June 8, 2009
Hey Guys,
For the next week, thoughts of the beguiling young artist occupied every nook and cranny of my mind. But as it always always does, cold reality eventually rushed back in to douse the fire of my dreams. When I showed up at work Wednesday morning, Mariette Wilson, loyal patron, stood by the door impatiently tapping her Guccis. On a good day, she can delight her audience with the force of her wit and charm, but her eyes can scold like none others if you have the misfortune to cross her. Many people find her pushy and unpleasant, but I think there’s something sexy about the way she bosses me around.
“What took you so long? I have a hair appointment,” came her prickly greeting as I unlocked the door ten minutes early.
Before I could even hang my jacket up she demanded I bring her The Wedding Singer. She didn’t have the patience to fish that one out from our repertoire selection herself.
“Put it on my tab,” she said as I handed over the disc. “And by the way, that took you way too long. You need to get organized.” She shut her eyes tightly and held a finger up to her nose, restraining a sneeze. She gathered herself and turned to go, but before stepping over the threshold, she looked back and added helpfully, “It’s also really dusty in here, it’s a nightmare.”
She had a point; the store could use a few touch-ups. Being a man of action (mostly thought, but sometimes action after having appropriately considered the situation), I watched two movies and set out in due course to polish up the place.
I turned the radio on to the classic rock station and started dusting off the displays, humming along to Journey. As I began mopping the floor, a very different sort of loyal patron, Frank Peterbottom, popped in, exuding not only the aroma of cigarette smoke, but actual fumes that seemed to waft out of his tobacco-drenched pores. His yellow, almost translucent hair was mostly concealed under a baseball cap and the bags under his eyes, making him look constantly dreary, seemed darker today. I wondered if he ever slept.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching me clean, lecturing me about the evils of internet software corporations before I offered him a deal: If he cleaned the backroom, where we keep our legacy collection of VHS cassettes, he could keep a couple for himself.
I knew Frank wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to rescue some old tapes – for free. He calls himself a “preserver of ancient documents,” despising the fact that over 2500 tapes languish unwatched under a thick cover of dust – not out of a sense of hip retro style, but because he believes the change in format was a threat to independent thought. He took the opportunity to share his theory once more, speaking in a gravelly voice aggravated by years of tobacco abuse:
“Around 1995 the major studios, under pressure from the Pentagon, decided that certain films needed to be suppressed – a group of NASA scientists invented the DVD and foisted it upon the public, touting the benefits of improved picture and sound quality. Of course it was a major financial boon to the manufacturers as well, but the real reason behind the switch to DVD was to hide the truth.”
“I know Frank,” I said without taking my eyes off a particularly stubborn oil stain on the linoleum. He cleared his throat; a strange gurgling sound issued from somewhere deep in his lungs.
“Ok then, I’ll dust your shelves,” he said. He picked up a rag and ambled into the backroom, reemerging after about ten minutes.
“Check this out,” Frank handed me a slightly yellowed spiral notebook with the name Clive Powell and the years 1987-1992 handwritten on the front. “It was wedged in between the tapes.”
“This guy used to work here,” he said, his voice ringing with excitement , “I knew him.”
“Where was it?” I asked.
“On the top shelf. Between Guy Maddin’s Archangel and Luba: Live in Pembroke 1990.” No wonder this journal was hidden for nearly 20 years.
“Clive, he was one of the cool ones,” Frank went on. “We would talk for hours, deconstructing the world one movie at a time. I don’t know how someone so young could have seen so many movies and listened to so much music… And understood it all.
‘I remember one time I actually went out to see his band play at the old Jungle Gym, this little joint down on Flairmont Ave. I remember the night well. His group was called the Kurosawa Five. Apparently they counted the drum machine as their fifth member. Clive sang lead and played rhythm. Their encore was a song he’d written called The Birds are Coming, a tribute to Alfred Hitchcock. It was charming, but I won’t lie, it was a bit sloppy.” He closed his eyes, reliving a night that had obviously left a deep impression.
“Clive had this incredible girlfriend, Juliette. They had a special chemistry – you could feel it pouring off the stage as he sang. Actually I’d never seen anything like it before. He introduced the two of us before the show and we ended up sharing a table. She was lovely, one of the only women who actually enjoyed hearing me talk about movies, and the only woman, other than my ex, who didn’t run away after five minutes. Between sets she told me how she was involved with a church, but seeking something deeper, trying to find the answers to life’s mysteries in her Haitian roots. She was fascinating. For one thing I’d never seen a black woman at the Jungle Gym. And she was so nice that I decided to pay for her drink, which I hardly ever do. I stick to a strict budget for alcohol.
‘There were a few other bands that night, but Clive’s was the best. I still have his cassette at home. It actually got some airtime in the four AM time slot on local radio.” Frank sang a few bars: “I don’t wanna go/vertigo vertigo… it was pretty catchy. These days, I don’t go out much. It’s not worth it, and besides, I’m too busy working on my archives. Chicks might hate that kinda thing, but it’s pure.”
“Are you still in touch with Clive?” I asked. “You should bring him by the store sometime. I’d love to meet him.”
“I wish. I haven’t heard from him in years. They left very suddenly.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“No. The last time I saw Clive he mentioned some transcendental ceremony at some strange new church. He seemed on edge. He didn’t give any particulars, but he said that Juliette was in over her head. I kept coming back to the store to get news, but there was none. I believe that she got sucked into a cult and that he remained devoted to her throughout the whole affair. They may have gone to Asia to do missionary work.”
“Well Frank, you really earned your movie! Anytime you wanna get up on that rickety ladder and clean the Canadian content section, you’re welcome to. What did you decide to take?”
“Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula and Death Wish 1 through 3. I haven’t seen a good Bronson in ages.” He looked over at the journal one last time. “You gonna read it?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool I guess.” I tried to downplay my excitement. “Do wanna take a little peak with me?”
“I gotta admit I’m curious, but I don’t feel right looking at a friend’s journal.” He rolled himself a cigarette, lit it in the doorway and left to begin his Bronson-thon.
I put down the mop and put off my cleanup until the next day. For the rest of my shift I flipped through Clive’s work. He was a great writer, funny and touching, but what came to mind was the old expression that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Here’s the first entry:
November 5, 1987
It’s my third week and this job is still going great. I love working in the arts and I have enough free time to begin this journal. I forgot how liberating it is to write. I feel like big changes will soon come to my life and I want to keep a straight record, but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up.
The store is quiet except for April Wine playing on the radio. The motor in our VCR burnt out so we can’t watch movies at the store, but I did get to borrow Raising Arizona. It’s a wild idea for a movie but it really works. I’m using a new VCR I bought with my sister and our ex-roommate Phan, who moved back to Vietnam. I miss her, I should write her a letter. I’m going to close up soon, walk home and watch Big Trouble in Little China.
I came home so ecstatic about our discovery that I couldn’t even watch a movie. I can’t wait to share some more of Clive’s stories in my blog.
Comments:
Godfather3: Black people don’t go to those places cause the music sucks. Songs about Alfred Hitchcock, really?
jukeboxsuperhero: How do you know? Youre not even black
Godfather3: How do you know I’m not black?
Spliffany: Journaling is a form of personal therapy. You should just put that back where you found it. don’t dig into people’s business like that.
doctorphyllis_MD: I think maybe Clive wanted his journal to be found, but at the right time and by the right people. That’s why he left it at the store. You’ve been chosen Vic. I for one and looking forwarding to hearing more.
Spliffany: I still don’t know. Why would he want that? maybe he’s hiding something terrible.
jenkins: You gotta find out what’s in that journal. There were some famous unsolved murders back then, what if he’s connected to them? It’s practically your duty.
averagejoe66: I just saw you walk past my place, say hi next time. I just got a new James Brown record, come over and check it out.
videostorevic: Ok
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The Man Who Came to Rent 