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Luke O'Grady

Smashwords Edition

978-1-927032-64-0

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

O'Grady, Luke, author

Normal / by Luke O'Grady. -- 1st edition.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-927032-63-3 (paperback).--

ISBN 978-1-927032-64-0 (html).--

ISBN 978-1-927032-65-7 (pdf)

I. Title.

PS8629.G733N67 2016 C813'.6 C2016-907161-8

C2016-907162-6

c. 80,0000 words

Bookman 10/12 serif

Herculanum sans serif

Petra Books | petrabooks.ca

Design, publishing: Peter Geldart

Editing: Danielle Aubrey

This is a work of fiction and all names of people are imaginary.

Front cover:

Isezakicho street view, Yokohama.

watercolour and pen.

by Kumi Matsukawa, 2016

cover: Isezakicho street view, Yokohama. watercolour and pen, by Kumi Matsukawa June 26, 2016

For a while I just sat there looking around. It was peaceful...playful city lights blotted out nearly all the stars. This reminded me I was a long way from home where hundreds of stars could be seen… only an hour away by train, but an eternity away in many other ways.

Acknowledgements

I thank friends, family and fate for giving me the experiences and inspiration to write this novel. I would in particular like to thank my son Nathan, sister Kim and friends Andrew and Chris for their encouragement and for reading the manuscript and giving me suggestions for improvement. I would also thank my editors at Petra Books for their excellent advice, patience, and support.

Dedication

I dedicate the book to Nathan for his consistent support to me through the good, and difficult times.

— Luke O'Grady

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1 Where I Am Now and Where I Was Then

Chapter 2 Ottawa

Chapter 3 Friend?

Chapter 4 The People

Chapter 5 Refuge

Chapter 6 Self Exile

Chapter 7 Loose Ends

Chapter 1

Where I Am Now

and Where I Was Then

1

A Day In The Life

Each morning between six and six-thirty an unidentified agent of The People for a Better World puts my list of daily tasks through the mail slot at the bottom of the stairs. There is usually a map included to offer quick and easy tips to get to the locations where the tasks take place. I have considered hiding outside, waiting, and spying on them as they deliver the list, but I cannot see what that would accomplish and I expect The People would frown upon it.

They would certainly frown upon what I am about to do, copy a list of my daily tasks and show it to you, the reader. The list is to be destroyed upon completion. To release details of our actions apparently puts us at risk from our competitors. I use the word our because although I am struggling with the concept I am presently a member of The People for a Better World.

Today’s Tasks

08:20---Pick one healthy looking tulip, preferably, but not necessarily red, from the garden at 134 Front Street. Walk at a normal pace to 157 Front Street and set the tulip on the front porch near the door. If there is someone nearby to observe you at the time, walk once around the block and try once more to place the flower unseen. If you are still unable to complete the task undetected on the second try, simply leave the task unfinished and throw the flower into a trash container several blocks from Front Street.

09:35---You will find a cinder block near the Norman Street entrance to the pedestrian path beside the O-Train railway track. Carry the cinder block along the path to the pedestrian bridge leading over the tracks to Young Street. Set the cinder block down in the longer grass at the corner where the path meets the bridge. Walk immediately home when you are finished this task and do what you like inside until your next task.

11:45-12:45---Simply be within the large boundary of Brewer Park. Do not attract undue attention to yourself, but otherwise do as you wish for this time in the park. Strolling peacefully around the park, relaxing on one of the benches, or shooting a basketball on one of the courts are good examples of what you might do.

13:45---Enter the Microplay video game store on Bank Street and investigate the variety of video games for rent on the wall display for about twenty minutes. Spend the majority of that time looking at the Ratchet and Clank series for the Playstation and the Gears of War series for the Xbox. After about twenty minutes approach one of the counter clerks and ask if the new Gears of War game is available yet. If staff asks if they can help you before the twenty minutes are up reply with the same question. The answer will be no. Request to be phoned when it arrives so that you can purchase it. When asked give the name Gordon Thom (pronounced Tom). Give the following phone number...

When the previous task is finished, take the bus to the Rideau Mall to be there in time for your next task. Your destination at the Rideau Mall is The Bay. You will likely have time to grab a bite to eat on the way.

15:00---Enter and browse through The Bay department store for up to half an hour. Find a reasonably priced, practical item that will be useful for you at home and can be carried easily. Do not spend more than ten minutes finding your item. After obtaining the item pretend to continue to shop for the remainder of the half hour. Your real objective during this time is to be on the lookout for an obviously balding man well over six feet tall. If you see him, nonchalantly intercept him and ask him the time. After his reply thank him and ask him jokingly if he has seen anything a grumpy old man might like for his birthday. Depending on his reply, continue and end the conversation in whatever way seems appropriate and friendly. Purchase your item with your employee credit card and walk home.

16:00-17:00---Data Entry. Data entry is a relatively mindless task that nonetheless requires concentration. It is dull work, but precise enough in nature that I will not do a proper job if I let my mind wander. It can be meditative if you are in the perfect mood for it, but otherwise it is pretty tedious. It also seems as meaningless and random as the more interactive daily tasks I have described. It is certainly difficult to imagine how my acts, data entry or otherwise, somehow make the world a better place.

Here is a quick description of data entry. I bring up the client’s file using the client identification number then double-check that I have entered the proper client identification number before data entry. Except for this identification number there is no other information on the computer screen except for the numbers and symbols I enter into two small fields beside the ID number.

Here is a small sample of today’s data entry.

4529317@ ~ * ~ 42

3173261 ~ $$ ~ 167

691 ~ * ~ 12

2242 ~ += ~ 27

71412 ~ "+ ~ 6

858919 ~ * ~ !4713

84163214 ~ ?? ~ 113

925413 ~ &% ~ 313

Over ninety percent of the time the second column is two symbols and the last column is one to three digits. The odd time it is outside of this norm I used to get a ridiculous thrill that I might be part of something special when I typed it into its space. I had to remind myself that it was still random gibberish to me no matter what symbols or numbers the area contained. I do not get this little tingle of excitement anymore. I have improved that much at least.

This is an example of a typical day of tasks for an entry-level member of The People for a Better World. Some days I may have a higher number of less time-consuming tasks. On occasion I may spend the entire day completing a single lengthy task or even the whole day doing data entry. The day-to-day details of my tasks may vary a lot, but in essence they are the same.

This rigmarole is enough to make me question my sanity at times; taking a bus five kilometres to put a hockey card under the windshield of a Buick station wagon, walking around a particular block at a particular time whistling a particular tune ready to give a particular reply if a person fitting a particular description asks a particular question. This nonsense makes up a very significant portion of my life.

As I have described, my daily list of tasks sometimes requires me to purchase something with an employee credit card specifically for that purpose. I also have a debit card linked to an account which I use for living expenses and to receive my pay from The People for a Better World. I have a separate account at a separate bank that I use for my personal savings. My intention is to keep my account separate and secret from The People, but it is easy to get paranoid sometimes and wonder if anything is secret from The People.

I should point out that my compensation from The People seems to be fair. My basic living costs are well covered, and depending upon my performance I may receive bonuses. I gave my information to The People so they could take care of my rent and utilities. I use the organization’s credit card for basic living expenses such as food. The bonuses for performance are the obscure part of the equation, but I get them quite regularly. It is the bonuses which help me build my separate savings.

My involvement with The People for a Better World is far from the beginning of my diary. However, since it is this situation that finally prompted me to get serious about editing and organizing my diary into a coherent work, I decided to start out with this chapter.

What is the true nature of these things I do? To what purpose and for whom? I am one of many who perform similar duties in the name of The People. Why do we have to be completely in the dark about the reasons for these strange tasks? I expect most of us were in the same lonely and desperate state when we joined The People, happy to belong to a common group serving a purportedly noble purpose. But what evidence is there that we work toward a better world?

Occasionally, when someone is bold enough to ask, our supervisors tell us our lack of knowledge make it easier for The People to keep a low profile and avoid the notice of our antagonists and our competitors in making the world a better place. Does that even make sense? Are our competitors called The People For a Nastier World?

I cannot stop asking myself these questions. It occurs to me that it makes more sense that secrecy might be the root of all evil.

At this point the goal of this diary is to organize my life story, keep it honest, and identify a path out of this mess. I suppose I am trying to write myself free.

2

Back to the Beginning: Brockville

I grew up in Brockville, a town with a population of about twenty thousand people. Brockville is a working class town where most of the money is old money and the bad parts of town are more dishevelled and grubby rather than truly bad. I guess the rest is in the middle or at least slightly less dishevelled. We lived in the dishevelled, grubby part of town.

Somehow or other the population seems to always hover at around twenty thousand. Most of Brockville’s children who finish high school seem to move on and only come back to visit, but I guess the rest stayed and expanded into little families to even things out. And occasionally a new factory would spring up providing a cluster of new, decent paying jobs which also helped to keep the population stable.

I wondered sometimes if they just could not be bothered to change the sign and reduce the number on the highway sign that read:

Brockville Home of the Thousand Islands

Population: 20,000

Then again, to be fair, Brockville did not seem to be getting any smaller. If anything, the city limits seem to gradually expand and the number of fast food restaurants has more than doubled over the last decade.

The family had already fallen apart when I decided to leave. It was only Dad and I before I left. Right up until the end I generally went to school, but at the time I do not think Dad knew, cared, or even thought about whether I went to school or not. He certainly never asked about it. The most common thing he said to me in those days was, I guess it’s just the men now, eh, boy?

Before I leave Brockville I will introduce you to my family.

3

Dad

Get up, kids! Come on, Mother!

It was so early on Sunday morning I guessed even the sun might still be drowsy. It had to be Sunday because Dad was up earlier than everyone else and was shouting for all of us to get up. It was a tradition that occurred roughly twice per year at random intervals. I wondered what Dad had done that had him feeling guilty enough that we all had to go to church. He could never go make amends with the Lord by himself. We all had to go.

My Dad was the youngest of eight children born to strict Catholic parents. I am not sure why there was such a gap between Dad and his next youngest sibling, five years. One sister and one brother still lived in Brockville, but the rest have moved away. I have met both the remaining siblings and I pass them now and then on the street. We say hi, but we do not get together anymore. Not even at Christmas. I do not think I have met any of the brothers or sisters who moved away. If I did meet them I was very young at the time. Dad’s Mom and Dad, my grandparents, are not alive anymore.

As for Mom’s parents, I have only heard her speak of her mother. As far as I know she is still alive, but lives far away in Nova Scotia. Mom talks to her on the phone once in a while. I have even talked to her on the phone a couple of times at Christmas. She is nice enough I guess, but she does not say much to keep a conversation going. Mom seems to do most of the talking as far as I can tell, but I have not overheard a phone call between them over the phone in quite a while. Mom has not mentioned her. Mom said I met her Mom, my grandma, when I was very young. Dad says that about his Mom too, but I do not remember either of them. Dad’s dad died before I was born.

Anyway, it seems the strict Catholic upbringing never completely left my father, but neither did it take root and become a part of his day-to-day life. It just flared up once in a while like a virus. Around two Sundays per year I presume guilt overwhelmed him and we would have to attend the earliest Sunday mass available. We could never simply not go. We had to scramble around to make sure we dug up at least a couple of coins for the collection plate and look as halfway respectable as we could. The event came infrequently enough and Dad was intense enough about it that nobody ever bothered to try and talk him out of the ordeal. We just went with it. I also do not think anybody had the nerve to try and argue we did not need salvation.

I’ll make breakfast, Dad yelled.

That generally meant toast and coffee for my parents and toast and milk for me. Sometimes we also had fried potatoes or tomato slices with salt and pepper. In retrospect, I admit I feel vague internal warmth when I remember those strange, rushed breakfasts. At least we were doing something together, heading in the same direction. Unfortunately, upon closer examination, this togetherness was just another symptom of our disease.

In keeping with Dad’s inconsistent religious obsession I was sent to a Catholic public school then afterward a non-denominational, public high school. I think I inherited his inconclusive faith. I too have never been able to altogether abandon nor embrace the concept of God.

A second memory of my father can also be a small introduction to Mom since she is present as well.

Sporadically, like his church moods, Dad would suddenly feel the need to teach me a useful skill. The teacher, the student, or both were flawed because it never ended up with me learning much of anything. The following example stands out best in my mind because it was the first time my parents clearly showed their disrespect for one another in front of me.

On this occasion Dad decided to teach me how to fix cars. I stood on a milk crate in the driveway beside him staring into the open hood of a dark green car we had recently acquired. He leaned in over the engine with a tool then reached down and moved his hands around in there. I heard clinks of metal on metal.

Get over here. he said, You’re not going to learn anything if you’re not looking at what I’m doing.

I leaned in a little further, closer to his hands. I could see his hands move, but not what was going on underneath his hands. My head felt like a carved Halloween pumpkin; empty, mute, and filled with only an imaginary awareness. I dreaded the inevitable moment when he would ask me a question about the insides of the car to see if I was paying attention. He said words like transmission, idle, carburetor, running smooth, tube, and line. If any of these words meant anything to me it was not in connection with automobiles. Many years later I still do not know shit about cars.

Following the script, it was not long before Dad started to become frustrated with the slow pace of my learning and the fact that the car still did not work. Not long after he started to get annoyed Mom appeared and confronted him.

Why are you doing this? she shouted, her arms perpendicular to her sides. For one thing, he’s too young to learn about cars. He should be playing with other kids, reading his books, using his imagination, having fun.

My Dad shook his head.

So typical.

He looked to the sky for strength before continuing.

Maybe you can also tell me who’s going to pay him to read and imagine so he can earn a living when he grows up. Christ, all he does is read anyway.

Mom laughed in a mean way and slapped herself on the forehead.

The nerve! Imagine you teaching someone how to earn a living. Christ have mercy.

That’s it, swear in front of the kid.

If he’s old enough to earn a living he’s old enough to hear swearing.

Are you done?

No, I’m not. I want you to answer one more question that has me a little confused. What makes you think you can teach anyone how to fix cars? Whenever we scrape up enough money for some piece of trash it breaks down within a month and not once have you even come close to fixing it. It’s just an excuse for you to be not doing the other things you should be doing. In the end I’ll end up pretty much having to shove a stick of dynamite up your ass just to get you to have it towed away to get the mess out of sight. Bye the way, we drove this heap for four and a half days. So far it’s been broken down in the driveway for seven days. Are you starting to see the pattern I’m seeing?

I may not be a licensed mechanic, but I’m mechanically minded. It might take me a while, but if you’d give me a chance I can figure out these things. Besides, we got this car basically for free.

Mom threw her hands out in front of her chest.

Give it up. Give me one shred of evidence in all the time we’ve been together that you’re mechanically minded. Just one. You can’t because you’re not and there isn’t one.

I’ve had just about enough of this.

Dad threw a wrench wrapped in an oily rag into the open hood of the car with a clank. He stomped down the driveway then along the sidewalk away from the house.

I hated the fighting, but I was glad the car-fixing lesson was over. It was more efficient. I learned the same amount of nothing in less time. I sat on the milk crate near the car and waited for Mom to go inside so she could calm down, but she came over to me instead.

Come on inside, Molloy. I’ll make you some soup. Sorry to fight like that in front of you. I just get so damn frustrated. Sorry for the swearing too.

I walked with her to the front door, but just before we went in she stopped and looked at me.

She said, It’s an awfully nice day. Maybe you should stay outside and play a while instead. Sometimes I think you spend too much time up in your room reading. Why don’t you play outside until you get hungry, then come in and I’ll feed you. I’ll have soup ready.

It was an unusually pleasant day. It was clear and blue with fairly green, healthy lawns all around when normally several brown patches were the norm. I don’t remember what I did exactly, but I stayed outside until I was really hungry.

4

Mom

Mom entered my room very late one night while I was asleep. She snuck in quietly and turned on the small bedside lamp I used to read in bed. I had had the lamp as long as I could remember. The lampshade had a decal of Piglet on it. Eeyore was on the base. I was much too old for the lamp, but I had gotton past that fact. Now I thought of it as I did everything else that was part of my very own room. It was my own, private and special. Around Piglet the lampshade used to be almost white, but now it was almost yellow with age and the accumulation of human interactions.

With the lamp coming on it awakened me, and Mom spoke. I could barely see her at first in the dark behind the bright light, but gradually my eyes adjusted. She whispered something.

Hi, honey. Can I talk to you? I know it’s late. I’m sorry.

Mom? What time is it?

Sorry, it’s late. It’s not time to get up.

I had to squint at her through my fingers until my eyes got adjusted to the light.

What is it, Mom?

She put her fingers to hers lips and quietly shushed me.

Can you keep a terrible secret, Molloy?

Despite me grogginess, the words terrible secret whispered by my mother in the middle of the night made the air feel electric and icy. Everything went kind of still and silent except for Mom. I just