Edgy People Read online

  If I don’t take too many breaks I can do the first newspaper layer today, and the second on Saturday. Hopefully I won’t need a third layer, but if I do, I can do that on Sunday.

  By Monday the smell shouldn’t be so bad. But I’ll have to make up more excuses as to why Lillian can’t see Ed. Maybe it would make sense to just cancel Meals on Wheels. Well, I’ll have to think about that. I don’t really want to start cooking again.

  I’ll have to make up excuses for Beatrice as well, to explain why she can’t talk to her dad when she telephones.

  Well, Ed was always a man of few words, now he’s a man of no words.

  On Saturday I have got the second layer of paper on, and Ed is looking pretty good. I’m still not sure what kind of finish I will put on this project, maybe I can rip the pages out of the old atlas we have. As I said, Ed always did like maps. I am sitting peacefully with my toast and jam, thinking about this, when there is a knock on the door. I don’t answer the door, because I’m a woman alone, and safety is a concern. Whoever it is comes around to the back door. They can clearly see me sitting in my kitchen eating my toast and jam. I can’t avoid it, I have to answer the door.

  The lady at the door tells me she’s the public health nurse, and asks to come in. I tell her she can’t. Then she asks me what that terrible smell is. She says that Meals on Wheels called them, concerned that there was something dead in my house. She offers to call a pest control. Now I’m getting really irritated. I’m very seldom rude to people, but this time I do get rude, and tell the woman to go mind her own business, and leave me to mine. When I say it so plainly, she has no choice but to leave.

  I go back into the bedroom and complain to Ed about how meddlesome Lillian is. I will definitely cancel Meals on Wheels.

  On Sunday morning, I’ve decided the finish will be maps: maps of family trips we took, mostly in Canada, but a few down south, and one marvelous Caribbean cruise to celebrate our 40th anniversary. I am staring out the front window, at nothing really, when Beatrice pulls up and gets out of the car with a huge bunch of flowers. It hits me then that this is Mother’s Day. I sink down on to the couch.

  After knocking and calling for a few minutes, Beatrice lets herself in. Of course, she has a key; she’s my daughter.

  When the smell hits her, she turns white. I can actually see the blood draining away from her face. She goes into the bedroom, and makes a strange noise. I hear her dialing the phone. Then she comes out and sits down beside me on the couch.

  One thing I can say for Beatrice, she is always calm. She’s well suited to her job as an emergency room nurse.

  After a few minutes, I hear the sirens in the background. Then in come the police, fire, and paramedics. Some of them are not so calm.

  Beatrice tells me I need to go with her. She is taking me to the hospital. I tell her I want to say good bye to her Dad first. Beatrice agrees.

  A few minutes later two firemen come out carrying my project on a stretcher. Ed is kind of sitting up, with his favourite mug in his right hand. His left hand rests on the cufflink box, which is in his lap. His legs are bent, as if he were reading in bed – which he liked to do.

  I know this is the last time I’ll get to speak to Ed, so I go over to the stretcher and tell him goodbye. I tell him I thought we would be together forever. I apologize that I couldn’t make that happen, because when you’re old, other people always think they know what is best for you. Of course Ed, being Ed, doesn’t answer.

  Travel Bonus

  I SPOT HER WHILE I’M stowing my suitcase in the plane’s overhead compartment. She’s wearing a head cover, but no veil. One of the girls caught between the desired “western world” and the old traditions. She’ll be an easy one if she’s the chosen one. Not much fun in the chase, too timid, but lots of fun in the catch, a virgin if she’s not married. These girls marry young, and this one is probably about 19 already, so I look for the toe rings that are the usual wedding gifts from the husband. No toe rings. A virgin. Bonus. I’m not going to get any crotch crickets from her. Another bonus—security. I know this culture. I make it my business to know these things. There has to be three males to swear it’s rape, or it’s not, and the girl gets it—50 lashes usually, and marked forever, so her marriage chances are gone. They don’t complain, these girls. Marriage is even more important to them than it is to Canadian girls. Their laws work for men, and that’s the way it should be. So I watch where she’s sitting because she’s probably the one. She’s about eleven rows behind, aisle seat, sitting next to a kid who looks to be about 12 or 13 years old. That’s good, an ideal position. I feel a stirring just thinking about it.

  The next girl I pick out as she walks past. She’s in her early twenties, skinny, no tits, glasses and mousy hair. These plain girls sometimes make the best hits. A good looking man just has to give them one smile, and they don’t know what’s going on. Their little hearts perk up with the thought that some man has finally found them attractive, they get a little thrill, and their legs fall open. They haven’t figured out it isn’t love until I’m done.

  Pretty slim chance of catching anything from her either.

  Maybe her.

  But I got to be careful with this type. One took me to court once, charged me with rape. Fortunately the jury figured out that if she was stupid enough to go to a hotel room with a man, she got what was coming to her, and deserved it. Had a good lawyer on that one, I’ll admit. I’ll use him again if I ever need to. Of course it also worked in my favour that the jury was mostly men.

  The ugly duckling, who’s past the point of ever turning into a swan, sits down about three seats behind me and one over. Noted. She pulls out a paperback and begins to read. Probably it’s one of those romance books—no sex, just lingering looks and heaving hooters.

  Now I’ve got to pick out a third. Those are the rules of the game, and I been playing it a long time. But the third one is never the one, just good for my fantasy life. For the third one I always pick a girl I know isn’t going to be easy: the professional type, or the outdoorsy type, someone who thinks she’s as good as a man any day, and would yell bloody blue murder. Then I just have a few fantasies to enhance the pleasure. Sometimes when I’m doing one, I pretend it’s the third pick, and it just adds a little starch.

  I pick an outdoorsy type this time, great long brown hair and carrying a backpack that looks stuffed and heavy. I give her one of my best smiles, but she doesn’t even give me a second look. That’s okay, too muscular anyway. I can see that by her calves. Probably drinks beer and lift weights. She may even be a dyke.

  I sit down and do up my seat belt for the take-off. This part used to make me nervous. I read once that approximately 85 percent of accidents happen on takeoff, 13 percent on landing, and the rest in the air. Takeoff’s don’t bother me as much now though, since I’ve always got something to look forward to.

  As soon as the coffee, tea or me girl comes by I grab a beer. When I get that down, I stand up as if to stretch my legs, and I check things out again. The dyke type is chatting up her neighbour, a man with a kid on his lap. How she thinks she’s going to get past the kid is what I’d like to know.

  The Mouse is still buried in her book. Anyway, she’s one seat in – not the ideal position.

  So, my decision is the head scarf girl. She’s just sitting there looking a little green. I’d guess that takeoffs don’t agree with her. Well, I’ll give her something to take her mind off that. I head down to the washroom, hanging my left arm, looking like a farmer. As I pass Scarf Head I move left and grab a handful. Not bad. She’s got a little more to squeeze than looked like in that sari, or whatever they call it, but I don’t mind those kind of surprises. Scarf Head gives a little screechy gasp and practically climbs on to the kid in the seat next to her. He scowls and give her an elbow, and goes back to his comic book. No help there, Scarf Head.

  Felt good.

  I like it when they get scared.

  On the wa
y back from the washroom I can see the coffee, tea or me girl talking to Scarf Head. I’m not too worried. Those girls don’t admit to anything. It does blow my fun on the way back, though.

  I sit down and think about The Mouse, but discard that thought almost at once. Her being a seat over is pretty difficult for me, and anyway, she really is as plain as a dog’s butt.

  Then I think about The Dyke, who’s now jiggling the pukey kid on her lap. I think about her for awhile, but then cool it. It’s only an hour into a seven hour flight, and I don’t want things to go too fast. I ring for the girl and get another beer.

  When I hear the server coming down the aisle with the meals I stand up. I stretch like I’m stiff, and I check things out again. I’m pretty good at the timing now, I been doing it for so long. I see one of the servers is a man. I don’t know why any self-respecting man would take a job serving people. He doesn’t look like a fag. Maybe he’s just not smart enough to get a real job.

  When the time is right I move down the aisle. Scarf Head is looking down and doesn’t see me coming. When I get near the cart I make noises like I’m really sorry, but I got to get to the bathroom no matter what. I murmur what sounds like apologies, and squeeze by on the left side. My timing is perfect. I’m level with the girl when I’ve got to squeeze by the serving cart, and I shove my crotch right in her hanging-down face. Scarf Head jumps into the next seat. This time the kid doesn’t elbow her. He takes a look at me. I give him my best “we’re all men of the world” look, but he doesn’t seem to be buying it. I see him talking to the man on his right, his father maybe, but the man isn’t paying that much attention. He has a bawling kid on the other side, and doesn’t appreciate the interruption.

  I go relieve myself, and wash up good. I’m picky when it comes to that sort of thing. Don’t want to encourage the germs.

  On the way back I notice Scarf Head is with the attendant again. She looks even greener than before.

  After the movie the lights go down for people to sleep, and I know this is my time. I go back to the washroom, and hang around a bit. The tea or me girls aren’t around right now, probably up front doing the pilot.

  Just as I hoped, Scarf Head comes down the aisle. She’s lurching a bit, which is strange. I’m sure these girls don’t drink. Anyway, I don’t spend much time wondering about it, because who cares. I grab Scarf Head and shove her into the bathroom. I back her into the sink. She’s looking really green now. I get her dress, or whatever it is, up around her hips, get her knickers down, and get in there. It doesn’t last too long. I been fantasizing a bit too much, and I get off too quick, but it still feels good. Worth the wait and the planning.

  I leave Scarf Head panting against the sink, but I’m hardly out of the bathroom before I hear her vomiting. I can’t believe it. Puking over a little slap and tickle like that.

  I feel pretty good when I get back to my seat, and so I doze off almost immediately. I don’t know what it is about sex that makes you want to sleep, but it does it to me every time.

  About an hour or so later I get woke up by the male server. He’s going from seat to seat asking everyone if there’s a doctor on board. Seems someone got sick. When I look at my watch I can see we’re just about an hour out of Toronto, so whoever it is probably isn’t going to die before we get there.

  Sure enough we land in TO about an hour later, right on time for once. The pilot comes over the intercom and asks everyone to remain seated as they have an ill passenger, and they want to get her off first. Figures. Everyone’s tired, and now we got to be delayed by someone getting sick. Some paramedics get on and after a little fuss they come by with someone on a stretcher. Like everyone else I’m interested in seeing who got sick, and I get a little shock when I see it’s Scarf Head. Surely she isn’t going to claim I made her sick doing her. Looks like I might need that lawyer again. No one stops me, however, and I get through customs, and of course Dorothy is waiting for me. She’s a good girl. She’ll have something ready for me to eat, and not complain if I don’t want to eat it. I give her the perfume I got at the duty free shop.

  Dorothy gives me the car keys, and, sure enough, when we get home she’s made some of those fancy little pastries for me.

  We talk over my trip. Dorothy’s always interested in what I see and do on these trips, but of course I don’t tell her everything. She’s so interested maybe I’ll take her with me one day. The company doesn’t pay for wives to go, but I don’t make bad money, and I probably will take her someday. Maybe.

  The next day being Saturday I sleep in late. When I get up Dorothy’s blatting at me to listen to the news, so eventually I do. On the news they’re talking about a woman who got rushed straight from the airport to the hospital last night. Apparently she’s got some kind of disease. They suspect E-bola, and the patient is undergoing testing. In fact, she’s in isolation. And on another radio station I hear that everyone who took care of her, including the paramedics, are in isolation. I know right away it’s Scarf Head, and now I know why she was looking so green, and puking. It wasn’t about the sex at all.

  Then they try to reassure the public. They tell the public there is no need to worry, that whatever she has is not communicable by casual contact.

  Well, Jesus! What the hell is casual contact? For me the whole thing was casual, but I know damn well the police wouldn’t call it casual. What the hell should I do now? Do I go and admit what I did, and get tested? Tell them the girl wanted it? Do I sit tight and wait to turn green and puke?

  I decide to sit tight for a few days. I listen to the news all day. Three days later the worst happens. She dies.

  The doctor’s still don’t know what she had. Here I was worried about crotch crickets, and now I probably got some strange, deadly disease. That bitch.

  The medical people are still reassuring the public that casual contact with her is not a problem.

  But, what about me?

  What about my “casual contact”?

  Because she’s dead.

  Dead.

  Tips for DIY’ers

  I AM A DO-IT-yourselfer. I admit I take on this role with some hesitation. However, in the competition between diminishing money and diminishing time, the money is fast winning the race.

  There are some rewards for DIYers. We learn. However reluctantly.

  For example, I now know that the pressure of the water running through the little plastic pipe which goes into my furnace humidifier is 34 pounds per square inch. Or maybe that was 64 pounds per square inch. At any rate, it’s impossible to staunch the pressure with your hand over the pipe, and the force is enough to drill a hole in your head. For the DIY’er in this situation: don’t just stand there trying to staunch the flow, run and turn off the water at the main. With 34 pounds (or 64 pounds) of pressure the basement fills up rapidly. I confess that trying to staunch the flow was a technique I used frequently before I became an experienced DIY’er. For example, when the toilet was overflowing, I would slam down the toilet lid, hoping that would stop the flood. It almost never did.

  DIY’ers should always be grateful, and graceful, when receiving information about fixing anything. I got the information about the amount of water pressure in the little plastic pipe when I called for help. ”Wow,” I thought, “this is really useful if I want to build an indoor pool in my basement.”

  I did eventually find someone to fix the humidifier, and a few weeks later I was able to turn the water back on. A shower never felt so good. My co-workers were happy for me.

  Here’s another tip. When you take something apart, look very carefully at the way it comes out. Does the little spring come out first, the round thing second, the wedge-like thing third, and the hook fourth? Or, was it?

  If you do forget to look at the order when you take it apart, the correct way to put it back together is the way that seems impossible. If it goes back easy, it can’t be right. That would be against the rules.

  It took me a few years to f
igure out the importance of looking at the way everything comes apart. When I removed the inside handle of my screen door the only thing that came out was the handle itself. The springs, washers, screws, lug nuts, retainers, were all attached to the outside handle. So I went outside and carefully noted that the knob came out first, followed by a stick thing, with a spring on it, with the large end toward the inside, and a little round thing. And there I stood, triumphant, knowing it all, outside the closed door, with the handle in my hand.

  Books are excellent. Determined not to pay the price of a plumber just to fix my dripping tap, I bought a book. It cost $28.95, but had great pictures. I sat on the toilet lid and looked at the pictures of taps. The picture on page 23 looked quite a lot like my taps, but not quite. The picture on page 48 looked fairly close also, but again not quite. Ditto for the pictures on page 101, 102, and 183.

  I drove back to the book store, and talked to the clerk, who was quite knowledgeable. After discussing the fact that the house was quite old, and the plumbing had never been upgraded, I bought another book called “The Antique Plumber’s Handbook”. At first I was reluctant to purchase it, as it was sealed in plastic and I couldn’t really assess the contents, but I finally decided I had to do it. I was not paying a plumber. It cost $42.95.

  When I got home I saw that the first picture was of an elderly gentleman, with a satisfied grin on his face, holding up a wrench and various parts of a tap. Briefly, I was concerned that I had purchased a book which featured antique plumbers, rather than antique taps—a kind of elderly fire-fighters calendar, so to speak. I was a little apprehensive about turning the page, fearing there might be a feature on ancient plumber’s butts. However, I was soon reassured. Inside the books were beautiful coloured plates featuring those long goose-necked faucets with a tap for cold water only, and wonderful indoor and outdoor pumps.

  As none of the pictures were even remotely close to my taps, I referred back to the first book. The pictures on pages 101 and 183 were the closest match, so I proceeded. The insides of the tap were also a fairly close match, and after removing everything I could, I took all of it down to the nearest plumbing store. This is important: find a plumbing store which will look at the insides and match them up with new insides, without making fun of you. I returned with all the insides and installed them. The drip was much reduced. I washed the grease off my hands, wiped as much grease as I could off the books, and drank a glass of wine to celebrate.