Back to Sneak Peeks

CHAPTER ONE

            Just once, I'd like to meet that person who sits in the corner spot of the corner booth in the dark confines of a dingy bar and watches life happen.  This person is always drunk or at least has the appearance that he is one sip away from a total and complete lack of recognition of anything human or dead.  Maybe he is dead.  Or maybe he's just in limbo, waiting for the right moment, trying to decide whether or not he really wants to rejoin the living or continue to squander his time in a pit hole of puke.  His name is Bobby.

            Now Bobby's a good citizen.  He gets up every morning and goes to work pulling cable lines for the local conglomerate, earning a decent wage.  He pays his rent, telephone, and utility bills all on time, and even has a little cash left over to tip the paperboy once and awhile.  Bobby never reads the paper.  He stacks them chronologically in a corner of his apartment where they sit, day after day, year after year, gathering dust.  An ever-thickening layer of black soot from a chimney badly in need of a sweep envelops not only the papers, but the entire contents of the room.  Bobby doesn't care though, he's never there.

            Sure, he sleeps a little in the lumpy old cot, which sits awkwardly in the corner, however, it's hard to get a good night's sleep when your head is always spinning and your mind is always cluttered.  Poor Bobby.  He is alone, but not that lonely.  He has friends and they are just like him.  In fact, they have a support group which meets every night from  five o'clock until last call at Wilkens’ Place on the corner of John and Madison.  Bobby, Frank, Jim, John, Dave, the same regular guys, with the same regular names, all living the same sort of lives.  How do I know all this?  I was walking home late one night as they departed the bar.  They all left arm in arm, singing at the top of their lungs about the glory of their lives.  They were singing songs about life and I needed to find out more, so I became “The Observer”.

I began to take notice of all the little details of life as it was being lived.  How Bobby and the boys shuffled their feet as they entered Wilkens' Place and danced with a light gaiety when they left eight hours later.  The empty pop can that Jim would kick.  Where did it come from?  Did its previous owner casually drop it on the street?  Maybe it was used as ammunition.  A bullet shot from a speeding car, whose passenger seemed to think it would be funny to ping the homeless guy in the head.  Nonetheless, everything has a story.  The streets, the people, the garbage, the cries, and the laughter.  I became fascinated by it all.

            My life seemed simple enough.  I worked, had friends, loved my family and ate three solid meals a day.  I didn't really have anything to complain about.  After looking hard at the events around me I wondered why life throws so many curves to so many people, and how is it that some survive, but so many more perish, not really living, just existing?  Which brings us back to Bobby.  I would watch Bobby and his friends as much as the timeframe of my life would allow.  I wasn't stalking, just watching.  I had to pass the bar on my way home from work, so I’d peek in the window and do some undercover surveillance.  Bobby was all right.  He was always in need of a shave and maybe a little cologne, or perhaps I just didn't care too much for his brand of “stale beer on the breath”.  One day, I finally got up the nerve to say “Hi” just before he entered Wilkens' Place.  I was surprised when he gave me a slight nod of the head and a very polite, “How do you do?”  From then I was hooked.  Bobby and I would become unlikely friends.  He with his bedraggled clothes and quiet demur and I with an intense interest in finding out what this man was all about.  I used him and he used me but it worked for both of us. 

            The first time Bobby invited me to join him in the bar, I'll admit, I was nervous.  This was his domain and I was never one who strayed very far from mine.  Besides, I was fairly confident I wasn't the type of girl the "boys" were used to seeing.  A loud chorus of “Bobby!  How the hell are ya?” greeted us as soon as we walked through the door.  When I stepped out from behind Bobby's frame, the room went silent and I nearly wet my pants with fright.

            Bobby gently grabbed my hand and whispered, “Come on…its okay…they only look like grizzlies.”

            It took a minute for my eyes to acclimate to the change in light and when they did, they saw what looked indeed like a den of misfit bears.  There were big men with burly chests and beards of tangled hair, and skinny Willy Wonka's with features so fine, I was afraid to look for fear my gaze might shatter their souls.  The men were all different, yet somehow the same.  With thirty sets of eyes uncomfortably cast upon me, I automatically brought my arms across my chest, protecting my femininity.  I needn't have worried.  Those eyes weren't looking at my body, but were searching out my own, looking, hoping for a glint of acceptance.  In the strongest voice I could muster, I said “hello” and like water shooting from the blowhole of a whale, the room erupted, and I immediately felt calm.  Bobby turned to me with that sidesplitting grin of his. 

            “I think they like ya,” he said.

            I knew what he meant.  The boys opened their hearts to me that day and I began to learn what it was like to be the drunk in the corner.

            I myself don't drink…well not really.  I mean I've certainly tried, several, several times.  It's not that my brain has anything against alcohol, just my body.  I drink a little, think everything's okay, then my stomach starts to rumble and I know my night is done.  It treats the beverages like a twelve-year-old boy surfing the internet for porn.  “Access Denied”.  My innards are so unfriendly to the invader that they thrust the liquid up my throat at a furious pace, forcing me to bulldoze my way through crowds, fences and brick walls just to find a safe and convenient place to relieve the agony.  It's all quite a good show if you’re a paying customer, but as the performer in question, I never come back for the encore, no matter how hard the laughs or how loud the cheers.

            That first night at Wilkens', I knew I just had to take my chances.  Not accepting a drink would have been a snotty slap in the face to the boys, and would have totally undermined my newfound acceptance.  So I took my place at the bar and gingerly held the beer to my lips.  Bobby was watching me closely.  I gave him a “cheers” and took a great big swig.  It burned the minute it splashed against my taste buds and an immediate wave of hypochondriac nausea swept my entire body.  I tried to hide the involuntary shudder that crept up my spine.  The beer hadn't even hit my stomach yet.

I looked up at Bobby and smiled.  “God that tasted good.  I'd forgotten how good a cold beer is on a blustery January night!”

            He grinned, showing a full smile of white polished teeth.  If there was one part of Bobby's appearance he never let slide, it was his teeth.  I was glad about that because, well I just have a thing about bad teeth and poor dental hygiene.  Bobby and the boys seemed so thrilled by my chug-a-lug, I soon found myself with a complimentary refill in my left hand.  The show had begun and three more beers later I was heading for the grand finale.  I was surprised I’d lasted this long, but I knew the end was near.  You can only swallow down impending vomit for so long.  Believe me, I know.  We had just finished the last chorus of “Jimmy Crapped Corn” for the fifth time, when I erupted.  I tried to run but fell off the stool.  Bobby grabbed my arm catching my fall and I rewarded him with a lap full of a vile smelling, chunky liquid.  It was disgusting, and of course I didn't just throw up just once, oh no, I was a regurgitating machine.  The boys tried to help, but without full fireman's gear, no one was coming close.  When it was all said and done, I slumped exhaustedly on the bar, unfortunately landing in a pool of my own bile.

Bobby bravely put his hand on my shoulder, “You okay?”

“Ya I'm fine.  Sorry 'bout the mess.”

“Ah, this is nothin'.  You should have seen it the time Lester had sardine sandwiches for lunch.   I swear to God, those bastards were still alive when they shot out of his mouth.  Damn fool, never even chewed the sardines.  Swallowed 'um whole.  Now that was disgusting!”  I managed a laugh, which only increased the aching in my ribs.  Bobby rubbed my back.  “Let's get you home.”

            He hoisted me up on the left, and motioned for Jimmy to grab the right, and together we exited Wilkens' Place.  Not to a chorus of cheers but to some “take care hon” and “hope you’re feeling better”.  Nobody made fun of me or mocked me like some of my “friends” always did.  It's funny how I now describe those guys from the bar as friends, but they were.  That night, me and the patrons of Wilkens' shared a common bond - how it felt to be so totally exhausted and drained of life, yet somehow wanting to come back tomorrow for more.  No more drinks for me, just the feeling of being amongst people who didn't judge you or expect anything more from you.  Maybe that was part of the problem with the boys.  They never expected anything more of each other than what they saw.  But I knew deep in my heart that each man there wanted more for himself, even if he didn't realize it at the time.

            The air outside was bitter cold yet a refreshing change from my stench in the bar.  I walked with my mouth wide open, hoping that somehow the frosty air would cleanse the violent breath lingering on my tongue.  What I wouldn't do for a toothbrush right now.  Bobby and Jimmy carefully guided me to a waiting cab and I gave the driver my address.  Bobby leaned into the car to make sure everything was okay.  He tucked my coat up around my neck.

“Don't want you to catch a cold now.”  I told him thanks and that I'd see him soon.  “Hey Kid, you were a real trooper tonight.  You didn't have to keep drinking, but thanks.  It meant a lot.”

He kissed the top of my head and then slammed the car door shut.  As the taxi drove away, I waved goodbye to Jimmy and he gave me a wink and a big wave.  It was a strange feeling.  I'd spent the night in a room full of people I'd only known for less than five hours, got really drunk, totally embarrassed myself, yet had a wickedly good time.  Then again, it didn’t take much to amuse me.

            I’d always had fun as a kid and would certainly describe myself as a well-adjusted, happy person.  At least, that's what my Kindergarten teacher, Ms. Dennis, once wrote to my parents in my report card.  That woman could pound out "Mary Had A Little Lamb" on the piano like nobody’s business.  She was middle aged and middleweight but one hundred per cent the person I wanted to be when I grew up.  It wasn't until I'd graduated into Grade Ten, I discovered she’d been banging Mr. Anderson, the Grade Six teacher my entire Kindergarten year.  We always attributed her rosy cheeks after recess to her being a distant relation to Santa Claus.  What the hell did we know or care, we were only five.

            When you're five, nothing matters but a full belly, a warm blankie, and making sure there was always someone around to wipe your butt in case of a sticky poop.  Everything's all about being independent, until the dreaded sticky poop arrives.  You stand there with your pants at your ankles, bent over at the waist, screaming for help at the top of your lungs.  This is one wipe you're not even going to attempt.  Finally a parent arrives, or your older brother, but that's only if he's done something really bad, and you know he's in big trouble if he's having to wipe your sticky butt.  Most of the time, the situation is quickly brought under control, but once every so often, the sticky poop really rears its' ugly head.  Those are the times when your mother yells, “Sam, you'd better start the bath.  We've got a live one tonight.”

            So she picks you up straight-armed in front of her and you wonder if she really is Super Woman because she's so strong.  She's careful not to touch you and you're so thankful she's going to clean you up that you try to hug her.  She laughs a little and says “yes Mommy loves you, but right now you smell like a manure pit.”  Okay, she doesn't really say that, but she sure is thinking it.  By the time you reach the tub, the sticky poop has migrated to your arms, between your fingers and most definitely under your fingernails.  But what do you care?  You're only five and now you've gotten a free ride upstairs and are sitting in a bathtub full of bubbles and toys, watching the person you love most in the world wash the shit from behind your ears.  Life is great when you're five.

            During story time, Ms. Dennis taught us how to sit in the circle without attempting to poke the kid beside you.  It wasn't that the kid was doing anything especially wrong…sometimes they just needed poking.  If you got caught poking, then you had to sit in the middle of the circle and all the other kids would stare at you and make funny faces.  This is really what most kids wanted though, to be the center of attention.  Me, I was different.  I had no desire to sit in the center of the circle.  I preferred to sit on the edge and watch the kid in the middle make a jackass of himself.  So I never poked and the other kids never poked me.  Somehow, they just knew not to.  I wasn't mean, just confident.

            It always puzzled me as to why a kid like Rocco would want to interrupt a good story like “Oscar the Octopus”, to stick Play Doh up his nose, then cry about it.  If I was Ms. Dennis, I would have let Rocco sit there all day in agony, instead of sending him to the school nurse.  He had shoved the Play Doh up so far the poor nurse had to pick it out with the extra-long tweezers.  You know…the ones in the red box on the top shelf that are only used in real emergencies.  Rocco wasn't an emergency.  He was proud of his accomplishment and bragged about it at recess.  He acted as if he was the king of the world, walking around with his chest puffed-out like a rooster and it made me sick.  It turned out that in life, Rocco grew up to be a chicken.  He's now serving 10-15 years in the Kingston Penitentiary for sticking something other than Play Doh in a little girl.  I hated Rocco then and I certainly hated Rocco now.  Ms. Dennis should have let him sit there.  It would have served him right.  The sick fucker.

            I loved elementary school, everything about it.  The colourful posters on the huge cork bulletin boards, the array of empty lunch buckets belonging to the bus kids lined up against the hall outside of the gymnasium.  It was a place to grow, learn and love.  The friends you made were “best friends for life” (or so you thought).  You fought over the last piece of gum in a pack, whose turn it was to throw the tennis ball against the wall and who was the fastest runner.  The only instance you ever heard the word drunk was the time Marty said “Russell drunk too much milk and it came out his nose.”  Life just seemed so simple then.  I'm sure Bobby and the boys all went to elementary school.  I wonder if they would have been friends then.  Probably not, but it would have been nice.

            When I woke up the next morning, my head was screaming bloody murder.  The only thing I could think of swallowing was a cup of tea.  Waiting for the water to boil, I laughed out loud remembering Big Dave doing a hula dance to that stupid song “Kokamo”.  He had his hips swaying so much, he lost his balance and fell sideways into poor Jimmy, who of course spilled his drink on Joe.  Joe pretended to get all manly and threatened to take Jimmy outside to teach him a lesson, which was a joke because Jimmy had Joe by about seventy-five pounds.  It wouldn’t have been pretty.

            In the meantime, Big Dave regained his balance and was now doing the twist.  For a big man, he was quite agile and a very good dancer.  I'd like to dance with Dave sometime.

            “Hey boys!”  Dave yelled.  “I bet you a round I can pee straight into the shitter while I’m still doing the twist!”

            “You’re an asshole Dave,” someone said laughing.

            “Seriously…No drops or drips.  Any takers?” he said sashaying his way to the john.

            “I’ve got to see if the big bastard can do it,” said Jimmy.  He headed after Big Dave, followed by several thirsty onlookers.

As it turned out, Dave twisted a little too far and shot wide, causing a loud cheer to emanate from the Men's Room.  The raucous crowd spilled back into the bar, followed by Big Dave, who was still zipping up.  I wonder if I was the only one who noticed the large pee spot by his zipper.  Apparently, Dave forgot to shake his weapon before putting it back in its holster.  He was true to his word though, “no drops or drips”.  He never mentioned puddles.  No matter, the bar enjoyed the free round at his expense.

            The kettle was whistling, so I poured the water into my favorite mug.  Just drinking from this mug always made me feel better, I don't know what it was.  After waiting the proper three minutes steeping time, I took the tea bag out of the mug and opened the lid of my Tupperware kitchen compost bin.  I should have known better.  The smell of decaying broccoli and cauliflower from Wednesday night's stir fry sent my already fragile body into head to toe convulsions.  I plugged my nose, quickly threw the tea bag in the bin and slammed the lid shut.  Grabbing the closest chair, I sat down to wait the nausea out.  If I was this bad the morning after a drunk, what was I going to be like when I got pregnant?  If I ever got pregnant.  I wasn't in the mood to think about that today.

            I slowly lifted myself out of the chair and finished making my tea.  I decided to shower later, even though I smelt like a garbage pit.  I needed my tea for strength.  Samson had his hair and I had my cup of tea.  I wrapped my fluffy pink housecoat tightly around me and went to the front door to get the paper.  Other than a few strips on a couple of pairs of underwear, my trusty housecoat was the only article of clothing I owned that was pink.  A gift from my sister to bring out my more feminine side.  It certainly was feminine all right with the ripped pocket and large coffee stain on the front.  I looked like a regular fucking Playboy Bunny; all I needed were the ears.

            It figured, as soon as I opened the door of my apartment, out popped Shirley Jones from apartment 3B.  Yes her name really was the same as the mother on the Partridge Family.  She even wore her hair the same.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the Partridge hair went out of style as soon as the Partridge Family went off the air, which was sometime in the late 1970’s.

“Are you feeling okay today dear?” she asked in a hushed voice.  “I heard some awfully loud noises coming from your apartment last night.”

I had totally blocked out the second, third and fourth waves of pre-dawn vomiting.  “Yes, I'm fine Mrs. Jones.  I think I might have caught I touch of the flu, that's all.”

“Oh, I thought maybe it was because you arrived home a little tipsy and could hardly open the door to your apartment.  You made such a racket I had to come out and see what was going on.  Here are your keys…you left them in the door.  It's a good thing Mr. Jones always checks the halls for prowlers at two in the morning.  Who knows what could have happened to you if someone else had found them.  By the way, you look like hell this morning and what's that smell?  Do you have a case of the diarrehas too?  It's no wonder you aren't married, looking the way you do and wearing that dirty old pink housecoat.”

“Thank you for the keys Mrs. Jones.  You're my guardian angel.”  I bent down, picked up the paper and closed the apartment door.  I could still hear her yapping her trap through the door.

“Anytime, I'm always willing to help.  Have a great day!”

“Bitch.”

I grabbed my tea from the kitchen counter and went into the living room.  Just the short walk across the room made my head spin.  I sunk into my favorite chair and wrapped both hands around the magic mug.

"C'mon honey, do your thing".

Thank goodness it was Sunday.  No work today.  I hoped God would forgive me for not going to church.  He'd have to since I hadn't stepped foot in a church except for weddings and funerals, in almost five years.  I'd lost my faith in organized religion.  Who were they to tell me what to believe, when they were so fucked up themselves?  Besides, all they wanted out of me was my cash.  They said it was going to help the needy.  I found that hard to believe when I heard about the new state of the art multimedia system that was installed in the equally new “Praise the Lord” wing of the church.  I decided from then on to give my money directly to the food bank and I've been sleeping better ever since.

            I put the steaming mug up to my dehydrated lips and took a sip.  The taste was pure ecstasy.  I could feel the hot liquid slowly drain down, soothing the searing pain of my raw and weathered throat.  This time when the liquid hit my stomach, it was embraced like a long lost son, home from battle on the front.  In the distance, a band played “Amazing Grace” and at once, all was right in my world.  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the steam drift leisurely up my nostrils and settle in my lungs.  I felt better already.

            Free from the head spins, I opened up the paper.  More crap about politics and the Middle East.  Someone was ticked at someone else because he spat on some guys' shoe.  So to get even, the next day the other guy decided to strap a load of TNT on his chest, head to the local market and blow himself up, taking with him a crowd of twenty innocent bystanders.  He sure exacted his revenge didn't he?  Remind me to never spit on anyone's shoes.  Finishing my tea, I realized I could no longer stand my own smell.  I needed a shower.

            The ceramic tile was cold on my bare feet, so I hopped up and down waiting for the shower water to warm up.  After five hops (I ran out of energy), I ducked behind the shower curtain.

“Shit, too hot!”

I violently flung my body away from the spray.  Nobody wants singed pubic hair.  Regrouping, I inched myself forward, letting my skin adjust to the sweltering heat.  Finally, I took the full plunge and dunked my head under the nozzle.

“Ah.”

There's nothing quite like a shower, especially when you smell like vomit.  I shampooed my hair and noticed in the little shower mirror that it was almost time to do my roots again.  What I sometimes wouldn't give to be a man.  “Shit, shower, shave” my father used to say, “that's all a man needs to remember in the morning!”  If it were only that easy.

I rinsed my hair and applied my all-natural herbal conditioner.  Since it needed four minutes of conditioning time (I always left it on for five to get that extra bounce), I proceeded to scrub my body from head to toe, making sure I used the proper cleansing utensil for each part.  While wiping under my chin, I found a little present from last night.  A gift from the depths of my volcanic stomach.  I picked off the chunk, took a quick peek of the shower clock, then rinsed the conditioner from my hair, turned off the taps and grabbed a towel.

            As I stepped out into the London Fog of my bathroom, I could barely see and stubbed my toe on the bathroom scale.  I don't know why I still kept the stupid thing.  It always read ten pounds heavier than I really was.  It belonged in the garbage.  I toweled off, picked up my housecoat and walked naked back to my bedroom.  Damn it was cold!  I threw on my Sunday sweats, a pair of warm wool socks, and my runners.  The shower had baptized me from my sins the night before, now I just needed to cleanse my soul.  I pulled on my parka, snatched my mitts from the chair and headed outside.

            It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was battling the snowflakes for air supremacy, with the snow handily winning out.  They were huge flakes, like Christmas snow, except it was January, so the collective grumble I heard from the Sunday shoppers was no surprise.  I loved the winter.  I wanted to run down the street as fast as I could just to feel the cold on my cheeks and the freshness in my lungs.  Snow always made me feel like I was part of something more than just concrete sidewalks and Gap Stores.  I was alive.  There was this huge thing going on in the world that no one could stop or even control.  Mother Nature.

            In Australia, people were lying on the beach in bikinis at the same moment a group of school kids were whipping down hills on toboggans over in Thompson Park.  It was crazy.  I might not have believed in organized religion, but I certainly believed in a higher spirit.  Ms. Dennis always taught us that Mother Nature was God's little sister and she was in charge of the circle of life and making the world a beautiful place to be.  God must be very proud of his little sister.  His children though, I think he's probably down right ashamed of us.  We've messed things up horribly.  We throw garbage everywhere, destroy our drinking water and set forests ablaze because we're too lazy to put out a campfire.  Yet under all those charred remains is a new forest, just waiting to grow.  All it takes is one seed.  One green leaf.  If a forest can regenerate itself, why can't we as human beings?  We just need to find that one little seed, that one sign of life.  Capture it.  Nurture it.  Give it hope.

            A good long walk always cleared my head.  I ambled along, taking my time, soaking up the surroundings.  The shop windows were plastered with their “mid-January” blowout signs.  The owner standing in the window, peeking out from behind the posters, trying to make eye contact with the passerby's and guilt them into at least entering the store for a look.  Sheepishly, I walked with my head down, concentrating instead on the path in front of me, pretending I was Sir Ernest Shackleton exploring the surface of Antarctica.  I headed down to Thompson Park to watch the children play for awhile.  How refreshing!  Their screams were pure happiness.

            Two young boys caught my eye.  They were dressed in matching snowsuits, one boy slightly larger than the other.  I assumed they were brothers.  Both were standing at the top of the hill, each clutching a Krazy Carpet.  By the bobbing of their heads, you could almost hear them starting to count.  On what appeared to be two, the bigger kid learched forward, purposely faking out the smaller one.  The smaller kid threw his frame onto his Krazy Carpet and took off down the hill like a rocket.  Sensing he was alone on his journey, he turned his head and looked back up the hill, which of course caused him to lose his balance, slide off the Krazy Carpet and end up with a mouthful of snow.

            By now, the kid still at the top of the hill was laughing hysterically, which was more than the smaller guy could take.  He grabbed his carpet, a handful of snow and charged back up the hill.  The snow was deep enough that each time he stepped, he almost lost his boot.  He didn't care.  His older brother was going to pay.  The minute he reached the top, he stormed like a raging bull towards his target.  Unfortunately, his target was primed for an assault of his own, and promptly sent the bull flat on his ass.  Three times he charged, three times he was sent flying.  The matador waved his scarf in triumph.  A truce called, both boys once again stood at the top of the hill.

“You'd better go this time,” said the smaller boy.

“I will,” answered his brother.

“You promise or I'm telling Mom.”

“I promise, I promise.”

“Go!”

            The two of them shot off like a cannon but it soon became apparent the younger brother had no intention of letting his older sibling finish the race.  He skillfully guided his carpet towards his brothers', then with perfect timing, leapt off, and tackled him to the ground.  Both carpets continued their own separate race down the hill as the two brothers rolled and grappled in the snow.  This time the bull was not to be defeated.

When they surfaced from the cloud of snow, the young bull was wearing the matador's scarf around his head.  With a triumphant stride, he made his way down the rest of the hill, grabbed his carpet and headed across the park for home.  As he turned the corner onto Keillor Street, he looked back and waved the scarf high in the air.  His own personal victory parade.  I looked at his brother, who by now had retrieved his carpet.  He smiled at me.  A little cheeky grin.

“I let him have that one.  Saw him coming the whole time.”

“I'm sure you did,” I answered.

“Ya, every once in a while he needs to win.  Boost's his confidence you know.”

I laughed.  “So are you going to get your scarf back?”  I asked.

“What do you think?”  With that he took off after his brother.

            A very sudden and deep rumbling coming from my stomach broke my nostalgic mood.  I was starving.  I took a short cut through the park, avoiding the shops and arrived back at my apartment.  Thankfully, Mrs. Jones was not waiting in the hall like a buzzard for its prey, but just in case she was lurking in the shadows, I was careful not to make a sound as I unlocked my apartment door.  That woman was like a bad pimple.  If you picked it, it would linger for days.  Leave it alone and eventually it would get bored and go away.  No wonder her husband joined the Shriners, played cribbage at the YMCA and walked the neighbour's dog every afternoon.  It was his way of keeping their marriage viable.  I would have killed her by now…stuffed her down the garbage chute along with those “world famous pickled pork feet” she always peddled.  Just the thought of them made me quiver.  Said it was a recipe brought to Canada from the “old country”.  By the smell coming from her apartment when she made them, I think the feet were brought over on the boat as well.  She's not a bad person, just annoying.  Maybe she's just lonely.  They never had any kids and the only person who ever visited was the mailman.  I wonder if she liked tea.

            I hung up my parka, threw my mitts on floor, and made my way to the kitchen for some nourishment.  I opened the refrigerator.

“Damn, that's what I needed to do today...get groceries.”

            I wasn't about to journey out again, so I captured what I thought was cheese, an expired egg and an onion that had begun to sprout.  This would have to do.  I heated up the frying pan and tossed in the onion, sprouts and all.  A bit of extra foliage never hurt anyone and I figured after last night’s purge, my body could use all the vitamins it could get.  After the onions had started to brown, I cracked the egg (one handed of course), into the pan and covered it with a lid.  The cheese required some work.  I removed the wrapper and cut off as much of the greeny blue mould I could muster, leaving just enough for my sandwich.  Popping two pieces of whole wheat into the toaster, I checked on my egg.  It looked delicious.  I sliced the cheese thinly and placed it over the egg in the pan.  Instantly, it started to melt.  I set one piece of my perfectly browned toast on a plate and placed the cheesy egg on top.  I stood back, admired my masterpiece, then plopped the other piece of toast on top.  Pouring a large glass of orange juice, I noticed the light on my answering machine blinking wildly.  The world was going to have to wait.

            Although my sandwich looked picture perfect, I wasn't quite sure of the taste.  That egg could have been in there since D-Day for all I knew.  I did grocery shop regularly, but there always seemed to be at least one egg left over in the pack, which I would remove to a smaller container.  Ultimately, this would get shoved to the back of the refrigerator, where it would join the many other small half full Tupperware containers of rice, creamed corn and spaghetti sauce.

            Once, when I had arrived home late after a night out with friends, I found a leftover Caesar Salad from Wendy's.  Problem was I couldn't quite remember the last time I'd been at Wendy's.  I won't lie.  I was tempted.  I'm not sure if it was the soggy lettuce that finally turned me away or the aroma.  It was worse than the time my cousin Trevor and I fed his Saint Bernard a mixture of deviled eggs and baked beans at a family picnic when we were kids.  Poor Uncle Frank.  He was yelled at and pinged with pine cones all afternoon for unspeakable bowel crimes, which for once he did not commit.  The dog meanwhile could hardly sit down.  He would rest slightly on his rear then quickly flop over to one side and lay straight out.  His dog butt must have been raw.  That was the best family picnic we ever had.  I brought the sandwich to my mouth.  It smelled fine.  Not one to linger on consequences, I took a bite then waited for a reaction.  When nothing immediately came, I dug in.

            Realizing I couldn't stay a Sunday recluse forever, I checked my messages.  The first one was from a telemarketer asking me if I wouldn't mind completing a survey on feminine hygiene products.  They even left a 1-800 number, which I most certainly added to my speed dial.  Who calls them back?  Are they insane?  I would rather have a job selling Mrs. Jones' pickled pigs feet door to door, than to cold call unsuspecting women to ask if they prefer pads with wings or extra long, super thick absorbency.  And on a Sunday!  Wasn't that against the law?  The only time I'd ever said the words "feminine hygiene products" out loud was on a really bad blind date when I wanted to go home early.  Nothing destroys romance like the word tampon.  Definitely a mood killer.  Oh well, better luck next time asshole.  Oh, and a word of advice, lose the Jamacian accent.  You're a white guy who wears a bowtie with a short-sleeved shirt on a first date (a blind date I may add – curse you Aunt Pamela).  The only remotely tropical thing about you was the Jamaican Jerk chicken you ordered for dinner.

            The second message was a crank from my nine-year-old niece, Paige.  We have this thing whereby we call each other hoping to get the machine.  If the person picks up, we hang up.  The goal is not to talk personally, just leave funny messages on each other's machine.  Sounds weird, but it's our thing and I cherish it.  This morning she asked the old Chinese food joke.

“Do you have chicken balls?” she asked.

“Yes,” she answered herself in a vintage nine-year-old Chinese accent.

“Then you sure must look funny!”

I'd heard the joke a thousand times, but still laughed anyway.  My niece, what an annoying little crack…I was teaching her well.

            The third message was from my mother.  She called to see if I was feeling better and said she would call back later...and oh, by the way, I needed to take a teaspoon of that “herbal one spoon cures all that ails ya” that Santa gave me in my stocking.  I hadn't told her yet that my friend Vicky had mistaken the bag for weed and smoked it on my balcony while celebrating New Year's Eve.  She said it was the best stuff she'd ever had.  I told her my Mom gave it to me.  She thought that was cool.  I'm not sure how my mother knew I’d been ill, but I suspected a certain neighbourhood post-menopausal jumpsuit wearing polyester princess was somehow involved. 

            The message light was still blinking.  I hadn't been this popular since Grade Eight when I “borrowed” a pack of my older brother's cigarettes, brought them to school and sold them off for a dollar a smoke.  I made enough money from that pack to buy Christmas presents from the corner store for the entire family that year.  The gig was up though when my parents opened their presents, realized they weren't homemade like usual and wondered where I’d gotten the money, since I didn't have a job.  So being the honest, self-conscious person I was, I told them how I sold off Tom's smokes for profit.  My punishment was having to go to bed early on Christmas night, which wasn't bad because Uncle Frank was over and once again, he was having serious bowel troubles.  He really should see a specialist about that, even twenty years later, he can still clear a room with ease.

            On the other hand, my brother Tom was grounded for New Year's Eve, which is mortifying when you're seventeen.  He was furious with me.  I agreed with my parents though, it was wrong for him to have had cigarettes in the first place, and second, he should not have left them where his younger, more impressionable sibling could find them.  So that New Years we all sat around playing board games.  Tom pretended to sulk but I really think he had a good time, especially when he rolled Yatzee twice in row.  He still holds the family record and brags that when he dies his tombstone should read, Tom “Yatzee Boy” Hanson.  Magic Dice Roller.  I think he needs more friends.

            The fourth message was from my boss Mike.  He needed me to be in Toronto bright and early Monday morning to cover some cold case crime story.  Normally I only wrote a column for the city paper, but lately with all the cutbacks, I had to do some extra grunt work.  I hated court reporting.  You never knew how long the case was going to take, which always begged the questions:  “What do I pack?” and “Do I need to find someone to water my plants?”

            The last message was from Bobby.  He had asked for my number in the cab but I never thought he'd remember it.

“Hey, it's me Bobby…I'm not sure if you remember but you said last night in the taxi that it would be okay if I called you today to see how you were.  I've been a little worried, you were pretty sick.  I'd hoped you were home, so I'd have known for sure you got there.  I've already tried to reach you twice, but hung up before the machine came on.  No offense, but I hate machines.  Anyway, maybe I'll try back later.”

            Bobby was a sweet man.  Kind, loyal and generous to a fault.  I wondered what had happened with his wife and family, or if he even had one.  One day, when I had enough courage, I'd ask.  For now, I'd find some way to let him know I was fine.  I didn't have his number; in fact, I didn't even know his last name.  I found the phone book under the cabinet and looked up the number for Wilkens' Place.  I called and asked for a guy named Bobby.  The girl knew exactly who I meant.

“He's not here yet.  Never shows up until around seven p.m. on Sunday nights.  Some meetin' he goes to or something.  Can I take a message?”

I was a little embarrassed at having to leave a message for someone whom I considered a friend, at a bar, but this was Wilkens' Place.  It was different.

“Thanks that would be great.  Tell him Alex called and I'm fine.  Thank him for his message.”

“Sure thing.”

“Oh, can you also tell him that I'll be out of town for a while on business, but somehow I'll track him down when I get back.”

“You Bobby's girl or something?”

“No, no, no...just a friend.”

“Alrighty, bye, bye Alex.”

“Bye.”

            I hung up the phone in silence.  Bobby's girl?  I hoped Bobby didn't feel that way.  I'm sure he didn't.  It's not that I couldn't fall for someone like him, in time.  It was just…he was so much older than me in so many ways.  Almost from a different era.  No, Bobby and I would only ever be friends.  I would love him though.  Like a big brother.  Not in a deep unconditional way like I loved “Yatzee Boy”, but in a warm and comforting way.  Like a soft, cotton blanket.  The kind you wrap around your shoulders at a campfire.  The blanket not only keeps out the cold, but makes you feel secure.  No monsters can get you now, you're safe.  That was my Bobby.

            I dialed my parents place.  It rang five times.  I assumed either my mother was out or had her hands full.  My father was probably watching television.  The phone was on the table beside him.  I could picture the situation.

“Margaret, the phone's ringing!”

“I'm busy, can't you get it?”

“I can't reach it.”

“Oh for God's sake, just a minute...”

“Hurry Margie, it's already rung five times.  They might think were not home and hang up.”

“Hello!”

“Hi Mom, it's me.”

“Oh hi darling.”

“Everything all right there?”

“Oh sure, I was just repotting that Boston fern.  You know the one Aunt Sophie gave me when I spent the night in the hospital because that corn on my left foot got infected.”

“Ya I remember the one...and Dad?”

“Apparently your father’s arms have become too short to reach over and pick up the phone.  By the way how are you feeling?  That wonderful neighbour of yours, Mrs. Jones called me this morning and said that I might want to check on you.  Said you had a rough night in the toilet.  Was it only vomiting or did you have diarrhea too?  Did you take the herbs...I'm sure they'll help...”

I took the phone away from my ear.  She would be on the herb thing for at least another five minutes.  I wondered what last night's lottery numbers were.  That'd be great if I'd won.

“What's that Mom?  Yes I'm paying attention...look I just called to tell you that I'm leaving tonight for Toronto.  Mike needs me to cover a story.  I don't know how long I'll be gone.”

“Do you need me to water the plants?”

“I'm not sure yet, I'll let you know.”

“Okay, have a safe drive...what's that Sam...oh…your father says hello.”

I could hear my Dad in the background.  “She's probably sick because she drank too much...ha, ha, ha...remember the time she threw up at your cousin's wedding...that was a riot!”

“Yes Sam, we all remember...Alex has to go.”

“Bye Mom.”

“Bye Alex.”

            The truth was I didn't remember the wedding very much.  I was sixteen and my brother thought it would be fun to keep feeding me drinks.  Payback for selling the smokes I guess.  It was the first time I had anything stronger than that cheap “Baby Duck” wine .  I think it was rye.  It could have been rum.  Maybe it was both.  I really don't know.  My mother was of course mortified.  My father thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.  He's never let me live it down.  Ever time I have a glass of wine for dinner; he pretends to shield himself from the forthcoming vomit.  The joke was old and stale but I put up with because he's my dad and I love him.

            As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang.  It was my boss Mike.  “Oh good you're home.  Did you get my message?”

“Yes, I was just going to call you back.  What's going on?”

“I need you in Toronto first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I was going to leave tonight.”

“Perfect.  I'll make the arrangements then for the hotel.  Same one as usual.”

“What's the background?”

            Mike proceeded to explain about the case.  A forty-seven year man was being tried for a murder he allegedly committed when he was eighteen years old.  A female acquaintance of his was found in her car with her throat slashed.  There was evidence of sexual assault.  Although, he was always the primary suspect, they could never quite pin the murder on him.  Now they had DNA evidence.  I was positive this wasn't going to be just an overnight trip.  Great.  Just the way I wanted to spend the next few weeks.  Living out of suitcase.  Oh well, the newspaper covered all my expenses, including a few work related “stress relieving” massages.  I hated sex crimes.  I was going to need those massages.

            By the time I had packed my clothes and gone down to the corner deli for some driving snacks, it was five PM.  The drive would take about two hours.  I turned on the television for a last minute check of the road conditions.  Sunny and bare to icy sections with some snow covered.  It was going to be a long drive.  I grabbed a few extras CD's and thinking of my mother, I took the blanket off the couch and the candle from the table.  I always carried matches in my purse. 

“It's better to be safe,” she'd say.

            My apartment building had underground parking, so the car wasn't snowy or too cold, which was good.  I hated scraping ice.  Normally, I’d just hop in the car, start it up, and drive away, but ever since I’d devoted an entire Saturday to watching The Learning Channel's car care marathon, I knew better.  I reviewed Lesson Six in my head; “What to do before long trips”.  I topped up my window washer fluids, checked my hoses, and then walked around the car eyeballing the tires, making sure the pressure looked equal on each side.  Hopefully I wouldn't get a flat; I fell asleep during that part.  All I needed was gas.

            I filled up the tank at the local Pioneer Station and politely asked the attractive young man to check my oil.  Too bad he was only a teenager.  I myself hadn't had a good oil change in a while.  Luke had been gone since last February.  He didn't have to take the job in England, but he did.  My girlfriends' kept trying to set me up, but I loathed dating, especially blind ones and after my "Jamaican man" I was put off even more.

“She's all lubed up and ready to go ma'am.” 

“You bet she is,” I said under my breath.

“Pardon me ma'am?”

“Oh no...nothing.  How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-five even.”

I handed him the money, then secretly peeked in the rear view mirror and watched him walk away.

“Nice ass.  Momma like!  Momma like!”  I laughed at my own inappropriateness and started up the car.  Sometimes I was just so damn funny I couldn't stand it.  The Bay City Rollers were blaring on the stereo as I hit the highway.  Maybe the trip wasn't going to be that bad after all.  I had music, a hot coffee, and doughnuts.  Life was good.