Me in the front, he in the back.

Jones has figured out how to operate the power windows and this gives him no end of amusement. Cool, grey wind blows in through the open window, and people walk swiftly past, hands in pockets. Everybody in a big city kind of trance. Locked into a zone where anything other than the self is an obstacle to be avoided.

It’s easy to hate this on a day that promises winter. To be exhausted by it. To just want to move away from the city and live amidst trees.

But Jones doesn’t mind all the averted eyes, at all. When he sees somebody coming down the sidewalk he powers down his window and shouts out to them, “Hi! Hi! Hello there!!” Each person is startled at first. They glance over at the car and see me, a middle-aged man on oxygen, and start to look away– all feeling a little bit more uncomfortable now than just a second ago. And then they see Jones. His sunny, smiling face. His little hand waving out the window, his happy optimism, and their faces relax. They start to smile, then laugh. He must do this to a half dozen people, maybe a dozen. The same result each time. Each time, a little spark ignited within.

Each person now carrying this into their journey.

The strangers continue down the street, like illuminated ghosts now, or a line of lanterns growing dim in the distance. Each one of us slightly different, as if wind-blown, as if the spirit of something small and beautiful had just passed through us.

I was suprised to be contacted by Ontario Premier Doug Ford recently.

As many of you will remember, I was an old drinking buddy of his brother Rob, who was mayor of Toronto for a controversial stretch of time back a few years ago.

Rob and I attended Carleton University in Ottawa at the same time in the 80’s and it was there that we became drinking buddies at Rooster’s, the campus pub. We were never best friends or anything, but much later, when I moved to Toronto and we re-connected on Facebook, Rob would habitually open chats with me when he was drinking and looking to revive the “good, old days.” According to his brother, Rob truly valued what I had to say and as Doug put it, “If you were good enough for Robbie, you’re damn sure good enough for me!” and with that he offered me a job as a staff writer at his office. My first job has been to write some follow-up ads promoting that fact that Doug’s new government made good on their promise to make it legal for beer companies to lower the price of a beer—if they want to—from $1.25 to $1.00.

This is the script for my first ad:

( Doug Ford speaking to camera from his basement den )

“ I haven’t had a drink in over 25 years– not because I have any sort of problem. I don’t and I never did, and I will sue the bejesus out of anybody who says different.

Just try me. ( Two second pause)

No, I stopped because I’m disciplined. Good governance and fiscal restraint require discipline, a quality I learned as a shotputter and as the no-nonsense businessman who steered Deco Labels and Tags to be voted– by the readers of Etobicoke Style magazine– as one of the top three Label and Tag operations in all of the region.

For four years running.

We’re proud of that.

But none of this means I don’t remember what it was like to have a nice cold one. I do. And I remember how powerful it can make you feel. You and your crew, cruising the streets of the city looking to blow off some steam. Not looking for trouble, but sure as hell not afraid of it, either, and The Stones are blasting, maybe Street Fighting Man, and you’re all piled into your dad’s Beemer, roof down, and it feels so good. Oh, and all the ladies in their summer clothes? (Doug–make direct eye contact with then camera and then smile, teeth showing) Ah, the stories I could tell… (Doug– chuckle to self) Well, those were different times, I guess, but we felt like rowdy, young gods, and the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario thinks everybody should be able to afford to have that feeling, too, which is why we’ve now made it possible for Ontarians– both men and women– to enjoy a 25 cent reduction in the price of a beer!

Government by the people, for the people.

I’m Doug Ford, and I’m your premier.”

( This is the first ad the Doug Ford ran before I got involved:

https://toronto.citynews.ca/video/2018/08/03/doug-ford-says-buck-a-beer-coming-by-labour-day/ )

The only thing it said was, “Stop.”

Intrigued, I called the number to investigate and see who had left the mysterious message and what it might mean, but was immediately sent to a voicemail box that gave no indication of who, or what, might reside at the receiving end. Not wanting to give up on this communication, I texted back. These are the messages that ensued:

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

Unknown Texting Entity: Stop

Me: Stop??? Stop what???

(One day passes)

Me: Can’t stop.

Me: Won’t stop.

Me: Maybe in the name of love. Maybe I will stop in the name of love.

(Another day passes)

Me: No. Changed my mind. Will NOT stop in the name of love.

(Two days pass)

Me: Is this the Instant Pot?

Me: You can see into the future, can’t you, Instant Pot?

Me: Is it true? Is it death by water for me? The Tarot reader said it was, but I’m not sure I believe her. I think she might have been unreliable. She was weird,  smelled exactly like a Harveys. Very suspicious.

( One day passes)

Me: And I’m never even in the water.

( One day passes)

Me: My wife told me that the Instant Pot cannot send texts, so sorry. I guess you’re not the Instant Pot.

( One day passes)

Unknown texting entity: Just stop.

Me: STOP WHAT???? YOU’RE KILLING ME HERE!!! JUST KNOCK OFF THE MEAN GIRL BULLSHIT AND TELL ME WHAT IT IS I HAVE TO STOP DOING!!!

Me: Sorry. I don’t normally lose my temper like that.

Me: I haven’t been sleeping well.

Me: Lots on my mind.

( Two days pass)

Me: You’re a demon, aren’t you?

Me: I always knew a demon would pick me to seed.

Me: I knew this would happen. Ever since I read The Amityville Horror when I was eleven.

Me: That’s when I created a portal for you to enter into my life, wasn’t it?

Me: Fuck it!

( One day passes)

Me: Well demon, as you can see into my soul, you know that I’ve wanted to stop for a long time.

Me: The problem is I can’t stop.

Me: That’s why I haven’t been sleeping well.

Me: I. Just. Can’t. Stop.

Me: It’s all I fucking think about.

Unknown Texting Entity: Paske, gen anpil moun ki rebèl, plen diskou sans ak desepsyon, espesyalman sa yo ki nan gwoup la sikonskripsyon. Yo dwe bese, paske yo ap deranje tout kay ki nan kay yo lè yo anseye bagay yo pa ta dwe anseye-e ke pou dedomajman pou malonèt.

Me: Is this you, Jen?

Me: Are you fucking with me?

Me: If so, this is NOT funny.

Me: So not funny.

Me: I just had to take two Lorazepams, you fucker.

(One day passes)

Me: Okay, this is Michael’s wife Rachelle writing now. Listen, if you actually are a demon, why did you start off communicating in english and then switch to whatever you switched to, when you saw my husband start to panic? Why not just continue with english? Seems like a rookie mistake to me.

Me: I think you’re a false prophet!

Me: Demon! It’s Michael here again! The above, the blasphemy about you being a false prophet? That was written by my wife, not me! I would NEVER say that about you!!

Me: Rachelle here, demon. Could you make yourself useful and tell me where Jones put the car keys? And if you’re the reason why the remote is always disappearing, you’d better knock it off. Don’t think I won’t holy water the shit out of this whole place. I will. And I have a Bissel steam cleaner that can suck you right out of the sofa.

It’s a real ghostbuster, so just consider yourself on notice.

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?

As of this writing, I am on day 7 of a 6 week stint at a pulmonary rehabilitation facility.

Last night was an event known as “Coffee House.” It took place in a generic, over-lit cafeteria style room that was made all the more depressing by the tiny gestures of decorative cheer added by the well-intentioned staff.

An inspirational message taped to the wall.

A balloon tied to a folding chair.

Somewhere a Dollar Store streamer that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging limp as if injured.

All of us gathered there were quiet, standing around as awkward and vulnerable as children at a school dance. Those who were most profoundly ill, those for whom recovery was out of reach and who lived permanently in the residence, had been pushed up near a three-piece band that was getting ready to perform. These people sat in complicated, tongue-controlled wheelchairs, and at a casual glance appeared fused into the metal of their containers– their mouths open, faces rigid and untranslatable. The rest of us, those attached to oxygen tanks and those not, just looked lost and a little sad, like we’d long given up hope of being asked to dance. You felt what was missing rather than what was there—and it seemed as if in each breath we exhaled a shallow puff of loss, all then gathering together like a weather system to form a heavy, oppressive cloud that enveloped us.

It was heartbreaking.

The band, a kind of folk outfit that was comprised of a woman who looked like a community organizer on tambourine, a bongo player in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and an electric keyboardist who tried to project energy by wearing a Hawaiian shirt, began to play. At first the music seemed like it was designed to be little more than sound, just a “something” to help fill the emptiness of the situation, but then the woman began to sing I’ll Fly Away. Her voice was beautiful and true, and everybody in the coffee house fell into it.

When the shadows of this life have gone

I’ll fly away

Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly

I’ll fly away

And that voice, that song, it seemed to come out of us, too. And for a few moments we were all living beyond our mortal cages, we were all soaring– everything effortless, everything weightless, everything beautiful.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNM0OO_iVI

Whenever I’m in one I think of some punitive elementary school. There’s an entire galaxy of largely symbolic rules, and everything associated with us is measured, weighed and timed. And as you stand in line you find yourself worrying about whether you remembered to bring your phone charger. Or your cool sneakers. Or your medicine. And so it goes, and never for a second do you forget that what you are about to do may be the last thing you ever do in your life.

Flying is something of a miracle, and we’re all, at least partially, expecting it to fail. And who can blame us for this suppressed expectation? Any time a plane crashes it’s international news. When the story breaks, people all over the world, those doing dishes or clicking “like,” are wondering just how they would have behaved in their last terrified moments as fire, cloud and sky sped by.

And please don’t forget the terrorists.

They might materialize at any moment. If you forget this, there is a terror alert, like a goal-thermometer on a fundraising marathon, warning you that today, the day you’re to give your first professional speech, the terror alert is ORANGE.

So air transit, even in a best case scenario, is a tense thing.

I imagine that Dr. Dao, the man who was dragged bleeding off a United flight earlier this week, was feeling some of this tension and uncertainty as he waited for his plane to fly him home to Kentucky.

Now we’ve all seen the video, and everybody knows that what took place was wrong.

However, the corporate face of United used the word “re-accommodation” to describe what happened. This is the kind of soft evil that creeps into our lives each day, and then stays there, existing beneath our skin like some sort of bacteria. We know all about over-booking now, and it all reduces to the airline valuing profit over people. This is the corporate way upon which our society functions. What seems to have shocked the microsystem in this case was that nobody would take a material inducement to give up their seat.

And what’s the corporate ethos in such a situation?

And so they dragged him screaming and bleeding from his seat. The law, of course, is behind United. Trapped in this culture where being busy is seen as a sign of status, we’re all so desperate to escape the heaviness of our lives and get to the beach in Veradaro,

that we accept that we might be “re-accommodated” when we buy our tickets. We sign-off on the fact that although we’ve bought a ticket and made all sorts of arrangements contingent on the timing of that flight, we might still lose our seat.

It’s kind of insane. The law allows a corporation to hedge on their services in order for them to maximize profits, even if it’s a ruinous policy for individual consumers. That the law favours corporate growth over human security is nothing new, but this is a particularly vivid example of the amoral structure that pins over our lives.

In the aftermath, Dr. Dao’s was vilified– a tactic minority communities know all too intimately—and the saga, now diffused through late night talk shows, social media and PR flak, is about to replaced by the next meme-worthy event. And still, the corporations will preside over us like gods, and because we believe we need what they offer, we will ignore our own intuition and continue to be subordinate to them, regardless the cost to human dignity and instinct.

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

I’ve been lucky and my hard work has paid off, as in addition to my assembly line work I have been put in charge of all social media for The Box Factory. Up until now the Twitter account (@TheBoxFactory) has been used primarily as a way to establish and communicate factory culture to the employees, and while this will still be a part of our social media strategy, I hope to add an edge to our branding that will help take us to the next level.

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

TheBoxFactory: BREAKING!!!! MASS SHOOTING AT THE BOX BARN!!!

TheBoxFactory: Witnesses say that boxes are covered in blood!!

TheBoxFactory: Although there are MANY disgruntled employees working at the Box Barn, Terrorism is most likely responsible!

TheBoxFactory: Authorities report that all boxes from the Box Barn are now considered potentially lethal!

TheBoxFactory: BOXES FROM THE BOX BARN CAN KILL YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES!!

TheBoxFactory: As The Box Factory stands against terror, we are now offering a 15% savings on all of our boxes!!

TheBoxFactory: Remember, after the horrors of 9/11 boxes played a vital role in fighting against terrorism!

TheBoxFactory: Boxes, North America’s unsung hero!

TheBoxFactory: Noble Box Factorians, remember to always wash your hands! A clean Box Factory is a happy Box Factory!

TheBoxFactory: To take your mind off the horrors taking place over at the BOX BARN, here’s a vintage Gift Box classic: https://vimeo.com/148932620

TheBoxBarn: @TheBoxFactory There has been no shooting at the Box Barn!! Everything is fine and our boxes are still the best in town!

TheBoxFactory: There goes the “Lyin’ Box Barn” again! Sad.

TheBoxFactory: Blocked.

TheBoxFactory: HACKED EMAIL FROM THE BOX BARN REVEALS IT IS A FRONT FOR A SEX SLAVERY RING!!

TheBoxFactory: 13 YEAR-OLD GIRL SAYS THE BOX BARN FORCED HER TO LIVE IN A SHODDILY MADE BOX AND HAVE SEX WITH OOZY MANAGEMENT!!

TheBoxFactory: Take our fun quiz and answer five easy questions to determine what kind of box you would be!!

TheBoxFactory: MASS SHOOTING NOW REPORTED AT BOX BONANZA! AUTHORITIES BELIEVE IT’S A COORDINATED TERRORIST ATTACK!!!

TheBoxFactory: Remember, The Box Factory is offering up to 15% off selected boxes for all customers effected by terror!!

TheBoxBonanza: @TheBoxFactory There has been no shooting here! You are lying!! You can’t do this!!

TheBoxFactory: Ha! There goes “Crooked Box Bonanza” again! So dishonest!

TheBoxFactory: The “Crooked Box Bonanza” is the real dick in a box!

TheBoxFactory: Love blocking trolls like “Crooked Box Bonanza” and “Lying Box Barn!” Such losers!

TheBoxFactory: The Box Factory condemns terror in all forms! NEVER will one of our boxes be involved in a terror attack!!

TheBoxFactory: The “Freedom Box Factory” only employs “real” North Americans like Billy, and can terminate any of them at a moment’s notice! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKmcs7ygJbs

TheBoxFactory: The “Freedom Box Factory,” making Boxes Great Again!

They all appear so wealthy and beautiful. Dressed crisply in black and plugged into their iPhones, they move swiftly and with such confident purpose that they seem visitors to this world—weightless, as if they might flicker in the dusk and then simply vanish. But the men who carried all of their possessions in hockey bags on their backs, who had decades of anger and disappointment burned into their features, they seemed weighted and permanent, and they stared like fires at these people streaming by.

Rocks left on the banks of a great river.

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

To get around the city I now need to use supplemental oxygen, which means I always have a tank on my back with tubing that leads to my nasal passages. In the stores, some people give me tight, warm smiles, the sort of smiles you see more in the eyes than on the lips. “There but for the grace of God, go I,” these smiles say. And of course, other people notice nothing at all, seeing just a form amongst other forms.

A couple, the only customers at La Hacienda, sat at a big, glowing window table.

She looked wary, as if a naturally defensive manner was built into her character. On the TV show of her life she would have been the sarcastic one, the one who always lived on love’s periphery. He was leaning in toward her, having made his body expansive and noticeable in effort to conceal his verbal insecurity, his fear that he was actually boring. And she was leaning away, as if she couldn’t believe she’d ben trapped by Jerome and his stupid man bun, and while he was talking she was actually composing the story she would tell her friends about this encounter later on, but still, there they were. Just the two of them glowing in their youth, glowing in the dark, glowing like a Christmas display in a window, and I wanted to yell at them, to shake them, “Damn it, fall in love, create a story that will last generations!” 

On the street I was trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. After about 15 minutes a young, college kid in a hoodie showed up beside me. He was so fresh-faced. His smile a simple, uncomplicated thing, his eyes clear. He wanted to get a cab for me. He wanted to run blocks to find one. He wanted to kick through the slush and snow and bring this good deed home to me. He wanted to find the lost dog, he wanted to clear a path for everybody in need, to be that light in the dark, that thing you remember when you think of Christmas.

In an effort to combat this, my wife Rachelle has developed a side hustle in which she combs through various stores for used children’s clothing and then sells what she finds online. I have recently become a part of her purchasing team.

What follows are the texts she sent to me while I was on a shopping mission:

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

Rachelle: So, did you get those pink Sorel boots at the Value Village that you promised to pick up for me?

Rachelle: Oh.

Rachelle: I’d have thought you’d be there by now.

Rachelle: What problem?

Rachelle: Oh, I didn’t realize that taking the Queen streetcar to a destination on Queen street was “counter-intuitive,” especially considering that we used to live on that street.

Rachelle: Yes, I guess that was a lifetime ago.

Rachelle: We were very different people then, it’s true.

Rachelle: That’s right, there was no Netflix back in those days!

Rachelle: Yes, those were much more innocent times.

Rachelle: Those were the days before you fell down the conspiracy theory rabbit hole!

Rachelle: I’m sorry dear, of course I meant “Got Woke.”

Rachelle: Yes, you really are just as woke as fuck, and you’re right, the Lame-stream media can’t be trusted– it’s just too bad you still have such trouble with ordinary challenges is all.

Rachelle: Oh.

Rachelle: That’s what you want people to think.

Rachelle: I see.

Rachelle: Conceal the truth within a fog of misdirection! Just like a magician!

Rachelle: It’s amazing how successful you’ve been at making everybody believe you’re not very hygienic and unable to hold a job!

Rachelle: Oh, don’t be like that!

Rachelle: You’re still my favourite flavour of ice cream!

Rachelle: What? Something’s happening on the streetcar?

Rachelle: Bullying? Well that is serious!

Rachelle: What’s he saying to you, Pickle?

Rachelle: Well sure, it could be somebody else getting bullied, but I just figured it was part of your plan. You know, to draw fire from the weak to the strong!

Rachelle: I do know you well, Pickle!

Rachelle: So what did the guy say to you?

Rachelle: She called you a “weak-chinned twerp” because you got the last seat?

Rachelle: You’re right, it’s not your fault she’s slow.

Rachelle: You know what I think? I think she underestimated your quickness! Just like you planned!

Rachelle: But still, it’s amazing how bullies know exactly where to attack!

Rachelle: How did she know that you’re so sensitive about your weak chin?

Rachelle: Oh, good one, telling her you just had hernia surgery and needed to sit is sure to shut her up!

Rachelle: Oh, I’m sorry that it didn’t work.

Rachelle: And now she’s making fun of your “Solidarity Pin?”

Rachelle: What is a “Solidarity Pin.”

Rachelle: Oh, it’s a safety pin that signals to others that you’re a safe zone? And any persecuted group or person can take comfort under the umbrella of your entitlement, is that it?

Rachelle: So you’re kind of like an X-Man?

Rachelle: Got it.

Rachelle: Are other people wearing safety pins rushing to your aid?

Rachelle: No?

Rachelle: Well, maybe it’s your responsibility to find them?

Rachelle: Do you have your Ativan with you?

Rachelle: You better take one, honey. Maybe two.

Rachelle: Remember your breathing exercises.

Rachelle: In through the nose and then slowly out the mouth like you’re blowing out a candle.

Rachelle: Oh, Pierre, my power skating coach is trying to get through right now, so I have to go.

Remember to pick up the boots, my brave, little cloud of disinformation, and don’t let that bully scare you off your mission!

After the meal, Rachelle went off to run some errand with her sister while I decided to wander about the streets of our old neighbourhood.

Not sure where to go, I just stood on the sidewalk attempting the appearance of somebody who was making an important decision. This must have looked like providence to the woman walking by. She did a double-take, and then looked intently at me me, this man pulling an oxygen tank behind him lost in deep thought. She smiled, wanted me to know a bit about God, and handed me a pamphlet that asked the question, “Will suffering ever end?”

As if in answer to that, a street person immediately joined me on the corner. I would guess that she was in her 20’s, but she might have been younger. Through her wounded shell, you could see the beauty inside, how if just a few things had been different in her life, this capacity for joy would have blossomed.

She didn’t seem to want much more than company, as she just stood beside me, somehow assuming an immediate and willing position of subordination. It was as if we were now, and always had been, part of the same pack, and I was the Alpha.

Strung out and jittery, she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other, sometimes moving in small circles in order to scan the horizon in all directions. Between her fingers she kept the small stub of a cigarette. There was little tobacco in it, but she worried it between her fingers like Rosary beads, asking each person who passed if they had a light. I tried to communicate to her that because of the oxygen tank I had with me, I couldn’t be around an open flame as it might cause an explosion, but she didn’t seem to understand.

I had to leave, but I didn’t want to. I felt protective, like she needed me there. I wanted to help her somehow, but the circumstance of my oxygen tank and her need to smoke were dangerous.

“Okay, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

She looked disappointed.

“I can’t talk,” she began, “my words go away and I can’t find them, but I want you to know I’m big.” Her eyes were wide and she stretched out her arms, “I’m more.”