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“Awwww-unhh!! Why not?”

Noah is on the line with me. He called from daycare at the end of his school day.

“I’ll explain when I pick you up in an hour or so.”

“But dad, you could pick me up at Stelios’ house instead.”

“No. Now hang up, Noah. We’ll talk about it when we’re together.”

“It sucks, I really wanted to…”

“Noah! Hang up. See you later.”

I can hear him muttering as the line goes dead. I hate arguments, of any kind, but the one’s with Noah get every scale of my reptilian brain going crazy. I get angry, sad, authoritarian and whiny all at once.

I go all PMS.

I have nothing against Noah’s friend, Stelios: he’s a good kid with a great single mom. But he walks home from school, a long walk. And Noah is never-ever-ever without adult supervision. Particularly walking to somebody’s house that he doesn’t know the way to, without a phone, without a penny in his pocket and without my having had a conversation with the other kid’s mom.

Funny how this subjecthas come up repeatedly over the last little while. A friend, a guy without kids, marveled that I would not leave Noah on his own at home when I went out Friday nights.

“But he’ s just ten….” I protest.

“Exactly, he’s already ten. And he’s mature.”

My friend grew up in a Tunisian village where everybody was constantly aware of everybody else. Hardly our situation in an apartment in a densely populated neighborhood of a big city.

When I finally get to Noah’s school he’s got a dark brooding look. The kind that scales my reptilian scales. I fight my baser instincts and smile at him.

“Hi kid. How was your day?” I sparkle with determined good humor.

He shrugs. “Okay, I guess.”

“Cool.”

We step out in the -20 Celsius winter.

“Dad, can we get a taxi?”

“No.”

“But dad, I’m too cold like to walk all the way home.”

But it wasn’t too cold to walk to your buddy’s house now was it? That’s what goes through my mind and bangs against the inside of my teeth. I tighten my lips to hold back the words.

“Walk quicker, move your arms and breathe through your nose. It’ll help.”

“But, dad…”

“Tsk tsk…. keep your mouth closed, or your teeth will freeze.”

He throws me a suspicious look.

“Seriously, and the cold air goes straight into your lungs without being warmed by your nose… it can hurt your chest so bad that it feels like a heart attack.”

“Really?”

Now he’s interested. Sweet. Something else I learned raising a small kid. Change the subject, show them a shiny new object and suddenly the most important thing in the world is forgotten.

“Yeah, it’s happened to me before in winter. Scary, man. Even when you’re young it freaks you out.”

“Aaaaaarrrrrggghhhh.” He clutches his chest and simulates a cardiac incident.

“That’s pretty much what it looks like.”

Damn it’s cold!

“Dad? About Stelios.”

Here we go again. I restrain the urge to preemptively silence him.

“Yeah, you know…I hate to say this…”

He looks up at me…. I frown down at him.

“… but I know why you said no and like I’m sorry I called you when you were like working.”

I grab his shoulders and give him a quick hug.

“You’re a great kid.”

And mature, too.

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“Yeah, okay, whatever…”.

The teen boy deadpan, years before the time. Noah’s ten, and mostly still sweet, but he’s a teen-dork in waiting.

“Come on Noah we have ribs and chicken and Coca-cola. All wonderfully junky stuff. Let’s dig in.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever…”.

My dear friend and brother-in-creation, Marcel, and his wife are vsiting from Paris. He’s a football fan so we’re all ready to watch the playoffs and load on cheap fatty foods and soda. Party time, right!

“Yeah, okay, whatever…”.

What an endorsement.

And yet, Noah really likes Marcel. Normally, the two chat each other up. The big guy treats the little guy with respect and challenging ideas. The little guy feels big.

But this year…

Noah has acquired the dead fish, limp hair, brain dead attitude that the whole world is expecting of him as a rite of passage.

The TV blares the beginning of the match. We’re all set up on the couches, food and drink and plenty of napkins on small tables before us.

Marcel does a gig, happy to be in North America right at the playoffs. One of the most painful trade-offs of moving to Paris was losing the NFL.

We cheer at kickoff. Even Noah gives it a whoop… self-consciously.

Soon we are full of sticky fingers. Noah stares down a fat, beefy rib, before sinking his teeth into it. He chomps and champs and slurps.

“Good ribs, Noah?”

He nods a wide-eyed endorsement complete with an uplifted, sauce dripping thumb.

Fill his stomach with saucy junk food and the better part of him is exposed. Sure he’s a preteen and soon a teen and probably a semi-obnoxious, totally ignorant and loudly so, young adult.

Still. The seeds of a wonderful man are there to be seen even through the noxious fog of growing up.

“Noah, we have to play a game of chess, before I leave.” My friend , Marcel, points a rib at him.

“Really?”  Noah is surprised.

“Sure, I gotta check how good you’ve become since last year.”

“But you’ll miss the game.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the game and beat you.”

“Naw-hunh… no way.”

Noah licks his fingers and runs to get the chessboard.

Hah! He completely forgot to cover himself in the cloak of indifference exemplified by his habitual…

“Yeah, okay, whatever…”.

Tell you… the seeds of a really good man.

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“Awwwww….”

“What?”

“Awwwwwwww…”

Noah is now ten, since just before Christmas. “I’m double digit now, that’s sick, man.” was his uber-cool comment.

Maybe being double digit explains why, this Monday morning he’s acting like an adult who hates his job.

“Noah, it’s 7:30, gotta get up. First day of school.”

I shook him gently. But he just rolled over and kept snoring. I shook a little less gently. He grumbled.

“Come on kid. I know it’s hard…you’ve had two weeks off.”

“Dad, just two more minutes…”.

“Okay…I’ll get breakfast ready.”

That was 10 minutes ago.

“Noah, move it now.”

“Awwwwwww….”

“What?”

“Awwwwwwww…”

The gentle mommy part that made me wake him with loving caresses and cooing words of reassurance flips to the daddy side. The Hyde to the Jekyll of single parenting.

“Move it now! Or you’ll miss the school bus… and then I’ll kick you all the way to school.”

Awwwwww…. I don’t want to go to school. It sucks…”

I turn on the brutal overhead light.

“Awwwwww… dad! That’s mean.”

“Stay in bed and you’ll see ‘real mean’.”

“Ouuuuuufffffff….”

He stumbles out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom.

Double digits!

I hear him pee. He stumbles out.

“Wash your hands.”

“Daaaaddddd…”. He goes back in. I hear the perfunctory, tip of finger rinse and he comes back out.

“You didn’t feed the cat.”

“Reaaaaalllly?”

“Really!”

He grumbles back into the bathroom.

Double digits!

“And don’t forget her water.”

He gripes but low enough so as not to be understood. Finally he comes out and settles down for milk and muffins. He looks like hell. Dark circles, mussed hair, an expression on his face that reminds me of bad breath.

“Oh god, today is Monday, so I have Miss Tanya and she’s sure to give us homework. Oh god!!”

And we’re not religious.

“Yay! Homework! Finally some brain work!”

He throws me a side look. Knows better than to get into the nasty humorous tit for tat that will lead him to an ignominious defeat at the hands of his more experienced precursor.

Double digits!

“Noah, if you start your day with such anegative attitude, you’re programming a shitty day. Guaranteed.”

He huffs!

I eventually succeed in getting him off to school despite his ill-tempered foot dragging.

At 12:30 precisely my phone rings. It’s the school.

“Noah banged his head, running in the hallway and now he has a bad headache and he says he feels like vomiting.”

Concussion?

They hand him the phone. He’s crying. My mommy side kicks in.

“Noah, Noah….tell me what happened?”

Through his sobs, he tells me that he fell, fainted, found himself sitting in the office…. I know my kid, I can hear that it’s only half true.My daddy side takes over.

“Stop it, Noah. Tell me the truth, focus, it’s important. Otherwise, I run to pick you up and we rush to the hospital.

He sucks up his snots and tells me exactly what happened. Daddy-doctor asks a few more questions, and determines no concussion. Just a double digit kid who screwed himself up by starting the day wrong.

Suffer!

“Noah, relax, take two tylenol’s from the bottle that’s in you bag and the headache will go away in less than an hour. I can’t pick you until after school, so…”

He controls his sobs.

“Okay dad. Dad…I’m sorry I disturbed you but like my head hurts and I know that it’s my fault because I started the day like not happy, but it hurted anyways.”

“I know kid, I know. It’s okay. You’re double digits now, so it gets complicated.”

“I love you dad.”

“I love you, too.”

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Noah lost his soccer pants at practice this week.

I lost my notebook on the set of the new film I’m directing. And I bang into the frames of open doors, trip over laces, fall into the arms of strangers,

We’re both a little out of control…. a little out of breath…

… and excited.

A film I’ve dreamed about for a decade is now incarnating before my very eyes…actors, light, camera, sound and a miracle-working crew.

I kiss Noah goodnight. “I love you, kid.”

Haven’t seen him much lately. I get up real early, get back late.

“I love you, dad. Sogni d’oro.”

Golden dreams, yes.

I smile. He smiles. We are all smiling.

Breathless and happy… and falling in love without object.

Sweet.

(Time and creative constraints make it unlikely that Daddy Knows Less will feature new texts for the next month. Rendez-vous end December.)

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…appropriate

(first published 2011/11/24)

“Today is going to be a good day.”

Despite his scrawny frame and Pokemon pyjama bottoms he has the sculptured seriousness of a Mohawk brave before battle…Today is a good day to die style. Determined, not joyful.

“Yeah, because today I have soccer two times. At lunch recess and after school. So today, dad, don’t come early. Like come as late as you can. I need to score goals.”

“Five o’clock?”

“Later. Because like the game never really ends like you know before, I don’t know, 5:35 or something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He has a half evasive, half smug smile. Something is pushing from inside. Something he would love to say, but is holding back.

“So I pick you up at the gym?”

“Yeah, no, no, I mean …”

Ah ha!

“…around there, because like if the game is over, you know, we play in the halls.”

I know that’s not right.  Hall horseplay at school. I must investigate subtly.

“And the hall monitors let you?”

“THE hall monitor. There’s only ONE, dad.”

Too good. This is fun. I’ve got it figured it out. But I play along.

“And you know who the hall monitor is going to be?”

“Yeah !?!”

Oh, my coy boy!!

“Let me guess, ok, Noah? Let me guess.”

He arches a brow. My look. My comical mirror.

“Let me see.”

I stretch the moment. Rub my chin.

“It …it is going to be…mmm……KEEGAN!!”

A bolt snaps him upright.

“Aye….how did you guess?”

“I can read your mind.”

“Yeah, right.”

I poke him in the belly. He guffaws.

“So you wanna be punished by Keegan for running in the halls?”

“Noooooo…..I wanna kiss.”

“But does she want to kiss you?”

She’s grade six, he’s grade three, different galaxies.

“She let me put my arm around her, last, last… when was the movie day dad, at daycare?”

“Friday.”

“Yeah, she let me and then we ate popcorn.”

“But you know….”

“Yeah, yeah, dad, you told me already. Only if she wants.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Don’t insist.”

“Great,  kid.”

He gets that Indian-brave seriousness again.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Could I like sleep with Keegan?”

Damn, nine years old? He doesn’t even have armpit hair, not to mention pubic pilosity.

“I don’t think so. ”

“Why?”

“Because, she’s almost a teenager and she would probably find it inappropriate. Her parents also.”

“But I love her.”

Shit, this is a minefield.

“I know. One step at a time.  Ask her if she wants to have a play date first. If she says yes, then you can get to know her real personality. Not what you think she might be. And she gets to know you.”

“And if she says no, about the play date I mean.”

“Well, it’ll be disappointing for you. But this way you won’t waste away, pining for her?”

“Pining?”

“When you get all weak because you want something.”

My romantic little man is already questing for love. Genetics! After all, my Mother named me after Rudolph Valentino, the first movie heartthrob.

“Weird word dad.”

Weird state.

“So, not like before 5:36…Ok, dad…so I have time to like you know…”

He gives a sexy little shimmy with the shoulders.

Oh, I know !!

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…and morning follies

(post originally published 2011-11-30)

I’ll keep her name to myself. It’s only fair.

She was not pretty, nor particularly endowed with the attributes that nourish men’s fantasies. But her eyes locked with mine with a necessity that swept away all others.

It was late. I sat at a restaurant counter scratching wild phrases in my habitual notebook. I was in that particular state, a mix of inspiration and posturing… enmeshed in murky emotions, generating words faster than I could scrawl them. But I was also keenly aware of how I projected the image of the romantic writer, the artist tormented by passion.

When I looked up, her eyes were already on me, a mirror of what she needed. I was the rising, gorged tide that would crash her against the reefs of her mundane life.

She asked me if I was writing about her. I said no. But added that maybe tomorrow I would. She smiled. A promise to herself.

Naked, she was beautiful. It is my experience that many women, shorn of the fake skins imposed by civility, achieve a simple beauty.

My bed is tall and wide, with a headboard and a foot board that you can literally hang off of. That night she exploded her world. And mine. She rode me with the desperation of someone who had never traveled.

Her ferocious grasping for pleasure made her truly transcendent. When  she left, at first light, my sheets were soaked and redolent with musk and seaweed. I drifted away in a sleep filled with the gentle lapping of the receding tide.

That was last year.

This morning, I awoke, wrapped in my humid sheets, mummified by terror. I had been dreaming. Noah was alone and crying, rather, sobbing, calling me.

I listened. The house was quiet, except for the blasted cat doing laps in the living room.

5 a.m. Darker than dark.

I rolled counterclockwise to unspool myself from the soaking sheets, redolent with fear. Went to the bathroom, fully erect, but bereft of pleasure. My bladder demanded relief. My erection subsided as my reservoir emptied.

Pitter patter of rabbit feet. Noah is beside me.We grunt amicably at each other.

I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. The cycle of life…drink, piss, drink, piss…

“Hey, dad, I was like having this dream. Yeah, and it was so sweet. I’m going to go to bed like real fast, so I can continue.”

I would so much want to hear his “sweet dream”, as an antidote to my “sour-bitter dream”.

“Quick, before it’s too late.”

A quick chortle and he’s off.

Still dark in my windows. I drink another full glass of water.

Noah’s breathing has achieved that regularity that only a sleeping child possesses.

It should reassure me.

It doesn’t.

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“Wow it’s really not like I expected, dad.”

8:00 a.m. We’re rushing out of the house. We need to be at his school by 8:30 at the latest and there’s no school bus.  Today is what they call a pedagogical day. Teacher’s meet and work but don’t teach. The kids have an activity day.

“Dad, dad, it’s like it was the beginning of summer.”

It is spectacularly sunny and warm. We’re both dressed for what was forecast….cold and cloudy.

“What a fail, huhn dad? Yeah, at school, yesterday, they were all so like ‘dress really warm and with gloves and scarves and toque and winter coat’ Now what?  I’m really hot….”

“Layers, Noah, you are dressed in layers. The old Canadian trick. Take them off when you’re hot, one layer at the time, until you are perfectly comfortable…and put them back on one layer at at time until…

“…you are perfectly comfortable. But, dad? What do I do with the like extra coat and stuff. I mean it’s harsh to have to carry it all in my arms.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out with the help of the daycare ladies.”

I’m trying to keep us moving.

“Come on Noah, we can’t delay.”

If we’re late he misses the transport leaving from school. And we’ll be stuck together all day.

And I have to work. Especially since last night I made a cash withdrawal at an ATM and then proceeded to leave without taking the money. $100 lost by stupidity and a mind more interested in the stories it’s telling itself than the tasks it needs to accomplish.

I’m walking pretty fast. I look over my shoulder to make sure he can keep pace. He’s not there! He often crosses back and forth, so I turn on myself to see if he’s on the other side. Nope.

Then I see him. He’s half a block back, checking his reflection in a store window.

“Noah!”

He looks up, as if coming back from a faraway place. Then he saunters towards me.

Yes, he saunters.

“Noah, we can’t be late. What are you doing?”

“This toque doesn’t look good, dad.”

It’s not his usual, favorite hat.

“It’s perfectly all right. And the only reason you’re wearing that one is that you misplaced your other one.”

“It sucks.”

“It sucks we spent five minutes we could hardly afford, looking for it.”

This morning, I ranted and raved at him for never putting his stuff away in the same place so that it can be found instantly.

I look down at him. He’s four feet so it’s architectural, not contemptuous. He’s walking slowly, trying to adjust his hat by catching fleeting reflections.

“Come on, Noah, move.”

He blows ahead of me, walking so fast he’s almost running.

“Burn!!” He disses me as he shoots forward.

“You gotta keep it up the whole way.” But he’s already out of earshot.

Running a marathon like a sprint. A bad idea. A novice mistake. I keep a steady rapid step. He’s already beginning to slow. A couple of minutes later, I catch up and pass him.

“Come on, marathon man!”

He spins his wheels and takes off again.

“Hahaha…gotcha, dad.”

I keep at my steady pace, like an aborigine walking in the Australian outback.

I catch up at the next corner and pass him again. Now he’s huffing.

“I’m sweating like a fat man, dad.”

“Open your coat, marathon man.”

He stops to unzip.

“No, no, walk and work. You can do both.”

When we reach the school, I glance at my phone….8:27.

“Mission accomplished Noah. We’re exactly on time.”

“I’m dying here, dad.”

His toque is pushed back on his head, his coat is open and twisted around, his cheeks are red with effort. I can’t laugh, it would be cruel. I help him take his coat off, fold it and put it in his backpack. I straighten out the rest of his distressed vestments.

I push him gently up the schools steps.

“Have fun, Noah, be careful. Don’t get bitten at the petting zoo.”

“Thanks dad, I love you.”

He disappears into the building. I walk away. Now it’s my turn

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Having a kid has taken over my days…actually my life.

Add a cat, a Siamese fighting fish and I’m fucked for good.

Rather, less fucked than I used to be. I don’t have the patience or the time or the energy for the ritual dance of seduction required to bed a mate.

And I don’t wash as often as I used to. So….

“Noah, did you just put your dirty underwear back on? After a shower?”

“Oops! Hohoho, dad, that’s so hilarious.”

Or gross.

He comes running out of the bathroom, buck-naked, twirling something over his head.

“Woooooooohooooooouuuuu…”

A war cry. He flings something at me. I duck. His underwear lands on the couch, a few inches from my head.

“Are those the dirty ones?”

“Hahhahahhhahhaahaa….oh yeah.”

I leap (yes yes) off the couch and run at him.

He yelps like a little girl and runs on the spot like a cartoon character before running into his room. His little dick erect, he turns and goes wide eyed as I descend on him. I grab him and bitch slap his butt cheeks.

“Ohhhhhhhhh…..hahahahaha.”

We both break down in wild feral laughter.

He tries to retaliate. I hold him off with one hand.

“Noah you’re a nekked minkey. Hardly a good position to fight from.”

“But I’ll still beat you, dad, oh yeah, Nekked Noah attacks.”

He flails at me while I hold him at arms’ length with one hand on his head.

Little dick flailing! Literally in this case. Big dick holding him off. Male bonding.

“Noah, stop. It always ends up the same way. With you crying like a baby.”

“Arrrrrrrrrgggghhhh.” This enrages him, motivating further vain assaults.

“Noah, you’re going to get hurt. Stop!”

“Oh, no, you can beg for mercy, but I’m gonna getcha dad. Oh yeah.”

He pushes his head against my hand and succeeds in slipping out of my grasp. But the inertia propels him on his bed in an awkward fall, banging his ribs against the hard frame. He turns in utter wide-eyed disbelief. His mouth takes the shape of a drawer.

He starts blubbering.

“Noah are you okay? Where does it hurt?”

He points sobbingly to the red welt on his side.

I hold the little naked kid and touch his side gingerly. Nothing serious.

“You want me to put some ice on it?”

“Noooooo….”

“Damn, Noah, I knew it would end this way…”

“You pushed me.”

“No, no, you pushed aggressively and lost it.”

“That’s not it, dad.” He wipes his snot on my shoulder.

I stare at the mucous streak on my sleeve. This shirt was clean enough to wear tomorrow.

“Really, Noah?”

He chortles. The pain is receding. So I play it.

“Soooo gross, man.”

I raise both arms as if to attack him again.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee…..”. He squeals like a piglet and runs out of the room.

“Get dressed while you’re at it.”

I hear him blowing his nose. Ouf! Unilateral disarmament. Good sign.

“Dad, dad, I like forgot.”

He comes running back in. At least, now, he’s got underwear on.

“Tomorrow is like the deadline for the school fees. Yeah, Miss Tanya told us all to remind our parents. Because like if they don’t have the money they can’t, you know, buy stuff for class.”

Free education, my ass.

“Okay, I’ll write a check.”

“It’s seventy dollars, dad. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, but like if I wasn’t there, you wouldn’t spend it.”

“No, but then who would I … torture.”

On the last word I leap for him. Scoop him up as he actually makes a ‘teeeeheeeee’ laugh. He weighs a mere sixty pounds so it’s like slinging a sandbag.

This kid has taken over my life and my bank account and everything else. And it is so true that I am more often unfucked than I have ever been.

Ever.

Perhaps the more unfucked I become, the more fuckable I will be.

But now I need to focus… he’s trying to bite me, the little dick.

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“This happens so rarely… .”

I’m sitting in the kitchen with my friend and colleague, a Montrealer relocated to Paris, for both love and money. He’s one of the few, outside of my bloodline, who has always believed in me. Because of geography and scarce resources we see each other only a handful of hours a year. He’s of American Indian descent. So when he leaves he disappears in the wilderness of his own life. Hardly the guy you call for chitchat.

So these moments are precious to me. His French wife has taken Noah downtown for a few hours, graciously offering me the rare gift of unbridled conversation with a like minded artist.

Blood and sperm and souls and soles… the conversation is about the small and the unexplainable, the vast and the unknowable. I’m just beginning to feel the voltmeter beginning to lift off the zero mark.

“Dad,dad….”.

I glance at the clock. It’s only been two hours… less, even.

The staircase door blasts open projecting Noah into the kitchen. He’s wide-eyed, cap akimbo, sweater fluttering like a Manga character. He holds up a jewel case.

“Look…”

He comes so close I’m forced to pull back to focus.

“This is what I wanted, like for ever.”

He’s followed close behind by his “date” who shrugs in impotence.

“He wanted to come back right away to show you.”

“Dad, it’s Mario and Luigi, Bowser’s Inside Story. It’s the most awesome Mario game ever and you know what? It’s a discontinued game, so yeah, it’s like so much, I mean it’s like so popular they uhm. uhm, er, er, they redid it, you understand?”

He does an excited up and down up and down, hop and jump and hop. He spins around and hugs his benefactor’s midriff.

“Thank you, thank you.”

“This is my sixth hug,” she says, smiling in absolute pleasure.

“Dad, can I play it, like right away?”

“Sure, kid.”

“Oh yeah!”

He flies out at Mach 3. Then flies back in and charges me.

“Thanks dad. Ohhhhhh, I just can’t tell you how exciting I am. I mean how excited this is. Awwwwwwwww….”

He gives up trying to say anything and takes off again.

She sits down with us.

“Wow, a real tornado. I need a nap.” She has a short, happy laugh.

Noah is back and working his butt onto my lap. His Nintendo DS is on and loading.

“Look dad, you’ll see how aaaaweeeeeessssooommme it is.”

The thing starts blinking, beeping, chirping, flashing. I have no interest in it, except that Noah wants to share.

I’m always there for the sharing bit.

I look up to my friend. The time for sharing my revolt, my pain, my big guy games is over. Tomorrow, he’s gone back to his wilderness for another year.

“Dad, dad…you see Bowser?”

I focus on my Little Big Man’s games.

Later, I make hamburger’s (she’s French so she loves when I’m American like this). fries and chocolate chip cookies. Noah challenges my friend to a game of chess. He’s close to being a chess master… so it’s exciting for Noah. And my friend is a remarkable teacher.

It’s a Mario themed chess game, so Noah has an edge.

Noah scarfs down five warm cookies before I even notice, while holding his own against his opponent. He’s as happy as a kid can be,

Then it’s all over. They’re gone. Noah got hugs and kisses and a promise of chess and other games when they come back.

Now, I can hear him snore. Sounds like he’s smiling. I sneak into his room and peer at him.

Yup. A full smile as he sleeps. The traces of today.

Life is but a game, to be played seriously, for the fun of it.

I guess.

I kiss my boy on the forehead. I’ll try to remember the lesson, Noah.

I promise.