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THE SUNDAY PAPER: “The Last Two Honest Men” by Dave Proctor, part 1 of 3

Leon and I used to drive through the older suburbs at around eight, when the cleaning ladies were all heading home. They’d be huddled inside the bus shelters, wrapped in their big puffy coats that made them look like the bags of insulation dad kept in the attic. We’d stop my truck at the light, even if it was green, and Leon would roll down the window and he’d just start yellin’, “Hey! Hey you!” and the ladies would look away, thinking that we were going to do something crass or cruel, and then Leon would should “Yeah you! Jesus loves you!” Then their looks would turn from fear to total confusion, right before our eyes, and I’d hit the gas and we’d peel off faster than dirt.

I liked it when Leon came up with that prank. We weren’t religious or anything, we just thought it was funny. It was different from the kind of pranks the other kids our age pulled. It was kinda positive. Leon was always tryin’ to do stuff like that, set ourselves apart from the path everyone else was on. We weren’t going to do anything cruel for the sake of being cruel, or rebellious for the sake of being rebellious. Like the night a girl in our class got her brother to buy everyone beer and threw a party. We went, but we sat in the basement, drinking fresca and leaning up against the chest freezer, making up songs about the people upstairs drinking because they thought it was something they had to do.

Leon said that kind of behaviour was in the blood at our school, and that kids just act tough because they all knew one day they would have to give up everything, and get jobs at the Wal-Mart on the edge of town. Leon said everything they did was just pointless, letting off steam, and that living that way was dishonest. That’s how Leon explained it, anyway, and I agreed with him though I didn’t have many strong feelings on the matter. I liked being around him more and more since mom split most of her time between driving Mikey to extracurriculars and fighting with dad. Leon promised that we wouldn’t live like any of them. He called us the last two honest men.

Some nights thinking this way got us into trouble with the other kids. We went bowling one Saturday and pulled around the mall parking lot to sit on my hood and watch traffic, and this small group of kids walked up and asked us if we had any beers, or weed, or cough syrup or anything.

I said no, real quiet and meek, speaking into the collar of my shirt.

Leon hopped to his feet and pressed toward the guy, shoutin’ “No, man. Is that all you want? Why do you need that stuff? If that’s all you want, you’re not gonna find it here.” The kid he was yelling at pushed back, and said something crass about Leon’s mother, about having sex with her. That’s what these kids do, they always go for the mothers.

Leon turned to see me still sitting on the hood of the truck. I looked afraid. The kid said a thing about Leon’s mother again and gave him a quick jab in the collarbones with his fingers. Leon took a swing and missed, calling the kid a fake and a liar. I slunk down and came up behind Leon to help. The two tossed punches back and forth, each one missing. Leon’s last miss landed in the big kid’s hands; he swung Leon’s forearm around and pinned him to the pavement. Leon squirmed as the big kid started leaning into his arm real hard with his knee, and pulling up on the rest of it until the whole bone snapped like a branch. Leon shrieked and gargled on the ground. Before I could finish calling out Leon’s name, one of the other kids pushed the hot end of his cigarette into my shirt and it burned right through to my chest. My eyes went white and all the muscles crowded around my neck. When I shook it off and looked around, my face flush and my arms flooded with anger, it was too late. The other kids were gone. I picked up Leon by his other arm and walked him into my truck. On the way to the hospital he just kept repeating, “Damn liars, damn fakes. Damn liars, damn fakes.”

Leon didn’t say a word the whole drive away from the hospital. We both lived on the newer suburbs on either side of 18^th, in thin houses with garages that back into long, shared alleys. By the time I got him to his house it was quarter to four in the morning, and we could see the light on in the kitchen, and Leon’s parents waiting by the window. His mom woke up every day to be at the Wal-Mart by six and his dad managed a grocery store in town. Neither of them looked too happy and Leon crawled out of the car without saying goodbye.

THE SUNDAY PAPER: “Blue Beach” by Suzanne Sutherland, part 4 of 4

On the beach later that afternoon, a man approached me, a young guy. I’d seen him around with a group of other tourists speaking what sounded like German.

Hello, hi. May I sit?

Sure, hey.

You are alone?

Yes. No, I mean no. I’m here with my boyfriend

Lucky guy. Where is he?

He’s not feeling well. He’s sick. He’s back in our room.

Who can be sick in such a beautiful place?

We just picked the wrong time to go away. How about you? Are you enjoying your vacation?

I love it here. I will be sad to leave tomorrow. I will miss the sand.

Well I hope you have a safe trip back. I better go check on my boyfriend.

Nice to meet you. I hope he feels better soon.

Yeah, me too.

I started walking back towards the hotel, then stopped. I stripped down to my underwear—I hadn’t bothered to put on my bathing suit—and headed for the water instead. The coolness was a surprise to my skin as I waded deeper, while the sun bore down on my head and back. I dove into a small wave and dog-paddled around for a while in the blue-green water, spitting out salt water each time I accidentally swallowed it.

I remembered sharing a cold shower with Nate during the heat wave the summer before. His hands moving like soapy waves over my body, so thankful to wash the clinging sweat from me,  for a break from the haunting burn of the sun. 

I got a lot of reading done that week. I wanted to venture further from the resort, to take a day trip into Havana, and explore more of downtown Varadero, but I was afraid to leave Nate behind. I spent the days alone on the beach, drinking too much and getting a sunburn, hauling Nate out of his cocoon every so often to make sure he didn’t starve and that he still had a pulse. I watched the different shows that the hotel’s entertainment staff performed each night after dinner from the back row, rum drink in hand, praying that no one would ask me to enter a salsa contest or name that tune: Hotel California by the Eagles! Africa by Toto!

I woke up on our last morning feeling as lonely as I’d ever been. I woke Nate up at eleven and told him we had to be checked out of our room by noon.

What time’s our flight again?

Not ’til nine tonight.

So what are we gonna do ’til then?

We’re going to the beach.

We left our luggage at the front desk, and walked together past the snack bar and the dining room, until we reached the low mounds of sand and palm trees that framed the water. I unlaced my shoes and took off my socks and gestured for Nate to do the same.

Are we really going to do this?

Yes. Yeah, yeah, we are.

We made our way past the young families and bloated tourists who had set up camp with their loungers in the sand and walked towards the water. The waves licked our feet as we got closer, and I tossed my shoes onto the ground behind us and Nate followed suit. I wanted him to say how beautiful the water was and how stupid he’d been for not coming out to see it all week. Instead he said nothing, closed his eyes and grabbed my ass.

Come on, let’s go home.

 The flight back was fine. We got in super late and both stayed over at his place since it was closer to the airport than mine. My cell phone alarm went off at eight-thirty and I got dressed for work in the same outfit I’d worn on both plane rides. Nate slept in—his shift didn’t start until four that day—and I started putting my things together to bring with me before realizing that there was too much to carry.

Hey. Psst, hey. Is it all right if I leave my suitcase here and come back for it later this week?

He turned over to look at me, and I was surprised to see that he was already awake. More surprised still that it looked like he’d been crying, something I’d never seen him do. He sat up and put his arms around me, and we lay back down together.

Yeah, sure, it’s fine, whatever. I love you, you know.

No. No, I didn’t know. You never told me.

I did. I-I just did.

Not really.

But I do. I love you.

Okay.

Okay?

Okay. You love me.

What about you?

What about me? I’m late for work.

Do you love me?

You stupid asshole.

What?

You’re stupid, you know that? Really stupid. Dumb.

Is this about you being pissed about the trip?

Yeah, of course. But no, no, not really. That’s not why you’re stupid.

So why?

Because. Because I care about you and I want to be with you and even when I hate you I can’t imagine ever letting anything bad happen to you. I love you, dude.

I didn’t make it in to work that day.

Book Review: John R. W. Keillor’s Music Without God.

 Music Without God: From Slayer to Stereolab
John R. W. Keillor
134 pages.
musicwithoutgod.com

“Imagine an atheist,” begins John R.W. Keillor, “preferably adult, of either gender. . . Take a few seconds to customize your atheist. Own your atheist. See the ears and eyebrows. Be artistic. Express yourself.

“Now, the only thing I can guess at with any certainty about your atheist is that he or she isn’t smiling.”

Keillor’s right. My atheist isn’t smiling, but neither is my Christian, my Hindu or my Buddhist. The pursuit of God is serious business, even for those who, like the Dalai Lama, chose to remove belief from the equation. Religious prophets and heroes usually spend their lives wandering in the desert, as Buddha and Mosses did; fighting political battles, like Christ and Arjuna; or tortured for their devotion, like Jone d’Arc or Job. The smile is not the barometer of the soul. The soul is the organ of revolution. Atheist heroes like Darwin, Dawkins, Hawking and both Lennons, are also serious revolutionaries, and by that definition, just as deeply soulful and any devout prophet.

Not that Dawkins wouldn’t be pissed at me for saying so. Most modern atheists would probably say that the soul is imaginary, just like the aura, the astral heart, even the mind itself. The human animal is a physical being, they would say. Thoughts are electrical. Emotions are chemical. You are one single being, not a collection of subordinate parts. It is an idea I first learned reading about Buddhism.

So Keillor’s mission, to write broadly and usefully about “a non-religious way to explore the human soul,” is a failure. He understands neither non-religion nor the soul well enough to write about them authoritatively.

Keillor may not realise it, but he isn’t talking about soul. He’s talking about self awareness, about joy, and actually, he’s doing so very successfully. Pick up Keillor’s book expecting to take his underdeveloped thesis with a grain of salt. Music Without God is not really about souls, but rather solely about the author and beneath the ill plied veneer of essay, Music Without God is actually a highly enjoyable text. A wonderful collection of memoir and concert review, with a peppering of classic video game nostalgia just for kicks.

The work is cornerstoned by reviews of Keillor’s four most formative musical experiences: his adolescent selves first Slayer concert, his grown selves favourite Johnny Hollow concert, his first hardcore song – Chemical Warfare by the Dead Kennedys – and his first Stereolab record, Dots and Loops. Keillor is a well practiced music writer — having a long career spanning a number of major Canadian publications, most notably as the opera critic for the National Post — and it is in these passages that Music Without God truly shines.

Keillor is writing about joy, and in his reviews, that joy is palpable and thick.  He remembers every note, every texture of these intense musical experiences, and he shares them with the reader frankly, sincerely, and with relatable, straightforward passion. They are reviews not only of the music itself, but of the authors whole experience in listening to it. The reader takes away excellent and compelling, biographical snapshots. It’s a lot of fun to read about heavy metal from the perspective of a practiced, classical ear, but it’s even more fun to read about Keillor as young, opinionated man, coming of age around music.

by Michael Scott
http://woodenrocketpress.com