“I’ve been thinking,” Nadia said, “about what you told me about Marcus’s play.”
“How so?”
“About how he used personal photos and film footage from his own life.”
“There were clips of shows he’d put on as a kid in his parents’ backyard.”
“Where your friend Marwa would videotape him.”
“Those two have been a pair since middle school. They’d call each other Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Apparently, he’d make all his own costumes, perform these elaborate magic tricks, stage all sorts of experimental art pieces.”
“Apparently?”
“He never told me any of this. I learned it all from Marwa. Then all through high school, he had these two personae: The Marvellous and The Maleficent. He’d talk about them like they were real people in his life. It’d be like: ‘Oh, sorry, Dee, I can’t hang out tonight, I’ve got a project to work on with The Marvellous.’ Or: ‘Hey Dee, it’s Dum. I’m going with The Maleficent to the Poetry Slam tomorrow, and we’d like you to join us.’ He was documenting himself before anyone ever starting blogging.”
“And he used this footage in Face.”
“Bits and pieces of it. It was a little bit meta, the whole thing. The NOW reviewer called it a memory play.”
“But it wasn’t autobiographical?”
“No, not in the sense that he was telling you his life story. But Marcus is really good at that: drawing you in and making you feel like you’re his most intimate confidante, while hardly telling you anything about himself at all. Toward the end, I felt like there was this invisible glass barrier between us. I took it personally. I thought he was keeping me at a distance. But now, thinking back on it, I suppose he brought me in as close as he could.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Is it? I thought I was being cynical.”
Nadia folded her gloves. “Yet you said this was his most personal play yet.”
“That’s what all the reviewers said.” I searched for the right word. “It was ... intimate. Charles called it voyeuristic. The director wrote how Face explores the ways we document and remember our lives.”
“And give meaning to who we are.”
“There was this one reoccurring sequence where Marcus kept taking selfies in front of the mirror. It was really funny at first; each time he’d take off more clothes, but then it got more and more desperate and sad. Finally, these strobe lights kicked in and it turned into this kind of nightmare moment.”
Nadia closed her eyes momentarily. “Everyone wants to be seen. Being witnessed makes us feel alive.”
“Everyone, you think?”
“Yes, I think so. Even people like myself.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m a student of comparative literature, Daniel. I live in academia, tucked away in my secret walled garden of books.”
“You make it sound like you’re a hairy little hobbit.” Nadia laughed in surprise. “Now that’s a fine literary reference.”
“Hardly. It’s David’s influence. He’s got this nerdy inner fanboy I’m just discovering.”
“Well, I don’t mind at all if you think of me as a hobbit. I shall consider it a compliment.”
I studied Nadia’s face. The truth was, of course, she was beautiful. I found myself undressing her in my mind. It wasn’t difficult. I’d just spent an hour in class observing her body, her limbs and breath, syncing my own to hers. I imagined the curve of her breasts, her rose nipples, the cello lines of her shoulders, back and buttocks. I imagined cupping my palm over the furred mound of her mons pubis, the folds of her vagina beneath my fingertips.
“What is it?” Nadia asked over the rim of her coffee cup.
I looked away but not because I was embarrassed. My hand rested over my own knee. Outside, a streetcar trundled past through the trembling silver-grey light. A cinematic quality illuminated its movement, anticipating the intersecting stories of its occupants, shadowy figures within its haloed interior.
I pushed my saucer and cup away. Finally, I said: “Did you know, the first time I met Luke he was naked, at least from the waist up. He knew I was out in the hallway, and he made a decision to walk out without his shirt on. He had these scars left over from his double mastectomy. He wanted me to see them.”
“What was your first impression?”
“Well, I didn’t actually notice the scars at first. I just saw this shirtless guy wearing a pair of my boyfriend’s jeans. So I was like: Who the hell is this shirtless guy wearing my boyfriend’s jeans?”
“You thought he was David’s lover?”
“I’m not sure what I thought. I’d just gotten back from the holidays. So, I must’ve. I remember feeling jealous, like someone had just pressed a scalpel, hard, against my throat.”
“That is a visceral description.”
“It just happened really suddenly. I figured it all out within a few seconds. But still.”
“Is your friend Parker still going to naked yoga?”
“Oh, regularly. He’s also told me he’s asexual. Did I mention that? When he first told me that, I felt sorry for him. I used to think sex was everything. But then it occurred to me Parker Kapoor has more life in him than anyone I know. Parker’s on medication for ADD, and he’s also convinced he has Asperger’s. But I just think he’s a joyful, fun-loving human being.”
“Naked yoga can be quite freeing.”
“That’s what Parker said. He also said men sometimes do get erections, but that it’s no big deal. It’s still a big deal for me. That’s why I don’t think I could ever go myself.”
“Although?”
“What?”
“There’s an ‘although’ written all over your face.”
Okay.” I leaned forward. “Remember that guy Antonio, the one who came to visit Toronto?”
“The photographer.”
“Who?”
“Antonio from Torretta. The boy who lost his arm in a motorcycle accident.” Nadia sipped from her latte. “The one to whom David’s mother gave her plane ticket.”
“Oh. That’s right. Well, near the end of his summer in Sicily, David and Antonio, this girl Silvia, and a few others road-tripped to a place called Balestrate, which is famous for its nude beach. They spent the day there and had a great time. After Antonio arrived in Toronto, he was wondering if we had anything like that here. So the next weekend, we head out to Hanlan’s Point on the Toronto Islands. Do you know it?”
“Hanlan’s is the clothing-optional beach.”
“We’d heard about it, but never been before. It’s pretty secluded. The three of us get off the ferry and have to walk a bit. I’m nervous but excited, for a whole bunch of reasons. We follow this boardwalk through some dense trees, and then suddenly we’re there, standing in front of all this white sand and sparkling water. There’re hundreds of people, lounging under umbrellas, sunbathing, drinking, listening to music. I’m shocked at how busy it is. I even see a family with kids. Not everyone’s naked, but there’re enough.”
“And how was that for you?”
“Strange, at first. You can’t help but look, right? People strip naked in doctors’ offices but not usually in public.”
Nadia repositioned the doily on her plate. “And did you?”
“Me? No, I couldn’t do it. I mean, I’d just started clinical rotations. What if I met a patient? Maybe if I was on vacation somewhere. But David and Antonio did. Antonio had his arm and his clothes off before I’d finished putting on my sunblock. David and I mostly lounged on our towels, but Antonio spent the whole afternoon splashing in the lake, exploring the beach, talking to strangers. He even got himself invited onto one of the dozen party boats anchored offshore.”
“Sounds like a sociable fellow.”
“Antonio’s not the brightest apple on the tree. But he’s really, genuinely the nicest guy. I thought seeing him naked would be a total turn-on, but it wasn’t like that. He has a great body, he’s hot. When
he was climbing up and over into that sailboat, I think half the beach was, well, enjoying the view. But David and I agreed he’s more like a kid brother.”
I recalled observing Antonio’s round butt and his furred balls bobbing between his thick legs. His penis was almost obscenely large but he seemed unaware of this fact. Or if he was, he didn’t seem to care. It occurred to me I wasn’t entirely telling the truth to Nadia. I blushed, wondering if she could tell.
“Your grandpa’s a nudist.”
“Yeah, Grandpa and Liam. I’m pretty sure Betty is too. The three of them spend a lot of time up at the cottage. Ya gotta wonder.”
“I wonder if ‘naturist’ might be a more apt description.”
“Probably. Naturist then. Well, if Liam is hanging out au naturel with Grandpa and Betty, good for him. I couldn’t do it.”
“You had sex in front of Pat once.”
“Ooh.” I buried my face in one hand. “My brother Pat with the Three Amigas, yeah. Although”—I drew a breath—“I used to try my best to forget that ever happened. But now, I dunno. I don’t really mind anymore. It happened.” I straightened in my chair. “Last fall, when Pat missed Thanksgiving, I was so angry. But that’s because I was so worried, y’know? Blonde Dawn’s got the patience of a saint. She’s good for him. I’m glad they didn’t break up.”
“Loving someone, it’s like Tadasana. It’s the simplest pose there can be.”
“You also told us it’s one of the most difficult.”
“So I did. Tadasana is everything, but it’s only just the beginning.” Nadia observed the wedding cakes on display, elaborately ornamented with flowers and leaves. “You’d think it needn’t be so complicated.”
“Here,” I said. “This is for you.” I set in front of her a small package.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a Christmas gift. Better late than never.”
“When have you and I ever exchanged gifts?”
“Never.”
Nadia picked up the package and held it in both her hands. “I haven’t gotten you anything.”
I shook my head, “That’s okay.”
She pursed her lips. For a moment I thought she might not accept it. I was about to reassure her it was just a pair of novelty socks and didn’t mean anything. But then she said: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“At least, let me pay the bill for both of us today.”
“Alright.”
And so she did.
“We’re going as Tank Girl and Booga,” David said, poking at the tandem bike frame suspended over his cluttered workstation. He’d been working on this bike for two years. So far, he’d installed the handlebars and suspension seatposts. At this rate, I figured it’d be another two years before he was done.
“That’s great.” I rummaged through the front closet on my hands and knees. While David was away at ComiCon, I was looking forward to a full-blown spring cleaning.
“Ai Chang’s been helping with the costumes.”
“Supercool,” I said, setting aside rusted cans of paint and hauling out a box of cleaning supplies. Bingo. I found my bag of rags, old throwaway socks and underwear I’d been hoarding all year just for this occasion.
My annual spring clean was a personal tradition. Pat called it “Daniel’s Day.” I’d given up long ago trying to recruit allies to the cause. Grandpa was never any help. His idea of tidiness was keeping a week’s worth of dirty dishes confined to the kitchen. I was twelve when I snuck a peek at our social worker’s report and read how the three Garneau children were living in “squalor.” I didn’t know what squalor meant, but I felt right away it was a dirty word, and I was mortified. I was also old enough to understand “squalor” meant we were in real danger of being taken from our home.
David, on the other hand, had grown up in a home that was pristine and perfectly ordered. Of course, in our Kensington loft, he was almost as messy as Pat. I was constantly picking up after him. But because he did all the cooking and laundry, it worked out just fine.
On the morning of ComicCon, David left to meet up with Karen’s sister Anne. They’d be gone all day at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. I made an extra large pot of coffee, put BTO’s “Taking Care of Business” on the stereo, and cranked the volume. I rolled up my sleeves, put on my rubber gloves, and hefted my bucket and mop.
It was D-Day.
By mid-afternoon, armed with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towel, I climbed up onto the rooftop to wipe down the filthy skylight window. Two pigeons humping nearby flapped indignantly at my intrusion. After that, I hauled five bags of garbage to the dumpster. In the evenings, I had to be careful not to startle the ill-tempered raccoons who regularly patrolled the alleyway. Coming back inside, I bumped into Liz, dressed in a floral muumuu with curlers in her hair, chasing one of her foster cats down the hallway. “This little girl,” she said, scooping up a tiny tabby, “is an escape artist, aren’t you, my little hairy Houdini?” When she put the kitten on her shoulder, it promptly climbed up onto her head. “You know,” she said, “a lot of people call those wife-beaters.”
“Pardon me?”
Liz pointed at my stained, ribbed undershirt. “Wife-beaters. Such an awful name.” The cat on her head meowed at me disapprovingly.
“Well, I just call it a white tank-top,” I said, lying.
“Make sure you do.” Liz wagged a finger. “It all started with Stanley Kowalski, you know.”
“Who?”
“He played such violent, dangerous characters, but Brando, he had affections for other men. So did Tennessee Williams. You’re about the same age James Dean was when he died. Tsk, so tragic. Now, you two boys remind me just a little bit of James and Sal. It really is a sad and queer world we live in, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t quite following what she was saying. It also occurred to me Liz wasn’t entirely sober in that moment. Her rather overpowering perfume smelled suspiciously like cherry brandy. One of her eyelash extensions was coming loose. She’d left her own door open and now the hallway was beginning to fill with cats. Her Pomeranian crept out last, bug-eyed and full of teeth (like a prop, David once observed, from John Carpenter’s The Thing). I spent the next ten minutes helping Liz herd them back into her loft. At the end, she picked up Lucille.
“No, but you’re not like Stanley,” she said outside her doorway. “You can’t always judge a book by its cover. You’re a good boy, Daniel, I can tell that about you. Did you know, my mother named me after Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? If I’d been a boy, she’d have named me Paul. My ex-husband, he was a Brick Pollitt. He left me for our wedding photographer. I still love him though. Those two operate an ice cream parlour in Provincetown now, but we still talk sometimes.” She rested her hand on my chest. “Boys like you are the future. No more mendacity, I say!” She wrinkled her nose, leaned in and sniffed. “Daniel, if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s high time you took yourself a bath.”
She patted my arm and shuffled back into her loft. I smelled my armpit and realized she wasn’t kidding. I’d been moving furniture, vacuuming, and running up and down three flights of stairs doing laundry all day. When I opened my own door, Hairy Houdini darted inside. She jumped up onto the kitchen table, sat back, tucked her tail over her paws, and regarded me expectantly.
When I pointed to the hallway, she only meowed.
“Out,” I said. Meow.
“Out.” Meow.
When I went to pick her up, she retreated behind my giant palm. Then when I crept toward her, she fled underneath David’s worktable and peered at me with round shining eyes, one blue and the other green. “Fine. You win.”
I set out a saucer of milk and a bowl of water and went to take a shower. When I finished and drew back the curtain, Houdini was perched on the vanity watching me. I spent the next three hours tidying our closets and shelves while she prowled around the loft. As I was sitting on the floor organizing the contents of our junk
drawer, Houdini crept into my lap and licked my chin. Meow. Then I realized she was hungry and also probably needed to poop. I stepped out for supplies. When I got home, Houdini was pacing, I swear. Meow. I poured litter into a plastic tote, and she promptly and neatly did her business.
“Good girl.”
Meow.
“Food. Right.”
I set down a bowl of kibble, which Houdini sniffed and nibbled at. While I cracked open a beer and wolfed down two gyros I’d bought, I kept waiting for Liz to knock on my door asking for her cat back, but she never did.
“You need to go home.”
Meow.
“She doesn’t even know you’re missing, does she?”
Forty-five degree head-turn.
“Did your parents abandon you too?”
Houdini yawned and strolled off. Eventually she curled up in a patch of sunshine on the kitchen window ledge. I cleared away a spider plant and our collection of Kinder Egg toys and set down a tea towel for her to rest on.
After that, I opened a second beer and sprawled out on the couch. David had left Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the DVD player but I was too tired to get up to change it. I was done. D-Day accomplished.
I fell asleep just as Splinter revealed he was the pet rat of his ninja master murdered by The Shredder. When I woke up, I discovered a kangaroo leaning over me. It had big floppy ears and was wearing an army cap and aviator goggles. I knew it wasn’t a gigantic dog or rabbit because of its long, plush kangaroo tail. It clambered up onto the couch and straddled me.
“You have got,” I said, “to be kidding.”
The kangaroo took off its camouflage vest and tossed it aside, revealing a red-white-and-blue bullseye painted on its bare chest. “Hey there.” It grinned and pawed at me lustily.
“Whoa,” I said. “Excuse me, but I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” the kangaroo (obviously a mutant, since it could actually talk) said, “but I don’t think he’d mind if you got it on with Booga.”
Tales from the Bottom of My Sole Page 19