Who Can It Be Now?
(Hay, C) Performed by Men At Work
Who can it be knocking at my door?
Go 'way, don't come 'round here no more
Can't you see that it's late at night?
I'm very tired and I'm not feeling right
All I wish is to be alone
Stay away, don't you invade my home
Best off if you hang outside
Don't come in, I'll only run and hide
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be knocking at my door?
Make no sound, tip-toe across the floor
If he hears, he'll knock all day
I'll be trapped and here I'll have to stay
I've done no harm, I keep to myself
There's nothing wrong with my state of mental health
I like it here with my childhood friend
Here they come, those feelings again
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Is it the man come to take me away?
Why do they follow me?
It's not the future that I can see
It's just my fantasy
Oh, who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Oh, who can it be now?
Oh, yeah, who can it, who can it
Oh, who can it be now?
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah
I'm back to the timeline of my life here, after breaking last week to talk about my parents' 50th anniversary celebration. As I wrote two weeks ago, in September of 1982, my family moved out to Alberta, and as I had gone to Ireland with my best friend Cora and her family for the second half of the summer, I was nearly a month late in starting grade ten. Knowing no one, and not even having been present for the hardcore froshing that my classmates had suffered and bonded through, I was totally alone, desperately lonely, and had no idea how to insert myself into my new community. That picture of Bart Simpson I started with was chosen ironically -- as was the over-the-top song choice -- in an effort to capture how pathetic I was: I zombied my way through the school during the days and cried myself to sleep every night. I was going on fifteen and I was the saddest sack that ever sacked a sad.
I've done no harm, I keep to myself
There's nothing wrong with my state of mental health
I like it here with my childhood friend
Here they come, those feelings again
Lunchtime was probably the hardest. My high school in Ontario had had a huge cafeteria that a person could slip into unnoticed, but in Lethbridge, there was just a small lunch room with a few tables that no one really used (and for that matter, instead of hot food service, this new school had just a snack window -- with chips and chocolate bars -- that operated only when the student council was doing a specific fundraiser). I tried eating in that lunch room on the first day, but it was like I had a neon arrow pointing down to me flashing, "New kid! Ignore!" (And even that's not totally fair: near the end of lunch, a table of obviously cool girls asked me where I was from and I chatted with them for a couple of minutes. We were overtly sizing each other up, and while I was desperate to make friends, these queen bees -- although actually quite nice to me -- didn't feel like my tribe; I needed to find and join my own social level. Yes: I preferred crying myself to sleep at night over accepting the first social lifeline offered.)
One day I tried eating in the hallway, but I stuck out even worse, and the only person who spoke to me was the Guidance Counsellor who wanted to know how I was fitting in. One day I decided to leave the school grounds: I had noticed there was a 7/11 a short walk away, and as Slurpees were a new delicacy for me, I thought it might make sense to waste the time getting one. I had no trouble finding the 7/11 out on the main street but got disoriented walking back to the school; taking a couple of wrong turns and beginning to panic about the time I was eating up. Once I finally found what I thought were the school buildings, I became even more confused: I knew that the name of my school was Catholic Central and it was across from the public high school, LCI. I could see LCI no problem, but across the street from it were one building named St. Francis and one named St. Joseph: at this point, I hadn't learned that originally, St. Francis was the girls' school and St. Joseph the boys', and they were now the junior and the senior high schools. I eventually went into the correct building, and when I noticed that the hallways were empty, I figured I was late for band class and I quickly grabbed my flute from my locker, found and flew down the stairs to the basement classroom, flung open the door -- and interrupted the noonhour jazz band practise. The teacher, Mr. Ritchie, was startled when I burst in, but assuming that I was interested in watching his beloved jazz band, he smiled and waved for me to take a seat and listen. I had so miscalculated the time that I was stuck there for at least half an hour, trying to smile and tap my foot appreciatively as I awkwardly faced these kids who were sizing me up with confused glances. In the break between the end of the lunch and the beginning of my own band class, Mr. Ritchie told me I could definitely try out for the jazz band if I was interested, or if I was just looking for entertainment, I was welcome to come watch any time. I never did again.
One day Ken noticed that I was struggling at lunch and he invited me to join him and his new buddies who were heading for Burger King. That was mind-blowing to me: there were no fast food chains in Stouffville (except for Mr. Sub, which was quite a distance from our house and not somewhere we were ever taken), so just the idea that there was a burger joint across the football field from school was a teenaged dream. When we were sitting there, I was relieved not to be alone and trapped in the school hallways, but I knew that hanging with these long-haired skids was not a permanent solution.
In the first couple of weeks, there were a few glimmers of hope. At the end of one day, as we stood up to leave, the girl behind me tapped my shoulder and I was sure she said, "You've had an accident." I'm sure the blood drained from my face and I remember how the room spun: there's only one thing that could mean coming from the girl sitting behind me. Then she said something like, "It's really cool", and I sputtered, "Excuse me?" And she said, "Your accent. It's pretty cool. You talk so fast." I clearly remember how my face warmed up as the blood returned -- I'm sure that's the biology behind the notion of having relief "flood over" you -- and I laughed and told her that I thought she was the one with the accent: I had certainly noticed how slowly everyone talked (and walked and drove) and these people seemed to drawl ever so slightly. We shared a laugh over that, but the exchange didn't really lead to anything.
In one class, a girl noticed that I had some Beatles buttons pinned to my purse and she used that as an entree to striking up a conversation as she was a big fan, too. Mirella asked why I was starting the semester late and I explained about having been in Ireland and she excitedly asked, "Oh, did you get to go to Liverpool, too?" Without missing a beat I lied and assured her that Cora and I had, indeed, taken a ferry over to England. Maybe the next day, Mirella introduced me to Kevin, her best friend and fellow Beatles fan and I had to lie to him, too, about seeing Liverpool. I was really hoping that this would lead to having friends to eat lunch with, but it turned out that Mirella and Kevin were members of the debate team and that's where they spent their lunch hours. As a side note, this is the same Kevin I eventually went to Europe with and when we were planning and he pointed out that I had already seen Liverpool, he was totally understanding when I came clean and told him it had been a total lie.
At the end of that first Friday, Mirella asked me if I would be going to that night's football game. I told her I didn't know anything about it and Mirella explained the when and the where and said that everyone who wants to just shows up and sits together; no promises, no pressure. I was unbelievably excited; this was the rescue I had been looking for. When I got home and told my mother that some kids had asked me to go to the game with them, she had a bunch of questions -- who all would be there> what were their last names> would there be parents there too -- and as I couldn't answer any of these questions, she said I wasn't allowed to go. And I ran to my room and wailed. I was so lonely, I had been dragged across the country against my will, I had an opportunity to get to know some people in a low pressure social setting, and the person who had uprooted me was enforcing my solitary confinement. Not only was I not getting to participate, but I was sure that by not showing up, I wouldn't be getting any more invitations. I was more pathetic than the Bart Simpson picture.
After a miserable weekend, I was even more miserable to go to school the following Monday. Everything was the same: eating alone, walking the halls alone, feeling sorry for myself. Then, in some class that week, the girl in front of me turned around and asked, "Do you have any felts?" I blinked back at her. Felts? "Felts" plural? Why would I have any felt singular on me? I didn't want to get this wrong, but I had no idea what she was talking about and eventually had to tell her so. She looked at me like I was a little dim, but as she described the coloured felt-tipped pens that she was wanting to borrow, I had to laugh and say, "Where I come from, we call those 'markers'." She blinked at me. "Well, do you have any markers?" I didn't, but it had started a conversation and this girl, Kasia, would become my best friend. Before class was over, Kasia asked, "So who do you eat lunch with? Want to join me and my friends?"
Yes. My God, yes.
Oh, who can it be now?
Oh, yeah, who can it, who can it
Oh, who can it be now?
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah
