By
J Brown (copyrighted 2000)
It’s
a real shame too, because he was such a talented penguin. He could use the remote control and write
HTML but I never really got to see that side of him. I never named the penguin and it seems the most incredible
circumstances that brought him into my life.
Humidity was the only weather,
late July in Toronto. I couldn’t tell I
had gotten out of the shower and the sweat under my shirt collar was warm and
made me think of a jungle. My only
reprise was the 45-minute subway ride I had going to my girlfriend’s house in
Etobicoke. Three times a week I took
the TTC until it ended. Then she we
would get on and we’d head back into the city.
A couple of months doing this
and I got used to seeing the subway driver get into her controller’s box at the
caboose of the subway. Her name was
Catherine and she was from Montreal. We
often had long talks with our fingers acting as bookmarks in our paperbacks as
we passed Dundas West, Dufferin, Islington and on and on. The stops just kept going and she would try
and depoof her hair in gentle pats but it was in shock from the air
conditioning that froze her gelled hair.
She didn’t like it in
Toronto. That was our discussion the
night I met the penguin. Catherine was
talking about how Quebecois people work to live. They enjoy themselves, and good wine and rich foods and deserts.
“Here is Toronto,” she said as
roared out of a stop that no one had gotten on or off. “All people do is work. It’s their life, but it’s sure not my life.”
I agreed with her. I was wearing a blue shirt, orange tie with
blue flowers and gray slacks and Nike running shoes. I didn’t look professional and that’s how I liked it.
Eventually we got neared to
Kipling and she opened the gray door to her booth. We stopped and everyone filed out. Even Catherine left, knowing
she had five full minutes before the TTC headed east again.
It was cool in the subway
car. The air conditioning was worth
every penny, I thought, and bent down to put my hands on the cool and dirty
floor. After a day for reporting on the
news and nosing in on other people’s lives, a dirty subway floor was no big
deal.
That’s where the penguin
was. He lay still under the seat across
from me. He was awak and wriggled out
from the seat and wobbled to a standing position. He was the size of a body builder’s thigh and his stomach, once
white, was smeared gray from subway life. He spoke to me in a Canadian accent.
He said, “No one’s ever seen me
before.”
I did not say anything.
“Hey, you don’t over there,
don’t you, eh?” The penguin cocked his
head and suddenly he hopped up to the seat next to me as Catherine came back
in.
“Where’d you get that?” she
asked.
“What?”
“That stuffed animal there. I didn’t see you have it earlier.”
“Yeah, I had it under my feet.”
“Is it for your girlfriend?”
“Is what for me?” my girlfriend
asked. She had swooped in through the
door as if it was about to close.
“That stuffed penguin,”
Catherine said as Mikela was kissing me on the cheek.
“The penguin’s mine,” I told
them. Only Mikela looked puzzled. Catherine rang the bells and the subway was
off. I put my around the penguin and I
had to push off Mikela’s reaching had to touch it.
“It’s dirty babe, you don’t’
want to touch it.”
Mikela was a sweet girl. I wasn’t sure where she fit into my life but
sometimes convenience was best. Then
again, three times a week I took the subway until it ended just so she could
ride with someone back to my downtown apartment. It was amazing how easily you can overlook those things when you
find someone who wants to spend time with you.
Her appetite for attention was very small. Soon she was telling me about
her day working as a receptionist in a promotional company.
“There’s so many losers that
come in, except this one. He was pretty
cool. His name was Zeus. It even said so on his resume. Have you ever head of anyone named Zues? He
was dark with curly hair. He was the only one that wasn’t a total loser and
then after lunch…” and it went on like this until I barely recognized her small
mouth anymore. It was too bad, too,
because she had a high-pitched voice.
Mikela would probably always be a receptionist. She had the build, the hair, the almost
fashionable clothing and the immaculate nails.
She gave me a manicure once a week usually.
We got off at Spadina and walked
a little toward Chinatown to my apartment.
I had to hide the fact that the penguin was very heavy and the muscles
in my lower back quarreled with me. I
had Mikela open the door to my apartment and I plopped the penguin down on the
couch. Mikela went to the phone to
order a pizza.
“Let me see your hands,” she
insisted while she was on hold. “Yes, I
thought so. I’ll give you a manicure
after dinner.”
She ordered green peppers and
extra sauce. I think it was how she
thought pizza had always existed.
Dinner, manicure, sex, and
somehow I scooted her out by eleven o’clock.
She seemed satisfied and took the rest of the pizza for her lunch the
next day.
“Baby, will you take me to the
Beaches Jazz Festival this weekend?”
I said I would and finally she
left. I went over to the couch and the
penguin said, “It’s about time. Get me
some ice, right away.”
As I was doing that, he
stretched out plumply on the couch and began his life with me.
“That girl’s no good for you.”
“I know,” I admitted, bringing
him ice in a Ziploc bag.
“You know and yet go that far to
see her? I don’t understand humans.”
I listened as the penguin
continued.
“I’m from up north. It was too wild for me there, no bathrooms,
and traffic and I needed those strange human things for my art.”
“Your art?”
“I’m a painter,” he replied
modestly and lifted one fat black wing.
“Greatest paint brush in the world.”
“What do you like to paint?”
“Usually buildings.” He sighed comfortably as the ice lay on his
belly.
“Why buildings?”
“I guess I like things that I
don’t have anything to do with. It
makes them more alien and more artistic.”
“But humans like painting nature
and buildings.”
“Yes,” he said,” but you also
have nothing to do with nature. I’ve
seen your kind lay waste to a hundred acres for a parking lot. And you make fun of us for shitting on the
ground.” The penguin laughed and the
melting ice slid of his chuckling belly and fell, crinkling on the floor.
I put the ice back on his
stomach and he thanked me.
“Where did you learn English?”
“That’s a good question. Newspapers, mostly, and the people on the
subway. For awhile I only knew the
subway stops.”
“And why the subway?”
“The air conditioning is
first. And it’s one of the only places
that people are always somewhere else in their head. You can tell they’re thinking about other things and places and
people they’re so far from. Those are
the people who don’t see anything.”
“Don’t you miss your family or
your own kind?”
“Why? I couldn’t tell myself apart from the rest of them and do you
really think they know I’ve gone anywhere?”
“But I’d heard on the nature
channel that—”
“Yeah, yeah, that we find the
same mates year after year. I saw that
one on the nature channel too. Don’
believe that garbage.”
“Why not?”
“Animals still know when a
camera is on them. They don’t act that
way when you intrusive humans aren’t there.”
“Hey,” I protested.
“I know, I know, thanks for the
couch,” the penguin said, “I appreciate it, but you have to get me some paint
brushes.”
“What?”
And now the penguin said up with
some effort and again the ice fell to the ground. “Leave it,” he grunted at me as I was bending down to pick up the
bag. One of his squinty eyes became
more slanted and the opposite wing lifted towards the far wall.
“I see a mural here, with the
Chinatown setting. I’ll have bright colors on the restaurant signs. It’ll be night and the street car will have
hell and fire reds beaming off its side.”
“You want to paint a mural in my
apartment?” I asked.
“Yes, but it’s more than a
desire now. I see it on your wall
already but now I feel—what’s the word—obligated to bring it to life so you can
see what I see.”
“Couldn’t I just buy a canvas?”
“Look,” the penguin said and
returned his eyes to me, “how many times do you think I’m in a human
apartment?”
Before I could answer he
replied, “Never. This is my first and I
need to leave my mark here in this human invention.”
It was late now and, reality or
not, I had work the next day so I was going to bed. As a reflex, I asked the penguin, “Can I get you some blankets or
anything, a pillow?”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s already too hot in here,” he
complained. “But it’s fine. Thank you.”
And the lights went out.
I woke up in the middle of a
dream that was about a subway cal that was inhabited by animals and they all
had their own special talents. There
was a tarantula that played the guitar better than anyone and birds, lots of
birds who could sing.
Showered, shaved, and by half
past seven I was about to leave for work when there was no penguin. That couldn’t have been a dream, I thought,
I remember how heavy he was when I was carrying him.
Walking to the fridge, I stepped
on the zip locked ice bag, which was now water, and I slipped. I opened the refrigerator and there was the
penguin, sleeping in the dark and under a bed of lettuce. He had rearranged all the food into
different shelves.
“Hey! Wake up penguin! Wake
up!” I was not a morning person.
He stretched his wings, causing
lettuce to fall onto my feet. “Ahh,” he
said, “that’s the best night of sleep I may have ever had.”
“What happened to the light?”
“It was too bright,” he replied,
and got out of the refrigerator. He wobbled
about, took a deep breath and sat on the tiled floor.
“Look, are you going to stay
here today?”
“I had planned on it, if it’s
all right?”
“Okay, fine.” I was smoothing my tie out in front of a
mirror.
“Don’t forget the paints,” the
penguin called out when I was leaving.
I slammed the door.
Work. It seemed like the news was too much to bare that day because I
had real news in my house. Granted, it
was National Enquirer news but still. I
was wondering what in the hell that penguin might be up to. I hoped he wasn’t trashing my place or
making a more permanent nest. On my
lunch break, I went to an arts supply store and spent a hundred dollars before
I even knew it. Grimacing, I pulled out
my credit card.
“What kind of crap paint did you
buy?” the penguin asked after dipping his head into the brown paper bag. He pulled out some of the paint brushes and
tossed them across the room.
“They’ll just have to do,” I
told him.
“I’ll start after we eat. What’s for dinner?”
I had no idea that a penguin
could eat so much food. He said he
wanted anchovies and so the second pizza was extra anchovies and he ate the
pizza in a whirlwind of chomping.
Afterwards, he watched television with me until I asked him about his
great mural he was going to paint.
“You need to move that table you
have against the wall,” he said, licking his fat wings.
I folded up the table and
stacked the chairs. Sitting back down, I waited patiently for him to
begin.
“You can’t watch,” he told
me. “It makes me nervous. Go out and have a drink or two.”
And so I did. This penguin was giving me new stress my
life wasn’t ready to accommodate. With
Mikela and my job, my life was on a smooth enough track and days and weeks
could go by with me being satisfied with my life.
There was a bar on College
Street I often went to. It’s not known
for the great lighting or polite demeanors of the pretty waitresses but the
bartender makes stiff drinks and so he would be my friend.
My second Seven’n’Seven began to
help. The whole penguin situation began
to feel very far away and I started to relax.
“Another, please.”
“Girl troubles?” the bartender
asked. He played his role well.
“No, something else this time,”
I replied.
The bartender set down a new
napkin with my drink and walked away.
He knew when to leave someone alone.
“Have you ever felt out of
control before?” I asked him when he came back.
“Sure, how do you think I got
this?” he said and showed me a smile-shaped scar on the inside of his forearm.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a lighter,” he
replied. He wiped the counter around me
as he talked. “Trying to impress a
girl, you know how it is. She didn’t
think I was ‘man enough’, and so I was left with this reminder of her effect
over me.” I didn’t really see how all
that applied to me and he went to tend to a new customer.
“Did she tell you she didn’t
think you were man enough?”
“No, it was just a feeling I
had,” he said.
So maybe I’m not out of control,
I thought. I’m just sitting here
catching a buzz with money I worked to earn.
What’s wrong with that?
I came back to the apartment a
little drunk and feeling much better. I
said hello to a penguin when I went inside and stared at the wall where my
table had been.
With then black lines, a scene
had been laid out like a bunch of skeletons.
I could see the busy street, and the Chinese signs, and people
jaywalking, and the streetcar. It was skewed at an angle, like it was passing
to the right of the perspective and the closest restaurant sign in the upper
left corner of the wall was as large as a big screen TV.
“Damn, that’s good!” I
exclaimed.
“Thanks,” the penguin said,
though he was intent on his work. He
was giving lines to the restaurant walls and they were becoming bricks.
“Well, I feel much better.”
“Good,” the penguin said, “now
give me some time. Go in your room and
read or watch TV.”
Feeling lucky to have such a
talented animal in my apartment, I obliged happily.
A Blue Jays game was on and it
was easy to forget that I had a penguin painting a mural in the other
room. I fell asleep.
I awoke in my clothes and my
mouth was dry. Turning off the alarm, I
stumbled out to the kitchen and poured some water into a glass.
The penguin stumbled out of the
fridge stumbled out of the fridge and greeted me.
“Great painting, eh?”
“Yeah, I can’t wait to see when
it’s done.”
“Me either.”
Mikela’s surprise after work
that day wasn’t nearly equal to mine.
“Jesus, baby, what happened to
the wall? And why is the table folded
up?” She went over to the wall to
inspect it closer.
“That son of a bitch!” I
sneered.
The wall was washed, poorly, and
smudged gray from the paint. The very
top of the painting was there and I figured the penguin couldn’t reach that
high from the counter. I was furious.
I went over to the fridge and
there he was, hiding. He waved me off before Mikela could
see. I gave him a dirty look before
closing the door.
“Mikela, did you want to go to
the Beaches Jazz Festival tonight?”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. But what about your wall?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it
later,” and then we walked out into the night.
We took the subway across
downtown and walked to a bustling Queen Street East. It was flooded with jazz sounds and with people. Some paid attention to one band at a time
and others walked past as if testing finger foods. We were of the latter group, because of Mikela.
“I don’t understand that band,”
she would say and tug my shirt and we’d move on.
We ate at a restaurant that had
a band playing on its steps and I enjoyed a roast duck as a warning to the
feathered friend in my apartment.
Afterwards, we ran into Ronnie
from the newspaper. He was covering the
even and after my day of investigating bankrupt booksellers, this seemed a much
better assignment.
“Yeah, if you can let go of the
money. Art pays less but is easier on
the soul,” he said and yanked on his pony tail.
Mikela looked bored but for the
moment I needed a break.
“They pay for the pictures,
too?”
“Yep, up to 100 dollars extra if
they use more than one.”
I then introduced Mikela but she
seemed annoyed. I had a penguin in my
apartment so she wasn’t a real momentary concern.
We parted ways and Ronnie and I
made plans to have a drink next week after work. I looked back after a moment and saw his colorful Hawaiian shirt
stick out of the crowd like the penguin’s underbelly.
I waited until the streets were
emptying of spectators before I suggested we go home. We took the subway to my stop and I got out.
“Tomorrow night,” I said when
she stood up to get out with me. “I’m
really tired , babe, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I watched her glare at me as she was riding away.
I made plenty of noise opening
the door so the penguin would have one last second to do whatever the hell it
is he was doing. I heard shuffling and
called out, “Penguin, I’m home alone.”
“Alone? Thank God,” he said, climbing out of the
fridge. “I wasn’t sure what I was going
to do.”
His lettuce bed smelled horrible
and I told him to clean it out. I
looked at the wall.
“What do you think?”
“It’s incredible,” I said. The penguin had changed the scene and made a
larger streetcar with people walking past it.
Their detail was delicate, with eyelashes and unshaven faces to sme of the
tome. The streetcar had been given some
of its red and white fones and the way he used yellow for some of the
reflecting lamppost light was beautiful.
“I’ll finish tomorrow and get
out,” the penguin said.
“No,” I said, “it’s all right,
take your time.” I got close to the
wall and the face of the jaywalkers.
“That looks like Catherine, the subway driver.”
“It is.”
“Why her?”
“You can only put what you know
into art. Those are the people that
cross my street. We all have
streets. Humans seem to call them barriers
or borders but I call them streets.
It’s the ones that cross them illegally that you notice the most. It’s either because it bothers you the way
they got to you or you’re charmed by it.
The ones that don’t jaywalk will always be faceless.”
“That’s me, isn’t it?” I asked,
pointing to a face next to Catherine’s.
“Yes.”
“And Mikela!”
“Yes. Do you like her dress?”
“I do.” I touched the ripples towards the bottom and
got purple paint on my fingers.
“Silly, it takes hours for it to
dry.”
“When will you be done?”
“Tomorrow night, probably, and
then I’ll go.”
“No, no, take your time,” I told
him and went to brush my teeth. “But
please clean out your bed, it smells horrible.”
The mural was washed down two
more times before I could take no more.
He painted the CN Tower but that one I didn’t like and so he started
another; all the while Mikela was becoming more distant in my life. She somehow didn’t mean anything to me and
the penguin had showed me that she wasn’t a jaywalker in my life. She had followed the walk signs and so I
should let her pass through my street.
I hear he paints under the bridges during the winter but I don’t know how he survives the summers. Hardly anything survives the Toronto summer.
