The room is cold but the street is hot; fry your brain and feel it seep out your ear hot.

Damn, it is just June; we got a long one this year, he tells her.

Uh-huh, she says, lost in her phone.

How was your day, he says.

Yeah, fine, same – I guess.

What film, he says. Just one I found.

He rolls on his back. Vows to stay calm.

She puts the phone down. Turns to face him.

He does the same.

This is how it starts. And this is how it will end.

In a few hours the sun will rise; find them lying side by side in the quiet. The kids not yet up. The dog still in his cage. The words that smashed through the dark soft and dead on the floor; blue as ice that melts in the heat of a new day.

If you took a charcoal marker and shaded every country that they had visited, the world would be as black as a bowling ball.

It was a proclamation that was so often declared after dinner and before dessert. An announcement of such importance that it seemed simply impossible to be uttered while others were taking nourishment, lest the weight of the words curdle the dining experience for all.

It always started the same way.

“This will be our last trip…”

A hip replacement? Mom, are you sure? Are you sure that is what the doctor said?

Yes, why? What do mean? Why wouldn’t I be sure?

I don’t know. Honestly, let’s just forget it.

Okay. How are the kids? How’s Nathan doing at Baseball?

Nathan’s doing great. Wait! Was dad there? At the appointment?

Yes, dad was there too. When’s his next game?

Mom…

I’m just asking when his next game is. Don’t you know?

Yes, of course I do. You always do this.

Do what?

Honestly, let’s just forget it.

So when is it?

His game?

Yes.

Can we please finish talking about your hip?

Fine, but I already told you everything.

Ok, so what happens next? What did the doctor say ?

I have to go see the surgeon for a consult. He will make me an appointment and they will call me.

Did he give you a time frame for that?

2 or 3 days, I think.

2 or 3 days? That seems fast. Are you sure?

I don’t know…sometime…he will call me. How’s Samantha doing at swimming?

Mom…please,

You’re such a nosey nancy this morning! What’s with all the questions?

He will remove his fingers from the keyboard of the ancient lap top. Push his chair away from the desk. Pause for a moment deciding whether to shut it down or just leave it on. The heels of his slippers will slap against the bleached hardwood that he has always considered an extravagance.

“Bruce!” she will yell one more time before he reaches her.

“Yes?”

“Where were you? Didn’t you hear me calling?”

At the end of her outstretched arm, an empty coffee cup.

She grew up in Powell River. Her mother passed too early. Addiction smothered her brother dead in small room with a door that wouldn’t lock, filled with needles and cockroaches on Vancouver’s downtown East side. Her father hung on a while longer. She cooked his meals and paid the bills when work was no longer possible.

 

It starts the same way every day. “Bruce!” she will yell into the house that has always been much too big for them; bought by her daughter with the broken promise of seeing their grandchildren more.

“Bruce!” she will shout again from her ‘office’ – the spot on the end of the couch that she will occupy most of the day; where she will receive her coffee, nap, watch the talking heads on TV and vehemently refuse to acknowledge that her favorite ‘gal’ on Canada AM is gay.

“Bruuuuuuuuuuuuce!!” she will holler again, “Where arrrrrrre youuuuu?”

I am the banana too long in the bowl.

The punchline too long in the telling.

I am Monday’s meatloaf, this week? last week?, rescued from the back of the fridge.

I am the muddy patch of march snow under the pine tree in the back yard; peed on and half-eaten by the dog.

I am the flat glass of forgotten Prosecco.

The rusty chain of the bicycle that was bought on the promise to be rode.

I am the long pause after the first “I love you” –

the deafening silence…

It is bright red, the colour of a meraschino cherry floating in the bourbon and bitters of a perfectly crafted old fashioned. The hood hides a 360 cubic inch, 5.9 litre, straight-line V8. The trunk is large enough to hold three bodies. It is a 2-door, 1984 Buick Regal with a white roof and bench seats. It will become the only vehicle in which you have ever fallen asleep while driving.

You drive across the bridge that connects the highway to the city. Your apartment is not far from the place where the bridge ends. It is 6:30 and autumn and dark. Your jeans have the acrid smell of the chemicals used to etch designs into the glass of the shower doors. The tops of your steel toe boots are scuffed from where you rest the panes of glass before you transition them to the assembly table.

You are in the middle of the span. Traffic is moving slowly. You lower your window some, then all way the way, hoping that the fresh air will provide bracing relief from the weariness leadening your bones. You turn the music up, way up. If you knew the lyrics you would sing; sing every single word at the top of your lungs.

All you have to do is make to the end of the bridge. Do that and you are home free. You take your left hand off the wheel, rub your face and slap your cheeks “wake up” you say out loud. You don’t feel any less tired that you did two minutes ago. It feels like time is standing still. You have barely moved.

You are not aware of the moment when your levator palpebrae superioris, the muscles we have to retract our eyelids, fail to do so. You are not aware of the moment your brain stopped thinking about the motion of the car; stopped communicating instructions to your body about speed, breaking and steering; stopped caring about gravity, inertia, kinetic energy and friction; about counteracting the the centrifugal force that is tugging you into the lane of oncoming traffic.

You are not aware of the moment your brain began to wonder if you are home, left home, going home? If it is a work day or the weekend or day of the week where you don’t have to work? And then the image of the tree on the front lawn of the apartment building. The one that never grows any leaves. And then the image of a bird. A bird with blue feathers. A bird you have never seen before. It looks like a blue jay although you are almost certain that it is not, as you have never heard of a sighting this far West. It lands on one of the branches of the tree. As you look closer at it you notice that it has no eyes. In fact, as far as you can tell there aren’t any places on its head where it’s eyes once were. It turns its head toward you and opens its beak slightly. Whoa, what? No way, you say out loud. It cannot be! The birds teeth are small and sharp and crooked and yellow. How is this possible? And as you mind desperately tries to rationalize beak and teeth together in an eyeless creature, it launches itself at you. A blur of beating wings and rough dry feathers and two rows of fangs sinking into your neck.

You wake with a scream. Wrench the car back into your own lane.

Your heart beats loud in your ears. Your mouth is a desert.

Feeling nauseous and sweaty and cold you exit off the bridge onto a side street. You park in the first spot you can find, despite the sign on the pole that reads “no standing”. You walk the 5 blocks to your apartment which feels like 50 miles – uphill.

After passing out on the couch with all your clothes on you will wake at 10:30, hungry as hell. “Subway. Wednesday. Meatball sub special” are the next three thoughts that will arrive. You grab your keys from the bowl one the little shelf by the door.

Standing on the cobblestone walk that leads to the front door of your building you will look for the Regal to be parked in the spot that you usually occupy, the one directly under the branches of the tree that never grows leaves. Not finding it there, your eyes will dart up the block and then down in search of paint the colour of a fake cherry or a roof that is stark white as amnesia. After checking your neck and finding no evidence of puncture woulds, it will occur to you that you have no idea where you left the car.

You remember the way the seats in the green Dodge Dart burned the back of your thighs in the summer. You remember your sweat and brother sweat and parent sweat and dog sweat; one endless pant as hour upon hour you drove through the Dakota Badlands on an August day in a vehicle with no conditioning.

You remember how on the way back from practice, or the grocery store, or a friends place, you would always find yourself at the start of the long straight road by the university. The one that ran adjacent the forest and had no stoplights for miles. You remember the feel of gas peddle underfoot, the slow creep of the speedometer, the curiosity to see if you could really do 100, and the determination to find out. You remember the way the steering wheel would quake and the entire car would siezure trying to tear itself apart as you approached 80; the protest howl of the engine as you passed 90.

You remember that moment of inattention, that split second after you parked and opened the drivers door. Your intention of exiting the vehicle temporarily suspended as you reach to retrieve the rental documents for the goalie gear in the trunk. The stretch of your arm causes your body to shift ever so slightly; ever so imperceptibly away from the outer edge of the drivers seat, toward the center of the car and away from 3000 pounds of Ford Mustang that smashes the door head on, severs one of its hinges clean in two, mangles the other beyond recognition. Its momentum launches the driver’s side door onto the hood of the Dodge.

Your remember the dirt roads by the cabin on the lake where you first learned to drive. You would see people riding horses, crossing from one back country trail to the next. Pickup trucks with beds piled high with lumber, or straw, or gravel pass you fast as you struggle to keep the rubber of your tires in contact with the muddy road. Sometimes you steer straight on the straights and slightly turn the wheel to round the corners. Other times you drift off track, too far over, ride high up on the rolling mounds of earth, the edges of fields with waist high grasses and wild lilac and groves of poplar trees – unsure which way to turn the wheel. No idea how to find the road again.

You remember the ride home. Up the hill and then down from yet another easter-christmas-thanksgiving-long weekend-birthday get together with the cousins. Quiet in the back seat you listen to your parents assessment of the evening.  And you wish more than anything that he would just speak his mind, call “bull shit!”, say things like “fuck no!” and “hell ya!” right there at the dining room table in front of everyone.

They start with a stretch. Their shoes squeak on the gym floor.  “Move your knees! High! High! High! Keep them up. Now, kick the butt. All the way there then back. Good, next big step and twist, big step and twist. Good, on the line. Face this way. Quick feet up and down. Go! When I say sprint, we sprint. Fast there. Fast back. Got it! Sprint!”

“All right, nice job1 Bring it in. All of you in!. Let’s go!”

The boys take a knee. Coach lays out the way the day is going to go. They get in their teams: Red, Blue, Green and Gold.

“Green plays Red. Blue plays plays Gold. You know where to go. Let’s have some fun!”

They bounce the ball fast, up the court and then down.  Jump shot from the top of the key. Hit the rim. Bounce out of bounds. At the far end of the court, the Green team sets a pick. The guard opts not to use and drives to basket. He scores!

Blue team takes the ball up the floor. “Here, here, here!” yell the boys in the blue bibs. They wave their arms high and fast, hands spread wide. A pass. Chest height. Then one more to low post. A kid who is pound for pound one of the best on the floor but too short or any kind of real ball.

Gold bounce then hold then bounce ball once more. Can’t do that. Ref blows the play dead.

Time for Blue to put the ball back into play. A steal at mid court. Gold finds his man, a kid who can score, he does – points on the board.

Green takes it down court. Try a field goal. He makes it! All the folks nod at the good work. The kid and the coach high five as he walks back to the his bench. To sit and catch his breath and watch his team try and close the point spread. The game still well within reach. A good shot and few more and they could win this game.

A bounce pass too low to catch. Blue gets to put in the ball. The loud smack of skin on skin. Foul! One shot!

There are the ones who are made to do this. The ones who are built for this game at their core. These boys were born with this game in their blood. They have the gift. Where it came form no one knows. They shoot the the ball with so much ease, with what seems like no thought at all. They know where they are, where the rest of their team is, and where the net is all at the same time, all the time. They deak in and out of the key. They keep their head up when they are close to the net. They make the right pass. They jump and twirl and block and run and pick and move with no seams, no gaps at all. They are the ones who move quick and smooth; the ones who let the ball fly and turn to play D when it is still on route to the net, sure it will go in.

The rest of the boys have to grind. They miss shots. Call for the pass in the wrong spot. Get rid of the ball too soon. Hold the ball for too long. Trip on their feet. Fail to see the play. Are not sure where to be.  Give the ball up to the other team. Sit on the bench. Wish they were some place, any place else.