DANTE'S PLAYGROUND

DANTE'S PLAYGROUND
Idle hands are the Devil's playground*
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Words: 6,045

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The radio has a captive audience.

[[[radio]]]

"Welcome to the Devil’s Playground on CHYL FM. My name is Dante.

Nothing is scripted. Citizens on the street decide the theme.

I am outside, live on the air, in search of idle hands. The Devil's Playground explores the power of suggestion. I offer no more than the satisfaction of the answer to the question: ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if . . .?’ And perhaps the occasional hat or mug.

Today, the search begins in the Wal*Mart parking lot.  Let’s see what (((B-E-E-P!))) we can raise."


Mornings, Tim Hortons is the busiest place in Chelsea. This morning, the atmosphere is noticeably different. Smiles linger a bit longer. Conversations are closer to the heart. Fashion is at the discretion of the spirit. It must be Sunday.

All that defines what it is to be Canadian, a Tim Hortons is present somewhere in the background. Be it work, school, vacation, even the war in Afghanistan, a Timmy's coffee cup is sure to be there. The Chelsea location is the 2,950th in the chain. It is an upscale, new concept design.

Today, the staff has control over the radio. Weekly targets were exceeded. The talk show is hosted by a nontraditional, in-your-face character to whom teenagers seem to relate.

Coincidentally, the live remote is just down the street.  A summer cottager known only as The Opera Guy, steps outside to catch a glimpse. The diversity of vacationers seeking relief from the hot muggy weather add flavor to this agricultural community on the shores of Lake Erie. Hugging the shade of the lush green canopy high overhead, this bear of a man is dwarfed by the towering elm trees. His appearance draws many second glances. It may be his size. It may be the amount he is perspiring. It could possibly be the sight of an Italian in an embroidered cowboy shirt. Most probably, it is the waving of his arms. He is attempting to notify everyone inside the coffee shop that he can see Dante. The patrons pretend not to see him, knowing his response.

What better way to enjoy a leisurely August morning than commercial air conditioning, apple fritters baking, fresh coffee brewing and to be serenaded to Giacomo Puccini's aria Nessun Dorma in the key of D?

[[[radio]]]

“Sounds like another happy Viagra customer," says Dante.

"Oh, excuse me madam. I'm here sampling the pulse of the community. Are there any local issues to which you would like to express an opinion?"

"As a matter of fact there is!"  The female voice projects the image of frail yet irate, high strung senior citizen. "I take issue with this Rapid Deployment Trauma Counselling vehicle set up over there? It's no more than a money grab by the Psychiatry Association. I find it insulting, invasive, Big Brother, and patronizing. It's just another example of opportunists, no different from the paparazzi news media, taking advantage of our grief.”


Heads in the coffee shop turn toward the foreign news correspondents in town to cover the atrocity. Their satellite equipped mobile unit has taken residence in Hortons’ parking lot. Daily reports are beamed back, in their case, to France. Since new details have not been forthcoming, segments have been filled with human interest stories. Expecting an extended stay, the coffee shop was tactfully secured as an ongoing source of Canadiana. Ted, the manager, agreed for the free international publicity. At the moment, the French reporters are oblivious to Dante's radio program. Giving a lesson at the counter on how to make a proper latte has them occupied.

“Explain to me how counsellors arrive to a scene in the police’s shadow ... even before forensics?  Who invites these people anyway?"

Trauma specialists appeared in town without warning. Essentially, the team consists of an RV packed with six white lab coats camped outside of Wal*Mart. The store generously offers overnight parking to fifth wheels. It is a courtesy extended with expectations of patronage. News media from around the world use it as their home base.

The team’s mandate is to counsel citizens overcome by grief and trauma. An unthinkable, heinous event rocked the town. According to newspapers, a prominent local citizen is accused of a series of abductions. Details are sketchy. The investigation is still underway.


"WOW! Didn’t see that coming! But are you not shocked by what happened?"

"Of course I am. But I'm a big girl. I deal with it in my own way as do my neighbours. I don't need an outsider from some big city to tell me how to carry on with my life.”


Up until this moment, the presence of the trauma unit has been no more than a curiosity. No one had publicly objected to it in this manner. Townsfolk have carried on as usual while watching the details unfold in the media. However, if the reaction mounting in the coffee shop is any indication, Dante may have just ignited something.


“I want to know who's paying for this!"

“Have you shared this with the newspaper?” asks Dante.

“Come to think of it, that’s a great idea! But aren’t you the same thing?”

“We’re just a little community station –“

“No voice is too small Sonny."


The Horton's manager identifies the voice as Eleanor. Others agree. They applaud her spirit.


“I see you're just coming from the mobile clinic. Did you share your concerns with them inside?"


The fact that Eleanor is leaving the RV does not raise eyebrows. It only further suggests that it’s her. Notorious for her wit, she has a history of crossing many lines.


"Oh heavens no."  Her voice softens.  "They’d probably sedate me again! They're not the decision makers anyway. So I quietly protested by playing a practical joke on them."


Any doubt about it being Eleanor is resolved. This is her fifteen seconds of fame for this week.


"When they asked how I had been affected, I said I have this uncontrollable urge to bake pies."

"You devil. You prankster. You didn't! Peach pie by any chance?" says Dante. "And how did they respond?"

"Some psycho-analysis gibberish. Supposedly, I'm playing out memories during a period in my life when I felt secure. Blah! Blah! Blah!"

A two second, pre-recorded sound-effect of a siren drowns out Eleanor’s voice.

"It's official,” says Dante.

Eleanor is quickly dismissed. She served her purpose. Dante has his theme for the day.

"Come on down. Join the protest. Help make our message heard. How dare they tell us how to grieve!"


The teenagers in the shop wait for Dante's signature phrase and say it along in unison.


"Wouldn’t ... it ... be funny ... if ... everybody cranks the trauma centre?"


Everyone else wonders how they have never heard of this Dante before.


"So the call's going out to all Dante Demons. Convincingly,  yank a counsellor's chain with some outlandish symptom, then wander over to the remote and share the experience with our listeners.

You can’t miss me. Look for the red pickup truck. You don't have to say it with pie, but if you do, I have some embossed hats and mugs to give away."


Laughter echoes out during the commercial break. The sound of it is refreshing. It seems like there's rarely a reason to let loose lately. The eclectic selection of music mixed into the program is lost in all the buzz. A lively episode is anticipated. Zach Langsford reminisces of ancient times before the advent of TV. He tells of family gatherings around the wood cabinet radio aglow from the vacuum tubes inside.

Midst all the hubbub, two sixteen year old girls, Emily Peterson and Jordan Taylor, slip in and take a table along the wall. Emily is visibly anxious, somewhat dishevelled. Jordan does her utmost to comfort her while not drawing attention.

First to take notice is Josh, a classmate. He works part time at Tim's. Two coffees and a wink are delivered to the table.

Whenever it's busy like this, Ted the manager, pitches in by busing dishes and damp mopping his cherished terracotta tiles. He polishes an adjacent marble top table making his presence known. He wishes to preempt any behaviour which may interrupt the enjoyment of others.

In school, these two excel at anything they put their minds to. However, academics is all that interests them. Motivation is lacking when it comes to sports, even though both are natural athletes. Consequently, there seems to be a lot of time to kill. High brow mischief usually results.

"And how are we today my little art aficionados?" Ted asks. His voice mimics that of a pompous curator. "May I direct your attention to the latest addition to our gallery."

He motions to the textured wall above their table. A ceiling pot lamp is angled to illuminate.

"A timely piece worth noting?"

His glare fires a warning shot across their bow.

There has been a recent change in Ted. The employees usually keep him in check. Whenever he tries to implement motivational ideas straight out of the dated franchise manual, they either modify them into something workable or talk him out of it altogether. Lately however, interest in work by the staff has waned. Associates just trudge in their time and leave. Consequently, Ted is unbridled, operating without feedback.
In an attempt to relate to the teenagers, he tries to rap. Management by rhyme would be a more accurate assessment. Phrases which normally draw intense ridicule, now go unheeded. Time to lean; Time to clean is his favourite.

"Minimalist yet foreboding," says Ted. "A typical picture is said to be worth a thousand words that’s true. The value of this one is that it is only worth two."

The sign reads No Loitering.

Jordan pleads her case sarcastically in verse. "Caffeine Man, please spare us, Oh Caffeine Man. A mere twenty minutes to make a plan."

"Silence!" demands Zach. " Dante is back."


[[[radio]]]

"We have our first listener to accept the challenge. Sir, I see you have a pie. You must have an appreciation for the value of our hats. Tell us about your protest."

"My name is Morley Clifford. The image of Christ appeared in the crust of my pie."

The name is well know amongst the under twenty crowd. To the others, it just raises shoulders. Morley is the poetic oracle of the Chelsea scene, never missing an opportunity to promote his punk band. By the reaction of his followers, he has succeeded.

A sound effect of a trumpet blares WINNER!

"Well that certainly beats the bajesus out of the Nun Bun!"

Reference is to a cinnamon roll on display in a Nashville coffeehouse made famous because of its striking resemblance to Mother Teresa.

"Manifestations in pious pastries is big news these days. We should contact someone. The Vatican? No bigger? Let's call eBay!"


Emily winces.

“That sounds like Dante." she says. "What’s the radio station doing down there? Did you know about this?”"

Emily stretches her neck, peering over heads and through the wall of glass for any sign of activity down the street.

“Let’s just stick to the original plan,” says Jordan. “Ignore the radio.”

Emily throws her arms in the air.

“How can I ignore it? People are going to be swarming him. Every person stepping out of the trauma centre will be scrutinized. Someone will probably know me. If we don’t speak to Dante afterwards, what will they think?”


"Sir, I'm afraid to ask, but what are you doing with the chicken?"

"My name is Calvin. I run the Chelsea Hatchery.”

The news correspondents from France 2 TV are the only ones to laugh, again drawing threatening stares. Eggs recently increased seventy cents a dozen.


"I have a radio in the barn set to the all-news-station. It seems to sooth the hens. Ever since the abductions started, many stopped laying. I handed the counsellor the bird. The sight of the white lab coat frightened her.”


Zach corrects him. "It was the sight of what you're charging per dozen!" he yells out.


"She must have thought that her goose was cooked. She dropped an egg on the spot.”

“What did he say?” asks Dante.


“Your welcome,” whispers Emily.


"I couldn’t wait for his response,” laughs Calvin. “I was about to drop one too!”


Emily tears at her nails.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you listen too much?” she asks.

Jordan does not reply. Maintaining eye contact chin in hands, she squints.

“When you stare at me like that, what do you see?”

Jordan still does not reply. She crosses her arms.

Emily slams her open palms onto the table. The coffee spills over the rim. The hi-tech-ish halogen lamp hanging at shoulder height sways.

“What do you see!” screams Emily.

Anyone who wasn’t watching, is now. Jordan stands to contain the spill. Apologies are extended to surrounding tables.

Emily is irked to see Jordan direct a shrug to Josh. He listens in disbelief from behind the counter. Emily refuses to share Jordan’s undivided attention.

“Why worry what he thinks? His opinion is worth the price of a coffee. And see how it spills!”

An inquisitive little boy tugs on his mother’s sleeve. He seeks an explanation why Emily is licking salt from her hand. The mother fails to divert his fascination.

“When you look at me, do you see my grandmother?”

Jordan steadies the lamp, resumes her seat and maintains her silence.

“Let me know if you ever notice me pulling my hair, grinding my teeth, or twitching my eyelid too much. Those were my grandmother's early symptoms. Oh my!"

An expression of fear overtakes Emily. Anticipating another outburst, Jordan moves the remaining coffee from harm's way.

"She was diagnosed with schizophrenia! I can't exhibit any of her symptoms. What if they ask about family history? This could affect Harvard. They might lock me up. Jordan promise me you won’t let them lock me up! Now I don’t know what to do.”

Her trembling hands cover her face.


"My name is Ricardo.”  The voice speaks with a thick Italian accent.

"I have a country rock band. After hearing about the tragedy, one morning I woke up and all I could sing is opera."

He sings a popular country tune as if performing an aria at La Scala.

"Just the other night a hometown football game. My wife and I ran into my old high school flame."

Dante tries to interrupt.

"I think I caught part of your earlier performance. Was that you down the street? How’s your home life?"

Ricardo continues to sing.

"Hey! Pavarotti . . . Billy Joe Ricardo . . . whatever . . . fare un intervallo, per favore."


"That sounds like The Opera Guy," says Josh as he offers a refill. "Did anybody see him leave?"

An orphaned croissant and the Milan Gazette sit at an empty table.


"I’ll never be able to sing Garth Brooks again."

"I don’t see the problem?"

"That's what the counsellor said."

A sound effect conveying  SORRY TRY AGAIN  plays.

"Can't give you a hat, but you look hungry. Would you like some pie? It comes highly endorsed."


Emily studies her reflection in the window. “Do I look gaunt? I can't remember if I ate today."

In the kitchen, Josh offers up his impersonation of Garth does Carnegie Hall. It reverberates throughout the store.

Emily's train of thought flips again. She holds out her wrist.

“Take my pulse. I think it's racing. Maybe I should get some water.”

Before Jordan has time to fill her request, Emily attempts to stand. She waivers on her feet, possibly from rising too fast. A man from the adjacent table reacts. He steadies her and assists her back to her chair. Water is brought. Jordan thanks everyone and offers assurances that things are under control.

“Emily,” Jordan whispers. “Listen to me. This is not the place to have a melt down.”

Attention in the shop is bouncing between Josh in the kitchen, Dante on the radio and the girls at the table.

“I’m sorry to burden you like this,” replies Emily.

“Emily. It's me. Jordan. When it starts to hurt, I’ll stop.” .

The little boy wishes to help. He stands next to Emily holding up a section of the newspaper. It had tumbled to the floor when she tried to catch her fall. His mother scoops him up.


“I believe I’m experiencing episodes of paranoia.”

The voice is high pitched and animated.

“I’m convinced I’m next on the kidnapper’s list.”

“So tell me more,” says Doctor Dante.

“The counsellor reached in his drawer and handed me a business card. Such issues were beyond the mandate of the clinic. He wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist in the area.

I have avoided analysis up to now with the fear of it escalating into multiple visits. I cannot afford to become addicted to analysis. (aside) You get the joke don't you Dante? How does one counsel someone addicted to counselling?”

The voice is recognized as Amanda, a former employee. Ted reminds the staff how she enrolled in night classes for drama. Now it is evident she is bettering herself, all the result of his coaxing of course. The message, however, was lost in an ill conceived rhyme involving 'feed her' and 'theatre'. Expressions of disdain from the staff show promise the shroud of lifelessness is falling away.

“Ooh! Taking this to a higher plain,” says Dante. “Very good. So what did he say?”

“At first he said that it is impossible to become addicted to counselling. So I said if that’s so, why has my friend’s grandmother been seeing a psychiatrist weekly for the last two years?”

A sound effect of a ‘drum rim shot’ plays.

“Out of nowhere, he is interested if by any chance she had been baking a lot of pies lately?”

“Don’t tell me your friend’s grandmother’s name is Eleanor?” asks Dante.

“Yes!”

“So is she on medication?”

“Obviously not!”

“So today’s theme was inspired by . . .”

The female voice interrupts Dante to finish the story.

“He reached into a second drawer and gave me a different card.”

“And who was it for?”

“A private investigator.”

A sound effect conveying the message LOSER! plays.

“Trying to find yourself.  I think we may be raising some suspicions in the trailer park,” says Dante.

Emily growls “The radio is freaking me out! In a moment I’m going to be right there. Amanda, how could you? What are the chances I’m going to be taken seriously now?”

Again shifting gears, she appeals to Jordan for patience.

“I disappoint you, don’t I?  I see it in your eyes. Sure I'm nervous. But I have always been nervous. But I never let it stop me before. My father says how one handles stress tells a lot about their character. I think I’m afraid to find out the truth.”

“Ladies how can I help you?” asks Dante.

“We heard something about a pie contest. We wish to enter these.”

The ladies of the church are well known. They are loved and respected for their innocence, huge hearts and attempts to solve every problem in the world with baking.

“You heard right. Your crusts are so flaky. You must use lard in the dough. I can comfortably say these are the best pies I’ve seen today. Even better, they're not looking back at me.  Ha! You win! Here's a coffee mug.”

"That's not -"

Dante interrupts. “So have you had the opportunity to visit the trauma unit?”

“We do what has worked for thousands of years. We forgive and carry on.”

“Ladies. You make it sound so easy. But looking for answers is the last thing on our minds today."

Normally Dante would toy with individuals whom misunderstand the theme for the day to the enjoyment of the listeners.

"I have to keep moving here."


With all this talk about pie, Ted rearranges the refrigerated showcase to pump sales.


“We're outside of Wal*Mart protesting the nerve of outsiders trying to show us how to heal. Come join us. There's pie. Not just any pie. We're talking home grown apples. M-m-m-m. Tastes like Russets.”


Emily studies the newspaper, then looks away. She reads some more then glances off again as if she is memorizing something. Jordan watches quizzically.

"The obituaries," she says. "I need to recite the names of the deceased."

Jordan breaks her silence. "Now you’re starting to freak me out. Please trust me when I say it's time."

"What are you going to say?" ask Emily.

"I'm going to go with flow like we always do," replies Jordan.

"We're a team right?" asks Emily.

"I’m here for you. We're doing this together. I'll be in the next room if you need me. You'll be fine."

"This really reveals who your friends are," says Emily. “Notice how everyone keeps their distance. They've already committed me."

Emily is being treated as if she's contagious.

"Is it because I resemble my grandmother? What else could it be?"

They rise from the table. Emily concentrates on each step.

“I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”

“Emily, trust me. If you don’t do it now you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The fact that the radio is there will just make you appreciate it all the more in the future when this is behind you.”


“What Dante is doing . . ."  The words are spoken in a thick French accent with a limited understanding of the English language.  "continue . . .idle hands . . . it is getting better?”


“Well thank you Michel." says Dante. "A compliment from a respected news correspondent from France 2 TV means a lot.


The girls walk the gantlet to the door. Jordan follows.


“You are too close. You must step back.”

“I didn’t mean to crowd you." says Dante. "This is just community radio. We don’t have the resources of a national television network.”

“You don’t see woods from forests.”

“I’m sorry I am not following. You are mixing idioms."

“Imbecile!”

“Now, that I understand.”

“Have to tell counsellor,” says Michel.

“Well my little Demons," says Dante. "I think the gates are closing on the playground. Once again, the French are off to cavort with the enemy. Can’t believe the turn out today. This is turning into tryouts for Disorder Idol. Hey! Where’s Paula?"


Josh chuckles.

"I fail to see the humour in this. Change the station immediately!” screams Emily.

Those whom had refrained from gawking up to this point, can no longer.

“How dare you trivialize the work of the counsellors. Believe it or not, people have actually been traumatized by this whole thing! Heaven help the person discouraged from seeking counsel because of this Dante. You should all be ashamed of yourselves!"

Emily storms outside. Josh is speechless. He wonders why he was centred out. The room is silent except for Dante and his escapades on the radio.

“Sorry for the outburst,” Jordan apologizes. “I know ... I know ... I’m sorry. Emily’s not herself today. I’m taking her to see someone now.”

All watch through the wall of glass as Jordan catches up to her marching down the sidewalk. Josh signals to turn the radio down. He tracks them until they are out of sight. The instruction is rescinded, but not as loud.

At the live remote, it is obvious that the radio program does not have a budget. The first sign is that there isn’t one. Dante could easily be mistaken for a farmer selling pies from the open tailgate of a red pickup.

Emily predicted right. People schmooze with Dante when he is not on the air. Visitors are studied as they leave the trauma centre. Chatter intensifies with each step down the stairs. Anticipation climaxes with the direction chosen at the bottom. Straight ahead means it is time for the next contestant. Any other direction plants the seeds for a prejudicial rumour.

Suddenly, everyone departs. A lab jacket walks towards them. Dante strategically places an open microphone out of sight. He dials the radio station to ensure everything is being recorded. The imminent conversation has the potential to launch a broadcasting career. He prepares for the money sound byte. With all the news media filling the parking lot, he might catch someone's ear.

“I smell pie,” says the counsellor. "Are you giving out free samples?"

“Only if you are,” says Dante.

A generous portion is served up. Dante positions for the benefit of the listening audience. He nods in the motion of Michel walking back towards the France 2 remote.

“How is your French?” asks Dante.

“Just enough to know when someone is being rude,” he says. “How is our setup possibly too close to theirs?”

Dante shrugs innocently but is thinking Yes! Fumble recovery! Game on!

The counsellor scans the sky.

"There must be a full moon out or something." he says.

Dante bites his tongue and chooses his words carefully.

"Sounds like you’re earning your wages today."

"Almost everyone this morning has been a classic example of what happens when grief and trauma are left unresolved."

"How do you mean?" asks Dante.

“Many of the sessions were charades. Evil is afoot. When someone treats sorrow and emotional shock in a farcical manner, it is a sure sign that problems are brewing."

Ted barges in.

“I manage the Tim Hortons down the street. You're a psychiatrist right? I have been so traumatized, that I can no longer rap.”

Ted is as inept at playing a practical joke as he is at telling one.

“Ted  ... Ted  ... Ted,” says the counsellor. “We’ve been down this country road before. You’re not living up to the slogan on your shirt.”

Always Fresh is embroidered above his name-tag.

“But that's how I connect with my employees. Through rap.”

“Ted, think about what you’re saying,” says Dante.

Ted does not appreciate the opportunity to walk away with pride intact.

“I bet if we listen hard enough," he says. "We can hear your employees cheer if you promised never to rap again.”

Dante hopes his cue is obvious enough for someone in the coffee shop to pick up on. He leans to listen, but the traffic is too loud.

“I can confidently say, they are all thinking no way,” Ted rhymes.

“Ted. That's like trying to steer a car with the radio," says the counsellor. "There’s no way a teenager could possibly dig that. If they do, they should be visiting me."

“Ted! Ted! Look!” says Dante. “The sign at the street. It’s flashing!”

“Oh, pay no attention to that. There’s a loose connection,” says Ted.

“Ted, do you listen to your employees?" asks the counsellor. "Sometimes the truth lies not in what they say, but what they do."

Ted starts to rummage through the box of caps in the back of the pickup.

“I like this black one,” he says. He tries it on and checks it out in the side view mirror.

The counsellor is astounded by his boldness.

“I’m sorry Ted,” says the counsellor. “But those are meant to be worn straight.”

“Ted look!” says Dante. “The loose connection is getting angry.”

“I have a call in to the electrician.”

“Well hopefully the electrician has an extinguisher,” says the counsellor. “Because your garbage container is on fire.”

Ted rushes off back to the store. The staff have spoken. Message received.

“You see,” says the counsellor. “Practical jokes like that . . . especially on analysts trying to help is a definite red flag. Subconsciously, it is a cry for help.”

“Maybe you're over analyzing things,” says Dante. “What if they are just innocent pranks?”

“We had one case today with a family history of problems. We could have easily misdiagnosed her because of all these innocents pranks as you call them.”

“You must be talking about Eleanor?”

The counsellor ignores the question to avoid divulging personal information. He indicates that the pie is delicious. His fork tests the flakiness of the crust.

“Pretending mental illness to a psychiatrist is as foolish as intentionally startling a lion in the wild.”

Dante continues to restrain himself. The counsellor's inflated self-worth begs to be popped. Perhaps it’s not wise to lock horns with a possible psychiatrist live on the air. Keep it light he thinks to himself.

“You mean to tell me, six guys in an RV and no one has pulled a gag on each other?”

“We’re professionals. We’re on a mission to help people.”

“It must be nonstop laughs over there,” chuckles Dante. “Fellow counsellor,” he says in a mock professional voice. “We need to explore your childhood. There must be some childhood trauma to explain this constant urge to pull my boxer shorts up to my ears?”

The counsellor forces a grin.

“Save that brush for forensic accountants," he says. "I’ll have you know we’ve been known to pull a couple of cerebral wedgies in our time.”

When dogged to elaborate, however, the counsellor cannot remember one example. Dante insists the accountant’s brush paints an accurate portrait as first thought. Agitation builds.

“Okay,” says the counsellor. “You want a practical joke? You want spontaneity? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do."

These are the moments Dante lives for. He discretely checks that the hidden microphone is not obstructed.

"We’ve been enlisted by the International Psychiatry Association to write a training manual for setting up rapid response teams for trauma. It has the potential to be adapted as a standard around the world."

Dante yawns.

"So I’m going to create a new chapter. Hmmm? What should I call it? How about Aberrant Behaviour Symptomatic of Repression of Traumatic Events. I’ll even dedicate it to you for your inspiration."

Dante checks his watch.

"In it I will discuss the notes taken for everyone today that pranked us. We’ll discuss what can be read into the disorder they were feigning. We’ll just see who has the last laugh. How’s that for spontaneity Mister Pie Man?"

Dante's eyes open wide.

“That’s not a practical joke. That’s just evil. At least it sounds evil,” says Dante.

“Since when were foul lines drawn in the Devil's playground?”

He hands Dante the empty plate and heads back to the RV.

All Dante can say is “Oops!”


Back in the store, Zach’s wife smack’s his shoulder. “Now aren’t you glad I talked you out of it?”


"This is the Devil’s Playground. We have our last demon for the day."

"Hi. My name is Emily."

“Oh. You must be Eleanor’s granddaughter,."


Zach sighs, “Ah Geeez! Here we go. It’s the belt missing a loop again. Spoiling it here for us wasn’t good enough for her. Now she has to ruin it for the whole town.”

An elbow requests his silence. Others cringe. A mental breakdown live on the air appears inescapable.


“I told the counsellor that ever since the arrest, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief."

One would never know that it is Emily speaking. She has never sounded so vulnerable, so shaken.

"One day when I was walking past the funeral home, I heard my name. I didn’t see anyone. I followed the voice inside. I never knew the little girl, but I was welcomed with open arms.”

A family in the coffee shop vacates their table. The children protest. The mother hurries them out the door.

“Everyone I met was filled with similar emotions. Sharing in their grief, was the first relief I had in my own.”


Zach’s wife clasps his hand between both of hers.


“It was an uplifting moment. Perhaps too uplifting. I returned the following day and every day after that. Now I can’t stop. I have this insatiable urge to share in other people's grief.”

Smoke billows from the toaster oven. Bagels burn.

“This may sound weird, but I find comfort in seeing an open casket. I think I’m addicted to funerals.”

Jaws drop. A coffee pot overflows.


“Were the counselors able to help?" Concern resonates in Dante's tone. "From what I’ve heard, the counsellors are insightful and competent. You should take their advice to heart.”

Normally, humiliation has more entertainment value.

“Did they have anything to offer?”

Instead, compassion is being extended to a truly troubled person.

“A prescription," says Emily.


There is a unanimous sigh of relief. This could have easily ended ugly. Issuance of a prescription demonstrates a problem has been diagnosed and is being addressed.


“H-E-L-L-O!" pleads Emily. "So where are the trumpets? You're still cranking those guys, right? Don’t I get a mug or something? Did you hear what I said? I got a prescription. Pretty convincing, huh?”

SILENCE follows on the radio and by this time, most of Chelsea.


“So do I just help myself to the pie?”


Michel Michaud prepares to record a segment outside. Tim Hortons is the backdrop. The smouldering garbage receptacle adds visual effect. The France 2 insignia on the microphone faces the camera.

(He speaks in French.)

“Since the tragedy, Newbridgians have gradually and unwittingly been losing all joie de vie. Closure eludes them. All they have are accusations. Facts are not forthcoming. The absence of any kind of funeral or memorial service has forced sorrow to be repressed. Unresolved grief has been weighing them down like a sodden wool overcoat. To an outsider, the town appears to be inhabited by zombies.”

The camera zooms in on a group of unsuspecting patrons leaving the coffee shop.

“Today, however, the resilience of spirit within this small Canadian town was unmistakable.”

At the sight of the camera crew, a crowd gathers.

“It started with idle hands. A practical joke was played at the expense of the psychiatric team sent in to help. One thing lead to another ultimately escalating into unbridled revelry. Citizens were biting the hands trying to heal them. The Devil was having a heyday. Never has the playground been so full with idle hands.

Ironically, out of all the shenanigans, the most amusing practical joke was on the Devil himself. Like everyone else, he was also too close. No one could see the forest for the trees. I tried to tell them to step back.

The confrontation over how best to heal, was in of itself, the start of the healing process. While the trauma centre has only focused on the individuals, through its demonizing, the community as a whole, as a living entity, is coming back to life.

I’m glad to report the town of Chelsea is on the road to recovery.”

“Y-o-o H-o-o!”

A voice cries out in high school French.

“B-o-n-j-o-u-r M-i-c-h-e-l !”

Michel ignores him.

“Aimeriez-vous qu'un croissant pour soit allé avec votre latte?”

Michel remains focused on the camera recording.

“Citizens will soon be back to their normal selves,” he says.

A dozen croissants rain down on Michel from all angles.

“This is Michel Michaud, France 2, on the outskirts of Chelsea."

He casually catches a flaky projectile and takes a bite.

"Under fire . . . by idle hands.”

He looks off screen holding the pastry in the air.

“You call this a croissant? This is not a croissant. Vous m'insultez. I have had better vieux baguettes! Take me to this Monsieur Tim Horton tout de suite!”


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* (The Tale of Melibee, G.Chaucer, 1386)