“Hey, Barkeep, where’s my cold one?” I recognized the voice even without turning around. Switching the Oasis on, I let the pink mixture blend for 30 seconds, poured the daiquiris into the sugar rimmed Cyclones, added a lime to each and placed them on the service bar on top of the chit.
“Hey Larry, how was your shift?” Wearing my best smile I slid a pint of 50 in front of him.
“Looong and over.” He boomed, the cold mug to his lips before finishing the sentence. One of my regulars, Larry was a shift worker at the nearby plastics manufacturer. I saw him every night at 11:15 when he was working afternoons and every afternoon at four when he worked mornings.
“Are you gonna be eating today Lare?” I asked, waving a menu, figuring he would pass as he usually did.
“Yeah, I’ll take a menu and why don’t you pour us a coupla shots – your pick. Jeff’s coming today.” His gaze hugged every inch of my body, making me wish I hadn't forgotten my sweater.
“I can’t Larry. You know Joe’s new rule, we can’t drink during shift even if the customer is buying. Besides, I’ve got class tonight.” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. Great, he had his kid today.
“Sure? Joe’s not gonna hear it from me. C’mon, pour us two Lemon Drops. I wanna celebrate shiftend! Don’t let me drink alone.” There was the familiar desperation in his voice. Every single night this guy had something to celebrate.
“Why don’t you grab a bite? What time is Jeff getting dropped off?” His ex-wife usually brought the ten-year old straight to the bar after school. Anger gripped my shoulders thinking about these two being allowed to have a child.
“Soon, he'll be here soon. I’ll grab something when he gets here.” Then laughing conspiratorially leaned over the bar. “I wanna down a couple before he gets here though.”
I couldn’t wait to be done school. This job wasn’t worth it some nights. My lighthearted facade was wearing thin with this guy.
“No problem Larry, but you know I’m not gonna keep serving you when Jeff gets here. Remember what happened last time. You locked him out of the house and passed out. He walked back here and had to stay at Sam’s. It’s not right, a ten year old, wandering the streets at midnite.” I tried to keep my voice steady but I could hear it rising, rich with indignation.
He grabbed an olive from my garnish tray, his yellow fingernails black rimmed; then popping it into his mouth, he chewed hungrily. He lifted his mug and drained the last half of his beer, not even giving the condensation a chance to wet the bar.
I turned my back, pretending to read one of my chits. Disgusting, I thought. But pointing out this vulgarity would only encourage him to treat the garnish tray as a buffet later on when he was drunk.
“Really? Are you gonna be like that now too? First Sam. Now you? Whatthafuckman?” He slammed his mug on the bar. Then audibly dislodging the phlegm in his throat, he grabbed his cigarettes. Automatically, I held my lighter to his smoke, having to control my urge to aim elsewhere.
“Thanks.” He muttered.
I reluctantly poured him a Lemon Drop. He signalled to his empty mug and I was forced to pour him another draft too.
At least I wouldn’t be around to witness the sloppy mess he would become later. When it was just him, I could care less. On those nights, I stuffed him into a cab and gave the driver his address. But these shifts, when it was his turn to take care of the poor kid who called him Dad: serving him on these occassions made me sick. Made me want to call Children’s Aid.
This is my entry for The Red Writing Hood prompt "someone who really gets under your skin." Constructive criticism is welcome.
Dear Raffi,
what kind of voodoo-magic hocus-pocus did you weave into your riffs that has my boys mesmerized? I thought it was just dumb luck that first time with Deaglan, when after 40 torturous minutes of head-splitting wailing on our way to Sarnia, I slipped in one of your CDs, that he mercifully (excuse my bluntness) shut his pie hole.
So then I started using (you) when I had to take a shower and leave him in the crib; a little peanut butter sandwich made with jam, and he was quiet as a mouse. And I thought that would be it. But no; I found myself getting greedy, taking hits (of you) on shorter drives - some take me out to the ballgame and presto, a stress-free ride to Walmart.
I also noticed your music having calming effects on my husband's driving, so that pretty soon we were both singing along with you, sometimes at the top of our lungs. And just like riding a bike, the words came back, even though it had been thirty years since we'd heard you last. There were moments when I'd hear apples and bananas in my head while doing the dishes and happily start whistling.
Convinced your hold over my son was going to be short-lived, too good to be true, I got desperate. I needed more. More albums. I was going through CD's one after another and there were always songs that struck a chord. There was the shake your sillies out phase, and the now-infamous tingalayo phase. We sometimes had to give him six or seven doses (of that song) where he would dance naked (and maniacally I might add) around his toddler bed, butchering the lyrics.
Then with the birth of Naveen, I told myself to not get my hopes high; I certainly wouldn't be able to train him to be addicted to (ahem) - enjoy your music. But it didn't take much repeated exposure. It was like giving candy to a baby. Like a fish to water, he just took to it, like he'd been listening to you since the womb.
Why, just this morning, while driving Deaglan to daycare, Naveen decided that being up all night teething didn't make me candidate-for-the-loony-bin enough, he started a riot in his car seat making me wonder if I didn't maybe accidentally pinch his finger into the seatbelt buckle when you came into my mind like some sort of metaphysical zen instructor. Grampa's Farm, Grampa's Farm you seemed to be chanting. And just like that I pressed play and that tiny motormouth CANNED IT.
So thank you, you pied piper, you shutter-upper of babies and toddlers, you magic man. May I just say you get more and more attractive to the likes of mothers like me. Suddenly short trimmed beards are kinda sexy, Armenian men alluring, the lyrics to Kumbaya intoxicating - if you know what I mean. Okay, I'm not sure I know what I mean with that...but still, thank you.
Sincerely,
Mother of two, impatient-in-the car, haven't-let-me-sleep-in-three-years, it's-all-about-them, boys.
I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.
If you were a fly on our wall, you'd see that Shaune and I have a fairly contemporary marriage. No traditional roles assigned to the usual suspects around here. We use a strengths-based model. He cooks, I clean. He shovels the driveway, I change poopy diapers. He rough-houses and wrestles with the kids. I yell at them to cut it the hell out! He teaches them stuff that'll get a laugh. I roll my eyes.
Seriously though, we have a pretty good thing going on. Shaune helps diaper, feed and bathe the boys, cooks most of our meals and is generally the epitome of a modern-day dad and husband. I appreciate it but also think it's the way it should be.
Pioneers though we may be (you're welcome future daughter-in-laws!), a few aspects of our relationship would send us straight back to the I Love Lucy days.
Three words.
Vehicles. Computers. Cameras.
When it comes to dealings in these domains, my husband has absolutely no faith in me. And I'm not even really sure why; I think I'm a pretty good driver, adept on the computer, take good pictures and video. But bless his heart, he can't help but give me a mini driving lesson if there is a patch of black ice within a five mile radius, seems unable to stop himself from cautioning me that the laptop's CPU is directly beneath the keyboard -I might want to take it easy when typing and can be found mumbling under his breath if the camera case is accidentally left open.
So you will understand when I tell you that I was sick to my stomach when I scraped the side of the Odyssey on a yellow poll trying to manoeuvre it through the Lilliputian-sized gateway to the underground parking lot of a downtown hotel two weeks ago. (Although I'm on maternity leave until June, I had to attend an orientation to learn of some structural changes at work.) And I wasn't sick because I was worried about the van, the damage was minor; I just knew that my husband's philosophy of my abilities in areas of electrical equipment and large machinery would be confirmed.
So instead of enjoying a few minutes with my colleagues before the meetings commenced, I paced the lobby of the hotel and rehearsed how I would break it to Shaune that I had hit the poll. Then, deciding I couldn't live with the kind of anxiety required to wait until I was finished at work, I called him.
"Hey"
"Hey"
"I have to tell you something"
"What?"
"I scraped the car on the yellow poll going into the parking lot at the Hilton."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No, but thanks for asking me if I'm alright"
"Well you woulda told me if you weren't. How bad is it?"
"There's yellow paint over the back driver-side wheel well. Some scraping too."
"F***. Really?"
"Really. I wanted to tell you but I gotta go to my meeting."
"Fine."
"Bye."
Twenty minutes into my meeting I get this text:
"How deep is the scrape?"
My reply:
Mostly paint. Shallow.
Shaune:
How long?
Is he kidding me right now? This is the first time in over a year I'm in heels and a suit, it's snowing out and he wanted me to measure the scrape??
Didn't measure-in meeting
An hour later I'm still in meetings and get this text:
Deep enough you can see metal?
Oh.my.god.
Don't think so.
And even after all this, me thinking I was breaking his fall by warning him ahead of time, he still shook his head and took several moments of silence when he saw the scrape.
I guess I should just thank my lucky stars that he kept quiet and didn't exclaim Lucy! You got some splainin to do!
John looked at the brown and gold box on the counter. Tim Hortons. His mouth watered at the thought of the fluffy pink icing. They were not for him. He knew this. They were never for him. Still, he imagined biting into one.
The front door opened and his foster-sister ran in.
"Mama, did you get me the Double Strawberry Dips?"
"Yes, sweetie, the pink ones." replied Janice.
"With the sprinkles? Last time they didn't have sprinkles."
"I made sure." John's foster mother looked at him and gestured to the kitchen.
He'd been sidetracked by the donuts. Quickly he set to work cleaning up the morning dishes as he did every day after school.
"Can I eat one now?" Claire asked jumping up and down, her pink tutu swishing in tandem.
Janice opened the box and cut one in half. She handed it to Claire. John's stomach rumbled. The ten year old busied himself rinsing the cereal bowls just the way his foster mother liked, before stacking them into the dishwasher, forcing himself not to look at the open box.
"We'll save this half for after dinner, okay?"
"What about the other two Mama? Can Johnny have one?" Claire always asked on donut days. John had liked the six year old immediately. In the little over a year since he'd been placed with Janice, Claire was the only bright spot; she was nothing like her mother.
"No honey, we don't want John to get cavities. You know that. He didn't go to the dentist like you always have." Her voice light and airy for Claire's sake. John flinched remembering the quick hard slap he'd received the week before when she caught him eating a piece of Claire's Double Pink Dip.
"You little thief!" She'd accused. Her ring had hit the bone on the side of his face, and he'd yelped out. He tried to explain through the tears that Claire had given it to him but Janice gripped his shoulder cutting him off.
"I have done enough for you -do you hear me?" He tried not to blink away her angry spit that had landed in his right eye.
"You're not to touch anything that doesn't belong to you while you're here." Her ice blue eyes narrowed and pierced through her frameless glasses. He'd never felt so frightened of a woman in his life.
This was the third foster home he'd been sent to since his own mother had been arrested. "Nobody wants boys." He'd overheard Joy, his social worker confide to someone on the phone. She was looking out the window when he came back from the washroom; didn't hear him walk in.
That was right before he came to Janice's, right about the time he'd decided to be on his best behaviour moving forward.
"You'll brush your teeth won't you Johnny?" Claire wasn't letting up.
Janice walked to the fridge, ignoring the girl. She grabbed a package of chicken, a small brick of cheese and the remaining half head of Iceberg. She reached into the cupboard under the sink and grabbed a thick wooden cutting board.
On Tuesdays they always ate Chicken tacos with avocados. And Claire and Janice ate Double Pink Dips for dessert.
This is my entry for the Red Dress Clubs picture prompt of this donut. It is a work of fiction pulled out of the rough draft novel I completed for National Novel Writing Month back in November. If you're interested in reading a few other very rough excerpts go here and here. Sorry for any inconsistencies - I'm still working out the details, believe me, I have a lot of work to do!
Monday morning right after his second bowl of Cheerios and only a half hour before he said he was starving again, Deaglan looked over at me and asked Mommy are you missing Uncle Matt?
Just like that.
Out of the clear blue sky.
I haven't told him that my brother is gone from here. Even writing that makes me ache. I don't see the point in telling a three year old what that means. I honestly don't know if he has the capacity to comprehend. It stressed me out though, this small earthly boy asking such a cosmic question.
All at once I felt like Atlas with that crushing globe on his shoulder. Burdened. Ever have one of those moments? Where you felt puny? Inadequate?
But I focused.
Didn't fall apart.
Didn't choke back tears.
Soberly I looked at my first born and said yes I do, I miss him all the time. And you know the blanket of comfort that three foot wonder wrapped me in? It's okay Mommy, we'll go visit his house and you'll feel better.
I left it
right there.
Then I pushed the door to my psyche open a crack and tossed this in with all the the other junk I'm not ready to deal with. Even still, I caught a glimpse of all that other stuff and I reeled a little.
I steadied myself on the smooth cool arm of the recliner.
Questions sliced through the spacey parts of my throat where the knot had formed. How I will ever convey all the things I want them to know? Carry with them.
Like my ocean-sized love for my brother. My heartache that he didn't meet my little Naveen. That I can't taste cold chardonnay or chocolate peanut butter balls without hearing his laugh.
I hugged him last Easter with my tiny boy growing snugly inside, burgeoning. I said I can't wait to get home and put on my comfy pants. And he laughed a light little laugh and cautiously patted my belly. I never saw him again.
The depth of such
an undertaking, to precisely depict Matthew, who he was to me,
a medley of pluck and slight,
threatened to swallow me.
So I left it
right there,
And I forgave myself, reasoning these could be matters for another day.
This is my entry for The Red Dress Club's prompt forgiveness.
The Boston Globe said of Elizabeth Gilbert's (Eat Pray Love author) most recent book Committed that it's "smart but not intimidating, wise but not smarmy, kind but imperfect, funny in a way that makes us feel better about ourselves."
It occurred to me that here exactly was how I would like to be described - not even my writing - just me in general. Oh I know I have work to do.
But I would agree with that review. I was prepared not to like this latest work. I hesitated before buying it; I'd read Eat Pray Love on the eve of motherhood and though I found no parallel between our lives at the time compelling me to relate to the book, it spoke to me so clearly that I read it three times.
Marriage has thankfully changed my view of relationships between couples. In my twenties I bought with fervour the romantic notion of you complete me. I believed that if I could only find that perfect person, that veritable super-man, I would finally be happy. That this man would be the part of me which was missing; make me whole and ensure that I lived happily ever after. And he would certainly have me at hello and because he was the one, we would always have an easy go of it, riding on waves of passion forever.
In Committed, Gilbert addresses this ridiculousness. She spends a year studying the institution of marriage throughout the centuries, shares her findings using her own mistaken notions and mirth to enlighten the reader so that you feel as if you and she are learning at the same time.
I love that.
There were times I wanted to call someone just to read parts out loud. And I would have if my children didn't suddenly become possessed every time I picked up the phone. Believe me if I didn't know for certain that Shaune would rather have a root canal without pain meds than discuss Eat Pray Love author's new book about love and marriage, I would have held a bookclub meeting right there in our living room quoting highlighted passages while we took turns discussing how Gilbert's findings impacted us.
Nevermind that Gilbert is relatable for me because we're about the same age, grew up in a similar culture of thinking - especially about relationships and marriage but I was sure at times that she'd plucked trains of thought straight from my head.
This book confirms that marriage the way I'm experiencing it, is right.
Is okay.
Is enough.
Is what it should be.
It talks honestly about the hard work that marriage is, the difference between infatuation and real love, how office relationships often initiated in the spirit of friendship can be insidious to your home life if you're not conscious of where it's going.
But there is no preaching. No judging and definitely no one-upping. She talks about this subject matter with boatloads of humility, beautiful language and a good dose of humour.
And because I think it's an important book to read, even though I'm not getting paid to promote it, I would like to offer someone my copy of the book. If you are interested, please leave a comment. I will use the random winner generator (I don't know if that's what it's called but there is such a thing) to pick a winner and send you the book. Be sure to leave me your first name and we can work out the details later.
I took pictures of our passport photos. We got them done this week. It was the first time the kids listened to what I've been saying. Deaglan kept smiling and saying cheese, finally. And it was the first time there was a good shot of Naveen's little teeth. Murphy's law at it's finest.
"Citizenshep?"
I handed the customs officer my driver's license and health card.
"Canadian." He shuffled the two pieces of ID and then looked at me.
"Where're you goin Miss?"
"I'm going to a baby shower. Uh, my sister's baby shower." I said, unable to recall where the shower was, my mind a blank suddenly.
"Where's your sister live?"
"Well she lives in Harper Woods, but the shower isn't there. It's at her friend's house. I mean it's at her sister-in-law's." I sat up straight hoping this would stop my voice from shaking. "I have the directions in my purse."
"Where're you bohn Miss?" He sounded just like my brother-in-law, same Michigan accent.
"Uh, Bangladesh but I've been a Canadian citizen for over twenty years."
"Where's your proof of citizenshep ehat?"
I'd been crossing this border since I was a kid and couldn't remember the last time they'd asked for my citizenship card.
"I'm waiting for a new one in the mail. I lost mine." It sounded lame even to me.
"MmmHmm." he said and without pausing, pointed toward the building in front of me. "Okaay please pull through and paark up under that paavilion. Do nat git out of your caar. An ahficer will cahm to you."
Shit. This was the first time I'd needed to cross since it had happened.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Customs and Immigration Building. I badly needed a cigarette but was too scared to light one up. Within a few minutes a stern-faced officer was standing next to my door, signalling me with two gloved fingers to step out the car.
I pulled my lips into a tight smile. "Hi," I said.
He nodded his head. "Please stay on this side of the yellow line ma'am."
I don't know why I hadn't considered the ramifications to security at the bridge. It was June 2002, not even a full year after 9/11, the day which had altered our world. A terrible, terrible day which ignited a new kind of fear, a new kind of racism.
"What's going on?" My nervousness was slowly heating into anger. "Are you searching my car?" No warning. Nothing.
"Yes I am Ma'am. Please stay behind the yellow line." His voice was rigid and unapologetic. He then popped my trunk and with a wand like stick began sifting through my belongings. Books, a towel, an extra dog leash, some half-empty water bottles and some loose papers.
I could hear my mother's voice in my head.
"You have to know which way to go at the bottom of the bridge. The wrong direction - pick the wrong line and you could be there for hours." I most certainly had gone the wrong direction.
It was not a good day to be a lone traveller with no documented proof of belonging. It definitely was not a good day to be a brown skinned Arabic-looking woman without proof of Canadian citizenship.
After two more searches of my car this time by two different officers in army outfits, and two 15 minute interviews by these officers I was released. (I later learned these officers belonged to the National Guard).
Weary and shaken I drove to the baby shower, four hours late, and arrived just as the party was packing up.
This is my entry for the
Red Writing Hood meme - detour.
