Mr. Waltham and the Canadians

A really weird story I wrote for no particular reason other than to say "f*****g Canadians" in it.

I am very angry. There is someone out there who has decided to take it upon themselves to abduct my cat. Now, there are times when I would really relish the solitude of not owning a pet – like the time when Mr. Waltham (my cat was named after a character in Clara Bow’s “It”) urinated in my bed (under the covers!) or the nights when he meows incessantly to go outside when he clearly knows that I am sleeping. However, he is mine and I wish to keep it that way. Plus, I really do love the cat. I really am going to kill whoever took him.

 

I know that he was taken – he did not just run away. I know this because I actually received a ransom note of sorts. Someone had scrawled “F**k you and your cat! Stay away from the Pioneer Room!” on my apartment door in lipstick. Now, I would be amused at the “F**k you and your cat!” portion of the message as it is clearly a Goldfinger reference. However, the part about staying away from the Pioneer Room really pissed me off.

 

The Pioneer Room is a little restaurant and bar in Pioneer Square in Seattle. It has been around only a few months, but it is steadily gaining popularity. Oftentimes, after a tour of the Seattle Underground lets out, the guests end up at the Pioneer Room. Diana, the proprietor, has hung up pictures of Seattle’s pioneers as well as old maps of the region and other assorted old stuff. It’s really a nice place in what used to be (like 120 years ago) a general goods store.

 

They have a nightly show at the Pioneer Room featuring local musicians ranging from rock bands to people who probably should just stick to karaoke. In any case, it goes over well and Diana usually never has problems finding people to play. Actually, in the past month, she’s had to turn some people away. I’m guessing whoever absconded with Mr. Waltham is one of those people. I’m guessing it’s someone who knows that I sometimes perform there (gosh – what deductive reasoning skills I possess!).

 

So, I’m guessing that this person, whoever they are, knows who I am and that Diana is not about to not give me a gig at the Pioneer Room because, well, I’m awesome. This person either knows enough about me to know where I live and that I even have a cat or this person inquired about me and got my address and then discovered that I had a cat. If only whoever this was would have thought it through. I’m sure there are plenty of other ways to intimidate someone into giving up their weekly gig. Either that or he or she doesn’t mind having a bed wetting cat (I know it was just the once, but it traumatized me!). I’m guessing it’s a girl because of the whole lipstick thing, but hey, it could be a guy too.

 

The first thing I did after seeing the note in lipstick upon my door and discovering that whoever wrote it had also taken Mr. Waltham, was to call Diana. I asked her if there was any other local acts that she knew didn’t like me. She couldn’t think of anyone. I told her what had happened and she about burst out laughing. I don’t blame her – it really is an entirely ridiculous situation. But she said she’d keep an eye out and get back to me if anyone seemed suspicious to her. I asked her for a list of acts that had been turned down for gigs and she gave me the name of a band (Waterfist) and a girl singer (Lillian Amery).

 

Now, I’m on the internet searching for info on these leads. It seems Waterfist just sucks a*s – horrible music, detestable lyrics, and no talent in playing musical instruments either. It is no wonder they were turned down. But perhaps they don’t know they suck so bad and could have delusions that they could actually have gotten a spot at the Pioneer Room had it not been for me. But there were no girls in the group and none of the guys really had a glam or cross dressing style, so unless one of their girlfriends’ lent them the lipstick for the message on my door, I’m guessing it wasn’t Waterfist.

 

Next, I’m checking out Lillian Amery. There is s**t-all about her online. One local paper article about her performing at a street fair in some county I’ve never been to (or at least don’t recognize by name). She doesn’t even have a myspace. I’m thinking I have my girl. I call up Diana again and tell her that I think it might be Lillian. She says that it could be, but it’s really against her policy to just give out other people’s numbers and that she’d just call Lillian herself and ask some questions.

 

So, if Diana won’t give out phone numbers, I’m guessing she won’t give out addresses either. Come to think of it, I don’t think she even knows my address or even the area of town I live in. So, the person who did this to me either knows me and where I live or followed me home. Creepy either way. And just plain pathetic.

 

A half an hour later, Diana calls back and says that she talked to Lillian, who apparently is allergic to cats. So, unless she’s lying, Lillian’s out as a potential suspect. Diana swears she asked the questions artfully and didn’t just come out and say “Did you recently kidnap a cat and write a threatening message in lipstick on the owner’s door?”

 

I decide to go down to the Pioneer Room that night for some reconnaissance work. I get all dressed up in clothes I would pretty much never wear and a hat and glasses and take a bus down there (no sense in getting my tires slashed too). I sit at a secluded table and order a water and just watch. The act that night is a PJ Harvey wannabe named Amy L’Omarille. She’s actually pretty good, so I tolerate the stealing of another person’s style. After her set, I clap as loudly as the rest of the people there and she notices me and comes over to sit at my table. I think this is kind of weird, but I’m not going to be rude to her.

 

“You sing here sometimes too, don’t you?” she asks in a baby soft, feminine voice that is nothing like her singing. “Yes, sometimes,” I answer. I’m really not much of a talker. “That’s nice,” she says and then walks away. Okay, weirdo.

 

I see that Diana is in the back, keeping a watch over the kitchen staff and I go back there to talk to her. “Hey, what’s with this Amy L’Omarille character? Why is she so weird?” I ask. “Oh, she’s Canadian.” Diana explains and I nod my head in understanding. Canadians are just weird. I should have guessed by her French last name that she might be a neighbor from the North. I wonder if she is aware of my feelings on Canadians and how I really just don’t like them.

 

During the next act, a trio of acoustic rock musicians, I see Amy sitting in a booth watching them. I approach and sit down across from her, blocking her view of the band. “So, have you seen me perform here before?” I ask her. She nods and smiles politely. I have already run out of things to say, so I just blurt out “Did you steal my cat and threaten me to stay away from the Pioneer Room?” Amy’s eyes get really big and her mouth flies open in a big “O”. I can’t tell if I’ve caught her or if she’s horrified that I would even suggest such a thing.  She then shakes her head, removing the expression of surprise from her face and immediately gets up and leaves. Now it’s my turn to be surprised.

 

Thinking I either have the cat stealing culprit or at least another example of why Canadians are weird, I follow Amy out of the club. She is huffing and puffing and muttering some Canadian gibberish to herself, so I don’t have to be as stealthy and quiet. She has no idea I’m behind her and I have no idea where she’s going. She just keeps on walking. Finally, she gets to a phone booth and dials a calling card (I’m guessing because it was so many freaking numbers she dialed). After a few minutes, she finally gets an answer.

 

“I think someone’s onto us” she says into the receiver. She turns furtively around and I duck into the doorway of a nearby store. “The one with the cat knows!” she gasped. I almost started laughing at how ridiculous this was, but decided to listen some more. As it was, the conversation was pretty much over. The only thing she said before she hung up was “The plan goes ahead!” F*****g Canadians.

 

Amy hangs up the phone and hails a taxi that really didn’t need to be hailed as it was just sitting there, waiting for her to get off the phone in the off chance that she actually did need a taxi. Guess it worked this time. In any case, I wasn’t about to hop in another cab and tell the driver to follow Amy’s cab – although that would have been awesome. I just went back to the Pioneer Room in search of Diana.

 

Diana was still back in the kitchen – this time helping out with the dishes. “Hey, Diana, is there anything else weird about that Amy chick other than her being Canadian? I’m pretty sure she’s the one that stole my cat – she said something to that effect when she made a phone call just now.” Diana looked at me incredulously and said, “Wow, you really attract the weirdos. I guess I always just thought she was weird because she was Canadian. She keeps trying to get me to book these Canadian acts here, but I keep telling her that I prefer to use local people. I guess she thinks Canada is local enough. She herself lives in Seattle, so that’s why I use her. But I’ve told her time and again that I will not book her Canadian friends.”

 

I ask Diana for the names of the Canadian acts that Amy wanted her to book and she gives me the names of two bands – Chokehole and Weazelzz (wtf is up with Canadian bands?) and the name of one solo singer, Brad Westerby. I decide to go home and look them up on the internet. Chokehole is pretty much an Anti-American band and Weazelzz only sings in French, so I have no idea what they sing about. I think I know why they didn’t make the cut for the Pioneer Room, Canadian citizenship aside. I’m pretty sure most Americans know how much other countries hate us, but we don’t really like to hear them sing songs about it. Leave the musical chastising of America to Americans!

 

I can’t find anything music related about Brad Westerby. His name keeps coming up on sites associated with something called the Canadian Takeover League. I assumed it was just some other guy with the same name, but when I actually clicked on the CTL’s official site, I see that it must be the same guy that Amy wanted to sing at the Pioneer Room. He just looks like a singer – young and broody. Plus, the article on the mainpage said something about his trip to Seattle. I scan the article a bit, but then I saw a paragraph that made me honestly gasp out loud:

 

Mr. Westerby will be initiating Phase Two of the CTL plan while in Seattle. Phase One consisted of Ms. L’Omarille moving to Seattle and becoming accepted by the locals. This phase was completed successfully last month. We hope that Phase Two will be as easy of a success as Phase One. Once Phase Two is completed, we can begin Phase Three, which will consist of getting all Washington State voters to demand succession from the United States and annexation to Canada.

 

I couldn’t tell if this was a joke or not. But I honestly couldn’t see Canadians actually having the sense of humor needed to make this kind of a joke. They were dead serious about this. They wanted Washington to be part of Canada. They wanted to take us over, hence the Canadian Takeover League. I wondered if all of America was on their list, so I looked further into their website. Indeed they wanted all of the US. But not until Phase Twenty Seven would that become a reality, apparently.

 

Luckily, the CTL listed the personal email addresses for their star “agents”, Mr. Westerby and Ms. L’Omarille. I emailed them the following:

 

Look, you Canadian dumbasses. I know what you and your CTL are up to. I don’t give a s**t what you want to do to the US, but leave me and my cat out of it! I expect the safe return of Mr. Waltham immediately and a nice, old fashioned Canadian apology (since you’re all fabled at being so nice).

 

I then went back to the Pioneer Room to let Diana know what I had found. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone laugh so loudly for so long in my entire life. She then proceeded to give Amy a call. Unfortunately, she only got her voicemail, but she left a message saying “Amy, this is Diana from the Pioneer Room. I think I’ve changed my mind about your friends performing here. You better come down here right away.”

 

An hour later, Amy arrived at the now closed Pioneer Room. Diana let her in and she was followed by none other than Brad Westerby. He glared at me, but smiled down Canadian sunshine on Diana. “Hello, Diana. I trust that you remember me,” he said to her in a sickly sweet voice. “Yes,” she responded, “you’re Amy’s Canadian friend who sings such sweet songs. You have quite the lovely voice and I sure would loooove you to come sing at my bar.” I thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but Brad ate it up.

 

“Yes, I would definitely love to come play here any time!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in glee. Apparently, he was laying it on thick too. It took all of my strength not to roll my eyes. Brad must have noticed that I was agitated because he turned to me and said “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, although I believe I’ve gotten an email from you.” Damn. I had been hoping that neither him nor Amy had read the emails before Diana had gotten a hold of them. I was hoping that they actually believed that Diana wanted him to play at the Pioneer Room.

 

I decided to give up the charade, so I just said “Yep, that was me. I want my damn cat back, a*****e.” He narrowed his eyes into little slits and said “Now just what do you take me for? I do not steal people’s cats! And for what purpose?”

 

Amy looked confused and said “To intimidate her, dummy.” Brad immediately hissed “Shut up!” at his comrade. Amy shrank back in fear. Apparently Brad was running things now. When Amy was on the phone earlier, it sounded like she had been the one in charge. Regardless, she had let it slip that indeed, the CTL was responsible for the disappearance of Mr. Waltham.

 

I was getting exasperated at this whole shenanigan. “Look, you Canadian freaks! I know you’re part of the Canadian Takeover League – your stupid website listed out your entire stupid plan for takeover of the United States, starting with Seattle. I’m guessing you began with the music community as we tend to be more liberal and therefore might favor a vote to annex our state to Canada if it meant getting away from our Republican president. We may be dissatisfied with the way that our country is run and the state of the world right now, but I cannot think of one f*****g person in all of Washington State that would ever voluntarily become a f*****g Canadian! Now, give me back my cat before I have you dumbasses deported!”

 

Amy crumpled onto the floor and started crying. Brad looked aghast. He appeared to be trying to think of an explanation for their behavior that would disprove my statements. After a moment, he gave up and shrugged. “Your cat’s in the car. Amy, go get him.” Brad sat down in one of the plush booths and put his head in his hands.

 

Now that the jig was up, Diana felt free to laugh her hearty and long lasting laugh. Brad looked annoyed and grumbled, “What are you laughing at?” Diana recovered and said, “F*****g Canadians, man, f*****g Canadians.” Brad shot up out of the booth and stormed out of the bar as Amy was walking in with Mr. Waltham, who was no worse for the wear. She handed my beautiful grey and white cat to me and apologized softly, “Sorry about that. No hard feelings, eh?” I pointed to the doorway and shouted “Out, Canadian!” She obeyed and looked much like a puppy dog with its tail between its legs.

 

So, the next morning, Mr. Waltham is curled up at the end of my bed, purring. “You’re not going to piss in my bed anymore, are you now?” I asked him. He gave me one of those inscrutable looks cats give people and started cleaning himself. “Piss in my bed one more time and I’m sending you back to the Canadians!” I said. Mr. Waltham looked at me with wide eyes and meowed something that sounded suspiciously like “No!” as he jumped off and hid under the bed.

 

THE END

Author's Note

Sorry for the Canadian hatred portrayed in this story. I don't actually hate Canadians.