Jones wakes up early from a nightmare.

“Hulk was fighting Spiderman and it made me upset and I cried.”

His heart so pure and simple, still so light.

Outside, it is just starting to snow. As I push the stroller up the street tiny snowflakes hit our faces. Impossibly intricate worlds dissolving upon contact. And Jones is happy, his tongue out, trying to catch them all. Joy now, all residue of his nightmare obliterated. The rest of us, the adults, we can travel decades, lifetimes with ours.

A woman passes smartly by. She is fresh, ready for work, for whatever might emerge into her day. This is the best version of herself that she is offering the world, everything still immaculate and hopeful at this hour. She smiles when she sees us, her lipstick perfectly red, perfectly expensive. And Jones points past her at a Santa Claus that sits on a roof, and beneath there is a large sun room attached to the house. Inside there are two nuns, both of them wearing African dresses, all golds and browns and bright white teeth. They are decorating for Christmas and they are happy, smiling and chatting with one another as they hang tinsel from a tree. It was as if somebody were saying, “Here, I give you beauty.” And to see this moment, to imagine the journeys that brought these women to this sweet, almost invisible point in time was a gift that had been laid in our path. Like light flaring unexpectedly before us, an encouragement for this, and all the days to follow.

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 as if the adult world has been rendered small, simple and fun, and as we boarded the ferry for the three minute journey to the airport, we felt like children getting on a ride at the CNE. It was first thing in the morning and a dense fog hung mysteriously around us, covering everything.

We could not see where we were going, and this created an atmosphere of adventure and whimsy, and in this context all the businessmen looked particularly ridiculous. Each one of them in a suit that suggested the distance between the corporate status to which they aspired and the disappointing status that they’d actually been assigned, they sat in isolated, self-important concentration. Brows furrowed over spread sheets and columns of data, their too-large fingers hunted-and-pecked on miniature keypads, and it was all a little heart-breaking. Like kids pretending at being adults, they attempted to project that what they were doing was of vital importance, but you could tell that inside they all knew better.

Inside they still wanted to discover a waterfall.
Swim with a knife clenched between their teeth.
Find the hidden treasure.

To our son Jones, who is nearly two, everything is a wonder. He is on the edge of language, and his words, mysterious and uncontainable, are still holier than ours. Excited, almost breathless, he exploded onto the ferry with bright, astonished eyes. He ran around pointing, naming everything he saw. The businessmen all kept their heads down—there was important work to be done—but an older couple watched, smiling as this new world broke into day around our son, aware they were in the midst of a tiny God now bringing his universe into being.

The woman who mops the floor of my room is so fair and blonde as to be practically transparent. I am somehow embarrassed whenever she comes in and has to clean around me, and I hope to compensate for this weird power imbalance by being excessively friendly, and she’s kind enough to indulge my need for small talk. She has a thick eastern European accent and far away, sad eyes hidden behind blocky glasses. As she wipes down the plastic casings of the rails on my bed, she says, “Look, you see?” I don’t, and have to look closer. “My superior leaves little marks with a pen so she knows if I have cleaned properly or not. You see it now?” I nod as she wipes it away and say something I think is funny and disparaging about her superior. “No, it is her job, the cleaning must get completed and she must make sure it is so. We all must do our jobs.”

I feel like a child in the face of those words. This middle-aged woman who used to be a professor of accounting in the former Yugoslavia, now in a scratchy blue uniform cleaning floors in a hospital a million miles from all that she had known and loved and earned. My heart could break for her– her country vanished, her life now so improbable and alien. And she looks at me. She knows what I’m thinking, or at least she thinks she might know. She pauses for a moment, “It is true that life is hard, but we must live it, no? We must live it,” she says, as if we had both been forced to leave our native land.

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.

She was young and pretty, a student studying to become a dietician, and her youth, cast amidst the somewhat resigned and much older counterculture of porters, seemed to make everybody a little giddy. Her innocence and simple optimism was a narcotic, and all the men stood a little straighter and attempted to make charming remarks around her. She cheerfully pushed me about in my wheelchair as if it was some high school game and not life on the slippery slope, and it made me want to be outside, in the sun of some past, leaning back and resting my head against her and the limitless smell of her hair… but no, no– there is much work to do.

We pass so many people in the hospital corridors. The always smiling Happy Cancer Ladies, who’ve either discovered their bliss through illness or are frozen in panic, unable to move their focus from the positive for one second lest they shatter into a million pieces. Gratitude radiates from them, and they smile at me as if I’m a precocious child, making gentle, almost holy room for my slender passage. And then suddenly, I was part of a long procession of wheelchairs passing by—bald and pale cancer patients, a girl burned with acid from an honour attack and an elderly man with skin so thin you could almost see into his past. The Happy Cancer Ladies stand aside and beam, practically applauding, they’re so sincerely proud of us.

Men who wear brown coveralls run the elevators. All day they live in these boxes, these boxes that open and close like respiration. They sit there, flipping through the Toronto Sun and wondering what else the world might have to offer them, and when the new porter wheels me in, something happens. It’s like everybody has had three drinks and is now wearing their favourite shirt. Conversation pipes up, and everybody is talking and laughing and flirting, dispensing wisdom and jokes about the myriad complications of negotiating the underground tunnels.

“I was her mission, “ I say, “I am the treasure she has returned with.”

The young girl laughed because that is what she does, but the elevator man seemed intrigued, “You are a treasure?” “Yes,” I said mystically, “I can grant you a wish. You tell me what you want and I will make sure you get it.” I expected a joke, but I could see in his face that he would not let this happen. He looked at me, stating plainly, “I want my mother to be here with me.”

I put my hand on his forearm, ” You have to close your eyes and imagine her, thinking of the best, safest times you spent together, and through this you will summon her, and you will feel her touch upon your skin, her scent returning…”

It cast a little spell, this, and the girl made the sound of a small animal that wanted to be hugged, while the man stared off at a distant horizon. As I was being wheeled out, the elevator man wanted to tell me something, a message from a song by King Crimson that his language inhibited him from pronouncing, and as he leaned toward me trying to spell the title out, the doors closed, the potential of this information lingering between us for a moment, and then falling away.

Team Leader: Okay, I guess we’ll just wait another five minutes to see if Noor shows up, but if not we’ll just start without her.

(AWKWARD SILENCE)

Me: Well, I think it might be a nice way to kill the time if we each told one another a little bit about ourselves.

Team Leader: This isn’t required so nobody has to participate.

Me: My name is Michael Murray, I stand nearly six feet four inches tall and live in Toronto with my wife and our Miniature Dachshund. When I was a boy Iron Fist was my favourite superhero. He could summon and focus his chi into one amazing punch and was teemed with the super awesome Luke Cage, who was known not to take any jive.

Person #1: My name is Cindy and I live in Ottawa.

Person #2: Tom, in London.

Person #3: My name is Beth and I live in Kingston where I’m a student, and I guess I my favourite superhero would be Lara Croft.

Me: She’s not a superhero. She’s a video game character.

Person #3: Oh, I didn’t realize that Iron Fist was a real person. I’m surprised I haven’t heard more about him.

Team Leader: Hopefully Noor will be here very soon. We’ll just give her two more minutes and then we’ll get into the material.

Me: Team Leader, is there any sort of dress code we have to abide by when we’re doing our work?

Team Leader: Well, as you’ll be working from home, of course not.

Me: Great, because it’s a straight up fact that I do my best work when I’m not wearing a shirt.

Person #1: Gross.

Team Leader: Michael, we don’t need to know that. You’re over-sharing and making us all a little bit uncomfortable.

Person #1: Look, I’m not a difficult person, but I think this is sexual harassment.

Me: I think you hear what you want to hear, Cindy.

Person #1: What does that mean?

Me: You sound like somebody who maybe wants to get sexually harassed, you know?

Team Leader: Okay Michael, you are way out of bounds here and if you don’t apologize immediately and stop this conduct, you will be terminated from the project.

Me: Our Dear Leader makes a persuasive argument. Cindy, I am very sorry, I was just making stuff up and trying to be funny, lighten things up a bit while we waited, but I see that I was creepy and inappropriate, and I am really, truly sorry for that.

Person #1: Fine, but I still feel like I need a shower.

Person #2: I think we all do.

Noor: Hello! Sorry I’m late, did I miss anything?

Me: We were just talking about taking a group shower.

Team Leader: Michael, you’re fired.

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.

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

Colder than an owl claw outside! Salt burn paws like Nazi torture and Heidi always shivering! Awful!! Heidi live an eternity in this stupid den. Been so long since Heidi go out that her nails now all long like reclusive billionaire. Life Heidi lead no life at all, just lie around with four-eyed, two-legged treat giver and listen to him breathe. Such shallow breath! Always smell of fear, too. Weak, four-eyed, two-legged treat giver, very weak.

Heidi so bored ready to kill other pack members, but that make Heidi BAD DOG, so Heidi no kill pack. Heidi GOOD DOG, Heidi, PRETTY DOG. Heidi decide that right thing to do to stave off winter fever to get job. Heidi take test on-line to get prepared.

1. Would you rather have world peace or have a treat?

Tough question for Heidi. Have to think long time. Decide treat.

2. Are your instincts to lead or to follow in a crisis situation?

Heidi born pack leader! Heidi always first to stick her head in hole or eat thing on street!

3. Would you rather chase a squirrel or would you rather save a dying child?

Heidi think world without squirrels safer for the children. Heidi chase squirrel. For the children. Heidi always think of children.

4. Would you rather dig a hole in the garden or be an Olympic champion?

Not enough information in question. Heidi need to know what sport. Is digging hole in garden Olympic sport?

5. Would you rather kill a cat or kill a squirrel?

Heidi think about this question long time. Think about this whole life. Cat very deserving of being killed, no doubt, but as squirrel live in sky most of time, more of challenge to kill squirrel, so Heidi have to choose squirrel. Heidi ambitious leader, very good employee!! Not scared of a challenge! (But truth is Heidi really like to kill both squirrel and cat at same time. Heidi think poison.)

6. Would you rather lick a bowl or learn to fly an airplane?

Lick bowl.

7. Describe the work environment or culture in which you are most happy.

Heidi at her best on fetch field! Very fast dog! Hate other dogs, though. Dogs come to steal Heidi ball! Very bad situation! If no fetch field Heidi like to work on grey blanket or red blanket in den. Play with squeak toy there, never get boring! Heidi very versatile dog.

8. What role does your manager or supervisor play in your personal motivation at work?

Give treats to Heidi, take her walks, get her things and collect poo.

9. Would you rather have a nap or read a good book?

Nap.

10. In the news story of your life, what would the headline say?

Heidi good dog.

Q. What is your biggest weakness?

A. I’m quite handsome and clever and sometimes people, particularly those less handsome and clever than me, find it intimidating.

In my past job at the box factory, they talked behind my back and said things that were, at the time, entirely untrue about my sex life and the way I treated animals. Well, I showed them, I tell you. Anyway, there will always be people like this, people who have drunk deeply of the Hatorade and are out to get you, and so you just have to take care of it, you know?

Q. What irritates you about co-workers?

A. Usually, and I know that this sounds petty, but it’s the way that they dress. It’s always so predictable and lumpy, their outfits typically accented with some sad detail of their life like Cheesie dust or cat hairs. It just depresses me, and then I get mad at them for depressing me. It can be a toxic cycle.

Q. How do you handle stress and pressure?

A. I’m glad you asked this question because it’s really quite a complex issue. Often, I simply take time off work. This helps, but it doesn’t really solve the problem, and so after trying meditation and finding it useless, I’ve discovered that I need to create a cocktail of prescription medications to help calm the “BLACK TORNADO ZONE” I typically spin into. Also, I find that regular target practice at my gun club near Brampton is incredibly therapeutic.

Q. What will you do if you don’t get this job?

A. I will go and see Iron Man 3 again. I always get inspiration from the Iron Man. He’s made of iron, you know? Nothing gets him down. And then, after a good, inspirational cry, I will just try and take what I’ve learned from this experience and apply it to the future, hopeful that I may yet get a job at your shitty company when the next opportunity arises.