by Iain Reid
“Yeah, see, that’s what I mean.”
Again the record ends and we’re counterintuitively interrupted by lack of music. “What about another?” asks Grandma.
“For sure.”
This time I go with Artie Shaw.
11:23 a.m.
WE’VE MADE IT through two more full records. We’ve been talking less and listening more closely. We’ve moved from Shaw to Charlie Parker and on to Coleman Hawkins. Grandma has turned the conversation to me. She’s commented again about how much she likes my desk and bookcase. She wonders if I had them when I lived in Toronto.
“You had a pretty small place in Toronto, didn’t you? A basement apartment?”
“Yup, it was tiny. I didn’t have my desk then. It wouldn’t have fit.”
“Didn’t you have a name for it, for your apartment?”
I’m surprised Grandma remembers this. She never saw my Toronto apartment.
“Yeah, I named it the Bunker, on the first day we lived there.”
“That’s right, the Bunker.”
It was the most sensible name for the sunless basement apartment I shared with my girlfriend, Maeve. We’d moved in during the spring of 2006. The entire apartment, including kitchen and bathroom, was similar in size to your average family room — only much smaller, with fewer windows, and with less furniture and no fittings.
“We had to enter through a door at the side of the house. You couldn’t see it from the street, Grandma. Our entrance was off an alley.
“The door opened to a staircase. At the bottom were two doors. Laundry machines were on the left. To the right, the Bunker. It had a table for two, and a warming-type instrument that wasn’t really a microwave and wasn’t really a convection oven but had the worst qualities of each. So most meals were either takeout or cooked on the hot-plate burner built into the counter. There was a dented, lime-stained sink, three cupboards, and a yellow wooden bookcase against the south wall. We also had a lamp.”
Grandma seems interested to hear about the Bunker. I haven’t shared many of my memories of the apartment or my time there. She’s brought her hands together on her lap again, interlocking her fingers. I continue telling her about my old place.
“Oh, and two convenient steps from the kitchen and dining space was our bathroom. For some reason it had a wicker door. Wicker as a bathroom door was definitely creative. You don’t usually see that kind of thing. That’s because wicker provides as much privacy as chicken wire. Two more steps through a frayed curtain was the bed and dresser.
“The walls of the Bunker were brick painted white and grey, but the first foot or so from the floor was exposed concrete. If it sounds kinda jail-cell-y, it should. It was. After we signed the lease, I told Maeve it just needed a good eye and a human touch to make the place feel a little more homey.
“So I hung two posters with Scotch tape. One was of Andre Agassi leaning on a red Lamborghini, wearing white jeans and his genre-defining mullet. The caption said ‘Ace of Hearts.’ I’d won the poster after finishing third in a grade six science fair. Agassi lived in the middle of the room, above and to the right of the table. I also put up a creased paper map of eastern Europe from a discarded National Geographic I found on the subway. I hung the Eastern Bloc directly above our bed.”
“It always helps to have something on the walls,” says Grandma.
“The Bunker was too hot in summer and too cold in winter. The spring and fall were better, but in those seasons we had other issues,” I explain. “The bugs were worse then.”
“You lived there for a while, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, we did. And I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. It wasn’t all bad. It was in the Bunker that I first started cooking. That’s when I became a chef.”
More accurately it was when I became the Keith Moon of sautéing mushrooms.
“Really, that’s when you started? And now you’re so good at it.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Grandma. I enjoy it. It’s good to get your mind off other things. But yeah, that’s where it started. In those days, I was working a couple days a week for a radio show, so I often worked from home. Maeve worked full-time at a hospital. So while Maeve was helping sick people, I felt I should be doing something, too. When my work wasn’t going well, cooking injected my day with some tangible purpose.”
“I always liked cooking, too. I know what you mean. Especially when it’s for someone else,” says Grandma.
“We weren’t paying for cable, but for some reason we got the Food Network. It was a channel I’d never watched before.”
“I don’t think I get that channel at home.”
“At first I thought it was boring and deeply inane. But after a couple of weeks I didn’t hate it, and after a month or two I started to really get into it. It didn’t matter what kind of cooking show it was. I became an addict. I was addicted to the Food Network. Shows with chefs making elaborate meals in thirty minutes were like heroin to me. The ones that were competition-style, pitting chefs against each other with secret ingredients, that was my nicotine.”
Marijuana, my marijuana.
“Watching meals being prepared,” I continue, “became a strange form of escapism. It blurred reality. There was nothing demanding or difficult about watching these attractive chefs cook, but it felt more like I was learning or improving. When I looked in the mirror, instead of an unpublished bearded writer who spent afternoons listening continuously to a single Vera Lynn record, I saw a real chef coming into his own.”
“What kind of dishes did you make? I bet they were pretty fancy.”
“I’m not sure I’d say fancy. My first dish was something I called Iain’s Exotic Indian. The first time I made it was in September. It’s funny, I can still remember it well. It was hot and humid, like summer. The heat made the Bunker feel even smaller. I remember it took ten minutes to slice and wash the onion, green pepper, and mushrooms. It would have been faster had I done it in the proper order, washing the vegetables first.
“Then I uncapped the jar of korma and poured it into the pan. I’d found the korma on sale in the ‘exotic’ aisle — it was actually called that. It had instructions on the back, which I ignored. Every chef needs some distinction, some personal flair. The mushroom caps I added were my own idea. But once the mushrooms were in, the sauce bubbled up and the entire apartment started to smell like burnt fungus.”
“I’ve always liked mushrooms. I can see why that was your favourite meal.”
“In hindsight, it was borderline inedible, Grandma, really offensive stuff. It’s crazy but I really believed it was all right at the time. When Maeve got home from work that night, she was tired and hungry. I kept watching her as we ate. I was waiting for that look of gratitude, or at least enjoyment. Instead, she looked more bored and confused than anything.
“I asked what was wrong. I asked if it was too spicy for her, too daring for her palate. Maeve told me she was just a little confused by mushrooms in korma. I replied something about how hard it was to try and explain cheffy stuff to a non-chef. She also said something about korma being the least daring of any Indian food. I didn’t tell her about the other three jars of korma sauce that were waiting for us in the cupboard.”
“Well, at least you were trying something new,” she says. Grandma’s giggling now. “And you’ve come a long way since then. That was a long time ago.”
“Just a few years,” I say, “and I haven’t really. But at least I have this desk. And a better kitchen.”
After I flip the record, we don’t talk for a while. I’m still thinking about my years in Toronto, in the Bunker. Grandma is resting back in her chair.
It’s fascinating what essential details we forget and which ones we remember with sharp clarity; details that seem paltry when lived but later, with time and perspective, are recalled with a greater relevance.
I’m remembering being in bed the night after the korma incident. By then, after we’d done the dishes, Maeve and I couldn’t help but laugh at my string of culinary shipwrecks. We laughed some more, me less heartily. I’d already switched my focus. I’d tossed my book aside and was hunting for the remote. Iron Chef was about to start. I had to lean across the still-chortling Maeve to get it. For some reason I just lay there, across and on top of her. I can remember her stomach flexing with each laugh before she finally turned over to go to sleep.
“Do you hear that?” Grandma asks. Neither of us has said anything in a while. We’ve just been listening to the music, and I assume that’s what she’s referring to.
“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” We’ve listened to another full record.
“No, the music is fine. I don’t mean the music, though.”
“What?”
“I can hear something else. Is there someone at the door?”
“Shit! I mean, yeah, probably the water guys.”
The water guys are standing outside, shoulder to shoulder. Apparently, without warning, the rain has started again. It must be getting close to noon. I’m still in my housecoat. “Sorry, guys, hope you weren’t out here long. We were listening to music.”
They look surly but unflappable. They’re uninterested in my apology or daily log. It’s not the first time they’ve waited at a door, out in the rain. “We’re here to look at the hot water tank.” They sound surly, too, delivering their remarkably obvious comment.
“Yup, great, come on in.” I open the door wide, stepping aside.
The water guys are in that vastly nonspecific age demographic: older than me but younger than Grandma, with plenty of years to choose from. I’m going to guess in their mid-forties. They’re both burly, with thick, wide shoulders. One is quite tall, the other short. Along with their goatees, the rest of their uniforms are simple: the colour blue. They aren’t wearing anything with a logo or insignia. Just blue sweat tops and dark blue work pants. Did I mention they aren’t overly friendly or talkative? This isn’t meant as a criticism or insult. I’m fine with it.
I ask if they want any coffee. My offer elicits a sliver of fellowship from the taller one. His face shows signs of acceptance and camaraderie. It’s the shorter one who answers for both. He tells me they’re good, that they should get started.
They head back outside, collecting a few supplies from their van, and ask if I can show them the tank. Without waiting for an answer, they begin to slip blue covers over their heavy black boots.
No matter how gruff or burly or bushily goateed these repairmen are, their air of machismo dissipates when they slip on those transparent booties over their steel-toed footwear. It has the same effect as if each has a red balloon tied on one wrist while holding a giant rainbow lolly in the other. Boot shower caps help save the carpets, true. They also help make me feel more comfortable around these lads. They level the playing field. I’m in my housecoat and slippers, and they’re in their booties.
To get to the hot water tank we have to walk past my room. “How are you doing?” one of them says.
I freeze. Strange, but even offered a bit late, it’s nice he’s asking. I turn to answer that I’m well and see Grandma waving from her chair. They’ve stopped with their backs to me and are returning her greeting. The taller one sets down his leather tool satchel.
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks,” says Grandma, standing to greet them. “How are you guys? How’s work going?”
“Not bad,” says the tall one. “Same old.” He walks right up to Grandma and puts a large paw on her shoulder with remarkable clemency.
“Nasty weather the last few days, eh,” says the shorter one. It’s his turn to approach.
“Yup, but it makes it nice for sitting around and getting spoiled.”
They laugh, then turn back toward me. Then back to Grandma. I’m certain they don’t believe I’m capable of spoiling anyone. “Well, as long as you’re comfortable, that’s good.” The way he says it implies it’s directed more at me than her.
“I am,” says Grandma. “I am.”
“Nice guys, eh?” Grandma says when I get back five or so minutes later. I’ve left them to their work. They started explaining the issue with the water tank to me. My mind instantly left the furnace room and wandered. I heard them say they’d be able to fix it in no time. That was all I needed/wanted to hear.
“I guess. But did you see their little boot covers? Ridiculous, eh?”
“Oh, I didn’t notice.”
“Well, they’re going to have it all fixed in no time.”
“I knew they would,” she says confidently. “Here.” She passes me two more records. “I picked out a few more while you were gone.”
Lionel Hampton is on top. I nod. “We’ve got nowhere else to be, Grandma. How about some Lionel Hampton?”
“My thought exactly.”
1:12 p.m.
AFTER LISTENING TO two more full records, we have some lunch. I make grilled cheese sandwiches with havarti and sliced onion and warm up some soup from yesterday. And I learn something about myself. I’m a worse cook than I think I am. Sometimes I think I’m pretty good, even great. I think I’ve completely evolved from my early cooking days at the Bunker. But it’s at times like these, when I have to make lunch on the fly, with no time to shop, that I buckle and melt bland white cheese between oldish bread.
Grandma seems to like it all right. She says she periodically “craves onions,” and she eats everything on her plate. I’ve offered to drive us downtown so we can get out of my place. Maybe see a little of Kingston. I’m not sure what we’re going to do, since the rain is again falling heavily.
En route I suggest we visit a café. We can have something warm to drink somewhere that isn’t my kitchen. I sell it as a chance for people-watching. Grandma seems intrigued but tepid.
As we wait for the windshield to defog, I absentmindedly whistle. Grandma pulls some coffee-flavoured candies from her purse and offers me one. I take it, pop it in my mouth, and thank her. She takes one herself. It tastes good, but I wonder if she really wanted one or just wanted me to stop whistling.
I’ve opted to take the slightly longer, tree-lined route, which curves along Lake Ontario at the base of the university’s campus. It’s still a short but amply picturesque drive. Usually, anyway. Today it’s hard to see much because of the bland colour, drizzle, fog, and steamy windows.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Grandma painting the number 1 several times on her foggy window. She uses her index finger like a Magic Marker, cutting through the condensation with her body heat. Something about this lackadaisical doodling makes me think of a scraggy, barefoot prisoner writing out her years on a stone wall in a cell. Thankfully, she stops after four and doesn’t cross them with a horizontal fifth.
When I can’t find any parking in front of the café, or along the same block, I decide to drop Grandma a few steps from the door. She only has to cross the street. She can duck inside and get us a table. I’ll find us a spot on a neighbouring side street. I point to the café a second time and hand my umbrella to her through her open door.
I land a spot a few blocks away that doesn’t require me to feed a meter. I’m wet when I get back to the coffee shop. I’ve jogged so am not soaked, just soggy. I find Grandma inside. She’s standing a little hunched, waiting a few steps inside the door, explicitly waterlogged. Her hair is damp; there are a few drips on her forehead. There’s a drip on one cheek.
“Grandma, what happened? You’re all wet.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Ah, I know, just from coming in from the car,” she says. Her raised eyebrow is asking me if I’m a moron: It’s raining, why do you think I’m wet?
“Oh, but what about the umbrella?” Remember? The one I thoughtfully handed to you, the one I didn’t get to use?
“It didn’t want to open. I
tried to get it, but it didn’t want to stay open.”
“Oh.” I could have given her anything. “Sorry.” Anything that would have provided some type of shelter: my blue hoodie, a discarded section of newspaper, a postcard would have been opulent in comparison. Instead I’ve left Grandma with a faulty umbrella that was shitty when brand new. You have to really force it open for it to work.
This will be great for her cold. Just what her doctor would instruct: drink lots of fluids, get some rest, and make sure to stand out in the rain struggling with an unopenable umbrella.
I grab a couple of brown napkins from the dispenser within arm’s reach. I start to mop up Grandma’s shoulders like she’s a yellow Lab fresh off a run through a sprinkler. “Here, sorry about this, Grandma, I should have opened the umbrella for you.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s only my jacket that’s wet. And scarf.” And head, face, body, and feet.
“Your shoes and pants are a bit wet, too.” I kneel down and started wiping off her shins.
We’re creating a stir. The baristas are looking at us. So are the customers in line. Even people with headphones seated at tables are turning to watch our performance. I stand up and pause, which gives Grandma enough time to grab a pile of her own napkins. Now she starts to dry my shoulders. She has to stand on her toes to reach.
“Thanks, Grandma, but don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m fine, too. It’s just a bit of rain.”
We move over to the counter like drowned rats. “You can grab a table, Grandma, and I’ll get us our drinks.”
“Okay,” she says.
I ask her what kind of drink she wants, hot or cold? Hot. Tea or coffee? Tea, great. What kind of tea? She takes a step after each question, assuming it’s the last.
“Anything is fine, dear,” she says over her dewy shoulder. “How about green?”
I turn back to the barista, who’s been following our discourse. She’s already reaching for a bag of green tea with jasmine. “Exactly,” I stammer. “Thanks.”
