To Me You Seem Giant


185 pages
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It’s 1994 and Pete Curtis can’t wait to get out of Thunder Bay, Ontario. Already, he’s playing drums in a band whose songs belong on mix-tapes everywhere. Even though his new girlfriend seems underwhelmed, he knows it’s just a matter of time before he and his pals break big.

Ten years later, Pete is stuck teaching high school in the hometown he longed to escape, while his former best friend and bandmate is a bona fide rock star.

In his debut novel, with its compelling hook and realistically flawed characters, Greg Rhyno remembers the time signatures of mid-nineties. Told in two alternating decades, To Me You Seem Giant is a raucous and evocative story about the difficulties of living in the present when you can’t escape your past.

Praise for To Me You Seem Giant

"A brooding tenor – combined with a lifelong love for music that manifests itself in new ways as he ages – lends Pete’s character a believable continuity."
~ Becky Robertson, Quill & Quire

To Me You Seem Giant is ultimately a touching and hopeful reminder of the need to confront the demons of your past in order to move on.”
~ Alexander Kosoris, The Walleye

"Underneath the layers of rock and roll is a compelling tale of lost loves, backstabbing bandmates and wondering where it all went wrong."
~ Steven Sandor, Avenue Edmonton



Publié par
Date de parution 01 septembre 2017
Nombre de visites sur la page 1
EAN13 9781988732015
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0064 €. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Copyright © Gregory Rhyno 2017
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication—reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system—without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rhyno, Greg, 1976-, author To me you seem giant / Greg Rhyno.
(Nunatak first fiction series ; 47) Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-988732-00-8 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-988732-01-5 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-988732-02-2 (Kindle)
I. Title. II. Series: Nunatak first fiction ; no. 47
PS8635.H97T6 2017
Editor for the Press: Leslie Vermeer Cover and interior design: Kate Hargreaves Cover photograph: Markus Spiske; Interior graphics: junkohanhero Author photo: Sarah Wyche
The words “To me you seem giant” are taken with permission from the song ‘Penpals,’ written by Sloan. The author and the publisher both thank the band.
NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.
NeWest Press #201, 8540-109 Street Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6
No bison were harmed in the making of this book. PRINTEDANDBOUNDINCANADA
1 2 3 4 5 19 18 17
For Sarah, Walter, and Ezra
Looking for a Place to Happen In September French Inhale Rescue Us from Boredom Today I Hate Everyone It Falls Apart Salesmen, Cheats, and Liars The Party Rages On Worried Now The First Day of Spring June
The Rest of My Life Come On, Teacher Almost Crimes The Laws Have Changed Where Have All the Good People Gone? Combat Baby Romantic Rights Nighttime/Anytime (It’s Alright) Rebellion (Lies) Let It Die Time is a Force
SIDE A Looking for a Place to Happen don’t pick up the phone, even r me.though at this time of night it’s probably fo Ithey get me my own line, they can answer it. This’ll make my parents crazy, but I figure it’s th eir name in the phone book. Until A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the door. M y mom swings it open before I can say anything. Part of me wishes I was doing som ething really messed up, like performing Satanic rituals, or jerking off toThe Golden Girls—something that would really burn her retinas. “Peter? I turn down the chipmunky sound of high-speed dubbi ng. “Jesse’s on the phone for you. “Okay. Thanks. After she shuts the door, I pick up the receiver from the nightstand. “Got it, I say into the mouthpiece. A moment passe s and I can still hear the ambient laughter of a live studio audience from the living room. “I’ve got it! I shout. There’s a rattle and click as someone finally hangs up. “Hello? “You coming out tonight? Soda’s not the most talkative guy to begin with, bu t when he calls, you’d think he was getting charged for long distance or something. “Uh, sure. Where do you want to meet? “Up top. Twenty minutes. I get a cold flash of adrenalin. “Sounds good, I lie. “See you there. “Oh, hey, Soda says, “one more thing. “What’s that? Click. Fucker. I hate it when he does that. I grin in spit e of myself, but then I hear the mechanicalkachunkof my stereo amputating a song halfway through, an d I realize I’ve got a situation on my hands. When faced with this kind of mixed tape timing cris is, most people opt for one of two strategies. The first is to let the song die when t he tape runs out. It’s the simplest solution, but I get kind of anxious waiting for tha t shitty, abrupt ending to come down like an axe. Alternatively, some people go back and record over the half-finished song with a blanket of magnetic silence. I’m not really into that either. As far as I’m concerned, two minutes of tape hiss can feel like a n eternity in limbo. Thankfully,theresathirdoption:youbringinacloser.LoveTara,thefirstfulllength
Thankfully,there’sathirdoption:youbringinacloser.LoveTara,thefirstfulllength from Eric’s Trip, has no fewer than four songs that clock in under two minutes, not including ‘Allergic to Love,’ which is pretty much two minutes on the dot. So, to finish out the side, I pick ‘June,’ this weird, menacing l ittle number that basically sounds like your stereo is going to come to life and murder you . It’s perfect. I rewind the tape a bit, then cue up my closer with a screechy fast-forward. I listen as the previous song dies out, wait a second or two for that crucial dead air, then start pushing buttons. PAUSE. PLAY. PLAY and RECORD. A minute and a half later, the song ends just before the reels groan and stop. In tiny black letters, I make a few final notes on the sleeve, then slide the paper back into the p lastic case. I pop the tape out of the stereo and snug it into the sleeve. I can always finish the flip side later. I grab my jacket and then walk through the house to ward the cackling ofRoseanne. My dad is stretched out on the couch, and my mom ha s her feet up in the recliner. There’s a bowl of Bugles on a TV table between them . “I’m going to stay at Soda’s tonight, I tell them. They look up at me then at each other, their faces changing shape in the television light. “I don’t remember you asking us, Dad says. “Okay, I sigh. Sometimes you’ve got to play ball. “CanI stay at Soda’s tonight? My dad looks at my mom, eyebrows raised. My mom nod s in the affirmative. “Just call us if you go somewhere else. “I wi-ill, I sing as I walk away. But I won’t. My parents aren’t bad people as far as parents go, but I wish they’d had another kid after me. At least that way they would’ve spread th eir parenting a little thinner. People think I’ve got it made because I’m an only child, b ut the truth is, it sucks being constantly outnumbered by adults. I don’t have olde r siblings to pave the way, or any younger ones to take the blame. Plus, I’m always ou tvoted. If I want to go Harvey’s, we inevitably go to Swiss Chalet. If I want to watchThe X-Files, I have to settle forDr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. As a result, I’ve been suspicious of democracy si nce I was six and lying my ass off since I was seven.
By the time I get up on the roofl, Soda’s already polished off two bottles of Crysta and he’s working on his third. I don’t actually nee d to see him to know this. While I worked my way from the dumpster lid to the first fl oor addition to the terrifying second-floor lintel, I could hear the empties completing t heir journey to the teachers’ parking lot. Mortality Reminders, Soda calls them. He doesn’t turn around when I find him. Instead, he slides another bottle out of the case, twists off the cap, and sets it beside him. I t stands at attention while Soda dangles his feet over the edge and tries to light a smoke behind the shield of his jeans jacket. I get a wave of vertigo just watching. I ke ep a safe distance and reach down for the beer. “Sodapop, I say. “Ponyboy, he mumbles, cigarette bouncing up and do wn. Up this high, there’s a sting in the air and it doe sn’t feel like summer anymore. I guess in about a week it won’t be. I tuck my hair b ehind my ears but a few mutinous strands escape and flap in my face. For a minute or so, we drink in silence and survey the view. Down and to the east I can make out the a ging chain-link fence that circles