The Hole

Detective Sam Kelly is in the last days of a long career. His final assignment is to investigate Joe Mackenzie’s complaint that neighbours are dumping garbage down his well. Kelly soon discovers that many locals have vanished over the years. In every case the disappearances lead back to the mysterious hole in Mackenzie’s backyard.

This is a true story based on gossip, unsubstantiated rumors, exaggeration, and the American way.

It is not about a prostitute.

It is wildly entertaining or so says Time Magazine. (About a completely different book. But they did say it.)

Its a bargain at twice the asking price. Its free.

 

 

how can you tell

An Accountant’s Holiday

His universe kept getting smaller. The reverse of the Big Bang. Until he was absolutely the centre. Of every report. He loved three syllable words. In his files. Cream in his cereal. Briefs around his ankles. Columns in the mouth. Of his wife. Leaking in places not mentioned in the tourist pamphlets. In the end. He was left. Alone with himself. On a beach. Someone said. He’s dead. But how can you tell.

The truth is

I wanted to love you. But I couldn’t get around to it. I was too busy nursing you back to health. When you didn’t really need nursing. I was too busy being that night. You’d never forget. The one in shining armour. When you could take care of yourself. Can you forgive me. For being a coward. When you were always so brave. I wanted to fall. In love with you. The truth is. I preferred smoking a cigarette.

She jumped from the fourth floor

She jumped from the fourth floor. I wasn’t surprised. You know how it goes. Down. We weren’t lovers. I just remember the day her brown eyes met mine. There was something. There. I never suspected. That she was on the verge of a breakdown. The pain of a black girl at a white school. And there was a witness. Who said that she was sure. That on the way down, she was trying to fly.

I was Charlie Chaplin

You were a flower girl. I was a tramp. With no prospects. Hanging out at the same corner of the planet. I warned you. That the world was empty. Except for us. And I’m not sure about.You. Must have been blind. To pick me. But life has a way of opening your eyes. There’s more disappointment there. Than I can bare.  But here. At this corner. I’m still holding those flowers. That you threw at me. I was Charlie Chaplin. I cannot remember who you were.

Almost reduced to tears

Prodigal son. Its an interesting story. Hopeful if you’re a parent. But tales like that don’t come true. But they happened to me. After many years struggling to grow up, my son has come around. He has ADD and Tourette Syndrome. And is in the top 5% of the population in intelligence.

Years of trying to find out about his difficulties. Running away from home. We were warned that statistics didn’t favor us. Many ADD kids end up in prison/jail. He’s 30 now. New girlfriend. New attitude. Its like you’re talking to a totally different person. Like he remade himself. I don’t know how much pain he has gone through to make this person. But when I see the man he has become, I’m almost reduced to tears.

………………….

 

THE WHOLE PLACE BLEW UP

 

Hands on the pedestal. Toes tapping. Fingers snapping. OOOE. Charlie What Was His Last Name slid down the aisle. Knee knockers. Of the drug store. His body incredibly still. His feet like clippers over your neighbourhood hedge. In a swirl. Soft shoe. Sand between his toes. Put your ear to the floor. Don’t it sound sad? Vaudeville. There was laughter in his shoes. His fingers snarled. And the air, it just stood there shy and naked.

Charlie stopped up. At the make-up counter, his chin pointed toward the ceiling. Really He was feeling it. His back arched. Heels spinning. The sequins on his trousers and his vest squinting at the store lights. His fingers tapped the glass top. One over each. Ever so lightly. His fingernails recently manicured. Cured of melancholy. He tipped his green bowler hat, the hat he’d been given by the deputy mayor of St. Patrick’s Day. The hat rolling down his arm. To a hand. Which caught it. Deftly. Like Jack Duffy caught that hay maker. And placed it back on his noggin. There was a smile on his mug. They were chums. Never parted. Like cousins under mosquito netting.

“How are you doing today, Charlie?” Deborah Hall asked. The cosmetician was deeply immersed in a magazine. Fashion research. She Liked It Hot And Rough. Was written across the magazine’s face. And there were lots of tips inside. How to make chocolate cake without putting on a pound. And what he really wants under the sheets. Charlie knew that they liked it rough in Hamilton. Of course there was always the horn section. Dipping their silver mouths into the hot molasses. They liked to call it jazz.

Charlie batted his eyelashes. His head jerked toward Jerusalem. And then toward Deborah. His smile was forked, almost demonic. If only humans had never learned to speak. We could all order hamburger tartar in mime.

“Well,” he declared like a full committee of the learned and the privileged. And added, just as an aside, “And how are you?” His voice was theatrical. As if it had been trained in a private school in Switzerland. His mouth the bulldog in the dog house. Hearing a funny little sound. From his gut. Which he didn’t understand. It being pure slang. Which only the thugs on Queen Street understood. Or cared to understand.

“Whateva!” the cosmetician responded shrugging her shoulders in a very melodic manner as if her movements had been choreographed. By a Spaniard at Juliards. Turning the pages of her magazine. Her fingers like Fred Astaires.

Charlie relaxed. His body melting from some celestial pose. He leaned over the counter. Like a flaccid Dali time piece. Making ‘I’ contact.

“Well, here’s one to put a smile on your lovely face,” Charlie said. And he loved Deborah’s lovely face. Would have put it on a postage stamp. Signed her up to play Joan the last woman on the ark. But a trombone blasted the image of Deborah in his ear. Smudged his hair. And misspent his youth. “A woman walks up to the beautician and asks, ‘Can you make me beautiful?’ ‘Hey,’ cries the beautician, ‘I’m a beautician, not a magician.’”

Charlie smiled, tipped his hat once more with juggling delight, than sashayed gaily down the aisle.

Deborah looked up from her magazine with a bored glance and watched Charlie disappear around the corner.

“Whateva!” she sighed and returned to her work. And the whole place blew up in silence.

The Quiet Cruelty

When people are angry. They need someone to whack. You got to take it out on someone. And so the ‘outsider’. Blame that guy. Because my children won’t listen to me. Or my wife turns away at night. Or my job is gone. Or the world doesn’t pay attention. Blame that guy who smells different. Who has an accent. Whose skin is dark. Or too light. Or blame yourself. And fall into a bottle. Or off the cliff of a syringe. Alone in a motel room. Afterwards. Or a church. Or the couch in front of the television. Instead of facing life. Eye to eye. And seeing its quiet cruelty.

………………………………………………..

A PROFITABLE RELATIONSHIP DANCES INTO HELL

 

Mr. Edwards stepped. One two three. Slide. A fox trot into Mr. Newton’s office. His flashy brown slickers smoothly. Across the hand woven tapestry. How happy were his shoes. If they’d been Oxfords. They would have received awards.

Mr. Edwards and Mr. Newton. Filling up the room. With hand shakes and good will. Oh but how dark it was. At the corners of the room. As if they never met. But disappeared into some endless well. Running parallel. Forever. Never touching. Leaving a gap in between. That was equal to the least known irrational number. Except. There’s always an except. From one corner where the back lighting had the effect of highlighting the banker’s profile. Making him look. Sinister. Cruel. Tempting lips Mr. Edwards imagined. Involuntarily. Marauding across the thighs of Mrs. Newton. Where the pink reigned. Down like juice from a sluice. Of watermelon. From a glee hidden in favors received. Mr. Newton’s smile.

Mr. Newton stood up and motioned to the chair. In front of his desk. The chair wiggled a little. Looking forward to. Fanny’s delight. The chair opened her legs. Mr. Edwards surveyed the room. To make sure that there wasn’t someone buried in the shadows. Mr. Edwards sat. In the lap. Of the chair.

“I’m glad we finally have met.” Mr. Newton blinked. A strobe light. In the middle of a dance floor. Except it was his smile. A dark voice was crowded in his mouth. And wanted out.

Mr. Edwards wondered if Mr. Newton hadn’t been born. Early in the morning. On the dangerous shores of the darkened room. Mr. Edwards noticed that the banker seemed to be talking with his mouth full. Like a shark. Too many teeth in his words. Too pearly white. He reminded Mr. Edwards of Marlon Brando. In the Godfather. Offering his condolences. To those about to be deceased.

“I apologize for the darkness of the room,” Mr. Newton said. “I’ve just been to the eye doctor for a new set of glasses. Eyesight isn’t what it once was. All that fine print. Drops in my eyes. Makes them sensitive to light. Not that I’m aware that light has feelings.”

A joke. Who would have thought it. Mr. Edwards smiled. Being polite. Aware that there might be someone around the corner. With a hammer.

“And while I was there,” Mr. Newton continued, “I went to my dentist for a cleaning. He is next door. And what does he do, but pull out a tooth. To add to his pearly necklace. Or maybe he needs to do some work on his cottage. Or pay off a loan shark. So there I was. Drops in my eyes. Cotton baton in my mouth. Doing my imitation of the Godfather. I made him an offer that he couldn’t refuse. Which explains why my words seem muffled. But I can assure you, Mr. Edwards, that there will be no words hidden in that muffle. No small print. No secret code. I’m sure you understand. We both have wives who… how can I put it… have a taste for the better life.”

Mr. Edwards nodded. “Yes, our wives. I have always found it a wise policy not to enter into any discussions regarding my wife. But on that other matter, I too am glad that we finally meet, Mr. Newton. Perhaps we should have met earlier. Business being what it is, we both have been very busy.”

Mr. Newton grunted. What amounted to a fart inside of a smile.

“I sent you a preview of my plans,” Mr. Edwards added. “I hope you’ve had time to look them over.”

Mr. Newton’s face shriveled. Like a vampire giving the finger to a glass of orange juice.

What was that? Mr. Edwards thought. Is his body having uncontrollable reactions to my presence? Perhaps we should not be partners.

“Yes, Mr. Edwards,” Mr. Newton continued, “I had an opportunity to glance through them. I had one of my staff check out the figures you sent us. A trustworthy fellow. The details of the report will not go beyond the three of us. Does that suit you?”

Mr. Edwards nodded.

The two men were silent before Mr. Edwards added. “Of course, Mr. Newton, I cannot stress how important it is to keep this information confidential.”

“Of course, Mr. Edwards. My assistant is aware of your need for privacy. These are delicate matters.”

Mr. Newton opened a box of cigars and offered one to Mr. Edwards.

“No, thank you.”

Mr. Newton took one out, ran it under his nose before lighting it up. “I suppose I shouldn’t either, Mr. Edwards. But I have a weakness for Cubans. Even after I have had dental work done.” Smoke sifted out of Mr. Newton’s smile. “My, what a wonderful gift tobacco has been.”

“Yes,” Mr. Edwards responded. “Unfortunately we can no longer sell them in pharmacies.”

Mr. Newton leaned forward. What is he talking about? Tobacco in a drug store? He took the cigar out of his mouth and placed it in an ashtray. He licked his lips.

“If I could, Mr. Edwards, let me précis your request. You want a loan so that you may renovate the furniture store that you believe will presently become vacant. Apparently Mr. Singh’s arrangement with Mr. G. is coming up for reappraisal. And you need money to make sure that that arrangement is ended. And then you will become the new tenant. Is that the gist of if, Mr. Edwards?”

Mr. Edwards smiled. The man is confident.

“Yes. Mr. Singh has made a valiant effort to make a goal of it in the plaza. But I believe that effort has not been rewarded. Perhaps that is Mr. Singh’s fault. Perhaps it is just bad luck. I believe that a furniture store is not a good fit in the Six Points Plaza, that Mr. Singh would be more successful if he relocated in one of the malls.”

Mr. Newton leaned back in his chair, retrieving his cigar, and taking a puff. He chuckled.

“You would make a formidable enemy, Mr. Edwards. I’m grateful that are ambitions coincide. How did Mr. G. react to your proposal?”

“I did not put my ideas to Mr. G. in the form of a proposal. It was more a loose fitting conversation. And he seemed receptive. Mr. G. is a practical creature. And when I pointed out that the practical served his interests as well as my own, he was eager to listen.”

Mr. Newton stood up and stuck out his hand.

“Well, Mr. Edwards, I guess we’re in business.”

Mr. Edwards shook the banker’s hand as he was led to the door.

“I’ll get my assistant to work out the details.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Newton.”

The banker stopped before they reached the door.

“Can I speak to you on a personal matter, Mr. Edwards?”

“Certainly, Mr. Newton.”

“My wife, a dear woman, has had some health problems of late. She is overwrought. The doctor has warned me that we have to keep an eye on her. Now, she may come to you with a story about her medication. Losing them. Something of that sort. Do not believe her, doctor. My wife can be very persuasive. But on no account, give into her. I am terrified of going home one day and finding a corpse in the house. She has had her stomach pumped twice already.”

Mr. Edwards nodded.

“And of course,” the banker added, “I can expect your secrecy on this matter.”

“Of course, Mr. Newton.”

Mr. Newton reached for the door and opened it. He padded Mr. Edwards on the shoulder.

“I think we are going to get along famously, Mr. Edwards.”

The darkness poured over the two newly engaged partners. And stuck to them. Like pitch. Waiting for a torch.

 

I thought about saying something. But didn’t.

In high school I worked in a pastry shop. One of their specialties was beef stew pies. They used to cook the stew in long trays. About two inches deep. Let it cool outside. And then when it was cool, bring the trays in and scoop it into pie crusts then thrown back into the oven to be baked some more until the crusts were done. People lined up every Saturday morning for these. One Saturday after we’d put them out to cool, I was left alone to do a cleaning job. Through the window I could see the stew cooling. And then I saw a dog come up to the stew. He sniffed at it. And then raised his hind leg. And pissed in the stew. I thought about saying something. But didn’t.

………………………………………………..

BOB’S CAKE AND PASTRY SUPPLIES

 

“Your heart sounds fine,” the doctor said. He wanted to say jolly. But jolly went out with black and white television. He put away his stethoscope. The doctor has a slight lisp. And limp. But only slight.

Mr. Chambers smiled. Well you wouldn’t call it a smile. He was almost laughing as he put on his shirt. A nice plaid shirt. That he wore with a nice plaid tie. Different clans. Mr. Chambers was a grey haired man. Grey hair on his head and his chest. Short tiny grey hairs in his nose. And ears. Heavy set with a quick pointed nose. He would have been described, even in his sixties, as a handsome man. A distant cry from the toad like appearance of his younger days. When he was compared to all sorts of low life. No, there had been a flattering evolution in Mr. Chambers’ appearance. Life liked Mr. Chambers. It always had. He was no cream puff. Granite. Truck tough. There were muscles in his face.

“The two little buggers thought I was a goner.”

Mr. Chambers shook his head. And smiled.

“Out there. Right now dividing up my garments. Their rosy cheeks filled with chipmunk ambition. Fighting like two old women. Who was going to replace me. Take my dough. Spend it on broads. Booze. At the track. Leave their wives at home. Oh my sweet little boys”

“Ironic. Peggy and Theresa, their wives, look a bit like horses. Should hear those two whinny. When they’re in the thralls. Of love. As they like to describe their machinations. Their legs up in the stirrups. Those ninnies.”

“Nothing I abhor more. A spouse complaining. About their men’s wild ways. Boys want me to put them in their place. I wasn’t the one that bed them. Don’t ask me to do your work. My sons are head strong. Not that I don’t understand. They’ve got their wild oats. To spread. Had my own. Still up to do a little spilling. Nothing wrong with that. Boys better watch themselves now. I’m back. They ain’t going to get their share. Not yet. Have to wait. I might outlive them both. Just for spite. No, they want to have a time. It won’t be on my sweat. Not on my time. Not with my hard earned cash. You can put that in the bank. And smoke it.”

Mr. Chambers did up each button like it was the period at the end of each one of his sentences. In a stump speech. By a politician who realizes that no one would dare run against him. His jaw set. His chest pumped. Shoulders expanding. Hands in his fists.

“I have only myself to blame. Boys are spoiled. By their mother. I was too busy working. Well, hey. You want kids. You take your chances. Like a lottery ticket. Maybe I should have had daughters. They might have had more balls. Gone for breeders instead of rodents. My poor boys. My sons. Weasels.”

“Shows they care,” the doctor said. He rolled up the blood pressure wrap. Nice and tidy. He liked things neat. It made him feel that all was well. His summary. The compendium of things previously stated.

Mr. Chambers shook his head.

“Well, some times even death can be an eye opener. I never thought that the threat of my demise would make things so clear. Mortality has awakened the lion. Clear to me now. Used to walk in the shade. How refreshing is the sunlight. Before I was clouded by sentimentality. I wanted my boys to be like the old man. Now I can leave all those thoughts behind me. Neither one of my sons is prepared to take over the reins. They don’t have the balls. They have the power of their kidneys. But not of the will. Taken me a lifetime to build up my business. You’d think that a man like me would have spun some sons with a backbone. Do you know what I did when my old man died, doc? I laughed. He had a full life and now he was dead. What a joke, eh? No tears for my old man. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It wasn’t avarice on my part. But drive. Now these two marshmallows are fighting over my empire. Like it was carrion.”

Mr. Chambers fell into his own thoughts. What if I started over again. With a new woman. Younger. New sons. I might get lucky. Mr. Chambers turned back to the doctor.

“What do you think it was that gave me the scare?”

“Indigestion,” the doctor offered.

Mr. Chambers laughed.

“I guess that’s why they call it heart burn, eh doc?”

The doctor nodded. “You might think about losing some weight though, Mr. Chambers.”

Mr. Chambers stood up and stepped toward the doctor.

“You think I’m fat?”

The doctor stepped back. He looked down at his clipboard.

“I think you could lose a little weight, Mr. Chambers. Hard on the heart carrying around extra pounds.”

Mr. Chambers laughed as he shook his head.

“You really think I’m fat. You don’t know a real man when you see one, doc.”

“I wasn’t trying to upset you, Mr. Chambers.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Chambers responded. “I’m not fat, doc. I can do the work of two men any day of the week.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“What the fuck is this all about then?” Mr. Chambers moved toward the doctor.

The doctor put out his hand to stop Mr. Chambers approach.

“Telling me I’m fat!” Mr. Chambers continued. “I think you’re stupid. Do you like that?”

“I think we’ve had enough of this conversation, Mr. Chambers.” The doctor holding his clipboard in one hand, crossed his arms in front of him. Waiting. For what he was not sure. Except that it was sure to be unpleasant.

“Can’t take it when it’s tossed your way, eh doc? I swallow guys like you every day, then spit them out.” Mr. Chambers chuckled.

The doctor sighed.

“You’re a bully, Mr. Chambers.”

Mr. Chambers leaned threateningly forward, clenching his chin like a fist.

“You’re calling me a what?” he cried.

“A bully, sir.” The doctor held his ground.

Mr. Chambers stared at the doctor for a moment. Then he stepped back. He laughed. He reached out and slapped the doctor affectionately on the arm.

“You’re alright, doc,” he said. “I was just having a little fun. You’ve got to lighten up.”

Mr. Chambers stepped past the doctor and out of the room.

Outside in the office his two grown sons waited. Terry, the youngest stood up when he saw his father.

“So what’s the verdict, dad?”

Mr. Chambers laughed. He put on his jacket.

“I’ll outlive both you bastards,” Mr. Chambers replied.

The doctor followed behind Mr. Chambers. The boys looked at the doctor.

“Your father is as strong as an ox,” the doctor said.

Both boys looked dismayed. Mr. Chambers grabbed both of his boys by the necks and pushed them out the door. He followed behind. Bob’s Pastry and Cake Supplies. Written across his back.

In the wrong direction

Domestic  violence. You hear so many horror stories. Not serial killers. Or crimes of passion. But just your everyday round. Of slaps. Or curses. Of resentments. That somehow life hasn’t been square. With us. That we have been cheated out of our dream. By her. Or him. Or them. Western culture has been corrupted by the dream. In other parts of the world it is enough to survive. But in the west we have to stand on a pedestal. To receive our crown of laurels. So much of our lives are consumed by our egos. Our vanity. Everyone laughs at the guy whose foot long comb over blows in the wind. In the wrong direction.

………………….

 

TOM PAYNE AND THE HAMMERS.

“Just had an encounter. With the most vicious of women.” Tom Payne’s teeth were bared. Like he was prepared to go for someone’s throat. Dumped his bags on the counter of Tom and Bob’s Hardware. The store was uncomfortably dark. Blinds on the front windows. Shading the store. Like death. Bob had tiny eyes. Kept the lights dimmed when he was working. The glare of sunlight gave him vicious headaches. Like that fool Van Gogh. Tom’s eyes on the other hand were large. He craved sunlight. Sucked it up like a tobacco plant. Had a tanning table built in the apartment they shared. Loved to ski. Both water and snow. Loved tennis. Anything excuse to be in sunlight. And so Bob waited. Knew that the comment about the place being too dark could not be that far down the tunnel. Bob Williams, a large man with thinning hair, looked up from the papers he was hunched over. Like someone’s kite in a thunderstorm.

Tom stood in the middle of the shop. Breathing heavily. Blood gorging his arteries. The shakes like old Jack Benny.

Bob had decided to ignore Tom’s emotional state. Tom was always in a state. Bob called it, problem du jour.

“Do you remember why we ordered so many hammers last spring?” Bob asked.

“I’m not sure she was a woman,” Tom continued, disregarding Bob’s question. “More like a shrew. Some mythological beast. I thought she was going to devour me. Rip into my chest and pull my freakin’ heart out.”

Tom looked at Bob.

Bob looked at Tom.

“The hammers? Do you remember?”

Tom pointed at Bob for a moment as he went over several thoughts in his head. There was that Christmas list. And his paper route as a boy. And the six things you need to be a success in plumbing.

“You thought there was going to be a renovation boom in the area,” Tom finally responded.

“A renovation boom?” Bob asked. “You’re saying it was my fault.”

Tom was looking through his grocery bags.

“I forgot to buy toothpaste,” Tom said. He slapped the counter with his open hand.

“Renovation boom?” Bob cried. “What would I know about a renovation boom?”

“You read it in the Star,” Tom muttered then looked up at Bob. “It wasn’t a fault of anyone. You speculated. It was a mistake in judgement.”

“But it was my judgement that was at fault. That’s what you’re saying.”

Tom bit down on his lip. “Does it matter, Bob? They’re only hammers. I was accosted in the drug store. Attacked. I’m dieing here. Could I get a little attention?”

Bob ground his teeth and nodded.

“I heard you. Some woman looked at you sideways and it upset you. You’re a man, Tom. Go back and beat the shit out of her.”

Tom took a deep breath.

“It was a little more than looking at me sideways. She accused me of stealing her cart. Pronounced it like cot. I wouldn’t do that. The cunt. You of all people know that, Bob. And then her reaction. When I denied stealing it. She was carnivorous. Went straight for my jugular.”

Bob stared at Tom. “Why would she think that you stole her cart?”

“I don’t know,” Tom responded scratching his head. “I found it in an aisle. But there was no one around it. Nothing inside it. It was just there. Abandoned.”

Bob laughed. “You stole it.”

“I did not,” Tom replied. “I’m telling you it was…”

“You get your carts at the front of the store. If you didn’t pick up a cart there then you must assume it was someone else’s. Now can we get back to the hammers?”

“You’re so cavalier,” Tom said.

Bob took a deep breath. “Who was the woman?”

“I’m not sure,” Tom responded. He described the woman to Bob.

“It’s Mrs. Newton,” Bob responded. “The banker’s wife. You don’t want to get her pissed off at us. We owe the bank a lot of money.”

Tom turned and stepped over to the barrel where a pile of hammers were piled. He picked up one. Bob came from behind the counter and grabbed the hammer out of Tom’s hand.

“Give it back,” Tom cried.

“What do you think you’re going to do with that?”

Tom grabbed the hammer back.

“I’m going to the bank to make a deposit in that woman’s pretty blonde head.”

Bob grabbed Tom around the waist. And nestled his lips in Tom’s neck.

“Come on, Tom. Why waste a hammer on that woman? We can find something more pleasant to spend our time. Doing.”

Tom gave in. He stepped away from Bob and handed him the hammer.

“Here. You go whack her.”

Bob took the hammer.

“I’m not going to whack someone because they…” Bob replied.

“Why not?” Tom asked.

“Because you don’t do things like…”

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then.”

“This is ridiculous,” Bob said placing the hammer back with the others. “Tom, get some perspective. We’re on the verge of bankruptcy and you want to do a lobotomy on some woman who was rude to you?”

Tom put his hands on his hips. He took several deep breaths.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Tom cried.

“What’s it?”

“You think.” Tom licked his lips trying to gather his thoughts. “It was my fault. That’s what you think. That we ordered all these hammers. When it was you that ordered them. You think that all of our financial problems are caused by decisions that I made. You forget the mistakes you’ve made. Everything is my fault. Is that the way it is, Bob?”

“Tom, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Do you think I ordered the hammers or not? Come on. Tell me.”

“Okay, Tom, it was you that told me to order them. I was against it. But no, Tom, you always think you’re some kind of friggen market analyst. And this confrontation with Mrs. Newton is only the latest of your social disasters. You invite trouble, Tom. You’re like a walking talking target for problems. A million little problems. You don’t see it. You’re totally oblivious to your friggen handicap. And I’m getting tired of it, Tom. I can’t take it anymore.”

Tom tried to respond, but he could not get the words out of his mouth. He glared at Bob for a minute, turned, and walked out of the shop. Bob hesitated for a moment before racing to the front of the shop. He opened the door. The white flash of the afternoon sun hit him like a stroke. He sheltered his eyes from the glare and quickly looked up and down the plaza. Tom was nowhere to be seen. Bob turned and closed the door behind him. Tom was standing there. Smoking a cigarette. His free hand clenching a hammer.

 

She wants her way

Every so often a new stereotype appears on the culture beside the Jewish Mother, the French Waiter, the English Bobby. One I have noticed in the last decade or so is the young Indian daughter. She is very bold. Cant. Almost like the old tom-boy. Except that she is very feminine. And smart. And sharp tongued. And she wants her way.  Like all stereotypes this does not fit all young Indian girls. In some ways she represents all new young woman with their strong relationships to fathers.  I wrote this story with her in mind. It is part of the third book called The Graveyard Shift in the series called OPEN 24hrs. The first novel of the three Day Shift can be download here Day Shift

…………………………………………………………………….

THE THAT DAUGHTER

 

Its that. I can’t stand it. My father is all. Business. I cannot stand it. What is it. Money. Given up for time. For my father, always it is money. At dinner he counts the mouthfuls. How much must he take in. Minimum. To work all day. He belches with glee. The only time he is happy. I squirm. He asks me. He laughs.

“What’s the matter, my only daughter?”

“That,” I reply.

Look at his plate. The cost of a sad potato. Bought on discount. Ready to turn into mud. And the vegetables. Carrots soft before they dive into the soup. And the meat. More gristle. More salt. From the local butcher. In our neighbourhood there are no cats. There must be other ways to cut corners. Cannibalism comes to mind.

Father has mother bill him for the meal. Everything goes in the book. It’s like eating in a restaurant. Without the tip. And of course father compares our prices to those at the Canadiana Restaurant. Looking at the savings seems to help father’s digestion.

Our father will not eat Indian food. He says that we must become more Canadian. He says that we smell. Like what we eat. And we must smell Canadian. But my mother cannot cook spaghetti. Or stuffed heart. The thought of eating a heart makes my mother faint. Or Irish stew. What is Irish stew anyway? I have an image of a bunch of tiny leprechauns boiling in a big pot.

“And father makes us listen to the Beatles. My mother tries. She sings along with the song, With a little help from my friends. But she cannot get it right. She doesn’t understand the song. Why is it friends? She asks. Why isn’t it, family? And father makes us watch ice hockey. Field hockey, I can understand. I made the school team but father would not come out and watch us play. We are Canadians, he said. F*** the field. Play on ice.

Well, he didn’t say the ‘f’ word. But he wanted to. It’s Canadian. Mother gets very upset when she hears father curse. He said we had to learn. To speak Canadian. They use the ‘f’ word in every other sentence. My mother tried to use it. One time she used it. At the small Indian grocery store she likes to shop in. The manager got very upset with her.

“You must leave,” he said.

Mother told him to go ‘f himself.

She told my father. He got angry with her.

“Why do you use that language around our people?” he said. “You want to ruin my business!”

You cannot win with my father. It’s that. Which bothers me. But more.

My father forces me to work. For him. At slave wages. Under intolerable circumstances.

Paul told me to call the Ministry of Labour. Paul works next door in the pharmacy. A sweet boy. He will be my lover one day. He comes over to talk to me. When father is not around. We mess around with my hair. He likes to stick his tongue in my ear. Paul is my own little Q Tip.

Father has taken to meeting some friends. Canadian friends. Or so he brags to us. Over dinner. At the Canadian Restaurant. He meets them. Which he does not tell mother. Mother thinks that the friends are customers. In the shop. I do not tell my mother. It offends me not to tell her. And its that. I can smell the beer off father. When he returns. Sometimes he drinks so much that he takes a nap. On one of the sofas in the back of the store. When Paul visits he ask me.

“Does your father hit you?”

“Of course, he does not. Father is pathetic, but he is not a monster.”

Sometimes Paul and I fool around. Nothing serious. Kissing mostly. And feeling each others. Ups and downs. Outside our clothes. Never under. Paul says that he wants to see me naked. He has never seen naked brown skin. I don’t know how he dares to talk like that. But I like it. Sort of. I tell him that that is definitely not going to happen. This month. The word ‘that’ has replaced using the word ‘sex’ between Paul and I. I don’t know what I would do if father walked in. On us as we were fooling around. He’d probably be pissed that I wasn’t at the cash register. In case someone came in. Who buys couches in the middle of the day? In the middle of the week?

When Paul asks me questions, he writes everything I say down in a book. Another book. Like my father’s book. I asked him what he was doing. He said he likes to record other people’s thoughts. But those were not my thoughts, I tell him. I have one thought. And that’s that.