Thoughts on a cancer diagnosis

My piece was recently published in the Globe and Mail.
Find it here: http://fw.to/K1ASnKd

 

(KATY LEMAY FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL)

Hiya, I see on the Internet you’ve had some wild news. What did they diagnose? What are your timelines? About the diagnosis: I have a friend, a former Special Forces officer, sometimes stationed in Baghdad’s Green Zone, who says: “Hold on partner! We are going to eat this cow one bite at a time.” It’s true: After the first diagnosis, things happen in much more manageable packets.

I had cancer in the old days, 1978, Hodgkin’s disease, three stages of four. It took four months to fully diagnose how far it had progressed, including a suggestion to shunt uterus and Fallopian tubes aside during radiation, and then move them back again, like books on a shelf. I got a second opinion on that and didn’t do it, but mostly I went along with whatever was happening.

I had three courses of radiation: six weeks each, five days a week (a ton by today’s standards).
My skin turned purple and flaked off in large, hexagonal, aubergine-coloured peels. The hair on the back of my head fell out but I couldn’t see it and it didn’t hurt, so that wasn’t so bad. I got 18 tiny tattoos in public and private places. I was nauseous and I puked from time to time, but in a humorous way, I like to think: My sister asked how I liked the supper she’d cooked and we had just eaten; I went to the bathroom and hurled.

The little cookies put out by the Ladies Auxiliary (do they still have those?) were a treat. I still love those flower-shaped Peek Freans with jam in the centre.

All this to say that you are not alone, a cancer diagnosis is a horrible thing; it is a test and can be a hard one. You will get through this, you are strong, you have some insurance, you have world-class care and you have me, way over here, rooting for you.

My thoughts on how to equip yourself for the coming months?

Get a binder and a hole-punch for all the different papers, pamphlets and instructions. I also keep medical bracelets in a Ziploc bag so I can wonder at how many times I’ve been to the hospital. They are like badges of honour.

Put a big calendar on the fridge so everyone can see your appointments. This may seem public, but if someone reads about an appointment it could be an entry point for discussion. Some folks have a difficult time talking about scary stuff, and your visitor or family may not say anything at all for fear of saying something wrong.

I like audio books: Harry Potter, David Sedaris, Nora Ephron or high seas with Hornblower. Having an alternative universe at your fingertips is a modern luxury.

Plan yourself some breaks: Have someone make a couple of nice casseroles to have in the freezer, order in. Hire someone to do the cleaning; you don’t need the anxiety of chores. Anyway, you’ll still have to look after the cats.

This is the time to really get into your hobby; I sporadically knit, it’s cumulative and I can carry it anywhere. Cotton washcloths are about my level.

Jeez, this all sounds so preachy. If I could, I’d just come for a coffee and we’d hash it all out.
Be early for your appointments and pair them up with something nice, such as a coffee or a scenic drive.

Find a cheap place to park near the hospital.

Eat your veggies and drink water. Get your hair done. Go to a spa from time to time.

Try to have a simple date with your sweetheart once a week, a meal and a movie at home even, so you have something to talk about that isn’t about illness or cats.

Most days, I wrote a little, just for me, just to get it out. Then if worries crept up at night, I could say to myself, “That is in the book, there is no good reason to be ruminating about it at night when I can’t do anything anyway. So out you go, thought.” Then I would try to find something calmer to occupy my mind. I have a mantra: “I will wake up relaxed and refreshed” and it’s weird how well this works for getting back to sleep.

I hardly know you and this note has way too many adamant points; you don’t have to use any of them. Everyone finds his or her own way. You will, too. Trust your gut instinct and if something doesn’t suit you, if an appointment is too early or there are too many in a day or week, just ask for another. Get a second opinion.

Make sure all you doctors are on the same page; this one point is remarkably important.

As grim as it might seem, it actually feels good to get your affairs in order. Your will probably won’t be used this year, but having it in place can give you peace of mind for the rest of your life.

My thoughts are with you. Drop me a line or just call any time.

Eulogy For A Junkie

On the patio of the Amadeu’s, a bar known by regulars as The Lisbon Plate or just The Plate there was a memorial. People had gathered because Fred Mamo had died, Claire was amazed he had lived as long as he did; he’d been a junkie for 23 years.

Years ago, coming home to the communal house they shared on McCaul Street, one morning slim, tall and blond Sara M. excitedly told Claire about the amazing Fred she had met and spent the last few days with, “he’s into vintage clothing, he’s a great dresser. He’s Maltese! And has a British accent!” As a bonus he did heroin too, such were their priorities in 1991.

Fred had quickly disappointed Sara and since then Claire didn’t trust him. It wasn’t the smack that she distrusted, Claire used too, everybody did, it was just he was always in Kensington Market, sitting at The Plate. He was a dandy, always dapper, unaccountably cheerful, gainfully unemployed, smarmy, drunk and drugged.

Claire hadn’t seen him for a while, that happens in KM people straighten out, go clean or go back home or go to jail. Or die. No world plague for them, these were personally manageable premature deaths.

Like Julian a young black guy, rumored to be the son of University of Toronto profs, in high KISS boots wearing a florescent pink wig with bangs, pan-handling in a back laneway when he could stand, beaten to death there when he couldn’t.

Like Paris, a charismatic tale graceful black man, he might have been a dancer once, exuberantly selling his homemade hot sauce, gone with a heart attack overnight.

Like Bruce, in a kilt and a tam with a red beard, he was a window cleaner with the tools of his trade aerodynamically strapped to his bike, going door to door, then suddenly gone for good having volunteered (killed himself).

Like Bosh, a handsome, East Indian hunk in bulky black leather jacket covered in band patches, studs and chains. He was a Bunch of Fucking Goofs groupie, with a big dog (son of Derty Dawg’s maybe?), wanly smiling one day, and dead of an overdose the next, just like local and famous Rock-a-Billy, Handsome Ned.

Even Amadau, the amicable Portuguese owner of the bar, died prematurely in a car crash. Ironic, having watched his patrons try to poison themselves night after night, year after year.

Jeez, the list went on and on and on. Claire realized there were few women on it; they were left to ease the remembrance.

The people on the patio would remind each other how Keith Whitaker died. He fronted the band The Demics, and sang the big hit someone is still getting royalties for, the chorus goes, “ I wanna go to New York City…” Keith hated it.

Claire had always considered Keith “good” cranky guy versus, say, the “bad” cranky ones, (several of whom were on the patio that day).

Keith was a committed alcoholic, an ex-pat with grimy leather pants, faded, almost illegible band t-shirt, unshaven, terrible teeth, husky voice, and ever-present stubby ciggie between gold stained fingertips. Flip, self-serving, critical, but ostensibly honest, he’d arrive at The Plate with a newspaper quartered under his arm like a racing form noonish then with a cup of tea, in a smoke filtered sunbeam, do the crossword puzzle and scold and swear at everyone except his beautiful girlfriend. Usually he was still there long after dusk, evermore vocal with many pints of cheap draft, fighting with patrons and ending the night, staggering to a cab and home on enduring Sue’s arm.

Always prettily made-up and pulled together, for Sue everyday was a special occasion, she also had a British accent, she would open-mindedly look deep into the eyes of whatever lonely heart was pouring its out that evening and make a loyal friend for life. She was Keith’s support right through to the bitter end. It used to be pretty high status to sit at Keith and Sue’s table at The Lisbon Plate.

Claire went to visit Keith and Sue at home when he was almost done. On a hot summers night, he was covered lightly with a crumpled white sheet for modesty. He had big lumps on his neck, thighs and torso, remaining teeth gone and so pale. He died two days later and has been mourned ever since, the events of his life and death repeated into lore at the Amadeus.

Claire had developed a personal policy about meeting people there: do not, DO NOT smile when being first introduced to anyone at The Plate; you could end up married to them and only realize years later that your careless nicety had ruined your life.

Claire had seen Fred Mamo fairly recently actually, on a rare sunny day in March perhaps? He was crossing Augusta from the bar to Friendly’s Bakery, well known for provenance of street drugs. He was dressed that day as a Gallant Lumberjack wearing perfectly pressed tan coloured gabardine pants with suspenders, a red and black plaid viella shirt tucked in, bright white T-shirt peaking at the neck. He had a jaunty hat on, Tyrolean perhaps, same colour as the pants with a burgundy ribbon.

He had seen Claire too, shown her a big sincere, full face-of-delight smile and did a charming Charlie Chaplin one-legged double hop as if he planned to change direction. Then he continued on after whoever he’d been following, perhaps Ruth, who Claire found out later was his last girlfriend.

For sure he knew then, what everyone knew now, he was dying of lung cancer: delighted for one day of reprieve, in the sun, in Kensington Market, just doing his own thing.

Claire went to the memorial much later than invited, 8:30 -it was still light out. At a table with regulars from the old days: Adly, Scotty, Shoney, and a lady who had given her $60 when she was down once, but who’s name Claire never knew or had forgotten, she listened to reminiscences and reminders about Julian, Paris, Bosh, the others, Keith and beautiful Sue who was still winning hearts. A little later at another table Claire was reluctant at first, to sit with three ladies, all of whom, had been girlfriends of Fred, Each one an elegant, composed Toronto dame, a bit tipsy, with bright eyes and stories for days including her old roommate, still stunning and now a successful costume designer, Sara. Sara wore a tiny black chapeau with a swoop of black feather and tulle veil, the hat perfect for a Yorkshire terrier. She carefully tucked it away for safekeeping until needed again.

1122 words

Days Like This

Probably a heart attack killed Russell Biss. Claire viewed his startling death in light of her own recent heart issues. It was frustrating he was so careful to ask her about what happened to her, why didn’t he look after himself? He said he was a “Star Maker”, he gave good advice and promoted those he favoured anyway he could by sending notes and studio tapes to producers in London and LA, or phoning the books editor to point out something they may have over looked. Why didn’t he realize what was happening to him? His unexpected passing reaffirmed how close death seemed lately and it was the ‘third thing’ she’d been waiting for: one was her emergency heart surgery then her niece’s death and now this.

Time changed for her; any future was unimaginable. There were no stages of time, no progression or accumulation; just now and now now. Everything Russell and Claire had done together became extra-vivid.

At first they weren’t friends and they were never introduced. In second year at the Ontario College of Art she saw his band play. When they were couriers they’d nod in passing like all the others.

Standing near each other in the damp and dirty winter uniform of the downtown messenger outside The Plate, a dive bar the favored by reckless, pre-alcoholic bike couriers, Russell and Claire would both compulsively check and recheck their walkie-talkies for calls in case the volume was turned down; being on standby meant not making money.  After the distribution of cigarettes, and the zipping of layers, they’d speak to each other in impatient, one-up-man-ship voices of authority, delighted for company but suffering from long days filled with dangerous close calls faced alone, each had lots to tell. The conversations usually started with basics, “Hey” or “plastic bags work great,” then an expanded discussion about bearings, bottom brackets and the annual Gortek sale. It was when the conversation lasted longer Clare found out that Russell was a freelance music writer. He showed her a piece in a worn and folded Toronto Star.

For a while after that he was a music writer for the Globe and Mail then he was back working the streets and back at the old bar. One evening Claire suggested he apply as a food writer for NOW Magazine, the local independent paper where she worked in the design department. He was exasperated when she finger-tipped the paper advertisement across the table at the bar. He declared, “What do I know about food?”

She reasoned, “the people who read the paper, the ‘demographic’, are more interested in music and lefty politics but they still need to eat.”

He asked, “Where would I write about?”

She shrugged and raised her palms and said, “Here”.

He was sure her bosses wouldn’t consider him. Claire didn’t realize the idea had resonated until a week later he told her he had an interview with the editor. A week after that he dodged the publisher’s questions about wine saying “Your readers drink beer!” His first story was about the The Plate, the bar where they met.

For twenty years, with a brief hiatus while she had a baby, they dined together once or twice a week. Russell did the research and writing, Claire made the reservations, was on time and didn’t draw attention. He knew what to order and ordered for both of them. Claire would try anything. It was fun: getting dressed-up, being there at opening, choosing a great table, ordering a coffee or a San Pellegrino while she waited for Russell.

No one friend could keep up with Russell’s work, he tried each restaurant three times over lunch and supper. He needed a stable of eating partners. Claire, Russell and others had been to hundreds of different places together. With him she had meals she would never have had otherwise.

The deal with Russell was his guests couldn’t say his name out loud, or talk about his articles or mention the paper, although he did it all the time. If she forgot and said, “I read your piece” or “Russell...” he’d scold her with an intake of breath and tense body language as if he were the only Russell in the city and everybody was thinking about him. He took it very seriously. In the early days he reminded Claire more than once, “This is my work, so no need to be social. Bring a magazine if you like. Its food I’m here to see.” She never brought anything to read, but it relieved the impulse to be entertaining.

He was obsessed with keeping his identity a secret. He wouldn’t allow pictures of himself to be published; none appeared in the paper or online. He kept a luchador’s mask for occasions when the publisher or a favored restaurateur insisted on having a photo taken. His day-to-day disguise was more of a lifestyle than an outfit. He would amble into upscale eateries with the casual indifference of the 70’s punk he was. He used his bike as part of the smokescreen; no one would suspect a reviewer of merit to be the a city-hardened commuter defiantly shaking off snow or water while conspicuously stashing helmet, ratty gloves and a single key.

Many times he avoided suspicion, but sometimes staff guessed and upped the customer care obviously. The owner would come out with a big grin and a bottle of wine, patting Russell on the back and shaking his hand like an old friend from the trenches. Those suppers lasted longer.

This happened once during a snowstorm in a particularly remarkable, and for once empty, restaurant downtown. Russell had actually rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation eyes glittering at his three guests, before he pointed at the short menu, ran his finger down the list and said, “We want to try everything! We’ll share.”

He told them the names and culinary pedigree of the staff working in the open kitchen, he had interviewed and reviewed them all, so it was only a matter of time before the talented chef/owner, toweling his fingers, walked over and shook Russell’s hand and coaxed them to try a martini with local gin, Kombucha and Cointreau. Russell refused but waved the back of his hand to the table to try, like a benevolent dad on holiday.

As Russell talked to the chef, tiny portions of food were gently placed in front of each of them: a single tortellini stuffed with perfectly braised beef cheek, sitting in a flavorful dab of jus, minimally decorated with three purple stemmed radish sprouts, refreshing in winter and in spicy contrast to all the rich food they decorated. There had been course after course that evening: a poached oyster on the half shell, house cured cubes of ham beside a dollop of tart blackberry jam, nothing else on the little block of wood just meat and jam, foie gras toasts, a green soup, a curl of Montforte cheese balanced on house made olives framed by one pickled baby carrot with its top still on, smoked mackerel, roasted quail and fingerling potatoes and small slate roofing tile with a trio of luscious cheese cakes in ramekins: pink rhubarb, golden maple syrup and the same dark purple, tart jam as before. The meal went on for hours. The restaurant closed. The furniture around them was piled in that way restaurants do, all the lights dim except on their table and in the bright kitchen at the back, snow falling, falling, falling outside the plate glass windows in the dark. The chef and kitchen staff brought tiny perfect samplings in turn, each staying for a glass of wine as one of the others worked on the next masterpiece in the kitchen.

A good friend was a newish thing for Claire who’d been living in the city for years, except the bums at the bar, had only connected with people she worked with. Good friends were a rarity but she knew they were evolving with Russell when one afternoon he called first then showed up at her door and let her have it. He had made a special trip to tell her that at lunch the day before she had acted manic, she was talking and laughing fake loudly. She drew attention by sending back food. He’d come with this single message to tell her to take it easy or he couldn’t bring her. Claire, well knowing the longing other ostracized friends felt when he had cut them cold, just said, “Thank you.” She was rewarded by an invitation to lunch later in the week and their relationship improved.

After the paper laid her off, she was unemployed for a while. So in addition to being free for lunch she had time for other luxuries like art classes and writing. She started writing. Russell was a natural critic and gave clear and sincere advice. She was delighted a mutually satisfying subject to talk about over the sometimes dull meals. Under his tutorage her writing would advance.

She had wondered about Russell when they weren’t on-the-job. Her offers of movies, home cooked food or invitations to the cottage were always refused. He said, “Oh you know, my work is to go out. I’m out all the time, when I’m not working I just want to stay in, thank you.” It was true: he didn’t travel, and although he planned to go to friend’s events, he never did. He was becoming reclusive.

He expensed their meals but he was her host and she often let him have the last word. At one of the last meals they had together, brunch in an posh spot in an area with lots of posh spots, she tried to explain, ”I write about the catalysts for decisions, right before people realize they have a choice.” They both watched a waiter with tattoos, a beard, plaid shirt and long shorts step out to the patio. It occurred to Claire Russell could easily come back and strike up something more than a conversation about food.

The bill came; Russell included a memorable tip, they gathered their things from the booth. She went on, “They are optimistic stories, about lives reclaimed, of a better second half.” Together they stepped into the brilliant midday sun, looked in opposite directions.

After a moment Claire turned back and said, “Thank you for lunch.” With a backwards wave, Russell said, “I don’t know about next time. I’ll keep you posted.” They snugged on their helmets, unlocked their bicycles and went off, each in their own direction.

Two days later Claire got an email:
Subject: Lunch? Body: “What's your schedule 2-ish the next few days? Church & Wellesley, -rd”

Then on Friday, the planned meeting day an email saying, “No lunch today. I've got a stomach bug and was up all night. Back to bed! -rd”.

That was the last.

On Tuesday it was jobless Claire who sped 11 bocks on her bike over to Russell’s house, after his editor rang inquiring if she had seen him lately, the paper had a deadline. It was she who paced around the whole three story building looking for a way to break into the second floor corner apartment she had visited only once in all these years. She called 911 to summon EMS.

She who comforted from the seedy boarding house hallway “We’re coming, everything will be okay” and stood back while EMS used a special pry bar to force the lock. A small bachelor apartment with a large metal office desk set diagonally across the middle of the main room. A huge flat-screened TV, a huge computer monitor, a wall of cookbooks and another wall of band handbills. EMS trudged single file: office, kitchen, bedroom and came back single file to look at her, wondering if she’d called in a prank.

Claire dismissed their implied mischief stares to: think, think, think! Where are you? Dazed she walked in an eerie smell of man-sleep and something else past Russell’s unmade bed, with blackout curtain draped over the post, swung back the towel hanging over an unseen door and pushed it against’ the leg of her friend, dead on the bathroom floor. On his back, head into the red-painted corner, his hands near his shoulders as if about to adjust his hair, almost unrecognizable with four days of stubble, tiny clear bubbles along his lips, naked except flat grey penis over the top of black Y-fronts.

Propped against the red wall there was a tall yellow with red letters Plexiglas sign: “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. Hanging on the wall four staring dolly-face molds, tarnished brass, side-by-side, one with a scuff of red spray paint around its surprised little “oh” mouth, a slightly erotic witness.

Claire stepped backwards, wanted someone to be surprised with her. Actually she wanted Russell to be surprised with her. He would have loved this: coming across a dead body in the middle of the day without warning. At first the professionals couldn’t hear her. “I found him. He’s there.” Then one went back to check, and bsoon back with, “No vitals” answering the unspoken query from the others confirming what Claire already knew.

 She tried to seal this image into her memory, a little later she asked if she could take a picture of her dead friend. She had to. She even asked though she could have anyway, the bathroom entrance was so small nobody would have seen. She had known since the phone call, maybe since the email she sent four days before, and email which ever prompt Russell had never returned. 

 2281 words

Just Add Ali

Claire bought a Persian carpet because Ali offered an irresistible price. The carpet depicted a garden or cemetery; there were little crosses in bright pink yarn. It was late winter she had a cold, the carpet was an impulse purchase to brighten things up.

Claire lived downtown in a shabby house with her 9-year-old son Max and covered the mortgage by renting rooms to boarders. She could handle the day-to-day stuff, daycare and groceries, but she sometimes had to scramble to make holiday times special for her tiny family of two. There were lonely times when other partnered parents couldn’t triangulate Clair and her son into their plans and having boarders plus kids around all the time meant she didn’t date. Occasionally Claire longed for something more but mostly she liked the independence and didn’t think any relationship would have lasted anyway.

Sometimes when she showed up on a guy’s radar it was obvious, it seemed to happen most often with Mediteranian guys. There was Ahmen from up the street, a big handsome Egyptian with brown eyes and the best pecs in Kensington Market who turned into a giggling, thumping puppy if she so much as glanced his way. Once as she and Max walked home at dusk, from his roof Ahmen strummed a love song loudly improvising her name into the song. On a disability pension after an accident as a firefighter, he needed pot to stave off his PTSD induced and repellant yelling fits. He often told her they would be great together.

There was Chapado Johnny, who had for years wandered daily along Baldwin Street in a liquor haze, a bottle of homemade wine dangling in flimsy plastic shopping bag. When he saw Claire and he would somehow articulate, “I love you” with a thick-tongued voice and Portuguese accent.

Most guys who courted her had assets, a business or property. She presented an instant solution to some: just add dad and, voila, a nuclear family. Claire was not looking for a husband, but she understood the old world logic, if only she could devote herself to such a simple concept.

Ali’s store was near her house and he lived upstairs. The store window was piled with colourful oriental rugs usually topped with two fat sleeping tabby cats. At first Ali introduced shoppers to his pretty brunette German wife who worked with him in the store but when her daughter went to a German university, the wife got lonely and went back too.

Ali needed helpers to fling back the rugs when he was selling; he gave Max a job on Saturday mornings. Ali came to Claire’s house himself to install new broadloom in the basement. When he finished and she tried to pay him, he looked past her, around her home and refused the cash.

The following Saturday Max came home with an invitation for tea. On Sunday Ali showed mother and son around his tidy apartment, the clean kitchen and the empty bedrooms. There was an entertainment and a sitting area. She could see a roof garden out back over the showroom. He settled Max in front of the TV, motioned Claire towards pillowed furniture. He made chai tea and served it in small glasses with heaps of coarse sugar and sat himself in a rattan chair like a throne. There were little shortbread cookies, pistachios and dates. He explained his situation about his wife leaving, trying to manage the store, living alone and complained he couldn’t sleep.

At the store on Monday afternoon Claire dropped in to give Ali an herbal sleep aid. He looked at the little bottle in his hand then up over the cats, out the window and muttered, “thank you”.

She was surprised a few weeks later at a carpet sale when Ali introduced Claire to his new wife, a tall lady with long blond hair in a flowing orange dress. Ali had been looking for a wife and told the customers that he was moving the store to his wife’s hometown Calgary. Soon the shop was gone. 

A year later the phone rang at Claire’s house, she picked up, “Claire? Hi, it’s Ali. Remember me?”

Claire said, “Ali? From the carpet shop? You don’t sound like yourself.”

The caller defended he was Ali’s brother, also named Ali. Really, was there a brother? She couldn’t remember and she didn’t believe him, although he sounded Persian. She could hear someone else talking quickly in the background.

He went on, “You bought a carpet, right?” He seemed impatient, even frantic. “You know the store isn’t there anymore, we have a truck full of rugs and we’re having a big sale tomorrow.” It was hard for Claire to piece it all together: Ali must have bundled all the carpets into trucks but didn’t he drive them to Calgary? An image of twin trucks streaking on a highway came to mind, one driven by the blond lady in an orange dress and the other by a thrilled and grinning Ali. Or did someone buy a lot at an auction that include sales lists? Or was this his brother? It felt like a trap. Did Ali owe someone money? He had been in the army. Could these be Iranian secret service trying to trap him some way?

Claire stalled, “Give me your number, I’ll phone you back,” she needed time to think.

“My number?” there was more impatient talking, “I can’t find the number. I will call you.” They both hung up.

She waited and was relieved when he didn’t call. Ali never came back to explain.

942 Words

The Tide Of Chapado Joe

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In a downtown world screened off by grapevines, Chapado Joe lived his whole life on grilled fish, crusty bread and cheap homemade wine. He didn’t realize fate would require of him only one choice.

     In the beginning Joseph was thought of as special. He was a polite, good-looking boy with intense eyebrows, dark curly hair and a charming smile. He was popular at high school and his ball hockey team became Ontario Champions; the peak of Joe's success.

     Chapado Joe drank everyday.

     On Baldwin Street loud fishmongers in scale-splattered smocks would call him “Hey Chapado!” to hose the gut-strewn floor or other horrible jobs for a cup of homemade wine. He would collect empties to buy bottles of booze, which you could see sticking out of his dirty, oversized coat pocket. Sometimes Joe would stand in the middle of the street, yelling in a voice so husky it was hard to understand, his arm outstretched with a stubby finger pointing a downwards “I live here”; in halting mini sentences, depending on his mood, “Fuck you" or "I love you". One thing he knew was where to be when the wine came out.

     Often at the bakery, drunk in the afternoon, Chapado Joe would be told to leave. On automatic pilot he’d make his way back to the garden where his family used to live. He would teeter onto a flimsy chair and blearily look at the hands on his lap. Later, sitting there, he would pull his coat over his head and with just his knees and boots showing, sleep.

264 Words

Lucky Emily

Emily was a lucky person. All the ladies at work told her so when she, surprised by her wins, would share coffee coupons or things from the Avon catalogue. However if she expected to win, she wouldn’t get anything, she could not take her luck for granted.

      One blustery evening Emily found two live lottery tickets outside her door. After a solitary,  gloomy supper, while letting out the cat, she noticed the official looking wet tickets blown against her door step.

      Occasionally she’d seen expired tickets blowing in the wind, when disappointed gamblers set the chits free hoping the liberated wishes would come back and bestow better luck next time. Emily didn’t play the lottery, she preferred her risks to be less obvious, but she could tell these were lucky tickets.

      She knew what she’d do if she won sixty million dollars. She would buy all the cottages on a nearby cul-de-sac, build beautiful, sustainable studio homes, a community kitchen and fill the enclave with friends. She would travel and live for a while on every continent, leading a different life in each place. Dress in bright fabrics and laugh all day with someone she loved. She would sail, bike or maybe ride horses everywhere.

      The yellow tickets were slightly damp, and both had a smudged signature that looked as if the author couldn’t write very well. On the back the claims investigating process was described. She had heard about someone who had lost their receipt but still got fifty million dollars without it.

     Nobody would know they were a little further under the doormat. Emily called the cat and went to bed.

285 words

Warrior Mom

We sit side-by-side, mile after mile as I drive an old silver Focus borrowed from Su. With winch window handles and elementary electronics, it’s like the inside of an old purse: stained upholstery, littered with wrappers and tissue. My friend Su hordes her stinky stubbed out cigarette butts in the side door pocket; she doesn’t like to pollute the environment when she pollutes herself.

      She and I are the same height so usually all I have to adjust is the radio station from rock to talk ‘n doc. She’s not here today though so the radio is off, the car white-noising the silence.

      Grey sweat-panted legs beside me are stretched under the dash, the seat reclined and hoodied head turned away maybe sleeping. Like a farmer to her herd, I urge the cars driving around us, redirecting, reacting and giving praise at 140 kilometers an hour. Counting exits, I’m trying to remember, like every other time, if its 16 or 19 which gets us there more directly.

      Cutting across all four busy lanes, on the exit ramp we clique up with other much nicer cars: a sport parent convoy. From here on we’ll travel as a pack, our boys rousing from late nights and dull weeks to fish around for socks and cleats, water bottles and mouth guards; Toronto’s warrior class getting ready to play Saturday morning rugby with a kiss goodbye.

1st Assignment: Intro to Creative Writing: Car Characters:
Warrior Mom