In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

  “It was the dumbest thing to say. I’m sorry.”

  “We all have challenges,” I say. “Some people drown because they can’t swim. Nobody is perfect.” We don’t have to go on and on about the things I can’t do. At times it’s frustrating, but that’s normal too. “I’m not a little kid.”

  “I know that,” Darren says.

  “Actually, I lead a very interesting and exciting life.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Starr, do you think you can accept Darren’s apology?” Dad’s voice isn’t as upset as it should be. “Darren is just stressed out about getting in.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  We shake hands but I’m still angry. Darren leaves us to go back to the van, which is practically in another town. Good riddance, I think, but we agree to try to meet up at Luz’s film. If we can’t get in, Dad and I will go for an early lunch. But I don’t want to go for an early lunch because I don’t want to miss my chance to meet Michael.

  Dad holds my arm and we walk to a booth off to the side. Customer Service.

  “Popular day, huh?”

  The attendant doesn’t look up from stapling receipts to printer paper. “It’s sold out for the past eight years.” He sounds like an answering machine.

  Dad places his elbow on the counter. The man moves some pages off to the side.

  “This isn’t my scene,” Dad continues. “I haven’t read comics since the early sixties.”

  “Can I help you?” The attendant pushes up his reading glasses. They’re like regular glasses that have been cut in half and he looks at us over top of them.

  “My mother marched me down to the Salvation Army and made me hand over all my copies of The Flash. I had no idea the kind of frenzy to get in here.” Dad circles his hands in the air like an electric mixer. “We’ve just driven all the way from Ontario so my daughter can get a picture in a DeLorean.”

  “Earth to McFly!” I say.

  “Why did your mother pick the Sally Ann?”

  “St. Vincent de Paul was too Catholic.”

  The attendant’s laugh is half-cough, half-snort. “We’ve got some unclaimed media passes.”

  Once he’s decided to be our friend, the attendant is extremely helpful. Dad asks him if there’s a lot of walking in the exhibition halls and he offers us an electric scooter. I don’t know how to drive one and I can’t sit in Dad’s lap the whole time, so instead he brings over a collapsible wheelchair.

  Now that I don’t have to be anxious about being able to sit, I can start concentrating on the big event. I wish that Della and I weren’t having a fight because then I could call her and talk about how excited I am. She would make me feel better about what Darren said too. Once, at day program, she stood up for me when Christina said my pottery looked dumb. I’d been making a plate with stripes of different widths like I’d seen on Bargain Basement!

  “You’re just jealous,” Della had said. “Because Starr’s sister is on TV.”

  She stole the teacup that Christina had painted to look like an ugly ladybug, and hid it behind the glitter bin. When Christina asked about it, Della told her it probably just flew away.

  I’m angry that I haven’t heard from Della. It’s not like I did anything on purpose to hurt her feelings. And even if it is personal issues, it’s not fair for her to take it out on me. Part of me wants to call her and tell her off, and part of me wants to call her to see if she’s gotten over it yet and we can go back to being friends. I miss having her as a friend.

  Della’s one of the only people in the world who knows how much I love Michael J. Fox. Not just because he’s handsome and not too tall and because he’s a good actor. But also because he does a lot of charity work. He understands what it’s like to have challenges. Della says he’s not her type, but she can see why I like him. She’s got a crush on Tobey Maguire from the Spider-Man movies and sometimes, if she’s feeling silly, she holds her Spider-Man doll upside down and pretends to make out with it. Della’s pretty funny when she wants to be.

  Della would like all the costumes here. It’s like being at a Halloween party. Everywhere there are bright fabrics and metal space helmets and fuzzy tails hanging off people’s waists. We’ve seen three people dressed up as phone booths. Even people who aren’t wearing a costume have special shirts on with pictures from TV shows and superhero logos.

  There are rows and rows of booths with people selling their own drawings. I’d like to stop and talk to them, to find out how they learned to do that but Dad wants us to figure out where Luz’s movie is going to be. Then we can go find the DeLorean.

  But I can’t help myself when I see a booth with a woman in green head-to-toe body paint. She’s got a bikini on and a vine wrapped around her ankle and up her body. Her hair is bright red, very glam. I ask Dad who she’s supposed to be, but he doesn’t know. He tries to shift me away, but I am too curious.

  “That’s a nice costume,” I say.

  “Poison Ivy,” she says. “From one of the Batman movies.”

  “Is it a good movie?”

  When she smiles I notice that her lipstick is filled with big specks of glitter. Her lips could have been cut out of Dorothy’s shoes. “No, but I love the outfit. It was Uma Thurman’s role.”

  She is selling lots and lots of necklaces with metal stars or hearts with a test tube attached. She’s so nice that I buy two – one for me and one for Della – with my own money. Each has a rose in dark silver, hanging from a black silk cord. They’re heavier than you’d expect. I think Della will like it, and anyway, it’s just so she knows I was thinking of her. I’ve watched enough Dr. Phil to know that it’s better to be happy than to be right.

  HENRY

  I AM FULLY PISSED OFF AT DARREN. THERE’S NOTHING I hate more than rubbing Starr’s nose in it. I’m just grateful they let us in. If I didn’t know how heartsick Darren’s been, I’d never forgive him for asking me to drag out the special-needs card. But I also know he can’t walk away without a fight. Darren and Luz acted like John and Yoko reincarnated – loved like they couldn’t smell each other’s gas.

  The DeLorean is several halls away, past the official merchandise sales and the photo opportunity room. The price list for even the C-list actors is outrageous. Forty dollars for a picture with the guy who stood to the left of the heartthrob. Sixty dollars if you want it signed. Prepare to refinance your home if you want to shake hands with anyone recognizable.

  There are so many people lined up that I give Starr my arm to loop through hers. Instinctively, I square my elbows out, trying to make us harder to bump past. It means we can only move slowly, with no flexibility to manoeuvre through the crowd, especially with the wheelchair in my other hand. Without any weight, the thing won’t drive straight and keeps accordioning closed. I wonder if it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

  The DeLorean is in the centre of Hall C, boxed in by stanchions containing the lineup. Starr can’t believe it when she sees it. “It’s the real car! It’s Marty McFly’s!”

  The brochure mentions it’s one of several used on the movie, recently bought by a collector willing to loan it out. The absence of the movie’s star is another reason I’m cheesed off with Darren. He’s worked my daughter up to imagining a heart-to-heart with her hero.

  “Looks like it’s just the car.”

  “Michael J. Fox loves his fans,” Starr says, like I’m a fool for thinking otherwise. “He won’t want to disappoint anyone.”

  It’s not an easy logic to argue with.

  There’s an escort at the front keeping the line moving. No one gets more than sixty seconds posing in or around the car, but it’s going to be a long wait. I open the wheelchair for Starr to rest in.

  “Are you sure I’ll be back for day program?” She peels a hangnail off her thumb.

  “If we can drive straight.” I hadn’t expected the showcase would be so late in the afternoon, but it might work to our advantage. If Starr can sleep through the drive, we can get to the
condo by one or two.

  “I don’t want to be late because it’s jewelry.”

  “You might want to sleep in.”

  “No.” She scrapes another bit of dry cuticle. I squat to link hands because I don’t have a band-aid on me if she makes her finger bleed.

  “You just bought two necklaces.”

  “It’s important that I’m there.”

  It’s hard to tell if Starr is irritated because she’s so committed to the activity or if it’s just the change in routine.

  “Tell you what. If you miss part of it because you’re snoozing, I’ll take you to a craft store. We can string up heaps of necklaces next weekend.” We can get better supplies at Michaels anyway.

  “I wanted to make one to wear to work on Tuesday.”

  Kathleen will have to explain things when we get home. She’ll know the best way to word it so that Starr can be happy moving on. Depending on whether there’s a spot open, it might be time to revisit the full-time day program. If it means Starr can do what she wants, I’m willing to put in the extra shifts to cover costs.

  As soon as I think it, I recognize the echo of Kathleen’s promise to Melanie. It’s been on my mind, my wife’s revelation. It’s hard to reconcile with the stack of advocacy articles she’s collected over the years, how painful it’s been when people have said they couldn’t accept a child like ours. At the same time, Melly’s choice and the reasons behind it aren’t things I want to probe too deeply. Our relationship is tenuous enough. The main thing now is to make her see sense, not to bother with this petri dish shakedown. The doctors must know they’re not likely to have another problem at her age. Nothing with so hard, so global a prognosis. It isn’t always a life sentence, a blip in the code.

  “Where do you think Michael is?” Starr asks. “Do you think Darren will know?”

  We’re about thirty people back from where you pay and another dozen from actually seeing the car. I try to do a rough count of how many are in pairs, how many singles. I spot a guy about ten couples ahead of us and ask Starr if she minds waiting a moment. She hesitates – it’s a strange place to be left alone. “You’ll be able to see me,” I promise.

  The people ahead are reluctant to let me advance. I have to keep pointing Starr out and saying that I’m not cutting in. When I reach the guy, I can see he’s a bit older than Michael was in the movie, but with his costume on, he’s a carbon copy. He’s even got the same model of calculator watch and red swoop Nikes. His girlfriend’s in a peach dress with a poodle skirt – Marty’s mom. It seems like an odd choice for a date.

  “You two look great.” I hold out my hand. They’ve seen me push through the line and don’t know what to make of me. Up close, the woman is as petite as Starr, her bare shoulders tapering to an impossible waist. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was wearing the same pinching foundation garments my mother swore by.

  “My kid’s over there. She’s the biggest Michael J. Fox fan and I’m wondering if you’d be willing to take a picture with her in the car.”

  “We’re hoping to catch a panel after this.” Marty Two’s polite, but he doesn’t want to wait around. “We’re not that far behind. I can give you a twenty for it.”

  Starr has gotten out of the wheelchair to keep track of me. As I wave to reassure her, she catches Marty head-on. Her smile cracks open like an egg, her chin tipping up, hands spread open on her collarbones.

  Marty’s girlfriend flicks him with the hem of her skirt.

  “Sure,” he says. “Fine.”

  When our allotted minute comes up, the girlfriend commandeers my BlackBerry, cycling them through a catalogue of poses. Marty at the wheel, Starr shotgun. Marty by the hood, shades up and checking his watch, Starr peeking over his bicep. The girl returns the phone with a few seconds to spare before the car minder ejects us, directing me on the right angle to snap her cutting in on Marty and Starr slow dancing.

  Their panel is in the same wing as the student showcase and we wander over together, Starr glued to Marty. Marty’s mom walks with me, a few steps back. I click through the pictures she took. She’s found the most flattering pose in each scenario. Even with bad lighting and a basic cell cam, they look professional.

  “I do my own shoots for the web store.” She gives me her card. Vintage and Bespoke Intimates by Julie.

  “There a big market for that?”

  Julie holds out a calloused thumb and index finger, the ovals of thickened skin incongruous with her half-moon manicure. “Ruffled panties. Hundreds of metres of synthetic lace.”

  A job, like Melly’s gig on the basement show, that I could never have imagined existing.

  To our right, there’s a series of posters mounted on foam core. The Human Pincushion is on the far left stand, a giant pair of lips punctured by sewing needles. Down the side, a column of filmmaker’s photos, Luz’s face shadowed by a fire escape.

  “This is us.” I thank them again, promise to email a few photos.

  As we say goodbye, Starr asks, “Are you two married?”

  “No,” Julie says. “We’re just friends.”

  Marty’s sinking expression tells me he sees it differently. He adjusts the collar of his puffy vest and offers her his arm anyway, tries to regurgitate a smile.

  It makes me think of the past six months with Darren, his hangdog face over Luz. Lots of times, I’ve wanted to say something, help him get some perspective. But first love, like acute gastroenteritis, has to pass on its own.

  DARREN

  I’VE CHECKED ONLINE AND THERE AREN’T EVEN ANY savings-flushing VIP packages left. There are a couple resale notices at the front door but it’s impossible to tell which are legit. This morning I put on my one Jeremy-approved outfit – a black dress shirt with tiny blue dots woven through. A gift from a hipper cousin last Christmas. But it’s too hot to wear under the Frankie suit and, at this point, a high-quality costume is my only hope.

  Cramped in the back of the van, scooching into the plush legs, I’m terrified I’ll pass out from the heat before I’m dressed. It would be just my luck, when I’m this close to Luz, to be offed like a trophy wife locked in the home sauna on a crime procedural. It’s steamy enough that if I was a dog, someone would have called the SPCA.

  I emerge with the exterior of a squirrel and the interior of a sponge beast. Sweat funnels down my spine and into the crack of my ass. I consider bringing my nicer shirt with me, but if the plan works, there’s no way I can take my suit off or it’ll look like I’ve pissed myself. Between the sweat and the layer of grey accumulated from crossing the parking lot, the suit will need less of a clean and more of a fumigation.

  At the convention centre I go up to the most bored box-office person I can find.

  “Sold out.”

  “I’m here with the student film showcase. Luz Negrete. The Human Pincushion.”

  “You’ll have to speak with the supervisor.” He picks up a walkie-talkie. “It’s okay. I’ll get them to buzz you through.”

  I’m met by an original series Vulcan in business attire. I’m not sure whether to be impressed that she’s making an effort or annoyed at how half-assed it is. Her ears, plastic not latex, were probably bought from the dollar store.

  “No plus ones for the student showcase.”

  “It’s part of the presentation. There should be a badge waiting for me.” I mime stepping up to bat and knocking one out of the park, the plush suit too thick for the joints to look articulated. “We had to rent this. I don’t want to let them down.”

  “Hard to tell what costumes people are wearing for what.” She’s scrolling through Frankie’s Funhouse images on her phone.

  “It’s real,” I say, as if the costume’s authenticity can make the difference. As if a racket of knock-off Frankie Fuzzes have already tried her.

  “Right. It’s pretty good,” she says. “What’s your name?”

  At first, I think I should lie, just in case this doesn’t work. But I’m not fast enough.

  “You
don’t sound Chinese.”

  I shrug. “It’s for Luz Negrete. Human Pincushion.”

  She dials through to someone in the cinema. They haven’t heard about anything with a mascot. Frankly they could care less about the student showcase right now because they’re busy tracking down John Waters for a Q and A that’s starting in fifteen minutes. Sure, I can leave my name, but if my contact didn’t make sure I had my badge, it’s my own damn fault.

  There’s no one else to ask.

  “If they get hold of her, how will I know?” The woman’s phone is pinging out more text notifications. “Should I sit here?” Finding Henry and Starr will be impossible now.

  “Did you make the film?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  The woman looks me up and down. “My husband won’t even put on a pirate hat to hand out candy at Halloween. It’s just for this afternoon, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell front of house to expect you in twenty minutes. Don’t burn down the place.” She waits for me to unroll Frankie’s arm fur enough to secure a wristband. “They still need to pat you down.”

  At security I have to take the gloves and head off. One of the guards wants to try the head on and I try to keep a straight face as his friend snaps a cellphone pic. When the guard frees himself from the headpiece, his forehead is banded in perspiration, but he’s too polite to make a big deal of wiping it off. It trickles down from his temple as he thanks me.

  Now that it’s gotten me in, I try to work up some gratitude for the costume. Perhaps it’s not romantic suicide – there are a lot of couples here jazzed to be dressing up together. Either way, slipping into the Frankie persona distracts me from myself, from the stakes of my looming reunion. The exaggerated skipping step, the overdrawn arm swings – I’ve done this shtick at a million birthday parties and it means I don’t have to downer my way to Luz’s showcase. The squirrel’s features are too buoyant to look tragic. As I walk, people take notice of me, point Frankie out to their friends. It starts to feel more like I’m going into battle, clad in fun fur armour, ready to win back my girl. By the time I make my way into the theatre, I feel like John Cusack in a rodent suit.