She had something for him, leaning in closer until he could sense her excitement through her tight top, brushing against the little hairs along his left arm as her mouth found his earlobe and so many warm, clever words flowed out of her right into his ear and right away his fingers found the spot that gave her the most pleasure.

  Actually, there was no piloerection to speak of. She was still holding the pitcher of water, standing in a partial crouch, and calling to mind the indigenous sanderlings with their soft little cries and he was looking at her quizzically, his face in the shape of a question mark sidling up against an exclamation mark but more surprised than angry, she hoped. When she returned to take his order, the book hit the table more violently than she expected and fighting off a spot of shallow breathing—a lifelong affliction—she raised her voice and everything came out rough.

  “You left this. This is yours, yeah?”

  The new regular nodded, not knowing what else to add. She helped him out by wondering aloud if he wanted his usual and he nodded again. Wisteria walked away, taller than usual, and called out his order behind the glass. Remember, no mayo or trademark sauces. Just plain. Plain as the day is long.

  Master and the Mounties

  “Farinata.”

  “Farinata? That sounds like something.”

  “Sir? The kind lady at the front sent me in about the writing program.”

  “So you want to become a creative writer!”

  Professor Klamm opened a drawer and poured some rum into a tumbler. After all, it was a lovely summer’s afternoon.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I wasn’t offering. That’s just my cliché of the day. Force of habit. One must get oneself into a rigid regime. You write, I trust?”

  “A few poems of some small repute to my name, sir. And a few other fragments that might be called novellas, on a good day. If you would be so kind as to—”

  “Never mind. Everything will arrive with your application.”

  “Yes, that was on my mind. How do I apply?”

  “How do you apply? Ha! There’s no one way to apply. Your things will arrive and in time they will receive a proper gander.”

  “Gander? By the geese outside, sir?”

  “What’s that? Oh no, the geese will have gone elsewhere by then.”

  “And you, you’re the head of—”

  “Me? I don’t know what they told you. I have my papers. Mostly, I like to teach Kafka. Just don’t let that get around.”

  “Kafka, well, that takes the cake! I have a background in—”

  “Of course, Kafka’s trending like mad nowadays. He would have called it kitsch. How many atrocities are committed in that man’s name, I wonder?”

  “Atrocities! Not by me, sir!”

  “Look, if you are serious about becoming a creative writer … Farboob … I will give you a comprehension exercise to take home. I shouldn’t be telling you this much, but it is loosely based on a true story. Local colour, you know. If you are serious, you will read it, then make some notes and return to me with a short evaluation. Then we shall see who is the Master of Writing.”

  “Sir, I never said I was—”

  “Too late, Farnoob. It has already begun. Once it has begun, even I cannot stop it. No one can.”

  ~

  K had left under a cloud. He had decided on Regina because the city was more or less the sort of sanatorium he had been seeking. He remained hopeful of Thomas Mann-ish scenarios. Snowy walks and cellos sounding. Yes, that kind of thing. He struggled with nervous anxiety and mental anguish, and periodically suffered “manic attacks.” Now he was out of work and only eligible for a temporary residence but not a semi-permanent residence, and by virtue of these facts, he was K, which is to say, a character type of the previous century, a
person who scarcely existed, without origin story or traceable lineage. During a trip to the Yukon, in a faint-hearted attempt to follow the courageous steps of Jack London, he had fallen out with BUSTER over the lack of wireless service in former Gold Rush towns. An additional month of non-service had been added to his bill, in accordance with BUSTER policy. K let a month pass while he waited for his final bill to arrive, and in the interim, threatening notes from BUSTER were dispatched. The threat of a collection agency sent him running into his bank, where with trembling hands he instructed the teller to pay for the month he had never needed or used. It was not until the love notes arrived that K realized he was in an abusive relationship. BUSTER was not sorry in the slightest, and yet BUSTER wanted him back.

  Not that the first tentative call to HELTEL—a union of two telecommunications companies freshly merged for his convenience—lacked the remote intimacy of a cavity search. Still, this was closer to what K thought he needed, and it would save him from the shame of crawling back to BUSTER. He had decided to order a smartphone, primarily because he wanted to be able to look up bus times when the sub-zero temperatures arrived, and also because he wanted to have the Saskatchewan Roughriders’ cheer team a mere touch away. That was exactly the amount of human contact he wanted, as established at his last counselling session, during which he had recoiled with uncharacteristic vehemence from any thought of staying connected. He had gone dark for quite a while, but it was time to return to the global grid. After the call was over, he closed the admittedly clunky borrowed phone and set it down on the table. He had given up everything he had. Personal information and various addresses. Social insurance and credit card numbers, along with intimate details about former employers—and exes. Five business days later, he walked into the main post office and approached the counter.

  “Hey K, your box is here.”

  “But what … how did you—”

  “Also, I’m blaming you for the rain. Feels just like home, eh?”

  When he opened up the box, K was a trifle stymied, but his neighbour directed him to an entertaining online video in which a scantily-clad anime sprite used a bobby pin and/or other sharp implements to free a tiny metal tray that was to house the precious SIM card he had carefully trimmed down to size. Then nothing. While he could find footage of alleged cheerleaders doing all kinds of things online, he could learn nothing about the Saskatchewan Roughriders’ cheer team on his new phone. Not their area of study or their hobbies or even their favourite dance number. No, the app was not working. Then confusion set in and he felt one of his attacks coming on. Could it be that he was still on the rebound after BUSTER, and it was too soon to hook up with another provider, no matter how attractive they seemed? Had he been hasty and ordered the wrong phone?

  Once again, he borrowed the neighbour’s clunky phone. After a lifetime of pressing “1” and several songs, a human voice spoke into his ear. At that point, K broke down and told the voice everything—the circumstances of his lingering issues with BUSTER and even about his fear of commitments, at least contractual ones. Two years with a Tetchy 2046 already seemed like a lifetime. It was the new N-Erv phone he wanted—no, needed!—or he wouldn’t be able to check the bus schedule or see the Roughriders cheerleaders whenever he wanted and life would be, in fact, over. He had not sat idle, no siree. He had asked for help in two HELTEL stores, one in the North and one in the South, but they had washed their hands of him in accordance with the Pontius Pilot program and its policies clearly stated in small print somewhere or other. Finally, returning to the store in the centre of town where his incredible journey had begun, the two young ladies in hijabs had once again genuinely sympathized with his desire to pull up the eminently flexible cheer-bearers of Rider Nation at a moment’s notice on the iciest of evenings.

  “Your address, sir?”

  “Yes, I’ve been through this. I don’t have—”

  “The Vancouver address, this—”

  “Uhm, I don’t live there, not anywhere—”

  “We will send you a custom mailer.”

  “But I don’t live anywhere … it’s not—”

  “The custom mailer will get to you, no worries. It will be someone you know …”

  K hung up the phone that was not even his and put it down on the table that was also not his. The mailer did arrive, by the time he had nearly forgotten about the whole ordeal. His neighbour had found a soggy envelope on the doorstep, containing the folded box in which to send the Tetchy 2046 back to meet its makers. K apologized profusely for causing one nuisance after another and the neighbour returned home, muttering about folks without jobs or homes or phones or gargantuan trucks. K realized there was another decision to make. As it was Saturday, he could call the courier to pick up his package or he could take a bus, either to the North or the East, and send the box back through an office supplies store like Stickies. Soon, the box would appear in Brampton, and hopefully, this would enable him to start the process all over again. Through the borborygmus, a voice inside him sounded like it was asking him to choose wisely.

  K was on the Number Seven bound for Regina’s East End. The bus was packed with junior athletic fundraisers, and K tried not to stare at the green uniforms they wore, or the phones they were brandishing. Fortunately, he remained ignorant of the fact they were just returning from a fundraising visit with a few of the Saskatchewan Roughriders and what is more, their cheer team, who had given them a special demonstration in honour of the cause. Everyone on the bus was abuzz about the evening game, but K was preoccupied with the taped-up box in his hands. Most of the passengers got off at the same stop and K found himself following the green uniforms; meanwhile, their talk about food reminded him that he had not eaten breakfast.

  He was apprehensive upon entering Frieda’s Fries, where more than thirty officers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police examined him with unsmiling eyes. Conversation about the pros and cons of Mountie Barbie dried up. K was extremely shaky, and he was also acutely aware of the enigmatic box he was carrying. He ordered as calmly as he could, but as usual, he got stuck on the onions, his Achilles heel.

  “Rahhhr onions?”

  “Onions but not cooked onions.”

  “There are cooked onions and onions.”

  “Onions then, but raw onions, or … well, onions, yes, onions …”

  Yuen the shift leader was not to blame if Customer #47 was having an episode. One of the Mounties (in cavalry blue) got up and asked if he could take a look at the box. K handed it over and then withdrew, trembling. The Mountie sniffed the box and clawed at the scotch tape. Then, in a moment of inspiration, he dropped it on the floor and raised his right boot. K shook his head with tears streaming down his face. A gun had been drawn and suddenly all of the guns were out. They were firing at the box on the floor and all the people in green were cheering and K was running past them and out the door. He made it across the road and ducked into Slimbuy’s. He watched the front of the store cautiously and did not notice that he was backing into a cut-out of Mutt Blimey, the celebrity chef who was saving the planet by slaughtering animals humanely. Mounties were already filing into the store and spreading out. K’s fight-or-flight response—hyperarousal!—melted away as cheerleaders appeared here and there, advertising frozen gourmet selections. Also, if he spent fifty dollars, he would get a killer deal on Mutt Blimey’s choice tableware. The man from the main post office came into view and asked him to sign a petition, because two of the three service counters were endangered. Strangely, the petition was also asking the government to invest more heavily in banking. Need we add that agents of the government were on their way?