Norton World

From TORONTO,
October 19th, 2015

So this was going to be my "I just turned 40" issue. Complete with hair, makeup and workout tips for the rapidly wrinkling set! (See pic above.) Stayed up all night on birthday eve writing notes and everything. And then I got real busy. Lazy. (...Bulazy?) Now it's been a whole MONTH since my birthday.  (Remember the Ides of September, remember!) What to do??!

I've decided it still works. And now I can comment from this wiser and loftier perch (Queen and Roncey), having spent thirty-three whole days basking in the glory of my fifth live decade. Seriously, those still in their thirties and younger: this shit is crazy. Like Mason-Illuminati-Skull and Bones level stuff I'm not allowed to tell you about. Can I mention that Helen Mirren figures prominently in the organization and that Don King is this quarter's treasurer? No? Oh well. Still working on my Mature Discretion Badge. And they make me sell my share of the charity apples on the shittiest corner on the coldest days.... But man, I see this really paying off by fifty-seven, fifty-eight.

Anyway...birthday or no (NO, you idiot!), late or not, I wasn't going to scrap yet another blague post. There are far too many unfinished ones getting wormy in notebooks.

And as I begin writing, I realize this can double as a wedding gift for my pal Jeff Irving, who marries the lovely Kristi Frank this Monday (TODAY, as this rolls off the interpresses!), and is not only one of the remaining steadfast Tourist fans (a decidedly strange but resilient breed), but the most persistent and annoying of them all. (Don't worry, Nathan Carroll; you're annoying too.)

I don't know whether it's the puppy dog eyes or the pathetic tone of voice, but whenever Jeff asks after the Tourist I always feel like I'm having to explain to a little kid where his beloved goldfish went, or why his crack addict older sister didn't make it to his hockey game. Which makes me feel really dorky too, come to think of it, because at least if I were a crack addict I'd have a pretty exciting excuse for not writing. Or if I were a goldfish! Nobody razzes goldfish about not posting on their blogs: they're all like, "Wow, you're a goldfish and you can write! That's so amaaaazing!" "Hey, remember that time you were a dead goldfish and you wrote a blog for ten years? Like wow."
Yeah yeah. Ooh la frickin' la.

Anyway, here I am, out of....shall we not say "retirement"? -- retirement sounds so old and weird and final -- shall we say... hibernation? Shall we agree that I was, what's the word -- pupating: going from a nasty, sarcastic, hairy wormy thing, to a beautiful, elegant butterfly with gossamer stained-glass-patterned wings, who will write generous, loving odes to the universe and the miracle that is all the living creatures in it. Or, well, not. Let's be honest: a butterfly is still a wormy hairy creepy thing. With wings.

WITH WINGS.

YEAH. THAT TOO.

SOOO....This one's for you, Jeff. Now you'll have something to read on your honeymoon. 'Cause that's what people do on honeymoons, right? Gimme a break, I'm just a goldfish, whuddoo I know? Or -- crap! -- what animal was I?

On that: I have a whole new animal kingdom role model. (Up yours, raccoons! Yeah, I said it.) One I didn't know existed 'til my friend Lyon posted this article on Facebook last week.

             http://www.wired.com/2014/03/absurd-creature-week-water-bear/

YOU THINK YOU HAVE AN IDENTITY CRISIS? WHAT THE HELL AM I???!

                     
I don't know if you read the whole thing about those things but those things are some crazy-ass things. They can survive for ten days in space vacuum conditions! Be practically dead for ages AND THEN YOU SPRINKLE SOME WATER ON THEM AND THEY COME BACK TO LIFE! And they have weirdo crazy suction faces! (Every lady's dream!) People call them Water Bears, but their scientific name is "Tardigrade": their real name is weirder than their nickname! I want to be that strange and that resilient! Like Jeff Irving! Tardigrade life starts now!
(I don't like the video on that page though. One lonely drunk Water Bear, writhing around, looking for the Tardigrade party. Bet that one's embarrassed: "Man! I finally make YouTube, and it's this clip that makes me look like a loser. Thanks a LOT, scientists. Now Courtney will never sleep with me!")

Anyway, I'm feeling relatively Water Bearish these days, relatively strong. My insomnia has shifted from the Lying in Bed Enumerating all the Things I Suck at and the Ways in Which I Suck at Them variety, to the rather more fun manic sleeplessness of Why Haven't the Workers Arrived and Started Work on my Self-Themed Amusement Park, and should I position the waterslides and the Lisa Norton Statue Garden near the east or west gates?

Look, all I'm saying is, if there can be a Norton Anthology of World Literature....why not a Norton World®? Saves three whole words and everything.

THIS, OR A ROLLERCOASTER? BE HONEST.

The bulldozers have yet to start digging; in the meantime, I can just be all I that can be and stuff.
My career, for one, is making great strides:

GIRLFIGHTING THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE SINCE 1975

It's actually in all my contracts:
"Ms. Norton will only participate in stage fights:
1. As choreographed by a certified fight director
2. Featuring a lotta hot chicks
3. Wherein she ends downstage right having her hair pulled
4. In which she has her mouth open to its fullest extent for a minimum of eight seconds"

More evidence of creative progress:

"FUCK YOU, ASHLEY WRIGHT, I'MMA BASH YOU OVER THE HEAD WITH SOMETHING
AND THEN YOU'RE GONNA DIE IN THIS HERE FIRE I MAYBE STARTED" 

"FUCK YOU, LISA NORTON, NOW I GET TO BREAK YOUR STUPID NECK." 

See? I worked out some of that youthful aggression and matured into a victim, like all girls need to learn to do!
And yet more...

SQUARE-HAIRED MULLET MISERY, CIRCA 2012

Totally different from:

SQUARE-HAIRED MULLET MISERY, 1984

"LOOK HERE, NORTON, YOU THINK YOU CAN OUTRUN THE MULLET,
BUT I WILL FOLLOW YOU, EVEN ONTO THE TELEVISION."

"I'M CALLING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE."

Was I that (admittedly bad-assedly) miserable about the hair; about picture day in general, which was so sucky (i.e. for sucky babies); at Mrs Thielking, who held me for detention every day that year....or about the previous night's birthday Black Forest cake? Or was I still steaming because, during my weekend birthday party, at which my big sister had painstakingly put together a very cool backyard scavenger hunt for me and my friends, Kimberly Moonlight fell in the mud wearing my brand new argyle leg warmers, a gift I HAD JUST OPENED AND HADN'T EVEN WORN YET BUT LET HER PUT ON BEFORE ME??! Fell in the mud REACHING FOR A PRIZE THAT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE HER NAME ON IT! IT WAS ANITA YOON'S GOODY BAG, FOR CHRISSAKE!

I'll never trust again.

As for Black Forest cake. That weird kind from the Dominion cake counter -- with the radioactive goopy red stuff and the mounds of fake whipped cream and the plasticky cheap chocolate shavings and the maraschino cherries and some kind of rummy boozy flavour that we children didn't understand at all -- a huge one of which my mom never failed to present at my sis's and my birthdays with an enthusiastic, "Black Forest cake! Your favourite!" And we would kind of gag and politely eat a bite or two and she would have the rest.
"Whaaat? I thought it was your favourite! Whose favourite is it again?"
"Yours, mom! Yours!"
I found out years later that my Aunt Pat spent decades pulling this scam on her daughters too. Whole generations of Vieiras have spent their childhood birthdays bitterly weeping through mouthfuls of maraschino cherry, only to grow up and become their mothers, inexplicably beginning to love the stuff and forcing it on their offspring. But no more. We refuse to be made monsters. You wonder why you don't have grandchildren, ladies? The cycle of abuse ends here.

Back to aging, because it's late and I'm falling asleep but Jeff needs his stupid blague post goddammit! A few thoughts:

Is it only natural that I've developed a new phobia of slipping and falling in the shower? Is that just a proper self-preservation instinct as my hipbones begin their inevitable transformation into sand? Should I stop tempting fate by using coconut oil, thus making my tub into a Slip'N Slide?

Is it a fact that, were Bob Marley and John Lennon alive today, they would be collaborating on soundtracks for animated Disney princess movies? Would I snap along?

If I modify the resolution "don't eat brownies with every meal" to "stick a baby carrot in every brownie you eat", that constitutes a "healthy lifestyle choice", am I right?

Will I vote Conservative some day?

I finally threw away my last crop top and it felt great.

Does anyone my age remember how to do long division? Or know the combos to all these Dudley locks I seem to have all over the place? Why have I lost the ability to write in cursive? Why did I just use the word "cursive"?

I'm old and tired. Can I go to bed now?

....Ask the Water Bear. The Water Bear knows.

blue

He didn’t usually drink. It wasn’t a good idea, with all the pills. And tonight he’d had a lot.

“You wan’ the lasso, Mary? I’ll sthrow a moon aroun’ it! Hooowwwweeeeeeee!”

He was slurring his words, he knew. But maybe he liked slurring his words. Maybe he meant to do it. It was FUN. It was liberating. HA! LIBER-ating? Is this how the Liberals felt all the time? Was Jean Chretien off somewhere, wheeling around, doing whatever the hell he felt like doing? Probably. That made him depressed again. He took another swig of the schnapps and dropped back on the wet grass. He howled at the moon.

It had been a wild night, starting at two-thirty am, his security detail first chasing him out of the hotel in the pouring rain as he ran across the parking lot to Jason Kenney’s rented SUV, bottles from the mini-bar spilling out of his suit jacket pockets. He’d gotten in the car, starting it with the keys he’d swiped when Kenney had passed out drunk on his bed.

Steve had looked down at his snoring immigration minister, lying there all smug and pink, triumphant with his overwhelming victory in Calgary Southeast that night, hogging the entire hotel bedspread. Yeah, I won my riding too, big frickin’ whoop, that’s not the point.

“Forget you, Kenney”, muttered Steve. “You aren’t even listening to me. I tried to tell yooou, I tried to tell you how I feel. And look at you. Screwww you.” A lump came to his throat. He didn’t like it. Jason was sleeping on his back with his mouth agape, and for a moment Steve thought of sticking something in it. “Let you choke, you jerk, ‘d serve you right.” And then he saw the keys.

Screeching out of the hotel parking lot, round corners, howling down the quiet wet suburban streets of Calgary Southwest, the two bodyguards on his tail in one of the Cadillacs. When he’d skidded up onto a curb and then fallen out of the car, subsequently running from lawn to lawn, pulling up campaign signs, they’d tried to talk sense to him. But he wouldn’t have it. For one thing, he wouldn’t stop singing.

“I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY—”

“Shuddup!” yelled a man behind a screen door.

Dogs were barking behind every fence.

The guards had watched, helpless, unsure what to do, as he’d surrounded himself with the signs, knocking each into the wet ground with the post of the next and barricading himself, eventually, inside a circle of them on someone’s front lawn. He held onto one of the signs for balance and stared at it. The big C for conservative, glowing in the dark. His name, coming in and out of focus, the blurry blue and white. “Go Leafs!” he shouted. “Losers! Just like meeeee!”

The bigger of the guards reached for his tazer. “That’s it, he said,”I’m takin’ him down.” The other stopped him: “No, Jim, wait. Is that strictly necessary?” “ ‘Strictly necessary’? Oh man! When AM I gonna get to use this thing? First no eleven year old kids, now this? Besides, this is getting embarrassing – the press could show up any minute. We gotta get him outta here.”

“Just let me talk to him.”

“HE’S A REEEEEAL NOWHERE MAN, SITTING IN HIS NOWHERE LAND, MAKING ALL HIS NOWHERE PLANS FOR NOBODEEeeeee…”

Another neighbour: “Keep it down, we’re trying to sleep!”

“I WILL NOT,” he shouted, reeling back, face pointed at the drizzling dark sky. “You can’t tell me what to do NO MORE! No more Mister Cares-what-you-say! I’m on the right track baby, I was born thi-is wa-a-ay!” He lost his balance and fell back on the lawn. His head knocked against one of the sign posts. “Aww, jeez,” he said. “Now my azz is wet.” He started to giggle. Then cry. He curled up in a ball, shaking with sobs, shivering, tears and snot running sideways down his face and pooling in his ear.

He was so alone. So lonely. No one understood. “Laureeeeeeeeen!,” he shouted. Then, “Stellaaaaaaa!”

The squeak of a window. “I’m calling the police!” One of the security guys – was it Barry or Jim, Steven suddenly realized he’d never known which one was which - on his hands and knees, reaching through the signposts. A hand on his shoulder, gentle. “Mister Harper. Sir. It’s time to go.”

“Iz Steeeve! Why duzzin anybody call me Steeeve? It’s been so lonnng!”

“Okay, Steve. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“I wanna play the Playstation witchu guys!”

“Okay, Steve, we’ll do that. We’ll have some beers.”

“How come you never invited me?! I’s in the next room! ALL ALOOONE!”

“We didn’t think you’d want to, Steve. We…uhh…figured you were busy.”

“I wanna play Digimon! Like you guys!”

“Okay, Steve. Hey, you know what we’ve got now? Wii bowling. You’d like that one.”

“Tha’ sounds fun. Can I wear your hat?”

“Of course you can, Steve. Here you go.”

“Hey! Whuzz yer name anyway? Which one are you? You wan’ some Bailey’s?” He cracked another mini bottle.

“My name is Bar—”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hold on, Steve. Hold on. Just breathe. Focus on something.”

They started to pull out the signs, the burly men, as the flashing cop car lights approached. They helped him up from where he sat trembling, snot-nosed, staring at his hand. They walked him towards their car, his arms around their enormous shoulders. “I’m focuzzing, Jim, look I’m focuzzing.” “That’s real good, Steve.”

“Ah poop. I zink I lozzzt my glasses.

“We’ll find them, sir.”

They slid on the wet grass and wiped out in a heap.

The Global and CTV vans screeched up at the same time as the cruiser. Reporters leapt out of the doors, cameras and microphones in hands. “Mister Harper, is that you?” “Call me Steve,” he bellowed. “Is is true that you’ve been drinking?” “FUCK YEAH,” yelled Steve, into their shocked faces, giving one cameraman the finger.

Ha HAW! – he could swear now. “Fuck fuck fuck! Titty shit McFucker!” Oh sweet Jesus, that felt good. It had been years. He’d submitted himself to that rigorous Reform Party leadership program in 92, been hooked up to electrodes and shocked whenever he thought an impure thought or uttered a bad word.

Now, Steven realized, he really could do anything he wanted, just like Jean Chretien. What was there to stop him? He could wear a t-shirt! Go a day – two, even - without shaving. Have sex with men if he felt like it. Would he feel like it? He had no idea! It had been years since he’d even allowed himself to wonder such a thing. He could get an abortion! Okay, technically he couldn’t, but well, whatever the male equivalent was; he’d do that!

He grabbed a cute CTV blond and kissed her on the mouth. “Hey baby! You wan’ some tequila? I got these li’l bottles. See?” She stared in shock.

Jim-or-was-it-Barry pried him away, tried to block the reporters’ view, hustling him into the back seat, and firmly closed the door, while Barry-or-was-it-Jim talked to the Calgary cops.

He could still see the press in the windows, eager faces, microphones. He could hear fragments of their muffled, frantic questions, shouted through the glass. “—disturbing the peace”…“—you and Mrs Harper?”… “What now, Sir? What’s your next move?”

Steven popped out of the sunroof as the car sped away. “I’m going to Disney Land!” he called out behind him. “And I just farted!!!”

orange

WEYBURN, SASKATCHEWAN, SEPTEMBER 2010

Well, the genie was unexpected. I mean, who believes in genies, let alone expects one to pop out of the nose of a Tommy Douglas statue? Less than three percent of Canadians, that’s who, according to polls taken since 1982. And of those three, only .08 “strongly believe”; the rest believe in genies only “slightly”. (And even if they existed, who expected them to be orange? They were supposed to be blue, weren’t they, and talk like Robin Williams? This one didn’t even have the nose ring, it had glasses, and looked…well, like Tommy Douglas.)

Jack wasn’t in either of those categories of belief. He was in the “genies died out in the eighteenth century” camp, as per the accepted wisdom at his alma mater, McGill University.

When he had taken out his handkerchief and rubbed the foot of the Tommy Douglas statue, he had done it not looking for a magical shortcut to fortune, and not even, as you may suspect, out of some vague superstitious hope that it would give him luck in his political career. Sure, he’d wandered back here, alone, hours after the unveiling ceremony, but that was just because he couldn’t sleep. And the statue was pretty, he thought it might look nice and shiny in the moonlight. As for the rubbing, he had merely noticed that there was bird poop on the foot; he was trying to wipe it off.

“I AM THE GENIE OF THE NOSE OF TOMMY DOUGLAS!” shouted the genie. “AND I GRANT YOU THREE WISHES!”

Jack shit his pants. “Oh. Oh! This is gross. I’m…sorry. Ugh.”

“I can fix that for you, if you wish,” said the genie.

“Aw, would ya? That’d be swell.

Shazam. “Thanks a ton.” The genie snicked a little snicker. “Waaait,” said Jack, “When you said ‘If you wish’, you didn’t mean—”

“Of course I did! Jeez, man, have you never watched any cartoons? We get you with that one every time!…Though usually in cartoons it’s not about somebody crapping himself.”

“Dammit,” said Jack. And let me guess, no wishing for—”

“Extra wishes? No. Obviously. Now what’s your sec—”

“Tickets to the U2 concert!”

“Done.”

They appeared instantly in Jack’s hands, two gleaming tickets for U2 at the ACC next July, not right up front, but not bad either, Row K on the side. Olivia would be so pleased. They’d managed to score seats last time and then Bono threw his back out. He was proud he’d thought of this one.

“You do know,” said the genie, “That scalper prices go way down twenty minutes in.”

“What and miss half of Zooropa? Not on your life, bud.”

Now it was time for Jack to think long and hard and honestly. This next wish, the third and final one; the thing he was contemplating wishing for – was he sure he wanted it? Could he do it justice?

Oh hell yes.

And yet…he almost daren’t say it. For years, any time he’d even skirted around this, come close to mentioning it, even with those on his own team, he’d been laughed at.

He beckoned the genie closer, raised his mouth to a big orange ear and whispered.

“Sure thing,” said the genie, “Not a problem. Shazam and all that.”

Jack could not believe it. Couldn’t process what had happened. He pinched himself. He bit his lip. Punched himself in the face. No, apparently he wasn’t dreaming. He threw his arms around the genie in gratitude, squeezed with all the strength of his undying thanks. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” said the genie. “Now I feel bad. I gotta tell you. You just threw away your final wish. Truth is, that one was gonna happen anyway, with or without me.”

“You must be joking!”

“No, seriously, it’s your time. Think of all the karma you’ve built up over the years. Sticking with your party even when most people dismissed it as a joke? Being saddled with orange on all your signs? I mean what a pansy, third-rate colour. And nobody looks good in it – trust me, I know. Plugging away with so little reward? Look, I know unfair: before this I spent nine years stuck inside that god-awful painting of Douglas looking out over a wheat field – at least now I get some fresh air. But you! A Ph.D. from York University, of all places? And teaching at RYERSON, for pity’s sake? The prostate thing? The hip surgery?”

“The what now?”

“Nothing. That time you rode your bike into a newspaper box and had to cancel your honeymoon? Talk about embarrassing. And pictures like this?”

“And this?”

“Okay, that last one is kind of sexy”, admitted the genie, making the photos vanish again. “But what about the topper, the whole inheritance thing? What a cruel joke, for your father to have stipulated in his will that you wouldn’t get a cent until the day you became prime minister, and only then if you wore a ridiculous moustache until then? I mean, come on, longest playoff moustache ever.”

“Yeah, old Dad had a strange sense of humour. I remember when he became a Conservative for thirteen years, just as a joke. What a card! Anyway, I gotta say, I like the moustache now. And maybe Pop knew what he was doing - it helped build character. That’s why my Mike’s middle name is Jennifer. Besides, Olivia thinks the ‘stache is hot.”

“And it will help you with Quebeckers. Boy, they love their moustaches, those frenchies. What’s up with that?”

“Don’t ask me. But hey, I’ll take it.”

They laughed.

“By the way, Genie…how do you know all these things about me?”

“What, you think just because I live up the nose of a statue of a long-dead politician in Weyburn Saskatchewan, I’m out of touch? I have ways of knowing things.”

“Magic?”

“Wireless signals. If it weren’t for that, this indenture thing would be way more of a drag. Seriously, you should read Anne Murray’s personal emails – disgusting!”

“I can imagine. That little minx.”

“You know, I like you Jack. I don’t know what it is. The smile? The tan? Those twinkly baby blues? And you’re right, the moustache does grow on you. Anyway, I feel bad about you getting gypped on your wishes.”

“What are you talking about, Genie? I’m going to the U2 concert!”

“Uhh, about that…they’ll be cancelling again.”

“Oh no. Bono’s back injury?”

“No, the Edge this time. The Big C, I’m afraid.”

“Oh that’s terrible,” said Jack. “The Edge has cancer?”

“Chicken pox, man! Wow, I can never get the hang of human slang. Is ‘bad’ still good?”

“No”, said Jack, “Epic hashtag fail there, I’m afraid.”

“Are you still speaking English?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But seriously, Jack, before I go…one piece of advice. That raid back in ‘96?”

“At my registered massage therapist’s?”

“Yeah. Just stick to that. Now let’s see…what else? Oh- I’ve got these magic beans – you want some?”

Jack smiled, shook the genie’s huge orange hand, and headed out into the Saskatchewan night.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

red

Michael hated dumplings. Or did he fear them? Yes, it was fear, this feeling; blind, abject terror.

It was skin they made him think of. Human skin. Full of…human meat.

Jowls. Gall bladders.

Or he thought of a picture he’d seen of baby mice, all curled up and blind, translucent skin. Eating a dumpling was like biting into one of those; he kept expecting it to squeak and writhe and wriggle in his mouth.

Who had chosen dumplings? Why hadn’t he been asked?

The crowd outside the bus was oppressive. He couldn’t catch his breath. Next to him was whatsername, the candidate, all smiles. Wait – what was her name? He’d gone blank. How could he have gone blank like this? Shit, what was it?! He’d be expected to say something, raise her hand up high, call out…Karen. Kate? K…Ka…Christine! Phew. That would have been terrible.

He wished Zsuzsanna was here. Today of all days. A doctor’s appointment, of all things. “You’ll be fine”, she’d told him on the phone. “It’s just pasta. It’s like a ravioli. You’ll only have to eat just one.” I know, he’d said, I know. He didn’t have the heart to tell he he was scared of ravioli too. Wontons were the worst, perogies not much better. Oh God – Roncesvalles wasn’t on the itinerary, was it? They could make it borscht, he loved borscht…he’d have it leaked, some story about his grandfather and beets grown in the backyard, in the homeland. Yes. Borscht.

But now it was the dumpling. Any minute now. No way out. No turning back.

“We love you Iggy!'”, someone shouted. Dumpling, he thought. Dumpling dumpling dumpling.

He knew it was irrational. But look, he’d known someone once who was afraid of purses. That’s the thing about phobias: logic has nothing to do with them. At least his wasn’t purses, they were everywhere. That friend had given up his early political aspirations, dropped out of the university, withdrawn to his mother’s basement. There but for the grace of God, thought Michael. On the other hand, look at where he’d landed himself: no one would ever ask his school friend to eat someone’s purse. And no one would be filming it.

Hello, cameras, Hello! Yes, I’m extremely excited to be here! Oh, what a great neighbourhood! CHRISTINE will represent this riding very well!

They were getting closer. Sweat formed all along his hairline. He kept smiling. Don’t drip down, sweat. Stay right where you are.

A path cleared to the door. The sign, Dumpling House Restaurant. In neon underneath: “Got Dumpling?” He gagged involuntarily. Pretend that it’s a cough. Breathe. And whatever you do, do not throw up…

Back on the bus, the tiny bathroom; whoever built these things had not done it with vomiting in mind. He had to do it standing up, jackknifed in two, aiming down into the toilet. And quietly. The press corps erupted in laughter on the other side of the door – some joke, or was it him? Had they heard the retching? Had he looked as green as he felt, weaving up the aisle past them? “Hey, Mike, how were those dumplings? Save some for us?” Thumbs up, grin, can’t speak, mustn't puke on the reporters, just make it to the other side.

This could be bad. The papers, IFFY SICK ABOUT HIS CHANCES. RACIST MIKE GAGS ON FOOD IN CHINATOWN. “RISE UP”, INDEED! IGNATIEFF: HIS LUNCH CAME BACK FOR YOU.

When George H.W. threw up on the Japanese Prime Minister, his approval rating dipped for weeks. He couldn’t take a hit like that, not now. (And would they drag up Kinsella’s idiotic comment about BBQ cat, two years later?) Meanwhile, Jack and Olivia, all over town, eating pigs intestines and snake brains, grinning, jumping up and down. Snake brains would have been fine; he’d done that, plenty, in Afghanistan. Eaten rats in Kosovo, no fucking problem. Undone by a dumpling. God dammit. As Steven simpered in Tim Horton's, well-protected, taking no chances. Five questions a day and celery. But Steve liked hot sauce. Oooh, they cried. Play another Beatles song.

He could still feel the dumpling skin in his mouth, though he’d purged it all. There it was, a disgusting beige blob in the toilet, some creepy, amorphous underwater creature, its fins swirling under the surface. Some floated back up to the top, taunting him. He wanted to cry. He heaved some more, and spit. Dear God, please God, if they heard me, let them say I have the flu. Let them say that I’m a trooper. I ate it, didn’t I? I fed half to Christine – brilliant! – but I ate it. Like a man. Zsuzsanna will be proud.

He wiped his mouth with the tail of his red scarf. He flushed. Sprayed air freshener. Put on a smile. And headed out.