Sunday, June 21, 2009

Day 32: Redvers Fast Gas (Or: Ignore the Pretty Girls - It's Good For Them)

Two nights ago, Toby and I arrived in Redvers, Saskatchewan after covering 320 kilometres in two days - our biggest leap yet. Riding down the town’s main drag, we scoped out the storefronts, tacitly plotting what has become a pretty solid shopping routine: first the cafĂ©, followed by the ice cream store (who knew coffee went so well with two scoops? I sure didn’t. Thanks, Toby!) and finally, on days when we cover more than 120 kms, the beer vendor. We bought a six pack of Kokanee, settled into our campsite, and I put on my new sundress. My old one had been rendered useless by fluorescent green grass stains on the bum.
        By my second beer, I’d decided my loose, cotton tunic made me look pregnant (Toby agreed) and I took some scissors to it, fashioning a makeshift drawstring at the waist. The results were mediocre, but, relative to my appearance thirty minutes prior, I looked cute, and halfway through my third beer, I’d made up my mind: I was going to the bar. It was Friday night and surely - SURELY - there would be a handsome local Redvers fellow just waiting to pay me some well-deserved attention. Then I heard that voice - the voice of My Dear Friend - whispering in my ear. Again.
        The day after I broke up with Marco marked the first day of my two-month-long love affair with The Biltmore Cabaret - a choice hangout for Vancouver hipsters. Once in a while, I would stray from my beloved (in reality, I was a moth to any flatteringly lit venue teeming with well-dressed twenty-somethings) but mostly, if the sun had gone down, you could find me skulking The Biltmore’s crushed velvet corners. My friend Christer and I were single - together! And for the first time, ever! What fun there was to be had! I’d need more than two hands to count the number of April mornings I woke up on her couch to her murmuring: “Chels, we were on fire last night.” And I convinced myself she was right: we were on fire. I was on fire. I should be on fire. Off the market for five years? I deserved some innocent flirtation! So we would make plans to go out again that night. And the next night. The night after that, as well.
        And then My Dear Friend goes and tries to ruin all my fun. No, that’s not fair. She simply asked some well-meaning questions. We were on the telephone, playing this sado/masochist/narcissistic game of “What Don’t You Like About ME?” High on her list was that I partied too much. I, shockingly, got defensive, and reminded her that I’d just spent almost eleven months off the bottle, that I was still living with my ex-boyfriend, that my mother was sick, that I was unsure about my Masters program at UBC, that blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. In short, I needed a few good times to balance out the bad. “Okay,” she said, in her quiet, I-know-something-you-don’t voice. “…Okay.”
        We left it at that. I continued my navigation through the congested booths of The Biltmore, and she continued her silent observation. And it wasn’t until I was in Redvers, Saskatchewan, overcome with the need to throw my face around some mystery pub, that I reconsidered her question. “Why are you going out so much, Chels?” In Vancouver, the answer had been obvious. I was avoiding life. Duh. Is there ever any other reason for a good-natured binge? But in Redvers, I wasn’t avoiding life. At the moment, I loved my life. I had just knocked down 160 kilometres in less than five hours and I had a new dress - what’s to avoid? And I realized: her question wasn’t what was I running from, her question was what was I running to. At the end of my third beer, when the answer hit me, I literally blushed. The attention. From the men. Male attention. How embarrassing. How obvious.
        It’s like how after 9/11, the suffering sitcom Friends experienced a skyrocket in ratings. During scary times, times of the unknown, people fall back on what is safe, on what soothes. And let me tell you, the plush walls of The Biltmore provided a nice comfy cushion for this drunken stumbler. Up until now, I’ve done a good job pretending I don’t get off on attracting the interest of guys. I’ve gone so far as to pity/scorn girls who are so obviously addicted to this sad game of catch-me-if-you-can. Of course, there is nothing wrong with flirtation; quite the opposite: I think an energetic connection between two individuals is a perfect little microcosm of all that is right in the world. But it wasn’t connection I was looking for at The Biltmore. It was attention. If the men looked at me, chatted me up, and promised to add me on Facebook, I was elated and appeased. If they ignored me, I was dejected and fiendish, moseying from crowdlet to crowdlet, scouting out my next hit.
        I feel like one of those women who decides to let her natural hair colour fade in, only to discover she’s gone completely grey: I’ve been using attention to fill some inherent void I didn’t even know I had. Like any drug, the high produced is empty, meaningless - it doesn’t have any relevant connection to who I am as a person. The temporary rush is gone the next morning, as I lay on Christer’s couch, planning which of her outfits to wear to the bar that evening. I had to keep going back, going back, because something was missing. Something, I’d been sure two nights ago, I could find at the pub in Redvers.
        So, I didn’t go. Instead, I changed into my grass-stained sundress and walked to the gas station to buy a bag of Bits and Bites and a jug of water. There, a husky woman with a spiky grey mullet sat behind the counter doing a crossword puzzle. Somehow, our conversation strayed to the number of days in each month.
        “Did you know,” she said, excitedly, “that you can figure out which months have thirty-one days on your hands?!?” I didn’t want to let her down, so I shook my head. “I’ll show you!” She held up her fists and pointed at her pinkie knuckle. “See? January has thirty-one. Dip down into February - NOT thirty-one. Up to the next knuckle, March - thirty-one! Dip into April - thirty. Up to May - thirty-one!” And so on.
        “Wow,” I marvelled. “Good to know!”
        “AND-” she kept me there, “did you know you can do your nine times-tables with your hands too?” She held up her ten fingers. “Ask me any nine times-tables question. ANY.”
        “Okay…nine times six.”
        “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,” she counted, holding down the sixth finger - her right thumb. “What do you see?”
        “Five fingers up here, four fingers up there. Fifty-four!” I exclaimed.
        “That’s right. Ask me another!”
        “Okay. Nine times three.”
        This went on for a bit longer than I care to admit. By the end, the gas station had grown uncomfortably hot and stuffy, and I longed for fresh air. I let her return to her crossword.
        “Don’t forget,” she called after me, “all the clever things you can do with your hands!”
        “I certainly won’t!” I called back. At the campground, I crawled into my tent, ate my Bits and Bites and, shortly after, fell into a deep, satiated sleep. Who needs boys when there are friendly women out there eager to teach you such useful finger games?

6 comments:

  1. Oof! Delightful. I envy the time you've had for thinking and discovery. You make me want to run to something to, rather than bask in the safety of ambivalence. And your writing - the writing! It gets better with each post. You may have a book on your hands at the end of this after all, Miss Rooney. But it may not be the book you set out to write.

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  2. "Who needs boys when there are friendly women out there to teach you such useful finger games?"


    Ohhhhh myyy gggaaawwddd. I am dying here. So funny.

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  3. This is inspiring Chelsea. We really need to talk about some of these things.

    I hear your voice getting stronger.

    Krissy

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  5. now you're just messing with us!

    is it your intention to make some of us jealous and realize our own literary shortcomings??


    p.s. why do you keep having these imaginary friends?

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  6. miss rooney laid bare. chelsea, thank you for splashing this out for all, that desperate thirst for attention is always in me and always pointless, the one thing i reallly loathe about myself.

    but i don't loathe bits and bites, and they usually comprise about 36% of my body's mass.

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