TERRARIUM by DÉLANI VALIN
MY MOTHER AND I SAT WAITING FOR DEATH by MICHAEL DENNIS
THE GREAT OUTDOORS by ALICE BURDICK
CLOUDS by NELSON BALL
SENTENCE by STEVE VENRIGHT
SONG by GARY BARWIN
THIRTY-ONE AWAKENINGS by JASON CAMLOT
FLOWERS by LANCE LA ROCQUE
DIRECTION by AYESHA CHATTERJEE
ONCE OR MANY TIMES MORE by JAIME FORSYTHE
BEWARE THE FAILURE OF IMAGINATION by ROB MCLENNAN
CONNIPTION SAUCE by STUART ROSS
THIS MUCH by ROBERT HOGG
TRUE by TERESE PIERRE
TRANSPLANT by MARGO LAPIERRE
1)
Gary Shilling and I started PageActive in 1988. We rented a space in a warehouse at Niagara and Tecumseth, The warehouse was more than 50% squats at the time. (Things were just starting to heat up in the T.O. real estate market.) I knew the guy who was the superintendent/ property agent, so we got a sweet deal.
We needed more room for PageActive and rented all the studios on our side of the hallway, then proceeded to knock down all the walls and make the space into what we wanted.
We rebuilt everything. We sanded and finished the floor, moved walls, put in a washroom. Then, near exhausted we started to paint. It came time to finish, and we lost it. We painted it all pale (baby) blue. Even we could see it looked like shite. So, we had the brilliant idea to fling white plastering mud. Everywhere.
A little set-up. We’d work all day, gather all the computers, furniture, etc. into a little homemade ziggurat, cover it with a drop cloth and renovate. Usually until about midnight. (We’d have a nice dinner along the way at the Amsterdam Brewery or somewhere like that.)
That night, we left everything covered, took the special mud, made to cover tape on wallboard, and we flung it everywhere. We were little fauns dancing in the forest. We left no surface untouched, including ceilings and floors. (Gary and I could get very silly sometimes.) I went home, on my bike, and by the time I got there, I knew we’d made a horrible mistake.
I spoke to my wife Deborah, and begged her to help us. Deb said she would come up with a painting plan, but it had to be fixed first. I admitted neither Gary nor I had any gas left in the tank to do that. Deb said, “Call Michael.” I’m going to say, in hindsight, Deb knew Mike better than me at that moment.
I called Mike, said we needed help. Mike said, I sleep on your couch, I’m fed, there’s Coke and beer in the fridge.
Mike came and while we worked, he erased our nightmare. He’d work, and we would do the business of design. Mike and I would go home at night, he’d look at me and say, “You couldn’t have made it worse if you tried, you know.”
I knew it. What could I, should I say? I always said one thing, “Thanks, Mike.”
It took Mike 3 weeks. (We did the damage in one night, remember that.)
Mike took it back to the point where it could all be re-painted. No one would ever know how moronic we had been.
Deb created a different colour and treatment for each wall. Ragging, sponging, wet brush; it was brilliant. We would have clients come in, and they would just stop. They’d take a moment to adjust. Which is the best thing you can hope for with a nascent design business. It was beautiful riotous colour, everywhere. Plus, we had these floor to ceiling windows that looked directly at the CN Tower and the downtown.
All because of Mike. (OK, not the windows.)
2)
This next one is a laugh, one that Mike loved. I long ago stopped looking for sympathy from Mike about this one. He loved it all the more if I brought it up as a point of debt between us.
First, it’s delightfully coincidental, in that, the location of this story, was/ is a couple of blocks away from where PageActive was. But this story happened before PageActive. BTW, the geographic location is King St. W and Bathurst.
At that time, it was during very early TIFF, (1981, 1982?) Jim Gerrard rented this space and created a bar (speakeasy) wherein to perform his plays, Bondage Plays for My Country.
Dennis Tourbin read there, hung out, and recommended they have Mike and me read. So, we were invited. To read sometime between 2-4 am, it depended. Which was OK, we both knew the drill, we’d read at speakeasies before. (At that time, I was reading with Riley and John Tench as well, and we’d include Mike if he wanted to be part of it. John Tench booked us into all kinds of rent parties, speakeasies, warehouse happenings, etc.)
That doesn’t really matter: the point is, to read in a speakeasy at 3 in the morning, you have to be damn sure of yourself. You gotta know your wing man. We knew each other and had no fear.
Now, some background: Mike had an operation to fix his ankles. His ankles were a mess from his years of athletics, Mike always had to be the best when he played a sport and his body was just a machine that sometimes broke and had to be repaired. Just the price of winning. They put plates on each side of his ankles, bolted them together, and if memory serves, they took some of his muscle and wrapped it around that. Whatever they did, Mike was in a wheelchair the night of the reading.
When we arrived, we were faced with a very large flight of stairs, no elevator. (The building had been a bank, old school Toronto bank. It had enough stairs for a cathedral.)
I went in and tried to persuade drunken people (we arrived around midnight) to come help me. No use.
I went back down outside. “Mike, no one’s going to help. I’m going to have to bump you up the stairs.”
“Ward, there is no fucking way you are bumping me up the stairs.” Perhaps Mike didn’t say “fucking”. I remember he was very emphatic.
I carried Mike, in his wheel chair, up those stairs. Something like a giant baby Yoda in Mandalorian, or maybe an aquarium that must not be spilled, except a lot heavier and crankier.
I got him in. We read, Mike very dramatically from his wheelchair. I think we read about 4 am. No one paid attention. We did our best. We finally reached that point, looked at each other and said, “Fuck this. Let’s go to the bar.”
We made enough friends that I had help getting Mike out. Speaking retrospectively, it was probably for the best.
It was the next day on the bus back to Peterborough I experienced hemorrhoids for the first time. I’d never had hemorrhoids before; I had no idea what was going on. (I could play this out, but … TMI. Suffice to say it was a very bumpy ride to Peterborough.)
Mike loved this story. He howled when I first told him, I’ll admit I was blaming him in a “you owe me” state. I never, once, got an iota of sympathy from my dear friend on this one. I will never forget carrying him as he complained, “Watch it Maxwell, you’re spilling my Coke!”
That may be a mildly poetically licensed reminiscence, the “spilling” part. but as God is my witness, he complained as I carried him, letting me know I wasn’t doing it very well.
3)
My younger son Arlen was diagnosed with leukemia. I called my family to let them know, was exhausted with the effort, having no idea of how much more would be required of me. I called Michael once I spoke with my brothers and sister. Mike was living in Ottawa.
“Ward, hang up, I’ll be right there.” That’s what Mike said once he heard the news.
I didn’t grasp what he meant, despite the painting episode.
Mike showed up on our apartment doorstep (we were in a fourplex) 6-8 hours later. I’ve always remembered it as 6 hours.
I was flabbergasted, uncertain whether I wanted Mike there. Everything was upside down. “What are you doing here?” I stammered.
“I’m here to help.”
“But, we don’t have a bedroom for you.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m going to take care of the boys, cook, shop, whatever you need.”
Mike was true to his word. He did everything needed.
Up until Arlen’s diagnosis, I’d leave early to go to PageActive and Deb would take care of the boys. Now, I hung around a bit to get things organized, but Mike was in charge. He took Jarret, our eldest son, to school, cleaned the apartment, and made sure there was beer (and Coke) in the fridge. I’d work at PageActive, have lunch with Arlen and Deb at Hospital for Sick Kids (HSC), back to work and then home for a dinner cooked by Mike.
Mike stayed with us for 3 weeks. Until we settled down a little, started to get a handle on our new life. I didn’t really see a lot of Mike during this time. I was either at work or at the hospital or in my bed.
I do remember Mike playing with both Jarret and Arlen. Once HSC felt Arlen was strong enough they had us out — beds are always in short supply in the oncology unit in HSC — so Mike was taking care of both of the boys whenever needed.
Jarret and I were talking about it a few days ago. I mentioned remembering Mike helping Arlen sort all the Lego blocks according to colour.
Jarret told me how, one day, there was a mouse in the apartment, and the boys decided to build a Lego trap for it. Jarret said Mike helped. I thought about it and remembered coming home to a mouse mansion — definitely not a trap — that had not managed to seduce the mouse into living in it. But I could see Mike’s hand in it. It was better organized than the boys were capable of and had lots of nice little touches. I have to admit I was jealous of Mike having fun with my little boys while I was at the office.
The boys fell in love with Mike during this time. He became one of the family.
I remember when Mike told us he was going back to Ottawa. If I was uncertain about what Mike could do when he arrived, whether Mike would be a help, we were both uncertain how we would manage without him once he went back to Ottawa. Panic-stricken might be a little strong, but not that strong. Mike had given us stability when everything slipped out from beneath us. And he brought a sense of calm. Which was even more valuable than the help. Everything Mike did showed us we could do it.
I have never forgotten that time, that gift Mike gave us, especially opening the door to find Mike on the doorstep. If ever there was a friend in need, Mike was that guy.
He has been published in CVii, Rampike Magazine, Poetry Toronto, Elvis Car and other ‘zines. He also wrote and performed satiric songs for CBC Radio, and performed in a dance piece by Miriam Adams at Harbourfront where he played the part of a sportscaster, which coincidentally, his father was.
