Table for Three

The hostess politely asks: ” Table for one?” The tone of the question is one of those murky open-ended ones that permits a person caught in Spider Man’s web of alienation to confirm if they are, in fact, alone. I looked to my right and left. An inept busboy carrying a plate of knives trips. As they fall all around me and pierce some people I answer her while biting into a granny smith apple, “Three.”

I don’t know why no one sees Dan and Gad. It’s not like they’re lost or imperceptible. Dan especially since he likes to wear a napkin as a mask. He thinks it’s charming. She has a look of bewilderment – like the one my childhood psychologist gave me when I drew a murdered unicorn lying in a pool of blood – but seats us nonetheless as those on the ground struck by the knives are tended to by an infirmary of Samaritans. I am most grateful. “Thank you, Flo. And tell Mel to speed it up.” We all laugh at the off-the-cuff reference.

A stare is coming right at me from a kind gent at the table next to me. “Who you looking at, brother? Yeah, you best be looking the other way.” She returns with a menu. “Excuse me,” I tell her. “We require three menus. Sharing will just waste time.” With a stupid puzzled look she responds, “But…but you’re alone.” “No I am not, Alice! Bring me three menus!”

My tone softens with a dignified but unyielding, “Please.” She returns with them, carefully places them on the table and leaves abruptly. Her perfume smells like the doctor who once examined me when I was a teenager. I imagine making insanely ardent love to her. Shake my bones, baby. Shortly thereafter she comes back to take our orders. Before I ordered I asked her what perfume she was wearing. She answered “Smoke.”

I was not amused. I ignored her insult and rationally decided to speak for Dan and Gad who both went to the washroom at the same time. They, in their loving incoherence, always do that. It’s a predictable joke they have. They think I don’t know, but they fail to realize in their buffoonery that I engendered like a magnificent maestro their fabulously fleeting actuality. I’m a step ahead of them today. “Dan will have the roast stuffed pike with the skin on and Gad will have the oven-braised teal. Bring the beak on the side.” Heh,ha. Dan always orders flummery. Gad prefers snipe.

I have always been treated, like tainted fluoride, as an outcast – always on the periphery of life. Society, that elusive word that means nothing to me, has deemed me unfit. I don’t sleep. Sleep is a mere nuisance. I prefer the dark forbidden contours of the infinite but anticipated night. It thinks to be so omnipotent. It’s not so tough. We all know the sun will rise, night! Be gone! The Angels are trying to convince me otherwise but I defy. The inkblot experts who practice psychology always wanted me to explain why I excessively love and distrust sleep but I didn’t know why. They needed my quotes to put in their picture books. I’m nothing but a painting in their museum of nothingness. I know this. Just like how I know about Dan and Gad’s little routine.

“Can we have some water, please?” I initiate a hollow conversation with my friends, bursting with inner self-combustion to see the look on their faces when the orders come in. A man drops a card on me. “Dr. Youp – Psychologist? Now that’s the fifth this week!” Unfazed, we laugh, we argue, we cry.

It was a perfect lunch if not for that tin toy soldier staring at me. Oh, that gaze! The one my imaginary step-mother gave me! It’s penetrating in its accusations! Its gaze was beginning to warp my sense of reality. Tick? What tick? Why do I have a sudden tick? Oh, tic on my arm. I asked the waitress to move the tin soldier who was by now drumming at a furious pace. In her marvelous and sensually boozled stare, she tells me she could not. I tried to make the best of the situation. I slice my cantaloupe, which I pronounce cantaloop. I don’t know why. I just do. Dan and Gad tell me to let it go and ignore the toy soldier but I can’t. It’s just too much.

I get up and walk towards the tin solider singing the Songs of Roland. I was a virtuous vigilante descending upon an officer in all its uniformed glory. I hack it to bits with a mini- axe I carry in my inner pocket. Waiters, of all genders – and the inept busboy who had one ear – all gather like conniving conspirators in unison to make a call. Never do they remove their green, blue and brown eyes from me.

“Sir? Sir?” The clouds in my brain pass and after a couple of quick glances I spot Dan and Gad. She looks in their direction and says, “Sorry for the delay.”

I get to my table. The service is good here. The food is not bad, either.

The Urban Crawler: Part Deux

That night, Jeff stared up at the ceiling with his arms folded under his head. In his selfish search for himself he forgot to call Elaine. “Shit, shit, shit. I hope she’s not worried.”

Caught in deep introspective thought, he did not realize a spider was crawling on his face. That changed when it found its way onto one of his eyes. He shook it off. The waitresses comment was a revelation of sorts. “At least I know now,” he concluded.

He could not sleep. “I need to go buy those pills.” Frustrated, he pulled out a record. Yes, vinyl – that precious artifact. The needle gallantly filled the air with the fine musical notes of Erskine Hawkins. While reruns of Magnum PI on Beta, he hated VHS, played on TV in the background. When all was complete, Jeff lay on the floor like a rock star broken by years of fame that left him unfulfilled.

It went on like this for several days. He did not return any calls. Worse, he had not been to work in 3 days. Until then, he had never missed a day in 6 years. By the fourth day, he summoned just enough interest to listen to his messages. Mick had left three.

“Jeff, if I don’t hear from you today I’m calling the police. I’m worried.” Jeff ripped the machine from the wall and hurled it. “I can’t believe they made him manager. I have been there longer than he has. Why does this society reward mediocrity so effortlessly?”

A knock on the door broke the venomous spell. “Jeff? Jeff? Answer the fucking, cocksucking door! It’s Francine. I want to make sure you’re fucking alright, baby asshole.” He did not answer. Francine wasn’t the type of person – calling her a lady was a stretch – to let herself be ignored. Bestowed and endowed the leftovers of Mae West’s atom particles, Francine’s burlesque scent and likeness had always captivated Jeff.

“How the fuck did you get in?” he asked with angry candor. “I was your girlfriend for two years, Jeff. I still have your fucking key,” she answered hurling them at him.

“Yeah well, give them back! Now get out of here, cunt!” he yelled as he threw a rotting piece of fruit at her. She dodged the offensive perishable object and headed for the door

“Why, Jeff?! Oh why! What’s happened to you? You seem like half the person you once were!”

“Bah! Go to hell f-f-fuckarella” he answered with a feeble voice typical of a man in dire need of a drink. He mustered enough effort to wave his hand signaling for her to leave.

“Good-bye you slithering jerk!” He had officially sunk to the ground. “All I seem to do around her is swear” Jeff thought.

He called Mick back. Mick answered “Are you alright, Jeff? What’s gotten into you? I need you here. We’re falling behind!”

“Of course, you need good old Jeff to come in and save the day,” he murmured under his breath.

“Did you say something, Jeff?”

“I said, I would love to come in and help you but I’m not feeling very well. I think I have the flu.”

“Wow!” answered Mick. “Which flu?”

Jeff stared into his phone for several seconds. Unsure how to respond to Mick. He said nothing.

“Well, when you feel better come right in.”

Jeff hung up the phone and went to bed to let the depression set in and found a new outlet in his dreams – only his dreams were a nightmare and when he awoke he decided he had had enough.

The last few nights had been hard on him. A nightmare spotted him on a boat crossing Styx, one of the rivers of the underworld, with Charon. He came across people dancing in hell without any limbs. They may have been dancing but they were eternally unhappy. Their punishment was that they did not have the confidence or wisdom to pursue what they loved most.

“Don’t be like us, Jeff,” whispered one as he was whisked away by Abaddon, the angel of the bottomless pit who hailed from Revelations 9:11.

It was at this point that Jeff usually woke up. “Where did I inherit these dreams?”

A brand new day ushered in a refreshing spirit Jeff had not felt in years. The leaves were crisp and brilliant in their appearance as they gently danced with the wind. The air had a certain fresh aroma that made him think about renewal. It was going to be a great day, he thought to himself, with determined confidence. First he had to make a call. “Hello, Mrs. Dwyer. I know. I’ve been sick. I’m very sorry. I’ll make it up to you by making you dinner this week, ok? Great!”

The car at first did not start and it was leaking break fluid but this did not deter him. “This is a great day”. Not even traffic, which normally caused him to forget about the notion of taking things in stride, was going to derail his spirited mission.

The neighborhood where Jeff grew had changed since he remembered it last. The Church was now gone. Replaced by a Mosque. His old school was still there but half of it was sold to McDonald’s so that money could be raised to buy new books. The trees that once breathed fresh life on his street were all gone. The place had undergone a lobotomy.

Looking around in stunned interest, Jeff rang the doorbell and a lady in loud orange satin clothes answered. “Jeff!” she screamed with joy. She went down to hug him and invited him in. Not before she gave a suspicious look around to no one in particular.

“You never call. I miss you.” She tells him as she draws the drapes closed. “I miss you too, Mommy.” They talked for a while and finally Jeff found the courage to ask his mother. “Mommy, why do I crawl?”

“Oh, Jeffrey. Such a drama queen. You were always such a scared little boy. Never wanting to try anything new. In fact, you were terrified of everything.” She pulled out several photo albums testifying to this fact.

“Who’s that?” he asks noticing a picture.

“That’s your cousin Frolov. He was a diamond cutter in South Africa.”

“Why are his front teeth so shiny?”

“He had carved himself two teeth made of diamonds. When his bosses found out they pulled out all his teeth. Poor Frolly.”

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere in Northern Canada following the caribou migrations.”

Unsatisfied and frustrated, Jeff demanded “There has to be more. I feel it.”

“Well, Frolov wasn’t all that bright…”

“No, forget that freak. I want to know more about me!”

“Finish your tea, dear. Some things are best left alone.”

“Dang it, mom!” Jeff’s mother, a devilishly coy and neurotic type, saw the anguish in her son’s eyes.

Jeff’s mother, Lalola was a pure throwback to 1973. Her body’s natural redolence had become part of the house. You could not tell her from the carpet or sofa. The smell was one and the same.

A stalwart mother was not what she was all about. When Jeff’s older brother Bronco was diagnosed with depression she responded by cutting onions upon being told. “Honey, it’s all in your head. Could you please fold the napkins and prepare the dinner table?”

Lalola just didn’t want to believe that anything could be wrong with her children. She would rather be in denial than admit to anything that remotely and vaguely reminded her of failure. To her, depression was an abnormality and by extension a genetic failure passed on to her children through her. Old eugenic theories and beliefs die-hard and proof they find their way into households. No matter the disease or illness, it all came down to how the rest of the extended family would judge her and her offspring. In other precious words, Jeff paid the price for paranoid neurosis.

But she could deny no more. Even the pained anguish look in her son’s eyes was too much for her. She decided to open up. “I suppose you should know.” She sat down next to him on the floor.

“You were a normal kid until the time came for you to begin walking. It was a cold winter day. I remember it well because I had just dusted the house. The type of day where you felt it was night. A day that…”

“Mom.” Jeff bluntly said unimpressed with her stalling skills.

His mother, receiving the cue, continued as she unwittingly squirmed uncomfortably. Then she found her stride. “Your dad and I were home and I was trying to get you to walk. I don’t know what happened. One thing led to another and you fell straight on your soft knees. You couldn’t handle the pain. As you looked up in disbelief and fear, your father came out of the kitchen wearing an apron, to tell us that dinner was ready. I guess the combination of both hurting your knees and seeing your father prance around in an apron with no top on proved overwhelming for you.”

Jeff sat back reflectively. He went down on all fours and began to pace recollecting the bits and pieces of facts that he suppressed deep within the bowels of his mind.

“Thanks mom,” Jeff said with a tear. “Thanks for what, honey? I turned you into a freak!” she admitted. “No, mother. I did this to myself. I have to account for my own actions. I am not a boy. I am a man!” Jeff knew, to his credit, that he had to change his life. The decision was made to learn how to walk.

He kissed his mother “Farewell, mother. I shall return a new man!”

The fact that Jeff now knew the origins of rejuvenated his sense of purpose in life. “Noting will stop me now. Nothing.”

Jeff found himself in a semi-abandoned pier a few miles down from his mother’s home. The weather had shifted slightly and the wind began to pick up. By the water, as Jeff moved slowly towards the end of the pier, he enjoyed the cool wind crash upon his face. Suddenly, he fell headfirst into a hole on the pier. His legs were preventing him from falling in completely. He could not hide the fear that overcame him as he slowly slid in and stared into the aggressive water. “I never learned to swim properly! Doggy paddles may fail me! Oh migosh, please don’t let this be the end! I have too much to settle within myself!”

Two men nearby overheard him whimpering to himself and rushed to his aid. “Hey there buddy, need a hand?” “Please!” They helped Jeff sit up. “Sonny, you shouldn’t be here. This pier hasn’t been looked after in over five years. It can literally fall at any moment,” said one of the men chewing on an orange peel.

“Thanks for your troubles. I need to be alone for a minute.”

“Your life,” the second man retorted as they skipped off. Jeff sat there. Feet dangling as he stared back into the water. He looked for a reflection but none was forthcoming. “Not even the water wants to acknowledge my presence,” he said with a sigh as he turned away.

Despite Jeff’s psychological handicap, he did have friends willing to help. They had grown weary of his condition long before his belated revelations. It was not always easy for them. Explaining to suspicious people about who he was no longer an option. “It’s about fucking time, Jeff. Let’s go” Jeff answered. “Where?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, let’s roll a joint, Jeff. Man, are you lost?”

Jeff gave off a look of apprehension. “What is it?” asked Rip. Jeff nodded over to Mick who was present. “What about him?” “I don’t think he’s com

fortable with that sort of stuff.” “So why is he here?” Mick overheard and was visibly irritated by now. He interjected “I want to help. And you know what else? All my life I did the ‘right’ thing and where has it got me? In a medium sized office earning a medium salary that will not save the middle-class taking orders from a skank five-years my junior. Fuck her. Fuck this. I want a change too.” “Dude, I have no clue what you said but you heard the man, Jeff. Start rolling. You really started something here.” Together they plotted their action plan to reach Jeff’s goal.

As an incentive to unlock Jeff’s problem, Rip – for the sheer humour of it – had t-shirts made that read ‘Just Walk’ and ‘Team Jeff Boyardi.”

The days were hard and the nights long. They tried everything. Another one of Jeff’s friends, Gus, who was a Canadian League Football placeholder reject and former professional mercenary for a private security company, tried to psychologically demoralize him with typical male talk bulked up on testosterone. He chastised the feeble Jeff at every turn. They dangled food in front of him. They had pictures of hard sexual content with his mother’s face stuck on every page. Nothing worked. Jeff was as good as limp.

“You’re just not a man, Jeff,” Gus concluded with exasperation. “Mick is more a man than you are.” They even had a doll made with an apron in the image of his father, with the aim of angering Jeff. It worked. But when he lunged at the doll with the ferociousness of a leopard, he fell straight on his face.

Weeks later, Jeff was at his mother’s and happened to stumble upon her shoe collection. He was enchanted by the art of their designs. He tried a pair on and suddenly he was upright.

Later that day, Jeff was proud to boast his progress to his friends. Rip dropped his beer under a nervous giggle. An incomprehensible sensation of disbelief hit them all. They could not understand how a man could feel so comfortable in high heels. “Well,” Gus proclaimed gingerly, “it’s a step forward I guess.”

The next day Jeff went back to work to hand in his resignation personally to Mick, who was miserable in his new position.

This wasn’t about Mick though. It was about Jeff. “I hate this job. I think the corporate world is a petri dish of bacterial pussy lickers,” he told Mick. Right then and there Jeff spent two hours venting six years of pent up frustration.

“Right,” Mick answered not sure if what he heard was a thoughtful introspective comment or the work of a person clearly suffering from a severe inner ear imbalance.

“I’m a new man now, Mick,” Jeff proclaimed. Despite the fact that he was wearing women’s shoes. Mick was in a state of shock and was not quite sure how to handle this. There was no manual for such things. Head office did not train him for these types of scenarios. His bold attempt to change had evidently taken a couple of steps back. He scratched his head and said the first thing he could think of.

“Well, good luck to you on the streets, Jeff. What are you going to do?” “I dunno” Jeff replied. He looked out the window overlooking the discarded lumber from a construction yard and railroad tracks where vagabonds frequented. “The world is now mine.” He said good-bye to a few people and was off.

And so it was. Jeff was walking. He felt connected to his father and empowered by his newfound confidence. His pals were so impressed by Jeff’s push forward that they insisted he start on of those blogs that had become so popular. The advice was taken and he called it “Real Men Wear Aprons”, in honor of his father.

He went for a walk one day and passed by a pharmacy. He was about to go in but shook his head and kept walking. Armed with a new pair of high heels Jeff saw an ad in a window which read ‘Workers needed’ – Taralli Construction. Confidently, he took the sign and walked in.

The Urban Crawler: Part Un

After another sleepless night, Jeff didn’t feel much like his usual self as he clambered out of bed. His deliberations were devouring with wombat skill the court of his mind. The ferociousness was enough to present him with a migraine. A pill to start the day and he was rolling.

“Damn neurotransmitters are messing with me. I don’t know how much more of this I can take”.

As far back as he could remember, doctors were never able to help him with his inability to get past stage 1 of the sleep cycle. He never could quite get to REM as so many do. He was deprived of the type of slumber people tend to brag about. In fact, Jeff had grown impatient with people who claimed to ‘go out like a sack of cement the minute their shit filled heads hit the pillow.’

He also tried everything within limits to lull himself to sleep. People’s advice and suggestions were many. From eating bananas to sipping Port nothing worked. God, he even listened to tapes of the ocean tide for three hours. He was closer to suicide than slumber after that incident. He had read somewhere that people who suffered from sleep depravation did not have sufficient melatonin in them. Perhaps the time had come to buy some pills. He tried to avoid supplements but he did not see any other alternative. He resolved himself to go pick some up at the pharmacy at some point.

Lack of sleep has been blamed for many -and there were many – of his problems. As a teenager he was diagnosed with Restless Legs Syndrome.

Whatever caused his affliction be it decrepit DNA, bad learned behavior, bad habits – he was fond of espresso before going to bed. The darker and smokier the roast the better – it did have an impact on his unacceptable math skills – and a colorful assortment of nervous ticks. Shake a leg wasn’t a timeless cliché to him but a real habit.

The neighbor – so magnificently irritating – wasn’t helping matters. Arms folded, Jeff found himself paralyzed between the failure to sleep and obsessed with the movements of his actions. Which of course, only made him more tense.

“Who in their right mind does laundry at midnight?” The humming sounds of a dryer would be comforting to some. To Jeff it was an invitation into the unstable mad parts of his brain. He could never add up enough bravery to confront them. Oh, he imagined it alright. Playing over and over in his mind what he would say but he never acted on it.

This was just a thought to him. He knew he would never get to it. Besides, Jeff was not convinced his neighbor spoke English with any clear diction. He wasn’t an immigrant but one would not know it by his speech for a third generation citizen. Jeff would rather put up with slamming doors than listen to a byproduct of a dilapidated broken school system.

There was no need to describe his neighborhood. One just had to witness the local regressed vernacular. It stank to Jeff. He was not fit for life in the city. He had taken to wearing earplugs all day long to block out the noise around him – A habit that saved him from biting his nails to his skin. Despite feeling like an outsider in his district, he still could see the charm that it once held. Old stock Italians, Ukrainians, Irish and French-Canadians moved and settled here and never budged.

Such was his life: his morning. He was not accustomed to such a lethargic pace. He searched for energy but could find only a black out.

“I don’t feel like a man, man. Time for a change,” he murmured to himself with an awkward smile. He had no clue what he meant by that. The theme of this day – one among several hundred – had been set.

The television – one Jeff had been hoping to replace for several years now – was on all night. The TV set was still on by sunrise, and Jeff watched with perverse enjoyment a crying soldier wearing slippers while protesting some war.

These images seemed to stiffen Jeff. The intensity in his eyes was noticeable. Had anyone had been there, they would have surely felt the immediate tenseness that invaded Jeff’s nerves like Tamerlane’s army. Jeff prepared himself for work.

On his way to the shower, passing by vintage frames on the walls of his hallway, Jeff inspected his face. He attempted to floss his teeth but was not able to cut the floss from the built-in cutter.

“This is a nice start to the morning,” he muttered staring down at the sink noticing grime build up. He immediately reached for the cleaner and began scrubbing.

He returned to the floss with little success as he had more than enough floss to strangle someone. One would get the feeling that if someone were there – and he’s lucky nobody was – he would not hesitate. Whether floss was an effective murder weapon was unclear.

His light, piercing green eyes were not stabbing the mirror this morning. Jeff’s normally stylish careless hair, long and multiple in various shades of brown, had decided it needed to be combed, lest he look aesthetically foolish to the world at large.

Carefully selecting a hand cream for his persistently dry skin, Jeff began thinking of the female race. These angels who possess certain organs men could not resist were less from Venus and more from Pluto as a result of forward progress. Life’s social complexities demand that men and women blur the lines that once segregated them. “These aren’t the 20s that’s for sure” as he applied cream. “Women want real men. I don’t care what feminists say or think. They want to be held around their wrists or waists firmly. They want to be pulled towards their man.”

Once the mechanical and superficial check-up was complete, this intriguing specimen crawled into the shower. His routine was very much like a car moving along on an assembly line. This was no handmade custom Ferrari.

Later, upon completion of a thorough cleansing that lasted about 18 minutes, he crept toward the kitchen to make himself breakfast – French Toast with a slice of cantaloupe and some icing sugar.

In his routine, disrupted by inner-thoughts that continued to hammer at his senses, he almost forgot to prepare a cheque for his favorite charity. Jeff was a diligent person and remained loyal to his charitable duty. Jeff had problems -like being stuck in a job that meant little to him for instance — but he had always kept a sense of healthy if not absurd perspective. Some may have quipped without fact that Jeff wasn’t always aware of his humanistic side until recently. In Jeff’s defense, that was a tad harsh. It’s a simplistic art this kind of cynicism. A cynic finds a home for the hopeless.

Dressed exquisitely in earth tones, he padded his hands and knees and began to dial the phone. 555-2671, “Hello? Mrs. Dwyer? It’s Jeff. Will you be needing anything today?”

A few years ago, Jeff’s best friend Eric was killed in Afghanistan. Eric was not only a friend to Jeff but also a big brother and a mentor. When the news came home about his death it crushed Jeff.

It also meant that Eric’s mother had no one to take care of her in her old age. Suffering from arthritis the pain was so penetrating it rendered her incapacitated just like the British royal family. She needed help. Eric’s father Mike, died when he was 14. It had always been just Eric and Elaine. Until he was killed that is. This is where stepped right into the role of helping her.

“Ok, I’ll call you tonight.” He hung up and went for the door. A glance around his place and with a satisfied demeanor was off.

His day started with the usual startled stares, bemused glances and befuddled faces as he waited for the elevator. Jeff painted on himself the expression prepared for the occasional person who would fall over him.

“Hey, why don’t you look down while you’re walking, jerk?” Jeff hollered to the alarmed expressions of people. “Why don’t people notice me?” he wondered. Out of nowhere he heard a voice. “You’re built too low, sir.” It was a child, no more than seven years into his life. Such maturity and insight he thought!

He tried to keep his head up, but today was difficult. Along the walk to his office, stockbrokers were getting their hands manicured and other white-collar professionals were having their hair styled at a trendy hair salon. A fight broke out in a shoe store between two men fighting over the same pair of footwear. They also hissed at one another.

“It seems,” he thought to himself, “the only real men ’round here are construction workers.”

This led, inevitably, him to a cliched ephemeral reflection of his life. Quickly, it began to emerge that his appearance was possibly hampering his advancement. He thought about time when he attempted to make the track team in high school. He excelled in none of the disciplines – be it the long jump, high jump or 100 meter dash. It never bothered him. Until today.

“You did your best” his mother – that cryptic woman – would tell him.

Was it his best? Or did he just – to quote a famous line – suck? “Was mom lying to me all these years?” This nostalgic voyage into a time since played had to wait as he reached the building where he worked.

Before heading to his office he stopped at LVCS – La Villa Coffee Shop. The line was uncomfortably long that morning. It so happened, to make matters worse, that he was right in the middle of a parade of commuters disembarking the subway. Much to the annoyance of everyone, Jeff, who was not particularly agile, slowed down the collective frenetic paces of a thousand shoes. With a swirling wind of passersby bumping and shoving their way past him without care to his presence a sudden moment of self-inspection filled his mind “No wonder I always finished last”.

Nervously he said to himself, while looking down on the ground, “They’re like Goddamn rat-squirrels in a cage without nuts.” He was glad when the line moved as it took him out of the firing range.

Jiles had been observing all that transpired. Over time Jeff got to know the tall black gent behind the counter, who also happened to own the place. Big, muscular and reliable Jiles was a model worker.

“The usual, Jeff?” Jiles asked. “Yes.” “‘Spresso! Hey, you hear me, gal? I said ’srpesso. Presto.” Jiles, in his athletic black manliness, lightly shouted to his worker. He was cordial and always asked – as if it were worth anything to him – when and if Jeff was ever going to be a ’stand up guy’. “The lunatic fringe belong to the unstable night” he would say.
Jeff never understood what was meant by anything Jiles – the black man behind the counter with an apron – would utter. He reached for his espresso, as he continued to observe Jiles and reflected upon the comment.

On his way to his office, balancing a copper mug on his back, the hounds of discrimination hounded him.

“Hey, freak! Can you spit shine my shoes for a Miss Drury token?” The laughs around him were louder than usual. His fists tightened. His heart began to pound with the fury of a Joe Louis punch.

The taunting never bothered him before but suddenly the stereotyping stung him. No matter how severe and malicious the jeering were, Jeff refused to file any complaints or join any special interest group that was all the rage. He felt they did more harm than good to the people they purported to help.

He slithered into work without saying hello. He didn’t notice the fresh coat of gray paint on the walls. Though he did notice that the carpets remained dirty as ever.

Mick, a colleague, walked over to Jeff’s tightly kept and well-decorated office. “What’s up with you this fine dreary morning, Jeffy?”

Without acknowledging the question, Jeff curtly and without warning asked Mick what he thought of him. Mick, while scratching his bald indecisive head, was caught off guard and was inarticulate – as was usually the case when he was under pressure. “Er, well, Jeff, it is kinda strange. Ah, forget it. I was made manager today!”

Jeff wondered to himself how this could be so. Upon reflection, Jeff understood Mick was an essential to the corporate world. He possessed the three ‘U’s’ critical for vertical movement – Unmarried, unimaginative and unaware.

Some people reserved the wall behind them for a picture frame or painting that reflected who they were. Others, who have no such values, used the wall as a smokescreen to mask their shallow qualities. For Mick, a generic frame with planes flying in synchronized fashion was enough for him. Superimposed on the rainbow was the caption “There is no ‘I’ in teamwork. Just ‘Us’.” This is the type of man he was.

Jeff climbed onto his desk “Congratulations. I didn’t know you were up for a promotion.” “Thanks.” A pause ensued. “Be truthful. I insist.” “Well, it’s….” Jeff waited eagerly.

“It’s odd how you move around on all fours. I don’t know how you do it.”

There was another pause. Not a breather typified by its deadness but one closer to a semi-coma. Mick, as if a weight had been lifted from his partially wide and non-threatening shoulders, was empowered to say more.

“Actually, it’s sort of creepy that you never grew out of something the rest of us did when we were a year old. What I don’t get is why?”

Shocked and amazed at Mick’s obvious assessment, this was something Jeff was determined to find out.

Jeff thought about Mick’s move to management. Mick was a lot of things but management fabric suited him like clothing from Old Navy suited a Tibetan Monk. Mick’s code of ethics lacked any dynamic equations needed to deal with the complexities of Mankind. It was all about him and he went through life trying to make being inoffensive a scientific discipline; never ruffling his own feathers let alone other people.

Was this a strong indictment of his character? Possibly. Jeff knew as well as anyone that there are many Fishbein’s in this world – People who occupy positions they have no business holding. It’s the plain fact of life.

Still, he liked Mick very much and found him to be a conscious and diligent worker. He just did not think Mick was fit for such an endeavor. It was very much similar to an athlete who trains for a 10k run and tries to run a 25k. The athlete is bound to fail. On the other hand, he of course was more capable. If only he made sounder choices in his life. One of Mick’s favorite quotes for the last 4 years was ‘It’s not my problem.” Now he wonders how Mick will react about suddenly inheriting everybody’s problems.

All this personal gossip came to a halt with the powerful shouts of their boss. “Mick! Where’s that son of a bitch?” “Y-yes, sir?” “Where in shitty hell are those reports, Mick? Are you already trying to make me look bad one day into your new post?” Mick was frozen. Like a tasteless cauliflower.

Without much thought and with affirmed quickness Jeff came in to help out his friend. “Mr. Gribbs, if I may?” “What is it, Boyardi?” “The reports were my responsibility. I was not aware they were to be ready today.” A stiff glare from a seasoned man who knew a ruse when he saw one looked straight at Mick and said “Fine, Boyardi. I want them in two hours. Got that?” “Yes. Without fail.”

Jeff did what had always come natural and it did not go unnoticed. “Jeff, I don’t know what to say.” “You’ve said more than enough. Two hours.”

After work, Jeff did not head home. Straight to his favorite eatery he went. To digest he crawled around town aimlessly in the dark. Only it wasn’t exactly dark. The streetlights made sure of this. Bright enough for Jeff to avoid the pot holes which had become part of the city’s rustic architecture.

Everywhere he turned and looked there was someone or something demanding he fall prey to coy advertisements – Do this, think that. At one point on his urban mini-journey, he read a sign in a window that said in order to succeed one needs to find their niche. For a fee, this person could help find that niche. “I’d like to bend him over and show him my niche.”

A perfectly happy person would have just gone back home. It was now 11pm and there was no end in sight for Jeff’s night. He found himself in a smoky sultry lounge and as a consequence of entering such a saloon drank for a while. “Sambuca black, no ice. Wait a minute with ice. No, make it no ice.” “You sure?” “Yes, dammit!”

Maybe it was the atmosphere of the place filled with lost unfulfilled souls that galvanized him. Whatever it was, he uttered to himself as he stared at the glass, “I’m going to do it.”

“Pay me?” replied an alluring waitress interrupted. “That would be nice as my shift is officially over.”

Ill-at-ease, Jeff struggled to reach his pocket as he asked if he could drive her somewhere.

Why not? She had a certain sensual mysterious flair about her. In her eyes, he could see that a rich history resided in her bones. That history had evolved and unfolded crookedly and had now given way to a struggling contemporary existence. He did not see a mere woman serving drinks before him, but an ancient princess with exalting beauty seeking her kingdom stolen from her.

It was not the sort of ‘in your face’ provocative beauty prevalent to modern sensibilities, but the kind of subtle beauty not apparent upon a first glance. Understated to the point that if she ever did porn he would never have guessed it. Regardless, one needed to excavate her like the studious mind of an archeologist. He could see the hidden gems of her reincarnated soul – polluted or otherwise.

Her physical form and shape intrigued him. “What a shape to that shadow!” Wide defined shoulders, hips that meshed perfectly with her upper body and legs. She had, in his eyes, ageless pristine hands too. He saw beyond the exterior and believed she saw this in him, too. He pictured the two of them together. Like Swanson and Valentino.

He had become weary of the usual stiffs who camouflaged as women he was used to dating lately. The last three ladies he frequented had a combined 26 fingers, obvious poor dental plans and were property, he was convinced without proper facts to support his creative suspicions, of covert international scientific labs.

She looked at him with a gaze that revealed both astonishment and amused bewilderment. Finally, after she realized he was serious, she murmured “You are not man enough for me. You wouldn’t complete me.” Jeff was taken aback. He was so sure that they had a connection.

That was the final straw for Jeff. He never felt so inadequate in his whole life. “How could my usually accurate perceptions have been so wrong? Again! Oh, dear once more I have been fooled!”

Iglatikuk: The Interloping Urban Inuit

The journey took Iglatikuk to a place he never thought really existed. In the cold almost unreachable places of the high Canadian arctic, legend has it that a Joe DiMaggio baseball card gently landed onto Iglatikuk’s blue eyed face, as he lay awake in his qagip. For years after that he dreamed of meeting the romantic and elegant Joe DiMaggio.

Writer’s Note: I have selected Joe DiMaggio for my own enjoyment. Some may wonder there has to be a reason but no there isn’t. Sometimes things don’t have to have meaning. Now back to the story.

On an uncharacteristically warm autumn day, as Iglatikuk was carving an inuksuk while sharing whale blubber with his brother, his father approached him. “It is time my blonde son for you to discover your soul,” he said, as he slammed the head of a caribou before them. Iglatikuk knelt before it and began throat singing.

“No, stupid. I mean it is time for you to meet the qallunaaq – white people. The Northern Lights have shown that our ancient ancestors may very well summon this card you carry with you. There is a kayak for you waiting. Take it and let the spirits guide you to a metropolis called New York.”

Iglatikuk, visibly apprehensive to take this journey, was mildly defiant about having to use a kayak. “Can I take L’il Qajait instead?” “My son, use the kayak.” Iglatikuk was not sure how to handle his objection. “I can not leave my brother Little Kelikvak. I will miss mother dearly. How shall I take care of them from such far places?” he nervously asked his father.

“They are of no concern to you now. Upon your return you will be a man. Don’t worry,” as he smiled to caress his son, “Mother will be here to cook you your favorite meal.”

The thought of walrus in a blanket on a bed of seaweed excited Iglatikuk. “Father, I will find myself on this journey. But first I must go dig a hole in the ice and let a big one go.”

Morning rapidly arrived and Iglatikuk was on his way. Tears were flowing like the mighty Mackenzie. It was -40c so the tears turned into little rounded icicles. Carefully weaving through the relaxed rivers in quiet revelation, he ignored the tears.

“We were born before the wind. Also younger that the sun ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic…”

It was a solitary trip. Iglatikuk was overwhelmed by the sheer gorgeous power of water and land. It was also time to lay rest. He industriously constructed an igloo on an ice carpet that was rendered immobile wedged between two giant ice masses. Proudly he shouts, “I am the Van Horne of my people!”

When it was time to lay his laurels he was wide-awake under the dancing stars. For four long days he paddled and lived in unison with nature just like his ancestors did. He survived on nothing but arctic char caught with his kakivak. On the fifth day – land.

A man was standing on the beach smoking a cigarette while he adjusted his tuque. Upon spotting Iglatikuk reeling in his kayak he barely believed his eyes.

Iglatikuk approached the man. He was polite and timid. “Excuse me sir. Where is the nearest Coureur de bois outpost?” The man stood silent as the cigarette dangled listlessly on his lip. “Er…”

His colleague attentively interrupted and stepped in. “Eskimo pie. Didn’t you hear? The Hudson’s Bay Company bought out the coureur de bois in 1733 for $3. I bought some shares when HBC spun-them out last year. Darn thing has yet to pay dividends.”

“Enough, Dougie. The kid is lost. This is no time for your sarcasm, eh?”

“I am not an Eskimo. I am an Inuit.”

“Well, you don’t look Inooit. You’re kinda tall. Almost goofy looking,” observed the man with the tuque.

“Good genes I suppose. What is this sweater you have on?” Iglatikuk retorted with diplomatic skill.

“It’s an Edmonton Eskimo football jersey.”
“I like it even though it has an offensive name. Where can I get one?”

Dougie gestured to his friend. “Ah, c’mon Gordie. Your brother works for the Esks. He can always get you another one.”

And so it was. Iglatikuk’s first encounter with the qallunaaq was a successful one. “Thank you. I will ask the shaman’s to perform a ceremony for your gentle souls tonight.”

Privately, Iglatikuk was confused as he lamented the buy-out of the adventurous Frenchmen. “Darn Elders. They really need to get the Internet!”

Later that day he consulted his map in the streets of Edmonton to plot his Eastward movement. “I must think like the caribou,” he pondered with his finger tapping his lower lip.

He finally settled on a scenic route via the Prairies to Montreal. “When all else fails my Elders always taught me to follow the Trans-Canada. It has eyes like the caribou.”

It is in this unique city where Iglatikuk came to befriend Noot. A former gate master at DeLormier Downs with remedial bilingual skills, Noot was a baseball aficionado.

“Nice parka,” were his first words to Iglatikuk.

“Thank you. Always wear fur because you never know.”

“Hmm. Never though of that. And that?” Noot asked.

“This is a dream catcher. It will catch what I am looking for.”

A friendship was now possibly in progress.

“What is that strange item you are eating?” Noot looked at the fruit bemused and answered, “This? It’s an apple. A Granny Smith to be exact.” Could you please kindly direct me to a place where I can take one? I am terribly hungry.”

The strange boy before him took Noot. “I’ve got nothing else to do,” he murmured to himself. Noot escorted the young Inuit to a local grocery store. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he felt sorry for Iglatikuk. Maybe he saw and felt his pristine and gentle aura.

The owner of the store too, for his part, could not help but be intrigued by the obscure Inuit, “Looka here. Now you’re an original.”

Iglatikuk shrugged his shoulders; “No I am not. I am but a mere culmination of my ancestors.”

“Oh. Aren’t we all? That’ll be a heavy 24 cents.”

Ignoring the request Iglatikuk offered the storeowner an observation; “I see much distress in your eyes.”

At that moment a man cursed and bustled his way in and interrupted the conversation between the three men.
“I need more money,” he curtly told the storeowner.

Quietly he handed some cash over to the man. “Dammit Dad! I don’t need nickels. I need more. Christ, you know I own a club.”

“Son, it’s been a slow year and I just don’t have that kind of money.” He looked at his father in disgust and walked out.

Embarrassed the storeowner looked at Noot.

“You know, I thought you looked familiar when you walked in.”

“Familiar?”

“Didn’t you used to work at Jarry Park?”

“Yes.”

“I used to take my son – the lad you just saw – to many games out there. Coco Laboy was his favorite player.” He looked outside “We haven’t spoken in years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Iglatikuk sensing the tension interjected, “I am going to New York to find Joe DiMaggio. Do you know him?”

The confused storeowner looked at Noot who can only offer a smile.

“The Yankee Clipper? Who doesn’t? You know, I was there when the streak ended in Baltimore. Where I’m originally from.”

“Streak?”

“You don’t know about the streak? Kid, you have some reading to do if you want to get to know DiMaggio.”

Noot realized that basic hard economic realties were not his new friend’s forte. The concept of exchanging money for goods and services had clearly bypassed Iglatikuk.

“I don’t know where you’re from kid but you have to pay this gentleman for that apple.” Iglatikuk stood at the cash befuddled. “But how can one pay for what the land produces?”

The storeowner laughs and says, “You are an original! Forget it.”

“Your son has been polluted by untamed spirits. I will look to my ancestors and ask for guidance on your behalf.”

The storeowner appreciated the sentiments but was having none of it. “Take care, kid.”

They began to walk the streets. Amidst the careless streetwalkers and reckless car drivers Noot popped the question.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Iglatikuk.”

“Where are you from, Igla?”

“I am from Igloolik.”

“And you’re in search of Joe D?”

“Yes.”

Noot could only nod his head. “You’re an original alright.”

Noot was not sure if he should laugh or slap Iglatikuk in the face. He could not bring himself to tell Iglatikuk that DiMaggio was dead. But he was instantly reminded of Igla’s honest almost hopeless demeanor. Their short walk led them to another part of town and Noot needed a coffee. “Hang on, Igla. I need an espresso. You wait here.”

But Iglatikuk was by nature an inquisitive person. He waited a few moments and followed Noot into the bar. The patrons were not sure about what they were seeing. It wasn’t everyday they ran into an Inuit in their neighborhood.

Off to the side he saw pictures of cyclists and skiers on the wall. He glanced to another wall and saw endless photos of motorcycles, racecars and soccer teams. Decades of sports heroes hung on the walls. He quietly observed, “These are your ancestors.”

He looked to the man behind the bar and asked, “Where is Joe DiMaggio?” The man let out a subdued chuckle. “Good point, kid. Maybe we should have Joe on the wall.”

Noot reflected and just when he was about to dismiss the comment he thought about it. “I guess in a way they are ancestors.”

Iglatikuk asked Noot if he could have a drink, “I am thirsty.” Noot saw no harm in this and obliged.

“What have we got here?” said a man from one end of the bar. “A has-been baseball junkie and a freak.”

“Who is that man?” Iglatikuk asked Noot. “Him?” Noot began to answer while smiling at the bartender. “He’s a washed up sports writer and he doesn’t even know it. Pay no attention to him.”

Of course, Iglatikuk did pay observances to him. Snarling back at him were the words, “back off pretty boy.”

“Why have you let your soul be invaded by forces of cynical tidings, sir?”

“You’re kidding right?”

“I do not joke about such matters.”

“Yeah well take it to someone who cares. I have a column to write for my brain dead readers.”

With that wonderful remark, the journalist walked out. The bartender then leaned over to Noot and Iglatikuk with his arms folded, “Nobody likes that guy. You got balls kid.”

“He is a gentleman with animosity and arrogance. It has corroded his mind.”

“Are you going to…”

“Yes. I will.”

Slowly the curious minds in the bar began to take a certain liking to Iglatikuk’s innocent forthrightness. His broad smile was contagious. Soon enough they were all exchanging jokes and laughs. “…No way! I already have enough whalebones!” The roars of laughter were thunderous. “Hey, Vinnie this guy is priceless! Like beaver pelts!” shouted one patron. More laughter ensued.

“Iglatikuk observed how everyone was drinking their coffee and he imitated them. He wrapped his mittens around the small cup and in one good, clean gulp took it all in. The caffeine kicked Iglatikuk all the way back to Chesterfield Inlet.

“Iggy,” said one person. “You need to pace yourself. Here, watch,” as he smoothly drank.”

“That is very good, Mario.”

Noot got up and pointed to his watch. “I think it’s time to go. We’ve got things to do. Right, Igla?”

“Oh yes. Good bye everyone!”

“You give ‘em hell” one of the men at the bar told Igla.

The day was wounding down and Iglatikuk was preparing to make his way back to the kayak. Noot took him there and they began to talk a little more. “You never told me why you are looking for Joe DiMaggio, Igla,”

“It is something I must do.”

“You know, I met him once.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He was in Montreal taking in a Royals game if you can believe it. The Yankee Clipper watching baseball in the east-end of the city. I guess he was scouting the talent in the Dodgers organization?”

“Dodgers?”

“The Royals were the farm team of the Brooklyn Dodgers. At the time, they were the main rivals of the New York Yankees. As you know, Joltin’ Joe was a Yankee.”

“Farm team? What did they harvest?”

“Players. Anyway, DiMaggio was not there to watch the Royals. He was there to meet Jackie Robinson.”

Writer’s Note: This is not meant to be an historical fact. I repeat….

“How did you meet him?”

“Back then it was easy to talk to ball players. You could just walk up to anybody. DiMaggio was notoriously quiet but he seemed so much more relaxed up here. Maybe it was the air or something. So I just went up to him and said hello.”

“What did he say?”

“I’ll never forget the words. He said, “Do you speak English?”

“That sounds so thrilling! What did you reply?”

“I was nervous but calm at the same time. It’s hard to describe. I asked him for an autograph and a cigarette. Maybe to show I was cool. He told me he didn’t smoke but he did arrange to get me a bat instead. Man, I could never replicate that feeling I had when I held that piece of wood.”

“Like the feeling I get when I’m carving caribou antlers?”

Noot glanced at Igla. “Something like that – I guess.”

“Did he meet this Jackie Robinson?”

“Of course he did. He was Joe DiMaggio.”

Noot looked up and stared into nothing for a moment.

“Those were the days.”

“What about now?”

Noot began to explain the history of baseball in the city but suddenly stopped. “Ah, forget it.”

“Do you mind if I come to New York with you? It’s been years since I have been back.”

“Sure.”

Noot detected that Iglatikuk was unsure of something. “What is it?”

“You never told me your name.”

Noot laughed. “I didn’t, eh? Noot Lajoie.”

“What is your ancestry, Noot? Do you see them in the Northern Lights?”

Noot was taken slightly aback by the question. He hadn’t been asked this in a long time. “Well, I’m of Irish-English stock on my mother’s side. My grandmother was from Piemonte. My father was French-Canadian and a helluva a ball player, a catcher. He played for the Royals. His greatest moment was when he caught one inning for Don Drysdale.

He chuckles lightly and says, “Baseball played a huge role in my life.”

Noot snapped out of his brief nostalgic trance. “I just want to pass by my place to pick up some essentials.”

They went upstairs into Noot’s apartment. Iglatikuk observed the place with a studious eye.

Within an hour they were back at the kayak.

“Am I too tall for this thing?” Noot asks.

“If Magnum fit into it so can you.”

Writer’s Note: For fear of some missing the reference, During a stint in the 1980s, Private Investigator Thomas Magnum was known to kayak on CBS.

“Man, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

They pushed the kayak onto the water as people watched with a fascinated curious eye. They remained oblivious to what was around them.

Iglatikuk was staring at Noot while he paddled.

“What is it, Igla?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. What’s up?”

“You remind me of my friend Teevee.”

“Really. How so? Who is he?”

“Teev vee is my cousin. You have a sense of internal balance like he did. Teevee sold Tundra for a living.”

“Tundra? There’s a demand for that?”

“Not really. I think his location was wrong. Not enough traffic. Location, location, location. He lost everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah, his 5×6 kiosque was smashed up good by a polar bear after the recession.”

“Do you know where you’re going?” Noot asks.

“Don’t worry. The river has eyes like the caribou.”

Noot had no idea what that meant.

All he knew was that they were off to New York City in search of Joe Dimaggio.

“Hmm, LA. Too much for the man. So he’s leaving the life he’s come to know. He said he’s going back to find what’s left of his world. The world he left behind not so long ago…”

Noot was smoking as the wind gently cleansed his face. Iglatikuk paddled in silence as he watched Noot. “Noot.”

“Yes.”

“Who were the people on the photograph in your apartment?”

Noot was visibly shaken.

“Just some people.”

“I can tell they meant something to you.”

With his back to Iglatikuk he inconspicuously reached for his wallet and looked at a picture.

“My wife and daughter.”

“You are married?”

“Was married.”

“My wife left me. I wasn’t the best husband or father.”

“Do you still see them?”

“No?”

“Why?”

“…she’s gone oh I, oh I’d better learn how to face it
she’s gone oh I, oh I’d pay the devil to replace her
she’s gone – what went wrong…”

“A few years back the city had a gang problem. A group calling themselves the Berserker Gang ran rampant across the land. Their authentic bear hats dripping with blood distinguished them. Anyway, one day my wife and kid were walking the streets when they were accosted by one of the gang members handing out pamphlets. Next thing I know she runs off with them and I haven’t seen or heard of them since.”

“That’s awful. Whatever happened to the gang?”

Noot took a huge puff of his cigarette. “I hear they want to go legit and are organizing a political party in Winnipeg.”

Iglatikuk looks at Noot’s bag.

“Is that why you carry this hat?”

“You saw me put it in?”

Iglatikuk nods shyly.

“Have a look.”

“Made in Malaysia? There are bears in Asia?”

Noot yanked the hat back.

“It’s not the point. But thanks for listening. It helped.”

“No problem. Would you like some seal blood pudding?”

“No thanks. I think I’ll pass.”

“How about you? Ever been in love?”

“Oh yes. Many times.”

“Iglatikuk Valentino!”

“Valentino?”

“Yeah, you’re like a regular Casanova.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Never mind. Tell me more.”

“I am in love with all things ethereal. The earth, wind and fire.”

“They sure could funk it out.”

“Funk?”

“Go on.”

“Many times I have been grateful for all that is around me. My family, TeeVee, even the polar bear.”

Noot had a hard time following him at first and then, “Oh, I get it! You’ve been in love with life!”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“There is most certainly a higher force. This is why we must respect what we have not created.”

“God can be a cool cat, eh?”

The sun was setting and they were still half a day away from New York City. Noot and Iglatikuk camped on the side of riverbank for the night. From afar people noticed them. The campfire was brilliant as they sat and talked. Soon the flame had extinguished and they were asleep.

“I was talking to Chuck and his Ghengis Khan suit and his wizards hat…. He spoke of his movie and how he was making a new soundtrack…she’s a wild child…”

The Manhattan skyline was something to behold. Iglatikuk was simply moved to throat sing in honor of this marvel of modernity. “Quiet down. I think we should find a hotel,” suggested Noot.

They stopped at the first hotel they saw. Trendy in its décor, the occupants were curiously bemused by the notion of an Inuit among them.

“How many people?” the girl at the counter asked with her eyes fixated on Iglatikuk.

“Two.”

“One or two beds?”

Iglatikuk giggles at the question.

“Two.” “That’ll be $160. There’s some ice for your friend in the hallway.”

They settled in and soon Noot was sleeping on the bed. Iglatikuk wasn’t tired. For a few minutes he paced up and down the room and later the hallway. Finally he shook any reservations he had about going onto the streets and went to explore the city.

Writer’s Note: Where Midnight Cowboy met Afternoon Inuit.

New Yorkers were accustomed to eccentrics roaming their streets. One man was handing out pamphlets shouting, “Catch the Praying Fags! One night only! Best Gay Christian band on the East Coast!” For his part, Iglatikuk was different and they all noticed him.

Hunger began to set in. Iglatikuk walked into Wendy’s. Before he could make sense of what he wanted the manager cried, “Are you here for the job? Look at you! What a kidder! Come in my office.”

Iglatikuk followed him.

“I’ve got a feeling about you. You take chances. I like that. You’re hired.” Still perplexed, Iglatikuk got up.

“Oh, just one more thing. We are square here.” “Square?” “You kill me! Marcy will get you your uniform. Get outta here, Punky Brewster!”

As Iglatikuk turned away the boss added screaming of laughter, “Hey, kid get a haircut and a real job!”

Marcy came by and smiled at Iglatikuk.

“You look like a medium.”

“I was a rebel from the day I left school. Grew my hair long and broke all the rules…I sit and listen to my records all day with big ambitions…get a hair cut and get a real job.”

Within minutes Iglatikuk was behind the counter still in his parka. He noticed all the hamburgers were square and the remark made earlier by his new manager suddenly made sense to him. He felt empowered. His first client approached.

“Hello.”

“Yeah, give me a round burger, weirdo.”

It took some water for Iglatikuk to come to but a headache had set in in the spot where he hit the counter before he fainted.

On his break he went for a walk. By the window of a posh jewelry store he stopped and stared at some diamonds displayed. He overheard a lady next to him speaking on her cell phone. Without interrupting her conversation she looked him up and down “Yes, I know. Technology is turning the world into a terrible place. I’ll meet you at the computer store in fifteen minutes. I need to buy a new laptop. See you later.”

She gave Iglatikuk a smirk and walked into the store.

Not realizing he had to return to work he found his way back to the hotel room.

But along the way a picture in a music store caught his eye. He walked in the establishment.

The man behind the counter amusingly looked at Iglatikuk up and down.

“Can I help you buddy?”

“Yes, who is the man in the window?”

Unsure of what Iglatikuk meant he walked to the window.

“You mean this?”

“Yes.”

“This is Bruce Springsteen.”

“Oh.”

“Have you ever heard of him before?”

“No. Just Joe DiMaggio.”

The man put the record away.

“May I listen to him?”

The man kindly obliged. “What the hell. I though I’ve seen it all.”

“I’ll play this song,” the man said.

Iglatikuk waited eagerly and when the notes began to fill the room it was an epiphany of sorts for the young Inuit.

“I like it.”

“I’m glad you like it, kid.”

“There’s a spirit to him. Yeah, he’s all New York.”

“I would like to take him home.”

“You’re not from around here are you?”

“No. I am from the Arctic.”

“You don’t have money do you?”

Iglatikuk remembered Noot talking about this economic caveat with the apple back in Montreal.

“I have 24 cents.”

“Canadian?”

“Yes.”

The man laughs. “You’re something else.”

Another song came on. The man looked outside and saw it was a famous sunny New York day.

“Take it. I have four copies. Besides, something tells you will cherish the record.”

“Thank you sir. Thank you.”

Iglatikuk realized he did not have a place to play the record.

“But…”

“You have nowhere to play it?”

“Well, it’s just that I would have liked to listen to it on my journey back.”

“Tell you what. Let’s record this on a tape and I’ll give you the tape recorder. The darn thing is 30 years old and I was going to throw it out at some point.”

“Sir, I do not know how to repay you.”

“Something tells me you will.”

Iglatikuk left the store and did eventually reach the hotel.

“You had me worried, Igla. Where have you been? What’s that?”

“It’s Bruce Spinksteen.”

“You mean Springsteen. How did you pay for this. You didn’t steal this did you?”

“No, no Noot. The elders would banish me into the forest for such actions.”

“Yeah well you’re not with the elders now.”

“I have taken employment at a place that serves strange square meat with bread.”

“What are you talking about?” Iglatikuk looked outside to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sign. He was able to point at it. “Over there. The one with the red haired girl.”

“Wendy’s? You got hired at Wendy’s? Man, they must be desperate.”

“I like the people. They are kind.” “Igla. You are an illegal alien here. It’s against the law to work without proper identification. At least it used to be. I’m not sure anymore.”

“Noot. What does ‘damn taxes’ mean?”

“What?”

“I heard someone say this while they looked at something called a pay check.”

Noot laughed. “Just be glad you don’t know. Trust me.”

“I must get back to work.”

“Igla…”

“No, really. I left my mittens behind.”

“I’ll go get them. I hope no one took them. It’s a cold world out there.”

“Not like in the Arctic it isn’t,” Iglatikuk snickered under his breath.

“Don’t follow me.”

Noot made his way to Wendy’s and searched for the mittens. Marcy approached him and asked if she could help him. Her gaze struck Noot. He felt a sudden surge overcome him.

“Uh, yeah. My friend…”

“Left his mittens behind?”

“How did you know?”

“I dunno. I just did.”

Forty-five minutes later Noot arrived at the Hotel. Iglatikuk stood up and asked where Noot had been.

“Here are you mittens.”

“Your eyes.”

“What about them?”

“They are filled with a gleam I have not seen.”

“Really?”

“It is beaming with New Hope.”

“Well, I’ll be darned. You deduced this by just looking at my eyes?”

“Yes.”

“I guess you can’t be fooled. I met someone.”

“Joe Dimaggio?”

“No. Cripes, it’s not all about Dimaggio! Anyway, I met a girl. Your former colleague, Marcy.”

“That is great, Noot. I am pleased to hear this. But I must find Joe DiMaggio.”

“We will. Tomorrow. Let’s just take it easy the rest of the day.”

That night Iglatikuk was awake as he usually was. He looked to see if Noot was sound asleep. When he saw that he was he turned on the television and began to watch. Flipping through channels he settled on a station that played silver screen classic movies. He sat at the end of the bed and curiously watched a Buster Keaton silent short.

Fifteen minutes later he could not believe his eyes. There he was! A commercial for a baseball documentary had Joe DiMaggio on the screen in front of him. “Joe DiMaggio. We shall soon meet!” he said to himself. Noot jolted in his sleep. Iglatikuk looked back and lowered the volume.

Morning came and Iglatikuk was already standing waiting for Noot as he slowly awoke. “Eager aren’t we?”

“Noot, I saw the most wonderful thing while you slept.”

“Tell me all about it while I get ready for breakfast.”

“Mr. Joe DiMaggio was on television!”

“Was he? On what show?”

“I do not know. All I know is that some gentleman named Frank Sinatra called him a great friend. Who is Frank Sinatra?”

“A singer.”

“Did he throat sing?”

“Probably. He could do it all.”

“Oh. He sounds most interesting. Maybe we can go meet him too. But first where can I find the Yankee Clipper?”

As Noot was paying he spotted Marcy in the lobby. He gave Iglatikuk the money and hurriedly went for her.

“Hi!”

“Hi!”

“What brings you here?”

Blushed and flushed Marcy shyly replied, “Well, you told me you were staying here and, well I hope you don’t mind…”

“No, no. Not at all. We were just heading out.”

“Oh, ok. I have your friend’s first and last pay check. I figured he wasn’t coming back.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Noot was then hit with an idea, “Marcy, why don’t you join us?”

Marcy hesitated but before she could say anything Noot interjected with a boyish smile, “We’re heading to Yankee Stadium.”

“Since you put it that way. Sure!”

“Hey, Igla. Marcy is gonna join us.”

“This is good news. But where…”

Noot cut him off, “Well, the most logical place to start is in the Bronx. We’ll take a cab.”

They reached the hallowed grounds of Yankee Stadium later that beautiful fall morning. The Giants were in town for a three game set.

“Where do we go?”

Noot lit a cigarette and said “I’ll be damned if I know. This ain’t Olympic Stadium.”

They hung around the entrance where the players used to enter the stadium. Iglatikuk caught a glimpse of player and asked where they could find Joe DiMaggio.

“Sorry buddy I don’t sign autographs for insane people,” answered one of the players.

Iglatikuk paid no heed to what was said. Noot studied the place and figured out a way to sneak in.

Just as they were about to go in Iglatikuk noticed a boy waiting around. “What is he doing?” “He’s waiting for an autograph,” Noot explained.

At that moment a player emerged and the child politely asked. “Mr. Butts?”

“What is it kid?”

“Could you please sign my ball?”

“You only have one?” the player said as he chucked at his answer.

The kid didn’t get the joke and gazed at the player.

” Take it with my agent. I don’t do free signings kid.”

The boy turned around dejected and walked away. This marked Iglatikuk. “I do not understand?” Noot watched silently as the player moved about with an obnoxious swagger. “You know what? I don’t either.”

They continued their search. Another player on his mobile phone briefly interrupted it. “Man, you had the see the pussy on my lap…” He suddenly stops as he sees Iglatikuk, “Man, you have to see what is right in front me. I’ll call you back.”

“Bro, what is this funk all about?”

“Funk?”

“A parka? In Yankee Stadium? Man, I thought I’ve seen it all.”

“We are looking for Joe DiMaggio. Do you know where we can find him?”

“Joe DiMaggio? Joltin’ Joe? You mean Joe fricken Di Maggio?”

“Yes.”

“You tell me why I shouldn’t call the cops on you boys.”

Noot interjected, “Please, don’t do that. My friend would like to know where the plaques honoring Yankee legends are.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take you guys there. Let me get my bat. I may as well get some swings in.”

The ball player pointed them in the right direction and said, “Welcome to the ancestral hallowed Yankee grounds.”

“Thanks,” Noot said.

“Sure thing. I’ll let you guys absorb the history.”

Igaltikuk was speechless.

Out of nowhere Yogi Berra darted by as he tipped his cap to the threesome. Iglatikuk looked at him with awe as he disappeared into the lush green field.

He spotted Joe DiMaggio’s plaque. Then, he pulled out his card out of his pocket.

Noot quietly stepped forward, “Listen, Igla. I didn’t want to tell you but…”

“I know. He is no longer with us.”

“Hang on. So why all this?”

“His flesh is gone but I wanted to see if his spirit remains.”

They looked over to the field and stood together in silence.

“His spirit has gone hasn’t it, Igla?”

“It has.”

“What’s in his place?”

“Nothing. There is but a silent void. It’s deafening.”

“Welcome to progress and civilization my interloping pal.”

“All is not lost. The right souls need the ticket back in.”

“Are we experiencing temporary insanity?”

“Perhaps. But even the sky does not remain dark.”

Noot put his arm around Iglatikuk as they slowly walked away in their own thoughts.

“…My guide and I crossed over and began
to mount that little known and lightless road
to ascend into the shining world again.
He first, I second, without thought of rest
we climbed the dark until we reached the point
where a round opening brought in sight the blest
and beauteous shining of the Heavenly cars.
And we walked out once more beneath the Stars.”

They all made their way to the kayak. Iglatikuk began to push without waiting for Noot.

“Hey, what about me?”

“Are you not staying?”

“How do you know?”

“Your soul spoke to me in the cab.”

Marcy looked and laughed, “You truly are an original, Igla. I don’t know you but my heart is pounding with heaviness. I’m going to miss you.”

“I shall miss you too, Marcy.”

Iglatikuk looked over at Noot who was incapable of holding back a tear or two.

“Take your new beginning my dear friend and run free like the wolf.”

“I will, Igla.”

They hugged.

Writer’s note: I’m crying. It took me 3 minutes to regain my composure.

“You take care of yourself. Watch out for those icebergs.”

There was a pause.

“That is not funny, Noot.”

“I know.”

Noot pushed Igla into the water.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Marcy asked Noot.

“Are you kidding me? He found his way to New York City on a fricken kayak!”

On the waters Iglatikuk was finally heading home. He adjusted the headphones and pressed play. He could taste the walrus in a blanket now. Kayaking against the wind, his journey was over.

“I stood stone-like at midnight suspended in my masquerade, I combed my hair til it was just right and commanded the night brigade….”