Several days later Jacinthe and her roommate Agnes are crossing campus from Prof. Wheeler’s music appreciation class. Agnes stops short.
“There goes that awful Famous5 gang. Why do they walk like that?”
“I’d say they’re into hip hop.”
“Honestly, I don’t know why they let so many Nova Scotians into this university. It’s New Brunswick, after all.”
“You don’t like the bluenoses?”
“I’ve never met such pushy people. And full of tricks. Sharp. That’s what they are. Sharp.”
“We can’t all be from Sussex, I guess.”
“Maclean’s said this was a good school.”
“Here they come.”
“Oh no!”
The Famous5 come over.
“It’s not polite to stare.”
Jacinthe: “We were just wondering where you come from, who you are, and what you do.”
Emily M.: “I’m Emily M.
And like my Murphy before me
I’m a person through and through,
Don’t let his story whore me.
So let me introduce
My rhyme-bustin’ crew:
Lou’Eaze, Ire-Ene, Nellz Bellz,
Henrietta too.
We’re the toughest pack of bitches
That you ever met
So you better wear a glove
If you want to pet.”
Jacinthe: “Double entendre.”
Agnes: “Oh!!”
Lou’Eaze: “We lay low the wannabees,
Fantasists, fakers,
On a planet of Clippers
We’re the genuine Lakers.”
Ire-Ene: “We rule the top deck
Of the Dartmouth Ferry.
We’re first to the pole
Like Admiral Peary.”
Agnes: “That was rude.”
Nellz Bellz: “We got dirt in our pockets,
Matches in our hair,
We go out with sailors,
And we know how to swear.
Next time we meet
We gonna kick your ass,
But right now we gotta book
Cause we’re late for class.”
Henrietta: “Physics. So put that in your pipe and smoke it. We out.”
They depart.
Agnes: “I’d just like to know who’s on that admissions committee.”
Professors Rhodenizer and Korogi, walking past, overhear that last remark.
Rhodenizer: “That would be you.”
Korogi: “They wrote good essays.”
The tractor-trailer tops the hill midway between Memramcook and Sackville. It’s the stranger’s first sight of the wind-blown plain of the Tantramar.
“Many and many a critter has squashed ‘neath the wheels of this semi; many a dreamer awoke to the sound of these sorrowful gears.”
The truck cab begins to bounce as the driver shifts from gear to gear.
“Charles God Damn Roberts!”
The jouncing passenger looks askance as the driver arm-wrestles the transmission, casts a concerned glance at the dancing pine air freshener and then focuses forward on the prospect unfolding beyond of the curve of the mountain. Blue-grey shadows flow from the southwest across the sun-warmed marsh. The towers of the shortwave station throw intermittent shadows, like a slender metallic stonehenge. Brown tendrils of tidewater curve into the marsh.
The truck wheezes to a stop at the end of Squire Street. The stranger climbs down and starts for town as the truck pulls away. The traveler is young, Chinese, dressed for life on the road, and carries along with a bedroll and backpack a gunny sack containing a two-stringed fiddle or erhu, and a five-foot-long wooden staff. At the foot of York Street the visitor leans on the staff and gazes critically up the hill toward the university.
“So.”
October. Jake is back from Atlanticomicon where The Vampire Leblanc has been a hit and moved 850 units. The Beach Whistle contained a particularly glowing review. Jake has his feet up, a 24 of Keith’s, a hamburger pizza, and is watching his earth history class on his cellphone. It doesn’t get much better than this.
Jacinthe enters.
“Going to class?”
“I’m there now.”
“Huh. Who’s sending?”
“Dwayne.”
“Is he even in geology?”
“He owes me one.”
“Hm. Trying out for roommate from hell?”
“I’m not from hell, I just draw pictures of it. So, you got a sequel for me?”
“Eh?”
“The next story.”
“No.”
“What have you been doing for six weeks?”
“Classes, assignments.”
“Gerry’s looking for another book.”
“I’ve got five professors looking for another book.”
“Well, think about vampires for five minutes.”
“It takes more than five minutes to write a 28-page comic.”
“It’s part two. It writes itself.”
“No, it doesn’t. Believe me.”
“Ah-ha. You have been working on it.”
“Yes. No.”
She sits down and puts her chin on the heel of her hand.
Jake: “I think I see what’s going on here. You’ve got melancolia.”
“Huh?”
He indicates the Durer poster behind her head. (It’s the one with the angel sitting with its chin in its hand in the middle of all sorts of … well, you’ve seen it.)
She looks.
“Hm. I guess you’re right. The thing is, I think I’m vampired out.”
“It doesn’t have to be vampires. Werewolves of Moncton.”
“I dunno.”
“Okay, try this on. A stereo system from an old abandoned residence building. Trueman House. It’s haunted by its former owner . . . who died . . . of feedback.”
“Speaker For the Dead.”
“Yeah.”
“I dunno. I was thinking I might like to write something about the real world.”
“Which one is that?”
“This.” She indicates their surroundings sarcastically.
“Hold on a minute, there’s Sluice. He’s a senior. Hey, Sluice, where’s the real world?”
Sluice: “Anywhere but here, man.”
Jake: “See? Last year you were all keen on the Unbeknownst.”
Jacinthe: “I’m a freshmen now. It’s all unbeknownst to me.”
“Huh, because I’ve pretty much got it all figured out.”
“So I noticed. Well, I gotta roll. I’ll say ya.”
“Later.”
“Much.”
She goes.
Dwayne (on the cellphone): “Boys, she’s pissed at you.”
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