WELCOME TO KAFKAVILLE (Pop.1)

FRENCH FRY DÉTENTE

2024-02-15T21:38:00.003-05:00

“You’re a heartless, insensitive man-child. A monster!” She says.

“What’d I say?” I say.

“It’s not the words. It’s the way you said them. Your tone. So-. Ugh!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Now you’re just being a dick,” she says.

Julia gets up from the chair, tosses her napkin on the table. It lands on my French fries. I lift the napkin off the fries. Soiled fabric does not enhance the flavour of French fries despite what the Soiled Fabric lobby wants you to believe.

“So, I’m guessing no second date?” I say.

She stops cold, spins around. I quickly make a mental note of the location of the Exit signs. She gets in my face so close I can smell the baked onions with fennel on her breath. It feels weirdly arousing. Our eyes lock. She’s either going to kiss me or bite my face off. I’m hoping it’s not the latter. I’ve got a pitch meeting with a producer tomorrow for a kids show about a happy-go-lucky red balloon called Evan. Half my face torn off might not work with the tone of the pitch. She whispers. “Not even if it could cure pediatric cancer.” She finishes putting on her coat and leaves.

After doing some preliminary research on The Google, I did not come across one peer reviewed study that demonstrates a second date cures any cancer. Still, maybe Julia did have a point. My communication skills could be lacking. Primarily in the communication and skills departments. I let out a sigh. It’s never easy to admit to yourself what’s not easy to admit to yourself.

The Server, accompanied by the Manager, lays the bill on the table. “I didn’t ask for the bill,” I say. “Probably best if you leave,” the Manager says. “The other customers aren’t feeling comfortable with you here.” I look around at the other customers. A couple give me a furtive glance. But not furtive enough that I didn’t notice. Or were they just taking a break from stuffing their faces?

“Can I at least finish my fries?”

“Sure. Make it quick,” the Manager says.

The server glares at me like I had kicked her corgi puppy.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t be a dick,” the Server says. And walks away. This is the first time I’ve been called a “dick” by two people, not family, within the span of 15 minutes. It’s a record of sorts. I can’t wait to get back to my place and share with my ottoman.

It’s at stressful times like these that I find comfort in the French fry. And these are particularly good fries. Slightly spiced. Hand cut like my mother used to make. No two fries the same. Each a unique character on the plate of life.

I see a thick fry, by itself, drooping over the edge of the plate. That’ll please the taste buds and bring me comfort. I pick it up and am about to introduce it to my mouth when it bursts into a full-blown wail followed by quick short sobs. I frantically look around the restaurant and wonder if anybody else can hear. The Manager catches my eye and taps his left wrist. I indicate I won’t be long. Or will I? In War and Peace Tolstoy wrote: “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.” With a sobbing fry in my hand, I may need both in large quantities.

“Is everything okay?” I say.

In a deep voice the French fry speaks. “My heart it is breaking. And you, Monsieur, seek to guillotine me wiz your teeth. Does zis seem everything okay?”

“You’re French,” I say.

“You’re a dick,” he says. A third time! It is definitely not the charm. “We are French fry. Not English fry.”

“Sorry,” I say. “How can I help?”

“You! Help? Ha! It’s like ze dog asking ze other dog to not sniff it’s butt. It’s not, how you say, possible, bitch,” he says. “My Amelie, ze love of my life, ze fry of my dreams, she say I don’t do the good communication good. She say I don’t listen. How could this be? I am French fry. We are born to listen to the drivel and l’imbécillité you humans call conversation.”

“You’re on the outs with Amelie and you want back in. You’ve come to the right person. I can bring you two back together,” I say fully conscious that after the Julia experience, I probably couldn’t bring together two lego pieces if they were already stuck together. “What have you got to lose?” I say.

“Mais, my self-esteem, sense of self-worth and meaning in life,” he says.

“Yeah but I mean for real,” I say.

The fry goes silent. The silence veers off the road and crashes into the pole of the uncomfortable. “Did you not hear what I just says?” the fry says.

“Hear what?” I say.

“I am, how you say, screwed in de pooch.” The fry droops even lower.

With time running out, I locate Amelie on the plate. She’s laying on top of another fry that Gabriel, the fry in distress, tells me is his BFF Benoit. “Aha! So that’s it! It is not about the communication. She has tasted ze fruits of the Benoit tree,” he says. “She is not going back.”

“Nonsense,” I say.

“I should know,” Gabriel says. “I have eaten of ze same tree. The fruit, it is irrésistible.”

Well, this puts a uniquely French twist on things. I gather up Benoit and Amelie, hold them in front of my face, and am about to address all three when the Manager and Server appear. “You have three minutes to leave or I call the police, you vile beast.” He sees me holding up the three French fries. Gabriel in one hand; Amélie and Benoit in another. “Playing with your food is strictly prohibited at Le Sigh. Two minutes.” The Manager shakes his head and leaves. The Server mimics her boss and follows.

I address the fry friends. “Hello all. I’m Alan. I’ll be your navigator through these troubled waters.”

“Gabriel, who is this baguette?” Amélie says.

“No need for name calling,” I say.

“My avocat,” Gabriel says.

“Isn’t he ze blaireau who blew to pieces his first date because he couldn’t communicate clearly? We all saw.” She says.

“Don’t always believe what you see,” I say.

“I see you now and I don’t believe,” she says. With a holler Benoit high fives her. So does… Gabriel?

“Et tu, Gabriel?” I say.

“She is my amour. You are my flâneur,” he says.

“I’m a dessert now?” I say.

“Imbécile,” Amelie says. She turns to her confrères. “Gabriel, Benoit, I love both of you equally-.”

Before she can continue, the Manager shows up with the Server and a large Security Guard. The Security Guard lifts me to my feet and hustles me toward the door. “Hey, you can’t do this. I have rights! Think of the fries! Think of the fries!” I call out. The other patrons cheer. For the security guard.

At home, I rehearse the kids tv show pitch a couple of times until it’s solid. Afterward, I get ready for bed. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Slip into my pjs. In bed, I review the evening’s activities. I won’t lie, it was rough. But I’m reminded of what Tolstoy, again, wrote in War and Peace: ‘All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.’ I turn out the lights. Get comfy in bed. “Bonne nuit, Gabriel, Amélie, Benoit,” I say.

After a moment of silence I hear Amélie’s voice. “Such a dick.” I settle into my pillow and smile.

NOTES FROM UNDER THE BED I

2020-04-09T11:27:00.001-04:00

It’s day whatever. Time has left the building.

******************************

Brian Wilson got nothing on me / I’m under the bed and lost at sea / Rollin’ and tumblin’ and tossin’ and turnin’ / Been under so long my brain is burnin’.

******************************

Playing games is a good way to pass the time advise mental health professionals.

In a thin layer of dust covering the floor I spell out the word ‘dust’. I smile smug. Check.

The floor shakes, rearranges the word into a stellated polyhedral, reminiscent of mid-period Escher. Check and mate.

I just got mopped by the floor. Again.

*******************************

Studies indicate that exercise improves mood

I yell at the top of my lungs a multisyllabic obscenity until I’m winded, gasping for air.

Check my mood ring: black.

Consult the mood chart.

“This person is stressed and tense.”

Re-check the headline: Ohhhh, ‘exercise’. I thought that read exorcise.

I need sleep. Sleep doesn’t seem to need me.

**********************************

In times like these it’s important to stay in touch with friends, colleagues, loved ones.

“Fear. Is that it?” the black sock says, exasperated.

“Yes-. No-. I don’t know,” I say.

The sock goes quiet.

It seethes.

“She’s in pain. She misses her partner,” a voice says. I turn around. The voice emanates from a brown Oxford Classic right shoe.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?” the shoe says.

“No,” I say. Probably too quickly.

“You sure?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Because I heard rumours her partner was last seen in the garbage,” the shoe says.

I am feeling uneasy with where this conversation is going.

“We’re all in freekin’ pain,” the half bottle of Jack Daniels says. “But that’s no reason to seethe.”

“I think she’s frustrated with me,” I say. “I just don’t know why I’m here.”

“Frustrated or upset?” the right shoe says.

Sweat beads form a posse on my forehead. I feel like I’m the prime suspect in an episode of NBC Dateline. All that’s missing is Keith Morrison.

“Why is anybody anywhere?” We look over toward the bed wheel. It’s the Oxford Classic left shoe.

“Oh, here we go,” says the right shoe. “The world has no meaning. All is futile.”

“In a nutshell,” the left shoe says.

An empty peanut shell in the corner sighs.

“We live. We die,” the left shoe says. “I accept that.”

“Heavy. I would take a swig of myself if I could,” the bottle of Jack says. “Alan…”

The bottle offers itself up. I unscrew the top. Just before I’m about to drink I hear a loud guttural cry.

“J’accuse!”

It’s the sock. She’s on her heel, pointing her toe toward me.

(To Be Continued)

***********************************

I JUST GHOSTED MYSELF AND I NEVER FELT BETTER

2019-11-08T17:38:00.001-05:00

An uneasy new trend has infiltrated the business world from the dating world. I refer to the act of ghosting - cutting off communication with someone without letting them know.

Just two weeks ago I was ghosted by a long-time client and, it left me more than a little confused.

What goes through the mind of a ghoster when they choose not to respond to, say, a follow up phone call, or email? It's a question anybody who has ever been ghosted wonders. It's a question I had to get to the bottom of.

And the only way I could do so would be to ghost myself.

I was taking a huge risk entering the mind of a ghoster. It might bring me to places I might not be able to come back from. But I had to do it. For the good of my sanity.

So, I call up myself and arrange for a lunch on the premise that I have a project I'd like to hire myself for. After a bit of back and forth we settle on a time and place.

The day arrives. Myself shows up, a whisk early. He's a real keener, I note. We discuss a project, possible deliverables, and timelines. I ask myself to send over writing samples. Then we go our separate ways, together.

The next day the samples arrive. I don't look at them because I'm busy on a Very Important Project, re-arranging my fridge magnets into the shape of a chest freezer.

I don't get to the samples until the following day. Meh. I'm not impressed. Myself isn't right for the project, I conclude. Now that's done I go back to work on another Very Important Project, cleaning out my veggie crisper using a pair of alligator forceps, a bottle of Nose Tork smelling salts and a book of Psalms.

The following day, while I’m in the middle of parking my hope on the road of despair, I receive a follow up email from myself politely asking if I'd had a chance to read over his samples. I ignore it. Why tell myself the bad news? Nobody wants to hear bad news, right? Right?!

A week later, I'm diligently at work on yet another Very Important Project, verifying the thread count of my pima cotton sheets, when I receive a second follow up email from myself. Hey, just wondering if you've had a chance to look over my samples. Well, myself, I have and I'm not impressed. I've already started the process of looking for another writer. I don't tell myself that. I just don't respond. Myself will get the message.

One week after that, I receive a third follow up from myself. It's cheerful and upbeat. Myself reiterates his qualifications and expresses how excited he is looking forward to working with me. The flattery is nice to hear. But there's no way I can respond. I've already moved on from myself. I'm looking forward. Making plans. Life is about the future! And I'm living it!

And that's when it hit me. I was ghosting myself and, you know, I never felt better.

GOING VIRAL

2019-04-12T16:09:00.001-04:00

An email from a reader:

Alan,

I landed on your blog today while searching for a new welcome mat. You see my old welcome mat frayed. You might say it wore out it's welcome. Ha. Ha. Get it! The welcome mat wore out it's welcome. I should have my own humour blog. It couldn't be any worse than yours. How do you sleep at night? Your blog is so unfunny I had to share it with my friend Eugene. Now he's funny.

********************************

An hour later I received the following from Eugene:

Question: Why did the chicken cross the road? C'mon, play along. Why did the chicken cross the road? No idea? I'll tell ya. To get away from your blog. Seriously, man. You call yourself a comedy writer? I've read funnier in a funeral home brochure. If I were head of the internet I would have your blog taken down and you banished from ever putting up another one. Your blog is so unfunny it's criminal! Which is why I've sent it to my many friends in law enforcement.

***********************************

Two hours later I received the following:

Dear Alan,

This is agent Nick Bastone with the FBI. I'm just following up a complaint against your blog Welcome to Kafkaville (Pop.1). The complainant believes your blog is so unfunny it's a crime against humanity. So I read a few excerpts. I couldn't disagree with him. The stuff isn't funny. But crime against humanity? To be honest, I don't know. But just to be sure I've circulated it at the International Criminal Court in The Hague.

Yours truly,
N. Bastone, FBI

**************************************

Then I received a flurry of messages from anonymous readers:

- You suck, Crapskaville!

- There's 5 min I'll never get back!

- Your mother should've had an abortion!

- Earn $10,000 a month at home while SLEEPING!

**************************************

The next day I received the following:

Dear Alan,

I received an urgent message from the FBI to look into prosecuting you for crimes against humanity for your unfunny blog. If unfunny was the criteria for a crime against humanity, three-quarters of humanity would be on trial and the other quarter would be waiting to go on trial. I don't think much of what people call funny these days. I did read your blog, though, and, surprise, found it quite delightful. It's clever and thoughtful. Most of all, it's funny. Witty. With a lot of heart. I know the thing to do would be to share your blog. You'd probably like that. But this is one pleasure I don't feel like sharing.

Sincerely
Ting Pietersz,
International Criminal Court

THE COMFORT ZONE

2015-09-24T15:25:00.002-04:00

"The reason you're stuck.." Violet says. "...you spend too much time in your comfort zone."

Violet is a friend. She scares me.

"I walk around feeling uneasy, dislocated and alienated. Is this my comfort zone?” I say.

"That's your comfort zone…”

“It feels uncomfortable."

“The uncomfortable is your comfort zone."

"So outside of my comfort zone. How am I supposed to feel?"

"Uncomfortable," Violet says.

“I already feel uncomfortable. So I’m always out of my comfort zone. Job done.” I say.

“You feel uncomfortable with the comfortable which makes you feel uncomfortable. You need to feel uncomfortable without the comfortable which will make you feel uncomfortable in a different way. You need to rezone your comfort zone.”

"...rezone for..."

"...the uncomfortable..." she says.

"...which is what I already feel..."

"...which is your comfort zone..."

"...of course...”

“…exactly...”

“Do you think everyone has a comfort zone?” I say.

“Yes.”

"...so you mean...okay...so how about…people in the camps like Aushwitz what was their comfort zone? Because it probably wasn't very comfortable."

"Are you comparing yourself to the people in the camps? You’re uncomfortable. They’re uncomfortable. I should smack you.”

“You are forbidden from applying The Smack.”

“It would get you out of your comfort zone.”

“It would hurt.”

“How about just once. On the fat part of the cheek,” she says.

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“You make things up. Everybody has a fat part of the cheek,” Violet says.

“What about the people in the camps? I’ve seen pictures. No fat part.”

“Now I’m gonna smack you. Ready?”

“We’re in a crowded Starbucks.”

“Here it comes.”

“I’ll leave.”

“It’s on it’s way," she says.

“Okay, no. Stop.”

“How do you feel?”

“Extremely anxious and stressed.”

“Which is out of your comfort zone.”

“…of merely anxious and stressed.”

“The smacking hand rests. Mission accomplished.”

We finished our coffees in silence. Violet leaves. She has to go study. I call my therapist. Ask if she can squeeze me in. For another session. Today.

REMEMBERANCE OF MOTHER PRESENT

2015-08-17T13:14:00.003-04:00

"Only way I leave there is in a pine box."

My 94 year old mother.

On.

Her condo.

To.

The medical team at the Geriatric Clinic at the Ottawa Hospital.

After.

Being diagnosed with mixed dementia. Alzheimer's and Vascular. And encouraged to move to an assisted living environment.

"I don't like people."

My mother.

On.

People.

People. It turns out. Populate assisted living facilities.

"Only way I leave my condo is in a pine box."

**********************************

A week later. Phone rings. I answer.

"Hi, can I speak with Alan," the Woman says.

"Speaking."

"I'm from the Alzheimer's Society. I got your number from the Geriatric Clinic. Just want to know if there's anything we can help you with in dealing with your mother?"

"There is one thing. She lives in a condo. She says she'll only leave it in a pine box. But she needs to go food shopping and she enjoys pushing the shopping cart. Do you know where I can get a pine box with leg holes? Hello? Hello?"

THE BATHTUB STOPPER

2015-08-09T10:12:00.001-04:00

I'm taking a bath. Imprinting my rubber ducks. Again. (I suspect they're suffering from early onset Alzheimer's. I just can't get a Physician willing to give a diagnosis. Liability issues, no doubt.)

When I notice. My knee is no longer submerged. Leg hasn't moved. Knee no longer submerged.

Now calf. Now entire body. I am lying in the tub. And I feel naked.

My bathtub stopper has stopped stopping.

The bathtub stopper has two responsibilities. Stop water from escaping down the drain. Prevent snakes and other amphibians from rising out of the drain. On the latter my bathtub stopper has Hall of Fame numbers. In the year and a bit since owning the stopper no snake or amphibian has gotten through.

A little over a year. And the stopper has stopped. Stopping. Of course I wonder. Was it my fault? I worshiped that stopper. Kept it in a cup of water so it wouldn't crack. Put it by the window so it would have lots of light. Read it poetry. I read my bathtub stopper poetry. Anna Akhmatova. Rainier Maria Rilke. Prince. ('When Doves Cry' makes Seamus Heaney's 'Blackberry-Picking' seems like MC Hammer's 'U Can't Touch This')

I should've listened to my friend Kay. Whom I call K. Because she seems more like a K than a Kay. She cautioned me against that stopper.

At the hardware store. In front of the bathtub stopper rack. She wanted me to consider other stoppers. But I couldn't take my eyes off that stopper. It had a certain je ne sais quoi. I thought it would last forever. It said so on the package. 'The Last Bathtub Stopper You Will Ever Need'. K now disputes the claim. She says I was reading between the lines. "There aren't many lines on a bathtub stopper package," I say.

I'm lying in the empty bathtub. Shivering. Picking up a new bathtub stopper seems like climbing Everest on crutches. Insuperable.

But I have to do it. I have to.

For the ducks.

THE HEART WANTS WHAT THE HEART WANTS UPDATE

2015-01-06T22:28:00.003-05:00

It's cold. Very cold. The heart wants what the heart wants. The heart wants. A quality pair of long johns.

"Carl," the heart says. "Ready the Bentley. A visit to Holts is in order."

The heart waits. Carl doesn't show. Neither does the Bentley. The heart sighs.

The heart must now consider the unconsiderable...public transportation.

Through a bracing wind that would tip a herd of Caribou the heart makes it's way to the subway only to discover the entrance takes tokens not coins. The heart has coins. The entrance takes tokens. The heart wants a token.

The heart spots a machine in the corner which turns coins into tokens. The heart doesn't quite understand the alchemy. It wants what it wants. A token. So the heart plugs all the coins into the machine. And waits.

No. Token. Drops.

The heart wants long johns from Holt Renfrew. The heart can't get long johns from Holt Renfrew unless it can get into the subway. And the only way it can get into the subway is with a token but it used all it's coins on a machine that promised a token but delivered no token.

The heart shouts the harshest of vulgarities into a speaker. There is no response. A man with a token going through the turnstile points at the out of order sign near the speaker which the heart didn't see because the heart was so full of turnstile rage. "Broken, dude."

Broken. The heart. It wants. A quality pair of long johns. And a cup of hot chocolate with a marshmallow. And Emily.

The heart wants Emily. She'll have a token.

The heart waits. For Emily.

Still.

In the cold cold.

It wants what it wants.

THE PHONE CALL

2014-10-28T12:19:00.001-04:00

Sometime in the night. Phone rings. Interrupts a dream.

In the dream my Centaur friend Barry and I are playing mini-putt against Friedrich Nietzsche and his Theory of Eternal Recurrence. Nietzsche breaks a lot of putters. He has a problem getting the ball through the Windmill. But the Theory putts like Ben Crenshaw in his prime. And the outcome is always the same. We lose by three strokes. And Nietzsche's moustache spikes the ball. Every. Single. Time.

I answer the phone.

"Hello."

A woman speaks.

"It's over, okay?” She says. “Done. Finished. Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't Facebook me. I told you-. Very simple. I told you-. All I wanted-. Between you and me. Me and you. All I wanted. Sex. You know. Bend me over and make me take the Lord's name in vain repeatedly sex. Simple, right? Instead. In-stead. You ask about my feelings. With such punishing patience and empathy. How are you feeling? You wanna know how I'm feeling? Pissed. Because you keep asking me how I'm feeling. Do I ask you how you're feeling? No. They're your feelings. Just like my feelings are my feelings. You can do whatever you want with your feelings. Whatever you want. My feelings. I keep them in a safe place. Somewhere nobody can get at them. I mean nobody. Not even me.

"Uh,” I say.

"I'm not finished,” she says. “Which, by the way, are words I wanted to hear from you a lot. And again. And a lot. I'm not finished. As you ride me like a racehorse. Instead you say things like I read that poem you gave me. It's really good. Keep writing. How incredibly condescending. Who are you? Yanni? The only reason I gave you the poem was to get you off my back. And onto my front. So you could plough me like a potato field.

"But-"

"Let me finish you tyrannically sensitive, crushingly supportive a-hole. You really crossed the line when you wanted to cuddle. I. Don't. Cuddle. I thought the notarized letter from my attorney made that clear. If that wasn't enough how about when I bent back your middle finger until it snapped. Or when I bit into your arm and drew blood so that you had to go to the hospital and get stitches. Most guys would've gotten the message. You. You write on your Facebook wall. Why do I love my girlfriend so much? She keeps me in stitches. Your optimism is like a North Korean labour camp. Oppressive."

"Excuse me," I say.

"What!?"

"You've got the wrong number."

Long pause.

"When you answered you said hello. Brandon usually says hi so…" she says.

"I'm going back to sleep," I say.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Okay."

"How was that? What I said. How did it seem?"

"Bit harsh.”

“Yeah, I didn’t want him to think I didn’t care.”

Long pause.

“Yeah, I can see that. But not really. I have to go back to sleep,” I say. And hang up.

I get back into bed. Close my eyes.

And wonder what people mean when they say what they mean.

I also wonder where I put my Abe Maslow decoder ring.

THE APPLE

2014-09-29T12:14:00.001-04:00

“Here, the loveliest most beautiful apple you’ll ever have,” Steve says.

Steve is an aquaintance. I know him enough to know him enough.

“You didn’t say the tastiest,” I say.

“If you don’t want it.”

“Hold on.”

I couldn’t refuse. I hadn’t eaten in four months. And I was in the middle of a massive field in the middle of county Nowhere.

It looks…so…beautiful. If there were a Fruit Hall of Fame this apple would hang in the Delicious Wing. It’s almost to good to eat. But then there’s this thing about the four months of no food. So I take a bite. Not a big one. Not a small one. A just right one. The just right one isn’t always the best choice. But it is always just right.

“Heyyy, that is a tasty tasty apple. Sweet and juicy. Not too sweet. Not too juicy. Good call.”

“Told ya.”

“That you did, my acquaintance.”

I take another bite. Yum. Yum. I am looking forward to spending a lot of quality time with this apple.

A third bite. Can this get any better?

A fourth. It just did.

A fifth. Ow! Ow! Ow! OW! What was that?! Something’s coming out of my mouth and it’s not saliva. A finger touch reveals…blood!

“Dude, blood is flowing from your mouth,” says Steve.

“Thank you Captain Obvious.”

I check out the apple. No razor blade just a really sharp piece of pulp. Do I take another bite? The blood is pouring from my mouth and it’s sore like a son-of-a-bitch. Hmmm. How can I condemn an entire apple over one painful bite? It’s a complicated apple. It’s got dimension.

Big bite. Yuch! Ugh! Pugh! The worst taste ever. It’s like I bit into a rotting corpse. I look down at the apple and see a couple of maggots crawl out. Disgusting! Just yech disgusting! It looked so beautiful!

Need to take another bite to confirm. Yech! Peh! I spit out a couple of maggots.

Okay, one more. I mean, it was such a beautiful apple. I can still see it’s perfect shape, vivid colour, captivating stem.

I chomp down. Yechhhh! Ugh!!!!

Another bite. Uch! The worst! Although you kinda get used to the maggots. They’re like squirrely Nibs.

I keep eating. My teeth fall out. My gums redden and rot. It's such a lovely and beautiful apple. How can this be? The pain must be some kind of illusion. The sweet and juicy taste will return on the next bite. I'm sure of it. So I continue eating.

Along the way I make friends with one of the maggots. He sits on my shoulder. I call him Mark. He calls me Adam. The little guy has difficulty with the letter 'l'.

THE SCRAMBLER

2014-06-03T14:37:00.004-04:00

I need to clear my head.

I've been working on a script for hours and the words aren't coming. Maybe they had a prior engagement. I don't take it personal. Okay, maybe a little. They could've texted, or e-mailed, facebooked, tweeted, ninged. Matter of courtesy. How long have we known each other? Shared laughs, tears. I mean I was at 'bris's' bris. What does it take to ning? Really.

I even put out potpourri. What word doesn't love potpourri? They don't love potpourri. Really? Then who would've tipped them off? Why? Something Nicole Richie once said summed up my thought at that very moment: “It's hard to tell who has your back, from who has it long enough just to stab you in it....” I'm looking in your direction hardwood floor.

So after having consumed a pot and a half of coffee and chewed on about a dozen chocolate covered espresso beans, give or take a dozen, I go down to the local amusement park. To clear my head. I wander. Until. I come across...The Scrambler. 'To clear, one must first scramble.' I'm sure I heard Deepak Chopra utter those words. Or was it Wavy Gravy? Doesn't matter.

For the uninitiated, The Scrambler is an amusement ride with three long arms which revolve around a central post. At the end of each arm hangs a group of seats which revolve in a circle. When the ride starts up, the arms spin, the seats spin...there's a lot of spinning, in all directions.

A schematic:

I'm standing by the ride in progress and see an eight year old girl whipping around, laughing, waving at her friends, having fun. Fun. I can have fun. Fun is fun. Fun is nuf spelled backwards. I must get on that ride to scramble and clear and save the script. Beads of sweat convene on my forehead. My right leg shakes like I'm doing an Elvis impersonation. Teeth grind. It's not the coffee. Don't blame the coffee. Did I have too much? NO! You didn't have enough. Who are you? I'm your coffee conscience. I know Juan Valdez. We're not close. Fresh mountain grown coffee from the hills of Colombia. Buy a ticket.

I hand the operator a bunch of money and tell him to give the change to support concussion research on the Mole in Whack-A-Mole. He laughs. "I'm serious, man," I say.

There are two seats available. One is beside a really fat kid eating an ice cream cone. Who lets a fat kid with an ice cream cone on a ride? Ice cream can become airborne. The other seat is next to... a vision of beauty in the form of a woman who looks like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue, after stepping out of the pages of Mother Earth, the New Yorker, American Heritage of Invention and Technology, and Die Freundin. She had silky dirty blonde hair, wore cat's eye glasses and had on a flowery light 70s dress. Her face radiated glowing luminosity. Not sure if I just broke some kind of law using all those words together. I'll accept the consequences. I have in my back pocket a copy of Viktor Frankel's 'Man's Search for Meaning' just in case I'm imprisoned. No need to flip a coin on this one.

While the operator locks us in...

"Um, hey, hi...Alan," I say.

"Cali, I have a cousin named Alan. Are you ready?" she says. And smiles.

I break my 100 year ban on the use of the letters OMG together in succession.

OMG!

After the ride I must get her number. Who knew the Scrambler was the place to meet beautiful women?

"Me? I was born ready," I say.

Turns out I was not born ready.

The ride starts up. Our car whips around, gathers speed and heads straight for the fence. We are heading straight for the fence, my coffee conscience says. HOLY SHIT! We are headed for the fence. We will hit the fence. We will go through the fence. We will topple. And nosedive. And plunge. Our heads will bang the ground repeatedly. I won't be able to eat pudding without assistance for many years.

It might be instructive at this point to interject my experience on amusement rides. When I was a kid I ventured on the merry-go-round once. Two words: death trap. The horse behind me was always this close to taking a nip from my back. I had to continually spur my horse to stay out of reach. The ride's flashing lights and blaring organ music was, no doubt, a disorienting technique the ride owner picked up from the CIA. Rides were really not my amusement park thing. I preferred the bench.

"We're gonna die!"

"Isn't this fun?"

I close my eyes and pray to every deity I ever read about including the Norse Goddess Frigg. What the frig, Frigg? WHAT THE FRIG?!

"Noooooooo!"

Cali LAUGHS. LAUGHS MORE.

Her laugh echoes like she's a mile away. I'm feeling stretch and squash. Arms rubbery. I get panicky. What's happening?! Be cool, Coffee Conscience says. Coffee Conscience sounds a lot like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction.

After a time I open my eyes. I'm still alive. However. Everything looks different. The lights shine bright and swirl and twist. We're moving slow. I look over at Cali. She's standing on the seat with her arms outstretched. "I'm Queen of the Scrambler," she says. I feel so light like I could fly away. Chocolate covered espresso beans appear. Float in the air. I grab and stuff my face, offer a few to Cali. She's pre-occupied... reinventing the wheel. Literally. She has a wheel in her lap and a toolkit beside her. She's a dream. This is when I notice them. Small elvish characters. Purple skin. Stripped to the waist. They all look like James Franco. They're taking apart the mechanics of the ride. "Not cool, mini James Francos," I say. "Write another self-critically acclaimed novel!" They don't listen. Parts of the ride fly past. My heart beats faster and faster like Hummingbird wings. "We're gonna die! Again!" I shut my eyes and pray mini Seth Rogens will show up and talk some sense into mini-James Francos.

Time stretches.

"Open your eyes. You're missing all the fun." It's Cali's voice.

I open my eyes. WHOOSH! SNAP! Back in the present. Just in time to catch another car whipping at us. At the last second it turns away. If I survive I promise to devote my life to the lepers of the world...actresses over 40 in Hollywood.

RATTLE.

"The safety bar's loose. I'm sliding out!"

Cali laughs and LAUGHS.

"Wheeeee!"

I shut my eyes again and like Brontes the Cyclops who loses his contact and has shown up at Lenscrafter 15 minutes before it opens I must hold on and wait.

And. Wait. Wait.

"Hey Alan. Alan. You can open your eyes now. Ride's over."

I open my eyes and see Cali's radiant face. It's all good, Coffee Conscience says. You're comin' down. It's like the space capsule has been opened and I'm stepping out. Then the embarrassment washes over me. I lost my sh#t in front of a beautiful woman.

"That was fun. I'd do it again," I say. "I mean, not now, but, you know, another time."

She hands me a card. "Call me." Leaves with a small wave.

The card reads:

Dr. Calliope Wallop

Proctologist

416-87C-OLON

'No Fear'

Perfect. Because. I am. A no fear kinda guy.

MAGICAL MOMENTS

2013-06-02T16:19:00.001-04:00

A woman is at my door. She is not happy.

"Return it now or I will rip your balls out with a flush cutter and use them as gel pads in my Mizuno Wave Riders," she says.

"Hi. I’m Alan and you would be…"

"My name is the burning sensation you'll feel when I shove my fist up your ass and practice my carpal tunnel exercises in your lower colon."

"I’ll call you Jenny," I say.

"Give back that magical moment you stole from Jeffrey," she says.

Jeffrey steps out from behind his girlfriend, waves. I nod. I met Jeffrey two hours ago outside a Starbucks. He was begging like a homeless person...begging for people to take some of his life's magical moments. Thought I'd do him a favour. Looked like he could use one. Then take those moments and give them to a worthy cause. What charitable organization couldn't use a man's magical moments? Unless the man were, say, Hitler.

"You mean bought," I say.

"For a subway token. Barry Bond's scrotum of a subway token. That magical moment was our 2^nd anniversary dinner. Twelve courses of gastrorgasmic rapture at WD-50 in New York. A bottle of ‘Millsesime Grand Cru’ Brut Pierre Paillard 2002. On a winter night that was like out of an Andreas Feininger photo."

"No need to go all Travis Bickle on me. You can have it back. And you can keep the token. You can also have the other magical moments Jeffrey unloaded on me," I say.

"Other moments?"

"Yes, here..."

“…antiquing on a warm July Saturday in Prince Edward County…you sold that moment?” She stares at Jeffrey.

“I like antiques. But I’m not crazy about them like you,” Jeffrey says

“…the first time we kissed?”

"It was great except...you bit my lip."

“…the early autumn night on the dock of my brother’s country home on Lake Rosseau where we stared up at the stars and talked of our future together. You sold him that moment? That moment!”

“…you pushed me in the lake after, don’t you remember? I couldn’t swim. I nearly died. Your brother had to pull me out and give me mouth-to-mouth. At least he didn’t bite my lip.”

'Jenny' isn't moving. This can't be good. I fear she will pull out a shank and this will turn into a scene from OZ.

"Jeffrey?" Her voice goes soft.

Jeffrey scratches the back of his neck, eyeballs the floor. She raises his chin until they are at eye level. He gently pushes her fingers away. She doesn’t resist.

"Those moments. Those were-. Those were your moments more than my moments," he says.

"They’re both of ours."

"No. You-. You step on my moments. I want magical moments…that are my moments. Mine." He sounds like the Elephant Man when he declares he's not an elephant but a human being.

She continues looking into Jeffrey’s eyes like she's looking for a lost button.

"Okay," she says. Her hands slide up and down Jeffrey's arms. “A magical moment that's all yours.”

He nods.

Her hands travel down his arms. She leans in and whispers in his ear. I can’t make it out. For the first time he smiles. She lowers to her knees. Now, I’m no Dan Savage but I know when a guy is about to get...“Nice meeting you,” I say, close the door, rush to the radio and turn it up.

Then it occurs to me...my ‘Welcome’ mat is in the line of fire. I hunt around for matches, lighter fluid and my winter gloves. Goretex. My search is interrupted by loud knocks. Please be Jehovah’s Witnesses? I open the door to reveal a grinning ‘Jenny’ and Jeffrey.

“We're wondering if you can do us a favour...” Jeffrey says. The two giggle.

“We don’t have enough for a taxi. But we do have a magical moment you might be interested in,” she says. They giggle again. That was one giggle too many.

I quickly shut the door and reach for the Goretex gloves.

FOLLOWING

2013-04-14T19:13:00.002-04:00

I am being followed.

Which is not the same as I have a following. If it were, the words would match.

They don't.

I am being followed.

By a cat.

A tabby. A mackerel tabby.

It boarded the same downtown subway car as me and exited at the same station seven stops later, followed me up the stairs, outside. Could be a coincidence. But it seems too coincidental to be a coincidence.

Why is a cat following me? For questions like these I call my neighbour Lora (see My Neighbour Lora). She's a poet. She traffics in the unknowable.

"Hey Lora, why am I being followed by a cat?" I ask.

She pauses. A long pause. A pause that feels like the pause had paused to consider the pause. I eyeball the cat six feet away. It's rubbing up against an elderly man's leg. The elderly man smiles, pets the cat. Don't be fooled elderly man. That cat isn't the cat it wants you to believe it is.

"Lora? Still there?"

"Alan, you're not the one being followed. The cat is. So stop following him." Lora says and hangs up.

Whoaa. What?

I'm following the cat? This was a formulation I had not considered. I sat down beside the elderly man on the bench. Watched the cat roll on its back.

"Just because you're losing, doesn't mean you're lost," the elderly man says. To me. Not to me. I don't know. He wasn't looking at me when he said it. He takes out a linen handkerchief and blows his nose.

"Did you just quote a Coldplay song?" I say.

"I heard it at the hospital. I'm getting chemo for my brain. Tumour size of a grapefruit up there. The five for two dollar grapefruit. He's right. The singer. Just because I'm losing doesn't mean I'm lost."

"Right," I say.

How can Lora say I was following the cat? I was in front of the cat. The cat was behind me. If I were following the cat, I'd be following what's behind me.

"Hey, who did you see first come out of the subway? The cat or me? I think that cat's following me. My friend Lora thinks I've been following the cat," I say to the elderly man.

"Your friend is wrong. You haven't been following the cat..."

"Phew. Good to know."

"...you've been following me. Just like the cat," he says.

Whoaa. What?

"Why would I follow someone who quotes Coldplay lyrics?"

"Why does anybody do anything?" The elderly man says.

"What kind of answer is that?" I say.

"What kind of question is that?" He says.

The cat licks its paw, stops, looks up at me, looks over at the elderly man, pauses, goes back to licking its paw.

I feel like I'm in a Harold Pinter play.

I should leave before the elderly man so he doesn't think I'm following him. Too late. The elderly man gets up from the bench and walks away. Seconds later, the cat follows.

They must expect I'll do the same. Not a chance. I'm staying right here. He's wrong. Lora's wrong. I'm not the one doing the following.

After about a half hour a woman sits down beside me. She's tall and slim, short auburn hair, translucent skin, a face that would've caused Plato to reconsider the form of Beauty. I want to make her spinach lentil stew.

"Excuse me. But-. You are so beautiful I'd like to make you spinach lentil stew," I say.

"That's nice. I have a message from my grandfather. He's the elderly man who was here."

"Okay." I should want to crawl into a hole after that exchange. Yet-. Her face. She seems to know.

"Stop waiting 'til the shine wears off," she says.

"That's the message?"

"That's the message," she says.

I lean back. Close my eyes. Take a big breath.

What is the world coming to when elderly men quote Coldplay lyrics?

THE SNOWMAN COMETH

2013-01-24T11:06:00.002-05:00

I am watching a snowman attempt suicide. And it's not going well.

He lights stick matches. Tosses them at his body. The flames die quick against the wind and snow.

It's early evening. Dark. Cold. I'm on my way back from food shopping, weighted down with bags. Of food. Home with heat is near. A snowman is in distress. Can I turn my back?

***************************************

I'm 6 years old. I build a snowman in front of my house. Takes me all afternoon. It's not perfect. It's got lumps. And looks a little like the Elephant Man. But it is borne of my sweat. And, of course, the snow on the ground. And it is good. To complete my creation I reach up and christen its' nose with a stubby carrot. Just as I let go of the carrot my creation shivers and topples on me. Snow gets in my mouth, eyes, nose. I'm crushed. And crushed. Why? I ask the snow at my feet formerly known as The Snowman. Why? I never made another snowman that winter or any winter since.

****************************************

I call 911. "What's your emergency?" "A snowman is committing suicide," I say. There is a long pause. "I'll send the Easter Bunny out right away," the dispatcher says and hangs up. The Easter Bunny? The snowman doesn't need eggs. He needs help. I could inform the family upon whose lawn the snowman sits. What if the kid sees his creation in such deep despair and becomes traumatized? I don't want that on my conscience. Only one thing to do.

"Hey," I say.

The snowman doesn't answer. Just continues striking matches and tossing them at his body.

"What're you doing?" I say.

"I'm sequencing DNA. What the fuck d'ya think?" he says.

"You're trying to kill yourself," I say.

"Move to the top of the class, Einstein," he says.

"Any reason?"

"None. My life is great. I sit out here all day getting whipped by the wind, smacked by snowballs from spoiled little brats, and pissed on by dogs. I've never heard a Mozart concerto, seen anything by Van Gogh, or..."

"What?"

"...felt the cold touch of a snowwoman." The snowman's head slumps forward. I catch it and put it back on.

"You have no genitalia."

"Really sensitive. Genitalia does not define gender. They're there. You just have to dig."

"I'll take your word for it," I say.

"In a few days some local brat'll knock me down. My life will be over. Maybe-. Maybe you can help," he says.

"This isn't what I'm thinking is it?"

The snowman looks at me with those big button eyes.

"Geezus." I start pacing. "You want me to pimp for you."

"Think of it as matchmaking."

"You want me to build a snowwoman."

"Right up against me. So I can feel every lump," he says.

"You don't understand. The last time I did this-" I say.

"I know."

"How?"

"Snowmen talk," he says. "Listen, however she turns out she will be beautiful. And she will be loved."

"Geezus, Maroon 5?"

"That's all the mother plays," he says.

"I really don't think I can do it."

"You can. You must. For both of us."

"Hey, Deepak Chopra. I need time."

"Not too long. Sunrise is coming."

I walk. End up at Aroma in Forest Hill Village. Warm up inside. 'She Will Be Loved' by Maroon 5 comes on. Tap on my window knock on my door/I want to make you feel beautiful. Isn't this all the snowman wants aside from snowsex? To make the other feel beautiful? To know the feeling of making the other feel beautiful? To give. With love. Even if it's snowlove. I slip on my gloves. It'll be a long night.

****************************************

A few days later I walked by the house. Even though the cold weather hadn't changed, the snowman and snowwoman were no longer standing. They had somehow melted into a frozen puddle on the ground.

ASLEEP AWAKE, AWAKE

2013-01-07T10:58:00.001-05:00

A few hours ago I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was still asleep.

This is a problem.

I need to do laundry. If I'm asleep, how will I know two socks aren't balled into one before I toss them in the washer?

So here's what I'm thinking. I go back to sleep, wake up, everything will be the way it should. Thing is, I'm already asleep. Not sure how I will get back to sleep when I'm already asleep. I could stay up asleep, and hope that I fall asleep from being asleep, so that when I wake up I won't be asleep. Yeah, that's worth a try.

On my back. On my bed. Eyes closed. Fence. Sheep. Jump-.

This won't work.

Light is seeping through my eyelids. I need something to block out the light. Something like a sleep mask. I have a sleep mask. A production company included one in a bag of swag at the launch of their fall line-up one year. Given the quality of their shows, including the mask now seems prescient.

On my back. On my bed. Mask on. Fence. Sheep-.

It's dark. Too dark. Way too dark.

I feel like Clarice Starling at the end of Silence of the Lambs when she's in the psycho killer's lair stumbling around in blackness, while he stalks her sporting night vision goggles. What if somebody is outside my mask, in my room, sporting night vision goggles. They can see me. I can't see them. Because I'm in the dark. Because I'm wearing a sleep mask. Because I'm asleep awake and I'm trying to get to sleep so I can wake up.

I can lie here paralyzed with fear. I can lie here paralyzed with more fear. Or, I can take my chances and run.

I run. Jump up. Scream. Flail. Smack into the door. Fall back. Take off the sleep mask. Rush out. Close the bedroom door behind me.

In the hallway, my heart pounding, I determine I must go back in so I'll know. I swing the door open, make a quick check under the bed, in the closet, under the bed, in the closet, under the bed. No creature sporting night vision goggles or otherwise.

Every inch of my body tingles.

And then I realize...I am not asleep awake anymore.

I am awake.

I make a note to send my fear a gift basket.

...ALIVE

2012-12-31T17:39:00.004-05:00

"I'm dying."

I'm at a Starbucks. It's deserted. New Years Eve. She sits at a table beside mine. She's beautiful. Like a child's poem.

"Don't take this wrong but you are the most beautiful woman I've ever met who is dying," I say. She moves over to my table.

"Here." She takes my fingers, puts them on her jugular and holds them there.

"Strong pulse."

"No, feel." She moves my fingers slow along her neck.

"Still...you know...strong..."

"Do you feel? I'm dying."

"Keep my fingers on your neck any longer I'll be dying."

She pulls them away, doesn't let go of my hand.

"Will you come with me?"

"Maybe...where?"

"Doesn't matter. Just come. It'll be perfect." For the first time her face brightens.

"You're dying," I say.

She takes my hand and puts it up to my jugular. "What are you?"

"Beatrice, come on. We're all waiting." It's a guy in a sleek, fitted, sharkskin suit.

Beatrice gets up, kisses my forehead, brushes her lips against mine. I feel her breath enter my mouth. I am...

MY NOSE MY SELF

2012-12-16T15:00:00.002-05:00

I woke up this morning without a nose.

Just a blank piece of skin. Not attractive. I have meetings today. If I show up without a nose a producer will notice. They're trained like that. Just so you know, this has never happened before. No part of my body has ever left without my knowledge.

I do a grid search of the apartment. No nose. I check the fridge door magnets. No note. I consult the neighbours. They haven't heard from or seen my nose apart from my face. The thing has vanished.

A tear runs down my cheek. I have to sit. Already I miss my nose. It wasn't perfect. It had a little bump near the front. Maybe it was a bit too wide. I never said anything. Just accepted all that it was in the way that it was. What will I do without it? Besides, it held my face together.

The phone rings. It's Polk, my accountant. Polk doesn't usually call in the mornings.

"I'm being audited." I say.

"Hi to you. Too Alan. You. Are not being audited. No." He says.

"So..."

"Are you missing. Your nose?" Polk says.

"Uh...maybe," I say.

"It. Is here." He says.

"You have my nose," I say.

"It. Is here."

Can you put it on?" I say.

"Just. A second," Polk says.

Long pause.

"Your nose does not. Want to. Talk to you," Polk says.

"Oh," This hurts. We've been together for a long time. "Can you tell my nose I miss it very much and...well, just that."

Long pause.

"Your nose misses. You too." Polk says

"So why did it run?"

"It says. You do not. Listen to it," Polk says.

"I listen. I'm listening right now."

"Now. You listen. Out of fear. That you will. Lose it. Not. Out of love. For all it. Gives you," Polk says.

I am knocked back. My nose shows a depth of understanding I had previously not known. But then. Maybe I haven't been listening.

"Your. Nose. Wants me to remind. You of Thai Gardens." Polk says.

"I remember..." I say.

"You. Ordered the ginger chicken. In a cream sauce. With hot red peppers."

"That was what I ordered," I say.

"The dish. Smelled bad. Your nose told you. It told you. The dish would hurt you. If you ate it. For days and. Days. You would be. In pain. You. Did not listen." Polk says.

I got so sick after eating that Ginger Chicken. Took a long time to get over. My nose is right. It smelled bad. I didn't listen.

"I listened." I say.

Long pause.

"Alan. Please." Polk says.

"Okay, I didn't listen. My nose is right. Polk, I want it back. I'll do anything." I say.

Long Pause.

"Here's what your. Nose says. You. Must promise to trust. When it sniffs. You must. Promise to surprise it. Everyday." Polk says.

"Okay, I will," I say.

"It wants to. Hear you say. It." Polk says. I hear a rustling. A sniff. Does my nose miss me? Or is it the allergies?

"Okay, so, I'm sorry for not listening to you about the Ginger Chicken. Really. I mean it. If I had listened to you I wouldn't have gone through all that pain. From now on, I will be attentive. And... surprises. Definitely. Every day." More rustling. Polk gets back on the line.

"Your nose. Is satisfied. But it. Has one last. Request." Polk says.

"Name it." I say.

******************

The meeting goes well. I'm just ecstatic to have my nose back. I guess I hadn't noticed that I was focusing on it. "You're touching your nose like it's your dick," a producer says.

After the meeting I fulfill my nose's request: a three hour facial at a spa in Yorkville. I tell the attendant before she touches my face, "Be gentle with my nose...it knows."

AFTERNOON IN THE PARK

2012-12-02T16:06:00.004-05:00

A small dog walks up to me in the park. I'm on a bench cartoon hopping through the latest New Yorker. The early afternoon is cool and cloudy. The dog says,"Listen to me."

"You're a dog talking," I say.

"You're a human stating the obvious. Listen to me." The Dog looks over my shoulder.

"Can't make out the accent."

"It's dog with a hint of dog. What does it matter? Listen to me. Don't look back."

I look back.

"What did I say?" He says.

"Don't look back."

"You look back."

"I look back because you said don't look back. You need to learn more about human behaviour. I didn't see anything."

"You saw enough."

"Really? Like what?" I turn around. "There's a shrub. A tree. A garbage can. It's the shrub, right?" The dog shakes his head and walks away. "Bark once if it's the shrub. Was that a bark?" Out of view.

I return to the New Yorker but thoughts of the shrub distract me. Something about it. I turn around and stare at it. The shrub's maybe four feet high, gangly and unruly, dotted with symmetrical branches of vibrant green. I can't turn away from it like a sexual oddity in a traveling freak show.

My phone rings. It's Jason. "Where the fuck're you?" I tell him I'm in the park. "Everybody's here. We've been waiting for, like, 15 minutes. The producer's not happy," he says.

"Start without me," I say. "I'll be there soon."

"Soon when?" He says.

"Soon."

"Sometime today soon? It's your script. The fuck ya doing at the park?"

"Staring at a shrub," I say.

"Seriously. A shrub?"

"It has properties. Can't look away."

"You've fuckin' lost it. Producer backs out you are-" he says.

"Jason, gotta get back to the shrub, bye," I say and hang up.

The more I look at the shrub, the more I can't stop looking at the shrub. Each branch makes me think of some past relationship or life incident. I want to both cry and laugh. So I do both. Which makes me come across as a crazy person. I should really get up and walk away. I should. But I'm not able.

"You okay, mister." It's a kid no more than eight with a dog...the talking dog!

"Hey, it's your dog. He speaks in English you know. Say something?" The dog barks. "No, in English." The dog barks again.

"He told me not to look back, I did and now I'm stuck here staring at that shrub."

"Mister, you remind me of my mom before she went to the hospital for a month," the kid says. He leaves. The dog looks back at me with an expression I can't make out. I told you so? Maybe. Anyway I don't have time to figure it out. I've gotta get back to the shrub.

The sun lowers in the sky. Evening creeps up. I'm feeling chilled. My phone rings maybe four times. I don't answer. It'll just take away from my shrub time.

"Alan...Alan..."

"Yes?" I turn and see an unfamiliar woman. "Who are you?"

"I was sent by a mutual friend...a concerned mutual friend." She's in her early forties with light brown hair, big brown eyes and an expression of warmth.

"Jason?" She shakes her head. "Polk, my accountant? Rachel? Emma?"

"None of the above. Here..." She holds out her hand. "We have to go...now...you're in danger."

"I can't leave the shrub. There's too much still...I have to decipher."

"How about this? We walk over to the swings. You'll still be able to see the shrub."

"Well..."

She looks up in the sky. "We have to go." She grabs my hand.

"Is it going to rain?" She yanks me up from the bench. "Ow."

"Lets go...you have to get away from here NOW."

"Okay, fine..." I take her hand. She leads me over to the swings. I sit down and swing back and forth. "I don't understand why you had to pull me away so quick-.

CRASH! From out of the sky drops what looks like a tank on the park bench totally crushing it.

I'm stunned. I look over at her mouth open. "Lets go home," she says.

I take her hand and we walk away, past the swings, out of the park.

I don't look back.

RACHEL

2012-11-21T20:14:00.003-05:00

"Donald kisses my fingers and tells me I'm beautiful," Rachel says.

Rachel's sensitivity could hang in a gallery.

"He's a good man, Rach," I say.

"Will you kill him for me?" she says. Takes a sip of coffee.

We're in the Dark Horse Cafe. It's crowded. Lots of chatter. Did she say kill?

"Did you say kill?"

"Kill," she says

"Eliminate from the earth kill," I say.

"Yes," she says.

"You're not serious, right? I mean..."

"I am."

I look around the cafe and wonder if anybody else is talking about killing another human being. Maybe everyone is. Maybe this is the cafe of choice for assassins. I see a lot of students. Maybe this is the cafe of choice for student assassins. Does a student assassin only kill other students? I need distraction. My friend Rachel just asked me to kill her boyfriend of 8 months. The man she loves. Her soulmate.

"He's not kissing my fingers anymore," she says.

"Maybe he has finger fatigue. So this is why you want to take his life. "

"Will you do it?"

"You think he's kissing someone else's fingers. Rach, he doesn't seem like that kind of guy."

"That kind of guy never seems like that kind of guy," she says.

"The kind of guy who never seems like that kind of guy can also be mistaken for that kind of guy," I say.

"The guy that can be mistaken for that kind of guy can be acting like the guy who can be mistaken for that kind of guy and really be that kind of guy," she says. "Will you do it?"

Lets see... if I say no, she'll find somebody else and I won't sleep at night. If I say yes, maybe I can buy some time, convince her otherwise.

"Sure, I'll do it," I say.

"You'll kill him," she says.

"Yeah."

Rachel takes a sip of coffee. She looks past me. She takes another sip.

"I was kidding you know," she says.

"Yeah, I know," I say.

"Because-." Her eyes water.

"Rach?"

"Donald holds me when I get the awfuls," she says. Tears roll down her cheeks.

"Rach?"

I look into her eyes. She's gone. Somewhere far. Somewhere I can't reach. I take her hand, cover it with my other hand. Sometimes that's all you can do.

HEAVY HITTERS

2012-11-08T10:46:00.004-05:00

Polk, my accountant, enjoys, on occasion, networking his clients with outside business people. So when he asked me to meet a couple of heavy hitters I wasn't surprised, and agreed, without hesitation. Polk oversees my tax return.

I have no special affinity nor noxious disregard for heavy hitters. I do try and avoid getting them upset. They're heavy. And they hit. For a living. Same goes for heavy swatters who are heavy hitters with less clout. And light swatters who are heavy swatter wannabes. The nature of business is such that one day a light swatter can become a heavy hitter. And if I angered that heavy hitter when he was a light swatter, I may come out of that meeting stuffed into various briefcases.

We're at Starbucks. It's me, Solomon, and Ben. The two hitters are in their early forties and from New York. They were paying so I ordered the most expensive drink I could configure - a 13 shot venti soy hazelnut vanilla cinnamon white mocha with extra white mocha and caramel. One thing I do like about heavy hitters. They have a need to demonstrate feats of heaviness. Spending money is one.

"So what do you think?" Sol says.
"About what?" I say.

"Why are we even meeting with this guy?" Ben says.

"Polk said Alan's a great ideas guy. And a Jew. You're a Jew, right?"

I nod.

"A Jew'll understand. You are a Jew, right?" Sol says.

I nod again. I have no idea what they're getting at. But whatever it is seems to involve Jews. I hope it isn't about coming up with ideas for a bar mitzvah. Some heavy hitters have been known to spend a lot of money on bar mitzvahs. One heavy hitter brought into the synagogue hall a circus with a trapeze act, clowns and an elephant. Unfortunately the elephant got spooked by the rabbi's light spinning Star of David yahlmuke and rampaged into the synagogue. Damage was limited. The male elephant stayed on the men's side.

"He's not right. There's something about him I don't trust." Ben says.

"Is it because I'm Jewish?" I say.

Ben stares at me. "No," he says. "What a stupid thing to say. We're also Jewish." Ben lacks a sense of humour. A heavy hitter who lacks a sense of humour can become a heavy waterboarder.

"Here's the thing. We, Ben and I, had a tech company. Very successful. Got bought out. Long story short, we're sitting on a mountain of money," Sol says.

"Yeah, we can buy this building, the building beside this building on both sides, the clothing store across the street, the restaurant beside the clothing store, go four blocks north, we can pick up the office tower, and all of the people on the street for cash...right now," Ben says.

"We're not buying people," Sol says. He stares at Ben.

"It's a figure of speech," Ben says.

"No, I know you, you want to buy those people." Sol says.

"We have the money," Ben says. Sol continues staring at him. "Fine. What I said, without the people. For cash."

"Now we're looking to get into the entertainment field. In a big way. Family entertainment. We got an idea we think is a winner," Sol says.

"Okay," I say.

"It's a theme park," Sol says.

"Okay."

"The theme...the Holocaust," Sol says.

"We're thinking of calling it Holocaustworld. Or Holocaustland," Ben says.

Ben and Sol sit back with big satisfied grins.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Ben says.

"So, let me get this straight, you want to do a theme park based on the horrific events of the Holocaust," I say.

"Tasteful, though," Sol says. "And educational. Very educational. At every ride, you learn more stuff about the Holocaust. We were thinking, it's a great way to bring the Holocaust to the younger generation. Make it come alive. In a good way. Museums? Who's going to museums? This park could have a bigger impact than any museum."

"And we can make a killing," Ben says.

"Did you just say we can make a killing?" I say.

"Yeah. You got something against making a killing on a Holocaust theme park?" Ben says and shakes his head.

"No, as long as it's a killing and not a murdering then I'm cool," I say. "Don't your think it's a little vulgar and disrespectful?"

"Auschwitz has a gift shop," Sol says.

"Touche," I say.

"We want you to come up with ride ideas." Sol says.

"Ride ideas for a Holocaust theme park," I say. Sol nods

"Get this, customers come into the park on a train," Ben says and smiles. "Pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah, not sure I would've conjured up that one," I say.

"We can give you a lot of money. And a lifetime pass to the park," Sol says.

"The lifetime pass is tempting. It's just that...genocide theme parks is not really in my wheelhouse. So I'll have to say no. But thanks for the coffee."

As I walk away I hear Ben say, "What kind of Jew is this guy? How can he turn his back on the Holocaust?"

Later, I call Polk. "Hey Polk, I met with those two heavy hitters."

"And?" Polk says.

"Interesting. But they were more like two guys who'd been hit on the head by something heavy."

"Maybe. Maybe next. Time." Polk says.

"To be honest, Polk. I hope there isn't a next time."

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE IN AISLE 5

2012-10-29T15:52:00.003-04:00

The air shivers. The leaves turn. It's the spring of our fall into autumn.

I'm at the grocery store. Aisle 5. Eyeballing cans of kidney beans. Maybe I'll buy. Maybe I'll wait. Time is not on my side. Is it ever on anybody's side? Guy beside me is also eyeballing cans of kidney beans. He's over 6 foot, short shaped hair, face by Donatello, built. This is one seriously good looking dude. He doesn't slip on slippery slopes.

"So, which brand of beans do you like?" The words come out of my mouth. I've never before asked another man his brand of kidney beans. But with this dude... Whatever brand he's using... I want. I am confident his brand will recalibrate my life. I slip on slippery slopes.

He turns to me. His eyes are watery and red. He sniffs. Once. Twice. Breaks into a cry. Soft cry. This is one seriously upset dude.

"I'm sorry. I'm a mess." He says in a soft voice.

I hand him a serviette from Starbucks which I keep in my pocket for the unclean moments in the disapora. "Thanks." And that's when I notice something odd about his teeth. He's got canines way longer than normal and they look super sharp. The only people who have such teeth are lawyers and vampires. He didn't have blood dripping from his mouth so I figure he must be a vampire.

"You're a vampire," I say.
He nods. Sniffs. Wipes his eyes. Cries again.

"Anything I can do?" I say.

"I'm okay. I'll be fine."

He looks me in the eyes. I feel like I'm staring into the face of a wounded lamb. A wounded lamb that, it so happens, can drain all the blood from my body in about 3 seconds. This vampire is not going to be fine. He looks in serious pain.

"I hurt." He picks up a can of kidney beans, turns it around in his hand and puts it back on the shelf with the side of the label sticking out. That's when I notice he's done the same with a whole row of cans.

"You do hurt," I say.

"That hurt," he says.

"No, hey, I mean, I was just acknowledging your pain," I say. "You wanna talk about it?"

"The world is harsh. People are harsh," he says.

"Yeah. They can be," I say. "My name's Alan."

"Burton. Burton Shine." We shake hands. He starts crying again. A passing shopper stares. I glare at her. "Hey, you've never seen a vampire cry before?" The shopper scuttles away like a crab.

"Alan, what do you think of my garden?"

"Excuse me?"

He indicates his arrangement of kidney bean cans on the shelf. His garden. "Should I grow other varieties?"

"Would you like to grow other varieties?"

"Yes," he says. "Chickpeas will go well with the kidney beans. Especially in the spring." He takes cans of chickpeas from a lower shelf and 'plants' them amongst his 'garden' of kidney bean cans.

"Is there anybody you want me to call? Because..."

"I have nobody. Except for you, Alan. And my garden." Burton goes back to tending his 'garden'.

Excellent. I've picked up a new friend. A depressed vampire.

"You know if you've got stuff to do..." he says. Tears well up in his eyes.

Yes, I have stuff to do. My life. But he looks so vulnerable. How can I abandon him?

"Nothing important really. So...your garden. It's really coming along," I say.

"My garden bores me," he says. "I am feeling a bit peckish."

"Peckish."

"Hungry," he says.

I know what peckish means. I just don't like where this is going.

"Do you think you can get me something to eat?" He says.

"Sure, egg salad sandwich be okay?"

"No."

"Tuna salad?"

"No."

"Chicken salad?"

"Human salad. Minus the salad," he says.

"You want me to get you a human. Can't you get one yourself?"

"I have no energy. I'm depressed," he says. Tears return.

It occurs to me that Burton the vampire might also be Burton the emotional vampire. I have experience with emotional vampires. Having blood drained would be less painful. In order to extricate myself from this situation I will need to be an emotional vampire slayer.

"Burton, look at your garden," I say. We both look at his 'garden' of cans on the shelf. "Would you say your garden is an act of creation?"

He runs his hands across the 'flowers'. "Yes, definitely. An exquisite act of creation."

"Would you say creation requires energy? Positive or negative." I say.

"Um, yes, I guess," he says. The tears have dried up.

"So it took energy for you to create your 'garden'," I say. "Maybe you're not depressed at all."

"What do you mean?" He says.

"Maybe..."

"Maybe?" He says.

"Maybe...you spotted me when I came into the store. Used your vampiric powers to eyeball this chili recipe I had in my hand. Knew I needed kidney beans, and that I wasn't the kind of person who boils kidney beans from scratch, so I would have to go to the canned food section. Saw me pick up a grapefruit that had rolled away from an elderly person and put it back in her cart. Came to the canned kidney bean section and set up your 'garden' before I got here-. See where I'm going with this?"

Burton's mien changes. The colour returns to his cheeks. He looks... embarrassed.

"Alan, you are like a miracle worker. I came here depressed. But after talking with you, I feel energized. Not all people are harsh. Not you. Thank you." He extends his hand. I shake it because...he is one seriously charming vampire. "I will never forget our encounter. I will grow. I will be a better vampire." I almost want to give him a hug. But those incisors... "Take care," he says and leaves.

I feel drained. Quickly touch my neck. Emotionally drained.

THE OCTOBER CRISIS REDUX

2012-10-22T11:43:00.004-04:00

"You never listen to me," she says.

"You never listen to me," he says.

"I listen to you," she says.

"I listen to you," he says.

I'm listening to both of them and feel a withering optimism I will survive this subway ride. The thirtysomething couple, GAP stylish, sit across from me on the subway. It's 9:30 p.m. But it feels like 9:35.

"You listen but you don't listen," she says.

"I'm listening."

"But you're not listening."

"I'm listening," he says.

"Okay, what did I just say?" she says.

"That I'm not listening," he says.

"No! That you're not listening," she says.

"I meant listening."

"This isn't gonna work," she says and turns away. He slumps forward, elbows on knees.

"So it's over." he says.

"It's not gonna work," she says.

"So it's over," he says.

"You're not listening, I said it's not gonna work," she says.

"So it's not over," he says.

"Can I be any more clear? It's not gonna work," she says.

"But it's not over," he says.

She looks at him. He looks at her. She looks at him. He looks at her.

This couple has obviously reached the stage in relationship commonly known as Absolute Stalemate. Game Theorists have run millions of simulations on relationships in Absolute Stalemate. Like Mutual Assured Destruction, in the end, nobody wins.

My subway stop is coming up. I should leave. Step away. Not get involved. But this week is the 50th anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis. In October 1962, the world was on the brink. Fifty years later, this couple is on the brink. If we don't learn from history...

I cross the aisle and sit near them. They follow me with their eyes like I'm a flying spore.

"My subway stop is coming up so I really don't have a lot of time. Both of you are in Absolute Stalemate. I understand this." I look at the guy. "You seem to think the relationship is over...Soviet missiles in Cuba." I look at the woman. "You say the relationship isn't going to work...American missiles in Turkey. The solution is simple. You remove your missiles from Cuba. In return, you remove your missiles from Turkey. What do you think?"

They stare at me for a long time, exchange a look, return focus to me. "I don't like Cuba," the guy says. "We were at Varadero Beach last winter and the food was terrible." The woman agrees. "I agree," she says. The guy continues. "Why can't my missiles be in, like, Aruba? My friend Jason says the beaches are awesome."

"Because it wasn't the Aruba Missile Crisis," I say. I look over at the woman whose brow is furrowed. "So? Can you take your missiles out of Turkey?" I look over at the guy. "And can you take your missiles out of Cuba?"

They exchange a look. "Who are you?" she says.

"I ask myself that every morning," I say.

The subway stops. I get off. They continue staring at me as the subway continues into the tunnel.

I wonder if the broccoli in my fridge is still good.

EMMA, HER VAGINA, AND ME

2012-10-16T21:27:00.002-04:00

It's a day not unlike any other. It's a day like no other. It's a day in October.

Late afternoon. I'm seated across from my friend Emma who is seated across from me. At the same table. In the corner. Of Starbucks. She is describing in detail the contours and capabilities of her vagina.

Emma is a beautiful woman with short chestnut hair and a body that could stop wars. And start them. So she can stop them. It seems self-serving to start a war for the purpose of stopping it. It's also industrious. Emma is both. So is her vagina as I am learning.

It was prescient of me to choose the corner table and sit with my back to the rest of the cafe patrons. I'm saying a silent prayer to the god of bladders that I don't need to get up and walk all the way across the cafe to the bathroom. Starbucks policy on walking through the cafe with an erection isn't posted.

Now, I should be in ecstasy as I stare into Emma's deep brown eyes, down to her full slightly parted lips, back up to her deep brown eyes and imagine the geometry of it all.

Instead, my spine tingles with fright. Emma is married to Donald. And, you should know, Donald and Jealousy spoon.

Donald is volatile. A couple summers back at a swanky hotel bar in downtown Toronto, he beat on a guy who looked at Emma wrong and then turned around and beat on another guy who didn't look at Emma at all.

"Emma, does Donald know you're telling me about the contours and capabilities of your vagina?" I say.

"No," Emma says.

"How do you think he'd react if you told him?" I say.

"He'd be furious," she says.

"Okay." I say.

Sit back in my chair. Ponder. Ponder. Arousing images of Emma's vagina are replaced by the opposite of arousing images of Donald beating on me mercilessly.

"Emma, why are you talking about your vagina with me?" I say.

"You're super sensitive. You feel deep. The way you look at me when I talk, with attentiveness and care. I felt you in me, not in that way, but in a soulful way. It turns me on. Nobody else I know can do that." She shifts in her seat. "I'd like to make it a regular thing."

"You mean like once a week regular thing," I say.

"No, more like whenever I call regular thing," she says.

"Uh-huh. So, you want to have an affair without the tearing of the clothes, the rumpling of the bedsheets, the exchanging of the bodily fluids."

"It's not exactly an affair. We're friends. All we're doing is getting together for a coffee and talking," she says.

"So why not tell Donald?"

"He doesn't tell me every time he gets together with his buddies and what they talk about," she says.

"Hmmm."

"I'll pay you," she says.

"Pay me? Don't be crazy. How much?"

"What I pay my therapist. One twenty. And I'll throw in a performance bonus. If I cum you get double," she says.

I felt like I was buying a ShamWow off the TV.

"Oh. If you don't say yes I'll tell Donald you didn't say yes. Remember what happened in that hotel bar?" She says.

"No," I say. She nods with a grin. I take a sip of coffee except the cup misses my mouth and the coffee spills on my crotch. Yet I don't give a shit. Either I give in to Emma's vaginal longings and delay a pounding from her husband. Or I take the pounding now. And delay living. But the money looks good and that performance bonus is a real incentive. If I see her five times a week and say I get the performance bonus three times I can clear almost a thousand bucks.

"Well? 'Cause I have to get going," she says.

"Emma..."

She leans forward.

"I can't do it. Donald's a friend. And I would never do something behind his back. Like I'm sure he wouldn't do something behind mine," I say.

"It's a no-go," Emma speaks into one of her shirt buttons. Moments later, Donald appears. I get up a little dazed, half expecting the beating to commence. Instead Donald smacks me on the arm.

"You passed. Do this to all my buds. See what kind of friend you are. Solid up and down. Told ya Emms."

"I had my doubts. He was up against a powerful force." She looks down at her crotch. "You're telling me," Donald says. "Come on. Lets get lunch. You'll have to come over for dinner soon." Emma gives me a hug. "Ciao."

I'm left standing with a huge wet spot on my crotch. I know who won't be getting a Hannukah card this year.

SCOTT'S BIRTHDAY

2012-10-14T16:01:00.003-04:00

Today is my friend Scott's birthday and I feel like vomiting.

Scott is one of my oldest friends who now lives and works in London England. I can't say what he does. But what I can say is. I can't say what he does. It's not that what he does is a secret. It's that if certain people knew, they could cause a lot of trouble for certain other people, who may or may not belong to a vegetable co-op. I have nothing more to say on the matter.

About 20 years ago I was ghost writing the memoirs of a ghost in my building named Carl. The project wasn't going well. We had our creative differences. Carl was ready to walk and give the job to a ghost friend of his in the neighbouring building. I told him you can't have a ghost ghost write a ghost. The two ghosts cancel out and all you'll be left with is the ghost write of nothing. The argument was persuasive enough to get me back on the project.

One night while working on the ghost writing project and doing shots of slivovitz chased by more shots of slivovitz in different glasses, I slid a slice of pepperoni pizza in a white envelope, wrote on the cover Scott's address who at the time was living in Montreal, slapped a stamp on, and dropped the envelope in the mailbox. It was his birthday.

Scott received the gift with surprise and gratitude. (I made up the gratitude part.)

Two weeks later. I'm walking down the hallway to my apartment. As I get closer, a smell so powerful that it felt like someone were shoving two popsicles of frozen death up each of my nostrils, hit me. A brown wrapped box with postage sat on the floor by my door. I recognized Scott's handwriting. A gift in return no doubt. An illustration of our friendship bond.

With my nostrils pinched shut I brought the box into my apartment and dropped it on the table. Thoughtful as it was to send me the gift, it fucking stunk so bad I wanted to toss it, not even look inside. But as my mother used to tell me, when one is offered a gift, open it, because no matter how much it stinks, you can always give it to somebody else.

I stuck a knife in the box, cut, tore open a hole only to discover an eyeball looking up at me accusingly. (I made up the 'accusingly' part.) Eyeballs are usually attached to heads. Heads are usually attached to bodies. Either whatever creature this was had a tiny body or this was a head and only a head. I tore open the rest of the box, my gag reflex having an orgasm. There, in front of me, lay a sheep's head. A decomposing sheep's head. Scott had sent the package on the thursday of a long weekend. A decomposing sheep's head. An illustration of our-. Then I hit the floor.

I feel like vomiting.

Now, on my kitchen table - different apartment - sits a box addressed to Scott, in my hand, returned and marked undelivered. A hole had torn open in transit. I see an eye stare up at me. I know this eye. I placed this eye and head in the box. The smell overwhelms me. I'm wavering, ready to topple, and then...the eye winks. I go down. Happy birthday Scott.

THE DEBATE

2012-10-12T20:15:00.002-04:00

I'm in the wet sauna of a high-end club on a guest pass from my friend David. I've been in long enough so that the steam has seeped into my pores, loosened my body and turned me into a Giant Squid.

The door opens. Two guys step in. One is in his mid 60's, the other in his mid-40's. Both are trim and fit. They look like they tell people what to do more than people tell them. They sit across from each other in poses of relaxation and take no notice they are in the sauna with a Giant Squid. I'm not pointing it out. Because it's a little embarrassing. And, I'm leaking ink from being so chill.

After about five minutes the older guy asks me to put cold water on the thermometer. He wants more heat and steam. Just as I'm about to pour, the younger guy says, "Stop." This is awkward.
The older guy turns to the younger guy, grins with snark, and says, "Can't take it? Squid, pour."

The younger guy says, "Squid. Pour and you're an appetizer." I obey. My mother always told me not to settle for just an appetizer. The younger guy gets up and stares down at the older guy. "Take it? I can take any amount you can give plus, old man." The older guy laughs with lots of teeth and says, "You're on, lightweight." Both call out, "Squid! Pour!"

I splash on water from a bucket to the calls of "More!"

The temperature rises. The steam thickens.

"Watch your heart old man," the young guy says.

"I've got more heart than you'll ever have." He gives out a big laugh which seems to be his signature. "More water!"

"Grrrr," says the young guy, his face and body going red and redder.

"Grrrr," says the older man, his face and body going red and redder.

Then I hear from outside the steam room, "Hey! Steam debate! Check it out." A crowd collects outside the wet steam doors.

"Who's the Squid?"

"Must be the moderator."

The heat and steam continue rising...

"Squid, what's going on?"

"Can't see much except for the older guy's white teeth. He's laughing and dismissing the younger guy with a hand wave. The younger guy is complaining about his boss who sent him to the sauna. And now..." Thud! Thud! "...they're on the ground."

"Which one fell first? The other is the winner."

"The older guy fell first. Young guy wins."

"Not a chance. The young guy fell first. The older guy wins."

This back and forth went on for awhile. None of us could determine the winner. The crowd dispersed. I checked my ink level.