Sarah appears. “I’m done, let’s get lunch.”
We get back to the car and Sarah suggests we head to Chinatown and hit our favourite spot, The Pineapple Thai Village. We arrive at half past one just as the lunch crowd is dying out.
We are seated two tables over from a white couple with a little Asian girl. Sarah spots them and her eyes well with tears. I place my hand on hers, smile and say, “We’re going to have a family, one way or another. I promise.”
She nods her head and tries not to cry.
My Night Out
I can smell hair products coming from Phil’s head as we stand in line to buy tickets to a Hong Kong kung fu action picture at the Mayfair Theatre. Phil managed not only to get blond highlights, but Zoe’s phone number as well; she’s the new hot blonde from First Choice Hair Cutters in the mall. “One please,” he says to the cashier. He turns to me and says, “Zoe and I are going out on Friday and I’m soooo going to get laid,” then spins back around. Phil gets his ticket and change and bolts for the food counter. He meets me back in the lobby carrying a cardboard tray loaded with popcorn, sodas and a couple of bags of candy. Phil is always moving, always talking, animated. This is what makes him fun, but it can also be what drives people mad about him; he’s on roller blades while the rest of us are walking. I wonder if Phil is actually manic-depressive? But I’ve never seen him depressed, just manic.
“Colin man, you should see the body on this girl, smoking. She’s twenty-five,” squeals Phil in delight. Phil’s thirty-five, handsome, smart, has a good job – the ladies love him. Strangely enough though, he’s a bit of a geek. Or at least a movie geek. Maybe this is why he hangs out with me. I’m not really sure what he gets out of our relationship. Maybe I ground him a little. Anyway, for whatever reason, our brain chemistry clicks when we’re together.
Before the film begins, Phil is particularly high, talking a mile a minute about Asian cinema, Zoe’s breasts and legs, where he plans on taking her on Friday, Jackie Chan’s childhood, why Nibs are the best candy ever, and an analysis of Tarantino’s Kill Bill. I’m exhausted before the movie even begins.
After we watch what Phil described as “a fucking wicked martial arts film,” we head to the pub next door for pints. I listen to him do his post-film critique for half an hour before the topic turns to having children. “I could have a baby with Zoe, man. Holy shit, would that kid be hot, I mean look at me,” says Phil hoisting up his shirt, pointing out his six-pack abs. I’m not sure if Phil is entirely kidding; in fact I think he’s serious, at least about the kid being hot. “But I could never be a father, I’m just too friggin’ selfish,” he blurts out with surprising honesty. “However you, my friend, will make a great dad. You have dad written all over you.”
“Really, you think?”
“Shit man, you’ll be fantastic.”
“What if the kid doesn’t like me?”
“You have the patience of a saint, you’re warm and fuzzy, smart, shit, what kid wouldn’t like you?”
“My stepsister’s kid screams every time I go near her.”
“Just a baby dude, they all fucking scream. Shit, women scream their whole lives. Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say as I sip my beer.
“Relax man, this whole baby thing has got you stressed out, man. Have a few brews and chill. How’s the new book coming along?”
“It’s coming. I keep typing.”
“Good man. Listen, it’s going to happen for you, I can feel it. I’m not a big reader and I loved The Cube People.”
“Yeah, that’s what scares me.”
“You’re a funny guy MacDonald,” Phil says, then turns his head around to the waitress who’s wiping the table next to ours. “Can we get a couple more, darling?”
I stagger through my front door after fighting with the lock. My key always seems to stick after a few pints. I’m clutching a half-eaten shawarma. The light is on in the living room. Sarah’s up. I sense trouble. “Where have you been?” she demands, flying out like a genie to the entrance in her pink nightgown, arms crossed.
“Out with Phil.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Ah…” I say reaching for my cellphone but remembering that the battery died on me. “Ah, not sure, late?”
“It’s a quarter to two.”
“And?”
“You told me that you would be home at 12:30 at the latest. Why didn’t you call? Christ, you stink of booze, how many pints did you have?”
“The phone died on me. I had four pints,” I reply, lying about the number of pints.
“Why didn’t you use Phil’s phone or a payphone? Surely there’s a payphone at the bar. Christ, how many pints did you really have?”
“Jesus Sarah, okay, relax, what’s the big deal? I’m a little late. The phone at the pub was out of order and Phil didn’t have his phone on him. By the way, my name isn’t Shirley or Christ,” I say, chuckling at my own witty humour. I roll down the wax paper from my sandwich and take a big bite.
“That fucking stinks, Colin. You know the smell of that bothers me. You are so inconsiderate sometimes. You know I haven’t been feeling well on the drugs, and you come in drunk, eating a fucking shawarma, and Christ, look!” she yells pointing at my feet. “You’re dripping that shit all over my floor!”
Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s my belief that people are just victims of their own brain waves, but I don’t bother to get mad. I just take another bite of my shawarma. Man, this is the best shawarma I’ve ever had.
“You’re an asshole, Colin! Did you hear me? You’re dripping the shit on the floor!?”
“Baby, relax, I’ll clean it up.”
“How many pints did you have? Tell me!”
“Okay, I had five pints,” I tell her. I actually had six and a shot of Jagermeister.
“Five pints! Jesus Colin, Phil is turning you into some sort of alcoholic. I want to have a family. What kind of father are you going to be? You have to work tomorrow, for Christ’s sake, or are you going to call in sick? You see Phil every damn day. Why do you need to be out with him until two in the morning?”
“I see you every day too,” I say. I feel that my mind is sharp and clear despite all the booze.
“You’re going to end up like your father!”
I’ve told Sarah many stories about Dad coming home liquored and fighting with Mom in the middle of the night. He’d punch holes in the walls, and in the morning he would inspect the damage. He’d tell me he was going to have to call the exterminator to get rid of the pesky woodpecker that was in the house. “That’s over the top,” I tell her.
“You’re a fucking asshole. Go sleep on the couch in your precious writing study, ’cause you aren’t sleeping next to me with that stinky mouth.”
I’m getting tired of standing here in the hallway entrance getting yelled at. I think fine, time for bed. I take a step forward and slip in the shawarma garlic juice that has pooled on the floor. I stumble into the wall and knock a framed photo of Sarah’s great-grandfather Gerald. I stand up, straighten the photo, and realize for the first time how enormous Gerald’s handlebar moustache is. “Holy crap, that’s a big moustache. Have you looked at this?”
Sarah’s face is contorted with anger. “You can’t even stand up!”
“Oh fuck off,” I yell as I stumble to the study and slam the door behind me with all my might.
I wake up and it’s still dark. I’m in a weird position on the couch where I presumably passed out. I’ve drooled all over one of the seat cushions. My shoes are still on. I really have to pee. I sit up. There’s no light coming from underneath the door. Sarah must be in bed. Quietly I remove my shoes, trying not to wake her. The last thing I want right now is her screaming Janet Leigh style. Reaching to open the door, I realize the handle is
gone.
We have a beautiful condo in Centretown. We’re on the first floor of an old brick, three-storey walk-up. We have glass doorknobs. They’re old, as is the building. About two months ago, the doorknob in here came loose. I hardly ever shut the door, except for the odd time when I’m trying to write and Sarah’s watching TV. On the rare occasion when the doorknob falls off, I keep a screwdriver handy so I can pop the lock.
Now’s the time I wished I’d called the maintenance man and asked him to fix it, because – although I have done it a half dozen times before – I can’t for the life of me pop this darn lock. Shit, I really really have to take a pee. I contemplate the window, but don’t think I can get it open wide enough to piss out. I work the screwdriver frantically, my leg shaking. I’m trying to stay calm. Impossible. I’m literally going to pee my pants if I don’t get this door open in the next thirty seconds. I think about banging and screaming for Sarah, but I don’t think she’d make it on time, even if she heard me and wanted to come. I continue to twist the screwdriver in vain while I look around the room.
I see the giant wooden bowl that Sarah’s mom brought back from Africa sitting on the little table beside the couch. There’s no time. I grab the bowl and toss its potpourri contents on the floor. I whip down my pants and underwear, kneel down, grab a fearful and half-shrivelled Marvin, and aim him into the bowl. It almost hurts coming out I have to go so bad. With mixed feelings of worry and relief, I watch the urine level rise in the bowl. With less than half an inch left in the bowl, I finish. I stand up and sigh in relief. Now that I’m not in a panicked state, I manage to pop the door open, no problem. I bend down, gingerly pick up the bowl, carry it very carefully to the bathroom, and dump it. I wash it out well with dish soap, put the bowl back, lie back down on the couch and fall asleep.
“Jesus Christ Colin, just because you’re mad at me, doesn’t mean you can just throw my stuff around. Why would you be so inconsiderate as to dump out my potpourri?”
I open my eyes. Sarah’s dressed for work. My mouth is dry. My head hurts. I look at the dried-up flowers and leaves scattered on the floor and for a second I really don’t remember. “I didn’t throw… wait a minute. Sit down. I’m sorry. Please honey, I’m sorry. I have a story for you.”
Reluctantly she sits down and listens while I explain what happened. She laughs quite hard at my tale of woe. I shower, and we go grab breakfast at Ada’s Diner on Bank Street. I tell her over bacon and eggs the things I think she wants to hear. She seems to need my commitment verbalized. I tell her that I’m ready to be a father and have a family.
I don’t lie about this. I want to be a father almost as much as I want to be a writer. Perhaps I want to fix my childhood by recreating it, reliving it, making it right. I don’t share this part of my theory with Sarah. I promise to ease up on the drinking. Sarah worries because she loves me, though sometimes I think she worries about herself and projects it onto me. I’ve seen her crack back a couple bottles of wine on a Friday night.
I kiss her goodbye outside the restaurant and hop a bus to work.
Hungry Hole: Chapter 4
Ryan wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told Gillian about the hole. It was partly that he wanted to fix it himself, to prove he was capable of doing it, that he was a man. Mostly though, he didn’t want Gillian to worry about it. She could stress over the littlest of things sometimes. Besides, he was worried enough for the two of them. Every day now, after Gillian left for work, he tested the levelness of the house with the marble. He went from room to room placing the marble in the middle of the floor to see if it would roll. Never anything. The house stood as erect and as level as ever. But the hole in the basement still seemed to be growing. It was now about four feet in diameter. Ryan had laid some two-by-fours across the hole so he could safely cross to the other side of the basement.
With trepidation, he slowly descended into the basement, flashlight in hand. The two-by-fours were still there, but now the bottom of the hole was no longer visible. He went to the edge and peered down. There was no end in sight. He clicked on the flashlight and shone the beam down. He still couldn’t see the bottom. Ryan carefully lay down on his belly and peered over the edge with the flashlight to see if he could make out the bottom. The light of the flashlight ended in darkness. The wall of the hole was almost smooth, as if the whole thing had been drilled.
He reached into his pocket and found the marble he’d been using for his level tests. He dropped it down the hole. About three seconds later he heard a ting, followed by another one a second later, then it trickled off. Ting, ting, ting. “Bizarre,” Ryan said aloud.
When he stood up, he heard the growl. At first he thought it was coming from the hole, but when he heard it the second time, he knew. He’d left the back door wide open when he put the garbage out, to get some fresh air into the house. He mustn’t have shut the fence properly, for when Ryan looked up the stairs, his fears were realized. There was Spike, gums wet and quivering, saliva drooling from one corner of his powerful jaws.
“Nice Spike,” said Ryan, holding his hand out in a gesture that he hoped the dog would sense was friendly. Spike barked and then barked a few more times before breaking back into a vicious growl. “Nice Spike,” repeated Ryan as he put his foot on the bottom step. That’s when he saw the muscles in the dog shift, saw it lean back, about to jump.
Ryan spun, squeezing by the handrail. The dog sailed into the air. Ryan ran toward the hole. The dog landed and spun when it hit the ground. The dog kicked its legs until it was up and moving again, moving in the direction of Ryan’s back. Ryan misstepped. His foot landed in the middle of the two-by-fours, near the far edge of the hole. He lost his balance and he kicked back trying to keep his momentum moving forward. The result was that he managed to kick the two-by-fours into the hole as he fell with them. As he plummeted he felt the dog bite into his bum. Although the top half of Ryan hit the basement floor, his legs entered the hole. With the weight of the dog, which was now dangling off Ryan’s right jean pocket by its teeth, Ryan was being pulled in. The paws of Spike clawed wildly away at Ryan’s jeans, scratching him.
“Fuck!” screamed Ryan. “Get the fuck off!” He was being pulled into the hole when suddenly he heard the fabric rip. The pocket was coming off. He did his best to kick at the dog, trying to kick it in the balls. The fabric ripped again, this time completely. He felt the weight of the dog release. It was gone. He waited. Finally he heard a thud, followed by a whimper, then silence.
Ryan pulled himself out of the hole. He was shaking. Then came a strange sound from the hole, a kind of groan, but not that of a wounded animal. No, it almost sounded like a burp.
* * *
After Ryan changed his pants and cleaned the scratches on his legs, he went back down to the basement. He shone the light down the hole to see if there was any trace of the dog. Although he couldn’t see the dog he saw something even more surprising: he saw the bottom, maybe a hundred feet down. The hole had receded. Had his eyes been playing tricks on him? Then a feeling of dread came over him. Maybe the hole was hungry.
The Catch-822 Photocopier
Today a branch-wide email was sent out about the photocopier. Things must have come to a head somewhere. Probably Barry started frothing at the mouth. He’s a manager and his banality of leadership cascades down upon us every day like the drool off the chins of the institutionalized. Everyone suspects that he’s behind the photocopier insanity. The email states that a virtual lock has been put on the copier and you now need a passcode to unlock it. Plus you need to fill out requisition form 822 stating the reason you need to make a photocopy.
I work for the government. I recognize it’s insane, but sometimes I just can’t believe it. I’m down to my last walkthrough 811 form. I need to make photocopies. I walk down the hall and head over to see Line, the secretary for the floor. Line lives in Gatineau, Quebec, just across the Ottawa River. She’s always smacki
ng her gum loudly when I come by. Half the time you can’t find her because she’s by the front door smoking with the other Francos who work on the floor. To be fair, there are two Anglos who also puff away, Brita being one of them and she smokes enough for four people.
Today Line’s wearing white pumps with black nylons, a tight red leather skirt, and a white shirt with black polka dots. Her hair is eighties hair, combed up at the front and long and wavy in the back. You could fit your fist through her red hoop earrings. I can smell the pungent fumes of cigarettes off her clothes as I approach.
“Oui?” she barks out in her Gatineau French. She taps her watch and says, “It’s noon thirty. It’s time for my lunch, so you have to make it quick.”
“I need the passcode for the photocopier.”
“Didn’t you read your email?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
“Where’s your 822 form?”
“I don’t have one.”
“I thought you said you read your email?”
“Well I guess I need an 822 form then.”
“Well I only have one 822 form, so you’ll need to make a copy.”
“Okay,” I say, waiting for her to give me the form so I can photocopy it, so I can make a photocopy.
“You need to have an 822 to make a photocopy.”
“What?”
“You need to have a…”
“No, I heard you. So you’re saying that to photocopy my 811, I need an 822 filled out, but to get an 822 I need to fill out an 822 so I can photocopy what I don’t have.”
The Cube People Page 4
