The nurses found him elbow deep in the garbage can, sifting through the spent trash as if it were the soil of his native PEI. He was harvesting anything that felt like a potato to his hands, and then dropping whatever it was on the floor by his hospital bed for later use.
Whether it was a sleeping dream he was having or a waking one no longer mattered. Lost on the rolling seas of dementia, Marcel had passed into the timeless overlap of memory where reality is nothing more than an unbidden chemical spark from deep within the mystery of his receding brain.
Marcel was harmless and never given to rage, and the nurses seemed to love him, treating him more like a pet than a patient. You could see the gentleness within him, the shapes of the men he used to be who now pushed against the diseased exterior: the fair trader, the husband, the guy who was always the first to dive in off the dock, the grandfather who did corny magic tricks and loved fishing.
Now in his mid-nineties, he wandered the corridors half-dressed. Like a poltergeist given form, he drifted in and out of the rooms on the 14th floor as if living all the lives contained therein, with each visit subtly rearranging the small articles he came upon, always setting this new house in order. The expression on his face that must have once been so clear was now lost and uncertain. He seemed blinded, a subterranean creature guided through these alien and unnaturally smooth corridors not by sight but by scent, called to this strange transit by a timeless ocean that only he could discern.
Me: Rachelle! Rachelle! Are you there?
Rachelle: ( Moves hand as if swatting fly)
Me: What is your favourite crop?
Rachelle: Crop?
Me: Yes, like corn, wheat, tobacco or peanuts.
Rachelle: Mmmm. Peanut butter cups.
Me: Okay, next question. Who is the sluttiest person that you know?
Rachelle: Slutty sluts. They’re all sluts. You know that.
Me: Good answer.
Rachelle: Thirsty.
Me: I will ask the nurse if you can have an ice cube. What is your favourite natural disaster?
Rachelle: Twister. So. Very. Windy. Hide in the basement when the twister comes! Very serious. Lives ruined.
Me: And crops, twisters ruin crops too.
Rachelle: Twisters are ruiners.
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In the booth behind us sat two women. One of them had a tattoo of Tinkerbell– sluttily composed on all fours– inked on her back, while the other woman had a tattoo of a several dollar signs on her back.
“I don’t know what was wrong with the bitch,” Slutty Tinkerbell said.
“She’s always had an attitude,” Dollar Sign agreed.
“Well, I wasn’t going to let her get away with it, so I told her, but before I knew it bitch had me by the hair and whipped me to the floor!”
The waitress was about 7 months pregnant, had sweet but tired eyes, and was an utter ace at her job. Flashing about, she was like some serving telepath, predicting needs and wants long before they were actually articulated. When she brought us the bill it occurred to me to ask if she’d come up with a name for her child. She seemed a little bit startled by the question, and then a little bit sad, “No, no, I’ve been too busy to think about it, I’ll have to just wait and see, I guess,” and then she spun off to another table, her life now receding like a partially glimpsed ballet.
Crossing the pedestrian overpass to the Market, we were greeted by a tall, thin black man in a frayed dashiki. He gave me a quick appraisal, “Hey there Little Man, how’s it going?” In front of him he had an array of mysterious oils and dyes that I had paused to inspect, “The Little Man’s day goes well, how does the Tall, Thin Man’s day go?” He laughed and banged his fist into mine, and I felt proud, like I had just passed some sort of Detroit test.
Not far from him a woman crouched near to the ground in a position that seemed almost predatory, as if she was planning on springing up and pouncing on all who passed by. She was wearing a complete, black Burqa that she’d accessorized with a pair of impenetrable wrap-around sunglasses. Somehow, I knew that she was stunning beneath the intimidating cover—you could feel strength radiating from her and it was obvious that her concealment was a function of pride rather than modesty. Beside her a handsome man with a Thelonius Monk beard sat on a pillow chanting Muslim prayers. They were rock starts to me–perfect in their alien beauty, as if pulled from the cover of a Miles Davis album.
In the open-air market we bought some blueberries from a pair of fussy, 60 year-old gay men.
“No, it’s three dollars each or two for five dollars!” the one with the beard and mustache corrected. The other man sighed and closed his eyes for a second, and then with an edge in his voice that was directed to his partner, said to us, ‘That will be two-fifty, please.”
Down Russell Street we saw heavy men with diabetic limps. Clustered in a group in front of us, one wore the jersey of Detroit Tiger slugger Prince Fielder, while the others arrayed around him, leaned on canes, wore t-shirts from rib joints or hats tilted at a jaunty angle.
Boisterous and playfully combative, we could hear them bantering. The closer we got, the more clearly we could hear one of the men shouting out every five seconds or so, as if part of an unfolding musical improvisation, variations on a riff:
“Leave the white girl alone.”
“Now you be leaving the white girl alone, you hear.”
“Don’t be messing with that white girl’s business.”
“Just leave the white girl alone.”
As Rachelle and I passed, one of these men stepped out and scowled back at his buddies, “Ah, white girls can’t cook worth a damn!” Winking at Rachelle, he gestured us away with his hand, his pals all laughing and tossing high-fives.
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The boy’s name is Jurg and he’s 12 years old. He lives in a city I’ve never heard of (Prokhladny) in a part of the Russian Federation I’ve never heard of (Kabardino-Balkaria), and by sending him $25 a month, I’m helping to feed, clothe and educate him.
What follows is my correspondence with Jurg.
Dear Jurg:
Well, it’s nice to meet you! My name is Michael and I live in the city of Toronto, Canada with my wife and our little wiener dog Heidi. I work as a writer and my wife as a graphic artist. She’s tall and I’m not. Toronto is a pretty cool place, and if you ever get the opportunity you should come and visit. I hope the small contribution I make to you is of some use, and that we become best friends over the years. Please, tell me all about your life in Russia!
Mr. Murray:
My English is not expert so forgive mistakes please. My father, before he left he never forgave the mistake and would yell, “Jurg, Jurg, you are bad in the head!” and he would hit me. I work in Tungsten mine to make bread. The money you sent is kind and I thank you. Send photograph of your tall wife?
Jurg:
I’m so sorry to hear that your father beat you. That’s awful, but I’m sure that he loves you very much and was likely just having difficulties managing the stresses in his life. It’s sometimes very complicated to be an adult. I am sending you a picture of our little family here in Toronto and hope you are well!
Mr. Murray:
Toronto is city where Maple Leaf hockey club play, right? They are the shits. Russia much better at hockey than Canada. Your wife not bad, though, much better than you. You have potato on face where nose should be! I say wife 8 out of 10. If you spare more money life be better for Jurg and maybe he get lucky with lady who 8 out of 10.
Jurg:
Ha-Ha, such a precocious boy! That line about me having a potato on my face is very funny! Maybe you’ll grow up to be a comedian! The ladies like comedians, you know!
Potato Face:
We are very sorry to see you no send more money. We now have picture of your pretty wife and little dog and have many cousins living in Toronto. Would be shame if something happened to them.
Something with brick happen to make blood.
When 9, I drown a bear in Tambuken Lake.
Jurg:
I’m afraid I cannot afford any more than $40 a month. I hope that this amount is able to help you and your family.
Potato Face:
That is better. Jurg now own pit bull for safety. In your sake I call him potato face. No more letters from you, just money assistance, understand?
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