Yesterday afternoon as I'm pulling money from an ATM in Forest Hill a large balding fortysomething man in Boss says, "How much for your hair? $1500... Is that enough?" And he peels off 15 $100 bills.
I blink. A man wants to buy my hair. For $1,500. It's the middle of the day. And neither of us is The Walrus.
"So, are you saying you want to buy my hair for $1,500?"
"Every single strand."
I glance out the window just to see if there's a camera crew nearby. There's a tall, lean, beautiful woman, wearing shorts and a skimpy tee, leaning against a Rolls Shadow, picking from a small black plastic tray. I wonder if she knows the Boss man. Is that his Rolls? Is the hair for her?
"Does that include the scalp?" I say.
"No. No. No. No. No. Ha. Very funny. You are funny. No." He spoke with the ease of experience. I'm not the first one he's offered money for hair. And when he laughed his body shook like a mound of jello.
"Just checking," I knew his offer didn't include the scalp. A guy who buys scalps doesn't shake like jello when he laughs. Unless he's trained by MI-5. But then why would MI-5 train agents to buy scalps from strangers? Wouldn't they just take them? This is how I ruled him out as an agent for MI-5. Also, he was way overweight. Jason Bourne would never let himself go like this. Even if her were dumped on Facebook.
*************
So for those of you who haven't seen me, or a picture of me, or a likeness of a picture of me, I have a head of full long curly brown hair that I wear in a style I like to call curly long. I've had it ever since I was born. And I've grown accustomed to it being there. On my head. Still...fifteen hundred dollars.
**************
"Not for sale," I said
"Two thousand?" He peeled off another five one hundred dollar bills.
"What do you want with my hair?"
"This I cannot tell you. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. So whaddya say?" he says.
I looked out the window at the woman leaning against the Shadow as if she'll lift up her t-shirt and reveal another t-shirt with the answer. She didn't do that. She picked up something from the tray and put it in her mouth.
"Okay, two thousand, five hundred," he says and peels off more bills.
The man is offering me two thousand five hundred dollars for my hair and I'm thinking about it. Why? I don't know. Maybe because I don't want to think I'm selling to, like a Charles Taylor. And what if he uses my hair to buy weapons and those weapons are used to kill innocent men, women and children. And what if he gets caught and put on trial in the UN War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague and the prosecution calls me as a witness and I have to admit that like an idiot I didn't ask the man who bought my hair if my hair would be involved in arms transactions where innocent men, women and children will be killed. My mother calling me up in the Hague. Couldn't live with myself.
"Sorry, can't do it."
"Three thousand."
Shook my head.
"Ha. Ha. Ha. For your troubles." He put a hundred dollar bill in my shirt pocket and turned to leave.
"Hey." I motioned outside. "Is she with you?"
"Yes. My assistant. A night with her was my next offer." He hesitated, raised his eyebrows.
I looked again. At her. Her. Her. The entire evening played out in my mind and when it ended I pressed replay-European version. It's only hair! Public ignominy at the Hague! I shook my head.
"Ha. Ha. Ha. Good day to you."
When he's at the door I ask, "What's her name?"
"Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. You are a man. You are." He wipes his forehead and leaves.
I finger the hundred in my pocket.
THE STARBUCKS 25TH ANNIVERSARY
Today, until 11 a.m. Starbucks in Canada was offering a cup of coffee
for 25 cents in celebration of their 25 years in Canada.
I ordered 2 cups.
One in celebration, the other in memory of all the other cups that went down at Starbucks over the past 25 years.
Lest I don't regret.
I ordered 2 cups.
One in celebration, the other in memory of all the other cups that went down at Starbucks over the past 25 years.
Lest I don't regret.
POLK CANADA GIFT TO THE QUEEN
Polk, my accountant, calls and tells me Prime Minister Stephen Harper met with the Queen yesterday and presented her with a gift from Canada on the occasion of her 60th Jubilee. The gift Canada gave the Queen? A painting. Portrait. A painting portrait. Of her. The Queen. Canada gave the Queen a portrait of the Queen as a gift because no doubt she hasn't got one of those.
Polk wanted to know how the decision to give the Queen a portrait of the Queen came about. I told him it probably went something like this:
Governor-General on the phone with the Royal Secretary in Buckingham Palace: Okay, so here's what Canada's thinking...
RS: Not a hockey stick.
GG, Really? C'mon. Really?
RS: Really.
GG: It's signed by Tie Domi.
RS: I will hang up now. Please wait for Cedric to come on the line and give you the Royal Click.
Cedric: Click. I say.
GG calls Prime Minister Stephen Harper.
GG: Hockey stick's a no-go.
SH: It's signed by Tie Domi.
GG: I've got it! A human hair from every Canadian sewn together in the form of a Canadian flag.
SH: Remind me of why I appointed you Governor-General.
GG: In the event of an alien attack I was the only one to agree to have my head and arms surgically reconstructed to resemble that of a mole so that I can transport you and your family to safety far underground.
SH: I never asked you to do that.
GG: Of course not.
Long pause.
GG: Justin Beiber's saliva in a bottle shaped like the Canadian flag?
Long pause.
GG: A glow-in-the-dark toque so when she gets up in the middle of the night it'll be easier to find the bathroom?
Long pause.
SH: Every year on our anniversary I get Laureen a portrait of me. Same pose. Same suit. Different tie. She always says, "Another portrait? Just what I need." Girls like portraits. Lets get her a portrait.
GG: That's an excellent idea. Of you?
SH: Make it the Queen. It'll be more of a surprise.
GG: Might I say, the Canadian people just don't understand the gift they've been given with you as their Prime Minister.
SH: I despise the Canadian people. Yet I love them. Can something so wrong be so right? I can answer that question but I prefer not to at this time.
Polk didn't believe a word. A glow-in-the-dark toque wouldn't emit enough light to illuminate the Queen's path to the bathroom. He tried it. He then reminded me of my outstanding invoice and hung up.
I made a coffee.
Polk wanted to know how the decision to give the Queen a portrait of the Queen came about. I told him it probably went something like this:
Governor-General on the phone with the Royal Secretary in Buckingham Palace: Okay, so here's what Canada's thinking...
RS: Not a hockey stick.
GG, Really? C'mon. Really?
RS: Really.
GG: It's signed by Tie Domi.
RS: I will hang up now. Please wait for Cedric to come on the line and give you the Royal Click.
Cedric: Click. I say.
***************
GG calls Prime Minister Stephen Harper.
GG: Hockey stick's a no-go.
SH: It's signed by Tie Domi.
GG: I've got it! A human hair from every Canadian sewn together in the form of a Canadian flag.
SH: Remind me of why I appointed you Governor-General.
GG: In the event of an alien attack I was the only one to agree to have my head and arms surgically reconstructed to resemble that of a mole so that I can transport you and your family to safety far underground.
SH: I never asked you to do that.
GG: Of course not.
Long pause.
GG: Justin Beiber's saliva in a bottle shaped like the Canadian flag?
Long pause.
GG: A glow-in-the-dark toque so when she gets up in the middle of the night it'll be easier to find the bathroom?
Long pause.
SH: Every year on our anniversary I get Laureen a portrait of me. Same pose. Same suit. Different tie. She always says, "Another portrait? Just what I need." Girls like portraits. Lets get her a portrait.
GG: That's an excellent idea. Of you?
SH: Make it the Queen. It'll be more of a surprise.
GG: Might I say, the Canadian people just don't understand the gift they've been given with you as their Prime Minister.
SH: I despise the Canadian people. Yet I love them. Can something so wrong be so right? I can answer that question but I prefer not to at this time.
*************
Polk didn't believe a word. A glow-in-the-dark toque wouldn't emit enough light to illuminate the Queen's path to the bathroom. He tried it. He then reminded me of my outstanding invoice and hung up.
I made a coffee.
THE BALLOON
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.
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
MEET KYLE PART 2
Kyle called me back. He needs to explain. After all, he threatened the testicles of a guy in Florida. (see below Meet Kyle I)
"Kyle..."
"Sorry 'bout the other day, man. The whole freak out. It was like I mixed brown acid with battery acid and chased it with the diarrhea from the E-Trade baby."
"Exactly what I was thinking."
"Really?!"
"No..."
"Oh...so, what got me all Hulk-like the other day was a thing I read on the web. An 83 year old semi-retired doctor in Florida claims he discovered the G spot from rooting around in a cadaver in Poland."
"Did he first have to buy the cadaver dinner?"
"This is serious, man. My reputation is at stake here."
"Your reputation... you mean for training dogs to bark the alphabet? For emptying grocery stores by yelling "Rat!"? Which reputation exactly?"
"What's my nickname?"
"G."
"Where do you think that came from?"
"Your last name...Gee. Kyle Gee."
"Think again."
"I've thought enough already."
"I got the nickname because I'm the first to find the G-Spot."
"You and every other guy on the planet except for maybe Rick Santorum."
"No really. But not only the G-Spot. If Magellan and Vasco Di Gama combined their sperm with Sir Edmund Hillary and Waldo and that cocktail was in vitro-fertilized with Amelia Earheart,- she's alive, man everybody knows that... she's in Australia chillin' with that tall bald headed dude from Midnight Oil. A fact's a fact - nine months later she'd give birth to me. I am the original sexplorer. I have mapped the female sexual landscape and can give tours just not in any vehicle that has air-conditioning because it messes with my sinuses. So, you ready to hear how it all started?"
Kyle's on a roll. You probably have things to do. He doesn't which is why he'll go on for another hour. I'm putting the phone down. I have to pick up groceries, do laundry, figure out if the Higgs Boson particle exists. He'll still be talking. But then he wouldn't be Kyle if he stopped.
"Kyle..."
"Sorry 'bout the other day, man. The whole freak out. It was like I mixed brown acid with battery acid and chased it with the diarrhea from the E-Trade baby."
"Exactly what I was thinking."
"Really?!"
"No..."
"Oh...so, what got me all Hulk-like the other day was a thing I read on the web. An 83 year old semi-retired doctor in Florida claims he discovered the G spot from rooting around in a cadaver in Poland."
"Did he first have to buy the cadaver dinner?"
"This is serious, man. My reputation is at stake here."
"Your reputation... you mean for training dogs to bark the alphabet? For emptying grocery stores by yelling "Rat!"? Which reputation exactly?"
"What's my nickname?"
"G."
"Where do you think that came from?"
"Your last name...Gee. Kyle Gee."
"Think again."
"I've thought enough already."
"I got the nickname because I'm the first to find the G-Spot."
"You and every other guy on the planet except for maybe Rick Santorum."
"No really. But not only the G-Spot. If Magellan and Vasco Di Gama combined their sperm with Sir Edmund Hillary and Waldo and that cocktail was in vitro-fertilized with Amelia Earheart,- she's alive, man everybody knows that... she's in Australia chillin' with that tall bald headed dude from Midnight Oil. A fact's a fact - nine months later she'd give birth to me. I am the original sexplorer. I have mapped the female sexual landscape and can give tours just not in any vehicle that has air-conditioning because it messes with my sinuses. So, you ready to hear how it all started?"
Kyle's on a roll. You probably have things to do. He doesn't which is why he'll go on for another hour. I'm putting the phone down. I have to pick up groceries, do laundry, figure out if the Higgs Boson particle exists. He'll still be talking. But then he wouldn't be Kyle if he stopped.
MEET KYLE PART 1
I received a call from my friend Kyle and he wasn't happy. In fact, he was incensed and very close to being inflamed. You don't want to be around Kyle when he's inflamed - you can get burnt. He carries matches for such occasions and will take one out, strike it up and find a patch of skin on your body. Kyle believes in sharing his inflammation. It explains why his friends wear long sleeves in his presence...long sleeves covered in fire retardant. Kyle's not invited to many formal occasions.
"Kyle, can this wait? I'm packing a lunch. It's gonna be a long therapy session."
But it couldn't wait. Nothing can ever wait with Kyle. The man goes through life like a snowplow without brakes. Not with broken brakes. Without brakes. It's like Kyle came from a factory that produced snowplows without brakes. We can only hope Kyle was the last one on the line.
"What's going on?"
"The G spot," he says.
"Sure," I say.
"Dude in Florida lies, man. He lies through his balls which, if I ever meet him, I will cut off and make into a puppet...a Fidel Castro puppet...so that every Cuban in Miami can whack them with their shoes."
Kyle was more incoherent than normal. Whatever had him by the short hairs...was pulling.
"A plane ticket to Florida...what'll that set me back? Forget it. Flying crushes my self-esteem. Just a sec. I have to go masturbate."
"Thank you for that, Kyle." And he hung up. But I knew he'd be back. Like teal.
"Kyle, can this wait? I'm packing a lunch. It's gonna be a long therapy session."
But it couldn't wait. Nothing can ever wait with Kyle. The man goes through life like a snowplow without brakes. Not with broken brakes. Without brakes. It's like Kyle came from a factory that produced snowplows without brakes. We can only hope Kyle was the last one on the line.
"What's going on?"
"The G spot," he says.
"Sure," I say.
"Dude in Florida lies, man. He lies through his balls which, if I ever meet him, I will cut off and make into a puppet...a Fidel Castro puppet...so that every Cuban in Miami can whack them with their shoes."
Kyle was more incoherent than normal. Whatever had him by the short hairs...was pulling.
"A plane ticket to Florida...what'll that set me back? Forget it. Flying crushes my self-esteem. Just a sec. I have to go masturbate."
"Thank you for that, Kyle." And he hung up. But I knew he'd be back. Like teal.
THE FRYCROFT STREET OPERATION
"Who collects traffic signs?" I ask.
"Obviously, an individual who covets order in order to compensate for the disorder that roils in his subconscious."
"That was a rhetorical question."
"A rhetorical question masks a kind of neediness for acceptance."
I turn to my friend End World Poverty (his real name is Lloyd Mandelbaum...long story). "Did you really have to bring your kid? It's 2 in the morning. He should be in bed counting sheep."
"Counting sheep is for sheep," Seth says "You are a very damaged human being."
"Yeah, well, at least I've gone through puberty."
"You just proved my point with that insipid attempt at an insult," he says.
"Stop." End World Poverty says. "We need to focus."
Seth and I exchange a glance, like Churchill and Stalin must've given each other at the end of the Yalta Conference.
The moon is like a hanging lightbulb. I can see my breath. If it could see me it would probably question what I was doing in the middle of the night crouched behind a row of bushes lining Frycroft St.. And I would answer we're about to snatch a stop sign so I can give it to Polk, my accountant, to make up for hurting his feelings on Valentine's Day when I rejected his gift of flowers which weren't meant for me anyway so I can regain access to the sample trays of cheese at Whole Foods.
"This should go down with the effectiveness of a polio vaccine." End World Poverty says. "I loosened the sign this afternoon by running into it a few times with my Beemer. Do you realize women in Germany earn 23% less than men?" End says.
"No," I say.
"Each time I rammed the sign and dented the car I felt like I was striking a blow for women's rights."
I hesitated before responding because, well, because, that is the kind of statement on which one hesitates before responding.
"Way to go, Dad!" Seth says.
"If I can speak for German women in Germany, thank you....now...lets grab the sign and get out of here."
End World Poverty suggests Seth work lookout while he and I lift the sign out of the ground and carry it to the car which was parked around the corner. I'm in agreement. The plan is simple yet not so simple it would be held back a grade.
Just as we're about to launch the operation...
"Psssst!" Seth points at the road in front of us. A police car is rolling to a stop, near the stop sign.
This is not good.
Seconds later, another police car arrives and stops fifty yards away. Followed by another. Followed by a large armoured vehicle. Men in uniforms with lots of weaponry pile out of that one and move like...malaria.. toward the house beside the house whose bushes we are using as our base of operations.
End World Poverty wants to abandon the endeavour. We've made our point; we've struck a blow for women's rights in Germany. We can leave. No, I say, we haven't made our point because if we leave now without the traffic sign then I won't regain my free cheese sample rights at Whole Foods.
"Is that what this is about? Free food samples at Whole Foods?!"
I neglected to bring this up when recruiting End World Poverty. "Are you aware of the number of children in the world who go to bed hungry because they haven't had a meal that day! And you want to involve me in your acquisition of free samples at Whole Foods!"
"If you had the free cheese samples at Whole Foods you'd understand. Listen, how about this, you help me with the sign, when I regain my access to the free samples I'll donate a mutually agreeable percentage of samples to a country of your choice. I'll even cover postage up to 10 bucks." Richard Holbrooke, when he was alive, could not have done better.
"I can't do this. Sorry. Seth, we're going. Seth!" We look around but Seth is no longer amongst us. He's amongst the lone policeman having a smoke beside his police car. And they're having an intense conversation.
"What's he doing?"
"Probably ratting me out," I say.
"That's not Seth. But you deserve it."
"He's getting into the police car. They're driving away. Anything happens to him..."
After about a minute End's phone beeps. "It's a text from Seth... Hey Dad, I'm okay. Told the cop I suffer from a severe case of somnambulism. Asked if he could drive me home. Sign's free. Lates. love, Seth. "
End World Poverty grins at me wide. Real wide.
It isn't a moment I will pack in my personal time capsule. It's more like a moment I will wrap in a linen napkin and take to my therapist's office where I will serve it up. We snatch the sign and drive off.
The next day I present the stop sign to Polk, my accountant, who is surprised and pleased. That afternoon I regain my free sample rights at Whole Foods. But when I bite into my first cheese sample in days - a suberb grana padano - it just doesn't taste the same....maybe the episode has changed me...and then one of the staff comes over and replaces the tray. "Rancid, sorry." And then again maybe I've changed the episode.
"Obviously, an individual who covets order in order to compensate for the disorder that roils in his subconscious."
"That was a rhetorical question."
"A rhetorical question masks a kind of neediness for acceptance."
I turn to my friend End World Poverty (his real name is Lloyd Mandelbaum...long story). "Did you really have to bring your kid? It's 2 in the morning. He should be in bed counting sheep."
"Counting sheep is for sheep," Seth says "You are a very damaged human being."
"Yeah, well, at least I've gone through puberty."
"You just proved my point with that insipid attempt at an insult," he says.
"Stop." End World Poverty says. "We need to focus."
Seth and I exchange a glance, like Churchill and Stalin must've given each other at the end of the Yalta Conference.
The moon is like a hanging lightbulb. I can see my breath. If it could see me it would probably question what I was doing in the middle of the night crouched behind a row of bushes lining Frycroft St.. And I would answer we're about to snatch a stop sign so I can give it to Polk, my accountant, to make up for hurting his feelings on Valentine's Day when I rejected his gift of flowers which weren't meant for me anyway so I can regain access to the sample trays of cheese at Whole Foods.
"This should go down with the effectiveness of a polio vaccine." End World Poverty says. "I loosened the sign this afternoon by running into it a few times with my Beemer. Do you realize women in Germany earn 23% less than men?" End says.
"No," I say.
"Each time I rammed the sign and dented the car I felt like I was striking a blow for women's rights."
I hesitated before responding because, well, because, that is the kind of statement on which one hesitates before responding.
"Way to go, Dad!" Seth says.
"If I can speak for German women in Germany, thank you....now...lets grab the sign and get out of here."
End World Poverty suggests Seth work lookout while he and I lift the sign out of the ground and carry it to the car which was parked around the corner. I'm in agreement. The plan is simple yet not so simple it would be held back a grade.
Just as we're about to launch the operation...
"Psssst!" Seth points at the road in front of us. A police car is rolling to a stop, near the stop sign.
This is not good.
Seconds later, another police car arrives and stops fifty yards away. Followed by another. Followed by a large armoured vehicle. Men in uniforms with lots of weaponry pile out of that one and move like...malaria.. toward the house beside the house whose bushes we are using as our base of operations.
End World Poverty wants to abandon the endeavour. We've made our point; we've struck a blow for women's rights in Germany. We can leave. No, I say, we haven't made our point because if we leave now without the traffic sign then I won't regain my free cheese sample rights at Whole Foods.
"Is that what this is about? Free food samples at Whole Foods?!"
I neglected to bring this up when recruiting End World Poverty. "Are you aware of the number of children in the world who go to bed hungry because they haven't had a meal that day! And you want to involve me in your acquisition of free samples at Whole Foods!"
"If you had the free cheese samples at Whole Foods you'd understand. Listen, how about this, you help me with the sign, when I regain my access to the free samples I'll donate a mutually agreeable percentage of samples to a country of your choice. I'll even cover postage up to 10 bucks." Richard Holbrooke, when he was alive, could not have done better.
"I can't do this. Sorry. Seth, we're going. Seth!" We look around but Seth is no longer amongst us. He's amongst the lone policeman having a smoke beside his police car. And they're having an intense conversation.
"What's he doing?"
"Probably ratting me out," I say.
"That's not Seth. But you deserve it."
"He's getting into the police car. They're driving away. Anything happens to him..."
After about a minute End's phone beeps. "It's a text from Seth... Hey Dad, I'm okay. Told the cop I suffer from a severe case of somnambulism. Asked if he could drive me home. Sign's free. Lates. love, Seth. "
End World Poverty grins at me wide. Real wide.
It isn't a moment I will pack in my personal time capsule. It's more like a moment I will wrap in a linen napkin and take to my therapist's office where I will serve it up. We snatch the sign and drive off.
The next day I present the stop sign to Polk, my accountant, who is surprised and pleased. That afternoon I regain my free sample rights at Whole Foods. But when I bite into my first cheese sample in days - a suberb grana padano - it just doesn't taste the same....maybe the episode has changed me...and then one of the staff comes over and replaces the tray. "Rancid, sorry." And then again maybe I've changed the episode.
NEVERENDING POLK
It's early in the morning and my feet are on the threshold between the real world and Whole Foods. There's only one reason to have one's feet on the threshold between the real world and Whole Foods early in the morning: free samples.
Fresh. Free samples. Violet believes I'm betraying nine o'clock for eight-thirty. I have loyalty issues. This will cause her to re-think our friendship. It's very simple I tell her. I go early because by mid-morning the samples turn post-apocalyptic - ashen and covered in debris from customer's pockets. But Violet won't let the loyalty issue go. "Loyalty is a feature in a boy's character that inspires boundless hope," she says. "Sir Robert Baden-Powell." I remind her Sir Robert Baden-Powell thought Mein Kampf was "a wonderful book with good ideas on education and health..." She reminds me he wrote a book called Pigsticking or Hoghunting that did to pigsticking and hoghunting what Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra did to university students getting into the pants of other university students. Powerful counter.
The cheese section today features a tv table full of Grana Padano cubes. Grana. Padano. The only cheese I would run onto a busy street for if, say, the package of cheese fell out of my bag onto the sidewalk and was knocked into the middle of the road by an elderly person, say Esther Rydell, in an electric wheelchair playing sidewalk polo with another elderly person, her crush, Frank Grabinsky. Grana Padano weakens my knees like no hot ex-girlfriend who brutally dumped me but calls 5 years later and offers a half-hour session of redemption sex.
So I reach for my first sample of the day - I never forget my first sample and take pictures on occasion - when an employee steps in front. Name tag reads Mark. I'm familiar with Mark. We're not store friends, more like store acquaintances. But I've heard good things. "You're cut off," he says.
"I'm what?" I say.
"You're cut off, sorry," he says. I was cut off from eating more cheese even though I hadn't had a piece. I thought this particularly cruel given their awareness of my predilection for Grana Padano.
I am. Unhappy.
"How can you cut me off? I haven't had even a piece so it's not like I'm toasted with cheese. I'm not hand checking other people for a sample, or picking up samples without a toothpick. You can't do this. I'm one of your best free sample customers. I always put the used toothpick in the used toothpick cup. And didn't I, two weeks ago, didn't I save the table of samples when that guy fell over from a heart attack? Everybody knows I respect the free sample, I would never do anything to harm the institution of the free sample. I'm a model free sampler. I don't understand?!"
Mark is unmoved. He points at me with an arthritic index finger like the Grim Reaper. "Make it right with Polk. He's our friend." I hear murmurs of agreement, look around and see other staff nodding. I feel like I'm in a Stephen King novel. "Make it right with Polk."
Polk.
Polk is my accountant and has been my accountant through many tax years. On Valentines Day I hurt his feelings. (see below Valentine's Day Polk). Apologize. I need to apologize. This is what I need to do. "I'll apologize. That's what I need to do." I say. "You need to get him a gift," Violet says. We are in front of Holt Renfrew guessing which of the outbound customers have belly rings.
"That seems excessive."
She tells me the gift backs up the apology. The gift is the apology's muscle. "How about a gift certificate to The Bay?" Violet shoots me a look. "But I know nothing about the man. He does my taxes." Violet tells me he's a collector. "Good. I'll get one of whatever he collects. What does he collect?"
"Traffic signs. All will be right if you get him a traffic sign."
"Isn't it illegal to snatch traffic signs?"
Violet grins.
Fresh. Free samples. Violet believes I'm betraying nine o'clock for eight-thirty. I have loyalty issues. This will cause her to re-think our friendship. It's very simple I tell her. I go early because by mid-morning the samples turn post-apocalyptic - ashen and covered in debris from customer's pockets. But Violet won't let the loyalty issue go. "Loyalty is a feature in a boy's character that inspires boundless hope," she says. "Sir Robert Baden-Powell." I remind her Sir Robert Baden-Powell thought Mein Kampf was "a wonderful book with good ideas on education and health..." She reminds me he wrote a book called Pigsticking or Hoghunting that did to pigsticking and hoghunting what Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra did to university students getting into the pants of other university students. Powerful counter.
The cheese section today features a tv table full of Grana Padano cubes. Grana. Padano. The only cheese I would run onto a busy street for if, say, the package of cheese fell out of my bag onto the sidewalk and was knocked into the middle of the road by an elderly person, say Esther Rydell, in an electric wheelchair playing sidewalk polo with another elderly person, her crush, Frank Grabinsky. Grana Padano weakens my knees like no hot ex-girlfriend who brutally dumped me but calls 5 years later and offers a half-hour session of redemption sex.
So I reach for my first sample of the day - I never forget my first sample and take pictures on occasion - when an employee steps in front. Name tag reads Mark. I'm familiar with Mark. We're not store friends, more like store acquaintances. But I've heard good things. "You're cut off," he says.
"I'm what?" I say.
"You're cut off, sorry," he says. I was cut off from eating more cheese even though I hadn't had a piece. I thought this particularly cruel given their awareness of my predilection for Grana Padano.
I am. Unhappy.
"How can you cut me off? I haven't had even a piece so it's not like I'm toasted with cheese. I'm not hand checking other people for a sample, or picking up samples without a toothpick. You can't do this. I'm one of your best free sample customers. I always put the used toothpick in the used toothpick cup. And didn't I, two weeks ago, didn't I save the table of samples when that guy fell over from a heart attack? Everybody knows I respect the free sample, I would never do anything to harm the institution of the free sample. I'm a model free sampler. I don't understand?!"
Mark is unmoved. He points at me with an arthritic index finger like the Grim Reaper. "Make it right with Polk. He's our friend." I hear murmurs of agreement, look around and see other staff nodding. I feel like I'm in a Stephen King novel. "Make it right with Polk."
Polk.
Polk is my accountant and has been my accountant through many tax years. On Valentines Day I hurt his feelings. (see below Valentine's Day Polk). Apologize. I need to apologize. This is what I need to do. "I'll apologize. That's what I need to do." I say. "You need to get him a gift," Violet says. We are in front of Holt Renfrew guessing which of the outbound customers have belly rings.
"That seems excessive."
She tells me the gift backs up the apology. The gift is the apology's muscle. "How about a gift certificate to The Bay?" Violet shoots me a look. "But I know nothing about the man. He does my taxes." Violet tells me he's a collector. "Good. I'll get one of whatever he collects. What does he collect?"
"Traffic signs. All will be right if you get him a traffic sign."
"Isn't it illegal to snatch traffic signs?"
Violet grins.
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