I'm on my way to meet people. They're looking for somebody and believe I may be that somebody. I may also be somebody else's somebody. Or I may be nobody's somebody. Nobody's somebody doesn't hold a lot of appeal. Unless nobody were really somebody on the downlow.
On the corner of Avenue Road and Bloor, at a red light, a little girl offers me her balloon. I take it, of course. It's a little girl. I'm not going to turn down a little girl. I don't want that on my conscience. She smiles, "Watch my balloon. I'm coming back for it." The light changes, she walks on with her parents.
What does she mean, "I'm coming back for it." Sounds very Damien-ish. Like if I don't have the balloon when she gets back, I will fall off a balcony and it'll look like suicide. I don't want to fall off a balcony. It will hurt. I better hold on to the balloon.
The balloon's bright orange with a smiley face on each side. I don't trust a smiley face especially one on a balloon. A glance into a bank window tells me my meeting with the people who think I might be their somebody is in 10 minutes. What do I do with the balloon? I can't go into the meeting with it. But if I let it go I'll probably fall off a balcony.
Maybe if I let somebody hold it until I get out of the meeting. Who? Of course, another kid. In front of me I see another kid. He's running in a circle like he's attempting to transverse time and space. I approach him, "Hey, do you want a balloon?"
Unwise, in retrospect.
"Get away from my kid, you perv." His dad looms and he's not pleased.
"Whoa! I'm no perv. It's all cool. Everything's cool. Another kid gave me this balloon. I've got a meeting. Can't take it into the meeting. Thought your kid would like to hold it for me. He's a kid... the kid who gave it to me is a kid so...you know...the brotherhood of kids..."
"So, you're working another kid," he says. "Cops'll like this." He pulls out his iPhone.
"Wait! No cops."
"Makes you look even more guilty not wanting me to call the cops."
Now I'm having images of being somebody's somebody in prison. They treat somebody's somebody very differently there.
"Okay, look, man. Maybe we can settle this," he says.
I'm so relieved I feel like pissing myself. I think I just did.
"Whaddya have in your wallet?" he says.
"Thirty-five dollars." He snatches it. "That'll do. But next time...kids...stay away."
"Yes, not even my nephew and niece. Thank you. Thank you." Whew did I ever dodge a bullet.
And then I hear, "Hey Frank, thanks for looking after Donald." And then I see the Dad that I thought was the Dad wave at the Dad who really is the Dad as he grabs his circle running son. False Dad shrugs, smiles and moves on.
Man's inhumanity to a man holding a balloon.
I'm fast walking, still holding the balloon, hit the building, scoot up the stairs, into the office, sweating, breathing hard. The receptionist eyes me and the balloon like I were a 16th Century Theory of Cosmology. "I've got an appointment with Terry Arnold at 11." "Mr. Arnold has left." "But I'm only 20 minutes late. I bet he's still in there." "Mr. Arnold doesn't like to wait. No, he has gone." "C'mon, can you just call him?" "No." She looks at me, then the balloon, then me. "Smiley face," I say while bobbing the balloon in front of her. "Stop that. It's not going to work. You are not going to wear me down with that smiley face," she says. "What if I show you the other side?" And I show her the other smiley face. "I'm calling building security." "Really?" "Yes, really." There's a long pause. "For showing you a smiley face balloon," I say. She picks up the phone. "Hello, Jim." "Okay, okay. I'll leave." And I shuffle out, with the balloon.
I call Violet. Because in times like these I need to hear her reassuring voice.
"What now?" Violet says.
Violet's having a good day. She picked up.
"I'm holding a balloon a kid gave me. She asked me to take care of it until later. Because of this balloon I'm out thirty-five bucks and I blew a meeting."
"Okay here's what you do. Are you listening? Bust the balloon, dump its carcass. Move on." she says.
"This isn't one of your relationships, Vy. I can't do that. Just think about it. That kid might've been testing her faith in human kind by giving me the balloon. And why me? Maybe I'm being tested to affirm that kid's faith in human kind."
"You're soft. That's what I like about you." She hangs up.
So I head back to the corner of Avenue Road and Bloor and wait. What're the chances? And I wait. The sun lowers. Shadows lengthen. I should've never taken the balloon. I blew the meeting and now I'm making a fool of myself. The lesson? Don't take things from kids.
"I'll take that."
I turn around. There she is, her parents stand behind her, all smiles.
Awed and amazed, I hand her the balloon.
"Thank you for taking care of my balloon."
"Hey, uh, it was nothing."
She lets go of it. We watch the balloon soar high into the late afternoon sky.
THE POLK DATE
Polk, my accountant, calls. It's a panic-call. I must meet him at The Barbary now. Since I made good with Polk (see 'Valentine's Day Polk', 'The Neverending
Polk', 'The Frycroft Street Operation') I've been eager to continue the payments on positive relations. He's my accountant. He can make deductions appear. I tell him I'll be there no later than soon.
Polk is thirty-five years old, short, with the physique of a minor geometric postulate. He is a devoted accountant with a loyal clientele. And he's been looking for Mrs. Polk since he walked out of Oliver Stone's JFK.
"A single bullet. Killed Kennedy. I do not want to be. Single no more."
None of us understood the connection. But we respected his right to make it. Since that moment he has pursued the Single Wife Theory.
At the Barbary I'm seated beside Polk. Polk is seated beside me. We are both seated in front of an attractive brunette. "Hi, I'm Mona." Whose name is Mona. "Hi, I'm Mona."
Polk is on a date with Mona and used his one lifeline to bring me in. In advance of the date they negotiated one lifeline each just in case. Polk was in a just in case situation.
"Polk. What do you need? What can I do?"
"Take my place."
"Not sure I understand. You want me-"
"Take my place."
"To replace you on the date?"
Polk nods.
"But why? She's attractive, seems like a decent person."
"Not for me."
"But-"
"Finished with your lifeline consultation, Polk?" Mona says
"Yes. I must go. To the bathroom." Polk picks up his jacket and leaves in the opposite direction from the bathroom. We watch him go out the front doors.
"He's not coming back is he?" Mona says.
"No."
"So you're his date-replacement?"
"Yes."
"I need to call my lifeline." She gets on her phone and says something to somebody."He'll be here soon," she says. "Okay." But really I'm feeling a bit hurt. She didn't even give me a chance. My first date-replacement gig. Cut short. Not the way this country was built. Date-replacement gigs going long...that's the backbone of this nation.
"So Mona. What do you do?"
"Can't talk until lifeline gets here. It's the rules."
Polk owes me. Next tax season he better come up with some creative new deductions starting with this date. Hmm, wine's tasty. This knife is kinda cool...I wonder how many people were using this knife when their partner said, "It's over. I'm seeing somebody else. Please return my coffee pods."
Mona and I sit across from each other like we're two candidates for the same job. A plain looking doughy man comes up to Mona. They kiss.
"This is my boyfriend Charlie. He's my lifeline." Mona says.
"Boyfriend?"
"You got it." Charlie says with the mien of a vacuum cleaner salesman.
"You know she's on a date, right?" I remind him.
"Absolutely. We figure... only way to improve our relationship is to practice in other relationships while we're in our relatonship. Mona's involved with three other men right now. You would be four. What she learns from those relationships she brings back to our relationship. Same the other way. It's all about the learning. The growing. The getting better. At us." He and Mona shared a smile.
"Three other guys?"
"It's exhausting but at the same time rewarding. For instance, I got into a fight with boyfriend number two, Jalala, about listening. I didn't think Jalala was a careful considerate listener. He thought I talked too much nonesuch...he called it nonesuch...that I should get to the point quicker. Charlie agreed. So now I get to the point quicker. Charlie sent Jalala a thank you fruit basket but the guards took all the fruit. "
"Guards?"
"Jalala is in prison doing a life sentence for killing his second wife."
"Let me guess, she talked too much." I say.
"How did you know?"
"Lucky guess," I say.
"Mona called I knew she'd hooked a live one. Mona's got good instincts."
"How did you know Polk would call his lifeline?"
"I told him to," Mona says.
"How'd you know it'd be me?"
"I did my research." Mona smiles in a way that makes me think of the girl in The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo. I hope she doesn't use the word cunnilingus in any context.
"I gotta call my lifeline," I say.
Ten uncomfortable minutes later Violet shows up. She sizes up the situation and characters.
"Listen you creeps, I'm taking my friend out. Don't even think of following." She fake lunges causing them to clutch each other like in the middle of a gale.
At the bar later I ask Violet if she wants to know the details. She shoots me a look like I just insulted her grandmother's afgan, takes a swig from a glass of Jack and says,
Nothing.
Like I expected.
Polk is thirty-five years old, short, with the physique of a minor geometric postulate. He is a devoted accountant with a loyal clientele. And he's been looking for Mrs. Polk since he walked out of Oliver Stone's JFK.
"A single bullet. Killed Kennedy. I do not want to be. Single no more."
None of us understood the connection. But we respected his right to make it. Since that moment he has pursued the Single Wife Theory.
At the Barbary I'm seated beside Polk. Polk is seated beside me. We are both seated in front of an attractive brunette. "Hi, I'm Mona." Whose name is Mona. "Hi, I'm Mona."
Polk is on a date with Mona and used his one lifeline to bring me in. In advance of the date they negotiated one lifeline each just in case. Polk was in a just in case situation.
"Polk. What do you need? What can I do?"
"Take my place."
"Not sure I understand. You want me-"
"Take my place."
"To replace you on the date?"
Polk nods.
"But why? She's attractive, seems like a decent person."
"Not for me."
"But-"
"Finished with your lifeline consultation, Polk?" Mona says
"Yes. I must go. To the bathroom." Polk picks up his jacket and leaves in the opposite direction from the bathroom. We watch him go out the front doors.
"He's not coming back is he?" Mona says.
"No."
"So you're his date-replacement?"
"Yes."
"I need to call my lifeline." She gets on her phone and says something to somebody."He'll be here soon," she says. "Okay." But really I'm feeling a bit hurt. She didn't even give me a chance. My first date-replacement gig. Cut short. Not the way this country was built. Date-replacement gigs going long...that's the backbone of this nation.
"So Mona. What do you do?"
"Can't talk until lifeline gets here. It's the rules."
Polk owes me. Next tax season he better come up with some creative new deductions starting with this date. Hmm, wine's tasty. This knife is kinda cool...I wonder how many people were using this knife when their partner said, "It's over. I'm seeing somebody else. Please return my coffee pods."
Mona and I sit across from each other like we're two candidates for the same job. A plain looking doughy man comes up to Mona. They kiss.
"This is my boyfriend Charlie. He's my lifeline." Mona says.
"Boyfriend?"
"You got it." Charlie says with the mien of a vacuum cleaner salesman.
"You know she's on a date, right?" I remind him.
"Absolutely. We figure... only way to improve our relationship is to practice in other relationships while we're in our relatonship. Mona's involved with three other men right now. You would be four. What she learns from those relationships she brings back to our relationship. Same the other way. It's all about the learning. The growing. The getting better. At us." He and Mona shared a smile.
"Three other guys?"
"It's exhausting but at the same time rewarding. For instance, I got into a fight with boyfriend number two, Jalala, about listening. I didn't think Jalala was a careful considerate listener. He thought I talked too much nonesuch...he called it nonesuch...that I should get to the point quicker. Charlie agreed. So now I get to the point quicker. Charlie sent Jalala a thank you fruit basket but the guards took all the fruit. "
"Guards?"
"Jalala is in prison doing a life sentence for killing his second wife."
"Let me guess, she talked too much." I say.
"How did you know?"
"Lucky guess," I say.
"Mona called I knew she'd hooked a live one. Mona's got good instincts."
"How did you know Polk would call his lifeline?"
"I told him to," Mona says.
"How'd you know it'd be me?"
"I did my research." Mona smiles in a way that makes me think of the girl in The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo. I hope she doesn't use the word cunnilingus in any context.
"I gotta call my lifeline," I say.
Ten uncomfortable minutes later Violet shows up. She sizes up the situation and characters.
"Listen you creeps, I'm taking my friend out. Don't even think of following." She fake lunges causing them to clutch each other like in the middle of a gale.
At the bar later I ask Violet if she wants to know the details. She shoots me a look like I just insulted her grandmother's afgan, takes a swig from a glass of Jack and says,
Nothing.
Like I expected.
THE KOSHER CHICKEN WINGS
I'm in aisle 5. Loblaws. Stuck behind a display of canned beans. Beans lower cholesterol. They also have lots of fibre. The kidney bean is shaped like a kidney. The chickpea is shaped like a human butt. The design decision...were there other options?
An 87 year old woman is hunting me down with her 88 year old friend who looks like Robert DeNiro. Not Meet the Fockers DeNiro...Taxi Driver DeNiro.
I'm in this mess because of my mother's addiction to chicken wings. Kosher chicken wings. The woman is like a 90 year old Amy Winehouse minus the voice. Not sure about the tats. And I'm not asking about the piercings. If she doesn't get wings she is very unpleasant to her plants.
Since she doesn't get out much and I'm visiting her tomorrow I came to Loblaws to pick up the wings.
"Get me four packages. Make sure they're chicken wings. Do you have enough money?"
"Yes."
I'm two aisles and four cashiers away from freedom...the movator. But who knows how many people she's brought on her side. It's Senior's Day. The elderly tend to stick together in retail situations.
At the kosher freezer I grabbed the last four packages of wings when...
"Those wings. They're our wings!"
I turned around. There. Inches from me. Two elderly people - a man and a woman - one of whom had a walker. A high end walker. It had a basket with two levels.
"Give us those wings. Hershel is Mossad."
"Technically... I was in the cafeteria."
"Herschel, Shut up. You think because I'm 87 and he's 88 you can make off like a bandit."
"You don't look a day over 77 and DeNiro doesn't look a day over 78." I inched away from the freezer. "Sorry, but I need these wings or my mother will kill me."
"Herschel will kill you. He's Mossad!
"Technically.."
"What about those wings?" I point to non-kosher chicken wings. "Okay they're not kosher but if you salt them enough you can make them kosher."
"Salt! With my blood pressure? You young shneck! Give us the wings you mother f----"
She grabbed for the packages. I pulled away. Just in time.
In the course of the chase I slipped on a spill. With my sprained ankle I crawled to aisle 5 and behind the canned beans display where I am now. I take out my phone and dial my mother.
"Hi mom."
"My cooking show's on." She hangs up.
The elderly pair enter aisle 5
An 87 year old woman is hunting me down with her 88 year old friend who looks like Robert DeNiro. Not Meet the Fockers DeNiro...Taxi Driver DeNiro.
I'm in this mess because of my mother's addiction to chicken wings. Kosher chicken wings. The woman is like a 90 year old Amy Winehouse minus the voice. Not sure about the tats. And I'm not asking about the piercings. If she doesn't get wings she is very unpleasant to her plants.
Since she doesn't get out much and I'm visiting her tomorrow I came to Loblaws to pick up the wings.
"Get me four packages. Make sure they're chicken wings. Do you have enough money?"
"Yes."
I'm two aisles and four cashiers away from freedom...the movator. But who knows how many people she's brought on her side. It's Senior's Day. The elderly tend to stick together in retail situations.
At the kosher freezer I grabbed the last four packages of wings when...
"Those wings. They're our wings!"
I turned around. There. Inches from me. Two elderly people - a man and a woman - one of whom had a walker. A high end walker. It had a basket with two levels.
"Give us those wings. Hershel is Mossad."
"Technically... I was in the cafeteria."
"Herschel, Shut up. You think because I'm 87 and he's 88 you can make off like a bandit."
"You don't look a day over 77 and DeNiro doesn't look a day over 78." I inched away from the freezer. "Sorry, but I need these wings or my mother will kill me."
"Herschel will kill you. He's Mossad!
"Technically.."
"What about those wings?" I point to non-kosher chicken wings. "Okay they're not kosher but if you salt them enough you can make them kosher."
"Salt! With my blood pressure? You young shneck! Give us the wings you mother f----"
She grabbed for the packages. I pulled away. Just in time.
In the course of the chase I slipped on a spill. With my sprained ankle I crawled to aisle 5 and behind the canned beans display where I am now. I take out my phone and dial my mother.
"Hi mom."
"My cooking show's on." She hangs up.
The elderly pair enter aisle 5
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