Big Talk, Real Slow

A few years ago I went down to the American Southwest with a friend of mine to see what it was all about. When I got back I did what everybody else does: I put the pictures up on Facebook. But a funny thing happened. As I put the photos up, I noticed, like countless others have, that the slideshow format lent itself to a narrative. I put the photos up, and wrote something to go along with them, and it still stands as one of my favourite pieces.

Early in the life of Big Talk, Real Slow, I threw it all up on here, but it never sat right with me. It seemed messy, and also demanded a lot of the reader. I didn’t bother thinking about it again until I read the (incredible) Hottest Chick in the Game, and realized that there are no shortage of Tumblr URLs, and real estate on the internet is cheap. I could create a proper space for the story. 

I’m probably rambling at this point. This is all to say that you should check out The Big, Quiet Places.  

The Mall of Tomorrow, Today!

I don’t want it make it a thing that I have to explain why I was in the McDonald’s. The short version is that my upstairs neighbour finally got a password for her wifi and McDonald’s has free newspapers. I used to go to the diner, Vesta Lunch on Dupont, but everybody always tries to talk to you, and it’s just a bunch of old fucks who I don’t want to know, and the one Dominican guy who works there started to remember my name and I didn’t like that.

That day I was waiting in line, hoping to get in before the breakfast switch. Except this is the Galleria Mall McDonald’s so it isn’t a line, just a bunch of people trying to cut ahead whenever they can. You gotta be careful because there are a lot of old guys who just do not give a shit. They waited 70 years for their turn so they don’t give a fuck about yours.

So, I’m in line and there’s this one big dude, a real fat motherfucker, in a nice suit ordering. Stuck out, you know? He’s the type of guy who makes so much that he doesn’t give a shit if anybody gives a shit about him eating at McDonald’s. He gets a coffee and his food and he puts it down to get some napkins and shit and this other dude, out of nowhere, comes by, grabs Fattie’s bag of food and just bolts out the fucking door. Nobody’s really sure what the fuck just happened. It just buzzes through the place and we all look over to the guy who just looks like he pissed himself. And he starts to cry.

Now, I wanted to laugh, and I did. I felt bad and other people were doing the same thing, turning away and trying not to laugh, but laughing anyways, and trying to find other people to laugh with. And the lady at the counter says that he can have another one, it’s okay, and she gets it ready, but the guy is just there, crying, his face is all wet and snot is starting to run and it’s just fucking gross and I just stopped laughing. Like a minute passes. Nobody was smiling. People tried to make the guy feel better, but he just wouldn’t fucking stop crying.

Nobody is looking at nobody. Finally somebody gets another meal for him and walks out from behind the counter and hands it to him. And he just kinda takes it and stands there for a few seconds, heaving, taking in air, trying to right himself, taking those ragged ass breathes kids take when they’ve been crying forever. He just shuffles out of the place and the second he’s out we’re all still quiet wondering what the fuck and people start to laugh again. It was fucking weird.

I get my food and my paper and try to sit down, but everybody in the place is tense. And new people start to come in, and they’re not tense, but they can feel it, and they get tense too. It just got to be too much. I took the paper and left.

***

When we were kids we used to call this place the Diarrhea Mall. Down the street you had The Mall and Galleria was where you went to get shit if you were poor. We’d go down to Dufferin and we could check out HMV to see what the new shit was, or we’d go to Foot Locker and plan out the kicks we’d buy when we had good ass jobs. We were all broke as fuck, and Galleria just brought that shit back up.

I told Ze once that I hated going to the Galleria because it feels like somebody built the place and just said, “Fuck it,” and left. It’s all dim like the lights have never been changed. The game where you grab shit with the claw is full of old candy they don’t make anymore. There’s no sound when you go in, only the echo of old people walking around. They have a trading card machine that has Upper Deck packs from ‘95. So whenever I come to see Ze or Richie I wait outside until they’re ready. Going inside just makes me fucking tired.

***

“Do you guys have envelopes?”

“We have them in packs of 50.”

“I just need one, do you got one?”

“No sir, just in packs.”

“You’re a post office. You don’t—you don’t just have one I can buy?”

“I’m sorry, sir, all we have are the packs.”

“How much is that?”

“50 for 4 dollars.”

“Fuck it, fine.”

“Debit only on purchases more than $5.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“You can get two packs.”

“I don’t want 100 fucking envelopes! I just want 1! Fuck this!”

***

“You read this? They’re saying it’s been 28 months since it last snowed. They’re calling it the Neverending Spring.”

Ze looked up from his jeweler magnifying glass.

“Why everyone worry? It’s July.” He picked up one of the necklaces I nabbed and put it on his scale. His office is tiny, just enough room for his desk full of tools, a safe, and a fuckton of framed photos of his fuckton huge family. There’s a big box of wine too on the safe and he always has a glass of it on the table. He offers me some, but I can’t stand the shit. Most of the deals happen outside with Anna, his daughter, but I’ve known Jose since I was a pup, so he lets me in. He was old even when I was a kid. Now he’s ancient, but he’s still alright, just with a bad back, no fucking hair, and shaky hands.

“I don’t read Canadian newspapers. Everybody so worried.”

I pointed to a laminated plaque on the wall. “What about that one?” I leaned it and started reading, “Looking for squid, octopus, pro—pro…”

“Prosciutto.”

“Pro-whatever, pig’s ears, or fresh sardines? You’ll find them all at North America’s first ethnic food plaza in Toronto’s west end.”

Ze looked up at the thing. “A present. Newspaper from 1972. About Gallerias. From my daughter’s husband. He don’t know me very good.”

Ze went back to looking at the odds and ends I brought. It was good stuff, and I knew that Ze only fucked me a bit on this. If I wanted top dollar I could play the Bathurst boys off each other, let spite get me a good deal, but that “Fistful of Dollars” shit takes up my whole day.

“You were around then?”

“Same house on St.Clarens. It’s a nice house.” Ze set up three piles. He’d pick up something from the first pile and move it to the rejects or the good shit. By now I know a few things about jewelry so I tried not to waste Ze’s time with gold plated knockoff shit.

“Sell it Ze. Retire.”

Ze started to laugh, one of those laughs where the other guy knows more than you. “Look in the papers. How is Portugal?” He looked straight at me. “What would I do there?” He looked at a pair of earring, and tossed them into the junk pile.

“Go to the beach or some shit. They got topless beaches there, right?”

“How old are you Danny?”

“I’m 20.”

There were only two piles now. “Not me. I have an old heart. $5000.”

“Fuck you Ze. 8.”

Ze sighed and looked at the pile again.

“6.”

“6500.”

Ze lifted his phone and pressed a button. He talked Portuguese and slammed the phone down. “Anna will have it for you at the front.”

“6500?”

He started shoo-ing me away with his hand. “Yes, yes. 6500.”

“Thanks Ze.” I stuck out my hand and he stood up, shook it, and got his tired ass back down.

“Don’t forget your newspaper.”

I grabbed it off his desk. “You should get out of this fucking place. Just saying, topless beaches are better than gold.”

“I like gold because it doesn’t rot. Only gets better with time.”

I pointed to his glass. “What about wine?”

He picked it up in his shaking hand. “Even wine, if you wait long time, turns to piss.”

***

“Alright,. Got some cash. I’ll take a pack.”

“That will be $4, sir.”

“Here.”

“Sir, I can’t take a $100 bill.”

“It’s money. What do you mean you can’t take it?”

“I just don’t have that sort of change, sir.”

“Isn’t it illegal for you not to take it?”

“Sir, sir, I cannot break a hundred. I just don’t have that sort of money.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

***

I went to the LCBO and grabbed a few tallboys of Coors Light and waited on a bench out back for Richie. He was working at the bank until one so I had a few beers to kill the time. It was quiet. There was nobody on the soccer field behind the mall, and the parking lot my eyes were on was empty. The wind was chill and the chain fence behind me was the only noise you could really hear. Tall security dude eyed me every once and a while, but he left me be. I was just drinking.

Richie got out of there just about when he was supposed, all business professional, and sat down on the bench.

“Hey.”

I passed him a paper bag with a beer and the cash.

“Jesus. Did you wrap this is newspaper? You didn’t have an envelope?” He slid the can out and tossed it back.

“Bitch at the post office wouldn’t sell me one.”

“You know who has envelopes? The bank. Whatever.” He slid the can out of the bag, and tossed it back. “I’m good.”

“I thought you’d need one after working in the pit.”

I could tell he needed it more than wanted it. He grabbed it back, popped it in the bag and snapped it open. Then he looked in. “Holy shit. How much is it?”

“Altogether it came to 8, so your cut—”

“2000. Got you. Fuck. Didn’t think she had that much in her.”

“ Jewelry. The rest of the shit in her place was alright, but that’s what got us paid.”

He counted the hundreds in the bag before moving them into his suit jacket inside pocket. Richie and I grew up together. Both went to St. Sebastian’s and we both got along because we weren’t Porkchops. Then we went to St. Mary’s. We didn’t get much farther than that. He got the job at the bank straight outta school, and I just floated around.

“$2000. More than I make at this fucking place.” He took a sip. “The branch is so busy that businesses don’t want to deal with the lines and go to other branches or just go to other banks all together. The only new blood are people in the crack towers down the way looking for nickle and dime accounts. You remember what Bloor was like 10 years ago?”

I nodded. “It was shit then.”

“Yeah, exactly, and now it isn’t and we could’ve been on that instead of holding on to a bunch of old people holding on to a bunch of money.”

“Like a bunch of fucking…pharaohs in ancient Egypt. They’d be buried with their gold.”

Richie just looked at me. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not a lot.” I wasn’t really lying either.

This is all we ever talked about. How it used to be shit and it’s still shit except the parts that ain’t shit. It was weird that Richie seemed to be the only other guy from the neighbourhood who could see it. Everybody else just seemed to be okay with it. There was a way things were.

I turned to Richie and asked, “So is there any more work? It’s July, right? Lots of these people go on vacation back to the old country. Any addresses?”

Richie drank a bit and just stared out, not looking at me straight.

“I’m thinking I might cool it for a bit.”

I didn’t know exactly what to think of that. “Where is this coming from?”

He still wasn’t looking at me.

“I’m going to post out. Get out of this branch. Might not happen today or tomorrow, but soon. I’m getting out of this place. I’m sick of being here. This branch is going to die one day, and I don’t my career to go down with it.”

I leaned back on the bench and I don’t know what pissed me off more. I didn’t get why he wanted to fuck with a good thing.

“What the fuck does that have to do with us? How does any of that matter? You just give me the address and I knock the place and we both get paid. It’s good, clean work.”

He shouted, “I don’t want it to come back to me!”

I stood up and kinda staggered a bit, everything rushing to my head. “It ain’t coming back to you. How the fuck does it come back to you? I’m the one who’s doing everything. You get paid, paid pretty fucking good, for your information. That’s all you fucking do.”

“I just don’t want to do this. I’m just over it.”

“Over it? Over it? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s just not…” He stops and he turns away from me and says, “It’s just not me anymore.”

Something just got me then. “You too good for this?” I pushed him. “Huh? Are you? It ain’t enough that I’m doing the work?” I pushed him again and spilled some beer out. “Gimme back the fucking money.”

He got up and tried pushing me back. “Fuck off.”

Neither one of us can fight, so we just pushed each other, spilling our beer, and crashing into the fence. I tried to reach into his suit jacket, trying to get the cash back. I was so fucking angry and I don’t know why. Richie took a swing and hit my shoulder, and I dropped the Coors, cracking it open on the asphalt.

“Heyheyheyheyhey, break it up!” The tall ass security guard yanked me back, almost ripping my t-shirt at the collar. I fell on my ass. Guard turned to Richie. “Is this guy bothering you?”

We were both panting and huffing and puffing and we looked at each other, soaked in beer and sweat. “No. Not anymore.” Richie walked off, leaving his beer, but taking his money like an asshole.

The guard looked at me and said something about getting off the property, which I’ve heard before and I’ll hear again. I picked up my beer and walked to the other side of the fence, opened up another beer and waited on the bench, drank and sat and kept waiting for the night. The sun set and streetlights came on, but it still felt the same even though it all looked different. I crushed my can, walked over, threw it on the roof, and walked back to the bench for another beer.

Salt and Patience

When I was 9, my mother was gone and my father had to learn to cook.

Everyday he would get home from the factory and would try a new dish. There was nobody else: the neighbours were mostly Canadian and we had no family there to help. He didn’t have experience — unless you count heating rations in the army — and he didn’t have the patience. How many times did we eat chewy fettuccine because he couldn’t wait another five minutes? How many pots were destroyed because he wasn’t willing to wait by the stove as the rice burned onto the bottom? How many plates were thrown at the wall in fits of anger, food and dinnerware shrapnel ricocheting off the wall?

Nowadays, sometimes, I laugh thinking about him: a tall brute with hands that weren’t trained for the kitchen. At the time my younger sister and I rarely laughed. Nothing turned out right, and some nights we starved. I learned tricks, but my sister ate it all. She so loved my father. One day he tried to make chicken soup, adding too much salt for flavour. What was left was a salty mess. I sopped it up with bread, making it tolerable, but she ate it all, wincing with every sip. I took care of her that night, rubbing her back, and fetching water while she vomited into the late hours of the night.

I remember when the anniversary came. It was in the middle of summer. We were out all day and came home to find my father, early from the factory, halfway into a momentous endeavour. Vegetables were spread across the table and the counter, pots of water boiled on the stove, potato peels overflowing in the bin. He was pensive, looming over her cookbook, holding it open with one elbow, his lips moving as he read my mother’s annotations. I could see his patience, his dedication, the way he was careful and meticulous like never before. I could smell it — not the singeing of pots or pasta, but a smell that hadn’t lived in the house for a year. This is what a meal should smell like.

We went into the yard and I watched my sister play. I knew the day, knew why it was important, but my sister was too young. She didn’t remember what it was like to have a mother. One day she was there, the next she was gone. My sister missed her, but couldn’t really claim to have known her.

He called us in from the yard. That day, he set the table with our best table cloth. Candles were lit and placed. The water jug was full and cool to the touch (and the table wine was next to my father because he thought I was still too young). I remember a dish full of boiled potatoes, steam still rising off them, soft enough to chew, but easy enough to spear with a fork. A tin of olive oil was in arm’s reach. There was a salad like she used to make, with beets, carrots, onions, and beans, lightly dressed in sunflower oil. At each plate our cutlery and a loaf of bread. And the main course, the beef, burgundy style, ready in the middle. The dishes didn’t really compliment each other, but that didn’t matter. He smiled, beaming over his creation. He knew his work was good.

We sat down, in the cramped kitchen, saying grace, each word said like a thousand times before it, but with new purpose. When we finished we did not rush to grab the food and be done with it. We waited. After a second, giving us time to savour it, he told us to eat.

My sister, of course, attacked with her usual zeal as did my father, hungry from slaving in the kitchen. But I sat still. I don’t know what came over me, even now as a fully grown man. My appetite disappeared. In their hunger, they didn’t notice my empty plate, nor that the only thing I ate was the bread, the only thing not made in that kitchen. My father eventually noticed and asked me why I wasn’t eating. I told him I wasn’t hungry.

“You must eat.”

But I refused. He kept insisting that I eat something, the salad, the potatoes, at least to try them, but I kept refusing to. He tried guilt, and again, I stood defiant. I do not know where this came from, why I became such a pest, why this was so important. I was angry at him, had always been angry at him, and sensed, in the way children can, how to truly hurt him.

“Eat!” he shouted.

“No!”

His fist hit the table. My empty plate jumped, and my water glass fell off the table breaking into pieces on the floor.

“Get out of here!”

We ran to our shared room, lucky that no glass had embedded itself in our bare feet. My sister cried and cried and didn’t want to be consoled by me. She stayed in her small bed. She let the sobs break her to sleep. I heard my father sweep up the glass in the next room, and work to dismantle his elaborate dinner. When I heard water running, I made my way to the door and peered into the kitchen, down the narrow hallway. His back turned, he washed the dishes, taking swigs from the cooking wine after every dish. There was no escape and there was no use apologizing. I crawled back into bed.

I don’t know how long passed when I was woken. He was in the room, at the edge of the bed, touching my leg. His silhouette, illuminated by the light of the hallway, was a hulking darkness. He was something out of a nightmare. I started and he put his finger to his lips and pointed to my sister, a few feet away, sound asleep. I stayed quiet. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank.

He started to whisper and told me this: When he was in the war, not too long before I was born, he got lost in the ruins of a city. It was a place he knew well, one that he’d grown up in. They sent him to scout because of that, but it was that familiarity that made him overestimate his sense of direction. All the landmarks he knew were gone. Everything was like a puzzle, all there, but scattered and rearranged. “You can stay lost for a little bit, but be lost for too long and you die.”

(He waved his hands when he said this, spilling some of the wine on my bedsheets)

He made his way up one of the buildings, one of the few still standing. It was an old apartment building with tiny rooms. It had somehow survived the bombing runs the enemy rained down. From a higher point, he could reorient himself. He climbed up the steps carelessly, more afraid of his lieutenant than the people trying to kill him. Every few steps he heard the roar of a plane overhead. No explosions: It was just scouting.

He reached the top floor and found an abandoned apartment. It looked like its owners left for the afternoon, but the thick coat of dust on everything gave it away. It was a parlour. There was a table in the middle of the room, and a book shelf with everything still on it. Behind the door was a rack with a heavy coat still waiting for winter. He checked the kitchen: a pot was on the stove, half-filled with water. They were there and then they disappeared.

He made his way to the window. It was dusk, and he made out the shape of the city. Looking down, the city was still a mess. This was no longer the boyhood haunt. But he knew where he was. Then he heard the boots.

The enemy, he guessed, had the same idea he did. They were making their way up to get the view of the city. He went into the bedroom and hid in the closet. Maybe, he hoped, they would set up in one of the other rooms. He held his breath and waited. The front door swung open. He listened. One person. It was one person.

He opened the closet, careful not to make noise. He waited for the plane to pass and took a step. He made his way across the bedroom. The steps in the other room started and stopped, started and stopped. It could be a civilian, it could be an ally, but, he knew too, that it could be the enemy. The bedroom door was open a crack. He edged closer, waiting for the plane to pass once more so he grab the knob.

The door opened.

(My father was silent for a long time.)

They both stared at each other. The plane edged close, the loud hum shaking the windows. He went for his gun, but my father went for his throat. His big, rough hands pushed the soldier into the main room. He said he could feel the flesh give way in his hands. It was automatic, he said, something possessing his body to save itself. He lifted the man off the ground and watched his face turn red, then purple, his hands making weak efforts to stop my father. A few more seconds passed, and he was staring at death. My father’s strength left him. The body dropped and he ran from the room.

“When I did it, I thought it would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to do.”

With the faint light from the hallway, I could see him crying. He took another drink, and stood up, and walked out of the room. He gently closed the door behind him. A few hours later I fell asleep.

He never cooked again.

Preparing for Winter

“No, I’m getting this.”

He put his hand on her wallet, gently pushing it away. He took out his Platinum Visa. Overkill for two overpriced espresso drinks, Jill thought.

“I insist.”

He shook his head. “This is my treat. I feel bad. For having to cancel and reschedule.”

The two lattes came up on the bar and he grabbed both.

“Where to?” he said, and answered his own question by walking to a nearby table by the window.

Jill sat down and took her drink. She was rarely this far west. It was Stan’s idea, of course. Someplace out of the way. It felt too small, yet not intimate at all, with artwork that might work on the cold walls of a gallery, but died outside their habitat. The view of High Park, at least, made up for it. The strong winds were shaking the dead leaves from the trees and they raced in packs downhill, along the gutters. Fall was here.

“Horrible weather.” He said, sitting down.

“You know how you can spot an out-of-towner? He doesn’t complain about the weather.”

“If we’re not boiling to death, we’re freezing to death. Fall and spring aren’t seasons, they’re foreshadowing.” He tried a sip of his drink and winced. Too hot.

“Has it been so long that we’ve resorted to talking about the weather?”

Stan smiled and said, “No, it’s not that bad. How’s John?”

“Good. Good. He’s doing better.”

“He’s recovering?”

“Yes. It’s really…yes. It’s as good as it can get.”

“I’m sorry. For not being…available.”

“And how’s Karen? Does she still hate me?”

Stan made a face of mock surprise. “She doesn’t hate you. You’re bring overly dramatic.”

“Maybe.”

Stan blew on his latte. “Second wife syndrome. She doesn’t understand this, what we’re doing right now. She’s Catholic. Divorce in Latin means ‘scorched earth.’” The rattle of a spoon against the sides of a coffee mug.

“Next time you should marry somebody who can legally rent a car.”

“Oh hush. Does John worry about us seeing each other?”

Jill gave a little laugh. “No. He’s fine with it.”

“Does he talk to his first wife?”

“No. She’s Catholic too.” She took her first sip of the latte. She grabbed sugar off the centrepiece made to look like a flower, each packet a petal. She looked around at the other tables. Everybody else was younger, much younger. Some with kids, some were kids. Stan and Jill were in full business armour, downtown warriors, and everybody else was casual Friday. “This is a nice place.”

“Yes. Julian was thinking of applying here a few months ago.”

“What? Julian? Our Julian?”

“Do you know what they’re calling it? A quarter-life crisis. Too many choices, too many opportunities, and you’re frozen with indecision. That’s what he told me. With a straight face.”

“And what did you say?”

“Have you tried convincing that boy of anything? He gets his stubbornness from you. Thankfully, they didn’t hire him, and I got him that internship. My original point: I like the atmosphere. It’s a nice change from the park. It’s all just children and roving bands of power walkers there. This place maintains a healthy balance.” He took a another sip of the drink, and managed to not burn himself.

“I’m sorry. About Karen. I’m sure she is lovely. I wish you didn’t feel the need to play these cloak and dagger games to have a coffee with me. It’s disrespectful to her and it’s disrespectful to me.”

“Disrespectful?”

“You’re turning me into a secret. It’s not as flattering as you think.”

“I feel like we should change the subject.”

It wasn’t worth the fight. Jill knew better and conceded, giving a casual shrug.

Stan adjusted his seat. “How’s the new job? Julian told me you switched roles.”

“Not so much switched roles. I just…wasn’t going to get further.”

“Oh, don’t give me that glass ceiling bullshit. ”

“Alright, Stan, if it makes you feel better. Five years as a senior project manager with no movement and nowhere to go. It was time to branch out.”

“Consulting?”

Jill nodded. “Richard Barnes, remember him?” Stan nodded. “His firm was looking and we kept friendly after his split.”

“Tactical.”

She shrugged. “Necessary.”

Stan’s eyes tracked somebody behind her and Jill wondered what she looked like.

“And how are things in the world of high finance?” She asked.

“When the inquisition comes, I’ll be fine, but who knows about the company.”

“Skeletons in your closet?”

“I don’t mind if they find those. The whole place is built on an ancient Indian burial ground. I keep hearing these horror stories, like that JP Morgan loss, and a year ago I’d say that we weren’t going to be like that, but, Jesus, some of these kids they’re hiring. You’d think, in a recession, with a employee pool that is swelling daily, we could find somebody who doesn’t need to do simple arithmetic on their fingers. If the company lives much longer than I do, then truly, it was too big to fail from the start. There will be no trace of how I do things: It’s changing.”

“Now who’s the one being dramatic?”

“Maybe. How are you liking the coffee?”

“It’s good. Honestly, I’ve been trying to cut back.”

“So have I.”

They each took a sip of their lattes. Stan took his Blackberry out, looked disappointed and slipped it back into his pocket.

Jill broke the silence. “Going grey may have played a part in it. The consulting, I mean.”

“I knew it.”

“Oh, of course you did.” But she smiled all the same. “Kathy, one of the leads under me, saw it one day when we were out to lunch. She said it made me look more authoritative. What was it she said…’When you go grey, the men working for you will tug on your skirt instead of try to get under it.’”

“You still look wonderful, Jill.”

“Thank you Stan, but I wasn’t fishing.”

“You should learn to take a compliment.”

“And you should learn to keep them to yourself every once and a while. It would save you a world of trouble.”

Stan laughed. “You’re probably right. I don’t disagree. About the consulting. It does sound like a good fit.”

“It’s something. And, for now, I’m enjoying it. Are you planning on staying with your sinking ship?”

“Ummm…” Stan placed his latte down and looked down at the table. “Things are going to…well…something’s come up that…that changes things.”

Jill leaned forward and hunched down. In a half-whisper she said, “Is everything alright?”

Stan smiled. “Karen’s pregnant.”

“Oh.” And Jill’s face froze, for a second, and she knew that a second was all she had. She smiled, quickly. She was going to be happy for him. “That’s…wow. I didn’t…know you were planning to…”

“Yes. Well. You know. She loves Julian but—”

“Of course. Of course.”

“We’ve been trying. And. Well. Yes.”

Jill grabbed the mug with both hands and brought it up to her mouth, taking a small sip, but kept the mug close.

“How far along is she?”

“Six months.”

“Soon. Very soon.”

She placed the cup down. It wasn’t jealousy. Jealousy lives in the shadows of passion and that had died a long time ago between them. And it wasn’t that she wanted a child either. She was happy: Happy for Stan and happy for Karen and happy she had Julian and happy she still had John. Her and Stan had been together most of their lives, as college sweethearts, as a couple, as parents, as divorcees, as old friends. They had survived the strain of it all, their friendship endured. Now, it was different. Their lives were no longer parallel, and he didn’t even realize it. 

“Are you going to wait, or do you already know what…it is?”

“A boy. He’s a boy.”

She knew the answer to her next question. “Do you have a name yet?”

“Yes. Stanley Jr.” And he smiled and didn’t notice the leaves fall from the trees behind him, but it was all Jill could see.

The Great Thaw

A few hours before, in that shapeless purgatory that exists when you stay awake next to a sleeping lover, she wondered what he was dreaming of. Now, in his sullen post-sex silence, she didn’t give a fuck about what he was thinking. 

He was out of bed immediately, pulling up his jeans, covering himself up with a t-shirt, and stumbling to the kitchen, just outside his room. The morning light diffused through the blinds and gave the room a squalor that she was oblivious to in the dark. Every stray bit of clothes on the floor, every dust bunny and errant piece of everyday debris, the smell of condom rubber, culminated into the urgent question: How did I get here?

“Want a coffee?” he said from the kitchen, not turning his back. She saw him, through the door frame, putting the kettle on the stove with a loud clang. She heard him opening the window above the sink and the glass ting of the ashtray finding its way to the sill.

“Hmm?”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“What do you have?”

“Instant.”

“Okay.”

She slid partially out of the sheets and found her purse tossed off just under the bed. She opened it and took out her own pack.

“Don’t. She doesn’t like the smell.”

She wanted to do it anyways, and then realized how petty that made her feel. The cigarettes went back into the purse, she lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling.

The kettle started to shake on the uneven element.

“I’m sorry. About the other day. I didn’t realize you were with her.”

It was a mistake, maybe. She was with friends at Clinton’s, a bar that the young clientele kept out of bankruptcy and irrelevance. He went up to the bar and she didn’t think or, maybe, didn’t care, and walked up to him. He took it in stride, no fear, maybe he had already seen her, planned for this. Then Diane came up from behind and put her arms around him. And when Diane asked about her, he explained she was an old classmate, and she found a way to excuse herself, buying another amaretto sour even though she still had one on the table. She went back to her table, avoided questions, drank nothing, feigned illness and left soon after.

“That’s alright. You’re an old classmate.”

“I think she knows.” The kettle rocked back and forth.

He didn’t turn around. The kettle was taken off the stove and poured into a cup. Shitty IKEA spoon against the shitty IKEA mug. “You think?”

“Can I tell you something?”

His back stilled turned away from her. “Yeah.”

“When you’re a single woman…” she turned towards him, no longer staring at the ceiling. “When you’re a single woman…People look at you different. You’re either a target or a threat. Does that make sense?”

He turned, at last, his face blank. He was waiting for something else. The punchline.

“I think you’re being paranoid. She doesn’t know.” He took a step forward and opened the fridge, out of sight, and she heard the milk being poured into the mug and that fucking spoon again. He moved into the door frame, leaning against it and took a sip of the coffee.

She stared at the coffee, not quite understanding. “Where’s mine?”

“What?”

“My coffee?”

“You wanted one?”

“Yes.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry, I thought I said I wanted one.”

He turned around and got the stove ready again.

“Can I open the blinds?”

From the kitchen, he shouted, “Only if you want those construction workers across the street to see your tits.”

“What?” She walked up to the blinds, and peeked through one set. Below her, the post-morning milling around, business as usual in midtown, but from the second floor she could see the modest beginnings of a condo, or, at least, as modest as a 20 storey building could be in a neighbourhood of low-rises. She wondered why she hadn’t seen it before, then realized it was because she always came in from the back door.

“I was reading a plaque down the street the other day,” she said.

She heard the bangs and clangs of coffee being made.

“When the ice age ended, all the extra water from the glaciers melting flooded the area. So, Lake Ontario went all the way up to St. Clair. That why there’s that steep hill. Can you imagine that?”

Steam poured out of the kettle.

“I wonder, you know, with global warming, if that would happen again. Everything would go back to the way it used to be. All of downtown: buried underwater. Wiping everything clean and starting from scratch.”

He came into the room and the cup landed on the table with a hard thud. “Here’s your coffee.”

She stopped looking out the window and turned toward him. Now that he was in the room, she didn’t want him to see her naked again. She searched the floor for her bra and underwear, among the piles of clothes, and put them on. “You weren’t even listening.”

And she thought of exactly how she got to here. How she thought he was handsome, not hot, not cute, but handsome, and something dangerous and savage. And how he’d come by her shop and was so obviously attracted to her, and how well he thought he hid that attraction. She could see right through him, for all the good that did her. And she remembered when he revealed he had a girlfriend and how it seemed so casual, so off the cuff, mentioned to her after a night of drinks and (was it?) flirting and touches that could be called accidental, if questioned (but she didn’t really question him, did she?)

He sighed and went back to the kitchen, probably to finish the cigarette on the ashtray. He came back a few seconds later. “You really think she knows?”

“What?”

“Diane. You think she knows about us?”

“Are you asking me for advice here?”

“Why do you think she knows?”

“I just…I just have a sense.”

“Women’s intuition?” He almost scoffed out right.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“I don’t think she knows.”

She sat on the bed and cautiously sipped the cup of coffee. It was a bitter, ugly taste. He went back to the window and took a drag, exhaled.

“Do you even care?” She regretted it the moment she said it.

From the kitchen. “What?”

“You’re cheating on her. What do you care?”

He charged back into view, cigarette in his mouth, smoke pouring out of him. “What kind of question is that?”

“Sorry. Forget it.”

“Where the fuck do you get off asking me that?”

“Forget it. Look, I’m sorry.”

“What, you have her interests at heart? You feel bad?” His face was red, the muscles in his neck thick cables ready to snap. Each question was spiked, quick.

“Of course I feel bad. Don’t you?”

“You think that’s all on me? I didn’t make you do anything. You feel bad because you’re part of this, right here with me!” He was shouting. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and walked back to the kitchen. She waited, because there was nothing else she could do as the seconds became minutes. She was trapped.

He walked back, his body still rigid, but he was no longer baring teeth. “You got yourself here. You feel bad? Why are you coming back then?” His voice was softer, even if his words weren’t. “Maybe I’m the bad guy, yeah, sure, what does that make you? Fuck this.”

He walked out of the room. She wanted to ask here he was going, to stop him. She felt bad, forgetting her fear seconds ago. The back door opened.

She hunted for the rest of her clothes, and sat on the edge of the bed, putting them on. She wanted a cigarette too, and slid one out of her pack and looked at it. Then she slid it back into the package. She stood up and went into the kitchen, slowly. Through the window she could see him, on the fire escape, waiting for her. And she wanted to go to him, put her arms around him like Diane did and have it actually be more true than what they had. Or maybe, just wait for him here, and apologize for making him upset. And then? 

How did I get here?

Behind him she saw the skyscrapers and condos that filled downtown. She could not see the lake, but she wondered, again, what it would be like to for it to rise. And she wondered about being in one of those towers, feeling the water crawl up her leg, realizing it was much too late. A slow, inevitable drowning. 

She put on her shoes, and her jacket. Negotiated the many locks and turned the knob. She walked down the steps, to the front door, pushing it open. Elizabeth got a good look at the condo being built while she lit her cigarette, then she walked north, away from the lake.

Occupy Wall Street Kid

In Japan it’s called The Money Game. The name is direct, almost shamefully so. When it was released here in 1990, it was twisted into something friendly. Wall Street Kid. PG13ification of a culture that’s more comfortable selling kids than hugging them. Wall Street means capitalism. Business. It means making invisible money. It means invisible money turning into fast cars, meals at nice restaurants, gold embossed business cards, Cerruti suits. It implies a world where money is freedom.

The reality of Wall Street Kid: Trapped in my office all day, making calls, checking stocks, reading the paper, buying and selling. I can see my office. 8-bit chic. The phone, a single potted plant, my new IBM with built-in floppy. I spend most of the game in menus reading up on stocks. I’m trapped by the menu-driven interface, the white bordered boxes. In the office I can see a window, but can never look outside. The game is telling me I should be more active. Me, the character, not me, the person. So I go to another menu and select go “to the pool”, but instead of swimming, its just a sentence, white on a black screen, and I’m back at the office.

I’ve grown to resent my girlfriend. I do not like her. She only seems to call me to spend money. I can let her have a certain type of dog, a certain type of jewelry. I cannot ask her about her day, maybe because she never asks about mine. Like everything in the game she has a price, one that keeps rising. I can go on a date with her, but what’s the point? I’m back in the office. Buy low, sell high.

Where does all that money go? I bought a house (“It’s nice. Oh, just a million. You should come by sometime.”), but I’m never in it. She’s calling me again, asking for money for furniture I’ll never use. She doesn’t know I’ve taken a loan against the house so I can buy some ATNT stock. I’ve got a hot tip. When it pays off I’ll buy a boat. I’d like to call it “The Good Life,” People will see my yacht while on their own yacht and nod in recognition. It is the good life, is what their nod will say.

The first goal is to buy a home within a month, then it’s to buy a castle. Why do I need a castle? I don’t, not really. Does anybody need a castle? No, not really. It’s a symbol, a trophy, an achievement, a high score. I’ll have a castle, and everybody else won’t. I’ll be at the top of the leaderboard. I did it in the most soulless way possible, but I did it. The Wall Street Kid has become the 1%.

This game, maybe, was supposed to be about freedom, the freedom that money gives you. A re-skinned power fantasy for the Reaganomics age. Maybe it was supposed to be about all the sexiness we associate with Wall Street, or even just the thrill of money in its most uncomplicated form, as a means of getting the stuff we want. But Wall Street Kid undermines that even when it’s trying to sell the myth to you. Money is ephemeral in the game. One day you can have $600,000 in stocks, but the next, half that. You can be a millionaire on paper, but the bank’s got a lien on your mansion. The chase for more is especially meaningless because it doesn’t lead to anything. You’re back in your office with your sad plant and the clock racing 15 minutes at a time, but it never feels like time passes. We have been promised heaven, but in Wall Street Kid, we are desk jockeys in purgatory.  

But in this day and age, who can afford to question the game?

Transcript of Ronaldo Delacruz Interview

August 28th, 2011

[Interviewee: Ronaldo Delacruz (see attached in-take files). Standard set-up w/ lie detector on table. (see consent form for lie detector attached)]

[Enter Interviewer Peters]

Peters: Well good afternoon Ronaldo. I’m Jonathon Peters. Nice to meet you.

Delacruz: Hello.

[Delacruz tries to lift arm to shake hand, almost detaches himself from lie detector]

Peters: Careful there! Ha, don’t hurt yourself. 

[Peters sits]

Peters: Alright, now I just need you to sign this form. Basically letting us know that you’re comfortable with this test and are fine with conducting this interview with a lie detector. Here you go.

[Peters slides paper over, Delacruz looks at it for a few seconds; signs]

Peters: Perfect. Now, let’s get started. What’s your name?

Delacruz: Ronaldo Delacruz

Peters: The truth! Perfect. You know, I actually had a guy last week who failed that question. Short interview, let me tell you. Have you ever been convicted of a crime?

Delacruz: No.

Peters: Perfect. Good. That was a test. Obviously we’ve run a criminal check on you, you wouldn’t have gotten this far otherwise. How many kids do you have?

Delacruz: One.

Peters: From your wife’s previous marriage. Look at that, true. That’s heartwarming. That’s beautiful. Just thought I’d share that. Back on course. Moving on. You ever cheat on her?

Delacruz: What?

Peters: Your wife. Ever cheat on her?

Delacruz: No.

Peters: Hmm, I see. Okay. Hypothetical situation: you’re playing poker with your buddies and one of them has marked the cards in a small way, but one that he can obviously use to his advantage.

Delacruz: That’s cheating. I think that’s cheating.

Peters: Alright, good, honesty. That’s good. Alright. Now, what if he was counting cards? Like, he was keeping track of the cards as they were played. Is that cheating?

Delacruz: Yes.

Peters: And why? Why do you consider it cheating?

Delacruz: He knows more than he should.

Peters: Hmm…okay, interesting, interesting. Alright, a man has the ability to know the lottery numbers through math. He found a mathematical formula that lets him get the numbers every time. If he uses it, is he cheating?

Delacruz: Is that possible?

Peters: Well, it’s a hypothetical question, so let’s pretend for the next half minute that it’s a very real possibility. 

Delacruz: Umm…yeah, cheating, I guess.

Peters: You guess?

Delacruz: Yeah, I dunno. Yes. It’s cheating. 

Peters: Maybe that was a bit too abstract. Alright, think D-Day. Do you know about D-Day? 

Delacruz: Umm…not really.

Peters: Ever watch Saving Private Ryan? You know that amazing opening scene when it all goes to heck? You know that scene?

[Delacruz nods]

Peters: Alright, well, we pulled that off, the invasion of France, by tricking the Germans. False messages. All the while, we had cracked their code. Isn’t that cheating?

Delacruz: But those guys were Nazis.

Peters: I am aware of that. This is, after all, my example. 

Delacruz: I don’t really get why you’re asking me these questions.

Peters: You don’t understand why I’m asking you questions about cheating in your job interview for a security position at a casino? 

Delacruz: I don’t get all these philosophy questions.

Peters: What I’m trying to assess here are your limits. We all have them: things that we consider right and wrong. So, I need you to answer me: Do you think tricking the Germans, the Nazis, was cheating? 

Delacruz: No.

Peters: Why’s that?

Delacruz: They’re Nazis.

Peters: Admirable. Mr. Delacruz, I’ve seen your record. Moved from the Philippines when you were ten. You took police foundations in college, probably found out private security provided decent pay with less work, and is, yes, a bit less dangerous and went down that path. You have some moral fortitude, of that I am certain, but when does it bend and when does it break. That’s what I’m here to find out. I just need you to indulge me for a few more questions. Okay, this one is bit less hypothetical. You are a runner. 100m dash. You find out one person is using steroids. Is that wrong?

Delacruz: Yes.

Peters: What if you were the only person who wasn’t using steroids?  It’s a widely known secret — pardon the oxymoron — that almost all track runners at the upper levels use the drug? What then?

Delacruz: I’ll run it my way.

Peters: Without drugs?

Delacruz: Yes

Peters: I see. I want to go back to the D-Day question for a second. Let’s put the shoe on the other foot. If the Germans tricked us, the good guys, would it be fair? 

Delacruz: I…I don’t know.

Peters: You’re lying, you do know.

Delacruz: Yes, it’s cheating.

Peters: I see. I think that’s all I need. This interview is done as far as i’m concerned. 

Delacruz: That’s it?

Peters: Yes, I’m afraid that is it Ronaldo.

Delacruz: You saying I can’t be trusted?

Peters: I’m saying you’re flexible. If another guard has a great scheme to steal stacks of chips. He wants to cut you in: what do you do?

Delacruz: I say no.

Peters: You say no now. But you’ve shown that you have a certain…situational adaptiveness when it comes to cheating. We can’t afford that here. There is good and there is bad.  

Delacruz: I think that’s bullshit. You’re calling me a crook, but the casino never loses here, right?

Peters: I wouldn’t be able to discuss the finance’s of the casino, even if I was privy to them.

Delacruz: The games are rigged.

Peters: It’s not rigged Mr. Delacruz: You know the casino’s going to win. I know it too. We never lie about that. The game is in our favour, but not rigged.

Delacruz: In the Philippines they say that anything is possible in America. Anything. 

Peters: That’s a very precious notion.

Delacruz: But it’s the same way you say. The game is in your favour. Anybody can come in and win, but most people will lose. I don’t give a shit if the guy is cheating or not cheating: Those are matters for you and for God. You tell me he’s out, I kick him out. That’s it. I just want a job that pays good, because that’s my part of the game. You play that game, anything is possible, you cheat and the game is over, you feel me? 

Peters: I do. This has been informative. I’ll be in touch within the week. I’ll call the technician to unhook you.

[Peters gets up]

Peters: Goodbye Mr. Delacruz. 

A few short conversations about travelling

“It was…a few years ago. I was travelling a lot. I had finished my masters. I was, at the time, 29, and thought that if I didn’t travel now, I was never going to. I did the summer mostly in Europe.”

“Because you’re a cliche.”

“Ha, yes. I know. But I’d never been before. And it is different in some very key ways. Anyways, I started west and worked my way east. I acquired the habit of going to Starbucks. It’s weird, I don’t really go to Starbucks much here. I did, but it was mostly because it’s hard to avoid.”

“Market share through ubiquity.”

“Exactly. And it was worse there. It was like its own sovereign nation, with embassies everywhere I went. They serve the same things, with a few exceptions, usually region specific things, and they all seem like they should have a fireplace built into the wall, to warm your feet. It became a sort of home away from home. Really, that’s what it was, a little slice of home. They’re designed with that in mind. Emulating that slice of home. That sort of comforting space that you can always feel safe at. And they have free wifi.

This one time I’m in Barcelona and I’m enjoying my Americano. I’m catching up on emails, planning out my next few days and I see a man walk in. I don’t really pay him much attention. When he’s up at the counter, I have another look at him and he looks like an old college friend of mine. Same short buzz cut, glasses, tall, he’s even wearing the same sweater vest and tie combo. I am staring at this man, and my mind is saying, ‘That’s Adam!’ but that doesn’t make any sense. 

I log into Facebook and, it’s him, I’m not just remembering him wrong. And there’s nothing about him leaving town. At this point the guy gets his drink and he’s coming towards me and I’m…scared, I guess. Something isn’t right here. And the man starts speaking to me, in Spanish — Adam doesn’t know Spanish — and then, in broken English, asks if he can share the table. I nod, in a panic.

I can tell I’m staring at the guy, trying to make sense of this. I don’t know how long I’m doing it, but at some point another person enters. A couple, actually. She looks like a high school teacher of mine. He is…or rather, he looks like, my ex, Jeremy. No doubt in my mind: this person looked exactly like him. Even walked like him. You know how you can get to know somebody’s walk? This guy walked like Jeremy. He looks at me and doesn’t react, in any way. It’s not him.

That’s when I look around, I mean, really look around, and notice that everybody in this Starbucks in Barcelona, far far away from home, looked like somebody else I knew. Friends, family, a few old coworkers, the bartender at the local pub, my landlord. People I know, or knew.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I left.” 

“How…do you explain that?”

“I don’t. I can’t. I haven’t told this story in years because people would offer explanations or sympathy, but they weren’t sure what they were offering sympathy for. It’s hard for me to let go of this event and how it made me feel.

Everything was almost the same, but completely different.”

***

It’s a joke, a fucking joke.

These guys, make a few thousand with their penny stocks and think they’re doing alright.

Fucking dilettantes, that’s what they fucking are.

That thousand, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, even, that’s insignificant. The giant universe of money doesn’t notice the scraps you’ve put on your plate. You have not gotten away with anything. That is a speck of dust suspended in a beam of light. And you will always be that speck, because you don’t realize how much is out there.

Had to take a plane to Mexico, work, you know. Stupid me, I get sucked into chatting with one of these three legged dogs in the boarding area. He calls me a sucker for having to work when I could be going where he is, Punta Cana.

Can you believe it? That’s his bait. Punta Cana. 

Would’ve laughed in his face, but instead I tell him, “I’ve been to fucking space.”

It’s true. I have been to fucking space.

He looks up to me and says, “You can do that?” and I tell him all about it. Dropping figures because I know that’s what’ll impress him. It’s just that easy. And the rest of the time he’s waiting to board he’s got this big ugly frown on his face, realizing everything he is missing.

***

There are few obvious pleasures in listening to old Mountain Goats songs.

The music is, to be charitable, primitive. “It’s the lyrics! Listen to the lyrics!” becomes the mantra and crutch that most fans try to use when prosthelytizing. Nevermind that John Darnielle’s bleating is, perhaps more than his three-chord structures and the tape recorder hiss, the most abrasive of the sonic elements. And while a solid mix tape can do wonders, few of the early albums and tapes are cohesive enough to recommend. 

Things have gotten easier: Since 2000, the albums have gotten better, at least musically, and the albums thematically tighter. On the best albums, We Shall All Be Healed and All Hail West Texas you get a scope from these slice-of-life portraits of down-and-out characters who have lost all hope.

Lately I started to revisit his “Going to…” series, a collection of songs spread out across several albums about travel. The places range from exotic (Going to Lebanon) to pedestrian (Going to Buffalo). Images of planes and airports, and themes of loss and distance appear time and time again.

Most of the characters in these songs are in denial. They believe that the lover who is boarding a plane can no longer hurt them, that their friend isn’t at death’s door, that they aren’t in mortal danger, that things will be different in Cleveland. They all labour under the assumption that distance will change who they are and how they feel.

And who hasn’t thought about this? Moving somewhere, anywhere, means we have to change so many fundamental things about how we interact with the world. We change our surroundings, our jobs, our friends. Sometimes the ties and relationships that bind us to a place can suffocate us. Moving to a different state doesn’t just signify a change of scenery, it means cutting those ties. 

But Darnielle cuts through this myth. We can only blame so much on our surroundings. Eventually we have to accept that we are part of the problem. Darnielle is obsessed with hopelessness: characters are stuck no matter where they go. They are stuck, and don’t even know it. 

In these songs, place is rendered insignificant. Wherever we go, the exterior becomes a metaphor for the interior, for better or worse. Trouble follows us down the interstate, burdens are transatlantic. Travelling is a form of denial. 

For all its pessimism, though, some “Going to…” songs can be strangely optimistic. The song Going to Scotland is about two young lovers from Oklahoma who are consumed by their young, physical love. No matter where they go, they will always be in love and happy. Here there is some hope. Maybe most of songs are bleak, but maybe I missed what they were actually trying to say. We are part of the problem, yes, but we can be better then the place we find ourselves in.    

Salmon Going Upstream

“I shouldn’t have called your mother a cunt. It’s a bad word. It’s never something you should say.”

Tim, seven and a half years old, had heard it enough times in context to understand. He looked down at his hook, pretending to figure out the tangle of string.

“Here, let me do that for you.” His father put his beer down and took the rod from Tim’s hands. “You forgot the lure. That’s the most important part.” He let out a sigh. He started to untangle the string, and worked in silence trying to fix a mistake that Tim didn’t know he had made.

He looked out at the lake, just a few shades away from a toxic green. He had been to the lake before, when his parents were together, but had never gone fishing.

“Your mother is…she’s a good person. She can be, at least.” His father handed back the rod and reclined on his end of the small boat, taking a sip of beer with one hand and picking up his own rod with the other.

“We just didn’t see things from the same point of view sometimes. Do you understand that Tim?”

Tim nodded. He looked across at the distant trees, the edges golden against the cloud-white sky. At the bait shop the clerk said it was going to rain, but Tim’s father said that was bullshit and Tim believed him because he was his father. Soon there wouldn’t be a drop of green. Tim knew that Fall was coming and after Fall comes Winter. Tim wondered how Christmas was going to be this year.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Tim?”

Tim had prepared the statement in his head, but he felt nervous saying it now. “Why did you take me fishing?”

“Do we need a reason?” He took a sip of his beer. “Are you not having fun?”

Tim knew that tone and knew to placate his father.

“No, sir, it’s great. I just wondered…”

His father shifted his weight and leaned forward. “Grandpa Tim used to take me out fishing. I was about your age. Maybe younger. I want to share that with you. Maybe you’ll share that your son, when you have one.”

Again, Tim nodded, though he didn’t really understand. He looked back out at the trees. Last year in school, Tim’s class made a wheel with the seasons. Each quarter was made up to look like a different season and it was attached to another piece of construction paper with a thumb tack, so it could spin. He had always known that seasons repeat themselves over and over again. Seeing the seasons as a wheel, however, made him fully understand what that meant. It wasn’t that Spring would become Summer would become Fall would become Winter and than it was over, the way the calender ended. Tim realized that it kept going, round and round, over and over.

He heard the thrash in the water. His father, caught with a Lucky’s in hand, wasn’t fully hanging on to the rod. It bent and dislodged itself. Tim lunged for it, dropping his own rod and holding on to his father’s for dear life. His father dropped the beer, letting the golden bubbles and heavy smell spill on the boat.

“Fucking cocksucker!” He screamed out. “Keep holding the rod, as hard as you can son!” Tim adjusted himself and held onto the reel. The hook and lure weren’t really meant to be reeled in; the catch was too heavy for that.

“Tim, hold on, I’m going for her.” Tim obeyed, trying to wedge the rod back in place behind the beer cooler. Tim’s father took a few short steps to the other side of the boat, where the line met the water.

“I see her!”

He dropped to his knees. He waited. He lifted his arm and balled his hand into a fist and punched the water. He punched again, and again. Tim’s father grunted over and over, water spraying up with every impact.

“I’m going for it! Son, don’t let go of the fucking rod!”

Tim watched his father plunge his hand in the water again, almost to his shoulder. He didn’t punch the water, but he was just as quick. He growled and started to stand. He was pulling the catch out of the water.

She was short, by most measures, though Tim had never seen one before. Tim’s father had her by the hair, and that made her look taller than she was. She thrashed, but was clearly weakened. Her eyes weren’t used to the unfiltered sun. Her head twisting to avoid the light. She was blind out of water, and her arms, while strong, didn’t know where to attack. Tim watched her breasts, exposed, small but firm. Her tail, large scales grey like cement, slapping against the bottom of the boat. Tim’s father raised her higher with by fistful of hair and threw her down.

She hit the side of the boat hard, but they could still hear her wet rasping, her impotent attempts to breath. Tim’s father grabbed an oar and smacked the side of her head. She stopped trying to breath. Tim was still holding the rod, transfixed by the struggle. His father let out a laugh. “God, she was a tough bitch, wasn’t she?”

Her body lay there. Tim watched droplets of water roll off her breasts.

Tim father’s took out his knife, carefully hidden away in its own compartment in the tackle box for safety.

“We did it son. We did it. This is as much my catch as it is yours son. You know that?” He knelt down and started to hack away at the lure, tangled in her hair. “You were paying attention and I wasn’t. We might’ve missed her completely.”

He stood up and looked out into the water. Tim looked up from the body and smiled. He didn’t know what his father was thinking, but he had made him proud. That was enough.

“You know, I would clean it but…”

His father turned around, setting sun at his back. He held out the knife, handle first.

“…but I think you’ve earned it son.”

Tim reached for the knife. He grabbed it carefully, trying to show that he was responsible. He felt it in his hand. He left himself get used to its weight.

“Thank you, sir.”

His father hadn’t smiled like that in years. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Tim knelt down by the body, knife in hand, smile on his face. He loved fishing with his father.

An Analysis of the New Season of Two and a Half Men Based on a Bus Ad I Saw

I have to say that until last week I couldn’t care less about Two and a Half Men. I’ve seen episodes. I’m decidedly not a fan. I’d estimate that half the branches I work at have copies of at least one season of the show handy. It’s inoffensive to have around, and, yeah, some people like it. It fits into a broad definition of something you’d have in an office break room, something that barely asks anything of you except to laugh on cue. Again, perfectly understandable: I would never watch an episode of something really taxing (like, say, the Wire) on my lunch hour.

Even having only watched a handful of episodes, the premise is easy enough to decipher. Jon Cryer’s character (a) is a stuffed shirt and chronic worrier raising his not-so-bright son (Angus T. Jones) with the help of his hedonistic brother played by Charlie Sheen. He is a Bad Influence, but he balances out Cryer’s fussiness, so it works. There is also a sassy maid.

The bus ad (see: title) wasn’t overly complicated. The title of the show, the network, and the eponymous two and a half men. Cryer, Aston Kutcher, and Jones are all wearing suits, singing into the same microphone. That’s enough, really, because a) the show does amazing in the ratings suggesting that a lot of people like to be told to laugh on cue and b) because the show’s new goal is to establish Ashton Kutcher as Charlie Sheen’s replacement on the show (b).

The central conflict in the series has always been between the laid back Sheen and the nerdy Cryer. Together they are a nuclear family: Sheen as cigar smoking, newspaper and La-Z-Boy father and Cryer as dotting, worrying mother to Angus T. Jones half man (c). The title is a really broad play on words, but now the ad introduces a new subtext: Who, in this cavalcade of faces, is the half man?

Kutcher’s bearded face stands in contrast to Angus T. Jones’ baby fat. Kutcher has always been an impish figure. His series, Punk’d, was all about him playing schoolyard pranks on other celebrities. I’m sure that’s why he was chosen: his public image matches the archetype he’s out to play. Sheen, though, was an old school cad; Kutcher projects the air of a frat boy. To put a finer point on it: Sheen is Playboy, Kutcher is Maxim.

Angus T. Jones has had his puberty televised, and it isn’t flattering. The oafish character he’s been reduced to playing is probably the writers working with what they’ve got. In the poster he has a sneer. Because he’s a teenager? Because they can’t traffic in his charming youth after his awkward televised puberty? Either way, he is clearly a child, and clearly the one we’re supposed to believe is a half man.

Cryer though. Jon Cryer isn’t a young man. His most famous pre-2&1/2 Men role was as Duckie in Pretty in Pink and that was released the year I was born. But looking into that poster, at his softened edges, he evokes a Howdy Dowdy vibe. (Several casual “Am I the only one that sees it?” surveys have backed that up) Some photoshop was done: soften the lines in his face, makeup to give a cohesive shine, a sparkle in his eye that makes it appear glassy and dead. He’s boyish.

None of these men actually appear as a fully grown heteronormative man. Kutcher comes close, but in the show’s premiere he’s been made as a sort of Charlie-in-waiting character. Dumped by his wife, about to commit suicide, he eventually works his way into a threesome with two buxom blondes. But our first sight of him is through a glass window, soaked by a storm. He is more puppy than man.

The puppy, the mother, and the teenager all live together, all exploring different facets of modern masculinity. In viewing the opener of the season premiere, drawn by the issues of gender the poster brought up, I found out that Charlie Sheen’s character was killed in a particularly violent way. The show’s conflict has been changed into something deeper and all together more radical: what we have now is an Oedipal struggle played out. With Charlie dead, the classic patriarchy has been abolished and Cryer, Kutcher and Jones are free to explore what it really means to be a modern man in a society that is becoming (or trying to become, at least) post-gender (d).

Needless to say: I will be tuning in and seeing how this plays out.


 

(a) I never bothered to learn any of their names.

(b) I’m not really going to get into Charlie Sheen’s meltdown because that’s mostly outside the scope of this piece and something that’s had a lot of space devoted to it already. I will say that it’s pretty interesting that when people found out that Charlie Sheen was almost identical to his cartoonish character of the same name (even to the point where the real Sheen was the caricature), they stopped laughing.

(c) I’m convinced that they were made brothers as to limit the homosexual sub-textual reading. The actual house work, i.e. stuff that a 50s housewife was expected to do as her duty, is done by the sassy housekeeper as to keep some sort of heteronormative balance to the show. Even still, she’s biologically female, but coded as gender neutral.

(d) The biggest clue? Cryer’s character cleaning up Charlie’s ashes, as both a reinforcement that he was ridding himself of Charlie physically, but also, in the act of cleaning (see note c), reenforcing the idea that he is now able to act outside of traditional gender roles.