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1:20 p.m.
“ ... So then, disguised as Eminem, you left the store to find me.”
“That’s exactly what happened.”
We were sitting in Allison’s car. My neck was sore from craning it over the back seat to see if the new agents were following us and I found with great relief that they weren’t. Allison had wanted us to sit in her car. That made sense to me. She wanted to sit in the driver’s seat, to be in control, and after everything I’d put her through, I couldn’t blame her. She deserved to have some control over our life. She had trouble wedging herself behind the steering wheel—her stomach was bursting with child. Despite her obvious angst and weight gain, she was still beautiful to me.
Allison turned to look me in the eye. She was very brave, my Allison. “Do you know why I left you?”
I swallowed and spoke with difficulty. “Other than the obvious reasons?”
She nodded. She pulled a tissue out of its box and clenched it.
“You can’t take the lying anymore. My lateness. The constant moving.”
“Getting warmer.”
“Well, I don’t fool around, if that’s what you’re thinking. I never have. And I never ever plan to, either.”
“That’s reassuring, Donny.” She wasn’t being sarcastic.
A long pause, and oh, how I hated those.
“Okay, the constant moving, the Steven column, chasing pipe dreams. Never satisfied with anything for very long. Wanting to be something, somebody ... I don’t know. What is it, Allison? Please tell me.”
“I knew you weren’t perfect when I married you.”
“Okay, fine, I get that. So, what’s the reason you left me?”
“You haven’t married me yet.” She fought to control herself. “I want you to think about that.”
We’d been married ten years, and I don’t think my wife had said anything that heavy in all our time together. Her statement did me in. It washed into me like a mudslide. My heart seemed to have stopped and I was holding my breath. She was right, dammit. Allison was always right about everything important. I sagged back into the passenger’s seat and stared at the dash.
Her voice was faltering with suppressed sobs. “I need you to leave now, Donny.” She dabbed the tears in her eyes, but kept her face resolute.
Numbly, I opened the door and slid out of the car.
I bent down to see her face. “Can I call you?”
“Leave, Donny.” Her knuckles blanched as she gripped the steering wheel. She’d locked her gaze into a thousand miler. She’d thrown up a wall inside. Impenetrable.
Speechless with pain, I shut the car door. Allison started the car and sped out of the parking lot, not a smile, not a wave, nothing to assure me that this was only a small snag in our marital journey. Seeing her leave like that broke my heart. Allison, don’t leave, Allison, I love you, please don’t leave me!
I stumbled over to the faceless brick wall and slid down it to the sidewalk. From a distance, people could have mistaken me for some disenfranchised Punk, a surly adolescent, pissed off at the world. Not some messed-up adult writer who’d lied himself into a corner and didn’t have the strength of character to pull himself out.
Blackness had inked my heart. You haven’t married me yet. Allison’s words haunted me. She was right—I’d given her a ring and taken her along on the Donny Love roller coaster ride, the Donny Love one man show starring Donny Love and his faithful, uncomplaining assistant, Allison Love. She’d finally gotten sick of it. I couldn’t blame her.
For years, I’d dragged Allison from one dream to another. Fragments of conversations echoed inside his head. “Hey, Allison, let’s move to Wilno—the houses are dirt cheap there and we can both work part-time jobs and I can write or work on my music without having to work a day job. We’ll have plenty of free time. Who needs Toronto, baby?” “Sure, Donny, if that’s what you want.” “I can’t take the hillbillies here! Let’s blow this place off. I just got off the phone with the old bassist from Oliver Twist, Jerry Ellison. He’s working for Disney and said he’d find us a little apartment in L.A. until we find our feet. He knows tons of people in the biz and I’m sure he’ll find one of them to read my screenplay. Jerry’s had six of his screenplays optioned, and two have made it to the production table. On options alone, a guy can make a steady income.” “Okay, if that’s what you want, Donny, but I’m only giving it six months.” “I hate this place, these people are a bunch of back-stabbing phoneys. Let’s move back to Canada. Jerry’s an asshole; he’s changed since our days in the band. He’s totally out for himself. I don’t even know the guy anymore.” “But I really like my job at the bookstore. Where would we go, Donny?” “I’ve applied for a newspaper job with the Peterborough Examiner. Part-time entertainment writer.” “Peterborough? I don’t want to go there, Donny. Can’t you find something in Toronto? I really liked Toronto. And I could find a job I like there.” “Honey, we can’t afford to move back there. We’re too far in debt. But don’t worry—this next book I’m working on will be huge. I can feel it! It will even make Stephen King envious. This time it’s all the way, baby, you have my word on it.” “I guess ... ” “My parents are getting old, let’s move back to Hamilton. They’ll be needing my help soon.” “But how will you earn a living? How will I?” “I’ll drive a cab until I can get on with the paper.” “That could take years.” “Don’t be selfish, Allison. Your parents will need us, too, one day.” “And then what? We’ll move to Fergus and find part-time jobs? I don’t think you could handle Fergus, Donny. Mostly practical folks in Fergus, no room for wild-eyed dreamers ... ”
I considered stuffing my running shoe down my throat and choking myself to death. Or gnawing on my hand until I bled to death. Or perhaps hurling myself in front of a slow-moving car.
I knew what Allison had meant: I hadn’t committed to her, not fully, not with my entire heart. Something had held me back. It felt like fear.
My hands were trembling.
An errant section of newspaper blew up beside me and an image on the page caught my eye.
“Holy shit!” I rolled onto my side like an old rubby reaching for his upended bottle. I snatched up the paper. Inside the front page of the Entertainment Section was our full-page ad for Steven’s show at Irondale Collegiate. After all my plotting with Sharon, it hadn’t even occurred to me to actually look at the ads we’d planned. Now the enormity of it walloped me. An ad this size was usually for huge touring acts, like Aerosmith or The Who or The Rolling Stones—not Steven McCartney.
Sharon had found a graphic artist who’d done an amazing job; she had more connections in the biz than I realized. The ad was full-colour, and it made me think of the posters for Johnny Depp’s film remake of Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. The ad showed what might have been Steven, dressed as a wild conjurer, except that his head was bowed forward so that you could only see his black top hat. He wore an electric blue tailcoat and had crossed one leg in front of the other, a sharp pointy black leather toe positioned on a bed of lush grass. He wore white gloves and had folded one hand around the knob of a thin black cane; his other hand faced the sky palm-up; out of it, an array of Monopoly “Chance” cards floating, as if his palm had produced them. Crisp autumn leaves floated in a ring in the air around him.
From above, a fantastic blue sky radiated light against Steven. Atop the ad, a wild caption written in stylish black lettering: “The Steven McCartney Spectacular, the Greatest High School Reunion Ever!” At the bottom: “Tickets at all Cheapie Record Stores and Ticketmaster locations.”
I was in a state of shock. How the hell had I come to this place in my life? Somehow, an insane desperation had channelled itself through me and dislocated me from reality, making me mastermind this humongous lie. Maybe I was insane, after all. If Steven had seen this ad, or even knew about my intentions, he must surely hate me for it. Maybe he’d sue me, or even charge me with libel. I reminded myself that normal people change; they grow up, they become the people they were meant to become. They don’t live in the past, not like this. Most forget about the past; they don’t feel an obsessive need to sift through its many layers. And if they do, they soon realize that it’s unhealthy, and they find a way to leave the past behind, where it belongs.
I tucked the paper under my arm, stood up with as much dignity as I could muster, and navigated through the parking lot in search of my car. My thoughts pumped ugly stuff around my brain. I slid my cell phone out of my pocket and called 411. I found Tony’s brother, Sam, who was a lawyer, and called him. The only way to save the house after the Hollywood lawyers dragged me through the courts, or after the secret agents of Whatsis-stan kidnapped me and put a bullet in my head, would be to put our property in Allison’s name. Even if she filed for divorce, I’d do the right thing and offer her the house. Sam was busy when I called, so I left a message with his secretary.
Despite my powerful feelings of remorse, a strong pressure to escape my problems worked through me and I realized then and there that I needed my writing fix. I was no better than a crack addict craving another blast on the pipe. In the car, I cranked on the Sex Pistols’ Never Mind The Bullocks in the CD player, and sped out of the mall onto Sludge Road, shooting down all negative thoughts fighting for power in my mind, focussing only on the juicy lies that would pour out of my fingertips, through the computer keyboard, and find a home on the screen and, tomorrow, in North American newspapers.
But then what? I thought. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, then Doomsday. What would I write about then? The no-show? The ensuing riot? Would I be allowed to write in prison? Give me a blowjob or you don’t get your laptop back, writer-boy.
That thought slowed me down. A little.
