| A farewell to Mr. Smutty
Who (or what) is a Mr. Smutty?
This question has haunted me day and night since I first moved to Calgary three years ago. Like many a fragile and unstable mind, I quickly became a fan of Fast Forward’s back page, drawing spiritual and intellectual sustenance from the paper’s arch and irreverent horoscopes. Eventually though, my gaze moved up the page and I discovered "Mr. Smutty."
The column was fresh and funny and bizarre. I began clipping the Smutty columns and sending them to my brother Ian, who runs an improv theatre in Toronto. He quickly became a fan as well. "Who is this guy?" Ian asked. "And why isn’t he syndicated?"
Good question. The lack of national syndication and fawning accolades heaped like rubies at the feet of "Mr. Smutty" remains a mystery for the ages.
The man behind Mr. Smutty also seemed elusive. Someone with two first names was claiming authorship ("Martin James?" James Paul?" Paul Martin?") but I suspected that this was a mere ruse. Often, whilst clipping my toenails or shaving my unnaturally hirsute underarms, I would stop to gaze intently out the window and ponder the true identity of Mr. Smutty – something the Calgary Transit officials took a dim view of. (Apparently, Calgary Transit has some "rule" against people staring intently out of windows. Go figure.)
When Mr. Smutty announced his retirement, my world collapsed around me. I staggered down 17th Avenue in a drunken stupor, reeking of cheap Cognac and stale tobacco, raging at the injustice of it all. My entire week revolved around Mr. Smutty – without Mr. Smutty to anchor my Thursdays, how could I possibly go on?
I suspected foul play. This James Martin chump had, I was sure of it, murdered Mr. Smutty. So, amateur Hardy Boys-type sleuth that I am, I set out to investigate the Strange Disappearance of Mr. Smutty.
Here’s what I found out: the supposed author of Mr. Smutty goes by the name of James Martin. He is 32 years old. He used to live in Calgary but now lives in Montreal, where he is attending grad school at Concordia. He is the author of Calgary: The Unknown City and co-author of the screenplay for the film waydowntown.
When I phoned him to ask what possible justification he could have for bumping off a beloved Calgary institution like Mr. Smutty, Martin said – and I quote – "I’m too busy."
"They were taking longer and longer to write," he said. "In Calgary, it was easier. I used to write the Mr. Smutty column while I was at work, on the sly."
"Can I say where?"
"I would rather you didn’t."
"Not a problem," I said, my voice dripping with sincerity. "I won’t mention your work as a Communications Specialist at the Calgary Centre for the Performing Arts, or the fact that you used valuable company time to write your scandalous (and, dare I say, scatological) columns. Your secret is safe with me."
"Thanks."
"And what did you say your PIN number was?"
"My PIN number? It’s 7486. Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
"You wouldn’t publish that would you?"
"Never. And your daily cash limit is...."
From this, I cleverly deduced that James Martin is a very gullible man. He is also a hardworking and undervalued writer. He wrote Mr. Smutty for five-and-a-half years. That’s more than 280 columns, at 635 words a pop.
When asked about the unusual style of the Mr. Smutty pieces, Martin says: "I wanted to see how far you can bend language and still make it readable. I was going for a stripped down, abbreviated style. I was writing for speed."
Or possibly on speed. With the frenetic humour and staccato rhythms and sudden non sequiturs, Mr. Smutty was in a class all its own. But now that he is hard at work burrowing through textbooks again, James Martin has decided to pull the plug on Mr. Smutty.
Mr. Smutty was taking up too much of his time, you see. Awwww. To which I say: "Cry me a friggin’ river. Listen. If you can’t go to grad school and write Mr. Smutty, give up grad school, all right? Get your priorities straight. You have fans that depend on you, man. We need our weekly fix, but do you care? Nooooo. Off you go, gallivanting around campus, ‘improving yourself’ with nary a flicker of conscience about the rest of us. Bastard."
And that’s when it hit me. James Martin doesn’t really exist.
A former English major and arts editor, with a normal family and a normal background, how the hell could he have ever written something as subversive and twisted as Mr. Smutty? He couldn’t have.
It’s Mr. Smutty who is real. James Martin is the invention. There is no other explanation for the fervent (some would say fetid) imagination that was displayed week in and week out on the back page of Fast Forward.
After speaking with "Mr. Martin" (if that is even his real name), I am more convinced than ever that Mr. Smutty is still at large. Why has he chosen this moment to vanish? Why has he concocted this fiction about "Mr. Martin" and grad school? Where is he, and what is he really up to? I smell a cover-up. Trust me, we haven’t seen the last of Mr. Smutty.
Will Ferguson is the author of HappinessTM which was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Prize (Canada & Caribbean) and which won the Canadian Authors Association Award for Fiction and the Leacock Medal for Humour.
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