Rachelle and I took our son Jones to Ramsden Park on the weekend.

It was another very hot day and everybody there was looking forward to letting their kids loose in the splash pad, but it wasn’t quite ready when we got there. A worker dressed in a full body orange hazmat suit waded through the water carefully pouring chlorine, while the children, confined to the perimeter by their parents, twitched like racehorses, desperate to get out of the gate and into the world. When the All Clear sign was given, the children ran screaming and dancing into the fountains of water, and the goodness and fortune in that moment was a living, profound thing. The parents happy and relieved, receded into shade, and the worker in the hazmat suit stepped out of that second skin revealing her astonishing, natural beauty as if a slow-motion scene from a movie. All afternoon, all summer, perhaps, similarly aged teen boys hung about, trying to think of winning things to say.

Jones played hard for about ninety minutes. Everything urgent and happy, everything expanding. And when it was over and we started to walk up the street to the car, we came upon a home that was being renovated. A worker was operating a digger, and to Jones this was a Bigfoot sighting. Jones was born under the sign of The Digger, you see. The Digger is his spirit guide. The Digger is everything. And the man driving it saw the impossible wonder in Jones’ face and offered to let him come into the cab and sit on his lap for a minute while he worked. And Jones did, his little hands on the levers, his life now something he was dreaming as much as something he was living.

Jones, an inch away from three, glowing like a little sun. And I am thinking about memory and when it begins, and as he was smiling out at Rachelle and I, everyone so proud and happy, all I could think was, “Let it be now, please Lord, let this be the first waking memory of his life in this world.”

It’s really just a big sandbox at our local park, but there are boulders in it and the children had carved little channels out of the dirt and filled them with water so that they’d become mysterious and winding rivers. It was the first warm day of spring, the first truly beautiful day after a very long winter, and Jones could not have been happier.

His smile first emerges in his eyes, quickly spreading from there into a wide, unprotected grin in which every tooth is made visible. Standing like that for a moment, he then threw his arms up and squealed– his joy a secret that must be shared—and began racing about Spooky Island in delighted circles. Our radiant beast, so fresh and hungry, so nourished by each day.

And not far away some other child’s parent was blowing soap bubbles. Catching the light and glistening, the undulating bubbles rose up and drifted just out of the reach of the children beneath. In their pursuit they sounded like chirping birds at a feeding, each one amazed by the miraculous gifts appearing around them.

In that moment it was hard to imagine anything more beautiful than what was before us.

Just a few hours earlier, in a different part of the city, a Van Attack had killed 10 people and left even more injured, and people were feeling weird. But nobody was talking about it at the park, nobody was on their smartphone looking for the latest update. No, it was as if a spell had been cast and all of us there were suspended within some magic bubble, one that existed beyond the reach of the actual. We spoke only of the world we stood upon, the world we could see, hear and touch. Anything else was too much, or perhaps even a sin, and so together we became the simple creatures we needed to be, and stood in the light for as long as we could before taking leave and returning back to the worlds from which we came.

She lives in the same part of Toronto as I do, and occasionally we bump into one another as we did yesterday when Rachelle and I were at the local park with our two-year old son Jones:

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Me: Oh, shit.

Rachelle: What?

Me: Two o’clock.

Rachelle: The woman in the cloak?

Me: I thought it was a cape.

Rachelle: No, that’s a cloak.

Me: Ok, whatever. Either way, it’s Margaret fucking Atwood.

Rachelle: I think she’s coming over. I’m going to take Jones to the swings! You two talk on your own!!

( Rachelle and Jones run off as Atwood approaches)

Atwood: Forgive me, but I have to ask, do the police get called very often?

Me: I’m not sure I understand what you mean.

Atwood: You, a middle-aged loner who will never be accepted by his neighbouring, wealthy peers.

Never-quite wearing the right brand and always on the periphery, just shy of conversation, always staring at the children and their pretty young mothers, staring so hard it seems as if you’re trying to fill some interior void that can never stop hungering. I’d think that might make many of the parents nervous.

Me: I think I’m seen more as a kind of guardian, like Batman.

Atwood: Yes, Batman, or perhaps a guardian, like a hollowed-out and mother-dominated crossing guard still living with his deceased parents. Maybe like that, too.

Me: Did you make it to the corn boil here the other day? Blue grass band and everything.

Atwood: Here at Sibelius park?

Me: Yes.

Atwood: No, I was in LA at the Emmy’s.

Me: Funny how the city of Toronto would name a park Sibelius, after a Finnish composer of classical music, before naming one after you, a Canadian writer of impenetrable, mostly hated books. Wonder why that is?

Atwood: I am astonished. You must have been reading your Wikipedia in order to find out who Jean Sibelius was, for surely you thought he was some old Toronto Maple Leaf who died in car crash, no?

Me: JONES!!! NO KICKING!!!! I’M SERIOUS!! I WILL TAKE THAT DIGGER AWAY!!! DON’T THINK I WON’T!!

Atwood: They’re so beautiful at that age. It’s wonderful to see such attentive nurturing, too. With all the advantages you’re giving your son, I am sure he will go far in this world, maybe all the way to The Keg.

Me: I heard you were wearing your housecoat on stage when that thing you wrote so long ago, The Handmaiden’s Tale, won some Emmy for best red outfit worn by a supporting actress, or something.

Atwood: Handmaid’s Tale, and it was awarded Best Drama, amongst several other awards, for being considered a prescient and uncanny representation of Trump’s America.

Me: It’s no Game of Thrones, is all I can say.

Atwood: “Perlen vor Schweinen geworfen,” as they say.

Me: Yeah, whatever.

Atwood: I saw that the *Giller Prize nominees were announced.

Me: JONES!!! I’M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN!!

Atwood: I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t nominated.

Not even on the long list.

Again.

How does that make you feel, Marcel?

Me: It’s Michael.

Atwood: Right, so sorry.

* The prize awards $100,000 annually to the author of the best Canadian novel or short story collection published in English, and $10,000 to each of the finalists.

There’s always one just-past-middle-aged man– usually with long grey hair pulled back into a pony tail or up into a samurai knot– executing some interpretation of a martial art using a huge wooden stick or some such. Whenever I see one of these men I am forced to imagine their apartment, and I do not like that. I do not like the fabrics and odours and screensavers

that puts in my head, and so I’ve always kept a kind of hostile distance from them.

Our park, the park where we take our son Jones to play every day, has one of these guys. He is pudgy, dresses all in black, and looks like somebody whose life had been taken over by Columbine ninja fantasies a long time ago.

As such, I have not yet chatted with him, and have chosen instead to make fun of him behind his back. However, since my completion of pulmonary rehabilitation I have hired a personal trainer and I now work-out in this park, which brings me in direct competition with the Columbine ninja for the creepiest man in the park. Yesterday, he was stationed, with his collection of magic sticks, by the bench where I now work out.

This is the conversation that took place:

Me: Hey there, what are you up to!?

Columbine Ninja: ( Continues his maneuvers without saying a word.)

Me: I’m about to work-out. Here. By this bench. This one here. Is that okay with you?

Columbine Ninja: (Raises one hand to shush me)

Me: (Begins to pull out resistance bands from a Shopper’s Drug Mart bag)

Columbine Ninja: You must never disturb a warrior when he is training.

Me: Are you a warrior?

Columbine Ninja: ( Does a maneuver with his big stick, strikes the branch of a tree)

Me: Nice.

Columbine Ninja: The true warrior is invisible to those who cannot see.

Me: Yes, of course, I should have known that.

Columbine Ninja: Not all who wander are lost.

Me: Are you a part-time life coach or something?

Columbine Ninja: I am a student, not the master.

Me: Uber driver?

Columbine Ninja: I am a student of Kenjutsu!

Me: I think you work at a weed dispensary.

Columbine Ninja: Anata wa seik? shite imasu.

Me: What was that, Klingon? That doesn’t impress me in the least.

Columbine Ninja: I wonder why it is that you have trouble breathing? Is it because you fear life? I think you are a scared man. In Kenjutsu they teach you how to control your breathing, how to master your fear before it masters you!

Me: I only have one lung.

Columbine Ninja: And all you need in order to live a failed life is one excuse.

And then the Columbine Ninja just walked away and I commenced the most melancholy work-out in history.

Excellent form, though.

I often pass Hand Job Park as I take our dog Heidi for a walk, and as fate would have it, I’ve become friendly with Billy, one of the men who spends time there.

Because I have really lousy teeth and travel with an oxygen tank, Billy believes that I am a reformed crackhead, and am thus something of an inspiration to him, evidence that you can turn your life around and one day inhabit a beautiful family. As such, he’s always asking me for advice, and I have taken on the unofficial role as Billy’s Life Coach.

Every Sunday, I walk down to the park, talk to him about his week, and give him a written list of daily goals for the next week. This was my last list:

Monday:

Find public fountain and wash clothes.

Scavenge with your head, not your heart. Look for healthy, nutritional garbage opportunities such as a discarded smoothie, for instance!

Say it out loud to yourself, again and again, “My name is Billy and I will Scavenge Smart!”

Walk for at least six hours.

Learn how to tune guitar.

Affirmation of the day: THERE IS A GIFT FOR ME IN EVERYTHING THAT I EXPERIENCE.

Tuesday:

When busking, perhaps do it in front of Shopper’s instead of the liquor store? Why tempt yourself? Remember Billy, GOOD CHOICES.

Stay away from Hyena’s Old Lady. Remember what happened last time she gave you a hand job?

Walk for at least six hours.

Practice guitar for an hour.

Affirmation of the day: THE VOICES IN MY HEAD ARE NOT REAL. I AM IN CONTROL.

Wednesday:

Today I would like you to go some place quiet (perhaps the Green P Carpark) and center yourself with some light stretching and meditation. Be mindful, Billy. Feel the sun upon your skin and hear the birds singing. You are not separate from nature, but are a perfect and integral component of nature.

Surrender to oneness. Think of everything in your life (guitar, Bo Jackson football jersey, etcetera) that you are grateful for and carry that with you throughout the day like it was a weapon in your backpack.

Remember to walk at least six hours.

Practice guitar for an hour.

Affirmation of the day: THE PAST IS OVER AND MY FUTURE IS NOW!

Thursday:

While busking, take an interest in the lives of those passing by. Remember, they’re people, too. However, remember not to take too intense an interest in the lives of the nearby Sorority girls.

Although you may mean “spicy” as a compliment, they may not take it that way.

Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of society. Make inquiries into joining Choir! Choir! Choir!

Walk for six and a half hours.

Practice guitar for one.

Love yourself for twenty-four. : )

Affirmation of the day: EVERY MOMENT I STEP INTO THE WONDERFUL UNKNOWN

Friday:

Treat yourself to a nice wash in a public fountain.

Feel rejuvenated, in love with yourself and the world around you!

As today marks the opening of the Olympic Games in Rio,

why not jazz up business with a Brazilian theme? When strumming your guitar, add some latin flair! Try to scavenge for food that is unique to Brazil, and if one of the voices in your head speaks Portuguese, have a conversation with it!

Today is a reward day, so score some dope or booze if you can and celebrate the beautiful life that is Billy!

Affirmation of the day: REMEMBER TO GIVE HAND JOBS AND NOT JUST RECEIVE THEM!

He was just thinking of the kids.

At any rate, as many of you know, Rob Ford and I went to Carleton University at the same time and were last call drinking buddies. Although we’ve never had a sober conversation, we developed a strange but resilient friendship, one that sees us communicate to this day. Whenever one of us is drinking alone, we often go on-line to chat with one another, a sort of nostalgic slur back to the good old days.

Around 2:30 Monday morning, I got this message from Rob:

Rob: Hey fag!

Me: Slobber!

Rob: Just. Fucking. Love. Sunday.

Me: It’s a holy day.

Rob: This grizzly worships at the church of FOOTBALL!!! PARTYYYY!!!

Me: What’s your fav football movie?  I think I like Against All Odds–Rachel Ward was hot!

Rob: She woulda made an awesome stripper.  But I think it’s All The Right Moves that does it for me. Cruise has always been my man, and you get to see the mother from Back to the Future naked. Boner city!! Movie hit me right where it counts.

Me: Your bio should be called Rob Ford: All The Right Moves. And you should be in football gear on the cover with a couple of cheerleaders flanking you!

Rob: I should fucken’ hire you, Murray.

Me: Wanna do a shot?

Rob: Just did one!

Me: Me too!

Rob: High-five!!

Me: You following the US election?

Rob: I live in Romney City, little buddy, Romney City.

Me: You like the small government, eh?

Rob: Yeah, it’s not that I’m a racist. Blacks are fucking awesome at football and lots of the chicks are super hot, like that chick in Sin City, Roxanna Dawson. I would vote for her ass in a second!!!!!

Me: You’ve always had a soft spot for the ladies.

Rob: You mean hard spot! LOLOLOLLOO!!

Rob: You remember that waitress with the Montreal Canadiens tattoo on her neck?

Me: You mean stripper.

Rob: Yeah, she was black. I used to tip her real good.

Me: You’ve always been a class act slobber, just like you were with that football team you coach.

Rob: Couldn’t let ‘em wait after the game they put in, wouldn’t been right. The Mayor’s office gotta mean something, right?

Me: Yeah, you know, my wife wishes there were more chipmunks in Toronto, can you do anything about that?

Rob: Talk to a few people. Maybe deport some raccoons, bring in chipmunks. Make a chipmunk theme park, attract tourists– maybe make some chipmunk snack. Good idea, fagman, gonna get some people on it! Gonna grab another brew, c u soon!