Are You Up For A While?

“Hi there Mr. Cyril, it’s Reza Dibadj, nice to see you again!”

Reza had learned some years ago that these people appreciated a quick little reminder when saying hello for the first time in a while. It was, after all, a cottage community so there was often a long time between seeings. Also, everyone seemed to be pretty old. And drunk.

“Of course, Raisin! Nice to see you too! And how is Francis?”

“Francis is doing great, still attending classes overseas of course. I’m married to Isabel. We’re expecting.”

“Yes! Good!”

Cyril had whacked his shin against the side of his boat while disembarking that morning, and though blood still seeped from the cut the sappy trickle had not yet reached his sock.

“Up for a little while?” he asked hopefully, his smile stretching around some odd coloured dental work.

“No,” Reza sighed, “just the weekend.”

Cyril’s shook his head and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Teh, teh”

“We’ll be up for a little stretch at the end of the month though,” Reza added hopefully.

“Ah. Well. Good!”

Everything was, of course, always good there. It really was. Days were a steady succession of discussions about just how good it was, the only exception being that it was not as good when you had to leave.

Reza had learned that despite the community’s reputation for being inaccessible, it was actually fairly easy to make friends if you simply heeded this simple protocol ­—

Affirmation: This is just such a special and wonderful place.

Confirmation: Yes, it’s totally unique and amazing. We are very fortunate.

The bit about being fortunate was a little flourish he had added. He was humble by nature, but also, even notwithstanding his name, the absurdly hairy legs he had stuffed into tennis shorts made it clear that he had married into the community.

“Yes, we’re really looking forward to it. Two weeks! It’s just so much better when you can really settle in for a while here. More relaxing!”

“Yes, yes it is. Wonderful!” Cyril had started shuffling off toward the iced tea-stand, which also sold homemade brownies that Reza frequently sought out.

Watching the young girl get up from her chair to greet her teetering customer, he wondered if his child would one day work at that stand for a summer job.

Centered

A few tables away the flash of a camera caught his eye.

I wonder if they were taking my picture, he thought with the slightest raising of an eyebrow. Probably. I bet they think I’m some movie star.

It would be really embarrassing if they come over to ask me to pose or sign an autograph. I’ll do it, though. 

They deserve it, a brush with fame. That’s the kind of thing that makes someone’s night.

Probably they think I’m Ashton Kutcher, except my arms are bigger than his. Which, let’s be fair, you couldn't know that he has skinny arms from his films, but I have it on pretty good authority that mine are bigger and possibly better defined.

The girl in the gym seemed to really know her stuff, when it came to celebrities. But she said I look more like Jason Bateman. Which is weird because I totally don’t. Though I think we probably have the same speech cadence. It makes people laugh almost no matter what we say. Just the way I say it.

When I listen to myself on tape, like on voicemail and such, I’m always surprised at how little it sounds like me; because I actually have a much deeper voice than it picks up.

Maybe I should send some drinks over to the picture-snapping table. That would be sporting of me. Then they’d have a story to tell their friends! “Bradley Cooper bought us a round of drinks!” I bet they would be talking about it for weeks.

Imagine I’d worn my glasses? That would have really freaked them out. I wonder who they’d think I was then. Some kind of bookish celebrity, that’s what. The Harry Potter guy or something. Except taller in person.

And not gay.

Though sometimes when people aren’t sure they think it’s a bit hot too. Is he or isn’t he? They don’t know! Mystery booksmart. I can see when people are puzzled by it, when they can’t quite figure out if my jeans are tight because I bought them that way or if it’s because my legs are totally ripped. Puzzling enigma.

“Hold on Ray, are you even listening?” she asked.

“What? Sure I am.”

“Well what did I just say?”

He glanced over to the table where the camera had been but he couldn’t see them anymore. Probably they’ve gone back to the nowhere from which they came, he thought.

He looked at her vaguely, sniffed, and said, “You don’t understand me at all.”

Tombée

Wrangling a bear cub can't be easy, but it must be easier than this.

It has never been lost on me that my daughter's name is a near-homonym of violence; Violet commits violence to the air-sickness bag that was tucked (probably for years) in the seat-back pouch in front of us.

After the routine rundown of safety procedures, the lead steward also informs us that our plane, and its carrier, are saddened but proud to have one of our fallen soldiers on board. He explains, in our two official languages, that the Colonel aboard had "given her life" for our Country and, presumably, the principals she seeks to uphold in Afghanistan.

Violet eats a bruised banana and I remember my grandfather. "Soldiers don't give their lives, they have them taken from them," he told me many times.

"Elle est tombée en service," is what the steward says during the French half of the address. That's it, I think, a tomber: you know that you might fall, but you sure don't want to.

As the plane taxis away from the gate, I have to press the baby to my chest in preparation for take-off, essentially assuming our crash position, just in case.

Out the window I see that the grounds crews have halted their peculiar vehicles, standing at attention beside them as the plane passes them. A baggage-lift driver is holding a flag over his head, snapping stupidly in the jet wash and barely visible.

"Agua," says Violet, looking at the lake as we ascend. In the hour-long flight, she doesn't lose any fingers and I sweat through my shirt.

When we land, the sober steward announces that in honour of our fallen soldier, it is requested that we passengers remain seated until the coffin is unloaded. Though he doesn't specifically mention that we should be silent, we do. Even Violet.

We all hear the hydraulics of the cargo bay and a great deal of clunking that probably isn't the coffin but sure makes us think about it. What it must be like, a military coffin? Hard and likely aluminium. Probably sturdy. Surely not actually draped in a flag in transit? I wonder if her parents are at the airport.

Strangely, I hope that she's OK down there. Which, how could she be.

Violet has cheese in her hair and I kiss her between her eyes.

Dead On Arrival

1. Nothing good. Again. There hadn’t been anything good posted on Mike’s wall in some considerable time. No one had even tagged or commented on his photos. He didn’t even bother checking his email.

2. So this is what the bottom of a tequila bottle looks like in the daylight, thought Rex. It was gluey and smelled of confusion.

3. Unlike other ocean creatures, Winston had strong feelings when it comes to matters of the heart, especially when family is concerned.

4. Ryan’s beard was poorly groomed because it turned out that even though it would seem at the outset to be easier, taking care of it was more work than he had anticipated and more complicated, involving equipment that he didn’t even own. But even so, he tried his best. In any event, as soon as the phone rang, he knew he had been wrong, a wrong he felt right to the very roots of that unkempt beard.

5. It would be foolhardy to mistake Janet’s encyclopaedic knowledge of vegetable gardening with any kind competence or otherwise common sense. She knew three different organic and safe ways to ward off garden slugs (crushed eggshells, for one) but for the life of her couldn’t figure out how to get gasoline into her station wagon.

6. Raymond wandered about his ballroom in faintly choreographed steps, as if his socks knew how to dance but his shoes wouldn’t let them.

7. There was no good way to tell Our Glorious Leader about the cheese situation. He was going to be furious and everyone knew it.

8. For the one, striking moment Ray felt alive. But after he had driven the nail through his hand, he was immediately overtaken with the deflating realization that he would have to deal with the messy consequences of his existential experiment.

Soft Water

I hold my breath and the world turns silent. Most people shut their eyes when they dive but I like to see the water accelerate toward me. A body breaking lake water sounds shrill with treble readers on the dock, but it is deep gurgling bass for the ears of the diver.

My scalp contracts instantly as the water envelops me and I feel more alone than I have all winter. Phosphorescence burst into tiny blue-white stars.

“Where have you been?” ask the mermaids, their voices a lolling chorus. Except the youngest one, she mostly just giggles.

“I’ve been busy. I had a baby.”

“You already had babies.”

“I know. But it’s been… busier this time. I love them so much. I barely even read anymore.”

“You have to make time.”

“You’re right,” my lungs burning at the edges, wondering how far I am from the surface, from the light. I’ve never been great at holding my breath for long.

“You’re right,” I repeat, “I will.”

Bells Unrung, Cherries Un-Picked.

There are some moments in life when you stop and think to yourself, "well, after this there's no turning back."

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These are the moments just before you gain motion on a path upon which taking the first step implies wholesale commitment to its destination.

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Some words cannot be unsaid; most pain cannot be uninflicted; no potatoes can be unmashed.

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Everyone's had them, these moments.

From minor adventure: the second that you are in the air between dock and lake, wondering to yourself, "Shit. It's gonna be cold. And are those rocks?"

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And major adventure: wondering, "No one is forcing me to jump out of this plane."

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To the romantic: the brief breath you take before walking into your girlfriends apartment and admitting, "I slept with your sister"

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To the perverse: that same breath before admitting, "I slept with my sister"

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Many of these are in business: putting on your jacket before stepping into your bosses office to say "I quit."

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Well, I've sat for surgery twice in the last 6 months, and I discovered that these moments live in the operating theater as well. Twice now I've laid back, lucidly on an operating table folks in scrubs bustled around the room and thought to myself, "I don't have to be here. I chose to come and I can choose to leave."

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It is the flight-impulse that rises up in your bile, I think. Your mind knows that you are there for your own good, but your animal being also knows that these people are going to knock you out and cut you. Badly.

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Mastering the animal, you think to yourself what a good idea this is. The run through of the logical train is quick and easy, because frankly no one in Canada fights their way through the system without good reason.

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But the moment is still very much there. "I can get up and walk out of here now; in a minute, I won't"

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And after that minute, and the minutes or hours that follow in a darkened heartbeat, it's true: you can't go back.

Brewsters Billions

"I've been dealing with skeevy lawyers since the Eighties," he thought to himself, "What are congressmen really other than a bunch of lawyers made out really good?"

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Brewster looked up at the suits fidgeting behind their nameplates, and noted that most of them had worked up a good sweat under the lights of the camera coverage. He waited patiently until the old guy with two first names called the inquiry to order.

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There was a good deal of "State your name" stuff which he handled without problem. So far, this seemed like it was going to be pretty easy. Brewster figured he might be on the street with his money in hand in plenty of time to catch the second half of he Yankees game.

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"How did you get into the insurance business, Mr. Brewster?"

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"Well, sir, I came into a good deal of money after my uncle passed and using what could only be described as very, um, unique strategies, I parlayed that into an even bigger stack."

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"Could you be more specific?"

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"I was told that if I could lose $30 million in a month, I would win $300 million. Which I did. And also I won the heart of an attractive accountant."

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"This doesn't sound very American."

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"On the contrary, Mr. Congressman, it's the most American story there is. It even includes baseball, the stock market, and an election!"

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"Hmm. So this was in 1987?"

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"Yes. So after I took down the 300 large and fought off a few minor law suits, I said to myself, 'Monty? You know what's better than $300 million? $300 Billion!"

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"Indeed. "

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"So I figured if i applied the lessons I learned from my Uncle's experiment, I would be a billionaire in no time."

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"Well that does sound pretty American"

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"Sure it is! I bought a little insurance company called AIG and we started writing some really funky policies. We invented a whole new language even."

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"So far so good, Mr. Brewster."

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"Not really, Congressman. At first the money was rolling in. People couldn't buy enough of these policies even though nothing ever went wrong. It was a total disaster! There were some nights when I thought to myself, 'I'm never going to get rid of all this cake!' "

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"But you took it too far, Mr. Brewster, didn't you!"

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"On the contrary, Congressman! It just took a little longer than I expected, but finally I guess we'd written enough policies such that I became much bigger than the market. Then Bear collapsed and shortly after the other investment banks I was geared to followed right down. It was really just a matter of days and we ran dry. "

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"You are a charlatan."

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"It kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

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"And now what, Mr. Brewster?"

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"Well, the money's gone, every cent, and I have nothing to show for it but the Manchester United shirt on my back."

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"And?"

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"And I'd like my $300 billion now."