“Great, the first meeting is next week. Good luck with it. And remember, no more fighting with Bruce,” he adds with a wink and a smile.
The Refrigerator Committee. Son of a bitch.
We went for the third ultrasound today. It's a girl! We debated about finding out the gender, but Sarah just couldn't wait. She wants to get the room ready and wants the right colour on the wall. So I'm losing my study to Sam. Samantha, but I prefer Sam, or Sammy. Some might think of it as
more of a boy's name, but I think Sammy is cute. So does Sarah. Seeing the head and hands today, not just the blip of a heartbeat, really brought it home that I'm going to be responsible for the development of a human life. The weight of it is pulling at me, a bungee umbilical cord tugging me off the edge of an egotistical tower and into the abyss of accountability. Thank heavens I have Sarah; at least I can only fracture half the child. I've talked about this with Sarah at length and she thinks I'm a good candidate for Xanax. She's told me repeatedly that I'm going to be a great dad, that she's seen me with her sister's children and I'm wonderful. I remain pessimistically nervous.
House of Won Ton brings us half their menu. When we went to the doctor's office, Sarah was actually down five pounds from her normal weight before pregnancy. Tonight something clicked inside her body and she's making up for lost time. Three spring rolls, a won ton soup, half an order of beef and black bean sauce, almost a whole order of lemon chicken and enough rice to stuff a suitcase. She drains back a tall glass of coke and lets out a humongous he-man belch. “Excuse me,” she says.
“Wow, feel good?”
“Great. I've never felt better.”
Two hours after the gorging, we're on the couch watching TV when a commercial for potato chips appears. Sarah leans forward, fixated, and asks, “Are you hungry?”
“No, you?”
“Starving. You know what I could really go for right now? Those nachos with the fake orange cheese.”
“Like at the movies?”
“Yeah.”
“Well I'm not going to the movie theatre just to get you chips.”
“7-Eleven has them. Please?”
I walk the four blocks down to the 7-Eleven in the rain. It's blowing and friggin' cold as a witch's tit, which seems appropriate because most houses still have their Halloween decorations up. I should've brought my umbrella.
The door BINGs as I enter and my body welcomes the neon warmth of the store. I find the nacho-cheese machine on the back wall. Beside it, on a wire stand, sit black plastic containers with clear see-through tops which reveal their round salted nacho-chip contents. I look at the little white expiry stickers and they all say best before yesterday. I look over at the cash and there's only one person on with a line of five people deep and there seems to be nobody else in the store to help me with getting some fresh chips. I figure they're only chips, that one day can't make much difference. So I grab the container with the most chips and pop the lid off. There's a little pocket in the corner of the tray in which to pump your cheese. I place it under the nozzle and push the round spring-loaded button. Cheese trickles out, slow and thin. Then it stops altogether. I hit it a few more times only to get a few more drops. The pocket of the tray is only a third full, if that.
I look around for help, but there isn't any except the girl working the cash. I suspect this fluorescent orange cheese contains no dairy, but instead is made up of some edible oil product. I'm embarrassed to be buying it, let alone having to go up to the cash and ask for help with the busted machine. The line is down to three people and I wait patiently, not wanting to barge in and draw attention to myself. While I wait, three people come into the store. BING. BING. BING. I think, please don't line up behind me. But sure enough, Mr. Heavy Metal gets in line behind me right away. I assume he just wants cigarettes. For a fraction of a second I consider letting him go ahead of me, but then I realize I'll never get service if I do. Finally I stand before the young girl who has purple dreadlocks fastened atop her head with a black piece of ribbon adorned with white skulls. She has multiple piercings in her face: eyebrow, lip, nose, twenty in the ears. Her nametag reads “Angie.” I meekly present my nacho tray to her and inform her that the machine is broken or out of cheese.
“Probably out of cheese. Just a second, I'll get Derek. I think he should be finished his break by now,” she says as she leaves her post and presumably goes to find Derek, her purple pineapple hairdo bobbing as she goes. Two more people join the line. People are giving me the eye. They likely think I'm stoned and have the munchies â who else would eat this stuff? Undernourished pregnant women, that's who.
Angie finally returns and says, “Just wait by the machine. Derek will be out in a minute with the cheese.”
“Thanks,” I say, sheepishly moving out of the line which has grown by another two people.
The brown storage room door suddenly swings open and a long lanky kid emerges, his arms wrapped around a large bag of orange cheese goo like a small child carrying a squirming puppy dog. “Hi,” is all he says as he pops open the machine, removes the old bag and throws in the new one.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Give it five minutes to heat up.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
“Right,” he says, then heads up to the cash to help Angie.
I stroll over to the small rack of paperbacks, which is a mishmash of courtroom thrillers, Harry Potter books and Harlequin romances. I grab
Bedded by the Prince Warrior
and thumb through it:
As I tugged violently on his leather buttons, exposing his scarred, hardened, warrior chest, he released his belt and his sword fell to the ground, only to expose his other rod of steel. I could feel the battle about to rageâ¦
Good grief. Is this where the money is? Maybe I should write a romance book for the cash? I put back the book and return to the cheese machine, grab my chips, and hit the button again. A thick stream of hot cheese flows out. I fill the pocket and I also coat the chips as Sarah instructed before I left. “Make sure to get lots and lots of cheese.” I release my thumb but the button doesn't seem to retract. The cheese continues to pour out. I try to grab the button and pull it back. I do. The button comes off in my hand; the cheese is continuing to pour out. Son of a bitch. I pull the chip tray away, and the catch basin of the machine fills quickly. I grab a coffee cup from the neighbouring counter and place it under the nozzle.
“Derek!” I yell. Everybody in line turns and stares over at me.
“Button broke, we have a problem here,” I tell him. Derek sees the cheese pouring out and bolts back over to me. He pops the lid of the machine and knocks the coffee cup with fake cheese goo to the ground. “Sorry, I don't know what happened. The button was stuck and I tried to unstick it, and the darn thing just came off in my hand.”
Derek doesn't say anything, he just continues to fiddle with the guts of the machine. With the lid open, there is no way I can put another cup under the nozzle. The cheese is continuing to flow down the counter and is pooling into a Cheez Whiz lake on the floor. There's nothing I can do except stand there and provide moral support to Derek while the people in line continue to stare. I turn red with embarrassment. Should I just keep standing here? I decide that there's no point and join the back of the line. When it's my turn to pay, Angie gives me an angry look. I pay. I dash quickly back out into the rain, the hot cheese fogging up the clear plastic top as I go.
Sarah pops a chip dripping with cheesy slime into her mouth and coos with excitement. “Thanks baby,” she says, “you're the best. Do you want one?”
“No thanks.”
“Oh God they're good,” she tells me, shovelling another chip into her mouth.
“I'm glad they're tasty.”
“Did you remember the chocolate bar?”
“Ah shit, sorry. There was a problem with the cheese pump thingy and I forgot.”
“Oh that's okay, don't worry about it,” she says, but I can tell she's a little disappointed. Normally I wouldn't have gone back out, not after all that, not when it's raining and cold out, but I've just spent four months watching the woman I love yack her guts out. Now she's eating. Maybe not the healthiest food on the planet, but at least it's something. Who am I to deny the mother of my child a simple candy bar? Little Sammy needs to eat. “I'll go back.”
“Don't be silly, it's fine, really,” she says.
“I'm going to get you that chocolate bar. I'll be back in a second,” I say putting my coat on, grabbing my umbrella, heading out the door.
By the time I reach the 7-Eleven, the wind has made a pretzel out of my cheap umbrella. Two of the rods have snapped and I'm not much drier than I would have been without it. A homeless man is standing beside the garbage can where I stuff the umbrella.
“Spare some change?” asks the man.
I fish into my pocket and pull out a loonie.
“Thanks,” he says as BING, I go through the door.
As I grab a Snickers bar off the rack, I look up and see a note taped to the cheese machine:
Out of Order
. Derek has the mop bucket out. I avoid his gaze and get into line. When it's my turn, Angie gives me another nasty glare.
“That everything?” she asks.
“Yes, just the candy bar.”
“That will be a dollar fifteen.”
I reach into my pocket and quickly come to the horrible conclusion that I only have thirty-five cents, after having given my last dollar away to the homeless man on my way in.
“Can I Interac that?”
“There's a five-dollar minimum,” she spits.
“Can I do cash-back?”
“No, there's a cash machine over there if you need money.”
“Fine,” I say, leaving the bar on the counter. “I'll be right back.” I return outside and see that the homeless man is still there, trying to light a bent cigarette butt. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says. “Spare any change?”
“Actually, I just gave you a dollar when I went in, just a minute ago.”
He squints at me. “I don't know you,” he says.
“I just gave you a dollar. I'm the guy who put the umbrella in the garbage.”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I was wondering if I could have my dollar back. I'll give you the rest of my money, which is twenty cents. I know it's not much, but I really need my dollar back.”
The man grumbles and fishes out a loonie. “Here ya go, cheapskate,” he says, passing me back the coin.
“Thanks, sorry about that.”
The line moves slowly. When I finally get to Angie, she says robotically, “Will that be everything?”
“Yes.”
“A dollar fifteen. Bag?”
“No thanks.”
By the time I get home, I'm frozen to the bone. “Here you go baby,” I say, noting that Sarah has managed to polish off the nachos.
“You're so sweet,” she says, giving me a kiss.
“I'm going to take a hot shower and do some writing, okay?”
“Bye,” she says, unwrapping the bar.
When the doorbell rang, Ryan was a little nervous. There before him stood the six-foot-two construction worker who had given Ryan his card. He was wearing the exac
t same thing as before: white construction hat, jeans, plaid shirt and beige steel-toed boots. “Hi Doug,” said Ryan. “Please come in.”
“It's Ryan, right?” asked Doug, extending his hand.
Ryan grabbed Doug's hand, felt the calluses of years of hard manual labour.
“Ryan, that's right. Come on in. Boy oh boy, do I have something to show you.” Ryan led the way.
“House looks pretty level on the outside. Seems good here in the hall.”
“That's the strange part about it,” said Ryan, turning on the light at the top of the basement stairs. “It is level. I check it every day. But this hole just keeps getting bigger.” The sound of wind echoing down a tunnel grew louder as they reached the bottom.
“Jesus, what's that sound?” asked Doug.
“That's the hole. Crazy, isn't it?”
“Holy macaroni, can I borrow your light?” asked Doug.
Ryan stepped to the side, handing Doug the flashlight. He moved to the edge and peered down.
“I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like⦔
Ryan didn't hesitate. He threw a bodycheck with his shoulder, hitting Doug in the lower back. Doug screamed as he fell in. There was a thud, followed by the sounds of chewing. The crunching sounds of chips being eaten.
“What are you doing baby?” Sarah asks, kissing my neck softly.
“Writing.”
“You've been a very nice boy today. Why don't you come to bed and get a treat?”
“Okay, just give me a minute to finish off my thoughts here.”
“Hurry, because this is a limited-time offer. I'm feeling sleepy.”
I type quickly.
All of a sudden a spray of blood shoots from the hole, spitting along with it Doug's bloodied pair of boots, hat, and Ryan's flashlight. The flashlight lands at Ryan's feet with a clunk, illuminating his stocking toes.
Ryan knew he was going to need more food soon. A lot more.
222 Lark Avenue
Ottawa, ON
K1H 7C7
January 15, 2007
Dear Mr. MacDonald:
We regret to inform you that our publishing calendar is full for the next three years.
Thank you for your interest in our press.
Best o
f luck with your writ
ing.
Regards,
Simon Gibson
Editor