The Matt Zander Journals

the matt zander journals.

the matt zander journals.

a novel of life after death

by

gary de nne

the matt zander journals Copyright © 2007 Gary Denne

1999 by Prince, copyright © 1983 Warner Bros, All rights reserved. We Do What We Can by Sheryl Crow, copyright © 1993 A&M, All rights reserved. Ignition by John Waite, copyright © 1982 Chrysalis Records, All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, companies and organizations in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

First published in the United States in 2007 ISBN-10: 1-4196-8497-3 ISBN-13: 978-1-4196-8497-5 www.garydenne.com

For M & D

It was so much nicer there. I never wanted to leave. But I was told to go back. I was told I had something left to do…

the matt zander journals.

St. Michael’s Hospital, Downtown Toronto Monday, February 16, about 10 AM: I remember waking. I spent several minutes in semi-consciousness, not knowing where I was. My eyelids were heavy. I kept them shut and just lay there, frozen. I knew I was in a bed—I could feel the fresh sheets on my body and a big squishy pillow propped up behind me. I tried to move, but struggled with the weight of my body. Compared with the weightlessness during my near-death experience, I felt so heavy and anchored down. I knew I was back. Being in my body again felt like … I dunno … like a prison. Something I’d never felt before. I was stuck in the damn thing. For the first time in my life, lying there, I realized just how restrictive a physical body really was. The weirdest feeling. It’s like … you know when you sit in a bath for ages and then get out? Your body’s heavy, right? It’s an effort to climb out, and you know you’re in your body ‘cos you’ve got that density to you. That’s what I felt lying there. Exactly that. But being outside your body? No way. That was just friggin’ insane … in a way I could never have imagined. I mean, when you die, not only are ‘you’ still ‘you’, outside your body, but you’re introduced to feelings and senses you never knew existed or even thought possible. Does that make sense? OK … maybe not. I’m gonna have to think about this some more before I try writing about it, ‘cos the thing is … there’s not alotta words in the English language that can describe what it’s like in the afterlife. But the idea in starting all this right now is to detail everything that happened during my near-death experience. Hopefully, when I 1

gar y de nne

get to all of that in a few pages, I’ll have found some words that come close to describing what really is the indescribable. As I came to, I remember hearing footsteps getting closer and quickly felt another soul enter the room. I say ‘felt’ deliberately. My eyes were still shut, the room was dark, and forgetting the noise of footsteps, I still knew someone was close to me. I can’t explain it and I don’t know how, but … I could feel other souls around me. Please don’t open the curtains. Please don’t open the curtains. Please don’t open the curtains, I thought to myself. I opened my eyes. Daylight suddenly burst into the room. The scraping sound of curtains opening snapped me into full consciousness. I could see the back of a nurse gazing outside to the city as she fastened them. She was a large, black woman, the size of a house, dressed in white (what else). I looked down at myself and saw two tubes coming out my chest, one on each side. A reddish/brown fluid trickled down them, draining from me (that’s one sign you’ve been in some serious shit—having tubes coming out your body like they’re a normal part of you). On my arm, an IV drip was stuck in me, and further down I’d been tagged around the wrist: Zander, Matt / 12.6.1973 St. Michael’s Hospital 0334578511/628 #2526 So … I knew who I was, knew where I was, and knew I was alive. Everything still appeared to be working brain-wise (my body was another story). Not that I thought I had amnesia or anything. No. Quite the opposite. Everything that happened during my NDE (near-death experience is waaaay too long to write every time) was still crystal clear in my mind at that point—the tunnel, the bright light, flashback alley, the gateway and … Keller. That’s right … that guy’s name 2

the matt zander journals

was Keller. I almost forgot. Keller was the guy on the other side who told me I’d start to forget everything the minute I came back. That’s why I’ve gotta get this stuff down on paper … before I lose it and any clue as to what I’m meant to do now I’m back here. The nurse turned from the window to see my eyes open. Her face revealed the hint of a smile. “Mr. Zander,” she began, curiosity in her voice, “how are we feeling this morning?” How was I feeling? Good question. Let me think for a second… Well, I could barely move for starters. I was amazed at how fast my body had seized up (note to self: that’s what you get for not goin’ to the gym). My chest felt like I’d been impaled by a metal rod—straight through me to the back of the bed—and I was being pinned down. The pain wasn’t too bad—just a sledgehammer being smashed down onto my chest every second. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. The day I woke up, I’m sure I had a tonne of morphine in me. Honestly, I was more worried about my breathing. I felt like it was safer taking shallow breaths but the nurses wanted me to breathe in and out normally, with a full breath. I had visions of accidentally taking a big breath and my chest cracking open like some earthquake fault line. The nurses assured me it wouldn’t. “I was shot,” I said with a croaky voice, as much to myself as to the nurse. “The bullet missed your heart by about this much,” the ‘Big Mama’ nurse said, holding her fingers up to show me about the width of a … well … a bullet. “We thought we mighta lost you there for a minute, but you proved us all wrong. Musta’ had the angels on your side, ain’t no mistakin’ that. Lost alotta blood, ya did. But the doctors … they patched y’up pretty good. You’re gonna be just fine. You must be feeling pretty lousy? We’ll get you started on some exercises today to get you up and movin’ again. We should be able to do somethin’ ‘bout those tubes, too.” I watched her pour some water into a glass for me. She left it on the dresser. My mind was racing too fast to say anything more to her. I decided to just lay there like a vegetable. 3

gar y de nne

“You get some rest for now. The doctor’ll be in to check up on you.” That, more or less, is all I can remember from Sunday, the day I woke up. I don’t really know where the rest of the day went, but one thing I won’t forget was having those tubes pulled out my chest. The nurse—another one, slim redhead, not Big Mama—told me it was gonna feel like an umbrella being poked inside, opened out, and pulled out again. I thought she was flirting with me. She wasn’t. Thank christ for painkillers. What a strange feeling it is to see tubing coming out your body, though, wondering where the hell it’s been and what the hell it’s been doing. Big big big sigh of relief seeing those things out, albeit with a ten-minute afterthought of discomfort (burning sensation). After that, I didn’t feel so much like … I dunno … a guy with tubes coming out his chest? Now, a day later, I’m out of bed, sitting upright in a chair by the window. It’s no hotel room in here. There’s just a couple of basic prints on cream-coloured walls that keep it from being totally sterile. But hey, when you got a room with a view like I have, who cares what’s hanging on a wall? Anyone well enough to get out of bed and make it to the window wouldn’t care what the room looked like. The view overlooks downtown—sky-scraping office towers, condos, and the sound of the traffic below (mostly honking horns). I’ve tried to match each horn to its respective car during the rush hours, but I keep hearing the sound of the streetcars along Queen which screw me up. Let’s see, what else … there’s a few chairs for visitors, old ‘we-have-no-fundingfor-anything-new’ ones. And a TV (I’m guessing 13 inch—no widescreen) hangs down from the ceiling on one of those swivel neck thingies. Next to my bed, I have a dresser, and behind that, on the back panelling, is a metal plate with a whole bunch of plugs and buttons. That’s the nurses panel for the room ‘cos there’s no way in hell I can reach it from the bed (I have my own fully loaded remote control to mess round with). In the room with me is another bed and another patient, lying there with problems of his own. I’ve glanced over now and then, but I don’t wanna stare and give the ‘wonder-what-he-has’ look. It’s a guy in his late teens/early twenties. He has a young, Gen-Y face, and wavy brown hair, flopped down over his forehead and eyes. I figure he’s found trouble or trouble’s found him ‘cos he’s got bandages on 4

the matt zander journals

both arms. That’s the only thing that stands out as any kind of injury, so he’s probably not as bad off as me (tubes coming out of body beats bandaged arms). He seems to be either sleeping, drugged out or dead—the arrival of daylight doesn’t seem to worry the guy. This morning, I did get the chance to say ‘hey’ and he gave me a quick ‘hangover x 1000’ kind of ‘hey’ back, before closing his eyes again. Maybe later we’ll get to do the whole ‘what-are-you-in-for?’ routine. The doctor who checks on me says I’m doing well, considering I was shot four days ago and spent two whole minutes clinically dead (no breathing, no pulse, no heartbeat). Giving some thought to the latter and actually counting out 120 seconds in my head, I gotta agree with the guy. Although, right now … honestly … I don’t know whether I’m lucky or unlucky to be back here. Y’know, one thing I’ve realized being in this situation is how important the muscles in your chest are when you try to sit up in a chair or get out of bed (fucking mutherfucker—it hurts). I’ve managed to walk a little bit today, though, albeit tortoise-like. I’ve brushed my teeth, cleaned up, and gotten myself out of a shitty hospital gown and into someone’s pinstriped robe that the Big Mama nurse pulled outta lost property for me. Sitting here, six stories up, looking down to the snow-dumped city streets, you come to realize just how busy the world went and got. Look at ‘em down there— people going about their lives, moving from A > B x infinity + 1. Just a larger version of watching tiny organisms through a microscope. Everyone rushing around, always something to do, someplace to be. But do people ever really think about life? What it is? What they’re doing? Having a near-death experience really makes you re-evaluate your life—every single bit of it. A journal/diary/whatever is the last thing a guy like me would’ve ever imagined starting, but I need to do this if I wanna try n’ remember what happened when I died—what it was like, what I saw, and exactly how I ended up back here in hospital. I’m no writer (duh)—I don’t know how something like this is supposed to sound, so I’m just gonna say what I wanna say, when I wanna say it. That’s what makes a journal cool, I guess? I can write what I want. It’ll be my mind on paper. Although, I get the feeling my mind’s already sprung a leak and the near-death 5

gar y de nne

experience has begun to slowly drain outta me—maybe through those drainage tubes … who knows?—so I guess I’d better get to it. I’m quickly learning that an NDE is like a holiday—once you get back to your daily-routine life, you start to really wonder if you were ever on holiday at all. I feel there’s already things I’ve forgotten about this other place I went to. I’m sinking back into normal life again and I don’t want that to happen—I wanna remember that place as much as I can. Honestly … I wanna be back there right now. But I realize I was given a second chance at life for a reason. That’s gotta be the biggest wake-up call a guy can get. So … in order to get my mind clear on everything, I wanna go back a little, before it all happened. I’m gonna write everything about my death in the pages to come, but before I get to that, I wanna remember who I am, or, more to the point, who I was. The type of person I was before I was shot. Before I died. Before I knew life after death existed.

6

Cooley’s, Bloor Street Exactly one week ago, Breakfast: “No. Fucking. Way,” I said softly, as I glanced around for any other diners’ eyes watching us. “No, no, no, no, no … that’s a bad idea.” Sitting across from me in the booth at Cooley’s, Eric and James looked at me like I’d just turned down an invite to a Victoria’s Secret lingerie party. I finished my mouthful of hash browns and discreetly continued, “There’s no way we mess with anyone at the store, let alone Belcher. We’ve always said that.” Eric kept up the pitch. “We’d have the whole weekend wide open, he’s gonna be in Florida at some food convention. It’s a walk in the park, his wife’ll be with him—no pets, no alarm … the house’ll just be sitting there. We’d be in and out in five … ten tops.” James turned to me and pulled a subject change. “Hey, where the hell did you get to last night, anyway?” The previous night we’d all been downtown in the Entertainment District, squeezing out the weekend’s last drops at a club called Joker. It was one of these multi-zoned places where you had a floor of dance, a floor of r+b chill-out and a floor of techno/trance for the kiddies with glo-sticks and a liking for foam. It was Eric’s idea—he’d got a tip from a friend that John Cusack was gonna show up while he was in town shooting his latest. My ass, he was. “I did a runner,” I said, taking a sip of coffee, “that place sucked. Everyone was from Buffalo. Get this though … I got outside, right? I flagged down a cab and told the Indian guy, ‘High Park.’ So he takes off driving, we’re on our way, but I notice he keeps doing loops around the block—he’s looking all over the place,

7

gar y de nne

clueless. So I say, ‘What the fuck are you doing, man?’ And he turns over his shoulder and says, ‘I looking for hotdog—you say you want hotdog!’” Eric burst out laughing. James kept the straightest face (he’d always do that). “So I told him, ‘I don’t want a damn hotdog. H-i-g-h P-a-r-k, I wanna go to High Park.’ Fucking cab drivers.” “That is so messed up,” Eric said (he’d always say that). Cooley’s was one of the diners Eric, James and I would stop by for breakfast before we started our shift at Runnerman’s. Cooley’s was an open kitchen—been around since the ‘60s and the place still thought it was the ‘60s. You could mistake it for a homeless shelter it was so old and banged up—swivel stools at the counter, red vinyl booths, old wooden panelling, tables so small you had to play chess with condiments to squeeze everything on—but the food was the best. They knew their grease. Sidebar: The Cooley’s Special ($6) Bacon—the hardwood smoked stuff … awesome. Eggs, any style (I’m a scrambler). Hash Browns—they put some kind of magic spice on these things? For all I know, it may well kill ya but it’s worth it. Toast. Choice of Fruit or Sausage—now, you’d think this one was a no-brainer, right? Polish sausage or fruit slices. Well, I always get the fruit. I try to counter-balance the bad with the good—melon, pineapple and grapefruit slices. Coffee—unlimited refills. OK. I think I put that in as a result of being stuck here with hospital food—I’m dying for some real-world grease. My mind’s all over the place. So … where was I? That’s right … how this all began. Well, I’d known Eric and James since working at Runnerman’s the past two years. Runnerman’s was a supermarket—I’ll get to that later. When I started there, I was still trying to work out what I was gonna do with my life after having worked at a tonne of places, and the job gave me a buffer while I thought things 8

the matt zander journals

through. I’d been there ever since. Funny how you stick with what you know, ain’t it? Guess you could say underachiever, I wouldn’t argue with anyone. Thing is, I was okay with that. I was never gonna be a stockbroker or lawyer or nothin’. No way I was ever gonna climb the corporate ladder and wear a suit to the office and be one of those yuppie stiffs you see reading GQ magazine. I just didn’t know exactly what I was gonna be. So sue me. Me: - I was born and raised here in Toronto. A great city to grow up in, it’s just not so great as it used to be. See, in ‘97 they merged some of the neighbouring cities together and called it the Megacity. Well, no one asked me if I wanted to live in a Megacity, did they? So, from that point on, it became just another sprawling, cookie-cutter North American city. That’s when things started to suck for Toronto. My parents divorced when I was seventeen and went their separate ways from what was a shitty marriage. One’s on the west coast, one’s in Europe. I don’t talk to either of them anymore. It’s like we all decided to divorce each other at the same time. Guess you could say I was a bit of a handful as a teenager and we never really clicked as a happy, sitcom family. I did some stupid things back then, and know I wasn’t the perfect kid. None of it that serious, just stupid stuff— shoplifting, break and enters, joyriding, doing drugs. The wrong-kinda-crowd-type deal. In my early twenties, I got tired of that scene and gave it all away, except for the break and enters. The only reason I kept those up was out of boredom, and for the rush that came with it (replacing drugs). The only drug I craved anymore was adrenalin. See, once you get drugs into you at a young age, you know what a high is and how it feels, and you wanna keep having it. Or somehow replicate it. I’d matured a lot from my younger years, but I guess I was still willing to steal other people’s stuff so I could get that adrenalin high and some free electronics. DVDs, digital cams, cell phones, iPod, Xbox, PlayStation—I’d take any of that kinda stuff from the homes we robbed and the bedrooms of rich college kids with mommy and daddy’s $$$. I could never afford to buy those kinda things, but they’re sure nice to have for free. Well, they were, that is.

9

gar y de nne

See, even if the law never catches up with you and you think you’re getting away with it, eventually, things have a way of working out. Well … they have for me, anyway. And that’s exactly why I’m sitting here in this hospital chair writing this. I think back to all that stuff I did and realize how dumb it was. Dumb isn’t even the right word. I regret stuff now. But I’m not about to write about it here in a spill-all Oprah-style sob story. I’ll just say it was stupid shit, and that I never gave one single thought to what I was really doing with my life until it was too late. Until now. When I get to detailing my NDE, I’m gonna write about the consequences of the stuff we do in our lives and what I experienced that’s made me a different person since coming back. For now though, let me say that from the time I met Eric and James, we’d broken into homes ’cos it was the only source of excitement in our otherwise pathetic, boring, insignificant lives. I played guitar growing up. Did the whole rock scene. I had the look down—the long, dirty-blonde hair, permanent stubble, earring, tattoos, chains and black tshirts. These days, I’ve cleaned up and gone grunge—shorter hair (just-gotoutta-bed look), goatee, ripped jeans, shirt and sneakers—that kinda thing. I never really measured up as a rocker anyways. 5’8” and 140 lbs. doesn’t really give you that whole menacing, rock bad-boy look. Only thing I had going for me was when I scrunched my eyebrows up, friends said I had a good ‘angry dude’ stare goin’ on. I even got a ‘you look like Kurt Cobain’ sometimes (okay, maybe I did look like him a little). It was around that time that I went out and got a Nirvana tattoo. Y’know, the drunken smiley face? Didn’t stop there, either. I remember picking out a couple of other rock star ones just for the hell of it. Every other accessory’s gone now, but (funnily enough) the ink’s still on my shoulders. I don’t have a clue what the other two mean. Just some symbol shit. Makes me laugh—people these days picking out tattoos with all these deep spiritual meanings and shit, what’s that about? Girl’s high-pitched voice: - This one means ‘serenity’ in ancient Japanese, and if you divide by pi, it also equals my birth date, sun sign and spells my boyfriend’s name backwards. 10

the matt zander journals

Whatever. Anyways, I played in this band called Reception Overflow. We named it after a voicemail system that once reaching its allowed number of mailbox messages went into this mode called ‘reception overflow’. Don’t ask me what the hell that was, we just liked the name. I taught myself how to play guitar, growing up in the ‘burbs of Toronto. It never went anywhere. I just wasn’t that good. I mean, I could play … it wasn’t that hard to turn up the amp and rock out on power chords all night. But after I got booted from the band, I pretty much gave up. Too hard, don’t try. Maybe the rock gods didn’t see me making it as a musician. I remember one time we were at this gig playing at a friend’s party in Mississauga. We were halfway into this song. I played rhythm and this other guy, Scoots, played lead. Anyway, just before the solo started, we were rockin’ it hardcore and I looked at Scooter and shouted over all the distortion, “Yo, dude … nail it, man!” Thing was, Scoots thought I said, “I’ll nail it, man,” and gave the guitar solo over to me. Let me say here, I couldn’t play lead guitar solos. I choked and just made shit up. Halfway through I thought maybe if I make this look so damn cool, they might think it’s meant to sound so friggin’ messed up. So I went ahead and swung my axe around, made my ‘angry dude’ face and rocked the house. They were the longest eighteen seconds of my life. Needless to say, the band booted me. They said I was livin’ in guitar fantasy camp and to quit thinking I was Slash from Guns N’ Roses. They thought that I thought I had killer chops on lead and wanted to take over the solos from Scooter. That was pretty much the end of guitar for me. Tough break, dude. So, Eric and James were high school buddies. They grew up together in the prairies of Saskatchewan and drove out here for the excitement of the big (mega) city. They lived in an apartment at High Park, a suburb west of downtown, about 15 minutes by car or subway. High Park’s this nice, leafy little shopping village to hang out in and generally get away from the downtown core of traffic, drugs, clubs and bums. I’d been living on 11

gar y de nne

their sofa for the past couple of months after getting kicked out of the apartment I shared with a girlfriend at Yonge & Eglington, a trendy residential strip just north of the downtown core. The thing about being dumped is … once you see your possessions laid out on the front yard in a non-uniformed kinda pile, you know it’s a bad sign. That particular ex-girlfriend wasn’t into spring cleaning, and it wasn’t spring, given that half my stuff was covered in dirty, December snow. She was a prissy bitch. So … I ended up crashing at Eric and James’ place and hadn’t left since. Eric and James had a room each to themselves and here I was every night unfolding my salt-stained (salt from the sidewalk snow) futon in their living room. I’d moved what little stuff I had into their place and proceeded to sell it off in exchange for rent (salt-stained futon = $50). Crashing at their place made sleeping so much of a chore, though … every night, fold the futon out, put the pillows out, put the cover over it, move the coffee tables, move the lamps. Every morning … blah, blah, blah. Had their place been a three-bedroom, I would’ve been cool to stay and save myself the impending pain of apartment hunting. But having James walk over me in darkness to get to the bathroom at any time of night was kinda weird. Plus, being exposed to those two guys’ habits and freaky shit made me wanna force myself to look at rental classifieds. Let’s just say Eric loved passing out with a bag full of donuts, twenty hookers (did I say twenty, I meant two) and The Tonight Show at full volume coming from his bedroom (Jay Leno’s monologue only has the strength to drown out one hooker, by the way, not two). He always claimed he’d just bump into these girls on their way home from the Queen Street clubs, all drunk and horny. But having the back pages of Eye Weekly spread open on his bedroom floor with various escort ads circled and starred kinda made me and James wonder. (Roll eyes here). James had his quirks too, though. They didn’t involve hookers. His fix was Law & Order. I shit not, any time of the day when he was in his room you’d hear that friggin’ Law & Order theme playing. Typical scenario of me getting home was like… “James, you there? Eric? Anyone home?”

12

the matt zander journals

‘In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups—the police who investigate crime, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories. Duh-Duh.’ “Okay … James is home.” It was like he had a damn Law & Order cable channel running episodes 24/7. And these kinds of habits were just the tip of the iceberg. There was often food left all over the place for days, mountains of hair and water in the bathroom, and the world record for days passed without laundry done was constantly being broken. They didn’t even lock the place … how’s the irony? We did break and enters and here’s their place wide open any time of the day or night—just slide the back patio doors open and walk in. Let’s see, what else … there was the fridge that thought it was a 747-400 jet, the toilet that seemed to be set to ‘volcano flush’ mode, and Eric’s old computer, which at night had the sound of a vacuum cleaner, was big as a ‘70s mainframe, and so friggin’ old all you could download on that thing was stick porn, you know, like a naked hangman. To top all that shit off, here’s the clincher: to get to the apartment above, the other tenants had to come into ours. So, you could be sitting there scratching your ass or whatever and have people unlock your front door, walk in, and fumble about with their keys at their door before heading up to their third-floor apartment. Wtf?! (What the fuck). Hmmmm. Just noticed how I’m writing about Eric and James like I used to know them, past tense. That’s kinda weird. I mean, all this was last week. But it feels like it was a lifetime ago. Dying’s made my sense of time totally skewed. I feel disconnected from everything before I was shot. Maybe my mind realizes it’s now a lifetime ago. That I can’t go back to that old life anymore. Whatever. Anyway, enough of me. Back to Cooley’s … and this idea we had last week to break into our boss’ place while he was away at a convention in Florida.

13

gar y de nne

“Don’t you see? This is our chance for payback. It can be, like, the ultimate revenge. We can wipe our asses on the furniture,” Eric whispered to the two of us, sipping coffee and sizing the room up for any potential networking opportunities… Sidebar: Eric Pros: Funny, great impersonations, motivator, dreamer Cons: Short attention span, moody, completely unreliable Eric was a wannabe actor. A networker, always conscious of meeting people, showing himself off as a player and sizing up anyone he thought might be able to do something for him. He actually did a commercial for a courier company ‘cos he stalked a casting agent at the store and helped push her groceries out to the parking lot. After about 0.6 seconds of screen time, where he walked out an elevator (w/o lines), somehow he managed to blow his big break and hadn’t done a thing since. He’d mention all these projects, but that they just weren’t right for him. He was actually well suited to showbiz, though. He had the looks—short black hair, styled in a forward brush, a clean-shaven full face, straight teeth and clean skin. At 6 ft, he had a strong presence, and his fashion sense was way above James and mine. The only blemish was his weakness for junk food. He was hypoglycaemic, and that’d get him eating donuts and shit that didn’t do any favours for his body. Eric was slick, though, with a killer sense of humour—he could joke himself out of any situation. He could have a smoking gun in his hand, dead body at his feet, and still be able to joke his way outta there with the cops. We’d often sit around and do improv—running through lines, gags and skits we thought’d be funny for the TV show he’d always talk about writing: Cruise: I want answers… Nicholson: You want answers? Cruise: I want the truth! Nicholson: You can’t handle the truth!

14

the matt zander journals

We just about knew that movie, A Few Good Men, by heart. The voices Eric could pull off were amazing. He’d do perfect impersonations and characters— where he got that stuff from I got no clue. I guess he just stayed up watchin’ alotta late-night TV. Sugar hits will do that to ya. His talent was definitely going to waste working at Runnerman’s. See, Eric was a dreamer with big plans. He’d talk the talk, but when it came to the walking, he’d collapse on the sofa and watch Saturday Night Live with a bag of day-old donuts and coffee. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. With his looks, he could’ve got any girl he wanted if he applied himself (and maybe lost the spare tire around his waist). But he’d prefer to hang out at Starbucks and improv, or talk about script ideas and making an indie film. And even if he did go to a club, he wouldn’t pickup girls. He’d be looking to meet actors. I often thought, though, that Eric would be the one to go somewhere out of the three of us. That showbiz would find him eventually. “No … no trashing the place,” James replied. “Wiping asses on furniture is for punks. If we do this, we need to stay professional.” “James, this isn’t Law & Order … we’re not professionals, okay? Anyway, trashing’s not our M.O.,” I said, turning to Eric. “If—and I say if—we do Belcher’s place, we stick to the M.O.” “Okay, no ass wiping,” Eric agreed. “But look … I know Belcher. I’m good with people, right? The guy’s gonna have some good shit. The house is worth a million—he’s not gonna have it decked out in IKEA or somethin’.” “I dunno, it’s risky,” I said. “What if he works out it was us? Then we’re screwed.” “Yeah, we’d lose our jobs … tragedy.” “I was more thinking along the lines of prison,” I whispered to Eric. “Hmmm? Prison versus Runnerman’s, huh? You know, I gotta tell ya, that’s kind of a tough call for me right now,” added James. “Mondays suck.” Eric continued, “Yeah, well, what if we scored enough to quit and live off for a few months?” James suddenly looked up at Eric from his hash browns. “He’s gonna have cash and prizes in that kinda ballpark, I know it,” Eric told us. “I mean the guy wears a Rolex…” James and I both looked at him, our b.s. meters goin’ crazy. 15

gar y de nne

“Okay—so maybe it’s a fake Rolex,” Eric admitted, “but you’ve seen his wife? She’s always wearing jewellery when she’s at the store. You can sell that stuff on the ‘net.” “On your computer? The same computer that ate all my fuckin’ emails and porn?” I complained. “Wait a minute, though,” James interrupted, chomping on his crispy bacon, “the guy’s gonna have insurance, right? I mean, knowing him, he’ll probably claim shit he never had and we’ll end up making him money. I don’t wanna be making that prick any more money than we do now.” Eric turned to James. “Don’t you want to get out of this life? Look at us, we’re fucking pathetic. James, you haven’t got laid in … whatever. Matt—you’re selling off furniture as rent money, for crissakes. We work in a s-u-p-e-r-m-a-r-k-e-t. We’re in our thirties. Our lives are just slipping away. We’re gonna be forty in less than ten years—still packing shit into shelves. Is that what you guys want?” Eric looked at us with a silent scream in his eyes. He had a point. “I say we hit a few more places, get some cash flow, then pool our money so we can quit. We move into a place downtown and start making contacts. Like, huge contacts. It’s not what you know in this town. We’ve gotta get out there, networking,” Eric said clicking his fingers. “We need to hang with guys like Douglas and get ourselves into the game. If we meet the right people and make the right moves, we’ll move up in the world. That’s how it works. High Park’s for soccer moms with SUVs.” James and I sat there for a second, thinking. Well, I was thinking I hope I never turn into a guy like Douglas, and if I did, that someone would shoot me (hmmm, maybe a bad choice of words there. More on Douglas in a bit). And James … well, James looked more concerned about his eggs. “Is that a fucking hair in my eggs?” Sidebar: James Pros: Eccentric, easygoing, funny, conspiracy theorist Cons: Cynic, alcoholic, liked James Taylor, hard to read

16

the matt zander journals

James was a tall, lanky, doofus looking guy with thick, bottle glasses and a kind of Frankenstein-like appearance … but in a good way. He was an eccentric. A man of few words. But when he did have something to say he’d usually make you laugh with lashings of sarcasm and dry humour. His voice was calm, and he spoke in a soft, constant monotone—I think I’d only heard him shout once or twice for Eric to shut up when Law & Order was on. He gave the impression he didn’t really care about anything in life, like he was just sailing through and whatever happened was fine by him. I figured only a few things mattered to James: Beer, photography, Law & Order, crispy bacon and hockey. He’d already had two front teeth knocked out playing street hockey last Fall. Did he freak? Nope, he just picked his teeth up off the ground and said something like, ‘Better get those fixed, I guess.’ He took them to this Chinese dentist in The Beaches, a suburb by Lake Ontario and the only strip of sand in the city resembling a beach in summer. As he sat in the dentist’s chair and had his teeth somehow glued back in by an obviously unlicensed, but affordable dentist, he explained to the guy (with slurred speech from the Novocaine) that his TV was showing this black blob on the screen and, hence, he’d been outside playing street hockey. This blob had grown from a tiny dot in one corner and was beginning to take over the picture at a steady rate. The old Chinese guy, without hesitation, as he worked in James’ mouth, said to bring it by and, ‘I fix for you.’ Teeth and TVs … makes sense. But that was classic James. Anything eccentric and he’d be there (w/ camera). In fact, I think the only reason he tagged along on the break and enters sometimes was just so he could see inside people’s homes and how the other half lived. Eric and I were distracted for a second. “Look at this…” James said, pulling a thick black hair from his eggs. He held it up in the light, studying it like it was gonna reveal the mystery of the universe. “What the fuck…” “Get over it, James. It’s a hair,” Eric said, no strength to argue. No mistaking it’d come from the Cooley’s waitress—she worked every morning and had the silkiest black hair I think I’ve ever seen. I think she was the owner’s 17

gar y de nne

daughter or something. She seemed related to the guy you’d see cooking out back when heading to the bathrooms. Every time we were at Cooley’s for breakfast, I used to love her bringing our meals out. She’d reach over the table and expose the mother of all cleavage—I’m talking the most luscious tits you could dream of. They sat so perfect in her deep-plunge, v-neck t-shirt, jiggling about as she moved around the table. So, yeah … a hair … I got ‘em too, but I could personally live with the odd hair now and then in exchange for that kinda cleavage. Hair crisis over, James back to eating, I asked Eric, “How would we get in?” “Out back … sliding glass doors. Locks are a piece-a-cake, no noise,” he said under his breath. “So, are you in?” I paused. I ran it through in my head. Decision-making wasn’t a strong point of mine (star sign: Gemini). I sat there for a moment and tried to imagine all the shit Belcher had given me in two years at Runnerman’s, and couldn’t find a reason why we shouldn’t get some payback on that prick. “He’s gonna be where?” I asked. “Orlando, Florida. Cassandra told me,” Eric replied. “And you’re gonna trust her? That girl’s tipped to win the Oscar this year,” James quipped. “Everyone else knows, anyway. I heard the front desk girls talking about last year. Apparently all he brought back for ‘em was a Disneyworld keychain … to share.” “You know what?” I said with a quick nod, “let’s do it. I hate the guy.” “Count me in,” James said. “I wanna see the kind of place he’s got. And I haven’t forgotten about those stale chocolates, remember? My shit was black for a week eating those things.” “That was so messed up,” Eric replied, laughing to himself through his nose. Sidebar: The Ukrainian Chocolates James was a pretty good worker, way more than Eric and me. He could really get busy and fix stuff when he was motivated. Last year, he cleaned out the stockroom freezer and got rid of all the shit that the Frozen Food girl had ordered 18

the matt zander journals

by mistake. Her fingers (and ass) were so fat she’d pressed an extra ‘0’ on the computer when ordering frozen spring rolls. We got 100 cartons of ‘em … for the month. In a normal month, we’d sell maybe 7-8 cartons. So, in the back of the freezer, cartons and cartons of frozen spring rolls just sat there, slowly turning into shrivelled up little wieners that even a homeless dog in India wouldn’t touch. When fatty took her vacation, James went in there with gloves and coat and played Tetris with the stock, moving everything round so he could reach the spring rolls and get them out to the frozen cabinet in the store. He re-priced them (without authority … an executive decision) down from $3.48 to $.50 a pack. People couldn’t get enough. Shoppers will buy shit if it’s cheap enough. Dumbasses. So, Belcher, on seeing the clean, frozen stockroom, spoke about James’ efforts one morning at a staff meeting and awarded him a box of chocolates. When we looked at them later, they were these gross Ukrainian chocolates that never sold because they looked like little turds (customers were smart, occasionally). Oh, and these things were about 6 months past their expiration date, too. Note: James still ate the chocolates. “We’re gonna be late,” Eric said, starting to get organized to leave. He always did that—pissed me off. Whenever Eric was done, he’d start getting all restless, like his time was too precious to waste if he wasn’t sitting there eating. Cooley’s special breakfast over, we vacated the booth and headed for the cashier. James went and paid the check (we’d always split it). Eric stepped out onto the sidewalk, like a celebrity waiting for his minders. He checked his cell, hoping for a message from his agent. I don’t think he’d received a call from her since the elevator walk-on. None of us knew how he managed to screw that up. I waited for James and walked back to our booth to leave a tip for Ms Cleavage of the Year. I remember getting another quickie glance as she wiped our table down. Hoochie Mama. That there ended up as the highlight of my Monday.

19

Runnerman’s, Bloor St, Toronto: There she was … the enemy. As the three of us stood there in the parking lot, burning up the last remaining minutes of freedom, we faced the Runnerman’s storefront in a David vs. Goliath showdown. High above the store’s entrance doors, the monstrous and all too familiar Runnerman’s sign loomed down on us, a mixture of bright red and orange letters, followed by a jazzy, corporate logo resembling a bent-out-of-shape teardrop. Originally a family-owned, mid-size supermarket, the corporate entity known as Runnerman’s Ltd. had bought it out as a chain location a few years ago. From the outside, even from Robert St, you could see right the way in the entire store thanks to large, plate glass windows and bright, fluorescent lighting. Advertising was everywhere inside—no space was left untouched by various subsidiary companies advertising their products, all ‘new and improved!’, of course. That was the moment we dreaded each week. Monday morning. We began our usual slow shuffle up to the front doors. No words were spoken. We all kept to our own thoughts. Eric pulled apart the automatic doors—not yet activated for customers—and we discreetly slipped straight down the first aisle to reach the back doors, which led out to the lockers and staff area. Out back, stock was piled to the roof. Pallets and cartons of everything from coconut-oil suntan lotion to instant mashed potatoes. One after the other, we punched our timecards in a machine that looked like it was from World War II, and then followed the dimly-lit maze that led to the locker rooms. Above us, in a few decibels too many, came the words we had come to hate hearing over the P.A. system: 20

the matt zander journals

“Staff to the floor … calling all staff to the floor. The store is now open. Don’t forget your smiles and have a Runnerman’s great day!” It was a typical Monday. The start of another week. The store was trading at a quiet but steady pace, with the customer demographic mainly comprising of mothers w/ babies, doing a morning shop. The in-store bakery was already halfway through its day, close to finishing up at midday, and the produce section was still setting up for another week with a clean slate of fresh fruit and vegetables. Throughout the day, sales representatives from the major companies running promotions would call into the store to setup their products in extravagant, eyecatching displays in the hope of good market penetration that week. See, in the supermarket business, Monday was typically known as the setup day. The day that everything would be refilled, restocked, refreshed, re-cut and re-priced, ready for the heavy trade days of Wednesday through Saturday. Walking up to the front of the store that morning (and whenever else I’d walk by), I remember the girls on checkout had the exact same looks on their faces as the week before, as they ran shoppers’ items over laser scanners, filling the store with constant electronic beeps. It’d be fair to say you could generally sum any one of them up as suffering from: a) b) c) d) e) f)

tiredness boredom effects of an all-night rave frustration depression all of the above

Like most other workplaces, in a supermarket there was a certain pecking order, a food chain—even amongst the girls on front-desk/checkout—that determined who got what jobs. It operated along the lines that the newest hire would be on the very bottom, receiving the jobs that, for lack of a better word, sucked. If one was to progress and get promoted through the ranks, they could possibly end up Second-In-Charge (2IC) or even make Store Manager someday. For Eric, James 21

gar y de nne

and me? Well … we were no doubt bottom three. We had the ‘underachieving slacker’ label slapped all over us. Further raining on our parade of ever moving up the shit-heap (not like we wanted to, anyway) was that all three of us refused to kiss ass to management, especially to Belcher. But there were always plenty of other staff willing to brownnose their way into a promotion. I’d see it time and again in a lot of different variations, including: a) The ‘look-at-what-I-just-did’ awareness campaign aimed at management (Freezer Fatty was a master at this) b) The store management snitch (squealed to management whenever the slightest violation was made of Runnerman’s corporate policy) c) Volunteering to work back late (some staff just didn’t have lives) d) Flirting and/or being eye candy (the cashier girls were particularly good at this one—white see-thru shirts, open buttons, black bras … do the math) So last Monday, as ‘let’s-pretend-to-be-happy’ music tried to drown out beeping scanners, and shoppers poked carts around the aisles, trying to match coupons with products, the three of us were busy setting up the weekly flyer promotions at the end of each aisle. Typically, management wanted us to build up all of the product displays so friggin’ big that if a customer pulled an item from the wrong place the whole thing would avalanche and bury whatever shoppers were in its path. But Runnerman’s Rule No.1 was management always knew best. Before we could get the new displays up, we’d have to pull the previous week’s down and take the remaining stock to its shelf location and fill it up as much as it could take. I can still remember restocking cans of dog food from my stock trolley as I turned to see James heading down the aisle towards me. He looked pissed off and didn’t care who heard him (unusual for James). “What the fuck is that guy’s problem?” “Who?” “Belcher,” he replied. 22

the matt zander journals

I continued placing cans on the shelf. “Why, what happened?” “He gave me a fucking warning for talking to Cassandra.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa—you talked to Cassandra Parker?” (Cassandra would never have been James’ type. In fact, I didn’t know what James’ type was). Sidebar: Cassandra Cassandra Parker was the newest of the checkout girls, the girl who seemed outta place when I set eyes on her, her first day, two weeks ago. She was in a different league to the others—she was upper class (or faked it well) and came across with a preppy, snobby, sorority-queen attitude. Even at a quick glance, I could tell Cassandra was one of those girls who always got what she wanted. Now, I know I could’ve been wrong with that assumption but to back it up, my last two girlfriends also fell into that league (the club is growing), so I considered myself well tuned at the time to detect her manipulation station (i.e. her mouth). All I really knew for sure was that she was 21, attending U of T, studying Law (just what we need—more lawyers) and still lived at home. She was no stick-thin girl—no Paris Hilton—but her body had curves in all the right places. She had long, dark brown hair with blonde highlights, and beautiful, big brown eyes to match. Her skin was clear, her lips glossed, her breasts were tennis balls, her ass was a bubble, and she had this seductive, innocent smile … you get the picture. Flaunting her sexuality was more powerful towards man than a thousand bunker-busting bombs. In a moment of weakness, I’m sure she could’ve had us trying to kill each other for a chance to get in her pants, but personally, having been bitten one too many times already by her kind, I think (I hope) I could’ve been able to resist a maneater like Cassandra Parker. “So where was this?” I asked James. “Up front, at her checkout. She didn’t have anyone in her lane so I just stopped and said … stuff,” James told me. “That’s my second warning. Third one and Belcher’ll fire my ass.” “What’d you say to her?” “‘Hi.’” 23

gar y de nne

“‘Hi’? That’s it? You went up to Cassandra Parker, the new hot girl, and just said ‘Hi’?” “Well, not exactly, but I didn’t get much else in before she stopped me.” “Like…?” I said, prompting James to continue. “She asked me, y’know, in that high pitched ‘what-ever’ voice … ‘What happened to your teeth?’” James said, giving a damn fine impression of the girl (Eric would’ve been proud). (Since the hockey incident, James’ teeth were a little skewed. Not bad, but noticeable). James continued, “So I said, ‘Oh, they got knocked out in a hockey accident. My dentist glued them back in. He’s Chinese. Hey, so, you’re studying Law, right? Do you watch Law & Order?’ That’s when she stopped me and started blurting out, ‘Like, I don’t, like, date anyone from the store, okay? And you’re, like, really creeping me out, okay? So can you just, like, go back to grocery and not, like, come up here again?’ That’s when Belcher showed up.” “What a bitch,” I said. I looked down the aisle for Belcher, checking it was clear. James cooled down and pulled a couple of pet food cartons from the bottom of his trolley, arranging other cartons to get at them. “So what’d he say?” I continued. “Told me to quit harassing other staff. Said everyone’d been warned about talking to the girls up front in that staff meeting we blew off last week, and blah blah blah—second warning,” James said. From a side-glance, I saw Eric pass over our aisle, then double back and enter. He came towards us with his own trolley of stock to go back on the shelves, but didn’t look like he was setting any records—as usual. “What’s up?” he asked. “Zip,” James answered. “I’m waiting for the Pepsi guy to show. Said he’d be here at eleven,” Eric said. “James just got a warning for talking to Cassandra,” I said. “No way!” Eric blurted, amused. “You talked to Cassandra?” he said, reaching underneath his trolley. “Trust me, James, she’s so not your type.” Eric felt between the cartons and pulled out a bag of candy. He waited for a few shoppers to pass before taking a handful and shoving them in his mouth. 24

the matt zander journals

“Belcher’s gonna have your balls if he sees that,” James warned him. “For this stuff? I don’t think so … it’s outta code and I need the sugar hit. I’d say it’s a medical thing,” Eric mumbled, chewing the candy. “Anyway, how can they fire us when customers do way worse? It’s discrimination. I’d sue their ass for a hundred billion.” “Women with kids are the worst,” I added. “They walk past the self-serve bins in aisle four and practically have meals outta that stuff.” You’d see it everyday. Customers helping themselves to a handful of whatever they wanted, standing in full view at a self-serve bin, or, if they were a little more discreet, filling up a bag and eating as they shopped the store. Drugs were another hot item too, popular with the senior citizens. Tylenol, Excedrin, Pepcid AC, whatever. They’d browse the section looking to buy, waiting for the right time to stuff the pills down their pants, away from security, before walking out the store with nothing. Eric reached into the bag of Gummi Cola and grabbed some more. “Here … knock yourself out,” he offered, “I always need this stuff in the mornings.” James and I took turns, digging our hands into the bag. I mean, it was only out of code stock—if no one ate it, the only place it was going was the dumpster out back after it’d been written off. “Shit!” I spotted Belcher heading towards us. Eric pulled the bag into his body and, with his back to Belcher, slowly placed the candy back between his cartons. Eric and I swallowed, but James still had a mouthful of Gummi and just stood there, frozen… Sidebar: Belcher John Belcher (nice name) was a balding, big nosed, bung-eyed looking fortyyear-old guy who thought he was king shit, all because he ran a Runnerman’s franchise. His left eye was so screwed up that whenever you talked to him it’d be focused out to the side, like he was peering over your shoulder, or had someplace else to be. Over the past two years, he’d given the three of us so much shit. He hated our guts, but no doubt enjoyed having us around over firing

25

gar y de nne

us, just so he could feel like a big man when he wanted and put us in our place for the losers he said we were. “Alright, showtime … what the hell’s going on here? Huh?” Belcher barked, his bung eye darting around like a missile targeting system. “We’re restocking,” I said. “No one likes a smartass, Zander. It doesn’t take three of you to pack one line of dog food.” “We’re about to take a break, actually,” Eric said, in a defiant tone. Belcher paused for a moment, thinking of a comeback. He smirked and slowly shook his head. “Look at you three … you think you’re all so much better than this, don’t you?” He used to always pause between lines, like a pissed off drill sergeant. “One day you think you’re gonna be out of here, right? Gonna make it big?” he said, chuckling to himself. “You have no idea how alike we really are. One day, trust me, you’re all gonna be me. This,” he said, as his arms gestured around us, “is going to be your life. I’d get used to it if I were you.” Belcher looked at each of us with a sense of amusement. He spoke under his breath so only the three of us could hear him. “So you go have your breaks and jerk off to the cashier girls, or do your comedy, or your screenplays, or whatever the hell it is you do on your own time … and then get the fuck back to work.” Belcher turned to James. “And you,” he said forcefully, pushing his finger into James’ chest, “you stay away from Cassandra or next time I’ll shove a carrot up your ass and light it. Got it?” Belcher walked off and continued down the aisle, towards the back of the store. That was actually a fairly nice encounter for a change. Suddenly, his voice burst over the P.A. above. For a second I thought he was gonna have round two via the airwaves, but his now friendly and overly enthusiastic voice began: “Good morning customers and welcome to Runnerman’s, the friendliest store in the GTA! Customers, we’ve got some super savings for you today…” Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. 26

the matt zander journals

“A carrot wouldn’t burn, would it?” James asked, puzzled. Monday was always the longest day.

27

7-Eleven, Bloor & Steeles Thursday night, late: The week was passing by with surprising speed. To put it not so eloquently: same shit, different days. Eric, James and I were sitting in the comfort of Douglas’ climate-controlled, fully loaded, silver Jeep Cherokee. Outside, it was 20°C plus wind chill—so cold your nuts would freeze and drop off before you even knew you had a problem. We were parked at the Bloor & Keele Street strip mall, right outside the 7-Eleven convenience store. We had one of the spots we’d often get, facing the front of the store, where you could sit and watch people come and go. People watching … the most underrated pastime known to man. And 7-Eleven stores were the perfect arena. They were lit up so much you needed sunglasses at night when you stepped through those sliding doors. And, from Douglas’ Cherokee, we could just about see every inch of retail floor space, thanks to the large, wall-to-wall windows and rows of fluros raining artificial light down onto customers. At least a few times a week, or whenever Eric needed a sugar fix for his hypoglycaemia, we’d stop by the store, grab some junk and then sit there in the car, being entertained by those who came after us. If it was a quiet night, hell … we’d just sit there inventing characters and making shit up. Parked outside a 7Eleven was like a mimed, reality stage show for us. Here were people paying good money to go to the theatre when you could get a better show at the local strip mall. It was amazing what you could learn watching everyday people. We’d try to workout people’s lives, their thoughts, who they were and what they were doing. Humans give so much of themselves away through non-verbal communication 28

the matt zander journals

and the beauty is none of us are ever aware we’re doing it. And somehow, late night convenience stores seemed to elicit the best/worst of people’s body language habits. Go figure. Earlier that night, Douglas had stopped by the apartment to chill, and it wasn’t long before Eric got a little sugar-deprived cranky and we headed out to make a 7-Eleven run for some snacks before Leno started. As we sat there taking turns with a jumbo bag of Lays and other unhealthy junk, we filled Douglas in on Friday night’s plan. “You’re cool with tomorrow night?” Eric asked him. “I’m down. I am so down. I’m gonna cane it, cane it, cane it. If you’re gonna pull something on your boss’ place, you gotta have a little ‘Satan’ on your side, right? Ooooh yeah! I am down,” Douglas said, raising his hand up and high-fiving us one by one… Sidebar: Douglas Pros: Ready to party, laughed at anything (flimsy pros, I know, but it’s all I got) Cons: Yuppie, poser, ummmm … yuppie, shopped @ GAP Douglas was a friend of Eric’s. They met at the Goodlife Sports Club, downtown, where Eric had been going since summer to try and lose the spare tire round his gut. He and Eric started hanging out ‘cos Douglas, like Eric, had the showbiz bug and wanted to get into producing. He loved the idea of being a producer, calling the shots on a project and making things happen. I think he wanted to be the next Jerry Bruckheimer. For his day job, Douglas was a stockbroker for a large, downtown brokerage firm. He wasn’t rich-beyond-wildest-dreams rich, but I know he made well over $100K, and I’m guessing twice that when the bonuses were handed out at his office. He was in his mid-thirties, but had a baby face and gap-tooth smile, making him look ten years younger. A stocky build was the result of sitting on his ass all day watching computer screens, hence the sports club. The one thing that set the four of us apart was Douglas’ personal style. Sculptured, dark-blonde hair, suits, ties, designer shirts, colognes, watches—he had a thing for wanting to look like those guys from GQ magazine, so he obeyed 29

gar y de nne

what the mag told him to wear, told him to want, and told him to like. I assume part of his fashion consciousness could be put down to his job and the fact his firm wouldn’t take well to him turning up in grunge. Just looking at him gave you the impression of a man in love with a life of excess. Generally speaking, though, Douglas was a good guy. He meant well. He loved to party and live it up whenever he could. The stress of the job (he told me about stockbrokers picking up computer screens and hurling them across the trading floor when deals went bad) was something he had to deal with daily, so I didn’t blame him for wanting to go out every night to escape. Since they’d met last summer, Douglas had regularly called Eric with invites to clubs, parties and the like. And that was right up Eric’s alley ‘cos he got access to places beyond the velvet rope, places you just couldn’t go unless you had a friend in the know. Douglas’ contacts and money allowed Eric (and me & James) to tag along to some of the city’s best wrap parties, after-shows and product launches you’d never get into alone. I think his ego definitely got a kick out of having us hang around, too. When we were out with Douglas, it always seemed like a carefully managed exhibition. He craved attention and the idea that he was a player. Like, you just knew he wouldn’t be the same guy if people weren’t around. That was Douglas. Then … there was ‘Satan’. In an attempt to fit in, Douglas called himself ‘Satan’—a self-proclaimed nickname—and, using his favourite word ‘cane’, constantly claimed he was creating ‘death and destruction’ (figuratively speaking) all over Toronto’s nightlife scene. He always made the point of telling us how much ‘damage’ he was gonna inflict at a club or party. The closet thing to ‘damage’ I ever saw him commit was lose his balance dancing and fall on the edge of a table, sending another group’s drinks crashing to the floor. But sure enough, you could be at the worst party in the world, something that had totally tanked, and invariably rely on Douglas to be there smirking like a Cheshire cat, doing his little jiggy dance and shouting over the doof-doof how much the party rocked (and that he was causing d+d). Last summer, the first time I met Douglas, the four of us were at a house party in Scarborough, one of the rougher neighbourhoods east of the city. Scarborough’s one of those suburbs you just don’t wanna be in, day or night and, I have to 30

the matt zander journals

admit, I was a little on edge not knowing him and the kind of party he’d taken us to. Long story short—the party sucked ass. But … I’ll never forget that first impression of Douglas. A large group of us had been standing out on the back patio of this double-story house. The lighting around the place was almost non-existent. Maybe they’d spent all the money on beer, who knows? Anyway, as we continued to drink and talk shit around the group, I noticed a light in the distance. At first glance, I didn’t think anything of it … until I turned away and instinctively looked again. I kept my eyes on it, distracted as to its identity. As odd as it sounds, this light (not unlike the light in my NDE) was moving toward the house and, as it did, the sound got louder and louder. Identifiable. It was a train … I could hear it clicking over the kinks in the tracks, even over the raucous laughter from the other guys. The problem … was it was headed straight for us. I got the group’s attention. “Why’s that train coming straight for us?” I asked in a dumb-blonde kinda moment. Everyone turned to take a look. The laughter quickly died down and we all stared at the light as it continued to bear down on us. Wtf, I thought. OK, I’d been drinking quite a bit from what I remember of that night—which obviously hadn’t helped the situation—but I was pretty sure nothing hallucinogenic had snuck into my bloodstream. The train let out a screaming blow of its horn. Wrrrrghhh. Wrrrrghhh (train-speak for get out the fucking way). It was headed straight for us. Click-click, clack-clack. Click-click, clack-clack. Screw drugs—when I heard that, it became real enough for me. At that moment, Douglas dropped his beer and flew off the patio—bolting away, scared shitless. I’ve never seen anyone move like he did. He may’ve been a little stocky, but he was gone in a second. And as the train’s headlight moved closer to us, it quickly began to light up tracks which passed right by the house. The house was next to a train line. It suddenly rushed by us—swoosh! Nobody moved. We felt a powerful gush of air go through us as it passed. The clickety clacks were like gunshots. The whole house shook like a Californian earthquake. Ten seconds later, it was gone as fast as it’d arrived. I watched a red light at the 31

gar y de nne

back of the last carriage slowly fade away. Douglas was nowhere to be found, his spilt beer soaking into the patio decking. On the way home that night, he laid down the story that he’d rushed off to get his camera from the Jeep, and was so pissed off he missed it, ‘cos he wanted to try out his new top-of-the-line digital SLR. He said it caned every other camera on the market in a nice subject change/dodge. I told him the next time I saw a train headed for us, I’d let him know. So … the idea of Douglas being some crazy, hardcore party dude that he made himself out to be didn’t really fly with me. He was every bit the yuppie poser. “Check this guy out,” James said, motioning out the window. Our attention turned to a fat man struggling out of his car and heading into 7Eleven. He was wearing stained track pants and a huge down-feather coat that made him look like the Michelin man. “This Belcher guy … is this the same guy you were tellin’ me tries to rub up against the checkout girls any chance he gets?” Douglas asked us. “That’s the one,” Eric said, in between devouring a cream-filled jam donut like he was French kissing it. “Trust me, he’s the biggest sleazebag,” I told Douglas. “He gave me those stale chocolates, remember?” James said. “Hey, I forgot to say … I heard Clooney’s gonna be in town. See … you meet someone like that, pitch an idea they like and you could be in the game, dude. It’s that simple,” Eric told Douglas. “You hear about things like that all the time. Right place, right time. Y’know?” “Clooney sucks ass,” I chimed in. “Ever heard of Sundance? It’s not rocket science, just make your own damn movie,” James added. Douglas reached his hand round to the back, where James and I sat. “Hey, hand me that box back there, can ya?” James handed a white, rectangular box to Douglas. He quickly opened it up and removed a bubble-wrap bag. “Check these out,” he said, pulling a pair of futuristic-looking, black binoculars out the bag. “Are they…?”

32

the matt zander journals

“Ooooh yeah … night vision, baby! Satan can now see in the dark!” Douglas shouted. He brought them up to his eyes and looked out the windows. “How much?” “A grand. Top of the line. What the pros use.” He clicked a switch on top of the binoculars as we all watched him. “You gotta bring ‘em on Friday night,” Eric said. “I’m gonna be our eyes in the night with these suckers.” “We have a Slurpee contestant,” James interrupted. The fat guy had made his way to the opposite end of the store where the 7Eleven Slurpee machine sat. Dishevelled and dazed, he slowly grabbed a Big Gulp cup and began to fill up on green Slurpee. “You can’t use a Big Gulp for a Slurpee, dumbass,” James said to himself. “You can do whatever you want—I’ve destroyed one of those Slurpee machines before—you think those guys from Bangalore give a shit?” Douglas said, referring to the Indian cashiers. In any other circumstance, a Big Gulp Slurpee was an insane amount of Slurpee/sugar to be taking in, but looking at the way this fat guy was dazed and confused, I really think he needed it. “Forget tryin’ to meet actors—what happened to that script idea you had?” I asked Eric. I’d listened to him talk about writing an indie script for months. I’d seen him work on it for maybe ten minutes. I used to ask him about it every few days just to piss him off. Well, ever since he said how easy screenwriting was. “It’s all in my head. I’m gonna write it,” he said unconvincingly. “Hey, give me a go of those things.” Eric grabbed the binoculars off Douglas and brought them to his face. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, “these things are so messed up!” Douglas’ Cherokee was like a moving, yuppie-ville mall. In the back, James and I sat next to clothes, CDs, DVDs and magazines, all scattered in a mess. Thing was, it was all brand new stuff. I mean shirts and socks and ties still in GAP bags with their tags on, never worn. CDs and DVDs still shrink-wrapped. And enough magazines in the seat pockets to open a newsstand. Some guys had way too much money. 33

gar y de nne

“We’re gonna cane this guy’s house so bad … there’s gonna be death and destruction on Brunswick, baby. You’re gonna see Satan unleashed like you’ve never seen before. This is gonna be a whole new level of Satan, okay? I’m so pumped for this,” Douglas announced to all of us. Eric passed the binoculars back to me and James, “Here, check it out.” I looked through the binoculars and watched the fat guy place two king-size Twinkies in the store’s microwave, playing with the settings. I turned and looked out my side window. “That … is fucking amazing,” I gasped. I could see right up Bloor Street to High Park Avenue, and turning back over my shoulder could see into the park itself. Everything had a bright green tint to it, but it was just like day. I could see the trees, the bushes, even the snow blowing in the wind … everything. I handed them over to James. He placed them beside him, uninterested, which didn’t surprise me. Instead, he was stuck on watching the fat guy. He studied him closely. “He’s a factory worker. He’s about to clock-on for the graveyard shift,” James speculated. Douglas chimed in. “No way. He’s finished work and he’s getting some shit to cane on the way home. Too easy.” “You can’t drink a Big Gulp Slurpee and then go to sleep, are you nuts?” I told Douglas. Outside, a girl pulled up in her car and left the engine running. She was dressed up for a night out. She had a big coat on but underneath you could tell she was wearing club stuff. Her legs were exposed to the harsh February winds. “Check it out—hot chick going in,” Eric blurted out. The girl walked through the doors and headed straight for the freezer, pulling out a tub of ice-cream. “She’s been dumped,” James said, as we watched the brunette hurry to the cashiers, head down, body language emotionless. “Or stood up,” I offered. “A girl with ice-cream has to be something bad,” Eric said. “No other purchases … she knew exactly what she wanted, left the car running. She’s headed back to her apartment. The night hasn’t gone well. She’s crushed.” 34

the matt zander journals

“Quick. Gimme my night vision,” Douglas said, reaching his hand back. As the fat guy waited for his Twinkies to nuke, we watched him scratch his ass and have a good eye of the brunette. I must admit, she was cute. Yeah … I remember those kinds of details. Always. I hope she wasn’t gonna eat too much ice-cream, damn shame for a girl to lose that kinda figure. “She is hot,” Douglas said, hands on binoculars, zooming in on the girl. “I’d cane that all night.” She took off from the counter and headed out the store, quickly jumping back in her car. “I see you, baby … shakin’ that ass … shakin’ that ass!” Douglas shouted. “I think those things just paid for themselves,” James quipped. The fat guy took a huge chug of his Slurpee and then re-filled it, before he grabbed his Twinkies and headed to the counter. He turned and briefly fingered through the girlie magazines before reaching into his pants for his wallet (I’m so glad it was his wallet). Eric said, “He drives a snowplough. The only thing he has is his job, and he’s gotten so used to pushing snow off the roads that it’s become his master. The very thing he makes his living off is what he spends his money on—ice … in the form of frozen, 7-Eleven Slurpee.” All of us looked at Eric. “Where the hell do you get this stuff?” James said, on behalf of us all. “You gotta stop watching late night TV,” I told Eric. “Especially ‘Leno’ … what a funny guy,” added James, with a dose of sarcasm (James thought The Tonight Show sucked ass). “Like you don’t have a Law & Order problem, James?” James ignored Eric and went back to watchin’ the fat guy. “I’d love to cane a girl like that in one of those nightclub booths at Meteor,” Douglas said, pulling the binoculars away from his face as the girl sped off up Steele. “She could play with my space rock all night.” He looked at the three of us for a high-five or a ‘yeah, baby.’ He got nothin’. “What the hell is that s’posed to mean? It doesn’t mean anything,” I told him. “Yeah, you should’ve said something like, ‘I wouldn’t stop caning her even if a meteor slammed my ass’,” Eric suggested. (dead silence…) 35

gar y de nne

“So, what time are we gonna be doin’ this?” Douglas asked us. “I’m guessing one-thirty? We do it, then get outta there around two. We’ll blend in with the crowds going home from the bars,” Eric said. “Rock n’ roll, baby! Cane it!” (guess who) “This is gonna be one of the big ones,” Eric announced. “I just wish we could see the look on Belcher’s face when he gets back from Florida,” I replied. “Yeah…” Douglas added, “that dude is gonna get so caned.”

36

Runnerman’s, Friday, afternoon stretch: Over the P.A. System: “Matt Zander, could you please take a mop and bucket to aisle six. Mop and bucket to aisle six, Matt Zander.” That motherfucking prick. Belcher always took great pleasure in doing that to us. The service-desk girls would never use us—they had their own lackeys for cleaning shit up. But Belcher … he’d jump at the chance to call on the three of us. His voice would come over the P.A. gleefully requesting we clean shit, take out the stockroom trash, empty the carton crusher, fill the milk cabinets etc, etc. All the worst jobs, none our responsibility. The two front store lackeys, in between shopping-cart runs, would have more than enough time to do all of that stuff and he knew it. But you’d hear it in his voice, over the P.A., smirking the whole time he called our names. The twelve-‘til-two staggered lunch break was over for the day and the staff of Runnerman’s were all back to work, feeling a temporary high, seeing as though the weekend was now in sight. I was in aisle six, mopping the floor, where a lady—whose hair hadn’t seen a bottle of shampoo in months—had clumsily pushed the front end of her shopping cart into a standing display of Papa Rossini’s pasta sauce, toppling a half-dozen bottles to the floor. I was at the crime scene—the sauce, like blood, spreading out from the victim. Y’know, not a day went by without some customer knocking, bumping or crashing into items with their cart. How the hell did they handle a car when this 37

gar y de nne

was how they drove a shopping cart? No wonder there are so many road deaths. Head-on collisions, sideswipes, rear-enders—whatever was the case, after any cart collision there’d be a choice the shopper had to make. Sometimes, if you happened to stay unnoticed, you could watch them. There were two types of people when it came down to an oops-I-broke-it smash… Some would accidentally break a bottle of something and report it, feeling genuinely sorry. It was just an accident, these things happen—blah, blah, blah. But the type of person you’d more often see—depending on whether someone had seen them—would either cover it up, blame their cart, deny everything, or better still, just continue to shop as if nothing had happened, walking away to leave the mess as a gift for us to be consigned by Belcher to clean. Yep, in the two years I’d been at Runnerman’s, I’d just about seen it all. Human behaviour at its best and worst. I’d often get shouted at, harassed, and abused by customers, especially in rush hour when the place would fill up and gridlock full of people trying to get some stuff and then get the hell outta there. Even the most sweet and innocent-looking old ladies would yell at you, wanting to know why there were no more coupons left in the auto-dispensers so they could get six cents off a particular brand of cat food. And looking at other items in their cart, I’m sure some of ‘em weren’t even buying it for a damn cat, either. Fact: Glass mixed with pasta sauce stinks like shit. Sounds like a new product line, maybe? Y’know, you quickly become an expert on using a mop and bucket working in a supermarket. It’s a definite art form, too. See, you have to mop and clean every inch of floor while keeping it safe for customers to pass on so they don’t slip and sue your ass. The key is in the water distribution to the mop. Too little water means you’ll be scrubbing the floor until you have a heart attack. Too much water in the mop and the floor’ll be flooded, allowing the potential for a customer to slip over and sue the store for millions. As I cleaned up and placed the larger pieces of splintered glass into the bucket, I counted five bottles of sauce as casualties of war. It was pretty much a daily event. The amount of waste and damage that went on at Runnerman’s was staggering. Take, say, five bottles of stock smashed per day by customers and times it by every supermarket across the country and you start to get an idea 38

the matt zander journals

how much shit’s thrown away. And that’s not counting leaking packets, dented tins, faulty spray cans, mouldy perishables and the out-of-code candy we’d often eat, but was perfectly fine. All of it would be recorded, written off and dumped. It wouldn’t even be passed onto the homeless kids that’d sometimes hang round the bins out back. Just dumped. And probably 50% of all the stock I’d have to dump would be totally fine for consumer use. But, I’ll refer back to Runnerman’s Rule No.1: management always knew best. Always. I remember it being around 2:20 p.m. I’d hoped for something 3 p.m.-ish but it wasn’t to be. It was a game that most of the staff played, especially the girls on checkout. The worst thing you could do all day was keep your eyes on the store’s wall clock, upfront. The better way to play would be to try and hang out as long as you could, until you were busting to know the time and then either get a surprise or a depressing let down when you finally just had to look. Continuing to mop, I soaked up the remaining pasta sauce and broken glass as Eric entered the aisle. “Oh, that’s great—real great. Hey, perfect timing. You just missed out on helping me with this shit,” I said, annoyed. Somehow, Eric had the uncanny ability to show up when a job was about done. He had amusement on his face. “That is so messed up,” he said, looking down at the floor. “What’s with people, can’t they drive a fucking shopping cart without smashing into something round here?” I asked. “Yeah, well get this,” Eric began, “I’ve been crawling around on my hands and knees out back, looking for canned apricots cause some old guy likes to have his regular brand. I told him, ‘Hey … this ain’t no Russia, pops. There’s only like … twenty other brands of the same thing on the damn shelf.’” Eric bent down and picked up the last remaining pieces of broken glass, placing them in a cardboard box I had for the clean up. “Where’s James?” he asked. “Last I saw he was stocking dairy. And being stalked by a customer’s kid.” “Belcher’s leaving for Florida tonight, after close,” Eric whispered close to me. “Have you talked to Douglas?” 39

gar y de nne

“Yeah, he’s still down. We’ll head to King Slice, meet him there, grab some pizza, then subway it in.” I nodded. I was about to say something but… “Matt Zander, could you please go to the back docks, delivery at the back docks, Matt Zander,” came Belcher’s smug voice over the P.A. “Sonofabitch,” I moaned. “C’mon, let’s see what it is.” “You go ahead. I’m waiting for a call from my agent. My cell has bad reception in the stockroom, remember?” Eric said. “I’ll have to catch up, dude.” Yeah … nice one dude, I thought, as Eric headed towards the front desk, leaving me behind. Gotta hand it to Eric, like I said, he could talk his way out of anything. Thing was, I was starting to tire of that game.

40

Runnerman’s (customers are the worst), Friday, closing time: As heavy snow fell outside and began to blanket the parking lot and sidewalks, the working day was quickly coming to a close and a collective sigh of relief the weekend had arrived could almost be heard the store over. Runnerman’s, however, was still full of shoppers—homemakers now replaced by office types and bachelors, grabbing things like frozen dinners and cases of pop for the night. It was all about convenience. No one was able to cook anymore. The world was far too busy making money to buy raw ingredients to mix up, and the market had instantly catered for the change. Now almost everything was tailored towards the quick-fix life. Microwave-friendly, pre-cooked, pre-cut, pre-whatever. As long as it was quick, it didn’t really matter what kind of toxic chemicals were used to produce it. “Matt Zander and James McFadden, could you please attend to the doors for closing. Matt Zander and James McFadden, to the doors for closing, thank you,” came Belcher’s announcement over the P.A. That night, it was James and my shift to watch the doors after we closed right on 7:00 p.m., down to the second (thank God we hadn’t started to trade late … yet). It’d take at least another twenty minutes for the remaining shoppers in the store to be rustled out like cattle, so every night two staff members would have to baby-sit the doors and make sure nobody would sneak in or try to invent some story that if they didn’t bring home milk, their wife was gonna kill ‘em.

41

gar y de nne

On an average weeknight, most of the staff would get away around seven-thirty, the last ones to leave being the cashiers, who had to wait patiently for the few customers who insisted on making sure every single promotional coupon came off their total. As seven-thirty rolled by, the U of T nightshift students would appear, ready to dump thousands of cartons in the aisles to complete a restock of the shelves while everyone slept, finishing up as the bakers arrived for a new day. Yep, life at Runnerman’s was a complete 24/7 cycle. It never stopped. “Attention customers, the store is now closed. Could you please finalize your purchases and make your way to the checkouts. We would like to thank you for shopping Runnerman’s, your discount grocery store,” the front-desk manager’s voice blurted out over the P.A., making it official. Standing at the front doors, I could see James down aisle 8, trying in vain to dodge shopper’s carts, waiting for them as they road blocked the whole aisle, many of them tired corporate moms shouting at their kids to put boxes of Count Chocula cereal and the like, back on the shelf. Eric was at the deli counter, caught up with a customer, showing them the direction to the milk, right at the back of the store. Supermarkets put milk in the back so you had to walk the entire length of the store and be tempted by other stuff just to get to it. And bread was always at the opposite end to the milk. Clever, huh? “Don’t you just wanna smack dumpers in the head?” James said as he reached me. Sidebar: Dumping (say dum-p-ing) verb a) To change one’s mind about the purchase of an item and dump it at a random store location rather than return it to its proper shelf spot. Dumping was one of the more frustrating of customer habits when you worked in a supermarket. The most commonly known form of dumping was ‘pre-checkout 42

the matt zander journals

dumping’. This would take place when a customer was headed to the checkouts and did a little ‘do-I-really-need-that?’ analysing with their basket of items. You’d often find impulse items such as candy bars, cookies or muffins dumped all over the shelves nearest to the front of the store. That was the normal kind of dumping. Taking it to the next level of how frighteningly dumb some customers were was ‘extreme dumping’. ‘Extreme dumping’ was when a customer would dump an item in a location that would then perish the item, and once found, would have to be thrown away and written off. For example, let’s say a customer bought some slices of ham from the in-store deli. Once they decided they didn’t really need the ham after all, well … it’s all cold, right? What’s the difference between the 4°C dairy case and the -20°C freezer cabinet? They’d just slip the ham quietly into the freezer cabinet and head for the checkouts. Dumb fucks. “Who dumps a bag of muffins into the freezer cabinet? Who are these people?” James continued. I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. James just had a way about him. But he was right. Customers were the worst. “Hey, check it out, she’s hard at work,” I said to James, as I noticed Cassandra and Belcher talking it up as she closed down her lane. James and I watched Belcher put his coat and scarf on, ready to leave. I couldn’t hear them with all the scanner noise and kids screaming as they went through the checkouts, but you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. Cassandra was doing her best to show off cleavage, thanks to one button too many being undone on her blouse. She moved in for a flirty touch of his arm, feeling his coat material and laughing, as she battered her eyelids and tossed her hair. You could see Belcher eating it up. “I’m guessing she’s gonna be front-desk manager come Monday?” James quipped. “Why do they always go for the assholes?” I pondered, the both of us watching them rather than the front doors. Finally, Belcher checked his watch and said his goodbyes to the front-desk staff. He’d always leave closing to the girls on front-desk duty. One by one, they were all wishing him a nice weekend away. It looked like friggin’ Sesame Street—they 43

gar y de nne

were all doing little cutesy waves with their hands next to their faces, all smiling, brown-nosing (suck suck suck). Making the break from them, Belcher began to head towards the front doors and the two of us. As he reached us, we pulled the doors apart like Manhattan doormen and he walked straight outta the store, into the parking lot and the falling snow. He didn’t say a word—the guy just walked past us like we were nobody. But that was the thing with Belcher and his bung eye—half the time you didn’t have a clue where he was looking, or if he could even see outta that damn thing. I think he could, and that he was just your everyday, garden-variety asshole. He’d never acknowledge us outside of store hours, anyway, so it wasn’t anything new to get a front-door snub. All the more reason to hate him. As the cashier girls descended into store-closing madness and the noise levels of shoppers waiting patiently in long queues grew, James and I discreetly turned around just enough to peer outside at Belcher, who was carefully dodging puddles in the parking lot as he walked to his car. Little did he know… I turned to James and whispered, “Hope he enjoys Florida … ‘cos payback’s gonna be a bitch.”

44

When we arrived downtown, Bathurst/Bloor Subway 1:26 AM, on schedule: After leaving King Slice (best pizza in T.O.), my heart rate (and cholesterol) had shot through the roof. On the subway in, the adrenalin had already begun to flow freely through my veins. It always did before a break-in—that was the idea. That was the rush that was so cool. Climbing the steps of the Bathurst subway to street level, I’m sure Eric, James and Douglas were all equally pumped as I was, but as we reached Bloor St and the moonlit winter’s night, the bitter February wind cut through us like a knife and took away the will to speak. As revellers walked past us in large numbers, heading down the subway steps to catch the last trains home, our night of fun was just getting started. Walking along Bloor St, towards Brunswick Ave, we all kept our heads down, our hoods on, our hands in our pockets and our mouths shut. This wasn’t for the reason you might think—to go unnoticed—but rather to survive the bone-piercing wind of Old Man Winter. February is the coldest month in Toronto. Putting traffic, garbage and smog aside, winter is my #1 grievance of this place. I fucking hate the cold. And the problem with Toronto is there’s really only two seasons, not four. It’s either a) winter, or b) winter’s on its way. The long winter here makes summer seem like a 4-week vacation you take every year to the Caribbean. The cold’s an entity here, it has the ability to mess with your head and break you. It’s a very unpleasant existence when your skin freezes, your lips crack, your nose is like a stop sign, and your ears and fingers lose all feeling. And, let’s not forget the dirty snow, 45

gar y de nne

freezing rain, flurries, black ice, wind chill, naked trees, a thousand shades of grey and the occasional ice storm. Yep, whoever came up with that whole ‘winter wonderland’ bullshit must’ve been smokin’ some pretty good crack. Anyways, thankfully, as we reached Brunswick Avenue and turned off Bloor, we became somewhat sheltered from the harsher easterly winds by the rows of houses up and down the avenue. We continued to slowly trudge through the snow towards our destination. “Fuck!” I moaned, wiping my nose with my coat sleeve (bad habit). “Weather Channel said it was gonna be minus forty wind chill overnight,” Eric gasped. “You need The Weather Channel to tell you it’s fucking freezing?” James asked. “They should just flash ‘FF’ on the screen with sirens going off when it’s like this.” “You gotta get a down coat, James,” Douglas said. “Down, baby. That’s where it’s at. Ooooh yeah … I could be naked underneath this thing and still be warm.” “You promised you’d never do that again,” James replied, straight-faced. “Check it out,” Douglas said, as he unzipped his navy-blue ski-coat a little and showed it to James. “This thing’s got about fifty caned ducks stuffed in it. Beeeee-eautiful.” “How much?” Eric asked. “$650. This is the best money can buy. The North Face.” I’d owned a cheap, department store down coat for the past three years. It did the job, but had sprung a leak last winter, and since then I’d kinda dripped feathers everywhere I went. “You know, when they settled this city, no way they settled in winter,” I said, puffing for breath, “who in their right fucking mind would think this would make a good place for a city—fucking minus forty and snow up your ass?” Eric laughed and chimed in, “How’s the surprise they woulda’ got when the first winter came round? All settled in and then … ‘Ummm, hey guys? I think we mighta fucked up.’” Trudging through fresh snow, there was an eerie silence all across The Annex, as the light and noise from Bloor St faded away. The Annex was one of the cooler (no pun intended) downtown suburbs, and was a mix of artists, U of T students, and corporate types, giving the area a good, all-round vibe. While Bloor 46

the matt zander journals

was a busy strip of cafes, bookstores and fashion outlets always buzzing with locals, once you stepped away from that main corridor, you found yourself in peaceful, tree-lined streets with row upon row of original Victorian-era double and triple-story homes—seemingly removed from the downtown core of which they were a part of. Our M.O. for these types of nights was pretty simple. One of us would carry a backpack with our gear and three other backpacks inside. Once we reached a home, we’d each have our own backpack to fill with our choice of stuff. And when we got outta there, we’d look like your everyday University students on the move—especially so tonight, seeing as U of T was only blocks away. Cool, huh? “265 … what number is it?” Eric asked us. No one answered him. “James,” he said again, “what’s his number?” “How the hell do I know? You’re the one that’s been to his place,” James replied. “It’s 3-something … I can’t remember? I need something to eat. A donut or something to make me think,” Eric said. “Matt, got anything in the bag?” he asked me. “Nothin. No donuts, no sugar,” I answered. “Is there a Tim Hortons round here somewhere?” “I’ve got a cigarette,” James offered. “277,” Douglas pointed out. “So I met with my agent yesterday,” Eric began, getting his mind away from food, “guess who was sitting across from us?” “Dudley Moore?” James said. “He’s fucking dead.” “When did that happen?” James asked. We ignored him. You did that a lot with James. “The dude from The Wonder Years, y’know … the guy?” “You mean that kid? Savage…?” Douglas said. “No, the Dad. He’s in alotta stuff. Movies and Disney shit. He’s always playing a dad or some military guy. I don’t know his name,” Eric said. “He was sitting right across from us.” “Hey, why hasn’t your agent got you anything since you did that FedEx ad?” I asked Eric. 47

gar y de nne

I counted a few steps in the snow as we waited patiently for Eric to answer. “There was an incident…” he said, adding a pause. “I kinda threw up on her.” “You threw up on your agent?” Douglas asked in disbelief. “289,” James noted. “You never said anything about this?” I said. “I wonder why,” James replied. “Right after I finished the FedEx shoot she invited me to this industry night to meet some talent, make contacts, network—that kind of thing,” Eric began. “It was at the Gypsy Co-op on Queen. They had everything—food, open bar, band, waiters flyin’ round everywhere. So, these waiters, they kept bringing out all these trays of little gourmet pastries. Half of them I had no clue what they were, but every time they brought them out, I took a whole bunch—I was hungry as hell. I wanted to take the entire tray of ‘em. Meanwhile, I’m drinking as you do at an open bar, and sure enough … it hit me.” “I so wish I had’ve seen this,” Douglas said, disappointed. “So I think … uh-oh. You know when you know you’re gonna throw up? You can feel all the food taking the elevator to the top floor, back into your mouth? I just froze. My agent pulled me over to meet this music-video director and I couldn’t run off, so I just tried to hold it down and keep still. Just as she said, ‘Raoul, come here darling, I’d love you to meet Eric, one of our new signings…’ is when I threw my guts right down her cleavage.” Douglas burst into laughter and slowly applauded. “I knew there was a reason she hadn’t called back,” he shouted. I realized residents would’ve heard us, but were probably used to hearing partygoers on the way home from a night out. James and me … I think we were too damn cold to laugh. “It was so messed up,” Eric said. “You mean she was so messed up?” James quipped. “I’m lucky she’s even talking to me. I spat chewed-up Hors d’Oeuvres all over her dress.” “Hey, this is it,” I said quietly. “There’s his car.” We reached 321 Brunswick Avenue and slowly walked past the double story home, watching closely for any sign of life. Belcher’s Lincoln was parked right out front. He’d gotten a car service to the airport. 48

the matt zander journals

Now, I’m no real estate agent, but the house must’ve been worth a fortune for the neighbourhood. I figured there was a big salary gap from grocery assistant to store manager. Beneath a canopy of trees—stripped back by the season—stood a grand old Victorian two-story house with a pointy, arrow-shaped roof to keep the snow off. Built with red brick, it had four lots of tall, bay windows, painted white around their edges. Several steps led up to a covered porch, with two pillars at either side holding a second roof up over the porch and entrance. Wooden railing surrounded the porch and there was a table with chairs stacked away, probably only used for the four weeks of summer. Okay, I lie … five weeks. So sue me. The house was dark and the curtains were drawn. We hung back for a minute, just watching. “Turn around,” Douglas said to me. “I’ll check what’s going on,” he said, as he unzipped my backpack and reached in, grabbing his night-vision binoculars. The wind was still blowing through us but it’d calmed down from the strength it had back on Bloor. The moon and stars were above us. Fresh powder snow covered everything in its reach. It was eerily quiet except for the sound of snow falling from branches and hitting the ground below. The whole street was at peace. Only a masochist would be out in this weather … or anyone up to no good. “Are we good to go?” Eric whispered to Douglas. “Gentlemen,” he replied, looking all around the house through his binoculars, “we have ourselves an empty house to cane.”

49

321 Brunswick Ave, the classic stealth manoeuvre: With a final glance around us, we crouched down and stepped over a small wooden fence along the front of Belcher’s house, separating the property from the sidewalk. As we moved through his front garden, we made a trail of fresh prints in the virgin snow. A birdbath carved of stone stood amongst small shrubs and bushes, all covered with the white stuff. February’s a time of the year where gardens just don’t exist in Toronto. Even the birdbath was ‘out of order’, and the only birds diving in for a dip would’ve been kamikaze ones. Quickly disappearing out of sight from the street, we headed left, down the narrow, side walkway of the house. I could feel the cold penetrating my socks as I crouched along, my feet deep in about 12 inches of snow. We all took care not to brush up against Belcher’s garden bushes, the snow weighing down on their leaves—any loud rustling and an alert neighbour could’ve been the end of us. At the end of the walkway, the path opened up to the back of the house and a yard barely big enough to hold a swimming pool. The four of us stepped off the snow-covered ground and onto a slatted wooden deck, leading to the back-entry sliding glass doors. We were quiet. We took a moment to catch our breath from the classic stealth manoeuvre. The yard was dark. I could barely see in front of me. I turned around and peered through the sliding glass doors into the house. Everything was locked up. No one was home. Perfect. I pulled the backpack from my shoulders and placed it down onto the deck. I gently unzipped it and started pulling our gear out: -

50

the matt zander journals

Scrunched up backpacks (3) Gaffer tape Mini Mag-Lite torches (3) Pack of disposable gloves Our novelty masks (4) Canadian-Tire standard toolkit Eric and James grabbed their backpacks, unfolding them into shape. Douglas was busy scanning around the yard and inside the house with his night-vision binoculars. “Fuckin’-A,” he whispered to the three of us, “these things are so awesome.” “Can you see anything?” I asked. “I can see everything.” “I mean activity, dumbass.” “The place is dead,” he said, continuing to scan. “Then let’s get this party started,” I whispered, as I pulled my latex Michael Jackson mask over my head. About a year ago, I’d bought a bunch of masks for us at a party store in Etobicoke. Mine was modelled after the real (i.e. black) Michael Jackson, and looked way more realistic than Whacko Jacko did himself. It even came attached with his curly, black Thriller hair and a normal-shaped nose. Eric became Dr. Evil—the bald-headed bad dude from the Austin Powers movies—and had the voice perfected so well that the first time he wore the mask during a break-in, I couldn’t stop laughing and we had to call it off prematurely, in case the neighbours had called the cops. Since then, every once in a while during a robbery, Eric would talk in character, just for the laughs. James, well he wore a generic gorilla mask (no frills for James) and Douglas … well, Douglas became … sorry, Douglas was Satan, and wore a bright red devil mask with a big sinister frown, wrinkly skin, Spock-like ears and two horns popping out the top. We wore the masks just in case we ever ran into trouble, or a house had cameras, which was getting far too common, what with all the cheap, hi-tech gear out there. Black ski masks? Far too unoriginal. I always saw black ski masks as the sign of a pro or the (dead @ the end) bad guy in a Hollywood 51

gar y de nne

movie. Novelty masks worked for us on so many more levels ‘cos we just didn’t see ourselves as ski-masked bad guys. We weren’t pros. I know there’d be people who wouldn’t get it, but this was something we did for fun. To escape from our boring lives for a while. The kinda rush you got from breaking into someone’s home had become addictive. Kinda like being a superhero and having an alter ego. No one knew we did this kinda stuff and that was half the buzz. The people we targeted were wealthy, middle-class—you always knew they had insurance. We’d take stuff, homeowners would claim for it, get replacements and be better off. For them, it’d be a technology upgrade. Because we mostly stole tech stuff like cell phones, iPods and laptops, when people replaced their possessions they’d get the latest models. I’m sure some of ‘em actually didn’t mind at all that their old, crappy laptop was stolen so they could get a faster one. That’s why we wore the novelty masks—this wasn’t some serious gig for us guys. It was like acting out a scene from a movie. I’d stopped doing it for the stuff we stole a long time ago. I was doin’ it for the rush. For the challenge. My life had no challenge. I wanted to know I was still alive, for crissake. How can you have adventure packing groceries into shelves and telling people for the millionth time where the milk’s at? With our masks on and a pair of plastic gloves each (duh, no fingerprints), we were ready. “James, you’ve got the door, okay?” Eric said in classic Dr. Evil, holding his pinkie finger to the corner of his mouth. “This place is in for such a caning,” Douglas whispered, grinning through his mask. “Hey, does anyone want to go to Brass Rail after this?” “For the last time … no,” James quipped. Douglas had an unhealthy (unhealthy, what am I sayin?) addiction for strip clubs. The Brass Rail was his favourite. For him, a lap dance was as normal as going out to pickup a newspaper at a convenience store. James grabbed the toolkit and crouched over to the sliding door, while we waited for him to work his magic. He paused for a moment and spent a good 30 seconds staring at the lock. “James,” Eric whispered, “while we’re young? My ass is freezing to my pants.”

52

the matt zander journals

I smiled to myself. Telling James to hurry was like trying to get Eric to give up donuts. It just wasn’t gonna happen. James was always getting on Eric’s nerves, and it figured, since Eric was the highly strung, instant gratification, I-want-itNOW type. Always had been. James slowly began to twist and turn two small screwdrivers in the lock. He tried to be as quiet as possible, wedging them left and right. My heart rate jumped even more. Robbing houses was the best. And a good workout … screw the gym. The anticipation was all over us. This was the type of rush I was hooked on—better than drugs, better than booze, better than sex. Douglas was scanning around Belcher’s yard and over the fences to the neighbouring houses. He was our eyes in the dark. He stopped for a second and pulled the binoculars away from his face, focusing towards James and his handiwork. “How do you know he doesn’t have the place wired?” he asked. “We don’t,” I whispered. “But,” Eric turned to him and explained, “all last summer he made me deliver bunches of groceries for his wife. She had a fender-bender. Some girl ran into the back of her at a set of lights. Screwed her neck up. Couldn’t get off the couch. The guy was too cheap to pay for home delivery in his own damn supermarket, can you believe that? Anyway, whenever I dropped stuff off I made mental notes. There’s no alarm. Positive.” “If we find a system inside we just get the hell outta here, okay?” I said. “Was she nice?” Douglas asked Eric, ignoring me. “His wife?” “Yeah,” Douglas replied. “Are you asking me if she was nice as in ‘nice’, or if she was hot?” “Take a wild guess.” “She was a total MILF,” answered Eric. “Isn’t that some kind of Lord Of The Rings character?” James asked, listening to us as he worked the lock. “MILF … Mom I’d Like to Fuck,” I whispered to James. “Personality?” asked Douglas. “Since when does that matter?” Eric quickly replied. 53

gar y de nne

“Y’know, there should be some kinda law against hot women being with guys like Belcher. I remember she had these pink sweatpants on and her ass … her ass was outta this world,” Eric told us. “Maybe they were space pants?” James quipped. “Maybe she wanted a special kind of delivery? Ever thoughta’ that? Ooooh yeah, baby! Bangin’ the boss’ wife … that’s the dream.” “Hey … keep it down,” I whispered to Douglas, his voice getting a little loud for my liking. “Yeah, well, she may’ve been hot but she was a bitch like you wouldn’t believe,” Eric explained. “She gave me this … this look of disgust when I tried to make small talk, dropping off some of her groceries. A look like … ‘Why are you fucking talking to me?’ Like I was a fucking Runnerman’s robot slave or somethin’. Stuck up bitch.” “Maybe she had a carrot up her ass? So that’s where he got the idea from,” James pondered to himself. Douglas pulled his 9mm replica pistol from his coat pocket. He aimed it up in the air and pulled the trigger. A flame lit up at the end of the barrel and he watched it for a second, while we waited for James. The gun was a cigarette lighter he owned to smoke Cubans he’d get from a colleague of his. For our purposes, though, he’d bring it along as insurance. A safety net in case anything went down we weren’t expecting and needed to show someone we were serious … in theory, anyways. Click. James tilted his arm as he turned the screwdrivers around in the lock. The lock had clicked undone. Gently, he slid the door along its rollers. He turned to us in his gorilla mask and whispered, “Even a monkey could’ve opened that lock.” We were in.

54

When we got inside Belcher’s place: One by one, we quietly moved into the house. James waited for the three of us to enter and then carefully pushed the sliding door shut. Finally, we were out of the cold and it never felt so good to be inside a warm, comfortable house than it did at that moment. As the four of us stood up, I was glad to feel my toes beginning to thaw. In the darkness of Belcher’s kitchen, my heart was smashing about in my chest for those first few moments. The extra kick was knowing whose house we were in and what he’d do to us if he ever found out who screwed him over. While Douglas adjusted his night vision, the three of us turned our Mag-Lites on in unison, as though we’d been rehearsing it for months. We began to shine the light beams around and explore the layout of the kitchen. There were ceramic, chessboard tiles on the floor. An antique, oval dinner table and cushy chairs were just inside the glass doors. Several newspapers were pulled apart and had their sections spread out on the table. One side of the kitchen was a row of cedar cupboards and a bench-top, sink and dishwasher. There were several used coffee mugs on the counter and a breadboard with the last few slices of a continental loaf. I saw an empty bottle of wine, lying sideways in the sink. Above the kitchen counter, windows looked over to the neighbouring house. On the other side of the kitchen stood a stove and refrigerator, surrounded by another bunch of cabinets and utensil draws. I could see a door with a large, plate-glass centre leading out into the living room. I looked all over for any sign of an alarm system or mounted camera. Nothing. So far. “Why’s it so freaking hot in here?” Eric whispered in a Dr. Evil voice. 55

gar y de nne

I could feel it, too. The central heating must’ve been on full blast. It was like a damn sauna in there, we could’ve walked round naked. Eric immediately began pulling off his coat, not bothering to mask any ruffling sound it made. “Whaddaya doing?” I asked. “I have to get this thing off. I feel like I’m at the beach in here,” he complained, as he took his shirt off and went altogether topless. A hairy chest and a handful of unwanted flab—not exactly what I wanted to see right then and there, but that was Eric. He walked to Belcher’s refrigerator and pulled the door open. “Now what?” I asked again. “Seriously, I need something to drink,” he said. “It’s so hot in here I feel like I’m gonna pass out. Who leaves their heating turned up this high?” “It’s probably some auto setting or something,” Douglas said. Eric scanned the shelves of Belcher’s fridge, looking for something to drink, while Douglas passed by him and headed toward the living room. I ditched my coat, too, and followed Douglas, shining my flashlight all around. On entering Belcher’s living room you got the distinct impression that either Belcher, or his wife, had a passion for home decorating—it was a pretty nice room, I have to admit. I stepped off the kitchen tiles and onto soft, plush, beige carpet. The slushy snow from our boots had already left a trail from the kitchen (oops). A staircase was on my left, leading up to the first floor. To my right sat a dining table with a tall, clay vase in the centre, full of flowers. Bookshelves stood against the walls, crammed with books and tomes. A blue, L-shaped couch was in the centre of the room, with one side facing an open fireplace and mantelpiece, and the other, a big-screen TV and bay windows overlooking the front garden and Brunswick Ave. The mantelpiece held all sorts of knick-knacks, picture frames and an antique clock in the middle. Expensive looking artwork adorned the walls, both abstracts and landscapes. A lamp sat on each of the smaller bookcases in the room, along with a spinning globe of the world, a few Runnerman’s retailing awards, and one of those old, model sailing boats. Seemed like Belcher had more to him than I first thought. To see a man’s castle … I guess it puts some perspective on a guy. Don’t get me wrong—he was still

56

the matt zander journals

an asshole, but all the stuff in that living room showed a side of him I hadn’t seen at Runnerman’s. “Who owns a fucking supermarket and has no pop, no juice … nothing to drink in their fridge?” I heard Eric say in the kitchen, starting to sink towards one of his infamous mood swings. “There’s just, like, a hundred jars of condiments! What kind of shit is that?” I turned around and could see he was annoyed. He slammed the fridge door shut and joined us in the living room. James was right behind him, bringing up the rear. He was keenly observing all around him. Stupid things. Little things. Receipts on the fridge. Fridge magnets. Ornaments on the walls. The kind of coffee machine on the kitchen bench. James in a nutshell. Turning to my right, I saw a large, wall mirror and below it, a spacious mahogany desk and executive leather chair. My flashlight passed over a laptop computer sitting on the desk and instantly caught my attention. Hell-ooooo. What have we here? I thought to myself. Tell him what he’s won, Dave! Why, it’s a beautiful laptop computer! (Enthusiastic crowd applause) And this wasn’t just some punk kid’s laptop—this was Belcher’s laptop… I walked over to the desk for a better look. I came into frame of the mirror and for a moment, I stood there, staring back at myself. I remember realizing how stupid I looked—I was Whacko Jacko, Man in the Mirror. Bad album? Get it? I kill me. Sorry. “This is nice,” I heard James say, admiring the place. “This is real nice…” Suddenly, there was a loud crash that just about gave me a heart attack. I spun my head round in a flash and saw a golf bag lying on the floor, next to James. Several of the clubs had spilled out. I exhaled a breath of relief and silently held my hands up in the air to James as if to say, ‘What the fuck?!’ James wore glasses, so it wasn’t his eyes that were the problem. It was just James being James. Crouching down, he slowly pushed the clubs back into the bag and placed it back up against the wall. I turned back to the desk. Placing my flashlight in my mouth, I searched with both hands for anything worth taking apart from the laptop. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness but the Mag-Lite, as usual, was still a big help. On the desk, there 57

gar y de nne

were photos of Belcher and his wife (Eric was right, she was hot), a bowl of potpourri, a stack of bills underneath a glass paperweight, a daily, tear-off calendar, stationery and a phone. Not a whole lot there. All I wanted was the laptop—that definitely had my name written all over it. It was connected to an external LCD monitor, inkjet printer and cable modem, but that stuff was all too bulky and I didn’t want it anyway. I began to unplug cables as the other guys did their own treasure hunting. I turned my head briefly to see James taking a photo of an unusual-looking table just inside the front door. I think I already mentioned this, but James was obsessed with photography. He tagged along on these nights just to take photos of people’s homes. To capture a snapshot of real life. Offbeat stuff. The way people lived. That’s all that mattered to James. Apart from his camera, which was a freebie from a house in the Beaches, he never took anything. Well, ‘cept for photos. One by one, Eric and Douglas were digging through the cabinet draws against the wall. I saw Eric take some cash and flick through a bunch of credit cards for anything that could be of value. Anyways, as we were all doing our own thing, and as I was carefully reaching over the desk to the back of the monitor, I heard a distant noise. I froze. I bit down on the flashlight in my mouth. I couldn’t tell where it’d come from and I didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t that unusual … you’d often hear noises and stuff in the older houses—floorboards or an old furnace, for example. But I could’ve sworn it was a voice. I think I was starting to get a little paranoid from doing this kinda thing. After a few seconds of silence, I went back to what I was doing. I unplugged the last remaining cable from the laptop and placed it in my backpack. The bonus of an item like that was gonna be getting it home and going though the thing. Maybe there was something on the hard drive to use as leverage against Belcher. Best-case scenario would be private photos with a woman other than his wife, or maybe some kinda Runnerman’s company data that, if leaked, would see him lose his franchise (or at least be in alotta shit). Laptops were always good for stuff like that. I pulled open the top desk draw and dug through it thoroughly. Nothing interesting in there. Just loose computer cables and software. The second draw

58

the matt zander journals

was more of the same, and the third was full of files. I left the desk and headed towards the others, slowly looking for anything else that caught my eye. James continued to browse around, looking through the bookcases like he was in a bookstore on a lazy Sunday. Eric and Douglas were admiring the big-screen TV and home theatre setup. Next to the TV, a reclining armchair sat nestled between two glass-top coffee tables. One was covered in magazines and scrunched up newspapers, along with remote controls for the theatre. On the second, sat a DVD tower crammed full of movies. I carefully peered out the bay windows for any sign of life outside. Not a peep, The Annex was asleep. Eric then got my attention. “We gotta start thinking how we can transport something like this,” he whispered, sizing it up like a project manager. “This would be so sweet to watch Leno on.” I ignored him. To tell you the truth, my ears were still concentrating on the noise earlier and if it was ever gonna repeat itself. Douglas was crouched at the TV cabinet, looking at the home-theatre gear. “I am so taking this,” he said. Like a kid in a candy store, he quickly moved his focus to the tower of DVDs and began to scan through them. Eric crouched down to join him. One immediately caught his eye. “Check this out—The Usual Suspects, Special Edition. Spacey and Singer … what a classic,” he said. He pulled the DVD from the tower and handed it across to Douglas. “Here, take it, I’ve already got a copy.” “Nah. I don’t want it.” “Whaddaya mean?” Eric said, puzzled. “I didn’t like it,” Douglas told him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on—are you nuts? How could you not like this movie? It’s a masterpiece of filmmaking. Mr. Kobayashi, Keyser Söze … the ending!? You got the ending, right?” Douglas looked directly at Eric, “I thought it sucked. I figured it out halfway through. I mean, c’mon? Who else could it’ve been? Wasn’t it obvious? And the stupidest thing was that the ending made the whole movie never really happen … what the fuck’s that about?” “Hey … guys … c’mon. Focus,” I said. “I’m gonna head upstairs, okay?” 59

gar y de nne

I left the two film critics to bash it out and walked over to James. “Did you hear something before?” I asked him. “Hear what?” “Wait. There it is again. There.” James and I listened. Both Eric’s and Douglas’ voices were rising. “Okay … okay,” I heard Eric say, trying to keep calm. I could tell he was annoyed. He’d often let his moods get the better of him, especially when he hadn’t had a recent sugar hit. He said to Douglas, “I just don’t get how you didn’t like this? Everyone likes this. It’s a recognized classic. Of all the movies not to like … you see the irony here, don’t you? Keyser Söze’s the devil—you’re wearing a friggin’ devil mask and telling people you’re Satan!” Douglas barked back, “Alright … I get it! I’m still not taking it! Jesus! If you like it so much, why don’t you take it so you’ve got two copies of a fuckin’ shit movie!” I quickly turned to the both of them and waved my arms wildly in the air. It got their attention. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Eric asked aloud. I pointed upstairs with one hand and put my finger over my lips with the other. Carefully, I walked over to them and whispered up close. “Somebody’s up there, listen.”

60

A fucking problem: We were all silent. We waited. It was as though someone’d freeze-framed us. The clock on the mantelpiece continued to count out life. “I can’t hear anything?” “Oooohmpf,” came a distant, muffled voice. “What the fuck was that?” Douglas whispered. Eric put his finger over his lips. We all heard the noise again. A faint sign of life was coming from upstairs. We huddled close together, like a sports team in a time-out. “Someone’s up there,” Eric whispered. “Maybe it’s a TV, y’know, on one of those timers?” James suggested. “It sounds like a voice. Maybe we woke someone up?” I whispered. “Uhhhhhhhhh.” “That’s definitely a voice, it sounds like a moan,” Douglas replied. My heart was in my mouth. We heard the voice become clearer with each passing moment. “It sounds like someone’s in trouble.” “Maybe Belcher beat his wife before flying to Florida and she’s up there dying?” Douglas said. “Uggghhhh.” “That’s fucking,” James whispered, as he paid close attention. “Fucking what?” “The noise … it’s fucking—two people fucking,” he replied. “And you’re an expert?” Eric asked him. “Goddddddd,” came the voice again. 61

gar y de nne

“This is nice … real nice. I thought he was supposed to be in Florida?” I whispered angrily to Eric. “Wait, maybe he is. Maybe it’s his wife?” “Maybe she’s got hookers from the Eye Weekly up there?” James deadpanned. Eric glanced at him, unimpressed. “His wife’s probably having an affair,” Douglas whispered. “They’re getting it on while he’s away. Sounds like she’s lovin’ it.” “Ooooooooh,” the voice continued. “I thought you said they were both going? As in, ummmm … both of them,” I questioned Eric, still annoyed. “That’s what I thought! Maybe she didn’t wanna go this year? How the hell do I know!” “So,” James whispered, “what do we do now?” “Don’t stop—oh, god—don’t stop…” We all stood there, staring at each other. I think we thought about getting the hell outta there. I know I sure did. Knowing Belcher’s wife was upstairs with some other guy freaked me out. But, as we stood in a huddle and I stared straight at James’ camera hanging round his neck, I said, “Wait. I got an idea. Here’s what we do—we sneak upstairs, scare the hell outta her, take a coupla’ pictures and post ‘em on the internet. Belcher’s wife … fucking … on the internet. Or better still, on the staff noticeboard in the lunchroom. She could be employee of the month. Can you imagine how cool that’d be?” “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod—yesssssss,” came the voice. “This is, like, so messed up,” Eric whispered, “I don’t wanna be listening to Belcher’s wife doing some guy up there, let alone smash through the door and have that image burnt into memory. We’ll all be scarred by this shit.” “Don’t be such a pussy,” Douglas said softly. “You said yourself she’s a bitch. C’mon, man … we’ve got the upper hand here. Element of surprise,” I pointed out to Eric. Eric stood there and thought it over for a second. “You really wanna do this?” he asked me.

62

the matt zander journals

“Hey,” I started, “we work in a supermarket, remember? Our lives are boring as fuck—we can’t not do this. C’mon, it’ll be funny as hell. I guarantee when we’re 80 we’ll look back on stuff like this.” “Ughhhhhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhh. Fuck me…” “What else do we wear these stupid masks for anyways?” James added. “Okay, okay,” Eric finally agreed. “We get some pictures, then we bail.” “What’s the etiquette here? Should we wait for them to finish? Maybe I can go have a cigarette outside?” James wondered. “So what are we gonna say?” Eric asked sarcastically, “‘Hey, don’t mind us … can you just keep screwing while we snap a few shots for the web?’ What if the guy’s some kung-fu dude? I don’t wanna get my face damaged if I’ve got auditions coming up.” “Douglas,” I said, “she won’t know your voice. You’re the only one who talks, okay? Point the gun if you need to—that’ll have ‘em freaked.” “Listen to you three … nuthin’ but a bunch of pussies. You’re all crappin’ your pants,” Douglas said. “I trade millions of dollars everyday. That’s fear.” “Take as many shots as you can,” I told James, who was configuring his camera (I’m assuming for night-mode or whatever—unless there was a porn-mode on those things?) “We take the photos, then get the hell outta there,” Eric said. “By the time they realize what the hell happened, we’ll be at 7-Eleven getting coffee and donuts.” “That feels so … wow,” continued the voice upstairs. We all looked at each other and nodded in anticipation. We turned our Mag-Lites off. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a signal or something, in case we need to abort?” James asked. “Did you just say abort?” Eric whispered. “James, I’d lose the word ‘abort’, okay? No girl is gonna date a guy who uses ‘abort’ in a real sentence. Period.” “I knew I should’ve brought the chloroform,” James mumbled to himself. “We don’t need a damn signal, okay? They’re into it so much up there they’re probably not even gonna notice us,” Douglas said. “Well, I suppose I could always roll my eyes, like this…” James said, trying out his idea for a signal. “Ummm … Douglas … it’s called a flash. Trust me, they’re gonna notice.” 63

gar y de nne

“Fuck you, James,” Douglas said half-hearted, “you got the balls to do this or not?” “Let’s just do this already!” I whispered in frustration. “They’ll be smoking a fuckin’ cigarette by the time we get up there.” “Well?” Douglas whispered, “who’s goin’ first?” None of us moved. Maybe it was a stupid idea. Douglas smiled, amused, “None of you wanna put your balls on the line, do ya?” “I’m gettin’ such a good adrenalin hit right now. You feel that?” Eric asked us. For the record, I was too. Fuckin’ Class-A adrenalin. “Looks like Satan’s gonna have to show you pussies how it’s done,” Douglas said. He slowly began to walk towards the stairs, night-vision binoculars in one hand, 9mm replica in the other. You’d never have known the gun was a lighter unless you actually saw the flame at its tip. It looked real enough to make anyone shit their pants. And, together with our novelty masks, I was just hoping Belcher’s wife didn’t have a heart attack and drop dead when she saw us. Having Whacko Jacko in your bedroom doorway watching you have sex might be enough to freak you to death. No way did I wanna be trying to revive a naked Belcher’s wife. Leaving our backpacks behind for noise reduction, I followed Douglas up the stairs, making sure my footsteps were quiet. Eric and James followed behind me. I held onto the hand railing and hoped the others did the same. We wanted the element of surprise so we could catch her in the bump-n-grind act. Whatever you do, don’t fucking trip, I thought to myself. As we reached the top of the stairs, we stared through the darkness, down the short, hardwood floor hallway, covered by a narrow Persian rug. At the end of the hall, we could hear the source of the noise. It was coming from what was the main bedroom. I could see the door was pushed to. As we slowly crept toward the door, Douglas was right, there was no doubt they were going pretty hard at it in there. Belcher’s wife was gasping, sighing, oohing and ahhing. I could hear both of them softly panting. The bed was creaking like a metronome in perfect rhythm. I’d never have admitted it to the guys, but it was actually strangely erotic, knowing they didn’t know we were approaching, only feet away.

64

the matt zander journals

Like anti-terrorist crack commandos in the dead of night, each step we took was in slo-motion, one after the other. On either side of the hallway, we passed other rooms and a bathroom, all in darkness. I carefully stepped past a phone stand and a pot plant, not wanting to touch or knock anything. My throat went dry. My heart thumped like bongo drums. The anticipation was like you wouldn’t believe. It was a purely natural high (try and beat that, drugs). Douglas stopped just outside the bedroom and waited for the three of us to reach him at the doorway. We all listened in for a moment. The couple’s voices were somewhat dampened by the door. It felt like we were kids sneaking into an XXX theatre, listening to a couple exchange erotic instructions… “Oh my god.” “Uhhhhhhh.” “Right there. Like that.” “Like, ohhhh, that is sooooo good.” “Lean back.” “Ohhhh god, don’t stop … don’t stop … DON’T. STOP.” Listening to them, it occurred to me that there was something strangely familiar about the female voice. Like when you hear a song on the radio that you’re sure you’ve heard before but can’t quite place. That’s not Belcher’s wife? I thought to myself. That was more like … like a girl’s voice? Over the course of the next, oh, ten seconds, my brain pattern, in between heartbeats, went something like this: Airport. (Thump-thump). Snow. (Thump-thump). Planes don’t like snow. (Thump-thump). Airports get snowed in. (Thump-thump). Flights get cancelled. (Thump-thump). 65

gar y de nne

Oh. (Thump-thump). Fuck. (Thump-thump). Before I could do anything, Douglas gently pushed at the bedroom door and it swung open with barely a sound… In the darkness, aided by moonlight through the bedroom windows, I could see Cassandra Parker, queen bitch of the Runnerman’s checkout girls, on top of Belcher. They were on a queen bed up against the bedroom wall, above the covers. Cassandra was running her fingers through her hair as she rode Belcher, all the way to the top of the Runnerman’s food chain. We just stood there, frozen, watching the motion of her body for what seemed an eternity, but was mere seconds. We’d hit a fucking problem… It wasn’t a large bedroom. There were two dressers on the left-hand wall, more artwork, and a TV cabinet on wheels with TV/DVD. Two large wardrobes were up against the right wall. Clothes were scattered on the hardwood floor and a freestanding mirror was in the corner. On either side of the queen bed were nightstands, sharing between them a clock-radio, lamps, phone and cologne bottles. Belcher and Cassandra kept at it. They were butt-naked except for a pair of white socks on Cassandra’s feet. She had one of those Celtic knot tattoos on the small of her back. Belcher’s eyes must’ve been closed, and her back was to us, as they weren’t even slightly aware of the audience they now had. Like a gang of school kids peeping through a window, we lost all brain function for a moment. All of a sudden, I didn’t know what it was we were meant to be doing. Douglas suddenly reached his hand into the room and found the light switch on the inside wall. He flicked it on. That’s when we snapped out of it and the blood rushed back to my head. Cassandra looked over her shoulder and let out the most ear-piercing scream I think I’ve ever heard from a girl. Now, I’m assuming it was from seeing us standing there in the hallway and not an orgasm … but I’ll never really be sure. 66

the matt zander journals

She immediately jumped off Belcher like an ejector seat had shot her off, or she was a teenage girl getting caught with a boy by her parents. She curled up on the bed, covering her breasts with her hands. She grabbed a pillow and put it over her lap in a heartbeat. “What the hell is this!” Belcher shouted in fear, as he rose up from the bed and did the same with the other pillow, covering his lap. “Nobody fucking move!” Douglas screamed, pointing the gun at them both. “You,” he snarled at Belcher, “don’t be a hero, baldie. No freaky shit and no one gets hurt. This isn’t a fucking dream, okay? I’ll blow your fucking heads off if I have to.” Belcher pulled the bedcovers up over the both of them, slipping their legs underneath. Cassandra held one hand over her breasts, grabbing her side of the covers with the other. I remained dead still, along with Eric and James. Seeing Belcher there shocked the shit outta me. It was supposed to be the other way round. Douglas was improvising—hell knows what was going on in his head. And James, well, James just stood there in his gorilla mask, looking back and forth between Eric and me, as if he was wondering if we wanted him to start snapping away at a naked Belcher instead. Belcher and Cassandra looked like they’d seen a ghost, or maybe that was just the look of getting caught together, store employee with the boss—who knows? Cassandra was whimpering up against the back of the bed, doing her best to cover her body. “We want the cash,” Douglas yelled at Belcher. Douglas, what the hell are you doin? I thought. “There’s some in the drawer,” Belcher quickly responded, gesturing to the nightstand. “Get it. Nice and slow … or I’ll put a cap in your naked ass,” Douglas instructed from the end of the bed, pointing the gun directly at Belcher’s bald head. Belcher leaned over to the nightstand and slowly opened the top drawer. He reached in, fumbled about for a second with his hand, and then quickly lifted up a tiny, pocket-sized gun, pointing the black nozzle at Douglas. Douglas instinctively hit the deck. There was no warning. Belcher squeezed off three shots in succession. 67

gar y de nne

POP. POP. POP. We all turned in the doorway and got the fuck outta there. Cassandra started screaming her lungs out as Eric and James ran down the hallway ahead of me. You hear some people say that at times of great panic and life threatening fear, everything seems to slow down to a crawl, right in front of your eyes. But for that moment of chaos, when Belcher started firing, everything happened so fast. I couldn’t believe how we all came out of it alive. The last I saw before spinning to get outta there was Belcher pointing the gun in our direction—he never waited, he just pulled the trigger. I remember the shots sounding like ‘pops’. Like they’d come from one of those toy cap guns you owned as a kid. I wondered if all of this was really happening or if it was one of those weird dreams where your boss creeps into your subconscious and you wake up the next morning wondering how the hell they got in there. Maybe it was Belcher’s bung eye, or he was pumped full of adrenalin, like us, but he totally missed our asses. That, or we pulled a damn Matrix on those bullets and dodged the fuckers. At the speed of light, Douglas picked himself up off the bedroom floor and pushed himself right past me, outside the bedroom doorway, bolting off down the hallway and down the stairs. “Ohmygod!—ohmygod!—ohmygod!—ohmygoddddd,” I heard Cassandra squeal in quick succession, although this time I’m certain it was out of fear and not a second wave of pleasure. I turned around and realized she was looking at me. Her eyes were as big as baseballs as they stared straight at my chest. I looked down and saw the blood on my sweater. Now, talking about everything happening so fast earlier, well … at that moment, everything just reversed right up and stopped to a crawl. “I’ve been hit,” I yelled, but the guys were already halfway down the stairs. I could hear the thud of their boots come to a stop as they reached the bottom. There was no answer. They were gone. I put my hand up to my chest and held it

68

the matt zander journals

there. I looked back into the bedroom. Belcher was holding the gun straight at me, his arm making it shake with a slight tremor. “You fucking shot me?” I gasped at him in disbelief. I began to feel pain. I went down on one knee and then quickly dropped backward onto the Persian rug with a thud. “Shit. You fucking shot me! Jeesuz christ,” I moaned in pain. I stared up at the ceiling. I held onto my chest and felt the pain light up like a fire inside me. It burned. Oh, it burned. I heard Belcher and Cassandra’s feet hit the floor as they got out of bed. “Oh my god, you really shot him! We have to call 911,” I heard her say. Belcher’s voice was frantic. “It was self-defence. You saw it, right? Shit! Tell me you saw what happened?” “Call 911, he’s dying,” she screamed at him. “Wait! Wait! Let’s just think this though … they can’t find you here, you’ve gotta go. If my wife finds out she’ll kill me.” “He’s, like … not moving. Oh my god, I think he’s dead!” I heard her say, her hysterical voice directed towards me. “Here … put your clothes on and get outta here. I’ll fix this!” Belcher assured her. I slowly lifted my head off the floor and looked back into the bedroom. I watched Cassandra take her bundle of clothes from Belcher and drop them at her feet. She slid a g-string on and then frantically pulled a pair of jeans up over her legs. I watched her breasts jiggle as she zipped up. Yep, I was lying there with a bullet in me, feeling like acid was eating my guts out, but I was still able to appreciate what a hot body that girl had. I had to put my head back down, the pain was intense. I heard Belcher’s voice on the phone. “321 Brunswick,” he said matter-of-factly, “I need an ambulance … I’ve just had a home invasion … I’ve shot one of them. I think he could be dead…” Sidebar: What happens if the people taking emergency calls have an emergency? Does an operator stand up from her cubicle and shout out ‘Somebody call 911!’?

69

gar y de nne

I felt a pool of blood slowly forming on the hardwood floor, next to me, and began to really panic. “I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die. Why did you fucking shoot me?” I cried. “Wait … he’s alive. I can hear him. No, I’m not in danger. He’s hurt,” Belcher said into the phone. “Tell them to hurry! I don’t wanna die,” I gasped in pain to him. “I don’t wanna die. Somebody help me.” There were so many thoughts rushing around in my head. It took a single bullet to the chest for me to instantly realize I had wasted the life I’d been given. You dumb fuck, I thought. There was still so much I wanted to do in life—travel, get married, go to the Stanley Cup, jump out of a perfectly good airplane… Please God … I don’t wanna die. I’d never prayed before in my life. I didn’t even buy there was a God. But as I lay there, I was afraid. I could feel my life-force fading and thought maybe now was a good time to try. It calmed me down: Please God, I know you don’t know me … but just get me outta this. I swear I’ll change everything. I swear to you. I’ll never take anything for granted. I know I’ve fucked up. Big time. But I don’t wanna die. Not like this. Please God. Not like this. I couldn’t move. My breathing became rapid, through my mouth, and I was panicking like you wouldn’t believe. All I could see was the snow-white ceiling when I opened my eyes.

70

the matt zander journals

My regrets began to surface. I had these stupid little thoughts swirling in my mind: I wish I had’ve had more sex… Why didn’t I ever talk to the Cooley’s waitress? Shit. My iPod. I just finished ripping all my CDs to that fucker… I should’ve travelled. Seen the world. Headed west. Gone to Hollywood… God, my Xbox. I am so gonna miss that thing. No. Everything’ll be fine. The paramedics are on their way. I’m gonna be fine. I should’ve cut people some slack… 7-11 … shit. I love my life. Why does everyone have to have a fucking gun in their house? “Why’d you shoot me? You fucking shot me, you prick!” I screamed. I was hysterical. I was so scared. This was my life. King Slice Pizza. Mario knows me there. He knows I love a slice of pepperoni and an Orangina. I have Raptors tickets for next Thursday at the AC Centre, Lakers need to go down… The Joker nightclub. The hottest girls. God … no. Don’t you let me die, God! I haven’t lived. The new season of The Sopranos. Second Cup coffee … Tim Hortons! Why’d he have to shoot? It should be Douglas lying here… Toronto … I don’t wanna leave Toronto. I love Toronto. It’s my home. It’s where I belong. Do you hear me? I can’t die, dammit! I’m not going to die. I’m going to stay lying here and wait for the ambulance. Medicine’s so advanced these days. Medicine’s so advanced these days. Medicine’s so advanced these days. I felt cold. Blood was trickling out of my body. Footsteps came towards me, ever so slowly … cautiously. I slowly opened my eyes and could see through my MJ mask. 71

gar y de nne

Cassandra and Belcher were peering over my body, looking down on me. I couldn’t speak anymore. I felt sleepy. “Is he, like, dead?” she asked him. “I don’t know. I don’t think so?” “Should we check?” “The paramedics are on their way. Go, get out of here! I’ll call you, okay? If anyone asks, you were never here. You don’t know anything. Are we clear?” Belcher told her. “The mask’s Michael Jackson, see? They all had masks on,” Cassandra said, ignoring his request. “I’m gonna pull it off,” Belcher told her. “No, wait … I don’t, like, know if that’s the best thing to do?” “I wanna see who the hell these guys are!” Belcher snapped at her. He crouched over me and gently pulled the mask off my head. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stop him. Lying there, I was fucked. But the strangest thing was that the pain was slowly fading. Either my body was on autopilot, conditioning itself to a new pain threshold, or there were some kind of invisible paramedics around me pumping me full of morphine. Whichever it was, I didn’t know and I didn’t care. It was just such a relief to be free of that misery. Now, though, it was getting harder and harder to keep my eyes open. They were getting sooooo heavy. I felt an immense tiredness come over me. Like little weights were dragging my eyelids down. It was so hard to fight. Maybe I can go to sleep while I wait for the paramedics? I thought. “Oh Jesus…” Belcher gasped, looking up at Cassandra in disbelief. “Is that…?” “That’s Matt Zander?!” he exclaimed. “My God.” “Look! He’s, like, still alive … I think?” As my eyelids opened and closed, I could just make out the two of them leaning over me, staring down in shock. Guess they never saw that one coming. Although, I’ll call it even. As I never saw Cassandra Parker doing a guy as ugly as Belcher to get ahead, either. “Like … what a total loser,” I heard her say to Belcher. And with those words, my eyes closed and I began to feel as light as a feather.

72

Crossing over: In those next few moments, something happened. Some kind of transition from one reality to the next. I’d never felt anything like that before in my life. All these random thoughts and feelings rushed into my head. I didn’t feel as though I’d gone to sleep, I felt as though I’d just woken up. I started to feel the flow of ‘energy’. The house. The city. Outside. Things that were happening at the same time I was crossing over. Like I’d tapped into a subconscious, spiritual mainframe of Toronto. I only remember bits of it now … but I remember it was that moment in time that was important. The colour of the city lights. I never realized. I was part of it all. The subway, sleeping. Lonely sidewalks. Empty. Still. The city’s energy flowed through me. I could feel it. I was a God. We all are. The buildings, so beautiful. Pulsing. I was connected. Traffic lights … red. Then green. Homeless souls. I felt everything happening around me. 73

gar y de nne

Downstairs jazz with a lively crowd. A taxi and a fare. Snow falling to the ground. Nothing was separate from me. Everything happened at once. In one, single moment … I was free.

74

Reports of my death were pretty damn accurate: Okay. Here’s where I’m gonna try as best I can to describe what it’s like to die. I say as best I can ‘cos I just don’t know if I can pull this off. Problem is, all I have to describe the experience of dying are words. And trust me, words don’t even come close to explaining the kind of things I saw and felt in this other world I was in. I mean, if life was a movie … imagine trying to describe to someone the difference between what a 3D high-def movie is like—with those special, red and blue glasses and sound and pictures that blow you outta your seat—compared to a regular movie up there on the big screen. Y’know? Ok, so that analogy sucks ass … but trying to explain death would be tough even for a pro writer, and it goes without saying … that, I ain’t. So … with that being said, if none of this makes sense, don’t blame me—I’m just gonna write everything that happened after my life faded to black up there on the first floor of Belcher’s house… As my eyes closed for the last time and the sight of Belcher and Cassandra standing over me faded away, I immediately felt myself move. I began to gently float upwards, away from the hardwood floor, toward the ceiling. Have you ever watched a feather in a tumble-dry gush of wind? Or a pile of leaves swirling around in circles in the gutter? Well, I’d describe the movement I experienced as a similar force of nature—a steady, constant burst of energy, encircled all around me, raising me up. I admit it was a weird feeling to begin with, and I did wonder where I was going, but surprisingly, I wasn’t worried—this

75

gar y de nne

force around me felt perfectly natural and I was relieved, more than anything, just to have the pain finally silenced. That’s when I realized… I was out of my body. Like, whoa. I was dead. Me … dead! How ‘bout that? But… I was still me. I was still alive. I didn’t feel tired anymore. My eyes were wide open (assuming I still had eyes?) and I could see clearly. As I floated upwards, I passed by artwork on Belcher’s walls—abstract stuff—and looked at it wondering why people paid money for paintings where some ‘artist’ had just picked up a can of paint and hurled it at a canvas. Yep … I was definitely still me. Leaning to one side, I instantly rolled over. I could still feel my body, or a body, but I just couldn’t see any of it. All I had was vision of Belcher’s hallway and bedroom beneath me, like I was a set of eyes dangling from the ceiling on a piece of string. I still felt I had arms and legs and that I was complete, but in a much lighter, more efficient, streamlined model than my old body. Now, here’s the first of those ‘hard to explain in words’ bits… I was in a state of weightlessness. Pure weightlessness. I felt I could go wherever I wanted to go. The sense of physical freedom was so strong in those first few moments because I simply didn’t have any density to me anymore. Like I’d been dressed up as a cartoon character in a heavy, furry suit walking around Disneyland for years, and I’d just taken the suit off for the first time. I felt unrestricted in every kind of movement. There was an energy flowing through me, some kind of electrical pulse or surge, like I’d just skulled five espressos. It didn’t hurt, it was the complete opposite. It felt incredible, this buzz … like I’d been plugged into the source of all life and was recharging myself. So … this is what it’s like to be dead? I thought to myself. That’s the weirdest thing about death—that I was still me, outside my body. Which meant that my body really wasn’t me at all, y’know? You go through life 76

the matt zander journals

thinking that your body is who you are, when it’s not at all. My body was just flesh, blood and bones. Just a vehicle for the real me (energy) to get round in. Here is this huge industry on making the body beautiful—plastic surgery, treatments, fur coats, going to the gym, blah blah blah—when the body’s just the wrapper. It was a real surprise twist ending to realize that. I always thought when I saw myself in a mirror that it was ‘me’, if y’know what I mean? Kind of spooky … ‘cos since I’ve been back, more than once have I been in the bathroom here, staring at myself in this body of mine, wondering who the hell I really am. When I reached the ceiling, I stopped moving and just hovered above the hallway, right outside Belcher’s bedroom. I didn’t know what was gonna happen next so I just waited there and looked down at Belcher and Cassandra standing over me (standing over my body, I should say). Belcher had boxers and a t-shirt on, and I could see the top of his balding, shiny head. What a view. Cassandra on the other hand, oh boy. I had a nice view straight down her top, but she was dressed now (damn). “He’s not breathing,” I heard a worried Cassandra say. She was crouched down over me, blocking any view I had of myself. “Should we do CPR?” she asked, looking up to Belcher with frightened eyes. Immediately I hoped, God, yessssss. Please use those glossed lips on me. But a second later I thought, Eeewww, stop! You’ve been all over Belcher. I don’t need CPR! I don’t need CPR! Belcher crouched down beside her and felt my pulse. He turned to Cassandra, shaking his head at her. “He’s gone.” “Oh my god,” she gasped in shock, as she put her hands over her mouth. What a dumbass that guy is. I’m right here. Just look up, you moron, I thought. I hadn’t gone anywhere. But I knew they couldn’t see me. I didn’t need any ‘Death for Dummies’ book to understand the place I was in was somewhere ‘different’. That somehow, there is such a place that exists, another dimension (the 4th?), another ‘layer’ of life that’s separate from a soul still in a body. Isn’t that freaky? Kinda blows my mind thinkin’ about it. That there really are other dimensions and alternate realities and all that stuff. I guess the world’s too, I dunno … skeptical, or just too damn busy

77

gar y de nne

with their lives to believe there could be more to life than what they can see. Once you die—trust me on this—it opens your eyes. Big time. “Get out of here … go,” Belcher said to Cassandra, “I’ll call you when it’s over. You were never here…” I watched Cassandra take off down the hallway and run down the stairs. She was gone. Damn. Just when I was admiring the view of her ass from my elevated position, she had to run off. I looked back and saw Belcher step away from my body and walk to his bedroom window. He looked out the window both ways, like he was crossing the street, and I knew the ambulance was getting closer. I could hear the sirens closing in. Bit late, you sons of bitches, I thought. But, honestly, I didn’t care at all. This state of being I was in was so peaceful, calm and relaxed—after the pain of the gunshot, I was glad to be out of my body. And that’s when I looked down and saw myself, lying there on the floor of Belcher’s place. I saw myself dead… Now, you might think how shocking that’d be, to see yourself from outside your body, lying somewhere dead. But I’d say it was more of a surprise than a shock because it really didn’t seem as though I was looking at myself. It was like I was seeing myself for the first time, because my body lying there on the floor was three-dimensional. It wasn’t like I was looking at a mirror or a photograph, you know? I was seeing myself as others saw me—as just another guy—and I looked different to how I always imagined (obviously with a gunshot wound and pool of blood around me I didn’t look my best). But because I was still ‘alive’, it just didn’t seem like it was me lying down there anymore. It could easily have been a crashtest dummy modelled on me or an actor in a made-for-TV dramatisation on my life. I really look like that? I remember thinking. I thought I was better looking than that… When I saw that blood soaked sweater from above, and a lifeless expression on my face, feeling sad, angry or scared didn’t even cross my mind. This may sound strange—sure does writing it—but it was like that body was someone else’s problem now. Now that I was outside of the thing, it wasn’t mine anymore. Here I was floating at the ceiling and ‘it’ was down there on the floor. Once you leave 78

the matt zander journals

your body, you’re really just throwing away a piece of packaging that turns to dust when there’s no ‘you’ left in it. Your body isn’t important to you after you die. All I was looking at was a lump of mass with a hole shot in it. My attention turned back to Belcher and I watched him shuffle off downstairs. Now I was alone, just me and my thoughts. And on the subject of thought, everything was in my mind, everything I thought and said to myself was just like the voice you hear in your head when you’re in your car, on the street, wherever. I still had my inner voice, which was comforting. So what am I supposed to do now? I asked myself. Is there a codeword or something I need to say? Do I have to wait for a pickup? I guess I don’t need to be at work on Monday? That’s kinda cool… All of a sudden, two paramedics came rushing up the stairs—a dude and a girl— with Belcher following close behind. I thought I could somehow try to tell them not to bother working on me, but before I could think of how to do that, they charged down the hallway and slammed their gear down at my side. The guy began checking my vitals. The other one quickly prepped an injection and jabbed it into me, but I didn’t feel a thing. Even when she touched me, I felt nothing. But I was happy I couldn’t feel my body at that point. I didn’t wanna be back in that thing and I didn’t want them to help me get back in that thing. I was fine just where I was. “Is he dead?” Belcher asked them in a serious tone. They didn’t answer him. Both of them were focused on saving my life. My eyes(?) moved off them for a minute and I looked out Belcher’s bedroom windows. I could see the still of the night, interrupted by the ambulance pulled up outside, its lights flashing in the falling snow. Across Brunswick Avenue, I watched neighbouring houses turn a bedroom light on, as residents pulled their curtains back, wanting to see what the commotion was in their street at that hour. Now, here’s another thing that began happening that I simply can’t explain. Well, two actually. Firstly, when I say I looked out the windows and saw the street, ambulance and neighbours peeking over towards the house, I say it with a much different meaning than you think, i.e. different to if I was to walk over and stand at 79

gar y de nne

the windows. What happened was, as soon as I had the thought of wanting to look out the windows, I was literally right there at them, with no movement or effort on my part. One second I was looking down at my body in the hallway, the next, I was looking out the windows in the bedroom, about 10 ft away. I didn’t float there, zoom there, walk there or drift there—it was all based on thought. My thought triggered the visual I saw. This then extended to the next thought and the next. Meaning that when I saw the ambulance lights flashing in the falling snow, and had the thought in my head, I went there, right in front of them, up close. I’d have the thought of seeing the neighbours peeking through their curtains and instantly be there, right up close, close enough to see the lines on a person’s face. Maybe the best way I can explain this thing is by saying … it felt like I was everywhere, all at once, and whenever I had a thought about something, it was like I was paying attention to it rather than moving anywhere to see it. Hell … I’m wondering if any of this would make sense to anyone? I could see the detail of snowflakes coming to rest on trees. I read the ambulance’s plates, noticed the scratches on its doors, the dirty slush snow on the street. All of these images appeared inches away from me. Changing like a slideshow, based on my thoughts of them. When my thoughts were gone, I simply returned my focus to the paramedics. I heard them talking to each other, hurriedly. They were working on my body, rapidly trying to kick-start my heart. They realized I was in trouble as soon as they knelt down beside my body. But they weren’t giving up, they seemed determined. One was in his 40s, the girl was in her early 30s. I watched them from above, like a spectator. They worked as a team, doing all sorts of things at lightning speed. Although it seemed like minutes passing by, somehow I knew it was only seconds. Time, as it normally goes, didn’t seem to apply to the place I was in. In this state of consciousness—now that I knew I was out of my body—another heightened sense I became aware of was the ability to feel thoughts. Namely, Belcher’s and the two paramedics. It took a little while for me to understand that’s what I was feeling, but once I did, it was unmistakable, and happened when I focused my energy onto each of them. I could then ‘hear’ their minds at work— exactly what they were thinking—just as though they were talking to themselves 80

the matt zander journals

out loud. It didn’t take any effort to do this kinda thing, either. It came as naturally as jumping back on a bicycle after a few years. As though I’d done it before… As Belcher stood there watching the paramedics, he started running a dozen different scenarios over and over in his mind, working out what he was gonna tell Susan and the cops. He was worried Susan, his wife, would want to know everything once she returned from her weekend away, visiting a girlfriend in Montreal. She already knew his flight had been cancelled when he called her from Pearson Airport before getting the car service back to the city. But what if the cops wanted his phone records? What if she found out he’d called Cassandra as he left the airport, asking her if she wanted to meet up for some coffee so he could ‘get to know his latest employee’ a little better? Worse still … what if the neighbours heard her screams? What if they saw Cassandra leave the house? ‘Think, dammit,’ he told himself. He hadn’t recognized Douglas’ voice and was wondering who the other three with me were—friends of mine or otherwise. He knew the police would be all over this—the shooting and everything—investigating what happened with all their CSI crap. Especially once they found out I was a store employee of his … there was no preventing that. Thoughts were swirling round in his head like clothes in a tumble dryer. ‘The gun is licensed. It was self-defence,’ he kept repeating in his head. ‘I was home alone. I was asleep.’ He was even planning to call Cassandra later to tell her what happened and make sure she knew to keep her mouth shut. More to the point—he really wanted to finish what they’d started, before his wife flew back late Sunday. Cassandra was easily one of the sexiest checkout girls he’d ever had the pleasure of bedding. And he’d bedded his share from the store… All of this, I easily read from Belcher’s mind. I knew exactly what he was thinking. How that could be, I just dunno? What I did know was that having this kinda skill to read others felt like an everyday, normal thing. That thought is energy and you can feel it all around you. Everyone gives off energy from their thoughts and when you’re in this state, when you’re out of your body, you can ‘hear’ that energy and understand a person’s thoughts quite easily. 81

gar y de nne

I even heard the paramedics. The guy, the senior of the two, he was hoping for some kind of response outta me. He was tired, only a quarter-way through his graveyard shift, and thought CPR was their last chance to try and start my heart again. He hated losing people on the job—one of his pet hates—and wondered why the cops were taking so long to get there. The girl loved Belcher’s house. Wished it was her own instead of the high-rise box apartment she rented. She thought I was totally FUBAR’d (fucked up beyond all recognition) but didn’t wanna say it to her partner because he always had a thing about not giving up. She was having marital problems … dreading having to go through a divorce so early into her marriage, and wondered if she’d made a huge mistake by rushing in, just ‘cos she’d reached her thirties and was still single. She also had a song in the back of her head … it was playing over and over. I didn’t know what it was. She was annoyed it wasn’t going away. But, even with all this stuff going on below me and these newfound spiritual senses, I was beginning to feel a little anxious about being alone in this place. I mean, here I was dead, in a different ‘space’, and not a whole lot was actually happening, apart from me being a spectator to everything. Maybe I did need that ‘Dummies’ book after all. I mean, I wanted something to kinda happen soon. I kept thinking, I better not have to be some kind of friggin’ ghost and haunt Belcher for eternity. If that was the afterlife, gimme my money back, man. I certainly wasn’t angry about my death, though. Not at Belcher, or even the guys for leaving me behind. I dunno why … I should’ve been mad as hell. In my mind, I should’ve been fuckin’ going ballistic at Belcher for shooting me. Maybe even at Douglas for hitting the deck and putting me in the line of fire. But I was at ease with everything that’d happened. Anger felt really foreign to me—like it wasn’t even an available emotion anymore, or that I’d ever need to feel it again. Then, suddenly, I began to hear some kinda noise. It grabbed my attention away from the paramedics below and had me looking all over the room and hallway. Out of nowhere, this strange sound—some kind of buzzing—began to fade in and get louder and louder. What the…? No, it wasn’t the cops or any other sirens outside. It sounded like an old-fashioned phone, ringing right in my ear, like the ones from those old black and white ‘50s movies. I looked round, scanning the hallway and the bedroom. 82

the matt zander journals

What is that? A phone call? I thought to myself. Questions started to pile up in my head. My mind had been KO’d with curiosity by this sound. I remember clearly thinking, Don’t tell me even when you’re dead you have to put up with someone’s cell phone goin’ off, for crissakes? Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing. The paramedics had already begun CPR on me. I watched the girl give me mouth-to-mouth, as her partner thrust down on my chest with his hands, counting aloud. As they fought to revive my body, his voice slowly began to fade away, drowned out by this strange ringing sensation. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ing. The noise continued to get closer. It’d changed from a ring to a kinda machinelike grinding. It wasn’t a nice sound now, it was getting rather uncomfortable— like, disrupting the peace. And it seemed to be coming from above me. I looked up. My jaw dropped. I saw this tiny, black pinhole in the ceiling above and watched it as it started to expand, like an ink stain on a shirt pocket. What the hell is that? I asked myself. I stared in amazement at this hole on the ceiling, slowly growing in size, forming a loose circle shape like a blob. It grew to the size of … I dunno … like a huge manhole or something, and the edges of it were throbbing, in a life-like, heartbeating kind of way. Everything around me had gone quiet now. Everything except the rhythmic, grinding sound. I could tell the hole was starting to come down over me, spiralling itself in my direction. I didn’t move at all. All I could do was watch it completely engulf me. I 83

gar y de nne

wasn’t frightened. I felt as calm and relaxed as if I was getting a Swedish massage in a 5-star hotel room from a girl named Inga. I knew this blob, whatever the hell it was, was there for me. Don’t ask me how, I just knew. The light from the bedroom began to soften, like someone had their hand on the dimmer and was ever so slowly turning the knob down. The paramedics, Belcher, and the room, began to sink away as if I was on the space shuttle and I’d just launched off, watching the earth slowly shrink down to the size of a marble below me. In what was only seconds, this breathing, organic-like hole torn into the ceiling— this pitch-black space—came down and swallowed me. I wasn’t in Belcher’s house anymore. I was in complete darkness. A void. Space. And it was at that moment I looked up above me … and saw a tunnel.

84

Death: So what do I do now? I remember asking myself. Strangely enough, I felt calm. Complete and total calm. That was the strangest thing about it all. Not the fact that I could now feel myself—light as a feather— suspended in some kind of space of pure darkness, with a sewer-like tunnel right there above me, but the fact that I had no sense of fear or panic during all’a this. There was only wonder. Wonder and amazement. Floating there in the darkness, I tried to take in all that was happening. Wait a minute, I remember clearly thinking… Wait just a goddamn minute! This is a dream. Yeahhhh. I’m gonna wake up in bed any time now, probably late for work. Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that Indian curry in the fridge from last week? Man, I would kill to wake up and it be the weekend—I love it when that happens… Those first few moments, I tried to fool myself I was dreaming. But deep down I knew. This was real. This was happening. All sorts of questions were popping into my mind involuntarily. Like a part of me knew what was going on and was asking the tough questions another part of me was too scared to ask. What was next? What did I have to do? Where did I have to go? Looking above, into the darkness of the tunnel, the buzzing noise quickly faded around me and I began to sense something. A strange, strong feeling. I couldn’t see or hear a thing. I just knew something was coming. 85

gar y de nne

Suddenly, outta nowhere, a pinpoint of white light began to break through the pitch-black at the end of the tunnel, like a laser would, burning through metal. I stared straight at it, admiring it, and couldn’t understand why its intensity, its power, its brilliance, wasn’t hurting my eyes or making me look away. It was the brightest and most beautiful white light I’d ever seen. Growing larger by the second, it began to reveal the tunnel’s shape and texture. Words just aren’t enough to describe this, but if I had to, I would’ve said the tunnel was almost … alive. That the walls and surface of this tunnel, whatever it was, were flowing. Flowing like a river of Jell-O—damn, it’s the only thing I can think of that comes close. The light then started to head for me. No way … it looked just like the train from that party in Scarborough. It was travelling right for me at high speed, down this long tunnel. What the hell is going on? I thought. Then… Fucking vroom! Something picked me up and I took off down this tunnel like you wouldn’t believe. The sense of acceleration was tremendous. As my speed increased, the buzzing that faded earlier returned on both sides of me, getting louder again. No wind or air flowed by my ears. I just felt the speed all over my body. There was no doubt in my mind—I was being sucked toward this light source at the end of the tunnel at a blinding speed. The light quickly spread and grew bigger and bigger, as not only was I moving toward it, it was reaching out towards me. How do I get off this thing? I calmly thought, realizing at the same time I wasn’t at the controls. There was no sign of slowing down. The light began to warp and completely surround me in a net. This was it. In a matter of seconds, I was gonna slam into the end of this tunnel at what felt like Mach 3. My breathing got a little heavy. Yeah, I was still breathing. Well … at least I thought I was? Shit! This was better than Canada’s Wonderland. I almost wanted to scream out like I was riding the best damn rollercoaster in the business. I was about to smash through the light source. I’d reached the end of the tunnel. Three. Two. 86

the matt zander journals

One. The light gave off an incredible flash and I suddenly felt a current surge through every inch of my body. This was like the tingling sensation you sometimes get in your toes or fingers, only a 1000 times more intense (didn’t hurt a bit). Then, in the blink of an eye, it was all gone. The light, the tunnel, the noise—everything around me disappeared in an instant. I had arrived.

87

Blizzard outside, 3:00 PM: I’m in the zone. I’ve gotta finish this. There’s stuff I know happened that I’m finding hard to remember. I dunno what’s wrong with me, but I’m forgetting this NDE so quickly. I can’t stop it. Damn hand. I’ve never written as much in my entire life than in the past hour. I had to buzz Big Mama to get me some more scrap paper. That’s right, no fancyass bonded diary for all’a this. I’m writing on hospital scrap—printouts and outdated admission forms. It’s a scribbled mess ‘cos my thoughts are going 100 times faster than I can write. She’ll be back in a minute or two with more so I can keep going. She likes me I think, Big Mama. I’m the patient that came back from the dead. Doctor was in this morning. He’s pretty pleased about my recovery (or so he says). Says I can go home in a couple of days. But where’s home? My old life seems so foreign now. Thanks, Big Mama. She just dropped off another stack of paper on the bedside table. She thinks I’m writing letters. Let me take a look outside, I need to stretch my legs… Chest hurts whenever I stand. Shit, I swear the world’s coming to an end out there. Been a blizzard all day and it’s dark at 3 p.m. Huge dump of snow last night. People on the street are 88

the matt zander journals

shielding their faces from the wind and snow. Poor bastards. A minute ago, I saw a taxi sliding sideways down Queen Street. Those motherfucking bastards … Eric, James and Douglas … where the hell are they? I thought at least one of ‘em would’ve checked the hospitals for any sign of me. Sons a’ bitches. I hate not having anyone to talk to. Sux. Totally sux. I’d even settle for an in-depth conversation about the weather right now. I’m not used to being alone like this. And what the hell’s wrong with the guy next to me? I don’t think he likes me. I see him awake, he glances over, I say ‘hey’ and he says nothing. Nothing? How can someone not say anything to their bed neighbour? WTF? Just my luck being in a room with a guy who doesn’t talk. I’m having these swaying thoughts. One minute I’m glad to still be alive and the next, I don’t wanna be here and wish I had’ve stayed dead. I should get back to writing about my NDE, I suppose. Rather than just ramble on like this, huh? I gotta finish this.

89

Flashback Alley: Lying here, between scribbling down thoughts, I’m staring out at the snow pelting down over the city, thinking about what happened next. Thinking about Flashback Alley. No one knows how powerful Flashback Alley was. No one would even believe it exists. No one. Not the guy next to me, not Big Mama, not Eric, not the frozen schmos down there on the street. Nobody. And that makes me feel disconnected from the rest of the world right now. An outsider. A weirdo. Thing is, if I tried to explain it to someone, I’d probably find myself in a padded cell with a nice new jacket to wear. So right now, I’m just keepin’ everything about my NDE to myself. After getting out of the tunnel, this experience (I call it ‘Flashback Alley’—may not be the best name, so sue me) was the most intense, life-changing moment you could ever imagine possible. If there’s one thing outta this experience that I know’s gonna change the way I see life, it’ll be those moments in that canyon. Flashback Alley showed me, beyond any doubt, that nothing you do in life is trivial. Every single moment counts. Every. Single. Moment. I’m gonna do my best to write about this, but again, it may not sound very believable and/or make sense. Flashback Alley is something you wouldn’t believe in being possible unless you saw it with your own eyes. But all of the following stuff really happened. If a doctor or a therapist tried to tell me I dreamt all’a this, I’d punch their fucking lights out. This happened…

90

the matt zander journals

When the light faded away and my eyes regained their focus, I suddenly found myself standing in a deep, steep-walled canyon. Its width was roughly the size of a downtown alley, with the towering, rock-layered walls on either side of me letting little light in, just like the skyscrapers on Bay St. This canyon was huge. I felt like the size of an ant in this thing—no, wait … I was what an ant would call an ant. I studied my surroundings and looked behind me. Solid rock. So at least there was no decision about which way I should walk. There was a path to follow in front of me, a path excavated and sculptured by what I thought may’ve once been a river. Beneath me, I stood on what was probably the riverbed—dry, powdery, khakicoloured sand—the water long since dried up. It was quiet (cue whistling wind and tumbleweeds). All I could hear was the sound of a soft breeze blowing gently on my face and past my ears. I was alone. Out of the darkness of the tunnel, I could see myself again. Well, not exactly the same me. I looked the same, but I could straight away see my body was new. How do I say this … my body was translucent. Is that the right word? I held my hands in front of my face. They weren’t real, though. None of my body was what you’d call ‘real’. It was energy. A glowing, translucent body. Imagine if you could use water to form and chisel the shape of your body. And imagine if that water had a warm, sunlight glow to it. Well, that was the new me. I wasn’t skin and bones anymore. My body was the same shape, but I was clearly an energy or aura. When I moved my hands around, I saw the energy shifting through my hands and arms, forming subtle trails. Meaning … I could swing my arm around me and a trail of energy would follow the motion in a blur, like the energy was clinging to me. I took some steps and it had the same effect with my feet. I was as light as a feather and had never felt such a sense of freedom compared with skin and bones. I realized then how tough it is to move around in a clumsy physical body with cracks and creaks in bones and joints. No question this was a huge difference in the way your normal body felt. And, let me say this … if I had to choose, I would’ve stuck with that energy and never gone back to this 33-yearold bag o’ bones.

91

gar y de nne

So, I took another look at my surroundings. I didn’t have a clue where I was, it could’ve been Mars, it could’ve been … well, I just dunno. All I knew from that point onwards was that I wasn’t in T.O. anymore. On either side of me, I saw several layers of rock, all stacked on top of each other like pancakes, forming the walls of the canyon. At my feet, everything was arid. The only sign of any plants and stuff were some small shrubs and cacti. Although everything around me was colour, this whole place … it was pretty dull. I need to explain that everything around me was dull. There was no vividness in what I could see. The rock, the sky, the riverbed—the whole lot of it was dull and softened. Now, this may’ve been me (my eyes?), I don’t know, but there was nothing wrong with my vision as far as I could tell. The clarity of the rocks and sand beneath my feet was exceptional—I’m talking high-def exceptional. I cautiously began to walk. The walls of the canyon were smooth. There was no chance of climbing out of this chasm. I was stuck like a rat in a maze. Maybe someone was watching me and recording my results? The path wound left and right like a long snake so I couldn’t see very far ahead. I started to walk at a steady pace, my footsteps squishing into the sand below. As I passed round several corners of the canyon, unfolding what seemed an endless journey, the wind picked up strength. It blew past my ears and gave me an eerie feeling. I wondered how far I was gonna go until something happened. Surely there was a tunnel or something else—what the hell was this place? Turning another corner of the canyon, I suddenly saw an ending in the distance. The canyon walls closed in on one another and met. I was coming to a dead end? There was no more path to follow. I could see a build-up of rocks at the end of the riverbed and began to realize what I was looking at—a dried-up waterfall. A waterfall that must’ve once flowed over the edge of the cliffs and down into the canyon, carving its way and eroding the rock with its cutting force. I’m standing where a river once flowed, I thought. Then, I heard the rumbling. I haven’t forgotten that rumbling. It didn’t sound like a nice rumbling. I stopped in my tracks. I spun round to look behind me, but didn’t take long to realize the sound was coming from up ahead. I turned back to see a wall of water explode over the edge of the cliff and come crashing down on the canyon floor. 92

the matt zander journals

Holy shit! I remember screaming in my mind. The water wasn’t stopping for anyone. It continued to surge over the canyon wall. I had about twenty seconds before the water reached me, but couldn’t do a thing. There was nowhere to go. The water began to cover the riverbed at a steady speed, flowing down the alley, smashing into the canyon walls, quenching the riverbed’s thirst. I tried to remain calm. The water level wasn’t deep, so I knew I wasn’t going to drown unless the force of the falls increased. But I was about to get my feet wet. Except … as the water came closer and closer, I began to see it wasn’t water at all. It was a flowing stream of energy. A white, glowing, living energy that was flowing towards me just like the energy that was flowing throughout my new body. I stood still and waited for it to hit me. Whoosh! (If I had sound-fx right now, I’d use them for the strange wind-like sound it made). This flowing, water-like energy hit my feet and reached up to my ankles. There was no force to this ‘water’, I could not feel it as it flowed around my ankles and continued past me, down the canyon. This energy seemed as though it had no effect on me at all. I wondered about it. What it was and what it was for. After a few seconds, I decided to keep walking. But then, on both sides of me, the walls of the canyon started to flash like lightning and quickly grabbed my attention. Without any delay or any type of introduction, I started to see these large, life-like images, right on the canyon walls above me. My first reaction was that someone was projecting these images up onto the canyon walls. But I didn’t think twice about it. I was too busy watching them to wonder where they were coming from. Why? Because they were pictures of me. I immediately recognized them. Photos from my childhood. Of family, friends, places and pets. And the significant events from my short-lived life. It was like someone was projecting up pictures from my old photo albums. But these weren’t the type of photos I’d ever seen before. These were 3-dimensional. I could see depth and realness to these images. As though, up there on the walls, somehow, my first dog, Bennyboy, really was frozen in mid-air in the yard, catching my Frisbee like a maniac. 93

gar y de nne

Saying these images were 3D, though, is really one of those words that doesn’t begin to describe what I was looking at. The images weren’t just camera snapshots. I felt if I had’ve been able to reach up to them on the walls … hmmm, I dunno what I’m trying to say here. I guess after I’d seen a few, I knew for sure they weren’t projections. It seemed as though the people in the photos, my family, friends, Bennyboy, places and things, were really up there? And they kept coming, like a montage. Everything was exactly how I remembered it—the bedroom I grew up in, or my old classroom in high school. Dozens of pictures kept flipping over and changing as I walked down the canyon path with the water still flowing around my ankles. I was mesmerized by these images. I had long since forgotten about the moments they were reminding me of. Then, after several waves of these snaps, the walls of the canyon began to show me my life as home movies. They continued to be displayed over the top of each other like a deck of cards on the walls of the canyon, but they were moving pictures now, playing memories back to me. Sound came at me right from the canyon walls and I could hear it crystal clear, as though it was inside my own head. If only the guys at Dolby could get their hands on this kinda sound quality, it’d blow people away at the theatre, I thought to myself. I continued to walk. The water had slowed down now and was gently flowing through the canyon. The waterfall had calmed from a torrent flood to a constant, quiet flow. I looked back up to the walls of the canyon. How was that possible? How could I be watching these movies of my life that didn’t exist? How could they have been captured? Was some kinda camera dude always around filming my life from behind a set of bushes, or through a tinted-window delivery van? Hell, no. It just wasn’t possible. But it was right in front of my eyes. It was happening. I watched these home movies (no Hollywood direction, just real-life shaky camera movements) shot from a range of different perspectives. When the image moved, there was a slight blurring of the edges. I could recall every single memory as it was shown to me, right down to what I did and what I’d said. Then the next one would appear, and the next and the next. Once a memory had finished playing, it was layered and another started on top of it. But … I could still see the memory behind it playing or looping again. 94

the matt zander journals

Now, this is where I may be crazy, but as I watched these movies of my life, I really felt the impact of what was happening up on the canyon walls. What I mean is, I watched a scene being replayed to me, a memory from when I was in high school. I could remember the moment perfectly and watched as I lost my temper with another kid and then beat the crap out of him in the hallway, next to our lockers. We’d been playing dodge ball in gym class and I remember him deliberately slamming the ball right into my head the previous day. The next morning—what I was now watching—was when I tore him a new one. Big time. But as I watched this, I felt his pain. Not his physical pain, but his emotional pain. He was having a hard time at home. His dad had left for cigarettes at the store and never come back. Since then he’d tried to appear macho and tough around his friends as an outlet for his pain inside. I felt all of that. And, as I watched myself beating the crap out of him, god, did I feel like shit. I wanted to turn away, but for some reason, I kept watching. That was the other thing about these memories on the canyon walls—they moved with me. As I continued to walk, they moved along the walls. If I stopped or slowed, so did they. I couldn’t have ignored these things even if I had wanted to. I saw myself growing up in Toronto as a kid in the suburbs—my friends, riding my bike, watching Saturday morning cartoons and playing with Bennyboy. And not only did I see memories replayed, but I also watched what was … I guess you’d call them alternate takes or a director’s cut? Meaning … I saw the result of my actions from other people’s point of view. Like the time I told Tom Beddingworth, a puny kid on my street, that he sucked at hockey. I use to laugh at him. ‘Give it up,’ I’d always say, taunting him. There was no way he was ever gonna be any good at hockey (he was a walking stats book for the Leafs—told everyone he was gonna play league someday). Every time I saw Beddingworth, I’d ask him if he’d quit, and if he hadn’t, I’d give him a few more reasons why he sucked. Watching that moment of my life up there on the canyon walls hurt like hell. I saw Tom in his bedroom. I heard him crying. I watched his dream slip away as he let my thoughts crush his self-confidence. I felt him hurting so bad inside, knowing his one dream of playing the game he loved would never happen. ‘Who am I kidding,’ I heard him say to himself, ‘Matt’s right.’ He convinced himself it was

95

gar y de nne

impossible to ever reach league ‘cos he wasn’t fast enough, good enough, big enough or mean enough. At the end of the season, he gave up hockey. He stopped going to games. He stopped idolizing his favourite players. He stopped studying the stats. After that, Tom Beddingworth stayed as far away from the hockey season as he could. In winter, he disappeared and stayed inside. He never had the same energy in him ever again. Then, the memory continued and I saw him as an adult, working at Bell as a phone technician. Miserable. And, what’s worse, he wouldn’t let his kids play hockey. Or even take them to games… It was the most awful thing to watch. To feel. I swear it was hell. I did that to him. Me. What I said. Ok, so maybe it wasn’t solely my fault, but I played a damn good part in smashing his dream into pieces and I knew it. What seemed insignificant to me, as a kid, had changed someone else’s life forever. God, did that hurt to watch and know I was responsible. It killed me. And what was worse—there was nothing I could do to change it. I saw the anger I had throughout my teens. I wasn’t a nice person back then. I treated people like shit. The moving pictures just kept coming, one after the other. Every single, live memory I watched had me reflecting on the actions I had taken throughout my entire life. There was no order to these things. They weren’t linear. The timeframe of my memories jumped from childhood to adult, adult to childhood, to the point right before I was shot. A lot of them, I know I’ve already forgotten since waking up. I saw myself at the Brass Rail strip club on Yonge St. I was with Eric, James and Douglas. We were partying, Douglas was paying. I remembered the night instantly. We were in a booth. Dancers were on the stage grinding to the music. Douglas was celebrating a big deal going through at his work for which he was collecting a healthy-sized commission. He paid for about 20 lap-dances in a row for us all, from four smokin’ hot college girls. We were drunk, shouting and laughing our heads off. The girls were gyrating in front of each of us, naked except for high-heels, stockings and suspenders, where we kept shoving Douglas’ five-dollar notes.

96

the matt zander journals

A stack of shot glasses were on our table, all empty, some toppled over by our drunkenness. Douglas was whispering into his girl’s ear. James was frozen—I knew he wasn’t exactly used to having a live, naked girl’s body so close up. Eric was telling jokes to his girl. And me, I was being a total ass. I kept feeling up my girl’s legs with an uncontrollable hand sliding onto her ass. She kept pushing it away and politely correcting me. To see myself like that, though, honestly … it made me not like who I was. And I felt her anger towards me. She thought I was a jerk. She was doing this to get through University. Being groped by drunken men for money. As she smiled and thrust her hips back and forth over me, inside, I felt her wanting to puke on me… Scribbling this stuff down on paper right now, remembering these events in my life being shown to me, still really bothers me. But although it was hard having to experience those things in another soul’s perspective, I can’t begin to imagine what Flashback Alley would be like if you’d really done some bad shit … like kill or rape someone. That would be hell. I realized from the experience that every single thing you do and say to others has the power to change lives forever. Even little things you never think matter. Maybe just a simple word of advice to someone’s problem or offering directions on the street, saying hello, phoning someone, encouraging someone, helping them … anything at all that could impact on another’s life. There was no doubting this after watching my flashback. I saw the pain I’d caused homeowners when they got back from a night at the movies and found their house broken into. The anguish they felt inside, finding their possessions stolen, footprints stained in their carpet, their drawers and cabinets rifled through and clothes and personal papers strewn across the floor. Then it was New Years Eve. I remembered the next vision instantly. I was at a house party at Yonge & Eglington. Drunk. Wandering aimlessly around a friend’s two-story home, a hot pink feather boa round my neck. Earlier, we’d all done tequila shots and licked salt off several girls’ stomachs and cleavage. I saw midnight getting closer. I watched myself (embarrassing to watch yourself drunk, let me tell ya) as I grabbed the nearest girl I could find and smacked my lips on

97

gar y de nne

hers, immediately losing my balance. I went crashing to the floor and took her with me. Watching myself, a dumbass drunk bringing a girl down onto the floor in her best dress and hair, I felt like such a dick. I was so disappointed in myself. But, hey … there were good visions. It wasn’t all happening in front of me to tell me off, or show me what an ass I’d been throughout my life. I watched several scenes play back to me where I’d done some good for someone or just had a great memory of something. I watched my first kiss, when I summoned up the guts to walk up to Melanie Riswick, one the cutest girls in class and kiss her like there was no tomorrow. I watched a memory of me and a bunch of friends at a school assembly at Bloordale Middle School. A bunch of us kids put on this mock rock concert before we could even play instruments. We had tennis rackets for guitars, towelled headbands and ripped jeans. I was controlling the tape deck with the music we were acting out to. God, I still remember. It was The Reflex by Duran Duran. Classic ‘80s. Thing was, I’d been playing the song before the show and I’d unknowingly rewound the tape back too far. As soon as the principal, Mr. Lypaczewski, introduced us, I pressed play, and the end of the previous song—a soppy, love ballad—came on. My friends started playing to it, not realizing it wasn’t The Reflex. The entire school laughed their asses off at us losers. And then, when the ballad faded out, the wait for The Reflex to start seemed like an eternity. The silence was deafening. Did I feel stupid or what? But, looking back on that … they were some of the best memories of my life. Those kinda positive, uplifting experiences I watched were the best thing, trust me, because not only could I feel other people’s feelings and know how much something had meant to them, but I could see how a positive action (even only ever so slightly) could make a difference to others. Everything you do has an impact, a reaction. And the thing is, you can never know, at any given moment, what impact your actions will have on someone else. It could be a slight difference in their view of others, or it could mean a complete change in beliefs due to something you say or do for someone. That’s why I was saying before—nothing in this life is trivial.

98

the matt zander journals

I stole a few cars in my time, sure … when I was a teenager. Well, me and the guys I used to hang with did. I watched memories of those moments and saw the resulting impact. The faces of people realizing their cars were stolen—how angry and upset they were. But it wasn’t their anger or hatred for me that hurt the most. It was their changing beliefs in society and how they became more cynical about people as a result of the incident. How they wondered what had happened to the city they grew up in. My actions changed their entire lives. They had different beliefs which then caused a ripple effect throughout the rest of their lives. To not be trusting. To not believe in the common decency of people anymore. To not help a stranger. Knowing then, that everything in life gets stored away somehow, maybe in our minds, to resurface later for a kinda life playback … well, shit, that changed everything. Maybe there isn’t a hell? Maybe there isn’t a judge, a jury, a meetyour-maker-type deal in the next life? Maybe, we’re the judge for our own lives? On how we live. On who we touch. On every single interaction with another. I dunno. The river of energy was still flowing underneath me, gushing down over the canyon walls as a majestic waterfall, falling into the canyon floor. I stopped and watched it for a moment. The visions on the canyon walls were still playing. There were so many of these memories, they didn’t seem to stop. It was as though they would be playing on a continuous loop forever. All of a sudden, it dawned on me that the moving pictures weren’t so much movies ‘filmed’, as they were my memories coming to the surface. How I could see things I’d never seen with my own eyes though, like the effect I had on others and how it changed them—I just dunno? That’s something for the scientists to try to explain. They kept playing. Me, as a child, playing with toys. As a teenager, my first date, learning to drive and trying drugs. They were all in perfect detail, just as I remember them. Like when I sniffed coke off a Playboy magazine, using the centrefold’s nipples as a marker for my line. Watching that kinda stuff made me judge my life then and there. There’d been good stuff and bad stuff. I knew there were a lot of stupid things I’d done and I knew I’d had some negative effect on friends and family that I wished in that

99

gar y de nne

moment I could’ve changed. Man, did I wish I could’ve had time over again to make things right. That’s what hurt the most. The fact that I had hurt people. It may not sound that bad on paper, but writing this hurts like hell. You have no idea how much. If there’s a hell, maybe Flashback Alley is there to give us a glimpse of it? Who knows… Ok. Enough. I walked closer towards the waterfall of energy. I could hear crackles and pops and noises like thunder as the water flowed right before me. There was no way out of this canyon. It puzzled me—what I was supposed to do? Sometimes in life, we look too hard for something or can’t see what’s right in front of us, though. So I figured the only thing to do was to continue walking … straight into the path of the water, straight through the waterfall. I took one last look at my memories playing around me. There were hundreds of them up there now, layered over the canyon walls, all of them continuing to play in one big jumbled mosaic. The noise of the water flowing in front of me drowned out any sound I could hear from them now with soft, non-threatening electrical cracks of energy going off in front of my eyes. I was apprehensive, but came to the understanding that I was at the end of the flashback, and that I was meant to continue walking through the waterfall. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. I looked towards the crashing streams of energy coming over the edge of the cliff above me. I didn’t know what was gonna happen next, but after the experience I’d just gone through with my life played back to me, I trusted this place. As I stood before the waterfall right then, I knew I was going to be okay. I realized Flashback Alley had been something I had to experience to prepare me for where I was headed. And with that assurance in my mind, I slowly walked a few steps forward and allowed the energy to flow over me. I disappeared into the waterfall and left the canyon and my previous life behind.

100

The Gateway: All I can remember, from the point of walking through the waterfall and leaving the rocky canyon landscape behind, is that I found myself in a long hallway that looked like part of a museum or art gallery. It was as though I’d travelled from the canyon to this hallway without any time passing, like when you’re watching hockey on TV and your girlfriend, with the remote in her hand, changes the channel behind you to some chick flick and you have no clue as to what the hell happened. So I began to walk down this hallway, cautiously. There was an opening which led out into some kind of open space. As I came closer, I began to hear the collective jumble of a large gathering of people. The volume grew with each step. I could see I was leading into some kind of building, a vast hall of some sort, a place of unimaginable beauty. I stopped walking and stood under a large archway. I realized I wasn’t alone. Several other strangers were standing nearby. We had all walked down this hallway and were at the edge now, looking out into this huge hall, perhaps a little intimidated by what was in front of us. There must’ve been hundreds, no … thousands of people walking in every possible direction, each and every one of them looking like they had somewhere to be, purpose to every step they took. Of a place which had to be as big as the SkyDome, hell, I could barely see any floor space between the feet of the madding crowd. Standing there wide-eyed, I whispered to myself slowly… “You gotta be kiddin’ me.” Right in front of my eyes, it really hit me—I was in another world. This was no joke, dream or drug-induced fantasy. I was really there. 101

gar y de nne

I took several well-placed steps out into the hall and began to blend with the crowd, having to dodge and weave to avoid collision, like I was playing a human video game. Gazing upward as I went with the flow of people, I saw this dramatic architecture and design … it was unbelievable. I’ve never seen anything like it before and wondered to myself who the hell could’ve designed something so grand. The only thing that came close to this place was the eighteenth century European architecture I remember sitting through back in high school. Not that I remember anything much from Mr. Stadinski’s history class, but that’s what came to mind as I craned my neck skyward. I saw walls of smooth limestone, decorated with carved marble in the most elaborate detail you could possibly imagine. Huge Corinthian columns stood at all sides of the hall, creating an immense feeling of upward movement, flowing towards a vaulted ceiling, meticulously crafted to represent the zodiac, showing constellations of stars sparkling like diamonds in the sky. Large arched windows at both ends of the hall allowed great shafts of natural light to flood through, lighting every inch of space—man-made lights nowhere to be seen. And on every single side of me, there were one after the other of these Romanesquetype archways, each one a separate hallway leading outta the place—to where, I don’t know. Each hallway was like some kinda artery. Hundreds of people were coming and going through ‘em, like blood cells to and from the heart. Okay, that might sound a bit stupid. Maybe just like the Eaton Centre on a busy Xmas Eve, then. Out of each archway spewed crowds of people—both young and old—flowing in and out of the hall. I continued to dodge people, stepping carefully on the marble floor, still taking in all around me. I probably looked like a country boy, arriving fresh into the big city, wide-eyed at the sights and sounds. Getting my attention at the end of the hall, I could see rows of wooden counters, manned with immaculately dressed men and women behind them. People were queued in lines, waiting to be called to a counter, like a check-in at an airport or a hotel. I walked towards one of the queues. It seemed like the most obvious thing to do. I had an idea the people at the counters might be able to tell me where the hell I was and what was going on. I got closer towards lines of people, weaving their 102

the matt zander journals

way around old wooden railing like the cattle call down at Meteor nightclub on a Saturday night. I joined the end of the line. No one said a word. There were blank stares on many a face as we waited to be called. It wasn’t unlike any kind of queue in this world. I mean, who stands in a line anymore and starts a conversation? I know I don’t. Everyone is so fearful of everyone else these days—it was the same atmosphere there. I saw some anxious looks as I scanned faces down the line, seeing a melting pot of nationalities. Others were doing the same as me. Looking all around them as they waited, staring at the artwork or architecture of the hall’s ceiling. A woman looked at me for a second and gave a nervous smile, but quickly looked away. I thought to myself how good it was to see a smile again. Weird, huh? Even when you’re dead, the little things in life are what make the difference. Make us human. It didn’t dawn on me to try to start a conversation or even smile back at her. Y’know, whenever I’m in one of those cattle lines, at a supermarket or a bank or something, I admit I just stand there and close myself off to interacting with anyone else. So sue me. “I understand, Madam. If it helps any, we all go through the same thing.” “Have a nice day Sir. We’ll take care of it for you.” “Ah … Sir, you’re actually in the wrong building. This is Arafura. You need to go to Davosia and head up to the seventh landing. Archway 37 will be The Vedosa Islands. You’re welcome, Sir.” As I continued to overhear the counter people directing others to where they wanted to be, I removed myself from the queue and let a senior couple behind me take my place. At that point, I didn’t have a clue what to do and didn’t wanna stand around waiting. It sounds stupid, I know, but the last thing I wanted to do was still be waiting in lines even after I was dead. Archway 37? I thought to myself. I wondered about all the weird names I overheard the counter people refer to. I found a spot out of the way and looked across the hall to the row of archways from where I’d entered this place. Above each arch, I spotted mounted, wooden 103

gar y de nne

plaques with Roman numerals and names carved into wood. The old-fashioned, handwritten letters were painted a bright gold: XXII-Kaladia Inlet I looked at another … and then another. The names meant nothing. But I still remember them: XIV-Anchor Pass IX-Sandringham Estate VII-Monument City Even though I didn’t know which archway I’d come through, I tried to figure out if any of the names I saw described or explained where I’d come from. But there was no clue. Suddenly, a noise overhead grabbed my attention. No, the buzzing hadn’t returned—this noise was a gentle sequence of chimes. It reminded me of train doors closing in the subway. A soft female voice followed, sounding, in a way, just like the robotic announcements you’d get in an airport. “Mr. Tazare, paging a Mr. Tazare—please join your party at Archway 49. Archway four nine. Thank you.” The sounds of the bustling crowds returned, along with soft classical music that I hadn’t noticed up ‘til then. Not knowing where to turn next, through the crowds ahead of me I spotted a large fountain situated in the centre of the concourse. Instantly, I was drawn to it and began to weave in and out of people, making my way there for a closer look. The sound of gushing water became louder, dulling the other sounds around me. I looked it up and down. The fountain was so friggin’ awesome. There was a large, circular basin sunk halfway into the marble floor and these four bronze statues—maybe angels—rose up from the centre of the basin, towering over me in a grand kind of posture, their bodies wrapped around each other, giving the fountain this really cool sense of strength and power. Each of the statue’s hands held spiritual and physical symbols—what I could make out as elements. Fire,

104

the matt zander journals

water, earth and air were in one hand of each of them, and the seasons of spring, summer, winter and fall in the other. Water gushed constantly from the highest point of the sculpture, flowing down from the element of water. And at my feet, in front of the basin, it shot upwards in a continuous stream, from all different angles, cleverly weaving its path through the figures and coming down again on the opposite side of its source. I gazed at the water, watching it flow. It was as if I’d never seen water before, I’m sure, but its movement looked so beautiful and natural. So full of life. I could even feel tiny spits of it hitting my face, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, soaking up the feeling. But, right then, I felt something other than the droplets spraying back at me. There was something about that moment I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I wasn’t sure, but it felt like … like I was … being watched… “Beautiful, isn’t it, Mr. Zander?” I quickly spun round, opening my eyes in alarm. A man was standing only a few feet behind me, wearing a wide smile that filled his face from ear to ear. He was an elegant looking gentleman. I’d say he was in his sixties, with thinning, snowwhite hair and trimmed whiskers on his face to match. His tall, solid frame was dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and perfectly tied necktie. With his hands behind his back, he stood confident, proud and in control—even with a hint of arrogance. He spoke with authority in an upper class English accent. I’ll never forget the way he spoke. It was like he knew exactly who I was and had been anticipating this exact moment for some time. It was just the feeling I had. “Please, forgive me Mr. Zander. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is William H. Keller and I am your—” “Am I dead? I’m dead aren’t I?” I didn’t wait for him to finish. So sue me. Again. The man paused for a moment, watching the water fall from the fountain, deciding whether to answer my question or continue his introduction. Maybe I pissed him off. “Mr. Zander, at precisely two-thirty-six a.m. and fifty-one seconds, you exited your mortal body and crossed from the mortal world to the spiritual. Now, to your question, I am compelled to answer both yes and no. Yes—the physical body we 105

gar y de nne

occupy on the mortal world dies once we leave it behind and no longer have use for it. However, as you can see before you, you are in possession of a new body. An evolved body. A body the soul creates from its own energy when it is not incarnated on a physical world such as Earth. And therein lies the dichotomy, Mr. Zander. As you’ve no doubt become aware of by now, you are not ‘dead’. Not dead for the precise reason that there is no death. All souls live immortal. That is one of the universal truths. There is only change. Change that every single one of us must participate in if we are to live a complete and full existence on the wheel of life. I can assure you that no one thing in this universe ever stays the same, and, just like the rest of us, you Mr. Zander, have simply changed your state of being … but are still very much alive.” “How do you know my name? How do you know who I am?” I asked him. “Mr. Zander, it’s in my interest to know such things,” he said, pausing for a moment before adding, “Matthew Aaron Zander, Gemini, ruled by the planet of Mercury. Born into the world at 9:32 p.m. on June 12, 1973 at the William Osler Health Centre to Thomas John and Maureen Sharon Zander. Raised in Etobicoke, Toronto, Ontario in the country of Canada. Attended Bloordale Middle School at an early age before being formally educated at Central Etobicoke High. Showed signs of promise in both the arts and social studies, but was easily distracted, undisciplined, and never quite lived up to his potential, graduating in 1988 with an academic average of sixty-three percent. Forwent any hopes of attending college and quickly developed several undesirable pursuits, wilfully engaging in behaviour most unbecoming of a gentleman. Thereafter began the abuse of intoxicants and a lifestyle which would prove very difficult to extricate from. However, with the separation of his parents and the untimely loss of a high school friend, he began to recognize his choices, and showed tremendous strength to leave that life in his past. It was then he gained employment in a respected profession, providing a service to the community at large. Sadly, certain elements of undesirable conduct from his formative years continued to be a source of entertainment, particularly when combined with his peers and lack of ambition. In his last two years of life alone, he was complicit in the act of burglary a total of twenty-seven times, directly affecting the lives of one-hundred and ninety-six souls. Unbeknownst to him, these actions changed the course of several souls, thwarting the very purpose of their journey. Furthermore—” 106

the matt zander journals

“Okay, okay! Stop,” I violently interrupted. “So you know who I am.” “Yes, Mr. Zander. I do.” “Look … maybe I’ve done some stupid things in the past and stuff, but it’s not like I killed someone?” I protested. Keller stood silent for a moment. “Mr. Zander, I do not stand here before you to pass judgment on your actions— you are quite capable of that task on your own.” “Well, what am I doing here?” “My role, as your life counsel, is to offer some perspective on the actions you have taken and the results you have experienced. If you seek to experience life at the lowest tides of existence, and are content to cause hurt, pain and distress in other’s lives around you with utter disregard, then perhaps we don’t have anything further to discuss. If, however, after watching the sum of your life’s memories on the canyon walls you feel you want to change who you are and where you are going, then by all means, I am here to offer assistance as best I know how.” “O-kaaaay,” I said, looking at him strangely, “I’m listening.” “Simply put, Mr. Zander, do you know who you are?” I don’t know how much time passed after Keller asked me that question before I answered him, but I do remember time standing still at that moment. His question hit me like a sledgehammer. I had a million lines of thought flowing through my head, and they all read, ‘Who the hell are you, Matt?’ Who the hell are you, Matt? Who the hell are you, Matt? Who the hell are you, Matt? Standing there, knowing I’d left the mortal world and any real identity behind, I found it hard to answer the old guy’s question. Who was I? I am Matt Zander. But Matt Zander is just a name. I am not a name. Therefore, without me being ‘Matt’, who the hell am I? 107

gar y de nne

“I don’t know who I am. Who am I?” I asked him. “For now, do not give thought to who you are. The more pertinent question, Mr. Zander, is ‘are you who you want to be?’” he said. I have no doubt I had a panicked look on my face at that point, standing there in front of the fountain, still freely flowing with water. That question scared me. How can it be that a simple worded question can scare you? The best way I can answer that is this … your name is just something for the mortal world, right? Imagine if names didn’t exist for a minute. Imagine trying to describe yourself to someone you met without using your name or your day job. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Matt Zander was dead, lying in a pool of blood on Belcher’s hardwood floor. “I don’t know … but you can help me, right? You know who I am. You know what I should do now, right?” I asked, with a hint of desperation in my voice. “Please,” Keller replied. “Mr. Zander, I understand you have many questions awaiting answer, but answers will not serve to help you in the present moment. Any answers I give you now regarding this life or your future path will only give rise to more questions. And, answering those will only produce further sets of questions, in an infinite, endless cycle. You must realize that this time—this stage of transition between mortal and spiritual worlds—is a critical one. A time where understanding is limited due to one’s mind being conditioned and trained to only think three-dimensionally. There are millions of universal truths waiting for you to discover, Mr. Zander, things that you can’t possibly fathom in your current understanding of life. I promise you … in time, all will be shown to you.” “Where is this place? Where am I?” “Mr. Zander, right now we are at one of the many gateways to life itself. A hub of the universe, if you will,” Keller said, looking around for himself, proud of what he saw. “For your current level of understanding, think of a gateway, perhaps, as a central station. A magnificent spiritual station to the universe before us. A gateway can take your soul wherever it desires—just like that,” he added, clicking his fingers with a snap. “No planes, no trains, no frequent flyer miles.” I watched as a smile formed on the old dude’s face. “Well, what if I want to—”

108

the matt zander journals

“Please, Mr. Zander—I must insist we put your curiosities on hold for the moment. Right now, we have an important matter to attend to and that matter is you. Let us go to a more comfortable setting where we can talk and rid ourselves of the current distractions before us. Come … let me show you somewhere special.” Keller turned and began to walk through the flowing crowds. He took a few steps and turned back at me. “Don’t be shy, Mr. Zander. Come.” Gesturing for me to follow, he began to walk towards one of the archways of the great hall. I followed him, willingly. There was no reason not to and it wasn’t as though I had a better idea. Stepping under the archway, I made note of the plaque above: IX-Sandringham Estate As the two of us left the main hall behind, our footsteps echoed in a slow rhythm, down the corridor. There were several other souls up ahead of us, both coming from and going into what appeared to be a crystal white, glowing light, hiding our destination with its brightness and intensity. I saw others walking in and out of the light. I was a little anxious. “Where are we going?” Keller didn’t turn to answer. “Be patient, Mr. Zander … it won’t be a long journey.” The corridor quickly began to brighten. With each step we took, the brightness steadily increased around us. There were no lights causing this effect, it was around us like we were somehow glowing. Slowly, artwork on the walls faded away like invisible ink. Just like the sun was returning from behind a cloud and starting to shine down again. The light kept growing brighter and brighter. After the ride in the tunnel, I quickly realized we were walking into another kind of spiritual door. Sounds so stupid, but it’s the best I can describe. The light began to soak up everything around me. Very quickly, it became so bright it overpowered the corridor and seeped into us. The light was the brightest thing I’d ever witnessed but it didn’t hurt my eyes at all. Like the light in the tunnel, this was something that was so amazing to look at. It felt good having it 109

gar y de nne

around me and had a great sense of calmness about it. Like sunlight through glass on a cold, winter’s day. I felt as though it was going though me, like I was walking through one big x-ray machine. Hope this thing isn’t a health hazard, I remember thinking. I found it odd that at that moment I’d even thought of it that way. Here I was, dead and all, and I was taking things pretty lightly. No panic. No fear. In life after death, my mind didn’t skip a beat. In a matter of a few steps, both of us were now walking in empty space. Only this beautiful, pure, white light now surrounded us in every direction. With only a few steps more, the corridor began to return and the light faded as quickly as it had risen. But the corridor was different. I saw straight away we were someplace else. This hallway or corridor looked more like part of a house or office—I couldn’t quite tell. Reaching the end of this new hallway, after the light had faded entirely, we entered into a large lounge of the most amazing extravagance you could imagine. A few dozen people were scattered throughout this room, sitting on an assortment of leather sofas and plush, upholstered chairs. Some were on their own, sitting quietly, and others—family or friends (I assumed?)—were talking softly amongst themselves. I could hear faint conversations … soft whispers of English, French and Spanish, here and there. On both sides of this lounge, I saw large, plate-glass windows and could see that the building was sandstone on the outside. A lush, sculptured garden surrounded the building. Never before had I seen so many bushy ferns, shrubs and flowers in full bloom and rich in colour. Birds were breakdancing right outside the windows in trees, in a world of their own. Keller gestured to me. I guess I must’ve been falling behind at that point, looking at everything around me. “This way please, Mr. Zander,” he said, walking through the lounge to another wide hallway on the opposite side. I took another glance around and then followed after him, a few steps behind. Several people gave me a brief look up and down before turning away again, not

110

the matt zander journals

unlike a stare at a doctor’s surgery from those who still had to wait while you got up and went on through. Stepping on thick, cream carpet, I looked down the corridor we were headed and saw an elevator. Its wood-panel doors blended in with everything else, but I knew an elevator when I saw one. Expensive looking artwork hung on both sides of the corridor, in between solid-oak doors, which seemed like offices or something like that. As our footsteps echoed again, returning to the hardwood floor of the corridor from the carpeted lounge, above me, I admired these huge oak beams, running along the ceiling between sunken spotlighting and light pastel walls. I felt like I was in a law firm. We reached the end of the corridor and Keller came to a stop at the elevator. He reached to a panel on the wall and gently pressed the button. It lit up and made a nice chime, registering a call for service. As we waited, I could hear the elevator whirring right behind the wooden panels, answering the call. I didn’t know whether to try to make small talk or just keep my mouth shut. All I could think to say was, “So … how ‘bout those Leafs? D’ya think they’ll make the playoffs?” Keller didn’t answer. I decided to keep my mouth shut and just keep gazing. Suddenly, the elevator doors slid open and it chimed as if to say ‘need a ride?’ “After you, Mr. Zander,” Keller said, extending his arm out. I thought to myself, here we go, I’m gonna walk into this lift, the doors’ll slam shut and then the floor’ll slowly start to open—like in that James Bond movie—and I’ll go hurtling down to the fiery pits of Hell on a super fun happy slide. I stepped inside, cautiously. The elevator clearly matched the lounge’s luxury. It was an oversized car with carpet and brass rails mounted on both sidewalls. At each corner, a pillar stood from floor to ceiling, sculptured at each end. There was even a soft cushion bench that went all the way along the back, presumably for passengers to take a load off while they went from floor to floor. I turned around to see an inside panel with dozens of small, circular buttons. But there were no floor numbers. These buttons were just like the Archways. Keller stepped in and quickly pressed: IX(h) Sandringham Library 111

gar y de nne

I felt the elevator take off, but couldn’t feel any directional movement, only a gentle vibration of the car itself. I watched closely as the panel buttons—different locations—lit up as we passed by them. After a dozen had passed, I felt the vibration and whirring noise slowly come to a halt. My heart was racing. Yeah, I know … I was dead, but I could still feel that feeling in yourself when you’re in anticipation. The elevator chimed again and its doors opened. “Mr. Zander … welcome to the Sandringham Estate Library,” Keller proudly exclaimed. “Before you is one of the estate’s finest treasures. Nine open-plan split-levels of the most exquisite 18th century rococo interiors. Walls of rich, walnut panelling, Mr. Zander. Even the intricate parquetry floor we’re about to walk on is a delightful work of art. Come … let me show you around.” As we stepped out of the elevator, my mouth fell wide open, like one of those sideshow alley clowns that kids drop ping-pong balls in to win fluffy animals. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, not that I’d spent much of my life in libraries, mind you, but talk about a rush of blood to the head. “This is one of the starting points for a soul returning from the mortal coil. Every possible resource imaginable is at one’s fingertips. A soul wanting to … ‘reacquaint’ themselves with this world would be best to spend their time reading some carefully selected tomes of knowledge,” Keller said. “Science and math, languages, literature, history, arts, astrology, technology … it’s all here.” I was trying to listen to Keller as best I could, but was distracted by everything around me. God, I still remember the ceiling above us … it was this painted work of art like you wouldn’t believe. A complex mosaic of geometric patterns. I just wanted to stand there and stare up at it forever, but there was so much else to discover in this place. There were dozens of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves scattered throughout every one of the library’s separate levels, which were accessed by these grand spiral staircases in each corner. And, everywhere you looked—wall-to-wall books. Millions of ‘em. Made that Chapters Megastore on Bloor Street look like a small boutique. Comparing it to the annual stock take we did at Runnerman’s, man … this place must’ve been a bitch to catalogue. I turned back to Keller. “How’d you know all that about me, anyway? Back in the hall?” I asked him. 112

the matt zander journals

Keller smiled. “You told me, Mr. Zander,” he replied. “It’s an ability all souls have. To restrict communication to mere words—audible sounds with attached meanings—can often hinder the entire process of understanding another. Here, verbal communication is the least used form. On the mortal world, feelings such as hunches and intuition are the beginnings of communicating with thought. However, most don’t attempt to develop the ability to communicate in such a manner until they return home and remember such things.” “You’re saying you read my mind?” I asked. “I simply read what you allowed me to … the thoughts and memories that have stayed with you throughout your life. Rest assured, no one is watching you live your life, Mr. Zander, bar yourself. You are the one witness to your actions. And, as I have already stated, we can be our own harshest critics.” We continued to walk slowly down the main library thoroughfare. I spotted sculptures scattered amongst bookcases. Each piece of artwork looked like it represented an area of the arts, crafts or sciences. “In your case, I felt your memories. Your childhood, first kiss, social engagements and school friends. All of the memories from your life you have held onto, whether you wanted to or not, whether you could remember them or not. They make up the very person you are. Without memories, life would be meaningless and its purpose, redundant. I appreciate the canyon can be an overwhelming experience and force you to relive memories which may be somewhat distressing. However, that’s its purpose. To prompt you to think about the choices you’ve made throughout your life.” “Well, I never knew every single thing I ever did would be shown back to me,” I politely complained. “I wouldn’t have done half of it.” Keller showed a big smile as we walked. He was amused. “That’s what they all say, Mr. Zander.” “The thing is … after seein’ some of the stuff I did, I realize how much of a waste my life was. That feeling … knowin’ I really hurt people. Man, do I wish I could take all that back.” “Now, Mr. Zander, try not to judge your actions too harshly. One can only change one’s actions for the future, not the past … such is life. It is important to note one’s mistakes and poor choices. It is of equal importance not to dwell on them and move forward with this knowledge intact,” Keller said, turning towards me. 113

gar y de nne

“Every single action you take in life has a consequence, Mr. Zander. Some are simply more significant than others.” As Keller continued talking and we walked deeper into the library, I noticed windows in between bookshelves. Light beamed through these windows and made the rows of bookshelves glow a bright gold. Through large, bay windows, I could see a view of seemingly endless landscape. I stopped walking and stood motionless. Staring through crystal clear glass, I saw snow-capped rocky mountains, far away in the distance. What was more, I could see every inch of detail in these mountains, as though I was only fifty feet away from them, just like when I was in Belcher’s place, looking across to the neighbouring houses. The patterns of the rocks, the melting snow, the running water—everything. Cascading waterfalls plunged down into the greenest valleys and hills, creeks and streams. And, scattered and embedded into these hills and valleys were thousands of tiny lights sparkling like precious gemstones. They reminded me of Toronto at night, from a distance, when all the flickering streetlights and homes melded into one and made the city seem alive. Then I reminded myself it was day. I could see a sun. I could see clouds. Still, there the lights were, sparkling like a powerful form of energy. “I see you like the view?” I heard Keller ask, as I continued to gaze out the windows. “I can’t believe it’s real. It’s so natural.” “Come, Mr. Zander. This way. We must continue. Time is of the essence. You’ll have another chance up ahead,” Keller said, smiling. I turned back to him and we continued walking, reaching a much larger space, like the other lounge we had walked through. I could see lots of people now, quietly sifting and searching through the dozens of bookshelves, both on the main floor and the other floors above us. This must’ve been the heart of the library. There were people seated at desks, reading with the aid of desk lamps, like students cramming a week before finals. Some were buried in their books, slowly recording notes, while others browsed the shelves and gave me a quick glance before they returned to what they were doing. In the middle of this area, I saw groups of people quietly reading as they sat on several large sofas, placed in a lounge-type arrangement. A large, open fireplace 114

the matt zander journals

softly crackled nearby. Apart from our footsteps on the floor and the odd turn of a page or gentle murmur, everything else was whisper quiet, as a library should be, I guess. Keller and I shuffled round a corner and headed straight for another woodpanelled elevator. Keller pressed the call button as we reached it. “After you, Mr. Zander.” The doors instantly opened and we stepped inside. Looking at the panel, there were dozens of rows of buttons, same as in the first elevator. I watched the doors slowly close, giving me one final glimpse at the library architecture before it disappeared. The elevator started to vibrate and whir, the gentle sound ringing upwards, towards my ears. I followed the panel as each different location lit up. The vibration slowed and finally ceased, as the light on the panel stopped at: XI(s) Chateau, 57th Floor.

115

The Chateau: The doors slid open. We had arrived at a well-appointed, large and very luxurious living room. It was full of furniture, fittings, paintings and artwork. A solid-brick fireplace slowly burnt away a few logs of wood. Several antique cabinets lined timber and stone walls, displaying what looked like rare and priceless artefacts. But the room wasn’t the main attraction. Nuh-uh. The thing that really blew me away, as soon those elevator doors opened, was the huge wall of glass looking out to a valley below. We were high up in the heavens. I could tell straight away we were in the mountains. I immediately walked over towards the wall-to-wall glass to get a closer look. As I reached the windows, the view outside made my head spin. It was a sheer drop—straight down. I was speechless (not that I’d been a motor mouth before that, but I just stood there gawking). A deep valley was directly below with a large lake at the bottom, its water a savage blue. Surrounding the body of water was a huge land mass of dense, towering fir forests—snow slowly melting on their branches—that led up to a cluster of rocky, snow-capped mountains, crowded around the valley. There were no roads or pathways but there were dozens of boats, both on the lake, and moored at jetties around its edges. Amongst the trees, both on and above the ground, wild animals roamed free. It was their domain. This was an untouched wilderness of extraordinary rich colour, more defined and enhanced than anything I’ve ever seen. Focusing my gaze to the side, I could see I was in an enormous, European-style chateau, high above the ground, embedded into the side of a mountain peak. Now, I’m no engineer, but I couldn’t imagine how something like that was built, 116

the matt zander journals

let alone it was even possible. I stood there trying to work it out. It was like God had ripped up one of those French chateaus you see on The Discovery Channel in his hand and slammed it straight into the side of the mountain so hard he made it stick. It sounds stupid, I know, but how this castle stayed where it was, I didn’t have a clue. From where I stood at the wall of glass, there was nothing but a drop of god knows how far. Outside the windows, to one side, a deck hung right over the face of the mountain, like a fat guy’s ass in a movie theatre seat. “Please, Mr. Zander, make yourself comfortable,” Keller said. I turned round to see Keller extending his hand out toward one of the long, leather couches on either side of the open fireplace. I slowly set a course for the couch and took a few steps forward, stepping over a large Persian rug beneath me. The thing looked so damn priceless I just hoped I hadn’t messed it up with my footsteps. I collapsed on the couch, my legs giving way as I continued to glance back out the glass wall windows, lost for words. Keller sat down opposite me on the other half of the couch. He leaned back and relaxed. “At this time, Mr. Zander, I’m assuming you’ve come to the conclusion that you are not dreaming? That all of this, everything around you, everything you’re experiencing, is quite real?” “I know this is real,” I said, “but what I can’t believe is where I am. I mean, you gotta be kiddin’ me? Look at it out there!” I tried to get Keller to turn and look with me out the windows. “This is Heaven, right?” Keller didn’t turn to look. He only smiled at me. “Mr. Zander, as I stated when we met, questions such as those, as pertinent as they are, will only cause you to lose focus on the present. Right now, I am here to explain to you that every soul born into the mortal world has a life counsellor assigned to them, to mentor and monitor the mortal journey. My purpose here is to help you understand what it is you are seeking from this, your current mortal life. I’m not here to judge your actions. My only desire is for you to understand that the choices you make will shape your journey on the wheel of life. For better or for worse.” 117

gar y de nne

“This may sound bad, okay … but I don’t really want anything? Now I’m here, I really don’t care about that life anymore. I mean, why did it have to suck so much? Why couldn’t I have had a bit of luck? And a supermarket? I had to work in a supermarket? I just wish things could’ve been … I wish someone had’ve given me a friggin’ break. Life can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, you know that? Look, I know you think I’m being ungrateful, but if I knew about all’a this, I would’ve changed things. I swear to God. Man, am I not making sense or what?” Keller smiled again, ever so slightly, like he’d heard the same thing a million times before. “You are making perfect sense, Mr. Zander. You have already become aware that perhaps your journey has been somewhat diluted due to the choices you’ve made. In each life, we have great potential, Mr. Zander. To learn who we are, and who we are not. To experience things that enable us to grow. But there is always free will to choose your path. Life is about choice. And I’m here to assist you with those choices.” “I made crap choices, I know,” I replied. “I wish I hadn’t, but I did.” “This is good,” Keller remarked. “This is growth. Now we’re getting somewhere. Let me explain further…” So we sat there and talked. And talked. And talked. Keller told me things. Amazing things. Shock-twist-ending-type things. Things I had a hard time believing, as well as things that just made so much sense about life and the way it works, I wondered why I hadn’t figured out something so obvious. For over an hour, we sat there and talked about stuff I’ve already lost from my memory. And there’s nothing I can do to get those memories back. I’ve tried squeezing my eyelids tight, shaking my head and scrunching my hair in my hands, but nothing works. The harder I try to recall everything Keller said, the more all of it fades away from my mind. I remember being overwhelmed by the things Keller told me and I remember flashing my eyes all around the lounge in between listening to him, not having gotten past where I was. It was so life-like. I realize that may sound strange, but what I mean is, the coffee table in front of us had everyday, real world stuff on it. A gold-plated pen, a stone paperweight, and one of those familiar little desk 118

the matt zander journals

lamps with the green shade. They were just normal, everyday items. Never did I ever imagine life after death would be so … normal? “Mr. Zander?” “Mr. Zander, are you still with me?” I snapped out of my thoughts. Keller was looking at me, waiting for my full attention. “Come, Mr. Zander, I’ve no doubt you’ll want to see the estate from such a vantage point as this,” he said, as he slowly pulled himself up off the couch. I watched him head towards the glass doors, open them, and walk out onto a stone balcony. I got up from the couch and followed him, still taking every chance I could to gaze at the cabinets and sculptures around the room. Keller was waiting for me at the edge of the balcony. I slowly stepped toward him. I knew we were up high. My mind screamed at me to stay back from the edge. “Afraid of heights, Mr. Zander?” “Something like that,” I replied. “Come now, I assure you it’s perfectly safe.” I cautiously reached the edge of the balcony and placed my hands on the wall, which was about waist high. The wall had small pillars spaced apart, and in between them, wooden railing to rest on as one looked out to the valley. Apart from the old, stone wall, nothing else was between us and a 10,000-foot drop, straight down. Oh, and for the record, yes … I hate heights. But when I grabbed hold of that wooden railing and looked out over the balcony, I instantly forgot about my fears. I’ll never forget what I saw… It was the start of a beautiful new day. I heard birds chirping. I could see all manner of creatures stirring. Not a single cloud blemished rich, blue sky, spanning as far as the eye could see. I saw the morning sun rising high above a jagged mountain range, which ran far into the distance, making the Swiss Alps look like a set of hills in Regina. At the base of these mountains was a dense forest. That’s where I saw animals amongst the trees—raccoons, fox and deer,

119

gar y de nne

to name just a few. Hundred-year-old pines covered the surrounding land and hills, their thick, protruding roots growing up out of the ground. With each blink of my eyes, everywhere I looked, I noticed something new— winding creeks, flowing streams and the sounds of nature. A gentle breeze passed by my face, crisp off the mountain. I sucked in a breath of the mountain air as we both stood there admiring the picture perfect views. It was a quiet and peaceful world. Who knew how long the environment and ecosystem had thrived for without the meddling hand of man. “Listen, Mr. Zander,” Keller said. “What is it?” I asked, worriedly. “Silence,” Keller said softly, smiling to himself. “Nothing but Mother Nature. Not a day goes by, Mr. Zander, that I don’t marvel at the very beauty that is life.” A startled flock of birds suddenly took off in all directions, squawking as they cleared the tall pines for their escape. One of them, a magnificent eagle of some kind, gracefully sailed away, its huge wingspan requiring little effort. With no one to fear, it slowly began to search for another place to rest. “Tell me … have you ever seen anything quite like this?” Keller asked me in admiration. “It’s just so different here.” “From the mortal world? Yes. It is,” Keller acknowledged. “We are not bound by greed. We have no need for corruption. We have no desire to inflict destruction on the very environment that sustains us. There is no ‘survival of the fittest’. Unfortunately, the mortal world refuses to learn these principals … and pays dearly for it.” I turned to Keller. “Show me more of this place. I wanna see it all,” I said. “Ah, Mr. Zander, I’m afraid you would not want to leave.” “I don’t wanna leave now,” I exclaimed. “But you must. The opportunity you have in front of you is golden. It’s rare in both circumstance and desire that a soul would want to continue in a life, Mr. Zander. There is obviously something significant about this present journey that your soul feels the need to continue.” “Wait a minute! Who said anything about wanting to continue? I don’t!” “Yes, you do. I can feel what you presently cannot. Your soul is yearning to finish the experience it set out to have in this life. You were frustrated by this life, that is 120

the matt zander journals

understandable. But the very nature of a mortal life, Mr. Zander, is to gain spiritual growth from the choices one makes without the omnipotent knowledge one has here. Once your soul is satisfied it has had the experience it set out to have, you shall return home. That cannot be denied of you.” “Well, I don’t give a damn what my soul wants … I know I wanna stay here. I don’t wanna go back to that life,” I pleaded. “I wanna know everything there is to know—if there’s a God? Are we alone in the universe? What’s the meaning of life, like, I mean the real meaning? How many past lives have I had? Who was I before this? Who am I now? I wanna know it all.” “Be that as it may, all I can do is advise you that your soul indicates the experience of your present lifetime is not over. It wants to return and finish what was started,” Keller stated. “Finish what?” “That, Mr. Zander, is something I’m afraid I cannot say. Knowing the purpose would render the experience obsolete,” Keller said. “All I will tell you is that it is an experience you will greatly appreciate having gone through in your next life. That is life’s very nature, Mr. Zander. Each preceding journey enables the next.” “My next life? You already know my next life?” I said in amazement. “Of course. I advised you on it.” “What is it?” Keller smiled. “One life at a time, Mr. Zander.” “Okay, so … if I go back, how the hell am I gonna know what I’m meant to do?” I asked hypothetically. “Rest assured, when the time comes … you’ll know. Understand that there are triggers in life to guide a soul throughout their journey. Most often, these ‘triggers’ appear as mere coincidence, but I can assure you there is no such thing, Mr. Zander. Look for signs. Of course, once you return to your body you will have little memory of this moment. What memory you do retain will quickly fade from your consciousness. This process is one of life’s safeguards. Even if I were to tell you your purpose in going back, the answer would not stay with you.” “How come?” “So as not to prejudice one’s current experience, Mr. Zander. Understand, all previous lives a soul has experienced are blocked from their mind whilst they are engaged on the mortal world.” 121

gar y de nne

I paused for a moment to think about my next question. “So lemme get this straight?” “Please.” “I’ve got something I have to do in my life … as Matt?” “Correct.” “But you can’t tell me what?” “Correct.” “And I’m gonna forget about this ever taking place?” “You will be aware it happened, but yes, this experience will fade quickly.” “But that’s crazy! You gotta gimme something?” I replied, confused as hell. “Follow the signs, Mr. Zander. Here, why not take one last look of the view,” Keller suggested, his arm outstretched over the balcony. “One last look…” I looked out over the valley below. It was a view you would never tire of. “Out there, somewhere on the horizon, life is waiting. You have a journey ahead of you, Mr. Zander, a journey that will allow you to experience the life you chose.” “What kind of journey?” I asked. “A journey of inner thought. Of introspection.” “To where, though? Where do I need to go?” My question lingered for a heartbeat before the big-picture answer suddenly dawned on me… I turned to Keller and looked him square in the eye, “Wait. I get it. There is no destination?” Keller softly smiled. “Forgive me for sounding cliché, Mr. Zander, but the journey is everything. If one thinks in terms of a destination one must reach in life, one will miss the experience altogether,” he said. “Okay…” I replied anxiously, “so what are we waiting for? Put me back in the game. Let’s go.” “The ‘game’ is closer than you think. All you have to do … is jump.” I quickly turned to Keller in shock, “Say what?” “Down there, Mr. Zander,” Keller said, pointing to the lake below us, “that is your path. You are aware the water running over your ankles in the canyon was no ordinary water?” “It was an energy … it was alive somehow?” 122

the matt zander journals

“You’re a fast learner, Mr. Zander. Morahra Lake will return you to your present, mortal body. It always knows where a soul needs to be. It is another gateway node, naturally.” I peered over the balcony wall for a second, my hands firmly grasped on the wooden railing. “Are you outta ya’ mind?” I cried, turning back to Keller. “You want me to jump over the edge and slam into that water at a hundred miles an hour?” “Mr. Zander, try not to think of it in mortal terms. Think of it in the spiritual. Trust your feelings. I am here to guide you. That is my purpose. I would not suggest an act that would hinder the journey.” “Look, I’ve seen alotta stuff here I can’t explain, okay? But this … man, you must be crazy if you think I’m gonna jump from here. There’s no way you’re getting me over that edge. Nuh-uh,” I argued, stepping back from the railing, feeling the breeze flow around me. It was real. This wasn’t a friggin’ dream. Jumping off there … no way in hell, I thought. Keller turned to me. I don’t know what it was about that guy, but since I’d met him in the hall, I felt like I’d known him for years. You know the feeling you get sometimes when you meet people? “You’re going to have to trust me, Mr. Zander,” he softly said. I tried to calm myself down by taking a few long breaths. I felt like one of those South Pacific pearl divers that slowed their heart rate down before taking a huge gulp of air and heading underwater. Just the mention of the word ‘jump’ by Keller sent me into a state of panic. Breathe, Matt. Breathe, I remember saying in my mind. “Ahhh, waaaaaaait a second. I see what you’re doing! This is some kind of test? You’re testing me,” I said to Keller. “I’m afraid not,” Keller replied. “And unfortunately you are running out of time, Mr. Zander. Your body needs you now or it will die. The surgeons who are attempting to save your life can only do so much without the soul present. Morahra Lake is the first step to continuing your present life. If you cannot take that first step, then I’m afraid your journey ends here, right now, and your soul will not get what it desires. You will, however, get your wish to stay. And not a 123

gar y de nne

soul will think worse of you for wanting to. It is simply a choice you must make. Right now.” I wanted so bad to stay there. Let me make that clear here—I never wanted to come back. Nu-uh. Are you kiddin’ me? But … as much as I wanted to forget my life and start over, I knew the way I’d left the world was a waste of a damn life, something I’d never feel good about (no shit). It just wasn’t who I wanted to be. My gut said I needed to go back. And I decided standing there that I had to trust my gut. (‘Go with the gut. The gut always knows,’ one of the delivery dudes at Runnerman’s used to say.) Okay, Matt. Let’s break this down, I thought to myself. In my mind, I accepted that the light in the tunnel and the water in the canyon was some kind of force that I didn’t understand. In the tunnel, it seemed to seep into the body and somehow transfer me from one location to another—didn’t that Einstein guy discover something like that? Whatever. So many thoughts went through my mind as I stood there, next to Keller. But the one that overshadowed everything else was one of trust. I really did trust what the old guy was telling me. And I trusted my gut. “Mr. Zander … may the journey be everything you want it to be. We shall meet again, my friend,” Keller said, placing his hands behind his back and ever so slightly smiling. I don’t doubt he knew I was going to jump. After all, he seemed to know everything else about me, so I figured he’d already read the decision in my mind. I looked over the edge one last time. I felt a calm come over me. I stepped up onto the balcony wall, and as I closed my eyes, felt the mountain wind on my face. Please let this not be real, I thought… And with that, I jumped off the Château balcony. I say jumped, but it was really more a fall, as I let my balance go. Everything immediately felt like it slowed down to the speed of a long kiss goodnight. I didn’t have the sensation of an extreme free fall—not what I would’ve thought. No. I found myself to be in a dense air that made me suspended. It really did feel like I was flying. After a few

124

the matt zander journals

seconds, I opened my eyes. I was moving toward the lake, but in a smooth, flowing motion, rather than a fall from 10,000 feet. As I fell, the landscape—the forests, mountains, everything—quickly began to glow. What I thought was sunlight shimmering on the water, I now realized was the light, the energy force that I’d felt in the tunnel. When I saw that, I felt at total ease. I saw boats … both carving paths through the water and heading back to jetties scattered around the lake’s edge. It was at that moment I saw it for what it was. The lake was more than just a lake. It was a tunnel. I could see into it now. It had depth. I reached the edge of the shimmering light source and instantly felt captured by it, like a safety net for a high-wire circus performer. As a ringing sound began around me, I flew straight into the tunnel, leaving the boats and the other world behind. I saw flashes of white electrical energy rush past me. It felt like I was in another tube of Jell-O, travelling at the speed of light. In those next few moments, I saw the emergence of some kind of room, straight ahead of me. It was a hospital operating theatre. It began as a tiny circle in the middle of the tunnel. It grew in size, from the middle, until I reached it and the theatre had grown out of the light to be the only thing left around me. As quick as it had come, the tunnel was gone. The light had dissolved. I was now suspended (the same sensation as Belcher’s ceiling, when I first left my body), looking down on a room full of people. There were doctors and nurses in green gowns, buzzing around a central theatre table. Blue sheets were over my groin and legs. Tubes were in me. I could see blood smeared on some of the linen. All types of machines were around me, beeping as the doctors and nurses worked under really bright lighting. They were frantic. They were trying to save me with those zap paddle things. I was lying on the table. Well, my body was. I admit it was a shock to see myself like that again, but it didn’t hurt—physically or emotionally. It wasn’t really me down there. I was only looking at the body I’d used for the past 33 years. By the look of the commotion below, things weren’t exactly going smoothly.

125

gar y de nne

I honestly wouldn’t have cared one bit if they hadn’t been able to fix it. I would’ve just gone back. I floated above the room for maybe five minutes, watching and listening to the doctors’ every move: ‘We’ve lost him.’ ‘Do you wanna call it?’ ‘Let’s try one more—give me a sec.’ ‘And ... clear!’ ‘Do we have a pulse?’ ‘No pulse.’ ‘C’mon, you son of a bitch.’ ‘Call it, Bob. He’s gone.’ ‘C’mon!’ ‘Last time, here we go.’ ‘Clear!’ I began to float downward, moving closer towards the table they had me on, wanting a closer look at my body. There I was, right over the doctors’ shoulders, watching them work on a piece of meat. A strange thing to witness, trust me. They were about to zap me again. I kept thinking to myself over and over… Don’t worry about it, guys. If you can’t get it working, it’s totally cool, ok? I’m right here, I’m alive. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Right then, one of the doctors slammed the defib pads onto my chest and zapped my body. I felt an incredibly powerful surge go right through me. And that was the last memory I had.

126

Wednesday, February 18 Day 1, 3:50 PM: I’ve decided this is gonna be the first day of the rest of my life. I’m gonna wipe everything I’ve done wrong clean away and start over. This is it. My new life. No rehearsals. Starting … now. 3:57 PM: Y’know … it feels so good to start over. To erase stuff you screwed up in the past. I just don’t know how this is all gonna play out, though. Right now, I’ve got no reason to live, no purpose. And finding out what I’m here for ain’t gonna be easy. It was one thing to write down what happened to me when I was shot and the experience I had, but so what … I’m still here. And if I’m totally honest with myself, I’m not sure I wanna be. I really wanna be back there. Out of my body. In that other world. Exploring every inch of the place. I’ve been lying here for an hour now, staring up at the beige ceiling wondering why the hell I came back. What was I thinking, leaving that other world to come back to this? I must’ve been outta my mind to wanna return to this. This? I’m all bandaged up, the food sux, the guy next to me has barely said a word, and all day I have to listen to doctors being called all over the place… “Dr. Shapiro to Radiology. Dr. Shapiro to Radiology.”

127

gar y de nne

Talk about one of the biggest mistakes in the history of big-time mistakes. I could’ve been discovering the afterlife, discovering a place no one here even knows exists, but I chose to come back to good ol’ Ontario? Maybe I do belong in the mental ward. Am I supposed to snap my fingers and forget I was ever there? Do I just live out the rest of my life like none of this ever happened? What is a normal life, anyway? What is normal? How could Keller say I had to come back for a reason and not tell me what it was? Why couldn’t he have just said I had to save a little old lady or something? Huh? Was I given a second chance at life to do something spectacular or just to go back to Runnerman’s and keep packing shelves and building product displays? Ok. Look. I don’t wanna sound like I’m ungrateful here, I just wish I had’ve been given something to work with. Like, a clue. Anything. Hell … a map with an X on it, or a scramble of letters I had to unjumble. So that’s why I’ve decided to keep writing like this as long as I’m lying here, and while I have all these thoughts floating round in my head. I feel that writing this kinda stuff down—even though I probably suck at it—has helped me keep it together since waking up. This hospital scrap paper I’m scribbling on sure is cheap therapy. I guess it’s all I’ve got right now. I feel lost here. Nothing feels the same anymore. Runnerman’s—and everything else before I was shot—feels so long ago now. Years. But it’s only been days. My NDE felt like I was on the other side for hours. The doctors told me they only lost me for a few minutes. And life continues… Rush hour, after 4:00 PM: I’m out of bed. Rush hour has started on the streets below. It’s fun watching chaos unfold down there on the street. Better than staring at the ceiling. It distracts my mind, which I need right now. Even the street noise is a welcome distraction. It builds up every afternoon. A constant buzz. White noise. Static. Out the window, I can see cars on Victoria Street slowly gliding by, turning the freshly fallen snow to brown slush. 128

the matt zander journals

God, I’m so sick of this weather. Snow. Ice. Hail. Rain. Grey. Dull. I’m scanning building windows and doin’ that whole ‘Rear Window’ voyeur thing. Haven’t spotted anything kinky yet. I was hoping to see some kind of action to wake me up but it’s mostly office towers round here. Nothing like my Honolulu vacation. I still remember spotting that Asian chick from my hotel window, dildoing herself to death in a hotel room across the street as her girlfriend watched on (so glad my memory didn’t get fried). About the kinkiest thing I can see from here is a blonde at an office photocopier. Bored with being an office-tower voyeur, I’ve just flicked the TV above my bed on for the first time since coming back. I’m flicking through the channels on this thing and I swear, if I had a life support machine attached to me, I’d think about pullin’ the plug. Ok. Here we go. This is what I wanted. Cable Pulse24. It’s the kinda news channel you could easily get dizzy watching. News tickers, flash panels, stock market feeds, weather graphics, corner ads … all crammed on the screen together. If I pass out from watching this crap, well, hey … I’m already in a hospital. This is what they’re saying: Pulse24 reporter: “General snowfall will continue through the night with five to ten centimetres expected when the Alberta Clipper hits the province over the next 24 hours, bringing an unwelcome blanket of white just about everywhere. Conditions will deteriorate further Thursday as cold weather and very strong winds in the wake of the clipper generate significant snow squall activity.” Well, that’s just fan-fuckin’-tastic. Lying back here in bed, it occurs to me all I ever do is flick with TV. New channels get added every year but you can never find anything decent. Just ads. They all seem to sync up with every other channel so when you’re trying to find out what’s on, you’re just flicking through an ocean of ads. I see TV different now. Like, a weapon of mass distraction. Ads. Ads. Ads. You need this. 129

gar y de nne

Buy this. You gotta have that. Try this. Food. Cooking. Cartoons. Game shows. Music vids. Fashion. Showbiz. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Okay, here we go. Home shopping channels… Sidebar: Kill your TV I’m watching this infomercial on Ch 22. It’s asking me in an aggressive, rapid-fire advertising voice if I’ve ever dreamt of bigger breasts without surgery. They’re showing a beautiful blonde model fitting these plastic cups underneath her t-shirt while the voice tells me how the patented vacuum cups suck your breasts until they’re a bigger size. Seriously. I’m not making this up. Watch an hour of daytime TV and you realize just how screwed up we really are. Companies are dedicating millions of dollars in research so we can make women’s breasts bigger. Now, don’t get me wrong, the end result really is a beautiful thing for a guy like me. But, I mean, c’mon … after an experience like mine, I’m really startin’ to wonder about the human race and our priorities. If aliens landed on the White House lawn and happened to catch some local TV before they opened the hatch and came out … what the hell would they think about a girl with an insanely huge smile, happily fitting plastic cups over her tits, then reaching down to a control pad to turn on a vacuum? Flick. Ch 23. Tan in a can. Whoa. Here we go. There’s another hot-bodied model spraying fake tan from a cordless hairdryer-type spray can. Shit. Her skin is being covered in a glowing brown colour. That’s the last thing I’d want to spray on my skin— brown shit from a can. Of course, I’m still watching the ad ‘cos I’m lovin’ what I see (seems to be a common theme for home shopping ads … hot models). Flick. There’s this thing called KABOOM. It’s laundry powder. No, wait … it’s cleaner, and you spray it on metal and in your bath and stuff and it just eats shit away like acid. I’m really sure that’s good for your skin. 130

the matt zander journals

Flick. Flick. Flick. ‘Would you like to slow down the aging process for your bones?’ Flick. ‘Now you can look 10 years younger in just 3 days!’ Flick. Diet Pill Ad #32. A woman smiles in lingerie holding a diet pill in her fingers. Lingerie? What does lingerie have to do with a diet pill? (Note: ‘Pill may cause memory loss’—oh, don’t worry, they’re only your memories). Flick. Flick. ‘Actual experience, results may vary…’ Flick. ‘Relief with just one pill…’ Flick. ‘Newly developed, breakthrough formula…’ Flick. ‘Revolutionary treatment…’ Flick. Flick. Flick. ‘Ask your doctor…’ ‘Pain-free blood testing…’ ‘Just $59.95 for a 30-day trial…’ ‘Do you always feel tired?’ ‘Triple-strength migraine pain-reliever…’ ‘…have acid reflux?’ ‘Results may vary…’ ‘Pain-free waxing…’ ‘Congestion should stop…’ ‘Mabambobal isn’t for everyone. See your doctor…’ ‘Take twice a day…’ ‘Side effects include hair loss, rectal bleeding, vision problems…’ ‘One simple treatment…’ ‘Pain-free workout…’ ‘Does anxiety stop you from living a full life?’ ‘Ask your doctor…’ ‘Stops high cholesterol…’ 131

gar y de nne

‘Pain-free living…’ ‘Take Mabambobal RC. Just one easy pill…’ WTF is going on? How can they have pills for everything in life? And ads where all these perfect-looking models run round in slo-motion on a tropical beach, laughing without a care in the world, as the voiceover talks about how easy it is living with Hepatitis? Is this planet for real? People actually watch TV like this? Flick. OFF.

132

This is Day 2, 9:30 AM: I’ve calmed down since yesterday. The TV’s off. No more TV. TV make Matt go crazy. The breakfast they serve in this place … ain’t no Cooley’s, but after everything that’s happened this past week, you come to appreciate just how good havin’ any kinda breakfast actually is. Maybe sounds crazy, but all of a sudden, I’m lovin’ the little things in life. Even just lying here, just this. It’s amazing how quickly you change. When you’re faced with mortality, little things instantly become the most important things. Counting trees in High Park. Watching birds on Toronto Island. Feeling the warmth of the winter sun on Queen Street. Smelling the air in Algonquin Park. Everyone gets so caught up in the complex shit. Why is that? I bet half the stuff the nurses round here have on their minds doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Like … might be an unfaithful boyfriend, finding the perfect dress or trying to move apartments. It’s all small stuff when you have time on your hands to really think about it. Like, for instance, I can’t believe I used to worry about the Stanley Cup so much. Hockey. I used to worry about hockey? My damn blood pressure used to go through the roof watchin’ a game on TV. I used to scream at the TV. I really did. I 133

gar y de nne

used to worry about where we’d be on a Saturday night, out at clubs, and whether or not the bar would have the game on. Like, Bar Italia didn’t have the games. So I used to get so pissed if Eric wanted to go to Bar Italia and I was gonna miss the game. I can’t believe those were the types of things I let consume my life. I’m so thankful for the basics right now. Having a shower. Listening to birds outside. Being brought a tray of food (even if it is hospital stuff). Listening to the traffic. Just knowing I’m alive … instead of worrying about all the shit I used to think was important. Even this hospital coffee is so damn good right now, I can feel my body coming back to life. Just a simple cup of coffee. I swear I’ll never take the little things for granted ever again. Starting now. Anyways… Doctor says I’m healing fine. Seems happy enough with my recovery. I don’t have any infections or stuff they’d be worried about. I just gotta come back in a week and get my stitches removed. I’ve got this revenge-of-the-mummy bandage wrapped round my chest, but apart from that, you really wouldn’t know I was shot. Ain’t it cool? You can get shot and be walking outta hospital a few days later. Sure, I can’t go playing hockey or anything crazy—I’m a bit inflexible in the upper body—but the doc says I should be fine to go home tomorrow. That scares me, though. It’s hard to explain, but when I think about getting outta here, I worry that I’m not gonna feel part of this world anymore. Like, I’ll be a stranger in a strange … uggghhhh. That is such a cliché. I suck at writing. I wonder if there’s others like me who’ve come back? Like, a support group for near-death experiences or something, where I could spill my guts without anyone thinking I was whacko? Thing is, I’m not ready to tell anyone what I went through. I might never be. I think I’d be labelled a damn nutcase—support group or not. I’m sure they’ve got a ward in this place where they’d put me if I started blabbering about gateways and canyons and a French chateau I dived off. It’s hard enough even me believing everything that happened … and I was actually there—I saw all that shit. It just bugs the hell outta me not being able to tell anyone about it.

134

the matt zander journals

I’ve never really questioned what life is before. And I don’t know why? It makes sense to question stuff. What is life? I never used to think about that kinda stuff. I mean, when I was a kid growing up, I never questioned anything if it wasn’t to do with hockey or riding bikes or cartoons. I never wondered what I was here for. You just live. It’s just … life. It’s just watching TV, school, work, having fun, sports, hockey, music, going to clubs … just life. You don’t just wake up one day and say to yourself, ‘what am I doing here?’ But now I am. I’m so damn curious about life now. The fact there’s more to all’a this than rush hours, cable TV, supermarket coupons and imported sports cars with doors that open upwards. Thank christ there’s more to all’a this… *** The hardest thing to do in life is: a) b) c) d) e)

hit a hole-in-one beat Gretsky 1-on-1 know who you are appreciate every single moment all of the above ***

Since my NDE, I can’t believe how I’ve changed overnight to think so differently from how I used to. It’s the weirdest thing, ‘cos I’m seeing everything for the first time—it feels like it anyway. The beauty. I never used to notice the beauty outside a window. Even just noises. The wind blowing. Rain. Birds. When I see a bird fly, I just think, man, that is so beautiful. And the snow. The snow is so precious. It falls as a perfect, pure thing, down to the ground, and then gets mixed up with oil and dirt and shit in the gutters and on the streets. It’s pure white when it falls. Then gets fucked up by man once it lands. Am I the only one who thinks like that? 135

gar y de nne

No one takes time to think about stuff anymore. I mean really think. Okay. Break time. I’ve gotta take a dump. I think it’s the food they’re serving in here. Everything’s processed. Laced with chemicals. I really need a shower, too. I’ve gotta clean myself up a bit if I’m getting outta here tomorrow. ‘Cos right now I stink. Sidebar: Looks I feel like a king. The simple act of warm water flowing over your body is so underrated in modern times. FUCKING FANTASTIC. I guess it’s all relative, though. A corporate yuppie rising early every morning probably takes having a shower for granted and would kill their landlord if the hot water wasn’t working in their condo. Someone having spent a few cold nights lost in the Yukon wilderness … they’d think having a shower was as good as making love to Angelina Jolie. That Einstein dude was really onto something with all that relativity stuff, huh? Surprisingly, my bandages stay dry thanks to the plastic wrappers Big Mama gave me. I have to admit though, standing there in the shower, it felt mighty weird knowing I was back in my body after I’d left it. Even just looking down at my body. Touching it. That’s the weirdest feeling from the experience—I know I’m not my body anymore. When I first stepped into the bathroom—a small, white-tiled, standard-issue hospital bathroom—I stared at myself in the mirror for a good few minutes under the fluorescent lighting. Just gazing, close-up, right at myself, until I started to almost see through me. Like one of those 3D-art pictures. Y’know those pictures that don’t make any sense until you focus your eyes in the right way … then everything becomes clear? As I shaved, I kept studying my face closely, wondering who I really was in between strokes of a disposable razor. I saw a reflection of a guy staring back at me. I told myself it wasn’t really me. I wonder if other people do that? Like, look in the mirror and really wonder who they’re looking at? 136

the matt zander journals

Physically, I’ve lost interest in my appearance. It just doesn’t rate high in my mind right now. The kind of ads I’ve been watching on TV—makeup ads, hair ads, skin ads, body ads, weight loss, plastic bra cups—make everything so damn superficial. I guess I never noticed that before. We’re all obsessed with the body, but it’s a total scam. A downright scam. And what really rings the irony buzzer right now is the amount of attention people give to the body and what little they give or do for the soul. The body gets all the time and money but it’s the thing you ditch like a piece of meat when you’re done here. Isn’t that ironic? (don’t you think?) I mean, I left my body behind when I died and I’m gonna do it again. I’m gonna dump it. Like a Runnerman’s write-off in the garbage bins at the back of the store. I haven’t once thought if my hair looks right or how I look to the doctors or nurses since I’ve come back. Even though one of ‘em is an absolute hottie and I used to cringe if I was seen lookin’ a mess by a hot girl. I look like hell. And it really doesn’t bother me. My hair … since I’ve been in here, has been a total mess. I haven’t brushed it. The only thing I’ve done is run my fingers through it. It used to be styled. Now it just sits there. Whatever it wants to do, it does. Hair is hair. How it falls on my head ain’t gonna define who I am. How can you spend your life obsessed over the way you look, when it doesn’t mean anything in the big bang, big picture of life? Take my goatee. I used to groom it to perfection. I used to make sure every single blade of facial hair was the same length. This morning … shaved it off. Gone. Now I don’t look so urban grunge no more. More like … urban bum. Urban street dude. But I couldn’t care less. And clothes… Did I really used to care who designed somethin’? What it felt like? Who was wearing it? Do people really think it matters if clothes aren’t label? How fucked up is that? That someone might say, ‘You mean it’s not Calvin Klein? Oh God, get it off! Get it off me!’ But I used to be that way. I used to spend time thinking about labels. Labels … on clothes. WTF? ***

137

gar y de nne

Toronto Sun newspaper, today’s Quote of the day: ‘Seeing death as the end of life is like seeing the horizon as the end of the ocean.’ - David Searls *** 4:45 PM: Just had my first visitor. Didn’t get flowers, though. Ten minutes ago, there was a knock on the door of the room. When I looked over, Belcher was standing in the doorway… He was staring right at me. I couldn’t help but notice the ‘Smile!’ Runnerman’s nametag on his white shirt pocket. Once he saw me look over, he stepped into the room and slowly approached the bed. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t move. I just looked at him with a dead stare, trying to go right through him as though I was Superman, using my powers to burn something to a crisp. I thought maybe he’d come here to finish me off. His trench coat was dangling over his arm, half wet, half dusted with snow. He held a newspaper paper in his other hand. “The last time I saw you, you were dead,” Belcher began, looking around the room. “Pretty neat trick, coming back from the dead.” He noted the view out the window and glanced over to the young guy asleep in the next bed over from me. He gently slid my curtain closed for some privacy. “What can I say? Someone up there really likes me,” I slowly replied. “Is that so?” Belcher moved in close. Maybe it had something to do with what I’d been through, but I could really feel anger swirling through his body. On the outside, though, he remained calm and spoke slowly. “There you were. In my home. Putting your hands on my property. Thinking you were just gonna take whatever the hell you wanted like some low-life junkie scum. Now you have the balls to say someone likes you? Nobody likes you. No one even knows you’re gone at the store. No one. They say, ‘Zander, who?’ You 138

the matt zander journals

wanna know why? ‘Cos you’re a loser. You’ve always been a loser. You’ll always be a loser.” “So … you and Cassandra, huh? How’s that workin’ out?” I loved being a smartass to this guy. Belcher paused for a minute, his bung eye bouncing off the walls of his eye socket like an outta control pinball machine. Maybe he was just searching the room for a pillow to smother me with. “I’ll get straight to the point… I’m not going to tell the cops anything. For now. As long as you keep your mouth shut and forget about the … ‘staff meeting’ you and your boyfriends interrupted, and I never see your face again, well, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, as they say. Do we have an agreement?” I thought about what he said for a second and looked up to the ceiling. Our conversation was slow. Like we’d both had a shot of Novocaine and our mouths were numb. “Honestly,” I levelled, “I don’t give a damn right now who you wanna screw. I always knew Runnerman’s liked to screw their staff—you’ve obviously taken that to a whole new level, but whatever. I just think your wife deserves to know that you’re bringing your work home. You should tell her. Trust me, it’s good for the soul.” Belcher saw red. His bung eye was going ballistic. I thought he was gonna have a heart attack. Or maybe an eye attack. At least he was already in a hospital. “You always were a smart little shit,” he said, mad as hell. He moved even closer to me, right in my face, and began to whisper a soft, slow threat. “Now you listen carefully. One way or the other, you will keep your mouth shut. And if I ever see your face on my street or around the store again, you’ll wish you had’ve stayed dead. Are we clear?” “Crystal,” I answered, looking him straight in the eye. Belcher’s fury snapped back to a cosy grin. He pulled away from my face. I think me lying there in the hospital bed as weak as a kitten amused him. In fact, I’m sure it did. “Look at you,” he said, “what a screw up.” And that was it. He turned and headed for the door.

139

gar y de nne

As he reached the doorway, he quickly turned back to me. “Have a nice life,” he snarled. Then he was gone. Merging into the flow of hospital corridor traffic. That was my excitement for the day. 9:20 PM: Freezing rain is pelting the windows. I can hear it. It’s running down the glass like tears. I can tell tonight is a night I won’t forget in a long time. I’ve just had one of those moments when you realize your life is never gonna be the same. When the reality of the life you have, hits… No one could possibly understand how that feels.

140

Day 3, About 3:50 AM: It’s dark. It’s still. I’ve only slept an hour, maybe less. Since my NDE, I haven’t been able to sleep much at all. Funny, when I’m the guy who often oversleeps, and has to sneak myself in through the back loading dock of Runnerman’s so Belcher doesn’t catch me coming in late. I don’t know if it’s a direct result of being shot or going to the other side and coming back. I just know I’ve never been more awake in my life than right now. Not that that makes any sense. Everyone needs to sleep, right? Unless, for me, awake is the new sleep? 4:42 AM: I never had any idea how long the night could be when you’re awake. Every second feels like a minute. Every minute, an hour. All I can do is lay here in the darkness, alone, while the rest of the city sleeps. I try to imagine who else would be awake at this hour. I wonder why they call it the graveyard shift? I can hear nurses walking past in the hallways. Faint noises. Talking. Elevators. Trolleys. I just wanna sleep. 5:07 AM: I have a sudden sense of dread. Daylight is here. There’s a kinda calm I can’t explain. I’m getting out today. 5:12 AM: Me again… 141

gar y de nne

I wish a big-ass wrecking ball came crashing through the window right now and smashed the shit out of me. That would be heaven. A 747-400 jumbo airliner crashing right into the side of the hospital wing? Marvellous. Or how ‘bout a nurse screwing up and giving me a lethal dose of drugs meant for some guy down the hall? At least I’d be able to sleep. And it’d save me from deciding what I’m gonna do when I get outta here. That’d be the beauty of it. 7:31 AM: Either my hand is slowing down or I’m getting tired of writing like this. I need a book. Loose paper sucks. When I started writing about my life and about Eric and James and what’d led up to me being here in St. Mikes, I was scribbling down words as fast as my hand could move. My brain was spewing out thoughts and my hand was trying to keep up. Now, I have gaps of silence where my hand’s idle and I don’t have anything to say. Maybe I don’t need to do this anymore? Now I’m getting outta here, I guess I need to put this part of my life behind me. Life goes on. Just gone 9:45 AM: I’ve just finished my last hospital coffee, sitting in one of the chairs next to the window. It’s a clear day—sun is shining, birds are diving and weaving in and out of buildings—but I can tell it’s FF (fucking freezing). Has that look about it. Trust me, a shining sun in February in Toronto doesn’t mean shit. It can still be -20 without wind chill even coming into play. They just don’t know how lucky they are. Everybody … down there on the street. People, out and about, living their lives. Maybe they’ve got problems of their own? Maybe they’re wondering how they should be living their life? But I bet most of ‘em don’t have a clue what it means to be alive and healthy, compared with being up here in a hospital bed. Health is something you don’t give much thought to until it’s in doubt. I so took my health for granted before this. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m getting out. The few times I’ve walked the corridor and peered into other rooms, I’ve seen plenty of others that ain’t goin’ nowhere. 142

the matt zander journals

Sky. Clouds. Little birds, flying. Sparrows, full of life. So free. They must wonder about the city? Would sparrows care about the goings on around them? Would they notice the streetcars? Which part of city they lived in? Would sparrows know they lived downtown, or in North York, or would everything look the same to them? Would they know when it was rush hour? Lunchtime? I wonder… I have the sound of streetcars permanently etched in my brain now. I’m sure that’s what happens when you live downtown. It’s a nice sound actually. Maybe I’ve gotten soft? I like it. The whirring, the clacks. When they stop. When they take off. Stop. Take off. There they go again. Cops paid me another visit this morning, right on 9 a.m. Did I write something about the first time they stopped by? Huh. Maybe not. But I ain’t gonna write about e v e r y t h i n g, am I? What part of that don’t you understand, punk! So, yeah, the cops … 52 Division. They came by the day I woke up. I guess they were told by hospital staff that I’d actually survived and was still breathing. I thought they’d come to arrest me. But they didn’t. They just wanted to know what the hell happened. God knows what b.s. Belcher told ‘em. I said ‘I couldn’t remember’ (a reflex response to the law from my younger years), and they warned me charges could be laid pending further investigation. Maybe they didn’t believe a word Belcher said and knew he was bullshitting them? Get this … they even asked me if I wanted Belcher charged for the shooting. Of course, I told ‘em to forget it. That kinda stuff was the last thing I wanted to think about, the day I woke up. Anyways, this morning all I got from them was an official caution. That was it. No charges, nothing. Case closed. Belcher kept his word. Who knows what the hell he told ‘em. Maybe whatever they thought really happened at his place in those early hours—getting shot was a good enough deterrent to make sure I never found myself in that position again. But I don’t need a deterrent. Not anymore. Near 10:20 AM: 143

gar y de nne

The guy in the next bed over … Michael his name is … I talked to him for the first time this morning. Over breakfast. I’d said ‘hey’ a few times before then, but this morning we actually had a conversation. It’s funny how a single meeting can change your life when you least expect it. Life seems to get its kicks from doing that to people. Don’t you think? California. I keep thinking about what Michael said. The more I think about it, the more it feels right. California. Even writing it feels right. Michael was this kinda spaced out 20-something guy when I saw him for the first time, just lying there in bed. He’s had the curtain drawn around his side of the room pretty much the whole time I’ve been here. Sometimes I wondered if he was dead. I wanted to talk, but in here, you dunno what people’s stories are, so I guess I did what most do these days to their neighbour—I just kept to myself. This morning, though, he was awake when Rosie (Big Mama’s RN helper) brought our breakfasts in. I heard her ask him about the curtain and then saw it pulled open, allowing sunlight to fully drench our room. Maybe I was starting to get used to this whole hospital motif, but the sunlight did wonders for the white bed sheets and blue quilts. Even my patterned hospital duds looked like they could be sold in GAP for $129.95 plus tax. Anyways, I’d put this guy down to being a loner. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with him. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe I don’t have any hospital room etiquette. But I wasn’t just gonna lay there with my breakfast, feel-good sunlight beaming in, and not say nothin’ like he didn’t exist. “Hey.” (Long pause. The sound of a tree falling in the wilderness). “Hey,” he finally replied, looking over to me. (There ya go. How hard was that?) “What’s goin’ on?” I asked. “Nuthin,” he answered. “Michael, right?” 144

the matt zander journals

“Yep.” “I’m Matt.” “Hey,” he said. “Hey,” I replied. Sidebar: Michael Pros: California Cons: Monosyllabic(sp?), loner So I met Michael this morning over breakfast. I don’t know the guy, so all I can say about him right now is he’s a guy in his early twenties(?), boyish kinda look— y’know, soft skin, these kinda piercing brown eyes, and a messy head of wavy brown hair that falls down over his forehead, ears and occasionally covers his eyes until he pushes it away again. He has one of those ski-slope noses, and a few scratches on his face that have mostly healed but are still noticeable. They could be spots or cuts, I’m not sure? He’s got a thin frame on him (no wonder if he’s had to endure the food in this place very long) and he’s had three-day stubble on his face for, well … three days. I tried to get a conversation goin’ this morning, but goddammit, he’s like one of these … whaddaya call it … monosyllabic guys? One of these guys of the new generation. One-word answers … if you’re lucky. We’ve got his kind at the store, at Runnerman’s. Or should I say, used to. The cart kids were exactly like Michael. The high school kids that used to get paid to collect shopping carts from the parking lot and return them to the store had about five words in their vocabulary. I used to wonder what their deal was. I’d ask ‘em something like, ‘Hey what’d you think of the game last night?’ And they’d usually reply with a ‘Yeah,’ ‘Nah,’ ‘Dunno,’ or ‘Huh?’ What’s with people today, not being able to talk? These kinda people that barely say a word, like they’re in their own little world? What’s with that? It’s frustrating. I don’t get people that give one-word answers. Ungh. “So, what are you in for?” I asked Michael, as I picked up toast that looked like it’d been cooked in a toaster for five seconds. 145

gar y de nne

“Self destructed. Tried to kill myself. Did a crappy job at it,” he replied, holding up both his arms for me to see bandages wrapped round his wrists. That was one way of getting my attention. I could see he wasn’t making this up. “You?” he asked me back. “I was shot.” “How?” “It’s a long story.” He turned to me for a second, his head resting on his propped up pillow. “It usually is,” he said. “Look, tell me to shut the hell up, but why’d you try n’ kill yourself?” Michael smiled slightly and paused. “Why?” he replied, “well … it’s a long story.” “It usually is,” I replied. It was a weird moment in time, that moment. It felt like we were two guys reminiscing about an old high school flame. Michael said, “Simple answer … I hated life.” “No one gets it unless they’ve been there,” he added. “Been where?” “The place where you don’t care. About anything. About what happens. When you’re tired of all this.” I saw a blank look form on Michael’s face as he stared up at the hospital ceiling. His eyes were empty. I could tell he knew what he was talking about. “Hey, I didn’t mean to get personal. Look, it’s none of my business so I’ll just shut up now.” I shoved a finger of toast in my mouth so even if I’d wanted to say something, I couldn’t. I mean … what do you say to someone who tried to kill themselves? ‘Are you gonna try again?’, ‘Better luck next time?’ or, ‘Are you sure you’re doin’ it right?’ I needed more toast. But instead of keeping my mouth shut, I decided to say, “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but … have you ever thought maybe there’s a reason you’re still here?” “Lyin’ in a hospital bed?”

146

the matt zander journals

“Yeah,” I answered philosophically, “maybe ya just gotta figure it out? Like, you’ve got somethin’ you haven’t done yet. I know it sounds weird but, y’know, it’s just an idea.” “Only reason I’m still here is I didn’t slash my fuckin’ wrists hard enough,” Michael said firmly, turning to look at me. Subject change. Subject change. I was dyin’ here. “Well … ummmmm … maybe everything’ll work out once you’re outta here,” I said, clicking my spoon on the porcelain bowl filled with muesli that looked like it’d already been eaten and thrown back up. “You married?” Michael asked. “Nope.” “You work?” “Not any more.” “Got your own place?” I shook my head. “So what’s the plan?” Michael asked, with the enthusiasm of a sloth. “Plan?” “I heard the doctor say you could go home today,” he told me. I took a breath and softly shook my head. “Honestly … I dunno? Guess I haven’t thought that far ahead. Any ideas?” “L.A.,” he said. “California?” “The one and only.” “What’s there?” “The ocean,” he replied. “You wanna go to L.A. just to see the ocean?” I burst out, surprised. “Yeah … what’s wrong with that?” Michael said, getting defensive. “Nothing, I guess,” I calmly replied. “I wanna stand at the edge of the ocean and look out at the horizon. I wanna feel the sand in my toes. I wanna hear the seabirds … the waves. I’ve never done anything like that. Is that so weird?”

147

gar y de nne

So just as I was getting ready to leave this place, Michael started to talk to me. I mean actually talk to me. Ironic, huh? Oh, and … horizon? Ocean? Didn’t I just read something like that? Talk about a coincidence… As I continued the conversation, I climbed outta bed and started to collect my things, ready to leave. The doctors had already given me the all clear and booked me in to come back next week and get my stitches out. I pulled my hospital duds off and slowly began to slip a pair of faded denim jeans on for the first time since getting myself shot. My winter coat was the only thing left intact from the night I was shot, once the nurses had cut the rest of my clothes off me in the ER, so now I had some old, lost property clothes courtesy of Big Mama (God bless her). It actually felt quite strange putting clothes back on… “So you’re really gonna go to California, huh?” I asked Michael, zipping my preloved jeans up. “I mean … having your life saved like that must give you some kind of different perspective, right? Never waste another minute?” “I dunno,” Michael said, thinking for a second. “All I know is I wanna go someplace. I wanna do something with my life. Last thing I wanna do is be here right now.” “You mean in St. Mikes?” “I mean Teronno.” I laughed. (Teronno’s how locals pronounce the city. Only tourists say ‘Tor-rontoe’). “California, huh?” I said aloud, as I looked out the window to the icy streets below, slipping a beat-up t-shirt on. Thinking music from Jeopardy. That annoying xylophone melody. Fucking Jeopardy theme. Can’t get it out of my head now. “Maybe I should do something like that?” I said, thinking out loud. Michael asked me, “What for?” “Huh?” I was spaced out for a minute, pondering some ideas in my head. “What the hell would you wanna go for?” Michael repeated.

148

the matt zander journals

I thought about it again for a moment. I wanted to say something that made perfect sense to him … and me. Something like how I wanted to discover what I had to do with my life, or so I could find myself again. But all I said was, “I’m so sick of this fucking snow. I’m so sick of everything here. Look at it out there … Teronno sux right now.” I wrote earlier how dying was the best thing that ever happened to me—I take that back. I dunno … my head’s all over the place right now. Part of me wishes it’d never happened, is all. ‘Cos I realize now I’m never gonna be the old me again. People say ignorance is bliss. If you’re ignorant to the world and to the reality of life, you got it made—you just don’t know what’s going on. But the fact that there’s gotta be a meaning to every life we live, it really messes with your head. Is this what I should be doing? Going to L.A.? Staying in T.O.? They’re only letters, after all. Slowly wandering around the room, I asked Michael, “So how you gonna get there?” “Haven’t thought that far. Hitch, maybe?” “Hitch? You gotta be kiddin’ me?” “Hey, I’m not exactly ‘lifestyles of the rich and famous’ over here,” Michael said, slightly aggravated. “Thing is … I was thinking just now … maybe we could do a road trip?” I suggested. “We?” “Well, kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? If we’re both headed in the same direction?” Michael pushed his breakfast tray away. He didn’t say a word, so I wasn’t sure how he was on the idea. Nor was I, seeing as though I just met the guy. But I kept thinking about it. A light bulb had gone off in my head. One with a dozen moths breakdancing round it. “More I think about it, the more it makes sense. California,” I pondered to myself again, out loud. I turned to Michael. “We could leave in a few days. Rent a car and take as long as we want. If we wanna wake up in Texas, we can wake up in Texas. Hell, we 149

gar y de nne

don’t even have to go to L.A. We can end up in Baja or someplace,” I exclaimed. “Go surfing. Just hang out. Live the good life. Forget about all this for a while…” “No. No road trips. I hate driving,” Michael fired back at me. O-kaaaay. Michael’s tone of voice sounded pretty final. And even though I didn’t need him— I could drive on my own—I asked him, “So what’s your big idea then?” “If I had the money,” Michael began, “I’d fly. Why waste time drivin’ when you can be there in a few hours already.” “I guess,” I replied. “I just thought a road trip would be cool. You know, an adventure?” “I don’t want adventure. I just wanna get there. And even if I did like the idea, like I said, I don’t have the money. Right now, I can’t afford Greyhound, let alone rent a car.” “Sounds as though you’re shit out of luck then, don’t it?” I snapped. “Yep. Story of my life.” Silence. We both stopped talking for a moment. I just didn’t know how to read the guy, but I could feel he was crying out for a break. “Look, I could maybe get us two tickets on Greyhound … if you wanted?” Michael looked at me. “You wouldn’t owe me,” I promised. “Make it an airfare and I’d find a way to pay you back. I swear,” he said. I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t know what to think. I can’t make decisions to save my life. I’ve always been that way. But as soon as Michael asked me about the airfare, I could tell something in him sparked and he got a shot of energy through his body. I saw it on his face. In his eyes. They had life again. I felt it. “Well, you gotta get outta bed first,” I replied. “No offence, but you haven’t exactly been bouncin’ off the walls since I’ve been here.” “All I need’s an hour,” he said, stretching his legs to the end of his bed. “C’mon?” I said, doubtful. “Just like that, you wanna get outta here and jump on a plane?” “Yep.” “You’re not just jerking my chain here?”

150

the matt zander journals

Michael frowned at me. “I told you—I’m gettin’ to L.A., ‘k?” he said bluntly. “Even if it kills me.” Ok, so the guy sounded serious. And I had to make a decision. Was I gonna do this? An idea’s one thing, but I was the worst at makin’ these kinda spur of the moment decisions. “Maybe we should wait a few days? Y’know … make a plan? Wait for this weather to pass?” I suggested. “It’s not like we gotta leave today, right?” Michael looked at me and paused for a second. He had this intense, brooding look in his eyes. He finally said, “I don’t know about you, but in my mind … I’ve already left.” 11:37 AM: I’ve been waiting at the admissions office for over 30 minutes now. Paperwork. They need my signature and my OHIP health card. I’m gonna have to bring it back for them (like I’ve already explained three times). It’s at Eric’s place, along with the rest of my stuff. I never carry ID on me, let alone if I’m breaking into someone’s place. Quickest way to get on America’s Dumbest Criminals would be if you dropped ID for homeowners to find. Huh. I guess I never thought of myself as an actual criminal before? But when I write that … the word ‘criminal’ … it kinda hits me. I never really stopped to think about it like that? I was on autopilot. I was a criminal. Huh. This morning, I said goodbye to Big Mama, along with all the other nurses at ward-station 6B that helped me through all of this. No fanfare. I guess they see guys like me all the time. Dime a’ dozen. They probably have wagers on the ones they think’ll make it and the ones that don’t. I bet a few of ‘em lost money on me. I’ve told the admin staff down here I’m heading back to my place to get my stuff, so I’ll bring the OHIP card back for them. Do you think they believe me? I’m watching them in between sentences. Every 30 seconds they look back at me from an office like I’m some sort of … criminal. Then they continue their conversation like they’re talking about me. I’m probably just paranoid. For all I know, they’re talking about how a date went or last night’s TV. 151

gar y de nne

As for Michael… I guess I surprised myself. I offered to fly him to L.A. I know it’s not everyday you agree to travel god knows how many miles with someone you just met, but … as soon as the words came out his mouth up there in the room and popped into my head, I was sold on the idea. Always wanted to go there. I’m not even gonna think about the $$$. My MasterCard’s good for a few grand, and honestly, after my experience, money’s the last thing on my mind. Best thing to do right now is get outta Toronto. Teronno sux. I’ve gotta remove myself from this city to get to know myself again. Whatever it takes is whatever it takes. Even if I’m only gone for a day, a week, a month—a change of scenery and a different perspective is gonna make all the difference. I know it. Something about it feels right. California. “Mr. Zander?” My name’s being called. Paperwork’s ready.

152

Subway, 12:17 PM: I am Matt Zander. Who am I? I’m just a nobody, riding the rocket. Even though I’m glad to be out of hospital, it did start to feel like home. Funny how you can get attached to your environment so quick. Now I’m in the real world again, on the subway out to High Park. Just like old times. Just like old times… It’s a fucking ice age outside. The sky has darkened and the wind is like fire on the skin. Walking up Victoria Street just about killed me. How’d that be—getting outta hospital after being shot only to freeze to death from Toronto wind chill. Oh, and not to mention the paramedics van that almost ran me down as I was crossing the street, heading for the subway just now. I froze my nuts off walking to the Eaton Centre from St. Michael’s. This grey-coldsnow-wind-frozen-bare-iced-concrete shithole of a city. Wind slammed me in the face making my nose and mouth and cheeks all sting like hell. My eyes watered, my nose ran and I think my brain started shutting itself down. Why do we—why would anyone wanna live in a frozen hellhole like this? I headed straight for the Eaton Centre as fast as I could move. I was slow. I found it impossible to move at any other speed. I reached one of the Yonge Street entrances, as tired as I’ve ever felt. I feel like I’ve aged about 10 years since coming back from the afterlife. My back aches. My shoulders are stiff. My body took a beating, I guess. 153

gar y de nne

I swung open one of the shopping centre doors and a wall of heat hit me. Heaven. Bliss. It was worth a million bucks. No wonder the masses shop ‘til they drop in that place. The Eaton Centre might well be my kinda nightmare of designer labels and overpriced homewares, but at least they have year-round perfect temperature to sell their junk in. Suddenly thrust amongst a sea of shoppers all in their own little worlds, oblivious to anyone around them, all I felt was alone. I reached SEARS, towards the Dundas subway. I found it odd to watch the girls behind the cosmetics counters. I overhead them. They were pitching ‘fantastic new products’. Products that ‘empower’. Products that give ‘strength’. I wonder if they really believe those lines, or just memorize ‘em from press releases and sales kits? Every single one had enough makeup on their face for ten normal women. I’m sure if you held a blowtorch to their faces they’d start to melt down like wax figures. I felt I’d done a Buck Rogers and slept through a 100 years worth of progress. Woke up in a new fashion age. Women as clowns. They should call the subway the Happy Rocket. The ‘metal box, Teronno Happy Rocket’ (The Rocket is the city’s nickname for the subway—just marketing, it doesn’t quite travel at rocket speed). I just got a zap off the subway handrail. I don’t know why. I’ve never got any kind of shocks off stuff before. But I know one thing, I musta looked like a freakazoid just now when I growled an angry “Jeesuz christ!” for no apparent reason. That made the other passengers wake up for a second. Am I the only one without an iPod in this subway car? I’m crammed up against others’ coats, their legs, their handbags, their backpacks, their arms. We’re all crammed in here, so everyone’s a big happy family. Strangers touching other strangers. Can you imagine a fat guy sitting on one of those little seats? One of these seats isn’t even big enough for a fat guy’s leg. Look at all the fucking garbage in the car. Brainwashed people, sitting here like mindless organic robots. My writing hand’s shaking from the tremor of the tracks, trying to write on loose paper. I know passengers are wondering what kind of

154

the matt zander journals

drugs I’m on. People keep giving me stares. Weird stares. Who-the-hell-are-you stares. Do they know me? The subway is depressing. Expressionless faces. That little door chime that rings before the doors close after each stop. DING. DANG. DONG. Every stop. It’s soul crushing. Thing is, I’m talking about it, but to look at me now, I’m one of those depressed, drowsy, expressionless faces right now, too. I am. It’s a highly contagious disease. Subway-riding-drugged-up-warm-body disease. How am I going to take care of these damn bandages and stitches if I go to L.A.? Should I keep letting little things in my life rule the kind of life I have? L.A. doctors are probably used to gunshot wounds, anyways. Anyone actually choosing to be outside in this minus-god-knows-what weather must be a freakin’ psycho. I wish I had a home to go to right now. A fireplace. Home theatre system. Hockey game on. Girlfriend to keep me warm. Beer. A plate of homemade cheeseburgers… I wonder if everyone else in the subway car is thinking the same thing as me? Maybe everyone’s just a zombie until they put that key in their front door and step inside their castle? Just that I don’t have a castle. My hands are freezing. My nose is running like a tap right now, down to my mouth. Disgusting but true. This is what the weather’s like here. Winter never lets up. I dunno what the hell I’m gonna do if Eric or James are home. But I’m about to find out. The subway speaker just crackled from above and a muffled voice announced, “High Park. Next stop, High Park.” DING. DANG. DONG. It was just after 12:45 PM: High Park Ave is this long, tree-lined avenue in what’s a leafy, green suburb in summer. In winter, it’s an icy hellhole. No colour, just shades of grey. Everything is grey.

155

gar y de nne

Number 136A (Eric & James’ place) is a thin, Victorian triple-story home on a small block. A big pine tree stands at the front of the house, preventing anyone walking past on the sidewalk from peering through the windows. So there I was. Standing out front, freezing my ass off. I was trying to peer through the second floor window (Eric’s bedroom), not in the hope of seeing anything voyeur-worthy, but to try and find out if either Eric or James were in. I gave one last look up and down the street. All was clear. I began to walk to the right side of the house, moving slowly towards the backyard and the wrought iron steps that led up to Eric & James’ patio deck and the sliding door entrance of their second floor apartment. My feet sank down into the fresh snow with each step. My footsteps were quiet. Running through my mind was the thought that it could well’ve been night and this could well’ve been another house to rob. I stopped at the base of the steps and looked up toward the sliding door. I couldn’t see any activity through the window, but from the ground it was hard to spot. I needed to get closer to know for sure if anyone was home. Eric and James never used the front door of the house. Parking was out back, so the black, iron steps leading up to the sliding door were the quickest way in and out of the place. They liked it that way, too. It was their security system. See, these steps were the kind that made a distinct clanking sound as you climbed up them. Like a squad of soldiers running up stairs in a military installation towards the enemy. As I stood there, my heart was pounding. I cautiously began to step up towards the patio deck. I held onto the railing, ensuring I didn’t clank my feet too loudly. The snow on the steps helped dull the noise, thankfully. As I reached the chocolate-brown patio decking, I gazed inside their apartment for any signs of movement. I stepped closer to the windows and sliding glass door. I couldn’t see anyone. The ultimate test—I put my face to the glass, hands at both sides, shielding the light so I could see in. No one was home. Bingo. I only hoped that this time around I wasn’t going to get shot. I slowly slid the glass door to the apartment open. The place was silent. No Law & Order, no music, no Eric blabbing on his cell. Nothing. I slid the door closed behind me. Like I said, Eric & James never locked their apartment. Ever. In a small town, I can imagine country folk leaving their homes unlocked. Sure, I can imagine that. But in Toronto, nothing is left unlocked. If it is, 156

the matt zander journals

it’s gone. You’d have to be nuts to leave your place unlocked in this city. Maybe years ago, yes, but now … no way. And I’m a guy who knows. But Eric and James just couldn’t be bothered with keys. Looking around the kitchen, I saw what I usually would anytime I got home from working my shift at Runnerman’s—half eaten bowls of cereal, frozen mixed-veg clogging up the sink, and an assortment of used plates, cups, bowls, pots, pans, knives and any other kitchen utensil you can think of flung across the benches and kitchen countertop. The smell of last night’s perogies was still in the air. James and his ‘President’s Choice’ Perogies went together like cops and donuts, or tequila and lime. They’re these little pasta pouches filled with potatoes and cheese and shit. James got them from the store by the carton, less 5% staff discount. Standing there for a moment, god … it felt like I’d returned after a lifetime away. How do you put a feeling on something like that? I took two steps from the kitchen into the lounge (it was a small apartment). I saw my stuff in the corner. Nothing had changed. My futon was still there, my IKEA black coffee table with snow stains, a stack of CDs, clock-radio and lamp were all as I’d left them the night we went out to do Belcher’s place. Most important, I spotted my wallet and immediately scooped it up from the coffee table, stuffing it in my pocket. My clothes were piled in a heap on one side of the futon with crinkles an iron would find tough to remove. At least Eric can get rid of that damn Futon and claim their lounge room back once they work out I’ve done a runner. I headed into Eric’s bedroom and went to his closet. That’s where I’d dumped the rest of my stuff I didn’t have lying on my futon in the lounge. I grabbed the blue sports bag Eric had given me. He had three others. One of his friends from the sports club he joined worked at this animation company called Alias, down on King Street. Some kind of computer geek, he was. I met him once. He had an apartment on St. Patrick St, in the city. This guy had company branded t-shirts, bags, toys, posters, drink coasters and other shit up the ying-yang, and gave it out to anyone he knew. Eric had a tonne of the stuff. He’d often wear these official-looking Alias staff t-shirts that said he was on the team that developed some kind of animation software thing, when he could barely turn his PC on. So anyways, I unzipped the Alias bag and began to stuff the few clothes I had hanging up in Eric’s closet into it. I didn’t bother folding—I just crammed them in. 157

gar y de nne

I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. I glanced round the room in between grabs. Nothing had changed. It was still a mess. Clothes on the floor. Magazines dog-eared on desks, cereal bowls left on the bedside dresser. Coffee cups half full on the window ledge. That kind of thing. I left Eric’s room and went back out to the lounge. I suddenly froze. For a second I thought I heard a noise. I listened closely for the clanking. I thought someone could be coming up the stairs… Heartbeat: (thump-thump). (thump-thump). Nothing. I waited a few seconds. It was nobody. I went back to work. Must’ve been the guy upstairs. I didn’t know what I woulda done if Eric or James had’ve come back and found me there. I threw a bunch of CDs and some other junk into the bag, on top of my clothes. Next, I walked to the bathroom and packed my toiletries. Toothbrush, paste, shaver, shaving foam. That was it. No Nivea Hydrating Lotion with African plant extracts for this guy. I was done. I zipped up the bag and carried it out into the hall. Stopping for a minute to catch my breath, I looked around the place. It’d only been a few days since I’d last been there, but it sure didn’t feel that way. I wish it hadn’t happened like this—me doing a runner on guys I thought were friends. But the reality was they either didn’t give a damn about me or just didn’t have the life in them to care, living the kind of boredom that can make you go postal. Maybe they thought once I got out of hospital I was just gonna show up as if nothing’d happened and go back to Runnerman’s like everything was fine. But everything isn’t fine. Things aren’t normal anymore. Realizing I was daydreaming, I snapped back to reality as my eyes happened upon Eric & James’ coffee table and The Usual Suspects DVD that Eric and Douglas had fought over at Belcher’s. Next to it, on top of a stack of Eye Weekly and NOW street mags was a notepad (another freebie from Alias). I reached for it and flipped through its pages. Apart from the first page, which had some of Eric’s business ideas scribbled down, it was an empty notebook. Just perfect for writing, I thought. I ripped Eric’s page out and left it on the table. Not that I thought his ideas were going to make him a millionaire… 158

the matt zander journals

*** Eric’s business ideas (from memory): 1. Bar that only serves Vodka. Nothing else. Call Dave Sutton 910467 5651 re: financing. 2. Teach celebrities how to play hockey. Hollywood celebs that come to town for movie shoots wanna know how to play hockey. Rough hockey, too. Teach them to slam people. If they smash their front teeth out use James’ Chinese dentist at the Beaches (kickbacks?). Tell Douglas to start trying to get celeb contacts (setup meeting). 3. Frustrating Porn—shoot porno that doesn’t have porn in it. Have the story, the cheesy lines, the lead up to porn and everything else (porn muzak), but as soon as a couple (pool cleaner and lonely housewife) start to get hot and heavy, CUT: next scene. Comedy idea … maybe an SNL skit? Pitch to Lorne Michaels. Google his email. 4. Tit club. 5. Create Canadian Tonight Show, like Leno. Guests, skits, music … could be huge. Do it downtown. Maybe College Street. Bar Italia? Check this. *** I quickly stuffed the notebook in my bag along with a couple of pens sitting upright in an old coffee mug. Standing there for a minute, in the middle of Eric and James’ apartment, bag packed, I wondered if this was all really happening. How your life can change in an instant. I walked over to the fridge and opened it up. I scanned around and grabbed the juice I’d bought the week before. I poured myself a drink into the least dirty glass I could find. Most of the food I’d bought had been half eaten. But that wasn’t

159

gar y de nne

anything unusual. I poured another glass and drank up. It tasted like shit, but I was thirsty. Swallowing the last gulp, I wasted no time picking the bag off the floor and heading for the door. I stepped out onto the patio, slid the glass door closed and then softly clanked back down the steps and into the yard. I shot down the side alley of the house and then disappeared like a virgin on prom night. I was on my way. I turned and looked back for a second. (I always do that.) Then said so long to 136A High Park Avenue. After I’d left High Park Avenue, I walked all the way down Bloor St to the Village. The wind chill killed me. Killed. I wasn’t gonna get the subway for one stop, though. I didn’t have the cash. I thought I saw Eric, too. False alarm. I looked at some apartment rental signs on the way, out of curiosity. The thought of getting an apartment here right now, though—it’s not something I can even begin to think about. I want out of this place now, so bad. I’m leaving today. Well, we’re leaving today, if Michael is up for it. There are still good people in the world… On the way to the Village, a Chinese shopkeeper sold me a ripe banana and only charged me a quarter ‘cos she said no one ever wants the ripe, black/brown ones. If there’s one thing working at Runnerman’s taught me, it’s that food is food. I mean … a brown banana is perfectly fine, edible, healthy, whatever. But nowadays, people fly into a fucking rage if whatever they’re eating doesn’t look perfect or is just one day over ‘Best Before’. The majority of shoppers won’t even think about buying produce that doesn’t sparkle, shine or glow and/or is the brightest of colour on the shelf. Hey, I know what I’m talkin’ about. Retailers waste so much shit because of people. The kind that stand at a service desk and demand a free bag of apples ‘cos their last bag had a sour tasting one inside. What happened to people? What happened to society? Like, the grocery store I was just in … this mom was letting her kids put holes in meat packets and squash bakery products. She didn’t even try to stop them. She turned to them, saw what they were doing and turned away to continue browsing the aisles in a Vicodin-daze.

160

the matt zander journals

That kinda thing just bugs me. I’d so love to slam the shit out of someone like that. Smash their head in a few times. Grab ‘em by the throat and scream in their face. If she knew on the other side of the same world she lived on there were kids just like her own trying to kill each other to get their hands on an apple that had dirt and shit and flies all over it, maybe that’d make her think different. But I still think people need to be woken up with a good slam. I just don’t get people anymore.

2:23 PM: So I’m at Timothy’s World Café in the Bloor Village. It’s yet another coffee chain spreading like wildfire across the GTA ala Starbucks and Second Cup (least Second Cup is Canadian, not sure about Timothy’s?). These guys are okay though—besides … coffee’s coffee. And I just wanted to put my damn feet up. My legs are dyin’ after walking up High Park Ave and back down here to the Village. Bloor Village is a quaint few blocks of shops on the Bloor Street strip, convenient for the local neighbourhoods. Last time I was down here, I had breakfast with Eric & James and we caught a movie. That feels like so long ago. I’m holding in my hand two return tickets to L.A. (well, it’s just a piece of paper, really—they’re e-tickets). I booked them with the travel agency across the street, Bloor World Travel (screw booking on the internet). So, I walk into their office—straight away noticed coffee stains on dull grey carpet, plastic plants in corners and 1980s prints of holiday destinations on the walls. They didn’t spend any profit on décor, that’s for sure. Nearly everything in that place was at least ten years old. Even the phones and faded beige computer terminals looked like they’d been salvaged from an outdated technology junk pile. The receptionist, she looked me up and down as I came through the front door. She stopped stuffing envelopes and walked to the counter as the doorbell rang out to let everyone know they had a real live person to deal with, I guess. She was cute. Bouncy black hair, flawless skin, soft glossed lips and a push-up bra doin’ its job pretty damn good underneath a black, sheer blouse. And really … I 161

gar y de nne

dunno why I’m writing all this in here other than to remember her in my mind for a second. Yeah … I’m that lame. So … cut to the chase, I’m (well, we’re) flying the hell outta here tonight and arriving into L.A. at 8:31 p.m. Nope, not 8:30 p.m., my itinerary says 8:31 p.m. Can’t forget that one. I booked the return for exactly one month. Dunno when I’ll return, but the travel consultant needed a date to punch into the computer. She told me if we’re in L.A. and want to change our flight back, call her and she’ll book it from here. (See, internet won’t do that for ya, will it.) I told her just as long as the snow was gone when I got back here, that’s all I cared about right now. The travel consultant, Rona, initiating some friendly chitchat while waiting for her computer to do its thing, asked me if my trip was for business or pleasure. I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I could’ve said I needed to find myself again, but who’s really gonna say that out loud, huh? Nuh-uh. So the next best thing that popped into my head was that I’d always wanted to see the Pacific Ocean… Michael’s words, not mine. I still don’t know why I’m even buying the guy a damn ticket. Everything seems a little crazy right now. I never thought my life would be like this. Where’s the life I should’ve had? Where’d it go? I just want this trip to lead me to whatever I’m meant to do and that I have something solid to hold onto at the end of it. I dunno if that makes sense? But if spending this money, buying these tickets, gets me to that moment, then they’re worth every cent. Even if they are on credit and I have no way right now of making payments. (I’m not gonna write ‘so sue me’ here ‘cos MasterCard probably will.) The bathroom in this coffee joint stinks like shit. Stinks. Shit. I didn’t even wanna touch the door handle. Stinks. Shit. I used the bottom of my t-shirt to open the door. There was water all over the floor in there. At least, I hope it was water. Sitting here in Timothy’s with my Tall Latte (how yuppie-scum of me), I’m looking out the window watching cars shuffle past as they discreetly splash a light snow/mud mix from their tires onto people’s trouser legs on the sidewalk. There’s flurries in the air. I have a bad feeling about this. We’ve got about three hours ‘til our flight. Planes don’t like snow. 162

the matt zander journals

Planes don’t like snow at all. I need to find a TV and check Pulse24 weather. Shit. Soon as I finish this muffin, I’ve gotta head back downtown to meet Michael. Question: How much bigger are muffins gonna get? I’m trying to eat this damn Timothy’s muffin, but it’s as big as a fuckin’ bowling ball. And I can’t help but listen to other people’s conversations… There’s people-watching and then there’s its sidekick—unintentional eavesdropping. You can learn so much about people. I mean, seriously, who’d wanna go to the movies when you can buy a coffee, sit down in a lounge, and listen to other people’s conversations—hopes, dreams, problems, love-life, fears and office gossip? People are giving me glances every now and then. They probably think I’m a writer. I’m listening to several conversations all at once, blending into each other like one continuous episode of a soap opera about nothing: a) (Two guys talking at the counter, waiting for their coffee.) “I’m not going to take that from her. And if she thinks she’s getting the keys to the business, she’s crazy.” b) “Maybe you should take the job? What do you have to lose?” (Two MILFs chatting.) c) “Da-da da-daaaaaa” (Mother playing musical games with her baby. No, the baby isn’t drinking coffee. Yet.) d) “I’m just so over being that naive, neurotic type, okay?” (Arty, tanned, fashion chick whining to her girlfriend—possibly (HOT) lesbians?) e) “Hi. Yeah. Good. Ahhhhhhh, Bloor Village. Timothy’s. Having coffee with Dan.” (Cell phone dude talking loudly while Dan sits there like a schmuck.) f) “Tung Ching Yan Qui Xiu Chi Pung.” (Asian guy on his cell.) Random Observation #11,562: - All in the name of fashion… Outside, it’s about -4. Wind chill probably takes it up to -15. It’s warmed up a bit (yep, -4 is warm), but it’s still fucking freezing. Streets are lined with snow. 163

gar y de nne

Flurries are flying east down Bloor Street. And here is a girl outside Timothy’s, with a bare midriff showing underneath her unzipped coat. People are morons. It’s funny … sitting here listening in on others around me, watching the comings and goings of people, it really feels like I’m starting to lose the whole near-death experience thing. The more I interact with the world (like chitchat with the travel agent, for example), the more I think I’m pushing out any remaining memories of what happened on the other side. The NDE is slipping through my hands like sand and I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to stop it. Pretty soon, I’m afraid I’m gonna be just another schmuck again, not remotely interested in who I am or the meaning of life.

4:00 PM: I waited for Michael for over twenty damn minutes. I stood there at the Cardinal Carter entrance on Victoria Street in the freezing wind, scanning every single warm body that came outta the place. My lips quivered. My nose was running and my whole body was starting to shake. I told him three times, ‘Cardinal Carter entrance’. I thought for a second he might’ve been waiting at Queen. But I realized he just wasn’t coming. I decided to get myself outta the cold and check out the hospital lobby and the Second Cup coffeehouse that doctors got their caffeine fixes from. But it was a waste of time. I couldn’t see any sign of the guy I shared my room with. What a jerk, I thought. The guy’d been yanking my chain. Maybe he found out getting discharged wasn’t as easy as he said it was. Maybe he belonged in the white-padded-cell wing of the hospital but they had no spare rooms. Whatever. Either way, I wasn’t gonna go chasing Michael. I was probably better off on my own, anyways. I only talked to the guy once. It’s not like I knew him. And I certainly didn’t owe him anything. In the summer months, I may have waited a bit longer and even gone to check out the other entrance of the hospital at Queen St. But in the middle of February, with no coat, he’s lucky I waited that long. And I’m probably lucky I’m not back in

164

the matt zander journals

the hospital with hypothermia. I had to get outta there. Before I fucking froze to death like a statue. Least I just saved one of the tickets, I thought to myself, as I headed down the hospital steps. I turned and looked back after a few steps, just in case. It’s something I always do. A habit. I don’t know why. I always look back when I’m leaving someplace, just for one last look. There was no one behind me. I turned the corner onto Queen. As I headed for the subway to catch a train out to Pearson and my flight, there was a certain kinda buzz or vibe or current … whatever. Just one of those things you sometimes feel but can’t explain. I felt my name being called. I didn’t hear it at first, I felt it. Then, at a distance, and somewhat muffled by the killer Yonge Street wind, I heard it… “Matt!” I wanted to make the subway and be able to feel my face again. I could feel my body telling me it was on the brink of shutting down from the cold. I had to get inside. “Yo, Matt…” I heard it again. There were sirens in the distance. I thought for a moment if I turned to look back, I might see cops chasing me down. Maybe Eric had rolled on me. Or James had seen a Law & Order and decided I was a criminal mastermind and had to be stopped. “Matt…” I discreetly glanced behind me. I saw people darting in and out of office buildings holding coffee and wearing eight layers of clothing. But in between bodies, a city block behind me … it was Michael. He was catching up. “Matt, wait up,” I heard him yell. He looked tired. He looked weak. But there he was. I wasn’t that glad to see him. I was beginning to think a solo trip was going to be a perfect way to be with my thoughts, away from the outside world. But I stopped walking and waited for him. I was stuck now. I was gonna have to ride this thing all the way, I thought. “Hey,” he said as he reached me, his hands in his beat-up jean pockets.

165

gar y de nne

He looked freezing. All he had on was a white t-shirt underneath a green/blue chequered flannel shirt. His hair was all floppy over his forehead and ears, and I thought I saw his teeth chatter a little from the freezing wind. “Hey,” I said, “thought you weren’t gonna show.” “Paperwork held me up. Did you get the tickets?” “Yeah. We gotta get moving to the airport. We’ve gotta flight to catch.” “What time do we get to L.A.?” “Eight-thirty.” “Hey man, thanks for this. I really owe you one,” he said. “Don’t thank me yet. Might not be goin’ anywhere if the snow starts up again,” I replied, looking up at the sky. It was grey, dark, and light flurries were blowing through the streets. “C’mon … let’s get outta here.” After we reached Kipling Station, westbound, we waited for the 192 Airport Rocket* to get us the rest of the way to Pearson (*it’s a bus. Not an actual rocket). Which, more or less, brings me to now, trying to write as we ride the rocket through to Pearson and outta this damn city. “What’re you writing … a diary?” Michael suddenly asked me, as the bus rumbled along its route, sounding like it had rubber bands for an engine and concrete pillars for shock absorbers. “Nah, not a diary,” I replied, “More like a journal. Just stuff that’s happened.” “Since you were shot?” “Yeah.” “Gimme a look,” Michael asked, reaching out to receive the notepad from me. “It wouldn’t make sense,” I told him, “it’s just some stuff that’s happened, that’s all.” Michael took his hand away and turned away from me, looking across to the other side of the bus. I was beginning to think this trip was the second biggest mistake I’d made since getting shot—coming back, being the first. It’s been so long since the last time I left the downtown core.

166

the matt zander journals

The T.O. freeways are a real shithole. Look at it… Rubbish everywhere. The median strips are pure filth. People toss any kind of garbage out their window, thinking someone else’ll get it. Slobs, drivin’ down the highway. And, man, there’s a helluva lot of powerlines in T.O… That can’t be good for those houses and rat boxes out there, can it? Don’t kids that live under powerline towers get cancer? Funny how everything’s out to kill you these days. Can’t put your feet up for one fuckin minute in this world. Am I the only one who notices stuff like this? Has everyone else just tuned out since I came back? Tuned into not-my-problem mode? People are the worst. Guess I shouldn’t say that. Maybe it’s the public transport talking. We’re driving past all the boxed apartment complexes built next to the 427. Living in those would be hell. Seriously. Look at ‘em … they’re tiny little concrete boxes. People must be home already. I can see lights in some of ‘em. The rest are blacked out—box-dwellers must still be at the office or stuck in traffic. Either way, they live in these things like rats. Nothing but rats. Go to work, stress out, make someone else rich, then straight back to their rat cage. A little fucking box in a building with 1000s of other strangers. I’d rather live in a cardboard box downtown, like a bum. Least you got location. People really do give you stares when you’re writing on a bus. Sure, I’m writing a friggin’ scribbling mess here, but the bus is jumping round all over the road. It’s shaking like we’re about to re-enter the atmosphere or somethin’. (Maybe that’s why they call it the Rocket?) And Michael, he thinks I’m some kind of touchy-feely diary freak now. Sue me.

167

Airport: We’re here… Pearson International Airport. (Permanently under construction since 1786). Airports are uninspiring places. I mean, they’re really just huge slabs of concrete poured down so that planes have a place to land and take off. Nothing real exciting to it. Pearson has gotten so big. It’s a damn highway in the sky when I look up. People always flyin’ someplace. I wonder why there aren’t more crashes when you see planes flying so close to each other like that? We’re rounding the gazillion ramps at the airport entrance. I think it must’ve been a competition to see who could make the entrance to Pearson as confusing as fuck. Someone won. 4:25 PM: As the 192 Airport Rocket bus pulled up outside T3, Michael and I stepped off onto the curb. The good news is it wasn’t snowing. The bad news was it was fucking freezing. Cars, taxis and door-to-door shuttles were circling round and round in a never-ending loop outside the terminal, as people tried to pull their wheelie suitcases through ice and shit on the wet ground, when clearly, it just wasn’t gonna happen. You’re gonna have to pick the damn thing up, sweetie. Terminal 3 at Pearson Airport is shaped like a donut. Once you enter the terminal, it’s like you’re inside the donut, walking round in circles, trying to find your check-in counter. 168

the matt zander journals

Michael and I headed straight for Departures, cutting our way through people with luggage carts, who had no clue where the hell they wanted to go and were just wandering aimlessly around like zombies on annual vacation. Standing in line to check-in, I realized pretty quickly you don’t have to be a frequent flyer to know when waiting in an airport, the following time-ratio equation can be applied: 1 minute of real time = 1 hour of perceived time Around us, at the check-in counter for Canadian Airlines, I also realized that a lot of other people had the same plan as us: to get the fuck out of this hellhole, freezing wasteland of a city while they still had the chance. The place was packed and people were everywhere. In fact, as soon as we walked through the automatic doors at the entrance and stepped inside, I was taken back to my NDE and the Gateway. The only difference here was that I could see a huge, electronic departure board, constantly cycling through all the outgoing flights, a few Canadian flags hanging vertically from the wire-framed terminal roof, and thousands of suitcases on luggage trolleys being pushed around by passengers with what seemed like their entire life’s worth of belongings. So as Michael and I stood there in the line, Michael acting all zombie-like too, and not saying a word, I switched my focus to watching other passengers while we followed a roped-off maze, towards the check-in counters. One thing I never knew was just how much people-watching material an airport had. It’s priceless. It rivals 7-Eleven. Observation is such a cool thing. If only I could be paid for it. Sidebar: Airport People The kind of luggage people own … what does it say about ‘em? What they eat while they’re waiting for their flight. How they eat whatever they’re eating, i.e. spoon or fork? Circular motions? Pecking, gnawing, breaking off pieces with fingers? Are they organized? Is every single detail planned to perfection? Or are they fumbling about for their tickets and have their mind on a billion other things? What they read. Newspaper? Trashy celebrity tabloid? Pulp-fiction novel? 169

gar y de nne

What kinda MP3 player they own. iPod? (read: they’re sheep). Something other than iPod? (read: a gift, or they’re a brave anti-iPod fucker). I think you can get a pretty accurate take on someone just by watching them for a while. That’s one thing I really miss about my old life… Parking out the front of 7-Eleven with the guys. So allow myself to have myself demonstrate the art of people-watching (by myself): There was a pretty blonde girl, standing about five people back in the queue as we waited to check-in: • • •

•

She was fashion conscious—hot pink luggage coordinated with her handbag and her cell phone cover. Wanted to be noticed (hot pink equals ‘Look at me! Look at me!’) Attention seeker? (see above, but she was definitely wanting to be noticed ‘cos she kept glancing round the terminal, pretending to look for someone, flinging her hair back and forth like a music video and pouting her lips). Idolized Paris Hilton? (she was chewing gum, wearing dangle earrings, and had long blonde ‘Paris’ hair to match).

Next… A guy eating a Twix bar right in front of us: • • • • •

He’d just finished the Twix and pulled a pack of Trail Mix from his backpack. Student. Had a ‘U of T Engineering’ leather jacket on (he looked geeky). Substituted the chocolate bar for a missed meal before flight? Tried to stay healthy, but the Twix caramel and the cocoa bean was way too powerful. Thought eating Trail Mix would counteract the Twix. 170

the matt zander journals

• •

Ate the Trail Mix piece by piece rather than shoving handfuls in his mouth. The Trail Mix was a guilt-based item, something he forced his body to swallow.

Next… An elderly married couple. Spending some of their retirement savings on a vacation they didn’t want to go on. Bickering at each other. Husband looked like he’d rather be at home watching hockey in a La-Z-Boy. Always a laugh to hear a married couple arguing before they board a plane. A couple like that … perfect advertisement for staying single. 6:30 PM: We’re finally at the gate, waiting, along with everyone else. Cleared immigration okay. Only had to take my shoes off through security. No checked luggage, though, so they did a good job of pulling apart everything in my Alias bag. Michael had nothing. No luggage, nada. He walked straight through the metal detector without a glance from the security guys. I’m just glad he got through immigration, otherwise he woulda been goin’ nowhere fast and I would’ve had a wasted air ticket on my hands. As I stood at the end of the immigration counters waiting for Michael to finish talking with the robotic U.S. Immigration dude, I watched the hot pink Paris look-alike girl at the next counter. She was unloading her entire handbag on the guy’s counter in a huge blonde moment, looking for her passport as though she was surprised the immigration guy wanted to see it. Anyways, I think we’re gonna get off the ground. Out the windows, the snow has held off. Someone up there really does like me. Michael’s just gone to the bathroom. And I am so glad I have this notepad otherwise I’d go insane just sitting here looking into space. Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s so much to watch, I’m just sitting back and letting it all happen in front of me like a Broadway musical. There’s a guy on his cell phone sitting across from me, waiting for our flight. He’s talking business. He has buzz-cut hair—probably works 80 hours a week and doesn’t have time for hair. He has crows feet wrinkles round his eyes. In his 40s, 171

gar y de nne

wearing a suit. A fancy watch is on his right wrist. His cell phone looks like it’s pretty hot shit. One of those Blueberry things. He’s sitting upright, expensive, brown leather shoes firmly planted on the floor and he’s talking to someone on his cell as though me and everyone within a 5 metre radius is on a conference call with him. The guy is hyper. He’s talkin’ at 100 miles. Rapid-fire repeatables like, ‘no-no-no-no-no-no,’ or ‘and-and-and-and-and.’ I pity the dude on the other end of that call. I bet this guy has kids but doesn’t have a clue what their favourite things are. I bet they don’t know his either, if he has any hobbies other than work. This guy across from me is your typical corporate road warrior. Cell. Pager. Laptop. PDA. Briefcase with frequent flyer tags. His wife (wedding band on finger) probably spends like there’s no tomorrow at the malls and he has to do this kinda shit just to keep up with her. Thing is … guy like this … I bet he’ll reach retirement, look in the mirror, and wonder where the hell his life went. “Bottom line here, Phil, is this … we just have to run with it. I know it’s not the kinda presentation we’d planned for but-but-but-but-but-but-but … here’s the thing…” “Ok-Ok-Ok-Ok-Ok.” “Best-case scenario … they turn us down on the offer, okay?” “My guesstimate on that … and it’s only a guesstimate … this is pure ballpark we’re talking about…” “…you’re-you’re-you’re absolutely right, it’s game on and I’m going to meet with them at my strategic best. Losing is not an option here, ok? I understand that, Phil, I totally get that.” “… that was my bad … and-and-and-and-and … I want to apologize for that.” For the love of God, don’t let that guy anywhere near our seats. 172

the matt zander journals

Hmmmmmmmmph. It’s funny when I think about God. I don’t even realize I do it. I mean … using God in a sentence like that. Especially when I ain’t got a religious bone in my friggin’ body. But even more so when there was no sign of the guy in the next life. That was one of the things I never really thought about at the time—nothing screamed out to me in the afterlife that there even is a God. Nothing. Shouldn’t I have seen something? A sign, a brochure, some kinda reference? How would all the religious people of the world explain that, huh? I bet they’d come up with some lame explanation involving ‘faith’. I hate that word … faith. Bugs the shit outta me. All that false hope bullshit. I’m sure if I went on TV and started talking up that angle of my experience, people would wanna hack my arms and legs off and burn me to hell. I know they would. That’s why it’s best not telling anyone what I experienced. No doctors, no talk-show hosts, Michael—no one. All I’m saying here is how it was. I went to the next life and didn’t bump into any old dude with sandals, running the show. I didn’t pass God in one of the library hallways or bump into him at the Gateway. I didn’t say to myself, ‘Hey, look, there goes God. Cool.’ I mean, hey, if I was God … I’d have a welcome drink for new arrivals. A red carpet, some Victoria’s Secret girls … y’know? Class it up a bit. Maybe some kind of brochure that explained what was goin’ on, something like, ‘So now you’re dead…’ But I can honestly say, without a doubt, there was no God dude in the afterlife. There just wasn’t. I’m not sayin’ I’m not open to there being a higher power. I’m just saying here that maybe in the next life they don’t know if God exists, either? Maybe they’re the same as us … just hoping there’s some kinda meaning out there somewhere? For me, a light or a universal force, or some kind of collective energy in all of us makes more sense than an old guy in a friggin’ robe, anyway. I mean, I actually saw that kinda stuff. Jeez, this is all a bit heavy to be writing about now, ain’t it? Ok. Only thing I ask right now is please—higher power, if you’re out there—don’t let that fucking moron on the cell phone across from me sit next to us on our flight. Deal? 173

gar y de nne

Everyone stares. Why? Do they think I’m writing an expose on their dirty little secrets? Do I look like a terrorist? Do I have my dick hanging out my pants saying ‘Hi, what’s your name?’ What’s the fuckin’ deal with people staring at me so much? And why are they all smiling with a big grin on their faces. That isn’t normal. Huge grins aren’t normal unless you’re wasted. I’m so sick of people. Everyone. This business guy across from me. The young couple obsessed with their baby. Married senior citizens arguing. Everyone. I’m just sick of people. What’s wrong with people? No one talks anymore. No one wants to know you. People are just so goddamn cold. Are we happy living like this? We must be. No one seems to change. You can’t rely on anyone nowadays. Not Eric, not James, not Douglas or Michael. Nobody. You just don’t know what’s really going on inside someone’s head. Gate B13 Count Observation: We’re waiting to board. The gate is crowded. It’ll be a full plane. There’s more than just Michael and me sane enough to wanna get outta this snow hell to decent weather. I’m getting the entire plot of a TV soap explained to me via these two gorgeous women, sitting in the next row of seats (one hasn’t seen the show). They look like actresses moving to L.A. to get into the porn industry. Right now, I’m doing a quick scan around of other passengers gathering at the gate: 8 … cell phone conversations (4 business, 2 personal + 2 meaningless). 13 … number of iPod people. 30+ … coffee drinkers. 1 … overheard airport music + 1 looping security baggage alert.

174

the matt zander journals

2 … gorgeous women waiting at gate, next row of seats (actresses?) 1 … view of dark Toronto airport outside window. 17 … people wearing caps (lotta bad hair days?) 4 … pairs of sunglasses (yep, dark outside). 28 … number of times I’ve overheard the term, ‘I-was-like,’ from other people’s conversations. Michael’s slowly walking back from the bathroom. That guy … he is the definition of slo-motion. If you looked up slo-motion in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Michael. He just shuffles along, takes his time. Doesn’t hurry for no one. “Here ya go,” Michael announced as he sat down next to me. “I had to get Snickers. Ran outta Twix.” He handed me a Snickers chocolate bar. I was hungry. “Thanks,” I said. “You didn’t get anything?” “I’m good.” “I don’t think we’ve got much longer to wait,” I said. “Good.” “You know somethin’?” I said, “I was sittin’ here thinkin’ while you were gone and I realized we never really met back there at St. Michael’s.” Michael looked at me with a blank stare. “Like, shake hands is what I meant. We never shook hands.” “You wanna shake hands?” he asked me. “I dunno. I just thought since we’re gonna be travellin’ together and all…” He paused for a moment and then extended his hand out to mine. We shook. “You sure you’re okay?” Michael asked. “Fine, why’s that?” “Sweaty palms. And your face … you’re perspiring,” he told me, looking closely. “It’s this heat,” I said. “Just because it’s freezing outside, they think it has to be like the damn beach in here.” “You’re not a good flyer, are you?” “Something like that,” I confessed. “I’ll be fine. I just gotta get my mind off it. And get a sugar rush into me,” I said, ripping open my Snickers. Chocolate, caramel, peanuts—it’s win-win. 175

gar y de nne

I held the wrapper in front of me as I took a bite. I like labels. I have this hobby of reading product labels. Formed when I started at Runnerman’s. You wouldn’t know it to look at me. It’s always the quiet ones, I know. Snickers Allergen Information: Manufactured in a facility that processes peanuts/nuts. I like how they say ‘facility’. Like it’s some kind of Level 3 military stealth compound where they make these things. But c’mon … what do they think’s in a friggin’ Snickers? Ummm, like, hey guys … I think there’s already maybe one or two peanuts in this damn thing? “People do this all the time,” I said, turning to Michael. “Every hour there’s flights taking off all around the world, none of ‘em crash. ‘Cos’a CNN we get to hear about crashes no matter where they are in the world, right? So, all these flights that take off everyday, they aren’t crashing. Flying’s safe. We’d hear about it if any of these flights crashed.” “Uh huh,” said Michael, not takin’ much notice of me. “I remember somewhere … on cable or somethin’ … about there being more deaths caused by donkeys than plane crashes,” I stated. The caramel in the Snickers was making my mouth slow down so my speech sounded like I’d been drugged. “Do you believe that shit? Donkeys,” I said, laughing. Michael said, “Yeah, but … how many donkey deaths are there?” “What the hell do I care?” “Nothing. I’m just sayin,” Michael replied. We both looked away from each other. “Could be alotta deaths. Y’know?” he casually added. “What are you talking about?” “Like,” Michael explained, “if there’s a million people dying from donkeys every year, it means there could be, like, 900,000 people dying from plane crashes and stuff.” “There’s not a million people dying from friggin’ donkeys, okay?” I shot back. 176

the matt zander journals

“Whatever.” “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be boarding Flight 1553 to Los Angeles in just a few moments. Please check that you have your boarding passes ready. We will be calling by row number and boarding from the back of the plane to the front,” one of the Canadian Airlines girls announced into the microphone at the gate counter. So what does everyone do? Everyone immediately gets up, gets ready, checks their coat pockets, slams down their coffee, shuffles their iPod and checks their boarding pass as though they’re gonna miss their flight. All in pure, mindless synchronicity. I’m listening to the attendant at the gate as she checks people’s boarding passes: “Take care, nice to see you aboard. Have a nice flight.” Nice? Is it really? Nice? Nice? What a bunch of crap. Screw you, you phoney.

177

6:40 PM: - (are planes ever on time?) We’re still on the ground. De-icing. They’re hosing us down. Any minute we’ll be taxiing. I’m scared. I admit that. I can feel it written all over my face. People are giving me looks. They’re watching me write. Michael has the window. I have the middle. I’m sitting next to a woman in a business suit. Pinstriped jacket and matching pants. Blonde. Gold jewellery. She hasn’t looked once at Michael and me. No friendly smile, glance or acknowledgement. Hasn’t even coughed in our direction. She’s just staring ahead of her, right now. At least I know I’m right about people being so cold. Society’s evolved from friendliness to ‘screw everyone but me’. I’m just trying to find someone that’ll prove me wrong. I smashed my head on the mini-TV screen above us as I got into my seat. I didn’t even realize it was there. Just about knocked myself out. Maybe I should’ve had another shot at it and slept unconscious through the flight, like they used to do for Mr. T on The A-Team. Used to love that show as a kid every Friday night. He was terrified of flying. They used to knock him out before they jumped on a plane. He probably ‘pitied the fool’ who loved to fly. I wouldn’t let Michael know, but I’m feeling terrified about this. He’s sitting up against the window probably thinking how cool this is. “You’ve never flown before?” I asked him. “Nope. Never. You?” “Yeah. I have,” I replied with a shaky voice. “I just get a bit anxious, that’s all.” Michael scrunched his eyebrows at me. I’m sure he didn’t have a clue what I really meant by anxious. What I really meant was I’m terrified. I’m freaking out.

178

the matt zander journals

He looked out the window for a second, watching the lights on the wing blink in the February darkness. He turned back to me and said, “doesn’t bother me.” We’re beginning to taxi. Y’know, this whole life after death thing isn’t helping me right now. I thought it might’ve helped control my fear or given me a better perspective on fate. Like, the idea that everything in our lives happens for a specific reason, so if I was to crash and die, then that’d be what fate intended. And really, knowing there’s an afterlife doesn’t help with this anxiety I’ve got. Hell, I don’t even believe in fate, anyway. I read an idea of life and fate somewhere once—the idea that if you’re meant to die on any given day, then there’s nothing that can prevent it from happening because that’s what fate has in store for you. And, vice versa, if you get outta bed and you’re not meant to die that day, then there’s nothing that can happen to you. You’ll be invincible. If I die on this flight, if we crash and burn into a fiery metal ball of flames, I know I’ll go to the next world. I know I’ll live on. I don’t doubt that. But the fear of flying I have makes it hard to think rationally once we’re hurtling down the runway at 500 kph. Meanwhile, everyone around me, other passengers and cabin crew, are all busily talking, laughing, using their laptops, listening to music, whatever. Oblivious to the fact we’re trapped, right now, in a metal tube about to take off from the ground and defy gravity, travelling at god knows what speeds with nothing to save us but jet engines … which were built by man. Man … who isn’t perfect. Man … who makes mistakes. I mean, the engines on this plane were just some guy’s wild idea at one point in time and now they’ve become reality. But how safe are they, really? I mean, think about it … we’re in a metal tube. Everything here was once on an assembly line built by people who may have been having an off day. What if this plane we’re on has a fault someone’s missed ‘cos they were distracted by a hockey game, a phone call, a girlfriend? Things could go wrong—you bet your sweet ass things could go wrong. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Captain Davis (note: he had a Southern drawl and paused a lot), ahhh … I’d like to welcome you all aboard tonight on behalf of Canadian. We’re in a queue here, ahhh … just waiting for our slot, and 179

gar y de nne

then, ahhh … we’ll be on our way shortly. The weather ahead looks good and we should be able to make up any lost time thanks to headwinds this evening, so we should see an early arrival into LAX. Once we reach cruising altitude, folks, ahhh … I’ll come back on the air and give you an update of our flight today to Los Angeles. So just sit back and relax. Once again, ahhh … thank you for flying Canadian. Crew, prepare the doors and cross-check.” Flight 1553, you’ve got the ball. Flight 1553, you have got the ball. 15 minutes have passed: We’re in the air. Ground speed: 505 mph Wind Speed: 24 mph Wind Direction: SW Mach: 0.772 Heading: West Temperature Outside: -40F Altitude: 30,000 feet Zander: Shitting pants Need to get my mind off flying. Can’t believe I’m actually doin’ this. I got a zillion doubts already. I know we’re not even there yet, but a part of me thinks what I’m doing is totally nuts. Like, I’m going to L.A. to find myself? Why can’t I find myself in T.O.? And what if I don’t find anything? Maybe I’ll just be in debt for the rest of my life. Maybe that’ll be my life purpose— pay off my credit card once this trip is done. Michael’s asleep. He has his head resting against the window. I have no doubt the guy could sleep in the middle of the airport runway if he felt like it. I’m too anxious for anything remotely resembling sleep, relaxation or rest. I’m just sitting here, listening to the soft sounds of tapping laptop keys next to me. 180

the matt zander journals

Weird. I just heard a ‘ding’. What was that? That noise, that ding? Dings aren’t good when you’re flying. Dings mean something. For every ding, there’s an obvious meaning. If you hear a ding on a flight, you know something’s happened. Now the seatbelt sign’s just flashed on. I’m looking round at other passengers… No one seems to care. Hello!? Was that ding for putting our seatbelts on? Anyone? I need to know. Everything’s ok, just breathe. Just breathe… “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, Captain Davis here again … we’ve got a pocket of weather up ahead that might give us a little shake around, so I’ve switched the fasten seatbelt sign on for your safety. Once we push through the cloud you’ll be free to walk around the cabin, but for now could I ask that you fasten your seatbelt and remain seated. Thank you.” You gotta be kiddin’ me. I said… You. Gotta. Be. Kiddin’. Me. The plane’s started shaking gently. I’ve got absolutely no control of any of this. I’m just sitting here. We’re so exposed. Packed in like lab rats in a metal cage. Next to me, the woman continues to tap away on her laptop. I wanna scream in her face, ‘DON’T YOU REALIZE HOW EXPOSED WE ARE UP HERE?’ ‘HOW CAN YOU SIT THERE AND PRETEND LIKE EVERYTHING’S NORMAL?’ But she wouldn’t hear me. She really wouldn’t hear me. She’s lost in her sales figures. Right now, we’re being shaken round in this metal tube. Right. Now. I’m clinging onto the armrests. My mouth’s getting dry. Maybe it’s the in-flight peanuts, maybe it’s the high dose of anxiety in me. Kids are lovin’ this, I’m sure. They probably think it’s one cool ride. Well, they’ll be laughing if we start falling toward the ground at Mach 2. I’ll have the last laugh, then. I’ll give ‘em one of those ‘Itold-you-so’ looks as we all breathe fear in through our mouths and our hearts stop beating from the terror of losing our lives. Stop imagining that kinda shit. You moron. 181

gar y de nne

I wonder if birds outside see planes in the air and think ‘what the #$@% is that?’ Why am I so obsessed with birds outside windows? La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. Pretending this isn’t happening. La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. ‘DING’. Thank fucking christ… I just breathed a sigh like you wouldn’t believe. To myself. On the inside. The seatbelt light just went off. That ‘ding’ has never sounded so good. Still anxious here, but relieved. I’ve heard turbulence can be a killer if a plane goes through a storm. Did I overreact? Maybe. Sue Me. Michael slept right through that crisis. Man, does that dude know how to catch some serious Zzzzzs or what? We’ve got about two hours to go. How do planes stay up in the air so long? The in-flight movie’s playing. Ya gotta pay to get the damn headset to listen to it. Like hell. The flight attendants have started serving food. Little packets of this, little sachets of that. Ok. So I’m even boring myself here, writing this, but I’m trying to keep my mind busy. Just need to think Pacific Ocean, like Michael. Calm, blue waters. Seagulls. Orange sunset. Pink sky. Sea air. Ok. I think the turbulence is over. I’m writing it, but I sure as hell don’t wanna jinx it. I freak when planes start shaking. Smooth sailing again. I just let go of my grip on the armrest, real careful. My seatbelt is pulled so tight I’m just about cutting the circulation off in my legs. I should try to sleep before we hit the ground.

182

It’s 12:24 AM: I remember Michael being asleep. That’s what I remember. Pinstripe-lady was tap-tap-tapping away on her laptop. Kids were watching DVDs on portable players Mom and Dad got ‘em for Christmas. I was running through my NDE again, trying to keep my mind occupied on something other than the fact I was 30,000 ft up. It was in that moment the explosion happened. No dings. No signs. Just a bang. We all heard it. Passengers and crew. At first, I thought it may’ve been someone’s idea of a joke—a Christmas cracker or a kid’s game. But, I think that was my mind trying to kid itself, ‘cos this was no party cracker. It was a loud … BANG! And I felt the cabin shudder. We all did. It came from the right-hand side of the plane. And immediately we were in the worst turbulence you could imagine. No one had time to say a word. The plane started shaking violently, right to its core. Everywhere I looked, I saw panicked faces. Screams were bouncing off the cabin walls. Even the flight attendants had lost their smiles and looked worried. Metal tubes aren’t supposed to shake like this, I thought. This isn’t normal. Flying isn’t normal. I turned to Michael with a worried look on my face, but he was either appearing monk-calm or so terrified he couldn’t speak or show any facial expression. He was dazed and confused. We both held onto the armrests as the plane shook. So did pinstripe-lady, who had closed her laptop and already put her head between her legs. She must’ve been a frequent flyer.

183

gar y de nne

Maybe God had a hold of us by the hand and was trying to shake some sense into us all. That’s what it felt like. There were gasps of panic. I could hear people throughout the cabin. Kids were crying. They weren’t watching their DVDs anymore. My heart was pounding in my chest. “Ladies and Gentlemen, all seatbelts on, all seatbelts on,” one of the flight attendants announced over the P.A. system. And at that moment, the plane began to fall out of the sky. Every one of us erupted into one, big collective gasp of terror. Like a theme park ride where the force is so strong you wonder if the engineers knew what they were doing when they built it. I felt the force of our dive and held on tight. People continued to scream. They planted their feet on the floor. Oxygen masks fell from the overhead compartments and started dancing round to the beat of the mid-flight terror. Food and drink flew through the air and down the aisle like a smorgasbord buffet of potato chips, pretzels and club sandwiches gone wrong. An elderly woman tumbled down the aisle, smashing her arms and legs on rows of seats. Flight attendants held on as best they could to both sides of the overhead compartments. Kids screamed their lungs out. So did their moms. So did their dads. “Oh god,” people cried out. “I don’t wanna die,” I heard a woman’s gut-wrenching voice moan. “Everyone get into brace positions … everyone, brace positions!” one of the flight attendants yelled out. I didn’t wanna die. Not like that. Anything but a crash. I imagined wreckage scattered and burnt across miles of landscape. Clothes, kids’ plush toys, books and toiletries all amongst smouldering airline seats, luggage and fuselage. We were gonna be all over CNN Breaking News. No doubt about it. There’s nothing like the terror you live through when you think you’re gonna die in a plane crash. The terror of falling to earth and slamming into the ground so

184

the matt zander journals

hard your organs turn to mush and your bones shatter in a million pieces … like porcelain hitting concrete from twenty stories up. I could hear the left engine straining itself. It sounded as though it was going to blow up. “I don’t wanna die, please God,” another passenger uncontrollably sobbed. In the chaos, I glanced at Michael. He was calm. He was holding onto his armrest and had his head back on the seat. His eyes were closed. Zero emotion on his face. Maybe he knew we were all gonna die. When we landed, when everyone knew they were gonna see another sunrise, people erupted into cheers throughout the cabin. For a few seconds, everyone joined in and gave an almighty roar. Like a Leafs game. Screams, laughter, applause. It didn’t start ‘til we touched down though—until we actually slowed right down to a crawl. It’d be a bastard of a thing to be cheering the pilot for saving our lives, only to crash and burn at the end of the runaway ‘cos he couldn’t stop the thing. Once the cheers died down though, everything went back to normal. We were all strangers again. Passengers started checking their cell phones for service. Picking up their belongings from the floor. Tidying themselves. Some wiped food and drink stains from their clothing with napkins. I saw a girl a few rows over check her makeup in her compact mirror. I remember fire crews pulling up and surrounding the plane as we came to a standstill. Emergency services were there, too. And a few official airport vehicles, all with their lights flashing and sirens wailing in the thick of a winter snowstorm. I managed to glimpse the signage on the main airport terminal: DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT Snowflakes were blowing across the tarmac in sheets, swirling upward and around the airport’s main terminal and what looked like a row of huge white sails. Snow was everywhere on the ground, except for the nicely cleared, well-lit runway. Inside the cabin, several passengers began to help others that had fallen or injured themselves during the freefall descent. Cabin crew cleared junk and trays 185

gar y de nne

from the aisle. I couldn’t believe it, but I noticed several passengers trying to open their overhead compartments to get their carry-on luggage and make an early departure at the gate. “Looks like we’re gettin’ a free stopover,” Michael quipped, watching all the commotion going on outside the plane. “Just get me the hell off this thing,” I said. Felt like my heart was gonna pop. Pinstripe-lady glanced at me and quickly agreed, “God, absolutely.” So … after we just about crash and burn and die in a fiery metal tube, Pinstripelady could actually speak and be polite and friendly if she felt like it. See what I mean about people? But Michael… I don’t get Michael. How he handled the mid-air panic. I mean, I couldn’t believe it. Out of all of us on the plane, he barely flinched as we were diving outta control. Call me crazy—he looked damn relaxed. Maybe he thought an engine blowing up was a regular thing. And a violently shaking plane was just part of the descent. It was his first time flying, after all. After we got to the arrivals terminal (no aerobridge, we had to walk across the tarmac after the emergency landing) we were met by a whole bunch of American Airlines staff co-ordinating everything (they were representing the airline ‘cos Canadian didn’t even fly into Denver let alone crash). A lot of passengers were in shock. Kids were still sobbing. Some people were angry. I overheard several suits say they had meetings and this was costing them business and the airline better provide compensation. It was pretty amazing how quick people forgot they were lucky to be alive. Some passengers even started going off at the AA ground staff, screaming at the top of their lungs. Threats started flying round from a cross-section of passengers: “I’m calling my lawyer first thing in the morning…” “I’m gonna sue your ass for this…” “My firm always wins cases like this…” “Look, I know my rights…” Blah. Blah. Blah.

186

the matt zander journals

So, anyways … they quickly herded us onto a bus in groups and got us outta there. I guess they didn’t want any of us talking to news crews who were pulling up outside the airport in broadcast vans. You know how these companies always try to spin something into a positive, no matter how bad it looks for them. On the bus ride, Michael … well, Michael wasn’t really doing anything. He was pretty straight-faced about it all. My heart was still in my mouth. My stomach was queasy, like I was gonna throw up from eating a case of perogies. But at least we were back on the ground. That was the best feeling I’ve ever had in the world. Being back on the ground. I’ve never experienced anything like that level of fear. I never want to again. Funny how you can be shot and know what it’s like to die, but still be shit-scared when something like this happens. The Canadian flight crew on board the bus with us were in major damage control. Funny to listen to. Funny to watch. They were treating us all like red carpet Oscar nominees. We had their balls in a sling. They were worried. You could see it in their faces. They knew people were going to sue their asses. They said we’d be going to a hotel for the night. Dinner was going to be waiting for us. And counselling if we needed it. They said there’d be a flight first thing for us next morning and we’d reach L.A. by 8 a.m. I didn’t wanna think about stepping onto another plane right then, I just wanted to calm down and process what had happened. We all did. We were on the first bus that left the airport. It was dark. I couldn’t see much of anything out the windows once we got on the freeway. I didn’t even bother trying. I just stared into the seat in front of me. Michael did too. Everyone did. No one talked. I think everyone was having their own mini-NDE right then and there, wondering what could’ve been if we’d slammed into the ground. Shocked into silence. Still don’t know how we got out of that. We headed along the highway. I didn’t know where we were going. We were told it’d be a hotel just outside the airport. And, sure enough, we pulled up at a Comfort Inn & Suites just off one of the freeway exits, about 15 minutes from the airport.

187

gar y de nne

As we pulled into the entrance, I saw a modern, three-story brown-brick building, with two guest wings branching out from a central lobby and lounge. Through large windows at reception, I could see a fireplace slowly burning and a TV in the lounge that looked as though it was just crossing over live to Denver Airport with breaking news. It looked freezing outside. Denver was just like Toronto. No change. A blanket of snow covered the ground and a bitterly cold wind hit the skin and froze it as we stepped off the bus. The thing was, I ditched my winter coat in Toronto because it’d been leaking feathers and was no good anymore. I just didn’t expect to be needing a coat again so soon. Not like this. When we got inside to the hotel lobby there were staff waiting. They directed everyone into a conference room. Everyone was quiet. Still trying to somehow process what had happened. On a table were bunches of keycards for guest rooms, already prepared. When everyone from both buses had arrived and gathered together, one of the American Airlines ground staff, a woman in her forties wearing a power suit, picked up a microphone and clumsily switched it on. She looked mighty fine. Like, all glammed up. For a minute, I thought she was gonna start doing karaoke to help us all snap out of it. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…” she began in a serious tone. Then came the damage control. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention please?” she said, raising her voice a little louder. We all went dead quiet. The squeal of feedback from the microphone briefly filled the conference room. “Once again on behalf of Canadian Airlines, we sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this incident may have caused you tonight. As we stated at the airport, we won’t be able to complete your journey this evening as we don’t have the available aircraft. We have guest rooms ready for you and there’s food and beverages to my right on the tables, for anyone wanting complimentary dinner tonight. There’ll also be a complimentary breakfast in the morning before you continue the onward journey to Los Angeles. For anyone having connecting flights, please check-in with one of the AA staff members here on behalf of Canadian tonight and we will do our best to make new arrangements for you. As 188

the matt zander journals

far as your luggage is concerned, it is being transported here as we speak and should be arriving within the next thirty minutes. Everyone will need their baggage claim tags to claim their luggage, which will be brought into the hotel lobby. We sincerely thank you for your patience tonight and once again, we are going to do everything within our power to help as many people possible tonight if they require assistance. Thank you.” I looked over and saw stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, plates of sandwiches and cans of pop. Coffee, tea, juice. Baskets of muffins and pastries, too. The AA woman directed people to start picking up their hotel keys from the tables. They were in alphabetical order. I hunted for the end of the line. I picked up my key while she was still doing her best to calm everyone down. People were firing questions at her from all directions: “I need my medicine.” “I have a funeral to go to.” (Coulda’ been your own funeral buddy.) “Will we being flying on a new plane tomorrow?” “How much money will we get as compensation?” “This is America. You shoulda had a plane on standby for stuff like this.” Michael and I walked out of the briefing and headed towards the elevators. On our way up to the third floor, I swear the elevator was so painfully slow it was like something off the old Flintstones cartoons, where they’d open up the mechanics of a home appliance and find a mini dinosaur or baby mammoth spinning the cogs round as their job. The little prehistoric dudes used to always have a wisecrack ready, like, “It’s a living…” Anyways, we reached our room, 335. It was quite a big room—there were two queen beds, a double-seater couch, desk, chairs and a big-screen TV. “I’m gonna hit the shower,” Michael said. “I’m gonna go back down and grab some food,” I replied. “K…” “You want somethin’?” “I’m not hungry,” he replied. “K…” “We gotta be up at six for our flight.” 189

gar y de nne

“I’ll get a wake-up call done while I’m down there,” I said. Michael looked tired. Maybe the shock was beginning to sink in. So I went back downstairs and grabbed me some pizza and a sandwich. I felt like I was at a rave party with the house lights on. People were going ballistic, waving their arms round. Poor AA staff. They must’ve wanted to kill some of the passengers I could hear … complaining about trauma that was gonna ‘haunt us for the rest of our lives.’ I bet the AA staff wished the damn plane had slammed into the ground than deal with another airline’s mess. When I got back upstairs, Michael was in the shower. I could hear it running. I pulled the bedcovers off and climbed onto one of the beds, propping my head up with a pillow. They say sometimes shock takes a while to kick in and you only start to think about life changing events until much later. Like, if you have a neardeath experience, the gravity of it all doesn’t sink in right away. So, going with that theory, I was lyin’ here, thinking … what would’ve really happened if we had’ve crashed? I heard Michael cough in the shower. I was pretty sure he was throwing up. I scrunched my face up at the thought, especially since I wanted a shower before I slept. Damn that guy is hard to work out. On the outside, he broods. You just don’t know what he’s thinking. Just then, Michael opened the bathroom door and walked out into the room. “Hey.” “Hey.” “You okay?” “Yeah. Fine.” “Pizza?” I offered, holding up Pepperoni slices on my paper plate. “Nah.” “It’s actually pretty good,” I said. “I’ll have breakfast in the morning. Do you know how to set these alarms?” Michael said, looking at the clock-radio on the bedside table.

190

the matt zander journals

“It’s okay … they said they’d put wake-up calls in for everyone.” Michael nodded. “So you sure you’re okay?” “Yeah. Why you keep askin’ that?” “Whaddaya think—we almost bought it back there,” I snapped. “But we didn’t,” he said. “I just wanna sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” Michael flicked his bed lamp off and pulled up his bedcovers. I decided to get up for a while. I was restless. I was wired. I walked to the bathroom and shut the door. The shower looked cleaned enough so I got in and let the water flow down over my back. I didn’t care about Michael’s vomit traces and I didn’t care about water conservation. I just needed time to think. My body was shaking. I was all hyped up. Maybe it was the overdose of melted pizza cheese, but I knew it wasn’t. How I was gonna get on the plane tomorrow, I had no idea. I was so fucking spooked. Michael was asleep when I came out the bathroom. It was only 8:47 (clock-radio) and I wanted to do the same, but I knew insomnia had already kicked in. I was wide-awake. You just know when you’re not gonna go to sleep. It’s a feeling. That’s the best way I can describe it. I know it’s pointless to close my eyes right now. It’s windy outside. And there’s rappers in the next room. I have the feeling I’m gonna be listening to that rap music all night. The TV remote is broken, too. We almost die in a plane crash and all they can do is put us in a room with a broken remote. Every time I wanna change the channel, I have to get up off the bed. I can’t believe I’m disappointed that the clicker is broken. I’m startin’ to think this was a hhhhhhheeeeeuuuggeeee mistake. Being here. Now. I should’ve stayed in T.O. and just gone back to Eric and James’ place. Told ‘em everything that’d happened. Gone back to my old life. I’m starting to miss home. Already. I know … it’s just crazy … we’ve only been gone a few hours, but I miss T.O. I feel lost now. In the dark. A deep, deep dark,

191

gar y de nne

like those fish that never get to see light ‘cos they live in the depths of the deepest oceans. What the fuck am I talking about? I think I feel lost because it’s just dawned on me that I’m not in Canada anymore. I’m in America. Land of the free*, home of the brave*. (*Some restrictions apply, see US gov for details.) I can go back, though. Back home. It’s not like I left, never to return. I have to look at the good side of this. Why do I always look at the bad sides of life? Does that make me a bad person? Is negative bad? Is a pessimist bad? Ok. It’s cool. I’m just having a bit of a post-traumatic freak-out. I think once I see L.A., I’m gonna wanna head home. I’m kinda getting that vibe right now. I can see things working out there now. I’m imagining all the stuff I so took for granted: a) Queen Street West, love Queen West. The Stem, Steve’s Music, HMV, that comic book store. b) Hockey. Leafs. ‘Nuff said. c) Eaton Centre … love to hate Eaton Centre. Hate to love it, too. But … it’s got its own kinda charm on a freeze-your-nuts-off winter’s day. d) The Brass Rail … strip joint on Yonge. An institution. e) Tim Hortons—what can ya say … best coffee and donuts. Go Canada. (Why am I so patriotic outta Canada, but hate it when I’m in it?) Maybe I needed this…? It’s become so much clearer now. All because of a mid-air emergency. Was this the thing that had to happen? Yeah … I think it was. It really was.

192

Back on the plane, 2:09 AM: We’re at cruising altitude. On our way again. Way above the clouds. There’s no empty seats. The cabin’s crammed full of people. Businessmen. Holidaymakers. Students. Seniors. Families. And me… Except I have a whole row of seats to myself. How cool. I’d lie down if I could, but I can’t—I’m strapped in. The seatbelt’s running across my chest. Like a car seatbelt. Seatbelts in planes never do that? Ever. I can’t work out why the seatbelt is running across my chest? The flight attendants are handing out small cardboard boxes with snacks in them. People immediately start to open them and do an inventory of the contents. I watch them. Everything’s in miniaturized form. Snack form. Shit form. Processed shit form. A movie’s playing on the overhead screens. Everyone’s watching but me. I can’t hear it. I don’t have headphones on. All I can hear is the soft hum of the engines, and flight attendants chitchatting with each other. Everything’s calm. Peaceful. The glass of water resting on my tray doesn’t even have one tiny ripple on its surface. This is how flying should be. I lean my head back on my headrest and close my eyes. I relax… Several seconds pass. A noise starts to build. It’s a huge surge in power that quickly squeals, right before one of the engines blows to smithereens. In an instant, hot metal rips through the cabin and opens up a gaping hole in the side of the plane. Air rushes in and blows everything to hell—businessmen’s

193

gar y de nne

documents, in-flight magazines, snack boxes, plastic drink cups, and portable DVD players out of kids’ hands. I start gasping for air. Panicking. Hyperventilating. Oxygen masks drop from above and sway from side to side, like overhead traffic lights in a hurricane. I reach for my mask and quickly pull it over my face. But that’s when I realize I’m not strapped in at all. I’m not wearing a seatbelt? I look at other passengers. They’re all strapped in. People are happy, smiling. Having laughs. They’re treating the violently shaking plane like a minor inconvenience. The plane starts to nosedive outta control. We’re heading straight down, dropping outta the sky. Warning alarms are going off. But no one hears them. Everyone’s busy watching the movie. I reach for my seatbelt, as if getting myself strapped in tight is gonna be the only thing that saves me. I struggle to bring both ends together, but quickly discover I’ve got identical buckles on either end. It’s a mismatch. I can’t do it up. Even so, out of fear, I smash the two buckles together in the hope they meld into each other and strap me in. I look to the seats on either side of me for the right ends, but there’s nothing there—the seats next to me don’t have belts sewn into them. I hold onto the armrests as hard as I can. Veins in my neck are bulging I’m holding on so hard. Seats start to rip off the floor. Several people get sucked out of the plane still strapped in, wearing their headphones. The air pressure is tearing the hole in the side of the plane wider and wider. The plane is gonna break apart. No one cares… I pull the oxygen mask from my face and try to open my mouth to get people’s attention, but I’m so petrified I’ve lost the ability to speak. All I can do is gasp and make noises like I’m having a mid-air panic attack. The flight attendants look at me and warmly smile. They gesture that they’ll be with me in a minute, as soon as they’ve finished handing out all the snack boxes. I can see the ocean from the hole in the side of the plane. We’re gonna ditch. The sea is gonna swallow us. The plane is groaning. Making sounds like a large mammal in distress. Metal fatigue sounds. One of the wings snaps off like it’s a twig. I put my oxygen mask back over my mouth, suck a deep breath in, and then try one more time to yell before we slam into the cold, ocean water. My whole body is shaking. I grit my teeth, screw my face up, and burst out: -

194

the matt zander journals

“TELL THE PILOT TO PULL THE FUCK UP!” That’s when I woke… I was in bed. Covered in sweat. Hotel room. Denver. It was just a dream. Just a bad fucking dream. The heat in our room is maxed out. I’ve just had to get outta bed and turn it off. In the room next to us, the rapper guys are still awake. Still making noise. What the fuck’s wrong with them? They’re screaming, yelling, hotel doors are slamming, and I’m just lying here listening to a friggin’ zoo out there. And guess what? Michael is sleeping through all this. Are those rappers so packed with drugs they have no control of ‘emselves? Who do they think they are? See what I mean about people? People can be so damn noisy. Just no consideration for anyone else. It feels like I’m in a hellhole neighbourhood. Scarborough or Jane & Finch. Lying here, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear gunfire any second, the way these guys are screaming and yelling. I wish they’d just put a cap in their own asses and shut the fuck up. Then maybe I could get some sleep. How am I gonna get back on the plane, five hours from now? 3:47AM: Sidebar: Before I die Can’t sleep. Disconnected from the world. Feel like making a list. Sometimes you get reminded of how fragile life is. How you shouldn’t waste time on stuff that doesn’t matter. How you should do the things you’ve always wanted to do, always said you were gonna do… Everyone should have a list. (no order)

195

gar y de nne

1) Nirvana concert … front row, centre (ok, so I know it ain’t gonna happen, but this is my damn list and a guy can dream). 2) Play in the Stanley Cup (yeah, right … okay … go see the Stanley Cup). 3) Run with the bulls in Spain. 4) Be in a movie (could be porn, but doesn’t necessarily have to be porn). 5) Go to Spring Break in Cancun(sp?) and get laid by a bunch a’ horny college girls. 6) Race an Indy sports car, goin’ like a bat outta hell. 7) Ask that blonde girl in the hair salon at Spadina out on a date. 8) Get super guitar powers given to me and play a kick-ass concert at Air Canada Centre. 9) Host a kick-ass Halloween party when I finally get my own place. 10) Go to Mardi Gras … the Big Easy. 11) Be in Times Square on a New Years Eve. 12) Do something that people’ll remember… So, what the hell am I waitin’ for? P.S. Michael snores. This is shapin’ up to be my own private hell. Maybe I had to come back from death to get karmic payback. And I’m right now livin’ it.

196

Stuff that happened on Day 4: After only the fourth day of my second life, I found myself this morning feeling like everything I felt in hospital had faded away, and I was now back to the same old guy I’d always been. At breakfast, I stared out into empty space, wondering how people could eat so many glazed donuts and drink so much tasteless coffee. Soon after, we were gathered in the hotel lobby, waiting to board the buses to take us back to Denver International Airport and our flight. The mood amongst the passengers of Flight 1553 was still one of shock, but alotta people seemed eager to jump straight back on a plane. Needless to say, I wasn’t one of ‘em. Getting back on a plane was the last thing I wanted to do. In fact, I was kinda hoping Michael wasn’t gonna make it down in time, and the buses would leave without us. But, just as the AA staff started announcing they were ready for everyone to board, Michael arrived in the lobby and joined me at the end of the queue. “Jeez, you’re early? We’ve still got heaps of time,” I said sarcastically. “We have? Maybe I could get some breakfast?” (yep, he thought I was serious). “Here, I got you some,” I said, handing him a donut and cup of coffee. “Thanks. I guess I kinda overslept.” As we got to a set of seats onboard the bus, Michael crashed back in one and put the coffee between his legs and the donut in his lap. His hair flopped over his eyes and he brushed it aside like he was still half asleep. “I had the worst nightmare last night,” I told him, as the bus wound up and passed through the gears. We were on our way. “Really?” he said, taking a bite from the pink frosted donut. 197

gar y de nne

“Yeah. Like you wouldn’t believe,” I replied. “Like, what about?” I looked at him, annoyed. “Hello? Whaddaya think? The flight.” “Oh. Okay. That.” “We were gonna crash in the ocean. I couldn’t get my seatbelt on. Everyone was watching the movie…” I tried to explain. “Huh. Weird,” he answered, seemingly uninterested in the details. “You didn’t hear me yell out?” Michael shook his head briefly. I could see I wasn’t gonna get anywhere with him. I’d gotten used to that by now, though. He’s no conversationalist. Least with Eric, James and Douglas I had decent conversation. “Don’t worry,” he said, drinking his Styrofoam-cup coffee in between donut bites, “we’ll be in L.A. soon. You can just chill on the beach and forget all about flyin’. Tell ya what … if you don’t wanna fly home, we’ll drive back?” Note: People complained about the coffee not being robust enough this morning. I overheard a forty-something whiny guy, another passenger, tell his wife the coffee wasn’t ‘robust’. Almost died in a horrific crash and hours later complaining about the integrity and texture of coffee beans ground into a liquid beverage? Another two thumbs up for me thinkin’ society is screwed with guys like that allowed to breathe air… Outside, as we travelled along the freeway towards the airport, I could tell it was going to be a clear-skies day. A fresh blanketing of snow lay on the ground, and it was fucking freezing, but I’m sure most of the passengers on the bus were glad to see the end of any storm fronts. Me… Well, 1) I was starting to wonder if I’d ever get away from snow ever again, and, 2) I didn’t care how clear the day was shaping up—I didn’t feel good about getting back on a plane. Not now, not ever. I tried to tell myself everything was gonna be okay, but it just wasn’t working. As soon as Denver Airport came into view out the bus window, I totally clammed up. I sat there staring through the glass at the row of white pointy-nose sails running along the top of the main terminal. They kinda reminded me of a cruise ship out on the water. There were cookie-cutter suburbs on one side of us and 198

the matt zander journals

fields of snow around the airport on the other. The closer we got, the further my mind was from getting on that flight to L.A. “I can’t do this,” I said to Michael. “Can’t do what?” he asked, turning to me. “This. The flight. I can’t get back on a plane.” “You’ll be fine. The donkeys, remember?” “Nuh,” I said, sucking in an anxious breath as I saw a plane take off then bank like hell in the corner of my eye, “we’re gonna have to drive.” Michael could see I was serious. He was annoyed, “No-no-no—I’m not gonna drive all that way. We gotta fly. Today. Now.” The bus pulled into the departures lane of the airport entrance as we headed up the ramp to the top-level terminal, the huge white sails now right above us. “I’m not getting on that flight,” I said. Michael paused for a moment, glancing out the window at the terminal and planes parked at aerobridge gates. He turned back to me, but avoided eye contact. I knew before he spoke. His body language told me what he was thinking. “I am.” “Fine,” I replied. (long pause, tension build-up). “What is with you?” he said, raising his voice, attracting a few looks from other passengers, “it’s a different plane, it’s clear sky. It’s only an hour and a half or somethin’.” “Sorry,” I said softly. The bus pulled up at the main departure doors and passengers began to step off. The driver had already started unloading baggage from the bus’ belly. I saw my Alias sports bag get thrown to the curb, as Michael and I got off the bus, behind slow moving senior citizens and families with kids. As soon as we stepped out into the cold, Denver air, Michael started coughing like a machine gun. He squatted down on the curb and his hair flopped over his face. A pair of army tags dangled from around his neck as he coughed up a lung. Least I think they were army tags? I hadn’t noticed them up ‘til now. I’m sure they were for fashion purposes only ‘cos I couldn’t make out anything on them. They looked like blanks. 199

gar y de nne

I went and grabbed my bag from the pile of curbside luggage. AA staff were beginning to cattle call all of us into the terminal. “Ladies and Gentleman, we will be checking you all in today as quickly as possible, but due to Homeland Security regulations, it will be necessary for everyone to follow the usual passenger scanning procedures for our flight today,” one of the staff announced to the group of us. “So this is it then?” Michael said, looking up from his squatted position. “Yep,” I said (Jeez, now he had me doin’ it—one-word answers). He continued to cough—I don’t think the pink frosted donut agreed with him. “Maybe I’ll see you there?” I said, over the noise of bus engines. “Whatever,” he said in a weak voice, still spluttering as he rose to his feet and began to head towards the terminal, following other passengers. He dumped me like he couldn’t get outta there fast enough. Made me mad. I stood there for a second, letting him walk away. “Hey!” I shouted, “I got you this far, you could at least thank me.” Michael didn’t look back. He continued slowly shuffling through the crowd, towards the terminal entrance. The second bus had pulled up and was already unloading. Passengers were swarming out onto the curb all round me, like worker bees. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I yelled at Michael through the crowd. “Everything’s a one-word answer with you—you don’t talk! Jeesuz christ, how could anyone have a clue what you’re thinking when you don’t say anything. No wonder you tried to kill yourself. I’d wanna kill myself if I were you…” Michael had already stepped inside the terminal. He was gone. “Asshole!” I screamed in his direction. People looked at me for a few seconds, then went back to what they were doing, ignoring me like I didn’t exist. “What are you lookin’ at?” I mumbled in the direction of a few dumbass Yanks who gave me the worst glances. Car rental: On my own in the world. I could do this alone. 200

the matt zander journals

I didn’t need Michael. In fact, I was feeling good about the whole thing. Now at least I could do what I wanted, go where I pleased, and probably have better conversation with myself than I did with that damn guy. This was my trip now. After catching a s-l-o-w ride on a car rental shuttle bus, I made it outside the airport, to the car rental lots. I was worried I might be stuck in this damn place, no reservation n’ all, but as the bus pulled me into the reservations centre of Thrifty, I passed a sea of cars (like, rows and rows) just sitting there and thought to myself, I don’t think renting a car’s gonna be a problem. Rental agreement signed and sealed (along with my balls to MasterCard), I pulled outta the rental lot and headed away from the airport, towards the freeway ramp, hoping to get the hell out of the place. I passed by a few signs and tried to recall what the Thrifty girl had told me. I’m sure she said to turn left on I-70 and go West. Pretty sure. I saw an exit that looped back round to Denver International Airport. For some reason, of which, I’m still unsure why, my hands began to turn the wheel of the burgundy Dodge Neon and I gently swerved over to the left lane and back onto the airport ramp. Departures. When I pulled up, the two buses that had dropped us off were gone and the passengers of Flight 1553 had been replaced by everyday people being dropped off for their flights. I looked around the sidewalk drop off, trying to pick out anyone that’d been on our plane. I pulled up, squinting my eyes to try n’ see through the terminal’s tinted glass. Suddenly, there he was. I spotted Michael. He was sitting just inside the departure hall, motionless, his back to the sidewalk. Son of a bitch. I put the car in ‘P’ and watched him for a second. What was he waiting for? I saw other passengers lined up at check-in. He was just sitting there. On his own. In a trance. I honked the horn. He didn’t move. I honked the horn again. I could feel a few glances coming my way from people on the curb. 201

gar y de nne

Son of a bitch. He ignored me. I decided to hold the horn down for a few seconds. Just about everyone nearby looked at me, mighty pissed off. They wondered what all the noise was about. I’m talking mostly senior citizens here, too, probably with hearing aids that didn’t like car horns at close range. I was praying security wasn’t gonna come bust my ass—think I was a terrorist with a car bomb trying to send a signal before I blasted to bits. Then, as if he sensed something behind him, Michael slowly turned around in his seat. He saw me. I briefly waved him over. Slowly, he got up from his airport departure chair and walked through the automatic doors of the terminal and onto the sidewalk, towards me. I rolled down the passenger window with the flick of a button. He just stood there on the curb, hands in his pockets, as the car idled and the cold air blew in through the open window. “Why’d you come back?” he eventually asked, looking anywhere but at me. “I dunno,” I replied. After a long pause, I said, “I thought you might need a ride?” “How long?” “All day driving, stopover someplace. Hit L.A. tomorrow … in the afternoon,” I said, sounding pretty sure of myself (but faking really well). I could see Michael debating whether to open the passenger door or not. Wheels were turning round in his head. He looked up above at an airliner soaring into the sky, its engine noise passing right over us. He slowly brushed his hair away from his eyes with his hands. “Fine,” he finally said, once our hearing had returned. He opened the passenger door and got in. “We’ll drive.”

202

It’s the middle of the night right now. Feels like the world has ended. It’s been one helluva day. This is more stuff that happened… It was around 7:30 AM: So … all we had to do was get on I-70 and head West. Easy peasy. “Hey, just check the map, will ya?” I said to Michael, my eyes anxiously glued to the road. The traffic was insane. Denver morning rush hour. No way was I gonna look away, even for a millisecond. “I wanna make sure we’re going the right way,” I said. Michael reached down like it was a huge effort to pick up the complimentary map that was in the pouch with the rental agreement. He unfolded it out and began to study where we were and where we wanted to go. He glided his finger round the map. Funny how life surprises you… One minute you’re on top of the world, breakin’ into your boss’ house, pure adrenalin rush. Then you’re in hospital. Then you’re flyin in the air. Then you’re in a Denver hotel. Then driving to L.A. in a burgundy Neon Dodge. Who’da thunk it? Am I the only one who thinks like that…? “Look at all these guys on the other side,” I commented. Cars were banked up for miles and miles in the other direction on the freeway. Gridlock hell. “So long suckers,” I said aloud. 203

gar y de nne

The thing with driving on freeways these days is that everyone’s trying to kill each other. If you get in someone’s way for even one nanosecond, you better expect a horn, a finger, a lipped profanity or worse. It’s like a gladiator contest with metal cars instead of horses. I thought the 401 was bad. This was insane. “Okay, right here,” Michael said, pointing with his hand. “Take the left ramp, I-70 West.” We looped around the ramp and quickly merged over into the fast lane of I-70. “Look at this guy … what an asshole,” I said to myself, my eyes alternating between the front and the rear-view mirror. “Fuck you, you prick,” I suddenly yelled at the mirror. Behind us, a guy in a blue BMW had come screaming right up and was riding our ass as we went like a bat outta hell down the fast lane. Michael slowly turned his head round to glance. “Do you see this guy? He’s just about touching the bumper,” I complained, looking in my mirror. “Yeah … I’m talkin’ to you, you fucker!” “Some people are such assholes,” I said to Michael, still watching this guy in the mirror. “Makes me lose faith in society. I mean … are there people out there that do the right thing anymore? We’re so rude to each other. What for? Why all the anger and rage against each other? We’re all just trying to go about our lives, ok? Here’s this guy, right … on our ass, swearing his head off at us as though we’ve just murdered his wife and kids, for crissakes.” “Just change lanes. Let him pass,” Michael said. “That’s not the point,” I angrily replied. “The point is I’m doing over the speed limit and this asshole is still riding my ass like I’m 10 under.” “Cut him a break and pull over.” “Why are you on his side? How can you be on his side!” I exclaimed. “He could have an emergency or something, how do we know?” “Hey, he’s in the wrong,” I stressed. “I should slam on the brakes and let him total his car. Assholes like that are what’s wrong with the world … all this stressed out, hate-filled, frustrated-rage-shit people are full of. Pisses me off.” “You’re not doin’ a bad job yourself,” Michael calmly replied. I shut up after that. And changed lanes. “Hey, can you see Aspen anywhere on that map?” “Why?” Michael asked. 204

the matt zander journals

“I just realized … we’re gonna be going through the Rockies,” I said, eyes lighting up. “And?” “And … we could stop. Maybe check it out?” “We stick to L.A.,” Michael stressed, “that was the plan. We get there tomorrow and everything’ll be fine.” “Jeeeez. Okay. Fine. No Aspen,” I pouted. Downtown Denver passed right by us on our left. “How much did this thing cost?” Michael asked me of the car. “I dunno? It’s in there somewhere, take a look at the rental agreement,” I said, gesturing to the blue Thrifty folder on the floor at his legs. “The legal shit in there—I feel like I rented a cruise liner for a year or somethin’. So many clauses. ‘We’re not gonna cover you for this. We’re not gonna cover you if you do that. You declined this. You declined that…’ Christ, gimme a fuckin’ break,” I said. Road sign: - ROAD MAY BE ICY “Ya think? Road may be icy. We’re in Denver, it’s winter,” I said, joking to Michael. “Snow on the ground and they think the road may be icy. I can see it now—instead of crashing in a fiery inferno in a plane, we’ll probably die in a fiery inferno skidding off the mountain in a rental car.” I thought that was kinda funny, but got no response outta Michael. We began to climb up into the Colorado hills, towards the Rocky Mountains. The car revved its guts out as I watched the dashboard counter reach 4,000 rpm. I didn’t care if I beat the shit outta that engine. When we reach L.A., it’ll probably have to be traded in. Thrifty has no idea who they’re dealin’ with here. “There’s a banana down there if you’re hungry?” I said as I watched the road. “You gotta have something more than coffee and a donut. You look like a damn anorexic supermodel.”

205

gar y de nne

The weather was clear ahead of us. Bitterly cold, but clear. It was a February winter’s day with fresh powdered snow on the ground. A massive mountain range was getting closer, covered in white. We had reached the Rockies. “Keep your eye out for black ice, okay?” I asked Michael. “I gotta watch these conditions. If I crash this thing, we’re screwed.” “We?” he asked, finally speaking up again. “Ok, I’m screwed.” “Didn’t you take out insurance?” “Kind of. Well … no,” I said, “but it was like, nine bucks a day? A day? The damn car was only eighteen bucks! They’re gonna charge me half the price of the car to get it insured? I don’t think so.” “You didn’t get insurance?” Michael asked in disbelief. “You realize if you crash this thing you’re gonna owe ‘em a brand new car?” “We’re not gonna crash it,” I argued. “No crashing.” Michael reached down and peeled back the banana I’d taken hostage from the hotel breakfast. He slowly adjusted his seat and sat back, reading from the rental agreement. Both his wrists still had bandages wrapped round them, halfway up his arms. Every time I saw them, it reminded me that the guy had tried to kill himself. “Do you realize how much it’s gonna cost you to drop this car off in L.A.?” he said, reading the fine print before turning to me. “How much?” “Like, four hundred dollars.” I quickly glanced at Michael for a second. “You gotta be kiddin’ me? How the hell am I gonna pay that? I can’t pay that … my card’s already close to the limit.” “Maybe it doesn’t matter so much if you crash this thing after all? Sounds like you’re already screwed.” “Gee, thanks,” I shot back sarcastically. “You know what, though? Right now … I don’t even care about the money. As long as that credit card keeps goin’ ‘til we hit L.A., I’ll figure it all out when we get there.” As we cut into the Rocky Mountains, it looked like we’d stepped inside a winter wonderland calendar shoot. The greenest pine trees—snow on every branch—

206

the matt zander journals

looked so breathtakingly beautiful I could’ve stared at them all day. It was like looking at a billion Christmas trees. The snow was pure, virgin white—like icing sugar. The danger, however, was being distracted by the scenery for a split second and getting caught on ice. The signs weren’t there for nothin’, so I only took quick half-second glances at the sights around us as we drove on. Easy, Zander. Easy. Don’t crash this fucker, I thought to myself. Up ahead of us, I could see a tunnel cutting straight through the mountain. It was quite strange, because, for a moment, looking at the stretch of darkness we were about to enter reminded me of the tunnel. I could even see the small pinpoint of light at the end, on the other side of the mountain. As we rushed through, the tunnel walls went black and we could’ve been driving through a black hole for all I know. On the other side, we reached: Road sign: - Idaho Springs Road sign: - GUSTY WINDS NEXT 2 MILES Road sign: - ELEVATION, 8500 FT Mountains were all around us. We were in the middle of the Rockies. On top of the world, it felt like. The scenery was amazing. I had to slow down. The road started to wind back down. “Listen,” I began, “about what I said back there at the airport...” “Forget about it,” Michael quickly replied. “I say stupid shit sometimes, y’know? That’s just me.” We drove in silence for the next few minutes. Michael’s a hard guy to maintain a conversation with for long. I know I said I’d never talk about the near-death experience with anyone, but seeing Michael’s wrists bandaged up, knowing he’d tried to kill himself, I just had

207

gar y de nne

to know if he’d experienced anything like I had. I was way too curious to worry about him thinkin’ I was a nutcase. I let another few moments of silence pass, along with a few speeding cars pulling out to pass us, and then said, “Hey … can I ask you a question?” Michael had one foot resting up against the corner of the dashboard. He turned his head to look at me for a moment. I said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want. I’ve just been thinking about this and—” “Spit it out already,” he said, annoyed by my trying to walk on eggshells. “When you tried to kill yourself … like after you … y’know … cut yourself … did anything happen?” “Whaddaya mean?” “I dunno. Like, anything unusual … did you see anything? A light, maybe?” “A light?” “Yeah,” I suggested, “a light?” Michael smiled for a second. My heart jumped like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I could tell… “There was that light, yeah. That bright hospital light up on the ceiling, shining down. I remember that, too. Those bastards. They shine it in your eyes. Just about blinded me.” (Or maybe not). “No … I mean, like when you were passed out? Did anything happen? Did you see stuff that didn’t make sense?” I asked again. Michael looked at me strangely. “Everything went to black if that’s what y’mean? I thought I’d finally died. Next thing I remember was the bright light—the hospital spotlight in the emergency room. A doctor was looking down at me. She kept asking me to keep my eyes open, and I was thinkin’, ‘are ya gonna turn that damn light off first?’” he said, emphasising his point. “So after you lost consciousness, there was just black? Nothing else?” “Yeah, just an empty space. I dunno? I don’t remember. Like when you close your eyes in the dark, I guess?” “You don’t recall anything else at all?” I asked, confused.

208

the matt zander journals

“When you’re dead, you’re dead, right?” Michael answered. “Why are you askin’ all this for, anyway?” Michael right there telling me about his suicide attempt … it really set me back. It really hit me in the guts. As soon as he said nothing happened—no light, no tunnel, no château—and that there was only darkness, my mind began to freak. I thought, what if everything that happened to me—everything I saw—was all in my head? Just a dream? Just a really vivid dream. Could I have really dreamt all that shit? I don’t really know what to write here. I’m sure my experience was real. If I flick back to the pages I wrote in St. Michael’s, the images are still in my mind. Vivid details. But … should I be open to the possibility that I may’ve dreamt it all? I gotta say yeah. It’s possible. The hospital theatre light, morphine that makes you feel like you’re floating, god knows what drugs they tried to revive me with that could’ve given me hallucinations… It’s possible. As we drove on, I kept going over and over it in my mind. I was starting to worry that this trip was gonna be for nothing. That, if the NDE was just my imagination, then I had nothing left to do at all. Anyways … back to the car. I moved round in the seat to get a little more comfortable. My ass was going to sleep. I put the car in cruise control and gave my feet a rest, too. Michael was looking at me, patiently waiting for an answer to what all this was about. I thought for a second what he’d think about me after I told him, but honestly, I was dyin’ to tell somebody. I needed to get it outta me. I needed for just one person to know. “When I was shot,” I began, “after I blacked out, lying there on the floor … I was still alive.” “Whaddaya mean?” Michael said, looking at me confused.

209

gar y de nne

“I mean, I was still alive, even after I lost consciousness. I went out of my body. I can’t explain it exactly … I was still ‘me’. And I floated up to the ceiling of this house I was in and there was a light. A bright, white light that came out of a long, dark tunnel, right there in space.” Michael didn’t say anything. He let me continue. It was one of those moments when you feel someone starting to distance themselves from what you’re saying, like you’re a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman. But I continued. “I went through this tunnel … no, wait, I guess the tunnel came to me and pulled me through it with some kind of force. Then there was this huge hall and a tonne of people—thousands—going everywhere. A guy there … he knew who I was. He knew everything about me and he told me stuff about my life.” “What stuff?” Michael asked. “That I had to come back. That I still had something to do in this life.” “Like what?” “I dunno,” I shrugged, “he didn’t say? Then I woke up. I was in St. Michael’s, in bed, back in my body. Back here.” “And you’re sure this really happened?” “I swear. At least, like, 99% I swear.” Michael didn’t reply. I could almost feel the weirdness between us. “Look, can I say for sure I didn’t just dream it? No. I can’t,” I added. “But I swear it was as real as us driving this road right now.” “And the 1%?” I took my eyes off the road and looked at him quickly, a blank expression on my face. “I dunno … maybe I did just imagine the whole thing?” And that was that. It was a huge release to tell Michael about my NDE. Even if it meant he was gonna look at me differently this whole trip, I needed to tell someone. As I continued to watch the road, Michael started to unravel the bandage on his left arm. From the corner of my eye, I spotted two, thick red scars travelling from one side of his wrist to the other. “Jeesuz christ,” I exclaimed, glancing quickly at the cuts. There was something about seeing self-inflicted cuts on someone’s arm that gave me the creeps.

210

the matt zander journals

“Once I’d done this, they found me passed out. All I ever remember was fading away. Getting tired. Getting sleepy. It was like I was falling asleep, disappearing from the world. The hospital light was the next thing I remember,” Michael told me, beginning to wrap the bandage back round his wrist again, slowly going round and round, covering up his scars. “I wish I could tell you different, but nothing happened to me like that. Sorry.” “Why’d you wanna die?” I asked. “Why?” he began, “You wouldn’t understand. Only way someone’d understand was if they’ve ever been in that same place in their own life, when you know you got nothing left to be here for.” He had a point. I didn’t push. “Y’know, during my experience, this old dude I met … he gave me the choice to end my life and move on to the next. Like, become somebody else and start over,” I explained. “And you decided to come back here? Now I know you’re crazy,” Michael said. “Yeah, yeah,” I agreed, ignoring his smart-ass dig at me. “But think about it for a second. What if it’s true? What if what happened to me was real?” “So you think we keep coming back as different people, in different lives?” he asked me. “Well, yeah. I mean, in some ways it makes sense. Our souls are always ‘us’ … but maybe we get as many chances at this as we want?” Michael didn’t answer. I think he was a little freaked by me getting into the topic. He could tell I had passion in my voice. The road signs and the miles were goin’ by in a blur as we kept talking. “Our souls have a chance to live different lives,” I pondered, “a chance to have different experiences as different people. I mean, how are we meant to cram everything into one life, anyhow? It really blows your mind if you think about it.” “If you say so.” “Well, ask yourself this—how do you know you haven’t lived before? What if you’ve had dozens of lives … hundreds even?” “Wait a minute,” he said, “if we can come back and have new lives, then how come people don’t wake up all of a sudden and say they used to be Elvis or somethin’?” I thought about it for a second, trying to have a half-decent answer. 211

gar y de nne

“There’s gotta be some kind of mechanism that blocks out our past lives—who we’ve been and what we’ve done. I don’t think we’d be able to live a new life with all that baggage from stuff we’d done in the past, y’know?” “Well, what’s the use of coming back as someone else if I’m not gonna remember how I screwed up this one?” “I don’t get what you mean?” I asked. Michael paused to think for a second and explain himself. (Finally, a damn conversation with the guy.) “Say I came back as … I dunno … some supermodel in my next life, okay?” he began. “Okaaaay,” I said, surprised. “How am I gonna be aware of who I am right now, me, in that life … so I can use everything I’ve learnt in this one?” I had to pause and think about that for a second. I also tried to remember we were on icy highway, winding around bends and turns, and that I needed to keep my eyes open at the same time. “I guess you don’t ever know who you were, only who you are?” I pondered. “Exactly. So coming back as someone else—I don’t see the point.” I turned to Michael, curious. He was staring up at the roof of the car, resting his head on the headrest of the passenger’s seat. “You’d wanna come back as a supermodel?” I asked him, the look of amusement on my face. “Sure, why not?” he replied. “Free shit? Travel the world? Get paid a tonne to walk down a catwalk for twenty minutes? People tellin’ you how good you are at standing still? I could do that.” He closed his eyes and spoke like he was talking in his sleep. “Wanna drink in any bar in the world? Walk up to a guy and flash some cleavage. Say you get pulled over for speeding. You smile, you flirt, you laugh with the cop and push your tits out—suddenly he forgets all about it. Models get whatever the hell they want. They’re not called ‘super’ for nuthin’.” I watched the road and didn’t say anything for a moment—our tires tracking over wet road the only sound. “You wouldn’t really come back as a supermodel, would you?” I asked eventually. 212

the matt zander journals

“Me?” Michael said. “Nah.” Road sign: - EMERGENCY PULL-OFF As we passed that road sign, I wondered to myself exactly what they meant by emergency pull-off. I needed an emergency pull-off. Maybe they had a supermodel* in lingerie on standby in the bushes by the roadside? Y’know, in case you needed to unwind from the boredom that is driving through entire U.S. states. (*Supermodels … is there anything they can’t do?) I was also thinking: Don’t go off the edge, Zander. You’ll die in a fiery inferno. It’s so icy. I can only go 50. I wonder what they’re doing at Runnerman’s right now? Eric and James probably wonder where the hell I am. “Can you find a station on that thing?” I asked Michael about the radio. We were heading around a mountain, behind a truck doing 40. The mountains were so massive. We were a tiny little speck. In front of us was this mountain of snow and pine trees and a few little rocky outcrops. Ski slopes. Ski lifts. Yuppies. I spotted ‘em. All their designer snow gear. Skiing back to the lodge, a Pinot Noir waiting for them next to a fireplace. The lazier yuppies were on those motorized skidoo things. Wonder if Douglas was up there? Road sign: - Vail, 19 Miles “Wanna stop?” I blurted out. “What for?” “Just for a break?” “Nah. I’m good,” Michael said, leaning his head back again. 213

gar y de nne

“I gotta go to the bathroom.” “Whatever,” he said, eyes closed, uninterested. What is with this guy? I thought. Maybe he’s got condoms full of heroin inside him. L.A.’s the drop off point? On the radio: - 1999 by Prince I started to sing. The driving was makin’ me go a little stir crazy. ‘I was dreamin’ when I wrote this so sue me if I go 2 fast…’ ‘But life is just a party and parties aren’t meant 2 last…’ Fucking classic ‘80s. How do you beat a song like that? I mean … c’mon? Really. How do you beat that? Tell me, punk! ‘Cuz, they say two thousand zero zero party over, oops outta time…’ ‘So tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999…’ Road sign: - SNOW PLOWS ENTERING HIGHWAY Road sign: - 10,000 FT We reached Vail. The view was amazing. The Rockies are incredible. It was so great to be alive. Looking around us at the surroundings, I remember finding it hard to imagine I was actually there. That I was doing this. Pit stop: - Vail, CO Waiting for Michael at the gas station, I watched skiers zigzag down the slopes. I wondered what it’d be like to live the kinda life where you could ski at expensive resorts, date college cheerleaders and talk about world affairs at dinner parties. Well, for a coupla’ seconds, I did. It was freezing out. I musta looked damn stupid standing there at the car without a coat ‘cos I got plenty of stares.

214

the matt zander journals

Once we left Vail, I noticed the rock colour begin to change right in front of our eyes. I would never have thunk it, but very quickly the rock became a reddish sandstone. That’s always what I imagined California and Nevada to be like. That dry, desert feel. Michael was asleep. I kept following winds and bends outta the Rockies. That’s pretty much all I remember, even though it was only a few hours ago now. (Insert more mindless, boring driving here.) I guess this was part of the day where, if this were a movie, you’d see a little cartoon car moving across the screen with dots trailing behind it, passing through a map of Colorado, kinda like all those old adventure movies used to do when the hero flew across the world. Next pit stop: - Grand Junction, CO I pulled into a gas station on the main strip of a town called Grand Junction—one of those Anytown, USA places. Nothing unique there. Same chains and fast-food joints you get anywhere else. Gas stations. Motels. Diners. It was a pit-stop town for anyone driving through. The weather had changed since Denver and Vail—you could feel it. Still cold winds around, but only traces of snow on the ground. And what snow was there looked like it was melting pretty quick. Not like middle of T.O. winter. Once the snow dumps down back home, it’s there to stay. Funny how a small thing like snow can make a difference to mood, huh? I felt good in Grand Junction. So good to be outta that Toronto winter. You got no idea. We pulled up at the pump. I turned off the engine and almost rubbed my eyes outta their sockets. “Michael,” I said as I yawned. “Unnnghhh?” he mumbled. “Wake up.” ”Where are we?” he said, still drowsy. “Grand Junction.” “Where’s that?” “Good question,” I said to myself, “somewhere in Colorado.” 215

gar y de nne

“You hungry?” “I ain’t got any money,” he replied. “Don’t worry, I got it.” Road sign: - SPEED CHECKED BY AIRCRAFT Leaving Grand Junction and the Rockies behind, we got back on the road again after eating some gas station microwave burritos and began to head towards canyon country—high desert country. Behind us was the large tabletop mountain that sat next to the town of Grand Junction (if you’re into rock climbing that was the place). Up ahead was relatively flat terrain, but mountains still dominated the horizon, snowmelt from their peaks feeding the rivers in the canyons below. How’s that for coincidence—heading into canyons and rivers after the Flashback Alley experience I had? Weird. Road sign: - Las Vegas, 500 Miles “Did you just see that?” “See what?” “The road sign back there … Las Vegas.” “What about it?” “What about it?? Are you nuts?? It’s Vegas. A road trip ain’t a road trip without a stopover in Vegas.” “Says who?” Michael asked. “I dunno? People always stop in Vegas in road trip movies.” “Well, I hate to burst ya bubble, but this ain’t a movie.” I paused for a moment, checking the rear-view mirror. “You know what’s weird?” I began, my voice full of curiosity, “I think we were meant to do this? This … right now. I think the plane happened for a reason.” I softly told myself, “Maybe Vegas has some kinda meaning?” “We should’ve been in L.A. already,” Michael complained. I glanced at him for a second. “You don’t see it, do you? Life throws up shit like this all the time,” I told him. “C’mon, what are the odds that we get on a plane and it falls outta the sky? If the 216

the matt zander journals

universe wanted us dead, it woulda’ crashed the plane into a million pieces. You know what I think? I think we were meant to be driving like this. It’s all part of the journey. All we have to do is sit back and enjoy the ride.” “Yeah, well, I’m a destination kinda guy,” he snapped. “You are gonna miss a whole lot in your life if you only ever see the destination, Michael.” “Okay, okay … jesus! We’ll stop in Vegas. For the night.” “One night?” I asked. “This car’s costin’ me a fortune—you could at least hang with me in Vegas for a day while I win some money to pay for the damn thing,” I said. “You mean lose money you don’t have.” “Only dumbass tourists lose in Vegas.” “Uh huh.” “Why the hell are you dyin’ to get to L.A. anyway?” I asked. (no answer) “I know you think I’m nuts, but you’ll see. Everything’s gonna work out fine,” I said confidently. “Trust the journey.” Michael exhaled a breath and leant back in the passenger’s seat, uncomfortable. “The journey’s boring. Are we there yet?” he said. We kept on driving.

217

Hotel, It’s 2:37 AM: Halfway through writing about today. Damn it’s hard. Writing doesn’t come easy to a guy like me. In fact, I know I suck at it. But I can’t sleep. It’s either this or TV. I’m lying here thinking … I could be back home right now. Getting my life back on track. Making changes. Getting a job. A good one this time. My own apartment. After everything that’s happened today, I’m wondering what I’m doing here. I don’t have any answers anymore. You don’t know what it’s like until it happens to you. I must be losing it. The near-death experience has changed everything. I think about the life I had and wonder … how the hell did my view of the world change so quickly? Life happens in an instant. Whether you’re ready to change or not. Something must be wrong with me. I keep thinking what it is I should be doing right now. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a place to live. I don’t have any way of paying for all this, and I don’t have anyone who gets what happened to me. Before the NDE, I didn’t think twice about big picture stuff. I worked for the weekend. That was as far ahead as I ever looked in life. I can never go back to that, though. Even if I could, I ask myself … would I wanna? Jeez, I must be half asleep. I never knew life would be so … … fragile. Did Michael really tell me that tonight or have I been dreaming? Mini panic attack … that’s all. Move along. Nothing to see here. Where was I? Ok…

218

the matt zander journals

Road sign: - Welcome to Utah, Winter Olympics 2002 As we crossed state lines and entered Utah, it looked as though we were headed into one big Grand Canyon. At least, that was how I’d always imagined the Grand Canyon to look like. Utah was this massive, flat, barren wasteland of nothingness—except when the road climbed up above sea level and took us through these amazing canyons of red, brown and orange rock, with strange and creepy formations that gave you the sense you were on another planet. Mars maybe. When we drove on the flat, dry desert scrub could be seen in every direction. So could large, snow-covered mountain ranges in the distance, all around us. Quite ironic that we were still trying to escape the snow yet heading straight for it. For a winter, it was dry out there, though. When I saw the Winter Olympics sign, I thought there’d be more snow than there actually was. Maybe I need to take that climate change stuff more seriously? Despite what I’d call a mild winter, I could see storm clouds beginning to close in on both sides of us. We were getting closer to the mountains. Driving 85 mph on a seemingly endless stretch of highway had started to make my eyes heavy. I guess I didn’t think how boring driving through this kinda country would be. Made me sleepy. Next to me, in the passenger seat, Michael was asleep, too. He still had the seat pushed back and his feet resting up on the dashboard. He looked comfortable. I buzzed the window down for a second. Cold air rushed in and filled the car. It was freezing, but at least it gave me a reason to open my eyes again. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. Boring straight road hasn’t helped. I felt my blink speed slow down again as soon as I closed the window. No other cars were around. Only one or two, now and then. I shook my head violently for a second. Getting tired, getting sleepy. I don’t wanna crash, I thought. Crashing wouldn’t be good for Michael and me. Crashing wouldn’t be good for anybody.

219

gar y de nne

I love how hotels have crisp, white bed sheets. Egyptian cotton, that’s where it’s at. Did those dudes know how to make cotton sheets or what? Vegas’ll have those sheets. Really crisp white sheets with no creases. And a bed that’s so big, if you wanted to, you could sleep across it and still fit. Three or four pillows wide. It’s funny, but I remember hearing the sound of poker machines. Like buzzing, or a constant horn honking right behind us… I remember looking in the rear-view mirror. A car was right on our ass. We’d drifted into the middle of the two-lane highway. “Shit!” I yelled. I snapped outta my daze and swung violently back into the right lane. “What the hell’a you doin’?” Michael shouted, instantly waking. There was never any danger of a head-on collision ‘cos the highway was split. But I don’t think the cars behind us appreciated me driving down the middle of two lanes. A yellow Mitsubishi sped past us going 95 mph. The occupants gave us a good ‘ya-freakin-lunatic!’ stare as they sailed by. A couple more cars passed and did the same. I wondered where the speed-checking aircraft had got to. Might’ve been their lunch break. I must’ve zoned out for a second. I wasn’t asleep. I’d just zoned out. “I’m fine, it’s cool. I’m fine. I’m okay,” I quickly assured Michael. “Just lost concentration for a second.” I gripped the steering wheel tight and took a long deep breath. “You gotta take a break. Pull over. I’ll drive,” Michael demanded. “I’ll be fine. We’ll stop for gas up ahead someplace.” After a stop for gas (and coffee that hit the spot even if it was stale), Michael took the wheel. I admit I was nervous about him driving, not because of any legal or insurance shit that was on the rental agreement, but because the guy only knew two speeds—stop and fast as shit. Whether he was trying to impress me, was a natural-born speed demon, or had a death wish, I just dunno. But I hardly knew the guy. And doing 110 mph with a guy who moved so slowly and was in a constant state of ‘just-woke-up’ made me quickly change my mind about trying to catch some Zzzzzs. I wanted to lean back in the passenger seat and not have to 220

the matt zander journals

think about anything for a while, but as we tore down that highway, feeling like any second we’d hit a pebble, roll and slice the car into pieces, funnily enough, I didn’t feel tired anymore. To make things worse, since leaving the last roadhouse, filled with semi-trailer truck drivers doing drugs in bathrooms and the sound of people spewing their guts up in the stalls, it had started to pour rain, heavy on the windshield. “Watch the rain, Michael,” I said. Michael had set the cruise control and was ever so casually sitting back like he was in a lazy boy chair, holding the steering wheel with one hand, while glancing all round him, admiring the scenery. All the time in the world as a passenger to look at his surroundings, but he’d rather sleep and take his eyes off the road while driving. My death-wish theory was looking good. “Michael…” I said, “slow down a bit, okay?” I had some coffee between my legs. They say those foam cups are insulated. Bullshit they are. I felt like my dick was gonna melt. Road sign: - 178 Miles to I-15 Junction (It was when we were passing Green River. Note: It’s not green … it’s brown. Flowing pretty good, though. All the snowmelt). “We go south on I-15,” Michael confirmed. “Right?” “You got it.” Road sign: - Black Canyon, viewing area So, in no time at all (thanks to Michael’s lead foot—how the cops didn’t get us I don’t know), we had steadily climbed up from sea level to reach a huge mountain range and set of never ending canyons as far as we could see. The strange part was, the landscape reminded me of Flashback Alley so much, it was eerie. I’d never seen anything quite like these enormous, empty swimming pools made of jagged sandstone rock. There were craters and mounds and smoothed out rock formations that really did look like the work of one of those Eurotrash sculpture artists. As we passed by one of these canyons, I caught a glimpse of a deep

221

gar y de nne

passage that reminded me of the path I took during Flashback Alley. I’m sure it was just a coincidence. After a few seconds, the view was gone. With Michael’s driving, you barely got to see anything out the window longer than a few seconds. The edge of the road was a constant blur. We began another climb upward again, through the blown away rock that forged what was now I-70. Michael was revving the car like he wanted to get enough speed up to take off. “Dude, take it easy. We don’t wanna get stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with the friggin’ engine on fire.” “There ya go, check that out,” Michael said. “What?” “Who needs the Grand Canyon when you got this out ya window?” he exclaimed. We both just sat there in silence, looking out to a majestic view of the canyon (Black Canyon). The red rock and all the different colours of red, brown and orange sand and the small green shrubbery made the place a natural wonder. Felt like we were on top of the world. “Pull over.” “Why?” “‘Cos I wanna check this out. C’mon man … we need a break.” “No … you need a break and you’re getting one now,” Michael replied. Arrogant little shit he could be sometimes. “There-there-there!” I said, pointing at a turnoff to a viewing platform. (I thought stopping was the best chance to get the wheel back off him). “Shit,” Michael said, speeding past the exit. We missed it. “Sorry,” he said, “I’ll get the next one.” Up ahead we were fast catching up on yellow Mitsubishi. The only thing was, yellow Mitsubishi was stationary and had a cop car along side it with an officer leaning into its passenger window. “Michael! Cops!” I yelled. Michael tapped the accelerator and got the car outta cruise control as we began to slow down and ease off our speed. We passed by the cops and yellow 222

the matt zander journals

Mitsubishi doing about 5 above the limit. Guess they were too busy to worry about clocking us. “Here comes another exit,” I told Michael, just as we passed… Road sign: - Eagle Canyon “Take this one,” I said. “Got it.” “Right here.” “I said I got it,” Michael snapped, taking the ramp and pulling off I-70 onto what eventually became a gravel road leading to a small parking area and lookout over the canyon. Michael turned the engine off and we got outta the car, setting off the keys-inignition ding dings. “Grab the keys, let’s check it out,” I suggested, motioning Michael to shut the driver’s-side door and walk to the edge of the sprawling, mutha of a canyon in front of us. Around the edges, the cliffs of the canyon really did look like a layer cake with different layers of rock, coloured chocolate and toffee. On the horizon, I could see where we’d come from—I-70’s dual-lane highway trickled off, disappearing into the mountains. This wasn’t one of those at-one-with-nature, sound-of-one-hand-clapping, tree-falling-in-the-woods places, though. The sound of the I-70 traffic still reached us, trucks especially, and there was also a tough wind making its presence felt. It wasn’t Toronto cold, but the wind still had bite. Snow covered the canyon floor in a patchy, polka-dot kind of way with dark green shrubs scattered around the basin the only real sign of life. Other than that, it was just sand and rock. I half expected Billy The Kid and his gang to ride through on horseback down below us, or a majestic eagle to do a fly by and check us out. Neither happened. Michael walked to the edge of the canyon. For some reason, he went so close it made me freak. I mean … I hate heights. This guy, what did he do? He walked to the edge and started looking around in a daze, like any second he was gonna misstep and fall to certain death. Yep, I’m talking certain death here. This wasn’t a Disneyland ride—there were no safety barriers, no fences, no signs. Just a sheer drop down that nobody’d survive. And Michael was right there on the edge 223

gar y de nne

of the canyon, just about losing grip with each step he made in his beat-up, notread runners. The edge coulda’ crumbled. He coulda’ lost his footing. Part of the rock coulda’ gave way. He coulda’ been distracted and tripped. Anything was possible. But the guy just wasn’t worried. “Hey, watch the edge, it doesn’t look so safe,” I said eventually, after I couldn’t take watching him risk his life like that. I stayed a safe but respectable few steps back. “Yes, mom,” he replied all smart-ass-like. “Kinda puts your life in perspective, don’t it?” I said, as I looked out into the wideopen space. Take away the wind, the sound of passing traffic in the distance and the crunch of gravel on our shoes as we stood there and it would’ve been silent. “I wonder how far the Grand Canyon is from here?” I asked. “Hell knows,” Michael said. “I’ve always wanted to see stuff like this … nature, y’know? We live in these damn cities of concrete and steel and all the time this amazing nature stuff is just out here, waitin’ to be found.” “Yeah, well … whatever. Right now we don’t have time for all this tourist shit,” Michael moaned, looking back at me before returning to the canyon view in front of him. “Let’s get outta here.” I’d had pretty much enough of his trip schedule. “Jeesuz! Why do you wanna get to L.A. so bad—just tell me! We’ve got all the time in the world here,” I shouted at him. I was mad. Michael continued to stare out into the canyon, standing on the edge, as though any second he was gonna swan dive off. And, it was only at that moment did I begin to think that maybe he was actually gonna do it. Maybe he wanted to have another go at killing himself … do a good job of it this time round? My heart rate suddenly climbed. I tried to think of what to do. All I did was talk. I thought talking would at least let me work out his motives. I started to panic. I hadn’t seen this comin’. Shit. “Ah … hey, y’know … I guess we can get going,” I spluttered. “Call me crazy for tryin’ to make the most of all this. But, totally … we can go now if you want.” “I know what you’re thinking,” Michael said, looking out into the canyon, his back to me. 224

the matt zander journals

He turned around, still standing on the edge. I saw his eyes. They looked lost. I took a step closer towards him. “Look, maybe life sucks for you right now—I get that—but you have this chance right now to start over. Same as me. Don’t worry about L.A. It’ll still be there when we get there. Just try to make the most of this. We’re out on the open road. Alive. Free. Alotta people don’t get to do shit like this.” Michael didn’t reply. He just stared at me. “Look, I dunno what I’m trying to say,” I levelled to him. “Just promise me you’re not gonna do anything stupid? I promise we’ll get to L.A.” Ok. So I was never gonna have a career in counselling. I know. Sue me. Michael suddenly squatted down on the canyon edge. My heart just about burst. I thought he was gonna jump off, but he dangled his legs over the edge of the canyon and sat there with his arms planted back on the ground. I slowly took another step closer. Part of me wanted to get the hell outta there, but flashing through my mind, right then, was that maybe this was it. Maybe this was what everything had built up to. I was meant to save Michael from killing himself… I hesitated for a moment, nervous as hell, then slowly lowered myself down to the ground and carefully inched my way to the edge where he was sitting. I held onto an exposed rock with one hand as I dangled my legs over the edge and felt the nothingness below go through me like the biggest shiver you could imagine. I have to do this, I thought. I have to save him. Michael pulled a beaten up pack of smokes from his flannel shirt pocket and carefully opened them, pulling out a bent outta shape cigarette that looked like it’d seen better days. He reached into the back pocket of his denim jeans and pulled a lighter out, bringing it to the smoke. Final cigarette maybe? I thought. “Those things’ll kill ya,” I said softly, with very little energy. “Tell me about it.” Michael coughed a rapid-fire cough that would’ve made a great anti-smoking ad. But that was only in the back of my mind. In the front of my mind was that his cough was making his body shake so much, I thought the damn cliff was gonna give way and we were both gonna buy it. 225

gar y de nne

I can just imagine it now: - ‘Tonight on FOX! Unluckiest Ways to Die!’ “So, tell me … what’re you really gonna do in L.A.? Once we get there?” I asked, the first thing that came into my head. Michael thought for a second, then replied, “I haven’t figured that out yet. Is there any real point to this … goin’ halfway ‘cross the damn country?” In my head, silent alarms went off. Not good! Not good! “I dunno about you, but this trip’s everything to me. It’s all I’ve got. I don’t have a clue who I am anymore or where I’m going. I need this right now. I told you, it’ll work out. I know it will,” I said back. (no answer) “You don’t talk much about yourself, do you?” “No, I don’t,” Michael said, turning to look at me. (Okay, that was dumb. I admit). “I make a living out of squeegeeing windscreens at Queen and Spadina. Is that better?” (awkward silence) “How come when we were on the plane, when the engine blew, you didn’t freak out? I mean … you were like this damn monk or something, doing meditation trance shit. What the hell was that about?” Michael took another puff on his cigarette. He was halfway done with it. I didn’t want to know what was gonna happen when he finished. “You know, I have this theory about life,” Michael began. “Oh yeah?” He took another puff and paused. He flicked cigarette ash over the edge and it was taken by the wind. “Shit happens,” he stated, as he picked up a loose pebble and tossed it over the edge, watching it fall. “The world’s one big washing machine. Everything’s set to spin. You think you got control of all this? There’s no controlling this. You try to plan your life and it just laughs right back in your face.” I lost sight of the pebble and turned to him. “Y’know … being on the road, getting away from home, I thought it’d change things…” I replied, “I thought things’d be different. Like, when you imagine a moment in the future and you have this idea, a picture of how it’s going to be, but when it finally happens, it’s like … it doesn’t mean the same anymore? And it’s 226

the matt zander journals

never how you imagined it to be. It just becomes stuff that’s happening in your life—you never actually get to that life you always planned to have.” Michael took another puff, looking out to the horizon. “Hell, I’m not making sense right now, I know,” I said. As Michael reached the few remaining puffs on his cigarette, my heart rate rocketed up again. I needed to say something. Something to stop him from doing something crazy. My hands gripped the rocks I was clinging onto so hard they began to hurt. I was about to blab something when Michael turned to me, looked me in the eye and said, “Look, I’m not good at this kinda stuff, but … thanks.” “What for?” I asked, watching him suck a final puff on his smoke, before stubbing it out on one of the rocks nearby. “For all this,” he said, “and being someone who gives a damn.” “Anytime,” I answered. I watched Michael peer over the edge of the canyon for a second and I suddenly froze. I didn’t know what else to do. If this was what I was supposed to do—save his life—it looked like I was about to screw the whole thing up. Michael lifted his legs and stood up, right on the edge of the canyon again. He jumped up so fast, all I could do was turn to look at his beat up runners, their laces dangling down next to me. I felt that was going to be the last thing I saw of him. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and waited… I listened to the wind for several, long seconds. “We better get going,” I heard him say. When I opened my eyes, Michael was holding his hand out to me, offering to pull me up. For a moment, I hesitated, ‘cos I didn’t know what this guy’s deal was. I reached out slowly and he grabbed me, pulling me up from the edge. I stepped away as quick as I could, a little stunned he was still standing there. He turned and began to walk back to the car. I took one last look at the canyon behind me and breathed a quiet sigh of relief that was swallowed up by the wind. I started walking back along the trail, catching up to him. “We’re not gonna have to hug or anything now, are we?” he quipped. Smartass. But at least he was beginning to speak in actual sentences. 227

It was late afternoon, Maybe about 4:30 PM: I remember the road stretching as far into the distance as my eyes could see, disappearing into a split-screen horizon of black storm clouds and snow-capped mountains, and dry, orange-brown rock and desert sands below. After a good stretch of boringly straight, flat desert highway, we were about to begin climbing up again. We passed dozens of road signs and clicked over many miles in those remaining hours of the afternoon, towards Las Vegas. Leaving the canyon lookout, I was the one who jumped in the driver’s seat. Michael took up his usual spot leaning right back in the passenger’s seat so he could sleep. I’d taken the chance to grab back the wheel not only because Michael drove like a lunatic New York City cab driver, but because I just wasn’t sure if I trusted him completely. Meaning … I still had some suspicions since the canyon of whether he wanted to live. Maybe he just didn’t have the guts to throw himself off the canyon edge. There was something not right about the guy. Road sign: - SLIPPERY WHEN WET, NEXT 10 MILES Road sign: - WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS Is there anything that isn’t trying to kill us out here? I thought to myself. As Michael slept and we climbed up into stormy mountains again, I had some time to reflect. The troubling thing was, I could no longer remember much of my NDE experience. I no longer had any clear vision of what I’d seen or heard in the

228

the matt zander journals

afterlife. Things were a blur. I still knew it’d happened, but any vivid recollection was now gone. Needless to say, that really sucked. I felt like I’d lost my identity. They say your job’s your identity—it’s who you are. People who lose their jobs often have an identity crisis. Well, I lost my job, got shot, have no place to live, no friends and a growing credit-card bill which I got no real way of payin’ back. Add to that that I’ll never get the NDE back, and everything’s just super. Road sign: - ICY CONDITIONS, NEXT 3 MILES We headed back down through the winding mountain roads and I had to slow down to compensate for the icy road. It was raining. I had the wipers on full blast. They make that funny noise: low pitch—high pitch—low pitch—high pitch—low pitch—high pitch. These wipers sounded tired. Like me. The wind was blowing the car around and I wondered how Michael could sleep like he did. I clicked the radio on so as not to totally get consumed by my thoughts. Once we left the mountains behind, we finally came to the I-15 Junction and had a fork-in-the-road choice to make: I-15 Junction > Las Vegas, 243 Miles… We were closing in on Vegas. I couldn’t believe we’d come so far. I started thinkin’ about what it was gonna be like. How cool this was gonna be. Once we got there, I thought I might buy one of those taser stun guns so I could shock the crap outta Michael and get his ass moving again. But I guess I didn’t blame him for sleeping through the most boring parts of the trip. Driving down the highway, the noise of the tires on the road blending with the radio and filling the inside of the car, I realized Michael was my only friend in the world. It was me and him. I wonder what it’d be like to have a tonne of friends? To be one of those guys that everyone’s climbing over to be friends with? I remember some of the kids in high school being like that—having, like, 60 or 70 friends. Huge social networks. 229

gar y de nne

Connections to all sorts of people. I never had that. I’ve never had that. I’ve always been able to count my friends on one hand (fingers left over, too). After heading south on I-15 for 50-odd miles, I heard Michael move his head on the seat and I turned to see his eyes open. He was finally awake. We were still travelling through the same boring, flat, orange-rock, brown-sand landscape, and to tell the truth, the novelty had worn off and I was as much sick of it than I was of a dumping of snow. Much like Michael, at that point, I just wanted to get to L.A., too. “We’re about 200 miles from Vegas,” I said aloud. “Sounds like a movie,” Michael said, as he briefly coughed and spluttered. He slowly reached down under the seat and wrestled with the levers, trying to adjust his seat back upright. His coughing was starting to get worse. “Hey, if you’re gonna die can you at least wait ‘til we get to a gas station or something,” I asked, jokingly. Michael leaned back in his seat, having given up trying to adjust it upright. He continued to cough his guts up. Why people smoke, I just dunno? “Hey, you okay?” “Super,” he managed, in between coughs. “Have some water.” There was a bottle of spring water from our last gas stop in the cup holder. Michael reached for it and swigged a few mouthfuls. He put his head back on the headrest and exhaled a long breath. I thought he might have some kinda super flu or something. And I damn well didn’t wanna get it. That’d be all I needed— lying in an L.A. hotel bed, shaking with some flu for ten days. Perfect. I lowered my window down a little to let some air in to breathe other than the flu particles coming from Michael’s direction. “Hey, how ‘bout we pull over?” I suggested. Michael didn’t answer. He was still spluttering. He wasn’t dying, but he sounded damn awful. And looked pale. I glanced at the dash. “We’ve driven 570 miles,” I said. “Whaddaya say we stop someplace up ahead? We can go to a drug store if you need anything—Tylenol or somthin’?”

230

the matt zander journals

So that’s when I expected to hear a barrage of dialogue from Michael about how we just had to get to L.A. and we needed to keep driving, blah-blah-blah, we don’t have time for this shit, blah-blah-blah. But it never came. I think the flu had really got to him. “Michael?” I asked, waiting for him to say something. We were coming up on a town called Cedar City. I couldn’t make much of it from the highway, but I could see all the usual suspects towering into the sky on large, fly-swat-style neon signs—McDonalds, Arbys, Burger King, Best Western, Comfort Inn, Denny’s, Econo Lodge and the like. At the exit ramp, I slowed down and pulled off I-15. Cedar City, Utah was a small town nestled in rugged hills, spectacular rock formations, and sheer cliffs of orange and white, gradually dissolving into red rose and browns at the bottom. On the peaks of the mountains, fresh snow was dumped like sprinkles over an ice-cream cone. In a 360-degree sweep, narrow, rugged canyons, coloured in striking shades of red were all around us in what was otherwise the middle of nowhere. Turning onto the main street, I started scanning for a place to stay the night. There was a whole bunch. Hotel chains up the ying-yang. Along with fast-food outlets. Not a lot of traffic was about. It seemed a sleepy little desert town. I drove slow past an Econo Lodge and was mesmerized by their red and white neon sign and a scrolling ticker ad. It flashed at me. It spoke to me. In so many ways. On so many levels. I just stared at it. I was at its command: HOT TUB! FREE CABLE! $37 OVERNIGHT! ROOMS AVAILABLE! We pulled in. The Cedar City Econo Lodge was a white-walled, twin-story hotel, with a red tiled roof and manicured garden grounds. I spied an outdoor pool and spa at the back of the place and my heart sank a little, ‘cos there was no way I was gonna strip naked outdoors unless the pool was heated … and it didn’t look heated. It didn’t 231

gar y de nne

look in active duty at all. I parked the car out front in the reception lane drivethrough and got out. “Just a sec.” “’K,” Michael said, back to one-word answers. Looked like his flu was starting to hit him. He looked drained. Inside the Econo Lodge, I walked past a complimentary coffee bar inside the door and up to the hotel desk, manned by a cute, redhead local girl. To cut a long story short, we had some chitchat and she asked us where we were from and what we were doing a long way from home after I’d showed her my Ontario driver’s licence for ID. I kinda wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, anyways. My mind was elsewhere, looking back to the car to see Michael lying back in the passenger’s seat, really out of it. Thing is, there’s nothing you can do when you start to feel sick. Just sucks having to suffer through it. No fun at all. On top of that, like I said, the reception girl was cute, so I had a 30-second fantasy running through my mind of how maybe hotel reception girls out in these parts were always looking to hook-up with guys just passing through, slipping into their room for some one-night-only fun. But then I snapped out of it—back to reality—and signed the guest card she pushed towards me. “How would you like to pay?” she asked. “Credit.” (Back to reality really sucks). “Your room’s 226,” she said, with a courteous, polite smile. (Not a naughty, youcan-have-me-after-midnight one). I stopped by the coffee bar on the way out. Reception girl told me to help myself so that’s exactly what I did. I got back in the car and started it up, pulling away from the reception and into a spot next to a few rows of semi-trailer rigs, near the side entrance to the rooms. “Michael, we’re here,” I said, getting no reply. After we got to the room, I left Michael in the shower and headed back down to the spa/pool outdoors. Call me nuts, but after driving 500 miles I was hanging out for a way to unwind and this was it. Lucky for me, the spa was heated, so there I was sitting in the hot tub at the Econo Lodge Motel, looking out over a mountain range covered in snow. It was freezing cold outside, but as long as that spa was 232

the matt zander journals

boiling, I was lovin’ it. All that was missing was Jennifer Garner in the tub with me. Naked. And horny. For me. (I just had to put that in there to jazz this up a bit). I decided to check out my chest and see how it looked. I left the sticky-tape stuff they’d put over the stitches, but took the bandages off ‘cos they were giving me hell (they itch). I wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping them dry in the spa anyways, so I figured it wasn’t gonna matter. Sitting there in the warm swirling water, hell … nothin’ much mattered at all. All the aches and pains melted away. I’ve learnt there’s nothing like a hot tub after a long day’s driving. I can’t believe how far we drove today. Less Michael’s maniac driving, I drove about 500 miles. Denver to Cedar City, Utah. I’ve never driven that far before in my life. I was in the zone. I just thought, man, we have to do this. We have to get to L.A. Anyways … as much as I didn’t wanna leave that hot tub, I thought I better go check on Michael. It was strange. Something just didn’t add up. He was just one of those mystery guys. You never knew what he was thinking. I didn’t wanna get out of the spa, though. Hell, no. It was so cold out. I had to be strong-willed, lifting myself up outta that hot tub. I gritted my teeth, grabbed the room towel I had with me, and bolted towards the guest access entrance as the cool breeze just about made me freeze solid. I swiped my keycard and the red light came on. (beep). I swiped it again. (beep). Red light. I turned the card over. Swiped. (beep). Damn that friggin’ red light! I had to go to reception and get ‘reception girl’ to program me another card. I used the towel to cover my chest (bullet wound probably not a turn-on) and furiously dried my hair off before stepping inside the carpeted reception. As I passed by a mirror, I saw my hair. Looked like I’d stuck a finger in a power socket. *** The only time I ever cried, other than as a kid, was watching Wilson The Volleyball slowly drift away from Tom Hanks in the movie Castaway. I’m serious. Well, okay. Maybe felt like crying. I remember screaming at the screen: ‘Wake the fuck up! Wilson’s floating away! Ya gotta save him. Ya gotta.’ 233

gar y de nne

That volleyball had more personality than half the girls I’ve dated. Wilson was a volleyball with a face painted on it. But he was real. Tom Hanks’ character talked to him ‘cos he had no one else to talk to stranded on that island. He imagined all the answers he got back. But then when Hanks set sail and left the island, Wilson got lost at sea. That hurt. So did Michael telling me he had cancer. *** Back in the room, Michael was lying on the couch watching TV when I got back from the spa. “You okay?” I asked him, as I shut the door behind me. “Fine. How was the hot tub?” “You got no idea … after driving all day, man, did that hit the spot or what.” I threw my towel down on one of the beds and walked over to the window, checking our panoramic view of a gravelled, semi-trailer parking lot. Oh, and I should say here that Econo Lodge rooms are comfortable enough. We have red carpet, red curtains, two queen beds and whitewashed walls with that weird, patterned paint-blob stuff sprayed all over. The TV reception’s still screwed, though. I’m beginning to think hotels enjoy pissing off guests by having the shittiest TV reception on the planet. “What you watching?” I asked, turning back to Michael. “Just a movie,” he said. He seemed to be in no mood for talking. “Wanna go get something to eat? I’m just gonna shower.” “’K.” I watched the TV for a few seconds before heading to the bathroom. Michael seemed as though he’d gotten his cough under control. I noticed a couple of pill containers on the bedside table and wondered what he was taking. I didn’t wanna be nosy.

234

the matt zander journals

3:48 AM: So tired right now. But I’m still lying here awake. I can’t fall asleep. How does that make sense? I wanna sleep … but can’t. My eyes are wide open. My mind is alert. I have a bit more writing to do—I wanna finish the stuff that happened today— then I’m gonna put this down and go wander the streets if I can’t sleep. Maybe I’ll bump into ‘reception girl’ wandering the hotel hallways. Now that would be cool… After I had a shower … it was about 6 p.m. … Michael and I headed out and walked to a Denny’s Restaurant that I’d spotted from the hot tub, practically right next door to the hotel. Denny’s is this American chain of diners that seem to be dotted all over the country. Inside, a server showed us to a booth on one of the walls and we sat down in the near-empty restaurant. Sparkling birthday decorations hung from the ceiling, either in preparation or in the aftermath of some kid’s big day. Servers were catching up with each other, making jokes and talking before the busy night shift. For a second, I noticed a couple in a booth on the other side of the restaurant. They were eating together alone and I wondered how a couple—married, I’m sure—could ever get to that stage of a relationship. The woman had a futuristiclooking headset on her head with a mouthpiece microphone coming down to her mouth. Looked like she was on standby to land the damn space shuttle. She was power-talking away and waving her fork around in the air to no one in particular, making her point to the person on the other end of the line, while her husband(?) just sat there like a lost soul, eating his meal and gazing around the empty restaurant like a beaten jackass. I turned back to Michael. “Feelin’ ok?” “I’m fine,” Michael said. The server came back in about a minute flat and began telling us all the specials. Forget the specials, shove the specials up your ass, I hate the specials, I thought, as she buzzed around us like a caffeine maniac who’d given herself unlimited coffee refills her entire shift. What else are you gonna do in a small town like this?

235

gar y de nne

After ordering (Me: prime rib, Michael: scrambled eggs), we sat back in the leather-backed booth and relaxed. The thing with Denny’s is they have this kingsliced fried bread with some kind of special butter on it. It’s as thick as the booth tabletop, I swear. And it’s heaven. Sitting down to that kick-ass meal after a day of driving and sitting in a car seat for way too many hours was so damn perfect. Ok, so I admit the idea of driving to L.A. sounded way easier than it’s actually been. I could’ve fallen asleep in that booth, I was so tired. “So, L.A. tomorrow?” Michael said, anxiously playing with a sugar packet. “What if we reach Vegas tomorrow … stay a night or two, then do the home stretch once you’re rested up?” I asked with enthusiasm. “Whatever,” Michael said, unimpressed. “Jeez … it’s only Vegas—try not to sound too excited,” I said in sarcasm, as the waitress arrived at the table with our meals. As I started slicing up steak and shoving it in my mouth like I hadn’t eaten for a month, I said with a good dose of contentment, “Y’know what? This, right here? This is good. This. Is. Good. Do you feel that? I feel like I’m finally starting to get this whole journey thing. Maybe it was that damn spa, but I haven’t felt this good in a long time.” Man, this steak… Heaven on the end of a fork, I thought as I chewed. “I’m sick,” Michael said, poking his eggs in slo-motion. “Yeah, I figured as much,” I replied, stuffing another mouthful of food in my mouth and talking at the same time, “what with that cough and all. Don’t worry—good immune system here. Lots of germ exposure when I was growing up. My mom didn’t believe in cleaning. Cough all you want.” “I have cancer,” Michael said. Suddenly, the waitress popped up outta nowhere, like she’d somehow teleported in, and said in an overly enthused voice, “And how is everything? Everything OK here?” There was a long moment of silence. She stood there with a smile on her face that woulda’ blocked out the sun, waiting for a word from either one of us that she was free to go and we were taken care of. 236

the matt zander journals

It was the longest moment of my life. I took a lifetime to softly say to her, “We’re fine. Thank you.” She walked off, happy. I turned to Michael. “Whaddaya mean?” I asked, stunned out of my mind. I stopped eating. All I did was cling onto my cutlery. I suddenly lost my appetite. “Cancer … you’ve heard of cancer, right?” Michael asked sarcastically. It was a strange moment. A moment of role reversal. Because in the minutes that followed, I just sat there with my mouth open, stunned outta my brain while Michael did the talking for a change. From the corner of my eye, I saw the colourful, shiny birthday decorations hanging from the ceiling above us and wished they had’ve dropped down and turned into oxygen masks so I could get breath back into my body. Everything in that moment changed. I could tell Michael had built up to saying what he had maybe wanted to say for a while, but just hadn’t found the right moment. “I don’t know what to say,” I said quietly. “Say anything you like—it won’t change anything.” “Is it…” “It is,” Michael interrupted, reading the question from the look in my eyes, “it was too far gone when they found it. I’m gonna die.” I planted my hands firmly on the table. I left my prime rib alone. All I could do was listen to Michael, noticing silly things around me like the bubbles rising to the surface of my Coke, and the hot pink colour of the Sweet’N Low packets in the condiment tray. “A couple of months ago,” he began calmly, “I had a sore back. I figured spending a few years homeless, sleeping on sidewalks, subway steps and sewer grates is gonna catch up with your body eventually. When I moved into the shelter late December, it got worse and my shoulder started killing me. They sent me to a doctor. It started in my bones. Spread to my lungs. I had two choices: intense chemo or spending a coupla’ months with family. Guess it’s a good thing I ain’t got any, huh?” We both sat there in silence while other tables around us continued dining, laughing, talking, sharing meaningless stories and complaining about their food or asking servers for a different brand of ketchup. 237

gar y de nne

Michael looked into my eyes with a glazed look of hopelessness. “When I tried to end my life, I just wanted it to be on my terms—not some damn cancer eating me away. Guess I wasn’t meant to kill myself, huh? Sure, you can say maybe the doctors got it wrong, or keep thinkin’ all that positive vibe bullshit, but you know when it’s got ya. Trust me. It’s a feeling you get. Life has a sick sense of humour, don’t it? Makin’ me see this through ‘til the end…” “Jesus christ,” I whispered, “I dunno what to say?” “I told you,” he replied, “shit happens.” “Is there anything I can do? Say it and it’s done. I swear.” Michael stared at me with that brooding look of his. “Just don’t get all soft on me,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing…” “Anything?” I said, hanging on his next words. “Let’s make it to that damn ocean.” After we got back to the room, Michael stayed in the bathroom for a while and proceeded to cough and splutter for five minutes straight. He kept insisting he was fine, but we both knew he wasn’t. Everything about him before then suddenly clicked with me as I sat on the couch. His coughing. Tiredness. No energy. It made sense now. Sitting there, I felt so hopeless to do anything. I spun out of control, but stayed perfectly still. I gazed at the plastic hotel cups wrapped in a plastic, protective bag. The ice bucket with an Econo Lodge logo stamped on the side. Little shampoo bottles. Little face towels. A tiny sewing kit. A local directory to tourist sites, laundromats and pizza delivery. Never in my life, listening to Michael’s cough behind the closed door of the bathroom, have I felt life had let me down. I had my health. I should be happy. I should be thankful. But I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. 4:12 AM: As I write this, and as I’ve written about everything that happened today, Michael’s been sleeping (snoring) in the bed next to me, just like old times in hospital. Outside, it’s still. The hotel is dead quiet. I’m probably the only damn guy who’s awake in this town. 238

the matt zander journals

I just can’t begin to imagine being told by doctors I only had months to live. I’ve been trying to sit here and think of what I’d do, but I’m not entirely sure I’d do anything. How could I even go on living if I knew I didn’t have a future? I understand Michael now. Before, when I met him, I would’ve written him off as a moody loner who spoke in single words. Now I understand the life he’s been living. What I don’t understand, though, is how he can be so damn calm about it. Maybe the cancer’s made him too sick or too tired to worry. Too tired to even think. Life is a fucking joke. Some sick fuck’s idea of a joke. It makes me so fucking mad that God or the friggin’ universe or whoever the hell’s up there can totally screw someone over who’s done nothin’ wrong in their life, and more to the point, has had to struggle with shit most don’t have to. I never even realized he was homeless ‘til he told me? I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I guess I didn’t add it all up. Why did this happen? Why does a guy like Michael have to go through this when people out there are committing crimes and raping and killing and beating and torturing, and they get to live a full, healthy life? Tell me that, higher power … you motherfucker. Kiss my ass. If I ever find you in the next life I’m gonna beat the shit outta you until you tell me the fucking meaning of all this. TELL ME THE FUCKING MEANING. Tell me. I wanna scream a barrage of expletives like a Tourette’s patient—mother fuckershit-cocksucker-bitch-ass-shit-fuck—but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I feel so empty. I still can’t sleep. I thought I was tired, but just like last night, I’m lying here gazing around the room, the semi-warm glow of my bedside lamp like a campfire. I can’t stop thinking about it. Michael. Cancer. Cancer. Michael. Today has been the longest day of my life. Well, I should say yesterday as it’s early morning now, but fucking sue me. I feel so defeated. Disillusioned. Deflated. Just when you think you’ve got some kind of rhythm going with life, 239

gar y de nne

when you think things are starting to make sense and life has a meaning, it goes and drops a bucket of piss in your lap. No one’d understand how helpless I feel right now. Helpless because of Michael’s cancer and helpless because it blows away any theory I was hoping to build up about life having a meaning and me having something special here to do. It’s gone. It’s over. There’s nothing special about life. There’s nothing special here at all. We’re all just spinning outta control. Just like Michael said. The journey can go fuck itself.

240

Day 5, Heading to Vegas, It was about 10:30 AM: “What’s up with you?” Michael blurted out, as we tore down I-15, having left Cedar City behind. I remember glancing up at the heavens, in between watching the road in front of us, having spotted several vapour trails from jets heading west, just like us. I’d almost forgotten what clear weather was like—a million miles of improvement over a dull, grey T.O. day. From the corner of my eye, I could see Michael staring at me, waiting for an answer, and I knew he meant why had I been so quiet since leaving Econo Lodge, than why the occasional upward glance into blue nothingness. I didn’t say anything. I was too preoccupied with my thoughts. Too many questions were in my head. He got sick of waiting and eventually turned away, annoyed. Having showered and sat down to breakfast at Denny’s while Michael slept late, I felt refreshed enough, physically speaking, to be back on the road, clocking over the miles again. But I hadn’t slept at all. Not a wink, not a Z, not a yawn. Nothing. I couldn’t stop thinking about what all this really meant. Life, I mean. This trip. What we were doing. After all, it was just another day. Nothing had changed. Sometimes, though, you can’t see what’s right in front of you. ***

241

gar y de nne

We had a CD of mine playing in the car. Sheryl Crow … Tuesday Night Music Club. I stole that CD. I stole all my CDs. Got that one from a guy’s apartment on Elm St. No one notices missing stuff at parties. I remember a girl from that party. Why is it that some things stay with you, while others fade away? She was a lawyer. While I talked to her, I remember her giving head to her beer bottle. It was Halloween. She came dressed as gum stuck underneath a school desk. She had a grey body stocking on. A papier-mâché school desk for a hat. I don’t know why I’m remembering this right now. I’m only writing down what’s on my mind, just as I’ve been doing all along. I didn’t get dressed up for that party. I never did for Halloween. I just turned up in normal stuff, and when people asked, I said I was a “Gen-X grunge loner dude.” *** Michael was staring out the window, watching the landscape change before our eyes into denser, drier vegetation. It was cold out, but nothing the two of us couldn’t laugh off compared to back home temps. A deep blue backdrop blended with wispy cloud and set the scene in front of us, while persistent snow covered the mountain peaks and flat tabletop plateaus, far in the distance. “I’d never have told you if I knew you were gonna go all weird on me,” he said, frowning as he kept his gaze outside. I glanced at him for a second. He was leaning up against the passenger car door. If that door lock failed, he would’ve gone flyin out onto the road at 90 miles per hour. At least now I understood why he was walking the fine line at the canyon yesterday. He didn’t care if he died. “I’m fine,” I replied back, “just watchin’ the road.” (a lie). Michael paused for a second, then said, “It’s not the way I thought my life’d be … it’s just the way it is.” “How can you sit there and be so casual about it?” I complained to him, keeping my eyes on the road and a truck ahead of us. “How can you be all, ‘By-the-wayI’ve-got-cancer-and-it’s-no-big-deal’?” “How should I be? Huh? Tell me Mr. Spiritual Awakening … how should a guy who’s told he has a month left—two at the most—be feeling?” Michael shouted back at me. 242

the matt zander journals

First time I ever heard him raise his voice like that. I didn’t answer. I just drove on. Past the truck. Breakneck speed. I drove angry. We both let Sheryl do the talking (singing). The music prevented awkward silence. After a while, Michael told me, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. But I don’t wanna do this. I don’t wanna think about it or analyse the why like you do. All I know is I have cancer. I’m gonna die. Thinking about it, talking about it, wondering why me—none of that’s gonna change the fact, okay?” “’K,” I agreed softly. Michael paused for a moment and then said angrily, “Shit happens…” He moved his legs and all the empty coffee cups on the passenger seat floor were stirred by his feet. I did the same in my seat every once in a while. You had to. Driving like this made your ass go numb. Nothing more was said for a while... We reached Grand Canyon country. Looking out to the horizon, I knew we must’ve been close to the actual Grand Canyon, ‘cos out the window looked just like I’d always imagined the place to be. It must be one big area, right? All combined? Anyways, it was amazing. There was an orange/reddish rock and really long stretches of highway again, as far as the eye could see. Joshua trees (only know their name ‘cos’a U2) and other types of cacti were dotted all across the landscape, right up to the edge of the highway. “We can keep goin’ if you want? It’s your call,” I offered Michael. “Vegas,” he replied. “We’ll do Vegas.” There was a tonne of stuff left unsaid in the car heading to Vegas. We both knew it. But I promised myself there in the car, I wouldn’t ask Michael about his cancer again. I tried to imagine myself in his shoes and knew it’d be the last thing I’d wanna hear someone ask me about. So, for a while, we went back to sentences of fewer than ten words. “Okay,” I said. “Vegas it is.” Road sign: - Arizona State Line: Welcome to Arizona, the Grand Canyon State

243

gar y de nne

The scenery changed to a rugged, barren, we’re on another planet-type look. The rock was so red, it made me think that Hollywood must’ve done movies out here when they wanted a place for the planet Mars. Either that or when they wanted some big ass rocks to film. We started to climb upwards again, leaving the flat desert plains, and began to head into another red rock canyon. I followed the winding road as I glanced to either side of me momentarily, viewing large boulders and spectacular formations. The strangest part of all the canyon driving we’d done was that this last particular canyon we drove through before reaching Vegas seemed so familiar. As we reached the peak, I swore I saw trails that looked like the very same I’d walked through in my near-death experience. All I can write here is that that’s what I remember from today, going through that final canyon before we got to Vegas. Maybe I was imagining things. I guess those kinds of rock patterns all look the same after a while. But the vision was still in my head, nevertheless, and was bugging the hell outta me… What if it was Flashback Alley? How could that even be remotely possible? There’s so much stuff in my head that doesn’t make sense anymore. There’s answers I wanna have in this life that I don’t think I’ll get ‘til the next. And that bugs the hell outta me. What good is this life if I can’t get the answers I’m looking for? Part of me says I should let all this NDE stuff go—all this life/death/meaning stuff. Part of me’s been thinking I’m never gonna get an answer to what I have to do. But I don’t know if I can let go. Am I supposed to sit back and play slot machines ‘til I die? Anyways … as we began winding down the other side of the canyon, leaving it behind, I had a lot on my mind. For starters: Did I really see Flashback Alley for real, or was my mind just messin’ with me? (minds can do that sometimes). Not able to know for sure, and with no place to stop on the side of the road for a better look, we continued to drive and returned to the flat desert again, through Arizona for all of 15 minutes before reaching Nevada. We were close to Vegas.

244

the matt zander journals

*** My top 5 memories: - (no order, memories that didn’t mean shit at the time) 1. Montreal road trip w/ Eric, James and Steve (James’ hockey buddy). They have great strip clubs in Montreal. And the buildings are all old n’ shit. 2. St. Thomas Xmas w/ Karen & Mel (sisters). It was a white Christmas. We played board games. I shovelled their parents’ driveway. We went to Canadian Tire. We stayed up late. 3. Summer nights in T.O., out on Queen West. Much Music Junos concert. Sunglasses @ Tex-Mex. I was so drunk. Gypsy Co-op. Me and Eric used to hit on all the U of T girls. I told girls I was a screenwriter. Eric was an actor. 4. Saturdays. Eric, James and me in the city. Matinee movie @ Uptown. Coffee and improv on College St. Get takeout. Go to 7-11 and people-watch. Get home in time for, ‘Live from New York … it’s Saturday Night!’ 5. The memory of me actually having a life. A normal life. It blows having to write this, ‘cos now I don’t. I lost something I took for granted. Just moments. Looking back, I know the best things in life happened back then. The best things always happen when you’re not paying attention. Okay. So I get it. I should’ve appreciated what I had. *** Road sign: - Welcome to Nevada

245

gar y de nne

We’d only just passed into Nevada when the casinos started popping up like zits on a young kid’s oily face. Outta nowhere, it started with one called the Eureka Casino, right after the state line, and then they just kept on comin’. Big hotels and casinos with golf courses as green as … I dunno, as green as the astroturf in SkyDome, all out in the middle of the desert. Where the hell did the people come from that went to these things? The parking lots were full and we hadn’t even reached Vegas yet. And the billboards were the same as the casinos—huge, colourful, widescreen things sprang up outta nowhere on both sides of I-15, advertising nothing else but Sin City: casinos, adult megastores and $5.99 prime-rib dinners. Driving that last 20 minutes, as the traffic built up more and more and the required concentration level rose up a few notches, I think I’d reached my limit of how much driving a guy could take. I was done. After this trip, I never want to see another car, long stretch of grey road or endless white road lines ever again. Michael, too, he looked tired. He’d been coughing every so often for the last hour. Just little bursts that didn’t seem to ever quit bugging him. I think all said n’ done, we were both happy to see road signs counting down the miles to Vegas. Even Michael—despite previous protests—was hanging out for a break. I could tell. The road trip—driving through the barren landscapes, sitting on our asses and listening to the road noise so much I could still hear it in my head whenever we were stopped at a gas station—had taken all the energy and excitement away of actually arriving into a place like Vegas. “Michael,” I announced. “Check it out…” Michael pulled himself up from his slouched position in the passenger’s seat and squinted out through the front windshield, stretching his arms out like he’d been in carbon freezing for a few decades. And there she was … in the distance. Las Vegas. On the horizon, in the middle of nowhere, a cluster of towers, casinos and hotels littered the landscape like someone’d mixed a few billion tonnes of cement, glass and steel on the desert floor and hoped for the best. I wish I could write something cool here, like a fancy wordsmith’d piece on arriving into Vegas by car

246

the matt zander journals

and what the city represented, but I’m not really good at that kinda thing. So sue me. Speeding down I-15, getting closer and closer, all I remember thinking was Vegas looked completely different to how I’d imagined it’d be (big surprise). Honestly, I don’t know what I’d imagined, but what I was looking at sure wasn’t it. A night arrival might’ve been the ideal way to go in hindsight, to see the city lights sparkling and growing as you made your approach—the glamour, glitz and darkness hiding the ugly industrial-type outskirts and trashed up warehouses. But at noon, midday, there was nothing glamorous to it (see: trashed warehouses and ugly industrial theme, above). I could see some kind of tower or sky needle that shot up higher than anything else, towering over the other buildings. But otherwise, it was just a city in the flat desert, below low-level mountain ranges with snow-capped peaks. Nothing special at all. Road sign: - Los Angeles, 336 Miles I-15 began to veer off to the right of Vegas, and as we sped along the freeway, amongst the heaviest traffic since leaving Denver, the hotels started to pass us by. I was trying to concentrate on the road—cars on my ass and insane lunatics changing lanes every second right in front of us. “Whenever you’re ready, now’d be a good time to pull off,” Michael said, watching the cluster of Vegas casinos pass by on our left. “I’m trying … I just need to get the hell over,” I said, switching glances from the front to the rear vision mirror, waiting for the chance to move to the exit lane. “We’re gonna pass right by it,” Michael complained. “Why are you so worried, anyway … thought you hated Vegas?” I said incidentally. “Try this one,” Michael said, pointing to the exit sign fast approaching: #38B—Flamingo Rd East

247

gar y de nne

(Not sure why I keep remembering all these streets and names and stuff, but they’re all in my head. I used to be crap at remembering the details of life). Once we pulled off I-15 and looped round to exit the freeway, we followed Flamingo Road for a bit and then reached Las Vegas Blvd. This was it. This was Vegas. We were about to pull onto the Strip. “You gotta be shitting me…” Michael exclaimed, staring out the window at these huge, monster hotels and casinos all around us. I swear, everywhere you looked, there were towering walls of hotel room windows, all built for perfect views up and down the Strip. Stopping at the intersection, I checked for oncoming traffic and quickly took a couple of seconds to glance up at a few myself, just as the car behind us lost its patience and honked for us to get moving. One was called Paris, complete with Eiffel Tower. A friggin’ Eiffel Tower for crissakes… Another was called Bally’s. And there was this one called Bellagio that was just unfuckinbelievable. Imagine these giant, beige-coloured dominos laid out on their sides, lines of hotel room windows dotted all over ‘em, sitting right on the edge of a big-ass mass of turquoise water, a man-made lake just slap-bang in the middle of the Strip, as though the developers fucked up and got their plans mixed up with a hotel built on the Italian Riviera. “Am I seeing things? Or is that a damn ocean in the middle of the street?” I said in disbelief, as we sailed past Bellagio and started to cruise down the Strip. For a start, it was one of the widest roads I think I’ve ever driven on. It was damn near twelve lanes wide, with a garden/palm-tree-lined corridor down the centre. On either side of us, were some of the biggest hotels in the world—had to be, I’m sure. I buzzed the car windows down, mine and Michael’s. I’d say it would’ve been twenty degrees out there—not exactly a heat wave, but when you put it in perspective, going from -40° snow flurries, black ice, freezing rain and skinburning wind chill shit to a sunny, blue sky, 20-degree day … well, do the math. Twenty was so warm for us. And it felt so fucking nice. Cruising down the Strip, I was glad the traffic was heavy ‘cos it gave us a good chance to just stare out at casino after casino, each one almost impossibly bigger and more luxurious than the last. Crowds of people were on the 248

the matt zander journals

sidewalks, and it seemed like every damn casino had tourists, frat boys, college girls and family vacationers streaming in and out of their entrances. “So what’s the plan,” Michael asked me. “Guess we find ourselves a hotel?” I shrugged. Not having a clue where we were or where we were headed, all I did was soak up the place for the first time. You only ever get one first impression, right? But the thing was, as much as I’d wanted it to be, I didn’t have any kinda crazy excitement level. I wasn’t tingling with anticipation. I wasn’t ooooh-ing and ahhhh-ing as we drove past these massive casinos. If I had to say exactly what I was feeling right then and be totally honest … I was bored. And tired. I knew I shouldn’t have been. So many parts of me were saying, ‘Hey, you should be so pumped up about this!’ But I wasn’t. What made me that way, I don’t know? Well … the NDE has made me that way, but I don’t know why, is more to the point. We stopped at traffic lights and found ourselves at New York, New York, a casino modelled on the skyline of New York City. They had everything, a mini Statue of Liberty, a Brooklyn Bridge out front, the Chrysler building, and of course an Empire State replica. A rollercoaster tracked its way around the city façade, too. Opposite, on the other side of the boulevard was MGM Grand. It was this huge mother of a hotel with green and black stripes, and a huge ‘MGM’ in gold letters on the biggest hotel sign I’ve ever seen. That was the thing with all these places—every casino had these huge animated signs out the front of their property with TV screens going non-stop, flashing and dancing, trying to get your attention as one half of your brain told the other half to keep its eyes on the road. Every casino promoted their ‘erotic’ stage shows or ‘best buffet in town’—just stuff to pass the time in between gambling, and to get guests of other casinos into the place to see what they were missing out on. Maybe they did just wanna distract the shit out of you so you crashed outside their casino and decided to come in? What else these signs were there for … beat the hell outta me. The longest I’d stand on the sidewalk and crane my neck sky-high to look at any of ‘em would be, oh, I’d say about .5 of a second. But, hey … that’s just me. So we took off from the lights and drove past a medieval castle hotel-casino, then a big-ass black pyramid with Egyptian shit all over the place. Finally, the last 249

gar y de nne

one on the Strip was this huge, off-white, really cool looking resort called Mandalay Bay, right next door to the pyramid, Luxor. Now, any of these casinos would’ve been great to drive into, have the valet park the car and have us up in a suite in minutes flat, looking out over the Strip and sipping a pina colada, okay? But it didn’t take a lot to realize whatever any of those guys charged for rooms, I couldn’t afford it. Hell, I couldn’t afford shit. “Hold on, I’ll swing back round,” I said to Michael. Past Mandalay Bay, I couldn’t see much at all. To our left, the airport was starting to come into view with planes coming and going. At the next intersection, I spun the car around and did a U-turn, and we were quickly heading back up the Strip on the other side. I figured this was a tourist thing to do anyways, as we looked for a hotel that was more … well, less expensive. Tourist sign: - Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada Well, that’s what the sign said as we drove past it. I imagined Sinatra belting out a tune, but it just didn’t happen. There were only sounds of traffic, sounds of car engines, and sounds of planes in the distance. “Where the hell do they get the money to build shit like this?” Michael said, the mother of casino real estate ahead of us, all stacked next to each other. We drove back past MGM and no sooner came to another Egyptian-y one called Aladdin. Then we hit Paris again, Bally’s, and the intersection where we started. Heading north, towards the tower I spotted from I-15 and the city limits, there was Flamingo, Harrah’s, Caesars Palace on the other side, Mirage and Venetian. I should be listing these out, I guess? Caesars Palace: - Caesars Palace was a casino I’d heard about but never actually seen a picture of. The gardens were amazing. Green, manicured gardens that were like they were taken straight from Eden, and these huge stone fountains and statues shooting water high up into the air. There were angels blowing trumpets, half-horse, half-dragons—that kinda thing. Real mystical shit, all carved in white stone as bright as a Hollywood celeb’s teeth.

250

the matt zander journals

The only thing that ruined the joint were the scores of powerlines running all over the place—power towers as tall as 100-year-old pines, shooting up into the air. Thing is, without 20 gigawatts of electricity jacked into this city, I’m pretty sure the place wouldn’t exist. Even during the day, you could almost feel a buzz in the air, sucking power stations dry. As we stopped at Indy 500-style traffic lights, letting hundreds of people cross from one casino and straight into another, I felt the Caesars Palace statues staring at me with their beady little white eyes. As though they were one of those statues you see in haunted houses where the eyes watch you from above as you walk through the place, scared shitless. I felt like these statues were looking at me, sizing me up… ‘How much you gonna spend, punk? You better not be a cheapskate. We don’t take kind ‘ta cheapskates. Vegas don’t give a shit who you are. Vegas only cares about how much you gonna spend. You hear me? Yeah, that’s right. I’m talkin’ to you, Neon Dodge. How much you gonna spend, punk?’ Okay, maybe I have an overactive imagination. Venetian: - The Venetian was a resort totally decked out like Venice, Italy. Not that I know anything about Venice, but it wasn’t half-obvious. All this grand architecture and pillars and columns and shit. But it all looked too perfect. There were man-made waterways with chlorine-filled smoky green water weaving in and out of the place. I saw about a billion tourists all standing in front of a gondola or a fountain trying to get the perfect shot to show their friends back home, as their other half tried to click before some moron got in the frame. The place was everything I’d imagine the real Venice would look like … only this was fake American shit, like Disney trying to build the Amazon in Anaheim. Damn Yanks. The Mirage: - Mirage was another huge resort-type casino on the Strip, with a front garden and grounds looking like it’d just been shipped in from the Amazon. Palm trees, water running down rocky outcrops and boulders, and a huge 251

gar y de nne

waterfall that flowed over the top of a mini volcano-type mountain. Now, I say volcano ‘cos this place I’d also heard about from somewhere: how it had an eruption every night with fire and lava and shit for the kids and families to watch before they rushed back inside and continued gaming. Yep, I’m a cynical son-ofa-bitch. For a city in the desert, this place sure wasn’t doing a bad job with water. Fountains, streams, artificial rivers, lakes, coves, wave pools, and a spa to person ratio of about 3:1—anyone’d think this place was fucking Waterworld and Kevin Costner was gonna come flyin’ round the corner on a jet-ski. Treasure Island (TI): - TI was this huge resort hotel-casino with the hotel part folding out like an open book with white, terrace hotel room windows around red, mud-brick colours. Out front was a man-made island/cove-type setting—lush forest greens reaching up to the base of the first floor guest rooms and a small body of water where a couple of replica pirate boats sat, right out front, towering over the sidewalk. This was another casino I’d heard about from somewhere. A magazine or TV show, I forget now. But I recall something about a pirate show every night for the crowds. Explosions and shit. A street-level jetty-like walkway led suckers—I mean, people—into the hotel, while on the right, pirate bungalows and palm trees (again) were built into fake, jagged-rock cliffs. It looked incredible. But the detail that went into those pirate ships … hell, that was hard to believe. Gave the impression pretty quick that there was nothing this town wouldn’t do if it meant drawing in crowds to the gaming floor. The walkway entrance, straight over the lagoon waters, was made out like some ragged island jetty that was about to fall apart. It had old-fashioned, weatherworn lampposts and hundreds of people walking on it, headed for the casino entrance, like insects walking into a spider’s web. Dazzled by the setting, dazzled by the ship n’ all, but walking straight into a trap. Wynn: - Wynn was a huge copper-coloured casino shaped like one of those arty bars of soap from that soap store on Queen Street that used to stink every time I walked past it. Or maybe a copper-coloured slice of cake with horizontal gold 252

the matt zander journals

lines as icing and a fancy name in handwritten text at the top. The place looked so sparkly new even the cranes hadn’t finished packing up. Everything about that place screamed, ‘You can’t afford this. Move along, son. Move along.’ As we waited at traffic lights, both of us kept gazing round the Strip. I looked around the streets. Up above, thousands of hotel rooms, everywhere you looked. And signs. Plenty of signs. The Strip was so crammed full of stuff that your eyes never had a chance to rest for a minute. You just couldn’t escape being neonassaulted. Then there were the small things that got your attention: newsstand publications like Little Darlings, Totally Nude, Adult Informer and Showgirl News. Or homeless bums walking through the traffic waiting at lights, peering into people’s windows for some spare change. I guess Wynn was probably the last of the real monster, five-star hotels on the Strip. We then started to drive by what looked like older, original hotels that were probably the big boys back 10 years ago. These had to be more affordable(?) Well, so I hoped. We drove past a few—Circus Circus, Stardust, Riveria. They just kept on comin’. I got a few honks from taxicabs behind us. I admit it was tough driving up the Strip compared with driving the I-15. I mean, I felt like I was playing a damn video game or something. I needed to keep my eyes on the road, but the whole time I just wanted to stick my head out the window and look around at everything. “We’re running out of casinos,” Michael said. “In this place? I don’t think so,” I said, confident there was gonna be more of the same the further we drove. On a casino called Frontier was a sign that told me we were getting closer to my style of hotel: Cold Beer, Dirty Girls, Bikini Bull Riding, Mud Wrestling … LIVE! Cold Beer, Dirty Girls, Bikini Bull Riding, Mud Wrestling … LIVE! Cold Beer, Dirty Girls, Bikini Bull Riding, Mud Wrestling … LIVE! Now we’re talking, I thought.

253

gar y de nne

“Would you just pick one already,” Michael complained. “There’s so many,” I replied. “Any one’ll do. Just make a damn decision.” “Yeah, sure. Like we got the money to stay in one of these places.” “Pull in here. This is the place,” said Michael, pointing to a casino entrance lane. Up ahead, I saw a gigantic entrance sign for the Sahara Casino, with flashing neon camels on acid. Just a little further in the distance, behind Sahara, I could see the huge tower needle shooting up into the sky, the same one that was sticking out on the horizon as we approached Vegas. Anyways, we pulled into the Sahara. There was this huge, wire-framed beige dome, suspended right above the casino entrance. The feature landmark and contribution to the Vegas skyline were these giant onion-shaped crowns, towering above everything else, on top of various parts of the casino. I mean, Vegas must have some kind of Egyptian/desert fetish thing going on, ‘cos it seemed like every second casino had an obsession with that kinda stuff. Throw in Moroccan and Mediterranean-themed hotels and you’ve just described the whole damn town. Lush green gardens, palm trees and grass surrounded the casino, and wax models of Arab dudes in white, sitting on camels, were scattered amongst the landscaped grounds. Birds were singing to their hearts content around the concrete pathways leading to other areas of the casino. I guess they were happy to be in Vegas, too? I made a right and we cruised on through to the parking garage. I figured these kinds of places you didn’t just casually park out front and walk into the reception asking about rooms. Besides, out front of this place was a battleground of limos, town cars and hummer jeeps. No room for a Neon. I had to double take when I saw a hummer limo parked out front of the place. It was about seven windows long. What the hell was in those things, a swimming pool? I sure would’ve liked the chance to peek, but the windows were black as oil—you couldn’t see shit. Those limos must be what they’re talkin’ about when they say, ‘Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’ A guy could have twenty lesbian vampire hookers in that thing and no one’d be the wiser. If he pulled up at traffic lights next to his wife in the family station wagon, she wouldn’t have any idea what was going on, windows that black. 254

the matt zander journals

“Hate to think how much stayin’ in Vegas is gonna cost,” I said. “Don’t worry, you’ll win it back,” Michael said, glancing at me for a second. “Right?” “Depends … can you pull any of that Rain Man shit?” “Who?” “Never mind.” Heading up the ramp of the multi-story, dull grey parking complex, we began the maze climb around every level, round and round like rats until we reached the upper levels and began to actually see parking spaces without cars in them. Yes, they did exist. Spinning round one of the corners, I had to slam down on the brakes. A white Taurus was stopped straight in our line of fire, just idling there, not moving. Any second now, I knew I was gonna feel a car ram our ass ‘cos of this jerk. “What the fuck’s this guy doing?” I said, after waiting a nanosecond. Michael never said a word. He did that quite a bit. Not only did he give one-word answers—occasionally he gave no-word answers. Like he was cursed with a never-ending hangover or just hadn’t slept in a week. His mouth never moved. “Move your fucking car!” I yelled in frustration towards the windshield, honking the pathetic, high-pitched gay-sounding horn a few times. The guy in this white Taurus, he looked in his mirror, saw us behind him, and then went back to sitting there, as though he was playing with a cell phone or something in his front seat. “Can you believe this?” I asked Michael, with a laugh full of rage. I honked again, more aggressively this time. “Get out the fucking way,” I shouted. In slo-motion, the guy, an old dude with white hair, started moving around in the seat like he’d just woken up from a power nap or something. “What the fuck is this guy’s problem?” I asked Michael again. The white Taurus slowly began to inch forward, just about sideswiping another parked car in front, clearing the way for us to squeeze through a gap without a lot of room for error. I powered down my window, mad as hell, just about breathing fire. I wanted to smash my fist in this guy’s face and slam a ballpoint pen into his skull. Why are people so fucking retarded? Why? People are such fucking morons. Total fucking morons. Where’s it gonna end? How stupid are people 255

gar y de nne

gonna get? It’s the whole IQ-being-pissed-down-the-drain phenomenon. The dumbing down of society hasn’t begun … it’s already happened. I stuck my head out the window and screamed in my best Smells Like Teen Spirit voice, “Wake the fuck up, asshole!” I slammed my foot down on the gas and spun the tires in a screech, racing up the ramp to the next level of the parking garage. And get this … looking back in my rear-view mirror, the old guy—he looked like Colonel Sanders from KFC— slowly stuck his hand out the window and gave us the finger. How I didn’t turn back round and beat him senseless, I really don’t know. The old me would’ve in a heartbeat. The old me had so much anger and rage on standby for people like that, I would’ve … well, I don’t know what I would’ve done to the guy. But postNDE, I stopped myself. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to make him hurt. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to smash his car in with a baseball bat. I just let it go. “Can you believe that?” I said to Michael, “He gave us the finger.” Stopping at P6 (Section D? I forget now), we pulled into a space near the elevators, next to a few other cars. I was still thinking about running back down the parking ramp to P5 and Colonel Sanders, so I could say ‘hi’ and shove my foot up his ass, but I tried to put it behind me. I tried to take some slow breaths. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Why do people have to be so fucking dumb? People like that … I swear they’ll only ever learn from their mistakes with pain. The only thing to make people wake the fuck up from sleepwalking through life: make them hurt. Seriously. Waiting for the glass elevator to arrive and take us down to the hotel, I looked out to the horizon and saw a sprawling urban landscape of microscopic cookie-cutter suburbs in the distance, close to the surrounding mountains. It was something that surprised me—that Vegas was a place you’d actually want to move to, to live. I mean, unless you were working at a casino, I wouldn’t have thought anyone’d wanna live in a desert? But I was wrong. Agitated and restless, I tried to calm down as we took the elevator down to the ground floor. Michael and I were both quiet, keeping our thoughts to ourselves. We walked round a path and followed the signs towards reception. The place looked expensive, but I don’t think we had much option—there just wasn’t any casino as far as I could tell with big neon signs pointing down saying ‘Cheapasses stay here!’ 256

the matt zander journals

Through a hedge tracking all the way along the path from the parking garage, I could see glimpses of the pool area. People were swimming, splashing, laughing and talking. Not to mention rows and rows of tanning chairs with an assortment of women and metrosexual dudes trying to work on their tans in the Nevada sun. A few of the women caught my eye, too—just a bit of eye candy to break the drought of a Toronto winter, where you’re lucky if you see a woman’s bare wrist, due to the several layers of clothing everyone’s wearing. Michael pulled open the dark-tinted Sahara doors and we headed inside, down a retail/hotel services passageway (salon, beauty clinic etc.) to reach the hotel reception. Only a few steps inside and the sunlight was gone. Looking around the hotel lobby and check-in, it could well’ve been midnight instead of midday. As I dropped my bag down at my feet, we surveyed the scene before us. For a second it was so much of a brain overload. The place was like a king’s palace— red, orange and browns on the walls and carpet, gold railing on steps and ramps, and a kind of Arabian Nights lettering on every sign you found. To the right, was hotel reception, with a long stretch of check-in counters and what I guessed was the path to the guest rooms, as there was a regular flow of foot traffic going back and forth. To the left, was the beginning of the gaming floor, with a huge plantation of slot machines in a spiralling maze to keep people from easily finding their way out once they were caught. I felt a few stares from people as they criss-crossed past us—I guess from my faded beat up jeans and white t-shirt, and Michael’s jeans and green/blue chequered flannel shirt, we didn’t exactly stand out as high rollers here to bring down the house. That was pretty much the end of my first impression of Vegas, right there. *** First impressions of Vegas summary: -

Business is doing swell (Swell? Did I just write that? Fucking hate that word). 257

gar y de nne

-

-

-

Size matters when it comes to hotels. There are artificial bird sounds coming from trees in the middle of Las Vegas Blvd as you’re stopped at traffic lights. Bums and dirt bags at said traffic lights hold signs saying, ‘FOOD’. Nobody helps them. Nobody powers down their windows for fear of upsetting the A/C equilibrium. Everybody’s standing in front of something having their photo taken (Why? Do you have to prove you were here to friends back home?) Thrill rides and stage shows are a fucking rip-off. City slogan: If it ain’t man-made, get it the hell outta Vegas. People love to gamble. People love to lose. Vegas is addicted to the words ‘Buffet’, ‘Erotic’ and ‘Luxury’. I wonder how many girls in little black dresses with sequins and black pumps are escorts? ***

As Michael and I stood in the Sahara Hotel-Casino lobby, I felt invisible. Every face I laid eyes on was talking to someone, people were busy with their own little lives, in their own world, with their own problems. Guests were being cornered by Sahara girls in sexy outfits, trying to give away free tickets to stage shows with strings attached, by the look of the hard sell. No one looked at either of us. No one. I wish someone would’ve just acknowledged us. That’s all I wanted. Someone to say, ‘Hey, welcome to Vegas.’ Or someone to give me a smile, a girl to look twice, maybe. Anything that would’ve pointed out the fact that I was still alive. ‘Cos I wonder sometimes. Am I still here? Still part of society? Can people still see me? I feel ignored a lot. “Just one night, right?” Michael said, scanning his eyes through the crowds and around the gaming floor. I could tell he wanted this to be over as quick and painless as possible. “Just one night,” I assured him. Standing there, I quickly realized Vegas was gonna be the mother of all peoplewatching places. The scope of society here—even just scratching the surface 258

the matt zander journals

and scanning the hotel check-in area—seemed to cover every type of personality you could ever hope of watching. “Lemme get this straight,” Michael whispered quietly to me, “people actually pay to vacation here?” I didn’t answer him. Gave him his own medicine. Ha-ha. I took a deep breath as we stood there, the smell of non-stop gaming in the air. People on payphones, people sitting at slots, college girls walking from their rooms to the hotel pool area in string biki—hallo! I immediately set my eyes upon all the young, bikini-clad women, as if my brain had only just come outta hibernation and noticed them. It was like we’d somehow stumbled upon a subterranean bikini society that few knew existed in winter. Cleavage was abundant and plentiful. My brain just about went into core meltdown from some of the flashes of curves and shapes on display. And the air-conditioning in this place was just perrrfect, too. Nipples abound. To the hotel air-conditioning guy, I salute you. Welcome to the Sahara ‘Sounds of Gaming’: a) Quarters falling into metal slot trays (clank-clank-clank-clankclank-clank). b) Slots playing seductive/reward-based musical melodies. c) An Elvis impersonator singing Viva Las Vegas in a cabaret lounge. d) Slots dinging when a player wins a hand. e) The sound of the ball spinning and finding a number on the Roulette wheel. f) People cheering when someone beats the dealer. g) Laughter as someone said, “It’s only money, honey…” h) Arguing between families on where to go first and what to play first. Above the long row of check-in/out counters were fancy lord-of-the-manor chandeliers hanging down, trying to light up the place but doing a crappy job of it.

259

gar y de nne

There was barely enough light to read fine print off a hotel bill (think that was the idea). In the middle of the check-in area, velvet ropes marked out a lane full of waiting guests, lined up with some of the biggest damn pieces of luggage I’d ever seen. Like, do people bring their entire house contents with ‘em on vacation? Fucking morons (see: dumbing down of society). Opposite the check-in counters was a row of retail outlets, and as holiday makers waited to be checked into their suites, a lot of ‘em were already stocking up on souvenir shit, like little plastic slot machines, t-shirts that read ‘I won this t-shirt in Vegas’ and the ragingly popular deck of casino cards. Directed by some arrogant Sahara prick to use the hotel reservations phone, I made a room booking for us @ $169 for the night. If I count the room, add tax, food, drinks and gaming flash money … well, I don’t wanna know how this is gonna look on my credit-card statement when I see it. But I wasn’t about to drive around looking for cheaper places. We’d made it here and had to make the most of it before we continued on our way. And, besides, you only live once, right? (I kill me). ‘Cos our room wasn’t gonna be ready for another hour, we had to wait at the Grind Café, just across from the check-in area in the retail row of shops. Sidebar: Waiting Have you ever wondered if you added up all the waiting time in life—waiting in lines, grocery store checkouts, waiting for a computer to do something, waiting for a doctor—how much all that waiting would add up to? Seems that’s all people do anymore … just wait for shit. Wait, wait, waiting, please wait, hold, one moment please, thanks for waiting, just one moment, wait here, I’m waiting! In the Sahara café there were well-stocked coffee stations, a giant novelty can of Red Bull (same as Runnerman’s used to have) and a rubbish bin that looked like a nerve-gas canister. Two cute girls with ponytails through black baseball caps were behind the counter, talking about the state of their lives to one another, 260

the matt zander journals

while serving people as though they were serving mindless zombies who couldn’t hear them openly discuss who they were screwing. “Well, here we are,” I announced, taking a gulp of a smooth coffee that really hit the spot after driving all morning. “Yep. We’re here,” Michael replied, unimpressed. The casino floor was behind us, like a cave with a monster, growling slot sounds deep inside. An hour had passed and it was about 1:00 p.m. At least I think it was. The strange thing about this place, as we waited and watched people come and go, was that I couldn’t see any clocks. Once you walked through those black, glass hotel doors, coated in a thick, tinted film, you left behind any sense of time and synched your body clock on casino time: 24/7 gaming. “Feel ok?” I asked Michael, as he threw back a couple of pills into his mouth, followed by a mouthful of coffee. “Super.” He shoved the pill bottles back in his shirt pocket. “I booked us for the night. We’ll leave for L.A. in the morning.” Michael’s non-reply told me he was cool with that. (I’m learning his M.O.) “Hey,” I said, “Can you believe it? We’re in Vegas. Ain’t it cool?” “Yep, how ‘bout that.” “So, whadda we do now?” I asked, a blank look on my face. “Don’t look at me. This was your idea,” Michael quickly flung back at me. “C’mon. It’s not that bad, is it?” I said, looking round us. Insert awkward silence here, as I noticed a big, fat American guy walk into the women’s bathrooms next to the payphones and outdoor pool entrance. Dumb tourists. “Well, you can consider it a favour,” I said. “I never woulda’ come to a place like this on my own.” I collected my thoughts for a moment or two. “In fact,” I told Michael, “I probably wouldn’t be going to L.A. if it hadn’t been for you.” Michael’s gaze went behind me as people streamed past our coffee table at a steady rate, giving us brief, expressionless stares. 261

gar y de nne

“Hey, let me ask you something,” I said, “is it just me, or do we keep getting weird glances from people walking by?” “It’s just you,” Michael replied. “Guess we don’t look like everyday Vegas tourists, huh?” “Nope.” “So you’re not even gonna take a look around?” I said, disappointment in my voice. “I think I’m just gonna sleep. I get tired easily.” “That’s too bad. I was hopin’ we coulda’ done the whole Vegas thing,” I said. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Michael asked. I thought for a moment. “I dunno? Last stop before L.A., I guess? We can forget about life for a while. Pretend we’re just two normal guys here to gamble and get laid.” “Yeah, well, never gambled before in my life. No point starting now,” Michael said. “Feel free to knock yourself out, though. You got fifteen hours.” “There’s more to Vegas than gambling—in case you hadn’t noticed…” I signalled Michael to check behind him. A bunch of hotties strolled past, completely unaware of us. “Wait—you’re actually counting down the hours? Jeesuz christ. This must be some damn ocean you’re dyin’ to see,” I said. “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean—” “S’ok. I know what you meant,” Michael interrupted. “Whoa,” I said, puzzled look on my face. “What?” “Déjà vu, just now. Right here. This. I remember this,” I said, looking around the café surroundings. “From a dream?” “I dunno…” I said, trying to think. “I keep getting déjà vu—haven’t been able to shake it since hospital.” “Like, what happens?” “I dunno—just déjà vu? Y’know … the feeling you’ve been in a moment before … that you feel as though something’s already happened … that you remember it vaguely. It’s weird.” “You think it’s got something to do with your afterlife thing?” “Why? Do you get it?” I asked Michael. 262

the matt zander journals

“Nah. You’re the one obsessed with death, not me.” Obsessed with death… When Michael said that, when I heard it from someone else, I thought about it for a second. Am I? Obsessed with death? Has this neardeath thing really changed me that much? The déjà vu disappeared as quick as it came. “I’m going to the ATM. Mind my bag, will ya?” I told Michael as I got up from the table. Walking over to the pool entrance, I had a quick glance outside, not wanting anyone to accuse me of being a pervert or nothin. There were palm trees, blue beach umbrellas and sun lounges dotted around a large, bean-shaped pool. Families were nestled around umbrellas as kids splashed in the pool, while mom and dad tried to forget their normal lives for two weeks annual vacation. I could tell the lifeguard was bored outta his brain and mentally undressing the hottest girls in the pool, or the ones lying face down on a sun lounge, their bikini tops undone and flopped down their sides. People were relaxed, having a good time, drinking beer at midday and the like. Some guests had tried to hide themselves beneath the cover of the latest bestseller, trying not to get noticed, while others were prancing round all over the damn place, thinking they were on the red carpet in Hollywood and the centre of attention. Finally, we got the all clear on our room. I picked up our room keys from a Morgan Freeman-type dude and we headed to the elevators. As we waited to go up to our suite, I watched the gaming floor opposite—a sports betting area with a cluster of TV panels wedged up above rows of classroom-style seating. Old guys in baseball caps stared up at the TVs from desks. Electronic tickers scrolled figures and sports stats at a blinding pace. Basketball, horses and college football were all playing out in a sports-lover’s mosaic, with a bunch of action down on every game, every race and every play. So Vegas.

263

Tangiers Tower, Sahara Hotel & Casino, Room 1849 3:14 PM: Can’t believe how sprawled Vegas is. I just imagined it as a cluster of casinos, hotels and shopping malls, all crammed into a coupla’ blocks of real estate, but the place is HE-U-G-E. There’s a clear view of the Hilton Hotel from our suite. I can see a monorail track snaking through the Hilton Hotel grounds and travelling alongside the eight-lane boulevard, parallel to the Strip (what they call Las Vegas Blvd). You can see other Sahara rooms from here, too, in the tower right next to us. I guess all hotel rooms in Vegas have views of other hotel rooms? Someone could be watching me right now, writing this down. The top floor of the parking garage we parked in is down below us. We’re high up. 18th floor. People are tiny, down there on the ground. All that’s below us is concrete, painted parking spaces, valets and black limos pulling in and out. I would not want to hit that concrete with a splat. Hate heights. Will not be looking down again. In the distance, beyond the casinos, I can see mountains, suburbs and construction cranes on new developments (lemme guess—more casinos?) The best thing right now? No snow in the streets. I don’t care how much snow’s on those mountains out there in the distance. I just don’t wanna be walking in it, or have it sprayed up on my jeans from cars going by. I wanna forget all about snow for a while.

264

the matt zander journals

The room itself, well, it’s a sweet deal. There’s beige walls with bronze picture frames of Egyptian stuff, an antique solid-wood table, plush, cushion-backed chairs, a big black TV (about to test it), two queen beds with mahogany headboards, red-earth curtains, and finally, matching bed covers. This hotel is the first place I’ve ever stayed in that actually decorated the room and thought to colour co-ordinate. Not that I give a shit, but it does look sweet. The bathroom’s … a bathroom. More picture frames with more Egyptian content, gold wallpaper, bright fluro lighting, loads of soft, white, bath towels that people always love to steal (me? never) and a basket full of mini Sahara toiletries. ‘Sealed for your protection’ is the message on the sash around the toilet lid. Gee, really? Just for me? You mean someone wrapped a cheap paper sash around the toilet seat that a million other asses have sat on and that’s supposed to make me feel protected from said asses? Sahara Towel Policy: - They have a plastic sign in the bathroom. The idea is if you leave towels on the floor, the maids know they’re dirty. If you have them hanging up, then they’re okay to still be used. So if I was to wipe my ass with a towel and hang it back up on the towel rack, would the maid walk in, look at the brown stain on the towel, smell the stink, and just walk back out? I just turned the TV on. Michael’s in the shower. I’ve given myself the grand tour and checked out what $169 a night gets you, so I’m just gonna relax for a while and rest my legs, which have been dying from the car. A welcome screen’s on the TV: Sahara Hotel-Casino, Las Vegas welcomes ZANDAR MATT (Fuckers got my name wrong). There’s a menu: 265

gar y de nne

1. Hollywood Movies 2. ALL-NEW Sextopia Interactive (I think they mean if you press #2 a casino hooker comes to your door?) 3. Erotic films 4. 24-hour Erotica Film Fest (Like Sundance, but with porn) 5. TV Internet (So you can download porn) 6. Wireless Laptop Access Code (So you can view porn on your laptop sitting on a sundeck by the pool) 7. View Your Hotel Bill/Express Checkout 8. TV Channel Guide 9. Block all Adult Content (Now why would you wanna do a stupid thing like that?)

I swear the dude that checked us in at hotel reception—I swear it was Morgan Freeman’s brother. I’m not kidding. It was his twin. Morgan Freeman, the actor. Legend. The Shawshank Redemption. Classic. But this guy, he didn’t seem to care less about checking us in. Barely looked me in the eye. I think hotel staff must have radars that go off when they sense someone that’ll give ‘em a twenty buck tip for anything, and then a guy like me that thinks ‘like hell I’ll be givin’ you twenty bucks for pressing a few buttons and giving me two keycards.’ I coulda tipped the guy if he’d just acknowledged me. If he had’ve said something like, ‘Hi-Welcome-Hello-How are you?’ But man, talk about body language telling me he didn’t even wanna know me. I withdrew $400 cash advance from the lobby ATM. Offered Michael $200 but he refused to take it. Can you believe? The guy’s got cancer for cryin’ out loud— wouldn’t ya think he’d be splashing money every which way, if he had the chance? I mean … I offered it to him. No strings. He doesn’t have to carry my bags or any shit like that. It was a gift. I wanted him to have it. Money doesn’t mean shit to me anymore. I don’t care about it at all since coming back. Couldn’t care less. Hate it. The greed of it. Can’t think of anything worse than having money own your ass and livin’ just to make as much of it as you can. 266

the matt zander journals

People’d think I’m nuts sayin that, though. Hell … lately I think I am nuts. ‘Cos even though I don’t care about money right now, there’s that lingering thought that I’m gonna have to pay all this back. But right now … so sue me. (MasterCard).

Sahara Buffet, 5:03 PM: I’ve gotten good at writing scribble really really fast. It’s weird. My hand doesn’t hurt anymore. I brought my notepad with me. Figure I can write while I eat. I mean, why would I wanna look like a schmuck and just sit here, eating alone, staring down at my food? The large hallway that leads to the Sahara Buffet is one of the few places in the whole casino where natural light’s allowed to penetrate in through a row of wallto-wall windows, looking out onto the Strip and the towering Stratosphere casino not far away. Once you enter the buffet turnstiles and pay your ten bucks, though, it’s like the light isn’t allowed to join the party and the place gets all dark and moody again. All over the buffet hall, fake palm trees (again with the palm trees) and plants are situated next to tables and booths in a dark, piano-bar-type setting. I’m hoping lack of light isn’t to hide the look of the food in this joint. Hoping. I ponied up my cash and sat down at a table. Funny, there’s a huge stack of napkins on every table here. At least a coupla’ hundred napkins. What is it about people needing dozens of napkins in one meal sitting when they eat? Any diner you go into the first thing you see is that huge stack of napkins, as though life depends on having those napkins next to you when you’re eating. I’ve placed the ‘reserved’ sign the cashier gave me and my handful of loose change down. The place is barely a quarter full—I guess alotta people don’t eat when they come to Vegas? Too busy gambling. This place is h-u-g-e, though, so it probably just looks empty, when really, there’s over a hundred people right now scooping up food and taking it back to their table. 267

gar y de nne

Michael wasn’t hungry. He got out the shower and I asked him, “You hungry?” I didn’t waste any time—I was starving at that point. “Nah.” “I’m gonna head down to the buffet, get something to eat.” “I’m good,” he said. “Wanna come anyway?” “Nah. I’ll stay in,” he told me, as he climbed into his bed, struggling to pull the super-tucked bedcover off. “I can bring you something back if you want?” I asked. “Save your money.” “It’s a buffet.” “Knock yourself out.” I dunno why Michael didn’t wanna eat anything, but since I’d already nagged him enough on it, I wasn’t about to start up again. Food just wasn’t his thing. Ok… Just walked over to the start of the bain-maries. Went straight for the pizza. Garlic bread looks so good. Spaghetti, too. Couldn’t help notice other diners next to me, piling food onto their plates as though it was their final meal before execution. These huge, fat, motherfuckers act like they’ve only got thirty seconds to grab whatever they can before a buzzer goes off and the bain-marie doors come slamming down on their fingers. The amount of food I saw some people scoop onto their plate—I’m damn speechless. Enough to feed a party of five on, some of these plates around me. No shit. I’m eating and staring blankly, up at the electronic Keno billboard on the wall. Buffets kinda freak me out. I mean, all-you-can-eat? Mountains upon mountains of food. Pasta, Chinese, Roasts, Fried Chicken, Fish, Deserts—everything you can imagine is right here. I’m not talking cheap and nasty canned shit either, I’m talking first class everything. They have little carrots made of icing drawn onto each slice of carrot cake, for crissakes. When did food become fucking art? I’m trying to imagine all the food in every hotel/casino buffet—like, adding it all together, all the buffets in Vegas. All the unlimited shrimp. All the prime-rib. Hard 268

the matt zander journals

to imagine, really. Blows your mind. You’d be able to feed a small third world country. I’m starting to enjoy being alone. Alone with my thoughts. I’ve never really done this before, before my NDE. It’s something I used to hate. I was always surrounding myself with friends. Kept busy. Always had my mind focused on something outwardly. Anything to avoid being alone. I wonder how much high fructose corn syrup is in the average body? It’s in fuckin everything. Like, tiny sachets of ketchup? What the hell is corn syrup doin’ in ketchup? People don’t seem to give a shit. But think about it … High. Fructose. Corn. Syrup. Sounds so fuckin gross. WTF? People are getting up from their tables, leaving full meals behind. Full meals. WTF? Leaving plates of food behind and walkin’ out? That’s what people are doin’ here. I’m seeing this in front of my eyes. Right now. Once they leave, a busboy comes along and cleans up the table in about 4 seconds flat, like a robot. The food’s wiped into a huge bin attached to the busboy’s cleanup cart, never to be seen again. People are walking away after barely touching their food, smiles on their faces, not a single thought about what they’re doin’. WTF? I’d feel so damn embarrassed if one of those starving kids from Africa saw shit like this. I wanna tackle to the ground and pound the shit outta someone that walks around the buffet aisles, filling their plate up with fried chicken, fries, pasta, slices of pizza, rice, mash potatoes and gravy, then eats the fried chicken and leaves everything else. I wanna shove a chicken drumstick down the guy’s throat who just left with his wife and kids, and left four huge plates of half-eaten food ‘cos the kids started getting restless. I hate people. People are fucking morons.

269

2:37AM: Back in the room. I gambled for over an hour tonight—lost, lost, won, lost, won, won, lost, lost, lost, lost, lost, lost. Total night’s losses: $177 Night’s still young (2:38 AM) but I ain’t goin nowhere. I’m happy just sitting here writing. Funny, I quite enjoy this whole writing thing now. From my bed, I can see the other tower of the hotel. I’ve left our curtains open. Every other room has its lights off. I swear, we must be the only room with a bedside lamp on. The only room with guests at home, not out in a casino somewhere. I wonder if there’s anyone else in the whole of Vegas that feels the same way about this place as I do right now? Earlier tonight, after eating at the buffet, I headed for the gaming floor to make a killing. Elvis was belting out a few classic tunes in a cabaret lounge that, while loud, still didn’t make any difference to the noise of the gaming floor. Wheels spinning, slots slotting and people cheering or screaming—the beautiful sounds of gaming. Elvis had two girls with him in short, Hawaiian skirts and tops. Man, did they have-me-at-hello as I stood there and watched ‘em for a moment … and why I’m remembering it now. The Sahara should just stick an Elvis CD in a deck and hire more damn girls in those skirts to dance, if you ask me. *** 270

the matt zander journals

Sahara sign: - The Beatles stayed here, August 19, 1964, Alexandria Tower, Room 2344 *** On the gaming floor, where a faux blue sky and clouds was painted on the ceiling to try n’ hide all the black bubbles of plastic (casino cameras) scattered everywhere, a million electronic billboards and screens were counting up dollar amounts, clicking over several dollars each second, just above slot players’ eyes like some carrot in front of a dumbass donkey. A straw-roof bar was marooned in the middle of the gaming floor with several people sitting there, playing slots that were embedded right into the bar tabletop. There was no escaping gaming in Vegas. Don’t even think about it. I walked through the gaming floor, past the tables, past crowds of players giving each other high-fives and laughing and clapping and cheering and rooting for one another, down to the money-changing place. I think they call it the cage ‘cos it’s the place where they keep all the money and change it into chips for gamers—this huge friggin’ cage with beige, iron bars. One big prison cell. I approached the row of cashier windows, wanting to change some money and get chipped up. This was it, I thought. This was my time to get lucky and make that credit-card debt disappear. A cashier looked up at me and called me to her window. She was a fake-tanned, dyed blonde in her 40s, with heavy eyes and no smile. I could tell this wasn’t her dream job. “Just gimme some chips … 5s and 10s,” I said to the woman, as she picked up my money and began to study it closely. Felt like I was talking to someone at a prison visitation (minus the phone), and I guess that’s what it was like for them, too, being in the cage. “I’m sorry, sir … this note is mutilated,” she said, handing the $100 bill back to me. “Say what?” “This note here, I can’t accept this—it’s mutilated.” “You mean no good?” I asked, confused.

271

gar y de nne

“Yes sir. The tear here and the missing corner here,” she said, pointing her purple-painted fingernail to a few, barely noticeable tears and a missing corner on the note. “But I got this outta the ATM—your ATM.” “I’m sorry sir, we can’t accept the note. If you have a replacement note, I’ll be happy to look at it for you. That note there, sir, is classic mutilation.” “Why do you keep saying mutilation?” “Sir, the note is mutilated,” the woman told me in a blunt tone. “You mean torn, ripped, no good, chewed up?” “Yes sir,” she answered. “Mutilated.” What the fuck is this? I thought. “But why do you have to say ‘mutilated’? I mean, I’m just curious—is that a casino term or somethin? Don’t you think that’s a little bit too intense a word to be using for a bit of paper?” “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t accept the note. This casino has strict gaming guidelines. Please step aside if you don’t wish to present another note.” This was no joke. That woman was for real. Still can’t believe that shit. I slapped another bill on the counter and pushed it to her, annoyed. “Here.” “Thank you, sir.” Chips in hand, I headed back into the gaming area ready to work some magic. I glanced at the slots and decided to stay away. Mountains of Sahara coin cups were stacked upside down on slot machines everywhere I looked. Slots are for suckers. Slots are for morons who like feeding their money into a machine that gladly takes it off them, then tells them to fuck off, albeit in a nice, melodic kinda way. You know you’re a serious gambler when you have a casino VIP gaming card on a plastic coil attached to your jeans and inserted into the slot so it can track your spend. Alotta people had those things tonight. They really did. The slots here … they’re not at all what I imagined. I mean, you expect to see the jackpot fruit ones with the cherries and the bananas and the apples. But ‘Moo Moo’? ‘Donut Jackpot’? ‘Ghost Hunter’? They have slots masquerading as video games. Stupid, senseless games that you gamble on. How many cows you can 272

the matt zander journals

milk. How many donuts you can make. And people are sitting there stuffing money into those things. WTF? They could have a slot called, ‘America Sux Ass’ or ‘Let’s Slaughter Puppies’ and I swear people would still shove money into ‘em. Really. They would. I played a few hands of blackjack. $10 table. Bust six times in a row. Fucking hate blackjack. On the gaming floor, the stench of cigarette smoke was gross, trying to be discreetly covered up by some kind of fragrance. Couldn’t place it. Sitting there, next to Texan cowboys and Wall Street yuppies, I thought to myself how Vegas must be a scientist’s dream for studying the human condition. How people just lose control of themselves when the chance of winning money is in the air. The crowd down there tonight consisted of college football jocks, college girlfriends on weekend getaways, families on annual vacations, romantic couples (read: dirty), dedicated, regular gaming couples, and the Corporate America, work-hard/play-hard, mid-30s, yuppie ‘pLayA’ set. I moved onto roulette after blackjack. Hard to go wrong betting against red or black coming up, right? Wrong. In Vegas, you either smile or you don’t. I remember discreetly lookin’ above me as the roulette guy scooped my chips off the table. I wasn’t smiling. You’re never alone on a gaming floor. Someone’s always got you on a screen somewhere in a control room, watching your every move, computer programs probably scanning your facial expression for signs you’re trying to beat the system. There’s black bubble cameras everywhere you go in Vegas. And I mean everywhere. You can’t hide in this town. After losing about $90 in 17 minutes, I did a lap or two of the gaming floor to try n’ calm the gambling gods. Every section of the casino I ventured into, I caught glimpses of Sahara hostesses delivering drinks to players at tables and slots, bending over in front of them so they got a shot of cleavage or ass in their face 273

gar y de nne

as their drink was placed down. They looked so damn hot, those girls, in their little gold-glitter jacket and red shirt. And those sexy gold hot pants … damn. The casino knew how to keep a man gambling. Who cares if you lose with eye candy like that around. This town knows a man’s weakness. Me though? After a coupla’ hours, I didn’t wanna gamble no more. “What’s the club with the hottest girls?” I asked the taxi driver, as I slammed myself down into the back seat of a cab out front of the Sahara main entrance. “The hottest girls?” the Middle Eastern (what else) driver asked me. “Yeah.” “There is new club. I hear good things. Aquarium, my friend. It is nice. Very hot girl, there.” “Aquarium … okay. You got it. Take me to Aquarium,” I said. And we took off down the Strip. We drove past Treasure Island. I could make out some of the pirate show going on. Men and women in costume, splashes of water and acrobatic swan dives right off the pirate ships into the TI lagoon. Crowds were lovin’ it. Further down at The Mirage, the volcano was going off out front. A strong, bright orange glow lit up the night as crowds of people gathered round and shot home movies of explosions, fire and gushes of water going up into the night sky. “How far’s this place?” I turned to the driver to ask. I fucking hate those little red LED fare meters that keep clicking up and up when you don’t want them to. I can never relax in a cab with those things ticking. “Not far, my friend.” The Bellagio Casino had these massive fountains of water shooting up into the air as we cruised past. The huge body of water out front of the casino was lit up with underwater floodlights, as scores of people watched a show timed to music. I could hear Elton John playing from speakers. Your Song, I think. The fountains were somehow synched to the melody. This was it. This was Vegas in full swing. Vegas definitely looks a lot better at night.

274

the matt zander journals

Aquarium was a lounge/nightclub right near MGM Grand Casino. Had both an indoor lounge and outdoor deck, which overlooked New York, New York and a view right up the guts of the Strip. Standing outside the club, behind velvet ropes and red carpet, waiting like every other schmuck to get into the place, I actually had to force myself to stay and not grab a cab the second I saw one, back to Sahara. What the hell did I come here for? I thought to myself. Two heavies were keeping bodies in place at the club’s doors as we all waited for that little velvet sausage-rope to get lifted off its ring and then be given the nod by one of the crowd controllers that our time had come. These heavyset guys wore black and had those tiny Secret Service-type headsets in their ear as though they were waiting for the President to walk in. Shaved heads and beady eyes, these guys were like any other bouncers I’d had the pleasure of watching before entering a club—taking their jobs a little too seriously and just waiting for someone to start something with ‘em so they could have some fun. I’m sure their frustrations came out much easier when the punching bag was human. They say you should love your job—I think bouncers love their jobs a little too much. I’d love to kick one of those guys’ asses some day. Wouldn’t that be something worth watchin? Having one of these guys crying because I had his arm at breaking point while I gave the other guy a Ninja-style death-chop to the neck and blocked his breathing off for a few seconds. I’d be a king. Girls would start writing their room numbers on pieces of paper to hand to me. Ok, back to reality… Same as most clubs in Toronto, being hip didn’t come cheap, so when I got in, I found the place filled with the well-to-do set—everyone looking like they’d stepped out of a GQ or Vanity Fair photo shoot. Me? I stood out the second I entered the place. I was surprised the door dudes even let me in with my hair all messed up to shit. I got looks from women the whole 17 minutes I was there. Not the kind of seductive looks you wanna get either, but the ‘what-are-you-doing-here?’ ones. The main buzz of this club—I guess every club in Vegas has a buzz or something that pulls the crowds away from the competition—were these several, full-size aquariums built into the club’s surrounding back walls. Dozens of tropical 275

gar y de nne

fish with wild colours and patterns were illuminated by rows of backing floodlights, making for a pretty impressive backdrop to modern, ultra-hip architecture and décor. Above the well-stocked bar situated in the middle of the in-the-round dance floor was the largest of the tanks, which held—among other various crustaceans of the deep—three small gummy sharks, each about two and a half foot in length. I kept my eyes on ‘em every so often as they slowly swam the tank, forever moving in a circular motion, all the while probably wishing they could take a bite into some of the tender young bodies and exposed flesh that was crowded on the dance floor, shaking its collective ass. In the back of the club, at mezzanine level, three iron cages hung suspended from above, perched over the dance floor and the smaller, intimate bars at either side of this place. Inside the cages, girls were wearing what amounted to no more than a square foot of rubber or leather, dancing non-stop in a trance-like state, either looking like they were trying to avoid going to the bathroom, or that they had a bag of those insects from Indiana Jones stuffed in their pants. Either way, they were somehow in sync with the 100+ dB dance/trance shit that was being pumped around the club, each track seeming to get louder than the last. The club had a state-of-the-art light system I think could’ve easily been adapted to be a terrorist weapon that would blind people into giving up the location of WMDs when it wasn’t being used to light up the ceiling and walls with a kaleidoscope of colour. One thing was for sure, this wasn’t the place for a quiet drink, to drown your losses, or talk amongst a circle of friends. To order a drink, you had to yell your guts out at the bartender. And, if you wanted to order something with more than one syllable—well … good luck. Most people I saw were just pointing at bottles in the fridges. I wouldn’t be surprised if the bar staff file suits from hearing loss in a few years time when the ringing in their ears won’t quit. I did two laps of the place, both upstairs and down. I squeezed through crowds packed like sardines, had girls’ bodies squashed up next to me so tight I could tell if it was silicone in their tits or if they were homegrown. If it’d been anywhere else, I probably would’ve been arrested for sexual harassment. Funny about that, ain’t it? In a club, you can rub up against a girl’s tits as you squeeze past and she won’t even think a thing of it. 276

the matt zander journals

Doof-doof-doof-doof-doof. The club was pumping. Hardcore partying. No one looked at me. No one made eye contact, not even the yuppie bar guy who slammed a beer down for me in 0.1 of a second. I had the beer. Then left. Got a cab back.

2:58 AM: The Sahara hallway is quiet right now. Everyone’s in bed or still painting the town red, blue and mostly green. The hallway’s like the rest of the casino—no windows and a constant moody darkness, whether it’s midday or midnight. The carpet is a red diamond pattern, and the wallpaper is a gold truffle with ridges in it like bumpy lines on a map. The beams above each door are red-earth in colour, to match the whole guest-room colour scheme. Why I’m describing a hotel hallway in my journal, I dunno. Out the window, the Hilton Hotel sign is sparkling and glowing like it’s radioactive, with gold glitter and a red ‘HILTON’ fixed in the middle. I wonder if Paris Hilton stays there when she visits Vegas? Imagine going anywhere in the world and having a free hotel to stay in once you arrived. And a damn good one at that. I wonder if she’s made any porn tapes there? Probably. The city lights are way bigger than I thought they’d be. They stretch for miles. It’s huge, Vegas. There’s a constant stream of cars. The power this place must use. No wonder there’s a $3 energy tax on rooms. There’s a sign on the table saying we paid an energy tax as part of the room rate. *** Sheryl Crow is singing in my head. I can’t get her outta there now. Really, really, really slow jazz. Suits my mood. 277

gar y de nne

I do what I can. I live for the moment and that’s who I am (that’s who I am). And isn’t it good … if we could freeze moments in time we all would. I do what I can. *** Funny … now that I’m in Vegas, I’m not at all pumped. How weird is that? I’m in Vegas and all I’m doing is writing my thoughts down in a notebook in a hotel room, while every other guy and gal is out partying, gambling and socializing. I left Aquarium after 20 minutes. It sucked. I felt nothing. I got looks from people who probably thought I was a hitman looking for my mark through the crowds. I was the only guy not having fun. Everything was so … fake. The women, the guys … everything. The DJs, the dance moves on the floor, the laughs people gave when listening to their friends scream in their ears (when obviously you couldn’t hear shit in the place over the doof-doof). How can that be a place anyone’d wanna be? Made me feel so disconnected. Now that I think about it, all of Vegas makes me feel disconnected. Feels like I’ve become unplugged from the world and can’t plug myself back in. I don’t wanna party anymore. Don’t wanna get drunk. Don’t wanna pickup dumb, drunk chicks and screw their brains out (wait … did I just write that? I have really changed). But there’s too much going on in my head for any of that kinda thing now. Doesn’t anyone give a damn about life? Purpose? Meaning? Hello? Is ignorance bliss? Is that why everyone’s smiling and laughing? Lying here on the hotel bed, I feel this silent scream inside. I feel so alone. How did I get so far from what I thought was a good life? It’s so goddamn materialistic here. Fake. False. People come here (willingly, mind you) to lose money. That’s the bottom line. Vegas is all about losing money. And people love it. People want to come here. It’s gotta be the biggest sucker deal in the history of sucker deals. House always wins. 278

the matt zander journals

But these fucking morons believe in the dream. They believe they’re gonna come to Vegas, strike it rich, and walk away a millionaire celebrity, sharing drinks with Hollywood movie stars and shit. I say all’a this ‘cos what amazed me tonight was being on the casino floor, overhearing conversations as I walked through aisles of slots and tables. Couples, families, relatives … stuff like: ‘You just lost our entire monthly budget on one hand…’ ‘I can feel a win coming, okay? Jesus … just trust me for once in your life…’ ‘I don’t have any money left to get a cab…’ ‘I can’t stop now, I’m onto something here…’ ‘My luck’s changing…’ ‘It’s not my lucky day…’ ‘Look, the ATM’s right there…’ I don’t belong here. I got caught up in the hype. I’ve had a slap in the face with a wet fish, tonight. Makes me wanna throw up. The feeling that I’m feeding the machine, that I’m part of this. Makes me wanna shower and get clean with the mini Sahara body wash. Since the NDE, I’ve lost every bit of materialism I ever had in my body. I get that now. And Vegas is built on materialism. It’s king of materialism. Everywhere you go you’re reminded of money, money, money. Everyone’s trying to win it, casinos keep taking it. And I’m the only guy who doesn’t give a damn about it. I saw guys at the roulette table tonight betting $100 chips while their Barbie doll girlfriends stood next to them looking glamorously lobotomized. The money went down the drain. The guy’d turn to his girlfriend and whisper quietly, but annoyed: ‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It’s a system…’ I can’t stand the focus on materialism anymore. Hate it. America. Canada. The whole damn world. Cars. Jewellery. Boats. TVs. Laptops. Big mansions. Expensive clothes. This is sick. 279

gar y de nne

None of it does anything to help work out who you are and what you’re doin here. It’s soulless, is what it is. And here … gambling and the love of money, the worship of money … what on earth could people be getting from this? I’m so confused by people’s priorities since I’ve come back. Nothing makes sense. Why would someone care about ‘stuff’ more than they care about their soul? Like, I watched the poker room for a while, tonight. High rollers table. They had $1000 chips. People were throwing them into the game—two, three, four at a time. Like they were quarters. One of the guys at this table—must’ve been a retired guy from Florida or something—won a round and laid his cards out in a fan. Then his eyes lit up with $ $ as if to say: ‘I AM A FUCKING GOD!’ When these guys lost though, it was more like, ‘Don’t panic. Next hand. Next hand. Gotta lose to win,’ on their faces. A quiet look of desperation. A look like money was the most important thing in life, and it was flying away, out of reach. I’d love to have a glimpse of the nightly profit takings in Vegas for all the casinos combined. I’d love to see it on a billboard ticker, y’know? Watch the money tick up and really see how much the casinos were taking off people every second of the day. Man, I’m having such a power buzz right now. Did I mention those? I get these power buzzes that come and go. They’ve been happening since my near-death experience. I’d describe them as a really high level of consciousness and a feeling of euphoria. A high, basically. Like drugs. No … I’m not doin’ drugs, I just have that experience to relate to. But this is better than drugs. It’s a kinda wired, plugged-in feeling. Lasts for an hour or so then slowly plateaus out. I don’t have a clue why. Maybe it’s ‘cos of what I went through with my body and soul— like, a separation of the two where my soul connected to another level of life?

280

the matt zander journals

Whoa… Sounds so heavy. Did I just write that? Sounds like something a fucking professor would say. But the thing is, I’ve thought a lot about this since coming back. How can your mind exist outside the body, separate from your brain? Isn’t the brain the mind? Those kinda questions keep me awake at night. I’d rather lay here thinking about this stuff than walking round a nightclub, rubbing up against college girls looking for guys to buy ‘em drinks. I’m glad there’s something more to life than just … that. I wish I could close my eyes right now and go back to that other world for a moment. Just to feel it again. I wanna feel that high, again. I’d die to have another near-death experience (ha—I kill me). Anyway… I got a cab back from the Aquarium nightclub but ended up stopping halfway up the Strip. I thought I was gonna run out of money ‘cos the meter kept ticking up and up (as they do). But I also wanted to see if there was anything remotely unique about these big, themed casinos in the heart of the Strip. Call me curious. So I decided to check one out—The Mirage. No reason for choosing it other than it was the first one I laid my eyes on as I stepped out the cab and onto the curb. After tonight, I don’t have a need to check out any other casinos. I’ve worked out they’re all the same shit inside. You walk in, people are sitting there playing slots. Roulette wheels are spinning. Dealers are … dealing. The noises, the lights, sexy hostesses, jackpot billboards—it’s all the exact same shit as downstairs. Exact. At Mirage, I lost $20 on the slots. I lost another $40 on blackjack. I was up at times but … Vegas being Vegas. When I think back, I really don’t know why I even played the slots. I fucking hate slots. But I played them. It’s like this place plants subliminal messages in your mind: Play the slots. Play the slots. 281

gar y de nne

Slots are fun. You can win. Matt, over here … look at all our pretty colours. You know how much you like pretty colours. We have fruit. You love fruit. Look, oranges, your favourite. Slots are fun. You can win. There are real-life tigers in an artificial habitat at the entrance to The Mirage. When I arrived inside thanks to a moving walkway, I stopped to see what all the crowds were watching. It was an enclosure with wall-to-wall windows. As I saw inside it, though, I was so fuckin’ mad. Veins started to bulge in my neck. I saw red. Keeping tigers in a place like Vegas seemed fine by everyone around me. I overheard tourists say things like, ‘Oh, they’re so beautiful,’ and ‘Aren’t they pretty?’ Parents were getting their kids to stand at the enclosure’s windows as they took photos of them, smiling and pointing at the tigers. It was entertainment. Real, live tigers in a glass cage for our entertainment. One of the tigers looked distressed and worried as it walked back and forth along the same path, like it was doing laps round and round. God that pissed me off. I wanted to smash shit. I wanted to punch people. I wanted to tear the fucking place up. I bottled up all my rage and instead just people-watched for a while. People were laughing, oooohing, ahhhhhing and loving every minute of it. Obese, dumbass fucks standing round with digital cameras, clicking snaps of the tigers. I wanted to smash their skulls in. One of the biggest wake-up calls coming back to this life is I can’t believe how … I don’t even know what the word for it is? People just don’t take the time to think anymore. To say to ‘emselves, ‘I wonder if we really should be keeping tigers locked up like that?’ Instead, they laugh and they smile. Laugh and smile. They think it’s so fuckin’ cool. Fucking. Morons. There’s a guy in the hallway right now—has a laugh like a sub-machine gun. I’d like to ram a fist down his throat. It’s the most annoying laugh. 282

the matt zander journals

The walls aren’t paper thin, but I can still hear faint sounds of people either side of us returning to their rooms after a night on the town. It’s usually the booze talking. Especially the women. Laughing at anything that moves. No chance of anyone ever waking Michael, though. He sleeps like a lump of firewood. 3:41 AM: The couple in the room behind us are having sex. I can hear ‘em. Not loud. Just faint signs. 3:43 AM: Wait … make that a threesome. Two distinct women’s voices now. At least Vegas lives up to its reputation for some. I have to admit, Vegas works at night. It’s that kind of town. All the lights, the neon, the shows on the Strip. What they should do is build a Vegas ‘bubble’. A big fucking bubble that covers the city and makes the place 24/7-artificial-alwaysnight-time. People seem happier at night here. I mean, the whole concept of time has been removed from the casinos themselves—no daylight, no clocks on walls, etc—why not the whole fuckin’ city? When daybreak comes, Vegas is like waking up with a girl you remember being all glammed up the night before but suddenly has this nasty, no make-up look to her. Vegas is damn ugly in the light a’ day. I left Mirage and walked the rest of the way. I needed air. I needed to clear my head. So many people were walking up and down the Strip. All of ‘em in love with the place. And the girls you see walking past in groups of four, five, six, ten … they’re so damn drop dead gorgeous. I screwed my neck several times, turning to get a look at some back views as I walked home. 283

gar y de nne

If you added up all the hours that women out on the town in Vegas used to get ready for a night, I wonder how long it’d amount to? Every girl’d take, y’know, a couple of hours to shower, get dressed, makeup, get their hair done, etc. Each one. Add up all that time and energy … you’d be talking months. Just for one night. Girls in Vegas wear perfect clothes, perfect shoes, perfect hair and perfect makeup. Everyone’s perfect here. When I hit the gaming floor tonight, I never checked my clothes, never checked my hair. I never brushed or styled it. I didn’t care what it looked like. So, that’s what got me those stares, then? Makes sense. In one of The Mirage bathrooms, frat boys were looking at themselves in the mirror, positioning every damn blade of hair on their head like it was life or death. I wanted to tell ‘em, ‘Hey guys…? There’s more important things than makin’ sure your hair’s just right. Trust me, I used to be you.’ They were talking to each other, loud enough so the entire bathroom could hear every word they said: ‘Dude, that was so sweet a’ win. Fuckin’ 5 Gs, dude! The dealer fuckin’ choked! Did you see the ass on that chick, too?’ ‘Which chick, dude?’ ‘Dude! The chick next to you, she watched ya shove ya chips right in ya damn pocket.’ ‘No way, really dude?’ ‘Dude, I’m gonna hit that later tonight—y’know what I’m sayin’?’ ‘Dude … sweet.’ ‘Hey dude, about the money … I’ll pay ya back, dude, I swear.’ ‘Dude, it’s only a gambling problem if you’re losing.’ (Huge laughter. High-5s between them). ‘Dude, we need to get that chick up to our room. We could tag-team her?’ ‘I’m totally down, dude. We’ll buy her a bunch’a drinks…’ ‘Dude. Sweet.’ ‘I fuckin’ love Vegas…’ 284

the matt zander journals

In the bathroom, listening to those guys, I quietly looked at myself in the mirror, dried my hands off with the hand dryer and walked out. They ignored me like I wasn’t even there. Completely ignored. Anyways, the point is, I hadn’t shaved. I hadn’t brushed my hair. I was a bum. I didn’t care about projecting the right image to the world. Images don’t mean shit. Those guys in that bathroom—the frat boys—were so worried about their face and hair and body. But I guarantee they didn’t care who they really were. I could never be like that ever again. Not now. Scanning through the crowds on the Strip as I walked home, it hit me how we’ve created a generation of material-obsessed, status-is-a-religion, how-much-canyou-amass 20-somethings that are all about wantin’ to be better than the guy/gal next to ‘em. You can’t have a car, you gotta drive a BMW. Own a watch? Nope, you don’t own a watch unless it’s a Rolex. Your TV must be a wide-screen, HDTV, wall-mounted plasma. Minimum 76cm, otherwise don’t even talk to me. Your clothes don’t have labels? Get away from me. How can you even think of going out like that? How could you even think of not wearing a label and $200 aftershave? Dude? I passed lines of guys handing out sex/stripper/escort cards. The sleazy Vegas. Mexican immigrants just standing there on the sidewalk of Las Vegas Blvd, slapping what looked like hockey trading cards against their hands, making an annoying clapping sound so you looked up at ‘em. TIP: DON’T LOOK If you do, you’ll have wallet-size porn shoved in your face quicker than you can download it. The closer you get, the faster these guys slap their stack of cards. But once you reach out to grab a card? Fuck … talk about a feeding frenzy. One card turns into about twenty being forced right at you. I dunno why they bother, 285

gar y de nne

‘cos if you look down at the pavement, there’s only about ten million of these things floating around, dumped by people who take them off the guys and then let ‘em go after a quick glance or a filthy look from their wife/girlfriend. Anyways, I took a few cards I was offered and stuffed them in my back pocket. I guess I was curious, more than anything. Just curious.

286

4:19 AM: Still can’t sleep. Next door have worn themselves out. For now. Sidebar: Las Vegas Sun A newspaper was in the room when we checked-in. I just picked it up. Wanted to see what I missed when I was in the next life. Feels like a tonne of stuff should’ve happened while I was away. But nothing’s changed. The same stories get printed over and over. Only the places and names change. So I sat just here, reading it for a little while, thinking to myself, is this the world I’m really livin’ in? Page 2 in the Las Vegas Sun… Cleveland, Ohio: - Two teenage girls (13 and 14) bash and kill a cab driver for his cell phone. It’s a tiny little piece of news … as though it’s an everyday thing. Maybe it is? On the same page, a story about a Hollywood couple’s break-up gets four times the linage. How ‘bout Page 5? More tiny news grabs from around the country. News grabs of five sentences or less, going all the way down one side of the page, as though they just aren’t important to anyone to actually cover properly. It’s just minor news. Minor. Tucked away next to huge ad campaigns for SUVs, precision gold watches, new season fashion ranges and luxurious homewares.

287

gar y de nne

In the early hours of yesterday morning, a woman was killed in a hit and run in Florida. She died at the scene. A witness reported that before EMS arrived, a man approached the woman lying in the gutter, went to help her, looked around the street for anyone else, then proceeded to take off the woman’s jewellery and stuff it in his jacket. Another glance around the street, then the guy put his hand up the woman’s skirt while he knelt over her. The witness saw it happen but didn’t attempt to confront the guy. After a minute with his hand up her skirt, the guy disappeared into the night, just as the EMS arrived at the scene. I had to read that twice—killed in a hit-and-run, then robbed and felt up. That story’s minor news, though. Something you accept as an everyday part of life. On every page, crime after crime after crime story. Anyone’d think cops retired long ago. Major news: A game show is returning to a network’s line-up tonight for a sixth season. Minor news: A species of turtle are close to being wiped out ‘cos their shells fetch such a high price on the black markets of the world. Poachers sell the shells and also the turtle meat. They cut the turtles’ stomachs open while they’re still alive, ‘cos that way, the meat doesn’t go all stiff. It stays nice n’ juicy. As the poacher cuts the turtle, its head wriggles around, still very much alive. I wonder what the turtle thinks of the human species as it’s being cut open? Major news: A next-gen DVD format is about to be released but everyone’s gonna have to buy all their favourite movies in the new format again ‘cos the old DVD movies won’t play in the new players. Minor news: In Russia, a five-year-old girl was killed (beaten to death with a brick) because two older neighbourhood kids thought she would grow up to be bad. (That’s really what it says). 288

the matt zander journals

Major news: A new line of gourmet coffee is now available at a chain of local supermarkets, Albertsons. Minor news: In California, a sixteen-year-old girl’s artificial leg was stolen right from under her as she slept in the bedroom of the family’s suburban home. She needs the leg to walk, play sports, and to live a normal school life. Cops don’t have the time or resources to do anything about the theft. Major news: A Hollywood actress is releasing a new fashion line of lingerie. Minor news: A 20-year-old died right here in Vegas. A nurse. Died of a drug overdose. In a drug dealer’s car. She picked up a drink bottle of what she thought was water. It was liquid ecstasy. No one called 911. She was left by the dealer and her friends to try n’ sleep it off in an underground parking garage of one of the casinos. Major news: A green-coloured M&M has been added to all M&M candy bags. Minor news: Page 19 is a feature story about a drought in Africa. Talks about all the African villages affected by the drought and the conditions people have to live under. They’re slowly starving to death. Villagers go as long as one month without a full meal. Men, women and children. They survive on dirty water and scraps of rotting animal meat (fly infested). A special treat is a cooked rat. Major news: The host of this year’s Oscars has been announced. In other Oscar news, the words ‘bitch’ and ‘ho’ have been given the all clear to be broadcast. Gift bags for Oscar presenters are going to be worth around $100,000 each. 289

gar y de nne

I had to stop reading. Anymore and I probably woulda jumped out the window. Gone splat on the parking garage below. What happened to the world? Did I miss the memo? If I walked out onto Las Vegas Blvd and slit a puppy’s throat, I can just imagine the screams and horror from onlookers. But a taxi driver getting bashed to death for his cell phone by two teenage girls … that’s just normal now? Since when did we accept that that’s an ordinary, normal part of the world? Was there a date? Did we all vote on it? Is everyone happy just getting on with their lives, as long as it’s not them anything bad happens to? Huh? Tell me I’m missin’ something here? I’m going fucking insane. Looking round the room, I’m wondering what it might be like if I stayed in here and never went out into society again. Part of me wants to totally do it. To escape how fucked up this world has become. I feel I’m the only one who can see it— see how bad it is out there. I’d have everything in here. At my fingertips. Room service, grocery deliveries, Internet porn, Cable TV, erotica film festivals and delivery of practically anything I wanted from the outside world. Anything at all. As long as I had a credit card. That’s what makes the modern world go round. Credit cards. Got a card? You’re in. Ain’t got a card? Get the fuck outta here. If I lived in this hotel room and shut myself away, I wouldn’t really care if the world blew itself up. Or if this rage lifestyle everyone’s adopted got worse and doctors had to start treating people with ARS (Aggressive Rage Syndrome). You’d meet someone in a bar and they’d say, ‘Oh, I’m actually ARS positive. I take 50 mg of Ragetopia daily so I don’t kill someone if they cut me off in traffic.’ A self-imposed exile from the world… I’m thinkin’ about it. 4:59 AM: Ok, so I’m not that crazy to wanna live in a hotel room. Especially not in a place like Vegas. Christ, no. And I just remembered something, too. The world ain’t all 290

the matt zander journals

bad. Good things do happen. I’d almost forgotten about it, but if it wasn’t for things like those Colorado bubble girls in the world, I’d have zero faith in this place… Back in Grand Junction, just after we’d stopped for gas and were going down the main street to get back onto the highway, past all the fast-food joints and gas stations, there were these two girls—probably twelve or thirteen-ish—wearing those sparkly tinsel glitter-type wigs on their head. They were standing on the side of the main street, on a grassy strip, as they blew soap bubbles out onto passing cars using those little plastic wand thingies. I had to double take when I saw ‘em ‘cos I wondered what the hell they were doing. As we got closer, though, I saw the sign they were holding up, waving it at the cars: HONK IF YOU LIKE US I honked the car a few times as we passed ‘em by. Michael opened his eyes and looked up, but missed them. He closed his eyes again. I’m just glad there’s still moments like that. 5:13 AM: So I sit here and I wonder. I wonder what it must be like for Michael, lying over there? These last few hours, it feels like I’ve been so wrapped up in my own thoughts, trying to deal with coming back, that I’ve forgotten he only told me he had cancer 24 hours ago. Cancer. The guy has cancer. Here I am worrying about newspaper articles and frat boys and tigers in glass cages. How must he be. Jesus christ, I can’t begin to imagine it. If I put myself in his shoes, if I close my eyes for a minute and imagine it was actually me lying over there on his bed, I know exactly what I’d wanna do. 291

gar y de nne

I’d wanna get the fucking thing out of me. Burn it out, cut it out, fry it out, zap it out. Whatever it took. Get it the fuck out. But Michael … he’s not doin’ that. I don’t know how he has the balls to do that? And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Should I try to help him? Should I distance myself? Avoid becoming involved? Should I get up off the bed right now and leave him here? I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. 5:47 AM: I wonder what Michael thinks of me? I wonder how people saw me tonight in that nightclub? Or on the gaming floor? Just another average guy? Just a grunge-type dude? I wonder about how I’m perceived. What kinda category people passing by put me in. I’d love to know what other people think when they pass me on the street or see me on the gaming floor. I’d kill to know that. What do people see when they see me… Just a nobody? Do they even notice me? Do I look weird to them? I think I’m becoming … what’s the word … paranoid? Maybe I’m just getting tired.

292

Day 6, Michael asked a favour… 8:35 AM: Michael and I headed down to the Sahara buffet breakfast ($9.95). We loaded our plates with bacon, eggs, French toast, hash browns and sausage, and sat down at a booth to eat. “What’s with you?” I said. “What?” Michael asked, with a mouthful of food. “You’re actually eatin’ somethin’.” “What are you, a detective now?” I glanced around us, observing the scene. Beatles muzak piped in overhead, on equal par with the sound of cutlery clicking on plates. “So how was last night?” he asked. I turned to him and said, “I’ve seen enough of Vegas in one night to last a lifetime.” “House always wins, huh?” “Something like that,” I replied, French toast in hand. I reached into my jean pocket and dumped a handful of change onto the table while scraping up scrambled eggs with my fork. I returned to my pocket and dug deeper. I had one of those quick, flashback moments and asked Michael suddenly, “Did you see my credit card up in the room before we left?” “How come?” “I don’t have it—it should be right here,” I said, looking down to my pocket, semifreaked. “Where’d you have it last?” 293

gar y de nne

I thought back for a moment, retracing last night in my mind like a DVD searching through a bunch’a chapters. “Shit,” I blurted out, looking directly at Michael as I recalled, “I think it was at that club last night? I paid for a drink, I signed the slip, and then … I don’t remember putting it back in my pocket.” “I’m sure they picked it up.” “Shit,” I said. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I reached into my pocket again as if the card was gonna somehow magically appear out of hope. “I’m not messing round,” I said, stressing to Michael, “without that card, we’re screwed.” “I gotta good vibe about it,” he replied. “Oh, ok … wow, a good vibe? That really helps right now … if you’ve got a ‘vibe’. Why was I ever worried?” I said, rolling my eyes in sarcasm. Other diners at tables nearby gave me passing glances—I guess my voice had kicked up a notch. I couldn’t believe I’d lost that fucking card. “And what if they don’t have it?” I said, twitching my eyes at Michael. “What if the club wasn’t where I lost the thing? Then what?” Michael didn’t answer me. It bugged the shit outta me when he didn’t answer me. “See that,” I said, pointing to the tiny molehill of coins on the table, “that’s all the cash we have, right there. Without credit, we’re fucked in Las Vegas, not leaving Las Vegas.” He looked up from his plate at the pile of coins. “So we head down to this club and we pick it up—problem solved,” he said, tearing pieces of crispy bacon in half with his fingers. I was starting to go nuts trying to talk to this guy. Michael was one of the most frustrating guys I’d met in my entire life. I looked around the buffet dining room for a quick glance. I thought maybe I was spaced out and the card was someplace on the floor, fallen from my pocket. There was the usual army of busboys on standby to run in and swoop down on anything resembling dirty or used plates and cutlery. As though the sight of a dirty plate was so goddamn awful they had to come in and take it away. Thing is, though, there were so many of these guys around that they ended up just standing by, watching you. Counting down each mouthful until you finished, so

294

the matt zander journals

they could head towards your table and swing into action. Shoving food in my mouth, I felt like all eyes were on me. Focusing back to the table, I saw something different in Michael. He had energy. He had life. He was eating like crazy. Couldn’t put my finger on it. But he’d changed. “You seem … different today?” I asked. “Never felt better,” Michael said, grabbing a napkin from the table. “Why the change … I mean, y’know, I thought you were—” “—gonna die?” Michael finished. “Hey, we’re in Vegas. Can’t a guy change his mind?” He flung one of his pills back and swallowed. “You can do whatever the hell you want,” I replied, puzzled. “Well, actually … I kinda wanted to ask you a favour,” he said, washing the pill down with OJ. I forgot about the card for a second and my face went all curious. “What is it?” “It’s kinda big.” “Go on…” Michael reached his hand round to his back pocket, and pulled out one of the escort cards I’d grabbed from those Mexican card dudes on the Strip last night, while walking back to the hotel. He pushed it across the table as I looked down: Unforgettable Vegas – 18+ (always hiring) - Great selection of young college beauties, ready to party - Private & Discreet - direct to your room - Affordable Rates - 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed “You want a hooker?” I asked surprised, looking back up at him. Michael quickly glanced around at nearby tables. “Why don’t you say it a little louder next time?” he said under his breath, annoyed. There was an awkward silence. The sound of clanking cutlery and plates continued around us. 295

gar y de nne

“You make it sound so sleazy,” he finally said. “They’re escorts. I’m more comfortable about it if you call them escorts.” “Uh huh.” “You left a whole bunch of these cards in the room this morning,” he told me. “I looked at a few, curious. I was thinkin’—” “You don’t need to explain it,” I interrupted. “I get it.” We let a few moments pass. Then I suggested, “You should go to that club I was at last night. I mean, if you can’t get laid in this town, you need to hand your dick in.” Michael reached out his hand and retracted the card back over to his side of the table, quickly putting it back in his pocket. “Forget I said anything.” “What? What did I say?” I protested. He paused for a second, thinking of how best to say, “I don’t wanna go to a club.” “Why not?” “‘Cos I’m just no good at that kinda thing. I freeze up. I dunno what to say.” “Jesus, go up to a girl and tell her you’re dying. That oughta do it.” Ugh. Have you ever said something and wondered why the hell you said it? “Shit. Sorry. That was stupid.” Michael said, “Guess it doesn’t matter if you’ve lost your card, huh?” Sidebar: Buffet Ice I got up and went to grab another juice at the drinks bar. A busboy raced over to the table, his crosshairs on my plate. I thought it’d give my brain time to recover and not spit anything else stupid outta my mouth. Watching people get their drinks reminded me of that scene from the movie, Castaway, with Tom Hanks (and Wilson, the volleyball). The one where the guy gets stranded on an island for five years and then gets rescued. They’re flying him back to the U.S. on a plane and he’s sitting there after living with nothing for 5-odd years and he gets given a drink with ice in it. He then says to himself, as if he appreciates he’s holding a modern miracle, ‘I have ice in my glass.’ At the beverage bar, people were filling their glasses with ice cubes like it was an everyday thing. Never a single thought how good it was to have ice fall outta a

296

the matt zander journals

machine when you press a button. Am I the only guy that thinks like that? Am I the only guy who notices that kinda stuff? On my way back to the table, a group of attractive MILFs breezed past me and sat at a booth across from us. They were either a hen’s party or a girls-only getaway. People always come here to do the bad things. You can just tell. “Has anyone ever told you you’re one helluva hard guy to read?” I said as I sat back down, having thought about Michael’s favour while filling up on coffee and juice. “Thanks.” “I don’t mean that in a bad way, you’re just … I dunno … every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you go and change on me,” I said. Michael kept his coffee close to his face and had a long stare across at the women. I joined him. It looked like one of them was filling in the blanks from the night before as they all giggled and laughed, still drunk on champagne and wine spritzers. I wondered for a minute how hard it would be to get one or more of them back up to our room. I mean, a group of girls like that in Vegas? Surely they’d heard the official Vegas motto, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’? Just an option. “I was thinkin’ about what you said,” I told Michael, “last night, I was reading one of those Vegas magazines. I saw this ad … a gentleman’s ranch-style place. Someplace out in the desert. Talked about being famous. Classy.” I paused for a second, waiting for Michael to return his attention back to the table. “And?” he said. “And…” I continued, “we could drive out there. Check the place out. Unless you got the balls to walk over there and give ‘em our room number?” I gestured to Michael about the MILFs still doing the Sex In The City girly-talk thing. Michael glanced back over, sizing the women up. “Anything’s better than a hooker on a hockey card with stars over her tits,” I added. “Here,” I said, “take this.” I pushed a napkin across to Michael after writing our room number on it. “Just walk over there. Put it on the table. And walk away.” 297

gar y de nne

“Don’t say anything?” “Nope,” I replied. “Just walk away.” “What’s that gonna do?” “This is Vegas. It’s only gonna mean one thing,” I suggested. Michael looked over to their table again. He slowly began to rise out of his seat. The MILFs suddenly burst out laughing. The one recalling the night before to the others had made them laugh so loud, the whole buffet dining room heard. Michael slowly sank back down, too intimidated to move. We both just sat there, silent. I drank my coffee. The sound of clanking cutlery on plates filled the space around us. 9:43 AM, Albertsons: You know you’re in Vegas when you see little ol’ ladies playing slots outside a supermarket checkout, with their trolley of groceries parked next to them. I sat there in the car, waiting for Michael, watching in disbelief through the supermarket windows. Ice-cream and god knows what else in shopping carts was probably melting to shit while silver-rinse grannies pressed buttons and watched blurred fruit fly by ‘til it stopped on their screen. Finally, Michael came out of the supermarket with a bag of groceries under his arm. He insisted on buying some stuff for the trip to this brothel ranch. “I got sandwiches and fruit. Coffee, too,” he said, getting in the car. We pulled away from Albertson’s parking lot and headed back to Las Vegas Blvd, aka the Strip, aka the centre of the universe in Vegas. Most people walked faster than traffic moved along the Strip, any time of the day. The upside being, you got a chance to check out the women strutting their stuff down the sidewalk as you sat idle, waiting for the lights to change. Really nice views, too. Even in winter. As long as the sun was out, so was the eye candy. Back at Aquarium, 10:11 AM: I stepped through the doors of an empty, quiet nightclub. Quite a contrast to the night before. I didn’t even recognize the place in the light of day. All the spilt 298

the matt zander journals

drinks, body fluids and cigarette butts had been wiped clean, ready for another night. A girl was at the bar, stacking trays of glasses. A guy was on a stepladder, adjusting a speaker. Long story short … I talked to this slender, sleek, brunette girl with racoon makeup and purple lipstick. Had those art-house kinda A-cup tits. She immediately pulled out a stack of credit cards from the bar like she’d done it a thousand times before. She began flipping through them as though they were playing cards and she was about to start dealing. Before I even finished explaining, she asked me, “Whaddya say ya name was again?” “Zander.” “Scotiabank?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said, my eyes lighting up. She handed my card to me. “Happens all the time,” she said. Driving, 10:40 AM: “Best little whorehouse in the west,” Michael read aloud, the magazine up at his face like he needed glasses. “Come feel right at home with our beautiful selection of ladies in luxurious, wild west bungalows. Accepts most major credit cards, 24/7.” We headed up the Strip as I kept my eyes open for the turnoff to get onto I-15 and head to a place called Pahrump. I think some kind of legal thing meant brothels had to be outside city limits. Michael was reading the magazine ad I’d told him about. I was listening, but in my rear-view mirror, I caught a glimpse of a girl driving behind us, brushing her hair as she drove. People are morons. “Y’know what? This is stupid. Turn the car round,” Michael said suddenly. “Why?” “Just turn the car around!” “What for?” I shouted back. “This is stupid. This was a stupid idea. C’mon, stop the car,” he said, as I glanced back to the girl behind us, watching her now put lipstick on. 299

gar y de nne

“I can’t. There’s a car right on my ass. Besides, this isn’t stupid. Why’s it stupid?” “I’m not gonna do this. Let’s go to that club—the one you said.” “You’re freakin’ out about going to a hooker? What’s the big deal?” I asked. I kinda felt sorry for the guy. “It’s just—” “Michael…” I interrupted, “nobody’s gonna judge you, okay? If I were in your shoes, I’d be doin’ the exact same thing. Hell, I’d probably party non-stop with a bunch of hookers ‘til I … well … y’know…” The girl in the mirror took a sip of coffee, gazed around her, and spat out her window. Everything but watch the road. “Look, here’s the deal: unless you like walking round casinos all day, we ain’t got nothing better to do. So, I say we drive out to this place and if you don’t wanna do it, you don’t wanna do it.” “I’m a virgin…” Michael said. Slam. “Jeesuz fucking christ!” I shouted, as we got shafted from behind and violently shoved forward. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the girl: a Britney Spears look-alike who was just sitting there with sunglasses on and her hands over her mouth like Macaulay Culkin from Home Alone. “I knew she was gonna do that,” I said to Michael in frustration, as I unbuckled and started to get out the car. I got a good lungful of exhaust fumes as I stepped out onto the road, hoping to hell oncoming traffic wasn’t gonna smash into me and pin me against the Neon. I slammed the door shut as traffic in the lane started to snake around us. Nobody cared, nobody gave a shit. One guy who had his window down told us to, ‘get the fuck out the way of the traffic.’ Really. He did. I didn’t say anything back, but I wanted to run up to his window and slam his jaw into his stomach. Everyone else around us was too deep in their own little world to notice a minor fender-bender. The girl finally got out of her red Chevrolet and slowly approached me like an inquisitive animal who’d never seen man before in their life. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, sir. I am so sorry. I can’t believe I did that. Sir, I am so sorry,” she apologized right off the bat. (And ‘Sir’? Who the hell did she think she was talking to?) 300

the matt zander journals

She had to be in her teens still, this girl. Shiny gold hair down her back, red tracksuit top and khaki shorts with sneakers. Fresh faced, maybe 18 or 19, with an armful of bangles and those charity, rubber wristbands. “Sir, I am so sorry,” she kept repeating. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I think so. I just can’t believe I did that. It happened so fast.” “I knew you were gonna do it—you weren’t watching,” I replied annoyingly. “I am so sorry. I’ll get my insurance. This has never happened to me,” she said. Michael stayed in the car as I watched the girl go back to her glove compartment and reach in, digging around for her insurance details. I felt sorry for the girl, actual fact. I could feel she was genuine as she stood next to me and said sorry a dozen times. My rage level dropped rapidly. Veins bulging in my neck sunk back down. I was so ready to go apeshit at her, us driving a rental n’ all, but there was something about her that just made me not care about the car. All I wanted to tell her was, “Ya gotta pay attention to the road, okay? You can get killed out here trying to do two things at once.” “I was late for work,” she said, as she began to record her details down on a fresh page in the back of my notebook. I walked to the back of the Neon to check out the damage. There was none. Okay, so it wasn’t a huge rear-end smash that sent us flyin’ out the front windshield, but still, I couldn’t work out how there wasn’t any damage (apart from a few black scuff marks on the paint work from her bumper and a slightly raised back panel). Her old Chevrolet had a slight dent in the middle of the front bumper but pretty much came out of it clean as well. It could’ve been worse. Hell … it should’ve been worse. I stood there on Las Vegas Blvd as she copied her details down. I double and triple-checked the back of the Neon, in case I wasn’t seeing it in the right light. She wrote down her name and address from her driver’s licence. She was a local: Ms Megan Baxter 2437 Palma Vista Avenue, 301

gar y de nne

Las Vegas NV 89109 “I think we got lucky today … Megan,” I said to her, glancing at her name on the page as she finished writing. “Maybe now’s a good time to go win back what I lost last night.” I don’t think she heard me. “Is this all I have to do, give you my details? My insurance will cover everything, right? I mean, if not, I’ll pay for any damages. I am so sorry.” She was still worried about what she’d done. Had her hands over her mouth in a nervous kinda way as we stood there. “Really … I wouldn’t worry about it. There’s only a few scratches between the both of us. Besides, mines a rental—rentals are s’posed to get banged up,” I replied, amusement on my face. She bent over and briefly looked at the front of her car. I decided to cut her loose. Saw no point in being there any longer. Traffic was banking up behind us. People were getting pissed. “Try to watch the road, okay?” I told her, as I went to get back in the car. “See you in the next life.” She didn’t reply. She continued to inspect her car for a few seconds longer, then jumped back in as the traffic honked again. “What’s the damage?” Michael asked me as I got back in the car. I looked at him as the red Chevrolet girl, Megan, took off and sped away. The conversation was a little awkward. We had long pauses in between dialogue. I had heard Michael tell me he was a virgin but ignored it. “You wouldn’t believe it. Not a thing. Well, scratches. A bent bumper, maybe,” I said. “She gave us a good thump,” Michael said, surprised. “I know,” I exclaimed. I breathed a sigh. “Christ, anything else gonna happen on this damn trip?” “So, whadda we do now then?” Michael asked. I turned to him and said, “Still wanna get laid?”

302

Red Rock Canyon, about 11:15 AM, I guess: As we headed out of Vegas and on our way to Pahrump, I thought about the accident for a while. I wondered what the meaning of it was, if everything in life was s’posed to have a meaning. That’s what Keller said—everything has meaning. So what was the meaning of that accident, huh? I shouldn’t even call it an accident. Nothing happened. A few scratches, a bump—big deal. So what the hell did it happen for? ‘Cos I have to say, the only interaction I had with that Britney look-alike girl is that I told her she should watch the road, than try n’ do her hair in the mirror. All I can think of, if there really is meaning in everything, is that maybe that girl needed that to happen for a future event in her life? Maybe that’s why sometimes you can’t see any obvious reason for things that happen to you? You just don’t know what they’ll end up meaning later in life? 11:40AM: Road sign: - WATCH FOR WILD HORSES As we wound our way up and down, through canyons and open road, with a minefield of cactus on either side of us, I found it hard to believe there’d be anyone out here, let alone a whorehouse brothel full of women you only ever saw in porn movies or on adult websites. “We must be close,” I told Michael, squinting my eyes like an angry kung-fu dude ‘cos of the bright sunlight shining through the windshield. We came over the crest of a hill and could see a small town in the distance on a dead-flat plain. 303

gar y de nne

“You never said anything back there,” Michael said. “About what?” I asked, knowing damn-well what. “I’m a virgin.” “I know,” I casually acknowledged. Road sign: - Welcome to Pahrump, NV I remember a tumbleweed rolling across the road. We were in the wild west. We turned left at the town’s first intersection, just as the magazine ad directions said to. We began driving on a gravel road, through flat, sandy desert. A snake slithered its way right in front of the car. Either of us didn’t make a big deal about it. We were too busy looking for hookers to worry about snakes. “Whadda the directions say in the magazine?” I asked. “Homestead Road. Should be coming up.” “What the hell is a brothel doing all the way out here, anyways?” I said aloud. “Is it some underground bunker or somethin’, ‘cos I sure don’t see nuthin’ round here that screams sex.” “Maybe we missed somethin’ back there?” Michael replied, looking every which way, out the windows. “This obviously ain’t it. A brothel on a gravel road, in the middle a’ nowhere?” “Let’s just turn round and forget about it. I’m not gonna do this,” Michael announced. “Hold on,” I said, as I slammed on the brakes and spun the car around on the gravel. We turned back onto the main road into Pahrump and continued down the long stretch of highway, heading toward a place called Death Valley. The name seemed like more than just coincidence to Flashback Alley, but anyways… A large billboard sign was looming in the distance: Kingdom Gentlemen’s Club … AHEAD, 1 Mile “Find one, you find ‘em all,” I said softly. “There,” Michael said, “check it out.” 304

the matt zander journals

Up ahead, we saw a building in the shape of a medieval castle, looking like something they’d build in Legoland for kids to play in. On top of this place was a large billboard featuring a huge, life-sized poster of a gorgeous, tanned brunette in lingerie, stretched out on her side on a white backdrop: Kingdom Gentlemen’s Club Just after we passed by the Kingdom Club, on the edge of the highway, I saw a turnoff for Homestead Road. We slowed down and pulled off to the left, as other cars raced past us. Above, I noticed storm clouds beginning to close in. The last remaining rays of sunlight faded away, as every little patch of blue sky was slowly sewn up. We followed Homestead for several minutes, passing gas stations, American Indian casinos and everyday, small-town homes. Until we reached the place, we were pretty quiet, the both of us. I think Michael was getting anxious. “There,” he pointed. I slowed down so I could focus my eyes ahead. There was a giant, bed sheetsize US flag flapping vigorously in the breeze, and next to it, a white sign with red letters and an arrow pointing into a driveway: World Famous Chicken Ranch Brothel, Voted #1 Nevada Brothel of the Year We pulled into the bitumen parking lot. A large, double-story, white house was set back from the road with a pale blue picket fence around its perimeter. Below a blue tiled roof were three large attic rooms on the second floor, complete with balconies. There was grass out the front, rubbish bins at the side and a landscaped garden with several trees scattered around the property (which are worth mentioning ‘cos we were in the middle of a friggin’ desert, so gardens didn’t quite fit with the surrounding landscape). Old-fashioned lampposts dotted the ranch, and a large neon sign in the parking lot advertised to the world: The world famous, historic Chicken Ranch. Where the west is still wild!

305

gar y de nne

I could tell the sign was one that lit up of a night and had a moving animation to it. A pair of female legs coming out a cartoon eggshell that’d dance up and down in a four-step process and no doubt flash and do all that neon stuff. Other signs were scattered round the entrance, advertising a saloon bar and some kind of oxygen experience to be had, as well as some signs next to the main gate that led up to the front door of the house, telling customers the rules of engagement (press the buzzer and wait to be buzzed in). We pulled up in a spot away from the main entrance and I turned the engine off. No one was around. There were a few other parked cars but this wasn’t a lively place. Not today at least. The only sound around us was the wind outside. I waited a few seconds once we were parked and then turned to Michael. “Well … this is it,” I said. Michael was glancing out the window at the place. He didn’t say anything. Stage fright, maybe. “Do you still wanna do this?” I asked. “I think I should go in and ask how much it costs first,” he pondered. “Here,” I replied, pulling my credit card from my pocket. “Take it. Use it. Whatever it costs, ‘k?” Michael accepted the card from me and looked right at it, as though it was the key to deciding what was gonna happen next. “I’ve thought a lot about a moment like this,” he said. “But this is different to how I’ve always imagined it. Now I’m here, I just dunno if I’m doin’ the right thing.” He turned to me and asked, “Does that make sense?” I paused for a moment, then replied, “Yeah, it does.” “You’re not coming?” I shook my head ever so slightly. “I’m just gonna hang here, ‘k?” Michael didn’t try to persuade me to join him. Perhaps he thought I wanted him to do this on his own—that it was his moment, and his alone. But the truth of it was, I just wanted to sit there in the car. I had some thinking to do. Without saying another word, he slowly got out the car and headed for the house. I watched him struggle through the now heavy wind to reach the front gate. For a moment, I thought the wind might blow him over—that’s how strong it was. Or maybe that’s what little strength Michael had in him.

306

the matt zander journals

He rang the buzzer and waited a few seconds. I saw him unlatch the gate, walk to the front door, enter, then close it behind him. And that was that. I began to wait. In the middle of nowhere. I reached down and grabbed my coffee. Drank the last, cold drops (cold coffee sux). On the side of the cup, I noticed there was some kinda quote. For a second, I got all curious—I thought it might be a sign from the universe. Like, finally, something was gonna tell me what the hell I was doing, or how this was all gonna end. I paused for a second, thought about reading it, then threw the cup down on the car floor in frustration, amongst the other garbage. I was getting sick of all this deep meaning, journey shit. Or maybe I was just getting sick of being behind the wheel, on the road. I mean, everything has to end eventually … even road trips. So I sat there in the car, alone with my thoughts. Waiting in silence. Just a blank stare out to the horizon. I was gonna have to figure this out on my own. I wondered, just like the fender-bender girl, why Michael had come into my life. I mean, really … why. What was the meaning of this trip? If I wasn’t supposed to stop the guy killing himself, then what? I had to come back from the afterlife to get a guy laid? Get the fuck outta here. I tried to think of a reason. A ‘why me’ kinda reason. But nothing added up. It didn’t make sense. That’s what occupied my mind the most. Not what was going on behind the doors of the whorehouse, but if all of this had any meaning to it. Or had I been conned by Keller, telling me I had all this stuff left to do, when really … life was nothing more than random nothingness? I tried to imagine how this was all going to end. 5 mins later… I hadn’t gotten very far with my thoughts, when, from the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the house open. Michael came out and walked down the path, towards the gate. I wondered what the hell was going on. That maybe he’d changed his mind. Or maybe it was one helluva quickie. I buzzed the window down a bit, as he leant up against it with his hands. 307

gar y de nne

“Hey … what’s up?” I asked. “What’s your code?” he asked me. “What code?” “The code for your card.” “Oh … the code. What do you need that for?” “They have an ATM inside. I can’t sign your credit card so I gotta withdraw the cash out.” “How much ya need?” “Four hundred.” “Four hundred!?” I said, taken aback for a second, “What the hell do you get for four hundred?” “That’s what it costs.” “Jeesuz christ. Four hundred dollars?” I debated the price with myself for a few seconds as Michael stood there. “It’s 8543,” I finally said. Michael nodded slightly as he turned and started to walk back to the entrance. What else was I gonna do? I had to give him the code. We’d come all this way. It was what he wanted. A favour. I never thought a second more about the money. Well, that’s a lie—I did for a minute or two once he walked back in, but after that, I quickly dismissed it as easily as all the other charges I’d racked up. I was getting real good at that. 30-minute mark and I was busting to go to the bathroom. But there was no way I was gonna buzz the ranch door and ask if I could use theirs. I’m sure they got those types of guys all the time. Like … ‘you mean this isn’t a convenience store? Dammit! Ahhhhhh … seeing as though I’m here, I’ll take the dominatrix with the knee-high fuck-me boots and black latex, thanks.’ Funny how you can spend a few days with someone you’ve just met and it feels like you’ve known them a lifetime. In a way, Michael reminded me of myself, maybe ten years ago. Maybe that’s why even though he was frustrating as hell, and had that brooding, calm, disengaged style, I guess I was starting to like the guy.

308

the matt zander journals

45 mins in… I was looking over the car rental agreement to see if I should call in the fenderbender, even though there was no clear damage, when, in my peripheral vision, I noticed the door to the house open. Michael walked out and came through the gate, closing it behind him. He headed for the car. I knew this time he was done. I made a mental note of not asking him about it. I admit I was curious as hell to know what went on in there, what kinds of girls they had, and the kinda stuff they offered to do to a guy, but as far as Michael was concerned, no. I didn’t want to ask. It was his thing to know about. “Hey,” he said. “Hey,” I replied. “How’d it go?” “Okay,” he answered, as he got in and closed the door. “Just okay?” “It was good,” he said, unsure of himself. “Four hundred bucks and it was just … good?” Michael looked at me and paused for a second before saying, “Four-fifty, actually.” “Four-fifty … you said four hundred!” I exclaimed. He looked at me, explanation on his face, “I had to give a tip.” “A fifty-buck tip?” I said, raising my voice. “She was cool about everything, okay? Jesus…” I calmed down and tried to put the moment in perspective. The money wasn’t important. I knew that. A bunch of college guys pulled up as we sat there. We watched them lock up their car and head to the gate, pressing the buzzer. A college road trip, no doubt. Frat boys. “Feel any different?” I asked. Michael thought for a moment. “I dunno?” “Well, I hope she was worth it,” I said. “She was,” he replied, with a slow-forming smile. “She was really cool.” It was a look I hadn’t seen on his face before. Like, for a moment, he let his guard down, and smiled like he finally had something to smile about. I paid attention to his words. His all-of-a-sudden flood of words. 309

gar y de nne

“When I walked in, there had to be, like, fifteen of the hottest women I’ve ever seen, lined up at a long bar, waiting for me—looking at me. Some were dressed casual. Jeans and t-shirt. Others were dressed up—skirts, dresses, high-heels, stockings. But every single one of ‘em was perfect. Like they’d just stepped out a magazine. I stared. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t sure if some of ‘em were even real—they were so perfect. I’m not talking about the obvious. I’m talkin’ about their smiles. Their hair. Their voices.” “They? Jeesuz, what the hell did you do in there?” “It wasn’t like that,” Michael said. “They introduced themselves. One by one. They were casual and friendly, and they didn’t fight over me. It was cool. The way they were, made me relax. The one I picked … her figure was perfect. She got me to unbutton her top. I fumbled. It was like I’d never undone a button on a piece of clothing before. She had black lingerie on, underneath a see-thru top. Ummm, what else? Sheer stockings. High-heels. And floral edging round her bra,” he said to me, recalling it in his mind. “Her perfume scent smelt so good. Her hair was fire red, right down her back. Her name was M—” “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, cowboy … you can leave it right there,” I told him (even though I wanted him to continue). “Really. I don’t need to know,” I added, trying to erase the image from my mind before I wanted to go in there and see for myself. Michael paused. I think he thought I wanted to know how my money had been spent. “Souvenir?” I suggested. I pointed over to a glass display cabinet we were parked next to (subtle subject change). Inside was merchandise and tourist attraction info on the area. There was a t-shirt that read: - ‘Where the West is still wild!’ And another with a picture of an egg carton and girls’ legs in high-heels coming out of each cracked eggshell. That one read: - ‘FRESHLY LAID’. “I’ll pass,” Michael said. “Let’s just get outta here.” “You got it.” “Hey, before we go. One thing…” Michael said, pausing for my attention. “Thanks,” he said to me, his voice a soft whisper. I didn’t say anything. I was more focused on his face and eyes. It was the second time in as many minutes that I saw the real Michael. The Michael behind the 310

the matt zander journals

tough, homeless, street-kid exterior. The feeling of gratitude I felt from him at that moment was worth … well, you couldn’t put a price on it. I gave a subtle nod but said nothing. I really wasn’t sure of what to say. I was gonna reply with something like, ‘You’re welcome.’ But I didn’t. I just started up the car and we drove away from the Chicken Ranch in silence.

311

We were headed back to Vegas, that was around 2:30 PM: Road sign: - Las Vegas, 48 Miles “Michael?” I said aloud, wondering if he’d already fallen asleep or was just reminiscing his first screw. We’d only driven the five minutes back down Homestead Road to the highway and his eyes were already closed. I guess that’s what a $450 professional screw will do to a guy. He was slouched back in the seat, his head tilted on the headrest. He didn’t answer me. I let him be. Got back around 4:00 PM: Michael slept all the way back from Pahrump, until we were coming into Vegas again. That girl must’ve really screwed the crap outta him. Now I’m curious as ever what a $450 hooker can do. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about walking in with him. But I didn’t go in. I thought about it. But I didn’t. I could have. Michael missed the sandstorm on the way back. Really strong winds, shaking the car. Stuck in rush-hour traffic on the Vegas Strip, we saw people getting blown all over the place on the sidewalk. People were shielding their faces, covering their eyes. Women were holding skirts down so as not to flash their underwear. Tourists were clinging onto hats and glasses. 312

the matt zander journals

That was some big-ass wind out there today. Even saw a sparrow get picked up and slammed down to the ground, the wind was so strong. The little bird was on the end of mother nature’s equivalent to a WWF piledriver. When we got back to the room, a slow and drowsy Michael headed straight for the bathroom and closed the door. He wasted no time in getting in the shower. I heard him coughing. He always coughs in the shower. He has half-hour showers. 1:13 AM: You know what? Lying here writing about all this today … it bugs me that I haven’t taken the time to get to know Michael as much as I should’ve. I mean details. There’s so much I haven’t asked him. He’s a damn hard guy to get to know, but I guess I’ve taken this trip with him for granted. I don’t know why I’ve done that? Not going out of my way to get to know him. Only scratching the surface. Looking back, I’ve kinda done that with alotta people throughout my life. Anyways… Late in the afternoon, while Michael was washing the smell of high-class hooker off his body, I went down to the buffet and ate alone. (Am I sick of that buffet or what?) When I returned to the room, Michael wasn’t on the bed like he usually was. The TV was on, as I’d left it. But the bathroom door was still shut. I couldn’t hear the shower running. Soon as the door to the room self-closed behind me, I tapped on the bathroom door. “Michael?” I said, giving the door a few short knocks. “You in there?” There was no answer. I thought maybe he’d gone down to the gaming floor for a look around, or to meet me in the buffet, but I glanced over to the bedside table and saw his keycard sitting there amongst loose change, two pill bottles, a glass of water and the clock-radio red-LED. “Michael?” I said, louder this time.

313

gar y de nne

I placed my hand on the door handle and slowly turned it to check if it was locked. It wasn’t. I was anxious about what I was gonna find. All sorts of things ran through my head. I took a deep breath and then slowly opened the door. Michael was sitting on the toilet, lying back, naked, apart from a white hotel towel wrapped around the lower half of his body. His head was resting on the bathroom wall. The toilet seat and lid were down—he wasn’t taking a shit. He was wet from the shower. Towels were on the floor, soaked. His bandages were on the floor in a heap. I could see the cuts on his wrists where he’d removed his bandages. They were slowly healing. His skin was pale, and his eyes, closed. It took me a second to notice he was still breathing because of the water droplets on his body. I honestly thought he was dead. I hated to think that but I did. Thank christ, he was alive. I did not want the guy dying on my watch. Get him to L.A., to a hospital, then it wouldn’t be my problem. I feel bad writing that, but I just don’t need this kinda thing to deal with when I have my own life to solve, ok? “Michael?” I shouted. “What happened? What’s wrong?” He was mumbling to himself. The whole time I stood there on the wet bathroom floor, he was mumbling words from his mouth. I tried to make out what he was saying but couldn’t. It was too low a mumble to hear. “Michael?” I moved in closer to try and hear what he was saying. Next thing I was gonna do was shake him. But suddenly, he pulled his head up off the wallpaper and slowly opened his eyes. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” he whispered in a weak voice. “What am I doing? I was gonna ask you the same damn thing,” I replied. “You okay?” “Move along. Nuthin to see here,” he said, as he held his head in his hands for a brief second, then slowly got up off the toilet seat, his dog tags around his neck, dangling down on his chest. He walked past me outta the bathroom, acting all weird. I didn’t say anything more. I’d never seen him like that and I didn’t know what to do. 314

the matt zander journals

With only the towel wrapped around his bottom half, I saw for the first time the true movement of his body as he walked out the bathroom. It wasn’t the wrinkles of his skin from the 30-minute shower, it was the way he walked and sat down on the bed. He was slow. Weak. You could see it. You could tell. “You sure there’s nothing I can do?” I asked, as he sat down on the bed and swung his feet around. “Yep,” he answered, annoyed with the question. I went back to use the bathroom and take a dump of all the buffet food. I noticed Michael’s bandages again, on the floor. A lot of water, too. I pulled the shower curtain on the bathtub back and saw a light pink trickle of water in the bathtub, slowly flowing towards the drain. I knew it was blood—Michael’s blood—and that that’s what all the coughing was about. The windstorm outside earlier wouldn’t have helped any—I know I got a few mouthfuls of dust walking back to the hotel entrance from the parking garage. But that wasn’t all. On the bathroom countertop, I noticed a disposable razor. It had been pulled apart. Two pieces, split right down the middle. The blade was missing. I quickly scanned all over the place, searching for a sign of the blade. I found it just behind the toilet bowl, on the floor. I picked it up and put it in the trash. That was all I did. Maybe I should’ve said something, but that was all I did. After I sent the buffet food back down to the kitchen as turds, I came back out to check on Michael. He was lying there on the bed, his hair still damp and hanging over his forehead, getting in the way of his eyes. He was watching TV like a zombie. “You ok?” He said nothing. Who the hell doesn’t answer a simple question like that? Jesus. I walked to the window and put my hands on the ledge, looking out at the Hilton Casino lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’m sure not gonna miss this place,” I said of the neon and sparkling lights of Vegas, keeping my focus out the window. “But I am kinda anxious about reaching L.A. Honestly … I don’t even know why I’m going anymore? It just sounded right when I heard it. When you told me about it. And here we are, in

315

gar y de nne

Vegas, about to get there, and it seems so surreal. That we’re actually gonna get there. Y’know?” Michael never answered. “I dunno why it feels that way,” I said to myself, “it just does. Maybe I wish we coulda’ done this for a little longer. Maybe what I’m trying to say here is that I wish this didn’t have to end.” “What?” Michael asked, softly. “This,” I answered, “us, on the road. I wish I got to know you better. It’s my fault. Feels like we’ve been driving for a month and I haven’t—I didn’t think about how this was gonna turn out. We should’ve talked more. I mean really talked.” Michael didn’t reply. Sometimes, jeez … it felt like I was talking to my damn self. I turned round from the hotel window and asked him, “You wanna get outta here for a while?” He looked like shit, lying there, eyes half open. I felt guilty even asking him. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up,” he said, nodding for me to go without him. I knew it was an empty promise, but nodded back and made my way slowly toward the door. “I’ll be down at the bar. Near Elvis,” I told him. I left the room and headed to the elevators. Other guests were waiting to get their night on the Strip started. I felt like the odd guy out. Alone. Quiet. Waiting for the elevator to call on our floor, I discreetly panned around and looked at the other hotel guests, waiting with me. They were happy, smiling, talking to their friends or partners, making jokes and sharing their adventures from the day—which casinos they’d visited, how much they’d won or lost, like it was a rite of passage. A few checked their hair and makeup in the reflection of the picture frames hanging up either side of the elevator doors, making sure they were dressed for success and looking hot. I wasn’t in the same mood as everyone else. I must’ve been the only damn guy in Vegas who just wanted to reflect. But Vegas isn’t the place people go to reflect. Once we reached ground floor, I made my way down the hallway, past hotel reception and through to the gaming floor. Filtering my way through the crowds, I casually walked towards the straw-hut bar in the middle of the gaming floor, right near the lounge that was surrounded by slots. Elvis and his two girls were still 316

the matt zander journals

singing in the lounge as though they hadn’t stopped since the night before. As Elvis belted out Jailhouse Rock, I pulled out a bar stool and sat myself down, trying to escape the crowds that were swarming around the gaming tables like bees to honey. Casino waitresses buzzed past me in tight skirts. I looked out across the floor to a sea of slots and flashing lights. The slot noise was already burnt into my brain, as were the yells and cheers coming from a random bunch of tables at regular intervals, as if people were actually beating the house. Yeah, right. (roll eyes here) The brunette behind the bar approached me and I asked for a beer. In seconds flat, it appeared. She was one of those aggressive bartenders that took out her anger on opening bottles and pouring drinks. Ever seen one of those people? They seem to wanna slam ice into glasses and throw empty bottles down so hard they crash into the plastic bins beneath the bar. The more noise, the better. Weird. While everyone else was having fun and Elvis played it up to senior citizens from Florida, I just sat there, dog-tired from the day. My legs were pretty caned from walking up the Strip the night before. Not to mention the fact you have to walk all the way through the gaming floor here to get to the buffet and restaurants. Seems an awful lot like placing milk at the back of a supermarket now, don’t it? I held onto my beer and turned away from the slot screens built into the bar. I also snubbed the Keno boards above me, and TV screens showing the networks with no sound. I just wanted to sit there and soak up Vegas. I knew it was gonna be my last chance. I spied a young couple at the end of a craps table—the blonde knockout was shaking dice in her hand before she threw ‘em down the table. As she flung her arm, her tits suddenly popped out her dress in a delightful wardrobe malfunction. No sooner had they said hello to the world did she embarrassingly tuck ‘em away again. Things really do happen in Vegas just like the movies. “So this is what everyone goes crazy over?” I heard a voice say, as I turned to see Michael shuffling up toward me. He was moving slow. He had his jeans and shirt on, and his hair was dry. 317

gar y de nne

The thing of it was, it felt like a shot in the arm when I turned and saw him, ‘cos he was the one guy I knew I could relate to about this place. We were two guys Vegas wasn’t able to win over. He sat down next to me at the bar and took a moment to look across the entire gaming floor, seeing everything the same as I was. I don’t think for a second he was impressed. “Scotch, rocks,” he told the bartender as she leant over to get his order. “A double,” he added, as she began to swing into action like a military commando. “Put it on my room,” I told her, as she gave me some kinda dirty look, like I hadn’t tipped her enough or was trying to come onto her. People are just weird. “$8.50,” she said, placing Michael’s drink down before moving on to serve others on the opposite side of the bar. “Here’s to L.A.,” Michael proposed, raising his glass. We both stared out over the gaming floor like we’d been sin-binned from the biggest party the world had ever seen. “To L.A.,” I said. I drank to that, sure I did. “Wonder how all this is gonna end?” I pondered, aloud. Michael allowed a long pause to pass. I expected one of his typical, unenthused lines, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, we just sat there for a while, on our barstools, with our drinks, peoplewatching the Sahara gaming floor. Elvis was singing about blue suede shoes. Slots were paying out, dropping coins into their trays. People were throwing their hands in the air as winners. The gaming floor was like Wall Street dealing with a market meltdown—except everyone was having a great time, like, over-inflated great. Like gambling meant the world to every single soul out there. I felt like we were watching a microcosm of the human race self-destruct right in front of our eyes. Michael got up off his bar stool and gulped the last nip of scotch in his glass. “You ok?” I asked. He considered the question for a second, looking around the gaming floor, observing everything around him. He looked tired, pale and worn out. More than I wanted to admit to myself. “Never better,” he answered, sure of himself.

318

the matt zander journals

And with that, he turned and began to walk back through the maze of slots and people, towards the hotel elevators, past reception. As he reached the steps at the end of the gaming floor, he slowly stopped and turned back to me. Seemed like an odd thing to do. Our eyes met and we stared right at each other. A few seconds felt like minutes. Through the sounds of laughter, howls, yee-ha’s, and an Elvis on crack, we just looked at each other, Michael and I, from a distance. I looked at him. He looked at me. Then he turned away and walked off, down the hallway. Sitting there at the bar, I have never … ever … felt so alone in this life, as I did in that moment.

319

Day 7, Leaving Las Vegas: I remember everything from today. But so much of it feels like a blur… “You awake?” I got outta bed, split the curtains apart, and rubbed my eyes in the hope of them coming into focus. “Michael … wake up, dude.” He was still asleep. As always. “We gotta hit the road.” The day outside was perfect. Clear blue. Sunny. It’s a wonder Vegas hasn’t thought about building an outdoor casino. Roulette wheel in a pool. Slot machines on an artificial beach. Girls in bikinis dealin’ blackjack. That kinda thing. “C’mon, man. We gotta hit the road,” I said. Michael groaned and rolled over in the bed. I left him in peace for a minute or two. I slipped my jeans on and got dressed—no shower if we were only gonna be in the car all day. I reshaped my hair as best I could in the mirror with my fingers, then started to gather up my stuff off the floor. We were finally getting outta Vegas. We were finally gonna reach L.A. I was excited, but nervous at the same time. I turned the TV on. I remembered the options menu on the hotel welcome screen had a checkout option. I pulled it up and pressed a button on the remote. It listed charges for the room and the gaming floor bar, and if I was cool with everything

320

the matt zander journals

going on my credit card. I pressed the ‘OK’ button to confirm. That was it—we were checked out. You do have to hand it to technology sometimes. “Michael! C’mon … L.A.’s waiting,” I yelled, as I flicked the TV off and threw the remote on the bed. As I stuffed what little gear I had into my sports bag, I heard bed covers rustle and Michael’s feet hit the floor behind me. I turned around to see his hunched over body move slowly into the bathroom and close the door without saying a word. I heard water running. And coughing. Not unusual for the last couple of days. I made sure I hadn’t left anything in the room about four times in a row, like an obsessive compulsive. I lifted bed covers up off the floor more than once to see if anything was caught underneath. I checked closet space I hadn’t even opened the whole time we’d been there. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. I began pacing the room up and down, looking out the window and soaking up a view I’d probably never see again. I was beginning to work out in my mind just how late we’d be arriving into L.A. at the rate Michael was going. I heard the toilet flush and then heard a thud. I turned around from the window. The thud was out of place. I walked to the bathroom door and tapped. “Michael … you okay?” No answer. I didn’t wait another second. I grabbed the doorknob and rushed open the bathroom door. Michael was lying there on the floor, naked, except for his green boxer trunks. My eyes zoomed straight to his wrists. I saw several cuts on both his arms. But they were the ones that had been there all this time. None were fresh. That was my first thought. “Jesus,” I said out loud to myself, as I crouched down and grabbed his head, pulling it off the tiled bathroom floor. He was still conscious. Semi-conscious. “Michael,” I said, quickly repeating it again louder, “Michael!” He opened his eyes a fraction. 321

gar y de nne

“How ‘bout that … déjà vu, huh?” he mumbled. “C’mon, let’s get you on the bed,” I said. “You need to see a doctor.” “No. No doctors—I’ll be fine,” he groaned. “Just wake me when we get there.” I helped him on his feet and left my arms outstretched in case he fell again. He stepped out of the bathroom one step at a time and sat down on his bed, reaching for his clothes on autopilot. He looked like he was sleepwalking or drugged outta his brain. Slowly, he got dressed. Stubborn as hell. “You need a doctor,” I told him with a raised voice, as if all of a sudden he’d gone deaf. It’s hard to stop yourself doing that, but I was angry. I didn’t wanna have to deal with this. “Just get me to the car,” he argued weakly. What else do you do for a guy if he say’s he’s fine? So we didn’t waste time. We left the room behind and headed towards the elevators. Several guestrooms had their doors wide open and caught glimpses of us as we passed by— obviously in the process of packing up and checking out themselves. I guess holidays have to end for everyone sometime. Michael had his eyes half open as we waited for the elevator. But it was a glazed over look on his face. I really did wonder if he was there with me at that moment, or if he was someplace else and it was only his body standing up against the wall. He was drained. I couldn’t believe he was the same guy from the day before, from yesterday, at breakfast. I dropped our keycards in the box on the way out, as we went through the hotel doors and headed for the parking garage, down the concrete path, past the pool and some early morning frolicking by newly arrived hotel guests. I put my arm around Michael’s shoulder and helped him with each step. His hair was a mess. His shirt was hanging down off him. I noticed his sneaker laces untied. Didn’t care about any of it. “Just hang on to me, we’re almost there,” I said, as we approached the elevators. “I think you better drive today,” he mumbled.

Driving at 10:00 AM: 322

the matt zander journals

“Check it out… Vegas in our rear-view mirror,” I remember saying with happiness in my voice, as much to myself as to Michael. He never answered anyway. We had a five-hour drive ahead of us, so I kept quiet and allowed him to rest up and regain his strength after getting him in the car. Michael was lying back in the seat, as always. Eyes closed. Legs stretched out to the car floor. His hair flopped down, over his face. I kept myself busy, looking back in the mirror every other minute. No, I didn’t see another ‘Britney’ girl brushing her hair and getting ready to ram our ass. I saw something much more appealing—Vegas fading away in the distance. Slowly disappearing. Like a mirage in the desert. We were leaving Las Vegas. And it was good. Road sign: - Los Angeles, 280 Miles Buh-bye casinos. Buh-bye buffets. Buh-bye gaming. I found it amusing actually, as we tore down I-15 … just when you think you’ve left Vegas behind you—ENNNNGHHHHHH (wrong-answer-game-show-buzzer sound)—they try to hit you with another batch of casinos before you leave Nevada. They have these humongous neon signs and electronic billboards right on the edge of the freeway, every ¼ mile: Stop at the Lucky Horseshoe Casino! Only $4.99 Prime Rib! 1c slots! Girls, girls, and even more girls! Last chance for gaming! Exit ½ mile. It’s like they beg you to pull over and just put one more quarter in a slot before you leave… 323

gar y de nne

‘Please don’t leave us! We’ve got slots inside. Thousands of slots! Don’t leave Vegas. You can win! We have the best buffet! Prime Rib! Shrimp! We have showgirls, for crissakes! Don’t leave! You won’t make it without us.’ Then, once you drive past the very last chance of a casino exit, it’s like you can imagine Vegas screaming at you and shaking its fist in bitterness… ‘You’ll be back … you know you’ll be back.’ Buh-bye slots. Buh-bye sexy waitresses in tight shorts. Buh-bye cookie-cutter houses. Y’know, stopping in Vegas was one of those moments you look back on and realize how big a moment it was in your life. I thought it was gonna be everything, and it turned out to be something completely different. I learnt about myself in Vegas. In some ways, I found myself there. In a hotel room, above the neon. Michael was right—we should’ve driven straight for L.A. But the thing of it is, if I had’ve listened to him, I may not have worked out a lot of stuff going on in my head. Vegas made me realize how much I’ve changed. And something else, too. I made a friend in Michael. So I owe Vegas. And I won’t forget that. We’d come along way since Toronto, Michael and me. Leaving Las Vegas, he was my only friend in the world. Buh-bye erotica. Buh-bye sexy-siren pirates. Buh-bye Mirage volcano. The temperature climbed as we left. There was still snow on distant mountains, but behind the glass it was quite warm. It was a strange visual when I looked in the mirror—we left the flat of the desert and headed straight up into canyons and hills. It felt like we were in a plane, taking off. Just so foreign to Ontario. I mean, I’d never seen anything like that before. Too bad for Michael he was sleeping. 324

the matt zander journals

But still, there’s only so much you can write about canyons and desert landscapes, y’know? I think I was starting to OD on it. The truth of it was, I don’t remember much at all of the landscape after we left Las Vegas. Like I said, it all plays back as a blur in my mind now. I remember thinking as I drove … what was gonna happen once we reached L.A.? How was this gonna end? I realized there had to be an end. Maybe I even knew how it was gonna end, but hadn’t accepted it yet. Sometimes … you just know.

Around 2:00 PM: We reached California, and a small town that truckers hung out at called Barstow. I put the A/C on for Michael, as the car was getting a little warm. We filled up on gas, and I got myself a coffee to keep me company. I let Michael sleep. I know I keep saying that. On the drive through to L.A. from Barstow, I started thinking about the future. I knew that this trip, this chance to get away from everything back home, was ending. There had to be an end—I knew that. I just wanted it to end right. I keep saying that, too. I decided I was gonna change everything. Even if it meant going straight back home to T.O. once we reached L.A. On the radio, a song was playing. I didn’t pay much attention, but I remember the words were something about ‘change’. Just a coincidence. But it’s funny how long stretches of highway in the Californian desert and a radio can make your mind break down and start soul-searching: I needed a job. A bunch of friends. A fresh start. New apartment. New life. Surrounded by cactus, tumbleweeds, and huge powerline towers as far as the eye could see, the only thing on my mind was what the hell I was gonna do with 325

gar y de nne

my life? I couldn’t keep this up. The analysing. The people-watching. The living on the sidelines. I had to start doing something. Like, something I’d actually be interested in rather than packing dog food. Something like … I dunno … writing? I know my writing probably sucks, but you can fix that. You can learn that kinda thing. Since writing all’a this stuff, I’ve really got a buzz outta observing life, spilling my thoughts out to myself, knowing it’s just an outlet. I mean, it doesn’t even have to make sense. That’s what’s cool about it. Sometime after 3:00 PM: As we wound around a massive clump of jagged mountains, I could begin to see what were the outskirts of Los Angeles. Once I got a good look down to the valley basin, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what I was looking at. There was this brown haze at ground level, up to the sky, blocking out what little blue there was above. It was a dirty, smoggy haze. It looked gross. I turned and looked at Michael in between carefully following the winding mountain road. “Michael?” I had to put my eyes back on the road. I had to focus. “73 miles to L.A. We’re almost there,” I said aloud. “Michael?” I turned again for a split second, and looked at him closely. At his face. Then back to the road. At his eyes. Then back to the road. At his body. Then back to the road. His hands were interlocked, resting on his stomach. I thought about touching him—his face … his hand. But I didn’t wanna know. “Not far now,” I said to the both of us.

326

the matt zander journals

The traffic was starting to thicken and I noticed the beginnings of a driver intensity I’d never felt before, not even on the 401 back home. “We have to take the 10 Freeway, right?” I asked Michael. “Yeah … I think we do,” I replied for him. “You want me to check the map?” “I’ll take a look at the map … just to make sure,” I answered myself. I grabbed the map Michael had placed in the middle pouch of the car and juggled it with the wheel, taking a quick glance. “Let’s see … the 10 freeway,” I said, “Yep. It’ll take us right to … the ocean.” I gripped my hands tight around the steering wheel. Really, really tight. I glanced at Michael. He looked peaceful. His seat was still pushed back, and the afternoon sunlight was on his face. It made his skin glow. I-10 West, Close to 3:50 PM: The road turned into a battlefield of metal boxes on wheels and I began to feel the aggression from drivers rise rapidly. I watched car after car bear down on us in the rear-view mirror and then pull out to speed past. I couldn’t believe cars were riding our ass when we were doing 90. Doesn’t anyone else think a little braking distance is a good thing screaming down a freeway? Still, I couldn’t have cared less what other cars did around us. I’d zoned out to everything by then. “I’m gonna do the Hollywood thing, y’know?” I casually announced, glancing over at Michael. “I wanna see the movie stars’ homes. Go to a show taping. Check out the Walk of Fame. Maybe even go to a premiere? How cool’s that gonna be! The whole showbiz thing,” I said half-heartedly. “Yep,” I continued, “that’s what I’m gonna do.” The sound of engines and tires clicking over freeway joints grated in my ears as a constant buzz. My neck was beginning to ache from being in the one spot for hours, and the rest of my body was screaming it was tired of driving like that, too.

327

gar y de nne

I rubbed my eyes with one hand as best I could, while holding the wheel with the other, trying to watch the road. When I took my fingers away, a tear slowly ran down my face. I wiped it away. After 4:00 PM: “Get off my ass motherfucker!” I screamed back at the moron tailgating us, my rage levels climbing. I so wanted to slam on the brakes for that guy. “A-s-s-h-o-l-e!” I yelled as he pulled out and flew past. I knew I was gonna need a day lying on the beach to recover from the stress of driving in L.A. traffic. Ramps, exits and turn-offs were criss-crossing over I-10 every second of the way into L.A., on a ten-lane concrete ocean. I was beginning to understand why there’s so many road crashes. Cars were darting and weaving in and out of each other, doing at least 100 mph with only inches to spare in between ‘em. Inches. One slight error and they’d clip and spin you to a fiery death and probably drive on as though nothing’d happened. 4:20 PM: I was exhausted. Stuck in traffic on the I-10. Stopped. A slight crawl, maybe. I’d heard that about L.A. All I could do was slowly follow the car in front, as we jerked forward in uneasy motions. It gave me the chance to look around. I guess you could say we were in the suburbs of L.A. now. The sky was blue with a few random clouds. The further you looked up, the more blue you saw. The further down, the more a hazy smog blended in and turned the blue to a rusty brown/grey. A grey that matched the freeway. The I-10 was elevated up off the ground and, along with grey road, had tubular railing on the side which I could see was scratched to shit (no doubt from drivers that weren’t paying attention). Double concrete barriers in the middle of the freeway separated us from them. That is, one direction from the other. Around us was an industrial suburb of warehouses, semi-trailers, piles of gravel and graffiti art on every available space and wall. A large, viaduct drain ran alongside railway tracks, and as far as you could see there were these ugly, plain-white warehouses crammed close together with stacks upon stacks of 328

the matt zander journals

storage pallets—instantly recognisable, of course, ‘cos they were the exact same ones I use to lug around Runnerman’s, carrying stock. To top off what was a damn ugly industrial area, brown telegraph poles were everywhere and had wires drooping down across the skyline. The place really needed some CGI Hollywood FX company to come along and do wire removal on all that shit. Even along the sides of the freeway, there were cans, bottles and bits of plastic off car bumpers laying in the gutters, weatherworn and looking as though they’d been there for years. Not a great first impression. Looking a little further beyond as we started to maintain 5 mph, I saw palm trees dotted all over the city as far as I could see, a good colour match for the huge, green freeway signs that we kept passing under, with arrows pointing all directions, depending on where it was you wanted to be. In the distance, the L.A. skyline was a cluster of buildings starting tall and gradually shrinking down the further west you took your eyes—right to left. The tallest was a circular grey spiral tower in the middle of the downtown core. But the city itself, looking at it out the driver’s window, didn’t give me much feeling back. Maybe it was me at that point. Maybe that’s when I started to really lose it. In between a break in the L.A. skyline, I saw a mountain range, and for a second, swore I caught a glimpse of the Hollywood sign in between the downtown towers in the distance. I wanted to get a better look ‘cos it was one of those icons you had burnt into your brain from TV and movies, but it was gone in a flash. I had to get my eyes back on the road as the traffic cleared up and we began to flow freely again. Otherwise, we were gonna end up ramming some SUV right up the ass. Seeing L.A. from the I-10 freeway like that, passing it by as we headed for the coastline … it wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined in my mind. But I was getting used to that kinda thing by now. Road sign: - END FREEWAY, 1 MILE This was it. The I-10 ended and the road transitioned into a wide boulevard, as we got closer towards the coast. There was water. I could see it. Call me crazy, I could feel it.

329

gar y de nne

We pulled up at lights and waited to turn onto a boulevard, parallel to the beach. We had made it. There, in front of us, was a huge, arched sign and a ramp leading out to a large pier: Santa Monica Yacht Harbour SPORT FISHING * BOATING Cafes Waiting at the lights, I lifted myself off my seat to try to see across the road, to the beach. I could only just make out the pier, stretching out into the bluest sea I’d ever seen. I glanced up at the traffic lights. For once in my life, I wanted them to stay red for as long as they wanted so I could take everything in. Half a Ferris wheel was sticking up at the end of the pier—its other half hidden by the boardwalk wall and road. The pier was some kind of fun park or carnival centre, as all sorts of people seemed to be heading to and coming from it. To drive straight ahead would’ve been to drive down a ramp, towards the pier and a cluster of low-level buildings at its end, which I assumed were U.S. Coastguard or something like that. Shorts, t-shirt and baseball-cap crowds were loving every second of the afternoon. You could just tell it was that kinda atmosphere. When the light went green, we turned right, onto Ocean Blvd. It was an awesome sight, looking straight up a long stretch of palm-tree lined road and a manicured, lush park on the left, overlooking a huge stretch of golden-yellow sand down below. The other side of the boulevard was filled with cafes, hotels and restaurants that must’ve had killer views out to the Pacific Ocean. Hmmm, I just worked it out—Ocean Blvd. Duh. “I can see the beach, the water and the coast,” I shouted to Michael. “Waves. Lifeguard towers. Man, this is so amazing!” As we drove up Ocean Blvd, cars parked bumper to bumper on both sides of the street, I soaked up the sunshine coming through the glass. There was a buzz to this place. I felt like a kid again … on Christmas morning. Even if I knew the feeling wouldn’t last.

330

the matt zander journals

“This is fucking amazing,” I said to Michael, 100 cc’s of bliss going through me. “Now I know why you wanted to come here.” Behind the palms and the garden park on the beach side of the boulevard, I could see coastline and mountains in the distance, and wondered if that was where we should head. “There must be a way to get down to the beach…” I said as I looked around, and seconds later saw a sign with an arrow: Pacific Coast Highway I turned onto a ramp that left the boulevard and led us down to beach level. The thing with Santa Monica was that Ocean Boulevard—the cafes, the parks and restaurants—was up above beach level, on a kinda embankment, overlooking the beach itself. We found ourselves merging onto a highway with traffic flowing back and forth, literally only feet from the start of the beach—just a strip of apartments and beach clubs in between. “I think we’re headed to Malibu,” I told Michael, not exactly sure. All I could do was follow the road, parallel to the beach, and glimpse back and forth from the traffic in front, to the water in between gaps in buildings. Then, all of a sudden … whamo! The buildings finished and we had an uninterrupted view of the beach and the ocean—the Pacific Ocean. I still remember those first few seconds seeing it. Who’da thunk an ocean coulda felt so good. Be so perfect. “Michael…” I said softly, “God, I wish you could see this.” I tried to go as slow as the traffic behind would tolerate. I wanted to stop and pull over someplace but we couldn’t—there was nowhere to pull over, which totally sucked. We had a huge bank to the right of us and the flow of traffic in the opposite direction meant we were stuck and had to ride this all the way ‘til an exit appeared. Two dudes on Harleys passed by us and I had to double take, seriously. On the back of their bikes were blonde Pam Anderson-type babes, with ripped jeans, black biker boots, tight white t-shirts and hair falling down their backs from

331

gar y de nne

underneath black helmets. I’m not putting that in here to sex this up—it really was like one of those moments you see in the movies. “We’re on another highway,” I explained to Michael. “We’ve merged onto the Pacific Coast Highway, now. There’s not a huge deal of traffic goin’ our way but it’s jammed on the other side. I’m gonna try n’ pull in where we can get a look at the beach, okay? Just hold on a sec.” I moved across a lane and let some cars past. “The beach is empty. There’s volleyball courts mapped out in the sand. No one’s playing, though. I thought there’d be people around everywhere. There’s only a few joggers and rollerbladers along the boardwalk. Guess that’s what you get for February. This is probably cold for Californians, right? This is summer in February for us. Unbelievable. It’s February! Fucking February and the weather is fucking fantastic, not fucking freezing,” I exclaimed with amazement and wonder in my voice. I continued describing to Michael what was going on around us. “There’s some blonde Californian girls in a car behind us, Michael! I can see ‘em in the mirror. Now if only they’d slam into the back of us I could get their numbers. Blondes must grow on trees here!” From the massive span of sand at Santa Monica, we’d now started to see the beach narrow, and up ahead, I could see a rocky point where the highway disappeared behind a corner. “There’s Sunset Boulevard,” I pointed out, passing a turnoff, set of lights, and a gas station. “I never knew Sunset Boulevard was right at the beach?” I said. As the coastline began to shrink down, so too did the traffic. The cars thinned out on both sides, the further we drove up the coast. Apart from the odd semi-trailer flying past us on the other side of the road, we were freed up to get a good view out to the water and I began to slow down and even increase the time I took my eyes off the road. “There’s these huge houses right on the beach, built up on stilts,” I continued to describe for Michael. “They must be celebrity homes. I wonder who lives in those places?” The palm trees, lush green park and Santa Monica beach had disappeared completely, and all that was left was a pretty unimpressive, rocky coastline with 332

the matt zander journals

makeshift concrete barriers and litter on the side of the road. Old-fashioned, wooden power-poles had sprung up outta nowhere and ugly powerlines ran all the way along the roadway, feeding power to the Malibu homes built right on the narrow beach (any closer and homeowners would’ve needed scuba gear to breathe in their lounge rooms). Another ten minutes of driving saw the road downsize to a dual carriageway, the coast dropping away into the water only feet away from the car, once we’d cleared the Malibu homes. I could see waves crashing up against the rocks as we followed bends and winds around the coast, the white wash and random splashes hanging for seconds before the ocean sucked the water back in again. A break in the traffic came and I saw a spot we could pullover, so I U-turned the car as quick as I could and pulled off the road, onto the gravel. I turned the engine off. Cars continued to whiz by at about one per second, while trucks really made you feel the wind as they sped past. Finally stationary, when I stared out to the ocean and horizon in that moment, I really didn’t know what to feel. I took a deep breath and undid my seat belt. I leaned back on the headrest and knew I was mentally, physically and emotionally tired to the point I wanted to close my eyes and sleep. I turned to Michael for a moment, catching my breath from focusing on traffic for a few hours too long. He was lying there, motionless. So unexpectedly out of the blue, a surge of rage came outta me like nothing before. I exploded in a violent, emotional outburst. Like a gas cylinder exploding. My hands gripped the steering wheel tight as I shook my body violently and rammed my feet down on the pedals. I yelled out an agonising scream as loud as I could, for as long as I could, emptying every bit of air in my lungs. For a few seconds in that car, on the side of Pacific Coast Highway, with Michael lying in the seat beside me, I let out a fit of rage that would’ve scared the craziest nutcase walking the streets. I’m sure from outside the car, it must’ve looked like one of those movies where an alien monster is sucking the blood right outta its prey—shaking and rocking the car n’ all. “Motherfucking-shithead-cocksucker-fuckface-fucking-asshole!” I screamed, as I just about ripped the steering wheel right outta the dash with my bare hands. I sucked deep breaths of air in as blood pumped furiously around my body. 333

gar y de nne

When I had nothing left in me and my body stopped shaking, I brought my hands up to my face and began to weep. Tears formed in my eyes. I wiped them away. I hadn’t cried as a grown man in my entire life. Malibu was my breaking point. Several moments passed… I opened the car door and stepped out. The sea air hit me. So did the sounds of birds and the waves. It all should’ve added up to a nice ambience if it wasn’t for the semi-trailers and cars zooming by, overpowering any serenity of the area. I guess in L.A. there’s no such thing as escaping traffic. Below the road, at the waters edge, was a rocky beach with grey sand. A sewer pipe stretched out into the water, probably dumping celebrity shit deep into the ocean. I stood there as cars and trucks flew by me only feet away. I listened to the waves crash in, then sink back out. I watched the water wash over rocks and sand, lingering for a second until another set of waves came in over the top. Back down the coast, I could see all the Malibu houses on stilts, covering the beach. Further still, was Santa Monica, from where we’d come. It was hazy now—smog was blanketing the hills and coastline, and cloud had begun to set in all around. A few yachts were sailing out at sea, as the sun glistened off the water, making it sparkle like diamonds. I knew what had to be done. I stood at the edge of the ocean and waited. And waited. Watching the waves calmed me and somehow gave me my mental strength back. Timing myself with a break in the traffic, I walked to the passenger side of the Neon, opened it, and grabbed Michael under his arms. Lifting him out the car, I carried his body to the edge of the coastline, dragging his shoes on the gravel. I crouched down and then picked him up, lifting his body into my arms as I stepped onto the wall of rocks, slowly making my way down towards the sand, out of sight of the road and cars. The waves suddenly washed over my shoes and I felt the cool Pacific Ocean water in the month of February. I looked back up to the road for a second, to see 334

the matt zander journals

if anyone was around, but honestly didn’t care if there’d been an entire sitcom audience watching, or a news crew beaming us live to air. I gently laid Michael down onto the sand, up against a rock, and carefully placed his hands by his side. His eyes were closed. It looked like he was sleeping. Another wave came sneaking up towards me and splashed onto my shoes and up my jeans as I crouched next to Michael. The water went straight underneath Michael, too, instantly soaking his jeans and flannel shirt. I think he would’ve liked that, though—to be sitting there, looking out to the ocean and having it touch him, as seagulls and other seabirds flew by low to the water. The sounds of the traffic above us had been somewhat muffled by the waves, which were finally starting to clear my mind and allow me to be at peace with myself. The waves were exactly what I needed to stay sane as I crouched next to Michael. I stayed there for a few minutes with him, wondering if he was still around to appreciate any of it. After a few minutes had passed, I stood back up, my jeans wet to my knees. I knew the longer I stayed there with him on that tiny strip of rocky beach beneath the road, the harder it would be to leave. I wish I could write that the sunset was a huge ball of orange, seagulls were flying into the horizon, and the sky was pink and purple and red in colour, and that it was a picture postcard of L.A. But that’s just not how it was. It was dull grey cloud when I left Michael. Seagulls looked like they needed Prozac. I felt there was nothing memorable about the moment that was ever gonna stick out in my mind ever again. And I hated that feeling. I wanted to strangle that feeling in my mind and punch the living fuck out of it. It should’ve felt special. But it didn’t. I stepped back onto the rock wall and climbed up to the road. The same cars and trucks were still driving by—just different drivers and different destinations. I walked to the car and got in, pulling the door shut. Without thinking about it, I turned the key in the ignition and pulled back out onto the freeway, only this time, heading back the way we’d come. After what seemed like the blink of an eye, I saw the turnoff for Sunset Blvd and made a left on the arrow. With zero emotion on my face, I pulled into the gas station at the start of

335

gar y de nne

Sunset, filled up, then headed up into the hills, leaving the beach behind, as the sun began to sink down into the horizon. I was alone in the car now. Alone in L.A.

336

Headed to Hollywood, about 5:00 PM: I drove up Sunset Blvd, leaving the coast behind. The road began winding and twisting, around leafy hillside suburbs … very wealthy hillside suburbs, given the size and presentation of homes. No sooner had I started to climb into the hills on Sunset, did I begin to feel strange. It felt like I was used to the place. Everything seemed familiar. Like I’d been on this winding road before. Déjà vu … yeah … again. I gazed out the windows as I drove, following the road up and down, twisting and turning around bends and corners, thinking to myself … I know this? I’ve been here before? The landscape, the houses, the round garbage bins, the old, trolley-style road, the trees, the foliage—I knew all of it from somewhere. Okay, so I was on Sunset Blvd—the place that’s been shown on TV and movies countless number of times. But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like I was remembering this from a TV show. Nuhuh. This was an unmistakeable, ‘I’ve been here, dude’, ringing in my mind like a bell. Me. Matt, or whoever I am. I knew this place. The suburbs I drove through felt like home. I dunno if it was the pine-trees lining side-streets, the feeling of being in the hills, above the city, or the last remaining rays of sunlight shining down on landscaped gardens and nice houses. But driving on Sunset felt so … comfortable. I felt I knew the streets. The corners, the bends on Sunset, the light grey roads that were like a patchwork quilt of different shades of concrete. There was something very familiar about all this. The déjà vu needle in my head was going through the roof. 337

gar y de nne

After the long drive on Sunset, through Beverly Hills and West Hollywood (both of which I’ll have to go back to later), I managed to drive round and stumble upon Hollywood Blvd. I passed by big hotel chains and huge retail precincts, taking up whole city blocks. I saw more palm trees. Big, blue street signs hanging from traffic lights. Billboards. Women walking the tiniest of dogs. Convertibles with their tops down. The Kodak Theatre—that’s where the Oscars happen. I saw all that, arriving into Hollywood. It was so weird knowing you’re seeing all the glamour stuff with your own eyes rather than from a camera’s viewpoint on TV. But … gawking out the windows as much as I could while stuck in long lines of traffic, I knew reality was gonna sink in sooner or later. I predicted sooner. I so wished I could’ve stayed in one of those fancy Hollywood hotels, but I had to start getting real with myself. I ended up spotting an Econo Lodge Motel on Vine Street and felt a sense of relief. The cross street was Melrose Ave. I felt like I knew Melrose Avenue already, without ever seeing it. No déjà vu that time, just the name was familiar. Melrose. So I turned on Melrose, passing by Econo Lodge, thinking that had to be the best option, then and there. I pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket called Pavilions, so I could double back. Never heard of it before. Don’t have Pavilions in Canada as far as I know. But it was just like Runnerman’s. The same big, monster storefront with windows and fluros, and specials on ad-boards out front. Shoppers were wheeling carts in and out of the store entrance. A garden nursery was out front with plants and flowers for the home. At the time, I wondered how plants ever survived in a place like L.A. Although … maybe all the smog is good for plants? Is it? I saw a Chinese takeout and a Starbucks just inside the supermarket doors as well—they all do that these days, selling space for small, value-adding retailers. A pharmacy, too. Runnerman’s never had that. I pulled out of the supermarket parking lot and back onto Vine Street, heading north. The motel was right next door and I pulled into the single off-street parking space that was out front, just like in the movies. I got out of the car and looked up at the colourful neon sign, facing the street. Neon palm trees, neon movie cameras and neon Hollywood stars, all beginning to buzz as it got dark. The motel itself was painted musk (yeah … musk) and 338

the matt zander journals

reminded me of one of those places you’d see on CNN where cops’d be busting down one of the doors to find the bad guys partying in a room with hookers and drugs and a big bag of bank cash in a pile on the bed. Okay, so maybe I used to watch too much TV. There was a tiny garden out front to add a bit of green life to the place in what was otherwise a green-less area of Hollywood. When the sliding doors opened, I walked in and instantly smelt some kinda cooking smell hit me in the face. As though someone’d been cooking (dead dogs?) right there in the lobby for the past few years and it’d dried into the wallpaper. I casually walked to the counter. A fully encased office was behind a huge sheet of glass and one of those small transaction slots where paper, pens and money can be passed back and forth. It was like one of those banks where the teller’s behind the glass, as though you’re talking to a human exhibit on an alien planet’s zoo. Behind the glass, an old Indian guy was sitting at a desk. He looked up and saw me at the counter, but didn’t get up. He had a plate of food and a newspaper from the motherland spread out in front of him. I noticed a canary in a cage right behind him, chirping away. I wondered what it might be saying … maybe something like, ‘What the hell’s this fucking smell?’ “Do you have any rooms available?” I asked, wondering if he could hear me at all through the tiny air holes in the glass. Ever so slowly, like he was dying from a bullet wound to the guts, did he get up and step over to the counter. I watched him pick up a clipboard and slide it underneath the glass to me. He followed that up with a pen and nodded for me to sign in. I started to fill in a registration card, glancing around the lobby in between, wondering if I was making a huge mistake. Thing is, I couldn’t see anyone else around and when I looked through the doors that led out to a courtyard pool and guest rooms, there was only silence. “You have credit card?” the Indian guy asked. So he could fucking talk when he wanted to … okay. Just not something like, “Hello sir, how are you? Welcome to Hollywood.” What’s with people these days? People are the worst. 339

gar y de nne

I pulled my card from my back pocket and slipped it to him. He ran it through his machine and punched in some numbers. He got me to sign the slip the machine spat out—it was a credit authorization for $500 U.S. Guess the dude didn’t trust me? (ya think?) I could see it in his eyes. This was Hollywood. He’d probably seen all types through this place. After all, it wasn’t exactly in a nice part of town. The security cameras, gated parking, encased reception and spiked fencing around the property told me he wanted to keep a certain clientele out. “Room 114. Out the doors. To your left,” the old guy said, sliding me a room key. He turned his back on me and returned to his chair, easing himself back down again. The canary was still singing. I wonder if the little golden-yellow thing knew it’d made it all the way to Hollywood? I stepped out through the doors to the left and into the courtyard. The fenced-in pool looked really inviting and was a nice aqua blue, with white deck chairs and umbrellas at either end. Rooms were all the way around the pool, facing inwards. The motel had two floors. I saw steps at either end of the place, heading up to the second floor rooms. White and green railing was everywhere. A satellite dish was on the roof, receiving movies that are probably made blocks away. The place was quiet. As I followed the path around to the left, I saw mounted movie posters in between rooms on the walls. I reached 114. I entered the room and made sure the door was closed behind me. The room was basic: table on the left, Queen bed, mini fridge, microwave, about three mirrors too many and a bathroom out back, facing Vine Street. I walked to the bathroom to check it out, like I do with any hotel I check into (first thing you do is check that no one’s waiting behind the shower curtain to strangle you when you least expect it. Then the closets. Then under the bed). The bathroom was a white tiled, tired-looking bathroom with frosted windows and torn insect screen (or is that smog screen?). I could hear traffic loud and clear but it didn’t bother me—I couldn’t imagine I’d be sleeping anyways, what difference does traffic noise make when you’re awake all night? I just wanted some time to think. I didn’t care about a thing right then. All I wanted was to be inside my head, thinking about everything that’d happened.

340

the matt zander journals

I reached for the bathroom window and closed it. I quickly worked out the reason for the wooden plank wedged into the window tracking—it was the lock. I was beginning to wonder if I was in the right Hollywood. The place never ‘felt’ Hollywood. It felt run down. There is only one Hollywood in California, right? Did I make a wrong turn? After I put my bag down, I left the room and pulled the car out back, to the guest parking spots. I wasn’t going anywhere for the rest of the day. But I did decide to head to the supermarket next door, ‘cos I was starving—I’d barely eaten all day, and my guts were twisting and turning just like the bends on Sunset Blvd I’d driven to get here. (Hey, nice wordplay, Zander … I’m getting good at this creative shit). 7:52 PM: So, anyways … all of that kinda brings me back to the present moment, sitting on the bed in Room 114, my hand starting to cramp up from an hour writing all this. I can hear traffic. Voices. Footsteps. Thumps. Door slams. Laughter. Out in the courtyard, other hotel guests seem to be having a good time, happy to be here. But I’m not laughing. I just want things to go quiet. I just wanna sit here in silence and think. Damn, this place is noisy. Dingy, too. Dark. And old. I just don’t feel secure here. I’m nervous. I feel edgy. I’m glad other people are checked-in and I’m not the lone guest in a pink hotel with a crazy canary. I’m just not clicking with this place, with Hollywood. I can’t do this. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do this. I’m so indifferent about finally getting here. This is definitely not how I imagined the place. And right now, I’m not the person I thought I’d be in Hollywood, either. I knew it wasn’t gonna be mansions and glitter and glamour and sidewalks lined with diamonds, but … I didn’t expect such an ordinary place? Like any other American city. Strip malls, the same old chain stores. Ordinary people, walking ordinary streets. Bums, dirty sidewalks, garbage scattered around the streets. There’s nothing showbiz about this place. Nothing special. WTF? I wish I was back home. If I could press a button on the TV remote (this one’s actually working) and somehow Star Trek myself back to Toronto, I’d do it in a second. I’m really missing home. 341

gar y de nne

Anyways, on with the show. About an hour ago, I went to the Pavilions supermarket next door. It was about 6:40 p.m. I shopped around and checked out the place. Huge. Compared to Runnerman’s, man, did they have some stuff in there. A whole row of booze, a pharmacy, huge produce section, a Starbucks right in the front of the store, and aisles and aisles of all the food and grocery you could ever dream of needing. Guess I’m getting carried away writing all this down, but I miss groceries. I really do. I miss Runnerman’s in a big way. Maybe it was a shitty job, but there was something cool about stocking groceries for people to shop for— something about shelves and product packaging. The next load of cartons coming in. New lines. New displays. The boxes. The pallets. I know, I know … I must be fuckin’ nuts to write that. But walking round Pavilions was like reminiscing the glory days. Well, glory days that were only about a week ago, I guess. Maybe I could get a job there. Anyways, the Chinese takeout place inside the supermarket entrance was called Panda Express. I grabbed some takeout and walked back to the motel, up the narrow sidewalk (doesn’t seem like many people walk here). Through the dusk, I saw my first close-up of the Hollywood sign, up on the hill, just above a couple of tall buildings: HOLLYWOOD Nine white letters that meant a whole lot to a whole lotta people. I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, gazing up at the hills, not far away, and the sign, just as I’d always seen it on TV and movies. It’s so surreal seeing something in the flesh you’ve seen all your life on TV. It was smaller than I’d imagined, though, and the letters were off-white in colour, not like the bright white you see on Entertainment Tonight or wherever. Cars buzzed past me, heading down Vine Street. The traffic didn’t give a shit about a guy’s first view of the Hollywood sign.

342

the matt zander journals

I’m in Hollywood, I thought to myself, trying to extract any level of excitement from my mind. But there was nothing there. No excitement. Takeout in my hand, I snapped outta the gaze and walked through the motel doors. I ate while watching the news. It featured about 10 minutes of news, then 50 minutes of someone reporting from a helicopter about traffic, car accidents and freeway gridlock. That was the real news—who was lucky enough to be moving and who was sitting in their car, stationary. This isn’t so bad, I thought to myself, as I ate my Beef & Black Bean w/ Fried Rice. I meant my situation, not the meal. Even though the food was pretty damn good. I hadn’t eaten all day. And they don’t have good Chinese food in Toronto. None that I’ve ever stumbled across, anyways. Unless there’s some secret takeout society someplace on Spadina, in Chinatown. A fortune cookie was inside the bag from Panda Express. I hadn’t eaten a fortune cookie in so damn long, I don’t remember when. I opened the wrapper and cracked the cookie open: ‘You have accomplished much.’ That was my fortune. Somehow, I think the people that write for fortune cookies find a way of making a fortune apply to anyone who reads it. One fortune fits all. I’d love to get something specific one time. Just for me. Something like, ‘Matt, you really nailed this life.’ Then I’d know they were making shit up. I wonder how many different fortunes there are at any one time with those cookies? 10:47 PM: Now that I’m alone, now that Michael’s gone, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do. When I thought about the idea of coming out here, I had this vision in my mind of what it’d be like. ‘California’. It sounded so right. It was gonna be this … ‘place’, a moment in time, so perfect and amazing, where I knew exactly who I 343

gar y de nne

was, and exactly what I was gonna do. I put everything I had on that kinda moment. Everything. And now I’m here. This is it. This is that moment… … I just don’t get how the mind can do that kinda thing. How it can so easily replace the real world with some perfect ‘vision’ of how a moment will be once you reach it. I guess the mind is an amazing thing. I fooled myself into thinking this was gonna be the kinda place you see in magazines and TV shows … some kinda perfect-weather paradise. Maybe the weather here is damn near perfect. But I’m startin’ to think paradise only exists in the mind. Michael’s one lucky son-of-a-bitch. He’s gone to the next life, to discover it all for himself. I wonder where he is right now? I left his body where he wanted—on the beach, with the waves and the seagulls and the ocean and the wind. But he’d be long gone from there now. Isn’t that weird—that I know he’s still out there, somewhere? I mean, I sure don’t feel the need to grieve for him. He’s the luckiest guy in the world, gettin’ outta this. The trip was easy. This … being here now’s gonna be the hard part. ‘Cos … I’m alone. And I don’t have him to talk to anymore. Y’know what that feels like? To have no one? To be alone? To have no one out there know who you are? It. Hurts. The worst kinda pain. You don’t know how much ‘til you’re there. It’s like swimming against a current, drowning, not waving. And no one’s around to save you. It’s like having your soul put in a vice and tightened and tightened and tightened until it hurts so much it screams out, but no one’s around to hear. That’s what it’s like. Michael’s gone.

344

Day 8, 6:58 AM: Just woke. Still in bed. Sitting upright. Collecting thoughts. I don’t get it. Last night was the first night’s sleep since … jesus, let me think … since I got shot. Seven hours of sleep. But I feel completely drained right this second. Like a hangover for the soul. What’s up with that? How can you sleep but wake up tired? My body feels so heavy. Like it’s full of cement. I could so easily lie here all day and not give a damn about the world outside this room. In fact, I sure as hell don’t give a damn about the world right now. The TV came on at 6 a.m. Previous guests’ alarm still set. Yep, a TV’s an alarm clock in Hollywood—go figure. Woke to breakfast news anchors trying to one-up each other with wide-eyed smiles and enough phoniness to win a phoney competition at an international phoney convention. Sunlight’s beaming through the bathroom window and lighting up the room. It’s a beautiful, white glow. Makes the room feel warm. The traffic’s heavy outside, pouring down Vine Street, creating this constant, streaming buzz. I can hear it. We don’t have any driving to do today. I don’t have any driving to do today. I should get up. I should get breakfast. But part of me really doesn’t wanna face the world. I don’t know if I’m gonna like what I find out there. I can sense it already. This feeling I’m not gonna ‘get’ L.A. That I’m not gonna ‘get’ real-world life anymore. 345

gar y de nne

That kinda worries me. I’m nervous. I’m edgy. I don’t know if I can do this without Michael. But I gotta get real. Can’t live like this. I wanted to come here. This is all on me. It was my call. It was something I had to do. So I gotta do what I gotta do and finish this. Whether I like it or not. Maybe I’m worrying over nothin’. I am still waking up. Maybe I’ll feel better after I grab some breakfast. Maybe it’s just the thought of getting out there today in front of a live audience that doesn’t have my enthusiasm right now. I heard fighting last night. Someone being beaten up in the alleyway at the side of the motel. It woke me around 3 a.m. I just lay there in bed, listening to human grunts and the sound of fists connecting in a frenzy of drunken punches. I had to really think for a minute if it was real—y’know when you’re half-awake and not sure if you’re hearing something for real or imagining it? Am I the only one who does that? But I’m damn sure I heard it last night. A punch up. I was scared. This place worries me (see edgy). But it’s more than this place. It’s everything. Last night, listening to that random street violence, I realized where I was. I realized the trip was over. The reality of being here on my own was something I just hadn’t thought about ‘til now. 8:21 AM: Breakfast is coffee and donuts from the motel lobby. They have four trays of donuts and pastries, orange juice with enough sugar in it to rot teeth if you keep it in your mouth longer than 2 seconds, and coffee in Styrofoam cups, with packet Sweet’N Low, packet crème and little brown-coloured plastic stirrers. When I stepped outta the room, a bunch of guests just about knocked me over, racing to start their day of Hollywood sightseeing. They were so self-absorbed, they didn’t have a clue I was even standing there. I wanted to smash their heads through the pool’s iron gating, but they wouldn’t have understood the why, so I didn’t. I just kept my head down, eyes to the ground, like a nobody. Oh, and yeah, the fuckers were wearing damn sunglasses. Am I the only guy not wearing sunglasses?

346

the matt zander journals

In the lobby, guests were stuffing their mouths full of donut, laughing and talking with complete strangers as they mixed their mouthful of donut with coffee to wash it down. I saw bits of donut fly out of a guy’s mouth as he tried to talk his wife into spending their day being extras in a movie. Chewed-up donut landed in her hair. I grabbed something to eat and got the hell outta there. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t wanna hear where people were from, or what they thought of Disneyland, or if they’d been to Universal-fuckin’-Studios. I didn’t wanna hear any of that tourist shit. And I did not want donut spat at me. Breakfast Selection: - (details) Jam Donut Pink Frosted Donut Apple and Cinnamon Roll (vanilla frosting) Caramel Glazed Custard Ball (also used by the U.S. Government to kill terrorists) Long Johns (chocolate frost w/ sprinkles) I’m fumbling about with my coffee, trying to get the crème and sweeteners into my cup. I’m talkin’ about those tiny little packets that feel like they’re designed as some scientific experiment to see what type of person it takes to get ‘em open. Half the Sweet’N Low’s gone on the table, half in my cup. Same deal for the powdered crème—I feel like I’m mixing 10 grams of coke into my coffee like a Hollywood studio exec probably does every morning… Jesus. Look at this. Me, right now. What is this. I mean, really, what the hell am I doing here? Night before last, Michael and I were at that bar in the Sahara, looking across the gaming floor as we talked. I just wish I could get that back and relive the last couple of days over again. I’m not ready to be here yet. Everything was so perfect in Vegas. The whole trip was. I just didn’t realize it. You never think like

347

gar y de nne

that until after a moment’s gone. Like … in the future, will I think this moment was perfect? It sure as hell doesn’t feel perfect. Maybe once I’ve left, I’ll look back on L.A. and think how great all this was… Alone in a motel room. Traffic. Smog. Emptiness. A pink frosted donut. People are walking past my window to go get their donuts. I’m sitting at my table in silence, writing this. I’m listening to the voices of tourists, talking about their plans for the day. Saying they’ll go for a dip in the hotel pool when they get back from whatever it is they’ll be doing. They’re so lucky to have someone to talk to here. I can’t believe I’ve been on my own all this time. All this … being here … means nothing without someone knowing it happened. I wish Michael were still here. I don’t know if I can do this on my own. Beverly Hills, 10:47 AM: After breakfast, I got outta the room and jumped in the car, just as the Hispanic maids were wheeling their cleanup trolleys around the courtyard to begin cleaning the rooms (I hung ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ on the door—the room’s the only private space I have left). I didn’t have anywhere to go, and I didn’t have anywhere to be. So I just drove around Hollywood. A lost soul, fuelled up on pink frosted donuts and coffee, staring out the driver’s-side window. I headed west on Sunset, and drove all the way through West Hollywood. It’s full of trendy-looking bars and clubs, where actress-wannabe rich girls going commando get drunk and probably spew their guts over the sidewalk every night, while bored paparazzi film it. There’s dozens of chic restaurants and plush 348

the matt zander journals

hotels, and alotta tourists already on the beat with their digital cameras, snapping the second they think they spot a celebrity or anything remotely tied to one. Right now, I’m parked next to a lush garden park in Beverly Hills. Everything looks so inviting … you’d almost wanna be a bum here. You can’t notice as much driving—ya gotta pull over to soak this kinda stuff up. There’s a hotel opposite. The Beverly Hills Hotel. Looks swanky. Wish I was staying there… It’s really peaceful right now. Calmer than West Hollywood. Less chaotic. Except for the cars. The honks. The screeches. The engines. You can’t escape that. But still, compared to West Hollywood, Beverly Hills is like entering the Amazon—trees and green space everywhere, well-kept shrubs and flower arrangements, 5-star park benches, and golf-green, perfectly manicured lawns. And the palm trees… If it’s one thing that makes this place, it’s those palm trees. On every street, some more than others, palm trees shoot up, sky high, lining the sidewalk. Even the road’s smooth—there aren’t any joins or click-clacks like the ones you constantly drive over in West Hollywood. But as I sit here in the car and just let life go by around me, if you put all that aside, this place is really just another ordinary American suburb. If you took away the sunny weather and palms, and dumped a shitload of snow on the streets here, this place wouldn’t be any different than … I dunno … Forest Hill (the upmarket ‘burb back home I used to imagine I’d live in someday). Sure, there’s nice trees, jogging paths, and even a well-groomed garden strip travelling down the middle of Sunset Blvd—I get that it’s nice—but for crissakes, celebrities aren’t walking on the sidewalk, talking with each other, holding lattes and juggling cell phones. There’s no tall blondes in tight spandex, jogging with their dogs. There’s no stretch limos going by with girls popping out the sunroof, waving champagne flutes in their hands. This ain’t like the movies at all. It’s just everyday Americans driving SUVs from A to B in thick traffic. So where is all that shit? Where’s the glamour? Where are the celebrities? I’ve watched Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, Extra … I was promised fuckin’ celebrities in this town. Where are they? Where’s the Beverly Hills you see on TV? Up in the hills, not far above Sunset Blvd, I can see huge, sprawling homes with multi-level, panoramic, tinted windows, and balconies looking out over L.A. When 349

gar y de nne

I gaze up at those mansions in the hills, I think to myself, whose homes am I looking at? What kind of life do they lead? Is some celebrity standing up there on their balcony with a latte and a donut, looking down at us wannabe losers on Sunset? You up there, Clooney? Hey, Paris … can you show us your tits? The déjà vu’s hitting me again today, like an electromagnetic shock. I couldn’t be more unexcited about this place if I tried. I feel like I’ve lived here. That, for some reason, it’s not new to me. It just feels like … home? Like I’ve been gone for years and I’m just updating my mind to everything that’s changed. I somehow know where to go. The streets, the turns, the way round. Like this park I’m at—I know Rodeo Drive’s just south of here. But how do I know that? I don’t feel lost at all. Well … in a physical sense. And I wanna know why that is. Why is this place so familiar to me? It’s driving me friggin’ crazy. I just don’t get it. You gotta be kiddin’ me… A gorgeous, tall, pony-tailed blonde in tight pink spandex just jogged past my window with weights in her hands and a white iPod strapped to her arm. Her perfectly shaped ass is right this second slowly jiggling away in the distance. Pacific Coast Highway, just past Malibu, Around 12:30 PM: I’m back at the beach enclave. Michael’s body has gone. The ocean’s taken it. With the tides. Out to sea. There’s seagulls around. It’s a really nice, sunny day. Mild. A little haze, but the smog seems to have cleared. The traffic’s still flowing past on the highway. Never seems to let up. I’m just sitting here. In the car. Parked. With my thoughts. And the windows down. I followed Sunset back to the coast. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

350

the matt zander journals

Michael’s pills are still on the dash from yesterday. Two plastic, orange prescription bottles. One Vicodin, the other Xanax. Prescribed to Michael Dobrofsky. That’s what’s written on the prescription labels. Looks like another name’s been scribbled out with pen. That was definitely his name, though. I remember it from the admission tag on his wrist. I’ve always had a good memory for details. If I remember right, Vicodin’s for pain. Xanax … for anxiety(?). I’m looking down at the spot where I left him. Seems like years since I was here. It’s soothing listening to waves gently crash up against the beach and the rocks, knowing it’s the ocean. If it wasn’t for the traffic ruining the moment, I think I could jump in the passenger’s seat, stretch right back, put my feet up on the dash and drift away. I guess I came back here ‘cos I felt so lost, waking up this morning. I hated that feeling of being on my own. And I wanted to feel Michael’s energy one last time. To be where I know he was. Sounds stupid, I know. But I think with life and death, as long as someone remembers you once you’ve gone to the next life, that’s all that matters, y’know? Just one person to remember how you lived, who you were, what mattered to you. So as I sit here and soak up the ocean view, I wonder… How the hell did I end up like this? In Malibu. On the side of a highway. Traffic racing past my window. Lost. With prescription medicine on my dash. No one knows who I am. No one’s gonna know how I lived. That I tried my best. What am I supposed to do about that, huh? I dunno what happens in the next life. I thought I did, but I don’t. Unless I did and just can’t remember. You want the truth? The truth is, as good as my memory is, I can’t remember anything about my NDE anymore. Maybe it was all in my mind? Maybe it was just an excuse to get outta Toronto? I mean, sure, I can re-read what I wrote, but it sounds so … spaced out.

351

gar y de nne

Here’s my take on life: it’s a single chapter of some greater journey. Something we have no way of ever understanding here. Once a chapter’s over, a chapter’s over. And a new one begins. You don’t return to that chapter. Just like a day. Once today’s over … tomorrow begins. You don’t go back to the day before. You have a new day to do new things. You start all over again. You can think about what you did the day before. You can reflect on the day before and remember it. But you don’t go back to the day before. There’s just no reason to. Everything in the universe is about forward motion. There’s no going back to what was. So the truth is, Michael’s moved on. So should I. I won’t ever see him again. He’s still right here in my mind and in this notebook, but all we’ll ever have is this chapter. Wherever you are Michael Dobrofsky, the journey was everything. 10:05 PM: So … that was my first full day in L.A. Driving back from Malibu, I got stuck in traffic for over an hour, going barely a mile. The traffic wears me out. It slams me into the ground. It’s hell. I feel so tired after driving here. So many cars. So many traffic lights. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Red lights. Turns. Indicators. Braking. Accelerating. There’s speed bumps, delivery vans, potholes, pedestrians, parked cars, tire spikes, trucks, everything. It’s friggin’ nuts out there. “A fuckin’ indicator woulda been nice,” I screamed at least dozen times on the way back to the motel at cars pushing into my lane, right in front of me, just about side-swipin’ the car. Assholes. Every time I drove past someone today, they were on a cell phone. People were talking on cell phones as they walked the streets, too. People in stores, talking on cell phones. People jogging, talking on cell phones. People eating, talking on cell phones. People at payphones with cell phones in the other hand. Everyone, everywhere, talking on cell phones. I guess I understand the phone when you’re in traffic—so much of life is spent in a car here, people have to take calls in their cars. That’s where they spend half their friggin’ day. But talking on a cell phone while jogging… WTF? 352

the matt zander journals

Anyways, to cut a long story short, after I checked on Michael, I drove back down to Santa Monica. Things weren’t the same as they were yesterday, though. Homeless people were sleeping all over the lush green lawns on Ocean Blvd, right above the beach. It was noisy. People didn’t seem as happy. The thrill had gone. I parked the car, walked down to the beach, and looked out to the ocean, wondering if Michael had drifted out and maybe had a good view looking back at the avenue. I let some silent seconds tick by, but didn’t stay for long. I only had half-an-hour on the meter. I don’t wanna write anymore. I’m exhausted. Today’s taken so much outta me. I’m nervous. I’m edgy. I’m lost. I’m… This is such a mess now. Guests are in the pool, splashin’ round, having fun, and I can’t even lift myself off this motel bed. This is my life we’re talkin’ about here. Maybe I need some different kinda pills. When I started this, writing all these thoughts and the NDE down, I was so buzzed about everything. So wide-awake to all the big-picture stuff. It was like I had a drip full of coffee in my arm. Now I just wanna sleep. I dunno what’s wrong anymore. What happened to me? Really? I used to be … goddammit. What happened? Other than the shooting and the dying and the floating out-of-body thing. What the hell happened…?

353

Day 9, 6:04 AM: “…police say the body was discovered by an early morning jogger, washed up ashore on this Malibu beach. They have not yet ruled out foul play nor have they identified the body, currently known as ‘John Doe’. They would like to speak to anyone with information. Further updates as this breaking news unfolds—In Malibu, for Fox 11 News, Marisa Chang, reporting live…” TV just woke me again. Forgot to turn that damn timer off last night. That’s what I heard as I rolled over in bed and realized it was on. Think I got it all down. I only opened my eyes for the last couple of seconds. It was a live cross to Malibu. A dolled-up Asian reporter was standing on the beach. The ocean was behind her. The sun had just risen. She held a microphone steady, right in front of her. She was very professional looking. She was very professional sounding. But … wtf? How could there be a body when Michael… This can’t be happening. 7:41 AM: Wide-awake now. Grabbed a lobby breakfast again. People were standing round, smiling. Big grins. Huge grins. I guess people do that on vacation, right? Is that it? Is that why people’d be smiling in the lobby as 354

the matt zander journals

they sink their teeth into a pineapple frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles? ‘Cos they know who they are? They know what they’re gonna be doing today? Maybe they think some movie star’s gonna walk through the door any second, or today might be the day they get discovered walking down the Hollywood Walk of Fame and get offered their own sitcom: ‘You’re just what we’re looking for. A fat, donuteating moron.’ A bunch of us had to wait for the second wave of breakfast to be brought out. I stood there in the lobby, waiting on my own, trying to work out if the news I saw earlier was real or if I’d dreamt the whole thing. I know one thing’s for sure—the TV was on and the Asian chick was real. But was she there for Michael, or just talkin’ about the weather—that, I don’t remember? Anyways, the Indian motel-dude eventually showed up with more trays of donuts and pastries. They could’ve been day-olds—kinda taste like it—but no one seemed to mind. Well, except for the canary, who was trying to warn us by dancing about in its cage and singing, ‘Don’t eat! Don’t eat! It’s a trap!’ Soon as the trays were laid out, I grabbed my donuts and Styrofoam coffee cup and got the hell outta there, same as yesterday. I wanted to have breakfast on my own. Being around people is something I don’t get anymore. First it was people staring at me like I was talkin’ to myself. Now, nobody looks at me. I mean, I go to grab a coffee next to a couple of Thelma & Louise tourist girls and I don’t even get a polite ‘Hello’? Nothing. Jeesuz christ … I felt like pouring the jug of coffee over my head just to get their attention, not to mention check if I was still alive. So I’m having breakfast in the room, not having a clue what I’m gonna do today. It’s a new day. Another L.A. day. The light’s shining through the bathroom again. The traffic’s still … traffic. But I can’t shake this feeling of nothingness and meaninglessness. It’s starting to poison me. I just wanna be normal again. I’ve got $67, the car’s gassed up and breakfast is free. I’m in L.A. Why aren’t I smiling like those people out there in the lobby? What can they see that I don’t? Am I outta the loop here? Is there something I don’t know? Shit … you know what?—instead of all this self-analysis, I think I need to just get outta here. Outta the room. I need to go do stuff. I need to be able to talk to 355

gar y de nne

people again. I can’t keep doing this—me, alone in L.A. I had to take one of Michael’s Xanax with my coffee just now. Just to take the edge off. I know all about Xanax. You get a hit from ‘em. Same as Vicodin. It’s cool. They’re cool. It’s not like I’m taking someone else’s heart medicine or anything. It’s only Xanax. Here. Right here. This is exactly the kind of thing I said I was gonna do: NBC Studios. Go to a show taping. I picked up a few flyers in the lobby while I was waiting for breakfast. Disneyland, Universal … that kinda thing. The NBC flyer says you can get free tickets to TV shows and stuff. Free is good. I’m running out of money. Check this out… The U.S. one-dollar bill says: ‘In God We Trust’. Well, just hold on there a sec. What if this is your country and you don’t believe in God? What if you don’t want your money talkin’ about God and who you wanna trust? I don’t trust God—I don’t give a fuck about this God dude. Does that mean my money’s no good in this stinkin’ town? Am I the only one that thinks like that? Hey, this Xanax is pretty good shit. 8:48 AM: Life is such a strange existence, when you think about it. Sometimes you’re happy and sometimes you’re shit. Sometimes life is the greatest thing in the world, other times (yesterday) it’s a horrible hell. It just depends on how the day’s been and how your life is. Doesn’t it? And does that depend on luck? Fate? Or does it solely depend on your own actions? Are the people having the best lives just lucky? Or is it fate they have the best life possible? Like, can they just sit back and relax, knowing fate’s in control and they can do no wrong? Y’know what I think? Some people are just in the right place at the right time. So where the hell should I be? And what time should I be there? 356

the matt zander journals

If that was something you got told when you were growing up, do you realize how easier life’d be? Maybe a college professor would whisper in your ear as you graduated, or maybe you got a fortune cookie on your 18th birthday or whatever: Eaton Centre, August 2nd, 5:15 p.m. sharp or... Hollywood & Vine, 17th June, 3:59 a.m. (talk to transvestite vampire hooker with fangs) Y’know? ‘Cos that’s all I wanna know right now—what should I be doing? Where should I be? How do I get the life I was supposed to have? Is it just gonna be this endless cycle of get up, donuts, wonder what I should do, drive the streets, go to bed, get up, breakfast, wonder what I should do, drive round, go to bed, get up? I don’t wanna be doin’ something I wasn’t meant to be doing. But I sure as hell don’t wanna be waking up waiting for some sign that’s never comin’. I mean, if I got a fortune cookie and it said I was meant to be a janitor at Taco Bell ‘cos someday I was gonna save a little girl’s life from choking … I’d go to fuckin’ Taco Bell and ask for a mop and bucket. I’d be happy with that life ‘cos I’d know that was what I was meant to do. But I have a responsibility to finish something in this life that I know nothing about. So fuck it. I give up. So sue me. NBC Studios, Burbank, 9:39 AM: I’ve just driven to NBC Studios. Found it okay. I followed the directions on the flyer and headed to Burbank through the hills. It seemed real familiar. Barham Blvd. Never been to Burbank in my life, but the drive felt comfortable—like I knew it from somewhere else. I know I keep writing this, but the déjà vu’s driving me insane. It’s like uber-déjà vu. Super, mutant déjà vu. 357

gar y de nne

I’ve just picked up a ticket for The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Eric would be so jealous right now. He loves Leno. They give tickets away for free, each day of taping: NBC Studios The Tonight Show with Jay Leno - Studio 3 No Cameras Please! Minimum Age 16—I.D. will be required. Ticket distribution is in excess of studio capacity. Guests must arrive in line: 3:30 PM Showtime: 4:30 PM Burbank’s where alotta the studios are. NBC, Disney, Warner Bros. Universal’s back up on the hill a bit. Maybe I’ll go there. Heard the theme park’s ok. Can’t believe this … I’m stuck in traffic. Heading back to Hollywood. How could you live in a city like this where you’re stuck in traffic half the day? We’re not moving at all. I’ve got my notebook up against the steering wheel. People probably think I’m a writer for a sitcom. INT. SUBURBAN HOME – NIGHT A well-lit, modest home. TV on in background, canned laughter. Roast cooking in oven. White-collar husband enters front door, home from work. HUSBAND Honey, I’m home! (huge audience roar) WIFE How was your day, dear? HUSBAND

358

the matt zander journals

Just super. I spent three hours in traffic today, sitting—wait for it—on my ass! I’m tired, I’m frustrated, I didn’t get anything done. WIFE (sarcastic) Like when we have sex? (audience hollers, hoots, applauds wildly) Look at this… Can you believe this? Everyone’s on cell phones. I’m lookin’ round at cars next to me on both sides. We’re all jammed in, goin nowhere. Everyone’s doing something. Not even worried about it. Like it’s an everyday thing. Everyone’s gotta make phone calls. Like the whole world is on one big conference call. Everyone’s talking at once. It’s a wonder satellites in space don’t melt and slam into the ground they’re so jammed with calls. I wonder what life would be like if cell phones hadn’t been invented? A world without cell phones … how would people get by? I wonder what would happen if cell phone technology was proven to cause cancer or somehow the phone network had a meltdown and couldn’t be restored for a month. Would there be chaos? Would people be picking up garbage cans and smashing them through shop windows ‘cos they didn’t have their cellular service to call someone with? I’ve only been here two days. Two lousy days. 48 hours. Feels like two years. How does time do that? Sitting here, car idling, I keep glancing round at people. This is people-watching gold. Never knew traffic could be so much fun. People think they’re alone when they’re in their cars. Like they can pick their nose and no one’s gonna see. But there’s windows and I’m, like, only 5 ft away. Women applying makeup… Cell phones… Business guys going over work reports…

359

gar y de nne

People drinking coffee … big, huge containers of coffee in people’s hands. Some of ‘em must hold a litre—have to be. You want some kawwwfee? Kawwwfee! Get your kawwwfee here! Kawwwfee! How much kawwwfee you need? One litre? Two? Kawwwfee! This is cool. I’m actually starting to feel like the old me again. Yesterday I was fuckin’ losing it. Today … I’m back. I’m hardcore back. Big time. Sidebar: Coffee … wtf? Let’s say coffee is what it is—a drink that millions of people say they can’t live without or can’t start work until they get their cup. And let’s say coffee became infected with some virus, or got polluted, and drinking it killed you instantly. What would people do? Would the whole world just shut down? ‘I can never do anything before I get my cup of kawwwfee,’ you hear people say. So … what? You’re gonna die? Pull apart a razorblade and slit your wrists ‘cos you’re not getting your fix? I could become, like, a Dr. Evil-type dude. Have crazy social experiments and put ‘em into action to see how the world responded. A plan to bring down the cellular networks. To disrupt the coffee supply. To make every single person on the planet a billionaire and fuck up the economy. I’d probably get a friggin’ movie deal out of it. Or at least a comic book. Look at all those fuckers… ‘I’ll call you on your cell. Leave me a message on the cell. We can go get some kawwwfee? I’ll be outta the office, but I’ll have my cell. Have you got my cell number? Here, I’ll give you my cell.’ I have to get out of this traffic. I’m gonna pull off the freeway. Get on a street that’s actually free to be driven on. Mulholland Drive, it says. That’s what driving is in L.A. You end up turning onto 360

the matt zander journals

streets that are open. Who cares where you’re going, you just want to get outta gridlock and have fucking motion. Isn’t that the whole point of driving? L.A. … hello? Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy Zone Parkland: (why can’t the damn sign just say ‘city lookout’?) I’ve climbed up into the hills and pulled into a parking area—a 180-degree lookout view over Hollywood. Fucking amazing. There’s a slight breeze, but it’s surprisingly peaceful. For L.A., that is. I can hear birds chirping. It’s actually really cool to listen to birds after being stuck in traffic. I was beginning to think birds didn’t like L.A. Downtown L.A.’s in the distance. I can barely make it out through the smog. It’s really only a silhouette of buildings. There’s a huge freeway below me, too— maybe ten or twelve lanes wide, feeding cars straight into downtown like a main vein, straight to the heart. But hell, the amounta’ cars heading up here to Hollywood … if that was an artery down there, this city’d be about to have a massive heart attack. I’m watching tiny little bugs (cars) slowly crawl along the path of the freeway. I wonder how much coffee would be down there on the road, if you added every cup and jug in every car? Seriously? To the right of the freeway, I can see Hollywood. Take a look at all that glamour… Bunch’a buildings. Studios. Billboards. That Capitol Records building sure stands out. Looks like records stacked on top of one another, 10 stories high. Everything else down there’s just a square slab of concrete. No, wait … a square slab of glamorous concrete. I forgot the glamour. Just below me, there’s an outdoor theatre. Pretty big one. Rows and rows of seats facing a huge covered stage. I think concerts in a place like that—weather what it is here—would totally rock. If only Cobain was alive and Nirvana played down there. Fuckin’ A. I’m not really in a concert mood, though. Concerts are for when everything’s good in the world. Y’know? When you’re happy with life. You don’t do that kinda stuff when you still have things to work out. I’m making progress here, but let’s not get crazy, ok?

361

gar y de nne

There’s huge houses—mansions, dotted amongst the foothills around me. Hideaways is what they are—celebs, I’m sure. I can’t see any way of getting to some of those places unless you hiked. Maybe the celebs all have places like Wayne Manor. Pull a lever in the library and drive through a red carpet cave to reach Hollywood Blvd and a movie premiere. Further right is West Hollywood, down there below. Then you keep going on to Beverly Hills, and after that, you reach the coast of Malibu. If the smog wasn’t around, hell, it’d be one kick-ass view up here. The thing is, I wanted L.A. to be good. I wanted it so bad. I thought, once I’m in L.A., I’ll be able to make more sense of my life, have an idea of who I am in the world. Y’know? Well, I’m in L.A. and none of that’s happened. I don’t think this city likes me? This is the loneliest place I know. Even some eye contact from someone’d be good—they don’t have to talk to me if they don’t want. No one talks to me anymore. Wish I could share this view with someone. With Michael. He’d dig this. Things like this on your own don’t mean anything. You gotta have someone to hang with. Take the couple that just pulled up beside me. Black convertible. Well dressed couple in their 40s. They’ve got out their car and are looking out, across L.A. The woman—classy, hot blonde, tight jeans and yellow top—is starting to point to various landmarks down below. The guy’s snapping photos using a top-of-theline digital SLR, with a lens like the paparazzi. The convertible looks brand new … maybe they rented it. Maybe this is the Californian vacation they always wanted to take, once the kids went off to college and they had an empty nest. Second honeymoon, maybe. I’m writing this in the car right now while they’re out there at the lookout. I’m trying to be discreet and stare out to the view, in between glancing over to them. They’re smiling. Laughing. Holding hands. The guy just whispered to the woman and she jumped up onto the smooth, brick ledge of the lookout, striking a pose. She’s spread out on her side, with L.A. behind her. Now she’s posing like a movie star—why not, this is Hollywood.

362

the matt zander journals

They just jumped back in their convertible. They’re reversing out the lookout parking lot. Now they’re gone. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here like a lookout voyeur. A loser. Waiting for the traffic to calm. Alone. No one wants to pose for me. Behind me, you can see the Hollywood sign on another set of hills, just across the way. I found out it actually used to read: HOLLYWOODLAND It was advertising for a new housing estate back in the … I think, ‘50s or ‘60s? A guy used to live up there behind one of the Ls, looking after the sign. Now there’s a huge communication tower right above the sign on top of the hill. Bet if you took out that thing you’d take out the cellular networks. Hell, you’d probably take out cable and network broadcasts, too—shut down Hollywood entirely. Hmmmm, I’m thinkin’ about it. I’d have to put the explosives on credit. Alotta people’d thank me, can’t deny that. And I’d be an instant celebrity. Cars are still streaming up Mulholland Drive. Guess the jam is still down there. I’m working out, in L.A., you really don’t have to worry about filling in a day. You really only get about 4 hours actually doing stuff—the rest is eaten up in traffic. I wouldn’t be surprised if a good 10 years out of a lifetime is spent in cars here. Driving smart in L.A. must mean being able to choose the least worst traffic jams. I’d love to see stats on how many people move here with dreams of becoming famous. Man, that’d be interesting. Then another set of stats showing how long they lasted. How they ended up getting chewed up and spat back out, and how much their hopes and dreams were slammed down to the ground. Then another set of stats about how many wound up doing porn, thinking somewhere along the line, they’d make the transition to the A-list. Would make for a killer doco. I’m thinkin’ about it. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout a lot. Inside my head, it’s like a hurricane of thought. About 10:50 AM: -

363

gar y de nne

So I’ve pulled outta the Mulholland lookout after waiting for the traffic to clear, and guess what—still stuck. Headed towards Laurel Canyon. A guy crawling past in the opposite direction just wound down his window and shouted: “The only reason the traffic’s moving is ‘cos everyone’s turning round and having to go back down to the 101. Laurel Canyon’s blocked.” As he sped off, I looked up ahead of me, through the line of cars in front, and saw one of those portable electronic traffic signs, flashing at the top of a bend: MULHOLLAND CLOSED - TURN BACK MULHOLLAND CLOSED - TURN BACK For fuck sake, what is this place? Maybe I died and went to hell, and hell is actually Los Angeles, stuck in traffic? The L.A. mayor said on the news this morning that L.A. was one of the best cities in the world. What is he … fuckin’ nuts? 11:16 AM: The smog from Mulholland Drive looking down to West Hollywood and Beverly Hills is so thick it makes me wanna puke my coffee and donuts back up. It’s so gross—the idea I’m breathing in that shit masquerading as air. Makes me want to get a Michael Jackson facemask. It’s gotta be killing me. It’s gotta be turning my lungs black. Causing cancer. It’s pure carcinogens. And people don’t seem to worry about it out here? I haven’t heard anyone—not on TV, in newspapers or overheard conversations—talkin’ about the smog and how bad it is. Isn’t anyone doing anything about this shit-cloud hanging over the city? Am I the only guy who can see this? Whatever. We’re about to start moving again. Afternoon, 1:07 PM: -

364

the matt zander journals

Went to the supermarket next door. Pavilions. Reminds me so much of Runnerman’s. The checkout lanes. The aisles. All the weekly promotions. The supermarket sounds. Anyways, there was this beautiful girl in there. A brunette, with pale white skin and freckles. Unbelievable, olive eyes. We had eye contact for one long, single second. Much more than when you just notice someone near to you—this was eyes-locked-on-each-other contact. Man, was she gorgeous. I was such an idiot for not saying anything. I just stood there, next to her, pretending to be looking for something on the shelves. I didn’t say anything. Still can’t believe it. Those kinda moments happen maybe once every few years. Letting a girl like that go without saying anything … makes me wonder if I’m still alive? Me, before the NDE … I would’ve talked to a girl like that. I woulda been all over a girl like that. Things like that are how I know I’ve changed. I’m disappointed in myself. I’m gonna stop writing now. 11:37 PM: I’m so wired right now. Full-on awake again. I’ll explain why in a second… I didn’t go to The Tonight Show. I’m watching it on TV. Why go out and put all that effort into something when you can just click the remote and watch it from the comfort of an Econo Lodge Hollywood motel room with Chinese takeout? Still angry with myself for letting that girl walk away, after lunch I drove up to Hollywood Blvd (only four blocks) and parked in an underground garage to get to Mann’s Chinese Theatre—the one they’re always having movie premieres at. Kodak Theatre’s right next door as well. That’s where the Oscars happen. Roosevelt Hotel across the street—I’d heard of that from somewhere, too. So, the only thing really missing was actual movie stars. Other than that, it was the heart of Hollywood glamour. Well, except for bums. And weirdos. And hookers. A shitload of tourists were hanging round the place like stink on shit. All these American tourists in chinos and white sneakers, wanting to worship the biz. Women in denim skirts and sleeveless tops thinking they’re the Paris Hilton of the hour. Old retired guys in cowboy hats thinkin’ they were Clint Eastwood. 365

gar y de nne

Seemed like every single soul had come to the place with a water bottle, digital camera and a coupon for fifteen minutes of fame in their shirt pocket. And what’s the deal with water bottles? Am I the only guy who isn’t carrying a water bottle in L.A.? Anyways, the big lure of Mann’s Theatre is really the Walk of Fame. Y’know, the sidewalks up and down Hollywood Blvd, where they have these bronze stars for actors and singers and stuff, embedded into pink and dark grey terrazzo squares. Almost everyone who walks along Hollywood Blvd looks down at the names they’re walking all over. And you can tell where the big-name movie stars are at ‘cos they always have tourists crowded round, standing over them like schmucks with their hands in the air, while their better half or family member snaps a photo. ‘Look at me, mom, I’m in Hollywood! I’m gonna be a movie star, too.’ Some of the names on the sidewalk, jesus … a star for the Olsen Twins? The fucking Olsen Twins? Those two little, snobby, rich-kid girls? Are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me? I killed ten minutes walking up, then back down, a coupla’ blocks worth of stars on the Walk of Fame. Half of ‘em were stars for has-been, one-hit-wonder, talentless hacks who are just there ‘cos they paid money to be there. Yeah, I found out you don’t get awarded a star in Hollywood—you have to pay for it. C’mon … what kinda loser would pay for their own star? Inside the courtyard of Mann’s, they’ve got a bunch of handprints in the ground where the more famous stars have pressed their hands into cement. e.g. Tom Hanks 7/23/98 (hand prints here) A bunch of them are from the golden era. There’s some recent ones, but it’s mostly the classic, original Rat Pack-type actors. It’s actually pretty cool when you think about it—what it musta been like back in the real Hollywood, before all the hype and tacky cheapness of the place set in. I’m talkin’ about Hollywood 366

the matt zander journals

souvenir stores selling plastic Oscar statues so everyone can be a winner. Or a roll of red carpet you can take home to the ‘burb’s and roll out when you have your own celeb parties. Not to mention all the cartoon and movie star characters dancin’ round on acid, right outside Mann’s, buzzing in your ear as they try to get your wallet open. Talk about turning Hollywood into fuckin’ kiddie playtown. There’s Spiderman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Catwoman, Homer Simpson, Elvis, Michael Jackson, pirates, vampires and a shitload more. Guys and gals dressed up in costumes, tryin’ to get star-struck tourists to pose for photos they then charge god knows how much for. Then you have stuff like the dude in the Spiderman outfit deciding to get all fancy and jump up on trashcans like he’s the real deal. See … that’s the problem with Hollywood. Everyone’s just here for the fame. People don’t care about acting or shit—the actual talent it takes. Y’only have to look on people’s faces walking round this place to know they’re telling ‘emselves, ‘Someday, I’m gonna have my own star here. I’m gonna be a celebrity. I’m gonna be the next big thing. I’m gonna ride in limos. I’m gonna be rich. I’ll have famous friends. I’ll go to parties. Do interviews. I’ll be famous. People’ll know my name. Everyone’ll love me. Me. Me. They’ll love … me.’ Anyway, enough with the ranting like a crazy guy. The real reason I was at Mann’s was to buy a ticket to tour the homes of the movie stars. Like I said I was gonna do. I went with a bunch of other tourists. The driver forced us all to say where we were from and pretend we were overly excited to be there. I sat there, looking around the mini bus before we left Mann’s, and saw the excitement on people’s faces. That they were gonna see where real celebrities lived. Actual celebrities. People had the biggest, beaming smiles. They were about to mingle with the rich and famous. I wondered to myself why I wasn’t excited as everybody else, when I really thought I would be. Driving all over the Hollywood Hills as the driver pointed out a bunch of celebrity homes—where they lived, where they once lived, where they died, where they slept with each other, where they got high and where they killed themselves— everyone held cameras up to the bus windows, snapping loads of photos. We drove by ordinary houses with garbage bins out front. Garages. Parked cars. 367

gar y de nne

Gardens. Front doors. Armed response, security warning signs. But everyone on the tour loved it. The whole time. You could see it on faces every time the driver announced whose house we were out front of. There were oohs. There were ahhs. Wynona Ryder’s home. Her car (it’s a black SUV). Keanu’s home. Leonardo’s pad. Tobey’s favourite juice bar. Paris Hilton’s dog grooming centre. Where Reese Witherspoon does Tai Bo. All those Hollywood fuckers who are havin’ their fifteen minutes. Everyone on the bus was in awe. I just sat back and listened to some of the conversation. It was more entertaining than what was out the windows. Tourists were speculating to each other if a celebrity was home, what they might be wearing at home and what they might be doing at home. That they thought a house would’ve been different—a different colour, bigger, smaller, more elegant, less art deco. Whatever. They pointed, took photos, giggled, smiled in a big, drugged out way. Pointed. Took photos. Giggled. Smiled in a big, drugged out way—I’m talkin’ huge, dilated pupils. And so on … for the whole two hours. During the tour, I realized the kinda stuff I saw in Vegas—booze, sin, gambling, greed—had nothing on the kinda thing celebrity worship can do to people. Turns people into mindless fuckin’ zombie slaves. All they care about is celebrities. They build their whole lives around watching their favourite celebrities. Trying to look like their favourite celebrities. Trying to become friends with their favourite celebrities. Eating the same. Wearing the same. Sounding the same. WTF? I wanted to tell the two girls behind me on the bus to get a grip of ‘emselves. I wish I had’ve had a tape player there to playback the shit they were saying to each other. Stuff like, how each celeb’s home really did define the type of actor they were and that you could tell whose home was who, just by looking at the architecture. ‘Gosh, that is so Halle Berry. Jen … look at that. That’s gotta be Halle Berry’s home right there…’ But they wouldn’t have heard me. I mean, they would’ve heard me, but not heard me. Nobody on that tour would’ve. Everyone seemed so owned by the showbiz 368

the matt zander journals

machine. So far down the hole of celebrity worship that nothing could ever bring ‘em back out again. I wanted to walk to the front of the bus as we were driving round Sunset and hijack it. Punch the over-enthusiastic tour guide in the face, then scream into the microphone, ‘Celebrities are fucking people! People! All they do is act out stories while fuckin’ film rolls. Then those stories are displayed on big fuckin’ screens in theatres for crowds to fuckin’ watch. Get a fuckin’ grip…’ I’m sure they would’ve all stared at me with their mouths open wide, like a sevenyear-old kid who just found out Santa don’t really exist. Right now, the world has this uncontrollable desire to treat celebrities like fuckin’ Gods. We pay ‘em insane amounts of money. We give ‘em free clothes, gift packs and free tickets to events. When celebrities speak, we listen like they’re speaking the most intellectual shit known to man. Like their opinions and thoughts matter more than the rest of us. What the hell did I even wanna do that tour for … I musta been a fuckin’ zombie myself? I want my money back. No wait … screw the money, I just want my two fuckin’ hours back. I’m disappointed with myself. Again. When the tour finished back at Mann’s, all over the courtyard of the Chinese Theatre I noticed guys laying red carpet out and taping it down with … red gaffer tape. Silver cage-style fencing was being placed all over, creating a kinda holding-pen feel. Black, 6 ft standing lights were in groups around the courtyard, too, ready to light up the place like a dozen suns. Dumbass tourists were asking each other what was going on. All they had to do was look up to the electronic billboard, above the theatre: THE LONGEST YARD PREMIERE TONIGHT AT 7:00 PM

369

gar y de nne

So, after a few minutes of classic, Gemini indecision, I decided I’d stick around and see what all the hype of a movie premiere was about. Besides … beat sitting in my room watching traffic reports. I killed an hour wandering around the Walk of Fame, then walked up the steps to the Kodak Theatre, checking out the home of the Oscars before heading back out to the street and the scene of the premiere. The sun had sunk below the horizon and it was now dusk. Orange traffic cones lined both sides of Hollywood Blvd, and the caged fencing I’d seen earlier was blocking people from getting anywhere near Mann’s. A whole lane of the boulevard was designated for arriving limos. Other lanes were still open to traffic, but the place was already gridlocked ‘cos every single car stopped to look at the commotion before moving on. The spotlights set-up earlier were all on and shining down on the red carpet, making it glow. Posters of the movie were up everywhere and the media were waiting with microphones, cameras and tape recorders, all dressed up like they were the damn stars. In the media pit, you couldn’t make out what was goin’ on. They were like piranhas in there, waiting for food to be tossed in the water. Paparazzi fuckers. Hundreds of people had formed on the south side of Hollywood Blvd, where the best views of the action would be, right in front of Mann’s Theatre. I decided to cross over and see if there was anything worth hanging round for. I admit there was a cool buzz in the air. Cameras aimed, fingers-ready-to-snap kinda feeling. Celebrities were about to come down from their mansions in the hills. You could definitely sense it. There were these huge skylights on trailers that’d been wheeled in, shooting white light beams into the night sky. There were showbiz TV crews and presenters standing by. I couldn’t really tell what was happening—just a lot of people dodging and moving in a confined space, with a lot of the crowd screaming like they were being hacked to death. It was a surreal experience. I’ve seen that type of thing on TV before. It always looks so glamorous. But this? This wasn’t glamorous. This was everyday people sticking digital cameras up in the air and shooting as many shots as they could take in the general direction of the red carpet, limos and bright spotlights. And that’s before anything actually happened. 370

the matt zander journals

What with the traffic getting in the way, the bright spotlights, and the people crammed in so tight, you really couldn’t see shit from across the street. Limos started to pull up, the crowds around me started to shout out names and yell across to people, but I never saw anyone. Still, there I waited, along with everyone else. In the hope of seeing a celebrity. As I crammed myself alongside others, looking over towards black, stretch limousines, and lights beaming down on opening car doors, people next to me were screaming right in my ears as loud as they could. I don’t know what they were saying. Maybe it was in a language only celebrities could understand? The sun was now well and truly gone, but stage lights were casting palm-tree shadows on storefronts and buildings, just as good. This movie premiere was in full swing. I just wanted to see someone famous. Some guys jumped up on sidewalk pot plants to get better views over the crawling traffic. I did the same and sprang myself up, holding onto a parking sign and resting my feet on the ledge of a trashcan (like I was Spiderman). Still nothing. But I did have good views of the crowds—a sea of hopefuls with stars in their eyes and sunglasses on their heads. Actually, the women in the crowd waiting to see celebs get out of limos were pretty damn hot from my vantage point. Gotta love L.A. weather … denim shorts, tank tops, singlets, skirts on all the girls. “Who’s that?” I asked one guy, who was balancing on a sidewalk pot plant next to me, snapping madly with his camera at a dude getting out of a limousine on the curb at Mann’s. “I dunno,” the guy casually replied. Girls were running up to their friends screaming at each other and dancing on air, so happily satisfied. I overheard them say things like, “Ohmigod, he touched my hand! Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod … he touched me!” Guess the weird thing about tonight, though, is that I admit I felt the buzz at the premiere, too. I felt the celebrity vibe as I watched the commotion across the street. Just like everyone else, I was guilty of scanning the crowds, trying to recognize someone famous. My heart was beating. My eyes were darting. Just like everyone else, I felt a showbiz high. Still do. Big time.

371

gar y de nne

With every rise in pitch of the screaming, I turned my head to see who was climbing out a limo. Adam Sandler, one of the movie’s stars, waved to all us guys on the south side of Hollywood Blvd. He looked both ways (even though cars were crawling at that point—dumbass) and walked over towards us. The crowd went apeshit. Girls were crying, shaking, fitting 100 ‘ohmigod’s’ into a second’s worth of speech. Sandler walked down the front row of the crowd, who were safely roped off from getting too close to the guy. People reached out their hands to touch him. Cameras flashed like an electrical lightning storm. He smiled, and then quickly walked back over to the red carpet, not wanting to stray too far from the safety of the silver caged fencing. I think that’s when I began to feel I was a part of all’a this. That, if I stayed here and put my mind to it, I could be an actor. I could be in showbiz. Like … being in the right place at the right time. Getting into the scene. Getting an agent. Getting parts in small films. Building up a resume. Who says a guy like me couldn’t do it? One day I could be getting out of a limo at Mann’s, runnin’ across the street from my movie premiere. I could run my hand down a long line of adoring fans’ hands, high-fiving ‘em. Bet they’d never wash their hands again. ‘There he is! Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod! Matt! We love you! Matt! We want your body! Matt! Marry me! Over here, Matt!’ When the last celeb disappeared inside the theatre and probably out a back exit to go off to a strip club rather than watch the film with the press, people stopped screaming and slowly went back to checking out the Walk of Fame and taking photos with Marilyn Monroe and Charlie Chaplin look-alikes. The moon was out, a full moon, and heading back to the parking garage, I walked through the Hollywood/Highland retail centre with its white, elephant statues on top of huge Roman(?) pillars, surrounded by hundreds of speciality stores on four or five levels—the best of the best of consumerism to shove down people’s throats in the heart of Hollywood.

372

the matt zander journals

After that, I just drove around for a while, trying to get a feel for the Hollywood nightlife, but I got real bored real quick and cruised back to the motel, where I’ve still got this buzz going on in my head. 12:07 AM: My hand aches from writing. I’m looking at myself, eyes unfocused. There’s a mirror on the wall, right across from the bed. I don’t really wanna focus right now, ‘cos I’m a mess. Unshaven. Freaked out hair. Bloodshot eyes. Blotchy skin. I would never have been seen out like this before the NDE. Now, I couldn’t care less. No wonder nobody looked at me tonight. Everyone was so well groomed at that thing. I wonder if I need that laser eye surgery? The premiere tonight was for a new movie, and you know what? … I don’t even know what it was about. People didn’t seem to care back there, either. Offer someone the chance to go to a Hollywood premiere, see some celebrities and get caught up in the hype—who cares what the movie’s about? People go crazy for anything when it’s showbiz. I dunno how long this feeling is gonna last? It’s like a fuckin’ drug. I have this whole Hollywood rush goin’ on right now. Being there tonight … it really has me spinning. Makes you a part of Hollywood. Like you’re a player. If I started going to auditions, I might bump into these guys, and who knows, get to know ‘em. Get to hang with ‘em. Get into the scene. I’d be a player. I’d start to get a fan base. People’d start to notice me. I’d get women. Money. Free stuff. Star power. Then see how many people’d wanna talk to me… This showbiz idea really has me thinking right now. This is exactly the kinda sign I’ve been looking for. It’s not a coincidence. It’s a sign. I’m meant to be here. In showbiz. Finally, I think I know what I’m meant to do with my life… Leno just finished. Wait, let me switch to E! The showbiz channel. Flick.

373

gar y de nne

I think I need to sleep on the idea of staying here. See how it looks in the light of day. Everything’s cool at night. At night, everything’s so much clearer in my mind. Dunno why that is. Damn. Huge buzz. Huge. I can see visions right now. Of everything that’s possible… Velvet rope. Red carpet. Spotlights. White stretch limos. Black stretch limos. The H O L L Y W O O D sign. Me on huge movie billboards. Live movie shoots on street corners. Eating at Sunset Strip restaurants where deals are done. And I have just as much right to be here as anyone else. I could be famous… It’s starting to make sense. It’s starting to click. Maybe it’s why I’ve had so much déjà vu about the place? I just needed a big wake-up call to get here. To be pushed. To be shown what’s possible. Fate? I just remembered this… Almost forgot… When I left the Kodak Theatre parking garage tonight, a woman stopped me and asked for directions. I gave ‘em to her without even hesitating. Like I was a local. Like I’d lived here forever. And I thought to myself, ‘I’m really doin’ this. I’m livin’ here now…’ Don’t you get it? All I need’s one shot. Just one shot at Hollywood. I’d get a smokin’ car from my first movie paycheck. You gotta have wheels in L.A. I’d have a kick-ass cell phone. Like one of those little Blueberry(?) things, where I could network and email and do all that shit with other actors and my agent. I’d 374

the matt zander journals

get a house in the Hollywood Hills, above Sunset. Up where the celebs live, nestled away. Away from the regular scumbags. From the tourists. Then I’d cruise down every morning to the studios. And drive back up at night. I could get a second home out in Malibu, when the time was right. On the beach. When I wanted to hear the waves breaking, and wake up to the sea air to get myself into character. I know I’m good at characters. And improv dialogue, too, bitch! I could do premieres. Events and charity stuff. Have a celebrity girlfriend—screw my way through the A-list of the hottest single women out here. Actors always wanna screw other actors. I’m so pumped about this. I’m gonna make people wanna know me. I’m feeling a huge surge of motivation. Xanax to the fuckin’ rescue. On E! Television, they’re talking about the Oscars right now. Oscar buzz. Who’s hot this year. I better pay attention… Fact: - Oscar gift bags are gonna be worth around $100,000 each this year. Each. Celebs who present awards at the Oscars get one. Each presenter. $100,000. Celebs go gaga for them. There’s gotta be rehab centres for celebs when they don’t get invited to awards nights anymore and miss out on gift bags. Gotta be. Sorry little African girl with a tear runnin’ down your face, out there in the world somewhere, starving to death … in Hollywood, us actors are way too important to be diverting money away from gift bags to keep you alive. Us actors have a unique journey to everyone else. We’re talent. That’s showbusiness, kid. Now get back to your fried rat and shut the fuck up, sweetie. Oscar gift bag swag: - (I’m scribbling this down straight off the TV…) • •

Lasik(wtf?) Gift Certificate Mirage Hotel & Casino Vegas Getaway 375

gar y de nne

• • • •

•

His/Her chenille/satin robes, personally embroidered in 14karat gold thread with the presenter’s initials Dream Couture Shampoo (contains extracts from chardonnay champagne grapes and Perigord black truffles) Urban Detox Hangover Kit Custom-designed cosmetics with ground rubies, sapphires, gold and diamonds (Oscar presenters don’t want cosmetics designed for everyday scumbags, ‘k?) Plastic surgery Gift Certificate (E! says tits for women and calf implants for men are this season’s must-haves)

Dammit. It went too fast. There was loads more. Spa treatments, jewellery, watches, cameras, airline tickets. Couldn’t write it all down. Can you believe that shit? And Oscar nominees get twice that. Once I’m in showbiz, I won’t have to buy stuff ever again. Wait … is Hollywood out of its fuckin’ mind? All that … for getting up on stage and presenting an award? Hey, who cares? It’s a performance. It’s alotta goddamn work getting dressed up like that and waiting in a limo to step out onto the red carpet. I bet it’s not easy reading from a teleprompter, either. I am so there, next year. Even if I only present. Of course I wanna get nominated or get a gold statue, but presenting would be fine for next year. Baby steps. Is next year a realistic timeframe for me to be getting my first gift bag? Seriously? 1:48 AM: Still watching E! Television. Jason Alexander’s sitcom was cancelled today. The stocky, bald dude from Seinfeld. Poor bastard. Think I’ll send him a letter. Or a card. Should I send a fruit basket with it? What’s appropriate in these situations? I’ll have to find out. I’m gonna need an agent. Hell, I think I’m gonna need a manager as well. And a publicist. I need to start getting my name out there. I love knowing I’m in the same town as all the other major players in Hollywood. It’s a buzz. Knowing that somewhere out there, not far away, talent are at home, sleeping, writing, watching TV, whatever … just like me, right now. Making plans. Making moves. Making plays. 376

the matt zander journals

Am I the only one who thinks like that? It all makes sense now. Fuck. I shoulda seen this. Why didn’t I ever see this? I mean, Eric and I were always doin’ improv back in T.O. Running scenes together, creating characters—that’s what we did. And we were good. Hell, maybe when I get settled, I could make a call and he could fly out here? It all makes sense. Fuck. Jesus. I am just so pumped for this. Do you know what it’s like to finally know what you were put on this planet to do? I feel like screamin’ a big fuckin’ ‘YES!’, but I don’t wanna wake guests and let ‘em think I’m screwin’ some Hollywood vampire hooker. Ok. I need to map out goals. I need to start planning this. Being serious. People are gonna know my name… Ohmigod, Mom! Isn’t that Matt Zander! Mr. Zander, this way please… That Zander guy’s in it … he does a good job. I loved you in that movie… Big fan, Matt. Can I get a picture for my daughter? You are such a great actor… I am Matt Zander. I’ve never been more alive in my life. I wanna be in showbusiness. I’m gonna be in showbusiness. I am showbusiness.

377

Day 10, 8:38 AM: Just picked up a standby ticket for The Tonight Show at NBC. All the regular tickets were gone when I got here. People must queue for those things at sunrise—they must be fucking whackos. Wait … I get it … they’re just caught up in the showbiz tourist buzz, thinkin’ they’re a part of the biz for the duration of their stay. Okay, so, I’ve thought about last night. The whole Hollywood idea. Gotta say, I’ve lost alotta the buzz. When I woke this morning, I felt like I’d kinda soured on the acting career. Thing is, I just don’t think acting’s my thing. No … I woke up this morning with a hard-on for gettin’ behind-the-scenes. The business end of Hollywood is where it’s really at. And I think seeing Leno tonight is gonna gimme another angle—a different kinda showbiz hit. A higher high. I don’t wanna be a celebrity. Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Fuck all those celebrity leeches and their gift bags. Actors are a bunch’a arrogant morons. Same as runway supermodels. And those premieres aren’t my scene. I wanna be behind-the-scenes— producing and shit. Today feels like that movie … what was it called? The one where the guy keeps waking up day after day and nothing changes around him. Everything’s exactly the same as yesterday. The same cars, the same smog, the same bums, the same sunny, Californian weather. I’m in traffic, heading back to Hollywood from Burbank (that’s where NBC is). Bill Murray starred in that movie, didn’t he? I wonder if he got back-end residuals for 378

the matt zander journals

that pic? That’s the thing … you always wanna go for back-end deals and action on profits rather than an upfront fee. That’s unless you’re in some piece of shit you know’s gonna bomb at the box office—then you just wanna get as much cash upfront before the thing tanks after opening weekend by worda’ mouth. Yep, I’ve started learning about the biz. A crash course in Hollywood. I might even get a book on it. There’s a Borders at Sunset & Vine. When people say showbiz, they really mean show business. There’s alotta shit that goes into makin’ a movie. I saw a show about it last night. It’s a wonder movies even get made, the shit that has to happen before film starts rolling. There’s deals with talent, pay or play, studio co-financing, summer tentpoles—it’s all stuff I’ll need to know if I’m gonna step-up and get in the game. Like, I mean as a producer or writer. That’s where the real talent is. That’s what’s gonna get me a permanent parking space at all the studios. I’ve sobered up from last night’s overdose of fame and celebrity. Now that it’s the light of day, I can see clearly again. Well, as much as the smog allows. I meant sea mist. That’s what they call it here. If you asked a local about smog, the conversation would go somethin’ like: “Why do you have so much smog here?” “Smog? What smog? What are you talking about?” “All this brown shit hanging in the air … makes the sky look like an unflushed toilet.” “Ohhhhhhhhh, you mean the sea mist?” 9:14 AM: The freeway’s jammed as far as I can see right now. The thing about L.A. is, there’s really no such thing as rush hour. Traffic’s 24/7. Congestion used to be a peak hour problem, now it’s everywhere at anytime. Terrorists should just buy a million cars and have a million guys drive round the streets all day and night in every city in America, annoying the shit out of people until they give up and the economy collapses. Forget all this dirty-bomb and crashing-planes-into-buildings shit. I mean, seriously, what would they charge the terrorists with? Driving with intent to cause gridlock? Americans would be all, 379

gar y de nne

like, ‘Here, you wanna nuke the city? Go right ahead … just stop causin’ fuckin’ gridlock on my morning commute.’ Fuck this traffic. 1:25 PM: Back in the room. Barely any energy to get up off the bed. Traffic’s taken all motivation away. Don’t think I’m gonna make The Tonight Show (again). Having to wait round in a queue like a line a’ cattle waiting to go to the slaughterhouse—not something I wanna do right now. Only thing is, it’s part of the biz. And I need another showbiz high. I need a job. I need a life. The trip’s over. Part of me keeps thinkin’ we’re gonna start drivin’ again, on the road, dreaming of another place that’ll be everything we’ve dreamt about once we get there. But I gotta pay this credit-card off. It’s weighing on my mind. Like an echo in the Swiss Alps. A faint voice bouncing back to me as thoughts pop in my head: I gotta pay my credit card. Echo: You gotta pay it back-back-back. I got no money. Echo: You got no money-money-money. I am Matt Zander. Echo: You are … I don’t know who you are-who you are-who you are? 2:30 PM: I wonder if I should shower before I head to the studio? Haven’t showered since I arrived in L.A. I’m a bum. Official. My body feels like it’s last year’s model. I smell. My hair’s a mess—and not in the deliberate, trendy-mess kinda way. I’m unshaven. I could go on. I’m not worried about my appearance, though. I’m blending in on the street really well. It’s the fat ass tourists from Ohio that stick out round here like fat ass tourists from Ohio. Maybe they won’t even let me into The Tonight Show if I go?

380

the matt zander journals

Maybe they’ll just give me some spare change and send me on my way. Or a hot meal and a coupon for 25 cents off the Universal Studios tour. I have swinging moods. I hate this place. I love this place. I’m angry. Yeah, I’m fuckin’ angry. I just don’t know what to do. I’m worried for the future. I gotta think of a way to be able to do this. Like, washing dishes or bussing tables while I pitch projects to the studios and write scripts. Yeah … scripts. I have ideas. One’s about a celebrity killer. Goes to movie premieres and kills the stars whose movies suck. Really slashes ‘em up good. Then he goes to the studios who green-lit all the shit movies and slashes all the studio execs. Slashes ‘em into pieces. Then he slashes all the showbiz media who are so fucking phoney and call the movies masterpieces. He just fuckin’ slashes everyone in Hollywood—all the people that think they’re so fuckin’ perfect. I call him … ‘The Slasher’. Okay, so it’s just an idea at this stage, but I’m gonna flesh out a treatment a little later. Maybe. I need a new notebook. Kinda runnin’ out of pages in this thing. Hell, I could even write a script about my NDE. Tell a story about all this stuff that’s happened to me. Use everything in these pages as the source material. Actually … that’s a damn good idea. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? Although, people’ll probably think I’m smoking crack if I write about all that NDE shit. But isn’t that what all Hollywood writers do? Make shit up? I could pitch the idea to a producer. Setup a meeting at one of those West Hollywood eateries. Pitch it. Sell it. Get an offer from one of the indie arms of the majors for a cool mil-plus (maybe with a backend share of the profits?). Even direct it. Work that into the contract. Up on the Mann’s Theatre marquee, it’d be like: A Matt Zander Film, Written and Directed by Matt Zander If Eric and James wanted to be in it, I could fly ‘em out here. Studios have their own private jets. They fly talent around all the time. This is so fucking perfect. I can’t believe it. This is it. This is the one. I’m gonna be the hottest guy in town when I’m through with this. It’ll be a breakthrough vehicle for me. It’ll be like … The First Film by Matt Zander. No, wait … The Matt Zander… something? I’ll think of a title. I probably 381

gar y de nne

need to go to a screenwriting seminar, first. Or get a book. ‘Screenwriting for Loners’? And maybe something from the self-help section, too. Note to self: - Visit Borders tomorrow. Just up the street, opposite the ArcLight Theatre. This is fucking brilliant. This is… So. Fucking. Brilliant. So, The Tonight Show is the only thing I’ve got left to do. Then I need to start thinking about getting to work as a writer/producer. Serious. I’m not a tourist anymore. Shit… I’m late. Gonna miss The Tonight Show. Gotta drive to the studio. Man, I love how that sounds… I’m ‘headed to the studio’. Me. To NBC. I need an agent. I need representation. On the fast track. You have 1 New Fortune Cookie Message waiting… 8:05 PM: Back in the room. Eating and writing. Just walked down to Panda Express again. I’m eating one meal a day. One good meal. Rest of the day I’m eating fruit and nuts. At Pavilions, a bag a’ nuts is 80 cents. A banana, 6 cents. For dinner, I’m eating the same meal every night. $5 Chinese at Panda Express. No way I’m gonna drive round in traffic looking for something else. Besides, I wanna see a different fortune in one of their cookies. Things like that bug me. Make me angry. They should care more to mix up their fortune cookies. Life’s always about the little details you encounter everyday. Stuff like that should matter. Last three nights, I’ve opened up one of their cookies only to get the same damn message: You have accomplished much. I know what’s going on. They’ve just bought a big batch of the same fuckin’ cookie and poured ‘em all in a jar. Anyone who goes to the same store twice gets

382

the matt zander journals

the same fortune. Anyone only going once, thinks, ‘wow, look … it’s a unique fortune.’ And tonight’s fortune is… (drum roll—let me get this damn packet open) You have accomplished much. I fuckin’ knew it! See what I’m talkin’ about? I should walk back down there and shove this fortune down their throats. I’ve accomplished shit, and I’m not lettin’ no cookie try to sweet-talk me to feelin’ better about this. These are the cards on the table right now… No friends. No job. No place to live. No girl. No life. Just a bag of clothes, CDs, blank dog tags and a couple of pill bottles. Oh, and sixty dollars. And a credit card I’ve no doubt maxed out. Take that, fortune cookie. I got a full-fuckin’-house. You were saying? 8:20 PM: So… The Tonight Show taping. I ended up making it. They took me as a single ‘cos they had one spare seat in the middle of a group. I looked like a bum, so I was lucky I got in at all. I stuck out in a sea of sharply dressed, pretentious scumbag tourists. Leno went through his stand-up monologue and the audience howled with laughter. Every time he delivered a punchline the crowd went nuts. I clapped politely. I say politely, ‘cos it just wasn’t funny. I reckon I was the only guy in the audience lookin’ straight-faced. I think the NBC studio girls thought I was a sniper or something. They kept giving me glances. I started to feel like one of those unshaven, European types in the movies, assembling a tiny one-shot rifle with a laser-sighted scope. I imagined a little red dot slowly making its way across each guest until it got to Leno, behind his desk. You couldn’t miss that chin of his. Wait a minute. Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? That could be a killer scene for The Slasher script. Oh, man. I am so pumped for this.

383

gar y de nne

Leno had the girl from Friends on. The blonde one. He had the winner of an NBC reality show. The Trump one. Then some band did a song. Everyone seemed to know who these guys were. I can’t even remember the band. They were shit. If that’s the new grunge, I’m slashing my wrists right now. Kurt must be rolling in his grave. RIP. When the show was over, the audience warm-up guy thanked everyone for coming, then in a nice way, told us to get the fuck out—the show was over. As I walked back to the car on the streets around Burbank, I listened to other audience members ringing friends on their cell phones as they walked alongside me: “As soon as Jay walks out, hit pause. Find the guy in the red shirt, close to the end. Look up, and to the left, and you’ll see me and Jen waving. We were on The Tonight Show! I’m so bummed you couldn’t come, dude. You have no idea. Jay was awesome…” Everyone walked out of the taping, out of NBC, talking to each other about it. I walked out alone. I watched the taping alone. You can’t have a conversation with yourself. That’s when I realized how hard it is being on your own in the world. And how hard Hollywood would be for a guy like me, trying to make it. I used to watch Leno with Eric, every night at his place. Now I’ve been to a taping. Strange … I don’t feel any different? I don’t feel the buzz like I did with the premiere. I’m not gettin’ the hit. Where’s the hit? I think I’ll go cruise Sunset. Get outta this motel room. I need to clear my thoughts. I got a lot on my mind right now. 1:34 AM: Back from cruising. The motel’s finally quiet. The water in the courtyard pool, still. The marine layer had disappeared tonight. The bums were all gone. Everything glittered like it was supposed to. At night, the real Hollywood surfaces like a submarine full of parties, vampire hookers, and drug overdoses on the sidewalks. I just drove round, soaking up the atmosphere of being out on the Strip. Not Hollywood, West Hollywood. The Strip. Sunset Boulevard… The hottest clubs. 384

the matt zander journals

Celebs. Swank eateries. VIPs. Limos. Wannabe actresses, models and singers parading themselves outside clubs, trying to get the paparazzi to notice. You can almost smell the desperation in the air as you drive past, along with a hint of sidewalk vomit. Sunset Blvd looks amazing at night. The sky was all purple as the sun sank down (from the smog, maybe?). There was a full moon. And stars in the sky. Palm trees were silhouettes against the purple backdrop. All the billboards were lit up. And the air was warm. If I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn everything had come together in that one moment, as perfect as it could possibly be. Traffic was heavy. Unbelievable. But even that didn’t seem wrong tonight. Every second car stopped at lights had young, beautiful people all glammed up and ready to hit the clubs. The kids of Hollywood players—I bet a lot of ‘em were. Little rich fuckers. Slash ‘em up good, too. In the middle of West Sunset, around the section of the Strip where cafes and restaurants have outdoor seating and fancy-ass names, there’s this manicured garden corridor separating the lanes. At night, it’s lit up with tiny little pinpoints of golden light, dotted all over the palms, bushy shrubs and flowers. Driving past the lights and the restaurants gave me a buzz. Huge buzz. Finally. I wondered who was there, sitting at tables, talkin’ shop over sushi. I tried to go past slow, to see who I could spot, but… There was a sign: NO CRUISING ZONE. MOTORISTS PASSING THE TRAFFIC CONTROL POINT 2 OR MORE TIMES IN 4 HOURS ARE SUBJECT TO CITATION. West Hollywood has soul of a night. Real class. There’s definitely somethin’ about it. The Strip feels like this golden, glowing stream of consciousness for all things glamorous. Anyone’d get sucked into it. Even a Buddhist monk. You get sucked in and dragged down the Strip, like it’s the undertow of an ocean. Or am I the only guy that thinks that? I’m imagining what it’d be like staying in one of those hotels on the Strip, right above the clubs and bars and stuff. Or even better, living in one of the places right above Sunset, with a balcony overlooking it every night. Jesus… 385

gar y de nne

I feel so close to that kinda thought, I can’t explain it right now. All the lights up on the hills—they’re celebrity homes. That’s really where they live. Really. As I drove the Strip, I passed by House of Blues, Viper Room, Skybar, The Roxy and Whisky-A-Go-Go. Alotta people were walkin’ the sidewalks. Coming and going from clubs. I turned the radio on to inject some music into the moment. Nothing like driving Sunset with some tunes blasting out the speakers. This one song … seemed to really speak to me. Speak for the moment. Couldn’t believe it. The guitar … the goddamn guitar electrified my body. But as I listened to the words … jesus … talk about feelin’ a bolt of lightning in my head. I was actually cruising the Sunset Strip. I was becoming a player. Don’t you get it? This was feeling like home. Then this song came along right at that moment and changed everything. Woke me up… People talkin’ And they’re saying that you’re leavin’ So unhappy With the way that you’ve been livin’ Oh oh oh We always wish for money We always wish for fame We think we have the answers Some things ain’t ever gonna change (change) It doesn’t matter who you are It’s all the same (change) What’s in your heart will never change… I passed people on the sidewalks. Clubs and eateries. Bars and stores. Homes above the Strip, leading into the canyons. Cruisin’ down Sunset right then was like I’d returned to another life or somethin’. Like I was someone else. I swear that’s what it felt like. That’s why I’ve had so much déjà vu. It’s the only thing that

386

the matt zander journals

makes sense. I must’ve lived here in another life. I musta been a somebody here. “…you’re listening to KBBL 98.4 FM, that was an oldie from John Waite with Change. Don’t forget this weekend starts off the 26th annual countdown here at KBBL where we’ll be giving away tickets to—” Click. Turned the radio off. Those words kept floating round my head, like little birds when a character gets hit over the head with a mallet in those old cartoons. I didn’t think it was just a coincidence. Almost like those lyrics were meant for me, to hear at that very moment in time. I thought maybe I needed to find this John Waite guy? Find him and tell him who I am. Tell him I’m in the biz. Maybe he has some kinda connection to all’a this… I reached Beverly Hills city limits where the old, grey, clunky concrete road of Sunset turned into a smooth asphalt ride you feel you’re floating on. I spun the car round and did a U-turn, and headed back over the same section of Sunset I’d been cruising down. Screw the ‘no cruising’ sign. I saw a huge Tower Records sign on Sunset as I drove back to the motel. I decided to pull in. I recognized the yellow background and red ‘Tower’ lettering from the store on Queen & Yonge, back home. Well, the one that used to be there. Not sure what happened to ‘em. Anyway, I wanted to see if they had any of this John Waite guy’s CDs. A voice inside my head told me to pull into the parking lot. Not a voice like, ‘Kill them all! Kill them all, now!’ … just a voice saying pull over. So I turned into Tower Records. A parking attendant guided me into a space like a guy at an airport gate. Come to think of it, valet guys were everywhere on Sunset. Parking at night was a big Hollywood production in this place. All the bars and clubs had Hispanic valet guys standing out on the curb, waiting for guests to pull up. Eventually, I got outta my car and walked up the small ramp to the Tower Records doors. The store inside was huge. CDs and DVDs wall-to-wall. Aisles like a supermarket. I browsed my way through categories … Jazz, Rap … Rock. Rock/Pop.

387

gar y de nne

Q … Queen … R … Red Hot Chili Peppers … S … … T … U … U2 … V … W … Waits, Tom … Waite, John. That was the guy. John Waite. I took one of his CDs and headed toward the counter. A goth/punk girl was talking to her co-worker, just as punk’d up as she was, only a dude. “Hey,” I said quickly, as she turned from him to look at me. “Hi. I was wondering … do you know this guy?” I handed her the CD. She looked at it for a split second, then flipped it over. “Dan, do you know this?” she asked her co-worker, who was a guy in his latethirties, goatee beard and a few dozen piercings here and there. He looked at me and said, “He was lead singer of The Babys. Had some solo stuff and that eighties ballad band—I forget what they were called.” “Do you know if he lives in L.A.?” “If he lives here?” the guy repeated back to me, surprised by the question. The girl looked at me like I was the king of freaks. She should look in the mirror more often. “I dunno … like I said man, he’s from the ‘80s.” The guy handed the CD back to me as though he wanted me to fuck off. I took it back to the section and stuffed it under M. I left Tower. I had this amazing aura-type sensation when I was driving on Sunset tonight. The more I think about it, the more I think I mighta lived above Sunset, up there in the hills. Had a home there, overlooking it. I used to grab coffee from my wife, kiss her on the cheek goodbye, then drive down towards the 101 and through to Burbank via Barham Blvd, to the studios. I think that was a past life of mine. But how many lives ago was this? Was it my last life or several lifetimes ago? Who was I? If you wanna be a screenwriter in this town, you gotta develop a good imagination. Like … if I sit here silently and listen closely, I can imagine exactly how it was: -

388

the matt zander journals

Laurel Canyon Blvd has its own dry cleaner up there. A dry cleaner. Right there in the hills, with all the houses. Imagine getting up on a Sunday, having coffee, checking the trades, voicemail from the studio execs, before taking laundry down the canyon to the dry cleaner, tucked away in the hills. God … imagine how good that life would be to live. What should I do about this déjà vu, for crissakes? What should I take from those words to that song? I’m starting to get real fuckin’ mad about all’a this. You know something else I just realized—anger doesn’t translate to a page of scribbled handwriting. Or maybe I’m just not a good enough writer to express how fuckin’ angry I am right now. I should’ve been out there tonight, in the clubs, mixing with players, hitting on actresses and talkin’ shop with studio execs. That shoulda been my life. Not this. Not this fuckin’ dingy motel room. What if I pick up one of these motel chairs and smash it against the wall? What if I pickup this ice bucket and throw it at the mirror? What if I smash the lamp through the fuckin’ TV? Just a sec...

389

Day 11, 7:05 AM: News. Traffic. Weather. Sports. That’s the order on the local networks here. Traffic’s second only to actual news. Traffic’s part of people’s lives here. Every single time they step out their door and turn that key. I slept last night. But I feel so tired right now, I should’ve just stayed out on the Strip. Maybe I don’t need sleep anymore. The buzz has gone again. Today is just like yesterday. The sun’s come up (behind grey clouds). The traffic’s jammed. Accident spots are flashing all over the L.A. area on my (now cracked) TV screen. Guess I got frustrated last night. Other minor frustrations include… Broken lamp. Cracked mirror. Smashed up chair. So sue me. It’s starting to rain out there. Rather than breathing smog in today, I think it’s gonna be seeping into my skin. Can’t wait to have smog rained down on me. About last night: - I realize the last few days I’ve worked my way toward the extreme end of frustration. I kinda knew it was coming. I could feel it building inside. I’m just damn frustrated about being disconnected. Being an outsider. I’m angry as hell about that. I’m so cynical of people now. Of society. Of life. I know I shouldn’t feel like this. But I do. Smashing stuff didn’t help. I don’t know how much more I can take. This waiting. This meaninglessness (sp?). I have no reason to talk to anyone, meet anyone or do anything. People are so unapproachable here. Everyone’s in cars, alone. Stuck in traffic. On cell phones. Drinking coffee. Wearing sunglasses. Sun comes up. Sun goes down. Nothing in between. 390

the matt zander journals

Where’d my life go in all’a this? I think I’m gonna stop going by the name Matt. From now on, I’m gonna be ‘nobody’. Starbucks, 8367 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood. 11:00 AM: Sitting at Starbucks. On the Strip. Cars are constantly going past, flowing around the bends and turns from Hollywood. It’s stopped raining. I’m soaking up the sun and the scene, as I cradle a Grande Frappuccino. Haven’t seen any celebrities yet. I’ve been driving the streets all morning—Santa Monica Blvd, Melrose Ave, Beverly Drive, Rodeo, then back up to Sunset. In circles. Pretty much like my life. Circles. Nothing’s changed since the day I got shot. Nothing’s changed. Well, no … I did change that day—I acknowledge that—but, I just … I dunno what I’m trying to say here. There’s nothing in my life I’m excited about. Nothing now, or in the future. I got nothin’. The showbiz idea? Stupid. Just plain dumb. Screw these Hollywood fuckers. The next life … whatever and wherever that is … now that I’m excited about. Yeah, I’ve forgotten the details—the visuals, the time I spent there and everything—but I can still recall the feeling. That’s the only thing that’s stayed with me—the feeling. It felt like I’d gotten out of prison after thirty years and I had a whole world waiting for me. Maybe that sounds kinda lame on paper, but I swear, that’s what it felt like. If I compare it to how I feel here, since I’ve come back … well, I can’t. I must be numb or something. Nothing means anything to me here. I walk round the streets and I see people laughing and smiling, going about their lives, living everyday things, but I feel so numb to that. Numb. Empty. Dead. Like I’m a walking frozen slab of ice. I’ve gone as far as I can with this life. And I’m tired. I need change. And I need another Frappuccino. On the fast track. I don’t know if I’m making sense? I’m all hyped up on coffee. Is there therapy for Starbucks? I don’t mean for coffee addiction, just for the stores.

391

gar y de nne

I’ve done more people-watching today. That’s what Starbucks is good for. Buy a coffee, sit down, then get as much value out of people-watching as you would 7Eleven at midnight. The clothes that people wear. Their t-shirt messages. The conversations they have with their friends about meaningless stuff. A tonne of people have come in and outta here, getting their coffee fix. Talking on their Klingon headsets or whatever they are, about deals, scripts, meetings, events, charity functions, the journey, dating, parties and backstabbing friends. They pretend they’re on the most intense, life or death calls, talking as loud as they can while they’re served. They don’t even acknowledge the cashier, they just put their hand out for the change. No interaction, they walk out with their coffee as though it was a perfectly normal transaction. Twenty minutes ago, a fake-tan brunette with sunglasses and cropped chestnut hair waltzed in like she was some ‘supreme being’ and ignored the cashier. She just pointed at coffee and a muffin, while talkin’ all friendly on her cell. See, there’s another scene for The Slasher script. He’d slash that bitch to pieces in a heartbeat. I never knew writing movies would be so easy? I mean, The Slasher’s practically writing itself, day-to-day. I’m gonna have a first draft all done in my head pretty soon. I have another coffee. The same girl made it for me. She smiled. But it was a retail smile. Not a real smile. I can tell the difference. It’s a big difference. I’m back sitting here at an outside table, minding my own business. That’s all I have to do today. A guy’s smoking at the table next to me. Yeah, smoking. I mean, just breathe in the fuckin’ air, man. That should give your lungs a killer workout. Skateboard dudes just skated past. Fuck. I just feel so disconnected. It’s frustrating as hell. As cars drive by on the Strip, they have their windows down and force you to swallow several seconds of rap/techno shit, loud enough like you’re at a concert, standing next to the speaker. One of ‘em, a black Rolls Royce that probably cost a lifetime of a Runnerman’s salary, had a bumper sticker: ‘He who dies with the most toys, wins.’ 392

the matt zander journals

Limousines have sailed on by, too. With windows so dark and blacked out, they make a black hole shit its pants. I wonder who they have inside ‘em? Some big A-list movie star, or some wannabe actress wanting to make it big, hiring a limo to drive around the Strip and create a buzz? Is Sunset crammed with traffic or what? I feel like I’m breathing in carbon monoxide from one of those oxygen bar counters, with a dash of oxygen just to take the edge off being dead. They could name it a suicide blend. There’s huge billboards all round here. They advertise the latest movies coming out, new cable series, perfumes, booze, whatever. You don’t notice them as much driving, but when you’ve got the time to actually look up, they’re friggin’ everywhere. Horns honk every few seconds. Cell phones … everywhere. God, I must be so uncool without one. I don’t even have sunglasses. Or a message on my t-shirt. Or an entourage. I feel so second class. A Western-style saloon’s next door. A restaurant/bar. People are sitting out there on the patio, up on the second level, having brunch or whatever the hell it is they have here. Could they really be making any more noise? YES, WE CAN ALL SEE YOU. YOU’RE ALL COOL, OKAY? Forgot to mention about the WiFi, too. Never heard of a wireless ‘hotspot’ before today, but apparently they’re all over the place and I’m sitting in one right now. ‘Net signals must be flyin’ through the air around me so everyone can ‘stay connected’ with each other. So while I sit here and breathe in smog, carbon fumes and cigarette smoke, I can also take comfort in knowing my brain tissue and testicles are being lightly fried. Brilliant. Sidebar: T-shirts L.A.’s gotta be the ‘t-shirt message’ capital of the world, I swear. Just being here an hour or so, I’ve seen a dozen people wearing ‘message’ t-shirts come in, get

393

gar y de nne

their coffee, and walk straight back out in a hurry. Simple transactions. But what’s with people and these t-shirts? One guy’s shirt read, ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.’ A girl came in with one that read, ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me, I don’t care. Bye.’ A fat girl walked by Starbucks on the sidewalk. Hers read, ‘U KNOW U WANT 2 B ME.’ Her bare, bloated midriff was hanging out from under her t-shirt like melted cheese. (I wanna be you? I don’t think so, sweetie). Then there were these three teenybopper girls. ‘Britney’ or ‘Lindsay’ types or whoever the hell they get wet over these days. Tourists. Had to be. Family vacation. Parents let ‘em out on Sunset on their own. There’s a hotel next door. Hyatt. It’s where tourists stay to be part of Tinseltown. So these girls … two of ‘em had those stupid FCUK t-shirts on. One read, ‘FCUK like a rabbit.’ Another guy walking with them (brother, boyfriend?) had a t-shirt which read, ‘Screw U.’ Then there was a woman just five minutes ago, came into Starbucks with sunglasses and wavy blonde hair that bounced as she walked (a whole bottle of conditioner). She had a t-shirt on that read, ‘Gold Digger … like a hooker, only smarter.’ There should be some kinda decency league walking the streets, kicking people’s asses wearing t-shirts like that. Give me a lead pipe, I’d join. I mean, why do people wear those things? To be seen as smart? A lead pipe’d make you smarter, sweetie. Maybe I’m outta touch with the world? Maybe wearin’ t-shirts like that is seen as being really fuckin’ clever? Jeez, I feel like an angry old man sittin’ here. Upset with how the world went and changed on him while he was away. If this is modern life, I guess I’m just not fitting in too well anymore. Growing up, I expected the world was gonna be in a pretty good place by the 21st century. Y’know … flying cars, robots, lasers, controllable weather. Everyone so enlightened. A utopian society. No one was gonna have to work. We were all gonna have robots doing the hard shit. I think I was about 11 when I

394

the matt zander journals

saw scientists on the TV tell us how fantastic the future was gonna be. Fuckin’ liars. I walk down the street at 33—I don’t see no utopia. No robots. No flying cars. No looking out for someone else. No friendly chitchat. No sense of community. No loyalty (Eric, James, Douglas). No honour. No morals. I see a dirty, concrete jungle, smog-riddled, car-dependent, dog-eat-dog cesspool of scum. People don’t appreciate life. Are you kiddin’ me? They take it for granted—don’t even think for one second how lucky they are to have a chance, and to be able to walk into Starbucks and order a hot beverage and snack food. Bet they don’t even remember what they did yesterday. Each day just washes away, one after the other. Last night, I thought about the near-death experience I say I had, and re-read the notes I wrote in hospital. I wish I had’ve been told how much longer I had left here. Or how long whatever I had to do would take. ‘Cos I don’t know if I could spend another fifty years like this. I could always fly back home and hope the plane crashed. I could jump off the Hollywood sign. That thing’s like a skyscraper up close. I think someone’s already done that, though. A star back in the ‘50s? Maybe I could just stand on a street corner all day. Carbon monoxide poisoning? Might take a while, though. I could take some of Michael’s Vicodin. Hollywood’s famous for overdoses. There’s only about six left, though. Is six of anything classified as an overdose? Just my luck to take some pills and wake up in hospital because one of the Econo Lodge Hispanic maids knew CPR. Jesus, what am I sayin’ here. I don’t wanna kill myself. I musta OD’d on coffee. And I can’t be all OD’d on caffeine if I’ve got this decision to make. All I really need is one good reason why I should stick with L.A. And all I really want is just one damn person to notice me here. Soon. If I don’t have either of those, then, like I said, I got a decision to make. ‘Cos hanging out in Hollywood doesn’t last forever. I am so rambling now. It’s the coffee. I’ve had too much. Maybe that can kill you? 7:45 PM: I’ve been lying here on the motel bed just thinking. 395

gar y de nne

Motel guests are out by the courtyard pool. I can see splashes every now and then, outside the window. I can hear a cocktail of ignorance/bliss. I’m just processing. Running through different scenarios in my mind. So many… But I think I’ve made a decision. I can finally sit back and exhale. Knowing what I’m gonna do is a big fuckin’ relief. I started to go crazy for a while there today. The thing is, I was just evaluating my life. How all’a this just seemed to ‘happen’. I think that’s half the problem with life—you sit down and plan what hockey games you’re gonna go to in a given season, but you don’t think about your life and who you wanna be at the end of it for more than five seconds. I know I never did. Anyways, I’m leavin’ tomorrow. No more analysis. Lock the bitch in. I’m tired. I feel like sleeping for a month. That final decision-making process at Starbucks was the end of what’s been days of self-analysis goin’ on inside my head. I haven’t been able to enjoy much of this place at all. When I was in St. Mikes, and had the idea of coming to L.A., I thought I’d fly down, see the beaches, Hollywood, the Californian girls and the showbiz glitz. Then I’d just walk into the sunset, the credits would roll to music, and it’d be the feel-good movie of the year. Guess I didn’t stop to think what the reality of actually being here was gonna be like, huh? Especially coming down here on my own. That was the toughest part. Without Michael, I probably would’ve never made it. 10:17 PM: I always feel different at night. Why is that? I feel stronger. More powerful. I don’t think anyone’d understand the journey I’ve had. People wouldn’t get how I’ve reached this point in my life. Sure, I’ve gotten glances and stares (Vegas was the worst), but big deal. It was my journey. No one else’s. There’s an 396

the matt zander journals

expiration date for a box of Mrs. Richard’s home-style muffins and there’s an expiration date for moments in time. They both have the same meaning. The muffins, you throw in the trash once they’ve reached their date. With life, you need to move on once you’ve reached the point where you don’t feel nuthin’ anymore. You’re not excited by anything. And you know when you know. It’s like when you eat a huge meal. How do you know you’re full? The feeling … y’know you’re full ‘cos you feel it. Same when you’re in love. No one can tell you you’re in love. You just know. I need change. I just know. I’ve done everything I wanted to do in L.A. If there’s anything else I’m s’posed to do here, it sure as hell isn’t showing itself in an obvious way. People wouldn’t understand, though. People are the worst. Why do we all have to be strangers here? Why isn’t L.A. friendly? I just wanna live in a place where there’s people I can call my friends. But when you’re in a city like L.A., and you go out cruising the Sunset Strip or down to Santa Monica, or see some movie star homes or a TV show taping … and all those places are meaningless and numb to you, it means … well, I actually don’t know what it means. I know part of me doesn’t wanna let go of this journal. I’m scared I’m gonna feel lost without it. It’s been my ‘Wilson’. But I can’t keep writing this crap forever. I have to let it go… Tomorrow, I think I’ll just switch off. Kick back, and enjoy my damn pink frosted donut. I can swim in the pool. Maybe talk to those Thelma & Louise girls? Go to Universal Studios? Y’know? Y’know what I mean? 1:13 AM: A helicopter’s been circling for the last half-hour. Just going round and round. Cops looking for a smooth criminal, no doubt. This isn’t exactly the safest of neighbourhoods. But no one seems to give a damn round here. The courtyard pool is still. Everyone’s gone to bed. There’s a soft, dull tapping on the bathroom windows. It’s raining. And I’m just lying here, pen in hand, thinking… About everything that happened… About where I’m headed… 397

gar y de nne

And what a crazy thing this life really is.

398

Day 12, 9:37 AM: Slept through. Woke up late. Crawled outta bed. Went to the motel lobby for breakfast. Tiny little space, it is. Grabbed a coffee and some pink frosted donuts. Smog’s still hanging round outside. Traffic’s still rushing past the motel. Right on schedule. I’m calm. But angry at the same time. I thought L.A. was gonna be more than this. I had this stupid fuckin’ fantasy that everything’d be perfect here. That I’d find a way to be the real me. With the life I was meant to have. Of course, I realize now, that idea only ever existed in my mind. I’ve been living so much of my life in my mind lately. People don’t know what it’s like to be on your own. To have everyone round you with someone else and be the only guy in the room without somebody to hang with. Just havin’ someone in the lobby back there acknowledge me would’ve been the best thing. Just a simple nod or glance. To say, ‘Hey, I know you’re there.’ But no one made eye contact with me. No one. This déjà vu I’ve had since arriving … I wish I knew what it all meant. But I’m through with all the analysing of myself. I can’t do it. I don’t have the strength. That was it last night. I’m done. Life is way too complicated for a guy like me to ever figure out. I have to let it go. I have to move on. I have to check outta here. 399

gar y de nne

12:41 PM: I’m parked on Vine @ Sunset. Retail complex. I’m outside a Borders bookstore (they don’t have Chapters here). Just spent two hours browsing screenwriting books that all promised me if I bought ‘em, I’d have a blockbuster script in 21 days. I bought a coffee from the Borders Café. Coffee really helps my mind. Helps me stay sharp. Helps my imagination. I have nothing else to do but kill some time and watch life go by around me. When you look around, Hollywood’s such a dump. There’s garbage everywhere. On the streets, on the sidewalk. Bums stretched out on the pavement. Leaning up against office walls. They look as though they’re all dead. Like they could be casualties of war. Whatever they did the night before, it must’ve been pretty damn good. I just watched a woman in her 40s walk past the car. A bleached blonde, holding a bottle of water (no cell phone). She looked spaced out. She looked whacked. Matted, birds-nest hair. She was talking to herself. And the talking got louder. And louder. She began screaming how she hated everyone. How everyone thought she was low-life junkie scum trash. She threw her water bottle at the Borders Café window and it sprayed water everywhere. She wasn’t happy. People ignored her on the street. I kept watching. No one dared make eye contact with this chick. I watched her walk to the Borders storefront. I watched her pull her pants down and squat. She began to urinate on the wall. No one looked. No one stopped her. No one did anything. She continued to shout violent obscenities at no one in particular. Maybe she wasn’t a fan of books. Maybe she just blew an audition. But you can’t say Hollywood’s not glamorous. Transvestite hookers. Rappers. Sleazebags. Weirdos. Lesbian vampires. Crazy people. Bums you have to step over to get into stores. I’ve seen all that here. C’mon … how can that not be glamorous? ***

400

the matt zander journals

Overheard conversation in Borders: Guy: So I said to him, like, ‘If you’re not who you said you were online, why the hell would I wanna get to know you now?’ Girl: Ohmigod, like, no way! You said that? Guy: Yeah … I told him to, like, back the fuck off. Girl: Wait … you were kidding when you said that, right? Ohmigoddddd. Guy: I told it straight to his face. Like, in a nice way though, okay? I mean, c’mon. I spent two weeks getting to know the guy ‘cos he said he knew someone who was friends with the casting director’s assistant for the new season of 24. I so wanted to audition for that show. Girl: Kiefer’s, like, totally hot. Guy: He’s total hotness, I know. Girl: Don’t you hate it when, like, people say they have contacts and everything and they, like, totally don’t? Guy: It’s the worst. *** Why do people have conversations so loud, anyone remotely close can hear every word they say? Everywhere I go, I’m exposed to other people’s conversations. I don’t ask to listen in. I don’t mean to listen in. I don’t wanna listen in. But these people … you can’t not listen in. They make you listen in. Force you to listen in. Every single micro detail of their insignificant life … they want people to listen in. They need people to listen in. Complete. Fucking. Posers. Once again, The Slasher script simply writes itself. Those two sales clerk/actorwannabes would be slashed without prejudice. Slashed up really good. There’d be blood spatter all over the Borders bookshelves. But even with that killer script idea, something that could be so good at the box office, I just don’t think I could ever work in this town. I’d be the loneliest guy in the world here. People’d think I was too complex to understand. And maybe they’d be right. 401

gar y de nne

A girl just walked by the car. A nice, normal girl this time. She was wearing a grey, babydoll t-shirt. As I turned round to check out her ass, I saw her t-shirt’s message: ‘Fuck you, Hollywood.’ Now that … is a t-shirt. I coulda’ got out the car and chased after her, but I haven’t had a conversation with anyone since … Michael. Only when I go buy dinner at Panda Express or get gas do I actually say anything to anyone at all. Can I talk? I’m sure people wanna ask me that. I’m living in my mind right now. That’s where I’m alive. On the outside, I’m a walking zombie. My lips may as well be sewn together. I have nothing to say to anyone here anymore. I’m too tired. I’m too bored. I’m so disconnected to this place. Coming back was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And I fucked it up. Whatever I came back for, I fucked it up. I know I have. Am I angry? Damn right, I’m fuckin’ angry. I have a lot of anger inside. A lot. I’m disappointed with myself. I know I had the potential to do anything I wanted to do. Anything. I know I could’ve written a script. I have a tonne of ideas in this head. I know I could’ve been in showbiz. I know I could’ve been good. 4:02 PM: Just went to Pavilions. It’s all I look forward to now. Hearing the scanners beep. Listening to the cashier girls talk to one another as I pass through the checkouts… ‘What’s the code for this?’ they ask one another across checkout lanes. ‘What button do I need to press for checking account?’ ‘Do you have change, Maria?’ ‘What time are you finishing tonight?’ I used to hear those kinda lines all the time back home. I miss that. Sonofabitch, I do. 402

the matt zander journals

Watching stuff like the produce guys putting out fresh fruit—cutting it up, prepping it on their cart—reminds me how good I had it. Of Eric and James. Of how life used to be. Really. I took it all for granted. I had the perfect life before all’a this. Seems such a long time ago, Runnerman’s. It’s been days, but each day feels like I’ve lived a year. I know it sounds stupid. But it’s like I’m living some kinda different time zone. A different life to everyone else. I would love to get that old life back. How it was in Toronto. That would be cool. Maybe. At Pavilions, I bought a pack of Tylenol. (beep) I bought a six-pack of beer. (beep) The supermarket beeps … they’re the same beep repeated over and over and over. The lighting down the lanes. Noises all around. People bumping into people, knocking things over, squeezing food until it’s ruined, reading product labels. Who goes to a supermarket to read a product label before they put it in their cart? Is that what life is? WTF? Stop the fuckin’ world. “$9.72,” the cashier told me. I smiled at her, said nothing. I swiped my credit card through the reader, pressed ‘CREDIT’ on the keypad and spent that awkward few seconds waiting for it to beep back at me. My eyes connected with her for a brief moment. I could tell she was intimidated. I must’ve looked goddamn awful. Unshaven. Messed up hair. Washed out eyes. A kinda Hollyweird monster. (beep) She said to me, “It’s come back rejected, sir? Your card.” I didn’t hear her at first. I was gazing up at the ceiling fluros. Letting my vision go white. Supermarket fluros, burning my retinas. If I zoomed out on that scene in Pavilions, I was just one guy at one checkout in one store in the whole of Hollywood. “Sir?” Michael always knew how this trip was gonna end. He just never told me. 403

gar y de nne

“Sir? Excuse me?” It took a few days, but I realize it now… Shit. Happens. “Sir? Hello?” The cashier girl tapped me on the arm. I snapped outta it and came back to life. I scrunched my eyes a few times and they slowly refocused again. “Lemme try again,” I said in slo-motion. I swiped my card through. Pressed the ‘CREDIT’ button a little harder this time. Maybe I hadn’t pressed it hard enough the first time. I waited. The cashier waited. The people behind me waited. We all waited. The terminal display lit up, ‘ERROR’. (beep) The cashier said, “There’s probably something wrong with the strip. Do you have another card you can use?” “Can I try it one more time?” I asked her. She was cute. She was really cute. She didn’t stop me. So I swiped it through again. ‘CREDIT’. ‘ERROR’. (beep) “These things have a mind of their own sometimes—you don’t know the half of it,” she said with a nervous smile. My card wasn’t broken. I’m sure the magnetic strip was working just fine. I reached into my jean pocket and clawed around for cash. I wasn’t sure how much I had left, but I knew it wasn’t much. I found a crumpled-up bill. Grabbed it and pulled it out. It was a twenty. That was all I had. For a minute, I thought I really was gonna have to jump off the Hollywood sign after all. The people behind me at the checkout … man, did they wanna kill me. On the way out, I stopped at the Panda Express counter. I had a question I wanted to ask. Chefs were busy shaking woks and crashing cooking utensils around the kitchen, cooking up several batches of Chinese food simultaneously. “Excuse me,” I said.

404

the matt zander journals

One of the Chinese guys turned around. He thought I was gonna order. He wiped his hands on his apron and stepped up to the counter. “Hi. What you like?” he asked politely. “No, it’s ok—I don’t wanna order … I just wanna tell you … your fortune cookies … they’re all the same,” I said, smiling as though I deserved the ‘Good Samaritan of the Takeout Industry’ award or somethin’. The Chinese guy had a blank look on his face. “Your cookies, fortune cookies … they have the same fortune in them. All of them,” I repeated. He looked down to the counter at the basket of single fortune cookies they grabbed from when filling your order. “You want cookies?” he asked in a confused tone of voice. “No, I don’t wanna order. I was just saying, that’s all. These,” I said, pointing my finger to the cookies in the basket. Light bulb on the guy’s face. Finally. “Ahhh, cookie! Manny diffra fortune! Cookie all mixed up,” he said, nodding his head, assuring me. “What you like to order?” I waved and made a graceful exit. That was the longest conversation I’ve had in L.A. I walked back out Pavilion’s doors, to the parking lot. Traffic was flying by. Sunshine was pouring down. Smog was in the air. Birds were coughing up their tiny lungs. Squirrels were having a meeting in a tree, figuring how they were gonna get outta this shithole and move to Manhattan. I realize I’ve become antisocial. There’s been places I could’ve talked and opened my mouth—the celeb homes tour, the supermarket checkout, Border’s book clerks, the Thelma & Louise girls… I had my chances. I can’t say I didn’t have any chances. Maybe I should’ve forced myself to say something? But it feels fake to me. Like a fraud. To talk when you don’t want to. To interact with someone you’re never gonna see ever again about the unusually warm weather. It’s just meaningless. I just talk to myself now. When I talk to myself, I have a lot to say. But I don’t have anything else to say to anyone here. Especially now I know the ending.

405

gar y de nne

I have $14 left. I feel like a meal. A diner dinner. Something hearty. I’m so tired of Panda Express. And those fortune cookies, they’ve freaked me now. I should buy a box of ‘em to see what ones I get. Whatever. I read the Tylenol label in Pavilions. (Ok, so fuckin’ sue me—yes, I read a label in a supermarket.) I had to make sure they had an overdose warning on ‘em. Store cameras were probably watching me from above. Probably thought I was gonna stuff ‘em in my pants like the senior citizens at Runnerman’s. I’m looking at the bottle again now. Says taking more than the recommended amount can cause liver damage. Says if you overdose you have to get critical medical attention or else you’re gonna be screwed. Says it’s not a good idea to mix with alcohol. I’m gonna open the pack. There’s 24 tablets. I’ve gotta line up arrows on the lid to open this damn bottle. Shit. First, they come in a sealed box. Then there’s a plastic wrap around the cap. Then a plastic safety seal lid and finally, cotton wool jammed down the bottle. They really need a few more safety measures. Not quite enough there. The cotton wool’s stuck. Got it. These are caplets. 500 mg each. Acetaminophen. 24 caplets will be 12 grams.

406

Dennys, 4674 Sunset Blvd, 5:12 PM: Do people think someone eating alone in a diner is: a) a loser, or b) comfortable enough to not have to fill their space with other people to be able to validate what they’re doing? I’m having a heart attack kinda meal. Fried chicken, fries, French toast (fried) and a three-cheese omelette with extra-crispy bacon strips. I have this huge grin on my face right now. I’m shoving fries and chicken into my mouth, eating like I’m some kinda prehistoric, starving caveman. Fucking. Marvellous. This Denny’s has a row of booths looking out to Sunset Blvd. I feel like I’m at the theatre in front-row seating. Kind of an L-shaped Denny’s, this is. Part of a stripmall complex. There’s red carpet. Green shades on lights hanging down from the ceiling. Artificial plants that get dusted, not watered. And blonde actresses/waitresses walking round with coffee permanently welded to one hand. I’m getting polite stares from diners at other tables. The kinda stares that people try to disguise by glancing all around them, but don’t make it half-obvious it’s you they’re looking at. Even the waitress gave me a look when she asked if it was only a table for one—as though you’re labelled different to everyone else if you come in here on your own to eat. 407

gar y de nne

Society’s so fucked up like that, huh? Man, is this French toast good, though. Disconnection has to be the most soul-destroying feeling in the universe. Not one person in this diner—especially the ones givin’ me glances—has any idea what it’s like to be disconnected. I can tell just by looking at all’a them. They’re all just going about their lives, talking about their day to one another—‘have you seen this, have you seen that? Have you done this, have you done that?’ They need a wake-up call. Just like mine. The whole world does. I’m getting more glances. There they go again. They think they’re better than me. They think to themselves how awful it would be to be me, a guy eating alone, just wanting to eat and get outta here, the pain of being alone in a diner, so unbearable. That’s what they think. I bet it is. Hey, you fat-ass people over there, sitting at the table. Tourists. Fucking celebrity worshippers. Giving me glances like I’m makin’ your dining experience uncomfortable. You wanna chicken drumstick shoved down your throat? Huh? You wanna lead pipe wrapped around your head? You want your face slammed down in your plate of pasta? You wanna be slashed to pieces? I should walk over and do it. I should. It’s funny … as I sit here in this booth, up against the window looking out to Sunset, I’m finally feeling okay with how things turned out. I still don’t know why it was me … I mean, it should’ve been Douglas sitting here. But, I’m kinda glad it isn’t. ‘Cos I would never have got to experience all’a this. It saved me from sleepwalking through life. I don’t for a second regret being the guy that got shot. I’m glad it was me.

408

the matt zander journals

The sun’s starting to drop down to the Hollywood Hills, ready to sink behind. The traffic’s still flowing out on Sunset. Nothing outside’s happening, though. Nothing worth noting. Well, except for cops screaming past, shady characters planning god knows what, and a bullet hole I just noticed in the window where I’m sitting. But all that’s normal for a place like this. The sun’s kinda my signal, I guess. The final little bit of pleasure before I drive back to Econo Lodge is being able to just sit here, by myself, finishing this. Oh, and having coffee. Not Starbucks… diner coffee. The best coffee. Okay, so I like kawwwfee. So sue me. I’m gonna give the rest of my money to the waitress. She’s an actress. Has to be. I can tell. Okay, so I don’t know for sure, but the odds are pretty damn good. I mean, she never took down my order, she just remembered it off the top of her head. Probably a good memory from countless number of auditions, remembering lines over and over. She’ll be needing as many tips as she can get, though, going by her voice (too whiney). There it is… Ten bucks for the meal. And two fistfuls of change from my pockets. I’m sure there’s another few bucks in change on the counter. That oughta make or break her. I’m finishing the last remaining drops of coffee. Gotta leave before ‘whiney actress’ comes back with a refill and sees this pile of change as her tip. So I officially have no money. And I feel fine about it. I feel fine about everything. It’s amazing how the mind adapts to a situation. Maybe it’s all this fried food, giving me a sense of euphoria? I’m in Hollywood. I just realized that. I made it. I really, really made it. Funny, I know. ‘Cos I’m just another guy, sitting alone in a Hollywood diner. Like I don’t even exist. But I couldn’t be more alive right now if I tried.

409

Econo Lodge Motel, Vine Street, Hollywood… 5:37 PM: Just took off all my clothes. Naked. Stitches are still there. Gunshot scar healing. This beer really hits the spot after a diner meal. But it’s hard taking so many pills in a row. I forgot I had the Vicodin and Xanax to mix in, too. Traffic report’s on TV. Little red dots flashing everywhere on the screen. The red dots are the accidents. The crack on the screen from the lamp looks like a quake fault line. Flick. OFF. I just wanna sit here in silence for a while. To try n’ understand everything I went through on this trip. I think I get it now. 5:52 PM: I’m filling the bathtub with water. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t angry. Anger at myself. Anger at the world. At people wearing sunglasses that just ignore you. At the way life is. All I wanted was someone to acknowledge me. Who I was. And it never happened. This’ll be my last journal entry. I can’t write anymore. I’m too tired of all’a this to write anymore. The sun’s on its way below the hills. I can tell ‘cos the sunlight’s fading from the bathroom. I’m gonna put this notebook down on the bedside table now and turn 410

the matt zander journals

the bath taps off, so the water doesn’t overflow and the Indian owner-dude comes running in, swearing in a language I don’t understand. The Hispanic housemaids will find all these pages of scribbled handwriting in this notebook and probably just bin ‘em in the dumpster out back. Another piece of junk left behind by a loco guest. They sure as hell won’t be reading the mess that is my handwriting so easily. This notebook coulda been some studio’s highest-grossing film of all time. I know it could’ve. Guess no one’ll ever know now. But I don’t care, anymore. I’ve let go of all that. Me as a writer … I musta been outta my fuckin’ mind. So… How do I end this then? Should I have some kind of signature line? A phrase … something cool to say as famous last words? L.A.’s been a good chapter of my life. Even though I didn’t know exactly what I was meant to be doing out here, I know I’m gonna look back on this and smile someday… I’m gonna ease myself into the bathtub and sink my body into the water. Rest my head back. Put my arms on the sides of the tub. And just lie there, listening to the traffic go by until the sound fades away. And my eyes get heavy. And the light begins to appear. And starts to blend with the flashes of car headlights whizzing by, as the fading sunlight reflects onto the bathroom’s frosted glass. The white light will expand out. Then I’ll leave my body. And float above the bathroom. Up. I’ll turn around and look down on my naked body, motionless in the tub. I’ll float at the ceiling for a bit. Then out the room. Out the motel. If I can, I’ll take one last cruise down Sunset Blvd. Then head up to the Hollywood Hills. Above Los Angeles. Above the Pacific Ocean… Then the tunnel will appear. So sue me.

411