MEWORLD

A Thesis

Presented to

The Faculty of Graduate Studies

of

The University of Guelph

by

DAVID MILLER

In partial fulfilment of requirements

for the degree of

Master of Fine Arts June, 2010

© David Miller, 2010 Library and Archives Biblioth&que et 1*1 Canada Archives Canada Published Heritage Direction du Branch Patrimoine de Edition

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September 1

Cohabitation

"You want to what?"

"Move in. Do you think I could move in?"

I'd walked in from work about five minutes before, sat down on the couch, turned on the

TV for my daily after-work dose of The Simpsons, and my phone began to buzz. Diana, panicky, irritated. She sounded like she'd been crying.

"Dave?"

"Yeah, yes. I'm here."

"I know it's sudden. Sooner than—" Her voice broke. She was going to cry. "Maybe I could just stay with you for a while. You know, until..."

"Of course it's fine!" I blurted out, and then I thought of Paul, my roommate, how he and

Diana didn't necessarily get along. And my room. My bed. We'd be sharing those things now.

But that was okay because I was a changed man; I was in my mid-twenties and this was the type of thing couples did (I had to remind myself). But I'd never lived with a girl before. At eight months—give or take—this was the longest I'd even been with the same woman. Ever.

2 Diana had just lost her job. Her job and therefore her condo. She'd only moved back to

Montreal from Toronto eight months before, lured back by the prospects of a new marketing agency in the Old Port that had promised her big things: promotions, salaries; they found her a fully furnished condo in the quickly gentrifying west end of the Port.

It turned out the company wasn't as stable as it had seemed. About a month or so before, they started with the layoffs. A week before, nobody's pay cheque had been deposited in their bank account. Within days of that, the company went into bankruptcy protection.

"There was a letter on the door this morning," she said. "Crap about the recession, no choice. What am I going to do?"

"Maybe I could move in." I said. Our place was a standard Montreal walk-up apartment that hadn't been renoed since about 1966. Hers was a gleaming new condo that reminded me of the future.

"What if it takes me a while to find a job? You think we could swing this place on your salary?" There was just a touch of hope in her voice.

"Oh. You're probably right." She was way more than probably right. "Yeah. No." I tried to get the image of the gleaming new condo out of my head, and I had to look away from a long jagged crack that ran down one of the murky-white walls in my room. I felt like the future was slipping away.

I did my best to reassure her that everything was going to be all right and hung up, telling her I'd come by in an hour or so. I sat back, stunned. Tried to take in The Simpsons but it was a season nine repeat (the one where Seymour is revealed as an imposter) and I couldn't focus on it.

I couldn't get the word "cohabitation" out of my mind. It was a strange word. It conjured images

3 of two people linked together by a thin sheen of flesh. Like twins only by choice. It was all so odd because in the beginning it seemed like our relationship was going to be exclusively online.

I met Diana on the message boards of a website called MBS.com (Mile End Broadcasting

System) originally a Montreal-based, student-run, online "station" that ran many different webcasts in bite-sized formats (some as tiny as one, three-minute episode a week). There were dating shows, a purposefully terrible melodrama, a cooking/cleaning show for young bachelors, sports wrap-ups, travel shows.

I quickly became addicted to a webcast, "Marc and Mel Do Canada", which featured a couple who'd decided to hitch-hike/backpack across Canada from Halifax to Vancouver and record it all. They updated with 5-6 minutes of edited video every few days. Although I'd never really been one for message boards, I did begin to follow the posts of "Torii Purchase in

Toronto", another fan of the show. We struck up an online conversation initially about the

"Largest Things" element. We compared things that we had seen and that hadn't been included. I mentioned the massive apple in Berwick, Nova Scotia; Torii wrote about the largest Canada goose in Sault-au-Mouton, Quebec.

Shortly after that she started stalking me on Buddy Blogger, so, of course, I started stalking her too. Next we started messaging on Buddy Talker. We got more and more personal.

One night, our conversation went later than usual. Based on her typos and the randomness of her messages, I figured she must have been drinking. Out of the blue, she told me she was "lonely" and put it in quotes like that. One thing led to another and I had my first, of what would be a few,

"sexagging" experiences. Which was weird. But okay. Like sexting only online.

4 In December last year, after a few more bouts of sexagging, she told me she would be in

Montreal and wanted to know if we could "meat". I corrected her, "Yeah, let's MEET." She

wrote, "lol. No, meat. Get it?"

"Yeah sure," I wrote. But I didn't.

Eventually we picked a popular pub on Bishop Street, a busy downtown strip.

Despite our online intimacy, and aside from our Buddy Blogger profile pics (mine was a

sneaker, hers a cartoon blond) it had all been kept to text, so I walked into the bar half-expecting

her to be some fat, scruffy guy from Laval. All that I had to go on was her hair; she'd told me her

hair was red. And, eventually, I finally did see her standing near the bar, back to me, like a

flaming beacon in a sea of brown-blond blandness.

Her red hair was shoulder length; severe bangs cut straight across her brow. Her ears

were small and delicate. She was wearing a tight black tee-shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans that

clung to her legs, and short black heels with an almond toe. She was slim, but not gangly, and

her arms were pale and coated just lightly with a layer of freckles. My first thought (though I

would never reveal this to Diana) had been: I've never been with a redhead.

"Torii?" I asked as I approached her.

"McDaveKay?" She had sharp, almost fragile looking features, from a narrow chin, to a

slightly upturned nose. Her skin was milky white and there was only a light spattering of freckles

across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, which were an odd, but intriguing hue of green.

Most certainly not a fat, scruffy guy from Laval.

We shook hands.

"Torii?" I asked again. Things were a little awkward. Tense. Like first meetings usually were, even though we'd shared such intimate experiences online.

5 "You can call me Diana."

"Dave," I said. Her fingers were thin, wiry. I could see—faintly—the veins on the top of her hand.

We ordered some drinks and sat down in as quiet a corner as possible. She'd explained to me about the marketing firm and how she was in the process of returning to Montreal after four years in Toronto where she'd finished her B-Com at U of T. She'd tried to stick around Toronto, but ended up hating it. It was the "Neighbourhoodness" of it, she said. She was disoriented by how secluded everything was, so community orientated: the lack of long, definitive, dividing lines.

She had freakishly perfect posture. Her voice was steady; her enunciation outstanding.

There was a clash between the woman in front of me and the one saying really dirty things to me online. That clash itself was kind of sexy.

"What's with the porn name?"

She laughed uncomfortably. "Yeah. Bad, huh? It's actually the name of my avatar." She put her hand up to her mouth every time she laughed or smiled widely like she was trying to cover her teeth.

"Sorry?"

"My avatar."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean by that," I said. "That James Cameron movie?"

"Do you know MeWorld?" she asked.

"Is that an amusement park?"

"No, it's an online community."

6 "I'm kidding, I've heard of MeWorld," I said. I knew it was an online community, and I sort of knew what that meant. "It's like Second Life, right?"

"Second Life is so turn of the millennium," she said and mock-rolled her eyes.

She tried to give me the details about it, but I don't know if it was the beer or the noise or how attractive she was—all white/red contrasts—but I honestly couldn't get past "online community."

"Anyway, some of my girlfriends and I joined while we were at school. So that we could have a way to stay in touch. After a few glasses of wine, we decided that it would be great if we had names like porn stars." She rolled her eyes again, but this time for real. "I guess I kind of regret it now. Although my avatar does actually look like a Torii. If ever anyone were to look like a Torii."

"No one would mistake you for a porn star." And for the first time I thought I saw her composure slip and a little flush of red go to her cheeks. But it passed quickly and despite my best advances, things remained awkward. There were long silences, unanswered questions. She seemed put-off by the noise and crowd in the pub. Or me, I wasn't sure. But then, after only two drinks, she asked if we could go back to my place.

"So you have a roommate?" she asked when we got there, her eyes coasting over things.

It was a mess: books, magazines, clothes, everywhere. Dirty dishes on the couch in the living room. The smell of marijuana lingering in the air.

"Um. Yes."

"And he's the slob, right?" she asked, scrunching-up her nose as she said it.

"Yes! He's the slob. Loveable though." I'm sure that Paul, my roommate, would have thrown me under the bus had he been in the same situation.

7 Once in my bedroom, she began to undress right in front of me. Like she was getting ready for a shower or changing, as if we'd been naked in front of each other like a million times before."I like your room, Dave," she said, tossing her shirt aside. "You have a simplistic style about you."

"Right. Thanks." I wasn't sure if that was a compliment. You didn't have a lot of stylistic choices when Ikea and Dollarstore were your furniture and accessory suppliers.

She shook her thin black denim pants down her legs and kept assessing things with that same, slightly detached look on her face.

She stepped out of the crumpled pile of pants at her feet; her underwear was white and looked brand new. I stood on the other side of the bed and watched, mesmerized by the paleness of her, the tautness of her skin: like she was on the verge of translucence.

She stood there and stared back at me. "Sorry, but would you mind turning off the light?"

"Of course not," I said and rushed to flick the light switch. When I turned around to walk back to the bed she was right in front of me. She reached up, wrapped her hands around my neck and pulled me toward her. She gave me a little shove onto the bed. I just lay there and took it. It was like turning off the light unleashed something in her, allowed her to let go of herself, to give herself over to the experience of it. It was uncontrolled, verging on dangerously physical.

Amazing. And the next morning when I woke and she was still lying there (on her back, hands crossed under her lovely breasts) I didn't even think about waking her. I could only wonder about how I could keep her there until after dark so we could do it all again.

From there, our relationship went from virtual to actual. And then—in the course of a year—from virtual to actual to living together.

8 I looked back up at the TV. The Simpson's episode was just finishing. The population of

Springfield was driving the real Seymour Skinner out of town, deciding, in the end, that they preferred the fake one they'd known all along.

9 2

Gone for a Run

I started running so long ago that I couldn't even imagine my life without it. I couldn't imagine

how my knees would respond if they stopped being punished.

It was warm the morning after Diana called, part of what everyone was calling a

"September Summer." I managed to work up quite a sweat before I even got to the mountain.

Park Avenue was bustling; it was always bustling in the morning: Hasidic Jews walking slowly

in those long, hot coats and top hats, spiralling sideburns slapping jaws; Greeks, Spaniards

shopping for produce at Portuguese markets; young Quebecois strutting in their denim and ironic tees, big retro shades; displaced Upper Canadian undergrads slouched under heavy backpacks, decked out in sweat pants and zoned out on iPods hurrying to their classes at McGill.

It was fascinating, but it sucked for running. A drop of sweat slid down under my shades

and I blinked rapidly to keep it from going into my eye.

I started running a few years after my parents died. Before that, I'd been considered a

"troubled" boy; not troubled in the delinquent kind of way, but in a depressed kind of way. It wasn't for lack of love or attention or anything; I was even coddled by my teachers whose

10 reaction to the whole thing was to err on the side of attention. And I was raised just fine by my young aunt, who was an unconventional parent, but did her best given the situation.

I was a weird enough kid that my teachers and aunt thought I should start seeing the high school guidance counsellor, Mrs. Mattson, which made me feel both mature and freakish: mature because I got to walk through the halls of the high school, but freakish because my peers were still more into the Power Rangers and marbles than psychological counselling.

I saw her weekly and we talked a lot, but just about schoolwork and how I played, who I played with. I didn't understand what we were doing, but I eventually got used to spending time with her, to the point where I started to look forward to it. I was so young that I barely even understood what was happening. I just knew that by the end of the sixth grade I decided that Mrs.

Mattson was beautiful. I thought about her that whole summer between the sixth and seventh grades. It was the only part of school that I missed.

On the first day of classes in the seventh grade, I made an appointment with her. I was almost shaking. My stomach felt empty. I got in the next morning but couldn't concentrate on anything.

"How was your summer?" she asked. She was older than I remembered. She had long black hair with little strips of grey. Lines around her eyes, mouth.

She walked from behind her desk to the chair that sat next to the one I was in.

"Fine," was all I could manage. It was her body, I think, that drew me to her. It amazed me in its fullness: the contours. She wore skirt-suits and heels that showed off her legs, emphasised her broad shoulders. I still remember it now.

11 "Any big news?" She took off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. I wanted to

tell her that I had started jerking off that summer. I felt this was important. I wanted to tell her

she was beautiful.

I blushed. Stared down at the floor.

"And your aunt," she pronounced the 'au' fully, something they don't seem to do outside

of the east coast. Her lips wrapped around the sound to form an 'O'. "Did you guys have a good

summer together?"

My aunt and I were getting along just fine, but I don't know if I answered her. All I could

do was stare at the gaps between the buttons on her shirt, wait for a glimpse of skin, bra.

Something. I concentrated on the folding, unfolding of her legs. Her calf gliding along her knee,

and her skirt riding just a little up her thighs. Not as far as I hoped. She wasn't wearing panty-

hose, and I could see the blemishes on her skin: a mole, the little cuts from a razor, a short white

scar on her knee: a few missed hairs above her ankle. At some point, as I spoke, she dangled her

shoe off her toes. It was a habit that I'd picked up on before. Like playing with a pen or

something. She let her heel slip out of her shoe and would balance it there with just her toes:

flashes of red painted toenails straining to balance the shoe. When that first session of Grade 7

finished I was weak. I went straight for the nearest bathroom, I didn't even care if it was a high

school bathroom and there'd be high school kids in it. I went right to a stall and stood there,

fumbling with my pants, twisting my thumb on the button as I rushed to get them down. I remember the voices of boys coming in and joking around. Swearing. I couldn't move. It didn't matter. I came quickly while another boy grunted and farted in the stall next to mine. I almost

groaned. I couldn't even get past her legs. My hands gliding along her calves.

12 A car blared its horn as I crossed Mount Royal Avenue. I'd zoned out, running high; my breathing was steady, strides widening and consistent. The iconic cross and pitchfork-like radio tower at the top of Mount Royal marked my destination, and I glanced at them before turning onto the hard dirt path that led up to the top of the mountain. I opened my stride a little more, took a few deep breaths and settled in for the incline.

Aside from the time spent with Mrs. Mattson, I had very little recollection of elementary school. I'd been a typical only child anyway, and after my parents died I reverted to spending even more time alone, playing for long periods of time in my room. Then, in the seventh grade, shortly after I began my final sessions with Mrs. Mattson, I joined the cross-country team and started running.

My first race was at a middle school in Avonport, Nova Scotia, near where I grew up in

Kentville. We rode one of those orange mini-buses with green thick faux-leather seats. I was sitting alone, somewhere near the middle. I was nervous, felt awkward and out of place. You could look around the bus that day and see the future jocks: the hockey players, the football players, the track and field stars even. I might have looked like them, but I knew I wasn't one of them. I was already the tallest kid in glass, but awkward and "painfully shy" teachers said (but I remember just not being able to think of anything to say), and, at twelve and in the seventh grade, was going through puberty earlier and faster than any of the other boys in the class.

I was the only kid sitting alone on the bus.

"All right boys! Listen up!" We were nearing the school when our P.E. teacher, Mr.

Harrison, stood up. He placed one knee on his green seat at the front of the bus and stared at us.

An average sized guy except for these big, meaty hands and clownish feet, he had this

13 frightening intensity about him. He wore thick glasses that, along with his receding hairline, seemed out of place on such an intimidating guy.

"You gotta remember what we talked about. Form. Breathe. Pace." He slapped his hand on the back of the chair. The smack of flesh on faux-leather sounded like a slap across the face.

"Form. Breathe. Pace," he said again, his gaze meeting each of ours. And that was the extent of our coaching.

I wasn't terrified when we lined up in a farmer's field behind Avonport Middle School, but I wasn't comfortable either. There were at least a hundred kids from all over our end of the

Annapolis Valley, all sweaty and anxious. There was jostling at the starting line, pushing and nudging. When the starting gun went off I jumped before scrambling to catch up. My ankles started to hurt right away. I kicked myself in the calves, and my knees kept twisting and rubbing together. I took deep panicked breaths and fell farther and farther behind. We ran through fields mostly, only briefly cutting through a small wooded area. I was just starting to get comfortable when we exited the woods and hit the only incline on the course.

Without warning I started thinking about my parents, but my memories were unfocused, mashed together and slightly faded. My father angry about a bike left out in the rain, a sneaker left dangerously on the stairs, toys scattered about the living room. And my mother frustrated because I didn't hang up my coat, refused to eat my asparagus, forgot to do my homework.

About half way up the hill the images and memories stopped. They blurred and melded together, until the vision was of just my parents standing next to each other in some nondescript place. The image was as clear as any I'd had of them before and I closed my eyes, feeling calm for the first time in the race. When I opened my eyes I was at the top of the small hill and breathing normally. My knees weren't twisting, and my ankles felt strong and spring-like and

14 there were only about a half-dozen boys left in front me. I looked back and saw that most of the kids had succumbed to the climb and many were walking, others labouring up the hill with their heads down and arms pumping.

I floated the rest of the way, barely aware of anything aside from the wind. The motion of my legs. And sooner than I could've guessed, I was at the finish line.

Through sweat I saw Mr. Harrison sprinting toward me.

"Dave McKay!" he yelled, "fifth place. Fifth place!" When he got to me he was so excited that he jumped up and down on the spot, his massive hands flailing about, his thick

glasses bouncing on his nose.

"You kidding me, McKay? Fifth place?" Then he clasped his hand on my shoulder and

tussled my hair and I just stood there confused, a little scared, coming down off the high. I

started to cry. I bent over as if to be sick, put my hands on my knees and started to bawl. Some

woman stroked small circles on my back, while Mr. Harrison ran off to half-heartedly greet my

teammates as they too crossed the line.

After that, I became the star of the cross-country team. Coach—Mr. Harrison insisted I

call him that after that first race—made me sit with him at the front of the bus on our way to

races. He gave me training schedules, cross-training tips, and proper stretching techniques that I

would give a half-assed attempt to follow. Coach kept telling me that I could be a great runner,

that I could win races if I put even just a little effort into it. I did become a devout runner; I just

wasn't into all the crap Coach wanted me to be into. I thought the idea of "training" was silly,

and I didn't care if I ever won a race.

15 I did well throughout high school, without ever actually winning anything. And it didn't matter. Running took me from a depressed, introverted kid to an outgoing preteen in a month. I started noticing the girls in my class. I stopped going to see Mrs. Mattson.

My lack of winning baffled all of my coaches, but I knew the difference between me and those runners who constantly finished ahead of me. I could see it in their eyes before the race; I could feel it as they strode with me while we separated from the pack. They wanted it. They wanted it bad and I just didn't care. What I wanted—the meditative state of the runner's high—I got just by doing it. By the time I finished high school I'd quit competitive running.

"A droite! A droite!"

I heard the voice just in time to avoid a collision with a crew of mountain bikers. I had drifted to the left. The trees on the mountain were still full, and they blocked out the city. Little blotches on sunlight cut through the foliage and created little puddles of light on the path. The sound of the city was omnipresent, but dulled.

Quickly, I reached the top. There was no one at the top and I rounded the final bend toward the lookout on the north-east side of the mountain, and then it appeared, like a reward, downtown Montreal. The concrete rose up from the coast of the St. Lawrence, a little compact cityscape with skyscrapers looking like they were right on level with the mountain. The sun was up, but because of where I was and the height of the buildings it looked like it was just rising: it shimmered off the river and cast long shadows off of the buildings. Beyond the city Mount St.

Hillaire was visible and beyond that (well beyond that) was Nova Scotia, a place that felt less and less like home the longer I was away from it. I jogged on the spot for a moment, noticing the cars and the little specks of people rushing to get their days started. Then I turned my back to begin the run down. I wiped my brow and settled in once again.

16 3

Stoner Wisdom

At first, Paul didn't notice that Diana had begun to move in. It was just little stuff: things from her kitchen cupboards, clothes, toiletries, shoes. Paul didn't always notice little things. Or if he did, he wasn't the type of guy who was good at making connections. He worked at a head shop,

Hempy's, on Prince Arthur, a touristy pedestrian strip off of St. Laurent, and he got the job based on experience: he liked to smoke pot. While this made him a mellow guy—easy to get along with and dependable for one or two pieces of stoner wisdom a week—it also affected his short term memory. And, of course, his ability to notice small things, like say, when someone was slowly moving into his apartment.

I was more than willing to let that go on for as long as possible. It wasn't that Diana and

Paul hated each other—although that was entirely possible—more that they just didn't "get" each other. That was Paul's explanation, anyway. And I could understand that. Sometimes opposites don't attract.

I met Paul the day I moved to Montreal. When my aunt and I pulled up to McGill's

Molson Hall residence we ended up parked right next to Paul's dad's van. It said "George

17 Fagundo's TV and VCR repair", and Paul and his dad were sitting on the back of it, the doors

open, the back empty. They had cans of beer in their hands.

"Cheers!" George yelled to us, raising his can.

"Not too early for a drink?" My aunt isn't anal or stuck up or anything, but she is a health

freak.

"Haha! This is the first legal brew my son and me are sharing."

"Special moment."

George raised his can again. "George," he said, "and this is my son, Paul."

Paul and I nodded to one another as my aunt introduced us. He eyed me up and down and

I did the same. He looked like all the potheads in my high school: the baggy, faded jeans; the

worn Bob Marley T-shirt; a thick hemp necklace. Paul's dad looked too old to have such a young

son. I would later learn that Paul was the last of three kids, eight years younger than his closest

sibling. Paul and his dad were more like friends than anything else, George thinking that he was

done with being a dad by the time Paul came around.

"All the way from Nova Scotia, eh?" George motioned toward our license plate.

"Whereabouts?"

"Annapolis Valley," my aunt said.

"Nice. Apple orchards. Bay of Fundy. We've been down that way, haven't we, Paul?"

Paul nodded slowly, but didn't look me in the eye. He stared down at the can in his hand

and played with the tab.

"How about my son and me help you unload and then we'll offer you two a beer. That is,

of course, so long as your son is 18." At some point my aunt had stopped correcting people about

her not being my mother.

18 Paul and I lived two doors down from one another in res. From the start, with his Sublime blaring, his lava-lamp and his Legalize It! t-shirts, I didn't think we'd get along. He was friendly enough and at times was an outgoing guy, but he preferred his own company and didn't offer much until prodded. For the first few weeks we talked to each other simply because we had that brief shared moment on the first day. That fact that I knew his dad was more than I knew about anyone else there. But I didn't think I'd have anything to do with him over time. He was a pothead flake. I was athletic and outgoing.

We didn't truly become friends until one Saturday morning in late October of that first year of university. I dragged myself into the lounge and saw him sitting in front of the TV. I remember I was hungover, stressed about the possible side effects of getting together with a second-year who lived on my floor and had been looking forward to an afternoon spent lounging in front of some mindless show, maybe some pizza. But there was Paul sitting in front of the TV.

I assumed he'd watch whatever it was that potheads watched: South Park reruns, Saturday morning cartoons, X Games. But when I walked up to the couch, I saw curling on the TV. He was so engrossed that he didn't even hear me approach. I stood there behind him for a bit. It was women's curling.

"Are you watching curling?" I asked.

He jumped a bit, and grabbed the remote as though to change the channel but just held it in his hand. He looked back at me. "No," he said.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah. I just... you know. Stopped. On this channel." He looked back down at the remote, the TV. "Is this curling?"

19 "Can I join you?" I sat down next to him and stared straight ahead. We sat in silence for a few moments.

"I think curlers are hot," he finally said.

I looked at him.

"Well, not all of them. You know. They're not all hot. But some of them."

I shrugged. Growing up, I'd had a crush on Colleen Jones, Nova Scotia's champion.

Maybe it was the teeth: A smile you could see your reflection in. Maybe it was because she did the weather for the local CBC station. "Paul," I finally said, "I like curling too. It's fine."

He relaxed. We watched. My head pounded.

"You run, eh?" he said during a commercial.

"Sometimes."

He didn't say anything else.

"Why do you ask?"

"Are you, like, a jock?"

I looked at him. "What?"

"A jock?" he asked again.

"I don't know. No." I certainly didn't consider myself a jock. Where I was from hockey players were jocks. And even then, only the good ones were.

"It's just, you look like a jock."

I had no idea what he meant.

"You dress like a jock. You run. You like curling, and not for the hot chicks. And your mother looks like a jock too."

20 I laughed. My aunt was certainly not a jock. She was a contemporary dancer, which in terms of athleticism was probably as far away from jockiness as you could get. "She's not a jock," I said. I would eventually clear up the mother-aunt thing. I'd learned over the years that there was no easy way to bring up the death of my parents. Sympathy gets old quickly.

"Aha!" He sat up straight. "You're gay, right. That's why you dress so good."

"No, I'm not gay."

"Really?"

I thought about the night before. My head pounded. I put my face in my hands. "I slept with Steph last night."

"Nooooooo!" Paul was totally animated by this. "Like second-year-Steph-Brown Steph?"

I nodded.

"Wicked, dude. Wicked."

"Not wicked. What do I do? We got totally trashed playing beer pong at Bar Des Pins.

She seemed interested. I'm a frosh, right? How am I supposed to react to a second year who's coming on to me?"

"Dude, she's got nice feet."

"What?" I looked at him.

He looked surprised. "Ah, nothing." He blushed. "That's crazy! Steph Brown, dude. Yer the man, cool guy."

"Yeah, but what do I do?"

"Whaddya mean, what do you do?"

"Well, are we like seeing each other? Should I be out looking for her? We live in the same res?" "She's second year." Paul leaned forward, looking serious for the first time.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, the way I see it, is that it's her responsibility." He sat forward on the couch and began to speak with his hands. "Think about it, right, the difference between first and second years at university is totally huge. It's like dog years. She's a second year; therefore, the ball's totally in her court. You're just an innocent frosh, caught up in the excitement of it all!"

And he was right. When I did see Steph later that day she slapped my ass and said "Have a good time last night, Frosh?" There was never any tension between us, and we even got together one more time before the end of the year. And from that moment, Paul and I became not necessarily inseparable, but certainly dependable friends.

Despite the history, I still didn't know how to approach him about Diana, and had even considered never telling him. But he came home from work one day and noticed a few new boxes stacked outside of my room.

He flopped down on the couch next to me. The Simpsons on the television as usual.

"You think if we had enough channels we could watch The Simpsons twenty-four hours a day?" I asked.

"Diana's been hanging out here a lot." He didn't make eye contact.

I didn't say anything.

"Something up with her place?"

"Is this the episode where Mr. Burns blocks out the sun?"

"Yup. And Maggie shoots him. Classic. So what's up?" He shifted on the couch to look at me. He seemed remarkably sober.

"Okay. Diana lost her job, and..."

22 "That sucks, man. Tough times, right?"

"Yeah." I looked away, glanced back at the TV. Homer was spray painting his name on

the wall in Mr. Burns' office.

Paul continued to stare at me. "So? Dude. What's going on?"

"OK, look. You know that crazy condo she has, right? It was really expensive. And, well,

she can't afford it without her job, and..."

"And what?" The panic was easy to see. The way his eyeballs shivered just a bit in their

sockets.

"What would you think if she stayed with us?"

'"Stayed with us'?" He began to shake his head.

"We thought about moving to her place, but it was just too risky," I said.

He continued to shake his head. "Friends 'stay with you'. Cousins 'stay with you'.

Girlfriends move in."

We sat and stared at each other. Paul's initial panic faded, his features fell.

"She's tried pot twice in her whole life."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"She doesn't get me."

"You're more than just pot."

He thought about that. "Maybe, but she judges me. Like I'm smoking crack or something.

The other day, I was using making a smoothie and she asked me if I should be operating the blender 'under the influence'."

"But maybe if she's living with you, she'll get a better understanding of you."

"And don't think I haven't noticed the change in you too."

23 "What?"

"The way you're always picking things up when she's around; taking your dishes to the kitchen and shit."

"You mean cleaning up after myself?"

He stared at me with these big, incredulous eyes. Then he sat back in the couch and crossed his arm over his chest. On TV, the camera was slowly panning in on Mr. Burns, his two thin hands rubbing together menacingly in front of him as Homer was dragged away by security guards.

"Well, dude, this is going to change things up."

I looked at him, but he wouldn't look back. He just sat there with his arms folded. I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that.

24 4

Right Back At Ya

The whole team agreed that word-a-day weeks were the most fun we had at work. It was the only time when all four of us felt equal: anyone could open a dictionary and haul out a word. Of course, there had been a moment during the start of the word-a-day campaign when we all realized that none of us had used a dictionary since about 1994, and that dictionary.com was not designed for browsing. We managed to convince our boss to buy a few dictionaries, some pocket ones for browsing and one CO-ED (The Canadian Oxford English Dictionary) for the definitive definitions. Work during word-a-day week consisted of one of us—Sarah, Paula, Geoff or I— flipping through dictionaries and spouting random words to one another while the others tried to guess what it meant.

"Dunnage!" Geoff blurted out. A few drops of spittle flew into the centre of the table. A bit clung to the blotchy patches of hair on his chin.

"The unit of measurement for shit." Sarah was the best at it. She freely admitted to being an old-school Balderdash champion. She was decked out as usual, in one of her North Face fleeces and MEC shirts. She mixed it up with scuzzy, loose Zellers jeans and perpetually untied

25 Airwalks. She had this really long wavy dark-brown hair that was usually pinned up in some random way. She was stocky and had the kind of stare that made you feel like your mother was scolding you.

"Exacerbate." Paula had a tendency to choose easy words that sounded nice, or at least contained an odd pronunciation. She was fond of 'u's and 'y's, 'th's and 'm's.

"Too easy," Sarah said.

"Simulacrum," Paula said again.

"Easy, but a nice word nonetheless. A keeper?" Geoff asked.

"How is it easy?" Paula looked at all of us, her cure little face all twisted up.

"Representation." We all said at pretty much the same time.

"Oh." Paula looked hurt.

"But I agree with Geoff, it's a keeper," I said and gave Paula a gentle look and she nodded her head, pleased. Blond, tiny, blue-eyed and shy in an I-don't-want-to-impose kind of way, Paula had this innocence about her that made her seem eleven years old. She was the kind of Montreal Anglo who seemed embarrassed by her Englishness so was modest and embarrassed about everything else in life too. Sometimes all she needed was a little kindness.

There was silence again; the only sound was those thin, onion-skin dictionary pages flipping. We sat around a circular desk in the middle of the room and only needed to peek around our laptops to bounce ideas off of each other.

The four of us were the "English Language Creative Team" for a relatively small, though

(remarkably) expanding start-up called "Right Back At Ya" whose purpose was to create and disseminate daily or weekly text and email messages to the citizens of greater Montreal. Some of our more popular services were Ways to Say I Love You ("I love you more than all the poutine

26 in Montreal"), Pick-up Lines ("I had this urge to meet someone special and, wow, all of a sudden it's gone"), and weekly, 'personalised' "LUCKY!! Lotto Numbers (we had a program that generated random strings of numbers). Of course, we offered all of the things you'd expect too: horoscopes, weather reports, words of the day, motivational/inspirational advice, sports scores, and stock market advice. Every few weeks or so The Boss came up with new and interesting things to send to customers; top five Google searches of the week was his latest popular creation.

You could order one service, one of four packages or a "create your own" package of three.

It was Sarah who hooked me up with an interview, and when she offered, I almost laughed, convinced she was lying. I'd just graduated from McGill with a B.A. in English, was an out-of-province Anglophone living in Montreal with rudimentary French language skills and absolutely no direction in life: it seemed like a perfect fit. I thought it would be temporary, just giving me enough time to get on my feet and find another job. More than a year later I would still be reproducing every cliche ever conceived, and creating a few for the ages. I'd thumbed through so many copies of "Quotable Shakespeare" that I felt as though I could write a thesis on the man.

While absently flipping through her dictionary, Paula pulled out a Ziploc baggie full of

Hershey's Kisses. Sarah and I both watched her take out a Kiss, unwrap it, put it in her mouth then bend over and spit it into the garbage. She did this three times before she noticed us staring at her.

"What are you doing?" Sarah asked.

"Oh um." Paula spit out her last Kiss and zipped up the baggie. She looked down into her lap. "I just put them in my mouth and spit them out. You get the taste like that, without all the bad stuff."

27 She and Sarah couldn't have been more different. I looked at Geoff and realized that we were pretty much opposites in every way two guys could be opposite too. Paula and especially

Sarah didn't like him much at all. Not to judge, but I thought part of the problem had to do with the fact that Geoff was unattractive in so many ways. He was often abrasive, sometimes vulgar, not to mention fat in the way that only short people who were not "big boned" could be so soft and roly-poly. Plus he had this long, straggly beard; thinning, unkempt hair; and a splotchy, bunched up-pug face. He wrote online fan fiction.

All of this difference made for an often tense, but surprisingly complementary working experience.

After hiring Paula and Geoff to fill out the English department, The Boss eventually expanded into the French language market too, and French Dave and Sarah were hired; at least, that's what we called the two members of the French Creative team. I didn't really know their names; we actually didn't know the names of anyone else in the office. There was also The Suit

Crew—Suit 'n' Tie Guy (the leader), Skirt Suit and New Suit—who handled marketing and accounting. We called every receptionist Le Valerie (shortened from The Valerie Position) and had done so since the first two that The Boss hired had actually been named Valerie. The

Phoners were the telemarketers who did dry calls to potential new customers. We didn't pay enough attention to them to give them individual names. Apparently there was an IT guy living in his parents' basement somewhere who worked remotely for us. He was just IT Guy and since none of us had ever seen him, was a purely legendary figure imbued with every stereotype that we could throw at an IT guy who lived in his parents' basement.

Collectively, we referred to everyone else in the office as The Others.

"Anus mirabilis!" Geoff yelled, shaking with excitement.

28 "I think you mean 'annus'," Sarah said.

"Oh. Right. Not as funny." He put down his dictionary.

"Is that even English?" I asked.

"It's in the CO-ED. But it's not anus," he said, shaking his head.

"And I don't think we could link simulacrum and annus mirabilis anyway," Paula said.

Sarah and I glanced at one another. Linking words was not something we were particularly interested in. If there was any effort at all, it went toward finding the oddest, most useless words.

We each had our quirks. Finding the names of sounds was my particular forte: tintinnabulation

(the sound of bells), and borborygmus (the sound your belly made when gassy) being my two favourites. Geoff liked words that sounded like bodily functions but weren't.

"Quittin' time," I said, sitting up and stretching. "I think we had a very productive day."

"We only chose nine words," Paula said.

"That many?" Sarah stood up and pushed her chair in.

Paula often looked at us with this slight hint of incomprehension. She wanted to understand us, but she just couldn't quite get there.

"The ball n chain all moved in yet?" Sarah asked as we headed toward the elevator together. She'd been incredulously monitoring the development of my relationship with Diana.

"Pretty much. Her dad's helping with the big stuff tomorrow. Then it's done." I'd taken the day off of work to help with the move. My stomach lurched awkwardly as we got to the elevator.

"Look at you, McKay, all grown up."

"Is that what this means?" I asked. My stomach did another flip. A pain shot through my side. I tried to ignore it. "We're going to a couples-only pumpkin-carving party next month."

29 "Yup, that's all part of it. Moving in is the first step. Then shared accounts, marriage, the kids..."

"We've barely been together for a year."

"I know. You're moving quickly."

I waited for the wink. Her expression hadn't changed in the slightest. My stomach twisted into a tight ball, squeezed and released.

"Your stomach all right?" I put my hand to my gut. Sarah and I often ate lunch together.

We'd had sushi at lunch. "I think that sushi was off."

"Perfect. Nerves must be getting to you."

"I'm not nervous,"

"Right." The elevator doors opened and we got in. "Going down," she said and pressed the button.

30 5

Moving Day

At some point in the middle of the night I woke up in an uncomfortable puddle of my own sweat.

My stomach felt like one of those massive rubber-band balls, pushing in on itself with constantly increasing pressure.

Diana slept soundly beside me on her back, hands crossed over her chest, feet neatly lined up next to one another. She was the soundest sleeper I'd ever encountered, and almost always slept in the same position. It was like she died every night when she went to bed.

I rolled over onto my side, curled up and clutched my gut, but no matter how much I contorted myself I couldn't relieve the pressure. The pain moved up into my head, pushing out at the temples. I started rocking on the bed and when it felt like I was about to start moaning, I finally got up. Diana did not stir.

Standing had an odd effect. It felt like one of those tightly wound elastic bands had snapped in my stomach. Then another. And another. I picked up the pace and made it to the bathroom just in time for the last elastic band to snap, and when I thrust my ass down onto the toilet seat, I was amazed at the hot sticky blast that shot from my bowels and splattered into the

31 water. It didn't stop. It just kept coming. Like liquid pain pouring out of me. My eyes rolled into the back of my head. I had to bend forward as far as possible to brace myself. And still the bowl filled. The smell wafted up and enveloped me; a horrific scent, so dense that I could feel it.

Like rotting tuna, burnt rubber, a little mouldy cheese.

Eventually the stream subsided, and the pain became subdued enough for me to sit up.

But because my stomach still gurgled and sputtered I was terrified to move. I reached down into the magazine rack beside the toilet. There was a recent issue of High Times, and a 1998 World

Almanac, which I noticed that Paul still quoted from. There was also that week's copy of The

Minute, Montreal's indie weekly. I read it for the music reviews, and I usually couldn't bring myself to read a lot of the rest of it, not being one for self-indulgent commentaries on whatever ironic trend Montreal's hipsters were all caught up in. I certainly wasn't, nor had ever been one for reading personals, especially personals in the backs of indie weeklies, coming as they do after those pages of pseudo-porn shots of barely-legal Asian girls offering "ten-fingered erotic assaults." But with the slightest motion toward standing sending my stomach reeling, I was stuck. So, having read everything (almost) worth reading, I moved on to the personals. There was the usual man seeking woman, woman seeking man, man seeking man, woman seeking woman—man seeking whatever the hell he can get—and for every "enjoys long walks on the beach", I was surprised to find something insightful, or even moving. There was one middle- aged man who was recently widowed and looking for companionship "to end the painful loneliness." Another woman was finally ready to come out but had no idea where to begin and sought a "gentle guide into lesbianism." And then, after these fairly standard personals, there was a section called "The Alternatals."

32 I sat back and settled in as my body purged another wave of watery, burning crap, and discovered the fascinating world of "The Alternatals." It consisted mostly of S&Mers and

"Furries", who— I was able to gather—were grown adults who enjoyed dressing as stuffed animals and having orgies. But there were some creepier ones too, some "old man seeking young-looking girl to play out extended kidnapping fantasy" kind of thing. At the end of the page I noticed an online link for even more "Alternatals". I made a mental note to check that out.

Finally purged, I stood and stretched. All that remained was an empty feeling, a few lingering strings of pain around my stomach and an aching head. I noticed that they sky had begun to lighten. There was no use going back to bed, so I headed into the office which was little more than a walk-in closet with a computer table and a plant.

I sat at the computer, turned it on and put my head down on the cool surface of the table and waited for it to boot up. I went online and checked the latest mini-posts on Buddy Blogger. It was the first thing I did every morning. Like reading 150 character long stories to get the day going. The best thing about Buddy Blogger was that it allowed you to read the mini-post (often the title or first line of a blog entry) without actually having to read the entire blog. The mini- posts appeared on my Buddy Feeder in the bottom right-hand corner of my Firefox window every fifteen seconds. I got caught up on Sarah Mendes' pregnancy, Roger Blanshard's quest to quit smoking, Jeremy Wood's growing obsession with LOL Cats. It was like only reading the headlines of newspapers instead of the actual article. I didn't even access anyone's profile anymore unless I wanted to GPS them.

I appreciated having the mornings to connect. Since Diana had started to move in, it seemed like the mornings were the only moments I had alone. She'd taken to sleeping in: the life of the jobless, and Paul never worked until noon, which was when Hempy's opened. I thought about checking my email, but didn't have the strength to make the effort. After the launch of Buddy Blogger, I rarely used email. Aside from my aunt, I didn't know anyone who actually used it to communicate outside of work anymore. My aunt refused to join any online social network, she'd even managed to avoid Facebook. "Offline social networking is complicated enough for me," she replied when I sent her an invite to stalk me on Buddy Blogger.

I didn't get the reluctance; email was like Buddy Blogger only without the instant-messaging option, The GPS locater, the pictures, the ease of use and, of course, the 150 character real-time

Blogger Feeder. And then there was the stalking.

My stalker ratio was -9 (336 - 327), which meant that I was stalking nine more people than who were stalking me. At some point, stalker ratios began to replace friend counts as the central focus of online pride. Having a balanced ratio was seen as ideal, but being stalked more than you stalked others was what you strove for. It was a status thing.

"Morning, babe."

I jumped when I heard Diana. Usually I could hear the creak of the hardwood when anyone got up. I turned around and saw her staring into the office. Her hair was as dishevelled as it could possibly be—a few strands sticking out, her bangs mashed to her forehead and not brushed out perfectly even. The outline of her pillow was faintly visible on her cheek.

"You okay?" she asked, staring at me. Her eyes blinked in slow motion and she swayed.

"You look sick."

"Something I ate," I said.

"K. Shower." She could only nod before turning around and heading for the bathroom.

Diana before a shower was a lot like a lot of other people before their morning coffees: useless

34 and incomprehensible. The thought of coffee—of any sort of ammo being given to my gut—was enough to make me gag. I put my face back down on the cool table and closed my eyes.

I was fine for about two hours and then it started again. We were just about finished ridding my things from her side of the closet when I doubled over.

"Again?" she asked.

I rushed into the washroom. There was something frightening about food poisoning.

About the fierceness with which your body fought it: the violence of the expulsions. The immediate—though quickly lost—relief. I groaned. I couldn't help it.

The session didn't last as long as the previous. I dragged myself back to the bedroom, flopped down on the bed.

"You still look horrible." She sat down next to me and wiped the sweat from my brow.

She lifted my head and shifted so that it came to rest on her lap, stroked my hair and it was blissful. If this was what living together was going to be like; well, why had we waited so long?

I'd just begun to drift when the doorbell rang.

Her parents. They lived out in the 'burbs, in Pointe Claire, and had come into the city to help lug the larger stuff from Diana's apartment.

"Here it goes, baby," she said and leaned forward and kissed my head.

I struggled to my feet behind her. Took a deep breath. I wasn't sure if I could get through it, but I knew that I had to give it a go. I'd only met the Burgesses a few times before. I was still uncertain at where we stood. I didn't have much experience at that kind of thing. Or any, I should say. I didn't have any experience with that kind of thing.

35 I tried to walk as upright as possible as I came out into the hallway, approached Mr.

Burgess who took a few strides toward me. Purposeful. He was a large man, well over six feet, big boned with this air of athleticism about him.

"Well there's the man who is stealing our little girl from us!" He had a stern look on his face, but when he got to me he thrust out his hand. I tried to grip as tightly as I could; I felt frail, weak. He'd been a star defenseman in Canadian university hockey after a brief, failed stint in

Major Junior. Somewhere along the line, he'd developed that look to him of someone who stayed in shape with golf: a potbelly on an otherwise fit frame: lean, ropey forearms and rounded shoulders. A potent grip that sent a jolt into my bones.

"I know it's not quite as nice as Diana's condo," I said as Mr. Burgess continued to shake my hand.

"Looking a little light there, Dave." He maintained his grip for a moment longer and eyed me. His skin had a reddish glow, perpetually sunburned, even on those parts of his scalp you could see under his thinning, white hair. I felt pale and sickly next to him.

"Hello, Dave, sorry, but I must really run to the loo!" Mrs. Burgess rushed by. It was obvious where Diana got her genes from. Mrs. Burgess' red hair was just as straight as Diana's, and just as meticulously maintained.

"Oh, um. Yeah, I..." I could still smell my stench. Couldn't they?

She touched my arm, brushed her lips across my check. "You are very hot," she said, and stopped only long enough to give me a concerned look. Her face was all angles and hollows: smooth, taut skin over pronounced bones. "Seriously, Dave, are you sick?"

"Just a little something I ate, I think."

36 Mrs. Burgess gave my arm a little squeeze and apparently oblivious to the implications of what I'd just said, rushed on to the bathroom. My stomach dropped yet again and it let out a long, rolling gurgle.

"A little food borne illness, eh?" Mr. Burgess shook his head. "Had a nasty bout of it once, over in China. Went over with the hockey team on a tour back in the 70s. Quite an experience that was." Mr. Burgess chuckled to himself. Shook his head. "Nasty though. So is it coming out of both ends, or what?"

"Come on, Dad, rea—."

Diana was cut off by an explosion of sound from Paul's room at the end of the hall. A blast of music so loud it was impossible to separate the instruments or even figure out who or what it was. There was some crashing, a few heavier thuds, cursing, until finally the music quieted. The three of us stood and stared toward the room. Mrs. Burgess rushed out of the bathroom. It took me a second look to notice the bits of toilet paper shoved up her noise. Then the door opened and Paul stumbled out, followed by a short burst of smoke that smelled faintly, though distinctly of marijuana.

"I'm so sorr..." Paul was red eyed and just-woke-up dishevelled. He looked at us and then at the Burgesses. Without turning he reached back behind him and closed the door to his bedroom. "Hi there," he said.

"Mom, Dad, this is Paul, our roommate."

"Right." Mr. Burgess said, his eyebrows arching. After a moment he stepped forward and reached out his hand.

"Yeah, so, um sorry about that." Paul's face broke into a huge grin but it quickly faded.

Paul didn't do well around athletic types. Or parents, generally.

37 Mrs. Burgess also stepped forward and shook his hand, seemingly unaware of the tissue still crammed up her nose.

When Diana and her mother eventually turned away, I heard Mrs. Burgess whisper,

"maybe we could borrow some of Paul's incense for the bathroom."

Mr. Burgess had already turned and begun an inspection of the apartment. He stared up at the ceiling, into cracks. Knocked on the floorboards with his foot in a few spots, sizing up his daughter's new home. He glanced back over at me and gave me an uneasy smile as he fiddled with the loose handle of the hall closet that I'd been meaning to fix for a long time.

38 Part Two

October 6

Saturday Brunch Super Special

About one Saturday afternoon a month Sarah and I went out to Milt's for the Saturday Brunch

Super Special—a monstrous pile of protein and bread with bottomless cups of dark, strong coffee—and then to our favourite music store to buy CDs. Out of respect, I waited until after we ate to mention the bout of diarrhea, but Sarah was unbothered as usual. She just wanted to get right to the source.

"I'm pretty sure it was the sushi from the food court," I said.

"Yeah, but I ate that sushi, too."

"Maybe it was a different batch."

"I don't know, McKay." She shook her head, tipped back her mug of coffee.

"Maybe you have an iron gut or something," I said.

"Maybe you're just a pussy."

"I'm going to let you get away with that..." I stood up, pulled out some money for the bill and tried to sound menacing.

40 "Yes. Yes, you are." She knocked me with her shoulder as she got up and headed toward the cash. Sarah was not the type of girl I usually hung out with. Aside from the west-coast outdoorsy clothes and the attitude, we also didn't share much in common. She was a writer born on the West Coast who moved to Montreal for no better reason than that it was "an urban centre close to Toronto that wasn't Toronto." There really was no reason why we became friends, especially after our rather intense beginning. But we both liked music, that was one thing, and that connection was what began the monthly Saturday brunch tradition.

Bloated with grease, we left Milt's and headed down Park Avenue toward The Eight

Track. Montreal's Mile End neighbourhood had a Saturday buzz to it. The sidewalks were packed.

When we got to the Track, we walked in separately. She headed right to the used, new- arrivals bin, I approached the cash. It was my turn to pose the question. The English guy was at the counter. The staff members at the shop were all androgynous, hipster cut-outs of one another.

The only difference was that some of them were French some were English.

"Do you have the new Library Voices EP?" I asked.

He didn't check his computer. "Who?"

"Library Voices."

"Nope." He just stood there, all gangly limbs and asymmetrical hair. He was wearing a worn Poison tour shirt from the 80s. He looked me up and down without much effort or judgement, glanced back down at the zine he was reading.

I headed over to the new arrivals bin and stood next to Sarah.

"Any luck?" she asked.

41 I shook my head and we stood together and sifted through the unorganized stacks of CDs.

Somewhere along the way we'd developed this sociological experiment. It consisted of requesting what we thought might be obscure bands (over and over again) in an attempt to influence the staff's music ordering. Our experiment had yet to yield any results.

"That's two asks for Library Voices," she said. "To two different employees. One of us, at least, should come back next weekend."

"But this is the lazy English guy, it barely counts."

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

I'd actually forgotten how much I liked music until I started hanging out with Sarah.

Growing up, my aunt always had music playing. She was the first to interest me in local music, with all of her Nova Scotian bands and singers. But my interest had faded when I went to university and there was nobody to tell me what to listen to.

"So how'd the move go?" Sarah asked.

"Hey, Atlas Strategic." I pulled out a CD. "Isn't this one of the guys from Wolf ParadeT

I flipped over the CD to check out the track listing. I was trying to avoid her question. "Any good?"

"Are you trying to avoid the question?"

"No."

Silence.

"So how'd the move go?"

"Fine. Fine. She's in. It's done."

"Well this is a big step, Dave. I'm not sure how long ago humans discovered monogamy, but it's nice to see you're finally catching on. I'm proud of you."

42 "I thought my diarrhea was an omen." I put the CD back in the bin.

"Good or bad?"

"Her mom rushed in to use the bathroom. Hey! Bend Sinister!" I pulled out another CD.

This was one of the initial bands in the sociological experiment.

"Used. Doesn't count."

"Really? But they had to decide to buy it?"

"Okay, but in the report it gets an asterisk."

There was no report.

We continued to sift in silence, but I couldn't concentrate. "I've never lived with a girl," I

said.

"Duh. Have you ever even had a girlfriend before Diana?"

"Are you kidding? I've had tons."

"Drunk McGill frosh don't count."

"That's not fair."

"Neither do those skanky hos you take home from the Biftek."

"But even still, I've had—"

"One or two additional hook ups with girls you originally picked up also don't count."

"When I was—"

"High school certainly doesn't count." She stared at me, waiting.

I'd managed to go my whole life without a girlfriend. The eight months Diana and I had

been together was a personal best. Also, the only reason she'd moved in was because she lost her job.

43 I just kept reminding myself that this was the normal thing to do, cohabitate. It was mature and stable.

We flipped through CDs for another thirty minutes or so, but eventually left The Track empty-handed.

"Pop Montreal's coming up," Sarah said as were about to go our separate ways. "Should

I order a couple tickets for that Julie Doiron show?"

"Thanks, yeah. I'll pay you on Monday." Pop Montreal was a festival of mostly Canadian independent music. Basically one big party with a fantastic soundtrack.

"Have fun playing house," she said and turned to walk away.

It didn't take me long to get home, and when I got to my apartment—the second floor of a walk-up on Hutchison and St. Joseph—I saw Diana in the window putting up a new Ikea curtain where Paul and I once had a perfectly fine white sheet. She was reaching up to adjust the fabric on a rod and I could see her stomach where her shirt had ridden up. Pale. Smooth.

She noticed me standing there and waved, a big grin on her face. I was happy to see the smile because she didn't really understand why Sarah and I hung out, and didn't really like it.

I waved back, and walked up the stairs to the front door.

Although I'd never told her, it seemed certain that Diana didn't like Sarah because she could sense that something had happened between us. Something very minor in my eyes, although I wasn't convinced that Diana would appreciate the minorness of it.

I met Sarah the summer after I'd graduated from University, just over a year ago. I was out with Paul and a bunch of some other guys for drinks. After working our way from north to

44 south, we ended up at the Bifteck on the lower Main. The bar is as generic as it gets on the strip: a student hang-out, no ironic tees, oversize Nikes or skinny jeans.

We were on the second floor sitting next to this table of hippy-chicks and one of them had this voice: deep and confident and almost manly. She had a dirty, dirty mouth.

"All um sayin, is that the fuckin' mmmumblemummmble shit for brains yaddayadda motherfuckin' fuckity fuck."

When I glanced over, my initial thought was that she was probably hideous. All I could see was her broad, strong back and all that hair. Anyway, not the type of girl I usually associated with, so I wasn't sure what my intentions were when I said, "Someone should wash your mouth out with soap."

She didn't even hesitate. Just turned around and said, "That's funny because I gave it a good washing this morning and it didn't seem to help."

I saw that she wasn't hideous, maybe attractive in an earthy, skater-girl kind of way, with her solid build and her dark complexion, and those large, murky hazel eyes. If you're into that kind of thing.

"If you have a problem with my language you and your boyfriends should go find a bar with a PG rating."

"Hey, watch it. One of my friends is gay." It was true: Tim.

"Oh sorry, I thought you all were." The girls at her table roared. She stared me straight in the eye and waited.

"I'm serious," I said and looked away.

"So am I." She turned back to her friends.

45 Now, I had no intention of meeting anybody that night. I'd had some trouble with women that past semester, my last at McGill. More accurately, women had had a problem with me. I'd been in Montreal just long enough that my social network had begun to shrink, and I'd managed to randomly pick-up a set of roommates on consecutive weekends in two different bars, an event

I called the Great Pick-Up Debacle of Fourth Year. It would have been fine if I hadn't walked

Roommate #2 home the morning after and accepted her invitation to come in for a coffee. That's when I saw Roommate #1 sitting in her housecoat. I'd mumbled and fumbled and stuttered my way right back out of the apartment just as the reality of the situation was dawning on the two of them. That situation—coupled with the one in which a girl wouldn't stop calling and coming over to the apartment when I thought it had been made abundantly clear that our relationship was to be a (very) temporary one, and another who had me worrying for days with a pregnancy scare—had finally been enough to make me think I should back off for a bit.

Despite this, I watched Sarah out of the corner of my eye the whole time we sat there.

She was not at all my type, which—at that point in my life—consisted mostly of clueless undergrads living away from home for the first time: they were underdeveloped in terms of self- respect or self-knowledge and could easily be persuaded by a decent looking guy with a the most basic abilities of persuasion. I was just about six foot, had brown eyes, thick hair, ran four or five days a week and ate fairly well. I was a decent listener and had read enough books and watched enough Oprah to be able to throw a bit of advice around when I needed to.

Sarah seemed so totally disinterested in me that I couldn't help myself, so I got up and followed her when she left the table. I weaved my way through the damp crowd to the bathrooms and then waited for her to come out. I had no plan, I had nothing ready to say, no tricks up my sleeve for her. When she came out, I made my way forward again, and squeezed myself between a

couple of people and I stumbled out directly onto her path. She didn't even meet my gaze and just turned her body sideways to squeeze by. I went the same way. She stopped abruptly and

looked up.

"Watch where you're fucking going," I yelled over the crowd and smiled my best 'I had

braces when I was fourteen to have teeth this nice' smile, and tried to look warmly into her eyes

as I said it. She just looked confused.

I reached forward and let my hand hover over the skin of her half-exposed biceps (her

shirt barely came down over her shoulders). She glanced very quickly down at my hand. I leaned

down and forward, my lips centimetres away from her ear and said, "Sorry about interrupting

you earlier. That was rude." I stood up straight and pulled my hand away. I noticed the fine hairs

on her lobe standing up.

The next morning when she silently refused to wake up and get out of my bed and my

apartment, I started to panic just a bit. I even stood, at one point, and watched her sleep. She lay

on her stomach, the sheet coming just up above her waist exposing her back, and I asked myself

what I'd done. Sarah didn't come across as a particularly nice person on first impression (and

maybe not the second or third either), and she wasn't at all attractive in any conventional sense.

And she had this smell about her, which was kind of erotic while we were doing it (like earthy

and grimy and a little unwashed), but was just off-putting the morning-after. Her long hair was

greasy, and matted in spots like it was beginning to dread. Even the sex was foggy, just a

drunken haze of fumbling and groping.

But she looked so restful that despite my best judgement, I let her sleep. I even cut up

some fruit for her and at about half-past noon I brought her the fruit and a coffee and nudged her awake. She rolled over and looked at the bowl fruit and then at me. She looked perplexed. "You know I just came home with you because I needed a fuck, right?"

I'd never heard a woman say anything like that before. I fumbled.

"Look, you seem like an okay guy and everything..." She sat up, and despite my best

efforts, I couldn't help but stare at her breasts. They were big, sagged on her chest. Dark, wide

nipples. "But thanks for the fruit." She reached over and grabbed a piece of melon and tossed it

into her mouth. She had such an emotional distance that by the time she got out of bed and put

her clothes back on, slowly and comfortably, I knew I would never see that body again. I liked a

more lithe look anyway. Thin, angular chicks, not strong, boxy ones.

We actually spent the rest of that day hanging out, becoming friends and she ended up getting me my job. I never gave it a second thought after that, and most of the time I forgot that it even happened.

48 7

Dinner in the DLZ

Diana had her first job interview the following week. When I got home from work I found her

pacing the apartment

"So?" I asked. "How'd it go?"

"Awesome. I'm so in. They love me. It went awesome."

"Now, you did say it was somewhat of a managerial position, right?" I walked over to the

couch and slouched down on it. "That's a tough position to get right out of university, and with

only one brief job under your belt." I didn't want her to get ahead of herself.

"I know, I know. But they said they were looking for 'An injection of youth for the

company.'" She smiled at me. There was something a little frantic about it. She rushed over to a table beside the couch and turned a candle just slightly. Resumed her pacing.

The apartment, I noticed as I looked around, was clean. Like, really clean. Diana's moving in had some unexpected perks. She cleaned, for one. Apparently she lived by this rule that said everything had its place. It had sounded a little unfeasible to me, and Paul had been downright confused by the whole thing but it actually seemed to be working.

49 "Should we celebrate?" I asked. "Go out for dinner?"

"Where should we go?" Diana ran over the couch and threw herself on top of me.

"That depends on whether it's on you or not."

"I think it could be." She wrapped her right arm around my neck. "Since I'll be gainfully

employed again!"

"Seeing as how you'll be a big-time advertiser now and I'll still be a lowly pusher." She

called me a "pusher" because I was pushing information at people.

"Not even a con-artist, just a lackey."

"Ouch," I say.

"It's okay, not like our jobs're that different really, when you get down to it," she said, all

coy.

"What is it I'm marketing?"

"People's insecurities."

'"People's insecurities' eh?" I puzzled over that one. "I like to think I'm doing a service

to humanity. We give out advice."

"Okay then, I'm doing a service by telling people what products to buy."

"Let's take over the world with subliminal messaging."

"I love it when you talk about subliminal messaging." She shifted and reached down and

flicked the crotch of my jeans with her fingernail.

"And I get myself all frisky when I think about world domination." This was more like how I'd pictured cohabitation.

"Let's buy a Risk board." She leaned in, rested her lips on mine.

"We can play online," I said, speaking out of the side of my mouth.

50 "I get so hot when you talk Internet to me," she said and kissed me.

When we finally got out of the apartment, we did our usual job of finding some random

restaurant in the Plateau. It seemed to be the best way to go out for dinner in Montreal: head on

out with a bottle of wine and wander what Diana and her friends called "The DLZ", or "De-

Languaged Zone." The DLZ was the thin strip in the centre of the city, from Park Avenue to St.

Denis, cut through by St. Laurent in between. The area was a mix of Portuguese, Spanish, Greek

and Middle-Eastern immigrants with significant French, English and Jewish pockets thrown in. It

was also the buffer zone between the English west end of the city and the French east end. The

DLZ was a part of the city where you were as likely to hear Hebrew as English or French; Arabic

as Portuguese or Italian, and perhaps because of this mix, the choice of restaurants was great.

We ended up in front of a window in what seemed to be someone's living room. It was

dark and intimate, had only six tables in the dining area. Inside, some Portuguese fado hummed

from hidden speakers. There were two other couples in the place hunched over their tables.

We both ordered the fish and the waiter corked our wine. Diana started telling me about

MeWorld, which was quickly becoming her go-to topic.

"And Sandy and I actually got to watch this short film in a theatre! It was like we were

together."

"Right. Except you were sitting next to me on the couch." I couldn't quite grasp the

appeal of MeWorld. It was like a social network in the form of a role-playing game: MySpace

meets World of Warcraft; an evolution of SIMs and Second Life. You had an avatar and could walk through this web life and do things like go to theatres, change your clothes, walk around

51 and stuff. "You know, I still don't get it. What's the point?" Role playing games were supposed to be games. There didn't seem to be a point to MeWorld.

"There is no point."

"That's my point exactly," I said, grabbing some bread out of a basket.

"But that's the point. That's the beauty of it," she said and shook her head.

In an attempt to figure it out, I'd actually sat down next to her and her laptop and watched her 'play'. This consisted of watching Torii change her clothes, buy some new hair, float in the air and stare down at a small town. She eventually went to a cafe to meet her friend Sandy and watch an open-mic, but whenever any avatar went onto the stage to play, they were immediately attacked by hundreds of little rabid tomatoes that materialized on the stage. I thought that had been pretty interesting, but Diana was actually pissed off about it. There were, apparently, a lot of "griefers" out there, and they were annoying.

I admitted that the graphics were spectacular, the most life-like I'd ever seen, and apparently the best in the genre as they were all created using motion capture techniques or something (Diana had once explained). But there had been nothing, actually, to do there.

"What's there to do there?" I asked, taking a sip of wine.

"What's there to do in ReWorld?"

"Wait. What's 'ReWorld'?"

"Sorry: what's there to do in the 'real world'?"

"What do you mean? There's everything to do in the real world." I looked around our table. "There's this, going out for dinner, this is something to do."

"We can do that in MeWorld. You're all cyber-savvy, Dave, with your Buddy Blogger posts, I don't understand what your hang-up is," she said.

52 "I don't actually write the blog posts, you know. I just use the Feeder as a status reader."

"Whatever, you know what I mean. You're not a luddite or anything."

"I just can't wrap my head around it. Why do you need all the illusions? Why can't you guys just chat like we used to?"

"It's the way forward."

"Weblives?"

"Yeah. Think about what we could have done when I was still living in Toronto." She leaned forward and whispered. "Instead of sexagging."

"That's just it, it just seems like this was designed for people in long distance relationships." I re-thought that. "And perverts, social outcasts, computer nerds and ugly people.

But you're none of those things. What's wrong with your first life?"

"It's evolution."

"Evolution? How can technology have anything to do with evolution?"

"It's not the technology, it's us. We've made it all. It's part of our social evolution. And eventually, it'll be part of our physical evolution."

"What? We'll merge with our avatars or something?"

"That might be all that's left for us. I mean, we've come pretty far in this." She reached down and pinched her skin, mashed her face all up like she was disgusted.

"I happen to like this," I said and reached over and pulled her hand away from her arm. I touched the red skin where she'd pinched herself.

"It's just so limiting. The body. Fragile and," she reached up and tapped a painted fingernail on the side of her head. "Crude," she finally said.

"Crude?"

53 "It's disgusting, actually. All those fluids. Oozy stuff. But it's not like we can get rid of it or anything. We'll just have to transcend it somehow."

"So people play this game and realize they can be a lot cooler and a lot better looking there and start spending more and more time logged in until eventually their 'real' lives become their other lives."

"It's already happening, people are making a living on MeWorld, stores, real estate.

Some are finding spouses there. For some, I imagine there is less and less reason to spend any time off line." She grabbed a piece of bread and pulled it apart. Ate it dry.

I wasn't totally ignorant to the appeal of it, and I could at least understand the allure of online worlds like Warcraft. But that was because they retained a game element. People created their avatars which were basically just idealized, unattainably heroic versions of themselves and they got to walk around some elaborate cyber environment and live out their fantasies. But in the end, there was a point. Tasks. Win, lose, or draw.

Our fish arrived. Before he left, our waiter grabbed our bottle and filled our glasses.

"So who's Julie" Diana asked, forking a too-big piece of steamed cauliflower into her mouth.

"Sorry?"

"Your mini-post today. You said you were 'going to see Julie' or something."

I forgot, sometimes, that people could carry over those things into the real world. I knew it was public, yet whenever anyone physically mentioned those things I got a little freaked out.

"Yeah, it's a Pop Montreal thing. A show. Sarah bought some tickets for Julie Doiron."

"Oh." Diana wouldn't look up from her plate. Just poked at her fish.

54 "That's okay, right? We went last year too." It seemed, for some reason, like my relationship with people was supposed to change since Diana had moved in.

"Oh yeah, of course." She said, and looked up at me with barely a forced grin.

We ate in silence. "How's dinner?" I asked.

"Fine, great!" she said. But I had to wonder if she meant it because, to be honest, my fish tasted a little bland.

55 8

The Pumpkin Carving Party

"Isn't it a little presumptuous to call something 'The First Annual...'?" We were

standing on the platform at St. Laurent station waiting for the metro. I was holding the orange

and black construction paper invitation in my hand. There were printouts of jack-o-lanterns and

black cats glued to it. The note was typed in one of those barely legible handwriting fonts.

"Not when you have serious friends living stable lives." Diana was nervous. She kept

pulling out her compact and checking her makeup, adjusting her lipstick. I knew that everything

she was wearing was new. When I'd arrived home from work, I found her in the living room in a

sea of H&M and Le Chateau bags.

"So why were we invited?"

She gave me one of her looks; the "Don't be so vulgar" look. "Stasia is one of my oldest

friends. We never get to spend time with them anymore; they're so busy. This is going to be a nice evening."

I looked back down at the invitation. I hadn't been to a pumpkin carving party since elementary school. "I can't carve pumpkins," I said.

"Don't be stupid. Everyone can carve pumpkins."

56 "No, really. I can't." I'd always given it my all as a child, loving the idea of carving pumpkins. I had no problem thinking of these elaborate facial expressions, it was making the leap from concept to execution that was the problem. I remember once, in the fifth grade, holding my face in a scrunched-up, angry mess in front of a mirror and studying it so that I could memorize it and render each and every crease and line, capture the essence of the grimace. I held it long enough that there were red lines like pillow disease all over my face. I went to school and carved with abandon. The teacher came around inspecting our work. I remember she stopped at mine, bent over and said, "My, don't we have a little Jackson Pollack here." I had no idea what she was talking about, but my whole pumpkin collapsed into itself a short while later. I stuck with triangle eyes and a smiling mouth after that, but even those were always horribly asymmetrical.

"Well, give it your best shot."

We got on the metro and rode in silence; Diana looked out into the darkness beyond the window, smoothed out an eyelash. It was astonishing to me, the amount of time she spent on herself getting ready for things. The products and primping, the pulling and plucking. She'd tried on at least five different variations of what she was going to wear before she'd decided.

At the mass transfer downtown, we continued south. Stasia and Derek lived in

Westmount. I actually hadn't spent much time with her friends. When she'd first returned to

Toronto, Diana was astonishingly busy at work and because we were just getting to know one another in the flesh, we took every opportunity to be alone together.

"So Dave, do you think there's a way to describe your job that doesn't sound so..." She stared straight at me, a distant look on her face as though she'd just been remembering something and she'd begun to speak without thinking.

57 "So what?"

"I don't know. Nothing. Never mind," she said and looked back into the black void outside the window.

"No, really, what do you mean?" She had never said anything about my job before.

"I don't know. These people are just all very career oriented. You know?"

"How do you think we can describe your unemployment so that it doesn't sound so...."

"Dave."

"What?"

"Don't." She gave me a look that convinced me not to. Diana's face was such a precisely carved object, that every variation in expression was enhanced. "I didn't mean it like that. Plus, they understand. These are tough times. A recession, right? They're all just lucky to be in positions and with companies that are weathering the storm."

"Well I'm just lucky to be in a profession that caters to suckers like your friends who have a little too much disposable income, despite these tough times."

She opened her mouth to speak but then folded her hands and placed them in her lap. She studied them.

Diana and I had had our first argument the day before. I'd come home to find her in the bathroom dressed basically in plastic—boots, rain pants, long industrial-chemical gloves— wearing sunglasses, a scarf over her mouth and scrubbing a tile in the corner with a toothbrush.

There was a particular glow to the room that I'd never noticed before. The shower curtain had been replaced. I stood in the doorway of the bathroom for a few moments until she noticed me.

She pulled the scarf down under her chin and pointed to a corner of the bathtub.

"See those rings?" she asked.

58 I looked hard, took a few steps forward. Sure enough there were two maybe three reddish, mildew rings crossing each other on the corner of the bathtub. I shrugged. "Sure," I said.

"Well, we can't have that. It's already a breeding ground for mildew. If we allow it to stain..." She glared at me, but there was something distant in her expression, mechanical in her anger.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but..."

"What's that?" Her arm shot out from her side pointing straight up at the shower head.

There was one of those hanging basket things hooked to it.

"I don't know what it's called," I said.

"Well, I'll tell you what it's for, how about that?"

"Honestly, Diana, I don't know what you—"

"It's to hang shampoo and conditioner bottles to avoid making mildew circles on the corners of the bathtub. But it's pretty useless when it's up there hanging empty." She was getting quite worked up. She slipped the sunglasses up onto the top her head and her green eyes went wide, so wide that her pupils seemed to swim there in tumultuous seas of white.

I could only stare at her. It was becoming obvious that Diana's idea of a clean house was somewhat different than mine and Paul's.

It took me about an hour or so to finally get it out of her that she'd heard back about the job interview. She hadn't gotten the position. Apparently cleaning was a kind of defence mechanism for her.

"We're here." Diana stood up and I followed her off the metro and down the platform into Vendome station.

59 Stasia and Derek's condo wasn't far from the station. It was as generic-twenty-first- century-Montreal condo as you could get: all red brick and frosted, baby-blue glass. My first wonder was how they could afford it. He was still in law school and she worked in marketing for the SAQ, the Quebec liquor commission.

The couple greeted us at the door. They looked like they were dressed from an expensive urban-cool boutique on the east end of Mont Royal Avenue, away from all the kitschy lunchbox and ironic T-shirt shops further west. He was wearing a slim-cut black vest over a frilly shirt: they were both in the tightest black jeans I'd ever seen.

They led us into the living room where the other two couples, Helen and JT, and Sharon and Bryan, were standing around with wine glasses. A round of cheek kisses and handshakes ensued. It was not a bad place, modest, actually, and new. The space seemed well used, an open concept living room-kitchen-dining area on the first floor and two bedrooms and an office on the second. There was a deck off of the living room. Stasia explained that the faux-wood floors were heated by water pipes that ran underneath. The kitchen glistened with stainless steel appliances.

There was a wide-screen TV up on the wall above a small (fake) fireplace that burned an odd blue flame. There was a picture of a newborn baby on the screen. Really newborn. It was lying, all pink and gunky, on Sharon's chest. She was in a hospital bed and still in her gown.

"We were just looking at some photos of the baby!" Helen's voice was a few pitches higher than a human's should have been. She was tall and gangly with reddish hair that was all flat in the front and spiky in the back, a style she'd probably worn for a decade. Her boyfriend,

JT, who was an equally tall and almost as gangly red head, grabbed her and pulled her to him with his free hand. It was odd to see two red heads together. It seemed volatile.

60 I knew that "The Baby" belonged to Sharon and Bryan. He was dressed in his standard business-casual uniform: a blue button-up, black leather dress shoes. Khakis. Sharon looked great for having only had her baby a few months before, and was wearing one of those black dresses that looked like nothing but probably cost a fortune. At only twenty-five, she was already an engineer at Bombardier. Bryan was a business intelligence consultant. I had no idea what that meant except that he once told me he went into a business and either "cleaned up its mess or just made it awesomer."

"You look great, Sharon." I said. Everyone turned to look at me. I looked at Diana and she was staring at me too.

"Oh. Uh, thanks, Dave." Sharon looked down at herself, smoothed out her dress. Diana reached over and pinched my arm.

"What about me, huh, Dave? Don't I look nice?" JT did a twirl, everyone laughed, and I was appreciative of the distraction. What was wrong with complimenting a new mom?

Diana glared at me and then joined the women. They were giggling and giving Sharon these little wispy touches. I noticed, finally, that the wide screen was hooked up to a laptop and baby photos were being projected through it. Lots of photos. The first six months of this kid's life.

JT put a glass of wine in my hand. He was the person I seemed to get along with best, but even that seemed a stretch. He was an east coaster, from PEI, and the few times we'd hung out in the past, we'd ended up drunk and talking nostalgically about the Atlantic Ocean. He was a chef and moved in quick, deliberate motions, always looking like he was multi-tasking, even when he wasn't doing anything at all.

All the boys and girls in the room were separated like at a junior high dance.

61 "This is the first time we've been out with friends since the baby." Bryan looked tired.

Last time I met him he said he sometimes worked twelve-hour days. I could only imagine how the baby fit into that schedule.

"It must be awesome though, just amazing." Derek stared at him, willing Bryan, it seemed, to confirm the elaborate mythology he'd created around fatherhood.

"All those cliches you hear," Bryan began and shook his head, "you know they're all true. It's a miracle, it really is. Life."

"I can't even imagine a baby, man." JT twitched nervously. He drank his wine fast.

"Life's just freaky enough without it, you know?"

I nodded as though I did. But it didn't sound too bad so bad to me. They seemed to have begun a stable life together.

Derek nodded too, but it wasn't as convincing. "So, how are things..." He was staring at me, "sorry, where was it you work again?"

"Right Back At Ya," I said.

"Oh yeah, that e-mail service-thingy."

"Well, we do simultaneous e-mail/text messages if you prefer." I explained.

"Jesus, people still pay for that?" JT bobbed from foot to foot.

"Look at the head of hair on'im. He's gonna be a looker, I can already tell." Bryan stared at the screen with a far-away look on his face.

I looked up at the baby. It looked like every other newborn I'd ever seen. The last one I'd seen was my aunt's. She was a girl but she still looked exactly the same as Sharon and Bryan's baby boy.

62 "But you guys send out some useful stuff. It's not just crap, right?" Derek was either trying to be polite or he actually subscribed to our service and was trying to justify it.

"Sure," I said, "there's some useful stuff. But it's mostly crap."

"But I can get, like, a weather update, right?" Derek nodded as though this were important. As though most phones weren't smart enough now to give weather updates already.

The girls continued to gush in front of the screen. We were only about a month or two into the baby's life. Bryan had this little grin, a "Yeah I made that" look on his face. Sharon was getting weepy as she explained the moment they first brought the baby home (photo 167). Maybe she was drunk. She probably hadn't drunk anything in last year and a half. One glass and she was done.

"How's law school?" I asked Derek.

"Oh, it's hard to get back into it. I worked this summer for Freeman-Goldstein and they pretty much guaranteed me an articling position, so it just seems like I'm playing things out." He sighed. "Didn't you and Diana just move in together? That must be something."

"Oh, did you guys buy?" Bryan, all of a sudden interested.

"No, she just moved into my apartment."

"Right. Diana's not working. I forgot." Not so interested anymore, he pulled out an iPhone and touched the screen.

I'd finished my wine and looked around for more.

"Owning is definitely the way to go." JT nodded. He kept nodding.

"Well I'm sure things'll come around." Derek reached over and patted me on the shoulder. We were all the same age, but for some reason I suddenly felt like the youngest.

"You bought too?" I said to JT, but I didn't mean to sound so shocked.

63 "Oh yeah, we bought about two months ago. Helen's parents helped a little with the down payment."

"You guys have iPhones? You seen some of these crazy new apps?" Bryan held up his iPhone. Derek and JT squeezed in to see better.

"Bryan, honey, where was this photo taken?" Sharon called from the girls' side of the room.

It surprised me that Helen and JT could afford to buy. I wondered when Diana and I would get to that point, and whether or not we should have been actively looking so we'd be ready once she found a new job.

"That's at Aunt Jenny's place. Up in Knowlton," Bryan said with just a quick peek up at the screen. "Check this out." Bryan held out his iPhone and shook it. The screen spun like a slot machine. "Et voila! A restaurant recommendation two blocks away."

"Amazing." Derek reached into his pocket. "I've still got a stupid Blackberry." He looked down at it resting in the palm of his hand. Next to the iPhone it looked like a really nice calculator.

"What do you have, Dave? You must have something good, with your work and all,"

Derek asked.

The girls got to the end of the photos. There was a commotion.

"No, not really. No company perks, I've just got my phone."

"Oh yeah, an iPhone? Cool." Derek said and made his way over to the girls.

Stasia approached and put her hand on his arm, "Pumpkin time!"

"No, no, I said, I've just got—" I said to him, but he was whispering in Stasia's ear and didn't hear me.

64 "Did you just say you have an iPhone too?" Bryan was still holding his out in front of him.

"No, I just sai—"

"Bryan, why don't you help Derek and Stasia with the pumpkins," Sharon said, and he walked away.

Diana and Helen stood alone in the corner talking conspiratorially.

I reached down and touched the no-monthly-payment-phone in my pocket. It was huge. It felt like an ulcer.

JT nudged my shoulder. "I've got a little coke. You interested?" He leaned into me.

"Um no, not really." Not what I'd expected. "Ah, thanks though."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. I thought you did it." He shrugged. "Don't tell Helen though, okay."

"She doesn't know?"

"Well, she knows, like, most of the time. But she gets all freaked out or whatever if I do it too much. You know?"

I nodded my head as though I understood completely as JT slipped down the hall toward the bathroom.

"Pumpkin time!" Stasia held a smallish pumpkin over her head. "We tried to get pumpkins as similar as we possibly could."

Derek and Stasia had put down newspapers in the dining area. There were various sized knives and bowls scattered about.

"Remember to save the seeds!"

65 "I can't carve pumpkins," I said. Diana and I sat down next to our pumpkins. They were all remarkably similar in size.

"Everyone can carve pumpkins!" JT returned from the bathroom. He dived right into his.

"We've got stencils, Dave." Stasia tossed a handful of them over to me. They looked intimidating. Witches on broom sticks flying in front of half-moons. Frankenstein faces. There was a moment of silence as everyone dug into their pumpkins. I didn't mind the emptying out part; I could do that much.

With my hands in my pumpkin's slimy innards I took a look at the art on the walls. They were big canvas pieces, mostly solid colours, but some blending, some thick strips. It was very contemporary, but tasteful. I glanced over at Diana. She had her sleeve rolled up and her arm deep inside her pumpkin. I could see the stringy bits of guts clinging to her arms. She had this child-like look on her face: biting her tongue, squinting in concentration. Every once in a while I noticed her look around too. At the other couples, at the condo. I knew she was picturing herself in here, us maybe.

"You checking out any Pop Montreal shows?" Helen was looking right at me. She wore very old-school glasses: black rimmed, but rounded, peaking up at the sides, like from the 90s.

Cat's eyes. Her and JT went to shows sometimes.

"Just planning on one show, but I might hit up some other, random stuff," I said. "It's the

Julie Doiron show".

"No way, really?" Helen stopped carving. "With the Superfantastics? On the Friday?"

I nodded.

"Stasia and I are going to that. I'm blogging about it for the Montreal Autre."

"Oh, is that the one?" Stasia looked clueless.

66 "Really!" Diana perked up. She paused with her pumpkin.

I had both my hands in mine, but it was too small and I was stuck. "Cool. It should be a good show," I said, twisting my wrists.

"Maybe I should come too," Diana said. I'd never seen Diana get excited about any musical event before. Too loud, she'd always said. Too sweaty. To many drunk people drunk people jumping around and slobbering. "That would be fun. Maybe I should go." She looked at me.

"Um, yeah. Sure. Maybe you should." I tried to extract my hands without causing a scene or destroying my pumpkin. I could feel the top of it strain as I yanked upwards. The thought of having to hang out with Diana and Sarah together was frightening. They were about as different as two women could be. I tugged my hands again, wondering how I'd managed to get them stuck.

There had been some music on the whole time, instrumental, soft-electronica. It reminded me of Saint Germain but was probably way more obscure than that.

"You guys think I'd like this Julie Doiron?" Diana began to trace a stencil of a black cat on her pumpkin. It looked difficult. The cat's back was arched the hair was standing up in little strands along its back. Its tiny irises looked like moons.

"Oh definitely." Helen said. "She's got a cool voice."

"I'm still a bit of a metalhead to be honest," JT said.

Helen elbowed him playfully. "It's gross, that music. I'm surprised you're not deaf."

Trying to be subtle, I gave my hands one quick yank. The top of the pumpkin tore apart.

"I don't think 'gross' is what I'd call it." JT sniffled.

"Jeeze, Dave, a little aggressive with the pumpkin." Derek said.

67 I stared down at it. The broken edges around the top could have been made to look like hair. If, that is, I hadn't been so convinced I would destroy it. Nobody else noticed because everyone else had gotten to a critical stage of carving and was intent on what they were doing.

With great determination, Diana carved all of those little strands of hair sticking up off the back of the cat; JT bit the tip of his tongue, glided a paring knife around the edges of the face he was carving; Stasia and Derek were carving his and her zombies, constantly comparing to see if they were on the right track; Helen was laughing at JT and putting the finishing touches on her witch.

Bryan and Sarah sat shoulder to shoulder. Every so often Bryan bent over and brushed a kiss along her cheek, the top of her head. At one point he whispered into her ear and I saw her touch her belly, instinctually reaching for the baby who had been there until not too long ago. They laughed quietly.

I looked back down at my pumpkin. I'd managed to draw the triangles on it with a sharpie. The triangles for the eyes and nose all looked to be about the same size. That was a success in my eyes. I looked back at Diana's. She was almost done and it looked okay, certainly better than mine. I glanced back at the other sets, also nearing completion. Even counting

Diana's, ours didn't compare at all.

"How're you doing there, Dave?" Diana grunted.

"Um fine," I said, reaching down to grab a knife. I slid it into the tough flesh of my pumpkin and tried to follow the straight line.

68 9 Pop Montreal

To: McDaveKay Message: u online

— McDaveKay ????? Are you in the living room????? 7:14pm

Yup, y jS^Torii 7:15pm

McDaveKay Why are you writing me? 7:16pm

2 c u red e 2 go L'iuTorii 7:16pm

—"McDaveKay Why didn't you just ask me? 7:18pm

I am y-s-jTorii 7:19pm

-— McDaveKay I mean, in person 7:19pm

"So then, are you ready?"

69 I jumped in my seat and turned around. Diana was standing at the doorway of the office typing on her new iPhone. "You weren't even on your laptop?"

She finished typing something. "Sorry, did you say you were ready?"

I shook my head and logged out of Buddy Blogger and shut down. "You were just sitting in the living room on your iPhone and wrote me to ask a question?"

"I don't know what the big deal is." She stared at me like I was the weird one. "I was already on Buddy and saw that you were online. It was easier than yelling."

"Whatever. Let's go."

Two days before, I'd returned home from work and found Diana sitting on the front stoop hunched over something in her lap. I noticed the box and the stuffing of a new phone on the steps beside her. Apparently she'd managed to convince her father that her job search would be going so much better with some form of PDA; she was losing out on so many opportunities because people were contacting potential employers right away while she had to wait to find Internet access. At least, that was what she told her father. She was so absorbed in her new toy that she hadn't even noticed me approach her. I asked if she'd locked herself out. She told me she just hadn't made it inside yet. That night she didn't come to bed until nearly morning, apparently overwhelmed with how well MeWorld worked on the handheld device.

Diana was still typing onto her phone as we walked out the door. I caught glimpses of the screen. She was on Buddy Blogger.

"Did you read Bryan's blog post on how William Gibson predicted online communities in a novel he wrote in the early 90s?"

70 "No," I shake my head. While I loved reading the mini-posts, I hadn't been keeping up on Buddy Blogger very well. At some point, I'd gotten tired of reading people's blogs. All those spelling errors. Opinions passed off as something more.

"Well it's fascinating. What didn't that guy predict?"

Diana rambled on as we walked. Something about early online communities, but I couldn't be bothered to pay attention. I had no idea what to expect for the evening. Diana and

Sarah weren't particularly compatible, and Diana was going to be with her friends and I was worried that they'd be like a squad, teaming up on her.

"So? Whaddya think?"

"What?"

She glared at me. "Have you even been listening?"

"Yes," I said and looked her in the eye as I said it. "No." I admitted.

Her face twisted. She looked disgusted.

"Sorry, babe, what were you saying?" Since she moved in, I'd been growing increasingly amazed at Diana's ability to pull faces of such a vicious magnitude that the image branded itself upon the brain and was always there as a reminder. Maybe it was a redhead thing.

"Nothing, never mind." She didn't look at me as she said it. Her phone vibrated and she returned her attention to it.

We hit St. Laurent and its Friday night chaos, made more so by Pop Montreal. Hordes of music fans, rock snobs, and scenesters rolled down the sidewalks and even out onto the streets. It was a sea of blue jeans and band shirts.

"This is it," I said, and we pushed passed the pack of smokers out front and entered Casa

Del Potro. The Casa was a small venue, somewhat intimate and quiet and almost more cafe-like

71 than anything else. Diana cut in ahead of me. She scanned the room quickly, then began to type into her iPhone.

The place was packed and I immediately felt underdressed. I'd never been one to try too hard, instead trying to nurture a look that was as neutral as possible, a style that let me hang out with Diana and her yuppie friends, Sarah and her hipster friends, and Paul and his stoner buddies. I owned a lot of blank t-shirts and generic jeans.

As we got closer to the stage I finally saw Sarah. She was alone and hovering by the edge of the stage, her back to me.

"The girls are on the patio out back," Diana said without looking up from her screen.

"Sarah's over by that speaker."

Diana shrugged and cut through the crowd toward the patio entrance, and I made my way toward Sarah. She was dressed in baggy jeans and a boxy hoodie. She carried a little wool purse that she knit herself.

"What's up?"

"Yer late. Where's Diana?" Sarah had had a muted reaction when I told her Diana was coming.

I motioned toward the patio. "Out there. Can we get a drink?"

We slithered our way through the crowd, having, at one point, to slip between two guys wearing far too much neon. They had yellowing shirts with abstract strips of neon pink and green and yellow. On their feet they had big, white Run-DMC Adidas sneakers, and one of them wore a pair of square, black-rimmed sunglasses with lime-green bands hooked onto the front of his shirt.

"Fucking quirksters," Sarah mouthed, scowling at them as we passed.

72 The lights dimmed as we hit the bar, and Sarah was able to order a couple of pints before the music stopped and the white noise of amplifiers took over the room. I looked up and saw the two members of the Superfantastics on stage getting behind their gear. There was just the girl on drums and a guy with a guitar; without so much as a tuning note, they kicked into their first song.

Despite their minimalism, they managed to create quite a sound. The guitarist played catchy melodies and the two of them belted out playful harmonies. There was an upbeat optimism to the music that seemed to get the crowd going, and everyone moved in a rhythmic bob, smiling.

Sarah stood right ahead of me, and I could see clearly over her shoulder, but I kept getting pushed forward and her ponytail kept bobbing into my chin, mouth. The crowd was appreciative and by the time they finished, everyone was moving, even the too-cool kids the back were at least bobbing their heads.

The crowd shifted when the band finished, many running for the patio or front door for a smoke. We headed over to the bar. Sarah was just telling me how much she really liked the band when I saw Diana ahead of us.

"Oh. Hi Sarah." Diana smiled at her, but her eyes didn't follow her mouth.

Sarah shuffled her feet and took quick sips of her pint. "Hey, I need a refill." She threw back the remaining quarter of a pint and turned toward the bar before I could say anything. Diana grabbed my arm and pulled me toward Helen and Stasia. They were a little drunk, it seemed.

Helen was on her BlackBerry and she barely ever looked up from it. "I totally have a girl crush on that drummer," she giggled, continuing to type.

"Yeah, she was great," I said.

"You better not have gotten a crush-crush on her!" Diana slapped me on the arm.

73 "I think that's going to be my angle for the blog post, girl crushes!" Helen's thumbs moved quickly over the tiny keys on her phone.

While Helen typed, Diana and Stasia started whispering. I took a quick look around but I didn't see Sarah.

I bought another pint as the girls compared something or other on their PDAs. The room was starting to fill up again. Julie Doiron was on the stage prepping her equipment. She too, was performing as a duo with only someone on drums.

It was only as the lights dimmed again, that I saw Sarah standing over in the opposite corner of the stage. The room filled like a tidal bore, and it didn't take long for Julie Doiron to get everyone on board with her stripped-down rock. It was at times heavily distorted, feedbacking, like she was using that wall of sound as a back-up, and then she'd flip a switch into something more melodic. Her voice was similar, first smooth and even verging on beautiful at times, but then it got all broken and raspy and ragged with emotion. Her dark brown hair was long and shaggy. It hung down in front of her, and she shook it back and forth.

Diana and her friends were getting dragged farther and farther away from me, swept up in the motion of the crowd. Diana hadn't noticed, so I began to inch my way toward Sarah. I stepped on a few toes, got a few angry looks. It was crammed shoulder to shoulder, and I began to sweat. The crowd moved in a uniform sway, heads bobbing. I had to down my beer because there wasn't enough room for me to hold it. It took me half the set just to get within clear viewing distance of Sarah. My hair was actually damp with sweat. In a break between songs she finally noticed me.

It took me another complete song to get through the last few metres to her.

Sarah leaned into me, her lips pressed close to my ear. "What's up? You look like shit." I made a fanning motion with my hand, and she got this mischievous look in her eye. She reached into her wool bag and pulled something out; it was just enough for me to see the edge of the flask. "Follow me," she yelled, and squeezed herself along the wall. We eventually worked our way around to the back of the stage to a door obscured by shadows.

There were a few people directly beside us; they spoke excitedly about the show, not noticing us. Sarah opened the door a crack and squeezed through it. I followed.

"What are we doing?" I whispered.

"Roof." She looked back at me from up the stairs, her hazel eyes glittering. "I found the stairs while I was looking for the bathroom." She opened her eyes wide and feigned a look of innocence.

The sound of the bar faded as we neared the top.

"So, you like the bands?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

"Montreal's finally getting to you."

"I wouldn't go that far, and aren't both of these bands from out east?"

When we first met she'd been very much a western Canadian music snob. All AC

Newman and the New Pornographers. She used to talk about the "pretentious, mock-epic grandeur" of the Montreal sound, bands like Arcade Fire got to her, she said. For their

"earnestness."

"Diana seemed happy to see me."

"Yeah, sorry. She's been having a rough time." I said, but I didn't know why. I didn't know what I thought that would explain.

Sarah glanced back and smiled. She pushed the door open and I a blast of cool air hit us.

75 "Are we even allowed up here?" I shivered, cold immediately.

"I doubt it." She strolled over to the edge of the building. "Wow," she said.

The street below was alive with activity. Fridays on St. Laurent are busy on a regular night, but tonight had the added rush of the music festival. The street itself, only two lanes, was like an unmoving river of cars. Horns blasted, guys yelled from their cars at women who walked by. Every bar had a little clump of smokers huddled out in front of their entrances, keeping close for warmth. There was a general din, a mixture of car engines humming, music. Voices. French and English.

"Do you ever feel like we'll never belong here?" Sarah pulled out her flask and took a long swig. "Whiskey," she said as she passed it.

"Do you mean in this bar? On this street? Because I just don't think I care enough."

"I don't mean that. I mean the city. Quebec."

"Because we're English?"

"I guess, but I feel like it goes beyond that. That we can't even fit in with the English here because we're not 'part of the fight', or whatever. I can't explain it."

"All you hear about are Quebeckers complaining about how they're losing their identity and their distinct culture, or whatever, but I can't think of a place in Canada with a more distinct culture than here," I said.

"I think it would be fascinating to get out of this city and go spend some time in a small, rural town somewhere and experience the true Quebecois culture. I also think it's hilarious how everyone complains that no one speaks French in Montreal. Out west everyone complains that no one speaks English."

I'd rarely seen Sarah so calm and thoughtful.

76 We passed the flask back and forth and it had a warming effect.

"So is living with someone all you thought it'd be?" she asked.

"Sure." I thought back to the fight about the shampoo bottles. Then, after the pumpkin carving party we'd had a huge fight because I'd told Sharon that she looked good. I tried to explain that I'd meant "for just having a baby", which just made things worse because it implied that she actually didn't usually look good, only "good for just having a baby." I'd walked off at that point, knowing that I'd lost, whatever else I could've said. "It's a lot easier to argue with someone when you live with them," I said.

"How's it with her and Paul?"

"Ha!" Paul had become a ghost in the apartment. He'd taken to spending virtually all of his time in the bedroom, which was the only place where he was still allowed to smoke pot.

"Oh god," Sarah said, as though she'd pictured it for the first time. "It must be like having parents."

I stared at her, not sure what she meant.

"Oh, wait. No. I didn't mean anything by that, you know..."

"Sarah, it's fine." People were understandably uncomfortable about my parents—even friends like Sarah—and it made me uncomfortable the way it made people uncomfortable and I tried my best to save everyone a lot of stress by just not bringing it up. I clearly remembered the day I realized I'd lived more of my life without my parents than I had with them, but other people were incapable of seeing the distance. They saw only the grand tragedy of it, and grand tragedy seemed to have an immediacy for people that other, smaller tragedies lacked.

77 "I just meant that I bet they get along about as good as my parents do," she said, taking a

long, hard drink from her flask. "You know, the one good thing about Diana is that she's made

you settle down." She took another drink.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not out fucking brainless bitches every weekend. You've actually been faithful

to her."

"Of course I have. What's that supposed to mean?" I asked again. "I've never been

unfaithful..."

She gave me that look again. "You've never been in a relationship before."

"Well, I've never led anyone on, which is like the same as being faithful. Only for single

people."

"Whatever, let's go in, I'm freezing." She took another sip of the flask and handed it back to me. I finished it.

We slipped back through the door just as Julie Doiron finished her encore. The crowd

was a massive sweaty, appreciative mob. Julie Doiron was bowing awkwardly on stage, her long

hair stuck to the sweat on her face. We stopped to look up at the stage when I felt a hand grip my

arm.

"Where the hell have you been?" Diana's voice shot into my ear. She had her iPhone in

her other hand. "The Buddy Stalker said you were standing here the whole time." She thrust it

toward me.

"Are you kidding? You were—"

"So where the hell were you?" she asked again.

"Nowhere, I was here..." But I didn't know what to say.

78 "Hey, I'm gonna take off." Sarah stepped away from us. "Nice to see you Diana.

Monday, McKay." She waved and slipped away.

"What was that about? Where the hell does that door go?" Diana gripped my arm.

"Nothing, relax, Diana." I looked over her shoulder and watched Sarah exit. She let go of my arm and began to type frantically into her iPhone.

"What are you doing?" I asked, but she ignored me and we stood there awkwardly as people filtered out around us.

Eventually, she looked up, "Stasia and Helen were looking for you, now they're out on the deck." Then she looked back down and didn't speak to me for the rest of the night.

79 10

Miscellaneous Alternatals

"So nice to hear from you," my aunt said, rushed; her voice fading in and out as it moved closer to and away from the receiver. She'd picked up on about the seventh ring. "But I gotta call you back. Baby disaster!" And she hung up. I hadn't spoken with my aunt in a while, and I remembered why. Lisa, my cousin, was just about three months old, which I imagined meant she was a handful. I tried to guess what the disaster could have been. I assumed it had something to do with feces.

I was sitting in the office, just home from work. I'd come home to find the apartment silent and empty. There was a note from Diana telling me that she'd gone out to her parents to give out Halloween candy. Paul and I had previously discussed closing all the curtains and pretending we weren't home. I guess it was different out in the 'burbs where the Burgess family lived.

Things had been tense since Pop Montreal. Diana had given me the silent treatment for the rest of the night, which would have been fine if it had come with an explanation. She'd just typed furiously into her iPhone, attempting—it seemed to me—to express her anger by the force with which she touched the digital keys on her smart screen. Diana hadn't asked for an

80 explanation, she hadn't offered any of her own hypotheses. And now, apparently, she'd moved on. At least online. She'd spoken to me on Buddy Blogger. Diana had been spending most of her last few days in bed, her laptop on her lap, ear buds in, completely plugged in. I could walk right up to the bed before she'd even notice I was there. There'd been no make-up sex.

I stared down at the phone, waiting for it to ring. It seemed like such a quaint way to communicate. There was once a time when this voice-to-voice communication was seen as one of the great advancements in human technology. How had it got to the point where we seemed so intent on eliminating it?

I browsed the net and waited. Went to website at The Minute and the web Alternatals section. They were updated almost daily. Dressing up as stuffed animals definitely remained the most popular fetish, but there were still much more interesting ones like "Moms" offering themed spankings for "bad little boys and girls"; or creepy ones like "former military officer looking for a platoon of cadets to serve under his command."

The phone rang just as I was trying to decipher one garbled ad that had something to do with a toe fetish and piranhas.

"Sorry, Dave! Sometimes it comes from both ends."

"How is she?" I asked.

"Oh great, great," she said, her voice again being drawn away from the receiver.

"And Mark?" Mark, her husband, taught Modern World Problems and Global Geography at my old high school. They'd begun dating during my senior year when he moved to our hometown to take a permanent job after years of subbing in Halifax.

"He's great. Just great. So great."

"Are you too busy to talk?"

81 There was silence on the other end, and then a ruffling sound. A few squawks from my cousin. My aunt's life had changed so much when I left for university. For the whole time she'd been raising me, she hadn't gone on more than a few dates. Things with Mark had gotten serious fairly quickly. They'd moved in together. Eventually bought a house. Had a baby.

"I'm sorry, Dave. Mark has parent-teachers tonight and I'm alone with Lisa—she's in a needy mood. So how are things with you?"

"Fine. Good. You know. Strange."

"Diana's all moved in?"

I had gone home only briefly after Lisa was born, to meet her, and hadn't been back since then. We'd spoken briefly after Diana's call about moving in, but that had been it for the past few months.

"Yeah, she has. Things change, don't they?"

Nothing.

"When you move in together. It changes the relationship," I said again.

Ruffling. "I'm sorry, you've got to give me a minute, she's squirming."

Lisa gurgled and grunted in the back ground then let out another squeal. I looked back at the computer screen and browsed through the ads. The very last one in the Misc. Alts caught my eye. I reread it a few times.

"Sorry, Dave, I'm feeding her. There's no setting meal times with this one. What was that you were saying?"

I barely heard her. "What?"

"You said something. A question?"

"No, nothing. Don't worry. I should let you go back to Lisa."

82 "No, really that's fine! So your birthday's coming up," she said forging ahead, "any plans?"

"Diana's parents are having us over for dinner. I think that's it." It seemed that I'd finally reached the age where dinner with parents was an acceptable thing to do on your birthday.

"What's 'it'?" She asked after a long moment. There was more ruffling on the other end.

"The dinner." I held the cursor over the ad, barely interested in our conversation myself.

"You're eating dinner?"

"Are you sure you can talk right now," I asked.

"Sorry, Dave. How about I call some night when Mark's home, we can have a proper conversation."

"Sure, sure, yeah. Talk to you later." I didn't even hear her say goodbye.

I reread the ad yet again. Moved the cursor over to the print icon at the top of the page and hit it; the printer spit out a page. The ad sat in the very centre, surrounded by all that white space.

Couple—mid thirties, left leaning,

open minded, well traveled, somewhat

opinionated—seeking male or female,

mid twenties, for potential

adoption. Must be debt free, self-

sufficient, in a relationship and

83 considering children. Serious

applicants please contact:

[email protected].

It was absolutely baffling. Why was a couple looking to adopt a person my age? What was the catch?

Also, the way they described themselves didn't exactly sound like me. They said that they were "left leaning," and I'd probably made one too many dirty-hippy jokes to count as left leaning. I even once voted Liberal in an election, and they leaned left. Sometimes. A little. Plus when she was in the mood, Sarah spouted left-leaning crap at me.

"Open minded"? I did have gay friends, or one gay friend, Tim, who'd lived on the same floor as Paul and me in residence.

I quickly glanced at the rest of the qualifications and decided it would be best if I just wrote the message.

I opened my email and typed the address into a new message. The cursor blinked on all that white space. I wrote "To Whom It May Concern", but it looked too formal. I deleted it and wrote "Hi There!" but deleted the exclamation point.

84 ad in the minute From: [email protected] To: ourchild@monmail,ca

Hi there,

My name is Dave McKay and I am writing in response to your ad in lThe Minute'. I would be interested in meeting with you to discuss this matter.

Thanks for your consideration. Dave

Too formal? Too short?

I hit send before I could have any second thoughts and reminded myself that I had nothing to lose.

85 11

Olive Brine and Blue Cheese

It was actually getting a little too cold to run in the morning before work. Frost was becoming a regular occurrence and as I jogged on the sidewalk in front of our place I had to blow into my hands vigorously and then finally shove them under my armpits just to get them to warm up.

I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and took a few slow strides up the street.

I hadn't slept much the night before, and when I woke up unsettled and grumpy, I knew that a run would get things in the right order before the day began. I'd been trying to piece things together in my head about Diana, about how to deal with the tensions and clashes that seemed to arrive when you moved in with someone. It felt very important to me that Diana and I worked out. She was attractive, smart, we did okay in bed together. I felt so strongly that things should work, that we could create a stable home that I was baffled when she was so quick to fight. I heard people say that fighting was a good thing for relationships, that it brought people together and released tension, but from what I'd seen it just pushed people apart and created a whole new kind of tension.

86 I'd decided to run through the neighbourhood; just a short brisk run around the side streets, but it was busy with parents loading kids into cars or walking them to their daycares, schools, and I was forced to weave in and out of them, or run alongside parked cars on the road.

Cars rolled past me and I couldn't help but fear the half-asleep drivers controlling them. My joints were stiff with the cold, but warmed up a little with each stride. Periodically, I blew into my closed fist to warm the skin.

Diana had gotten home late the night before, and I'd just rolled over and pretended to sleep.

After printing the ad and writing the email to Ourchild I'd sat with it in the office wondering if I should talk to Paul and Diana about it. In the end, I decided not to. The ad had spoken to me, I felt, but I certainly wasn't so sure why, or how to explain it to anyone. Given everything that had been happening—my aunt having her baby and starting her family, Diana moving in—I felt like the timing of the ad was too coincidental to be ignored. I couldn't help but feel moved by the desperation in the plea, the willingness to expose themselves to the public like that. But I didn't want to talk to anyone about it because I could only imagine what they would think. The inevitable psychological analysis that would take place and how it related to my parents. And even if it did, I didn't trust what their conclusions would be.

I'd moved deeper into residential areas and the sidewalks were wider and emptier, and

I'd managed to hit a good pace. Finally a few beads of sweat formed on my brow and even my hands had warmed to a comfortable temperature. I was just starting to feel as if I could go on forever, but I knew that I had to go home and get ready for work.

In a way, I felt like I could relate to Ourchild's feelings, their desperation. I too felt the longing and felt incomplete at times. I could only guess what had driven them to search for a child in such a way. I wondered if it could all be so simple. That a family could be made in such a way.

As I turned a corner and began to head south back toward the apartment I began to feel a little sad about this couple and their search. And for some reason it led me to thinking about

Diana and me. It was suddenly clear to me that things were going to be fine. We were just going through all the regular steps of moving in together. I decided that as soon as I got home I would wake her up and give her a big hug and kiss. I'd have to shower first, of course. Diana was grossed out by my sweat. She's said that after I ran I smelt like olive brine and blue cheese. I'd told her that I loved olives and blue cheese, and she said she did too, just not when they were oozing out of my pores.

I turned another corner, looked up and could see my building in the distance. The run, as usual, had calmed me down. I felt focused. I opened up my stride and decided to sprint the last few hundred metres.

88 12

Torii Purchase's Genitals

I got home from work and Diana was in the living room, her laptop on her lap, Dr. Phil on the

TV, but muted. She was giggling. I hadn't spoken with her since before I'd left for work that morning when I'd hugged her in her sleep. She made a soft little moan and had flicked her eyes and smiled at me. I'd kissed her on her cheek and told her to have a great day.

"Hey, babe," I said, wondering if I'd really managed to smooth things over.

"Welcome home. Exciting news."

I walked over to the couch and kissed the top of her head. She hadn't showered and her hair was a little sticky. "What's up?" I asked.

"Torii just got genitals."

I stopped. "Like a.. .like...?" I couldn't say it.

"Like a vagina? Yes. And nipples too!"

"So is she a natural blond?" I sat down next to her.

"Of course not."

89 It was odd, somehow exciting, like that moment when you were eleven or twelve and you

and the girl next door decided to do a "you show me yours...", and even though you both knew

you were a little too old to be doing it, you weren't exactly sure why you were too old to be

doing it.

Shoulder to shoulder on the couch, we watched Torii hide behind a building. Again, I was

reminded about how spectacular the graphics in MeWorld were. I'd never seen any of the other

online communities or the new Sims games, but I'd seen PlayStation games like Grand Theft

Auto, and they had nothing on MeWorld. There was a crispness to the images that made them

much less cartoony, the colours were muted, unlike the bright contrasts that were often in games.

Behind the building—the innocence of the act seemed precious given the situation—she

made sure that no one could see her and then levitated above it.

"Levitation is essential in world. Without it you'd have to create public transportation

infrastructure, you'd have to stay logged in for hours just to travel anywhere."

"Sure." I had no idea where she could possibly want to go or why she would actually

need to go anywhere.

Once in the air and convinced she was out of sight, she removed her clothes.

It was remarkable. Though her breasts looked fake, they looked fake in the way that real

fake breasts looked fake. She did have nipples and there was a patch of pubic hair on her groin.

She threw her arms out, spreads her legs and began a slow turn. I'd never been one to get off on

cartoons or hentai or anything, but it was realistic enough to get to me. Maybe it was just that I

was sitting so close to Diana and we hadn't had sex in over a week, and there was her cyberself,

naked. Hot. I rubbed my finger up along her arm.

"You sure my nipples look okay?"

90 "So what're you doing now?" I asked.

She didn't look up from the computer. She was very focused on a side bar that she'd pulled up onscreen. It appeared to be an itemized list of clothing. "I've gotta go meet Helen; we're going to watch a movie."

"A movie? You mean in MeWorld? Why don't you just go to a theatre?"

"God Dave, what fun would that be?"

I took another glance at Torii's floating body, feeling that this was as close as I was going to get to make-up sex.

"We're going to watch a screening of eXistenZ, and there's going to be a discussion about flesh-nostalgia in that and other Cronenberg movies."

"What?" I'd never even heard of whatever movie she was talking about.

"Whether his films are politically progressive or not."

"As opposed to just being movies?"

"As opposed to being regressive and technologically fear mongering."

"Right," I said, but I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"You can sit in with me if you want."

"No thanks," I stood up and glanced down at her but she was engrossed in whatever it was she was doing. I turned to walk toward the office, taking some solace in the fact that she wasn't ignoring me out of anger.

91 Part Three

November

92 13

Crazy Beautiful

I woke up early the next morning and went for another quick, fast run. I knew that I had to take advantage of the weather before it made that abrupt turn for the worst. I'd gotten into the habit of waking up and heading straight for the computer logging on to Buddy Blogger and getting bogged down with all of those statuses; all of those snapshots of life from people, many I only sort of knew. On their own each one was so odd and boring, but the stories could get intricate if you followed people and the strands through their updates; the girl who was training to play roller derby; the couple back packing in South America; the growing number of pregnancies as I moved into my early twenties.

Getting up and running put me in a better state of mind. Awake, for one. But it was a good organizer as well. I mostly couldn't get Ourchild out of my head. I decided, while waiting for a light change about two blocks from home that I was going to tell Paul about the ad. I almost felt like I needed someone to tell me if I was crazy or not, and I knew that Paul would, at the very least, be the least likely to over analyze.

93 I walked in the door, sweaty, panting, just as Paul was shuffling down the hall in his pyjama bottoms and an old white undershirt, a steaming cup of coffee wrapped in his hands. His eyes were barely open; his hair twisted and turned around his head. His face was puffy, pale.

"Paul, what're you doing?"

He didn't look at me as he passed. Just grunted and pointed toward his room.

"Can I talk to you?"

He shook his head. "Early," he said.

I followed him into his room.

"Dude," he said. "S'early." He continued his shamble over to a recliner. It was covered in a grimy quilt. He'd been lugging it around since first year. I didn't know how long he'd had it before then. He plopped down in it and curled himself into a ball. Took a sip of his coffee, eyes half open.

"Seriously though, I need to talk." I found a space at the corner of his bed to sit on.

Despite the windows, Paul's room managed to resemble a dank, musky cave. In contrast to the rest of the apartment—and certainly since Diana had moved in—his room was a catastrophe.

Clothes, books, CDs, magazines, a couple of busted VCRs , half built bongs, all of his possessions really, were strewn around the floor as though someone had picked up his room, shook it and let everything lay where it fell. There was a constant, lingering scent of pot on everything he owned.

"You can talk, but I can't promise anything in return." He reached down into the pocket on the side of the recliner and pulled out a "one-hitter": a little metal marijuana pipe that was painted to look like a cigarette. He lit it up and took a haul.

"Do you always do that first thing in the morning?"

94 He looked at me and shrugged. "No. I always pour my coffee first."

"You are a specimen of good health."

"It's medicinal." He took another haul and the effect it had on him was obvious. His lids seem to go through a process of ripping apart; the creases on his face disappeared and his whole body rose up from the stupor. It was almost like the pot did for him, the same thing running did for me.

He took a few more puffs and then finally looked at me. "Okay, roomie, what's so important?"

"This thing that I did." Suddenly, I felt embarrassed about it. "And it might be kind of crazy."

"Spit it out, dude." He put the little pipe away.

"Wait a second." I got up and ran from his room into my own. I grabbed the print out of the ad and brought it back. "So, I saw this crazy thing in The Minute, and I wrote them." I gave it to him.

He puzzled over the ad then looked up at me. "I don't get it."

"What do you mean, you don't get it? They're looking to adopt."

"A kid in his twenties?"

"That's not a kid," I said.

"Well, no. But you know what I mean." He looked up at me with a bewildered look on his face. "So you want this couple to adopt you to become your parents, but they're only in their thirties?"

"Basically, yeah. I mean, that seems to be the general idea."

"And you and Diana are going to have their grandchildren?"

95 "I haven't got that far yet."

"You want kids?"

"Sure," I said, but that was the first time I'd really given that part of the ad much thought.

"Of course. Everyone wants kids, right? Who doesn't want kids?" It surprised me to think that

this was the first time I'd considered that part of the ad.

"Are you sure this isn't some wacky sex thing?"

"I'm pretty sure." I also hadn't thought about that, but given the nature of the other

Alternatals, I wouldn't see why anyone would be so subtle about their sexual hang ups.

"And you're in it for the parents?" I could see it all coming together for him.

"Yeah. I guess so." Those exact words had not come together in my mind in exactly that

order yet, but they sounded about right when he said it.

He stared back at the ad. He looked up at me. "This is crazy," he finally said, but he

smiled as he said it.

"Is it?"

"Crazy beautiful." His face broke out with joy.

"So you think I should go for it? Because I already emailed them."

"Totally. Man, it's like this couple was seeking you out."

"Really?"

"Oh, come on. How many other people would've even considered responding to this craziness?" He glanced back down at the ad and shook his head. "I can't believe Diana hasn't already ixnayed it."

"Well." I shifted uncomfortably. "I haven't actually told her yet."

96 His whole demeanour changed. He held the ad out for me. "Sorry, dude, things aren't going to work out."

"What? Wait, wait. Why the back-pedalling?"

"'Cause she ain't gonna go for it. She's gonna tell you it's crazy."

"But I know it's crazy. I know that already. But what if? What if I meet these people and something clicks."

He puzzled this over, his chin in his hand. "Okay. You should do it, but you can't tell her."

"I can't tell her?" That is not what I'd expected to hear.

"You can't tell her."

"I can do that? Not tell her."

"You're just going to meet them, right?"

I nodded.

"Then don't worry about it. Meet them, and then go from there. It might be nothing, right? It might be some sociologists from Concordia doing some experiment. So, just to be safe, don't tell Diana till after you meet them."

I got up to leave. "Thanks, Paul," I said as I headed for the bathroom to shower off.

"What're roommates for?" he said and settled back into his recliner.

I did, though, have my doubts about his advice in dealing with Diana. Telling her after the fact might've been a bad idea. I knew that I had to figure out what the least worst idea was, and probably had to figure it out soon.

97 14

The North American Food Court

I heard from Ourchild while I was at work. this weekend?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Dear Dave

We were delighted to receive your response. We would like to stress that we are only looking for serious applicants. If you are serious then please respond to this e-mail, including your availability for Saturday (the 12th) in the early afternoon for a potential meeting.

Thank you so much for your interest.

I read it about four times looking for something, but they were not giving away anything about themselves. I hit reply and wrote back immediately, asking them for specifics. I tapped my fingers wondering if they'd write back immediately. I checked my watch and saw that it was

11:45.

"Who's up for foodcourt lunch?" I asked, but I knew only Sarah would come. Paula brought carefully prepared lunches and Geoff ate variations of a peanut butter sandwich on white

98 bread. These variations included jam, margarine, bananas and Nutella. He cut off the crusts with an exacto knife just before he ate them.

"I'm in." Sarah said.

I waited impatiently for fifteen minutes, unable to do anything but check my e-mail repeatedly. Finally Geoff pulled out his sandwich and exacto knife and Sarah got up. I followed her out of the office and we headed across the street and took an entrance into Le Reso,

Montreal's underground. It was busy, especially with winter approaching because it was possible to walk the whole downtown core without once stepping into the frigid, slushy reality of the

Montreal winter.

We marched right past the first food court in Place Ville Marie. We didn't like it there. A little too nice.

"If you're gonna eat at a food court, you might as well choose a good old-fashioned,

American-style grease pit food court," Sarah had once explained. So we marched right past the food court with its sandwich shops and salad bars, faux wood panelling and air of pretension and headed straight for the Eaton Centre.

We stood on the escalator at Eaton Centre and the smell of the food court met us.

"I love the smell of MSG at lunch hour," Sarah said.

We both agreed that the North American Food Court was one of the great sights of our civilized development, especially one in a major downtown core at noon on a weekday. It was the great equaliser, democratic freedom and multi-cultural equality on display,

"You back on sushi yet, McKay?" Sarah asked.

Sushi was my favourite food court food, but I hadn't had it since the bout of food poisoning. "Sure," I decided. Back on the bike.

99 We grabbed our pre-packaged sushi and found two seats at the end of a table. We shared the table with a group of sixteen-year-old Gap-clothing pushers eating hotdogs and fries. Across from us was a Haitian family: the kids were eating Mickey-D's, the parents picked at fried rice from a Chinese place.

At almost the moment we sat down, I couldn't help but unload on Sarah the whole

Ourchild situation. It came out in one sustained burst. I tossed the print-out of the ad at her and she glanced at it as I spoke.

"You're doing what?"

"I am going to meet with this couple."

"Really?" She read the ad again. "Little old for adoption aren't you?"

"It's kind of a strange situation."

'"Kind of strange'? It's fucking weird is what it is."

"It might not be weird. It could be a good—"

"You found this ad in the personals of The Minute? And you think it could be 'Good'?"

"It wasn't in The Minute, it was on website."

She shook her head. "Have you even considered that these people are probably fucking sexual perverts with some crazy incest fantasy?"

"Well, no, to be honest, I haven't."

"McKay, don't turn Paula on me. You're not a fucking idiot."

"Of course I've considered that this could be a joke or a scam. Maybe even some kind of social experiment," I said.

'"Social Experiment'? It could be the next Paul and Karla prowling for victims."

"Paul and Karla?"

100 "Paul Bernardo and Karla Homol—"

"Yeah, I know who you mean, but that's a petty dated reference isn't it?"

"Are you kidding?" She actually looked like she was getting angry. "Sorry I don't have a

list of more contemporary sexually-perverse murderous couples to draw from. That's not the

point."

"But it could be anything," I said. I hadn't prepared for this kind of reaction, not from

Sarah anyway. I didn't think she'd actually care enough. "Maybe they tragically lost a child and

can't bear to go through the process again. Or maybe they just discovered that one of them is infertile."

"Or maybe they're a crazy perverted couple who wants to explore all sorts of taboos with

their new child. God." She dropped her chopsticks. "What does Diana think of this? I can't believe she hasn't talked you out of it."

"Well, I haven't told her yet."

"You haven't told her?" She just shook her head. "You're going to tell her, right?"

"I dunno. Paul told me not to tell her."

"Of course you told Paul. Like he's going to offer you any resistance." Sarah slapped her hands down on the table. "Okay. Let's assume for a moment that they really are who they say they are. Isn't a couple and a baby what they're looking for?"

"Eventually, but they're only in their mid-thirties, who's ever a grandparent that young?"

"Are you sure this is really about the couple and not something else?"

"Oh come on Sarah, I thought you were the one person who wouldn't do this."

101 "I'm not doing anything Dave, except trying to understand the situation." She picked up her chopsticks and shovelled a California roll into her mouth. A few orange fish eggs slid down her chin and rested there.

"It's kind of a unique opportunity for me."

"I'm not sure if 'unique' is the word that I would've chosen, but I don't think this," she grabbed the ad and held it up, "should be about you anyway."

"How is this not about me?"

"How long have you and Diana been together?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'together'."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "And how long have you guys been discussing having kids?"

I glared at her.

"Oh, right. You haven't."

"I don't expect you to understand," I said, looking down at my food. But I didn't mean it and regretted saying it immediately.

"Oh, fuck off. Don't feed me that crap. You said you don't want it, so don't dish it out."

I dipped my chopsticks into the wasabi for a kick. She was right of course, and I knew she was, but I'd been hoping for a little enthusiasm.

"We should get back to work." We cleared the last bit of rice from the styrofoam container.

Sarah was silent when we stood and deposited our trash in the receptacles. We rode an escalator to street level and headed out onto the street.

102 "Dave, I didn't mean to get on your back." Sarah sighed. "You should just put some serious thought into this situation and see if you're going about it for the right reasons."

I didn't say anything.

"Just be careful, OK. For you and for them. If it turns out that they aren't lunatics, be careful not to lead them on."

"I'm just going to see what happens," I said.

"When are you meeting them?"

"Saturday, I think," I felt the first pangs of excitement.

"In a public place, right?"

"Of course."

"I'm not going to say anything else, but I just think you'll be saving yourself some trouble if you tell Diana."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I said, and I knew that she probably was.

103 15

Everything Has Its Place

It took until that Friday for me to build up the courage to tell Diana about the meeting with

Ourchild. Things had been going very smoothly for the past few weeks. It hadn't been the clearest transition, but I knew that these kinds of things weren't supposed to be easy. And I felt like we'd weathered the storm well. I wasn't really that interested in stirring anything up, but I also wasn't interested in keeping anything from her.

On my way home from work I'd built up the courage the just walk straight in and sit down with Diana and tell her.

I knew Diana wasn't home as soon as I opened the door because I could hear tennis blaring on the TV and could smell pot in the air.

"Hey, Paul."

"Dave." He nodded but didn't look up at me, intent on the match.

"Who's playing?"

"Ivanovich and Safina." He was sitting on the couch munching on a bag of Smart Food.

He had faded jeans on and a plain, worn brown t-shirt. His blond hair was all unwashed and dishevelled. "Dude, all tennis players are hot," he said.

104 I sat down on the couch next to him. Paul was slowly moving through all the ranks of

women's sports and alternating his crushes. I'd seen him go through curlers and soccer players.

Apparently it had been hockey players before we met. "You even think Safina is hot?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Okay, what about Jelena Jankovic?"

"Ohh. Tough one." He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and squinty. "In the end I'd

probably say she's hot, too. If it came down to, like, her and some equally attractive non-tennis

chick; I'd pick her."

We watched a rally. Dinara Safina grunted with each stroke.

"Where's Diana?"

"Dunno."

"Have you seen her?"

"Dude, you've got to say something to her about this 'Everything has its place' rule."

"But she's got a point," I said, which is what I'd been telling myself. Paul and I had both

had to make quite an adjustment since she'd moved in, but Paul was certainly taking the biggest

hit. I'd only been apathetic about tidying things up; apparently he'd actually been against it.

"Whatever. So I get outta bed right, and she's fucking standing in the hall, like she's been

waiting all morning just for me to come out of my room. And she's got the scissors in her hand.

Scissors." He shook his head and glanced back at the TV. Ivanovich served. Safina blasted back

a forehand return. "Don't serve to Safina's forehand!" He sat up closer to the edge of the couch.

Ivanovich attempted to regain control of the point but she couldn't and Safina had a break

opportunity. "I told ya," he said to the TV. "Gawd."

"Paul?" I asked.

105 He looked at me.

"The scissors?"

"Right, sorry. So she's got that look on her face, her eyes all big and whatever. And she starts speaking in that annoying voice, that patronizing voice, you know?" He raised his own voice and softened it to a grating whine. "'Paul', she says all annoying, 'Now, scissors have a home, don't they Paul?' She says that to me, that they have a 'home'. I couldn't do anything. I just woke up. So I stood there. 'We know that their home is in the drawer in the kitchen, right?' she says."

His voice wasn't even close, but I could hear it well enough.

"And she says it like I'm an idiot. Or a three year old. 'No one will know where to find them if they're not in their home, will they?' I'd tell you what I wanted to do with those scissors, dude, but she's your chick, and, you know? Respect and whatever." He shook his head and sat back, grabbed a handful of Smart Food. I noticed the white powdery stuff all over his lap. There were some fingerprints on his shirt.

"So what about since then?"

He looked at me, confused. "What about what about since then?"

I sighed. "Have you seen her?"

"Oh, right." He chuckled. "Nope. She checked out when I was in the shower."

Dinara Safina's power game was slowly being dismantled by Ivanovich. Safina's grunts were becoming longer and more hoarse.

"I'm going to tell her."

"About the couple?" He froze, a handful of popcorn paused in mid-air in front of him.

"Yeah."

106 "Bad idea. Baaaaad idea."

"I have to. I have to tell her. If I tell her afterwards she'll be even more pissed."

"There won't be an afterwards if you tell her now."

"Sarah said that I'm going to save myself a lot of trouble—"

"You told Sarah?"

"Of course."

"Look, Sarah's awesome, don't get me wrong," Paul said "but sometimes she's a little too reasonable."

"Too reasonable?"

"Yeah, you know. Like she thinks too much about things."

"But she has a good point."

Paul shook his head. "First, you told me and Sarah before you told Diana, so that'll piss her off. She doesn't like Sarah, you know."

"Yeah, but—"

"And second, she's going to ixnay it. Sarah may be reasonable, but Diana is so reasonable that she's unreasonable."

There was a banging in the step outside our door. We both looked over. Safina groaned on the TV, a long guttural moan that sounded like a violent death rattle. There were keys in the door. Paul looked at me. I looked back at the door.

"Don't do anything silly..." he started to say, but then the door opened and Diana was struggling to push a bicycle in.

"Hey guys!" She waved, obviously pleased. "Looky what I got!" She wheeled the bike right into the living room. It was one of those retro-looking bikes with a basket on the front of it.

107 It was complete with a curvy frame and those wing-like handlebars, an old white protector over the chain and even white-wall tires.

"That's hideous," Paul said.

"What's so hideous about it?"

"It's not a real bike."

I didn't like it either. It was one of those trendy urban-bikes that I was starting to see all over the Plateau.

"Of course it's a real bike. It's a vintage British Red Hawk. Maybe even from the 50s!"

We stood up and went over to her. The bike was obviously well restored, with a brand new seat that seemed authentic in its uncomfortableness.

"Is it a fixy?" Paul asked.

"A what?"

"One of those bikes without any gears."

She nodded.

I didn't like the way any of this was going.

"So basically, you bought an ironic bike."

Diana's pale face turned red. It wasn't a shade of red as deep as her hair but it was getting there. "Ironic?"

"I think it looks cool, babe," I said, touching her arm.

She pulled her gaze away from Paul and softened her expression. "Thanks."

"I thought you were the sensible one?"

She glared at Paul again.

"This is the most pretentious purchase you've made since you've been here."

108 "Are you stoned?"

"It's basically useless right? You know that. I can't see you pedalling down Pare on this thing without killing yourself. And with winter coming."

"Because I don't want to talk to you if you're stoned."

Paul just shook his head. "I'm always stoned."

"Ok," she said and rolled the bike away from him.

"She's all yours, dude, good luck with that." He walked out of the room shaking his head and mumbling.

"What the hell is his problem?"

I looked over at the TV set. Safina and Ivanovich were 4 all in the third set. Ivanovich was serving at deuce. Safina bounced from foot to foot on the line waiting for the serve.

Shoulders tense.

"And what did he mean by 'Good luck with that' ?"

This was not at all how I'd pictured things. I'd tried to picture most things.

"Let's put the bike down." I helped her guide it back to the hallway by the front door.

Paul's door was closed and he'd cranked Sublime.

"Is my bike really pretentious?"

"Of course not, it's nice. Really nice." It did look a little pretentious to me. "How was your day, babe?" I leaned the bike against the wall and lead her back to the living room.

"What's going on?" She sat down on the couch. The TV caught her attention and she grabbed the remote, her face twisting up in a grimace. Safina was racing to the net to track down a drop shot that looked out of reach. You could sense the end of the point. Diana held out the remote and turned off the TV. "Those sounds they make. It's awful."

109 The room was suddenly silent. All that I could hear was the faint off-beat-ska strum of a guitar chord from Paul's room. It was awkward, the silence.

"So, there's this thing. Right. That I'm going to do." I was nervous. I hadn't been nervous telling Paul or Sarah. "I read this article. Ad. Personal ad, sort of."

"What are you talking about? Is Paul angry at me?"

"Listen, okay. I need to tell you something, that's...Well, it's—"

"Because all that I did was buy a bike? What's that any business of his?"

"What? Are you listening to me?" I could see that she was not. Her thin, neatly plucked eyebrows were bent inward. "I don't think it's the bike," I said.

"Well then what is it?"

"The scissors."

"The scissors?" She thought for a moment. "From this morning? I was just telling him where they should go."

"I don't think he cares where the scissors go. It's not important. Can you listen to me for a minute?"

"I was doing him a favour."

"Diana, listen. I read this ad in the personals on The Minute website and it was this couple who were looking to adopt someone in their mid-twenties, and it was just so weird and out there that I emailed them and am going to go meet them tomorrow."

She stared me straight in the eyes. She didn't say anything for too long a time. Neither of us moved.

"What?"

110 I relaxed my shoulders, reached into my pocket and pulled out the ad. It was starting to disintegrate along the folded lines. She took it and read it carefully.

"I'm not sure I completely understand what this is," she finally said.

"I responded to them."

"You did what?"

"I responded. I'm meeting them tomorrow."

"Is this even real? Is this some kind of sex thing?"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because this whole thing sounds really odd to me. You don't think it sounds odd?"

"I can't explain it. When I read the ad it just felt like it was written for me."

She turned her head. Her eyebrows bent. "Wait. Did you just say 'Why does everyone keep saying that'?"

"Um." Had I just said that?

"What do you mean 'everyone' ? Who else did you tell?"

"Babe," I said calmly, "that's not important right now."

"You told Paul didn't you?"

I nodded.

"Because in this ad it says 'considering children,' and I'm going to assume that if you were going to be considering children with anyone it would be me, so you should probably have told me."

"Yeah but honestly, I haven't thought about that part of it at all."

Ill "Dave, you really need to think about this." She reached out and put her hand on my knee. "If this is even remotely real, than this is a couple that is reaching out to someone in a very vulnerable way, and you might want to consider your approach carefully."

"You shouldn't be trying to stop him from finding parents."

Diana and I turned to see Paul standing in the room. Neither of us had heard him return.

"I think he should do it," he said.

"Of course you would." Diana looked back at me.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just don't think this has anything to do with you." She wouldn't look at him and the effect this was having on him was obvious.

"He came to me for advice, first." I'd barely ever heard Paul raise his voice and this was as raised as it had ever gotten in my presence.

"Which he shouldn't have done."

I knew that I should have been doing something, but I couldn't bring myself to. I regretted telling anyone now.

"Don't be such a... God." Paul let out a big sigh.

"What were you going to say?" She lifted her hand off of my knee and finally turned to look at him. "Were you going to call me a bitch?"

Paul had his hands clenched in fists at his side. I could almost picture him bursting into tears or pissing himself or something. He didn't like conflict.

"You know what guys? I really think that this is getting out of control." I finally stepped in. "Really. It's nothing. I've bet this couple has already met with a bunch of people. I'm just

112 going to see if it's for real. That's all." I almost felt like standing up between them. Or just

walking out.

"You honestly think other people have responded to this?" She looked at me like she

thought I was an idiot.

"I think it's destiny," Paul said. "Or fate or something."

Diana snorted. "Of course you do?"

"Sorry dude, I tried." Paul turned and headed back to his room. His dishevelled hair

shaking down the hall.

When she got angry about certain things, things that she was absolutely certain about,

Diana's eyes went wide and got this glassy look about them. Her pupils dilated to small tight balls of blackness in that glimmering sea of green. If you looked long and hard you could almost

see them shiver in their sockets. "You told Sarah, too, didn't you?" she asked.

Damn. "Maybe."

"And why the fuck." She tilted her head indignantly. "Did you wait until now to tell me?"

She rarely swore, so when she did it was often dramatic. And effective.

"I'm sorry?" I didn't mean to make it sound like a question.

Silently she stood up, turned around and walked out of the living room. She'd left the ad on the couch. I sat back, grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. The tennis match was over and TSN had moved on to poker. I'd never watched poker before and hardly had any interest in it at all, but I left it on anyway.

113 Meeting Ourchild

It did not feel like a November day at all. It was sunny, warm given the season. There was a crisp

breeze coming up from the river. The Old Port was bustling, and I allowed myself to be swept

along the cobblestone streets. I'd been trailing an English family, obviously tourists. The father

was wearing stiff jeans that looked like they'd just come out of the package. He also had a fanny

pack strapped to his waist and a big digital Nikon swinging around his neck. His wife looked

country-cool in a dress, thick, wool stockings and a floppy fall hat. They were dragging along a

bored looking teen. He was wearing skinny, purplish jeans, and a too-thin black coat opened,

exposing a white T-shirt that said J' V Montreal; he had his hands crammed into his pockets

and his eyes were hiding behind strategically cut bangs. I thought that the image should be

preserved, until, that is, I looked around and saw that the Old Port was full of touristy families just like them.

I walked all the way down from Mile End because I thought it would calm my nerves, but

it didn't. Diana hadn't spoken to me all night or all morning. After she'd left me alone in the

living room she went into our room, logged on to MeWorld and was on all night. Then, when I'd

114 woken up she was already awake, sitting in the living room with her laptop and, I presumed, logged back on. She didn't even acknowledge me.

I continued to shuffle along the cobblestone with the tourists, checking out the Municipal

Buildings, the courts. I wasn't exactly sure what my approach with Ourchild was going to be, or even if I should've had one. I was worried that being brutally honest about myself would hurt my chances with a couple who described themselves as "left-leaning and opinionated." But then, I reminded myself, what children were ever brutally honest with their parents anyway?

Then again, I knew that it was entirely possible that they would turn out to be sex-crazed lunatics and all of this worrying would have been for nothing.

The family in front of me turned off down a side street and the Second Cup where I was supposed to go was right there in front of me. I checked my watch; I was exactly on time.

When I pushed open the door I was stuck by the contrast. Going from the extreme sunshine to the dark in the cafe caught me off guard and I was stuck at the door, momentarily blinded. It was also busy and much warmer than outside and I could feel the sweat forming at my hairline. For a brief instance I thought about turning around, but then a few people pushed their way in and I had to move beyond the entryway. I reached up to wipe the sweat from my forehead and I saw them. It had to be them. They were at a corner table and the woman had just stood up and was staring straight at me. She had wild, frizzy, dark-brown hair that framed a round face.

She wore big hoop earrings, an emerald green silk scarf around her neck and she a long, shapless, earthy-toned dress. Loose, it hung from and completely obscured her body, but she seemed voluptuous and, I couldn't help but think, motherly. She had the hint of a smile—two shallow dimples forming—and her head tilted just slightly as she checked me out, wondering.

115 The man hadn't stood up but it was obvious that he was tall and lanky. He had very short hair, combed down and forward. It was black but with grey along the sides. He had wire-rimmed, round glasses and his face was much sharper than hers, had deeper grooves, longer shadows under the eyes.

Certainly, they didn't look like sex fetishists.

By the time I got to their table, the woman was already around it and coming toward me.

I didn't know what was going to happen so I stopped. She placed her hand on my arm and moved in for the cheek kiss. Her flesh was warm against the skin of my cheeks.

When she pulled away she kept both of her hands on my arms and looked at me as though we'd just been reunited after years apart. I waited for her to pinch my cheek and say something like "Well, just look at you! Just look at how much you've grown!"

"I'm Margaret," she said. "Maggie Hodge". Smiling widely, she pulled away and the guy finally stood up and stepped forward.

"Steve Simpson. Nice to meet you." He thrust his hand out and I accepted it. "You must be Dave." His grip was loose. He was wearing what looked like a hemp button-up shirt and brown corduroy pants that were baggy and shapeless. When he sat back down I noticed the

Birkenstocks and wool socks.

Maggie sat back down still beaming and smiling warmly, but Steve waited a moment, standing there and staring at me and I felt like he was expecting me to say something else.

"Please, have a seat," he finally said.

I pulled out my chair, sat down, and for a moment there was only an awkward silence. I could feel a line of sweat make its way down my spine.

116 "So." I wiped my palms along my thighs. Their clothing made me self-conscious about my own: a navy blue golf shirt over pleated khakis. It was uncomfortable, something I would only wear to a job interview.

"So." Steve was almost glaring at me. Because of the lighting and the angle of his head I could only see reflections in his lenses and not his eyes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Maggie jumped up a bit from her seat. "Would you like some tea?

We've got a few pots here. Some regular and herbal."

Tea? We were at a coffee shop, I wanted a coffee. I hated tea. Tea was for grandmas and

British people. But then I wondered if this was some kind of test? Part of the interview? "Just some regular tea will be fine, thanks," I said.

Maggie poured out some tea in a cup that had been waiting for me. I accepted it, but it was hot and I had to put it down again.

"So, Dave, I probably don't need to point out that this is an odd situation." Steve leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "But don't worry, this is as odd for us as it more than likely is for you." His voice was deeper than I'd expected from looking at him.

There was something off-putting about Steve that I couldn't grasp. I could picture him in a home office filled with old books with cracked leather bindings and little trinkets collected from exotic locales in the South Pacific or something.

"To be honest Dave, it's kind of a relief to see you." Maggie sat back with her hands on her lap. "You can probably imagine that we received some fairly odd responses to our ad. It's nice to see that you look..." Maggie paused for second, searching for the words. "Well, you just look very normal." She looked to Steve for reassurance and he nodded.

117 I wasn't convinced if normal was a good thing. I didn't think I'd describe them as normal. But Maggie was sitting over there with this, warm, you-don't-have-to-worry-about-us smile that made me feel relaxed. "So, I'm not sure what's going on here. Do you guys want to know about me? Do you have, like, interview questions?"

Maggie and Steve looked at each other, they both laughed. "To be honest, and I'm sorry to have to break it to you, we have no idea what we're doing." Maggie shrugged. "What we were thinking of was that today we would just hang out, and then we would have individual meetings at some other time. What do you think?"

Steve leaned forward again. "Though we'd like to get to know you, we're not really concerned, right now, at your motivation. I don't want to sound insensitive Dave, but we really don't want your reasons for being here complicating this."

"For now," Maggie said. She put a hand on Steve's shoulder as if to slow him down.

"Right. Of course." I tried for the tea again. I got some in my mouth but it was too hot and bitter. "So could I ask you guys what you are looking for in a...." I couldn't bring myself to say it. "An adoptee."

I knew from their ad that they were in their mid-thirties, but in this drab light and with certain expressions they could've been anywhere between twenty and fifty. It was the slight hippy look that made them seem young. I bet they listened to Ani Difranco and burned a lot of incense.

"To continue with the honesty, Dave, what we're looking for in a child, is a grandchild."

Steve stared straight at me while he spoke. I still couldn't see his eyes through the glare on his lenses.

118 "I wouldn't say it's that straight forward." Maggie furrowed her brow and her lips parted unconsciously.

"But that is the long and the short of it," Steve insisted. They stared at one another.

"But it's much more complicated than that," Maggie said directly to him.

"I don't think it is. It can be, but I really don't think it is." They sat silently in a brief stand off. "I think I'd make a good mother," she finally said.

"Can I ask a personal question?" I shifted in my seat, my butt and thighs damp with sweat.

They looked at each other, then back at me and nodded.

"Are you able to have children?"

Steve stiffened. His face went stern.

"Yes," Maggie said. "At least, I think so."

Steve looked at her sharply, but she didn't return the look.

"We've never had fertility tests or anything, but we have no reason to believe we can't have children. We just never got around to it." Maggie said it as though not getting around to having children was a lot like not getting around to doing the dishes after dinner.

"We didn't want any. We don't want any. I feel very uncomfortable about bringing a child into this world." Steve reached for his tea. He blew into the cup before sipping it.

Maggie folded out a crease in her dress. "We've made some sacrifices in our life."

"We've made decisions about the way we've chosen to live our lives that haven't been conducive to having children." She didn't look up at me when she spoke.

"We travel a lot, and often for long periods. Sometimes to teach, though not as much these days." Steve put his cup down.

119 "To teach English?" I asked.

"Yes." He paused, "and sometimes to do development work."

"Where have you guys been?" I knew a few people who went to teach in Japan and

Taiwan after school. I'd even considered it for a few minutes once.

"Well, we've taught in Asia. Korea first, back in the '90s, but also China and Thailand.

We've done some development work in Cambodia and in East Africa, building houses, installing pumps, volunteer teaching. We've also done some backpacking around South America and spent

a year in Australia on a working visa."

"Most recently we taught for a year in Dubai, but that was mostly just for the money."

Steve smiled and shook his head as though what he said was so obvious. "We don't like to be tied down."

"We want to go out on the weekends, catch some live music have a few drinks." Maggie

said.

I took a sip of my tea and tried to put them into some context that was familiar for me, but I didn't have any married couples from friends. My aunt and Mark had married last year but I hadn't spent much time with them yet. And the only person I knew whose parents weren't divorced were Diana's and I was pretty convinced that they were too devoted to their image of picture-perfect suburban bliss to ever consider divorcing. "How long have you guys been married?" I asked.

"We've been together for fifteen years this past August," Steve said.

"Though we were only civily-unioned a few years ago."

"Civily-unioned?"

"Yeah, you know, the city hall thing. We didn't have a proper wedding."

120 "You should probably know that we're atheists, Dave. We don't have a problem with someone exploring their spirituality, but we feel very uncomfortable about organized religions."

"I'm not religious," I said. "Agnostic maybe?" I'd never given it much thought. I wasn't raised in a religious context at all. I had only vague memories of going to church with my parents. My aunt and I had gone to a few midnight masses but when we both fell asleep during it one year, we decided never to go back.

"We used to feel that way too—agnostic, I mean—until we traveled the world." Steve crossed his arms. "Now we see that religion is only getting in the way of a globalized, harmonic state. I believe that humans sought out religion as a way in which to find a larger meaning. I think that, naturally, as we answered those questions, we should have dropped the whole thing."

"But I also think that once we started discovering one another," Maggie added, "that we should have realized that we'd all come to a different conclusion about religion. Kind of a hint, don't you think?" Maggie scrunched up her face as though she were teaching children and attempting to coerce an obvious answer from them, "We all couldn't be right."

"And therefore were all probably quite wrong." Steve touched her thigh.

I tried to picture their home; I saw dream catchers and tarot cards. Crystals? "Have you continued teaching, Maggie?" I asked.

A grin spread across her face and she glanced at Steve. "Yes, yes, I have. How perceptive of you." She reached forward, all the way across the table. Her hair fell forward over her beaming face, and then she reached out and touched my hand where it held the teacup, just briefly. She had nice hands. They are thin, more muscled then the rest of her body seemed and I wondered if she worked with her hands as well. Her nails were longish and well taken care of,

121 painted an odd, light shade of brown. It was a hint of vanity that I hadn't been expecting. She caught my eye and sat back and it was like she was staring right into me.

"This is as much your interview as ours, really." Maggie nodded. "Is there anything you want to know about us?"

"Why do you find yourselves here in Montreal?" It seemed so obvious to me that she would be a good mother. I'd just met her and I could see that.

"We are Montrealers, originally," she said.

"And I still teach ESL," Steve says, "so it was an obvious choice, here we have the new

Canadians and the French Canadians."

"And I did my education degree here and taught here briefly back before we left for Asia, so I still had connections"

"I'm also a poet, you should probably know," Steve clasped his hands together in front of him. "And as I'm sure you're aware, Montreal is a very forgiving city to live in for artists.

Maggie sculpts."

She blushed and looked down at her lap. "Well, I just dabble really, I wouldn't go as far as to call myself a sculptor or anything."

Steve patted her leg again.

"So, how did it come to this point?" This was what I really wanted to know. Maggie and

Steve seemed a little eccentric, sure, but not in any astonishing way, not in the way I thought could lead to putting an ad in a paper for a surrogate son only ten years their junior. They seemed more like the dance naked on the top of Mount Royal to conjure up earth spirits kind of eccentric.

122 "To meeting you, you mean?" Steve had become comfortable at some point. He had his legs crossed and his hands folded together in his lap. "Well, I have a sister and she's married and lives in Southern California with her husband and two children."

"We love spending time with our niece and nephew, but we don't get to see them much."

Maggie held her tea with both hands and sipped from it as though from a bowl.

"They give us a harder time about not having children than my parents do."

"I think we're a great aunt and uncle," Maggie said.

"I could see that," I said.

"We love the kids, we love to be around them, and we're good with them." Maggie said this like a plea.

"But at the end of the day we like to give them back to their owners." Steve laughed a dry laugh that animated his whole face for the first time in the conversation. "Which is what brings us to now."

"And you."

They both stared straight at me. I wanted to fill the silence but I didn't know what to say.

My first thought was that I wasn't a very good fit for them, for what they wanted. Actually, I knew I wasn't and I was deluding myself just by thinking that I might've been. I sat there and saw Maggie beaming across the table at me, and I knew there was something about her.

Something that was keeping me in the chair, at the cafe, and I also knew I wasn't going to tell them that I wasn't a good fit. At least not for the time being. I was content to just go on sitting there for a moment. Just sit there and bathe in Maggie's warm gaze.

123 17

Babo Waygook

Geoff had spent the whole morning trying to tell us about some "retro-cool pulpy" graphic novel he'd recently rediscovered. Something about a cock-fighting style competition exploiting alien dinosaurs in a galaxy far, far away. This premise seemed simple enough, but then he continued and described the main character who was an alien dinosaur poacher that made this "amazing" discovery of a dead, ancient god after a spaceship-wreck on an uncharted planet. We finally started ignoring him when he got to the part about mixing earth-dinosaur DNA with space- dinosaur DNA to form "The Ultimate Dinosaur."

"And apparently it was made into a movie!" Geoff was almost shaking in his chair with excitement. He had the re-release graphic novel in his hand and it flipped and flapped about as he spoke.

We still hadn't finished with Words of the Day. We had until the end of the week, but we usually had this stuff prepped precisely two weeks in advance.

"Mythomania?" Sarah said.

"An overwhelming love of myths?" I asked.

"How about just a love of Greece?" Paula said.

124 "Someone who mythologizes his or her own life?" Geoff didn't even look away from his graphic novel.

"Good one, Geoff! Nice to see you're with us. It's actually 'an excess or abnormal propensity for lying or exaggerating'." Sarah slapped the book closed and typed the word.

We'd decided to split up tasks for the week to get through everything. Sarah had the words. Paula was flipping through a Maya Angelou book for inspirational quotes; I was on pick- up lines.

"Who are the 'Blue Jackets'?" Geoff peered over the top of his laptop. He had finally put down the book.

"Columbus" we all said more or less together.

"Where the hell is Columbus?"

"Ohio."

"Since when has there been a hockey team in Ohio?"

At some point we'd had the brilliant idea of having Geoff do the sports updates. Like the stock/investment tips, it was the sort of job that we thought would keep him preoccupied for at least half of the morning. Unfortunately it turned out that Geoff knew a lot less about professional sports than the rest of us, which wasn't much to begin with.

I was having a hard time with the pick-up lines. I was distracted, and when I was distracted I couldn't get by the classics. Example: "I'm just looking for the tag made in heaven..." I couldn't get my meeting with Maggie and Steve out of my head.

"There's hockey in Arizona, too? Isn't Arizona a desert?"

125 "Geoff. Shut up. Seriously. All you have to do is cut the paste the scores. No commentary. Just numbers." Sarah's patience for Geoff was running thin and I was worried about a blowout.

"Sorry for having questions." Geoff pouted.

"If only we had some other way to answer questions" Sarah said, her eyes wide. "If only humans had created some sort of electronic box that when turned on let you access an almost infinite amount of information; that opened up into some kind of second world. We could call it electric-space." She leaned forward on an arm and stared right at Geoff. "Or even better: cyber- space!"

I did my best to ignore them and tried to focus on the work. After my meeting on

Saturday I'd spent the rest of the afternoon walking home, cutting through Mount Royal trying to digest it all. By the time that I got there Diana was gone, with only a note saying that she'd gone to stay with Helen for the weekend. So this was Big Fight #1, but I didn't fully understand why she was so angry: angry to the point where she didn't even want to talk about it. I could actually handle the silent treatment; Diana had been spending so much time online that there was lots of silence in our place anyway. But we hadn't had sex in too long for me to even think about, since the night of her last interview.

So if we fought all the time and didn't have sex, was it really a relationship? Or was it more like a bad friendship?

"If I had a broom, I'd sweep you off your feet!" It just popped into my head. My first great idea of the day.

"That's recycled." Sarah crumpled up a piece of paper in her head.

"What? No it's not."

126 "You made that up last summer." She aimed and then tossed it at the recycling bin, but it hit the rim and bounced into the garbage can.

"I remember that too," Paula added. Paula never got stuff like that wrong. "But it's certainly a good one!" She looked at me with such gentleness and sympathy that it actually made me feel sorry for myself.

"So can I use it, or what?"

Sarah stared at me. "Why don't you throw together some Lucky Lotto numbers? I think we only need a few more. Pump it out and you can get back to the lines after lunch." She knew me well enough to know that I wasn't on the ball.

The numbers were generated by a program, and I just had to direct them to the right accounts. It was like factory work. At noon Sarah and I headed straight for the food court.

"So Dave, I can tell you're just dying to unleash. Let loose," she said when we hit the mall. "How was it?"

For two days I'd been replaying it over and over in my head, trying to place every line spoken into a memory bank. But when Sarah asked how it went, I was stumped. "Urn, fine I guess."

"Fine? So they weren't psycho-sex-fiends?" She was almost bowled over.

"No. They seemed normal."

"Really?" She was staring at me like she thought I was lying. "Really?"

"Well not 'normal', I don't know. They were a little weird, I guess, but not in any dangerous sense of the word."

"Sorry?"

"He wore Birkenstocks and wool socks."

127 "Right." She nodded. "Got it. Not what I was expecting."

"You're telling me."

"So when you say it went 'Fine' does that mean adoption papers are being filed, or what?"

"No. Nothing like that. But I think everything went as good as it could have."

"This is just fucked."

"I've made plans to meet them individually."

Sarah shook her head as we got on the escalator. "What're we eating today?"

We'd once made a decision to try to eat at every place in the food court. That ended when a Popeye's moved in and neither of us was willing to go that low. But as we descended I noticed the Korean place tucked away in the corner. "Whaddya say we extend our Asian palettes to include Korean?" I asked.

"I would say an excellent choice, McKay, excellent choice."

Steve and Maggie said that they'd lived in Korea, so I could sum this up as research.

"Where do they live?" she asked.

"Westmount." I hadn't spent a lot of time in that neighbourhood, but I did pop over when

I felt the urge to go to a coffee shop where they asked for your order in English first. It was a comfort thing.

"I can't believe they weren't weird."

"I think the woman is actually perfect mother material."

"This still sounds too strange for me. Perfect mother material. Isn't she like ten years older than you?"

"I don't mean for me, but for someone. She should be someone's mother."

128 We got off the escalator and made our way through the crowds of moping teenagers. I'd never understood how so many teenagers could hang out in downtown food courts in the middle of the day.

"So whaddya know about Korean food?" she asked as we weaved through tables.

"They eat dog, don't they?"

"I remember hearing something about that. I wonder if it's true or just one of those offensive myths westerners spread about Asians?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Let's stick with vegetarian."

"Better safe."

There wasn't anyone else at the counter, which didn't give us much time to decipher the menu, though it probably wouldn't have helped anyway.

"That bibimthing looks vegetarian," Sarah points to a picture of a bowl of what looked like rice and veggies. Eventually I noticed something that may or may not have been a form of ground meat on it.

The man at the counter, in his stained whites and paper hat, did not look happy with our dallying. "Yes, you order now?" he demanded as though there were other people clamouring to get to his counter.

"We want something vegetarian."

"Oh, I'll give you something vegetarian," he said. And the way he stood there with a knife in one hand and a metal spatula in the other, it seemed like a threat. He began to move quickly and there was some frying and a lot of scraping of metal utensils over grills.

"It's like twenty-first century magic really, these food courts," Sarah said as we waited.

129 "You mean the way complete meals are created in seconds?"

"Yeah, and whatever you want is within reach. It's almost beautiful."

"Sure, sure, but I think it's a twentieth century holdover."

"You're right. So right." She pauses. "So, is there anything yet that is quintessential^ twenty-first century?" Sometimes when Sarah was thinking, or asking a puzzling question she did this thing where she dragged her lip ring fully into her mouth.

"Good question." I kept on thinking she was going to tear it out or something.

"Okay. Vegetarian." The Korean cook put up two identical plates of mixed vegetables on a bed of steamed rice.

"What's it called?" Sarah asked.

"Babo Waygook," he said and smiled happily.

We get a Korean aloe juice and the cook threw in a small plate of kimchi and we headed off into the eating abyss to find a table. There were two seats across from one another at a table full of sullen looking suits munching down on A&W. They all had the same, office-issue

BlackBerry sitting next to their trays except one guy held his up to his face and typed with one hand, feeding himself french fries with the other.

We dug into our Babo Waygook. After a few bites we looked at each other, disappointed.

"This tastes like Paul's stir-fry," I said. Paul made stir-fry at least twice a week.

"So basically Paul's stir-fry is vegetables with soya sauce?"

"Essentially. I guess we should stick to ordering from the menu." I reached toward the kimchi with my chopstick, but lost my resolve and pulled back. "What about that kimchi? I've never tried it."

130 Sarah pushed and prodded the wilted cabbage leaves around the dish. "It kinda looks like it's covered in placenta."

"God, Sarah, that's disgusting."

She pushed the dish aside. "So are you going to tell Diana now that you've met them and they don't seem crazy?"

"Right, there's been a little development on that front." I explained about Friday. The fight, the fact that Diana was at Helen's. "The super awkward part is that we're supposed to go to her parent's for dinner next week."

"Dave, Dave, Dave. You know, sometimes you act like a fucking idiot."

"Thanks."

"Seriously, though. Once you told me and Paul, there was no way telling Diana was going to go well."

"But she's not even talking to me. Don't you think that's a little much?"

"Are you accusing Diana of being unreasonable, because I hate to break it to you.

"Okay, okay." I couldn't stomach any more of the food.

"I think this whole situation is fucking with your head."

We stood to deliver our trays to the garbage can. I looked down at the suit with the

BlackBerry in his face and recognized that he was logged onto MeWorld. I dumped the uneaten kimchi into the bin along with the other waste.

"Weird," I said.

"What's weird?" she asked, stepping onto the escalator.

"That guy was logged into MeWorld."

"By weird you mean sad, right?" She was on the step above me and turned around.

131 "Yeah. Sure. I guess," I said, thinking of Diana, wondering if she too was logged onto

MeWorld, and if that guy was actually closer to her at that moment than I was.

132 18

The Truce

Diana was home when I got home from work. I walked in to see her sitting on the couch: sitting very straight, and staring directly at the door waiting for me. I froze like an animal in a beam of light.

"Hello, Dave," she said.

"Hey." I tried to say it as softly and non-confrontationally as possible and slipped into the living room. You could tell when Diana was home because everything was super neat. The floors were gleaming. The candle holders on the table next to the couch were all pointing in specific directions. It was unnerving. I knew where she got it from because I'd seen her family home.

When I was growing up, the only time that my aunt and I ever cleaned the apartment was when we were having guests over. And, even then, only if they were important guests.

"I just want to say," she said, "that I am sorry for the way I acted the other day." It was a struggle for her to say it. The strain was evident.

"Okay." I decided to say as little as possible and see what happened. I sat down next to her. Her hands were folded in her lap; her posture was scary good.

133 "Upon reflection, I think I can understand what this is all about. I understand, psychologically, why you might want to pursue something like this."

I thought about asking her to sum it up for me.

"I don't know if this is the best way for you to work out any feelings you may have about your own childhood, but if this is what you need to do, then I understand, and," she swallowed,

"I support you."

"Thanks, but seriously, I think you might be looking a little too far into it. It's not like I feel damaged or anything—"

"Be that as it may, I think you should proceed with caution, if, that is, you are still proceeding. I just wanted to say all that before I asked you how it went."

"It went.. .weird. It was weird. They weren't nearly as freaky as I thought they'd be. I don't know; they seem just as clueless about it as I am."

"And are you seeing them again?"

"I'm meeting them individually, yes."

She kept that same expressionless look on her face the whole time. "Well then, we do need to address a few issues."

Shit. I'd been hoping we could have gone issueless.

"First, are you being honest with them? And if so, are you being honest with me? Second, why was it that you felt the need to keep this information from me until the last minute?"

"Well Diana, it's—"

"And—sorry, I'm not finished—but what does that say about our relationship?"

"What does what say?"

"The fact that you didn't tell me?"

134 "I didn't want it to be about us yet. Or at all. I thought it would turn out to be nothing, and you know, it's not like you think it is. I didn't want to get you involved until I knew what was going on. And maybe I'm not being totally, completely honest with them right now, but I will."

"Fair enough."

I would've breathed a sigh of relief if it wouldn't have made me look like I was so relieved.

"I also understand why you would've had to tell someone, and Paul is your oldest friend.

But why," she reached up and rubbed her neck, looked like she was about to lose it but then reined it back in, "why would you tell Sarah?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

"She's a really good friend of mine, you know that, we work together, I see her all the time."

"I don't trust her, Dave."

"I get that."

"I think she has something for you."

I almost laughed. "Sarah definitely does not have anything for me."

"I'm a girl, I know these things."

I immediately pictured one of the many disgusted looks Sarah gave me daily. "Sorry babe, she's definitely not into me. I know."

"How do you know?"

"You'll just have to trust me on this one," I said.

"Well then, I will."

135 I could tell this was a moment for her. A big one. "So we're good?" I asked.

She nodded and opened up her arms. I hugged her back. I kissed her neck, once, twice.

She pulled back and kissed me quickly on the lips.

"I've got to get online. I'm going to an important seminar on finding work in the cyber era. It could really help me."

She stood up, grabbed her laptop off of the coffee table and walked out of the room.

I sat back, slightly relieved, wondering if Diana and I had just taken an important turn in our relationship.

136 19

Birthday Dinner

"How much longer?" I asked Diana. We were on our way to Diana's parents' place in the burbs for my birthday dinner and we'd only been on the bus for ten minutes. I was joking.

Diana didn't look up from her iPhone. After a few minutes, she finally said, "Oh, you know, a few minutes." Her screen was tilted so I couldn't see what she was doing.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't respond.

"Diana?"

"Sorry, just a sec babe," she glanced up quickly and then looked back down. "Almost done."

From the window of the bus I noticed the diminishing concrete as we got further from the city. Pointe Claire was a pleasant west-island community along the coast of the St. Lawrence. It was far enough away from downtown and self-sufficient enough not to seem like just another suburb of a mid-size North American city.

The bus stopped at the edge of the town. We got off in silence to walk the short distance to the house. 137 "Any news I should know about?" I asked. Diana had an older brother who lived in

Toronto, and I'd only ever met him once. Apart from a cousin who lived downtown, I didn't know much about her family.

She finally put down her iPhone, wrapped her arm around mine and walked along with me.

"Nothing major, no," she said.

The Burgesses' house, tucked up onto the coast, was a white with black shutter, two story, suburban home that could've fit in on any street in North America. In the summer the front yard was bursting with flowers, but all of the beds had been emptied and some tarp had been laid down over them. The grass was browning, dead in some parts near the road. The trees had been divested of almost all of their leaves and only a few sickly yellow stragglers clung to the branches. Behind everything the river looked large and lake-like. It was calm, and the water was smooth.

We walked up to the front steps and Diana pressed the doorbell. When the door opened,

Mr. and Mrs. Burgess were standing in front of us like two cardboard cut- outs.

Mrs. Burgess was done up for the occasion; her red hair was straight, combed into submission and 'producted' to the point of glossiness and parted from the centre. It shot straight down to her shoulders where it uniformly upturned. I'd begin to suspect that she'd owned a large supply of blandly conventional knee-length dresses.

From Diana's accounts of being raised in this house was kind of like I'd have imagined it would be. After a sheltered childhood there'd been the usual angst, and the standard miscommunications that went with any well-adjusted, late-twentieth century, suburban/middle- class upbringing: the brother flirted with long hair, guitar playing and pot smoking before

138 becoming a stand out high school corner back with the football team. He later went on to star at

McGill, all the while working toward his law degree. Diana had turned to boys at a young age, was known to drink at parties and have intense yelling matches with her parents. Then there'd been a pregnancy scare which led to Diana getting her act together, graduating near the top of her class, going to university on a modest scholarship and following in her father's footstep by doing a BCom.

It always took me a few drinks just to feel comfortable. Luckily, Mr. Burgess filled my hand with one as soon as we walked into the living room. Diana slouched down in a chair.

"So are you still working for that Internet thing?"

"I am indeed, yes." I took a sip of my gin and tonic. The bitterness left my mouth feeling dry and my lips pasty.

"Great thing, the Internet. Let's just hope it sticks around, eh?" He held his scotch out toward me and we clinked glasses. "You already got your foot in there, that's great." He takes a drink and swishes the ice around in his glass. You gotta create a persona, right?" He nodded and took a sip.

"Yeah, right. I guess you do," I said, thinking, for some reason, that I'd never actually been to my company's website.

"An online identity. Avatars and such," he said. "I know about it, you'd be surprised."

Diana sighed dramatically from her chair. I'd almost forgotten that she was there.

"How are things, Di?" he asked.

There was a long pause. Diana's thumb swiped across the screen of her iPhone. Mr

Burgess continued to stare at her. I looked back and forth between the two of them. This was how she'd been treating me lately, but it was odd to see her like this around her father. "Fine," she said quickly but didn't even look at him as she said it. She typed something.

"You look good," she said, glancing up at him quickly. She smiled.

He walked over to his cabinet and opened his bottle of scotch. "Still running," he asked me, pouring himself a second drink.

I nodded quickly. "Oh yeah, couple days a week. "Athleticism was something that Mr.

Burgess put a lot of stake in, so I tried to discuss it as much as possible.

We stood in silence for more than a moment. I took many quick sips of my drink for lack of anything better to do. I kept looking at Diana, but she was absorbed in whatever she was going online.

I thought that her distance was a result of some of the problems we'd been having, but she seemed to be treating everyone that way.

"So 24, eh? Happy Birthday," Mr. Burgess said. "I was still in university at 24. Started late 'cause I gave it a go."

"Thanks." I felt like we had the exact same conversation every time I went to their house. Frank referred to his major junior days as "Givin' it a go", in reference, I assumed, to his attempts to be drafted by a pro team.

"I could have probably had a career in the minors, you know. But I was never one for a

'minor' career." He shook his glass, clinking the ice against the sides. "I pretty much envisioned my life from a very early age." Mr. Burgess sounded like he was talking just to hear himself speak, or to fill the silence. "If I couldn't get that with hockey, I knew I'd have to go back to school."

"Well you've done well, Mr. Burgess," I said.

140 "Frank, Dave. It's Frank. And to me, 'doing well' is knowing what you need to do to get what you want in life."

Mrs. Burgess called for them from the dining room. Frank topped off his scotch as we exited. Diana followed.

The dining room was the part of the house I felt the most uncomfortable in. It was all floral wallpaper and frilly lace things, thick yellow curtains that closely resembled the colour nicotine stains on the fingers of old men. There were family photos on the walls. Some of them were so old that they looked like painted representations of old photos. I'd once been told who they were, but I didn't remember specifics. Great grandparents, aunts and uncles.

On the wall behind the head of the table was a series of photos depicting the present day

Burgess family, including a tacky department store portrait taken sometime in the nineties. Diana

looked like a younger, acned version of herself, but still attractive, and her brother, despite his mullet, looked well on his way to turning into his old man.

The large dining table was set extravagantly. From a thick, frilly tablecloth to a full set of cutlery. The food was laid out and ready: a roast and numerous vegetables. Mrs. Burgess placed

a carafe of wine on the centre of the table. The Burgesses began to serve themselves from the ornate dishes. Diana slouched glumly in her chair. She usually had a "family mode"—I'd once jokingly called it Daughter Diana—that she turned on when we came to these events, but she was having none of it.

"You seem a little down today." Mrs. Burgess tonged a single stalk of asparagus on her plate.

I was always surprised by the bluntness that existed between most parents and children, but there was something comforting about it too.

141 "I'm fine." Diana's voice was barely audible over the clinking of silverware and serving

spoons.

"How're things with the job search? Any leads?" Frank asked.

"I went to a good seminar the other night."

"How was that interview I set up for you at Stanley-Maclntyre?" He shoved a huge slice

of meat into his mouth and washed it down with some scotch.

Diana was silent for a moment. "Didn't you say that Bernie Mclntyre is a weasel?"she

finally said.

"You shouldn't say things like that about people," Mrs. Burgess tsked, but I wasn't sure

who she was tsking.

Frank looked perplexed. "Well perhaps I did. Once. But that wasn't a slight on his

abilities as a boss or in advertising."

"Wouldn't that make him even better at what he does?" I smiled and looked at all of them. No one laughed. I forked up some mashed potatoes.

Diana's plate was only half full and she toyed with the few scraps on it. She only had one hand above the table.

"So what will you and Dave do to celebrate his birthday?" Mrs. Burgess smiled politely and I realized that she also had the same mouth as her daughter. It was lovely, even with a small bit of turnip sticking out of the edge.

"This is it."

"Really? Not even going to catch a show?"

"A 'show'T Diana gave her mom one of the looks. It was the "you're an idiot look". "I don't know even know what you mean."

142 "So Dave, how is your job going?" Mrs. Burgess ignored her daughter.

"Just fine, things are going quite well actually."

"What is the name of it again?"

"Right back at Ya."

"Of course, I see the commercials on TV, you know?"

"How long do you think you'll be with them?" Frank shoved a mixed forkful in his mouth. "Honey this is just outstanding. Really outstanding," he said, shaking his head.

"You mean at my job?"

"Ummhm." He chewed like it was a fight. His jaw worked hard.

"Well I haven't thought about it. There aren't a lot of opportunities for me in Montreal really, I've been working on my French, but..."

"Isn't that a shame?" Mrs. Burgess shook her head. The tips of her hair shivered.

"But I like my job. And things seem to be going well there."

"You ever think about going back to school?" Mr. Burgess put down his fork and reached across the table. He loaded up on more meat and potatoes.

I looked over at Diana for support, distraction, anything, but her head was straight down and she was not even pretending to be eating. Both her hands were off of the table now. She was on her iPhone.

"I was just wondering, that's all." Frank threw his hands up defensively and laughed.

"It's just a shame," Mrs. Burgess said again.

"What's that, dear?" Frank asked.

"That there is no opportunity for the English here in Montreal."

"It is a French city, Mom." Diana finally looked up.

143 "Well it wasn't always just a French city," Diane's mother said. Her plate was like a minimalist sculpture. She had put the least amount of food possible on it, yet still managed to have a little of everything. There were three peas rolling around, bumping into the spoonful of mashed potatoes and sliding along the edge of a thin slice of meat. "Some of us remember a time before all of this separatist nonsense."

"No you don't," Diana mumbled.

"It wasn't that long ago really." Frank spoke with some food in his mouth. "We were teenagers when 101 passed. English families went flying out of this city."

"Just a shame." Mrs. Burgess impaled one of the peas on a prong of her fork and hesitated, taking a look at it before plopping it into her mouth. Suddenly, she looked around the table. "Where are the potatoes?"

I pointed at the large bowl of mashed potatoes to my right.

"No, no, the roast potatoes." Her hands clamped down on the side of the table in front of her. "I forgot the roast potatoes." She stood up, her pale cheeks burning red, and went to the kitchen.

"There is a sense of entitlement among the Quebecois that makes me very uncomfortable," Mr. Burgess said.

"Oh God, Dad," Diana sighed. The edges of her elbows moved almost imperceptibly. It reminded me of a youTube video we watched at work one day of these Japanese students who were able to text while holding their phones under their desktops.

"No, no, Diana, it's true. It makes me feel very uncomfortable. If you ask me..."

"No one did."

It was barely a whisper but I heard it, and I looked at Frank to see if he'd heard it too.

144 He looked directly at his daughter. "What was that?"

Mrs. Burgess appeared at the door. Her hands are playing at her dress, smoothing it out over her thighs. "I've overcooked the roast potatoes."

Frank continued to glare at Diane who avoided his gaze.

"What did you say?" he asked again.

"Nuthin'." Diana finally brought her hands above the table. She grabbed her fork and plopped a baby carrot in her mouth.

Mrs. Burgess remained poised on the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

"I think it's fine, Mrs. Burgess, we have plenty of food."

"They're a little dry, but they might be okay. You should all at least try them. I'll bring in a small dish, just enough for us to try." Her hand went to her mouth and rested there but she didn't move.

"I say we give them their independence. Don't even let them vote next time, just say

'Sure, give it a go. Here's your country, good luck.'" Frank looked right at me.

"Oh God," Diana tilted her head back. "I'm sorry, Dave."

"What?" I asked. I had no desire to be caught up in any of this, even if her father was being irrational.

Mrs. Burgess rushed to the kitchen. She returned quickly with a bowl full of the roasted potatoes.

"I'm just going to put a few of these on each of your plates. It's a new recipe, just found it on the Internet." Mrs. Burgess plopped a few dried-up potato-looking bits onto her husband's plate and then moved toward me. "What a thing that Internet, who needs cookbooks!" She dropped a few on my plate. "I'm sorry they're so dry, but it's the flavour I want you to taste."

145 "Thanks," I said.

"Anyway," Frank said. "Maybe we should kick all of the French out of Ontario under the notion that we must preserve our fragile English culture."

"And New Brunswick too," his wife added, sitting back down. Her composure regained,

she looked around for a place to put the empty bowl. "There are a lot of French there too." She reached down beside her and deposited the bowl on the floor.

"It's a bilingual province." I should've known better than to say anything.

"Well then haven't they been given enough?" she asked, though I didn't understand the nature of the question. Enough what?

Diana slapped her hand on the table. "Do you even hear what you're saying?" she asked.

There was a light thud next to her. Both she and Frank looked over. "Shit," Diana said and reached down quickly, but then stopped.

"Have you been typing on your phone during dinner?" Frank turned red with anger, which actually made him look almost purple.

There was silence. A silence so complete that I could hear my own chewing, and it was so loud that I had to stop.

"You don't use that sort of language at the table. And you certainly don't do text messaging during dinner." Mr. Burgess glared, his hands balled up into fists next to his plate.

"This isn't the nineteen fifties for God's sake. Act like human beings. And I wasn't

'doing text messaging'." She reached down and picked it up. "I'm so sorry, Dave, let's go."

'Well. Um. I." I hesitated; I didn't know what to say. I knew she was on MeWorld, and it actually pissed me off.

"And in front of company, too," Patricia added.

146 It took me a moment to figure out that I was the company.

"He's not company, he's my boyfriend."

"He's still company."

"Well, Dave. Are you coming?"

"Diana," I began, "I think it is a little rude to be on—" I'd never seen her like this before, and I wasn't sure how to respond.

She glared at me and waited. "Fine," she eventually said, and stood up abruptly. Her chair teetered behind her on its back legs before wobbling back onto all fours. She stormed out of the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Burgess both looked at me; she very pale, he visibly shaking with anger.

We heard the front door slam.

"I guess I should go see if she's okay," I said. "Thanks for dinner. It was delicious." I pushed out my chair and stood.

"Did you get to try the roast potatoes?"

Frank stood up and extended his hand. "Happy birthday," he said; his grip was slick with a layer of sweat.

Patricia didn't even stand. She just stared down at her plate.

My phone began to vibrate. I rushed out of the dining room expecting Diana. I pulled out my phone and hit talk without even looking.

"Where the hell did y—"

"Happy Birthday!" My aunt and her husband Mark yelled on the other end. Lisa, screeched. Then they began to sing Happy Birthday.

147 I stepped out of the front door and looked around the yard but there was no sign of Diana anywhere. I stood on the front steps with my phone to my ear and listened to them sing.

148 Part Four

December

149 20

The Stalk Option

My aunt called me back a few days later. I was still agitated. Diana and I hadn't had a proper conversation in days, and I was about to meet with Maggie.

"So how'd it turn out?" she asked, and for a brief moment I thought she was talking about meeting Maggie and Steve. "Did you find her?"

"Oh. No. I walked all around Pointe Claire and eventually decided to go home. She was there."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and in MeWorld and basically refusing to talk or engage in 'ReWorld.'"

"She plays MeWorld?"

I was half surprised that my aunt even knew what I was talking about. "I don't know if play is the right word."

"What's ReWorld?"

"Real world. Get it?"

"That's so strange, Dave. And all you did was agree with her parents?"

150 "Yup, I'm pretty sure that's what she was doing—on MeWorld. I guess she could have been on Blogger." I didn't care what she was doing, honestly. "I really need to get an iPhone or something. I could have just stalked her and I would've known where she was."

"Stalked her?"

"On Buddy Blogger, there's a GPS stalk option. It locates the position of someone's handheld device."

"That is extraordinarily creepy." My aunt was not one for anything online. She actually was so distrustful of the internet that she barely even Googled anything. She reluctantly used email, but only because she knew that she wouldn't be able to communicate with anyone if she didn't. "That's just terrible that you can do that to people."

"You can't just do it to everyone; you have to enable it on your homepage."

"And people actually allow this to occur?"

"Um. Yes."

"People have no sense of personal space anymore."

"That might be a bit much," I said.

"No one cares about privacy, or," she paused to think of a word. "Mystery, where's the mystery in life?"

"It's not exactly like that, you can't just access every bit of information about someone because they're on Buddy Blogger."

"I was very proud of myself for having avoided Facebook; I won't be giving in now."

"There's no 'giving in', it's about being connected."

"Don't they call it stalking now?"

"Okay, yes, but playfully so..."

151 "Well I have no interest in being stalked."

We'd had this conversation a million times and it was exhausting to me. I had to accept the fact that she just couldn't make the leap.

"So what happens now?" she asked, and again I thought she was talking about Maggie. I feel like I should talk to my aunt about it, but I didn't know how to bring it up.

"I don't know. Is this the kind of crap you deal with when you move in with someone?"

"Well, not exactly the kind of crap I dealt with when Mark and I moved in together, but there will be strains, yes."

"We've only been living together for like, two months. I thought there'd be some kind of honeymoon period or something."

"Are you still happy?"

"Yeah, of course." I just blurted out a response, but as soon as I said it I had to wonder.

I'd never actually considered my happiness. I'd been so focused on making the relationship work and being a new, "mature" person that I hadn't thought of happiness at all. "I guess."

"Hmm," she muttered after a few moments.

"What?"

"Oh nothing. You've got to talk to her though, eventually. Communication is the key."

There was silence on the line for a few moments. I was meeting Maggie tomorrow night;

I would have loved some advice on that. "Could I—"

"I guess I wasn't very good about that," she said, cutting me off.

"About what?"

"Sorry, did I cut you off?"

152 "No, nothing. What weren't you very good at?" There'd been a period there, when I first left for university that my aunt was convinced she'd been a horrible parent and would call me questioning every little thing she'd done. She called me out of the blue once at about 7 a.m. to apologize for letting me eat pop tarts for breakfast for all those years. She was worried that I would develop a horrible junk-food addiction.

"I never really talked to you about relationships much."

"You were young." She was only 22 when my parents died.

"I'd only had a few boyfriends myself, you know. Even when Mark and I started dating I didn't know what was going on half the time. I felt like I was learning."

"You were awesome. Stop worrying. Think of all the practice you got for Lisa."

She laughed. "Why don't you come home for Christmas?"

I hadn't thought about that. I wondered what was expected of me with Diana. What would happen with Maggie and Steve? Wouldn't they want to have their newly adopted son over for Christmas dinner? As soon as I thought it, I understood how absurd that sounded.

"You've barely met Lisa."

I'd only gone home for a few days after she was born. Actually, since I'd moved to

Montreal, I'd barely been home for more than a week or so. I remembered all those Christmas mornings with just the two of us. Doing our best at making a family. "Maybe I will," I said. As much as I tried to fit myself into an image of the Burgess family Christmas, I just couldn't quite get there.

153 21

A Groovy Kind of Love

I got off the bus a little early. It was just early enough to allow me some time to stroll along

Westmount and relax. I sauntered down Sherbrooke St. It was busy: young moms, older English

ladies, tall athletic guys bounding—spandexed—around the edges of Westmount Park. Some of the shops were a little higher end. The American Apparel looked young and brash compared to the sterile boutiques that flanked it. I enjoyed hearing English, but if anything, it reminded me that I wasn't missing anything by not understanding all of the chatter on the streets.

Maggie and Steve lived just off the main drag on the top floor of a converted stone house.

It was a street full of arching trees and well-manicured lawns: Saabs, SUVs, Beemers. There was

an old rusty-red Corolla in the driveway at Steve and Maggie's.

I rang the doorbell. There were footsteps, then the sound of chains and locks.

Her hair was wet, like she'd just showered, and it hung in thick, almost tight ringlets down her back and shoulders. When she smiled I noticed her round lips were naturally thick but rather shapeless, and when her smile widened, subtle dimples formed. I hadn't noticed how green her eyes were at the cafe.

154 She leaned forward and as my cheeks grazed hers I couldn't help but feel bad about my 7

o'clock shadow. Her skin was so smooth I felt like when I pulled away I'd see scratches: little

beads of blood.

There was a smell about her too that had been hidden before, and it made me think of

China Town.

"Welcome to our home! Come on up."

I slipped off my shoes and followed her up the stairs. She wore a dress similar to the one

I'd seen the first time, and she had to bunch up a handful of material around her knees so as not

to step on it. Her ankles were thin but strong: a thick tendon moving. She had long pale feet with

even toes. She'd painted her toe nails a deep purple; they reminded me of her hands, and how

they didn't match the softness of the rest of her. I wondered what Paul would have made of them,

with his weird foot thing.

When I followed her into the apartment, the first thing I noticed was the scent of incense.

"What would you like to drink? Tea, juice, water.. .1 was thinking of a glass of wine

myself."

"That's great, thanks." I'd never been much of a wine drinker but Diana was always

trying some new something-or-other and I'd been slowly getting used to it.

"Make yourself at home," she said and swivelled on her heel and headed, presumably, to

the kitchen.

The light in the living room was poor at best, and the place was crowded. The dark, earthy colour scheme—rich, mud-like browns and deep, emerald greens—didn't help. The fact that the hardwood was covered by dark rugs didn't either. There were a few overflowing bookshelves, their bottoms blocked by stacks of shelfless texts. Every nook, space, and cranny

155 was taken up with trinkets: little red statues of fat Buddhas; a family of wooden elephants; busts

of sublime looking, androgynous figures; a model temple; small carvings. The walls were

equally full. Paintings (abstract and otherwise) squeezed in between elaborately detailed sarongs

and other materials. The windows in the room were covered by thick, dense silk. One small end

table was cluttered with incense burners, a few of them emitted small streams of smoke, and I

could smell the slightly pungent, peppery smell of it hovering in the room.

I didn't have a clue where to sit. There was a small table in the room with two chairs but

those chairs were stacked with books and the table was covered in papers and magazines. One

corner had only yellow, red and orange pillows strewn about a thick, furry, wine-coloured rug,

but that seemed too intimate. All of the other chairs in the room had become shelves for things.

There was a long couch along the far wall, under the silk-covered windows, but it was also

stacked full of magazines and other material—more silk it seemed.

Growing up, my aunt had had some eccentric tastes, but they'd never overwhelmed our

apartment. And compared to Diana's sparse taste, this was downright insulting.

"Oh, yeah." Maggie returned with two glasses of red wine in her hands. "Believe it or not

this is tidy." Her eyes darted about the room. "You would think that with all the travelling we've

done we would have less stuff!" She went to the couch, pushed aside a stack of magazines. She put the wine glasses on the wooden coffee table and gathered up some of the silks and crammed them into boxes. They were beautiful, and some of the cloths were woven together, tight or loose

depending on the particular design, and the colours were often in striking contrast to one another:

sky blues and oranges with purples and yellows on a black base.

156 She noticed my staring. "We have a friend in Laos who sends them to us every few months. When we get it together we actually sell some of this stuff at markets." She folded one of the long pieces of material. Then she stacked the boxes on the floor next to the couch.

I sat at one end and she at the other, tucking her legs in under herself and cupping her glass to her chest. On the wall directly behind her was a series of three photographs blown up to about 8 by 11. They were black and white close-ups of three Asian faces. The farthest on the left was of an old, bald man, and every inch of his face was folded in a wrinkle or crease. His eyes were barely there, just two little slits peeking out from bundles of flesh, yet they glistened and stared out of the picture with an intensity that was almost frightening. The man barely had any lips; the skin of his mouth pursed together in a serious scowl. The face was close enough to see the individual hairs, not more than a centimetre long, on his scalp. Despite the lack of colour I could see that his skin was dark, tanned, perhaps damaged on the top of his head and around his ears.

"That's of a monk in Cambodia," Maggie looked over her shoulder at it.

"Did you take it?"

She nodded. "You don't see too many old monks in Cambodia."

"Right." I said, but I didn't know anything about Cambodia. There'd been a movie or something. Killing Fields. For some reason this reminded me of the Korean lunch with Sarah; I knew I was going to have to do a lot more of that to get even a sense of what Maggie knew of the world.

The other two photos were only slightly less striking. One was of a younger woman, perhaps middle aged, with a "say cheese" smile barely convincing on a face with stern eyes. The third was of a young boy, a teen maybe, and though he was trying to be serious, the joy was

157 obvious; it looked ready ready to burst out of him. It was in the way, that his eyes glistened with dampness, the edges of his mouth turned up just slightly.

There was an awkward moment of silence. We both sipped from our wine glasses, holding them to our lips, just a tad too long.

"Hey, I ate Korean food the other day. My first time," I said. "I didn't think it was so good. It was kinda boring." All those limp veggies doused in soya sauce.

"Really? That's too bad. What did you have?"

I tried to remember what the cook called it. "I don't know. We asked for vegetarian. It was baboo wahgook or something."

She thought about it for a moment, her lips formed the words. Quickly, a smile formed. It got huge. "Could he have said 'babo waygook'?"

"Yeah, yeah I think that's it."

She laughed, shaking her head.

"What?"

"That basically means 'Foolish foreigner'."

"What?"

"Babo waygook."

"You're kidding?" I thought back to the way the cook was acting that day. "Damn." I wasn't sure if it was a good or bad idea to tell Sarah about this. I pictured a very bad food court confrontation involving hot metal spatulas and cleavers.

Every time I looked into a corner I noticed something new: a massive scroll with Chinese characters written on it, a carved wooden mask, a short wooden staff with an elaborately carved top, a boomerang.

158 "So," she said.

"So," I said. She seemed much younger amongst the mess. She had that air of comfort about her of being in her own home. "Where's Steve?" I asked.

"He has a poetry group that meets every Tuesday. A workshop type thing, I guess."

"Hmm." My whole adult life, I'd been a master of useless small talk. It had been my greatest advantage to be honest, being able to seem interesting and interested at the same time. It wasn't the same with Maggie. I had no idea what would impress this woman.

"You seem to be in good shape."

"Oh yeah? Thanks. I run." I'd had a good run that very morning, and had spent the whole time trying to figure out how the evening was going to go.

"Wow, really? Like long distances."

"I don't go out and win marathons or anything, but yeah."

"Have you ever run a marathon?" This possibility seemed astonishing to her, this woman who had been around the world and back a few times, astonished that someone could run a long distance.

"To be honest I've never finished one."

"But you've tried?"

"Yes, twice." This was not something I was proud of, or even thought about often. I'd run in and not completed two marathons. I'd never gone into them having trained particularly well, and I certainly hadn't been competitive about it. But I figured I could finish. "I've been a runner for so long, and I don't know why but I haven't been able to finish a marathon."

"Well, it's not easy," she said as though I'd never considered this.

159 In training I never had a problem running 30, 35 klicks. I'd run a dozen half marathons.

But both times, I'd shut down at 36, 37 k, pulling up with an injuries. But No one pulled a muscle at kilometre 37 of a marathon. Every muscle you could possibly pull was already pulled, torn and twisted at that point.

I took another drink of my wine. It was smooth, with a distinct aftertaste that I couldn't place. Much nicer than the wine we usually drank.

"We didn't give you much of a chance to speak the other day," she said. "I think we were all nervous. This is such a strange situation we've created."

"How many others have you..." I tried to search for the perfect word but none came,

"interviewed so far?"

"To be honest, you're the only one. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you were the only serious response we got. Like I said on Saturday, we got some crazies, but yours was the only normal one we had." She studied her hands. They were wrapped around the stem of her wine glass. "Which is probably one more than we were actually expecting." She finally looked back up at me.

"You guys said that you chose not to have kids."

"It worked out that way, yes, it wasn't like we ever made the conscious decision not to."

"Couldn't you still have them?"

She looked away again. "I feel like it's too late. Steve definitely wouldn't." She paused, twirled one of her ringlets around her finger. "I feel like sometimes, I've waited too long. I would be in my fifties by the time they left home, right?" She let go of her hair and reached down and grasped her toes which peeked out from under her. With her other hand she brought the glass to her mouth and held it there for too long.

160 "You just seem like you would be an amazing mother.. .Sorry, it's just.. .well, I'm just

trying to understand what you guys are... You know?" I didn't really know.

"I'm not making this easy am I?" She studied the remaining wine in her glass. "I think

Steve and I are a little selfish and set in our ways. We hide behind excuses like 'not want to over

populate Earth', or 'not wanting to bring a child into this messed-up planet', or whatever." She

considered this, as if for the first time. "We haven't been normal adults—whatever that's

supposed to mean."

"You can't say you're selfish." This was almost desperate for me, because if Maggie was

selfish then what the hell was I?

"I mean in certain ways. With our time, with where we want to put our commitments. We

want complete control over these things and that's kind of selfish, but sometimes..." Her smile

dipped for a moment, but it didn't last. She shook her head. "But this is supposed to be about

you." She shifted again, smiling with a little more ease. She changed her position, her legs

folding up in the opposite direction. The skin of her calf was smooth. There was a large brown

mole above the heel. "Where are you from?"

I explained to her the best that I could. How my parents met in Montreal while they were

finishing degrees (his graduate, hers undergrad). How they'd moved back to Nova Scotia's

Annapolis Valley, which was where my father was from, so that he could take a job at a National

Agricultural Centre and Research Station, and they could have a child in a rural, family-friendly

setting. But that was as far as I went.

"So what're you doing here?" she asked.

"Well, this is where my parents met, and I didn't know it at all. So I went to McGill, got a job and I just like the city a lot. And..." I had no idea what else to say. The women were hot? I

161 liked the social scene, and that I didn't have to take my job seriously? And how that was a comfort because it meant that I didn't have to take my life too seriously either.

"And you met your partner, right?"

"My 'partner'..." I stopped myself just before my inflection gave away the fact that I didn't know that she was talking about my girlfriend. "Oh, Diana! Right." I forced a laugh and took a big gulp of wine. I'd known that it would get to this at some point. I thought about the birthday dinner disaster.

"Diana?"

"Yeah, she's a Montrealer too! Well, sort of. Pointe Claire." I explained how we actually met online while she was still living and studying in Toronto, but I was intentionally vague on timelines.

"And what does she do?"

"She does advertising stuff, but she's out of work right now."

"Tough times," Maggie said, and that seemed to be the standard at this time of the year.

"She's getting the odd interview. Things'll turn around."

"Would you like some more wine?"

I took my last drink and handed her my glass as she stood.

"I just realized I don't know what you do!" She could barely be heard as she walked toward the kitchen. She returned with the bottle in her hand. "I figure I might as well just bring it on out!"

I'd also been dreading this. How did you tell a leftist-idealist with a penchant for volunteering in third world countries that you sent people text message love advice for a living?

"Well, I work for a company that sends out daily emails and text messages," I said.

162 "What?"

"You know text messages. On your cell phone. Emails"

She nodded.

"So I work for this company, 'Right Back At Ya', and we send people daily messages.

Investing advice, horoscopes, sports scores, word of the day, that kind of thing."

"Are you kidding? People use this service?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Weird. And what is it you do there?"

"Creative Team. I actually write the stuff that we push at people."

She shook her head. "I am continuously baffled by western culture. No offence." She added this quickly and raised her hand toward me. "Honestly, no offence, it's just so strange."

"Don't worry, I agree."

She giggled. It was almost child-like.

"What?"

"Your teeth are purple."

I rubbed my teeth with my finger.

She stuck out her tongue. "Thath othay, ma tunge is pollee purhul hoo."

I laughed.

"I feel very comfortable around you, Dave. Do you mind me saying so?"

"Really? I was going to say the same about you, but, well.. .it's kind of an awkward situation."

"Yeah, it is. But I do feel comfortable, and I just don't know exactly what it is. We're not very similar are we?"

163 "I guess not."

She reached forward and rubbed my knee just for a moment. "But it's fine, Dave, really.

Differences are good." She was trying to reassure me, or herself. "Why don't you ask me something?"

I thought for a moment. "Does your family still live here?"

"Some. Aunts and uncles. My brother is out west. He runs a nature camp in the Coast

Mountains in B.C."

"What about your parents?" As soon as I asked, I knew. I could see it in her eyes. I probably could've seen it all along if I'd looked hard enough.

"They both passed away a few years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's okay. I've had a few years to get over it, you know? And with my mother at least, well... we knew it was coming." She tapped her finger on her glass. "She had lung cancer and fought it for a long time. Really hard, and my father was right there with her. I think he kept her alive for so long, I really do."

I watched her speak, feeling like I'd finally got something. The look was familiar. There was something detached about the way she spoke, the way her eyes focused on some nothing point in the air over my shoulder. Her fingers twitched unconsciously.

"He didn't last much longer after she went. They called it an accidental overdose."

"They 'called it'?"

"Steve and I were in South America, we'd just gone back after coming all the way home for mom's funeral. I didn't even come back for his. It's strange but I saw him go at Mom's

164 funeral. He was lost. Not even close to the same man. There was nothing left for him. He was only 58."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. There's something romantic about it, don't you think? I learned a lot about love and commitment from them. I was lucky." She smiled sheepishly and had to look away again. She was remembering something that she wouldn't share. She stared down at her lap for a long time.

"Maggie?" I said after a moment. "I lost my parents, too."

"Really?" It was barely a whisper.

"I was only nine. They'd been away at a conference one February and were driving home." I had a particular image in my mind of the whole thing. I'd put it together though nightmares and the painfully unnecessary recreations that I wasn't able to avoid when I was young. I didn't actually know any of the real details, but it hardly mattered. "We had a Celebrity, a Chevy Celebrity," I said. It had been early in the evening and it wasn't particularly bad out or anything, just really cold. They'd passed Wolfville on highway 101. Two exits from home, like twenty kilometres. They were looking out over the dykes of the valley. Staring out at the north mountain. They could see Cape Blomidon in the distance and they were listening to the radio,

Magic 97, which back then still played cheesy soft rock tunes all the time.

"They talked when they drove. The liked driving. We used to go on road trips together; they never wanted to fly. For them being in that car was like a little vacation itself," I continued.

They'd also treated it like time to be together and used to chat or sing along to Phil Collins or

Chicago tunes with each other. I knew that when they crashed she'd been holding his hand which was resting on the gear stick between them because it always was, even when he was shifting.

165 They probably didn't even see it coming. In the other lane a moving truck hit a slick of black ice,

lost control. It's a small highway, two lanes. They hit it dead on. There was nowhere for them to

go. Both of them were rushed to the hospital but they were gone before they got there."

That was my image of it. How it played out. In my head they were singing "Groovy Kind

of Love", I didn't know why that was the song that I had in my head, but I guessed it must have been playing on the radio a lot around that time. I'd never asked the sorts of questions that

would've altered my vision of it.

I looked up and saw that Maggie was crying. Just a few tears.

"I wondered, Dave," she said. "When you walked in and looked so normal. I wondered

then." She reached forward and grabbed my hand. "It was just a feeling."

I didn't know what to say, so I just sat there and let her hold my hand. I could hear the

song playing faintly in my memory, the chorus repeating over and over again.

166 22

The Evolution of Existence

I'd hoped that meeting Maggie would've prepared me for the meeting with Steve, but I didn't feel any less nervous or any more prepared than I had two days before. I thought it would've been great to get off in the same spot and stroll along as I had the other night to calm my nerves, but I wasn't dressed properly and I was cold.

When Steve opened the door, there was very little expression on his face, the hint of a smile, maybe cocky, certainly not nervous or suspicious. Turning, he trudged slowly up the stairs and I followed. There were stacks of boxes at the top.

"Sorry, I've been organizing the closet." Steve pushed aside some boxes as we entered the apartment. The hall closet was open, and there were unopened boxes and clothes everywhere.

"I know it probably seems like we have a lot, but other than all of these trinkets and the art, it's just crap. Used chairs and tables. We picked our couch up off the street and threw some cloth on it. I built our desks out of scrap wood." He bent and hoisted a box up onto a shelf in the closet.

I stood there at the top of the stairs and watched.

167 "The only things we've kept over the years while we traveled were books and CDs." He

shook the box in his hand, listening to the sound. "CDs. Had we known they'd be obsolete by the

time we decided to settle, I don't think we would've saved them."

I finally entered and grabbed one of the boxes. "So does that mean you guys are planning to settle now?" I could hear the faint rattle of plastic CD cases as I slipped it onto the shelf.

"Who knows? But no, no plans to take off." He stops, hands on his hips. "I could see it happening again, though." When the final box of CDs was shoved into the closet, Steve motioned toward the living room. "Go on in. I've got a pot of green tea brewing."

What struck me was the silence. I'd been so visually overloaded on my first visit that I'd barely noticed it. It made me realize that at my place there was always something on. If it wasn't the TV, then it was Paul's music. And even as silent as the apartment could be there was always the click-click-click of Diana's incessant typing.

I noticed a new scent in the air too; the faint whiff of marijuana. One thing about living with Paul was that I could recognize that smell anywhere. I sat on the couch and noticed an

ashtray on the coffee table with a few roaches in it. Maybe they should have been adopting Paul.

Steve returned with a couple of heavy earthenware mugs. He pulled up a small stool that looked like it was carved directly from a tree stump and sat on the other side of the coffee table.

"Well," he said, and clasped his hands together. He rubbed a little too vigorously.

"Maggie says you guys got along well the other night."

"Yeah? We had a good chat." I couldn't read him. He seemed a little more hyper than he'd been at the cafe.

168 "Dave, I want to be completely honest with you about this situation. Just between you and me." He was staring down at a little metal tin that had been painted a psychedelic array of colours: oranges and blues and purples in tie-dyed swirls.

"Okay."

"I didn't expect it to get this far. I didn't expect to meet you. I didn't expect to hear from anyone, honestly. I thought we'd place the ad, and it would sit there online and a few people would think it was a joke. Maggie would pine about it for a while and complain that no one was answering and we would eventually forget about it and life would go back to normal."

"Yeah?" Maggie and I hadn't discussed the situation at all, and it seemed much easier that way.

"I don't know your intentions Dave, I don't know why you're here, and I don't really want to know. You certainly don't seem crazy; you seem like a pretty normal guy actually." He leaned forward and opened the metal tin. It was full of loose pot, a pack of rolling papers and a small pair of manicure scissors. "You don't mind, do you?" He glanced up.

I shook my head. It was puzzling seeing someone in their 30s rolling a joint. Not that I had any problems with it. Paul, who was high pretty much twenty-four hours a day, seemed to get by all right (though his job was conducive to that sort of thing). I'd just assumed that there was a natural cut-off point when you stopped. Like thirty or something.

"I agreed to go along with this for Maggie," he said. "She just turned thirty-five and I think the biological clock, or whatever, started ticking a little louder..." He dropped some of the marijuana onto a rolling paper and brought the whole thing to his mouth. He licked it and finished rolling. "I think it's probably natural for a woman to want a baby, something instinctual

169 there that makes them want to go for it. It's just her body telling her that the time has come, right? Now or never." He looked up and smiled.

I had no idea what he wanted to hear from me.

"I mean, honestly. It's crazy right? I was shocked when you walked into the cafe that day. I was expecting a weirdo. And in you march looking all normal and...well, normal."

The way Steve said "normal" was starting to get to me. When I heard "normal", I thought overweight and pasty. That seemed to be normal in North America.

Steve lit the joint, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as the end glowed red and caught.

He giggled a bit in recollection of something when he exhaled. "I've gotta tell you that I was trying to scare you off at the cafe." He shook his head. "I don't know, man, I think it's a little fucked." Steve reached across the table and offered the smouldering joint.

I surprised myself by accepting it. I didn't smoke very often, at all. Maybe at a party, and only ever with Paul. Diana thought it was crude.

"You know what's funny?" Steve stared straight at me and tilted his head, appraising.

"We even kind of look similar".

I inhaled. The smoke caught at the back of my throat and for a moment I thought I was going to cough. I closed my mouth and held the smoke in and tried to produce some moisture to help it go down. It was a struggle, but eventually I got it. I looked at him. We both had longish faces. Thin, almost pointy noses. And the jaw line, hard and protruding right up to our ears. If his hair wasn't so short and had less grey. "You're right," I finally agreed. I took another puff, this one going better, and passed it back to him.

"We could just tell everyone we had you when we were ten." Steve took the joint back, his eyes glassy, a perma-grin nudging at the ends of his lips.

170 I felt very uncomfortable. Like I was doing something wrong. Like I was taking part in something behind Maggie's back. "So you really don't want to be a grandfather even?" I asked.

"That's an awfully strange question. I'm not a father, so how could I even begin to wonder if I want to be a grandfather? It's incomprehensible to me." Steve kept smoking as he talked.

The marijuana was sweet and the smoke was dense and smooth and it didn't hurt at all going down which was rare for me.

"I like being an uncle and all, but whatever. Grandfather!? Man I'm only thirty-five. Plus,

I've got a real issue bringing children into the world. You spend some time in overpopulated parts of this planet; you go backpack through India; walk through the slums of Sao Paulo. What this planet doesn't need are more humans."

"We've got lots of space in Canada."

"That's naive Dave," he said and his posture changed. Hands on his knees, he leaned forward. "When you put the whole population of the world together, then we don't have space in

Canada. Take the quarter of a billion people who can't fit in China. Add that to half a billion from over-populated India, maybe a few million street kids from Mexico City and Canada doesn't look so empty anymore, does it?"

I accepted the joint. I was getting quite high and along with all of the good feelings—the slightly sleepy feeling, and the tingling at the extremities—there was also the slight feeling of panic lurking there. Paranoia. My heart rated increased. My hands shook ever so slightly.

"Canada's space is an illusion," he continued. "When the rest of the world succumbs to global warming, where is everyone going to go for natural resources? Where do you think we're

171 going to find enough water for everyone?" Steve was rambling, his voice lilting toward that recognisable pothead drawl: half sleepy with a slight lisp.

But what he was saying reminded me of something that we'd been discussing at a party one night. I was with Sarah and Paul at a house party at our friend Tim's place out in the NDG, on the western edge of the city. There'd been a heated debate. Sarah had started it before storming off because a Tim kept arguing that everything was natural: overpopulation, starvation, global warming. All natural. He called his pseudo-philosophy the "Evolution of Existence" and he basically argued that everything was of the earth and, therefore, by its very nature, not negative for the planet. I felt an overwhelming desire to tell this to Steve. "Yeah, but what about evolution?" I said.

"What?" Steve eyed me suspiciously. "What about evolution?"

"Aren't humans just evolving? Isn't all the damage we're doing to the earth just part of the evolutionary process? It's natural right? Evolution."

"That's fucked. There's nothing natural about technological evolution, about pillaging the earth and driving around in cars and flying in airplanes. Don't get caught up in this myth of progress. It's a twentieth century capitalist mythology designed to make you a consumerist machine. We should all be getting over that."

"But isn't evolution itself progress? Evolution is a growth in complexity, right?"

Steve nodded sceptically. His eyes were little scrutinizing strips, glaring red.

"Then how is technological evolution not natural? It's just a part of human intellectual evolution. We're just using what the earth has given us to this end. It's all natural."

"That's insane, Dave." Steve grinned smugly and butted the joint in the ashtray. "How did nature give us computers?"

172 "I don't know, but I assume that everything used to make a computer comes from this planet. Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't think hard drives were shipped in from a different solar system."

Steve glared at me, appalled. He had a twisted sneer on his face.

"Maybe we've just evolved beyond the earth. What's wrong with that? When kids evolve beyond the point of dependency on their parents they move out right? Well, maybe we've evolved beyond the dependency of the earth. The earth can't keep up. Maybe it's time we move on, find a place that can keep up." I barely had any idea what I was talking about, and knew that

I was also borrowing a lot from Diana too. I felt a little like a hypocrite, but I was enjoying the look of horror on Steve's face too much to stop.

"You're still so young, Dave. You better get out and see the world. 'Ideas' won't seem so important once you get out there and explore things. Maybe you could explain your theory to all the people living in cardboard shacks in Bangkok and make them feel better." Steve was actually angry. He'd turned a deeper shade of red and his eyes were darting about.

"You're right. I probably should. I just don't understand how the people who fight for the teaching of evolution in schools are usually the same people who are angry about the way humans have evolved."

Steve sat up in his stool. His jaw shifted behind his skin. I could see him grinding his teeth. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"What?"

"I mean here, in this apartment. Talking to me and Maggie? You're young, you're not an idiot. What are you doing here?"

173 She hadn't told him. Maggie hadn't told him anything about our meeting. I could tell that he didn't know about my parents. "I don't know," I said. "Something about your ad struck a chord for me. That's all."

"Well I'm glad to hear that it wasn't some kind of joke for you. But I hope you didn't invest too much into it. I'll be honest, I'm a little worried about my wife. I think this situation is a little delicate. Just be nice to her for now and this'll all blow over." Steve reached for his teacup and took a sip. He looked off into space, refusing to look me in the eyes. "There's more to it than you know," he said.

I suddenly felt sober, and I felt like I didn't want to be there. It struck me as odd that

Steve didn't seem to know Maggie very well at all.

174 23

Le Meilleur En Ville

Snow came late to Montreal. We'd had a few sporadic flurries in November, but it wasn't until

December that we really got hit hard. The first major snow storm started on a Friday morning when we were at work. It started coming down so hard that The Boss told us to call it a day.

I hadn't heard back from Maggie or Steve for a few days, I figured that was the end of it.

I wasn't sure how to feel about it either. I couldn't tell if the situation was stranger than I thought it would be, or way more normal. Either way, by that Friday after the meetings, I was tired of thinking about it.

Work had also become tedious. We'd just been informed that—for financial reasons— we'd be closing the doors for three full weeks over the holidays, but that the services would continue. This, of course, meant that not only did we have to finish all of December's messages, we would also have to prep January's too, so that we wouldn't be scrambling when we came back. We were all relieved for the day off.

"McKay, you busy? I've got a little surprise for lunch."

"New franchise in the food court?" I asked.

"Not quite." 175 We exited into the blizzard. Suits walked by with hands stuffed in pockets, necks crushed into their collars, piles of snow building up on their shoulders and heads; smokers huddled around each other in front of office towers: blue lips sucking in smoke from cigarettes held in dry, cracked hands, shielded from the weather.

"Don't worry." Sarah's voice was muffled under her scarf. "It's not far." She turned down a side street and then popped out at an intersection.

I saw where we are going before she even said anything. Just around the side of an old brick building above a door was a sign that said Benoit Chien Chaud 1967. The sign looked as authentic as possible; it was probably the same one that had been there in 1967. It was one of those Pepsi storefront signs, back lit (at one point) with the early 70s Pepsi symbol now fading.

As we neared it I could see that in smaller writing underneath it promised to be "Le Meilleur En

Ville." All of the letters were also fading and chipping away from the sign. I looked over at

Sarah as we crossed the street and even under her scarf and toque I could see that she'd broken into a massive grin.

"I have it on good authority that this is the shiftiest place to eat in downtown Montreal."

"Is that even French? Chien Chaud?" There was a small window next to the door with a handwritten sign in it, also fading, also looking like it had been written in 1967 announcing the house special: Chien chaud avec poutine. There was a price taped onto the sign over many other past prices.

It was your typical greasy-spoon diner on the inside and there was only one other patron: a skinny, old man who sat at the counter. Behind it, Benoit—I presumed—stood in dirty whites and an apron. They both turned and stared at us long and hard as we stripped down our layers and shook off the snow.

176 "Salut." Benoit said. He was large and flabby, with yellowish, thinning hair. He had a coating of off-white scruff on his face.

"Bonjour," I said as I approached the counter.

"English," he said quickly, his accent thick, but there was no judgment, just an observation.

"Two specials please," I said, glancing toward the sign in the window. "With Pepsis"

"Oui," he said turning to the grill behind him. I could hear the crackle of oil, the sizzling of the grill. We sat down at a booth against the far wall. The man at the counter couldn't help but stare at us. I looked over at him and he smiled a grey-toothed smile and nodded.

"How's married life?" Sarah asked.

I wondered how much I should divulge, since I wasn't exactly sure how things were going. "Well, it's neat living with your girlfriend." Since the birthday fight, our relationship had oddly reverted back to being an online one. Although things around the apartment had remained strained, we'd been able to have a few amicable conversations online. She'd sort of apologized for abandoning me, and I'd just let the iPhone thing slide.

" Neat?"

"Just having someone at home when you get there. Sharing a bed. You know."

"You're a changing man, McKay. Had the Dave I first met heard you say anything like that, he would've laughed in your face."

"Maybe I'm maturing," I said.

She snorted, but it wasn't venomous.

We sat in silence for a few minutes and she stared at me. I squirmed.

"There's something you aren't telling me," she said.

177 "Well, I guess things aren't perfect."

"Are they ever?"

"We've been fighting quite a bit. Not really fighting, more disagreeing and then avoiding fighting."

"That didn't take long."

"You know, my porn intake has actually increased since she moved in." It only sounded embarrassing after I said it. Since my birthday, Diana and I had only had sex once. It had been a few nights ago after we resumed our online communication, and it was as routine and functional as sex could be. Resorting to Internet porn was not actually as difficult as I thought it would be.

Just the day before, for example, I'd gotten home from work to find her on her laptop in the living room. I went into the office, turned on the computer, went to some video-dump site for porn and jerked off, all without Diana even realising I was home.

"That's a little too much info."

"Yeah, you're right. Sorry. But come on, you've never looked at Internet porn? Everyone looks at Internet porn."

She shook her head quickly but didn't look me in the eye and I thought she might have blushed. I'd never, ever, seen Sarah blush. "Okay, I don't make a habit of it or anything, but, you know, you gotta check shit out," she said.

"Really?" I was shocked. I had a hard time picturing women looking at porn on the Net.

"Whaddya mean 'Really', you just said that everyone looks at Internet porn."

"Yea but I was just trying to make myself feel better. I didn't actually think you did." I had a brief image of Sarah hunched over a computer.

"This conversation is done." She looked over at the cook, tapped her fingers.

178 "But, what do you look—"

"Don't push it, McKay." She glared at me.

"I've decided to go home for Christmas," I said after a few moments.

"What?"

"I was talking to my aunt the other day and she told me to come home."

"Fuck, Dave, that means you'll be leaving me alone for the holidays."

I thought she was joking, but she wasn't acting that way. Tapping her fingers with more vigour and looking over at the cook with even more impatience. "How long's it take to cook a fucking hot dog?"

Benoit was holding a big metal spatula and rolling our chien chaud around the grill. The other man noticed us watching and he smiled again and nodded.

"What do you care if I go home or not?"

"What the hell am I going to do? Everyone I know here isn't actually from here and they'll be heading home for the holidays too."

"Why don't you go home?"

"You know how much I make. Flying to Victoria is not the same as flying to Halifax."

I felt bad. Although we hadn't exactly spent Christmas Day together, we'd hung out a lot.

I'd never really thought about her not having anybody else.

"Deux Specials." Benoit slid the plates onto our table and pulled two cans of Pepsi out from the crook of his arm. The hotdog was long and thin and reddish and served on a stale white bun. There was a mound of steaming poutine next to it. The fries were so dark they were almost black and my first thought was that the grease in the fryers probably hadn't been changed since

1967.1 didn't look like the meilleur en any ville.

179 "Bon appetit," Sarah said. She picked up the hot dog and examined it.

I pushed the poutine around the plate. Poked a drizzling cheese curd with my fork and put

it in my mouth. It melted.

"Hey, what do you think of Jamie?" She took the first bite of her hot dog.

"Who the hell's Jamie?" I bit into mine too. It tasted like rebellion, like forbidden fruit.

My aunt would only allow tofu dogs in the house when I was growing up. The only time I got to

eat hot dogs was at friends' barbeques.

"Jamie. From marketing."

It took me a minute to understand that she was talking about work. "Are you talking

about Suit N Tie Guy?"

She nodded. I'd never heard Sarah refer to any of The Others by their real name.

"Since when did you start calling him 'Jamie'?"

"Since he started stalking me on BuddyBlogger."

"Really?" I had to put my hotdog down. "He's stalking you?"

"Yeah, why are you so surprised?"

"Aren't you breaking some kind of cosmic rule here? What happened to keeping a

respectful distance from The Others?" This constituted a dramatic shift in our approach to work,

and our level of interaction with The Others. We'd so carefully categorized everyone as their

most shallow caricature. Suit N Tie Guy (Jamie, apparently) had been pegged as a gutless, probably impotent family man with a dog named Spot, a white picket fence, two and a half kids

and a deeply unsatisfied wife who baked every day.

"It turns out he's single," she said.

This was too much. "So are you stalking him too?"

180 She couldn't look me in the eyes.

"God, Sarah, this goes against everything—"

"Oh come on, don't be so dramatic. He's just a guy."

I picked up my hot dog and crammed it into my mouth. The bread almost crumbled and when I bit into the meat something squirted into my mouth. It made me gag a little

He wasn't "just a guy", he was Suit N Tie Guy.

I could tell something wasn't quite right as soon as I walked up to the door of my apartment.

Briefly, I heard a little squeal through the door. I slipped the key into the door and opened it slowly, quietly. There was no one in the living room. I stood there, held my breath and slowly closed the door behind me. Then I heard a groan and Diana's breathing came fast and hard from the room. I heard a long prolonged moan.

"Oh god, baby, yes!" she squealed.

My heart raced. It was only 1:30, she wasn't expecting me home for another few hours.

Slowly, moving as silently as possible, I made my way down the hall toward the bedroom. I felt anger and rage coming over me. I tried to think about who it was but I couldn't concentrate over

Diana's groaning.

The door to our room was open only a crack. I crept up to it, wondering what I would do, how I would respond. I held my breath and then pushed the door open.

Everything froze in time for a snapshot, long enough for me to take it all in. Diana, alone, naked, propped up by a pile of pillows. Her legs were spread wide, bent at the knees, one hand working a long, pink vibrator while the other rubbed vigorously. Just in front of her, between her spread legs, was her laptop.

181 I froze in the doorway and her half-closed eyes sprung open. All motion ceased as she stared me straight in the eye. Then she screamed, threw aside the vibrator, snapped the laptop shut and pulled the sheets up over her body.

"What the hell are you doing home?"

"I, um. Uh." So, there was at least two women I knew who looked at Internet porn.

"Snow storm," I said.

"Why didn't you call or something?" She was flushed, and blushing now, and her face matched her hair.

I smiled, relieved. Took a few deep breaths. "Don't be embarrassed, Diana. We all look at a little porn now and again. Not like I thought you didn't masturbate."

She was about to say something, but stopped. "Right," she said. "You're right. Nothing to be embarrassed about." She smiled, held the sheet up tight to her chin.

As I stood there and watched her expression change—actually saw the relief spread across her face—I wondered if she'd been looking at porn at all, or if she'd been doing something else entirely.

182 24

I Am Dave McKay

gotta do sumtin bout ur stalker ratio 336-350 its •auaTorii 4:4 6pm minus

"^McDaveKay How do I make people stalk me? 4:4 6pm

make fake blog post bout sumtin important 4:47pm

—"McDaveKay You do that? 4:4 8pm

Ya?? Howd you get strangers stalkin ya **-Torn 4:4 8pm

I don't McDaveKay 4:4 8pm

How many facebook frnds? Dey all stalkin? Torii 4:4 9pm

I guess, close, maybe 3 90 or something. I don't McDaveKay 4:50pm think they've all made the transition yet.

Here, post dis blog -••i JTor i i 4:52pm h 11p : / / www, c on.cod 1. au/ c on cb I. og s /1. anrent i. a.n - mus c 1 e s

And do what?? "^McDaveKay 4 : 5 3pm 183 Preten its yurs. Mak suren tag it w 10 enviro tags 4JTorii 4:53pm

—-"McDaveKay I can't pretend it's mine! It's about a grad 4:5 3pm student who saved 50 endangered muscles from a damned river or something.. .

Its fine. N U need more FB frnds, deyll transfer u LjsliTorii 4:54pm to Buddy Blogger

— McDaveKay Do you do this all the time? What's your stalking 4:55pm ratio?

I +437. 1141-704 LwJTorii 4:56pm

—"McDaveKay What! How is that even possible? 4:56pm

Do wat i tell u i'iJTorii 4:56pm

"McDaveKay Are you in the livingroom? Can you come in here 4:5 9pm and help me with this.

Sry um in-world, busy just do it. tf?jTorii 4:5 9pm

^McDaveKay Ok I posted it. 5:0 0pm

H And JTorn 5:01pm

—McDaveKay And it's not going to happen that fast 5:03pm

Yup. Peple r suckers fer enviro-blogs. LsJTorii 5:03pm

. 10 more stalkers in the — McDaveKay Oh my god, you're right 5:05pm past five minutes!!

Post somein bout end a oil and yull get even more. .WTorii 184 5:05pm

— McDaveKay Should I bother with facebook? 5 : 06pm

Yup join random groups, find Dave McKays, gotta go L*JTorii 5:06pm

"McDaveKay I'm going to my Christmas party tonight, are you 5:07pm okay for dinner?

IB Meetin peeps inworld for dinner have fun mTorii 5 : 0 8pm

— McDaveKay What about real food???? 5:0 8pm

* 1Torii Purchase is no longer available for conversation.

I still had an hour to kill before I had to go to the party so I took Diana's advice and

logged on to Facebook and started joining random groups. I joined "Canadians To A Million"; "I

Love Xmas"; "I Love Christmas"; "Who Ate Chocolate Today? I Ate Chocolate Today"; and

finally, two separate "If (big number of) People Join This Group, (insert name here) will (insert

stupid act here)" groups. I quickly discovered that if a member of one of these groups had an

inordinate amount of friends, like maybe 600 plus, they were probably online social network

sluts, and it didn't take much to get them to friend me: "I see you like chocolate? That's a huge

coincidence, because so do I. Wanna be my friend" seemed to be enough. I was able to jump up to 399 friends just by doing this.

Then I typed my name into the Groups Search. There were a few hits. I scrolled the list:

"Let's Make Fun of Dave McKay" (featuring an unfortunate looking teen), "I love Dave

McKay" (Major League Baseball coach), and then finally, "I am Dave McKay". I clicked on it.

There were 7 other members, all named Dave or David McKay. I added them all.

185 I was about to exit the group when I noticed the related groups section. One of them was called "Don't Fall for Dave McKay". I opened it. There was a picture of me in the profile, and it was not a particularly flattering photo; cell phone quality and poorly lit. There was a distant look in my glassy eyes: I was smirking, a beer in one hand, my other hand palm out, in a "what me?" pose. I had no idea when the photo was taken, it could have been any number of Thursdays,

Fridays, or Saturday nights of my undergraduate life, at any number of bars.

Thankfully there were only nine members, and there hadn't been any activity on the group in more than a year. The two founding officers of the group were Sam Edwards and

Virginia Gilbert: the two roommates involved in the Great Pick-Up Debacle of Fourth Year. It took a moment, but I eventually recognized the other seven members of the group too. I scrolled down to read the posts, my hand shook, and then I quickly returned to my profile, deciding that it wasn't necessary to read any more.

I pushed the chair away from my desk and stared for a moment at the screen. It didn't matter, right? There hadn't been any activity in over a year. A year. Those girls had all graduated and moved on far away from here.

Then I noticed my news feed said that Dave McKay had become my 400th friend.

The Christmas party was being held in the office. The main part of the office was a large room divided into cubicles. These cubicles housed The Others: The French language creativity team

(French Dave and French Sarah) plus all of the marketing, accounting, tech support and dry-call teams. Half of the cubicles (accounting and marketing) had been moved aside and Le Valerie had decorated the office with a couple strips of garland, and some poinsettias. Le Valerie Quatre

(who might have been named Madeleine) was a nice enough lady with slightly buckteeth and

186 puffy, flowing strawberry-blond hair that was often pinned in odd angles on her head. All that hair made her head look really big.

When I walked in. she was tidying a table lined up against the wall filled with some

finger-foods, boxes of wine and a punch bowl large enough for Paula to bathe in.

None of the groups, I noticed, had intermingled yet.

French Dave and Sarah had immediately taken over the stereo and stood in front of it protectively, backs to us, thumbing an iPod. The Suit Crew stood by the small office Christmas tree. The three Phoners ("Call-Centre Team" is what The Boss called them) sat together

surrounding a case of beer and a pizza. As the largest single group (four), we had been given our own office and so didn't often have to mingle with the others. I'd never even done more than nod to the French Dave and Sarah, not sure if they could or—more importantly would—talk to me in

English.

I spooned out some punch and headed over to Paula and Sarah who were sitting alone in

a corner by a window. Paula looked a little stunned, Sarah looked bored out of her mind. Geoff didn't come because he said that "He didn't do parties."

"Another successful R-BAY staff party, I see. Where's The Boss?" I asked.

"Still in his office." Sarah said and downed her punch. I noticed she already had a few empties piled up under her chair: crushed paper cups dribbling juice.

"Paula, how're you doing?" I asked.

She took a tiny sip of her punch and forced a smile. She had a seemingly random breakdown at work yesterday, our final day before The Boss-imposed holiday hiatus. In a moment of raw openness she opened up to me and Sarah and told us that things weren't looking good in her relationship. Seemed that Darryl had developed a crush on a girl at work and

187 according to him they "Maybe, kinda-sorta, might have kissed a little bit." She'd gone on to explain that this had been her first real relationship, and that she'd assumed that this was the real deal. Then, between sobs, she divulged that she'd even had sex with him, as, she thought, a promissory act. It had been her first time.

"I'm switching to the wine." Sarah crushed her cup and tossed it under her chair.

I downed mine and asked Paula if she wanted another.

"Thanks Dave," she said, managing a small smile. "It's tasty."

"Maybe we should get her drunk." Sarah whispered as we headed across the room.

The wine was in a box. "Hey, I've got my stalking ratio balanced," I said.

"Good for you, I guess. I have no idea what mine is."

I looked at her as she filled her cup. Should I believe her? Did she really not know how many stalkers she had?

"What're you up to this weekend?" I was hoping she was going to say nothing, because

I'd been dying to get out of my apartment. Diana was always in MeWorld, especially since she'd put off her job search until the New Year, and things had been slightly awkward since the masturbation incident. On top of that, Paul had entered his annual semi-hibernation in which he worked, got high, went to the Indie cinema down on Park Ave., and slept. The weekend before,

I'd even gone to a matinee with him to see some documentary about a million Estonians singing, or something. Paul seemed to enjoy it much more than I did. Maybe you had to be high.

"Nothing," she said.

"The Fiery Furnaces are playing on Saturday." I ladled out some punch.

"Never heard of them." She filled her wine glass almost to the rim.

188 "Me neither, but a great name. The chick's hot too, she looks like Feist. They were on the cover of The Minute yesterday."

"Don't you have a plane to catch Sunday morning?"

I was flying back home at 8:00am. "It's only a 90 minute flight. I could do that with minimal sleep."

"Hey Sarah," someone said.

I turned around and saw that one of the Suit Crew had come over to us. Suit N Tie Guy was standing right next to us with an empty wine glass in his hand. Skirt Suit and New Suit were

still in their huddle by the tree.

"Jamie. Hey." As carefully as she possibly could, Sarah picked up her cup and brought it to her lips. She took a sip and some sloshed over onto her hands. "Um. I guess I filled it a bit much."

Suit N Tie Guy laughed, his tie wagging. He quickly grabbed a few napkins and handed them to her.

This interaction was all unprecedented. I looked around first to Paula and then to The

Others, but no one seemed to notice.

"Oh. Ha. Thanks." Sarah wiped the wine from her wrist.

Did she just blush? "So, I guess I'll run this over to Paula," I said, holding up her glass of punch.

Suit N Tie Guy nodded at me and smiled a big teeth-baring smile. The kind of smile that only obsessive nightly whitening-strip treatments could produce.

I walked back and handed the punch to Paula. "Thanks." She took a large drink. "It really is delicious."

189 I sat down next to her in silence. French Sarah and Dave had put on Malajube. New Suit went over and said something to them about it and now they were beginning to mingle. Sarah and Jamie were still talking over at the punch bowl.

"Can I tell you something?" Paula looked down at the cup in her lap as she said it.

"Of course." She'd already told me how many sexual partners she'd had, so what else could there possible be.

"I did something bad last weekend." She wouldn't look up. "Well, I should say I got caught doing something bad."

I could't even begin to imagine what she thought a "bad" thing to do was.

"You won't judge me will you?" She looked at me with eyes wide, looking too frightened to go on.

"I don't think I'm in any position to judge you," I said.

"But you could, you know. I feel like I'm a terrible person."

"Trust me, Paula, you're not a terrible person."

"Well, okay." She looked back down again and I noticed that the back of her neck was reddening the longer she waited. "I have this problem," she began, but had to take another drink before she could continue. "Well, it's not really a problem, it's more just this thing I do." The colour moved onto her cheeks in great red splotches. "I used to do to it when I was younger but I stopped and only started again last summer. Usually just when I'm stressed."

"Okay, Paula, honestly, I won't judge you."

"Well, sometimes I go to, like, well—I should just say it—I go to a graveyard and I bring flowers and everything, and sometimes I'll even dress, like, all in black and stuff." She took a

190 big breath. Even her scalp was getting red. "And then I'll pick a gravestone, none too old or anything, just a normal gravestone, and then I'll pretend I'm mourning the person." She paused.

"What?" I wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"Like, if I find a stone of an older woman who was born around the same time as my grandmother then I'll stand there and pretend it's my grandmother."

"I don't understand. Do people see you do this?"

"I usually choose places where there are lots of people, or maybe even a fresh casket being put into the ground or something." She took a drink. "So, yeah. People can see me."

"Well. That's not really so bad." It wasn't, was it?

"And sometimes I spend a lot of time there and then I start thinking about my real family, like my real grandmother, and then I really start to cry. And sometimes, when it's a man and I pretend I'm a widow, I even lie on the grave and hug the tombstone."

I shifted in my seat and looked around, wondering if other people should be hearing this or not,

"Once, another woman came and held me in her arms and we both cried. It turned out she was a real widow who was also there to see her husband's grave. I felt terrible." Her foot shook under her chair.

"You shouldn't feel terrible." I tried to think of a positive way to spin it. "You probably helped that woman. You shared her experience. She was probably feeling really alone when she saw you." I looked over and saw that Sarah and Suit N Tie Guy had sat down together. I couldn't believe Sarah was missing this.

"But it's not my emotion to feel." Paula finally looked at me. She looked confused.

191 "Honestly Paula, it's not so bad. Really. When I think of some of the shitty things people do in the world..." As I said it, I couldn't help but think of some of the shitty things I'd done.

"It's gotten worse lately. I think because of Darryl and his crush." She looked away again. "And then this weekend...." Her voice trailed.

"What?" I reached over and touched her back.

"Well, this weekend I went up to Mount Royal, you know that huge graveyard up there?

Well I had flowers and everything and I went up and found a grave of a woman who was my age. And it was so sad. We were exactly the same age. She would have been a few months older than me and she only died this summer. And I was thinking about this and started to cry because

I imagined some tragedy—a car accident, actually—and this made me feel even more terrible.

And then this guy shows up. He just pulls his car over and gets out. He's not so bad looking and he's like my age and whatever and he approaches me and asks if I'm okay. I say I'm here to visit my sister and then he gets this weird look on his face and starts staring at the grave and asks who

I am again and I tell him that this is my sister and I say that she died in a car accident this summer. Then he looks really angry and says I'm standing in front of his wife's grave and that she died from a ruptured aneurysm."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I was already crying, and I just started to panic. And the guy looked so confused and angry. So I dropped the flowers and ran and then I slipped on some ice and I fell right there and he started to come over to help me and then I crawled and got up and ran again."

"Jees Paula, that's not so bad." I wasn't actually convinced myself, but it looked like she felt bad enough that she didn't need any uncertainty. She leaned into me and rested her head on my shoulder. "I don't think it's as bad as you think," I said again.

192 "But that poor man. His wife."

"You didn't do anything to her. She's dead. Who the hell knows what that guy thinks?"

We sat there like that for a moment and she sniffled a few times, but seemed okay.

"What do you think of having some more punch?" She tilted her head and looked up at me, her blue eyes all wet and big.

I got up to refill our cups and tried to catch Sarah's eyes as I did it, but she was deep in conversation with Suit N Tie Guy. I couldn't even begin to imagine what they actually had in common. I went back to my seat and as I passed Paula her drink, The Boss and Le Valerie entered the room. The Boss was a large man, big boned. He looked like he might have one day been in shape like a high school linebacker or something, but now he was softening exponentially; bursting out around the waist. He was somewhere along the spectrum of middle- aged, with a sagging, reddish face. Mostly bald, he kept the remaining hair he had on the sides of his head long. He was the kind of man who looked like he should have been carrying a handkerchief around with him all the time, constantly wiping sweat from the top of his head. He wore old grey suits and stained ties.

"Welcome everyone! Thank you all for coming," he said, eyeing everyone in the room.

He had small eyes that had to do the job of conveying all his emotions because the thick flesh on his face didn't move very much. The Boss had been a used car salesmen and had done well for himself running a few used car lots in the west end before selling them off and coming into the

"information moving" business.

"As you all know, we asked for nominees for awards this year." He paused and eyed the room yet again. "There were some...interesting nominees."

193 I tried to make eye contact with Sarah but she still wouldn't look our way. It felt very

lonely with just Paula and me. Especially since Sarah and I had worked so hard on our

nominations together. Le Valerie had sent out the memo weeks ago, before all of the chaos. Our

nomination for Geoff was for "Best resemblance to fictional character: Jabba the Hut", although

he wouldn't be here to get it. Thankfully we actually put Paula's feelings ahead of our own

entertainment and switched "Most Likely to Die a Virgin" with "Most Likely to Become a Nun."

We also nominated French Sarah as "Most Likely To Be A Separatist", and it seemed

clear now why Sarah was so insistent upon nominating New Suit as "Most Likely to Show Up

With a Gun" as opposed to Suit N Tie Guy (my nominee). We didn't know enough about any of

The Phoners or Techies to even bother.

"Our first award...." The Boss pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pants pocket

eyed it with squinting eyes. "Most likely to have a bottle of rum stashed in his desk: Devin

Walker!"

New Suit stood and made his way to the front. He was blushing and had a "what me?" expression on his face, but his red nose and glassy eyes gave away the fact that the award might've been true. He shook hands with the boss and reached into the Santa sac for his gift.

None of our nominations actually made it, which wasn't surprising, and everyone else's were pretty straight forward. Sarah won "Dirty Hippy in Disguise", Paula, "The Prettiest Girl

Who Doesn't Even Know It". She accepted her prize, hand to her mouth, blushing uncontrollably, on the verge of tears, and when she came back to her chair she was smiling for the first time all evening. Even though not as interesting as ours, a few of the nominations were actually funny: Suit N Tie Guy won "Most Likely to Sleep With His Secretary if He Actually

Had One".

194 "Most athletic." The Boss paused for effect, "Dave Mckay!"

Light applause. Most athletic? Was that the best anyone could do? Didn't Sarah get

something in for me? I grabbed something CD-like from the bag and sat back down. How did I

get the most boring nomination?

"That was really nice," Paula whispered into my ear. She'd already opened her Tim

Hortons gift card. I fondled mine.

"I want to thank you all for a wonderful year at Right Back At Ya! We're facing some changes and some challenges, but we'll come back in the New Year stronger than ever." The

Boss waved and headed back to his office. Le Valerie followed.

I pulled the wrapping paper off of the CD. The cover had a photo of a man with long, wavy hair wearing a long black trench coat over leather pants. He didn't have a shirt on and his

sculpted stomach was exposed. His head was tilted forward, his eyes slightly squinted, lips puckered. His name was written in messy, cursive sprawl above his head: Jacques

"What is this? Like Weird A1 doing a Quebecois parody?" Sarah asked.

I looked up to see that Sarah had returned. She'd got a Bon Cop Bad Cop III DVD. Suit

N Tie Guy stood behind her with a new vinyl day planner.

"You guys know Jamie, right?" she asked.

"He's real. I see his billboard in the metro sometimes," Paula said. "Jacques, I mean. Hi

Jamie."

"Really? In the subway?"

"Hey Dave." Jamie reached forward with his hand. "Sarah and I were just talking about how foolish it is that we all don't mix more, eh?"

I accepted his handshake. I had a hard time seeing Sarah say anything like that.

195 "You couldn't have nominated me for anything better than 'Most Athletic'?" I asked.

"It's so boring."

"Sorry, I didn't even think of you. Wasn't me," she said.

"Wanna trade?" I asked, eyeing her DVD.

"Uhhh, nope. Thanks. I am though, going to see what the others have on offer. I think I

can do better than this." She flapped the movie around.

I turned to Paula as they walked away, "So what do you think of that guy anyway, he

seems a little—" and then I noticed that she'd begun crying again. "Are you okay?"

"Do you think this is true? My award I mean?"

"What? That you're pretty?"

She nodded.

"Of course, you really don't know that?"

"I never thought about it before, I guess. That's really nice of everyone. I think I should have some more punch to celebrate."

"That's a fine idea," But as I got up to fill the cups, I looked around the room and I wasn't so sure that it was; the natural balance of things seemed off and I found myself almost wishing that Geoff was there, simply for the numbers. I looked over toward The Others. Sarah wasn't there. I didn't see Suit N Tie Guy either. I poured the punch and hurried back. I didn't want to be there anymore.

"Sorry Paula, but I'm gonna take off." I downed mine and passed her the other cup. "You should be mingling with everyone, anyway. Having fun. It's Christmas!"

She looked up at me with those big eyes which had become bloodshot now and she looked sad again. "Really?" she said quietly.

196 "Yeah sorry. Have a great holiday. Message me if you need to talk."

"Bye, Dave," she said and waved at me with slow, deliberate rotations of her wrist.

I wouldn't have seen anything if I hadn't slowed down just slightly outside of our office.

Had I not slowed slightly, patting down my pockets to make sure that I had everything , I wouldn't have heard anything either. But I did slow. And I heard, first the sound of papers slipping off a desk and fluttering to the ground, then a giggle, a shifting of bodies, adjusting. I slipped up to the door. It was slightly ajar. I gave it the slightest push, just enough to peek inside the darkening room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but then two bodies came into focus. A woman sat on the desk, a man stood in front of her; it took another two seconds for me to realize that it was Sarah and Suit N Tie Guy. I backed away from the door, tried my best to shake the image and made my way down the hall toward the elevators.

I reached forward and pressed the down button. Nothing happened and I pressed it with a little more desperation. Finally, the door opened and I stepped on. I pressed the close button almost as frantically, but again, it didn't seem to help. I stood there in the elevator for what seemed like too long a time looking out at the empty hall.

197 25

'Tis the Season

sorry From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

Sorry that I haven't written you in a bit. Things have been hectic, Steve's been going through a rough time, his sister is sick and of course I've been busy finishing off the term at school.

Anyway, it was nice getting to know you, Dave, really Thanks for playing along with this silly game.

Have a great Christmas!

Maggie.

Where are you? --McDaveKay 7 :46pm

@ Helens t *JTorii 7 :46pm You gonna be home soon? —"'McDaveKay 7 :47pm

Busy, new continent opening in meworld j.. JTorii

198 7 : 4 8pm

McDaveKay A new continent??? 7 :4 8pm

Bigevent u can mak landclaims if yer first 200 * iTorii visitors 7:4 9pm

—'McDaveKay Did you forget?? 7:50pm

— McDaveKay Hello??? 7 : 52pm

Sry tryin 2 find teleport cordinats, forget what - iorii 7 : 53pm

I'm flying out tomorrow!! — McDaveKay 7 :53pm

2mrow! Sry, forgot © L.*iJTorii 7 :54pm

—McDaveKay When are you coming home? 7:54pm

Dono wont be to late L t^Tor i i 7 : 55pm

Sry .aaTorn 7 : 55pm

McDaveKay is no longer available for conversation.

Fagundawhat Works slow dood watsup? 7:58pm

^McDaveKay Got an email from Maggie 8:0 0pm

199 if*5 Fagundawhat Who 8:0 Opm

--McDaveKay Ourchild, the couple. 8:01pm

'Sfi* Fagundawhat Shit! Right dood! what she say? 8:01pm I don't know, not much. Sounded pretty final. -^McDaveKay 8:02pm

^ Fagundawhat Shitty 8:02pm

Maybe, who knows? It was weird. — McDaveKay 8:03pm

^ Fagundawhat But whatever man yer totally gonna have a good 8:03pm time with back home

I guess so. I don't know what to expect. McDaveKay 8:04pm

Fagundawhat These are strange times dood 8 : 04m

You too? McDaveKay 8:05pm

^ Fagundawhat Sure man, why not me? 8:05pm

You'll have a good Christmas too. But you coming "—-"McDaveKay 8:05pm back for New year's?

^ Fagundawhat Yay man, Tim's party!!! \m/ 8:06pm

I'll be back too, we'll have a good time —'McDaveKay 8:06pm

^ Fagundawhat U with Di tonite? 8:07pm

200 McDaveKay Nope 8:07pm

^ Fagundawhat Where she at? 8:08pm

— McDaveKay Dunno 8:08pm

^ Fagundawhat Things cool? 8:0 8pm

—'McDaveKay Dunno 8:0 8pm

Fagundawhat Shitty man, shitty 8:0 9pm

^McDaveKay Tis the season. 8 : 0 9pm

Fagundawhat Indeed. 8 :10pm

201 26

Home for the Holidays

It was one of those mornings after a deep, deep sleep when you wake up and it takes a moment just to remember where you are. I stared straight up at the ceiling as my eyes adjusted. It took me

a moment, but eventually I made out small shapes on the ceiling. They were yellowish, almost

green with pointed sides and eventually the stars come into focus. Glow-in-the-dark stars. I felt eyes staring at me and turned my head to my left. There was a bench lined against the wall covered in stuffed animals. Winnie the Pooh, in particular, stared straight at me.

And then I heard the sounds downstairs, my aunt's out-of-tune voice singing a jazzy tune by Jill Barber, a singer from Halifax who my aunt had been following for ages. The cackle of a baby. Motion. I was in Lisa's room. Or what would become Lisa's room when my aunt and

Mark took the crib out of their bedroom. I'd been sleeping on an airbed blown up where her crib would eventually go.

I sat up and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. It had taken just about a week, but I'd finally had a good night's sleep. I hadn't been able to sleep and I didn't know what it was: the strangeness of being in the house with my aunt and her family (the whole first night I was there I couldn't help but sulk around the beautiful home they'd created, longing for the familiarity of the

202 apartment my aunt and I had spent ten years in together), or just the silence. A silence that you couldn't find in the city no matter how hard you tried; it was a silence without effort. I was in

Kentville, a busy little town, so it wasn't like I was out in the country or anything, but even then, it didn't matter, after about ten o'clock there was this silence. It had been too much at first. The first night I just lay there on the airbed and stared up at the softly glowing stars, impressed by how Mark had created recognizable constellations: the big and little dippers, Orion, the one of a

Queen in her throne that looked like a W. My ears rang. They blared with the silence. It had been like that for the first few nights.

I pushed myself out of the makeshift bed and slipped on a pair of jeans. I pulled a shirt over my head and stiffly made my way to the bathroom. My appreciation of the house grew every day. Lots of earthy colours, hardwood floors. There were things I remembered from our apartment growing up: photos, a cabinet in the living room, the large painting above the bed in

Mark and my aunt's room that had been painted by some hermit who lived for years in the woods at the base of the South Mountain. It was great how quickly they'd turned this place into their own. They'd started looking as soon as they found out they were pregnant and bought quickly, but even when Lisa had been born last summer, the renovations weren't finished.

As I pissed, my head became clearer, as if all that liquid had been mucking things up. It was Christmas Eve, and I still hadn't finished my shopping. I went out other day with my aunt and picked up little things for Mark and Lisa, but I hadn't had a chance to get anything for her. I had no idea what to get, and when I'd asked Mark he just smiled and said, "Oh you know, any old thing'll do. She's not picky," which was actually slightly less helpful than saying, "I don't have a clue".

203 Downstairs, Lisa was lying stomach-down on a thick blanket on the floor in the living room. She gurgled and stared wide eyed at a few rubber toys. Mark and my aunt were staring at something on the center of the dining room table. My aunt noticed me standing behind them.

"Hey there, we were starting to think you'd sleep right through to Christmas morning." She walked over and threw her arm around my shoulders. In my mind my aunt was still taller than me, even though she clearly wasn't. I'd had a few inches on her since high school. But she always seemed taller and maybe it was a dancer thing: those ropey limbs, that freaky posture.

Even though she wasn't the taut dancing machine that she'd been when I was a kid, she was definitely in shape.

I glanced over at what they were staring at. It was a big beigeish blob; a squishy something-or-other that looked like it had been recently squeezed out of a large tube.

"What's that?"

"That," Mark said, "is our tofurkey."

My aunt snorted. "Something so hideous couldn't possibly taste bad, right?" she asked.

This was their concession for me; their vegan attempt at a normal Christmas dinner and they closest they ever came to eating meat. My aunt said they usually just made vegan food, but this year, my being home and the fact that this was Lisa's first Christmas, inspired them to make an attempt at traditional.

Mark reached forward and poked it. It shuddered. "Apparently there's even stuffing in there somewhere." Mark had spent the whole week trying to perfect his vegetable gravy. He seemed even more excited this morning, and for the first time I noticed that he looked young for his age, perhaps in part because he kept his hair so long. It was tied back in a ponytail. It could have also been because he was wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts and I could see how thin he

204 was—thinner than I remember—but he was a health freak like my aunt, and did yoga every day.

Or maybe it was pilates. So maybe he was just in great shape.

Mark still had a few days of classes when I'd arrived. He looked older dressed in his

teacher's clothes, and maybe now that he was on vacation he was just acting younger.

"I'm sure it'll be great." I reached forward to touch it myself, but decided to wait until it

was on my plate before I did anything so rash.

"I'm going to try it out, too, Dave, so if it isn't great we'll all be suffering together." He

stood there and stared at me with his hands on his hips and a big smile on his face. At that

moment he looked like The Nicest Guy in the World, and I felt like I shouldn't like him, like if

I'd met him in Montreal I wouldn't have liked him. He had that kind of earnestness about him

that we would make fun of. Or that Sarah would make fun of, anyway, but I'd laugh along too. I

felt like if he lived in a city he would be more like Maggie's Steve: opinionated, idealistic, preachy, but here in small-town Nova Scotia, Mark could just be who he was and it was fine. He

fulfilled a role that was his and his alone to fill.

"Actually, Dave, have a seat, I made this eggless quiche for breakfast and it turned out

great." He spun around and headed toward the kitchen.

Eggless quiche? Wasn't quiche...eggs? I really didn't mind vegetarian food at all, but I liked to accompany it with meat. I'd already snuck out once for a burger.

Lisa gurgled and my aunt dropped down on the floor beside her. She spoke in baby talk, poking the baby's cheeks gently, cooing when Lisa cackled or smiled and then poking some other fleshy part of her. I'd been trying to see either Mark or my aunt in Lisa but I couldn't. She just looked like a baby.

205 What I did notice was my aunt's aging. For so long she'd looked twenty-two to me, but signs were popping up: the few greys in her brown hair, a new line or two around her eyes and mouth, a certain veiny-thinness to her hands. Despite these changes, she still looked younger than she actually was, like Mark. And it hit me, for the first time, that she was the same age as

Maggie. I hadn't mentioned anything about it and it seemed embarrassing to me now.

"Do you mind if I take the car out to the mall to pick up a few things?"

"Sure," she said, but barely looked up from the baby. It was still odd to see her as a mom; she even looked surprised about it all half the time. "But you know it's going to be crazy there, right? Last minute shoppers."

"Hey Dave," Mark yelled from the kitchen. "I keep forgetting to mention that Mrs.

Mattson retired this semester." He walked out with a plate of food. "You know she always asked about you."

It took me a moment, but then I remembered my guidance counsellor. I tried to picture her, what she must've looked like after all these years, but I could only picture her from when I was twelve. That was the biggest thing I'd noticed since I'd been back: everything was older. I couldn't picture life going on in Kentville without me. But it did. Kentville had forgotten me long ago.

"You spent so much time with her for a few years there." My aunt leaned forward and touched her nose to Lisa's cheek. The baby waved her arms and spun phlegm around in her throat.

"I bet that makes you feel old, your teachers retiring." Mark slid the plate in front of me.

It sort of looked like quiche, but the base was so much whiter than it should have been, and it

206 looked dirty, like dirty white rubber. So far this whole week had been an exploration in vegan

eating. I'd stopped asking what things were supposed to represent.

"Thanks, Mark," I said, and poked it with my fork. It shuddered very much like the

tofurkey. I took a bite, and was surprised that it wasn't terrible. I ate in silence unable to stop

seeing Mrs. Mattson cross and uncross her legs, dangle her shoes off of her foot, and balance

them with the tips of her toes.

I didn't drive in Montreal. It seemed like it would have been more of a burden in the city than

anything. City driving seemed like a torturous and brutal thing to do to yourself. Like

commuting, for example.

Driving through my small hometown, on the other hand, was almost relaxing. I took a

travel mug full of coffee and pictured a long, slow nostalgic drive on the way out to the mall. But

I'd forgotten how small Kentville was, or my sense of scale was all thrown off by being in the

city, and I was downtown and through the core before I'd even remembered to take a sip of my

coffee. What I noticed was how dry everything was. There wasn't any snow down, and hadn't

been yet this season. And how grey. Everything was dead and grey.

Just on the border of the town I hit the traffic. I was technically entering the village of

New Minas, which we used to call New Mindless growing up, and which had grown into the

shopping district of the region. It was your typical strip of box stores, gas stations and fast food joints. Anywhere, North America.

It had always been like that, but one of the old malls that had had a Towers Department

Store in it had been torn down and replaced by a row of gleaming American box stores, and that

207 seemed worse to me. I gazed over the shiny sea of cars in the parking lot of Wal Mart. I noticed that a grocery store had been torn down and replaced by a ten screen mega cinema.

When I finally got to the mall, I parked as close as possible and wrapped my arms around myself to make the trek to the entrance. I burst through the doors and into the dry, sweaty warmth of it. It too had changed, but only in the same way that every over mall in North America had changed. There was some comfort in this. Every person, I thought, who had grown up as a teen in any town, suburb or city felt a certain nostalgia for a particular mall. The fact that every other mall looked the same as the next meant that malls were safe places for everyone. But there was just something about the particular mall that you came of age in; it was a safety thing. This was probably the closest we'd ever come to being back in our mother's wombs.

"Dave?"

I heard my name and slowed down. My name was Dave though, and the mall was packed. I tried to glance at the faces coming toward me, those stopped around me, see if some other Dave had already responded.

"Dave?"

I felt the hand on my arm and turned around. Carey Griffin. "Hey." I wasn't really expecting to be recognized.

She stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, smiling widely. "Well geez, you gonna give me a hug or what?"

"Ha. Sorry." We hugged in the centre of the mall as swarms of people bowed out around us.

208 "So what's up? How're you?" Carey was the first girl I'd ever had a casual enough relationship with. Whenever she was single, she also seemed to find me. It had seemed very

adult to me at the time.

"Great. Good. Nothing." I said.

"You didn't actually move back here, did you?" She was wearing nicer jeans and had bangs, but the essence of who she'd been remained. She always seemed to be tapped into

something beyond our adolescent world. More mature, or at least more ready to be an adult than

anyone else.

I shook my head. "Still in Montreal. Just home for Christmas. You look great."

"Aww, thanks." She put her hand to her face in mock embarrassment.

"You still in Halifax?" I asked. I caught her updates on Buddy Blogger every once in

awhile. I knew that she'd finished her engineering degree at Dalhousie, but I couldn't recall what it was that she did for a living.

"Yup, still there, just home for Christmas, too." She'd always been the type of person who could look you straight in the eye without making you feel awkward. Like it didn't matter.

Whatever it happened to be. "Actually, I ran into your aunt last week, in town. I saw Lisa, what a cutey."

"Yeah, she is. It's weird."

"I know, right? Growing up I always just thought of your aunt as being, like, my parent's age." She paused and remembered something. "I totally called Lisa your sister, like, by mistake.

Is that cool? What're you, like Uncle Dave, or what?"

"I don't know. Just cousin I guess."

209 "Hey, some of us are getting together at the Stone Room for Christmas Eve drinks, a bunch of us, like Marty and James and Cindy. Did you read about it on BuddyBlogger? I'm pretty sure someone made an event on Facebook, too."

"My aunt doesn't have the Internet in her home. I'm cut off."

"Well, you should totally come. It's gonna be like a mini-high-school reunion."

"Thanks. That'll be cool."

She reached forward and grabbed my hands. "Nice to see you again," she said and hugged me again.

It really would've been nice to see everyone, but it would've been especially nice to see

Carey again. Carey and I had been just as physically compatible as Diana and I were, from the moment we first did it in the back of her car outside of a school dance in the tenth grade to the last time, in a field outside of Simon Bishop's cottage on Prom night. Maybe that was a lesson I should have taken with me into adulthood: Carey and I never actually ruined our chemistry by dating.

On the way home I took a spin through town again, over toward the arena in the west end to see my aunt's studio. I slowed down almost to a stop as I passed in front of it. She'd moved from the back room in the second floor to the whole ground level. The name of the studio, The Cornwallis

Dance Studio—for the river that cuts through the town—had replaced her more personal one,

Kaitlin's Dance Instruction, which she'd used right from the time that she began to give one-on- one lessons in the living room of our apartment. She'd gotten to the point where her studio could run without her, and she'd been off since Lisa was born, letting the two other teachers run things

210 for awhile. Giving her, essentially, the first break she'd ever had. When she and Mark had

married, they hadn't even taken a honeymoon; they'd just driven to a B&B for the weekend.

I pulled away and drove back over the river toward the north end. When I turned into the

driveway I looked up at the house. It was a deep blue, two story mid-century wood-sided home, the kind of house that was a dime a dozen in this town and every other town like it on the east coast, but would cost a small fortune in Montreal. There were white Christmas lights up in the bay window at the front of the house. They made a faint glow in the overcast greyness of the

afternoon. I walked into the house and there was music playing again. It was folky, an older Jill

Barber disc.

Mark and my aunt didn't hear me come in and when I entered the kitchen I saw them standing over something on the counter. Lisa was sitting in a high chair slapping at some plushy toys. It took me a moment to see that they were looking at the liner notes of the CD and reading the lyrics of the song together. Mark touched her elbow, and she bumped him a bit with her hips

as they mouthed the lyrics. He was always touching her, sometimes it was just a finger-on-ear thing, or a hand on the small of her back, but it always happened. There was a zen-like calmness to him and everything he did, and it crossed over into their relationship. My aunt seemed happier now than she ever had in her life.

"Oh, hey, Dave. Sorry, we didn't even hear you come in. Damn." My aunt kept glancing away from me and into the dining room. They both looked a little flustered, and embarrassed even, like I'd caught them at something.

"Hey, what's up? I've seen people singing before."

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter, now. Come on." Mark motioned for me to follow him.

211 The lights had been dimmed in the dining room and the table had been set. In the middle was a cake. It was lined with candles and in the middle it said "Happy Birthday Dave" in nicely written frosting scrawl.

"I know it's like five weeks late, but we figured since we haven't actually seen you on your birthday in years..."

"No way."

Mark rushed back into the kitchen to get his camera.

"Is it okay? Too corny? You don't mind, right?" She gave me a hug.

"Thanks," I said. "It's perfect."

"Hey, we're just glad you're here. You know we love you." She pulled away and reached up and mussed up my hair. She did it as though it was something that she'd always done, but she probably hadn't done it in about ten years.

"Stand so I can see the cake." Mark had his big Nikon poised in front of his face. He lined up the shot in front of us.

I thought about Carey and the crew at the bar, but decided that I just wanted to stay in for

Christmas Eve, hang out with my family, have a few glasses of wine, get to bed quickly so that we could get up early and give Lisa a great first Christmas. Then I realized that there wasn't any way for me to get in touch with Carey. But it didn't really matter anyway; I could just message her later.

212 27

New Year, New Beginning

There was a certain feeling of expectation in the air, even the passengers on the Airporter were friendlier, more willing to engage in conversation. Montreal's layer of snow remained, even on the edges of the concrete freeways that crisscrossed one another when you drove into the western part of the city. It was cold enough that all that concrete looked white and brittle. But still people's spirits were high. Turns out, New Year's Eve was a pretty good day to travel.

On the ride from Pearson Airport, I sat next to a librarian from New Brunswick who worked at McGill's music library and who'd just flown back on the same flight I had. She told me that she couldn't wait to see her boyfriend. I'd said, "Yeah, yeah; I know what you mean," but I could tell by the way she looked at me, that I wasn't convincing.

It wasn't that I didn't want to see Diana, just that I wasn't sure what I was expecting.

We'd spoken only once the whole time I'd been away, a strained phone call on Christmas Day.

I'd tried calling her a few other times, but she was never available, or never answered her phone.

She wasn't much for talking on the phone anyway and since my aunt didn't have Internet, it had proved impossible to stay in touch.

I'd returned with a commitment to do my best, armed with the example provided to me by my aunt and Mark. She'd reminded me on a few occasions that relationships took effort and 213 compromise. She'd said also reminded me that Diana and I had just taken a big step in our relationship, and that we were bound to find it at least somewhat challenging. So I'd come back to Montreal ready to give it another go.

It was early evening by the time I got back to the apartment, and right from the moment I walked in the door something felt wrong. No one was home, which could have accounted for some of it, but something seemed off. I walked into my bedroom and dropped off my suitcase, left it right in the centre of the room and glanced around. A lot of Diana's stuff was missing. Not that she ever left anything lying around, but there were some little things like the clock on the table next to her side of the bed, and her box of makeup that sat on the dresser. The neat row of shoes she kept lined next to the closet. I came out of the room and headed straight for the office.

Her bike was still there taking up too much space in the hallway.

I turned on my cellphone as I waited for the computer. There were a few calls from Sarah

(from that morning) and another from Paul, just a few hours before.

My BuddyBlogger homepage popped up. There was a lot of activity. I checked my notifications and saw that a lot of my stalkers were online and commenting. In the Blogger Word

Cloud I noticed my name was the largest. I clicked on it.

lorn"! breakup Breakup surprised I

broke J h I 1 • shocked Believe flwgMbrea k " surprise rmnmrn b^ Diana

214 I opened my Stalker File and read the first line of the Buddy Feeder.

Torii Purchase is excited about finding herself again just in

time for the New Year

I didn't bother reading the post. My hand shook just slightly as I gripped the mouse. My heart beat a little faster. Despite the cold in the room, I could feel a little bit of sweat forming at my temples. I clicked on Diana's profile and scrolled through the cluttered comments board.

Susan Jamison commented on Torii Purchase's POST.

Rachel Connor commented on Torii Purchase's POST.

Blake Jones, Doodle Mcdoober, and Christine Dell commented on

Torii Purchase's POST.

There was a little broken heart in her Blogger File; that cute little cartoony heart with a big tear

down the middle like a cheesy little icon kids used to draw on their binders when their junior high crushes refused to hold their hands. Under her newsNnotes it said: Recently Single.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I sat back and wiped some sweat from my eyebrows.

I hunched over and continued to scroll down her page. Her page was an intricate system of links and labyrinths and movie taste comparisons and word games and Zombie fights and numerous

SIM games. There was a direct link to MeWorld on the page too, complete with that cartoony image of Torii looking all coy. It was like an endless wasteland of cyber detritus. As I took it all in, I couldn't help but glance at her Stalk List. There were now 1152 people stalking her and she was stalking 707. Her ratio was only getting better, and I had to wonder how breaking up with her boyfriend online was going to increase that.

I slumped back in my chair. Diana had broken up with me. I felt like I should've been feeling something more than just emptiness and anger at being the 1153rd person to know about

215 it, but I couldn't at that moment. And that was only Buddy Blogger. What about all the avatars in

MeWorld? Did she still update her Facebook page?

I had become a victim of the twenty-first century version of the twentieth-century

schoolyard break-up note.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said again

This was the first time I'd ever been dumped (one of the bonuses of not having relationships). I had no idea what—if any—the rules of being dumped were. It was New Year's,

was I still allowed to go out? Did I even want to?

I sat for a long time. The screensaver kicked on. It was just a 3-D text that said, "This is

all you have for a screensaver????", and I could't remember whether it was I or Diana who wrote that. The words spun on the screen.

Paul burst into the apartment about an hour later. I was sitting on the couch watching The

Simpsons, which felt like the right thing to do in most situations. It was so familiar, so utterly unsurprising and comfortable that it was just like a soother to a baby.

Paul stood in the living with a look of such affected sympathy on his face that I almost laughed. He began to shake his head and walk toward the couch.

"Do we need to hug?" he asked

I stared up at him. "No."

"Come on, man, don't be embarrassed about your emotions."

"Paul, seriously."

He plopped down on the couch beside me, reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

216 "Fine, Paul. Tired." I didn't mean to sound so annoyed.

"Good flight?"

I didn't respond, just watched as the camera pulled into the classroom. Bart was writing

on the chalkboard. "It's Facebook, not Assbook" he had written it over and over again. Then he

grabbed his skateboard and leapt from the school. It was a repeat.

It was amazing to me to think that when The Simpsons was created no one could have

even imagined online social networks.

"You know, I never liked her feet."

"Really?" I looked over at him. He'd never mentioned this before.

"Yeah. Horrible feet."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I dunno. She's your chick, dude. I didn't want to go there."

"So what's wrong with her feet?"

"Man, where do I start?" He thought about it. "I mean, her toes, right, they're the worst.

She's got those double joints. And that weird space between her big toe and her second toe,

which is longer, by the way." He looked at me and nodded as though he'd told me all I needed

to know. Paul's obsession with feet was something that he took very seriously.

"So what's it all mean?" I asked.

"Well. The double joints generally mean that she's either clingy or anal, but we can go

with anal in this situation because of the gap between her big toe and the other toes."

"Sorry?" Not only was Paul known to be able to discern a woman's approximate age,

height and fitness by only seeing her feet, he was also able to provide a fairly accurate psychological analysis too.

217 "The gap. It means she's always scrunching her toes, even in her shoes when the big toe

can't move." He registered the blank look on my face. "It's her way of grinding her teeth, only

she doesn't like to be seen doing it."

"I don't understand why the double joints mean she's anal?" I didn't know why I was

even going with this. Perhaps because I'd never really humoured Paul about his foot thing

before.

"It's a control thing. Taking a hold of life." He was completely serious. "And I notice she

paints her toenails orange."

"What does that say about her?"

"Well, nothing. But it's hideous. It takes a special set of toes to pull off orange nail polish. If you don't have those toes then it's just like turning your toenails into little glowing orbs

at the end of a tentacle. It's like asking people to notice your ugly feet."

"That's fascinating, Paul." I sat back and stared at the screen. I just wanted to watch The

Simpsons and think about nothing for twenty-two minutes.

We watched in silence until the next commercial. I honestly couldn't remember a time before the show; I think I was four when it debuted. And the characters never aged. Like entering a world that never changed, or had a reset button at the end of every day.

"Paul," I shifted in my seat, "when you check out girls, like in the summer or whatever, what's the first thing you look at?"

"The feet." He didn't even hesitate.

"So you check women out from the feet up to their face last?"

"Sure," he shrugged and the look on his face implied that he thought this was a very dumb question.

218 "That's so weird."

He looked offended. "You're weird," he shot back.

"No, I'm not. I'm like most guys."

"So, to me, you're weird."

"Yeah but if someone does something that everyone else does, that person is normal. If

someone does something that is different than what everyone else does, it's weird."

"Maybe I should break up with you, too," he said, folding his arms across his chest. Then he dropped his arms and grinned. "Wait. Too soon?"

I couldn't help but smile.

"So, Dave, are we going to this party, or what?"

"Celebrate a new year," I said.

"New beginning, dude," he said.

By the time we bought some beer, grabbed some dinner, and hopped on the subway to head to

Tim's in the west end, the streets were starting to fill. Despite the cold, there was no shortage of women in skirts and heels stumbling about the streets, grasping the arms of men who wore tight, short-sleeved shirts.

Tim's place was already packed when we arrived. Paul and I had lived with Tim in residence. He'd been in this house for a few years now since his parents had helped him buy it. It had been our go-to place for parties since third year.

I had no idea who knew about Diana and me, and I wasn't sure if I should have been felling embarrassed or not. I was new to the being dumped thing.

Tim rushed toward us as soon as we entered.

219 "Emergency!" he yelled, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from Paul who waved

as Tim dragged me into the house and then up a flight of stairs.

"Nice to see you too," I said.

He stopped at the top of the stairs. "Right, sorry, happy holidays and all that. Where's

Diana?" There was a look of distracted annoyance on his face.

"Yeah, about that, she—"

He wasn't interested in letting me finish. "So, I told Sarah that she could bring anyone

along, but I didn't realize that she was going to bring along a basket case."

"Tim, I've been back in Montreal for about four hours. I have no idea what you're talking about."

He took a quick, dramatic breath and pointed toward a room at the far corner of the landing, then turned and walked back down the stairs.

I knocked gently on the door, then turned the handle and pushed it open. The first person

I saw was Suit N Tie Guy. He sat in a chair in the corner of the room, his hands dangled lifelessly between his legs. He was gazing distractedly over toward the bed at Sarah and Paula.

Paula?!

I pushed open the door and walked in, closing it behind me. The sounds of the party were muted. There was a slight hum to the floor under my feet.

Paula was bent over on the bed sobbing wildly into a piece of paper towel. There was an empty box of Kleenex next to her and soggy used tissues all over the bed. There was a half- empty bottle of lemon gin in amongst the mess. Sarah sat right next to her rubbing small circles on her back. She leaned into her and their faces almost touched. Sarah was whispering something. She nodded at me. Suit N Tie Guy could only smile sheepishly; he looked

220 uncomfortable and out of place. He was wearing a sweater and khakis. This was the first time I'd

seen him in something other than a suit and it looked wrong.

"What's up?"

"My boy...(sob)...my...(sniffle)...boyfriend...(hyperventilation)...he, he...(sob)."

"Darryl left her this weekend," Sarah finished for her.

"What?" I couldn't believe my luck. I didn't even have to bring up the fact that Diana had broken up with me. Actually, it would probably have been rude to bring it up, like I was trying to

steal Paula's sympathy. "Paula, I'm so sorry." I walked over to the other side of her and sat down on the bed. I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "What a jerk. He obviously doesn't know what a good thing he had going."

She turned to me and threw her arms around my neck and began to bawl all over again.

She crushed her face up against my chest and I could feel every inch of her heaving and shaking.

My shirt dampened. "Hey, Paula, come on. It's okay. You're a pretty girl. There are lots of fish in that big ole' sea." I had to wonder if I'd been working at Right Back At Ya for so long that I was incapable of doing anything other than spew cliches and one-liners. "You don't want a guy who isn't going to give you one hundred percent of his attention anyway."

Sarah stood up and stretched. Suit N Tie Guy sipped a beer.

Eventually Paula sobbed herself dry and peeled herself off of me. She rubbed some snot away from her nose with the back of her hand. Sarah searched for some more tissue but she couldn't find anymore. Even the roll of paper towel was used up.

"Gosh, I'm so sorry you guys. Thanks for being so sweet." Paula's eyes were red and puffy, a little dark underneath. "I guess lemon gin makes me sad." It looked as though she'd been crying for days. She stood up a little wobbly. "I'm just going to go to the bathroom."

221 "Do you want me to come?" Sarah asked.

"No, I just need a moment. I'm sorry. We'll get back to the party soon, I promise. I'm so

sorry."

I slumped back up against the wall.

"Merry Christmas," Suit N Tie Guy said, holding his bottle up toward me.

"Right," I said.

"Yeah, welcome back, McKay."

It was only as we sat there in stunned silence that I began to register how odd it was to be

in a room with Sarah and Jamie together. So I guess the Christmas party event had been more

than a drunken office fling.

"I've got some really strange news," I began and looked at them both. I felt remarkably

good in light of Paula's devastation. Seeing her so upset reminded me of the major differences in my and Paula's relationships. "Well, I...." But I still found it hard to say. "I, me and Diana..."

Sarah reaches across the bed and patted my hand. "We know, Dave. It's okay."

"What?"

"BuddyBlogger," Sarah said, squeezing my hand.

"I even knew before I had breakfast this morning." Suit N Tie Guy tipped back his bottle and took a drink. "Are you going to cry now, too?" he asked.

I wasn't much in the mood for a party, and after a few beer I made the decision to slip away quietly. It had been stranger coming back to Montreal than I'd expected it to be had left me feeling as though I'd been beaten up. I was tired. Sore. Sensitive to the noise, the slobbering drunks who had no idea how close they were to you when they spoke.

222 As I stepped out onto the front porch, I stopped for a moment to admire the evening. It was cold, a dry, bitter cold that took your breath away, but there was a refreshing crispness to it.

The sky was clear, so many stars visible. I stood there so transfixed that I didn't hear someone come up next to me.

I turned, startled, but it was just Paula. She wasn't dressed properly for the outside, only in a shirt.

"Are you leaving?" She swayed a little. Her skin was red with booze and the cold.

"You shouldn't be out here like that." I said.

"Do you really think I'm pretty?"

"What?"

"Remember at the Christmas party, you told me." She looked up at me, and her eyes were big, damp.

"Of course Paula," I said. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Why do you think Darryl left me?"

"I don't, Paula, I've spoken to him once. He's obviously an idiot."

She leapt. It was faster than I could have imagined had I ever even imagined such a thing.

She came at me arms first, and they wrapped around my neck and gripped tight and then the rest of her body was right there slamming against me and backing me up against the wall next to the front door. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted just a bit and there was nowhere for me to turn. Her wet, lemon-gin lips hit my nose then slid down to my mouth. Her tongue pushed at my lips. I grabbed her under her arms, pushed her away from me and squeezed myself around her and the railing.

"Slow down, Paula, what's going on?"

223 "I really like you, Dave. You're so nice. And handsome and you listen to me. You listened to me."

"No, no. Not nice. Terrible listener." I backed away from her and put one foot down on the first step.

"You said I was pretty." She stopped. Her arms fell to her sides.

"Paula." I didn't know what else to say. There was a time when I was sure I would have found this attractive. "Take my word for it: you'll only regret this in the morning."

She took a step back and threw her hands up to her face. She began to mumble, and then she spun around and rushed back into the house.

I paused for a moment, uncertain what to do, listening to the sounds of the party growing steadily as midnight approached. The sounds of other revellers nearby. Then I turned around and walked away.

224 Part Five

January

225 28

Paul(a)

I woke up late New Year's morning, and as I lay in bed I become convinced that I could hear voices in the apartment. Eventually I could distinguish Paul's voice, and then a female on. Did

Paul bring home a girl last night? I hadn't heard him come home, being long asleep.

I sat up and strained to hear. The voices weren't coming from his room, which meant they were in the living room. Paul hadn't had a girlfriend since Mary Wills in fourth year, and that hadn't lasted long. There'd been the odd pot-head from the store, a few hippie chicks that he'd met at the Tam Tams, but nothing that had stuck.

I got up and slipped on some pants and a t-shirt. I slapped my cheeks to wake up and give them some colour and headed out into the apartment. I heard them laugh as I approached, and as

I turned the corner into the living room I saw that they were sitting on the couch. It took me a moment to piece it together, to recreate the context. For her face to come into focus.

It was Paula. Paula was sitting on the couch. Paul and Paula. Sitting there sipping steaming coffee from mugs.

"Hi." Paula looked very startled when she saw me.

226 Paul turned and smiled and he had got this goofy look on his face. He looked happy.

Giddy. "Morning roommate," he said.

Paula put her mug down on the coffee table. She stood up very formally and clasped her

hands in front of her. "Um. Hi, Dave. I just wanted to come by to say that I'm really sorry for

how I acted last night."

"Oh, wow, Paula, that's amazing, really, but totally unnecessary."

"I tried to tell her that you weren't worth apologising to, but she wouldn't listen," Paul

said.

Did Paul tell a joke?

"I was a little tipsy, and I don't really drink much." She blushed that deep shade of Paula- red and looked down at her feet. "I was a little out of control."

"Honestly, Paula, there's no need."

She sat back down and the two of them exchanged glances and I stood over them staring.

There was an awkward silence and I realized I wasn't wanted there. I backed slowly out of the room.

"Um, so anyway. I'm just going to grab a coffee and I guess start unpacking," I said.

The both looked my way and smiled polite smiles. Paul and Paula. It was too much. I walked toward the kitchen to get a coffee hoping that caffeine would bring a little clarity.

227 29

Ways to Say I Love You

My life became all about work in the New Year. We'd worked hard to finish December and get a good start on January before Christmas, but we had only days to complete the last few weeks of

January pushes to stay on track. There was a constant sheen of sweat on Geoff's forehead. He'd been fidgeting and whiny since we'd come back.

"It's bad enough that December has 31 days, but January too?" Geoff said. "Isn't that a bit much? I hate months with 31 days. I can't wait for February."

"I hate months with 31 days because we have to hear you complain about it," Sarah said.

She was particularly fed up with Geoff's complaining.

"Seriously though, maybe we should get paid more for months with 31 days in them."

It's obvious that Geoff still didn't know Sarah well enough to know when to quit.

"I think I should get paid more just to share an office with you," Sarah said.

"Maybe we should look on the IMDB for quotes from romantic movies?" Paula had insisted on working through the Ways to Say I Love You on her return to work. I think it was her way of getting over the trauma of her break up. That and spending time with Paul. Things

228 seemed fairly innocent so far—coffees, phone conversations—but it was still enough to make me feel like my worlds were colliding.

Sarah swivelled in her chair toward Geoff. "Have you ever even told anyone you love them?" I hadn't seen her this worked up since some guy spilt a drink on her at a Sunset Rubdown show and told her to "relax" when she'd demanded that he buy her a new pint. I had to wonder if it was her new relationship with Suit N Tie Guy that was firing her up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Geoff twisted in his chair and stared straight back at her. "What are you getting at?" He stared at Paula and then at me. "What's she getting at?"

Paula looked back at her screen and typed away. "I-M-D-B-dot-com," she said aloud and hit enter.

"And your fucking mother doesn't count," Sarah said. She was very calm when she said it, adding just a subtle enough amount of venom that it could have been taken any number of ways.

"So Paula," I said loudly, "how do you like a man to say I love you?"

"Don't try to change the subject," Sarah snapped.

"Don't you bring my mother into this," Geoff said.

"It's counter-productive to argue," I said. "We got a lotta shit to get through."

"You wanna work?" She glared at me. "Okay Romeo, how many women have you said I love you to?"

As much as I wanted to respond, I knew I was no match for Sarah. She'd never been angry at me before and I wasn't interested in changing that.

"You are the lily in my swamp," Paula said.

"Lily? That's brilliant!" I said. "How the hell have we never used a lily before?"

229 "It's just rude to bring someone's mother into an argument." Geoff gripped the sides of his chair, shaking just a bit; the loose flesh around his neck jiggled almost imperceptively.

"What do you guys think of that lily line?" I asked, but Sarah wouldn't look away from

Geoff.

"It might be a little bland. Un-poetic," Paula said.

"Your mother."

"That's it, you condescending bitch." Geoff slammed one of his pudgy hands down on his desk. "I can't work with—"

"What did you call me?"

"No one should have to be subjected to the insulting of one's mother, and I, for one—-"

"Did you just call me 'a bitch'?" Sarah stood up.

"You and I are like ice cream and pie." Paula said, "on their own just fine, but together divine."

Sarah reached across the desk and slapped Geoff right across the face.

There was a moment of silence as the sound of the slap—like I imagine wacking a big piece of meat with a fly swatter would sound like—echoed in our collective memory. None of us moved. Paula looked pale and frightened. Sarah sat back in her chair and even she seemed to be a little shocked.

Eventually, Geoff very calmly picked up the receiver of the office phone. He reached forward and hit three numbers. His left cheek was reddening.

"Did he just dial 9-1-1?" Paula asked. "Did you just dial 9-1-1?" Looking directly at him.

230 "Hi. I would like to report an assault." Geoff looked out toward the window as he spoke,

acting as though we weren't even there. "It's in progress. Yes, I know. Yes, it's me." The look

on his face was one of smug determination. "Yes, I said 'Me'."

Paula clasped her hands to her cheeks and made a high pitched sound, not unlike a kettle.

I could no longer be just a casual observer. I stood up and moved around the table toward Geoff.

I reached for the phone but he swivelled away from me. "Don't be an idiot," I said.

"Now they are trying to take the phone away from me."

"Oh no." Paula's face was buried in her hands.

"I don't know if I'm safe," he said.

I tried to reach around him but stopped when he grunted into the phone.

"He's fucking safe," Sarah yelled across the room.

Paula stood and ran out of the office.

"Geoff, give me the phone." I reached around him and tried to grab it.

He held the receiver far away from his body, and then with his other hand reached under

me and hung up.

I backed up. "What the hell, Geoff?"

He rolled back up to the desk and folded his hands in his lap. He stared straight ahead.

"You're an asshole, you know that." Sarah folded her arms over her chest. Then she saw

something and sat up straight. Her hands dropped to her side.

I looked back and saw The Boss standing in the doorway; Paula cowering behind him.

"Did you just hit him?" He stared at Sarah, his thick hand reached out toward Geoff, pointing.

Sarah hesitated. "Um. Yes. Yes, I slapped him."

231 The Boss turned and looked at Geoff. "Why'd she slap you?"

"Because she's a terrible person—"

"He called me a bitch," Sarah said.

He looked back and forth between the two of them and settled on Geoff. It was amazing how every one of The Boss's movements seemed so exaggerated. Each motion a very precise collaboration of flesh. "Did you call her a bitch?"

"She is a bitch." It looked like Geoff was sinking farther and farther into his chair.

"Did he call her a bitch?" The Boss looked at me.

I nodded slowly.

He looked at Paula and she nodded with much more vigour.

"Then you called 911?" He looked back at Geoff.

"Yes. I was assaulted."

The Boss stared at him for a long time without saying anything. It was only like ten seconds, but seemed much, much longer. His eyes narrowed. "You're fired," he finally said, then turned around and walked out.

Geoff's face fell. "But, wait...I—"

"Get out," The Boss called over his shoulder. "Now."

Watching The Boss make his way down the hall, I saw Le Valerie come running toward him, her big hair bobbing. "There are the police at the reception. They say they receive a call from here."

The Boss marched past her and I heard him swearing under his breath.

Geoff's face went white. "But I hung up." He stood awkwardly, went to the door and peeked left toward reception. Paula squeezed by him and sat back down at her chair. Geoff

232 turned and reached for his backpack. He didn't even look at us, just rushed out of our office and hung a right toward the back stairs.

The three of us sat in stunned silence, staring at Geoff's empty seat.

"So," Sarah said, suddenly serious. "Ways to say I love you. What do we got?"

233 30

The Last Rock Rat

I'd felt so rejuvenated by the trip home, by spending Christmas with my aunt and Mark, Lisa.

But for the first two weeks that I was back in Montreal, everything seemed off. I'd been

expecting a routine, stability, but things had not stopped changing. Diana and I hadn't been

living together for long, but her sudden absence from the apartment seemed so profound. It had

been such a clean break that I felt raw, wounded somehow. She hadn't even sent me a personal

message on Buddy Blogger.

I woke up that Sunday to a nearly silent apartment. I was reminded of the silences I'd

experienced back east. There was a different kind of silence in the city. Now my apartment was

silent and the constant white noise of the outside world was too much. Like there was a force

field of noise around everything and it was completely impenetrable. I stood in the centre of our

small kitchen, empty coffee mug in one hand, coffee pot in the other. Stunned.

I felt strange: lethargic and out of place.

I poured myself a coffee and headed toward the office and the computer. Just as I was

about to enter, Paul's bedroom door opened and a tiny blond in a tight tank top and panties walked out. She looked half asleep at best, her eyes all crusty. Her hair was dishevelled. She

234 looked up at me and I saw that it was Paula. She jumped, her eyes flying open. She squealed and

did a little hop and threw her hands over her groin and then her chest—despite the fact that

everything was covered—and hopped back and forth on her bare feet before turning around and

running back into Paul's room.

I stood there, frozen.

Paul came out in an undershirt and pyjamas. "Morning, roomie." He looked shy.

Embarrassed. He stood at his doorway and Paula came up behind him wrapped in a housecoat.

"Hi, Dave," she said.

"Um. Hi guys." I just stood there.

"So," Paul said.

"So," I said back.

"I guess it's official and me and Paula are dating," he said.

She blushed.

"Yeah. Well good. That's good."

"Really?"

"Of course. Yes. Of course that's good. It's great, you guys." I tried to sound excited. We

stood there awkwardly, until Paula eventually slipped past Paul, tip toed by me and went into the bathroom.

"You sure you're okay with this?" Paul asked when the door closed.

"Of course, Paul, it's great. I think you guys're great for each other." I didn't know if I

actually believed that, but I thought that maybe he'd start smoking less pot if he was dating

Paula. Or maybe she'd start smoking more. Either way, one of them was going to benefit greatly from this.

235 "Thanks, man. That means a lot to me."

I held my coffee mug up to him in salute and he went back into his room.

I felt a confused slew of emotions. Paul was spending time with Paula, Sarah with Suit N

Tie Guy—the former target of our mockery. Only a month ago, I'd been the one in a relationship.

The only other people I'd ever really known in Montreal were undergrad friends and girls

I'd slept with. Most of them had moved on. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt lonely.

What I needed was a run.

I went to the office and sat down at the computer. My finger twitched its way to weathernetwork.com. It was -12, -16 with the wind chill. That was cold, but I could handle the cold. The sun was shining brightly. Sarah once told me that she actually preferred Montreal winters with their blankets of snow, sunshine, and frigid temperatures over the months of soggy greyness that was the Victoria winter. I thought she might have been full of shit but who knew?

I felt that a run would set everything straight. Then on Monday I'd go back to work with

Paula and Sarah and just forget that Geoff even existed. I'd eat a crappy foodcourt lunch with

Sarah and everything would be back to normal.

I went to the bedroom, opened the closet and dragged out my running gear. In the winter it was like armour. I started with gauze ankle braces (for the slipping and sliding), soccer socks that pulled up over my knees, boxer briefs, tights and then shorts on top of it all. I wore a long sleeve shirt under a proper running shirt and then a hoodie over that. Finally, gloves, toque, and a neck warmer. I had to do some stretching just to loosen up the material and settle into all of the grooves and spaces. I tried to visualize a route. I'd been running long enough that I could come

236 out of semi-hibernation and pull off a 10k. I didn't know if it was a great idea, but it was definitely possible.

Just stepping outside changed my mood. The air was crisp, the wind not too strong. I jogged on the spot, did a few more stretches and began to move slowly down the street. My body creaked in the cold. My thin gloves already beading with condensation over my knuckles. The streets were empty. I imagined full churches and synagogues, families sitting around tables eating a big Sunday brunch.

The sidewalks were snow covered but packed down hard and frozen solid, and I warmed up quickly. By the time I hit Mount Royal things were moving smoothly. It was slow going up the mountain. Another runner hustled by wearing running crampons. I passed a few cross- country skiers propelling themselves up the ski lanes to the side of the path. Near the top of the mountain, the trail flattened. To the left, with all the foliage gone, I could see the city. The concrete looked different in the winter, wrapped in thick smoke from chimneys, a smoke that seemed to hover more than float in the moistureless, frozen air. I took a sharp turn and the view of the city disappeared. It was the only city I'd ever known, but there was nothing holding me there. One day, I imagined, Montreal would just be that city I lived in during my twenties.

There were paths to my left that I had never taken before and I felt overcome with a desire to discover something new about Montreal, so I turned. The path down was steep. My legs twisted and turned; I slipped a little and had to strain to keep everything tight and upright. My ankles held up, but my right knee turned once and then again.

At the end of the path I popped out in a residential area. Nice, new homes, but still more functional than fancy. The sidewalks weren't clear and after a few slips I leaped a snow bank and headed out onto the road. My knee was definitely aching; there was a dull throb behind the

237 kneecap. I continued to slip and slide along the slick concrete, it was like a sheet of black ice. I read a street sign and it was completely foreign to me.

I kept turning in what I thought would be the direction that would get me back toward downtown, but it was like a maze. I figured that I must have ended up in Westmount, which meant I'd have to go north around the mountain to get home, but I'd lost sight of it, and I suspected that heading north would take way too long. I stumbled over a block of hard, packed snow and my right knee twisted again. I limped a bit as I ran, trying to keep my leg straight.

"Fuck," I said aloud, a burst of hazing condensation from my mouth. I'd slowed considerably, my sweat cooling rapidly. I began to walk. I walked quickly, limping, just looking for something familiar.

Then I came upon Sherbrooke Street, that trusty Montreal artery, and I knew I had an option. I began to jog again.

I quickly hung a right and saw that the old Corolla was in the driveway. They were home.

Or one of them was, at least, and I hoped it was Maggie. I stopped abruptly and my heart raced. I was breathing heavily as I walked up to the door, wondering if this was a mistake, but I didn't have any money or my wallet or my cell phone. I pushed the doorbell. There were a few long moments before I finally heard footsteps coming down the steps. The door opened about halfway and Maggie used it to shield her body. She looked puzzled, wary.

"Yes?" she said, nervous. But then a look of recognition came over her face. "Dave?"

"Sorry." I was still catching my breath and had a hard time speaking. There were tiny stalactites forming at the rim of my toque.

"Come in. Get out of that cold." She opened the door, put her hand on my shoulder and led me in. "Are you okay?"

238 I limped up the first step, trying not to bend my leg. "I twisted my knee. Running. I got lost." I took a deep breath that steadied things. It was so much warmer, even just inside the

stairway. "So sorry to bother you." I heard a noise upstairs. Something dragging along the floor.

She looked up toward the sound. "No, really, it's fine. Of course. Come in. Warm up."

She put her hand on my back and gave me a push up the stairs.

Steve was standing at the top of the stairs. He looked different to me since I'd last seen him. Older. He was unshaven and his scruff was growing white in parts. He was wearing glasses that I'd never seen before. There were bags under his eyes.

"Dave. Well..." He extended his hand but didn't smile.

I peeled off my glove and took his soft, warm hand in mine. "Sorry to bother you. I got lost and..." I pointed to my knee, "some ice."

"Right." Steve nodded. "Let me put on some tea." He stared down at my knee.

"No really, I don't want to bother you," I said.

Steve moved away from the door and I walked in. There was a backpack in the middle of the room. A few t-shirts and books lying next to it. It was an old bag, worn, but still looked sturdy. There was a notebook and a pair of socks on top of it.

"Have a seat." Steve pointed toward the couch awkwardly. "Sorry about the mess." He looked down at his backpack, then turned and walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

"Really, if I could just borrow a couple bucks for the metro..."

Steve stopped.

"No way. No. I'll give you a ride." Maggie stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips.

She was dressed in another version of every other dress I'd ever seen her in. "You think it's bad?

Your knee?" I bent it, and noticed that my shoes were thawing and water was dripping onto the floor.

"Shit. Sorry." The pain was not so bad, it was just in a weird place. "I think it's okay. Just trying to do too much. I'm a little out of shape." I patted my belly and they both just stood there and stared at me.

"Well if you're sure you don't need anything, Maggie can run you home." Steve sounded almost relieved.

"Just let me grab my keys." Maggie walked toward the end of the hallway.

Steve and I stood there looking at each other. There was a little pool of water forming around my feet.

"So. Happy New Year," Steve said. He rested his hand on the doorknob, leaning on it.

"Yeah, you too." I had to look away. He kept staring but there didn't seem to be anything to it. He looked defeated. "You going away?" I asked.

"Yeah." He stared at his backpack again.

"Where?"

"Laos. To hook up with friends." He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn't.

"Nice Christmas?" I asked.

Steve shrugged. "Sure. We don't really do much for it." There was no evidence of the holiday in the apartment, no decorations or cards. Stray tinsel hanging from the edge of a shelf.

"Got them." Maggie had thrown a thick scarf around her neck and pulled a large wool toque down over her hair.

"Happy New Year," Steve said again and opened the door for us. He forced a little smile.

240 "Have a good trip," I said and followed Maggie down the stairs. Halfway down I glanced back and saw Steve standing at the top staring down at us. There was a sleepy look to him, like he was staring right through us. There were shadows across his face from the light.

Maggie ran to the car in her thick hiking boots. I scampered as fast as I could, cold now. I stood next to the car as Maggie fumbled with the lock. I could feel my sweat turning into ice in every little nook of my body. When I did sit down in the car, I realized that it was just as cold inside as it was out. I shivered.

"I'm sorry, I should've offered you a coat." Maggie turned the key. We sat in silence as the car warmed up. Then she put the car into gear and we backed out of the driveway.

I pulled my hood up over my head. "You guys are the only people I know around here, I really didn't mean to just burst in like that."

The light changed and we turned onto Sherbrooke. "Really, it's fine. It's a nice surprise actually. To see you." We hit another light only two blocks along. "Shit. I shouldn't have come this way." Maggie pulled her mittens off and bit her nails at the light.

"So how did everything turn out?" I asked.

"With what?" She looked at me.

"With the whole adoption thing?"

She stared for so long that it got awkward. A car horn blared behind us and Maggie grinded the gears and we lurched through the intersection. "Oh God, Dave. Nothing. It turned out nothing. I'm just trying to forget about that."

The car was warming up and I could see the steam coming off of my legs. I couldn't smell myself yet, but I assumed it was coming.

241 "I should apologize for bringing you into it. What a strange time." She shook her head.

Stared straight ahead.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

The traffic on Sherbrooke got denser as we neared downtown. She floored it through a

yellow light. "Why the hell did I come this way?" She sped up again and swerved around a

slowing cab, but we still got caught at the next red. "Shit." She slapped the steering wheel, but

not too hard. "You know what? I don't know." She sat back in her seat and let her hands fall

down onto her lap.

"Sorry?"

"I don't know if everything's okay." She took a deep breath. "Steve's been going through

this, I don't know, phase or something. It's draining." The light changed and Maggie took the

wheel again. "He didn't get a grant again, and he's got this book of haiku—"

"Really. Like haiku poetry?"

"Yeah, and it's been rejected by like ten publishers, which is pretty much all of the publishers you can be rejected by for poetry I would think. I don't know."

"That's too bad." I didn't know what else to say.

"And his sister is sick. She was diagnosed with cancer in the fall. Really early too."

"That's good, right?" I asked. We turned left onto Park Avenue and headed north. "The

early diagnosis?"

"Well, it is, but she's refusing treatment because she read some stupid Oprah books and

thinks she can heal herself with the power of some secret something or other."

"You're kidding, right?"

She just shook her head a little.

242 "She hasn't seen a doctor since November and she won't even let us talk about it in her

presence."

"And did he just tell me he's going to Laos?"

She nodded. "To eat the last rock rat."

"The last what?" I shifted in the seat to get comfortable. I was making everything wet. I

was melting in her car.

"Rock rat. Rat rock. I don't know. Some rodent."

"What the hell?" I could see that Maggie was beginning to get really upset.

"It's some endangered rodent. A friend that we made while travelling over there found

some guy who is willing to take a couple of them into the northern jungle to eat this last rock

rat."

"That doesn't sound like something Steve would do," I said. I wanted to add that he

didn't seem like that particular kind of asshole, but I didn't.

"Apparently you can derive a 'cosmic energy' from ingesting the last of a species. It

pisses me off actually. Especially right now."

She asked me my address again and we turned left on St. Joseph.

"Are you doing okay?" I asked.

"I don't have a clue. I feel like I'm baby-sitting. I feel dull. I've been self-medicating

with pot and wine, which makes me feel like a sham when I go to work and have to deal with all these smiling and happy-go-lucky elementary school teachers."

I thought back to my elementary school teachers and tried to figure out which one was

self-medicating with pot and wine. There were a few candidates.

243 "Steve still wants to go eat endangered rodents in Laos, and I think I might be done with that sort of thing."

"It's this one," I said, pointing at my place and we pull over. "I'm really sorry. I hope everything works out."

She shifted to turn and look at me. "No, I'm sorry for rambling. I didn't even ask how things are with you?"

"Really, it's fine." I could smell myself. "Anytime," I said. "You can e-mail me if you want. Things are fine..." I trailed off.

"What?"

"I guess things aren't all that fine for me either, but nothing too bad or anything."

"What happened?"

"Diana and I broke up," I said, looking at her. I'd never been honest to her about my relationship with Diana and it was actually a relief not to have to worry about it anymore.

She leaned forward and hugged me. It caught me off guard and I felt awkward: damp with my own sweat, beginning to smell through the layers. But she held on and I could feel her cheek next to mine. Her mouth touched the skin under my ear. I didn't move. She pulled away slowly and I could see that she'd begun to cry just a little.

"Shit, Maggie, are you okay?"

She held her hand up to her nose, but she smiled and even laughed and nodded. "Oh God.

Embarrassing. I'm sorry. I'll be fine. Things'll be fine. For both of us."

I touched her coat where her elbow would be and then slipped out of the car.

"Are you okay?" She pointed at my knee.

244 I bent it a few times. It felt okay. She gave me a thumbs up, and I pushed the door closed and stepped back onto the curb. I waved as she pulled away, wondering whether or not I'd ever see her again.

245 31

Manners Mediation

When I got to work that following Monday, I was surprised to see that there was no one else in our office. I was never the first to arrive. Sometimes second, but never the first. Geoff's empty chair looked almost sad. If you looked really hard you could convince yourself that you saw the imprint of his body. I sat down at the desk. It felt wrong. Everything felt off.

Sarah walked in quickly. She threw her pack in the corner and slumped down onto her seat. She sat there and stared at nothing in particular.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," she said back.

"Good morning?"

"Yeah, great." She smiled at me. "Sorry I'm late. The commute was longer than I thought."

"Commute? I wouldn't call where you live a commute." Personally, I'd always thought

Sarah lived too far away, but she was only up in Little Italy, north of me. On the metro, and still very much downtown.

"Spent the night at Jamie's. Came in with The Suit Crew." 246 I couldn't believe what I'd heard. She'd commuted in with The Suit Crew. This was weirder than anything else. This was weirder than Paul and Paula. "How was the traffic?" was all

I could think to ask.

"Not too bad. Slow." She looked off into nothing again. That false smile dimmed.

"What do you do during commuter traffic jams?"

"Listen to morning radio, that Dick and Rick or Dick and Prick show—whatever—those two loud, obnoxious guys on X-ninety-something." She looked up at me and made eye contact for the first time. She looked tired and her smile was strained. "We watched So You Think You

Can Dance last night. They all enter some pool on the radio about who's going to get voted off.

"Wow. Weird," I said. As far as I'd known, Sarah had sworn off conventional radio. She only ever listened to CBC Radio 3 online.

We sat in an awkward silence. Sarah stared at her desk, then over at the two empty chairs and it finally clicked for her.

"Where the hell's Paula?" she asked.

"She might actually be at my house," I said.

Sarah looked at me and a very strange thing started to happen to her face. Part of her lip began to rise up, her forehead crinkled into a sea of breaking waves and her nose bent upwards.

"Don't you fucking tell me..."

"I'm afraid so."

"You have no shame, McKay. No fucking shame."

"Wait." I held out my hand. "You think me." I brought my hand to my chest. "Ha. No.

No."

247 It took a moment, but then her face uncontorted, her mouth went slack and her eyes wide.

"Noooooo!" She slapped her hands onto the desk on either side of her keyboard.

"Yup."

"That's just...fucked, is what that is." But she was smiling a big wide grin as she said it.

"Paul and Paula, eh?"

"It certainly sounds right."

"Wow. When you told me they were 'hanging out', I had no idea."

We sat in silence again, neither knowing how to proceed without Paula. We'd just slack-

off all day if she wasn't there. That was what we used to do.

"I finally read your Buddy post about Lisa." Sarah turned her computer on. "Sounds like

you had a good holiday. We haven't really had a chance to talk," she said. "Since you've been back.

"We'll have to go for brunch," I said. I felt obligated to ask her about Suit 'n' Tie Guy.

"So, how's Jamie?"

She pulled her chair in and began to type, she nodded her head. "Fine."

"Things going well?" An image of her wearing nothing but Suit 'n' Tie Guy's tie flashed in front of me and I had to shake my head. It was such a contrast even picturing them together.

"Yeah, great," she said. "Hey! You ever hear any more from Karla and Paul?"

"Maggie and Steve. And no. Not really."

She looked at me, her head tilted. "Not reallyT

"Well I kind of ran into them when I was on a run yesterday."

"You ran into them?" She stared at me sceptically.

248 "Well, I got a little lost and twisted my knee on some ice and stopped by their place and

Maggie gave me a ride home."

"Interesting." Sarah put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.

"What's so "interesting" about that?" I asked.

"I don't know; it just seems strange that you would get a 'little lost' running in

Westmount. How often do you run in Westmount?"

"What're you getting at?"

"Nothing. I'm not your analyst or anything, but it probably wouldn't take too much for me to read something into this."

"Look, I'm so done with them. The whole parent thing was so last year."

"I thought you said the woman was mommy material?"

"Maybe for a newborn. For her own baby."

"Little defensive." She grinned. "I'm just saying."

"It's over. It's nothing. I'm sure I'll never see them again."

Sarah continued to type. I doubted it had anything to do with work. I checked my e-mail.

Mostly Buddy Blogger updates, a few for Facebook. The final Dave McKay had finally gotten around to friending me.

"Jamie's a nice guy. Polite, you know?" Sarah said, not looking up from her computer.

"Sure," I said. It was hard to argue with polite.

"Dave, Sarah."

We both turned around and saw The Boss filling the doorway. He came in and sat down in Geoff's old chair. It was strange to see him there. He'd never actually sat down in our office

249 before. He put his hand on the arms of the chair and looked around, assessing things. He looked as if he was wondering if sitting down was a good idea.

"So, you guys, I've got an announcement to make. A few announcements." He rocked back and forth in the chair.

Sarah and I looked at each other. There was a look of dread on her face. There was actually a time not long into my employment, when I was convinced that the gig was up, and I'd prepared myself to be fired. It was the point when Sarah and I had inevitably begun to repeat ourselves, and intentionally altered some of our old lines for recycling purposes. But when in the span of one week we somehow sent out both "You are the sunshine of my life" and "You are the moonlight of my life", we were called into the office by The Boss. Apparently a few of the clients had complained about the lack of variety in some of the material. But instead of firing us, he decided to hire two other people to join our team to help "freshen things up".

"So, it seems that we need to move in some new directions. Subscriptions are down, not enough people renewing. I knew all along that things here would be malleable, that we'd have to test the market and mould ourselves to it, etcetera." He leaned forward, elbows on table, hands clasped in front of him. "Now, you guys are two of my oldest employees, and I appreciate everything you've done, and I hope you continue to work at the same high level."

My whole body went slack with relief. He'd said "continue".

"But, I'm not replacing Geoff, at least not in this capacity. And I'm pulling Paula off the team."

"What?" Sarah gasped.

250 "Paula's actually meeting right now with Richard Kaye, a Business Language Consultant

I brought in who's going to be working with us to help develop our Manners Mediation program."

"Manners Mediation?" I asked.

The Boss sat forward on the edge of the chair, his hands coming apart and moving as he spoke. His eyes got wide. "Manners Mediation," he began slowly, "it's the way forward." He stood up, Geoff's chair rolling away behind him. "So picture it. It's Christmas, right, but times are tough. Employees are expecting bonuses that a company just can't afford. The boss tosses off a memo basically saying 'No bonuses, tough luck. Maybe next year', right?" The Boss paused and looked at us to see if we were following. He continued pacing. "That's where we come in with our Manners Mediation. We write the memo." He stopped, hands flat out on the desk. He leaned over us and the desk wobbled a bit, as though his weight would bring it toppling over.

"But it could be anything right, letters of resignation, lay-off notices, even the public if they want, break-up letters, belated birthday wishes, emails. Whatever." He stared at the ceiling, considering the possibilities.

"Sounds fascinating," Sarah said. "So, does that mean it's status-quo with me and

McKay?"

"Yup." He looked back down at us. "I like that, Sarah, 'status quo'. I'm going to use that in the memo. Keep up the good work," he said and walked out of the room.

Sarah and I stared at each other. I had no idea what to say.

She sat back in her chair, threw her legs up onto the desk. She put her hands behind her head. "Food court for lunch?" she asked.

"I'm so in," I said and Sarah smiled at me, and it felt—for the first time in two weeks—

251 if things were finally back to normal. 32

A Bird in the House

After having had such a warm fall, it was difficult to get used to January's frigid cold. Since I'd returned from back east the temperatures had stayed in the -10 to-20 range. The kind of cold that made you want to stay inside. So when I left the office and my phone started vibrating, I let it buzz in my pocket until I found a building to slip into. I pulled it out in the warm lobby or a bank. I didn't recognize the number but answered anyway.

"Dave!? Are you finished work?" A panicked voice.

It took me a moment to recognize Maggie's voice. "Just on my way home? You okay?"

"I've got a strange situation here. She laughed, but it sounded forced, nervous. "There's a bird in the apartment."

"A bird?"

"Yes, a bird. I can't get it out. Oh god." She swore away from the receiver and there was a rustling on the line. "It's shitting everywhere," she said.

I began to laugh but stopped myself. "You want me to come over?"

"Would you mind? I'm so sorry?"

I looked around the lobby of the building and saw a Le Reso sign. The underground. "I'll hop on the metro and be there in fifteen," I said. 253 "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

I took an escalator down into the underground and followed the signs to the metro. I guessed that Steve had already left, but I couldn't help but wonder why she'd called me? But it was nice to be thought of for help.

As I rode the subway, I remembered that when I was twelve a bird had flown into our apartment. It was a crow, a really big bird to have flying around your apartment. It was summer, and hot—one of those heat waves when we left all of our windows open, the door to the hallway, even the sliding glass doors on our balcony. We had fans strategically placed, but they always seemed to just push the hot air around.

I didn't hear the crow enter. I'd been lying on my floor, trying to spread my body as much as possible over the cool linoleum. Then my aunt ran by flapping a dish cloth over her head. She'd looked into my room and made eye contact with me and I'd gotten up to follow.

We found it in the small walk-in closet in her bedroom. It was sitting up on a suitcase full of winter clothes. In our attempt to coerce it into a box, we inadvertently chased it out of the closet. It seemed like we'd spent hours chasing the crow from room to room. It only cawed once or twice, but the sound was so loud in our little apartment. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of lunging and falling. Tripping over things, our eyes glued upwards. Eventually we chased it out of the balcony doors. It was during that period when I was just almost a teenager but not quite, and my aunt was just heading into her mid-twenties. It was the period when we felt most like a team working together to pull something off.

It was hot on the subway. Hot and steamy with the all the thawing bodies: the rush hour crowd, heading west to the burbs, crammed into winter clothes. No one looked at each other.

There were many heads tilted down into laps, fingers tapping on keyboards, thumbs sliding

254 across screens. There was something about subways that made me nervous; it probably had something to do with being trapped in a long underground tunnel with so many people.

Two stops before Maggie's, a young couple got on. They entered mid-conversation and continued to speak at the same level and pace in that half-muttered, heavily accented and slang- filled adolescent Quebecois that I found particularly incomprehensible. As the silence persisted around them their conversation became more and more muted until they too fell into silence.

I rushed off the subway and almost appreciated the cold winter air after the stuffiness. It didn't take me long to cut through some streets to get to Maggie's. I rang the doorbell and heard her yell to come in. She was standing at the top of the stairs, staring into the front closet. There was an empty cardboard box in her hand.

"Thank God, Dave." She moved aside so I could slip through and put her hand on my shoulder. "It's up there." She nodded up into the closet.

I looked up into the closet but it was too dark.

"There's supposed to be a lightbulb in there. Sorry."

There was a scraping sound. Talons on box.

"I've just been standing here holding the box and trying to catch him but he won't come."

She held the box up to the closet again.

"How long has it been in here?"

Maggie sighed. "All afternoon, hours. I don't know." She looked tired, squinting up into the dark, the lines around her eyes creased and exaggerated. The curls around her forehead were damp and stuck there, and she was grimacing as she stared, her teeth grinding enough so that I could see her jaw clench and unclench.

255 "I burnt some toast," she continued, "and opened the doors to air the place out. Our windows are winter-proofed and to be honest I forgot about it until this bird came flying into the living room." She finally looked over at me. This was serious for her.

"What if I hold the box and you try to shoo it out with a broom or something?"

"I'm afraid I'll hurt it." Her eyes went wide.

"You don't have to touch it, just rustle up some noise so it gets scared and flies into th—"

It shot from the closet, gliding right over the tops of our heads and flew straight to the ceiling. It bounded along like it was skipping across the surface of water, its wings slapping. Maggie let out a little screech and I grabbed the box from her and followed the bird into the bedroom. It perched on an armoire in the corner. It was a small bird, blackish. One of those urban birds that always look frazzled and dirty, a starling or something; they'd evolved to survive the Canadian winters.

It sat up there and made a little cooing sound and looked around frantically.

Maggie entered with another box. "Poor guy, he's terrified."

Hunched over, I crept toward the wardrobe thinking, stupidly, that I'd be less intimidating like that. I peered around the edge of the box. It was still there, its little chest heaving, its head swivelling about. I lifted the box so that it was at about a forty-five degree angle to the bird. Maggie was silent and motionless next to me. I could hear her breathing, my own heartbeat.

More than anything the bird flew right into the box. When it lunged, all that I did was sweep the box down and back, and scoop it up and put it quickly on the floor. I pushed the flaps over the top held it closed. I could hear the bird panicking, the flutter of its wings against the cardboard; I could feel its body pushing against the top to get out, the movement of the flaps. I

256 had a living thing that was capable of dying. This power was suddenly overwhelming. I felt like I needed to act quickly, but my mind had gone blank.

"The front door. Bring it out the front door." Maggie put her hand on my shoulder again and squeezed, guiding me.

I picked up the box with one arm and held the flaps down with the other. There was an odd weight to it that was constantly shifting.

Maggie rushed past me and was already half way down the stairs by the time I get there. I felt a little shot of cold air when she went outside. I followed her out and placed the box on the ground, and in almost the same motion, I pulled the flaps open and jumped back.

Nothing happened.

It took a few long moments for the bird to fly out, but when it did it shot straight up toward the top of house and within seconds it was gone from view.

With the tension suddenly released, I felt the cold, and my sweat began to freeze. I turned to look at Maggie but she had already gone back into the stairwell and slumped down on the bottom of the stairs. I approached her to see if she was okay. Her face had gone all funny, like she was about to sneeze. She slouched forward, covering her face with her hands and began to sob.

I closed the door behind us, not sure what else to do. It was awkward in the tight space at the bottom of the stairs. There was a damp, musty smell, the hint of foot odour. The way she had her head bent allowed me to see where her neck had gone all read and splotchy. I sat down on the step next to her. She had to slide over to make space, and there was just enough room for the two of us. I sat for a moment then I placed my hand on her back. I spread my fingers and just rested it there. The material was cool but I could feel the heat under it.

257 "It's fine," I said. "You saw it fly away."

She shook a bit and I thought I'd upset her more, but then I saw that she was laughing.

She sat up abruptly, that mass of hair flipping about. Her face had taken on the same splotchy appearance as the back of her neck.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's not the bird is it?" I kept my hand on her back and she leaned into me. I wrapped my hand around her far shoulder.

"I don't know, Dave. I just can't figure it out." She let out a big exhalation. "Steve is doing worse than I let on. He actually had a breakdown, like a real breakdown. We'd been out for dinner with some friends, had a little too much wine, he started complaining about his life, his sister, his poetry, how 'static" we've become. Very dramatic. He started crying, saying these almost suicidal things. It was shocking. I didn't know what to do."

I could feel her hair tickling the bottom of my chin. I tried to see Steve drunk and raving.

It was not a pretty picture.

"But then afterward—and I know this sounds terrible—but it just seemed so melodramatic. Like he was just perpetuating this whole tortured-soul thing. All I could think was that we should be over this crap. We should've been over this years ago. "

"Is that why he's taking this trip to Laos?"

"Who knows? He's probably smoking opium and tramping through jungles."

"And eating a rodent."

"Right."

We sat in silence for a moment. Maggie leaning against me; it had been a while since I'd felt anyone lean on me like that.

258 "How long you think he'll be gone?"

"I don't know. But I have a feeling things're going to be different when he gets back."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know how much longer we can pull it off," she said. "I think we're both going through a lot of things right now, you know? You start to think that a relationship is inevitable.

That it'll never end. You rely on the familiarity."

I wasn't sure if I completely understood what she was saying, but I could get a sense of it.

Diana and I hadn't even had the spiritual connection to fall back on.

"But familiarity is not enough," she said. "You have to want the same things."

I'd been staring at the door; it was brown and I could see little black and grey skids along the bottom of it where it had been kicked or pushed closed numerous times. There were pebbles from the sidewalks on the floor, salt. An old cob web in a corner. Maggie folded into me, her face now in my shoulder and her hair burying my face. There was a scent of incense, something

soapy.

I could feel the edge of the step jabbing into my back, pushing against my spine. But it was too nice to feel another body lying against me to move; the weight and the warmth. Then she

sighed, a post-cry whole-body kind of sigh, and without lifting her head, she tilted it toward me.

"I've always felt comfortable around you."

I nodded and stared back. Her hand rested against my stomach. I reached over and moved the pile of curls from her forehead so that I could see her better. She was lying with her head

arched, her long neck stretched, the soft skin looking tight, still reddened. I swallowed. I didn't know what to do to not ruin the moment so I didn't do anything.

259 She shifted slightly, moving her body up so that her cheek was against my shoulder. She was flush still, from crying, her eyes damp and wide. I slipped my hand from her hair and cupped her cheek. She didn't pull or look away, so I tilted my head down to meet hers. I watched her close her eyes but kept mine open as our lips touched.

I moved my hand to the back of her neck and pulled her up. She kissed me harder and I could feel her breath from her nose. She reached up to grab my neck and then her other hand was on my chest, stomach. Her palm pushed against me.

I reached down and touched her thighs and I pulled her closer. She rolled over and straddled me, grunted when she squeezed her legs between mine and the wall, her knee slipping off of the stair. My hands found the edge of her dress, where her calves were exposed and I ran my hand along the back of her legs, up behind her knees, under the loose dress. Her hair fell over our heads like a canopy. I touched her through her underwear and she was damp.

Her hand moved between us. She fumbled with my pants, the button. She grasped me in her hand and moved me toward her. I pulled aside the thin strip of her underwear and she guided me into her and then fell forward; the full weight of her crushing me against the stairs.

We lay there for a long time afterwards, the edge of the steps grinding into my back, the pebbles grinding under my shoulder. Eventually she stood. Her knees were red and pimpled from the grit. She pulled me up the stairs and into the living room where we flopped down on the couch together. I stared over at photos. The old monk with the scrunched-up face stared at me. The lights weren't on and the shadows were different. Because it was darker and the details faint, I could see that under all of that bundled up skin he was actually smiling.

260 "Steve's cheated on me before." Her head was resting on my chest, her arm wrapped around my waist.

"What?"

"The last time it happened was last year, right after we got back to Montreal. Some twenty-one-year-old poetry student in a workshop he did at the Westmount community centre."

I didn't know what to say.

She shifted suddenly, pushed herself up off me and looked me in the eye. "Not that this is related to that. Oh God, Dave, this isn't related to that." She sat up. "I mean, it is, I guess, because everything is related to everything else, right? But I guess what I meant is that this wasn't about that." She sat there and stared at me. The redness in her face was dimming, fading from cheeks. Her hair was wild.

"What is this about then?"

"Does it have to be about something? Can't it just be about what it is?"

"Which is?"

"It's just that I was thinking that you're the first person I've been with since Steve, and he's been with two others." She shifted, laid back down and threw her leg over mine. "That I know about, anyway."

"But you forgave him?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. "I guess I haven't," she said. "Not for the last time anyway. I think maybe that has something to do with his breakdown too. He knew I didn't." She

shook her head, tilted it up to look at me, closed one eye to focus. "Jesus, Dave, what a mess. I'm

sorry for bringing you into this."

"Seduced by the older woman," I said, and tried to laugh a little as I said it.

261 "Oh God, I'm a cougar."

"Not quite," I said. "But I've never been with a girl older than me before." There was a difference too. She seemed so assured in her body, in control. Not like anyone I'd ever been with. Diana seemed so wild and uncontrollable. Like she was just going along for the ride, one day she would get there, but even she was still figuring it out. Everyone else had been so young.

"Dave? You all right?"

"What?"

"I lost you there for a moment."

"Sure, sure. Fine." I tried to slide further into the couch. She adjusted herself. Settled onto my shoulder. I rested my chin in her hair like it was a pillow.

"Oh yeah," she said, "thanks."

"For what?" I asked.

"The bird."

The bird; I'd completely forgotten about the bird.

262 33

Encountering Diana

I arrived home from work only a little bit earlier than usual to find Diana stumbling out of our apartment. She had a milk crate full of electrical stuff in one hand, was dragging her bicycle with the other, and had the handle of an oversized purse jammed between her teeth. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she noticed me and dropped the purse.

"Hey." She didn't even smile as she said it.

I felt like I should be angry but I really only felt embarrassed. Embarrassed about how we'd failed, the way it had ended. Embarrassed about what had happened with Maggie even though it was no longer any of Diana's business.

"So I guess we should talk." She kicked her purse toward her parent's SUV which

already had another suitcase in the back. This was at least the second time he'd been to the

apartment to pick up stuff. The first time she'd managed to do it without running into either Paul or me.

"About what?" Should I help her with her bags? I didn't know how this was supposed to

work.

263 "Well. Us, right?" She slung the milk crate into the truck and bent to lift the suitcase.

"Is there something about 'us' left to be talked about?" The embarrassment passed quickly and I was still trying to find it in me to be angry.

"Are you really so surprised?" She sighed a big dramatic sigh and turned toward me. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her long black coat. "I know you haven't been in a lot of relationships, but this happens." She looked back at me with a look on her face that I couldn't completely decipher, something between a scolding teacher and a soothing parent. "Things had kinda gone a little sour with us. The spark or whatever..."

"I'm not a fucking idiot, Diana." It was the look that finally got to me. "Do you think I'm pissed about us breaking up? Because, whatever, I don't care. You aren't a nice person anyway."

"Jesus, Dave, this doesn't have to get personal."

"It should get a little personal." I wasn't sure if I meant it, but it felt good.

"We're adults, right?"

"You broke up with me online. And not even with a message or an e-mail or anything."

"You care about that?" She didn't get it.

"Of course I fucking care about being the one thousandth person to know about our break up." I raised my voice and it actually felt good. I'd never had a fight with a girlfriend before, ex or otherwise.

At least she had the decency to look a little embarrassed and she stared down at her boots.

They were those thick yellow-beige wool/leather things with fluffy white insides. Paul hated them. He called them Ughs.

"I think I deserved that courtesy, it wouldn't have taken much—"

"Did you say one thousandth?"

264 "An e-mail, or something. What?"

"Don't I have twelve hundred stalks?" She actually smiled a little, just a crack.

"Yes. I don't know. Jesus, Diana, you're so spineless that you couldn't even tell me in

person? How old are we? Fifteen?"

Her whole expression changed. Her green eyes glowed and she stared me straight in the

eye. "Did you just call me spineless?"

"What the hell else do you call someone who breaks up with her boyfriend on a fucking

Blog site?"

"It's just funny because that's exactly what I said about you last night to Stasia. And it

wasn't BuddyBlogger. I actually announced it first on my MSN network and then on MeWorld.

But you don't follow those, do you? You're such a relic."

"What?"

"You're a relic."

"So that justifies your breaking up with me online?" I'd never really yelled at anyone

before and I found that I couldn't maintain the momentum.

"Who are you anyway? You're about as passive as you can be without being dead."

"You spend so much goddamn time on your MeWorld that you're barely even human

anymore. You can't even interact normally. Remember people? Flesh?"

She just stood there and tapped her foot.

"Don't treat me like an avatar." I couldn't help it.

"You have no idea what the hell you're talking about. Not a clue. I interact with everyone just fine except, of course, for you. You don't even have any interests that are your own.

265 Nothing. There was that weird adoption thing, and you're not nearly as smart as you come across as."

"Yeah, well you're failing as an adult. You are a pretty lousy human at the best of times

and you'd be a terrible mother."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You've lived this privileged, lifeless, middle-class suburban life and you have no idea what life is really like."

"Give me a break, where'd you pull that from? Some fucking John Hughes movie." She turned and struggled to lift the bike into the back of the SUV. Shoved it hard out of anger. "And you say I'm the lifeless one? Take a look at yourself. You are so styleless and unfulfilling and that it's almost sad."

"What?"

"I'll be completely honest with you, the only thing that kept us together is that you're good looking, and the sex was good for awhile. You somehow manage to surround yourself with interesting people, but, really, you're just boring. I've been with avatars more interesting than you."

"That's just...that's just weird. You're so shallow." I said, but I was fading. I'd have stormed off now if I didn't live there. What did she mean by "been with"? I wondered.

"Is that it?" She brought her hands back out from her coat. She jingled her keys.

"You're moody, cruel, impossible..." I struggled with something else to say, but I didn't care enough to continue.

266 "Right. Later, Dave. Best of luck to you." She turned around, reached into her other pocket and pulled out her iPhone; she stared down at the screen for a few moments and then

slipped into the truck.

All of a sudden it felt cold and I rushed upstairs to get back inside, not even bothering to

look back as she drove away.

267 14

Entering MeWorld

I wasn't sure what it was that drove me to do it. I'd been sitting home alone a lot. Waiting to hear from Sarah who always seemed busy these days; waiting for Paul to come home, but he'd been dividing his time between our place and Paula's. And waiting for Maggie, whom I hadn't spoken with since the event.

Maybe Diana had finally driven me to it.

I wasn't sure what did it, but on the last Saturday morning in January, sitting in front of the computer, bored, tired of reading opinionated blogs, and weary of watching yet another fifteen-second famous viral video, I decided to join MeWorld.

Once you'd downloaded the application and signed up—I chose the name Mensen

Prefontaine—you had to go through the process of creating your avatar. A simple message first appeared on the screen:

In the beginning...

Welcome, Mensen. You are now leaving ReWorld. In preparation for

life in MeWorld, it is time to create the new you.

268 The graphics were so lifelike because of the use of motion-capture techniques to create the movements of the avatar, so when you chose your cheekbones, say, or your earlobes, you were choosing from a list of people's actual body parts. The process of creating my avatar took the better part of the morning. Every detail had to be chosen, from fingernails to arm hair, eyebrows to ankles. I decided to go different from myself. I went for a darker, more Mediterranean look, shorter than me, but more stocky and well built. I also went for slightly hairy, nothing over the top or anything, but somehow, despite my Scottish roots, I'd managed to be fairly hairless, and the hair that I did have was light, and sparse; I wanted chest hair and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. Slowly—as you chose the individual elements from a side bar—the constantly turning avatar floating in the centre of the screen took shape. Finally, when I was seemingly complete, a pop-up appeared. New users over nineteen years of age were given the option of adding genitals during the creation stage. I clicked OK. The choices in penis were not quite as detailed as the choices with other body parts; there were only six, three circumcised and three uncircumcised.

Apparently the six most generic shapes of penises in the world. I didn't spend too much time— fascinated by, yet still not particularly interested in studying the numerous variations of the penises on display.

The screen went blank. And then

Congratulations, Mensen, on creating the new you.

You will now awaken in the Initiator's Room. Do not be alarmed.

The Initiator's mandate is to prepare you for your transition

from ReWorld to MeWorld. Eventually the blank screen began to change. Two slits began to form, they split slowly, revealing foggy glimpses of a wall. As things began to come into focus, I realized that I was

269 actually seeing a POV shot of a room. Finally, as if the program saw that I'd figured out what

was going on, the eyes opened fully.

I was lying in a hospital bed in a green hospital gown. The room itself was just a large

empty concrete square. In one corner, sitting in a chair, was a bland looking avatar in a long white lab coat and khakis. He had his legs folded and his hands rested on his knee. His lips began to move and a dialogue box appeared at the bottom of the screen.

If you are equipped with a microphone and would prefer to

communicate vocally, please click here to activate voice-over-

internet .

The avatar smiled. "Thank you Mensen; you will find that most people here prefer to communicate vocally." His voice was monotone, almost computer like. But soothing in its consistency.

"Um, okay." It took me a moment to summon up the courage to speak aloud. I couldn't help but look around the office to confirm that no one was watching me.

"I imagine you feel uncomfortable right now. It's perfectly normal. Transitioning can be difficult. I'm here to make your transition as comfortable as possible. If at any point during the initiation you feel you are becoming too tired, you can always take a nap and continue at a later time." He nodded and smiled again. "Now, why don't you sit up and practice lifting your arms."

As soon as he finished speaking the screen came alive with instructions on moving my avatar. There were also viewing options, from direct POV (seeing through your avatar's eyes) to more video-game like graphics. I lifted my arms, then put them down on the bed and tried to adjust myself, using the numerous combinations of the keys. I slipped though and then my body was dangling off the side of the bed, staring down at the floor.

270 "Good job, Mensen!" The Initiator stood and walk toward me. He sat me up in the bed.

"Motion will take some getting used to." His face was as pleasant a face as you could imagine:

pristine in its blandness. It was also oddly raceless, as though it could just as easily be African or

Asian or European. "Would you like to try standing?"

"Sure," I said, leaning toward my computer to speak. Once again the instructions

appeared on the screen and I began to follow them. After a few false starts I eventually made it

out of the bed.

"Why don't you walk over here and we'll sit down and have a conversation," he

instructed.

"But there's only one chai— " Another chair appeared as I spoke, and I awkwardly made

my way over. I shifted the view down to my feet and was able to watch them struggle. I noticed

the strain of the tendons and the muscles. There was hair on my feet. I had hairy feet.

I fell twice trying to sit down but eventually got it. When I sat on the chair, a sidebar of

object-specific instructions popped up. I was shown instructions on how to cross my legs, sit

with one arm on the back of the chair, and a few other poses.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself," the Initiator said.

"Well. Um, I don't know really. I live in Montreal," I said.

The Initiator leaned forward, a confused expression on his face. "Montreal? Sorry I don't know it. Which continent is it on?"

"North America," I said.

He shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not familiar with that continent."

I felt like I was failing at MeWorld. Maybe it was more like a game than I thought.

"Well, I like to run."

271 "You don't look like a runner," he said. "Your body type doesn't support that hobby."

"Wait. Are you talking about me or my avatar?"

"Excuse me, Mensen," the Initiator asked looking genuinely confused, "but what is an

'avatar'?"

Okay. I got it. We were developing my MeWorld personality.

"It is my understanding," the Initiator continued, "that you are transitioning from

ReWorld. Perhaps you are getting ReWorld mixed up with MeWorld. Do you think that this is the case?"

"I think you're right," I said. It had taken me a few minutes to remember what ReWorld was.

The avatar smiled and sat back in his chair. "Excellent. I have to apologize, but I've never visited ReWorld and, therefore, my knowledge of it is quite limited. I think you'll find,

Mensen, that most people in MeWorld try to avoid talking about ReWorld. It seems to lead to confusion."

"Okay," I said. "Would you like me to tell you about ReWorld?" I asked.

"Why would I want that?" he asked, a genuine look of confusion on his face. "In my experience, once people visit MeWorld, they very quickly lose interest in ReWorld."

"What about visiting it?"

"I'm sorry Mensen, but I'm not sure there is any turning back for you now. I think you will find MeWorld a wonderful place that provides you with everything you could ever possibly want."

I sat back in my chair. Staring into his blandly pleasant face, a little confused, a little overwhelmed. But certainly intrigued.

272 "Okay, Initiator," I said. "I'll tell you about myself. Just give me a moment to figure out who exactly I am."

"Of course, Mensen, take your time." The Initiator sat back in his chair too, tilted his head a little in a show of interest. "In MeWorld," he continued, "there is never any reason to rush."

273 Part Six

February

274 35

We Could All Die Tomorrow

It was unseasonably warm by the river. There was a cool breeze coming up off the water, but when the air was calm it was almost nice. It was oddly empty in the old port; the tourists off to warmer climates.

I saw Maggie before she saw me. She was leaning against a rail, overlooking a little diverted part of the river near the science centre. It was a blocked inlet filled with paddleboats in the summer. Rocking back and forth, her hands were wrapped around the metal, and she seemed to be pushing herself up by her palms. She had on a long beige coat, and a large green scarf was wrapped in circles around her neck. She stared out over the inlet and across the river and didn't notice as I approached.

"Maggie?" I felt like I was disturbing her.

"Oh, Dave." She was startled, but she smiled and leaned forward and kissed my cheeks.

We began to walk east, the water on our right. We walked in a silence that was uncomfortable. She'd called me, the first bit of communication since the incident. "This has been a strange year so far," I finally said.

"You too? What's going on?" 275 "Everything is just changing, and feels so impermanent. I thought I'd have things figured out by now."

"What are you twenty-four?" She crammed her hands into the hip-height pockets of her coat. "Don't waste your twenties worrying about the rest of your life. I was twenty-four when we first went overseas. Out of my whole life, I think the one thing I got right was spending my twenties bouncing around."

"Really? Because I thought I should have shit figured out by now. You know? Or at least a plan, a path or something."

"Ha. I'm thirty-five and I still don't have a clue, Actually, I may even be entering a crisis situation here. I think I might have ruined myself for adulthood."

'"Ruined yourself?" I asked. She didn't answer right away, and I watched her consider it. Her profile set against the water, the wind blowing into us, and long ringlets of her hair flowed out behind her, fumbling over one another in the air. She squinted into the wind.

"I can't really settle. I can't feel comfortable settling into my career and planning to buy a house and thinking that this is it. Maybe having a child." She reached up and rubbed her nose.

Sniffled. "Honestly, it's what I want. But it scares me because I haven't been preparing myself for it." She's quiet for a moment. "Sometimes I just lie awake at night and re-live trips we've taken. I try to think of every hostel, hotel and bungalow we slept in during our first trip to

Southeast Asia. Or I'll try to remember all of the people who were on our hike to Machu Picchu and why I liked or disliked them. I think of families we stayed with in Kenya: the smells of the cooking."

"So, are you saying I should get settled now and figure it all out or just say screw it and hope that everything works out in my thirties?"

276 She dropped her serious expression at least. "It doesn't get any easier, how about that?

You'll be fine. I wasn't even considering the kind of things you are when I was your age."

I didn't like the implication that I was somehow more mature than Maggie, about

anything. It made me feel like I'd lied to her somehow. "But, you really seem to know who you

are, and maybe I'm considering all this external crap because there's something wrong with me."

"What's wrong with you?"

"I don't mean to sound dramatic or anything, but I really don't feel like I know who I am.

I don't know what I'm going to become. Where to go now."

"Oh come on, no one knows who they are."

"That's not true. You know who you are." And I believed it when I said it. "I just feel

like I could die tomorrow, any of us could, and I wouldn't have accomplished anything."

"Haven't you been listening?"

"Maybe you just have a problem with what you want to do, not who you are."

"Oh." She put her head down against the wind. Her mouth and nose disappeared into her

scarf.

"And, really, is there anything wrong with not wanting to settle?" I asked.

"Well, I know I have to settle one day. I can't keep going forever."

"Who knows what life will bring." I wanted her to look at me, but she wouldn't.

"Said like someone in his twenties." She stopped briefly, turned to look at me. "We're just going in circles." She shook her head and began to walk. "I want friends. Real friends. I

really like meeting new people and whatever, but it's nice to develop relationships that'll last

longer than a few days. It gets stressful not knowing where your next paycheque'll come from, or

where your next bed'11 be. Not knowing which country your partner is in."

277 "Have you talked with Steve?" I wanted to add "about us", but it somehow didn't seem

appropriate.

Maggie turned away from the river and I followed. We cut through the cobble-stone

streets of the old port. Souvenir shops lined them; their owners slouched behind counters,

looking bored. A few restaurants had fading shots of smoked-meat sandwiches in their windows.

"Just random, odd emails. I've stopped responding for the time being."

"I never felt like we hit it off. I felt like I needed to impress him or something; like I was

being judged, maybe."

"He's not one to judge, Dave, I wouldn't spend any more time thinking about it. He's a

certain kind of idealist."

"But you have to really care about things to be an idealist." I tried to think of anything I

really cared about.

"You don't care about things?"

"I've never been in love." It just came out, but it seemed like something I'd been wanting

to say for a long time.

"You never loved Diana?"

I hesitated, but hiding things about my relationship with Diana seemed so trivial now. "I didn't love her. We weren't as serious as maybe I let on that we were. We'd just barely moved in together when I saw your ad."

She didn't even acknowledge it. "But you can feel love, right? Like for your family?

You're not some emotionless void."

"But everyone loves their family, right?" I thought of my aunt. I was actually older than that she'd been when my parents died. She basically put her life on hold at that point. I couldn't

278 help but feel a little guilt about that. It wasn't until I went off to university that she even started seriously dating again. I'd been holding her back from Mark, Lisa, her life. She'd never had a choice about whether to settle or not. To wonder the sorts of things that Maggie and I were wondering.

We came to a corner and stopped at a red light. The silences had become more comfortable. I looked over at Maggie. We weren't really that far apart or different; she was just another confused adult, uncertain about the future.

I noticed that the window of the clothing boutique behind us was tinted so much that it was like a mirror and our reflections stared back at us. I remembered how Steve had pointed out that he and I actually looked similar. I didn't look anything like Maggie. She was shorter and softer and round. That tangled mess on her head was far removed from my hair. Even her face lacked angles. In the darkness of the window, my face looked even more angular. The running had always kept me thin, but it was probably aging me too. My jaw and slightly sunken cheeks were almost dramatic in that window. I was getting wrinkles prematurely from running in the wind, cold, sun.

Standing there looking at our reflections, I could see that we didn't look ten years apart.

We could have been peers even, and I wondered whether or not people ever thought that Steve was much older than she was.

"What are you doing?" Maggie was looking at me looking in the window.

The streetlight had turned green. I wondered if there were people sitting behind the window staring out at us. I wondered what they thought our relationship was. "That time I hung out with Steve, he pointed out how similar he and I looked."

"Oh yeah?" She squinted into the window.

279 "But we don't, do we?"

A denser cloud passed overhead and the reflection in the mirror became clearer. I could

see the reflection of the intersection behind us, one of the city buildings on the corner. A horse-

drawn carriage pulled into the frame and stopped to wait. There was a couple in it. The light

turned red again. Everything was so perfectly framed in the window that it looked like a

postcard.

Suddenly there was a terrible, high-pitched squeal and Maggie jumped. It took a moment

to recognise the sound of a car's brakes, and then there were screams. I turned around and

watched Maggie's face twist in confusion, then fear, and she threw herself at me. The horse

reared up in front of the carriage. Its panicked whine was so much deeper and more resonant than

the human screams, which sounded like something from a cheap horror movie.

The horse jumped once, twice, and on the third it got very high and twisted its body

toward the sidewalk. Then there was the sound of a car, and the squealing and screeching of its

tires, and from its great height the horse came down awkwardly on the sidewalk and pulled up

the far side of the carriage with it, so that one of the arms attached to the carriage snapped,

sending it all crashing back down and spilling the driver and the middle-aged male passenger

onto the street.

There was a screech of more tires and another crash further up the intersection, the sound

was distinctly metal on metal, a louder collision, a thudding sort of bang that reverberated in the

chest and in its force almost brought me to my knees, but Maggie had grabbed the material of my jacket and we held each up.

Then it was over.

280 There was a split second of silence and in that same moment there was no movement.

Not even the horse, although it snorted angrily and in frustration, it seemed, at all of this human chaos. Then, an explosion of motion: people running, exiting buildings and cars, and it was accompanied by a general chattering of panic; the loud booming voices of those who were always calm in the midst of chaos.

Without thinking too much, I pulled away from Maggie and ran toward the carriage. The driver was up and dusting himself off and running to his anxious horse, which was still half attached to the carriage and making it rock back and forth. The female passenger was holding on tightly; her partner lying on the street.

I kneeled down next to him as he groaned and rolled over. His eyes were closed and his face bloody. He reached up to touch his forehead and groaned again. His eyes opened and they darted about, panicked. "Wha...?" He tried to speak but his breathing was fast and laboured.

"What?"

"Are you OK?"

He wiped his face and exposed a large gash on his forehead.

"Are you OK?" I asked again.

He blinked a few times, wiped some blood out of his eyes then touched the gash. "Yeah, yeah. I think I'm all right."

The woman jumped from the settled carriage and rushed up beside us. She was frantic and fell to her knees, muttering. "Ohmygodohmygod..." she said over and over again.

The man pushed himself up onto his side. "I'm OK, I'm OK," he said.

"Here, for the cut." Maggie passed her scarf to me.

The man took it and I helped him guide it to the cut. We applied pressure.

281 "I think you should lie down," I said, and he nodded and lay back on the concrete. The woman lay at his side and cried.

"Really, it's just cut," he said to her. "I'm fine." There were sirens in the distance.

I stood up and took in the scene. Two cars had collided. They sat in the middle of the intersection at opposing angles, bits of metal and glass between them. There was another car a few metres down the street, its front end crumpled against a stone wall. Steam and smoke poured from the engine. People were tending to a man who was lying on the street next to it. The carriage driver yelled in French in that general direction with one hand resting on his horse's nose. There were numerous others milling about, too many it seemed, adding only confusion.

There was a tug at the back of my coat and Maggie pulled me back from the street.

"You OK?" she asked, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Sure, yeah." I was a little stunned, like I'd become separated from myself. Just acting without thinking. I didn't know what to say or do now that the emergency had subsided. I looked at Maggie. She was pale. Her pupils dilated.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I have no idea." I looked around again. Police cars were arriving. "Is everyone OK?"

She nodded. "I think so." Ambulances and fire trucks arrived almost simultaneously.

I noticed that my heart was beating hard and fast. I took a few deep breaths to calm it, but even my breathing was unsteady. Maggie held my shoulder and then she grabbed me in a hug. I could smell her—the usual incense and patchouli shampoo—and her coat was soft like a quilt.

282 36

Ready for Life in MeWorld

I wasn't logged in all the time or anything, but I was on MeWorld almost as much as I possibly could. I'd told my aunt that I'd joined. It slipped out, and she was appalled. I'd had to explain that I needed to understand what it was about MeWorld that had drawn Diana in so completely, which was more or less the truth.

It had taken me about ten days to complete the five hours necessary in the Initiator before

I was told that I could move into a half-way house. I'd completed my fifth hour (levitating and teleporting) one morning before work and had to wait all day before I could rush home and leave the Initiator.

When I logged on it was like he was waiting for me. I got up out of the bed and he stepped forward immediately. "Congratulations, Mensen. You've completed initiation and I feel that you are ready for life in MeWorld."

We shook hands and when he stepped away there was a door that I'd never seen before. I walked through and entered a larger room with six walls and doors on each wall. Other avatars were coming out of them. There was so much murmuring that I had to turn down the volume on the computer. Suddenly a larger voice began to speak, silencing the avatars. There were three females and three males. 283 "Welcome to YourHome. YourHome is a specially designed half-way house, the second and final step in your transition to MeWorld. You will spend two weeks together in YourHome.

The first week will be spent in lock down, during which time you will not be allowed to leave.

During the second week you will be given day passes with specific tasks, such as shopping or attending special events. After two weeks you will be prepared to live a fully autonomous life in

MeWorld, at which time you will be given a small allowance and keys to your own home in

Central City, the capital of MyLand, the largest continent in MeWorld." The voice was only slightly less monotone than the Initiator's had been, but more androgynous.

The general murmur began again, as we all tried to speak to one another. I heard at least three people trying to speak to me but couldn't make sense of any of it. Another one of the girls, an exotic, big-haired and voluptuous avatar, stood alone off to the side. The other two guys were almost cut outs of one another: tall, athletic, massive-jaw-bone types of manly men: clean cut and generically handsome. One of the female avatars was a redhead, the other a blond. The redhead was tall, muscular, dressed in fishnets and tights. The blond reminded me of Torii

Purchase, porn-starish with a touch of rural-chic.

"Speaking in groups can be complicated. Try targeting a particular person and the volume of the others will dim." The house spoke again and on my screen I saw the vocal target command hilighted. Then, the quiet brunette in the corner was next to me and had targeted me.

"Hey there," she said, and it was true, her voice had risen above the others.

"Hi," I said back.

"I find this all a little strange," she said.

"Yeah, me too. I've never done anything like this before."

"Your first social network?"

284 "First one like this, that's for sure."

"I tried Second Life, but it was too weird."

"And this isn't?"

"Discussion of ReWorld is discouraged in MeWorld. Most inhabitants enjoy it here because it provides an escape from ReWorld. MeWorld attempts to provide a fully immersive experience. Discussing issues outside of MeWorld may make some uncomfortable." It quickly became clear that this was one of the many automated messages that the house would say over and over again whenever an indiscretion was made.

Eventually we all got around to entering the house and exploring. Some of us were better at walking than others. One guy, Ricardo, had already learned how to dance and do yoga, a complicated command featuring typing skills that were well beyond mine. The girl who had approached me was named Sianne. I'd attempted to ask her about herself, but every time I did the house delivered its "Discussion of ReWorld..." speech. Slowly, jokingly, we'd begun to create elaborate fictions for our avatars, but it was difficult given our limited understanding of the place.

The house itself was two floors and had six bedrooms and was designed to continue our training. There were different rooms where we could practice things like picking up instruments, using an iPod, or dancing. We could cook, eat dinner together, and there was even a movie room.

Finally, we each had our own bedroom where our avatars would automatically go when we logged off. To any other avatar, you would appear to be sleeping soundly.

By the end of that opening session we'd all figured out how to sit around the living room and talk, slowly, calmly, and to specific people when necessary. Not having developed much of our MeWorld lives, we didn't have much to talk about. Eventually we began to log out one by

285 one. Sianne made it a point to say good night to me before she left. I noted that she was probably the most interesting looking avatar there, the most like a real person, which I thought I'd done a good job of maintaining myself, while the others looked like model cut outs or porn star pin ups.

When I did finally log out, I stood up from my desk and walked out of the office, only to discover that it had gotten dark outside. Then I noticed that it was after midnight. I'd been logged in for more than five hours.

286 37

Straddling Two Worlds

Sianne and I had become close very quickly in the house. She wasn't the type of girl that I was usually attracted to, but there was just something about the plastic quality of the other avatars that repelled me. Something about their being fake made their fakeness all the more pronounced.

And odd.

After a few days, Sianne and I discovered that we could actually sit out on a deck of

YourHome, and we'd taken to bringing glasses of wine out there after dinner. YourHome was located in a wooded area so there was nothing to see, but the calmness of being outside—the sounds and sights—was refreshing, even in an online community. There were birds to look at, tress to admire. We would eat out there too, but the house still insisted upon our eating together at the dining room table. So, after dinners we'd go outside as the sun set and work through the intricacies of our online personas. It was getting easier as time went on, and each day we heard a little less of "Discussion of ReWorld is discouraged in MeWorld. Most inhabitants enjoy it here because it provides an escape from ReWorld. MeWorld attempts..."

"So I think that last night, we had you as a political refugee," I reminded Sianne.

287 "Right, child soldier. What was I fighting for?"

"We hadn't gotten that far."

"What do you think the stories of these other people are?"

"Do you mean, what do I think they are concocting for their ava...backgrounds?" The house didn't like it when you used the "a" word.

"God, it's so fucking contrived, this hiding of the real world."

"ReWorld," I said.

"Don't people ever come here to meet people? Cause I assume that's who all these assholes are, right? With their porn-star bodies and meticulous fucking hair."

Sianne was verging dangerously close to discussing ReWorld issues.

"Well I guess, but who wants to come here and be the same loser they are in the real world?"

Sianne was about to speak when the house interrupted with its usual "Discussion of

ReWorld is discouraged in MeWorld. Most inhabitants enjoy it here because it provides an escape from ReWorld. MeWorld attempts to provide a fully immersive experience. Discussing issues outside of MeWorld may make some uncomfortable."

"This won't happen when we're out of this house, right?" she asked.

In the "reworld" My phone buzzed. I'd left it sitting on the desk next to the computer and it started to vibrate, startling me. I quickly glanced down at it and saw my aunt's name.

"I've got to switch to typing for a bit," I said and muted the mic.

Sianne: Typing is so old school

"Hey, what's up?" I answered the phone, reading the script as it scrolled across the bottom of the screen like subtitles. "Hey, Dave! Oh nothing, just calling to say hi," she said, but I could tell right away that there was something wrong. There was a silence that followed.

Sianne: What? You got a girl in there?

"What are you up to?" There was silence on the other end of the line, which was rare and meant that Mark was with the baby, which meant that my aunt must have really wanted to speak about something.

Mensen: lol. Phone call.

"Nothing," I said.

Sianne: straddling two worlds? Not sure what the house thinks of that.

Mensen: You're the one who keeps mentioning it.

"Are you sure, Dave? You sound distracted."

"Sorry, no, I'm here."

"So what's new?" She was stalling.

"I saw an accident the other day; that was intense."

"Really? Was everything all right?"

Sianne: I feel like I've only got half your attention.

Mensen: You've got the full attention of half of me.

Sianne: MMMMM. Which half?

"I think so, I helped a guy who got cut pretty bad, but everyone else seemed okay. I think"

"You had to help someone? Were you alone?"

289 I froze, not sure what to say. Why couldn't I just say I was with Maggie? On the screen I noticed that Sianne had winked at me. I reread her dialogue.

Mensen: Are you flirting?

Sianne: What? There's no flirting in MeWorld?

"I was with a friend, but really it was nothing. I was never in danger or anything. It just kind of affected me. I don't know."

"Well I'm glad everything is okay."

"How are things there? Mark and Lisa good?"

"Great, yeah. They're great."

There was silence again, a long awkward silence, and I knew she was struggling with something. This reminded me of those early morning phone calls when I lived in residence.

Sianne: You've stopped moving, you look like a mannequin.

Mensen: Isn't that like the pot calling the kettle black.

Sianne: What did you just say????? How old are you in

ReWorld???? My grandma says that!

"I think Mark and I are pretty good parents," my aunt said.

"What? Of course you are."

"I'm not saying that to brag or anything, I just feel really ready for this, you know?"

YourHome: Discussion of ReWorld is discouraged in MeWorld.

Most inhabitants enjoy it here because it provides an escape from ReWorld. MeWorld attempts...

Sianne: Oh fuck me, it was a joke!

"Sure." "And I've been thinking a lot. About you. And me. Us. Growing up." She took a breath.

Mensen: I don't think the house has a sense of humour.

Sianne: Seriously though, are you a dirty old man, or what?

Mensen: I'm sitting right in front of you, what do you think?

Sianne: Your refusal to respond about your age is creepy.

"I so wasn't ready to raise a kid."

"Of course you weren't! You were younger than I am now!"

"I know, but I wasn't a parent to you. Properly. I wasn't a proper parent."

Mensen: Discussion of ReWorld is strongly discouraged...

Sianne: Don't you start!

"Kaitlin, you did the best you could, I've always believed that. Actually, I always thought we did pretty a pretty good job of it."

"Really. I've just been feeling horrible lately. Thinking of all the things I did wrong."

"Oh god, you shouldn't, really. Please don't feel horrible. I think the fact that we survived at all is a miracle."

She laughed. "I just wasn't very 'parental'."

"For the record, you weren't technically a parent anyway. And as an aunt, I think it's safe to say that you were the best aunt ever. Actually, I've been feeling a little guilt lately about your being held back because of me."

"That's not true."

"Sure it is; you had no choice but to get settled, get serious about life."

"Yeah but I didn't sacrifice much, I kept dancing which is all I ever really wanted to do."

291 "So we should both relax?"

"Yeah I guess. Do you ever miss them?"

I had to sit back and think about that. I tried to picture them, but it was getting harder as I aged. I was never sure if the image was accurate or not. I didn't remember them clearly enough to miss them; I was never fully aware of the role they played in my life because I'd been so young. I missed the idea of them, I guess. Of having a family home to go home to, to spend

Christmases at.

Sianne: What's up? You still with us or what? I'm bored.

"No." I finally said and there was a moment of silence on the other end. "I don't. I think

I did for a long time, and sometimes I feel like I should miss them, but I don't. I get sad when I think about them; I wish they'd had a chance to live their lives, longer to be together. I wish I'd known them better, but I don't miss them anymore. I've got everything I need."

"Thank you." It sounded like she was crying, but my aunt wasn't one for crying, and she hid it well.

"If you asked me if I'd change anything, I'd feel pretty bad about saying yes."

"Well, Dave, for the record. I think you're a pretty good son. But I'd want them back."

"Of course." I said, and I would've too. "I imagine you'll raise a pretty good daughter."

"Speaking of the daughter..."

We said our goodbyes and hung up. I sat for a moment before looking up at the screen and noticing that Sianne had gone back inside.

292 38

New Releases

The warm snap had held up. Which in Montreal meant it was minus one and snowing. But it was those big, thick, damp flakes. Like someone throwing cotton balls at you. Sarah and I'd just finished having the Saturday Brunch Super Special with Paul and Paula when we decided to drag them along with us to the Eight Track. Paul and Paula walked hand in hand. They were still at that stage where they couldn't stop staring into each other's eyes.

Sarah picked up her pace and I followed.

"It's so weird," she whispered, leaning into me.

"How the hell do you think I feel?"

Paul and Paula had barely noticed we'd walked ahead.

"At least we don't have to share an office with Miss Manners anymore, that'd be too much." Sarah had immediately started calling Paula Miss Manners when she'd been yanked from the creative team and placed in manners mediation. By her own account, Paula was thriving in the new department. She said that she felt like she was doing a real service to the world. We hadn't told her about her nickname; we weren't sure how she'd take it.

"Yes. It would be," I said. Having Miss Manners at my apartment all the time was enough. She apologized for everything. The other day I dropped a glass on the floor and it had 293 shattered around me. Paula came rushing down the hall mumbling "So sorry, sorry, Dave are you okay?" in an absolute panic and she ended up sweeping up all the glass, telling me not to move

as she did it. But, I couldn't help but acknowledge the positive influence Paula had had on Paul.

For example, he didn't usually smoke pot until after work now.

"Does, like, Paula get high, or what?" Sarah asked, surprising me by thinking the same thing.

"Apparently she smoked for the first time the other night. Fell asleep about twenty minutes later."

"I thought she loved God or some shit." Sarah looked at me. She wasn't kidding.

"Maybe we just assumed she was religious," I said.

"Why else would someone be so weird?"

"You hear about this session that she's helping to organize for us?"

"Communication workshop?"

"Yup."

"You know, it could potentially be awesome," she said.

"It could also be a disaster."

"That would be the awesome part."

I took a glance back at them. They'd had their tongues out and were trying to catch snowflakes; they were moving in slow circles up the sidewalk, eyes squinting into the falling snow. I looked over at Sarah. She'd been gruffer than usual this morning. Snarkier. Now she had her hands shoved into her pockets and her head down and she was glaring at the sidewalk. Aside from lunch in the foodcourt, this was the first time we'd hung out since the holidays. "Is everything okay?" I asked.

294 She didn't look up. "Jamie and I got into it on Friday."

"What happened?"

"He asked me to stop swearing so much."

I didn't say anything and waited for more. There didn't seem to be anymore. "That's it?"

"Well, it was because of this stupid Christmas dinner incident when apparently I'd told his mother that her turkey was 'fucking spectacular'—you know how I use that expression—I didn't even notice but apparently his mother was 'appalled'." She shook her head. "It was a compliment for God's sake."

"Weird," I said.

"Yeah, right. Weird. Anyway, one thing led to another..." She trailed off.

"That's all it took?" I asked

"Well," she began, thinking. "Things have been tense."

"You guys haven't been together very long for things to be tense."

"He's just so..." she searched for a word. "He's kind of a pussy."

"A little sensitive?"

"Just ball-less. His fucking mother made him his own special bowl of stuffing because he doesn't like onions." She snorted. "I think he may be just a guy in a suit."

"That accounts for the nickname," I said.

"I thought he was just a guy who wore a suit, you know, and was something else underneath it all. Maybe he still is, I don't know."

"Well, that sucks," I said, but if Sarah and Suit N Tie Guy were right for each other, then everything I knew about the universe was wrong. I didn't know what type of guy was suitable for

Sarah, but it definitely wasn't him. I got that image of her in nothing but a tie again. I tried to

295 think of something, anything, to get the image out of my head. But then, in my image, she took the tie off and tossed it aside.

I glanced over at her to get the imaginary her out of my head. There were snowflakes gathering in her hair; they melted or tumbled off onto her shoulders like massive flakes of dandruff.

My phone started to vibrate in the inside pocket of my coat. I pulled off my glove and fumbled with the zipper. It stopped vibrating by the time I pulled it out. One missed call.

Maggie.

"What's up?" Sarah nodded my way.

I looked up at her, my phone in hand. "Maggie."

"Karla? Really? You still talking to her?"

"We kind of got together," I said.

"Kind of. What the fuck does that mean?"

"Okay, we slept together."

She was glaring at me. "That's just fucked, you know." She shook her head and stared back at the ground again.

"It's not like that." I saw that I shouldn't have told her. "It was just a one-time thing. I think we both just needed somebody in this weird moment."

"Or just some body." Sarah picked up her pace; the Eight Track was on the corner ahead.

"We've seen each other since, and, you know, it's not like it's going to happen again."

"That's just all kinds of fucked up."

Paul and Paula ran up to us.

296 "Hey, what do you want me to ask for again?" Paul asked. We'd spent brunch explaining—poorly—our attempt to manipulate the buying tastes of The Eight Track by repeatedly asking for particular bands. We decided that we should get Paul and Paula to join in, doubling our amount of asks. They both looked a little confused but agreed to play along. It'd been months since we'd done this. At one point in time we'd been regulars. "Library Voices, right McKay?"

I nodded. Sarah wouldn't look directly at me.

"Okay, Library Voices Library Voices Library Voices," Paul repeated to himself until we got to the shop. Paul and Paula nervously approached the counter. I was impressed with his ability to do all of this as sober as he was. There was a time when he had a hard time interacting with people when he wasn't high. Somewhere along the way, he'd convinced himself that everyone thought he was high when he wasn't. Apparently he forgot to worry about that when he actually was high.

Sarah and I dispersed, trying not to look too conspicuous, though I doubted any of the employees had even come close to recognizing us.

It was the snobby French chick behind the counter. She gave the best "I don't have a clue who that merde band is" look.

"Um, Hi." Paul stood awkwardly in front of the counter.

The woman behind the counter had a stylish mullet with frizzy, bleached bangs. She was wearing a Montreal Roller Derby T-shirt and glittery, almost metallic tights. There were thick black lines drawn around her eyes. She had a permanent scowl on her face, the dismissive way her eyes are downcast. She leaned against the wall behind her, arms crossed, and looked directly

at Paul. She didn't say anything.

297 "Do you have Library Voices?" he finally asked.

She looked at him for a moment longer and then blew a bubble with some bright pink gum. It snapped.

I glanced over at Sarah and she glanced back at me, both of us mid-way through a row of

CDs. We'd sent a pot-head to a certain hipster slaughter.

"Yes," she said after too long a pause, her expression not changing. "Over there." She jutted her chin toward the far wall. "New releases. Their first full-length."

Sarah's eyes grew big. I made a check-mark motion in the air with my hand; she finally looked back at me. Nodded her head, a big smile on her face and then went back to flipping through the row.

I didn't return Maggie's call until I was home and alone in the office.

"Hey," Maggie said when she answered.

"How's it going?" I looked around the room. It was so sparse. I'd never really noticed.

I'd had a plant in there for a while but it died after Diana left. I thought because of the lack of light, but I might have forgotten to water it.

"I'm packing."

"You're packing?" I had this momentary image of her jumping on a plane and chasing after Steve.

"I'm moving out," she said.

"Oh. Really?"

"You know, I've been thinking a lot about that accident we saw," she said.

"Yeah?" I sat back in the chair.

298 "Do you remember what you said to me while we were walking? Just before the crash."

I think back to that day. "I don't know," I say. "We talked about a lot of things."

"But specifically, at one point you said something about worrying about dying tomorrow and not having accomplished anything."

"Really? Did I?" I didn't remember that.

"Yeah, and at the time I thought you were just being young and naive and spouting cliches, sorry. But then that accident. I couldn't get it out of my head. You were right, you know.

That's what I was so upset."

"Why were you so upset?"

"Because if I died right now, I wouldn't be satisfied. I wouldn't die happy and that's terrible." She said it without any emotion, like she was stating a fact. "And I got an email from

Steve today. He said is that he was in Bangkok and has made some 'profound revelations'."

"Whaddya think that means?" I tried to conjure an image of Bangkok. Sweat, drugs. I didn't have much to go on.

"I don't know. It probably means he dropped acid last night."

I could hear her moving things around on her end; the reception was fuzzy. She sounded angry. Or frustrated maybe.

"Anyway, the thought of me having to sit there and listen to another one of his God damn profound revelations about life..." She paused. "I can't. I couldn't. Not again."

I could still hear the rustling, it had gotten more frantic. "Look, Maggie, if this is about me and..."

"No, Dave. I mean, no offence, but it has nothing to do with you. Okay?"

299 "Okay. But you need any help moving or anything?" I had the feeling that things with us had reached a fairly definitive point, and I felt perfectly fine with the way things had turned out. I felt like we could still talk about things; that our sleeping together wasn't going to have any effect on how we get along as friends, and I thought that was great and it even felt mature to me somehow. I'd never had that experience before.

"That would be great, Dave, thanks," Maggie said. "You've been really great through all this craziness."

Well I'd had that experience once before, with Sarah. We'd gotten together one time but had remained friends.

"Dave are you okay? I keep losing you."

I thought back to Sarah's reaction when we pulled down that Library Voices CD. Her hazel eyes went all huge. She'd smiled despite the shitty mood she was in.

"Sorry. I'd be glad to help, just let me know when." I glanced down at the laptop.

Without thinking I'd turned it on when I walked into the room. Maggie thanked me again for saying I'd help her move, said goodbye and hung up, but I barely heard her as I was already in the process of logging in to MeWorld.

300 39

Alternative Uses

It was Sianne who pointed out that the beds had "Adult Functions". When I checked for myself I found them buried under "Alternative Uses". The listed functions ranged from vague (making out, petting) to specific (oral sex and positions).

I'd been online for the better part of twenty-four hours at that point so couldn't be blamed for my actions. I was living off of caffeine and Mr. Noodle, and maintained brain function by managing to keep my physical functions at an absolute minimum: typing and blinking. At some point in the night, I'd crawled out of the office and onto the couch to doze, but kept waking up with questions about MeWorld buzzing around in my brain. What happened when I opened the cupboard door in the bathroom? Would there be extra rolls of toilet paper in there? If you washed the dishes, did the sinks eventually get dirty and have to be cleaned too? Did you even have to wash dishes? Did you need to eat? Could avatars wipe their own asses?

It turned out that it was all up to you. The level of immersion was based on a person's own desire: avatars didn't have to eat, but they could; there was no need to wash the dishes, but

301 the avatars were capable of performing the action; there was no one telling you to have sex, but if the function existed?

After dinner, while the others were getting ready to watch a movie (iTunes had a direct link into MeWorld and you could purchase movies, TV shows, music and view or listen to them directly in-world) Sianne and I went to our usual spot on the patio.

"So I masturbated last night," she said, almost as soon as we'd sat down.

"What? That's a little personal isn't it?"

"No, I mean here. In the house. Sianne."

"But still, personal."

"Yeah, okay. I guess." She picked up her glass and drank.

Periodically, each of us would lift our glasses to our mouths and drink. Neither voice- over nor typing could occur when this happened; instead, the communication was delayed by the program. At first this had been a major annoyance, but I noticed that each day the interruptions happened less and less. We were adapting.

She started to tell me about finding the "Adult Functions".

"And one of them was masturbating?" It didn't occur to me at first why. "Did you enjoy it?" I tried to think if I'd ever actively watched myself masturbate for pleasure.

"Kind of, I mean. It's not really me, right? But also, the idea that I could do that with somebody else. Someone could watch. Because even though it isn't, it still kind of is me."

I watched her take a drink of her wine, and I thought about watching her masturbate. It had been long enough—and I'd been awake long enough—that the fact that she was an avatar barely even meant anything to me anymore.

"So?" she asked.

302 "So what?"

"We've all got private rooms."

It was awkward at first. Walking into the room. Prematurely, we took off our own clothes before realizing that "getting naked" was one of the Adult Function options. We stood there for a moment, and I stared at her body using different angles. It was so life-like, but still not at all.

Sianne had been constructed to be shapely, slightly muscular. Similar to the build I'd chosen for myself.

I was assuming that Sianne was doing the same to me. I was very aware about how I'd deliberately chosen to make my avatar different from me, and wondered if what I was looking at bore any resemblance to the person behind it. There was something to that mystery.

Once we got into the bed, we each had to choose a function, (or functions to create a narrative) and from there the bed took over, leaving me with only control of the visual angle. I tried POV for awhile, but something about it didn't seem right. It was too close; the animation too evident.

The anatomy was as real as I imagined it could get. I tried to think if there was a difference between this and porn and I wasn't sure. But it was erotic, and maybe even more so than anything else; maybe the feeling was enhanced because you knew that somewhere out there someone was sharing this moment with you.

When it was over, Sianne rolled out of bed and began to dress.

"Weird," she said, and it was startling to hear her voice; we'd both been nearly silent through the whole thing.

"That's it? You're leaving? Isn't there some kind of cuddle option?"

303 "No offence, but I just wanted to check it out, see what it was like. But I don't think you're my type."

"What the hell do you mean, 'not your type'?"

"Aesthetically."

"Aesthetically?"

"I don't like your body. Your, um, dick."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I prefer circumcised guys who are a little less hairy."

"Are you kidding?"

"Relax. We're only going to be out of here in a few days anyway. There's like two million users in MeWorld."

I was too startled to speak.

"Look it was really cool, okay." I heard her exhale. "Alright, I'm sorry, you want me to lie down next to you or something?"

"No it's fine. You're right."

"Okay, I'm logging—sorry, going to bed. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. Good night."

And she was gone. I too logged off, but I sat there at the desk for a long time. There'd been something so familiar about that whole situation. My eyes begin to tire and the screen went blank as the screensaver came on.

Eventually I stood and walked out into the living room. Paul was slouched over the couch watching curling. It was the season of provincial play-downs in the lead-up to the Canadian championships.

304 "'Sup dude? You look a little stunned."

"I just had a strange experience in MeWorld."

"I can't believe you're doing that shit. Why don't you just watch a movie or something?"

"I had to check it out, and it's really...interesting."

"Do you ever have anything that isn't a strange experience there?" He asked.

"Sure."

"What do you even do? It's not a game, right?" Paul shifted and looked at me. His eyes were little slits. He'd complained to me that since he'd started dating Paula he'd been smoking less pot and it had affected his tolerance. Now he was getting his amounts all wrong and was

getting too high.

"It's kind of a game."

The announcer's voice got excited on the TV and Paul looked back in time to see a great hit and roll to the button.

"Hey, you're watching men's curling," I noticed.

"Yeah, man. It's the Alberta playoffs. Like one of the best curling bonspiels in the

world."

Sometimes I wondered if Paul just hid his inner-jockiness behind the excuse that he had crushes on female athletes. I concluded that he actually just really liked curling.

"So what happened to you in MeWorld."

"I had sex with a girl."

He sat up, interested. "How'd that happen? You got some special suit or something?"

"Not like that, and that wasn't the weird part anyway."

"How could that not be the weird part?"

305 "There was something about the girl," I said.

"Like, was she an alien or something? She-male?" Paul looked like he couldn't decide whether to be appalled or excited.

"No, no not that."

There was another big shot that pulled his attention toward the TV. We sat there quietly: he caught up in the action, me realizing finally what was bothering me so much about Sianne.

"Are there any unattractive people on MeWorld?" he asked.

"What?" She reminded me of Sarah.

"Unattractive people. Are there like, people who choose to be ugly?"

"I don't know," I said, thinking about it for the first time. "That's a really good question."

306 40

Communication Breakdown

Since she'd started commuting with The Suit Crew, Sarah was pretty much always late for work.

On Monday, there was a memo on our desks reminding us of our full-day communication and language workshop which would be run by Richard Kaye the Business Language Consultant who had been training Paula (listed now as our Manners Mediation Coordinator). We were to meet in the boardroom at 9:00 a.m.

I checked my watch. Sarah had Fifteen minutes. I flipped on the computer.

Sarah slumped her way into the room five minutes later looking tired. She nodded in my direction.

"Commute?" The more I'd thought about it the night before, the more I'd realized that

Sianne had been an online version of Sarah. I'd been telling myself that it meant nothing.

She growled a response.

"I thought you weren't talking to him after your little tussle last week?"

"He called all fucking whiny on Saturday. I thought he was going to start crying or something." She picked up the memo. "He cooked me dinner last night told me I could swear all

I wanted about the food." 307 I watched her read it, and saw relief wash over her. I studied her, looking for signs of

Sianne. The hair for one.

She looked up from the memo. "I totally forgot! This is going to be fu—" She stopped abruptly and touched her face, brushes her nose. "What?"

I sat back in my chair and looked away from her. "What what?"

"Why were you just staring at me like that? Snot?" She touched her nose again.

"Like what?"

"I don't know." She raised her eyebrow and squinted, eyeing me suspiciously.

I shifted in my chair. Picked up the memo again.

"Anyway," she said, shaking the paper. "This could be the most thrilling thing we've ever experienced here at Right Back At Ya." Her whole demeanour changed. She looked suddenly invigorated.

"You guys are late." Paula rushed into our office. Since she'd become Miss Manners, she'd taken to dressing "professionally": skirt suits, dress pants.

"You going to give us an inside scoop or what?"

"Sorry guys. Mr. Kaye says we can't let people strategize. We want fresh communicators."

Sarah wasn't even hiding her smile. She was beaming.

We followed Paula to the boardroom where the rest of the staff had already assembled.

Chairs have been arranged and everyone sat staring up at the front of the room. The Boss sat at the back with his arms crossed across his chest. I wasn't sure why we all needed communications training but it sounded better than working.

308 The Suit Crew was sitting together in the front row. Sarah went and sat next to Suit N Tie

Guy, and I had no choice but to follow. We'd done such a good job of alienating everyone else in the office that I had no one else to sit with.

"Hey guys." Suit N Tie Guy leaned forward in his chair. "So what do you think of this? It could be interesting."

"Yeah, it could be..." I leaned forward and looked around Sarah, but she was giving me one of her don't-say-anything looks. "Could be good." I sat back.

Paula sat at a chair by the front door with a note pad in her lap. Richard Kaye stood

alone at the front of the room. Richard was dressed in what I assumed was a very nice suit. It was

dark blue, stripped, and looked cut to fit. He had on a solid tie that matched the subtle shade of

the stripes. A little handkerchief peeked out from the pocket. His shoes were long and pointy:

glistening. He was the kind of guy who looked big, but really wasn't. A broad face, tanning-bed brown for winter and rounded at the edges; thick, over-conditioned brown hair, wisps of it falling

over his wide forehead. He had a huge white smile.

There was a screen behind him showing a PowerPoint presentation. The slide had a picture of a bunch of men and women in suits sitting around a desk holding coffee mugs. They

looked happy.

Richard walked forward a few steps, stood up straight and gazed out over the room.

Quickly, we were silent. It was remarkable, the power his big white smile and dancing blue eyes

wielded. I noticed him press on something in his hand and words scrolled across the screen.

Ego Breaking / Ego Making: Managing Communication in the Workplace

"Ladies and Gentlemen." His voice was deep, resonant, but there was this smooth tone to

it that put everyone at ease. "Co-workers. Friends." Pause. "Communicators." He looked us all in

309 the eye. "Communication is to share. It is an exchange. And mastering the skills of this— learning to share—is key to developing positive relationships. Positive relationships, of course, are key to positive workplaces. Positive workplaces are key to having positive workers. Positive workers," he stood back and glanced at the screen, "create positive relationships." The next slide had a circle drawn on it and was titled The Cycle of Communication. Slowly everything that

Kaye had just said faded up on the screen showing the cycle from positive relationships all the way around and back to itself. He continued to explain how the structure of the day would go, something about exposing bad sharing habits and deconstructing them that would take all morning. The afternoon would consist of us learning how to perform "self-perception checks" that would allow us to see how we could communicate better in any given situation in such a way that inspired better communication from the other person. He said a lot of things about

"emotional vocabularies" and the importance of understanding and using non-verbal communication techniques. Something he called PCIs: Physical Communication Indicators.

"There are boundaries in language and communication, and multiple levels," he continued. "We are going to learn how to reshape those boundaries, how to navigate the tiers of the communication ladder so that we can all get on the Communication Cycle."

Sarah leaned over and whispered, "This guy is un-fucking-believable." She was still smiling widely.

The new slide showed two people trying to speak, but their words were coming out at the same time and meeting in the middle and crumbling.

"This is bad communication. These people can't share." Richard broke his smile, frowned. "And you know what? It happens every day, all around us. We probably don't even see it happening, it's so subtle, this communication breakdown. I need a few volunteers." There was not a bit of movement in the room. Paula raised her hand, but Richard ignored her. Then Sarah threw her arm in the air and began to shake it like an over-excited kid in a grade-

school classroom. I wanted to reach up and grab her arm, but it was too late.

"Okay, let's start in the front row." He looked directly at us. "Can I get you first three to

stand up please?" I looked down the row. He was talking about me, Sarah and Suit N Tie Guy.

He asked our names. "Okay Sarah, we're going to role play a situation here between the two gentlemen, and I want you to observe and tell me things that you see going wrong." He turned back to everyone else. "This is to demonstrate that we all have, within ourselves, this ability to recognize communication problems."

Suit N Tie Guy smiled a friendly smile at me. Sarah glowed behind him.

"Okay Dave, Jamie. Here's the situation, and we're going to keep this simple. Dave you are Role Player 1; Jamie, 2." A new image appeared on the screen explaining our role: New parking spaces had just been randomly assigned and RP1 noticed that RP2 had been given RPl's old parking spot which was in the shade of a big tree. RPl's new space was closer to the building but not shaded. RPl's task was to ask RP2 to switch places with him.

Suit N Tie guy shook out his arms, then his torso, right down through his legs like he was warming up.

"Hey Jamie, how's it going?" I asked.

"Gee, it's just going great Dave. How about you?"

"Well, Jamie—and I'm glad you're doing great by the way; you look good too, you know—I see that our parking spots have been reassigned."

311 "Hey, thanks Dave, you're not looking too shabby yourself." He smiled a big goofy grin.

And it was impossible to tell if he was really enjoying this or not. "I'm pretty happy with my new parking spot," he said.

"Yeah. Right. About that..."

"What about it, Dave?"

I hated the way he kept using my name. "Did you happen to notice that you got my old parking spot?"

Richard was standing back by Paula. He was watching us with great concentration; he'd nudged Paula and they looked at each other knowingly and she wrote something down.

"Oh really, was that your old spot? I didn't notice."

"Well, yeah, it is. I really liked it too."

"I can see why, all that shade," he said, still smiling.

"So how about you give it back to me? We'll switch."

"Oh, I don't know, Dave, this was an administrative decision." He folded his arms over his chest.

"They won't care. They won't even notice. Just don't park there tomorrow."

"I reeeeaaaally like it though." He shook his head and brought his hand up to rub his chin.

"But it was mine first," I said.

"Well, it's just a parking spot—"

"If it's just a parking spot then give it back to me." He had this look on his face, this "aw shucks" look that was part of his whole act and it was stupid. He was obviously stupid.

312 "Well, you see, Dave, I'm actually a little sensitive to the heat, so having my car parked in the shade..." He trailed off.

"Well, Jamie, for one I'm not sure who isn't sensitive to the heat, and second it was mine first and I don't really like change."

"Change can be good, Dave, if you just go with the flow."

"Sorry, Jamie, but I'm actually a little sensitive to change."

"Who isn't sensitive to change, Dave?" He gave me this smug little look. Smug little bastard.

"How about this, Jamie? I deserve the parking spot. How about that? I just deserve it more, and I'm sure I'll appreciate it more, too." I was aware of my voice rising, but I couldn't stop it. The look on his face began to change. He glanced over at Richard. "I've been here longer than you, how about that, huh; I was one of the first employees at this place, I'm more important to this company than you are, I'm a better employee than you are, I probably even earn more money than you do. I'm just more important than you, Jamie, all around, and I don't need to wear a fucking suit to try to elevate my status or whatever, when all you are is just some boring guy with a really nice calculator and a good parking spot. So give me my parking spot back right now."

There was absolute silence in the room. Jamie looked around confused. Sarah's face had fallen. I couldn't look over at my coworkers so I turned and look at Richard and Paula. Richard was stunned; Paula confused.

"Um, right, ah. So." Richard moved forward. "Interesting. Interesting role play."

"Wow, Dave, you really got into that." Jamie leaned in and whispered; he'd recovered, it seemed. I suddenly was overcome with a desire to punch him in the face.

313 "So, Sarah." Richard retook the centre of the room. "What did you observe there, from a

communication point of view?"

She looked baffled, and looked from me to Suit N Tie Guy to Richard. "Well," she said

but didn't seem to have anything else to say.

I just wanted to sit down and make myself really, really small. There were a few snickers

from The Phoners who were sitting in the back. One of them coughed into his hand, "hasshole."

There were a few more snickers.

By the time we'd made our whole way around the Communications Cycle, I was defeated. Done.

I felt like, if anything, I'd lost the ability to communicate. My morning performance had been

used as the example for the rest of the day. Sarah didn't seem to know what to say to me, and all

I could do was mumble about not running and having all this stored up adrenaline. At lunch

Paula took me aside and asked if everything was okay. I told her everything was fine. She asked

me if I thought I'd snapped. She'd asked me in a very calm voice. She spoke slowly, holding my

arm firmly as she did it.

The workshop ended a little early and I took the chance to slip out from the office. I headed over to the underground, grabbed a coffee and roamed for a few hours. I walked from

Place Des Arts downtown to the Bell Centre in the west end; then from there down to the old port. I made a few wrong turns, ended up in dead ends in the basements of buildings. But everywhere I went, there were people. It was like a human highway, especially at the end of the day with commuters heading to the suburban trains, the subways, just trying to avoid the weather. Massive rivers of humans in suits flooded parts of it so that you had to stand shoulder to

shoulder and shuffle.

314 I was fairly numb by the time I decided to head home. A certain realization had been taking shape in my head.

When I got home Paula and Paul were there in the living room watching the continuation of the Alberta curling playoffs. I sat down in a chair next to the TV.

"Dave, are you okay?" Paula looked at me, concerned.

Paul sat up. "I heard about the workshop. Speak, Roomie, what's going on?"

I stared at both of them. "Okay. First, for the past little while I've been getting this image of Sarah in my head." I paused, wondering if I should go on. But I knew that I had to. "And, like, she isn't wearing anything other than Suit N—um, Jamie's tie."

Paul and Paula looked at one another. Then looked back at me. Something unspoken had passed.

"And then I joined MeWorld, right, and I met this girl and we hit it off and..." I glanced at Paula, "and we really seemed to get along well. The weird thing is, she's totally like Sarah."

"And then you freaked at work today?" Paul said.

"Was it that obvious?"

"You're jealous, Dave," Paula said. There was a smile growing on Paul's face. A big one.

I nodded.

"Let's take this slowly, okay Dave." Paul stood up. He ran his hand through his hair, took a few paces. "When did you start to figure this out?"

"Figure what out?"

"This Sarah thing." He stopped right in front of me. Bent down and looked me in the eye.

"What Sarah thing?"

I looked from her and back to Paul.

315 Paul laughed when I looked at him. "I know, dude, Paula pointed it out. It's obvious, right. Man, I never actually thought you'd come around." He stood up straight again. "So what're we gonna do now?"

"Everyone had it figured out way before you, Dave."

"Yeah, but..."

"Her and Jamie aren't going to last, you know," Paula said. "She was just lonely, and he expressed an interest."

I looked at Paula very closely, but nothing evident had changed. Here I thought all along she was just a vacuous space, but she'd actually been noticing things. Maybe it was the manners mediation.

"But do you know what the most fucked thing is?" Paul flopped back down on the couch.

"She's totally into you. Or was totally into you anyway."

"How can you say that? She's not into me." Sarah was definitely not into me. I wasn't her type.

"Come on, dude. She was waiting for you, for like, forever. She'd even kind of told me once."

I looked at him, expecting a smirk, a "just kidding", something, but he just sat there.

Paula shuffled over to sit closer to him. She wrapped her arm around his.

"What?" I couldn't believe it. I could barely picture Sarah having a thing for anyone.

She's so not a 'thing' girl.

"Totally, dude, totally. She was all drunk, up at Tim's last year. She kept asking what it was you liked so much about Diana. I think she also called you an asshole horn-dog, or something, but still."

316 "When we first started working together, I actually thought you guys were a couple,"

Paula said.

"Why didn't you ever tell me? Why didn't anyone say anything?"

"I don't know. I didn't think you liked cool chicks," he said.

"What do you mean you didn't think I liked cool chicks?"

"I thought you were into dumb girls. Or hot, mean ones. You were getting with Diana, too. I didn't wanna mess with that. You guys were all into each other."

"Shit." I slumped.

"Sorry, dude."

How had I ever missed any of this? Why hadn't I been looking for it? Noticing it? I had to wonder though, if it would it feel weird to take that extra step? And I wondered why I'd never considered it before.

"Dude, honestly, I never thought you'd come around. I think you've changed. Since

Christmas"

Had I changed? I didn't feel different. I wanted to ask him about it. It seemed to me like everyone else had changed, like some switch had been thrown and everything around me was out of whack. But through it all, I'd stayed the same.

"It's too late now. Way too late," I said. I remembered back to brunch on the weekend and the way she'd acted after I got that phone call from Maggie. Had she been acting jealous?

The phone call. Maggie. I'd told her about Maggie.

I threw my hands up to my face, I couldn't even help it. I shook my head. "Oh God, no."

"What?" Paul asked, panicked.

"It is too late." I slumped forward, elbows on my knees.

317 "Maybe it's not." Paula looked at me with such hope that I almost felt inspired.

"I don't know, you guys. What should I do?" But as I asked, I thought to myself that maybe I shouldn't do anything. Maybe Sarah and I weren't meant to be. Maybe it would suck and just ruin everything good that we had. Maybe.

318 41

The Path of Most Resistance

I couldn't concentrate at work and spent most of the day avoiding Sarah and browsing Buddy

Blogger. Slowly the social networks had been blocked from our work computers, but so far

Buddy Blogger hadn't yet fallen under the knife. I notice that Paul was online. At work was the only time he went online, and that was only because he had no choice. I can't believe that it had come to the point where I was seeking out Paul for advice about women.

To: Fagundawhat Message: U busy?

w Fagundawhat U kidding? 8:46am

McDaveKay Sarah's not here yet 8:4 7am w Fagundawhat Watya gonna do 8:4 8am

I don't know. McDa ve Kay 8:4 9am

WFagundawhat Careful dood dont mess things up shes gota guy 8:4 9am remember

~McDaveKay I feel like i've been such an idiot 8:50am

319 Fagundawhat Member u 2 got a good thing dont treat her like : 51am another chik

McDaveKay Like another chick? 8:51am

w Fagundawhat Think with yer heart dood 8:52am

— McDaveKay What's that supposed to mean? : 53am

wFagundawhat Yer weird with chix, u cant mess this one up 8:54am

- McDaveKay I'm not weird with chicks : 54am

I4 Fagundawhat Yer weird with chix : 55am

—'McDaveKay Well thanks for your help 8:53am

wFagundawhat Dood just hang, chat take it slo 8:54am

—"McDaveKay You think? 8:54am

Fagundawhat Yuv been friends this long

By the end of the day, I was happy to leave work. I'd continued to say as little as possible to

Sarah for the rest of the day; I'd tried to keep things normal, yet she asked me what was wrong at least three times, so I must have done a poor job of it.

In the mid-afternoon, I got a panicked call from Maggie telling me that the night before she'd emailed Steve and told him she was leaving him. He emailed her back that morning to tell her that he was "On my way. Don't do anything till I get back." She said it had been sent sometime during the middle of the night, Montreal time. She wanted to get out as soon as

320 possible. I didn't even tell Sarah I was leaving work, just told Le Valerie that I wasn't feeling well and walked out.

I was worried for Maggie, but happy for the distraction. Happy that I'd be going to help her. I was looking forward to doing something physical and distracting; it seemed strange considering the circumstances by which we met that Maggie was now my refuge away from the weirdness.

When I got there she was mostly done with the packing. She'd backed the car up to the door and had begun to bring things down herself. It was not too cold, but overcast and it looked like it could snow.

"Everything in the living room needs to go. I've got the bedroom." She was determined to make the move as quick and easy as possible. Her face looked tight, pursed. Eyes focused.

Upstairs, I picked up a box marked "Books". I squeezed by her as she came back up the stairs. "You're not taking much," I said.

"Enough for now. I don't even have my own place yet." She didn't stop, just kept going up the stairs, like she didn't want to stop in case she couldn't start again.

I dropped the box into the back of her car and bounded up the steps. I noticed that she'd stopped and was staring at the three portrait photos she'd taken. I could see her posture slip.

"You all right?" I asked.

She didn't look away from the pictures. "I guess so," she said. She turned around and picked up a bundle of cloth.

"When do you expect him?"

"Any minute," she said.

I grabbed another box, this one marked "Collected Stuff'.

321 "How are you?" she asked

"Strange few days."

"What's up?"

We walked together toward the stairs and I let her pass.

"I think I figured out that I might have this thing for Sarah."

"Sarah? From work?" Maggie looked over her shoulder. "Makes sense."

"What?"

"Well, I know more about her then I ever did about Diana. You always mentioned her."

"But she's my best friend," I said.

Maggie went around to the side door of the car and threw the clothes into the backseat.

"Did you guys ever date or anything?"

I dropped the box into the back of the car. "No. I mean there was this one time. But I

guess we had work. Eventually we worked together. And I guess. I don't know." I remembered

way back to that morning after. To her indifference. To how she said the word "fuck" that first

time. "She was different," I finally said.

She stopped, looked at me and waited.

"What?" I asked.

"Well, what's that mean, 'different'?"

"Different, I guess, than the other girls I was with at the time."

"In a good or a bad way?"

I weighed that. It was not something I'd ever considered before. The girls I'd been with were usually young, naive, maybe a little dim, and prone to drinking lots of colourful shooters at undergrad hangouts on Thursday nights. "Wow, in..." I began, but I couldn't say anything else. I

322 actually felt sick for a moment. I sat down on the cold steps. It was so cold it was uncomfortable, but I still didn't get up. "Different in such a good way," I said.

"So then, it makes sense." Maggie took a few steps forward and gave me her hand. I took it and stood up. "I think that I'm coming to the conclusion that feelings don't have to be that complicated; you just have to trust them. It's when we don't that things get complicated."

"I think I might be a little dense."

She laughed. "I know I don't know you very well, but you don't seem so dense."

"With women, maybe. Dense with women."

She turned me around and we headed back up stairs. There were only two more boxes. I told Maggie that I'd be right back and I went to the washroom. I turned on the water and threw some on my face. I put my arms on the sink and stared straight into the mirror. I had been dense.

Clueless, even. For a long time, too.

Maggie screeched. I froze.

I heard a man's voice, muffled but I knew it had to be Steve. I put my ear to the door but it still didn't help. I put my hand on the door knob, turned it as quietly and slowly as I could.

Steve was talking very quickly.

"And then, when we got to Sam Neua, right, we go to this guesthouse and there's a few other guys there, guys like us, westerners I mean, anyway." He paused and took a big breath.

I had no idea what to do. I had no idea what he would think if he saw me there. I decided to try to sneak out.

"These guys, they are going to do the same thing that we're going to do, eat the rock rat, right. So I was, like, what the fuck? Turns out it was a scam, it's been going on for a few months now, and people are just starting to figure it out. A big fucking scam. So we headed back to

323 Cambodia to regroup, to meditate." The desperation in his voice was obvious. I could picture

him looking frantic, his eyes bugging out of his head.

I slipped out of the bathroom. I could hear Maggie mmhmming every few words. I tip-

toed down the hall and saw that the front door was still open. They were in the living room; if I

inched along the wall there would be only a few feet where I'd be exposed to them.

"And there I was, meditating on the beach with this Khmer guru. I hadn't eaten in days, just water and fresh coconut milk, and suddenly I wasn't angry about the rats anymore, I wasn't

angry about anything. I wasn't even thinking about anything. I was just relaxed. Thinking about

how happy everyone looked..." His words slowed.

My back was against the wall. I leaned forward and peeked just quickly enough to see

that his back was to me. He'd dropped his backpack behind him. He was wearing dirty cargoes

and a sun-worn cotton button-up. The back of his neck was very tanned.

"...so relaxed. And I felt it, Maggie; I felt it."

"What, Steve? What did you feel?" Her voice sounded annoyed.

"I felt the peace. I felt the calmness come over me. I've been taking you for granted, I see

that now. I'd been taking the world for granted. I wasn't being honest with myself."

I made my move to slip out of the door, but I made the mistake of looking back and

making eye contact with Maggie. Her eyes went big, she tried to catch herself but it was too late.

Steve turned around and looked me straight in the eye, and I froze, mid-step, right at the top of

stairs. There was such a look of bewilderment on his face that I couldn't help but watch. I could

see him putting together things in his mind, and my worry was that he was putting the wrong

things together. Or maybe the right things but in the wrong order. I probably should have run.

324 "What the hell..." He looked from me back to Maggie. She'd gone pale, her hand at her mouth. I saw the glassiness of her eyes and knew that at any moment she could start crying.

"Steve look," I said walking back into the room. "I was just here to hel—"

"No, no." He held his hands up. "I think I'm getting what's going on here."

"No. Steven look, you're getting the wrong impression," Maggie moved toward him.

I could feel the tension in the room, see the strain in Steve's body as he struggled not to lash out. "Master Khieu prepared me for this."

"Steve it's not what you think, I'm just here to help her move."

Steve held his breath for a second and then let out a huge, dramatic exhale, and relaxes.

"We can make this work. The three of us."

"What?" Maggie and I looked at each other, confused.

"If this adoption is that important to you Maggie, then let's do it. Let's adopt this boy."

"Steve. You need to sit down." Maggie had completely composed herself.

"The middle way," he said, nodding. "The middle way sometimes is not the path of least resistance. Sometimes it's the path of most resistance."

"Dave, I think you can take off. Thanks so much for your help."

"He doesn't have to go, Maggie. Don't you understand? You can have your child. We can have our child."

"Are you sure?" I asked Maggie.

"I'll call," she waved me off and went toward Steve; she gently grabbed his arm.

"You don't have to go, Dave," Steve called as I turned and went down the stairs. I stood out in the crisp air, took a moment to close up Maggie's car, then headed down the street. It was getting darker now, even though it was only early evening. It had stayed warm enough for a few

325 snowflakes to start to fall. There was steady traffic on Sherbrooke, mostly heading west and away from downtown. I waited for a break and crossed the street. I stood next to a bus stop and looked to my left down the street for a bus. I saw that it had stopped at a streetlight about three blocks up. I thought about going home and logging on to MeWorld, maybe seeing Sianne, make sure things were still cool between us. I thought that I should probably take the time to get to know the other people in the house too. We'd be leaving the house soon, and I knew that I should've been making contacts for the outside.

As the bus neared I realized that the thought of sitting in front if the computer and attempting to communicate with a bunch of people I didn't know, while at the same time attempting to manipulate my avatar seemed overwhelmingly exhausting. And as exciting and interesting as it all was, I didn't think seeing Sianne would be enough right now. I needed something a little more tangible than that. Something a little more flesh and blood.

326 42

Keeping Things Complicated

The whole time that I was on the bus, right up till we got downtown and I had to step off to

transfer, I couldn't stop thinking about something that Maggie had said, that thing about having

to trust our feelings because if we didn't things usually got complicated.

I'd been feeling down and confused for days, but there was no reason why I had to.

Things were good. Life was good. I had good friends; I had a family that loved me. I'd been complicating things by not trusting my feelings. The adoption thing. Diana.

Standing on the corner, I pulled out my phone and checked the time. My office would have closed about an hour ago. I hit speed dial '3'. It rang five times then went to the answering machine. "It's me, Sarah. Me, Dave. Call me right away. Okay? Please? Okay. Thank you."

I hung up and then called her number again, but got the answering machine. I tried a few more times.

The bus pulled up but I didn't get on. I called Paul instead.

"Hey, Roomie," he says.

"I need to find Sarah. Now, Paul."

327 "Hey there now, slow down hurricane."

"I'm serious."

"What the hell am I gonna do?" he asked. I heard Dennis, his boss, in the background asking who it was.

"You're at work?"

"Just closing shop."

"Can you go onto Blogger and stalk Sarah for me?" I asked.

"You mean that GPS shit." He groaned dramatically. "Dude, you know that makes me uncomfortable."

"She won't answer her phone."

"Wait a minute," he said and I could hear him typing. "You know I have serious ethical issues with this."

"I know Paul, thanks."

"It looks like she's right off of Park Avenue. In the Ghetto on Milton."

"The Ghetto? Where the hell would she be in the Ghetto?" The McGill-student Ghetto was the neighbourhood surrounding the university to the east. A mix of ugly apartment buildings and overpriced walk-ups that was full of students. Paul and I'd lived there together in our third year of university when we first moved off campus.

"There's that restaurant. That vegetarian place. Bookstore too, right?" he said. "Dave," he said, all of a sudden serious, "you're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"I don't know," I told him. "Maybe."

"Shit, wait, dude." He clicked on the mouse. "It just disappeared. Sorry man. It says

'Subject in transit'."

328 "Thanks, Paul."

"Dude, seriously you gotta think this—"

"I gotta go," I said and hung up. I dialled her number again but there was still no answer.

I stood there for a few minutes, glancing down at my phone. When the next bus came by,

I got on. I was acting out of desperation. Panic almost, at the thought of messing one more thing up. Or at letting something that seemed so obvious and right slip away. Diana had called me passive. I didn't get what she meant at the time, but I was beginning to understand that maybe she'd been right. I didn't want to continue like that.

Only two blocks up Park Avenue my phone buzzed in my hand and I jumped in my seat.

An old woman in a long blue coat and a matching blue hat glared at me. I put my phone to my ear. Heart beating.

"What the fuck, McKay? You called like a million times." She was speaking directly into the phone, but quietly. "What happened to you at work today?"

"I need to see you," I said without thinking.

"What? No. I'm busy, Jesus. I'm out with Jamie."

"Did you just eat at that vegetarian place on Milton?"

"What? Are you stalking me on Buddy Blogger? Are you shitting me? What's up with you?"

"Did Jamie get enlightened by the Communications workshop or something?" I couldn't help myself.

"Nice. Nice one." She let a frustrated breath go right into the phone. "He did actually. He told me he realized he wasn't helping me communicate with him better, but that he now had the skills to fix that."

329 "What?"

"He said he learned a lot yesterday."

"Sarah, really? You don't buy that, do you? You were there," I said.

"I don't know, but he took me out for dinner and now he's taking me out to a movie so

fuck off."

"Movie? Where are you?"

"That place Paul likes, Cinema du Pare? Look Dave, Jamie just went to get our tickets

and I'm supposed to be buying coffee, so..."

Cinema du Pare? At the next stop I stood and ran out of the back door—I didn't even

look to see where I was—and started walking south back toward downtown. "You know where

the statue is right? The one at Mount Royal?"

"The one with the wings? The angel one?"

"Yeah, the big one, where the guys sell pot. Meet me there in five minutes." I looked up

and squinted and I saw the statue, even in the dusk. I could get there in five minutes.

"Um. Sorry, didn't I just—" She didn't sound quite as angry anymore, mostly just confused.

"Be there, Sarah, honestly. I'm on my way."

"Is everyone okay?" Now she sounded concerned.

I considered lying to her for about five seconds to make sure that she came, but decided against it. "Yes, yes, everyone's okay. Just go. Hurry. Please."

"Look, I can't just leave." She made another frustrated noise into the phone. There was silence. It lasted a moment. Then another.

330 I stopped walking and pressed the phone into my ear, wondering if she'd hung up, but I couldn't hear a thing. There was another moment and I held my breath.

"If this turns out to be something that you could have told me over the phone, I swear to

God I will kill you." She began to move. "I mean it, too. I'll fucking kill you. Don't put it past me. This better not be about a pregnancy scare with your mother-lover either, because honestly,

McKay."

"Sarah," I say, letting out the air and walking again, "just be there. Five minutes."

She hung up and I picked up the pace; I weaved in and out of middle-aged couples, groups of high school kids smoking cigarettes. I side-stepped the Greek grocers closing up their shops. It got warm quickly and I unzipped my coat.

The statue was just off of Park Avenue, at the bottom of the eastern slope of the hill. The angel sat high up on a concrete pedestal. Other statues, old dead French guys, I assumed, surrounded the pedestal. There was a flat field around it where everyone came to play drums and hang out every Sunday afternoon for the Tam Tams.

There was absolutely no one around it. A couple of snowshoers exited form a path by the woods and made their way along the field. I walked up to the statue and saw Sarah and Jamie coming from the other side. I hadn't expected him to be there. I walked around to meet them.

Jamie half waved when he saw me and Sarah scowled. I stopped. I had no idea what I was going to do or say.

She pulled ahead of him and rushed up to me.

"So?" She was pissed. Her jaw was clenched, her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of her coat.

331 I stood there and couldn't think of what to say. "Can we be alone?" I looked over at

Jamie.

He nodded in my direction, waved again. He didn't look too happy either. He checked his watch and shivered. He was still in his suit and had only his suit jacket on. It was getting colder with the fading light.

Sarah grabbed me by the arm and pulled me closer to the statue. "This is fine," she said, her breath coming out in clouds.

"Sarah. This is going to be weird, okay, but you have to trust me that I've—"

"Enough." She shoved her hand back into her coat. Jamie stared at us, taking small steps in our direction. "Spit it out."

"I'm pretty sure that 1.1 mean, we. This thing. I have this thing." I paused, took a breath.

Suddenly aware that this could go very badly for me. Like really bad. "Look Sarah, I know it

seems weird, but I've been thinking about it and I really like you."

She held up her hand to silence me. I held my breath again. She looked shocked, confused, motioned as if to ask me something but stopped. Considered her words. "Fuck you,

Dave. No you don't."

"No, Sarah, really, I..."

"You need some help. I don't know what's wrong, but you have to pull your shit together, okay?" She looked so steady as she spoke, so in control. She looked me straight in the eye. "Go home, call your aunt, smoke a joint with Paul, watch some sports, do something, because you're fucking losing it. God." And then she walked away. Her shoulder brushed past mine, and I turned to watch her go. Jamie threw his hands up in the air and she shook her head

332 and then she was next to him and they are walking away. I saw him ask her something but she didn't seem to respond and they continued on quietly.

I took a few deep breaths, realizing that I'd been holding it all that whole time. I put my own hands in my pockets, turned around and began to walk.

What if she was right, I thought; what if I was just losing it? Maybe I did need help.

But the more I walked, the slower I went and the more I was convinced that I wasn't losing it. That I actually felt like for the first time in my life I did have things figured out. I was certain about things. About my family. About what I wanted. And maybe blowing it with Sarah was the lesson in all of this. Pay attention. Trust.

It took me much longer to get home than it should have. I weaved in and out of the quiet residential streets in Mile End. The only sounds were the people coming home from work. Car doors shutting. Footsteps on stairs. I saw two kids out playing in a tiny front yard. They were collecting snowflakes in jars. The snowflakes were melting into little pools of water. The kids looked in their jars, amazed.

The final few steps to my apartment were agonizing. I was suddenly exhausted. I didn't want to call my aunt, or talk to Paul, or surf the net, or watch sports; I just wanted to go to bed.

Go to bed and sleep, put an end to the day.

When I walked in Paul came toward me from the living room. His eyes were all bloodshot and his hair was dishevelled, like he'd been wearing a toque all day. "There you are," he said, and he grinned this blissed-out grin, reached out and touched my shoulder. He squeezed it gently and looked into my eyes. It was strange because it was a more intimate act than any we had ever shared. "I'm just gonna go to my room," he said and walked past me and down the hall.

Puzzled, I watched him walk away.

333 And then I looked back and saw Sarah sitting on the couch in the living room. Her coat and shoes were off and she was sitting there with her arms folded over her chest. Her cheeks were still red from the outside, and she was scowling. Her hair was tied back, but loose and tangled and falling out all over the place.

"Well, sit down," she finally said. "I guess we have some shit we need to talk about."

I walked over to the couch tentatively, aware that she could just spring up and slap me, or open up and lay into me for a while about how much of an idiot I was. I paused before I sat and stared at her with what must have been a very odd look on my face because she shook her head slowly, let out a deep, irritated breath and smiled just a tiny little bit.

334