It was an eating machine and it owned him. Ryan had become
its slave, become its hunger. The hunger coursed through his veins. It burned in his arms and legs like lactic acid. The hole was hungry again. This morning's Girl Guide and her twelve boxes of cookies hadn't satisfied it. It was afternoon snack time.
As Ryan lurched down the hallway like a drug addict in search of a fix, he knocked a picture of his grandfather off the wall. Hanging it back on the nail, he stared at his grandfather's enormous handlebar moustache and remembered the shrivelled old man he had become before he died in Saint Anthony's Long-term Care Facility. Ryan thought of the drooling, wheelchair-bound seniors at the home. They were helpless; most were incapable of comprehensible speech. They would make perfect food.
Ryan purchased a light green nursing uniform from a medical supply store before renting a cube van. He parked the van at the shipping-receiving door at Saint Anthony's. He pulled out the ramp and unlocked the van's back door. To his surprise the back door of the building was locked. He rattled the door angrily. “Nineteen eighty-four,” said a female voice from behind him
.
Ryan spun around to observe an attractive woman in white nursing attire. “Pardon?” asked Ryan.
“Nineteen eighty-four. It's the code for the keypad lock,” she smiled. “We don't want to let the patients wander out accidently.”
“Heavens no,” Ryan said. “They could hurt themselves horribly. Thanks.”
“Don't mention it,” she said, walking on and lighting a cigarette.
Once inside, Ryan found himself at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Catatonic and lifeless elders littered the halls. One after the other, Ryan rolled them out the back door and into the van. Once in the van, he secured the victims to their wheelchairs with plastic ties to make sure they couldn't pound on the side of the van for help, even though he doubted they had that much energy.
He had room for one more. In a sunroom with a few plaid couches and many large potted plants, he found a lady in a pink bathrobe and green slippers with oxygen tubes up her nose looking out a large picture window. Her nametag read
Mrs. Barry
. “Mrs. Barry, time to get you home for dessert,” said Ryan as he pushed her out the door.
* * *
The man at the medical supply store gave Ryan two thousand dollars in cash for all the wheelchairs. “You get any more, come to me first. I'll take them off your hands.”
“I might have another load for you this afternoon,” said Ryan. “A lot of old people just falling off these days.”
Sammy can now sit up and is sleeping six to seven hours straight a night. It's
truly remarkable how a
few extra hours of sleep can change your life. And Sarah is back to normal. She was depressed for about a month and half. It was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, just a snap of the fingers and she was back. She woke up one morning and told me that she was feeling much better. She described it as being in a fog. She knew she wasn't herself, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Detective Waters had wanted more information on Peter Cann, who'd pulled a Houdini, disappearing off the face of the earth with millions of taxpayer dollars in his pocket. We ended up having several long discussions about Peter, and actually formed a friendship. When I told him about what had happened to my laptop, he asked me what I'd done with it. I told him nothing, that I'd bought a new one with the insurance money. “But did you throw it out?” he'd asked me.
“No, for some reason I've kept its plastic corpse in my closet.”
“Bring it in. I'll have one of our data-recovery people take a look at it.” That was two months ago. Well two weeks after I gave him the machine, he called and said that his people had recovered the complete contents of the hard drive. I had my
Hungry Hole
novel. Light came back into my life. The tightness of my cubicle walls receded, just a little.
I'm making dinner, stir-frying chicken and veggies in a wok. The phone rings. “Can you grab it? I'm changing Sammy,” yells Sarah.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hello, is Colin MacDonald there please?” asks a voice that sounds vaguely familiar.
“Speaking.”
“This is Nona Jenson calling from Black Forest Editions.”
“Yes?” I'm excited. Nervous. My heart picks up speed.
“Kurt Jackson, Marcus's brother, was an editor over at Cold Bird Press. Well, he quit and has taken over Black Forest. He read
The Cube People
himself and loved it. If it's still available, we'd like to draw up a new contract and move ahead as soon as possible.”
“Waaaahhhhhoooooo!!” I scream. I jump around, pumping my fists into the air. Sarah comes running into the kitchen carrying Sammy.
“What is it?”
“Black Forest⦠Marcus had a brother⦠He took over⦠They're still going to publish it!”
Sarah's face breaks into a huge smile and she dances in a circle with Sammy.
“Hello?” says Nona's voice
“Sorry,” I say back into the phone. “I'm so excited. Okay, yes, it's all yours. Send me the contract. I'm ready to sign.”
At my front door sits a box with the words
Black Forest Editions
printed across the top. I carry it inside and place it on the coffee table. It's heavy. I run to the
kitchen and get a st
eak knife. I carefully cut the tape on the box and flip open the cardboard flaps. There before my eyes, neatly packed with crumpled paper along the borders of the box, are two stacks of
The Cube People
.
I reach in and delicately pull one out. I stare at the cover. There's my name printed in black letters,
Colin MacDonald
. Surreal. I turn it over in my hands and read the back cover. I flip it back around. Kurt Jackson must have worked his magic over at Cold Bird, because what I love best of all is the quote that sits near the top, adorning the cover: “A tour de force.” âMaggie Woodland. I can't wait to shove that under Barbara's nose. I crack it open and read the inside cover. I read the dedication page:
For Sarah
. I flip the pages and smell their wonderful aroma of new paper.
The front door opens and Sarah walks through carrying Sammy in her arms. Sarah bends down and puts her on the ground. Sammy sees me and comes running over yelling, “Daddyyyyyy.” I swoop her up in my arms and kiss her on the cheek.
“How's my Sammy Whammy?” I ask her.
“What dat?” she asks, pointing to my book I'm still holding in my hand.
“That's Daddy's book.”
“Oh my God, it's here?!” yells Sarah.
She runs over and grabs the book from my hand. She looks at it, flips it over and flips it back.
“Oh my God, Maggie Woodland, a tour de force, you've got to be kidding me. Are you happy with it?”
“Over the moon.”
“Juice, Daddy,” orders Sammy.
“Okay little one, let's get you some juice,” I tell her. Sarah follows us into the kitchen, reading the book along the way.
“I'm really proud of you, Colin.”
“Daddy, juice,” Sammy repeats impatiently.
“Okay, pumpkin, hang on, Daddy's getting it,” I say, putting her gently down on the floor so she can play with the fridge magnets. I move her over slightly so I can open the fridge door and grab the apple juice.
“I'm really proud of you,” repeats Sarah.
“Thanks baby,” I tell her, popping the can. “I couldn't have done it without you.”
The bus sways along and my eyelids are heavy. Sammy had a bad night. I ended up sleeping on the couch. Across the aisle sits a man. I recognize him from somewhere. It dawns on me: this is the man with the briefcase and the piece of Tupperware, microwavable leftovers inside, whom I had envisioned hanging himself. He looks exactly the same as when I last saw him over a year ago. I presume I look the same too, but I'm not. The bus slows to a stop and a few kids get on. I look out the window and stare at a crack in the pavement. Then I watch it disappear.
From the table near me, the same three faces of a former prime minister stare at me as does the bikini-clad blonde from the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit calendar from the rack close by. I'm sitting at a small beige table near the front of the Stanza
s Bookstore in Sunshin
e Valley Mall. On my left is a wall of mass-market paperbacks by such authors as Stephen King, Ian Rankin, Maeve Binchy and Marian Keyes. On my right is a table with a giant black and white photo of Stanzas CEO Sophie Wiseman with a cup of coffee and a smile with an ever-so-slight seductive air, the promise of possible intercourse in front of the fire at the ski chalet. The words “Sophie's Choice” grace the top of the photo and her orange and purple stickers adorn the covers of Canadian books such as Brian Mulroney's autobiography. However the most coveted sticker, the one which is a licence to print money, is the sacred and revered oval of Oprah's Book Club. They will all go on to be
New York Times
bestsellers, if they aren't already.
On the table before me are twenty copies of my book and a little cardboard sign shipped from my publisher that reads,
Colin MacDonald signs his exciting debut novel The Cube People from 10 am to 2 pm @ Sunshine Valley Mall
. I took the day off work so I could do this and hopefully sell a few books to colleagues cruising the mall on their lunch breaks. I sip my coffee and twirl the pen engraved with the words,
With Love Always, Sarah
â a present she gave me at my book launch. The store manager appears at my side. “Everything okay? You all set up here?”
I smile back, trying to be upbeat, but I realize after sitting here for the last twenty minutes without being able to engage a single store patron in conversation that I'm no J.K. Rowling. No one is lined up in costume to buy my book. “Yep, everything seems good to me,” I tell her.
“Good. Just let me know if you need anything. I'll make an announcement over the PA system that you're here.”
“Great, I appreciate it,” I say, watching her slowly amble away. I spin my pen and stare at the
Sports Illustrated
calendar. Sarah and I are back on the fertility bandwagon. We're trying for a second child. The humpathon schedule is about to resume. I'm dreading it. I think that this
Sports Illustrated
cover may provide some fodder for a particularly rough evening when Sammy won't settle and we HAVE TO DO IT. I tuck the image into the back of my mind.
An elderly woman approaches with a warm smile and asks me which way the washroom is. I tell her. A few minutes later a man asks me if we sell greeting cards. I tell him that I don't know as I don't work here. He seems quite annoyed by my response and asks what I'm doing here if I'm not working but storms off in a huff before I can answer him.
A glance at my cellphone indicates that I've been sitting here for thirty minutes without even a single bite. I'm discouraged. This has been my dream for years. Here I am, sitting in the country's biggest retail chain bookstore, and I'm having about as much impact as a light beer has on a hardcore alcoholic.
Suddenly there's a crackle as the store's PA system kicks in.
“Good morning shoppers,” echoes the voice of the store's manager. “Today if you buy any three books you get the fourth free. Also today we have with us author Chris MacDonald signing his science fiction novel
The Cube Particles
. Please stop by and see Chris to get your copy today.”
I'm fuming mad. Chris MacDonald?
The Cube Particles
? What the fuck? But just as quickly as I become mad, I realize that it makes no difference what my name is or what the title of my book is â I'm quite simply a nobody. Not a soul comes running over (or even slowly saunters for that matter). No one seems to take any notice that there was any announcement at all. A young attractive woman with a backpack wanders into my line of vision and I catch her gaze. “Hi, looking for some exciting reading?” I ask, trying to lure her in. However, as she comes closer, I realize she's quite young and probably still in high school â this makes me feel lecherous, spider-like. She picks up a copy of my book and flips it over in her hand and reads the back. I find myself suddenly nervous, as if I'm being graded, judged.
“This your first book?” she asks.
“Yes, first one,” I say, still smiling away, feeling artificial, silly.
“Wow, cool. I want to write.”
“Yeah? Cool.”
“Did it take you long to write?”
“A couple of years, but it took much longer to get it published.”
“I bet,” she says, bobbling the book in her hands before placing it back on the table. “Sorry, but I'm a student, can't really afford it. I'm just in here to buy a textbook. Good luck though.”
“Thanks, no worries.”
I'm oddly both pleased and deflated. I drain back my coffee and wish I had a cigarette, not that I would be allowed to smoke it in here anyway. Maybe if I were Hunter S. Thompson? I bet they'd let J.K. Rowling smoke in here. Shit, they'd let her smoke whatever she damn well wanted. I bet they'd be bringing her giant wizard pipes packed to the brim with muggle marijuana if she were signing her book here. Over the next half an hour, a series of middle-aged women come by and tell me that although they think it's wonderful that I managed to get published, they don't read science fiction.
A tall, skinny man with long, thin hair, a ratty army jacket and thick body odour stops to tell me that he's working on a novel. I make the mistake of asking him what it's about. He blathers on for twenty minutes about a convoluted spy thriller that involves fifteen main characters and endless subplots. He finally leaves, telling me that he doesn't want to give too much away, in case I try to steal his material.
A stocky man, balding, his shirt open down to mid-chest, exposing a gold chain with a crucified Jesus resting in a thick mat of black chest hair, approaches my table. He gives me the impression of a bouncer or mechanic, a guy who works out at the gym, who's terribly strong, but drinks far too much beer and is constantly battling his gut. Someone who watches American football on Sunday with a plate of chicken wings after washing his sports car. Someone who's terribly illiterate.
“Hey,” he says. “You write this book?”
Duh. Hello there, Mr. Dumbass? “Yep, I sure did.”
He picks it up and inspects it. “You a local guy?”
“Born and raised here. I'm local produce,” I tell him, smiling.
“Yeah, I've read a lot of Philip K. Dick, and Vonnegut, and I read
Dune
and some of Arthur C. Clarke's stuff, but I'm more into Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, you know, crime stuff like that. But Jon Krakauer, admire his stuff too.”
I'm speechless. I marvel at how profoundly wrong I can still be about the people around me. In all the years that I've been walking around this earth of ours, I still, it seems, don't have a clue.
“Well if you enjoy Philip K. Dick, I'm sure you'll enjoy this.”
“I'm sure I will,” he says, smiling. “Will you sign it for me?”
“Um, sure, of course,” I say, taking the book from him. “Who's this going to?”
“Make it out to Don.”
For Don:
May this first impression be a good one.
Many thanks, Colin MacDonald
After he leaves, I see him in line at the cash with my book in his hand. I just sold my first book to someone I didn't know, someone who wasn't at my book launch. I couldn't be happier.
Don's sale triggers a flurry. My confidence grows with each patron who walks by my table. A few of my colleagues from work swing by as they said they would and buy a few copies. Phil turns up at noon bringing me a shawarma for lunch and buys another copy for his mom (he bought three at my book launch). He asks me if I'm ready for the weekend. He's getting married to Zoe in Montreal, where most of her family live. I'm the best man. It dawns on me that I still need to write a speech. Sarah calls on my cell to check on how things are going and reminds me that tonight we begin our fertility cycle. As I hang up, I see Barry's pudgy little form skipping toward me. His Donald Duck tie and government ID tag are swishing back and forth in windshield-wiper style across his tummy.
“So here you are Colin. Almost forgot about your little shindig until I ran into Jack from the floor with a copy of your book. So, how goes sales? You going to be quitting any time soon?” asks Barry, laughing. Barry has a way of crawling under my skin like nobody else I know.
“I don't think any time soon.”
“Well, Shakespeare,” he says. The hairs on my neck stand on end. “Next week, I've got someone new joining your team. His name is Wolfgang and he'll be replacing Jackie. I need him to keep the handicapped washroom quota filled, so to speak.”
“Is he also blind?” I ask.
“He has ADD,” Barry responds cheerfully.
“What?” comes flying out of my mouth. For a split second I think Barry is pulling my leg, but then I realize this is Barry. He's not capable of such subtle and dark humour.
“Attention deficit disorder,” explains Barry. “Wolfgang has a very hard time focusing on a task for more than a few moments. He loses his train of thought. ADD is a very serious disorder. I was hoping you would mentor him.”
“Why in God's name does someone with ADD need a handicapped washroom?”
“He doesn't⦠but he's disabled according to the guidelines set out by the Ministry, and we can't really discriminate amongst the disabled now, can we?”
“I guess not,” I say, hoping my body language isn't somehow betraying me.
“Okay, okay,” says Barry, picking up a book. “I guess I better take one of these, Mr. Steinbeck. Throw your X in it,” he orders, tossing the book to me.
To Barry:
The greatest manager that MRC has ever known.
Warm regards, Ernest Hemingway
He waddles to the cash, chuckling at my inscription.