Half A Dozen To Go

Odd Couples 1

Some couples age like old friends. Others like loose dogs. Ronnie and Helen are somewhere in the middle. There’s foam and snarling, but there’s also humour and acts of unexpected kindness. And in acts is how I choose to present these pieces.

I brought Ronnie back from the hospital. Day-surgery, some blood behind his eye that was fixed in an hour. A patch over his left eye that he’ll have to wear for a few days.

He sits in his favorite brown chair. The afternoon sun comes in through the balcony door and beams down on the carpet. Helen sits in the floral chair across from him.

Ronnie stares down at the carpet. “What’s that?” he says, pointing.

I pick up a wood screw. “It’s just a screw dad,” I say.

“Must have fallen out of his head when he bent over to sit down,” Helen says. She gets out of her chair. “Here, let me have it,” she says and holds out her hand.

She walks around behind Ronnie. “See, it goes here in this hole,” she says, pretending to put the screw back in his head. I laugh. Ronnie chuckles a fake laugh.

Helen walks toward the buffet. “I’ll put it here for you so you don’t loose it again,” she says.

“I don’t need it anymore,” says Ronnie, “Bend over, and I’ll put it away for safe keeping.”

Line by Line

I don't like to embarrass my kids. So I talked this over with Dunc before posting. He remembered and he laughed. That was a good feeling. Now I just have to talk to him about his room.

Young kids like to talk. Ask the smallest question and they will tell you their day. How are you? This gets you twenty minutes of explanation. How was school? Thirty. Do you have any homework? Twenty-eight seconds. Some things never change. Pick your questions carefully or you could be listening for hours. Or not listening, which was the struggle we had with Duncan, third youngest of six children.

Duncan loves to talk. Duncan loves to explain things. He carries on these two lines of conversation at the same time because Duncan needs to talk. It’s like a biological function with him. He shuffles from foot to foot, paces, and makes moaning noises. He’ll explode if you don’t acknowledge him.

Laura once thought of nicknaming him “The River”. I said no, “The River with Stones”. I learned then that some nicknames are better kept to yourself. In merged families humour is in the eye of the humourless.

So early one Sunday morning I drove to pick up The River from a sleep over at Tommys. He hops in the back and I ask him what they did.

“We saw the new Harry Potter movie,” he says. And he just lets that news hang in the air. He fidgets, he drools. I know what’s happening—he’s literally dying to explain the movie to me. It is a twenty-minute ride home. The board is set.

I know I can’t make eye contact. He knows he needs to wait for me to ask him about it. This is an unspoken rule – you can’t tell someone about something they haven’t asked to know about. It’s an illegal move and we all know it. I can’t ask him a thing about the movie, or I’ll hear a scene-by-scene retelling of the whole picture, including the credits. He plays with the door lock. He’s waiting. Pawn takes knight.

I yawn. Then I mumble about needing gas for the car. About how I wish the gas prices weren’t so high, and how what we need is a new manager for the Blue Jays. Pawn takes pawn.

Not a bite. No response. He says, “Yep, that Harry Potter movie was really something. Just like I imagined. Really good, you know?”

The “You know” line is meant to get me to cave in and answer him back, but I’m not falling for it. Bishop takes pawn.

“Yep,” I say, “maybe if the Blue Jays were doing better we could go see a couple games? Would you like that?”

Queen takes knight. Check. There is no way he can refuse a question like that. And based on the rules, once he answers my question then that’s the line of talk we take. He’ll have given up his position to talk about Harry Potter. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.

For a good minute, nothing is said. I switch on the radio. I know he’s thinking about what to say next. I still don’t make eye contact. That’s too friendly a gesture, and I still have 18 minutes to drive.

“So, did you watch any of the game last night with Tommy?” I ask. Queen takes pawn. Check.

I know it’s cruel, and I’m not proud of it, but if I respond to him I’ll have to pull over and shoot myself. Then how will he get home? Caring fathers always put their children first.

“Hey dad,” Duncan asks, “there’s a special for parents on Tuesdays when they take their kids to the movies. Maybe Matt and Edward would like to see Harry Potter too? I think they’d like it too, dad!” Knight blocks queen.

He shouldn’t be calling me dad, I think. That’s an unfair emotional tactic. And he brought in his brothers too. Just as I’m wondering what to say next he keeps on his forward assault.

“And Jackie loves Harry Potter too,” he says. “Remember the first movie? Remember how you laughed when they were flying on the broomsticks? Well you should see what they do in this one!.” Queen takes queen.

I’m being tricked. I can’t believe how crafty he is. Sixteen minutes to home. “But you know, Dunc,” I say, “The Blue Jays-"

“You should see how much older they look too, dad,” Duncan says. “You know how you keep saying how old I’m getting, well Harry almost has a beard!”

“He doesn’t have a beard Duncan, you crazy guy!” I respond automatically, “He’s only like a year older than y...”

Queen takes King. Checkmate. I feel his smile go through me. The muscles in my arms go limp. I take a very deep breath and check my watch. Fifteen minutes from home. Odd numbers are never good news.

I smile over at Duncan. And nod my head mechanically while he recounts everything he saw in the movie. Including the credits.

Baseball Rules

After dinner Matt wanted to hit some baseballs and I said all right, so we washed up the dishes and headed down to the field. Matt, Duncan, Allie and I.

I pitched, and we took turns smacking the hardball into the outfield, while one of the boys chased it for a spectacular catch.

Allie was quiet, but she was watching. And she laughed if one of her brother’s missed the ball or fanned on a swing.

When it was her turn to bat I changed from a hardball to a plastic softball with air holes. It made a bit of a whirr sound as I tossed it across the plate. She swung and swung, maybe hit 1 in 10 pitches.

I tried to get her to move her body around, and change how she had her feet. Her brothers tried to get her to change how she held the bat. She wanted nothing to do with us. I winked at Matt and gently tossed the ball straight into her back.

Wide-eyed, she dropped the bat and asked me why I did that. I just laughed with her brothers and said that I was just playing around with her.

“You didn’t do that to the boys,” she said.

“No, you’re right, but I was just kidding with you Al,” I said, “It was just a joke. I didn’t try to hurt you.”

She swung at the next pitch and let the bat go sailing end over end into my shins. I looked at her stunned.

“You didn’t do that to the boys so you shouldn’t do it to me,” Allie said. Then she walked off the diamond and down the path back home.

I had to think about this for a while. Some people need to feel the same to belong. That sense of sameness makes them feel part of the group. One of the team. Highlight a difference, and you make them stand out. She was there with us to play baseball, not be treated as the youngest girl playing baseball.

I apologized to her later, and told her I think I understood why she was mad. I was then going to tell her she can’t just throw something at someone who does her wrong, but I stopped.

In my mind my nine year-old was eighteen, and someone was approaching her in a way she didn’t want. I’d want her to use everything she had to defend herself.

I held out my hand, we grabbed the dog leash and took Hazel for a walk around the block. And we talked about movies, and Bratz, and school and all the things that make a nine year-old girl.

Glimpses of the future are fine. I just don’t want to get there too quick.

Separation

A marriage separation is about more than living apart. Things start to fall off, and no one is really sure just how it goes.

I apologize when my hand breaks off after shaking hello with my father-in-law.

“It’s been a while,” he says, looking me over like I was a used car. “Have you lost weight?”

“About 156 pounds,” I say, and as I walk away part of my back falls, exposing the tissue underneath that had once been more muscular.

Then on to Doris, in her Sunday blues.

“Wow,” she says, “you look good.” And because it sounds more like a question I reply back, “you too?” My knee gives way and drops to the floor, taking with it my leg underneath.

Then my brother-in-law, a good guy, a fireman, and I only loose a toe on my other foot talking to him. The big toe no-less, but no-more.

“And how are the kids? Are they doing well?” Karen, my niece asks.

“Just fine,” I lie. “Enjoying the summer,” I say, “You know, playing around with their friends. Fun stuff.” Both arms and a kidney slide off and down to the floor.

Then, Carolyn, who always wants to talk says, “Anytime you want to talk just give me a call.” I nod my head as a rib slides down my pant leg and gets caught in the cuff. I move my foot and it falls onto the floor. She stares at it and says, “Anytime. I mean it.”

I smile and shrug my shoulders like a yawning tomcat.

Aunt Ruth won’t look at me. I broke a vow, disavowing my wife through six degrees of separation.

“Aunt Ruth,” I nod, loosing the contents of my stomach and intestines as I do.

But she pretends not to see me and looks straight through the matchstick frame that had once been me. White porcelain tea cup in her hand and a half-moon of pink lipstick around the rim. Christian pink.

When my heart falls I know I’m done for.

My brother-in-law says, “have you seen Ken?” to no one in particular, and least of all me. I am a word, a memory, a movie where no one notices the ending because we’ve seen it all before.

Amusements

“Com’on daddy, hurry up!” Allie screams at me.

She’s laughing as she runs across the parking lot to the lights of the amusement park. This is the one that comes through Cambridge every summer, and sets up in the mall parking lot. Years ago it would have been a field. I guess parking lots are now the closest thing.

I catch up, walking, and tell her to slow down. She’s on an adrenaline high. I see it in her eyes. I asked her brothers to come along, but they were busy. Duncan’s in the fifth inning of Xbox baseball. Nate’s watching the Simpsons. Edward is practicing a new song on guitar. Jackie’s at work. Matt’s usually willing to come, but amusement parks are not his thing.

“Sorry,” he says, “They’re just not my thing.” I thank him for repeating my thoughts.

So it’s Allie and I who show up at the park, and she’s ready for more rides than I can stomach. And the first ride inside the gates is The Scrambler.

Now I’m friends with The Scrambler. Never had a problem with The Scrambler. I look at the grease puddle under one of the beast’s support legs, and I count the number of wood planks used to balance it. Five. Safe enough I say, and walk to the ticket booth. Forty dollars gone in under three seconds, a new record. Then Allie and I are first and second in line.

Jeff, a kid about eighteen from outside of Ottawa, tells me that it’s been slow today. But he expects it to pick up in about an hour. When it gets dark and the older kids come, he says. I ask him how long he’s been doing this job and he replies six years. I do the math and stop asking questions.

“You going on with her?” Jeff asks me. He looks me up and down. Then down and up. I’m waiting for him to bring out a wand and ask me to remove my shoes. But he doesn’t. He takes our tickets and points at a green pod hanging from one of The Scrambler’s arms. He says, “That one.”

Allie runs and hops into it. She smiles and pats the seat next to her. I grab the bar and start to pull myself up when I hear, “You need some help?”

Jeff takes my arm and helps me into the seat. “No, I’m OK. Thanks,” I say, but I’m already sitting. Allie grabs my arm and giggles. I have a quick look out at my car to see if there is a handicap sticker I didn’t notice. What I do notice is that the pod we are in is a lot smaller than I remember. It’s been a while, but I remember a lot more sliding room as The Scrambler does its spinning business.

Jeff seems to see something in my eyes. “OK,” he says. “I have to pull the bar over you and lock it in place. Security requirement,” he says, apologetically.

“That’s fine,” I say. I look at Allie and smile back at her. I tickle her side and say “Woo, woo,” until she laughs.

Then down comes the bar.

It stops at my chest. Jeff and I look at each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” I ask. He isn’t.

“Maybe, if you can push back a little,” he says.

"To where?" I ask, "Toronto?" I push, and the bar slides down another inch.

“Ya,” he says, “I’m going to need you to hold in your breath.” A few parents and kids have gathered at the fence now to watch.

“Who the hell are these made for?” I ask him.

“Kids mostly,” he says, “and young parents.”

Allie is now looking worried. “Can’t you just go skinny, daddy?” Simple enough question. And I thank her for it.

“Just give me a second,” I tell him. Then add, “You don’t have any butter on you, do you?” I count to three and inhale as deep as I can, pulling my chest up to my throat and slimming my waist to a good twenty years younger. Jeff takes the hint and slams the bar down, but it doesn’t click, so he pushes on it, but it still doesn’t click so he puts his weight on it until everyone including the fence watchers hear a click.

Jeff jumps off the ride. “It’s only ten rotations,” he says, “If you run into any trouble just wave your hands.” I’m glad he chose hand signals since that is the only part of my body that can move. Allie smiles and snuggles into my shoulder as the ride begins. I hear a crack, and think 'Please hurry. That may have been a rib.'

For three minutes Allie is whipped against me and against the side of the pod. I don’t move an inch. She laughs and screams and waves at the people by the fence, tries to hold my arm but slides back against the other side. I am one with The Scrambler. I think, this is what it’s like to die under water. Jeff holds up three fingers to let me know three more rotations. I feel faint and see a bright light coming toward me, then realize it’s just the popcorn hut.

I feel the ride slowing down as my eyes begin to shut. Then Jeff is there to unclasp the bar and free me. Allie jumps out, happy and laughing and telling me how red my face looks. Jeff smiles. I ask him if he's seen the movie Misery.

The rest of the night I watch Allie ride the bumper cars, Tilt-a-Whirl, train ride, merry-go-round and a few more. Bruised body and bruised ego.

From each ride Allie laughs and waves at me. She’s just happy that I’m there. And so am I, as a sideline spectator.

The Naming of Things

Thursday morning and on our way to groceries. We drive by people walking alone and in pairs, exercising, talking, sharing this morning of their lives. Allie is in the back seat watching through her side window. She smiles when I turn up the radio on a song she knows.

“Daddy?” she asks. “You know how Hazel is a dog and Butler is a dog, and Hazel is a kind of dog and Butler is a different kind?”

She’s at the age where everything sounds like a question. “Yes sweetie,” I say. I signal my turn into the right lane.

“Well, how is Hazel one kind of dog and Butler another?” she asks.

“You mean, why is Butler a poodle and Hazel a shiatsu?”

“No,” she corrects me, “Why are they called that kind of dog?”

I almost miss the turn because I get what she is asking. A linguistic question. An etymology question. A discussion question.

“I mean, how did poodle get to be Butler?” she asks.

I know she’s only nine but I’m ready to talk Chomsky with her. I’m going to talk origins and sounds and how our brain processes and stores these - and don’t forget Miller, that’s right, chunking and The Magical Number Seven. And Pinker. And Gazzaniga. I drop more names than Jessica Simpson trying to get into an Oscar party. I go through all this in my mind. This talk is more important than the talk on Mr. Sperm going for a walk down Ovum Avenue.

We pull into the Zehr’s parking lot, and I see Allie in the mirror. She smiles. And she’s only nine.

So I exhale.

“What happens Al is that all the letters in the alphabet are put into a box and someone pulls out the first six or seven, and moves the letters around until they have a word. That’s how the words get made. It’s like when we play Scrabble.”

It’s not a perfect world. And I feel like the Emperor without his clothes. But there will be time on some other Thursday morning.

She takes my hand as we cross the parking lot into the store.

Milk, bread, fruit, vegetables. And we buy chocolate ice cream too. Chocolate, Spanish word for bitter water.

Thriller

With Allie and Matt watching Much Music videos on TV. Michael Jackson's Thriller comes on. First time Allie has seen it. She asks the questions of a nine-year old girl. What is going on? Why are they walking through the forest? Are they boyfriend and girlfriend? Each question I answer with "Shh...watch the video Al." But she's not getting it.

Then comes the scene when Michael turns into a werewolf while his girlfriend screams and screams.

Cause and effect. Fight or flight. To a nine year old it's pretty clear.

"Run away you dumb girl," Allie says to the screen. She's had enough and skips away.

Matt and I are still laughing.

Sports and the DA

Matt loves sports. That’s loves with a capital L. Not everything, he is selective. Hockey doesn’t do it for him, something he confessed to me and we don’t talk about in mixed company - among other Canadians I mean. But baseball and basketball, these are the two that get him up in the morning.

Second to sports is watching DA interviews. Not familiar with the DA? Yes you are. Dull Athlete. They’re everywhere. In every sport from cricket to ping-pong, and everything in between.

Interviewer:

So are you happy with how your team played?

DA: Looking down so no one has to see the blank stare match the blank voice.

We played a good game. Defense was, defensive, and our offense was, offensive. We gave 110 percent. Maybe 115. Some of us 120. We played to win, and in the end we won.

DA: Smiles. Best if a couple teeth are missing.

Interviewer:

So do you think that given the current political climate, with the stress on conservation in all its forms, that the amount paid to professional athletes for what is in effect, entertainment, is grossly exaggerated and should be brought inline with other professions?

DA: Stares into the camera. No expression. Blinks. Begins to answer, then stops.

Are, are you saying it’s cold outside?

We love these. Makes us believe in Dorothy Parker: "If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to."

Nicknames

We are a family of nicknames. Always have been. And huggers. Every time we meet, we hug. Some people think we’re Italian. Nope. Irish protestant, from my grandmother. She was a hugger too. Barbados rum and coke made her more huggable. And her given name Catherine became Cool Cool Kitty for as long as I remember. Sometimes we tacked on From New York City when we wanted to be formal. Which we’re not, formal, I mean. Nicknames are the most informal name there is.

But nicknames were how we knew ourselves.

My brother Mike, blond, curly hair and lots of it. Harpo, he became at sixteen and still is over thirty years later.

I’m Moe for short, Motor Boater for long. Seems that as I rode my tricycle, I made a boat engine sound with my mouth that I swore was a motorcycle. In my teens Moe Joe was the final one that stuck.

Wolf was the most aptly named brother. Steve was Steve until he was twelve and his first girlfriend was fifteen. Wolf, after that, and for evermore. When he married and had kids, he became less Wolf as a predator and more Wolf as a protector. Subtle difference, but nice, and noticeable to us as brothers.

Kevin, Tonka as a kid because of his love of the trucks. Then, Ernie, because of his love of dancing naked except for his housecoat. Only an Ernie would do that. And only an Ernie did.

Even our dad, Ron, became Rompin’ Ronnie. Purple pajamas and dancing in the basement to Trooper’s Raise a Little Hell, after night shift and after our mom died. Romper now, and we all call him that. Our mom too, Barb, we called Barbarino, and this one dates us through a television series.

None of us could escape nicknames.

Our girl friends never knew how many of us there were. Everyone had two names. Some caught on quickly, and wanted to have their own names too. Some never caught on and always wondered when they would meet our other brothers. Some thought my brother’s real names were Harpo, Wolf and Ernie. One girlfriend understood so much that I married her, and Pauline became Palmolive. Nope, not the dishwashing soap, the drummer for the Slits. We were never that obvious.

Nicknames started when we were kids. Our given names were never enough. Anyone could call us those. For God’s sake, our teachers called us those. But our nicknames, those were personal. Those were how we knew each other. And it’s what we still call ourselves.

Allie

Allie is asleep in my bed as I write.

Early Monday morning. Too early for a girl who loves the night, loves to play and colour and talk and draw pictures of her and I smiling the same half-smile. I’m always the taller one in her pictures. And remarkably thin. And with more crayon hair than I’ve seen since my thirtieth birthday.

When she is away I miss her terribly, and I know she misses me too because the first night back, after she unloads her clothes and her weekend and the things she did, she hops onto my bed and smiles, “I’m sleeping with you tonight daddy.”

A lot of yes and no goes through my mind. But I know that soon she will change and she will love the silence of her room, her own thoughts and plans. But today, tonight, I have the TV in my room, and that makes sleeping on the bed with daddy a lot more fun than sleeping alone.

When I wake at three a.m. with the TV still on and loud, I dig out the remote from under her arm and put an end to the day. Now it’s just her breathing I hear. I make sure the blankets are covering her - which is never a problem because she likes to cocoon herself in them.

Then I hold her hand for just a minute. Not long enough to wake her, but long enough to feel her nine years pass through it like a wish. I kiss her sleeping hair and realize that like all trying parents, I’m both there and not there at the same time.