Dilapidated

I turned the corner just in time to see a wrecking ball come crashing into my dream home. The iron orb cut a path across the exterior wall and lumber exploded from beneath the bricks. What was once the living room stood under the open air and I stared into it as though I were peering into a dollhouse. For a brief moment I saw my sofa in the middle of the room and all the friends I would have invited over to gather around it. Just then the ball swung back and I knew there was no turning back. The house would be nothing but rubble in a matter of minutes.

I live in a 400 square foot apartment. It’s nothing fancy, but the floor-to-ceiling windows provide a dandy view of downtown Toronto and the water runs hot most of the time. Were an ant to post it on Craigslist, he might even use the words “spacious” and “palatial” in the listing. Unfortunately those descriptors do not apply to me, given that I’ve crammed my 400 square feet with 600 square feet of stuff. Sometimes it feels like the walls are caving in on me. I try to remind myself that I’m lucky to have a place to call home, but that’s not always easy when there’s no place to hang my hat. I’d far rather have a home to call home.

Whenever I watch the TV show Hoarders, I can’t help but wonder if space is the issue. If Brenda simply upgraded from her one bedroom condo to a five bedroom bungalow, perhaps her collection of used diapers wouldn’t be such a burden. I’ve always thrown away far more than I’ve kept, yet every time I open a closet door I’m buried by an avalanche of junk. If I had the rumpus room I’ve always dreamed about, however, that junk wouldn’t be junk at all. My books would look scholarly on a wall lined with shelves, but when perched atop a suitcase filled with winter boots, they’re nothing more than a hazard.

I’m obsessed with HGTV and the plethora of real estate shows on it. While the titles differ, these shows are basically all the same. Couples examine three properties, weighing the pros and cons of each, and then make an offer on whichever one is just outside of their budget. They justify their splurge by committing to cut Starbucks out of their daily routine, but what they’re really committing to is divorce proceedings. Soon the pressure of meeting a mortgage that cannot be met, in addition to caffeine withdrawal, will drive the couple apart.

The home I would choose never gets chosen.

“It only has three bathrooms?” the wife says as she sticks out her bottom lip.

“And you call this a closet?” the husband adds as he maneuvers his pot belly through the doors.

“Yes,” says the real estate agent. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Perhaps if I could afford a house with more bathrooms than dwellers, I’d also be offended by three toilets and look-in closets, but I don’t think so. I favor modest homes with bathrooms that are shared and kitchens built for crowding. I’m also partial to older homes that include memories with the deed. I’m a sucker for coffee stains on counter tops and height charts etched into thresholds.

After I’ve picked out my imaginary home from the reject pile, I switch over to the Bravo network and decorate it. Hunky contractors in tank tops work up a sweat as they apply grout and lay pipe. Bitchy interior designers in push-up bras paint the walls and put throw pillows on anything that stands still. Then perky hosts in love with themselves tell the couples to “open their eyes.” The transformations are always amazing, but the houses never resemble the ones they fell in love with in the first place.

Whatever happened to walls? Second only to granite counter tops, “open concept” is at the top of every wish list these days. I don’t know about you, but I prefer my concepts closed. Without walls, where am I supposed to go when I have the urge to roll my eyes? We live in a generation that constantly demands an audience and privacy is quickly becoming a thing of the past. We need to know what’s happening at all times, even if it means knocking down walls to do it. But the more we knock down, the more we desperately search for a place to hide. As far as I’m concerned, walls don’t keep us apart — they keep us together.

My penchant for real estate started early. When I was boy, Grandma Hayward would point at dilapidated farm houses as we whizzed by them on the highway. Even though these homes were falling apart — if they hadn’t already — she could still see the beauty in them. The walls leaned and the wood sagged, but just as memories lean and sag, they still existed. One day she pointed at a particularly grand home that was barely standing on its foundation. It was surrounded by huge maple trees that she remembered not being so huge. I suggested that the two of us should move into it together someday. She looked me directly in the eyes for a long time before hers drifted back to the house.

“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”

My dream home stood at the corner of Broadway and Rowley in Toronto. It wasn’t very big, but it was quaint and it was cozy. The brick walls were covered in ivy and the front stoop drooped from all the visitors who had stood there. As I watched it get scooped up by a bulldozer, I could already visualize the house that would go up in its place. Six months later, I was proven right. It looks exactly like the one next to it and the one next to that. Even the doors match.

I have nothing against new houses, so long as they stand long enough to become homes. But when it comes time for me to buy, I want one with history. I want one with character. I want one with walls.

I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.

Off Leash

Many people believe the Devil resides in Hell, but I’m convinced he lives in Toronto at the corner of Roehampton and Rawlinson. He lurks behind a neatly trimmed row of hedges, protecting his property from all who come near it. Step too close to the perimeter and you can hear his growl from deep within the foliage. The dark cloud that swirls over his yard is so foreboding that I’ve taken to the sidewalk across the street, lest he lunges in my direction and takes a bite out of my ankle.

I’ve never been afraid of dogs, despite a nasty incident I had with a Cocker Spaniel when I was little. I don’t remember acquiring the scar on my left hand, but every time I notice it I remember that I don’t remember how it got there. I was told that a Cocker Spaniel mistook my thumb for breakfast, but for all know the scar is the result of being dropped on a pile of broken glass as a baby.

“Blame it on the dog,” I can hear my father saying, as though I were an incomplete homework assignment.

“Good idea, Rick. He never has to know.”

Fortunately my parents are not known to be liars, so I tend to believe their story of canine carnage. Were I a little bit older, perhaps I would have been forever traumatized by man’s best friend, but thankfully I’ve wiped the incident from my memory and my affinity for dogs remains intact.

Boots lived on the front stoop of our house and was the first dog I ever loved. She was a big Irish Setter with matted black fur and white “boots” around her ankles. The life of a farm dog is not unlike that of a homeless person. She could often be spotted howling at nothing in particular and panhandling for food from business men as they hustled toward their vehicles. Then she would seek shelter on an icy slab of concrete and curl up against the warmest part of the house. Presumably the role of a farm dog is to chase rabid wildlife from the premises. With her goofy grin and tail permanently tucked between her legs, Boots was not up to this challenge. Asking her to ward off skunks and weasels was about as effective as hiring Jim J. Bullock to coordinate a drug bust.

Our inside dog at the time was equally as timid. Muffy was a scraggly Terrier mix with long black nails that seemed to grow overnight. While her nails may well have been the envy of Cher impersonators, they were constantly needing clipped. Every step she made across the kitchen linoleum sounded like the clack of a manual typewriter. Given the proper scare, say a thunder clap or root beer induced belch, she would scurry back and forth until the entire house sounded like a Mavis Beacon typing seminar.

It was not uncommon to see Muffy perched upon my dad’s lap as he watched episodes of Law and Order before bed. When Dad would retire for the evening, Muffy would usually take to her hiding place under the sofa. She had ripped a chunk of fabric from the underside of the sofa with her drag queen nails and slept soundly under the flap. She would occasionally sneak out for a piece of kibble or two, but otherwise she kept to where she felt safe. And I felt safe knowing she was there.

Boots managed to survive longer than anyone expected. Then one cold winter morning, she was discovered clinging for dear life to a chunk of ice that had formed on the top of a pool of water in a ditch. She was put down later that day. Muffy was so skittish that I was certain if someone looked at her the wrong way she would drop dead of a heart attack. Still, she lived to be quite old and was always the first thing to greet me whenever I’d come home from university. Then one day the phone rang and when I picked it up, there was silence on the other end of the line. Before Mom said anything, I somehow knew what was coming. Muffy had died in her arms.

With my two childhood dogs gone, I didn’t think it was possible to love another. I was wrong. Mom inherited my sister’s dog, an adorable mix of stupid and sweet named Dino, whose licks made my heart melt like an ice cream cone. Not long before he died, Mom acquired Poochie, a forlorn Shih Tzu with bulging Barbara Bush eyes. Then along came Holly, another “Shih Tzu” (she’s so fat and farty that I’m sure there’s some Pug in her) with a mangy Colonel Sanders beard. Poochie and Holly have taken such a liking to one another that I’m sure many countries would consider them domestic partners. Now when I come home, I’m greeted by two bearded lesbians who dance on their hind legs every time the front door is opened.

Then Jeff came along. My dog. Or more accurately, my owner. Jeff is unlike any dog I’ve ever met. I’m aware all pet owners say that about their companions, but I swear it’s true. He’s a Shiba Inu; a breed that’s as popular in Asia as the Golden Retriever is in North America. It’s easy to see why the Japanese consider the breed royalty. He’s stoic, quiet, and calm. The word Zen comes to mind. He’s also smart. Sometimes too smart. Rather than barking or whining to go outside, he directs my attention to the door with a subtle flick of his head. If that doesn’t work, he gingerly taps me on the knee with his paw and then sits by the door until I inevitably cave in. But I don’t mind. These walks are the highlight of my day.

He also has a foot fetish. It took a long time for him warm up to me, but six months into his residency at my apartment, he curled up at my feet and began licking them. He started on my big toe and then moved down the line as though he were counting piggies. At first it tickled so badly that I could barely stand it, but now I’ve grown so accustomed to his foot baths that instead of making me giggle, they make me smile.

He’s definitely not this warm to everyone. In public, he’s extremely aloof with strangers. Not rude exactly, but when someone leans down to pet him, he looks at them with a sneer that says, What the hell do you think you’re doing? As he patiently waits for this invasion of privacy to be over, he tilts his head in my direction. Who is this moron?

I’m stopped at least once a day by a passerby who exclaims, “He looks just like a fox!”

“Yes,” I politely reply for the umpteenth time. And he really does. He has a thick red coat, bushy tail, and pointy snout.

Now and then someone comes back at me with, “Is it?” I’d roll my eyes at the question, but surely Jeff had already beat me to it.

If you were playing the celebrity lookalike game, Jeff would be Cary Grant. He has the same chiseled jaw line and debonair strut. I constantly have to resist the urge to put a pair of spectacles on his head and make him pose with cardboard cut-outs of Deborah Kerr and Grace Kelly. He’s also a babe magnet. I’ve been beckoned at many a stoplight by pretty girls who first bat their eyelashes at Jeff and then in my direction. You’re barking up the wrong tree, I want to tell them. Hey, maybe that’s where the saying came from.

What I love most about Jeff is his confidence. He’s my constant protector. He inspects every package that comes through the mail slot before declaring it safe to open. On our walks, he’s never afraid to ward off any passing U-Haul truck or skateboard. And if approached by someone that has been drinking alcohol, he lets out a low growl to keep them at bay.

Neither is he afraid of the Devil that lives at the corner of Rawlinson and Roehampton. This particular Devil is disguised as a dog named Hugo. Hugo is ugly, aggressive, and possibly rabid. He’s just the sort of dog Walt Disney would have had put down in one of his movies.

I only know this dog’s name because he’s never on a leash and his owner always seems to be shouting from her front porch. “Huuuuuuuuuuuugo!” she hollers, in a foreign accent that coordinates with her bushy eyebrow. “Come baaaaaaaaaaaack!”

I almost put Hugo down myself the day he jumped out of the bushes and took a bite out of Jeff. He snapped his jaw and shook his head like a maniac, retreating only after he had plucked a sizable chunk of fur from Jeff’s haunches.

“Huuuuuuuuuuuugo! Come baaaaaaaaaaaack!”

I was so angry that I was seconds away from putting them both out of my misery. But then I looked down at Jeff. He was perfectly fine. He simply shook his fur, although it looked more like a shrug, and then rolled his eyes. Moron.

Funny how one can be tied to a dog with a leash, yet feel anything but tied down. Ever since Jeff came into my life, I’ve been more fearless than ever. He gives me a reason to get dressed in the morning and encourages me to see what’s around every single corner. And if something dangerous lurks there, I don’t have to worry. He’ll take care of it. Even if it’s the Devil.

Stars in the Sky

“That’s Debbie Reynolds,” the man whispered into my ear.

I turned around, not to get a look at Debbie Reynolds, but at the stranger whose lips were so close to my ear that I could hear his bad breath. Why he decided to share this information with me was unclear, but I smiled anyway.

“Where?” I asked, hoping he would use his lips gesture in some other direction.

“Over there!” he gasped. Although he might as well have said I just ate salmon! because that’s all my brain could process.

I spun around for a breath of fresh air and, sure enough, there was Debbie Reynolds. She was seated a few feet to my left, waiting in the Calgary airport to board the same plane to Los Angeles.

“She was so good in Tammy and the Bachelor,” said Fish Breath, instantly giving away his age and sexual orientation. “Don’t you agree?”

“I never saw that one,” I replied.

“You’re kidding!” he snapped. Clearly he had mistaken me for another elderly gay gentleman, but I nodded politely and then excused myself to the restroom.

When I returned, boarding had already started and Ms. Reynolds was long through the gate. As I passed by her seat in first class on the way to mine in economy, I saw her cotton candy hair sticking out from behind a magazine. I have to admit that my heart fluttered for a moment when I realized I was less than two feet away from the girl who tap danced over a sofa with Gene Kelly.

I’m not afraid of flying, yet I have frequent nightmares of going down in fiery crashes. Flying with celebrities takes the sting off entirely. Somehow it seems impossible for a plane carrying an A-list star to go anywhere but up. A Boeing could lose both engines and a wing, but if Julia Roberts was on board, her beauty alone would keep the plane from going into a nosedive. However, the opposite is true the farther a celebrity moves down the alphabet. B, C, and particularly D-list celebrities take down planes all the time.

One time I fastened my seat belt and settled in for a short flight from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. When I spotted Carrot Top a few rows up, I thought for sure we were all doomed. He’s just the sort of “celebrity” that turns up in the news for having died in a plane crash. “Prop Comic Finally Dies.” I clutched onto my armrest and prepared for the hereafter. Mercifully, the entire beefy cast of Thunder from Down Under came bursting down the aisle and I thought to myself, Whew! Surely they’ll keep the plane airborne for at least forty minutes.

One plane that I knew wouldn’t go down was the one I shared with Jane Russell. She may have been out of the public eye for more than thirty years, but she still had the same vivacity that made her so popular in films like The Paleface and Gentleman Prefer Blondes. How a gentleman could prefer anything but a brunette with her around is beyond me, but never mind.

She was seated in the row directly behind me, next to an old man who was taking his very first flight. The man was extremely nervous, so she talked to him from take-off until landing, never once mentioning that she was a movie star. She must have had an endless number of stories about Howard Hughes and Marilyn Monroe, but she was far more interested in his story and making sure he was comfortable.

I had always liked Jane Russell, but on that day I fell head-over-heels in love. She wore a bright red hat, bright red trench coat, and bright red shoes. You couldn’t miss her if you tried, yet not a single person recognized her. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything. Neither did I, which is one of the biggest regrets of my life. She seemed so lovely, so approachable, and so kind, that I’m sure it would have tickled her red clothes pink. As I watched her wait at the curb for a cab, I kicked myself for not having the nerve to say something. When she rode off in her taxi, I vowed never to let an opportunity like that slip through my fingers ever again.

I kept both eyes on Debbie Reynolds for the entire flight. She’s a person that demands both eyes. Then I wondered what she was doing on this particular flight. The destination was not a mystery (she lives in Los Angeles), but why was she in Calgary? Surely if she had a concert scheduled, I would have known about it. I can’t imagine she has family there, unless Carrie Fisher drags her every year to the Calgary Stampede.

Suddenly, I feared the worst. Did she come all this way for a corporate gig? Had she just performed show tunes in some Holiday Inn convention center? Was she that hard-up for cash? Even if that wasn’t the case, I started to feel sorry for her. While she was never exactly the toast of Hollywood, she was at least the bread. Her movies made millions of dollars and so did the woman who stole her first husband. She used to travel the globe, jet-setting from Hollywood to Morocco with an entourage of make-up artists, hair stylists, and photographers. She used to be unsinkable! Now she was all alone on a plane that had departed from Calgary of all places.

So I thought, in my infinite wisdom, that a fan letter would boost her spirits by reminding her how treasured she is. I’m not sure exactly what I wrote, but it went something like this:

Dear Ms. Reynolds,

The Broadway cast recording of ‘Irene’ is one of my favorites. You were sensational in that, as well as everything else you’ve ever done.

Much love, Bradley

I folded the note and dispatched a flight attendant to pass it to Ms. Reynolds. The very second it left my fingertips, I thought to myself, What the hell were you thinking?! I wanted to make my note memorable because I was sure she heard comments about Singin’ in the Rain every day, but Irene?! Perhaps I had more in common with Fish Breath than I thought.

I almost jumped out of my seat to get the note back, but it was too late. I could already see her tiny hands unfolding the paper.

I held my breath as I watched the top of her head swivel left and right as she followed my text. When she finished reading, she sighed graciously. Then just loudly enough for her secret admirer to hear, she exclaimed in that breathy voice of hers, “Isn’t that nice.”

As I predicted, the plane landed safely. Debbie Reynolds went one way with her luggage and I went the other with a fond memory that nobody can ever take away from me. Not even Elizabeth Taylor.

Hurry Hard

Uncle Jim told me all about chest hair and how to get it. This involved a diet of fresh fruits and vegetables, as well as telling the truth whenever a lie was dangerously close to the tip of my tongue.

I spent a lot of time on my Uncle Jim and Auntie Donna’s farm. When you turn off the highway and onto the winding dirt road that leads up to their property, it’s as if the rest of the world ceases to exist. Their little house on the hill looks out over a serene pasture that seems to go on forever. It’s a place that makes you feel in touch with the world and, at the same time, untouchable.

Their farm was the go-to place whenever Mom and Dad went to one of their go-to places. Once I got to spend an entire week there when they went on vacation to Las Vegas. My brother Curtis and I ran circles around the yard, barely catching our breath long enough to catch our breath. After a spin on the tractor with Uncle Jim, we’d come inside where Auntie Donna would have a tasty spread on the table.

The closet in the spare bedroom was filled to the brim with crinoline. Jim and Donna were regulars on the square dancing circuit in those days and the outfits in that closet were proof that it was more than a hobby. Embroidered dress shirts, all neatly pressed, hung next to ruffled skirts and lacy petticoats. Long after everyone had gone to sleep, Curtis and I would sneak into the closet and try them on. “Do-si-do” we did.

Uncle Jim’s blood does not run through my veins, yet I managed to inherit a thing or two from his example. Surely he got angry and raised his voice from time to time, but I never saw it happen. So whenever I’m on the verge of a tantrum, I lower my voice to his gentle hush. When I open a door, it’s ladies first. And I always have time for a smile. He also introduced me to toothpicks, blackjack, and best of all, curling.

Curling is a time honored tradition in Canada. It’s a sport that requires precision, power, and patience — three P words that apply to Canadians almost as much as poutine. One player slides a granite rock down a sheet of ice while two sweepers accompany the moving rock, brushing its path with a broom. Points are accumulated depending on the number of rocks closest to the target. Trust me, it’s more exciting than it sounds.

When a rock lands perfectly on target, much of the glory is bestowed upon the player who threw it. While it takes a great deal of skill to properly throw a rock, it’s the sweepers who ultimately guide it toward its final resting place. As each rock moves down the ice, its path curls (hence the name). Sweepers not only help the rock move faster, but straighter as well. This prevents it from veering away from its destination. (Again, this is all way more exciting than it sounds.) "Hurry!” you’ll hear when a rock is thrown poorly. “Hurry hard!” This signals the sweepers to sweep the ice more vigorously than Felix Unger would his linoleum.

They only time I ever saw my Uncle Jim shout was in the curling rink. I’d sit in the bleachers and watch him play while Auntie Donna sat next to me and explained the rules. Every now and then I’d hear him bellow on the other side of the glass, “Hurrrrrrrrrrry! Hurry haaaaaaaaaaard!” At only 5 or 6 years old, it was startling to see the man I knew to be so gentle become so animated.

“He’s not mad,” Auntie Donna would say in a reassuring tone. “He just doesn’t like to lose.”

A couple of months ago, after years of wondering what it would be like to play the game myself, I finally summoned the nerve to join a league. On Wednesday nights, I slip on a gripper and pick up a broom. Thanks to my days as a figure skater, I have the power. I’m working on the precision. And the others on my team definitely have the patience.

It feels good to be part of a team. Even though I rarely make a shot, my teammates never act as though I’m letting them down. “That’s just not the spirit of curling,” they tell me. That's just not the spirit of Canadians. So no matter how misguided my rocks may be, they hurry hard to keep them in the game. And I’m more than happy to return the favor. Perhaps it was this camaraderie that attracted Uncle Jim to the sport. I wish I could play a game with him and find out, but sadly, he died before I got the chance.

I knew my uncle the same way any young boy knows an uncle, which is to say, not at all. I can’t even remember a single conversation that we might have had. Yet he keeps turning up when I least expect it. When Auntie Donna’s eyes drift to a cherished memory, he’s there. When I reach for an apple instead of a cookie, he’s there. And when I throw a rock down the ice, something tells me he’s right there with me, guiding the path toward my destination. The same way he always did.

And if you don’t believe me, I’ll show you my chest hair.