“Henry, we all have shitty days at work.” She runs her nails over my stubble and kisses the hinge of my jaw, the discussion over. “If we give in every time she’s upset, she’s going to have a world the size of a teacup.”
That’s how Kath’s always seen our role as parents – to inoculate Starr against the difficulties of living. Prepare her for when we’re no longer around. But while I’m still here, I don’t want to limit her special treatment. I want Starr to have the best version of life she can imagine. Our daughter struggles enough.
DARREN
I WAKE UP FLOPPED ACROSS THE BACK OF A FUTON MATTRESS, the fitted sheet strangling my waist. The pixie-haired girl is across the room leafing through last month’s Wired. She’s wearing what look like little kid Underoos with a batman decal across the crotch, baggy tank over top. She hands me a glass of water and puts her finger to her lip. “Annalisa’s asleep.” It’s hard to guess her age.
“We left you prone so you wouldn’t –” She makes deep gurgling sounds in her throat. “Your cell’s in the hall basket. You kept waking up and texting super loudly. We turned it off when you passed out.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s Luz that needs an apology.”
Shit.
“Mostly you were telling her you loved her. Breakups suck.” She sits opposite me and does the splits, stretching sideways to her left toe. I stare at the flexion of her shoulders, the perfect articulation of her muscles. Where I’m skinny fat, she’s all muscle and bird bone. She dives forward so that her hands are splayed straight in front, her stomach on the floor. The clock on the oven glares seven-thirty.
She nods toward the cordless. “Go ahead, if you need to call someone.” She continues her stretches, sliding her ribs over her right leg. The room’s an all-in-one kitchen, living room, office and, apparently, yoga studio. The bedroom and bathroom must be tucked further down the hall. I have no recollection of getting into the building.
“Darren, right?”
“I’m really sorry about this.”
She stacks her vertebrae back upright. “You seemed too drunk to rob us. I’m Ina, by the way.”
“Washroom?”
“Brace yourself. You wouldn’t keep the freezer pack on.”
It isn’t until I prod the swelling on my cheek that I realize it’s the source of my pain, not a hangover. My reflection is monstrous – I’m playing the title role in a high-school rendition of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Someone’s mom did my makeup with her 1970s eye shadow. On my right is a plum in place of a cheek. There’s road rash all up my arm – not bleeding, just skinned and bruised. I run my tongue around my mouth. All my teeth are intact but my lip’s split near the corner. Half a Marlon Brando impersonator. I whisper into the mirror, “You should have come to me first.” I snap a few pics on my BlackBerry. As much as it hurts, it also looks tough.
My parents are going to freak. At least if I can get to work soon enough, I can get my costume on before Brandon sees me. Back in the living room, Ina’s lifting and lowering herself on the balls of her feet. Her commitment to physical fitness compounds my complete inertia. “Mashed up pretty good.”
“What’s the best way to get to Mississauga from here?”
“You need to be there today?”
“I’m working at ten. Frankie’s Funhouse.”
“Can you call in sick?”
“Better than going home.”
“I can drive you.”
She’s got a navy pickup parked in the lane. The handle doesn’t work on the outside. I wait for her to slide over and pop the lock. She tells me she runs a community garden and needs to cart supplies, or she’d have ditched the vehicle years ago. Then she offers to take me through the McDonald’s drive-through. I order two breakfasts – something with sausage and a pancake platter. Ina only gets hash browns. I try to make her take more. It’s the least I can do.
“No, it’s okay,” she says. “If my girlfriend smells it on me, I’ll be in so much shit.”
I promise to take the garbage out with me.
“Your friends are dicks, by the way.”
“Why did you help me?”
“I liked your bow tie,” she says. “You were getting shitcanned. Also, I thought you might be queer.”
“Not so much.”
“You also looked too young to be there.”
“What were you doing?”
“Celebrating a friend’s thesis defence. I was a bit lubed myself. So, you and –” she mimes socking herself in the jaw “– going to the same school in the fall?”
“No, I’m at Waterloo. Engineering.” I explain about the health supplements.
“Being an engineer sounds better than selling glorified milk powder.”
“Actually, film is more my thing. That’s what Luz’s studying. She’s in New York.”
“Her parents more supportive?”
I must look totally sad sack right now. Any moment, someone’s going to start filming me for some dopey children-of-immigrants profile. Darren wants to follow his passion, but doesn’t want to risk disappointing his parents. All around him he sees Canadian kids launching themselves into arts careers: screenwriting, animation, even dance. Darren, however, is headed for engineering, like seventy-five percent of the male offspring of mainland Chinese immigrants. How long can his small spark of creativity thrive before it gets snuffed out under the weight of all those numbers, all that logic? I imagine a horror twist on the Seven Up documentaries where the narrator slowly sucks the life out of the subjects. Probably it will be a super cult classic and Luz will come crawling back, fighting her way through a jungle of lovestruck undergrads.
My pocket starts buzzing with a text from Jeremy. Can’t believe you went home with a dyke.
I show Ina the message.
“Tell that prick he couldn’t spot a lesbian at a strap-on convention.”
Every twitch of my mouth kills but I can’t stop laughing. Last year Jeremy and I had a straight-up, legitimate conversation where I had to explain the difference between lesbianism and feminism.
“Seriously though, are you going to press charges?”
“It’s just not an option.”
Ina pulls up at the Frankie’s side entrance and refuses my offer of gas money.
“Give us a call if you need somewhere to crash during the film festival,” she says. “Sober this time.”
I’m still mumbling thanks when she drives off.
There are only a few cars in the lot and I stand there, heels on the parking divider, wishing I never had to move. Sure enough, parked in the reserved spot is Brandon’s old grey Subaru – the rust eating its way up the wheel to the window.
When the germ apocalypse comes, the future of humanity will rest on the grunts of the kid-tainment empires. Armies of survivors teeming with splash pad lifeguards, fast-food birthday party hosts, teacup ride operators. The marines of the new order, however, will crawl out of Frankie’s Funhouse. Last year, the new line cook came down with pink eye, diarrhea, strep throat and mono in his first three months. Even a kid with the hand-wipiest parent carries more bugs than a mall toilet seat. And we’ve got thousands of kids in every day touching the video games, the tables, each other. More than once I’ve netted soiled training pants in the ball crawl.
I heard a podcast about a guy who gave himself hookworms to cure his allergies. He flew to Africa to walk around in human excrement. Now he was harvesting his own parasites and selling them to people who didn’t want to liquidate their RRSPs for a trip around the globe just to step in crap. Get a job here, I’d thought – enjoy minimum wage as you’re immunized!
There’s a shower in the change room but mostly the stall is used for storage. I bring in a stack of paper towels and do my best to shield them from the spray. The heat and soap sting everywhere my skin’s cut. I didn’t realize before, but my jeans must have ripped at the knee, and my upper bicep is worse than I’d thought. I’m hoping my face is deflating back to normal but when
I get out, it looks just as bad. My clothes stink and I don’t have the heart to wear them. I put my underwear on and start assembling the Frankie body. It’s meant to be worn over a track suit, and the interfacing scratches my skin. There’s another prickly feeling too, from the costume’s Lysol saturation. The pressure of the helmet on my cheek is barely relieved by several Advil from the first aid kit, stocked so the girls can’t go home sick if they get their periods.
It’s a Friday, so the store is full an hour after opening. My shift starts by doing “inclusions,” which means going up to anyone who looks remotely miserable and trying to get them excited about being here. I call it Divorced Dad on Saturdays, the “hey, hey, hey, we’re having a good time” routine.
Jesse’s on handler duty. She’s harmless but also kind of useless – really immature and really into her job. She plays the arcade games after every shift and saves up her tickets. Every few months she cashes them in for some plush piece of garbage that she acts honestly excited about.
“Table number five is a seventh birthday,” she says. “Premium package.”
There are a dozen kids surrounded by helium-filled foil squirrels. Next to them is a report card table – that’s where I’d be if my parents had ever taken me here. We lure the nerds in with free tokens for good grades.
Off to the right, there’s a Sweet 19 table with a girl who looks like the first kill in My Bloody Valentine. Her boyfriend is a college-age black guy with extra-expensive clothes. His shirt might even have cufflinks. The rest of the guys look like white suburban wannabes who make gang signs in every photo.
“Who’s ready to have some fun?” Jesse calls out. She raises her fist. Even the seven-year-olds think it’s too much.
The song we’re doing these days is an “Achy Breaky Heart” remix. As the sound flips on, I start with an approximation of the country-time dance that looks like you’re plunging the detonator for a dynamite explosion. The bounce makes the mesh chafe my thighs. The suit might as well be lined with sandpaper.
“If I eat my pizza, my tasty, tasty pizza.” Pre-recorded Frankie belts out the chorus and I chicken wing it over to the birthday boy to rub elbows. The brainiac grade-three students are digging it and when I skip down the aisle, I manage to get a high-five wave going. My gut says to just ignore the far table but one of the niblet punks bounds up when I pass and follows me to the front, mimicking my motions.
Usually a quick reminder that we’re surrounded by minors is enough to shut this stuff down. I point to the intruder, give him a thumbs-up and wave for all the kids to dance with us. Then I put my hands on my hips and wiggle them back and forth, the gyrations dredging up my nausea. Whatever happens, I can’t puke in the suit. These things cost a couple thousand to replace.
Eminem-light is now grinding up on Jesse. To a song about melted cheese. I’m pretty sure she’s never had a boyfriend or danced with someone since grade eight and she doesn’t know what to do. The dude looks back every few seconds to see if his friends are getting the joke. They’re all clacking their red plastic cups together.
“Frankie’s gay!” one of them calls out.
I slide between the guy and Jesse and put my arm around her, knocking the inner helmet against my bad cheek. I play at making him back off – this is Frankie’s girl. The birthday table makes “oooo be careful” noises. Jesse dances along, her all-brace smile pained, a millimetre away from crying.
“Okay!” The voice of Bassie – the giant fish on piano – interrupts our threesome. “It’s birthday time!” The song has set choreography that a lot of the kids know – a bastard child of the “YMCA” and “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” As I crown the birthday boy, Jesse retreats to serve our signature barely-dairy ice cream cake.
The teen table hollers over, wanting their own cake and medallions. One of the parents at the report card table whispers something to her daughter, likely a warning about the future dating pool. Soon, the whole idiot group is pounding the table, repeating, “We want cake.”
Their package only included reserved seating and having the birthday girl’s name in the electronic banner. Jesse stumbles an explanation.
“I didn’t see her name,” Niblet Punk says. The friends shake their heads. No, none of them saw her name.
“Sorry,” Jesse says. “It was there.”
The boyfriend reaches into his wallet and pulls out a fifty. “Can we get the whole package?”
Per person, it would add up to over a hundred but I put my finger up, one minute. Jesse is freaking out as she follows me to the kitchen.
“We need to tell Brandon right away.”
“He’s just going to blame us.”
Fernando is in the kitchen frying wings.
“We need a cake.” I hand him the cash. “Whatever’s left over is a three-way tip.”
Fer unlocks the vitrine and tells us to take the pink one because it was from a cancelled party anyway. He drops a giant cookie over the original name and writes Jenni! on it with the pastry gun. I stud the surface with sparklers, the bulk-purchase kind that flake off and pepper the icing with spent chemicals.
Jesse carries the cake and I bring the crown, going person by person, tapping it on their heads, pretending it’s a horror ritual where everyone I touch is marked for some gruesome end. Perhaps turned into cotton candy like in Killer Klowns from Outer Space. I’d settle for a lice infestation. Finally, we wedge the crown over the girl’s Bump It and the table cheers. Now even my arms are raw from friction and I worry that my scrapes will start oozing.
Niblet Punk isn’t done with Jesse.
“How much does the lap dance package cost?” He tugs at her belt loops. “If I give you a twenty will you take your shirt off? You got a Frankie’s Funhouse bra I can motorboat?”
Jesse holds down the hem of her green golf shirt.
“Go get Brandon.” Speaking in costume is a suspension offence, but any competent manager would have been here by now. I grab the guy’s shirtsleeve as best I can with four felted fingers.
He knows he’s gone too far. “Whatever,” he says, scanning the Frankie face. Its fixed, relentless smile blocks my attempted threat. “This is lame.”
I’m about to escort him out when Brandon arrives.
“Is there a problem here? Everyone having a good time?” Brandon gapes at the birthday girl like she’s a fucking starlet. He reaches over, his version of being playful, and adjusts the tilt of her crown.
Her fingers dart to the nape of her neck then drop back to her lap.
“Nineteen?”
She spreads a wide, pageant smile across her face. “Yes, nineteen.”
“I hope Frankie brought you your free tokens.”
She dips her head, all big-eyed, as if she hasn’t just seen her friend rubbing himself against the staff.
“Come with me, I’ll get them for you.” Brandon faces the group. “Just keep it PG, guys. It’s a family place.”
Jesse’s cheeks are flecked like heat rash.
By the time my break comes around, I’m desperate to get the suit off, even for a few minutes.
Brandon catches me airing out under the hand dryer.
“What the hell is that on your face?” He aims his washroom nineteen-point inspection checklist at me. As if my busted cheek has something to do with the efficient management of a working restroom. “You get into some kung fu shit?”
“No, Brandon. There was no kung fu shit involved.”
“You look like you’ve been squeezed out of the world’s tightest asshole.” He surveys the rest of me and notices my bare chest. “Where’s your shirt? Tell me you’re wearing a tank top under there.” He rattles the clipboard, his face waiting for his brain to decide if he’s furious or terrified. “You can’t touch the customers like that.”
“Didn’t Jesse tell you what that guy said?”
“Yeah, she said he was getting pervy on her. But I have to take that with a grain of salt. I mean, there were a lot of good-looking girls with that p
arty.”
I slide the suspenders off so the bottom of the costume drops. There’s so much stuffing, it doesn’t quite crumple. Naked except for my boxers, I’m suspended above a cloud of beige fun fur. There’s a bruise on my torso to rival a B-movie shark bite.
His chin jumps to meet his forehead. “Get out. Get the fuck out.”
“You want this?” I ask, handing the head over.
Brandon knows he can’t sanitize the costume before the next party and no one else on shift has been trained.
“My uncle’s going to hear about this – you’re going to be in for big-time discipline.”
It sounds like a straight-to-DVD sequel of The Karate Kid.
Brandon pushes the giant squirrel skull back to me, waves for me to get going.
“I’m on my break.”
“You’re lucky you’re not fired.”
“You need to give me a warning.”
He sputters, counting off on his fingers. “You look like shit. You harassed my customers. You’re backtalking me. How many warnings do you want?”
“I get two. In writing.” Page seventeen of the manual. “I also get a fifteen-minute break.”
“Take five, then get your chink ass back on the floor.”
Brandon pivots and strides away, not noticing that one of the sheets has slipped from the clipboard. He ends up stepping on the week’s washroom report, the treads of his Nikes stamped over all the fascist ticks.
I arm myself with the Frankie head and escape through the back exit. There’s a bench a few feet from the door and I sit on it, waiting out my five minutes. We’re not supposed to be here, especially suited up, but I don’t care anymore. I just want to sweat out my hangover and doze off in this synthetic cocoon.
The parking lot is packed now. How many people thought this was a great day for Frankie’s Funhouse? I mean, who ever wakes up thinking that? Henry’s cargo van pulls into the loading dock. He’s not supposed to park there either, but Henry’s been here long enough that they let it slide.
In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo Page 7
