It was your typical Annex event, and due to the inclement weather all of the attractions had been pushed inside the school. In the gym there were about five bouncy castles, and scattered throughout the rest of the buildings were face-painting stations, games, food and a book sale. It’s always so sweet being in a miniature place like that– children’s happy paintings stuck on the walls, little science experiments trying to grow on the window sill, tiny water fountains– all these things triggering simple, happy memories in those who pass by.
However, it was not all joy. As I was sorting through the books for sale I came across one of mine. A Van Full of Girls. I was astonished to find it because so few were sold, and almost all to friends, family and acquaintances. With mixed feelings I flipped through it, saw that I had actually signed if for Gemma, a dear friend, and decorated it with stickers, drawings and celebratory thoughts. As I was looking at this and thinking about what an asshole Gemma actually was, an icy voice spoke down to me.
“Oh, to come across your own book at a used book fair! How sad!”
It was, of course, Canadian literary legend Margaret Atwood, who lives in the same neighbourhood as we do and with whom I “enjoy” a “relationship.”
Me: Oh, it’s you. Kind of surprised you survived that winter.
Margaret: As Chekov said, “ ???? ?? ????????, ????????? ?? ??? ????? ??? ?????.”
Me: Never took you for a Star Trek fan. Thought you were way too pretentious for that.
Margaret: Of course you did, my poor thing.
Me: And do you have to wear a cape? Is it enshrined in the constitution or something, or are you just trying to distract people from your hair?
Margaret: Oh, look. I found another copy of your book.
Me: NO WAY!!
Margaret: It looks like Colin– to whom you had written a very wordy, messy and somewhat incoherent message on the title page– is no longer interested in having your book in his house.
Me: Colin is a dick.
Margaret: Of course he is, of course he is. And who do we have here?
Me: Jones, come here, stay away from the scary lady! She’s Vampiro!!
Jones: Do you know Bigfoot?
Margaret: I make hotdog and kale soup for him all the time! Oh, he’s a great chap!
Jones: I want hotdog soup with Bigfoot!!
Margaret: Well, one day I’ll have you and Bigfoot over and we will have some soup, okay?
Me: Jones, come here! Jones! Don’t be tricked by her! She’s a liar! She devours little boys!
Rachelle: Miss Atwood, I just want to say that it’s a real honour to meet you, and that we are all very, very grateful for the beautiful gifts you have given to the world.
Margaret: And so you are the long-suffering Rachelle? Oh my, how lovely you are! Such a refreshing contrast!
Me: I’m right here, you know.
Margaret: Yes, yes I do know.
It was one of those beautiful summer days, one of the days you wait for, and Jones, like all the children there, was having the time of his life. Running from one attraction to the next, he would fling himself into each discovery with greedy amazement. His joy in his body, and the interaction between it and this emerging world around him, was a visible, glowing thing.
Not far from us was a young boy in a wheelchair. He seemed conspicuously alone as he sat there looking through a mesh screen at all the other children playing inside the Bouncy Castle/Obstacle Course. He was probably around 10, and although he could move his head a little bit, he couldn’t move his arms or legs at all and speech seemed difficult. Sheltered from the sun by the shade cast from the nylon castle, he sat motionless and quiet while all the other children tumbled and spun and screamed.
The Bruno Mars song “Marry You” was playing, and even if you don’t know this song you probably know this song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xdyRsGOl6U
It was a hit about ten years ago, and is the sort of infectious, optimistic pop that’s nearly impossible to resist– a welcome trigger for your body and mood, an instinct to movement, really. It’s happy music and it would have been on every party mix made at the time– the song kids would hear in their heads whenever they thought about the person they had a crush on, the song that would surge through them into adventure and love.
And then there was this boy– a spectator, and it was unbearably sad. I went over and stood beside him, and there I saw his two companions, maybe brothers or friends, both lanky boys of 13 or so. They were rolling and leaping through the castle, and when they spilled-out the exit, all hair, shouts and over-sized feet, they immediately ran over and hugged the boy. Excitedly, they shared every detail.
He was so loved, and it seemed right then that there was no boundary between the three of them.
And then the they pushed him off to the next attraction, speeding him over the bumpy, uneven ground like it was some wild game they played, all of them smiling, all of them beautiful and happy beneath the day.
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This inhibits his writing, and in an effort to figure out young people and how they work, he recently fostered an 11 year-old Iraqi orphan named Naseefa for three months. Franzen insisted that Naseefa keep a journal, and what follows are excerpts from that journal.
Day 15:
It is morning and I had just woken from another nightmare full of the bombs and the screaming of the torn and dead. As I open my eyes I see Master Franzen staring down intently upon me. He has been watching me in my terror, he says. “Naseefa, what were you thinking as you slept?! Tell me!!” I say to him that I do not know how to put my thoughts into english words and Master grows frustrated. He hits at things in his apartment, saying bad words, and then he runs off and begins to type.
Day 18:
Today Master took me to Fantasy Forest amusement park. “Go,” he said, “act naturally.” Master then bought a hotdog, arguing briefly with the vendor about technology, and then sat on a bench with his notebook. I went on the Merry-Go-Round and as it was just starting up Master ran to me, “Little boy,” he yelled, “why did you choose this horse? It’s missing a hoof, does it remind you of the carnage of war? Does it summon memories of a family member having an amputation? Why not the lion, does it frighten you because it summons images of your abusive uncle having sex with your mother while your father worked?!”
I did not know what to say so I began to cry. Master Franzen scribbled in his notebook and then started to argue with the hotdog vendor about technology again.
Day 19:
Master seemed depressed today, spending hours in front of the mirror rearranging his hair.
Day 24:
Today Master forced me to open a Twitter account. He wanted to observe as I interacted with the outside world through the use of technology. However he keeps interfering, insisting that every hour I Tweet something about his new book Purity. Without saying a word, he hands me a little piece of paper with the words I must Tweet.
“Franzen is a giant who looms over the American landscape.”
“Purity is a complex and beautiful meditation on what it means to be alive.”
“We are blessed that not only is Franzen the greatest living writer in America, but that his best novels promise to be before him.”
“Just saw an interview with Jonathan Franzen! Not only is he brilliant, but sexy, too!”
Day 38:
Lasagna for dinner again. Master said that his fans worship him and make food for him all the time, and then he laughed a dry, mean laugh.
I am frightened in America.
Day 43:
Master returned to the apartment in a bad mood today, as his tennis lessons did not go well. “The backhand bedevils me!” he exclaimed, before throwing his racket at his transistor radio.
He stared at the broken pieces on the floor for a long time and then suddenly he spun around and shouted at me, “What are you thinking?!”
]]>As we were waiting, two people inside the exhibit started to pound desperately on the wall. The security guards manning the installation jumped into action and opened the door, and amidst a spill of balloons a guy and girl emerged, each one in a panic, shaking and pawing at themselves as if covered in worms.
Rachelle looked over at me, “You’re going to freak-out, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said quietly.
“It says right there on the wall that people with claustrophobia shouldn’t go in. You can’t see at all in there. It’s nothing but black balloons, and if you’re prone to anxiety, it might not be the best experience for you.”
“I’m not prone to anxiety,” I whispered.
“Pickle,” Rachelle answered, “you have sweat on your upper lip and your left eye is twitching, just like when you have a good hand in cards. Are you sure you want to go in?”
I went in, dissolving into the balloons.
The acoustics were muffled and you really couldn’t see anything but the latex exterior of the black balloons. Dislocating rather than threatening, it was still an uncomfortable feeling. I moved slowly about fanning the balloons away as best I could, but they immediately reconstituted around me as if trying to attach and feed–an assembly of jellyfish clustering. It was disorienting and as I inched along the perimeter the room became denser and hotter, the air feeling remote and less accessible. I had no idea how to get out or how large the room was and I was starting to feel a little anxious, and then I heard somebody softly crying. I thought it might be part of the exhibit, but I wasn’t sure.
“Is somebody crying?” I asked.
“I’m fine, “ a woman said, “sorry.”
I shuffled along the wall toward the voice, eventually coming into contact with somebody slumped to the floor.
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” she answered, “I’m okay, thanks. I’m not panicked or anything, just a little emotional. My mother died recently and whenever I was feeling lost, she was always there to help guide me, you know? It’s a silly thing, but this just brought her right back to me. I’m really fine and sorry for the little scene.”
And then I heard her get up and move off into the balloons.
