Glen Hoggarth

  Meanwhile, the trees surrounding the garden swayed gracefully. Their leaves rustled dryly and some spiraled to the ground, creating mosaics of jumbled color on the patio—and then there was the bay's sparkling waves and the mountains beyond. Peaks, timelessly unchanged, encircling the city like the horns of a king’s crown. Glen took a swig of beer and again felt glad to be out of the house, out on the town, regardless of his friend’s mood.

  He found himself wondering why he didn't try to lead a happier life. A life comprised of pleasant moments like this one. He smiled at the sudden idea—strange how optimism could sometimes strike from out of the blue. Nice when it happened. In his experience, putting a positive spin on things more often than not required effort and deliberation. A sunny perspective had to muscle its way through the gloom.

  “Another side of fries?” Glen asked. “Before we go book hunting?”

  Russell had been looking up. About to ask a question.

  “I’ll say yes to the fries,” he replied.

  “Is there something else?”

  “How many books can I buy?”

  In the university bookstore, they went their separate ways. Glen strode down a long carpeted ramp to the lower levels, where the discount book bins were located—bins where he often looked for books that interested him. The selection, of course, was quite random and today he dug out several books dealing with Asian religion, one of them a weighty thousand-page anthology of Chinese texts in translation. Two merry dwarves graced the tome's cover, beating little drums and shaking rattles. Projecting a certain otherworldly charm.

  Glen glanced over to the store's Political Science section. Russell's head bobbed along the chest-high shelves as—like a hawkish general reviewing the ranks—he studied the book titles one by one. Satisfied his friend was agreeably occupied, Glen took a seat on the carpet and opened the anthology. In the introduction to one text, a sutra written in parable form, he learned that Buddhism first entered China in the fourth century CE, when Indian monks began traversing the Himalayas. The story itself told of a rich man who lived in a magnificent palace with countless chambers and scores of servants. But unbeknown to anyone, the place was rotten to its foundations. Even the ornate columns and arches were riddled with decay.

  One day a fire erupted, the blaze spreading rapidly from room to room. The rich man fled to safety right away, however his children were too engrossed in their toys to heed the engulfing peril. He cried out to them, warning them, but they blithely continued playing as if nothing could possibly be the matter. In the end, the rich man was only able to lure his children out of the flames by promising them even more elaborate toys outside. The youngsters then dashed to the door, pushing and shoving to be the first one out.

  Glen wondered how to interpret the parable. The first Buddhist thing he had ever read. Was there anything to compare it to? He recalled Christ kicking the money changers out of the Temple, but that gospel story wasn't about evading danger: its theme lay elsewhere. One element that made the parable intriguing was how it disparaged the idea of property. By contrast, through the ages hadn't Christianity obsessed over the ownership of buildings and land? Like the Promised Land that the Abrahamic faiths were so attached to.

  The parable gave Glen the impression that Buddhism eschewed all that. But he wasn't sure he was getting it right. He tried picturing the authentic Buddhist response to the importance of property: a Zen master meditating on a mountaintop or pristine lakeside; no immense, self-glorifying cathedral, no awe-inspiring mosque, not even a humble church dotting the prairie. Because any place of worship amounted to something to fight over, right?

  But parables had multiple meanings. Certainly, none of the ones he had come up with yet was the meaning. Did the crux of the parable go further still? Nothing was real to a Buddhist, so nothing material had any real worth. An opulent palace was nothing more than a magnificent illusion, which was why the story of the rich man depicted it as a dangerous trap.

  “Off the floor Glen,” Russell said. “Really. A grown man sitting on the floor.”

  “It's comfy—and there's nowhere else to sit.”

  “You're making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Glen laughed. “Give me a break.”

  “Your whole life's a break, isn't it?”

  “I need a break from you.”

  “Not so fast. First you have to pay for these books.”

  “How many you got there?”

  “A whole bunch. You?”

  “Probably just this one.”

  “That's a big book. It'll make you look smart.”

  Chapter 7

  After paying for the books, Glen and Russell walked back to the parkade. Architecture from various decades lined the broad mall they followed. The campus rose garden was located directly ahead of them. Beyond that came a treed park area and some beautiful heritage houses, then the peninsula jut out into the strait and met the water. The mountain range Glen had been admiring earlier rose up from the bay on the other side.

  “Where to now, my man?” Russell asked. “You wanna pick up girls?”

  “No. Just home, I guess.”

  “Isn't that a student pub yonder? Let's go find some impressionable young females.”

  “I never did that when I studied here and don't intend to now. I mean, I should've done that before if I was going to do it at all. When I had my looks.”

  “I don't recall you ever having—”

  “Come on, I'm joking.”

  “You're not that ugly, Glen. You have height, a quality I never had.”

  “You make up for all your shortcomings with character.”

  “Shortcomings. Thanks, asshole.”

  “Since when are you touchy about that?”

  “Since never. Hey, Glennie, with the right clothes and a hot car—both things you can easily afford, by the way—your loser stink would lift right off you. You'd be a new man.”

  Go fuck yourself, you fat prick.

  “Oops, that's going too far,” Russell said.

  “You still upset about something? From before at Thea's?”

  “Not really. I'm just a jerk sometimes.”

  “Are you praising yourself when you say that?”

  “No,” Russell said. “I'm a jerk and a fat slob. So there.”

  “Let's just do DVDs today. You want to?”

  “Like always. Sure.”

  Martha's phone calls and movies with Russell: that was the limit of Glen's socializing. He never talked to anyone else and didn't miss not having more people in his life, except maybe a nice girlfriend—somebody warm and tender, somebody to have relaxed conversations with and take to bed. Christ! A sex life. What would that be like?

  Driving back into the city, Russell flipped open a book while Glen concentrated on the traffic in the street and his meandering thoughts. Martha called at least once a week. He could handle that—at least she never talked about moving back to Vancouver anymore. On the other hand, Russell came by two or three times every week, something which Glen tended to rely on since there had to be more to life that doing the shopping alone, reading alone, or going for solitary walks in the neighborhood. But, really, there had to be more to life than just hanging out with Russell, too. Any normal person would say so.

  Glen knew his lifestyle wasn't one appreciated by most people. Most women his age would probably find the way he lived too serene—a euphemism perhaps for dreary and dull. He didn't even like to travel, something almost everybody enjoyed. Instead, he was fond of security, regularity and predictability, what elderly folks were more likely to value. The thought crossed Glen's mind that he might one day find love with a grandmother—when he himself was in his sixties or seventies. His personality suited women of grandmother age.

  The two friends entered the house through the back and moseyed into the living room. For a moment they sat staring at the four walls. Glen needed time to surface from the funk he had fallen into. No girlfriend, no meaningful career—no fucking purpose
to my life whatsoever. No love of my life, no love of life. I'm doing something wrong. Glen propped his elbows on his knees and gazed at the carpet. Russell watched from the couch.

  “You should meet my tenant sometime,” Glen finally said. “He’s a pretty cool guy.”

  “Compared to you that is,” Russell replied.

  “He’s lived in China and speaks perfect Mandarin.”

  “Remember how he hates you though. Just bear that in mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s established scientific fact.”

  “Scientific fact?” Glen had to laugh.

  “Tenants are antithetical to landlords,” Russell said. “It’s the dog versus cat dynamic, involving a natural hatred and distrust, only on the human social plane. In fact, when dogs and cats watch cartoons they're about landlords chasing their tenants but never quite succeeding to catch them. In the end, the tenant always gets away without paying a cent.”

  “Let's see if I understand. Dogs own dog houses, which in your scenario makes them landlords who want to catch cats, which symbolize tenants. That's totally nuts. For one thing, I doubt a cat would ever want to live in a dog house.”

  “You got it all wrong.”

  “Cats prefer trees and such.”

  “You remember that bird and cat cartoon when we were kids? Well, the bird cage symbolizes the landlord’s rental property. It makes a safe home for that chickenshit bird, but in a way it's also a cage imprisoning him. Ever thought of it that way?”

  “Too deep, way too deep. Now I’m confused.”

  “You admit it. Finally.”

  “Actually, it’s you who isn’t making any sense.”

  “I’m making too much sense. There’s a difference.”

  “Where does the cat fit in?”

  “We're talking about a bird now.”

  “So as a landlord, now I'm trapped in a bird cage.”

  “And you're a chickenshit.”

  Glen laughed. “Thanks a lot.”

  “If the shoe fits, man.”

  “In reality Martha owns everything, so she’s the one in the cage.”

  “When are you gonna stop spouting that line.”

  “It happens to be true.”

  “Believe me, you’re the landlord to him—okay?—your fascinating new tenant. That or something lower, the landlord's kiss-ass lackey.”

  “Just put the DVD in.”

  “Okay, so what’s he like, your wonderful tenant?”

  “He’s lived in China for seven years and speaks the language fluently. He’s like this perfect guy who’s lived a perfect life. He’s had all these great experiences.”

  “While you pretty much, well, fart around your apartment all day.”

  “Why’d I invite you over again?”

  “For the stimulating intellectual banter.”

  “Is that what you call bashing me continually?”

  Russell rose to his feet. He began looking around the room.

  “Where did you put the thing?”

  “On top of the thingy. The DVD player.”

  Russell checked, losing patience. “It ain’t fucking here.”

  “Try the kitchen table.”

  Russell passed through the doorway. “Hey, get over here,” he said. Glen leaned to one side and peered into the kitchen. He made out the plastic bag containing the DVDs on the table and his friend staring out over the backyard.

  “What is it?” Glen asked.

  “Someone’s wandering around—fuck, get over here!”

  A stranger was lingering at the door of the shed out back. His face wasn't visible: due to the sun’s reflection on the window, he had to bring his eyes up to the glass to see inside. The man wore sweat pants and a gray T-shirt. A bum pack hung loosely from his waist.

  He gave the door knob a hard twist.

  “Sorry, fucker,” Glen murmured, “but I did actually think of locking the door.”

  “Must be some junky,” Russell said. “Strange, this isn't junky territory.”

  “In broad daylight.”

  “He needs a fix.”

  Glen gave Russell a sideways glance. “Do I call the cops?”

  “No, you gotta go out there.”

  “All right. Guess I have to.”

  He went out onto the landing. “Hi there. Can I ask what you’re doing?”

  The man sized Glen up then shot Russell a glance. His eyes seemed disturbingly unfazed as he strolled up the cement path. He even smiled.

  Glen gripped the railing—oh shit, here we go! He pictured a sudden scuffle, getting wrestled to the ground. Life’s amazing twists and turns, he thought.

  There was a rap on the basement door.

  “Hey,” Justin said, “come on in.”

  Chapter 8

  Glen remembered crossing the parking lot and shivering in uncontrollable fits. His toes were cold, his wool socks soaked. Martha nudged him through the building's main entrance with a poke between the shoulders. “Well, go on,” she said. Glen hoped the air indoors would be warmer, and he didn’t want to be left sitting on the floor. Dumped there like a dog. But without protest he lowered himself to the carpet. There was fresh mud, there was dry mud.

  “Slide over to the wall,” Martha said. “You’ll trip folks coming in.”

  His mother wasn’t wearing a jacket—square, angular shoulders, weather-scrubbed neck, and tough. She simply shrugged off below-zero temperatures. Read Mom’s face, Glen told himself, the turtle’s beak small and sharp that was her mouth. Her thin-thin lips turned pale when she was about to lose her temper. Probably everything was okay for now.

  “You know the drill.”

  “Okay,” Glen replied.

  His mother trudged up the stairs and Glen knew the shouts were coming. Mom raising her voice with tenants who wouldn't cough up the rent for the month.

  Cross-legged, back to the wall, Glen looked around. The foyer was four drab walls and a ceiling bulb burning wanly. To his left, there were brass-plated mail boxes scratched up and smudged with handprints. No one had stolen any mail lately though—the boxes would be busted and left open if they had. The thieves used screwdrivers which, Martha joked, they had stolen from someone who had stolen them from someone else. The building was full of junkies.

  The snow continued swirling outside the glass door. Scooped up by brisk gusts, the snowflakes resembled swarms of tiny fish darting this way and that against an ink-black backdrop. It was another world out there. Glen imagined looking out a spaceship window at a view of an alien planet—but then two dark figures appeared, of adult height, and he panicked. The people in the building hated his mother. And hated him.

  I’m a tiny scared rabbit. Small and tiny in the corner.

  The door shut with a loud metallic clang. A man and woman stood mumbling to one another, softly panting out their words. He wore an orange construction-worker’s vest; the woman had on a hooded jacket and pink track pants. Neither of the two had stiffened up from the freezing cold. Neither was bothered by the weather because, Glen guessed, of growing up here since they were kids. He hadn't and would never get used to the winters.

  The couple didn’t notice the little boy sitting a step or two away. The thought of getting trampled on scared Glen. Then the man turned to the corner and parted his legs—the pee smell that greeted you coming into the foyer, Glen had smelt it but never seen who dealt it. Now he planned to tell his mother who he saw doing it. He studied the twosome. She had wrinkles and long ears—boy, an old granny! A rope of silver hair hung loosely down her front.

  “Hey,” she snarled, “the boy.” The man glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he said backing up. Now they were both chuckling. What a hoot, they didn’t care.

  The man trod on Glen's ankle as he tottered to the staircase. Soon his and the woman's voices fading down the second-floor hallway were replaced with a loud series of bangs and the shuffling of feet. Two people fighting? Glen heard his mother swearing and he pictured her, tall a
nd lean, wrestling a drunk as if she were wrestling a bear. Beating the drunk over the head. His mother sometimes dragged tenants down the stairs and kicked them out the door. Dad said she was as strong as most men. Glen knew she was stronger than Dad.

  But it wasn’t a fight. His mother was tugging a man by the sleeve, who kept bumping against the wall. He was having a hard time managing the steps.

  “Get up,” Martha said to Glen. “We’re going.”

  “Mom,” Glen replied, surprised and wondering what was going on.

  “Up!—do I have to carve a new ear in your head?”

  The cold outside gave Glen a jolt, and the snowflakes, lovely white fluff minutes ago, felt like pin pricks on his face. Glen wanted to cry. He stood there sulking as his mother pushed the tenant into the back of the car, then he remembered what the punishment was for standing around like a dope and slowing his mother down.

  In a panic he headed around to the passenger’s side. But Martha reached out and clutched his arm. “Hold it, mister. Squeeze in beside George here.”

  “What Mom?”

  “We’re dropping him off.”

  “Can’t I sit up front?”

  “George might like some company.”

  “But I wanna sit with you.”

  “Think of George's feelings.”

  “Mom, I don't wanna—”

  “I’ll stick you both in the trunk, how about it?”

  The route they always took home began with a right turn out of the parking lot. But this time Martha went left up an unpaved road and into dense forest. This road was unknown to Glen, the change shook him—he had the urge to throw open the car door and fly the vast distance back to his house in town. To his father sitting in front of the television. To the warm rooms, all the drapes closed. His bedroom and his cozy bed.

  He didn't want to be in the car with Mom. She was going to do something. And George stank of booze, of cigarettes and sour body odor.

  “Stay on your side,” she warned. “Old George may be a biter.”

  “Mom!”

  “You just need to watch him.”

  Martha switched on the car’s interior light. The tenant was leaning away from Glen so that only their knees touched. His mouth had dropped open and Glen now noticed the spitty, bleeding gums—several bottom teeth were missing. His mother's brown eyes filled the rearview mirror.