Tony Burgess - Pontypool Changes Everything

“Thank you Donny. My name is Mike, and I’m an addict.”

Attention is suddenly dispersed around the room and in this chaos everyone feels a refreshed opportunity to have another shot at being a little more dignified.

“Well, you know, no fuckin’ big deal, this. I was in a tight fuckin’ spot. That was my problem. That’s what brought me here. Not the ‘God this, God that.’ I didn’t wanna become a good person. Fuck no. I just wanted to go from ‘A’ to ‘B.’ ‘A’ happened to be a fuckin’ nightmare where I’m holding the barrel of a gun in some guy’s mouth; but, you know, whatever. Keep an open mind. And ‘B,’ I didn’t even have a fuckin’ ‘B.’ So I come here ’cause all you fuckin’ people are talkin’ about how people like me get out of a jam. So I’m hangin’ around, and the first few months I’m not shootin’ dope. A good thing. But I’m still bringing a piece to meetings. And I’m keepin’ my distance, with my hand on the piece, thinking, if one of you fuckin’ fags tries to hug me I’ll blow your fuckin’ nuts off, right? But soon I leave the gun at home. I don’t even know why. I guess it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I can’t really see myself using it, so I leave it at home.”

Greg is bored. He’s heard Mike talk about bringing a gun to meetings a thousand times. He knows it’s important that Mike is being honest about this, but, Greg thinks, how come he’s honest about the same thing all the time?

“So I start listening to what you were talking about, and I thought how fuckin’ weird it is that the gun I was packin’ was packin’ up my fuckin’ ears. Y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Several people laugh. Greg looks around irritated, they always laugh at the same shit.

“I get rid of the piece. I start thinking: alright, alright, for fuck’s sake, I suppose I gotta get a fuckin’ job now and… and… I do! And I say alright, I guess I gotta call up the old lady and tell her that, no, I’m not gonna blow her fuckin’ brains out. She’s safe, and she don’t even have to believe me,like you said, it’s just true. She’ll figure it out. Dee-dee this and dee-dee that, and pretty soon I notice, I only notice, I don’t understand it, but I see that I go towards ‘B’ by being this nice fuckin’ guy. And I say Holy Fuck! How did I become this person worthy of my son’s respect? This stand-up guy. Jesus Christ! And you tell me to be grateful and I say: fuckin’ right, I’m grateful, I’m grateful all to fuckin’ hell. And you say be grateful to God. Be grateful to God?”

Greg notices his Higher Power sitting in a swivel chair just outside the circle. The Higher Power nods toward Mike for Greg’s benefit, then he flips his hands, giving up, making a psychological face that Greg finds insulting. Greg watches Mike’s mouth open and close around the word fuck and he remembers his boss earlier that day: his face flushed, not with embarrassment, but with the bracing clarity that comes from blowing your load down a volunteer’s throat. Greg fantasizes about being on both ends of the arrangement. He finds that they are touching the same ice cube, equally cold and satisfying. The two men are exchanged by the act, no longer thinking about each other, or sucking each other, but laughing, now, because they are not each other. Greg thanks Mike in mumbled unison with every one else.

Donny, who has been the chairperson, takes the pause after Mike as an opportunity to close the meeting. Mike accepts this, and stretches in his chair before standing and patting himself down. His belly, which continues to win every battle it wages, governs him physically as he stands. Others follow, pushing empty chairs towards the centre of an enclosure that they begin to make with arms tossed around each other’s back. The woman across from Donny pulls her hands down and hops away from the circle.

“Oh. Oh, one last thing — um — oh, yeah. April — addict. The women’s retreat up at the Elora Gorge has been cancelled due to the restrictions that were just announced. Re: the AMPS problem up north. So if you have paid already, contact your Group Service Representative for a refund. That’s me at this group. If you don’t know who your GSR is ask any member. Thanks.”

Greg feels a whimper run across his chest. His feelings about the disease he has have been making ever-tightening circles around him. Not yet inside, but preventing anything from leaving. Greg lowers his head for the serenity prayer, which he pronounces sub-sonically as: “Gaw gra ma tha savanah tee ta set ah ha ah kenna shay, ah tha crash ta shay ah they aka ah tha wistah ta oh the dimffimff.”

The people who have left the meeting are gathering at the rear door of the church, smoking cigarettes and arranging groups that will leave separately and arrive together at a cafe on Queen Street. Greg is standing alone, feeling self-conscious of the fact that his Higher Power is the only one who’ll stand with him. And even then, this invisible being, dressed in black, appears to want to mingle.

On the other side of a tall hotel lobby ashtray that tilts at the edge of the asphalt, Mike is lighting April’s cigarette. April reaches across to hug him, keeping her hips back to accommodate Mike’s leading stomach. He in turn bows his back out between his shoulders to create a cave in his chest where April can store her giant breasts for the duration of the hug. They part smiling, embarrassed and thrilled by the comfort of their touching.

“How long have you been the GSR?”

“About eight months. What’s your home group?”

“Oh, I don’t have one right now, but I’m thinking of joining this one.”

“Great. Let’s go put your name in the ledger.”

“OK.”

April leads Mike back into the building and down the stairs. When they return, everyone will have left, and not wanting to go straight home on a Friday night they’ll go off together to a cafe three blocks west of where the rest of the group has already convened.

April, who has created a safer world for herself, has a test that a man must pass before she’ll spend any time with him. This test is based entirely on the spiritual principles of the program she’s adopted. Honesty. Open-mindedness. Willingness. Tolerance. Acceptance. He must also be able to care for himself completely. She is watching Mike for this now.

Mike carries himself like a gallant caricature of kindness. He makes amends to women whenever God will let him, swooping open doors and laying out well-defined compliments. He listens carefully and smiles apologetically at his own compulsion to solve their problems. He might be the kind of Mr. Right that April has been looking for.

When April and Mike move in together she will teach him the real thrill of lifelong romance, its enduring pyjama party of dirty thoughts. The delicate gift, the body as an object. But first he must prove that he can be, and not be, her sister.

Greg is standing alone near the top of an alley that runs behind a highrise apartment. Alone. Alone except for a Higher Power who stands under a streetlight, impatient now for his young charge to surrender his increasingly bizarre will. The Higher Power knows that this is a dangerous time for Greg. He has a strange new disease and nobody knows for sure how or when it will manifest itself. The Higher Power leans into the dark and, covering his mouth, shout-whispers: “Greg! Greg! Come on, let’s go have a coffee! Greg!”

But Greg disappears into the dark of the alley. He’s heard something and he’s going to investigate. The noise, coming from behind a dumpster at the far end of the garbage-strewn alley, is human in origin. A crying growl, a scraping sound. Greg stops halfway. Behind him three cars pass noisily by the entranceway and their warm triple swoosh pulls Greg cautiously back a couple of steps. He is frightened by the slurps and rustles he hears coming out from under the dumpster.