Upstairs at the bar there’s an unrelenting press of people. So many of them. Jostling together excitedly, they’re all hopeful on this festive night out, each one wanting to feel special in some regard, each one waiting for their life to pivot. Unshaven Bros in sports toques and ball caps, beta predators who only move in packs of two and threes, are looking over at a cluster of Friday night women worrying their phones. Men are pushed up against the bar three deep, each one competing for something.
The bartender is at the centre of it all.
Although completely overwhelmed, she’s working calmly through the chaos. Surrounded on all sides by some sort of want, she makes a millions subtle calculations with each one of her actions. Each person is a problem that must be solved, a fire that must be extinguished. Her face determined, she moves fluidly and with purpose, and all the men encircling her at the bar with their steaks and Keg-sized glasses of red wine, are watching.
A man around 60 leans in. Everyone is leaning in, trying to flag her attention. This man, he’s lived his life handsome, and the confident residue of that lingers within him still, “Can I be next?” he asks in a salesman’s voice. The bartender forces a smile and takes his order, and all the other men waiting stiffen a little, jealous.
He is pleased with himself, this man. He feels special.
When she returns, he leans in yet further, “That tattoo on your right forearm, the roman numerals, are they from your favourite Shakespeare passage? Are you an actress?”
It is not clear that she is flattered by this attention, but she gives a partial, evasive answer.
“It’s a date,” she says, giving the man a polite, discouraging smile. Gesturing to how busy she is, she moves to disengage and tend to other preening, signalling men, but this man was not finished. “This is my favourite passage,” he began, and then in his best Shakespearian accent:
“If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die…”
And she is trapped, so trapped she is almost suspended in air.
Her eyes close for just a moment, as if it is all too much, and then she reanimates herself and begins to applaud robustly, cutting the man’s recitation short. It was as if a battle had been won, and she got to keep the secret of the tattoo– something so important, so crucial to who she wanted to be, that she had it written into her flesh–for herself.
]]>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:
************************************************
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.
]]>**********************************************
Heidi no fool.
She see writing on the wall.
When furless four-legged fuckface come into pack, Heidi knew everything go to hell.
Suddenly two-leggers no longer notice Heidi.
Everything become about messy-face drool monkey.
Disgust Heidi.
No-fur pathetic excuse for a dog! No know how to bark, stupid and weak, and move like broken wing bird! Heidi destroy in fight, just destroy! Most boring, ugly dog on planet, and this new pack Alpha??? Heidi so upset not even want to eat own throw-up!!
Heidi look on her vision board.
Does Heidi see new loser dog on her vision board?
No, no she does not.
This is not part of Heidi plan!
All very stressful.
“Peace is within my reach,” Heidi say to self, “peace is within my reach,” but it do no good.
Heidi just want to kill!!
Rip open squirrel or other animal!!
Heidi want blood everywhere!!
Before two-leggers make big fuss over Heidi. Heidi so cute they going to die, everyone come running because they cannot resist Heidi cuteness. Heidi two-legger magnet with cuteness factor 10. Heidi get everything she want. Used to rub belly and call me Heidi Potter and her magic smells, but now no belly rub, and no love in voices. Like Heidi Potter and her magic smells now insult, you know? All two-leggers do is just shout, “NOHEIDINO!! BAD DOG!!!” and run to crappy, no-fur dog talking to it the way they used to talk to Heidi!
So two-faced!
Heidi hate them all!!
Heidi going to run away. Maybe find Capybaras that escape from zoo, form new pack and become celebrities.
Heidi know drummer for Burton Cummings, maybe find him and go on tour with band. Get out on road, explore world, feel the music.
RUN AWAY JOURNAL
Day One
When four-eyed two-legger opened front door, Heidi run to freedom. Heidi so fast! Black and tan lightning! All senses pulsing, Heidi so alive!! And then Heidi see squirrel. Fat squirrel. Heidi chase squirrel, “BARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!” Heidi lost in moment. Two-legger then call Heidi and Heidi go back into den, forget she ran away.
Day Two
Raining. Heidi no run away.
Day Three
Cloudy. Look like might rain. Heidi no run away.
Day Four
Heidi smell meat steak. Heidi decide to stay for meat steak, but then no meat steak for dinner! Healthy Choice Pumpkin Squash Ravioli. Heidi furious!
Heidi resolve to run away redoubled!!
Day Five
Heidi escape!
Very dramatic!!
Heidi run past squirrel! Heidi very focused! Heidi run past interesting smell! Heidi run past pigeon! Then Heidi see workman eating lunch on front steps of nearby den. Heidi act very cute. Put on A-game. Heidi get some pizza. Heidi so skilled at begging it almost too easy. Heidi free, can do anything she like! Maybe start Instagram account and then get into politics. Work with Justin Trudeau.
But Heidi decide to join workman pack first. Heidi hang around. Workman bring Heidi into Ms. Ocampo’s den next door. He fixing sink. Den smell of the past and things forgotten. Sit and watch CSI repeats with Ms. Ocampo.
She calls Heidi, “ang aking maliit na anak na babae nawala,” all the time. Later, workman brings old, bad pack into new den and they act all happy to see Heidi, like best day of their lives. Heidi still mad and try not to wag tail, but still Heidi wag tail. When leave, wet-eye Ms. Ocampo waves through window, blows Heidi little kiss.
]]>