Tag Archives: Pokemon

bury…

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…the dead

“Check this out, dad. It’s like the most fun I’ll ever have, ever, of my whole life like.”

This was last Friday morning on the way to the school bus. It has been the theme of his week. The upcoming unimaginably wonderful weekend.

“First, Alissa comes tonight and I can go on the computer…”

“Only if you…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know dad, only if I behave right at school. But listen, after I go on the computer, tomorrow … ”

Now that had an impact.

“…tomorrow it’s Edgar’s birthday and we go go go go…hah, did you hear me dad?…yeah we go go go go-karting. Aaaawwwwessssome.”

I must admit go karting is pretty awesome. Small, powerful, smelly vehicles careening around an indoor track in barely controlled mayhem.

Too bad it’s with a bunch of kids who have only recently learned to control their bowel movements, let alone hurtling vehicles.

“Yeah and then, Sunday, it’s the Pokemon Pre-Release Tournament where we get like, eh, you know, sixty, yeah, sixty, imagine sixty new cards that are not even released yet, That’s why it’s called Pre-Release. You understand?”

He’s told me everyday, several times a day for the last few days, so, yeah….

“I understand, Noah.”

“Yeah and then Monday its Halloween and we go to school in costume. Dad we gotta get gray and red and black make-up.”

“On the way home, tonight.”

“We need lots.”

“Of course.”

I’ve learned that you don’t argue about taste or quantities. My feast is another man’s poverty.

“And then, it’s Trrrrrricccckkkk ‘RRRRR  Treeeaaaatttt, oh yeah, oh yeah, aaaawwwweessssooommmeeee.”

He’s still dancing and singing as he disappears into the school bus.

That’s his weekend, so, by definition, it’s my weekend.

The hell with the things undone that rot my life. The unpaid bills, the unwashed dishes, the unswept floors, the unfilmed screenplays, the  women unloved, the depths unplumbed, the heights unconquered.

Saturday, I strap on a helmet and whoop in the noxious fumes of Kartomania.

Sunday, I rah rah and fist pump my future Pokemon Master on his quest through the Univa region.

Monday, I’m the bag man as he roams the streets as the Soul Reaper, harvesting candies in such abundance that I carry two spare bags for the overflow.

Halloween weekend… celebrating the departed through derision, fun and noise.

My illusions are lying in a shallow grave, in between the tombstones of Past and Future.

I have finished mourning them all.

BOOOOO…..you don’t scare me anymore. PPPPFFFFFFFTTTT…. you don’t seduce me anymore.

Focus, dad. Relax, dad. Enjoy, dad.

Just before he disappears in the school bus, this  Halloween Monday morning, my little Soul Reaper flashes me a smile and mouths a silent ‘Aweeeeeessssommmmeee’ complete with fist pump.

I may be slow, but I’m getting the message.

 

 

 

 

imagine…

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…Dad

“Nine booster packs with ten Pokemon New Release cards in each pack is like, like …”.

He counts in his head now, rather than on his fingers, but he’s mouthing the figures in an odd little litany.

“…like ninety cards. That’s like what we get at the tournament on Sunday. Imagine, Dad.”

“Wow.”

It’s the ‘Imagine Dad’ that sticks in my mind.

If I were to Imagine a Dad, how would he be?

Would he be me? But with money?

“Dad, can we turn the light on, I’m freaking myself out.”

We’re lying in my bed. It’s 5:45 a.m. and he’s rolled into my sheets, complaining of a stomach ache. Now’s he’s fine and even a little annoying.

“Yeah, because you know, it’s like this. You know how everybody always says ‘Great, what an imagination he has’ ? Yeah, and I reeeaaaallyyy imagine a lot, all the time. So, it’s great, right dad? Yeah, but sometimes I imagine freaky things that scare me. Like right now I see a zombie. You see dad? Right there on the wall. Ahhhhhh! Freak out!”

The same faculty that imagines the wonderful also invents the horrible.

I used to spend whole nights in the hallway outside my parents’ room, watching them sleep because I was afraid of the witches that would infiltrate my room when I closed my eyes.

Now, imagination is my livelihood and the prime mover of all my pleasures.

“They are all stories, Noah. Freaky or beautiful, they’re invented. Therefore not real.”

“But they feel really real, dad. I’m really scared for real.”

“That’s because you’re a good storyteller. The emotions you feel are real. But even if you’re reeeeaaaaaallllyyyyy afraid, there are no zombies in my room or your room or anywhere.”

No sense telling him that the stories are so real, in some countries, that pseudo-zombies do exist.That people actually do die of fright. That’s really real.

“When you, like, write one of your movies does it like, huh….”

Searching for a word. A wonderful moment.

“….huh….”

“Does it affect me emotionally?”

“…yeah exactly, does it….affect you, like there, you know…”

He pats heart and belly. This from a kid who has heartburn and belly aches.

How elegant life is if you can just see the patterns.

“Yeah, when I’m writing, I make myself laugh, sometimes I make myself cry.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s freaky.”

“It’s fun.”

“Really?”

“Really. I live real emotions but I’m not living the story. I’m inventing. Like traveling without going anywhere.”

“Sweet.”

Sweet. A wonderful word.

Imagining is sweet.

Once upon a time there was a boy who was so afraid of witches that when he grew up he made love to them, so that they wouldn’t destroy him. And then this grown up boy had a son who was afraid of nothing. Except his own imagination.

If only I could figure out the moral…

(NOTE: To all my readers…if you appreciate my post, please go to the Daddy Knows Less Facebook page and ‘LIKE’ …it helps me to know you’re out there. Thanks)

 

joy…

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…management

“Dad, yesterday was a perfect day.”

Perfect!  The exclamation marks are my effort at positive thinking.

“Yeah like it was awesome at the Pokemon tournament. Yeah, right here in Montréal, imagine a place like that, it was just like being in Tokyo at the Pokemon Center, yeah, too cool. Now I’m a member of the International Pokemon League. Imagine.”

Imagine!

“Yeah and I even beat the 14th best player in all of Canada. I’m good, huh?”

Good!

“And before that we eat a Piri Piri sandwich, it was great, hunh, dad?”

Great!

He’s checking that he forgets none of the joys by counting them out on his fingers.

“And my choice on Next Star…the best one. Charlie. She’s so hot, Charlie, even on the TV. You know dad, she chose the name Charlie because she’s like you know a girl, but with a guy style, yeah sweet!”

Sweet!

“Then you make me white pasta with just enough cheese. The best.”

The best!

“And I even went to bed a whole 55 minutes later to organize the 15 new cards I got. Wow.”

Wow!

He’s now in front of the mirror, slicking his hair down,

“You know its like the perfect yesterday is becoming a perfect today, yeah it’s the school picture and I got my hair totally untangled and you washed my chic shirt, so I’ll look real good and maybe even Keegan might notice. Dad, look ….perfect.” He poses with perfect pleasure.

Perfect!

“Do you know what dream I had last night dad? I dreamed that I was running for a plane and I was going to Hollywood for the International Pokemon Championship because I was the best Canadian player in the world. Yeah, and you were running with me. And we were laughing real hard. Fun, hunh?”

Yeah, fun!fun,

“Thanks dad for the awesomest day and for bringing me to the Tournament.”

I rub his head in response.

“Don’t muss my hair dad!”

Sorry, this morning I have no words, Noah. I’m choked up. His gratitude fuels my pain. I feel like a fraud. Does it show?

All of yesterday, I lived in a parallel universe, stifling the howls of anger and sadness and the sense of doom. As I organized and accompanied Noah on his most excellent adventures, I felt like a zombie in a virtual world. Outside of me, the world rolled on, including Noah skipping and hopping, concentrating on playing his first tournament, discovering a Pokemon community, tearing up when his fave won the Canadian teen version of Idol and enjoying everything.

I concentrated on not showing anything because everything inside was ugly.

Joy management.

Exalting Noah’s joy by becoming transparent, on the way to invisible.

As he leaves on the school bus, the smile he flashes at me has no shadows, no grasping for affection. Its a sweet. loving, joyful smile.

A foreign word…

… Joy.

credit card…

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…daddy

“Oh daddy, I want so much for you to say yes, it’s one of my biggest dreams. If only you could say yes…”

He rubs his sweet little head against my belly as we wait for the school bus. It makes you want to say yes, no matter what the request.

A scientist lady friend without kids told me once that it was emotional blackmail. That kids had manipulative strategies. She said conscious, I said unconscious.

I said “it’s love too.”

She left.

Pity. She and I were good together.

“If only you would say yes this once. Pleeeassse dad.”

“Sounds like life and death, Noah.”

“I know you’re going to say no…”.

“So if you already know the answer don’t ask the question.”

Yeah right!

He rubs his  little knotted-hair feral head against me a little harder.

Manipulate all you want kid.  I love rubbing his head, his sweet and sour smell, milk and cookies mixed in with toothpaste and semi-clean feet.

Bottle it…for when he’ll be too old and I’ll be too lonely.

“Just say it Noah.”

“Could I please, just once, borrow your credit card?”

“Which is why you’ll be using the computer less and less.”

“Eh?” He pulls his head away suddenly, snagging my fingers in one of his  knotted curls.

“Owww, you pulled my hair.”

Focus. He’s looking to bitch.

“You go on the computer to play, sure, now and then you learn something, but more than anything you’ve become an online shopaholic with no credit.”

‘That’s not true.”

“Let me guess, you saw a ‘one-time only online super-special not-available-in-stores Pokemon super-booster pack limited time-offer for only, only….’ “.

“…only 19.95, dad.”

He looks up, happy, sees my “gotcha” expression.

Priceless. And everything else that needs a card can wait.

He mumbles, loudly so I can hear, just in case I might give in.

“I never bought nothing on the net, like, all my friends buy all sorts of stuff, and I never, ever, get anything…”.

If it wasn’t so comical, I would be annoyed. I could make an inventory of all the stuff I’ve bought for him on and off the net with cash, credit, debit and even with sweat and sacrifice. Especially sacrifice.

Luckily, the bus pulls up. I crouch to hug him. He hugs back.

“Have a nice day, kid. I love you.”

“I love you too, dad.

He climbs into the bus. We throw kisses and grimaces as it pulls away.

Yes, scientist lady friend who left.

It’s love.