Scene 11

He hopes tonight to do some things that he has been wanting to in his downtime; namely to read and watch a movie. Tired and sore-eyed, he quickly gives up after a few paragraphs of his novel.

He hangs it all and makes microwaved popcorn, which he promptly covers in melted margarine.

Back to the living room, he turns on the TV. Before turning on the DVD player he is distracted by the French CBC. There is an eight-piece band playing a beautiful pop anthem beneath lights of red, orange and white.

It’s songs like this that remind him of his wish to fly, or at least to be shot out of a cannon.

Everyone in this band sings but the two horn players. He overwhelmingly approves. The hipster who stands out as front man is subdued but captivating with a voice amost velvet.

He listens to several songs, including one called Saskatchewan. He remembers having heard it on CBC2. It is sung by a guitar player (less than hipster) who delivers the last syllable of the title province in a nasal Quebec drawal. It is grating on the ear but has it’s appeal.

He is moved enough by it all that he writes down the band’s name when it appears at the bottom of the screen. He plans on looking them up and sending them off to his friend who spoke fluent french by the time he was 16.

He is always skeptical about reading literature in translation. He wonders if he would feel this way (flying, or just shot out of a cannon) if the lyrics were in English.

He looks down at his greasy left hand, the kernel and popcorn shards left swimming in margarine.

He hears a woman’s speaking voice. Because it is French and he is American, he immediately turns his head toward it. The young woman on the screen, the host it seems, says “merci” to several of the musicians. She has light brown skin and is the type of beauty that must be hidden away in late-night-foreign-language-public-television.

She makes him feel something unreasonable, like he wants to watch this stranger from the corner of the room.

The band strikes up as the credits roll. Back to the kitchen, he rinses the bowl in the sink. Returning to the tv, there is a shot on screen of perfect blue water, and overhead of an island scene. It switches abruptly to one of drear and grey.

There are no musicians. There are no topless French women.

The TV is off and he is gone to bed.