Tag Archives: kids

Guaranteed…

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“Dad, dad, dad!!’

I’m accepting the thunderous applause that has greeted the projection of my latest film. I’m on stage at the Venice Film Festival.

Finally!

“”Dad, dad, daaaaaddddd!!”

Through the sounds of adulation comes the plaintive, urgent call of Noah. My son needs me. I peer in the audience but don’t see him. His voice rings out from the wings. I look stage left. He points at me.

“Daaaaaaaaddddd!!”

I look down at myself. I’m totally naked, on stage.

I wake.

“Dad, daaad it’s 7:40.”

“Whaaaa…?”

“We both like slept through the alarm. We gotta hurry now. I’ll get myself breakfast.”

He charges out of my room. I resist the weight pressing on my eyelids. If I close my eyes I’ll fall instantly asleep. But, dammit, I’ve rolled around so much that I’m now trapped in a tight cocoon of blanket and sheets…all of which are soaked. I must have had a fever rush during the night. I’ve been fighting the onset of some illness or other for a few days. I vaguely remember having gotten up at 2 a.m. dizzy and in pain, head and stomach. I stumbled to the bathroom for two painkillers and fell back into bed.

Noah goes by carrying his dish and a glass of milk.

“Dad, get up now. I’ll miss my bus.”

I get a flash forward to when I’ll be old and he’ll be at the outset of his adult life. I’ll stay in bed and he can run for whatever bus he needs to catch.

“Hey, Noah, can I have breakfast in bed this morning?”

“Daaaaaadddd,”  says his pastry filled voice from living room.

With a sigh and a grunt I roll left and right and left again and finally succeed in loosing the shroud of sheets. As I slip out of bed a shiver runs through my body. I’m soaked in cold sweat. But there’s no pain.

No pain after having suffered pain is a fuller enjoyment than never having pain. Human nature. Or maybe it’s just because I’m Italian and we like to suffer. A tough victory is more satisfying than an easy one.

I would love a shower. I glance at the clock. Ten minutes to bus time.

“Dad, I’m almost ready.”

His mouth is covered with powdered sugar but he is fully dressed. Cute.

“I just need like to brush my teeth and yeah, uh, put my boots and all that.”

“I’m impressed, kid.”

“Thanks dad.”

He skips away into the bathroom. I hear water running and then Noah singing through the tooth brushing. Great kid.

I wonder if I have time for a coffee. I glance at the clock.

Noah peeks out of the bathroom, his mouth foaming.

“Dad? You have to really move it.”

“Right.” No time for coffee.

I turn back into my room, grab the clothes on the floor and start untangling sleeves from legs i the hope of eventually getting dressed. Oh, the travails of teh disorganized!

I finally succeed in clothing myself in a haphazard mix of this and that. Both of us are ready. We head out barely a couple of minutes later than usual.

“Wow. A good thing you were there,Noah, or we would never have made it.”

“Yeah, you were real slow, dad.” He chuckles. He’s been chuckling a lot lately. He must be enjoying his life.

“And you were real fast, so here we are team Barichello is on schedule.”

“Yo man! We’re good.”

We reach the bus stop.

“You”re an awesome dad, dad!”

“Thanks Noah.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t like true you know.”

“Even better then.”

There you go. Old age is going to be cool. With a kid like that, it’s guaranteed.

 

Be happy!

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Quiet pleasures.

6:50 a.m. I am pulled out of a light sleep by sounds from beyond my closed door. The cat food being poured into the aluminum dish. Noises of comfort as Noah and his cat rise together. He talks to the animal like to a baby, “who”s hungry, yeah you’re hungry, yeah who loves you, yeah, I do.”

I hear his Sasquatch feet thump thump towards my door. I’m fully expecting it to be blasted open. A second, two, three go by… no Noah.

I rearrange my position on the bed to peek through the crack in the door. Noah is standing just outside, where there’s a full length mirror. He’s examining himself. He slicks down a cowlick which immediately kicks back up.

Futile.

Yet, he tries again with a little more insistence, but no better results. He hardly seems to care as he strikes one pose after another.

I lean out of bed and pull the door open.

He freezes in a sexy look.

“Looking good, Noah.”

“I do look good, don’t I?”

This kid is so unlike me in so many ways. In almost as many ways in which he is just like me.

He has a brash arrogance and doesn’t hesitate to find himself, smart, good-looking, talented. In that way he is my polar opposite. But at times it feels like he’s whistling in the dark

Being brash to avoid being seen for the fragile thing he truly is. In that way he would be just like me.

Or maybe he’s just self-confident.

“What time is it, kid?”

“6:55.”

“Great. Five minutes left. Jump in bed so we can hug.”

He rolls into my bed but stays at a little distance.

“Did you have a good sleep dad?”

“Really great. You?”

“Oh yeah, I slept like I was dead. And Ouaga stayed with me all night, like she jumped in just when I went to bed and started purring so yeah, she put me right to sleep.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah, I love Ouaga. And you know dad I had such a nice day yesterday, You know it was really great. I mean I played on the computer all morning and then I started organizing my room for when we’re going to repaint it, yeah, that’s going to be so cool. And then I won all my three matches at the Pokemon tournament and got a full-art special X card, yeah and then we came back and had my favorite supper and then we saw two really good animation films together. I especially liked the first one about the cat and the burglar. It was exciting even without any special effects or 3D stuff, you know? Yeah. Wow! A really great day.”

I have always been suspicious of such easy happiness. A Fool’s Paradise? Then again. Have I spent too much of my life in a Fool’s Hell?

“Hey, Noah, there’s a couple of minutes left, and I would really love a hug.”

“How, dad? You’re lying down.”

He has a grimace on his face. It’s times like this that I wish I had a daughter. She would hug me without protesting, I’m sure.

But, she probably would be too affectionate. That would annoy me.

Finally, I must recognize that I have a hard time being happy.

Period.

“Dad, you know the best part of yesterday? It was like I didn’t like expect anything, you know so when it sorta happened, it just like happened, you know?”

The alarm goes off. I lunge for it. Noah jumps on my back to stop me. He laughs like a demon as we battle to the ‘pioup pioup’ of the alarm. That’s the equivalent of a boy hug, I guess.

I finally succeed in holding him off long enough to shut off the annoying reminder that it’s Monday and I have a hundred reasons to get tense and miserable.

“Ahhhhh, that was fun.”

He throws himself down on my bed and stretches luxuriantly. I’m about to tell him that we need to get up and and…

…and the hell with it!

I drop back down beside him. We stretch and groan and …

“Oh yeah, we have like gym today, dad, youhou, I love gym. Awesome… .”

Be happy! I admonish myself! Be happy dammit!

Noah vaults over me and off the bed in one slick move. He shimmies away, singing.

“I’m sooo excited, I just can’t hide it, oh, oh…”.

Be happy dammit!

 

 

cougars and rabbits

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“Yesterday, I tell you, Noah, it’s like they were fifteen thousand and we were only us, just us, eleven you know.”

“What?”

Noah stands up so that he can make his point more emphatically to his schoolfriend, Malcolm. The two are sitting on a stoop at the corner where we wait for the school bus.

“That’s so not possible.”

“Well maybe not fifteen thousand. But they were really a lot and we were just our team, you know, on the uhm, uhm, on the field, you know. And the refs, too they were against us, man. Foul, they were always calling fouls on just us. I mean, you know?”

“But Malcolm, that’s not possible. The refs like they’re there to be fair and uh, yeah,  and sometimes they really suck. But all the fouls against, uhm, one team? I don’t think so.”

“Well maybe not all…”

Noah slicks down the innumerable cow licks that sprouted during the night. He’s been doing that compulsively since yesterday’s haircut, courtesy of Melina, his adored 18 year old cousin. A perfectly slick, Ken doll, 8-ball look. Unfortunately, my family’s capillary DNA caught up during the night.

“You got a Bieber cut, Noah. Haha.”

“Not at all. I hate Justin BEAVER…haha. Good one huh?”

He really does hate Justin Bieber.

“Yeah, but you look like him.”

“Not at all… he’s got this cow lick just here.”

He mimics the singer’s signature front lock.

“Is it true that he’s like dating Selena Gomez?”

“Of course, geez Noah, man, they like, you know they been dating for years. You dunno dat?’

“I hate BEAVER.”

“So why’dja’ask?”

“Because Selena Gomez is hot.”

He slicks down with both hands. In vain, since the locks kick back up instantly.

“She’s old, man. I mean like she’s 21, man.”

“Yeah, but I heard she likes them young. Dad? What’s it called, a, uhm, a like, ocelot.”

“Ocelot? that’s a wild cat.”

“No, no I mean like when you say ‘she’s, uh, yeah, it’s like ‘she’s a ocelot’.”

“She’s an ocelot? I have no idea.”

“Yeah, yeah, dad, like when they say that about a girl, I mean a woman, like an older woman, you know when she likes, like the guys, you know?

“Oh, a cougar!”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”

He slicks down again, turns to Malcolm.

“Yeah, Malc, Selena Gomez, like she’s a cougar, so yeah…”.

He pushes his hair back down with a move worthy of the Addams family patriarch.  Malcolm looks at me as if to say, ‘who is this kid?’.

“Now, Katy Perry, now she’s really old. Right dad?”

“I have no idea.”

“Yeah, she’s like at least 27.”

If twenty something women are cougars, that makes me a Sphinx.

“Oh, Noah, Noah. Listen, man. I didn’t tell you the worse. Yesterday after da game, I took my bike and you know I got two flat tires on da way home. Two, man.”

“Yeah right.”

Noah is trying to see himself in the reflection of a dirty window.

“It’s all true, man. Why would I lie. I mean…”

“Because it’s a better story? Because one tire, that’s nothing, but two? Huhn, gotcha, huhn, oh yeah, gotcha!”

He makes a sexy move while pointing at his friend. Shit! If I was Mlacolm, I’d punch him out. Instead, Malcolm shakes his head. My kid just takes too much energy to contradict. Especially for another kid. He’s a triple threat: dances and sings and mocks.

The school bus pulls around the corner. Malcolm moves forward to the edge of the sidewalk. Noah holds back.

“Dad, dad.” He grabs my arm and whispers.

“How does my hair look?”

“You mean your Bieber cut?”

“Daaaaddddd.” He pinches me, the little turd.

“You look great.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He gives me a full-fledged rabbit smile.

“I love you dad.”

“I love you, my little big man. Have a great day.”

He waves as he disappears into the bus.

 

 

 

 

Queens and guillotines

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Noah sneaks into my room.

I have my back to the door, but I hear him despite Adele roaring her despair in my headphones. I’ve been staring out the window, writing. Yes, yes, staring out the window is writing, even if the fingers aren’t moving across the keyboard. Most of my writing happens inside the walls of my being. Occasionally, some of it overflows into shareable words.

Occasionally.

Noah comes up to within a few inches of my back. I can feel his question.

Today is Monday. Two days left before the school year starts. He’s bored. I’m desperate. Wild horses run through me. So difficult to remember why I need to write except that when I don’t I feel worse.

Barely enough of a reason.

I slip my headphones off.

“Yes, Noah?”

He rubs his head against mine. Adults without children would scream “emotional manipulation, he wants something.”

Parents just scream.

Of course, he wants something. But the affection is real and his need to be reassured that it’s okay to want something even if he doesn’t get it, is also real.

Complex. And human. And fragile.And howlingly difficult to navigate.

“Are you working well, dad?”

Work? Oh, you mean my writing. I feel like a fraud, calling this work. I imagine the walls of my room blasting away, leaving me on a chair in midair with the blank screen.

“I’m trying, Noah.”

Of course if you gave me the hour in solitary that I’ve been asking for, something useful might actually happen.

‘The answer is no, Noah.”

“Whaaa……I didn’t even ask you anything.”

I feel like the guy on a game show that jumped the buzzer before the question Will he or will he not blow the answer?

“You were about to ask me for my IPhone so you could play.”

Noah looks sheepish. He’s still small enough that we’re at the same height only when I’m sitting and he’s standing.

Game show guy jumps in victory in my head, before he’s blown away by my rage at having to defend my shrunken space when I’m not even sure it’s worth it.

“Noah, I told you last night, you’re becoming addicted to TV, Nintendo, computer, Iphone to the point that you no longer know how to use your brain to read, write, draw.”

“But dad…”

“No, no. I need you to step out of the room, close my door and go get busy or bored, it’s up to you. But find something to do that reminds you you have a brain.”

Oh no! The slack jawed, “how can you be such an ass, dad” look… and he’s not leaving.

Waiting for a miracle? Like father, like son?

I wave him away and turn back to my screen. I crank the music to loud in my headphones. Blast my eardrums. Semi-deafness might actually improve my cohabitation skills. I wouldn’t hear the sigh and the door closing noisily behind me.

So, what is it exactly that is so important that I need ‘my space’? I sound like the juvenile ass I am.

The little old lady with the bitchy Pekingese across the street, comes out to sweep her balcony. She does it every morning, even though nobody ever dirties her entrance.

I write every morning even though it makes no sense.

A shimmering promise of an idea lifts in my mind as I watch the eddies of dust raised by her broom. There was dirt after all.

Suddenly, our fat black cat jumps on the sill outside my window. We’re three floors up, yet she shows no concern on the narrow ledge. She’s more afraid of me.Well, sort of.

“What the hell do you want now?”

She slips through the open window, throws me a look before rushing to my closed door to be let out.

“Really, geez.”

I let the bitch out. Damn that’s not even the right word! She’s female all right, but not a bloody dog. What was the right term, again? I remember knowing it.

I step out of my room. There is Noah lying down in front of the TV. The balcony door is closed. Which is why the cat was forced through my window.

“Really?”

The TV is so loud, he doesn’t hear. It’s Sccoby-doo. An episode I’ve seen him watch many times already.

“NOAH!” He jumps.

“Dad, you scared me. No need to scream like that.”

“I told you. No TV. And you closed the balcony door so the cat had to come in my room and bug me.”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“Because your brain has liquefied and poured into your underwear. Turn the damn thing off.”

He does so, so slowly, so reluctantly that if I was in any way a violent type, he would become a punching ball.

“Since, you have no idea how to entertain yourself, I will keep you busy. First, you take a shower. Then you clean up your room. And only when that is finished can you come see me. Is that clear?”

That look again! Tell you, man, this requires self-control beyond anything I’ve experienced.

“IS IT CLEAR?”

“Yeeeeeesssssss.” Dripping with ill will.

I step back into my room before I charge him.

Back at my window, the old lady has finished her job. Wish I could say the same. My cursor is blinking on an unfinished sentence. I erase the damn thing.

Had no promise anyways.

I look to my left. Shit. I didn’t mail the rent check. I chase the thought away. Must make space for that elusive brilliance.

The door behind me opens.

Again?

Noah walks in.

“Where do I put these, dad?”

He holds up a handful of hangers. The ones that hang on the shower rod, ready to take the clothes that come from the washer.

Adults without parents would say that he’s looking for trouble. That this needs to be dealt with once and for all.

Once is never for all with a kid. It’s over and over and over until they’re old enough to fuck off for good.

“Where do hangers generally hang?”

“Uh, closets?”

“And how many bloody closets are there outside of my room?

“Euh, three?”

“My brain is my brain, to be used, now and then, for my own thoughts. You have a brain of your own, or at least you did at birth. So use it. NOW. And don’t you dare bother me again. When I step out of this room is when you can talk to me. Not before. Now, get out!”

The little &%?$@ backs out so he can stare me down for longer. The door bangs shut.

I turn back to the screen.The cat has snuck into my room and is hiding under my desk.

Queen! That’s the term for a female cat. Where’s a guillotine when you need one?

I resist the urge to kick her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

sweet dreams?

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“Dad, are you getting up already?”

The clock on the stove reads 6:35 a.m.

The reflection in the hallway mirror reads puffy eyes, twisted pillow face and furrowed frown.

The sun is barely up and he’s already ensconced on the futon, laptop heating up his little chicken legs and blaring video game challenges at full volume.

6:35 a.m. This conversation will not be profitable.

“No, just going for a pee.”

“Oh good! Not because I don’t like when we spend time together, you know dad, but I like having my mornings. You understand?”

“I understand.” I head for the bathroom.

I concentrate and aim for the porcelain. In this early morning fog, the quality of my day hangs in the balance. The last thing I want is to be wiping my urine off the walls. Just at the critical moment of flow, the cat sticks her head between my legs and stands there, eyes blinking with the splash of the toilet. I can’t move to chase her for fear of misdirecting what is still evacuating.

“Stupid cat, get the hell out of there.”

“What dad? I didn’t hear you,” screams Noah from the living room, over the clicking cacophony of his game.

“Was talking to the cat.” I scream back from the bathroom, over the noise of my downpour.

“What?”

Going back to bed is fading as an option.

The cat meows, wipes my pee splatter off her head by rubbing against my leg. I resist the urge to just kick her to the bejesus and back. Instead I wash my hands.

As I step out of the bathroom I run straight into Noah.

“Look, dad, look how much I blew out.”

He’s holding out two handfuls of snot filled paper towels. Ready for inspection.

“Tons of it, huh? Yeah, that’s why I feel soooo much better, it’s like I was never, it’s like I never, you know had fever. Look in my throat, you’ll see.”

He drops the snot rags on the table and hands me my cheap glasses and a flashlight.

My eyes look back at me from the mirror. Barely slits, certainly not willing to be useful.

I put on the glasses and click on the flashlight and twist Noah’s head back.

“Say aaaaaahhhhh!”

He says aaaaaaahhhhh.

I focus light and eyes and brain on the back of his throat.

Clean. Healthy. Pink. No Babylonian hanging gardens of mucus.

“All clean.”

“Told you, hunh.”

“Yeah. Good news.”

“So what are we doing today, dad?”

I slip off the glasses and try to refocus on mid range objects. There’s the bloody cat standing beside her empty dish with a ‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ look.

“Did you feed your monsters, Noah? The noisy fat one and the silent finny one.”  We have a cat and a fish.

‘It’s too early, dad, like, then they’ll be hungry at the wrong times and like I can’t be here to feed them all the time, you know?”

I nod. How he forgets that when it involves his snacking desires.

“Dad, what’s for breakfast? I’m like sorta hungry. Because you know I’m not sick anymore.”

“Noah did you even look?”

“Where?”

“Where I always lay out your breakfast.”

He looks around as if it could be floating tantalizingly in mid air.

“I don’t see it.”

I used to think that he did it on purpose. Now I know how blind and dumb they can be. Alternating with ‘all-knowing’ and ‘all-seeing’.

“The table.”

A splendid cherry danish sits under it’s delightfully sticky icing.

“Oh!” says my wonder.

He heads for the fridge and pulls out the glass of milk that always waits to accompany the pastry. He sips while walking, threatening a spill.

I keep my peace.

He sits, almost dropping the glass as he places it by the danish.Then he remembers something.

“Dad, why don’t you go back to bed? Like, it’s really early for you.”

Yeah, why don’t I go to bed. I nod.

“Later Noah.”  I wave and head to my room. I hear Noah wishing me sweet dreams.

I drop on my bed, push the door shut with my foot. I turn this way, turn that way. I hear the cat bang its head against my door. Literally. Just in case, she meows and bangs again.

Sweet dreams. Sure. Maybe if I wake up now … The kid will be at school, the cat will be fed and some delightfully naked lady will be making pancakes with lots of maple syrup which we will feed each other before falling into sticky lovemaking.

The door cracks open.

“Are you asleep, dad?”

“Yes.”

Old joke but it always works.

“Hahaha, good one dad. It’s just like, the cat, she puked everywhere, and it’s really gross.”

Sweet dreams, he had said.

I swing my legs over the edge of my bed. If it were a ledge I would jump. But with my luck I would probably end up quadriplegic, sucking through a straw and pissing into a bag.

So I jump off my bed.

“Dad, I know what we could do today.”

“Pick up the puke?”

“After that…”

“Feed her so she can puke some more?”

“Daaaaaadddd.”

“Noooaaaaaaaaaahhhh.”

I step out of my room and straight into a furry mucky puddle of cat vomit. Noah starts laughing like the dork he is.

I dart a look at the mirror. There’s Annie Lennox.

Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody’s looking for something

Sweet dreams are made of this? A challenge!

“Sorry dad, it’s just too funny.”

And I’m the punchline. Despite my best efforts, a smile cracks across my face as I go for the paper towels and spray cleaner.

 

single nights

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“Man, it’s so cool to see you doing the single thing.”

He’s genuinely pleased. Jason is a man in his thirties who lives in the downscale apartment building at the end of the street. The one in front of which a tenant can be found every other night at midnight offering twenty dollar blow jobs. She’s more insistent as the end of the month comes round. That’s when the welfare checks have been consumed and there’s nothing left in her fridge.

Jason has a minuscule first floor balcony that is overrun by his wonderfully healthy plantations. Noah and I chat with him every afternoon as we walk back from school or the day camp. He’s sweet and smart and loves sharing with my kid. He also is constantly complimentary about my parenting.

Nice.

So today, it’s 7pm and it’s the second and last day of my life without child. Noah is camping in the woods with his day camp. Tents, marshmallow roasts, midnight scary stories. I’m sure he’s having fun.

I’m hurrying to a restaurant for take out so I can rush back home. I’m  running out of time for doing nothing at all.

Jason is pleased for me.

“Are you going to a bar somewhere, pick up a babe?”

“No. It’s so good to just not have to cook, not have to listen to anybody for hours on end. I really just want the ease of doing nothing and the comfort of not having to be with anybody.”

“I get you. But, knowing you….”. He smiles in that lascivious elfin male way.

He’s seen me often walking home or walking back from home, with a lady or another or another. He’s convinced I’m wildly successful with the ladies. I try to debunk the myth that somehow seems to float with me. I love women, I love their smell, their shapes, their everything even as they sometimes, too often, devastate me emotionally.

I’ve told him repeatedly that not all of them end up exposing their most tender parts to me. But he accuses me of modesty.

A pronouncement that Noah made when he was four comes back to me.

“Dad, you often fall in the street from love.”

“You find.”

“Yeah, like that girl, that she was in front of that store, the one that you said was cute, but that I didn’t because I don’t like red hair.”

“Jacinthe.”

“Dad, how do you know her name?”

Pillow talk, my boy.

“She told me.”

“She had freckles all over. I don’t like freckles.”

I love freckles….especially that she had freckles really all over. And natural red hair.

And then there was the census girl that came to my apartment to survey my demographics and ended up participating in my pornographics. She had a freckle right where…

“Rudy, I got something for you.”  Jason disappears into his one and a half apartment. I can hear him rummaging, He steps back out and hands me a joint.

“For later.”

“Thanks.” We exchange a few friendly salutations and I move on.

So, my evening as a single guy will be Chinese Take out, as hot and spicy as I can get, a bad action film rental and a joint. Placid, boring, solitary. Just what I need.

I wonder what Noah is doing right now. I look forward to hearing all about it when he’s back tomorrow.

I can already hear him.

“Dad, it was awesome because…” quickly followed by, “But what sucks was…”.

I hope he took lots of pictures.

 

diss…

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…is not right!

“Dad, those are new? They really don’t look good on you. You should take them off.”

“What? Right here?”

It’s 5 pm and I’m in the gym at his day camp.

“That’s just gross dad. Naked? Oh man. Yuck!.

You can certainly count on your children to reassure you about your desirability.

He parks himself in the crowd waiting for the elevator.

“Noah, let’s take the stairs.”

“I’m too exhausted,” says the brand new human.

I must admit the staircase to the exit is steep and long and narrow. Hard on the calves. But the elevator takes forever and already there are too many waiting.

“Noah, let’s just go.”

“Naww.”

Another parent, suffering his kid’s hard headed insistence on mechanical assistance, wants to share.

“They’re tired, so they’re not very reasonable, eh? And the stairs are hard.”

Oh, shut up! You’re fat and sweaty. I’m just sweaty. I mumble a half smile.

“Come on, Noah, if it’s not here by the time I count ten, we take the stairs.”

“Count to thirty.”

“One…two…three…” As I count I pop my fingers up.

The fat dad is watching with a smile of growing excitement.

“Twenty, dad, count until twenty.”

“…9…10… 11…12…. .”

Oh the excitement, the trepidation!

“..19…20.”

No elevator.

“Ok, let’s go.”

“Thirty, dad.”

“Come on.”

“Awww…”

Sweaty fat dad looks at my kid with adipose empathy.

I start up the steep stairs. Noah grumbles, but steps in beside me. By the time we exit on the ground floor lobby, my legs are singing in plaintive unison with my wheezing lungs.

“Dad, those shorts are really not good looking.”

He’s exacting revenge.

“Okay, Noah. You’ve already told me.”

“I’m just saying, but they’re really embarrassing. You should take them off and never, never, ever wear them again.”

“I admit. I’m not crazy about them, either. But they’re not that bad. And they were  fifteen dollars.”

“Yeah, but they’re too short. They look weird. And what’s this thing?”

He tugs hard at the cuff at the bottom of the leg.

“Don’t rip that!”

I slap his hand away. But he’s right, the cuffs are the problem.

“I agree with you, Noah. Maybe I’ll get Melina (my niece) to undo them and hem the legs.”

He gives a non-committal ‘humph’.

“Maybe.”

We head out on the sidewalk and the steep hill up to the park which we cross to get home.

Yes, at the end of the day, it’s uphill and steep all the way home. Noah is wearing a black cap and is churning ill will. He looks like a little black storm cloud waiting to thunder and tempest.

“How was the excursion, today?”

“Okay.”

Okay.

“Did you like the steak sandwich I made you?”

“It was okay.”

Okay.

The park is filled with dogs walking their masters, nuts rolling away from squirrels, and a jogger running backwards.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you, like, plan to wear those shorts again?”

“Yes.”

“Because, really dad…”

“Noah, you’ve told me four times already. Do you think I’m dumb?”

“Sometimes.”

I look down at him. His eyes have widened. I think that one slipped out. He looks at me.

“That was a joke, dad. Really.”

“Hmmm.”

I’m skeptical. But I keep walking. Parental Rule #4…keep moving.

“But, still dad, those pants…”.

“Stop it. You’ve been dissing me nonstop since I picked you up. Parents have feelings too, you know.”

“I know.”

“So treat me with the same respect I treat you.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“But, dad….”

 

 

 

 

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.

 

fertilizer me…

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Noah is nine.

His Mother, whom I loved to distraction, began her schizophrenic descent to hell when he was nine months old. She left our lives and the country when Noah was three, or there abouts.

Since then, I’ve had lovers, many lovers. My body has exulted, my mind has been seduced, but my heart keeps to itself.

“Dad, is she your girlfriend?”

“It’s our first date, Noah.”

“Maybe she’ll become your girlfriend like if it goes well?”

“Maybe.”

I already know it’s highly unlikely. It may be a roll or two or three, knotted in her bedsheets or mine. It may be wonderful sex ending in a friendship. But nothing more. Or less.

“You look really good, dad, in that shirt. That’s the one I like found, right?”

“Yup.”

“I have good taste, huhn?”

“Sure do.”

Noah and I actually went out shopping for a pair of pants and shirt…for me. Every  piece of clothing I own is older than my son, so I was due. Noah mixed and matched and brought me items while I tried them in the changing booth. The three salesladies were totally taken with him.

As I go down the stairs, heading for my date, I hear Noah whispering to his babysitter.

“Dad has a date, and a new shirt…”

I don’t hear the rest.

Since I’ve been single with child , women have come into my life and moved on…generally to other men with whom they begin building something lasting.

Several of them are now affianced.

One of those ladies made it a point of showing me the rock on her finger before she invited me in for a last escapade one morning before she moved in with her future husband. In the quiet, beautiful moments after, as her breath blew eddies across the hair on my chest, she told me he was the love of her life. She hoped to have a kid, as beautiful as Noah. I told her she would be a wonderful mom. In fact, in the brief months of our frequentation she was auditioning for precisely that role in my life. But having a child actually spring from her loins became her true wish. As I left her apartment for the last time, she thanked me for making her realize what she really wanted.

I’m good at that… fertilizing other’s arid soils with intent and desire. Other’s reap the fruit.

Three of my recent lovers have become pregnant. No, no, not from me. I’m the way station, the hub-airport that connects to the desired destination. Of course, like any port I collect some of their riches before they move on.

The other day, I met one of these ladies, as Noah and I strolled down the street. She was with her husband and 9 month baby. If I was still Catholic I would have said they looked like the Holy Family, but since I’m now lapsed into paganism, I say nothing.

They seemed happy. She introduced me to the father, as a dear friend. When she and I kissed each other’s cheeks her smell overwhelmed me with visions of her nakedness. She was wonderfully fleshy and moist. And strangely sad, afterwards.

As they walked away, Noah pulled my hand.

“Dad, wasn’t she like your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, a couple of years ago.”

“Does it like make you feel bad that she like has a baby and a guy like that she married?”

“No, not all.”

Well, perhaps a little.

“They looked happy, didn’t they?”

“I guess so, yeah, dad.”

I like to think I contributed to her blooming, in an odd, deflected way.

Now, as I head to my “date” in my new shirt, I wonder how much I still feel like “contributing”.

 

 

 

Aaaarrrrrrr…

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…rrrrrrrrrrr

“Dad, what’s uh, the, the uh, no, not like that…I have to start over. Okay, now I got it.”

9pm. Walking back home from the premiere of his school’s presentation of The Pirates of Penzance.

“Okay, what’s a pirate’s favorite letter?”

“RRRRrrrrrrrrrrrr:” I growl it like a pirate.

“Aaaaaawwww…” He’s disappointed I’ve stolen his punchline.

“But it’s not like that dad. You don’t do it right. It’s like this ‘AAARRRrrrrrrrrr’. Get it?”

“AAAAaarrrrrrr.”

“No dad, you really don’t do it right.”

Sounded exactly right to me. But I’ll cede the terrain. After all he was the pirate with the dreads and rotten teeth singing and “Arrrrrr-ing” for the last couple of hours on stage.

He never lost focus, following choreography and lyrics like a veteran. He even stayed in character when he found me in the audience and smiled, pirate-like.

“This is how it’s done, listen carefully….’AAAAAAAaaaaarrrrrrrr’…now you try.”

“Aaaaaarrrrrr.”

“Hopeless, dad, you’re just hopeless.”

I sigh melodramatically.

He throws me a look. He’s still got dark makeup giving him a scowling expression. And then he smiles with his blackened, rotten pirate teeth.

“You’re crazy dad. But like fun crazy, not crazy, sick-in-the-head crazy, you know?”

“Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Noah shakes his head. I’m a lost cause.

Been spending a lifetime finding my way…looking for something I lost so early that the only thing that remains is melancholy…

.. and striving.

“Dad, I’m so pumped like for tomorrow’s Halo Race. I’ll run now, okay? To like do a little training, you know?”

He darts off, breathing like a marathon runner. He quickly reaches the corner and jogs on the spot, waiting for me.

As I reach him, the light goes to green.

“I’m fast huhn? Can I go?”

“Sure.”

He takes off again towards the next corner, darting through the evening fauna, mostly couples with lots of hand-holding and hugging to navigate through. I wonder how many will survive the year or the night or the moment.

As I rejoin Noah, jogging on the spot at the corner, a whiff of perfume wafts by.

So familiar.

They say that with age, you lose your memory. In my case, it’s quite the contrary. I get overwhelmed by sudden flashbacks. My memory inundates my present with strong images and sensory souvenirs.

Venetian blond, naturally Venetian blond…pink nipples, cherry-shaped.

Pink cherries….delightful.

“Bananas.”

“What Noah?”

“Did you buy me the bananas for tomorrow?”

Bananas, cherries, fruit salad, southern Italy, before Noah, breakfast, almost naked in bed, quickly becoming naked in bed and fruit salad, spilling on the marble floor, me her and the fruit salad…

“Dad, Miss Anita said that we should like eat two bananas and nothing else for breakfast.”

“Yessir. Bought a bunch of bananas, super ripe, super sweet.”

“Great dad.”

I’ve also planned his bagged lunch for tomorrow’s race….light, nutritious, highly digestible, in packaging that can all be thrown away afterwards. I run it through my mind again, just in case.

Yup! All good.

“Can I run to the next corner, dad?”

Green light, no cars.

“Go for it.”

He whooshes away, so quickly that he kicks his butt with his feet.

Angel.

That was the name of the perfume. Devilish. Mixed with the natural musk of a woman’s crooks and crannies it pleased me no end. Even now, years later.

“Dad, these socks are great. Could I like wear them again tomorrow?”

That’s a whole different spectrum of scents.. dirty, redolent gym socks on an unwashed 9 year old boy.

Pungent like really wonderful Gorgonzola Cheese. But what is good in a cheese is no good in your shoes.

“Remember Noah? We bought three pairs this weekend so that you could have new fresh socks for the race.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot. And new shoes, too. It’s uhm, the first time I wear my new runners tomorrow. I’ll be so fast.”

Fast. Gorgonzola cheese. A long French baguette.

Oops! Another kiddy inappropriate flashback.

“Remember dad?”

“Whaaaa…?”

“Yeah, remember last year at the show, it was raining and…”

Damn…mixing flashbacks.

Dangerous.