Tuesday 29 November 2011

Metric - The Police and the Private - Marina McNeil

A while back I said that Art for Art was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about a Metric song "The Police and the Private". After our conversation, Alastair (said friend and actual genius thinker behind A4A) sent out an email to five other friends, myself included, asking if we would each write a short story that represented our interpretations of the song. It was summer and none of us did it. But then, when A4A started up mid-November I emailed the gang and asked if we could do it, this time for real. I got nothing but positive responses and I'm pleased to present to you the first of the five short stories by Marina McNeil. In coming months you will also be introduced to the interpretations of "The Police and the Private" by Alastair Pollock, Kristy Kalin, Layne Merryfield and myself.

Here it is, "The Police and the Private":


Before we jump into Marina's short story, here is what she has to say about the creative process and the inspiration she drew from the song:

I first heard Metric late one night while I was watching that old CBC program ZeD (does anyone remember this? It was awesome for a cable-less kid like me). I was 17; coming out of a punk phase, and really fucking pissed off... that kind of anger that comes with youth and just can't be replicated once you age. Throughout university I fell in love with Metric and Emily Haines' funky dance moves, writing feminist school papers, and Natalie Portman's mad acting chops. "The Police and the Private" always reminded me of V for Vendetta and the intensity of a society stretched so taut it is almost about to break. I am attracted to music that can do something unexpected, like pair a sweet low tempo melody with unnerving and tense lyrics. The musicians mess with us, making us think the tune will be a wee ditty we can jam to mindlessly and then make us stop and think about what they're actually saying. Like the first half of V for Vendetta, the song gives us a false sense of calm with something bubbling under the surface.

THE POLICE AND THE PRIVATE

Every day when I wake up I feel as though my heart is beating so fast it is going to break through my ribs, tear open my flesh and race away from my body. It takes 6.5 to 7 minutes to normalize the rapid speed of my pulse, depending on the day. Wednesday in particular requires almost 7.25 minutes for full rate reduction. 

After I have calmed my nerves I begin my morning rituals. At 0704 I rise from bed to put the sheets in order and set out my uniform. Once my clothes are prepared I program the shower to disperse 7.6 litres of water per minute at a temperature of 41 degrees Celsius for optimum cleanliness. After 6.75 minutes of showering I towel dry, perform my hygienic measures, and dress for the day. At 0718 I ingest 1200mg of medication with a pre made meal for maximum early morning sustenance. At 0728 I don my outerwear and wave my hand over the digital membrane to register my residential departure. 

I used to get frequent panic attacks when I was a child. The physicians at the Edification Institute prescribed a variety of treatments but every day I would wake up sweating and shaking, not knowing where I was and shouting words I didn't understand. I felt like a thousand voices were shouting my name inside my own head by I didn't recognize any of them. The other children would stare at me and that made me even more afraid until a nurse would come and carry me off to the infirmary.  This continued for approximately eight to ten more months until I finally settled into the routine of the Institute as it was supplying me with applicable preparation for my designated profession. 

After a brisk walk I arrive at the Quadrant C Eastbound train station at 0747. Quadrant C is one of the Central High Density quadrants of the city and there is always an abundance of activity in the area. On the south side of the train tracks, citizen arrive and take positions on the platform, an architecturally pleasing structure with its slick and clean cement, steel beams holding up a wide and protective glass awning reflecting a glare of morning light. Each citizen stands equidistant from each other behind a yellow safety bar lining the edge of the platform, each at designated train entrance points. 

On the other side of the train tracks are some old dingy cafes and little shops that sell various bits and nostalgias to shady characters that looks though they might be unregistered. Oddities crowd the unwashed windows of these junk boutiques that people slip in and out of like mirages. Peeking eyes can sometimes be glimpsed from the flats above but they quickly disappear once they think they've been spotted. I can't help but wonder about these hidden humans and what they do when they are alone in these cold, dark rooms, afraid of the creak of a door or the eyes of a stranger. 

At 0750, four sharp electronic gongs in a consistent rhythm bring the platform to alertness. Each patron drops their belongings on the ground and stands spread-eagled awaiting passenger screening. But instead of security agents inspecting the platform, a stream of officials fill the sidewalk on the opposite side of the tracks, zoning in on the front door of an out of business sandwich shop. Two thick-looking agents carry a short but effective battering ram and after pounding the door three times the old wood gives way and the officials rush in. Within 1.25 minutes one of the tick agents emerges with a child in his arms thrashing and wailing and fighting to escape. 

When I was in the infirmary at the Institute there was a girl who was sometimes in the cot next to me with her arms all bandaged up. One day when the nurses were out of the room she whispered to me "I know what you scream about" but would not say anything else even though I probed her for answers. Each time I saw her she would say something cryptic like, "You must get out before you are all gone" but one time a nurse overheard us and I didn't see here again until the day I saw her jump from the top of the wireless communications tower. I stopped waking up screaming after that. 

The child in the officer's arms is approximately five to six years of age, although it is hard to tell children's ages with so few of them located in this quadrant. Tearing out of the broken doorway is a bedraggled woman approximately 32-36 years of age. She is shrieking as though someone has torn one of her limbs from its socket, a wail that slices into your heart. Her bony arms under her greying garments scrabble at the official holding her child and she slashes her fingernails across his eyes. Cringing from the pain the agent loosens his grip on the child enough for it to scramble away and be scooped up by its mother. She frantically clutches the child to her and tries to hurry away from the security agents but there are too many, a dozen of them coming from all angles. They snatch and grab and tear the pair apart. The child's oscillating cries hammer the air as the whole platform watches in silence. The mother makes one last grasp from her child as it is loaded onto a truck but is promptly pepper sprayed by an official and thrust down onto the concrete. The truck roars away leaving the mother outside the sandwich shop holding her face in her hands. She slowly raises her head and howls one long howl of agony into the void, crouching on the side of the train tracks, her red and swollen eyes raining tears onto the pavement, helpless and alone. 

I board the train when it arrives 4.5 minutes later at 0800 sharp.

* * *

Marina McNeil, also known as Marina McAwesome, is a graduate of the University of Calgary with a Bachelor of Arts in English. She is currently working at Mount Royal University Admissions, The Mount Royal Conservatory, and as a private tutor. You know you want to read more of her stuff, so check out her blog. For more on Marina visit the contributors page. Woot Woot. 

For more on Metric, say ILOVEMETRIC!!!!

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