Hockey Night in Taco Bell

OK, right off even though I am Canadian, I cannot skate and I hate hockey. The skating I blame on my evil and heartless mother who years ago, as part of her perverted efforts to constantly economize would shove my always rather large feet into used, dull skates, that were two sizes too small. My earliest memories are of limping along the ice during some public skate at Nathan Phillips Square and wondering how all of the other children could possibly be having so much fun. I just couldn’t wait for it to be over so I could get to the bench and pull those torture chamber pieces of garbage off my feet. Now that I am in my twilight years, my feet are a size 14 and custom size-14 skates cost something like $20,000 so I’m pretty sure I won’t be picking up skating anytime soon.

As for the hockey…well, hockey just sucks. I can’t follow the puck at all and the fighting is idiotic. I mean, I like fighting as much as the next guy (I mean it. I’ll fight you right now.) but hockey players get mad and fight for the most absurd reasons. I can say without a trace of shame that I have never been to a hockey game, and have never watched a hockey game from beginning to end. I don’t even understand the rules and I don’t want to. Now, that’s all I’m going to say on the subject because as you may know Canadians love their hockey and if I go on in this vein I risk being assassinated. Anyway, the only reason I am even telling you about the skating and the hockey is to set up what happened to me the other day.

The other day is when I managed to sneak past Patti and out of the house and over to my favourite place in the world to decompress – Taco Bell. I like Taco Bell for a few reasons. The food is conveniently predigested – have you seen the meat? – and it’s always empty and they have a pile of complimentary newspapers for the customers. Well, they’re Toronto Suns so they’re not real newspapers but they’re good enough for reading material while I drink my bathtub-sized Dr. Pepper and eat my 1/2 pound bean burrito (for $1.79!! which is like, totally awesome! Where else can you get a 1/2 pound of food for only $1.79?!)

So on this occasion, as was my wont I was happily dribbling hot sauce on my Gordita (literally and figuratively) when some friendly guy walking by my table saw my newspaper open to the front page of the sports section (because I was reading something on the facing page) and saw the big editorial headline about whether or not to trade “Sundin”. He stopped, one hockey fan to another, and said to me: “Yeah, what do you think? You think Toronto should get rid of him?”

Before I go on I should say that this has happened to me before. You can’t really tell from my sparkling and intelligent eyes that I know nothing about hockey, so on occasion I do get asked things like:

“You see the game last night?” (which is an easy one to answer – NO.)

or

“You think the Leafs will win the Stanley Cup this year?” (again easy – NO.)

But for the more complicated hockey questions like this one, I usually apologetically explain that I don’t follow hockey and I was just trying to find out my horoscope and biorhythm for the day and then I invariably have to good-naturedly put up with some well-meaning comments questioning my nationality/sexuality/patriotism, etc. etc. ha. ha. ha.

This time I figured it would be faster if I could muddle my way past the question by providing an answer. I figured I had a 50-50 shot at it right? So I looked at him and said: “I sure hope not” and bent my head back down to appear as if I was once again deeply engrossed in the sports editorial. Despite my prayers, the man stopped dead in his tracks and said to me:

“Now, why on earth would you say that?” but actually it sounded more like: “Now-wah bow-wah…whyah you done gone n’ said sumpum like dat?!”

and then he spat some “chaw” onto the floor and did a long slow wipe of his chin with the back of his hand. All conversation in the Taco Bell stopped. The disinterested teenaged staff became interested. Even though it was February a lone cricket chirped. I heard the sound of a gun cocking. It was very hot in Taco Bell all of a sudden.

I thought: “Shit! Of course! Hoppe’s law states that I will always pick the wrong $#$! answer!” So I said authoritatively:

“Well, uhhh…you know…ummm…”

And the hockey fan interjected:

“If we had gotten rid of Sundin, we could have gotten four draft picks young guys…unrestricted…take-the-summer-off…sign Sundin back again in the fall…no trade clause…blah, blah, blah…”

And I was all nodding in total agreement, my head bobbing up and down with cult-like abandon blabbering on about how “that’s exactly what I meant to say” and “I couldn’t agree more…” and “can I wash your car for you?” and I felt like a total ass.

So, that experience taught me a lesson. The next time I get a sports question I’ll just say: MON COEUR APPARTIENT À LES HABS!!! …and leave it at that.

No Big Deal

To set up this next story, you need to know something – I bought a new car recently and I love my car. It’s a 2004 Toyota Echo, so it’s not technically new but it’s as new as I will ever be capable of owning and I treat it as if it just rolled off the lot. I am that guy parking at the very back of parking lots (miles away from the doors) when shopping and the guy who lovingly rubs wax on my car with a baby’s cloth diaper in the springtime. I love my car. I want to marry my car and have like ten thousand of its babies. You’ll need to know all that before I go on with this story, OK? “ Ich liebe mein auto.”

Alright, here we go…this past Saturday I treated my 7-year-old daughter and my wife’s 4-year-old son to a simply lovely day. It was a picture perfect, cold and wintery day. And there was lots of snow so we were all really feeling the season. We started the day off with breakfast at the Peterborough Airport watching the planes take off and land – well there were no planes taking off or landing because it was too cold but we had fun simply looking at the parked planes while we ate. Then in the afternoon we went to my new company’s children’s Xmas party, which was a really terrific affair – the company pulled out all of the stops and the kids had an absolutely fantastic time. Late in the afternoon, when it was time to leave we packed up my car with the kid’s gifts and candy; my wife took my daughter out with her on some errands, and I took my wife’s son with me to Home Depot to pick up a part for our new fridge (also not technically new either but it’s as new a fridge as I will ever be capable of owning.) The drive to Home Depot was uneventful, even pleasant with me and the boy chatting away. When we arrived at Home Depot, I parked my gorgeous car, and got out of the beautiful car, and opened the back door of the awesome car so I could pull the boy out of his child seat. As I reached in to get him, that’s when he vomited.

Evidently projectile vomiting is something genetically inherited and not acquired by way of environment or nurturing because at only 4-years-old my wife’s son is already an old pro at it. He vomited a column of evil with such force that it must have looked to passers-by like a paint bomb had gone off in the car. For me, time slowed. I screamed: “OH NOOOO!!” and thinking quickly I stood rooted to the spot like a total moron while the just-tossed cookies soaked into the seats and my wife’s hell-spawn reloaded for another cannon blast – which he again ejected, achieving blanket coverage a house painter would envy. I might have wet my pants in terror but it was hard to tell because even though it was minus 15 degrees outside I was sweating like a stuck pig. I’m sure you could’ve seen my shoulders slump from space. Bellowing like a wounded wildebeest, I jabbed for his seat belt release and then not really caring whether he was free or not, ripped him from the car and stood him up in the parking lot.

The rotten kid spent a minute in the classic position standing with his hands on his knees looking down at the ground spitting and catching his breath. Then he straightened up, looked down at himself briefly, then up at me and with a completely deadpan expression he said:

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Out of the mouths of despicable babes, eh? So I said to him (printable words only included here for space reasons:)

“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t give a _____ flying _____ what you ______ ______ mother- ______ ______ _____ you little _____ _____!!” … and with that good start I proceeded to weave for the boy the most intricate and elaborate tapestry of profanity, a true work of verbal art seldom heard by grown men 10 times his age. Then I picked him back up deposited him back in his own puke and we drove home, me grinding thousands of dollars of expensive dental work into powder the entire way.

We arrived back home and with a restraint I am now so proud of in retrospect, because I am sure Ghandi himself would have murdered the little b—ard, I placed the boy in the tub, stripped him down, showered him off, put him in his PJs and into our bed, put Family Guy on the TV, and deposited his dirty clothes, coat, and boots into the laundry tub for his mother to deal with when she got home. I then filled a bucket with boiling hot water and dish soap, grabbed some towels and my shop vac and headed outside to survey the damage.

Salvador Dali would have been proud of the boy’s use of his medium (chunk blowing) to create an abstract and surreal milieu. And his attention to detail was amazing. Not a single nook or cranny of the back of the car was missed. The boy’s choice of purple grape juice during the preceding Xmas party lent an almost berry bouquet to the aroma in the car and made the upholstery look almost festive. The chunks of hotdog added texture. I learned that chunder freezes within 90 seconds of hitting cold car seat at minus 15, and over the next hour I battled the elements to keep the wash water liquid long enough to vacuum it up. Despite this, despite my valiant efforts, despite my heroic attempts to reverse all evidence of the demon child voiding his rheum upon the only thing good and pure and sweet left in this world (my car), I am afraid to say I don’t think I was ever able to completely eradicate the horror from my backseat.

So, exhausted, filthy and defeated, I put the car away and went inside to finish off the boy once and for all, ostensibly to stop him from ever perpetrating such a crime against anyone else ever again. I walked into the bedroom and saw that he had fallen asleep. As I kneeled upon the bed to deliver the final blow, he opened his eyes and with the most cherubic visage, with the most angelic expression he said to me:

“Did you bring in my candy?”

And I thought, “Hey, it’s only a car.”

Chapter I: My wife and I ride unicorns, then I explain my situation.

I had to laugh out loud. I felt so wonderful. “Oh! My unicorn is racing under this rainbow! Watch out for the puppies!” I shouted.
“Your laugh is so delightful!” said Patti. Her unicorn was keeping pace alongside mine, and together we streaked through the sky on this gorgeous sunny day.
“No! YOUR’S is the one that’s delightful! I giggled for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, I gazed upon Patti’s beautiful face in admiration. She was surrounded with a glowing multi-coloured aura too, the absolute definition of serenity and beauty.
Our unicorns wove their way through the clouds, the golden sun warmed us from above, while the adoring encouragements from our friends and family on the ground warmed us from below. It had taken a long time to get to this point, and I wanted it to never, ever end.
“It doesn’t have to end, Stephan,” said my unicorn, reading my mind again. Silly unicorn! “Stephan, I will always be around to love you and care for you.”
“Me too! Me too!” cried Patti adorably listening in on the conversation as all women do. “I’ll love you forever, my love, Steph, whom I love more than anything!”
I laughed again, my voice like musical tears of happiness. “Oh, my dear Patti, it is I who loves you more than anything, and since there can not be two people who love more than anything, because by its very definition “more than anything” implies finality, and I know that I love you more than anything, you therefore must only love me almost as much as I love you – which is not quite more than anything…
My unicorn said in a sing-song voice, “But Stephan, your argument hinges on the concept of finality. Aristotelean philosophy states that one can not know the true nature of anything, even something as seemingly evident as finality. One can only infer by examining the deficiencies and extremes, so you only think you love Patti more than anything, and she is also able to think that she loves you more than anything…”
Patti clapped her hands together delightedly at the concept. She said, “Oh look! A field of cookies! I laughed heartily at this. She of course didn’t understand at all what we were talking about, she was laughing at the cookies! Oh, wonderful Patti with her beautiful glow and her uncomplicated mind…
She said, “I hope there are chocolate chip cookies down there!”
“Uh, are you sure that you really need another cookie?” said her unicorn, straining with effort and obviously tired of the exertion.
Patti said, “What’s that on the horizon? Oh, I hope it’s a candy fountain!”
“That’s no candy fountain! That’s an AH-64 Apache attack chopper with twin 30mm chain guns and four banks of Stinger air-to-air missiles!!” said my unicorn. I had to marvel at his knowledge of military aircraft and ordnance. “We’re in deep shit! Hang on!” he screamed, and immediately went into evasive maneuvres as the chopper unleashed two of it’s stingers at us.
The first missile completely took off the back of Patti’s unicorn, spraying the people on the ground with bits of blood and bone. It whinnied in agony, but merrily.
“Are we at the candy fountain yet?” asked Patti. “Why are we losing attitude?”
“You mean altitude, not attitude, my love, my sweet.” I said. But it was too late. even before the words were out of my mouth, the second stinger had vaporized Patti completely.
The chopper flew away. As my unicorn resumed a normal flight pattern, I loosened my grip on his soft, platinum mane. A wave of sadness started to wash over me, but I noticed a glint on the horizon, just past the vast cookie-fields. My unicorn saw it too.
“Hey, there’s a field of strippers and cocaine!” he said.
I laughed. I felt so wonderful again. “Let’s go! And watch out for the puppies!” I shouted.

—

I settled back and looked at the page I had just written. I’m Stephan, the feckless protagonist in the preceding story. My wife Patti is upstairs snoring on the overloaded sofa with her Nintendo DS beeping for a recharge upon her bloated chest, and a bag of used harlequin novels leaning against her massive calf.  I’m married but my marriage is over.   I suppose some explanation is in order.
I’m a failure, at life and at marriage, and at writing that novel that I have long suspected is in me for the last 40 years or so.  I have started and restarted the great Canadian novel at least 30 times over the year, but my inability to turn a decent phrase coupled with my undiagnosed ADHD (Hey! Let’s play checkers!)  makes it tough you know?
My marriage is the type of disaster that normal folk can’t get enough of watching on U.S. cable networks like TLC and…well, TLC.  My life could very well have the suffix “-hoarders” appended to it.  I actually thought my marriage was going pretty good until about 4 years ago – imagine my surpruise when my wife barked out that she has been miserable  since she first pulled her pork hocks out of her orthopedic wedding pumps.
What follows will be excruciating detail of how my life is falling apart, how I intend to finally write this novel as therapy, come hell or high water, using nanowrimo as the rod of steel down my back.