The One Around the Corner Brian Davis A Thesis in The Department of English Presented in Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Arts in English at Concordia University Montreal, Quebec, Canada September 2011 © Brian Davis 2011 CONCORDIA UNIVERSITY School of Graduate Studies This is to certify that the thesis prepared By: Brian Davis Entitled: The One Around The Corner and submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts (English) complies with the regulations of the University and meets the accepted standards with respect to originality and quality. Signed by the final examining committee: ___Terence Byrnes______________________ Chair ___Josip Novakovich ____________________ Examiner ___Karis Shearer________________________ Examiner ___Mikhail Iossel _______________________ Supervisor Approved by Jill Didur Chair of Department or Graduate Program Director Brian Lewis Dean of Faculty November 28 2011 Date ABSTRACT The One Around the Corner Brian Davis The One Around the Corner chronicles 72 hours in the life of Corey Bonspiel, a young University dropout from Ontario living in Montreal in April 2008. Following the breakup of a two-year relationship with his aspiring-poet girlfriend, Corey comes to recognize that he has been living his life for others, that he doesn’t have a dream of his own or plans for the future, that the city he lives in has no place readily available for him, and it might be time to move. Set against a backdrop of a Montreal Canadiens playoff run and the subsequent post-series victory riot, the story addresses issues of being the “other” in your own country, of the “other” in Quebec, of the place of Anglos from the ‘rest of Canada’ within Montreal, the effect their annual influx has on the city as well as the effect the city has on them, as well as the effect its hockey team has on the city, focusing on themes of loss, of living and loving in our changing social-media-driven world, of growing up, of finding your place in the world, learning to accept harsh realties, learning when it’s time to let go, time to move on. iii. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! "#$!%&!'(")*!'+#!")),-!%)! ! ! "#$! ! !"#$%&'(&)'*+%*+,& & $%&'()*!+,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +! ! $%&'()*!-,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +.! ! ! $%&'()*!/,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! //! ! $%&'()*!0,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 1-! ! $%&'()*!1,!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 20! ! $%&'()*!3,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +4-! ! $%&'()*!2,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +-+! ! $%&'()*!.,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +/3! ! $%&'()*!5,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +33! ! $%&'()*!+4,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +.2! ! $%&'()*!++,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! +55! ! $%&'()*!+-,! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! -+0! ! ! ! "#! ! ! ! 1 An open-mic poetry reading is a terrible way to spend any Saturday night, but tonight, with the Habs one win away from the second round of the playoffs for the first time since I moved here, it’s that much worse, yet attendance is mandatory, Sheila insists on it. And it’s not like I am opposed to all readings, all poetry, like when the person has read the poem before, or read out loud before, or has been invited to read, it can be pretty alright. Or when the author is reading from a book, that had an editor, then it’s usually good, entertaining—almost entertainment—and we understand our roles, buyer, seller, producer, consumer, it’s familiar and comfortable, it’s advertising. But the open-mic is a whole different animal, a dangerous breed, a showcase for unprepared poets with unedited poems. I understand people need to practice, need a place to try things, to experiment, work out the nerves, but I don’t need to hear it and I’ve been to plenty of these already this year. I tried to argue my out tonight but when “Corey, if you really love me, you’d want to be there for me” got thrown down I couldn’t even respond, it’s watertight that one, unless I want to say I don’t love her, and it’s not like I don’t love her, I don’t think. Like Sheila’s got it all: she’s smoking hot, the hottest girl I’ve ever been with, curvy, complains her ass is too big but it ain’t, blond, though she helps that out a bit, with these incredible grey eyes and big dimply cheeks. And she’s smart, way smarter than me, no doubt, and ambitious, like driven. Plus, she drinks draft beer and has a washer and dryer in her apartment. So we’re back at John Barleycorn’s, a dank, dingy, low-ceilinged cube that smells like stale beer, piss, puke and fear, and looks like it was decorated with a mail-order Irish pub starter kit—posters of Irish doors, bas reliefs with Irish proverbs, Guinness and Harp " ! ! ! mirrors, an oversized “Erin Go Bragh” flag, plenty of shamrocks and green—the way all inauthentic authentic Irish pubs do. On top of that the layout is awful. It’s got an oversized, understaffed bar in one corner and an awkward, L-shaped island in the centre with pillars on its corners, so no matter where you sit you have an obstructed view of the stage. Of course, there isn’t actually a stage, just a lonely microphone set in front of a planked poster of Dublin pub signs not quite in a corner, which is referred to as the stage. Why Johnny B’s—as Sheila and them say—was chosen as the preferred place to hold these student association-run functions has never been explained to me, but it has been, and remains so. Naturally there’s no television, because no one would ever want to glance at the TV while poetry is being read. Sheila’s crew is already here when we arrive, her posse of poets, sat around three small tables pushed together to make one, each of them clutching little scraps of paper, or nervously poking through notebooks. There’s Ming, who’s slender and sleek and trying to start a band, she wears shorts with nylons underneath and has a habit of sitting on laps. Beside her is Janie, who drinks hot chocolate in the summer and goes toque-less all winter, she has a strange fascination with serial killers and likes to dye her hair unnatural colours—it’s purple at the moment. In the corner is Roland whose face is bony and pointy like a bird or a Muppet or a Muppet bird, he’s a little strange, very in-touch with himself, but I like Roland, he’s not as into the whole being-a-poet deal as the rest of the bunch—plus he’s got a friend at La Cage texting updates on the game while most people here don’t even realise there is a game. Across from him is Amanda whose Dutch as can be, tall, blonde, athletic, and a hippie, makes all her own clothes—tonight she’s in a dress made out of an old Scottie Pippen jersey. And next to her, is Barry. Fair-haired, dimple- " ! ! ! cheeked, Barry. Sport-coated, sweater-vested, Barry. Past few months I been getting the feeling Sheila has a thing for Barry, or she might be fucking him. Either way, I don’t like the guy. He’s always calling me ‘monoglot’ which is some French insult I think. The only positive is that he’s quite short so if we ever drop the Coopers I’m pretty sure I’d last a couple of minutes—reach advantage alone. “Sorry we’re late,” Sheila gets out through a clamour of ‘hellos’ and ‘heys’ and ‘how-are-ya’s’, before putting it on me. “Corey had to change his shirt.” Which is true, but only because she insisted, only because she thinks a shirt I bought to be a Halloween costume has to remain a Halloween costume, it can’t become clothing, even if it’s clean. Sheila sits down next to Barry while I scrounge up a chair from the next table—checking with this fedora-wearing hipster that it’s okay first—and take a place at the head, or tail, of the table. “Don’t worry about it, these things never start on time,” notes Amanda, and she’s right, they never start close to on time. They don’t even try to. “Actually you’re probably wise arriving late. Otherwise you’re end up sitting around all alone anxiously waiting for a familiar face to appear. Like me.” Roland gets a few sympathy ahs and a backrub from Janie. “There’s a simple solution for you Rol, just show up later,” Barry advises. “I can’t do it. I try, I have tried, but I always wind up on time. Even ahead of time. I think maybe, subconsciously, I distrust the power dynamic inherent in making people wait. The petty callousness of it is very off-putting to me. So I always end up waiting, watching the door, recognizing everyone who enters for half a second, getting the heart- stopping moment of excitement and getting it dashed. It’s terrible, obviously, but the " ! ! ! thought of making someone else go through that is worse than the actual waiting, so I wait.” No one responds to Roland immediately and then several side conversations break out at once. It’s times like this that makes hanging with Sheila’s friends the worst, when the conversations sprawl into meaningless shop-talk about poets—both real ones and those in attendance—and discussion of books I haven’t read, gossip about professors I don’t know who are sleeping with students I don’t know, rumours circulating through the department I’m not a part of. And it’s not that I can’t engage in these discussions, it’s not like they wouldn’t happily catch me up on all the details, I just don’t want to. I just don’t care. Does anyone really? Do they even? I go grab a couple of beers, and a scotch and water for Sheila—she thinks that writers should drink scotch—which gets me out of there for a few minutes.