Category Archives: Defeating Destiny

you and me and…

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“… but the amazing thing about that, dad, is that you know Ash, yeah, well he, uhm, goes like from gym to gym to win uh, what do they call them, uh, oh yeah, to win badges yeah, so he battles, you know but to battle he has to capture new Pokémons all the time, you know, so it’s like this, when he wants…”

His unending stream of words floats up to me as we walk side by side on the way home from his school.

“… but the most important, you when he catches a Pokémon is that like the new uh, uh, creature has to want to become a,a, a, friend, or else it cant work, you understand?… yeah, so then…”

I want to tell him to pause, to breathe, but there’s no real point. I know it because that’s exactly what my Father used to say to me. Apparently I was an unending verbal flow. The injunction for air was more of a joke than an actual recommendation. So, as a kid, I just kept talking. Maybe I sensed that the moment I stopped, it would be for a long time.

My Father died this week, eight years ago.

A grade 2 dropout in his native Italy, he was barely literate in the English and French of his adopted Montréal. Yet, he told stories and made mostly salacious jokes in whatever language was needed. I quote him often, or at least that’s what I say. But I’m pretty convinced that many of the pronouncements that I begin with ‘as my Father used to say…” end up in inventions of my own. It would be more accurate to say that it’s in the spirit of my Father.

But, as my Father used to say ” never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

I resemble my Father in many, mostly ineffective ways. But also in some terribly beautiful ways.

I will pursue the idea of woman to the ends of the earth and to exhaustion. Like he did with my Mother. They met during the war, when he was a 19 year old soldier from the North, stationed in her southern Italian village. She was 14. He had a penciled mustache. It was instant love that became marriage and lasted more than sixty years.

But she was not woman, she was a woman. She was very often unhappy… and angry. I think he was very often happy… and angry. They based their lives on a foundational myth, an illusion. A never satisfying proposition.

I’m often angry. And happy and not. And I’ve made my illusions my metier as a filmmaker and writer.

“… and you know what sucks, dad, it’s that when you like …”

I look down at my verbal tsunami machine as he hops and skips and talks and talks. His hands are flying to accentuate his words. His sweet little face is a canvas of fleeting emotions and ideas. He’s a storyteller. And I know he’s happy.

“Breathe, Noah…”.

He stops in  midstep.

“Wha?”

“Stop talking just long enough to breathe.”

He shakes his head. He’s heard it before.

“Dad, if I wasn’t breathing when I talk, I’d be blue and dead, you know. Gotcha, gotcha, oh yeah, oh yeah..” He wets his finger, touches his butt and makes a sizzling sound.

“I’m sooooo hot….”. He laughs and i join in. Then he starts talking again.

“So, like I was saying, the best Pokémon of the new series….”

He starts hopping and skipping as he unpacks the boxes and boxes of ideas in his head. I follow. I wonder if my Father was like that as a kid. Smart, cute, sensitive and brilliantly talented. Until fascism, misery and war stomped on all that.

Talk, Noah, talk until you’re blue in the face and beyond.

I feel a sudden urge to scoop Noah up in my arms and hold him tight like I wish I could hold my Father tight, once more.

hehehehe…schizophrenia

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“You know my friend… Brenda?”  

“Not sure…”

“Yeah you know the one that has poop for brains.”

Now I know who he means. A girl in his grade who is 3-4 years older because she has some intellectual difficulties.

“Noah! Really?”

“What? It’s true.”

“She doesn’t have poop for brains. She has some problems in her behavior, but she’s a nice girl.”

“Yeah, but like you know she gets up in the middle of class and, uhm, starts singing and dancing.”

Happy?

“She’s weird, dad.”

“Don’t you ever feel like doing that in class?”

“Yeah, but I don’t.”

“Well, you’re lucky because you have the switch in your brain that tells you it’s not the right thing to do, or that it’s the wrong time to do it.”

“Hum.”

He looks doubtful. He pauses at the window of a toy story we pass every day on the walk home from his school.

“Dad. Dad. Look. It’s the new Lego characters…you know the Chima that I told you about.”

“Yup. Let’s move Noah. You have homework and I have to make supper.”

“Dad. Can I just go in for a minute.”

“Nope.”

“Awwwww-unh. I promise I won’t ask you to buy anything.”

“It exhausts me to always be shopping for stuff, whether or not we buy it. Fills my head with useless noise.”

He grumbles but follows my irrevocable forward movement.

“Yeah. About Brenda, dad. What I wanted to say was that she got a Chima set.”

“Maybe she’s just saying that.”

“No, no, like she brought it to school. And it’s so cool, dad, you should see it.”

“Lucky kid.”

“Yeah, she has a Grandmother. You know how grandmothers are. They always say yes. Remember dad, Nonna was like that. I miss her.”

My Mother died last year. He has no grandparents left.

“I miss her too.”

We walk in silence for a while. It happens more often lately. He’s ten now.

“Dad?”

“Doe my Mother have like a switch missing? Like Brianna?”

His Mother is schizophrenic and violent. A whole control panel of missing switches.

“You’re Mom has a mental illness, called schizophrenia.”

“That’s why she hated you?”

“Didn’t help that’s for sure.”

Silence. Half a street block later….

“Dad, do I have the schizo…uh, the schizo…”

“Schizophrenia.”

“Yeah, do I have the schizophrenia, because you know how it is with the genetics, you know.”

Yeah, I know. This is a recurring question of his. Heredity is not destiny but…

“Probably not. You have a great family that loves you. Your mother did not. And you’re your own person, you’re not her and you’re not me.”

“Yeah, like I’m really good at music and you suck. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, dad.”

“No, no, it’s true.”

“Dad, was my Mother like, uhm, Brianna at school.”

“No, it’s a whole different set of problems. When I met your mom she was fine.”

“She caught that schizo thing?”

“No, you don’t catch that kind of illness. It just develops in the brain and shows up eventually.”

“So how do you know that I won’t like develop into it, you know?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it’s unlikely. You know anything can happen. You could get hit by an asteroid.”

“Hehehe … imagine! Right here on the street like, boom, I just blow up and leave just like you know a shadow with my arms like this.”

He throws his arms out and freezes with his tongue sticking out.

“You look just like Brenda.”

“Dad!”

He punches me and chuckles.

“Dad, do you have any like switches that don’t work, like in your head?”

“Absolutely. And some that work better than most people’s. I have talents and I have fears and I have loves and I have handicaps. Like everybody.”

“Awwww, I’m starving, what are we eating dad.”

“Brodo (chicken soup) and little toasts with melted cheese.”

“Oh yeah! You make the best brodo, dad, even better than Nonna‘s.”

“That’s one of my talents.”

“Yeah, and cleaning is like one of your handicaps.”

“Oh you little dork.”

“I throw him down on the snowbank and try to bury him.

He squeals happily. I rumble just as happily.

 

Scraped knees and busted routines

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“You mean like I won’t see you on my birthday?”

He goes straight to the most critical issue.

“No, of course I’ll organize your birthday party as I always do.”

“But what if like it’s um, I don’t know a Tuesday and you have to work late?”

“The weekend before or the weekend after, like we always do.”

“Oh… okay, dad.”

A weak little okay. Unconvinced.

I’ve explained to Noah that pretty soon I would be in production, directing my next feature film. It’s been years in the coming and I cannot blow the opportunity. The success or lack thereof of this project will create or destroy the next few years professionally.

“So dad, I don’t understand like if you can’t uhm, pick me up at the end of  school, I mean who is it going to be? And what if like I don’t like them?”

“I’m sure you will.”

“But who is it, dad?”

“I don’t know, kid, I haven’t found anybody yet.”

“What happens if like you don”t?”

“I have no choice, Noah, I have to find someone.”

Though I have no idea who it will be. All my efforts to date have yielded no credible possibility. Tough.

“Why don’t you ask Tantine?”

“Because your Aunt has two kids, a husband, a job and she lives on the other side of the bridge. There’s no way she can pick you up, give you supper, put you to bed and wait for me to finish working.”

“I guess.” A tiny voice.

He’s being reasonable. But it’s costing him. And I haven’t told him about night shoots where someone is going to have to spend the night because I’ll be working till morning.

Single parenthood without a lover to share the obligations really sucks.

“That really sucks, dad.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, like it’s going to be weird to not like, be together when like we always are, you know?”

“It will be. One thing for sure, I’m really going to miss you if I don’t get to see you before you go to bed.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I love the time we spend together.”

“Me too, dad.”

Silence. Easy silence as we both let it sink in.

“Maybe, dad, I can like come to see you work, like, you know, not all the time because you have to like concentrate, but I don’t know Tuesday and Thursdays, something like that.”

“That would be great.”

“This way, dad, I’ll see what it is like when you make movies and maybe you know I can do that when I grow up.”

“Absolutely.”

How positive I’m being. Experience.

I remember when Noah had just learned to walk he would stumble around at great speed. The momentum is what kept him from falling over. When he lost his footing and fell he would always look at me. If I laughed and made a face he would laugh even if it hurt. When I rushed to his aid in fear with a ‘Noah, are you alright?’, he would start crying.

As a general principle, now, I comfort and share and empathize but then I move us forward. No whining!

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember like you told me when, uhm, before I was born, you were in uh, Germany, yeah, Germany and like you would work all night and sleep in the day. Remember?”

Yes, I remember. Sex and scotch and cinema in Berlin. The most surreal, storied moments of my life.

“Yeah, is that going to happen now? I mean, I’m going to be alone at night?”

“Of course not. If it happens that I have to do a night shoot, it’ll only be a few nights and somebody’ll be here.”

“Somebody I know?”

“I don’t know yet. But for sure it’ll be somebody you’ll like and be fine with.”

“But if something happens, what like, do I do?”

“Noah, there will always be a responsible adult to take care of you. Don’t worry.”

“Oh… okay, dad.”

A small, small okay.

Remember!! Laugh and grimace, don’t fall into the apprehension of pain and sadness.

“You’ll see, Noah, It’ll be exciting. We’ll both learn all sorts of stuff and grow.”

“You’ll grow, dad?”

“Everyday.”

“I thought like, old people they like shrunk.” He gives me a crooked smile.

I stick my tongue out at him.

“Oh, gross, dad. Your tongue’s all brown with coffee.”

“Come on Noah, let’s move or else we’ll miss your bus.”

“Sure dad.”

Remarkably, uncharacteristically, he pops up quickly and runs off to his room without a protest. I hear him singing a crazy tune.

Scraped knees and busted routines. No match for these guys.

We’re fearless.

 

 

bite me…

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“Oouufff…I wish there was no school today.”

“Why’s that?”

“No reason.”

It happens.

“It happens, Noah. Sometimes I would prefer not working.”

“Really?”

No kidding.These days I would give it all up. Self-motivating, self-driving, self-mining….self-destruction. Feeling empty and when I try to generate something it’s only noise, dissonance, pain.

“I thought dad, that you like loved your work and that you even told me, remember, that you would do it for free. Remember?”

“Sure.”

I do it for free more often than I do it for payment. Artist’s lot.

“Does that mean dad, that like you don’t love your job anymore?”

Damn kid. How’s this become about my existential woes? I was just trying to empathize with him, to motivate him to go to school.

“No, no. It’s just some days are tougher than others.”

He nods and takes a sip of his milk. Old, wise nine year old.

“I know what you mean. But you know dad, sometimes it’s like ‘oh no, I’m so tired’ or or uhm, ‘oh, I’m so disappointed’ like when I didn’t get the part of Berlioz in the school play you know? Yeah, so it, eh, eh, eh, means that you need a vacation or a massage.”

Or a wild pornographic night of dancing and no thinking, channeling Lou Reed and Britney Spears and calling out the moose for a mating ritual.

“Yeah, you’re right kid.”

“Dad, why don’t you do something you really like, like I don’t know buy a book or or I don’t a new record of really good music.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, I might just do that.”

He ‘shot glasses’ the remaining milk and slams down the glass with a smack and an ‘ah’. A Western saloon scene. He jumps up, stretches sonorously and races off to his room.

I still have a few minutes before I need to get up and be useful. Let’s see….

…his lunch is all planned out. I just need to assemble it. The myriad permission slips are all signed and in his bag, The Pizza Day form for the next three months is filled out and the $70 payment in a sealed envelope. The field trip authorization is completed along with the $20. The supply list is completed. Homework was done and cross-checked and tested last night.

All’s done. Ouf! I should feel satisfied. I don’t.

I feel like a worn pair of pants… was great new, was even better slightly used, grew to glory with one or two holes and patches…but now, the crotch has fallen apart and there’s nothing to save it.

I push myself up remembering to engage the deep abdominals. No time for a back ache.

Noah comes rushing in. He’s dressed, ready for school.

“Wow, Noah. Great job. You’re all set to go.”

“Fast, huhn? I just need to brush my teeth, but like I was waiting so we do it together.”

“Sure. I’ll get your lunch together, get dressed and whammo! we’re ready.”

“Dad!?! Could you, like, close your eyes?”

“We don’t have that much time, Noah.”

“Just for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Great, dad. Now stick out your hand.”

“You’re not going to do anything gross, are you? I have no time for gross.”

“No, no, I promise.”

Eyes closed, hand out, I wait. I hear him rustling, breathing heavily like when he’s concentrating. Something is pushed into my palm. His little fingers grab my hand and close it over the object.

I open my eyes.

A twenty dollar bill is crumpled in my hand. I look at him.

“Dad, it’s so you can buy something that will make you happy today. Like music you want or something like that, you know?”

“Wow! This is a lot of money, Noah.”

“It’s okay, dad. I got more.”

He pats my arm, reassuringly.

“Promise me, that like, you won’t spend it in on me. I want you to be, uhm, selfish, dad. You know not nasty like, but buy something for YOU, you know.”

“I’ll wait till you’re with me, so we can enjoy the purchase. Okay?”

“Sure. But, uh, you have to do it. Okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Now I have the responsibility to please myself. No getting away from it. Having a kid is good for your health.

Dammit!

fruits, nipples and republicans

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“I hate this sweater.”

“It’s a great looking sweater, Noah.”

“It’s too big, makes me look fat.”

“Geez, if you’re fat, I’m a fairy with wings and a wand.”

He starts taking the sweater off. We’re already late for the school bus and risk missing it.

“If we miss the bus, boy, you will suffer the torments of hell for eons to come.”

“It’s not even cold outside.”

“It’s nipple stiffening cold.”

“Gross dad.”

He huffs and twists in frustration but keeps the damn thing on. It’s a really nice sweater, cool, with hoodie and big pockets.

“It has no zipper. That’s one of the things I hate.”

Of course.

“So wear your brand new blue sweater.”

He scowls.

“Oh right, you lost that one in a record three days. So wear the old red one, why don’t you?”

“I didn’t lose that one. I know exactly where it is.”

“Is it in the house?”

“No, I left it in the music room at school.”

“So can you wear it this morning?”

He doesn’t answer the question, like a nasty politician.

“Dad, I still hate this…”

“Stop. If I were you I would be thankful I’m not freezing this morning despite having lost or misplaced the two sweaters I normally wear. I would hold my peace knowing  that I screwed up but somebody else is fixing it. You sound like the bloody Republicans. Take responsibility and work with me. Dammit.”

The Republican jab is sure to rile him. He thinks they’re all dumb or nasty or both.

“Geez, dad, take it easy.”

I should just have let him suffer the cold wind, let his sensitive little nipples stiffen so hard they would scratch up against his shirt and drive him to distraction. Happened to me in high-school when I sneaked out in my older brother’s new jean shirt. By midday, I was so raw I  cried, literally.

The price of my arrogance.

“Dad?”

“No.”

“Wha…? you don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I’m just being uncooperative, For no reason.”

He shakes his head and walks quickly ahead of me. At least, we won’t miss the bus.

I spent over an hour the previous afternoon talking him up with his new teachers. How he was brilliant and moral and fun and full of talents.

All true.

But I also worked with them to understand how to circumvent his self-defeating extremism, his arbitrary barricades, his wrong-headed stubbornness.

Flashback over flashback tells me that he’s a sweet fruit that fell close to the family tree.

I saw one of his teacher’s tear-up in the discussion, yesterday. Not at the obvious moment when I was describing how he had to live his Mother’s insanity with it’s predictable violence, both physical (to me) and psychological (to us both).

No. Her eyes became shiny and moist when I stuck out my clenched fist and  opened it slowly to demonstrate how I wanted to release his tense fearful energy so that he felt safe enough to just be open.

My only objective was to help him learn happiness.

He turns back to look at me over his shoulder. I stick my tongue out, but with a smile. He does the same.

And he chortles.

Yeah, we’re a team. And, yeah, he’ll be all right. Perhaps, he might even go through life without ever suffering from raw nipples.

Now that’s progress.

 

 

phoenix jr. …

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A power outage hit the neighborhood, late Friday afternoon. Just as school was ending. I decided to go get Noah quickly rather than leave him at daycare in the dark with nothing to do.

Especially since I was like the Phoenix trying to remember how to gather the ashes for the next resurrection. All week had been a ritual barbecuing of every ambition I was still entertaining…. again. There are weeks, increasingly numerous, where the value of what I do just does not rise to a level that justifies the effort. So, this Friday, there is no point in sitting at the computer screen any longer.

I get to the school and find a way, despite the fact that none of the doorbells are working. It’s all dark inside, with only security lights working, contributing to the weirdness. When I reach the second floor, i see Noah’s characteristic silhouette walking down the hall, away from me.

“Hey, Noah.” He hasn’t heard. Instead he wails and throws his arms up. He’s wracked by sobs.

Surreal.

“Noah, what’s wrong? Noah!”

Finally he turns and sees me. I move quickly to reach him.

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, sending tears flying. Damn abundant waterworks. This is no ordinary physical pain. This is heartache.

I can tell.

“Noah, talk to me.” But I already know what’s going on. I just need the details.

He sobs again. Twists in frustration.

“It’s about the play, right?”

He nods. I pull him into an open empty classroom and sit on a desk to be at his height. He abandons himself into my arms. I let him sob until exhaustion. He catches a breath. I move him back a few inches to see his face.

“They put up the audition results and you didn’t get a part?”

“Nooooo, that’s not it… They gave me the mouse, I hate the mouse….”

So, he got a part in the school musical but not the one he wanted. I can work with that.

“I know you wanted Berlioz, Noah, but at least you got a part.”

Berlioz is one of the three kittens in the Aristocats, which is this year’s production.A nice role. A big role.

You don’t understand, I haaaaattttee the mouse.”

“Why?”

“He talks fast and he sucks, and I don’t like him, and he’s on stage only two times.”

“Who got the role of Berlioz?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s the list?”

“Upstairs.”

“Let’s go look.”

“Whyyyyyy….what difference does it make. I’m Roquefort and I haaaateeee Roquefort.”

The sobbing starts again.

“Stop sobbing, Noah!.”

The tone stops him in mid-blubber.

A moment ago I employed my mommy breasts to comfort him. Now they have dropped down to daddy balls.

“Let’s go look at the list so I can figure out how to help you. Okay?”

He nods and grasps my hand.

“Have you been like this all day, Noah?”

“No, (sniff), they just put it out (re-sniff) after school.”

Cowards! Bad f…ing teachers! Putting it out late Friday so as not to have to deal with the kids’ questions and reactions. Where’s the pedagogy in that?

We reach the list. I look for Berlioz…to be played by…To be determined.

“Ah-hah!”

“What?”

Noah wipes a snot trail on the sleeve of his t-shirt. The daddy in me fights the mommy in me, worried about the wash.

“Berlioz has not been cast yet.”

“So….?”

“So, that means Mr. François didn’t think any of you was strong enough for that role….yet. It’s the first time since kindergarten that you try out for a lead. And you get a lead. Maybe Mr. François wants to check out your effort before he gives you a bigger role like Berlioz. ”

“Who cares, I’m the damn mouse. I haaaatttte the damn mouse.”

The wailing is about to start again.

“Can I help?” A middle-aged woman I’ve never seen comes out of an office.

“Oh, it’s you Noah!”

A she approaches, she sees his red eyes, stained shirt front and blubbering lower lip.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Honey?

She leans down to him. He makes an effort to control his snots and sobs.

“I don’t want to be Roquefort.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh!”

She stands up and tenders her hand to me. “You must be Noah’s dad. I’m Tanya, his new homeroom teacher.”

We exchange tepid physical contact and tense smiles. She turns back to my boy.

“Who would have liked to be, Noah?”

“Berlioz, I reaaaallly wanted Berlioz.”

She checks the list.

“Look Noah, Berlioz isn’t cast yet. That probably means Mr. François wants to wait and see which of you guys can do the job. Because Berlioz is a big role.”

Noah sucks up a snot. Throws me a look. I nod in a silent, ‘you see!’.

She crouches down to be at his height. I like that.

“Look, I’m on the play committee with Mr. François and Miss Anna. Now I know what you would like, So don’t worry, we’ll see what we can do. Okay?”

He nods.

“Noah?”

A new voice from the end of the darkened corridor. I look up. A really cute 20 something is coming towards us.

“Hi, I’m Miss Anna.” Another tepid handshake. I think it’s part of the teacher’s professional distance with parents. But, damn! This one I would French, full wagging tongue probing whatever orifice, she…..

STOP! FOCUS!

She did say she was Miss Anna, the third member of the play committee.

“Noah, why so sad?” She too leans down to his height. I fight to not stare at her abundant, ready to enjoy, satin smooth breasts.

Okay, I am looking.

The two teachers share information. Mumble to each other and then turn to Noah. Damn, he’s surrounded by all this care.

Lucky kid!

“Rehearsals start next week, Noah, so we’ll have time to talk about all this. But we both Noah how you feel. Don’t worry.”

“And as a director, Noah, I’ll help you practice whatever role you get. If you finally do get Berlioz, I’ll make sure you’re the best there’s ever been.”

The two ladies make approving sounds. I know they will tell Mr. François. They give Noah a quick hug. Yes, yes, I look at the crushed breasts and envy the little dork.

Just then, the power comes back and the hallway explodes in bright light.

Cinematographic.

Minutes later, on the sidewalk, Noah holds my hand tightly.

“What are we eating tonight, dad? I’m starved.”

“Sushi?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Oh yeaaaahhhh!”

Phoenix Jr. has risen again. Now, if only I could get my own Ash moving.

 

 

 

Monster management

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“What are you doing up, dad?”

He squints at me through barely open eyes. His whole body is striated with long, slashing red welts, transfer marks from his deep abandon to his sheets and pillow. He looks like he’s been marked up by a butcher. Here is the tenderloin, there is the filet-mignon…

“We need to get to your day camp an hour earlier, remember?”

He’s horrified.

‘What for?”

It is six in the morning, so I know about liquefied brains.

“Noah,  you’re going to the Super Splash Aqua Club today.”

He nods. “Oh, and it’s called Aqua Splash not, not, well whatever you said.” He disappears into the bathroom.

He can’t remember why he’s up, but he certainly remembers to correct me. What is it with kids. They invariably turn into the most supercilious, punctilious reproachful monsters. Surfing on the wave of their parents’ tsunami efforts to raise them, they just gratuitously treat them like flotsam. And then they go, “whaaa, what did I say, what did I do?” when you point it out to them.

I hear a  healthy stream of pee strike the toilet. Perhaps an empty bladder will free his better instincts. Of course, I don’t hear him feeding the cat. Though it’s his job, I say nothing.

I hope to get through the morning without dissonance.

He shuffles into the room and drops onto the futon. Before he even lands his hand is groping for the TV remote. Brainless but media coordinated. He sinks into the cushions, the TV snaps on with a roar and Noah expels irritable exhaustion.

“Oh my god!”

I smile, rub his back gently, like a mom would (oh yeah, I do that).

“Tired Noah?”

“No.” Despite lying down he succeeds in shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

I sip my coffee and resist the urge to strangle him. The TV hollers even louder as it switches to commercials. An advertisement for super plush slippers that bark or wink or squeak when you walk.

Slay me!

I throw significant looks at Noah. He knows to mute the bloody commercials. Yet he plays dumb. The TV barks and little girls giggle in rehearsed pleasure at the wonder of plush.

I could tell him, again, but then he would mute in super slow motion to antagonize me. I know it. I could just turn off the damn set and throw Mozart on the sound system. Apparently it makes kids smarter.

But, conflict management, imposing discipline and respect requires more energy than I’ve got. So I get up and head out of the room.

Noah raises up on an elbow.

“Where are you going?”

None of your f….ing business. He sounds like my Mother at her worst.

Can’t hear you. The TV is too f…ing loud. No, I don’t say any of that. I stay on the reservation

“Gotta go make your lunch. We need to be out the door at 7.”

He glances at his watch. Now he’s going to crunch the numbers to probably tell me that I calculated the departure time all wrong. I rush to the kitchen.

Fry a little steak to slap between two slices of bread. Rummage for fruit and veggies in the fridge.

“Dad?”

He starts talking at me from the other room. Loudly, to be heard over the blaring TV,

But I’ve got a strategy. I turn on the water.

“Can’t hear you, Noah. Cooking food for you.”

I’m counting on him being too fat-assed today to get up and come to the kitchen.  Figuratively speaking, given that he has a scrawny butt.

I sizzle, chop, wrap, package, throw in some carrots, cheese sticks, an applesauce squeezable tube and, tadah!, his lunch is ready. And it’s a damn good one…tasty, with all food groups represented.

And my calculation was spot on… fat-ass hasn’t moved, too taken by his slothfulness to even eat the pastry and glass of milk that I left within reach.

“Countdown to take off, Noah. Ten minutes.”

I head to the bathroom to empty what needs to.

“Dad, about the like, time…”

“Sorry, Noah, I’m peeing, I can’t hear you.”

Then I run the water to wash my face, brush my teeth…and to block my son’s long distance assaults.

By the time I re-emerge, he’s up and dressed and, remarkably, he’s finished breakfast.

Even more remarkably he’s silent.

And, most remarkable of all, by far?

I managed the monster on the futon and the monsters in my soul. And none of them ate my day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

love and money

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“Dad, I don’t think I’m going to be independent when I’m like an adult.”

“How so?”

Monday morning starts with a consequential conversation. Luckily, it took him half a carrot muffin and a glass of milk before making such a pronouncement. It allowed me to suck in some caffeine.

“Yeah, you know I think I’m going to get a job, like a real one so that uhm, I mean, because it’s like this, when you’re independent you never like know if you’re going to get paid, like. So, yeah, I think I want a job.”

“Sure, why not?”

Who knows, I might actually succeed in saving myself the conversation about…

“Do you think it’s a good idea, dad?

… damn! No luck! I’m going to have to reason, discuss, navigate the shoals of my career choices and his future…

“It’s a good idea, sure, if it means doing something you love and getting paid for it. Enough to live comfortably.”

“Because, dad, if like you don’t have a real job like you know with an office and a phone and like a boss, I guess, it like means that you don’t have like money every week and sometimes you, like, don’t have enough. But Dad, dad. I’m not saying, you, like you, you (he points to me) but, yeah, like you, meaning, you know… everybody you.”

Sweet kid doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. But there’s no denying that he’s been living my financial struggles for most of his life.

“Being self-employed can certainly be a challenge sometimes. But it’s also a life of luxury,”

“You mean if like you make a lot of money, like if your play in New York, if it really happens?”

“That too. But even without making a lot of money we sometimes have a life of luxury, you and me. If I had a nine to five job. I would be way less available to do stuff with you during the week.”

“But if I was sick, you could take care of me, right?”

“it would probably be tougher. Not every business can afford an employee taking days off because  a kid is sick.”

“That sucks.”

“Sick sucks.”

We both have a synchronized chortle… born of our common affection for alliteration.

“And you know, Noah, I meet people all the time because I’m not in an office. It’s really cool.”

“You mean girls?”

“Not just girls.”

“But mostly girls.”

“True.”

“It’s because you like girls.”

“Yes.”

“Still, dad, you work really hard, I know you do, and you work hard every day. But sometimes, you, uhm, don’t get any money for your work. Right?”

“Right. But that’s okay because eventually I find money that repays all the days that I worked without receiving a salary. But you know, Noah, I would do my job for free, because I love what I do.”

Luckily, since, more often than not, I do work for free and suffer doubt and uncertainty.

“But how do you, like, live with no money?”

“It’s not always easy. But you learn. I mean, have you ever gone hungry?”

“No, but, sometimes I want to buy something and like you say, ‘not now, Noah, don’t have money, Noah’, you know? I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but yeah.”

“It’s true, Noah. But even if I had more money I might say the same.”

“Really? But why?”

“Because the more you spend, the less free you are because money becomes more and more important and then you realize that you’re a prisoner of your flat-screen TV and expensive clothes and cars and vacations. And you have to work harder just to keep up. I prefer being less rich and more free.”

“Sure dad.”

A silence. I sip my coffee. He sips his milk.

“But you know, dad. I think, for me. I’m going to need a lot of money. Because you know how I like to shop. So yeah, when I’m like an adult I’ll get a real job.”

“Sure why not.”

After a mere 3647 days, Noah has perhaps understood where his future lies. Part of it seems to be getting away from where he’s been with me.

Makes sense.

Unless the next 3647 days before he’s officially an adult change everything.

 

Mr. Harper!

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Sitting at my usual table by the window, in my usual café. Takes a while before the morning frenzy with Noah recedes sufficiently to leave room for my mind.

This morning I am obsessed by one thing.

I watch the clouds move across the sky. We went from sunny to cloudy to dark. Will it rain? Will there be a thunderstorm?

It matters because today my boy goes to the La Ronde amusement park with the whole school. He has been planning with the Park’s map, for weeks.

“Dad, do you think I should do the Goliath first or the Monster?”

“Whichever has the shortest line when you get there.”

“I don’t know dad, they’re both like the most popular so, I don’t know.”

“Wait and see.”

“Hmm.”

Waiting is a foreign concept.

“I think I’ll do the Goliath first because now that I’m 54 inches, I can.”

There are lots of things I’ve done for no other reason than I could. Not useful. Not necessary. Not even always pleasurable. But, hey I could, so I did. An odd form of oneupmanship.

Noah practically ran all the way to school. The usual 40 minute walk became a 17 minute sprint. My bloody sternum hurt by the time we jogged up the school steps. A kiss, a wave and he was engulfed by his buddies, all of them firing electrons of excitement like when you touch those big static balls in science museums. The noise level was so high that I could feel the little bones in my inner ear rattling in distress.

So now, I sit in the café wondering whether the whole wonderful escapade is going to be rained out. Worse. If there’s a thunderstorm, they actually shut down the Park.

Of course, there’s nothing I can do about it. Yet, I search the sky, like an ancient mariner hoping for signs that will guide me to survival.

The kids are supposed to be back at 8pm.

“Dad, dad, look we’ll be there like for at least eleven and a half hours. I mean I think I’ll be able to do like all the rides twice. Oh, yeah, baby,, uh-hunh, uh-hunh, oh yeah. And the Goliath, three times.”

Damn, it’s gone from dark to darker and the wind is picking up. Bad sign.

Montréal is a northern city but, lately, the summer weather has gone tropical, with rapid flash thunderstorms every day or so.

Global warming is a reality. As long as it was screwing with polar bears it was a distant threat. Now, it’s upsetting my kid’s amusement.

That’s serious.

Reminds me that my federal government is led by the intrepid prime minister Stephen Harper who rose from the oil sands in the west, like some marsh monster in a B-film.

Climate change? “Puah!” he says. Let’s make money now and the rest will, well, sort itself out. Leave it to our kids to figure out.

Mr. Harper… my kid’s Goliath ride at La Ronde is in jeopardy. And now it’s too late to do something about it.

if I have to console my rained out kid, I will sign every petition pressuring you to reacquire a brain. Remember, that inconvenient thing called science? Yeah, I’ll remind you.

Still no rain. Still no thunder. Maybe the wind will blow away the bad weather.

You better hope, Mr. Harper. That’s all we have left now, thanks to your cynicism.

 

flip and flip…

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…and crazy people

“Yeah, tech decks are so cool.”

Noah examines the toy with avidity. Tech decks are miniature, fully functioning skateboards complete with decals. They are finger-sized, to permit acrobatic flips and runs, mimicking actual skaters.

“How many do you have, Malcolm?”

“I only got da two.”

“I have two, too.”

I stand to the side as we wait for the morning school bus. I like it when Noah gets into deep conversation with a friend and forgets me. It gives me a window into his personality,

“Malcolm, did you ever see the Dollarama fake ones? Yeah, they’re no good and like the wheels are lousy and then they just bust in no time. They’re cheap but they’re so cheap. Haha, get it?”

An insecure comic. But, then again, aren’t we all?

“Ahhh, I can’t do it.”

Malcolm has been trying a special two finger air flip, unsuccessfully.

“Look, look, this is how. You see, you put your two fingers on top and this one under and flip.”

With a rapid movement he throws the tech deck in the air and lands it perfectly.

Malcolm smiles widely. “Good one, Noah.”

“Yeah, I learned because I have like ramps and stairs, like tech deck size to do all the tricks, yeah, you know? Those I got from a friend of my dad. But my two real tech decks, not the dollar stores ones, yeah, those my dad gave me.”

Thy share a silence. Very rare in their world.

“Yeah, you know my dad gave them to me as a birthday gift, but listen a gift for me on his birthday because on his brthday he gives gifts instead of like getting gifts. Cool, huhn?”

“How’s dat possible?”

“Dad…?”

I feign innocence.

“Yes?”

“Why do you give me like gifts on your birthday?”

“Because, for me, giving a gift is more fun than receiving one.”

He turns to Malcolm.

“See?”

I turn away, I did my trick. Now to fake indifference.

“Too cool. I wish I had a cool dad like dat.”

“I have the most awesome dad.”

“My dad is never dere.”

“Wha…?”

“Yeah, my dad is never dere. I call him on da phone and he never answers. He says I should leave a message, but I do and he never calls. Never.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. Sucks big time.”

Again a moment of silence. I’m waiting for Noah to share that his Mother is not there, hasn’t been for years and that he never, ever calls her.

Silence.

The two flip tech decks with their fingers. Malcolm finally gets it right.

“See that, Noah?”

“Yeah, watch this.”

The two rival with each other, finger flipping, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahhing’.

“Did your mom give you these?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s my grandfather.”

“My grandfather is dead, and like my grandmother, yeah, she just died like not long ago.”

Malcolm frowns, mostly because he fails to flip properly.

“But, you have two sets, no? Of grandparents?”

“No, I never met my uh, mom’s grandmother. I think she’s crazy like my mom.”

“What you mean crazy?”

“Crazy-crazy not like when you say crazy because it’s cool, but crazy because you’re like ‘aaahhhhh–eeeeeeuuuhhh.”

He simulates what he believe is a crazy person’s grimaces. Close enough. I should know, having fallen in love with one, his mom, and fornicated with others.

Fornicate. Love the word. Sounds strangely culinary.

Put a bun in the oven and he grows feet and legs and teeth and becomes….a son.

The school bus rounds the corner.

“Dad, can Malcolm like come over after school, so we can like do tech deck competitions.”

“Why not.”

“Awesome.”

Crazy awesome