Dr. Oz was on.
Somebody talking about nuts
Which ones were good for you, which ones were bad.

We were a rapt audience in the waiting room, each one of us happy for the bland distraction, but also sincerely curious. Something had happened in our lives that had changed us. We’d all crossed a line, moving from our natural selves to the types of people who now hoped if only they ate the right kind of nuts then everything would be okay. A woman leaving the clinic stopped and looked at me. Having noticed the oxygen concentrator on my back she abruptly said, “I HOPE YOU DON’T SMOKE!” I assured her that I didn’t, that I had quit, and as I was saying this the person who had accompanied her said– in a voice meant to convey to us that we should think of this woman as a child–“It would be great if you could quit, too, Beverly! Maybe this man can tell you how to do it?” And we all stopped watching Dr. Oz. We all stepped from our anxieties. No longer thinking of ourselves as people who needed to be helped, we thought of ourselves as people who needed to help. And in this, we were released. The grief that had hung in the room dispersed, and as if by saintly intent, we were left there, still and light for a moment, the tv flickering irrelevantly in the corner.

The other day while perusing the products of an online weed dispensary, a chat box opened and a support agent asked me if I needed any help. This is our conversation:

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

Stacey: Hey there, if you have any questions regarding our products please let me know!

Me: I’m interested in knowing how you folks come up with the names for all the different strains. I always thought I’d be really, really good at that. Is there any chance I might be able to apply for such a position within your organization?

Stacey: The growers name the strains, so I’m afraid we’re not accepting any applications for that position.

Me: Nuts.

Stacey: Sorry.

Me: I had some really good ones.

Stacey: I bet you did.

Me: You know it! Listen to these… Mystic Space Owl! Howling Cheesie Attack! Electric Light Orchestra!

Stacey: Those are pretty good, but I’m pretty sure the last one is the name of a band from the 70’s.

Me: Really? That doesn’t sound right.

Stacey: Google it.

Me: Sweet Jesus, you’re right! They must have been an amazing band, look at that hair! And the satin, too! Just stunning. I would give it all up if I could look like that. I really would.

Stacey: And speaking as a person who’s spending time chatting on a weed web site in the middle of the afternoon about job opportunities, what would giving it all up mean to you?

Me: I’m not sure. But it wouldn’t be weed. I would not give up the weed.

Stacey: We’re happy to hear that.

Me: I have a cat.

Stacey: Just one?

Me: Yes, his name is Admiral.

Stacey: Is that your duvet?

Me: No, it’s my mother’s.

Stacey: I see. Well, Admiral looks very cute.

Me: He’s a great cat, but make no mistake, I would give him up him for the ability to look like I was in ELO.

Stacey: Well, we must all walk our own path, I guess.

Me: That’s for sure! And let me tell you, I do walk my own path. Always have. I have to be me. Just the way I am.

Stacey: I’m sure you have lots of friends!

Me: And just because one of them might say you’re on the spectrum, that doesn’t mean it’s true.

Stacey: Are you high right now?

Me: No. You?

Stacey: No.

Me: Just a regular Wednesday afternoon then?

Stacey: Yep.

Me: Do you get sent a lot of dick pics?

Stacey: What do you think?

Me: I think that you probably do.

Stacey: Good guess. So, is there anything else I can help you with today?

Me: Have you ever seen a ghost?

( Stacey ends chat)

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.