I'm Not Scared of You or Anything Read online

  I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU

  OR ANYTHING

  Stories by

  JON PAUL FIORENTINO

  Illustrations by

  MARYANNA HARDY

  I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU

  OR ANYTHING

  Stories by

  JON PAUL FIORENTINO

  Illustrations by

  MARYANNA HARDY

  Copyright © 2014 by Jon Paul Fiorentino

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief passages in reviews. Any request for photocopying or other reprographic copying of any part of this book must be directed in writing to access: The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5.

  Anvil Press Publishers Inc.

  P.O. Box 3008, Main Post Office

  Vancouver, B.C. V6B 3X5 CANADA

  www.anvilpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Fiorentino, Jon Paul, author

  I’m not scared of you or anything / Jon Paul Fiorentino; Maryanna Hardy, illustrator

  Short stories.

  ISBN 978-1-77214-020-0 (epub)

  1. Hardy, Maryanna, 1977-, illustrator II. Title.

  PS8561.I585I4 2014 C813’.6 C2014-900725-6

  Editor for the press: Brian Kaufman

  Art: Maryanna Hardy

  Design: Jon Paul Fiorentino

  This book is set in Caslon and Museo Slab

  Represented in Canada by the Publishers Group Canada

  Distributed by Raincoast Books

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Canada Book Fund, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Printed and bound in Canada

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  The characters in I’m not Scared of You or Anything are invigilators, fake martial arts experts, buskers, competitive pillow fighters, drug runners, and, of course, grad students. This collection of comedic short stories and exploratory texts is the ninth book by the critically acclaimed and award-winning author Jon Paul Fiorentino. Deftly illustrated by Maryanna Hardy, these texts ask important questions, like: How does a mild mannered loser navigate the bureaucratic terrain of exam supervision? What happens when you replace the text of Christian Archie comics with the text of Hélène Cixous? And, most important of all, what would it be like if Mr. Spock was a character in the HBO series Girls?

  Illustrated throughout by the wonderful, full colour artwork of Maryanna Hardy!

  “I’m sure something scares Jon Paul Fiorentino, and maybe it drives him toward the deadpan magic he wields so masterfully in these pages. This is a daring and funny collection.” – Sam Lipsyte

  “Fiorentino takes the path you’re on in life and sidesteps it just enough to create surreal little worlds, worlds where you can’t help but burst out laughing. A master of dark, comedic timing, he’s perfectly complemented by the delicate, terrifying, and hilarious illustrations of Maryanna Hardy. This book is one of my favourite reads in ages.” – Chip Zdarsky

  I never told a joke in my life.

  —Andy Kaufman

  CONTENTS

  I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU OR ANYTHING

  PILLOW FIGHT

  IT SEEMS LIKE SEX IS A WEIRD THING THAT USED TO HAPPEN TO ME SOMETIMES

  #SWEETPROTIPS

  CRITICAL THEORY ARCHIE

  LIFE IS DIFFICULT BUSINESS, PERRY

  THE PARABLE OF BRYAN DONG

  INVIGILATOR

  THE PROBLEM WITH LESLIE

  PEN PALS

  SYSTEMA VLAD

  WHEN IT GOT A LITTLE COLD

  TEEN WOLF QUOTES SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK

  MR. SPOCK SAYS THINGS FROM EPISODES OF GIRLS

  JON PAUL FIORENTINO INTERVIEWS HIS MOTHER

  I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU

  OR ANYTHING

  Here’s what happened, Ingrid. I was shocked to see you. The bar you walked into is undoubtedly my bar. I live across the street for Christ’s sake. They have a special tall glass just for me for my double vodka sodas. You know all this. If you don’t want me in your life then perhaps you should not go to the bar where I always am. Anyways, I was pretty nerve-wracked to see your weird face, Ingrid. It was only the second time I have seen your weird face since you returned from your work assignment in the United Arab Emirates, and it has been hard for me to come to terms with the fact that you are here, but you are not here with me. You should know by now that this is all I want.

  I was glad to hear about your cousin Maria’s successful liver transplant and I was truly enjoying our conversation, Ingrid. I was happy we could sit down, on that patio, at my bar, and communicate the way people might in the real world. But here’s what happened. And I hope it makes you understand a little bit better about that night.

  Around two hours before I headed to my bar, I had ordered pot from my pot delivery guy. I don’t know if you recall from our eight-month relationship, but I really like to smoke the pot on the regular in order to forget all of those awful things that happened to me and continue to happen to me. Anyways, it was taking, like, forever, so I cancelled the delivery. I had to get downtown by 11 pm to meet friends and I can’t properly go downtown to meet friends without having a double vodka soda in my glass at my bar first. As you were telling me about Maria and your family’s struggles to find the right donor, I noticed my pot delivery guy bounding up my stairs. He was actually bounding. I wish you could have seen it.

  I suppose if I weren’t so panicky, I could have said, “Hey, Ingrid, check out the guy bounding up my stairs!”

  But I did not do that and there is no going back. So when I dropped my cigarette and ditched my drink and sprinted across the street, that’s why. It was the pot guy. I’m not scared of you or anything.

  So I don’t know how much of the rest you saw, so I will just tell you. I bought three ounces of “White Widow” from Jeremy, the pot guy. And then he bounded down the stairs and I sauntered down shortly after. I was about to rejoin you across the street when suddenly, as things often happen in stories, a blinding light shone right in my face.

  I squinted and quickly realized that it was a police searchlight.

  I froze just like a guy in a police searchlight, which, indeed I was. I couldn’t see beyond the cruiser car. I don’t know if you were looking. It seems to me that you probably were on account of the brightness of the searchlight. Ingrid, I honestly did not know what to do. It occurred to me that the police would likely stop me if I jaywalked. I glared directly at the officer in the driver’s seat and declared, “I am not going to jaywalk!” Did you hear this? I said it really loud. I stepped back onto the sidewalk and gingerly made my way to the corner where I could cross in a legal and gingerly fashion. The searchlight followed me. As I crossed the street, legally, at the next green light, the police car did a U-turn (an illegal one I might add) and kept its light on me. I felt like I was on stage, walking toward you, Ingrid. I was exceptionally nervous but there was this strange and beautiful sense of theatre that I thought you might appreciate if you were watching, which again, I assumed you were. But when I arrived on the patio, you were gone. I don’t know when you bailed, but it was crushing to think that you missed this spectacle. Do you miss me?

  More things happened, Ingrid. It would be irresponsible not to tell you of these things. I left my bar and I walked toward downtown. The police were still there. But the searchlight was off. They slowly trailed me for a block or two until I hailed a cab. And that was that.

 
I met Jason and Clara downtown at that bar we used to have veggie burgers at. You know the one. Our bar? I suppose I was a little shaken from the police thing. But if I’m being honest, which I am, I was more shaken by seeing you and your weird face. Because I still love you and your weird face so much.

  Ingrid, I don’t know exactly how to say this because it will sound strange. But the rest of the night had pretty much everything to do with the dude from Iron Maiden.

  I don’t really know the band, and I don’t think you do either.

  But I want to say that he was the bassist from Iron Maiden, but I am not entirely sure if that’s the case. The bartender pointed him out as “the dude from Iron Maiden,” and so that is what I will refer to him as. He was alone but looking for company. He asked Clara and Jason and me if we knew what a Baby Aspirin was. I assumed he was not referring to an actual Baby Aspirin (which would clearly be some sort of Aspirin for babies) but, in fact, some sort of alcoholic shot. So I said no. And so did Clara and Jason.

  “It’s vodka, orange juice, and Triple Sec!” he said. “It’s fuckin’ delicious!”

  He ordered a round for the four of us as we all took seats up at the bar. The Baby Aspirins, I have to admit, were pretty fuckin’ delicious. Clara and Jason started making out and their hands got real busy on each other. The dude from Iron Maiden said, “Right on.” And his hands got a little busy on Clara and Jason.

  I’m not going to lie to you, Ingrid, the dude from Iron Maiden seemed magical. He was like an old mystical dude who just lifted everyone’s spirits. I have never really understood the appeal of any kind of music that wasn’t adult contemporary. But I have to admit that his presence alone made me want to buy an Iron Maiden T-shirt at the very least. But I was still sullen. Sullen because of the events that took place earlier in the night regarding you and your weird face and the police and the searchlight.

  The dude from Iron Maiden looked me square in the eyes and said, “Do you know what your problem is, bub?”

  I had to say no. Although I am aware of all of the problems I currently have. I just didn’t know which one was the one he meant. “Well neither do I. Because I don’t fuckin’ know you. But if I were to guess, I would say it’s that you are a massive pussy.” Then he slapped me on the back and said, “Live a little!” and ordered another round of Baby Aspirins.

  The Baby Aspirins were pretty fuckin’ delicious again. He yanked my barstool closer and gave me a stern-yet-tender look. “Listen, bub. I’ll level with you. You know about Iron Maiden, right? You know why we are the number one band in the world?” Again, I had to say no. “Magic, bub. We’re all card-carrying wizards. Real-life fuckin’ wizards.”

  “Really?”

  “Black magic is the key to our success. I am the senior wizard. I can cast any spell and it instantly will become reality.”

  “Gosh.”

  “Seriously, bub. If you tell me the thing you want most in this world, I will make it happen.”

  Ingrid, I have to tell you the truth. I asked him to make you love me like you used to and for us to be together. The dude from Iron Maiden laughed a deep, echoing bellylaugh, interrupting Jason and Clara’s grope session and getting the attention of the entire bar. “I’m no wizard, you idiot! I’m just fuckin’ with you, you fuckin’ fuckwit.” Everyone laughed at me. But honestly, Ingrid, how was I to know? He seemed like a magical wizard in pretty much every way. Then the dude from Iron Maiden draped his arms around me like a mother condor. “Listen, kid: there are a million things in this universe you can have and there are a million things you can’t have. It’s no fun facing that, but that’s the way things are.”

  Ingrid, you know that I have a problem with confrontation, but I could not let this stand. “You stole that from Captain Kirk! That’s what Captain Kirk says to Charlie X in the episode, ‘Charlie X’!”

  “That is true. But it doesn’t make what I said any less true. Hey, fuckers, let’s hit the strip club! Strippers and booze on me!” Jason and Clara were ecstatic. I remained hunched over. Still. Sullen.

  “You guys go ahead. I have some big-time thinking to do,” I said.

  And so they went. Jason and Clara and the dude from Iron Maiden. Off into the steamy Montreal night. Off to enjoy strippers and booze the way well-adjusted, happy people would do in such a context. I realize what you might be thinking, Ingrid. I should have gone with them.

  If only for the life experience or the story. I will not get another chance to spend quality time with the dude from Iron Maiden. I realize this. But I want you to realize something too: I said no to the dude from Iron Maiden. And I said no to strippers. I will always be loyal to you.

  PILLOW FIGHT

  I first discovered I had a gift for pillow fighting when I was a young boy of eight and my dead older sister, Marjorie, who wasn’t dead at the time, was having one of her regular pre-teen sleepovers. Marjorie enjoyed punching me, but Marjorie’s friends enjoyed practicing kissing with me in order to prepare for their inevitable dating lives. I, even at the age of eight, was an object of desire. Gladys, Marjorie’s best friend, initiated a pillow fight with me.

  They stood on Marjorie’s bed and swung away at each other, giggling and generally enjoying the moment. Then I belted her so hard on the head with my double-soft feather pillow that she fell over and fractured her skull on the night table. Gladys turned to a life of drugs and home invasions in her twenties and I felt partially responsible for her downward life trajectory. And then when Marjorie’s life fell apart and she joined her best friend in a life of petty crime and illicit drugs, I suppose I blamed Gladys for enabling her. Anyway, it was then and there, in my sister’s bedroom, that I truly knew the power of my stroke. I swore I would only pillow fight again under conditions that were safe and guaranteed by a legitimate sanctioning body.

  Every competitive pillow fight league in the city was designated as women-only. I had to lobby the Montreal Recreation Board for a full calendar year before they let me compete. My bureaucratic victory was consummated by the invocation of the rules and regulations of the Montreal Recreation Board, specifically, Sub-section 7.6, Item 7.601, which states: “Participation in any intramural sport shall not be denied to anyone on the basis of race, colour, religion, national origin, gender, age, disability, citizenship, veteran status, or sexual orientation.” Had the board not been so sloppy in the authorship of their rules and regulations, I may not have had the opportunity to compete at the highest possible level of pillow fighting. Now five games in, my pillow fight record was two and three. I was under .500, but I was also a rookie. And the women I was fighting were seasoned veterans of the pillow fight circuit.

  One of my victories was accomplished by surrender on the part of my opponent. The other was won by pin-hold. My losses were all the result of the judges’ decision, which led me to believe that there was a bias against me in the community. Organized sport is often rife with dirty politics.

  The specific circuit I had chosen to participate in is called the Montreal Central Pillow Fight League. I had chosen this specific league because, unlike the other Pillow Fight Leagues in the city, this one held its matches not in a dive bar but in a fairly respectable establishment called Café Arts/Maison du Coffee et Bière. There were fewer local boozehounds to heckle me as I honed my craft. I needed to block all distractions from my mind, to forget about the stigma of being the only male, the condescending and downright cruel attitude of my pillow fight peers, and the consistent rumours that the Montreal Recreational Board had already begun the process of redrafting their rules and regulations. None of this mattered when it was time to enter the ring, clutch my lucky Queen size K-Mart brand aromatherapy pillow, and start swinging.

  The Montreal Central Pillow Fight League Champion, Constance Cummings, had defeated me already this year and was, without a doubt, the queen bee of the Montreal pillow fighting community. I had always dreamed of being the queen bee, but I had a hard time preparing for this match. Marjorie was gone, and her absen
ce was the only ever-present thing in my life. I put on my lycra, one-piece, lime green uniform with matching headband and set off for the café. I preferred not to change in the washroom at the café for fear of fungal infections such as ringworm or Tinea pedis. Public washrooms were never my cup of tea, as it were.

  The pillow fight match began slowly with Cummings and I sparring with each other at half-speed, and using footwork to establish both territory and rhythm. Cummings began to dominate the match in the second round. I did not block her heavy blows effectively and I began to feel defeated. My mind could not free itself from thoughts of Marjorie, her suspension from nursing school, her brief career as a cat burglar, the botched home invasion, the shotgun wound, the resulting death.

  In the midst of the pummeling I was taking I felt a surge of energy. I experienced many things at once. Anger. Rage. Confusion. Hunger. Itchiness. Something entered me. Not literally. Some sort of non-literal thing. There was a beast inside me. Again, not literally. A figurative beast. I took a step back and glared at Cummings, and all I could see was Gladys. I was transported back to that fateful night when I had first discovered my talent. I started landing two-hander after two-hander to Cummings’s face, fury and feathers flying. I pirouetted and executed an attack of equal grace and ferocity. I pinned her. It felt good to win. I looked down toward hell and said, “This one’s for you, Marjorie!” I wonder if she heard me.

  IT SEEMS LIKE SEX IS A

  WEIRD THING THAT USED TO

  HAPPEN TO ME SOMETIMES

  The truth is I was a very disturbed individual. I still am. But I am at peace with it now. Not too long after I began to experience all of the panic attacks and all of the sadness attacks, I signed up for a screening interview to ascertain whether or not I was a suitable candidate for cognitive therapy.