Converse Club

converse

Marcy Mirabel only ever wanted one thing in her entire life, and that was a friend. Just one, true, friend. She’d gone through all fourteen of her painful years utterly alone, wishing she could form a bond with someone, anyone.

She was weird, or so people told her. She certainly dressed weirdly. When Marcy had been a kid, her mother had chosen all her clothes, and she’d always been forced to go to school in some sort of Laura Ingalls type outfit. Now, she could make her own sartorial choices, but she’d gotten so used to prairie dresses that she wasn’t really sure what else she should be wearing.

The answer came to Marcy on a poster that was taped to a bulletin board at school, advertising something called the ‘Converse Club’. There wasn’t really any other information indicated besides a date and time for the first meeting, but the picture of Converse shoes on the poster implied that it had something to do with this specific type of footwear.

Now that she’d realized Converse shoes where a thing, she seemed to see them everywhere. In every class she saw someone wearing Converse. All the popular kids seemed to be wearing them. Clearly, these shoes were the gateway to friendship.

As soon as she got home she did some internet research only to discover that Converse were a bit out of her price range. She knew her mother would never allow such an extravagant purchase so Marcy spent the entire weekend scouring thrift stores and second-hand shops. Finally, she found them! A pair of black Converse, only slightly worn, and only one size too big. At the same store she invested in a pair of jeans, a nondescript t-shirt, and a hoodie, since this seemed to be the uniform of the cool kids at school. New clothes in hand, she gleefully made her way home, happy to know she’d soon find someone, if not many someones, to be friends with.

She felt conspicuous in her new outfit on Monday, wondering if others would notice the change, but no one said anything. She walked into the first meeting of the Converse Club with hesitation, still unsure of exactly what was meant to occur at this gathering. To her surprise, there was no one else in the room. Five agonizing minutes went by, as she waited for someone else, anyone else, to join her. Had she gotten the date wrong? The place? Finally, another girl walked in. She had lanky hair, a face full of acne, and wore a sweater that was either ironically or genuinely hideous, Marcy couldn’t tell which. On her feet, was a brand new pair of grey Converse. The girl tentatively walked up to Marcy, and said hi. Marcy returned the greeting and they stared at each other, trying to figure out what to do.

“Oh my god, so fucking lame!” said a male voice. Both Marcy and the hideous sweater girl turned to see Andy Drew cackling from the doorway. “They’re actually wearing Converse and everything!”

Marcy and the girl looked at each other in fear. Was this all some sort of elaborate set up, meant to humiliate losers? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Without a word to Andy Drew and his friends, who jeered at them as they went, Marcy and the girl walked out of the room, and out of the hallway, and out of the school. Once outside, the girl looked down at her feet and said she didn’t even like Converse. “I mean it’s winter. I usually just wear boots.”

“Me too,” admitted Marcy.

“Did you buy those just for the club?” asked the girl.

Marcy nodded, and the girl admitted that she’d done the same. “Fuck this school!” said the girl, as she threw her school bag against the wall. She leaned down and tore the shoes off her feet, then threw them at the wall as well, giggling as she did so. “I’m Angie, by the way.”

“Marcy,” she replied, kicking off her own shoes and throwing them next to Angie’s, as she laughed. “Fuck all those assholes!”

Angie invited Marcy over for an after school snack, and Marcy agreed. They put their shoes back on, because it was, after all, winter, but they never wore those Converse again. The next day Marcy went back to her granny booties, and as she joined Angie in the cafeteria for lunch, she noticed that she was wearing fuzzy snow boots, and another ugly sweater.

“I like your sweater,” Marcy smiled.

“Thanks, I like your dress.”

Andy Drew and his jerkhole friends made fun of them as they passed by, calling Marcy and Angie the Converse Club, and they continued to do so for the rest of the year, but it didn’t matter. The Converse Club had served its purpose. Marcy finally had a friend.

August 12, 1992

                                     There are a bunch of pages ripped out of my diary at this point… I have absolutely no recollection of what they may have been about. Then comes a rambling post written in Frenglish. Here is the gist translated into English for ease:

Lately I’ve been thinking rather realistically. Thinking of my real life. My fantasies weren’t there for a while. I’m bored and I want something to happen to me. I want something in my life. Something outside of my house. I don’t want to get driving lessons but I want to know how to drive. I want to have something real instead of my little dreams. I want a fun job or a fun friend who brings me places. I don’t want to be here. I want to start over. I don’t want to read stories, I want to write stories. I don’t want to watch movies, I want to be in movies. I don’t want to be a student, I want to be a teacher. I don’t want to only know that things happen in the world, I want to be someone to whom things happen. Wonderful things and terrible and exciting and real! Maybe I have to make things happen but how? It’s impossible. If I had enough athletic talent I could be in the Olympics. I wish I had enough talent for films or writing. But I don’t even have enough talent to win art contests. I’m not ambitious or smart or independent or outgoing enough to make things happen for myself. So what can I do? Nothing! I hate myself! I wish I could be anorexic. I know it’s bad and all but then at least I could make something happen for myself and I could stop menstruating, which would be great. But I like food too much to stop eating. I can’t stop eating junk! I eat all the time so I’m ugly. If only I had a friend. Someone I could talk to about everything and not be embarrassed. And someone to do things with. I know I’m screwed up. I know I need help. I know I might just go off the deep end someday. I just wish I had someone to tell that to. I wish I wasn’t so scared of people. People make me freeze. I am scared of everyone. Even myself. I can’t write any longer. I can’t think any longer.

                                    Yup, that about sums it up.

low-self-esteem

Chinatown

 

chinatown-fire

Right Shoe was pissed. Left Shoe had promised to stop smoking, but here it was, lighting up while they were on a tour of historic buildings in Montreal. They’d just entered the Robillard building in Chinatown, which was famous for hosting the first film screening in Canada, in 1896. Pretty impressive, thought Right Shoe, as it hopped along through the building, admiring the 19th century architecture. Left Shoe couldn’t care less. Left Shoe didn’t care about films, or historic buildings, or much of anything really. It was only on this tour because Right Shoe had insisted.

“Put out that cigarette!” insisted Right Shoe, while Left Shoe scoffed with indifference.

“Make me.”

They were indoors for goodness’ sake! It wasn’t only illegal to smoke indoors, it was immoral too! Right Shoe was done. So done! It hopped away, out of the building, determined to finish the historic building tour on its own. Left Shoe could rot away from lung cancer all alone, for all Right Shoe cared. It was sick and tired of putting up with Left Shoe’s nonsense. Left Shoe was always making trouble, always refusing to cooperate, rebelling not to make a statement, but to be an irritation, simply for the pleasure of being disagreeable. Left Shoe was a constant spoiled sport, even though they were athletic shoes!

It was only ten minutes later, as it was hopping up Saint-Laurent street, that Right Shoe heard the sirens. It turned to see what was going on, and saw the smoke. Suddenly it could smell the smoke as well. It hopped back, trying to get as close as possible to the scene, but firefighters and police were keeping people and shoes back for their own protection.

All Right Shoe could do was wait. And wait it did. It took the rest of the day and night for the flames to be extinguished, and Right Shoe waited the entire time, hoping that Left Shoe had emerged safely. It was a pain in the backside, no question, but Left Shoe was Right Shoe’s mate, and they belonged together, no matter what.

As dawn arose over the horizon, Right Shoe peered at the gutted remains of the building, trying to see its other half. And there was Left Shoe, sitting among the ruins, utterly unscathed, no sign of the cigarette that had undoubtedly started the fire.

Typical, thought Right Shoe. Left Shoe always decimates everything in its path and yet gets away with everything.

 

chinatown-fire-shoe

The true story

August 11, 1992

I really should clean up my room. I should dust and vacuum and organise. But I can’t get motivated to do it. Maybe when school starts.

                                    Yeah, ’cause I certainly would have felt more motivated once under the oppressive and stressful burden of high school. *eye roll*

Writing in this diary makes me sad. It makes me think too much. I don’t want to wonder, I just want to dream.

                                    So what else is new?

Crystal went skydiving Sunday. I really want to skydive. I always wanted to. Until now it wasn’t attainable, but Crystal’s boyfriend does it a lot and took her and if mom would let me he could take me too. I really wish she would let me go (and give me the money). If only she knew how much it means to me. It would be a dream come true. A reason go on living. Why is life so expensive?

                                   Wow, settle down. It’s skydiving, not winning a Pulitzer. 25 years later and I still haven’t gone skydiving but that’s because I’ve gotten over this “dream”. I’ve always really liked heights and the idea of flying which is where the skydiving obsession came from. I got over it after I went on a hot-air balloon ride, which was another of my sky dreams, and it was such an immense letdown that it squashed any other sky related dreams I had. Some things are better left in our imaginations. Also hilarious that obsessed as I was I wasn’t willing to pay for it myself. *eye roll*

There are a lot of things I want to write in here but I can’t. I don’t know how to transform these shot-thoughts into words. I can’t write that fast, or well.

Peace and long life, Live long and prosper. Yager out.

                                   I even drew a hand doing the Vulcan salute. Perhaps this is when my interest in Vulcans began. I spent most of my life idolizing this fictional race and trying to suppress my emotions, and it’s only recently that I’ve realized how much harm this willful suppression has caused me over the years.

P.S. I like tutoring Kelly. I want to be a teacher (if I can’t be an artist…)

                                Thank god I never pursued that idea. I would have been a terrible teacher. Being forced to train various people at various tasks in work settings has taught me that I’m absolute shit at imparting knowledge to others. I get needlessly frustrated when people don’t easily catch on to what I’m getting at. A flaw I get from my father I suspect. “I learned it by watching you!!!”  

drug-dad

Tripod

skatesElliot Archambeault was the best skater on his hockey team, without question. No one could deny it. He was the fastest, and the most graceful, and he never fell down, even though he also took the most hits. He wasn’t the enforcer for his team, the hawks, because Rich Beaudoin held that title, unofficially of course, but he nevertheless took the most hits. He was an easy target because he was a freak. He stood out. He always did, always had. He wasn’t ashamed of it, honestly he wasn’t. He’d been told enough times by his parents and plenty of others that his deformity made him special, cool even. And it certainly had advantages. It made him stronger, and more stable than others. Walking looked a bit awkward, because he sort of skipped along in a bouncy way, but it helped him skate. On the ice he could glide, and tip real far without falling. While skating, that part of him made him beautiful. Not that he would ever use such a word. He never used any positive words to describe himself, because he didn’t want to be seen as boastful. He didn’t want to be seen at all. That’s what it came down to really, this desire to be invisible, for once in his sorry life. He just wanted to blend in. He was tired of always being noticed, of always sticking out. Tired of having this extra appendage always, literally, sticking out.

There was nothing he could do to hide his third leg. It was too big to fold up and tuck away. He was the only person in the world with a third leg, which he knew because he was listed in a bunch of medical textbooks, though his parents had declined to allow his photo to be featured in any Ripley’s Believe it or Not museums. Tripod, that’s what they called him, the other kids, even his friends. But were they really friends if they called him that? Were his teammates friends? They always cheered when he scored a goal or helped block one. They even one time tried to lift him over their heads in celebration, though they hadn’t succeeded, since he was pretty heavy, and his extra leg got in the way. That’s how he felt, like he was perpetually in the way. He envied girls, because they could wear long dresses. But he couldn’t hide what made him different.

“Way to go, Tripod!” laughed Rich as Elliot managed to kick away the puck with his third leg, his extra limb, his add-on body part, his adjunct appendage. The whole team hollered and cheered, and once again, they won the game. They were the best in the minor leagues in all of Quebec, maybe even all of Canada. They were the best, and he was part of that. Wasn’t he? He helped them be the best, and so in some ways, he too, was the best. Wasn’t he? When he’d first started making waves in the minor leagues, there were parents and coaches who’d tried to get him kicked out, who’d claimed that his extra leg gave him an unfair advantage. But then others had argued the opposite, that it was a disadvantage, that it was a defect. The story made the national news. He was famous. Famous for being a freak. Freakishly good at hockey, and just… freakish.

But he didn’t even like hockey. He liked skating, but that’s because it was something he could do alone. Every winter his dad turned their backyard into a skating rink so Elliot could practice hockey, but when no one was watching he wouldn’t even try to hit the puck, he wouldn’t even hold a stick. He’d just skate, going round and round, twirling, free to stop thinking. But hockey was different. Hockey was a team sport and he hated being part of a team, because he wasn’t really part of it. He was always on the outside, and always would be. He’d always be different, he’d always be that weirdo, Tripod.

He couldn’t quit though, even though he wanted to, because his parents wouldn’t let him. They insisted that being part of a team built character, like he didn’t already have plenty of that. He knew they wanted him to stay because soon he’d be recruited into the juniors, and then there might be sponsorships, and then maybe he’d even make it to the NHL, and that’s when the real money would come in. But he knew he’d never make it that far, because he didn’t want it. Even if he did, it would be too hard to fight all those battles again about unfair advantages. The truth was his extra leg was an unfair advantage. It made him better than everybody else, and he hated himself for it. He hated that extra leg. He hated hockey, and he was even starting to hate skating.

After the game, he told his parents he wanted to walk home. They eyed him suspiciously, because he’d done this before, walking home with all his gear, so he could get rid of it. He’d been eight years old the first time he’d dumped all his hockey gear, and claimed to have lost it. He’d known it was expensive, so he figured they’d punish him by disallowing him from playing anymore. But they’d just bought him all new gear and forced him to keep playing. He did it again when he was twelve, and had suffered the same consequences, except this time they’d bought new gear with his allowance money. Now he walked with his skates slung over his shoulders and dropped them in an empty lot, next to to a cigarette butt, and a pile of dog shit, where they belonged. Then he walked home, and before going into the house, he turned around and went back to that empty lot, where he picked up his skates and slung them back over his shoulders. He knew there was no denying his destiny. He was a hockey player, and he was Tripod.

June 28, 1992

Italy: 12:38 a.m.
Montreal: 6:38 p.m.

Yes, vacation has started. We went through France, Paris, lovely as always. Italy is totally expensive and I feel totally ripped off everywhere we go. I think I should make this vacation into a movie one day because it is hilarious.

                                   Yeah, so hilarious that I didn’t think to provide any examples.

Anyway, I have been dreaming up a gillion ways of me meeting S.P.F. here in Europe, but I guess not, eh?

                                  Ugh, I’m so bored of this celebrity obsession. I can’t wait for 16-year-old me to get over it.

I have found three additions to my mental list of top 10 weirdest showers… This is one hell of a grimy hotel room. I think this bed is going to collapse soon. A trillion kajillion guys stare at Crystal (my sister, who must have been 18 at the time) all the time in all these countries. Some Italian guys tried to talk to her. One French guy asked her out. Some guy wanted to kiss her. One guy serenaded her in the street with his guitar. It’s weird (because she’s older than me) but when I am with her and those guys look at her and try to kiss her I feel like I should protect her. I always check to see if guys are ogling her. And I give them dirty looks. It must be flattering, but scary to be thought of as a sex object like that. well, luckily I’ll never have that problem (or unluckily?) Well, I must sleep now, bye.

                                   It’s remarkable how casually catcalling was taken in those days, and how little my parents seemed to care that their daughter was constantly being harassed, and how little the cat-callers cared that the teenager they were harassing was clearly with her parents!

July 11, 1992

We came home from vacation yesterday. I am having lots of weird feelings. Things I don’t want to write about because I don’t know how to express them on paper. I don’t want to. I just want to sleep and love S.P.F.

                                   And then I just go on and on about my celebrity crush and don’t mention a thing about all these “weird feelings”, nor do I recount any stories from our family vacation. What a lame journalist I was!

Damn that global warming!

skiesCross-country skiing: the gentleman’s winter sport, thought Edgar Doubledorp. He’d waited a long time for snow this year and it wasn’t until February that there was finally enough powder in his neighbourhood to warrant a jaunt to the park. He’d gone up north once or twice to enjoy their relatively heavy snowfalls, though even up there it hadn’t been as glorious as in his youth. But today was just such a day of glory. There were nearly 50 centimeters out there already with no signs of letting up. The snow was just wet enough to be easily packed, but also powdery enough to allow for easy gliding. There was so much snow in fact that Edgar even skied all the way to the park, as the sidewalks and roads in between had enough coverage to keep him afloat above the asphalt.

Could there be anything more pleasurable that sliding along a blanket of white in absolute still and quiet? Certainly not. Even the shrieks of children having a snowball fight was dampened by the crystal covering. Everything was quiet and peaceful. Along the edge of the park he spied a foodtruck selling hot chocolate and he swished his way over for a treat. As he stood there, sipping his drink, the snowfall lessened, and the sun peaked out from behind the clouds. He finished his hot chocolate and kept along his journey, only to find the sun was getting rather insistent. He stopped a moment to unzip his parka and take out his sunglasses. A few minutes later it became necessary to remove his coat altogether and tie it around his waist. A few minutes after that, even his thermal shirt was becoming uncomfortable.

There was nothing for it but to head home. Edgar turned around with the intention of retracing his tracks, only to find said tracks disappearing. The snow was melting, and fast! He quickened his pace and kept pushing along, dragging his skis through what was increasingly become more wet grass than snow.

When he reached the edge of the park, he pushed up his sleeves, and surveyed the streets before him. The sun was beating down as though it carried a particular vendetta against him but if he hurried he might be able to make it before all the snow was gone. He rushed along the sidewalks, earning himself quizzical looks from passersby in flip-flops, as his skis scraped along the concrete.

He wasn’t even halfway home when he came across an ice cream truck serving cones to children engaged in a water fight. Nearby, a man regarded his vehicle in confusion, staring at the snow scraper in his hand. He caught Edgar’s eye and shook his head in disbelief. Wielding the snow scraper like an axe he raised it above his head and hurled it across his lawn, and it landed by a bush that was threatening to sprout. Edgar followed suit and took off not only his skis but his ski shoes as well, tossing them beside the discarded snow scraper. He and the man looked to each other and nodded with satisfaction. This was littering to be sure, but in this infernal climate, one could not be expected to remain gentlemanly!

 

June 12, 1992

I am sad, sad, sad, in the depths of despair.

                                Maybe I’d just reread Anne of Green Gables or something…

It was storming earlier, I wish it would start again. I love lying in my bed with thunder shaking my heart and lightning lighting up my room and my flame.

                              My flame?!?!?

I get so excited at midnight tempêtes (French word for storm). They are the best way to get excited in real life. But the storm was mild and now is gone and I am sad. I have a bunch of new S.P.F. fantasies… SIGH. Every time I read I get wrapped up in my dreams and have to reread and reread the passages.

                               I still have that problem. I mean, not the celebrity crush fantasies, but difficulty concentrating while I read.

I have a headache and there is nothing like real life and I hate it. I don’t hate myself anymore. Now I hate people (except for S.P.F.) My pen is running out and so is my time.

                                  Oh geez. Was I trying to be poetic?

When will I be famous?

                                   Ahh yes, the eternal question. *eye roll*

That, along with meeting S.P.F. is my unattainable goal. 

                              Well, at least I knew these goals were unattainable.

I want to die an old maid.

                            Yeah, I must have been reading Anne of Green Gables.

Literally I don’t ever want my virginity to be robbed from me. Although I must admit I would give it to S.P.F. if he wanted it and he wore protection.

                             LOL! I was cringing and then I saved it with some good old ’90s sex ed.

I will save myself for him. So I guess I will die a young maid.

                           All I need now is a fainting couch.

I have changed in a year. I used to want a boyfriend, now I don’t. Unless of course it was S.P.F.

                           Yes, of course.

All the other guys I’ve liked I didn’t like the way I was feeling about them. But I like this feeling of devotion to S.P.F. He is different than all the others. It’s odd. Another thing that’s odd is that I’m writing so much in here lately. And when I start I can’t stop and I keep rereading it.

Purple moons and dancing shadows and bleeding tears and scary clouds and all those things.

                            I just… I mean… at least I never said things like that out loud.

If when I reread this, it doesn’t make sense, that’s ok, it doesn’t make sense now. PEOPLE ALPHABET. My next step, really… Don’t dig too deep.

                         Ok…

crying-eye

                      Seems legit

 

The green line

metroThe first thing to be considered in this situation, as in any situation, was the safety of innocent bystanders. The man knew the best thing to do would be to carry out the deed in the privacy of his own home, where no one else would be bothered, with the use of something non-violent like pills, or perhaps a razor blade to the wrists. But the man, who thought of himself as a reasonably empathetic person, wanted, if he was being honest, other people to be bothered. He wanted the event to make the news. He wanted to be known, for once in his life, as a person who had accomplished something interesting. Gruesome perhaps, but interesting none the less. This act was selfish of course, but he was tired of being unselfish. He was sick of being the one who always handed in his work on time, of being the one who always held doors open for others, of being the one who always agreed with the consensus, even though he didn’t actually agree. He wanted, truly, to be disagreeable.

Still, there was no need for anyone else to be put in danger. His first idea had been to jump off a bridge, but that would cause a collision and many drivers and passengers would possibly be killed, and certainly traumatized. On the metro, only the driver of the train would be traumatized, and STM workers were all assholes anyway.

The man chose Lionel-Groulx station because it was busy, and important, but not quite as important as Berri-Uqam. He walked up to the platform on the orange line several times, but lost his nerve, and thought perhaps the green line would be better, because it used the older train cars. No use ruining one of the new cars. He rode the escalator up and down a few times, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. He wanted witnesses but not too many, not enough that they’d be able to stop him. He got off the escalator and stopped, considering his clothes. What a waste, he thought, to ruin a perfectly good dress shirt and pair of slacks. Yet undressing would attract undue attention. Still, his shoes were in excellent shape, and had only been purchased two weeks prior. He carefully took the off and placed them at the top of the escalator, hoping another man with size 10 feet would be able to make some use of them.

Finally, he knew he was ready. He stood at the edge of the platform, where very few others were standing, and waited to hear the train. He sang a nursery rhyme in his head in order to keep doubtful thoughts at bay, and when he would see the headlights, when he could see the man driving the train, he jumped, secure in the knowledge that this was in fact, the right decision.

June 11, 1992

I hate myself. Why can’t I talk when I’m with those friends of Jane’s? I always have so much to say. I’m even better with Genevieve’s friends than Jane’s. Why do I always clam up and shut up? Why do they intimidate me so much? I just cannot figure it out. They must all wonder what the hell I’m doing when I hang around them. They must wish I would go away. Jane told me that the guys all think I’m pretty but think I should talk. But they ignore me. When they look at me it’s like “what are you doing here?” All they ever talk about is sex, and farting, and burping! That must be why I clam up, because I could not add anything. If they would just talk about something I am interested in and ask me what I think I could go on forever. If I am invited to go to La Ronde with them I will go because I love La Ronde but I am going to be so weirded out. Maybe I should get myself on a major sugar high so I can be weird with them. I hate myself… 

                                    This is so sad. At least now I have the answer to the why. It’s social anxiety. I wonder if my adolescence would have been easier if I’d had a name for the problem, if I’d had a diagnosis. Probably not. It doesn’t make things much easier now. But at least the self-loathing is gone!

Nicole Natacha Yager, Genius in the next dimension.   

Lol! Wow. Genius, eh? Nice.