Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - The Alchemy of Audience - Dad is Dying & Odd Jobs

Episode Date: April 19, 2024

“There are only so many holes a man can cut in his own house before he is told to stop.” Today on the show, two classic Stuart McLean stories, including Odd Jobs. That’s the one where Dave tries his hand at some home renovations, with hilarious consequences. And Jess has a backstory about the magic of Vinyl Cafe audiences. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. Today on the podcast, we are talking about the alchemy of audience. That mystical, magical thing that happens when people gather together in a room and experience the same thing at the same time. When you bring your own story and mix it with ours, that's where the magic comes in, in the collective experience. Audience is an alchemist that can turn raw material into gold. I've talked before on this show about how you, the audience, were one of the most important elements of what we did. We learned so much from you over the years.

You taught us what worked and what didn't. You told us if a punchline was confusing or in the wrong spot. And you told us if a story was too long. I mean, you didn't actually tell us those things, although some of you did, and we always loved it when you did. We still do. So do not hold back. But even when you didn't write in to tell us, you'd tell us with your reactions, with your laughter and your applause, but also, maybe more importantly, with your silences. It is so powerful to sit in a room with 2,000 people and be able to hear a pin drop. That's how I would know that the show was working, to feel everyone connected, listening.

That's what we were going for. And oh my gosh, when it worked, it was truly amazing. That profound connection was palpable. And we all felt it. Together. And if instead of silence, we got squirms, well, that would tell us something too. It would tell us we had a lot more work to do. I'd sit in the wings every night marking up the script, or sometimes if I really needed to understand it, I'd sit out in the audience. I'd sit there with people on either side of me,

and I'd immerse myself so I could feel it. I'd feel what was working and what was landing, and I'd feel when it wasn't landing. And then we'd kind of reverse engineer it, Stuart and I. We'd try to figure out, why isn't this working? Of all of the things I miss about the Vinyl Cafe, that has got to be up there with one of the things I miss the most. You. An audience.

I miss that moment when our work becomes your work. I've been thinking a lot about why, and there's a lot that goes into this mystical, magical mix. There's collective energy. I love the idea that everyone in a theater brings their own story into the room. Some people are excited to be there. They've been counting down the days. They've been marking them off on their calendar. And other people? Other people have been dragged there by their friends or their mothers or their husbands. Some people arrive having had a great day.

Others haven't. But something happens once the show begins. At some point, and by the way, you can almost feel it when this happens. You've probably felt this at a show. At some point, the horses start pulling together as one. I love that. I love when the emotions of an audience synchronize. When that happens, the big feelings, joy, sorrow, excitement, suspense, those big emotions become even bigger. They hit even harder. They are felt even more deeply.

And if that happens, it can feel almost cathartic. It can feel like a release. It can feel like a release. Group therapy through laughter or tears. And it can be validating to share that with others. It's validating for the performer too. Stuart used to talk about how great it was to be able to be there for the moment of giving and receiving. So many creative arts are not like that. You write a book? You're not there with me at night watching me smile as I read it. You paint a painting? You don't get to see me enjoy it when I walk in my front door. You record an album? You never get to see me dancing to it in my kitchen. But with live shows, music, theater, dance, you get to be there to watch the audience enjoy it. As a performer, that can be exhilarating. Of course, what makes it exhilarating is also what makes it terrifying.

Because it doesn't always go well. But that's part of it, I think. That risk, that leap of faith. The person on stage feels that, but so does the audience. That's what makes it so damn satisfying when the performer takes that leap and then they fly. Because we all know, including them, the performer, we all know they could have fallen. Today on the show, two stories where the audience helped Stuart fly. We have two stories on today's show where I can hear the alchemy of audience working its magic on Stuart. We're going to start with this one.

We're going to start with this one. This is one of the very first stories I ever worked on. In fact, I think this might be from the very first Vinyl Cafe concert that I ever attended. I wasn't producing the show back then. I was just working on it part time. David Amer was the producer of the show. But I was in the wings that night, and I'd worked with Stuart on some of the punchlines in this story. And I will never forget what it felt like to sit in the wings, stage left, and hear Stuart deliver a line that I had helped craft. To hear him say it, and then to hear the wave of laughter afterwards.

I felt the way a baseball player must feel after hitting the ball out of the park. You just want to stand there and watch it go. This is one of the very first stories I worked on, recorded at my very first Vinyl Cafe concert. And it was the first time Stuart had ever performed this story. So you can really hear in his voice his excitement. He kind of gets swept up in it a few times, and you can hear him sort of chuckle to himself. He's clearly enjoying it. It's a funny story, I promise, with a not-so-funny title. This is Dad is Dying. This is Dad is Dying.

Most people will tell you that spring is the most reassuring of seasons. They will tell you that it's something about the renewal of the natural world, the return of the sun, the songbirds of God's green garden that puts a spring into their step. This spring came to Dave differently than most. It came uncomfortably. Another spring, another year older. As the days lengthened, he began to feel listless. All Dave saw in the light of spring were new wrinkles.

Wrinkles made him worry. The worry made his stomach ache. He lost his appetite. He felt faint. Before long, he was lost in a full-blown hypochondriacal funk, sneaking away to take his temperature. You're fine, said Morley. He didn't feel fine. And neither did Morley. An unexpected flurry of budget problems at work meant Morley was unexpectedly busy, so busy that this spring Morley had no time for her garden, no time for her family,

and no time for herself. The only time she saw her neighbors was as she flew past them in her car. As May rolled into June, Morley was feeling a loss of connection with everything that mattered to her. It was 12-year-old Sam who stirred the wind that filled his parents' sails and pushed them from the torpor of this heavy spring into summer. But the wind that he stirred, the wind that would rescue his mother and father, almost shipwrecked him. Like all storms, no one noticed its first stirrings. It began one morning at breakfast. Sam came downstairs and found his father backing out the door with his dog, Arthur, in his arms. Arthur, looking limp and pretty much dead. What's the matter with Arthur, said Sam.

Sam, standing on the bottom stair, dead still himself, except for his heart. His heart was pounding. Morley was moving through the kitchen, grabbing her stuff, her purse, her briefcase, her keys. Where were her keys? She had them just a moment ago. Dave, where are my keys? Dave, turning to answer, whacks the dog's head against the doorframe.

Keys are in your hand, he says. Morley looks down at her keys and screws her eyes shut. Sam, still standing on the stairs, still motionless, says it again. What's the matter with Arthur? Morley, who's collecting her lunch now, doesn't stop to look at Sam. Morley says, I don't know, sweetie. I'm taking him to the vet. It was one of those moments that begged for a timeout. One of those moments when Morley should have stopped.

A moment when she should have taken some time with her son. She knew this even as she was trying to stuff her lunch into her briefcase. Stop, stop, slow down, her heart was saying. Stop, said her heart, waving a red flag of warning. Late, said her head. No time to stop, said her head. Go, go, go. You can deal with this later. Morley had been counting on getting to work early. She hadn't been planning on a run to the vet. But there was Dave coming back through the door. I started the car, he said, kissing her forehead. He's in the back. Is he going to die, said Sam. Sweetie, said Morley from across the room.'s getting old he's going to die someday that's when it began that's when the wind began to feather the water of Sam's life

it began right then and there Sam standing on the bottom stair in his red spiderman sweatshirt his jeans creeping up his legs his hair uncal, his sneakers undone. Sam standing on the bottom stair staring at his mother as she's going out the front door. But that was just the first stirring. It was two hours later that the breeze settled in. It was an English class. Mrs. Esther Brooks asked Sam to read out loud and Sam started to cry. Not out loud sobbing, but tears running down both cheeks. Mrs. Esterbrooks said, Sam, what's wrong? Sam tried to say, my dog is sick.

But instead a waffly sort of snort came out of his mouth. Or his nose, actually. He snuffled and he wiped his eyes, and by then everyone in the class was staring at him. People in the front twisting in their chairs to get a good look. That thug Mark Portnoy smirking. Sam's friend Murphy looking horrified. Everyone staring at him and he was crying plain as day, no doubt about it. And Sam thought, I am too old to be crying about a sick dog. So he began to edit. He stared at Mrs. Esther Brooks, his bottom lip quivering, no words coming out as he tried words out in his mind. My

dog is dying, he tried. No, my dog died. Still saying nothing, still just sitting, sitting and staring at Mrs. Esther Brooks and Mrs. Esther Brooks staring back at him. Sam, she said. He was biting his bottom lip. He was standing up. That was the beginning. When Sam stood up and everyone in the class was staring at him and he looked down at his, and he said, My dad is dying. Words spread like wildfire. By the middle of the afternoon, everybody had heard. The wind hit Morley almost as soon as she got home. Morley wasn't home five minutes and the doorbell was ringing,

Mary Turlington standing on the stoop. Morley surprised to see her. They stared at each other, but only for the briefest moment, because after the briefest moment, Mary burst into tears. Morley said, Mary, what is it? And she led her into the kitchen and they sat down and Mary wiped her eyes thinking, damn, damn, damn. Mary thinking, get a grip.

This isn't the time to come apart. Mary pulled herself together and she looked at Morley and she said, oh, Morley, I just heard. And she lost it again. And Morley, who had just got off the phone with a vet, who had just heard herself, looked across the table at her friend Mary, she said, it's not for sure yet. They did some tests, but they don't have the results yet. And even if he isn't, even if he doesn't, you know, Mary, he's getting old anyway. What, said Mary?

I can never figure out his age, said Morley. You take the year and multiply it by seven, don't you? Mary said, for God's sake, Morley, he's two years older than you. But Morley wasn't listening. Morley was still talking. They age faster than us, don't they? I mean, they don't live nearly as long. And Mary was thinking, I have to stay calm. My friend is losing

it. I have to stay calm. Morley, who had always been the rock of Gibraltar, was coming apart right in front of her. Why shouldn't she come apart? She had a right. Anyway, said Morley, standing up, walking over to the fridge. However you look at it, he is getting old. She'd taken out a bunch of carrots. Mary, she said, I knew he wasn't going to last forever. She brought the carrots to the table and she sat down. She took a knife and she began to cut the greens off the carrots. Now, Morley wasn't doing this carrot thing because she needed cut carrots.

Morley was doing it because she was worried about Mary. Mary seemed so fragile. Mary looked like she was going to cry again. Morley was thinking the carrots might distract her, calm her down. Quite frankly, said Morley, standing up carrying the handful of carrot greens to the sink, quite frankly, said Morley, standing up, carrying the handful of carrot greens to the sink. Quite frankly, said Morley, I'm okay with it.

I think it's going to be harder on the kids. I think the kids are closer to him than I am. It's understandable. For all intents and purposes, he's been around all their lives. I mean, she picked up the vegetable peeler and she tapped it against her forehead. He has, hasn't he? Morley was peeling the carrots as if she didn't have a care in the world. Quite frankly, she said, it hasn't been easy these past few months. He's dropping

hair all over the place. He's shedding, Mary. And he started to drool. And that's not the worst. I tell you one thing I won't miss, his breath. I tell you one thing I won't miss, his breath. Honest to God, sometimes he smells like something you'd find at the back of the fridge. Oh my God, said Mary. To be perfectly honest, said Morley, handing Mary a peeled carrot, if I had a choice, I'm not sure I'd do it again. Sam was late getting home from school that afternoon.

On the way home from school, Murphy and Sam had gone to Snyder's for ice cream. Give him more, whispered Murphy to the girl fixing Sam's cone. His dad's dying. The girl handed Sam the biggest ice cream cone he had ever seen, and she wouldn't take his money. Wind began blowing through Dave's record store the next morning. Neighbors started showing up. Carl Loebier was first.

Dave didn't see him come in. Dave had been taking his pulse. Hey, said Carl. Carl was standing by the doorway, standing by the stuffed gorilla. Sixteen years they had lived in the same neighborhood. Sixteen years of street corners and dinner parties. Twice when the Loebiers went overseas, Dave had babysat Carl's sourdough starter. Sixteen years, neighbors and Carl had never been in Dave's store. Not once, but there he was. Hey, said Carl. Hey, Carl, said Dave Hey, said Carl Carl was still standing by the door

Hey, said Carl You look great, Dave I don't feel so good, said Dave Carl hadn't moved I'm not contagious, said Dave You can come in Oh God, Dave, said Carl Carl rushed up to the counter

I wasn't thinking that, Dave No really, said Carl Looking right into Dave to the counter. I wasn't thinking that, Dave. No, really, said Carl, looking right into Dave's eyes. You look like you're doing okay. Dave's stomach was aching again. Carl was holding a little package under his arm. Really, said Carl. You look great.

They both noticed Carl's package at the same time. Hey, said Carl. He put the package on the counter beside the fishbowl ofolored record centers and he pushed it towards Dave. He nodded his head encouragingly. It's for you, Dave. Hey, said Dave. Hey, said Carl. Dave opened the package. It was a little glass bottle of green powder. Blue-green algae, said Carl Beeming, are our immortal ancestor, Dave. There are more powerful nutrients packed into that little jar than in any food known to man. There's a lot of power in that jar, Dave. Carl was nodding his head vigorously now.

Carl was agreeing with himself. God bless you, Dave, said Carl, and then he turned and laughed. Actually, he turned and bolted. Dave phoned Morley as soon as he was alone. Carl Loebier was just here, he said. He gave us a jar. Dave held the jar up, and he read the label to himself. Spirulina.

He gave us a jar of spirulina. There was a long pause. He said, me neither. But you might know it by its other name, Pond Scum. That morning at Sam's school, morning announcements included a moment of silence for those we know who are struggling with illness.

Sam, who had his head bowed and his eyes closed, could feel the weight of his classmate's stares. Everyone knew the morning thought was about him. On his way out of the classroom at lunch, Mrs. Esterbrooks touched his head affectionately, a sort of pat. Sam saw Mark Portnoy watching as she did it. And he pulled away, and he ran his hand through his hair, muscling it, rubbing off the teacher germs. On his way home, Sam went to Snyder's again. He waited for the same girl, and then he stood in front of her, adopting a look of great sadness,

his head hanging. I don't know what I want, he said glumly. Nothing really appeals to me anymore. He walked out of Snyder's with a bigger cone than the day before. He almost walked right into Doreen Lamb's stillwell. Doreen, a notorious gossip, had made it her business to be there to bump into Sam. Sam, I am going to ask you some difficult questions. I need to know these things, Sam, so I can help. Sam nodding earnestly, licking his cone. Sam said, Doreen, are there headaches? Sam nodding earnestly, licking his cone. Sam said, Doreen, are there headaches? Yes, nodded Sam, licking his cone still.

Nausea? Yes, he nods again. Vomiting? Sam, who hasn't spoken a word, continues to nod, continues to work at his ice cream. Sam, is there incontinence? Sam had no idea what incontinence was. He took a break from the ice cream. Yes, exactly, said Sam.

It's the painful kind. Sam couldn't help himself. Once he started, he couldn't stop that. And you never know when it's going to come, he said. Sometimes in the car. Sometimes at supper. Oh, my God, said Doreen. The vet called that night.

She wanted to keep Arthur over the weekend. She had tried a few things. She wanted to watch how he made out. On Saturday, Sam was invited to sleep over at Murphy's house. How's your dad, asked Murphy's mom. It was far safer asking Sam than Morley. Morley obviously didn't want to talk about it. Some people did, some people didn't. It was her right. Murphy's mom had asked Morley when she had picked Sam up and dropped off a spinach lasagna.

How is he? she had said quietly, earnestly. Who? said Morley? Your husband, said Murphy's mom, immediately wishing she hadn't opened her mouth. Dave, said Morley, waving her hand dismissively. How was Dave? Dave, who that very morning had dropped an open can of sardines on the kitchen rug, sometimes, said Morley, he just gets to be a little much. Murphy's mom wasn't going to ask Morley again but Sam's suffering started on Monday began innocuously enough on the front steps of the school Geordie a boy in grade two waiting there for Sam Geordie was holding on to his mother's hand and when Sam arrived Geordie's mother pushed Jordy forward.

Jordy has something he wants to give you, Sam, she said. Jordy handed Sam a plastic bag. There was a wild mushroom lasagna in there and a book. The book was called Comfort in the Arms of the Angels. Sam looked at the book and then at Jordy's mother. Jordy's mother started to cry, oh dear, she said, wiping her eyes, oh dear, she said book and then at Jordy's mother. Jordy's mother started to cry, Oh dear, she said, wiping her eyes. Oh dear, she said, and then she picked up her son and she ran away, leaving Sam standing on the steps holding the lasagna, other kids staring at him, feeling for the first time the force of the wind.

Not Dave, however. Dave was feeling much better. Dave couldn't have been happier. That very morning, Dave had run into Mary Turlington. Now, Mary and Bert Turlington lived two doors down from Dave and Morley. Mary's an accountant, and she and Dave rubbed each other the wrong way the moment they met. Something about Mary's politics, something about the way she dressed, the condescending way she talked about Dave's record store that bugged Dave. It was the way Dave seemed to glide through life without trying, that he didn't dress like a grown-up, that he made his living playing records, for heaven's sakes.

That was it. He played. He didn't work. That's what irked Mary. Dave said Mary when they bumped into each other that Monday, You look great. Really, said Dave. Great, said Mary. Fabulous. It had been happening all weekend. Everyone Dave met had something nice to say. First he thought it was no more than that. They were just being nice, but Mary Churlington was never nice to him. He must be looking good. There was something to Carl Loebier's herbal tonic, after all.

At lunch, he doubled the dose. When he walked back to work, there was a new spring to his step. All afternoon, he kept slipping in and out of the washroom, staring at himself in the mirror. And while Dave preoccupied himself with the mirror, Morley was on the phone dealing with Bruce Daughtery. Bruce lives in the neighborhood he He works for the telephone company. But Bruce's brother-in-law runs a funeral parlor somewhere out of town. Bruce's brother-in-law said the best thing Bruce could do for Morley and Dave was to help them make arrangements in advance. People don't like talking about it, said Bruce's brother-in-law, but it's easier to face it sooner than later.

They'll try to duck it. Don't let them. Bruce is so shy that he has a hard time ordering in a restaurant, was vibrating with anxiety when he finally picked up the phone. So overwrought that it took him ten awkward minutes to get to the point. Oh, said Morley when she finally got it, that's very sweet, Bruce, that's very thoughtful, but a funeral just wouldn't be our style. I know some people do that sort of thing, but quite frankly, I don't want to spend any more money on them.

Perhaps, said Bruce, screwing up all his courage, following his instructions, you might consider cremation? What, said Morley, and put him in an urn? Bruce, it would be just one more damn thing I'd have to dust. We love him and everything, but when the time comes, we were thinking we'd just put him in the backyard. It'd be good for the roses. backyard. It'd be good for the roses. Morley put the phone down and smiled, thinking about how kind people could be. She sat at her desk fiddling with a paperclip, all these neighbors concerned about a dog, about her family's little problems. Just that morning, Mary Turlington had brought over a spinach lasagna. Morley was feeling reconnected, feeling a lot better than Bruce Daughtery, who had to report to his brother-in-law.

That's ridiculous, said the brother-in-law. Go see the husband. Bruce set off to see Dave. He took along a seafood lasagna, stopping for a drink to fortify his courage. He says he doesn't need that sort of thing, he reported two hours later. Denial, said the brother-in-law. Next stage is anger. He got a little prickly, said Bruce. He asked me if I was on commission. Good, said the brother-in-law. He's moving. Acceptance is just a few stages away.

Go back. Bruce wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. He went back, but he didn't go back with his heart and soul. He gave up almost as soon as he'd begun his third pitch. I have to go, he said. By the way, Dave, you're looking great. I know, said Dave. That was the same day Morley had lunch with Mary Turlington and said I think if he goes I am going to get a replacement. But this time I'm going to get a female. That was the day Stephanie phoned home from university and said, Mom, the sweetest thing just happened. I just got a card from the Lobeers, said Stephanie.

It said, thinking of you in these difficult times. Stephanie was in the middle of exams. It was also the worst day in Sam's life. Mrs. Esther Brooks kept smiling at him. It was so obvious everybody could see it. Kids were starting to lose patience. Even Murphy rolled his eyes. Sam was starting to feel guilty,

and his guilt was heightened by his anxiety about Arthur. The vet was supposed to phone that day with word, and now Sam felt anxious and guilty about feeling anxious. And then on his way to music class, Mrs. Estabrooks held him back. Sam, she said, they want to see you in the office. When he got to the office, Sam had to sit on the bench in the hall for 15 minutes in plain view, everybody walking by him, staring at him like he was in trouble. And if you thought that was bad, that was nothing. Because when they came and got him, it was a lady called Mrs. Gillespie. Mrs. Gillespie came and she took him to the counseling room. Mrs. Gillespie was a counselor.

I want you to tell me about your father, she said. Gillespie came and she took him to the counseling room. Mrs. Gillespie was a counselor. I want you to tell me about your father, she said. Sam started to cry. Sam couldn't take it any longer. Not my father, he said. My dog. Your what, said Mrs. Gillespie? My dad isn't dying, said Sam.

My dog is. "'He's in bad shape,' said Mrs. Gillespie "'to Mrs. Esther Brooks 45 minutes later. "'He's in denial. "'He won't even admit his father's sick. "'He says it's the dog. "'What are you going to do? "'I'll see him tomorrow. "'In the meantime, pay as much attention to him as you can. At the end of the day, Mrs. Esther Brooks made a point of giving Sam

another pat on the back. Mark Portnoy watching again. Sam couldn't stand it anymore. He had to set the record straight. He went right home. He went right home planning to tell his mom. But when he got there, his dad was already home. Dave was in the backyard with Morley, and the barbecue was going, and the Turlington's were there. And Sam looked at his mom. She was laughing about something. He hadn't seen her so relaxed in months. His father was putting burgers on the barbecue, and Churlington was helping. And Arthur was there. Arthur was home. Arthur was bounding toward him. Sam started to cry. Is he okay, said Sam. He's pretty okay for a 14-year-old dog, said Morley. Can I take him for a walk, said Sam. This wasn't where he had to set things right.

Everything was already right here. He had to set things right at school. He did it first thing the next morning. My dog's going to be all right, he said to Mrs. Estabrooks as soon as he saw her. Your dog or your dad, said Mrs. Estabrooks. Yes, said Sam, he isn't going to die after all. He's all better now. It wasn't so bad as we thought.

They gave him pills. It was just worms. Word spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. Thank you very much. Thank you. thank you that was dad is dying we recorded that story at the living art center in mississauga back in 2003 that was my very first Vinyl Cafe concert. 2003. God, that was like 21 years ago. I have been doing this a long time. Okay. I think it's time we take a short break. Because after that realization,

I'm going to have to get my heart restarted. I'll see you in a couple minutes. Welcome back. We're talking about the alchemy of audience today. That give and take that happens during a live performance and transforms it into something magic. Magic for the audience and the performer. You can hear that magic in the story Kenny Wong and the Tank of Tranquility. We played that story earlier this season. It's in the episode called Occupational Hazards. And you can hear it here in this next story. Listen to the audience in this one. They are primed and ready to go right out of the gate. Now, I should tell you, that's not always a good thing. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes an audience can feel almost manic. They can be laughing in a way that's over the top. This audience is not like that. Their laughter's appropriate.

That felt so good to Stewart. He'd deliver a line and they'd respond exactly how he thought they would or how he thought they should. It's like a game of tennis. He serves, the audience returns, and then they volley back and forth, back and forth. There's almost a rhythm to it. You can hear Stewart enjoying it here. You can hear a sort of cheeky monkey giggle in his voice at times here. And you can hear him fighting off laughter himself. He is clearly enjoying himself and the audience feeds off that.

It means they enjoy it more too. This is the kind of audience where Stuart would have known right from the very first line of the story that it was going to be a fun night. If I was in the wings that night, I wasn't. This was recorded way before my time. But if I was in the wings that night, I know he would have looked over at me and given me a look. And the look in his eye would have said, oh yeah, baby, this is going to be good. You can hear that excitement in his voice here. You can hear his excitement and anticipation in the very first few lines of this story. This is a classic from way, way, way back in the archives, from back in 1999. This is Odd Jobs. It was on a Saturday in September that Dave and Morley sat eating breakfast and Morley looked at the toaster and said it would work so much better if we could plug it in at

the table so we wouldn't have to get up and walk across the kitchen every time someone wanted toast. It was just an idle thought, but it struck her as a good one. So then she said, maybe we should get someone in to move it. The next morning, Dave was sitting alone at the breakfast table looking at the toaster on the other side of the kitchen thinking, I should move the plug myself. Morley was at work. They were opening a new play. The kids were still asleep. Dave had the whole day stretched out before him like a white line running down the center of a highway. How complicated could it be for an old roadie? How complicated could it be for an old roadie to run some wires through a wall and install a plug? The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea,

and what he liked best of all was that he would get to knock holes in the kitchen wall. It felt good just thinking about that. Dave fetched a hammer from the basement, and then, like a Spanish conquistador, sealing the fate of his troops by burning his ship as soon as his last man stepped on shore, Dave raised the hammer over his head and swung it at the wall with all his might. Hi-yah! The hammer sunk into the wall with a pleasing thump. A few more quick swings and Dave had a hole the size of a melon.

He stood back and admired it. And then he wondered where the wires were going to come from. He thought maybe he should check his big Reader's Digest book of home repairs. He knew he could probably figure this out without the Reader's Digest's help, but there could be no harm in checking. The book wasn't upstairs. It wasn't downstairs either. It wasn't anywhere. He wondered if Jim Schofield, his neighbor, had his repair book. He glanced at the kitchen clock. Jim was the kind of neighbor you visited rather than phoned. I don't have your book, said Jim, but I have a new mallet. I can't believe you started without me.

Let me go get it. Jim and Dave stared at the hole where Dave wanted to put the new plug. Where's the wire coming from, asked Jim. That's what I was wondering, said Dave. Jim pointed at a light switch by the back door. There'd be wire over there we could patch into, he said. And then he smiled. Of course, he said, we'll have to punch a hole in the wall to pick it up. Jim was fiddling with his new mallet.

Be my guest, said Dave. Are you sure, said Jim, moving towards the back wall, not waiting for an answer? There were wires there. In fact, when Jim stepped back and they both peeked in his hole, wires were about all they could see. All sorts of wires. Black, shiny wires, gray, cloth-covered wires. Jim pointed at a gray wire running through a porcelain insulator.

Knob and tube, said Jim. I didn't think that stuff was legal anymore. Those aren't live, said Dave. I had an electrician in to replace all that a couple of years ago. Dave reached into the hole with a screwdriver and jiggled the old wire. There was a sudden puff of smoke, and Dave gasps, and the right side of his body jerks spastically, and a deep alien-like moan rolls out of him, and the screwdrivers flying across the kitchen, end over end, like a tomahawk, ricocheting off the kitchen sink and disappearing through the window. There was a moment of stunned silence, Jim and Dave both staring at the broken window, shards of glass tinkling to the floor. Could you do that again, says Jim. I like the way the chip of porcelain from the sink followed the screwdriver through the window.

A minute later, Bert Turlington, who lives next door, is ringing the front doorbell. Standing on the stoop with Dave's screwdriver in his hand. This yours, he asked. We're moving some wires, says Dave. I got a shock. You're moving wires, says Bert. I got one of those power drills for my birthday. Maybe I should bring it over. Something inexplicable happens when a man picks up a tool to do home repairs.

Some force is yet undescribed by science, but nevertheless well known to women. It's a force that lures men away from their families and the things they're supposed to be doing to a place where hammers are being swung. Maybe the act of a hammer moving through the air sets off a cosmic thrumming only men can hear. Or maybe when a man picks up a screwdriver, he releases an odor only men with tools can smell. It's a musty, yeasty, sweet sort of smell.

With a hint of leather and WD-40. And men in their backyards raking leaves, and men in their basements listening to ballgames on portable radios are seized by this odor only they can smell. It seizes them like the urge to migrate seizes lesser species. And suddenly they're thinking, I don't belong here anymore. I belong in another place, and I should be doing something else, and I should take my coping saw with me just in case. Men can sense it when a wall is coming down

and they can't help the fact that they have to be there to watch it fall, or better yet, help push it over. It's been argued that the fall of the Berlin Wall had nothing whatsoever to do with the collapse of communism. It was just a weekend project that got out of control. Carl Loebier was the next neighbor to arrive at Dave's house

on that Saturday we're talking about. He burst through the front door without knocking. Dave and Jim looked up, and he's standing in the kitchen. Hi, said Carl, trying to slow himself down, trying to act nonchalant. Need any help? He's carrying a bright yellow thing about the size of an electric drill,

except more dangerous looking. It looks like a cross between an Uzi and a woodpecker. It's his reciprocal saw. Carl got the saw last Christmas. It's his pride and joy, but there are only so many holes a man can cut in his own house before he is told to stop. At the end of August, when Carl's wife Gerda went downstairs with a load of laundry and found Carl cutting random holes in a sheet of plywood, she took the saw away from him and later she said he could have it back if he stood in front of the house on Saturday mornings with a sign around his neck,

Need holes cut. By noon, there were seven men in Dave's kitchen. Two of them friends of Jim Schofield who Dave had never met before. Guys with tools. There were now a series of twelve melon-sized holes punched in the kitchen wall at two-foot intervals, leading from the light switch by the back door to the hole where Dave intended to install the plug for the toaster.

Twelve holes and seven busy men. Jim and Dave routering putty out of the broken window. Phil Harrison sucking up plaster dust with Carl Loeber's shop vac. The two men Dave didn't know racing a pair of belt sanders along the floor. know racing a pair of belt sanders along the floor. Six power tools operating at the same time in Dave's house. Sam arrived downstairs rubbing his eyes, taking in the chaos of his kitchen and asking the most reasonable question, what's for breakfast? Toast, said Dave. He said this without turning the router off or even turning around. Sam stared at his father's back for a moment, and then he shrugged and dropped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. Then the lights went out and the tools died. And in the sudden and overwhelming silence, someone, Bert Turlington, I think, said, do you smell that? And then there was smoke hanging in

the air like wisps of fog. And someone said, we overloaded the wires. The wires are burning. Cut the wall open over here. And Carl Loebier jumped up and said, my saw works on batteries. And he lurched toward the wall, revving his reciprocal saw in front of him. And before anyone could stop him, Carl had cut a hole in the wall the size of a loaf of bread. Not there, said Burke Turlington. Here. Coming, coming, said Carl. Moving around the kitchen like a mass murderer. Cutting a second hole five feet down the wall.

Sam's eyes as wide as saucers. I've got a fire extinguisher in the truck, said one of the men Dave didn't know. They found the remnants of the fire with the third hole, a mouse nest leaning against the overheated wires. It had burned itself out. The man with a fire extinguisher gave it a blast, just in case. At 12.15, Dave took stock of what they had accomplished. The broken window, the chipped sink, 15 holes,

the sodden plaster where they had used the extinguisher. Arnie Schellenberger looked at Dave and said, Dave, when's Morley coming home? Dave said, not until tonight, not until 10, 11. Arnie said, there's an electrician I know from the plant. He might come over. If you did the window, he could do the wiring and we could patch the holes by. He looked at his wrist. 10? You need this done fast, right? Dave nodded. The electrician pointed to the back wall of Dave's kitchen. We're going to pop out the drywall. We're going to take that wall down to the studs.

That way I can get at everything at once. Dave was looking worried. It'll be the fastest, said the electrician. He looked at Carl, cut around the top of the ceiling and along the baseboard, and we'll pop it out, nice and simple. Carl was beaming. Morley came home soon after nine. When she turned onto their street, she noticed her house looked strangely dark. She pulled into the driveway and parked the car and gathered an armful of junk, her purse, pulled into the driveway and parked the car and gathered an armful of junk,

her purse, a sweater, some files. She headed toward the back door. She was exhausted. She dropped a file and stooped to pick it up, and it was only then, only then that she noticed the warm glow of candles flickering through the back window. And she felt a wave of affection roll over her. Dave had made a romantic meal. She had barely eaten all day. She was smiling as she opened the back door. She put her purse down and called hello, and then she stopped dead in her tracks.

Sometimes you're confronted by things that are so far from what you expect that there's a momentary disconnect. Your brain is unable to process what it is looking at. Morley looked around her kitchen. There were candles everywhere and flashlights and snake lights and men. There were four men in her kitchen, all of them on their hands and knees. Four strangers on their hands and knees staring at her the way a family of raccoons might stare at you from your back. your back, guys. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she was able to take in more details. The men were holding tools. There was a pile of pizza boxes on the floor and an empty case of beer and Sam, her son Sam, sprawled out beside the pizza boxes asleep. Her son passed out. This was her kitchen.

But two of the walls were missing. She looked at the men again. One of them stood up. Hi, I'm Ted, he said. The electrician. We'll have this cleared up in just a minute or two. And then she saw Dave, her husband, crawling towards her across what was left of her kitchen. He stopped about 10 feet away. Hi, he said. And then he waved

his arm around the room at the broken window, at the 15 holes in the wall, at the back wall, which had completely disappeared. And he said, we're fixing the toaster. Morley's mouth opened, but no words came out. It closed, and then it opened again. She seemed to be trying to say something. Dave nodded, trying to encourage her like they were playing charades. Her mouth kept opening and closing, but no sound came out. And then without saying anything, not one word, Morley turned around and walked out of the house and got in her car and backed out of the driveway. And Dave said, it's okay, she'll be back in a minute. And Bert said, I think I should be going.

And Carl said, me too. And Dave said, maybe if we could just get the power on. and Dave said maybe if we could just get the power on. Morley wasn't back in a minute. She wasn't back for nearly an hour. When she returned she walked across the kitchen and opened the freezer door and about a cup of water trickled onto the floor and she let out a muffled sob. Dave helped her empty the freezer and they deposited plastic bags of food in an assortment of neighborhood fridges. They're all within easy walking distance, Dave pointed out helpfully. The renovation took six weeks to finish. Dave worked on it alone until the middle of the next week.

Everything seemed to be working fine until Sam came home from school and showed them how he could turn the microwave on with a TV remote. So they called in an electrician to finish the job, a methodical and trustworthy man. It was the electrician who spotted the lead pipes running into the upstairs bathroom, and he said, if you want to have them replaced, you might as well do it while you have the walls down. So they had the plumbers in and had the entire upstairs bathroom redone, and downstairs where the back wall was, Morley had one of those bay windows put in, which is something she's always wanted, and she has a herb garden going in

the window space. Dave was admiring the plants the other evening, standing in the window and looking out into the yard, admiring the new view. It's a beautiful window, and he likes it, especially in the morning when the light is soft. Last Saturday, Dave and Morley were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the paper, and the kids were still in bed, and it was lovely to be there together. The sun drifting down on the coriander, Morley sipping her coffee, and then standing up and walking over to the counter to make some toast. Don't you think it would work better if we could plug it in at the table so we wouldn't have to get up and walk across the kitchen every time someone wanted to use the toaster?

That was Stuart McLean with Odd Jobs. And I feel a bit odd myself playing that story today. That's a story recorded 25 years ago now. You can tell. I'm not sure Stuart would have written it like that today. There are so many gender stereotypes in that story. I think he probably would have said something like those with tools instead of men with tools, because anyone can be a tool person. Anyone can be a DIYer. One of my really close friends, Sheila, is like this. Like she's never met a

project that she doesn't want to be a part of. This fall, Josh and I were putting up new storm windows on the screen porch, and I had to call Sheila to borrow a tool, a staple gun. No need for you to come and get it. I'll run it down, she said. Yeah, sure. She was being nice. She knew we had the kids with us, and coming to her place to get the stuff was a bit of a deal. But that wasn't it. Mostly, she wanted to be a part of it. When she came down to bring the staple gun, she brought three staple guns.

One for Josh, one for me, and of course she brought one for herself. I should have given her a sign and had her stand on the side of the road that said, Need holes punched? Alright, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with more from Stuart McLean, including a piece that some of you might remember from his regular chats with Peter Zosky on CBC's Morningside. I got a pet for a dime, and I brought it with me this morning.

I'm just going to reach down here. This is a live thing? This is a live thing bought for a dime. It's in a peanut butter jar. Yeah. Just pop it open here. Oh, my God. I know it's still there.

I hadn't checked this morning. No, it's still there, alive and kicking. There you go. Bought a cricket. Aw. Now, I've only had him since Saturday. He's not well, Stuart. He is well.

He is not. He's got the sponge with the water. He's got the Nabisco shredded wheat, which you can see he's eaten about a half of. Just the one little square. He's not well, Stuart. He is well. He is not. He's got the sponge with the water. He's got the Nabisco shredded wheat, which you can see he's eaten about a half of, just the one little square. He's not well, Stuart. Why do you say this? He's fine. Have you seen this cricket? This is an insipid critic.

People believe me, trust me, the cricket is fine. He doesn't eat a lot. He doesn't drink enough. This cricket has had the biscuit. Listen, crickets don't do much of anything. I got the mail. He's supposed of anything. I got the mail. He's supposed to make... I got the mail because the mail has the wings.

And with the chirping... It's the wings is how they make the chirping... Don't blow smoke on my cricket. I'm not. The wings are supposed to make the chirping noises at night. You know what I like? Did he? He hasn't.

You know what happened? I got all excited. I had a record on, and the record had a song, you know, and the way they mix in all of the new stuff. It had the cricket noises in the background. I got all excited. I had a record on, and the record had a song, you know, and the way they mix in all of the new stuff. It had the cricket noises in the background. I got all excited. I turned the record down. The cricket noises disappeared.

I thought, God, I've got to keep the music up. They're keeping chirping. Finally, I figured out that it was on the music. You know what I like about him? No. I don't think he's got the long lifespan. I think he's playing the back nine of cricket existence this morning.

I don't think I'm going to have to worry about boarding this little cricket field in the summertime. And I don't think, you know, a dead cricket in a peanut

butter jar is a whole different thing than a cat on the front lawn, right? It's going to be a little easier on the family. How much was he?

He was 10 cents. Yeah. Maybe we better put the lid on. I would hate to. He's not going to get out of there. This cricket is healthy. Trust me.

That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is a man whose job it was to capture the sound of the alchemy of audience, Greg DeCloot. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis,

Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.