I am in my car, coasting slowly south along Clanranald. Ahead I can see the intersection with Queen Mary. The light is yellow. I see one car between me and the light, a new green Corolla. It speeds up and makes it through the intersection just as the light is turning red.
For a second I consider speeding up myself, not so I can make it through the intersection too, but so I can chase the Corolla, swerve past it and cut it off so it has to stop, then climb menacingly out of my car and walk up to it. I will bang on the hood with both fists and yell obscenities, and if the driver gets out to confront me there will be blood on the street today.
I coast to a gentle stop at the light, and close my eyes. I imagine pools of blood on the street. I open my eyes and think of how people lash out when something is annoying them; lash out at whoever is unlucky enough to be close by.
On my left is a small apartment building with four balconies. Two have windowboxes with flowers, and lawn chairs and wind chimes. Another has big green garbage bags, kids' bikes with banana seats, and a plastic tricycle with an oversized front wheel. The fourth has two large mountain bikes. A horn sounds.
I look down at my steering wheel. It is my horn that is sounding, and it does not stop. It continues, long past the beep stage now, and past even the blare stage. It is keening. It continues. It won't stop.
Margarine Beechum clapped her hands over her ears. There was an awful racket coming from outside. Some car was blasting its horn.
Margarine Beechum hated noise. She hated the loud music played by the two college boys downstairs. She hated the way the brood of little children, from the apartment next door to the college boys, ran up and down the stairwells as if they were a playground. She hated the way the children's mother fought drunkenly with boyfriends in the wee hours of the morning. And she hated the way Old Mrs. Winters next door kept her television so damned loud all the time.
Her hands still over her ears, Margarine walked to the window and looked out. She saw her balcony with the Morning Glories in the boxes, and the lawn chair turned away from Old Mrs. Winters' balcony. She saw a blue car down on the street. The noise seemed to be coming from there. People walking by were turning to stare at the car. A red convertible rolled up behind the blue car and tooted its own horn. Margarine noticed that the light was green. Why didn't the blue car go, then? Why didn't it go blast its horn someplace else?
Her arms were getting tired. She turned away from the window and removed her hands from her ears; let them drop to her sides. Her right hand twitched by her side, flexed open and closed. The noise seemed so much louder now. It seemed to get louder the longer it went on.
Margarine walked purposefully to the front door of the apartment. That Old Mrs. Winters probably liked the blaring horn. Or couldn't even hear it over the din of the TV.
That stinking, incontinent old bitch.
Rammy Gwynn watched Jeopardy and counted on his fingers, keeping track of the questions he got right. Too many American-biased categories today; he wouldn't be setting any personal best. But there was a category about motor sports; he would get all five of those, he was sure.
Every few moments, he glared at the door of his roommate Griff's bedroom. Five in the afternoon and that unemployed bum was still asleep. He could hear him snoring in there. And then the horn sounded outside.
The horn went on and on. At least it drowned out the snoring, but it was annoying in its own right; Rammy had trouble concentrating, and failed to say, "Bobby Unser" before a contestant said it. He couldn't count that as a right answer, but he would have got it, he knew.
Rammy gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the questions. The damn contestants were avoiding the motor sports category; there would be questions left over at the end. Why did this always seem to happen with the categories Rammy was good at?
They broke to a commercial and Rammy jumped to his feet. He strode to the window and looked out past the mountain bikes to see a blue Ford Escort out on the street just below. The driver seemed unconcerned that his car was making so much noise. Behind the blue car was a line of a dozen other cars, and they were all beeping and honking. It sounded like some pissed off wedding. Rammy looked at the traffic signal. It was just turning yellow. No wonder. What was the matter with the guy?
The bedroom door banged open and Griff came storming out, wearing only boxer shorts, his hair squished up into a wing on one side. "What the hell is that noise?" shouted Griff. He looked groggy; still half asleep.
Rammy didn't answer, just laughed. Laughed at Griff's hair, and laughed at Griff getting pissed off for being woken up at suppertime.
"Turn it down!" shouted Griff. He seemed to think the TV was making the noise. "I'm trying to sleep, you asshole! Turn down the fucking TV!"
"Fuck you! Don't give me orders, shithead! It's not the TV; it's a horn!"
Griff still hadn't clued into the fact that the noise was coming from outside, and he stormed across the room and tried to grab Rammy by the collar. The two young men struggled, at first just arm-grabbing, shoving, but in Rammy's head he heard himself say something about That Damn Horn, and he took a swing at Griff. It was something he'd wanted to do since Griff moved in with him. The punch connected, and soon both of them were rolling on the floor and throwing punches left and right, emitting high-pitched grunts of pure rage.
Thumps and bangs quivered the walls, and shook small pieces of furniture, upstairs.
On the little telephone table in the corner, in the entrance hall of Margarine Beechum's apartment, was a small gardening fork. The handle was six inches long and made of red plastic. It was a form-fitting handle.
The tines were strongly curved, made of metal, and on the undersides were grooves full of dried soil. One of the tines, the small one on the end, was bent almost straight.
The gardening fork lay on the smooth brown polish of the telephone table. The larger knob at the end of its handle touched the surface of the wood, as did the points at the ends of the tines, all except the bent one. The gardening fork seemed to drum nervously on the small brown table.
Lori drained the macaroni over the sink, and yelled at the kids to turn off the TV and get to the dinner table. All four of the under-tens came trooping into the room and sat down, their voices high and arguing. Jen, the oldest girl, instructed the others where to sit, in a bossy voice. Lori knew Dino was still in the living room, ignoring her as usual. The bloops and bleeps told her he was playing Nintendo. Fourteen years old and he wouldn't mind her; what would he be like when he was sixteen? It was enough to make her cry sometimes.
A horn blasted outside, and kept doing it. That was all she needed, with her frayed nerves. The kids wouldn't stay in their seats, the phone rang and nobody answered. Later, she thought, call back later.
Supper and breakfast were the worst. Everyone home, everyone needing attention. All she wanted out of life anymore was a glass of coke, a pack of cigarettes, and the phone. At night after the kids were all asleep, to smoke a joint, play with the scanner, get laid. The night was her own, seemed like heaven, and she wished the kids would just sleep forever.
She checked the pork chops in the cast-iron pan; they sizzled and popped. She turned them, just in time; they were dark brown on one side. Cook them less on the other side, that's all. She plopped the macaroni back into the pot and threw in salt and pepper, a bit of milk and a slab of butter. She stirred. "Dino, get in here!" she yelled.
The horn was still sounding and it was accompanied by the sound of horns from other cars. Lori walked to the window, still holding the pot and stirring, and saw the bags of garbage on the balcony. "Dino, I told you to bring out the garbage last night!" she yelled.
Down on the street there was a blue station wagon; a Ford. The horn seemed to be coming from there. But all down the street was a line of cars, pickup trucks, a city bus, a FedEx truck, and they were all honking their horns too, in a less constant way. The din was awful, but it was the horn that wouldn't stop that was worst.
Lori started scooping macaroni onto the plates. Dino came slouching in and took a seat. Jen was giving the others orders, trying to be helpful, but she was yelling. The commanding little voice was motherly, custodial, but angry too, as if she wanted to blame them for her own disappointments. Lori scraped the last of the macaroni onto her own plate and put the pot back on the stove. She wrapped a dish towel around her hand and picked up the frying pan.
A glass of milk fell over and the shouting increased. The kids pushed away from the table, their chairs scraping across the floor, trying to avoid having the escaped milk pour onto their laps. "Watch out!" yelled Lori, raising the hot pan higher, "Somebody mop it up! All of you, sit still!"
She flipped a pork chop onto a plate, and walked around the table, dishing them out. One each. Anyone didn't get enough, there was plenty of bread. Jen was shouting, the phone rang again, and that horn!
"Jen, shut up!" shouted Lori, but then something felt undone and she grabbed the little girl by the shoulder and yanked her from her seat. Dino laughed.
Lori slammed Jen against the wall and looked at the frying pan. She tilted it sideways, and a last chop fell to the floor. Grease dripped from the pan onto Lori's bare foot and she felt searing pain. She pressed the surface of the pan against Jen's face, and the girl screamed. Lori pressed harder. There was a sizzling sound as the flesh of Jen's face was fried against the greasy metal.
Dino was still laughing, but his laughter dried up as the full realization hit him. He paused. Then he started laughing again, deeper, harder, empty. He stood up, and seemed to grow taller as he did so. He left the room and seconds later the front door slammed.
Lori pressed her other hand against the bottom of the pan. She planted her feet further back from the wall and leaned all of her weight on that arm, pinning Jen's head to the wall. Lori's skin burnt crisply, while on the other side of the hot metal Jen's face cooked in the grease. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and outside, the horn went on and on.
Mrs. Winters sat in her rocking chair, thinking that if she got up and went to the window the noise would stop for sure before she got there. But she had been thinking this for ten minutes now, and the original noise was still there and had been joined by other noises. Beeps and honks and shouts from outside, thuds and bangs and shouts from elsewhere in the building. Something was going on, for sure.
Maybe Old Marge Beecham had fallen off her balcony while leaning out to prune a long stalk on one of her stupid Morning Glories. Maybe the old cow was lying broken on the pavement right now. It was not too high, only two and a half stories, but she would be hurt, at least, or somebody must be hurt, and that was worth a look.
She rose carefully from her chair. The TV was on CBC Newsworld and they were showing the BBC World Report. A woman's voice rang across the room, with a pretty English accent, talking about the troubles in the Balkans. The voice seemed quite loud because Mrs. Winters always kept the volume up high. That way she could not hear so much of the racket that was always coming from the apartment downstairs.
At the window, she peered past her lawn chair that was turned to face away from Old Marge Beechum's balcony, past the window boxes full of African Violets, and down at Clanranald street where cars were lined up from Queen Mary all down the hill, past Isabella street and farther, until Mrs. Winters couldn't see anymore.
She heard the front door opening, and whirled around. Old Marge Beechum came stomping into the apartment, her fuzzy slippers slapping with every step, and the old cow had a look on her face like hell had gotten inside her.
"Get out!" ordered Mrs. Winters, "How dare you walk into my home without being invited!" but Marge Beechum said nothing, just stamped into the living room and kept coming. She held a gardening fork in her right hand, and raised that arm above her head as she walked.
Marge Beechum swung the gardening fork down and to the left, raking it across Mrs. Winters' face with all of her strength. Mrs. Winters screamed, and threw her arms up in front of her head. The fork came down again, slashing at her arm. Too shocked to react at first, now she seemed to realize that she must defend herself, and she threw her hands forward and grabbed Marge by the shoulders. She felt the thick straps of Marge's brassiere as she stepped forward, shoved mightily and ran across the room, pushing the other woman before her.
Margarine stepped backward but not fast enough, and lost her balance. Mrs. Winters' momentum carried them both across the room, stumbling and tripping over each other's feet, and they toppled together. Both of their heads crashed through the television screen and the voice of the British anchorwoman cut off, to be replaced by the popping and snapping of a short circuit. Sparks flew from the shattered television and the women's arms and legs jerked and tangled together a furious embrace.
A potted African Violet with blue flowers fell from the top of the television set, and soil spilled across the floor. Outside, the horn continued to keen.
I look closely at the steering wheel. There is something small and fleshy at the bottom right of the horn pad, something that is pushing, holding the horn pad down. Something is pressing the horn and making it sound. I look at the something, and it is my thumb.
It is enough. I can stop now. I lift my thumb and the horn stops sounding. But behind me I can hear other horns. I look into the rear-view mirror and see a line of cars, stretching far behind mine, stretching as far as I can see up the street.
These cars are sounding their horns. At me. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, but for that many cars to get blocked up behind me, the light must have turned green, then yellow and red again at least five or six times. It is green right now.
I place my hands on the steering wheel. I avoid looking in the mirrors. I move my left foot to the clutch and press down gently, searching for the right amount of pressure. I raise my right foot from where it has been pushing down hard on the brake, and place it on the gas pedal. I give it some gas and my right hand reaches to the shift and puts it in first gear. I release the clutch while giving more gas, and let the car gradually accelerate through the intersection.
I gain speed, shift into neutral and coast to the next stop sign. I feel good. I won't have to do this again for a while. Maybe next time it will be in your neighbourhood.
You know, I think I liked the part with the frying pan best.