Forbidden Pez part 3, continued

January 24, 2003

Forbidden Pez part 3, continued from Jan.6 & Jan.10

He was beginning to grow afraid of his euphoria. Foreign feelings eventually arouse suspicion. His general sense of levitation began to sink by centimetres each day. One day you notice that the low parts of St. Mark’s square are underwater and it reminds you that Venice is sinking. All this beauty taken by entropy and left to further dissolve under the depths. It will be harder to dig out when its forty fathoms down. Gradual movement is a prime element of deception. Back away slowly from the bear and maybe the dumb beast won’t notice?
He hadn’t left the apartment in three days and no matter how high you are this can bring on reflection. His endorphin levels would need to be recharged by some actual physical movement. His place was small enough that any rambunctious activity could produce a funk within minutes. This was also a byproduct of any basement suite. He had only two tiny “half windows” installed on the same side of the house above the bearing edge of the foundation. His vista was limited to the feet of the letter carrier seen shuffling down the overgrown paving stones of the side path that led to his front door in the back. First past one window and then seconds later past the other. The landlord’s cat stared in at him the odd time as if turning the tables at the zoo. He flashed to the time he had watched a robin cock its head listening for worms and then strike. Maybe ten times it pierced the lawn with its beak bringing up the dark purplish glistening prizes. The detail was incredible as it was only a foot or two from his window. It was raining heavily and the bird seemed to pause and puff out its breast feathers after every kill. Hammond thought that was so the water could wash away some of the muddy soil and make the squirming morsel a cleaner meal.
That was his name. Hammond. Hammond Brown. Not the birds name ... the character in this story. His father had one of those standard issue senses of humour that skirts bad taste and delivers a pun when you least want to hear one. Hammond loved hockey but cringed each time he heard the cyclical chords and rising modulations of the rink organist’s standard rallying piece. After a long day at the mill his dad would plunk down on the organ’s bench in his cedar and grease scented teal work clothes and the unwashed hands would come down on those chords. He claimed it marked the end of a work day and the charge into the home game. He’d often play just the one piece, just once and on his way to the shower point back at the organ and say to Hammond, “I named you after that thing because it brings a smile to my face everyday”. As Hammond entered his teens the post work concert continued but that comment became less frequent. By fifteen he stopped saying it altogether. He stared at the organ now dominating the opposite wall of his tiny space and thought that it should be the one thing he valued from the past. Instead he loathed it and had focused all his energies on something more tiny, fragile, and hard to come by.