Gonna Fly Now

Maybe it's the drug-induced stupor I've been in for most of this week that's caused me to dream about Beamsville, the small town where I grew up, more frequently than is usual. Last night, for example, I dreamed I returned to our old house on Spring Creek Road to find my mother redoing the livingroom walls in a weird combination of Ikea blue paint and bubble wrap. My mother's dead and my dad sold that house in 1990 when he married The Old Lady, but the bubble wrap part wouldn't strike you as bizarre if you'd known my mother.

And twice this week I've dreamed about Roger Larmon.

My crush on Roger began in grade five and lasted until I lost track of him when he moved away during highschool. I'm a Leo, and Leos are loyal to a fault. I'd probably still be in love with him if he hadn't left town. In the real world, I have no idea where he is or what he's doing now; he could be a Peace Corps doctor in Africa, or a line worker at the GM plant, living in the north end of St. Catharines in a split level with a wife and two kids. But in Dream World, when I encounter him, we're old friends who've stayed in touch, and we joke about Mario Silva.

"If I had to guess, I'd bet Mario is in prison," I say.

"You'd be right," says Roger, and he tells me what he knows about how Mario turned out.

Mario transferred to Senator Gibson School for grade five, the same year as Roger, and the two of them were always together, though looking back through the eyes of wisdom I believe their friendship, such as it was, hinged on the fact that they both lived on Hixon Street, and of necessity walked to and from school together. They couldn't have been less alike: Roger was tall, blonde, and WASPy, with big teeth and a crooked smile that earned him the nickname Bugs, as in Bugs Bunny. He was an A student most of the time, and a nice guy when Mario wasn't around. Mario was small, dark, and Portuguese. He smelled like smoke and his fingers and teeth were yellow, and he'd brag about shoplifting at Steadman's uptown. He'd failed a couple of grades and must have been two years older than the rest of us.

Mario hung around Roger like that dog in the Bugs Bunny cartoon, the one that says, "We're pals, ain't we, Alfie?" But instead of Roger being a good influence on Mario, Mario, it seemed, was a bad influence on Roger. In grade six I saw Roger and Mario out by the back fence during recess, smoking a cigarette. It almost killed my crush.

Mario, when he found out I was German, started calling me the Nazi. And Roger, who had been talking to me before Mario walked by and called me that for the first time, laughed.

I knew he was Portuguese but I didn't know any racial slurs to hurl back at him. I was ten; I didn't even know what a Nazi was, or I might have shot back, "Hey, Mario, why don't you come over to my house after school so I can see if your scrawny ass fits into my oven?"

Mario quit school as soon as he turned 16, which was half way through grade eight, so I had to endure almost four years of him. It was worth it in the end, because it was in that year, when we were all seniors at Jacob Beam Public School, that I had my revenge on Mario.

We were in Mrs Gillian's art class. It was late fall, and I was wearing a new outfit, a dark pink faux suede jacket and skirt. Gosh, how I loved that suit. There was a matching pair of pants, too, and all three pieces were lined with a blue and pink paisley pattern which peeked out from the edge of the cuffs and the waistband of the skirt and pants. Pink has always been my favourite colour. That day was the first day I'd worn it to school, and I'd noticed Roger looking my way at least four times since home room that morning.

I was sitting at my desk, trying to draw something — I was never any good at art — when Mario walked past my desk with a wet paintbrush in his hand, and accidentally on purpose painted a swatch of dark blue across the arm of my jacket.

"Oh, sorry!" he said, sincere as Snidely Whiplash and loud enough for half the room to hear. "Did I ruin your new outfit? Gee, it was an accident."

I said nothing, I was so shocked by this blatant act of aggression coming from Mario, who was usually sneaky in his nastiness, like a cockroach shitting in your cereal box in the dark. Then I took a moment to fight back the tears. The fury was rising in me, and when I am furious, I tend to cry, even today. But I knew crying would make me look like a baby, and make matters worse.

I stood up, and turned to face the back of the room. Mario was at the end of my row of desks, strolling casually toward the far corner, where he'd been sitting. Roger sat at the end of the row beside Mario's table.

I followed Mario, walking slowly, my hands clenched in fists at my side. Mario turned and saw me, and walked a little faster. When he reached Roger he sniggered and pointed at me. He was about to sit in his seat when he looked my way again. Something in my face must have scared him, because he kept walking instead, so by the time I reached his empty desk in the far back corner, he was at the front of the room, hastily explaining to Mrs Gillian, who until now had been oblivous, about the "accident."

Roger said nothing as I passed, but his eyes asked, what happened? I pointed at my sleeve, and kept walking, slowly, following Mario's path. Mario was now scurrying to keep on the opposite side of the room from me.

"All right, everyone, please take your seats," said Mrs Gillian. She was a tiny woman, about five feet tall in her pumps, and 90 pounds soaking wet. No one paid any attention to her. By now, the rest of the students had put down their pens and paintbrushes and were watching Mario and me circle the room.

I didn't run; I didn't hurry. I knew if we both started to run I'd never catch him, weasel that he was, and I didn't want our little drama turning into slapstick. I figured that eventually he'd have to stop and confront me, or else he risked looking like a coward. So I continued to follow him around the room.

As Mario approached his corner for the second time, Roger stood up and leaned casually against the counter behind his desk. And Doug Harvey, who was one of the most popular boys in our school (and who, a few years later, would be our class valedictorian), pushed his chair back from his table and had turned to face the oncoming Mario, who now slowed his pace as he approached his friend; his ally, Roger. He turned back toward me again and smirked, as if to say, now what are you going to do?

I didn't know, but I knew I had to finish it.

"Mario! Sass! Please go back to your seats!" Mrs Gillian tried again. Then I heard the sound of her heels clickety clicking toward the door, and the sound of the door opening, then closing behind her.

Mario had stopped walking. He was standing in the back corner, between Roger and Doug, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him, acting cool as a cucumber, confident that I wouldn't dare to do anything while Roger was there to protect him.

That's when I slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

In the split second that it took Mario to recover from the surprise, and uncross his arms so he could hit me back, Roger grabbed his right arm and pinned it behind him. And then, magically, there was Doug Harvey, the most popular boy in grade eight; heck, in the whole school, grabbing Mario's left hand before it could swing at me, and holding him back.

They just stood there like that, Roger and Doug, holding Mario between them, while he struggled and begged for them to let him go. That's when the rest of the class started laughing, and this time they were laughing at Mario, not at me.

I considered what to do next; whether it was finished. I looked at Roger, and he shrugged, as if to say, up to you, he's got it coming. And so I took one more swing, this time with my fist, and punched Mario right in the face.

He started to cry. That's when I knew it was finished.

Roger and Doug let Mario go, and he ran out of the room. I went back to my desk and sat down, just as Mrs Gillian returned to the classroom with the principal in tow.

I don't think either of them ever found out why the 29 students remaining in that grade eight art class that afternoon had been cheering when they walked in.
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In the next story, Postmodern Sass sees Darryl Sittler at The Banknote and remembers some of the celebrities she's met. But first it's a visit to the Carnival of the Mundane, and a happy rant about Gmail.