Dog on the Roof
In this version of the universe, there was a dog on the roof when I pulled up. He looked at me as quizzically as I looked at him. I had just bought a film camera earlier that evening, so I loaded it and aimed. It didn’t go off, so I texted the woman that I was here. The dog started barking. A good guard dog, I think. My brother said his dog thumps twice when she senses danger. The frame was mostly a solid, reddish wood with a spring and wire base. The previous owner of our house left it in the garage. To fit it in my car, I had to move my seat so tight to the steering wheel that I could feel it press hard against my hipbones. I reminded myself constantly on the seven-minute drive that I could absolutely not get into an accident, not today, not when I was so close. She came out. She had hollowed cheeks and a supermodel frame, with kind eyes and high cheekbones that remind me of my father. She grabbed the first two pieces of the bed, the long ones. I started wrestling with the biggest piece. The frame was for a three-quarter size mattress, which I wouldn’t have even known existed if I hadn’t slept on one in our old home-built camper trailer many moons ago. The trailer is in the backyard of the old place, where on Sunday I saw my brother, the eldest of my younger brothers, cut down a large branch from a tree with a chainsaw he swore he owned. Later, when I was leaving the farm, he called me and asked if I might be able to hide the chainsaw, because someone was coming to look for it. I told him I would not. When she came back, she asked if it was heavy or just awkward. I said it was awkward and insisted we both take it. We carried the cumbersome thing to the porch. I realize now, writing this, that she didn’t want me to come inside. The mess, the chaos, the grime: it’s almost hard to describe because it’s so commonplace to me. The wafting odour that almost smells like pee but not quite. Things stacked on things stacked on garbage. Nothing I haven’t seen this week. My brother’s plumber thought he was selling drugs because of how much his house resembled a flop house, a crack den, whatever you want to call it. This is nothing new to me. I grew up in that house. In some versions of the universe, I still do. When I left my brother’s place, I called my mom. I told her that we could probably get a mental health warrant since he liquidated his pension on a business idea. Later, when I was on the phone with my wife, I would tell her that we could probably get a mental health warrant based on the state of the house alone. That wasn’t quite fair, I said, immediately correcting myself. It was like that before he moved in. In my brother’s house there is no running water, and the fireplace was incorrectly piped into the wall. There was a cutting board on the counter with moose blood running down it. There is garbage and dirty dishes and grit and leaves and soil and handfuls of flaxseed, straight from the field, containers of motor oil and a fridge not plugged in, a wall-mount microwave not mounted, and a cracked window and piles of dead flies and wires hanging low enough across the staircase to be a trap, and a dozen piles of unwashed clothes and detritus of six lives lived if you only knew how to buy, buy, buy. There are dozens of Cuban trinkets stuffed in a bag, never admired, there are books not read in years, obsolete devices, unopened designer clothing, and unworn designer shoes, almost resaleable if it weren’t for the smell. There are hundreds of bits and bobs from Ikea for renovations never finished, never even started. There are boxes of shells out in the open, left over from my dad taking a shot at a weasel who wormed his way in from the dirt-floor basement. My parents stayed here while fixing up the new farmhouse, but the water stopped working, and they moved in a hurry, only taking the clothes on their back. They ordered everything they needed new online. In my old bedroom, there are two dead mice, so decayed their tiny spines flop on the floor. My brother told me to store anything precious to me in that room, since he couldn’t control what other people get up to in the rest of the house. I told him that if there was anything precious to me that I could find, it was coming home with me. I have been looking for my childhood diary, a birthday present, peridot green, plastic jewel on the front, and a lock that was easily picked. Its pages were the first place I felt safe. It's probably gone forever. I wonder to myself how hard it would be to burn down a 1913 Eaton’s catalog brick house, and I already see the rubble. She came to the car and got the rest of the pieces, not letting me back inside. I stated that I didn’t know there were houses in this neighbourhood, and she smiled at me with her kind eyes. She said there were only two or three. I have noticed a lot of people being kind to me today.
Black News 
In this version of the universe, there was a dog on the roof when I pulled up. He looked at me as quizzically as I looked at him. I had just bought a film camera earlier that evening, so I loaded it and aimed. It didn’t go off, so I texted the woman that I was here. The dog started barking. A good guard dog, I think. My brother said his dog thumps twice when she senses danger.
The frame was mostly a solid, reddish wood with a spring and wire base. The previous owner of our house left it in the garage. To fit it in my car, I had to move my seat so tight to the steering wheel that I could feel it press hard against my hipbones. I reminded myself constantly on the seven-minute drive that I could absolutely not get into an accident, not today, not when I was so close.
She came out. She had hollowed cheeks and a supermodel frame, with kind eyes and high cheekbones that remind me of my father. She grabbed the first two pieces of the bed, the long ones. I started wrestling with the biggest piece. The frame was for a three-quarter size mattress, which I wouldn’t have even known existed if I hadn’t slept on one in our old home-built camper trailer many moons ago. The trailer is in the backyard of the old place, where on Sunday I saw my brother, the eldest of my younger brothers, cut down a large branch from a tree with a chainsaw he swore he owned. Later, when I was leaving the farm, he called me and asked if I might be able to hide the chainsaw, because someone was coming to look for it. I told him I would not.
When she came back, she asked if it was heavy or just awkward. I said it was awkward and insisted we both take it. We carried the cumbersome thing to the porch. I realize now, writing this, that she didn’t want me to come inside. The mess, the chaos, the grime: it’s almost hard to describe because it’s so commonplace to me. The wafting odour that almost smells like pee but not quite. Things stacked on things stacked on garbage. Nothing I haven’t seen this week. My brother’s plumber thought he was selling drugs because of how much his house resembled a flop house, a crack den, whatever you want to call it. This is nothing new to me. I grew up in that house. In some versions of the universe, I still do.
When I left my brother’s place, I called my mom. I told her that we could probably get a mental health warrant since he liquidated his pension on a business idea. Later, when I was on the phone with my wife, I would tell her that we could probably get a mental health warrant based on the state of the house alone. That wasn’t quite fair, I said, immediately correcting myself. It was like that before he moved in.
In my brother’s house there is no running water, and the fireplace was incorrectly piped into the wall. There was a cutting board on the counter with moose blood running down it. There is garbage and dirty dishes and grit and leaves and soil and handfuls of flaxseed, straight from the field, containers of motor oil and a fridge not plugged in, a wall-mount microwave not mounted, and a cracked window and piles of dead flies and wires hanging low enough across the staircase to be a trap, and a dozen piles of unwashed clothes and detritus of six lives lived if you only knew how to buy, buy, buy. There are dozens of Cuban trinkets stuffed in a bag, never admired, there are books not read in years, obsolete devices, unopened designer clothing, and unworn designer shoes, almost resaleable if it weren’t for the smell. There are hundreds of bits and bobs from Ikea for renovations never finished, never even started. There are boxes of shells out in the open, left over from my dad taking a shot at a weasel who wormed his way in from the dirt-floor basement. My parents stayed here while fixing up the new farmhouse, but the water stopped working, and they moved in a hurry, only taking the clothes on their back. They ordered everything they needed new online.
In my old bedroom, there are two dead mice, so decayed their tiny spines flop on the floor. My brother told me to store anything precious to me in that room, since he couldn’t control what other people get up to in the rest of the house. I told him that if there was anything precious to me that I could find, it was coming home with me. I have been looking for my childhood diary, a birthday present, peridot green, plastic jewel on the front, and a lock that was easily picked. Its pages were the first place I felt safe. It's probably gone forever. I wonder to myself how hard it would be to burn down a 1913 Eaton’s catalog brick house, and I already see the rubble.
She came to the car and got the rest of the pieces, not letting me back inside. I stated that I didn’t know there were houses in this neighbourhood, and she smiled at me with her kind eyes. She said there were only two or three. I have noticed a lot of people being kind to me today. When I awoke the next morning, I would see a text that arrived in the night, thanking me again, and telling me that I am a good person.
Earlier that afternoon, I was in a diner discussing my local pension board with the current chair, seeing where I could help. She was giving me a long and storied history about the various trials and tribulations the board had gone through. It horrified and enthralled me. I kept my face relatively neutral, aided by the Botox in my brows, and flip-flopped in my head throughout the conversation whether I was up for the challenge or scared off entirely. I could see the many realities in which I would be totally overwhelmed. By the end of the conversation, I agreed to run as vice-chair. Later, I got that feeling I sometimes get when I am really, really happy, almost drunk on utter joy. I used to wonder if I was manic in these moments, because I felt like I could do anything, achieve any dream. These moments are usually brought on by some sort of professional feat and fade quickly. I thought I could do it, that maybe I really could be somebody.
With the last piece in the house, I close my hatch. She thanks me again, and I swear her eyes are twinkling. She told me in her original message that she had her younger brother sleeping on her camping mattress on the floor and that this would be so much better. I just needed the garage space. When I crawl into the driver’s side and adjust the seat, I think that I could get a better shot of the dog on the roof if I tried another angle. I decide against it, and drive into the night, thinking.
In this version of the universe, my brother takes himself to the hospital in another province to convince us he’s not crazy, and they don’t let him out. My relief and grief are twisted into a nasty knot. One time, he told me he could talk to anyone, whether they were a five-star general at the NATO chess tournament or a guy living on the streets. He can just see a lot of perspectives. I can see a lot of versions of reality, too. These last months, I’ve cycled through every thought. Is he sick? Is he well? Is he manic again, or is this just another way to be? I can see things through his eyes, and my mother’s; his eyes, and my father’s; his eyes, and my wife’s. His eyes, and the eyes of the eventual police officer who will either shoot him or be shot by him. Maybe in this universe, he lives.
*This photo essay was the honourable mention of the creative non-fiction category of our 15th annual Writing in the Margins contest, judged by River Halen. We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Regina Public Interest Research Group (RPIRG) for this year’s contest.
