Category Archives: Awesome

Japan !?!

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“That’s so cool, dad. When are we leaving?”

“Whoa… first I need to find a producer, then get the film financed. Only at that point will we be planning a shoot.”

“But you said the shoot would be in Japan, right?”

“Probably.”

“And for how long?”

“Eh… depends on a lot of things but let’s say, two months.”

“Oh, yeah, would I like miss school?”

“No, I would find an English school for you or a tutor.”

“Nooooo, not a tutor. Dad. That sucks. Because, like, you know, you make no friends and stuff.”

Amazing! I just barely mentioned that I was hoping that my next film would be a script I wrote years ago. A Japanese story. And here I am negotiating with my kid about his pedagogical organization while I shoot the yet to be financed production.

Maybe if I am as convinced as Noah, I might actually get financed. What a change it would be from my usual doubting, realistic, long suffering posture. I’ll try. Why not? If it works I can write a self help book. There’s the problem. I can’t eradicate the ifs and buts and maybes from my language.

“Yeah, but, Noah, when (not if, but WHEN) I”ll be shooting, if you have a tutor you’ll be on set all the time.”

“Really? I don’t know dad. Going to a Japanese school would be cool too. You know, see how it works and stuff, you know?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll let you know, dad, okay?”

“Sure.”

Fabulous. Reality and invention becoming one in my little boy’s brain.

Don’t pine after the possible. Plan for it and make it probable.

I watch Noah licking the side of his hand not to lose one gram of the cherry filling that trickled out of his turnover. He champs and chomps. He’s noticed that eating with an open mouth increases the pleasure.

I’m fascinated at the education that he’s giving me.

“Dad, dad, is like the shoot, you know is it like in uhm, Tokyo, or more like Osaka?”

“No idea, it’ll depend on the scouting, when we search for locations. Why?”

“This is the way it is dad. They like have, you know Nintendo centers in Tokyo. It’s the capital, you know? Yeah, so it’s cool because like you have all things Nintendo in one place, you know. Yeah, but, what’s really awesome is that in Osaka…. that’s in the south, dad… yeah, they have like a whole center that is nothing but Pokémon. Imagine? Nothing else, no, uh, other stuff, just Pokemon for like three floors. Sick, huhn.”

“Sick.”

Who ever said video games don’t have an educational value? Noah clearly learned all about Japanese geography. And there’s no way he would be so excited about moving to Japan for a few weeks if it wasn’t for Nintendo and Pokémon.

“Dad, can I have my own email account?”

He’s already asked me several times since the beginning of the year. I’ve refused each time. He’s too young and will be inundated by soliciting of all kinds if he has an account.

“No.”

“But, I’ll need it like to talk with my friends here while I’m in Japan, you know?”

“We’re not in Japan yet.”

“But when we will be, can I?”

I notice the “when” rather than the “if”.

“When we will be, we’ll talk about it then.”

“Awwwww-unh. All my friends have accounts dad.”

All in his life generally means the one or two he’s actually asked.

“And how many of your friends are going to Japan?”

“None…”

“You see, everybody has a different life. Now, Noah, we’ve got to hustle or you’ll miss the bus.”

He gets up with a sigh and a grumble. He turns back just before disappearing in the bathroom.

“Dad, can I learn Japanese.”

“Sure thing. Great idea. I’ll find an online course with pronunciation and all that.”

He has that sudden full toothed rabbit smile that just liquefies me with love.

“Sweet.”

Looks like we’re going to Japan. Yay!!

 

So excited…!

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“Dad, I’m so pumped!”

noah has been excited...for years!

Before dawn, Sunday.

I wake as Noah erupts into my room. Odd. I’m rested.

“I’m like really sorry, dad, I know it’s like way too early, it’s like 5:17, but it’s just that I can’t help myself, you know?”

“I know.”

“Really?”

“Really. Go grab your pillow and come into bed with me.”

“Oh yeah.”

He rabbit foots it to his room. I hear him cooing to the cat who is upset that Noah is abandoning her in his bed.

I roll over and find a comfortable position. My mind starts racing over the shoals of everything I need to do today and in the next week. The issues flow like clear water. None of the concerns become worries.

I feel good.

Noah comes in, throwing his pillow onto my bed and jumping right in behind it. An energy hardly conducive to sleep but what the hell…

…I’m excited too.

After years of work and risk and failure, I’ve finally succeeded in getting a feature-film financed. A film I’ve written and which I’ll direct.

Major stress. But functional, not existential. No guarantee of success but at least I get to roll the dice.

“Dad, the Pokémon pre-release is at 11, right?”

“Right.”

“I sure don’t want to be late.”

“That’s funny, kid. I think six hours is more than enough time to get ready.”

“Well…not really six hours.”

Noah goes into chartered accountant mode.

“Actually dad…uh, it’s like more like…five hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

I blow a noisy, wet raspberry in the back of his neck. He squeals and slaps and laughs.

“Oh so gross, dad.”

He jumps me and starts spittling on me, trying to hit my face. I restrain him, throw him bodily to the other side of the bed.

“Stop Noah. I can’t fight before dawn.”

“Hahahaha….fail!”

“Truce, okay?”

“Okay.”

He throws himself down on his pillow with such violence that the bed shakes. And I have a really solid bed, made for epic adventures with witches and princesses. I have traveled the world in my bed, looking for love, finding pleasure.

“Dad?”

“Hum?”

“It’s really cool that like the new Pokémon series is like at least a hundred eighty seven new cards, cool huh?”

Hours of negotiations to be expected…”no, Noah, we won’t buy…” followed by his signature ‘awwww-unnnnh’ of disappointment.

“Sure, Noah…real cool!”

“Dad, do you think we could buy a deck box of the new series?”

“No, Noah, we won’t buy it this week.”

“Aaaaawwww-unnnnh!”

The joy of predictability.

In three weeks I will hear, “Quiet on set,” and the immense army needed to make a film will fall silent. I will say “Action” and there, before my eyes, the world I created on paper, years ago, will take life.

And I will take flight.

“Dad, I’m so excited…”

“… I just can’t hide it…”

He starts bopping in bed and I join in.The cat has sauntered in. She shakes her head. Cats hate noise.

We go wild, bed bopping and singing at top volume.

“We’re so excited, we just can’t hide it…”.

Shaboom! Shaboom!

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

word fail?

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“Oh no, faaaaaaiiiilllll.”

Noah whoops indignantly from the living room.

I’m in the kitchen staring at my espresso moka pot, willing it push up the dark liquid mind juice. I’m reminded of the truth in the expression that watching a pot makes it boil slower or something like that. I know there’s a more elegant formulation somewhere in the dormant cells of my brain, the part that I’m hoping to pour coffee all over.

Damn the sentences are coming out all mangled this morning.

“Oh no, faaaaaaiiiilllll.”

Noah whoops even more loudly from the living room. He’s waiting for me to say something. I should. Otherwise he’ll just say it a third time several octaves higher and louder.

Pfffffftttttt…….. a brief plume of steam surges from the side of the pot. Still no  liquid drugs in the pot. I check my empty, waiting bowl, yes it’s clean. I pour in three spoons of sugar to pass the time.

Noah charges in. He’s given up waiting for me to react. This fish is too slow to take his bait.

“Dad, daaaaaddd…”

He pushes up against me. I ruffle his hair. Hmmmm, sticky. Mental note…compel him to shower tonight.

Puuuuuoooooaaaaaaahhhhh!!!

COFFEE!! Surging up the spigot. Ouuuuhhh! that word spigot just popped into my head. Nice word, funny word.

“Daaadddd, what are you doing?”

“Waiting… ”

“Boy, you’re really an addict huh, a coffee addict.”

“No denying it.”

I’m busy calculating if enough liquid has pushed up to make a reasonable cup or should I wait. It would be strong as hell. But the next one would be weak as hell.

Hell either way. Or both ways. Damn. Still firing on one cylinder.

“Dad, you know… in Beyblade?”

No! Not Beyblade! Spinning tops tournaments in wild Japanese cartoons. A lot of screaming self-pumping slogans as google-eyed preteens travel the world to become champions.

Aaaaarggghhh!

“Yeah well  Julian Konzern, you know the Italian guy? Yeah, he’s like the champion, he’s never been defeated, right?”

“Right.”

Fake it! Soon there will be a critical mass of kahwa in the pot.

“Yeah, so he’s like battling Jinga, who’s like everybody’s favorite right?”

Delay!

“Right.”

“Yeah so Konzern you know his Beyblade is Metal Fury, so yeah….”

There’s enough! I gently disengage an arm from Noah to handle the hot pot.

“…and he’s Italian like me, so….”

Pour! Oh yeah! the sugar sops up the dark liquid and is submerged. There’s a little dark coffee cream swirling on the surface.

Beauty!

“…it’s awesome because first its special move is Medusa and it’s like he freezes the uh, opponent? Yeah. And then wham it becomes a, like, you know, a massive warrior with a sword.”

A little milk, enough to color, but not too much, to make it cold.

“Cool! Right?”

The first sip. Yes, the first sip.

“So listen dad, his catchphrase is uh uh…”Special burn, metal Fury attack!”"

“Cool.”

“Yeah, but no, fail, because he used it twice dad. Twice. I mean you never never ever use the same catchphrase twice in the same battle. That’s so lame!”

Second sip.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean what was he thinking?”

“Blame the writers, Noah, poor Konzern just says the lines.”

“Dumb writers.”

“Pleonasm.”

He scrunches up at me. Damn this coffee is effective.

“Whaaa….pleonasm, sounds like vomit.”

“It means a redundancy.”

“Read a what?”

Read a book!

“When two words that pretty much mean the same are used together. Useless repetition.”

My bowl is almost empty and I’m firing on all cylinders.

“So, I made a joke about dumb writers as if writer and dumb means the same, get it?”

“Yeah, but it’s not funny.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re a writer, so you’re dumb….hahaha….fail.”

“No… self-deprecation.”

“Whaaaa…..?”

I look at that second cup inviting me from the warmth of it’s pot. I turn away, with difficulty. I’m already giving Noah verbal whiplash with just one cup.

“…the opposite of self-praise which is what they do constantly in Beyblade. Come on, lets get dressed and I’ll explain.”

I put my arm around his bony shoulders and coax him forward.

“You know dad, I wish I had like a dictionary like at my fingers to instantly like look stuff up, you know.”

“It’s called a brain.”

“Haha… good one.”

Yup! Good one!

I smile. I’m a dumb writer all right.

 

R.E.S.PE.C.T.

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“Dad, dad … .” 

As I step into the after school daycare, Noah runs at me.

“Dad, I got a gold star.”

“Really?”

The day care lady nods and gives me an impressed look.

“Yeah, Miss Anita gave it to me. Because like it’s the end of the month and uhm at the end of the month, like this was for the first month, yeah, so what month did we just finish, dad?”

“September.”

“Yeah, so for September, I’m the one that got the star, you know.”

“Great, Noah, good going. But what was it for?”

He’s been acing everything since the start of the school year, so I’m fully expecting it to be for academic performance in French or English or Math….

“Respect, dad.”

“Huhn?”

It’s because I’m a writer that I’m so articulate.

“Yeah, dad. I got a gold star because I was like the one, the student like in all grade 4 that was the most in respect.”

“You mean the most respectful?”

“Yeah, full of respect, that’s me.”

A sparkle in his eye, a smile worthy of a tooth-whitening commercial. The boy is proud.

I’m shocked.

Not because he’s not a sweet, courteous kid. But because he rarely is that, at school. Discipline, staying still, listening, not clowning, Tough. The last year was all about helping him to respect the rules, the work to be done, others’ space. Daily exchanges of evaluations and strategies with his teacher, progress reports, rewards and loss of privileges etc.

It all seemed to have a very temporary effect.

“Are you telling me that, of all the Grade 4 students, you are the one who showed the most respect the whole month of September?”

“Yeah.” He looks at me with anticipation.

“The month of September which is the toughest month because it’s the first one and all the kids are still in summer party mode?”

“Uh, yeah !?!”

He’s gone a little still.

Suspense. A writer’s major weapon. Even bad writers.

The daycare lady has stopped listening to the lament of a skirt tugging six year old, to tend her ear in our direction.

I drop down on one of the pint sized stools. Stare at Noah. He’s totally in my power.

“Wow,” I say simply.

“I know, right dad? So cool, huhn?”

“Sushi-cool.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we’ve gotta celebrate with a crazy, gut busting, massive sushi party.”

“I loooooooovvvveeee sushi.”

He closes his eyes and throws his head back in delight.

The daycare lady breaks into a grin and turns her attention to the whiny skirt-puller at her feet.

“Oh, and dad? I did all my homework.”

The daycare lady nods in confirmation.

“Great, so tonight after we fill up on sushi, you can go on your DS and blast a few virtual enemies.”

“But dad, it’s Monday. Wednesday is like my Nintendo night.”

“I tell you, kid tonight is special. You earned it.”

“Really?”

It absolutely slays me when he’s so surprised that I praise him. As if he somehow can’t believe he’s a good kid.

But he holds doors open for strangers, apologizes when he bumps into somebody ad even runs to help old ladies, mothers with babies, smaller kids.

He is a bloody GREAT kid!

“You know, kid, what is sweet is that they’re finally seeing who you really are? And you’re a really really really really great kid.”

I’m overwhelmed by a wave of emotion as he hugs me on my baby stool.

“Thanks dad, you’re great too!”

“Come on let’s get out of here and get our party going.”

“Okay dad.”

I’m about to break into song and do a crazy dance. I know if we’re outside Noah will join in.

I feel like doing the old standard R.E.S.P.C.T but Gangnam style….

Oh yeah!

 

Tourists…

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“Tantine is awesome.”

Tantine is auntie in French… my sister, mother of his beloved cousins.

“Because she promised to buy you a new video game?”

“That too.”

He smiles, rabbit teeth and cowlicks making him irresistible. The burnt toast crumbs speckling his mouth like lip-liner accentuate his cuteness.

“But that’s not really the real reason, dad. Like she’s just awesome. I so much want to sleep at their, uhm, house soon again. It’s like so comfortable at Tantine‘s. I mean there’s stuff all over the place but the couch is uh, so so so comfortable and there are foods and everywhere I sit I could just never leave you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tantine calls it a dump, but you know to me it’s like a lair.”

He grabs my face and twists it so we’re eye to eye.

“Good word huhn, dad? Lair.”

“Sure is.”

“Yeah. I learned it in the new cartoon, you know, Adventure Time, yeah, they have a lair.”

We’re on the futon. The TV is blaring out some Japanese spinning top anime, Noah has a half eaten, buttered toast sticking out of his mouth.

“Even Melina is like soooo comfortable. Hah, I mean she’s like bigger than you, dad, and so huggable, you know when I sit on her it’s like I’m a baby all over again. Haha.”

“And she does a good job cutting your hair, too.”

“Oh yeah, sure does. I look sexxxxaaaaaayyyy!” He shimmies his shoulders while gulping down his milk.

He’s lusty this morning. Maybe because he woke up on the couch, like a drunken sailor. When I got up this morning at 7, he was sound asleep in the living room. Curled up in a ball with the cat, blanketed by an old downy sweater of mine. The one that smells like tobacco and sweat and last week’s one night stand.

He looked so small, mouth open, eyes screwed shut that I suddenly regretted every time I screamed at him over the last nine and half years.

The cat stared at me. ‘We’re okay. Leave us alone.” was the clear message. So i went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. When he finally woke, it was to warm buttered toast with cheddar cheese, warm milk and me… rubbing his legs lovingly.

“Can we call Tantine?”

“It’s early, Noah, and everybody is running around getting ready. Tonight. You’ll have more time to chat. Okay?”

“Awwww-unh.”

The two note misery march. Gets my hackles hackling. Resist the urge to bitch back.

“Long pants today, Noah.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s cold outside, I can tell because like it was the cat that, like, you know she came to snuggle right up to me, like, you know we were both like heaters for each other.”

“Poor little orphans rolled up to comfort each other.”

“Yeah, like we were in a story. You know one of those pathetic ones?”

Pathetic. Good word.

“Yeah, a corny story.”

“What does that mean? Corny.”

“It means sentimental.”

“What does sentimental mean? Does it have something to do with being mental?”

“Crazy good question, kid.”

“Really?”

“Huh-huh. Sentimental means a feeling of sadness, tenderness, with memories.”

“Suckish …”

“… and beautiful.”

“Hum… more suckish.”

We munch toast in relative silence.

“Dad, life is great. Especially when you’re a kid. I mean everybody loves you and takes care of you. It’s like being a permanent tourist.”

Funny. That’s exactly how I lived before he was born. I traveled everywhere to work and play, ideally at the same time. And I didn’t really live in any one place… like a kid, I guess.

My phone buzzes. Noah jumps on it.

“It’s a message from Tantine, dad.”

He hands it to me. A picture of Noah and his cousins.

Family. Home.

Noah reads the message. ” ‘Just sending you both a little TLC on this cold morning.’ She’s just so awesome.”

Yup. She should run a tourist agency.

 

 

 

 

 

1500 mph

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“Take a leap.”

Noah backs up… one step, two steps, three…

… then he runs and jumps.

An elegant long-legged leap through thin air to land on the far edge of the enormous puddle of brackish water at the street corner. He looks up at me with the smile of an Olympian.

“I’m good, huhn dad?”

“Awesome.”

I say so because he is.

“Hah, thanks dad.”

I step over the puddle.

The last few days he’s been telling me about these amazing toy cars, a few centimeters long.

“You know dad, they like go faster than real ones, way faster, like they said on TV, one thousand five hundred miles an hour. Imagine?”

“Sounds impossible to me. Maybe it was a hundred and fifty.”

Zeros are tough for kids.

“No dad, I swear it was a thousand and five hundred. I’m totally sure.”

“Hum, don’t always believe what you see on TV.”

“I know that, but still…”

This morning, before going out to catch his school bus, I saw the ad on TV.

“Look dad, look, quickly. You see, you see, one thousand five hundred miles, uh, a, an hour.”

The kid’s right. But then there’s the fine print. One thousand five hundred scale miles.

“You were right, Noah, but so was I. Scale miles, These cars are like big bugs, so, a mile, in their world is this long.”

I stretch my arms out wide, twice.

“You get it?”

“Oooooohhh yeah. That’s like me and you, dad. Like when I jump up, I’m like smaller, I jump higher than you, but I don’t really go higher. Because like you’re a giant. Haha. Oh and it’s like this, dad, it’s like the ants we saw the other yesterday, like yeah when they were carrying like remember a hundred times their weight. That’s what you said, right?”

“Right. That’s what scale’s all about.”

“That’s a math thing, right?”

“I guess.”

“I’m excited to tell Miss Haze about it. She’s the math teacher this year.”

Gotta wonder about math being taught by a Miss Haze.

“It’s also a philosophy thing. It’s another proof that everybody is different and that success isn’t just one thing. What’s big for you is small for me.”

“Yeah, hahaha, like uhm, tying my shoe laces. Ha, it takes me forever.”

“That’s why I almost always buy lace-less shoes.”

“Good one, dad.”

As we step out, he turns to me.

“Dad, do this.”

He holds out his clenched fist, inviting me to put mine up against his. I do so. Though I have small hands, it still is 3-4 times his fist.

“Wow, dad, you have a big heart.”

And he walks away. I catch up.

“How’s that, Noah?”

“Mr. François, he like showed us about the body and yeah, your, uhm, heart, it’s like this.”

He holds up his clenched fist.

“A human’s heart is as big as this. So yeah, you have a really big heart.”

“To scale. I’m just bigger than you.”

“That’s true.”

We reach the enormous brackish puddle that has accumulated at the corner of the street. Nearly impossible to skirt.

“Take a leap, Noah.”

As he steps back for the run and leap, I watch with admiration.

Kids are courageous.

To scale.

 

 

 

wanna be a cat

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“Dad, I just hope the cat costumes don’t suck.”

“You guys will look cool, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know dad. Like old fur and stuff.”

“Every year you’ve said the same. And every year your whole school puts on the greatest musical show I’ve ever seen in an elementary school. Like last year’s prate costumes. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t know, dad.”

He says this while slicking down his cowlicks in the mirror. They pop right back up. He grimaces and starts again. He has a new Ken doll haircut that needs to stay down to look good. I want to tell him that there’s no point. Cowlicks are a family trait.

Defeated by destiny at nine and a half.

“Dad, do you think I should like try for the role of O’Malley, you know, the uhm, the alley cat you know that saves the Aristocrats when the bad guy gets rid of them in a random place. You know?”

“Sure. The Aristocrats are one of my favorite Disney movies. I remember.”

“Yeah, it’s like, uhm, one of the two biggest leads.”

Flatten the hair. The hair pops back up. Flatten again…

“Go for it, Noah. Why not?”

“I don’t know dad. It’s like the first time I’m like you know, old enough to maybe get a lead. So maybe I should try for one of the kittens, like Berlioz, he’s a cool cat. Hahaha, cool cat, that’s a good one.”

“You are a cool cat.”

“Thanks dad. You don’t suck either.”

Now, that’s an endorsement.

“So dad, yeah, maybe like O’Malley is too hard for me in Grade Four.”

“Especially that you’re going to have to fall in love and rub noses with whoever is going to play the girl cat, Duchess.”

“Nooooooo…..”

“Ah, the Aristocats is a love story .”

“It’s an adventure, dad.”

He holds his breath. The cowlicks have stayed down. He moves his hands away from his head, really slowly.

“..and  a love story. Those are some of the best adventures, Noah.”

And the best roller coaster rides and the best tragedies and the best gluttonous delights. Not to mention that love stories make children.

“Hummm…”

He’s doubtful.

“What if I try for O’Malley and I fail, dad?”

“What role do you really want to play?”

“Berlioz, he’s the coolest of the kittens.”

“So why try for O’Malley?”

“Because you know dad, it’s like the big role, so I should go for the big one, right?”

“Bigger isn’t always better. If you like the Berlioz role, go for that. You’ll have fun, less stress and you’ll be doing what you really want.”

“You’ll still be proud of me?”

“Always. I’m already proud of you.”

“Really?”

Kills me that he’s surprised I think highly of him. Reminds how fragile he is, how easily a kid can be devastated by a wayward comment or attitude.

“Totally, kid. Now let’s hurry, we’ll be late for the bus.”

“Sure dad.”

He grabs his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. Every single hair on his head develops an attitude and chooses an individual direction.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like a hedgehog. He shakes his head in resignation, like an old man abandoning the struggle against the absurdity of humanity.

“That’s great Noah. You look like a wet cat. For sure you’ll get the role you want at the auditions.”

He turns to me with a look of ‘yeah, right, whatever you say’.

“Hahaha…soooo funny. Fail.”

A few minutes later, we wait on the street corner as the bus deploys it’s flashing lights and protective barriers. The door opens.

“Hey, Noah, break a leg.”

He pushes his festival of cowlicks into me.

“You too dad.”

We hug. Two cool alley cats with wild fur.

 

 

 

pots and pans…

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…and people

Chile, May 1983… the brutal dictator Augusto Pinochet’s secret police and repressive regime is about to fall. Remarkably it will be defeated by mass mobilization of citizens who protest by banging pots and pans in a din where the familiar becomes revolutionary.

Montreal, May 2012… It’s eight o’clock, normally Noah’s bedtime. Instead, we are on our third floor balcony. Noah has a big aluminum pot, I have the lid. We are both banging away with wooden spoons and whooping like Indians in a B- western.

“Dad look! Didi is there.”

Our neighbor to the left is a 40ish single Mother with a 17 year old boy who looks like what Noah might grow into… tall, cute, courteous and smart as a whip.

She waves a wooden spoon at us before bringing it down on an old pan.

“This is sooooooooooo cool, dad. Woooooouuuhoooouuuuuu.”

Our provincial government has passed law 78, restricting the right to protest, in an attempt to crush a student strike that has entered its 100th day. The government’s autocratic, contemptuous response has sickened an increasingly large majority of citizens.

“Dad, listen!”

Noah has stopped banging. I do the same. The whole street is filled with the clamor of clanging metal. We can hear it from near and from far. It feels like the whole city is out on balconies, porches, in kitchen windows.

The message is clear. We are the citizens, in our everyday life, with everyday implements that give sustenance, which represent the warmth of mothers and kitchens and collectivity, We, the citizens, endure and will not accept to be silenced.

To the left and the right of us, all the way up and down the street, people are out. Even the old, bitchy, warted woman across the street is whacking together two old lids like cymbals.

Noah has gone quiet, wide-eyed, mouth almost agape.

“Dad….” is all he can say.

The hair raises on my arms. Generally happens when I’m moved by beauty.

This clanging symphony of domesticity cannot be stopped by any law or pepper spray or arrogant baton charge ordered by corrupt arrogant autocrats.

“Viva…”.

A voice rings out from somewhere. Another joins in, then a third, a fourth….a multitude.

Noah raises his pot and bangs down with such pleasure.

“Viva! Viva! Viva!” He closes his eyes like a conductor before his orchestra.

The old lady across yells a shrill, cackling “Viva!” like she’s rediscovered she also belongs to the future, not just the past.

A police car rolls slowly up the street. Everybody goes wild with pleasure. The noise becomes elemental, rises to a level that shakes the foundations of the neighborhood.

Noah is gone. Banging, whooping, dancing. This is way better than being in bed.

The protest is supposed to last twenty minutes. At 8h20, there’s a crescendo, a renewed intensity before it suddenly stops.

The silence is as deafening as was the cacophony. People turn in slowly, waving to each other.

We step back into our apartment.

“Dad, that was so awesome. Can we do that again, tomorrow?”

“Sure, every night until the law is repealed.”

“Wow, dad, everybody was out, dad, everybody! Even the really fat guy, sorry to say that, but he’s really fat, yeah and he stays on his balcony and never does anything. He was laughing and like really enjoying it.”

“People power.”

“Yeah, that’s cool. People power. Boo to the bad guys.”

“Now, Noah…”

“I know, I know, brush my teeth, feed my fish and go to bed.”

“That’s great, Noah.”

He skips off to the bathroom.

“Noah Power…oh yeah…viva!”

 

 

in passing…

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“Dad, I’m so excited, I don’t think I’m going to sleep at all tonight.”

8 pm. Monday night. I pull the blanket up beneath his chin, just the way he likes it, with the sheet turned down so the soft fabric is against his face. He yawns widely, like a snake unhinging its jaw.

“Rest so that you’ll be in shape tomorrow.”

“Dad, tomorrow is like amazing. We do The Pirates of Penzance all day. This is how it is…”.

“You’ve told me already. Many times. Now you just close your eyes, and your mouth and relax and fall asleep.”

“Just one last thing, dad.”

“Okay, one last thing.” No point fighting him if all it does is charge him up further. Let’s see if I can empty the little windbag.

“Yeah, so tomorrow we have no real classes because in the morning the first thing we do is to give the show for the whole school, like, so those kids and teachers that can’t come or those uhm kids who aren’t in the show, they see it before everybody.  But it’s not going to be the best show because it’s like the first real time we do it from beginning right to the end. Poor them You know?”

He chuckles.

“Sure. Okay, good night, now…”

“But I’m not finished dad.”

“You said one last thing.”

“But you interrupted me.”

A couple of hamsters go charging up my windpipe. Anger Rising!

Breathe, let it run. What’s the point of being in a struggle just to save a few minutes, at the cost of rage and frustration which, in my case, is systematically followed by guilt. And guilt without pleasure is, well, just guilt.

“Okay, finish your thought, Noah.” I sit on his bed, he slips out from under the covers to come snuggle against me. He snuggles well. Sweetens me immediately.

“You’re the best, dad. I’ll go quick. Yeah, so then, after lunch, we do the show for another school and then there’s a third school. Imagine?”

Oops! I know for a fact there is no third school. Noah is doing what Noah does… making great even greater just in case it wasn’t great enough.

I’ve been doing that forever… what could have been a character flaw I’ve turned into a talent.

“And then, dad, get this…”

He pauses for effect. Good technique! Makes me proud.

“…tonight, Mr. François told us that it’s going to be the biggest show they ever did ever for like uhm, characters, you know the numbers of characters on the stage, yeah and, uh, the songs and the choreographies, and the rest, yeah, you understand?”

Not really. But who cares. He’s now literally folded himself into my body. He fits perfectly. For once his sharp elbows and knees don’t drive into me like spikes.

The cat is on the floor, preparing to jump onto him…soon the whole family is going to be one quivering construction of life. The fish looks out longingly from its bowl.

“If only I could close my eyes and it would be tomorrow, dad. It would be so sweet.”

“That’s called sleep, Noah. Real easy.”

He rubs his head against my chest like a monkey. The cat squeezes it’s paws and yawns before circling Noah’s lap and settling.

“Just, like forty-seven seconds more, okay dad?”

“Sure.”

These forty-seven seconds may be the last thing I remember before passing on.

“And the Oscar for the sweetest forty-seven seconds goes to….”.

Amazing how this boy has taken over my life and made it begin to make sense.

“Dad?”

“Noah?”

The fish leans against his bowl to listen. The cat doesn’t care.

“Can I just say one more thing?”

Anything you want.