This really isn't a story. Nothing much happens, just a lot of description. Besides, as anyone who knows me well will notice, it's almost all true. Still, I'm trying to write and post frequently so enjoy the description I guess.
The roar is deafening. I stand there thinking “if you would just shut up, even for only two minutes, I would give up one of my kidneys”. How the fuck has it come to this? And by this I don’t just mean the seething mass of adolescences that pulsates before me but also the fuse in my brain that seems to have become increasingly short until it is the length of a burnt wick of a candle stub. When did my biggest ambition in life become nothing more than to experience 30 seconds of continuous silence? I didn’t suffer from Dangerous Minds Syndrome when I signed on –rural Quebec isn’t exactly where you’d go if you wanted to melt the hearts and mould the minds of future hardened criminals- but I certainly also didn’t think I’d be the type of person who’d be screaming at the top of her lungs at a group of rowdy youth. Then again, I never thought I’d live in the suburbs either.
Widen the shot a bit. Drive about 45 minutes to the south, past the nuclear power plant, for which I’ve been give iodine pills in case of emergency –like some salt’s going to fucking help if the shit hits the fan- and you’ll see what I mean. Midway through a cul-de-sac, you’ll spot the squat monstrosity I presently call home. Its only redeeming feature is that its’ a 2 minute walk to the Tim Horton’s parking lot where my carpool co-workers meet. Without a car, I’m at their mercy.
Without a car I’m in fact at everyone’s mercy. For some reason they have yet to discover sidewalks here and anyone caught walking may very well be shot on sight or at least drenched in a shower of icy cold slush followed by a few hurled words of abuse and some strange looks. However, without a car, you WILL be walking as busses are as of yet similarly undiscovered.
Despite the fact that it’s a pretty small city –though my darling students perceive it as a thriving metropolis, which it is in comparison to their town of 300- things always seem surprisingly far away. For instance, the recycling depot is about an hour walk from chez moi. I know this because about a week into my stay someone stole my blue bin. I considered taking a taxi to pick up a new one but that seemed a slap in the face of my effort to be environmentally conscious. A blue bin is an absolute necessity here because they don’t simply shove a few flyers through your mail slot, they actually attach an entire bag of them to your door knob. I was complaining about this practice to one of my co-workers and he looked at me quizzically, “you mean you don’t spend Sunday browsing the deals?” I really tried to believe he was being sarcastic but that’s a form of humour rarely practiced here, as I’ve discovered after unintentionally insulting almost everyone I meet.
That isn’t to say people aren’t congenial. Almost everyone I meet has tried to set me up on a blind date. It seems that at 25 and still single I should be about ready to mate with a turkey baster. The idea of dating isn’t entirely unappealing but everyone who’s still single reeks of desperation. The only reason people stay here is so they can afford to buy a huge pick up truck, get married, buy a squat block of a house and raise 2 or more children. Anyone who harbours any other desires has long since moved away. One of my blind dates told me he tried living in a big city briefly but that he didn’t enjoy it because he had to drive too far to get places. I asked him about the public transit there and from the way he looked at me I wondered whether I’d messed up my French. Then he told me he worked for Petro-Can. I kind of stopped listening after that.
Suddenly the bell rings with the fervour of a bomb and I am blown back into my classroom. A sweaty mass of bodies push past me, ramming graffiti covered desks into walls as they go. I have to step out of the way to avoid being trampled or groped but I am still close enough to hear a tall kid sporting a basketball jersey and a crew cut nudge his friend and say “hey that class was pretty fun”.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
My Father's Horse
“Your father’s a hero”, she said wiping my feverish brow. The red popsicle she held was melting down her arm and a fine red mist was gathering on my cover. It looked like the results of a nose bleed. “I remember when I met him” she continued. “He was wearing a green shirt that said fighting for war is like…” She smiled. “You’re too young to hear the end of that sentence. I was filled with so much passion back then and him too. It was a rally for...isn’t that funny I don’t remember. I remember what he was wearing but not what we were fighting for.”
She shook the memory free and smoothed the covers with her free hand, smearing the red flecks. The popsicle was now dripping right off her elbow and she licked her forearm absentmindedly. My eyelids fluttered up and down like the creaky springs on a trampoline that’s been left out in the rain too long. The shadows grew until they engulfed the room. I heard a door close miles and miles away. The smell of my mother’s nutmeg skin lingered in the room but it was my father I dreamt of that night. He rode a galloping brown mare and a green cape fluttered behind him in the wind. I couldn’t quite see his face but I knew that it was him.
We are making chocolate chip oatmeal cookies in the kitchen. Even though it’s almost November the kitchen is warm and bright. I am old enough now to crack the eggs in the bright yellow Pyrex bowl. Some times a few pieces of the shells fall in but mom picks most of them out. I even get to put the trays in the oven. Mom’s nervous. She tells me to watch out because the oven racks are very hot and the tray is heavy and big in my hands. She has to hold the oven door open for me because some times when you’re not expecting it, it springs shut on you. One time mom lost a whole chicken dinner that way but it was ok because we got to eat cereal for dinner, which would never normally be allowed. She was lucky it didn’t snap shut on her arm.
From my stool at the island I watch as the cookies grow and turn golden. Mom can’t bend down that far anymore so it’s my job to tell her when they’re just perfect. While we wait mom sings Little Bunny Foo Foo and she really bops me on the head but not hard or anything just so it’s funny and we laugh. She stops laughing too quickly go and her hands turn to fists as she kneads her back and frowns.
When the cookies are ready she lets me take them out of the oven with the big cow print oven mitts. She usually never lets me touch the hot sheets. I put the cookies on the giant silver cooling rack that looks like part of a hamster’s cage and I see burnt on crumbs from the last time we made cookies. Mom doesn’t see them and I don’t mention them. “Let’s save some for your father” she says but we both know they won’t be any good by the time he gets back.
My dad was on TV. My dad was on TV. My dad was on TV. I didn’t understand a lot of what they were saying. A scary old man had a lot of bad things to say but lots of beautiful young people with long hair and pretty beads said really nice stuff. One guy with a really big beard said that my dad will change the face of America. I didn’t know a country could have a face but my dad could change it. When my mom heard the man with the beard she squeezed my hand so tight I thought I would cry but I didn’t make sound. Mom says I’m too big to cry now anyway but I saw her wiping her eyes on her sleeve when she thought I wasn’t watching.
When the mean old man came back on the TV my mom shook her fist. “Lord”, she said “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Some people are so plain ass ignorant but your daddy’s going to change some people. Pumpkin, you should be so proud.” I don’t know why I should be proud. I didn’t do anything. My dad did. I still don’t know what but it’s something big alright. Maybe some day they’ll have a holiday for him and name a street after him. That would sure show Ella and Katie. Then they’d never tease me about my ghost dad again. Mom says I should just tell them that my daddy’s a hero when they start to tease me but when I did that they just called me a liar and told me not to make believe. I stamped my foot and yelled “I’m not, I’m not” but I couldn’t give them an answer when they asked me what he did.
When the news is over, mom gets up and pushes the silver knob on the TV and the picture disappears with a whizzing sound. Mom suddenly notices all the dust on the TV. She blows on it a big cloud rises and settles on her. She goes into the kitchen and grabs her yellow cleaning gloves and the old, worn pajamas she uses as a cleaning rag. I beg her to tell me another story about dad. I don’t care so much about the story but I know if she tells me one she’ll sit right close to me al cuddled up and stroke my hair. She’ll smile for at least half an hour, maybe even sing, but she just tsks and scrubs the coffee table. I go upstairs to play with my dolls.
Today is my very first day of school. Mom takes pictures of me wearing a new yellow dress. My hair is pulled back in two braids so tight they force me to smile as I hold up my brand new lunch box covered in stars. Mom also makes me hold up the new crinkly package of pencils and the box of erasers shaped like fruit. They smell good enough to eat but they taste gross. I know because I broke off a tiny piece of the pineapple and tasted it.
Mom promised to walk me to school this whole week. It’s only two blocks away and mom can see me if she stands on the porch but I’m happy she wants to show me the way. I don’t like to walk past the older boys alone. They say rude things about places and parts I don’t want to hear about. Plus, if we walk together, she’ll hold my hand and tell me stories about all the people who live in the neighbourhood.
Mr. and Mrs. Carter are very old. They have two cats and they drink a lot of milk, the Carter’s not the cats. Mom knows because she does their grocery shopping once a week. She cleans for them sometimes too. Their place smells like cat pee and maybe even human pee. She wrinkles up her nose as we walk past. Next are the Olivieri’s. They are very loud, loud music and loud talking. They argue on the porch a lot -I can hear them all the way from our house- but they usually finish by laughing. Their laughing is very loud too but a happy loud. They have seven kids so there is always someone around to play with. Their oldest daughter is going to have a baby soon too so there will be even more kids. They argued a lot about that and they never finished by laughing.
Pretty soon I’ll be too old to hold mom’s hand but we both agree that the first day of school is special. She never says it but I think she is going to be lonely without me so I have to make sure she knows I love her lots and that I’ll be back soon. She worries when people leave. I think that’s why she is taking so many pictures of me to put in her picture box in the closet. It makes her sad that she only has one good one of dad and it’s started to get all wrinkled and soft from her stroking it. But she can touch my real face and I’ll answer her when she talks to me.
“We’re going to be late” I tell her. “We can take pictures later”. She is moving so slowly. I ball up my fists and stomps my feet. She laughs at me. “So feisty”. I know she is making fun of me but the first day is really important. I want to make a good impression on the teacher. Late = troublemaker. Still, it’s probably good we don’t leave too early. All those parents kissing their kids good bye, it’s just embarrassing.
I have to pack everything I own into two refrigerator-sized cardboard boxes. We’re moving. Mom says it with this huge grin as if it’s the best thing ever. This neighbourhood isn’t what it used to be she says but this neighbourhood is our home. Plus, at the new place, I won’t even have my own room. Mom explained all smiley how she’s going to put up these curtain things in the living room and it will be so roomy and light and I’ll never have to worry about the dark. Like, hello mom, I’m too old to be scared of the dark.
I wish she would tell me the real reason we’re moving. I mean of course I know why –money, like it’s not totally obvious- but I wish she trusted me enough just to tell me out loud. I mean, she trusts me to come home on my own and make dinner. Sure it’s mostly just wieners and beans or spaghetti-o’s with iceberg lettuce salads but still. It’s like she doesn’t notice that I haven’t asked for anything in ages. Does she think I’m wearing my skirts too short because I’m trying to be cool. Like hi mom, yellow armpit stains are all the rage these days. All the cool kids are doing it.
And still, all I hear about my dad is what a hero he is. Great mom, I’m too old for fairy tales. Still, I’ve been dreaming about him again and he still has the stupid cape and the horse. I must be hearing some of what she says. In the dreams I try to speak to him but he can’t hear me over the roar of the crowd. I want to say, “Look at me dad. I’m here” but he can’t see me through all the people or doesn’t recognize me all these years later. I move closer, pushing arms and legs away. I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead now and a shaving nick on his skin. I can see the horse’s sides trembling and the sinew under its hide. The horse turns its head and I am staring into my mother’s eyes.
She shook the memory free and smoothed the covers with her free hand, smearing the red flecks. The popsicle was now dripping right off her elbow and she licked her forearm absentmindedly. My eyelids fluttered up and down like the creaky springs on a trampoline that’s been left out in the rain too long. The shadows grew until they engulfed the room. I heard a door close miles and miles away. The smell of my mother’s nutmeg skin lingered in the room but it was my father I dreamt of that night. He rode a galloping brown mare and a green cape fluttered behind him in the wind. I couldn’t quite see his face but I knew that it was him.
We are making chocolate chip oatmeal cookies in the kitchen. Even though it’s almost November the kitchen is warm and bright. I am old enough now to crack the eggs in the bright yellow Pyrex bowl. Some times a few pieces of the shells fall in but mom picks most of them out. I even get to put the trays in the oven. Mom’s nervous. She tells me to watch out because the oven racks are very hot and the tray is heavy and big in my hands. She has to hold the oven door open for me because some times when you’re not expecting it, it springs shut on you. One time mom lost a whole chicken dinner that way but it was ok because we got to eat cereal for dinner, which would never normally be allowed. She was lucky it didn’t snap shut on her arm.
From my stool at the island I watch as the cookies grow and turn golden. Mom can’t bend down that far anymore so it’s my job to tell her when they’re just perfect. While we wait mom sings Little Bunny Foo Foo and she really bops me on the head but not hard or anything just so it’s funny and we laugh. She stops laughing too quickly go and her hands turn to fists as she kneads her back and frowns.
When the cookies are ready she lets me take them out of the oven with the big cow print oven mitts. She usually never lets me touch the hot sheets. I put the cookies on the giant silver cooling rack that looks like part of a hamster’s cage and I see burnt on crumbs from the last time we made cookies. Mom doesn’t see them and I don’t mention them. “Let’s save some for your father” she says but we both know they won’t be any good by the time he gets back.
My dad was on TV. My dad was on TV. My dad was on TV. I didn’t understand a lot of what they were saying. A scary old man had a lot of bad things to say but lots of beautiful young people with long hair and pretty beads said really nice stuff. One guy with a really big beard said that my dad will change the face of America. I didn’t know a country could have a face but my dad could change it. When my mom heard the man with the beard she squeezed my hand so tight I thought I would cry but I didn’t make sound. Mom says I’m too big to cry now anyway but I saw her wiping her eyes on her sleeve when she thought I wasn’t watching.
When the mean old man came back on the TV my mom shook her fist. “Lord”, she said “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Some people are so plain ass ignorant but your daddy’s going to change some people. Pumpkin, you should be so proud.” I don’t know why I should be proud. I didn’t do anything. My dad did. I still don’t know what but it’s something big alright. Maybe some day they’ll have a holiday for him and name a street after him. That would sure show Ella and Katie. Then they’d never tease me about my ghost dad again. Mom says I should just tell them that my daddy’s a hero when they start to tease me but when I did that they just called me a liar and told me not to make believe. I stamped my foot and yelled “I’m not, I’m not” but I couldn’t give them an answer when they asked me what he did.
When the news is over, mom gets up and pushes the silver knob on the TV and the picture disappears with a whizzing sound. Mom suddenly notices all the dust on the TV. She blows on it a big cloud rises and settles on her. She goes into the kitchen and grabs her yellow cleaning gloves and the old, worn pajamas she uses as a cleaning rag. I beg her to tell me another story about dad. I don’t care so much about the story but I know if she tells me one she’ll sit right close to me al cuddled up and stroke my hair. She’ll smile for at least half an hour, maybe even sing, but she just tsks and scrubs the coffee table. I go upstairs to play with my dolls.
Today is my very first day of school. Mom takes pictures of me wearing a new yellow dress. My hair is pulled back in two braids so tight they force me to smile as I hold up my brand new lunch box covered in stars. Mom also makes me hold up the new crinkly package of pencils and the box of erasers shaped like fruit. They smell good enough to eat but they taste gross. I know because I broke off a tiny piece of the pineapple and tasted it.
Mom promised to walk me to school this whole week. It’s only two blocks away and mom can see me if she stands on the porch but I’m happy she wants to show me the way. I don’t like to walk past the older boys alone. They say rude things about places and parts I don’t want to hear about. Plus, if we walk together, she’ll hold my hand and tell me stories about all the people who live in the neighbourhood.
Mr. and Mrs. Carter are very old. They have two cats and they drink a lot of milk, the Carter’s not the cats. Mom knows because she does their grocery shopping once a week. She cleans for them sometimes too. Their place smells like cat pee and maybe even human pee. She wrinkles up her nose as we walk past. Next are the Olivieri’s. They are very loud, loud music and loud talking. They argue on the porch a lot -I can hear them all the way from our house- but they usually finish by laughing. Their laughing is very loud too but a happy loud. They have seven kids so there is always someone around to play with. Their oldest daughter is going to have a baby soon too so there will be even more kids. They argued a lot about that and they never finished by laughing.
Pretty soon I’ll be too old to hold mom’s hand but we both agree that the first day of school is special. She never says it but I think she is going to be lonely without me so I have to make sure she knows I love her lots and that I’ll be back soon. She worries when people leave. I think that’s why she is taking so many pictures of me to put in her picture box in the closet. It makes her sad that she only has one good one of dad and it’s started to get all wrinkled and soft from her stroking it. But she can touch my real face and I’ll answer her when she talks to me.
“We’re going to be late” I tell her. “We can take pictures later”. She is moving so slowly. I ball up my fists and stomps my feet. She laughs at me. “So feisty”. I know she is making fun of me but the first day is really important. I want to make a good impression on the teacher. Late = troublemaker. Still, it’s probably good we don’t leave too early. All those parents kissing their kids good bye, it’s just embarrassing.
I have to pack everything I own into two refrigerator-sized cardboard boxes. We’re moving. Mom says it with this huge grin as if it’s the best thing ever. This neighbourhood isn’t what it used to be she says but this neighbourhood is our home. Plus, at the new place, I won’t even have my own room. Mom explained all smiley how she’s going to put up these curtain things in the living room and it will be so roomy and light and I’ll never have to worry about the dark. Like, hello mom, I’m too old to be scared of the dark.
I wish she would tell me the real reason we’re moving. I mean of course I know why –money, like it’s not totally obvious- but I wish she trusted me enough just to tell me out loud. I mean, she trusts me to come home on my own and make dinner. Sure it’s mostly just wieners and beans or spaghetti-o’s with iceberg lettuce salads but still. It’s like she doesn’t notice that I haven’t asked for anything in ages. Does she think I’m wearing my skirts too short because I’m trying to be cool. Like hi mom, yellow armpit stains are all the rage these days. All the cool kids are doing it.
And still, all I hear about my dad is what a hero he is. Great mom, I’m too old for fairy tales. Still, I’ve been dreaming about him again and he still has the stupid cape and the horse. I must be hearing some of what she says. In the dreams I try to speak to him but he can’t hear me over the roar of the crowd. I want to say, “Look at me dad. I’m here” but he can’t see me through all the people or doesn’t recognize me all these years later. I move closer, pushing arms and legs away. I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead now and a shaving nick on his skin. I can see the horse’s sides trembling and the sinew under its hide. The horse turns its head and I am staring into my mother’s eyes.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Last Call
Monica straightens my hair as I fix Claire’s left eyelashes which have come unglued on the inner corner and now look more like a tarantula creeping along her eyelid than Bridgette Bardo eyes. “Your bra’s showing” I tell Claire as she leans towards me and the glue. “It’s meant to”, she replies tugging down her shirt so that the pink lacey cups are no longer just peeking out of her top but rather brazenly staring. “Stop moving or these will be all crooked again” I warn her. “My lashes or my boobs” she asks half seriously. “You stop moving too or I might burn your ear” Monica adds from behind me on the couch. “Someone must be talking about me” I say and toss a cheeto down Claire’s cleavage. She laughs and fishes around in her shirt, trying to retrieve the snack without rubbing cheese crumbs all over. “Settle down ladies, I’m almost done” Monica says. We raise our glasses of cheap rose and toast to the evening and to our beauty.
This is the start of a fairly typical Friday night out for us. Drinks and snacks at Monica’s while we primp and fuss followed by a visit to one of the local nightclubs. Usually we hit Barstow’s because Claire used to date the bouncer so we never have to wait in line or pay cover but sometimes it will be Elixir’s or The Temple or even Baltimore if we’re feeling really wild. Tonight we’re going to Puss n’ Boots despite the vulgar name because some guy Claire’s been lusting after said he might be there. Might. If all goes well, the night will be filled with dancing, free drinks and some groping in a poorly lit corner. If the night goes poorly we might have to buy our own drinks and/or one of us will end up crying or puking or crying and puking in the bathroom. It’s happened to all of us. But I love my girls.
Monica downs the last of her glass of rose. “Let’s do a shot of Jager before we go” she suggests. Claire whoots in agreement and so the shot glasses are dragged out from the cupboard and plunked down on the cold, marble coffee table. My stomach rumbles. The hummus is not agreeing with me. I hate jager. It reminds me of herbal medicine, but shots are our armor and need to be shared.
Soon we are in an overheated taxi. We giggle incessantly. Claire’s yipping laugh reminds me of a Pomeranian with a collapsed trachea. I roll down the window. The cool air feels good and the lights whizzing by remind me of a bad 80s music video. The cab driver is kind. He humours us with corny jokes. We laugh at the right moments, which are marked by a pause, but the individual words are lost in the hum of alcohol and the smell of Body Shop perfume.
The cab stops rather abruptly and I feel the hummus and Jager rise in my throat but thankfully they descend. We all fumble in our purses for change, each coming up with a $20. “It’s ok, I’ll pay”, Monica says, “you guys can buy me shots at the bar”. She hands the crumpled bill over the seat, waving her hand to indicate that the cabby can keep the change.
Claire gets out first and somehow the heel of her boot gets caught and the seatbelt and she pitches forward onto the damp cement. Her cell bounces out of her pocket and lands in a puddle. Her laugh changes from Pomeranian to Hyena. “Shit” she giggles. I try to help her up but from the back of the cab the angle is all wrong and she simply hangs from my arm like a stray clump of cat fur so she lets go of me and, still cackling, pushes herself up while I grab her cell and wipe it on my jacket. The display still glows coolly. I hand it back to Claire, who is now standing unsteadily by the cab and Monica and I clamber out, incident free,
The line is about half a block long, a solid mix of male and female. Both sexes are mostly wearing jeans though the females’ are decidedly tighter than the males. We push right up to the front. The girls scowl at us. A redhead in a pink top flicks cigarette ashes at as and mutters “bitches” under her breath but a group of athletic guys in front of her wordlessly open up their circle and let us in. We smile at them, exchange a few pleasantries and coo but not for long because the bouncer quickly spots us and ushers us in past the tacky velvet rope and into darkness of the coat check area. None of us care enough about our coats to spend money on coat check, and besides Monica thinks she recognizes the coat check girl, who is glaring at us with enough intensity to pop corn, as a girl whose boyfriend she had been shamelessly flirting with a few nights ago, so we sashay past the stand and into the pulsating beat of the main room.
We pile our jackets on an unoccupied stool in the corner. Suddenly the frantic rhythms of Sir Mix-a-lot’s Baby’s Got back fill the air and Claire screeches in my ear, “I love this song”. She grabs me by the wrist and tries to drag me onto the dance floor. “Shots fist” I remind her, grabbing Monica with my free hand. Monica smiles. Hand in hand we stroll over to the bar where a Mr. Clean looking type is pouring Goldshlager into shot glasses. With a little wriggling we manage to squeeze past the circle of cougars that has gathered to the right. Two older men, still in their day time suits, grin at us and gesture to the empty bar stools next to them. Claire bats her eyelashes and stands on the rung of one of one of the stools, precariously balancing on her tip toes and magically our shots are purchased for us. We cheers with the gentlemen but only stick around long enough to lick the salt off our wrists.
The dance floor is a better place to meet guys. Their hunter instinct kicks in when they see moving prey. So we give them a full show, getting as low as we possibly can, caressing each other, bumping and grinding. Slowly but surely, a group of guys move in. At first they are timid, looking awkwardly at each other, shuffling their feet and bobbing their heads, but we flash encouraging smiles at them and they eventually move closer until their hands find the curve of our backs and sweaty flesh meets sweaty flesh.
I can’t see the guy behind me but he has nice arms and he smells like a healthy mix of clean sweat and nutmeg or cloves. He must be a bit short though because when I lean back against him his nose doesn’t even come to the top of my head and all I can see is a halo of wavy brown hair.
The guy behind Monica is really cute in a wholesome Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way. Personally I like them a bit sicklier looking, as if they had spent hours pouring over dusty books in a library or playing chords on their acoustic guitar, rather than robust and tanned from weekends surfing in Cali, but I’m alone in that respect. Abercrombie spins Monica round and she screams and claps a whirl of soft pink silky shirt and long dark brown hair. When she finally stops spinning Abercrombie tilts Monica back, one hand on her neck and one creeping towards the creamy freckled skin of her breasts, and kisses her. She leans against him, maybe dizzy from the spin or maybe just wanting to feel his solidity behind her, and accepts the kiss. When I see tongue emerging, mollusk like, I decide it’s time to give them some privacy. “Let’s go”, I whisper to the form behind me. He puts his hand on my ass and guides me to a clear section on the dance floor.
He tries to stay behind me but I want to see his face so I turn. Even in the darkness of the bar I can see that he has beautiful green eyes flecked with gold and dimples I could almost sleep in. Now that I’m facing him, he attempts to start a conversation. We yell at each other over the pounding sounds of The Killers.
-What do you do?
-I’m still in school.
-Studying?
-To be a teacher. You?
-Financial analyst. Do you know what that is?
Does he think I’m stupid? I nod.
-What’s your name?
-Ben. You?
-Satya
-Katya?
-No, Satya.
-Oh, Anna.
Why did my parents have to pick such a difficult name?
-Never mind.
-No, tell me again. I want to get it right so I can yell it later tonight when I’m fucking you.
I turn to leave but my path is blocked some drunken frat boys flailing. Ben grabs me by the wrist and pulls me back towards him.
-Don’t be angry at my honesty.
I try to think of a clever reply. I consider slapping him in a dramatic scene but before I can act I open my mouth and a stream of hummus, rose, Jager and Tequila pours out onto his gleaming white sneakers.
This is the start of a fairly typical Friday night out for us. Drinks and snacks at Monica’s while we primp and fuss followed by a visit to one of the local nightclubs. Usually we hit Barstow’s because Claire used to date the bouncer so we never have to wait in line or pay cover but sometimes it will be Elixir’s or The Temple or even Baltimore if we’re feeling really wild. Tonight we’re going to Puss n’ Boots despite the vulgar name because some guy Claire’s been lusting after said he might be there. Might. If all goes well, the night will be filled with dancing, free drinks and some groping in a poorly lit corner. If the night goes poorly we might have to buy our own drinks and/or one of us will end up crying or puking or crying and puking in the bathroom. It’s happened to all of us. But I love my girls.
Monica downs the last of her glass of rose. “Let’s do a shot of Jager before we go” she suggests. Claire whoots in agreement and so the shot glasses are dragged out from the cupboard and plunked down on the cold, marble coffee table. My stomach rumbles. The hummus is not agreeing with me. I hate jager. It reminds me of herbal medicine, but shots are our armor and need to be shared.
Soon we are in an overheated taxi. We giggle incessantly. Claire’s yipping laugh reminds me of a Pomeranian with a collapsed trachea. I roll down the window. The cool air feels good and the lights whizzing by remind me of a bad 80s music video. The cab driver is kind. He humours us with corny jokes. We laugh at the right moments, which are marked by a pause, but the individual words are lost in the hum of alcohol and the smell of Body Shop perfume.
The cab stops rather abruptly and I feel the hummus and Jager rise in my throat but thankfully they descend. We all fumble in our purses for change, each coming up with a $20. “It’s ok, I’ll pay”, Monica says, “you guys can buy me shots at the bar”. She hands the crumpled bill over the seat, waving her hand to indicate that the cabby can keep the change.
Claire gets out first and somehow the heel of her boot gets caught and the seatbelt and she pitches forward onto the damp cement. Her cell bounces out of her pocket and lands in a puddle. Her laugh changes from Pomeranian to Hyena. “Shit” she giggles. I try to help her up but from the back of the cab the angle is all wrong and she simply hangs from my arm like a stray clump of cat fur so she lets go of me and, still cackling, pushes herself up while I grab her cell and wipe it on my jacket. The display still glows coolly. I hand it back to Claire, who is now standing unsteadily by the cab and Monica and I clamber out, incident free,
The line is about half a block long, a solid mix of male and female. Both sexes are mostly wearing jeans though the females’ are decidedly tighter than the males. We push right up to the front. The girls scowl at us. A redhead in a pink top flicks cigarette ashes at as and mutters “bitches” under her breath but a group of athletic guys in front of her wordlessly open up their circle and let us in. We smile at them, exchange a few pleasantries and coo but not for long because the bouncer quickly spots us and ushers us in past the tacky velvet rope and into darkness of the coat check area. None of us care enough about our coats to spend money on coat check, and besides Monica thinks she recognizes the coat check girl, who is glaring at us with enough intensity to pop corn, as a girl whose boyfriend she had been shamelessly flirting with a few nights ago, so we sashay past the stand and into the pulsating beat of the main room.
We pile our jackets on an unoccupied stool in the corner. Suddenly the frantic rhythms of Sir Mix-a-lot’s Baby’s Got back fill the air and Claire screeches in my ear, “I love this song”. She grabs me by the wrist and tries to drag me onto the dance floor. “Shots fist” I remind her, grabbing Monica with my free hand. Monica smiles. Hand in hand we stroll over to the bar where a Mr. Clean looking type is pouring Goldshlager into shot glasses. With a little wriggling we manage to squeeze past the circle of cougars that has gathered to the right. Two older men, still in their day time suits, grin at us and gesture to the empty bar stools next to them. Claire bats her eyelashes and stands on the rung of one of one of the stools, precariously balancing on her tip toes and magically our shots are purchased for us. We cheers with the gentlemen but only stick around long enough to lick the salt off our wrists.
The dance floor is a better place to meet guys. Their hunter instinct kicks in when they see moving prey. So we give them a full show, getting as low as we possibly can, caressing each other, bumping and grinding. Slowly but surely, a group of guys move in. At first they are timid, looking awkwardly at each other, shuffling their feet and bobbing their heads, but we flash encouraging smiles at them and they eventually move closer until their hands find the curve of our backs and sweaty flesh meets sweaty flesh.
I can’t see the guy behind me but he has nice arms and he smells like a healthy mix of clean sweat and nutmeg or cloves. He must be a bit short though because when I lean back against him his nose doesn’t even come to the top of my head and all I can see is a halo of wavy brown hair.
The guy behind Monica is really cute in a wholesome Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way. Personally I like them a bit sicklier looking, as if they had spent hours pouring over dusty books in a library or playing chords on their acoustic guitar, rather than robust and tanned from weekends surfing in Cali, but I’m alone in that respect. Abercrombie spins Monica round and she screams and claps a whirl of soft pink silky shirt and long dark brown hair. When she finally stops spinning Abercrombie tilts Monica back, one hand on her neck and one creeping towards the creamy freckled skin of her breasts, and kisses her. She leans against him, maybe dizzy from the spin or maybe just wanting to feel his solidity behind her, and accepts the kiss. When I see tongue emerging, mollusk like, I decide it’s time to give them some privacy. “Let’s go”, I whisper to the form behind me. He puts his hand on my ass and guides me to a clear section on the dance floor.
He tries to stay behind me but I want to see his face so I turn. Even in the darkness of the bar I can see that he has beautiful green eyes flecked with gold and dimples I could almost sleep in. Now that I’m facing him, he attempts to start a conversation. We yell at each other over the pounding sounds of The Killers.
-What do you do?
-I’m still in school.
-Studying?
-To be a teacher. You?
-Financial analyst. Do you know what that is?
Does he think I’m stupid? I nod.
-What’s your name?
-Ben. You?
-Satya
-Katya?
-No, Satya.
-Oh, Anna.
Why did my parents have to pick such a difficult name?
-Never mind.
-No, tell me again. I want to get it right so I can yell it later tonight when I’m fucking you.
I turn to leave but my path is blocked some drunken frat boys flailing. Ben grabs me by the wrist and pulls me back towards him.
-Don’t be angry at my honesty.
I try to think of a clever reply. I consider slapping him in a dramatic scene but before I can act I open my mouth and a stream of hummus, rose, Jager and Tequila pours out onto his gleaming white sneakers.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Donuts
If he hadn’t driven off with my passport and all my socks still on the roof of the car, my father would probably never have agreed to drive half an hour out of his way for donuts; and if he hadn’t agreed to stop for donuts my father and I might not be on speaking terms.
The road trip was supposed to mend the hurt of a two year silence between us. There was no real reason for the cessation of communication between us but I guess some times a new wife and kid will have that effect.
He was supposed to pick me up in Montreal - where I had been bumming around for the past year or so trying to get my head on straight and figure out what was next, a luxury my father seemed to resent- and drop me off in Calgary where a job on the oil rigs was waiting for me. In retrospect, the decision to drive across the expanse of Canada in a shitty hatchback with a man I hadn’t spoken to in two years was probably the biggest sign that I still didn’t quite have my head on straight, but I needed to get from point A to point B one way or another and I was somewhat pleased my dad was reaching out.
So, on a stormy Thursday morning I stood on my apartment’s front step, coffee in hand, backpack and boxes leaning against the wall behind me and waited for the rumble of an approaching beater, the car I mean, not my father; he was never physically abusive. Forty five minutes later, the coffee was gone and the boxes were getting damp in the chilly air. My bladder was ready to burst but I was afraid to leave my stuff on the stoop while I dashed up 3 flights of stairs so I held it, jiggling anxiously. Finally a shabby silver car lurched around the corner belching exhaust and spinning salt in lazy arcs. It puttered to a stop in front of me and my dad leaned over the passenger side to open the door. My first face to face words to my dad were “watch this hit. I gotta piss”, and with that I raced up the steps towards relief.
With much cursing we managed to stack the three cardboard boxes, my backpack, a duffel bag and my guitar into the back. Of course, coupled with my dad’s camping gear, which as far as I could tell was nothing more than rolls of plastic and rusty pots, and his own stack of clothes, which judging by the smell were none to clean, we could no longer see out the back. “S’okay” grunted my dad, “that’s what side view mirrors are for”. I didn’t really want to start the trip with an argument but my nails dug holes in my palms as he backed out of the parking spot and I envisioned squished puppies or worse, children.
Before we could even get a proper start on the journey we had to stop for coffee. This of course proved to be an ordeal too because my dad insisted on avoiding anywhere that served “fancy” coffee. “My coffee shouldn’t be poured in shots” he argued, “the only shots I like in my coffee don’t mix well with driving”. So we circled until we found A Timmy Ho’s which involved a hair raising swerve across three lanes of traffic. Back in the car I was forced to serve as cup holder since the car was too old to be equipped with such modern conveniences “but hey who needs anything fancy anyway right?” my dad asked as he handed me a hot coffee. I nodded as scalding droplets trickled down my wrist.
Things improved when somewhere in the vicinity of St. Therese a hail stone the size of an eye ball struck the windshield, causing spider cracks to bleed across the entire driver’s side. So, now both forward and rear vision were obstructed. Still, there was no way my dad would pay the $300 or so dollars it would cost to fix the thing. Instead he insisted on driving either with his head nearly out the window or nearly resting on my shoulder in order to look through a clear patch of windshield. Naturally this became a pain in the neck both figuratively and literally. Furthermore, the cracks, it seemed, let moisture in and soon the moisture caused the car to smell like mildew. The smell of mildew combined with my dad’s unwashed clothes, made it almost unbearable to breathe in the car. We had planned to spend warmer nights sleeping in the hatchback if no campgrounds were nearby when we were ready to stop for the night. The smell made this option highly undesirable. So, on the second night, we pulled into a motel.
Calling the motel creepy would be an understatement. After watching Psycho all motels are a bit creepy but this one actually made your skin crawl, a fact we only discovered the next morning when we woke up covered in bed bug bites. There were also some pretty insistent mosquitoes. Their whining didn’t keep me awake but my dad’s did. Finally, after about an hour of his moaning and slapping I sent him to the car to dig out my duffel bag which I had been smart enough to pack a mosquito coil. I was worried that in my bleary state my dad wouldn’t be able to locate it but I was too tired and irritable to offer to hunt for it myself. I should have known better. My dad had no trouble locating the coil, he devised a handy system which consisted of him dumping all the contents of my bag onto the roof of the car and he quickly returned to the motel room and slept soundly.
His system, however, didn’t extend past finding the coil and the rest of my stuff stayed on the roof of the car even as we drove off. Perhaps if the rear window hadn’t been so obstructed we might have noticed a trail of socks and papers billowing out from the car but, as it was, we noticed nothing until I rolled down the window to get rid of the smell that permeated the car. The duffel bag was somehow caught on the roof rack and was began blowing in and out of the window like some salute to madness. By this time we were already a three hour drive away from the motel. The socks and passport were on a trip of their own.
Some heated words were exchanged. They don’t bear repeating but the gist was that I accused him of being an irresponsible father who would abandon passports and families due to his own selfishness. He accused me of being aimless and lazy, the curse of my whole generation, he claimed. As if he hadn’t had everything handed to him back in the days when a high school education was a good and a university degree was a gold ticket. He practically said that he had to cut wood and carry water growing up, which just turned his whole list of accusations into a farce. Sure dad, growing up in Vancouver in the 70’s I’m sure you road a horse to school too. Suddenly were weren’t just arguing, we were fighting, screaming at each other fists clenched, faces red but at about the time when the conversation took a sharp turn, so did we. Next thing we knew we both had a faceful of dashboard and the car was wrapped around a tree.
After a stunned moment where we assessed the damage, we turned to each other and laughed. We were fine but the car, with its crushed mid section, looked like a lobster’s claw. Amazingly though, it sounded no worse for the wear and soon we were chuffing along. We breathed a premature sigh of relief, premature because about ½ a mile down the road the car started sputtering a smoking, emitting bangs that sounded like a box of firecrackers going off under the hood. I thought we should stop immediately and try to find a mechanic but my dad wanted to push on until either darkness or the bumper fell. We argued some more.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a worn roadside for the exit to Spedling. The sign rang a tiny ant sized bell in the recesses of my mind. “Turn, turn” I shouted, not really sure why. My dad was so startled he obeyed instantly. As we swerved onto the turnoff, boxes and pots rattling fiercely in the back and a cloud of black smoke erupting from our side, I realized why the bell had been ringing. According to my friend Margaret, who could be trusted on these matters, Spelding was home to the world’s best donuts. As we rattled into the town I spotted the even more faded wooden sign that read simply “Bakery” with a blue arrow pointing along a dirt road. “Turn, turn” I screeched again. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” my dad cried, an exclamation he saved for particularly harrowing experiences, as he cranked the wheel again, almost causing our second accident in less than an hour as we narrowly avoided being hit by a re pick up truck ambling towards us in the opposite lane. “What? What? What?”, he sputtered. “Donuts”, I sighed. His face relaxed and he nodded.
We road along the dirt road in silence for a few minutes but as the motor began to strain even harder my dad began clearing his throat irritatedly. The throat clearing turned to sighing and hmphing and then to muttering. After about 15 minutes of dirt road my dad turned to me. “What is this, the donut shop at the end of the world?” he barked. I almost felt guilty, almost. “Yes”, I replied “this is indeed the donut shop at the end of the earth”. “Smart ass” he snarled. “Better than a dumb ass” I mumbled under my breath.
Finally the dirt road turned into a wide driveway. At the end of the driveway was a small, tilted wooden building. In fact hut might be a better description as it couldn’t have been much bigger than four porta-potties stuck together.
My dad turned off the motor and the car whined and then went silent. “Better be the world’s best donut” my dad said as he slid out from behind the wheel. The litany of “betters” continued as we tramped up the path. “Better than sex”, “Better than winning the jackpot”. The path to the shack was long. “Better than fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
When we got to the top of the hill, slightly out of breath, we spotted a small hand lettered sign thumb tacked to the front door. Gone on an errand, Back in 30, it read.
“You’ve got to be kidding me” snarled my dad, “I’m not waiting 30 minutes”.
-“But dad this could have been written a while ago. Someone will probably be back any minute now”.
-“Or, it was written years ago and the person died while running the errand, or decided to move out of this dump of a town.”
- “If I thought you were being anything other than ridiculous I would point out that the paper is not at all weather worn. However, since I know you’re simply being contrary all I’m going to say is socks, passport, you owe me a donut”.
So, we stood awkwardly by the building. Then, we sat. We made Inukshuks out of pebbles. We counted ants. When I suggested we play tic tac toe in the dirt my dad sighed, got up and brushed the dirt off his jeans.
-Enough is enough. Let’s blow this donut stand.
-Five more minutes, I argued.
He chewed his lip and kicked a nearby boulder. At that moment we heard a rustling behind us and turned. A grey haired woman propelling herself along with ski poles hoved into view, followed closely by a mottled German Shepard.
“Terribly sorry”, the woman puffed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, don’t get much business at this time, and well Rolf, well this is Rolf, Rolf went on a rabbit hunt.”
I fully expected my dad to make some snide comment about town businesses or rabbit hunts but instead he simply reached over and patted Rolf on the head.
“Rolf eh? You catch anything?”
“Rolf no. Me, Hopefully my breath soon”, the woman replied extending her hand.” Hi I’m Mathilda”.
My dad grabbed her small hand in his two mitts and pumped it up and down.
-Mac. And this sullen boy is my son Ian.
“Hi” I mumbled rising.
“And you’re both here for donuts right?”
Our grins answered her question. Rolf seemed to have understood as he bounded up the rest of the path and into the bakery, whose door had apparently been unlocked. We followed. The smell inside the building was intoxicating, a sweet dust that settled right into our lungs.
“Plain or cinnamon?”, Mathilda asked. “Wait, never mind, half a dozen of each”.
My father and I glanced at each other eyebrows raised; I’m pretty sure we were both thinking that a dozen donuts seemed excessive but before we could reply Mathilda had disappeared behind a partition. Seconds later we heard the crackle and spit of hot oil and the smell intensified. Soon we were holding brown paper bags dripping grease. It was with slippery fingers that we paid the whole two dollars Mathilda asked for.
“Go boys. Before it gets dark and the donuts get cold” Mathilda insisted as she nearly threw us out the door. We stumbled to the car protecting our treasure. When we arrived neither of us wanted to put down the donuts long enough to unlock the doors so we sat on the hood and peeled back the sweaty paper. My dad was faster and he popped one in his mouth first. His eyes opened larger than I had ever seen them. His smile was even wider. With a mouthful of hot donut he just barely managed to gasp “Fuck son, now that’s a donut!”
The road trip was supposed to mend the hurt of a two year silence between us. There was no real reason for the cessation of communication between us but I guess some times a new wife and kid will have that effect.
He was supposed to pick me up in Montreal - where I had been bumming around for the past year or so trying to get my head on straight and figure out what was next, a luxury my father seemed to resent- and drop me off in Calgary where a job on the oil rigs was waiting for me. In retrospect, the decision to drive across the expanse of Canada in a shitty hatchback with a man I hadn’t spoken to in two years was probably the biggest sign that I still didn’t quite have my head on straight, but I needed to get from point A to point B one way or another and I was somewhat pleased my dad was reaching out.
So, on a stormy Thursday morning I stood on my apartment’s front step, coffee in hand, backpack and boxes leaning against the wall behind me and waited for the rumble of an approaching beater, the car I mean, not my father; he was never physically abusive. Forty five minutes later, the coffee was gone and the boxes were getting damp in the chilly air. My bladder was ready to burst but I was afraid to leave my stuff on the stoop while I dashed up 3 flights of stairs so I held it, jiggling anxiously. Finally a shabby silver car lurched around the corner belching exhaust and spinning salt in lazy arcs. It puttered to a stop in front of me and my dad leaned over the passenger side to open the door. My first face to face words to my dad were “watch this hit. I gotta piss”, and with that I raced up the steps towards relief.
With much cursing we managed to stack the three cardboard boxes, my backpack, a duffel bag and my guitar into the back. Of course, coupled with my dad’s camping gear, which as far as I could tell was nothing more than rolls of plastic and rusty pots, and his own stack of clothes, which judging by the smell were none to clean, we could no longer see out the back. “S’okay” grunted my dad, “that’s what side view mirrors are for”. I didn’t really want to start the trip with an argument but my nails dug holes in my palms as he backed out of the parking spot and I envisioned squished puppies or worse, children.
Before we could even get a proper start on the journey we had to stop for coffee. This of course proved to be an ordeal too because my dad insisted on avoiding anywhere that served “fancy” coffee. “My coffee shouldn’t be poured in shots” he argued, “the only shots I like in my coffee don’t mix well with driving”. So we circled until we found A Timmy Ho’s which involved a hair raising swerve across three lanes of traffic. Back in the car I was forced to serve as cup holder since the car was too old to be equipped with such modern conveniences “but hey who needs anything fancy anyway right?” my dad asked as he handed me a hot coffee. I nodded as scalding droplets trickled down my wrist.
Things improved when somewhere in the vicinity of St. Therese a hail stone the size of an eye ball struck the windshield, causing spider cracks to bleed across the entire driver’s side. So, now both forward and rear vision were obstructed. Still, there was no way my dad would pay the $300 or so dollars it would cost to fix the thing. Instead he insisted on driving either with his head nearly out the window or nearly resting on my shoulder in order to look through a clear patch of windshield. Naturally this became a pain in the neck both figuratively and literally. Furthermore, the cracks, it seemed, let moisture in and soon the moisture caused the car to smell like mildew. The smell of mildew combined with my dad’s unwashed clothes, made it almost unbearable to breathe in the car. We had planned to spend warmer nights sleeping in the hatchback if no campgrounds were nearby when we were ready to stop for the night. The smell made this option highly undesirable. So, on the second night, we pulled into a motel.
Calling the motel creepy would be an understatement. After watching Psycho all motels are a bit creepy but this one actually made your skin crawl, a fact we only discovered the next morning when we woke up covered in bed bug bites. There were also some pretty insistent mosquitoes. Their whining didn’t keep me awake but my dad’s did. Finally, after about an hour of his moaning and slapping I sent him to the car to dig out my duffel bag which I had been smart enough to pack a mosquito coil. I was worried that in my bleary state my dad wouldn’t be able to locate it but I was too tired and irritable to offer to hunt for it myself. I should have known better. My dad had no trouble locating the coil, he devised a handy system which consisted of him dumping all the contents of my bag onto the roof of the car and he quickly returned to the motel room and slept soundly.
His system, however, didn’t extend past finding the coil and the rest of my stuff stayed on the roof of the car even as we drove off. Perhaps if the rear window hadn’t been so obstructed we might have noticed a trail of socks and papers billowing out from the car but, as it was, we noticed nothing until I rolled down the window to get rid of the smell that permeated the car. The duffel bag was somehow caught on the roof rack and was began blowing in and out of the window like some salute to madness. By this time we were already a three hour drive away from the motel. The socks and passport were on a trip of their own.
Some heated words were exchanged. They don’t bear repeating but the gist was that I accused him of being an irresponsible father who would abandon passports and families due to his own selfishness. He accused me of being aimless and lazy, the curse of my whole generation, he claimed. As if he hadn’t had everything handed to him back in the days when a high school education was a good and a university degree was a gold ticket. He practically said that he had to cut wood and carry water growing up, which just turned his whole list of accusations into a farce. Sure dad, growing up in Vancouver in the 70’s I’m sure you road a horse to school too. Suddenly were weren’t just arguing, we were fighting, screaming at each other fists clenched, faces red but at about the time when the conversation took a sharp turn, so did we. Next thing we knew we both had a faceful of dashboard and the car was wrapped around a tree.
After a stunned moment where we assessed the damage, we turned to each other and laughed. We were fine but the car, with its crushed mid section, looked like a lobster’s claw. Amazingly though, it sounded no worse for the wear and soon we were chuffing along. We breathed a premature sigh of relief, premature because about ½ a mile down the road the car started sputtering a smoking, emitting bangs that sounded like a box of firecrackers going off under the hood. I thought we should stop immediately and try to find a mechanic but my dad wanted to push on until either darkness or the bumper fell. We argued some more.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a worn roadside for the exit to Spedling. The sign rang a tiny ant sized bell in the recesses of my mind. “Turn, turn” I shouted, not really sure why. My dad was so startled he obeyed instantly. As we swerved onto the turnoff, boxes and pots rattling fiercely in the back and a cloud of black smoke erupting from our side, I realized why the bell had been ringing. According to my friend Margaret, who could be trusted on these matters, Spelding was home to the world’s best donuts. As we rattled into the town I spotted the even more faded wooden sign that read simply “Bakery” with a blue arrow pointing along a dirt road. “Turn, turn” I screeched again. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” my dad cried, an exclamation he saved for particularly harrowing experiences, as he cranked the wheel again, almost causing our second accident in less than an hour as we narrowly avoided being hit by a re pick up truck ambling towards us in the opposite lane. “What? What? What?”, he sputtered. “Donuts”, I sighed. His face relaxed and he nodded.
We road along the dirt road in silence for a few minutes but as the motor began to strain even harder my dad began clearing his throat irritatedly. The throat clearing turned to sighing and hmphing and then to muttering. After about 15 minutes of dirt road my dad turned to me. “What is this, the donut shop at the end of the world?” he barked. I almost felt guilty, almost. “Yes”, I replied “this is indeed the donut shop at the end of the earth”. “Smart ass” he snarled. “Better than a dumb ass” I mumbled under my breath.
Finally the dirt road turned into a wide driveway. At the end of the driveway was a small, tilted wooden building. In fact hut might be a better description as it couldn’t have been much bigger than four porta-potties stuck together.
My dad turned off the motor and the car whined and then went silent. “Better be the world’s best donut” my dad said as he slid out from behind the wheel. The litany of “betters” continued as we tramped up the path. “Better than sex”, “Better than winning the jackpot”. The path to the shack was long. “Better than fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
When we got to the top of the hill, slightly out of breath, we spotted a small hand lettered sign thumb tacked to the front door. Gone on an errand, Back in 30, it read.
“You’ve got to be kidding me” snarled my dad, “I’m not waiting 30 minutes”.
-“But dad this could have been written a while ago. Someone will probably be back any minute now”.
-“Or, it was written years ago and the person died while running the errand, or decided to move out of this dump of a town.”
- “If I thought you were being anything other than ridiculous I would point out that the paper is not at all weather worn. However, since I know you’re simply being contrary all I’m going to say is socks, passport, you owe me a donut”.
So, we stood awkwardly by the building. Then, we sat. We made Inukshuks out of pebbles. We counted ants. When I suggested we play tic tac toe in the dirt my dad sighed, got up and brushed the dirt off his jeans.
-Enough is enough. Let’s blow this donut stand.
-Five more minutes, I argued.
He chewed his lip and kicked a nearby boulder. At that moment we heard a rustling behind us and turned. A grey haired woman propelling herself along with ski poles hoved into view, followed closely by a mottled German Shepard.
“Terribly sorry”, the woman puffed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, don’t get much business at this time, and well Rolf, well this is Rolf, Rolf went on a rabbit hunt.”
I fully expected my dad to make some snide comment about town businesses or rabbit hunts but instead he simply reached over and patted Rolf on the head.
“Rolf eh? You catch anything?”
“Rolf no. Me, Hopefully my breath soon”, the woman replied extending her hand.” Hi I’m Mathilda”.
My dad grabbed her small hand in his two mitts and pumped it up and down.
-Mac. And this sullen boy is my son Ian.
“Hi” I mumbled rising.
“And you’re both here for donuts right?”
Our grins answered her question. Rolf seemed to have understood as he bounded up the rest of the path and into the bakery, whose door had apparently been unlocked. We followed. The smell inside the building was intoxicating, a sweet dust that settled right into our lungs.
“Plain or cinnamon?”, Mathilda asked. “Wait, never mind, half a dozen of each”.
My father and I glanced at each other eyebrows raised; I’m pretty sure we were both thinking that a dozen donuts seemed excessive but before we could reply Mathilda had disappeared behind a partition. Seconds later we heard the crackle and spit of hot oil and the smell intensified. Soon we were holding brown paper bags dripping grease. It was with slippery fingers that we paid the whole two dollars Mathilda asked for.
“Go boys. Before it gets dark and the donuts get cold” Mathilda insisted as she nearly threw us out the door. We stumbled to the car protecting our treasure. When we arrived neither of us wanted to put down the donuts long enough to unlock the doors so we sat on the hood and peeled back the sweaty paper. My dad was faster and he popped one in his mouth first. His eyes opened larger than I had ever seen them. His smile was even wider. With a mouthful of hot donut he just barely managed to gasp “Fuck son, now that’s a donut!”
Secrets
He asked me what the worst thing I had ever done was. It was 9am, too early for that kind of question. We were sitting in the faded seats of his Chevy pickup drinking black coffee. I was wishing I had added cream. I kept blowing on my cup but the coffee remained scalding and a blister was forming on the roof of my mouth. The rest of my body ached too from lack of sleep and the wild tumble under the orange and brown afghan on his creaky mattress.
He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the thin crack between the window and the frame while he waited for me to answer. I examined the scuffed toes of my Dayton’s which were pressed against his dashboard. With my legs in that position I could smell my own muskiness. I searched for the best worst, something that would make me seem sexy and brave, a Bonnie to his Clyde, rather than boring, vindictive and petty.
-I robbed a bank once.
-Really, which one?
-Ok, you got me.
I put my hand on his thigh. It was warm and slightly damp. With my other hand I rubbed a clear circle in the fogged up passenger window. I searched for inspiration in the landscape. The orange trees remained silent. I thought of my many sins. Three servings of Thanksgiving dinner: gluttony. Sleeping in until 2: sloth. Glaring at the perfect girls in their summer dresses: envy. My sins: uninteresting.
-What about you?
-I asked first.
Against the backdrop of the window his jaw was squarer than I remembered. He hadn’t shaved and his chin was silvery in the soft morning light. Against his pale skin, his lashes looked like black feathers on fresh snow. He reminded me of every boy I’d ever lusted after in high school.
- Why did you pick me last night? There were so many girls at the bar.
- Are you hoping for a compliment? Because you were beautiful, fierce, engaging.
I grimaced and touched my coppery hair, feeling where it had matted and snarled. I picked at a knot near my brow line.
-Truthfully, because you were alone.
So, not knowing too many people in town yet had its advantages.
- I guess I’m pretty boring.
- We all have secrets.
I thought about holding Leah’s hand as she left the clinic in tears, but that was her secret, not mine. I thought about teasing Angelo in grade six. He was big for his age. He smelled funny and spoke slowly and we called him Retardo Angelo. I saw him cry once. That night I cried too, soaking my “My Little Pony” pillow. I never called him Retardo Angelo again but he still refused to dance with me at the grade seven graduation dance.
- I made fun of this one kid a lot when I was in elementary school. We made him cry. It was pretty awful.
He smiled a shallow smile and touched my chin and then my breast.
-That can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done.
I poked my tongue into the coffee blister. It caved, filling my mouth with bitter liquid. I thought of his tongue in my mouth and of the dark stain on the stalactite ceiling above his bed.
-I want something recent. We all have stories of petty theft and truancy from our childhoods. Those don’t interest me.
A loon hooted outside the truck. I wondered if my roommate was worried about me. We didn’t talk much. Taking the place had been a snap decision made more out of necessity than any mutual affinity but as far as she knew, it wasn’t like me to stay out all night. I pictured her anxiously rifling through my stuff, searching for a contact number. Had I left anything embarrassing out in the open? I doubted it. I hadn’t really even unpacked yet, never mind settled in.
- I should probably get going soon.
-You haven’t properly answered my question princess.
- Why is it so important to you?
He flicked the cigarette butt out the window and began to clean under his nails with the zipper of his coat. In the darkness of the bar and later his room I hadn’t noticed how dirty his hands were. Now I could see that the ridges were lined with grime. A shower was really starting to sound appealing.
- Intimacy.
- Right.
I thought of the new orange and cinnamon shower gel I had recently bought, of the sea foam green tiles in the bathroom and of the always backwards toilet paper roll. I thought of the almost expired milk in our avocado green fridge and of my favourite misshapen purple mug.
-I’m sorry, I really can’t think of anything. I’m tired. I think I just need a breakfast and a shower.
- We’re not leaving until you can come up with a better answer.
He smiled but his eyes remained flat like dull nickels. He rolled the window up the rest of the way. The smell of trapped smoke chafed the inside of my nostrils. It was too warm in the truck now. I felt like I was sitting under piles of damp wool blankets. I really did want to unearth something horrible about myself, really. And then, in a horrible combination of joy and horror, like winning the lottery but suffering a heart attack from the shock, I thought of Max.
I had buried Max in my subconscious which was more than I did for his body. Max was a jovial slobbering golden retriever that lived next to me in the first place I lived after leaving home. The place was a rambling, drafty house shared with a gaggle of students. Max’s owners were a newly wed couple who were busy looking after their new baby, so Max was usually left up to his own devices in the front yard. The students in our house kind of adopted Max. We always had pockets full of treats for him, which were always showing up in the most unusual places, once even in the toilet tank, a mystery we never quite solved. We also had an agreement with Max’s owners that we could take him for walks whenever we pleased. I took advantage of this situation quite a bit because I secretly hoped Max would be a good way to meet the man of my dreams.
One morning I took Max for a walk to our usual park. There was a big clearing and I always took him off the leash there. He chased his tail and some other dogs, a poodle and some basset hound type mutt that was often there, as usual. Then, a squirrel darted across his path and he chased that too, right out of the park and into oncoming traffic. With the squeal of brakes and tires his life was over. I held his head and watched snot and blood pool around his muzzle, matting his golden fur. It could have happened to anyone. But it didn’t. It happened to me and I would forevermore be the girl who killed Max so before a crowd could gather and while the dazed driver was still calling animal control, I grabbed Max’s collar and ran.
The young couple searched for weeks. They put up black and white posters on every pole in a fifty mile radius. Max’s sad puppy eyes stared at me every time I left the house but I never told anyone.
- I killed a beautiful dog. I left him in the middle of the street.
I choked on the sentence and the memory. I turned my head to the foggy window again. He reached over and stroked my hair slowly turning my head to him. He kissed my forehead, my nose. He closed my eyelids and kissed them too. I forgot about the soap and the tiles and the toilet paper and the milk and the mug and Max.
- See, we all have our secrets, he whispered.
I kissed him back. I bit his lips and his chin. I clawed at him.
- Don’t you want to know my secret?
I didn’t, not really. He fondled my breasts, held my wrists above my head, laid his forearm across my throat and pinned me against the cold window. His eyes changed again, softened from dull nickels to smoky mirrors. I saw a tiny reflection of my face in his eyes as my vision dimmed.
-I’m sorry.
He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the thin crack between the window and the frame while he waited for me to answer. I examined the scuffed toes of my Dayton’s which were pressed against his dashboard. With my legs in that position I could smell my own muskiness. I searched for the best worst, something that would make me seem sexy and brave, a Bonnie to his Clyde, rather than boring, vindictive and petty.
-I robbed a bank once.
-Really, which one?
-Ok, you got me.
I put my hand on his thigh. It was warm and slightly damp. With my other hand I rubbed a clear circle in the fogged up passenger window. I searched for inspiration in the landscape. The orange trees remained silent. I thought of my many sins. Three servings of Thanksgiving dinner: gluttony. Sleeping in until 2: sloth. Glaring at the perfect girls in their summer dresses: envy. My sins: uninteresting.
-What about you?
-I asked first.
Against the backdrop of the window his jaw was squarer than I remembered. He hadn’t shaved and his chin was silvery in the soft morning light. Against his pale skin, his lashes looked like black feathers on fresh snow. He reminded me of every boy I’d ever lusted after in high school.
- Why did you pick me last night? There were so many girls at the bar.
- Are you hoping for a compliment? Because you were beautiful, fierce, engaging.
I grimaced and touched my coppery hair, feeling where it had matted and snarled. I picked at a knot near my brow line.
-Truthfully, because you were alone.
So, not knowing too many people in town yet had its advantages.
- I guess I’m pretty boring.
- We all have secrets.
I thought about holding Leah’s hand as she left the clinic in tears, but that was her secret, not mine. I thought about teasing Angelo in grade six. He was big for his age. He smelled funny and spoke slowly and we called him Retardo Angelo. I saw him cry once. That night I cried too, soaking my “My Little Pony” pillow. I never called him Retardo Angelo again but he still refused to dance with me at the grade seven graduation dance.
- I made fun of this one kid a lot when I was in elementary school. We made him cry. It was pretty awful.
He smiled a shallow smile and touched my chin and then my breast.
-That can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done.
I poked my tongue into the coffee blister. It caved, filling my mouth with bitter liquid. I thought of his tongue in my mouth and of the dark stain on the stalactite ceiling above his bed.
-I want something recent. We all have stories of petty theft and truancy from our childhoods. Those don’t interest me.
A loon hooted outside the truck. I wondered if my roommate was worried about me. We didn’t talk much. Taking the place had been a snap decision made more out of necessity than any mutual affinity but as far as she knew, it wasn’t like me to stay out all night. I pictured her anxiously rifling through my stuff, searching for a contact number. Had I left anything embarrassing out in the open? I doubted it. I hadn’t really even unpacked yet, never mind settled in.
- I should probably get going soon.
-You haven’t properly answered my question princess.
- Why is it so important to you?
He flicked the cigarette butt out the window and began to clean under his nails with the zipper of his coat. In the darkness of the bar and later his room I hadn’t noticed how dirty his hands were. Now I could see that the ridges were lined with grime. A shower was really starting to sound appealing.
- Intimacy.
- Right.
I thought of the new orange and cinnamon shower gel I had recently bought, of the sea foam green tiles in the bathroom and of the always backwards toilet paper roll. I thought of the almost expired milk in our avocado green fridge and of my favourite misshapen purple mug.
-I’m sorry, I really can’t think of anything. I’m tired. I think I just need a breakfast and a shower.
- We’re not leaving until you can come up with a better answer.
He smiled but his eyes remained flat like dull nickels. He rolled the window up the rest of the way. The smell of trapped smoke chafed the inside of my nostrils. It was too warm in the truck now. I felt like I was sitting under piles of damp wool blankets. I really did want to unearth something horrible about myself, really. And then, in a horrible combination of joy and horror, like winning the lottery but suffering a heart attack from the shock, I thought of Max.
I had buried Max in my subconscious which was more than I did for his body. Max was a jovial slobbering golden retriever that lived next to me in the first place I lived after leaving home. The place was a rambling, drafty house shared with a gaggle of students. Max’s owners were a newly wed couple who were busy looking after their new baby, so Max was usually left up to his own devices in the front yard. The students in our house kind of adopted Max. We always had pockets full of treats for him, which were always showing up in the most unusual places, once even in the toilet tank, a mystery we never quite solved. We also had an agreement with Max’s owners that we could take him for walks whenever we pleased. I took advantage of this situation quite a bit because I secretly hoped Max would be a good way to meet the man of my dreams.
One morning I took Max for a walk to our usual park. There was a big clearing and I always took him off the leash there. He chased his tail and some other dogs, a poodle and some basset hound type mutt that was often there, as usual. Then, a squirrel darted across his path and he chased that too, right out of the park and into oncoming traffic. With the squeal of brakes and tires his life was over. I held his head and watched snot and blood pool around his muzzle, matting his golden fur. It could have happened to anyone. But it didn’t. It happened to me and I would forevermore be the girl who killed Max so before a crowd could gather and while the dazed driver was still calling animal control, I grabbed Max’s collar and ran.
The young couple searched for weeks. They put up black and white posters on every pole in a fifty mile radius. Max’s sad puppy eyes stared at me every time I left the house but I never told anyone.
- I killed a beautiful dog. I left him in the middle of the street.
I choked on the sentence and the memory. I turned my head to the foggy window again. He reached over and stroked my hair slowly turning my head to him. He kissed my forehead, my nose. He closed my eyelids and kissed them too. I forgot about the soap and the tiles and the toilet paper and the milk and the mug and Max.
- See, we all have our secrets, he whispered.
I kissed him back. I bit his lips and his chin. I clawed at him.
- Don’t you want to know my secret?
I didn’t, not really. He fondled my breasts, held my wrists above my head, laid his forearm across my throat and pinned me against the cold window. His eyes changed again, softened from dull nickels to smoky mirrors. I saw a tiny reflection of my face in his eyes as my vision dimmed.
-I’m sorry.
What Passes For Flirting
The sun beams down into the enclosed terrace and everything smells like salty sweat. The clink of glasses echoes loudly in the heat. My head hurts. I should be drinking water but instead I’m sipping a gin and tonic while the boys nurse flat beers. A fly lazily buzzes around my lefty ear. I want to swat it but I’m afraid of my lifting my arms and revealing the two trenches of sweat that are gathering there. When did I last shave? The waitress comes by with baskets of peanuts –who wants peanuts in this heat?- but when she spots our still nearly full glasses she swishes away in search of more avid drinkers. I pick up my coaster and try to fan myself but it’s soggy and does little more than flop, especially since I refuse to lift my arms from my sides. I put it down and begin to tear it in to damp strips, carefully piling my boozy confetti on the table’s edge.
M. gets up. I don’t turn my head but I hear his jeans peel off the sticky chair as he heads toward the men’s room. He moves as if under water, fighting through the humid air. I feel as though I’m sitting in an old dish cloth. Everything is damp and smelly.
S. leans over and swats at my coaster pile with his mitt.
“Sexually frustrated eh?”
“Careful Irish, you almost sound Canadian,” I reply with a shrug, carefully avoiding the question though my smirk says it all.
“Poo face,” he retorts.
I counter, “scatophile”.
We’re flirting again, or at least passes for flirting these days, but I refuse to rise to the bait. We’ve been down this road before; it ended as it should. S. was right, great friends usually don’t make great lovers. But…after a few drinks the air is ripe with possibility or maybe it’s just sweat.
S. leans in close. I feel his warm breath near my ear. The fly finally backs off. And then I’m falling backwards as S. deftly topples my chair, catching me by the wrist moments before I dash my brains out on the concrete.
“Ow asshole. That hurt”.
I kick him in the shin. He’s still holding on to my wrist. I notice that his fingers are almost long enough to encircle it twice. His free hand rubs his leg.
“What are you, five?” I snap.
“Guess that would make you a pedophile,” he smirks.
“Don’t flatter yourself. That was a stupid alcohol-induced mistake.”
He leans in again, even closer this time. I clutch the bottom of my stool, braced for another tumble but instead S. merely brushes a stray hair out of my face.
“Maybe not that stupid.”
Our eyes meet.
“Fuck. Have you guys seen the washrooms here? They are rank. Five stalls and only one flushes. Not that you really need to flush piss but…”
S. drops my wrist and stands. He turns to M.
“What do you say we move on to somewhere with better bathrooms and friendlier service?”
M. nods. I’m tempted but…
“You guys go ahead. I think I’m done”
I fumble through my purse with sweaty hands searching for my wallet. S. smiles as instead I bring up a fistful of my shredded coaster.
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