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Part 3

19.
"Standing in a snowstorm
I see a flake that looks like me."
That's a line from his song. I kind of like it.
I might even understand it. I'm not much of a thinker or a meditater or whatever but I guess everyone at one point or another stops and thinks about 'the meaning of it all'. What their place is in this world, if anything they do matters, if we're
not all just nsignificant.
I think that way sometimes when I'm under a star filled night. In that huge void I feel just like a solitary
snowflake in a blizzard.

20.
Even though Robbie wasn't a skier he did love the snow. Maybe even more than I did. He loved to play in it just like any kid. Snowforts, tobogganing, snowball fights; what young boy doesn't love these things?
But his love went further.
I remember a day, we must've been about eleven, that sticks out with a bit of clarity. We had been playing in my basement, building a fort with cushions and boxes and blankets. It was coming along nicely and I thought we were pretty much done. But Robbie wanted to build another section and then connect the two with a large bottom-less box - a makeshift tunnel. So we headed upstairs in search of more materials i.e. more cushions.
Outside we saw that there was a full force blizzard in effect. It was a white out. With the snow blowing against the window I could barely make out the street out front. Drifts had already started to form several feet high and the storm didn't show any signs of letting up.
"Cool." Our faces were pressed up against the cold glass. On the inside feeling warm, looking outside where nature raged.
"C'mon, let's go outside." Robbie was already on his way to the hall closet to get his coat, his snow-pants and all his other winter clothing. "What?" I was quite happy watching the storm from the comfort of my living room.
"We gotta go stand in it." He already had his snow-pants on and was looking for his boots. "It'll be cool."
"Cold is more like it." I replied, ever the witty eleven year old. "You're crazy." He had found his boots and was lacing them up in a hurry, as if he might miss the show.
"Whatever. I'm going out there." And he did. I watched him from the window. He was mostly just a grey shape moving amidst the blowing white. Every now and then I lost sight of him completely. But he always returned; walking through drifts that were up to his waist, leaning into the wind at 45 degree angles just to stay upright, or just standing there letting the snow and wind swirl around him.
I watched him for about half an hour, always expecting him to come back in at any second. But he didn't and eventually I got bored and left my post at the window.
Eventually I guess he went home.
"Shuffling through the drifts towards nowhere
Shuffling through the drifts back home." - Robbie Morgan.

21.
And, of course, it didn't take long for Robbie's former bandmates to release an EP of earlier recordings. It was obviously reworked to sound more conventional, more mass appealing. It was nothing like what they had played together, nothing like the experimental noise I had heard. They had tried to blend in some pop sensibility. Robbie had done this and come up with genius. This new EP came up sounding like crap.
But it had a picture of Robbie on the cover and it was called "Orogenesis: Robbie Morgan's Self Written Eulogy."
So of course it sold millions.

22.
I sat staring out a window that night. Just trying to piece things together, make a bit of sense out of all this. All my feelings and all my lack of feelings.
His song played in my bedroom down the hall. I could only faintly here it, like a whisper.
And I finally cried that night, but I don't know if it was because of his death or because of his song. A little of both I suspect. Even through my tears I questioned myself.
I looked out into the night, at all the stars, and asked the question again. "Why?" And again no answer came.
All was silent except for his song playing softly in the room down the hall.

23.
He was cremated.
His father didn't know what to do with the ashes.
I remember talking to him about it. The first and only time I ever had anything approaching a real conversation with him. He was so shaken. He had phoned me up asking me to come over; some important stuff he needed to discuss. I couldn't tell over the phone that he was drunk.
So there I was sitting across from him at the kitchen table trying not to stare into his sunken eyes. He offered me a beer and what could I do but accept. So he handed me an Ex and poured himself a generous shot of J.D. Apparently he was saving the harder stuff for himself. His hand shook as he poured; from being drunk or nervous, I don't know.
I took a sip of my beer and looked around nervously. The same old kitchen I had known years ago. The same cracked green counter ran along one wall, the same yellow fridge stood in the corner, the same cupboard door hung on just one of it's hinges, even the same dishes were piled up in the rusted sink. The only thing different was that Robbie's dad was here and Robbie wasn't. I took a few more sips of beer while Mr. Morgan downed his drink. It only occurred to me then that I didn't even know his first name.
Finally he spoke.
"I don't even know if he would have wanted to be cremated," he said. What could I say to that? Nothing. I just raised the bottle to my lips again. I'm pretty sure that I was only there as an audience anyway. I looked out the dusty window. It was a grey day. Dark clouds hung over the sky threatening rain. The colours and textures were all dulled.
I finished my beer and he immediately brought me another. I hadn't asked for it but I gladly accepted it.
After slowly, deliberately, pouring himself another shot he continued.
"I wouldn't have know what to write on his tombstone. So I cremated him." He spoke to the table. One hand on his glass, one in his lap, his head and eyes downcast showing me his bald spot. "I mean, I don't pretend to have been a good father, I know what I was. What I am, it's no secret." He paused and took a slow sip. "But, Robbie, I didn't know anything about you...about him. How could I write an epitaph, I didn't know my son."
I think I saw a tear fall but I can't be sure. I finished my beer and got up to get myself a third, already beginning to feel a bit of a buzz.
"But now," a choke, "But now I don't know what to do with the ashes. What do I do with them?" He looked up at me and his eyes were moist and red. I knew it wasn't just the alcohol. His face was old, older than I'd ever seen it, and tears ran down the cracks and wrinkles. He really expected me to answer.
"I.." Now I started to get choked up. I took a long swallow from the bottle. "I don't know. I didn't really know him either, I hadn't hung around with him for years." I finished my beer. Got another.
"You were the only one I knew from his life. I didn't know who else to ask." Looking at him struggling and crying in front of me I couldn't remain dry-eyed. The tears started to flow as freely as the alcohol at that kitchen table. "I've got the ern in the music room right now. Maybe I'll just leave it there. Maybe that'd be best."
"Yeah, maybe it would," was all I could manage through my tears. And there we sat, drinking and crying - for a son he never knew and a friend I never understood.
And I really think it helped.

24.
I don't remember leaving that tired kitchen.
I just remember that suddenly I was outside again. Staring at the basement window again.
And it started to snow.

25.
I had a dream that night. A vivid one.
I'm standing in the Arctic all alone and in serious danger of freezing to death. I don't know how I got there, there are no tracks in the sand. The land is flat and snow covered for as far as the eye can see. No mountains or even hills anywhere. Yet there I stand in my ski suit and ski boots and with my skis over my shoulder.
I look around in scared wonderment.
And the wind starts to blow. Right through to the bones. I curl up into a tight ball, hugging myself to stay warm. My teeth chatter. My skin starts to freeze.
I look up and see a shape coming through the white out. As it gets closer I see that it is Robbie. He's only wearing jeans and a Q.E.D. T-shirt but he seems warm. And he's carrying a guitar, finger-picking a melody that gets lost in the wind before it can get to my ears.
I try to yell to him to save me. He just stands there in front of me, still playing. I'm talking to him, asking for help, for directions. Still he stands there picking a melody that I can't quite pick out. I notice his lips are moving but I can't hear any words. I can't even tell if he's talking to me or singing.
The wind slows down. And with it the snow settles. I think that now I will be able to hear Robbie, to communicate with him, to be saved. But as the wind dies and the snow stops moving; as the white out fades away so does Robbie. I can see him disappearing before my eyes - his fingers still picking, his mouth still moving until he's gone.
I'm left alone again in an infinite land of snow. Pure white all around me, clear blue above me. Not a cloud to mar the sky and not a footstep to mar the snow.
I start to scream and that's how I wake up.

26.
But I also once had a dream involving a large talking clam.
So I don't want to read too much into anything.

27.
I decided to leave town.
Things were getting crazy. Media mobs, teenage vigils. Too many tears and cameras.
Mr. Morgan stayed holed up in his house, presumably drinking himself into a stupor. He only left to cash in his many royalty checks and convert them into booze and token food.
I was scared for him. I hadn't seen him since our "talk" around his kitchen table. As far as I knew he hadn't stopped drinking since and Robbie's ashes still lay in the music room.
And it didn't take the media long to figure out who I was. They pressed me for answers I myself was searching for. I'd be lying if I said I hated it from the start. In a strange way I actually enjoyed the attention that came with being "the man mentioned in the song." I felt like somebody. But it got old real fast. It overwhelmed me. I began to loathe the cameras and the mics. I resented them for making me famous for someone else's death. I resented them for asking me questions I had to admit I couldn't answer.
So under the cover of the night I threw a few bags into the trunk of my car, put my skis on the roof and pulled out of my driveway and out of town. I was heading out west. I was finally going to take that cross-Canada drive.
One more thing Robbie gave me - an excuse to get off my ass and drive to the Rockies like I'd always dreamed.
His song was playing on the radio as I passed the 'You are now leaving Caroline" sign.


Installment 4



Photo by Avery Crounse
Appears in liner notes of the album "Trouble at the Henhouse" by the Tragically Hip

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