June 14, 2009
Hey guys,
Please excuse me if my writing is a little erratic, I’ve barely slept for the past few days. As I have a doctorate in archaeology and ancient history I am a tireless unearther of secrets from the past. I thus set about my task with a precision and zeal heretofore unseen since my university days, when I pieced together the remains of the world’s only known Thracian chamber pot.
To stay alert I reverted to the bad habits I had while completing my thesis; drinking twenty cups of coffee and smoking two to three packs of unfiltered menthols a day. In Macedonia, all I could easily get my hands on was instant coffee. I would fill a small cup with the powder and add just enough water to create a fluid solution. I would call it an archaeologist’s espresso and it made my heart feel like it was going to explode out of my chest. Don’t try that at home guys.
This time I added the instant coffee and some over-the-counter alertness pills to the most intense energy drinks legally allowed. It gave me the jolt I needed to pull two consecutive all-nighters, but it really took its toll on my sanity. On my physician’s advice, I began an intense detox program at a local Native American sweat lodge. That was a great mind-bending experience in its own right, but I’ll talk about that another time. Now I feel relaxed enough to tell you what I found out about Clive.
Clive Powell – the man with the journal. First of all, his legibility is unrivalled. The way he was able to cram five years worth of his life into a single 120 page notebook without ever crossing out or misspelling a word is remarkable. He may have been trained in the art of journaling by Japanese monks or maybe he was just naturally gifted. Yet, strangely, many pages, especially during the last two years, have been ripped out. I scoured the back room but they’ve been lost.
Here’s what I know so far: After Clive met his wife, Juliette, they joined a radical cult called the Astral Doorways and participated in strange, esoteric ceremonies. Their trail goes ice cold sometime in the fall of ‘92. I’m worried that the story does not end well.
I began my search by looking into the Doorways, but they seem to have gone defunct. There was a minor mention of them in a pamphlet published by one of their sister organizations in Florida, but no real leads so far.
Then I asked Steve if Clive had worked there since he owned the place. He didn’t know him, but he gave me the name and number of the guy who’d sold him the place. I phoned him up, but he wasn’t very helpful; he was able to confirm the dates Clive worked at the store, but he hadn’t seen him in years. That’s when I realized that this hunt would require every ounce of skill I had.
I went to the city archives, pored over official records and cross-referenced official documents with information from the journal
He was born in 1970, the maladjusted middle child of three. He was close to his two siblings. His older sister became a nurse and the younger an artist – both were passionate about their chosen careers, but from what he writes, it is obvious that Clive felt a bit lost. He dabbled in music, writing and even contemplated running away to live a hermit’s life in the woods.
It’s the journal of a seeker; a contemplative soul trying to make sense of a cruel and contradictory world. He wrote about Juliette, the love of his life, and his passion for his favourite films. He described solitary walks through overgrown lots and other marginal areas. Most of all, he chronicled day to day life at the video store.
I tracked his younger sister, Madeleine, through the white pages but she was no longer living under her maiden name. We spoke on the phone and she gave me enough information to fill a book. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but was grateful that someone had taken up the search for her brother.
“Towards the end he distanced himself from the family,” she told me, “Then one day, he phoned me up out of the blue. Said he loved me and he might not see me for a while.
‘I asked if he was in trouble. If Juliette was involved in something dangerous. He told me the whole world was in danger and that they were going to do something about it. That was the last time we spoke. I want to keep the hope alive, but it’s been so long, why hasn’t he gotten in touch?
‘My brother was such a nice boy, and that weird girl brainwashed him! She married him, then took him away. Probably got him killed…” I heard her put the phone down, but the faint sound of her sobs echoed over the line. Finally she spoke.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone about him in a long time. He was always a little different. Really into music and movies from a young age. Even though he never tried hard in school he still got decent marks. A kind person, but he had a stubborn streak, just like our father.”
She spoke at length about their family, explaining how their mother Annette, a natural beauty, felt claustrophied in her native village, a small mining town in Northern Quebec called Notre-Dame D’ici, and stifled by her strict Catholic parents. They condemned her passion as the work of the Devil. At the tender age of seventeen, she ran away from her family of eleven and came to Montreal to pursue a career in show business. She ended up taking a job as a waitress in a notorious underworld nightclub, the Bottom Bubbler, which is where she would meet her future husband, a tall and debonaire man who was twelve years her senior.
Clive’s father, Leonard Powell, also ran away from home at a young age. He hailed from a small New Brunswick fishing village which has since been abandoned. His father was drunk and abusive and took his frustrations out on his family. In 1942, Leonard, who was still only sixteen, lied about his age and enlisted in the navy. He served on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean and became fascinated by medicine while working as an aide to the ship’s doctor, so when he got back from the war he enrolled in medical school. Eventually, despite his brains, charm and skill with the surgeon’s scalpel, his past caught up with him. It was partly because it was in his genes, and partly because of his haunting war memories that he took to drinking just like his father. Clive was fully aware of his family’s history and was frightened of succumbing to the temptation of drink. He came close to the brink on more than one occasion.
Clive grew up with complicated feelings towards his father. He admired his intelligence, but hated him for the way he put his work and his vices before his family. Clive had a hard time dealing with his parents’ conflicts and admired his mother for being able to put up with him in order to keep the family together.
I thanked Madeleine for speaking with me and promised I’d get to the bottom of this mystery.
As for his time at the store, he began working here three nights a week in 1987 at the age of 17. He’d been trying to get a job at the local record store. Films were his second choice, but when the opportunity presented itself, he took the job. Take a look at this passage that really touched me:
December 5, 1987
My coworkers are sweet! When I walked in, Daisy was listening to “A Certain Ratio”. I never heard of this band before but they rock. Then she put on some “PIL”. I was blown away. She left at 6 and it was just me and Claude. Business had slowed down and he put on Ghostbusters. They finally got a working VCR here and neither of us had seen it. Something about the mood I was in made me fall in love this one. From the opening scene with the librarian freaking out because of the cards flying everywhere I was hooked. I loved watching the team taking form and eventually kicking ass! Take that marshmallow man! Eat molten fucking laser beam asshole. Dan Akroyd, Bill Murray, the guy with glasses and the black guy worked great together! “I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost” I can’t get that song out of my head, what a great drum beat on that track. Honestly though, I feel a little bit scared of ghosts. If I ever saw one, I would freak right out. Closing now, might go out for a burger with Claude.
What a lucky guy! I wish I had coworkers who were that cool. The other guys who work here are gawky, pimple-spotted teenagers who barely know anything about movies or ancient pottery. Maybe I should hire some hot chicks to work here… but I digress. I should be relating the story of my first day on the job, which was not nearly as much fun as Clive’s. The heat was broken so I spent the entire day fully bundled up in my winter gear. The computer also broke down that day, and I spent 45 minutes on the phone with my boss and another hour talking to a repairman. It was a nightmare, but on the bright side, things have only improved since.
Anyhow, I would love to meet Clive. Ghostbusters is one of my favorites too! I saw it when I was ten years old and it “freaked me right out” as Clive would put it. I have the impression that I can see into the video store’s past when I read this stuff. Man am I wired. I’ll get back on the trail next time, but for now I’ve got to lie down, I’m starting to see double. Until then, rent something and we can chat about it.
Comments:
Billy’sidol: the 80s ruled, best time to be young. I would blast Bon Jovi in my Camarro. Ice cream was a quarter. We were rippin’ man!
SonofEbert: Ghostbusters is for babies! You should watch grown up movies like Kill Bill. Nobody watches that old shit anymore.
averagejoe66: Ghostbusters was great, don’t listen to him Vic. It’s a classic. How could you even compare it to Kill Bill?
Jukeboxsuperhero: You should hire some girls gone wild to work there man
mulletar: no just get more of the tapes
always_right_princess: Tapes? Who uses tapes anymore? Just go online and stop talking about it. And Vic, if you’re going to get more chicks, then I want more hunks. By the way, did that horrible, inconsiderate troll bring back Dances with Wolves yet? I’m still waiting…
videostorevic: I’m working on it, for now I’ll order a new copy to keep up with demand.
The Man Who Came to Rent 