Page 125 of Bless This Hot Mess

The Ark looked less like a vessel of salvation or seaworthiness and more like a very determined shed that had decided it was sick of being landlocked. Ronald’s backyard had never seen so much activity. The grass bore the scars of tire treads and dragged lumber. The fence was draped in extension cords; strung up strings of Edison bulbs bobbed in the breeze overhead; and a pair of sequinned hot pants had finally been found and returned to their owner after having been over boarded in a hurry during a game of capture the pirate’s bounty that we unfortunately don’t have time to revisit, but trust me it was a wonderful watch party. The air smelled like sawdust, Teen Spirit, and blissfully naïve ambition.

Underneath it all, was the faint persistent sweet tang of the river. The Napanee lay a few blocks away, patient in its flow, waiting for whatever foolish thing the humans decided was worthy to try to skip across it, attempt to submerge and have forgotten, or occasionally to float upon.

The Ark itself was squatting on a trailer, hitched to the back of a borrowed pickup truck. Ronald had overbuilt it in every possible way. Its sides were reinforced plywood, sanded smooth and painted an optimistic sky blue. Japheth had painted a sweeping rainbow across one side, with a cartoonish dove carrying a CD in its beak. On the other, Carrington had christened it 96.5 THE ARKGood News, Good Tunes.

Inside the hulking hull it was pure creative chaos. Wires snaked like ivy across the walls. The salvaged mixing boardfrom WWJD sat on a sturdy table, polished until its faders gleamed. There were three microphones on swing arms, each adorned with a small personal touch. Rebekkah’s mic stand wore a back-up scrunchie. Japheth’s had a shaving mirror so he could ensure his hair stayed in place while on air, and Ronald’s had a small basketball net fixed around the neck of the mic like a tutu or an Elizabethan collar.

The ON AIR sign, rescued from storage, had been rewired and hung above the doorway, ready to glow. Fairy lights looped from corner to corner, casting a forgiving golden hue over everything. Foam panels, cut to size, had been stapled to the walls in an optimistic attempt at soundproofing.

There was a small couch under one window, its floral pattern barely visible under a heaping pile of throw pillows. A hot plate and electric kettle huddled in one corner ready to soothe hunger and sore throats. A whiteboard that was slightly askew outlined show segments scrawled in five different handwritings in five different colours.

And in a nod to their ancestry, a little wooden plaque was screwed just inside the door, the oldWWJD Bless This Hot Messhandmade sign. Its carved praying hands or loaf of bread or inert doves were newly sprinkled with sawdust from getting the ark in seaworthy shape but were otherwise still intact and good as new.

“Ready?” Ronald asked, sweat gleaming on his forehead as he tightened the last tie-down strap on the trailer.

“No,” Carrington answered, straightening the collar of their cobalt-blue wind suit. They dragged behind them a plastic tub labelled STUDIO ESSENTIALS in purple Sharpie. Out of it spilled a microphone stand, a fistful of cassette tapes, a lava lamp, and something that looked like a karaoke machine from a clearance bin at Zellers. “But I’m dressed forrain or wind, and I have my bathing suit underneath just in case.”

Carrington had gone full launch-day glam. The wind suit cinched at the waist with a wide silver belt, sleeves rolled to show a stack of bangles, white sneakers so pristine they might have gone through the dishwasher. Their hair, in a high curly ponytail, bounced with every movement. A headset rested around their neck as they’d be doing triple duty going forward as receptionist, stylist to the stars and studio engineer even though Trinity generally insisted on doing everything by vibes. “Ronald,” they called, “I’m proud of you. Who’d have thought we could outfit the Ark as a radio station. You built this dream for all of us.”

Ronald, hammer in one hand, a roll of coaxial cable in the other, grinned in a way that always pierced Carrington’s icy heart. “I’m not doing anything that hasn’t already been done before. Noah did it. I’m pretty sure he outfitted his with satellite TV because forty days at sea? That’s gotta get rough without some entertainment. And he didn’t even have a Canadian Tire.”

Rebekkah emerged from the Ark and shouted to Ronald, “You’ve read exactly half of Genesis. Don’t make me fact-check you.” She tugged at the hem of her new dress. It was black and polka dot on top with a plunging neckline, and the skirt section was an array of long black strips of fabric, as if there’d been an emergency and medical sheers had been used to cut someone out of it. At any rate, when she walked, all the long strips of fabric created beautiful movement and one could imagine if she were to spin, she’d look like a giant squid, so it certainly fit the nautical theme of the day. Her bangs, such as they were, had been coaxed into a soft side sweep by Carrington, disguising the worst of the Jim Carrey asymmetry.

“If this thing sinks on launch,” she announced. “I want it noted that I died in an outfit appropriate for the cover of our posthumous greatest hits album.”

“You’re not dying, no one is dying today,” Suwarna said briskly, though she personally had packed, in her oversized leather tote, a laminated emergency evacuation plan, three whistles, a flare gun, and a Ziploc of ginger candies for motion sickness. Her usual office attire had been modified for nautical duty. She wore navy trousers, a striped boat-neck top, and a red blazer. She looked like a very serious cruise director determined to ensure no one dipped into anything fun until all waivers were signed. “Before we set sail,” Suwarna said crisply, “ground rules. One: No open flames. Two: Life jackets are mandatory. Three: Have a reasonable amount of fun.”

Japheth was perched dramatically on the bow, looking like an Abercrombie and Fitch model who had been sexily shipwrecked. His six pack was a ribbed washboard like the fish hadn’t been biting and his hair was somehow already adopting a salt-sprayed surfer wave though they were still blocks from the riverbank. His legs dangled; a notepad balanced on his knees. He was scribbling furiously, every now and then glancing toward the curb, as if half-expecting Rino Ferrari to deliver some more wood and encouragement. His face was sun kissed and his cheeks still greedily held onto the blush of last night’s encounter. He was reworking the lyrics of a love song, and his handwriting reflected his mood. Everyiwas dotted with a little heart.

He hopped down from the Ark, nearly twisting an ankle because his cowboy boots were not meant for maritime anything. They were intended to inspire oceanic ideas though and had been embroidered with blue waves and little silver anchors stitched along the sides. It was remarkable they’dstayed in a clearance bin at Value Village for so many months without any other takers before he spotted and rescued them.

“I’m ready,” he said, grinning. He wore an open button-up sky-blue shirt with tiny clouds printed all over it, unbuttoned and tucked into high-waisted white jeans. A yellow bandana was knotted jauntily around his neck. He looked like a gay televangelist’s idea of a sailor, which was to say practically perfect in every way.

Rino Ferrari leaned against his glossy Maserati at the curb, watching them with a look that held a lot of pride and a good dose of ‘I cannot believe I’m financially invested in this.’ The car gleamed, every black curve polished and its low beams beaming like the smile that Rino couldn’t seem to be able to wipe from his face. He had dressed down for the occasion in dark jeans, a fitted black turtleneck that stretched across his chest and biceps and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder that probably cost more than Ronald’s Ark. His dark hair was swept back just enough to look casual but not enough to be anything but deliberate knowing he’d be seeing his boyfriend today.

“You sure this trailer hitch can manage the weight?” he asked Ronald, impeccable eyebrows arched.

“This thing?” Ronald gave the metal connection a friendly kick. “Buddy, I used to move old hide-a-bed sofas with this. It’s fine. We’re as ready as Noah on day one of the flood.”

“On day one Noah didn’t have a trailer hitch, or a friend with a boat launch,” Rino said as he playfully punched Ronald in the arm to boost his confidence. “You’re already ahead.”

The group fell into a rhythm that could charitably be called teamwork. Ronald hammered and wired; Japheth tested sound levels with snippets of impromptu sermons; Rebekkah taped streamers along the railings for pizzazz;Carrington strung Christmas lights up the mast for ambiance; and Suwarna filled out a liability waiver for all present, initialed and signed in triplicate.

A small crowd had gathered along the sidewalk. Betty from Weinus, Weinus & Ware was there with a Tupperware of her nut-less date-nut squares. Diane from Saddles ‘n’ Spurs had closed for the afternoon to watch her favourite former employee Japheth launch his ‘Ark thingy’ and had brought buckets of fried chicken and fries for their inaugural journey. Teenagers had drifted over from the skate park, pretending not to care but still recording on a camcorder, forfeiting valuable tape space that would otherwise be filled with rail slides and biffs. They were secretly hopeful for a biff of Trojan proportions that would be worth the wait.

“Where’s Emma-Lou?” Rebekkah asked, scanning the street.

“She’s not allowed to be too publicly associated with us until her legal situation is… clarified,” Suwarna said carefully. “Stanford Weinus was very clear about the optics and potential plea bargains.”

“She’s going to be listening though,” Rino said, jerking his chin toward the horizon. “She’s at the family cottage and will be in the kitchen with the little portable radio with the dial tuned to 96.5 waiting for you to flip the switch. She’ll be huddled around the radio like she used to do with her parents, the fireplace roaring, a hot toddy in her cup, just like old times, but without her parents or the financial fraud.”

“That’s a really poignant portrait of her,” Carrington said. “I almost teared up until you reminded me of the fraud. Rino, you’re such a softie under that brutish exoskeleton.”

Rino’s grin grew even wider. He seemed to move with a new lightness, and a confidence that no longer felt like it was in an effort to keep his reputation clean; he wore it as easily asthe jacket thrown over his shoulder and it only added a facilité to his charm. “Alright gang, let’s see if this bad boy floats.”

The process of hauling the Ark through town was predictably both majestic and ridiculous. Rino’s Maserati took the lead, idling slowly down the street, its engine purring like a proud papa. The borrowed pickup tugged the towering trailer behind, Ronald at the wheel, teeth sunk into his bottom lip in concentration. Japheth and Rebekkah walked alongside, hands on the railings, as if they were pallbearers escorting a coffin, which in a way they were–the coffin of their old life, heading toward a resurrection in the river.

Carrington darted back and forth, photographing everything with a disposable camera to share the snaps with the Napanee Beaver, though the Beaver photographer was already on the scene. It seemed everyone in town had heard the good and bad news already. Suwarna walked with her clipboard held out like a hymnal, checking off items and making notes like CROWD CONTROL: adequate, 10:17 a.m.; MEDIA PRESENCE: on site and accounted for, 10:18 a.m.