"Typical Graduate Students" by
William Matheson
i - September, Week I
The Two Towers glistened in the late morning sunlight of the September
day (such that anyone would admit that the Loyola and Rice residences,
though similar in stature, were less menacing at first glance than the
towers of Isengard and Barad-dûr) while parents of college-age children
sat behind the wheels of their minivans and pickup trucks (many with their
engines running, no matter that the air conditioning wasn't necessary and
that they'd be waiting for almost half a day), loaded for bear with computers,
televisions, DVD players, sound systems, bar fridges, hot plates, chairs,
clothes, and probably, sometimes, some study materials.
Later that same September day, the white submarinic corridors of the Loyola
high-rise were abuzz with frosh unpacking rap CDs, subwoofers, alcohol,
and condoms in their rooms. Roommates met one another for the first time,
and in this case the University planned things well, because disasters
like rooming someone who liked pop rap with someone who liked gangster
("gangsta'") rap were avoided for the most part. The general idea was to
move the date of the inevitable "I hope you all die!" attitude change back
as far as possible.
ii - September, Week IV
Chris was fortunate for an unemployed boy without (career) direction of
his age in that he had a very industrious girlfriend, Claire Dodson, 26,
of Bedford, a trendy appendage of a town just north of Halifax. At this
moment on a Wednesday night, he was walking up the hill towards her house
from the Metro Transit sign on the main road where he had disembarked from
the twice-daily bus (one trip from this far-flung part of Bedford to Halifax
in the morning, the reverse in the afternoon). Not owning a car meant that
Chris could only come up in the evening, but the good part about the next
bus leaving at 7:15am was that he always had an excuse to spend the night
with Claire when he did come over. It was an elegant way for him to help
Canada meet its Kyoto Protocol obligations.
Mike Rabbit, 19, was Chris' next-door neighbour. Mike, though he had as
much money as Chris, didn't get to have a single room because as a Frosh,
he wasn't able to choose before all the single rooms were taken. He often
wished that he could take his girlfriend of two months, Jen, into his room,
but most of the time it wouldn't have been a productive exercise.
The thumping refrain of Murder Rap's new Number One hit, "Streets Don't
Owe You Shit, Bitch," woke Chris from his lucid dream where he kept walking
into another room to turn a stereo off. Chris, still in his pyjamas, got
out of bed and walked out towards the corridor to see what was up.
iii - October, Week I
Mike set his stack of laundry baskets down on the landing of the steps
leading to the laundry room and took a moment to catch his breath. He had
another half-flight to go on his monthly laundry pilgrimage, and as he
prepared to carry his hefty load again, he became aware of two voices coming
up from the room that the frosh most rarely visited. Was the male voice
Chris? In search of an edge, Mike crept down the remaining steps and peered
around the corner to check.
Chris passed by Mike on the stairs again, who was carrying up his empty
laundry baskets. They exchanged quick and empty nods. Chris quickly descended
into the laundry room, and rushed to Claire's side to rescue her from her
symptoms. He gave Claire three pills from the bottle, and then sat on the
cool concrete floor next to her. After a few minutes, she seemed to brighten
up.
"Chris, I need you to do me a favour," Claire asked Chris over the residence
phone line the following afternoon. "You can still come over and everything,
but right now I feel kind of sensitive after my reaction yesterday, and
I can't go out to the stables to clean the stall of my horse. Could you
do it for me on your way up?"
joey sat in his room looking out the window with a pen in his hand, watching
the seagulls mill about on the foozeball turf. There was a meaning
to be found… but how could it be transcribed onto the page yet still remain
an abstraction that looked like meaning for the sake of meaning? It was
thoughts like these that consumed his muse – his hobby, his quiet McCain's-Super-Fry-Kid-ian
strength. He delicately watched the seagulls in Buddhist-like meditation.
But just who was discovering the meaning of life?
Chris was in transit from Halifax to Bedford in Claire's mother's car -
a beautiful blue 1991 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, driving on Provincial Arterial
Highway 102 in particular and enjoying the Johann Strauss polka Annen
on CBC Radio Two. The car told him that its estimated fuel range was 391
kilometres. He liked cars that talked to him. Ah, the only way to travel
for a graduate student.
The car observed all this from its vantage point in the driveway as best
it could, considering that the Oldsmobile division of General Motors did
not choose to bestow it with any eyes besides the sensor that helped it
decide when to switch from the daytime driving lights to the main headlights.
"Ms. Halfpence? Ms. Halfpence? I'm done!" Chris shouted about, but there
was no sign of Kendra.
Dammit, I think my suspension's still out of whack. I'm gonna
try to straighten out again.
Chris was free!
Something had gone wrong, but Rambo wasn't quite sure what. Suddenly he
seemed to have two more legs, plus a much greater field of vision. Plus
he was standing in a wooden cell with sawdust that he was probably supposed
to sleep on or crap in or both. Outside the building it was raining felis
domesticus and canis familiaris and water was spilling down
in front of the open doors. Rambo felt as if something was nagging at him.
Ah, yes! My thesis! I must get back to wor - oh, crap.
Kendra awoke in the middle of the night to hear the stamping of hooves
below.
In the morning, Rambo was taken out to a paddock somewhat smaller and set
apart from the main paddock which held the rest of the horses, save one
grey female who was already in the smaller paddock when he arrived. Rambo
was put off by the footing, which was a spongy mixture of mud and manure,
but in it, he saw opportunity. Left to himself, he traced a simple message
in the mud: HELP IM A HORSE The roughness of the medium did not allow for
a discernable apostrophe or exclamation.
Taking an afternoon nap, Rambo was awakened with voices.
As unhappy Rambo was to be a horse, he was more than pleased to be of service
to Claire. While hitching him up, Kendra and Claire remarked that he was
more responsive and obedient than ever before. Claire declined to use the
saddle, choosing to ride bareback.
The sky was growing dark when Claire and Rambo returned from their ride.
Claire hitched Rambo up in the hall of the stables, amidst the blare of
780 Kixx. Although the restraint wasn't necessary, Rambo liked the idea
of Claire hitching him to things. Claire walked over to a supply closet
and picked up a coarse brush. She began to brush Rambo down.
Claire and Kendra, after getting Claire's account in order, admiring Kendra's
kitchen, comparing recipes, going through Seth's baby photos, comparing
boyfriends, admiring Kendra's upholstery work, admiring Kendra's bathroom,
sharing a pot of tea, and talking about horses, came back down from the
apartment to find Rambo grooving to Paul Dukas' "L'apprenti sorcier." Rambo's
head was filled with visions from "Fantasia" of poor Mickey finding himself
floating on a sea of water from the well, and the sorcerer's inevitable
discovery of Mickey's erring.
iv - October, Week II
At 8:30pm on a dark fall weekday night, several dozen students (including
Chris' neighbours, Mike and joey) and a couple of professors crowded into
the Private Dining Room just above the base of the Loyola high-rise.
Claire, responding to Kendra's urgent summons concerning Rambo, jumped
off her bicycle and ran into the holding lot of Clearwater Stables where
Kendra was standing a few paces back from Claire's beloved horse. Rambo,
noticing Claire, tried to trace a letter into the gravel again, but Kendra
stopped him by pulling him forward by the bridle. Rambo, frustrated, kicked
up his heels.
Claire, sitting in a chair at a table in front of Rambo's stall, got up
to feed him some grain out of her hand.
"We're glad you came down, Miss. Maybe you can get something out of him.
Are you his girlfriend?"
With some effort, Claire convinced the police to allow Chris into her custody,
whom she wrapped in a blanket and drove back to Clearwater Stables. The
restoration of Chris and Rambo to their proper selves went without incident,
but some complications related to Chris' escapades never quite went away;
for instance, for the balance of his time at Saint Mary's, Chris was known
to be "Smelly Chris: as square as a mouldy piece of cheese." Claire, meanwhile,
was teased by her schoolmates for trading in a boyfriend who really was
hung like a horse. And Rambo had acquired a taste for human food that Kendra
was not anxious or able to appease, but fortunately, as Chris, he was not
exposed to Timbits.
To escape the capillary-pressurizing thumps of The w00t Gangstas' hit single,
"Pointazz of the Linked Lists," Chris walked back into his own darkened
room and leaned into his window, which he opened up for the fresh outside
air. After a few moments, he was lonely again, and it was also apparent
that no one had noticed him leave.
Awesome, now I can actually get a job when I finish! Let's go party!
Charles Farley, 48, of Muskrat River, British Columbia, sat impatiently
behind the wheel of his red 2003 Ford F-350. He'd burned a lot of gas and
money to ship his youngest son and his stuff off to this second-rate school,
and he was anxious to turn the hell around and get back on the Trans-Canada
Highway. But the people in charge of moving the frosh in were keeping everyone
waiting for hours in a parking lot holding pattern.
He put his head out the window and honked the horn, "Hey, we haven't got
all day here! Hurry the hell up!"
The man in the GMC Sierra in front of him put his head out his own window
and turned to face Mr. Farley. He honked his own horn and yelled back,
"You're not the only one stuck out here, dumbass! Why don't you just shut
your goddamn mouth?!"
"Well why don't you guys carry less of this useless crap in! That's what's
slowin' things down! Where the hell do you think your kid's gonna put that
air hockey table?!"
"Well where the hell do you think your kid's gonna put that fucking
rock climbing wall?!"
"Up your kid's ass!"
"Fuck you! And your plate - what the hell are you doing coming all the
way here from British Columbia?! God, your kid's grades must be bad! He's
a stupid shit like you!"
"I'll have you know my kid has a sixty-two-and-a-half average!"
"Loser! Mine got sixty-four! And he plays foozeball!"
"Shut up!"
At this point, Mr. Farley noticed
several dipshits wearing black shirts emblazoned with "Masters of the SMUniverse"
approaching: "Sirs, if you would just turn your engines off and relax,
you'd feel better. Why don't you come to the Gorsebrook and bring your
kids? All we have is soda, but it's the only time you'll get free drinks
unless you're sleeping with the bartenders."
Farley's son thought both ideas were splendid. "Hey Dad, can't we just
get out like they're saying and-"
"Shut up!"
Chris Averlo, 22, of Bible Hill, Nova Scotia, working on his MA in Navigation
Philosophy, had moved into his single room a day earlier due to his status,
and thus avoided most of the problems associated with the Frosh Move-In.
Looking at his new neighbours, though, made him wonder if things would
be quiet enough for him to work on his thesis.
"Hey, little help!"
Chris turned around to see a tall, acne-infested boy struggle to get a
52" rear projection TV through his doorframe. He opened his hands to indicate
a willingness to assist, and walked over to do so.
"You lift and push, and I'll lift and pull," the pimpled boy said.
Chris and the boy struggled for several moments to get the colossus-sized
television through the Titanic-third-class-sized hatch, but without success.
"I guess I'll have to go get us some help," Chris said, and prepared to
walk off in search of it.
"Um, could you please hurry? The Simpsons is on in twenty minutes
and they say Maggie's gonna say something tonight."
As Chris went off to summon some labour-apt folks, he fondly remembered
the old days when he had time to watch cable TV between thirty-page term
papers.
The smell of fresh chicken Kiev and baked lasagne rushed into his nostrils
as he opened the door. He came for the romance, but he stayed for the real
food. Claire, wearing a green dress that complemented her blonde hair,
came to greet him. She took his coat and his flowers.
"You wouldn't believe what I've been working on," she said to him as she
hung up his coat.
Working towards her MSc in Neurophysics, Claire tended to take on projects
that, in Chris' opinion, were very interesting compared to the mundane
drivel that BA and MA students usually encountered. Chris, genuinely interested,
asked her what it was.
"Now, now... I can't tell you right here... I want to surprise you
with it when it's finished."
"Is it... something for us?"
"Yes, but also for my thesis as well. I'll bring it down to you someday
soon - I'll have to make a trip down to campus with it anyway to have it
evaluated by my prof. We'll go have dinner again that night or something."
With a little time, though, he would get his wish. One Thursday night,
Mike and Jen finally had Mike's double room to themselves. Mike's roommate,
joey, was away with the foozeball team on a road trip to the agricultural
province to play UPEI.
He carried Jen over the threshold, set her down on his bed, removed her
coat, and gently ran his fingers through her hair. He kissed her on her
honey lips. "I do so dearly want to love you, my sweet angel," he whispered
to her.
"I want to be loved, too," she said to him. "But that guy next door is
going to complain again and then everyone will know we're going out and
I'll never hear the end of it from my girls. We're only supposed to date
foozeball players." She started to ramble. "Of course, they're always away,
so you never get to have any-"
"Well, don't worry about Chris; we can just wait until he goes to sleep,
right?" It was bad enough that Chris was as square as a microprocessor,
but if he were to ruin this, too...
"No, because I'll be so tired by then that I'll fall asleep after we're
done and I need to be out of here before people start getting up tomorrow
- when I'd be seen and found out."
"Oh, surely you'll wake up before two p.m.!"
"No, Mike..."
"You know, we could do it now if you didn't have to punch a hole
in the drywall every time I go do-"
Jen rolled out from under him. "That's it; I'm off to find my Hello Kitty
vibrator. Goodbye, Mike." She took her coat and the promise of loving sexual
activity out the door with her.
"Argh," Mike said. "Well, there's only one thing to do." He grabbed a beer
from the bar fridge, put one of his special DVDs into his PlayStation 2,
and sat down on the couch and got comfortable.
Just then, the shadow of a seven-foot-three foozeball athlete wearing a
t-shirt and gigantic earphones crossed the doorframe. "Hey, Mike, I'm back,
the game was cancelled. Do you mind if we have a party in here? Oh, is
there any beer left?"
"Argh," Mike said.
Chris was quickly very glad that his door opened onto the inside of his
room, else he wouldn't have been able to get into the hall, which was jammed
full of 17 and 18-year-old girls and the 20-year-old guys trying to take
advantage of them. Most of the people were having sex to the rhythm of
the music, with the allowance that most of the people had most of their
clothes on.
The nucleus of the party seemed to be in Mike and joey's room. Chris gently
shoved his way towards Mike. Chris found him dancing on top of a bed with
a lovely pink-haired person of an indefinable age, except to say 'young.'
Chris nodded his head to Mike, in his trademark indication that he was
about to ask something of someone.
"Oh, hey Chris," Mike acknowledged him with a trickle of enthusiasm.
"Hey, Mike," Chris yawned audibly. "Do you know what time it is?"
But you owe me forty bones.
But you owe me forty bones.
"Yeah, it's 3:30, Friday morning, I think. Just wait 'till the over-19
girls get back from the bars, then this stag fest is really gonna cook!
Go back and put some pants on, though, or you'll have to pick from the
drunkest of the dru-."
"That sounds like fun, but I have an honours seminar to assist with tomorrow
morning, then I mark papers all afternoon."
"Sucks to be you. Switch to a B.Com, and then you can start your weekends
on Thursday!"
"No, I mean… What I'm getting at is that I think it's time for everybody
to get some sleep."
The music stopped and everyone stared at Chris. This was the third party
this week that Chris felt compelled to quiet down. He hated to do it, but
he felt it necessary, even though it made him look as square as an NES
Control Pad.
"You're not going to call the RA again, are you, Chris?"
"I will if I have to! We need our sleep!"
"Okay, listen here, Mr. I'm-Working-On-My-MA! I've had it! You're practically
the only goddamn graduate student in this building! It's not our fault
that you're a jobless loser that can't afford his own place! Why do you
live here if you can't have a little fun once in a while?!"
Chris, not knowing what to say to that, simply tromped off in search of
the RA.
"Damn," Mike muttered.
Yes, it was indeed Chris, with a girl. Mike didn't know he had a girlfriend
- how interesting! They stood facing each other, and in between them was
a box. It looked like they were a mild argument. He stayed on the steps
and listened to them talk.
"Claire, this is an awesome idea, but-"
"But what? I wanted to do this tonight! I wanted this to be special!"
"We... can't. If the guys upstairs heard you-" (the word in between was
inaudible) "- me, they'd make you out to be the biggest hypocrite!"
"Well, that would be my problem, not yours!"
"I'm sorry, my dearest, but we just can't do it here."
Righty-o, Mr. Hypocrite. I'd have the RA on you before you even finish!
Hey, I think I just made a clever joke!
"F-Fine... I guess if we ca-A-CHOOOOO!"
"You're turning red!"
"I'm having that <sneeze> reaction again."
"I knew it was a bad idea for you to come down here. Do you know how sick
the laundry gets around here?"
Mike, understanding that, felt a little sorry for her. The Loyola building
was no place to be for someone allergic to laundry-borne pollutants. Mike's
own room still had a lingering funk from when the student living there
the previous academic year chose to simply abandon his laundry; one of
those things you think only happen in Dave Barry books.
"Claire, you wait here, and I'll go get you your medicine."
Uh-oh. Mike tiptoed up the stairs quite quickly - but to be accurate, his
tiptoeing went far past the theoretical tiptoeing speed limit and into
the realm of dampened scrambling. It was the first time in a while that
he had travelled up a set of stairs using his hands as well as his feet,
something he thought he had conditioned himself out of. At the landing
he hoisted his laundry up onto his shoulder and when Chris approached on
his way upstairs, Mike pretended to be just going down. They exchanged
empty "hellos."
Mike picked up his baskets and descended into the laundry room proper.
He walked over to the bank of washing machines, meaning he would pass by
Claire, whom he saw lying on the floor with a red face and runny nose.
While his eyes decided that Claire was a very attractive twenty-something
woman, his right toes remembered the box on the floor.
"Eeyouch!" His laundry baskets and laundry toppled over into a convenient
mess beside a front-loading high-efficiency washer. "Stupid rotten-"
"Sorry, I forgot to warn you <sneeze> about-"
"Goddamn it!" In his intense frustration, Mike gave the box a swift kick
in its 'rear' with his other set of toes.
"Hey!" exclaimed Claire, moving to protect her property. "That's my box!"
She encompassed it with her arms.
"Argh! It - ... Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be doing you or your things
any harm. I'm just in severe pain. Is that thing made of solid rock?"
"Sorry, trade <sneeze> secret," Claire smiled weakly.
"I'm really sorry. I didn't boot it that hard - it should be okay. My name's
Mike. I'm Chris' neighbour."
Claire looked at him.
"Oh… I, uh, passed Chris on the stairs; I just assumed you were with him."
They exchanged a few pleasantries while Mike started up five separate loads.
Everything that had just happened was a lot of Aramark for his thought,
but at the moment perhaps it was best to leave everything well enough alone.
Everyone on the outer periphery of his life had enough problems of their
own to cope with, and Mike decided that his energy would be better spent
on his laundry and winning the heart of Jen.
"Chris, I don't think I'm okay to drive. My eyes are still too <sneeze>
watery."
"Then how do we get you and your mom's car back to Bedford?"
"E<sneeze>-asy. I'll take the bus back late this afternoon. You put
the box in the car and drive it back here tomorrow afternoon, stay at my
place for the night - we'll have our special night and then you can take
the bus back the next morning. Then everything will be back to normal.
I don't know why I got so upset - I guess it's just because I got so <sneeze>
hot thinking about the finished box that I wanted everything immediately."
"That's okay. I understand. I'm sorry I couldn't gratify you right away."
"Well, you know..." Claire trailed off, casting her eyes downward.
Chris understood, and got down on his stomach in front of her, kissing
her navel under her blouse with his lips while his hands searched for the
button of her jeans.
"Sure. I'll bring some soap and a change of clothes."
Chris got off the phone and decided that it was time to get underway. He
changed into a set of work clothes and took another set of clothes, his
bag of tricks, and Claire's box into his arms.
When Chris was about to reach the bank of elevators to go down to the garage,
he saw the boy from the Frosh Move-In who needed help with his TV. The
boy pushed the down button, then stared impatiently at the readout above
one of the elevators.
P... B... 1... 2... 3... 4...
"God, these stupid elevators. They're so damn slow," the boy complained.
"Yheup," Chris said. "Hey, how's your TV working out?"
"Someone walked off with it at the last party," he answered glumly.
"Wow... yeah, that was quite a night. I could hardly sleep at all, though
I tried to."
The boy looked at Chris in a way that indicated that Chris was as square
as a simple calculation for area.
5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10... 11... 12...
"Argh! So goddamned slow! Do they think we have all day?!"
"Yeah, they should probably take all the money that they're using to provide
classes and heated and lit buildings and just put it into building an express
elevator to your room, right?"
"Well, duh!"
13... 14... 15... 16... 17.. ... ding! Chris and the boy boarded the cab.
Chris pushed 'P.' The boy pushed '16.'
17... 16.. ... ding!
joey's reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. An ingress. La
femme.
"Mike's not here."
"I know. I wanted to talk to you." joey pointed his arm and Jen sat down
on the couch.
"What within the realm of infinite possibilities can I do for you?"
"It's the short story I wrote that we workshopped the other night. It's
too-"
joey reached for his copy of her story left over from the English Artists
Society workshop. "What's wrong with it?"
"It's awful! I can't revise it! I'm embarrassed to even look at it-"
"Now, now, it wasn't that bad. But a few of your lines…"
"Oh…" Sotto voce. Anticipation.
"'"I do so dearly want to fuck you, my sweet angel," said James as he led
Angela to his car. Her father smiled proudly.' Well, I remember we said
that this was kind of offensive and unrealistic-"
"Oh, God!" Non-sotto voce.
"-but as a BA student, you've got to be tougher."
"Pardon me?"
"Vacuum up the dredge! Be proud of your industrial sludge! It's part of
being an undergrad!"
"But I can't bear to touch it, it's too terrible-"
"Now, now. There are some good things about it. Don't you remember
Suzarn's critique?"
"He said he wouldn't have read past the third page!" She started to sob
into her hands.
"Oh… uh, I guess I meant Kelly's critique. But don't worry about their
uninspired pronouncements. They don't see the need of window dressing to
push up that Microsoft Word count! Just keep telling yourself this: You're
an Arts student, and you need to cross the bridge. Feed the troll by building
inches!"
"They just hate me!"
"No, they don't hate you. They just wanted to read something good, that's
all."
"You're <sniff> mean… You're too horrible!" Jen ran out of the room.
joey knew that Jen would eventually take his words to the center of
her being. She would learn the system given enough time. In fact, she
might learn it so well as to become a graduate student. There were so many
questions around that had only received a few thousand answers… But in
the meantime, there were games to win and parties to attend.
He got off the highway at the appropriate point and drove west on Collector
Highway 213 until he saw the sign on his right: Clearwater Stables and
Trucking Company - Kendra Halfpence, Proprietress. He parked the car in
front of the stables, and walked into the barn / house where Kendra and
the horses under her care lived.
Inside, he saw a woman who had to be Kendra sweeping the floor and he saw
one horse in a stall. The other horses were probably in the paddock out
front. A small radio was operating, and it seemed to be tuned to 780 KHz,
CFDR - Kixx Country.
"Can I help you?" Kendra asked Chris.
"Oh, I'm just here to clean out Claire's horse's stall."
"Oh, Rambo! Okay, well, I'll take him out of his stall for you and tie
him up just outside here... the pitchfork and sorting fork are over there
and the wheelbarrows are around back. I think you saw the manure pile when
you came in, right?" Outside, by the car, stood a pile of manure the size
of a small two-storey house. "Rambo was in here for a couple of days -
he seemed to be feeling a little under the weather until this morning.
I'll put him back with the other horses later today. You just come and
get me when you're finished. Oh, is Claire doing okay?"
"Yeah, she's just taking it easy. Well, thanks - I guess I'll get to work."
Kendra hitched Rambo outside, and then went upstairs to her apartment,
leaving Chris to figure out the most efficient way to separate the Timbit-shaped
dried horse droppings and the urine-soaked fused bedding from the bedding
sawdust that was still clean and loose. It was a painstaking task, and
Chris struggled against the radio to play Simon and Garfunkel's "America"
back in his head. It took three or for times through the song before he
really got the hang of things.
The car felt airborne hayseed collecting on its body. Argh - it's gonna
go through the vents, get all over the upholstery... Claire usually
rode her bicycle to the stables, and it wasn't such a complainer,
especially if its chain was well-oiled and the cyclometer batteries were
relatively fresh.
Furthermore, Claire's mother's car was usually employed in the service
of Claire's mother, a 440-pound behemoth who sunk the car six inches when
she got in it, and who used a seatbelt extension. The car did not much
care for her, especially in the way that she would ride the brake everywhere,
drive through the city streets when she should have taken the highway,
and neglect to book oil changes according to the oil life indicator. Why
can't people like that boy drive me more often? the car wondered. He
had a nice radio station on, for a change. The car felt the imbalance
in the seatbelt lengths again. I don't care if my manual says that the
GM dealership is pleased to provide seatbelt extensions to the persons
of size who need them. I say, if you're that big, you could
stand to walk most places!
Chris wondered if he could put Rambo back himself. It seemed kind of a
shame to just leave him outside.
Crap, I can't quite get there. I sense a heavy box on the back seat.
The nice boy should have put it in the trunk.
Oh, double crap. I think I just blew a fuse.
One would need to take a lifetime of exhilarating moments and ball them
up into one short moment to appreciate how Chris felt. No restraints! No
subjection!
He used his limbs to carry him swiftly around the barn, cavorting and flailing
wildly. Free! Free! Run! Happy! "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" he screamed
with delight. Joy!
Kendra heard his screaming and came running out of her apartment. "Chris,
are you all right?"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Chris replied, running around in
smaller, more exuberant circles.
"Quiet! You're disturbing my horses!"
"Aaaaaaaaa?"
"Just get in your rig and go." Kendra helped him into the car. The Oldsmobile
drove itself away.
"Honestly, some people... Okay, Rambo, I guess I'll put you in the stall
now. I think it's going to rain, so I'll just leave you there for the night
so you don't feel sick again."
Once Rambo realized his predicament, he knew that his first priority was
to communicate his plight. He correctly guessed that Chris wouldn't be
able to tell anyone anything, and that even if he could, he wouldn't want
to.
"Ms. Halfpence!" he tried to shout, but it really came out as "Neiggggghhh!"
He'd keep trying. "Help, I'm a horse!" he attempted, but it came out as
"Neiggggghhh!"
"Rambo! Quiet down!" came Kendra's shout from upstairs.
No good. What other ways to communicate were there?
stamp-stamp-stamp STAMP STAMP STAMP stamp-stamp-stamp
Then silence.
stamp-stamp-stamp STAMP STAMP STAMP stamp-stamp-stamp
"What is that horse up to now?"
stamp-stamp-stamp STAMP STAMP STAMP stamp-stamp-stamp
"Be quiet, Rambo!"
Oh, why didn't I learn more Morse Code than S.O.S.? Rambo cried
to himself.
An hour later, Kendra came out to feed everyone. She gave Rambo a nice,
fresh bale of hay. The part of Rambo that was Chris didn't really go for
hay himself, but that part of Rambo had access to Rambo's acquired tastes.
He munched on the exquisitely dry hay while waiting for Kendra to discover-
"Seth, have you been playing in the paddock again?!"
No, that wasn't quite what he was going for.
"You know you're not supposed to be in there! It's dangerous for a little
boy like you!"
Rambo, in an attempt to signal Kendra, walked over to the writing and neighed.
"I know, I know, Rambo. That Seth gets a little silly sometimes. But don't
worry, he won't make fun of you any more."
"It's the strangest thing, Kendra. I haven't heard from Chris since yesterday.
Are you sure he came down here?"
"Yes, and he left in your car, but I have no way of knowing where he went."
Claire! Is that Claire? At last!
"Well, at least Rambo seems happy to see me."
Claire! You have to help me!
"He's been acting kind of funny the last little while, but he hasn't been
overly aggressive. But speaking of which-"
"You have Lydia in there with him, right?"
"Yes, but I haven't seen him on top of her all morning."
Oh, no - Claire, I don't want her, I want you!
"But Lydia's in heat! Rambo, what's wrong? I thought you liked Lydia!"
Claire pointed to Lydia, standing a dozen or so feet away, with her ass
decidedly aimed in Rambo's direction.
Rambo shook his head in the negative, rather vigorously.
"He seems a bit out of sorts. I'd better take him for a ride to clear his
head."
"Let's go up the Pipeline," Claire said to Rambo, indicating a narrow gravel
road in the distance. Rambo, anxious to satisfy, rushed off through the
trucking company lot as fast as his hooves could carry him. He very much
enjoyed the feeling of Claire bouncing up and down on top of him, and hoped
that she liked it too.
"Woah, slow down!" Claire laughed. And he did.
They trotted through the trucking company, past the abandoned warehouse,
over the dairy road, past the fishing ponds, up the Pipeline, through the
trees, up the hills, over the mounds, past more ponds and trees, and when
Rambo came to the top of one hill, Claire gave what Rambo perceived as
the signal to stop. Rambo stopped so quickly that he could have been Claire's
own limbs and fingertips. Claire got off and stretched her legs.
"Wow, you can see all of Bedford from up here," Claire whispered. It was
indeed a majestic sight. Several schools, Highway 102, a few parks, lots
of trees, many houses, and the in-filling of Moirs Pond were all within
easy view.
Rambo affectionately purred (well, as well as any horse could purr) and
rubbed his muzzle against Claire's cheek.
"What's gotten into you?" Claire wondered. "You used to have such an attitude..."
"I love you," Rambo said, but it came out as "Neiggggghhh."
Oh, that feels good...
Just as Rambo was starting to reach euphoria despite the country music,
Kendra came down from her apartment and Claire stopped brushing him.
"How did it go?"
"Pretty good. At least he seems healthy."
"Oh, I still have to give you your receipt from last month. Do you want
to come upstairs for a sec, and I'll write it up for you?"
"Yeah, and I'll bring my chequebook and pay you for this month."
They went upstairs to the apartment, leaving a half-brushed Rambo to listen
to the strains of Shania Twain attempting to carve herself a place in music
history.
The torture continued. Claire did not return from the apartment. One misguided
country act after another ricocheted about the stable. Dwight Yoakam, Garth
Brooks, George Jones, Nirvana, more Shania... it was more than he could
bear! He had to change the station, but the dial was tiny, the radio was
against a far wall, and Rambo wasn't tied very close to it. It would be
a challenge. He strained with all his might... closer... closer...
"Man, I feel like a woma-" brzt BZZZT *click* hrrrmmmm MMMMMMM ZZZT ZZZT
Then, at last, the glorious FM stereo sound of CBC Radio Two flourished
about the air. At the moment, they were playing the second movement of
Beethoven's ninth symphony. Rambo smiled (well, as well as any horse could
smile).
"Hey, who changed the radio station!?" Kendra asked the walls. "I had it
on 780 for a reason!"
Back and forth... back and forth... water, water, water...
ZZZT *click* BZZT BZZZT brzt
"- and you can tell my heart, my achy breaky heart..."
Argh!
"Well, if everyone's ready, I'd like to call tonight's emergency meeting
of the Saint Mary's Student Resident's Association to order. First on our
agenda, the status of Chris Averlo."
"Uh, Bob, where is Chris? Shouldn't he be here?"
"Yeah, good point. You'd think he'd-"
At that point, Chris, guided by his senses, entered the room. He didn't
sense that his presence was requested so much as he sensed the donuts and
other pastries on tables lining the diagonal wall of the room. Using his
hands to prop himself up, he placed his head in a nearby wicker basket
and began to consume some apple fritters.
"Hey, Chris, that's not cool, man."
"Robert," one woman began, addressing the Chair, "this sort of behaviour
is precisely why I have filed my complaint against Chris…" Several diatribes
were launched in succession:
"Chris has no perception of how to behave in a residence environment. He
is rude, loud, and aggressive. I cannot sleep with all his neighing and
stamping about all night. I can't even get my filler introductions and
conclusions written!"
"I'm the professor helping Chris with his thesis. When he came in yesterday
for a progress evaluation, it became clear to me that over the past days
he has completely neglected his academic obligations. He has been doing
no research whatsoever, and he hasn't been seen in the library for weeks."
"Sir, I think that's 'cause he got kicked out for eating the books."
"Nevertheless, his laziness has now merged with an attitude problem. When
I asked him why he wasn't working and what he planned to do to rectify
the situation, he was unresponsive. Then he urinated on my chair. His disdain
of the academic process is most unbecoming for a graduate student of any
University."
"I live on the same floor as Chris. I think Chris should be kicked out
because he tried to mate with my girlfriend the other night at the party-"
This student was hastily interrupted by another. "He just means the small,
informal gathering we might have had one evening - as rule-abiding
students, we of course don't have parties."
"Oh, right... the, uh, gathering. Anyway…" A few other people said that
their women, too, were put upon by Chris.
"I live in Vanier, but I was at that particular small, informal gathering,
and speaking for the other girls who were there; a lot of us didn't feel
comfortable dancing in the vicinity of a naked, smelly guy with caked-on
crap all down his legs. He was being very pushy, and he wasn't good about
respecting our personal space."
"I'm a psychology major, and I think Chris exhibits signs of violent, dangerous
aggression. How else does one explain all the holes in the wall between
his room and his neighbours'?"
"Corey, I thought those holes were going into Chris' room…"
Eventually the discussion switched gears to people speaking on Chris' behalf.
This segment was notably shorter. Near the end, joey spoke:
"I think Chris should stay because when he was here, he was a right generous
dude. Sure, he might have put a damper on a few of my small, informal gatherings,
and he was as square as Wyoming - but I've got no ill feelings towards
him. When it came right down to it, he was all right. He'd pass the bowl
until it cashed." A tear lit upon joey's eye. "And then it would come around
again, like some Formica island of a lost indigenous tribe with only their
sad gods minding over the ruins. But those moments could never be special."
"I'm Chris' RA. I want to make it clear as well, that I have nothing
against Chris, and that as a matter of fact I was happy that Chris
would awaken me at quarter to four in many a morning, because in doing
so he gave me the opportunity to perform my duties. And I agree with joey
that he was a good guy, and that he should be allowed to stay.
Chris, when he had his own small, informal gatherings, would always
make sure I had a girl to play with so that my dutiful RA attentions could
be refocused to where they were needed more."
"Uh... great. Anyone else?"
Mike wanted to say something, but he felt that he would be better off talking
to himself than talking to the group. His opinion, if it mattered, was
that Chris should go, but only because of his current behaviour; but he
would not tell anyone this, because of his internal conflict of interest.
Neither would he presume to tell Jen what she ought to say. Racked with
guilt from multiple fronts, Mike felt he had to stand aside and
let people who weren't involved determine Chris' fate. He might still have
spoken up, though, if it weren't for the RA's desire to bury Chris. The
RA had to be kept happy at all costs.
A strange gnawing sound crossed the meeting table. Looking over their shoulders,
it came to the committee's attention that Chris was eating the curtains.
"I guess that says everything. Shall we take the vote? All in favour..."
"Aye!"
"All opposed? ... The 'ayes' have it. Secretary, please call Campus Security
and have Chris escorted off the premises."
"Where's he gonna stay, though?"
"Well, that's his problem."
"He's been doing this all morning! He keeps trying to paw the ground like
he's about to charge, and when I stop him, he just gets angrier!"
"He seems upset about something. Maybe he's trying to communicate."
"Funny, that reminds me of something. I read once about this horse in Germany
named Clever Hans that everyone thought was intelligent - he answered people's
questions by stamping on the ground or pointing to signs or picking out
people from the crowd. Then this professor came down to prove that it wasn't
intelligent after all."
"What did he do?" Claire asked, anxious to see if her mother's horse was
indeed intelligent.
"He proved the horse was just reading people's muscle tension by asking
the horse questions that he didn't know the answer to himself. For instance,
the distance from London to Berlin. Rambo, can you tell us that?"
Rambo shook his head vigorously.
"I notice he didn't try to stamp out the answer, though, so this must be
different," Claire said. "But can you ask him a question he might know
that we don't?"
"What could he know that we don't know?"
"Ask him how many mares are in heat today."
Rambo, growing tired of the game, stamped a 'three,' then tried to write
in the gravel again.
"Augh! Watch it, he's getting aggressive again! Seth, get the tranquilizer
gun!"
"No! He won't hurt me! He likes me, I know he likes me!"
CHRIS
"Chris? Chris?! That's my boyfriend's name! He is intelligent!"
Rambo, though more pleased with this than the previous reactions to his
attempts to communicate, still wasn't entirely satisfied. To his left,
he added I AM.
"'I am Chris!?'"
"Oh, what a stupid horse! He can't
even spell his own name!"
"Yeah, he's not Chris, he's Ram-
Whoops."
"So, do I put you back in your body or do I sell you to the Shriner's Circus
for a million dollars?"
Rambo neighed angrily.
"Oh, Chris, I'm just kidding. I'll make my money selling my box to misguided
lovers. But right now, we have to go find Rambo. I tried calling him at
Loyola but your residence phone has been disconnected." She hugged his
muzzle, then sat down again. "But don't worry, Chris. We'll find him somehow."
STAMP stamp ... STAMP STAMP STAMP STAMP STAMP STAMP STAMP stamp
"Rook to g1?"
stamp
"Okay... Oh, look what you've done; you've put me in check."
Just then, the CBC signature played on the small stable radio. "This is
CBC Radio News for four o'clock, I'm Michael Cole. Today at the Bengal
Lancers stables on Bell Road in Halifax, twenty-two year old Saint Mary's
graduate student… (Tazz, shouldn't that say Dalhousie? No?) Pardon me:
Chris Averlo of Bible Hill Nova Scotia was arrested for causing a public
disturbance. It's reported that he was running naked through the horse
pens, shrieking and screaming, and getting into fights with the stallions.
No word yet on whether any charges will be laid. In other news, Douglas
Pitcairn of the Dalhousie School of Technology has told fellow scientists
and reporters this morning that he has solved the dark matter mystery..."
"Well, yes and no - I'm more his owner, actually."
"Oh," the officer nodded knowingly. "One of those kinds of relationships."
"No, no, you don't understand. He's the sort of animal I tie up and ride
around on."
"Real sissy-whipped, is he?"
"Well, he's my horse!"
"Now, lady, you don't need to get graphic about it!"
"No, no, no - look, I have this box, you see, and it lets people switch
their consciousnesses between each other. We were going to use it on ourselves,
but it malfunctioned when Chris was clearing Rambo's stable, and they switched.
This person here is really Rambo, my horse."
"So that means we have to charge your horse instead of Chris here?"
"No, please, I don't think anybody has to be charged. Just let me bring
him up to Bedford, where my horse is, and I'll run the box again, and then
everything will be back to normal."
"But then who do we press charges against?"
As for the special box, Saint Mary's claimed it as University Property
since it was to be used for Claire's M.Sc. The Faculty of Graduate Studies
sold the prototype to Sony of Japan for ten million dollars and gave Claire
one quarter-credit towards her graduation.
Finally, Chris was made to start his MA over from the beginning. The frame
lying on his bed that had been waiting for a degree would have to sit empty
and unadorned for at least another year. Boy, is SMU ever going to get
a nasty e-mail from me, Chris thought as he put the frame back inside
his desk. Wasn't his Navigational Philosophy writing vague enough to please
the professors yet? Perhaps I should go to New Brunswick and
take their MA in Creative Writing – that's got to be the vaguest field
there is! 'Course, then I have to move.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mike in the corridor. "Hey, Mike!"
Mike stopped. Nervously, he turned to face Chris.
"H-hey."
"Is it time for a small, informal gathering yet?"
"Thought you'd never ask. C'mon, I'll get you a beer."
"Chris?" Someone had noticed.
"Yeah, joey?"
"I, uh – I wanted to apologize for not defending you very well at the meeting
the other day… I was just tired of seeing you ruin our parties. I'm glad
you've mellowed out some. When you were the horse, things were just too
Kafka-esque."
"Are you baked?"
"Well, yes."
"Apology accepted. Thank you. There are more important things in life than
being irritated with everything."
"How come you're by yourself? Where's your soulmate?"
"Oh, she went to Japan to file a patent lawsuit. She'll be back in about
twenty-three months."
"I see." joey, sensing the drop in conversation, left the room to pursue
people cheerier, smarter, dressed in pink, and female.
Chris wondered why such fickle differences in situation depressed him.
His imagination couldn't fill in the gaps about where he was headed anymore,
now that he was forced to start off from a position not much better than
that of a senior BA student. Perhaps he needed more beer, or perhaps…
Sweet, I have a BA already?! I'm outta here!