Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Eat Your Heart Out, Dallas Drake
by David Hickey

THE LAST OF THREE PARTS

Jack's coat is now hugging the tree nearest the driveway. He sprays water across it, changing the tone of the sleeves. He tries to spray the water evenly, so that the coat becomes a uniform colour. He tries to remember how many days he wore it to work before he realized he had been wearing it inside out, the absence of a lining making it look more or less the same either way. He was standing in the elevator, still easing into his job when someone from human resources on the sixth floor complimented him on his "new way of thinking." If the same person had told him, in fourteen years time, he would be wearing a toque to work, he probably would have never taken the elevator again.

Jack pulls off his scarf, then his tie. He hangs them both carefully on opposing branches, and, even though the scarf is longer, in Jack's mind, it offers the tree a certain balance. He sprays them both lightly, waving his arm like a conductor in a music store, testing the weight of a baton. He's shaking slightly, but with his free hand Jack unbuttons his shirt, then pulls the tucked-in part out of his pants. He thinks of names that would be stranger than Silo: Buick, Raspberry, Cornhuskie. Delaware.
When he has his shirt free from his body, he throws it as high as he can in the tree. It catches mid-way up, and becomes almost clear as he sprays it. The scarf and the tie are still soaking wet, but already show signs of frosting.

He takes off his pants. He loosens his belt and exposes his legs to the air, which suddenly feel colder than the rest of him.

He looks down past his loose-fitting boxers at his hairless knees. He wonders what Dallas Drake's legs would look like in place of his own. He wonders about the size of his chest, how much his quadriceps have grown from years of hard skating. He imagines what Dallas would look like if he were spread out in pieces before him, his heart in the mouth of a neighbour's dog, its small teeth tearing it apart on a bed of snow.

He steps out of his shoes, plants his feet beside them, and throws his pants into the branches.

He runs his hand against his forehead, looking at the clothes in front of him. Lights, Jack thinks, all I need now are some lights.
He lets go of the hose and walks across the front yard, towards the basement window. Kneeling beside it, he forces the latches from either side of the winter frame, and pulls the house towards him.

The boxes weigh more than he remembers. He takes each one off the storage shelf and sets them on the basement floor. His chest and stomach are sore and red from sliding over the sill, but he can no longer see his breath, and his body has stopped shivering. Jack pulls out strand after strand of white lights. He wraps them around his arms, around his waist, up and down the length of his body.

* * *

"Dallas," he said, "Dallas, it's me. It's Jack. I called about your account, and now you're returning my message. I mean, I'm returning your message."

Dallas cleared his throat. "You said there's a problem?"

He peered over the edge of his cubicle, then sat back down.

"No, no problem. I mean, there was one, but I fixed it for you, there, Drake."

Dallas didn't respond. Jack pictured him in an elaborate kitchen where pots and pans hung neatly above islands. He pictured him standing there, unsure if he should hang up the phone or wait a second longer for Jack to say something else.

"All right then, thanks," Dallas said finally, but Jack could still hear him on the other end of the line.

"I'm having trouble in my marriage, Dallas. I called because I wasn't sure what to do."

Silence.

"I mean, Brenda doesn't know we're having problems, but I think we are." He stopped to collect himself.

"I get...I get jealous of her ex-hockey player boyfriends."

That's not quite right, Jack thought, but he didn't bother correcting himself. Dallas was going to hang up, and nothing he could say would change that.

"Well how many did she have?" Dallas asked, his voice followed by the sound of his teeth tearing into what sounded like an apple.

"A whole team of them," Jack replied, "and when I dream about them playing hockey, you're their captain."

Dallas swallowed, then let out a slow, contemplative sound.

"That's funny, Jack, because me and the guys, we sometimes have dreams about guys who answer telephones."

Jack thought he might die right there in his cubicle. He pulled out a pen, thinking the next thing that came out of Dallas' mouth would change his life forever. He sat there for what felt like an eternity, waiting on Dallas' next word, not realizing the noise filling line wasn't static, but actually the sound of poorly muffled laughter.

* * *

Jack reaches down next to the house and sticks the plug into the socket. He feels the white lights warm against his body. He looks at the tree and the clothes that hang there. He pulls off his toque and casts it high in the tree furthest away from him, watching as it catches, not on the branch he expected, but on one close to it, not far from where he had been aiming.

He hears a knocking on the living room window. Jack turns around in time to see the front door open, and Brenda as she appears on the front step. He raises his arms in the air and waves, but as he tries to walk towards her the plug going to the house stops him short in his tracks, the green insulated wires holding him where he is, the Christmas lights burning his skin.

David Hickey will be taking questions now. A few.