,,ggddY""""Ybbgg,, ,agd""' `""bg, T H E N E O - C O M I N T E R N ,gdP" "Ybg, ,dP" ""` ,dP" _,,ddP"""Ybb,,_ .s*""*s .s*"*s. ,8" .+$ '""' `"Yb, .P' $ `.d' `b ,8' .+$$$$ssss+. sssss "'d' .sssP d' `b db. ,8' .+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$+. $$$$$ d' ,P' d' s*s $ d' `b d.+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$`*$$$$+.$$$$$$$$$ $ :$ d'.P .Pd' $ _ 8`*$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ o`*$$$$$$$$ T. `b. :$ TsP .Pd' $ .+P"*+. 8 `*$$$$$$$$$$$ OOb.`*$$$$$ T. `^**sT. .Pd' . $ .+P' :P 8 `*$$$$ YOOOObooi `b. $ T. .P'd' .P $P' .P' 8 `*$ "OQQQO" `TsggsP `TssP' d' .PT. . .P' Y, i. aP ,P d .P :$b+.d' .P' `8, "Ya aP" ,8' d; .P .d' .P' `8, "Yb,_ _,dP" ,8' `*TP .d' .P' `8a `""YbbgggddP""' a8' d; .P' `Yba adP' `*TP' "Yba adY" `"Yba, ,adP"' `"Y8ba, ,ad8P"' E L E C T R O N I C M A G A Z I N E ``""YYbaaadPP""'' .-. t h e l i t e r a r y m o l o t o v c o c k t a i l .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' I N S T A L L M E N T N U M B E R 2 8 2 `-' O C T O B E R 1 4 , 2 0 0 4 B M C , E D I T O R - I N - C H I E F FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: Mindreader - Harry DeGenerette _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ EDITOR'S KNOWTE Dear you, Here's a story to touch your soul. A human story, of a human being, in a human world. A tale of compassion? I dare say so. And a tale of flyers. Oh you heard right, a tale of flyers. Yes, flyers are underappreciated in our society. And what's more underappreciated is the people who deliver those flyers from door to door. SO here is your chance to appreciate them, if just for once. Treasure this story, dear reader. Its value is greater than all of the flyers in the world. And that's from one flyer to another. Enjoy your flyer. Happy flyers, all. FLYER p.s. This story is about more than flyers, btw. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Mindreader Harry DeGenerette _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " "You ever think about having kids?" What I say is: "No, not really." What I mean is: I can't imagine that. I've tried, but I can't. She looks at me-that look-then turns back to the TV. The World Vision commercial ends with the celebrity pitch; an ad for tampons comes on. Scenes flow by in blue, white and green: a blonde woman in English riding gear jumps a white horse over a green hedge; a brunette in a white one-piece bathing suit dives into kidney-shaped, blue-tiled pool. Not a single tampon, just a package, white clouds on a blue background. We watch, sip our beer from cans. I squeeze her shoulder and smile-apologetically, I hope--as the news comes back on. She's focused on the TV, doesn't see the smile and shrugs off the squeeze with a no--look twitch. She almost never hears what I mean. I guess I've told her enough times (trying to cover my own fuck-up, usually): "I'm not some kind of goddamn psychic. I can't read your mind." That puts her on the defensive, as intended, but it's not strictly true. Like when she says: "Do you like this outfit?" What she means is: Do you like me? Like? Christ, I love her. What do I care about outfits? I always look though, make a show of eyeing her up and down. She's getting older, sure, not eighteen any more--but still. Her face is well-preserved if not young, smooth in a fighting-off-the-wrinkles kind of way. It's the eyes that give her away, that tired look when she thinks no one's watching. That look disappears when she smiles; I try to make her smile whenever I think of it. Takes me back. She's got the sculpted calves of a career-waitress, carved by hours of standing in the heels she insists on wearing to work. She complains her arms aren't as defined as they used to be. Standing in front of the mirror, she flips one hand back and forth at the wrist, pointing to the offending tricep-wobble with the other. "Look at that! It didn't used to do that." I walk up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, kiss her neck and whisper something or other in her ear. As I do this, I watch the slouching, balding guy in the mirror: a dirty old man (me) pawing a beautiful woman. She says she needs to lose weight. I say if she lost any more weight she'd be anorexic. If I told her I like her best in cruddy old sweats, schlepping around the apartment, she'd never believe it. On someone else, say a woman I didn't know at the mall, I might notice the clothes first. I might say, "That's one hell of an outfit." Course I wouldn't say it. When I say to her, "Looks good to me," and shrug, she thinks I don't care. Another time, she says: "Do you love me?" That one means: I'm afraid you don't love me. Prove it. How do you prove love? Mornings, she leaves for work, wrapped up tight in her beige-bland uniform, and I'm still sitting at the table. She stops and looks at me. I don't know what that's all about. Hesitating in the open doorway, she lets in a gust of cold air. I'm in my bathrobe, coffee in one hand, smoke in the other, newspaper open on the table, face still puffy from sleep. I pretend I don't see her looking, maybe circle an ad in the paper. Try to project the message: Not even awake yet, but I'm already looking, see? She stands there with this look on her face. Not that look. This one's different. This one makes me think of an empty beach tucked away at the end of a series of low-maintenance trails, Algonquin park, lying on her sarong, the two of us sweat-slicked, drying in the sun. She holds me sprawled across her chest like a slobbery drunk as I doze in self-absorbed, post-coital stupor. A bee hovers by my face. She waves it off: "You leave him alone. He's mine." I pretend I'm sleeping. But that was a long time ago and the camping gear was borrowed. More likely, when she looks at me like that, halfway out the door on her way to work for the rent that I never help pay, she's thinking: I can do better than this. She says, "Bye, hon. See you tonight." I imagine her on the bus downtown, wedging herself into a seat between familiar-faced strangers (you get to recognize them, same ones every day). She looks at the ads, tries to ignore all those poor slobs, all of them stuck on public transit, just like her. I finish my coffee and go back to bed. Maybe I make a few phone calls, read a book, watch TV. I've got nowhere to be. By the time I've showered and dressed, she'll be on her first break. That's most days. Some days I go to that lot downtown, the one on Charles where they pick us up at six in the morning. It's hard to wake up for that, but always--eventually--it's easier to drag my sorry ass down there than to sit around the apartment doing nothing. So I set the alarm, get up while she's still sleeping and take the bus downtown in the dark. I did it this morning. We stand in a huddled crowd, maybe thirty of us, hands wrapped around steaming styrofoam cups. Slanting light punches through the gaps between buildings, crowbars its way into slitted eyes. We blink like groundhogs, too stunned and groggy to look for a shadow. The van pulls up and a young guy gets out, points. "You, you...you three...and you two over there. Let's go." We climb in the back, perch on slippery bales of flyers or hunker down on the plywood flooring. They've ripped out the insides to make more space, so we sit in two facing rows, leaning back against the van's exposed metal guts. On the road to Hamilton, the one with the clipboard collects names and social insurance numbers. Beside me is Clark Kent, social insurance number: 519 911 411. Mine is 382 596 888: FUCK YOUUU on your touch-tone dial. Across from me sit Kurt Russell and Kris Kristoferson. The guy with the clipboard doesn't even crack a smile for Huey, Dewey and Louie McDuck, just writes it all down. He's not stupid, but it's minimum wage, paid in cash at the end of the day. What kind of asshole would make you report a lousy forty bucks? Not this kind of asshole. They drop us off, assign us our territory in five-block chunks, give us each a stack of flyers and a canvas bag. We head out one at a time, a ragged troop of aging paperboys. You get to your block, and you start delivering. The flyers weigh about fifty pounds. Feels light at first, but the canvas strap doesn't have any padding and by the time you get half-way down the block it's starting to chafe. After five blocks, you forget about the chafing as it sinks into muscle, your neck hurts, and you might try experimenting with different ways of slinging the bag. It doesn't work. At ten blocks, it's just a part of the fabric of the day. Pity the poor bugger that comes to work with a sunburn. Every now and then some smart-guy dumps his load in a ravine and buggers off to the bar till pick-up. They do random-checks for that, though, so you deliver. Most houses are empty, everyone off working, but sometimes you catch someone at home, or they catch you. A youngish woman in a skirt and blouse, attractive in a bland, Sears-Catalogue kind of way, might open the door just as you're about to leave. "Look, we don't want these things." She waves a rolled up sheaf of flyers for emphasis. Maybe she throws them on the ground. "We get these things every week and we never look at them." You might shrug. There's no point in trying to explain you've never been here before and probably never will be again. You bend down to pick up the flyers, and she keeps talking. "We used to have a wood stove but we never use it any more and these things just keep piling up. We don't need the flyers, okay?" She's having a bad day. First the plumber, then the pool-cleaner, and now this. Lot of guys get mouthy at this point. I tell her to put up a sign. We're supposed to watch for no-flyers signs since there are a lot of complaints. Sometimes if I'm hung over I ignore the signs. These times, I imagine myself a Che Guevara of the burbs, secretly bludgeoning self-satisfied mortgage holders into submission, one flyer at a time. Another woman, older and wearing a bathrobe over pajamas, might butt her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray as you walk up the drive. ("The way I see it, that's my job," one of these women told me once. "To fill up this ashtray.") She's been waiting, and she's so glad you brought her flyer. Last week, she didn't get it and there was this special over at Knob Hill Farms and she didn't hear about it and had to pay full price for potatoes when she could have got them cheap if she'd just got her flyer. It's a half-hearted sort of complaining; she's not blind (yet). You're pushing forty, and you're walking around delivering junk mail. She can understand that. The complaining is more of an excuse to talk, like the lumbago flare-up or Kids Today. You're not supposed to do anything about it. Just listen, hand over the flyer, mumble something sympathetic, and move on. By the time you've reached the second house, you've forgotten her face. Only the ashtray, pyjamas and bathrobe remain. A cream-painted steel door swings back and I fall forward, a handful of flyers scattering across linoleum as I catch myself on hands and knees. Now, instead of a mail slot, I'm looking at a pair of feminine feet, red-painted toenails. I rise, eyes climbing a cool waterfall of feminine skin, smooth calves topped by thighs that flash bare for a provocative inch or two before disappearing behind sheer fabric. "Well, speak of the devil. Jimmy Winters? That is you, isn't it?" I stand slowly, brushing at my pants. This particular Sears Catalogue woman wears a red silk kimono, lingerie section. Nice outfit. She holds a drink, waves me in, sloshing a little on the floor. "Come on in and have a drink. I'm celebrating." I feel like I've walked into a bad seventies porn. Wah-wah guitars should be kicking in any second now. I flub my line: "I don't know. I'm kind of on a--" "You don't remember me, do you?" She closes one eye, pokes an unsteady finger at my chest. "I remember you though. Now get your ass in here and have a drink. It's a special occasion. Once in a lifetime, maybe. They've got to give you breaks, right?" Well no, actually, they don't. Still: "I guess I could--" and that hesitation is all she needs. She grabs my arm and pulls me into the living room. "Still working out, I see." She gives my bicep a firm squeeze. "Just toss that wherever," she says, indicating the flyers. "Sit down, make yourself at home. Mi casa and all that," and she disappears through a door to the kitchen. I heave the strap over my head, set the bag by the couch and look around. The room is huge, hardwood trim, spotless white carpet, gas fireplace, wedding photos in elaborate wrought iron frames on the mantle. The whole room is done in cream and off-white. I feel like I'm getting it dirty just by looking. A call from the kitchen: "I've got scotch or vodka. You like scotch?" "Uh, scotch is fine," I call back. "What's the occasion?" "Rocks or neat?" she says from the door, a bottle in one hand, two large glasses in the other. A lonely ice cube rattles in one glass. "Rocks, I guess." "Sit down, take a load off," she says, handing me the glass with the ice cube and pushing me onto the couch. She sits next to me, curls her feet up on the cushions, refills her own glass and leans forward to pour mine. To the top. This time, I get a better look. The kimono doesn't quite close at the neck and she isn't wearing anything underneath. "Cheers," I say, raising my drink. "To unexpected visitors," she responds, raising her glass. "Slainte!" Clinking her glass against mine, she spills a little, then raises it to her lips and gulps. I take a small sip. She leans back and looks me up and down, closing one eye. "You still don't remember, do you? Poor guy." "Well, I..." "No, it's okay. Why should you remember? Christy Albertson." A pause. "I was in grade nine when you were in grade twelve. You know how it is." She closes her eyes, tilts her head back. Her long neck is punctuated at each end by small divots: collarbone, the hollow between jaw and ear. "Older kids, they seem larger than life at that age." She opens her eyes. "So what's the occasion?" I ask, trying to change the subject. "I'm pregnant." "Congratulations." "Yeah, turns out old Marty had it in him after all. Who'd have thought? Been trying for years now. Always knew it was a long shot." A stage-whisper: "Marty's got a low sperm count." Back to normal volume: "Looks like old Marty beat the odds this time, though." She raises her glass. "To Marty's Miracle! He'll be so proud." "Haven't told him yet?" "Nope. You're the first to know. He's in Illinois on business, calls every night. Such a sweet man, my Marty. So devoted." "Sounds like you've got it all wrapped up. Nice place you've got here." "You like it?" She waves a hand to the room. "Picked it all out myself, and God knows Martin can afford it. I love this place, really I do. I'm very lucky." She examines the room critically, then looks at me and leans forward. "You know what?" The smell of alcohol grows stronger, and the phantom wah-wah guitars grow more insistent. The kimono opens a little more, and I see all the way down. Nice view. Hard to believe she's only four years younger than I am. Good living, I suppose. "I had a crush on you, you know." She places both hands on my forearms, leaning further forward. My arms tense reflexively, and I spill my drink on that spotless white carpet. "Shit!" I jump up off the couch. "Shit, I'm sorry." That's going to stain, and she...and Martin... "You got a cloth or something?" I head to the kitchen (also spotless), grab a roll of paper towels, take them back to the living room-and stop. Christy sits on the floor by the puddle of scotch, laughing so hard the tears are rolling down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. I hand her a paper towel, and she dabs at her eyes. "Thanks," she says, still giggling. "You know, you haven't changed a bit." "Look...I, uh...I better..." Christy laughs harder, nodding and waving her hands while trying to answer. "Yes, you... Good to..." She can't complete the sentence, waves her assent. I pick up my sack of flyers and let myself out the front door. Miraculously, there's not a drop of scotch on my clothes or the flyers. I cut across the lawn to the next house, adjust the strap on my shoulder. Christy Albertson, hottest girl in grade nine. Everybody knew about the crush. It was hard to miss, the way she'd sit in the weight room and chatter and chatter and chatter while I did curls or triceps or leg-extensions. All the guys bugged me about it, half-mocking, debating the proper course of action. Bill Hereford succinctly summed up the go-for-it faction's opinion. "Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed," he said. Oh, and I thought about it. She didn't look like a grade nine then any more than she looks like a thirty-five year old now. A little hottie, she was. Still is. And as I left, quietly closing the door and checking myself for spillage, that little hottie was slowly, deliberately pouring the contents of a near-full bottle of scotch onto her formerly spotless white carpet. And laughing. In the van, on the road back to Kitchener, the guy with the clipboard hands out cash. Travel time's only paid one way. He calls out the names on his sheet, and one by one, we raise our hands, take our money, double-count it just in case. Everybody's real quiet as he peels fives, tens and twenties from the thick, doubled-over wad of bills. This time no one laughs at Huey, Duey and Louie McDuck. Halfway back to Kitchener, the mood shifts and some of the guys get talking. Kris Kristoferson and Clark Kent say they're heading to the Mayfair soon as we get back. The young guy, the one that doesn't look like he's supposed to be here, stays quiet, never speaks unless he's spoken to and when he does his answers are short and vague. He looks seventeen, eighteen at most. He won't be doing this for long. I don't do this much myself, but it's been off-and-on ten years now. Kris Kristoferson, he's going on about how looped he's going to get, among other things. "Gonna get laid tonight, boys." "Yeah, you and the Palm twins, I hear you got a thing going," says Clark Kent. Laughter all around, and Kent looks pleased with himself. Kristoferson turns to the eighteen year old. "He's just jealous. You should've seen the one I got last week. Legs on up to forever, sweet little thing comes up and you know what she does?" He pauses. Kent rolls his eyes. "She offers to buy me a drink." The kid listens politely. "And I'm thinking, there's gotta be a catch, like maybe she's a hooker or one of them she-males. Like The Crying Game, you know? Man, that's one fucked up flick." He's got his hand on the kid's shoulder, and the kid looks like he'd rather be just about anywhere else right now. "So anyway, I don't want none of that. So I reach right down there, get my hand up under that tiny little skirt of hers, give a good squeeze, and you know what she does?" No response. "She says 'Oh, baby, that feels good.' And now I'm really shitting cause there's nothing down there but what's supposed to be, and she's squirming around on my hand and ready to go, if you know what I mean." Poor kid. He looks terrified. "Turns out her old man works nights, and boy did we have us a hell of a time back at their place. One hell of a time." He grins and slaps the kid on the back. "You're not a bad looking guy. You ought to come with us." The kid looks like he wants to puke, mumbles something about ID. "ID? You don't need ID at the Mayfair! I'll vouch for you." Nobody calls Kristoferson on the story, and some of the guys were there, so (other than the crotch-grabbing episode) it might be true. Kristoferson's got that tanned look--like a hide, not a beach-bunny--same one we've all got. Put a cowboy hat on him and he might look like he's been range-riding all day instead of pounding pavement. That might work. When she walks in the door, I've been home for twenty minutes or so, long enough to get the beer in the fridge. And when I hand her the leftover cash and the first can from the six-pack, she says, "Thanks, hon, that's just what I needed." She kicks off her shoes and flops onto the couch in front of the TV. No translation required. She watches the news, and I sit beside her. I imagine myself getting up and turning down the volume at the next commercial, coming back to the couch and going down on one knee. She looks at me, eyes bright, shining. Maybe a tear runs down her cheek. She can't stop smiling. I speak real low: "Laurie, I been thinking..." I could do that. I would like to do that. In my head, I already have, eight, nine, maybe a dozen times. A commercial comes on, a Volkswagon ad. I get up and look at her. She doesn't notice me looking; she's lost in those mountain vistas, that corner-hugging suspension. I get two more cold beers from the fridge, pop them both open and hand her one. "Thanks, hon," she says, takes a sip, sets the can on the coffee table, and leans back into the arc of my waiting arm, nuzzling the top of her head into the hollow under my chin. .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' ___________________________________________________ | THE COMINTERN IS AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' copyright 2004 by #282-10/14/04 the neo-comintern ISSN 1710-5749 All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada. By Canadians. And a couple Others.