Still Something More

In a town not far from mine, there lived a brother and a sister—a handsome little boy and a pretty little girl. Every Sunday of every month, the little boy and the little girl would skip across the street to visit their Aunt Hilda. One such Sunday, the little girl and the little boy asked their Aunt Hilda if they might take a trip to see the giraffes at the zoo. Their dear old Aunt hummed and hawed and clicked her knitting needles together three times. So you want to see the giraffes at the zoo? she asked. The little girl and the little boy nodded and their cheeks glowed with anticipation. Well, she said, first of all, you both need to wash inside your ears and bellybutton every day, then we’ll see about the zoo. The little girl and the little boy vowed to wash inside their ears and bellybuttons, and wash they did until their ears and bellybuttons shone like the sun and smelled like lilacs.
The next Sunday, the little boy and the little girl skipped across the street to visit their old Aunt Hilda. Auntie, they exclaimed, all week we scrubbed and lathered inside our ears and bellybuttons. May we go see the giraffe’s at the zoo today? Their dear Aunt Hilda wrinkled her nose and tapped her little chin. Well, she said, I’m so happy you’re clean, but there’s one more thing—the leaves are falling off the tree in your backyard, and you must sweep them up. Everyday, before you wash inside your ears and bellybutton, you must rake those leaves into a pile. Then we’ll see about the zoo. The little girl and little boy each took a deep breath. Of course, Auntie Hilda, we’ll rake the leaves. So everyday, the little boy and little girl raked the leaves in their backyard and then washed inside their ears and bellybuttons.
The next Sunday, the children hoped it would be finally time to visit the giraffes at the zoo, but their Aunt Hilda found another thing for them to do. Children, whenever you come across an insect crawling on the sidewalk, you must pick him up and place him safely in the grass. The next week, Paint a flower on every page of your homework. Each Sunday, their Aunt Hilda’s requests became sillier and sillier. The next Sunday, she asked them to Tie a bright green ribbon around the neck of every fence-post in the neighborhood. Finally, after the little boy and the little girl were so exhausted from washing inside their ears and bellybuttons, and raking the leaves in their backyard, and rescuing little bugs, and painting flowers on their homework, and tying bright green ribbons on the fence-posts that they trudged to their Aunt Hilda’s house the next Sunday and flopped onto her chesterfield. Auntie Hilda, the little girl said, I’m so tired from doing everything you’ve asked, I don’t think I want to visit the giraffes at the zoo anymore. The little boy nodded his head and leaned against his sister. Well, their Aunt Hilda began, you simply cannot stop doing all the things you’ve done. Why, you’ll grow mould in your ears and bellybutton. The leaves will rot in your backyard. The little bugs will be smashed on the sidewalk. Your homework will be dull and ugly. And the fence-posts in the neighborhood will look chipped and faded. But Auntie! the children exclaimed. Their Aunt Hilda clicked her tongue and would hear nothing of their complaints.
So the little boy and the little girl sulked home, dragging their feet all the way.
The next Sunday, old Aunt Hilda waited and waited and waited, but her little niece and little nephew never arrived. So she shook her head in disappointment and waited for the following Sunday. When again, the little boy and little girl didn’t arrive, the Aunt donned her shawl and strolled across the street to the children’s home. She wrinkled her nose at the squished bugs on the sidewalk, the crooked fence-post, and the leaves strewn across the yard. At the door, her shaking hand tapped the knocker and she waited. Finally, the little girl and little boy’s mother, crying, answered the door. Whatever’s the matter? asked old Hilda. Between sobs, the mother pointed to the backyard and explained, We found them… from the tree in the backyard… with the beautiful bright green ribbons.

This Other One

One step in was all it took for me to know I wanted to get out. I could hear a football game in the background and there were MotorTrend magazines splayed on the floor. This was a man’s space. The bald head bent over a hungry-man confirmed my suspicion, and I’d had enough.
I don’t want to do it, I whispered to my husband. I’d already tried to avoid the dealership. Oh, closed on Sundays? What a shame. But today was Monday and the frown on my husband’s face told me I’d better get in there and do it, or I would be walking home. So I peeked around the corner into the office and tried not to wrinkle my nose at the fake-meaty smell coming off his cardboard dish.
Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me out. A garbled noise followed, coming from his full mouth. He swallowed the kind of swallow where you can pretty much see the lump of half-masticated food squeeze slowly down the esophagus. Sure, he said, what can I help you with?
I’d decided on the Toyota Matrix. My mother-in-law would ask me later why I didn’t try a Mercedes convertible, or a BMW or something. It wasn’t easy for me to explain how I was afraid I’d crash. Into a meridian. Into a light-post. Into a person. I’m not known for doing these things, it’s just that, under pressure, I wasn’t sure what I might do. Like when there’s a police cruiser behind me. I can feel them staring me down, checking my license plate – is my registration current? – waiting for me to suddenly jerk above the speed-limit. It’s at times like these, when I hyperventilate ever so slightly, that I turn my signal light on when I’m not turning or accidentally run a stop sign. So I wasn’t about to drive a car that I’d spend the rest of my life paying off. Thus, the Matrix.
He asked me what color I was interested in. I told him anything but red. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a Kleenex and led me out of the office. Well, he continued, I’ve got silver and blue and black and citron. Citron? Not just yellow—citron?
Here she is, and she won’t last long, he said, circling a cute sporty model. I told him I liked the color. He grinned a half-mouth grin and I knew what he was thinking—women, color’s all they care about. So I cleared my throat and asked about gas mileage, the tires and noted with disappointment how there was no sun-roof.
Now it was my turn to circle the car, looking at everything and nothing in particular. He told me the price--$15 900. I nodded, avoiding eye-contact, trying not to let on that was half my student loan and could only afford a fraction of the price. My husband commented on the sporty front-end and that’s when the dealer, whose name I would learn later was John, opened his mouth, revealing a row of farmer’s-fence-post crooked teeth, but didn’t say anything for a minute. You know what, he said, this is the wrong car. I was confused. I watched him shuffle further along the aisle of cars, looking out over them like a kid searching for his mom in a department store. He still didn’t know where it was. He had shown me the wrong vehicle. This one was twenty-two thousand. And he still didn’t know where the other one was, so we referred to the mythical vehicle as “this other one.” So, this other one, what color is it, I asked before I could stop myself. Blue, he said.
The moment was awkward. He could probably sense I thought he was an idiot. So he excused himself to run inside for the specs of “this other one.” Meanwhile, I was planning my escape. I wasn’t about to drive “this other one,” if it really did exist, and John wasn’t inspiring much confidence. So when he got back with the news that it had sold, I lied and told him we’d be back tomorrow night because I was quite interested. Well, he said, I won’t be here tomorrow, but my partner will be—his name is Brennen, er, Rennen, actually. Right, I thought, this other one probably doesn’t exist either.

Classroom Throw-Up II

Back in grade two, it was Mme Sorsdahl who had to quietly get out of her big teacher seat and calmly ask Chris to please go to the washroom. She didn't flinch when he threw up again in the doorway. I'm glad I watched her closely that day because yesterday I needed that memory of her - strong and clear.
Brittney wasn't reading like she was supposed to. All the others were quietly absorbed in their paperback pre-teen novels, but Brittney's head was lying on her arms. I tapped her gently and asked her how her book was. No response. I mentioned that it would be pretty hard for her to read with her eyes shut. She groaned. She was sick. I wanted to roll my eyes - another hygienically deficient teen who was, at that very moment, breathing and sweating her germs all over her desk and me. I was about to ask her to phone home when I noticed the sheen of saliva on her hand. That was my cue. I walked to my teacher desk and found a garbage bag left behind from the first day of school. Ellie, I said to her friend, will you take this bag and Brittney to the office, please? Ellie didn't have time to stand up before Brittney leaned toward me and threw up in the bag I held in front of her face. I remembered Mme Sorsdahl and I kept my cool. Other students were watching, their mouths gaping. There's nothing to see here, ladies and gentlemen, I said. They reluctantly returned to their books, but not before Brittney threw up a second and third time.
When I realised I was holding a bag of someone else's kid's steaming vomit, I thought I was going to be sick. But I knew my job was to rub her back, breathe steadily, and be someone else's Mme Sorsdahl.

Classroom Throw-Up

In grade two, Mme Sorsdahl's class, Chris Boucher threw up in his desk behind me. He had skin you could almost see through. All the time. Not just when he was sick. When he stuck a flashlight in his mouth, he lit up like the glow-worm I was still sleeping with. And under his G.I. Joe t-shirt and cuorduroy pants were all kinds of angles where his bones were. During kindergarten, he wore a patch over his left eye and it made his seem tough. That didn't last long. He was a twin and his brother Nick was also in my class. Nick had cheeks the kind of red I make mine now with a cream and powder blush. He had thick lips that he couldn't quite harness, and he was always sucking back his saliva. Needless to say, he was Chris' antithesis and his nemesis. And as Chris groaned after up-chucking his lunch all over his desk, he knew he'd lost again to the one who was exactly one minute, sixteen seconds younger than he.