Happy Thanksgiving (To My Readers Only)

    So, it’s Thanksgiving today... The Canadian Thanksgiving. Those of you in France, South Korea, and the rest of the world, may not be aware that we Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving a whole month before our American friends. I guess that means we must have invented it. I guess that also means that our Thanksgiving is better. Some food for thought there. Which is kind of funny, because what is Thanksgiving all about, if not about great quantities of food?

    For those of you not in the know, here's a little history. Thanksgiving is a uniquely North American holiday. If you live on any other continent, or in Mexico, you may not have even heard of it.

    Even though Mexico is part of North America, they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving there. It isn't because they don't have plenty to give thanks about. Every last one of them could all give thanks, every single morning, that the drug cartels didn’t burn down their village, after skinning every man, woman, and child alive. But stuff like this isn’t what Thanksgiving is all about.

    Here's how it works. This isn’t a holiday about giving thanks for the things you have in your life today. It’s about giving thanks that your ancestors did well in the past, and that you can ride on their coattails today. Essentially, it's being thankful for being white.

    You see, a long time ago, a superior culture met and shared their European cuisine with an inferior culture. Soon after, the superior culture nearly exterminated the inferior culture and subjugated the tiny remainder. Today, the descendants of that superior culture have inherited nearly unlimited opportunity, to squander or otherwise, and the remnants of that inferior culture continue their bannock making traditions. This is the foundation on which both Canada, and the USA, were established.

    Meanwhile, In Mexico, instead of going to war, the two races sort of blended together into a new, but impure, race of mongrels. The worst qualities from both emerged to dominate. That's nothing to be thankful for, and it’s certainly nothing to be celebrated. Nevertheless this is how things are allowed to remain, even to this very day.

    Let us speak no more of Mexico, lest we all be sickened further.

    In Canada, it is part of Thanksgiving tradition to spend it with family. Sometimes you might find four or five generations gathered together under one roof for the holiday feast. I suspect the older generations are to blame for these happy affairs. Young people are always trying to avoid the elderly, so the old people grasp at any opportunity to not slip away into their deserved irrelevance.

    In my family, the word “family” is what we say when we mean “people we don’t want to talk to”. In that spirit, I haven’t seen, or even spoken to, anyone in my family for over seven years. That may seem strange to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. I mean, is genetic similarity really a meaningful basis for your personal relationships?

    The only exception I’ve made to this is my Dad, who I haven’t seen or spoken to in a mere seven months. Even that is only because he lives in a halfway house just three blocks from my home. Additionally, my relationship with my father is has nothing to do with the fact that I am one half “him”. We’ve had some honestly good times. I have some genuinely positive memories of him as I grew up.

    Also, he and I are not genetically similar at all. Haven’t I told you this already? All right, then. I’m telling you now.

    I am adopted.

    I have no idea who my real parents are. Nor have I ever tried to find out. I have white skin and brown hair, which means they weren’t Indian, East Indian, African or Asian. That’s all I need to know to be happy.

    The only thing I’ve ever known about my biological parents is that my mother was sixteen when I was born. Which means if they’d kept me, I’d probably have grown up to be a drug dealer. In that case, I’d be writing to you now about how much I hate the pigs, how I’d probably been with fifty-two of society’s most vulnerable women, about how many skull and/or teardrop tattoos I have. I’d probably be writing to you about how I’ve been to jail eight times, and all the sodomy, gang initiations, and Johnny Cash concerts I’ve been subjected to there.

       Luckily, instead of all that, I’m going to tell you about the nice time I had with my father on Thanksgiving, just as it happened, only a few hours ago.

    I arrived unannounced at the halfway house around four thirty in the afternoon.

    “Well, Son, I wasn’t expecting you.” my father said.

    “Surprise!” I replied.

    “Yeah. Well, since you’re here, you might as well come inside. It is Thanksgiving. We’ll have a ‘family’ dinner.”

    I sat at the Formica table, while Jamie Jr. slaved over the stove. Ten minutes later, we enjoyed grilled cheese sandwiches and a couple of Four Loko.

Happy Thanksgiving

    “They say this stuff is supposed to be like cocaine in a can.” said my Dad about the Four Loko. “Let me tell you, this is not like cocaine in a can.”

    Then, in observance of our family’s traditions, we ate in silence. When the sandwiches were gone, we drank more Four Loko. It wasn’t until after his third Four Loko that my Father spoke again.

    “You might as well meet your Stepfather.”
   
    “I don‘t follow.” I said.

    “Vito! Come here a sec!” My Dad bellowed.

    Vito entered the kitchen.

    “You bellowed?” Vito said.

    I knew Vito. I had seen him here, at the halfway house, during earlier visits. We had never spoken much, because he always weirded me out. I swear he looked just how I would look in fifteen years, if I shaved my head.

    “I did.” said my Father. “Your Stepson is here.”

    “Hi, Jamie. We’ve met before, haven’t we?” said Vito. He extended his fist towards me for a bump. He didn’t get it.

    “I don’t… I don’t follow.” I said.

    “Does this make it clear enough for you, idiot?” Dad said, as he threw his arms around Vito, and they inserted their tongues into each other’s mouths for almost a minute.

    “Get it? Moron?” Jamie Jr. said to me.

    “Get. Get what?”

    “Dumb. Fuck. We. Are both. Your Dad.” said my Dad. Well, as my adopted father, he is technically my second Dad.

    “Maybe I should go.” said my third Dad.

    “Yeah. Get out of here. I saw a butterfly over by the chrysanthemums. You‘ll want to kill it for your collection.”

    Vito looked hurt by the comment, but he went outside anyway.

    Silence reigned after that. But only briefly.

    “That’s right. We’re married. That’s legal, now. Or haven’t you been paying attention?” my Father said.

    “Seen any good movies lately?” I responded.

    Jamie Jr. pounded back his forth Loko.

    “You know, you’re lucky you didn’t stay with your birth parents. Or else it might have been you who ended up in here with me. And then who might I have married?” he said, and he smiled at me until tears had soaked my face.

    “Ah. Buck up, Son.”

    “Who’s my Daddy?” was all I could say.

    “I can see how this all might seem a bit confusing for you.”

    “At least I now know why you adopted.” I said.

    My father looked at the wall behind him, and then at the ceiling, and then the floor.

    “You are not adopted.” he said.

    “I don’t follow,” I said.

    “You. You. Are not. Adopted.”

    “Yes, I am.”

    “No, You are not.”

    “But you told me I was.”

    “I know.”

    "I cannot remember a time in my whole life, not even in my earliest memories, that I did not think that I was adopted.”

    “I know.”

    “So? Why? Why did you tell me I was adopted?”

    “I don’t remember.”

    “And all these years. You. And Mom. Why did you never tell me the truth?”

    “Well, because. Besides, you seemed so proud of the fact. And, you know. Once you say something like that, and then try to take it back? It kind of makes you look like a liar.”

    “But you are a liar!”

    “I know.” he said. He made a face at me as he said it. A face like he was trying to express an emotion. I’d never seen him try to make this expression before, and I didn’t know what it was supposed to be. I don’t think he knew, either.
   
    “So this is how you wanted me to find out? This is how you want to drop a bomb like that?” I said.

    “Hey, don’t blame me. Blame the Four Loko. It was as much to blame then, as it is now.” my Father said.

    “Really? Because I don't feel like blaming some 'thing'. I want to blame somebody. It’s a bit too big of a deal to blame on a thing.” I said.

    “I can see how, from your perspective, it might seem that way.” my Father said.
   
    “You know what? You want to know what? I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. It’s going to take more than another seven months before I can cope with you again.” I said.

    “Yeah, well. If that’s what helps you deal with this. So, Merry Christmas, then. And also Happy Birthday.”

    I’d heard enough. I stormed out of there, and said nothing as I left. Vito was in the garden, and I would have went past him without a word, too. But, for some reason, I stopped.

    “Are you guys really married, or is that just what he told you?” I asked him.

    “The whole thing seemed pretty official, but then I don’t get married that often. So I guess I don’t really know.” said Vito.

     Instantly, I got the impression that Vito was less a hardened criminal and mostly just gullible, and dumb. Just the sort of person that find themselves victimized by my father.
   
    “Vito. Watch out.” I said.

    “Watch out for what?” he asked.

    I thought about it. I wasn't sure what to tell him.

    "Everything." I replied. It was the perfect response. Something both he and I could live by.
 
    “Could you be more specific?” Vito asked.

    “Not really.” I admitted, reluctantly.

    “Gosh, thanks. That’s the calibre of advice that got me in here in the first place.”

    Suddenly, I didn't feel so good about my perfect response. Worse, I didn't have any better ideas.

    “I guess I’ll be joining you in here real soon, then.”  I said.

Currant Events

    So I recently told you about how I was now a reporter for a local publication. What I did not tell you, although you may not be surprised to discover, is that I actually have to do some reporting! So, I want to share with you, for the first time anywhere, besides The Local Freebie, my very first published article!

One Man Threatens To Kill Another

                                                            Jamie Luxton III
                                                             Staff Reporter

    A local orchardist fears for his life after a fellow grower threatened his life Monday night. Lungri Khan, former president of the Grower’s Association, is charged with uttering threats and possession of a weapon for dangerous purpose. He was released on bail Tuesday evening.

    According to Bhurpi Kirpan, he received a phone call Monday afternoon from an unidentified man who demanded to know why Kirpan’s orchards went relatively undamaged by last weeks torrential hailstorm.

    “I said: It is divine intervention. There is no other explanation.” says Kirpan.

    Kirpan says the voice began to swear uncontrollably, and said “I must send you to thank God in person.”

    A short time later, Khan arrived in his pickup truck at the Kirpan residence. The following moments were captured by Kirpan’s home surveillance cameras. Bhurpi provided copies of the video to The Local Freebie and police.

    The video shows an obviously distraught Khan exiting his vehicle and waving a shovel about in a menacing fashion, before approaching the house. Although Bhurpi was not home at the time, his son, Pharti, was, and he met the irate Khan in the driveway.

    Pharti says that Khan never threatened him, but did announce his intention to kill Pharti’s father.

    Pharti called police while neighbours, attracted by the commotion, gathered to watch.

    An RCMP officer is seen to arrive swiftly and restrain Khan without incident.

    RCMP media spokesperson  Insp. Masia Parono explained the rest at a press conference earlier today.

    “Constable Yannick Segue was the first to arrive on the scene. A lot of people had gathered, but it was pretty obvious who the bad apple was.” says the inspector.

    “Constable Segue ensured a smooth transition out of a dangerous situation, by ordering the man, later identified as Lungri Khan, to put down the shovel. The man complied and allowed himself to be handcuffed and secured to constable Segue’s Segway without incident. Constable Segue then called for assistance, as the Segway is not equipped to transport two people.”


    Lungri Khan is scheduled to appear in court Thursday morning.

    Inspecto. Parono offered this assessment of the case.

    “It appears to be a case of sour grapes. Lungri Khan’s orchard was heavily damaged in the hailstorm, and Kirpan’s was not. It made Khan go bananas. Even for fruit growers, life isn’t always a bowl of cherries. But, as a police officer, I recommend that, when life hands you lemons, instead of trying to kill someone, make lemonade.”

    Lungri Khan is scheduled to appear in court Thursday morning.



    Not bad, I’d say. It’s both concise and informative. I guess I’m not the only one who thinks so, either, because it made the front page of today’s edition of The Local Freebie!

    If you, dear reader, are as local as The Freebie is, then pick yourself up a copy or two today! On the other hand, if you are that person from France, or that person from South Korea, or are otherwise outside local distribution, then have I got good news for you!

    I just happen to have ten copies of today’s The Local Freebie in my personal possession. Here’s what I am prepared to do. To the readers who send me the ten sexiest pictures of themselves, I will autograph and send you one of these papers. Of course, you are welcome to enter as many times as you like. But once you have won one copy, you will not be eligible to win more copies, no matter how many pictures you send. Winners will be determined by me, in the privacy of my own home.

    When I was just out of high school, I imagined myself becoming a TV journalist. I even took a written test from a post-secondary school. Then they conducted an over the phone interview. They asked me questions like:

    “If you could ask the Prime Minister one question, what would it be?”

    “I don’t know. About the economy, I guess.” I replied.

    I’m not sure if I ever got a letter of disinterest from them or not, but I do know I was never admitted.

    I was never really upset about it, though. I never wanted to be a journalist so much as a low level celebrity. Only almost twenty years later, here I am, and now I am both.  Isn’t it amazing what fate has in store for us?

And Now the News, Don't Touch That Dial

    Even public transit has it’s secrets. This is the sort of thing you’re going to find out if, like me, you’re an investigative reporter. If you find yourself sitting there right now, wondering how I can suddenly have become an investigative reporter, then you probably are not much of an investigative reporter.

    Briefly, it went like this. I was involved in a… Thing. Look, it’s hard to know what to say. It’s kind of a matter that is currently before the courts. Let just say I was involved in a venture, which, unknown to me, would prove to be “not exactly legal” in nature.

    One day, I was approached in a bar by a woman who drunkenly spoke at length on the merits of owning a dog. Her name was Smitty. Naturally, I thought a beautiful relationship was forming. What was really happening was an undercover police officer was turning me into her informant.

    I’ll tell you, I was happy to inform. I wanted to make Smitty happy. I thought that there was a real chance of making things work between us, even after I realised she was a cop. Even if it had to wait until our “professional” relationship was over.

    Besides, this place I was working at? It wasn’t an environment that fostered a lot of loyalty. For example, instead of paycheques, I got excuses.

    “I didn’t realise I was going to get paid in excuses around here.” I said once.

    “Do you want to die?” Is how they responded, and that was the end of that.

    Anyway, I am not guilty of anything. True, a judge may later decide differently, but for now, I am not guilty of anything.

    However…

    Gang at the Daily Planet aside, journalists are an unscrupulous lot. The things they will do for a scoop!

    If even one of them finds out, somehow, that you’re a police informant, next thing you know, six of them are beating down your door. And the things they will offer you!  Money, whores… You name it.

    “What I think I will really need pretty quick here, besides a good lawyer, is a job.” I told one of them.

    “I can arrange that.” Said “Bernstein”.

    So there you have it. That’s how you can become, like me, an investigative reporter. Strictly speaking, this also is “not exactly legal”.

    It might seem foolish to announce this kind of conduct publicly on the internet like this. But the truth is that nobody, other than a guy in France and a guy in South Korea, is reading this. Or maybe they’re chicks. Who knows? Who cares? Either way, I love you two. Send pictures. Kisses.

    So now I work for the community newspaper. It’s not the nice one. It’s the local freebie. In fact, that’s what it’s called; “The Local Freebie”. Some people call it a rag, and that’s just those of us who work there. But it is a job , and it pays. Well, it doesn’t exactly “pay”, but it has it’s perks.
   
    For example, J.J. Beaman, the owner of the Local Freebie, also owns the local television station, CHDC.
   
    As with the newspaper, CHDC is not renowned for it‘s pedigree. Nevertheless, for a community that has not a lot to take pride in, we take a lot of unwarranted pride in our locally produced programming. In fact, a few of these have gained some small amount of fame outside of the community, including:

    Poppa Wheelie - This motorcycle with eyes and a handlebar moustache was a Saturday morning character from the late seventies. In later years, a series of anti-drug PSAs, featuring Poppa Wheelie, were produced to stave off the character’s waning popularity. However, Poppa’s habit of winking at the camera was misinterpreted as insincerity. A nation wide scandal broke out, believing this character was promoting drug use to children. A late 80’s effort to revive the character as a wise cracking skateboard was met with resounding indifference.

    Velocirappa - A mid-nineties effort to create a new popular children’s character. Although this dinosaur’s rhymes about letters and numbers went largely unnoticed, somebody somewhere mistakenly saw some potential in it. A Velocirappa video game resulted, made for the original Playstation. But even back then, copies were hard to acquire. Finding one was only slightly easier that finding somebody who wanted one.

    Anyway, there’s a lot of crossover by the staff between the paper and the TV station. I’m hoping to have the same kind of luck. Really, I’m just hoping to get a job at the station in any capacity.

    Of course, before hiring me, Mr. Beaman wanted to meet with me. Thus, I found myself in his office one Sunday morning.

    “Do you know why you’re here?” he said.

    “For a job.” I replied.

    “Right. But why are you here right now? It’s Sunday morning. Doesn’t that strike you as a little unusual? I mean, why not Monday morning? Who does this on a Sunday?”

    “Well, when you put it that way, yeah. It does seem kind of unusual.” I replied.

    “So what do you think is going on here?”

    “That‘s what I want to know.”

    “There it is!” Beaman exclaimed with delight. “The newsman’s instincts.”

    “The what?”

    “Newsman‘s instincts. For uncovering the truth. Getting to the bottom of things. This is at the foundation of your character. Isn’t it?”

    “Yeah.” I said.
   
    “Now look at me. I’m forty-two. You weren’t expecting that. Were you?”

    “Not really.”

    “You were expecting some stuffed old suit. But I’m not even wearing a suit. Look at what I‘m wearing. It’s a leather jacket. It has a zipper on the sleeve. You weren't expecting that.”

    “I wasn’t.” I admitted.

    “And look at me. I’m a handsome guy. How come I’m still single? My mother can’t explain it. She says to me ‘You’re such a handsome boy. How can you still be a bachelor at your age? Why can’t you just meet a nice girl?’ and she‘s right to wonder. Why am I like that?”

    “I don‘t know.” I said.

    “Exactly. And that’s the point. I like to keep you on your toes. Keep you guessing. I like to cultivate an air of uncertainty around me. I’m in the news business. I run a newspaper and a TV station and I hire a lot of reporters. People who have to ask a lot questions. How am I supposed to know who's asking questions if there’s nothing around to ask questions about?”

    “That’s a good question.” I agreed.

    “I’m glad you picked up on that.” Beaman said, pouring two tall glasses of scotch.

    “I think you’re going to work out here just fine.”

A Moment's Indiscretion

Van Sotten was from Sweden, and had once been a world class financier. But that had been some many years ago. After his retirement, he made a business out of his passion for very old, very fine books, and now traded in some of the most rare and valuable volumes in the world.

    Everywhere he went, he carried a book bag containing a few samples of his wares. Though he always pretended otherwise, it was a tool he used to open discussion about his business, and possibly generate a transaction.

     Nevermere was just as every bit as old as Van Sotten, but not at all from Sweden. For twenty two generations, his family had dwelled in the Cardiganshire region of Wales. In all those generations, there were many things the Nevermere family had never done. Potato farming was not one of them, but both crossing the ocean, and becoming even remotely noteworthy, most certainly were. That is, until this current Nevermere who, against all expectations, had done both.

    This Nevermere was an author, and had written many books. Some few of these books were now very old, and some fewer still were regarded as very fine. But none of Nevermere’s books had found it’s way into Van Sotten’s collection.

    Both men knew that this was the reason for many years of chilly relations between them, even though they had never openly discussed the matter. Nowadays, they discussed nothing at all, and it is well that they did not. Only their conversations could have been more awkward than the silences.

    It was hot and humid in the Fifty-Fifty Club. It was hot and humid everywhere in Argentina this day. No amount of air conditioning or open windows could even begin to change that. The serving boys in the Fifty-Fifty Club also had the unfortunate habit of standing just a little too close, and the heat radiating off them only compounded the matter.

    It was pure chance that both Van Sotten and Nevermere crossed paths in the Fifty-Fifty Club that afternoon. To pass the time, they sat across from each other, hunched over a playing board of “Nopoly“, the Argentinean knock off of the popular game, “Monopoly“. In almost all respects, the game was identical to it‘s famous cousin. But, in order to simulate that even the banks are poor in Argentina, Nopoly comes with a lot less money than Monopoly. This leads to greatly reduced game times. For this reason, Nopoly is sometimes regarded as the superior version in certain circles. It may or may not need to be said that those circles are primarily Argentinean.

    On a side table, Van Sotten’s book bag lay tipped over. It’s contents had partially slid out, like a case of stairs. The titles were all quite visible and quite deserving of comment, and any person of knowledge was certain to be intrigued if they happened to pass by.

    But, to Van Sotten’s dismay, no person of knowledge appeared. No one even came close to their table, aside from the serving boys. And they knew as little about books as they did about personal space.

    Not even Nevermere glanced at them. There was no reason to expect him to. He never did. And yet, on this day, this was the fact that irritated Van Sotten the most. He slipped his books back into the bag, one by one. It wouldn’t do to leave them exposed to the humidity for too long. The motion also drew Nevermere’s eyes towards them, where they hovered briefly on the last one.

    “You saw what was there?” Van Sotten asked.

    “Only the scribbling of no greater a person than Hambone Artois.” Nevermere replied.

    “No less a person, either.”

    “I wasn’t aware there were any.”

    Hambone Artois was a somewhat famous figure, known for being not only a founding father of rhythm and blues music, but also for imbuing his lyrics with Kantian philosophy. Nevermere had occasion to meet Artois, at an event in Louisiana called Assembly of the Dwarf Stars. Here, persons of small repute gathered and demonstrated the skills that made them not very famous.

    Quite understandably, it was Nevermere’s intention to read a few passages from one of his books. He had only just begun when the soulful strumming of Hambone’s guitar emanated  from the next room, luring his audience away before they’d hardly heard a word.

    At the bar where the dwarf stars gathered afterwards, a drunken Nevermere, feeling slighted, and possessed of the racism that was fashionable in the day, attempted to humiliate the musician. A week went by before he was he informed it was less his barbed wit that inspired the other star's laughter, and more his stumbling about and indecipherable mutterings.

    Months later, Nevermere returned to his home one night, only to discover the door wide open and his dog, Secretary, nowhere to be found. This was a deep and personal wound to Nevermere. He could conceive of only one person could that would stoop to such undignified behaviour. It had to be the work of Hambone Artois.

    Secretary was an Arboreal Chamois, a rare French breed of dog, bred to keep birds out of orchardist’s trees. Although capable of living their entire lives in the trees, these canines were quite terrible at judging which branches could carry their weight, and many accidents occurred before the breed fell into disfavour. Furthermore, those few individuals who excelled at life among the leaves seldom obeyed commands. Many bounded away from tree to tree, never to be seen by their masters again. Instead, they spent the rest of their days barking at passers-by, who couldn‘t figure out where the noise was coming from. Thus the folklore about barking trees began, which is obviously stupid, but that’s the peasantry for you.

Ignatieff the Barking Tree, courtesy of TVParis

    “Such vehemence over a lost dog.”  Van Sotten chided.

    “Then I shall add his understanding of Kantian ethics is rudimentary at best. You won’t disagree if you have read that book.”

    “I haven’t read a word that was published in the past twenty five years, and even that is only because twenty five years ago, my tastes were not so discerning.”

    They returned their attention to the Nopoly board. One more round played out before the money was exhausted. Everything was tallied up.

    “I win.” announced Van Sotten.

    He was referring to more than the game. Hambone Artois had not stolen Secretary. He had already been beaten to death in a prison riot by that time. It was Van Sotten who had taken the dog. He had done it because he felt Nevermere had become pompous and insufferable.

    It wasn’t mere pompousness that Van Sotten couldn‘t tolerate. He tolerated it in himself and in many others with ease. It was pompousness unsubstantiated by achievement, that he could not abide. And in Van Sotten's eyes, Nevernmere had achieved very little.

    It barely registered with Nevermere that he’d lost at Nopoly. He was dwelling on the past, again, and it was about the past on which he spoke.

    “I liked that dog. Finest dog I ever owned. I loved that dog.”

    Van Sotten might have said something then, but Nevermere motioned for him to remain silent.

    “Haven’t you…? Haven’t you ever lost something that you loved? Some precious book, perhaps? No, not likely. They don’t tend to wander away, do they?”

    Van Sotten did know something about lost love. Having stolen Secretary, he kept the dog secure in his house for many weeks. He was quickly charmed by her exuberant nonsense and taste in champagne. Of course he was curious to see her in her habitat, so it was only a matter of time before he took her outside, where everything would occur in the blink of an eye.

    Immediately, Secretary shot straight up the nearest tree, one by the river. Almost equally immediately, a branch snapped under her weight, and she plummeted towards the earth. Like lightning, an alligator surged out of the water. It’s jaws gaped wide, like a bent, pink ironing board. Both animals met an unenviable demise in the quicksand beneath the branches.

    Van Sotten’s conscience sometimes came to visit him when he was drunk, and he was deep in his cups on this day. Being an experienced drinker, he was equally experienced in banishing such emotions. This time, though, confessional feelings overwhelmed him, and he began to speak.

    “I…I…” he stuttered.

    Van Sotten would be found stabbed to death in his hotel room later that evening. Within a day, Edaph, the sail-backed lady boy, would be charged with the crime. Among locals, this would be regarded with much suspicion, as it was well known that the authorities wanted Edaph out of the picture, by whatever means necessary. That is not to suggest there was any public sympathy for Edaph.

    None of that is particularly relevant right now, except maybe to Nevermere. But he could never have imagined that Van Sotten was about to stammer out the only opportunity he would ever have to learn the truth.

    “I…” said Van Sotten again.

    “Shut the fuck up.” said Nevermere.

I Am In Love

Are you? If your answer is no, then you should get yourself into love immediately. Because you really are missing out. It feels great!

    If you’ve never been in love, let me try to paint a picture for you. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m probably not the best candidate for this. However, I am possessed by a sudden and intense desire to share how I feel. Not with just anyone. Not just with a close friend or personal confidant. That’s not enough. What I’m experiencing insists… Nay, demands, that I share this with everyone!

    Imagine that there is this guy. His name is, I don’t know… Daniel. Daniel really likes Jesus. He’s heard all kinds of stories about Jesus from all kinds of people. Stories about how he saves your soul and fills you with his love. Stories about how he guides you towards a better and more fulfilling life. Stories about how, if you look back across the beach at your footprints in the sand, you’ll see his footprints beside yours. Daniel finds all this just so profoundly inspirational and uplifting, and rightfully so.

    Now, I should point out that Daniel doesn’t know anything about the church or the Bible or anything like that. Which is important. Because it is only after he’s heard all these great stories that, somehow, he finally gets in his possession a copy of the New Testament.

    Naturally, it blows Daniel’s mind. Here it is! All the Jesus! All the stories! But this is no collection of half remembered anecdotes told with no regard for theatricality or presentation. This is a professionally constructed piece of storytelling. Everything you could have ever wanted to know about the excellent adventures of the King of the Jews, brought to vivacious life in a way Daniel could have never imagined possible.

    Like Daniel, I also have a Jesus. But my Jesus is called Kal-El. And I also have a New Testament, but mine is called “Man of Steel”.

    Man of Steel, of course, is the new summer blockbuster smash hit that’s raking in the crowds and the dough. And it is altogether good and right that it does so, because the film is magic. Love filled magic.

    As I recall, in the time before Man of Steel, there were some things that I liked. I do not remember what they were, nor do I wish to remember. This is the era of Man of Steel, and in this new era, those old things are no longer of consequence.

    Back then, in ye olde tymes, I think I may have even been in love, once. But not with some other movie, this would have been with an actual person. Or at least, I thought I was in love with them. This was, of course, before Man of Steel came along to teach me what love truly is.

    It's possible that she may have loved me, too. If memory serves correctly, she actually lost some weight just because of my constant nagging. I recollect one occasion where I observed her legs looking a lot thinner than they used to be.

    Or maybe I have that backwards. I’m checking out my own legs right now, and they’re a lot more firm and toned than they have any reason to be. Also, I can see that I definitely shaved them recently, and I’m fairly certain I didn’t do that of my own volition.

    In either case, whoever you were, I hope we shant meet again, for I doubt you shall relish my blank stare of non-comprehension as you try to cajole my memories of our past together. My heart belongs to another now, and my brain has not the capacity to spare for your lurid details of our sordid history. My advice to you, fair-ish maiden, would be “Go see Man of Steel, and forget me in as utter a fashion as you yourself have been forgotten”.

A scene from "Man of Steel"

    What has Man of Steel got going on that it can not only fundamentally change the nature of a man, but change it for the better? Is “everything” too trite an answer? Then let me break it down for you.

    Henry Cavill.  This guy is the finest piece of ass on the planet. It would have been two planets, if Krypton hadn’t blown up. Listen. Dude can run around shirtless in my backyard until his heart’s content. When he gets bored of that, he can come inside through the backdoor, if you know what I mean.

    The Cape. So flowing and luxurious and crimson. Just imagine the breeze lifting it up to gently brush against your cheek. Imagine it settling over you as you lay down to sleep. Never before will you have slept so soundly or secure than you will with it draped over you. I wouldn’t even hesitate to try and catch forty winks in Crime Alley under this thing.

    General Zod. No more of the jejune balderdash that comes from riding on the coattails of the previously inevitable “Kneel before Zod” quippery. This time he is a tenacious man-bot with crazy eyes and too much sense of purpose. He may have a World Engine, but he himself is an engine of pathos. As riveting as he is tragic.

    Faora-Ul. Pretty much the only thing that’s keeping me from "playing for the other team" at this point. I have never been attracted to a woman who didn’t thoroughly intimidate me first, and this one scores high on both accounts. Plus, the way she zips around, like she thinks she’s Wally West or something, makes me feel good about the future.

    Everyone else and everything else. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t. It’s too true. I was even like “Hey, Jenny. We’ve never met before, but I totally accept you as your own person, and don’t think of you at all as some kind of affirmative action stand in for Jimmy Olsen. I really like your sweater OMG SHE’S TRAPPED IN THAT RUBBLE PERRY DON”T YOU DARE LEAVE HER TO DIE”.

    I left the big one for last. Martha and Jonathan Kent. These people are made out of love, and all they do is give. As soon as they show up on the screen, I am reduced to a blubbering, tear soaked mess, as I am infused with the love radiating out of the kindly couple. Seriously, I haven’t cried this much since the last time I thought about what I’ve been doing with my life.

    Even if you haven’t seen the movie, you might have seen it in the trailers, a part where Clark says “Can’t I just keep pretending I’m your son?”

    That’s when I drown him out by shouting out those same words, so that when Pa Kent replies “You are my son”, he’s talking to me. Suddenly, Pa is my Dad, and it couldn't be more wonderful! Talk about trading up. No way I ever have to have this Dad arrested for stealing my bicycle or anything.

    So there you have it. Out of five stars, I give it ten million stars. Ten million superstars!

    Now go. Gooooooooo.

    Go.

Would-Be Wife Found Wanting

    Sometimes, it’s best to start at the beginning. That’s what I decided while trying to figure out which of my prospective wife candidates I should meet first.  So, when the first submission I received was from a woman named Pattie, who described herself as forty-two, blonde, 5’8”, and 121 lbs, I agreed to meet her at a local watering hole of her choice, called “Betcho‘s”. 

    Although I wasn‘t even a moment late, I could see no one that I could suspect of being Pattie. I killed some time examining what must have been hundreds of collectible dinner plates affixed to the walls. I wondered at the wisdom of displaying these delicate possessions in such a rowdy place, but all seemed to be clean and intact. Someone was clearly invested in their upkeep. This was in stark contrast to the stripper stage in the corner, where a lonely girl danced unnoticed under dim and burned out lights. When I ran out of plates to look at, I just sat and waited.

    Half way into my third beer later, a woman, who not at all matched the description I’d been given, threw open the door and made her way to my table. This one was more like 5’4”, 140 lbs, and closer to fifty-five than forty-two. I hoped that this would somehow not turn out to be Pattie.

    “Hi, I’m Pattie.” she said, setting her giant purse on the table.

    I then proceeded learn all about Pattie for the next hour and a half. How she loved to talk about herself. Which was fine, because the more I learned, the less I was interested  in sharing anything about myself. I mean, I did try, but whenever I told a joke, she seemed confused. Other times, when I tried to share mundane thoughts or genuine interests, that’s when she would laugh. She didn’t even seem interested in talking about going to Mars. That’s pretty much where I gave up, and just bided my time until I could inoffensively suggest it might be time to pack it in.

    Just as I was working up the nerve, Pattie goes and spoils it by slamming down her empty glass and saying “Let’s go back to my place.”

    Those are kind of the magic words for me. I was ready to call it quits, and I certainly had no intentions of inviting Pattie over to my place. I don’t actually like to have any women over to my place. Maybe it's just me, but I see it like this.

    Once you get used to being alone, being alone isn’t so bad. That is, it doesn’t seem so bad, as long as you can’t remember what it’s like to not be alone. Once I have a girl over, she’s not coming back. I’m not going to ask her to come back because I know she’s probably hoping I don’t. Figuring out whether or not this is some form of unconscious self sabotage is best left to the scientists.

    So if I have a lady come to my place one night, the next night I’ll still be able to see her, exactly as she was, exactly where she was, and remember every touch and taste and smell. Everything in the room will be exactly as it was, only now there’s no one there. It’s like having a ghost in your bed. It goes away, in time, but for awhile, it’s rather distressing.

    That’s why it’s better to go to the girl’s place. Every part of it exists only as a memory. All the ghosts are far away. It’s almost like it never happened, which it probably shouldn’t have.

    So we get back to Pattie’s small apartment. There’s not much there besides a weirdly high and sloped couch, an entertainment center, and a massive stereo system. A small stand of glass and steel, containing wine bottles and glasses, rested against the wall separating kitchen from dining room. The bedroom was filled to the brim with boxes of who knows what.

    Pattie set her enormous purse on the ground and opened it, allowing a live cat to leap out. Then she tells me to get undressed and lay on the couch, and not to argue, because she is in charge. These instructions were pretty much in synch with the amount of effort I wanted to put into this encounter. So I did what I was told.

    While I'm laying there with my head on a pillow, she dances to old songs, which mainly consists of her swinging her hips around like she was inside an imaginary hula hoop. In between dances, she regales me with poetry she claimed to have written. I didn’t have any reason to disbelieve her, other than the fact it was really quite good. I’m not entirely sure, but I think I may have been moved to tears at one point. In any case, it was far superior to the chocolate wine she served. Wretched stuff. Avoid at all costs.

    Eventually, she finally gets out of her clothes, and I wondered, not for the first or last time, if I’d made a huge mistake. Beneath that loose fitting sweater was a whole lot of loose fitting flesh. She had a body like a half empty potato sack.

    So, she gets on top of me and almost immediately goes into some kind of trance. She starts muttering something that sounded like the black language of Mordor. Her arm snaps out, almost convulsively, and snatches a painting off the wall. I watch as she flings it across the room. All the while, she’s just chanting with her eyes closed. I guess I thought it was nice that she seemed to be enjoying herself. At least I didn't actually have to do anything.

    Seconds later, she has a heavy looking vase in her hand, raised high over head. She’s still muttering in tongues, only now she’s staring right at me with a glazed look in her eyes. I panicked. I thought she was going to smash me in the face with it.

    I bolted upright with enough speed and force to knock her aside against the back of the couch. Momentum had me in it’s clutches, however, and kept carrying me forward, right off the couch and face first into the wine stand. I wasn’t cut at all, but even now, a dark pink line across my forehead still shows where I connected with the glass shelf.

    Bottles were scattered across the floor. Luckily, nothing was broken, and I started gathering them up. Pattie told me to leave them, and get back on the couch. I had some reservations about that idea now, but I did it anyway.

    Things resumed much as before. Even the vase returned to it’s place in her hand, menacingly raised high in the air.
   
    “Hey, Pattie.” I said.

    The glazed look in her eyes cleared away.

    “Are you… Is everything all right up there?” I asked.

    “Everything’s great. Why wouldn’t be?” she said.

    I pointed out the vase in her hand. She looked at it like she was seeing it for the first time, and looked embarrassed. After a moment, she explained.

    “Sometimes I go to the place where the shadow people take control.”

    “The..? The 'shadow people'?”

    “They stand behind you so you can’t ever see them. They have mouths on their fingers and, when you let your guard down, they stick them in your ears and tell you what to do. If you’re not careful, you can’t tell when it’s happening. Even when I know, and I try to fight them, it’s still kind of a crapshoot who will win.”

    I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. The only thing that seemed certain was that this was not a good time to do or say the wrong thing.

    “Well, how about we try this, instead?” I said, taking the vase from her hand and replacing it with my pillow.

    Things went fine after that. I wasn’t even terrified or anything.

    Later, as I was thinking up an explanation as to why I should leave immediately, Pattie saved me the effort by indicating she had to get an early start that morning. She gave me her phone number, though, and said she hoped we would get together again soon. I said we would and left.

    As soon as her apartment building was out of sight, I crumpled up the paper with her number on it, and tossed it under a parked car. As you know, with only one exception that I had to pay for, I have never slept with any woman more than once. If I am ever going to break that streak, it is not going to begin like this.

    Sorry, Pattie. My quest must go on.

Obituary

The world of old people is a sad and depressing place. It is a place of disease and infirmity. Has there ever been another demographic that breaks so easily?

    I can’t help but be reminded of that old issue of JSA, where Jay Garrick, also known as the Flash, is about to chase down the villainous Vandal Savage. Instead, he slips on some ice. Savage just shakes his head and strolls away, and all Jay can do is lay there with a broken hip. Stargirl shows up and calls an ambulance while Garrick cries out “Curse these old bones of mine!“

    Now the elderly community sends word of a new tragedy. There is one less of them in the world. Normally, I go the Vandal Savage route, and just shrug at their misfortune. This time the latest development struck a bit closer to home than I‘m used to. On Wednesday morning, my Uncle Gerry, 73, passed away quietly in front of a speeding bus. I was pretty fond of him, so I hope you’ll indulge me just a little while I wax eloquent in his memory.

    Reginald Hamilton Luxton II was born to Jamie S. Luxton the First, and Adeline Bosephone Luxton (nee Constantine), on  August 31, 1939 in a shallow depression on the banks of the river Thames in London, England. Named after his grandfather, “Reg” became known as “Ger” due to his mother’s dyslexia.

    When he was only one day old, the second world war broke out. In later life, he would claim to have tried to enlist, but was disqualified by the recruitment officer for being “too young”. Whether there is any truth to this unverifiable hearsay is lost to the ages. However, My grandmother Adeline did tell me that, at that age, my uncle was quite literally a "cry baby". One night, as they squatted in the burned out ruins of the tenement that was once their home, Uncle Gerry kicked up such a fit that it woke the entire family. Fortunately, this was just in time to hear the familiar sound of an incoming V-1 “Doodlebug” flying bomb, and allowed them to escape without a second to spare.

    After the war, the family immigrated to Canada, and took up residence in London, Ontario. Finding it to not at all be what they expected, they later moved to New Westminster, British Columbia. It was here that my uncle fell in with Leon Mandrake and his crowd. One can easily imagine that it was under such an influence that he developed his taste for sleight of hand, duplicity, and half truths.

    Although my grandfather, a stern and unforgiving man, sought to curb these tendencies, Gerry could not, or would not, resist being drawn into the seedy underworld. Finally, grandfather felt he had no choice but to disown his son, after which Gerry simply disappeared. Gerry never sought to share with me what happened to him during the next twenty years.

    Apparently, he wasn’t seen by any of my family until just after I was born. Even then, after inspecting the newest member of the family, and borrowing some money, he disappeared again. I was twelve before I met my uncle under circumstances I can remember.

    I was lodged somewhere in the branches of our cherry tree, when a man who looked like a fatter, more intelligent, version of my father came out of our house and approached me.

    “Nephew! We have met before. Do you know me?” He said.

    “No.” I replied.

    “I’m your uncle. Should have clued in when I called you ‘nephew’.”

    “What of it?”

    “Nephew, I have come to give you some advice. Don’t grow up to be like your uncle. Or your father. Or your grandfather. Or your mother or your grandmother. Or your aunt, for that matter.”

    “Didn’t know I had an aunt.” I said.

    “Fair enough.” he said.

    “Who shall I grow up to be like, then?” I asked. He considered his response carefully.

    “Bruce Springsteen.” he answered finally.

    Even at that early age, I saw the wisdom of this, and I wondered what other truths he may have to share. For a few years, I became his protege. He took me places and showed me things that not a lot of other kids my age went to or saw. He became sort of a surrogate father to me, especially whenever my real dad was in jail. During these times, my mom would also say that Uncle Gerry was quite good at filling dad’s place. I didn‘t know what she meant by this, and I didn‘t care, either. All I knew is that any night he was over, I was encouraged to have the TV on really loud.

    By the time I was fifteen, and it was clear I was not following in the footsteps of “The Boss“, he became disenchanted with me, and swiftly faded out of my life.

    A decade went by before I started to notice an old man tooling around town in his Rascal scooter. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve got lots of guys like that around here. But this one always made me think “He sure looks a lot like my Uncle Gerry.”

    It wasn’t until one day I was walking down the street and he pulled up beside me and said “Hey, Nephew!” that I realised how right I was.

    We spent the next fifteen minutes catching up on the past ten years. He told me how he’d stumbled onto an incredible niche market of selling OxyContin to the retirees of the old folk’s homes. OxyContin is a powerful painkiller that goes for $20 a pill and, if you know what you‘re doing, gets you wicked high. It also has a host of side effects and unpleasant withdrawal symptoms.

    All he had to do was visit a few retirement homes once a week, which he was going to do anyway. That’s where all his friends were living. Then it was just a matter of meeting up with a particular nurse, or whoever, and exchange cash for goods. The nurse took care of the rest. This allowed Uncle Gerry to take home over $3000 a month doing almost nothing he wouldn’t have been doing anyway.

    I was equally repulsed and impressed. I wasn‘t sure why he was telling me this, though. I asked him if he wanted me to help him. He looked at his watch and said he had to go.

    I never really spoke to him again. I saw him scooting around all the time, and he’d wave at me as he sped past. He waved and shouting greetings at everybody.  He never stopped to converse to me, though.

    The last time I saw him was just last Monday night. I was standing at a crosswalk when a voice called out to me.

    “Hey, nephew! Check out these sweet moves!”

    I looked over to see my uncle waving at me, in his scooter, going around and around in circles. Then he peeled out of there and, though I didn’t know it at the time, out of my life.

    The funeral is today. I don’t know what to expect, exactly. I don’t know if I will have to say something or even if I want to say something.

    This is what I can tell you about my uncle... I didn’t exactly dislike him.

    In my family, that’s high praise. Maybe I’m saying this because I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Maybe it’s just too early to speak ill of dead. Maybe later, I’ll have more to say about him.

    For now, it's probably best to leave it at that.

Good Guys Don't Drive Black Helicopters

    You may have been hearing a whole lot about Easter lately. Maybe your local paper ran an article about a neighbourhood Easter egg hunt, or you saw a news report on TV about some church related antics. If you read other blogs, then you might have read someones intimate thoughts and recollections of Easter celebrations with their family.

    I'm not going to do that, because I don't pander. Even if I did, I'd still have nothing to say, because my family didn't celebrate Easter. We also did not celebrate Christmas, Hallowe'en, my birthday, or New Year's. We aren't even Jewish or anything. We just aren't a very celebratory family.

    I think I was around twelve before I realised other kids had birthday parties, even though I did not. I asked my Mom why this was so, and she told me was because other kids are "special". I understood this as code for "mentally handicapped", and was satisfied by her explanation. I was almost twenty-five when she clarified for me that "special" meant "exceptional, gifted, distinguished, and/or extraordinary". I was hurt by this, until she went on to suggest that my failure to understand her was further proof I did not belong in that category. I had no argument against this, and I resigned myself to Mother's appraisal.

    So, instead of Easter, I'm going to talk about this weekend's other cause for no celebration, "G.I.Joe: Retaliation". First, a little history.

   Four or five years ago, G.I.Joe fans the world over rejoiced over news of their beloved toys finally making the transition to the big screen. After they had a chance to see "G.I.Joe: Rise of Cobra", those same fans prayed fervently that the franchise would die quietly. Those prayers would go unanswered.

    So it was that a sequel, entitled "G.I.Joe: Retaliation" was announced with little fanfare, and less excitement.

    Initially intended to be released in the summer of 2012, it was decided at the last minute to push it back to the spring of 2013. Officially, the reasoning was for post production conversion to 3-D. Conspiracy theorists rejected that explanation, and took the opportunity to cast all kinds of aspersions on the quality of the film.

    Just this very Easter weekend, "G.I.Joe: Retaliation" finally hit the theatres, in all it's 3-D glory. Reviews, while not exactly effusive, have been positive. Does this positivity exist only in comparison to the dismal, original offering? Or is "Retaliation" truly deserving of it's faint praise? Allow a G.I.Joe expert to illuminate you.

    "G.I.Joe: Retaliation" is a big piece of shit.

    Never before has the noble and time honoured art of story telling been so bastardized during the transition from one medium to another. For example, the mysterious robot warrior known only as Snak-Eyes? Doesn't even use his force field once. This is tantamount to blasphemy. Everyone knows that Snak-Eyes has a force field that can stop any projectile. Even when D'Inventro invents a gun that can shoot through any force field, Snak-Eyes still has his "force field that can stop bullets from the gun that can shoot through force fields".

    For whatever reason, this is completely ignored. Snak-Eyes is instead reduced to a second rate Inspector Gadget, with springs for legs and telescoping arms. He even has a helicopter hat.

    For all that it gets wrong, "Retaliation" manages to preserve the lifelong rivalry between Snak-Eyes and Storm Shabow. Unfortunately, they have chosen to portray Storm Shabow as a sort of evil James Bond, who infiltrates the G.I.Joe team and gains their trust by sleeping with all the women. For the uninitiated, Storm Shabow is traditionally portrayed as a wise cracking hobo who commands an army of dim-witted bikers.

    Nevertheless, the final confrontation between these bitter foes, with Snak-Eyes's cybernetic enhancements and Storm Shabow's bottomless bag of technological gadgets, is actually pretty exciting. It just doesn't belong in a movie based on this property.

    Let's not ignore what is perhaps this movie's cardinal sin: That the leader of G.I.Joe, General Clayton "Hawk" Abernathy, and the leader of Cobra, Cobra Commander, are actually the same person! Hawk is my hero. I don't own six bomber jackets for nothing. He would never stoop so low as to sponsor terrorism just to get more government funding for G.I.Joe. Even if he would, any idea that they might be the same man was thoroughly disproved in issue #182 of the comics when they played a game of chess against each other, each launching a real life nuke against a strategic target every time they captured a piece.

    But the most preposterous is saved for last. The Joe called "Tollbooth" is sent in a rocket to the moon, and that's how Cobra is defeated. Just because he ends up on the moon, Cobra decides to pack it in.

    "There he goes! Too bad he took off in all our tax dollars! How much does it cost to get your car to work? How much does it cost to go to the moon?"

    "There he goes, oh look! He turned around before he landed on the moon!" Who fucking cares? What does that prove? And the hole in the ozone layer is getting bigger, ya' fucking dinks!

    Thoroughly dissatisfying. Overall, I give it four stars out of five.

   

Out In the Field

A week of training has gone by. I’m not sure how much I should tell you about it. We’re not the Freemasons or anything, but when “mystery” is part of the job description, perhaps it‘s possible to say too much.

    It was Monday now, and I was so excited about going out on my first real mystery shopper expedition, I barely slept the night before. I arrived at work early and was surprised to see Andrea already there. I’d heard she was going out on her first mission that morning also, but she was erratic, unfocused, and, if you ask me, unreliable. She didn’t seem like the type to practice this kind of dedication. Perhaps there was more to her than I realised.

    “Wow, you’re here early.” I said.

    “I haven’t slept in almost two days.” she replied.

    Now I was annoyed. I didn’t like the idea that she might be more dedicated to the job than I was. So I lied to her and said I hadn’t slept in over two days.

    “Really? You do Speed, too? You don’t seem like the type.”

    I didn’t know how to respond to that. Fortunately, Geoff came long just then. That’s probably the only time anyone has ever described Geoff’s presence as “fortunate”.

    He had a smug, pudgy face. He wore yellow tinted glasses. He lived in his parent’s basement. He was also, aside from Mr. Books and Xenia, the only other already existing employee when we were hired.

    “Good morning, you mystery scholars! How we all doing today?” he said.

    That’s what he called us. Condescension oozed out of him.

    Then the echoing sound of the toilet flushing filled the office, and Mr. Books stepped out of the bathroom. He greeted us all and informed us that we would have company on our first ventures.

    “I’ll take Andrea.” offered Geoff, smiling at her. She just stared straight ahead, like she hadn’t heard anything.

    “I think I’ll go with Andrea, Geoff. I’m sure she will prosper greatly from my many years of experience, gentlemanly demeanour, and pleasant conversational abilities. You’ll go with Jamie.”

    “I guess we can put him through the meat grinder already.” said Geoff, glaring at me.

    An hour later, my very first mystery shop began! It was just a neighbourhood convenience store. As we got out of the car, I observed the parking lot was clean, and the garbage bins were not overflowing. Inside, a gigantic teenage boy and a old, bearded Irishman were manning the store. Both were exceptionally friendly and helpful. The store itself was well stocked and clean. The only complaint that I might have had was that it was too dark in there.

    Geoff spent the time slowly reading the tabloid headlines out loud and shaking his head at the celebrity antics. “That Lindsay Lohan. When will she learn?” he said. “ She was in Playboy last year. You know those pin up girls from the sixties and seventies? It was like that. They didn’t show you anything… They didn’t hardly show you anything.”

     Overall, I was quite satisfied with my shopping experience. I was also quite satisfied by the job experience. Not only did I want to do this job, but I was confident in my ability to do it well.

    “Let me tell you what you did wrong there.” Geoff said as soon as we got back in the car.

    “What? I thought it went great.” I said.

    “For starters, you told them you were a mystery shopper.”

    “I didn’t say that.”

    “You didn’t say it, but you still told them. Do you think they get many normal customers inspecting the undersides of shelves?”

    “I wanted to be thorough.”

    “Thorough is good. But so is being discreet. You tip them off like that, and we end up with a bunch of false positives. Do you really think that old guy is really that pleasant? Obviously not. He‘s Irish. Probably feeling real good about himself right now for pulling the wool over your eyes. Now you’ll write up your glowing review. And when the owner of that place reads it, and he‘s going to be just a little perplexed by it all. Because he knows that mean old drunk is a real bastard, he just can’t catch him in the act. That was our job, and you botched it, and it makes all of us look bad.”

    I couldn‘t argue with what he said. I dwelled on it until we arrived at our next destination. This time it was a popular family restaurant. As we pulled up, the first thing I saw was dried vomit on the sidewalk.

    “That’s going in your report.” said Geoff.

    It was lunch time, and the place was busy. We were told it would be a few minutes before a table was ready.

    “This is taking too long. Make a note of that.” said Geoff.

    When we were finally seated, a waitress appeared immediately with menus and took our drink order. When she was gone, Geoff inspected the seats and table.

    “Not bad, I guess.” he allowed.

    “Waitress was pretty fast.” I observed. Geoff shrugged.

    “Know what you’re going to have?” he asked. I told him that I did not.

    “It’s okay. You don‘t need to.”

    The waitress returned and Geff ordered for both of us. I was getting a double bacon cheeseburger, hold the bacon, double the cheese, with one patty removed and placed on the side under a pickle.

    “That’s not what I would have ordered.” I said.

    “You’re on the clock. After work, you go where you want and order what you want. Right now, you have a job to do.”

    Geoff stared at me for a long time while we waited, like he was trying to decide something. Then he spoke.

    “You know, Books is an old pro. But that’s just it. He’s old. Old school. You know? Here’s what I think. Hidden cameras. Put them in your hat. Nobody knows. But everything that happens is recorded. Video doesn’t lie. No disputing the facts.” he slurred.

    “He won’t do that?”

    “Too expensive, he says. Not that I’d trust those grandmas he hired to know how to use one. One of them went out on her own yesterday and shopped the same place three times because she forgot that she’d been there already.”

    “That really happened?” I asked.

    “No. But it will. Old ladies are like that. You, on the other hand, might get good at this one day. You could have a future. That’s a good quality in an employee. That’s something Nino values.”

    “Who’s Nino?”

    “The owner. Your boss. Books’ boss. He doesn’t come around too much. He’s got a lot of other things going on. But he’ll be by to meet the new crew. That’s when I’m going to run this camera idea by him. It’s a good idea. He’ll go for it, as long as Books doesn’t get in the way. So I’m just saying, the future of our company might just be shaping up here, and you might want to be on the right side of that. Books won’t be around forever.”

    Then the food arrived, and no more was said of the matter. I studied my plate, and found that it conformed exactly to Geoff’s specifications. Geoff rooted through his meal to find anything that had been done incorrectly. He sighed.

    “Just right. Wasn‘t expecting that.” he admitted. He seemed disappointed.

     “It did take a long time.” I offered, and he giggled.

    “You have potential.” he said, putting a fistful of fries in his mouth.

    I smiled to appear appreciative of his compliment, and looked outside. The dried vomit was right under our window. A bird stood nearby, looking at the barf. Mentally, I cried out at the bird to not eat the puke. It did.

Astonishing Tale

    As you’ll recall, Marvin was just about to storm out of Anonymous Consumers, but Mr. Books tried to stop him with the promise of a story. This is the story of that story.
   
    “I don’t want to hear any story.” Marvin sneered.

    “Well, if Marvin says he’s not interested, then I guess he’s not interested. Thanks for coming by.”

    “That‘s the first thing anybody's said that makes any sense.” Marvin said as he walked away.

    Sounds kind of like we’re not going to her that story after all, doesn’t it? That’s exactly what I thought at the time. I was disappointed. Since I’ve already told you that we do indeed get to hear the story, though, I won’t waste your time trying to build any suspense.

    “Living the dream.” called out Mr. Books, just as Marvin was reaching for the door. Marvin stopped and turned to face the old albino.

    “What did you say?”

    “You heard me. I said ‘Living the Dream‘. That’s of no interest to you? “

    “I wouldn’t call this…”

    “Do you know how often so many people dream about becoming a mystery shopper? It happens to everyone and it happens all the time. The difference between us and them is that they wish for it only briefly. Usually, it’s when they are on the receiving end of some bad service. Where is this wish when they are receiving good service?  It is the farthest thing from their mind. But just because everything turned out alright for you does not guarantee you are dining in a quality establishment. Sure, you’re enjoying a steak that’s done medium rare to perfection. But that pretty little lady, you know the one. She’s sitting out on the patio, laughing with her friends. You saw her on the way in,  and your gaze wandered over to her several times while you’re waiting for your table, even though, of course, she doesn’t look at you once. She’s drinking… a mojito, you think.”

    “By the time you slice off your third hunk of succulent T-Bone steak, you’re not thinking about her anymore, but you would have thought it exceptionally appropriate, if you recalled her flowing, golden locks, to know that she’s dining on angel hair pasta tonight. What neither of you can possibly know is that she’s about to swallow a dead rat’s anus. It was there the whole time, lurking in the dish, cloaked underneath the sauce and the noodles.”

    “You see, a rat crawled into a cooking pot and died without being discovered for quite some time. When the cook found it, it was so badly decomposed that it broke apart as he removed it. Bits and pieces got left behind. Did the cook leave them there on purpose? Who can say? All we know for sure is that bits and pieces got left in the pot. Including it’s anus. That’s the rat’s fucking asshole, Marvin, and right now it’s lodged in between that pretty young lady’s perfect teeth! And you know what? Now she’s tonguing it to knock it loose. Can you imagine it, Marvin? Flicking your tongue across a rat’s asshole?  36 years of marriage and never once did I toss a salad. Not for my wife and double definitely not for some dead rodent. These things, they live in the sewer, and survive on human excrement. Think about it! Their shit... Is our shit.”

    “Anyway, our poor little lady, she can tell something‘s not right. The shape, and the texture, it feels like nothing that should have been in her pasta. But she’s been drinking, and her guard is down. So when it comes loose, that’s when it happens. She swallows it and forgets about it almost immediately. And, you know, when she gets home tonight? Before she falls asleep to those sweet, sweet dreams of Brad Pitt again, she’s going look back over the evening and think about what a wonderful night out with the girls she had. And maybe she doesn’t ever get sick or even feel unwell, but that doesn’t change what the facts are.”

    “Is that something you can let happen just because it didn’t happen to you? Do you even care about that, Marvin? Is that something you can give a rat’s ass about? Because the cook gave a rat’s ass tonight, and it ended up in the stomach of Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer fucking Aniston! That’s right, from fucking ‘Friends‘, Marvin. Is that acceptable to you? That’s where we come in. That’s what we’re here for. Because it’s our job to stop it.  Now, if that sounds like too much responsibility for you, Marvin, if that sounds like too much honest, important, and hard, work, then, yeah, I guess you better keep walking right out that door. On the other hand, if you’re up to the challenge? If you’re in it for the long haul? In it for the good fight. If Marvin the boy is ready to give way to Marvin the man, then…”

    Marvin looked down to see his hand in Books’ hand. They shook slowly, and  Marvin’s anger seemed to have dissipated. Now he looked sad, and maybe a little confused.

    I think all of us were. Even the old ladies, who had so recently objected to Marvin’s colourful language, didn’t seem to notice Mr. Books’ frequent dippings into the profanity pool. All of us just stared.

    Mr. Books smiled broadly and gestured to an empty chair. Marvin’s chair. “We have a lot of work to do. Let‘s get started, shall we?” he said.

    “No.” said Marvin , ending their handshake and turning away.

    “But thanks anyway.” he said , waving from the doorway. Then he stepped through, and the door closed with an exceptional “clang” that it never had done so before, and has never done since.  In my mind, I heard that “clang” as “finality”. Marvin had not only exited the building, and but also our lives. 

    What do you say about a man like that? We hadn’t known him at all. That’s what made it so difficult. Every single person is a treasure. Do you merely just shrug with indifference when a diamond is stolen from you? I don’t. Not immediately, anyway.

    “Right. Let’s get down to business.” Said Books, after a moment. That was all the time we needed. We got down to it.

A Job Interview Goes Awry

    I arrived promptly at the Anonymous Consumers office at eight forty-two in the morning, over a whole quarter of an hour earlier than I needed to be. I was sure that the dedication and interest demonstrated by my early arrival was sure to be noticed. However, stepping from the bright sunny morning into the buildings’ dim interior, my arrival failed to generate any noticeable enthusiasm.

    I stood by the entrance and surveyed the room. Anonymous Consumers was dominated by one large room. The walls were covered in pale green bathtub tiles. In each corner was a private office, with windows that looked inwards but none to look outside. A gorgeous and bored looking woman sat at a desk at the far side of the room. She seemed to have cultivated every aspect of her appearance to resemble Xenia Onatopp as much as possible. In the center, nine assorted persons sat around two long cafeteria style tables. No one seemed to notice me.

    I assumed that Xenia was the probably the person I needed to speak to. Low classical music emanated from the radio on her desk, and I detected the clinging odour of marijuana as I approached. She briefly looked up from her High Times magazine and, with an indeterminate eastern European accent,  asked if I was there for an interview. I said I was and, with her thumb, she directed me towards the assortment of others.

    I took a place among the others. I didn’t like them. Every one of them had upstaged  my early arrival. Of course they had. They were mostly old people. Getting up early is what they do, and they do it well. You can’t beat them at their own game.

    In addition to the elderly folk, there was a decidedly unimpressed native guy, a blonde girl engrossed in scratch and win tickets, and a weird looking, scrawny dude. With his oversized glasses and wrinkly lips, I mistook him for one of the ancient women at first. Us young folk spent the minutes in awkward silence while the old women whispered amongst themselves. The two old men sat apart from the old ladies, and silently cast disapproving glares on their gossiping.

    Finally, the sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the room and the bathroom door started to open. From behind it stepped a familiar figure. All the old ladies gasped, the Indian raised his eyebrows slightly, and the weird dude’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of his head. Only the girl didn’t react at all, but that might have only been because she hadn’t looked up yet. All the rest of us, it seemed, had met this man before. I had met him just one day previous. He‘d come to my house to use my phone.

    His pink eyes locked with each of ours in turn. In no way did he give any indication that he recognized any of us.

    “Good morning, everyone.” he said. “You can call me ‘Mr. Books‘.”

    “Hey, what the hell.” said the blonde, now looking up at the albino. “You were in my house.”

    “That’s right. I was in your house. I was in all your houses.”

    The native man glared intently as he said “You ate my last chicken pot pie.”

    “And, if I recall correctly, I thanked you for your generosity, Marvin, and now I do so again.” said Mr. Books.
   
    “I didn’t give it to you, you just took it!”

    “What’s in the past is in the past. Let us now look to the future. An employed future!” Books said, gesturing dramatically to the sky.

    “I just want to say that I think I deserve this job more than anyone else, because I really need it.” said the blonde.

    “Well, I have good news for you, Andrea. You’ve got the job. You’ve all got the job. There is no interviewing to be done here today. I’ve already interviewed each of you.”

    “In our homes.” I said, and Books nodded sagely.

    “Correct! I went mystery shopping for employees. It’s what I do, and now, it’s what you do, too. Welcome aboard!”

    The old ladies chattered wildly. The old men turned to regard each other. Andrea clapped and squealed. The weird guy remained still. I couldn’t tell if he even understood anything that had transpired.

    My mind was racing. Everything had happened so fast. I had a job now and with it, a chapter of my life had just closed without any warning. I felt a twinge of sadness that I hadn’t had the chance to bid farewell to the old me, and now it was too late. He was gone, forever. Already I could hardly remember what it was like to have been him.

    At the same time, it felt good to be this new me. Employed! Can you imagine? I envisioned myself doing work. Mystery shopping, I guess. These visions were pretty indistinct and fleeting, actually, because I really didn’t have much idea of what I’d actually be doing. Not that it mattered. I’d been looking for anything, and what I found fell well within that criteria.

    “This is bullshit.” said Marvin. He had returned to his unimpressed demeanour.

    “Marvin, please. There are ladies present.” said Mr. Books with a dark scowl.

    “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Andrea replied. If she hadn’t been looking at her lotto tickets again, she might have realised, by the horrified expressions on the old women’ faces, that she wasn’t the one being defended. But Marvin wasn’t about to be silenced.

    “This is some kind of crazy fucked up operation you got going on here if this is how you run things. Does the Better Business Bureau know about you guys? Or the police? Because there’s something not right here. It’s like one of those shady operations that are actually just scams to make a lot of money to fund a crazy fucked up party, and then they close up shop and disappear over night.”

    Marvin let his gaze settle on each and every one of us before he turned towards the door. But before he had even taken his first step, Mr. Books caught him by the arm.

    “Marvin. Let me tell you a story.” Books said.

    Then he did tell a story. A good one, too. I liked it. I won’t tell it to you, though. Not until the next time. My time here is up.

The Phonecall Menace, Part II

Last Time: PART I

 

Now: PART II


    Needless to say, nothing less desirable than someone using my phone could have occurred at that time. I’m waiting for something important, maybe even life changing, and it all depends on keeping my phone line clear. Of course that exact moment is when fate deposits a man, looking to borrow a phone, on my doorstep. Could it have happened any other way?

    “Sorry. I can‘t right now.” I said.

    “ I won’t be more than a moment. Scout’s honour.”

    I felt bad about trying to get rid of this guy. I mean, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get a call at all. Six days went by where Anonymous Consumers could have phoned and they didn’t. So what were they chances they’d phone in these few moments it took to help this guy out?  Still, rationalizations are generally wasted on me, and this time was no exception.

    “I don’t have a phone.”

    “What? In this day and age, you can’t find a phone that suits your lifestyle and price range? Come on.”

    “Look. I think my neighbour is home. I’m sure they…”

    “Buddy, I understand the inconvenience, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” he said.

    So what do you do? Flip a coin? It’s a lot easier to say no to someone when they aren’t standing right in front of you, especially when they have not taken no for an answer three times already. So what could I do? Only what I always do. I relented.

    "Alright." I said.

    “You are a goddamn saint, sir. I thank you.”

    “Hoo-Wee! This is an okay place.” He exclaimed as he stepped into the living room.

    “Thanks.”

    “ Your welcome. Where’s your phone?”

    “Right here.” I said, handing it to him.

    “I thank you again. So what do you do, anyway?”

    “What do you mean?” I asked.

    “For work. Where do you work?”
   
    “Oh. Nowhere, currently.”

    “I see. Excuse me, uno momento.”

    As he spoke into the phone, I tuned him out and dwelled on the fact that, if this guy wasn’t making phone calls right now, my phone might be ringing with word of new beginnings and opportunities.  His laughter broke me out of my introspection in time to hear him say  “Salad? Ah, fuck that.”

    This didn’t at all jive with what I thought this phone call was going to be about. In fact, this didn’t seen important at all. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he put his hand over the phone. I told him I was expecting an important call. He nodded in understanding and returned to his conversation. A few minutes later, it was over.
   
    “Sorry about that. My wife is very particular in her tastes, and I can’t abide them. Car troubles have put enough of a crimp in my day. I’m not about to let lunch get fucked up, too.” he explained.

    I started to protest as he dialled again. He seemed not to notice, and I said nothing. This time he seemed to actually be talking to a tow truck company. After a few more moments, he hung up and sighed.

    “Sorry, kemosabe, but I could really use a drink. Do you have anything like that?”

    “Not much. Just some whiskey.” I said.

    “Whiskey! That’s my favourite word, and my second favourite drink. Pour us a glass, would you? On the rocks, if you’d be so kind.”

    I did as he asked. He took a long sip from the glass and seemed well satisfied.

    “Thanks for that. So where was it you said you worked again?”

    “Nowhere.” I said.

    “Shit. Right.” he said. “So where did you last work?”

    I ended up explaining the whole story that I related to you just last week.

    “Damn right, son. I would have done the same fucking thing.” he said, as he finished his drink. “Let me tell you something right now. That Jared is a fucking bastard. If there‘s one thing I respect, it‘s that kind of devotion to the job at hand. You have to be adaptable. You have to be ready to improvise. I could teach my cat to follow the handbook. Thinking on your feet, on the other hand, now that‘s a marketable skill. ”

    I found myself liking this man. Before I knew it, I had refilled his glass, and had a full one of my own.

    “So what are you looking for now?” he asked.

    “Basically? Anything.” I admitted.

    “Shit. Times are tough, aren’t they? I hear ya, pal. You know what the worst part about it is? People who need jobs are out there, hopelessly searching, while others who don’t deserve their jobs manage to keep them forever. Listen to this. I was in a gas station the other day. I dropped fifty goddamn dollars in that place and the guy never said ‘Thank you‘. Never said ‘Have a good day‘. Never asked me for my Air Miles card. Fucking prick. And the worst part is, he’s still there, still not doing the stuff he's supposed to. It should be him stuck looking for work, not you.”

    I couldn’t disagree.

    “A job is a job. You do it, or you lose it.” I said. This had been another of Jared’s tidbits of wisdom, but I didn’t bother to share that part.

    “Fucking exactly! Salut!” my new friend said, raising his glass in the air, before tossing the remainder back.  He looked at his watch.

    “Well, shit. Tow truck should be here real soon.”

    We stood from our seats as he put his coat back on. As he stepped outside, he stopped and turned back to me.

    “I will never say I like having my car break down. But you’ve been a gracious host, and I’ve enjoyed my stay. I thank you for your hospitality, and wish you well.”

    I replied that he had been a fine guest and it had been no trouble at all. He smiled and stepped away. As I closed the door, my thoughts immediately returned to the phone call I had been desperately hoping for and had not yet received.

    It was getting late. There wasn’t going to be any phone call. I sighed with equal parts frustration and resignation. At least my guest had taken my mind off my troubles for an hour or so. I thought that maybe I should just go to bed early, and get an early start on tomorrow.

    As I headed off to my bedroom, I passed by the phone and saw that it had been left off the hook. He’d left it that way. For over an hour. I shrieked.

    I ran outside to yell and curse at him, but he was nowhere to be seen. I went back inside and hung up the phone. I sat on the couch with my head in my hands, and shook. That’s it. I just shook uncontrollably.

    Time passed. How long, I do not know. Then, the phone rang. I snatched it up half way through that first ring, and said “Hello” in a breathless manner that could have easily been mistaken for “yellow”. I regretted it immediately.

    It was a collection agency. I guess they don’t take Sunday’s off. I pretended to not know what they wanted or who they were looking for, and hung up.

    Almost immediately, the phone rang again. It would be them again, I knew it. I also knew I couldn’t risk not answering. I picked it up. A woman spoke to me.

    “Jamie S. Luxton III? This is Anonymous Consumers. We’d like you to come in for an interview tomorrow morning at nine.” she said.

    I wanted to make kissing noises into the phone. Later that night, I would wonder if she was looking for a husband. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about my wife search at all.

    “I’ll be there.” I said.

The Phonecall Menace, Part I

    Let’s cut to the chase. Now that I have two things to do, I have been really busy.  I didn’t even post an update last Friday. That would have been a third thing to do, and that’s where I draw the line.

    When I told you about my time at Dairy Queen, it kind of gave me a wake up call. It was the first time I realised how much I’d been neglecting my job search. Since then, I’ve been hard at work trying to find work. Of course, that now means I’m neglecting my wife search.

    Unfortunately, what I’ve been discovering is that this is a hard time to find a job. I guess it has something to do with the economy or somesuch. It doesn’t seem to matter who you are or what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter what your skills or qualifications are. You’ve got to take what you can get, and all I seem to able to get is a lot of “We’re not hiring right now.”

    One afternoon,  I sat alone in a Dairy Queen I‘d never been to before. There was a newspaper on my table that they‘d carelessly forgotten to clear away. That would have never happened if I‘d worked there, by the way. I started flipping through it, and an incredible revelation was made unto me.

    I don‘t know how many of you know about this, but in many papers, deep between the top stories and the sports pages, an entire section is devoted to classified ads. You can find things to buy and sell, escort agencies, real estate, and all kinds of other stuff. It makes for interesting reading, but wasn’t particularly relevant to my current situation. Or, it wouldn‘t have been, except that there is also a bunch of what they call “employment opportunities“. Someone, somewhere, must be watching out for me. I looked skyward and made little kissy noises.

    I started collecting every paper I could find. I couldn’t leave them lying around where just anybody could make the same discovery as I had. It seemed to be working, too. I noticed how the ads stay the same day after day. How is that possible if people are reading them and getting hired? If that was the case, wouldn’t they have the ads removed? I had stumbled onto some great, untapped resource, and it was all mine to exploit.

    As soon as I started calling numbers, my enthusiasm for the classified ads kind of… crashed and burned. Even here, in my secret cache of job listings, I still couldn’t find someone who would hire me. Then I found an ad by a company called Anonymous Consumers.

    It is a mystery shopper company. They’re those guys who you hire to go into your business, masquerading as regular customers, but all the while, secretly evaluating employee performance. It’s quite insidious, but I couldn‘t afford to be choosy. So I went down to their office and turned in a resume. In defiance of my well eroded expectations, I got my best response yet. They told me that they would be in touch by Sunday.

    It wasn’t until Thursday, having received no calls, that I started to feel the faintest pangs of anxiety. But they were faint, and I willfully allowed optimism to override my doubts. As it turned out, that optimism was unwarranted, because I didn’t get a call. On Friday, I didn’t feel any optimism at all, and this was well justified. I didn’t get a call on that day, either.

    On Saturday, anxiety reigned supreme. I filled the hours by learning origami. But no quantity of paper tigers could stave off the growing despair, even though there wasn’t any real reason to lose hope just yet. A whole other day remained before the time had elapsed. I found as much comfort in rationalizations as I had in the paper folding. I had already convinced myself that, if they were going to call, it would have happened already.

    So it was that Sunday found me lazing about, intending to accomplish nothing but wait by the phone. If I became hungry, I would not order a pizza. If I became on fire, I would not call 911. The line would stay clear, so that nothing would get in the way of my receiving this call. I drifted off and dreamt about a sexy butterfly woman who wanted me to tend her gardens for room and board.

    The knock came at the door for a second time before I’d fully comprehended that I’d heard it the first time. I stood up, examined myself to make sure I wasn’t wearing sweatpants, and opened the door.

    Dressed in a dark suit, a portly, red eyed man stood there. Tall hair and trim beard were all nearly the same pale white colour of his skin. He also appeared to be drenched. I wondered if it might be raining. He posed a query to me.

    “ Hi there. Say, listen. My car broke down a half block up and, well, I guess what I‘m trying to say is, could I borrow your phone?”