parents had made the same general assumption only to find it faulty).And then, of course, there was this: banning a popular form of music from a thirteen-year-old boy wasn’t just Amish in nature, it was like lighting a one-inch fuse on a hundred-pound-plus keg of dynamite.
We continued along Durham, which grew into a busy three-lane thoroughfare running east-west through the north of the city; around us, streams of cars jockeyed for position, closing up openings in the blink of an eye. I looked below us to south, to midtown, downtown, and the lake beyond. A vast, dirty yellow cloud hung over everything, a duvet of crap smothering the top of any building over sixty storeys tall. It stretched west for forty miles, where you could watch it meld with the vapours oozing from Hamilton’s steel mills.
The city hadn’t been this way when I moved here twenty ... twenty-what? twenty-four years ago.The population seemed to be growing exponentially, here, there, everywhere, spreading, hugging the waterways and rivers, befouling them in the same way fatty yellow chunks of cholesterol choked arteries.And now the heat pinned down our collective stink; I could smell it blowing through the car.
I looked back at Eric; he continued nodding, looking straight ahead. And, as sometimes happens when I look at him or Rachel for too long, I was struck by this recurring thought: the number of ideas they hold in their handsome heads don’t nearly add up to the amount they share with Maddy and me. Of course I know my children well, but only as much as they’ll let me. So I asked: “Hey, Eric. Are you happy right now?”
He looked at me quizzically.“Huh? You mean right now?”
“Well, yeah, right now. But in general ... with life, I mean?”
“Uh-huh, it’s pretty cool,” he said, still nodding.
Always quick with a quip or a comeback in response to day-to-day things, Eric often turned reticent when challenged with those deeper questions — like “How’s life?” and “Are you happy?”Their answers scared him, I think, now that his life was becoming so much more complicated than Winnie the Pooh videos and who got the most pudding for dessert, but who was I to help supply the real answers?
So there we sat, side by side and on our way to the sporting goods store, both two-thirds full of testosterone, him filling up with the stuff as he aged and grew, and me pissing it out as I aged and shrank. Hormone flow and rational thought never mixed well to begin with, and our positions, me searching for footing as I slipped down the north side of the slope and him struggling past obstacles as he started up the south side, made it that much more difficult.All of those steps he now approached, first girlfriends, sex, fitting in, were difficult enough without some fragile, finger-wagging know-it-all looming over him with outdated tips and a list of rules. Of course Pale Prince made sense to him. Who else to help with the fear and anger? But where was my knight in shining armour to help me understand and accept that although once a week may seem vexin’/you couldn’t fuckin’ stand much more sexin’ and issues much more important than that?
I had no Pale Prince, but as he faded out and Neil Young’s nasal voice leapt through the speakers, I started to feel better again. Not that I considered him a spokesman for my generation or a great reliever of my particular stress; I just liked his music — and, almost as importantly, Eric didn’t. I grinned, anticipating his response.
“Oh no, not this guy!” he said, as “For the Turnstiles” wafted through the air.
“The Godfather of Grunge,” I said, grinning wider.“A rock and roll icon.”
“He can’t sing,” Eric said.
“You’re missing the point,” I said. “It’s not about clarity of voice, it’s about clarity of style, the combination of persona, talent, meaning. It’s the package.Your doofus is no different.”
“No way. Rapping’s not singing.”
“That’s for sure,” I said.
We could have kept bickering, but we’d come to National Sport’s parking lot. I signalled and wheeled in, immediately falling into cruise mode as I looked for an empty space.The lot hugged the west side of the store, and I followed its one-way arrow, painted onto the pavement, past the single row of cars parked on each side of us. I could see that the lot blossomed to full size at the rear of the building, but here it was just the two rows, one on either side.
Halfway down the strip, I noticed an empty spot and drove towards it, signalling, assuming it was ours. But even as I made this assumption, a Lexus SUV, waxed and polished and glowing like a comet, swerved around from the back of the store; ignoring all arrows, it streaked toward our space, trying to make up twice the distance in half the time.
Eric and I stared, dumbfounded, as a young couple, beer-commercial extras bedecked in dazzling tennis whites, hurled their van toward the open spot in front of us. I punched the car forward and cranked the steering wheel hard right.We hit the brakes simultaneously, coming to lurching halts with a yip of spent rubber and a kiss of bumpers. I thrust my head out of my open window.
“What the fuck are you doing, jerk? It’s a one-way!”
He reached for his door handle, and my heart, already hammering, picked up its pace. This was it, I was sure. I was seconds from rolling around in a parking lot, kneeing, punching, pounding, with Eric looking on in terror. I felt my scrotum tighten.
But before the other driver could open the door, his girlfriend flung out her hand and grabbed his shoulder; I could see her fingers dig into the flesh beneath his shirt.
They talked, both anonymously and animatedly, in their climate-controlled cab as I waited with my head still thrust out my window and a tough-guy sneer masking my mounting fear. They kept arguing, with the man — no, the boy, really — occasionally jabbing a finger in my direction.Twenty at best, whip-pet lean, with corded forearms and a head of curly black hair, he looked like a pro tennis player — or at this point, with neck veins popping and spittle flying, a pro tennis player wanting to punch the shit out of a line judge.
Who knows what they talked about. Maybe the woman swayed him with reason, pointing out that, yes indeed, they did speed the wrong way down a one-way parking aisle to try to steal this spot from us, and they’d best move on. Or maybe her part went something like this: Don’t do it, Chad! My high-powered lawyer/father couldn’t possibly finagle you out of a third straight assault charge! And who knows, you might kill the old fart!
But whatever she said, he agreed to it, throwing the Lexus into reverse. Then, as he lurched forward and sped past our car (continuing in the wrong direction) he somehow managed to mime, with passable accuracy, that I fellate him. For a fleeting second rage flew over me, equalling my fear, and I wanted to back up and ram him. But just as quickly it passed and I rolled into the parking spot.
I sat motionless for a moment, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, my elbows still locked, before I finally blew out a huge breath.“I need a smoke before we go in,” I said, cutting the engine and opening my door.
Eric and I met at the trunk; both of us propped our butts against it and I lit my cigarette, taking in that first big, greedy drag, getting some nicotine to my brain. I watched the smoke leave my mouth in staccato puffs as I turned to him and spoke: “Do you remember that trip to the grocery store a couple of months ago?” I asked.“The one where your mom got all PO’d?”
“The day she walked right into the house and left all of the bags for us? You bet.”
Discounting the occasional well-deserved blowout, the odd raised voice or cold shoulder was memorable anger for Maddy. That scene had stuck with the both of us.
“Well, I’ve thought about it a lot,” I said.“Especially what she said when we were in the car. Do you remember any of that?”
He looked up at me. “Uh, which part?” he asked. “The bit about not everyone in the world being an asshole, and how you shouldn’t teach your children that they are?”
I smiled.“That’s the bit ... more or less.And she had a point.” Not only did she have a point, she’d reminded