Erkki
I met Erkki Turunen on a playground in Edmonton in April 2008. It was the second anniversary of my grandfather's death, and almost the end of my first year of university. There was a lot swirling around. Less so for me, I should say, than for the rest of the people there: they were all on mushrooms. I had decided to stay grounded in the world of the living, to make sure my friends didn't light themselves on fire or jump off the roof or anything. I had no idea if those were things people tried while on mushrooms, just as I didn't know where people went when they died, or what they did when they finished university. I was the only one worrying about that kind of stuff, though, and this comforted me for a while.
That evening there were seven of us, of whom I knew three the best: Brian Yoshida, Joel Whitten, and Joel Byrne. When both Joels were on hand, the rule was to call Joel Whitten Joel-Joel (for he had been in this group of friends the longest, and was presumed to be the Joel), and Joel Byrne was called Loud Joel in order to distinguish him from Joel-Joel.
Two exchange students were there that evening: a Finnish one and a French one, both of whose names eluded me for the time being. I had an inkling that the French one was Martine, but this would prove to be false. The Finnish one... I couldn't even take a stab at his name. Huck Finn. Damn it, I had known it earlier. Reminded me of junior high for some reason. Anyway.
The last member of our crew was Sam, who was there because it was his house. He was Brian's roommate, and that was all I ever knew about him.
I looked at my phone just as it struck the hour of two, and as the credits rolled on the nth episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Fuck, that show irked me enough as I was. These guys were all on mushrooms.
The word irk skated through my mind in search of something to connect with. I jutted out my lower lip, locked in thought, and Joel-Joel shot me a weird glance from across the room.
"We need to go the park..." he half-sung, spiral-cutting a finger through the air, "Mr Gatekeeper!"
At this, the rest of the team lolled their heads towards me. Park...? they all seemed to groupthink at me. There was a kids' playground across the road. But it was 2am. Ground rules were vital.
"Don't fuckin shout when you're outside. And if you have to piss..."
"PISS," said Loud Joel.
"Yeah, in here, before we go." I said. Those were the rules. Loud Joel scrambled for the can.
When he emerged, I told them let's roll, and roll did we let.
***
At the park, most of the Psilocybin Psquad just wanted to sit and rip up grass or feel some dirt. This was good. I was glad to be in the company of other people and kind of alone at the same time. Late nights in mid-April are still some of my favourites for being outside and semi-alone. And this was an especially pretty night. A we've-survived-the-winter kind of night. Spring was a go. The sky was wrinkly obsidian (somehow). Maybe there were clouds, maybe not. A flash from high school English, the moon lies fair upon the straits, fit the bill at the time. But I think that line's actually about the beach.
I had climbed onto the old play structure, and found a little red bridge to lean on, all the time scanning the sky-wrinkles. I was eyes-deep in that dark, that hugeness, distantly wondering if my grandfather existed, when someone asked me if I had heard that. Heard what?
"Somebody's speaking Elephant back there, man. Some kinda elephant talk," said a lean space cadet. His words clinked like a box full of cups. This was the Finnish kid, Rikki, Kirkki, Ikkri, Krikka, I knew it had two Ks in a row, anyway. Probably two of everything.
I looked back and saw Martine, the other exchange student, pouring some ebullient French down her phone at somebody. She was on the other side of the park, but her voice was big and round, her words were strange, and her teeth made Morse code blinks in the dark. She was hard to miss. Perhaps this was the elephant whisperer this guy was talking about. I told Kokiri-Forest-whatever-his-name-was that Martine was just speaking French. When I swung my face back towards him we almost clocked our heads together. He was trying, it seemed, to stare into my every memory.
"YEAH. ELEPHANT FRENCH," he honked. I wondered if he thought I was changing colour. He continued,
"Do you ever, like... she probably learned Elephant after she went to the zoo and saw their really sad elephant they have. And now the elephant has somebody to reach out to, which is really good."
I agreed. I told him this was almost certainly the case: that girl Martine had seen the awful languid lashes of that leathery beast at the worst zoo in the developed world, and had rushed to remember her pachyderm patois in order to commune with the creature. Something like that. It was all coming together. Kekkrikki agreed with an urgency and investment I felt utterly unprepared for.
"Yeah Joëlle's pretty nice, dude," said Huck Finn.
"Who is?"
"Joëlle, man, the elephant chick. The nice one."
It wasn't Martine at all. Now there was a Joëlle-Joel. I mentioned this to my northern companion.
"There's only one name out here! I don't believe fucking this!" he shouted.
His hands were on his head. His English, by and large, was great, but he still misplaced the odd fucking. He laughed not unlike a cartoon dolphin, and beamed at me. But following this, he sunk a little, and his eyes were suddenly big elephant feet. I felt him catch some of my sky-scanning half-aloneness. What the hell was his name?
"Dude," he cooed, "There's a sadness about you, man."
Finally somebody was speaking my patois. It wouldn't hurt to tell him what was on my mind. He'd probably forget.
"I had a grampa who spoke like Joëlle-Joel. He died two years ago today, in my parents' kitchen, eating his raisin toast. He was 65, and the night before he was pointing and shouting at the supper table, giving his own father hell -- my great-grandad, who's alive still, he's like a hundred -- and it was hilarious. Because he'd been a bastard the whole rest of his visit. Then he drank some wine and holy there was his childhood, on the table. Chuckin bales. Gettin in fights. Maybe he didn't chuck bales actually... but I learned he had a twin brother, which I didn't know at all --"
"What's your name again, man?"
Oh yeah, I don't really know this person, I thought. I'd really pulled myself back into old Arsène's last supper. The playground wrung back into view.
"James," I said, "Jim."
"I'm Erkki, man," and Erkki gave me a hug. Then he yelled at the rest of the pack to climb up on our bridge and get in the hug. They did. It was glorious. I don't know what I had been feeling while I was talking about Arsène. It wasn't grief. I didn't really like the man. If we didn't share a surname I'd've said he was a pretty shitty guy. But in that big fungus-addled group hug I made a note of how I'd never talked about it -- about any of that stuff. Good on you, Erkki.
Erkki. Why the hell does that sound so familiar?
"THERE'S A FUCKIN CAR!" somebody screamed. In my ear. It was Loud Joel. Joel Two of Three.
"No problem, guy," Erkki said. The white surf of his voice rolled over my busted ear, and all was cool,
"We're just a buncha people huggin in a park."
No comments:
Post a Comment