One in red scrubs, the other in black.

These women, they are attractive. Around thirty, they look like they’re used to getting hit on in bars, to knowing what it feels like to have a man watching carefully as she leans over the pool table to take a shot. Neither woman makes eye contact or acknowledges anyone else in the elevator. There is an unspoken hierarchy. We all know it.

Well, the other day my mother actually received this letter from Margaret Atwood:

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

December, 6th, 2017

bärb/

noun

noun: barb; plural noun: barbs

1. 1. a sharp projection near the end of an arrow, fishhook, or similar item, angled away from themain point so as to make extraction difficult.

                  2. a cluster of spikes on barbed wire.

                  3. a deliberately hurtful remark.

Dear Barb:

Please forgive me for being so informal as to use your first name. I can see that you’re not just appropriately (refer to above prolegomenon) named, but that the Murray line carries very excitable genes, and I certainly don’t want to offend you or any of the other members in your easily inflamed tribe.

Let me first thank you for your apology concerning the alarming behaviour of your 50-something son, and the thoughtful inclusion of hand sanitizer with your letter. You are right, hand sanitizer does make for a nice, affordable stocking stuffer. Thank Heavens for Shoppers Optimum points, eh, Barb?

It’s interesting to note that the word “barb” is derived from Latin and Old French words for “beard.” The patriarchy has a deep reach, Mrs. Murray, a very deep reach. For instance, I wonder why your fully grown, almost elderly son, does not feel the need to apologize for himself to a respected woman he’s been publicly berating? Why would his mother have to do it?

Could it be that Michael, an archetypically mediocre white man,

was born into a world that was made for him, a world where women existed as bit players present only to serve his narrative? And then, with all competition smothered, with the entire force of a white, phallocentric history pushing him forward, Michael, armed with every conceivable advantage, became the author of one very unsuccessful vanity-published book.

That’s what he did.

He did not become an astronaut, he became a fantasy baseball enthusiast. And as he ascended to the status of fantasy baseball enthusiast and nothing else, he fully believed that all his “achievements” were due to his unique genius, and all failures a conspiracy of invisible, unknowable enemies.

Does that sound about right?

But it’s not your fault, Barb. It’s the world we were born into, and if you want to learn more about why your son is an asshole, you should tune in to Bravo on April 30th to watch the award-winning, crisply produced recreation of my uncannily predictive dystopian novel, A Handmaid’s Tale. It stars Elisabeth Moss, whom you might have seen on the cover of some of the magazines you buy at the mall.

Margaret Atwood

PS: Von all den Kreaturen, die auf der Erde atmen und sich bewegen, wird nichts gezüchtet, das schwächer ist als der Mensch.

As many of you know, I’ve been engaged in a running feud with Canadian literary legend Margaret Atwood for quite some time now.

Typically, the landscape for this war has been social media and chance encounters in our shared neighbourhood of Toronto, but about a month or so ago my mother

turned up the weird by writing Atwood a letter of apology on behalf of my family (  http://michaelmurray.ca/my-mothers-letter-to-margaret-atwood ), as I had refused to so so myself. After a few weeks had passed without my mother getting a response, she wrote to Atwood again:

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

Nov, 9, 2017

Dear Ms. Atwood:

Hi, how are you?

I am fine, but oh, my sinuses were just awful last week! I don’t know what it was, maybe a change in the barometric pressure or the wind, but honest to Betsy, I just wanted to climb under a rock and die! Even chewing gum was excruciating! It’s at such times when you really need a friend– just so you know that people care and that they’re grateful for all the little things you do for them, like sending hand-sanitizer because you don’t want them to pick up a nasty sinus bug like you did. By the way, did you get the hand-sanitizer I sent to you? I hope so, but you never know with the post office!

Have you got all your Christmas shopping done? I don’t even know where to begin, I’m still trying to catch up on all my cards from last year!

Oh, I think I hear Frito meowing!

That can only mean one thing—he wants his dinner, so I better go!

Yours sincerely,

Barb Murray

PS: In case you did’t know, you can now get a flu shot at Shopper’s so you don’t have to go through all the bother of going to a doctor’s office!

Nov, 13, 2017

Dear Ms. Atwood:

I know that you are a very important person and are probably very busy with your various hobbies and commitments, but that’s still no excuse for being rude! I don’t know how you were raised or what sort of morals you Hollywood types have, but where I come from you write a thank-you note if somebody sends you some hand-sanitizer. It’s just common decency.

I hope you remembered to buy a poppy this Remembrance Day. My father fought in WW II.

In the trenches. There was no hand-sanitizer there. Just death and foot disease. But my father endured all that hardship to help make the world safe for people like you, so I hope you always keep in mind the sacrifices he made for you.

I have been thinking a little more about my son’s behaviour toward you. It’s true that Michael has his issues, but I always taught him to be considerate. If you drop him off at a bar,  he will thank you, and if he gets a present, you can be sure he will send a thank-you note to the person who sent him the hand-sanitizer. Sometimes when he’s tired or anxious or hasn’t been attending his low carb support group meetings, he can get very crabby, so it’s crucial for him, and all of us, to maintain our routines (especially regular BM’s!) and get plenty of sleep.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon,

Barb Murray

PS: I have included an article that I clipped from the paper that I thought you might be interested in on Vitamin D. It’s very important that we get enough of it, especially in winter. Osteoporosis is a silent killer. I was a nurse, so I know.

PPS: Did you get many trick-or-treaters for Halloween? We only got two, and they were both teenage girls! And the way they were dressed, my Lord! I thought I should be handing out clothes instead of candy!

PPS: Do you have any children or were you barren?

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.

This year, in an effort to be a little more sensitive to those who might be upset by the images, Sports Illustrated hired me to write Trigger Warnings to precede each photograph:

Trigger Warning:

Viewing of the following image of totally inaccessible supermodel Tanya Mituyshin may trigger traumatic memories of the time you saw high school goddess Marie-Therese Vitzhum in a bikini at a pool party when you were in grade 10. You might recall how out of your league she was and how she seemed like she might have been from Europe, or some angel galaxy that was as far from Ottawa as anything could possible be. You might recall feeling bony, insufficient and pale, watching as she sat piggyback on the shoulders of the muscular Randy Rafter, her breasts pressing against the back of his head as she leaned forward laughing. This image of Tanya Mituyshin could trigger such memories, creating a constant, deeply haunting reminder that you never mustered the courage to speak to MT– as she was known to her friends– and how regardless of the status and success you might achieve, you will always feel like that overlooked and scared 14 year-old boy.

Trigger Warning:

Viewing of the following image of supermodel Hannah Davies may trigger traumatic memories for people who have had difficult relationships with fishing nets in their past. This photograph could spark a deeply repressed memory of the time your friend, as a “prank,” threw a fishing net over you down by the boathouse while attending a cottage party, and instead of fighting to escape from the net, you lay in a fetal position and quietly wept for your mother, certain that you were about to be murdered, as you had always had premonitions of death by fish net.

Trigger Warning:

Viewing the following image of supermodel Gigi Hadid may trigger feelings of profound resentment and homicidal rage in people with a history of despising life in a society where Gigi Hadid, a glittering, young celebrity, is considered an achievable model of feminine beauty. Recollections of unreasonable and cruel demands may flood over you as you navigate the aisles of Shopper’s Drug Mart, your mind flashing red to every cultural message that has ever helped make you feel that you were somehow just not enough. You’re just trying to get some shit done after a long, grinding day behind your desk at the Ministry of Transportation, and then there’s Gigi, smoulder-glowing out at you from the pages of a stupid magazine, and suddenly, before you know it, you’ve kicked the hell out of an entire display stand of kale-and-beet-infused shampoo and punched-out a pharmacist, Club Optima points be damned.

The girl working the cash was young and seemed excited by her job, exuding a manner that suggested she brought a great rush of enthusiasm and competence to everything she did. Cheery, even encouraging, she practically told me the story of each item I was buying, health and optimism radiating from her like sunlight.

On Dupont, a lovely, young Indian woman in Lycra yoga gear was doing some modest stretches against the steps near a restaurant. It wasn’t accidentally beautiful, there was some intent to her actions, but it was close. However, every time a man walked down the sidewalk she tensed up and became anxious, just waiting for something unpleasant to happen, for some guy to say something that was going to ruin her fragile day.

And as she did some calf stretches, a young woman proudly walked past her. She was swinging her arms and there was a spring in her step. She was feeling good, like a world-beater, and she was wearing a vivid, bright red t-shirt that said, “This is my Jesus year,” animated by her faith, an unknowable courage seemed to be guiding her through the day.

These are the text messages I sent to my wife Rachelle:

Me: Just stopped in at One for a drink, should be home by 6.

Me: Yes.

Me: I do think we’re made of money.

Me: Look, my fantasy sports teams have been doing very well the last couple of years.

Me: And I won a Deal Or No Deal scratch n’ win ticket the other day.

Me: I’m fucking rolling in cash.

Me: Paying off the car doesn’t make you a saint, you know.

Me: Right. Just the person who does all the heavy financial lifting.

Me: The hostess sat me very far away from the site lines.

Me: You’d need a shovel to find me.

Me: Yes.

Me: I am wearing my bike helmet.

Me: I don’t know if she thinks I’m an elderly bike courier.

Me: She probably just thinks I prefer solitude.

Me: I look pretty intellectual.

Me: Thoughtful, soulful.

Me: A man who looks like Roger Sterling just refused to sit in my section.

Me: “No, no, no, honey, no way I’m sitting there,” he said to the hostess.

Me: His hand around her waist.

Me: He’s now sitting in the rich men with big cigars section.

Me: Yes, I guess it’s like I’m sitting in the scratch n’ win section.

Me: It’s like instead of arriving via a fuck-me-I’m-rich car, I showed up on a mobility scooter.

Me: One with a little dog in the basket and a Hamilton Tiger Cats flag at the back.

Me: The waitress serving me is kind of chunky, too.

Me: Probably why she’s working this section.

Me: I bet she got the job because she sleeps with the mayor or something.

Me: Look, I have too had a job.

Me: Well, things are tough in the media right now, you know that.

Me: I guess I could be something other than a writer.

Me: No.

Me: No.

Me: I don’t want to work in the box factory that Allan manages.

Me: Because.

Me: I have lots of potential.

Me: You can still have potential in your 40s.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry, I just got distracted by a woman with long, superstar hair.

Me: It was like a flash of light when she tossed it and everything smelled like the beach!

Me: She looks a bit like Jennifer Lawrence.

Me: By the way, what shampoo do you use?

Me: Oh.

Me: Shopper’s, eh?

Me: Yeah, it’s good to get the Optimum points, I guess.

Me: If you don’t care what your hair looks like.

Me: Wow!

Me: Group of men who look like pro athletes and their supermodel girlfriends just asked me if I’d like to have a drink with them!

Me: People really are just drawn to me.

Me: Love you, probably be back late! xo

Me: Don’t forget to take the dog for a walk!!

In the Shopper’s Drug Mart a nearly elderly woman with a walker clunked slowly along in front of me.  Very cheerfully and talking to nobody, she chattered to herself, “Oh, look at all the rubbish that’s on sale, rubbish, rubbish, rubbish!”

The line-up was customarily long and so the cashier called the cavalry. A woman, brusque in every conceivable manner, came and staffed one of the registers, announcing that the next person waiting in line should migrate over. But instead, the last person waiting in line darted over and seized the opportunity. He had all manner of sinus medication in his arms and looked sullen and sour, like somebody who just lost at the dog track. I gave him an “I Know What You Did” look, to which he responded by trying to look sicker.

Back on the street we passed the man who always calls our dog Fritz. He’s tall this man, crooked, with floppy white hair and a cane. He looks like a British genius given to saying thing that are just a moment beyond one’s grasp and as he leaned against the Tim Horton’s he tipped his cap, “Herr Fritz, a good day to you!”

A little further along was an obese man plugged into a pair of earphones. He moved slowly and erratically, as if movement was difficult and he really wasn’t very interested in what direction he was headed. When the dog and I passed him he snarled, “Get your fucking dog out of here!” “You really must miss something,” I said in response, but he did not hear me and continued in anger.

Immediately after, as if in response, we bumped into a woman who wanted to tell me about her Dachshund, Brandy. Lived to be 18. She said that they had a Cocker Spaniel, too, but Brandy, Oh, and then she put her hands to her heart and smiled, smiled, smiled.

We then passed a dog walker. Energized by something she spoke excitedly into her headset. She had thin legs and moved like a boy, like somebody who always wanted to be the quarterback during pick-up football games. She yanked at the dogs, “Come on Huckleberry, hurry up Rizzo, we’re not stopping here!” And then a woman just leaving a nursery jumped from the fifth step down onto the walkway, and as she did so she kicked out her legs like she was in a gum commercial. I could not let this unguarded moment pass, so I said, “Very athletic!” The woman kept her head down and did not respond, heading swiftly down the street to whatever joy beckoned.

Behind her barricade was a display of discounted Triscuits. Very carefully, I stepped out of the line-up and moved one of the shopping carts out of the way and stepped toward the Triscuits.

The woman with the mop yelled at me, “Sir, sir, this section is CLOSED!”

“I just wanted to get some Triscuits, some of the cracked pepper and olive oil, they’re very hard to find.”

“I said the section was closed!”

“Well, I said I wanted some Triscuits.”

The woman sighed and repositioned her mop, as if preparing to use it as a defense against my impending attack.

It was a standoff.

“Will you get them for me then?” I asked.

“I’m busy mopping the floor,” she countered, “you’ll just have to wait until I clean up this mess,” and then she shot the cashier a look.

Shemina, the cashier, shook her head, “I’m sorry Tammy, but the manager told ME to keep on the cash, okay?”

I proceeded as if dealing with somebody holding a gun and delicately stepped into the forbidden zone with my hands up in the air.

“I’m sorry to be entering into the restricted area, but as you can see I still have my cycling helmet on so if I slip and fall, I’ll be very well protected and promise not to sue.”

I then reached out and picked a box of Triscuits off the shelf and still facing the woman with the mop, stepped back into the line. I felt like I had rescued a baby from a hostage situation and trying to be funny, held the box of Triscuits over my head as if it was a trophy.

The woman with the mop looked angry and humiliated, the cashier snickered.

A frosh that was wearing a blue, U of T jumpsuit and face paint who was standing behind me in the line said, “I guess the old man really wants his Triscuits.”

Everybody snickered, even Shemina the cashier.

“They’re just hard to find,” I said quietly.

And then he began to spaz around, imitating my raspy voice, “I want my Triscuits, I want my Triscuits! If I don’t get my Triscuits I’ll have a seizure, that’s why I have to wear my helmet! When I was a boy I played hockey!”

The woman with the mop laughed and wiped some hair out of her face, suddenly looking completely alive.

“Thanks, I really needed a laugh,” she said to the student, “ my daughter got in a fight on her first day at her new school and my kitchen ceiling’s leaking, so thanks for brightening my day.”

And everybody in the lineup was smiling like a beautiful scene in a movie had just taken place, as if  love had blossomed.

Lonely and sad, I went home, had a three hour shower and then started smoking again.