__October 16, 1996 a Over The Edge 7

Desperate Pleas...
con't...from page 5
heat, then tore it from the wall
when the furnace begin to
rumble. It should climb up to
around sixty degrees in fifteen
minutes, I thought. The roaches
will love it. I walked back to the
sofa and saw that some of the
little buggers were already
coming out.
I climbed back out the
window and went to the car.

off, ate breakfast, got a couple

of coffees to go and headed

back to the house.

I parked the car, reached
under the dash and pulled out a
pipe filled with strong
marijuana. “Here,” I said,
passing the pipe to Steve.

He stuck the pipe between his
lips and raised a match to the
bowl. The aroma filled the car
and we were lost in a haze of
blue smoke.

This is wonderful, I thought.
At nine a.m. I saw the
landlord pull up into the
driveway, followed by an
official looking car. The man
inside was the sheriff, sent to
post The Order. The two men
walked to the door,
knocked...knocked again and
finally, tried the lock.
Nothing. He fumbled with the
key, trying to ram it into the
keyhole, but it wouldn’t work.

Steve was waiting. We drove

Student Success? The
Saga
Sabina: I’ve got to haul ass to the library and get going on
this term paper, but I am totally clueless about what to
write on.
Me: What’s the assignment exactly?
Sabina: The prof just said a research paper on a course
topic of our choice— 2,000 words.
Me: Brutal. What are you interested in?

Sabina: Free Trade.
Me: What about free trade?

by Jason

Sabina: Sort of will it destroy our sovereignty or national
identify?

Me: Are those the same?

Sabina: Maybe not. Sovereignty is political.

Me: Are there any other kinds of sovereignty besides

political?
Sabina: I suppose economic. Cultural. That’s getting pretty broad. I think I better
stick with political.

Me: Is the prof interested in the topic?

Sabina: When I okayed it with him, he said he’d followed free trade negotiations
closely but in the last couple of years was too busy to pay much attention. Maybe an
update would be good.

Me: At the Learning Skills Center they’d also ask if spending dozens of hours
researching this topic going to help you on you mid-term or final?

Sabina: Free trade is a whole chapter in our text and we had two guest lecturers on it.
Me: will all you learn about free trade help you in your career? :
Sabina: Since I don’t have a career... Well, I’m interested in the arts mainly, and free
trade could totally affect the theater and film in Canada.

Me: So do you want to focus on political sovereignty or on artistic independence?
Sabina: All right! I’ve got my topic: Has free trade hurt the arts in Canada? This is
ragin’. Jason, you’re a genius.

Me: I didn’t tell you to do anything. Don’t look at me as if I know everything. I don’t
even know why you sit beside me every morning when you get on the bus.

He seemed confused at first, but
he soon realized that his efforts
were useless. The old man
slammed his fist against the
door, then kicked it. It was clear
he had been seized by a
righteous fit of rage....he
wanted inside his house. But the
simple mechanics wouldn’t
permit an easy entrance.

The sheriff stood by watching

grimly and shook his head. It
was obvious that he’d been
through this type of thing
before. He knew, somehow,
that what was to follow would
not be pleasant.

Resigned, the old man headed
for the back door. The sheriff
followed.

Steve and I were humming
along just fine. The weed had
brought us into a comfortable,
warm world. We smiled easily
and thought good thoughts.

Through the window, I could
see the landlord, sheriff in tow,
moving from room to room.
The old man shook his head,
smacked his forehead, threw his
arms into the air and flapped
around like a lunatic.

Steve was laughing like a
fiend.

Five minutes later, the old
man came running out to his
car. He popped the trunk and
pulled out a bucket and what
appeared to be a box of rags.
He didn’t bother to close the
trunk...whatever it was that
demanded his attention was far
more important than his car.

“He’s found the bathtub,”
Steve said.

“Yup. We should have
stripped the faucet...or smashed
it right off the wall. But then I
suppose the water would have
come out too fast. I guess he’s
figured out that the drain is
fucked. That’s pretty good
thinking on his part.”

Steve agreed. “He’s not an
idiot. In fact, I think he’s a
plumbing contractor.”

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“Then he should have a pretty
good idea of how much it’s
going to cost him to fix things

up.”

_ Steve thought for a minute,
then said, “You know, ifhe’s a
plumber, I don’t understand
why he never bothered to fix
things...I mean, if something
was wrong, I’d_ call and tell
him. But he always said that it
was my problem. ‘You rented
the house, you fix it.’”

“Well, not any more,” I said.
“This should teach that bastard
a good lesson in tenant/landlord
relations.”

Steve smiled. “Serves him
right. He won’t fuck with
serious people again.”

“T wouldn’t go that far, He’ll
fix things just enough so that
he’ll be able to rent it out again.
But I'll bet you right now that
he won’t even get an inspection
done to certify everything.”

“Does he have to?”

“Well, not technically. But if
he’s going to do major repairs
he should have a building
inspector come in and check
that the wiring is safe...that kind
of thing. On the other hand, if
that sheriff is smart, he’l! see
the place for what it really is.
Slums like that aren’t rare...but
there are some things that go
beyond what is acceptable. The
sight of ten thousand roaches
feasting on a tin of cat food
should be enough to shut that
bugger down for good.”

“At least the sheriff should
order a fumigation.”

The thought of those roaches
made me cringe. Steve seemed
to sense this, because he began
twitching badly. It was as
though the roaches were
actually crawling up his leg and
he was trying desperately to
shake them off.

Finally, the landlord came
back outside. He spotted us

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con't...on page 11