Part 2: Destinations 

“Do you still talk to that boy I didn’t like?” 

My grandmother can no longer remember his name. Doesn’t remember nearly enough of him to know why she didn’t like him in the first place. Only that she didn’t want him in the house. All those years ago. 

Not that she could have known much to begin with. Hadn’t been at the amusement park when he was spitting on people from a bridge. Instructing, “But not the white ones”, if we chose to join him. 

Hadn’t been sitting in his bedroom, trying to start a pizza business, just like the girls did in The Facts of Life, while he sat at the end of his bed licking the crotch of his sisters underwear. 

“We can use our kitchen”, he suggested, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. 

She never knew what it was he was doing out at the bleachers when we went there to smoke the cigarettes she also didn’t know anything about.  

“No, no one sees him anymore” 

She nods her head as if this makes sense. “Such an odd-looking boy”.  

She asks what his name was and I almost say Underwear Iain. Even though she never knew him as that and I’ve now discovered he is someone different again. Always changing, but not really. Found him shirtless and emaciated on the Internet a few weeks ago. That explosion of a face now starting to settle into a kind of rubble, but still familiar enough for me to know it was him. Definitely him. 

Found myself wondering who gave him this new name or if it was the one he had finally chosen for himself. Recognizing him still, anyways. 

“His name is Iain”, I tell her. 

Iain.  

The Holehunter.

I don’t tell her that part though. She’s old. 

Rock wrote:

Shocked to find out that Underwear Iain might be a racist.

And to be clear, when he made that request to spit on brown people, half of our friend group were kids who were of Indian and Pakistani heritage. It was directed at them as much as the people under the bridge.

Rock wrote:

It seems this Underwear Iain is very much a flawed character.

He was still better than Yarn

Last I heard of him, he had a boyfriend who would shit on his balcony if he was in the bathroom. And he loooooved him.

So things turned out well for him, I think

Last edited by crumbsroom (7/26/2023 7:33 pm)

I have a hard time with these Gaelic names.  Is Iain pronounced "Ee-ayn", "Ee-un" or just "Een"?

Last edited by crumbsroom (7/26/2023 7:53 pm)

Some people get all worked up about it.

When I had to do a year of school in Rome, New York (see Woodstock '99 doc for more on that cesspool), I once asked a teacher for a pen, which my Kentucky tongue called a "pin".  The bitch was like, "No!  I don't have a pin.  I have a pehn."

I had to suppress my inner Joe Pesci with a taxi door.
 

crumbsroom wrote:

As long as you don't say malk instead of milk, we're good

That's pure white trash Ontario, and I have to pretend that isnt the blood that is also running through these veins

Not as bad as people who say "mowf" instead of "mouth".  The thing is that I would get complimented for not having an accent.  So I definitely wasn't going to tolerate some petty vowel ambiguities.  Also, education should maybe partially be about learning that there's different kinds of people in the world?  Bitch?

Although I’m playing back “glass of malk, eh” in my head and it sounds like something I could hear somebody say.

Rock wrote:

crumbsroom wrote:

Rock wrote:

Shocked to find out that Underwear Iain might be a racist.

And to be clear, when he made that request to spit on brown people, half of our friend group were kids who were of Indian and Pakistani heritage. It was directed at them as much as the people under the bridge.

Did he eventually overcome his racism?

I was the sole brown kid in my friends group in high school and got a lot of racist “jokes” from people who turned into super annoying leftist types in the years since.

I think so. He was a deeply in the closet gay kid, who was also typically very homophobic, as it generally goes.

When he came out he definitely moved from being an extreme right wing Reform Party supporter to a liberal. And I think I remember him disparaging Rob Ford's racism.  But....he was still a rotten little shit.

These Teeth, Your Face: The Story of Cabby 

I bet you told her not to bring back a cat. That there better not be a cat here when you get home. Don't know exactly what you said, but know you said something. Something that you hoped would keep me from ever coming here. Something you said before I showed up in your kitchen but that you won’t dare say now. Could see it in your eyes the moment my head popped out of the box. I’ve seen those kinds of eyes before. 

You can't bring yourself to say you don’t like me, but you do say how you don’t like my name. I can see you shaking your head when she tells you what it is. So I just keep pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor, letting you know I don’t care and looking for pats, while you keep asking her to repeat it. Over and over. Repeat it until you’re finally sure you heard her right and can say it’s stupid. Just a really stupid name for a cat. That I would be getting a new one, immediately. 

Whatever. 

I’ve had lots of names and the one you give me will be stupid too. Don’t think you’re so special. All that matters is that you know I’m going to bite you.  

And I will bite you. 

But first her, because she’s closest. Bite her as she sits on the floor patting me for the first time. Surprise her with how vicious I can be and how we aren’t going to be friends after all. Bite her until she screams. Bite her in the back, as hard as I can, and then look up at you, and can tell you like it because you’re so easy to read. Can see you’d like to laugh but don’t. How you think this is exactly what she deserves for bringing me here after you told her not to. How I could keep biting her forever and you’d never stop me. 

I bite her even though she's the one who saved me. I bite her to let you know I’m going to bite you too and you shouldn’t feel safe and I’ve only got to wait a little bit longer. Wait for you to bend over, which you will eventually do when you finally come say hello. Smiling and pretending you want me. Getting yourself close enough to realize I can also fuck up faces. Both of you screaming now and you with your hands over your eyes and blood running between your fingers. 

Whatever. 

What are you going to do about it? I already know you won’t do anything. That you’re like a book and it's clear you’d never let her bring me back to that horrible place. That even though you don’t really want me, I’m here to stay. That I can do whatever I want. Forever.  

So, hello. My name is Cabby. Pleased to meet you. Now give me some food. 

3 

Everyone knows him as The Beast. So big and fearsome all the mice have left our street. Fleeing our homes like a sewer on fire. All my neighbours knowing this giant cat lumbering down the pavement is the one responsible, but never getting too close as they pay their respects. Nodding from a distance as we walk by. Me pulling him by his pink leash. His enormous body resisting from inside the pink harness he barely fits inside of anymore. 

They are worried he remembers how one time they all laughed at him. Everyone of them at least once. Something funny about his mean face getting tugged along the sidewalk at my feet. How it got them giggling when I told them how much he hated pink. Everything hysterical until they saw him start to hiss and spit and nearly break free from his harness as he lunged at their laughing. Immediately realizing the thing that was so frightening to mice, was also frightening to them. Suddenly aware their survival depended upon whether or not this uncombed boy walking a cat in his pajamas, stinking of beer and having trouble standing, had the strength to keep hold of that leash. 

“Hey Beast”, they would call out, but only once they’d safely crossed the street. Then they would tip their hat, avert their eyes and shuffle along. Hope nothing was suddenly crashing through traffic to get to them.